Tarn nodded, looking over his shoulder at the horde of refugees waiting on the roadway behind them, carefully halted out of sight of the village. He knew they were counting on him to lead them to safety, as they had counted on him to hold them together during four months of exile. The last remnant of Clan Hylar, driven from their home under the mountain by the attacks of ruthless enemies, they had barely endured the summer and early autumn in the barren valleys of the higher elevations. Shaken and demoralized by life under the open sky, they had struggled to survive, followed him as he led them to valleys of game, followed him as he brought them down finally from the high country. They looked weary and exhausted, and as Tarn gazed at the deep gorge he understood that most of the tired, ragged mountain dwarves would never be able to make such a climb.
“It has to be the bridge then,” he said.
He turned his attention once again to the village beyond the span. He studied the stone houses partially buried in the rocky slopes, saw the low garden walls, the sturdy construction and thick, slanting roofs. A large building, the source of the pounding hammer, puffed a column of black smoke from a sooty chimney. Like his own people, the villagers were dwarves-but at the same time they were different, for they were hill dwarves, bred under the sky. His own tribe, for generations, had called the caverns under the mountains their home.
Past the village they could see the promise of their destination: a swath of green fields, bright with sparkling lakes and great stretches of forest that were sure to provide game and forage aplenty. The Hylar refugees would be able to build huts there, maybe find a few snug caves, and with luck the majority would last the coming winter. There would be food in the lakes and forests and some respite from the brutal weather that would soon seize the high altitudes.
Tarn pushed back from the summit, joining his two companions in stretching, then settling down into a squat. He looked over the mass of huddled dwarves awaiting his decision. They had built no fires, made no shelters here beside the narrow road. Instead they lay where they had halted, sipping at waterskins or chewing on thin strips of dried meat. Some were armed, still hale and sturdy, but too many others were gaunt, sunburned, bent with weariness. The eyes that looked to him for some glimmer of hope were haunted and dark.
Behind the ragged refugees stretched the rugged ridges leading into the High Kharolis. Snow dusted all the slopes, and the loftiest peaks were buried beneath ten-foot drifts of soft powder. Plumes of wind-blown crystals trailed from these summits, proof that winter’s winds would soon scour the valleys and chill the life out of anyone who hadn’t planned ahead for winter.
“Let’s quit wastin’ time,” growled the third dwarf, speaking for the first time. “I say we move on the bridge before the hill dwarves even know we’re here. If they try to stop us. .” He didn’t finish the statement, but his hand, tightening around the haft of his great war axe, made clear his meaning.
“Wait, Barzack,” Tarn cautioned. “Let’s make a plan and stick to it. There’s got to be a way to get across that bridge without people getting killed.”
“Bah-they’re hill dwarves! Who gives a whit if we have to cut a few of them to pieces?”
“You’re forgetting-we might have to live nearby to this place for the whole winter. It’ll be hard enough just finding food and making shelter without having to worry whether we’re going to be attacked by a bunch of villagers intending to seek vengeance for a surprise ambush.”
“Not to mention,” Belicia added pointedly, “we don’t know. Maybe they’re peaceful folk.”
Barzack snorted. Like Tarn, he was a shaggy fellow, with long hair and a bushy beard. Despite months of living off the land, his dark armor was clean and polished and rust free. His boots and tunic showed signs of wear, but his helmet fit tightly over his scalp. While Tarn and Belicia had demonstrated patience and leadership in keeping the mountain dwarves together during the months of exile, Barzack had proven capable and useful as a tracker, a hunter, and a fighter of admirable courage and skills. All the tribe had honored him when he had single-handedly slain a great cave bear. Using only his axe he not only destroyed a threat to dwarven lives, but he furnished enough meat for a grand feast and procured a pelt that had yielded a dozen warm cloaks.
“The hill dwarves can’t seek vengeance if they’re all dead,” he pointed out with cold logic.
Tarn shook his head. “We’re not looking for another war. Besides, considering the state of the world, I’d be surprised if that village is really as sleepy as it looks. Maybe they aren’t pushovers.”
The other male glowered. “Let ‘em try and fight us-I tell you, we could use a little action.”
“What about our elders and the children?” Belicia retorted with a gesture at the listless mob of Hylar. “Don’t you think they’d appreciate having their warriors around for the winter?” She turned to Tarn. “Let me go down and talk to them, see if there’s going to be any trouble.”
“I think we should all go. That way they’ll know that we mean business,” Tarn said. “We should be ready to make a move if they prove balky.”
“No reason to get them all alarmed,” Belicia countered.
“If they see two thousand mountain dwarves waiting to cross their bridge, they’ll prefer to talk-and they’ll think twice before trying to stop us.”
Although he grimaced in disgust, Barzack nodded his reluctant agreement. “It’s bad enough living outside, having the sun beat down on us for a hot summer. Now we’ve got to kiss up to a bunch of hill dwarves, just to hope they’ll let us cross the bridge and pass through their little town.”
“Maybe you’d rather go back to Thorbardin?” demanded Tarn, his temper flaring.
For a moment all three were silent, overcome by grim memories. The Hylar had once been the proudest of dwar-ven clans, unchallenged rulers of mighty Thorbardin. They had been driven from their ancestral home during the past summer, victims of the treachery of dark dwarves. As if the traitorous attack of their neighboring clans wasn’t enough, they had suffered an influx of demon creatures from Chaos that had wracked their home with unprecedented violence. Now these refugees were the only survivors of Clan Hylar. Their city was a ruin. No family had been left unscathed by the devastation-in fact each of the three leaders debating what to do on the bridge had lost a father in the brutal battles against dark dwarves and Chaos beasts. Tarn couldn’t help feeling a twinge of shame as he thought how far his people had fallen. He knew there were worse dangers that loomed ahead, and he wondered if he was capable of coping with the obstacles.
“One day we will go back,” he said, speaking to himself as much as to his two companions. “That’s a promise. . to you, to all of us.”
“For now, let’s see if we can get across that bridge,” Belicia said, bringing their attention back to the present.
“Barz?” asked Tarn, looking back to the multitude of mountain dwarves resting on either side of the road.
“I’ll bring ‘em up,” the burly warrior muttered. “We’ll be ready to rush the bridge if they show any signs of stupidity.”
“Wait until I give the word,” Tarn said. He was grateful for Barzack’s competence, a useful attribute in this increasingly problematic world, but frequently found his bellicose nature a challenge to reasonable authority.
The black-bearded warrior shouted at the main body, and the mountain dwarves once again fell into line. The sturdiest warriors took the front positions, though a large detachment of armed Hylar brought up the rear of the band to guard against surprise. Tarn and Belicia led the large column across the crest of the ridge and down the road toward the village. They saw immediately that the sleepy appearance of the hill dwarf community was deceptive. In plain view a troop of armed warriors appeared from a squat building and marched forth to straddle the bridge.