Hammer and Axe

11 A Taste of Rage

Mace Hammerstand heard the drums in the night and sent out spotters to observe a wide perimeter around the north slope of Sky’s End Mountain. The thing of the mists had struck again, this time in the Vale of Respite, far to the east of its earlier attacks on dwarven settlements. It seemed to be moving in a wide arc, from somewhere in the western wilderness into the very heart of the dwarven realm.

“Keep a careful watch,” he told his best spotters. “Especially watch the passes that come down from the Vale of Respite, just north of here. The thing may be making for the Road of Passage.”

“Aye,” a grim dwarf said. “But, Captain, what are we looking for? Has anyone ever seen the thing?”

“Not really. But we know it is large, walks on two feet—not like a person, but more like a turkey walks—and it has gliding wings and a long tail. But the thing to watch for is fog. If you see a mist that moves, report it. The thing cloaks itself in mist.”

Throughout the night and the following day, spotters stood on every crag and bluff within five miles of the old citadel on Sky’s End, their eyes roving the countryside. It was impossible to see everywhere—into each pass and crevice. Below the fanged peaks east of the Vale, the land was wild and rough—a terrain that stood on end with a hundred shadowed clefts and twisting canyons in every mile of it. But the dwarves surveyed all they could . . . and saw nothing.

Among the members of the Roving Guard there was speculation. If the thing was indeed moving eastward, some said, the best thing might be to stand aside and let it proceed. Eastward lay the human realms and the great, seething city of Xak Tsaroth. Xak Tsaroth, with its slave trade, its constant schemes and plots, its plundering, looting outriders, its wide-ranging tariff hoodlums, its gluttony for treasure, and the ambitions of its overlords, had been nothing but trouble to the dwarves of Kal-Thax as long as anyone could remember. If the fog beast was heading for Xak Tsaroth, some were inclined to cheer it on its way.

But between lay the Road of Passage, others pointed out. The great road was the result of a solemn treaty between Thorbardin and the knightly orders of southern Ergoth, and the dwarves were pledged to defend those who traveled it here, just as the knights defended those who traveled it in Ergoth.

With evening of the second day, scouts reported to Mace Hammerstand. Flashes had come from the west, double-mirror signals by last sunlight. Cale Greeneye and his Neidar, accompanied by Roving Guard troops, were in place beneath the crest of Valespine. The creature had passed there and was now somewhere between them. Mace Hammerstand was requested to move troops north to cut it off, while Cale Greeneye closed in from behind.

Then the sun was gone behind the western peaks, and the signals ended. But from the south, new drums sounded. They spoke of human wizards, and of threat to Thorbardin.

It was a dilemma for Mace Hammerstand. Cale Greeneye needed him to serve as anvil to Cale’s hammer, to attack the killing beast. Yet the reason he was here was to guard the old tunnel against wizards, and now wizards were assembling.

“I’ll have to divide forces,” he told Mica Silvershield, his second. “You take two-thirds of our force and move northward, then form a perimeter. With luck, Cale’s Neidar will drive the beast to you, and you can kill it.”

“With luck and the help of Reorx,” the golden-haired warrior added.

“Don’t attack it all-out,” Mace instructed. “When the thing comes to you, test it with thrusts and feints. Cale believes it cannot move rapidly. If you are in jeopardy, pull back slowly, and let the others come up behind it. Cale has seen the creature and knows more about it than anyone else. Follow his lead.”

“And you, Captain?”

“I will remain on sentry here, with a hundred. The old tunnel must be guarded until Willen Ironmaul and the craftsmen can find a way to seal it forever.”

By twilight, the beast-fighters moved out, northward. “Reorx go with you!” Mace Hammerstand called after them. Then he turned his attention to the hundred remaining and the guarding of the tunnel behind the old citadel.

The thing called Rage was furious. In a wide valley she had found another cluster of the warm-blooded creatures and had attacked. But there had been few there to kill. Most of them had escaped, running ahead of her, spreading and disappearing into the distance. Those who remained had tried, in their puny way, to fight her, and that had been amusing. But the diversion had lasted only a few minutes. When they were all dead and torn asunder, she had vented her anger on their residences, their scattered flocks, and their inanimate possessions, but still it had been only a small diversion.

Raging and seething, wrapped in the rolling cloud of mist that the cold emanating from her always generated, she went on. The sun of day came and went, came and went, and she clambered up long slopes that led to towering peaks. Through a narrow pass she went, in dark of night, and started down the other side. It was then she realized that there were creatures behind her, following her. Instinct told her to find a hole and wait, to ambush them as they came past. There were many of them there—many to die for her pleasure. But ahead there were others, moving to block her path. To attack either group, she knew, would alert the others, would give them a chance to escape from her, and she wanted them all.

On the slopes below the pass she turned, heading southward at right angles to her previous direction. Cold, instinctive judgment told her that when the two groups of warm-bloods—the pursuers and the blockers—met, they would join and all become pursuers. They would follow her, but they would all be together. Then she could ambush the entire party. Get them all behind her, then she could find a hole and lie in wait. She could kill them all if she could lead them into a lair.

Twilight deepened as she hurried along her way, following the slopes. Here she spread wide, stubby wings to glide over a chasm, there she paused to scatter piled boulders that blocked her way, and far behind her she sensed that the two groups of warm-bloods had joined and were coming after her. Through long hours of night she traveled as fast as she could, looking for a place to lie in wait—a place where standing obstructions might obscure the mists that were always with her until the warm creatures were close enough for her to attack.

In the dark hours before morning, she found the place. Where slopes curved away and a valley lay ahead, she raised her head high above the mists and looked around. And there, directly ahead on the slopes of a high peak that soared above the far side of the valley, were the old, crumbled walls of what had once been a structure. Instinct told her that she had found her trap-lair. She braced herself on gliding wings to plunge down the remaining slopes and far out into the valley, her mists trailing away behind her like a long, thin cloud in the starlight. When she touched down she was directly below the old walls on the slope. She headed for the structure, taloned feet thudding the ground as long, powerful legs drove her upward, swaying with a massive, birdlike rhythm that her long tail countered with its swing.

Closer and closer to the place she came, and suddenly stones rained down on her from above. There were more of the little warm-bloods up there, among the shadowed walls. She heard their shouts as stones—flung and rolled—bounced off her hard crust and clattered away down the slope behind her.

Lowering her great head she hesitated, letting thick fogs build around her, then she charged.

Breaking through the walls, she was met by a shower of slung stones, then by thrown implements of wood and metal. Most of them did her no harm, but a few struck her in the neck, and she felt dim, annoying pain. Ancient memories came back to her, of the time before her sleep when those she preyed upon had discovered that they could wound her if they struck at her neck. It had done them no good. It had only angered her more, but she remembered it and lowered her head, protecting the neck, which was her only vulnerable part.

The warm creatures swirled around her, lashing out with blades and hammers, dim in the deepening mists, and she lashed back at them. With talon and fang, wings, legs, and sweeping tail, she raged among them, tearing them apart, crushing and sundering their frail bodies, killing and feasting in an ecstasy of rage.

There were dozens of them. Many dozens. Some might have gotten away in the turmoil, but instead of fleeing they pressed their attack, and she killed, killed, and killed. When a sharp pain hit her, she realized that one of the creatures had somehow gotten beneath her head and struck upward, cutting her neck. It was only a tiny wound, but she roared and reared upright, then plunged downward, going for the one that had cut her.

The creature dodged and rolled, and her flashing claws closed on two others who had stepped in to defend the fallen one. With teeth and talons she tore them apart and was looking for the other one when something caught her eye. Deep in shadows, behind the old walls, was a recess in the mountain’s face. And at the back of the hollow was a blocked hole.

Turning from her carnage, Rage trotted into the recess and looked at the massive obstruction. With a few running steps she drove a shoulder into it and felt it sag. Again she hit it, and again, until it fell away. The hole behind it was a huge tunnel leading away into darkness. She roared, and the returning echoes told her that the tunnel ended some distance away . . . either ended or was blocked. But that didn’t matter. The pursuers were behind her, and they would come for her. She would be waiting. A hole like this was a perfect place for ambush. Let them follow her in here, and none would escape.

Back in the open, among the ruined walls, Rage roamed her killing field. Here and there she found a warm-blood still alive and crushed it. Then there were none left. A hundred sundered corpses littered the area, surrounded by the remains of their pitiful weapons and bits of smashed armor. Had any of them escaped? she wondered. Certainly not more than one or two. These creatures had not tried to flee; they had stood and fought. They had even tried to counterattack.

At the outer wall she reared above her mists and saw one of the creatures limping away, down the slope toward the valley. She would have gone after it, but in the same glance she saw movement across the valley.

With a deep growl, Rage turned and headed for the hole she had found. Let the one go. She would wait for the many. Wading through the gore of her killing field, the great creature paused here and there to batter and rend the silent bodies of her victims, keeping low so that her fogs would hide her, and the walls would hide the fog. When her fury was momentarily satisfied, she crept out and walked eastward, letting her mists be seen and leaving distinct tracks. Then, out of sight of the valley, she climbed to a height, set her wide, stubby wings, and glided swiftly back to where she had started.

Behind the ruined walls again, she crept into the hole in the mountain. Deep into the darkness of the tunnel, she came to a second barricade. A stone plug, blocking the shaft. Carefully this time, almost gently, she worked it loose, turned it, and passed beyond, then turned to set it back in place. Now she would wait. The creatures would come; a few would explore and find nothing. But eventually, they would all come in. Then she would have them. Crouching in the darkness, as patient as time, Rage waited.

Mace Hammerstand was dying. He knew he was dying. His left arm was gone, bitten off above the elbow, and all his attempts to tie off the wound were not enough. His life’s blood was seeping from him. Even worse, his chest had been crushed, and his lungs were filling with fluid.

Still, though, he kept going. The way was downhill, and he must go as far as he could, so that the thing at the citadel could not come and finish him off. Somewhere out there, in the valley or beyond, were the remains of his Roving Guard and Cale Greeneye with his Neidar rangers.

He was dying. The world swam before his eyes, and he found he could not move anymore. He didn’t remember falling, but he was down, lying across a stone on the hillside above the valley. Desperately, he clamped hard fingers over the stump of his left arm and squeezed until the pain cleared his vision. To keep from passing out, he pounded his heels against the rock, gritted his teeth, and tried to whistle. It wasn’t much of a whistle. Blood from his pierced lungs choked him and started him coughing, and that brought more blood. He felt as though he were strangling.

Weakness flowed over him like a cold stream, and he fought it valiantly. He tried to count the moons rising in the sky, but they spun and danced around, and he lost track. He heard a voice and didn’t know whether it was his own or someone else’s. “Reorx give me strength,” he whispered. “Reorx, don’t let me turn loose yet. Everbardin can wait. . . just a little longer.”

Someone was kneeling beside him. Several someones, and others around them, dark, sturdy, bearded forms in the moonlight. Someone was calling his name, and again he squeezed the stump of his arm until the pain cleared his eyes. Slowly, he recognized some of them. Mica Silvershield was there, and Brune Tamal, and . . . and many others, crowding around. And the one kneeling beside him, cradling his head on an arm that was like warm steel, was Cale Greeneye.

“Cale . . .” Mace tried to speak, then erupted with coughing spasms that soaked him with his own blood. When the convulsions had passed, he tried again. “Cale, it was the beast. It found us . . . at the citadel. We . . . the hundred . . . they are all dead.”

“Be quiet, Mace,” Cale soothed him. “We will find the thing. I promise you.”

“Cale, we couldn’t hurt it. Our blades bounced away. Until. . . Cale, it can be hurt. Its neck. I cut it on the neck. Just. . . a scratch, but it was a wound. Its neck, Cale. There, it can be hurt.”

“I hear you, Mace.” The Neidar’s voice shook, and in the moonlight there was a tear on his cheek. “I will remember.”

“Cale. . .”

“Yes, Mace.”

“Cale, my wife, and our children . . .”

“They will be seen to,” the Neidar promised.

“And Cale, tell Damon . . .”

“What, Mace?”

“Tell him . . . tell him I have been proud to be his friend.”

The last was a faint whisper, barely heard. Then the captain of Roving Guard let out a final, rasping breath, and his head rolled to the side. He was dead.

Cale let him down gently on the bloody rock and stood. “Let the drums speak,” he said. “Mace Hammerstand is dead. A hundred of the best have died, and the beast still lives.”

Around him a dozen signalers unslung their drums and began the song that was—in the way of the dwarves —both a message and a lament, a dirge for the respected dead.

“Everbardin,” Cale whispered, “take this one . . . and the others . . . home.”

First dawn lay on the peaks when the relayed drum-calls reached Damon Omenborn at the edge of the wilderness, a hundred miles southwest of the old citadel on Sky’s End.

Returning from Sheercliff toward Thorbardin had been a long, slow journey for the little party. Both Damon and Tag Salan knew that they were being followed, and Tag had seen their pursuer. It was the red-strap wizard from the cliffs, the one who called himself Megistal. He had a horse—one of their own lost animals, Tag thought —and was dogging their trail, pausing now and then to make shimmering rings appear in thin air—rings the wizard stared into as though searching.

Backtracking, Tag had seen him and watched him for a while, ducking out of sight each time the man made one of his spells. Somehow, he guessed with Theiwar intuition, the wizard would be able to see them and find them if he could once discover just where they were. So they made sure that he could not see them. They zigzagged, doubled back, and kept to cover. The Einar girl, Willow Summercloud, became exasperated with them, but found that it was no use to argue.

It was Damon’s intention to mislead the man enough so that when they came into settled lands he would know only their general direction of travel, not exactly where they were. Damon had felt the enormous power of the man’s magic and had no wish to be caught in the open by some sorcerous spell whose source he could not even see, much less fight.

Thus, as they broke night camp in a place of thickets, within sight of Einar fields, the wizard was some distance south of them, following a false trail that might take him all day to sort out. In the distance to the east, beyond the settled lands, rose the massive bulks of Sky’s End, Cloudseeker, and the Thunder Peaks. With luck, they could be safely within Thorbardin—with the color-shifting stone that the wizards had valued so much—before the mage could do anything about them.

And it was then, just at dawn, when the drum-calls came on the wind. Damon stood, cocking his head to listen, and his eyes narrowed.

“What is it?” Willow demanded, closing a pack. “Has something happened?”

“Hush!” Damon snapped, still listening. Tag Salan, a few yards away, was listening, too, but seemed puzzled. He understood a little of the drum-speak, as most Thorbardin dwarves had learned to, but only a little. There was far more in the songs of the drums, subtleties of tone and rhythm, things that only a Hylar could truly decipher.

After a moment, Damon turned and looked at the others. “The fog beast has been at Sky’s End,” he said. “There were guards there, and it attacked them.”

Tag felt a chill go up his spine. “Guards? Who?”

“The Roving Guard, Tag.” Damon lowered his eyes. “Mace Hammerstand, and a hundred. They are all dead. The thing killed them.”

Tag stared at him with stricken eyes. “Mace . . . my captain, dead?”

Damon nodded. “All dead,” he said. “The thing battered down the gate of the old tunnel, but they don’t know where it is now. Runners with torches went as far as the second barrier and found it still standing.”

“Damon, that thing . . .” Tag started, then took a deep breath to control the anger rising within him. “The wizards on the cliff. They did something. They woke it up, and now it is loose.”

“Yes. The wizards.” Damon raised his eyes, and Willow Summercloud gasped at the sight of his face. Even Tag Salan stared, startled. In the big Hylar’s narrowed eyes blazed an anger that was as hot as forge-fires and as cold as ice. In ninety years, no one had ever seen Damon Omenborn angry. It had seemed as though the big, affable Hylar simply did not have the cold steel of fury within him. But now a palpable force as strong as winter winds seemed to blaze from his eyes. Willow backed away, clutching her axe, her eyes wide. Tag Salan felt as though he were staring into pure wrath.

“Come on,” Damon said softly. “No more games with that red-strap. Let him just hope he does not find us before we get home.” He lifted the flap of his belt-pouch, took out the Stone of Threes, and gazed at it icily. “This is important to the mages, is it? Well, that’s just fine. Because this is something that they shall never have as long as I am alive.”

“There are other wizards, Damon,” Tag said. “If it’s that important, they will come searching for it. They will come to Thorbardin.”

“Then let them come,” Damon said. “Let them see our gates . . . once, before they die.”

Willow was still gaping at him. Along the way, she had entered a swampy thicket to gather berries, and now mud and stain was smeared across her face, adding to the soot and ash that had been there since the first time they had seen her. “You . . . you really hate the humans that much?”

“Humans?” He shook his head. “I have nothing against humans, girl. Not all of them, anyway. But I have a score to settle with those who are so . . . so corrupt that they practice magic.”

In a nearby thicket, something moved, and a strong voice said, “By that speech, dwarf, you have saved yourself an arrow through the heart.”

They spun around, weapons at hand, as a tall fierce-looking man stepped from cover. An arrow was notched in the bow he carried, but it was lowered. “My name is Quist Redfeather,” he said. “And I have a score to settle, too. Especially with that magic-user that you have been leading in circles.”

High overhead, a bird wheeled in the morning sunlight—a bird far larger than any who happened to see it from the ground might guess.

Cawe had seen the gathering of wizards in the cove among the southern peaks and wanted no part of them. They were nowhere near Sheercliff, nowhere near the raptor aviaries high in the Anviltops, and they were none of his business. Still, the little creature on his back insisted on a further look around, and now she had spotted the three dwarves from Sheercliff far below. In high-pitched birdsong, she begged and pleaded for Cawe to take her down to them so that she could tell them about the mages gathering in the mountains.

Finally, Cawe relented. No, he would not take her to them. There was too much settlement where they were, too much chance of being seen and challenged by creatures of their kind. Creatures of Cawe’s kind had learned, a long time ago, that the best way for raptors to deal with people of any kind was to simply avoid them. People did not understand giant birds, and most encounters led only to trouble.

Ahead, though, where a great mountain rose against the bright sky, were vast, high areas where no settlements were visible. Huge hawk-eyes roved the landscape there. High on the shoulder of the centermost of the great peaks, a deep, walled valley beckoned—a place where even a raptor might land unnoticed. Cawe set his wings and headed for a secluded landing. He would let the kender off there, and she could find her own way to the dwarves.

The raptor realized that he might never see the little creature again. It was the way of kender, to come and go as they pleased. In many ways, it would be a relief if this kender never returned to the Anviltops. She was often a nuisance.

And yet, the great creature—whose kind were called peak-masters by those who knew of them—admitted to himself that he would probably miss Shillitec Medina Quickfoot when she was gone. The sedate, reclusive life of the raptor—after having associated with a kender for a time—was likely to be a bit dull.