To Randy and Jenny Scott DRAGONLANCE(r) Saga Dwarven Nations Volume One The Covenant of the Forge (c) 1993 TSR, Inc. All Rights Reserved. All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of TSR, Inc. Random House and its affiliate companies have worldwide distribution rights in the book trade for English language products of TSR, Inc. Distributed to the book and hobby trade in the United Kingdom by TSR, Lid. Distributed lo the toy and hobby trade by regional distributors. Cover art by Tim Hildebrandt. Interior art by Valerie Valusek. DRAGONLANCE and GEN CON are registered trademarks owned by TSR, Inc. The TSR logo is a trademark owned by TSR, Inc. First Printing: February 1993 Printed in the United Stales of America. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-61078 987654321 ISBN: 1-56076-558-5 With special thanks to Pat McGilligan for his patience, to Harold Johnson for sharing his knowledge of the dwarves of Krynn, and to Sue Weinlein for a touch of sunshine. TSR, Inc. P.O. Box 756 Lake Geneva, WI 53147 U.S.A. TSR, Ltd. 120 Church End, Cherry Hinton Cambridge CB1 3LB United Kingdom Prologue A Glmpse of Prophecy Except for the dragons, who sprang from the ground itself, the first people of Krynn were the elves. This was a conclusion reached by Mistral Thrax early in his search for certainties among the complexities of an uncertain world. Few would recall his early pronouncements regarding the sequence of origins, because in those days Mistral Thrax was considered to be full of strong ale and vagaries, and because few among the people of the high mountains really cared about such things as who came first and why. Such thoughts were for the very old, who had nothing better to do than think them. Even then, when he began his studies of lore after being maimed in a rockfall, Mistral Thrax was more than two hundred years of age. Thus little note was made of his reckonings. But the logic of his conclusions satisfied Mistral Thrax and led him onward in his studies. The elves, he believed, were the first attempts of the gods-particularly of Reorx the Life-Giver-to create people of their own design upon the world which before that time had only its own creatures, the dragons, and the animals which were their prey. So the gods discussed it and created the elves. The elves were beautiful, Mistral Thrax admitted, in an elvish way, but it was his belief that the gods grew disappointed after a time because the elves-being elves-were essentially decorative but not particularly functional. They were content simply to live long lives and to exist. They did nothing of real value, in the opinion of Mistral Thrax. In all his studies, the old dwarf found only one thing that the elves had done that was worthy of note. They had claimed the forests of Silvanesti as their home, thereby upsetting the dragons, many of whom considered Silvanesti as their own. This, according to Mistral Thrax, was why so much of history was punctuated by periodic skirmishes and at least one full-scale war, starting with dragon attacks against the elves. In their concern for proper balance, the gods tried again. This time, they created the ogres. And again, as time passed, they grew disappointed. The ogres had been a promising race-though unimaginative and boring-but with time they began to deteriorate in their culture and eventually they became the ogres of the present-great sullen, surly brutes who were at best a nuisance and could be a real threat. Various gods, Mistral Thrax decided, had then tried their hands at designing a better kind of people. Which gods might have originated such monstrosities as goblins and minotaurs and the like was a question Mistral Thrax ignored, on the assumption that those particular gods were probably ashamed of what they had done, and it was not his business to lay blame. But Reorx the Life-Giver seemed to have recognized the problems besetting his world and turned his full attention to designing the perfect race of people. As Mistral Thrax viewed it, Reorx must have created humans next, using the basic model of the elves but instilling within the new creatures great energies, driven by the realization of short life spans. Again, in Mistral's opinion, it was a good try but not yet perfect. Humans proved to be far too chaotic a race for Reorx's taste, he was sure, and somehow even managed to so distort their basic strengths that some of them turned into gnomes and, possibly, even kender (though there was some evidence, Mistral conceded, that kender might have originated from some unexpected deviation among the elves). His intention and his vow - in his two hundredth year - had been to devote the rest of his life to the study of lore. Thus, a hundred years later, being still alive, he was still at it. Copious armloads of scrolls did Mistral Thrax produce through those years, dwelling on the mysteries of the world and dealing with them one by one, using good, dwarven logic. But the thread through all of his theories was that Reorx, once determined to create the proper race of people, did not stop trying until he had done so. The true race - the masterpiece of the life-giver - was all that any god could have wanted in a chosen people. Not as tall and awkward as humans, and neither as short-lived as humans nor as indecently long-lived as elves, the new race was equipped with all the skills people needed. They made fine tools and excelled in using them. Sturdy and strong of limb, they could hew stone as other races might hew soft wood. They had the imagination and inventiveness that ogres lacked, the sense of progress and stubborn determination that elves lacked, and the continuity of purpose that humans lacked. Through trial and error, Reorx in his wisdom had finally created the proper people for the world of Krynn - the race of dwarves. Legends held that Reorx was so pleased with his best people that, originally, he named them all Smith, nations though that proved so confusing that they gave themselves other personal names as needed, and eventually none of them-so far as Mistral Thrax knew-were named Smith. Thus did Mistral Thrax clarify the origin of the dwarven race, for any who cared to consider it. From there, being now more than three hundred years old and still alive, he went on to summarize the history of the world to date. The dwarves in the early times had scattered over the face of the land, seeking the highest places, and tribes had become separated. There were legends of a place called Kal-Thax, where many had settled, and maybe other such places as well, but the dwarves of Mistral Thrax's acquaintance-the Calnar-had all wound up in the realm of Thorin and had been there for a very long time. Fact and legend became very confused on many points, but some things were clear: -The race of humans had spread and multiplied until no one knew who or where they all were. -The race of elves had clung to the forests of Silvanesti through a dozen dragon sieges and one full-scale war, though some elves had migrated to the west and now lived somewhere else. -There were still ogres here and there, including a large colony to the south of Thorin, at a place called Bloten. The original architecture of Thorin was of ogre design, but had been abandoned long ago, and after a few skirmishes with the Calnar, the ogres tended nowadays to leave the dwarves alone. -And somewhere in the now-distant past-at least four hundred years ago, by the reckoning of Mistral Thrax- magic had been introduced upon Krynn. Some said that Reorx himself had done it, led astray by other gods. Some said magic came in the form of a gray gemstone that descended upon the world and was captured for a time by humans, then released by gnomes. There was even a legend of a brave and tragic dwarven fisherman who had the Copetunt of the stood in the path of the source of magic and had tried to stop it by knocking it down with his spear. But wherever it came from, magic had come upon Krynn, and for the dwarves it was the ultimate abomination - a power without logic, a force without the rational, comfortable rules of stone and metal, light and dark, moons and mountains, and the rhythm of hammers and drums. The dwarves wanted no part of magic, and they ignored it. But its effects were felt. This latest dragon war in distant Silvanesti, for example, was far worse than the any of the previous disputes there. This time, the dragons had attacked using magic, and the results were widespread. Little was known in Thorin about the war itself, except that as the elves clung to their forest and fought back, the war spread to other realms. Everywhere now, throughout the known lands, great migrations were under way, and the dwarves and their neighbors were much concerned. Evil was afoot, and everyone knew it. On a spring evening, when the light from the sun tunnels began to dim, Mistral Thrax pondered over his scrolls and what they all might mean. Within the threads of fact and legend which he attempted to weave - as one might weave a tapestry of many colors in order to see the pictures it would reveal - were puzzling, disturbing hints of more to come. Mistral Thrax had attempted to capture history, and in grasping it realized that it went both ways - back through time to what had been and forward somehow to hint at what might yet be. And not all of what he saw there pleased him. He sensed that change was at hand - a change that would be painful for all of his people. He sensed that, somehow, magic might touch the lives of the Calnar, and that nothing would ever again be the same. High-dwellers, their human neighbors called the Calnar. People of the high peaks. In the dwarven manner of speech, the word for that was Hylar, and somehow that word held special meaning in the threads leading toward the future. That, and a tiny piece of legend he had found, which seemed to fit nothing in the past and therefore tasted prophetic - a legend that somewhere, some time, someone very important was to be named Damon. That, the legend said, would be the name of the Father of Kings. As he had so many times in the past when pondering such things, Mistral Thrax sighed and rubbed hard old hands against his aching skull. Then he put away his scrolls, picked up his crutch, and turned down the wick of his lamp. It was a long walk from his cubicle to Lobard's establishment on the main concourse, but at the end of the walk little comforts awaited him, as they did each evening - a mug of good ale, pot meat, and a half loaf of rich Calnar bread. Never in all the years he had been searching had Mistral Thrax found real answers to his questions in the ale at Lobard's, but it eased his aches and did no harm. The Drums Of Cborin The Dwarven Realm of Thorin Khalkist Mountains Century of Wind Decade of Oak Year of Iron Jitst Blood Slefcgc Cn>o-$ires cisci> back on the reins AS the patrol entered Crevice Pass, and Piquin responded. The big horse slowed his mile-eating trot to a fast walk, then slowed again as the silver bit on his tongue retained its slight pressure. The oiled saddle on his back creaked softly, and the fine steel mesh of his skirt whispered with the shift. Behind Sledge Two-Fires, the others also slowed, turning bright-helmed heads as they studied the rising slopes on either side of the trail. Just ahead, the slopes closed in and became the steep, brushy cliffs that gave the pass its name. Sledge Two-Fires glanced back the way they had come. Late sunlight slanted into the pass, and shadows were climbing the backtrail as the sun lowered toward the jagged peaks of the Suncradles in the distance. Two hours of daylight remained, time enough to make it through Crevice Pass and make night camp on the far side, where the sugar fields began. From there, in evening, the lights of Thorin would be visible across the Hammersong Valley. Enough daylight remained, providing the ride through the narrow pass was uneventful. But Sledge Two-Fires felt the hackles rising beneath his helmet and raised himself high in his tall saddle to peer around, squinting and frowning. Something seemed out of place-something that for a long moment he could not identify, then did. It was too quiet. On a bright midsummer evening like this, with the sun above the Suncradles by the width of a fist, there should be sounds in the mountain wilds. There should be eve-hawks wheeling and whistling above and cliff pigeons homing from the fields. There should be squirrels a-chatter and rabbits scurrying through the brush-a whole chorus of muted wilderness sounds. But there was nothing. It was as though the world had gone silent, and the silence gave the closing cliffs ahead an ominous feeling. Sledge had never cared for Crevice Pass. The place was perfect for ambush, a narrow defile where enemies could lurk unseen above the trail and attack at will. Once, long ago, the Calnar themselves had used it so. Still, not since those long-ago times had such a thing as ambush ever happened to a Thorin border patrol. After all, Sledge thought, who was there now to make an ambush? Ogres? One or two of the brutes might conceive of such a thing, but despite their size and ferocity, no one or two ogres would be a match for a mounted, armored dwarven patrol, and even the most vicious-tempered ogre would realize that. Humans, then? There were humans everywhere these days, more all the time, it seemed. Thorin was flanked by human realms north and south, but not in the memory of anyone had there been serious conflict with Golash and Chandera. The people of those regions depended upon the dwarves of Thorin for many of their commodities, just as the dwarves depended upon the humans for trade. Wild humans? There were those, too, of course - traveling bands of nomads, occasional clots of fugitives from some distant conflict or another. Sledge and his patrol had seen bands of humans in the distance during the weeks of their patrol - more, it seemed, than ever before. But the wanderers had kept their distance, and none seemed to pose any real threat. It was following and observing one such group that had caused the patrol to be here now, miles north of the usual route. Normally, returning patrols crossed the ridge at Chandera Road, not Crevice Pass. Elves, then? All the elves that Sledge knew about were far away to the southeast, beyond the Khalkists. In times past, a few of them had visited Thorin for Balladine, but not in recent years. The elves had their hands full, it was said, fighting dragons for control of their beloved forests. Besides, there had never been conflict between the elves and the Calnar. They were both intelligent races and had no reason to fight. Still, a sense of foreboding hung about Sledge, seeming to come from the cleft ahead. It made his beard twitch. Agate Coalglow and Pierce Shard had eased their mounts forward to flank their leader. Now Agate noticed the same thing that Sledge had noted a moment before. "It's quiet," the split-bearded dwarf said. "No birds." "None," Sledge agreed. "There may be someone in the Crevice." "No sign of anyone," Pierce said, studying the rising banks. "Probably nothing," the leader admitted. "I'm just feeling hunchy. If there were trouble, our scout would have seen it and reported back." "Not much that quick-eyed Dalin's fikely to miss," Agate nodded. "He's probably waiting for us right now at the sugar fields. You have travel nerves, Sledge. It'll do us all good to get back home. Let somebody else do border patrol next shift." Sledge took one more hard look at the crevice ahead and shrugged. "You're right. Travel nerves." He raised his hand and swept it forward. "By twos!" he called. "Tomorrow we'll be in Thorin Keep!" Fiquin needed only the lightest heel-tap to pick up his long-legged gate, and the patrol trotted up the incline as the crevice walls grew around them. The sun now was directly behind, and their long shadows stretched out ahead, into the silent pass. A mile went by, silently except for the echoes of their horses' shod hooves and the occasional rattle of swords in their bucklers. Another mile, and the crest of the trail was in sight-the narrowest part of the defile, where stepped stone walls stood above the strewn floor like ramparts, and clear sky shone between them. From there, the pass would widen again, and the trail would be downhill all the way to the outer ford, just above the roaring canyon where the Bone River joined the Hammersong. Tomorrow they would cross the two rivers, with Thorin in sight. Tomorrow night they would sleep in their own secure beds. Nearing the crest, the dwarves felt a surge of relief. Sledge's mood had touched them all, and there had been tension in the climb. But now the crest was just ahead, and beyond was the open sky where crevice walls slanted away. The sky of Thorin. They were past the worst of the defile, and nothing had happened. "I'll pay for a keg of Lobard's best ale tomorrow evening," Agate Coalglow offered, turning to glance at those behind him. "As soon as Sledge has given our report to Willen Ironmaul, I promise it. One full keg. After that it's up to someone else to ease our patrol aches." "I'll buy the second keg," Pierce Shard offered, "if that's the sort of ease you have in mind." "I doubt if that's it," someone in the ranks chuckled. "Agate finds more comfort in the bright eyes of Lona Anvil's-Cap these days than any of Lobard's ale can match." "Mind your own bright eyes, and keep them sharp," Agate snapped. "We're not out of this crack yet." At the very top of the trail's crest, Sledge Two-Fires scanned the towering banks above, then glanced down as Piquin snorted. The dwarf's eyes went wide, and he hauled on the reins. "Arms!" he bellowed. "Shields up! It's a trap!" Just ahead, where the trail began its downward slope, lay two still forms. Dalin Ironbar would scout for no more patrols. He was dead. A few feet away lay the body of his horse, a broken javelin protruding from its ribs. "Eyes high!" Sledge shouted. "Defend!" But it was too late. Even as the word "defend" left his lips, an arrow flew from above to thud into his exposed throat and downward into his chest. In an instant, the air sang with the whines of arrows and bolts, the luffing whisper of thrown spears, and the clatter of flung stones. Agate Coalglow saw his leader fall and raised his own oval shield just in time to deflect a deadly arrow. He dodged another, and a third buried its ripping head in his thigh just below his buckler. Two arrows protruded from his horse's neck, and Agate flung himself from the saddle as the big animal began to pitch and dance, blind with pain. He Tit hard on the stony trail, rolled, and slid behind a fallen boulder as other arrows sought him, whining down from the steep slopes above. There were men up there. Where moments ago there had been nothing, now the slopes were alive with humans springing from hiding. A human voice, harsh and commanding, shouted, "Block that trail! Don't let any of them escape! Kill the dwarves! Kill them all!" Near at hand, Agate heard a familiar whirring sound and glanced around. Pierce Shard was still in his saddle, his shield dancing here and there as his horse spun and pivoted. Pierce was blocking bolts frantically, spinning his mesh sling while desperate eyes roved the slopes above. He found a target, let the sling fly, and a fist-sized stone whistled upward. Above, someone screamed, and a rough-bearded human pitched outward from the brushy face of the cliff to land in a sprawl not a dozen feet from where Agate huddled. The pain in his thigh was excruciating, but Agate gritted his teeth, cleared his misted eyes, and drew his steel sword. He broke off the shaft standing from his thigh and got to his feet. Deflecting an arrow with his gauntlet, he staggered slightly and roared a war cry. Then, crouching, his sturdy legs pumping, he headed up the nearest slope, directly into the face of the attack. His charge caught some of the humans off guard. Arrows whisked past him, and then he was on a narrow ledge in the midst of a gang of them, and his sword flew and danced in silver arcs that abruptly turned bright red. A human fell from the ledge, then another and another as the raging dwarf continued his charge, right into the thick of them. Six ambushers fell from that ledge, their blood spraying in the light of the setting sun, before one of them got behind Agate Coalglow and put a spear through his heart. Even then, with the spearhead thrusting from his chest, Agate managed one more cut with his dripping sword, and a severed human hand dropped into the shadows below. He staggered then, dropping his sword and sinking to his knees. Dimly, he heard the sounds of combat echoing back and back in the narrow crevice. Some of the Calnar, somewhere, were still fighting, making the ambush as costly as they could for the humans who had sprung it. But there was no chance, and Agate knew that as his world went dark. Too many humans! Fifty or more of them, at least. Maybe a hundred, and only fourteen dwarves-or whatever number remained now. "Thorin!" he tried to whisper as blood rushed from his mouth. "Thorin-Dwarfhome! Thorin-Everbardin . .. hope and comfort, welcome this one home...." Below, in the bottom of Crevice Pass, shadows crept across a tumble of carnage. Here a dwarf crouched behind his dead horse, still fending off attackers. There, another - blood dripping from many cuts - used his shield as a weapon of attack in a last effort to regain his fallen sword. But it was over now, as howling humans boiled into the narrow pass to complete the work of slaughter. The last of the Calnar to die was a fierce young defender named Tap Bronzeplate. As the final arrow pierced him, he tried to say the words that Agate Coalglow had whispered. But only some of them got past his lips. "Thorin," he gasped. "Thorin-Everbardin!" on tbe outer sb"lt>es of Chorin, lusb mcAOon>s cronmcd tb" gigantic, stair-step terraces carved into the slopes of soaring mountainsides. Vast fields of grain formed curved mosaics, vivid patterns of color in the late morning sunlight cresting saberlike peaks to the east. On the lower terraces, the fields were hues of gold and deep red where early crops ripened. Above these were patterns of rich pastels, and higher still-where the rising terraces flanked floral gardens-were greens as deep and rich as emeralds. Here, more than anywhere else in the realm of Thorin, the landscape and the creature-works had the look of ogre about them. Not like the brutish, dark lairs of the ogres who yet lurked among the wild mountain passes, far beyond the neighboring lands of Thorin, Golash, and Chandera, but the solid, regimented design of ancient times when the ogres - some said - had ruled all the lands of the Khalkists. It was in the scope and breadth of the terracing, in the precise spacing of the rising ways between terraces. Not in memory or certain lore had ogres dwelled here, and while ogres still were seen from time to time - lurking on the distant slopes - they and their kind were not the original builders of Thorin. The ogres now were primitive, often savage creatures, wild in their ways and in their surroundings. But once there had been ogres of another kind. Ancient ancestors of the huge, brutish creatures of today, those ogres of the distant past had hewn mountainsides to their liking and had delved their cold, monotonous lairs into the very hearts of the peaks. So said the wisest among the short, sturdy, energetic race that now occupied Thorin. This had once been the home of ogres. But the ogres fell from power and lost their skills. Over time, what might once have been a great civilization had deteriorated into savagery. What they left behind was theirs no more, the ballads said. Delvings belong to those who live within them, who hold and improve them. Thorin belonged now to the Calnar, by right of habitation and tradition. Thorin now was Thorin-Everbardin, home of the Calnar. On the outer shelves, the look of ancient ogre craft remained because the Calnar had found no need to improve it. The vast, rich meadows ranking the slopes of the highest peaks of the Khalkists served the purposes of the dwarves very nicely. Crops, flocks, and herds were rotated from level to level with the seasons, an enterprise as bustling and busy as the foundries and crafters' halls within Thorin itself, deep in the stone heart of the mountain. Not in memory had the Calnar - the people known to their neighbors of other races simply as "the dwarves" - known famine. Now midsummer's harvest was proceeding in the lower fields and among the orchards and vineyards that flanked them. Now the drums had begun to speak on the sentinel crags above. Colin Stonetooth, riding out from Thorin Keep to inspect the harvest, heard the talk of the drums and drew rein to look upward, knowing the distances would show him nothing of the drummers. Thorin was vast, and they were far above and far away. Yet their drums floated the muted thunder of the Call to Balladine on the bright air of morning, and the sound was good to hear. Handil would be up there with them, of course. It was always Handil's great vibrar that spoke first, setting the deep rhythm of the call. Colin Stonetooth squinted against the high sun, and his eyes sought the monolith of the First Sentinel. There, at the top of that mighty spire, was where Handil would be. Though he could not see him there, Colin Stonetooth envisioned his first son-strong and sturdy, his kilt rippling around his knees, his dark hair and trimmed beard giving him a feral look as he slung the great, iron-bound drum that was of his own Grafting. The vibrar, designed and built by Handil, was like no other drum when it struck the first thunders of the Call to Balladine. Thinking of his eldest son, Colin Stonetooth felt the play of emotions that Handil always aroused in him. Though still young, Handil had the breadth of chest of a seasoned delver, shoulders like the knotted boles of mountain pines, and powerful hands on arms that rippled with strength. At three inches over five feet, Handil was not as tall as Willen Ironmaul, Thorin's captain of guards, but nearly so, and his bearing was as imposing as his father's had ever been-erect and sturdy, powerfully muscled, with the natural grace of a born rock-climber. His features were strong, chiseled planes in a wide face framed by a mane of dark hair and back-swept whiskers, trimmed short in the Cal-nar fashion. Solemn, thoughtful gray eyes set wide apart above high cheekbones seemed always to see the world and all within it as objects of curiosity. Handil resembled his father, they said, and Colin Stone-tooth was pleased at the comparison, though he could not see it himself. Of all his sons, Colin Stonetooth thought, Handil was the one best equipped to become chief among the Calnar. A natural leader - even in his early youth, Handil had always chosen his own course and others had always followed - the young dwarf had an inborn skill with tools of any kind and a cool, thoughtful manner in all that he did. Yet Handil had never displayed the slightest interest in chiefdom. He seemed devoid of leadership ambition, preferring instead his crafts, his tinkering and inventing, and - above all - the music of the drums. Since his early youth, Handil had been called Handil the Drum by all who knew him, and he seemed perfectly content with the name. Colin Stonetooth gazed upward, hearing the drum-talk grow in volume and complexity as more and more drums joined in - the harvest song of the Calnar, rumbling and rippling among the peaks. Its rising echoes drifted back to add texture to the call. The Call to Balladine it was, reaching out beyond the peaks and the slopes, out toward the human realms of Golash and Chandera. The people there would hear the song, and they would pack their goods and come. Within a week they would be arriving, and their encampments would fill the valleys below Thorin. It was the custom of the Calnar, the midsummer Balladine. And it had become the custom of their human neighbors, as well. It would be a time of trading, of exchanging news and views, of wrangling over borders and trading prisoners, of settling disputes and renewing pacts; a time of feasts and contests, or bargaining and barter; the time when humans of two nations came to Thorin to trade for the wares of dwarven foundries and forges and to listen in awe to the deep, haunting rhythms of dwarven mountain music. It was the Balladine, and the drums were the call. Colin looked forward to it, as he always did. It was diverting, once a year, to see the valleys below Thorin thronging with the frantic, always impatient crowds of human visitors. It was interesting to visit their pavilions, to see what works the strange, tall creatures had produced since the summer before. Colin would not bargain with their weavers and grain traders, their spice merchants and wood builders. He would leave business to Cullom Ham-merstand and his barterers. But there would be occasions to trade tales with Garr Lanfel and Bram Talien, and maybe to set out good dwarven ale for that old scoundrel Riffin Two-Tree, and see who could drink whom under the table. Regular association with humans, Colin felt, could drive a reasonable person to insanity. But once a year, it was pleasant to visit with those who had become friends. Colin Stonetooth nodded to himself, then looked again toward the First Sentinel as the drums increased their volume. Handil might have no interest in governing, but the lad could make the mountains sing when he decided to. Handil the Drum! Colin Stonetooth shook his head, frowning. Among the Calnar, no person could tell another person what he must become, but there were times when the old chief wished that he might yet take Handil by the shoulders-as he had when the youth was younger-and shake some higher ambition into that mysterious mind of his. Still, there was plenty of time. Though his mane and beard were streaked with frost, Colin Stonetooth was yet a mighty dwarf, his mind clear, and his sturdy body as strong as any ox. There was no hurry about succession. Handil would be married soon, to Jinna Rockreave, and marriage might change his ways. "It comes of associating with humans," he muttered to himself. "Sometimes I feel as impatient as those short-lived creatures." In his own good time, Handil would decide what he would be. And if not Handil, then there were others of the chief's blood who might yet prove themselves. There was Tolon, who might yet outgrow his dark moods. And Cale, if ever he could clip the wings of that elfish spirit of his and plant his feet on the mountain stone where they belonged. Cale Greeneye, Colin thought, and frowned. Cale Cloud-walker! What names my sons acquire! Future chieftains? The thought troubled him. A chieftain must be rooted in the clan, for the chieftain is the clan. But Cale Greeneye had roots only in his dreams of far places. Tolon troubled Colin even more. Brooding and intuitive, Tolon kept his own counsel, living always within himself so that it was hard to tell what course he was likely to take. But it was clear that Tolon had no liking for outsiders. In particular, he deeply distrusted all humans, though many of their human neighbors had become valued friends to Colin. Thorin relied upon trade, and therefore upon friendly dealings with neighboring realms. But how friendly would those relationships someday be if Tolon Farsight were chieftain of the Calnar? A chieftain might make small mistakes, but he must never make big ones - the kind of, mistakes that would bring disaster upon his people. To Tolon, his father's willingness to accept outsiders was a dangerous thing. But to Colin, Tolon's distrust of humans was ominous. Such distrust could result in a cessation of trade, and trade was essential. No, the successor ought to be Handil. Handil the Drum. Irritated with himself for daydreaming, Colin Stone-tooth straightened in his saddle, flicked the reins of his great horse, and headed downslope at a trot to inspect the lower fields, miles away. Behind him, the Ten wheeled in perfect formation to follow. In their bright steel and rich-hued leathers, they fairly glistened in the high sunlight, and bore their bannered lances proudly. Each was mounted on his own tall, gold-and-white horse, each animal a perfect match for their chieftain's own mount. High above, on the outward wall of Thorin Keep, Tolon Farsight-who was often called Tolon the Muse-stood on a shadowed balcony and watched his father and the ten selectmen of his honor guard as they pranced their big horses down the long incline toward the second ring of fields. Beyond and below, the realm of Thorin spread in majestic beauty, stepping away to the shadowed valleys of the Hammersong and Bone rivers, then rising beyond toward the spike-crested Suncradles, westernmost peaks of the Khalkist range. From the Sentinels above, but seeming now to come from everywhere, the drumcall rhythms grew and intertwined until it seemed that the very mountains throbbed to the deep, haunting music. Forty-one times-forty-one summers-Toion had heard the Call to Balladine. Like the seasons and the landscapes of Thorin, like the comfortable delvings within the mountain's heart, the drumcall was part of his life and had always been so. Never twice the same, yet as unchanging as the mountain crags themselves, the Call to Balladine was as familiar to him as the sun over the peaks. Yet now he sensed a new tone-not in the rhythms themselves, but somehow in their echoes or the way they carried on the air. Something more sensed than heard, it had a dark, prophetic undertone to Tolon's ears. A deep frown creased his dark brow. All his life, at each midsummer, Tolon Farsight had listened to the Call and observed the gathering of realms which followed it. At Bafladine, the humans came- humans from Golash and Chandera, and often others, as well. Nomadic tribes from the plains beyond the Suncradles came sometimes, drawn by the drums and by legends of the glory of Thorin ... and often, Tolon knew, drawn by their envy of the wealth of the dwarves. But for whatever reasons, each summer they came, and sometimes others came as well. Ogres from the high passes would lurk beyond the Sentinels, listening to the drums. Even elves had come, on occasion, though not in recent years because of the dragon wars. It was the nature of the Balladine. No two times were exactly alike, but never did it really change. Often at the height of Balladine the visitors in their encampments would outnumber the dwarves of Thorin by ten to one. Often, at the contests and the trading stalls, there was strenuous argument. Sometimes there were incidents-a minor riot, a fight over some trinket or over how a contest was won. There was the inevitable thievery, the usual squabbles, the occasional knifing or angry duel. But these were just part of Balladine. They were the predictable results of too many people, of different persuasions and different races, intermingling freely. Seldom were the consequences serious, and the human chiefs of Golash and Chandera seemed as determined as was Colin Stonetooth himself that nothing irreparable harm the tradition of the summer fair. They were human, of course, and hardly to be trusted, but they seemed to be in concert with the dwarves. Yet, now . . . Tolon shivered slightly and pulled his woven suede robe-human-made, by some weaver in Golash-tighter around his broad shoulders. He turned, strode to the alcove behind the balcony, and pushed open the iron-framed door set in the stone arch. He hesitated for an instant while his eyes adjusted from daylight to fire-glow, then called, "Tera! Are you here?" Soft, padding footsteps sounded, somewhere beyond the outer room, and an intricate tapestry parted on the far wall. The person who stepped through, a young dwarf woman, had the same dark, swept-back mane and wide-set eyes as all of her brothers, but was otherwise as unlike any of them as they were unlike one another. As with most females of her race, she was shorter by several inches than the males in her family, standing barely over four feet in height. But where her father and brothers had wide, strong-boned faces with high cheekbones and level eyes, Tera Sham's features were like their mother's-softly tapering cheeks, a small, slightly buck-toothed mouth above a stubborn chin, and wide, almost-slanted eyes beneath arching brows .. . eyes that missed very little and that could look very wise when glimpsed unaware. By any standard, Tera Sham-only daughter of Colin Stonetooth, chieftain of the Calnar of Thorin-was a strikingly beautiful dwarven maiden, and in recent seasons there had been no shortage of highborn young dwarves coming to call. Of late, it was unusual to find her without Willen Ironmaul or Jerem Longsiate or some other strapping suitor lurking nearby. She was alone now, though, and she paused, gazing at Tolon. Something in his tone had sounded worried . . . almost ominous. Tolon Farsight nodded at his sister and gestured. "Tera, come to the balcony. Come and listen." Curious, she followed him through the open door, which closed behind them on weighted hinges. Sunlight had found the stone parapet of the balcony and reflected on the glittering pattern of metallic particles in its polished surface. Tera shaded her eyes, looking around. "Listen," Tolon said. "Tell me what you hear." She listened, then shrugged. "I hear the drums," she told him. "The drums of Balladine." She looked around. "Is there something more?" "Do the drums sound strange to you?" He frowned, gazing past her, concentrating on the muted, complex thunders of the dwarven music. Again she listened. "They sound strong. Strong and sure. I recognize the voice of Handil's drum among them ... and others, too. They speak well this year." Again she glanced at her brother. "What is it, Tolon? Do you hear something that I don't?" "Maybe not," he conceded. "I may have imagined it." "What did you imagine, then?" "It sounded as though ... I don't know, maybe it was just odd echoes. But for a moment it sounded . . . well, as though the drums were saying good-bye." Haunting and powerful, seeming to build upon itself minute by minute, the call of the drums echoed outward across Thorin, reaching for the realms beyond. A drum ... a dozen drums ... a hundred drums, one by one, by twos and fives, joined the mighty voice of the Call to Balladine. As the high sun reached its zenith, it seemed the very mountains absorbed the intricate, commanding rhythms and throbbed with them. Today was the first call. They would call again tomorrow, and the day after that, and each day until the harvest reached the middle ledges. Then would begin the great fair of the Calnar, the time of Balladine. High above Thorin Keep, on the platformed cap of the First Sentinel, Handil the Drum leaned into his music, corded shoulders rippling in the sunlight as his mallet beat a steady rhythm for all the rest to weave their beats around. Slung from his shoulder, cradled under his left arm, the mighty vibrar boomed and throbbed its invitation. Its voice at each stroke of the mallet rolled like thunder and seemed to make the very mountains dance. Beyond him, where trumpeters and lookouts manned the parapets, Cale Greeneye - youngest of the brothers - leaned casually on a narrow railing above dizzy heights and gazed off into the mountain distances, letting the music of the drums pulse in his blood while he dreamed of faraway places. In misted distance, beyond the valleys of the Bone and Hammersong rivers, beyond the far, rising slopes, clouds drifted among the peaks of the Suncradles. As he often did, Cale Greeneye - called by many Cale Cloudwalker - fantasized that he might harness such a cloud and stand upon it, feel it rise and flow beneath his feet, carrying him off across strange, distant lands to places he had never seen and could not even imagine. Nearby, a trumpeter glanced around, gazed at the chieftain's youngest son for a moment, then nudged a lookout. 'The Cloudwalker is off again," he whispered. "Strangest thing I ever heard of. Why in Krynn would a person ever want to travel?" "Not the only strange thing today." The lookout frowned. He pointed westward, into the hazed distance. "What do you see out there, Misal?" The trumpeter squinted, shading his eyes, then spread his hands. "Nothing. Why?" "That's just it," the lookout said. "The patrol from Farfield was due this morning with the border reports. I've never known them to be late, but as far as I can see - and on a day like this thaf s at least twenty miles - there isn't a sign of them." Cale Greeneye glanced around, overhearing the words. It was odd. Sledge Two-Fires was a seasoned scout and not one to be late finishing a patrol circuit. And Cale had friends among the perimeter guards. His eyes lighted. Maybe it would be a good idea, he thought, if someone went to look for them. In A C"ccp, 5tccp-n>&lkt> CAtiyon robere A lurroro trail cut through the crest of a ridge, rays of the midday sun smote the canyon floor and glinted on the burnished armor, rich leathers, and spattered blood of those who lay there, tumbled and silent in death. Fourteen in all, they lay where they had fallen. Some had been dead for hours, their pooled blood darkening as it dried. But here and there among them were splashes of bright red-fresh blood still steaming in the cold air. Men walked among them, crouching and stooping as they picked up weapons, pausing to loot the bodies that had not yet been robbed. Nearby, just beyond the trail's crest, a fire had been built, and other men gathered around it to warm themselves. "Should have been over in minutes," a man grumbled, tying fabric around a bleeding gash in his arm. "There were only fourteen of them, and our arrows took down nine before they knew we were here. Five left, and it took us all night to finish them!" "Stubborn as dwarves, like they say," another muttered, stuffing steel coins into his pouch. "The little vermin fight like demons." He glanced around. "Anybody count our losses yet?" "Seventeen dead," someone told him. "Few more won't last the day. Don't know how many wounded. Twenty or thirty, maybe. It was a mistake, letting the dinks get to the slopes. For that matter, it was a mistake charging down on them after the first volleys. We should have stayed in cover, held a defense, and finished them from a distance." "Sure," the first man growled. "And maybe have one or two of them get clear? Maybe slip away to warn the whole kingdom about us? Lot of good our ambush would have done, then. Use your head, Calik! In this world you use it or lose it." "One of the horses did get away, Grak," a man said. "The one out in front when we attacked. I put an arrow into its saddle but missed the next shot. It was gone before anybody could catch it." "As long as its rider didn't go with it." Grak shrugged, scowling. "I wouldn't want to have to tell Grayfen that we let a dwarf slip through." "No dwarves," Calik assured him. "I counted them myself. Counting the first one-the scout-we killed fifteen stinking dwarves and fourteen of those big horses. Wouldn't have minded keeping one of those beasts, though. Wouldn't I like to have a horse like that!" Grak gazed at him, leering. "The day you can ride a dwarf's horse, Calik, will be the day snails learn to fly." He turned, looking around. "Do you hear that?" Several of them raised their heads, scowling. "I hear something," one said. "Like thunder, a long way off. What is that?" As they listened, the sound seemed to grow, not so much in volume as in clarity. It was a continuous, rolling throb that seemed to have a texture of its own. It thrummed in the high sunlight and echoed weirdly off the chasm walls. "It's the drums," Grak decided. "The dinks and their drums, like Grayfen told us. That fair of theirs, it's beginning." Calik stood with his face upturned, his eyes wide. "I never in my life heard anything like that," he muttered. "It almost sounds like they're singing. How can drums sing?" Grak shook his head, as though to rid himself of the haunting, distant sounds. "It doesn't matter," he growled. "Except it means we have to hurry. Grayfen wants us at the main camp. Clear up here, and let's move." "Some of our wounded aren't going to make it a mile, the shape they're in." "Things are tough all over," Grak snapped. "Pack up! Any who can't keep up, cut their throats and leave them." Grayfen was not pleased with his ambushers. He stalked among them, his wolfskin cape swaying and flowing behind him, and they cringed as his eyes pinned them one by one-eyes as cold and bright as the rubies they resembled. "Forty-two men lost?" he hissed. "You paid forty-two lives for a puny patrol of fifteen dinks?" "They fought," Grak said, then recoiled as Grayfen turned and speared him with those ruby eyes-eyes like no eyes he had ever seen in a human face. "I mean-" he swallowed and added lamely "-I mean, they surprised us, sir. Some of them got through to us, and . . . and they fought like . .. like demons. And those slings of theirs . . . and their steel blades ..." He shook his head, gesturing at the pile of weapons and armor on the ground nearby, salvaged from the bodies of the dwarf patrol. "They fought/' Grayfen snarled, his voice like a snake's hiss. "Of course they fought, idiot! Whatever else they are, the dinks are fighters! I may just send you"-he looked from one to another of them-"I may send all of you into Thorin with the first assault. You think you've seen the little misers fight, maybe you should see what they do when they're defending their homes!" "Yes, sir," Grak muttered, keeping his eyes downward. "Only..." "Not me," a man behind him whispered. "By the moons, I won't go in there with the first wave! I'm not that kind of fool." Grak turned, wanting to silence the man, but it was too late. Grayfen had heard. Wolf-hide cape flaring, he straightened to his full height, seeming to tower above even the tall Grak. The ruby eyes glowed with an evil light from beneath arched brows the color of his silvery mane. He raised an imperious finger, pointing past Grak. "You!" he hissed. "Who are you?" The man didn't answer. Paling, he started to turn away, then froze in place as Grayfen commanded, "Hold!" Grayfen glanced at Grak. "That man," he said, still pointing. 'Tell me his name." "Sir, that's only Forge. He meant no disre-" "Enough!" Grayfen cut him off. "Forge. Face me, Forge." Ashen-faced, Forge turned to face Grayfen. Cold sweat formed on his brow as the ruby eyes bored into him. The stiff finger was still extended, pointing at him. "What kind of fool are you, you wonder?" Grayfen's voice turned silky. "The kind who questions my command, it seems. A shame, Forge. You might have survived assault on Thorin ... if you had held your tongue." Beneath the constant throbbing of the distant drums, another sound grew. As though the air were charged with lightning, a sizzling, crackling sputter emerged among them. Grayfen's pointing finger and ruby eyes didn't waver, but, as the sound grew, a slow, smoky light seemed to extend from the finger, a lazy beam that approached Forge languidly, then sprang at him and wrapped itself around his throat. Forge gagged, struggling to breathe. His hands clawed at the constriction on his throat, but there was nothing there to grip . . . only the smoky band of dull light. Forge gasped one last time, and his breathing stopped. His eyes bulged, his mouth gaped, and he seemed to hang from the light as his legs went limp. For a long moment, Grayfen held him there, letting all the others see. Then he snapped his fingers, and a louder snap echoed it, the crack of Forge's neck breaking. Grayfen lowered his hand, and the body sprawled on the ground like a tattered doll. "Get rid of that," Grayfen said contemptuously. He turned to Grak. "I accept that the dinks surprised you," he said. "You had not faced them before. Now you have. Remember what you've learned. Rest your men now. The drums are speaking. Tomorrow we move into Golash. From there, we go to Thorin." Men were lifting Forge's body to carry him away. Grayfen glanced at them, then at the pile of dwarven armament nearby. "Get rid of those, too," he said. "We don't want to be seen with dink steels. They would be recognized." Grak cleared his throat and nodded, glancing down at the fine dwarven sword hanging at his hip. It was of Thorin steel, exquisitely burnished, point-heavy in the dwarven fashion but razor-edged and beautiful. It was the kind of sword a man might spend a lifetime acquiring, a sword worth a small fortune anywhere else in the world. As though reading his mind, Grayfen said, "The dinks have fine wares, Grak. Far better than they deserve. But we will change that. The treasures of Thorin will buy a thousand such swords. The treasures of Thorin . . ." As he spoke, Grayfen's ruby eyes went distant. It seemed to Grak that the magic-man was speaking not to him at all, but only to himself. "The dinks!" The soft voice became a hiss of purest hatred. "The scheming, selfish, arrogant dinks! We shall see soon enough who deserves the treasures those little misers hide in that dwarf-lair of theirs." Grak was a callous and brutal man, but something in the mage's words and in his tone made the raider's flesh creep. Never in a long, cruel life had he heard such pure, malevolent hatred in a voice as when Grayfen spoke the name he had given the dwarves. "Dinks!" Others beyond Grak had heard it, too. When Grayfen was gone, striding toward the main encampment of raiders in the hidden cove above the Bone River, some of the men gathered around their captain. "What.. . what do you suppose made him that way?" Calik whispered, awed. "I don't know." Grak shook his head. "He hates the dwarves." "So? Who doesn't? Misers and thieves ... why should they have all the best things?" "He hates them more than anyone." Grak shook his head again. "Something happened, between him and them. I don't know what it was, but I think it was at the same time that he gained his magic." "I noticed that you didn't tell him about the dwarven horse that got away." "I told enough." Grak shrugged. "You saw what happened to Forge. Would you want to see Grayfen really angry?" The camp of the intruders was large, sprawled across the bottom of a huge, washed-out cove above the east bank of the Bone River. It was separated by broken lands and by a rugged, seldom-traveled rock crest from the tribal lands of Golash, south of Thorin's outer fields. A hidden place, it held little comfort for the hundreds of humans assembled there. And now, in the evening when the distant drums of Thorin could be heard like deep, chanting voices in the still mountain air, the camp was a dark, cold place. No fires were lit, nor would be again. That was Grayfen's command. Smoke from cooking fires the morning before had almost led to discovery. It was the smoke that the dwarf scout had seen from atop Crevice Pass that had sent him hurrying back toward his patrol to report. It was because he had seen it that the patrol of dwarves had been ambushed and massacred. The intruders had orders from Grayfen not to let word of the encampment reach Thorin. Such an encampment would be investigated by Calnar soldiers, and the mage's plan would be foiled before it began. In the gathering darkness of the cove, Grayfen made his way through the sprawling camp, unseen except by those he wished to see him. The sun was gone from the sky, and the two visible moons had yet to climb above the towering, saber-tooth peaks of the Khalkists. Only the stars in an indigo sky gave light now, and it was not a light to penetrate the shadows of the cove. Passing among the groups and clusters of his collected people, Grayfen was only a shadow among shadows-to them. But he could see them plainly, and as he made his way toward his private quarters-a circular, slab-stone hut with a low, tapering roof, surrounded by a perimeter that none but he could cross-he studied them, assessing their readiness. Six hundred fighting men he had assembled, and each of them had recruited others. Now there were thousands. Their weapons and equipment were a motley mix of the trappings of every nomadic culture he had encountered in two years of recruiting beyond the mountain realms. There were dour Cobar among them, huddled in their own tight groups, their woven garments bristling with quilled bolts for their crossbows and the heavy hand-darts they favored. There were burly marauders from the Baruk tribes, Sand-runners from the northern plains, hill-dwelling Flock-raiders, evil-tempered Sackmen and many who fit no particular group. There were hard-bitten fugitives from the agrarian lands to the east, refugees from the fringes of the Silvanesti forests driven out by elves-and, some said, by a marauding dragon-and a hundred kinds of wandering mercenaries willing to fight anyone's battles for a share of the spoils. Two things bound them all together as a single force- the promise of riches when Thorin was taken and their fear of Grayfen. In recruiting, the mage had touched each of them with burning fingers and stared into their eyes with those featureless ruby orbs that were his eyes. And having touched them, he had the power to kill any one of them-anywhere-at any time he chose. This, then, was the force that Grayfen the Mage, whom some called Ember-Eye, had amassed for his assault on Thorin. These, and his agents already at work among the people of Golash and Chandera. He was satisfied. The Balladine was beginning. The dwarves-the dinks-would be off guard and vulnerable. It would be the last Balladine, he told himself, and the end of the Calnar of Thorin. Thorin would be his, and every dwarf within his reach would pay painfully and finally for the pain that lived within him each day of his life. Grayfen made a sign with his hands, strode across the forbidden perimeter around his hut, and stepped inside, into a darkness that was not dark to him. He saw clearly in the gloom, as brightly as he saw everything-in brilliant, burning shades of red. Closing the portal behind him, he went to a plain, wooden pedestal in the center of the room and knelt before it. With a sigh, using the thumb and first finger of each hand, he removed his eyes, easily plucking them from their sockets. Immediately, the fiery pain in his head subsided, and he rested there for a moment, letting the familiar relief of it wash over him. With a muttered incantation, he placed the two ruby spheres on the pedestal, stood, and shuffled to his sleeping cot-a blind man groping in darkness. He found his cot and lay down upon it, wishing for real sleep ... wishing that, for a few hours, he could be as blind as the empty sockets beneath his brows. He was blind, but still he saw-as brightly and relentlessly as always. He saw the ceiling of the hut above the pedestal. He saw what the ruby orbs saw-always that, and never less. They lay in gloom, glowing faintly, staring at the ceiling, and the first sight in his mind was that ceiling. The second sight, captured within the orbs and always present, was of a ragged, bleeding dwarf with a slender, double-tined javelin in its hand-like a fishing spear, except that it hummed to itself and glowed with a crimson luster. As always, in his mind, Grayfen saw the image of that wounded dwarf-and as he saw it, it hurled its glowing javelin at his face. Once, then, Grayfen had been truly blind ... before the double-pointed spear that took his eyes gave him new ones and the power that went with them. Once, years ago and very far away, in a place called Kal-Thax, Grayfen had known the darkness. It was a dwarf who had blinded him. Now it would be dwarves who paid the price. Kalil the herdsman had spent the day driving his flock up from the meadows above the Hammersong, and as the Suncradles swallowed the light of full day, he chased the last ewe into the pen and closed the gate. Though his legs ached from the day's work, Kalil was pleased. The flock had grazed well on the rich meadows. They were fat and frisky, and their wool was prime. Far up the mountains, the drums had begun their call. Balladine was at hand. Tomorrow, Kalil would select the best animals from his herd and take them to the village, to join the trek from Golash to Thorin. Trading should be good this year; he knew the Calnar needed wool and mutton. Even after paying his trade-share to Garr Lanfel, Prince of Golash, Kalil expected to have a purse bulging with dwarven coin-and maybe a bit of dwarven steel as well. Securing his gate, Kalil turned toward his herdsman's shack and was nearly there before he looked up and stopped, startled at what he saw. In front of his house stood a tall, gold-and-white horse, head-down and streaked with sweat. It was clearly a dwarven horse-no one but the dwarves bred and used the huge, white-maned Calnar horses. It wore a saddle of dwarven design, richly studded with steel and silver, and its loose reins dangled from its headstall. Quickly, Kalil glanced about, his hackles rising, half expecting to see a Calnar soldier nearby. Like most of the humans of the Khalkist realms, Kali! accepted the dwarves of Calnar. He looked forward to trading with them, and he didn't mind mingling with them-on their lands-during the Balladine. But, like most humans, his regard for the Calnar was tempered by a deep-seated dislike born as much of envy as of the difference in their appearance from his own. The dwarves were rich. He had never encountered a dwarf who wasn't rich. The dwarves made steel, and they used steel, and there was-it seemed to Kalil-a certain arrogance in the casual way the short, stubby creatures displayed their wealth. It made him feel very poor by comparison. They were ugly little creatures, to Kalil's human perception, and they were arrogant and obviously selfish, since they seemed always to be wealthier than anyone else. The idea of a dwarf being here-at his home-irritated him as much as it startled him. But there was no dwarf around. There was only the huge, tired horse standing in Kalil's dooryard, and he approached it cautiously. "Ho!" he said when it turned its great head to look at him with intelligent eyes. "Ho, stay! Easy now, good horse ... stay." When it neither bared its teeth nor backed away, Kalil picked up its reins and rubbed its muzzle with his hand. "Good horse," he crooned, noticing that the bit in its mouth and the studding on its headstall were of fine silver. He looked further. From withers to flanks hung a skirt of delicately worked mesh, with a fine saddle atop. Kalil's mouth dropped open. The saddle was smeared with dried blood, and the shaft of an arrow jutted upward from its pommel. For a moment, Kalil had considered trying to return the horse to the dwarves of Thorin for the rich reward they undoubtedly would pay for a strayed animal. But now he changed his mind. To take a dwarven horse to the dwarves, its saddle covered with blood and a human-made arrow embedded there, would be worse than foolish. It would likely be the last thing he ever did. He decided he wanted nothing to do with this horse. Still, its trappings were of the finest dwarven craft. The steel parts alone were worth a small fortune in human realms. Glancing around furtively, Kalil set about relieving the horse of its burdens. Saddle, bridle, headstall, and mail skirt he removed, along with the pack behind the saddle and the saddle blanket, which was of fine, woven suede. He carried his prizes to his hay shed and hid them there. Tomorrow he would bury them - or most of them - to be recovered later. When he came out, the horse was still standing beside his house, nibbling at his thatch roof. "Here!" he snapped. "Leave that alone!" The horse backed away, staring at him, and then, as though it had tolerated all the human company it cared to, it turned and trotted away, up the hill. "Good!" Kalil breathed. "Good riddance. I don't need Calnar horses here. Life is trouble enough, without dwarf trouble." Cb" great b*ll CAllefc G"nfc 6At!>cr WAS tb" b