The image faded, and abruptly Mistral Thrax was awake, shivering under his blankets. In the dimness of his stone-walled room he looked about, trying to understand.
Why had the vision spoken of
Hope, though … hope was a thing of the future. Yet the vision had spoken of the future lying in the past … and of carrying the past to the future.
Mistral Thrax sat up, rubbed his eyes, and hugged his blankets around him. He felt very cold. Just a dream, he told himself. It was only a dream. He could not have really seen Kitlin Fishtaker.
8
The first day of Balladine, as always, was the day of solstice — the one day of the year when the sun at its zenith would shine directly down the great central shaft of Thorin. For the Calnar it was the holiest and most joyous day of the year, for a very practical reason. At noon of this day, every level of the city would be flooded with brilliant light, and at the very base of the city — the deeps of the great firewell around which the smelters roared — the living flame of Thorin would be renewed by the direct, focused light of the sun, magnified and amplified by huge lenses of clear, perfect quartz high above.
For this day, the paths to the smelters were blocked. No one would enter the great pit that surrounded the firewell, or even the shielded smelters above. The carbon shields were rolled back to receive the fireflash that was the original — and secret — reason the dwarves celebrated Balladine.
Starting the day before, the lowest levels had been evacuated as always. When fireflash occurred, the heat there — even in the recesses of the smelter level, far from the firewell — would be too intense to survive. But it was only for this day, and the mighty furnace that was Thorin’s foundation — a pit of pure magma — would be rejuvenated for another year.
The principle and the annual phenomenon of the solstice fireflash were as old as Thorin itself. But not older. It was no ancient ogre-work that had built the central shaft with its levels, the foundry regions, and the firewell. Some believed that the firewell itself was a gift from Reorx, but all the rest was pure dwarven craft and lay far deeper into the mountain than the old ogres had ever thought of delving.
The pit at the bottom was the very substance of Thorin, and the Calnar’s greatest secret. Coal, coke, and other firestones were used in the foundries and the forges, but it was the firewell itself that gave them steel, and the annual fireflash on solstice day fed the firewell.
As usual, the big gates of Thorin Keep would open shortly before noon. Knowing nothing of the inner workings of Thorin, or of the firewell and the solstice, visitors to Balladine took it as quaint dwarven tradition that the gates always opened when the sun was overhead. In fact, though, the reason was practical, as were most dwarven traditions. Not only the obvious gates below the keep, but actually every entrance to Thorin — most of which were cleverly hidden — was opened at the same time. During fireflash, it got hot in Thorin, and the opening of ways was to air the place out.
The morning sky blazed beyond Thorin Crag when sally ports in the great gates swung open, and a company of guards emerged to take positions on the highest terrace. When the guards were in their places, trumpeters appeared and formed ranks on each side of the portal. Troops of liveried dwarves followed them, carrying banners. When this array was assembled before Thorin Keep, the trumpeters raised their burnished horns and shrilled a five-note call.
Below Thorin, on the roadways flanking the lower terraces, the caravans of Golash and Chandera were already in motion, creeping upward like great, distorted serpents — long trains of wagons, carts, barrows, and travois, with their teams in harness and their attendants flanking them.
At the sound of the trumpets, a gold-and-black banner climbed its pylon atop Thorin Keep, followed by a white banner with a blue cross. Banners arose in unison at the lead of each approaching caravan — the banners of Chandera and Golash, each accompanied by the blue cross flag of trade.
It was a ceremony as old as Balladine. The Calnar showed their colors and the blue cross. Their visitors showed their own colors and the blue cross. Each thus declared this to be a time of peace, a time of goodwill, a time to gather and mingle and exchange the goods of commerce.
At the second terrace, the human caravans turned toward each other and spread out, and even before the carriers had stopped rolling there were people at work, erecting pavilions, rolling back wagon covers and setting up shop. On the first terrace, Cullom Hammerstand and his traders led a procession of heavily laden Calnar into the open and directed the erection of the pavilions of Thorin.
Hammers rang, buntings arose, and the morning air was alive with the sounds of preparation.
As was his custom, Cullom Hammerstand went with a pair of guards to the lip of the first terrace, fifteen feet above the beginning of the second. For a time, he wondered whether his counterparts would come to exchange greetings, then he saw them, issuing from the assembling stalls to right and left — Bram Talien, coming from the Chanderan caravan, and Barak Toth from the Golash ranks. Each was accompanied by large men Cullom did not remember seeing before … men who wore swords at their belts and shields on their backs, and who carried bows. It was far more than ceremonial weaponry. The trade warden glanced at his own guards, who had noticed the same thing. It was obvious that they did not like what they saw.
Cullom waved a troubled salute at Bram Talien, then at Barak Toth, and raised his eyes to look beyond. Usually Garr Lanfel, the Prince of Golash, would come himself. But today there was no sign of him. Cullom frowned, wondering. Many things were strange this year, and he shared the uneasy feeling his chieftain and the others had. Balladine seemed to be opening as usual — but he knew that something was wrong.
Behind Cullom, one of his guards hissed in surprise, and Cullom glanced around. The guard, a sturdy dwarf named Sand Sakor, was turned half away, looking here and there. He seemed puzzled. “Odd,” he muttered.
“Is something wrong, Sand?”
The guard shook his head. “I guess not. I felt … or thought I felt … someone touch me.”
“Who?”
“I guess I imagined it, Trademaster. It was as though someone brushed past me just then. But there’s no one here.”
Bram Talien approached with his armed escort and stopped just below the rim. The human trader’s face looked pale, and he kept his eyes down.
“Greetings, Bram Talien,” Cullom Hammerstand said. “Do you bring fine works to trade this Balladine?”
“The usual, Cullom Hammerstand.” The human still kept his eyes averted, though the two men with him leered and grinned at the dwarves just above. Their manner was arrogant, bordering on insulting.
“Do you have any … ah … unusual commodities this year?” the dwarf pressed. “I see large wagons there, in your caravan.”
“It is only coke, Trade Warden,” Bram Talien said, stiffly. “As usual.” He raised his eyes, then, and there was a plea in them. “Firestone, for your forges …
Cullom Hammerstand hesitated. The man was telling him something, giving him a warning.
The Golash contingent arrived then, and the dwarf noticed that Barak Toth’s guards were of the same cut as Bram’s. These were not men of Golash, any more than those with the Chanderan were of Chandera.
Barak Toth looked as frightened as Bram Talien, and Cullom Hammerstand felt a rush of intuition. The human traders were not here freely. Their guards were not their escort, they were their captors. The Chanderan and the Golash traders were prisoners!
He sensed that his own guards, behind him, had come to the same conclusion, but they kept their silence while Cullom Hammerstand thought fast. He glanced at the sky, then spoke to the humans below the terrace rim.
