The Covenant of The Forge

by ten to one. Often, at the contests and the trading stalls, there was strenuous argument. Sometimes there were incidents — a minor riot, a fight over some trinket or over how a contest was won. There was the inevitable thievery, the usual squabbles, the occasional knifing or angry duel.

But these were just part of Balladine. They were the predictable results of too many people, of different persuasions and different races, intermingling freely. Seldom were the consequences serious, and the human chiefs of Golash and Chandera seemed as determined as was Colin Stonetooth himself that nothing irreparable harm the tradition of the summer fair. They were human, of course, and hardly to be trusted, but they seemed to be in concert with the dwarves.

Yet, now … Tolon shivered slightly and pulled his woven suede robe — human-made, by some weaver in Golash — tighter around his broad shoulders. He turned, strode to the alcove behind the balcony, and pushed open the iron-framed door set in the stone arch. He hesitated for an instant while his eyes adjusted from daylight to fireglow, then called, “Tera! Are you here?”

Soft, padding footsteps sounded, somewhere beyond the outer room, and an intricate tapestry parted on the far wall. The person who stepped through, a young dwarf woman, had the same dark, swept-back mane and wide- set eyes as all of her brothers, but was otherwise as unlike any of them as they were unlike one another. As with most females of her race, she was shorter by several inches than the males in her family, standing barely over four feet in height. But where her father and brothers had wide, strong-boned faces with high cheekbones and level eyes, Tera Sharn’s features were like their mother’s — softly tapering cheeks, a small, slightly buck-toothed mouth above a stubborn chin, and wide, almost-slanted eyes beneath arching brows … eyes that missed very little and that could look very wise when glimpsed unaware.

By any standard, Tera Sharn — only daughter of Colin Stonetooth, chieftain of the Calnar of Thorin — was a strikingly beautiful dwarven maiden, and in recent seasons there had been no shortage of highborn young dwarves coming to call. Of late, it was unusual to find her without Willen Ironmaul or Jerem Longslate or some other strapping suitor lurking nearby.

She was alone now, though, and she paused, gazing at Tolon. Something in his tone had sounded worried … almost ominous.

Tolon Farsight nodded at his sister and gestured. “Tera, come to the balcony. Come and listen.”

Curious, she followed him through the open door, which closed behind them on weighted hinges. Sunlight had found the stone parapet of the balcony and reflected on the glittering pattern of metallic particles in its polished surface. Tera shaded her eyes, looking around.

“Listen,” Tolon said. “Tell me what you hear.”

She listened, then shrugged. “I hear the drums,” she told him. “The drums of Balladine.” She looked around. “Is there something more?”

“Do the drums sound strange to you?” He frowned, gazing past her, concentrating on the muted, complex thunders of the dwarven music.

Again she listened. “They sound strong. Strong and sure. I recognize the voice of Handil’s drum among them … and others, too. They speak well this year.” Again she glanced at her brother. “What is it, Tolon? Do you hear something that I don’t?”

“Maybe not,” he conceded. “I may have imagined it.”

“What did you imagine, then?”

“It sounded as though … I don’t know, maybe it was just odd echoes. But for a moment it sounded … well, as though the drums were saying good-bye.”

*

Haunting and powerful, seeming to build upon itself minute by minute, the call of the drums echoed outward across Thorin, reaching for the realms beyond. A drum … a dozen drums … a hundred drums, one by one, by twos and fives, joined the mighty voice of the Call to Balladine. As the high sun reached its zenith, it seemed the very mountains absorbed the intricate, commanding rhythms and throbbed with them. Today was the first call. They would call again tomorrow, and the day after that, and each day until the harvest reached the middle ledges. Then would begin the great fair of the Calnar, the time of Balladine.

High above Thorin Keep, on the platformed cap of the First Sentinel, Handil the Drum leaned into his music, corded shoulders rippling in the sunlight as his mallet beat a steady rhythm for all the rest to weave their beats around. Slung from his shoulder, cradled under his left arm, the mighty vibrar boomed and throbbed its invitation. Its voice at each stroke of the mallet rolled like thunder and seemed to make the very mountains dance.

Beyond him, where trumpeters and lookouts manned the parapets, Cale Greeneye — youngest of the brothers — leaned casually on a narrow railing above dizzy heights and gazed off into the mountain distances, letting the music of the drums pulse in his blood while he dreamed of faraway places.

In misted distance, beyond the valleys of the Bone and Hammersong rivers, beyond the far, rising slopes, clouds drifted among the peaks of the Suncradles. As he often did, Cale Greeneye — called by many Cale Cloudwalker — fantasized that he might harness such a cloud and stand upon it, feel it rise and flow beneath his feet, carrying him off across strange, distant lands to places he had never seen and could not even imagine.

Nearby, a trumpeter glanced around, gazed at the chieftain’s youngest son for a moment, then nudged a lookout. “The Cloudwalker is off again,” he whispered. “Strangest thing I ever heard of. Why in Krynn would a person ever want to travel?”

“Not the only strange thing today.” The lookout frowned. He pointed westward, into the hazed distance.

“What do you see out there, Misal?”

The trumpeter squinted, shading his eyes, then spread his hands. “Nothing. Why?”

“That’s just it,” the lookout said. “The patrol from Farfield was due this morning with the border reports. I’ve never known them to be late, but as far as I can see — and on a day like this that’s at least twenty miles — there isn’t a sign of them.”

Cale Greeneye glanced around, overhearing the words. It was odd. Sledge Two- Fires was a seasoned scout and not one to be late finishing a patrol circuit. And Cale had friends among the perimeter guards. His eyes lighted. Maybe it would be a good idea, he thought, if someone went to look for them.

3

Grayfen Ember-Eye

In a deep, steep-walled canyon where a narrow trail cut through the crest of a ridge, rays of the midday sun smote the canyon floor and glinted on the burnished armor, rich leathers, and spattered blood of those who lay there, tumbled and silent in death. Fourteen in all, they lay where they had fallen. Some had been dead for hours, their pooled blood darkening as it dried. But here and there among them were splashes of bright red — fresh blood still steaming in the cold air.

Men walked among them, crouching and stooping as they picked up weapons, pausing to loot the bodies that had not yet been robbed. Nearby, just beyond the trail’s crest, a fire had been built, and other men gathered around it to warm themselves.

“Should have been over in minutes,” a man grumbled, tying fabric around a bleeding gash in his arm. “There were only fourteen of them, and our arrows took down nine before they knew we were here. Five left, and it took us all night to finish them!”

“Stubborn as dwarves, like they say,” another muttered, stuffing steel coins into his pouch. “The little vermin fight like demons.” He glanced around. “Anybody count our losses yet?”

“Seventeen dead,” someone told him. “Few more won’t last the day. Don’t know how many wounded. Twenty or thirty, maybe. It was a mistake, letting the dinks get to the slopes. For that matter, it was a mistake charging down on them after the first volleys. We should have stayed in cover, held a defense, and finished them from a distance.”

“Sure,” the first man growled. “And maybe have one or two of them get clear? Maybe slip away to warn the whole kingdom about us? Lot of good our ambush would have done, then. Use your head, Calik! In this world you