by Doug Niles
“Welcome to Hillhome!” gloated Poleaxe, calling back to his captive. “Now you can have a taste of Neidar hospitality.”
“False hospitality, you mean,” Brandon retorted. “Not like my father’s, when he fed you and gave you drink at his own table.”
“All the more fool him,” Harn shot back, though he glowered unpleasantly. Was it possible? Did he feel some guilt over his foul treachery?
“Take him to the brig behind the smelting plant. Then come and report to me; I’ll be at Moldoon’s place,” Poleaxe added, instructing the two guards who had tortured Brandon during the long march.
The prisoner, determined not to miss any chance at escape, looked around carefully as the guards escorted him through the town. He saw immediately that Hillhome consisted of two parts: a small central section of neat stone buildings, and an outer ring of wooden buildings and shacks. The houses in the town center were mostly modest, though a few boasted several rooms and outbuildings. Sturdy slate roofs and ornate rock gardens gave those structures a sense of permanence, as though they were every bit as old as the hills themselves. The inns—he spotted several—were large but similarly neat, as were the mill, smithy, and a few other shops they passed.
Brandon got a good look at both parts of the town, as he was marched down a curving lane that seemed to serve as a boundary between the two districts. The outer ring contained more buildings, and covered more area, than the rock-solid center. Those structures looked more temporary and seemed more crowded. He saw lines of laundry stringing between many of the buildings, and as his captors led him past a large inn, called Snarky’s Place, a band of swarthy dwarves called down to them from the long porch.
“Hey, Rune! What’s that garbage you’re dragging into our town?” shouted a burly, black-bearded Neidar with a bulging belly and a patch over one eye.
“Ah, he’s a mountain dwarf,” called the captor, the one who was carrying Brandon’s axe. “Harn Poleaxe is back, and he brought this fellow with him as a souvenir.”
“Mountain dwarf?” screeched a female hill dwarf, a toothless crone sitting on the steps of the inn. She hawked and spit a gob of saliva that Brandon nimbly sidestepped. Eyes forward, he kept plodding on, and his guards hurried beside him, quickly leaving the belligerent drinkers behind.
“In here, mate,” Rune said abruptly, grabbing Brandon by the shoulder and propelling him to the left, toward a wooden structure that looked more sturdy than most.
A burly guard stood at the front door, which consisted of heavy logs strapped together with iron bands. The hinges were as stout as a dwarf’s arm. There was not a window in the whole structure.
“Got a mountain dwarf, needs a room—at least for a day or two,” Rune said with an evil chuckle.
“Got just the spot,” said the jailer. He was a repulsive-looking hill dwarf with a filthy beard and dirty leather pants and shirt. He spit a messy gob onto the plank floor, and from within his tunic, he fished out a massive key, worn on a thong around his neck, and unlocked the door. He needed the weight of his shoulder to push it open, but it gradually yielded to his efforts.
Prodded by his tormentors, Brandon clumped up the two steps to the brig and stepped inside. His nostrils were assailed by the stink of overflowing gutters and unwashed bodies. As his eyes adjusted, he was being pushed down a corridor between two banks of cells. The little cages had solid walls and doors of heavy iron bars. Most of them were empty but a pair was occupied by hill dwarves who barely looked up as the new arrival passed. Each of them stank of whiskey and vomit, and the smell—which called to mind his own recent excesses—almost made Brandon gag. Their leather tunics were stained, torn, and patched, and the normal Neidar complexion, brown and weather scoured, had faded on their faces to an unhealthy pale.
Just beyond was another cell. That one held two dwarves who did not look like Neidar. Their skin was pale too, but more naturally so, and their stout boots were cobbled with metal cleats. With some surprise, Brandon guessed they were a pair of mountain dwarves. Like their hill dwarf cousins, they looked up listlessly as the new prisoner was pushed past.
In another two steps, they came to the cell at the end of the corridor, a little closet-sized room barely half the space of the others. The door stood open, but Brandon wasn’t prepared for the shove that sent him stumbling through. He dropped to his knees and, with his hands still bound behind him, couldn’t prevent his face from smashing into the slimy wall. He squirmed around, bouncing to his feet in fury, only to see the door slam in his face.
“I’m locked in good here; at least untie me!” he demanded, glaring through the grid of iron bars.
“You’re fine for now,” Rune taunted, hoisting Brandon’s axe so the prisoner would be sure to see it. “We’ll let you know tomorrow if we’re going to untie you and feed you or cut your head off!”
All three Neidar laughed raucously as they passed out of the brig, slamming and locking the outer door, leaving Brandon in the darkness and the stink and the despair.
“So the black dwarf locked you in a cage and was trying to kill you for some reason, and then, after this attack you have described, he sent that creature after you because you escaped?” Gretchan’s tone was patient but terribly serious.
Gus nodded miserably after finishing his long, long story—at least two minutes’ worth. His stubby fingers wove through Kondike’s shaggy coat, scratching the dog between his massive shoulders. The Aghar couldn’t look the dwarf maid in the eye.
“Monster come kill me on top mountain,” he admitted dolefully. “But snow kill me even better. I think him gone away.”
“The black minion failed to kill you … and you escaped?” Gretchan said, her eyes widening. “Well, that’s a formidable achievement. Reorx must be fond of you.”
“I very formable! I run fastester than him can ever chase!” the Aghar declared, suddenly boastful. “Him bluphsplunging claws not even grab me!”
“And then the snow fell down, and Kondike found you,” the dwarf maid said. “Hmm. Well, you’re certainly lucky if you’re not fast.”
She was right, Gus knew, once more feeling a little guilty for having dragged the beautiful goddess into his troubles. “I lucky sure. But I thought him gone,” he said, sniffling. “I never thought him come for you and Kondike.”
“Well, lucky thing for you we were here,” she said, not unkindly. “That minion fears me now, but that doesn’t mean it will never be back. Still, I think we’re safe for the time being. We can afford to get some rest; my dog is a very light sleeper.”
“I should go ’way,” Gus said, shaking his head, though he wanted very much to stay right there. “It’s not fair you get killed for me.”
Gretchan reached out and patted him on the knee. “None of us are going to get killed. At least, not by that thing. Indeed, I think you should stick with us for a while.” She stared at him, and he felt that her eyes were peeling back his skin, looking right through him.
“Is there anything else you ought to tell me?” she asked sternly.
Gus tried to think. “Uh. Mebbe. You know ’bout bunty hunters?”
“Bunty hunters? No. What are they?” she asked.
“Big, nasty Theiwar. Kill gully dwarf, cut him head off. Say for ‘bunty.’ ”
“That was back in Thorbardin?” she asked and Gus nodded.
“I can’t believe it!” Gretchan snapped. She suddenly seemed to be very angry. She stood up and stomped away then spun around and pointed a finger right at Gus’s face, making him a little bit afraid. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?” she demanded very seriously.
“Gus no lie! Bluphsplunging doofar bunty hunters kill Aghar! Cut off heads!”
“How in the name of Reorx is that possible?” the dwarf maid cried, smacking one fist into the palm of her other hand. She raised her hands and shouted at the sky. “Are you even paying attention?” she shouted. “Dwarves have been killing each other for centuries; it seems we don’t even need an excuse! Wars and
gates and pride and clans give cause enough! But now, for one clan to charge a bounty for the heads of another? For gully dwarves!”
She stomped on the ground and planted her fists on her hips, glaring downward. “And you, down there—you claim to be the descendents of the great mountain dwarf clans! You’re a bunch of frightened little rats, hiding in your holes! Why, if I could reach you, I’d pull your beards out by the roots!”
Gretchan stalked back and forth in the little clearing. Gus stayed very still, hoping she would forget about him. He didn’t understand who she was yelling at, but he was pretty certain it wasn’t him, and he was determined to leave it that way. Finally, after two long, loud minutes, she came back to the stump by the fire and sat down with a heavy sigh.
“I’ll be damned,” Gretchan said, looking far away into the night. Her tone was sad, but not so loud anymore. She looked at him and shook her head. “You tell a very interesting story. It sounds as though things have soured under the mountain these days.”
Gus didn’t know what ‘soured’ meant, but he was inclined to agree. He would have said so too except Gretchan didn’t seem to want to talk anymore. She went back to her sleeping roll and, with her staff nearby, bundled herself up in her blanket. Her eyes were open, staring past the gully dwarf and the fire, peering into the darkness of the woods. She filled her pipe, lit it with a stick she drew from the fire, and puffed furiously as she glared at the night.
Wracked by guilty feelings, Gus nonetheless needed only about two minutes to fall asleep. His dreams were untroubled, and when he woke up, the forest floor was dappled with sunlight, and Gretchan already had a fire going and a pot of tea on to brew.
His ability to forget meant that Gus’s mood had brightened, his fear—and guilty twinges—vanquished to some distant, cobwebbed portion of his brain. He cheerfully warmed his belly with the tea and filled it with a hearty slice of dried bread. Soon they were up and striding through the woods.
“What we do today?” he asked as they set out. “More walking?”
“Some,” Gretchan replied with a laugh. “Actually, I’m on a working expedition.”
“Work? Extra-mission?”
“Yes, like an ‘extra-mission.’ I’m a writer. A historian, I guess you could say. At least, I’d like to be. I travel around and talk to dwarves and write down their stories. I’ve been working on a book for a very long time.” She sounded a little wistful as she concluded her statement.
“Writing” was a concept as foreign to the gully dwarf as “reading.” He didn’t really understand what the dwarf maid was talking about, so he settled for a more pertinent question.
“Where we walking to?”
“I’m on my way to have a very interesting talk with a dwarf woman,” Gretchan replied. “I’ve heard many things about her, and I think it’s time I meet her for myself.”
“Where dwarf lady?” wondered the Aghar.
Gretchan chuckled, the sound as musical as ever, and Gus felt a fresh bounce in his step.
“She lives with a tribe of Neidar,” she said. “They live pretty close to here—in a sleepy little village called Hillhome. It won’t be long and we’ll be there.”
SIXTEEN
THE ORACLE
Harn Poleaxe approached the small hut with a measure of trepidation. He hadn’t seen the oracle for more than two years, but he well remembered the frisson of mingled terror and excitement that his last encounter with the old Neidar crone had provoked.
Yet he was returning in triumph, he told himself. He held the Bluestone wedge in his left hand as he raised his right and knocked, hesitantly, at the flimsy door.
“Enter, Harn Poleaxe!” came the command from within the hut.
Grimacing, the big Neidar tried to suppress the trembling that shook his hand as he pressed against the door. He ducked his head to pass underneath the low frame. The interior of the one-room house, not surprisingly, was dark, for the one who lived there had no need of illumination.
“I have returned, Mother Oracle,” Harn said, bowing humbly. “I take it you have been informed of my arrival?”
The old dwarf woman who sat in the shadowy room uttered a dry bark of laughter. “No one spoke to me,” she said. “But I knew you had come to Hillhome. And I know, too, that you bring the Bluestone from Kayolin.”
Harn shuddered at the evidence of the oracle’s far-seeing powers then quickly extended the heavy wedge of stone. As his eyes adjusted to the murk, he watched as she reached out her arthritic hands to take the talisman, lifting it easily into her lap.
The oracle had been a very old woman when she first came to Hillhome, some ten years earlier. To Harn, who had not seen her since he had departed for Kayolin two years ago, she looked the very same as when he had left, which was the same as when she had first wandered up the hill road into the town. Her hair was white and thin, hanging in a scraggly tangle around her round, wrinkled face. Her eyes were open but milky white, proof of the blindness that had long afflicted her. Her shoulders were rounded, and her posture, as she sat in a small rocking chair, stooped and frail looking. She wore a worn cloak of pale brown, patched in many places. Her feet were encased in soft moccasins.
But her voice was strong, and so were her hands. He watched as she hefted the heavy Bluestone, feeling the smoothness along both sides. She raised the artifact to her face and smelled the stone, running it along her wrinkled cheek, holding it to her ear as if she expected it to speak to her. For all Harn knew, she did hear something there. In any event, she issued a cackle of laughter and lowered the object into her lap.
“You have done well,” she said. “I believed in you, but even so, when I sent you to gain this stone, I knew you would face many obstacles. I was not certain you would succeed.”
Harn lowered his face, pleased by her praise and her acknowledgment of the severity of his challenge. “I had to live among the mountain dwarves for a long time,” he admitted. “But in the end, I was able to win their trust and gain the stone.”
“Go to the chest, over there by the window,” she said, handing him the Bluestone. He saw a small strongbox, protected by a solid steel lock, but when he crossed to the container, the lid turned out to be unsecured. He lifted it, looking down in amazement at another stone, the perfect image of the one he held in his hands except it was as green as emerald, albeit impossibly large for any such gemstone. He had known about the other stone’s existence, but it was moving, even awe inspiring, to see them together.
“Put that one in there, with the Greenstone,” the oracle said. He did as she asked, noting that the two stones nestled easily together to form a sharp-pointed, broad-based wedge.
“Close the lid and lock it. Bring me the key,” she instructed, and again he did as requested. “There is one more. When we obtain it, we will be ready to act,” she said.
“Huh. Where is this third stone?”
“I am not certain. It is moving now. I will need to study, consult my auguries, before I can pinpoint the exact location.”
Harn shuddered. Like most dwarves, he had a strong distrust of magic, and her suggestion of auguries, not to mention her inexplicable knowledge about matters unearthly, smelled too much like sorcery for his taste. Still, her information had always proven accurate, and her arcane knowledge made her his most important ally.
“Go to the stove,” she ordered suddenly. “And kindle a fire there.”
She had a small pot-bellied iron cook stove in one corner of the hut, and Harn did as she instructed. He found some dry straw for tinder as well as small sticks of firewood and a piece of flint. He struck the stone against the blade of his knife to drop sparks into the straw, and soon a small blaze ignited. The oracle was tapping her feet impatiently, so he blew on the fire to hasten it along then added more sticks until it was crackling enthusiastically.
“Ah, good,” she said at length. “Now take my teapot and fill it from the water cistern outside; you must use rainwater, not well water.”
“Aye,
Mother Oracle,” Harn replied. He found the teapot, a battered old ceramic vessel, and went outside to see that the barrel poised under her downspout was nearly full. A few neighborhood youngsters were playing tag nearby, and they snickered to see him performing such woman’s work, but they quickly scampered away when he glared at them. With the teapot full, he reentered the hut.
“Now put it on the stove. Keep the fire going; make it boil!” she snapped.
Again he did as he was told, feeding more wood into the stove, wondering about the purpose of the tedious ritual. Still, he wasn’t inclined to ask questions and, fortunately, the water was boiling a few minutes later.
“Bring me my tea,” the oracle commanded, pointing a bony finger toward a cluttered table near the stove. Amid a cheese crock and a box of small spice bottles, he found a container, heavy and glazed, that held a bundle of bitter-smelling brown leaves. He took it over to her and watched as she worked by feel, counting ten leaves into the palm of her hand.
“Put these in a mug, and cover them with the hot water,” was her next instruction, which he duly followed. He was surprised to see the brew foam and bubble when the boiling liquid contacted the leaves. The smell was truly vile, and he wondered what it must taste like.
But she had no intention of drinking it. After he handed her the mug, he had to jump backward to avoid the scalding spray as she unceremoniously upended the container and dumped the water and leaves right onto the wooden floor at her feet. With a surprisingly fluid gesture, she pushed herself out of the chair and dropped to her knees. Gingerly reaching out her gnarled hands, she traced her fingers over the hot leaves, taking care not to move them, but using touch, she carefully studied their positions on the floor.
She spent a long time in that slow activity, several times clucking her tongue in apparent displeasure. Harn didn’t dare interrupt her scrutiny, and he was startled when she looked up suddenly, fixing those blind eyes upon him as if they could read his thoughts.