Secret of Pax Tharkas

SIXTEEN

H arn Poleaxe approached the small hut with a measure of trepidation. He hadn’t seen the oracle for more than two years, but he well remembered the frisson of mingled terror and excitement that his last encounter with the old Neidar crone had provoked.

Yet he was returning in triumph, he told himself. He held the Bluestone wedge in his left hand as he raised his right and knocked, hesitantly, at the flimsy door.

“Enter, Harn Poleaxe!” came the command from within the hut.

Grimacing, the big Neidar tried to suppress the trembling that shook his hand as he pressed against the door. He ducked his head to pass underneath the low frame. The interior of the one-room house, not surprisingly, was dark, for the one who lived there had no need of illumination.

“I have returned, Mother Oracle,” Harn said, bowing humbly. “I take it you have been informed of my arrival?”

The old dwarf woman who sat in the shadowy room uttered a dry bark of laughter. “No one spoke to me,” she said. “But I knew you had come to Hillhome. And I know, too, that you bring the Bluestone from Kayolin.”

Harn shuddered at the evidence of the oracle’s far-seeing powers then quickly extended the heavy wedge of stone. As his eyes adjusted to the murk, he watched as she reached out her arthritic hands to take the talisman, lifting it easily into her lap.

The oracle had been a very old woman when she first came to Hillhome, some ten years earlier. To Harn, who had not seen her since he had departed for Kayolin two years ago, she looked the very same as when he had left, which was the same as when she had first wandered up the hill road into the town. Her hair was white and thin, hanging in a scraggly tangle around her round, wrinkled face. Her eyes were open but milky white, proof of the blindness that had long afflicted her. Her shoulders were rounded, and her posture, as she sat in a small rocking chair, stooped and frail looking. She wore a worn cloak of pale brown, patched in many places. Her feet were encased in soft moccasins.

But her voice was strong, and so were her hands. He watched as she hefted the heavy Bluestone, feeling the smoothness along both sides. She raised the artifact to her face and smelled the stone, running it along her wrinkled cheek, holding it to her ear as if she expected it to speak to her. For all Harn knew, she did hear something there. In any event, she issued a cackle of laughter and lowered the object into her lap.

“You have done well,” she said. “I believed in you, but even so, when I sent you to gain this stone, I knew you would face many obstacles. I was not certain you would succeed.”

Harn lowered his face, pleased by her praise and her acknowledgment of the severity of his challenge. “I had to live among the mountain dwarves for a long time,” he admitted. “But in the end, I was able to win their trust and gain the stone.”

“Go to the chest, over there by the window,” she said, handing him the Bluestone. He saw a small strongbox, protected by a solid steel lock, but when he crossed to the container, the lid turned out to be unsecured. He lifted it, looking down in amazement at another stone, the perfect image of the one he held in his hands except it was as green as emerald, albeit impossibly large for any such gemstone. He had known about the other stone’s existence, but it was moving, even awe inspiring, to see them together.

“Put that one in there, with the Greenstone,” the oracle said. He did as she asked, noting that the two stones nestled easily together to form a sharp-pointed, broad-based wedge.

“Close the lid and lock it. Bring me the key,” she instructed, and again he did as requested. “There is one more. When we obtain it, we will be ready to act,” she said.

“Huh. Where is this third stone?”

“I am not certain. It is moving now. I will need to study, consult my auguries, before I can pinpoint the exact location.”

Harn shuddered. Like most dwarves, he had a strong distrust of magic, and her suggestion of auguries, not to mention her inexplicable knowledge about matters unearthly, smelled too much like sorcery for his taste. Still, her information had always proven accurate, and her arcane knowledge made her his most important ally.

“Go to the stove,” she ordered suddenly. “And kindle a fire there.”

She had a small pot-bellied iron cook stove in one corner of the hut, and Harn did as she instructed. He found some dry straw for tinder as well as small sticks of firewood and a piece of flint. He struck the stone against the blade of his knife to drop sparks into the straw, and soon a small blaze ignited. The oracle was tapping her feet impatiently, so he blew on the fire to hasten it along then added more sticks until it was crackling enthusiastically.

“Ah, good,” she said at length. “Now take my teapot and fill it from the water cistern outside; you must use rainwater, not well water.”

“Aye, Mother Oracle,” Harn replied. He found the teapot, a battered old ceramic vessel, and went outside to see that the barrel poised under her downspout was nearly full. A few neighborhood youngsters were playing tag nearby, and they snickered to see him performing such woman’s work, but they quickly scampered away when he glared at them. With the teapot full, he reentered the hut.

“Now put it on the stove. Keep the fire going; make it boil!” she snapped.

Again he did as he was told, feeding more wood into the stove, wondering about the purpose of the tedious ritual. Still, he wasn’t inclined to ask questions and, fortunately, the water was boiling a few minutes later.

“Bring me my tea,” the oracle commanded, pointing a bony finger toward a cluttered table near the stove. Amid a cheese crock and a box of small spice bottles, he found a container, heavy and glazed, that held a bundle of bitter-smelling brown leaves. He took it over to her and watched as she worked by feel, counting ten leaves into the palm of her hand.

“Put these in a mug, and cover them with the hot water,” was her next instruction, which he duly followed. He was surprised to see the brew foam and bubble when the boiling liquid contacted the leaves. The smell was truly vile, and he wondered what it must taste like.

But she had no intention of drinking it. After he handed her the mug, he had to jump backward to avoid the scalding spray as she unceremoniously upended the container and dumped the water and leaves right onto the wooden floor at her feet. With a surprisingly fluid gesture, she pushed herself out of the chair and dropped to her knees. Gingerly reaching out her gnarled hands, she traced her fingers over the hot leaves, taking care not to move them, but using touch, she carefully studied their positions on the floor.

She spent a long time in that slow activity, several times clucking her tongue in apparent displeasure. Harn didn’t dare interrupt her scrutiny, and he was startled when she looked up suddenly, fixing those blind eyes upon him as if they could read his thoughts.

“You did not return alone from the dwarven nation in the north,” she said, her voice suddenly sharp.

“No,” he admitted warily. “I came with a Kayolin dwarf. It was his family, an ancestor, that uncovered the stone, and his father bade me bring the son along. It was the only way I could get the stone.”

“That was a mistake,” she said, sitting on her haunches and shaking her head dismally as if she could not believe the scope of Harn’s incompetence.

“What do you want me to do?” Poleaxe asked, suddenly-he couldn’t say why-chagrined.

“The Kayolin dwarf must never leave Hillhome,” replied the oracle. “He must be eliminated.”

“Well, I intend to do just that,” Harn said defensively. Suddenly his throat felt terribly parched, but he wasn’t about to ask for a drink, not from the Mother Oracle. He gulped. “He’s locked up right now, and I have arranged for him to be charged as a spy. If the trial goes as planned, he will be executed shortly.”

“Make sure, then, that the trial does go as planned,” she said. “For this Kayolin outsider is a great danger to us if he lives. Remember, he must never leave Hillhome.”

“I will make it so, Mother Oracle,” pledged the Neidar stoutly. “Is… is there anything else you need from me?” he added, silently hoping the answer would be “no.”

“Yes,” she said immediately. She leaned forward for a moment, touching the leaves again, even bending down to loudly sniff at them.

“Another stranger, a female, approaches Hillhome-a dwarf maid. She interests me. I want you to meet her, study her, see what her purpose is.”

“Why is she coming here?” Harn asked worriedly.

“She comes to seek me. But I will not allow her into my presence. You must make sure she stays away.”

“How can I do that?”

“For now, tell her that I am very unwell. Sick, even dying, in my bed. I will accept no visitors.”

“I will,” Harn said. “But what if that doesn’t work?”

“Then,” she said sharply. “Think of something else.”

Gus gazed into the valley as the road crested a gentle rise and began to wind again toward the lowland. He saw a collection of brown shapes, apparently made of wood, sprawling through the fields, along the roads, up and down the banks of the narrow stream, and scattered all around a wide, central square.

“Those are buildings, and this is a town,” Gretchan explained. “Hillhome, to be precise.”

“Hill home,” repeated the Aghar in awe.

The dwarf maid, together with the Aghar and the big, black dog, ambled down the road toward the place. Gretchan puffed easily on her pipe as she walked along, while Gus looked around at new wonders as they approached: fenced pastures where cattle, pigs, sheep, and horses grazed; wooden houses with flower gardens; neatly tended ponds where fish jumped and splashed. He was particularly taken by the sight of a lumber crew, Neidar dwarves using axes to fell tall trees while massive horses hauled the logs toward a pile of timber next to the road. He gawked so long, he had to race to catch up to his companion, who had kept walking and was already at the edge of town.

“We’ll stop at an inn first,” Gretchan said. “I learned years ago that that’s the best way to find out what’s happening in a community-especially a town of dwarves!”

“I like inn!” Gus agreed. He had never actually been inside of such an establishment-the dwarves of Norbardin were notoriously strict about keeping the Aghar out-but he had sniffed around the edges and sorted through the garbage of many eating and drinking inns. Maybe, with his new friend Gretchan at his side, the Neidar would actually let him inside the door.

Gretchan was busy looking around the town that crowded the valley before them. She frowned. “I really can’t believe Hillhome is this big.”

“Never been here before?” Gus asked.

She shook her head. “I’ve been doing my work for a number of years,” she admitted. “Traveling. But I’ve really only scratched the surface of the vast dwarven nations.”

“You can scratch my surface,” the Aghar offered helpfully, doffing his cap in case she needed access to his scalp.

The dwarf maid recoiled with a grimace, which to Gus’s eyes was a mighty beautiful expression. “Listen, Gus,” she said in a low, gentle voice. “Sometimes people aren’t always nice to… um, your kind. You just stick with me, and I’ll do the talking, all right?”

“All right! You do talking!” he agreed. Strutting proudly along on the right side of Gretchan, with Kondike pacing on her left, Gus marched purposefully into his first hill dwarf community. Several dwarves, maids filling buckets at a well, looked at him scornfully, but he ignored their hostile glances-they were nothing he hadn’t experienced every time he dared to skirt the edges of Norbardin. He was more concerned with the hill dwarf males who, to a man, ignored the gully dwarf in favor of ogling the pretty Gretchan. He wanted to rebuke them-challenge them to a fight-but he remembered the dwarf maid’s instructions and decided that he would indeed let her do the talking.

So he tried to communicate his displeasure by glaring at the dwarves who took such a lascivious interest in his companion, but when one fellow uttered a long, low whistle, Gus lost his temper.

“You stop it, you big bluphsplunging doofar!” he barked, taking a step toward the hill dwarf, but Gretchan snatched him back by his collar.

“Keep quiet!” she snapped, and he vowed he would really, really try.

They wandered down a street that was busy with pedestrians and cart traffic. Gus spied vaguely familiar sights: a smith pounding iron beside his hot forge; a baker pulling loaves from an oven; a fishmonger standing at a cart full of a fresh catch, calling for business, exchanging his wares for silver or copper coin. But much of Hillhome was utterly unprecedented in his narrow experience. He yelped and jumped out of the way as a team of oxen, lumbering like giants over his head, rumbled past, pulling a wagon full of beer kegs. He gawked at horses and ponies in the street, and goats and chickens in the yards of some of the houses. They passed carts full of vegetables, for sale like the fish, but more brightly colored and fresh smelling than any food in all of sunless Thorbardin.

He reached for one of the things Gretchan called “carrots” but flinched back when she cuffed him on the head. “Hands to yourself,” she told him, then sighed at his crestfallen expression.

“Listen, we’ll stock up on food before we leave town, I promise,” Gretchen said as he stared forlornly at the endless baskets of produce. “While we’re here, though, don’t touch anything, and don’t take anything. Besides, we’ll let others do our cooking for us.”

“Others cook for us?” declared Gus in wonder. He was starting to think that he would like Hillhome very much indeed.

“This looks like a good place; it’s called Moldoon’s,” the dwarf maid explained, helpfully pointing to the name above the inn door. “It’s been here a long time; it shows up in some of the old stories of this place. Rich in history. Perfect for my work.”

Gus followed her and Kondike up the few steps to enter the cool, smoky inn. The Aghar’s nose was assailed by many strange smells, nearly all of them enticing. A few dwarves sitting around tables in the great common room turned to look over at the newcomers. Gus froze as he heard a loud challenge coming from the red-bearded dwarf behind the bar.

“Hey! You can’t bring that big dog in here!” he declared.

Gretchan gave him her sweetest smile. “Oh, that’s all right,” she chirped. “He goes with me everywhere!”

The bartender blushed, stammering and staring into the dwarf maid’s blue eyes then running his eyes approvingly up and down the outline of her tunic. Resenting the bold inspection, Gus planted his fists on his hips and stepped in front of Gretchen, glaring furiously at the dwarf innkeeper. The hill dwarf’s eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the small, smelly gully dwarf, and he looked as if he were about to raise another objection when something caused him to clamp his mouth shut. Instead, he gave Gretchan a broad smile and wink and, when she sat at a table-with Gus on an adjacent chair and Kondike flopping onto the floor at her feet-he came bustling over to her.

“And what might the little lady want?” he said merrily with an effusive manner that Gus found very irritating.

“I’ll take a mug of your finest ale. And bring a smaller glass for my friend here, if you please.”

“Hmm.” Once again the bartender frowned at Gus but then overcame his unspoken objections to quickly fetch the two drinks. “And what brings a pretty stranger such as yourself to our humble village?” he asked, plopping a small glass down in front of Gus before wiping the table and gently placing a foaming mug before Gretchan.

“Well, I’m a historian by avocation, and I’m traveling the lands of the hill and mountain dwarves, writing down as much as I can learn. I’m trying to visit every town from the old days that I can find. Hillhome is more legendary than most, of course.”

“Of course it is!” boasted the bartender.

“Are you Moldoon, himself?” Gretchan asked.

“Yes! Well, no. I mean, I’m the current owner, Web Breezefallow. Moldoon-the original Moldoon-was my wife’s grandfather. He’s not around anymore. So I’m a Moldoon by marriage.”

“That is very interesting,” the dwarf maid replied, daintily sipping from her mug then slurping the foam from her lip with a flick of her pink tongue. She took some parchment out of her knapsack and scribbled a note on it, much to the awe of the bartender and Gus.

“Excuse me, miss,” said another dwarf, walking-swaggering, it looked to Gus-over to the table. “Did I hear you say you’re interested in our town?”

“That I am,” she said. “My name is Gretchan Pax.”

The newcomer whistled and, without waiting for an invitation, sat down at the table, rather rudely nudging Gus to the side. He was a very tall and sturdy dwarf, a little thick around the middle, but his girth suggested strength more than sloth.

“And you are…?” She left the question hanging in the air as she pointedly put her notepaper away.

The big dwarf straightened abruptly. “Sorry. I’m Harn. Harn Poleaxe.”

“What a coincidence,” Gretchen replied. “I’ve wanted to make your acquaintance, having heard your name on my travels.”

“All lies, I assure you!” Poleaxe protested good-naturedly. “And I was never near that woman’s house!”

His loud comments drew raucous laughter from the group of dwarves at the table he had recently vacated. Gus glared stonily at the rude dwarves, but they didn’t pay any attention-all seemed to be casting admiring looks that shifted between Poleaxe and Gretchan.

The two did make a rather attractive pair, Gus thought sulkily. Gretchan’s beauty was unsurpassed, and Poleaxe had an easy confidence, buttressed by his impressive size, that seemed certain to attract the admiration, even obedience, of lesser dwarves. Gus tried to sit taller, puff out his chest, hold his chin up.

“Ah, be quiet, you rock-scrubbers!” Poleaxe called out before leaning in and taking Gretchan’s hand in both of his big paws. “And who,” he said, looking dubiously at Gus and slightly wrinkling his nose, “is this, uh, little whippet?”

Whip it! thought Gus angrily.

“Oh he’s my, uh, assistant,” answered Gretchan smoothly with a slight wink.

Sisstant, thought Gus proudly.

“What say you and I get out of here and find some place we can get better acquainted?”

She smiled sweetly, somehow extracting her hand without Poleaxe’s noticing. “What a charming invitation,” she commented. She pulled her pipe and pouch of dried leaves from her tunic, slowly filling it. “But after this drink, my assistant and I must get busy. First we will have to find a place to stay while we’re in town.”

“I know just the place! I’ll walk you over and show it to you when you’re ready.”

Again Gretchan smiled sweetly. She took a candle from the table and lit her pipe, the pleasant smoke swirling around her as the two dwarves chattered on and on about many things that Gus didn’t understand: touching on the Neidar, the Dwarfgate War, the wandering elves, and some hideous monster they called the Green Wyrm. About the only thing the Aghar could extract from the long, boring conversation (at least two minutes’ worth) was some monster called the Green Wyrm had died some time ago, destroying most of a city, Quali-something, in the process. He shuddered, glad the creature was gone.

After a while his eyes were feeling a little bleary.

“So what do you want to see in Hillhome, besides me?” Harn asked at one point with a chuckle. “I warn you, though, it’ll all be downhill after Harn Poleaxe.”

Gretchan laughed good-naturedly. “Actually, there’s an elderly woman I’d really like to meet. I’ve heard she lives in these parts. I don’t know her name, but people call her Mother Oracle, I believe. You wouldn’t know where I could find her, would you?”

“Know her? Why, I was just there myself; she’s an old friend of mine!” Poleaxe declared. Then his demeanor grew solemn and sorrowful. “Sadly, she’s not well. Wouldn’t even see me after I returned from two years’ traveling. Told me to come back in ten days and see if she was feeling any better. I could ask her then if she’ll see you.”

“Ten days?” the dwarf maid replied, looking disappointed. “Oh. I don’t know if I can stay here that long. I have work to do, so many other places to go.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Harn said. “But I hope you’ll be here for a little while longer. I’d like a chance to get to know you better,” he added slyly.

Gus bristled, but Gretchan, strangely, acted as if she found the hill dwarf kind of beguiling. She gave the Aghar a warning look whenever he opened his mouth to voice his opinion. He settled for clamping his jaws shut and glowering his most menacing glower at Harn’s back.

“There’s a lot of history in these old hills,” the Neidar boasted. “Of course, my people have lived in these lands for better than two thousand years. Lots of it prosperous too until the damned mountain dwarves locked their gates during the Cataclysm. That’s a cause we’re still settling!” he concluded, thumping his chest.

“Why is there always some cause to be settled?” Gretchan snapped back, her vehemence taking the hill dwarf by surprise. “I mean, the Cataclysm was more than four hundred years ago! How long can you people hold a grudge?”

“It’s more than a grudge!” Harn protested, holding up his hands. “Why, the Dwarfgate War-”

“Who do you think started the Dwarfgate War?” she cried, smacking her fist onto the table so hard that the mugs bounced. Her voice was rising, and the gully dwarf sensed that everyone in Moldoon’s was looking at them. Gus slowly slipped down in his chair until just his eyes were above the edge of the table.

“Well, I mean, Fistandantilus-” Poleaxe stammered.

“Fistandantilus used the dwarves as his tool!” the dwarf maid shot back. She rose to her feet, both fists planted on the table as she stared into the big dwarf’s face. “The dwarves were fools! You Neidar are always so happy to bring him up; I should think you’d be ashamed by the memory! Your ancestors fought and died for a foolish war and a foolish cause based on a foolish grudge. Oh, why can’t you understand!”

She sat back down suddenly as if exhausted. Harn looked at the surrounding dwarves, many of whom were gaping at the female with expressions ranging from awe to fright. Poleaxe shrugged and looked at her as if thinking about edging away.

“What’s the use?” Gretchan asked with a sigh as if all the anger had blown out of her. She shook her head. “I’m tired.”

“Um, well, then, maybe I can show you a place to stay,” Harn said. “You know, clean rooms, good beds. Just for sleeping, of course!” he added hastily.

“Fine. Please do that,” she replied.

When Gretchan had finished her beer-Poleaxe had consumed three mugs in the same interval-they rose and left the place. The big dwarf walked right beside the maid, who seemed to be her usual cheerful self again. Still, when Harn placed his arm around her shoulders, she smoothly shrugged herself free. Gus and Kondike lagged a short distance behind. The Aghar continued to glare at the hill dwarf’s back, and he had the comforting feeling that the dog shared his distaste. He continued to watch suspiciously as Gretchan stopped at several stands in the market, purchasing some vegetables and, from a butcher, a large joint of bone with bits of meat on it.

True to his word, Poleaxe led them to a clean, comfortable boardinghouse, waiting while Gretchan paid, in advance, for two rooms for the next week. When the big Neidar tried to follow them up the hall, she turned and spoke gently but with a firm undercurrent.

“You’ve done too much already. I just thank you so much for your helpfulness and hospitality,” she said, dazzling him with her smile. “I can find my way from here. But I do hope I’ll see you tomorrow! Perhaps at Moldoon’s again?”

Poleaxe looked as though he were going to argue. Before he spoke, Kondike pushed past him, stopped before his mistress, and dropped to the floor with a heavy sigh. The big, black dog simply lay there, head raised, brown eyes fixed upon the hill dwarf.

“Well, all right, then,” Poleaxe said, his eyes narrowing a bit. “Tomorrow it is.”

The sun was an excruciating, intolerable blaze against the blackness of the minion’s ghostly flesh. The harbinger of dawn crested the eastern horizon with surprising alacrity, stabbing forth those hateful rays while the creature was still licking its wounds from the scorching presence of the dwarf maid’s blazing staff.

Hissing in fury and discomfort, the monster sank through the ground with the coming of dawn and spent the long, warm day nestled directly in the bedrock of the hills, a hundred feet or more below the surface of the world. Time was no matter of concern for it as it dwelled easily among the ancient rocks and absorbed the cool power at the base of the world. The minion had a purpose to serve, a task to accomplish, but it had to wait until nightfall.

Only when the sun had fully set and cool night was lord of the world did it again emerge. Seeping upward, it emerged from the ground like smoke rising from a buried fire. At first immaterial, it coalesced in a woodland glade, taking shape, extending its great limbs, flexing talons and bringing the fires of the Abyss to those hateful, glowing eyes.

Spreading black wings, it finally took to the air, gliding silently through the night sky. The red and white moons were waning, setting low in the west, but the black moon was high and full. Unseen by most, that orb of black magic, named for the god Nuitari, cast its full measure across the widespread wings of the minion. The minion relished the cool wash of magic, a balm greater than warm sunlight on the flesh of a shivering dwarf or human.

When its red eyes fixed upon the ground, the creatures of the woodland sprang anxiously toward their dens or cowered under rocks or beneath steep riverbanks. Even hunting owls took to sheltered limbs, and wolves, lips curled against the unseen but dangerous flyer, cringed in the shadows and hoped for the monster to fly past. And always the minion did just that, for the moment. Its wide nostrils flared, it tasted the breeze and picked up the scent it sought.

Pressing forward with powerful wing strokes, the monster soared over ridges, flying in a straight line above a course of winding valleys that would have forced any land-bound traveler to meander wastefully. Soon the minion spotted the twinkling lights and the multitude of buildings that were proof of a sizable town, one that completely filled the bottom of a valley between two steep ridges. Many sounds of voices, some clamorous, some drunk, some singing, some angry, reached its sensitive ears. A smith was working late into the night at his forge, the pounding rings of his hammer marking a cadence that seemed to underscore the energy of the whole town. Cattle lowed and pigs squealed when the minion flew above their pens, sending the animals scurrying for their barns and sheds.

Circling back above the town, the minion flew low, trying-for the time being-to remain unseen by the denizens. Any one of them might look up to see the gaunt form of the monster silhouetted against the stars, and the beast did not want to take that chance. The memory of that searing light, the charring of the dwarf maid’s staff, caused its lips to draw back in an unconscious snarl. She had powers that the monster feared and must avoid.

But at the same time, her presence was a beacon.

The minion knew beyond a doubt that the maid and her staff were down in the town somewhere, and it would have to avoid her terrible talisman. At the same time, the minion understood that, near to the dwarf maid, it would find the gully dwarf that was its prey.