It was their nature… his own and every other dwarf's. Given the chance, a dwarf would work. He would delve caverns, build roads, erect mighty structures, or dig tunnels. He would construct beautiful furniture, forge tools, carve toys, string beads, paint pictures, or carry things to the tops of mountains. He would raise crops, tend herds, and harvest forests. He would hammer and saw, pound and temper, shape and reshape objects. He would taste a stone, then carve it into a pillar, a statue, or a trinket. He would taste metal, then make something useful out of it. He would build monuments or fortresses, or make whistles from reeds. Whatever the work, any typical dwarf would dive into it with energy and enthusiasm… as long as he was doing it because he wanted to.

But dwarves without work turned quickly to their second love. They bickered and argued, and when the arguments became feuds they fought. Thorbardin was evidence of that. The mightiest fortress in the world had become a hotbed of petty bickering and useless feuds, because it had closed itself off from the outside world and gradually diminished its resources to the point that there was not enough ore coming in to keep the smelters running, not enough timber coming in to keep the wood-shops busy, not enough trade with the outside world to have any reason to produce much of anything. And as the work diminished, the fighting grew. It had been a revelation to some of those in the under-mountain fortress, he suspected, that as the forges were fired up to produce the goods the Chosen Ones requested, the feuding and street fighting in Thorbardin's cities had diminished by half. Those months of summer, he thought, with his people camped outside and the forges going inside, were probably the best months Thorbardin had seen in a century or more.

But now he put Thorbardin out of his mind and thought of his own people, the Chosen Ones. They called themselves that, they said, because Hammerhand had chosen them. Actually, Derkin knew as well as they did that it was the other way around. He had not chosen them, he had merely freed them. They had followed him, and others along the way had joined. It was they who had chosen him, as their leader.

Just as Tap Tolec and Vin the Shadow had chosen him so long ago, in the slave cell at Klanath Mines, so these thousands of others had chosen him. They chose to follow him, to do his bidding, because-like working and fighting-it was their nature to follow a leader, as long as he was a leader they had chosen, and as long as they were following because they wanted to.

Working and fighting. It was the nature of these people… of his people. Working or fighting, choosing and following, living and deserving to live in their own land, by their own design, free of intrusion and invasion by the Lord Kanes and the Emperor Quivalin Soths-by all the alien forces that made war, it seemed, throughout every land they touched.

'These are my people, and they deserve to live as they choose!" he muttered, then turned, slightly embarrassed, as a small hand closed on his own. Lost in his thoughts, he had wandered away from the old mine camp with its human-ordered wall. Now he found himself standing on a crested ridge on the mountainside, looking out over the pretty lake that had once served dwarven miners on dwarven soil, but now served no one at all.

Tap Tolec and the rest of the Ten were nearby, of course. They always followed him closely wherever he went. And standing beside him, looking up at him with concerned eyes, was Helta Graywood. Derkin had no idea how long she had been standing there with him, or following along after him.

Still holding his hand, she reached up and brushed his cheek with gentle fingers. "You're worrying about your people, aren't you?" she asked. "You're thinking that none of us might survive tomorrow, or next week, or next year. That we might go back to being slaves, or maybe just all die."

"I wasn't thinking any such thing," he growled, shaking his head stubbornly. "I was thinking that I'd better see that everybody has a job to do. Otherwise we'll never get that pass barricaded."

The girl's eyes held his, unwavering. "If you were just thinking about jobs and barricades," she asked quietly, "then why was there a tear on your cheek just now?"

"There was no tear!" he snapped. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tap Tolec and some others of the Ten look away quickly, as though embarrassed.

Helta nodded. 'They saw it, too," she said.

With a sniff and an angry cough, Derkin drew himself up harshly. "Well, you won't see another one there," he promised. "Kal-Thax requires sweat, and sometimes it demands blood. But it has no use for tears."

Back at the compound, Derkin found Calan Silvertoe waiting for him. "We'll have at least a week," the old Dae-war said. "But not more than two. Those horse soldiers who left here last night are out chasing barbarians. Des-paxas promises that they'll be…"

"Despaxas?" Derkin stared at him. "Your elf? Is he here?"

"He's not my elf!" Calan snapped. "And he's not here. But sometimes he… ah, sort of talks to me inside my head. I don't know how he does that, but he does."

"I believe it." Derkin nodded. "And what does he say?"

"He says the Cobar will keep the human soldiers occupied for at least a week, and maybe more than that. But he says we'd better hurry, because even if they keep those troops out there longer. Lord Kane's post patrols still use the pass, and the next one will be coming through in about two weeks."

"Then let's get work parties organized," Derkin said. "Break out trowels and prybars, splitting mauls and winches. I'll take the red-and-grays and scout the pass. You get some foresters up on those slopes for timber.

Tomorrow we build stone-boats."

"Aye," Calan agreed. "And where do we go for good stone, then? There isn't time to quarry and cut it."

"We have enough to start with right here." Derkin turned, pointing at the big eight-foot wall encircling Lord Kane's outpost compound. He extended the gesture, pointing at one and then another of the big stone barracks within the area. "We'll begin with these stones," he said. "The humans won't have need of them anymore."

At one end of the compound, human prisoners sweated in the sun, digging a pit to bury the hundreds of dead soldiers stacked there like cordwood. All around them were armed dwarves, watching and guarding. No human from Tharkas Camp had gotten away to carry an alarm to Klanath, and none was going to. At the far end, outside the compound, some dwarves also were digging, burying their own. They would not permit the humans to even touch, much less bury, a fallen comrade. In the background, drummers maintained a soft, mournful tattoo on muffled vibrars.

Derkin gave orders for the red-and-grays to assemble, then strolled to where the dwarven graves were being dug. For a moment he stood watching, his helmet in his hand. First blood, he thought. We have sworn to retake Kal-Thax, with or without anybody's help, and now we have made a beginning.

There weren't many dead dwarves to bury, but there would be more.

Kal-Thax, he thought. Land of the dwarves. Land of my people. Kal-Thax needs sweat… and sometimes it demands blood.