He wasn’t used to that kind of treatment, and he didn’t like it, not one bit. Restlessly he backed down from his upright perch and paced some more, back and forth across the platform. He whined and sniffed the air, but there was neither promising scent on the breeze nor any sound that might indicate his owner’s imminent return.
He looked toward the door, the way that led into the tower, that allowed passage down the stairs and eventually out the front gate. That door was still closed, so the dog resumed his pacing, broken only by the frequent looks toward the Kharolis Mountains. He ignored the two sentries who paced back and forth, just as they ignored him. Every once in a while, another anxious whimper escaped him, and he would return to the parapet, rise onto his hind legs, and once again stare southward. Seeing nothing, he’d then go back to pacing, occasionally glancing toward the door.
Finally that door opened, and the dog’s ears perked up at the sight of the young dwarf emerging into view with a dish and a bucket. Kondike raced over, tail wagging, and immediately set to work chewing and swallowing the scraps of bread, gravy, and fatty meat that filled the bowl to the top.
Of course, he still missed Gretchan, but food was food. And the food was right there.
While Kondike ate and drank deeply from the bucket of fresh water, the young dwarf scratched the big dog’s head or stroked the strong ridge of backbone extending down along his sturdy frame. The nice, young dwarf had been there every day since Gretchan had left, and Kondike had gone from tolerating him to welcoming him, especially since, at least once a day, the lad brought him food.
“I wish I could go too,” the young dwarf said in a low voice, speaking more to himself than to the dog. “My father’s going to war to get his kingdom back. Gretchan and all those other dwarves are going to help him, and I’m stuck here, waiting to find out what happened. I should be out there with them. I’m certainly old enough to wield a sword!”
The dog gave the youth an ambiguous look, swiping a sopping tongue across his smooth face. Then Kondike sat, hopeful and attentive. It would be unusual for the dwarf, or anyone, to give him a second meal immediately following the first. But in case it happened, the dog would be ready to eat. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
Instead, the dwarf boy wanted to talk, apparently. Kondike huffed, not impatiently, and settled on his belly, resting his head on his forepaws while he listened, only half interested at first, to the sounds of the lad’s voice.
“Want to know a secret?” the young dwarf was saying, his voice tense and quiet. “About Garn Bloodfist? No one else knows, but I let him out, you know? He didn’t escape on his own. But I didn’t like my mother talking to him all the time; I wanted him to get out of here. So I unlocked his cell door and let him go.”
The dog raised his eyebrows, almost quizzically, as the quiet words reached his ears. He, like most dogs, was a good listener, nonjudgmental and very patient. The boy seemed to appreciate that.
“I never thought my mom would actually leave. Going back to Hillhome, they said. Why? Why?”
Finally he stood up and went over to the wall, to the same parapet where Kondike had been staring to the south. The dog trotted over after him, while the young dwarf simply stared into the distance, resting his beardless chin on his fist.
“This is stupid!” he said finally, his tone vehement enough to cause the dog to tilt his head in puzzlement. “I mean, we’re just sitting here, doing nothing.” He waved at the mountain range rising along the southern horizon. “Everything happening in the world is going on out there!”
Finally he seemed to make a decision, looking down at Kondike as if seeking some kind of agreement or validation.
“Come on!” he said finally, starting—at last!—for the door to the stairs, to the hall, and to freedom. “Let’s go to Thorbardin,” he added quietly.
Kondike wasn’t sure about Thorbardin, but for the dog, it was enough just to “go.”
General Blade Darkstone walked once again through the ranks of his garrison troops, the veteran dwarves he had handpicked to stand at the north gate of the kingdom. His master and king, Willim the Black, had ordered him to be ready to defend the gate against attack, so Darkstone had made ready. He had been ready for days.
Scant hours earlier, the wizard had informed him that an enemy army was indeed approaching Thorbardin and that he and his men should get themselves ready to face a fierce attack. Darkstone had studied the fortifications of the great gate, seeking any potential weakness, and came away satisfied there was none. He made sure that his men were alert and sober, ready to fight if they were attacked. And he kept his own eyes open.
Still, Darkstone couldn’t imagine how any army could hope to drill its way through the massive gate, not without a thunderous amount of noise and at least a week’s worth of intensive labor, during which time he and his defenders would easily slaughter them. But his was not to question his ruler—that he knew from long experience—so instead he obeyed and prepared and kept his eyes open. He had even gone so far as to bring another three hundred dwarves up there, all of them trusty Theiwar, so he had five hundred veteran warriors crammed into a barracks designed to hold half that number.
“But, General,” protested his captain, Dack Whiteye. “What good will all these men do here? Even if the gate is opened, the enemy can only enter two by two. Don’t we run the risk of the whole garrison, all four companies, getting trapped in these close quarters if they spring some sort of surprise on us? Or what if we get attacked from inside Thorbardin? You have your best men here, where they’ll be of no use in defending the city!”
“Stop with the questions! Those are my orders, and so are they yours! Or perhaps you’d like to take up your objections with the black wizard himself?”
That retort served the desired purpose: Whiteye’s already pale face grew white as a sheet of snow, and he shook his head firmly. “No, my general. Of course I will obey the order.”
“Good. I thought as much.”
Darkstone left his captain and went into the machine room of the gate itself. The great screw of stone was mostly invisible, buried as it was in the snug, threaded socket of bedrock. A series of metal gears, connected with pulleys and levers to a large water wheel drive system, filled the chamber below him. Those gears had not turned so much as a quarter inch in more than a decade, but the general was pleased to see that they were all free of rust, well oiled, and apparently ready for immediate use—should such a use be ordained by a power greater even than Darkstone’s.
The gate truly was impregnable, he believed. Even if someone found a way to move the massive weight of stone that was the gate, the threaded socket held it firmly in place. It could be unscrewed if the machinery within the mountain were employed. Of course, the mechanism was of no use to anyone on the outside. And he didn’t see how the gate itself could possibly be smashed.
So General Darkstone stood listening, looking, and thinking. He remained certain that he had done all he could do to be ready and kept his eyes open.
Then the world exploded around him, and all his confidence, all his calm assertions vanished in the instant of destruction. The solid stone floor beneath his feet split asunder, opening a gap that, to his panicked brain, appeared to be bottomless.
Somehow daylight was pouring into the gatehouse.
Then he was falling, and darkness surrounded him again.
When Willim snapped his fingers, a flickering light came into being in the air over his head. It burned as bright as the wick of a candle, only there was no fuel, no wick, not even any visible flame. The brilliant fire shed its light far and fiercely, driving back the shadows in the cavernous laboratory, illuminating even the distant corners and the lofty ceiling.
It was not for himself that the wizard conjured the light—his spell of true-seeing guaranteed that he didn’t require any such mundane accessory as illumination to see—but he wanted Facet to observe what he was doing. And there was another, two others in point of fact, whose attentio
n he also desired. He smiled privately, speculating about Facet’s reaction when she learned of the other pair of living creatures secreted in that deep cavern.
Languidly, he rose from his pallet, aware of Facet’s wide eyes watching him as he reached for his robe, slipping the dark silk over his scrawny, scarred frame. As always when his nakedness was displayed, he scrutinized her face, watching for any hint of revulsion or disgust. If she had displayed such a reaction, he would have killed her. But as always she looked at him with an affection verging on adoration.
“Get up. Get dressed,” he ordered curtly, turning his back and walking toward his marble worktable. He heard the rustling of her movements and, even with his back to her, admired the lush curves of her flesh until her own black robe once again slid around her body.
By then, Willim had arrived at the bell jar containing the two blue sparks. Both of those glimmering flickers had paled at his approach. They retreated, cowered actually, to the far side of the jar. He reached out a hand, caressed the glass, and the blue little lights swirled around in obvious agitation as Facet came up to stand behind him.
“I have never told you about these little sparks, have I?” Willim asked casually.
“No, Master,” Facet replied, her eyes downcast. They both remembered the time she had asked about them. Right after his victory over King Stonespringer, Willim had returned to his laboratory and set up the jar in the middle of his worktable. Facet had been curious then, but her innocent question had resulted in a whipping that had left her bloody and sobbing on the rack. Naturally, she had never brought the topic up again.
“They are more than tiny blue fireflies, you know,” the wizard said, relishing every word of the revelation to come. His dry lips crackled into a grotesque grin as he stroked the jar with both hands, pressing on the glass as though he could squeeze it into diamond with the force of his touch. The two blue flickers, Facet saw, had shrunk to the base of the jar and quivered, barely visible, in the center of the flat plate.
“I … I had wondered,” she replied, realizing that he was waiting for an answer. “But I would never presume to guess. Indeed, they do seem like living things.”
“You are wise, my pretty one,” the Theiwar mage declared with an affection—and menace—that sent a shiver down Facet’s spine. “But now the time has come for me to disclose their true nature.”
“Please, Master. Tell me what you will.”
The wizard pointed his finger at one of the blue sparks and flicked his hand to the side. The first of the blue lights flew in reaction to his gesture, like a bug that had been swatted away. That spark struck the side of the bell jar and sank, barely flickering, back to the bottom.
Then, in a gesture that was almost too fast to see, Willim lifted up the jar and snatched out the second, still vibrant spark, with a snakelike strike of his hand. Just as quickly, the jar was replaced on its resting spot, and the wizard held out his free hand with the fist clenched and his scarred face creased by a triumphant sneer.
He spoke a word of wrenching magic so powerful that Facet’s black hair stood on end and she involuntarily recoiled, flinching away. When she looked back, there was a very old woman, a stooped and withered dwarf maid, standing in front of the black wizard. She wore a tattered shawl, and her skin was creased with wrinkles; her frail shoulders were quivering underneath the rude garment. With a gasp, she wrapped her skinny arms around herself and dropped to the floor at Willim the Black’s feet.
“Oh, Master!” she cried in a voice as ancient and brittle as her skin. “Please forgive me! I shall never betray you again!”
“I know that, you pathetic crone,” Willim declared coldly. “For if you do, it will be the last act of your worthless life.”
Facet watched, fascinated. It had taken her only a moment to realize that she hated, really hated, the old crone. She didn’t understand the feeling or where it had come from, but the emotion was so real that she could physically taste it, like a bitter bile that rose in her gorge.
But she could only stare, eyes wide, lips parted, as the wizard stalked in a circle around the cowering, frail figure. When he was on the far side of her, he raised his face, a cruel smile twisting his scarred features.
“Facet, this is Sadie Guilder. At one time she worked for me, was one of my agents in the city of Norbardin. But she and her husband betrayed me. So I punished them.”
The younger female turned to look at the lone blue spark in the bell jar. It had recovered from Willim’s blow and was drifting aimlessly, weakly, in small circles within the magical prison. Facet didn’t need to study or reflect very long before she understood that the remaining spark was the treacherous husband Willim referred to.
Sadie, too, was looking at the jar, her eyes wide with horror. “Peat!” she croaked, extending one clawlike hand for an instant before again cowering downward.
“Peat is alive … for now,” Willim declared haughtily. “And he will remain that way, with my sufferance—and your cooperation.”
“Wh-what do you mean?” asked Sadie. Facet couldn’t help but notice that her voice, while not confident, was guarded and cautiously optimistic, no longer terrified.
“I released you because I need you. I need the assistance of true wizards. There are tasks that are beyond the ability of an apprentice, even one with as many talents as Facet here.”
It was all the young dwarf maid could do to keep from moaning out loud. Her master’s words cut her like a knife, deeply, almost fatally. Facet felt her knees grow weak, and she wanted to throw herself on the floor, to plead the case of her own worthiness, to convince the wizard that he needed no one besides herself at his side.
But that reaction would be tantamount to suicide, she understood. So she held her tongue and watched in dismay as Willim extended a hand to Sadie. When the crone took it, he pulled her, roughly but not viciously, to her feet.
“Come,” he said, indicating the other end of his worktable. She shuffled after him as he guided her. “I must discuss a problem with you.”
Facet stared after them, forgotten, forlorn … and increasingly furious.
“Go! Go! Go!”
Brandon heard someone shouting the command, like a drumbeat of sound that somehow rose over the cacophony before him. It was several seconds before he realized that he was the one barking out the word, over and over.
He shook his head and realized that he was sitting on the ground, on a spur of rock with the wall of the cliff as a backrest behind him. Something was in his hands, and when he looked down he saw that it was the haft of the Bluestone Axe. He clutched the weapon as if it were a lifeline, feeling the cool comfort of its eternal strength.
Slowly his vision cleared further. He saw, nearby, a length of steel pipe, a shaft that seemed vaguely familiar. It was broken and bent, but had obviously been carefully crafted.
It was the haft of the Tricolor Hammer! But when he looked at the end of the pole, where the stone head of the weapon had been, he saw only a splintered terminus where the handle, considerably shorter than it had been a few seconds earlier, ended in a broken, jagged cut.
“It’s gone!” he cried despairingly, lifting the handle and groping for the end as if his hands might find what his eyes could not see. “And Bardic—where is he?”
“He’s gone too,” came another sad voice. It was Gretchan, he realized, as she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. He blinked and saw that she was smiling at him, though her eyes swam with tears. “He was consumed by the smash of the hammer,” she explained softly. “He gave his life to achieve our goal and smash the gate.”
“The hammer … it broke the gate?” Brandon asked, still dazed and wondering.
His memories, his thoughts and vision, all seemed to return to him haltingly. He shook his head in frustration and tried to stand, but could not shake off Gretchan’s firm grip when she held him on the ground.
“Rest just for a minute. As for the Tricolor Hammer, it is as you say: It did its job. Look!”
Gretchan’s voice soothed him. She stayed right there, kneeling beside him, holding one hand against his face while the other held her staff upright. The icon of Reorx still glowed like a miniature sun, casting its light against the mountainside. Kayolin dwarves of the First Legion were racing past, two by two, moving quickly away. Only then did he look at where the gate had been.
Turning his head slowly—his neck was surprisingly stiff, as was his whole body—he saw that the smooth gate at the terminus of the mountain trail was simply gone. In its place was a wide gap, like a crack that sheared right down the face of the cliff. Leaning back, he saw that it was a very tall crack, extending as far up the precipice as he could see. Below the gate, the crack continued downward, a yawning crevasse.
The troops of Tankard’s legion were charging into that wide gap, advancing quickly straight into the side of the mountain. The small shelf before the gate was missing, shattered and expanded by some unimaginable force. The great crevasse dropped below, plunging hundreds of feet down through the face of the great mountain.
But there was a ledge beside that crevasse, and that’s where his dwarves were massing and advancing, charging with battle cries and unhesitating courage into the great, black vastness of Thorbardin’s gatehouse.
Gorathian had no need of rest, but occasionally the Chaos creature took time for stillness, a meditation and marshaling of its great strength. It had settled for a period in the deepest chasms below Thorbardin, where the soothing heat of bubbling lava warmed its skin, and the tingling explosion of Abyssal flames teased its nostrils.
Perhaps, as it absorbed the joys of the subterranean furnace, the monster was considering a course of action, even formulating the beginnings of a plan …
But that was unlikely. Ever a beast of impulse and whim, it had little use for plans or schemes. Its objectives were simple.
The Fate of Thorbardin Page 14