Heroes And Fools

The Bridge
Douglas Niles

It was a stone span, not more than two dozen paces in length. The bridge crossed a chasm carved by a churning stream, a rapid flow of icy water spilling downward from the lofty valleys of the High Kharolis. The roadway was smoothly paved and wide enough to allow the passage of a large wagon, albeit snugly. Low stone walls, no more than knee-high to a grown man, bracketed the right of way.

The bridge was dwarf-made, a fact visible even to a casual observer. No gaps separated the carefully cut stones, and the outer surface was smooth and virtually seamless. The central pillar rising from the gorge was slender and high, far taller than would have been possible for any human or elven construct. The span had a sturdy appearance of permanence, appropriate for a structure that had stood without a single repair for more than a thousand years.

The road to the bridge curled down a steep ridge from the mountains. After crossing the gorge, the route formed the main street of a small village. This was a collection of stone houses, sheltered under low roofs and set into the rocky hillsides on either side of the street. A few dwarves walked down the lane, carrying bundles of firewood, while another squat, bearded figure led a small pony up a trail on the nearby hill. The steady cadence of a blacksmith’s hammer could be heard from the shed attached to a smoking smelter. Other than these signs of activity, and a few plumes of chimney smoke, the town was quiet.

All this could be observed by the watchers atop the nearby ridge. Three dwarves lay there, flat on their bellies as they reconnoitered the road and its lofty crossing. From their vantage they couldn’t see the bottom of the gorge, but they could see enough shadowy cliff to know that the cut was several hundred feet deep.

“And no doubt the river’s frothin’ like dragon breath down there,” muttered Tarn Bellowgranite.

Beside him, Belicia Slateshoulder nodded. “Judging from the current in the highlands, it’ll be deep and too rapid to ford-even if we could get two thousand dwarves down the cliff and back up the other side.”

Tarn nodded, looking over his shoulder at the horde of refugees waiting on the roadway behind them, carefully halted out of sight of the village. He knew they were counting on him to lead them to safety, as they had counted on him to hold them together during four months of exile. The last remnant of Clan Hylar, driven from their home under the mountain by the attacks of ruthless enemies, they had barely endured the summer and early autumn in the barren valleys of the higher elevations. Shaken and demoralized by life under the open sky, they had struggled to survive, followed him as he led them to valleys of game, followed him as he brought them down finally from the high country. They looked weary and exhausted, and as Tarn gazed at the deep gorge he understood that most of the tired, ragged mountain dwarves would never be able to make such a climb.

“It has to be the bridge then,” he said.

He turned his attention once again to the village beyond the span. He studied the stone houses partially buried in the rocky slopes, saw the low garden walls, the sturdy construction and thick, slanting roofs. A large building, the source of the pounding hammer, puffed a column of black smoke from a sooty chimney. Like his own people, the villagers were dwarves-but at the same time they were different, for they were hill dwarves, bred under the sky. His own tribe, for generations, had called the caverns under the mountains their home.

Past the village they could see the promise of their destination: a swath of green fields, bright with sparkling lakes and great stretches of forest that were sure to provide game and forage aplenty. The Hylar refugees would be able to build huts there, maybe find a few snug caves, and with luck the majority would last the coming winter. There would be food in the lakes and forests and some respite from the brutal weather that would soon seize the high altitudes.

Tarn pushed back from the summit, joining his two companions in stretching, then settling down into a squat. He looked over the mass of huddled dwarves awaiting his decision. They had built no fires, made no shelters here beside the narrow road. Instead they lay where they had halted, sipping at waterskins or chewing on thin strips of dried meat. Some were armed, still hale and sturdy, but too many others were gaunt, sunburned, bent with weariness. The eyes that looked to him for some glimmer of hope were haunted and dark.

Behind the ragged refugees stretched the rugged ridges leading into the High Kharolis. Snow dusted all the slopes, and the loftiest peaks were buried beneath ten-foot drifts of soft powder. Plumes of wind-blown crystals trailed from these summits, proof that winter’s winds would soon scour the valleys and chill the life out of anyone who hadn’t planned ahead for winter.

“Let’s quit wastin’ time,” growled the third dwarf, speaking for the first time. “I say we move on the bridge before the hill dwarves even know we’re here. If they try to stop us. .” He didn’t finish the statement, but his hand, tightening around the haft of his great war axe, made clear his meaning.

“Wait, Barzack,” Tarn cautioned. “Let’s make a plan and stick to it. There’s got to be a way to get across that bridge without people getting killed.”

“Bah-they’re hill dwarves! Who gives a whit if we have to cut a few of them to pieces?”

“You’re forgetting-we might have to live nearby to this place for the whole winter. It’ll be hard enough just finding food and making shelter without having to worry whether we’re going to be attacked by a bunch of villagers intending to seek vengeance for a surprise ambush.”

“Not to mention,” Belicia added pointedly, “we don’t know. Maybe they’re peaceful folk.”

Barzack snorted. Like Tarn, he was a shaggy fellow, with long hair and a bushy beard. Despite months of living off the land, his dark armor was clean and polished and rust free. His boots and tunic showed signs of wear, but his helmet fit tightly over his scalp. While Tarn and Belicia had demonstrated patience and leadership in keeping the mountain dwarves together during the months of exile, Barzack had proven capable and useful as a tracker, a hunter, and a fighter of admirable courage and skills. All the tribe had honored him when he had single-handedly slain a great cave bear. Using only his axe he not only destroyed a threat to dwarven lives, but he furnished enough meat for a grand feast and procured a pelt that had yielded a dozen warm cloaks.

“The hill dwarves can’t seek vengeance if they’re all dead,” he pointed out with cold logic.

Tarn shook his head. “We’re not looking for another war. Besides, considering the state of the world, I’d be surprised if that village is really as sleepy as it looks. Maybe they aren’t pushovers.”

The other male glowered. “Let ‘em try and fight us-I tell you, we could use a little action.”

“What about our elders and the children?” Belicia retorted with a gesture at the listless mob of Hylar. “Don’t you think they’d appreciate having their warriors around for the winter?” She turned to Tarn. “Let me go down and talk to them, see if there’s going to be any trouble.”

“I think we should all go. That way they’ll know that we mean business,” Tarn said. “We should be ready to make a move if they prove balky.”

“No reason to get them all alarmed,” Belicia countered.

“If they see two thousand mountain dwarves waiting to cross their bridge, they’ll prefer to talk-and they’ll think twice before trying to stop us.”

Although he grimaced in disgust, Barzack nodded his reluctant agreement. “It’s bad enough living outside, having the sun beat down on us for a hot summer. Now we’ve got to kiss up to a bunch of hill dwarves, just to hope they’ll let us cross the bridge and pass through their little town.”

“Maybe you’d rather go back to Thorbardin?” demanded Tarn, his temper flaring.

For a moment all three were silent, overcome by grim memories. The Hylar had once been the proudest of dwar-ven clans, unchallenged rulers of mighty Thorbardin. They had been driven from their ancestral home during the past summer, victims of the treachery of dark dwarves. As if the traitorous attack of their neighboring clans wasn’t enough, they had suffered an influx of demon creatures from Chaos that had wracked their home with unprecedented violence. Now these refugees were the only survivors of Clan Hylar. Their city was a ruin. No family had been left unscathed by the devastation-in fact each of the three leaders debating what to do on the bridge had lost a father in the brutal battles against dark dwarves and Chaos beasts. Tarn couldn’t help feeling a twinge of shame as he thought how far his people had fallen. He knew there were worse dangers that loomed ahead, and he wondered if he was capable of coping with the obstacles.

“One day we will go back,” he said, speaking to himself as much as to his two companions. “That’s a promise. . to you, to all of us.”

“For now, let’s see if we can get across that bridge,” Belicia said, bringing their attention back to the present.

“Barz?” asked Tarn, looking back to the multitude of mountain dwarves resting on either side of the road.

“I’ll bring ‘em up,” the burly warrior muttered. “We’ll be ready to rush the bridge if they show any signs of stupidity.”

“Wait until I give the word,” Tarn said. He was grateful for Barzack’s competence, a useful attribute in this increasingly problematic world, but frequently found his bellicose nature a challenge to reasonable authority.

The black-bearded warrior shouted at the main body, and the mountain dwarves once again fell into line. The sturdiest warriors took the front positions, though a large detachment of armed Hylar brought up the rear of the band to guard against surprise. Tarn and Belicia led the large column across the crest of the ridge and down the road toward the village. They saw immediately that the sleepy appearance of the hill dwarf community was deceptive. In plain view a troop of armed warriors appeared from a squat building and marched forth to straddle the bridge.

“Do you think they knew we were here all along?” asked Belicia.

“Who knows? I wouldn’t be surprised if they keep a company on permanent guard duty.”

The dwarfwoman nodded. Both of them knew that though the Storms of Chaos had been beaten back before they could consume Thorbardin, strange beings still lurked across this and every other part of Krynn. No doubt the hill dwarves had experienced some of the Chaos horrors-dragons of liquid fire, shadow wights that sucked vitality, life, even memory from their doomed victims, daemon warriors who feared nothing.

Of course, the schism between the dwarf clans existed long before the Chaos War. Still, it saddened Tarn to see that the rivalries and resentments that had marred the history of the hill and mountain dwarves had not been allayed by the arrival of a greater, supernatural threat. The residents of this little village couldn’t have looked more hostile than they did now, facing fellow dwarves. To judge from the first words spoken when Tarn and Belicia had advanced to within hailing distance, an all-out battle was likely.

“That’s far enough, cousins. . these arrows have sharp heads, and no one’s ever complained about our aim!”

The speaker was a brawny hill dwarf, a fellow who looked to be nearly a head taller than Tarn. He carried a massive, heavy warhammer, and was flanked by a row of doughty comrades, each of whom held a heavy crossbow raised and pointed. Even from a hundred paces away, the mountain dwarves could see the sunlight reflecting off arrowheads.

“We want to talk to you,” said Belicia, holding up both of her hands, palms outward. Tarn remained silent, and made no move to draw his sword.

“Talk from over there, then,” growled the original speaker.

“We come from Thorbardin,” Tarn said. “We are of Clan Hylar, and we left our ancestral home, driven out by evil Chaos fiends.”

“We know-and for all we care, you can go back there! Maybe a fire dragon will keep you warm this winter!”

“Please listen,” Belicia said. “We are not looking for a fight. . or even your help. All we ask is that our band be allowed to cross this bridge and pass through your village, that we may have a chance to reach safety of the lowlands before the onset of winter.”

“We know all we need to know about mountain dwarves. . maybe you recall the stories yourself? How once upon a time the world was coming to an end, and the Cataclysm was raining death across Krynn? We hill dwarves turned to the undermountain clans for protection. Do you remember what the mountain dwarf king said?”

“I remember,” Tarn said, “and it is a memory that brings us shame.”

“Well, we remember too,” declared the hill dwarf, “and to us it’s a memory that brings only hatred and bitterness. There was no room for us, your king said. . go back to the hills and die, he said. Ironic, isn’t it, when you think about what yer asking. Now that we have a chance to return the favor, you’ll understand that we plan to make the most of it!”

“You speak of a time of evil and selfishness,” retorted Tarn. “Those traits led to war back then-the Dwarfgate War, the greatest tragedy of our history.”

“Think about the past, and have a new vision for the future!” Belicia argued. “Your actions today can lay the groundwork for lasting peace.”

“We’ve had all we want of mountain dwarf peace! Now, go back to the high country or face our steel!” The speaker brandished his great hammer, while the ranks of crossbowmen aimed their weapons meaningfully.

Other hill dwarves lined the edge of the gorge. All were armed and-unlike the Hylar-they looked healthy, clean, well-fed. Though they were no match for the sheer numbers of the refugees, they had the advantage of defending a bridge, a narrow route that would inevitably negate the greater force of the Hylar.

“We can’t go back to the heights!” Tarn declared, feeling his temper rising again. “If you don’t let us pass in peace, then we’ll have to try to do so by force-we have no choice! That will lead to a waste of lives that benefits neither of our tribes. For you should know this, hill dwarf-though some of my clan may die, your people’s blood, too, will flow across the ground. Cousins will kill cousins, and many dwarves will perish!”

“I say let the killing begin!” sneered the village chieftain. “My father and grandfather and all my ancestors have told me of mountain dwarf treachery, of the hate that kept my people from safety during the Cataclysm. You are no kin of ours!”

Tarn felt his sword hand twitching as he started to reply. Before he could growl out a word, however, he felt Belicia’s hand on his arm. As always, her touch calmed him.

“It’s no good,” muttered Tarn, glaring at the belligerent warrior on the bridge. “ ‘Stubborn as a hill dwarf.’ I see that it’s an apt phrase!”

Barzack stalked forward. “Let’s fight them!” insisted the veteran warrior. He fixed his dark eyes on Tarn and set his jaw belligerently. “Let me lead the way if you don’t have the stomach for it!”

“That’s enough of that kind of talk,” snapped Tarn, still in a foul temper, “or you’ll be fighting me, not some upstart hill dwarf.”

“Stop it, both of you,” snapped Belicia.

“What are we going to do about this impasse, then?” demanded Barzack.

“I guess you’re right,” Tarn said after a long silence. “We’ll have to fight.”

“Go to war against our own cousins?” Belicia asked glumly.

“Do you have a better idea?” asked Tarn in exasperation.

“I might,” Barzack offered. He studied the picket line at the bridge. “That big hill dwarf, the one making most of the noise-like he was spoiling for a fight, right?”

“Aye,” Tarn agreed, wondering what the mountain dwarf was getting at.

“Well, so am I! Let’s suggest a match-myself against him. If I win, we get to cross the bridge and move swiftly through the village and into the low valleys. If he wins, we go back-or, rather, you will, since I’ll be dead. We’ll pledge against the honor of Reorx, so there will be no duplicity on either side.”

“I don’t know,” the Hylar leader said slowly. He looked at the strapping warrior appraisingly, remembered Barzack’s prowess against the massive bear. “If I were a bettor, I’d admit I like your chances, but we-especially you-would be gambling with very high stakes.”

“I’ll win,” Barzack said confidently.

“How can you be so sure?”

“This is why.” The burly warrior reached into the tangle of the beard at his breast. He groped for a moment, then brought forth a glittering object dangling from a golden chain. Tarn saw a necklace, three gold disks linked on a single chain of gold. One of the disks was centered with a ruby, another with an emerald, and the third with a bright diamond.

“This is all that I have left to remind me of my mother,” said Barzack. “She gave it to me before she left Thorbardin with my father. . I was a wee mite, for this was long years before the Lance War. She said I should always carry her prized necklace, for I was her first son.”

Tarn was surprised to see moisture in the warrior’s eyes, to hear emotion choke the dwarf’s voice.

“I never saw her again.”

“Do you know what happened to her?” asked Belicia.

“Yes, my father told me.” Barzack drew a deep breath, and once again his eyes were dry, his voice hard. “She was taken by hill dwarves. . captured, enslaved, probably worked to death or killed outright.”

Barzack glared at Tarn, as if challenging him to make an issue of the story. “That’s why I’ll win-in my mind, these hill dwarves are the same as those who took my mother. My hatred of them will carry me to victory. I assure you, this fight will give me a great deal of satisfaction.”

“Still, it’s taking a huge chance.”

“The alternative is war,” Belicia pointed out.

“I know.” Tarn gestured to the vast band of mountain dwarves gathered on the road before the bridge. “If it comes to battle, though, I know we could win. We easily outnumber them.”

“However, it is as you say. Too many Hylar would die. How many would die before we prevailed?” his mate persisted. “I think Barzack’s idea has real merit.”

“Let me fight him-for my mother, my father, for all of us. For Reorx himself!”

Tarn still didn’t like it. He knew that Reorx was the god of all dwarves, clans of mountain and hill alike, and there was no guarantee that he would favor the Hylar cause.

“Do you have a better idea? Any idea at all?” growled Barzack. Tarn was forced to admit that he didn’t.

So it was decided. Tarn, Belicia, and Barzack turned and approached the edge of the bridge, with the rest of the clan pressing close behind. The hill dwarf sentries still stood in line, blocking passage across the bridge, and with the approach of the whole column of mountain dwarves more of the town’s residents had spilled out of their homes to gather at the far end of the gorge. The defenders of the village shouted and jeered at the refugees, hurling the crudest insults they could imagine.

In contrast, the mass of mountain dwarves regarded the hill dwarves with grim silence, glowering darkly, fingering weapons, occasionally muttering among themselves in reaction to the harsh invective. Tarn knew that their silence was not an indication of cowardice-if anything, it was an advertisement of their stern purpose. To the Hylar, the bridge represented a route not only to the lowlands but to their chances of any future at all.

“Go back-or I warn you, we’ll kill you!” blustered the hill dwarf leader. Now, to Tarn’s critical eye, this sturdy hill dwarf looked every bit the equal of Barzack in size, weight, and even in the burning anger that shone within his dark black eyes. Tarn hated the prospect of a duel, but he was determined to cross the bridge, and this seemed the only way.

“That will not be easily accomplished,” Tarn said. “We’re in no mood to retreat, and our numbers will overwhelm yours. . though it is unfortunate that so many on both sides will die in the fighting.”

The hill dwarf laughed. “You yourself will never make it across the bridge-and before you’ve breathed your last, we’ll have hill dwarves from ten more villages among our numbers. Already messengers have gone out, and the first reinforcements will be here within the hour.”

The fierce chieftain could be bluffing-certainly they hadn’t seen any messengers depart the village since they had first approached the bridge. Even so, Tarn despaired at the note of defiance in the other dwarf’s words. Certainly any battle would result in a huge loss of life on both sides.

“Before there’s any killing, let us talk for a few minutes more. There’s nothing to be lost in that, is there? My name is Tarn Bellowgranite. My father was the thane of the Hylar, and now I lead the remnants of our clan.”

“Any breath spent in speech with a mountain dwarf is a waste of air,” retorted the other.

“At least he’s still wasting breath instead of blood,” murmured Belicia, speaking under her breath and tightening a grip on Tarn’s arm. He drew strength from her touch, forcing himself to control the emotions that once again threatened to boil over.

“Waste a little more of it, then. Tell me your name,” coaxed Tarn.

“I am Katzynn Bonebreaker-and my surname declares the fate of any mountain dwarf who meets my hammer!” He raised the heavy weapon, spinning it easily from one hand to the other.

“Make the challenge,” growled Barzack, “or, by Reorx, I’ll fight him without any ceremony!”

Tarn too was weary of the pleasantries. “Well, there is one among us who shares your sentiments-his mother was snatched and enslaved by your people. He never saw her again. So you both have a grudge, a blood feud.”

“There are blood feuds throughout our clans,” declared the hill dwarf. “What of it?”

“Just this: We are not going back to the mountains, not without a fight. A fight would kill many of you, as well as many of us. Instead, let our champion fight you or any hill dwarf you name. Let the winner decide his people’s fate.”

The hill dwarf scoffed. “None can last more than five minutes against me. That is my reputation. How do we know you will keep your word when your champion dies?”

Tarn flushed. “Don’t be so sure who will die! Either way, let us swear an oath to Reorx. The loser will abide by the terms of the pledge, or the curse of our god will come down upon his tribe.”

“Reorx. . father god to all dwarves,” mused the hill dwarf. “In truth, such an oath would be binding, for the consequences of breaking such a vow are too dire to comprehend.”

“In that case, let the matter be fought!” declared Barzack, loudly, “if there is one among you with the courage to face me!”

“I’ll be glad to fight you!” snarled the hill dwarf chieftain, “but first let us make this vow.”

Katzynn Bonebreaker and another hill dwarf advanced to the edge of the bridge. Tarn and Barzack moved forward, and the oath was sworn. Barzack, Tarn, and two hill dwarves each placed their hands over the blade of a sword as terms of the fight were outlined: the duel would last until the death-or the almost inconceivable capitulation-of one of the contestants. No physical aid could come from any other dwarves, and the two contestants had to remain on the bridge until the fight ended.

“That should take about five minutes,” said Katzynn Bonebreaker with a malicious grin. Barzack met his eyes fiercely.

The dwarves of both sides moved off the bridge as Katzynn and Barzack faced each other. The mountain dwarf bore his huge axe, while the hill dwarf faced him with his equally large hammer. Both were hulking and fierce fellows, splendid examples of dwarven warriors. As Tarn watched them, he was struck by the realization that there were more similarities than differences between the two combatants.

The two pair studied each other for several heartbeats as the crowds on both sides of the gorge began to call encouragement.

“Kill him, Katzynn!” cried one bellicose hill dwarf, a female.

“Feed him to the fishes, Barzack!” countered one of the mountain dwarf matrons. The shouts quickly rose to a roar, drowning out the river and the wind. Tarn felt the tension all around him, and his own blood began to pound. He raised his fist and shook it angrily, barely conscious of Belicia’s grip tightening on his arm. This time her touch did not pacify him.

Barzack raised his axe and charged while the hill dwarf crouched and swung his hammer in a low arc. The two weapons met in an explosion of sparks, steel clanging against steel. Shouts and cries intensified from both sides, dwarven voices raised in a hoarse, bloodthirsty din. The force of the first contact knocked both fighters backward, but Katzynn Bonebreaker recovered quickly to rush forward, twirling the hammer in great circles around his head.

The mountain dwarf ducked under to slash viciously upward with his sharp-edged axe. Somehow his opponent spun out of the way, then Barzack had to fling himself forward to avoid a backswing that would certainly have crushed his spine. Their momentum carried the dwarves apart, and when they turned to face each other again, they had reversed positions. Mouths agape, they drew deep breaths of air.

More shouts of encouragement, building to a roar that rumbled like thunder through the mountain valley. “Kill him! Kill him!” Tarn found himself shouting the same, unaware that Belicia had released his arm. He shook both his fists, bellowing in a dry rasp.

Now it was Barzack who stood at the far end of the bridge, as if protecting the approach to the village, and Katzynn with his back to the mountain dwarves as he regarded his scowling opponent. The hill dwarf stepped forward slowly, swinging his hammer easily before him, while the mountain dwarf raised his axe defensively and took a step backward. Suddenly, however, Barzack lunged at his enemy, and there was another tremendous collision.

Neither fighter gave ground, legs spread, feet firmly planted as they bashed at each other again and again. Their faces were distorted, eyes narrowed to slits as sweat streamed down their foreheads and their heavy weapons rose and fell. One would lunge and the other yield, then one would push back and the other falter. The sounds of the clash echoed in the deep gorge, continuing as the combatants stopped once again to catch their breath. Both gasped for air now, the sweat trickling down their faces.

Tarn was jumping up and down, wrapped up in the frenzy. Like others, he drew his sword, waving the weapon in the air, hurling insults at the despised enemies across the gorge, shouting advice to the mountain dwarf champion. He wasn’t aware of what he was saying, but it didn’t matter. Words were swallowed up in the tumult of hate. All around him the Hylar were swept up in battle rage, in the fury and lust for blood.

Surprising Katzynn, Barzack got off a good swing, and though the hill dwarf stumbled away, blood oozed from a deep gash in his thigh. The wounded warrior had a look of shock on his face, and cheers resounded from the Hylar. On their side, the villagers gasped as their wounded favorite fell back, barely blocking a series of powerful blows. They had never seen Katzynn so harried. Finally the two duelists paused again to collect themselves. Now the shouts had faded somewhat, replaced by gasps, muttered prayers, and hoarse whispers of fear.

The two dwarves closed in to resume the terrible battle. They swung their weapons, then clutched each other, too close for axe or sword. They grappled and punched, clawing at each other’s beards and eyes, kicking and jabbing. Katzynn managed to grab the slender gold chain that Barzack wore around his neck and pulled it tight, choking the Hylar. The mountain dwarf was able to break away, but his antagonist snapped the chain and the three jewels that decorated the gold disks went flying. Barzack, clawing at his throat to regain his breath, spared the jewels a mournful look as they scattered across the road.

First the hill dwarf had the advantage, then the mountain dwarf. They circled back to their original positions, then wheeled, fought, wheeled again, ending up sideways on the bridge, each with his back against one of the low side walls. Blood spilled down Katzynn’s flanks and legs, pouring from several deep wounds, while Barzack staggered from the repeated hammer blows that seemed to cover his body with bruises. Both dwarves moved in a daze, using both hands to wield weapons that now seemed too heavy to lift. Impossibly, the fight had gone on for more than an hour.

Once more they broke apart and paused. Tarn no longer felt confident that Barzack would win, but there was no way he could intervene, having sworn the oath to Reorx.

Again the two charged each other, and again Barzack’s axe carved a deep wound, this time in Katzynn’s shoulder. The mountain dwarf, sensing victory, thrust forward, axe raised for a final, killing blow. The hill dwarf was slumping, his hammer dangling uselessly at his side, and the end seemed near.

But from somewhere deep inside himself Katzynn Bonebreaker found the strength to act. He managed to lurch away from Barzack’s blow, bringing his hammer up and around with a powerful swipe. The steel head of the formidable weapon slammed full-force into Barzack’s helmet, bending the metal shell, crunching sickeningly into bone and flesh.

Soundlessly Barzack fell, his skull crushed. Katzynn, bleeding from numerous wounds, swayed wearily over his vanquished foe, staring down at the fallen mountain dwarf.

The valley had fallen silent, the cheers fading away in the presence of death. Numbly, Tarn stepped forward, looking at the lifeless form of his champion, his friend. Echoes of the fight, of hatred and rage, left him feeling utterly drained. It didn’t seem real, or even important, who had been slain-he believed he would have felt the same emptiness and shame either way.

Quiet sobbing came from his side. Belicia-he had forgotten her-was down on her knees. “He sacrified himself,” she said softly, “for nothing.”

His eyes met the dull gaze of the victorious hill dwarf, who was also watching Belicia. Tarn pulled her to her feet, put his arm around her, and turned to head back, to the mountains, to certain death for his clan. An oath had been sworn.

He felt a strong hand on his shoulder and instinctively reached for his dagger. Another hand, Belicia’s, kept him from drawing the weapon, and he was turned around by Katzynn Bonebreaker. Tarn was surprised to see tears in the victorious warrior’s eyes. A scrap of gold chain still hung from his hand, and wordlessly the hill dwarf extended it to Tarn.

Tarn took the piece of chain as the hill dwarf stepped to the side, his expression twisted with pain and torment.

Then he threw his great hammer over the wall, saying nothing as the bloodstained weapon spun down into the depths.

Only when the hammer had vanished into the churning water did Katzynn make a gesture that invited Tarn and all his clan across the bridge.

Tarn’s gratitude was also mute. He merely nodded, too drained to speak, and led his people forward across the bridge and toward the valley beyond.