The Doom Brigade

by Don Perrin

  An hour later, they came upon the road leading north, a road that was relatively new, as Kang—regarding it with an engineer’s eye—could tell. Trees had been recently cut and cleared, the marks of pick and hammer were still visible upon the rocks.

  “When did they build this?” Kang asked. “And who built it?”

  “The dwarves. Can’t you tell their work? But it was a project begun by all three races: dwarves, humans, and elves. They were supposed to have signed a great treaty that would have allied all their kingdoms, opened up all their territories to trading, one with the other. They were going to build roads like this one to link Solamnia with Thorbardin, Thorbardin with Qualinesti. Thus, if any one of them was attacked, the others could send armies in defense.”

  “It seems a wise plan,” Kang said, worried. “And it will make our task more difficult.”

  “It was a wise plan. A half-breed known as Tanis Half-elven and his wife Laurana, the one they used to call the Golden General, came up with it. But, no need to fear. The three races are their own worse enemies.”

  In the light of waning Solinari, Kang saw a fall of rock that had not been cleared from the road, ditches that were left unfilled. “I see what you mean. This road is broken.”

  “Like their treaty,” said Huzzud with a wry grin. “It never even made it to parchment, or so I’ve heard. The elves are going back to their old isolationist ways. They have insulted the dwarves, who blame it all on the humans, who, in their turn, are offended by the exclusionist attitude of elves. One won’t lift a finger to help the other. No, Commander, our task is going to be easy. Very easy indeed.”

  An hour’s march up the road, they were stopped by two soldiers, who stood blocking their way. Kang heard rustling in the brush on either side of the road, guessed that there must be at least fifty arrows, aimed right at him and his men.

  Torches flared.

  “Halt! Send forth one and be recognized!” the soldier yelled.

  Kang ordered his men to halt. He and Huzzud walked forward.

  “I am Talon Leader Huzzud,” she said. “This is Commander Kang and the First Regiment, Draconians.”

  The soldier saluted. “Yes, ma’am. We weren’t looking for you until morning, Commander. Please accompany me.”

  The two officers followed the sentry along the road. Although he had not been told to bring his command with him, Kang wasn’t about to leave his troops standing in the road after their long march. He signaled to Slith, who started everyone moving again.

  The sentry turned, frowning, and appeared about to protest.

  Kang extended his wings, lashed his tail slowly, back and forth, and stared, hard and cold, at the sentry in the torch light.

  Whatever the sentry had been going to say was left unsaid. The man turned hastily on his heel and continued down the road.

  Kang heard smothered laughter. Huzzud, marching beside him, said nothing. But she was grinning broadly.

  They passed through two more checkpoints, then finally left the road and entered a grassy field to the side. Picket fires and cooking fires glowed like stars fallen to the ground in the surrounding fields.

  “Slith!” Kang yelled out.

  Slith trotted forward, saluted.

  “Have the men set up right here. Same drill—no slacking off. I want a defensive ditch dug and sentries posted before anyone goes to sleep. Got it?”

  Slith saluted, then turned and issued orders in a rapid-fire staccato. The draconians fell out of formation and set to work, each performing his assigned task efficiently and with a minimum of confusion and noise.

  Huzzud spent a few moments watching, then turned to Kang. “I must return to my talon this night, but I will be back in the morning to escort you to the lord knight’s command tent. I’ll meet you here at sunup.”

  Kang agreed, saluted. “Until tomorrow, Talon Leader.”

  Huzzud returned the salute. “Until tomorrow, Commander.”

  The officer walked away into the night. Kang turned to see his soldiers working with speed and efficiency. He smiled, his scales clicked together with pleasant anticipation.

  “Until tomorrow!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  A week had passed since Pestle and Mortar had left the dwarven village. The week had been eventful for Selquist—he had discovered the location of a vast treasure horde. It had been eventful for the dwarves of Celebundin, who discovered the draconians had, to all appearances, abandoned their homes of twenty-five years. It had been eventful for the draconians, who had marched out to join up with Lord Ariakan’s army. The week for Pestle and Mortar had been a bust.

  Upon arriving at Pax Tharkas, they found that city, which had, after the war, been about equally populated by humans and elves, along with a smattering of other races, to be half-deserted. The elven contingent had packed up and moved out, according to reports, most of them gone to join with a rebel elf named Porthios. The human population was in an uproar over reports that the High Clerist Tower had fallen to an army of dark knights and that the city of Palanthas was in the hands of some evil lord known as Ariakan.

  Rumor had it that Pax Tharkas itself was soon to come under attack. The gates of the fortress which had once housed the infamous Dragon Highlord Verminaard were shut, the walls manned. The guards had not wanted to allow Pestle and Mortar inside. When the dwarves hotly insisted, the guards marched them to the gatehouse and put them through a rigorous interrogation to make certain they weren’t dark knights in disguise.

  Conscious of the stolen booty in their packs, the two dwarves were considerably alarmed by these proceedings. They quaked in their boots when the guards searched their packs, certain that they would be tossed in the Pax Tharkas jail.

  “It’ll probably be filled with kender!” Pestle groaned.

  “They always are,” Mortar agreed gloomily.

  If the guards had found weapons in the packs, the dwarves would have most certainly been spending the night in prison, clutching their belongings and kicking any kender who ventured too close. As it was, finding only a few mundane household items, which Mortar claimed he was here to sell to raise money for homeless orphans, the guards let them pass. They did, as an afterthought, confiscate the skull with the glowing red eyes.

  “Our most valuable item.” Pestle sighed. The two were walking as fast as they could away from the guard tower.

  “Selquist isn’t going to be happy about this,” Mortar noted.

  They made their way through the city, which was preparing to be besieged. Homeowners were boarding up windows. Men were filling barrels with water, to put out fires. The city guard drilled in the streets. Women and children were heading for the hills.

  The marketplace was empty.

  The dwarves looked at each other and at their bags of loot and dismally shook their heads. Selecting a stall, they set out their wares, but the few people who passed merely glanced at the items and hurried on. The dwarves waited all day and sold nothing.

  “Well, maybe it’ll be better tomorrow,” Pestle said. They packed up, found a cheap inn, and spent the night battling the fleas in the mattress.

  The next morning, sore and itchy, they went back to the market. They stayed until noon and had one visitor, a gully dwarf, who tried to sell them some dead rats on a string.

  “Well, there’s always Rhanga,” Mortar said.

  “He won’t give us much, but anything’s better than nothing,” Pestle agreed.

  Packing up their loot, they trudged off to the kender’s house.

  They had no difficulty finding it, though they hadn’t visited in a year or so. It was the only house on the block with a bright purple door, glaring yellow walls and stunning emerald green curtains. Wincing, the dwarves knocked at the door, doing their best to shade their eyes.

  The door popped open. A kender female greeted them.

  “Why, hello? My goodness. You’re dwarves, aren’t you?” the kender said.

  “Yes,” said Pestle, keeping tight hold of his pack
. “We’re—”

  “Hey, everyone!” The kender turned around. “Come here and look! Dwarves!”

  A whole passle of kender came to the door, another group gathered at the window. They jabbered and chattered.

  “You’re right. It is dwarves.”

  “What kind of dwarves? Gully dwarves?”

  “Are you gully dwarves?”

  “We’re not gully dwarves!” Mortar shouted, above the hubbub. “We’re Neidar.”

  “I don’t need her. Do you need her?” one of the kender asked.

  This produced gales of laughter, though Mortar couldn’t see anything at all funny. But then kender never needed a reason to laugh, one attribute which drove other more sane and sober races to distraction. The kender poured out into the street to get a better look at their visitors. Mortar grit his teeth, held his pack to his chest, and carried on as best he could, while fending off curious hands.

  “I’m looking for … Put that back! I said I’m here to see … That’s mine, confound you! No, don’t tug on that! I say I’m here to see Rhanga!” he roared.

  “Rhanga?”

  “Rhanga. Did he say Rhanga?”

  “I think he said Rhonda. Do you know Rhonda?”

  “Maybe that’s who he needs. He said he needed her.”

  “Do you need someone named Rhonda?”

  “We don’t know anyone named Rhonda, but if you want us to ask around—”

  “Rhanga!” Pestle yelled. “We want to see Rhanga Changehands!”

  “Ah!” sang out the kender all at once. “Rhanga Changehands!”

  “He doesn’t live here anymore,” added one.

  “Not live here.” Mortar was astounded. “Where did he go?”

  “Out,” said one.

  “Yes, he stepped out to borrow some sugar.”

  “When will he be back?” Pestle asked.

  “Couldn’t say.” The kender shook their top-knotted heads.

  “Before nightfall, surely,” Mortar continued. He was beginning to feel desperate.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Well, surely it can’t take long to borrow a cup of sugar. When did he leave?” Pestle joined the fray.

  The kender put their heads together. “Last month?”

  “No, two months ago at least.”

  “I think it was last year sometime. He wasn’t here for my Day of Life-gift.”

  “You weren’t here for your Day of Life-gift!”

  Mortar gave his own beard a sharp yank. The pain brought tears to his eyes, but it also restored his sanity, which he felt slowly slipping away. He caught hold of Pestle and the two began to retreat back down the street, keeping their eyes fixed on the kender at all times.

  “Uh, thanks. We’ll just be leaving now.”

  The kender surrounded them, reaching out for them.

  “Don’t go!”

  “Not so soon!”

  “Can’t you stay for tea?”

  “What’s in the bag? Can I see?”

  “Do you want me to go look for Rhonda?”

  “What shall I tell her, when I see her?”

  “Come on, Niedar! Stay for tea! Stay for tea!”

  The kender crowded around, chanting and grabbing at the dwarves.

  “Let go of that! Put that back! Don’t unbuckle that strap. Now look, you’ve cut a hole in it. That’s my pouch!” The dwarves slapped roving hands and shoved curious kender heads out of their packs, but they were slowly being overwhelmed and ultimate defeat appeared imminent. Already, one kender was pretending to drink out of one of the silver ale mugs, while two more kender were having a mock sword fight with the bone candlesticks.

  “What do we do?” Pestle gasped, prying a kender hand out of one of his pockets.

  “Stay for tea! Stay for tea!” Several kender were dancing around the dwarves in a circle.

  “Run for it!” Mortar cried. He was engaged in a desperate tug-of-war with a kender over the second silver ale mug.

  “What about the loot?” Pestle shouted, making a vain attempt to recover the candlesticks.

  “The loot’s lost. We have to save ourselves!”

  “Selquist’ll be furious!”

  “Hang Selquist!” Mortar said viciously. Plunging forward, he broke through the circle, sending kender tumbling and laughing in all directions.

  Pestle was right behind him. They didn’t dare take time even to close their packs, which bounced and jounced on their backs. Whatever they had managed to save spilled out behind them, as they could tell by the chorus of “oohs” and “aahs” from the kender.

  “Are they coming after us?” Mortar asked fearfully.

  Glancing back over his shoulders as he ran, Pestle saw the kender on their hands and knees in the street, searching for dropped treasure.

  “No!” he breathed thankfully. “We’re safe.”

  “We won’t be safe until we’re out of Pax Tharkas,” said Mortar.

  As if to emphasize his words, they heard a shrill voice call after them, “Hey, about Rhonda—”

  The dwarves increased their pace.

  * * * * *

  The two dwarves, in a glum mood, traipsed back to the front gate. They hoped to leave quickly, but they had almost as much trouble leaving as they had entering.

  “You’re crazy, going back out there,” said one of the guards.

  “Why?” Mortar asked. “What’s out there?”

  “Haven’t you heard? Knights of Takhisis, they call themselves. Dark knights. They’re working for Queen Takhisis. You better stay here, where it’s safe.”

  Mortar and Pestle looked at each and rolled their eyes. Dark knights! Humans were so gullible.

  “Thanks, but we’ve got to get home.”

  “Yeah, well, warn your people. War’s coming.”

  “We will. Thanks.”

  The dwarves left Pax Tharkas. The gate door slammed shut behind them. They heard the bolt slide into place.

  Dispirited, overheated, empty handed, the dwarves plodded gloomily down the road. They were far poorer after leaving Pax Tharkas than when they’d arrived, which hadn’t been the plan.

  Selquist was, indeed, going to be furious. Especially when he heard that they’d lost their loot to a pack of ravening kender.

  “They would have ripped off our clothes!” Pestle said defensively.

  “Right. Tell that to Selquist,” Mortar responded.

  The dwarves walked until they were tired, then camped for the night. They didn’t take any precautions. Dark knights! What would the humans dream up next?

  The evening passed peacefully. It wasn’t until about noon the next day that both dwarves began to grown uneasy.

  “You know,” said Mortar, “this road is usually well traveled. It’s the main thoroughfare between here and points north. And we haven’t seen a soul since we left Pax Tharkas.”

  “It’s the heat,” said Pestle, though he kept glancing around nervously. “Everyone’s staying home because of the heat.”

  “You’re probably right,” Mortar agreed, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  They traveled on, but now they kept to the side of the road and the shadows of the trees. Suddenly Mortar jumped and swung around, staring behind him.

  “What?” Pestle snatched his ax out of its harness. “What do you see?”

  “Nothing,” said Mortar. He also had his axe in his hand. “But I feel like I’m being watched.”

  “Me, too.” Pestle peered into the shadows. “Maybe we should go back to Pax Tharkas.”

  “We’ve come too far. We should just keep going.”

  “All right. But I think we should leave the road. We’re too exposed. Let’s move into the woods.”

  The two took a step toward the trees.

  They were stopped by a twanging sound, and two arrows thudded into the ground, one in front of each dwarf.

  “Move and you die,” came a voice, a human voice, speaking dwarven. He spoke it badly, but the two weren’t about to correc
t his pronunciation.

  An archer, dressed in black leather armor adorned with a hideously grinning skull, emerged from the woods. He had lowered his bow, but the dwarves could hear movement in the woods and guessed that others’ arrows were still aimed in their direction.

  “Do you understand Common?” the archer asked.

  Both dwarves nodded.

  “Throw your axes down in the dirt in front of you, then put your hands on your heads.”

  “Are you going to rob us?” Pestle asked.

  “If you are,” Mortar said, “I feel it only fair that we warn you—you’re wasting your time. We don’t have anything of value.”

  “We are not thieves,” the archer said, his lip curling in scorn. “It is you who have broken the law. We are placing you under arrest.”

  Mortar sighed in relief. He thought he knew where he stood. “Look, we were never anywhere near Thorbardin. Ask anyone. On the night in question, we were home sound asleep—”

  The archer raised his bow. The arrow pointed straight at Mortar’s heart. “I said, drop the axes.”

  Mortar dropped the axe. Pestle did likewise.

  Nine more archers, clad in black leather identical to the first, stepped out of the woods. They kept the dwarves covered. The first archer bent to retrieve their weapons. While the dwarves stood with their hands on their heads, the archer ran his hands over them, removed two knives from their belts and two more that they had stashed in the tops of their boots.

  The archer swung the axes, sent them spinning into the woods. “Tie their hands,” he ordered his comrades. He turned back to the dwarves. “This road is closed by order of Lord Knight Sykes, Commander of the Second Army in the service of Queen Takhisis. Failure to comply will result in arrest. If you’re on this road, you must be spies. We’re taking you back for interrogation.”

  The two dwarves glanced at each other in despair.

  “I guess those humans knew what they were talking about,” Pestle said sadly.

  “We’re done for,” Mortar muttered.

  “Shut up! No talking.” The knight emphasized his words with an impersonal blow to the side of Pestle’s head.