by Doug Niles
In the center of the large camp, Poleaxe met with his two most important lieutenants. Axel Carbondale and Carpus Castlesmasher, who had been among the first to join the campaign and swear loyalty to Poleaxe, came to the commander at his small campfire, and together the three of them plotted their maneuvers for the morrow. In the darkness of the camp, Harn removed his helmet to give him free access to scratch his itching sores. He ignored the discomfited looks of his lieutenants as he addressed them while inspecting his bloody fingers.
“We’re going to carry the day, I promise,” Poleaxe said. “We have an ally who can’t be defeated.” He ignored the surprised looks exchanged by his two lieutenants. “I will command a third of the troops directly, leading the men from Hillhome and the eastern towns. We’ll make the initial assault, but I want both of you to bring up your own wings closely behind me.” Seeing the two lieutenants accepted those orders without objection, he continued.
“Carbondale, you’ll lead all the Neidar down from the western slopes; that’s about a third of the army. When we come through the front gates, you’ll be on the left, and I want you to make for the West Tower.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Axel, frowning.
“Carpus, you’ll be in charge of the right wing—the dwarves from south of Cloudseeker. Your task is the opposite of Carbondale’s; you’ll be on the right flank as we attack, and once we’re inside the Tharkadan Wall your objective will be the East Tower.”
“Very well, my lord. But—”
Harn Poleaxe raised his hand, his eyes narrowing as he smiled slyly. “You want to know how will we breach the main gates?” he guessed.
“Aye-uh,” Castlesmasher allowed. “How, indeed?”
“I have a plan for that, but I can’t reveal it, not yet. Just have your men prepared to move out with the dawn,” Poleaxe explained breezily, watching as the two lieutenants again exchanged surprised, and slightly worried, glances. He held out the jug that, only rarely, did he let out of his hand. “Here, my brave dwarves. Share a toast with me to our ultimate victory.”
In fact, Harn was reluctant to reveal the identity of the creature just yet. For one thing, he himself didn’t know its precise nature, and he didn’t want his men to be apprehensive. He well knew the traditional dwarf bias against the magical and supernatural. He feared the possibly damaging effect on morale if the troops knew he was relying on such a creature to spearhead the attack. Once the battle was joined, however, he was confident that bloodlust would compel the Neidar to follow him gloriously into battle.
As he had thought, the unexpected offer of dwarf spirits was enough to distract his men from their questions. Each took a healthy swig before Carpus held the jug out and Harn snatched it back.
Lord Poleaxe took a deep drink himself then stretched and yawned, making it clear the meeting was over. As each of the two Neidar would be returning to a different camp, on elevations separated by deep ravines, Harn wasn’t worried about them getting together to speculate through the night.
And, indeed, he needed to be alone to complete the last portion of his own battle plan. After Carbondale and Castlesmasher had made their farewells and disappeared from sight, Harn Poleaxe arose and walked through the perimeter of his camp. He made his way out onto a slender promontory with sheer cliffs falling away to either side. At the far end of the promontory, he came upon a large boulder and settled himself on a ledge where he had a view over the tumbling ridges of the tangled mountain range. Drinking steadily, he felt his senses growing keener, more perceptive. A thrill ran through him, manifested as a physical shiver. He scratched contentedly, pulling away a large scab from his forehead and ignoring the blood that ran into his eyebrows.
Far in the distance, where its blocky shape was outlined by a few flickering torches, Poleaxe got a glimpse of one of Pax Tharkas’s two massive towers. The red and white moons were both high and nearly full, but scudding clouds moved quickly past them, mostly leaving the mountaintop vantage masked by shadow.
Harn didn’t have to wait for long. He sensed the monster almost instantly because of the chill that brushed against his skin even before he saw the minion. In the darkness, his first visual clue was the pair of red eyes, glowing like embers, that flashed open just a few feet before his face. The Neidar gradually discerned that the monster was hovering in air, just beyond the top of the precipice, and that it regarded the hill dwarf commander with a curious expression. Those black, batlike wings flapped slowly, a leisurely cadence that was surely not enough, by itself, to float the massive creature in the air.
“You have made your plans,” the creature stated in its eerily dry voice, so suggestive of wind rustling through the limbs of winter-barren trees.
“I have. My army is eager and ready to strike on the morrow. I personally will lead the first charge and you will see that the gates fall before me. Is that not correct?” he said.
The creature responded with an elaborate and somewhat disconcerting shrug. “That may not be necessary after all,” it replied.
“Those gates are supposed to be ten feet thick!” objected Harn Poleaxe, who was not used to being challenged. “We have no siege engines, no war machines. If, I tell you, the gates are closed, we won’t be able to get in! They must be taken down! You must do as I say!”
“I must do nothing!” replied the monster. Its voice did not increase in volume, but its fiery eyes flared furiously.
“I—I apologize for my discourtesy,” Poleaxe said immediately, feeling his bowels turn to water in the face of that horrific rebuke. “But how can we carry the fortress against those gates?” he asked somewhat plaintively.
“I flew over that place just moments ago,” replied the creature. “The gates are open now, as they have been every night for the past month. You may be able to carry the entrance by storm even before the mountain dwarves know you are upon them.”
“If you say so, I will try,” pledged Harn. “But what if that doesn’t work?”
“You must attack as soon as you can. Do not rely entirely upon me.”
Poleaxe knew they still had a long way to go; they would have to negotiate several twists and turns and something of an uphill grade before reaching their objective. “We will be in position to attack some time in the middle of the afternoon,” he calculated.
“Very well. Do so. And if you are outside of the fortress when night falls, I will emerge with the darkness to smite them. But remember, you must attack as soon as possible.”
“I shall, my … my lord,” Harn replied. He might have been daunted by the task before him, but as the monster flexed its wings, Poleaxe felt a new invigoration. He watched the beast, but it did not leave. Instead, he came to him and wrapped him in an embrace of shadows. The hill dwarf tingled to a strange sensation, a piercing joy as the intangible essence of the thing seeped directly through his skin.
Moments later, it was gone, but it was with him as well. Tingling with energy, possessed, finally, by the full power of his dark master, Harn leaped to his feet. He drained the last swallows from his jug and knew that he and his men were ready.
There could be no turning aside, not anymore. Harn Poleaxe, and the black creature within him, would lead the charge.
“Where are we?” asked Brandon as he followed Gretchan up a narrow, winding staircase that spiraled up through a shaft so confining that his shoulders brushed the walls and he had to duck every time they reached another of the ubiquitous, and solidly built, arches.
“We’re climbing the East Tower,” she replied, pausing to breathe heavily. “This is a secret stairway, not the main route. That’s why the ceiling is so low,” she noted somewhat apologetically. “But I thought you’d prefer it to Main Street.”
“I do,” Brandon agreed, gasping for breath. He, too, was exhausted by the climb and welcomed the respite, however brief. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Gus and Kondike were also weary and panting. The gully dwarf had plopped down on a step, while the dog, tongue hanging out and flanks heaving, w
atched his mistress attentively.
“Seems like a long way up,” the Hylar remarked sourly. He was still coming to grips with the ease with which she had smashed his cell door after his long days languishing in the filthy cell.
“Take heart—we’re almost halfway there,” she replied.
“Halfway! That’s encouraging. Aren’t we allowing ourselves to be trapped, caught like a bear in a tree, so to speak, if we keep climbing higher?” He even found himself wondering if he could really trust her but quickly acknowledged that he didn’t have any other choice, at least not right at the moment.
She shrugged, which didn’t do a lot for his confidence. “Maybe, but I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m betting we’re going to find a way into the Tharkadan Wall. There’s a whole network of catwalks and tunnels up in the top of that space where I think we can hide.”
“You’re holding all the cards,” Brandon admitted. “Lead on.”
They resumed the climb, hoisting themselves up two steps at a time, trying to avoid noise and conversation as they continued to the top of the tower. The stairway wound back and forth, a series of flights in a column without windows. Occasionally they passed wooden doorways, but Gretchan ignored each of those in her steady progress up.
Finally the dwarf maid paused at a landing, she and Brandon catching their breath as they waited for Gus, red faced and puffing, to join them. When he did, she opened a nearby door. They entered a huge, square room lit by sunlight streaming through narrow windows on two of the walls.
“Daylight,” Brandon said, feeling something akin to deep pleasure. “I’d forgotten what it looks like.”
“Daylight not so great,” Gus scoffed. He stomped off to one of the windows, crossing his arms over his chest while he looked out.
“What’s eating him?” Brandon wondered aloud.
Gretchan smiled. “I think he’s jealous of a certain big kisser dwarf.”
“Big kisser—oh,” the Kayolin dwarf replied, blushing slightly as he stared at the Aghar’s back.
“Gus did a certain amount of uh, spying down there in the dungeon,” she explained.
“Why did you leave me in there?” he challenged.
“Did you ever think that it was maybe to keep you safe?” she shot back heatedly. “After all, every time you were out on your own, you ended up in some kind of trouble!”
He blinked, surprised at her vehemence and her answer. “That’s the curse of the Bluestone luck,” he retorted, wishing he had a stronger comeback.
“Maybe it’s not just luck!” she snapped. “Maybe it’s the choices you make! Did you ever think of that?”
“I—damn it, no!” he admitted angrily.
“Anyway,” she said, seeming to force herself to calm down. “Do you want to go back or come with me?”
“Like I said,” Brandon replied through clenched teeth, “lead on.”
He wondered where they were going. When he looked around, he saw a massive chain rising up from a hole in the floor in the center of the room. Each link was roughly as long as he was tall, with the metal bands themselves as thick around as his muscle-bound thigh. The chain rose up at an angle then nestled into a groove around the outer rim of a giant wheel. The wheel appeared to serve as a gear, and the chain extended straight from the top of the wheel to a hole leading into the Tharkadan Wall itself.
“That’s part of the ancient trap,” Gretchan said, taking note of Brandon’s astonishment. “It’s anchored to the bedrock outside the fortress itself. So even if the towers and the wall are destroyed, the rocks can fall and the pass can be sealed.”
“And from what you tell me, Tarn Bellowgranite has spent all the years of his exile loading that trap so that it can be used again if the pass is threatened,” Brandon said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Yes,” Gretchan replied. She sighed. “But not just that. I think he wants to open the pass to trade caravans and commerce as well. That would be a more useful renewal of its legacy, if you ask me. Though there are no guarantees it will come to pass.”
Another door to the room burst open, and Tarn Bellowgranite and Garn Bloodfist, accompanied by a half dozen armed dwarves, rushed inside. They were followed by the white-bearded elder, Otaxx Shortbeard, who was ruddy faced and panting after the long climb.
“There they are!” cried the Klar captain, pointing to Brandon and Gretchan as he waved his soldiers forward. “Take them!”
“Stop!” shouted Gretchan, stamping the butt of her staff against the floor. The shaft made a surprisingly loud bang when it struck the stones, and to Brandon’s surprise, the men-at-arms froze. From the gaping looks on their faces, they were as surprised as he was. Each tried to move his feet, swaying and struggling, but it appeared as though the Klar warrior had been nailed to the floor.
“See, my thane!” shouted Garn, who could talk though he couldn’t move his legs. “Behold that sorcery! She is a witch! I sensed it that night she came to me, beside the river!”
“Oh, be quiet!” snapped the dwarf maid.
Brandon desperately wished for a weapon, but he was as unarmed as he had been in his cell. And Gretchan had only that little hammer. He didn’t like their chances if it came to a fight, and he didn’t think her magic and bravado—impressive as it was—could hold the mountain dwarves at bay for long.
Struggling to move, the Klar captain cuffed one of his dwarves, knocking him to the floor. “Fool,” he cried. He loomed over the fallen soldier and glared at Gretchan, clenching his fists, but he seemed unable to make any further advance.
Beyond Bloodfist, Tarn Bellowgranite sighed, suddenly looking very old. He took out a cloth and mopped his bald pate, which was slick with sweat. He looked at Gretchan, and his expression grew cold.
“I don’t know who you are or why you have come here to vex us. You’ve managed to spook my bravest captain, and he tells me you’ve taken the liberty of breaking a prisoner out of my dungeon. How do you explain yourself? Are you indeed a witch?”
Gretchan was looking past the thane at the old general. “You there. Are you the Daewar Otaxx Shortbeard?” she asked.
“I am,” he replied stiffly. “And I, too, demand that you answer my thane’s questions.”
“You are in no position to make demands,” she said. Then, softening her tone, she added, “I am not a witch.” She raised her staff, and the miniature anvil atop the pole suddenly glowed with a golden light even brighter than the sunlight spilling in through the windows. “I am a priestess of Reorx,” she said. “And I have been traveling the lands of the dwarves for a long time, studying our people, trying to understand why we do what we do.”
“The Reorx of the mountain dwarves or of the hill dwarves?” challenged Garn Bloodfist belligerently.
“He is the same god, you fool!” she snapped. “And his heart is breaking to see the strife that exists between his two tribes.”
“So you sympathize with the Neidar, then.” The Klar sneered. He pointed at Brandon. “Witness, my thane, that she has freed the hill dwarf spy from his cell in the dungeon.”
“I tell you again for the last time: I’m as much a Hylar as Tarn Bellowgranite!” Brandon declared, fists clenching as he took a step toward the Klar.
“More, actually,” Gretchan said calmly. “For you are only a half-blood Hylar, are you not, Thane?”
Tarn nodded, staring intently at the priestess. “Yes, my mother was a Daergar,” he said. “This is not a secret. But who are you, and why do you come here and cause all this commotion? You seem to know very much about us, yet you have revealed very little about yourself—save that you are a cleric of our shared god.”
“Yes, you are a cipher,” Otaxx Shortbeard said to Gretchan, sounding more curious than angry. “You rightly called me a Daewar. But what clan are you from? And where is your home?”
“I am a Daewar too,” Gretchan said. “My home … my home is in the east.”
“Do you mean … Thoradin?” asked the old general in a tone of w
onder.
She nodded. “Yes. I left there more than a decade ago, intending to return to Thorbardin, to see my people’s ancestral home, to meet my kinfolk and the fellow clans. But the undermountain kingdom was sealed before I arrived in the Kharolis.”
“Then … you mean to say …?” Otaxx was still wrestling with the incredible revelation. “Did Severus Stonehand actually reach Zhakar? Did the Mad Prophet lead the Daewar to a new home in the old mountains? For years we have believed that his entire expedition ended in disaster, that everyone perished. Please—I must know!”
“Severus Stonehand and most of the Daewar did reach the Khalkist Mountains,” Gretchan said. “The way was difficult and spotted with tragedy. But he survives and most of his people survive in the caverns that were once the home of the Zhakar dwarves. They still endure many struggles, and Thoradin itself—at least, as it once was—remains an elusive dream. But clan Daewar survives.”
“By the grace of Reorx,” Otaxx said, his eyes tearing. “It is as if my deepest wish has been granted. My thane, this is wonderful news!”
“This is all damned irrelevant!” snapped Garn Bloodfist, eyes all but bursting out of his skull. Forgetting that his movements were frozen, he cuffed his man-at-arms and pointed at Brandon.
“Seize him—take him back to his cell!”
Before the poor man-at-arms could react, however, another door burst open and a gasping, red-faced watchman, one of the sentries posted atop the Tharkadan Wall, staggered into the room.
“There’s a column of hill dwarves in sight!” he announced, panting for breath following his long run down from the parapet. “Thousands of them! They’re two miles away, and they’re fast nearing the gates!”
TWENTY-SIX
KIN’S BLOOD AND BLOOD FEUD