While the Kayolin dwarf staggered, fighting the urge to slump to his knees, Garn spoke solemnly. “We caught this fellow following us back from Hillhome-he came from there, clearly. I believe he’s a thief and a spy; he sought to pass himself off as a mountain dwarf, but you have heard his accent. Clearly he’s not one of us. And my thane-”
Garn’s breathing grew excited, and he was almost panting as he reached into his belt pouch to pull out the Bluestone and the Greenstone, which he set on a nearby workbench for all to admire.
“This is the booty the thief was after-the prizes we claimed from Hillhome. Look at them! I have a hunch they are valuable artifacts!”
The facets on the two wedges glittered and winked in the diffuse torchlight. Tarn Bellowgranite’s eyes, like those of all the other dwarves, were drawn almost hypnotically to the pair of colored stones.
“Hmm, yes. Look at these, Otaxx,” the thane said, addressing the one called General Shortbeard. “What do you think they are?”
“Where did they come from?” Otaxx asked Garn.
“The Bluestone is mine and it comes from Kayolin, just like me,” Brandon interjected before anyone else could speak. “It was stolen from me by the leader of the hill dwarves, Harn Poleaxe. The other stone, the Greenstone, was already in the town of the hill homes when I was brought there-as their prisoner!” he concluded insistently.
“He keeps telling this preposterous story,” Garn said, sounding more amused than upset. “All the way from Kayolin! Have any of you ever met a dwarf from Kayolin?”
As the thane regarded Brandon with frank suspicion, Captain Bloodfist continued enthusiastically. “These stones may be magical. Or think what even one would bring in the bazaar in Caergoth or Sanction. Wealth beyond imagining! The vital funds to outfit a proper army, to overwhelm the hill dwarf scum once and for all! Oh, that would be a glorious day for the mountain dwarves-and your Hylar legacy would be restored.”
“I am a Hylar too!” Brandon shouted.
That was one interruption too many for Garn Bloodfist. Brandon felt Garn’s blade pressing against his throat, colder by far than the metal collar encircling his neck. “I told you-cease your lies! Or do you want me to cut the tongue right out of your head?”
Brandon glowered but kept his mouth shut. His eyes appealed to the Hylar thane, who seemed preoccupied with his own troubles. But the Kayolin dwarf was surprised to see the old general, Otaxx Shortbeard, looking at him with an expression unlike all the others-pensive, even curious.
The old, weary thane gestured to the load men, who immediately started the empty crate descending toward the floor of the great hall again.
“This is the true Hylar legacy,” Tarn Bellowgranite declared, waving his hand at the vast operation. “Restoring the great trap to operability. We are very close now; you see that the hall is nearly emptied, nearly done. These other matters are distractions.”
“Yes, my thane, I know, I know,” said Garn tersely. “You always preach patience.”
But Brandon got the impression the Klar captain was humoring his ruler; Bloodfist’s eyes narrowed in an expression very much like contempt as he scrutinized the older dwarf. “About the prisoner… I would like your authorization to lock him in the dungeon while his fate is determined.”
Tarn was leaning over the catwalk’s railing, looking at the dwarves who were busily filling the next lift. “You there! Watch that load; you’re overbalancing to the left!” he barked. After a second he turned back to the Klar, blinking as if surprised to find him still standing there. He didn’t spare a glance at Brandon. “Do what you must,” he muttered.
Just my luck, Brandon reflected morosely. His fate would remain in the hands of the erratic, excitable Klar.
Without another word, Garn gestured to his guards, and Brandon was hustled into another lift crate, just emptied of its rock cargo. With a wave to the load men, the captain started their smooth descent back down into the cavernous hall.
“They go into Big House?” questioned Gus. He was staring in awe at the great fortress.
The column of mountain dwarves they had followed for so long was marching in through the vast central gate. That gate had been standing open during the whole of their approach, and the dwarves could see right through it and a second gate beyond to the valley on the other side of the massive wall.
“Yes, they’re going into the Big House,” Gretchan replied, her thoughts preoccupied. She, Kondike, and the gully dwarf were crouched behind a clump of boulders beside the road that approached the huge gate carved into the Tharkadan wall. There were many sentries on the wall in clear view, and no doubt others watching from concealed vantages. For the ninth or tenth time, she pushed Gus’s head down. She didn’t care to take any chances on being discovered.
Kondike was also watching warily. The dog’s ears perked upward, nostrils flaring gently as they sampled the air and searched for any scent of danger. Gretchan kept a hand on the Aghar’s shoulder as he squirmed and craned to get a better look. She was ready, at a moment’s notice, to snatch the gully dwarf by the scruff of his neck and pull him back into concealment.
“We go into Big House too?” asked Gus hopefully.
“Well, yes and no,” the maid replied.
“Yes and no you always say. What mean you yes and no?” asked the gully dwarf with a scowl.
“Well, we’re both going to go inside,” she said, eliciting a happy grin from the Aghar, “but we won’t be using the front gate. I’m not sure the master of Pax Tharkas will be happy to see me. Anyway, I don’t want to have to talk my way past those officious guards.”
“Guards are fishes? We sneak?” Gus suggested brightly. “That fun. Aghar great sneakers!”
“I know,” Gretchan said. “I’m counting on it. And I know just the place for some sneaking.”
“Where that?” the Aghar asked eagerly.
“Well, it’s a place I’ve never seen, but it’s been well described in the histories. During the War of the Lance, some heroes used it to sneak in to Pax Tharkas so they could save many thousands of lives. It’s an old place, disused nowadays, but I think it might just work.”
“What old place this?”
“Come with me,” Gretchan said. “And I’ll show you the way called the Sla-Mori.”
TWENTY-TWO
Ancient Tombs And Modern paths
“This is the place.” Gretchan pointed. She and Gus stood before the base of a tall cliff. For two hours she had been leading the gully dwarf and the dog along the rugged slope of the mountain valley, backtracking away from the great fortress, then moving off the road to follow a narrow, steeply climbing trail alongside a mountain stream.
Many times she had paused for rest, leaning on her staff, concentrating with her eyes closed. A few times, while she was thus engrossed, the Aghar had tried to offer helpful suggestions about what they might find to eat if they were to do some looking, or where they could go instead of that secret path that took forever to find, but he finally gave up, sulking, after she silenced him with increasingly short-tempered rebukes.
At last she had moved off the slope trail, pushing through tangling bushes and tree branches to climb up to that insignificant-looking spot of wilderness.
“What here?” demanded Gus. He squinted up the great cliff. “Golly. We not climb that!” he exclaimed.
“We don’t have to,” the dwarf maid explained patiently. “Just let me find what I am looking for…”
She spent several minutes probing the niches and cracks at the base of the cliff. Although she had spoken truly when she said she had never been in that place, she had studied many scholarly texts in which the Sla-Mori had been mentioned or played a prominent role, and her memory was very good for maps and history.
Soon she found what she was seeking. Reaching into a crack, straining upward as high as she could reach, she grasped a round knob of rock, an unusually long protuberance. Pulling it sharply downward, she stepped back and watched as a narrow panel of s
tone swung inward, revealing a wide, dark, musty corridor leading into the mountain.
The floor was covered with rubble, mostly dry rocks but in places there were pools of sticky mud, all coated with a layer of dust and grime. Gus started boldly ahead until, once again, her hand on his shoulder arrested his progress.
“We must tread carefully,” she said. “Let’s have Kondike lead the way.”
Almost as if he understood what was expected of him, the dog paced ahead, stiff legged, into the secret passageway. He stepped easily over the broken rocks, sniffing alertly, his short tail erect. Gus and Gretchan followed close behind him.
In a few seconds, the door slid soundlessly shut, sealing them in utter darkness. Even as their dwarf eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Gretchan raised her staff and whispered a word. The anvil on the head of the pole began to glow with a soft illumination that penetrated into far corners and crevasses, lighting up the tunnel so they could see for quite a distance.
The corridor, they saw, meandered somewhat on its path-for at one time it had been a natural passageway, not a tunnel excavated from solid stone. True, there were signs of dwarven stone craft-regular arches to support the ceiling and buttresses in many places lining the walls. Because of the rubble and the cracks and crumbles in the walls and ceilings, however, it still looked like a wild place, long neglected.
“This like tunnel to Thorbardin,” Gus whispered. “We going to Thorbardin?” He wasn’t all that enthused about the prospect of returning to his lifelong home.
“No. This is the Sla-Mori-the ‘secret way’ into Pax Tharkas. The elves used these halls for burial very, very long ago.” But she was interested in the fact, if Gus could be believed, that similar tunnels existed in Thorbardin. She would have to remember to write that down.
“Bury bodies here?” asked the gully dwarf with an audible gulp.
“Yes,” Gretchan said. Unlike her nervous companion, she was filled with reverence and awe to be in such a hallowed place. Her feet padded respectfully across the dusty stones, and in spite of the rubble and decay, she saw it as it once had been: a great hall, sacred to dwarves and elves alike, a symbol of alliance and peace as testified to by the name of the fortress itself.
“Pax Tharkas,” she whispered to Gus, “translates roughly to mean ‘Peace and Strength.’ ”
“Piece and strength,” he mouthed, walking quietly beside her.
They came to a fork in the passage, and Kondike hesitated until Gretchan gestured with her staff toward the left. Again the dog led the way, picking up the pace slightly so the dwarves had to walk quickly in order to keep up. Despite his palpable fear, Gus hastened along, frankly more worried about being left behind than about any danger ahead.
Finally they came into a chamber so large, even the light from Gretchan’s staff couldn’t illuminate the far corners. It was a square vault with a series of columns lining the two side walls. In places, the ceiling had collapsed, dumping more rubble onto the floor, but in general the room was in better condition than the tunnel they had been following.
“Oh-oh. Dead guy! Who he?” asked Gus, suddenly freezing as he looked to the left.
“He was a great king,” Gretchan said reverently as her eyes followed his. “He lived long ago, thousands of years before the Cataclysm. His name was Kith-Kanan.”
“Kiss Caning,” mouthed Gus.
The body of the legendary elf king, founder of Qualinesti, sat on a massive throne. Two tall statues of elf warriors loomed over him, sentries flanking the king’s seat. The chair was set upon a raised dais, the monarch’s body seated as if at rest, facing the vast chamber just as if he were hosting a vast crowd of lords, courtiers, and ladies.
Perhaps, Gretchan thought as a shiver of an imaginary breeze drifted over them, he did have a court full of ghosts to wait upon him. She had seen enough strange things in her life that she was not about to discount the possibility. The two looming statues to either side of the throne, each a stern-faced elf warrior, armed and armored and easily four times the height of a mortal elf, gave a strong suggestion of a watchful presence there.
Gus, meanwhile, couldn’t fight his curiosity; he was creeping closer to the king’s throne. He halted, gazing upward with trepidation, as Kondike padded over to stand protectively beside him. Gretchan, too, strolled over to look at the image of the ancient ruler. Kith-Kanan’s flesh was not visible, for he had been entombed in a suit of full plate armor, including a helmet with a visor that covered his face. The armor had once been shiny silver, though it was blackened with age. Even so, the ornate scrolling on the greaves and breastplate was still visible; if anything, it was highlighted by the light film of dust.
“Kiss Caning elf king?” asked the gully dwarf, shaking his head in confusion. “In dwarf fort?”
“Yes,” Gretchan said gently. “Kith-Kanan,” she said, emphasizing the pronunciation, “lived in a time when elves and dwarves worked together for the greater good of Krynn.” She couldn’t help the bitterness that seeped into her voice. “Now, it seems, even the different clans of dwarfkind are not content unless they are trying to kill each other every day.”
“Not kill you!” Gus said fiercely, reaching up to take one of her hands in his grubby paws. “Gus not let them!”
“Thank you, my friend. I know you speak the truth from your heart, and that means a lot to me. I’m glad I could show you this place too. Now let’s get going.”
They left the corpse and statues and ghosts behind, proceeding through the darkened halls of the Sla-Mori. With her staff lighting the way, Gretchan found herself walking faster and faster, propelled by an eagerness even she didn’t understand. Kondike loped along at her side. They came to a place where the cavern once had been blocked by a cave-in, but they were able to keep going since Tarn’s laborers had obviously cleared the passage some years before. Other corridors and smaller passages branched off to the right and left, but Gretchan knew where she was headed. Her feet carried her rapidly along, around more twists and turns, and finally she reached an apparent dead end-a solid wall of stone.
Only then did she notice that Gus was missing. He must have fallen behind. She sighed in exasperation, trying to reconstruct when the intrepid Aghar had struck off on his own, until she realized she hadn’t heard a sound from him for the better part of an hour.
“Hmm, that’s not good. I hope you can stay out of trouble, little friend,” she whispered to herself. More to the point, she hoped he wouldn’t get into any trouble that would lead to her discovery. She was not ready to present herself to the lords of Pax Tharkas, not yet.
But she didn’t intend to turn back and look for him. More eager than before, Gretchan pressed forward. She probed along the dusty wall and felt the outlines of an ancient carving, like a wheel with deep spokes engraved into the stone surface. Pushing her fingers into those grooves, she strained to move the mechanism. For a moment she feared that she wouldn’t be strong enough, but suddenly it jerked and something broke free. The wheel in the wall rotated a quarter turn, and the great slab of stone blocking the passageway slipped to the side, opening the way into Pax Tharkas proper.
With a searching backward look, she determined that Gus hadn’t caught up to her yet. She decided to leave the door open for the moment with the expectation that the gully dwarf was not far behind. Indeed, as the air deep within the fortress wafted past her nose, carrying the scent of garbage and miscellaneous refuse, she realized he probably wasn’t the only Aghar in the place. Like most dwarven cities and fortresses of any size, Pax Tharkas no doubt hosted a thriving community of the little wretches, deep within the dungeons and tunnels where they were not-much of-a bother to the prevalent hard-working dwarves.
With her dog still shadowing her, Gretchan entered the dim corridors of the deep dungeons underneath what she knew was the East Tower of Pax Tharkas. Moving quietly, she slipped past dark, empty cells, climbed a narrow stairway to an upper floor, and continued to move farther into the fortress. She was approaching
the next stairway leading up when she heard a key rattle in the lock overhead, and a door opened to reveal flickering torchlight.
Silently the dwarf maid and the shaggy, black dog shrank back into the darkness, a whispered word extinguishing the light glowing on the end of her staff. They drew deeper into a narrow side corridor off of the main dungeon hall. They would be almost impossible to see back there, even with strong dwarf eyes.
Sure enough, a small party of dwarves clumped by, ten paces away from her, but none of them even glanced her way. Two of the guards were escorting a prisoner, and she wasn’t too surprised to recognize Brandon Bluestone, once again a prisoner.
Gretchan had spent much of the past two weeks watching the Kayolin dwarf’s suffering. She had seen him captured by Garn Bloodfist’s Klar the morning after she visited the mountain dwarf camp, and had observed him locked in chains, and dragged roughly along by his uncaring captors. She had followed closely, observing the company’s progress all the way to Pax Tharkas. She knew he couldn’t expect any better treatment from the hard-headed Hylar and Klar who lived there.
And Daewar, she reminded herself curtly. After her conversation with Garn Bloodfist, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that there was at least one Daewar there.
She waited in the silent darkness as she heard a metal door open, followed by the coarse laughter of the two guards as they tossed their prisoner into his cell.
“Don’t worry,” one of them taunted. “We’ll be along with some food by next week at the latest.”
“Until then,” chortled the other, “you can always snack on the rats.”
Gretchan frowned but held her tongue as the guards again clomped past her hiding place and climbed the stairs toward the next-higher level. Only when she heard the door slam behind them did she emerge, Kondike quietly trailing, to move into the main corridor.
There was only one cell with a closed door, so that must be where Brandon was being held. There was a small grid of bars in the door, providing a window into the cell, and she pressed her face to that opening before speaking in a whisper.
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