With three hundred Daewar and a hundred each of Theiwar and Daergar behind him, Bluesleeve — leading companies of his elite Golden Hammer guard — attacked downslope in phalanx pattern, and the humans there, mostly wild Sackmen from the northern plains, found themselves faced by a moving wall of iron shields from which naked blades flicked like snakes’ tongues. For a moment, the humans held the line, but only for a moment. Flanked by howling, slashing Klar, the phalanx punched through the human defense and spread into a broad wedge of swords and shields, marching across the bodies of fallen foe.
In disarray, the Sackmen fled down the slopes, and the dwarves pursued … and ran headlong into something few of them had ever seen before.
Running as though from death itself, the mass of humans spread across the rising plains and disappeared behind a line of tall, ominous figures — fighters of Ergoth, armored from head to toe, sitting upon armored horses, and bringing long lances down for a charge.
On the open ground, the dwarves were no match for mounted Ergothians led by knights. More than a third of Gem Bluesleeve’s command fell there, before the rest escaped back up the slopes. The line of armored riders pursued only as far as the rising ridges and stopped there. But one of them raised his faceplate to call after the Golden Hammer, “Stay in your mountains, dwarves! Defend yourselves there if you will, but do not bring your problems to us!”
Below the retreating dwarves, the armored ones turned methodically and began sweeping the plains, turning Sackmen back toward the mountains.
Atop a spire, Olim Goldbuckle watched the rout and shook his head sadly. “We have lost our one advantage,” he told Slide Tolec. “Those people do not want our enemies any more than we do. Kal-Thax is lost, and there is nowhere to turn but to the deeps beneath the stone.”
“We Theiwar have no deeps,” Slide said. “What of us?”
A few feet away, a featureless mask turned toward them. “Nor do we, Daewar,” the voice of Vog Ironface said, sounding like hollow thunder. “Unless you think we can defend mineshafts.”
Olim looked from one to the other of them, then fixed his level gaze on the Theiwar. “You once told me that you believed we were creating a fortress,” he reminded him. “Do you remember?”
“That was a trick,” Slide frowned. “You let us believe that, to divert us from what you were really doing.”
“Nonetheless.” Olim shrugged. “We now have deeps, and there is room there for Theiwar” — he glanced aside, dislike plain on his face as he looked at the dark slit in front of Vog’s eyes — “and even for Daergar. The Daewar will not be the ones to break the Pact of Kal-Thax. But the deeps we have found are ours, and only Daewar shall rule there.”
The Daergar started to answer, then stepped back with a gasp as the air behind Olim Goldbuckle crackled, and a figure appeared there — an ancient, tattered form leaning on a two-tined spear. Eyes that were like darkness gazed out from beneath a mane of silver hair. The phantom shimmered, varying from translucent to almost transparent. It seemed to stand before them, but its feet didn’t quite touch the ground.
“The highest of the deep shall rule,” a cold voice whispered. “Only the highest of the deep.”
Olim stared at the apparition. It was the figure from his troubling dreams. “You!” he muttered.
“Yes,” the cold voice said, then seemed to be talking to no one at all. “Delve the deeps of dwarvendom. Those who rule have yet to come. You will know them when they do. You will know them by the drum.”
Dumbly, Theiwar and Daergar gawked at the apparition. Then Olim Goldbuckle choked out, “Who, then? What drum?”
The figure turned slightly and became transparent. “That drum,” it whispered, still turning, toward the plains beyond the mountain slopes. “That drum.” It turned a bit more and was gone.
Yet on the freshening east wind, sweeping across the seething plains below the Kharolis Mountains, there was a sound. Faint with distance, far beyond the massed confusion of invaders below Kal-Thax, still it was there, and they all heard it.
The rhythmic, heartbeat sound of marching drums.
The dwarves weren’t the only ones who heard the distant sound. Down through the foothills, marauders turned their faces eastward, and out on the plains a rank of Ergothians wheeled and rode away, seeking the source of this new thing.
Gem Bluesleeve saw his chance, and he took it. At his command, hundreds of Daewar stormed down the slopes, with Theiwar and Daergar at their flanks. Confused and surprised, and without the Ergothians behind them, human companies on the slopes turned and fled. Within hours, the Golden Hammer had established a defense perimeter below the shoulders of the high peaks.
Part V:
The Eastern Border
of Kal-Thax
Century of Wind
Decade of Oak
Fall, Year of Copper
20
High mountains were visible in the distance when the Hylar made long camp on the banks of a wooded stream. Though still far away, the mountains stood blue in the western sky and called to them, like echoes of Thoradin in their hearts.
While the campsite was being cleared and fires prepared, Colin Stonetooth and others climbed a knoll and looked to the west. Tera Sharn stood at her father’s shoulder as he tested the winds with ears and nose, the knelt to look at the soil beneath the lush grasses. He pulled a sprig of grass, chewed on it thoughtfully, then scraped earth from beneath and tasted it. The land was rich and fertile, as much of southeastern Ergoth was. But it was land suited to humans more than to dwarves.
But beyond, where the high mountains rose blue in the autumn light, the vista that tugged at him and the winds sweeping down from there spoke of high meadows and honest stone, of steeps and caverns and mineral deposits … of dwarven places.
“We will remain here long enough for the animals to graze and the foresters to lay in stores,” Colin Stonetooth decreed. “Let the crafters work their forges and the weavers work their wools. When next we set out our anvils, it will be within those mountains yonder.”
“Kal-Thax,” said Mistral Thrax. “Kal-Thax is there, in those mountains. The place of Everbardin.”
“Then tell our bonded knight to lay out his fields and complete his drills,” the chieftain said. “He is human and will not go to Kal-Thax, but we will not pause again until we are there.”
The site of the camp was well chosen. It offered ripe fields for harvest and graze, wood for fires and forges, and water for bathing and the tending of stock. The Hylar had come far in learning the ways of combat under the tutelage of Glendon Hawke, but there were still more drills to be accomplished, and time was needed for that.
But there was still another — and primary — reason why the great caravan of the Hylar stopped. It was time for the wedding of the chieftain’s daughter, Tera Sharn, and the captain of guards, Willen Ironmaul.
Through a thousand miles of wilderness, and even before in the place that had been Thorin, the people had watched the romance between the robust guardsman and the dark-eyed princess develop. Handil the Drum had become legend among the Hylar, and Tolon the Muse was far behind, ruling a place the Hylar would never again
