"Hush!" Dunbarth raised a commanding hand. "Listen!"

Out in the valley, the entire caravan of strangers was now across the little stream and approaching at a stately, steady pace. The soft drum still throbbed its haunting rhythm, but it was louder now, as though mufflings had been removed. And another drum had joined its voice, adding a stirring counterpoint to the beat. As they listened, another drum joined in, and another, each adding a new tone and dimension to the growing sound.

"What is that?" Jeron rasped. "Are they saying something? Is it a signal?"

Before Dunbarth could answer, a gray-haired old Hylar hurried onto the ledge, glanced about, then pulled a sheet of rough paper and a graphite stick from his robe. Those around him were a bit surprised to see old Chane Lowen out and about at such an early hour, though as lore-keeper of Thorbardin, he generally came and went as he pleased. Listening intently, the old dwarf began making quick, strange marks on his paper, in time with the drumbeats. Jeron Redleather glanced over the newcomer's shoulder and scowled. He had never been able to decipher either the signals that the Hylar vibrars sent, or the odd, curled runes by which they were recorded.

"If they're talking," Dunbarth answered Jeron's question, "it's no drum language I recognize." He turned to the signal-master. "Chane, do you…?"

"Hush!" Chane rasped, frowning and scribbling.

For long minutes, the chant of the drums grew on the wind, while Chane Lowen scribbled its tones, rhythms, and nuances. Then he pulled an old, yellowed scroll from his robe and unrolled it. For a moment he held both papers before him, comparing them. Then he looked up, his old eyes bright with awe and excitement. "It is!" he said. "It truly is!"

"It is what?" Dunbarth prodded.

"Here, look at this!" Chane thrust the ancient scroll at him. "This has been handed down for centuries. It was among the scrolls of Mistral Thrax. It is from the old times, from the first Hylar. Or before. It is…" He cocked his head, listening. "I've studied this, but never heard it before. It has never been played in these mountains. But this scroll is what those drums are singing. Listen! It is truly beautiful."

"I agree." Dunbarth nodded. "If s pretty. But what is it?"

"A drum-song from long ago, from a place very far away. It was the song of summer solstice, there."

"Summer solstice?" Jeron Redleather cocked a bushy, golden brow. "But it is barely spring."

"The song was used to call assembly," the old Hylar continued. "It was the song of festivals and trading time. It was the Call to Balladine."

"Legends of ancient Thorin," Dunbarth mused. "Maybe there really was such a place."

"A trading call," Jeron studied the throng in the valley suspiciously. "Maybe they truly are here to trade. We'll see."

"Traders who march like an army?" Swing Basto growled. "And why would traders demand to meet with the Council of Thanes? It's obvious, those people intend to invade Thorbardin."

"In that case," Jeron assured him, "we'll do what we always do. We'll close the gates until they go away."

"Do what we always do," Dunbarth muttered. "Sometimes I wonder…" He didn't complete the thought, and Jeron Redleather only glanced at him and shrugged. Dunbarth could be moody sometimes, like all Hylar, and Jeron had heard him complain many times that the people of Thorbardin had lived within a shell so long that they were no better than turtles. In a way, Jeron agreed with him, but there wasn't much that could be done about it. The entire purpose of Thorbardin was its impregnability. The under-mountain fortress was created to give the dwarven thanes a secure, unassailable place where they could live safe from intrusion. In Thorbardin, the dwarves were safe from the outside world. Many of them had come, over the centuries, to feel that Thorbardin was the world, and that nothing outside mattered.

Like the Hylar leader, Jeron Redleather often regretted that it was so. People less secure and less secluded, he thought, might find other interests beyond simply eating, sleeping, squabbling, and holding grudges against one another.

Jeron felt a slight touch, as though someone's cloak had brushed him, and turned, but there was no one there. A moment later one of the guards on the west ramp hissed, started to draw his sword, then looked around in confusion. Dunbarth Ironthumb turned at the sound and called, "What's the matter over there?"

"Nothing, I guess," the guard said sheepishly. "I thought I saw something, but I guess I didn't."

"Well, what did you think you saw?"

"A face. Right in front of me, looking at me. But then it was gone."

"Ghosts," Jeron Redleather muttered.

Within an hour, the approaching throng of strangers was less than a mile away, and well into the meadowed valley between the slopes of Cloudseeker and Sky's End peaks. A growing crowd had gathered on the Northgate ledge, watching the strangers curiously and listening to the haunting music of the drums. The sun was high now, intensifying the bright colors of the panoply below, and the watchers could see things they had not seen before. Among the mounted units, only one dwarf in three or four wore metal armor, and the armor-though bright and well kept-was a motley assortment of types and designs, as though gathered from bazaars or collected on battlefields.

All of the strange dwarves, even the women and children among them, carried weapons. But some of their weapons were crudely crafted, as though made in haste, and many looked to be of human or elven design. "They have rough iron, but not much good steel," Jeron Red-leather noted. "Wherever they come from, their weavers and tanners have had materials to work with, but their metalworkers have had to settle for what they could find." He turned to the warden of trade. "Take note, Agate. Many of those pack animals carry bales of fine furs, and I'd wager those carts have some excellent fabrics in them."

"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."