Fate of Thorbardin

SEVENTEEN

Gretchan watched warily as the wizard paced back and forth in front of her small cage. She didn’t know how long she’d been imprisoned, though she guessed that it was more than one day and less than two. Working to battle despair, she had found anger to be powerful medicine, so she focused on her fury.

There were many things to hate about the vile magic-user, beginning with the very philosophy of his order. Wizards of the black robes were those who practiced the darkest forms of magic. Anything was fair business to them in the quest for power. Killing, theft, corruption, control: they were mere tools in the arsenal of any black wizard. Their god, Nuitari, was such a dark presence that his moon was invisible to all mortals, except those who dedicated themselves to the magic of that conscienceless deity.

And, too, she had seen enough of Willim’s works to further fuel her contempt and her rage. She knew that he had planned to kill the hapless but innocent Aghar Gus Fishbiter, disposing of him merely as a means to study the effectiveness of some lethal concoction. It was only pure dumb luck that had allowed the gully dwarf to escape.

Furthermore, Gretchan recognized the beautiful, raven-haired apprentice as the dark wizard who had accosted her in the forest with the intention of killing her. It had only been her dog’s alertness that had saved Gretchan from that assassination attempt. And the apprentice had made it clear that she was operating then under her master’s instructions.

All of those facts fueled her anger and allowed her to resist the powerful urge to fall into despair. So she did not despair, but she was thirsty and hungry-ailments strange to her since her clerical powers allowed her to conjure food and drink more or less whenever she required them.

That conjuring, however, required her to speak a prayer to her god, to ask his favor and blessing. Thus far during her confinement, she had been utterly silenced by the wizard’s spell, unable to vocalize so much as a whisper or even a whimper, which, in her deepest soul, was all she felt like mustering.

Still, she would not give the hideous magic-user the satisfaction of noting her distress. She watched impassively as he came closer, studying her. She sensed that there was something that he wanted to say, so she waited, keeping her guard up and her wits about her.

“You probably expect that you will die in my cage, do you not?” the Theiwar finally said, his voice a sibilant whisper. If he were going for charming, she reflected, he missed the mark by a good deal. She waited for him to continue without reacting to his question.

“You might die here; you very well could die here!” he growled, leaning menacingly close to the bars of her cage. His tone dropped again. “But you do not have to die here,” he teased.

Still she offered no reaction. The wizard frowned, paced away a few steps, and turned back. On the other side of the laboratory, his two female accomplices sat in chairs at a small table. Their backs were turned, but Gretchan sensed that they were listening carefully to every word their master spoke. The cleric spent a moment reflecting about those two, wondering how she might use them, if she might use them, as leverage against their master.

She had observed enough to know that the two females feared the wizard almost as much as Gretchan did. The elder one hated Willim as well for reasons that the priestess didn’t know but could easily imagine. The younger one-the beautiful one-simpered and flattered and generally seemed to worship the eyeless wizard. But in that devotion Gretchan sensed a falseness, and she spent some time wondering about the apprentice’s relationship with her master.

“There is a creature of Chaos in Thorbardin,” Willim continued. “My powers are great, but they fall within the sphere of arcane magic-the magic powered by the three moons, and most especially by Nuitari, the black moon.”

Tell me something I don’t know, Gretchan challenged him silently, still without changing her expression or posture.

“This Chaos creature is a fire dragon and, thus, is immune to the magic of my sphere. It knows only the void, and the void is now the province of the gods. Of Reorx, too, of course-he who is lord of all dwarves.”

She felt a swelling of contempt. To hear the name of her deity-a stern and powerful god to be sure, but also a god of fairness and hope-spoken by a creature such as the vile Black Robe practically turned her stomach. Still, she began to get an inkling of what the magic-user desired, and in that desire she found cause for hope-not just hope for survival, but also for freedom and, eventually, revenge.

Once again he took up her staff, holding it in his gloved hands, caressing the smooth wood in that insidious, sensual manner. Gretchan prayed to Reorx, begging her god to smite the cruel magic-user, even as she acknowledged to herself that that was not the way her deity usually worked. She knew that it was up to her to deal with her villainous foe.

For the first time, she allowed herself to display a visible reaction. She mouthed the words: I need to talk.

Willim the Black nodded and went over to the work-table, where he carefully laid the staff down amid a collection of potion bottles … scrolls … and other, not easily identified odds and ends. Turning back to the cage where she was imprisoned, he advanced and snapped his fingers. Gretchan cleared her throat and was astounded-and relieved-by how loudly the sound echoed in her ears.

“What makes you think I can defeat this monster?” she asked quickly.

He smirked, a truly grotesque smile twisting his eyeless face. “Because it will kill you if you don’t. And that is a chance I am willing to take.”

“But if I die, then you will die as well,” she challenged, though not with a great deal of confidence.

The wizard shook his head, dismissing the idea. “No, you don’t understand. I shall teleport myself away. You will face the monster when it comes for me. And it always comes for me. But there will be many others standing in its path as well.”

“You will have to let me have my staff,” Gretchan asserted.

“Yes, when the time is right,” Willim replied calmly. “Facet!” he barked without turning his face from the cleric’s. “Take the staff and hold it ready.”

The younger magic-user bowed and rose from her chair. Gretchan knew that the young female was an apprentice, and judging from her beauty and the obsequious way in which she seemed to worship the wizard, the priestess guessed that she served her master in many ways-not all of them having to do with her magical training. With another disgusted look at that scarred visage, she reflected on the thought of physical intimacy with such a dastardly creature. It was impossible for her to comprehend. She could even smell his fetid breath, like the stink of a pile of fertilizer, and he was six feet away from her.

The dwarf maid came over carrying Gretchan’s staff, and when Willim turned and held out his hands, she gave it to the wizard. He took the long shaft of wood absently, running his hands up and down the smooth surface while he continued to pace. Gretchan wanted to shout at him to drop the precious talisman, to get his corrupt and filthy hands off her treasure. But she suspected that such a tantrum would only please him, so she remained silent.

“I shall give it to you when the monster approaches but not before. If your god is with you, he may-I cannot say for sure, but he may-consent to match his own strength with that of the fire dragon. If Reorx is willing and mighty enough, the power of this staff may be enough to vanquish the creature. If he is not willing, you will perish and many others will perish, and I will teleport away to fight another day.”

The wizard scowled and shook his head, as if dismissing the thoughts of escape that had immediately popped into Gretchan’s head when she heard his plan. “And you should know that these bars are protected by many traps. Should you try to work your own magic upon them, they will burst into flames, and they will burn very hot and for a long time. You will not escape, but neither will you die quickly.”

“How can you claim to know what I would do?” she challenged angrily. She gestured at the two female magic-users. “And how do you know you can trust these two? How can you trust anyone? Don’t you think-?”

Abruptly he snapped his fingers again, and Gretchan’s voice was immediately muffled.

“I grow tired of your incessant prattle,” he said, almost as though bored. He chuckled, a harsh, cruel sound. “And I do not have to trust my apprentices. It is enough that they fear me, that they know the truth and the inevitability of my vengeance. No, my dear priestess, trust is vastly overrated among those of your cloth.”

He turned his back to her and resumed his aimless pacing, moving around the large cavern that was his laboratory. The apprentices watched him and stayed out of his way, and Gretchan was left alone within the cocoon of her thoughts.

The minutes ticked by, and she found her mind wandering, imagining Brandon’s distress and his terrible rage. He would push himself to the limits of his strength and beyond to find her, she knew. She uttered a silent prayer, beseeching her god to watch out for her beloved warrior, to keep him from bringing disaster upon himself with any mistakes.

Abruptly, she noticed that the wizard had stopped pacing; he stood stock still in front of her. His head was cocked to the side, like a dog listening for a distant sound, and his hands gripped the staff so hard that his knuckles had turned white.

Too, it was growing steadily warmer in the cavern. She noticed a glow emanating from a wide fissure in the floor, a chasm she had not even noticed before. The glow grew brighter, and the heat increased quickly.

“Now! It is time you will see the truth of my will! You will prevail, or you will die!”

Gretchan, still silenced by his spell, shook her head and rattled the bars.

“Feel that heat! Feel the power!” Willim declared. His face had paled almost to the color of snow, and his mouth was open, his breath coming in short pants. He snapped his fingers again, and the spell of silence was dispelled; the first proof was the sound of Gretchan’s distressed breathing. She turned to see what was happening behind her.

It was enough to feel the growing warmth, and the expanding brilliance swelling upward from the chasm in the floor. Fire clearly burned there, a source of heat and light growing steadily stronger.

“Tease the Chaos creature!” he barked to his two female apprentices. “See that it pursues you. Bring it to the priestess and me; you know where to find me!”

The wizard reached out and grabbed one of the bars of the cage. In another instant, the world shifted and shimmered, and they teleported. The cleric gasped at the sensation of sudden weightlessness, of rapid, whirling movement.

He was taking her somewhere else, somewhere he hoped would help the priestess to defend herself against the fire dragon. The cage came to rest, canted at a slight angle on a high elevation, allowing her to look out across a vast cavern. Gretchan stared in awe at the sight before her.

She knew at once that Willim the Black had taken her to the right place.

Both Firespitters had been refueled and readied for battle, and their crews rolled them into position before the gate of Norbardin’s royal palace. Brandon had waited impatiently for the maintenance to be completed. He had expected Tarn Bellowgranite’s arrival at any minute, and in fact had heard word that the exiled king was marching at the head of the Tharkadan Legion and that the citizens of the city were turning out in great numbers to cheer and support him as he advanced. Well more than the estimated hour of the king’s arrival had passed, but from the reports, the general guessed that the crowds were probably slowing the monarch’s progress through the city.

So Brandon had decided to go ahead with the assault. After all, if the enemy troops could be driven out of the royal palace in short order, the structure would be the perfect headquarters for the king. Symbolically, it would make a powerful statement to the people of Thorbardin that their former monarch had returned and taken control. But there was a pesky garrison of Theiwar dwarves still sealed up in the palace, and the Kayolin commander had to root them out. His troops had caught their breath and taken advantage of the time to eat and rest, and they were ready for the assault.

Even as the two big, fire-spewing war machines rumbled forward, the dwarves of Kayolin’s Second Legion, divided into two wings and advanced to either side of the tall, well-fortified gate. Fister Morewood led the right-hand wing, while Brandon himself commanded the group to the left of the gate.

The defenders behind the palace walls fired crossbows at the charging dwarves, but-unlike at the gate of the nation itself-the number of attackers far exceeded the number of defenders. A few dwarves, including one axeman sprinting right next to Brandon, fell under defensive fire, but the vast majority of them reached the base of the wall. There they wasted no time in heaving ladders against the ramparts.

From the rear ranks of the Kayolin companies, crossbowmen fired return volleys. Many of the bolts bounced off the stone wall since their targets were protected by the battlements except for visible heads and arms. Even so, the purpose of the shooting was not so much to kill the enemy archers as it was to distract their aim from the Firespitters.

The great machines included several plates of metal armor as protection for the crew, but the dwarves who manned the maneuver handles were partially exposed. If they were killed, the machines would have been unable to advance and could not employ their firepower against the gate.

Reaching the base of the wall, the attacking troops quickly hoisted their ladders, and lightly armored skirmishes began scrambling upward. The attackers were met at the top by swordsmen, but again superior numbers came into play. Steel clashed against steel as the skirmishers chopped and stabbed and tumbled over the wall, quickly seizing control of the immediate platforms.

Brandon held one of the ladders long enough for a dozen dwarves to scramble up. He had been convinced that the army commander should be not be first man over the top, but finally he could wait no longer. Slinging his axe over his shoulder, he pulled himself up hand over hand, springing to the rubble-strewn parapet and stepping to the side so still more warriors behind him could ascend.

The shattered palace nearly filled the courtyard. It looked more like an ancient and long-abandoned ruin than it did a royal edifice of dwarven construction. Great ruptures yawned in the wall, and many of them were still strewn with the stones that had been knocked free by whatever force inflicted the initial damage. The front door of the keep was gone, the entryway gaping open like a dark, silent mouth. Rising over it all was that long tower, the half spire that was missing its top.

“General, look! It’s Gretchan Pax!”

The words, shouted by one of his swordsman, pulled Brandon’s attention away from the crucial assault on the palace gate. He followed the man’s pointing finger, and his heart leaped into his throat. He saw her at once, trapped in a metal cage, high atop the shattered spire of the palace’s main tower. The cage was perched awkwardly on the stone rim of the spire, which had been broken off during the recent civil war. His priestess was there, bracing herself by clinging to the bars of the cage.

“Gretchan!” Brandon shouted, his voice rising above the chaos of the battle.

He saw, then, that the black wizard was there too. Willim’s robes swirled from the lingering motion of the spell that had carried them there, and he held Gretchan’s staff in both of his hands.

Then Brandon and everyone else were further distracted as a blossom of fire exploded in the great chasm. A creature made of fire, with great wings trailing sparks and smoke and a gaping mouth spread wide, roared a cry of inarticulate hunger and longing as it soared into view.

Those wings pulsed again and again as the monster flew on, and Brandon could see that the fire creature was flying directly toward the cage holding Gretchan Pax.

“It comes!” Willim the Black croaked, his voice a mixture of thrilled anticipation and stark dread. “Make ready!”

The latter statement was accompanied by a shiver of genuine terror, and Gretchan understood how much the wizard truly feared the creature of Chaos. He certainly had reason to fear. She knew the story of the Chaos War and the massive destruction the monsters had wrought across the face of Krynn. As she beheld the monster for the first time, she understood how its kin could have wreaked such destruction throughout all of Thorbardin.

“You must release me! And I’ll need my staff,” she said, somehow managing to sound calm.

The wizard refused to let her out of the cage, but he did allow her the religious talisman. “Here, take the staff! Remember, you will defeat the monster or die!” hissed Willim, suddenly thrusting the butt of the staff through the bars.

Instinctively she snatched the staff away from him, clutching it to her and murmuring a prayer of thanks. Immediately she felt the strength and serenity of Reorx flowing through her. She was ready to fight and, if it came to that, to die.

But there were all those other dwarves around her. She saw at least a thousand of the Kayolin soldiers, and guessed that Brandon must be down there with them. In the same instant that she thought of him, almost as though her magic had created him, Gretchan saw Brandon, standing on the wall almost directly below her, shouting and waving up at her.

The two female magic-users flew through the air; they were black specks that were almost impossible to see against the bright, surging flame of the Chaos creature. They swept toward the cage, following Willim’s command, until, a hundred yards away from Gretchan, they vanished, presumably teleporting to safety.

The dragon roared and surged on. Gretchan grabbed the bars of the cage, but they were unyielding, and she had no doubt that the wizard had spoken the truth about his trap. Her throat was dry, so parched she could barely croak out a sound. With another whispered word, she conjured a drink of water, instantly gulping the liquid that magically appeared in her waterskin and easing her parched throat.

Then the dragon was there.

Its huge, flaming head reared upward from a long, sinuous neck. Foreclaws, like its skin and wings, made of solid fire, glowed like red-hot metal superheated in an infernal forge. The beast rippled upward. Through the waves of heat that caused it to flicker in the air, a sinuous figure of majesty and terror was outlined in crackling flames.

“Oh Reorx, grant me your strength, to stand before this horror of the Abyss. If it be your will, may I slay it. Or if it be your will, may I die with courage and grace.”

She heard a cackle of laughter, like an insane giggle, coming from directly behind her, and she knew that Willim the Black lurked there, waiting for her to work Reorx’s magic. The beast was so close that she dared not look away. Instead, she clutched her staff and stared at the unspeakable creature in awe.

Its head was as large as the cage imprisoning her. Atop the serpentine neck, it swiveled around, with eyes of charcoal black-the only part of the monster that didn’t seem to be on fire-sweeping around the vast cavern of Norbardin’s royal plaza, clearly searching, searching.

And finally those soulless eyes came to rest upon her. The dragon flew closer, looming overhead. The heat of its presence blasted Gretchan’s face and hands, warmed her robe, and began to singe her hair.

“By all the power of the Forge, you are doomed!” she cried, raising the staff. “Go back to the Abyss! Go hide in your foul plane of nothingness and despair! There is nothing for you here!”

The dragon reared back, fanning the air with the great sails of its wings, dripping a cascade of sparks across the gathered throng of dwarves below. Its huge maw gaped wide, and a belch of fire erupted, an oily fireball spewing toward Gretchan, crackling and sizzling. Behind the priestess, Willim the Black shrieked, and when the sound was abruptly cut off-a split second before the fireball reached them-the cleric instantly suspected that the wizard had teleported away.

She had access to no such refuge, however, so she closed her eyes, clutched her staff, and relaxed, yielding her person and her life into the hands of her god as the dragon’s fiery breath surged forward, enveloping the cage and fully engulfing her.

Then she felt Reorx’s presence surround her. The Master of the Forge was like a cool blanket, insulating her against the hellish inferno that surged and churned everywhere. Even through her closed lids, she saw the fire, the brilliant orange brighter than the sun. She knew the flames were right there, but somehow she couldn’t feel the terrible heat.

The fire seemed to last forever, though she realized that only a few seconds had passed. She heard the monster roar again and again as it gradually realized that it was not killing her, that, in fact, the power of Reorx was not only protecting her, but exerting itself against the Chaos creature itself.

She dared to open her eyes, and she saw the dark circles of the dragon’s eyes, widening as if in astonishment or disbelief. It breathed fire again, but it seemed as though its blast of infernal breath were actually infusing her with strength and draining away the terrible potency of the fire dragon’s searing presence.

“Ha!” she cried, taunting the dragon with her joy and might. “You have met your master! He will take your power! You will know death!”

She raised the staff from the floor of the cage and pointed its anvil head directly at the monster. The fire dragon bellowed again, twisting and thrashing those great wings, but it struggled like a creature caught in a trap. It writhed and roared, flailing the air with its red-hot talons, lashing with its tail, driving those vast wings in ever more desperate attempts to break away.

“No!” shouted Gretchan, exulting in the creature’s defeat. “You shall not fly!”

The Chaos creature uttered one last, furious roar, a sound that resonated through the huge cavern, reverberating from the walls, echoing up and down the connecting caverns. Gretchan was pulled, hard, toward the wall of the cage, but she still held the staff, and she stabbed it like a spear, as if she would drive the head right through the monster’s heart.

Then it was as though, suddenly, the fire at the dragon’s core was smothered, the brightness of the flaming skin fading, the heat radiating from its horrific presence cloaked, muffled, and absorbed.

Even as she watched, the essence of the monster chilled and shrank. The flaming body cooled, flowing like smoke into the air, sucked toward the cage by the power of Reorx and the agency of his staff. Gretchan placed the head of that staff into the midst of the dense cloud of smoke and watched as it sucked away the pure, chaotic power that had wrought so much destruction.

And the staff continued to absorb the fading remnant of the fire dragon. The magical protection of Reorx still cloaked her, allowed her to survive the heat that caused the iron bars of the cage to burn hot and glow red. She could feel the shaft growing fiery in her hands, so hot that she could feel the skin on her palms blistering.

But still she held firm, not daring to let the rod even wobble or sway. Indeed, she held it straight upward, and the silver anvil at its head began to glow red, then yellow, then white, filling the underground cavern with a brilliant light such as it had never known. That illumination pierced into the far corners of Norbardin, driving back the darkness and, for a brief moment, shining as proof of Reorx’s goodness and of his triumph.

Finally, the fire dragon was gone.

Gretchan stumbled backward, releasing the staff and almost gagging at the sight of her blackened palms, the smell of her own charred flesh. She muttered the words to a potent healing spell, just as blackness rose around her. She swayed, struggling to remain conscious.

She felt the cage moving. With a sickening lurch of magical power, she realized that the black wizard had returned. Quickly she reached for her staff, but it was no longer there.

Nor was her cage atop the tower of the royal palace anymore. Instead, she found herself back in the wizard’s laboratory. All three of the wizards were there, gathered in a circle around her. The two females, she realized, were looking at her with expressions approaching awe.

Willim, however, was practically cackling with delight. He held her staff in his hands again, tossing it back and forth between them as if it were still too hot to hold. Once again Gretchan wished that her god would smite him for his blasphemous touch.

But instead, it seemed as though the heat inherent in the staff was dissipating, for Willim was soon able to hold it comfortably. He stroked the wood with obvious pleasure and looked at Gretchan with an expression of sudden and seemingly insatiable desire.