Hammer and Axe

Prologue The Dwarven Lands

They went furtively in this land of peaks and valleys, of yawning chasms and soaring heights. From the east they came, traveling sometimes afoot and sometimes, when it was demanded, by arcane means to avoid detection. What they sought was a place that the moons said lay among these mountains: a place where high was low and low was high; where yesterday, today, and tomorrow might form a perfect circle; and where the moons of Krynn, on the seventh midnight of the seventh month of each seventh year, were the corners of a triangle whose exact center was directly overhead.

The place they sought would be suited to the building of a citadel—a Tower of High Sorcery from which to control and direct the magics of a world seeking order within chaos. Seven such places, the movement of the moons said, would be found suitable. The first was known—in the great forests of the ancient dragonlands where now were elves. The other six would be known to those who reached them, by the testing of mirrors and stones.

The three had traveled far to reach this mountain land, intent upon their quest. Few knew of their passing. The skills they had learned from the Scions, the arts of weaving spells to draw and utilize the magics, had served them well. And yet, the search was difficult. The world itself told them where to look, to find the points of perfect balance of forces, but only in general terms. They knew, within a few miles, where the base of the citadel must stand and how it would relate—in many planes, seen and unseen—to other such citadels in other places. High in the western mountains lay a flat plain, bounded by towering peaks and precipitous cliffs—a place where low was high and high was low. But they must find the place, exactly. Only by testing would they know, and they must suffer the effects of their spells many times to be sure.

A hundred times in a dozen days they had repeated their ritual, here on the high meadow above the Sheer-cliff escarpment, deep in the land that the dwarves who lived there called Kal-Thax. The moons decreed the area, and their calculations had told them that the root-source of powers from which a Tower of High Sorcery might draw substance was here . . . somewhere. But the plain was miles across in all directions.

That they were interlopers in this land, trespassers without leave or warrant, was of little concern to them. They were first-order wizards, trained and nourished in their arts by the Scions themselves. The others suspected that Megistal might be one of those rare ones chosen for deeper magics, though he gave no clue to this, unless it was in the fact that, while the other two had been appointed by their peers to the present mission, Megistal seemed to have appointed himself.

Still, none of them needed permission to go wherever they chose. No one could stop them. No one could even see them if they wished not to be seen. Many times since entering these mountains they had seen dwarves, or heard signal drums, and several times Megistal had suggested that, in all fairness, they should at least let the dwarves know what they were doing. It was none of the dwarves’ business, but it might avoid conflicts later if the dwarves were to accept now that there would be a Tower of High Sorcery within their realm, whether they wished it or not.

But each time, the other two had disagreed. “It would just cause a fuss,” Sigamon argued. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them, and, besides, we’re doing this for the general good—for their good as much as anyone else’s. Magic must be ordered, for the benefit of all. It is the purpose of the citadels.”

Of course, Tantas sneered at this attitude. “Dwarves don’t matter,” he said. “But we’ll need them later, and the less they know in advance, the better. When the site is found, we’ll need laborers to set the stones. Where better to get slaves than from among these dwarves? Tell them nothing. When we need them, we shall take them.”

So the dwarves knew nothing of the wizards or why they were there. Recently Megistal had the feeling that someone was watching them, but he was certain it was not a dwarf. Whoever it was had not interfered, though Sigamon’s favorite chalice had turned up missing, and Tantas complained that he could not find his blackstone bracelet. So as the days went by the wizards labored, slept, and labored again, drawing upon their own energies to feed the magics of the search.

Megistal was tired now, as he raised bloodstone amulets above his head, one in each hand, and uttered the spell he had repeated a hundred times or more. “Dactis tat sonan!” he breathed, and felt the uncomfortable tingling in his shoulders and fingers as the amulets drew strength from him to do his bidding. Little fires arced around and between the two stones, their deep red color becoming an angry glow, like cold, blood-red fire dancing from one to the other. Megistal drew a deep, shuddering breath and commanded, “Chapak!” Abruptly the flow of light between the stones extended ahead of him, becoming a double shaft of radiance that grew and raced outward, to converge upon a spot on the ground nearly sixty feet away. Instantly, the ground there seemed to come alive, to swarm with busy, scurrying things, but he knew that was only an illusion.

“Mark the point!” Megistal called, concentrating. It took substantial effort to hold the spell in place.

Tantas and Sigamon hurried forward, Sigamon lifting his muddy white robe above his knees to sprint on long, ungainly legs, while the hunchbacked Tantas scuttled in that peculiar gait of his, clutching his black floppy hat to keep it from falling off. While Megistal stood, intent and motionless, holding the sources of the light in place, the two other wizards knelt where it touched the ground and set a stake there, driving it into the hard earth with a wooden mallet.

Megistal, though exhausted, noticed again the odd, distant rumbling sound that seemed to become more pronounced each time they ran their tests. It was as though something, somewhere, was reacting to the magic of the search. What it was none of them knew, or really cared. The blood-red light winked out as the wizard lowered his arms. “That’s one corner,” he said. “Who’s next?”

Tantas paced a distance from the stake, scuttling as he always did, and drew his blue-black seek-stones from his pack. As Megistal had done earlier with his bloodstone seekers, the dark wizard lifted his arms, holding the stones high. “Dactis tat dervum!” he commanded. Inky mists grew around his hands. “Chapak!” From the dark mists, brilliant lightning streaked outward, sizzling and scorching the ground where it touched. Sigamon and Megistal ran to mark the spot, and again the meadow seemed to rumble angrily. Within the past two days, the sound had become quite loud.

The spot chosen by Tantas’s lightning was thirty yards from the point where Megistal’s red light had struck. Sigamon paced the distance, then placed himself directly between the two points. His mark would complete the triangle, but only by testing could they know which direction the triangle should point. Sigamon pulled out his clear, glittering gems and raised them. “Dactis tat osis!” he said. “Chapak!” Blinding white light flowed from his hands and shot out behind him. Where it struck the ground frost formed. The other two ran to mark the place, and once again the very earth seemed to growl.

“I wish we knew what was causing that,” Sigamon remarked. “The Scions didn’t mention anything like that occurring.”

“I wish I knew where my bracelet went,” Tantas grumbled.

“Magic is a new art.” Megistal shrugged. “There is still much that isn’t known. But once the Towers of Sorcery are in place, the learning can proceed more rapidly.”

In a dark place deep beneath the surface, cold mists stirred and swirled to echoing roars of pure, intense anger. Like a sleeper beset by insects, she had hissed and grumbled, clinging to sleep, shutting out the torments. But they had continued too long—the stings of unseen aggravation that annoyed her—and now that she was awake, her roar was like the only name she had ever had. Rage.

How long had she slept? She had no way of knowing, but she knew it had been a very long time. Ages of time. Where once there had been an ice cavern, deep within a mountain, now cold mists swirled. And where once she had been trapped within the ice—imprisoned there by forces beyond imagining—now she lay half-encased by a shell of stone, limestone that had formed around her with the gradual melting of the steel-hard ice. Ages had passed. Eons had come and gone while she slept.

But now she was awake, and her name was Rage, and rage was all of her. Her bondage was over. She had been imprisoned because the creatures of her world feared her, with good reason. They were living things, and Rage was death to them. She had rampaged freely among them, exulting in her power to kill. There had never been another like her. It was as though the forces that created her had regretted what they had done and turned against her, imprisoning her forever in the ice. But now, it seemed, forever was over.

Now she was awake again, and free. How, she didn’t know, but she was. Were there still creatures in this world? Were they still the soft-bodied, screaming things that had so delighted her, things that held warmth within them and writhed in agony as they died? She didn’t know, but she meant to find out. Rage stirred, and the limestone cracked away in the swirling mists that surrounded and clung to her like a silver-dark cloak.

It didn’t matter to Rage how she came to be awakened. All that mattered was that she was awake. She slowly studied the stone around her until she found a crack large enough to permit her passage. With the mists flowing about her and following after her, she went looking for the outside world. Eventually she emerged into moonlight near the base of a great wall of serrated stone, a sheer cliff hundreds of feet high. Before her lay a mountain world of peaks and valleys, of stark slopes and vast vistas.

Turning her back to the cliff from which she had emerged, Rage went hunting.

Several hundred miles to the east, where rolling plains began and within view of the eastern range of the mountains of the dwarven realm, high tower windows looked out on the teeming ways and climbing roofs of a great walled city. In the crowded streets below the tower, throngs of people vied for space and for bits of the wealth that was released occasionally by the overlords to sustain the city and its populace. Among them, everywhere, dark-armored and bright-pennanted, marched the companies of grim guards who kept order and enforced the dictates of the overlords.

But the man standing at the tower window was not looking at his city or its thronged streets. Instead he gazed westward, where tall snowcapped peaks, blue with distance, broke the horizon and seemed to dominate it. The nearest and tallest of the peaks, Sky’s End, stood like a defiant monolith, seeming to return the man’s hard gaze. Between the city and the mountains were nearly impassable barriers—miles of dangerous, broken lands where travelers gathered and brigands hid in waiting, and past that, the great chasm known simply as The Gorge. But the barriers to the mountain lands were more than just terrain. The real obstacle was the border of Kal-Thax, the land of the dwarves. For centuries, conqueror after conqueror had tried and failed to penetrate and seize the mountain lands, but the dwarves of Kal-Thax were fierce and stubborn.

Still, the High Overlord of Xak Tsaroth had ambitions, and one was to conquer and rule the dwarven realm, to loot it of its riches. And the High Overlord had plans in motion, toward that end.

From the west window he turned and crossed the tower chamber, his gilded slippers making almost no sound on the thick, richly textured carpet that covered the polished stone of the floor.

Directly beneath the east window were the postern gates of the keep, where three men were exiting as the High Overlord looked down. Three wizards had come from a distant encampment, seeking audience, and now three were leaving. But they were not exactly the same three. Two were the same—wizards of the orders of Solinari and Lunitari—but the wizard of the Nuitarian order who had come with them was dead, killed by a magic far greater than his own. In his place a different Nuitarian had joined the remaining two.

The High Overlord did not trust Kistilan. The dark wizard had plans of his own, and the High Overlord knew it. Still, they had an agreement. The mission of the orders—to establish a place of high sorcery in the dwarven lands—was an opportunity too great to let pass. Soon there would be trouble with the dwarves, and Kistilan had agreed to act as the High Overlord’s agent. When the time was right, Kistilan would take command of the mages heading westward where their surveyors had gone and would bring down the fortress of the dwarves.

Would Kistilan then give over the realm to the High Overlord? The ruler of Xak Tsaroth did not trust him that far, but then, he had a contingency plan of his own. If any human could penetrate the lands of the dwarves, cross it, and make alliances with western Ergoth beyond, it was Quist Redfeather. And the High Overlord owned Quist Redfeather. As long as the man’s family remained captive in the lower chambers of his keep, the High Overlord could command the grim Cobar as he pleased, and the man would do his bidding. Quist Redfeather was already on his way across the dwarven realm. Once before the High Overlord had sent such an emissary, but that one had disappeared. But then, that man had not been Quist Redfeather of the Cobar.

The High Overlord looked down from his window and smiled a cold smile. One way or another, he would see the dwarves of the mountains defeated. One way or another, Xak Tsaroth would have the riches of Kal-Thax.

In the Year of Tin of the Decade of Cherry, toward the end of the Century of Wind as time is reckoned by the dwarven thanes of Kal-Thax, the great undertaking of Thorbardin was nearing completion. Deep beneath the peak called Cloudseeker, with its crown of three crags, the Windweavers, in the subterranean caverns first discovered by the Daewar explorer-spy Urkhan, the mightiest work of the ages stood almost finished. Brought together by necessity and prodded onward as much by internal conflict as by the dreams of their leaders, the squabbling, bickering subjects of the bonded thanes had, in the opinion of Quill Runebrand, accomplished the improbable.

It was not the building of a huge realm underground—that, after all, was only the logical result of ninety years of concerted effort by the finest planners, delvers, craftsmen, stonemasons, and metalworkers in the world. What Quill held as the height of unlikelihood was that so many dwarves of so many tribes, with so many differences of opinion and so many rock-hard prejudices about one another, could have managed to share the same caverns for so long, without wiping each other out.

Quill Runebrand had never ceased to marvel at the sheer stubbornness behind the great project. Even his old mentor Mistral Thrax, who had been the personal advisor of the visionary Hylar chief Colin Stonetooth, had commented on the strength of purpose that was required, day by day through all the years, to keep thousands and tens of thousands of jovial, arrogant Daewar; suspicious, intuitive Theiwar; sullen, secretive Daergar; and impulsive, unpredictable Klar—not to mention the Hylar, with their tendency to be reserved and aloof; or the Neidar and unaffiliated Einar who wandered about freely; and even the occasional tribes (or tumbles, as Quill thought of them) of bumbling little Aghar—working side by side despite their differences.

Colin Stonetooth, chieftain of the Hylar when they had come to this land, had seen a vision and had somehow passed along its power to the other leaders of that first Council of Thanes. The vision was Thorbardin, fortress heart of the dwarven realm of Kal-Thax.

Now the initial plan was nearly complete. Entire cities stood within the great caverns—bright Daebardin with its quartz shafts and crafted sun-tunnels, murky Daerbardin in the shadowed depths of the south sounds, the twin Theiwar communities of Theibardin and Theibolden on the north shore of the Urkhan Sea, the unnamed Klar city sprawling behind the worm warren, and even a jumble of gullies and crude shelters where Aghar lived—now and again—near the Daergar mineral markets. And, mightiest of all, great Hybardin rising level by level within the giant stalactite the Hylar called the Life Tree.

A hundred varieties of vegetables and edible funguses, and even some exotic grains, were produced in the vast farming warrens. The smelters and forges were never still, and the common markets located along the tunnel roadways thronged with people.

And usually no more than a dozen cases of murder and mayhem were heard each day in the Halls of Justice. To Quill Runebrand, keeper of scrolls and heir to the lore of Mistral Thrax, that was the real wonder of it all. Not in nine tens of years had there been war among the dwarves.

Daewar still plotted and schemed against Hylar, Theiwar still resented and belittled Daewar, Daergar still suspected everyone else of trying to steal their mines, and Klar still ran amok now and then. But still the great project went forward. Thorbardin, the planners said, was within two years of completion. The immense, impenetrable structure of Southgate was in place and in working order, and the portal of Northgate was fitted with its huge screws, awaiting placement of the gate-plug. Sun-tunnels provided sunlight where it was desired, and vast ventilation systems directed the flow of fresh air from the grated ducts in the Valley of the Thanes to the exhaust vents beneath the Windweaver crag. Aqueduct systems designed by Hylar craftsmen carried water to all levels of the cities, and elaborate waste-reusal systems provided fresh organics for the farming warrens.

Even a small magma pit had been completed, deep beneath the lowest levels near Southgate, for the powering of furnaces and smelters. It was, as yet, a balky thing, lacking the natural core of the magma pit the Hylar recalled beneath old Thoradin in the mountains far to the east, but they had succeeded in coaxing it to life, and it worked well enough.

It was no secret, in the human realms surrounding Kal-Thax, that the dwarves were building—or maybe already had built—a fortress to guard their mountain realm, but little was known about it. The dwarves knew it was no secret, but they considered what they did to be their own business and no one else’s. Not since the completion of the Road of Passage, from southern Ergoth across Kal-Thax to the great pass at Tharkas, had there been the massive human assaults on the dwarven lands that had been common in earlier times. The outlanders who traveled the road saw little more of the dwarven environs than the road itself and the formidable armed dwarves who patrolled it. There had been some sporadic assaults in recent years, usually by troops from the human city of Xak Tsaroth, where the overlords coveted the wealth of the dwarves. But these had been turned back, and for the past several years the border had been relatively peaceful.

Only one human had ever seen the inside of Thorbardin, an agent of the overlords who had tried to slip through to western Ergoth to seek an alliance against the dwarves. He had not made it, though. Dwarven patrols had searched him on the Great Road, found his seals and credentials from the High Overlord of Xak Tsaroth, and had arrested him. By order of the Council of Thanes, he was taken to Thorbardin.

That man had seen the fortress—or at least a little of it. He was still there, imprisoned in a dungeon, and would remain there at least until the final gate was in place. There was some thought that, once the fortress was complete, he might be given a tour of one of the gateways, then turned loose. It was Olim Goldbuckle’s belief that it might be a good thing for the High Overlord of Xak Tsaroth to know just what awaited him if he ever again thought about conquering the dwarves.

Olim Goldbuckle was senior among the chieftains of the Council of Thanes and served as regent. The old Daewar schemer’s beard had gone from sunshine gold to silver in the decades since the Covenant of Thanes, but still he lent to the council that special blend of joviality, energy, and shrewd wisdom that was the very soul of the Daewar people. Of all the thanes, the Daewar had produced more leaders and high officials in Thorbardin than any except the Hylar.

Vog Ironface, once the fiercest of Daergar warriors, was second in seniority on the council. The dark-seeker had become no less fierce over the years, as many an impudent challenger had learned, but in council he was quiet and contemplative. Often the last to speak, his voice echoing hollowly from behind his metal mask, or—sometimes—almost whispering as he made a major point in debate, Vog Ironface was known for the cold, incisive wisdom of his thoughts as much as for his reclusiveness outside of formal council meetings.

Third in seniority was Slide Tolec. It was said of him that he had never wanted to be chieftain of the Theiwar and had spent ninety years trying to retire, but his own people would not let him. Long-armed, broad-shouldered, and gray of mane when he removed his mesh headgear, Slide Tolec had become a revered member of the high council simply by being intuitively aware—more than any other among them—of the expectations, hopes, and grievances of the people of Thorbardin. When Slide Tolec spoke of the mood of the people, the other chieftains listened.

And then there were the Hylar. Though not the most senior member of the council, Willen Ironmaul was greatly respected, not only in his own right but as successor to the first Hylar leader, Colin Stonetooth. At about a hundred and fifty years of age, Willen Ironmaul was big, strong, and fit, but to his vitality had been added a deep, almost tangible dignity. Of all the chieftains on the council, Willen Ironmaul—the former leader of the Hylar Guard—was the one who best exemplified the honor and discipline that had become the code of all the forces of Thorbardin. In the wisdom he displayed as a leader of Thorbardin was the echo of yet another wisdom, that of Tera Sharn, his adored wife and the daughter of Colin Stonetooth. And though he held no position of authority, the chieftain’s son, Damon Omenborn, also was a highly respected dwarf.

Among the high officials of Thorbardin were at least seven top officers who were of Hylar stock. Quill Runebrand had speculated that each culture generated its own special qualities. Daewar excelled in trade, diplomacy, and many of the stone crafts; Theiwar excelled in matters of plain logic brightened by intuition, as well as in the crafting of rails, cables, and roadways; and the Daergar were accepted masters of mining and minerals.

In the same way, Quill supposed, the Hylar tended to produce both warriors and leaders. Oddly, they also produced poets and musicians, but that seemed to be beside the point. The point was, he assured himself, that of all the necessary functions of Thorbardin, nearly half were directed by Hylar.

As keeper of scrolls, Quill Runebrand wandered Thorbardin, snooping and observing, listening and questioning, and each day he repaired to his cubicle to enscroll his notes and make his observations, chronicling the great adventure of the creation of Krynn’s finest fortress.

Lately, he had taken to following Damon Omenborn around. It had started the day Quill went out onto the lower slopes to witness a combat between Damon and his uncle, the Neidar chieftain Cale Greeneye. The challenge was a good-natured one, following an argument over which was mightier in combat, the hammer or the axe. They had not come to any agreement, so, in good dwarven fashion, the only thing to do was to fight it out.

Quill would never forget that day. There on the sunny meadows of the lower slopes, under a spreading tree, the two warriors—uncle and nephew—had donned armor and taken up arms while hundreds of curious dwarves gathered around to watch.

The weapons were simple. Damon had carried a hammer and shield, Cale Greeneye an axe and shield. They had faced each other, saluted, then launched a simultaneous attack, each doing his best to kill the other, just to prove his point.

It was recorded that the two had fought for most of an afternoon, pounding away at each other, lunging, swinging, dodging, and shielding while the sun of Krynn swept from directly above the Windweaver crag to just above the Anviltops in the west. Four times the fight had stopped, while the combatants outfitted themselves with fresh armor and new shields—the discarded items were so dented and bent that they were good only for scrap—then continued with fresh enthusiasm.

The argument never had been settled. The Neidar with his axe was a match for the Hylar with his hammer, and the Hylar was the equal of the Neidar as well. Finally the two contestants had backed away, saluted each other, and gone off together to see what kind of ale might be found in the taverns of Gateway.

Behind them, though, a ritual was being born. Many a wager had been laid by onlookers during the combat. The wagers being unsettled by the outcome of the battle, others had taken up the contest. A Daewar merchant had started it by refusing to pay off a side bet to a Neidar woodsman. Before the echoes of their shouts had died away, the two had armed themselves and were having at it under that same spreading tree. Within minutes, a dozen separate conflicts had broken out around them, and the slopes rang with the clash and clatter of steel on steel. From that day forward, it was the custom to settle disputed wagers not in the pits of the Great Hall, where taunts and challenges were often heard, but out on the slopes under what would be named the Tree of Pittance.

Since then, Quill Runebrand had taken particular interest in Damon Omenborn and had tagged after him with an eye to learning whether the Hylar chieftain’s son had plans to remarry. Damon had married once at about fifty years of age to a lovely Hylar girl named Dena Grayslate. But Dena had died childless, drowned in the Urkhan Sea when a cable-boat capsized, and Damon had never really gotten over it.

Still, there was the legend of Damon’s birth—that an apparition had appeared and proclaimed that the child would be the “father of kings.” It was a puzzling legend, since there were no kings in Thorbardin, and it was unlikely there ever would be, considering the tribal rivalries of the thanes. Damon Omenborn was ninety years old now—still a robust young dwarf, but certainly no longer a youth. And far from being the father of kings, it was beginning to look as though he might never be a father at all if he didn’t put his grief behind him and find a wife.

So Quill Runebrand had taken it upon himself to bedevil the chieftain’s burly son about his “responsibilities”—to the point that he began to fear that the big dwarf might break a few of his bones in irritation.

Just now, though, Damon was away from Thorbardin. He had gone off on some errand with his friend Mace Hammerstand, captain of the Roving Guard, and hadn’t returned.

Quill had shrugged and resumed his old habits. He roamed, pried and inquired, and made notes. Each evening, at the dimming of the sun-tunnels, he put away his work and made his way to the Den of Respite. Among the things he had learned from old Mistral Thrax was the appreciation of a half-loaf, pot meat, and a mug of good dwarven ale.