Glendon Hawke felt totally out of place among them, but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. They had his horse, his arms and armor, all of his clothing except the brief under-kilt he wore … and they had him. A ring of grim-looking dwarves with weapons in hand surrounded him. Nobody had told the man that he was a prisoner, but it was clear that he wasn’t going anywhere, even had his honor permitted it.
The evening breeze had dried his hair, and it fluttered around his cheeks like locks of spun copper as he turned toward a procession of dwarves coming through the ring of guards. One was Cale Greeneye, the one who had demanded and accepted his pledge of service. Following him were a regal-looking older dwarf with fierce features and shrewd eyes, a heavily-muscled younger dwarf who seemed inches taller than most of them, a strikingly pretty female in traveling robes, and the old dwarf with the crutch. There were others, as well, but these held back as the first five approached.
Cale Greeneye looked the man up and down, an ironic twinkle in his eyes, then turned to the older dwarf standing beside him. “Sire, this is the human I told you about. His name is Glendon Hawke … or Sir Glendon, I suppose, though he doesn’t look much like a sir right now. He calls himself a knight.”
“I am a knight,” Glendon muttered. “Not of the orders, of course, but no less a knight. I am a free lance.”
“Sir Knight,” Cale completed the introductions, “this is our chieftain, Colin Stonetooth, my father. And my sister, Tera Sharn. And this is our captain of guards, Willen Ironmaul. The venerable one there is Mistral Thrax. Please tell them what you have granted to me.”
Glendon took a deep breath. “I have pledged you my service,” he said grudgingly.
“Why?”
“Because my honor demands it. You bested me at the bridge, even if you did so by foul means.” Standing very straight, the human looked down at his new masters, accepting his fate. He was at least a foot taller than any of them, even the massive Willen Ironmaul. But his pledge was his honor, and he had given his pledge.
“Right.” Cale Greeneye nodded. “And I have committed your services to my father.”
The chieftain was studying Glendon with unconcealed dislike. Now he glanced at his son. “This … this human is going to teach us to fight? I have my doubts, as I told you.”
“He has skills, Father,” Cale assured the chieftain. “I have seen them.”
“Yes, I know. With lance and shield, on horseback. What else?”
“He told me he has studied every sort of combat. I tested him with simple swords. He disarmed me with one parry.”
The chieftain gazed at Glendon again, curiously. “You disarmed my son?”
“Of course,” the man said. “He doesn’t know how to use a sword. No offense intended, though. He is quick and strong, and can learn.”
The dwarves glanced at one another. Among them, Cale Greeneye was reckoned a fine swordsman — almost the equal of Jerem Longslate, who had never been bested either in trial or in combat.
Colin Stonetooth turned his head, catching the eye of the captain of the Ten. “I should like to see that for myself,” he decided. “Jerem?”
“Yes, Sire.” Jerem Longslate handed his shield and buckler to one of his companions. “Simple swords?”
“For now.” Colin Stonetooth nodded. “Do you agree?” he asked Glendon Hawke.
“I am at your service,” the man shrugged.
“Do you want your own sword?” Cale asked him.
“It doesn’t matter,” the knight said. “The skill is in the hand, not in the blade.”
Cale pulled his own sword and turned it, presenting the hilt. “Then use mine,” he said.
By the time the rest had stepped back, clearing a wide circle, Jerem Longslate had stripped himself of armor and robes. Wearing only his kilt and boots, carrying only his wide sword, he strode forward to face the man who towered over him. “Are there any particular rituals or rules?” he asked.
“None.” The man shook his head. “A demonstration is all that was requested. Just attack me, whenever and however you like.” He hefted Cale’s blade, testing its weight. It was balanced differently than his own. Its weight was forward, toward the point. Well suited, he thought, to short arms with powerful wrists and shoulders. Turning half away from Jerem Longslate, he held the blade upright, gazing at its surface.
After a moment, Jerem barked, “Well, are you about ready? I’m waiting.”
The human didn’t even look at him. “Why are you waiting? I invited you to attack.”
Jerem frowned, then shrugged. He raised his own blade before him, circled two steps to the right, and abruptly ducked and lunged, a movement almost too quick to see. Taking the man at his word, he went straight for the heart … and stopped. Somehow his sword was not where it should be. It was still in his hand, but now pointed off to one side. The clang of struck steel rang in his ears, and something sharp was poking at his throat. It was the human’s blade.
“You see,” Glendon said, critically, “you made two mistakes there. The first was in thinking that I did not see you. The second was that midriff thrust. I hardly had to parry at all to knock it aside. If you intend to defeat a person in combat, you shouldn’t give him such advantages.”
The man pulled back his sword, and a tiny drop of blood trickled from beneath the dwarf’s whiskers. Jerem glanced over at his chieftain. “It was a fluke, Sire. May I try again?”
“As you please,” Colin Stonetooth nodded.
This time the captain of the Ten gave no advantages. With a flurry of whistling cuts and thrusts he attacked the tall human … and found himself flat on his back on the hard ground while his sword spun upward, flashing in the evening sun. At the top of its arc the sword steadied, then fell point-downward directly toward him. At the last instant, a long arm stretched above him and a long-fingered, human hand caught the falling blade.
Jerem rolled away and got to his feet. Glendon Hawke calmly flipped the dwarf’s sword, reversed it, and handed it back to him. “That was much better,” he said approvingly. “If you would like to learn that disarm-deck-and-skewer trick, I’ll teach it to you … after you have mastered some basics.”
Colin Stonetooth spread his hands, looking at his grinning son. “Very well, Cale,” he agreed. “The man can instruct us. What does he want in return?”
“To be released from service when his task is done, and to have his belongings returned to him. He asks no other reward. He said his pledge is bound by honor, not by trade.”
“A noble human,” Colin said, wonderingly.
Glendon Hawke heard the comment. “Nobility, like chivalry, is a condition of knighthood, … Sire. Skill alone is only the pattern of the tapestry, not the fabric. Disciplines of hand and mind must be woven from the heart.”
“We can stop here for a while,” Colin decided. “It will do us no harm to learn what this man can teach us.”
Off to one side of the camp, noise erupted — a flurry of booming sounds that settled quickly into a fast, rhythmic beat. Colin Stonetooth put his hands to his ears, and Cale Greeneye shouted, “Somebody get that kender away from the drums! And while you’re at it, search him! I want my spur back!”
All around, dwarves glanced at one another and shook their heads. Everyone knew about the kender. Through all the history of Thorin, wandering kender had appeared now and then among the Calnar — usually during Balladine, when bright baubles lay everywhere for quick hands to take.
Kender had never been welcomed at Balladine. But no one had ever devised an effective way to keep them out. And, once present, there was no good way to get rid of a kender short of killing him or boring him.