Five minutes later, the Aghar and dog were secure in their room, happily munching their food. Gretchan got settled in her own room, opening the window and pulling back the curtains to air out the somewhat stuffy chamber. Opening her backpack, she found her hairbrush and ran it through her hair a few times.
She was putting it back when she noticed the strange bottle that the Aghar had brought out of the wizard’s lair. She reached for the bottle, looking it over carefully. The label, Midwarren Pale, suggested a brand of dwarf spirits from Thorbardin, but her senses tingled as she held the flask, and she knew that it held something stranger and far more powerful than even the most potent alcoholic beverage. She removed the stopper and sniffed at it, wincing at the smell-which was very reminiscent of dwarf spirits.
Shrugging, she decided that mystery would have to wait. She set the bottle on the stand next to her bed and closed up her pack. Then she strolled out the inn’s front door and into the lamplit streets of Hillhome. She turned away from Moldoon’s, heading instead toward the newer parts of town, the wooden neighborhoods on the outskirts. Soon she found another amiable inn-the dwarven town was full of them-and seated herself at an outside table, watching passersby: loggers returning from the woods, soot-stained coal-diggers coming from the smithies; teamsters bringing their horses, mules, and oxen into their corrals.
She quickly struck up a conversation with a young dwarf who had stopped by to wet his whistle. Garrin Hammerstrike was his name, and he seemed to know a lot about the town.
“Well, the mayor has been running things while Harn Poleaxe was gone, but now that’s bound to change,” Garrin said before taking a big gulp from his mug.
“Oh? How long was Mr. Poleaxe gone?”
“About two years, give or take. Went all the way to Kayolin, he did.”
“Kayolin?” Gretchan was impressed. Perhaps she had underestimated Poleaxe; few travelers from those parts made it as far as the northern kingdom, and she would be interested in Harn’s observations. She thought it odd that, for all of his boasting, Poleaxe hadn’t mentioned his trip to that distant place.
Her eyebrows raised as Hammerstrike continued. “Yep. Word is the Mother Oracle asked him to go.”
“Really?” She was intrigued by the connection. “I’ve heard of her. I understand that she’s not well?”
Hammerstrike shrugged. “Couldn’t say, myself. We never see much of her; she stays inside that little hut, right up at the end of that road, there.”
Gretchan saw the little side street, extending toward the wooded ridge that flanked the edge of Hillhome. She made a mental note of the location, then turned back to the talkative local.
“So Harn Poleaxe returned from Kayolin just a few days ago?”
“Only yesterday, it was. Even brought a Kayolin dwarf back with him, they say. Turned out to be a spy-they got him locked in the brig right now.”
“You say there’s a dwarf from Kayolin right here in Hillhome?”
“Aye-uh. Big fellow too, I hear. But he got the stuffing knocked out of him by Harn, of course. My friend Slate Fireforge helped to bring him in, just today.”
“Where is this brig?” she asked.
Garrin chuckled. “Well, it’s right around the corner there. But you won’t be able to get in. Old Shriff Keenstrike guards the door like a hawk morning, noon, and night.”
“Well, I might give it a try. Thanks for the information,” she said. She called over a barmaid and handed her a copper. “Give my friend here another drink when he’s ready.”
A few minutes later, she was approaching the brig, a sturdy building with narrow, barred windows. She guessed that the armed dwarf standing vigilantly at the door must be the reputed Shriff Keenstrike. He was a disreputable-looking fellow with about a week’s worth of spare food stored in the tangled mat of his brown beard who watched warily as she neared.
“Hi there,” she said, sauntering up the steps and offering him her most dazzling smile.
“Well, uh, hi there, yourself,” Shriff stammered, blushing. “What kin I do for you?”
“I’d like to talk to one of your prisoners,” she said, leaning close. “Do you think that would be all right?”
“Well, really… um, no one’s supposed to go in there. Them’s the rules. I don’t make the rules up; I just enforce ’em.”
“Oh, I promise not to disturb anything,” she breathed. “And it will just be for a few minutes. Surely a big, brave fellow like you can make sure that nothing bad happens. I mean, you look like you really know how to use that sword.”
“Well, yes, of course, I do know how to look out for myself,” Shriff said. “I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm for a few minutes or so.” He hesitated, frowning. “What’s your business, ma’am?”
“I’m a historian,” she said proudly, batting her eyelashes. “I’m here in town to learn about the area, and I always like to take a look at the important government buildings. Who knows, a handsome guy like you, you may end up in my report.”
Shriff stared at his shoes, blushing again. He looked up and down the street then turned back to Gretchan. She smiled again, and he was unlocking the door a second later.
Men, she thought. They are so predictable.
She hesitated slightly when the stench of the place reached her nostrils but quickly gathered her determination and marched into the brig. She had certainly smelled worse in the course of her research!
As soon as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she picked out the mountain dwarf. The other prisoners-she counted four, in two separate cells-were listless and filthy, while the prisoner from Kayolin didn’t look quite as abject. Indeed, he glared fiercely at her from his cell at the end of the hall. She advanced purposefully, stopping just outside the barred door.
The prisoner said nothing but stared at her suspiciously. He was unusually tall, and quite handsome under the dirt and bruises. When she smiled her most pleasant smile at him, his expression didn’t change. He glowered even more.
“Hi there. I’m told you’re from Kayolin,” she said. “Is that true?”
“Who wants to know?” he growled. “And what are you doing here?” The Kayolin prisoner was squeezed into the small space, his knees bent, his back against the wall. She realized his hands were behind him and that they were probably bound. His cell was the smallest unit in the place, with barely room enough for him to stand or turn around.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” she said sympathetically. “My name is Gretchan Pax. I’ve been compiling stories, histories, anecdotes about the dwarves of Krynn for some time now, with the goal in mind of writing a book about my travels and observations. I’ve never had the chance to interview someone from Kayolin, though. I talked my way past the jailer.”
“What makes you think I’d want to talk to you?” he snapped.
“Well, I don’t think there’s anything special about me, particularly,” she replied, taken aback by his rudeness. After all, every male dwarf wanted to talk to her! “I mean, just, you know… I’d like to hear about your nation, anything you’d care to tell-I mean, talk about.”
Damn, she was stammering like a child!
“Looks like you made someone pretty mad,” she said, changing course. “That’s quite a bruise under your eye. The word is that you’re accused of being a spy. Is that true?”
“True that I’m accused, not true that I’m a spy,” he replied stonily. “But why should it matter to you anyway?”
She tried to catch his eye and put some of her usually reliable flirting ability to use, but his head was slightly downcast so his eyes were partly masked by strands of brown hair that hung across his forehead.
“I see your hands are tied,” she said, shifting tactics. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t untie them. You’re not dangerous, are you?” She tried to say that last as a joke, but he snorted contemptuously at her feeble humor.
She hesitated. There was something undeniably dangerous about him.
Then, with a shrug, he pushed him
self awkwardly to his feet. He turned his back and presented his bound wrists to her, pressing his hands between two of the bars on his cell door.
“What’s your name?” she asked as she fumbled with the knots. The cord was a leather thong, twisted tightly. She winced as she saw how it had already cut into his skin. The knot was tight, and she had difficulty, even though her fingers were strong and nimble.
“Don’t you have a knife?” he asked impatiently as she strained at the knot.
That remark-and the fact he had mocked her courtesies thus far-irritated her. “No!” she snapped. “But I do have a hammer. Maybe you want me to conk you on the head instead.”
For some reason he laughed at that remark, which just made her angrier. She furiously pulled at the leather thong, knowing the line was cutting into his flesh, but the stubborn fellow didn’t even give her the satisfaction of reacting to the pain. Finally, she released the knot, and the cord tumbled free. He pulled away from the grate-grabbing up the cord, she noted-and turned to face her, rubbing his wrists.
“Thank you,” he said in a subdued tone. “My name is Brandon Bluestone.”
“Ah,” she replied, her anger melting into sympathy at his introduction. She tried to come up with a pleasant and relevant reply but realized that when she learned the name of a Neidar hill dwarf, or any mountain dwarf of a Thorbardin clan, that name invariably gave her an insight into the subject’s clan and background, not to mention all his likely friends or enemies stretching for generations. Yet all her information about Kayolin dated back more than four hundred years. She was at a disadvantage with such a rare specimen.
“I’d like to learn more about Kayolin. Can you tell me, for example, who is the governor there nowadays? Do you know the names of his predecessors?”
“Governor or king?” demanded the prisoner brusquely. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall, glaring at some point over her shoulder.
“Will you talk to me politely?” she asked. When he made no reply, she grew angry again. “You said you’d talk to me if I untied your hands!” Gretchan accused.
He snorted and she scowled, remembering that she hadn’t actually elicited such a pledge from him. “Look, tell me your story,” she said, gesturing to the cage, to the whole sturdy building that was the brig. “Why were you arrested? How did you get here?”
“In the course of the last day, I’ve been cheated, assaulted, robbed, and locked up,” he said coldly. “Why should I talk to you? Why should I trust you? How do I know you even are a historian? You don’t look like a historian to me. Maybe you’re the spy!”
Unconsciously, Brandon had struck her where she was vulnerable. Some days she wondered if she really was a historian, whether she ever would truly write the book she boasted about. Momentarily speechless, she glared at him.
Brandon glared right back, and she could see his brown eyes smoldering through the tangle of hair that still hung over his forehead. Intriguing eyes, they were, compelling even. Were the eyes of all Kayolin dwarves brown? She made a show of whipping out her notebook and scribbling something down before tossing her head angrily.
“You know, you seem just as stubborn and cantankerous as any other kind of dwarf!” she snapped. “You’re always happier in a fight than a conversation. Well, Reorx take you, then! I don’t have to put up with this! Not from a hill dwarf and certainly not from a mountain dwarf from Kayolin!”
“And what about you?” he shot back. “A hill dwarf, I suppose, like all the other fools around here? I can tell by your tan; no self-respecting mountain dwarf would let herself spend so much time in the sun!”
“You’ve gotten pretty brown yourself!” she shot back. “Or is that all part of your disguise?”
“Damn you-this is no disguise, and I’m who I claim to be! Can I help it if every one of you ignorant Neidar is too stupid, too stubborn, too all-fired blind to see the truth in front of your nose?” he shouted.
“Well, I hope you rot in here, then. I’ve obviously learned all there is to know about the likes of you!” Gretchan spun and stomped back to the outer door, which Shriff opened at her first knock. She was so irritated that she forgot to thank him and didn’t even try to charm him with a smile. Instead, she stomped through the street, thinking of a dozen things she wished she’d said to the stubborn Kayolin dwarf.
She had visited imprisoned dwarves before, and for the most part, they were like any others but usually bored with their imprisonment and eager to tell their stories. But Brandon Bluestone had somehow thrown her off balance. Damn it, it was those eyes! He’d been beaten and robbed and jailed-she found herself believing everything about the few words he’d spoken-and yet he was rude and defiant, even challenging the one person who had offered him some sympathy.
She realized he didn’t want sympathy; he wanted freedom and, most likely, vengeance. Maybe he wasn’t a spy, but he certainly was dangerous. “Well, let him find vengeance on his own, then!” she grumbled to herself, stomping along the street. “He certainly will get no further help from me!”
The night was young, but she had no stomach for further research or interviews. She wandered around the town for a little while, finally making her way back to the boardinghouse and stopping outside the door of the room where she had left Gus and Kondike. The loud snoring brought a slight smile to her lips; only a gully dwarf could saw lumber like that!
But her irritation returned when she entered her own room. There was no lock, so she pushed the door open and stepped inside. She was surprised to find it utterly dark-she was certain she had left the window curtains open, and there was plenty of lamplight on the street outside. Remembering where the bed was, she stepped gingerly, making her way toward the window.
A tremor of alarm ran down her spine; something was wrong! In the next second, a strong hand clamped over her mouth and someone with a bearded face leaned his mouth close to her ear.
“Now just be quiet, lass, and this will be nice and enjoyable for both of us,” he whispered.
She recognized Harn Poleaxe by his voice, but before she could speak, he was pressing her down onto the bed.
“Gimme that bottle!” snarled Tufa Rockslinger, lunging for his fellow Klar warrior.
“Get yer own!” snapped Roc Billingstone, punching his comrade in the nose, crunching a few bones and bringing forth a surging gout of blood.
Garn Bloodfist had sensed the simmering tension between the two dwarves and was quick to act.
“Hey, you louts!” shouted the company captain, lunging between the pair as they squared off beside their cookfire. Already the rest of the mountain dwarves were starting to gather around, cheering Tufa and Roc, placing bets, shouldering their way close to the impending fight. The two combatants closed in, and the captain clocked Roc hard on the ear. Tufa retreated when Garn feinted another punch to his already-bleeding nose.
“Stop it!” ordered Garn. His stern tone and commanding presence forced the two combatants to back away from each other. Roc sneered and ostentatiously raised his flask to his lips, while Tufa used his cloak to try to stem the flow of blood from his broken nose.
“Why, I have a mind to report you both to General Shortbeard when we get back to Pax Tharkas!” the captain growled. Otaxx Shortbeard, grizzled veteran of many a campaign, was famous for his intolerance of Klar malcontents. But the troops knew it was an empty threat: the only thing General Shortbeard disliked more than unruly Klar warriors was a certain aggressive-and ambitious-subordinate named Garn Bloodfist. Roc even made the mistake of snickering contemptuously in the face of his officer’s threat.
Garn reached out and snatched the bottle from Roc’s hand, raising it to his own lips and taking a sip of the searing dwarf spirits. His soldier glared at him but knew better than to challenge his captain on his own turf. After a long pause, Garn handed the bottle back. When he spoke, he made an effort to make his tone calm and reasonable.
“Look, men. I know you’re ready for action. I feel the same way. W
e’ve been marching through these Reorx-forsaken hills for two weeks now, and we’re a long way from Pax Tharkas. But I can tell you, we’ll be swinging our swords before tomorrow night-and not at each other!” he added pointedly.
“Where, then?” demanded one of the Klar warriors. “Another hill dwarf hovel? A couple of huts and a mill? Last time we raided one of them crap holes, all we got was a keg of stale beer and two pigs!”
“So? That bacon was mighty tasty, wasn’t it?” retorted Garn. Then he shook his head. “Anyway, that won’t happen on this expedition. This time we strike a target worthy of us-all three hundred of us! It’s a real thriving town, and it’s got wealth. There’s a vault, and a smelter where they purify real gold. It has a market and a brewery, and we might even dally a bit with the ladies,” he added with a lewd chuckle. “After we take care of their men!”
“What town is that?” asked the questioner with slightly less hostility.
“It’s right over these ridges,” Garn replied. “It’s called Hillhome. After we’re done with it,” he added with a chuckle, “maybe they’ll call it Hellhome.”
His troops settled in to their bedrolls with his assurances of imminent action. But Garn, as always when battle loomed, couldn’t sleep. He stalked around the periphery of the camp, checking on the status of his sentries. All were awake and bristled and glared at his approach, proving their watchfulness.
Beyond the ring of guards, Garn Bloodfist was alone in the night. But as always when he was by himself, he keenly felt the presence of another.
“Give me strength, my father,” he said softly. “Allow me to prepare for my vengeance! Keep my blade keen, my wits sharp, on the morrow! Trip and confound and blind my enemies, so that they will fall before my charge!”
With each word, his voice grew louder. He didn’t realize the sentries were watching nervously, hearing his voice rise from the hillside and ring through the night. Garn’s fists clenched and he raised them to the sky, holding his pose, allowing his father’s resolute strength and unbending will to flow through him.
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