by those who chose to follow him. Though his face was obscured by Theiwar mesh, the clothing and armor he wore were an odd collection of Daewar, Daergar, Theiwar, and even Klar garb. He could have passed through any of their camps unnoticed, and had.
Now he stared after the receding Hylar force, and his eyes burned with hatred. “I do not agree,” he muttered. “Glome the Assassin will not be herded like those sheep, by a band of strangers.”
Glome had plans of his own, and no one, not even these strange Hylar, were going to stand in his way.
23
Methodically, relentlessly, the combined dwarven armies of eastern Kal-Thax — led by a few hundred Hylar — swept the passes and valleys below the highland range, driving vast numbers of humans and other races ahead of them. Within days, the entire border from Grand Gorge to the Cliffs of Shalomar was secured and free of most intruders.
There were clashes of arms during those days, but they were few and brief. A band of roaming goblins, taking advantage of the human disarray to raid a camp of nomadic Sackmen, found itself instead faced with the blades and shields of the Golden Hammer, Gem Bluesleeve’s Daewar strike force. Trapped between their human victims and the marching dwarves, the goblins tried to fight free. Very few survived to flee alongside the very people they had first attacked. A fighting unit of wild Sandrunners from the northern plains stood off two companies of combined Daergar and Theiwar for a day, then was massacred by Daergar in the dark of night.
And at the very edge of the foothill range, miles from the rising mountains to the west, a company of Ergothian knights and footmen — accompanied by various other natives of the land of Ergoth, trying to turn the flood of outlanders being forced back into their lands — confronted Willen Ironmaul’s elite guard at the crest of a low ridge. Twice, the human forces hit the line of mounted dwarves, and twice they were thrown back — as much by the ferocity of the Calnar horses as by the stubborn determination of the dwarves who rode them. Then, as they regrouped, Willen himself rode out from his lines and raised a hand in salute toward a familiar figure. The knight who rode forward to meet him wore a blue cloak over his mail, and a blue plume on his helm. The red falcon in stoop upon his breast was the same as it had been when last they met, and the sword he carried was an exquisite, dwarf-crafted blade with a diamond in its pommel.
“Ho, Sir Knight!” the dwarf called as Glendon Hawke approached. “Must we now test ourselves against our teacher?”
“Ho, Sir Dwarf!” Glendon retorted. “Have you found your Everbardin in those mountains?”
“We have found the place to begin our quest.” Willen nodded. “And people of our race — or fairly close — to share it if they will.”
Three knights bearing the insignia of an Ergothian lord had ridden forward, stepping their mounts past Glendon’s, edging the free lance knight aside. “And now you return here, driving outlanders before you?” one said. “These Cobar and Sackmen do not belong here, Sir Dwarf. Why do you bring them to us?”
“They do not belong in Kal-Thax, either,” Willen pointed out. “And if they tried to stay in those mountains through the winter — even if we would allow it — they would starve or freeze before spring. Is that what you humans want?”
“Of course not!” the same knight snapped. “But we can’t have them overrunning our lands. And if we push them north, toward Xak Tsaroth, the overlords there will put them to death, or send them off to Istar to be sold as slaves. We want no part of such business.”
“Then why not do something about the reason they come here?”
“What reason?” Glendon straightened in his saddle, resting his lance, ignoring the glares of the pennanted knights at his interruption.
“The dragon wars in the east,” Willen said. “Cale Greeneye has met elves who believe the dragons can be defeated, if the elves can rally enough support.”
“Yes, I know about the elves. They came looking for me. They said I was recommended by dwarves. They also have spoken to the lords of eastern Ergoth.”
“And will you help them?”
“Some have already gone,” an Ergothian knight said haughtily, “and others are considering it.”
“And you, Sir Glendon?”
“It is difficult to say no to an elf named Eloeth. But I was needed here first. A village has employed me as its … well, its champion.” He glanced aside at the knights, two of whom were frowning at him. “Well, people can’t wait forever for the leaders of Ergoth to come to agreement with those bullies in Xak Tsaroth!”
Willen wondered what that was all about, but no explanations seemed forthcoming. He shifted, to point behind him, where laden clouds flowed among the Kharolis peaks. “Winter is at hand up there, human. And we are up there. There is nothing more you and your countrymen can do here … unless it is to assure the slaughter of people of your own kind.”
“Cobar and Sackmen?” a knight sneered. “Sandrunners and Morion bandits? They are not of our kind!”
“They
One of the three pennanted knights — a burly, gray-bearded man in battle-scarred armor — had said nothing, only listened curiously. But now he raised a gloved hand. “The dwarf is right,” he said. “Within a week, the passes up there will be closed. These migrants would stand no chance. It may be that the time is at hand for duty to bend the knee to honor on this front.” He turned to gaze at Willen Ironmaul, and the big dwarf felt the impact of cold, gray eyes as direct and forceful as those of Colin Stonetooth himself. “You may retire from the field, Sir Dwarf. You have accomplished what you came to do. For now.”
Without waiting for a reply, the gray knight wheeled his mount and rode away, his two companions following him obediently. Willen stared after him, then asked, “Who was that?”
“That,” Glendon said, “was Lord Charon, and I imagine you are the first dwarf he has ever honored with a word.” The falcon knight raised his hand in salute and backed his sturdy horse away. “Farewell, Sir Dwarf. But heed carefully what you have heard. Lord Charon said, ‘For now.’ You will have no further intrusions while the snows last. But with spring … well, as I said, these people aren’t our people, and when they can go, they will go where they will.”
*
When snows filled the passes below the Windweavers, Colin Stonetooth led his warriors back to the promontory of the camps. Cale Greeneye and a group from Hybardin awaited him there with news.
For some time Colin Stonetooth conferred with Mistral Thrax, beside a fire where the old dwarf sat swathed in furs. Then the chieftain called the rest to him for their reports.
The sealed tunnel behind the old Daewar stronghold on Sky’s End had been opened, and Wight Anvil’s-Cap had led explorers into it. The tunnel was a marvel of delving, they reported — nearly fifty miles in length and blocked at intervals by heavy grills made of iron railing, which the metalworkers in the party had removed. At the tunnel’s end was a system of natural caverns deep beneath the surface. There, keeping themselves hidden, Hylar scouts had seen dwarves — Daewar, by the runes on the walls — doing things with what appeared to be giant worms. Beyond were other guarded tunnels.
The explorers had turned back to await the chieftain’s orders, but Wight Anvil’s-Cap was convinced by what he saw there that the huge cavern they had seen was just the first of many. He was excited by the possibilities. The cavern was miles in dimensions, and sky-lighted by quartz strata — not as well lighted as Thorin with its sun- tunnels, but light, nonetheless. There was fresh air, ventilation, and — in the judgment of Talam Bendiron, who knew of such things — there seemed plentiful water somewhere near.
“Light at the end of the tunnel,” Colin mused. “I was right, then. The sun-people tunneled through darkness because they knew there would be light.”
And there was more to the report. Cale Greeneye and his roving scouts had followed a group of Daewar returning from the slopes, and had seen them enter a hidden gate at the foot of a cliff on Cloudseeker Mountain,
