It would be a night of waiting and praying. It would not be a night for sleeping as the refugees sent their representatives, the half-elf Tanis and the Plainswoman Goldmoon, to lay their plea before Thorbardin’s Council of Thanes.
There were many things Hornfel loved about his people. He admired their skills at crafting, found joy in their soul-deep loyalty to kin and clan, and appreciated their courage as warriors. He valued their hard-headed stubbornness and common sense. He loved their independence. It was that independence that made it not an insult, but a kind of tribute, when the grizzled Daewar warrior, a member of the Guard of Watch on Soughtgate’s ramparts, only turned for a moment to nod greeting to the two thanes in the rose light of dawn, then returned to his watch. They are not awed by those above their station, Hornfel thought. They trust their thanes because we are their kin. None bows or kneels to kin. He glanced at his companion whose eyes were sharper on the guards than Hornfel’s. At this hour, Gneiss’s Daewar made up the Guard of Watch, and Hornfel knew his friend well enough to know that he wanted his warriors to keep their watch with the best military precision. When the time came that Thorbardin entered the war, these Daewar would be the spearhead of the dwarven army. Gneiss was fiercely proud of his warriors. Hornfel listened to the ring of mail and steel, the scuff of boots on stone, the barked order of the watch captain, and looked again at Gneiss, gone to lean against the breast-high wall overlooking the valley far below. Cold wind raced around the ramparts. Born in the mountains, which shouldered proudly against the sky, the wind smelled of frost-touched pine forests and already freezing lakes, winter’s icy promise. A thousand feet below lay the broad sweep of a string of alpine meadows. Dressed now in the rusty brown of autumn grasses, gilded with the new rising sun, the meadow held some of the richest soil in the Kharolis Mountains. This valley had lain fallow for generations. The cities in Thorbardin fed themselves from the produce of the farming warrens deep inside the mountain.
“See, Gneiss,” Hornfel said, tracing the valley’s borders with a sweep of his hand. “Eight hundred could farm this valley and manage to keep out of their own way and ours.”
Gneiss snorted. “Are you on about that again?”
“I’m on about it still, my friend. We can’t defer the issue any longer. You yourself brought me the word that the refugees have been challenged by the border patrols. How long do you think the border guards can hold back eight hundred hungry and frightened people? They are peacefully awaiting the word of the council. They won’t wait long.”
“Aye, blackmail, is it?” Gneiss turned away from the wall, his fist clenched, his eyes flashing with sudden anger. “Admit them or face them across a battlefield?” He cocked a thumb at the valley. “That meadow will be covered with snow soon, and the snow will be red with human blood, Hornfel. The council will not be forced.”
Hornfel chose his next words carefully. “You’ve made up your mind about the matter? You think as Realgar and Ranee do?”
“I think my own thoughts,” Gneiss growled. The wind tugged at his silver-shot brown beard. His back still to the wall, to the valley and the idea of humans settling so near to Thorbardin, he watched his guards pace their watch. His expression, narrow-eyed and hard, gave Hornfel no clue to the thoughts that the Daewar claimed were not Realgar’s, but his own.
“Tell me what you think, Gneiss. I’ve gone too long guessing, and none of my guesses seem to be right ones.”
Gneiss, his eyes still on his guards, shook his head. “I think that my warriors are going to die in lands far from these mountains where we were born. I think they’re going to die in a war that is no business of theirs.”
The old argument! Hornfel had tired of it months ago, knew no better defense against it than the one he had already presented in countless council meetings. Still, he didn’t speak until he’d mastered his impatience.
“It is our business now. Gneiss, there are eight hundred refugees at our very gate. A moment ago, you offered to water these meadows with their blood. They are not our enemies. Our enemy is Verminaard, he who’s driven the elves from Qualinesti and walks the ramparts of Pax Tharkas. Verminaard enslaved these people. He’d like to do the same to us.
“When he controls the Kharolis Mountains, Gneiss, he controls the whole north and east of the continent. If you don’t think he wants Thorbardin now, you are not the military leader I think you are.”
It was a mark of his regard for Hornfel that Gneiss kept his clenched fists at his side. “Your words are hard, Hornfel,” he said coldly.
“Aye, they’re hard. The times are hard, Gneiss. If we don’t choose soon, Verminaard will decide for us. I don’t think we could live with his choice.”
Gneiss smiled without mirth. “Gallows humor doesn’t suit you.”
“And a gallows wouldn’t suit you.”
The Daewar looked at him sharply. “Hanging is a traitor’s death.”
“Do you think Realgar would consider you anything else if he ruled in Thorbardin?”
“Realgar? Verminaard’s creature? That is a harsh accusation.”
Hornfel shrugged. “Only a suspicion, my friend.”
Gneiss looked around him, at the mountains and the meadows, at the far reaches of sky, as though he suddenly understood something that he should have comprehended sooner. When he looked back to Hornfel his eyes held both anger and admiration.
“There is a Kingsword.”
Hornfel nodded. “There is.”
“What are you saying? You can’t just make one of these, Hornfel! You—by Reorx!—you can’t just trot down to the smith and order one up!”
Hornfel smiled wearily. “I know it. Isarn meant to make nothing more than a masterblade. But Reorx touched his hand to steel that night, and he made a Kingsword. You’ve heard the rumors—you must have. It’s been stolen, Gneiss.”
“Then why—?”
“I know where it is. So does Realgar.” Hornfel briefly told him the tale of the sword’s theft and finding. “Realgar wants Stormblade as much as I do. Reorx defend us, I hope he’s no closer to having it than I am. Verminaard’s creature or not, Realgar is dangerous.”
Gneiss’s hand dropped to the dagger at his side. “He’ll be stopped.”
“No. Not unless you want to fire Thorbardin with revolution.”
Gneiss understood Hornfel’s warning at once. The Council of Thanes was badly divided on the issue of the war and the issue of the refugees. Both, at times, seemed to be the same thing. Emotions, mainly anger, ran high. If Realgar died now, by fair means or foul, his realm would rise in war. Aye, then it wouldn’t matter who had the Kingsword. The fire gleaming in its steel heart would be nothing more than a symbol of bloody revolution. The halls of Thorbardin would ring with the cries of dwarves killed by dwarves, as it had not done since the Dwarfgate Wars three hundred years ago.
“Tonight I will drink to his good heath,” Gneiss growled, “and pray that he dies in his sleep before dawn.”
Hornfel laughed. “Gneiss the Cautious!” He sobered. “It’s time to stop being cautious; it’s time to welcome those eight hundred refugees. Verminaard or Realgar, we are going to need them as allies.”
“Humans? They won’t all be like your fey mage Jordy.”
“No one is like Piper. He is clever and he is staunch. I am surprised your deep-seeing eyes do not see that. It wouldn’t matter if the refugees all had the sensibilities of gully dwarves. We need allies now.”
Gneiss was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, Hornfel knew that if the Daewar had not come yet to a decision, he was very close.
“Call a council meeting for tonight, Hornfel. I’ll give you my thinking then.” He started back toward the gatehouse and, when Hornfel moved to join him, he shook his head. “No, stay a while. You like the air out here. Stay and look down into your meadows and try to imagine what they will look like rilled with humans. Then, listen for the sound of their voices in Southgate, my friend. They can’t winter out there and will have to be sheltered in the mountain.