Most of the men were armed, and dozens of them were mounted, riding guard on the train. Never in memory had a Balladine caravan been seriously threatened. Sometimes thieves would try to slip into a night camp to filch whatever they could find, and now and then a wandering band of nomads might shadow the train for a day or so, but a caravan in strength was a formidable company, and there had never been an attack. But now Bram Talien was apprehensive.
All through the land, it seemed, things were changing. Just in the past year, strangers had come among them in Chandera, and it seemed to Bram that among his own people — the subjects of Riffin Two-Tree the Wise — moods had shifted. There was talk of Chandera being “poor,” and talk of fortune hunting. It was disturbing. Sometimes Bram felt as though some Chanderans were turning from the old ways and looking in strange, new directions. A sullen, angry discontent was spreading where before had been contentment.
And now there was the more immediate concern — the strangers in the distance, who clung to the caravan route as though the caravan were a flock of sheep being herded. The scouts reported large groups of people — strangers all — flanking and paralleling them, and hardly an hour passed that there were not people on the hilltops watching them.
Bram Talien had told Cullom Hammerstand’s dwarven agents about the strangers on Chandera land and of his concerns. It was common for the chiefs of trade to share such information prior to Balladine. But now, two days out from Riffin Two-Tree’s village, he realized that there were far more strangers in the land than he had known. They seemed to be everywhere — wild-looking, oddly dressed men who might have been assembled from dozens of different tribes — and the only certain thing about them was that they were all armed.
The land was full of movers these days, it seemed. Refugees from the south brought tales of horror, of dragons a’wing over Silvanesti, of dragonfear and dragonfire and awful magics which spread like sand on the winds: trees that danced and captured spirits, bogs that erupted vile acids, stones that exploded, and lightnings that crackled through the forests to find and strike some living thing.
How many dragons were there? Some said one or two, some said hundreds. Personally, Bram Talien doubted that any of the travelers had seen more than a few dragons, if any at all, but that did not diminish his concerns. One dragon alone would be enough to start panic and breed mass migrations.
The stories meshed in some way with the strange disappearance of elves from the realms of the eastern Khalkists. Elven parties had been common in past times. They had crossed Chandera now and then in their journeys and had shared fires with Chanderan herdsmen and patrols.
Often, in olden times, elves had even come to the dwarves’ Balladine, and the goods they brought to trade were much coveted.
But it had been several seasons now since Bram Talien had even seen an elf, though Riffin Two-Tree’s scouts had recently reported large numbers of what looked like western elves skirting the mountains south of Bloten, eastward-bound … eastward, toward Silvanesti.
Something was going on in the south, and the results in these lands were bands of migrants, uprooted tribes moving from where they had been to wherever they were going. But there was something different about the people who now flanked the Chanderan caravan. These did not look like refugees. They looked more like mercenaries.
Spurring his chestnut pony, Bram Talien rode forward along the plodding line of the caravan, feeling the wind in his beard as the horse ran. Though only half the size of the great, gold-and-white horses of Thorin, the chestnut was a good mount, as fast and strong as any in Chandera, and it was the trademaster’s favorite.
Forward of the camp carts, near the front of the train, eight high-sided wagons rolled along, each drawn by a double string of oxen. Bram slowed, casting a careful eye over the wagons and their teams and rigging. Here was the special commodity with which he hoped to gain trade concessions from Cullom Hammerstand. In the high ranges on the eastern perimeter of Chandera, diggers had found a large deposit of the shiny, black firestone that the dwarves used to smelt iron and make their steel.
Cullom Hammerstand would do everything in his power to try to get the firestone for a low price. Bram smiled faintly, imagining the posturings and hand-wringing the wily dwarf would go through, trying to trade him down. Chandera would see a handsome profit this year at Balladine.
Some of the drivers and crewmen tending the high wagons turned to watch the trademaster pass, and one or two waved.
He waved back. “Tend your loads well,” he called. “This year we will out-trade the dwarves of Thorin.”
“We’ll get this stuff there, Trademaster,” a man called, “but it’s your task to see we get a good price for it.”
Bram nodded and started ahead again, then frowned as another voice came to him on the wind — another man, speaking to his companions. “If we had the dwarves’ smelters and forges, we’d have no need to trade with them,” the voice said angrily. “If we had Thorin, we’d make our own steel, and high time we did. Those selfish, bit-pinching dinks have held Thorin too long, as I see it.”
Bram looked around, but whoever had spoken had turned away, and the others looked away as well. … Were they embarrassed at the words? Or did some among them agree?
It was troubling.
At the head of the caravan, Bram pulled up alongside Riffin Two-Tree, chief of the Chanderans. The chief rode a white horse and carried sword and shield as he always did when afield. With his iron-gray beard and studded helmet, his shoulders bulging against the seams of his leather-and-bronze coat, Riffin Two-Tree looked as fierce and formidable as he always had, until one approached very closely. Then the fading color of his cheeks, the slight moistness of his crinkled eyes, were a reminder that this man had been chief for more than fifty years, and was older — despite his stamina — than most humans ever expected to be.
“News from ahead?” the trademaster asked.
Riffin glanced around at Bram, his old eyes troubled. “We’ll be at the meadows below Thorin by nightfall,” he said, “but the scouts say the encampment is full — people everywhere.”
“The Golash caravan is there ahead of us?”
“Not Golash.” The old chief shook his head. “Garr Lanfel’s train is still a day away. These are others — hundreds of armed men, like those who flank us in the hills. The scouts say their encampments fill half the valley already, with more arriving by the hour. And they carry no trade goods of any kind.”
Bram Talien frowned. “What does it mean, my chief? What is happening?”
“It could mean trouble for the dwarves of Thorin,” Riffin Two-Tree said. “It has the look of an invasion, and if we’re not careful we could find ourselves caught up in it.”
“Then we should stay back,” Bram suggested. “Thorin is Chandera’s friend. We have no argument with the dwarves.”
Riffin turned to look at him. “Are you sure, Bram? You have heard the talk, just as I have.”
“Some of our people are discontented,” Bram agreed. “It comes of jealousy, I think.”
“I think it is more,” Riffin rasped. “I think there are those among us who are doing their best to spread hatred toward the dwarves.”
“But why?”
“To serve someone’s purpose, obviously. But you are right, Bram. We will hold back until we know what is going on. I want no part in any plot against Colin Stonetooth’s people … for more reasons than one.”
Bram nodded. “They are our friends.”
“Yes, they are our friends. But even if they weren’t, I’d want no part of war with Thorin. Don’t ever underestimate the dwarves, Bram. They would be a formidable enemy.”