Gus thought for a moment, feeling helpless and afraid. The bad kisser dwarf didn’t seem so bad up close, and he hadn’t even tried to kiss Gus.
He ought to do something, he told himself, thinking of the trapped angry dwarves and all the mistakes he had made. There was only one thing he could think of: he went back to the secret door outside of Gretchan’s room. Mustering all of his courage, he knocked on the wooden panel, suddenly worried that she might not be there.
And when she opened the door, she did not look as mad as she had been when he had so anxiously retreated from her presence a day or two earlier.
“Hello, Gus,” she said, frowning down at him. “What do you want this time?”
He wanted to throw himself into her arms and beg forgiveness, but instead he mustered all of his noble character and spoke to her.
“Mean dwarf prince comes to hurt prisoner. I sorry for before and try help. They locked up now, but they still want to come here and hurt him, us. We gotta get prisoner out of there, or else… or else…” He sniffled loudly and wiped away a tear.
To his immense relief, Gretchan did lean down and pat him on the shoulder. “Thank you for coming,” she said, all very matter-of-fact, as though she had known he was coming and what he would say. “That was very brave. Now what do you mean, ‘locked up’?”
“Here, let me show,” he said, tugging her hand, pulling her out of the garrison room and into the corridor. “Wait here,” he whispered as they came closer to the place. “You listen.”
He strolled forward around the last corner and was immediately spotted by the big dwarf captain, who was down on his knees, grunting as he tried to budge the cage.
“You! Gully dwarf! Come here, damn your eyes! Turn that lever and pull this gate up, or so help me Reorx-”
Gus didn’t wait to hear more. He raced back around the corner and was surprised to see that Gretchan was laughing. At first he was insulted, but then his chest swelled with pride as she clapped him on the back and whispered, “Well done!”
Then she frowned. “But you’re right. We have to get Brandon out of here before they’re freed, or they’ll… I don’t know what they’ll do, but I don’t want to find out. We’d better hurry. Others will be coming down to see what happened to them.”
With Gus and Kondike racing along behind her, she hurried to the cell where the dwarf was imprisoned. Pressing her face to the grate, she called to him. Immediately he appeared.
“Trouble,” she said. “No time to explain, but we’ve got to get you out of here now.”
“I’m all in favor of that,” Brandon replied. “But how? Did you bring a key?”
She shook her head. Pulling her little silver hammer from her belt, she warned the dwarf: “Stand back.”
“Why?” Brandon asked incredulously, giving a slight chuckle. “In case the hammer breaks and a piece goes flying?”
“Suit yourself,” Gretchan replied. She hoisted the little tool, which had a head shaped much like the anvil on her staff, and swung it lightly against the latch on the cell door.
The explosion was so deafening, Gus covered his ears. Wood splintered and iron screeched as the portal was blown off its hinges, the bulk of the heavy door sent flying back into the cell, where it knocked Brandon onto the floor. The heavy wooden beams forming the door were shattered, and the lock itself had shattered into a hundred metal shards.
“How did you do that?” gasped Brandon, sitting up in astonishment and pushing the wreckage of the door off himself. Aside from some nicks and bruises, he looked only a little worse for wear. “It looked like you only tapped it!”
“Looks can be deceiving,” she replied slyly. “Now do you want to have a long conversation, or do you want to get out of there.”
“Get out!” Brandon replied, shucking away the broken beams and pushing himself up. He glared at her. “But you could have warned me.”
“I tried,” said Gretchan, grinning.
The big mountain dwarf stepped to the door of the cell then stopped. “Wait. I know you carry that hammer with you everywhere; you had it in Hillhome. So you could have done this anytime? Gotten me out of here?”
“I told you-there’s no time to talk!” she snapped in agitation.
“Damn it, I want some answers!” Brandon growled. “You’ve been feeding me, bringing me soup-by Reorx, you kissed me through the bars of the cell! When all this time you could have let me out with one swing of your hammer! It’s like I’ve been some kind of caged pet!”
She snorted but then looked away, abashed. In another moment, her face hardened. “Look. We can talk about it later. For now, I’m getting away. Are you coming along?”
“Oh, I’m coming, all right-if only to get those answers you promised!” Brandon muttered, emerging into the dark corridor. “Who’s that?” he said immediately, pointing to Gus and wrinkling his nose.
Gus sulked and pointed back at Brandon, wrinkling his nose in similar fashion.
“Oh, that’s just Gus,” said Gretchan. “He helped save your life. After he almost got you killed. It’s another long story for later. Now come on!”
“Where are we going?” asked Brandon as she led all three at a trot back out of the dead-end corridor.
“Just trust me,” she said. “This place is full of surprises, and I’ve been learning a lot of them.”
TWENTY — FIVE
A Secret Revealed
Help! Help us someone! Open these gates!” Garn Bloodfist shouted for the hundredth time, stalking around the small, square room where he and his two men were caged by the falling portcullis trap.
“I don’t think anyone can hear us, Captain,” Bilious suggested unhelpfully.
“Of course they can’t!” the Klar officer screamed. “Help me make some louder noise, you worthless scum!”
For a time all three of the trapped Klar shouted and hollered until they all were too hoarse to make any sound above a croaking rasp. “What are they doing up there?” demanded the captain in a whisper. “Are they all asleep?
Drunk?”
“I think we’re too far away for them to hear us,” Crank speculated none too brilliantly.
“Your weapons!” Garn said, suddenly struck by inspiration. “Bang them against the bars!”
Crank and Bilious obeyed his order with enthusiasm, drawing their swords and smashing the flats of the blades against the metal bars of the portcullis, raising a din that crashed against their ears with deafening force. The sounds rang and echoed and swelled through the subterranean passage, making an unworldly clamor. Even when the tip of Crank’s blade broke off, the two swordsmen kept up their banging until-finally-a curious Hylar sentry came wandering down into the dungeon to see what all the noise was about.
“Open the gates! Lift the portcullis!” croaked Garn, his voice grown hoarse from more than an hour of shouting. After gaping in momentary astonishment, the rescuer obligingly pulled down on the lever, with each tug of the mechanism working the winch, lifting the two gates an inch at a time. Watching impatiently, the Klar captain wanted to strangle the fellow for taking such a long time, but that would have to wait until he had caught up with the blasted Aghar and the imprisoned Kayolin dwarf.
When the grate was some two feet off the floor, Bloodfist threw himself down flat and squirmed under the barrier, to be quickly followed by Crank and Bilious.
“Finish raising it!” he called back to their rescuer before plunging deeper into the dungeon. His feet pounded on the cold stone floor as he sprinted around corners so fast that he bounced off the walls, putting his head down and urgently charging forward again.
Even before he reached the corridor where Brandon Bluestone was imprisoned, he had the sickening feeling they were going to be too late. Running down the last stretch, he grimaced in almost physical pain as he saw the open doorway to the cell. Skidding to a stop beside the empty chamber, he glared at the wreckage of the splintered door and roared out curses, kicking through the debris as if he expected to find t
he prisoner hiding there.
“What happened?” asked Crank, gaping stupidly. “Did that gully dwarf knock the door down?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” snapped Garn. “She did this! She’s here, somewhere, working against me. She’s a witch, I tell you; I knew it the first time I saw her! And that gully dwarf told me: she’s lurking right here, in Pax Tharkas!” He stared up and down the corridor as if he could command Gretchan to appear simply by the dint of his willpower.
But of course, that would never happen.
Instead, he ordered Crank to run back to the garrison hall and alert the company of Klar warriors.
“Make sure they are all armed. Send half the men down here to start searching in the dungeon. Have the rest disperse through the East Tower. We must catch them before they escape.”
His father’s bloody face seemed to shimmer in the air before him, and the Klar captain let out a wail of grief and fury that ensured Crank would sprint back to the tower at full speed. Drawing his own sword, Garn Bloodfist held his weapon tightly, striding through the dungeon of Pax Tharkas on a mission of punishment and revenge.
Two Neidar scouts came down from the ridge, dragging a body between them. They tossed it onto the road before Harn Poleaxe. The army commander, peering through the eye slits on his helmet visor, saw a dead dwarf with pair of crossbow bolts jutting from his back.
“He was a lookout-Klar,” said one of the scouts, spitting on the corpse. “But he won’t be doing much looking out-or anything else-anymore.”
“Good work,” Poleaxe said. He raised his visor so he could take a drink, and while he drained his jug, he looked up, scanning the steep ridges that flanked the road along which his army marched. His advance parties were swarming all over those heights, but even so, he knew it was unrealistic to think they would be able to approach the fortress unnoticed. After all, it was the only route an army could use to get into the pass from the south, and the mountain dwarves were sure to have many more sentries posted.
But the Neidar still hoped for a surprise attack. “Get back up there, and find us another one,” he ordered, and the two hill dwarves-both of whom were dressed for agility and silence in leather armor and soft walking boots-turned back to the heights at a jog.
Harn tossed his empty jug to Rune, who followed immediately behind the army commander, leading a mule that was bearing two kegs of dwarf spirits strapped to its panniers. As a reward for his assistant’s loyalty, Harn had given Rune the axe he had taken from Brandon Bluestone. The Neidar, who had been badly beaten during the prisoner’s escape, wore that weapon proudly, strapped to his back where all could admire the splendid craftsmanship, the keen steel edge.
The kegs were the exclusive refreshment of Harn Poleaxe, and they had been full when the army departed Hillhome. Rune, who took care to refill the jug alternately from the left and right keg so as to keep the mule’s load even, promptly turned the spigot. Poleaxe fidgeted in his saddle, scratching at the blisters that marred both cheeks and his entire forehead, until his subordinate, with a deep bow, brought him the freshly filled vessel. Harn took a deep drink and once again waved the column forward.
As the army neared the enemy stronghold, the ranks of the Neidar had tightened and the marching songs ceased. Morale was high; that was apparent from the joyful determination Poleaxe saw in every face, in the way the dwarves carefully sharpened their weapons at each night’s camp, in the way the scouts ranged eagerly and swiftly onto the surrounding heights.
On the tenth day of the march, several of his scouts had reported a glimpse of the fortress’s towers around the next bend of the winding but only gently climbing pass. To the best of Harn’s knowledge, no mountain dwarf lookout had survived to carry word of their approach to the Pax Tharkas garrison, but of course, if such a sentry had indeed slipped away from his scouts, it was likely that the hill dwarves would not know about it.
So they established a camp a half day’s march from their objective, protecting it with a full set of defensive preparations. Instead of sleeping in a meadow on the valley floor as they had done each previous night of the march, where fresh water would be readily available, the Neidar unrolled their bedrolls across a series of plateaulike surfaces crowning the ridge to the west of the road. They carried a plentiful supply of water up to their compounds, and the captains posted double the number of usual guards to make sure they stayed watchful in shifts throughout the night.
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 physic
al 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.
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