Fate of Thorbardin

NINETEEN

Gretchan sat in her cage and watched the two black-robed females talking in low tones, looking frequently in her direction. Sadie, Facet, and the imprisoned cleric were alone in the vast cavern of the wizard’s lair, Willim having teleported away to an unknown location several minutes earlier.

The priestess stared at her staff, resting on the wizard’s worktable, well out of her reach. To her, that sacred artifact seemed almost to thrum with power. The anvil on the head retained a faint glow, which was very unusual when she wasn’t holding onto it. She remembered how the device had seemed to absorb the dissolving essence of the fire dragon, and she couldn’t help but wonder how the presence of so much uncontained power could affect the thing.

The black wizard’s worktable, as usual, was covered by a scattered assortment of vials and jars, dishes and boxes filled with components too vile and mysterious for the cleric to identify. Among them lay scrolls, some rolled into tubes, while others were spread flat for reading. In her rare glimpses, Gretchan had seen that some of the pages contained various arcane symbols, none of which made sense to her. But she knew enough about the ways of wizards to understand that the scrolls contained written versions of his spells, some of them undoubtedly very powerful. Through the medium of a scroll, even a wizard who was not powerful enough to learn a specific casting could obtain the means of using certain elaborate magics, by carefully reading the words aloud.

Among all the detritus on the table, rising higher than anything else, stood the bell jar that had caught the cleric’s eyes long before. A lone blue spark drifted around in that jar like a wistful firefly, seeming to fly without pattern or purpose. Gretchan had noticed the elder apprentice, Sadie, paying a great deal of attention to that jar, frequently glancing at it with a frown of concern or worry on her face. Once, when neither of the other wizards was looking, she had gone over to it and placed a tender hand on the glass, almost stroking it affectionately.

Beyond the table stood a large cabinet closed and locked. But Facet and Willim had opened it several times during Gretchan’s captivity, and she had noticed that it contained rows and rows of bottles in a variety of sizes and shapes and colors. Some were so large, they looked like wine jugs, and they were opaque, as if made of clay. Others were tiny vials of clear, delicate glass, with liquids that were colorless and watery or dark and thick as syrup. She had guessed that it was the wizard’s potion cabinet, and she knew enough about sorcery to know that such dangerous elixirs could offer the one who drank them any of a wide variety of powerful, albeit temporary, powers. She’d heard of potions that allowed the imbiber to fly or to become invisible or to move at a speed far faster than any mortal could attain. Others were known to bewitch the drinker into viewing the one who had offered the drink as a great friend, a person to be trusted and favored in every way possible. There were even more sinister and vile applications, up to and including lethal poison. In fact, it had been the wizard’s intent to test one such potion on Gus, an incident which had led to the gully dwarf’s fortuitous escape from Thorbardin, when he had drunk a potion of teleportation instead of poison.

Gretchan couldn’t offer any comments or start a conversation with the other dwarf maids because, before he had departed, Willim the Black had once again muffled her with a spell of silence. In fact, he had even ordered Facet, the younger apprentice, to bring the priestess food and water. Gretchan had unquestionably been drained and exhausted by the confrontation with the fire dragon, and after quenching her hunger and thirst, she had, for the first time since her capture, fallen into a deep sleep.

When she awakened, Sadie had been absent and Facet had been servicing her master in a very personal way, much to the dark wizard’s loud and groaning delight. Stomach turning, Gretchan had turned her back and tried to ignore the activity, which was punctuated by Willim’s cruel cries of ecstasy and, eventually, the whimpering submission of the young, beautiful apprentice. Not long after that, Sadie had returned via teleportation. The wizard had spoken to them both quietly before departing.

Gretchan spotted Facet looking in her direction. The priestess raised a hand and beckoned her to come closer, taking care to move slowly, to mask any threat that might be implied by her gesture. The two black-robed females whispered together again, both of them glancing over at her, and finally they rose and, side by side, and walked slowly and cautiously over to Gretchan, stopping several paces back from the bars of the cage.

Gretchan gestured to her mouth then spread her hands and reached out, a clear gesture of beseeching. Let me talk to you, she mouthed silently.

She could see the hesitation and fear on both the wrinkled face of the elder Sadie and the beautiful but haunted visage of Facet. Once again she was struck by the contrast in appearance between the two, the only wizards she had observed in Willim’s company and service. Sadie was wary and guarded, her eyes deeply set in her skull, her expression cautious and, in some unknowable way, sad. Facet was brazen and haughty, meeting Gretchan’s look with a glare of frank hostility. With her crimson lips and alabaster, sculpted face, she was almost indescribably beautiful. Yet her eyes remained hooded with a look not so much of sadness, like Sadie’s, but of constant, lurking fear.

The priestess spread her hands, palms up, in the universal gesture of peaceful intent. The apprentice younger whispered something to the elder, and finally the older one approached the cage and snapped her fingers.

Immediately Gretchan heard all the sounds of her own body, the things she had so often taken for granted. As the breath rasped through her nose, her pulse thrumming audibly again, she nodded and said, “Thank you.”

“Beware,” cautioned Sadie. “If he returns, this will not go well … for any of us.”

“I know. But I’m so grateful. I was afraid I’d go mad, being cooped up in that silence. It’s a powerful spell,” she added, nodding appreciatively at Sadie.

The old dwarf maid snorted skeptically. “It’s basic magic. Real power … well, that’s what you demonstrated when you vanquished the fire dragon like that. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

Remembering that the two apprentices had teleported away as the dragon arrived, Gretchan looked at her quizzically. “I didn’t know you saw it. I thought you had gone somewhere safer.”

Sadie smiled unapologetically. “We were on the far side of the city. We expected you to die and, well …”

“We wanted to watch,” Facet said sharply. She scowled, clearly disappointed by the cleric’s survival. “How did you defeat the monster, anyway?” Facet demanded. “We thought the Chaos creature was immortal!”

“I didn’t vanquish the creature,” Gretchan said. “All the glory goes to Reorx, Master of the Forge and Father God of All Dwarves,” she added pointedly, reminding her captors of the shared kinship of their ancestry. “I was merely his tool, and a prisoner at that, as you well know.”

“I do know,” Sadie said, nodding. “About being a prisoner as well.”

“Oh?” Gretchan prodded, grateful to have the conversation and curious as to what she might learn. “Who made you a prisoner?”

“Why, Willim, of course,” the elder apprentice declared as if surprised at the question. Her eyes flickered to the side, toward the laboratory table, and Gretchan remembered the bell jar, the blue spark, and Sadie’s constant attention to that mysterious light.

“Is that a prison? A glass cage?’ she asked.

Sadie stared at her again, frankly. “Yes. I was there too until very recently. Willim thought my husband and I were betraying him, and in his rage he was … not kind to us.”

Gretchan nodded sympathetically then turned her eyes to Facet, who was watching them, her face an unreadable mask. “And you? Were you his prisoner as well?”

“I am here by my own choice!” she asserted fiercely. “My master has taught me very much. He is training me, and I am learning from him. I serve him, and he shares the deepest secrets of the Order of the Black Robes with me.”

“I have noticed that he doesn’t seem to treat you very well, however,” Gretchan declared gently. “And it seems he forces you to do some … unsavory … things.”

For the first time, the pale female’s face colored. Facet tossed back her hair and lifted her chin proudly. “I use all the tools at my disposal,” she said coldly and with a little too much bravado.

The priestess nodded, maintaining her sympathetic tone. “I understand. We all live in a man’s world. We must all do what we can to get along.”

“Why are you even talking to us?” Facet blurted. “Surely you remember that it was I who tried to kill you in the woods, on your way to Pax Tharkas?” She sneered. “You were a fool, traveling by yourself, sleeping with a big fire.”

“Oh, I remember. You scared the daylights out of me. And you were skilled with your magic-you almost killed me. But if I am such a fool, doesn’t that make you a greater fool for your failure?”

Gretchan again saw fear flicker across the young woman’s face. “I … I was already punished, severely, for my failure,” she said sullenly. “You will not survive me again.”

“I apologize for my words and am sorry you were punished,” the cleric said. “Of course I had to defend myself, but I can attest that you tried very hard to do your job. Your master must be very cruel, indeed.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Why are you talking to us?” Facet demanded again, her tone thick with suspicion.

The cleric shrugged, choosing her words carefully. “I’m lonely, for one thing. I’m used to being surrounded by people. And I’m a talker and a writer by nature. To be locked up in a cage and especially muffled under a spell of silence … well, it’s almost enough to drive me mad.”

The discussion ended with a sudden gasp from Facet, who quickly spun away from the cage and dropped to her knees. Sadie, more slowly, turned and bowed as the wizard materialized abruptly in the space in front of his table. He was frowning, agitated, and at first didn’t even take note of his accomplices or their reactions. He smashed a fist down against the stone surface then paced angrily away in the direction of the chasm.

“My master, is there news?” asked Sadie, shooting Gretchan a look of warning.

Instead of answering, he took up the cleric’s staff and stalked over to the cage where Gretchan, taking care to utter no sound, sat watching him. With a snap of his fingers he dispelled the magic of the silence spell, doing so with such distracted haste that he apparently didn’t notice the magic had already been neutralized.

“You must be ready to travel,” he said. “Have you eaten and drunk your fill?” “Yes,” she replied calmly.

“Good. Now get ready, all of you!” he barked in a tone of command. “We’re going to the Isle of the Dead. Facet, gather a case of potions-a large case, for we may be gone for a while. You and I shall go at once, taking our prisoner.

“Sadie,” he continued. “I want you to collect my spellbooks and the scrolls. Bring them all; use a bag of holding to contain them. Follow us as soon as you can.” Willim himself took Gretchan’s staff from his worktable, holding it in both hands and pausing for a moment as if to savor the touch of the powerful artifact.

Gretchan watched in silent apprehension as the two apprentices set about their tasks, obeying their master’s commands. She saw Sadie looking around with alarm and felt a stab of sympathy for the elder female, who obviously didn’t want to leave the jar with the blue spark behind.

Facet looked at Sadie only once, but when she did, her dark eyes were pinpoints of seething, jealous rage.

Gretchan felt no sympathy for the younger wizard, who only caused her a cold, penetrating fear.

“We’ve confirmed the prisoner’s report and located the main body of Willim’s army,” Fister Morewood reported breathlessly, speaking to Brandon and ignoring Otaxx and King Bellowgranite, who kept clearing his throat ostentatiously. With a gesture, Brandon directed his lieutenant to address his words to the monarch.

“Uh, sorry, my liege. The enemy seems to be falling back to the Urkhan Sea,” the Second Legion commander reported. “But they’re putting up a pretty stiff fight in the gatehouse. The fort blocks our path, but we’ve confirmed that there’s a wide avenue that runs from the city’s main gate down to the water.”

“That’s right,” Tarn said. “It’s nearly a hundred feet wide and perhaps four miles long. It ends at a wharf at the edge of the lake.”

“We’ve interrogated a number of prisoners,” Morewood explained. “All claim that Willim has more than a thousand men on the Urkhan Road, gathered in that tunnel. They’re waiting for his command, so it may be that we can catch them by surprise if we move quickly.”

“What kind of fight are they mounting at the gatehouse?” asked the king.

“I sent a probe that way, and they were attacked by at least two hundred archers. When I sent a reconnaissance against the gates with a heavy ram, they found it securely fastened and well defended. My men have come to a dead stop.”

“Get the army in motion, then!” declared Tarn. “Send the Tharkadan Legion after them, and bring up your Kayolin troops in reserve!”

Brandon was as anxious to get after the black wizard’s army as anyone else, but a cautionary note sounded in the back of his mind. He couldn’t leave the plan unchallenged.

“King Bellowgranite, why would Willim position his army in a tunnel? It makes no sense! He denies himself any room to maneuver, and as soon as we carry this gatehouse he’d be vulnerable to our attack.”

“Well, perhaps he feels he can hold the gatehouse indefinitely,” the monarch suggested. “His men are fierce fighters, as you know.”

“Yes, I realize that. But the potential for disaster is too great. It may cost us a lot of casualties, but we will carry the outer fortification, no matter how long it takes. Do you think he doubts our determination, after we forged the Tricolor Hammer and fought our way into his kingdom?”

“Probably not. But in that tunnel, he only has to defend a narrow front. We can’t bring the bulk of our army to bear against him.” Tarn frowned, brooding on the situation.

“No, but we can match him man for man. And with the Firespitters, any defense in a descending tunnel would turn into a deathtrap! He must know that and have some devious strategy in mind.”

“But surely he didn’t know about the Firespitters when he made his plan. It seems to me that he simply failed to take them into consideration.”

Brandon drew a deep breath and tried a new tack. “Sire,” he said. “We need to attack. But even if the main bulk of the enemy troops are on this Urkhan Road, the city of Norbardin is far from secure. I suggest we leave one legion here, to finish clearing the streets, sweeping the buildings. There are whole quarters of Norbardin, including Anvil’s Echo, that we haven’t even begun to explore.”

“No!” barked the king. “You’ve seen the welcome I received from the citizens! They wouldn’t be celebrating like that if they were still worried about Willim’s army. Obviously, he’s abandoned the city and is massing one last defense elsewhere. We need to strike fast, to take advantage of the crucial intelligence we’ve gained at such a cost.”

“But, sire-”

Tarn’s tone softened as he reached out to touch Brandon with affection and obvious respect. “Look, I understand your concern. And we all owe you a great debt; if you hadn’t made the long march from Kayolin, the Dwarf Home Army wouldn’t even exist. But there’ll be time enough for a thorough search when the main body of his army is destroyed. Now it seems clear that we have that army on the run! I want to send every man we have after Willim’s soldiers and not stop till the last of his swordsmen has fallen or surrendered. If he retreats all the way to the Isle of the Dead, then we must take to the boats and follow him.”

Brandon felt a stir of misgiving, but he himself was too eager to get on with the fight to argue any further. So instead, he merely nodded and said, “Yes, Your Majesty. As you command.”

“How do you propose to take the gatehouse, sir?” asked Morewood.

“The Firespitters are ready again, aren’t they?” Brandon asked.

“Yes, sir. They’ve already been moved into position, a hundred yards or so back from the gates to keep them out of arrow range.”

“All right. Let’s organize the troops and get this done.” He turned to the king. “But, sire, one last request. Please allow the Kayolin troops to carry this fight, and let us leave the Tharkadan Legion in reserve. After all, your men are familiar with the city, while mine are not. If we can finish the campaign on the road to the lake, your troops will be fresh and ready to search Norbardin to make sure it’s all secure.”

Tarn scowled for a moment, and Brandon could see that the king, his power and confidence returning by the minute, didn’t like being superseded. But the Kayolin general’s argument made too much sense. After a moment’s contemplation, Bellowgranite nodded. “Do it,” he ordered. “Without wasting any more time.”

It took less than an hour for Brandon and Fister Morewood to gather the Second Legion and the freshest troops of the battered First Legion and array them against the formidable gatehouse. The troops, like their leaders, sensed that total victory was imminent. They were buoyed by the exuberant reception the returning king had received from the city’s populace and ready to put the short, violent war behind them.

Studying their position, Brandon could see at once that it would be a much tougher objective than the royal palace. The gatehouse was a fortress in its own right but built into the wall of the great cavern that housed Norbardin. Thus, his army would be able to attack from only one side. The key to the gatehouse was a high, wide tunnel leading from Norbardin onto the Urkhan Road, the wide route to the lake that the king had described. That avenue was screened and defended by a pair of high, stone gates.

To either side of the gates rose formidable towers, lined with battlements and pocked with arrow slits. The towers jutted out from the wall, offering fields of fire in three directions, but to the rear they were firmly anchored in the bedrock of Norbardin. They rose from the cavern floor all the way to the ceiling and, from the looks of the battlements and windows, appeared to have walls that were six or eight feet thick.

Larger, wide platforms were carved right into the cliff wall and extended for more than two hundred yards to the right and left of the gate. Morewood explained that all of those platforms seemed to be garrisoned by Willim’s troops. The attackers faced a formidable defense while having to advance uphill.

Since the Kayolin troops were reasonably rested and the Second Legion had suffered few casualties, neither Morewood nor Brandon saw any point in waiting any longer. While Mason Axeblade, in tactical command of the Tharkadan Legion, moved his men into a supporting position, the two Kayolin commanders prepared their troops for the assault.

Instead of directing the Firespitters against the gates themselves, which were so wide and sturdy-and made of solid stone-that they appeared to be impervious to fire, they decided to use the great weapons in concert to sweep the defensive positions to the right of the main gatehouse. Brandon was glad to be back in action; anything to take his mind off of Gretchan’s peril. So it was with cold, direct purpose that he ordered the attack to commence.

They began with a diversionary strike against the positions to the left of the main gate. The troops of the First Legion surged forward there, directing a hail of missile fire against the enemy warriors on the multi-leveled platforms along the cavern wall and into the fighters’ niches that dotted the left of the two towers. First Legion drummers pounded out a loud, rhythmic beat in a further attempt to confuse the enemy.

In the meantime, the Firespitters were stoked, boilers heated, and furnaces ignited. They were kept behind an intervening wall for as long as possible, so the enemy couldn’t see them. Brandon knew that, once the attack began, it would take some time for the lumbering machines to move up to the wall. He grimaced at the thought, knowing many brave dwarves would fall to the enemy archers while the deadly devices inched close enough for use. Fortunately, they had been designed with the ability to crank the firing snouts up to nearly a forty-five-degree angle above the ground; so if they could get close enough to the battle platforms, they should be able to inflict serious damage against the lower ramparts.

The diversion worked splendidly. For half an hour, the Kayolin troops on the ground of the plaza and the Theiwar troops on the battle platforms maintained a spirited exchange of missile fire, though with few casualties on either side. The drummers did their job as well, raising a thunderous and rhythmic din. Brandon could only hope that the defending commander was sending some of his reinforcements to that flank in anticipation of a major assault.

Finally, the time was right for the main push. Fister Morewood ordered his legion forward, and the dwarves surged against the right flank of the mighty gatehouse, boots pounding the stone floor as they rushed from concealment behind walls, ditches, small buildings, and other obstacles. Carrying ladders, advancing under the covering fire of their own archers, they raced to the base of the wall and tried to force their way up the ladders. Hundreds of defending troops met them on the lower parapets, and hundreds of steel blades clashed against shield or met flesh in a savage melee.

Meanwhile, the crews of the Firespitters, augmented by a hundred extra dwarves who helped to haul each machine, moved the devices forward with as much alacrity as possible. As they drew near to the walls, the lethal weapons came under resolute fire, but the archers of the Second Legion were numerous enough to keep the defenders’ heads down for the most part. Shields had been propped up on the crucial positions of the war machines’ controls, providing at least partial cover to the crew from the missile fire that, as expected, rained down from the enemy battlements.

When the Firespitters reached the base of the wall, their crew chiefs opened up with full gouts of oily flame. The billowing, incendiary clouds swept across the lower levels of the defensive platforms, slowly spreading out to each side.

Specially armored infantry, wearing fire-retardant leather uniforms, heavy gloves, and masks, swarmed up ladders and claimed the still-smoldering platform that had been swept free of living defenders by the lethal flames. More dwarves followed as the battlefield cooled until a steady stream of Kayolin warriors charged up and over the wall, spreading out, attacking savagely, and cleaning the outnumbered defenders out of every corner of the great gatehouse.

One detachment, led by Fister Morewood himself, scrambled up to the interior of the great gates and released the barriers to a great cheer. They swung open slowly, and the dwarves of Kayolin spilled through the gatehouse and onto the lake road, where all reports indicated that the rest of Willim’s army awaited them.

“General! I’m almost out of oil!” called the crew chief on the first machine. “Do you want us to push forward with the army?”

“No,” Brandon called back, eyeing the passage onto the road. He knew that the Tharkadan Legion troops were still in the plaza, and those thousand dwarves would be capable of defending the war machines against any surprise attack.

“Stay here and refuel. We’ll send for you if we need you!”

With that command, he took up his axe, which had not been blooded in that fight, and followed his troops onto the long, wide road to the Urkhan Sea.

Tor Bellowgranite was having the time of his young life. Accompanied by the powerful, enthusiastic dog left in his care by Gretchan, he made his way south through the lofty, rugged terrain of the Kharolis Mountains. For several days, the pair had strolled through a stunning wilderness of forests, lakes, and mountain peaks. They didn’t see another soul, which certainly suited Tor’s desires.

Every step of the way, Kondike bounded ahead of the young dwarf, but the dog never ventured out of his sight. His deep bark seemed proof against any of nature’s threats, as witnessed by the way he chased a hungry bear away from their camp on the pair’s second night in the wild. Tor, who had a bow and arrows with him in addition to a short sword, was relieved that he didn’t have to shoot the hulking, shaggy creature. He suspected that even a well-aimed arrow would have only served to make it angry.

And the dog was good company too, plopping down on the ground nearby whenever Tor sat down to rest or lay down to sleep. Kondike always welcomed a scratch on the head or shoulder, showing his appreciation with the heavy thumping of his tail against the ground. He even proved to be something of a hunter, several times returning to Tor with a fat rabbit or, once even, a goose clamped in his powerful jaws.

Mindful of the presence of adult dwarves, all of whom he regarded as, if not enemies, potential authority figures who would certainly compel him to return home, Tor led Kondike on paths away from the main road to Thorbardin. That suited them both, for their route took them through alpine meadows and high, sparse forests.

It was in one of the woodlands that Tor, who was quite a good shot, killed a deer, and the two wayfarers enjoyed a sumptuous feast of warm, fresh meat. Sizzling the fresh steaks over the coals of his fire, the young dwarf felt as though, for the first time, he was truly master of his world.

All the time Cloudseeker Peak towered over them, and with each passing hour and every passing day, Tor knew that he drawing closer and closer to his destination: the great dwarven nation of Krynn.

It was the place where he had been born.

King Bellowgranite watched the Kayolin troops march down the dark road, and he almost immediately felt abandoned and restless. He didn’t like the sensation of sitting and doing nothing while the dwarves from the northern realm did all the real fighting. He went to inspect the palace and was deeply saddened to note the destruction that had wrecked the once-splendid edifice. General Watchler, whose company of Redshirts had been left to garrison the place, invited him to stay there and occupy his old royal quarters, but Tarn didn’t have the stomach for that, and besides, he still felt that restlessness.

In part, he realized, it was because he missed Crystal, more than he had ever imagined he would. He kept reviewing, in the privacy of his own thoughts, the quarrel that had sent her away, and each time he thought of something he should have said or done differently. Sure, she was a stubborn woman-what dwarf wasn’t? — and she had clearly been misguided when she claimed that the hill dwarves should have been included in the campaign.

But Tarn could have made his case much more diplomatically. Indeed, if including the hill dwarves was so important to her, perhaps he could have even yielded the point. So the hill dwarves would have been superfluous in the campaign. Did he really think that they would have charged in there seeking to plunder the treasures of Thorbardin? He only had to look around, at the waste and the damage and the ruin that had been wrought in the place during the more than twelve years since his exile, to realize the absurdity of that belief.

Thorbardin wasn’t a source of treasure to anyone, not anymore. Indeed, it would take massive expenditures, and great amounts of work, to restore the nation to the glory it had possessed even a few decades before.

And even that was nothing compared to Thorbardin as it had been in its heyday, before the Chaos War, when the Life-Tree of the Hylar had sprouted proudly from the middle of the Urkhan Sea, rising all the way to the ceiling of the great cavern, bedecked with lights and noise and laughter. It was heartbreaking to think of the wonders that had been and that were no longer and could never be again.

He was thus wrapped in a cloud of gloom as he emerged from the palace, accompanied by a pair of bodyguards who, sensing their liege’s mood, stayed well behind the brooding king. Tarn made his way toward the legion’s camp, on the plaza of Norbardin before the city’s main gate and the Urkhan Road, lost in his dark thoughts. He looked at the massive gatehouse, carried at such a cost in blood, and wondered how Brandon’s troops were faring against the concentration of enemy troops reported to be waiting there.

As if in response to his very thoughts, a dwarf soldier appeared, wearing the patch of the Second Legion. Tarn didn’t recognize the soldier, but he was running down the ramp from the gatehouse with an unmistakable air of urgency. He spotted the king and his entourage of guards and immediately changed course to intercept him.

“King Bellowgranite!” he called. “Your Majesty!”

“Yes, man, what is it?” Tarn demanded.

“It’s a message from General Bluestone! He’s marched into a trap! The wizard has altered the tunnel to include an ambuscade! The Kayolin troops are under attack from two sides! He begs you to bring up your legion at once-before it’s too late.”

“I knew I’d be needed!” Tarn muttered almost gratefully as he saw Mason Axeblade running over to him from the legion headquarters.

“What’s the commotion?” asked the loyal captain.

“Bluestone’s army is under attack. We need to go to him at once!” Tarn insisted. He turned to the messenger, noting that the fellow was smeared with blood. “Isn’t that right, son?”

“I’m afraid so,” the dwarf gasped. “The situation is in crisis. Please, come at once!”

Axeblade looked for a moment as if he wanted to argue or waste time asking questions. One look at his king’s fierce face dissuaded him, and Tarn didn’t have to repeat his order.

“All right, dwarves of the Tharkadan Legion!” Mason Axeblade cried, addressing the captains who were gathered at his command post and all the other dwarves within earshot. “We’re needed on the Urkhan Road! Gird yourselves and make ready to march. We charge to the rescue of Kayolin!”

Darkstone’s spies had continued to watch the enemy’s movements during the day after Willim the Black had outlined the plan for his commander. The general had kept his restive troops silent and hidden for all that time, gathering even more stragglers whenever he could surreptitiously draw them into his ranks. The troops numbered more than two thousand, and every one of them had lost valued comrades to the enemy invasion. Each man, like the general himself, was thirsting for vengeance and eager to go to war.

The general was poring over maps of the city that one of his men had found in a nearby scribe’s shop when he felt the familiar tingling of nearby teleportation. He looked up to find Willim the Black standing in front of him, wearing a bloody uniform. Slowly that gore-streaked garment faded into the wizard’s black robe, and Darkstone understood that it had been a guise, an illusion.

“The trap is nearly ready,” the wizard crowed. “I myself have given them the final, false lead. The fool of a king will lead his troops onto the road in the next hour. When he does so, it will be time for you to move!”

“Aye, Master-with pleasure!” Darkstone growled, truly eager to join the battle, to avenge the losses that had been eating at his conscience since the first assault against the outer gate. “We are ready to move!”

“Good! You know what to do!”

And with that, the wizard was gone.

It was only a few minutes later that Darkstone received the report that confirmed Willim’s trap. A stealthy scout, a former thief who dressed all in black and slipped easily through the shadowy byways of Norbardin’s seedier neighborhoods, came to him with news.

“General, the False King’s army has marched onto the road leading to the Urkhan Sea. The fools have taken almost all of their troops down that single road. If we move now, we can cut them off from behind and trap them against the lake!”

“Splendid!” Darkstone declared, clenching his fist. All around, his bored and well-rested troops watched him, waiting for the next command. “On your feet, men,” he declared. “Weapons ready. We move out at once!”

The troops wasted no time in obeying. Under the immediate command of Chap Bitters and several other loyal captains, the force was divided into four equal-sized columns. Each followed a different road, but they all would converge on the great plaza of Norbardin. Moving silently, jogging along at a good speed, they killed any citizens they encountered along the way to guarantee that they retained the element of surprise.

Finally they came to the end of the roads, where each avenue spilled into the wide plaza. There Darkstone stopped to take stock of the situation. He’d heard the reports, but he couldn’t believe his eyes: There, right before him, were the two Firespitters, the enemy’s most lethal and deadly weapons.

And the fools had left no troops behind to defend them!