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.

Inside, the merchants wandered off toward their cities and their shops, each accompanied by his band of hired armsmen. No street, way, or tunnel in Thorbardin could be considered entirely safe. Ambushers often lurked in shadows, waiting for a chance to attack some feud-enemy or anyone else of that enemy's clan.

The appointed traders hurried to where Jeron Red-leather awaited their reports. A delved chamber near Northgate that usually served as a storage barn had been hastily refurnished the night before as a situational headquarters.

The Daewar leader generally was in charge of all matters involving commerce, just as the Hylar leader was conceded to be the person in charge of policing and defense. Surprisingly, though, the traders found almost the entire Council of Thanes awaiting them. Dunbarth Ironthumb of the Hylar was there, as were Swing Basto of the Theiwar, Trom Thule of the Klar, and even Crag Shade-eye of the Daergar. The only missing member of the Council was Grimble I, Highbulp of Clan Aghar, but that was no surprise. Not for a long time had anyone seen the gully dwarf leader or, for that matter, any of his tribe. During unsettled times, the Aghar tended to disappear.

The traders presented their lists and reports to the assembled leaders. The wares brought by the strangers were indeed valuable and would greatly benefit Thorbardin. And what the strangers demanded in trade was steel.

"Steel?" Swing Basto rasped. "Just… steel?"

"Forged steel," the warden of trade noted, poring over notes and enscrollments. "They cite some types of tools and utensils that they will accept, but mostly they ask for armor and weapons. Hammers, axes, swords, knives, darts, javelin-points, shields, helms, a wide assortment of armor-"

"As we suspected," Jeron Redleather interrupted. "Those people have not had access to smelters or to the fine forges and metalshops we have here."

"But they certainly know about us," Dunbarth pointed out. "They seem to know exactly what goods we most need and exactly what we can best produce for trade. They are very familiar with Thorbardin."