The Covenant of The Forge

20

High mountains were visible in the distance when the Hylar made long camp on the banks of a wooded stream. Though still far away, the mountains stood blue in the western sky and called to them, like echoes of Thoradin in their hearts.

While the campsite was being cleared and fires prepared, Colin Stonetooth and others climbed a knoll and looked to the west. Tera Sharn stood at her father’s shoulder as he tested the winds with ears and nose, the knelt to look at the soil beneath the lush grasses. He pulled a sprig of grass, chewed on it thoughtfully, then scraped earth from beneath and tasted it. The land was rich and fertile, as much of southeastern Ergoth was. But it was land suited to humans more than to dwarves.

But beyond, where the high mountains rose blue in the autumn light, the vista that tugged at him and the winds sweeping down from there spoke of high meadows and honest stone, of steeps and caverns and mineral deposits … of dwarven places.

“We will remain here long enough for the animals to graze and the foresters to lay in stores,” Colin Stonetooth decreed. “Let the crafters work their forges and the weavers work their wools. When next we set out our anvils, it will be within those mountains yonder.”

“Kal-Thax,” said Mistral Thrax. “Kal-Thax is there, in those mountains. The place of Everbardin.”

“Then tell our bonded knight to lay out his fields and complete his drills,” the chieftain said. “He is human and will not go to Kal-Thax, but we will not pause again until we are there.”

The site of the camp was well chosen. It offered ripe fields for harvest and graze, wood for fires and forges, and water for bathing and the tending of stock. The Hylar had come far in learning the ways of combat under the tutelage of Glendon Hawke, but there were still more drills to be accomplished, and time was needed for that.

But there was still another — and primary — reason why the great caravan of the Hylar stopped. It was time for the wedding of the chieftain’s daughter, Tera Sharn, and the captain of guards, Willen Ironmaul.

Through a thousand miles of wilderness, and even before in the place that had been Thorin, the people had watched the romance between the robust guardsman and the dark-eyed princess develop. Handil the Drum had become legend among the Hylar, and Tolon the Muse was far behind, ruling a place the Hylar would never again see. Cale Greeneye was well-loved among his father’s people, but was strange to them, preferring other ways to dwarven ways.

That left Tera Sharn as one for the people to idolize, and idolize her they did. For his part, Willen had traveled the past hundred miles with a wide, silly grin parting his whiskers and sometimes acted as though his head were lost in the clouds.

It was time for a wedding, and the Hylar set it up in great style. In a clearing they erected a large, ornate forge with crested stone arches above it representing the strength of mountains, and four silver-inlaid bellows, representing the four seasons’ winds that sang across high peaks.

Throughout one morning, most of the tribe worked to make things ready, the women shouting orders, the men running here and there, doing as they were told. Foresters selected wood for the ceremonial forge — seven varieties of wood, representing the seven precious metals: hickory for steel, symbol of flexibility and wisdom; oak for iron, for strength; maple for tin, for unswerving devotion; cedar for copper, the metal of the heart; ash for nickel, for endurance and faith; multi-colored pine for bronze, symbolic of blendings, and yellow hedge for gold, representing the lasting comforts of home and family.

A ceremonial bronze hammer had been forged for the occasion, and a set of copper tongs with rosewood grips.

When the sun was high in the bright sky, the entire tribe assembled around the forge, in which bright coals glowed cherry-red. The Hylar guard — trimmed, shined, and brushed, each warrior mounted on his best tall horse — spread in formation to line a pathway, along which road came Colin Stonetooth and the Ten, followed by a dazed-looking Willen Ironmaul flanked by guardsmen. Sedately, they rode to the forge clearing and dismounted.

For a moment there was silence, the only sounds those of the breeze, songbirds, and an excited kender voice saying, “Wow! Would you look at that! It’s …” The voice stopped abruptly as strong dwarven hands were clapped over the kender’s mouth. Softly, then, a drum was tapped. Then another, and another, picking up the rhythm. All around the clearing, drummers tapped a soft riff on muffled vibrars as another pathway opened and a dozen dwarf girls came through, strewing handsful of steel coins and arrowheads. Behind them walked Tera Sharn, wearing her finest kilt and lace sandals, a bodice embroidered with sunbursts, and a long, quilted cloak of the finest web-silk fabric. Her hair was tied high on her head and adorned by a copper comb.

Several of Willen Ironmaul’s escorts stepped close to him, ready to support him in case his knees began to shake.

Colin Stonetooth strode to the forge and raised his hands. “People of the people,” he intoned. “People of the highest place, people of the Hylar! Gather now in the sight of Reorx, maker of all people, Reorx who must certainly watch over these, his most beloved people, who were created last and best — ”

“That isn’t right!” a high voice protested from aside. “Dwarves aren’t the …” Hard hands muffled the kender again, and a deep voice whispered, “Get that little nuisance out of here!”

“Who were created last and are therefore best,” Colin Stonetooth elaborated. “People of the Hylar, observe and witness. Two among us have chosen to bond as husband and wife. Willen Ironmaul, Captain of the General Guard, has chosen Tera Sharn, ah … my daughter. And she has chosen him as well. Does anyone here assembled wish … or dare … to challenge?”

On cue, Tera Sharn raised a flower-garlanded javelin — ornate but nonetheless deadly — and held it high, turning full circle, her eyes meeting those of each unmarried young woman in the crowd. One of the guards nudged Willen Ironmaul, who seemed to snap out of a trance and raised his sword, where every male in the crowd could see it.

There being no challengers, Colin Stonetooth nodded. The bride and groom put down their weapons, joined hands and stepped closer to the forge, feeling its pleasant heat on their faces. At its foot stood a gold-embossed eighty-pound anvil, wrapped in ribbons. Willen squatted, hoisted the anvil and set it on the forge’s rim, between the ceremonial hammer and the ceremonial tongs.

One of the guard escorts and one of Tera Sharn’s pretty attendants stepped to the couple’s sides and reached beyond them with long, iron tongs. From the coals they lifted small, slim ingots — one of silver and one of gold, heated and glowing. Carefully, they laid these atop the anvil, one across the other, and stepped back.

Tera Sharn picked up the rosewood-handled copper tongs and gripped the hot ingots at their center. She lifted them, looked up at Willen and recited, “May the halves of our joining be equal and strong.” She returned the heated ingots to the anvil.

Willen stared down at her, trying not to grin. He lifted the hammer. “And may they never be separated,” he said. With one swift blow, he smote the joined ingots, forever welding them into a single metal cross — the cross of the pillars of the world.

A rousing cheer went up from the crowd, and Colin Stonetooth raised his hands to silence it. Then he looked at Willen and Tera. “Will you exchange tokens?” he asked.

Tera Sharn reached into her bodice and pulled out a pendant and chain, beautifully crafted from nickel steel. Standing on tiptoe, she reached high and dropped the loop over Willen’s head, letting the pendant settle on his breast. It was a single star. “For my love,” she whispered.

Willen, red-cheeked above his swept-back beard, reached to the pouch at his belt and fumbled inside it. “And for mine — ” he started, then stopped, his eyes widening as he fumbled in his pouch. Suddenly he turned, pushed through the crowd, and strode to the side of the clearing, a thunderous frown on his brow. To the dwarves holding the stifled kender he said, “Give me that little thief!”

The instant his mouth was free, Castomel Springheel hissed, “Thief? Who are you calling thief, you overgrown — ”

Willen grasped the little creature, lifted him, turned him upside down, and shook him as one might shake out a cleaning cloth. The kender yelled, and things rained down from him, from the large pouch at his belt, from other, hidden pouches, from the neck of his green shirt, from everywhere. A pair of bright daggers clattered to the ground, followed by a spur, a dozen or so bright beads, various bits of stone, some rolls of foolscap, a chunk of hard bread, a bit of cheese, an egg, a ruby clasp, a pair of bracelets, a chained pendant. …

“There it is,” Willen rasped. Dropping Castomel Springheel unceremoniously, he picked up the pendant, turned a fierce scowl on the sprawled kender, then strode back to the forge carrying his token.

Behind him, voices were raised in surprise and anger. “That’s my clasp! I wondered where that was.” “Whose spur is this?” “Those are Mica’s bracelets, he’s been looking all over for those!” And a high-pitched kender voice, “Keep your hands off that cheese! That’s my lunch!”

At the forge, Willen resumed his place as though there had been no interruption. He slipped the pendant’s tooled chain over Tera Sharn’s head. “For my love,” he said.

As his pendant was a star, the one he gave to her was a finely engraved oval of rich, pink granite. They smiled at each other. By this exchange, she promised him heaven and he promised her the world.

Once more, Colin Stonetooth raised his hands. “These two people are husband and wife!” he proclaimed. Then, “Well, why is everybody still standing around? Go about your business!”

At the far side of the clearing, towering over the dwarves around him, Glendon Hawke removed his light helm and ran long fingers through his red hair. He was impressed. He had seen human weddings, and some had been quite elaborate, but he had never seen a ceremony more thoroughly symbolic or better performed than this. “Sometimes dwarves are almost human,” he muttered.

Beside him a burly Hylar swung around. “You watch your mouth!” the dwarf said.

Nearby, Cas Springheel reassembled his scattered belongings, muttering under his breath. “If that’s how they’re going to act, I can take a hint,” he said. “I’ve been kicked out of better places than this.” Smoothing down his clothing, he returned his pack sling to his shoulder, picked up the fork-ended walking stick he had been toying with lately — he had an idea that a fine weapon could be made from it — and executed an angry bow to no one in particular. “Please don’t be offended by my departure,” he piped. “I’m only leaving because dwarves are really dull. Especially when they get up on their high horses.”

The direction he chose in leaving took him through most of the milling crowd, and his pack was bulging nicely again when he stalked out of the Hylar camp.

*

It was four days later that Cale Greeneye rode in at a gallop. Past the drill fields he spurred, and ranks of armed Hylar stopped their weapons practice to watch him pass. At the center of the compound he brought Piquin to a sliding stop before Colin Stonetooth’s hut. The chieftain appeared at the doorway as his son vaulted from his saddle, not bothering with the mounting ladder.

“Sire!” Cale’s eyes glittered with excitement as he pointed westward. “Humans coming this way. Mounted and armed, and in force. Three hundred or more! They know we’re here and are heading for us.”

“Are they hostile?” Colin beckoned, and the Ten hurried off to collect and saddle their horses.

“I’d say so,” Cale nodded. “Gran Molden crept close enough to hear some of them talking. They’ve been in a fight with dwarves, somewhere west of here. They were trying to go up into the mountains, and the dwarves attacked them. Gran says the humans know we are dwarves and are out for revenge, as though they think we’re the same ones who attacked them.”

“They don’t know one dwarf from another,” Colin rumbled, shaking his head. He had known humans who had been friends. People almost as civilized as dwarves. People he had trusted, so much that he had not wanted to believe there were enemies among them. Now, it seemed, humans were usually the enemy. “Just as we sometimes fail to distinguish one human from another,” he muttered. Despite all that had happened, he still found himself clinging to the idea that there were decent humans, humans with a sense of — he sought a word and it came to him — a sense of honor. People like the strange knight among them now.

Like Glendon Hawke. Colin turned to look for the human and found he was already on his way, long legs sprinting, curious to find out what was happening.

“Sir Knight,” Colin faced him, cross-armed, “your kin are coming to call. Where do you stand?”

“What kin? Describe them.”

Quickly, Cale Greeneye described the humans approaching beyond the near hills. “They are dark, hairy men,” he said. “They wear some armor, but it is rough-cut and tarnished. They wear ornaments in their hair and on their helms and braid their beards. Some wear leather cloaks, split at the back. They have many sorts of weapons. Their horses are small, quick, and wiry, and are painted with symbols.”

Glendon listened intently, then shook his head. “No kin of mine,” he said icily. “Not Ergothians, not even from the northern realms. They sound like Cobar. Hill people from the east. No better than Sackmen and Sandrunners, most of them. But they are ferocious fighters, and they take what they want if they can.” He glanced around at the dwarves nearby. “My guess is they want your horses, your arms, and your armor … and any other valuables you have. Cobar are notorious robbers, and you people wear fortunes on your shoulders.”

“Gran Molden says they’re angry,” Cale told him. “They’ve fought dwarves west of here.”

“They tried to enter Kal-Thax, then,” Glendon nodded.

Colin spun toward him. “You know of Kal-Thax?”

“Of course,” Glendon shrugged. “Doesn’t everybody? It’s where the dwarves live. Well, most of them, anyway.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about Kal-Thax?” Mistral Thrax rasped. “That’s the place we’re looking for!”

Glendon shrugged again. “You didn’t ask.”

“Well, we’re asking now!”

“Kal-Thax is in the Kharolis Mountains,” the knight said. “West of here. The dwarves there deny entrance to all outsiders. They are fierce and pretty primitive — except maybe the bright-colored ones. They seem fairly civilized sometimes, though they are as hostile as the rest to anybody trying to cross their borders. If the Cobar tangled with them, I can see why they’d be angry.”

“Two of those coming are different,” Cale said. “They wear full armor, like yours, and there are pennants on their lances. Crossed swords on fields of white.”

“Knights,” Glendon breathed. “And they ride with Cobar?”

“Not with them,” Cale corrected. “They are off to one side. It’s more as though they are watching them than riding with them.”

“Ah.” Glendon nodded. “I thought as much.”

Again, Colin Stonetooth asked, “Where do you stand, human? By your oath, are you with us or against us?”

“By my oath,” the knight said, “I am neither. I pledged to teach your people what I can. I have done that. There is no more that I can teach. I will take no part in your test.”

“Test?”

“The Cobar, Sire. You cannot escape them, and I think they will attack you. It will be interesting to see what you have learned from my efforts.”

“Interesting? By Reorx, I …”

“I will stand aside and watch,” the knight said flatly. “I have kept my bargain with you. Now will you keep yours with me?”

“What?”

“To release me from service and return my belongings to me.”

Glendon glanced westward. A haze of dust was visible, rising above the nearest hill, and on the hilltop were mounted humans, more and more of them.

“Keep your belongings,” the Hylar chieftain rasped. “You already have them back anyway. I’ll release you when I know more.”

The Cobar men came at a charge, heading for the heart of the dwarves’ camp, and were within a hundred yards when a hail of sling-stones whistled through their front ranks. The charge broke in momentary confusion, then regrouped, the marauders wheeling to continue their attack. But they were met by a solemn rank of armored dwarves mounted high on great horses. Before the men could charge again, a counter-charge bore into them, and men and horses fell before the disciplined fighting dwarves like wheat to the sickle.

Thundering through the ranks of the Cobar, wheeling and driving through again, Willen Ironmaul’s guards pressed the humans, giving them no time to regroup and no room to maneuver. In precision drill the Hylar fighters whirled and swept, this way and then that, cleaving and punishing the marauders. And at each clash, the weapons were different. Lances first, then swords, then one of the tactics that Glendon Hawke had never taught them, a swerving charge on wheeling mounts which seemed to have no riders — until they turned, and the dwarves clinging to the horses’ sides lashed out with deadly hammers and axes.

And through it all, a continuing roil of drums set the pace and called the plays.

Colin Stonetooth and the Ten were everywhere, a separate, compact fighting machine of iron hooves, edged shields, steel blades, axes, and hammers.

Upstream, at a ford on the creek, Glendon Hawke lowered his faceplate and tipped down the point of his lance. “Sirs!” he called to the two bright-armored knights across from him. “This is not a good time to cross this stream, I assure you!”

They hesitated, trying to recognize the blue-plumed figure challenging them. He was not one of them, by his dress, but his posture spoke of great skill and his manner was like their own. One of them raised a hand in careful salute. “You side with dwarves against humans, Sir Freelance?”

“I take no sides here,” Glendon called back. “And do you, Sirs, side with Cobar? Against anybody?”

“Of course not!”

“Then by your leave, Sirs, let us just watch the test … me from here, and you from over there.”

The battle was over in minutes. With splendid precision and great skill the Hylar swept the field until the only humans upright were those running away. At a trumpet call the Hylar regrouped. There were some missing, but only a few.

“Let them go.” Colin Stonetooth waved after the fleeing humans. “They can spread the word that it is best to leave Hylar alone.” He turned to glance at the stream, where Glendon Hawke still held the ford. The strange knights were turning, riding away.

Followed only by the Ten, Colin Stonetooth rode down to the stream and wheeled to face Glendon. “Why did you intervene?” he demanded.

“I did not intervene,” the knight said calmly. “And neither did anyone else. Congratulations on your test. I can teach you nothing more. Do you release me?”

Without answering, Colin Stonetooth wheeled his mount and started back to camp. “Bring that human to me at supper,” he told Jerem Longslate. “And bring the thing the steelmaster has prepared.”

*

In the evening, Glendon Hawke was brought before Colin Stonetooth, and again the entire tribe assembled. The knight looked around him at a sea of solemn, expressionless dwarves and frowned. He had expected the Hylar to keep their bargain, but who knew what dwarves were likely to do. He felt disappointed, though. He had thought — he had been so sure! — that in learning the skills, they had also absorbed the aspects of chivalry — the sense of rightness and honor that were part of the skills. It should be as clear to them now as to him, he thought, the way of the lance — the difference between right and wrong.

Colin Stonetooth gazed up at the man icily. “Kneel before me, human,” the dwarf said. “I’m getting a cramp in my neck.”

With a shrug, Glendon complied. He would not bow, but he would kneel.

Colin Stonetooth held out his hand. “Give me your sword,” he demanded.

Glendon hesitated and heard the whisper of half-drawn blades all around him. Slowly he drew his sword, reversed it, and handed it over. The Hylar chieftain took it and set it aside, then reached around, picked up a wrapped blade, and held it before him, peeling the fabric away.

Glendon blinked, and his eyes went wide. In size and shape the sword was almost identical to his own. In length and taper, in shape of pommel and curve of guard, it was an exact twin. But there the similarity ended. This sword was exquisite, a work of the finest craft he had ever seen. Its blade glistened in the light, its razor edges as finely honed as a cleric’s shaving blade. Its hilt was of polished blackwood, inlaid with fine, elaborate patterns of silver and gold. And in the crest of its nickel-steel pommel was a perfect blue-white diamond the size of a cloak button.

Colin Stonetooth held the sword out to him, hilt-forward. “We have learned from you, Sir Glendon Hawke,” the dwarf said. “I think we have only begun to realize how much we have learned. Your pledge is kept, and with this token I complete mine. You are free of service, Sir Knight. And this sword is yours. It is the finest of our craft. It will never fail you. Take it and go, with the thanks of the Hylar.”