Secret of Pax Tharkas dh-1

by Douglas Niles

  “So the black dwarf locked you in a cage and was trying to kill you for some reason, and then, after this attack you have described, he sent that creature after you because you escaped?” Gretchan’s tone was patient but terribly serious.

  Gus nodded miserably after finishing his long, long story-at least two minutes’ worth. His stubby fingers wove through Kondike’s shaggy coat, scratching the dog between his massive shoulders. The Aghar couldn’t look the dwarf maid in the eye.

  “Monster come kill me on top mountain,” he admitted dolefully. “But snow kill me even better. I think him gone away.”

  “The black minion failed to kill you… and you escaped?” Gretchan said, her eyes widening. “Well, that’s a formidable achievement. Reorx must be fond of you.”

  “I very formable! I run fastester than him can ever chase!” the Aghar declared, suddenly boastful. “Him bluphsplunging claws not even grab me!”

  “And then the snow fell down, and Kondike found you,” the dwarf maid said. “Hmm. Well, you’re certainly lucky if you’re not fast.”

  She was right, Gus knew, once more feeling a little guilty for having dragged the beautiful goddess into his troubles. “I lucky sure. But I thought him gone,” he said, sniffling. “I never thought him come for you and Kondike.”

  “Well, lucky thing for you we were here,” she said, not unkindly. “That minion fears me now, but that doesn’t mean it will never be back. Still, I think we’re safe for the time being. We can afford to get some rest; my dog is a very light sleeper.”

  “I should go ’way,” Gus said, shaking his head, though he wanted very much to stay right there. “It’s not fair you get killed for me.”

  Gretchan reached out and patted him on the knee. “None of us are going to get killed. At least, not by that thing. Indeed, I think you should stick with us for a while.” She stared at him, and he felt that her eyes were peeling back his skin, looking right through him.

  “Is there anything else you ought to tell me?” she asked sternly.

  Gus tried to think. “Uh. Mebbe. You know ’bout bunty hunters?”

  “Bunty hunters? No. What are they?” she asked.

  “Big, nasty Theiwar. Kill gully dwarf, cut him head off. Say for ‘bunty.’ ”

  “That was back in Thorbardin?” she asked and Gus nodded.

  “I can’t believe it!” Gretchan snapped. She suddenly seemed to be very angry. She stood up and stomped away then spun around and pointed a finger right at Gus’s face, making him a little bit afraid. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?” she demanded very seriously.

  “Gus no lie! Bluphsplunging doofar bunty hunters kill Aghar! Cut off heads!”

  “How in the name of Reorx is that possible?” the dwarf maid cried, smacking one fist into the palm of her other hand. She raised her hands and shouted at the sky. “Are you even paying attention?” she shouted. “Dwarves have been killing each other for centuries; it seems we don’t even need an excuse! Wars and gates and pride and clans give cause enough! But now, for one clan to charge a bounty for the heads of another? For gully dwarves!”

  She stomped on the ground and planted her fists on her hips, glaring downward. “And you, down there-you claim to be the descendents of the great mountain dwarf clans! You’re a bunch of frightened little rats, hiding in your holes! Why, if I could reach you, I’d pull your beards out by the roots!”

  Gretchan stalked back and forth in the little clearing. Gus stayed very still, hoping she would forget about him. He didn’t understand who she was yelling at, but he was pretty certain it wasn’t him, and he was determined to leave it that way. Finally, after two long, loud minutes, she came back to the stump by the fire and sat down with a heavy sigh.

  “I’ll be damned,” Gretchan said, looking far away into the night. Her tone was sad, but not so loud anymore. She looked at him and shook her head. “You tell a very interesting story. It sounds as though things have soured under the mountain these days.”

  Gus didn’t know what ‘soured’ meant, but he was inclined to agree. He would have said so too except Gretchan didn’t seem to want to talk anymore. She went back to her sleeping roll and, with her staff nearby, bundled herself up in her blanket. Her eyes were open, staring past the gully dwarf and the fire, peering into the darkness of the woods. She filled her pipe, lit it with a stick she drew from the fire, and puffed furiously as she glared at the night.

  Wracked by guilty feelings, Gus nonetheless needed only about two minutes to fall asleep. His dreams were untroubled, and when he woke up, the forest floor was dappled with sunlight, and Gretchan already had a fire going and a pot of tea on to brew.

  His ability to forget meant that Gus’s mood had brightened, his fear-and guilty twinges-vanquished to some distant, cobwebbed portion of his brain. He cheerfully warmed his belly with the tea and filled it with a hearty slice of dried bread. Soon they were up and striding through the woods.

  “What we do today?” he asked as they set out. “More walking?”

  “Some,” Gretchan replied with a laugh. “Actually, I’m on a working expedition.”

  “Work? Extra-mission?”

  “Yes, like an ‘extra-mission.’ I’m a writer. A historian, I guess you could say. At least, I’d like to be. I travel around and talk to dwarves and write down their stories. I’ve been working on a book for a very long time.” She sounded a little wistful as she concluded her statement.

  “Writing” was a concept as foreign to the gully dwarf as “reading.” He didn’t really understand what the dwarf maid was talking about, so he settled for a more pertinent question.

  “Where we walking to?”

  “I’m on my way to have a very interesting talk with a dwarf woman,” Gretchan replied. “I’ve heard many things about her, and I think it’s time I meet her for myself.”

  “Where dwarf lady?” wondered the Aghar.

  Gretchan chuckled, the sound as musical as ever, and Gus felt a fresh bounce in his step.

  “She lives with a tribe of Neidar,” she said. “They live pretty close to here-in a sleepy little village called Hillhome. It won’t be long and we’ll be there.”

  SIXTEEN

  The Oracle

  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 r
ounded, 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 l
ong, 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.