Not much had changed since the last time she had taken stock of her surroundings. She couldn’t see any of the three wizards, though she didn’t know if that meant that they were elsewhere or merely within some of the chambers that existed in the porous hilltop upon which she rested. More than once she had seen one or more of her captors duck behind a rock or stoop beneath an overhanging slab, disappearing into unseen spaces.
The case of potions and the bag of spellbooks had been placed within her view. She wished that her staff were nearby as well, but she had noticed, with alarm, that the wizard seemed to be almost obsessed with the artifact of Reorx, and she suspected that it meant far more to him than merely the talisman of his powerful captive.
What did he want it for? Why did it fascinate him so much?
It had not been long since she had watched as Sadie had descended from the hilltop and vanished into an unseen opening on one side. An hour later, she had reappeared on the other side of the crest. While it was always possible that the crone had teleported herself from one place to the other, it seemed more likely to Gretchan that her sojourn indicated the existence of a network of connecting passages, with an unknown number of entrances, leading to an unfathomable complex of rooms, corridors, and compartments.
She knew that Sadie had placed the bell jar somewhere that wasn’t out there on the surface of the hilltop, for the priestess hadn’t seen that container and its precious blue spark since the elder apprentice had first arrived with it. It was odd to think of that aimlessly drifting spot of light as a living thing, but Gretchan had no doubt that Sadie had been speaking the truth when she talked about it being Peat, her husband. Not for the first time, she wondered what Sadie and Peat had done to provoke Willim’s wrath.
A soft footstep scuffed on the rocks behind her, and Gretchan twisted around to see Facet approaching. The younger apprentice was alone, climbing the rough surface of the hill with her black robe swirling around her. Her light eyes were fastened upon the priestess; her face was devoid of emotion.
“Hello,” Gretchan said as cheerfully as she could. “What’s going on out there today?”
Facet didn’t answer and as she continued her silent, purposeful approach, Gretchan felt a growing prickle of alarm.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Where are Willim and Sadie?”
It was odd to think that the wizard’s presence might make her feel safer, but the more she studied the young apprentice’s ice-cold expression, with her glacially pale face and frigid, darting eyes, the more worried she became.
“You would steal him from me, wouldn’t you?” Facet suddenly declared, her tone slicing like a blade.
“I don’t know what you mean!” Gretchan protested, though of course she did suspect Facet’s jealousy.
“Oh, yes, you do,” Facet declared. “You would supplant me-with your golden hair, your lush figure … your eyes! You would make him forget, abandon me!”
“I would not!” Gretchan argued. “He’s-”
She was about to say how much Willim disgusted her, how grotesque she found him to be. Yet she knew that was the wrong tactic to take in that particular argument. “I can see that he’s too much in love with you,” she found herself saying.
“He doesn’t love me!” Facet replied scornfully. “He doesn’t love anybody! But he needs me! He has to have me!”
“Yes, you’re right. Love … love is hard for him. But he does need you. You should never think that I could take your place!”
“No, you won’t. You will never take my place.”
Abruptly Facet raised her hand and pointed a finger at Gretchan. She spat the command of a powerful spell, and a bolt of lightning burst from her flesh, crackling and sizzling toward the cleric like a living, hungry thing.
The blast of electricity struck the bars of the cage, and Gretchan felt the blow in the pit of her stomach. She screamed and fell down, watching in horror as a cascade of sparks illuminated the metal grid, causing the bars to glow so brightly, she had to cover her eyes.
But when the sizzling stopped, the cleric sat up again, realizing that she was unharmed.
“How did you do that?” Facet demanded, taking a step closer.
How, indeed? Gretchan hadn’t done anything, though she didn’t think it was wise to admit that, not at the moment. Then a thought occurred to her.
The cage! Willim had told her that the bars themselves were enchanted by his power, infused with traps that would prevent her from escaping. Was it possible that the same sorcery would block the spells of an external attacker?
She didn’t get a chance to pursue that train of thought as more magic crackled in the air. Two more figures appeared, and Gretchan saw that Willim and Sadie had arrived.
The black wizard did not look pleased. He sniffed the air, no doubt detecting the lingering smell of ozone, and rounded on his young apprentice.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“She-she was trying to escape!” Facet declared, pointing at Gretchan. “I used magic to stop her!”
“That’s a lie!” the cleric protested. “She was trying to kill me!”
“You be quiet,” Willim commanded, and Gretchan could only obey. She feared his power too much to argue. At the same time, she was fascinated to see what he would do about his apprentice’s disobedience.
“Here, my master,” said Facet. “Let me soothe you. Have a drink of wine! I saved it for you!”
She produced a flask from within a pocket of her robe and stepped forward, tentatively offering it to the black wizard.
“You do seem to know when I have a thirst,” Willim acknowledged approvingly. “It seems you understand all of my needs, my pet.”
“Perhaps you should have a closer look at that drink, my lord,” Sadie interjected coldly, keeping her eyes fixed upon Facet.
“No!” cried the younger woman, immediately pulling the flask to herself. “Don’t listen to her!” Even as she protested, her eyes widened in horror, and Willim the Black put a pensive finger to his lips.
“Why, Sadie,” the wizard asked calmly but intrigued, “what do you mean?”
“I mean just what I say, Master. Perhaps you would wish to examine the drink she offers you.”
“There really is no need, is there?” Willim said, addressing Facet.
“No, Master,” she returned miserably. “There is no need.”
The black wizard sighed, a sound that seemed to mock and rebuke Facet. “I have taught you so much, and I have trusted you,” he said to the beautiful apprentice. “I have given you understanding of my power. I have given you access … to my potion cabinet. Haven’t I?”
“Yes, Master,” Facet replied in a whisper.
“Such power to be found there, in those potions. The power of flight, of invisibility … you could have tried to poison me with my own potion if you’d wanted to. Couldn’t you?”
“I would never poison you, never harm you, Master. Surely you must know that!”
“Oh, I do. I do. You could never harm me. Just as you could never deceive me.”
“Nor would I try, Master!” croaked the terrified Theiwar female.
“But you did!” Willim pointed out with a great air of wounded feelings. “You have deceived me for a long time. Do you think I didn’t notice that I had less charm potion in my cabinet than I should have? Do you think I don’t know what that potion has been used for, these years-these too-short years-that you have served me?”
Facet sobbed and dropped to her knees, covering her face, which was even more pale than its usual alabaster whiteness, with her hands.
“For you see, my dear apprentice, my charm potion doesn’t work on me. I let you believe that it did, for it amused me to know your treachery. It amused me to let you please me, to serve me …”
“Please, Master! I will serve you faithfully! Punish me; I deserve it! Let me please you as only I can do.”
“Oh, there are many who can please me the way you do. You were an amusing
diversion, a tempting morsel, for a time. But I am through with you now.”
Facet groaned piteously. Gretchan watched in horror, her own stomach twisting into a knot. Despite her situation, she felt a powerful sympathy for the young woman and a frustrating knowledge that there was nothing she could do to help her.
“I wish I didn’t have to do this,” Willim said softly. “I really do.”
Then he snapped his fingers, the sound as harsh as the crack of a dry pine branch. Facet toppled backward, gagging, clawing at her neck with her hands, her crimson fingernails. She struggled and thrashed, groping as if trying to pull a noose away from herself. She scratched so desperately that she cut her skin, left her beautiful, ice-white throat slashed and bleeding.
But there was no succor there. Her face, so pale a moment earlier, grew red, bright red from the concentration of blood. Her tongue protruded, swelling grotesquely, and her eyes bulged from their sockets, staring wildly, seeing nothing.
Facet rolled on the ground, kicking her feet, arching her back. She made no sound as she thrashed and struggled, trying to pull away from the invisible thing that was choking her.
But there was no noose there, no physical thing that she could pull away, to relieve the suffocating pressure, to give her the freedom to breathe again.
There was only the wizard’s dark, lethal magic.
And soon its work was done.
The very public suicide of General Blade Darkstone sapped the fight out of those few of his soldiers who had survived the ferocious wave of the hill dwarf onslaught. Perhaps because they had fewer immediate grudges and scars from their brief but decisive participation in the campaign to reclaim Thorbardin, the Neidar-unlike the vengeance-minded mountain dwarves-actually accepted the Theiwar as prisoners. Many who had served in Willim the Black’s force surrendered to the new regime.
That regime, in the person of Tarn Bellowgranite, emerged from the Urkhan Road in the wake of the victory to find soldiers of his own Tharkadan Legion, the Kayolin Army, and the hill dwarves celebrating wildly in the great plaza of Norbardin.
An exhausted Brandon Bluestone, still numbed from his ferocious fight with Darkstone, was trudging down the steps from the gatehouse platform when he encountered the king.
“What happened?” Tarn Bellowgranite asked rather plaintively. He looked around grimly, seeing the sooty residue of the Firespitter attack and the hundreds of charred or bloody corpses scattered in every direction.
“We-you, me, our whole army-was saved by a counterattack by the hill dwarves,” Brandon informed him sharply. “Somehow, they decided it would be a good idea to honor the treaty that they signed, even though their allies didn’t ask them for help. Apparently they aren’t as stubborn as some of our people.”
Tarn’s face flushed-with shame, not anger. “They came out of the hills, even after I refused to ask for their help?” he asked in wonder.
“Let’s go find out; there’s Slate Fireforge,” Brandon said, feeling little warmth for Tarn at the moment. “And unless I’m mistaken, there’s the woman who used to be your queen.”
Indeed, the Hillhome commander and Crystal Heathstone, together with Axel Carbondale, General Watchler, and Mason Axeblade, were exchanging weary embraces in the very shadow of the gatehouse. Beyond them and to both sides, the victorious dwarves of the Dwarf Home Army and the Neidar of the hills were rolling out kegs of ale and spirits, cracking them open with axes-there was no time to use a proper tapper-and dipping in with mugs, bowls, helmets, and any other containers they could find.
Many of the citizens of Norbardin, too, were emerging from the side streets, cautiously poking out of the apartments and houses that ringed the square, and coming forward with greater and greater enthusiasm to join the growing celebration.
“I … I need to talk to Crystal. To all of them,” Tarn said, making to excuse himself.
“Yes, you do. And I’m coming along,” Brandon said firmly.
Side by side, they approached the other commanders, who looked up with varying measures of satisfaction, suspicion, and joy as they recognized the former and finally restored king.
“Crystal …” Tarn began nervously. “And Slate, Axel … there are no proper words to thank you enough for what you have done, in spite of my stubbornness, my foolishness. My mistake, my upholding of an old prejudice over a new alliance, almost doomed us. And you were wise enough to see through my error and to have come anyway.”
“You can start by thanking your wife,” Slate began. He tried to appear stern and angry, but a smile of delight and victory kept forcing its way through the tangle of his beard. “She makes a fine recruiter! And just to hear you apologize and to see your face as you came out of that tunnel-why, that made the whole thing worthwhile!”
“And you can thank a gully dwarf,” Crystal said, “or I never would have made it to Hillhome.” To Tarn’s puzzled expression, she merely replied. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it … later. But you shouldn’t be surprised to know the gully dwarf is Gus Fishbiter.”
“Gus?” It was Brandon’s turn to be freshly amazed. “He’s here with you? He sure does have a knack for being in the right place when he needs to be.”
Crystal’s noble and beautiful features were still tinged with sadness. Tarn took another step toward her, raising his hands tentatively. “Can you ever forgive me?” he asked.
She joined him in an embrace, her eyes wet with tears and her face still drawn with melancholy. “I don’t know that I should,” she said frankly. “But thanks to Slate and Brandon and all these brave dwarves, at least I’ll have a chance to try.”
“Where is Gus anyway?” asked Brandon.
Crystal opened her mouth to reply when suddenly she looked around then regarded Brandon with an expression of deep concern. “Wait, where’s Gretchan?” she asked.
“Gone,” he replied grimly. “Taken by the wizard. Still alive but captive, so far as we know. But to be honest, we don’t know where she or Willim the Black are.”
“Then there’s still work to be done,” the former and future queen acknowledged.
“General Bluestone!” It was a breathless messenger, red-faced and panting from exertion. He hailed them from the direction of the Urkhan Road as he raced closer.
“Yes! What is it?”
“I bring a message from Otaxx Shortbeard. He says you must come at once! He told me that he thinks he knows where she is!”
Tor and Kondike made their way along a lofty ridge, looking down at the valley so far below. They could see a narrow track twisting through marshy meadows before vanishing into a small grove of pines. The young dwarf wasn’t even sure if that was the route to Thorbardin; for too long, he had been traversing the alpine meadows, always working his way higher and higher. Plus, it seemed that a road followed by an army, especially one hauling machines like the Firespitters, would have to be more obvious than that.
Yet he was not displeased to think that he had drifted farther and farther from the path followed by the Dwarf Home Army. He was enjoying the solitude and the wilderness. It made him happy to be by himself, with only the big dog for company. He loved the heights, the mountains and glaciers and secluded lakes and groves.
He was a mountain dwarf, after all, but he was a hill dwarf too. He might find himself at home under the mountains, but he felt equally at home under the sky. He couldn’t even recall life in the subterranean realm-he’d been barely one year old when his mother and father had been exiled from Thorbardin-but he wasn’t sure he’d ever want to go back to living in a place where one never saw the sun, never felt the rain or the wind or the snow on his face. There was no place that he felt happier than on those high slopes.
Having made his way south for many days, there was really only one destination that drew him on, and it was not a destination that lay under the mountain.
Oddly, the summit of Cloudseeker Peak seemed as far away as it had appeared three days earlier. Every time he thought they were getting closer
to the peak, they’d stumbled upon a deep chasm blocking their path. Going around obstacles, still climbing, he’d approach an elevation that he was certain would prove to be the top of the mountain. Eagerly he’d increase his pace, with the dog loping along, sometimes kicking up clots of snow from a glacier or skirting along the rim of a precipitous cliff, while the young Bellowgranite stayed on the crest of the ridge and drew ever closer to the top.
Except that whenever he reached that crest, he invariably discovered that it was a false summit. His position on the high ridge caused every next knob to look like the top of the mountain, but then there always seemed to be a higher knob a mile or two beyond. He continued onward and upward, and he was always fooled, but he loved the discovery of the new vista, the mystery of what lay beyond. He was determined to keep climbing.
Of course, he had enough experience in the mountains to know that it was dangerous to spend a night on the unprotected slopes, so each afternoon he and the dog would descend into a narrow valley, dropping down at least until they reached the tree line. There, amid scraggly cedars that were sometimes no taller than a grown dwarf, he would scrounge enough wood for a fire and kindle a blaze that would keep the two of them, if not warm, at least alive through another chilly night.
But when the sun came up the next morning, the young dwarf felt anew the allure, the purity, the summons of the mountain heights. Always accompanied by the black dog, he’d once again set out to climb some sloping, but still steep, shoulder of the great mountains until, one more time, he crested a hopeful ridge and set his sights toward the distant summit that, he was certain, could only be the very top of the world.
Brandon ran down the Urkhan Road, reaching the lake as soon as he could. He was out of breath, panting and sweating, but he found Otaxx Shortbeard standing at the wharf beside the water, staring out over the darkened sea.
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