"Their leader is." Jeron nodded. "That must be your old chieftain's son, the one who disappeared. Derkin. Who else could it be?"

"One of our people heard the name Derkin mentioned," a trader offered. "But the name that is most commonly used for their leader is Hammerhand."

"Tell us the rest," Jeron said, leaning forward, bright-eyed. In addition to being crafty merchants, his corps of traders were among the best spies in the dwarven realm, or maybe in the world.

The answer disappointed him though. "That's about all there is." The chief trader shrugged. "They showed us what they offer, told us what they want, and named their leader. Hammerhand. By observation, we learned that there are at least nine thousand in their party, and many carry healed battle wounds. They have seen combat. Also, some carry brands-the way humans sometimes mark slaves-and the marks of whips. Most of them speak with a Neidar accent, though the accents vary. They seem to be from all over."

"Nomadic dwarves?" Trom Thule muttered.

'They aren't nomads." The trader corrected him. "They carry no looms, anvils, or hearth-irons. That-and the grain, leathers, and woodcrafts they bring-indicates that they have a permanent base somewhere. There are women among them, as well, but we saw very few children.

"They have choice leathers, fine fabrics, and excellent wooden instruments, but the metal goods of their own crafting are of crude iron, copper, bronze, and brass. Everything we saw made of steel was obviously of human crafting, modified to suit dwarves.

"With one exception," another trader reminded him.

"Oh, yes. One exception. Their leader's armor- Hammerhand's-is of dwarven craft, and of the finest quality… though its design is very old." The chief trader paused, then shrugged. "We weren't able to get much information beyond that. I've never seen such close-mouthed people in my life."

A runner from the gatehouse appeared at the door of the chamber, looked inside, then entered. "The drums," he said, "those drums in the valley, they said bring the message here."

"Here?" Dunbarth frowned. 'To this chamber?"

"Aye." The runner nodded. "Those drums said to come to this chamber, and tell the Council of Thanes to assemble tomorrow in the Great Hall, to meet with Hammerhand."

"Rust!" Jeron Redleather scowled. "Now how would those people out there know exactly where we would be, right now?"

'The drums said to say," the runner said, "that Hammerhand will speak with you tomorrow."

The assembled chiefs exchanged glances. "Let a signal be returned then," Dunbarth said. "Say that Hammerhand may enter Thorbardin at dawn."

"But only with ceremonial escort," Swing Basto grumped. "We don't want a lot of strangers running loose in Thorbardin."

"I shall assign the best guards to them," Dunbarth agreed, annoyed as usual by the Theiwar's sullen manner. "Jeron, your son's company is available. I'll assign them."

Thorbardin

Drums thundered at first dawn, and the dwarf called hammerhand strode up the west ramp of Northgate with his "ceremonial" escort-ten burly, battle-hardened veterans in red-and-gray draped armor, all carrying sturdy shields and good swords that bore the nicks and scratches of enthusiastic use, and all with axes slung at their shoulders. The twelfth member of the group was an old, one-armed dwarf in leathers and linens. A reed basket slung from his shoulder bulged with rolled scrolls, and dagger hilts were visible at his belted kilt, the tops of both his boots, and the collar of his gray cape.

With the others following closely, the scarlet-cloaked Hammerhand strode along the gateway's wide, walled ledge to the very center of the massive, steel-clad gate. The great plug, a solid wall of stone sheathed in time-darkened steel, was patterned all over its surface with the small dents, scratches, and tool marks of those who, over the centuries, had tried in vain to get through it. Like its twin on the south face of the mountain, many miles away, Northgate was a monument to the stubborn refusal of the mountain dwarves to be troubled by outsiders.

The one-armed old dwarf peered closely at the mute steel of the gate and pursed his lips, an expression that made his beard stand out before his face. "I haven't seen this gate in eighty years," he noted, "but it hasn't changed. Its face reads like a testament to the futility of invasion."

"More like a monument to the stone-headed stubbornness of those within," Hammerhand growled. Loosing his hammer-loop from a powerful shoulder, he paused, glancing at the eastern sky. "Has that dratted girl been found yet, Calan?"

"Not yet." The graybeard shook his head. "Nobody's seen her since yesterday, right after you came back from your scouting." He lowered his voice, stepping close. "You realize she saw you put away that invisibility cloak, don't you? She watches you every minute, if seems. It's a wonder you have any secrets from her at all."

"I'm not sure I do," Hammerhand growled. "Well, she's probably hiding somewhere, pouting. Maybe I should have been a bit gentler yesterday when I told her she couldn't come with us this morning."

"She certainly has a mind of her own," Calan agreed. As the younger dwarf had done before, he glanced at the eastern sky. Patterns of dawn light painted the distant clouds. The sun would be up soon. "It's full dawn," he noted. "Time to go calling."

Hammerhand nodded. Raising his hammer, he delivered a single, imperious blow to the time-darkened surface of the huge gate, then stepped back. Several seconds passed, then the gate grated in its frame and slid slowly inward, backing away from those waiting on the ledge. It cleared several feet of steel framing, then receded a few inches farther and stopped. From both sides, eyes peered through the crack. A suspicious voice called, "Identify yourself!"

Without looking aside, the red-cloak stepped forward and struck the stopped gate another ringing blow. "I'm Hammerhand!" he stated, his voice deep, commanding, and loud enough to be heard by anyone in the gatehouse beyond. "I come to meet with the Council of Thanes. Open up!"

"How do we know you're him?" the same voice queried, sounding argumentative.

The old, one-armed dwarf stepped up beside Hammer-hand to growl, "Open this gate or we'll make a new gate of our own! We're coming in."

From the crack at the other side of the gate, another voice-a voice of authority-commanded, "Open the berusted gate, you imbeciles! We've got our orders, and that's the one we're supposed to let in."

"The rest of 'em, too?" the first voice asked suspiciously.

"Stop arguing and open the gate! It's all right!"

There was muttering from the cracks, then the huge gate began moving again, receding into its shadowed gatehouse. The dwarves on the ledge waited in stony silence until it was fully open, withdrawn twenty feet into its housing. Then the one with the scarlet cloak put away his hammer, growled an ironic 'Thank you," and stepped forward, followed by his escorts.

Within the gatehouse, they filed around the massive gate, some of them pausing momentarily to gape at the sheer size of the steel-sheathed stone plug and the huge, milled auger behind it. But the one called Hammerhand and the old one-arm barely glanced at the huge mechanics of the gatehouse and strode on, while the rest hurried to follow. Gatekeepers and surly-looking guards stepped back as they passed, and a gold-bearded young Daewar with the insignia of a Home Guards officer fell into step beside Hammerhand. "I'm Luster," he said amiably. "Luster Redleather. I'll show you the way to the Great Hall."

"I know the way," Hammerhand rasped, then eased his tone slightly as he glanced at the Daewar. "Luster Red-leather? Are you Jeron Redleather's son?"