Dan Parkinson - Dwarven Nations 01 - The Covenant of the Forge

To Randy and Jenny Scott

DRAGONLANCE® Saga Dwarven Nations

Volume One

The Covenant of the Forge

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely

coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of theUnited States of America . Any reproduction or

other unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express

written permission of TSR, Inc.

Random House and its affiliate companies have worldwide distribution rights in the book trade for

English language products of TSR, Inc.

Distributed to the book and hobby trade in theUnited Kingdom by TSR, Lid. Distributed lo the toy and

hobby trade by regional distributors. Cover art by Tim Hildebrandt. Interior art by Valerie Valusek.

DRAGONLANCE and GEN CON are registered trademarks owned by TSR, Inc. The TSR logo is a

trademark owned by TSR, Inc.

First Printing: February 1993

Printed in the United Stales ofAmerica .

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-61078

987654321 ISBN: 1-56076-558-5

With special thanks to Pat McGilligan for his patience, to Harold Johnson for sharing his knowledge

of the dwarves of Krynn, and to Sue Weinlein for a touch of sunshine.

TSR, Inc.P.O. Box 756Lake Geneva,WI53147U.S.A.

TSR, Ltd.

120 Church End, Cherry Hinton

CambridgeCB1 3LB

United Kingdom

eveRBAR&IM

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Prologue

A 6Umpsc of Prophecy

€xccpt for tb« dragons, tt»bo sprang from the roorlo itself, tb< prst people of Krynn were the elves.

This was a conclusion reached by Mistral Thrax early in his search for certainties among the complexities

of an uncertain world.

Few would recall his early pronouncements regarding the sequence of origins, because in those days

Mistral Thrax was considered to be full of strong ale and vagaries, and because few among the people of

the high mountains really cared about such things as who came first and why. Such thoughts were for the

very old, who had nothing better to do than think them. Even then, when he began his studies of lore after

being maimed in a rockfall, Mistral Thrax was more than two hundred years of age.

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Thus little note was made of his reckonings. But the logic of his conclusions satisfied Mistral Thrax and

led him onward in his studies.

The elves, he believed, were the first attempts of the gods—particularly of Reorx the Life-Giver—to

create people of their own design upon the world which before that time had only its own creatures, the

dragons, and the animals which were their prey.

So the gods discussed it and created the elves. The elves were beautiful, Mistral Thrax admitted, in an

elvish way, but it was his belief that the gods grew disappointed after a time because the elves—being

elves—were essentially decorative but not particularly functional. They were content simply to live long

lives and to exist. They did nothing of real value, in the opinion of Mistral Thrax. In all his studies, the old

dwarf found only one thing that the elves had done that was worthy of note. They had claimed the forests

of Silvanesti as their home, thereby upsetting the dragons, many of whom considered Silvanesti as their

own.

This, according to Mistral Thrax, was why so much of history was punctuated by periodic skirmishes

and at least one full-scale war, starting with dragon attacks against the elves.

In their concern for proper balance, the gods tried again. This time, they created the ogres. And again,

as time passed, they grew disappointed. The ogres had been a promising race—though unimaginative

and boring—but with time they began to deteriorate in their culture and eventually they became the ogres

of the present—great sullen, surly brutes who were at best a nuisance and could be a real threat.

Various gods, Mistral Thrax decided, had then tried their hands at designing a better kind of people.

Which gods might have originated such monstrosities as goblins and minotaurs and the like was a

question Mistral Thrax ignored, on the assumption that those particular gods were probably ashamed of

what they had done, and it was not his business to lay blame.

Cbc CopcrtAnt of the

But Reorx the Life-Giver seemed to have recognized the problems besetting his world and turned his full

attention to designing the perfect race of people. As Mistral Thrax viewed it, Reorx must have created

humans next, using the basic model of the elves but instilling within the new creatures great energies,

driven by the realization of short life spans. Again, in Mistral's opinion, it was a good try but not yet

perfect. Humans proved to be far too chaotic a race for Reorx's taste, he was sure, and somehow even

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managed to so distort their basic strengths that some of them turned into gnomes and, possibly, even

kender (though there was some evidence, Mistral conceded, that kender might have originated from

some unexpected deviation among the elves).

His intention and his vow — in his two hundredth year — had been to devote the rest of his life to the

study of lore. Thus, a hundred years later, being still alive, he was still at it. Copious armloads of scrolls

did Mistral Thrax produce through those years, dwelling on the mysteries of the world and dealing with

them one by one, using good, dwarven logic. But the thread through all of his theories was that Reorx,

once determined to create the proper race of people, did not stop trying until he had done so.

The true race — the masterpiece of the life-giver — was all that any god could have wanted in a chosen

people. Not as tall and awkward as humans, and neither as short-lived as humans nor as indecently

long-lived as elves, the new race was equipped with all the skills people needed. They made fine tools

and excelled in using them. Sturdy and strong of limb, they could hew stone as other races might hew soft

wood. They had the imagination and inventiveness that ogres lacked, the sense of progress and stubborn

determination that elves lacked, and the continuity of purpose that humans lacked.

Through trial and error, Reorx in his wisdom had finally created the proper people for the world of

Krynn — the race of dwarves. Legends held that Reorx was so pleased with his best people that,

originally, he named them all Smith,

nations

though that proved so confusing that they gave themselves other personal names as needed, and

eventually none of them—so far as Mistral Thrax knew—were named Smith.

Thus did Mistral Thrax clarify the origin of the dwarven race, for any who cared to consider it.

From there, being now more than three hundred years old and still alive, he went on to summarize the

history of the world to date.

The dwarves in the early times had scattered over the face of the land, seeking the highest places, and

tribes had become separated. There were legends of a place called Kal-Thax, where many had settled,

and maybe other such places as well, but the dwarves of Mistral Thrax's acquaintance—the Calnar—had

all wound up in the realm of Thorin and had been there for a very long time.

Fact and legend became very confused on many points, but some things were clear:

—The race of humans had spread and multiplied until no one knew who or where they all were.

—The race of elves had clung to the forests of Silvanesti through a dozen dragon sieges and one

full-scale war, though some elves had migrated to the west and now lived somewhere else.

—There were still ogres here and there, including a large colony to the south of Thorin, at a place called

Bloten. The original architecture of Thorin was of ogre design, but had been abandoned long ago, and

after a few skirmishes with the Calnar, the ogres tended nowadays to leave the dwarves alone.

—And somewhere in the now-distant past—at least four hundred years ago, by the reckoning of Mistral

Thrax— magic had been introduced upon Krynn. Some said that Reorx himself had done it, led astray

by other gods. Some said magic came in the form of a gray gemstone that descended upon the world and

was captured for a time by humans, then released by gnomes. There was even a legend of a brave and

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tragic dwarven fisherman who had

the Copetunt of the

stood in the path of the source of magic and had tried to stop it by knocking it down with his spear.

But wherever it came from, magic had come upon Krynn, and for the dwarves it was the ultimate

abomination — a power without logic, a force without the rational, comfortable rules of stone and metal,

light and dark, moons and mountains, and the rhythm of hammers and drums.

The dwarves wanted no part of magic, and they ignored it. But its effects were felt.

This latest dragon war in distant Silvanesti, for example, was far worse than the any of the previous

disputes there. This time, the dragons had attacked using magic, and the results were widespread. Little

was known in Thorin about the war itself, except that as the elves clung to their forest and fought back,

the war spread to other realms. Everywhere now, throughout the known lands, great migrations were

under way, and the dwarves and their neighbors were much concerned. Evil was afoot, and everyone

knew it.

On a spring evening, when the light from the sun tunnels began to dim, Mistral Thrax pondered over his

scrolls and what they all might mean. Within the threads of fact and legend which he attempted to weave

— as one might weave a tapestry of many colors in order to see the pictures it would reveal — were

puzzling, disturbing hints of more to come. Mistral Thrax had attempted to capture history, and in

grasping it realized that it went both ways — back through time to what had been and forward somehow

to hint at what might yet be. And not all of what he saw there pleased him.

He sensed that change was at hand — a change that would be painful for all of his people. He sensed

that, somehow, magic might touch the lives of the Calnar, and that nothing would ever again be the same.

High-dwellers, their human neighbors called the Calnar. People of the high peaks. In the dwarven

manner of speech, the word for that was Hylar, and somehow that

t>n>.\rt>cn nations

word held special meaning in the threads leading toward the future.

That, and a tiny piece of legend he had found, which seemed to fit nothing in the past and therefore

tasted prophetic — a legend that somewhere, some time, someone very important was to be named

Damon. That, the legend said, would be the name of the Father of Kings.

As he had so many times in the past when pondering such things, Mistral Thrax sighed and rubbed hard

old hands against his aching skull. Then he put away his scrolls, picked up his crutch, and turned down

the wick of his lamp. It was a long walk from his cubicle to Lobard's establishment on the main

concourse, but at the end of the walk little comforts awaited him, as they did each evening — a mug of

good ale, pot meat, and a half loaf of rich Calnar bread.

Never in all the years he had been searching had Mistral Thrax found real answers to his questions in the

ale at Lobard's, but it eased his aches and did no harm.

Cbc Drums Of Cborin

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The Dwarven Realm ofThorinKhalkistMountains

Century of Wind

Decade of Oak

Year of Iron

Jitst Blood

Slefcgc Cn>o-$ires cisci> back on the reins AS tb« patrol enteredCrevicePass , and Piquin responded.

The big horse slowed his mile-eating trot to a fast walk, then slowed again as the silver bit on his tongue

retained its slight pressure. The oiled saddle on his back creaked softly, and the fine steel mesh of his

skirt whispered with the shift.

Behind Sledge Two-Fires, the others also slowed, turning bright-helmed heads as they studied the rising

slopes on either side of the trail. Just ahead, the slopes closed in and became the steep, brushy cliffs that

gave the pass its name. Sledge Two-Fires glanced back the way they had come. Late sunlight slanted

into the pass, and shadows were climbing the backtrail as the sun lowered toward the

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jagged peaks of the Suncradles in the distance.

Two hours of daylight remained, time enough to make it throughCrevicePass and make night camp on

the far side, where the sugar fields began. From there, in evening, the lights of Thorin would be visible

across theHammersongValley . Enough daylight remained, providing the ride through the narrow pass

was uneventful. But Sledge Two-Fires felt the hackles rising beneath his helmet and raised himself high in

his tall saddle to peer around, squinting and frowning. Something seemed out of place—something that

for a long moment he could not identify, then did. It was too quiet. On a bright midsummer evening like

this, with the sun above the Suncradles by the width of a fist, there should be sounds in the mountain

wilds. There should be eve-hawks wheeling and whistling above and cliff pigeons homing from the fields.

There should be squirrels a-chatter and rabbits scurrying through the brush—a whole chorus of muted

wilderness sounds.

But there was nothing. It was as though the world had gone silent, and the silence gave the closing cliffs

ahead an ominous feeling.

Sledge had never cared forCrevicePass. The place was perfect for ambush, a narrow defile where

enemies could lurk unseen above the trail and attack at will. Once, long ago, the Calnar themselves had

used it so. Still, not since those long-ago times had such a thing as ambush ever happened to a Thorin

border patrol.

After all, Sledge thought, who was there now to make an ambush? Ogres? One or two of the brutes

might conceive of such a thing, but despite their size and ferocity, no one or two ogres would be a match

for a mounted, armored dwarven patrol, and even the most vicious-tempered ogre would realize that.

Humans, then? There were humans everywhere these days, more all the time, it seemed. Thorin was

flanked by human realms north and south, but not in the memory of anyone had there been serious

conflict with Golash and Chandera. The people of those regions depended upon the dwarves of Thorin

for many of

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Chc CopciiAnt of the

their commodities, just as the dwarves depended upon the humans for trade.

Wild humans? There were those, too, of course — traveling bands of nomads, occasional clots of

fugitives from some distant conflict or another. Sledge and his patrol had seen bands of humans in the

distance during the weeks of their patrol — more, it seemed, than ever before. But the wanderers had

kept their distance, and none seemed to pose any real threat. It was following and observing one such

group that had caused the patrol to be here now, miles north of the usual route. Normally, returning

patrols crossed the ridge atChandera Road , notCrevicePass.

Elves, then? All the elves that Sledge knew about were far away to the southeast, beyond the Khalkists.

In times past, a few of them had visited Thorin for Balladine, but not in recent years. The elves had their

hands full, it was said, fighting dragons for control of their beloved forests. Besides, there had never been

conflict between the elves and the Calnar. They were both intelligent races and had no reason to fight.

Still, a sense of foreboding hung about Sledge, seeming to come from the cleft ahead. It made his beard

twitch.

Agate Coalglow and Pierce Shard had eased their mounts forward to flank their leader. Now Agate

noticed the same thing that Sledge had noted a moment before. "It's quiet," the split-bearded dwarf said.

"No birds."

"None," Sledge agreed. "There may be someone in the Crevice."

"No sign of anyone," Pierce said, studying the rising banks.

"Probably nothing," the leader admitted. "I'm just feeling hunchy. If there were trouble, our scout would

have seen it and reported back."

"Not much that quick-eyed Dalin's fikely to miss," Agate nodded. "He's probably waiting for us right

now at the sugar fields. You have travel nerves, Sledge. It'll do us all good to get back home. Let

somebody else do border patrol next shift."

TT

nations

Sledge took one more hard look at the crevice ahead and shrugged. "You're right. Travel nerves." He

raised his hand and swept it forward. "By twos!" he called. "Tomorrow we'll be in Thorin Keep!"

Fiquin needed only the lightest heel-tap to pick up his long-legged gate, and the patrol trotted up the

incline as the crevice walls grew around them. The sun now was directly behind, and their long shadows

stretched out ahead, into the silent pass.

A mile went by, silently except for the echoes of their horses' shod hooves and the occasional rattle of

swords in their bucklers. Another mile, and the crest of the trail was in sight—the narrowest part of the

defile, where stepped stone walls stood above the strewn floor like ramparts, and clear sky shone

between them. From there, the pass would widen again, and the trail would be downhill all the way to the

outer ford, just above the roaring canyon where theBoneRiver joined the Hammersong.

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Tomorrow they would cross the two rivers, with Thorin in sight. Tomorrow night they would sleep in

their own secure beds.

Nearing the crest, the dwarves felt a surge of relief. Sledge's mood had touched them all, and there had

been tension in the climb. But now the crest was just ahead, and beyond was the open sky where crevice

walls slanted away. The sky of Thorin. They were past the worst of the defile, and nothing had

happened.

"I'll pay for a keg of Lobard's best ale tomorrow evening," Agate Coalglow offered, turning to glance at

those behind him. "As soon as Sledge has given our report to Willen Ironmaul, I promise it. One full keg.

After that it's up to someone else to ease our patrol aches."

"I'll buy the second keg," Pierce Shard offered, "if that's the sort of ease you have in mind."

"I doubt if that's it," someone in the ranks chuckled. "Agate finds more comfort in the bright eyes of Lona

Anvil's-Cap these days than any of Lobard's ale can match."

12

Die Coociunt of the

"Mind your own bright eyes, and keep them sharp," Agate snapped. "We're not out of this crack yet."

At the very top of the trail's crest, Sledge Two-Fires scanned the towering banks above, then glanced

down as Piquin snorted. The dwarf's eyes went wide, and he hauled on the reins. "Arms!" he bellowed.

"Shields up! It's a trap!"

Just ahead, where the trail began its downward slope, lay two still forms. Dalin Ironbar would scout for

no more patrols. He was dead. A few feet away lay the body of his horse, a broken javelin protruding

from its ribs.

"Eyes high!" Sledge shouted. "Defend!"

But it was too late. Even as the word "defend" left his lips, an arrow flew from above to thud into his

exposed throat and downward into his chest.

In an instant, the air sang with the whines of arrows and bolts, the luffing whisper of thrown spears, and

the clatter of flung stones.

Agate Coalglow saw his leader fall and raised his own oval shield just in time to deflect a deadly arrow.

He dodged another, and a third buried its ripping head in his thigh just below his buckler. Two arrows

protruded from his horse's neck, and Agate flung himself from the saddle as the big animal began to pitch

and dance, blind with pain. He Tit hard on the stony trail, rolled, and slid behind a fallen boulder as other

arrows sought him, whining down from the steep slopes above.

There were men up there. Where moments ago there had been nothing, now the slopes were alive with

humans springing from hiding. A human voice, harsh and commanding, shouted, "Block that trail! Don't

let any of them escape! Kill the dwarves! Kill them all!"

Near at hand, Agate heard a familiar whirring sound and glanced around. Pierce Shard was still in his

saddle, his shield dancing here and there as his horse spun and pivoted. Pierce was blocking bolts

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frantically, spinning his mesh sling while desperate eyes roved the slopes above. He found a target, let the

sling fly, and a fist-sized stone

——

DRA6Oft£AnC€ Dw&nwn nations

whistled upward. Above, someone screamed, and a rough-bearded human pitched outward from the

brushy face of the cliff to land in a sprawl not a dozen feet from where Agate huddled.

The pain in his thigh was excruciating, but Agate gritted his teeth, cleared his misted eyes, and drew his

steel sword. He broke off the shaft standing from his thigh and got to his feet. Deflecting an arrow with

his gauntlet, he staggered slightly and roared a war cry. Then, crouching, his sturdy legs pumping, he

headed up the nearest slope, directly into the face of the attack.

His charge caught some of the humans off guard. Arrows whisked past him, and then he was on a

narrow ledge in the midst of a gang of them, and his sword flew and danced in silver arcs that abruptly

turned bright red. A human fell from the ledge, then another and another as the raging dwarf continued his

charge, right into the thick of them.

Six ambushers fell from that ledge, their blood spraying in the light of the setting sun, before one of them

got behind Agate Coalglow and put a spear through his heart. Even then, with the spearhead thrusting

from his chest, Agate managed one more cut with his dripping sword, and a severed human hand

dropped into the shadows below.

He staggered then, dropping his sword and sinking to his knees. Dimly, he heard the sounds of combat

echoing back and back in the narrow crevice. Some of the Calnar, somewhere, were still fighting, making

the ambush as costly as they could for the humans who had sprung it. But there was no chance, and

Agate knew that as his world went dark. Too many humans! Fifty or more of them, at least. Maybe a

hundred, and only fourteen dwarves—or whatever number remained now.

"Thorin!" he tried to whisper as blood rushed from his mouth. "Thorin-Dwarfhome! Thorin-Everbardin .

.. hope and comfort, welcome this one home...."

Below, in the bottom ofCrevicePass , shadows crept

Ox CoDonAnt of tbc

across a tumble of carnage. Here a dwarf crouched behind his dead horse, still fending off attackers.

There, another — blood dripping from many cuts — used his shield as a weapon of attack in a last effort

to regain his fallen sword.

But it was over now, as howling humans boiled into the narrow pass to complete the work of slaughter.

The last of the Calnar to die was a fierce young defender named Tap Bronzeplate. As the final arrow

pierced him, he tried to say the words that Agate Coalglow had whispered. But only some of them got

past his lips.

"Thorin," he gasped. "Thorin-Everbardin!"

15

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Song of the Drums

on tbc outer sb«lt>es of Chorin, lusb mcAOon>s cronmcd tb« gigantic, stair-step terraces carved into

the slopes of soaring mountainsides. Vast fields of grain formed curved mosaics, vivid patterns of color in

the late morning sunlight cresting saberlike peaks to the east. On the lower terraces, the fields were hues

of gold and deep red where early crops ripened. Above these were patterns of rich pastels, and higher

still—where the rising terraces flanked floral gardens—were greens as deep and rich as emeralds.

Here, more than anywhere else in the realm of Thorin, the landscape and the creature-works had the

look of ogre about them. Not like the brutish, dark lairs of the ogres who yet lurked among the wild

mountain passes, far

Iff

Cbe CotKtunt of the

beyond the neighboring lands of Thorin, Golash, and Chandera, but the solid, regimented design of

ancient times when the ogres — some said — had ruled all the lands of the Khalkists.

It was in the scope and breadth of the terracing, in the precise spacing of the rising ways between

terraces. Not in memory or certain lore had ogres dwelled here, and while ogres still were seen from time

to time — lurking on the distant slopes — they and their kind were not the original builders of Thorin.

The ogres now were primitive, often savage creatures, wild in their ways and in their surroundings. But

once there had been ogres of another kind. Ancient ancestors of the huge, brutish creatures of today,

those ogres of the distant past had hewn mountainsides to their liking and had delved their cold,

monotonous lairs into the very hearts of the peaks.

So said the wisest among the short, sturdy, energetic race that now occupied Thorin. This had once

been the home of ogres. But the ogres fell from power and lost their skills. Over time, what might once

have been a great civilization had deteriorated into savagery. What they left behind was theirs no more,

the ballads said. Delvings belong to those who live within them, who hold and improve them. Thorin

belonged now to the Calnar, by right of habitation and tradition.

Thorin now was Thorin-Everbardin, home of the Calnar.

On the outer shelves, the look of ancient ogre craft remained because the Calnar had found no need to

improve it. The vast, rich meadows ranking the slopes of the highest peaks of the Khalkists served the

purposes of the dwarves very nicely. Crops, flocks, and herds were rotated from level to level with the

seasons, an enterprise as bustling and busy as the foundries and crafters' halls within Thorin itself, deep in

the stone heart of the mountain. Not in memory had the Calnar — the people known to their neighbors of

other races simply as "the dwarves" — known famine.

17

Dn>An>en rations

Now midsummer's harvest was proceeding in the lower fields and among the orchards and vineyards

that flanked them. Now the drums had begun to speak on the sentinel crags above.

Colin Stonetooth, riding out from Thorin Keep to inspect the harvest, heard the talk of the drums and

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drew rein to look upward, knowing the distances would show him nothing of the drummers. Thorin was

vast, and they were far above and far away. Yet their drums floated the muted thunder of the Call to

Balladine on the bright air of morning, and the sound was good to hear.

Handil would be up there with them, of course. It was always Handil's great vibrar that spoke first,

setting the deep rhythm of the call. Colin Stonetooth squinted against the high sun, and his eyes sought the

monolith of the First Sentinel. There, at the top of that mighty spire, was where Handil would be. Though

he could not see him there, Colin Stonetooth envisioned his first son—strong and sturdy, his kilt rippling

around his knees, his dark hair and trimmed beard giving him a feral look as he slung the great,

iron-bound drum that was of his own Grafting. The vibrar, designed and built by Handil, was like no

other drum when it struck the first thunders of the Call to Balladine.

Thinking of his eldest son, Colin Stonetooth felt the play of emotions that Handil always aroused in him.

Though still young, Handil had the breadth of chest of a seasoned delver, shoulders like the knotted boles

of mountain pines, and powerful hands on arms that rippled with strength.

At three inches over five feet, Handil was not as tall as Willen Ironmaul, Thorin's captain of guards, but

nearly so, and his bearing was as imposing as his father's had ever been—erect and sturdy, powerfully

muscled, with the natural grace of a born rock-climber. His features were strong, chiseled planes in a

wide face framed by a mane of dark hair and back-swept whiskers, trimmed short in the Cal-nar fashion.

Solemn, thoughtful gray eyes set wide apart above high cheekbones seemed always to see the world and

all within it as objects of curiosity.

Is"

OK CoDciunt of the

Handil resembled his father, they said, and Colin Stone-tooth was pleased at the comparison, though he

could not see it himself.

Of all his sons, Colin Stonetooth thought, Handil was the one best equipped to become chief among the

Calnar. A natural leader — even in his early youth, Handil had always chosen his own course and others

had always followed — the young dwarf had an inborn skill with tools of any kind and a cool, thoughtful

manner in all that he did.

Yet Handil had never displayed the slightest interest in chiefdom. He seemed devoid of leadership

ambition, preferring instead his crafts, his tinkering and inventing, and — above all — the music of the

drums.

Since his early youth, Handil had been called Handil the Drum by all who knew him, and he seemed

perfectly content with the name.

Colin Stonetooth gazed upward, hearing the drum-talk grow in volume and complexity as more and

more drums joined in — the harvest song of the Calnar, rumbling and rippling among the peaks. Its rising

echoes drifted back to add texture to the call. The Call to Balladine it was, reaching out beyond the

peaks and the slopes, out toward the human realms of Golash and Chandera. The people there would

hear the song, and they would pack their goods and come. Within a week they would be arriving, and

their encampments would fill the valleys below Thorin. It was the custom of the Calnar, the midsummer

Balladine. And it had become the custom of their human neighbors, as well.

It would be a time of trading, of exchanging news and views, of wrangling over borders and trading

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Dan Parkinson - Dwarven Nations 01 - The Covenant of the Forge

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