Hammer and Axe

22 Rage Within

With the closing of Northgate and the calling of reserve companies to arms, the entire north sector of Thorbardin was nearly deserted. In Gatekeep, behind the north Anvil’s Echo, a few families remained—mostly stone-cutters and their wives and children, and a few shop keepers. Long before the Wizards’ War, Bell Brightluster, Thorbardin’s warden of trade, had devised a plan to convert the cold shaft called Shame of Reorx into wells and storage lofts for oils, grains, and other goods gained in trade with the outside. Those crafters who remained in Gatekeep now were at work on the pit, replacing its walls with a grid-work structure from which nets and lines could be suspended for construction of an auger lift. A dozen or so guards remained with them, and the gate crew from Northgate’s gatehouse.

Just to the east and a few levels down, the north farming warren was nearly empty. A few Theiwar came from Theibardin now and then to look at the crops, but the growing season was well along, and there was little to be done there until the harvests began. The temporary Einar camps, for the refugees from the assault, had been moved past Theibardin to the shore of the Urkhan Sea, where water was plentiful, and shops and bakeries were numerous.

Thus the north end of Thorbardin, usually as busy and bustling as any other sector of the dwarven citadel, was nearly vacant for the time being. Almost thirty square miles of caverns north of Theibardin and Theibolden were, for all intents and purposes, deserted.

But it was to these sectors that Willow Summercloud came, with Shill Quickfoot tagging happily after her. Willow was, for the moment, thoroughly exasperated with Holgar dwarves in general. A dozen times she had tried to sound the alarm that something was wrong in the north warren. A dozen times she had collared guards, craftsmen, and even an entire platoon of Theiwar reserves on their way to Southgate and tried to tell them about the fog seeping into the warren and what it might mean.

And no one had paid any attention. Everyone was busy, preoccupied with the War of the Wizards going on beyond Southgate. A few had listened politely, especially some of the younger males, and several had informed her—patronizingly in some cases—that Thorbardin was well secured and that an outsider could not be expected to realize just how thoroughly defended it was.

Two or three of the young males had offered to show her around . . . after the war was over. One had even offered to take her home with him . . . after the war was done.

Many people, here in this smug, snug hole beneath a mountain, seemed not even to have heard of the killing beast that had ravaged Einar villages in the outside world. And even those who had heard the tale saw no connection between that and the cold fog creeping into the north warren. The beast was gone, they assured her. It had been driven away, or something.

She wished that Damon were with her. He, at least, had been there, had seen what the creature did to her own village. He had helped in the search for the thing. But Damon was far away, occupied with the fighting beyond Southgate, as was everyone else who might know about the fog creature.

Willen Ironmaul, the chief of chiefs, was away dealing with the war. All of his senior officers were with him. All the other thane chieftains were away, as well, occupied with various things, and even the wardens could not be found.

“What this place needs is a king,” Willow fumed. “As it is now, there isn’t anybody in charge.”

It occurred to her to try one more time, to go to Hybardin and tell Tera Sharn what she feared. But by then she was already on her way through Theibardin, heading for the warren. Shillitec Medina Quickfoot skipped along behind her, lugging a fat pouch that had seemed to grow larger and larger each day since her arrival in Thorbardin. Carrying her axe, the Einar girl headed for the Fifth Road that led north toward the warren a mile away. As she rounded a bend, a voice called, “Well, hello there!” She turned. A few feet away, just stepping out of a side route, was a long-armed young Theiwar in battle armor and cloak. He wore a shield at his back, had a curved, dark-steel blade slung at his side, and the mesh faceplate of his helm almost covered his features. As she stared at him, he removed the helm and grinned. She remembered him then. It was Tag Salan, who had been with Damon at Sheercliff, and had accompanied them back to Thorbardin.

“I see you’ve found some nice clothes,” he said. “Wow! Does Damon know what a lucky guy he is? You’re really . . .” His admiring gaze shifted, and his eyes widened. “You still have that kender,” he said.

“Hello,” Shill chirped brightly. “I think I remember you. Of course, as my Aunt Pathtoe says, when you’ve seen one dwarf, you’ve seen them all. But that isn’t really right. You were out there when we met those wizards, weren’t you? I’m glad your beard has grown back.”

“How did she get into Thorbardin?” Tag asked Willow. “Kender don’t usually get past the gates.”

“I just walked in.” Shill giggled. “A lot of people were coming in, so I. . .”

“Maybe you will listen to me,” Willow Summercloud said. “So far, nobody has.”

“Listen about what?” Tag asked.

“About the fog-thing. The creature that destroyed Windhollow. You were there. You saw what it did.”

“I sure did,” the Theiwar assured her grimly. “And I saw where it came from, too. I found its lair. Damon is right, you know. I’m sure those wizards woke that thing up. But I heard it got away, that it’s gone.”

“It isn’t gone!” Willow said. “I think it’s here.”

“Here?” Tag’s hand went to his blade. “In Thorbardin?”

“Or trying to get in,” she said. “You see, I was looking around, and there was fog coming in, seeping through cracks in the stone behind a terrace. It was cold fog, like the fog that creature brought with it to Windhollow.”

“Cracks?” Tag shook his head. “In Thorbardin? There aren’t any cracks that I know of. Nothing could get in here, though. Not even wizards. They tried it and failed. And even if something did get in, everybody would know about it. There are only two entrances, and they’re always guarded.”

“There aren’t any guards where I was,” Willow pointed out. “There isn’t anybody there. Everybody is gone.”

“Oh.” He nodded. “I guess everyone has been off fighting wizards. That’s where I’ve been. But the war is over now. We beat the wizards and their troops. Didn’t Damon tell you?”

“I haven’t seen Damon,” she said.

“Well, he’s probably looking for you. He talks about you all the time. You should have seen him out there, dealing with those wizards! I swear, I don’t think anybody or anything can beat Damon Omenborn, once he gets mad.”

“I can imagine,” Willow breathed. Then she shook her head. “But what about the fog? What should we do?”

“It’s probably just fog.” Tag shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s go find Damon and . . .”

“You go find him,” she snapped. “I have things to do.”

Before he could reply, the girl was gone. There was no sign of her, or of the little kender either. He started toward the Fifth Road crossing and stopped as a commotion erupted just across the way.

“Get that creature out of here!” someone bellowed. “Thief! Thief!”

Loosing his sword, Tag ran to the row of stalls across the wide thoroughfare and skidded to a stop. Inside a delved shop, a burly Theiwar with a leather apron was running in circles, swinging a broom. And just ahead of him, ducking from bench to bench, table to table, and cabinet to shelf, Shillitec Medina Quickfoot was dodging, scampering, and shouting taunts back over her shoulder.

“Hold on!” Tag shouted at the shop keeper. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s a kender!” the Theiwar said. “A kender, in my shop! Probably stealing everything it can lay its hands on!”

“There’s nothing here worth stealing,” Shill shrilled at him. “Even if I were a thief, which I’m not, and you’ve no right calling me that! Besides that, you’re ugly!”

Again the shopkeeper gave chase, wielding his broom, and it was all Tag could do to stop him and calm him down. When again he had the merchant’s attention, he said, “I don’t know what you’re worrying about. This is a furniture shop. There isn’t anything in here that a kender could lift, much less steal. What is it you think she took?”

“I don’t know.” The shopkeeper glared at him. “But I know about kender.”

“Reorx have mercy,” Tag sighed. He looked around for Shill and couldn’t find her. Then he thought about starting after Willow again, but didn’t even know where she had been going when he hailed her. Confused and puzzled, he walked along several tunnels, searching, then shook his head. “What do I do now?” he asked himself.

At the entrance to the north warren, Willow felt a chill come over her. A great, hollow stillness lay across the immense cavern. By the light of sun-tunnels she could see the terraces and fields, the segment paths and the irrigation ditches, the granaries and equipment sheds scattered here and there. The north warren was not the largest of Thorbardin’s subterranean farming caverns, but it was the oldest. For more than eighty years, these fields had been worked and their crops harvested. Nearly four square miles of fertile fields, terraces, and vine ledges, the old “First Warren” had been the dwarves’ great experiment with underground farming, and what they had learned here was now practiced in two other main warrens, as well as in the new worm warren where some of the Klar were harvesting edible funguses and several varieties of spices for trade.

The warrens were usually bustling, busy places, but right now the north warren seemed entirely deserted.

The silence was unbroken even by the sounds of wind and birdcall which Willow remembered from the Einar fields of Windhollow.

And, she realized, it was cold. In this place of fairly constant temperatures beneath the mountain, she had not felt chill since her arrival. But she felt it now and knew it was not imagination. In the nearest field, there was frost on the ripening melons.

She gazed at the frost, then looked up, startled. For frost to form, there must be mist. And now, looking across the wide warren, she realized that it was foggy. Looking northward, she could not see the far ledges. Though a mile away, they had been clearly visible when she had first entered. Now it was as though a deepening mist were rolling into the warren, obscuring everything in the north quadrants and moving south, toward her.

With a chill in her heart, she hurried on, deeper into the warren. The cold fog was like the fog that had swept down on her village just before the thing within the fog attacked. But the memory also brought a renewed determination, and, clutching her axe tightly, she hurried on.

She was within a hundred yards of the deepening, rolling fog when a low, rumbling hiss broke the eerie silence of the warren. Where the fog rolled beneath a sun-tunnel, filtered light sifted downward, and within the fog something moved—something very large, straightening itself upward, raising its head. With a gasp, Willow dived off the path into the edge of a field of gray-green foliage and crouched there, hidden. The fog seemed to rise before her, roiling upward, then a great, serpentine head rose above it. Fierce silver eyes beneath iron-gray carapace ridges scanned the warren, searching. A long beaklike snout breathed cold fumes, and huge silvery teeth glistened as the thing’s mouth opened in a growl.

“Rage,” Willow whispered to herself. That was what someone had called the fog-creature. Rage. The beast behind that serpentine visage was more than evil, more than cruel and cold. It was rage—killing, raving, icy rage. And it was here, in Thorbardin.

The head gazed around, then lowered again into the enveloping fog as the thing moved forward, coming toward her. Carefully, Willow got to her feet. The thing had raised its head to see what was around it. Therefore, it must be as blinded by the mists that clung to it as was anyone else. In that, it was vulnerable.

With a shiver of resolve, Willow raised her axe, darted directly into the fog, and swung a roundhouse cut at the first thing she saw move. The axe clanged, as though hitting solid stone, and rebounded, throwing her off-balance. She danced to the side, stooping to regain her equilibrium, and something huge—like a wide, half-seen web wing with claws—whisked over her head. Above her, somewhere, the creature snorted, and as she looked up the great evil head materialized in the mists directly over her. With a lunge, she swung her axe over her head, directly into the huge, fanged snout. It was like striking granite, but the thing roared and withdrew for an instant, and the dwarf girl turned and raced away a dozen steps. She was just turning back when she heard a sound to her right, like scythes swishing through ripe grain. By pure instinct, she jumped straight up, and a huge, swatting tail flattened the field plants beneath her.

Again she ran, trying to get past the reach of the thing’s tail, and dived and rolled as the tail swept past again, this time going over her, missing her by inches. Even as it passed, she got her feet under her, reversed her direction, and ran directly under the dark shadow that was the creature’s body. One more try, she told herself. I have carried this axe since Windhollow, just to cut this thing. I must try one more time.

She ran, dodged, reversed, and charged again, guessing by the movement of shadows within the mist where the various parts of the thing might be. She heard a deep, cold growl just ahead and dodged aside as the great, serpentlike head shot past her, its fangs clicking like stone on stone. As it passed, she turned and swung her axe with all her might. This time it didn’t rebound. It hit something very solid, seemed to embed itself there, and was torn from her grasp as the creature roared in pain and fury. Tumbling, dodging, and scampering, Willow ran as she had never run before, while just behind her the massive creature roared, hissed, and thrashed among ripening fields.

Willow ran until the fog around her had thinned a bit, then slowed to look back. Fifty yards away the deep fogs rolled, and above them was the face of Rage, its slanted silver eyes looking directly at her. It raised its head higher and roared, and for an instant she saw her axe, its blade embedded in the thing’s long neck.

Then the head lowered and lunged, the fogs rolled forward, and Willow Summercloud ran for her life as cold mists closed in behind her.

The nearest exit from the warren was the Third Road gate, and Willow headed for it. Like all the warren gates, it was actually two doors—a small door set within a great one. Built of massive timbers, the gates were of Theiwar design. Their purpose was to allow people to go in and out of the warrens without any stray tractor worms following them out. The small doors were adequate for dwarves on foot, or small carts and barrows, and the big doors were solid enough to turn away the nearly mindless, usually docile worms. But now, as Willow darted through the small gate into the wide tunnel of Third Road, she knew the big gate would not stop the thing raving after her.

The road-tunnel swung to the right, climbing toward higher levels. Willow’s small, booted feet pounded the stone as she ran. Behind her she heard a rending crash and an angry roar. Another crash, then she heard the gate’s great timbers splintering as the fog-beast smashed through it. Cold, dense mists flooded into the tunnel, ebbing around her feet as she darted around another turn and saw brighter light ahead in the distance.

Up a steep slope she dashed, and out into a cross-tunnel. Some distance to her left, an old dwarf with white whiskers turned to stare at her and at the rolling mists entering the corridor behind her.

“Run!” she shouted, waving at the old one. “Run for your life!”

Down the tunnel, to the south, the elder gaped at her, then turned and hobbled away on ancient, stubby legs. After a few steps he stumbled and fell, and Willow turned and ran the other way. Runes on the stone wall near the intersection of tunnels told her that she was now in the Second Road, heading north. In the distance, going the other way, the old dwarf had picked himself up and was hurrying off, but then cold fog surged outward from the intersecting tunnel and blocked her view. Kneeling, panting, Willow pried a flagstone from the floor of the tunnel and flung it into the blinding mist. “Here!” she shouted. “Here I am, you . . . you contemptible rust! I’m the one you’re after!”

Fog rolled toward her, and she turned and ran again. Behind her came the beast of ages, raging and cold.

Along the tunnel, Willow gained a little distance by darting into a parallel vent-shaft barely large enough to admit her. Crouching, she ran along the shaft for a hundred yards, then scurried through another vent and was in the roadway again. Behind her, tearing at the wall where she had gone, the creature roared and lashed, then raised its head and saw her again. With renewed ferocity, it pursued.

The Second Road tunnel came out into a large, hewn cavern with a single sun-tunnel above. Tools and blocks of cut stone scattered around indicated that the dwarves of Thorbardin intended to build something here, but had not yet started construction. Willow darted across the wide opening and into the road-tunnel beyond, now going almost straight north. Not far ahead she saw people—dwarves, most of them unarmed, milling about in another wide concourse.

“Run!” Willow shouted at them. “Get away! The fog-beast is here! Run!”

Dwarves scurried around ahead of her, and, by threes and fives, disappeared. Scampering into the opening just ahead of the pursuing fogs, Willow blinked and glanced around. There wasn’t a sign of anyone, anywhere. Then suddenly, only a step ahead, a great open pit yawned before her, its wide opening partially screened over by a lattice of rods and bars. It was too late for her to stop. Leaping frantically, she reached the nearest crossbeam and scampered along it to another, her arms spread wide for balance. She teetered over a bottomless void, leapt to another crossbeam, and still another, then was past the pit and racing into the next roadway opening.

Behind her, the fogs reached the great pit, and the creature within the mist spread wide, stubby wings and soared across, huge talons barely missing the latticework of crossbeams over its top. And, just below, clinging to perches and drop-lines, dozens of “Shame of Reorx” crafters stared at the huge, misty shape going past above them.

Hardly slowing her pace, Willow Summercloud dashed out into the great, vaulted emptiness of Anvil’s Echo and ran along the precarious, suspended catwalk through its center. Here and there, in the walls of the great chamber, a murder hole opened, and Willow shouted, “Alarm! Signal the gatehouse! Danger!”

She danced off the outer end of the catwalk on to solid stone and looked around. Fog was filling Anvil’s Echo as the creature came through, gliding just above the catwalk on set, web-taloned wings. Here and there, missiles flew from murder holes, but they simply entered the thick fog and bounced off what was within it. Willow turned and fled toward the dead end of the road, the gatehouse of Northgate.

Rage focused all her attention now on the puny little warm-blood fleeing ahead of her. She knew there were others here, but the rage within her—the rage that was all of her—was concentrated now on that one individual creature. It had challenged her and escaped. It had attacked her and escaped her fury. It had actually caused her pain, piercing the skin of her only soft part—her neck—with its edged implement.

She would get around to all the rest of the creatures in this place in her own time. They would all die. There was nothing they could do. She would hunt them down relentlessly and kill them all. But first, this one must die. This one had challenged her, and it must die as horribly as she could manage.

Through various tunnels, some wide and spacious, some barely large enough to let her spread her wings, she pursued the little creature. Often, with the mists swirling around her, she could not see her prey, but she could sense where it was. Its very warmth was a beacon to her, almost a second sight, and she longed to feel that warmth burst and flow from her fangs, to hear the screams as the warmth struggled, then turned cold.

Now the tunnel became narrower, and ahead were echoes that said the way was blocked beyond. Other warm things were there, scurrying around, and she sensed their fear. But they could wait. She wanted this one—the one fleeing her—first.

Willow was panting and shaking as she entered the gatehouse tunnel, with its water lofts and mechanisms, and the great, glistening screw running along its length. Desperately she looked around and saw others, cringing here and there in the shadows.

“Open the gate!” she shouted.

The gate crew cringed and stared at her, then gaped at the thick mist rolling into the corridor just behind her.

“Quickly!” Willow demanded. “If you want to live, open the gate!”

“By whose orders?” a dwarf queried, glancing nervously at the thickening mist.

Willow started to say something and was drowned out by the roar of the creature as its head emerged into the narrow corridor, rising to glare over the great screw. Its roar was like echoing thunder in the enclosed space.

“By those orders!” Willow snapped. “Stop staring and open the tarnishing gate!”

Dwarves scurried toward a long, vertical lever set in sockets at the center of a great, up-and-down column of gray iron. With only a moment’s pause, one of them pulled the lever until it was horizontal. Opposite it on the column of iron, a second lever raised from horizontal to vertical, and the unmistakable roar of flowing water echoed in the gatehouse.

Grudgingly, the huge metal screw began to turn, and the massive plug at the end of it inched back on its tracks. A rim of outside daylight appeared around its edges.

The fogs rolled, and a huge fanged head lunged forward, missing Willow by inches as she scooted under the screw and ran along its far side. The creature towered above the screw, seeking her, its prehensile neck curving upward and down, and she ducked beneath the screw again and reversed her direction. As the great head followed her, it seemed as though the creature were winding itself around the turning screw.

Dodging the crunching fangs, Willow leapt upward and grabbed the handle of her axe, still flopping beside the long neck. With a heave, she pulled it loose and struck again, making a second shallow cut.

The creature roared in fury, drummed great wings, and lashed its tail, filling the gatehouse with thunder. Beyond it, dwarven gatekeepers disappeared into little tunnels. The screw continued to turn, and the opening around the great plug widened. Abandoning her axe, which was stuck again, Willow dodged past the forward braces of the screw and dived for the opening. For a second, she stuck there, caught between plug and frame. Then the opening was enough, and she squeezed through just as a formidable, fanged muzzle lodged itself in the widening crack just behind her.

Willow crouched, picked up a fist-sized stone, and flung it at the nearest silver eye, shouting insults. The crack widened and more of the slavering, icy head emerged, straining after her. Just as the carapace above the eyes cleared the opening, the dwarf girl turned and ran.

It was sixty feet from one side of the gate to the other, and Willow covered the distance on flying feet. She reached the far side, ducked through the opening there, and ran back along the screw’s length. All of the gatekeepers had disappeared, but she had seen how the gate worked. Reaching the iron column with its double levers, she dodged a flailing tail, threw her weight onto the vertical lever, and hauled it down. Valves shifted, waters flowed, and the screw reversed its rotation. The great plug began to close again.

Instantly, fogs rolled backward as the fog-creature realized the trap and began to withdraw. “Hurry, you be-rusted contraption!” Willow shouted at the screw. “Can’t you turn any faster?” With all her might, she hauled the lever down to full horizontal position. The sound of waters increased, the screw turned faster, and the creature hissed and roared in frenzied fury.

It threw itself this way and that, battering gatehouse walls, sockets, and turning screw. Great talons scrabbled against stone, digging deep gouges in the floor of the tunnel. Stubby, webbed wings beat the air, stirring the increasing cold mists into little storms. Willow Summer-cloud crawled behind the iron water column and huddled there, wide-eyed and pale.

The dwarves of Thorbardin had built their gates to be impenetrable. And with this as the goal, dwarven craft had done its best. The great beast’s struggles neither stopped nor slowed the irrevocable turning of the huge screw in its sockets. Inch by inch, second by second, the massive gate-plug closed into its frame, closing on the neck of the trapped beast.

Rage raved. Rage roared, reared, and thundered, flailing mighty appendages. But the gate closed tighter and tighter as geared waterwheels took the flow from high tanks and transferred their energy to the screw.

To Willow, it seemed an hour before the great, steel-sheathed stone plug pushed itself as far as it could go into its sockets and came to a stop. Hardly an inch of daylight showed around it, and in that inch was pinched the long neck of the fog-beast. Its wings still beat, its talons still scrabbled, and its tail still lashed from side to side, but now the motions slowed and became erratic. It was almost impossible to see in the gatehouse because of the dense fog, but as the beast’s flailing became feeble, it seemed to Willow that the fog became less dense.

There were shouts from somewhere, and the sounds of running feet, then armed dwarves swarmed into the narrow corridor, gaping at the sight ahead of them. The one leading was Damon Omenborn, his face a fierce scowl, his eyes dark with worry. Right behind him was Tag Salan.

Willow crawled out from behind the flow column, and . Damon saw her. Leaping over the creature’s twitching tail, the big Hylar dodged under the screw and pulled the girl to her feet. He stared at her for a moment, then dropped his hammer and shield, caught her up in strong arms, and lifted her entirely off the floor, pressing her against him.

“Damon!” she managed, almost breathless. “Damon, quit that! Put me down!”

Reluctantly, he set her back on her feet. “You’re alive,” he said, almost in a whisper.

“I told you I’d get that thing,” she reminded him. “I got it.”

“You certainly did.” He glanced again toward the almost closed gate, throttling the beast’s neck. “Do you suppose it’s dead?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t know what it takes to kill a . . . one of those.”

“Well, it sure isn’t going anywhere.” Tag Salan chuckled, ducking under the screw to get a better look at the fog-creature, which was still twitching. “I guess it can just stay where it is until we’re sure it’s finished. Do you think this is a dragon of some kind?”

“I don’t think so,” Damon said. “But it may be the kind of thing that dragons came from.” He turned back to Willow, still holding her arms with both hands. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” She gazed up at him. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well,” he said, “there is an old legend here in Thorbardin. It’s about me. I don’t know what to make of it, but. . . well, I wonder if you would be interested, possibly, in being the mother of kings?”