WEIS, MARGARET & PERRIN, DON The Doom Brigade Book 1 of The Chaos War Series Table of Contents * Chapter   1               Chapter   2               Chapter   3 * Chapter   4               Chapter   5               Chapter   6 * Chapter   7               Chapter   8               Chapter   9 * Chapter 10               Chapter 11               Chapter 12 * Chapter 13               Chapter 14               Chapter 15 * Chapter 16               Chapter 17               Chapter 18 * Chapter 19               Chapter 20               Chapter 21 * Chapter 22               Chapter 23               Chapter 24 * Chapter 25               Chapter 26               Chapter 27 * Chapter 28               Chapter 29               Chapter 30 * Chapter 31               Chapter 32               Chapter 33 * Chapter 34               Chapter 35               Chapter 36 * Chapter 37               Chapter 38               Chapter 39 * Chapter 40               Chapter 41               Chapter 42 * Chapter 43               About the Authors Dedicated proudly to the Canadian Corps of Land Electrical & Mechanical Engineers "There's a problem, sir." The Baaz was apologetic. "The dwarves have locked the doors to the shed and are threatening to dump their brew before they'll hand it over to us, sir." "By the Dark Queen's heart!" Kang swore, shocked. "Are they serious?" "We have to assume that they are, sir." The draconian looked worried, as well he might. Kang raced off to assess the situation. When he arrived, the draconians were hissing and howling and clashing their swords against their breastplates. At the dire threat to dump the spirits, the draconians were near to forgetting their orders against bloodshed. Chapter One "Stand to!" Kang was on his feet, his clawed hands groping through the darkness of his cabin for his armor before he was fully awake or cognizant of what was going on. "Blasted elves! Damn pointy-ears. Why in the Abyss can't they let a fella get some sleep?" He found his breastplate, wrestled with it briefly, and finally managed to sling one strap over his scaled arm. The other strap remained elusive, and Kang, cursing it soundly, ignored it. Clasping the breastplate to his chest with his arm, he searched for the door, and stumbled into a chair. A trumpet sounded the alarm off-key. More shouts came from outside, answered by hoarse yells of defiance. Kang gave the chair a kick that slivered it and once again tried to find the door. "Foppy elves," he muttered again, but that didn't seem quite right. A sober part of him, a part of him that had not been drinking dwarf spirits last night—a party-pooping, stern task-master, who generally hovered near Kang's shoulder, watching the other parts of him enjoying themselves with a disapproving glower—nagged at him again. Something about dwarves. Not elves. Kang flung open the door to his cabin. The breathlessly hot morning air hit him a good sock in the face. The sky was gray with the dawning rays of the sun, though that light had not yet penetrated to the cabins and huts sheltered beneath the pine trees. Kang blinked, shook his head muzzily, tried to disperse the dwarf spirits fouling his brain. Reaching out, he collared the first draconian who came into sight. "What the hell's going on?" Kang bellowed. "Is it the Golden General?" The draconian stared, lost in such amazement that he forgot to salute. "Golden General? Begging your pardon, sir, but we haven't fought the Golden General in twenty-five years! It's them pesky dwarves, sir. On a raiding party. I expect they're after the sheep, sir." Kang let his breastplate slip down over his chest while he considered this extraordinary news. Dwarves. Sheep. Raiding party. The part of him that knew what was going on was really incensed. If he could only— "Good morning, sir!" came a damnably cheery voice. Water, icy water, splashed into Kang's face. He gave a roar and emerged, scales clicking with the shock, but now relatively sober and aware of what was happening. "Let me help you with that, sir," said the same cheery voice. Slith, Kang's second-in-command, had hold of the breastplate and was looping the strap around his commander's arm, buckling it securely beneath Kang's left wing. "Dwarves again, huh?" Kang said. Draconians were dashing past, pulling on armor and hoisting weapons and heading to their assigned defense posts around the walled village. A sheep, separated from the herd and bleating in panicked terror, trotted past. "Yes, sir. They're hitting us from the north." Kang ran for the northern side of the wall—a wall in which he took inordinate pride. Made of stone that had been blasted by magic from the side of Mount Celebund, the wall had been built by Kang's troops—the former First Dragonarmy Engineering Brigade. The wall surrounded the draconians' village, kept the marauding dwarves out and the sheep in. At least, that's how it was supposed to work. Somehow or other, the sheep kept disappearing. When that happened, Kang could often smell the savory scent of roast mutton, born on the night breeze, wafting from the direction of the hill dwarf settlement on the opposite side of the valley. Reaching the wall, Kang clambered up the stairs, his clawed feet scrabbling on the stone, and took his place on the battlements. It was that smudgy time of morning, not dark, not light. Kang spotted the hill dwarves running across the open ground, heading for the north face of the village wall, but it was difficult to count their numbers in the half-light. The lead runners carried ladders and ropes, ready to scale the walls. The draconians manned the walls, swords and clubs drawn, waiting to knock some hill dwarf heads. "You know my orders!" Kang shouted, drawing his sword. "Flat of the blades only! Make sure any magic you Bozaks use is harmless, just enough to throw a scare into them." The draconians around Kang all "Yes, sirred," but it seemed to him that their voices were distinctly lacking in enthusiasm. The dwarves had reached the bottom of the wall and were flinging up their grappling hooks and hoisting their ladders. Kang was leaning over the wall, preparing to fend off a ladder, when he was distracted from the coming battle by the sound of a commotion much farther down the wall to his right. Thinking that this frontal assault might have been meant as a distraction and that the first wave was already over the walls, Rang left Slith in command and dashed in the new direction. He found Gloth, one of his troop commanders, shouting in loud/ angry tones. A draconian was holding a crossbow, aiming it, ready to fire it at the dwarves. "What in the Dark Queen's name do you think you're doing, soldier?" Gloth was yelling. "Put that bow down! You know the commander's orders." "I know 'em, but I don't like 'em!" the draconian snarled sullenly, keeping hold of the crossbow. Kang could have charged in, thrown his weight around, brought the situation under control. He restrained himself, however, waited to see how his troop commander handled the situation. "You don't like mem, sir!" Gloth repeated. From the north came shouts and howls and yells. The draconians, armed with sticks, were shoving the ladders, filled with dwarves, away from the walls. Gloth eyed the mutinous soldier grimly, and Kang waited tensely for his troop commander to lose control and start bashing heads together. That's what Gloth would have done in the old days. But the draconian officer was evidently developing subtlety. "Look, Rorc, you know we can't use crossbows, and you know why we can't use them. Do I have to go over this again?" Gloth raised his hand, pointed. "Now, take that dwarf right there, for instance. Sure, he's an ugly bastard, what with all that hair on his face and that potbelly and those little sfubby legs. But maybe, just maybe, Rorc, that mere dwarf is the very dwarf—maybe the only dwarf—who knows the recipe for dwarf spirits. You shoot him, Rorc, and, yes, you send another god-cursed dwarf back to Reorx, but what happens the next time we raid their village? We find a sign on the distillery saying 'Owner deceased. Out of business.' And where does that leave us, Rorc?" Rorc glowered but did not respond. "I'll tell you where that leaves us," Gloth continued solemnly. "Thirsty, that's what. So you just put down that bow and pick up your club like a good draco, and I won't say nothing about this breach of orders to the commander/' Rorc hesitated, but finally threw down the crossbow. Picking up his club, he leaned over the wall, prepared to beat off the assault. Gloth grabbed the crossbow and marched off with it. Kang beat a hasty retreat to his command post. It was a shame he'd have to pretend he hadn't seen any of this. He would have liked to have given Gloth well-deserved praise for his deft handling of what could have turned into an ugly situation. Kang couldn't really blame the soldier. It was frustrating as hell having to put up with these annoying dwarven raids, when back in the old days the draconians would have just swooped down on the dwarves, killed them, and leveled their little village. But the old days were gone, as Kang was constantly working to make his draconians understand. Returning to his position, Kang surveyed the field of battle. The dwarven ladder bearers had planted their ladders, the dwarves were climbing up them. The draconians successfully pushed away four of the ladders over, but several dwarves scrambled over the remaining two ladders, dubs and fists swinging. The dwarves were a tough target for the draconians to hit. Standing about four and a half feet tall, the dwarves ducked under the legs of the seven-foot tall draconians, whose chibs and sword blades generally whistled right over the dwarves' heads. Kang spotted six dwarves, who darted and weaved and jumped, eluding all attempts by the draconians to stop them. The dwarves leapt off the wall and disappeared inside the draconian village. Kang swore. "Damn! Slith, take the First Squadron and go after them. We've only got ten head of sheep left. I can't afford to lose any of them. Go!" "First Troop, follow me!" Slith yelled over the din. The draconians had pushed off the remaining two ladders, but the dwarves pnihe outside were keeping up a steady assault, hurling rocks and mud. The draconian next to Kang slumped to his knees, then pitched face first into the dirt. Kang rolled the draconian over to find him still breathing but with a large bump rising on his forehead. A clay brick, cracked in half, lay next to him. Kang left the unconscious soldier and descended the battlements. He went to find the Support Troop. The draconians had maintained their military ranks and organization over the years, though there had really been no need for mem to do so. They had long ago left the army. But the discipline of the military unit worked well in times of emergency, such as mis. Everyone knew what to do and who to follow. The Support Troop supplied the rest of the brigade (now only two hundred draconians strong), providing food, clothing, armor, weapons, and tools. During the raids, the Support Troop served as the reserve army. Rog, the commander in charge of Support, saluted as Kang approached. "We're ready when you are, sir!" Rog announced. "Good! Lef s go!" Kang responded and set the example by sheathing his sword. With a yell, the forty draconians, each armed with a club and a shield, broke into a jog, heading for the gate. The draconians manning the gate saw the Support Troop coming, flung wide the wooden doors. On the other side of the gate, the dwarves, seeing their chance, made a rush on the opened portal. Kang and his Support Troop charged through the gate. Swinging clubs and fists, they surged headlong into the attacking dwarves. The battle was brief. Several dwarves fell, their heads cracked by club or fist. Lightning crackled, a few Bozaks were using their magic. Mindful of their commander's order, they made certain that all it did was singe a few beards and set one dwarf's pants ablaze. After five of their number had either fallen or were smoldering, the hill dwarves withdrew, pulling back their forces into the sparse woods surrounding the village. The occasional projectile weapon whistled through the air or, in some instances, plopped. Kang was just turning to assess the situation when he was struck on the snout by a rotten egg. The eggshell broke, the stinking yolk dribbled into his mouth and down his jaws. His stomach heaved at the foul smell and worse taste. He gagged and retched. He would have almost preferred an arrow in the gut. Wiping the putrid missile from his face, Kang called for his forces to retreat. He heard his command, given in draconian, repeated in dwarven, shouted by the commander of the hill dwarves. The dwarves ran off, leaving their wounded on the field. Their wives would be around to collect them in the morning. The draconians on the wall let out a victory yell. Once again they had pushed back the dwarves. Kang shook his head glumly. Six dwarves had made it through, however. He could only imagine what mischief they'd managed to do before being cornered. Kang ordered his men inside, and the gates closed. Slith was waiting for him. "Well?" Kang asked. "Did you catch them?" Slith saluted. "Sir, we clobbered two of them, but at least four got away, and four of the sheep are missing." Kang kicked the dirt with a clawed foot, sending up a cloud of dust in his frustration. "Damn! And nobody saw a thing? What did the sheep do, sprout wings and fly off with the dwarves on their backs?" Slith could only shrug. "Sorry, sir. It was all pretty confused..." "Yes, yes, I know," Kang sucked in a breath, tried to calm himself. "Hand me a rag to clean this filth off, will you? Deal with the wounded, then assemble the troops in one hour in the compound. I want to talk to them before it gets too hot" Slith laid a conciliatory claw on Kang's scaled arm. "The boys are having a rough time of it now, sir. But we're still all behind you. Every one of us." Kang nodded wordlessly, and Slith went off to carry out his orders. He and his soldiers hauled the unconscious dwarves outside the gate and left them there. By the next day, they would be gone. They would either wake up and stumble home, or their families would haul mem off the following day. Either way, they would be safe in bed by sundown. "Damn crazy way to run a war, if you ask me," one draconian was overheard to say to another, as they hauled a potbellied, black-bearded dwarf out the front gate. Yes, Kang thought to himself. It was a damn crazy way to run a war. Chapter Two Kang had his reasons for this damn crazy way to fight a war. Reasons he'd shared with the men under him time and again. They just needed another reminder. The draconians descending the wall shuffled into the compound, forming orderly ranks. Soon, all the draconians in Kang's command were standing in four rows. Kang took his place before them. Slith gave the order, and the draconians snapped to attention. The morning sun, a fiery red eyeball that looked the way Kang's eyes felt this morning, peered into the compound. The red light glinted on the scales of the draconians, scales reflecting the type of dragon from which each was so hideously descended. Sunlight gleamed in the brassy tinted scales of the Baaz. Slith, one of the Sivaks, glittered silver. Stepping from the shadow of the command hut into the bright compound, Kang's own scales glinted with burnished bronze. He was a Bozak, one the few Bozaks in the troop and, for all he knew, perhaps one of the few Bozaks left in the world. "Lizard men" was the term the humans used to derisively refer to draconians—an insult that never failed to make Kang's scales twitch. His troops bore no more resemblance to lizards than humans did to ... well . . . monkeys, for example. The draconians were much closer akin to their parents, dragons. The shortest draconian stands six feet tall, Kang himself was seven feet in height. They walk upright on powerful haunches, their clawed feet needing no shoes or boots. Their clawed hands are adept at wielding the weapons of war. All draconians except the Auraks (who don't get along well with their fellow draconians and therefore tend to be loners) have wings. These wings allow them to glide short distances or float through the air. The Sivaks can actually fly. Draconians' eyes gleam red, their long snouts are filled with sharp fangs. Draconians are intelligent, much more intelligent than goblins. This created a problem during the war, for many of the draconians proved to be far more intelligent than the humans who led them. Bozaks, like Kang, have an inborn talent for magic, similar to that possessed by their doomed parents. And though the draconians had been brought into the world with only one objective—to destroy any force that opposed them—the longer they remained in the world, the greater their need to be part of the world. Kang took a moment to regard his troops with pride, a pride that, these days, seemed always to be mingled with sorrow. Once there had been six rows of draconian solders lined up before their commander. Now they were down to four. Every time he gave this speech, there were fewer to hear him. He glanced over at Gloth, standing with the Support Troop in the rear. And there was the soldier who had disobeyed orders and picked up the crossbow. Kang lifted his voice. "You fought well today, men! Once again, we forced the enemy to retreat, while suffering no significant casualties." He made no mention of the lost sheep. "It has come to my attention, however, mat some of you are dissatisfied with the way I've been running things around here. We're not in me army anymore. But we all agreed that our only hope for survival was to maintain our discipline. You chose me to be your commander, a responsibility I take seriously. Under my leadership, we've held on here for twenty-five years. Life hasn't been easy, but then life for us has never been easy. "Yet, we managed to build this." Kang gestured to the neat rows of cabins made of pine logs that stood inside the compound. "This village of ours is the first settlement ever constructed by our people." The first/said a voice inside Kang. And the last. , "I want to remind you," he continued, his voice quiet, "of the reasons why we left the army. Why we came here." The troops stood still, not a scale clicked, no link of armor jingled. "We, the First Dragonarmy Engineers, have a proud history of service in the War of the Lance. We were commended for our meritorious actions by Lord Ariakus himself. We remained loyal to our Dark Queen, even during that terrible time in Neraka, when our leaders forgot their noble mission and instead turned on each other." Kang paused a moment to relive history. "Think back on that time, men, and learn from it. Our armies had succeeded, by a stroke of luck, in capturing the so-called Golden General, the elf female who was leading the troops of the so-called Forces of Good. And what did our commanders do with her? Instead of just slitting her throat, as would have been the most sensible course of action, they put her on display for the Dark Queen's pleasure. As even a kender could have foreseen, a group of her motley friends, led by a bastard half-elf, turned up to rescue her. In the fight for the Crown of Power, Lord Ariakus managed to get himself skewered. Some bloke with a green jewel in his chest impaled himself on a rock and the Temple collapsed, bringing Her Dark Majesty's ambitions down with it. "You all remember that time," Kang said, his voke hardening. "We were ordered by our human commanders to fight to the death, white tiiey escaped! Many of our kind died that day. We chose not to obey. Some of us had foreseen this terrible end. As far as we were concerned, these human commanders had forfeited, by their stupidity and greed, their right to lead us. We marched off, leaving the war to those who had bungled it. You elected me leader and, under my leadership, we headed south, looking for a place to hide, a place to live. "Evil turns in upon itself, or so the god-cursed Knights of Solamnia say. But that is not true of the First Engineers." Kang spoke with growing pride. "We fought as a cohesive unit for years. We were disciplined soldiers, accustomed to obeying orders. And we had a new ambition, one that was born in the smoke and flame of battle. We were sick of killing, sick ©f slaughter, sick of wanton destruction. We felt the urge to build, to settle, to leave something of ourselves behind on this world. Something lasting and permanent. "You recall that time. How we were pursued by the knights. We headed for the Kharolis mountains—long a haven for exiles and outcasts. We reached it, finally, and found ourselves in the lands controlled by the dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin. The Knights of Solamnia weren't about to get themselves killed for what was now a dwarven cause. They left us for the dwarves to handle, and went back to celebrating their glorious victory. "It might have gone badly for us, but our numbers were relatively few. We posed no threat to the heavily fortified underground kingdom of Thorbardin, and so the Thorbardin dwarves saw no reason to risk their lives chasing us down. "We made camp in mis valley, nestled in the foothills between Mount Celebund and Mount Dashinak. Our first objective—we built the wall. Our camp turned into a fortification. The fortification became a village." Kang sighed deeply. "We have just one problem. We draconians are not farmers. Homing we plant ever grows. No seed we sow ever bears fruit." He did not speak the rest, they all knew it. The futile attempts to make anything grow in the barren ground was a cruel metaphor of their own lives. They were born of magic. No female draconians existed. Their race would be the first and the last to feel Krynn's sun warm their scales. "We would have perished of starvation long ago," Kang admitted, "if it weren't for the hill dwarves." The hill dwarves' village was located on the opposite face of the valley, on the side of Mount Celebund. During the winter, when game was scarce and the draconians were facing starvation, they did what was necessary for survival. They raided their neighbor's larder. "You remember those first raids," Kang said grimly. "Bloody affairs for both sides. The dwarves suffered the most. With our experience and sheer size, we overpowered even the best dwarven warriors. Still, we were the ones at the disadvantage. When one of our warriors falls, he falls for good. There will be no replacements—ever." Before the War of the Lance, the evil clerics of Takhisis had developed the arcane art of perverting good dragon eggs, changing the unborn baby dragon into a host of monstrous beings. Using various magicks and sorceries, the evil cleric Wyrllish, the black-robed mage Dracart, and die ancient red dragon Harkiel the Bender, produced the warrior race which the armies of Takhisis sorely needed—the draconians. The dragon-spawned draconians proved to be so powerful in their strength, intelligence and cunning, that their creators feared them. Lord Ariakus decided that the commanders could control the draconians only if they could control their numbers. He and the other Dragon Highlords forbade the making of females. The draconians could never breed. The Highlords' elite shock troops had finite numbers. Presumably, when tile battle was over and the Dark Queen victorious, she would no longer need the draconians. And by that time, most of them would be dead. "I watched our people die off in battle with the dwarves," Kang said, "and I knew that, over time, we would be a people no longer. We would cease to exist. Of course, we could have wiped out the hill dwarves, but then what? Who would tend the fields of wheat? Who would raise the sheep? Wo would"—Kang ran his tongue over fangs—"distill that concoction of the gods known as dwarf spirits? We'd starve to death! What's worse, we'd die of thirst! "The other troop commanders and Fcame up with a possible solution. On our nod raid, I ordered all weapons left behind. You know what happened. We grabbed the same number of loaves of bread, snatched up the same amount of chickens, and—most important—we made off with the same quantity of dwarf spirits as the 'first raid, but our losses were considerably less. "We fought our way in and out using fists and tails and a little magic. No one died on either side. There were bruises all around and broken bones, but they healed. And, I am pleased to note, when the hill dwarves raided us a month later, they carried no weapons. Thus a tradition was born. It has become ah unspoken covenant between the two settlements. "I know it's frustrating," Kang admitted. "I know that you'd like nothing better thaft to rip off a dwarf's head and stuff it down his throat. I feel the same way. But we can't give mem the satisfaction. "Understood? Then, dismissed." "Three cheers for the commander!" Slith yelled. The troops cheered, heartily enough. They respected and admired their leader. Kang had worked hard to gain their respect, but now he was wondering if he'd truly earned it. Oh, sure, it had been a good speech, but when all was said and done, what victory had the draconians really won? Living behind a wall, fighting constantly to survive, and for what? All they lived for was to get drunk every night and tell the same blasted war stories over and over and over. Why do we even bother? Kang wondered morosely. He traipsed back alone to his cabin to indulge himself in his hang-over. An hour later, Slith knocked on Kang's door. Kang's quarters were built into the main administration building in the center of the village. Slith's quarters were on the other side of the same building. The armory and tool shed were located in back. Kang's quarters consisted of a large meeting room, with a small bedroom off to the side. It was not luxurious, but it was comfortable. An oil lamp—of dwarven make—rested on a bare table. Kang sat in his chair, facing the door. A mug of dwarven ale was ready for Slith. Kang had poured one for himself. "That was a good speech today, sir," Slith said on entering. Kang nodded. He wasn't in the mood for talk. Fortunately, he knew Slith would be. "You're right, you know, sir. Our lives are pretty good at that The dwarves raid us, take a few sheep and what weapons they can lay their hands on, and men we go and do the same to them, swiping spirits and ale, tools and bread. Every time they raid us, we pound 'em, push 'em back, and I come in here for ale. Believe it or not, sir, I find some comfort in that. I know what to expect out of life." Kang gave a glum shrug. "You're right, I suppose. Still, I keep thinking there should be more to it than this." "You're a dragon-spawned soldier," Slith said, nodding wisely. "You yearn for the battlefield. You yearn to command troops in a life-or-death struggle, a struggle for glory." Kang took a sip of his ale, pondered this. "No, I don't think so. I don't feel like I'm accomplishing anything. None of us knows how long we're going to live, but it won't be forever. What will remain after we're gone? Nothing. We're the last of our race." Slith laughed. "Sir, you can be the most depressing bastard I've ever met! What does it matter what happens after we die? We won't be around to know the difference!" "I'll drink to thatf" Kaftg said moodily, and took a long pull on his ale. Slith waited a few moments to see if his commander was going to cheer up, but Kang remained stubbornly immersed in gloom. He stared into his ale, and watched the flies buzz around the rag on which he'd wiped the rotten egg. "See yoa for dinner, sir," Slith said, and left his com-mander to his black mood. Kang put away his armor and harness. By force of habit, he cleaned his already clean sword before re-sheathing it and hung the belt on a hook near the door. He went to bed, to rest through the heat of the day, the heat that was so very unusual for midsummer in the mountains. He did not sleep, but lay, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Slith had a point. "What does it matter after we die?" Kang asked the buzzing flies. "What indeed?" Chapter Three The four dwarves ran along a hunting trail that zigzagged through the tinder-dry meadow grass. Though it was early morning still, the sun beat on their iron helms like Reorx's hammer. Three were wearing leather armor and heavy boots and sweating profusely. The fourth was clad in a belted tunic, breeches and soft cloth slippers, known disparagingly among the dwarves as "kender shoes," because, supposedly, they permitted the wearer to move as stealthily as a kender. This fourth dwarf was relatively cool and quite comfortable. The dwarves had done well for themselves on the raid that morning. One held a small lamb over his neck, grasping it by its legs. Two carried a large crate between them. The fourth dwarf carried nothing, which also accounted for the fact that he was enjoying the walk. One of the dwarves hefting the heavy, rattling crate noticed this singularity. Huffing and puffing from the heat and his exertion, the dwarf complained. "Hey, Selquist, what are we? Your pack horses? Come here and give us a hand." "Now, Auger," replied the dwarf, fixing his companion with a stern eye, "you know that I have a bad back." "I know you can crawl through windows without any trouble," Auger grumbled. "And you can move pretty fast when you have to, like when that draconian came at us with the club. I never see you hobbling around or crippled up." "That's because I take care of myself," said Selquist. "He does that, all right," grumbled another of the dwarves to his companion. Any well-traveled person on Ansalon could have told at a glance that these were hill dwarves, as opposed to their cousins the mountain dwarves. At least, the traveled person could have said that about three of the dwarves. They had nondescript brown hair, light brown skin and the ruddy cheeks that come of being raised from childhood up on the healthful properties of nut-ale. The fourth dwarf, whose name was Selquist (his mother, somethingof a romantic, had named him after an elven hero in a popular bard's tale; no one is quite certain why), might have given the traveler pause. He appeared to fit into no specific category. His domes were similar to those of his fellows, a shade less tidy, perhaps. He wore a ring, rather battered, of a metal that he claimed was silver. This dwarf—youngish, considered lean among his stout fellows—also said the ring was magic. No one had ever witnessed any evidence of this, although all would admit that Selquist was quite good at performing at least one trick: making other people's personal possessions disappear. "Besides, Mortar, my friend," Selquist added, "I, too, am carrying something—a most valuable treasure. If my hands aren't free, how will I defend it in case we're attacked?" "Oh, yeah?" Mortar demanded. "What?" Selquist exhibited with pride an amulet he wore around his neck. "Big deal," said Pestle, Mortar's brother. "A penny on a chain. Probably worth less than a penny. Bet it's fool's gold, like those gully dwarves tried to palm off on us in PaxTharkas." "It is not!" Selquist returned indignantly. Just to make certain, when the others weren't looking, he slowed his running long enough to take a good look at it. The amulet was made of metal, but it wasn't a coin, at least not like any coin Selquist had seen, and he'd seen quite a few in his lifetime. It was shaped like a pentagram. Each point of the pentagram had a dragon's head inside it. The five-headed dragon identified it as a relic of the Dark Queen, making it worth quite a bit to those who traded in souvenirs from the War of the Lance. He had found the amulet while rummaging around in a draconian's footlocker. "In fact," he said to himself, "it would be worth a whole lot more if it turned out to be magic!" At that, a rather unpleasant thought occurred to Selquist. Hastily, he snatched off the amulet and thrust it in the money pouch hanging from his belt. "The last thing I need is to be cursed by the Dark Queen for appropriating her jewelry," he muttered. Increasing his speed, he hurried after his companions. "I'll pass that along as an extra benefit to the buyer." The four crossed over a low ridge and were at last able to slow their pace. It was unlikely the draconians would have chased them in this heat, but the dwarves were not taking chances. They could now see the smoke of the village cooking fires. They could hear the cheers of the people, welcoming the warriors home. The main body of raiders had already returned, battered and bruised, but in good spirits. The entire population of the village of Celebundin was gathered at the meeting hall to greet the returning heroes. These four, who lagged behind, were missing the celebration, but that didn't bother them. They wouldn't have been included anyway. In fact, there were those in the village who would have celebrated if these four hadn't come back. Selquist and his party deliberately avoided the crowd, heading for Selquist's house, which was located on the outskirts of the village. Selquist unlocked the three locks on the door—he was of a suspicious nature—and entered. His three assistants clomped in behind him and dumped the crate on the floor. He shut the door, struck a match to light an oil lamp. Auger set down the lamb and stood gazing at it hungrily. Bleating plaintively, the lamb piddled on the floor. "Oh, thanks, Auger! Thanks loads!" Selquist glared around. "Just what we need to improve the decor around here, the pungent smell of lamb piss. Why in the name of Reorx did you bring that beast inside the house? Take it out and put it in the pen, then get something to clean that up. You two, open me crate, and let's see what we have." "Steel coins," said Pestle hopefully. "Jewels," said his brother Mortar, working on the lock. The lock gave with a snap. "Shovels," said Selquist, peering down. "Also picks and a saw. Come now," he added, when he saw the brothers scowl in disappointment. "You didn't really expect we'd find a king's ransom stashed in a draconian shed? Those scaly louts wouldn't be hanging around this god-forsaken valley if they had money. Heck no. They'd be whooping it up in Sanction." "What are they doing here, if comes to mat?" Pestle demanded. He was in a bad mood. "I know," said Mortar, looking very solemn. "They've come here to die." "Balderdash!" Selquist glanced around to make certain they were alone. He lowered his voice. "I'll tell you why they're here. They're on a mission from the Dark Queen." "Truly?" Pestle asked, awed. "Of course." Selquist straightened, scratching reflectively at his scraggly beard, which had once been likened by his own mother to a growth of fungus on a rock. "What other possible reason could mere be?" "Mine," said Mortar stubbornly. But the other two laughed at him derisively and began hauling tools out of the crate. The tools were not of draconian make or design, which meant that they had been originally stolen from the dwarven village: Selquist and his friends had simply stolen them back, a proceeding that was not unusual. After twenty-some years of raiding, most objects belonging to the dwarves and the draconians had changed hands more often man gifts at a kender wedding. "Not bad," Pestle said to his brother. "We can sell these for ten steel. They're Thorbardin-made and good quality." Very little was manufactured in Celebundin. The town had a forge and a competent smith, but he made tools for building, not digging or fighting. Most of the dwarves' weapons were either purchased, bartered, or stolen from their richer, safer, and bitterly resented cousins, the dwarves of the mighty underground fastness of Thor-bardin. "We can either sell them to the Thane or we can sell mem to travelers on the road norm. What do you think?" Selquist asked. Mortar gave the matter serious consideration. "Who is going to buy shovels and picks and a saw while they're on the way to Solace? A roving band of goblin road workers? No, it'll have to be the Thane." Mortar always had a good sense for the market. Selquist agreed. Pestle raised an objection. "Someone's bound to recognize these and claim them. Then the thane will make us give them back." At the sound of the dreadful word "give" the dwarves shuddered. The brothers looked to Selquist, who was the acknowledged brains of the group. "I've got it!" he said, after a moment's thoughtful pause. "We'll take that little pissy lamb and make a present of it to the High Thane's daughter. We'll look like heroes! After that, if there's any dispute, the High Thane will be bound to side with us." Pestle and Mortar considered this option and pronounced it feasible. Auger, who had just come back inside, glared at them, narrow-eyed. "What'd you say you were going to with the lamb?" Selquist told him the plan, adding modestly. "It was my idea." Auger muttered something beneath his breath. "What did you say?" Selquist asked. "It sounded like 'lamb chops.'" "It was lamb chops! You're giving our supper away to the High Thane's little brat!" "You should think less of your stomach," Selquist said in moral tones. "And more of the Cause. We need all the money we can raise for our little expedition." Selquist quenched the light and walked majestically out the door, accompanied by Pestle and Mortar. Auger trailed behind, carrying the lamb. Auger knew all about the Cause. The only Cause Selquist ever promoted was Selquist. Chapter Four The Hall of the Thanes was located in the center of Celebundin and sounded a lot grander than it was really was. The main roads of the town ran from the meeting hall to the edge of town like the spokes on a wheel. Ring roads connected the spoke roads, and the dwarves' dwellings were built in between. The town had no wall, but every building was made of stone, each constructed like a small fort. The hill dwarves of Celebundin didn't like being cooped up inside a wall. Walls reminded them of their Thorbardin cousins. Reminded the hill dwarves of the terrible days after the Cataclysm, when the mountain dwarves had shut the gates of the walls of Thorbardin in the faces of their beloved cousins, leaving the hill dwarves out in the wilderness to starve. Today, the HaU of the Thanes—in reality, a blockhouse about the size of four dwarf houses put together—was filled with dwarves, standing room only. Selquist, his friends, and the lamb squeezed their way through the entrance in the back and pushed and shoved their way forward. "Excuse me, pardon me, mind my foot!" Selquist prodded and poked the dwarves blocking his path. When they saw who it was, his fellow dwarves made sour grimaces, as if they'd mistakenly taken a big gulp of green beer. "Who is it? What's going on?" the High Thane inquired mildly. He was a kindly dwarf, a baker by trade, who took a hopeful view of the future and, in consequence, always looked vaguely disappointed. "It's Selquist, the Expediter!" someone said, sneering. The High Thane's face took on a pained expression. He had once been hopeful about Selquist, but that hope had been dashed about a hundred years previous. "Selquist," he said, "whatever it is you're,selling, we're not interested. We did quite well for ourselves tonight." The High Thane indicated the pile before him: six bags of flour, a sack of bread, an ox-plow, and fourteen empty dwarf spirit kegs. To the side, near the exit, two full-grown sheep stood, eyeing the crowd with trepidation "Congratulations," Selquist said. Turning around, he snagged Pestle, who had become mired in the crowd, and extricated him. "Since I see so much wealth here, I guess you won't be interested in the little gift I was bringing. I had heard," Selquist added in a flight of inspiration, "that it was your dear daughter Sugarpie's Day of Life-gift." The other dwarves standing around looked stricken, all of them thinking in panic that they'd missed the High Thane's daughter's Life-gift Day and wondering how they could make up for the oversight. Selquist presented Pestle, who presented the lamb. The High Thane blinked. Behind him, a chubby youngster, who had Tjeen raised on her father's baked goods and who resembled nothing so much as a puff pastry, made animate, lurched forward, hands outstretched. "Baa-baa. Me want!" "But, Precious," admonished the High Thane, eyeing Selquist with a certain amount of suspicion borne of long acquaintance, "it isn't your Life-gift Day. Your Day was two months ago." The dwarves standing around Selquist started to breathe freely again. Sugarpie glowered and stomped her small foot. "It is my Day. Me want baa-baa!" Her face crumpled. Two tears—squeezed out with much effort—trickled down the fat cheeks. She flung herself on the floor, and those dwarves standing in the neighborhood stepped backed up a pace or two. Sugar-pie's temper tantrums were known and respected for miles. "Don't disappoint the dear child," Selquist said Idndly. Bending down, he gave her a pat on the head and whispered encouragement. "More tears, kid. More tears." Standing beside the High Thane, his wife—a formidable woman with impressive side-whiskers—shook those side-whiskers reproachfully at her husband. He quailed beneath mem. , "Thank you, Selquist. We'll... uh ... take the lamb." The High Thane accepted the animal, transferring it to his daughter, who flung her arms around the creature in a hug that nearly choked it. Pestle, watching, licked' his lips and thought regretfully of mint Jelly. Task completed, Selquist bowed to the High Thane, then made his way back through the crowd, aiming for the huge keg of nut-ale, which occupied a prominent place in one corner of the Hall. Before he reached it, however, a hand caught hold of the collar of his tunic, giving it an expert twist. Selquist was suddenly nose to nose with the grizzled, gray-haired, fierce war chief of the settlement. "Contrary to your opinion, Master Selquist"—the war chief was red with fury—"we do not run the raids on the draconian camp for the benefit of you and your thieving scamps! It's us who take the risks, and, by Reorx, I'm getting sick and tired of seeing your skinny butt disappear through a crack in the wall when my brave lads are getting their brains knocked out!" "No great loss there," Selquist muttered. "What was the that?" The war chief dragged Selquist closer. "I said, 'you're the boss, Moorbrain.'" Selquist squirmed, trying to free himself. "It's Moorthane!" the war chief thundered. "My name is Moorthane!" He gave Selquist a shake. "Whatever you took, you bring to the High Thane to be distributed to those dwarves who are most needy." "Fine, Moorbrain," said Selquist politely. "You go to that dear, sweet little child and tell her that you're taking her wee lamby away." The war chief paled. Draconians with six-foot, saw-toothed, poisoned-edged swords were nothing compared to Sugarpie. "Just heed my warning, you Daergar whelp," Moorthane growled, emphasizing his words with an extra twist on the collar, which left Selquist momentarily speechless. "I don't ever want to see you on a raid again. If I do, I'll bring a motion to have you Cast Out!" The threat was a terrible one. A dwarf who is "Cast Out" is forever banished from his home and his clan. He becomes an exile, a wanderer over the face of the land. A Cast Out may be taken in by another clan in some other part of Ansalon, but he will have no voting rights within the dan, will be viewed as essentially living on its charity. Moorthane dropped Selquist to the floor. Rounding on his hobnailed heel, the war chief stalked off. Selquist smiled at those dwarves standing nearby, who had been watching with stern approval. He straightened and smoothed his maltreated tunic. "Nice weather we're having," he said. "A bit hot, and I suppose we could use some rain, but otherwise great for outdoor activities." The other dwarves, glowering, turned their backs. He heard the word "Daergar" repeated among them, but that was an old story, one in which he'd lost interest a long time ago. This threat to have him Cast Out. That was new. Admittedly Moorbrain was mostly blubber and bluster. A motion to have Selquist Cast Out of his clan would require a unanimous vote of all the dwarven heads of household—an unlikely occurence, though few of them numbered Selquist as a friend or even someone to whom they might stop to give a drink of water if he were dying of thirst in the desert Selquist looked in vain for his companions. Upon the arrival of the war chief, the three had blended in with the crowd, leaving their leader to his fate. Selquist poured himself a large mug of nut-ale from the huge keg in the back and settled down to put Moor-brain out of his mind and enjoy himself. The meeting droned on for another hour, as the dwarves discussed how the booty should be divided and how they were going to defend the village from the inevitable return raid of the draconians. Certain that the war chief was fully occupied with matters of state, Sekjuist's three companions emerged from the thickest part of the crowd and came to join him. "Did I hear Moorthane right?" Mortar demanded, aghast. "Did he threaten to have you Cast Out?" "Bah!" Selquist brushed it aside. "He can try, but he'll never get the votes. My mother will stick up for me, for one." The cither three eyed him glumly. "Oh, sure she would!" Selquist protested. "Speaking of your mother, he called you a Daergar," said Auger in low voice. "Doesn't that bother you?" "No," Selquist said lightly. "Why should it? It's true. Half-true, at any rate. I'm half-Daergar. And I'm proud of my heritage. Ask anyone. They'll tell you that the Daergar are the most feared of all the dwarves, noted across Ansalon for being powerful warriors." The Daergar—kJr dark dwarves—were also noted for being murderers and thieves, but Selquisf s companions wisely refrained from pointing this out. No one knew much about Selquist's father, including his mother. Having imbibed a large quantity of dwarf-spirits during a Forge-day celebration, she had danced off drunkenly into the woods by herself. She had returned several days later with the incoherent tale of having partied with wood sprites. A search of the vicin-jty by her father turned up bootprints that were larger and heavier than those generally left by wood sprites, plus a knife and a quiver of arrows of Daergar make and design. When, several months later, the dwarf maid gave birth to a child, it was noted that he was also of Daergar make and design. Since the baby was half-Niedar, the clan accepted him, but they made it clear that they didn't have to like it. They'd gone on making that clear for the next hundred years of Selquist's life. And now Moorthane was threatening to have him Cast Out. Oh, well. Selquist hadn't planned on hanging around this backwater settlement much longer anyway. Under cover of the hubbub in the Hall, the four dwarves stood close together, while Selquist issued orders. "Mortar, the High Thane likes you, plus you're his fourth cousin twice removed on his grand-uncle's side. You go to the High Thane's bakery tomorrow and sell him the tools." Mortar nodded. He was the only one of the four whom the High Thane even remotely trusted. "Don't take any trades," Selquist cautioned. "We want steel, not day-old bread. And we don't—" They were interrupted by the breakup of the meeting. The warriors headed for the keg of nut-ale, filling their mugs and then lacing them with dwarf-spirits. The warriors would spend the rest of the day bragging about their exploits during the raid. Four of the women marched off, going to collect their husbands, who had been left behind at the draconian settlement. Two well-armed warriors went with the women to ensure their safety, more from the occasional savage animal in the area man from the draconians. Selquist turned to find the High Thane standing behind him. "So, Selquist," said the High Thane, stroking his beard, which was perpetually streaked with flour, "what prompted you to such a display of generosity tonight? I trust," he added hopefully, but without much confidence, "that this means you are planning to forge a new hammer, as the saying goes." Selquist smiled. "I am merely fulfilling my moral obligation to the community. High Thane, as would any other productive member of this clan." "I wish I could believe that, Selquist." The High Thane gave a pious sigh. "You're half-Neidar, after alL But I can't forget that your other half is Daergar." Selquist's smile broadened. "Something I'm never allowed to forget myself," he said pleasantly. "Permit me this gesture tonight, O High Thane, and perhaps return the favor sometime. I do hope your daughter enjoys the lamb." "I know I would have," Auger muttered. "Roasted." Selquist trod on his friend's foot to silence him. "Gould I offer you a mug of nut-ale, Respected High Thane?" Selquist drank a mug of ale with the Thane, just to be companionable, but as soon,as politely possible, he ditched the old fart and, rounding up his friends with a glance, left the Hall. The Celebundin dwarves belonged to the Neidar Clan of dwarves. After the Dwarfgate War—a war brought on by the refusal of the Hilar dwarves to assist their kinsmen following the Cataclysm—the Niedar dwarves were forever barred from the hallowed halls of Thor-bardin. The Neidar seat on the Council of Thanes within Thorbardin now stands empty. All that was ancient history. Various parties, attempting to foster peace among the inhabitants of Ansalon, have suggested that the mountain dwarves, if properly approached, would graciously allow their kinsmen to return to the mountain. The hill dwarves have always replied that they would rather be strapped to a gnomish device without benefit of earplugs man come crawling back to the ancestral home. Neider pride had never recovered from the insult and most fikely never would. As for the Daergar, they had split off from the main clans in Thorbardin following an unsuccessful attempt to seize control from the Hilar. Delving even deeper into the labyrinthine caves of Thorbardin, the souls of the Daergar grew dark as their surroundings. The Daergar ruler is always the most powerful of the warriors of the clan and keeps his rule by staying alive. Daergar are excellent thieves and are known throughout dwarfdom as the most dexterous and dishonest of all dwarves, traits that Selquist had inherited. From an early age, he had shown a talent for what the kender term "borrowing." Unlike a kender, Selquist knew full well how he came by his acquisitions and what to do with them once acquired. Selquist and Auger bid good-night to the brothers Pestle and Mortar and walked back to their own house. The two lived together as young bachelors, not yet having settled on wives. Auger fell in love about once a week, but when the word "marriage" was mentioned, he broke out in hives. Selquist had no time for dallying with the opposite sex. He had plans to make, profit to generate. This night, he was working on one of his best. Arriving at home, he unlocked the three locks, entered, lit the lamp, and settled down to work. This meant that he lounged in the best chair, while Auger sat at the desk and wrote down Selquist's orders. "We'll need food to last us until we reach the Daergar clan homes. After that, we can scrounge," Selquist dictated. Auger copied this in a small bound book. Auger's mother, one of the Thane's scribes, had taught her son to read and write, skills Selquist found to be highly useful. Selquist could read, if he had to, but why bother when there was someone else to do it for you? He had never learned to write. He had better things to do with his hands, such as picking locks or pockets. "We leave a week from tomorrow night," Selquist continued. He liked to have his plans in writing. Not that he ever forgot what he was doing, but it was pleasant to sit by the fire on winter evenings and hear Auger read the tale of their adventures together. "It will be quiet—there's no raid planned—and there will be two full moons, making it easy to travel. We can cross Mount Celebund and be halfway to the South Gate by morning, The next day, we'll complete the journey and enter Thor-bardin." Auger copied this down. Selquist yawned, stretched, and stood up. "Time for bed, Auger. We'll continue tomorrow." "Uh, Selquist." Reading back over his notes, Auger discovered a serious flaw in the plan. "How are we going to get into Thorbardin? I thought that the Hilar wouldn't let us Neidar inside." Selquist patted his friend on the back. "You leave that to me. I have a way in." "Selquist," said Auger, after a moment's hesitation, "aren't you worried about being Cast Out? I can't think of anything more terrible." Selquist's heart did give a little flutter and an uncomfortable thump at the thought. He could not let his friend see him afraid, however. "On the contrary," Selquist said lightly. "I'd welcome it. You don't mink I plan to spend the rest of my life in this sleepy old village, do you? Why, they'd be doing me a favor. I'd go off and become a hero like that other dwarf who was Cast Out of his clan. What was his name?..." "Flint Fireforge," said Auger, impressed. "You'd help save the world like Flint Fireforge did during the War of the Lance?" "I might not save the world," Selquist conceded. "But at least I could rescue a few valuables. Now get some sleep. We did a lot of work today." Auger did as he was told. But he paused on the way to his bedroom, sniffed the air. "I smell roast lamb," he said wistfully. "Get over it," Selquist advised. On his way to bed, he put his hand into his pocket and felt the medallion, which he'd thrust in there, then forgotten. He pulled it out, regarded it with a certain amount of unease. No one had ever threatened to have him Cast Out before now. Perhaps the Dark Queen ... "Oh, don't be silly!" Selquist admonished himself and thrust the medallion back into his pocket. It had to be worth at least five steel, easy. Chapter Five Eight days after the dwarven raid on the draconian village, Kang entered the command post's conference room. The six officers of his brigade were inside, ready and waiting. These included the First, Second, and Support Squadron commanders, as well as- his chief engineer, chief supply officer, and Slith, his second. They sat around a central table—a large table, made of wood, finely crafted and polished—a prize stolen early on from the dwarves. It had taken quite a bit of skill and muscle to haul the table through the valley, but the draconians had accomplished it. They had been young back then. Now, just looking at the massive table made Kang's back ache. "Good morning, gentlemen. Thank you for coming. As you know, we're on the verge of a crisis situation. Our supply of dwarf spirits is running low. By the quartermaster's calculation, we have only enough for tomorrow's ration. It's time we paid the dwarves a visit. I've been talking with the chief engineer, and tonight appears to be an ideal night for our raid on Celebundin. I'll let the chief engineer elaborate." Fulkth, the chief engineer, spoke up. "Sir, we're expecting two full moons tonight. That will make it easier for us to navigate. We haven't had an opportunity like this for the past three years." "That was the time we stole their ox-cart and loaded it with so much ale and dwarf spirits that we almost didn't make it back home," Slith recalled. "We cleaned 'em right out! Remember the party afterward? Dark Queen alive, but that was something special!" The other draconians began to jabber. Kang rapped his knuckles on the table, reminded them of their duty. They fell silent, gave him their full attention. "We have work to do," he told them sternly. "If we reminisce all day, we'll be here until nightfall and miss the raid. Does anyone have any problems with going tonight?" No one did. All of them were grinning eagerly at the prospect. "Very well, then. We'll get down to the specifics. The First Squadron has gone on the last two raids—" "Damned right, sir! We're the best at it!" Gtoth said, poking the leader of Second Squadron, who looked glum, in the ribs. "Yes, as I was saying"—Kang glowered at them, bringing them once again to order—"I think that the Second Squadron should take the lead in this raid. First Squadron will be held in reserve, ready to respond if something goes wrong." Now it was Cloth's turn to look dejected. He scraped his claws across the wood, bringing a sharp reprimand fromSHm. "Look at the marks you've made! Keep doing that and we won't have any table left!" "Sorry, sir," Gloth muttered. Kang continued. "This time we'll take our own wagon. We'll stash it behind the stand of trees to the south of Celebundin. Yethik, can you have your supply boys ready to move before sundown?" Yethik nodded. He was the chief supply officer, and his job was to quartermaster air of the goods and keep the food stored. He was in charge of the wagons and the oxen needed to pull them. "Right, then," Kang said. "Be ready in eight hours. Second Squadron will move out one hour after sundown, and the First will move out half an hour after them. Support Squadron will man the battlements for the duration. That is all." The officers stood, saluted, and marched out of the room, hastening to their other duties besides raiding. First Squadron provided the maintenance of the village, from the upkeep of buildings to the sweeping of the dirt streets. Second Squadron was responsible for the meat—all livestock, including chickens and sheep. The df aconians' creators had certainly never intended them for shepherds, but Kang's troop had proved fairly good at it. Support Squadron was responsible for farming; a disheartening task, one no one liked. But grain was necessary to keep the livestock fed, and bread was needed to supplement their meager diet of meat. All agreed, though, that it was a lot easier to steal food man to grow it. The rest of the draconians were organized into a Headquarters Troop. These included Kang and Slith, all of the specialists such as Fulkth, Yethik and his supply soldiers, and a section of Baaz who were trained as cartographers. Kang marched down the hallway back to his own quarters. He was in a good mood today. He always enjoyed this time, just before a raid. It took him back to the old days—back when being a soldier meant something, back when he could feel proud to command combat troops. Certainly he was proud of the accomplishments he and his draconians had achieved in their village, but it wasn't the same. Being able to feed his draconians another day didn't offer the same thrill as charging headlong into a pack of elves, slicing their pointy-eared heads from their skinny little shoulders. If it weren't for the dwarves, the draconians would have had no excitement at all. In fact, Kang was forced to grudgingly admit, if it weren't for the dwarves, the draconians could not have survived this long. Not only did the dwarves provide much-needed food, they served as an outlet for the draconians' inborn aggression. The potent drink known as dwarf spirits, which was said to be made from some sort of fermented fungus, brightened—-at least temporarily— the bleakness and emptiness of the draconians' daily lives. If it weren't for the dwarves, the draconians would have torn each other apart years ago. Kang was feeling almost brotherly toward his be-whiskered adversaries. Opening the footlocker at the end of his bed, he took out his battle harness, checked all of the buckles and straps. Next, he drew his sword from its sheath and examined the blade. No rust was ever allowed to taint the blade, but a few dents had pocked its cutting edge years ago. Each