"They've been scavenging, by the look of some of their metals," Dunbarth Ironthumb added. "A lot of them carry human blades."
Still, with their fine horses and bright cloaks, the strange dwarves had a formidable look about them, purposeful and determined.
As the assembly came even nearer, one of the riders in the first unit-the red-and-grays-spurred his mount and galloped ahead, leading a spare saddled horse. The second animal was finely outfitted, with a fine dwarven saddle, silver-accented leathers and headstall, and a skirt of fine steel chain, all embellished by patterns of bright red fabric.
"That's the horse their leader was riding when we first saw them," a guard said.
"But where is their leader?" Dunbarth muttered.
Then, at the ledge wall, someone said, "Look!" and eyes turned downward and to the left. At the foot of the west ramp was a scarlet-cloaked dwarf whose dark hair glinted in the sunlight as he strode down the slope.
The lone rider sped toward him, but reined in when he raised his hand. Without looking back, the red-cloak stepped to the riderless horse, took its reins, and climbed up on its back, rolling up the sling-ladder behind him and snugging it to his saddle. Loosing thongs on the pommel, he released a slung shield, helmet, and hammer, and donned them. With the other rider following, he rode out into the meadow, turned his mount full around, and raised his arm again. Instantly, in the approaching throng, the drums ceased their song, and a single drum beat a brief, complex tattoo.
"They say they will be ready to receive our traders by noon," Chane Lowen translated so all those on the ledge could hear. "They also say the Council of Thanes is to be assembled tomorrow."
"Like rust!" Swing Basto spat. "Dunbarth, let your drummers tell them that the Council of Thanes meets only in the Great Hall of Thorbardin, not outside."
At a nod from Dunbarth, two drummers stepped forward and sent the message. A moment later, the strange drums responded. "Hammerhand would have it no other way," they said.
"Arrogance!" the Theiwar chieftain snapped when the signal was translated. "I say we close the gate, and to corruption with these intruders!"
Before anyone could answer, one of the guards on the ramp shouted, "That's him! That's the face I saw before me!" The guard had found a seeing-tube and was peering through it at the scarlet-cloaked rider down in the meadow.
Dunbarth Ironthumb took a tube from his nearest guard and looked through it. The face of the newcomer below turned toward him, and he squinted. Strong, blunt features framed a pair of dark, brooding eyes that seemed to be looking directly at him. Dark, wavy hair fell below a finely crafted helmet, and a trimmed, backswept beard parted to reveal strong, white teeth in a wide, resolute mouth.
Dunbarth swore aloud, and pressed the tube to his eye. In some ways, the face below resembled the long-dead chieftain of the Hylar, Harl Thrustweight. The set of the high cheekbones, the level gaze of those commanding eyes. "I feel I should know him!" Dunbarth rasped, handing the seeing-tube to Jeron Redleather. "Look! Who do you see?"
The Daewar peered, then turned, frowning. "Who else but a son could so resemble a father?" he said thoughtfully.
"Are you suggesting that is Harl's son, Derkin?" Dunbarth demanded.
The Daewar peered again, muttering. "I don't know," he conceded. "There is a resemblance. And yet… that is surely not the Derkin I remember."
Without ceremony, old Chane Lowen pushed forward, elbowing chieftains aside, and wrested the seeing-tube from Jeron's hand. Leaning against the ledge wall, he sighted through the tube, then turned to the rest of them. "I have seen that face," he said slowly. "There is an old painting in the deepest archives in Hybardin. The painting is as old as Thorbardin itself. And the face in the painting is that face down there."
"Are you saying that isn't Harl Thrustweight's lost son?" Dunbarth demanded.
"I vaguely recall Derkin Winterseed," the old lore-keeper said. "He was a reclusive youth, quiet and given to moods."
"Moods?" Jeron Redleather rasped. "As I heard it, Derkin had only two ways of associating with people- either ignore them, or insult them. It was a wonder somebody didn't brain him. I don't think even his father liked him very much. Personally, though, I don't think I ever met him."
"He wasn't around much," Chane Lowen said, searching his memory. "Derkin was an odd one. He never seemed a Neidar, but he was always going off to outside places. He didn't like Thorbardin and made that clear. Then, the last time he left-many years ago-he just never came back." Chane half-turned, pointing toward the meadow. "If that person down there was ever Derkin Winterseed, he isn't anymore. See his movements. That person commands and leads. Derkin would never have led anyone."
"The old painting in the archives," Dunbarth pressed. "Whose face is in it?"
"Colin Stonetooth," Chane said. "The first chieftain of the Hylar. The dwarf who united the thanes to build Thorbardin. In the painting, he is much older, but I swear, that is his face down there."
On the meadow below Northgate, a vast encampment grew. Banners fluttered above brightly colored pavilions, surrounded by stalls and displays of wares. Wagons and carts disgorged bolts of bright fabric, big coils of hemp rope, and oiled leather weaves; intricately patterned carpets, arrays of fine, hand-carved furniture and wooden fixtures; bits of sculpture, tapestries, and paintings done in many styles and fashions; bundles of herbs, spices, and pots of exotic oils; dyes and essences; casks of prized white salt, dried fruits, and wild grains; myriad bits of elven-ware; bales of cured pelts and tanned hides-a wealth of goods such as Jeron Redleather's Daewar traders had not seen since the wars in Ergoth had disrupted so many of the trade routes.
"He certainly knows his goods," a trader commented, watching from above as the red-cloaked figure called Hammerhand directed the placement of wares and displays on the valley floor.
"He knows what is prized in Thorbardin," another agreed. "He knows what is hard to get here. Look at those western timbers! And the furs! Half of Thorbardin will be trying to outbid the other half for those."
"When we get them," the first trader pointed out.
"Oh, we'll get them, all right. The only question is, what will we have to give in trade?"
At midday, the drums sang again, and dozens of Daewar traders, followed by several hundred merchants from the various cities within Thorbardin, made their way down the ramps, accompanied by a squad of armed guards.
The guards were for display only, of course, and everyone knew it. With thousands of armed strangers awaiting the contingent below, the traders and their followers would have no chance at all if hostilities broke out. But such was always the life of traders and merchants. To acquire goods, they must go to where the goods were, barter for them, and take the risk. Further, there was something in the song of the drums, muted now but still beating, that was reassuring. This is an occasion to trade, they seemed to say, a time to haggle, but not to quarrel… a time to do business, not to do violence.
Throughout the afternoon, hundreds of dwarves from Thorbardin wandered about the valley camp, inspecting goods and setting prices, making lists and copious notes. At evening, as the sun of Krynn sat upon the western ranges, they gathered with their guards and returned up the ramps to Northgate to disappear inside. Guards saw them safely in, then wheeled to follow them, and the great plug of Northgate closed as the last rays of sunlight crept up the high peaks.