by Doug Niles
“Is this attack your doing?” Tarn Bellowgranite demanded coldly. His eyes never left Gretchan’s. “Perhaps you are the true Neidar spy—come here to divert us! You hold us here, captive to your magic. And all the while your allies in the hill dwarf army are creeping up on the fortress, readying a surprise attack!”
“I tell you, she cannot be trusted!” Bloodfist declared, shaking his fist, straining to move his feet from where the priestess’s magic had stuck him to the floor. “Her whole story is a lie—a distraction, as you have well guessed, my thane.”
“No!” Gretchan protested, her voice breaking. “I know nothing of this attack; I’m against all wars and attacks!”
“I can’t afford to believe you,” Tarn Bellowgranite declared. “Not when my fortress, my whole community, is at risk. Release us at once! I command you, treacherous witch!”
“I’m telling the truth!” she insisted, wincing as if the thane had struck her.
Brandon listened, trembling with barely controlled anger. If he’d carried a weapon, he would have turned it against the Hylar thane and his bloodthirsty captain.
“What are your orders, my thane?” asked the messenger from the top of the wall, whose eyes darted around, confused, as he listened to all their strange talk. He was the only one of the Pax Tharkas dwarves who was not immobilized by Gretchan’s spell.
“Get word to the garrison troops at once!” Otaxx Shortbeard ordered when it seemed that Tarn could not tear his eyes away from Gretchan. “Order the gates closed.”
“Free us at once!” Garn shrieked, eyes bulging. “Your treachery is further proved with each passing second!”
The priestess stepped to Brandon’s side and took his hand. “Be ready to move quickly,” she whispered and shifted toward the far wall of the room, the place where the chain disappeared into the Tharkadan Wall. To Gus she instructed: “Gus, I want you to listen closely now. It’s time for you to go. Go safely, go down below, to Agharhome. I know about your … friend down there. She’s a good friend and she misses you. I know that she’s been looking for you.”
The Aghar stared up at her, enchanted and dumbfounded. His eyes welled up with tears. She knew everything, it seemed.
Her gaze flickered over to Garn Bloodfist as she gave the gully dwarf a good-bye hug. “And don’t let a mountain dwarf bully scare you. You’re one of the bravest dwarves I’ve ever known.”
“You have seen the proof yourself!” Garn insisted, reaching out, grasping Tarn’s arm in one of his hands. “She’s a witch! An enemy! A traitor!”
Gretchan stamped her staff onto the floor, and the silver anvil on the head of the staff pulsed with light. “I am a priestess of Reorx! I serve the Lord of the Forge and seek only the betterment of dwarfkind. Sometimes it seems that dwarves themselves are the biggest obstacles to their own happiness!”
She lifted the staff from the floor, holding it in both of her hands as she gazed raptly at the men-at-arms who had been frozen by her command. “I free you,” she said. Then she looked at Garn, shook her head, and turned her gaze on Tarn.
“Thane Bellowgranite, I am no enemy, no traitor, nor am I a witch. I seek a better world for all dwarves! That means mountain dwarves and hill dwarves.” She smiled wanly and winked at Gus. “Even gully dwarves. We’re all the favored children of Reorx.”
“The Neidar are even now launching an attack against us—and surely you know the story of what the dwarves of Thorbardin did to me—to clan Daewar as well—to all of those who remained behind!” Tarn protested. “The fanatics of Thorbardin rose up in revolution, were blinded by ideology and rank greed. They threw me out of my own kingdom! How can you suggest that I find common ground with them?”
“Because it’s the only way! You must find a way to forgive them, to lead your people into the future.”
“Impossible!” roared Tarn, stepping forward hesitantly, as if uncertain that his feet really had been freed. He shook his head ruefully. “You may not be a witch, but you are a sorry idealist.” He turned to his veteran commander, finally, when he was convinced that the spell had been broken. “General Shortbeard, see to the garrison. Get the troops on the walls, the auxiliaries taking care of ammunition. The gate crew should start turning the capstan; we don’t have much time.”
“Aye, my thane,” declared the elder officer, limping toward the door … but not before he cast a speculative glance at Gretchan over his shoulder. He finally charged from the room, his voice booming with command; he still sounded like a dwarf general, even if he wasn’t as spry as he used to be.
Meanwhile, Tarn’s eyes flashed with anger as he pointed firmly at the priestess. “You will leave this place and never return! And this one”—he pointed at Brandon but spoke to the dwarves closest to Brandon—“Garn is right for once; take him back to his cell!”
“Go—now!” Gretchan said, seizing Brandon’s hand and sprinting to the wall of the large room. He saw her idea at once: the gap where the heavy chain passed through the wall into the interior of the Tharkadan trap. It would be a narrow squeeze between hard stone and even harder iron, but the Kayolin dwarf followed Gretchan as both leaped into the narrow notch and scrambled like monkeys along the links that disappeared beyond the hole.
Garn’s dwarves came charging after. One Klar lunged after Brandon, reaching for his foot, but Brandon kicked him in the face, knocking him backward with a satisfying crunch of bone. The dwarf fell and his companions tripped over him. By then, Brandon was chasing Gretchan into the darkness. It was only later that he wondered about the gully dwarf and the dog Kondike.
“The gates are open, Lord Poleaxe!” shouted one of the hill dwarf spearmen, hoisting his weapon over his head and shaking it joyfully.
“I can see that, you fool. Now keep running!” Harn commanded. He took a deep, satisfying gulp from his spirits and felt the potent liquor augmenting the potion, pulsing through his bloodstream with eerie, arcane force. He wanted nothing so much as to drive his sword through an enemy’s flesh, to warm his hand in the flow of fresh blood.
“Move! We must get there before the damned mountain dwarves have a chance to close it in our faces!”
In fact, every Neidar in the army was running as fast and hard as he could. The prospect of a surprise attack against the vaunted fortress drove them to an impressive burst of speed. They were running so hard that they didn’t have any breath left to give voice to their battle cries.
Harn, in the very front rank of the surging column, could scarcely believe his eyes. He saw the two towers, the massive, square citadels that flanked the walls, rising like mountains before him. Even at more than a mile’s distance, he had to crane his neck just to see the tops of the spires. And that vast wall, stretching like a cliff across the whole breadth of the steep-walled valley, looked like an utterly impassable obstacle, a perfect defensive bastion.
Except that the broad, tall gate was standing open, almost as if the mountain dwarves were extending a welcome to their cousins from the hills.
The mountain dwarves looked to be taken completely by surprise. The advancing column passed farms and pastures and mines, all lying in the very shadow of Pax Tharkas, and when he looked to the sides, Harn saw terrified mountain dwarves running for shelter, climbing the ridges, or darting into their mines. Apparently, Harn’s army had eliminated or eluded all the sentries. Otherwise, there would have been a warning signal, and those outlying dwarves—together with their livestock—would already have sought shelter in the fortress.
As the road leveled out the voices of the hill dwarves rose in a great war chant. No one felt fatigue; there was no flagging in the onrush. The roaring of the battle cries mingled with the pounding of feet against the stone-paved road as the hill dwarves came on like a surging wave.
They drew close enough to see all the activity on top of the massive wall: dwarves peering through the battlement and more and more of the garrison troops rushing into sight. They would harass the charge, Harn knew, but they were too late to stop i
t. The only thing that would hold them back was that massive gate. His heart pounded from the exertion and excitement, and he raised his sword in one hand, his jug in the other, as he scrutinized that huge barrier, desperately afraid it would start to close. How long would it take them to move such a massive, heavy object?
He didn’t know the answer, but with each step he took, his hopes grew higher; for still the gate stood open and showed no sign that it was starting to swing shut.
“Chase them! Catch them!” ordered Garn as the priestess of Reorx and the dwarf from Kayolin disappeared into the chute surrounding the heavy chain.
When the Klar tried to scramble into the narrow slot to pursue Gretchan and Brandon, the first two got stuck—encumbered as they were by heavy breastplates and their swords. While they took forever trying to squirm free and unstrap their metal armor, the rest of the party sprinted out the side door, shouting and making their way toward the catwalks above the great, hollow chamber of the Tharkadan Wall.
With Gretchan gone, Garn suddenly felt his legs freed. He didn’t know what he should do, though; he was eager to join the pursuit but knew he’d better get his company in position to defend the fortress against attack. Damn the witch! Damn the hill dwarves; surely it was part of their conspiracy! And damn Tarn Bellowgranite, standing there with a dull look on his face, for being too old and foolish and for having left them vulnerable to attack!
Even as the last of the pursuers disappeared, another scout ran into the room with a report from the wall. He addressed Tarn breathlessly, his eyes darting looks at a clearly glowering Garn. Neidar were advancing at a run, the scout said, and had approached to within a mile of the gates. The man had just finished his report when Mason Axeblade, the garrison commander, raced in, also looking for Tarn Bellowgranite.
“What are your orders, my thane?” Axeblade asked.
“Which way are they coming from?” Bloodfist interjected before Tarn could reply.
“The south!” reported the scout excitedly. “They’ve come up the pass from the Plains of Dergoth.”
“It’s the dwarves of Hillhome,” the Klar captain calmly explained to the thane. His heart was pounding in fierce excitement, but he resisted the urge to thump his chest, to shout a battle cry. Instead, he stared into Tarn’s eyes. “They’ve come to seek revenge,” Bloodfist noted pointedly. He couldn’t suppress his grin as he saw Tarn looked dazed, as if he couldn’t find his tongue.
“There are thousands of them, Captain,” said the messenger, darting looks at the two dwarf leaders. “This is far more than the company of one or even five towns. It’s as if all the hill dwarves mustered under a single commander.”
“We’ve got to get the gates closed before they get here,” muttered Tarn Bellowgranite. Then he seemed to wake up, come alive. “Put every available dwarf on the capstans!”
“At once, my liege!” pledged the Daewar, Captain Axeblade.
“No, my thane! Captain Axeblade, stay a moment,” Garn Bloodfist declared in sheer delight. “It is too late. We have made one mistake; let’s not make another, fatal one. Don’t close the gates at all. The circumstances couldn’t be more advantageous!” he exulted. “We can let them into the fortress and kill them all!”
“But—how?” the thane objected. “Once they’re inside the Tharkadan Wall, they can carry the battle to the towers, fight us wherever we try to stand.”
“Not if we move fast, my liege. This is a Reorx-sent opportunity. I pray, we must take advantage of it!” Garn strode to the window, staring out over the narrow valley. The file of hill dwarves, rushing forward in a dense column, was just coming into view around a bend in the valley wall. They moved with surprising speed, and even from a mile away, the hoarse, basso rumble of their war chants could be heard. “Let them come in!”
“What do you mean?” asked Tarn, moving to the window to join his captain. “How could that be to our advantage?”
“Yes—what’s your plan, Captain?” demanded Axeblade impatiently. “Spit it out, man—there’s no time to waste!”
Garn obliged. “We allow them into the wall, through the open gate. Our force is divided in two, and each company backs up to the base of one of the towers. We hold there for as long as we can until the whole Neidar army has packed the hall. Packed, I say, like figs in a crate—just where we want them: caught and doomed.”
“You mean—we drop the trap on top of them?” asked Tarn in disbelief.
“Yes! We can lure them inside the wall then allow our own troops to make a fighting withdrawal, finally taking shelter in the bases of the towers. When only the Neidar are left in the wall, we release the trap we have long prepared. A hundred thousands of tons of rocks will fall on them, and every single one will be crushed.”
“But …” Tarn shook his head, avoiding meeting his captain’s gaze. “But so many deaths … and all the work … the trap just restored. The work would be wasted—”
“Not wasted, my thane!” insisted Garn. “This is the perfect use. We can finally wipe out our enemies with one blow! Think about it: the task just finished, the trap ready to drop. And here come the hill dwarves, right where they can destroyed.
“It can only be the will of Reorx himself!”
Gus and Kondike stood rooted to the spot, watching as Gretchan and Brandon made their escape. Gretchan had whispered good-bye to the little Aghar and told him to take care of the big, shaggy dog … and to get away as best they could, during all the ruckus.
He was momentarily distracted by the sight of dwarves running in and out of the door, cursing, shouting orders, all of them ignoring him and Kondike, fortunately.
He remembered what Gretchan had told him to do—go to Agharhome. Indeed, the memory of Berta was a powerful allure, suggesting safety and a hiding place and good, Aghar food. The deep cellars under the tower would certainly provide a refuge from all the chaos and talk of killing and war.
But he could see that the dwarf maid and the big kisser dwarf were in terrible danger, and he wouldn’t abandon his beloved goddess or—he realized with a gulp—her big kisser friend.
So with Kondike racing at his side, he turned and darted through the door where many of the dwarves had departed, chasing after Gretchan and Brandon. He stopped at the first side door, and after vigorously working the latch, he yanked it open. He didn’t know where it led but heard feet running all around him. So why not?
He found himself up on a high catwalk, teetering above the floor of the vast, hollow Tharkadan Wall. The walkway led to his right and was suspended from the ceiling by wooden supports. It swayed slightly under his weight, and it looked like a very long way down. But again, he heard feet running all around him. Gus bit his lip and took a hesitant step forward.
“Come on, Kondike!” he urged, finding his balance and setting off at a clip.
“Gus!” It was Berta, crawling out of a nearby hole above the catwalk. She dropped down onto the platform, causing it to sway again, and Gus grabbed onto the railing.
“Berta! What you do in this bluphsplunging place? Go home! Be safe,” he barked authoritatively. In truth he was as frightened for her as he was for himself, he realized.
“I no go!” she snapped, planting her fists on her hips. “I come look you. Two days I look you! Where go Highbulp Gus, I say? Now I find you here!” She rolled her eyes. “I no go!”
“Well, come with me, then,” he said in exasperation. “But don’t look down. I gotta find my friend Gretchan and her friend the big kisser. They need help!”
“Who Gretchan?” demanded the female Aghar, narrowing her eyes suspiciously, even as she obligingly jogged along beside her fellow gully dwarf. “What big kisser?”
The walkway was made of wooden boards with a railing to either side. Looking to his left, Gus spotted the big chain extending horizontally above another catwalk. Below the chain was a stone shelf, a notch in the far edge of the wall before the long drop to the floor of the hollow wall. Gus couldn’t see Gretchan and Brandon, but he sure h
eard a lot of footsteps and stomping around; Gus decided they must be somewhere near that chain.
“She go there probably, I think,” he said, pointing at the heavy links. He spotted a place where the chain passed through another hole in the wall, vanishing into shadowy darkness. “I go there too!” he declared. “You come? I don’t promise but maybe fun!”
“Wait! How?” Berta demanded. “You crazy doofar? You gonna fly?”
“I make big jump!” Gus boasted, sounding more confident than he really felt.
He eyed the gap, not sure if he could make the leap. He’d have to jump over to the chain then lower himself down to the catwalk so he could follow the chain into the next dark tunnel. If he didn’t catch the chain, he might take a bad fall; the catwalk or stone ledge wouldn’t be so bad, but the floor itself was a long way down. At least two feet, Gus guessed.
“I go now!” he said, perched on the edge of the walkway. “Coming or not?”
“No!” Berta screamed. “You get splattered!”
“I gotta try help Gretchan!” he insisted.
Gathering his courage, he vaulted from the catwalk, just managing to cover the distance and grab onto the chain before lowering himself to the walkway below him. “Whew!” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Berta, who had her hands over her eyes but was peeking through her fingers. “Boy, I really brave!” Removing her hands, she smiled proudly.
The entry through the hole in the wall was only about two long steps away from him, and he started toward it at a run.
Except that he had forgotten about the dog. Kondike stood anxiously on the upper catwalk, barking, bouncing back and forth from foot to foot. Before Gus could think of any way to stop him, the big dog came after the gully dwarf, launching himself into space, stretching toward the curving links of the chain.
But, unlike the dwarves, the dog didn’t have hands to grasp the chain. He clawed at a link, tumbled on his back onto the catwalk, and rolled over the edge.