Then Dashard Bloodfist was before him, his father’s bloody face staring down at him from the night sky. That was the exultant truth that brought Garn Bloodfist, so often, under the open skies of the world: the chance to, again, see his father, stare at the gaping wounds that marred his face and neck, that ended his life. Dashard Bloodfist had been killed by dwarves-the rebelling Daergar and Hylar of Jungor Stonespringer’s war. He had been betrayed by the troops of his own company because he had trusted soldiers who were not his fellow Klar.
“Revenge!” Garn Bloodfist cried in a voice that was nearly a howl.
In his mind he pictured the houses and shops of Hillhome, imagined his shivering joy as those structures were destroyed, as the hill dwarves perished under the sudden onslaught of his ruthless Klar.
Only it wasn’t the Neidar who were the target of his vengeance. They were merely a target of convenience, an enemy that gave him cause to fight, to raid, and to kill. They were capable enough, the hill dwarves, and over the past ten years, they had learned to fear Garn Bloodfist and his Klar. After the next day, they would have still greater cause to be afraid.
But he would fight and kill them only because the real enemy was beyond his reach. The vicious Hylar, the fanatics who followed Jungor Stonespringer in his determination to seal Thorbardin against the world-they were his true enemies. They had killed his father during their civil war and would have killed Garn as well if he hadn’t gone into exile with the Failed King.
And Tarn Bellowgranite might be a failure, but for the time being, he provided the Klar with a place to live and a fortress wherein they could keep their battle skills sharp. Tomorrow those skills would come into play again.
But soon, Garn Bloodfist vowed, the Klar would find a way to attack their true enemies. They would shatter the gates of Thorbardin and carry the war, an orgy of killing, into the world under the mountain.
EIGHTEEN
Dreams And Flight
B randon glared through the darkness of the brig. For many long minutes, he didn’t move, keeping his eyes fixed upon the door where Gretchan Pax had departed. Her unannounced visit had jarred and unsettled him. He had been steeling himself for a confrontation with Harn Poleaxe or one of the Neidar’s agents, and instead the strange dwarf maid came to converse with him, as if he were some kind of tour guide or research subject.
Who did she think she was? Some sort of dwarf queen, apparently!
Still, Brandon acknowledged as he cooled down, she wasn’t the person with whom he was really angry; she just happened to be the one who came along while he was stewing. In point of fact, Gretchan had been really something to look at. Her smile, her hair, the pronounced swell in the front of her tunic… she would have turned heads even amid the loveliest dwarf maids in all Kayolin. Thinking it over, Brandon began to feel a glimmer of gratitude; she had, after all, untied his wrists willingly enough. Though why in Reorx’s name didn’t she carry a knife, as virtually every other self-respecting dwarf, male or female, did?
Bah! Why was he wasting time thinking about another damn fool hill dwarf? He’d had enough of the Neidar to last him the rest of his lifetime! He slumped against the cool, damp wall of his cell, crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes.
“Psst! Hey, you. Brandon, right? Is it true, what she said?”
Brandon looked up in surprise. He was being addressed in a hoarse whisper by one of the two dwarf prisoners closest to his cell, both of whom he had guessed to be mountain dwarves. The fellow’s beard bristled, and his hair sprouted from far down on his forehead. His eyes were pale and milky, but his expression was genuinely curious.
“What about what she said?” Brandon replied warily.
“That you’re a mountain dwarf? That you come from Kayolin? Up north, across the Newsea?”
“Yeah, that part’s true,” he acknowledged. He studied the bristle-haired mountain dwarf. “I take it you’re no hill dwarf either?”
The other dwarf scowled and spit. “I like to keep as much space as I can between me and the filthy Neidar.” He chuckled grimly. “Seems like they want to keep company with me, though.”
“Tough luck, that. Are you from Thorbardin?” Brandon asked curiously.
The other dwarf shook his head. “You really are from out of town, aren’t you. There’s no dwarf gone into or out of Thorbardin in many years. The new thane sealed the place right after Tarn Bellowgranite was exiled.”
“But there are mountain dwarves living outside of Thorbardin, then?”
The other dwarf shrugged. “In a few places. Pax Tharkas, mainly. That’s where Bellowgranite ended up with his exiles. They’re the ones stirring up most of the trouble between the clans-his Klar captain, Bloodfist, is a real butcher. Likes to make war and leaves it for the rest of us to live with the consequences.”
“So there is still warring between mountain and hill dwarf?” Brandon pressed. Maybe that explained a little about Poleaxe, who had talked with hatred about the mountain dwarves, Brandon remembered, and appeared to be some kind of leader among his own kind.
“The feuding and fighting never really ended,” said his informer. “Take us. We’re simple Theiwar miners, working our claims on the far side of the Kharolis. “Of course, we can’t trade with our own nation anymore, not since the kingdom was sealed. But we try to make an honest living; there’s a few towns and delvings of our kind in the mountains. We were unlucky enough to get swept up by the Neidar when they was marching against Tarn Bellowgranite and his men.”
“When was this?” Brandon asked.
The Theiwar shrugged. “Maybe a year ago. Hard to keep track of time in this place.”
“What happened? Were the Neidar attacking Pax Tharkas?” asked the dwarf from Kayolin. “I heard that place was practically impregnable.”
“Well, maybe it is. I don’t think the Neidar was trying to take the fortress, though. They just made an ambush for when the Klar came out and tried to wipe ’em out on the trail.”
“But they didn’t succeed?” Brandon guessed.
“Nope,” the Theiwar said with evident satisfaction. “Say what you will about those wild-ass Klar; they’re damn fine fighters. I think the hill dwarves lost a couple dozen of their men, and the rest went running for home. We were one of the lucky ones, I suppose, prisoners.”
“Yeah,” the speaker’s companion said bitterly. “Our mine just happened to be right on their way.”
“I know a thing or two about bad luck,” Brandon agreed. “Mine hasn’t exactly been gold-plated either these last few days.”
“I hear you, mate,” said the Theiwar.
“What were you charged with?” asked Brandon. “Did you get a fair trial?”
“Fair trial?” asked the Theiwar, poking his friend in the ribs. Both sat back, roaring with laughter. “Who’s been telling you fairy tales?”
Brandon slumped back into the darkness, thinking about the sad twists and turns his life had taken-a life, he was forced to conclude, that might not last more than another day or two. The darkness, the silence, the stench of the place surrounded him.
But when he finally slept, he dreamed of a golden-haired dwarf maid. He smiled at her, rather than scowling, and once again, he felt her nimble fingers working to release his bonds.
Gus wandered through a field of glorious, colorful vegetables. He picked and ate them as he strolled, but he never seemed to get full. He came to a stream, and a fish jumped right into his hands. It was so delicious, he halted on the bank and waited for another one, which jumped out of the water two seconds later. Everywhere he looked, he saw food, a natural banquet practically begging to be eaten-by him!
And he did his best. He rooted around on the ground, pulling up carrots, chomping contentedly on the orange crispness. He saw other vegetables hanging off trees, and though they hung on branches high above the ground, when he approached, the limbs of the trees dipped low and he plucked and ate the bounty of the forest. When he was finished eating, for a little while a
t least, he ran through the meadow, and nobody chased him.
Life had never been better. He was warm, happy, well fed, safe…
Until he heard the ominous, rumbling growl. The sound was deep, obviously made by a very large creature, deep and menacing.
“Kondike?” he called, looking through the trees, across the nearby meadow. But there was no sign of the big dog.
The Aghar spun through a full circle, but all he saw was the meadow, the meandering stream. He saw no dog, no threat.
But when the growl sounded again, the surrounding trees seemed to move in closer, loom higher and darker. Soon they towered over his head, casting him in chilly shade. He flinched and looked up at the sky, suddenly remembering the creature that was stalking him.
But the sky, though dark and gray, was empty of fearsome creatures, or even birds.
The third time he heard the growl, it was right beside him, and he awakened.
Heart pounding, he realized he was in a dark room, and in a flash he remembered Hillhome. Gretchen was in another room, but Kondike was right beside him and growling fiercely at something.
Gus squealed in terror and burrowed under the blanket that had somehow gotten all twisted and tangled while he was sleeping. Even as he dived for cover, his face popped out the other end. He put his hands over his eyes to hide himself, daring to split his fingers slightly and look around.
The big dog stood beside the bed, facing the door, growling deep within his barrel chest. That augured danger, but Gus quickly thought of someone else who he ought to protect.
Gretchan! He sprang out of bed-or would have if he weren’t entangled by the unaccustomed luxury of a blanket, which tripped him onto his face. As soon as he scrambled to his feet, he raced to the door and pushed it open. Kondike knocked him aside, the big dog lunging into the hallway, still growling. Nothing was in the hallway. Teeth bared, Kondike moved to stand stiff legged outside of the neighboring room.
Gus heard sounds in the dwarf maid’s room. His hand was trembling, his knees knocking together, but he reached for the latch, ready to open the door.
“Wait! Stop!” hissed Gretchan, intentionally keeping her voice low. Poleaxe had overpowered her physically; she had to use her wits to save herself.
“I’ve been waiting all night while you cavorted around Hillhome. How dare you tell me you’re going to bed and then leave! You’re a teasing, lying wench, you are!”
She was astounded at the sheer animosity, the malevolence, betrayed in the big dwarf’s voice. She struggled in growing panic, trying to reach the small hammer she wore at her belt. She gasped at Poleaxe’s strength as, with one hand, he pinned both of hers over her head. His other hand reached for the buckle of her belt and snapped it free. The belt, with her only weapon attached to it, tumbled to the floor.
“Let’s talk this over!” she urged, trying not to panic. “Let me go!”
“We did enough talking to about wear out my tonsils,” growled the hill dwarf. “I’m ready for some different fun.” He grasped her breast, roughly squeezing, laughing at her struggles.
“Ouch-you’re hurting me!” she protested.
“Well, don’t resist me, then,” he replied, taunting. “I’ll be gentle if you will.”
Then the door to the room burst open, and Kondike was there, a snarling missile tipped with sharp, white teeth smashing into Poleaxe, knocking him right off the bed and onto the floor. Dog and dwarf rolled across the tiny room, smashing into the table, twisting and grappling on the worn rug. Gus came charging in right after the dog, grabbing one of the Neidar’s feet-Harn had removed his boots already-and biting him on the big toe.
“Ouch, damn you!” snapped the hill dwarf, trying to kick at the gully dwarf while he held the dog’s head at bay. Despite the feet that flailed at him, Gus held on tenaciously, even as his little body was thumped and kicked against the wall.
Breathing hard, Gretchan scrambled to her feet. Poleaxe lay on his back, grunting curses as, with both hands, he held Kondike’s head away from his face. The dog was snarling viciously as Gus bit down a second time, and again the hill dwarf howled in pain. The struggling Neidar bashed into the wall of the small room and rolled back across the floor, nearly knocking Gretchan over. She stepped back, looking for an opening, as Kondike pressed in, snapping his jaws, his teeth just inches from the hill dwarf’s nose.
Where was her belt? There-she spotted it as the combatants rolled around on the floor. Gretchan reached down and snatched up the hammer that was suspended by a little sling. It was a small tool, light and silvery, but its looks were deceiving. She brought it down heavily against Poleaxe’s skull, and with another grunt, the hill dwarf collapsed limply.
“All right, boys, thanks,” she said, gently touching her big dog’s shoulder. Kondike relaxed slightly, allowing her to ease him off the dwarf’s still form. “You can stop biting him now,” she told Gus, who was leaving bloody teeth marks on a third toe.
“What this bluphsplunging doofar do?” demanded the gully dwarf, removing Poleaxe’s foot from his mouth but holding it close enough that he could resume his attack at a moment’s notice. Kondike, hackles up, growled at the unconscious hill dwarf.
“He was waiting for me; he attacked me,” Gretchan said, feeling a queasy sickness as the full reality of the awful situation sank in. “I don’t know what would have happened if the two of you hadn’t rushed in to help. Thank you, again.”
“He not dead yet. Want me kill him?” suggested Gus with a little too much enthusiasm for the dwarf maid’s comfort. She regarded the motionless hill dwarf with revulsion, but killing him was not even a remote possibility; it would have been a betrayal of everything she stood for: decency, honor, civilized behavior. Perhaps she ought to have him arrested, but then, thinking of her encounter with the Kayolin prisoner, who had professed his innocence yet was stuck in jail, she didn’t have much faith in the local justice.
“No, we can’t-we won’t,” she said immediately. She looked around the bare room, at her backpack-it had tumbled open somehow, scattering her few possessions-and suddenly knew they had to get out of that place. Hillhome had proved inhospitable.
“We’re going to leave,” she announced. “Tonight. After I go talk to one more person.”
She quickly gathered up her possessions and strapped them into her pack. Kondike and Gus hurried to keep up as she left the inn at a trot and made her way to the shadowy street where Garrin Hammerstrike had pointed to the oracle’s hut. A few minutes later, she stood in the darkness of an overhanging barn roof, studying her objective. The house of the Mother Oracle was obvious: it stood at the end of the narrow lane, dilapidated and dark. There were no other houses, barns, or other structures nearby.
“You two wait here,” she ordered sternly, worrying more about disobedience from the gully dwarf than from the dog.
Her staff in her hand, she started down the street. She strained for some sensory suggestion-sight or sound, smell, or even something on a more subconscious level-that would help her prepare to enter the small house. She felt nothing at all, and that fact disturbed her deeply. It was as if some kind of protective screen surrounded the house, like the building itself was prepared to resist her.
She approached the battered, shabby front door and she felt the resistance more directly. It took an extra effort of will to take the last two steps to bring her up to the portal. Gretchan, always confident and serene in the face of danger, felt a surprising unease and hesitated to touch the door. Uncertain whether she would knock or just push it open, she started and gasped when she her a sharp voice from within.
“Go away!”
The speaker was an old woman, she discerned, but if she were weak or invalid, that frailty did not transfer into her voice: the words were vibrant, thrumming with a sense of power that almost forced Gretchan backward. It took all of her resolve to reply.
“I want to talk to you. Will you let me in?” she asked directly.
“I said, go away!” The word
s were tinged with clear anger.
“I will not!” Gretchan shot back. “I’ve come to Hillhome, traveled hundreds of miles, to meet you. You are known in places far beyond the Kharolis range. Now will you open this door, or must I shout at you from the front step?”
Surprisingly, the door creaked open, and the Mother Oracle stood in the entryway, confronting the dwarf maid. She was shorter than Gretchan, thin, and wrapped in a threadbare shawl. Her face was creased with wrinkles and her eyes were milky pale, seemingly blind-except that the dwarf maid felt those useless eyes examining her very carefully. Gretchan sensed the power in her, and her hand tightened around her staff. The anvil at the head of the pole glimmered slightly, and the oracle snorted in contempt.
“Do you think the light of the Forge can protect you here? Hillhome is lost to you-and soon, so will be the rest of the Kharolis!”
“Who are you?” demanded Gretchan, clinging to her staff even more tightly than before.
“You may learn someday, but that day will be your last!” sneered the old crone. She waved a hand, and abruptly fire crackled around the door of her house, searing yellow flames surging into the night. The heat forced Gretchan to recoil.
“Help!” screamed the old woman, and she did sound feeble, weak, and terrified. “I am being attacked!”
A second later Gretchan heard doors bang open farther down the street. The old woman screamed again, and other dwarves, swarming out of their houses, shouted in alarm and surged toward the flames.
“It’s Mother Oracle!” someone cried.
Gretchan backed up farther, throwing up her hands to screen her face from the searing heat. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a half dozen or more hill dwarves charging toward her. Some carried buckets, but at least a few bore pitchforks or axes. She turned back to the hut and saw that the oracle had slammed the door-with herself inside. The flames surged higher, but the dwarf maid discerned that they were not consuming, not even charring, the dry planking on the outside of the building.
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