Hammer and Axe

4 Northgate

The Northgate entrance to Thorbardin, when completed, would be the mirror image of Southgate—a perfectly delved, iron-framed opening in a wall of solid granite that faced onto a wide walled ledge high on the mountainside of Cloudseeker Peak. The sheer granite wall itself was reinforced with an unseen mesh of iron bars drilled into the stone so that it could not be cracked or shattered by even the greatest force. The frame of the opening was polished iron, fourteen feet wide and two feet thick.

Running through the gatehouse behind the opening was a huge screw set in a threaded stone shaft lined with graphite and geared to a waterwheel drive. The screw itself, and its twin—nearly thirty miles away at Southgate—were the two largest single artifacts of solid steel ever produced in dwarven foundries . . . or in any foundries.

Each contained a year’s production of iron, coke, and nickel from the Daergar’s best mines, and each had taken nine years to forge, mill, and polish into final shape. Just within the opening on the mountainside was a large, delved area that served as outer gatehouse. The great gate resting there now, ready to be mounted on the screw, was identical to the one in use at Southgate—a massive plug of metal-clad stone, grooved to ride on ranked steel rails set in floor, ceiling, and walls of the gateway. Once mounted, it would be closed by turning the screw to drive it into the opening.

When first planned, Thorbardin’s gates had been envisioned as hinged plugs, an effective closure developed by Daewar delvers in times long past. But as the great fortress grew, and the skills of Daewar, Theiwar, and Daergar blended with the crafts of the Hylar, many plans had been modified and improved. A hinged plug could be circumvented by intruders, given the time and the tools to work on it. A screw-driven plug, internally operated and driven flush into a sleeved opening, could not.

It had been the intention of the original architects of Thorbardin—many of whom still directed the thousands of tasks that went into the project—that the fortress be impregnable to outside attack. Within Thorbardin were the finest craftsmen, the greatest delvers and builders, and the best fortress-planners in the world, and being dwarves they were not adverse to hard work. With its gates in place and working, backed by the great defense passages called Anvil’s Echo—huge tunnels two hundred feet high, lined with murder holes and passable only by a narrow bridge suspended halfway up—Thorbardin would be difficult if not impossible to enter for anyone the dwarves decided to keep out.

Every dwarf above the age of first crafting was as skilled in the use of weapons as in the use of tools. It had become a staple of dwarven lore in Thorbardin—originated from old stories told by the Hylar—that the only basic difference between a tool and a weapon was in the using of it. A climbing javelin thrown at an enemy was a spear. A delving hammer swung at the skull of an enemy was a war hammer. A crafter’s axe cleaving an enemy shield was a battle-axe. A delver’s metal hat worn in combat was a helm, and a fending shield in battle was a fighting shield.

True, there were some weapons that had little use as tools. A bow was not as efficient as a sling for delivering small goods from level to level, a lance made a poor javelin, and swords were forged primarily as trade goods, to be bartered to the humans of the Ergothian orders for things more useful. Of all the dwarves of Thorbardin, only among the Hylar, with their background of human dealings, were there many who would choose a sword over a good hammer as personal armament. And even among the Hylar, the hammer was highly prized as both a tool and a weapon.

It was one of the differences that had developed over the years between the dwarves of Thorbardin and their outside cousins, the Neidar and the scattered Einar. The undermountain dwarves were known for their love of the hammer, while those outside usually favored the axe.

But whatever tool was at hand, weapons would always be ready to be turned instantly on any outsider trying to invade the fortress of Thorbardin.

As Quill Runebrand, keeper of scrolls, was fond of saying, “There isn’t a conceivable subject that all the people of Thorbardin would ever agree about, except one. Intruders are not welcome here. We might squabble over what day it is, or come to blows over whether there are really two moons or three, but we all agree on the defense of Thorbardin.”

Today, the keeper of scrolls was tagging after Willen Ironmaul as the chieftain of the Hylar, accompanied by his ten personal guards and several Thorbardin officials, toured the facilities of Northgate.

From the growing city of Hybardin, delved into a giant stalactite in the center of the underground realm, the group had gone by cable-boat across the northern Urkhan Sea to the piers of Theibardin, where Willen Ironmaul stopped off to visit briefly with the Theiwar chieftain, Slide Tolec. Then they had followed the Second Road to the newly expanded cavern that would one day be Thorbardin’s second Hall of Justice—the South Hall was becoming so busy these days, with the expansion of a boisterous and quarrelsome population, that a North Hall would be needed soon—and from there northward to Northgate, stopping for a quick look at the great, sheer-sided pit that the delvemaster ironically called the “Shame of Reorx.” It was to have been a magma pit, like the Shaft of Reorx now being completed near Southgate, but here it had not worked.

“One of our failures,” Shaft Redstone said sadly as the group assembled at the edge of the great hole that fell away into darkness below. “Six hundred feet straight down, through solid rock, and there is nothing down there except more solid rock. No steam vents, no fissures, not even a rising of temperatures. A miscalculation, pure and simple. Beneath Southgate there is ignitable magma, so we assumed there would be some here as well. We were wrong.”

“Too bad,” Willen Ironmaul sympathized. “It’s a nice hole, though.”

“Two years of work.” The delvemaster nodded, then shrugged. “Oh, well, we’ll find a use for it. If it won’t feed smelters, maybe we can use it to store grain or something.”

The area around the pit was well lighted, better so than most of the road, because of a large shaft leading to the surface of the mountain slope. It had been intended to fit the shaft with lenses, like the one near Southgate, so that sunlight could be funneled in to ignite the quiescent magma when it was found. Now, though, dwarven workmen thronged above, installing a sun-tunnel in the shaft. If there was no magma to power, at least the hole could provide daylight.

It was the way much of Thorbardin was lighted. Before the sun-tunnels, the great caverns had been dim places, lit only by natural strata of clear and smoky quartz that ran up through the mountain’s heart. The sun-tunnels, created by the craft of Hylar glaziers—and with great banks of mirrors from their shops—were now located in most parts of Thorbardin, providing good light where it was wanted. Only at night—except in those parts of Thorbardin that belonged to the dark-seeking Daergar—were lamps needed to light the fortress.

From Shaft Redstone’s pit it was only a few hundred yards along a wide, high passage to the sprawling, bustling subterranean village of Gatekeep, a three-level series of delvings hollowed out mostly by Daewar delvers and shored and partitioned by Hylar stonemasons. Shops, craft stalls, and vendor tables lined the main road here, and beyond them were the cubicle-homes of several thousand dwarves—guards and their families, tunnel traders, craftsmen, and others. In recent years, the two portal communities, Gateway to the south and Gatekeep to the north, had grown to be cities in their own right, rivaling in size the original seven cities of Thorbardin, clustered around the subterranean Sea of Urkhan. It was temporary growth, though. Now that Southgate was completed, Gateway was beginning to shrink again. Gatekeep would do the same when North-gate was done, as the builders and their families began to move back to the cities. The Council of Thanes already had plans for the delvings which would be abandoned near the gates. They would be converted into storage for the grains, timber, fibers, smoked meat, furs, and finery accumulated by trade with those in the outside realms and with the humans of Ergoth.

Beyond Gatekeep, three tunnels led to Anvil’s Echo and the great gate. Tunnels from the upper and lower levels led to the corridors of defense above and around Anvil’s Echo. The central tunnel led into the great bridge chamber itself, emerging on the long, suspended bridge that crossed it from one end to the other.

The place was safe now, and quiet as the procession walked along the bridge, but the members of the little group were aware of the eyes watching them from hundreds of holes, and Willen Ironmaul felt a chill as he thought what this passage would be like for anyone trying to invade Thorbardin.

The gatehouse and surrounding delves bustled with activity. Crafters were doing final fittings on the intricate gear mechanisms that would drive the gate-screw, and metalsmiths were fitting pins and sockets for the final installation of the gate itself.

The group of dwarves chatted with some of the people working there, then crouched to work their way through the narrow housings alongside the great screw, to the gate itself, beyond which lay the outside world.

Little light came through the gate. It was complete, but not open. Temporary stone pillars had been set across its outer rim, leaving only a small door. When the gate was in place, the pillars would be used as supports for sentinel towers on the walled ledge beyond.

The plug itself stood against a wall, just beyond the screw, and the dwarves spread out to wander around it, peeking and peering. Thirty feet high, sixty feet wide, and almost eight feet thick, the thing was cut and shaped from solid stone, drill-reinforced, and was entirely sheathed in metal. The inside face of it was of bronze, the serrated rims and the ring-socket for the great drive screw were filed iron, and the outside face was of thick, polished steel.

It was exactly like the plug at Southgate.

Very soon, it would be in place and usable. Then, Thorbardin would be impregnable. Willen Ironmaul strode along the length of the huge device, followed closely by the Ten, his personal escort. He paused now and then to measure a seam or taste the metal, nodding. “Perfect,” he muttered. “And the drive reservoirs?”

“Filled,” Talc Bendiron said. The tapwarden pointed upward, indicating the sheathed stone pipes that descended like great columns from the ceiling to the cut stone housing of the waterwheel. Above, two hundred feet away, was a separate, enclosed cavern filled with water from the sinkhole lake atop Cloudseeker. Valves were in place to release the water when required, and when the water flowed the great screw would turn, riding forward in its rings with tremendous, implacable force. Once begun, nothing short of the plug sealing itself into its socket would stop it.

Beyond the temporary gate, distant trumpets sounded, and a few moments later an armored dwarf hurried down a ladder nearby, saluted the visiting dignitaries, and turned to his watch captain. “Outside parties coming in,” he said. “The sentinels say the nearest group is Mace Hammerstand and his guards, returning from the west. A second party is just rounding Sky’s End, still too far away to identify, though the sentinel believes they are Neidar.”

Quill Runebrand turned to Willen Ironmaul. “It was Mace Hammerstand that your son Damon went out with, Sire?”

“It was.” The Hylar chieftain nodded. “And I’ll be . . . his mother will be glad when he is back. She tends to worry.”

“I’ll be glad to hear Mace’s report,” Cable Graypath noted.

Beyond the screw housing, there was a clatter and the sound of angry voices. A high, quavering cry rose above them. “Stand back!” that voice demanded. “Rust and corrosion! If you people would watch where you’re going, there’d be fewer accidents around here!”

“You old menace!” another voice roared. “Look what you’ve done to my load! By Reorx’s red rust, it’ll take me an hour to pick up all these pins!”

“Menace?” the first voice shouted, then sank to an angry growl. “Menace, he calls me. Menace! Fool who can’t even stand aside for buckets coming through, and he calls me a menace! Moondust!” The voices died to grumblings and a guard—one of the Ten—scurried past the screw housing, then returned, grinning through his beard.

“What happened?” Willen asked.

“Nothing much,” the guard said. “It’s just some oldster. He and a pinsetter had a collision back there.”

Behind him, the quavery voice rose again. “You, metal-hide! Stand aside! You’re blocking the way!”

The guard stepped aside, and an ancient dwarf backed through the narrow opening, hauling a cartload of buckets with a rope. Well into the gateway he turned a silvermaned head and leveled an angry glare at all and sundry. “Well, the least somebody could do is open that door for me!” he grumbled. “You can see I have my hands full.”

A gateman started toward the little temporary door, but Willen Ironmaul was nearest it and waved the workman aside. “I agree, grandfather,” he said. “A person with his hands full deserves to have doors opened for him. What do you have there?”

The old dwarf glared at the chieftain of the Hylar, then shrugged. “Buckets of stuff,” he said at last. “I intend to mix them all together to see what happens. But, of course, I can’t do it inside Thorbardin. It’s getting so a person can’t do anything around here without somebody objecting.”

“What kind of stuff?” Willen wondered, raising his head to look into the buckets. They were filled with various substances, some black, some green, some yellow, and some of no describable color.

“Elements,” the ancient growled. “Brimstone, soot, leavened ash . . . What business is it of yours, what kind of stuff? It’s my experiment, not yours! Who are you, anyway?”

“Mind your manners, old one!” someone reprimanded. “This is Willen Ironmaul, the chieftain of the Hylar.”

“Oh,” the oldster growled. “One of those. I don’t deal with Hylar. I live in Daebardin . . . though I may move out if Olim Goldbuckle doesn’t apologize soon.” He turned back to his rope. “Well, if you intend to open the door for me, do it! I don’t have all day!”

Hiding a grin, the high chieftain of the Hylar bowed, stepped back, and pushed the door between the pillars open. Grumbling and puffing, the old dwarf backed through it, pulling his cartload of buckets after him. Out on the wide parapet he turned east and disappeared toward the canted slopes beyond the sentinel towers.

Willen closed the door. “Who was that?” he asked.

Several of those around him shrugged and shook their heads. Bardion Ledge frowned thoughtfully, then snapped his fingers. “Pack Lodestone,” he said. “I knew he looked familiar. He’s the one the Daewar prince ordered out of Thorbardin.”

“Ordered out?” Willen raised a brow.

“Oh, not permanently,” Bardion amended. “It’s just that he can’t experiment with his elements inside anymore. The prince has ordered that he has to go outside to make his mixtures.”

“I remember.” Talc Bendiron nodded. “Pack Lode-stone. He’s the one who made the awful smell a month or so ago.”

“That’s him,” Bardion said. “Olim told me about that. The old fellow mixed up some noxious potions and set fire to them in the concourse in Daebardin. Half the city stank of rotten eggs for a week.”

“Why did he do that?” Willen wondered.

Bardion shrugged again. “Olim said he just wanted to see if his mixture would burn. Something about trying to invent a controllable fuel for the tinsmith forges, so he can get rich.”

“A tinkerer.” Barek Stone grinned. “Does he think he’s a gnome?”

“Olim said Pack Lodestone is nearly three hundred years old,” Bardion said. “At that age, there’s no telling what he thinks he is.”

Willen Ironmaul shook his head and returned to business. “I’ll stamp my seal on this project,” he told those around him. “I’m sure the rest of the council will, too. This is excellent work.” He turned to the tower guard. “When will the Roving Guard arrive?”

“A few hours, Sire,” the guard said. “They are on the climb-path now, coming toward this gate.”

“Mace will want to report to the council,” Willen said. “We had better get back to the cities and send runners to notify the chieftains.”

He was just heading for the screw housing when a tremendous roar came from beyond the portal, rattling the little door in its pillars. He and the rest turned, hurried to the door, and crowded out onto the ledge, the Ten drawing their blades.

To the east, on the slope beyond the sentinel tower where the approach to Northgate ended, a huge cloud of white smoke roiled upward, just beginning to spread on the winds. And out of the cloud stalked a black creature pulling a scorched cart on a rope. Pack Lodestone was covered with soot from head to toe. His disheveled, snowy hair and beard were black with it, and even at this distance they could hear his irate voice quavering. “Rust and corruption! That will never do! No tinsmith would put that in his forge! Now I’ll have to start all over again.”

The crowd on the ledge parted to let him pass, and he grumbled all the way through the door and beyond, his voice fading as he disappeared past the housed gate-screw.

“I believe Olim Goldbuckle made a very wise decision,” Willen Ironmaul noted. “What was that? Magic?”

“Certainly not!” Bardion Ledge assured him. “Pack may be crazy as a tractor worm, but he would no more indulge in magic than you or I.”

“Well, whatever he did indulge in, it certainly was noisy.”

“And smelly,” someone said. Noses wrinkled as the errant wind brought a bit of smoke among them. “That smells exactly like rotten eggs!”