The Swordsheath Scroll

9

At break of dawn, thc fresh west wind whispering in the valleys and up the slopes of Cloudseeker had a smell of spring about it. Northgate of Thorbardin had been closed through the night, but now its great screw turned again and the huge, steel-clad stone plug that was the gate receded slowly into the gatehouse, letting the breeze and the morning light enter. Guards stepped out through the great portal, took up positions on the ledge and the ramps, and gazed curiously out across the valley below.

Cookfire smoke rose above the big encampment there, and there was movement everywhere as the strangers from the west had their breakfasts, tended their livestock, and began taking down their travel tents. They were preparing for a march, and the dwarves above, at North-gate, watched curiously as the pace of activity increased its tempo.

From such a distance, the tiny figures by the stream seemed to all be moving in unison, going about their various morning chores, but with a visible rhythm, as though there were music there, and they were all listening to it.

Then the wind shifted a bit, wafting up the slope, and the guards on the ledge heard it, too. The faint sound was that of a single drum, beating softly and steadily, a deep, throbbing rhythm that seemed to touch the dwarven soul. In fascination, the guards on the mountain watched and listened, then snapped to quick attention as a platoon of the elite guard stepped through the open gate into the dawn light.

The new arrivals spread out, looking up the slope above Northgate, down the slope below the wall, and down both climbing ramps. When their surveillance was complete, they spread apart and saluted. Jeron Redleather stepped out into the morning, followed by Dunbarth Ironthumb and old Swing Basto, chieftain of the Theiwar.

Like the guards, the three leaders gazed curiously out across the westward valley, where the strangers were packing their animals and rolling their tents. The smoke that had floated above the encampment was gone, the cookfires extinguished. Obviously, the strangers were ready to move out.

"Is there any sign yet of their leader?" Jeron asked one of the guards, who held a seeing-tube.

"Haven't seen him," the dwarf answered. "At least we haven't seen that red cloak and bright armor. Maybe he changed his clothes."

"If he did, he could be anywhere over there, and we wouldn't spot him," another guard said. "Nobody has had a good look at him yet."

Dunbarth Ironthumb had wandered to the wall, and stood there now, listening intently. "That drum," he muttered. "There is something about that drum…"

"What is it?" Jeron asked. "Is the drum talking?"

"No, it's just singing. But there is something about that rhythm. It's like something I should remember, something I should understand. But I'm sure I've never heard it before."

"Maybe your ancestors heard something like it," Jeron suggested. "You Hylar have always been drum people."

"Yes, possibly," the Hylar agreed. Still, though, he listened, feeling as if the faint, haunting beat were talking to him personally. Among the guards, some of the other Hylar had similar expressions of puzzlement.

Even without the seeing-tubes, they could see the people out in the valley scurrying into formation, bright cloaks swirling, bright armor flashing as they made ready to cross the stream. The long line of carts and pack animals was brought forward, and on the flanks, dwarves in bright costume climbed aboard their saddled mounts and wheeled into position. The red-and-gray company assembled, mounted, and rode across the stream, bright water splashing under the hooves of their horses. There was, though, no sign of the red-cloaked figure who had led them when they were first seen.

When they were across, all the rest began to move, crossing rank by rank and group by group to take up their march positions. It looked as though a whole city were on the march.

"There certainly are a lot of them," Jeron noted as the strangers spread and advanced, heading toward Thorbar-din. 'Thousands of them."

"My guards estimate at least nine thousand," Dunbarth told him. "Maybe more than that. I can't imagine where they came from. I don't recall there being anything west of here larger than an occasional Neidar village. But by Reorx, there are as many people down there as there are in all of Hybardin."

"Speaking of Hybardin," Jeron said, "do you know whether any of your people might have been prowling my shore last night? The guards didn't see anyone, but there was a Hylar boat at the dock this morning, and nobody around to account for it."

"You, too?" Swing Basto asked. "I've had a dozen reports of prowlers wandering around Theibardin during the night. And one of my water-pipers swears he turned around and saw the face of Harl Thrustweight looking at him."

"Too much ale." Jeron grinned. "Or too much imagination. Harl Thrustweight, you say?"

"No, not Harl Thrustweight. Just his face. There wasn't any body attached to it."

"Definitely ale," Jeron repeated. "Ale, and possibly a troubled conscience. That would account for seeing ghosts."

"That water-piper had nothing to do with the Hylar chief's accident," the old Theiwar blustered. "And even if anybody in my thane did, they're all long gone now."

"Hush!" Dunbarth raised a commanding hand. "Listen!"

Out in the valley, the entire caravan of strangers was now across the little stream and approaching at a stately, steady pace. The soft drum still throbbed its haunting rhythm, but it was louder now, as though mufflings had been removed. And another drum had joined its voice, adding a stirring counterpoint to the beat. As they listened, another drum joined in, and another, each adding a new tone and dimension to the growing sound.

"What is that?" Jeron rasped. "Are they saying something? Is it a signal?"

Before Dunbarth could answer, a gray-haired old Hylar hurried onto the ledge, glanced about, then pulled a sheet of rough paper and a graphite stick from his robe. Those around him were a bit surprised to see old Chane Lowen out and about at such an early hour, though as lore-keeper of Thorbardin, he generally came and went as he pleased. Listening intently, the old dwarf began making quick, strange marks on his paper, in time with the drumbeats. Jeron Redleather glanced over the newcomer's shoulder and scowled. He had never been able to decipher either the signals that the Hylar vibrars sent, or the odd, curled runes by which they were recorded.

"If they're talking," Dunbarth answered Jeron's question, "it's no drum language I recognize." He turned to the signal-master. "Chane, do you…?"

"Hush!" Chane rasped, frowning and scribbling.

For long minutes, the chant of the drums grew on the wind, while Chane Lowen scribbled its tones, rhythms, and nuances. Then he pulled an old, yellowed scroll from his robe and unrolled it. For a moment he held both papers before him, comparing them. Then he looked up, his old eyes bright with awe and excitement. "It is!" he said. "It truly is!"

"It is what?" Dunbarth prodded.

"Here, look at this!" Chane thrust the ancient scroll at him. "This has been handed down for centuries. It was among the scrolls of Mistral Thrax. It is from the old times, from the first Hylar. Or before. It is…" He cocked his head, listening. "I've studied this, but never heard it before. It has never been played in these mountains. But this scroll is what those drums are singing. Listen! It is truly beautiful."

"I agree." Dunbarth nodded. "If s pretty. But what is it?"

"A drum-song from long ago, from a place very far away. It was the song of summer solstice, there."

"Summer solstice?" Jeron Redleather cocked a bushy, golden brow. "But it is barely spring."

"The song was used to call assembly," the old Hylar continued. "It was the song of festivals and trading time. It was the Call to Balladine."

"Legends of ancient Thorin," Dunbarth mused. "Maybe there really was such a place."

"A trading call," Jeron studied the throng in the valley suspiciously. "Maybe they truly are here to trade. We'll see."

"Traders who march like an army?" Swing Basto growled. "And why would traders demand to meet with the Council of Thanes? It's obvious, those people intend to invade Thorbardin."

"In that case," Jeron assured him, "we'll do what we always do. We'll close the gates until they go away."

"Do what we always do," Dunbarth muttered. "Sometimes I wonder…" He didn't complete the thought, and Jeron Redleather only glanced at him and shrugged. Dunbarth could be moody sometimes, like all Hylar, and Jeron had heard him complain many times that the people of Thorbardin had lived within a shell so long that they were no better than turtles. In a way, Jeron agreed with him, but there wasn't much that could be done about it. The entire purpose of Thorbardin was its impregnability. The under-mountain fortress was created to give the dwarven thanes a secure, unassailable place where they could live safe from intrusion. In Thorbardin, the dwarves were safe from the outside world. Many of them had come, over the centuries, to feel that Thorbardin was the world, and that nothing outside mattered.

Like the Hylar leader, Jeron Redleather often regretted that it was so. People less secure and less secluded, he thought, might find other interests beyond simply eating, sleeping, squabbling, and holding grudges against one another.

Jeron felt a slight touch, as though someone's cloak had brushed him, and turned, but there was no one there. A moment later one of the guards on the west ramp hissed, started to draw his sword, then looked around in confusion. Dunbarth Ironthumb turned at the sound and called, "What's the matter over there?"

"Nothing, I guess," the guard said sheepishly. "I thought I saw something, but I guess I didn't."

"Well, what did you think you saw?"

"A face. Right in front of me, looking at me. But then it was gone."

"Ghosts," Jeron Redleather muttered.

Within an hour, the approaching throng of strangers was less than a mile away, and well into the meadowed valley between the slopes of Cloudseeker and Sky's End peaks. A growing crowd had gathered on the Northgate ledge, watching the strangers curiously and listening to the haunting music of the drums. The sun was high now, intensifying the bright colors of the panoply below, and the watchers could see things they had not seen before. Among the mounted units, only one dwarf in three or four wore metal armor, and the armor-though bright and well kept-was a motley assortment of types and designs, as though gathered from bazaars or collected on battlefields.

All of the strange dwarves, even the women and children among them, carried weapons. But some of their weapons were crudely crafted, as though made in haste, and many looked to be of human or elven design. "They have rough iron, but not much good steel," Jeron Red-leather noted. "Wherever they come from, their weavers and tanners have had materials to work with, but their metalworkers have had to settle for what they could find." He turned to the warden of trade. "Take note, Agate. Many of those pack animals carry bales of fine furs, and I'd wager those carts have some excellent fabrics in them."

"They've been scavenging, by the look of some of their metals," Dunbarth Ironthumb added. "A lot of them carry human blades."

Still, with their fine horses and bright cloaks, the strange dwarves had a formidable look about them, purposeful and determined.

As the assembly came even nearer, one of the riders in the first unit-the red-and-grays-spurred his mount and galloped ahead, leading a spare saddled horse. The second animal was finely outfitted, with a fine dwarven saddle, silver-accented leathers and headstall, and a skirt of fine steel chain, all embellished by patterns of bright red fabric.

"That's the horse their leader was riding when we first saw them," a guard said.

"But where is their leader?" Dunbarth muttered.

Then, at the ledge wall, someone said, "Look!" and eyes turned downward and to the left. At the foot of the west ramp was a scarlet-cloaked dwarf whose dark hair glinted in the sunlight as he strode down the slope.

The lone rider sped toward him, but reined in when he raised his hand. Without looking back, the red-cloak stepped to the riderless horse, took its reins, and climbed up on its back, rolling up the sling-ladder behind him and snugging it to his saddle. Loosing thongs on the pommel, he released a slung shield, helmet, and hammer, and donned them. With the other rider following, he rode out into the meadow, turned his mount full around, and raised his arm again. Instantly, in the approaching throng, the drums ceased their song, and a single drum beat a brief, complex tattoo.

"They say they will be ready to receive our traders by noon," Chane Lowen translated so all those on the ledge could hear. "They also say the Council of Thanes is to be assembled tomorrow."

"Like rust!" Swing Basto spat. "Dunbarth, let your drummers tell them that the Council of Thanes meets only in the Great Hall of Thorbardin, not outside."

At a nod from Dunbarth, two drummers stepped forward and sent the message. A moment later, the strange drums responded. "Hammerhand would have it no other way," they said.

"Arrogance!" the Theiwar chieftain snapped when the signal was translated. "I say we close the gate, and to corruption with these intruders!"

Before anyone could answer, one of the guards on the ramp shouted, "That's him! That's the face I saw before me!" The guard had found a seeing-tube and was peering through it at the scarlet-cloaked rider down in the meadow.

Dunbarth Ironthumb took a tube from his nearest guard and looked through it. The face of the newcomer below turned toward him, and he squinted. Strong, blunt features framed a pair of dark, brooding eyes that seemed to be looking directly at him. Dark, wavy hair fell below a finely crafted helmet, and a trimmed, backswept beard parted to reveal strong, white teeth in a wide, resolute mouth.

Dunbarth swore aloud, and pressed the tube to his eye. In some ways, the face below resembled the long-dead chieftain of the Hylar, Harl Thrustweight. The set of the high cheekbones, the level gaze of those commanding eyes. "I feel I should know him!" Dunbarth rasped, handing the seeing-tube to Jeron Redleather. "Look! Who do you see?"

The Daewar peered, then turned, frowning. "Who else but a son could so resemble a father?" he said thoughtfully.

"Are you suggesting that is Harl's son, Derkin?" Dunbarth demanded.

The Daewar peered again, muttering. "I don't know," he conceded. "There is a resemblance. And yet… that is surely not the Derkin I remember."

Without ceremony, old Chane Lowen pushed forward, elbowing chieftains aside, and wrested the seeing-tube from Jeron's hand. Leaning against the ledge wall, he sighted through the tube, then turned to the rest of them. "I have seen that face," he said slowly. "There is an old painting in the deepest archives in Hybardin. The painting is as old as Thorbardin itself. And the face in the painting is that face down there."

"Are you saying that isn't Harl Thrustweight's lost son?" Dunbarth demanded.

"I vaguely recall Derkin Winterseed," the old lore-keeper said. "He was a reclusive youth, quiet and given to moods."

"Moods?" Jeron Redleather rasped. "As I heard it, Derkin had only two ways of associating with people- either ignore them, or insult them. It was a wonder somebody didn't brain him. I don't think even his father liked him very much. Personally, though, I don't think I ever met him."

"He wasn't around much," Chane Lowen said, searching his memory. "Derkin was an odd one. He never seemed a Neidar, but he was always going off to outside places. He didn't like Thorbardin and made that clear. Then, the last time he left-many years ago-he just never came back." Chane half-turned, pointing toward the meadow. "If that person down there was ever Derkin Winterseed, he isn't anymore. See his movements. That person commands and leads. Derkin would never have led anyone."

"The old painting in the archives," Dunbarth pressed. "Whose face is in it?"

"Colin Stonetooth," Chane said. "The first chieftain of the Hylar. The dwarf who united the thanes to build Thorbardin. In the painting, he is much older, but I swear, that is his face down there."

On the meadow below Northgate, a vast encampment grew. Banners fluttered above brightly colored pavilions, surrounded by stalls and displays of wares. Wagons and carts disgorged bolts of bright fabric, big coils of hemp rope, and oiled leather weaves; intricately patterned carpets, arrays of fine, hand-carved furniture and wooden fixtures; bits of sculpture, tapestries, and paintings done in many styles and fashions; bundles of herbs, spices, and pots of exotic oils; dyes and essences; casks of prized white salt, dried fruits, and wild grains; myriad bits of elven-ware; bales of cured pelts and tanned hides-a wealth of goods such as Jeron Redleather's Daewar traders had not seen since the wars in Ergoth had disrupted so many of the trade routes.

"He certainly knows his goods," a trader commented, watching from above as the red-cloaked figure called Hammerhand directed the placement of wares and displays on the valley floor.

"He knows what is prized in Thorbardin," another agreed. "He knows what is hard to get here. Look at those western timbers! And the furs! Half of Thorbardin will be trying to outbid the other half for those."

"When we get them," the first trader pointed out.

"Oh, we'll get them, all right. The only question is, what will we have to give in trade?"

At midday, the drums sang again, and dozens of Daewar traders, followed by several hundred merchants from the various cities within Thorbardin, made their way down the ramps, accompanied by a squad of armed guards.

The guards were for display only, of course, and everyone knew it. With thousands of armed strangers awaiting the contingent below, the traders and their followers would have no chance at all if hostilities broke out. But such was always the life of traders and merchants. To acquire goods, they must go to where the goods were, barter for them, and take the risk. Further, there was something in the song of the drums, muted now but still beating, that was reassuring. This is an occasion to trade, they seemed to say, a time to haggle, but not to quarrel… a time to do business, not to do violence.

Throughout the afternoon, hundreds of dwarves from Thorbardin wandered about the valley camp, inspecting goods and setting prices, making lists and copious notes. At evening, as the sun of Krynn sat upon the western ranges, they gathered with their guards and returned up the ramps to Northgate to disappear inside. Guards saw them safely in, then wheeled to follow them, and the great plug of Northgate closed as the last rays of sunlight crept up the high peaks.

Inside, the merchants wandered off toward their cities and their shops, each accompanied by his band of hired armsmen. No street, way, or tunnel in Thorbardin could be considered entirely safe. Ambushers often lurked in shadows, waiting for a chance to attack some feud-enemy or anyone else of that enemy's clan.

The appointed traders hurried to where Jeron Red-leather awaited their reports. A delved chamber near Northgate that usually served as a storage barn had been hastily refurnished the night before as a situational headquarters.

The Daewar leader generally was in charge of all matters involving commerce, just as the Hylar leader was conceded to be the person in charge of policing and defense. Surprisingly, though, the traders found almost the entire Council of Thanes awaiting them. Dunbarth Ironthumb of the Hylar was there, as were Swing Basto of the Theiwar, Trom Thule of the Klar, and even Crag Shade-eye of the Daergar. The only missing member of the Council was Grimble I, Highbulp of Clan Aghar, but that was no surprise. Not for a long time had anyone seen the gully dwarf leader or, for that matter, any of his tribe. During unsettled times, the Aghar tended to disappear.

The traders presented their lists and reports to the assembled leaders. The wares brought by the strangers were indeed valuable and would greatly benefit Thorbardin. And what the strangers demanded in trade was steel.

"Steel?" Swing Basto rasped. "Just… steel?"

"Forged steel," the warden of trade noted, poring over notes and enscrollments. "They cite some types of tools and utensils that they will accept, but mostly they ask for armor and weapons. Hammers, axes, swords, knives, darts, javelin-points, shields, helms, a wide assortment of armor-"

"As we suspected," Jeron Redleather interrupted. "Those people have not had access to smelters or to the fine forges and metalshops we have here."

"But they certainly know about us," Dunbarth pointed out. "They seem to know exactly what goods we most need and exactly what we can best produce for trade. They are very familiar with Thorbardin."

"Their leader is." Jeron nodded. "That must be your old chieftain's son, the one who disappeared. Derkin. Who else could it be?"

"One of our people heard the name Derkin mentioned," a trader offered. "But the name that is most commonly used for their leader is Hammerhand."

"Tell us the rest," Jeron said, leaning forward, bright-eyed. In addition to being crafty merchants, his corps of traders were among the best spies in the dwarven realm, or maybe in the world.

The answer disappointed him though. "That's about all there is." The chief trader shrugged. "They showed us what they offer, told us what they want, and named their leader. Hammerhand. By observation, we learned that there are at least nine thousand in their party, and many carry healed battle wounds. They have seen combat. Also, some carry brands-the way humans sometimes mark slaves-and the marks of whips. Most of them speak with a Neidar accent, though the accents vary. They seem to be from all over."

"Nomadic dwarves?" Trom Thule muttered.

'They aren't nomads." The trader corrected him. "They carry no looms, anvils, or hearth-irons. That-and the grain, leathers, and woodcrafts they bring-indicates that they have a permanent base somewhere. There are women among them, as well, but we saw very few children.

"They have choice leathers, fine fabrics, and excellent wooden instruments, but the metal goods of their own crafting are of crude iron, copper, bronze, and brass. Everything we saw made of steel was obviously of human crafting, modified to suit dwarves.

"With one exception," another trader reminded him.

"Oh, yes. One exception. Their leader's armor- Hammerhand's-is of dwarven craft, and of the finest quality… though its design is very old." The chief trader paused, then shrugged. "We weren't able to get much information beyond that. I've never seen such close-mouthed people in my life."

A runner from the gatehouse appeared at the door of the chamber, looked inside, then entered. "The drums," he said, "those drums in the valley, they said bring the message here."

"Here?" Dunbarth frowned. 'To this chamber?"

"Aye." The runner nodded. "Those drums said to come to this chamber, and tell the Council of Thanes to assemble tomorrow in the Great Hall, to meet with Hammerhand."

"Rust!" Jeron Redleather scowled. "Now how would those people out there know exactly where we would be, right now?"

'The drums said to say," the runner said, "that Hammerhand will speak with you tomorrow."

The assembled chiefs exchanged glances. "Let a signal be returned then," Dunbarth said. "Say that Hammerhand may enter Thorbardin at dawn."

"But only with ceremonial escort," Swing Basto grumped. "We don't want a lot of strangers running loose in Thorbardin."

"I shall assign the best guards to them," Dunbarth agreed, annoyed as usual by the Theiwar's sullen manner. "Jeron, your son's company is available. I'll assign them."