Fate of Thorbardin

ELEVEN

There’s the trail,” Tarn Bellowgranite said to Brandon as the two of them, with Otaxx and Gretchan, stood atop the last pass before the road to the North Gate of Thorbardin. “It’s been a long time now since I’ve laid eyes on the place. My last look up there was when I fled into exile, barely escaping with a few loyal followers and my life. Jungor Stonespringer had the gate closed behind us, and it’s never been opened since.”

Brandon was gazing up the narrow valley, not even sure he could make out the road, when he noticed the former king turn his eyes to look back wistfully over his shoulder for a moment. The Kayolin general suspected that Tarn, once again, was thinking of his wife. Brandon and Gretchan had witnessed Crystal Heathstone’s departure from Pax Tharkas, even before the army marched, and though they had perceived her anger, they had not been able to learn the full cause of the royal couple’s breakup.

Still, they could guess. Both were saddened to think that the long schism between hill and mountain dwarf had brought the royal couple to such a rupture. At one time, the marriage between Tarn and Crystal had seemed to offer the best hope of a new, peaceful future. But that hope was doused like the coals of a campfire under a steady drizzle.

In the next instant, Tarn turned back energetically to study the valley and the rising summit of Cloudseeker Peak. He clapped his hands together, rubbing them with a lively enthusiasm that seemed very different from the stoical detachment that was more his personality when the couple had first met him, more than a year previous, in Pax Tharkas.

“I say we move on the gate today!” Tarn declared heartily.

Brandon’s eyes widened and he caught the look of alarm on Otaxx Shortbeard’s face as well. Behind them, stretching for miles to the north, the whole column of the king’s army lay visible along the twisting mountain road. It would be many hours before the bulk of that force reached and climbed the pass, and it was clear to any observer that the valley of Thorbardin’s gate lay at least another six hours’ march to the south.

“A worthy goal, sire, but I fear it is not possible,” Otaxx demurred respectfully.

The Kayolin dwarf was grateful that the elder Daewar, Gretchan’s father and Tarn’s longtime and most loyal sub-commander, broached the difficulties before Brandon had to voice his opinion. “It will take at least another day to bring the whole army up here, and then they will need rest. And even a modicum of caution will require us to scout the approaches, to examine the upper slopes and uncover any traps.”

“How could the wizard trap five thousand men?” demanded Tarn, scowling.

“Look at the trail, sire,” Gretchan said, stepping forward to gesture.

The route to the kingdom’s gate was etched in plain view before them. Patches were illuminated by the afternoon sun, but even in the shadows, much of the trail was clearly visible as it twisted and clawed its way up the sheer slope. It was even more daunting than Brandon had imagined: overhung by glaciers and lofty rock slopes, it would leave any soldiers on the trail vulnerable to avalanche or rockslide or sneak attack. A single mistake or an unforeseen attack could sweep hundreds of dwarves to their deaths. It seemed that every step of the trail was exposed to danger from higher vantages.

Even Tarn seemed to grasp that reality as he stared at the road ahead. Finally he nodded reluctantly, his eyes sweeping the terrain. “Yes, well, we can make camp along the road down there,” he said, pointing, “and then move in the morning.”

Brandon studied the ground indicated by the king. A few things recommended the place-a stream flowed nearby, providing a source of fresh water, and several groves of stubby trees augured a ready source of firewood. But there were disadvantages: like the trail, the ground Tarn had selected for the encampment was surrounded on all sides by lofty ridges, with the heights protected by sheer cliffs. If enemy forces appeared on those cliffs, the army’s position would become a trap, with the only source of escape the narrow trail leading up to the very pass where the command party currently stood.

But when he tried to raise those objections, the king brushed them away with a confident declaration. “The enemy is waiting under the mountain, not lurking about outside the gates! I am quite certain Willim the Black will not bring his troops out in the open, where we could meet and defeat them on an honorable battlefield. Instead, he will make us fight our way into Thorbardin, where he can meet us on his own sneaking terms.”

So it was that, by the king’s order, the army filed over the pass and down into the valley below Cloudseeker Peak. Among the first to arrive at the bivouac area was Tankard Hacksaw. He wasted no time in sending detachments of troops from his First Legion to scramble up the steep slopes and inspect the heights to either side of the trail, ensuring that, as much as possible, they were clear of traps and there were no signs of enemy dwarves.

Brandon and Gretchan, in the meantime, decided to scout the trail leading to the gate, though they both agreed with Otaxx’s wise suggestion that they not approach too close to the actual entryway. But they wanted to get a sense of the difficulties they would face if Willim’s men did attempt to fight outside of Thorbardin.

“It couldn’t have been planned any better for defense,” Brandon admitted when the couple stopped to rest at a switchback, nearly a thousand feet above the valley floor.

“No wonder it’s never been taken by storm, not in more than two thousand years,” Gretchan agreed almost reverentially.

They stared at the narrow trail, with the sheer rock face on one side and the plummeting precipice on the other. The pathway rose at a steep angle and was never wide enough for more than two dwarves to walk side by side. In some places it was even too narrow for a double file without exposing the outer dwarf to a possibly fatal stumble. The trail twisted forward until it met the sheer wall of the mountain, where it simply seemed to end.

“And the gate.” Brandon pointed upward to the terminus of the trail, still five hundred feet above them. “It’s right there, where the path ends at the mountainside. But how sturdy it must be! How much solid rock will the Tricolor Hammer have to split?”

“My father described the mechanism to me. It’s a great screw of stone, carved into a plug in the mountainside. He estimated maybe fifty or sixty feet thick,” Gretchan explained. “It’s designed, of course, so that it can’t be forced open. And if it’s opened by some other means, it still allows only a very narrow point of access to Thorbardin.”

“Fifty feet of stone? That sounds impossible!” Brandon protested, his heart sinking. He had heard those descriptions before, but confronted with the reality of the scene before him, the task seemed hopeless.

“It would be impervious to any normal weapon. But remember, the Tricolor Hammer is an artifact of Reorx, and it was created by our god with this sole purpose in mind. If the three pieces of stone-scattered through Thorbardin, Pax Tharkas, and Kayolin-could be assembled, it is said, then the wielder will be able gain access to the great kingdom under the mountain. I have faith in my god. Do you?”

Brandon sighed and looked at Gretchan. Her golden hair lay plastered to her scalp, sweaty and dirty from the trail. She was breathing hard and sniffling from the cold air. And she had never looked more beautiful to him.

“I have faith in you,” he said. And because of that, he had faith, too, in Gretchan’s knowledge of the hammer and the prophecy of the artifact’s divine might.

She smiled, a trifle wistfully, as he reached out and took her hand. “I have faith in you too,” she admitted almost shyly. “If I didn’t, I guess none of us would be here.”

“But here we are,” he said, conviction and determination growing within him. He felt a surge of optimism. “And here we’ll be tomorrow.”

“Let’s get back down to the camp,” she said. “There’s a lot of preparing to do.”

“What was that? Who’s there?”

Crystal’s voice sounded confident, even demanding, but her heart pounded in her chest as she spun through a full circle. She studied the dark, thick pine forest that seemed to reach out from both sides, several lush boughs extending almost to the middle of the narrow, winding hill road. Dusk had seemed to settle around her very quickly.

How much farther until the next inn?

She longed for the sight of a welcoming sign, the scent of wood smoke from a tavern’s hearth, and the raucous sounds of dwarves relaxing. She knew there were wayfarer’s houses every few miles along the road-she’d stayed in such establishments for the past three nights-but she feared she’d miscalculated that part of the journey. She didn’t relish the thought of continuing down the road after dark, but she didn’t seem to have any choice if she didn’t happen upon any inn or farmhouse.

She tried to tell herself that her misgivings were just foolish fears. Certainly there was no one out there, lurking in the woods, watching her!

Or was there?

The sensation of being spied upon had been growing stronger and stronger throughout the past day of her trek. Often she’d scanned the heights to either side of the road, looking for some stealthy watcher, but she’d never spotted anyone. And even if someone were there, it would be merely some hill dwarf woodcutter or a goatherd tending to his flock.

Of course it would!

Straightening her back and setting her shoulders squarely, she strode along the road, projecting an air of self-confidence that she didn’t really feel. She walked ten steps, ten more, and finally felt better and could chide herself on merely a girlish case of nerves.

Then she heard the sharp snap of a breaking stick, like a brittle branch on the ground that had just been broken by a heavy footfall.

“Hello!” she called, brightly she hoped. “Who’s there?”

“Hello, my sweet Crystal.”

The rasping voice emerged from the shadowy foliage, and she felt a sick feeling growing in her gut. Her first impulse was to flee, to run headlong down the road, but she forced that thought away. Better to be brave, confident … wait, the watcher knew her name!

“Who are you?” she demanded, a hint of royal anger creeping into her voice.

“You know me, my queen,” came the answer, and the pine boughs rustled as someone edged forward.

The first thing she saw was a pair of eyes: wide, bloodshot, and staring, with rims of white surrounding dark pupils. The eyes were centered in a bearded face, a dwarf’s, with bristling hair extending down over his forehead. He was filthy and wearing a tattered cloak and boots that were torn and broken, revealing his blistered, swollen toes.

Only when the breeze shifted slightly, bearing a scent of sweat and damp straw reminiscent of the Tharkadan dungeon, did she recognize the dwarf.

“Garn?” she asked as the ball of sickness churned and thickened in her gut. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, coming with you, of course,” the mad Klar said, unsuccessfully trying to stifle a cackle of delight. “That’s why you let me out of my cell, isn’t it? So that I could follow you home?”

“But-I didn’t-it wasn’t me-” She bit back the denial, not certain what approach to take with her husband’s former captain. It was strange enough that some mysterious person had freed him, but to encounter him on the trail! She knew from her conversations with him that Garn was suspicious to the point of paranoia, and Crystal didn’t want to risk antagonizing him to a state of agitation any more intense than his normal existence. “That is, have you been following me all along? Since I left Pax Tharkas?”

“All along!” he crowed with a sense of glee that chilled her even more. “But too high and too rough on the hills. Now I follow you on the road!”

He stepped closer, and it was too late for her to flee. She stared in horror as he reached out with a surprisingly strong hand and seized her wrist. Recoiling, she pulled and twisted.

But she couldn’t break away.

“Which way go army?” Gus asked, standing on the boulder and scratching his head.

“That way!” Slooshy declared confidently, pointing toward a narrow valley that twisted away to the east.

“No, that way!” Berta insisted, pointing at the mouth of a gorge that climbed steeply toward the west.

To the south, a haze of dust lingered in the air, fine particles kicked up by the passing of some five thousand dwarves along a dry dirt road. Only moments before, the tail end of the column had vanished from view around a bend in the valley toward Thorbardin. The signs of that march would linger in the air, slowly settling over the next hour or so.

But observation skills had never been a strong component of the gully dwarf intellect, and so it was that Gus was left to glare and stare and stomp his feet, finally regarding his two girlfriends with a look of unconcealed contempt-beneath which lay genuine concern. Where was Gretchan? Where had she gone? And why had she not taken Gus with her?

Miserably, he slumped down on the rock and took a long moment to pick his nose. The girls were bickering down below, but he didn’t really pay much attention. One called the other a “bluphsplunging doofar” while the second retorted with an even gamier insult. Meanwhile, the army was gone and-it just occurred to Gus-so was their food supply.

Not very hopefully, he looked around again. There wasn’t so much as a fruit tree or berry patch in sight; even the small oak grove along the stream had been picked clean of acorns by the large army camped there. Gus’s stomach growled loudly, and he thought wistfully of the splendid tunnels of Agharhome beneath Pax Tharkas. Those passages were practically teeming with plump rats and offered many deep pools crowded with tender cave-carp. What he wouldn’t give for even the fin of one of those meaty fish.

Fish! He remembered there was a stream nearby, and without another word, he hopped down from his rock and made his way over to the narrow, shallow waterway. But the creek that had been clear and speckled with lively trout the previous night was a muddy mess, ruined by the passage of ten thousand boots through a shallow ford just upstream. All them fish gone, he thought glumly.

He wondered idly where all those dwarves had marched off to. The road to the north, he remembered, led back to Pax Tharkas. But the fortress was many miles away. And he was certain that Gretchan would not have gone that way. He looked toward where the army had disappeared, wondering if the dwarf soldiers were trying some tricky plan, trying to fool him and others from following. Why would they go to Pax Tharkas anyway? So instead he looked toward the two valleys and the gorge.

At that moment, a waft of breeze came down from the west, and it carried on its breath the faint smell of a cookfire. In that instant, Gus made up his mind.

“We go that way,” he declared, pointing firmly toward the source of the smell.

“See. I told you!” Berta said, glaring at Slooshy. “Barflooming little sloot say wrong way! Berta knows.”

“Be quiet! Alla girls be quiet!” Gus demanded, starting to walk and not much caring whether his two consorts chose to accompany him or not.

But of course they did. The three gully dwarves scrambled over some large rocks at the foot of the gorge and pulled themselves up with their stubby, little fingers as they scaled the cliff steps blocking access to the gorge. Soon the floor of the steep-walled draw leveled out into a winding track that the Aghar, at least, could walk along.

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, Gus and his girls climbed higher and higher into the foothills, leaving the road behind and meandering far from the track that had been taken by the mountain dwarf army. All the while, Gus’s stomach rumbled from emptiness, and his misery wrapped itself around him like a cloud. After the first few hours, Berta and Slooshy had even stopped complaining; indeed they stopped talking altogether.

By the time the long shadows of afternoon stretched around them, they still hadn’t come upon any sign of the missing army. Nor had they discovered anything that even vaguely resembled food (and, being Aghar, their definition of food was a broad one, naturally). When night settled around them, it was too dark to go any farther, and the unhappy trio was forced to huddle together in a makeshift shelter between two rocks. They had no fire, and the night was cold, so they spent most of the night shivering, snuggling close, then elbowing each other in irritation whenever one of them shifted position.

The next morning they continued on their way, and at least they were fortunate enough to come upon a berry bush that still bore a few shriveled fruits. So they feasted enough to keep them going then climbed out of the ridge and into the next. But they saw only many more ridges and no sign of any dwarf army.

Brandon didn’t sleep much, and though he knew dawn was hours away, he finally crawled out of his bedroll, pulled on his boots, and started getting ready for the upcoming battle. His restlessness was widely shared as, all around him, dwarves stirred and grumbled, stomping their feet in the chill and kindling small fires for warmth and to heat water.

Sparks flew here and there as warriors scuffed whetstones across their blades, bringing their steel to razor sharpness. Given the constricted nature of the trail, the army had to advance in segments, but the leading element of the First Legion-the troops who would lead the way-were already gathering into columns at the base of the mountain trail.

“My scouts have been up on the ridges all night,” Tankard Hacksaw reported to Brandon. “Each company had plenty of torches; they were to light a flare if there was any chance of an ambush. We’d see it from down here for sure.”

The Kayolin commander nodded, looking around at the dark, silent summits to either side of them. “Good sign, that. Then the real fighting will come if-” He corrected himself with a confidence he still did not entirely feel. “When we breach the gate.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Tankard pledged.

Brandon shook his head and put his hand on his loyal lieutenant’s shoulder. “No, old friend. I want you up there with me but at least two hundred paces back. I’ll stand with Bardic Stonehammer when he wields the artifact, but if the worst happens and I fall, it’ll be your job to take over command of the assault.”

Tankard looked as if he wanted to argue, but after a moment, he gritted his teeth and nodded. “As you command,” was all he said.

“Good man,” Brandon replied.

Even as they spoke, Bardic approached, bearing the long bundle wrapped in the supple leather cover made from a single cow’s hide. The big smith’s bald head was not protected by any metal cap, and a sheen of sweat gleamed on the smooth surface of his scalp.

“Shall we take a look at the key to Thorbardin’s gate?” he asked.

Brandon had seen the Tricolor Hammer just once, when he first returned to Pax Tharkas with his army. At that time, the artifact had seemed like some arcane memento, something to be displayed in a royal museum or king’s hall. It had seemed pristine, precious, but not especially powerful or dangerous.

But as Bardic unveiled the hallowed artifact, there was no mistaking the fact that it was a weapon. The three stones forming the head of the hammer were each bright enough that they almost seemed luminescent. The Redstone was at the top of the hammerhead, with the blue in the middle and the green at the bottom. The colors were distinct, but the lines between the three stones had vanished, as if the wedges had melted or fused together.

The haft, a bar of solid steel, extended through the widest part of the head and out the top. At that end, the smith had capped the hammer with a tiny silver anvil, a perfect match of the little icon that topped Gretchan’s staff.

“Would you like to feel its heft?” Bardic asked.

Brandon nodded and took the hammer by the handle. He lifted it, feeling the solid weight of the mighty stone head. It was a good weight, and as he took a few practice swings, it seemed to glide forward with the energy of his blow, as if the hammer itself were eager to move, to strike … to smash.

“It’s beautiful and terrifying at the same time,” Brandon said, surprised to realize he was whispering.

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder and realized that Gretchan had come up to stand beside him. Her eyes were focused on the artifact, and they seemed to shine in reflection of the three colors. Her staff was in her other hand, and Brandon didn’t know if it was real or his imagination, but the anvil on the head of the shaft of wood seemed to glow with a silvery shimmer brighter even than the moonlight that still washed the mountain valley. Reverently he handed the weapon back to the smith, who accepted it in the same awed way. His eyes gleamed, reflecting the light of the three-colored stone.

“I’ll go up there alone,” Bardic said matter-of-factly. “You’ll need to give me plenty of room to swing it.”

“I will but I’ll be close by with the Bluestone Axe,” Brandon replied. He turned to face Gretchan soberly. “Tankard will be two hundred paces behind us with the vanguard of his legion,” he said, trying once again to make the argument that had failed him the evening before. “You should stand with him. That way, if anything happens-”

“I’ll be too far away to do anything other than recover your remains,” she said simply. “I haven’t changed my mind. I’m going to be close by your side.”

He felt a lump in his throat and was too moved even to be irritated by her stubbornness. “All right,” he replied. “Are you ready to go?”

She was. They all were.

The advance column of the army moved out, dwarves marching two by two behind Bardic, Brandon, and Gretchan. The Kayolin commander started out with the Bluestone Axe in a sling on his back, but he found himself desiring the sturdy feel of the weapon in his hands. Quickly he freed it from its strap and continued along, holding the smooth haft in both of his hands, grateful for the comforting presence of his trusty blade.

The two hundred dwarves who followed directly behind him were all volunteers, all sturdy veterans of the First Legion. They wore steel breastplates, helmets, and greaves, but otherwise were garbed in leather. Each carried his weapon of choice, including swords, spears, and axes in their number. None bore a shield since, in the close-quarters combat they anticipated, even a small buckler could prove to be more of a hindrance than an advantage. They were the shock troops, the men who would advance into the first breach and hold the position for the rest of the army.

They followed the hammer, the general, and the priestess up the trail grimly, as silently as an army could move. The plans had been made and repeated to all the night before, so there was no need for discussion. They would go in quickly and violently, Brandon had explained, streaming into the gatehouse as reinforcements made their way up the sinuous trail behind. When the bulk of the First Legion had made it through the gate, they would advance, leaving the Second and Tharkadan Legions to follow along.

The sun would linger long behind the eastern ridge in that deep cut of the mountains, but the sky had brightened to a pale orange horizon and finally to a faint shade of blue as the assault force marched steadily up the trail. Brandon and Gretchan reached the place where they had stopped on the previous day’s scouting mission, but that morning they continued on without hesitation. The climb was steep, and it should have been arduous, but Brandon felt his energy, his anticipation, and his determination only increasing as they continued upward. Every once in a while, he heard Gretchan murmur a soft prayer, and he knew that she was calling upon their immortal god, Reorx of the Forge, for strength. He hoped fervently that the Master of All Dwarves was listening.

He cast a glance upward, knowing that Tankard’s scouts were stationed on the heights to either side. That was a reassuring thought as they passed beneath overhanging shoulders of cracked rock or under cornices of ice and snow that looked ready to break free, to fall and sweep the dwarves off the mountainside like a person might swat at a bunch of ants.

Finally the shadowy terminus of the trail loomed before them, much wider and taller than it had looked from below. Even so, it seemed like a very narrow and constricted passage, when Brandon considered that for centuries it had been the main point of access and egress to the great underground realm. The path ended in a solid plug of stone, the gate that merged seamlessly with the wall of the cliff on all sides of it.

Only the perfectly smooth face of that huge plug suggested that it was something other than a piece of the natural mountainside. It was impossible to discern any more details of the entryway until Gretchan held up her staff and cast the bright light of Reorx across the gate. That revealed the outline of the entryway. The ceiling arched some twelve feet above the ground and the sides of the portal were a similar distance apart. Brandon felt strangely relieved by the vast size of it, as it meant that Bardic would have all the room he needed to swing the hammer with all of his might.

“Looks like we might as well get on with it,” the smith said calmly.

Brandon took one last glance behind him, holding up his hand to halt the initial vanguard of the column several dozen paces behind him. Gretchan remained at his shoulder, though they both backed up enough to avoid the backswing of the mighty artifact, which Bardic intended to drive upward and over his head in a straightforward blow.

The cleric started to chant, invoking the name of Reorx, speaking words in an ancient tongue. Brandon did not recognize the words, but they seemed to infuse him with strength, causing the blood to pulse through his veins, the energy of his body to hum and crackle in his ears. The head of Gretchan’s staff glowed, so bright he couldn’t look at it.

Bardic Stonehammer stood still, with the artifact resting on his shoulders. His face was peaceful, eyes half closed, and he seemed to be listening very carefully to the priestess’s prayer. Brandon took a half step forward, unable to restrain his eagerness, until the smith breathed a long sigh and shook his head.

“Don’t try to help me,” he warned. “I will do this alone.”

So instead, Brandon stepped back alongside the priestess and waited. The face of the gate was outlined brilliantly in the glow from the cleric’s anvil, and in that light he discerned a faint line, a crack no wider than a blond hair, running vertically through the surface of Thorbardin’s gate.

Bardic apparently saw that possible crack too. Taking the Tricolor Hammer in both hands, he drew a deep breath, raised it high, and let the artifact drop slightly to swing it low behind his shoulders. His muscles tensed until, with a smooth exhalation, he whipped the hammer upward, impossibly high, and drove it with all his strength into the granite surface of the gate. The three stones of the hammerhead met the gate exactly above that hairline crack.

Then a storm broke around them all.