Hammer and Axe

15 Fortress Thorbardin

There could be no further doubt, based on the Neidar reports, that Kal-Thax had been invaded and Thorbardin would be attacked. The fog-beast had not been seen since the day it murdered Mace Hammerstand and a hundred members of the Roving Guard on Sky’s End, and there were some who said that it had gone away. But the greater threat, the wizards who had released it, remained, and they were determined to get back the thing the dwarves had taken from them—the Stone of Threes upon which the Tower of High Sorcery of Kal-Thax must be built.

For nine decades, the bonded thanes of Thorbardin had labored to create the mightiest of fortresses, deep in the heart of a mountain under Cloudseeker Peak. And now the fortress would be tested, with the fate of the entire race of dwarves at stake. If Thorbardin should fall, all of Kal-Thax would fall.

Under command of the regent, Willen Ironmaul, Thorbardin made ready for siege. Stores and supplies were laid in, defenders drilled in every cavern and corridor, and the great smelters surrounding the Shaft of Reorx roared with activity as Daergar iron and Theiwar firestone went into the making of steel to be fashioned into weapons. The metal-smithies were already geared to weaponry, having only recently completed a huge order of armaments for some buyer in the human realm of Ergoth—arms which, rumor said, were for a man named Darr Bolden. But now the forges went on double duty as every guardsman, soldier, and reservist in Thorbardin—and every civilian capable of bearing arms—was called to service.

Drums sang through the mountains, and patrols of Neidar scoured the nearby countryside escorting whole communities of unaffiliated Einar dwarves to the safety of the great fortress. By the thousands they came, pouring in through the great portals of Southgate and Northgate, past the gateways where Southgate’s plug sat ready to close and where Northgate’s identical plug was being hurriedly installed upon its ram. Whole villages came up from the valleys and the fields, driving their herds and carrying their belongings, to disappear into the vast subterranean maze that was Thorbardin.

In Hybardin, Daebardin, Theibardin, Theibolden, and Daerbardin; in Northhole and Lakeshore; in the unnamed Klar city; and in every other established delving, hammers rang. Additional space was made for the refugees, and woodsmiths and weavers worked to erect large, temporary camps in the east and west farming warrens, which had been cleared of tractor worms. The worms, huge thirty-foot-long creatures with clusters of waving tentacles for faces, were in the back warrens, where Klar herdsmen used them to clear new fields for planting.

Cambit Steelsheath, warden of ways, at first tried to count and record each person coming in from outside in an attempt to guard against infiltration by anyone who didn’t belong. But the tide of refugees was so vast that his clerks found themselves overloaded, and surly crowds built up in the gateways. So he did it another way. At the entrance to each Anvil’s Echo chamber, he had cables strung across the way at a height of five feet, five inches. Guards were posted at each side, with orders to stop anyone who had to stoop or duck to walk under the cables. No mature human or elf would pass such inspection, and no ogre of any age.

Beyond the fields of the Einar, other villages—those of the settled Neidar, whom most people now called hill dwarves—began moving inward toward the fortress, some to take shelter within and others to join their cousins, the Neidar Rangers, as the first line of defense.

Cale Greeneye had made it clear to the chief of chiefs that the fighting Neidar would remain outside, no matter what. “Thorbardin may be impenetrable,” he said, “but what good is it if no one is left outside to defend?”

Willen Ironmaul was everywhere, it seemed, testing defenses, reviewing troops, and meeting with thane leaders and wardens. Followed by Cable Graypath and the Ten, the Hylar regent was constantly on the move throughout Thorbardin.

Barek Stone, captain general of forces, studied plans and strategies with his commanders, always keeping in mind that two defenses would be required if the wizards and their “allies”—increasing hordes of human mercenaries brought in from the outlands of Ergoth and the wild lands beyond—pressed an attack beyond the outer slopes. Thorbardin was constructed for defense but had never been tested in true conflict. And in addition to the threat of troops and armies, it must now face the barely understood forces of sorcery.

Gem Bluesleeve, warden of the watch, reviewed all of his forces and then put direct command in the hands of another Daewar, Lodar Yellowkilt, captain of court guards. Gem had,another task for himself, and to accomplish it he commandeered a hundred of the best Daewar delvers, a hundred select Theiwar volunteers—all of whom had served as boatmen on the Urkhan Sea—and a troop of Vog Ironface’s best mine sappers, all draped from head to toe in heat-resistant spunstone fabric created by the weavers of Daebardin from fibers collected by the Klar. In addition, he put a dozen Hylar glaziers to work, blowing large glass globes with foot-wide openings at one end and sockets for shoulder straps.

Part of the task began in the Shaft of Reorx, just above the smelter vents, where the heat-exchange ducts fed outward to the various cities. Here the Daergar sappers, with masks and thick, protective spunstone wraps, were put to work setting a hinged iron cap over the abandoned duct that had been begun years ago to feed heat to Hybardin, before a better way was found.

The other part of the task was miles away, three hundred yards out from the south shore of the Urkhan Sea. A dozen boats congregated there on the bright water, tethered together like a little floating island. Beneath each boat were climb-lines, long cables with stone weights that rested on the bottom.

Daewar delvers, sullen and nervous, were gathered on the boats, outfitted with lead-soled boots and tool straps. A glass globe was placed over the head of each one, with straps beneath his armpits. A towline was attached to each belt, and the delvers were lowered over the side in groups of ten by grinning, joking Theiwar boatmen.

Each delver sank to the bottom of the sea, worked furiously there for eight minutes, then was raised from the water, given a chance to breathe fresh air, and lowered again. It was probably the worst experience of the delvers’ lives—trying to dig a hole underwater while living on the air contained in a fragile glass bowl, and, worst of all, being completely dependent upon a bunch of “tarnish-happy Theiwar” to bring them up before they drowned. It was doubtful that any of them would have even tried it, except for their respect for Gem Bluestone —not to mention the rich reward Olim Goldbuckle promised to each one who survived.

So, while mine-sappers capped the old heat-exchange tunnel in the Shaft of Reorx, delvers were at work at the other end, digging toward the same duct to flood it with water.

It was Willen Ironmaul, as regent, who had approved the project. Now, as he watched the diving delvers descending from their boats, the regent sighed and turned to Gem Bluestone. “Let us pray to all the gods who matter, Gem,” he said, “that this contrivance works properly . . . should we need it. Because if it doesn’t, I imagine the Council of Thanes will draw and quarter one ex-regent and one excellent soldier who have wild ideas.”

With all these intense preparations underway, Willow Summercloud was left with little to do but watch as Fortress Thorbardin came to life around her. Damon Omenborn had refused to let her accompany him on his wizard-study expedition, and since his return he was so busy, being involved in all sorts of preparations, that she hardly saw him at all.

At first, Willow tagged around after Tera Sharn, learning the ways of Thorbardin. Then, when Tera became involved in a “ladies’ home defense plan,” Willow wandered around by herself, exploring the huge subterranean realm that—she had decided—was going to be her home, if she could just capture Damon’s attention a few more times.

Dressed in the fine, practical garb Tera had shown her how to wear, but still carrying her woodsman’s axe wherever she went, the Einar girl wandered about, marveling at the wonders of Thorbardin. The controlled daylight of the sun-tunnels fascinated her, as did the nighttime splendor of the Temple of Stars above the Shaft of Reorx. She rode the lifts and cable-carts, wandered the public ways, and explored the galleries with their myriad shops and stalls. She watched the crafters at work, with their forges, looms, shuttles, and lathes. She saw the gloomy corridors of Daerbardin, the quiet, dim passages of Theibardin, and the bright, many-colored concourses of Daebardin. And more than once, she found herself fending off groups of young male dwarves vying for her attention.

She was fascinated by the great farming warrens—miles of subterranean fields and vine-covered ledges where the thanes had learned to grow a hundred kinds of useful crops. But the east and west warrens were packed by refugees camping at their entrances, so she headed for the old north warren beyond Theibardin. It was there, they said, that the first farming had been done. It had been called the first warren then, and most of the experiments with subterranean agriculture applied in the newer warrens had been done there. But the north warren itself had only recently been made ready for farms of its own.

She was on her way there, walking through the lake-front bazaar of Daebardin, when a high musical voice hailed her from behind.

“Hello, there!” Shillitec Medina Quickfoot trilled. “I’ve been hoping I’d find somebody I knew! Wow, isn’t this the strangest place you ever saw? I’ve been trying to see it all, but I’ve only seen a little of it so far.”

“What are you doing here?” Willow demanded, glaring at the tiny, slender being with the great mop of hair. “You aren’t supposed to be in Thorbardin. Thorbardin is for dwarves only.”

“Is that right?” The kender girl giggled. “Well, I guess it’s all right, though, because nobody told me to stay out when I got here.”

“How did you get in?”

“I just walked in, like everybody else was doing. There was this big gate, with dwarves everywhere looking very fierce and solemn, and just all sorts of dwarves going through it, so I went through it, too. They had a cable strung up, about this high.” She stretched on tiptoes and raised a hand as high as she could. “And after you walked under the cable you were in. Nothing to it. Did you have to walk under a cable?”

“But surely somebody has noticed you since then.” Willow frowned. “Surely somebody told you to leave?”

“Oh, sure,” Shill giggled. “They told me to leave at that nice bread-and-hot-meat place where I had lunch, and they told me to leave at some big, hot place where everybody was sweating and making an awful lot of noise with hammers. And, of course, there was that unfriendly dwarf with all the pretty things spread out on his table. He shouted at me. But then, I’ve never minded being shouted at. Have you?”

“What kind of pretty things?”

“Oh, things like this.” Shill reached into a belt-pouch and brought forth a dazzling necklace of bright jewels set in gold filigree. “All kinds of pretty things.”

“No wonder he shouted,” Willow muttered.

“Oh, I didn’t steal it. It was just lying on the floor. I guess somebody dropped it or something. Where are we going?”

“I’m going to look at a farming warren. I don’t know where you’re going.”

“That’s all right. I’ll just go with you.”

“And what makes you think I’d want to be seen here—in Thorbardin—in the company of a . . . a kender?”

“Don’t worry,” Shill assured her. “If anyone objects, I’ll vouch for you. I’ll just tell them you’re my dwarf.”

Seeming to have no choice in the matter, Willow resumed her journey with Shill chattering along after her. As it happened, though they passed crowds of busy dwarves at every bend and interval, the creature following her attracted no more than casual, curious glances. After a time she decided that no one expected to see a kender in Thorbardin, so no one actually recognized one. And the exuberant kender—with her layers of motley-colored clothing and her various, bulging pockets and pouches—might have seemed at a glance to be just a talkative and undernourished dwarven child with far too much hair.

For her part, Shill was taking it all in, thoroughly enjoying the excursion. Bright eyes that missed very little were constantly on the move, seeing everything there was to see. A group of Klar came toward them, carrying cudgels and day packs. Willow stepped aside to let them pass, but Shill scampered right through the group, gawking at their thick-muscled arms, their wild bushy hair, sparse beards, and close-set eyes. As the kender passed, ducking beneath an elbow here, dodging fur-booted feet there, a few of the Klar turned to look back.

“What was that?” one asked.

“Who knows?” another said. “Somebody’s cub.”

“Funny-lookin’ cub,” the first one noted, shrugging.

Willow had an impulse to ask the Klar if she was on the right road to the north warren, but she kept her silence. The Klar were strange people. Usually affable enough, and sometimes quite friendly, they were noted for their erratic nature. A friendly Klar, she had heard, could abruptly become angry and dangerous for no particular reason. Many among the other thanes avoided the Klar entirely.

Still, Tera Sharn had told her, the Klar were—as a group—intensely loyal to Thorbardin and its leaders. And they were the most skilled of all the thanes at the task of creating arable fields underground. They seemed to have an uncanny ability to herd and manipulate the huge tractor worms that pulled the graders and plows, turned the stonecrushers, and hauled the topsoil for the warrens. Big, strong, and stupid, the giant worms were a fine resource in the warrens. But very few of any thane but Klar could really control them. And a worm out of control could be deadly, as the dwarves had learned a long time ago.

Shill caught up with Willow, chatting now about Klar, and the dwarf girl glanced around as light reflected from something bright. The kender was holding a little silver vial, looking at it curiously.

“What is that?” Willow pointed.

“I don’t know,” Shill said. “I found it somewhere. Look, it has a lid.”

Without waiting for comment, the kender unscrewed the top of the vial and peered into it. “It’s silver inside, too,” she said. She tipped the container and a large drop of bright, metallic liquid fell from it. Where it spread, on the tunnel’s floor, it was as bright as a new mirror. “Pretty,” Shill said.

Crouching, Willow touched the liquid metal with a tentative finger and sniffed it. Her eyes narrowed, and she backed away, frowning. “Tamex!” she spat. “Tamex, the false metal. Get rid of that! It’s poison!”

“It is?” Shill shrugged. “I think it’s kind of pretty. Look, I’ll pour some in my hand and . . .”

A strong hand shot out, slapping the vial from the kender’s tiny fingers. It clattered against a wall, trailing bright mercury.

Shill stared at the thrown vial, then at her slapped hand, then up at Willow’s furious face, and a tear formed at the corner of her eye. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said thinly.

“No, I didn’t,” Willow snapped. “I could have just let you play with that stuff, and maybe get sick from it or go crazy or whatever tamex does to people. Where did you get that, anyway?”

“Back there,” the little kender pointed, stifling a sob. “Where those Klar people were. Maybe one of them lost it or something.”

Willow stared back the way they had come, remembering something she had heard about the Klar. Some of them, it was said, traded in quicksilver. A coating of the false metal could make a corroded tool seem bright and new, at least long enough to deceive an unwary buyer. Dealing in the false metal was a serious crime in Thorbardin. Many an unwary dwarf had been poisoned by contact with tamex.

Willow shuddered, suddenly very glad that she had not stopped to speak to those particular Klar.

Shill was sniffling, and Willow knelt before her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was frightened. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The north warren was huge, a natural cavern a mile wide in some places and nearly three miles in length. The light here was subdued, coming from a few scattered sun-tunnels and several wide, slanted strata of natural quartz leading upward to the high slopes of the mountain. Far off to the right, as the two entered, they could see herdsmen working with thirty-foot-long tractor worms, building topsoil on a newly leveled field. A distant wall separated the back warren from the main warren. The kender tried to scamper off in that direction, but Willow still had hold of her hand.

Dragging the reluctant kender after her, Willow headed northward. In the distance there were fields already completed and planted. Above them, on the walls of the cavern, great terraces stood, bearing fruit vines and climbing plants of many varieties. The closer they approached, it seemed to Willow, the sweeter the air smelled—almost like the breezes across the fields back home. She shook her head, trying not to think about Windhollow. Remembering her life there led to remembering what had happened there, and the memory was extremely painful.

With Shill tagging after her, she wandered among the fields, marveling. These were not Einar crops. Some things, like grains and fine fibers, would not grow underground. But those things that would, the bonded thanes had planted. Just in this one warren there were food sources for thousands of people. Combined with the grains, melons, fibers, timber, and sun-greens that Thorbardin received in trade from those outside, there was sustenance here for an entire race.

At a stone wall at the northern end of the cavern, where a dozen varieties of spices, herbs, and aromatics were growing, Willow stopped to breathe deeply of the rich smells and noticed suddenly that the air had turned colder.

At her side, the kender girl pointed. “Look!” she said. “Vapors.”

Almost hidden behind a screen of green vinery, there was some kind of stone seal. It looked as though a very large tunnel had been sealed off a long time ago. But here and there, around the edges of the placed stone, little mists floated outward through the vines.

Willow approached, stooped, and peered. The mists were only vague wisps of vapor seeping through ancient stone cracks, but they were cold. Cold as winter winds, she thought. As cold . . . as cold as the fogs in which the beast had swathed itself back at Windhollow.

Then there was the distant sound of drums, echoing through the cavern. In the fields around, people stopped to listen, then picked up their tools and hurried toward the main tunnel almost a mile away.

“What is it?” Willow asked a passing Theiwar farmer. “What do the drums say?”

“Call to arms,” the dwarf growled. “We’re under attack!”