Secret of Pax Tharkas dh-1

by Douglas Niles

  Of course, his family had not always been insignificant, but if anything, that knowledge served only to aggravate his awareness of their current status. The Bluestone luck, dating back to the Cataclysm more than four centuries earlier, had ensured that the house had been unable to prosper.

  And why should money matter so much, anyway? Well, in truth, it didn’t, Brandon admitted to himself with a secret chuckle. Perhaps it made all the difference to the rich themselves and to the swaggering young men who dressed in finery and tried to impress the girls with family money. But it didn’t matter all that much to the girls, really, not in his experience. He recalled very fondly the attentions of several noble young females. Buxom and blonde, always ready to enjoy a high-kicking dance or a tall mug of ale, those ladies seemed more than happy to spend time with Brandon and his brother rather than with the fancy-dressing, smug scions of the great merchant houses. One, a lass named Rona of House Darkwater, had been his regular lover for most of the past year. Their open romance had sparked more than one brawling encounter in which the Bluestone brothers were often outnumbered, occasionally taunted, and sometimes sucker-punched or jumped from behind by jealous rivals higher up the social scale of the elite.

  The brothers won more fights then they lost, and even when they lost the fight, they usually won the girls. All in all, it wasn’t a bad life. In truth, Nailer was a tall, handsome dwarf with flowing blond hair and a yellow beard. And Brandon, whether he knew it or not, was even taller, and more handsome. He had his brother’s strapping shoulders, sturdy legs, and strong hands, but he also possessed a guileless face and a winning smile that had, all of his life, allowed him to make friends quickly.

  “Hey, where are you? Back at the Cracked Mug?” Nailer asked, jolting him out of his reverie.

  Brandon had, indeed, been recalling a certain barmaid who worked at that very tavern, the lovely Bondall. He blushed, realizing that his brother had halted a few paces ahead of him and was impatiently waiting for him to catch up.

  “Sorry,” he said, turning his attention back to their surroundings.

  It was a natural cave created by the erosive action of flowing water, the two dwarves knew. The curves in the wall were rounded, and stalactites dangled from the ceiling above, pointing to stalagmites rising from below, in some cases merging into staunch columns that gave the cavern a sense of majesty, almost like the great hall of the king himself. The water had long vanished, leaving a floor that was strewn with rubble, rounded rocks that, like the walls, showed the smoothing effects of long erosion. In many places passageways, some narrow and others wide as a royal hallway, extended to the right or left. But the two brothers, long accustomed to the subterranean landscape, could see by the deep channel and the steadily descending grade that they were following the main branch of what was proving to be an exceptionally extensive cavern network.

  The surrounding rock was limestone, typical of such a cave and not the type of rock that would normally contain a vein of any heavy metal, let alone gold. But their explorations had shown them that the stratum of limestone lay atop a much heavier, older layer of stone. That harder bedrock had already yielded indications of iron deposits and ore containing aluminum. Just a few intervals earlier, the brothers had located, between the stratum and the stream that flowed there, a shelf that bore definite traces of gold-flakes and tiny nuggets of exceptional purity. Making an estimate based half on long experience and half on an intangible hunch, Nailer had led them to that cavern, and-despite the old legends that the caves were haunted by some unnamed horror-they had been delving deep into the bedrock, seeking the source of the tantalizing bits of gold.

  Until they had encountered the body of the long-dead dwarf, the place had looked promising. Every so often the tougher bedrock under the layer of limestone came into view, and the two dwarves nursed every hope that the next time that happened they would spot a vein of precious yellow metal intermingling with the dull stone. Conserving their precious supply of lamp oil by keeping the flame low, they took turns carrying the light and carefully probed their way deeper into the caverns.

  But for the moment, everywhere was soft bedrock and shadows that gave it texture and mystery. It was Nailer’s turn to carry the lamp, and he held it high in his left hand, keeping the hammer ready in his other. Brandon looked to the right, where the cavern ceiling sloped into the darkness, meeting the rubble and dust of the floor in a crease that might have ended in a foot’s drop or continued for a hundred miles. To the left was a series of columns, arrayed almost like a drapery, with rippling edges and articulated spires-still, eternal, and almost lifelike.

  Then one of those columns moved.

  It had appeared as immobile as a cliff, a tower of pale gray, until a great club of an arm shot out, a mighty fist driving toward Nailer’s shoulder.

  “Look out!” Brandon cried. Even before he finished the shout, he reacted, unconsciously. He hoisted his axe and brought it down, backed by all the strength of his broad shoulders and sturdy, muscular arms, directly into that striking limb.

  The fist was attached to a monstrous creature, he saw, recognizing the beast as a cave troll. The hulking monster, as cold and gray as the very bedrock, had been virtually invisible standing there among the natural columns of the cave. It seemed to move as swiftly as a striking snake, lunging with that punch that could have smashed Nailer’s shoulder or, if it landed against the side of his head, break his neck.

  But Brandon had moved even faster. His axe blade, of ancient steel, struck the troll’s arm at the elbow and sliced cleanly through the grotesque, stony flesh. The severed limb knocked Nailer to the side, still, though it was a blow interrupted. The elder dwarf dropped the lantern, which cracked on the stone floor. The spilling oil ignited, offering welcome extra illumination for at least a brief moment. The monster howled and spun around to face Brand, swinging its left hand in a sweeping punch while the flaring light cast its shadow as a gargantuan outline on the cavern wall and ceiling.

  The young dwarf ducked, and the troll’s fist only grazed the top of his helmet-yet even that glancing blow stunned Brandon and threw him onto his tail. Knocked breathless, he strained for air and gaped at the troll as it leaped toward him. His nerveless fingers strained to grasp, much less lift, his axe. Brandon’s vision was filled with a ghastly face: slate-gray skin, as jagged as a craggy bluff; two eyes as lightless and deep as cave mouths; a nose that jutted like a spur of rock; and a mouth gaping wide, lined with rows of sharp stalactites and stalagmites.

  A heavy hand, cold and hard as granite, pressed against Brandon’s chest, the pressure choking him, and that maw flashed close, foul breath coiling like miasma around the terrified dwarf’s head. Before the fatal bite landed, however, Nailer charged in, landing a blow with his hammer on the troll’s shoulder and knocking the monster to the side. Howling again, a screech that grated on dwarf ears, the beast backed away.

  It loomed over the brothers, with its left arm dangling limply from its shattered shoulder. The severed stump of its right arm flailed, but as Nailer swung his hammer again, the troll continued to retreat, backing into a niche between two of the graceful columns masking that side of the cave. Brandon finally caught his breath and jerked to his feet. The two dwarves closed in, but the troll sprang away, the stone-shaped beast again moving with incongruous agility.

  “Where in Reorx’s name did it go?” demanded Nailer, following the monster through the gap, halting and peering into the consuming darkness. “There’s all kinds of places to hide back here.”

  “We hurt it bad; let’s get after it!” Brandon urged, charging forward, trying to shoulder his way past his brother. He looked at the rocky floor, seeking blood or any other trail sign. There was only the slab of the cave bed, slanting gradually up and away from them. There were at least three dark alcoves in view, any of which could have been a shallow niche or the start of a long side cavern.

  “This way!” he guessed, charging toward the middle until Nailer’s strong hand on
his shoulder yanked him to a halt.

  “Careful,” counseled the older dwarf. “We go together. Get the spare lamp.”

  “All right,” Brandon agreed, realizing that the light from the broken lantern was quickly fading as the spilled oil burned away. Quickly he removed the second one, poured some oil from their flask into it, and touched off the wick with the last of the dying flame.

  Side by side, the brothers warily advanced up the sloping shelf of rock. Quickly they saw the right-side passage was a mere hollow in the cavern wall, too shallow to conceal a creature the size of the troll. Nevertheless, Nailer insisted they check it out thoroughly, reminding Brandon of the monster’s uncanny concealment prior to the ambush.

  That niche proved empty, and the middle passage was only a little deeper and also unoccupied. Still shoulder to shoulder, they advanced into the third opening and quickly found themselves climbing up the winding floor of an ancient dry riverbed. Loose rocks scraped and slipped underfoot, making it impossible to move stealthily. At least the space was wide enough to give them fighting space if they encountered their quarry. Brandon took heart from knowing the troll’s arms were virtually useless.

  “By Reorx!” gasped Nailer, suddenly leaping back and bracing his brother with a halting hand. “Is that another one?”

  Brandon stared as a looming cave troll, both arms extended, emerged from the shadows before them, charging fast. The two dwarves raised their weapons, and the troll halted, eyeing them with those lightless sockets. They could hear the rasping growl in its chest, smell that familiar stench of its breath. Both hands, tipped with sturdy, flexing claws that looked like flint blades, stretched forward menacingly.

  “Look!” Brandon hissed, staring at the creature’s right arm. The limb was extending, the claws growing longer as they stared. “It is the same troll, but its arm grew back!”

  “How in the name of the Forge did it do that?” Nailer demanded, backing up a step as the monster loomed closer.

  Brandon was worried about more immediate concerns. As the troll sprang, he slashed his axe at its grotesque face, driving the beast back. Nailer closed in, swinging his hammer, but the nimble monster skipped to one side and came at Brandon from another direction, while Nailer was blocked by his brother from bringing his weapon to bear.

  Shouting the name of Reorx in the ancient dwarf battle cry, Brandon swung his axe in an overhand blow, the keen blade slicing into that wicked nose. The troll feinted a recoil, and brought its regenerated, powerful right arm around in a wild swing. Claws ripped into the dwarf’s biceps, but he twisted away, using the haft of his weapon to partially parry the blow. He sidestepped so the two brothers could stand side by side, and the troll retreated, leaning forward to brace itself on its hands and long arms.

  Abruptly it pounced again, its agile moves reminding Brandon of a feline-a very large, monstrously heavy cat. The troll smashed into the two dwarves, and Brandon went down onto his back. He kicked both feet just as Nailer shouted an agonized cry of pain. The double kick drove hard into the monster’s legs, drawing the troll’s attention back to Brandon and allowing Nailer to push himself along the floor, putting some distance between himself and the beast.

  Once more the troll loomed above him, and Brandon held his axe in front of him, trying to ward off the coming blow. Still prone, he didn’t have room to swing the weapon with any force, but the monster hesitated, seeming wary of the keen steel.

  “For Reorx and Kayolin!” Nailer’s battle cry echoed through the cave as Brandon’s older brother, limping slightly, lunged to the attack. His hammer smashed into the troll’s back, bringing the creature slashing around to face the new attacker. In that instant Brandon scrambled to his feet.

  Finally, he had some room! He brought the axe up, pulled it back, and made a sweeping roundhouse swing into the monster’s side. The blade bit deep, and the troll howled, twisting reflexively. Brandon clutched the haft of his axe and stepped sideways as the troll spun.

  The monster’s spin gave Nailer another opening, and he leaped forward, swinging his hammer over his head and smashing the heavy steel weapon into the base of the troll’s skull. Again the beast roared, but then it swayed groggily, trying in vain to strike at either of its tormentors.

  Brandon finally pulled his axe free and immediately pounded a lumberjack swing against the troll’s leg. The blade bit deep, and the monster went down to one knee.

  Nailer brought his hammer around, bashing the troll’s good knee, and the hulking beast stumbled forward, braced on its hands, its head swaying dazedly. Already the wound in its side, where Brandon’s blade had bitten so deeply, was starting to close up, healing before the dwarves’ horrified eyes.

  But Brandon didn’t let up. He raised his axe again and chopped down hard, slicing halfway through the creature’s neck. The monster went down, thrashing, and the dwarf made a second chop. Then the troll’s head tumbled free, rolling like a rock until it came to a rest on the stump of its neck. The soulless eyes gaped as dark and as wickedly as they had in life, but the great body at last lay still.

  “Nice chopping,” Nailer grunted, clapping a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  Brandon felt the older dwarf’s weight, remembering that he’d been limping. “Are you all right?”

  Nailer grinned at the troll’s head and nodded. “Never better,” he said cheerfully.

  “What are you so happy about?” Brandon sputtered. “We could have died! Did that thing conk your brains around in your skull?”

  The younger Bluestone followed his brother’s gaze and let out a whoop of joy. “I see what you mean!” he said, stepping forward and moving around the decapitated head. He was staring down at a thick vein of bright yellow metal, a line of gold running like a seam through the bedrock of the deep cave. He said the words he knew his brother was thinking.

  “Maybe the Bluestone luck is about to improve.”

  FIVE

  Down The Drain

  Gus’s hard labor paid off. The rocks he had loosened fell away from the barrier, and the releasing flow immediately widened the gap, allowing the contents of the pond to plunge downward in a single, frothing wave. The whole dam sagged away, and everything-Gus, Slooshy, and the three Theiwar killers included-went down.

  “Me did it!” Gus crowed, though his voice was swallowed in the churning froth.

  A great gout of syrupy goo enveloped the gully dwarf as the contents of the pond poured through the hole where the dam had been. Gus flailed his feet and hands, but for two seconds there was only that ooze and a sensation in his belly that was very similar to falling. Rocks crashed and tumbled around him-there seemed to be as much sliding stone as there was liquid in the spilling slide-and his flesh was bruised and battered by the crushing pressure.

  “Gus!” he heard Slooshy call, and he reached out toward the sound.

  Before he found her, he smacked into a rock and bounced out of the spilling debris, tumbling lazily through a somersault. Wiping his eyes, he saw a steady plume of liquid sludge bursting through the gap, carrying two rocks with it. Slooshy tumbled past, trying pathetically to swim. Then Gus bounced off the rocky ground again, and since he had landed on his head, he was a little groggy as he spiraled, tumbled, slid, and careened down the steep face of the rockslide.

  As he slid on his back toward the bottom, he found himself looking up at the ceiling of Thorbardin. Something was wrong with his lungs, and he found it impossible to draw a breath. However, his limbs seemed to function. Gus lifted up his arms and kicked his legs just in time to see one of the Theiwar tumble past. The dwarf’s face was a mask of terror as he bounced out from the steep trough and hit the waters of the Urkhan Sea, where he promptly disappeared.

  More rocks and debris spilled into the lake, pummeling the large boat that had drawn close to shore. Gus whooped in delight as one end of the boat, battered by rocks, slipped under water. Several terrified Theiwar leaped toward shore, but lacking the Aghar’s instinctive swimming skills, most of them
vanished beneath the surface.

  “Help!” Slooshy was clinging to a nearby rock as the slide, more liquid than rock, spilled around her. Gus slid down and held out his hand, which she took gratefully. Since he had neglected to hold on to anything with the other hand, however, his firm grip simply pulled him into the slide with her. Another wave of sludge washed into them, carrying them both down the slope.

  His gaze shifted and he saw they were tumbling toward a big hole in the ground. It was a drain at the side of the lake, where the sludge from the Daergar sewers vanished into the bedrock-a drain installed hundreds of years ago so the effluent of the sewage pond did not pollute the pristine waters of the Urkhan Sea. At one time the drain hole had been protected by an iron grate, but the vagaries of time and the disruption of the Chaos War had done away with that barrier.

  The gurgling and splashing and roaring got louder and louder all the time. Gus kept his hand tightly wrapped around Slooshy’s as he tumbled and whirled, trying to look up toward the ceiling, but all he could see was a churning froth of brown murk. It was all around them. Abruptly, Gus’s lungs started to work, and he drew a deep breath. Some instinct for survival (such instincts are second nature to the Aghar) caused him to close his eyes and hold that deep breath. Beside him, he sensed Slooshy doing the same thing.

  In two seconds the flood reached the bottom of the ravine, the rush from the ruptured dam sweeping the two Aghars’ stubby little bodies right down the drain. Once again there came the sensation of falling, and it lasted for a very long time-two seconds, at least. Gus was surrounded by noise and propelled along by a gout of foul sludge. Occasionally he skidded against the side of the drainpipe, which only confirmed that he was indeed going down very fast. Still the Aghar pair clung to each other, somehow drawing close enough to clasp each other in their arms, holding their breath, a single bundle of terror as they plunged ever more swiftly downward.