Hammer and Axe

10 The Gathering Storm

In a secluded cove west of the Thunder Peaks, as the moons of Krynn rose above the plains of Ergoth to the east, wizards gathered. The white moon appeared first, frosty and bright above an ebony horizon, and a long line of tall figures emerged from the shadows of a walled gorge. Single file, they came down the rocky slopes and gathered in the little cove, each in turn pausing to face east, toward the risen moon, and speak soft words of respect. They were all human and all men, though a motley and ill-assembled group. Some wore robes, some kilts and capes. Some wore boots and some sandals. Some had hats of various kinds, but many were bareheaded. Some were shaven and some bearded, some sturdy and some gaunt, some were men in their middle years and some seemed much older. Some carried staves, some simple sticks, but most carried no tools or weapons of any kind.

The only feature predominant among them was that many, if not most, had at least one article of clothing which was white in color. Though the Orders of High Sorcery were yet very new, it was already becoming the practice of many among them to dress symbolically, each in the color of the moon that ruled his particular school of sorcery.

Forty wizards came with the rising of the white moon, and one awaited them there. When all the newcomers had completed their gestures of respect for the risen moon, they turned toward the one who had summoned them. “Sigamon,” one said. “It was you who sent the call spell?”

“I sent it, Porcirin.” Sigamon nodded, his nose wrinkling in distaste. He had never cared for the officious, high-handed manner of the mage from the eastern city of Istar who called himself Porcirin the Pure. Given half a chance in any situation, Porcirin would try to take charge. And when he did take charge, in Sigamon’s opinion, he usually led in the wrong direction.

“I hope you had a good reason,” Porcirin snapped. “We have come many miles out of our way to respond.”

“Why aren’t you at the place of the tower?” someone else asked. “It was your task—you and those others—to complete the testing of stones and mirrors and await us there.”

“The tower is in jeopardy,” Sigamon said. “The Stone of Threes has been stolen.”

“Stolen?” Faces in the crowd turned to look at one another, incredulous. “How could it have been stolen?” someone demanded. “Who took it?”

“Wait for the rest,” Sigamon said. “I’ll tell the tale once, when all are here.”

They waited, some sitting on the cold ground, others pacing impatiently. In the east, the white moon Solinari crept up the dark sky. Then below it and northward, stars just at the horizon seemed to disappear—and others above them, a circle of darkness in the starfield. In the cove, a wizard pointed. “Nuitari,” he said.

Seeming smaller than Solinari, but rising more rapidly, the dark moon crept above the horizon, and across the cove night shadows moved as people emerged from a high valley. Again, the group consisted of forty men, as varied as the first group in appearance but similar in that most of them wore dark clothing, and each had some item—a hat, a robe, a corselet, or wrapped leggings—of solid black.

These approached the group already there, and one stepped forward. He was a tall, slender man with a dark hat, dark cape, and cruel, cynical eyes. “Brothers,” he said, bowing slightly.

Many of the white-wearers stared at him in surprise. “Kistilan,” some of them muttered. “What’s Kistilan doing here?”

“We have been summoned by a call,” the dark one said. “We are here, and there had better be a good reason. I do not care to have my time wasted.”

“Sigamon sent the call,” Porcirin the Pure explained, making a contemptuous gesture. “He says the Stone of Threes for the tower of the mountains is missing.”

“Missing?” the dark-hatted figure hissed. “Has he lost it, then?”

“He says it was stolen,” someone said.

The dark wizard Kistilan spun toward Sigamon. “How could such a thing be?” he demanded. “Who stole it?” He turned, then, looking around the cove. “Are you here alone, of the testers? Where is Tantas?”

“Dead,” Sigamon said coldly.

In the east, pale reddish light grew above the horizon, and the rim of red Lunitari appeared. Over a crest above the cove came another file of forty, many of them wearing bits of red in their clothing. When they approached the gathered mages one of them demanded, “Who here summoned us? We have walked many miles this day, and not in the proper direction.”

“You walked.” Sigamon stepped forward, glaring at the newcomers. “You should be pleased that you had the leisure to walk. I came by transport spell, and my stomach still aches and turns within me.”

The nearest red-cloaks peered at him, then one said, “Sigamon? What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at Sheercliff with Megistal and the hunchback? What has happened?”

“Megistal has gone off to study dwarves,” Sigamon sneered. “I neither know nor care where he is. The hunchback—Tantas—is dead, killed by a dwarf. And that dwarf has the Stone of Threes. Without it, our mission to these lands is useless.”

“A dwarf?” Voices arose in disbelief. “A dwarf killed Tantas? What magic did the creature use?”

“A hammer.” Sigamon shook his head. “He threw a hammer and killed Tantas. Then he mauled me brutally for no reason and left Megistal and me bound and gagged while he and his accomplices made off with the tower-stone.”

“A dwarf?” a dozen asked, in unison.

“What accomplices did this . . . this dwarf have?” the black-cloak, Kistilan, asked, sneering. “Were they dragons? Or possibly an army of rogue mages? Have you lost your powers as well as your reason, pale conjurer?”

Sigamon glared at his tormentor and raised a shaking hand. A spell was on his lips, but it went unsaid. He was no match for Kistilan, and he knew it.

“Enough!” a red-wearer shouted. “That’s enough of that! Both of you! Fight later if you like, but first let us hear what has happened.”

“Mind your tone,” another whispered. “That is Kistilan.

Don’t you know him?”

“Kistilan?” the red-robe stared at the dark wizard, then lowered his eyes. “What is Kistilan doing here?” he whispered.

“Whatever he likes, as usual,” another muttered.

For long moments, the cove was silent, then an aged red-wearer raised his hands in sign of truce. “You, Sigamon. You said Megistal had gone to study dwarves. Why?”

“He thinks they may be immune to magic,” Sigamon said. “It’s pure nonsense, of course, but. . .”

“I am sorry Megistal has gone,” Kistilan hissed. “He once swore to kill me, and I was looking forward to seeing him die trying. His magic certainly is not the equal of mine. But even with the puniest of magic—such as yours, Sigamon—I don’t see how a common dwarf could have bested you.”

“The creature was extraordinarily stubborn. Besides, he tricked us. He betrayed our kindness to him.”

“I see. And who were the others with him?”

“Other dwarves,” Sigamon said, lowering his eyes in embarrassment. “Two other dwarves and a kender.”

“Unbelievable,” someone muttered. “Could you not control these dwarves with your spells, Sigamon?”

“Of course I could! My mistake was in trying to be gentle. The dwarf betrayed my kindness.”

“And Tantas?” Kistilan asked. “I can’t imagine Tantas ever being hampered by kindness.”

“The dwarf caught him off-guard.”

“Megistal, then? Megistal is a very powerful wizard, or so it is said . . . though I will one day show him what true power is.”

“Megistal tried to use illusion. The dwarf refused to believe the illusion. I told you, the creature was extraordinarily stubborn.”

Disbelieving but worried, a hundred and twenty-one wizards gathered secretly in the hidden cove high in the mountains to hear the whole story and discuss what to do about it. Kistilan stood aside, his face hidden by shadows. Whatever the truth here was, he knew it was what he had been waiting for. Dwarves had interfered with the Orders of High Sorcery. If the Stone of Threes was taken, they must retrieve it, by whatever means were necessary. Only seven of the artifacts existed in the whole world, one for each of the seven Towers of High Sorcery the Scions had decreed.

Among the wizards were some who suspected where dwarves would take such a thing. “It is a fortress,” one said. “North of here, where three crags cap a mighty peak.”

“The mountain is called Cloudseeker,” offered another. “People in Ergoth speak of a fortress the dwarves have built there. No one knows much about it, except its name: Thorbardin.”

In the shadows, Kistilan smiled a cruel smile, thinking rapidly. The fortress of the dwarves . . . It was what the High Overlord of Xak Tsaroth most coveted. “A fortress is nothing,” the dark mage said casually. “If that is where the Stone of Threes is, then someone must go and get it.”

“That’s reasonable,” the red-cloak Salanik agreed. “Sigamon, you and the other testers traveled through this land to reach Sheercliff. Have you seen the fortress of the dwarves?”

“I have not.” Sigamon shrugged. “The lands north of here are full of dwarves. We thought it best to go unseen, so we avoided contact.”

“Then we should have a look at the place, I think. I can image it if. . .”

“You can’t image a thing unseen,” Sigamon protested. “Not even a follower of Lunitari can cast a blind vision.”

“. . . if,” Salanik continued, “we have a pair of eyes to see it.”

Among the crowd of wizards, feet shuffled, and eyes turned away. No one wanted the discomfort of magical transport. Then Kistilan stood. “The one who lost the stone is the one who should go and look,” he proclaimed. With an evil smirk, the black-wearer half-turned, muttered a quick incantation, and spun back to point directly at Sigamon. “Chapak!” he snapped, completing the spell.

Sigamon’s eyes went wide, and his hands went up. “No!” he wailed. “No-o-o . . . !” The wail trailed off into silence as Sigamon disappeared.

“As good a choice as any.” Salanik shrugged. “Stand back, everyone.” The wizards moved back, clearing a span of ground. “Vit vistis, obis ot Sigamon,” the red chanted, spreading his arms as light grew in the open space, a bubble of pale brilliance that became brighter and more solid, then cleared to show a dim, shadowy view—a vision of stony, moonlit ground as though seen from just above. On the ground were two sandaled feet, with gaunt, awkward legs rising above them to the charred hem of what might once have been a white robe. The scene bobbed and danced, and mages all around frowned. “Is that all he can see?” someone asked. “What is he doing?”

“He is retching.” Kistilan grinned. “The transport spell has turned his stomach.”

Impatiently, the hundred and twenty waited while the view through Sigamon’s eyes bobbed and swayed. Then the view shifted, rising, and in the vision bubble distances grew—rising slopes of a mighty mountain, shadow-bathed in the moonlight, climbing up and away to great heights. Atop its crest, silhouetted against the night sky, were three great, natural spires of stone from which mists swirled upward.

“Cloudseeker Mountain,” an Ergothian wizard explained. “The place of the dwarven fortress called Thorbardin.”

“I see no fortress,” another said impatiently. “I see only a mountain.”

That was all any of them saw. Just a mountain. High on its face was a walled ledge, backed by an oval of metal, but nothing that suggested a fortress.

“Maybe it’s on the other side,” the bubble-maker suggested. “Kistilan, can you . . . ?”

“Certainly.” Kistilan shrugged. “Though he won’t like it. The north side of that mountain must be fifty miles from where he is now.” The dark mage muttered a spell, and the scene in the bubble blurred, swam nauseatingly, then cleared.

Again they were looking at the ground, but this time closer, and Sigamon’s hands were in the view. The scene wobbled, then steadied as one of Sigamon’s fingers traced a message in the dust. I hate you for this, Kistilan, it said.

The view in the bubble changed as the nauseated wizard got to his feet and looked up at the north slopes of Cloudseeker. The scene swept this way and that, scanning the slopes, then stopped at a place high on the peak where torchlight had appeared on a ledge. The light revealed a large oval portal of some kind, with a wide, walled ledge before it. Tiny figures moved about, pausing here and there as though they were listening to something. And, distantly, the gathered wizards heard the sound of drums beating in the night.

“Drum-call,” an Ergothian said. “The dwarves signal with drums. Something has alarmed them.”

“Maybe they have seen Sigamon,” someone suggested. “The dwarves have lookouts everywhere around that mountain.”

“Not likely,” another said. “There is only moonlight, and Sigamon is in shadows, far below those ledges.”

“I have heard,” the Ergothian said, “that there is one tribe of dwarves—the Daergar—who are dark-seekers.”

The vision in the bubble shifted this way and that, as though it was turning rapidly, looking around.

“Ignore the dwarves, Sigamon!” someone snapped. “Look for the fortress!”

Obediently, the vision turned toward the mountain again. There were many lights there now, and files of torches elsewhere on the slopes. But nowhere was there anything that looked like a castle or battlement.

“Are you sure there is a fortress?” someone asked. “I see nothing.”

“Idiots!” Kistilan snapped. “We are looking at it. The mountain itself is the fortress. That opening up there is a gate like the one we saw on the south side, but this one is ajar. Dwarves are delvers. Thorbardin is beneath the peak, not on it!”

“That opening?” Someone else pointed. “If that, and the one on the other side, are gates, then this ‘fortress’ must be enormous.”

Enormous, Kistilan thought, and valuable. He wondered if the reward offered by the High Overlord of Xak Tsaroth would equal the treasure that the one who held that fortress could demand.

In the bubble, torchlight lined the ledges and trails of the slopes. It looked as though hundreds and hundreds of dwarves were emerging from the mountain, hurrying downward toward the valley below.

“Well, if that is where the Stone of Threes has gone,” Salanik suggested, “let us send Sigamon in to retrieve it. He is already there.”

But then the view in the bubble swam rapidly, shifting as the one whose eyes beheld it turned to look behind him. A company of short, stocky creatures stood there, all armed with shields and various hand weapons. The nearest one stepped forward, gesturing angrily, and in the bubble it seemed he had no face—only a featureless mask of metal with a slit for his eyes.

Sigamon’s hand appeared in the view-bubble, extended toward the dwarves, the index finger pointing.

“Well, he can certainly deal with that bunch,” someone said.

From the finger came brilliant light, and a thick mist of ice flecks swirled around the dwarves, obscuring them.

“A freeze,” a white-wearer noted. “Sigamon is very adept at freezes.”

The swirling ice cleared, and where there had been dwarves, now were only nodules of solid ice.

“So much for that,” a black-wearer said casually. “Now send him inside to get our. . .”

One of the ice nodules cracked and moved. Then another, and another. The ice cracked away, and from the chips crawled dwarves, writhing in agony, but beginning to get to their feet and retrieve weapons.

“They are still alive!” a wizard hissed in the crowd. “Has Sigamon lost his power?”

Again the finger pointed, and great stones seemed to rain from above, smashing down upon the crawling, writhing dwarves. In an instant, the entire group was buried beneath an avalanche of stone. Then, incredibly, the stones shifted, some of them beginning to fade from view, and the dwarves were still there. Many lay still on the hard ground, but some were moving, and as the wizards watched in fascination one of them got to his knees, then to his feet. He held an iron shield before him and a javelin in his free hand, and the dark slit of his mask seemed to blaze with hatred.

Sigamon’s pointing finger rose again, but this time the dwarf acted first. More quickly than seemed possible, he took a step forward, crouched, and flung the iron-tipped javelin. In the distant cove, wizards gasped and ducked as the missile hurtled—it seemed—directly toward each of them.

Then the bubble went dark and flickered out of existence. In the stunned silence of the cove, someone said, “They killed him! That dwarf killed Sigamon!”

“How can that be?” another quavered. “How could any of them still be alive? That ice-freeze was enough to kill anyone instantly. And then the rain of stones . . .”

“Remember what he said,” a red-wearer muttered. “He said Megistal believed a dwarf could . . . could resist magic, somehow. He said Megistal tried an illusion on a dwarf, and the dwarf refused to believe the illusion. Stubborn, he said.”

“Nonsense!” Salanik snapped. “No one can resist magic, except with magic.”

“To be on the safe side,” a wizard in the crowd suggested, “maybe we should all go to retrieve our talisman. I don’t understand what we have seen, but we should take no chances.”

Now Kistilan stepped forward to the center of the crowd. “I agree,” he said, “that what we have seen suggests caution. Besides, that mountain fortress will take great energies to bring down. Why should we so exert ourselves, if there is a better way?”

“And what better way is that?” Salanik asked.

“Plain force of arms,” the dark wizard said. “There is an army near Xak Tsaroth. Mercenaries, ready to fight. Let them deal with these dwarves for us.”

“Mercenaries fight for pay,” a white-kilted mage said. “What would you have us do about that?”

Kistilan glared at the man. “Stupid,” he muttered. He knelt, picked up a small stone, and held it before him. Suddenly the stone became a shiny coin. Kistilan swept a casual hand, and the ground all around him was littered with coins.

“I can handle mercenaries,” he said. “The rest of you, just follow me.”

The drums said the fog-killer had struck again, this time at the Neidar village of Highland, near the south end of the great valley called the Vale of Respite. The Neidar farmers had taken warning from the approaching fog, and most had fled their village ahead of the thing, but some had remained to fight. Those were now dead.

In Thorbardin, Cale Greeneye heard the report from Northgate and assembled the Neidar at his command. Willen Ironmaul conferred with Barek Stone, then assigned three garrison companies of the Roving Guard to accompany the Neidar. They would go north, around the west slopes of Cloudseeker, to track down and kill the beast of the mists.

The drums were speaking now to Mace Hammerstand, captain of the Roving Guard, who was out with two companies guarding the entrance to the old Daewar tunnel against the threat of wizards until it could be permanently obliterated.

If the creature had maintained its course, it was possible that Cale Greeneye’s forces and Mace Hammer-stand’s companies could trap it between them, somewhere between the Vale of Respite and Sky’s End.

By moonlight the expedition assembled at Northgate, where crews worked rapidly to complete the mounting of the great gate. Armed and solemn, carrying torches, the dwarves streamed out from Northgate and headed down the series of slanted ledges leading toward the shadowed valley below, where Neidar horse-keepers waited with saddled mounts for those who would ride.

Cale Greeneye was halfway to the pens when he saw, on the low slopes beyond the pastures, a flare of white light that seemed to grow from nothing. Only for an instant did he see it, then it was gone. But a moment later there was another flare, dimmer than the first, and by its light it appeared that great stones were raining from the clear sky, piling up on the ground as they fell. The light faded, and mutters of surprise and concern swept along the dwarven column. They had all seen something, but none of them knew what it was.

“Could it be the beast?” someone asked. “Can it have turned . . . and come this far?”

“It is not the beast,” Cale assured those near him. “It does not move that fast. I have trailed it. Even if it turned, it is still north of Sky’s End.” Then, nearing the horse pens, the leaders of the column came upon a battered group of masked Daergar, carrying the body of a human. The foremost of the miners raised a hand, recognizing Cale Greeneye. He removed his dented mask; there was blood on his beard beneath it.

“Cale,” he said. “It is I, Jedden Two-vein.”

“I know you, Jedden,” Cale greeted him. “What has happened?”

“This man”—the Daergar pointed—”was a wizard. We found him on the slopes over there. I ordered him to go away, but he made spells against us. We lost seven of our company. Some were killed by ice, and some by falling stone . . . or what seemed like falling stone, except that stones do not fall from an empty sky. But perhaps those who died didn’t think of that.”

By torchlight, Cale looked at the body of the wizard, then turned away. “Take him to Northgate,” he said. “But not inside. Who knows what a wizard might do . . . even a dead one? Get word to Willen Ironmaul. Tell him what happened.”

The Daergar looked past him, at the dwarves mounting their steeds, and the foot companies assembling around them. “We heard the drums, Cale. What do they say?”

“They say the beast of the mist has struck again, this time much closer. It is somewhere north of Sky’s End.”

“Do we have troops there?”

“Mace Hammerstand is there with two mounted companies. Maybe we can trap the beast between us.”

“And if you trap it,” the Daergar said, frowning grimly, “can it be killed?”

“That’s what we may soon learn,” Cale told him.