“I almost wish something would happen around here!” huffed Otaxx. Ever a man of action, he chafed as the long, empty years passed by.
But there was more to his glum nature. Both of the dwarves bore a burden Tarn couldn’t fully appreciate, as they were among the few Daewar who had remained behind in Thorbardin when Severus Stonehand, the Mad Prophet, had marched away with the bulk of the clan on his mad quest to regain ancient Thoradin. None of those dwarves had ever been heard from again, and they had long been given up for lost by those they had left behind.
Axeblade’s parents had gone with Stonehand, but Otaxx had suffered an even more grievous loss. His wife of twenty years, pregnant with their first child, had also departed on the quixotic quest for the lost kingdom. Ever true to his duty-which he vested toward the whole kingdom, not just his Daewar clan-Otaxx Shortbeard had been unable to follow his pregnant wife, for to do so would have betrayed the oath he had sworn to his king, Tarn Bellowgranite. Even though Tarn had given him leave to go, Otaxx had elected to remain behind; he had been a source of great strength to Tarn and all Thorbardin during the dark years after the Chaos War. But Otaxx sorely missed his wife, and pined for the child he had never known-the child that might not even have made it to birth.
He was too old to fight anymore, however, and Tarn knew he spent his days remembering his bride and second-guessing his path in life. Always gruff, Otaxx had become more irascible and more depressed as the years passed. He always hoped to hear word of Severus Stonehand’s fate, but no word ever came. Still, he was one of the few who clung to some hope the Mad Prophet’s expedition might not have met complete disaster.
“Any word from Garn Bloodfist?” the thane asked with some trepidation.
“I sent him another message two days ago; he’s on campaign in the hill country, but I haven’t heard back,” Axeblade said.
Tarn nodded, not surprised. Garn was the captain of the Klar contingent of the Tharkadan garrison. Some three hundred strong, the dwarves of that impetuous, high-strung clan were unsuited to the steady labor of rock-hauling required for work on Pax Tharkas. They craved action, and Tarn had found it impossible to keep them immobile in the fortress; the inevitable fights and fits and brawls were too disruptive to the rest of his band.
So every so often the Klar marched out of Pax Tharkas to raid the hill dwarves who lived in countless small towns throughout the vast foothills of the mountain range. Sometimes they killed some Neidar, and sometimes they lost some Klar. Almost always they returned with plunder and food, which they shared willingly enough with the rest of the garrison. Though Tarn didn’t condone their dubious activities, he knew that the Klar kept the hill dwarves off balance and probably prevented them from marshalling their forces all at once to lay siege to his fortress. Still, Garn Bloodfist was a bit of a loose catapult, and the thane could never be sure exactly what kind of trouble he would make.
“Well, let me know if you get a message,” Tarn said not very hopefully.
“Aye, my thane. I will.”
He left the two Daewar and headed down the stairs, past the ready room, into the many levels of living quarters that filled the lower half of the east tower. On the fourth of those, he left the stairs, walked down a short hall, and opened the door to his open, private treasure room.
“Papa!” Tor cried. The robust ten-year-old raced over to his father, proudly holding up a wooden sword. “Look what I made! Otaxx Shortbeard promised to teach me how to parry once I have a sword! Look what I can do!” He waved the sword wildly.
Tarn chuckled, leaning down to embrace his son. “Why don’t you go show Otaxx; I’m sure he can teach you a trick or two.”
Next he hugged Tara, two years younger than her brother. He let her nuzzle his beard, as she loved to do; then he carried her around the playroom on his shoulders, her whoops and shrieks brightening his day like nothing else. Only when he was out of breath did he put her down, promising to return in a few minutes.
He went into the bedroom, then, and found his wife, Crystal Heathstone, standing at the window, as she often did, as he had known she would be doing. She turned to look at him, the anguish on her face tearing at his heart. She would always be a hill dwarf, daughter of a former clan leader, and her life as the wife of a mountain dwarf ruler had not been easy, he knew.
“Garn Bloodfist has taken the Klar out again, hasn’t he?” she said, and he knew it wasn’t really a question.
He merely nodded.
She sighed and shrugged off his touch when he went over to her. “One of these days, he’s going to stir up a hornet’s nest, and that could be the end for us all,” she declared.
“The hornets are always buzzing,” Tarn pointed out. “Sometimes Garn swats them away.”
“Why can he only do it through war?” she demanded.
He shrugged, wishing they weren’t having that conversation. “It’s always been that way,” he pointed out.
“Not always!” she retorted. “It had a beginning: the Cataclysm. Why can’t there be an end? Why can’t we end it?”
“We’re dwarves,” he replied, not knowing what else to say. “War is in our nature. You might as well try to stop the sun from moving through the sky.”
She looked at him with a strange expression, a look that, to Tarn, was more scathing even than a glare of contempt. When she spoke, it was almost to herself. “Once, I thought you might be the kind of dwarf who would try to do just that, and to the Abyss with the consequences.”
He turned on his heel and went to the door, tense and angry. He would not slam it, not when his daughter was so near, but he looked at Crystal as if he didn’t recognize her.
“Maybe I was that dwarf, once. But I’ve seen too much. I’m not him now. I’m not that Tarn Bellowgranite anyway, not anymore.”
FIFTEEN
Homes Of The Neidar
B randon’s mouth felt as dry as a bale of cotton and still tasted of bile. His head throbbed inside because of the lingering residue of the dwarf spirits, and it throbbed outside, where it had been bruised by Harn Poleaxe’s powerful blows. Yet for all his physical aches, he felt emotionally worse. It seemed clear that his family’s poor luck had at last found its nadir. For he had allowed the Bluestone, the symbol and the reality of his family’s legacy, to fall into the hands of a treacherous hill dwarf.
And the Neidar were treacherous, Brandon realized-almost incomprehensibly so! His mind reeled as he recalled Harn Poleaxe’s cheerful camaraderie, his friendly advice as he’d escorted the young Hylar across half of Ansalon. By Reorx, he’d been using his victim to carry the treasure that was his true quarry! And all the while, Poleaxe had been responsible for Nailer’s murder-even if he had not actually wielded the fatal sword-and for the betrayal of Brandon’s and Nailer’s claim to the ruthless and avaricious Heelspurs.
The bitterness of the reality made Brandon sick to his stomach. What a cruel irony: the hill dwarf who drank so freely, and so carelessly, had used alcohol-apparently enhanced with some kind of soporific drug-to immobilize his victim.
“Move it!” One of the Neidar prodded him with his own axe, and he stumbled as he tried to balance on feet and legs that were numbed from their bonds. Angrily he shook off the push. Shaking his head, gritting his teeth, he started to walk.
The hill dwarves and their captive moved under a slate-gray sky, which occasionally spit at them with rain showers; the sky perfectly mirrored Brandon’s mood. They trekked away from the campsite but remained on the rugged crest of the ridge instead of moving into the more easily passable valley floor. They descended a bit to avoid a lofty, open promontory, but then quickly climbed back to resume the trek on the ridge crest.
When they came to a steep-sided ravine, his captors pushed him roughly, and he skidded down to land on his hip, sliding roughly to the bottom, unable to use his bound hands for any help. Grimly he plodded up the winding trail on the opposite side, resolving that he would not give the Neidar the satisfaction of hearing him complain or seei
ng him suffer. Nor would he give them an excuse to beat or, worse, ridicule and mock him.
All the while he was nursing his anger, which had already flared into hatred. They were not like any dwarves he had ever imagined; they were not worthy of Reorx’s chosen! They were worse than the lowest gully dwarves, he finally decided.
It was many hours later before the troop of hill dwarves finally marched down off the rocky ridges onto a smooth road. The pair who had originally been charged with Brandon’s execution had been marching grimly behind the prisoner all day, never hesitating to poke him between the shoulders, in the area of his kidneys, or right in the buttocks with the sharp tips of their short swords. He had noted that one of those two was also carrying Brandon’s axe, clearly displaying his enjoyment at the feel and heft of his new weapon. The dwarf’s chuckles of amusement proved, to Brandon, that he considered the dishonorable torment to be fine sport.
The captive barely felt those small annoyances, however, so deep was the gloom that had settled around him. The whole day he trudged along, mourning the loss of his father’s treasure, cursing himself for the foolishness that had led to his capture without even a respectable show of self-defense. All was lost, and it seemed only a matter of time until Poleaxe staged his charade of a trial and executed the Kayolin dwarf as a spy.
It wasn’t until near sunset that Brandon finally, forcefully, reminded himself that he wasn’t dead yet. And, he told himself, if all he did was wallow in self-pity, his life may as well end in an ignominious whimper. He could not, would not, give up! If he was to perish here, he would make sure the Neidar bastards paid dearly for the privilege of killing him.
But his wrists were still securely bound, and his captors numbered a full dozen, so there was no release for his anger-at least, not in his present circumstances. He vowed to Reorx, to his father, and to the memory of his slain brother that someday, somehow, he would find the means to claim vengeance. For the moment, he would stay alert, nursing his anger.
His eyes, when he raised them, sought Harn Poleaxe, who strode at the head of the little column, swaggering along, regaling his companions with tales of Kayolin hubris and wealth.
“Their governor has decided to call himself a king,” Poleaxe declared in an incredulous tone. “Even though he doesn’t have half the holdings of Thorbardin. Believe it or not, he does most of his trading with humans!”
“Ah, you’re making that up!” said one of Harn’s ruffians.
“I swear on the Forge of Reorx!” Harn declared with an air of wounded dignity. “He sells steel to the emperor of Solamnia, and in return, the humans protect Kayolin from the goblins.”
That was a lie, Brandon knew-Kayolin was in no danger from even the most numerous and aggressive bands of goblins-but the prisoner wasn’t about to waste his breath rebuking Poleaxe, not when his own life was hanging in the balance.
The other Neidar, all except the one called Fireforge, laughed heartily at Harn’s anecdotes while Brandon’s rage simmered. He watched that hill dwarf, whose full name was Slate Fireforge, for any signs he might be able to appeal to him for help. Despite the fact he had objected to Harn’s plan to summarily execute the captive, however, Fireforge gave no sign that he was willing to extend him any other unusual sympathy.
As his mind cleared-from both the effects of Poleaxe’s blows and the lingering hangover-he reflected on the events that had led him to his sorry state. For there was more than just bad luck involved. Clearly, Poleaxe had planned the theft carefully; he had sent word to his cronies, and the band had waited in hiding for the travelers, moving in to assist when the treacherous Neidar acted.
That itself was an interesting fact, Brandon realized. Why had the big hill dwarf felt that he needed help? After all, he stood a half head taller than the mountain dwarf, who himself was a bigger-than-average specimen. And Poleaxe outweighed Brandon by a good two stone. Yet even with his victim extremely drunk, he had not struck until backed up by significant reinforcements. Perhaps Poleaxe was not as fearless as he pretended.
And why had he made his move out in the wilds? Poleaxe just as easily could have had Brandon surrounded or captured in town at an inn or in a tavern. Instead, he’d arranged for his handpicked men to effect the betrayal away from eyewitnesses.
The more Brandon thought about it, the more he wondered whether Harn’s behavior might not meet with the approval of every citizen of Hillhome. Perhaps he might be able to find, if not outright allies, a few decent dwarves once they got to the town.
The road they were following meandered along a valley surrounded not by mountains, but by forested ridges. Soon they passed a dam-made of stones set so perfectly it could only be the work of dwarves-and a millhouse, where a large wheel turned with the flow of the stream. Brandon began to spot stone houses in the woods to either side, and when the road passed around another bend, they came upon a bustling village, filling the valley before him from wall to wall.
“Welcome to Hillhome!” gloated Poleaxe, calling back to his captive. “Now you can have a taste of Neidar hospitality.”
“False hospitality, you mean,” Brandon retorted. “Not like my father’s, when he fed you and gave you drink at his own table.”
“All the more fool him,” Harn shot back, though he glowered unpleasantly. Was it possible? Did he feel some guilt over his foul treachery?
“Take him to the brig behind the smelting plant. Then come and report to me; I’ll be at Moldoon’s place,” Poleaxe added, instructing the two guards who had tortured Brandon during the long march.
The prisoner, determined not to miss any chance at escape, looked around carefully as the guards escorted him through the town. He saw immediately that Hillhome consisted of two parts: a small central section of neat stone buildings, and an outer ring of wooden buildings and shacks. The houses in the town center were mostly modest, though a few boasted several rooms and outbuildings. Sturdy slate roofs and ornate rock gardens gave those structures a sense of permanence, as though they were every bit as old as the hills themselves. The inns-he spotted several-were large but similarly neat, as were the mill, smithy, and a few other shops they passed.
Brandon got a good look at both parts of the town, as he was marched down a curving lane that seemed to serve as a boundary between the two districts. The outer ring contained more buildings, and covered more area, than the rock-solid center. Those structures looked more temporary and seemed more crowded. He saw lines of laundry stringing between many of the buildings, and as his captors led him past a large inn, called Snarky’s Place, a band of swarthy dwarves called down to them from the long porch.
“Hey, Rune! What’s that garbage you’re dragging into our town?” shouted a burly, black-bearded Neidar with a bulging belly and a patch over one eye.
“Ah, he’s a mountain dwarf,” called the captor, the one who was carrying Brandon’s axe. “Harn Poleaxe is back, and he brought this fellow with him as a souvenir.”
“Mountain dwarf?” screeched a female hill dwarf, a toothless crone sitting on the steps of the inn. She hawked and spit a gob of saliva that Brandon nimbly sidestepped. Eyes forward, he kept plodding on, and his guards hurried beside him, quickly leaving the belligerent drinkers behind.
“In here, mate,” Rune said abruptly, grabbing Brandon by the shoulder and propelling him to the left, toward a wooden structure that looked more sturdy than most.
A burly guard stood at the front door, which consisted of heavy logs strapped together with iron bands. The hinges were as stout as a dwarf’s arm. There was not a window in the whole structure.
“Got a mountain dwarf, needs a room-at least for a day or two,” Rune said with an evil chuckle.
“Got just the spot,” said the jailer. He was a repulsive-looking hill dwarf with a filthy beard and dirty leather pants and shirt. He spit a messy gob onto the plank floor, and from within his tunic, he fished out a massive key, worn on a thong around his neck, and unlocked the door. He needed the weight of his shoulder to push
it open, but it gradually yielded to his efforts.
Prodded by his tormentors, Brandon clumped up the two steps to the brig and stepped inside. His nostrils were assailed by the stink of overflowing gutters and unwashed bodies. As his eyes adjusted, he was being pushed down a corridor between two banks of cells. The little cages had solid walls and doors of heavy iron bars. Most of them were empty but a pair was occupied by hill dwarves who barely looked up as the new arrival passed. Each of them stank of whiskey and vomit, and the smell-which called to mind his own recent excesses-almost made Brandon gag. Their leather tunics were stained, torn, and patched, and the normal Neidar complexion, brown and weather scoured, had faded on their faces to an unhealthy pale.
Just beyond was another cell. That one held two dwarves who did not look like Neidar. Their skin was pale too, but more naturally so, and their stout boots were cobbled with metal cleats. With some surprise, Brandon guessed they were a pair of mountain dwarves. Like their hill dwarf cousins, they looked up listlessly as the new prisoner was pushed past.
In another two steps, they came to the cell at the end of the corridor, a little closet-sized room barely half the space of the others. The door stood open, but Brandon wasn’t prepared for the shove that sent him stumbling through. He dropped to his knees and, with his hands still bound behind him, couldn’t prevent his face from smashing into the slimy wall. He squirmed around, bouncing to his feet in fury, only to see the door slam in his face.
“I’m locked in good here; at least untie me!” he demanded, glaring through the grid of iron bars.
“You’re fine for now,” Rune taunted, hoisting Brandon’s axe so the prisoner would be sure to see it. “We’ll let you know tomorrow if we’re going to untie you and feed you or cut your head off!”
All three Neidar laughed raucously as they passed out of the brig, slamming and locking the outer door, leaving Brandon in the darkness and the stink and the despair.
Secret of Pax Tharkas dh-1 Page 17
