by Doug Niles
Brandon moved higher up the ridge, and when he came to a notch in the rocky crest, he moved across to the other side. He wouldn’t be able to keep the mountain dwarves in sight, but he gambled that they would continue along the road, just as the winding ridge did.
Jogging along, he tried to come up with a plan. He knew he couldn’t simply walk up to the mountain dwarves and ask them for the Bluestone back. He imagined the absurdity of the scene: “Um, that treasure you’re carrying … it actually belongs to me …”
The only question was whether they’d kill him outright or simply laugh him out of their camp.
Of course, the strangers were mountain dwarves, and that, at least, gave him hope. Hylar and Klar clans, while not necessarily allied, were not traditional enemies in the manner of Hylar and Daewar, who were generally united in their hatred of the Theiwar and Daergar dark dwarves. He decided that he would follow along, wait for the Klar to make their camp, then go down and introduce himself. He hoped they would remember they had aided his rescue. With any luck, he could at least join their ranks. As a kinsman from up north, they ought not to have any reason to distrust him on sight.
Of course, he remembered with a chill, Lord Heelspur and the assassins who had killed his brother were mountain dwarves too—albeit, Hylar of his own clan.
Gretchan walked briskly along the ridge above the Hillhome road, wrapped in thought. Gus continued to prattle on about revenge, about the bold initiatives he was planning, the battles he would win. She merely ignored his boasts and blather, moderately grateful that he had something to talk about besides where the next meal was coming from. Her mind was working on deeper problems, and she was trying to come up with a plan.
Of course she had recognized the attacking dwarves as Klar clansmen. With Thorbardin sealed, it seemed likely they must have come from Pax Tharkas. She guessed the mountain dwarves would be returning to that fortress. Her guess was reinforced by the fact that the road they followed was the one leading to that great citadel.
“Oh, curse it all,” she said as the afternoon wound into evening and the Klar’s marching column remained a mile or so ahead of them on the road. They continued marching into the darkness, covering ground until almost midnight, until, at last, the company moved off the road and gathered into a cold, fireless camp in a small grove of pines.
“I need to go talk to them,” she announced curtly.
Gus looked up at her and paled. “Talk to big fighter dwarves?” he gulped, his bravado fading in an instant.
“Yes. Now that they’ve stopped for the night. They won’t hurt me, I’m sure. There’s something I wish to know. But I want you to stay here, out of sight, and keep an eye on things for me. All right? And I can’t take Kondike with me. I might have to move quietly, and he might spook the folks I want to talk to. Make sure he stays put here, out of trouble. You did an excellent job of keeping an eye on Kondike before.”
“Sure I did. I do that!” the Aghar promised. “I keep two eyes on him this time!”
“I knew I could count on you,” Gretchan said, touched by her companion’s obvious sincerity. There were evident risks in leaving the gully dwarf responsible for anything, but they were lesser risks than taking him along. She reminded herself that, back in Hillhome, he had managed to turn up in the right place at the right time.
“Just remember, don’t make any noise. I’ll be back in … call it two hours,” she concluded, remembering the limitations of gully dwarf mathematical understanding.
Leaving Gus and Kondike hidden in a clump of rocks just off the road, she trudged toward the grove where she had seen the Klar make their camp. She was not looking forward to the encounter; the mountain dwarves of that clan were notoriously stubborn, unpredictable, and almost always rage filled. But she had to try to talk to them.
“Hey!” called a sentry, stepping out from behind a pine bole as she approached the camp. He brandished a heavy axe and peered suspiciously from beneath the canopy of the tree’s branches. “Who goes?”
“It’s me—Gretchan Pax,” she announced, striding up to the dwarf.
“Who?” he demanded, squinting to get a good look. The white moon emerged from behind a cloud, washing the scene in illumination, and the Klar’s eyes widened. “Why, hel—loh there,” he said, grinning. “What can I do for such a pretty lady?”
“I need to have a word with your brave captain,” she said with a sexy smile.
“Oh,” he replied, somewhat crestfallen. “Well, Garn Bloodfist is by that big rock near the stream. I don’t know … he didn’t say anything … is he, uh, expecting you?”
“No, I’m a surprise,” she said with a wink.
The sentry turned toward the camp. “Captain! There’s someone here to see you. I, uh, think you’ll want to talk to her.”
The reply from the middle of the camp seemed, to Gretchan, like an inarticulate cry. She looked at the sentry, who simply shrugged and waved her in. “That’s the captain for you,” he muttered as she passed.
The mountain dwarves were extremely weary from their long day of battle, retreat, and hard marching. Most of them were wrapped up snugly in their bedrolls, snoring or nearly asleep. A few glanced up from their blankets as she moved among them, and she heard whispering and rustling as many of them sat up and blinked. The moonlight reflected in her hair, making it look like spun gold, and much of the snoring died out as the sleeping dwarves were nudged awake to have a look at the mysterious visitor.
Men, she thought as she followed the guard’s direction toward the stream.
She found Garn Bloodfist wrapped in his cloak, glaring at the dark waters of the stream as it flowed past. At first she thought he was with someone—she heard him muttering angrily about “Revenge!”—but a glance around suggested no one else was present.
“Hello,” she said unceremoniously, stepping to his side. “So you are the famous Garn Bloodfist. I need to talk to you.”
“Who in Reorx’s name are you?” he demanded, standing up and looking her over slowly and suspiciously. His eyes bulged from his bearded face and fixed upon her with a staring intensity she found strangely irritating.
Charm is wasted on this one, she realized. In a sense, that was a relief; it allowed her to cut right to the point.
“I saw your men at work today,” she declared. “Quite a bit of butchery. I suppose you’re very proud.”
“And why shouldn’t I be?” snapped Garn, his eyes darting this way and that. “We won the day!”
“That’s as foolish a statement as I’ve heard in a long time. Win a day, and lose a year? Or a century? Is that what you’re after?” she charged. Her voice grew stronger and more shrill. “You attacked a peaceful hill dwarf village! I suppose next you want to refight the Dwarfgate War? Maybe conjure up Fistandantilus to make another Skullcap!”
He gaped at her. “I repeat, who in Reorx’s name are you?” he said, sounding a little less sure of himself.
“I am a highly respected historian,” she said, shaking a finger in his face. “And I asked you a question. Why are you opening up old wounds and refighting the Dwarfgate War?”
Garn glared at the uppity female he had never seen before. “If you paid more attention to that history you claim to find so interesting, you’d notice that the Dwarfgate War has never ended. If we don’t kill them, they’ll end up killing us!”
She shook her head. “How can you be such an idiot? How can there be any hope for our people when fools like you will take any excuse to make war?”
“I am a warrior!” snarled the Klar, his hands twitching. He wasn’t wearing a weapon, but he raised a fist, flexing it toward Gretchan’s face.
She didn’t back down; in fact, she shouted at him. “It was a tragic, foolish waste of lives—your own as well as the Neidar! You’ve inflamed the hill dwarves now. They’ll be coming for vengeance soon enough.”
“A waste?” Garn shot back, gloating. “If you’re really such an important historian, then tell me if this looks like
a waste.” He pulled out a pouch and held it open so she could see, glinting in the pale light of the stars, two large wedges of colored stones. “Look!” he declared. “Unless I miss my guess, these are valuable dwarven artifacts that rightfully belong to the exiles of Thorbardin. It’s a treasure like I’ve never seen!”
She stepped closer, eyes widening, inspecting the unusual colored stone. “Where do you think you’re taking them? To Pax Tharkas?” she asked.
He glowered then thrust his bristling beard forward as if in challenge. “What if I am?” he demanded. “These stones are the spoils of our mission, and unless I miss my guess, they’ll make Tarn Bellowgranite and even Otaxx Shortbeard sit up and take notice!”
She felt suddenly dizzy and sat down hard on a nearby rock. “What did you say?” she asked, her voice falling to a whisper.
“You heard me,” Garn retorted. He scowled. “Say, what’s the matter with you all of a sudden?” He looked around suspiciously. “Where did you come from, anyway?”
“I’ve been traveling … for a long time,” she said in a small, disoriented voice. “I’m not sure I even remember where I come from anymore.”
For the first time, Garn looked hard at the stranger. “Well, you can stay with us if you want to be safe. And we’ll take you to the fortress with us,” he offered a little too eagerly.
“No. I’m traveling with another party,” she said curtly.
He blinked and his eyes narrowed. “What are you anyway?” he demanded. “Some kind of witch? Showing up here in the middle of the night, ten miles from Hillhome. Or is that your home?” he challenged menacingly. He took a step closer to her.
“Don’t touch me!” she snapped. She stood, facing him down. When he reached toward her, she spoke a single word: “Stop!”
The word exploded through the night like a crack of thunder. “You are a witch!” Garn said angrily, struggling to push his hand forward against the unseen force that was blocking him. “Klar!” he shouted. “Take her!”
At least he tried to shout, and his mouth worked up and down. But no sound came forth. Stunned, his eyes bulging, he stared at the mysterious dwarf maid, who glared at him with an expression that was not so much angry as distraught.
“I don’t care where you’re going,” she said with a shrug, turning to watch the moonlight reflecting in the waters of the stream. The gemstones intrigued her. But narrow-minded dwarves such as Garn Bloodfist—Bloodthirst would be more appropriate—discouraged and depressed her.
Leaving him still struggling against the force of her command, she turned and walked into the night.
TWENTY-ONE
SAME NEW PROBLEM
Brandon neared the mountain dwarf camp just as dawn began to color the sky. The raiding party slumbered in a small field beside a winding stream, with a fringe of pine forest screening them. He had watched the camp through the night, and he moved carefully through the dim light, making sure not to crack dried branches under his feet or to rustle against the underbrush. He reasoned that, if he were able to walk straight up to the Klar captain and demonstrate he had entered the camp without meaning any harm, his chances of a moderately friendly reception would be significantly improved.
His plans were shattered by the appearance of four—no, six—armed Klar, who leaped out of the brush to surround him before he even reached the camp’s perimeter.
“Hey,” he objected, raising his hands in the middle of a ring of spears. One of the mountain dwarves plucked his sword from his belt while the others prodded him toward the center of the camp. “I just want to talk. I’m not an enemy!” he protested.
His protestations were to no avail. A half hour later, Brandon found himself a bound prisoner again, his wrists lashed together behind him, a sturdy chain shackled around his neck. The Klar were busy breaking camp and preparing to move out.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded of the captain. “I tell you, I just want to talk!”
“Ha!” said the dwarf who commanded the company. His eyes bulged as he thrust his face so close to Brandon that he could smell the Klar’s rancid breath. He laughed, a gleeful, high-pitched sound that did not sound entirely rational.
“You’re a hill dwarf spy, or I’m a gully dwarf,” the captain hooted. “And you’d like nothing better than to follow us into Pax Tharkas!”
“You’re wrong!” Brandon cried, appalled at the abrupt evaporation of his luck—again. “I’m a mountain dwarf!”
But the Klar captain, still chuckling, was already ordering his amused warriors onto the road.
And Brandon Bluestone, his neck chain tethered to two burly Klar axemen, was once again tugged toward a captor’s lair.
Harn Poleaxe sat in the darkness of his house, seething over the events of the day. Even the executions of the two prisoners, bloody and gratifying as that had been, could not erase the sting of defeat, frustration, humiliation. The Kayolin dwarf had escaped, vanishing into the wilds of Kharolis, and Poleaxe’s hard-won treasure, the Bluestone that was going to vault him to greatness, had been stolen by the treacherous mountain dwarves.
Nursing another jug of dwarf spirits—his first one had not lasted until sunset—he scratched at the newest sore that had open up on his face. His fingernails came away red with blood. He put the neck of the bottle to his lips and leaned back, gurgling for a long time. The day had started with such fine portents and had degenerated into a disaster.
He deserved so much better!
His troubles started, he reflected, the previous night, when the seductive dwarf maid had eluded him and her companions had accosted him. That was followed by the trial that went awry, the botched battle with the Klar, and Brandon’s scot-free escape.
Yet, he told himself, he was empowered, mighty and commanding and capable in ways that he could have only dreamt about before. And it was all the result of a potion.
He took another drink of dwarf spirits, and the powerful alcohol only seemed to enhance his abilities. Beyond that drink, he felt the potion’s power coursing through his body, embellished by the spirits but not intoxicated. The enchanted liquid had changed and strengthened him, and once he had mastered his new powers, he would track down the mountain dwarves and the wench who had spurned him and all of them would pay. He would crush those opponents and any others who stood in his path. He would triumph, and in the end he would be Lord Poleaxe, master of all the hills!
He had been foolish to think of Brandon Bluestone as a naive blunderer; clearly the Hylar from Kayolin was dangerous in ways Harn hadn’t understood.
Brandon had eluded him once. Next time he would die.
And Gretchan Pax would suffer.
His gorge rose as he recalled how she had spurned him, lied to him. How dared she! His lust surged as he recalled her beauty, her pride, her sparkling eyes and swelling breasts. Before he was done, she would enjoy submitting to him, by Reorx. In the end, it would be she who desired him, and only then would he spurn her. Oh, and she’d have to die as well.
The room was very dark, and he barely noticed the shape taking form in front of him. Only when the shape’s two orbs, glowing like embers in the Abyss, opened did he feel the deep power, the mesmerizing presence of his visitor. He noted the great bat wings, smelled the fetid breath emerging from that fanged maw. The creature filled up all the space, darkening it like a great shadow, like a new and more intense form of night. The shape rose above him and stretched around him, a display of chilling power.
Harn Poleaxe dropped to his knees, gaping in a mixture of terror, awe, and reverence. “You! You will show me the way!” he gasped, certain beyond any doubt that the monster was his new ally, sent by the gods. The jug fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers, tumbling onto its side, but it was already so empty that none of the dregs spilled out.
The creature snorted, and again that foul breath washed over the hill dwarf. But it was like a perfume to him, anointing and blessing him, crowning his greatness. Harn Poleaxe shivered in delight and, pressing
his face to the floor, waited for the monster to speak.
“Harn Poleaxe, you are a servant of the Black One,” declared the creature. “It is his elixir that has empowered you and his will that you must obey.”
“Speak!” Poleaxe begged. “Only tell me what to do, and I will do it. Tell me how I may strike at Pax Tharkas.”
The creature hissed, a rasping sound that might have been taken for laughter. “You already know our master’s will, I see. He will be pleased.”
“I know his will, and I know mine! I am fated to wipe out the mountain dwarves in the fortress! I know what I must do. I must raise an army of Neidar, and we must attack the walls. But the gates, oh my lord! How can we take the gates?”
The thing made that noise again, and Harn was certain that it was a sound of amused pleasure. The red eyes glowed, and the maw gaped open again.
“Leave the gates to me,” it said.
Brandon stared upward at the massive towers and wall blocking passage up the valley. He had seen Pax Tharkas portrayed in drawings and sketches, but the reality of the monument took his breath away. It was as if a part of the mountain range itself blocked their path—a massive slab with a flat, carved face, flanked by summits of utterly symmetrical, perfectly solid peaks. For a moment he forgot that he stood in chains, an abject prisoner of his fellow mountain dwarves. The legacy of that place, its all-encompassing majesty, seemed to banish all trivial emotions into the far corners of his brain.
For two weeks his Bluestone luck had held true. He had been treated miserably. His lowly status as a prisoner had been pounded home every day he had been marching with Garn Bloodfist’s Klar.
For several days he had tried to convince the wild-eyed warrior that he was, in fact, a mountain dwarf of clan Hylar. Every time he made the claim, however, the Klar had grown more agitated, more paranoid. The Klar loudly accused Brandon of spying; he was convinced the Kayolin dwarf was a Neidar from Hillhome. He was fed stingily, poked and kicked, and threatened with execution if he didn’t shut up.