by Doug Niles
At least Brandon caught a glimpse of the Bluestone and its companion Greenstone now and then when Garn took the colored stones out and studied them lovingly. Captain Bloodfist was proud of his prizes. His eyes seemed to shine in their glow, and he giggled and chortled as he carried them around the camp, endlessly enjoying their heft and beauty. It was clear, at least, that he treasured his treasures.
Other glimpses were less encouraging, however, as on the nights—about every forth evening—when Garn stalked, alone, into the darkness beyond the perimeter of his camp. He would shout and rail against the sky, the stars. Most of his words were garbled, and sometimes he would sob in abject grief or howl in a seeming frenzy of rage. On those nights, even his bravest warriors gave him a wide berth. When the captain returned to camp, exhausted from his ranting, he invariably slept through the following dawn, and the company was several hours late getting onto the trail.
But finally, they had reached their destination. The Klar had spent some time that morning, before they broke camp, in polishing their black armor and shields and cleaning some of the dust and grime from their hair, beards, and boots. They entered Pax Tharkas in a proud column of fours, each dwarf with his shield slung across his back, feet pounding the pavement in regular cadence, up the broad ramp leading to the massive wall.
The great gate in the center of the main wall was wide open. Brandon, in the middle of the column, was chained to a pair of burly warriors, the links fastened to the collar around his neck. Even so, he could swivel his head in awe, taking in the massive structure.
Even the atrium of Kayolin, which was essentially bottomless, was not as far across as the breadth of the massive hall. The whole place seemed to be hollowed out, at least on the ground level. There was a pile of rocks and boulders roughly jumbled in the center, but neither wall nor any other kind of partition divided the enormous space. Very high overhead he could discern a series of catwalks crossing back and forth and side to side through the upper reaches of the wall. The ceiling itself seemed to be lost in shadows, but he was certain that it was well over a hundred feet above his head.
“Bring the prisoner with me,” ordered the captain. “We’ll go see the thane.”
A trio of Klar warriors fell in behind Brandon, whose wrists were bound behind him. At least one hundred other mountain dwarves were in view. Most were working, hauling, levering, and carrying large rocks to a series of lift cages at one side of the great hollow hall.
As they approached, one of those lifts was filled with rocks, and a dwarf rang a bell. Brandon watched as the container, which was little more than a sturdy wooden box attached to a block and tackle, creakingly rose into the darkness far overhead.
“Hold that work, there,” Garn barked as several laborers approached an empty lift with the beginnings of the next load. The captain, the prisoner, and the three guards crammed into the box, and Garn signaled to the bellman. Once more the gong sounded, and that crate, like the other, began to rise into the heights overhead.
The lift climbed smoothly and swiftly with no yawing or pitching movements even as the floor fell away. Brandon estimated they were hoisted more than a hundred feet into the air before the cage slid snugly into a notched landing. There they found a dozen dwarves, some with shovels and picks, others cranking away on the block and tackle winch.
“Welcome back, Bloodfist,” called one burly foreman. “At least you don’t weigh as much as a box of rocks.”
“Where’s Tarn Bellowgranite?” asked the captain, ignoring the pleasantry.
A harsh voice answered him from out of the darkness. “Damn it, Bloodfist! Are you crippled? You know there’s stairs you could climb—why did you waste the time of the load men?”
“I have a hill dwarf prisoner, my thane, and important treasure,” Garn Bloodfist called as sternly as his leader had spoken. “I didn’t want to waste any time in bringing you the news.”
The captain turned and fixed Brandon with his piercing, intense eyes. “You will now meet the thane of Pax Tharkas. Mind your tongue, or I will have it cut out of your head.”
Tarn Bellowgranite stepped into view, making his way along a dark, narrow wooden catwalk to the lift landing. The dwarf looked old and tired, except for the undying spark of anger in his eyes. His head was bald on top, surrounded by a fringe of gray hair, and his shoulders slumped, his back bent, as he clumped along. To Brandon, he looked like a dwarf who had been carrying a great weight—greater than any box of stones—for a long, long time. The thane was accompanied by another elderly dwarf, a sturdy-framed fellow with white hair and a beard who, though his belly bulged perhaps more than he would have liked, still bore himself like a lifelong warrior.
“Greetings, my thane,” said Captain Bloodfist, bowing low. His men did the same and, after a moment’s hesitation and an elbow in his sides, so did Brandon. The Klar straightened and spoke again, addressing Tarn’s companion. “Greetings too, General Shortbeard,” he said. “I am glad that you, also, are here to receive my report.”
“Well?” demanded the thane, looking Brandon up and down. “What manner of hill dwarf is this? Rather an unusually big fellow, to be sure.”
“I keep telling this dummy, I’m not a hill dwarf!” the prisoner retorted, meeting Tarn’s angry eyes with his own steady glare. “And I would expect better treatment from my own kinfolk in the mountain clans!”
“Shut up, you,” declared one of the guards, delivering a ringing blow to the back of Brandon’s head with the hilt of his sword.
While the Kayolin dwarf staggered, fighting the urge to slump to his knees, Garn spoke solemnly. “We caught this fellow following us back from Hillhome—he came from there, clearly. I believe he’s a thief and a spy; he sought to pass himself off as a mountain dwarf, but you have heard his accent. Clearly he’s not one of us. And my thane—”
Garn’s breathing grew excited, and he was almost panting as he reached into his belt pouch to pull out the Bluestone and the Greenstone, which he set on a nearby workbench for all to admire.
“This is the booty the thief was after—the prizes we claimed from Hillhome. Look at them! I have a hunch they are valuable artifacts!”
The facets on the two wedges glittered and winked in the diffuse torchlight. Tarn Bellowgranite’s eyes, like those of all the other dwarves, were drawn almost hypnotically to the pair of colored stones.
“Hmm, yes. Look at these, Otaxx,” the thane said, addressing the one called General Shortbeard. “What do you think they are?”
“Where did they come from?” Otaxx asked Garn.
“The Bluestone is mine and it comes from Kayolin, just like me,” Brandon interjected before anyone else could speak. “It was stolen from me by the leader of the hill dwarves, Harn Poleaxe. The other stone, the Greenstone, was already in the town of the hill homes when I was brought there—as their prisoner!” he concluded insistently.
“He keeps telling this preposterous story,” Garn said, sounding more amused than upset. “All the way from Kayolin! Have any of you ever met a dwarf from Kayolin?”
As the thane regarded Brandon with frank suspicion, Captain Bloodfist continued enthusiastically. “These stones may be magical. Or think what even one would bring in the bazaar in Caergoth or Sanction. Wealth beyond imagining! The vital funds to outfit a proper army, to overwhelm the hill dwarf scum once and for all! Oh, that would be a glorious day for the mountain dwarves—and your Hylar legacy would be restored.”
“I am a Hylar too!” Brandon shouted.
That was one interruption too many for Garn Bloodfist. Brandon felt Garn’s blade pressing against his throat, colder by far than the metal collar encircling his neck. “I told you—cease your lies! Or do you want me to cut the tongue right out of your head?”
Brandon glowered but kept his mouth shut. His eyes appealed to the Hylar thane, who seemed preoccupied with his own troubles. But the Kayolin dwarf was surprised to see the old general, Otaxx Shortbeard, looking at him with an expression unlike all the
others—pensive, even curious.
The old, weary thane gestured to the load men, who immediately started the empty crate descending toward the floor of the great hall again.
“This is the true Hylar legacy,” Tarn Bellowgranite declared, waving his hand at the vast operation. “Restoring the great trap to operability. We are very close now; you see that the hall is nearly emptied, nearly done. These other matters are distractions.”
“Yes, my thane, I know, I know,” said Garn tersely. “You always preach patience.”
But Brandon got the impression the Klar captain was humoring his ruler; Bloodfist’s eyes narrowed in an expression very much like contempt as he scrutinized the older dwarf. “About the prisoner … I would like your authorization to lock him in the dungeon while his fate is determined.”
Tarn was leaning over the catwalk’s railing, looking at the dwarves who were busily filling the next lift. “You there! Watch that load; you’re overbalancing to the left!” he barked. After a second he turned back to the Klar, blinking as if surprised to find him still standing there. He didn’t spare a glance at Brandon. “Do what you must,” he muttered.
Just my luck, Brandon reflected morosely. His fate would remain in the hands of the erratic, excitable Klar.
Without another word, Garn gestured to his guards, and Brandon was hustled into another lift crate, just emptied of its rock cargo. With a wave to the load men, the captain started their smooth descent back down into the cavernous hall.
“They go into Big House?” questioned Gus. He was staring in awe at the great fortress.
The column of mountain dwarves they had followed for so long was marching in through the vast central gate. That gate had been standing open during the whole of their approach, and the dwarves could see right through it and a second gate beyond to the valley on the other side of the massive wall.
“Yes, they’re going into the Big House,” Gretchan replied, her thoughts preoccupied. She, Kondike, and the gully dwarf were crouched behind a clump of boulders beside the road that approached the huge gate carved into the Tharkadan wall. There were many sentries on the wall in clear view, and no doubt others watching from concealed vantages. For the ninth or tenth time, she pushed Gus’s head down. She didn’t care to take any chances on being discovered.
Kondike was also watching warily. The dog’s ears perked upward, nostrils flaring gently as they sampled the air and searched for any scent of danger. Gretchan kept a hand on the Aghar’s shoulder as he squirmed and craned to get a better look. She was ready, at a moment’s notice, to snatch the gully dwarf by the scruff of his neck and pull him back into concealment.
“We go into Big House too?” asked Gus hopefully.
“Well, yes and no,” the maid replied.
“Yes and no you always say. What mean you yes and no?” asked the gully dwarf with a scowl.
“Well, we’re both going to go inside,” she said, eliciting a happy grin from the Aghar, “but we won’t be using the front gate. I’m not sure the master of Pax Tharkas will be happy to see me. Anyway, I don’t want to have to talk my way past those officious guards.”
“Guards are fishes? We sneak?” Gus suggested brightly. “That fun. Aghar great sneakers!”
“I know,” Gretchan said. “I’m counting on it. And I know just the place for some sneaking.”
“Where that?” the Aghar asked eagerly.
“Well, it’s a place I’ve never seen, but it’s been well described in the histories. During the War of the Lance, some heroes used it to sneak in to Pax Tharkas so they could save many thousands of lives. It’s an old place, disused nowadays, but I think it might just work.”
“What old place this?”
“Come with me,” Gretchan said. “And I’ll show you the way called the Sla-Mori.”
TWENTY-TWO
ANCIENT TOMBS AND MODERN PATHS
“This is the place.” Gretchan pointed. She and Gus stood before the base of a tall cliff. For two hours she had been leading the gully dwarf and the dog along the rugged slope of the mountain valley, backtracking away from the great fortress, then moving off the road to follow a narrow, steeply climbing trail alongside a mountain stream.
Many times she had paused for rest, leaning on her staff, concentrating with her eyes closed. A few times, while she was thus engrossed, the Aghar had tried to offer helpful suggestions about what they might find to eat if they were to do some looking, or where they could go instead of that secret path that took forever to find, but he finally gave up, sulking, after she silenced him with increasingly short-tempered rebukes.
At last she had moved off the slope trail, pushing through tangling bushes and tree branches to climb up to that insignificant-looking spot of wilderness.
“What here?” demanded Gus. He squinted up the great cliff. “Golly. We not climb that!” he exclaimed.
“We don’t have to,” the dwarf maid explained patiently. “Just let me find what I am looking for …”
She spent several minutes probing the niches and cracks at the base of the cliff. Although she had spoken truly when she said she had never been in that place, she had studied many scholarly texts in which the Sla-Mori had been mentioned or played a prominent role, and her memory was very good for maps and history.
Soon she found what she was seeking. Reaching into a crack, straining upward as high as she could reach, she grasped a round knob of rock, an unusually long protuberance. Pulling it sharply downward, she stepped back and watched as a narrow panel of stone swung inward, revealing a wide, dark, musty corridor leading into the mountain.
The floor was covered with rubble, mostly dry rocks but in places there were pools of sticky mud, all coated with a layer of dust and grime. Gus started boldly ahead until, once again, her hand on his shoulder arrested his progress.
“We must tread carefully,” she said. “Let’s have Kondike lead the way.”
Almost as if he understood what was expected of him, the dog paced ahead, stiff legged, into the secret passageway. He stepped easily over the broken rocks, sniffing alertly, his short tail erect. Gus and Gretchan followed close behind him.
In a few seconds, the door slid soundlessly shut, sealing them in utter darkness. Even as their dwarf eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Gretchan raised her staff and whispered a word. The anvil on the head of the pole began to glow with a soft illumination that penetrated into far corners and crevasses, lighting up the tunnel so they could see for quite a distance.
The corridor, they saw, meandered somewhat on its path—for at one time it had been a natural passageway, not a tunnel excavated from solid stone. True, there were signs of dwarven stone craft—regular arches to support the ceiling and buttresses in many places lining the walls. Because of the rubble and the cracks and crumbles in the walls and ceilings, however, it still looked like a wild place, long neglected.
“This like tunnel to Thorbardin,” Gus whispered. “We going to Thorbardin?” He wasn’t all that enthused about the prospect of returning to his lifelong home.
“No. This is the Sla-Mori—the ‘secret way’ into Pax Tharkas. The elves used these halls for burial very, very long ago.” But she was interested in the fact, if Gus could be believed, that similar tunnels existed in Thorbardin. She would have to remember to write that down.
“Bury bodies here?” asked the gully dwarf with an audible gulp.
“Yes,” Gretchan said. Unlike her nervous companion, she was filled with reverence and awe to be in such a hallowed place. Her feet padded respectfully across the dusty stones, and in spite of the rubble and decay, she saw it as it once had been: a great hall, sacred to dwarves and elves alike, a symbol of alliance and peace as testified to by the name of the fortress itself.
“Pax Tharkas,” she whispered to Gus, “translates roughly to mean ‘Peace and Strength.’ ”
“Piece and strength,” he mouthed, walking quietly beside her.
They came to a fork in the passage, and Kondike hesitated unt
il Gretchan gestured with her staff toward the left. Again the dog led the way, picking up the pace slightly so the dwarves had to walk quickly in order to keep up. Despite his palpable fear, Gus hastened along, frankly more worried about being left behind than about any danger ahead.
Finally they came into a chamber so large, even the light from Gretchan’s staff couldn’t illuminate the far corners. It was a square vault with a series of columns lining the two side walls. In places, the ceiling had collapsed, dumping more rubble onto the floor, but in general the room was in better condition than the tunnel they had been following.
“Oh-oh. Dead guy! Who he?” asked Gus, suddenly freezing as he looked to the left.
“He was a great king,” Gretchan said reverently as her eyes followed his. “He lived long ago, thousands of years before the Cataclysm. His name was Kith-Kanan.”
“Kiss Caning,” mouthed Gus.
The body of the legendary elf king, founder of Qualinesti, sat on a massive throne. Two tall statues of elf warriors loomed over him, sentries flanking the king’s seat. The chair was set upon a raised dais, the monarch’s body seated as if at rest, facing the vast chamber just as if he were hosting a vast crowd of lords, courtiers, and ladies.
Perhaps, Gretchan thought as a shiver of an imaginary breeze drifted over them, he did have a court full of ghosts to wait upon him. She had seen enough strange things in her life that she was not about to discount the possibility. The two looming statues to either side of the throne, each a stern-faced elf warrior, armed and armored and easily four times the height of a mortal elf, gave a strong suggestion of a watchful presence there.
Gus, meanwhile, couldn’t fight his curiosity; he was creeping closer to the king’s throne. He halted, gazing upward with trepidation, as Kondike padded over to stand protectively beside him. Gretchan, too, strolled over to look at the image of the ancient ruler. Kith-Kanan’s flesh was not visible, for he had been entombed in a suit of full plate armor, including a helmet with a visor that covered his face. The armor had once been shiny silver, though it was blackened with age. Even so, the ornate scrolling on the greaves and breastplate was still visible; if anything, it was highlighted by the light film of dust.