“We’ve confirmed the prisoner’s report and located the main body of Willim’s army,” Fister Morewood reported breathlessly, speaking to Brandon and ignoring Otaxx and King Bellowgranite, who kept clearing his throat ostentatiously. With a gesture, Brandon directed his lieutenant to address his words to the monarch.
“Uh, sorry, my liege. The enemy seems to be falling back to the Urkhan Sea,” the Second Legion commander reported. “But they’re putting up a pretty stiff fight in the gatehouse. The fort blocks our path, but we’ve confirmed that there’s a wide avenue that runs from the city’s main gate down to the water.”
“That’s right,” Tarn said. “It’s nearly a hundred feet wide and perhaps four miles long. It ends at a wharf at the edge of the lake.”
“We’ve interrogated a number of prisoners,” Morewood explained. “All claim that Willim has more than a thousand men on the Urkhan Road, gathered in that tunnel. They’re waiting for his command, so it may be that we can catch them by surprise if we move quickly.”
“What kind of fight are they mounting at the gatehouse?” asked the king.
“I sent a probe that way, and they were attacked by at least two hundred archers. When I sent a reconnaissance against the gates with a heavy ram, they found it securely fastened and well defended. My men have come to a dead stop.”
“Get the army in motion, then!” declared Tarn. “Send the Tharkadan Legion after them, and bring up your Kayolin troops in reserve!”
Brandon was as anxious to get after the black wizard’s army as anyone else, but a cautionary note sounded in the back of his mind. He couldn’t leave the plan unchallenged.
“King Bellowgranite, why would Willim position his army in a tunnel? It makes no sense! He denies himself any room to maneuver, and as soon as we carry this gatehouse he’d be vulnerable to our attack.”
“Well, perhaps he feels he can hold the gatehouse indefinitely,” the monarch suggested. “His men are fierce fighters, as you know.”
“Yes, I realize that. But the potential for disaster is too great. It may cost us a lot of casualties, but we will carry the outer fortification, no matter how long it takes. Do you think he doubts our determination, after we forged the Tricolor Hammer and fought our way into his kingdom?”
“Probably not. But in that tunnel, he only has to defend a narrow front. We can’t bring the bulk of our army to bear against him.” Tarn frowned, brooding on the situation.
“No, but we can match him man for man. And with the Firespitters, any defense in a descending tunnel would turn into a deathtrap! He must know that and have some devious strategy in mind.”
“But surely he didn’t know about the Firespitters when he made his plan. It seems to me that he simply failed to take them into consideration.”
Brandon drew a deep breath and tried a new tack. “Sire,” he said. “We need to attack. But even if the main bulk of the enemy troops are on this Urkhan Road, the city of Norbardin is far from secure. I suggest we leave one legion here, to finish clearing the streets, sweeping the buildings. There are whole quarters of Norbardin, including Anvil’s Echo, that we haven’t even begun to explore.”
“No!” barked the king. “You’ve seen the welcome I received from the citizens! They wouldn’t be celebrating like that if they were still worried about Willim’s army. Obviously, he’s abandoned the city and is massing one last defense elsewhere. We need to strike fast, to take advantage of the crucial intelligence we’ve gained at such a cost.”
“But, sire-”
Tarn’s tone softened as he reached out to touch Brandon with affection and obvious respect. “Look, I understand your concern. And we all owe you a great debt; if you hadn’t made the long march from Kayolin, the Dwarf Home Army wouldn’t even exist. But there’ll be time enough for a thorough search when the main body of his army is destroyed. Now it seems clear that we have that army on the run! I want to send every man we have after Willim’s soldiers and not stop till the last of his swordsmen has fallen or surrendered. If he retreats all the way to the Isle of the Dead, then we must take to the boats and follow him.”
Brandon felt a stir of misgiving, but he himself was too eager to get on with the fight to argue any further. So instead, he merely nodded and said, “Yes, Your Majesty. As you command.”
“How do you propose to take the gatehouse, sir?” asked Morewood.
“The Firespitters are ready again, aren’t they?” Brandon asked.
“Yes, sir. They’ve already been moved into position, a hundred yards or so back from the gates to keep them out of arrow range.”
“All right. Let’s organize the troops and get this done.” He turned to the king. “But, sire, one last request. Please allow the Kayolin troops to carry this fight, and let us leave the Tharkadan Legion in reserve. After all, your men are familiar with the city, while mine are not. If we can finish the campaign on the road to the lake, your troops will be fresh and ready to search Norbardin to make sure it’s all secure.”
Tarn scowled for a moment, and Brandon could see that the king, his power and confidence returning by the minute, didn’t like being superseded. But the Kayolin general’s argument made too much sense. After a moment’s contemplation, Bellowgranite nodded. “Do it,” he ordered. “Without wasting any more time.”
It took less than an hour for Brandon and Fister Morewood to gather the Second Legion and the freshest troops of the battered First Legion and array them against the formidable gatehouse. The troops, like their leaders, sensed that total victory was imminent. They were buoyed by the exuberant reception the returning king had received from the city’s populace and ready to put the short, violent war behind them.
Studying their position, Brandon could see at once that it would be a much tougher objective than the royal palace. The gatehouse was a fortress in its own right but built into the wall of the great cavern that housed Norbardin. Thus, his army would be able to attack from only one side. The key to the gatehouse was a high, wide tunnel leading from Norbardin onto the Urkhan Road, the wide route to the lake that the king had described. That avenue was screened and defended by a pair of high, stone gates.
To either side of the gates rose formidable towers, lined with battlements and pocked with arrow slits. The towers jutted out from the wall, offering fields of fire in three directions, but to the rear they were firmly anchored in the bedrock of Norbardin. They rose from the cavern floor all the way to the ceiling and, from the looks of the battlements and windows, appeared to have walls that were six or eight feet thick.
Larger, wide platforms were carved right into the cliff wall and extended for more than two hundred yards to the right and left of the gate. Morewood explained that all of those platforms seemed to be garrisoned by Willim’s troops. The attackers faced a formidable defense while having to advance uphill.
Since the Kayolin troops were reasonably rested and the Second Legion had suffered few casualties, neither Morewood nor Brandon saw any point in waiting any longer. While Mason Axeblade, in tactical command of the Tharkadan Legion, moved his men into a supporting position, the two Kayolin commanders prepared their troops for the assault.
Instead of directing the Firespitters against the gates themselves, which were so wide and sturdy-and made of solid stone-that they appeared to be impervious to fire, they decided to use the great weapons in concert to sweep the defensive positions to the right of the main gatehouse. Brandon was glad to be back in action; anything to take his mind off of Gretchan’s peril. So it was with cold, direct purpose that he ordered the attack to commence.
They began with a diversionary strike against the positions to the left of the main gate. The troops of the First Legion surged forward there, directing a hail of missile fire against the enemy warriors on the multi-leveled platforms along the cavern wall and into the fighters’ niches that dotted the left of the two towers. First Legion drummers pounded out a loud, rhythmic beat in a further attempt to confuse the enemy.
In the
meantime, the Firespitters were stoked, boilers heated, and furnaces ignited. They were kept behind an intervening wall for as long as possible, so the enemy couldn’t see them. Brandon knew that, once the attack began, it would take some time for the lumbering machines to move up to the wall. He grimaced at the thought, knowing many brave dwarves would fall to the enemy archers while the deadly devices inched close enough for use. Fortunately, they had been designed with the ability to crank the firing snouts up to nearly a forty-five-degree angle above the ground; so if they could get close enough to the battle platforms, they should be able to inflict serious damage against the lower ramparts.
The diversion worked splendidly. For half an hour, the Kayolin troops on the ground of the plaza and the Theiwar troops on the battle platforms maintained a spirited exchange of missile fire, though with few casualties on either side. The drummers did their job as well, raising a thunderous and rhythmic din. Brandon could only hope that the defending commander was sending some of his reinforcements to that flank in anticipation of a major assault.
Finally, the time was right for the main push. Fister Morewood ordered his legion forward, and the dwarves surged against the right flank of the mighty gatehouse, boots pounding the stone floor as they rushed from concealment behind walls, ditches, small buildings, and other obstacles. Carrying ladders, advancing under the covering fire of their own archers, they raced to the base of the wall and tried to force their way up the ladders. Hundreds of defending troops met them on the lower parapets, and hundreds of steel blades clashed against shield or met flesh in a savage melee.
Meanwhile, the crews of the Firespitters, augmented by a hundred extra dwarves who helped to haul each machine, moved the devices forward with as much alacrity as possible. As they drew near to the walls, the lethal weapons came under resolute fire, but the archers of the Second Legion were numerous enough to keep the defenders’ heads down for the most part. Shields had been propped up on the crucial positions of the war machines’ controls, providing at least partial cover to the crew from the missile fire that, as expected, rained down from the enemy battlements.
When the Firespitters reached the base of the wall, their crew chiefs opened up with full gouts of oily flame. The billowing, incendiary clouds swept across the lower levels of the defensive platforms, slowly spreading out to each side.
Specially armored infantry, wearing fire-retardant leather uniforms, heavy gloves, and masks, swarmed up ladders and claimed the still-smoldering platform that had been swept free of living defenders by the lethal flames. More dwarves followed as the battlefield cooled until a steady stream of Kayolin warriors charged up and over the wall, spreading out, attacking savagely, and cleaning the outnumbered defenders out of every corner of the great gatehouse.
One detachment, led by Fister Morewood himself, scrambled up to the interior of the great gates and released the barriers to a great cheer. They swung open slowly, and the dwarves of Kayolin spilled through the gatehouse and onto the lake road, where all reports indicated that the rest of Willim’s army awaited them.
“General! I’m almost out of oil!” called the crew chief on the first machine. “Do you want us to push forward with the army?”
“No,” Brandon called back, eyeing the passage onto the road. He knew that the Tharkadan Legion troops were still in the plaza, and those thousand dwarves would be capable of defending the war machines against any surprise attack.
“Stay here and refuel. We’ll send for you if we need you!”
With that command, he took up his axe, which had not been blooded in that fight, and followed his troops onto the long, wide road to the Urkhan Sea.
Tor Bellowgranite was having the time of his young life. Accompanied by the powerful, enthusiastic dog left in his care by Gretchan, he made his way south through the lofty, rugged terrain of the Kharolis Mountains. For several days, the pair had strolled through a stunning wilderness of forests, lakes, and mountain peaks. They didn’t see another soul, which certainly suited Tor’s desires.
Every step of the way, Kondike bounded ahead of the young dwarf, but the dog never ventured out of his sight. His deep bark seemed proof against any of nature’s threats, as witnessed by the way he chased a hungry bear away from their camp on the pair’s second night in the wild. Tor, who had a bow and arrows with him in addition to a short sword, was relieved that he didn’t have to shoot the hulking, shaggy creature. He suspected that even a well-aimed arrow would have only served to make it angry.
And the dog was good company too, plopping down on the ground nearby whenever Tor sat down to rest or lay down to sleep. Kondike always welcomed a scratch on the head or shoulder, showing his appreciation with the heavy thumping of his tail against the ground. He even proved to be something of a hunter, several times returning to Tor with a fat rabbit or, once even, a goose clamped in his powerful jaws.
Mindful of the presence of adult dwarves, all of whom he regarded as, if not enemies, potential authority figures who would certainly compel him to return home, Tor led Kondike on paths away from the main road to Thorbardin. That suited them both, for their route took them through alpine meadows and high, sparse forests.
It was in one of the woodlands that Tor, who was quite a good shot, killed a deer, and the two wayfarers enjoyed a sumptuous feast of warm, fresh meat. Sizzling the fresh steaks over the coals of his fire, the young dwarf felt as though, for the first time, he was truly master of his world.
All the time Cloudseeker Peak towered over them, and with each passing hour and every passing day, Tor knew that he drawing closer and closer to his destination: the great dwarven nation of Krynn.
It was the place where he had been born.
King Bellowgranite watched the Kayolin troops march down the dark road, and he almost immediately felt abandoned and restless. He didn’t like the sensation of sitting and doing nothing while the dwarves from the northern realm did all the real fighting. He went to inspect the palace and was deeply saddened to note the destruction that had wrecked the once-splendid edifice. General Watchler, whose company of Redshirts had been left to garrison the place, invited him to stay there and occupy his old royal quarters, but Tarn didn’t have the stomach for that, and besides, he still felt that restlessness.
In part, he realized, it was because he missed Crystal, more than he had ever imagined he would. He kept reviewing, in the privacy of his own thoughts, the quarrel that had sent her away, and each time he thought of something he should have said or done differently. Sure, she was a stubborn woman-what dwarf wasn’t? — and she had clearly been misguided when she claimed that the hill dwarves should have been included in the campaign.
But Tarn could have made his case much more diplomatically. Indeed, if including the hill dwarves was so important to her, perhaps he could have even yielded the point. So the hill dwarves would have been superfluous in the campaign. Did he really think that they would have charged in there seeking to plunder the treasures of Thorbardin? He only had to look around, at the waste and the damage and the ruin that had been wrought in the place during the more than twelve years since his exile, to realize the absurdity of that belief.
Thorbardin wasn’t a source of treasure to anyone, not anymore. Indeed, it would take massive expenditures, and great amounts of work, to restore the nation to the glory it had possessed even a few decades before.
And even that was nothing compared to Thorbardin as it had been in its heyday, before the Chaos War, when the Life-Tree of the Hylar had sprouted proudly from the middle of the Urkhan Sea, rising all the way to the ceiling of the great cavern, bedecked with lights and noise and laughter. It was heartbreaking to think of the wonders that had been and that were no longer and could never be again.
He was thus wrapped in a cloud of gloom as he emerged from the palace, accompanied by a pair of bodyguards who, sensing their liege’s mood, stayed well behind the brooding king. Tarn made his way toward the legion’s camp, on the plaza of Norbardin before the city’s ma
in gate and the Urkhan Road, lost in his dark thoughts. He looked at the massive gatehouse, carried at such a cost in blood, and wondered how Brandon’s troops were faring against the concentration of enemy troops reported to be waiting there.
As if in response to his very thoughts, a dwarf soldier appeared, wearing the patch of the Second Legion. Tarn didn’t recognize the soldier, but he was running down the ramp from the gatehouse with an unmistakable air of urgency. He spotted the king and his entourage of guards and immediately changed course to intercept him.
“King Bellowgranite!” he called. “Your Majesty!”
“Yes, man, what is it?” Tarn demanded.
“It’s a message from General Bluestone! He’s marched into a trap! The wizard has altered the tunnel to include an ambuscade! The Kayolin troops are under attack from two sides! He begs you to bring up your legion at once-before it’s too late.”
“I knew I’d be needed!” Tarn muttered almost gratefully as he saw Mason Axeblade running over to him from the legion headquarters.
“What’s the commotion?” asked the loyal captain.
“Bluestone’s army is under attack. We need to go to him at once!” Tarn insisted. He turned to the messenger, noting that the fellow was smeared with blood. “Isn’t that right, son?”
“I’m afraid so,” the dwarf gasped. “The situation is in crisis. Please, come at once!”
Axeblade looked for a moment as if he wanted to argue or waste time asking questions. One look at his king’s fierce face dissuaded him, and Tarn didn’t have to repeat his order.
“All right, dwarves of the Tharkadan Legion!” Mason Axeblade cried, addressing the captains who were gathered at his command post and all the other dwarves within earshot. “We’re needed on the Urkhan Road! Gird yourselves and make ready to march. We charge to the rescue of Kayolin!”
Darkstone’s spies had continued to watch the enemy’s movements during the day after Willim the Black had outlined the plan for his commander. The general had kept his restive troops silent and hidden for all that time, gathering even more stragglers whenever he could surreptitiously draw them into his ranks. The troops numbered more than two thousand, and every one of them had lost valued comrades to the enemy invasion. Each man, like the general himself, was thirsting for vengeance and eager to go to war.
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