Stormblade

5

The stones wore badges of blood, the marks of the passage of eight hundred people. The refugees stretched out in a long, straggling line, staggering, lurching, falling. Some who fell picked themselves up. Others lay, tasting red dust and shuddering with cold, until they were passed by or helped to their feet. If helped, they thanked their rescuers when they had breath to. If passed, they picked themselves up. If they did not, they were dead.

Women with children in tow, babes at their breast, followed their men. Hungry, always hungry, they looked restlessly to the sides of the ragged line for signs of something to eat. The plains were empty. Nothing grew here, and the game had long fled before the army of refugees. Hungry. They were always hungry.

The hills rose before them, passed under bleeding feet, and rose again. These were the Hills of Blood, red as their name, heartless crests of bitter stone and choking dust. The water here was brackish, foul tasting. No one stopped to fill a water flask. No one lagged behind to quench a thirst as painful as hunger.

Few thought to wonder if Thorbardin would be their place of sanctuary. Few had the strength to wonder, and none had the strength to consider what would happen to them if the dwarves refused them shelter. We will make them hear, Tanis had said.

That was enough for people who had no place else to go.

“Hold! Enough!” Gneiss’s cry for order cut through Ranee’s outraged tirade like lightning through a thick summer night. The Great Hall was hung with tapestries, each vividly depicting a scene from dwarven history, each skillfully woven with shimmering, richly colored threads. The hangings did not serve to mute Gneiss’s deep bellow. Gneiss tried to ignore the headache thundering behind his eyes.

The hangings had never muted the roar and the rage of the battles waged in this Court of Thanes. Gneiss did not know why they should now. Torches in silver-chased cressets flickered, as though before a storm wind. Shadows ran up the guardian columns and mingled with the darkness of the vaulted ceiling. The six dwarves meeting in the Court of Thanes fell silent.

Hornfel, Hylar and the son of high kings, waited patiently for calm to settle. Realgar, dark-eyed, dark-souled derro mage and plotter of murders, watched Gneiss like a snake watching prey. Ranee, his ally, of the murderous temper and mind-clouding furies, stood stiffly, waiting not for a place to speak, but for his rage to cool enough so that he could carry on his tirade. Tufa, combed his fingers through his red beard in a way carefully chosen not to offer insult, but neither to offer encouragement. He looked away first. The gully dwarf Bluph looked at nothing but the inside of his eyelids and snored gently, sleeping even through the thunder of Ranee’s outrage and the lightning strike of Gneiss’ cry for silence. Ranee, the Daergar thane, clenched his fists, his jaw as hard as stone. He was not easily silenced. “By the god’s forge, it is enough! Eight hundred?” His voiced dropped, dangerously low. “I say no. Are we to welcome every tramp and vagabond who makes his way to our gates? No.” He snorted scornful dismissal. “Next thing you’ll ask is that we issue invitations to hill dwarves.”

All eyes turned to Gneiss, till now quiet. Gneiss did not smile, though he could have. He prided himself on his control. He glanced at Tufa, the Klar’s thane and ruler of the only clan of hill dwarves now living in Thorbardin. Ranee’s arrogant, disdainful remark told. Tufa’s brown eyes, normally mild and patient, hardened.

Here is one, Gneiss thought, just ready to fall into Hornfel’s camp. Hornfel knew it and smiled. Aye, Gneiss thought, hide your smile in your beard, my friend. You see that Tufa is yours now.

Gneiss sighed and drummed his fingers on the broad marble arm of his throne. Bluph of the Aghar would also cast his vote Hornfel’s way. He always did so as long as he was awake. The gully dwarf was a pathetic and useless creature at almost any juncture, but Gneiss did not think that Hornfel was prepared to scorn any aid in his bid to grant refuge to outsiders. Even that of a casteless gully dwarf.

At this moment, Bluph was snoring and gurgling, his head pillowed blissfully on the stone arm of his throne. Bluph had been happily doing so throughout the unprecedented evening council and even during Ranee’s most thunderous roaring.

Gneiss still didn’t know where he stood upon the issue of admitting eight hundred human refugees to Thorbardin. He, like Ranee, had no desire to fill Thorbardin’s halls with humans. He was not, at the last, surprised that the Hylar harbored a kindly feeling or two toward them. After all, Hornfel had kept that gangling, yellow-headed mage close to him for the last three years. Where was that odd fellow, Piper, now?

Realgar leaned against the arm of his rightful throne with the bored attitude of one who watches endlessly quarreling children. The Theiwar throne held several scrolls, the sword he habitually wore to council meetings (which some believed was more than ceremonial), and his light cloak. Gneiss shivered as Realgar, sensing eyes upon him, turned and smiled.

It was the bloodless smile of a snake stretching wide jaws as he basked in a warm fall of sunlight.

Caught by the snake’s eyes, Gneiss did not look away. Shuddering, he had the sudden impression that Realgar had been eavesdropping on his thoughts. Dark magics and darker passions lurked like shadows in the derro mage’s flat, black eyes. They seemed to display the fierce satisfaction of one who carefully lays a plan that cannot go awry. What plan? A cold thread of fear wove through the Daewar’s belly and he forced himself to look away. It was no secret that Realgar opposed Hornfel. None lived today who could rightfully take the empty throne of the high king. None ever would. But there was a rumor that a swordsmith had forged a true Kingsword, that it was intended for the Hylar, and that blood had already been shed in dispute over its possession. Gneiss gave the whispers scarcely more credit than the idea that someone would one day find the Hammer of Kharas. But … if the rumor were true, Hornfel might preside as king regent. That was not a thing Realgar would ever tolerate. The Theiwar’s passion for power ran as deep as his dark soul.

Aye, Hornfel, Gneiss thought, I don’t know if there is a Kingsword. But I do know that you’d better watch that one’s eyes carefully. They may someday be the gauge of how long you have to live.

Gneiss leaned forward. “I will tell you this: there are points to be considered on both sides. Aye, this war is no business of ours. We did not cause it, and we don’t fight in it. What the humans and the elves have brought upon themselves, they must deal with themselves.”

Ranee drew a breath to speak. Gneiss fixed him with an icy stare and continued. “Yet, the Hylar is right. We can choose to ignore the war, but that won’t make it vanish. And it draws closer.

“The scout’s report has it that these refugees have only now set out from Pax Tharkas. They are eight hundred and they are weak. They are not clamoring at the gate yet. Retire the matter. Think about it. It is also time to start thinking about how we will defend Thorbardin when there are dragonarmies crossing the Plains of Death and not ragged war refugees.”

Hornfel, silent till now, glanced at Gneiss. There was more Gneiss could say, but he chose to defer to the Hylar.

When he spoke, Hornfel’s voice was low and even. “The Daewar is right. We have time. But it’s marked by the sound of the footsteps approaching our gates. Think, my friends, and think well. Like it or not, we’re going to need allies soon. Pax Tharkas has not fallen. It’s still a dragonarmy stronghold. Verminaard is not dead. The slaves he kept in our ancient mines have been freed, but not by an army. If the scout’s report is true, those eight hundred have been freed by a band of only nine adventurers.”

Hornfel’s eyes narrowed. Golden torchlight gleamed in the depths of his chestnut colored beard. “Those refugees, wanted or not, are heading for Thorbardin. Make no mistake … Verminaard knows it.”

“Aye,” Ranee growled, “I don’t doubt that he does. Why, then, do you want to welcome them?”

Gneiss heard stone and ice in the Hylar’s voice when he replied.

“Because, Ranee, we are dwarves of Thorbardin and we make our own choices. Verminaard does not dictate where and when we offer our hospitality.”

He rose abruptly and gestured toward Bluph, still snoring and muttering. “The first good suggestion I’ve heard from the Aghar all year. It’s late and we are all tired. We’ll meet again tomorrow.”

Gneiss watched as Hornfel strode from the Court. It was traditionally his right as a Hylar thane to open and adjourn council meetings. He rarely exercised the right, Gneiss thought wryly, but when he did, he did so with not so much as a by-your-leave. The Daewar rubbed the heel of his hand thoughtfully, as Ranee and Realgar exchanged glances. Realgar traveled the dark tunnels beneath the fanning warrens with ease. He carried no torch, nor was he obliged to feel his way. He was Theiwar, who not only tolerated the dark, they craved it. Here in the absolute blackness of the tunnels, his perfect night vision guided him. Widely dilated pupils obscured the brown rims of his irises. A dim red glow the color of the stone for which Realgar was named burned steadily within the depths of his eyes. Anyone looking into those eyes would think of bottomless flame.

Though he had spent all of the day trying, Hornfel had not yet won the Council of Thanes to his thinking. But he was close. It was a schemer’s ploy, Realgar thought scornfully, to invoke the sacred tradition of dwarven hospitality. It was a ploy that might work. Few, if any, of the council members actually wished to offer refuge—and certainly not hospitality—to eight hundred vagabonds. Yet, none would view kindly a challenge to their right to do so.

As he traveled deeper into the heart of the mountain beneath Thorbardin, Realgar’s thoughts became darker, taking on the lightless aspect of the tunnels.

He was a powerful speaker, this Hylar who pretended to the regency. Given enough time, he might convince Gneiss to cast his vote with the other witlings who then would open Thorbardin’s gates to the ragtag legions of humans who were fleeing a war of their own making. Realgar’s fists tightened at his side. In the midst of the rant and the rage of Ranee’s opposition, the Theiwar had felt, like a cold blue shadow on snow, the touch of the Gray Herald’s mind. At that moment, he’d seen the Gray Herald standing against a mud-spattered stable wall in a rain-wet alleyway in Long Ridge.

They’d found the ranger. They’d not found the sword.

Ranee’s fury was a child’s pouting when compared with what tore through Realgar in that moment. None knew and none saw. Not even Gneiss, so intently staring. But the Gray Herald had heard his curse. Earlier, he’d tracked the ranger with the Kingsword. When they set to waylay him, he’d had it. Now, they didn’t know where it was. Realgar snarled. That other ranger, the elf, must have it!

Or … who? Kyan Red-axe was dead. Hornfel’s pet mage and mad Isarn’s apprentice were still near the town, but as yet knew nothing of Hauk and Stormblade. They were busy eluding Brek and his guards. The human must be secured, and the elf must be shadowed.

“Bring me this ranger,” he had communicated to Agus, even as he smiled at Gneiss. “I’ll know who has the sword within the hour.”

At that moment the Gray Herald had laid his hands upon the head of the young man and spoke the words of a transport spell. Rhuel and Agus now waited with the ranger, Hauk, in the depths of Thorbardin. The tunnel widened, its weeping walls swept back and up to a suddenly heightened ceiling. Realgar bared his teeth in a deadly smile as he entered a broad, roughly circular cavern. The place was as dark as the tunnel had been, its walls as rough and damp. Realgar crossed the floor, smoother here, and stood over the body of the unconscious ranger.

Hauk stirred. The Theiwar smiled and waved absently, dismissing his two guards.