Secret of Pax Tharkas

TWENTY

H arn Poleaxe led his hill dwarves in another frantic charge, but again and again the Neidar hurled themselves against a solid shield wall of Klar. Poleaxe himself cut down his share of the enemy dwarves, stabbing one laggard then splintering another Klar’s shield, helmet, and skull with a single downward smash of his great sword. Unfortunately, that last blow also snapped off the blade of his weapon, and the huge Neidar finally had to drop back.

Gasping for breath, he felt as demoralized as his town mates. They had pursued the Klar for more than a mile out of town, at first along the road, then into the narrow side valley. Here and there the mountain dwarves had paused to form up a rearguard. The enemy captain was, cleverly, leading the retreating company through a narrow niche in a rocky ridge. The mountain dwarves were able to bar the entrance to the pass with just ten or a dozen of their number while the rest of the column made good their escape.

The number of pursuing Neidar had swelled to more than five hundred, but they were defeated finally by the narrow confines. At least two dozen of Poleaxe’s followers had fallen, and the shoulder-to-shoulder press of mountain dwarves holding the gap showed no signs of weakening. Whenever they found an opportunity, the manic Klar even lunged forward, cutting down a couple of hill dwarves who were too slow to jump out of the way.

The panting, exhausted Neidar were nearing the end of their endurance. Several burly warriors looked at Poleaxe nervously, fingering their weapons and eyeing the impermeable barrier of Klar shields. The dwarves of Hillhome, though they had successfully driven the enemy from their town, were not as well equipped, nor mentally prepared, for a pitched battle on such a steep and rocky slope.

Rage seethed through Poleaxe’s veins, muscles, flesh, but he understood that rage alone would not carry the day.

“Fall back,” Harn ordered, his voice tight through clenched jaws. “We’ll take the war to them soon enough.”

Slowly the Neidar backed away from the line of Klar, ignoring the taunts-“Run away, old women! Go back to your nursemaids’ teats!”-hurled by the victorious raiders. Most infuriating of all, to Harn, was the knowledge that the mountain dwarves had borne away not just the Bluestone, but the Greenstone as well, from the town.

He blamed himself for forgetting all about the precious artifacts when the fight started. The stupid Klar probably didn’t even know what they had in their possession. The Mother Oracle would be very angry. And Harn was suffering from an almost unbearable thirst. His parched throat seemed barely to allow the passage of breath, and his tongue felt swollen in his mouth.

For their aggression, the Klar would be repaid with death and destruction, Poleaxe vowed silently. And he would-he must-regain the Bluestone and Greenstone.

But that vengeance would have to wait.

He led the dejected Neidar down off the ridge, with the Klar watching them warily until they started on the road back into town. Their taunts against the retreating hill dwarves echoed down from the surrounding ridges as, finally, the rearguard of mountain dwarves broke their shield wall and followed their companions through the rocky niche, disappearing from view as they started on their way back to Pax Tharkas.

The mood was bitter as the warriors trudged back into the main square of Hillhome with humiliated expressions. Harn went immediately into Moldoon’s and snatched a large jug of dwarf spirits, quaffing a long swallow as he stalked back out into the street. The liquor seared his tongue but seemed, at least a little, to quench his paralyzing thirst.

Bodies of the slain, discreetly covered with blankets or cloaks, lined one side of the plaza. More than a dozen Neidar had died there, and several times that many had fallen during the failed pursuit. Nobody, not even Poleaxe, felt triumphant that they had driven the attackers away. All of the survivors were painfully chagrined by the knowledge they had been taken by surprise and nearly overcome.

They all had been too focused on the execution of the mountain dwarf outsider-busy assembling the pile of tinder, with the fire poised to burn, to consume, the wretched prisoner, even as the attack began. Brandon had been shackled and strapped to the rack. Although the condemned spy had been putting on a stoic front, Harn had been looking forward to the moment when his victim’s flesh began to char, his eyes boiling in their sockets. He knew Brandon would have broken down and wept as he died.

Strange, Poleaxe thought-the thought dawning as a sudden inspiration-how the Klar raiders arrived just at the very moment of the Kayolin dwarf’s doom.

Abruptly Poleaxe looked around for the prisoner, having forgotten him almost as completely as the vaunted gemstones. He jumped up on the platform and stared, seeing the pile of wood on the ground nearby, but it took a moment for him to recognize the splintered timber as the square rack where Brandon had been suspended, waiting to die.

And he howled aloud when he realized that the prisoner had escaped.

“What treachery-where did the Kayolin go?” he demanded, springing down from the platform, striding across the plaza with spittle foaming his beard.

The Neidar shrank away from the infuriated warrior. Two of Poleaxe’s personal guards, an armored pair carrying massive axes, exchanged looks as their leader stalked to the broken rack and kicked through the debris as if he expected to find the prisoner crouching down among the itty-bitty twigs and pieces of straw.

“Where did he go?” he roared again.

A hundred dwarves milled about the plaza, and every one of them was utterly silent in response to Poleaxe’s demand. Thus, when one dwarf groaned softly, all eyes turned to him.

“It’s Rune!” cried a maid, kneeling beside the warrior and dabbing at his bloody forehead with her apron.

Poleaxe stomped over to his lieutenant and glared down at the stricken, dazed Neidar. The huge dwarf leader kicked contemptuously at the empty manacles that lay on the ground around Rune.

“Tell me, fool. How did he get the key?” growled Harn.

“I was felled by a hammer!” Rune pleaded. “He came upon me as I lay here and wrested it away!”

“Fool!” bellowed Poleaxe, causing Rune to whimper and cringe against the ground. Trembling in fury, the Neidar warrior gazed around the plaza into the stunned, awestruck faces of his tribesmen. His fingers clutched the hilt of his broken sword-he came dangerously close to drawing the weapon and plunging the stub of sharp steel through Rune’s craven heart.

At the last instant, he held his hand. “Clean this up!” he shrieked, gesturing to the whole square. “I will be back soon.”

He paused only long enough to take another long drink from his jug of spirits, setting the container beside his chair before he stalked out of the square, through a wide gap that opened up in the ring of staring Neidar. The streets of the town were for the most part empty, and he took some small comfort from the fact there were none to witness his humiliation and despair. A bleak cloud seemed to hover over him, bearing him down as he stomped through the streets toward the shabby hut of the Mother Oracle on Hillhome’s outskirts.

“Enter!” snapped the ancient oracle, even before he had raised his hand to knock on the door. Hesitantly, he pushed the frail barrier aside and entered the small, darkened room.

The old crone sat in the same place he had left her the day before. Her milky eyes were open, staring past him, and her gnarled hands were clenched into small fists, curled in her lap.

“So. You failed,” she spit. “Tell me what happened.”

He drew a breath and quickly decided against making excuses and dissembling.

“The mountain dwarves of Pax Tharkas attacked us while we were preparing to execute the Kayolin dwarf. We were taken totally by surprise. The Klar scooped up the two stones, and the prisoner escaped during the battle,” he reported coldly.

“This is what I have seen,” she said. “You let the gemstones slip from your hold.”

“I did,” Poleaxe admitted glumly.

“And you failed to prevent the dwarf maid from coming to me. I was forced to drive her away myself, last night. It took a great effort from an old, tired woman, but I succeeded.”

“I am sorry, Mother,” Harn said, ashamed. Once again his throat felt dry, his tongue thick in his mouth. He couldn’t even muster enough saliva to present her with an excuse.

“This is unforgiveable,” she said, but her tone was surprisingly gentle. She raised her wrinkled face, her nose twitching as the lids over her sightless eyes flickered up and down. “You have changed,” she said bluntly. “You have grown but not naturally. How?”

He was startled by her statement, once more reminded that the Mother Oracle saw far and deep, despite her blindness. When he had awakened that morning, in the room where Gretchan Pax had eluded him, he had felt himself changed and grown. He had stared into a mirror and realized that he had changed physically. He felt in possession of a certain inner strength, a fateful power that he had not known as part of himself before. Anxiously he scratched at one of the bumps that had appeared on his face. It itched constantly, and despite his rubbing, he could not seem to ease the discomfort.

“I drank something,” he said matter-of-factly. “It was something contained in a bottle of dwarf spirits, but it was not dwarf spirits. I tasted the difference.”

She nodded, as if his explanation made perfect sense to her. “Good,” she replied. “This I have also seen. This something, this potion, will help you to get the stones back. That is why I am not as angry as you might expect. You must retrieve them soon, of course. As for the Kayolin dwarf, you will have another opportunity to kill him, soon enough, when you recover the Bluestone and the Greenstone.”

“But, Mother Oracle,” Harn said, puzzled. “Surely the Klar are taking the stones to Pax Tharkas. And who knows where the escaped prisoner will flee?”

“Oh don’t worry. He, like you, will follow the stones,” she said confidently. “As to Pax Tharkas, you are destined to go there anyway. Destined to attack and capture it.”

His mind reeled at the lofty goal the Mother Oracle had set for him. He knew that secure fortress well from the outside: its massive towers, the high wall, the vast battlements, the gate strong enough to withstand a dragon’s might. He could only croak, “How?”

She shrugged, as if that were an issue of no great import. “The answer will come to me and it will come to you in good time. Do not fear. But for now you must act here, in Hillhome.”

“What should I do?”

“The people are understandably shaken and angry. You must turn that anger to your cause with a demonstration of your vengeance, giving proof of your power and your command.”

“Yes. I know just what to do. The other prisoners! There are two Theiwar in the brig. I will make an example of them. They will die in the Kayolin’s stead. And then we will muster our resources and plan a counterattack that the Klar will not soon forget.”

“Good,” said the old dwarf woman, raising a withered claw. He knelt and kissed her hand. “Go. Plan. Conquer.”

“Thank you, Mother Oracle,” Harn declared.

And he did as she advised. As he returned to the town square, he no longer felt despair or humiliation; he felt calm, confident, in control. He took a deep draught from the jug that, not surprisingly, the townsfolk had left untouched beside his great chair. He was feeling better already as he looked across the square. The Neidar were there in teeming numbers, many hundreds, muttering and fretting. They grew silent as the big hill dwarf swaggered back and forth on the platform then flopped into his chair in one smooth gesture.

“Our vengeance begins this morning, and it will not be complete until total victory is ours!” he proclaimed. A few Neidar clapped or shouted in agreement, but he brushed their mild encouragement away.

He pointed. “There are still two mountain dwarves imprisoned in the brig,” Poleaxe declared in a calm, measured tone. “Are there not?”

“Y-yes, Lord Poleaxe!” came the reply from none other than Shriff Keenstrike, who was standing close by.

“Bring them here!” he ordered, deciding he liked, very much, being called “Lord Poleaxe.”

Five minutes later the two captives, the Theiwar miners, were shoved into the middle of the plaza. Angry Neidar pressed in on all sides as Poleaxe spoke.

“Mountain dwarf filth!” he snapped as the two prisoners were shoved to their knees before him. He gestured to the bodies, to the destruction and detritus of battle around the plaza. “This is the work of your kinfolk! A treacherous attack, innocents slain-and then a cowardly retreat. Someone must pay! Someone will pay!”

One prisoner dared to raise his head and was smacked down again by a guard.

“Your tribesmen may have fled, but you are here, and you will receive the first taste of Neidar vengeance. Guards-bring me a block!” he cried, and several of his warriors quickly produced a broad, sturdy stump, setting it on the ground in front of the prisoners.

“Yarrow-is your blade sharp?” Poleaxe demanded of one of his bodyguards.

“Yes, lord. Sharp-and thirsty,” replied the Neidar axeman with a glare at the two hapless prisoners.

“Good,” Poleaxe replied. He gestured contemptuously to the pair. “Cut off their heads!” he ordered to an explosion of cheers and shouts from the crowd.

“Kill them!” cried many of the Neidar, pressing in, faces eager with bloodlust.

Only Slate Fireforge, far to the back of the crowd, watched the executions with any expression of sadness and dismay.

Brandon kept following the high ground just below the summit of the ridge, moving steadily away from Hillhome, keeping the mountain dwarf column ahead of him in sight. He was conscious of the captured sword at his belt, but that weapon wasn’t going to be much use to him in his situation. He felt bitter regret at the memory of his cherished battle axe, no doubt treasured by some Neidar thief-possibly even Harn Poleaxe himself. Perhaps he would get it back one day. For the moment he had the sword.

And that, too, added to his sense that his luck was changing. After all, he was no longer a prisoner, he was armed, and his family’s treasured stone was, at least, in the hands of mountain dwarves, not the vile Neidar. Things were indeed looking up.

The repulsed attackers maintained a pretty good pace as they marched swiftly toward the northwest. They had the advantage of the road, so Brandon was forced to jog along, climbing up and over obstacles, rocky outcrops and clumps of gnarled woods. He was puffing for breath, jogging near the crest, when he realized he wasn’t the only person tracking the column.

A pair of dwarves accompanied by a large black dog was moving along the slope just below Brandon. Cautiously, he crouched behind a ledge of rock and observed the other pursuers. Then his eyes widened as he recognized the blonde-haired dwarf maid as Gretchan Pax, the historian who had spoken to him in the Hillhome brig.

What in Reorx’s name was she doing out there?

Even as he wondered that, he found himself rather impressed by her field craft. Unlike him, she wore a bulky, apparently heavy, backpack, but she trotted along with ease and strength, hopping gracefully across the loose rocks of the high ridge crest. Her blue leggings and soft boots outlined the muscular curvature of her legs, and the sturdy traveling cloak she wore couldn’t completely mask the alluring outline of her curvy shape.

Her companion, he was startled to realize, was a ragged-looking gully dwarf. The Aghar trailed behind her, apparently keeping up a steady stream of chatter, though they were too far away for Brandon to hear what was being said. Even as he wondered what odd circumstance could have thrown the unlikely pair together, he warily watched the dog that bounded close beside the two. The wind was in his face, so he didn’t worry about his scent wafting down to the animal, but he made sure to walk stealthily, avoiding any untoward crunching of leaves or skittering of stones that might give him away.

What did Gretchan Pax want with the militant Klar? He couldn’t guess the answer, but he didn’t like the chance that she might discover him. Clearly she was friendly with the Hillhome dwarves, and he wasn’t about to take any chances on her sympathy for him. Was she spying on the mountain dwarves for her own Neidar people? Somehow that explanation didn’t ring true, but what exactly she was doing remained a mystery.

Brandon moved higher up the ridge, and when he came to a notch in the rocky crest, he moved across to the other side. He wouldn’t be able to keep the mountain dwarves in sight, but he gambled that they would continue along the road, just as the winding ridge did.

Jogging along, he tried to come up with a plan. He knew he couldn’t simply walk up to the mountain dwarves and ask them for the Bluestone back. He imagined the absurdity of the scene: “Um, that treasure you’re carrying… it actually belongs to me…”

The only question was whether they’d kill him outright or simply laugh him out of their camp.

Of course, the strangers were mountain dwarves, and that, at least, gave him hope. Hylar and Klar clans, while not necessarily allied, were not traditional enemies in the manner of Hylar and Daewar, who were generally united in their hatred of the Theiwar and Daergar dark dwarves. He decided that he would follow along, wait for the Klar to make their camp, then go down and introduce himself. He hoped they would remember they had aided his rescue. With any luck, he could at least join their ranks. As a kinsman from up north, they ought not to have any reason to distrust him on sight.

Of course, he remembered with a chill, Lord Heelspur and the assassins who had killed his brother were mountain dwarves too-albeit, Hylar of his own clan.

Gretchan walked briskly along the ridge above the Hillhome road, wrapped in thought. Gus continued to prattle on about revenge, about the bold initiatives he was planning, the battles he would win. She merely ignored his boasts and blather, moderately grateful that he had something to talk about besides where the next meal was coming from. Her mind was working on deeper problems, and she was trying to come up with a plan.

Of course she had recognized the attacking dwarves as Klar clansmen. With Thorbardin sealed, it seemed likely they must have come from Pax Tharkas. She guessed the mountain dwarves would be returning to that fortress. Her guess was reinforced by the fact that the road they followed was the one leading to that great citadel.

“Oh, curse it all,” she said as the afternoon wound into evening and the Klar’s marching column remained a mile or so ahead of them on the road. They continued marching into the darkness, covering ground until almost midnight, until, at last, the company moved off the road and gathered into a cold, fireless camp in a small grove of pines.

“I need to go talk to them,” she announced curtly.

Gus looked up at her and paled. “Talk to big fighter dwarves?” he gulped, his bravado fading in an instant.

“Yes. Now that they’ve stopped for the night. They won’t hurt me, I’m sure. There’s something I wish to know. But I want you to stay here, out of sight, and keep an eye on things for me. All right? And I can’t take Kondike with me. I might have to move quietly, and he might spook the folks I want to talk to. Make sure he stays put here, out of trouble. You did an excellent job of keeping an eye on Kondike before.”

“Sure I did. I do that!” the Aghar promised. “I keep two eyes on him this time!”

“I knew I could count on you,” Gretchan said, touched by her companion’s obvious sincerity. There were evident risks in leaving the gully dwarf responsible for anything, but they were lesser risks than taking him along. She reminded herself that, back in Hillhome, he had managed to turn up in the right place at the right time.

“Just remember, don’t make any noise. I’ll be back in… call it two hours,” she concluded, remembering the limitations of gully dwarf mathematical understanding.

Leaving Gus and Kondike hidden in a clump of rocks just off the road, she trudged toward the grove where she had seen the Klar make their camp. She was not looking forward to the encounter; the mountain dwarves of that clan were notoriously stubborn, unpredictable, and almost always rage filled. But she had to try to talk to them.

“Hey!” called a sentry, stepping out from behind a pine bole as she approached the camp. He brandished a heavy axe and peered suspiciously from beneath the canopy of the tree’s branches. “Who goes?”

“It’s me-Gretchan Pax,” she announced, striding up to the dwarf.

“Who?” he demanded, squinting to get a good look. The white moon emerged from behind a cloud, washing the scene in illumination, and the Klar’s eyes widened. “Why, hel- loh there,” he said, grinning. “What can I do for such a pretty lady?”

“I need to have a word with your brave captain,” she said with a sexy smile.

“Oh,” he replied, somewhat crestfallen. “Well, Garn Bloodfist is by that big rock near the stream. I don’t know… he didn’t say anything… is he, uh, expecting you?”

“No, I’m a surprise,” she said with a wink.

The sentry turned toward the camp. “Captain! There’s someone here to see you. I, uh, think you’ll want to talk to her.”

The reply from the middle of the camp seemed, to Gretchan, like an inarticulate cry. She looked at the sentry, who simply shrugged and waved her in. “That’s the captain for you,” he muttered as she passed.

The mountain dwarves were extremely weary from their long day of battle, retreat, and hard marching. Most of them were wrapped up snugly in their bedrolls, snoring or nearly asleep. A few glanced up from their blankets as she moved among them, and she heard whispering and rustling as many of them sat up and blinked. The moonlight reflected in her hair, making it look like spun gold, and much of the snoring died out as the sleeping dwarves were nudged awake to have a look at the mysterious visitor.

Men, she thought as she followed the guard’s direction toward the stream.

She found Garn Bloodfist wrapped in his cloak, glaring at the dark waters of the stream as it flowed past. At first she thought he was with someone-she heard him muttering angrily about “Revenge!”-but a glance around suggested no one else was present.

“Hello,” she said unceremoniously, stepping to his side. “So you are the famous Garn Bloodfist. I need to talk to you.”

“Who in Reorx’s name are you?” he demanded, standing up and looking her over slowly and suspiciously. His eyes bulged from his bearded face and fixed upon her with a staring intensity she found strangely irritating.

Charm is wasted on this one, she realized. In a sense, that was a relief; it allowed her to cut right to the point.

“I saw your men at work today,” she declared. “Quite a bit of butchery. I suppose you’re very proud.”

“And why shouldn’t I be?” snapped Garn, his eyes darting this way and that. “We won the day!”

“That’s as foolish a statement as I’ve heard in a long time. Win a day, and lose a year? Or a century? Is that what you’re after?” she charged. Her voice grew stronger and more shrill. “You attacked a peaceful hill dwarf village! I suppose next you want to refight the Dwarfgate War? Maybe conjure up Fistandantilus to make another Skullcap!”

He gaped at her. “I repeat, who in Reorx’s name are you?” he said, sounding a little less sure of himself.

“I am a highly respected historian,” she said, shaking a finger in his face. “And I asked you a question. Why are you opening up old wounds and refighting the Dwarfgate War?”

Garn glared at the uppity female he had never seen before. “If you paid more attention to that history you claim to find so interesting, you’d notice that the Dwarfgate War has never ended. If we don’t kill them, they’ll end up killing us!”

She shook her head. “How can you be such an idiot? How can there be any hope for our people when fools like you will take any excuse to make war?”

“I am a warrior!” snarled the Klar, his hands twitching. He wasn’t wearing a weapon, but he raised a fist, flexing it toward Gretchan’s face.

She didn’t back down; in fact, she shouted at him. “It was a tragic, foolish waste of lives-your own as well as the Neidar! You’ve inflamed the hill dwarves now. They’ll be coming for vengeance soon enough.”

“A waste?” Garn shot back, gloating. “If you’re really such an important historian, then tell me if this looks like a waste.” He pulled out a pouch and held it open so she could see, glinting in the pale light of the stars, two large wedges of colored stones. “Look!” he declared. “Unless I miss my guess, these are valuable dwarven artifacts that rightfully belong to the exiles of Thorbardin. It’s a treasure like I’ve never seen!”

She stepped closer, eyes widening, inspecting the unusual colored stone. “Where do you think you’re taking them? To Pax Tharkas?” she asked.

He glowered then thrust his bristling beard forward as if in challenge. “What if I am?” he demanded. “These stones are the spoils of our mission, and unless I miss my guess, they’ll make Tarn Bellowgranite and even Otaxx Shortbeard sit up and take notice!”

She felt suddenly dizzy and sat down hard on a nearby rock. “What did you say?” she asked, her voice falling to a whisper.

“You heard me,” Garn retorted. He scowled. “Say, what’s the matter with you all of a sudden?” He looked around suspiciously. “Where did you come from, anyway?”

“I’ve been traveling… for a long time,” she said in a small, disoriented voice. “I’m not sure I even remember where I come from anymore.”

For the first time, Garn looked hard at the stranger. “Well, you can stay with us if you want to be safe. And we’ll take you to the fortress with us,” he offered a little too eagerly.

“No. I’m traveling with another party,” she said curtly.

He blinked and his eyes narrowed. “What are you anyway?” he demanded. “Some kind of witch? Showing up here in the middle of the night, ten miles from Hillhome. Or is that your home?” he challenged menacingly. He took a step closer to her.

“Don’t touch me!” she snapped. She stood, facing him down. When he reached toward her, she spoke a single word: “Stop!”

The word exploded through the night like a crack of thunder. “You are a witch!” Garn said angrily, struggling to push his hand forward against the unseen force that was blocking him. “Klar!” he shouted. “Take her!”

At least he tried to shout, and his mouth worked up and down. But no sound came forth. Stunned, his eyes bulging, he stared at the mysterious dwarf maid, who glared at him with an expression that was not so much angry as distraught.

“I don’t care where you’re going,” she said with a shrug, turning to watch the moonlight reflecting in the waters of the stream. The gemstones intrigued her. But narrow-minded dwarves such as Garn Bloodfist-Bloodthirst would be more appropriate-discouraged and depressed her.

Leaving him still struggling against the force of her command, she turned and walked into the night.