Fate of Thorbardin

TEN

It’s been too short, our time here together. I wish we weren’t leaving for another week! Why’d you have to be so Reorx-cursed efficient?” groused Brandon, looking at his steel breastplate with distaste.

Gretchan sighed, making a sound that was a mixture of affection and aggravation. She was already dressed in her traveling clothes: her leather moccasins were laced tightly over her calves, and the woolen outer cloak she wore for warmth lay across the trunk, along with her sacred staff. The window’s shutter was open, mountain darkness and chill yawning beyond, and he knew that she, too, would have been more than happy to simply go back to bed.

“I wish we could take some more time together right now. Believe me, I do,” she said. “But we’d just be passing the hours here in a mountain fortress built for war, with another war looming as soon as we decide to take care of our responsibilities.” Her voice turned sharp. “Or would you have us forget about Thorbardin, forget about everything but our own selfish desires?”

“No,” Brandon acknowledged, sliding his arms through the sleeves of his metal armor. “Not when there’s a real chance that the next war might be the last war, at least as it pertains to us dwarves. We might as well have at it.”

If only the last three days hadn’t been so restful, so pleasant, so … loving! In the back of his mind, he realized that he’d been hoping to spend a week or more there, assuming that it would take at least that long for the two armies to muster, gather supplies, and coalesce as a single force.

But Gretchan’s early arrival had allowed Tarn Bellowgranite time to prepare his men for an expedition, and the combined army was ready to march from Pax Tharkas a mere seventy-two hours after the Kayolin troops had turned up. Supplies had been stockpiled, weapons and armor repaired and readied for the campaign, captains assigned, and units organized for war. Tarn himself had become the mission’s most ardent supporter, and his own men had taken heart from their leader’s resurgent energy.

Too soon the dawn of the first march had come, with gray light suffusing the valley of Pax Tharkas while the snowy massif of Cloudseeker Peak, with its corona of cornice and glacier, slowly took shape on the southern horizon. Brandon gazed at that mountain and shuddered, unable to suppress a shiver of growing apprehension and almost insurmountable reluctance.

Gretchan seemed, as usual, to know what he was feeling deep inside.

“I wish we could stay here, right under these covers,” she agreed as though reading his thoughts, wistfully looking at the large, still disheveled, bed. “But you’re right: this campaign could finally end these decades, even centuries, of violence. If we restore freedom to Thorbardin, we can look forward to a long and well-deserved peacetime.”

“I still wish that stubborn old fellow would have agreed to bring the hill dwarves with us,” Brandon complained. “I’d feel better about our chances.”

“Of course, you are right about that,” the female cleric agreed with maddening calm. “But even without the Neidar, we’ll be marching with a very capable force.”

The Kayolin general had to admit the assembled army was impressive. Right outside their window, hundreds of cookfires dotted the vast encampment to the south of the fortress wall. In addition to the four thousand troops he had brought south, Tarn Bellowgranite had mustered another thousand well-trained veterans, dwarves he called the Tharkadan Legion.

Among that force were some five hundred Klar of proven courage and loyalty. They were commanded by a one-eyed captain named Wildon Dacker. Dacker had served with Tarn Bellowgranite even before the long exile and was a much steadier and more reliable captain than his predecessor, Garn Bloodfist. And Dacker undeniably held the loyalty of his Klar warriors. Though they retained the impetuous and frenzied traits of their clan, they made for exceptional shock troops, and when they attacked in a berserking frenzy, their whoops and wails would test the courage of even the stoutest opponent.

The rest of the Tharkadan Legion consisted of heavily armed and armored Hylar and Daergar, under the command of Mason Axeblade. They, too, were seasoned veterans who had proven their loyalty to Tarn Bellowgranite many times over through the years-so much so that all of them had chosen to follow him into exile more than a decade earlier. They were ready to march with him unto death to reclaim his rightful throne.

The former king of Thorbardin suggested that the entire force should be named the Dwarf Home Army, and so it was done. The agreement had been sealed over two nights of feasting and celebration and, dwarves being dwarves, much drinking. The captains of the two realms had gotten to know each other as friends, while the troops had sized each other up and been satisfied, even impressed, by their new comrades in arms.

Dawn was brightening toward full daylight with inexorable speed as Brandon hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders and took up the Bluestone Axe. Gretchan hoisted her staff too, and they were at last ready to go.

Near the door, Kondike whined and waved his tail halfheartedly.

“You’ll have to stay here, old friend,” Gretchan said sadly and fondly. She gave the dog a pat on his broad head but wouldn’t let him out the door. “Tor Bellowgranite will come and let you out in a few hours,” she explained as if the animal could understand. “But I’m keeping you behind the door until we’re well over the horizon.”

Tarn’s son, like Kondike, had been disappointed at being left behind. The priestess had tried to ease his chagrin with words of encouragement about the future. Finally, though, after being charged with the dog’s care while Gretchan was away, the young dwarf had seemed to accept his decidedly minor role in the master battle plan.

By the time Gretchan and Brandon had descended from her room in the high tower, the whole of the Dwarf Home Army had assembled on the terraced ground just south of the great fortress. They looked ready to go to war.

Tarn Bellowgranite was at the center of a circle that included Otaxx Shortbeard, the Klar Wildon Dacker, and Mason Axeblade. He waved the couple over as soon as they emerged from the gates.

“Brandon! Gretchan! This is a great day!” he declared loudly. “Are you ready to make history?”

“Indeed we are,” Brandon said, inspired in spite of himself by the old dwarf’s ebullience.

Gretchan nodded, studying Tarn with slightly narrowed eyes. Brandon knew that Gretchen was worried about the absence of Crystal Heathstone and the effect that might have on the king. The Kayolin dwarf noticed Tarn glance once upward, toward the windows of his royal apartment, while an expression of sadness flickered across his face. But that look vanished immediately as the exiled king clapped a hand on the hilt of the short sword he wore at his waist and turned his eyes to the south, toward Thorbardin.

Bardic Stonehammer stood near the king. He clasped Brandon’s hand and embraced Gretchan. The hulking smith carried a leather-wrapped bundle slung over his broad shoulder, and Brandon, once again, was glad to have the burly dwarf along, chosen as the best one to wield the Tricolor Hammer. All of their hopes depended on that artifact doing what it was supposed to do: cracking the unbreachable gate of Thorbardin.

And that would be only the beginning of what was certain to be a long and bloody campaign.

Still, it was a column of optimistic dwarves who started on the mountain road. They had hot food in their bellies, a worthy goal before them, and a priestess of Reorx to counsel them. As if to beckon them onward, Cloudseeker was outlined in bright sunlight, the glacial summit sparkling like a massive gemstone before them.

The hope of all their futures awaited them under the mountain.

Meanwhile, the mad dwarf was skulking along the ridgetop, bouncing from ravine to ledge to rocky crest on all fours, peering around the corner of a boulder, watching his … his quarry? His friend …? His woman …?

More and more, he found himself thinking in terms of the latter.

Surely she recognized their bond too! Wasn’t that the reason she had come to visit him so often while he languished in his cell? Her kindness had been more than mere charity. That much was obvious. As the mad dwarf remembered things, he could almost hear the quiver of longing in her voice whenever she had spoken to him. Her eyes, when he had glimpsed them, had positively shined with what must certainly have been desire.

He had located a good vantage atop a rocky crest, with the road curving around the base of the elevation, and settled himself on a flat rock, lying on his belly as he studied Crystal Heathstone’s resolute progress away from Pax Tharkas.

She walked as if she knew that he was observing her; at least, that was the thought in the mad dwarf’s mind. The sway of her hips as she walked over the rough ground was alluring, a personal signal to him. His heart tripped. Was that a furtive look over her shoulder? A coy glance at the watcher on the hilltop? Did she suspect he was up there?

He almost convinced himself that she knew his position. Only with a great exertion of will did he restrain himself from leaping to his feet, waving wildly, and running down the steep and rocky slope to sweep her into his arms. Oh, how he wanted to!

But he had retained more than a vestige of his cunning, and he realized that, if he were wrong and he revealed himself too soon, she might flee in fear. So instead he contented himself with watching, shifting slowly along the slab of rock as she strolled along the road so far below, gradually making her way around the huge knob of granite.

As she continued on, he saw that the road wound away from him and she was already passing around the curve, vanishing behind the shoulder of the next hill. Garn sprang up, running down the slope so fast that he pitched forward and rolled all the way to the bottom, jarring to a stop in a ditch. Picking himself up, he limped on a bruised knee and wiped streaks of dust and gravel out of his beard but wasted no time in hastening after his quarry.

He jogged awkwardly along the road for several hundred paces until he sensed that he was getting too close to Crystal again. It was still too soon for him to reveal himself, so he jumped in the ditch again then started climbing up through the slope that would again carry him to a level high above the dwarf maid. His knee bothered him enough that he had to pull himself along by grasping tree trunks and outcrops of rocks.

The hill was not as steep nor as rugged as the previous one, and the forest of tall, thin pines extended all the way to the top. Using the woods as cover, he moved along as quickly as he was able and was at last awarded another glimpse of the beautiful white fur cloak worn by the former queen of Thorbardin. He limped along, grunting against the pain that stabbed through his leg, grateful for the thick concealment offered by the trees.

He was well hidden from her. He didn’t have to stay so far away. And as dusk started to settle through the hills, he knew it was time to move closer to her.

Once the army was ready to leave-and there was Gretchan, going away with all the soldiers-Gus was determined not to be left behind. He watched, innocently waving, as the troops packed up their gear, formed into companies, and made ready to march. The two Firespitters, with their accompanying carts of oil, were near the tail of the formation, and the gully dwarf casually made his way toward those ungainly vehicles.

As the great column of dwarves finally started along the southward road leading into the Kharolis Mountains, Gus Fishbiter left the shadows of Pax Tharkas and made his way to the dense center of the columns of the army, swelled by the soldiers of Tarn Bellowgranite’s Tharkadan Legion. He marched along, trying to look inconspicuous. Mindful of Gretchan’s orders instructing him to remain behind, he avoided going anywhere near the cleric, for the moment.

He finally found the cart in which he had ridden earlier-a vehicle carrying casks of oil for the Fire-spitters, the kegs stored carefully on beds of straw-and quickly scrambled up the side and into the bedding. Settling into the soft nest with a contented smile, he leaned back and stared up into the sunny sky, seeing the high ridges to either side of the valley road.

And almost immediately his view was blocked by two female faces, peering crossly down at him. Berta pulled herself over one side of the cart while Slooshy scrambled over the other.

“Hey! Almost forgot me!” Berta declared crossly, settling next to him in the hay.

“No! Almost forgot Slooshy! What kind of bluph-splunging doofar you are, anyway?”

Grumpily, Gus made room for his two bickering female consorts and spent the first day of the army’s march riding along, his happiness spoiled, in gloomy silence. He didn’t even spot his beloved Gretchan until late in the day, when the column started to climb a long switchback toward the first of several passes that lay between Pax Tharkas and their objective. Then, as the front of the column snaked around to pass along the road far above him, he caught a glimpse of her blue robe and golden hair. Not surprisingly, she was striding along at Brandon Bluestone’s side. Berta noticed and elbowed him for looking, and Slooshy elbowed Berta.

The army crossed over the pass during sunset, hastening down the far side to spread out across a wide valley and make camp. Gus stomped off by himself, finding a small niche behind a boulder where he could sulk out of sight of the bigger dwarves. He sent Berta and Slooshy off to steal some food and cleared a space for a reasonably comfortable bed.

Slooshy returned with a half loaf of hard bread that she had somehow coaxed from an army cook. She was prepared to share it with Gus, but when Berta returned with a real prize-a half-full flask of dwarf spirits that a grizzled sergeant had misplaced while pitching his tent-the three Aghar agreed to share and share alike.

Afterward, under the influence of the spirits, things didn’t seem so bad. Even as the troops of the army, exhausted from a day of marching, settled down to slumber, the three Aghar were sipping the fiery liquid, belching and burping and relishing the warmth spreading through their filthy little bodies.

Making their pleasure last, they didn’t fall asleep until after the flask was empty. But when they slept, they slept very soundly indeed, notwithstanding the rocks under their heads or, hours later, the cold mountain sky slowly brightening above them. That passed unnoticed by the slumbering gully dwarves.

Gus, the first one to awaken, looked up in surprise to see a blue sky, with the sun already well above the eastern ridge. His head hurt and his mouth felt like stale cotton. He grumpily kicked his girlfriends awake.

“Come on, lazy bluphsplungers!” he croaked. “Get up! Get going! We go with army!”

Only then did he look out over the other side of the rock that concealed their campsite. He blinked and looked again, certain that his eyes must be deceiving him. But when he opened his eyes again and looked hard one more time, his initial impression was confirmed: there was no army, no carts, and no tents anywhere to be seen in the wide valley.

The Aghar had overslept.

And the king’s army had marched away without them.

Willim the Black teleported through the vast chasms of Thorbardin, never remaining in one location for more than the fleeting seconds required for him to repeat his spell. In every case, he imagined the incinerating presence, the lethal breath of the fire dragon singeing his robes, charring his skin, propelling him on a barely controlled, panic-fueled flight throughout the underworld of his domain.

Finally he launched himself upward and out, his spell carrying him far away to the slopes of Cloudseeker Peak, the rocky summit dominating the Kharolis Mountains. He shivered in the unaccustomed wind and cast a spell of levitation, rising upward a foot or two above the ground so he wouldn’t have to stand in the wet snow. Slowly, carefully, he twisted through a full circle, seeking any sign of Gorathian’s deadly presence.

It was broad daylight, and nothing moved on the glacial slope. Willim began to wonder if he had imagined the creature’s pursuit. He understood, rationally, that even the powerful creature of chaos could not pursue him very easily when he employed his magic to vanish and remove himself with instantaneous speed. Just in case, his spell of true-seeing allowed him to inspect the lower slopes, sweeping his attention around the cliffs that skirted the base of the great summit. Good, there was no sign of the fire dragon.

He did, however, spot the immense approaching army. He was startled. So intent had he been on the constant menace of Gorathian that he had momentarily forgotten about the growing external threat to his domain. As he watched the serpentine column twisting along the narrow mountain roads, inching its way southward from the direction of Pax Tharkas, he realized that Gorathian might not be the worst threat to his existence after all.

Willim the Black was not afraid. Instead, his lip curled into a sneer of hatred and contempt. Did that motley army of dwarves dare think they could assault his kingdom, his city? With cold curiosity, he inspected the column, noting the many thousands of armored dwarves and the small carts hauling a miscellany of supplies. He saw two large, ungainly devices hauled along at the rear of the army; his cursory inspection of the devices revealed the spitting nozzles and the large tanks of oil. Clearly they were some kind of fire weapons, but the wizard almost chortled: did those fool dwarves think they could burn their way into Thorbardin?

Nowhere did he notice any sign of great catapults, augers, or battering rams, the kind of things that were usually required if the attacking dwarves had any hope of penetrating the solid stone of the mountain.

So the reports and predictions were true, Willim the Black concluded: Tarn Bellowgranite intended to wield some ancient artifact in order to gain entry to Thorbardin. Well-and the wizard laughed out loud at the thought-let him try!

In another second he blinked out of sight, only to arrive in his subterranean lair. The great cavern was cool and dark and eerily silent with Gorathian gone. He found Facet waiting for him, and she gasped and dropped to her knees when he materialized all of a sudden. The expression of remorse and fear warmed him, and he found that his earlier anger, like the baking warmth of the fire dragon’s presence, had dissipated.

“Come to me, my pet,” he said gently. He settled himself in his sturdy armchair and beckoned her to kneel before him. “I am pleased to see you.”

“Oh, thank you, my lord!” she cried, leaning forward and, at a gesture of acceptance from him, embracing the wizard. “You are so good to me.”

“I know that,” he said, leaning back. He thought about Gorathian, about the army, and about the many things he needed to do. He thought about his private needs.

As if she understood those unspoken needs, she rose and went to a nearby table. There, a crystal goblet stood, already filled by her caring hand. She raised the glass and brought it to him, holding it out hesitantly. “I suspected that you would be thirsty, Master,” she offered meekly. “Would it please you to have a drink of wine?”

“Yes, my pet. It would please me to have wine. And too,” he added, taking the goblet and drinking deeply, “it would please me to have you as well.”

He raised his hand, a curt gesture of command, and a willing smile curled her crimson lips as, with a shrug of her shoulders, she dropped her black robe to the floor.