that Morlock would stay and work for the knife, as he usually did for his provisions. “The horses are more than enough for the clothes and food,” he explained. “But the knife is different. Metal’s scarce. On this side of the mountains, I mean.”
Morlock understood. “I’ll bring you a knife from Thrymhaiam.”
“Bring two.”
“One,” Morlock said flatly. They could do without the knife, if need be.
The farmer saw it in his face. “A real working knife, now,” he insisted, conceding the point. “None of these silver showpieces.”
Morlock stood. “Northern steel. From my hand or my father’s.”
“I don’t want better.” The farmer stood and they struck hands. Then they went to make packs for the provisions.
Fifteen days later the two Guardians were high in the Whitethorns, at the source of the Whitewell. This was a hot spring, running out of a steep snow-clad mountainside. The banks of the stream were anything but white: black mud, gray stone—even green with life at spots. But it was striking to see water running in the deep snow of the high mountains.
“This is rather high in the mountains for a hot spring, isn’t it?” Earno asked the thain.
Morlock shrugged. “Northhold is new.” It seemed to be a proverb.
“When will we get through the mountains?”
The thain glanced at him in surprise. “It’s mostly mountains, in the ‘Hold.”
“But not like this.”
“No. In . . . Dwarvish we call the Whitethorns ‘the Walls.’ Or maybe ‘the Shields’; Dwarvish doesn’t distinguish. We are in South Wall, now, a low part. You could almost cart goods along the Whitewell.”
Earno felt differently. But he was no mountaineer.
Morlock led the way up a nearby ridge and pointed. “Look.”
Earno was already looking. For long days the horizon had been narrowing—deeply oppressive to him, who had grown up on the wide plains of Westhold and spent much of his life upon the sea. The nearest mountains had become the limit of vision, and although these were gigantic Earno had begun to feel as if he were spending day after day in the same frigid closed room.
But now, between two nearby mountains, there was a break in the horizon. He could see deep into the north, many days’ travel: hills and smaller mountains, blue with distance, some topped already with snow, like still white flames in blue smoke.
“Those low hills you see before us,” Morlock was saying, “extend over to the west, past what we can see. Beyond them, ahead of us, you see a group of snow-covered peaks.”
“Yes.”
“That is Thrymhaiam, home of the Seven Clans.”
“Then we go through the hills.”
“No. It is not a good idea to travel through the gravehills.”
“Ah. The Dead Corain. Now I shall see their graves.”
“You see them now. If it were night you would see the banefires.”
“They still burn, then?”
“Yes. We will see them as we travel west around the hills. It will take more than one night.”
“Why don’t we turn east? I can see the end of the hills; it must be the shorter way.”
After a moment Morlock said, “We might do so, if you wish. There is a settlement of the Other Ilk that way.”
The phrase “Other Ilk” struck Earno strangely. He wondered what it meant, but he felt he should know. Then at last, he dragged up the memory, from when he was trading with many nations in the unguarded lands: it was an expression dwarves used to refer to non-dwarves. Earno was of the Other Ilk—as was Morlock himself, really.
“We must go east,” Earno said. He was thinking that he might hear some news of Lernaion that way. “I’m sorry,” he added. He never cared to overrule a subordinate, unless it was necessary.
The thain nodded. “The Hill of Storms is near there,” he observed, almost conversationally.
This caught Earno’s interest. “Why would they settle there?” he asked as they began to descend the ridge’s far side, “these . . . Other Ilk?”
“It is only a colony, really, from Ranga í Rayal, a settlement beyond Thrymhaiam to the north. Ranga has good farmland, but they don’t have as much metal as they’d like. There are rich deposits near the gravehills, though, so they established a mine there.”
“Couldn’t they trade for the metal?”
“Yes. They get most of their metal from us—that is, from the Seven Clans under Thrymhaiam. And we get food from them. But it’s good to have a choice, you see. So the Rangans develop mines where they can. And Thrymhaiam trades with others for food. Your people, for one.”
“My people?” Earno was surprised.
“Westholders. They are great