Hammer and Axe

19 The Day of Destiny

Dawn’s first banners, rising above the plains of southern Ergoth, revealed a grim panorama below Southgate of Thorbardin. Hundreds of morning fires wove layers of smoke above the lower slopes of Cloudseeker Peak, where thousands of human warriors massed, making ready for all-out assault on the dwarven fortress. No longer concentrated on the distant Promontory, the human hordes had moved forward through the night, gaining ground in skirmish after skirmish, until the open meadows were behind them and just ahead were the massive slopes of the fortress mountain.

By first light, the human invaders prepared their attack, while barely a quarter mile ahead of them, and a thousand feet up, dwarves by the hundreds poured forth from the portal of Southgate to stream down the sloped ramparts and reinforce the defensive positions on the face of the mountain, desperately close to their final barricade—Southgate.

Willen Ironmaul and the Council of Thanes had determined that Thorbardin must be defended from without for as long as possible. “Only if we hold the slopes,” Willen advised the council, “can we avoid a state of closed siege. If we have to, we will retreat within and close the gate. But when that is done, we can no longer fight. We will be trapped within our own fortress, and the realm beyond will be undefended. Reorx forbid, but if it comes to barricading ourselves in Thorbardin, Kal-Thax will be lost.”

A closed siege, the thane leaders agreed, would be the end of the dwarven realm in the Kharolis mountains. The greatest strength of Thorbardin—its impenetrability—was at the same time its greatest weakness as a custodial fortress for the realm around it. There were only two practical entrances, Southgate and Northgate. If the gates were both closed, and no one could get in, then neither could anyone get out.

Once Thorbardin was closed, the humans could mount siege on both gates indefinitely—and in the meantime they could loot, plunder, and occupy all the lands Thorbardin was built to protect. And the dwarven forces, within their subterranean stronghold, could do nothing about it. Without the presence of Thorbardin and its fighting forces, the lands of the Einar and the burgeoning settlements of the Neidar would be lost. Thorbardin itself might survive—for a time—but Kal-Thax would not. Thus it was decided that, though Northgate was now closed, Southgate would remain open at all costs as long as there were dwarves enough to defend it. Closing the great gate would be the final retreat and the last resort.

By calling up all the reserves, Thorbardin’s outside forces could almost equal those massed out on the slope. But the talking drums said that more humans were crossing Ergoth now, drawn by news of war and dreams of plunder. Through border traders, the knights of Ergoth had sent warning. Something was happening within the human city of Xak Tsaroth. The overlords’ minions had withdrawn behind the walls, the city had been closed, and no news came from there. Now only the scattered outposts of the human knights stood between roving hordes and the road to the west, and the knights had their hands full defending their own lands.

Effectively, the warning was that the dwarves were on their own now, and may the gods protect them.

It was a grim and determined Damon Omenborn who stepped through the final gateway on this morning. He wore full field armor beneath a gray cloak, and in the crook of his arm he carried the red-crested helmet that had belonged to Mace Hammerstand. He carried both sword and hammer, and the shield slung behind his shoulder was emblazoned with the hammer-and-fist legend of the Roving Guard. Behind him, two hundred similarly armed and similarly grim young dwarves filed into view.

Cable Graypath, First of the Ten, recognized the chief’s son and bowed slightly in recognition of the proud symbol he wore, then stepped aside. Beyond him, Willen Ironmaul turned, and his eyes narrowed at the sight of his son. “What is this?” he growled. “Damon, who appointed you captain of the Roving Guard?”

“They did,” Damon said, returning his father’s frown with one just as strong and determined. “The survivors of Mace Hammerstand’s force. They came to me after nightfall and asked my pledge. I gave it. Mace was my friend.”

“I see,” the chief of chiefs said. “Well, as leader of the Roving Guard, it is your right to choose your duty. Have you a choice?”

“The wizards,” Damon replied without hesitation. “I have seen them, I have dealt with them, and I have taught the Roving Guard what I know. I seek leave to concentrate my forces on the magic-makers among our enemies.”

“The wizard Kistilan?” Barek Stone asked.

“He is my primary target,” Damon said.

“The wizards hide behind their hordes,” Willen said, scowling. “How can you get to them?”

“Let me try,” Damon urged. “No one else is better equipped to fight them. I have tasted their vile magic. I have even learned a little of it.”

Willen sighed. There could be no argument on that score. His son was right. “But I had counted on having you here,” he said. “If the wizards get past us . . . if any of them should get inside the gate . . .”

“Trust Gem Bluesleeve,” Damon said. “That wily Daewar has a plan for that.”

“I know of his plan.” Willen shuddered. “I hope I never have to see it put to practice.” He gazed at his big son, then shrugged and clapped him on his metal-clad shoulder. “The members of the Roving Guard were within their rights to select you, Damon. And you are within your rights to name your own assignment. Very well, you are so ordered. Just. . .”

When his father turned away without continuing, Damon asked, “Just what?”

“Nothing,” Willen growled, not looking around. “Nothing more than I would ask of any warrior of Thorbardin. Take care of yourself. . . Damon Omenborn.”

Damon saluted, the closed-fist salute of the Hylar, then turned and strapped Mace Hammerstand’s crested helm onto his head. With no further formalities, Damon marched away, down the eastern rampart, toward the old Theiwar trails. Grim and determined, his volunteers—for that was the nature of the Roving Guard, all were volunteers—marched at his back. To a dwarf, they were remembering Mace Hammerstand and the awful thing that had killed him—a thing brought forth upon Kal-Thax by the conniving and plotting of wizards.

Assisted by magic, human engineers had been at work in the forests flanking the eastern Promontory, and now siege engines rolled forward across the meadows—catapults, sling-rams, and caissons creeping along on wheels and runners in the shadows of tall, shielded towers which could each hold and protect a dozen ranks of archers and darters.

The first such tower to come within range was cut to rubble by disks from the great discobels on the dwarven ramparts, but stones from catapults showered the discobels in return, smashing the frame of one of them so that it yawed, tipped, and fell crashing from the high rampart, tearing itself to pieces on the rockfall slope below. The second discobel was withdrawn for repair, and dwarven slingers flanking the main guard towers concentrated their fire on the humans’ near engines, driving back their crews and footmen.

One slung catapult was abandoned three hundred yards from the western rampart, and when human footmen from the near ranks ran out to retrieve it they were met by a company of the dwarven home guard fresh from the citadel of Gatekeep. Fierce, hand-to-hand fighting ensued, sweeping this way and that along the wide, paved staging area. Human and dwarf warriors met and mingled, swords slashing, hammers flashing, shields ringing with the song of deadly conflict.

Hand to hand and eye to belt buckle, the tall, savage people of the plains threw themselves upon the short, stocky people of the mountains and met a grim, determined resistance as fierce as their own attack. Shields high and weapons whining, the dwarves drove into the human ranks like wedges of short demons, and many a human learned the truth of the legends—that inch for inch a dwarf was both heavier and stronger than a human and that dwarven steel was the finest in the world.

In the thick of the melee, Theiwar workers made their way to the abandoned catapult, defended it with sledges swung by massive arms, and turned it.

Seeing what the Theiwar were doing, the home guard responded, gradually changing the pattern of the conflict from random melee to a purposeful herding of the humans. The guard spread into lines, swept forward along two fronts of the human assault, and, blow by blow, drove the tall people back, compacting them against their own kind. Wielding weapons and prybars furiously, the dozen Theiwar—they had numbered twenty when they first reached the catapult—lowered the engine’s elevating blocks and anchored its trailing runners, then shouted in unison, “Now!”

As the home guards turned and raced away, the catapult was released, point-blank, directly into the crowded human defense. Its missile, a two-hundred-pound stone, carved a yard-wide path of death through the crowd, and the home guards turned again, rushed upon the survivors, and renewed their attack.

Humans turned to flee, and the retreat became a rout until the pursuing dwarves were flanked by other units of the human army and cut down from both sides.

Lodar Yellowkilt’s Golden Hammer charged into the thick of this new fight, a murderous, solid rank of bright shields, bright cloaks, and bright blades, scattering humans as it went.

As though the widening conflict at the western staging flat were a signal, the human army launched an all-out attack all along the dwarven defensive front. For long minutes the dwarven lines held, meeting every thrust with good dwarven steel. But as each human fell, a dozen more swarmed in to take his place, and the dwarves began to retreat, step by step, crouching and shielding, slashing and pounding as they worked their way backward up the narrowing stageways toward the ramparts themselves.

One large group of barbarians, breaking away from the rest, launched a direct attack between the ramparts. Using picks, throw-hooks, and climbing lines they headed directly for the gateway ledge two hundred feet above. Barek Stone watched them come, swarming up the steep slope, and waited until most of them were committed, clinging to their lines, before responding. At his order, a hinged shelf atop the ledge wall tipped upward, dwarves with prybars behind it, and dozens of open casks filled with burning lamp oil cascaded down on the climbers. Walls of fire blazed up from the sedge and brush below, and the screaming humans disappeared into the fire.

Catapult stones and tumbling log rams arced above the furious combat at the lower ramparts to smash into the dwarven guard towers. One of the human archers’ towers rolled into place, and volleys of arrows streamed from it, seeking the dwarves above on the ledge and those along the climbing ramparts. Most of the bolts caromed off dwarven shields, but here and there, a few buried themselves in dwarven flesh.

Vicious hand-darts, the favored weapon of Sackmen raiders, hissed through the turmoil like striking vipers, deadly in their accuracy. All along the front, human raiders pushed forward, driving the dwarves ever back, up the staging areas and onto the ramparts themselves, relentless human hordes following and pushing.

The second discobel, hastily repaired, rolled forth from behind a guard tower, dwarves falling from its timbers as arrows and darts found them. But as they fell, others climbed, and the tower was aligned, armed, and discharged, its crackling thunder echoing above the turmoil below. The great, toothed iron disk flashed in high sunlight for an instant, then collided with the human archers’ tower, cutting cleanly through half its timbers. The tower tilted, timbers groaning and cables singing as they broke, then collapsed straight down upon itself, carrying its human occupants with it.

Fresh marauders, coming up from behind, veered around the wreckage and its screaming, bleeding victims as they ran to strengthen the attacking forces.

For an hour the fighting raged unchecked, and then another hour, and Willen Ironmaul saw, bleakly, that the dwarves had lost fully half the frontal space they had set out to defend. The massive human army pressed forward relentlessly. Clearly now, Willen could see the wizards behind them, driving them on.

The humans fought like maniacs. They were obviously only mercenaries, but the way they threw themselves into battle was awesome. It was as though they were driven by devils, and Willen realized that what he was seeing was the power of magic on the human mind. Somehow, the wizards had altered their warriors so that each seemed to see himself as invincible and invulnerable. Without the wizards, these human marauders would have faltered long since. But the spells that had been put upon them drove them on relentlessly.

Suddenly the chief of chiefs saw something else and pointed.

Sweeping in from the Promontory, behind the human ranks, was a thundering arc of mounted dwarves, nearly a thousand in number.

“The Neidar!” Willen shouted. “Cale Greeneye has brought the Neidar!”

Scattering surprised wizards and stunned laggards, the Neidar charge hit the rear of the human assault and collapsed it inward. Like legions of death, the grim open-sky dwarves drove into the enemy, broad axes flashing steel-bright and blood-red, their war horses white-eyed and back-eared as they kicked humans aside and trampled the fallen.

It was only a quick slash-and-run attack and ended before most of the humans realized what had hit them, but it was enough to break the momentum of the assault. Humans withdrew everywhere, backing away warily. The dwarves in front of the fortress regained their formations and mounted new defenses at the very aprons of the stronghold’s mighty ramparts.

Out on the verge of the Promontory, the Neidar strikers wheeled their mounts in salute, and drums spoke above the noise of battle and withdrawal. Ignoring a hasty volley of arrows from below, Willen Ironmaul climbed to the top of the gate-ledge wall and raised an arm in salute. In the distance, Cale Greeneye responded, then wheeled his forces and headed eastward, down the Promontory toward the distant border of Ergoth.

Like Willen, he had heard the sentinel drums in the night and was on his way to repel the wandering marauders crossing Ergoth toward Kal-Thax in hope of gaining spoils from the fighting there.

Casually blocking a final arrow with his shield, Willen Ironmaul, chief of chiefs of Thorbardin, jumped from the wall to the protected ledge and told Barek Stone, “Cale has given us a few minutes to regroup. Make good use of the time. The humans will attack again as soon as they catch their breaths.” He turned, then, shading his eyes to look out across the bloody fields of battle. In the distance, beyond the masses of human invaders, something new was happening. Grabbing a far-seer, he set it to his eye and saw the red crests and gray cloaks of the members of the Roving Guard, moving fast, spreading into an assault line.

“It’s Damon,” the chief of chiefs muttered. “Damon has found the wizards.”

By old Theiwar trails and Daewar traders’ routes, the volunteers of the Roving Guard had bypassed the masses of human warriors pressing upon Thorbardin and come to its rearmost lines just as the Neidar horsemen plunged into the assault there.

Seeing what Cale was doing, Damon had held his volunteers back, then moved in swiftly behind the Neidar, cutting down a few dozen scattered defenders to concentrate on the wizards running about in confusion.

Ignoring their “magics,” the Roving Guard cut out, separated, and began rounding up the practitioners of high sorcery, herding and driving them, pushing them out onto the Promontory, farther and farther from the human forces they had been directing. Not all of the wizards fell into their sweep. Some—perhaps many—were still with the barbarian army, protected by its ranks. But Damon had not expected to get all of them. His hope was only to find and separate enough of the magic-users that their absence would soon be noticed. By the time Damon looked back, to estimate a half mile of distance from the nearest marauders, his trotting wedge of determined dwarves had nearly fifty motley, raging humans running ahead of them, spitting spells and shouting curses.

All around, fires erupted on the landscape. Lightning flared, and illusions tangled with illusions. The day went from day to night and back to day again; monsters grew from clumps of brush; rain pelted down through bright sunlight; and dwarf after dwarf seemed to turn into something else, but stubbornly kept moving.

At one point, Damon seemed to be flanked by a seething gargoyle and a porcupine, and at another point it seemed that he, himself, was sprouting doors and shingles. But the single-minded rejection of spells that he had drilled into the survivors of Mace Hammerstand’s proud legion held strong, and the mages scampered ahead of the determined line, at the mercy of blades, shield edges, and heavy hammers if they lagged.

Caught completely off-guard, the wizards fled in confusion, their spells interfering with one another far more than with the purposes of the determined dwarves. Some of them didn’t survive. Hammers and swords put an end to some spells before they were completed, and the fallen wizards lay forgotten on the ground like crumbs dropped by a busy cartman having lunch as he worked.

A mile out onto the Promontory, Damon and the Roving Guard herded the wizards up a knoll, within clear view of the besieged and the besiegers on the mountain slopes, and halted them there.

“What do you think you’re doing, dwarf?” an angry magic-user demanded. “You can’t get away with this, you know!”

“We have so far,” Damon pointed out.

Quickly, with a wave of his hand, the mage muttered a spell and smiled in satisfaction. “Now, before you all die, just out of curiosity, why did you bring us out here? What did you think to gain from us?”

“What did you do, just then?” Damon asked.

“The spell? I summoned Kistilan. He is the favored of the Scions, with powers beyond most. He will deal with you. But I asked you, what did you want of us?”

“I have what I wanted,” Damon assured him. “You just gave it to me.” With a raised hand, he signaled his guards. Grinning savagely, the gray-cloaked dwarves moved in on their captives, some of them pulling the men down, others wielding their hammers. Some of the wizards might eventually recover from the taps their skulls received that day; others would not. The power of a hammer is in the arm that swings it, and the purpose of the swing is in the mind behind that arm.

Within seconds, Damon Omenborn and his Roving Guard stood alone on the knoll, surrounded by dead and unconscious wizards. As one, then, they turned to look northward. A dot had appeared there, in the air above the lower slopes, and was growing in size as it sped toward them.

Kistilan the Dark, Kistilan the Deadly, Kistilan the Would-be Conqueror, intended ruler of Thorbardin—Kistilan who was one of only a few given the favor of the Scions and the force of elemental magics—had heard the summons from the captured wizards. Kistilan was coming now, to strike down the arrogant dwarves who had dared to defy him.