by Doug Niles
She realized he didn’t want sympathy; he wanted freedom and, most likely, vengeance. Maybe he wasn’t a spy, but he certainly was dangerous. “Well, let him find vengeance on his own, then!” she grumbled to herself, stomping along the street. “He certainly will get no further help from me!”
The night was young, but she had no stomach for further research or interviews. She wandered around the town for a little while, finally making her way back to the boardinghouse and stopping outside the door of the room where she had left Gus and Kondike. The loud snoring brought a slight smile to her lips; only a gully dwarf could saw lumber like that!
But her irritation returned when she entered her own room. There was no lock, so she pushed the door open and stepped inside. She was surprised to find it utterly dark—she was certain she had left the window curtains open, and there was plenty of lamplight on the street outside. Remembering where the bed was, she stepped gingerly, making her way toward the window.
A tremor of alarm ran down her spine; something was wrong! In the next second, a strong hand clamped over her mouth and someone with a bearded face leaned his mouth close to her ear.
“Now just be quiet, lass, and this will be nice and enjoyable for both of us,” he whispered.
She recognized Harn Poleaxe by his voice, but before she could speak, he was pressing her down onto the bed.
“Gimme that bottle!” snarled Tufa Rockslinger, lunging for his fellow Klar warrior.
“Get yer own!” snapped Roc Billingstone, punching his comrade in the nose, crunching a few bones and bringing forth a surging gout of blood.
Garn Bloodfist had sensed the simmering tension between the two dwarves and was quick to act.
“Hey, you louts!” shouted the company captain, lunging between the pair as they squared off beside their cookfire. Already the rest of the mountain dwarves were starting to gather around, cheering Tufa and Roc, placing bets, shouldering their way close to the impending fight. The two combatants closed in, and the captain clocked Roc hard on the ear. Tufa retreated when Garn feinted another punch to his already-bleeding nose.
“Stop it!” ordered Garn. His stern tone and commanding presence forced the two combatants to back away from each other. Roc sneered and ostentatiously raised his flask to his lips, while Tufa used his cloak to try to stem the flow of blood from his broken nose.
“Why, I have a mind to report you both to General Shortbeard when we get back to Pax Tharkas!” the captain growled. Otaxx Shortbeard, grizzled veteran of many a campaign, was famous for his intolerance of Klar malcontents. But the troops knew it was an empty threat: the only thing General Shortbeard disliked more than unruly Klar warriors was a certain aggressive—and ambitious—subordinate named Garn Bloodfist. Roc even made the mistake of snickering contemptuously in the face of his officer’s threat.
Garn reached out and snatched the bottle from Roc’s hand, raising it to his own lips and taking a sip of the searing dwarf spirits. His soldier glared at him but knew better than to challenge his captain on his own turf. After a long pause, Garn handed the bottle back. When he spoke, he made an effort to make his tone calm and reasonable.
“Look, men. I know you’re ready for action. I feel the same way. We’ve been marching through these Reorx-forsaken hills for two weeks now, and we’re a long way from Pax Tharkas. But I can tell you, we’ll be swinging our swords before tomorrow night—and not at each other!” he added pointedly.
“Where, then?” demanded one of the Klar warriors. “Another hill dwarf hovel? A couple of huts and a mill? Last time we raided one of them crap holes, all we got was a keg of stale beer and two pigs!”
“So? That bacon was mighty tasty, wasn’t it?” retorted Garn. Then he shook his head. “Anyway, that won’t happen on this expedition. This time we strike a target worthy of us—all three hundred of us! It’s a real thriving town, and it’s got wealth. There’s a vault, and a smelter where they purify real gold. It has a market and a brewery, and we might even dally a bit with the ladies,” he added with a lewd chuckle. “After we take care of their men!”
“What town is that?” asked the questioner with slightly less hostility.
“It’s right over these ridges,” Garn replied. “It’s called Hillhome. After we’re done with it,” he added with a chuckle, “maybe they’ll call it Hellhome.”
His troops settled in to their bedrolls with his assurances of imminent action. But Garn, as always when battle loomed, couldn’t sleep. He stalked around the periphery of the camp, checking on the status of his sentries. All were awake and bristled and glared at his approach, proving their watchfulness.
Beyond the ring of guards, Garn Bloodfist was alone in the night. But as always when he was by himself, he keenly felt the presence of another.
“Give me strength, my father,” he said softly. “Allow me to prepare for my vengeance! Keep my blade keen, my wits sharp, on the morrow! Trip and confound and blind my enemies, so that they will fall before my charge!”
With each word, his voice grew louder. He didn’t realize the sentries were watching nervously, hearing his voice rise from the hillside and ring through the night. Garn’s fists clenched and he raised them to the sky, holding his pose, allowing his father’s resolute strength and unbending will to flow through him.
Then Dashard Bloodfist was before him, his father’s bloody face staring down at him from the night sky. That was the exultant truth that brought Garn Bloodfist, so often, under the open skies of the world: the chance to, again, see his father, stare at the gaping wounds that marred his face and neck, that ended his life. Dashard Bloodfist had been killed by dwarves—the rebelling Daergar and Hylar of Jungor Stonespringer’s war. He had been betrayed by the troops of his own company because he had trusted soldiers who were not his fellow Klar.
“Revenge!” Garn Bloodfist cried in a voice that was nearly a howl.
In his mind he pictured the houses and shops of Hillhome, imagined his shivering joy as those structures were destroyed, as the hill dwarves perished under the sudden onslaught of his ruthless Klar.
Only it wasn’t the Neidar who were the target of his vengeance. They were merely a target of convenience, an enemy that gave him cause to fight, to raid, and to kill. They were capable enough, the hill dwarves, and over the past ten years, they had learned to fear Garn Bloodfist and his Klar. After the next day, they would have still greater cause to be afraid.
But he would fight and kill them only because the real enemy was beyond his reach. The vicious Hylar, the fanatics who followed Jungor Stonespringer in his determination to seal Thorbardin against the world—they were his true enemies. They had killed his father during their civil war and would have killed Garn as well if he hadn’t gone into exile with the Failed King.
And Tarn Bellowgranite might be a failure, but for the time being, he provided the Klar with a place to live and a fortress wherein they could keep their battle skills sharp. Tomorrow those skills would come into play again.
But soon, Garn Bloodfist vowed, the Klar would find a way to attack their true enemies. They would shatter the gates of Thorbardin and carry the war, an orgy of killing, into the world under the mountain.
EIGHTEEN
DREAMS AND FLIGHT
Brandon glared through the darkness of the brig. For many long minutes, he didn’t move, keeping his eyes fixed upon the door where Gretchan Pax had departed. Her unannounced visit had jarred and unsettled him. He had been steeling himself for a confrontation with Harn Poleaxe or one of the Neidar’s agents, and instead the strange dwarf maid came to converse with him, as if he were some kind of tour guide or research subject.
Who did she think she was? Some sort of dwarf queen, apparently!
Still, Brandon acknowledged as he cooled down, she wasn’t the person with whom he was really angry; she just happened to be the one who came along while he was stewing. In point of fact, Gretchan had been really something to look at. Her smile, her hair, the pronounced swell in the front of
her tunic … she would have turned heads even amid the loveliest dwarf maids in all Kayolin. Thinking it over, Brandon began to feel a glimmer of gratitude; she had, after all, untied his wrists willingly enough. Though why in Reorx’s name didn’t she carry a knife, as virtually every other self-respecting dwarf, male or female, did?
Bah! Why was he wasting time thinking about another damn fool hill dwarf? He’d had enough of the Neidar to last him the rest of his lifetime! He slumped against the cool, damp wall of his cell, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes.
“Psst! Hey, you. Brandon, right? Is it true, what she said?”
Brandon looked up in surprise. He was being addressed in a hoarse whisper by one of the two dwarf prisoners closest to his cell, both of whom he had guessed to be mountain dwarves. The fellow’s beard bristled, and his hair sprouted from far down on his forehead. His eyes were pale and milky, but his expression was genuinely curious.
“What about what she said?” Brandon replied warily.
“That you’re a mountain dwarf? That you come from Kayolin? Up north, across the Newsea?”
“Yeah, that part’s true,” he acknowledged. He studied the bristle-haired mountain dwarf. “I take it you’re no hill dwarf either?”
The other dwarf scowled and spit. “I like to keep as much space as I can between me and the filthy Neidar.” He chuckled grimly. “Seems like they want to keep company with me, though.”
“Tough luck, that. Are you from Thorbardin?” Brandon asked curiously.
The other dwarf shook his head. “You really are from out of town, aren’t you. There’s no dwarf gone into or out of Thorbardin in many years. The new thane sealed the place right after Tarn Bellowgranite was exiled.”
“But there are mountain dwarves living outside of Thorbardin, then?”
The other dwarf shrugged. “In a few places. Pax Tharkas, mainly. That’s where Bellowgranite ended up with his exiles. They’re the ones stirring up most of the trouble between the clans—his Klar captain, Bloodfist, is a real butcher. Likes to make war and leaves it for the rest of us to live with the consequences.”
“So there is still warring between mountain and hill dwarf?” Brandon pressed. Maybe that explained a little about Poleaxe, who had talked with hatred about the mountain dwarves, Brandon remembered, and appeared to be some kind of leader among his own kind.
“The feuding and fighting never really ended,” said his informer. “Take us. We’re simple Theiwar miners, working our claims on the far side of the Kharolis. “Of course, we can’t trade with our own nation anymore, not since the kingdom was sealed. But we try to make an honest living; there’s a few towns and delvings of our kind in the mountains. We were unlucky enough to get swept up by the Neidar when they was marching against Tarn Bellowgranite and his men.”
“When was this?” Brandon asked.
The Theiwar shrugged. “Maybe a year ago. Hard to keep track of time in this place.”
“What happened? Were the Neidar attacking Pax Tharkas?” asked the dwarf from Kayolin. “I heard that place was practically impregnable.”
“Well, maybe it is. I don’t think the Neidar was trying to take the fortress, though. They just made an ambush for when the Klar came out and tried to wipe ’em out on the trail.”
“But they didn’t succeed?” Brandon guessed.
“Nope,” the Theiwar said with evident satisfaction. “Say what you will about those wild-ass Klar; they’re damn fine fighters. I think the hill dwarves lost a couple dozen of their men, and the rest went running for home. We were one of the lucky ones, I suppose, prisoners.”
“Yeah,” the speaker’s companion said bitterly. “Our mine just happened to be right on their way.”
“I know a thing or two about bad luck,” Brandon agreed. “Mine hasn’t exactly been gold-plated either these last few days.”
“I hear you, mate,” said the Theiwar.
“What were you charged with?” asked Brandon. “Did you get a fair trial?”
“Fair trial?” asked the Theiwar, poking his friend in the ribs. Both sat back, roaring with laughter. “Who’s been telling you fairy tales?”
Brandon slumped back into the darkness, thinking about the sad twists and turns his life had taken—a life, he was forced to conclude, that might not last more than another day or two. The darkness, the silence, the stench of the place surrounded him.
But when he finally slept, he dreamed of a golden-haired dwarf maid. He smiled at her, rather than scowling, and once again, he felt her nimble fingers working to release his bonds.
Gus wandered through a field of glorious, colorful vegetables. He picked and ate them as he strolled, but he never seemed to get full. He came to a stream, and a fish jumped right into his hands. It was so delicious, he halted on the bank and waited for another one, which jumped out of the water two seconds later. Everywhere he looked, he saw food, a natural banquet practically begging to be eaten—by him!
And he did his best. He rooted around on the ground, pulling up carrots, chomping contentedly on the orange crispness. He saw other vegetables hanging off trees, and though they hung on branches high above the ground, when he approached, the limbs of the trees dipped low and he plucked and ate the bounty of the forest. When he was finished eating, for a little while at least, he ran through the meadow, and nobody chased him.
Life had never been better. He was warm, happy, well fed, safe …
Until he heard the ominous, rumbling growl. The sound was deep, obviously made by a very large creature, deep and menacing.
“Kondike?” he called, looking through the trees, across the nearby meadow. But there was no sign of the big dog.
The Aghar spun through a full circle, but all he saw was the meadow, the meandering stream. He saw no dog, no threat.
But when the growl sounded again, the surrounding trees seemed to move in closer, loom higher and darker. Soon they towered over his head, casting him in chilly shade. He flinched and looked up at the sky, suddenly remembering the creature that was stalking him.
But the sky, though dark and gray, was empty of fearsome creatures, or even birds.
The third time he heard the growl, it was right beside him, and he awakened.
Heart pounding, he realized he was in a dark room, and in a flash he remembered Hillhome. Gretchen was in another room, but Kondike was right beside him and growling fiercely at something.
Gus squealed in terror and burrowed under the blanket that had somehow gotten all twisted and tangled while he was sleeping. Even as he dived for cover, his face popped out the other end. He put his hands over his eyes to hide himself, daring to split his fingers slightly and look around.
The big dog stood beside the bed, facing the door, growling deep within his barrel chest. That augured danger, but Gus quickly thought of someone else who he ought to protect.
Gretchan! He sprang out of bed—or would have if he weren’t entangled by the unaccustomed luxury of a blanket, which tripped him onto his face. As soon as he scrambled to his feet, he raced to the door and pushed it open. Kondike knocked him aside, the big dog lunging into the hallway, still growling. Nothing was in the hallway. Teeth bared, Kondike moved to stand stiff legged outside of the neighboring room.
Gus heard sounds in the dwarf maid’s room. His hand was trembling, his knees knocking together, but he reached for the latch, ready to open the door.
“Wait! Stop!” hissed Gretchan, intentionally keeping her voice low. Poleaxe had overpowered her physically; she had to use her wits to save herself.
“I’ve been waiting all night while you cavorted around Hillhome. How dare you tell me you’re going to bed and then leave! You’re a teasing, lying wench, you are!”
She was astounded at the sheer animosity, the malevolence, betrayed in the big dwarf’s voice. She struggled in growing panic, trying to reach the small hammer she wore at her belt. She gasped at Poleaxe’s strength as, with one hand, he pinned both of hers over her head. His other hand
reached for the buckle of her belt and snapped it free. The belt, with her only weapon attached to it, tumbled to the floor.
“Let’s talk this over!” she urged, trying not to panic. “Let me go!”
“We did enough talking to about wear out my tonsils,” growled the hill dwarf. “I’m ready for some different fun.” He grasped her breast, roughly squeezing, laughing at her struggles.
“Ouch—you’re hurting me!” she protested.
“Well, don’t resist me, then,” he replied, taunting. “I’ll be gentle if you will.”
Then the door to the room burst open, and Kondike was there, a snarling missile tipped with sharp, white teeth smashing into Poleaxe, knocking him right off the bed and onto the floor. Dog and dwarf rolled across the tiny room, smashing into the table, twisting and grappling on the worn rug. Gus came charging in right after the dog, grabbing one of the Neidar’s feet—Harn had removed his boots already—and biting him on the big toe.
“Ouch, damn you!” snapped the hill dwarf, trying to kick at the gully dwarf while he held the dog’s head at bay. Despite the feet that flailed at him, Gus held on tenaciously, even as his little body was thumped and kicked against the wall.
Breathing hard, Gretchan scrambled to her feet. Poleaxe lay on his back, grunting curses as, with both hands, he held Kondike’s head away from his face. The dog was snarling viciously as Gus bit down a second time, and again the hill dwarf howled in pain. The struggling Neidar bashed into the wall of the small room and rolled back across the floor, nearly knocking Gretchan over. She stepped back, looking for an opening, as Kondike pressed in, snapping his jaws, his teeth just inches from the hill dwarf’s nose.
Where was her belt? There—she spotted it as the combatants rolled around on the floor. Gretchan reached down and snatched up the hammer that was suspended by a little sling. It was a small tool, light and silvery, but its looks were deceiving. She brought it down heavily against Poleaxe’s skull, and with another grunt, the hill dwarf collapsed limply.