by Doug Niles
“No! I mean yes!” the Aghar replied, gazing steadfastly at the floor to avoid Gretchan’s beautiful eyes. His big toe jutted out the front of his worn boot, and he used it to mark irregular circles on the floor. “Not Gretchan, but Gus spy on big kisser dwarf!”
“All right now, Gus. I’m serious. What are you talking about? What’s the big deal about this big kisser—oh, his name is Brandon, damn it. What about him?”
“I not like big kisser dwarf. Him bad for you. Big dwarf general gonna lock him up more better! Him not locked up enough!” Gus stated bluntly.
“Oh, isn’t that sweet. Are you jealous?” Gretchan asked amusedly. She started to laugh then caught herself, her expression growing stern. “Wait, what’s that about a big dwarf general? Did you talk to someone?”
“Yep. Gus brave, talk to Klar chief. Him gonna lock up prisoner more better. You and I then go away like before. Forget big kisser dwarf!”
“Oh, Gus, you didn’t!” the dwarf maid gasped, kneeling down to grasp the gully dwarf firmly by the shoulders. Her eyes were large, serious, and concerned. “Did you … did you tell the Klar general that I am here, that you saw me visiting the prisoner?”
“Yes!” he declared hotly.
“Oh, that’s terrible!” she said, shaking her head as her eyes moistened with tears. “Garn Bloodfist will be angry, and he’s already so twisted up with hate. There’s no telling what he might do! How could you do this to me?”
“To you? Big kisser dwarf bad; him do to you! Klar gonna make him stop!”
“You don’t understand!” accused Gretchan. “Brandon doesn’t mean any harm to you or anyone else. He keeps ending up in jail, but he’s innocent; he did nothing wrong! Now you might have cost him his life!”
“Life?” gulped Gus. “N-no! Not life. Just lock him up better!”
The dwarf maid stamped her foot angrily. She was furious, so angry she was shaking. Gus took a step backward, feeling suddenly very miserable. “You little fool!” she snapped. “You’ve just ruined everything! Oh, just get out of here! Go away, I tell you!”
Stunned by her outburst, his heart breaking under the onslaught of her harsh words, Gus could only retreat out through the secret door still cracked open behind him. He wandered, feeling forlorn, back into the dungeon, haunted by the sound of Gretchan’s sobs coming through even after the door had slammed shut.
TWENTY-FOUR
ROADS AND GATES
Garn Bloodfist went straight to the thane, finding him—as always—on the catwalk high inside the Tharkadan Wall. Tarn Bellowgranite was supervising the placement of the rocks, nearly all of which had been lifted up from the floor where they had lain for more than eighty years. Bloodfist clenched his fists, shaking his head in a physical effort to remind himself to be calm when all he wanted was to grab Tarn by the shoulders and shake him into some sense of alarm.
The thane cut the Klar captain off before he could speak. “This last step is crucial,” Tarn explained, gesturing at the complicated mechanism of gears and chains and pulleys, clearly entranced by the sight and taking no notice of the fact that his listener was trying to get a word in edgewise. “The counterbalance is important; it’s why the simple pull of a lever is enough to dump half a million tons of rock down into the gateway.”
“Yes, I see,” Bloodfist said, stopping himself from rolling his eyes. How long had he feigned interest in a task that, to his mind, was endless and meaningless?
“I’m glad you do see, my captain,” replied the old dwarf. Garn was startled at the earnestness with which his ruler addressed him. “For this great task is almost completed. At one time I felt that it would not happen during my lifetime; now I think the chances are good that I will see the final rocks raised into the trap before the end of this month.
“But when I’m gone, my valiant Klar, this great mechanism, this fortress, these hallowed towers will all be the responsibility of you and the other clan captains. I want you to welcome this trust, and I trust you will prove worthy of the task you shall inherit.”
“My liege,” Garn said, driven by exasperation to disrespectful bluntness. The image of his father’s gashed and bleeding body, the mute plea for vengeance he saw every time he looked skyward into those dying eyes, would not allow patience. “I believe you have done a great service to the Hylar and Klar exiles by your work here in Pax Tharkas. But I want you to know: my goals remain higher. Pax Tharkas is a splendid base for us, a fortress we can use to launch the next campaign. But you must know that I am still determined, before my years are through, to regain our status in Thorbardin itself!”
Tarn Bellowgranite sighed. “I understand your ambitions, my bold warrior. But I hope you will come to see that you are advocating a hopeless and destructive course. Thorbardin is sealed from within, and any intrusion by ourselves, or anyone else, would surely be met with crushing force. No, Garn, Jungor Stonespringer might as well have caved in the mountain on that entire dwarven realm, for it is lost to us and the surface world forevermore.”
“I know there is bitterness in your heart, my thane; surely it was a rank betrayal that brought us to exile! You know it cost my father his very life! But I think you are letting it cloud your judgment!”
“Don’t be a fool!” snapped Tarn. “The Hylar and the Theiwar would unite against you in a finger snap. The Daergar would not be your friends either! You would invade Thorbardin with a few hundred warriors and meet an army of ten thousand!”
Garn took a deep breath, conscious of the eyes—and ears—of the nearby laborers who had paused in their work. He trembled at the rebuke, and his own eyes bulged while his hands clenched into fists. With every fiber of will, he reminded himself that Tarn Bellowgranite was a revered figure among the Hylar exiles. It would be foolish to display overt contempt for the thane. So he hung his head with a humility he did not feel. “I accept your reasoning, my liege. Please accept my apologies. I spoke not from the head, but from the heart.”
“I understand, Garn. It is not easy to live as we do, with the memories of past greatness all around us. But we must be strong and our path must be reasoned.”
Had the old, senile thane abandoned all hope of future greatness? Garn wanted to scream the question aloud, but instead he bowed and walked meekly away.
Yet his passive demeanor marked a growing anger and a fierce determination. He had come to speak to Tarn Bellowgranite about a different matter, and as it turned out, he had not been allowed a chance to even broach the issue. He was still shaking, and only with a conscious effort was he able to unclench his fists. Reorx curse him—it was Tarn Bellowgranite who was the fool!
Never mind. He didn’t need his thane’s permission to make important decisions! By Reorx, the fool was so busy lifting his rocks, he didn’t care what else went on in the world anymore.
Garn maintained his apartments in the East Tower, claiming one floor of the tower for his own use and garrisoning the three hundred dwarves of his mobile company on the floors just below. He strode onto the uppermost of those garrison floors, where a number of his warriors were playing gambling games while others were busy sharpening their weapons or catching up on their sleep.
He nodded to two of his oldest followers, burly mountain dwarves with a great capacity for violence and an almost nonexistent penchant for analyzing the moral aspects of whatever tasks Garn Bloodfist assigned them. “Crank, Bilious,” he barked. “Come with me, and bring your swords.”
The two armed dwarves willingly accompanied him down the long series of stairways leading to the ground level and into the dungeon below that. The two thuggish Klar warriors asked no questions as Garn led them into the deepest levels of the east dungeon. They were always eager for action and oblivious to causes or motives.
“We’re going to put an end to some irritating mischief,” the captain explained as they reached the lowest level. “This prisoner is proving to be more trouble than he can possibly be worth.”
They advanced into the portcullis room, the s
quare chamber connecting to the deepest dungeon passage, and here Garn came up short as he spotted a ragged little figure sleeping in the corner.
“You again?” he barked, rousing the gully dwarf with a sharp kick. “Didn’t I warn you to get lost?”
“Oh, great prince!” cried the miserable creature, throwing himself on the ground at Garn’s feet and salaaming the Klar. “Thank you for come here!”
“Get out of my way,” the Klar captain growled. “I have work to do!”
“Oh, not with dwarf prisoner, no!” insisted the gully dwarf with startling conviction. He stood defiantly in the path of the mountain dwarves. “My mistake. Go away!”
“What’s this?” muttered Garn, almost amused.
“Move, you,” declared Crank, whipping out his sword and waving the blade at the bold Aghar.
“You move!” declared the runt, dashing forward and biting the armed mountain dwarf on the knee.
“Hey! Ouch!” howled Crank. “You miserable little half-pint!”
He swung his blade, but somehow the gully dwarf, who was almost under his feet, scampered away. Bilious also moved to cut him off, blocking him from fleeing through the door deeper into the dungeon. “Where do you think you’re going?” the menacing warrior demanded.
The two armed dwarves closed in on the Aghar, but the little fellow dived to his belly and scooted right between Crank’s legs.
Garn had been chuckling, but he had had enough. “Cut him down and be done with him!” snapped the Klar captain. “We’ve got more important things to do!”
The mountain dwarves spun and pursued, and the gully dwarf dashed out the door. But Bilious had anticipated the move and leaped to block the Aghar’s escape. The dirty gully dwarf found himself trapped, his back to the corridor wall, one armed mountain dwarf inside the square room, the other blocking his passage down the corridor. Bilious stabbed, aiming low, and the Aghar sprang upward, flailing with his hands, clawing at the mold-slick stone on the dungeon wall. There was nothing to grab there on the surface of the wall itself, but his hand came into contact with a metal lever jutting up from a narrow slot.
The gully dwarf seized the lever with both hands, intending to pull himself up and away from his attacker’s blade. Instead, his weight caused the lever to drop sharply, plunging him onto his rump on the floor. A catch was released and unseen chains made a rattling noise as Bilious charged, stabbing wildly. The frantic gully dwarf tumbled out of the path of the attack, and the three enraged mountain dwarves stumbled over the Aghar, sprawling across the floor of the dungeon.
The chains rattled louder and faster, metal clanging against stone, as the two portcullis gates dropped into their deep sockets on the floor. Two metal grates closed off the chamber, blocking the way into the halls of prisoner cells and also closing the way back up into the East Tower. The small square room was, for all intents and purposes, a cell in its own right.
And Garn Bloodfist, Bilious, and Crank were all trapped inside.
The army of hill dwarves snaked its way through the rugged terrain, skirting the Plains of Dergoth, advancing on Pax Tharkas from the south. At its head marched Harn Poleaxe, hailed as “Lord Poleaxe” by one and all. He sat astride a horse, a mighty sword resting in his lap, while all the rest of his army advanced on foot. The plumed helm rested on his head, and he kept the visor closed—except when he took a drink—because he had seen that his dwarves were shaken by the sight of his increasingly bloody, lumpy face. Still, he barely noticed them, strung out in a column more than a mile long behind him. His eyes, for now and forever, were fixed ahead, on the future.
And the future would be found in Pax Tharkas.
Harn had been pleased and rather surprised when more than three thousand hill dwarves had answered his summons to war. They had come from the farms and villages and towns of the Neidar scattered throughout the valleys and plains below the lofty summits of the High Kharolis. Marching eagerly, singing ancient songs of war, gathering from pairs to platoons to companies as they converged on Hillhome, they had responded to his call with a cheerful eagerness to make war and a seemingly unquenchable thirst for revenge.
Some of the Neidar were grizzled veterans, bearing scars earned during the War of Souls or the Chaos War or, for some of the eldest, even the War of the Lance. They limped and cursed and argued, but they marched and were ready to fight. Far more of them were strapping adults or callow youths, unblooded and unscarred but eager to face the ultimate truth of battle. Some were drunk, others were crazed, but most were hale and hearty.
All of them shared an abiding hatred of the mountain dwarves. That hatred had seethed and simmered for years and, finally, had its fuse lit by Poleaxe’s message. All had seen the damage, felt the injustice, of the Klar raids that had terrorized their lands for the past decade. An assault against Pax Tharkas had been considered a hopeless, quixotic notion. But they had been swayed by the eloquence of Harn’s appeal.
“Aye-uh,” said Axel Carbondale, a legendary captain of axemen through the course of three wars, upon his arrival in Hillhome. “I couldn’t have said it any better myself.”
“I’ve been trying to say it for years!” declared Carpus Castlesmasher, mayor of Bloodford, a hero who had been decorated five times for his company’s doughty defense against draconians and ogres over the past decades. “But you said it in a way that all the Neidar understand,” he admitted, his eyes shining with admiration as he offered Harn Poleaxe his sword and his life.
There were more than four hundred pikemen from the villages around the Plains of Dergoth. Nearly twice that many hill dwarves armed with crossbows and daggers came from small woodland villages. The foothill mines produced five companies of heavy infantry, each dwarf protected to the eyelids by heavy plate armor and bearing axes that could split the shield, or the skull, of any foe with a single blow. Swords were sharpened, spare spears fashioned, and provisions collected from every field, silo, and barnyard.
They had gathered on the slopes around Hillhome, camping in the great square and in the fields just beyond the town, carousing in the inns every night and generally driving the good citizens of the town to cower in their homes, bar their doors and windows, and wait for the scourge to be gone. Fortunately for them, Poleaxe was eager to start the expedition.
He summoned all the captains, and as many of the men who could squeeze there, into the plaza of the town. They crowded in there to hear him with battle lust in their hearts. He wore his helm, seeing that all would come to recognize the lofty plume of black and white feathers. The visor was lifted, and he took frequent sips from the jug he carried.
“I want you to hearken back to the days of the Dwarfgate War, my hill dwarf kinsmen!” he had declared when the last recruits arrived and the volunteer army stretched as far as the eye could see. He stalked back and forth on the raised platform in Hillhome’s square, his voice booming out, ringing across the plaza, carrying even to the ranks of dwarves packed into every side street. His listeners were rapt, absorbing every word. When he turned his blood-spotted face, more than half covered with bloody warts, toward those in the front rows, they stared back at him in a mixture of horror and awe. But they absorbed his words and thumped their chests in response to his commands.
“These mountain dwarves in Pax Tharkas are the hated Klar, the arrogant Hylar! They are the ones who sealed Thorbardin against our kind long ago, when the gods sent the Cataclysm raining down upon our world! And they are the ones who visited such terrible devastation upon us when the wizard Fistandantilus, wanting only fairness for our ancestors, sought passage through the undermountain lands.”
He drew a breath, letting the powerful images of the past, each evoking a tragic racial memory, wash over the gathered fighters. Taking a long drink, he allowed the tension to build before he spoke again.
“This Hylar captain who struck Hillhome out of the calm of a peaceful morning, whose warriors slaughtered our women and children and left their bodies to bleed in the street, he should be the
first to die … and then all the arrogant ones like him. I ask you, my clansmen, are we to put up with Hylar arrogance forever?”
A resounding “No!” roared from a thousand and more throats—at least from the throat of every hill dwarf who was close enough to hear what Poleaxe was saying. The rest filling the streets, the throng extending to the far outskirts of town, also cheered and shouted as the message that was passed to them increased in shrillness and hate.
Then a murmur, followed by a hush, spread through the gathering, moving in reverse of Harn’s message, like a wave flowing from the town’s outskirts toward the central square. Poleaxe was surprised to see that the wave originated from the narrow lane where the Mother Oracle lived, and as he watched, he saw the crowd of hill dwarves parting to allow one, still unseen from the square, to pass. He allowed himself to hope.
She came! The old dwarf crone hobbled forward, leaning on a crooked staff, her shawl wrapped tightly around her skinny frame, exposing only her wrinkled face, her pale, blind eyes, and the clawlike fingers of her hands. The hill dwarves gawked at her rare appearance—she hadn’t been outside of her hut in years—and gave her a wide berth, pressing onto the sidewalks and alleys as she tottered along the center of the street.
As she entered the square, the whole town fell silent, and a wide path appeared in the throng as it became clear that she was making for the raised platform where Harn Poleaxe stood. He hopped down to the ground and took her hand as she reached the edge. Still holding the jug in his other hand, he guided her up the steps and onto the dais.
“Behold, my Neidar!” Harn bellowed. “The Mother Oracle has come to bless our endeavor!”
The cheer that washed over them was sudden, loud, and sustained. Harn, who loomed over the old woman, was conscious of her stature, as if she were the large one. He stood back and, as the warriors settled in to listen, the crone raised her hand and waved it in the air. The Neidar, as a group, sighed in pleasure as if a physical blessing had been bestowed.