The Covenant of The Forge

11

Snowcaps lay heavy upon the Khalkist peaks when Colin Stonetooth led his procession down from the warren ports and around the towering bulk of the mountain to the devastated slopes that once had been the proud face of Thorin. Ogres looked down from the heights as the long line passed below, and growled impatiently. But no ogre cared to confront such a force as this — more than a thousand determined dwarves, some mounted on the great Calnar horses and some afoot, but all heavily armed and packed for travel.

Not in even the longest memory had there been such a sight, anywhere on Krynn. Humans migrated constantly — small, nomadic bands roaming here and there — as did many of the other races. But a migration of dwarves was a thing none of them had ever seen before, and even the ogres in the cold heights shook their heads in wonder at the sight of a tribe of dwarves on the move.

On the slope above the sinkhole that had once been the mountain roof of Grand Gather, Colin Stonetooth halted them for a last look at the place that had been their home for as long as they could remember. Where once had been clean, wind-shaped mountainside, now there was the collapsed pit, its sides a deep cone of rockslide leading to the entombed depths below. Beyond, at the lower end of the hole, was the stub of the First Sentinel, a broken shaft of stone standing in its own rubble. And farther down, a stark silhouette against the umbers and golds of the valleys below, was the roof of the keep, still littered with the drying bones of human savages … mute testimony to the silent death within.

The forces of Sith Kilane — at least a few of them — had lasted for weeks, imprisoned in the keep. Some had made it to the roof, to be picked off by dwarven marksmen with slings. Some had shouted and pleaded from the balconies until sling-stones or javelins brought them down, and some — after days of suffering — had jumped. The remainder of the ill-fated invasion forces had died of thirst or starvation, their corpses still within, ignored by the dwarves. The keep remained sealed, and maybe it always would.

Above Thorin, Colin Stonetooth took a last, sad look out over the lands he had ruled, then leaned from his saddle to clasp the hard hand of his second son, Tolon Farsight. “You are Chieftain of the Calnar now,” he said, “by your own choice and the choice of those who remain here with you. I wish you hot forges and good trade.”

“And to you, Father.” Tolon nodded. “Wherever the roads take you. May you find your Kal-Thax, and may the majesty of the Calnar make of it a fine nation.”

“Not Calnar,” Colin muttered, looking away. “The Calnar are of Thorin. You are the Calnar now. We will take another name, for other places.”

“Oh? What name?”

“What our human neighbors — when they were neighbors — called us, because of where we lived. The Highest. We will take that name with us, Tolon. From this day, those of us who seek Kal-Thax are the Hylar.”

“Hylar.” Tolon thought it over and nodded. “A good name. May it serve you well, Father. May you find the way.”

Colin tipped his head, indicating Cale Greeneye, who sat nearby in the saddle of his great horse, Piquin. Cale and his scouts had returned a few days after the battle of Thorin. They had returned to a place very different from the Thorin they left.

“Your brother will lead us safely to the plains,” Colin told Tolon. “He has scouted that far and will scout for us beyond, as we travel. Ah, don’t look so downcast!” The old chieftain shook his head. “You know I must make this journey, my son. There is no place here for a former chieftain, and now it is your turn. Guide your people well and wisely.”

“All because of an old dwarf’s dream,” Tolon muttered.

“Not only that,” Colin said. “I failed in my judgement. I trusted friends and was blind to enemies. You were right, Tolon, and I was wrong. A chieftain cannot fail his people to such an extreme and remain chieftain. The laws apply to all, and the law decrees exile. I choose to make my exile a quest for prophesy, and those who follow me do so of their own free will.

“Those of us who go from here, Tolon,” the old chief added, “have lost Everbardin in Thorin. We must find it elsewhere, if we find it at all.” Once more he clasped Tolon’s hand, then reined Schoen around and trotted away, downhill toward the far valleys and the Suncradles which rose beyond. With a wave at Tolon, Cale Greeneye reined after him, followed by Jerem Longslate and the Ten, which included several new members who had been chosen to replace the brave dwarves who had died defending their chieftain.

Willen Ironmaul directed his guard companies to the flanks, then paused to gaze at Tolon the Muse. “Consider Sheen Barbit for your guard captain, Tolon,” he suggested. “He is the best of those who choose to remain. Will you try to reopen trade with Golash and Chandera?”

“Trade, yes,” Tolon said. “But not Balladine. The Calnar will never again forget that humans are savages, no matter how friendly they appear.”

“Live long and well, Tolon Farsight,” Willen said, formally, then wheeled away.

Beside him, on her own mount, Tera Sharn glanced back at her brother. They had said their goodbyes earlier in private, for each knew the parting would be forever. Tera nodded and turned to look ahead.

Skirting the edge of the great sinkhole, Colin Stonetooth and the Ten in the lead, the people who were now Hylar began their journey. Three and five abreast, the procession was more than two miles long.

Among them were drummers, and as the first of these came abreast of the sinkhole he loosed his vibrar and began a slow, steady beat — a dirge, or a salute. Then others behind him joined in, and, as the procession crept past the sinkhole, the mountains echoed the steady, minor-key thunders of great drums saying a last farewell to the greatest drummer of them all. For the Hylar, as for the Calnar, there would always be the memory of Handil the Drum.

The procession wound downward, past the death-stink of the silent keep and out onto the war-littered terraces. On a hillside in the distance, a little band of humans raised their hands in salute, then turned away, and Colin Stonetooth knew that Garr Lanfel, the Prince of Golash, had made a final gesture in honor of a friendship that would never be again.

Down the terraces, toward the valleys of the Hammersong and the Bone, the new clan of the Hylar marched to the sound of its drums, eyes raised to the Suncradles and the distances beyond.

Never once did Colin Stonetooth turn to look back at what had been Thorin-Everbardin. But some did, and their whispers were bittersweet on the winds.

“Thoradin,” they muttered. For the people who were now Hylar, Thorin was gone. What remained was Thoradin — a memory of the past.