“And there is our answer!” The general’s stern, cold voice drifted upwards. Turning his horse, he galloped back to his armies, flanked by the black-robed wizard, the hill dwarf, and the Plainsman.
Hearing his men muttering among themselves and seeing them cast dour, dubious looks at each other, Duncan firmly squelched his own momentary doubt and turned to face them, his beard quivering with rage.
“What is this?” he demanded angrily. “Are you frightened by the tricks of some street illusionist? What am I leading, an army of men—or of children?”
Seeing heads lower and faces flush in embarrassment, Duncan climbed down from his vantage point. Striding across to the other side of the battlements, he looked down into the vast courtyard of the mighty fortress that was formed, not by man-made walls, but by the natural walls of the mountains themselves. Caves lined the sides. Ordinarily, smoke and the sounds of metal being mined and forged into steel would have poured forth from their gaping mouths. But the mines were shut down today, as were the forges.
This morning, the courtyard teemed with dwarves. Dressed in their heavy armor, they bore shields and axes and hammers, favored weapons of the infantry. All heads raised when Duncan appeared and the cheering that had momentarily died began again.
“It is war!” Duncan shouted above the noise, raising his hands.
The cheering increased, then stopped. After a moment’s silence, the deep dwarven voices raised in song.
Under the hills the heart of the axe
Arises from cinders the still core of the fire,
Heated and hammered the handle an afterthought,
For the hills are forging the first breath of war.
The soldier’s heart sires and brothers
The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
Out of the mountains in the midst of the air,
The axes are dreaming dreaming of rock,
Of metal alive through the ages of ore,
Stone on metal metal on stone.
The soldier’s heart contains and dreams
The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
Red of iron imagined from the vein,
Green of brass green of copper
Sparked in the fire the forge of the world,
Consuming in its dream as it dives into bone.
The soldier’s heart lies down, completes
The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
His blood stirred by the song, Duncan felt his doubts vanish as the arrows had vanished in the still air. His generals were already descending from the battlements, hurrying to take up their positions. Only one remained, Argat, general of the Dewar. Kharas remained, too. Duncan looked over at Kharas now, and opened his mouth to speak.
But the hero of the dwarves simply regarded his king with a dark, haunted gaze, then, bowing toward his thane, turned and followed after the others to take his place as one of the leaders of the infantry.
Duncan glared at him angrily. “May Reorx send his beard up in flames!” he muttered as he started to follow. He would be present when the great gates swung open and his army marched out into the plains. “Who does he think he is? My own sons would not act so to me! This must not go on. After the battle, he will be put in his place.”
Grumbling to himself, Duncan was nearly to the stairs leading downward when he felt a hand upon his arm. Looking up, he saw Argat.
“I ask you, King,” said the dwarf in his crude language, “to think again. Our plan is good one. Abandon worthless hunk of rock. Let them have it.” He gestured toward the armies out in the plains. “They not fortify it. When we retreat back to Thorbardin, they chase after us into the plains. Then we retake Pax Tharkas and—bam”—the dark dwarf clapped his hands shut—“we have them! Caught between Pax Tharkas on north and Thorbardin on south.”
Duncan stared coldly at the Dewar. Argat had presented this strategy at the War Council, and Duncan had wondered at the time how he had come up with it. The Dewar generally took little interest in military matters, caring about only one thing—their share of the spoils. Was it Kharas, trying once again to get out of fighting?
Duncan angrily shook off the Dewar’s arm. “Pax Tharkas will never fall!” he said. “Your strategy is the strategy of the coward. I will give up nothing to these rabble, not one copper piece, not one pebble of ground! I’d sooner die here!”
Stomping away, Duncan clattered down the stairs, his beard bristling in his wrath.
Watching him go, Argat’s lip twisted in a sneer. “Perhaps you would die upon this wretched rock, Duncan King. But not Argat.” Turning to two Dewar who had been standing in the shadows of a recessed corner, the dark dwarf nodded his head twice. The dwarves nodded in return, then quickly hurried away.
Standing upon the battlements, Argat watched as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Preoccupied, he began to absentmindedly rub his hands upon his leather armor as though trying to clean them.
The Highgug was not certain, but he had the feeling something was wrong.
Though not terribly perceptive, and understanding little of the complex tactics and strategies of warfare, it occurred to the Highgug nevertheless that dwarves returning victorious from the field of battle did not come staggering into the fortress covered with blood and fall down dead at his feet.
One or two, he might have considered the fortunes of war, but the number of dwarves doing this sort of thing seemed to be increasing at a truly alarming rate. The Highgug decided to see if he could find out what was going on.
He took two steps forward, then, hearing the most dreadful commotion behind him, came to a sudden halt. Heaving a heavy sigh, the Highgug turned around. He had forgotten his company.
“No, no, no!” the Highgug shouted angrily, waving his arms in the air. “How many time I tell you?—Stay Here! Stay Here! King tell Highgug—‘You gugs Stay Here.’ That mean Stay Here! You got that?”
The Highgug fixed his company with a stern eye, causing those still on their feet and able to meet the gaze of that eye (the other was missing) to tremble in shame. Those gully dwarves in the company who had stumbled over their pikes, those who had dropped their pikes, those who had, in the confusion, accidentally stabbed a neighbor with a pike, those who were lying prone on the ground, and those who had gotten turned around completely and were now stalwartly facing the rear, heard their commander’s voice and quailed.
“Look, gulphfunger slimers,” snarled the Highgug, breathing noisily, “I go find out what go on. It not seem right, everyone coming back into fort like this. No singing—only bleeding. This not the way king tell Highgug things work out. So I Go. You Stay Here. Got that? Repeat.”
“I Go,” echoed his troops obediently. “You Stay Here.”
The Highgug tore at his beard. “No! I Go! You—Oh, never mind!” Stalking off in a rage, he heard behind him—once again—the clattering of falling pikes hitting the ground.
Perhaps fortunately, the Highgug did not have far to go. Otherwise, when he returned, he would have found about half of his command dead, skewered on the ends of their own pikes. As it was, he was able to discover what he needed to know and return to his troops before they had inadvertently killed more than half a dozen or so.
The Highgug had taken only about twenty steps when he rounded a corner and very nearly ran into Duncan, his king. Duncan did not notice him, his back being turned. The king was engrossed in a conversation with Kharas and several commanding officers. Taking a hasty step backwards, the Highgug looked and listened anxiously.
Unlike many of the dwarves who had returned from the field of battle, whose heavy plate mail was so dented it looked like they had tumbled down a rocky mountainside, Kharas’s armor was dented only here and there. The hero’s hands and arms were bloodied to the elbows, but it was the enemy’s blood, not his own that he wore. Few there were who could withstan
d the mighty swings of the hammer he carried. Countless were the dead that fell by Kharas’s hand, though many wondered, in their last moments, why the tall dwarf sobbed bitterly as he dealt the killing blow.
Kharas was not crying now, however. His tears were gone, completely dry. He was arguing with his king.
“We are beaten on the field, Thane,” he said sternly. “General Ironhand was right to order the retreat. If you would hold Pax Tharkas, we must fall back and shut the gates as we had planned. Remember, this was not a moment that was unforeseen, Thane.”
“But a moment of shame, nonetheless,” Duncan growled with a bitter oath. “Beaten by a pack of thieves and farmers!”
“That pack of thieves and farmers has been well-trained, Thane,” Kharas said solemnly, the generals nodding grudging agreement to his words. “The Plainsmen glory in battle and our own kinsmen fight with the courage with which they are born. And then comes sweeping down from the hills the Knights of Solamnia on their horses.”
“You must give the command, Thane!” one of the generals said. “Or prepare to die where we stand.”
“Close the god-cursed gates, then!” Duncan shouted in a rage. “But do not drop the mechanism. Not until the last possible moment. There may be no need. It will cost them dearly to try to breach the gates, and I want to be able to get out again without having to clear away tons of rock.”
“Close the gates, close the gates!” rang out many voices.
Everyone in the courtyard, the living, the wounded, even the dying, turned their heads to see the massive gates swing shut. The Highgug was among these, staring in awe. He had heard of these great gates—how they moved silently on gigantic, oiled hinges that worked so smoothly only two dwarves on each side were needed to pull them shut. The Highgug was somewhat disappointed to hear that the mechanism was not going to be operated. The sight of tons of rock tumbling down to block the gates was one he was sorry to miss.
Still, this should be quite entertaining.…
The Highgug caught his breath at the next sight, very nearly strangling himself. Looking at the gate, he could see beyond it, and what he saw was paralyzing.
A vast army was racing toward him. And it was not his army!
Which meant it must be the enemy, he decided after a moment’s deep thought, there being—as far as he knew—only two sides to this conflict—his and theirs.
The noonday sun shone brightly upon the armor of the Knights of Solamnia, it flashed upon their shields and glittered upon their drawn swords. Farther behind them came the infantry at a run. The Army of Fistandantilus was dashing for the fortress, hoping to reach it before the gates could be closed and blocked. Those few mountain dwarves brave enough to stand in their way were cut down by flashing steel and trampling hoof.
The enemy was getting closer and closer. The Highgug swallowed nervously. He didn’t know much about military maneuvers, but it did seem to him that this would be an excellent time for the gates to shut. It seemed that the generals thought so too, for they were now all running in that direction, yelling and screaming.
“In the name of Reorx, what’s taking them—” Duncan began.
Suddenly, Kharas’s face grew pale.
“Duncan,” he said quietly, “we have been betrayed. You must leave at once.”
“Wh-what?” Duncan stammered in bewilderment. Standing on his toes, he tried in vain to see over the crowd milling about in the courtyard. “Betrayed! How—”
“The Dewar, my Thane,” Kharas said, able, with his unusual height, to see what was transpiring. “They have murdered the gate wardens, apparently, and are now fighting to keep the gates open.”
“Slay them!” Duncan’s mouth frothed in his anger, saliva dribbled down his beard. “Slay every one of them!” The dwarven king drew his own sword and leaped forward. “I’ll personally—”
“No, Thane!” Kharas caught hold of him, dragging him back. “It is too late! Come, we must get to the griffons! You must go back to Thorbardin, my king!”
But Duncan was beyond all reason. He fought Kharas viciously. Finally, the younger dwarf, with a grim face, doubled his great fist and punched his king squarely on the jaw. Duncan stumbled backward, reeling from the blow but not down.
“I’ll have your head for this!” the king swore, grasping feebly for his sword hilt. One more blow from Kharas finished the job, however. Duncan sprawled onto the ground and lay there quietly.
With a grieving face, Kharas bent down, lifted his king, plate-mail armor and all, and—with a grunt—heaved the stout dwarf over his shoulder. Calling for some of those still able to stand and fight to cover him, Kharas hurried off toward where the griffons waited, the comatose king hanging, arms dangling, over his shoulder.
The Highgug stared at the approaching army in horrified fascination. Over and over echoed in his mind Duncan’s last command to him—“You Stay Here.”
Turning around, running back to his troop, that was exactly what the Highgug intended to do.
Although gully dwarves have a well-deserved reputation for being the most cowardly race living upon Krynn, they can—when driven into a corner—fight with a ferocity that generally amazes an enemy.
Most armies, however, use gully dwarves only in support positions, keeping them as far to the rear as possible since it is almost even odds that a regiment of gully dwarves will inflict as much damage to its own side as it will ever succeed in doing to an enemy.
Thus Duncan had posted the only detachment of gully dwarves currently residing in Pax Tharkas—they were former mine workers—in the center of the courtyard and told them to stay there, figuring this would be the best way to keep them out of mischief. He had given them pikes, in the unlikely event that the enemy would crash through the gates with a cavalry charge.
But that was what was happening. Seeing the Army of Fistandantilus closing in upon them, knowing that they were trapped and defeated, all the dwarves in Pax Tharkas were thrown into confusion.
A few kept their heads. The sharpshooters on the battlements were raining arrows into the advancing foe, slowing them somewhat. Several commanders were gathering their regiments, preparing to fight as they retreated to the mountains. But most were just fleeing, running for their lives to the safety of the surrounding hills.
And soon only one group stood in the path of the approaching army—the gully dwarves.
“This is it,” the Highgug called hastily to his men as he came huffing and puffing back. His face was white beneath the dirt, but he was calm and composed. He had been told to Stay Here and, by Reorx’s beard, he was going to Stay Here.
However, seeing that most of his men were starting to edge away, their eyes wide at the sight of the thundering horses which could now be seen approaching the open gates, the Highgug decided this called for a little morale boost.
Having drilled them for just such an occasion, the Highgug had also taught his troops a war chant and was quite proud of it. Unfortunately, they’d never yet got it right.
“Now,” he shouted, “what you give me?”
“Death!” his men all shouted cheerfully with one voice.
The Highgug cringed. “No, no, no!” he yelled in exasperation, stomping on the ground. His men looked at each other, chagrined.
“I tell you, gulphbludders—it’s—”
“Undying loyalty!” cried one suddenly in triumph.
The others scowled at him, muttering “brown nose.” One jealous neighbor even poked him in the back with a pike. Fortunately, it was the butt end (he was holding it upside down) or serious damage might have been incurred.
“That’s it,” said the Highgug, trying not to notice that the sound of hoofbeats was getting louder and louder behind him. “Now, we try again. What you give me?”
“Un-undy … dying loy … loy … alty.” This was rather straggled-sounding, many stumbling over the difficult words. It certainly seemed to lack the ring (or the enthusiasm) of the first.
A hand shot up in the back.
“Us got to give … undying … loyal … ty when dead?”
The Highgug glared at him with his one good eye.
“No, you phungerwhoop,” he snapped, gritting his teeth. “Death or undying loyalty. Whichever come first.”
The gully dwarves grinned, immensely cheered by this.
The Highgug, shaking his head and muttering, turned around to face the enemy. “Set pikes!” he shouted.
That was a mistake and he knew it as soon as he said it, hearing the vast turmoil and confusion and swearing (and a few groans of pain) behind him.
But, by that time, it didn’t matter.…
The sun set in a blood-red haze, sinking down into the silent forests of Qualinesti.
All was quiet in Pax Tharkas, the mighty, impregnable fortress having fallen shortly after midday. The afternoon had been spent in skirmishes with pockets of dwarves, who were retreating, fighting, back into the mountains. Many had escaped, the charge of the knights having been effectively held up by a small group of pikesmen, who had stood their ground when the gates were breached, stubbornly refusing to budge.
Kharas, carrying the unconscious king in his arms, flew by griffon back to Thorbardin, accompanied by those of Duncan’s officers still alive.
The remainder of the army of the mountain dwarves, at home in the caves and rocks of the snow-covered passes, were making their way back to Thorbardin. The Dewar who had betrayed their kinsmen were drinking Duncan’s captured ale and boasting of their deeds, while most of Caramon’s army regarded them with disgust.
Tonight, as the sun set, the courtyard was filled with dwarves and humans celebrating their victory, and by officers trying in vain to stem the tide of drunkenness that was threatening to wash everyone under. Shouting, bullying, and smashing a few heads together, they managed to drag off enough to post the watch and form burial squads.
War of the Twins: Legends, Volume Two (Dragonlance Legends) Page 29