“Thank the gods we don’t need to test that,” Bram said. “Once within sight of Thorin, I’ll call a halt. We’ll keep our distance for a day or so, until we know — ”
A shout from the rear interrupted him, and he turned. All along the caravan, flankers were closing in — the strangers, coming out of the hills, closing in on the long train like a well-organized cordon.
And just ahead, at the top of a rise, riders appeared — heavily armed men, spreading out across the road.
Riffin Two-Tree drew his shield from his shoulder and unslung his blade. All around him, Chanderan guards followed suit. Bram Talien spun his pony around and raced back along the caravan, shouting, “Alarm! Alarm! Close for defense!”
The rearward sections were already in motion, drivers whipping up their teams and carters grabbing their leads. Within moments, the long, ambling line of the caravan was a shortening, thickening thing, widening at center as the heavier vehicles pulled out right and left to let the travois, pack beasts, and sleds move in between them. Women, children, and old people were hurried forward, carrying their personal gear, into the center of the closing mass of vehicles and stock. Men not driving teams grabbed up their weapons and ranked themselves along the outer perimeter, their lines closing as the caravan became a moving oval compound, then a tightly-packed circle.
Suddenly, here and there, chaos erupted. Here a team broke free from its traces, leaving a wagon stranded. There a runner-barge overturned, spilling its load. Elsewhere two carts collided and broke down where they sat.
Bram Talien saw some of these things and drew his own blade. “Sabotage!” he muttered, heading into the crowd around a broken wagon. But armed men confronted him there, denying him entrance. A man he knew — Grif Newgrass, one of his own neighbors — raised a heavy sword and shouted, “Stand back, Trademaster. There’ll be no trading this year. We’ve a better way to get what the dwarves have!”
Bram circled about on his mount, trying to understand what was happening, and found himself surrounded by riders, all carrying their weapons at hand. The strangers were upon them, surrounding them, and in the distance ahead, at the front of the caravan where old Riffin Two-Tree and the Chanderan guards were, steel rang on steel.
The trademaster saw a wagon driver pitch from his seat, clutching at an arrow in his throat. He saw a line of barbarians charge, with lances and swords, into a cluster of panicked Chanderan workers. He wheeled his horse and dodged a spearpoint as an attacker lunged at him. With a flick of his sword he scored the man’s cheek, then drove the blade home beneath his chest-plate. The man screamed and twisted, and Bram fought to withdraw the sword. Something rang against his helmet, sending it flying from his head. He freed his sword, twisted sideways in his saddle, and started to swing at the man behind him … and again something hit him — this time a solid, clubbing blow against his temple.
The world went dark for Bram Talien.
He awakened slowly, fighting the throbbing ache in his head. When he tried to move, pain blinded him for long moments, but finally he fought it down, opened his eyes, and raised his head.
He lay in a crude tent of some kind. A fire burned near his feet, and smoke hung thick above the heads of the men who sat around it, watching him. Bram’s hand went to his belt, but there were no weapons there.
The man nearest was burly and dark-bearded and looked familiar. He turned his head, and the trademaster recognized him. It was Grif Newgrass. The others were strangers — outlanders. Grif grinned and nodded his head. “You’re awake,” he pointed out. “That’s good. Thought maybe our new friends had killed you.”
With a tongue as dry as leather and a voice that was no more than a rasping whisper, Bram Talien asked, “What is happening, Grif? Who are these men?”
“Doesn’t matter who they are,” the man said. “Only thing that matters for you is to do exactly like you’re told. You see, the old chief … well, he kind of met with an accident, so now the good people of Chandera need somebody to answer to. Somebody they’re used to answering to. You’re the trademaster, so you’ll do. We’ll tell you what to say to them.”
“What do you want?”
“Why” — the man’s beard split in a toothy grin — “we got business with those dinks in Thorin. That’s what our new friends call dwarves. Good word, isn’t it? — Dinks. They have what we want, and we’re going to take it.”
“Thorin’s what we want,” another man growled. “Time human people had that place. Our leader has plans for it. The dinks know you. You’ve done business with them. So you’ll be our decoy and our shield.”
“Why should I do what you say?” Bram struggled to a sitting position, his head ringing with pain.
The man waved a casual hand. “Show him, Clote.”
Across the tent, the one called Clote stood and pulled back a wide flap, opening the shelter. Beyond was the remains of the caravan — teams and conveyances drawn into a solid ring. Within the ring, Chanderan men labored, carrying things here and there, while armed strangers — and a few Chanderan traitors — strode among them, supervising.
And in the center of the enclosure a crude fence had been erected. As men moved past it, Bram’s eyes widened in shock. Within the fence were women and children. At the corners of the fence, archers sat atop short towers. At a signal from the man at the tent flap, rough men pushed into the enclosure, shoving women and children aside, then appeared at the fence holding two women, pushing them forward into view.
Bram’s mouth twisted in a snarl. “Chara,” he muttered. “And Corian.” With a lunge, he tried to get to his feet. His hands went out, searching for a weapon — or for a throat to throttle. Grif Newgrass punched him cruelly in the stomach, then kicked his feet from under him. “You just don’t understand, do you, Bram?” he spat. “Riffin Two-Tree and his soldiers are dead, and you’re not in charge any more. We are.”
“Told you those women would get his attention,” another man chuckled. “The trademaster’s wife and his daughter. Just say the word, Grif, an’ I’ll see to both of them, myself.”
The dark-bearded one ignored him, gazing indifferently at Bram Talien. “That’s why,” he said, casually. “Right there’s the reason why you and everybody else here will do exactly as you’re told.” He glanced outside, then turned again, a cruel smile parting his beard. “Oh, and don’t expect any help from the Golash bunch. Grayfen’s people have them, too, just like we have you.”
“You’ll never get away with this,” Bram gasped. “The dwarves …”
“… might never know what hit’em,” Grif shrugged. “Or maybe they will, and they’ll fight. If so, you and your ‘good citizens’ will help us.”
“Never!” Bram spat.
“Oh, I expect you will. After all, we’re all human. When it comes right down to it, humans will side with humans against a bunch of ugly dinks.”
*
Somewhere beyond the captured caravan, beyond sight of Bram Talien but not far away, the rivers called Hammersong and Bone flowed through their valley. Just across, the camps of the humans spread to the foot of the terraces, which rose in methodical, precise steps toward the west wall of Thorin Keep.
Mighty Thorin stood above it all, massive and shuttered behind great gates. Yet still the call for Balladine — the chorus of the thunder-drums — rang through the mountains. Come trade with us, they seemed to sing. Come and be our guests for Balladine.
Soon, the gates would open. Then Thorin would also be open — to attack.
In a magically protected hut among the encampments, two embers of red glowed in the dark interior beyond a low portal. Grayfen Ember-Eye rested, preparing for tomorrow. With his eyes removed, he was free of the searing pain they always brought him, and he could review his plans.