by Doug Niles
Naturally, a dwarf town had plenty of inns, and already a dozen massive kegs of dwarf spirits had been trundled into the street. The taps had been opened, and ogres were lining up in order of physical prowess, tilting forward to fill their gullets with the fiery, intoxicating brew. Whoops and hollers rose from the conquering brutes, and as more and more spirits were consumed, the scene degenerated. A tailor shop was ransacked, and a dozen grotesque brutes began to strut about with undersized dresses and fancy coats draped all over them. A sword smith’s shop yielded up its contents after an ogre smashed down the door, and in just a moment, five clumsy sword-wielding ogres—unused to the keenness of dwarven steel—were bleeding from deep, accidental cuts.
Meanwhile, Ankhar seethed. The dwarves had for the most part escaped. He glared up the hill at the three dark holes where they had vanished. And again he remembered his mother, violently slain by the trap so cleverly laid by those fiendish dwarves.
A familiar figure clumped up to the half-giant, and Ankhar recognized Bloodgutter. The ogre general, veteran of so many campaigns and conquests, remained aloof from the chaotic celebrations of novice raiders. He looked with contempt at the drinking and looting.
“We go down the valley now? Attack humans on the plains?” Bloodgutter asked, pointing toward the low country. Though the bridge was gone, the stream was not terribly deep, and it was clear the ogres would be able to wade the flowage and complete their crossing of the Garnet range. Once on those plains, as Ankhar had promised, they would be able to go anywhere they wanted.
The half-giant blinked. Yes, that had been his plan. And that plan had worked very well, except for the unexpected obstacle in their path of the newly sprouted town. Even the dwarf town had barely slowed up their advance—the whole attack had taken only a couple of hours—though the celebration threatened to take all night.
In the morning, as planned, they ought to just march away and leave those dwarves hiding in their holes.
“No,” Ankhar decided grimly. “Not right away.”
“Stay here what for?” replied the ogre bull.
The half-giant pointed at the mine entrances. “We go up there where dwarves hide. We kill them.”
“What if stay in holes?” inquired the ogre, thinking it over.
“Then we bury them. Let the mines be their graves,” Ankhar replied, satisfied that, one way or another, his mother would be avenged.
Leaving the more heavily equipped Crown Army in its wake, the Palanthian Legion made a forced march of seventy-five miles in a little more than two days. That was a splendid accomplishment by any measure. Even so, they were two dozen miles away from the feet of the Garnet range when they came upon a lone dwarf, battered and bloody, staggering toward them across the plain.
“New Compound is lost, Excellency!” the dwarf declared, falling on the ground even as Jaymes, leading the legion, rode forward.
“How?” he demanded. “Was it Ankhar?”
“Yes—and a horde of ogres. They came down from the heights, surrounded the town, and sacked it.”
“The dwarves? Did they flee?” asked the emperor, appalled by the news.
“No, lord. The bridge was destroyed, and they were trapped. Many were killed, but the survivors and women and children took shelter in the mines.”
“And what then?”
“I confess, I fled the place, my lord. I was responsible for carrying away the news. But before I left, I saw the ogres head up there, to the mines. They climbed over the mouths, and started to fill them with rubble. They threw in great boulders, hundreds of them. It looked like each of the tunnels was being completely sealed.”
Buried alive. Jaymes felt a shiver of claustrophobic dread. “How long ago was this?”
“Two days ago they attacked. I slipped out of there the dawn before this day.”
“Then Ankhar may still be up there? In the mountains?”
“I believe so, Excellency.”
The emperor looked to the south. From where he sat his horse, the crests of the Garnet Range stood out in clear relief. The mouth to the valley of New Compound remained out of sight, but he knew it was somewhere out there, not far, in the misty lowlands.
“General Weaver,” he called out.
“Yes, my lord,” replied the commander of the Palanthian Legion, urging his horse out ahead of the rest of the column, which had halted.
“The half-giant and his ogres are still up in the valley of New Compound, distracted by a clash with dwarves. Their options of escape are limited. We might be able to trap them there.”
“I understand, Excellency. What are your orders?”
“Send riders to General Dayr of the Crowns, and General Rankin of the Swords. Have them bring up their armies as quickly as possible.”
“Certainly, sir. You realize, it will be several days before either of them arrive on the scene.”
“Yes, I do. That’s why my legion will take the lead. We’re going to march into that valley, pin the ogres in the mountains, and destroy that monster and his followers once and for all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ARAPS AND PRISONERS
Blayne moved quietly down the dark street. It was his fourth visit to the legion’s headquarters, and he felt every bit as nervous and furtive as the first time. But he had no trouble identifying the door, opening it, and slipping inside. And after entering, at least, he wasn’t manhandled by the guards. Instead, they waved him through, and he found Sir Ballard in the usual meeting hall, waiting with a full complement of fifty or sixty men of his secret legion.
Clearly they were beginning to trust the nobleman from Vingaard; never before had Blayne seen more than a dozen legionnaires there. They made room for him at the head table, one man even bringing him a mug of cold ale. He nodded at a few he recognized.
The friendliness was not universal. Across the table sat a dark-skinned knight he had never seen before, and Blayne was surprised at the suspicion and hostility he noted in the man’s black eyes.
“Wet your whistle,” Ballard said encouragingly. “We’ve got a lot of planning to do.” Noticing that Blayne was staring at the dark-skinned knight, Ballard chuckled. “Sir Jorde,” he said, gesturing to the dark-skinned man. “I’d like you to meet Lord Blayne Kerrigan, now the rightful master of Vingaard Keep.”
“Hello,” Blayne said as pleasantly as he could. Jorde replied with a slow, deliberate nod.
Gratefully, Blayne took a drink as Ballard, who seemed to be in command of that unit of the Legion of Steel, explained.
“There are two more companies in the city, each awaiting word from me that it is time to move,” the knight said. “The legion is ready to retake our city and restore rule based on the Oath and the Measure. But we need time to implement our plan—more time before the emperor arrives here with his own army.”
“I understand,” replied Blayne. “And I have good news on that score. I have just received confirmation: the High Clerist’s Tower has been liberated by rebel forces. It surrendered without resistance to a band of fighters. They have manned the battlements and are prepared to block the pass against the emperor’s passage.”
“That’s good news, if true,” Ballard said. “A good garrison—say, a thousand men—manning the walls in that bottleneck will be enough to impede a whole army.”
“But where’d they come from?” Sir Jorde asked curtly. “I’d wager it would take a lot more than a thousand men to pry that fortress away from Markus and his Rose Knights.”
“It was an army of rebels—a small one, but several thousand trained men,” Blayne explained. “They were gathered in a secret valley not far from the tower. They’re friends of mine; they took me in when I fled Vingaard Keep in front of the emperor’s men.”
“These rebels—are they men of Vingaard too?” asked Ballard.
“Well, no,” young Kerrigan admitted. “At least, I don’t know them as such. I think they have come from all across Solamnia, everywhere people have become fed up with the e
mperor’s edicts.”
Sir Ballard fixed the lord with a piercing, suspicious look. “Well, it’s a curious development. I thought General Markus was the emperor’s man all the way, so I’m surprised to hear he would surrender without a fight. How good is your source of information?”
Blayne stiffened. Should he take offense? How good was his source?
When he considered the circumstances, the unseen man cloaking himself in magic and visiting Blayne in his small room in the thick of the night, he, too, wondered if he were being deceived.
But no, that was impossible. The man must be trustworthy. Blayne’s concealed visitor had known too much about Hoarst and the Black Army. It was Hoarst who had guided him to Archer Billings, and Billings who had put him in touch with the legion. The only explanation was that his nocturnal visitor was in league with Hoarst.
“I believe it’s reliable,” Blayne said. “I got it from a source connected to the man who sent me here.”
He had expected that explanation to be sufficient, but Ballard seemed surprisingly unmoved. “We’ll have to watch and wait, to be sure,” the legionnaire said. “But at the same time we’ll get ready to move at a moment’s notice.” He turned to Sir Jorde. “Can you send a man up there to check it out—as fast as possible?”
The dark-skinned knight nodded. “I’ll send my fastest rider at once.” He rose and, without a second look at Blayne, headed out through a door at the back of the room.
Ballard took a drink from his mug and changed the subject. “With the emperor’s legion out in the plains, there are only a few places in Palanthas that we need to infiltrate and control in order to effectively seize the city,” he said. “The palace on the central plaza, of course. The headquarters of the city guard, in the mayor’s office—the guard will not offer resistance if their commanders order them to stand down—and of course, the three gates leading through the Old City wall. We’ll be stretched pretty thin.”
“I have good news there too. The rebels in the High Clerist’s Tower have sent a number of men, something like a thousand, down the road to the city. They should be here in a matter of days, and they’ll augment our numbers and help us.”
Ballard nodded. He didn’t seem to take the news of reinforcements with as much enthusiasm as Blayne would have expected. Instead, he cleared his throat, looking at the lord from the corner of his eye.
“Then there’s the lord regent’s palace, outside of the walls,” he said. “Have you considered whether or not du Chagne will ally himself with us or stand against us?”
“I had intended to ask him to be our spokesman,” Blayne said. “That is, if you agree. His differences with the emperor are well known. He’s the only one with the authority to inspire the people to support our …” He hesitated, groping for the right word. “Coup,” he concluded, realizing he had to accept the fact.
“I agree,” Ballard said. “He was our leader until the emperor took control a few years back. He’s not really a military man, but he’s always had the sense to leave that department to others.”
“For better or worse,” one knight muttered. “Remember his dukes?”
Ballard shrugged. “Aye, but the people will respect him. Still, the emperor married du Chagne’s daughter. Will that complicate matters?”
“No,” Blayne replied with certainty. “If anything, it’s a point in our favor. I have it on good authority that the two men hate each other, and that the daughter is much the sticking point.”
“Well good, then. I’d heard rumors of that myself but couldn’t be certain whether or not they were true. A fellow of noble blood such as yourself no doubt has better contacts for courtly gossip,” Ballard added dryly.
“I suppose so,” Blayne said, embarrassed in spite of the fact it was probably true. “In any event, I suggest we go to see the lord regent at once and bring him in on our conspiracy.”
“Once again, I agree,” Ballard said. He nodded at the younger man’s half-full mug. “Now, drink up. We’ve got work to do.”
As a mountain dwarf, Dram should have been right at home in the dark, crowded tunnel of the mine shaft. After all, he hadn’t even seen the sun for the first decade of his life and had spent most of his youth in the great, subterranean, halls of Kayolin. Many mountain dwarves lived their entire lives underground as the natural course of things.
But he was surprised to realize he actually missed the daylight. For the past three days, as some thousand of his townsfolk had huddled with him in the narrow, sunless tunnels, he had come to realize how much he had fully embraced life on the surface. He didn’t feel claustrophobia or fear, but he had really come to cherish the world of fresh air, sunlight, stars, wind, and sky.
How long would it be before he sampled any of those joys again, if ever? The ogres had sealed the three tunnel mouths very thoroughly. They hadn’t even attempted to attack the entrenched dwarves, no doubt perceiving their disadvantages: because of their size, one ogre at a time would have had to fight against two or three dwarves at each narrow passage. So Ankhar had shrewdly ordered his ogres to toss large boulders into the mine entrances. The bombardment had seemed like a game to the brutes, as they competed to see who could throw the largest rocks with the most force.
A few dwarves had tried throwing the rocks out as fast as they were coming in, but they had been pummeled. When the third dwarf had fallen with a crushed skull, Dram had ordered the rest to withdraw deeper into the mines. The ogres had wasted little time in sealing off each hole, and even after all evidence of the sun had been blocked off, the dwarves could hear more and more rocks thunking and crashing into the pile. The result was a plug that was probably more than a hundred feet thick—and many, many tons of weight—blocking the mouth of each of the three mine entrances.
“Pop?” asked Mikey, climbing into his lap. Sally and about a hundred others were sitting or lying nearby; the place near the mouth of the center tunnel was one of the widest spaces in the network of tunnels. They had been eating and sleeping there since the siege began.
“Yeah, Mike?” Dram said, forcing a jovial tone into his voice.
“Go outta here?” The little tyke pointed a chubby finger toward the massive pile of rocks blocking the mine tunnel.
“Well, you see Red and Beebus over there? And Damaris? It’s their turn to dig now, and when they’re done, it’ll be my turn again. And sooner or later, we’ll have all those rocks gone and go outta here.”
In truth, the excavation was far more involved. Three diggers worked shoulder to shoulder, sometimes standing, other times kneeling, or even lying down to pull a stubborn piece of debris out of the way. Other dwarves loaded those rocks into mining carts, while still more trucked those carts deeper into the mine, where the excess rock was unceremoniously dumped into plunging, unused shafts. The same work was going on in the other two tunnels, Dram knew; there were side passages connecting all three mines, so in effect the whole town was sheltering in a network of tunnels that formed an underground fortress.
But it was a fortress with very limited food supplies. Originally they had provisioned the mines with enough victuals for the approximately three hundred children and their caretakers to survive for a month. There were four times as many dwarves in there as originally anticipated, with most of them needing significantly more food than a child. Dram had ordered the food to be strictly rationed almost immediately after entering the mines.
At least they had fresh water from several natural streams descending through the interior of the mountain ridge and enough air for them to breathe comfortably, thanks to some long ventilation shafts extending to the top of the ridge. Considering the fact they had no way to get out of there, their fortress was more of a prison—which was all right temporarily, as long as it didn’t prove a tomb.
Easing Mikey down to the floor, Dram got up and went to check on the progress of the work. “How much farther?” he asked Red, who had been one of the miners who originally excavated the tunnel.
“I’d
say eighty feet,” the hill dwarf, nicknamed for his long, fire-colored hair and beard, replied. He wiped his brow, studying the chisel marks on the wall that served as calculations. “They really sealed us in.”
“Need more help?” Dram offered.
“Not for now. Sit down, take your rest. There’ll be plenty of work for you later.”
Dram went back to his place and sat down, grateful when Sally slipped her hand into his. Mikey sat between them, slowly drifting off to sleep. Swig Frostmead came over, his face locked in a frown. He was on the verge of some loud complaint when he noticed the sleeping lad.
Glumly, Sally’s father sat beside Dram, watching the workers. Finally, he leaned over and whispered into his son-in-law’s ear.
“Why didn’t you think to store a few kegs of spirits in here?” he wanted to know.
Selinda was aware of voices. She tried to move, to speak, but no noise came from her lips. For a panicky moment, she feared that the hateful Lame Hale had poisoned her with another lotus drink. The sounds around her were vague and indistinct and did nothing to refresh her memory, to enlighten her.
But after a while, straining her ears, the voices started to make sense.
“Ten prime diamonds, and a large bottle of the potion. That’s a fair price for this merchandise, I agree.”
Selinda recognized Lame Hale’s voice, and her throat constricted at the thought that she was the “merchandise” at the heart of the negotiation.
“I agree as well.” The second speaker’s voice was muffed, as though he spoke through gauze or something.
The princess tried to open her eyes, but the lids refused to move—almost as if they were glued shut by some gummy substance. Frantically, she strained, trying to move, to speak, to see.
“Now get her out of here!” Hale said. “It makes me nervous, and she’s been here too long already!”