by Doug Niles
Only when the sun had fully set and cool night was lord of the world did it again emerge. Seeping upward, it emerged from the ground like smoke rising from a buried fire. At first immaterial, it coalesced in a woodland glade, taking shape, extending its great limbs, flexing talons and bringing the fires of the Abyss to those hateful, glowing eyes.
Spreading black wings, it finally took to the air, gliding silently through the night sky. The red and white moons were waning, setting low in the west, but the black moon was high and full. Unseen by most, that orb of black magic, named for the god Nuitari, cast its full measure across the widespread wings of the minion. The minion relished the cool wash of magic, a balm greater than warm sunlight on the flesh of a shivering dwarf or human.
When its red eyes fixed upon the ground, the creatures of the woodland sprang anxiously toward their dens or cowered under rocks or beneath steep riverbanks. Even hunting owls took to sheltered limbs, and wolves, lips curled against the unseen but dangerous flyer, cringed in the shadows and hoped for the monster to fly past. And always the minion did just that, for the moment. Its wide nostrils flared, it tasted the breeze and picked up the scent it sought.
Pressing forward with powerful wing strokes, the monster soared over ridges, flying in a straight line above a course of winding valleys that would have forced any land-bound traveler to meander wastefully. Soon the minion spotted the twinkling lights and the multitude of buildings that were proof of a sizable town, one that completely filled the bottom of a valley between two steep ridges. Many sounds of voices, some clamorous, some drunk, some singing, some angry, reached its sensitive ears. A smith was working late into the night at his forge, the pounding rings of his hammer marking a cadence that seemed to underscore the energy of the whole town. Cattle lowed and pigs squealed when the minion flew above their pens, sending the animals scurrying for their barns and sheds.
Circling back above the town, the minion flew low, trying—for the time being—to remain unseen by the denizens. Any one of them might look up to see the gaunt form of the monster silhouetted against the stars, and the beast did not want to take that chance. The memory of that searing light, the charring of the dwarf maid’s staff, caused its lips to draw back in an unconscious snarl. She had powers that the monster feared and must avoid.
But at the same time, her presence was a beacon.
The minion knew beyond a doubt that the maid and her staff were down in the town somewhere, and it would have to avoid her terrible talisman. At the same time, the minion understood that, near to the dwarf maid, it would find the gully dwarf that was its prey.
SEVENTEEN
A NIGHT IN HILLHOME
Gretchan watched Harn Poleaxe swagger down the hall and through the inn’s entryway. She frowned, trying to decide what it was about the big Neidar that bothered her. She disliked him—he seemed an unusually stubborn and boastful example of his kind—and she suspected that he had not been telling her the whole truth about the Mother Oracle. What was his game? She knew she would probably have to talk to him again, employing all her considerable persuasive skills, to get to the bottom of the story. For the moment, however, she was glad to be rid of him.
“You and Kondike take this room,” Gretchan suggested, opening the first of the two she had rented. “I’ll take the other one.”
The little Aghar’s face grew pale. “Where is other one?” he asked nervously.
She laughed. “I keep forgetting how strange this all is to you. Don’t worry; I’ll be right next door.”
“Where next door?” he pressed.
“Right here.” She touched the neighboring door. “But I’m going to go out for a while. I’d like you to stay here and keep an eye on Kondike for me.”
“Keep eye on him?” Gus looked skeptical. “My eyes on me! Two eyes for me!”
She sighed, shaking her head in exasperation. “Now don’t be silly. Of course you keep your own eyes, but just watch Kondike for me, all right? ‘Keep an eye on him’ means to pay attention to him. Don’t let him get into any trouble.”
In fact, Gretchan was perfectly comfortable leaving her dog alone in a room while she went about town; she had done so in many communities in the course of her travels. She was more worried about the gully dwarf getting curious and bumbling into trouble, so she had invented the little job to make sure he stayed put until she returned.
“I watch him,” Gus declared. “I keep eye on him! And two eyes on me!”
“Thank you. Here … these are for both of you.” She removed the packages she had purchased in the food market. The Aghar’s eyes lit up as she handed him a small wedge of cheese as well as a few carrots and radishes. Kondike welcomed the soup bone and immediately started gnawing away on the scraps of meat still clinging to the large joint.
But Gus was scowling again. “Where you go? You not eat food? You go see big Poleaxe dwarf?” he asked suspiciously.
She blinked in surprise, suddenly realizing that he must be jealous. Touched, she didn’t mock him. “No, actually. I thought he was a bit of a pain—I mean,” she added, “I think he talked too much. But I have some research to do that I must do on my own. I’d like to meet some other Neidar and speak with them. I want to get to know this town, and I suspect there’s a lot more to it than Harn Poleaxe.”
Five minutes later, the Aghar and dog were secure in their room, happily munching their food. Gretchan got settled in her own room, opening the window and pulling back the curtains to air out the somewhat stuffy chamber. Opening her backpack, she found her hairbrush and ran it through her hair a few times.
She was putting it back when she noticed the strange bottle that the Aghar had brought out of the wizard’s lair. She reached for the bottle, looking it over carefully. The label, Midwarren Pale, suggested a brand of dwarf spirits from Thorbardin, but her senses tingled as she held the flask, and she knew that it held something stranger and far more powerful than even the most potent alcoholic beverage. She removed the stopper and sniffed at it, wincing at the smell—which was very reminiscent of dwarf spirits.
Shrugging, she decided that mystery would have to wait. She set the bottle on the stand next to her bed and closed up her pack. Then she strolled out the inn’s front door and into the lamplit streets of Hillhome. She turned away from Moldoon’s, heading instead toward the newer parts of town, the wooden neighborhoods on the outskirts. Soon she found another amiable inn—the dwarven town was full of them—and seated herself at an outside table, watching passersby: loggers returning from the woods, soot-stained coal-diggers coming from the smithies; teamsters bringing their horses, mules, and oxen into their corrals.
She quickly struck up a conversation with a young dwarf who had stopped by to wet his whistle. Garrin Hammerstrike was his name, and he seemed to know a lot about the town.
“Well, the mayor has been running things while Harn Poleaxe was gone, but now that’s bound to change,” Garrin said before taking a big gulp from his mug.
“Oh? How long was Mr. Poleaxe gone?”
“About two years, give or take. Went all the way to Kayolin, he did.”
“Kayolin?” Gretchan was impressed. Perhaps she had underestimated Poleaxe; few travelers from those parts made it as far as the northern kingdom, and she would be interested in Harn’s observations. She thought it odd that, for all of his boasting, Poleaxe hadn’t mentioned his trip to that distant place.
Her eyebrows raised as Hammerstrike continued. “Yep. Word is the Mother Oracle asked him to go.”
“Really?” She was intrigued by the connection. “I’ve heard of her. I understand that she’s not well?”
Hammerstrike shrugged. “Couldn’t say, myself. We never see much of her; she stays inside that little hut, right up at the end of that road, there.”
Gretchan saw the little side street, extending toward the wooded ridge that flanked the edge of Hillhome. She made a mental note of the location, then turned back to the talkative local.
“So Harn Poleaxe
returned from Kayolin just a few days ago?”
“Only yesterday, it was. Even brought a Kayolin dwarf back with him, they say. Turned out to be a spy—they got him locked in the brig right now.”
“You say there’s a dwarf from Kayolin right here in Hillhome?”
“Aye-uh. Big fellow too, I hear. But he got the stuffing knocked out of him by Harn, of course. My friend Slate Fireforge helped to bring him in, just today.”
“Where is this brig?” she asked.
Garrin chuckled. “Well, it’s right around the corner there. But you won’t be able to get in. Old Shriff Keenstrike guards the door like a hawk morning, noon, and night.”
“Well, I might give it a try. Thanks for the information,” she said. She called over a barmaid and handed her a copper. “Give my friend here another drink when he’s ready.”
A few minutes later, she was approaching the brig, a sturdy building with narrow, barred windows. She guessed that the armed dwarf standing vigilantly at the door must be the reputed Shriff Keenstrike. He was a disreputable-looking fellow with about a week’s worth of spare food stored in the tangled mat of his brown beard who watched warily as she neared.
“Hi there,” she said, sauntering up the steps and offering him her most dazzling smile.
“Well, uh, hi there, yourself,” Shriff stammered, blushing. “What kin I do for you?”
“I’d like to talk to one of your prisoners,” she said, leaning close. “Do you think that would be all right?”
“Well, really … um, no one’s supposed to go in there. Them’s the rules. I don’t make the rules up; I just enforce ’em.”
“Oh, I promise not to disturb anything,” she breathed. “And it will just be for a few minutes. Surely a big, brave fellow like you can make sure that nothing bad happens. I mean, you look like you really know how to use that sword.”
“Well, yes, of course, I do know how to look out for myself,” Shriff said. “I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm for a few minutes or so.” He hesitated, frowning. “What’s your business, ma’am?”
“I’m a historian,” she said proudly, batting her eyelashes. “I’m here in town to learn about the area, and I always like to take a look at the important government buildings. Who knows, a handsome guy like you, you may end up in my report.”
Shriff stared at his shoes, blushing again. He looked up and down the street then turned back to Gretchan. She smiled again, and he was unlocking the door a second later.
Men, she thought. They are so predictable.
She hesitated slightly when the stench of the place reached her nostrils but quickly gathered her determination and marched into the brig. She had certainly smelled worse in the course of her research!
As soon as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she picked out the mountain dwarf. The other prisoners—she counted four, in two separate cells—were listless and filthy, while the prisoner from Kayolin didn’t look quite as abject. Indeed, he glared fiercely at her from his cell at the end of the hall. She advanced purposefully, stopping just outside the barred door.
The prisoner said nothing but stared at her suspiciously. He was unusually tall, and quite handsome under the dirt and bruises. When she smiled her most pleasant smile at him, his expression didn’t change. He glowered even more.
“Hi there. I’m told you’re from Kayolin,” she said. “Is that true?”
“Who wants to know?” he growled. “And what are you doing here?” The Kayolin prisoner was squeezed into the small space, his knees bent, his back against the wall. She realized his hands were behind him and that they were probably bound. His cell was the smallest unit in the place, with barely room enough for him to stand or turn around.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” she said sympathetically. “My name is Gretchan Pax. I’ve been compiling stories, histories, anecdotes about the dwarves of Krynn for some time now, with the goal in mind of writing a book about my travels and observations. I’ve never had the chance to interview someone from Kayolin, though. I talked my way past the jailer.”
“What makes you think I’d want to talk to you?” he snapped.
“Well, I don’t think there’s anything special about me, particularly,” she replied, taken aback by his rudeness. After all, every male dwarf wanted to talk to her! “I mean, just, you know … I’d like to hear about your nation, anything you’d care to tell—I mean, talk about.”
Damn, she was stammering like a child!
“Looks like you made someone pretty mad,” she said, changing course. “That’s quite a bruise under your eye. The word is that you’re accused of being a spy. Is that true?”
“True that I’m accused, not true that I’m a spy,” he replied stonily. “But why should it matter to you anyway?”
She tried to catch his eye and put some of her usually reliable flirting ability to use, but his head was slightly downcast so his eyes were partly masked by strands of brown hair that hung across his forehead.
“I see your hands are tied,” she said, shifting tactics. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t untie them. You’re not dangerous, are you?” She tried to say that last as a joke, but he snorted contemptuously at her feeble humor.
She hesitated. There was something undeniably dangerous about him.
Then, with a shrug, he pushed himself awkwardly to his feet. He turned his back and presented his bound wrists to her, pressing his hands between two of the bars on his cell door.
“What’s your name?” she asked as she fumbled with the knots. The cord was a leather thong, twisted tightly. She winced as she saw how it had already cut into his skin. The knot was tight, and she had difficulty, even though her fingers were strong and nimble.
“Don’t you have a knife?” he asked impatiently as she strained at the knot.
That remark—and the fact he had mocked her courtesies thus far—irritated her. “No!” she snapped. “But I do have a hammer. Maybe you want me to conk you on the head instead.”
For some reason he laughed at that remark, which just made her angrier. She furiously pulled at the leather thong, knowing the line was cutting into his flesh, but the stubborn fellow didn’t even give her the satisfaction of reacting to the pain. Finally, she released the knot, and the cord tumbled free. He pulled away from the grate—grabbing up the cord, she noted—and turned to face her, rubbing his wrists.
“Thank you,” he said in a subdued tone. “My name is Brandon Bluestone.”
“Ah,” she replied, her anger melting into sympathy at his introduction. She tried to come up with a pleasant and relevant reply but realized that when she learned the name of a Neidar hill dwarf, or any mountain dwarf of a Thorbardin clan, that name invariably gave her an insight into the subject’s clan and background, not to mention all his likely friends or enemies stretching for generations. Yet all her information about Kayolin dated back more than four hundred years. She was at a disadvantage with such a rare specimen.
“I’d like to learn more about Kayolin. Can you tell me, for example, who is the governor there nowadays? Do you know the names of his predecessors?”
“Governor or king?” demanded the prisoner brusquely. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall, glaring at some point over her shoulder.
“Will you talk to me politely?” she asked. When he made no reply, she grew angry again. “You said you’d talk to me if I untied your hands!” Gretchan accused.
He snorted and she scowled, remembering that she hadn’t actually elicited such a pledge from him. “Look, tell me your story,” she said, gesturing to the cage, to the whole sturdy building that was the brig. “Why were you arrested? How did you get here?”
“In the course of the last day, I’ve been cheated, assaulted, robbed, and locked up,” he said coldly. “Why should I talk to you? Why should I trust you? How do I know you even are a historian? You don’t look like a historian to me. Maybe you’re the spy!”
Unconsciously, Brandon had struck her where she was vulnerable
. Some days she wondered if she really was a historian, whether she ever would truly write the book she boasted about. Momentarily speechless, she glared at him.
Brandon glared right back, and she could see his brown eyes smoldering through the tangle of hair that still hung over his forehead. Intriguing eyes, they were, compelling even. Were the eyes of all Kayolin dwarves brown? She made a show of whipping out her notebook and scribbling something down before tossing her head angrily.
“You know, you seem just as stubborn and cantankerous as any other kind of dwarf!” she snapped. “You’re always happier in a fight than a conversation. Well, Reorx take you, then! I don’t have to put up with this! Not from a hill dwarf and certainly not from a mountain dwarf from Kayolin!”
“And what about you?” he shot back. “A hill dwarf, I suppose, like all the other fools around here? I can tell by your tan; no self-respecting mountain dwarf would let herself spend so much time in the sun!”
“You’ve gotten pretty brown yourself!” she shot back. “Or is that all part of your disguise?”
“Damn you—this is no disguise, and I’m who I claim to be! Can I help it if every one of you ignorant Neidar is too stupid, too stubborn, too all-fired blind to see the truth in front of your nose?” he shouted.
“Well, I hope you rot in here, then. I’ve obviously learned all there is to know about the likes of you!” Gretchan spun and stomped back to the outer door, which Shriff opened at her first knock. She was so irritated that she forgot to thank him and didn’t even try to charm him with a smile. Instead, she stomped through the street, thinking of a dozen things she wished she’d said to the stubborn Kayolin dwarf.
She had visited imprisoned dwarves before, and for the most part, they were like any others but usually bored with their imprisonment and eager to tell their stories. But Brandon Bluestone had somehow thrown her off balance. Damn it, it was those eyes! He’d been beaten and robbed and jailed—she found herself believing everything about the few words he’d spoken—and yet he was rude and defiant, even challenging the one person who had offered him some sympathy.