The Complete Demonwar Saga 2-Book Collection. Raymond E. Feist

and Warleader of Caldara, reined in the gelding pulling his plough and waved a greeting. ‘Alystan of Natal! Well met!’

      ‘Greetings, King Dolgan. Have you no liegemen to plough your fields?’

      ‘I do, but they’re busy ploughing their own at the moment, and I wish it to be done right the first time.’ He took a long, well-worn briar pipe out of his pocket and a contraption of flint and steel, a clever device traded from the Free Cities. A big spark ignited the tobacco in the pipe, and Dolgan took a long pull. He made a face and said, ‘This is a useful enough gadget, but that first taste of burning flint I could do without.’ He puffed again, looked more contented, and asked, ‘What brings you to Caldara, Alystan?’

      Alystan held his bow with the tip on the ground, a mannerism that Dolgan knew meant the Ranger was choosing his words carefully. The gesture always allowed him a moment to think. ‘I bring word of something strange and troubling. I seek your wisdom and counsel.’

      ‘Well, that sounds serious.’ He tossed the reins to Hogni and said, ‘Finish up here, boy, and then go help your father. I’ll be in the longhouse with our guest.’

      ‘Yes, Grandfather,’ said the young dwarf with a resigned sigh. The King might prefer that the ploughing was done correctly the first time, but he also enjoyed chatting with travellers in the longhouse over a flagon of ale. The youth smiled, it was barely two hours past breakfast, hardly the time his mother would approve of her father-in-law tapping the ale keg, despite his royal station. Putting the reins over his shoulders, Hogni flipped them and shouted, ‘Ha!’ The horse threw one impatient glance backwards as if questioning the young dwarf’s seriousness; another flick of the reins told the animal it was indeed time to return to his labours, and the animal reluctantly returned to dragging the plough through the rich mountain soil.

      Dolgan listened carefully as Alystan finished his narrative. The old dwarf was silent for a very long time, then said, ‘This is troubling news.’

      ‘You recognize this newcomer?’ asked the Ranger, before taking a long pull of the marvellous dwarven ale the King’s daughter-in-law had provided. She seemed irritated to the point of saying something, but held her silence before a stranger.

      Dolgan shook his head. ‘No. Although I would not have recognized the so-called “mad elves” from beyond the Teeth of the World before they ventured down to Elvandar.’ He turned and shouted, ‘Amyna!’

      Hogni’s mother appeared a moment later and said, ‘Yes, Father?’

      ‘Send Toddy to find Malachi. Have him join us here, please?’

      She nodded once and departed.

      Dolgan said, ‘Malachi is the oldest among us.’ He chuckled. ‘He was old when I was a boy and I’m nearing three hundred years, myself.’

      Alystan barely concealed his surprise. He knew that the dwarves were a long-lived race, like the elves, but he had no idea they lived that long, or stayed as robust as they apparently did. The old dwarf seemed content to smoke his pipe, drink his morning ale, and chat of inconsequential matters, such as how his human acquaintances fared along the Far Coast and in the Free Cities, or the news from Krondor, or further afield. It was clear to the Ranger that Dolgan was keenly interested in matters outside his own small demesne, which given the dwarves’ long history was understandable.

      An independent people, the dwarves nevertheless found their fortunes tied closely to those of their human neighbours and to a lesser degree, the elves in the north. Twice in the last hundred years, war had visited the west; first came the Tsurani invaders in the very valley where Alystan had seen the stranger, and later the armies of the Emerald Queen, from a land across the sea. The second struggle had involved the dwarves only indirectly, but its repercussions had echoed through the land for a long time. The west had been almost forgotten by the Kingdom for a decade, trade had been reduced to a trickle, and banditry and piracy had risen. Alystan’s grandfather had claimed that now things were back to the way they had been before the coming of the Tsurani; in fact, he had insisted life was better now, as the dark elves no longer hunted the Green Heart or the Grey Towers. Given the bloody history between the Rangers and the moredhel, Alystan was inclined to agree that his grandfather’s view had merit.

      Time passed, but Alystan, like all Rangers, possessed patience born of generations of woodcraft and hunting skill. A fidgeting hunter was a hungry one, his father had told him many years before on his first hunt.

      At last Toddy returned, slowly escorting the oldest being the Ranger had ever encountered. The dwarf moved with tiny steps as if he feared losing his balance. He was shrunken with age, so he barely stood a head taller than the boy, and he was slight of frame. In contrast to the robust stature of the other dwarves the Ranger knew, his appearance was startling. His skin was parchment-white and almost translucent, so the veins of his hands stood out over his swollen knuckles. He used a cane with his right hand, and the boy held him firmly under his left arm. His receding hair fell to his shoulders, whatever colour might once have graced his ancient pate now fled, leaving snow-white wisps. Cheeks sunken with age were marked with small lesions and sores, and Alystan knew this was a dwarf nearing the end of his days.

      The old dwarf looked about the room, and the Ranger realized that he must be blind, or his vision so poor that he might as well be sightless. Those in the room remained silent as he found his seat.

      Then he spoke, ‘So, what reason have you, to rouse an old man from his nap?’ he demanded. His voice was surprisingly strong and deep for so frail a figure.

      Dolgan said, ‘Malachi, this is Alystan of the Free Cities.’

      ‘I can see he’s a Ranger, Dolgan,’ said the old dwarf, and Alystan reassessed his previous judgment on his eyesight. ‘Well, you have something to say, else they wouldn’t have required me to come here, so say it,’ instructed Malachi.

      Alystan retold his encounter with the strange traveller. The ancient dwarf said nothing, but leant forward slightly as if paying closer attention when the Ranger began describing the creature’s true appearance.

      When Alystan was finished, Malachi leaned back and let his chin drop, in thought. The room remained silent for several minutes, then the ancient dwarf said, ‘It’s an old tale, told by my grandfather’s grandfather, from the time of the Crossing.’

      Dolgan said nothing, but he glanced around the room at the other dwarves who had gathered there while Alystan had spoken. There were now perhaps twenty dwarves, most of whom Alystan recognized as being part of the King’s Meet, Dolgan’s council of advisors.

      Malachi paused then said, ‘At the end of my days, I am, but I remember this tale as if it were told to me yesterday.

      ‘My first raid was against the dark elves to the north, who had been troubling our herds in the lower meadows when calving was underway. We had chased off a band and my father, and—’ He pointed at Dolgan, ‘—and your father, though he had not the title of King, only Warleader, decided we needed to chastise the miscreants and let them know there would be no stealing of calves from the dwarves of Caldara!’ He took a breath, and said, ‘We followed the thieves for two days, and as we camped on the night before the raid, my father told me a story told to him by his grandfather.

      ‘He said that before the Gods warred, dwarves lived on a distant world and fought long and hard against the great goblin tribes, Lea Orcha, the orcs. Our people also defended their crops and herds from gryphon and manticore and other creatures of myth. Father spoke of ancient legends, of great heroes and deeds, their truth lost even to the Lorekeepers, for he spoke of a time before the Crossing.’

      Alystan said, ‘The Crossing?’

      The old dwarf nodded. ‘A madness consumed our world, a war visited upon us by beings of power beyond our most puissant Lorekeeper’s art. We know them as Dragon Lords.’

      ‘The Valheru,’ said Dolgan, thinking of his time spent with Lord Tomas during the war against the Tsurani. He had learned much Valheru lore while he watched the boy from Crydee grow into a being of unimaginable power; but he knew there was far more untold knowledge.