Fate of Thorbardin

SIX

Pax Tharkas loomed before Gretchan like a mountain, a massif straddling the winding road, barring all passage along the canyonlike gorge, except through the great gate itself. Kondike barked in recognition when the huge edifice gradually came into view of the two weary travelers rounding a bend in the rough, ascending trail. The dog bounded forward along the road, his large tail waving.

He finally paused, twenty or thirty paces in front of Gretchan, and turned to look back at her expectantly. As usual, she understood the question “What’s taking you so long?” expressed in the upraised ears, the eager, panting tongue, and the proud flag of the fur-feathered tail.

“Just hold up for a second,” she called cheerfully. “I keep telling you, you’ve got twice as many legs as I do!”

Even so, she shared the dog’s enthusiasm and couldn’t help but pick up her pace as she saw her destination so close in front of her. The great wall that was the fortress’s main feature stood as lofty as a cliff, sheer and smooth, broken only by the massive gate in the center of the vast expanse of chiseled stone. To the right and left rose the high West and East Towers, each a bastion in its own right, which anchored the barrier of the fortification to the precipitous canyon walls that channeled all traffic right to the huge gate. When that gate was closed, nothing could pass from north to south, or vice versa, through that part of the mountain range.

Pax Tharkas had been built in a long-past age of Krynn. Despite its martial bearing and purpose, it had initially been created as a symbol of peace between the dwarves of Thorbardin and the elves of Qualinesti. Yet it was, at heart, an edifice built for war. Pax Tharkas straddled a very strategic pass in the Kharolis Mountains, a pass that provided the only practical land route between a wide array of southern and northern realms.

Gretchan knew the key to that protection was a great, unique trap concealed within the high walls. Pax Tharkas was built to provide a roadway through the mountains in times of peace, but in times of war, the trap could be released, dropping thousands of tons of rock into the interior of the vast, hollow chamber between the two high walls. That trap had been dropped, many years earlier, to block the advance of the Dark Queen’s army during the War of the Lance.

In the recent decade, Tarn Bellowgranite had become the new master of the place, and he had made it his exiled subjects’ task to carry that rubble up and out of the hall, reloading the trap for a potential future use, and in the meantime, reopening the pass to ease transit for trade and migration.

Most recently, Gretchan and Brandon helped fight a battle to hold that pass against an army of hill dwarves. The attackers had spilled through one of the gates that had been intentionally left open and found themselves packed shoulder to shoulder in the great hall. One of Tarn’s captains, a Klar named Garn Bloodfist, had attempted to release the trap, unleashing a crushing onslaught on the attacking Neidar; only good fortune, or as Gretchan preferred to think, the beneficence of Reorx, had prevented that catastrophe. By rallying the mountain dwarves who garrisoned the place, she and Brandon turned aside the onslaught and exposed the enemy captain, Harn Poleaxe, as a tool of unvarnished evil and blatant sorcery. With the obvious and dramatic assistance of her powerful god, Gretchan the priestess had banished Harn’s dark master and, with Brandon’s help, convinced the hill and mountain dwarves to agree to an uneasy truce.

It seemed that the truce was working. As she approached Pax Tharkas, she saw dwarves working the fields, harvesting the hops, wheat, and barley that ripened early in the high country. One sturdy, white-bearded farmer was hoeing a field near the road, and he gave Gretchan a cheerful wave and a “Howdy, stranger!” welcome. Kondike barked a reply, and a moment later the fellow blinked and let out a whoop of delighted recognition.

“No stranger at all, are you?” he chortled. “It’s Gretchan Pax, come home to her poppa’s fortress!”

Gretchan didn’t recognize the farmer, but that was not surprising; as a high priestess of Reorx, she had been something of a celebrity in the small community for the year before her departure. But at the same time, she was warmed by the greeting, for it reminded her of the unexpected treasure she had discovered there upon her first visit. Otaxx Shortbeard, the father she had not known while she grew to adulthood, still served as Tarn’s chief adviser. She had met him after the battle, and when the two of them had realized their connection, they had both been overcome by a powerful sense of love and destiny.

Invigorated by the memory, she waved cheerfully to the farmer and continued up the steeply climbing road.

The gates of Pax Tharkas, as always except in times of active warfare, stood open, one to the south and one to the north, allowing travelers on the road to stroll right through the great structure. As Gretchan approached, her view revealed the long, lofty hall of the central chamber in the partial shadows of the vaulted ceiling. Her eyes turned upward to the dwarves on the rampart far above her. Dozens of them waved and shouted greetings, apparently alerted to her approach by some unseen word-of-mouth network that carried the news ahead of her, even though she still moved at a brisk walk.

Kondike bounded forward into the hall to be greeted by a butcher with a fresh haunch of pork. The dog woofed appreciation and settled down to gnaw on the bloody morsel. Moments later Gretchan entered and was surrounded by well-wishers and cheerful dwarves. They clapped her on the shoulders and shouted their greetings until, like magic, the crowd parted to allow two old and familiar figures to approach.

“Father!” she cried, welcoming the embrace of Otaxx Shortbeard. He was trembling, she realized, but there was no frailty in his sturdy frame, his muscular arms, his bowed and stocky legs. It was the power of his emotion, she knew, as her own eyes grew moist and she clung to him for an extra few heartbeats, burying her head in the comforting scratchiness of his beard.

The second gray-bearded dwarf approached and held out his arms. Gretchan hugged him then stepped back and curtsied. “And King Bellowgranite,” she said, smiling broadly. “You’re looking well indeed!”

“Oh, posh with this ‘king’ business,” Tarn Bellowgranite replied. “That’s too lofty of a title for the leader of this little mountain outpost. But I must say, I’m glad to see you, child!”

“And I’m glad to be back here, but it’s not just a homecoming. I have wonderful news, so much to tell you all! Can we go somewhere to talk?”

“Reorx knows we could use some positive news,” Tarn said with a sudden, dour look, prompting a stab of concern from Gretchan. What had gone wrong there in the time since she’d left for Kayolin?

But the expression vanished from the king’s face as quickly as it had appeared, and just as quickly he threw an avuncular arm around her shoulders. “Surely all the news can wait,” he said. “You must be famished! I’ll have the kitchen get an early start on the evening meal. We can eat and then we can talk.”

“Really, I’m fine,” Gretchan said. “And just so excited to let you know what’s happening.” At the same time, another burly dwarf, grinning broadly and wearing a metal breastplate, approached. Behind him was a younger fellow, and it took Gretchan a moment to recognize him.

“Oh, hi, Mason!” she said, greeting the king’s garrison captain. She pecked him on the cheek then smiled broadly at the younger dwarf. “And Tor-you’ve grown a foot in the time since I’ve been gone!”

“Uh, not really,” Tor said, awkwardly looking away. Gretchan frowned in puzzlement and not a little concern since the youthful Bellowgranite had always been outgoing and friendly during her previous time in Pax Tharkas.

“Where’s your sister?” the priestess asked cheerfully, and in the sudden silence and with the stricken looks of the gathered dwarves, she understood at least a part of the strange, somber mood.

“She died last winter,” Otaxx explained gently, his voice gruff with emotion. “The fever came through here and took her and several other youngsters.”

“I’m so … so sorry,” she said, clasping Tarn’s hand in both of her own, feeling the hollowness of the words.

He sighed and shook his head sadly. “I guess it’s sunk in now, though we’re still grieving. For a time there, Crystal couldn’t even get out of bed. But Reorx calls only the best to him at an early age.”

“I know that verse,” she replied, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She had never believed it, and it angered her to hear others place the blame for random tragedy at the feet of her ever-just god. Yet if Tarn wanted to believe that it was the will of Reorx, she did not have the heart to contradict him.

“Are you sure you don’t want a hearty meal? Our kitchen does very well for us, you know,” Tarn pressed, changing the subject with forced heartiness.

“Oh, I remember,” she said with a weary smile. Suddenly the import of her great news seemed to have paled. But still, she forced herself to remember that her mission was both important and urgent. “I’ll look forward to joining your meal at the usual time, really I will,” she said. “But I think you should hear my news. All of you-your wife too. Where is Crystal? Is she well?”

Tarn ignored the question, though that scowl flashed on his face again, fleetingly, before he clapped his hands. “Very well-we’ll hear your news in my council chamber. Otaxx, Mason, come along with us. Tor, you too.”

“Um, Father … there’s something I have to do. Can you tell me about it later?” said Tor.

Tarn shrugged as though it were no matter to him. “Very well,” he replied. “Now come this way,” he concluded, taking Gretchan by the arm and leading her toward the official chambers at the base of the West Tower.

The mad dwarf huddled in his cell, chewing on his lip, which was worn bloody by the relentless assault of his teeth. The salty blood was like nectar to him, and he could feel it sinking into his gullet, restoring his strength, clearing his mind, helping as always to focus his thoughts.

It had been a long time since the queen had come to speak with him, and Garn Bloodfist’s thoughts had grown darker and more tormented in that interval. He hated so many things that it was getting hard to keep them straight. But he would try.

He hated the king, his former master, who had ordered him locked away there.

He hated Mason Axeblade, his former comrade, who had affixed the shackles to his wrists and brought him there.

He hated the priestess Gretchan Pax, who had preached her foolish and naive message of peace and, in doing so, thwarted the bloody victory that had stood just within reach of the mountain dwarves.

He hated the hill dwarves who had been his enemies for all his life.

But he loved the hill dwarf who was queen in that place … but she was the wife of the hated king … but she was the only one who had come there to talk to him, to soothe his anxious soul. Didn’t he love her? It was hard to remember. But he had to! He should! She was good and kind and gentle!

Yet it had been very long since she had come there, so perhaps he hated her too.

It helped the mad dwarf, helped very much, for him to organize his thoughts in such an orderly fashion. For a short time, he was able to stop chewing his lip, to cease the relentless chatter in his mind as he contemplated and studied the long list of his enemies.

So intent was his meditation that he did not hear the subtle sound until several seconds had passed. Even then he wasn’t sure. Had he imagined the noise, or had someone been in the hallway just outside of his cell?

Slowly, stealthily, the mad dwarf rose from his pallet of filthy straw, stepping carefully across the tiny chamber until he reached the door. The noise had come from just outside that door. He was certain that it had been more than his imagination.

“Who is it?” he hissed warily.

There was no response.

Tentatively, he reached forward, touching the door, almost as if he hoped to feel the presence of his visitor through the hard, wooden planks. He strained upward and peered through the bars of the narrow window, but he could see nothing. Yet as he stood tall, he lost his balance, tumbling against the door.

He put his hands out to block his fall, and to his astonishment, the door swung open.

The sound! It had been the catch on the door being released by a stealthy visitor! That visitor was gone.

And the mad dwarf was free.

It took but a few minutes for Gretchan and her hosts to retire to Tarn’s office, but she still had to fidget impatiently as Tarn took care of getting everyone a cool glass of dwarf spirits. She knew that such imbibing was a traditional part of any high-level council of dwarves, but she could barely contain her impatience as the king filled her glass then Otaxx’s, Mason’s, and finally his own.

He had barely finished his courtesies when the door opened to reveal Tarn’s wife, Crystal Heathstone. Gretchan had become good friends with the hill dwarf female, who was considerably younger than her husband, during the cleric’s stay in Pax Tharkas, and she quickly rose and gave Crystal a warm embrace. At first glance she noticed the former queen’s haggard look, the lines of tension radiating outward from her suddenly old-looking eyes. She filed that observation away for future, private conversation. For the time had finally come for her to share her astounding news.

She opened her backpack and pulled out the wedge of blood-red stone. She laid the artifact on the exiled king’s desk and stood back as his eyes widened in appreciation and recognition.

“The third part of the hammer!” Tarn said at once. “But … how did you come to have it? You were going to Kayolin, and we all thought that it was in Thorbardin.”

“You’re right on both counts,” Gretchan said. “It’s a long story, but in brief, we owe it to a gully dwarf.”

“You reached Kayolin, then?” asked her father. “And Brandon-is he well? Did you leave him there?”

“There’s so much to tell,” Gretchan said. “Brandon is on his way here, with several thousand Kayolin troops. I came on ahead with the Redstone so that we could meld it with the blue and green parts, and forge the Tricolor Hammerhead. You’ll have to assemble your best smiths and alchemists, of course. And I’ll help in any way I can-that is, if a humble priestess can be of service.”

“Wait!” Tarn held up a hand. “Kayolin is sending an army? Here? Maybe you should take your time and start at the beginning.”

So she did. Her four listeners found seats as Gretchan paced around the spacious office, describing the events that had resulted in Brandon Bluestone’s father rising to the governorship of Kayolin and the new sense of political will and cooperation that led to the dispatching of a large force to aid Tarn in reclaiming his rightful throne in Thorbardin.

“Gus Fishbiter, of all people, is the one who brought us the Redstone. You’ll all remember him; he’s the Aghar who-accidently but fortunately-disabled the trap here before Garn Bloodfist could release it on the Neidar. Anyway, he was able to magically travel from here back to Thorbardin, and he somehow stumbled onto the Redstone. He also learned that the war is actually happening there, the civil war between the black wizard and Jungor Stonespringer’s fanatics. Then he used the same kind of magic-a dimension door spell, it was, cast by some Theiwar wizards-to escape. Only instead of returning here, he found himself in Kayolin. That’s where Kondike found him and brought him to me.”

“Stop!” Tarn ordered again, frowning. “We discovered some Hylar and Daergar here, in Pax Tharkas. They said they came here through this dimension door you speak of. They said they’d been eager to get away, that conditions in Thorbardin were very bad. But what’s this about the war? You say a war’s really happening? In Thorbardin?”

“Yes! Gus couldn’t make up the details he gave me. He even talked about a huge dragon, a fiery serpent, fighting on the side of the wizard’s army. But victory was far from settled, and the destruction, inflicted by and upon both sides, is great. Thorbardin is suffering, and her defenses are weakened and conflicted. The time is perfect for us to move against the underground nation. While they are tearing at each other’s throats, we can return and claim your throne back for you and your line.”

“But the Kayolin Army …?”

“They’re on the march by now, certainly. Garren Bluestone was going to arrange for passage across the Newsea; he thought he could get assistance from the emperor of Solamnia. I came on ahead so that we could forge the hammer. And also so that we could have time to recruit the hill dwarves to help in our campaign. Slate Fireforge, in Hillhome-can we send for him at once, enlist his help in raising troops?”

Gretchan noticed the frown creasing Tarn Bellowgranite’s face. “What is it?” she asked immediately. “Have the Neidar gathered against you again? Just in the time since I’ve been gone?” She couldn’t hide her despair. She had been convinced that the treaty signed at the end of the previous year’s battle would be one that would stand the test of time. “We have their promise on the pact! Have they given some kind of word that they won’t honor it?”

“No, the hill dwarves have done nothing overt,” Tarn admitted. “But I’ll be cursed by Reorx before I’ll let them serve in any army under my command! Thorbardin is a nation of mountain dwarves! And so it shall remain!”

“But the treaty! You signed it!” she objected impulsively. “The hill dwarves agreed to help in exactly this purpose as soon as it became a real possibility!”

“Do you really think they meant that pledge?” Tarn snapped. “They signed it-and I signed it-in a moment of weakness!”

“It certainly can’t hurt to ask them,” Gretchan said, striving to maintain a reasonable tone in the face of such startling, stubborn intransigence.

“Yes, it can hurt,” the exiled king replied. “Has it occurred to you that Thorbardin harbors a wealth of treasure? If the hill dwarves agree to go with us, it will only be so that they can get their hands on that treasure! It belongs to the mountain dwarves; we will not share it!”

Gretchan was trying to come up with some kind of reply when she-and the older men-were startled by the loud slam of a door. She spun in surprise and only then noticed that the number of dwarves in the room had decreased by one.

Crystal Heathstone, the king’s wife and a proud daughter of the Neidar hill dwarves, had just stormed out of the room.

“Why do you have to be so Reorx-cursed stubborn?” Crystal Heathstone demanded once she and her husband had retired to the privacy of their living chambers. “If you could have just listened to her and seen the wisdom of her words, you could be the greatest leader Thorbardin has ever known! You could be the kind of dwarf I thought you were when I married you!”

“That’s enough, woman!” retorted Tarn Bellowgranite in a barely contained roar. “You forget who you’re talking to!”

“Oh no I don’t! I remember very well! I’m talking to a man who has been prejudiced for so long that he can’t see wisdom unless it’s slathered on a piece of bread and offered to him for breakfast!”

“That’s enough, I say! Do you recall what happened the last time the hill dwarves came to Pax Tharkas? They brought an army and a minion of dark magic! If it hadn’t been for that priestess and her staff, we’d-all of us! — be slaves in the Neidar mines by now!”

Crystal almost cried with exasperation. She turned and stomped across the office then spun back to face her husband. “That priestess, Gretchan Pax, is the same one who wants to reach out to the hill dwarves! Think about that if you can. This could be an historic moment in the whole history of dwarfkind. You could be the leader who finally moves our people beyond the destruction and rivalry of two thousand years!”

“No, I couldn’t,” Tarn retorted sternly. “Because I wouldn’t trust a hill dwarf ally any farther than I could throw him across a ravine. I’d be certain that, at the moment of victory, he’d be ready to stab me in the back! There’s a fortune in treasure in Thorbardin, and it is the property of the mountain dwarves. The hill dwarves only want it for themselves!”

“Think of what you’re saying!” Crystal protested. “These are my people you’re talking about! Do you think I would stab you in the back?”

Tarn glared without replying. His expression didn’t change as his son suddenly, furtively, slipped through the door. Tor was apparently surprised to find his parents there, for he swiftly turned and ducked out again.

The king turned back to his wife, who glared at him with an expression of unrelieved stubbornness. He was about to challenge her again when they were both distracted by a fresh knock on the door.

“What is it?” he demanded loudly. “I’m busy.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” came Mason Axeblade’s reply. “But it’s urgent, an emergency.”

Tarn stalked across the chamber and pulled the door open. “What’s happened?” he snapped.

“It’s Garn Bloodfist, sire,” Mason explained, his eyes wide with concern. “I’m sorry to report that … well, it seems that he’s escaped.”

Gretchan couldn’t suppress a sigh as she sat at the window of her guest apartment, a place of honor high up in the East Tower. The sun had set an hour earlier, and the valley floor below her was dotted with torches, bobbing and weaving as their bearers moved through the fields, searching for Garn Bloodfist. Other parties of armed dwarves stormed through the fortress, sometimes pounding down the hallway directly outside of her door. Tarn had ordered a pair of guards posted right there, so at least she didn’t have to endure their entering the room to search every time they passed.

Kondike lay on the floor beside the door. He looked comfortable, sprawled in a mass of gangly black legs and rough, shaggy fur. Yet one of his ears remained pricked alertly upward, and she knew that any disturbance would bring him bounding to his feet, hackles bristling and long teeth bared in the direction of the alarm.

Could it be that Garn Bloodfist was actually stalking through the halls of Pax Tharkas? She didn’t think so-he was well known and had few friends there. Even the Klar troops who had served him when he had been their captain had seen the danger in his wild hatred and had accepted the wisdom of the treaty that had brought the war to an end.

She shuddered as she pictured the mad Klar. She hadn’t seen Bloodfist since he had been arrested, at the very end of the battle in Pax Tharkas, but she would never forget the murderous look that he had directed at her, his wide Klar eyes staring wildly, dark spots in circles of white, as if he had been staring right through her.

How had everything become such a mess? Why did Reorx allow the affairs of dwarves to be so relentlessly cursed with violence, treachery, and murder?

She held her staff in both of her hands and closed her eyes as she pressed her forehead to the cool, smooth shaft of wood. She murmured a soft prayer to her god, the Master of the Forge. Her evening chants, as always, soothed her, the musical sound of prayer a calming force in even the most tumultuous of times.

She thought of Brandon, still so far away, and prayed for his safety, for his success in his campaign against the horax, for his speedy progress on his journey south. She continued to think of him as she undressed and slipped into bed-into the bed that was almost obscenely comfortable after all of the rough nights in her bedroll on the trail. Things would be so much better if he were there-of that, she was somehow certain.

And with that certainty, and the weariness of her long trek at last behind her, she finally allowed herself to sleep.