Secret of Pax Tharkas dh-1

by Douglas Niles

  “We march on Pax Tharkas in ten days or less,” vowed the new warlord of Hillhome.

  “Again, that is good,” hissed the creature.

  “And you will be there too?” Harn said. “You will do as you say, break down the gates of the fortress?”

  Again the creature hissed, a long, sibilant sound as its jaws gaped and its red eyes flared. “The gates,” it murmured, “will not be a problem.”

  Otaxx Shortbeard found Tarn where he almost always could be found: up on the catwalk along the Tharkadan Wall, supervising the progress of his great task.

  “Almost done now,” said the old Daewar general, watching in approval as another load of rocks was dumped from the lift, individual dwarves bearing the stones onto the unthinkably heavy pile of the reloaded trap.

  “Aye,” Tarn said, allowing himself a tight smile. “I predicted completion by the end of the year, but now I’d guess we’re no more than a month away.”

  “I remember that hall, when we first claimed this place,” Otaxx said, looking down into the huge, almost empty chamber below. “Rocks filling it halfway up the walls and worse. No way to open either gate, not even so much as to let a goat crawl through.”

  “Now with the gates open, wagons can roll down the road. We can open up trade with Haven or Tarsis, bring new traffic here. Finally restore some life to this old backwater.”

  “True, true,” Otaxx said, gazing below. Indeed, the piles of rocks that still remained down there were already neatly shunted off to the left and right. The central part of the hollow wall, where the two gates allowed passage, had been cleared the previous year.

  “You look troubled, old friend,” Tarn said, clapping his old battle commander on the shoulder. “What are you thinking about? You should be proud at this happy time.”

  “Ah, we’ve known each other too long for secrets,” said the old dwarf. He stared across the vast hall, but his gaze was focused on somewhere much farther away. “I’ve been remembering Berrilyn, more and more these days. When our work here is done, I’d like to travel into the east, to see if I can… well, not find her, not anymore. I don’t fool myself about that. But learn what happened to her, to all of them. I’d like to look for Thoradin.”

  Tarn nodded. He, too, had known love at an early age. Belicia Slateshoulders, his true love, was dead, that he knew for certain, but if he didn’t know, he would be tempted to go and look for her himself, just as his old friend was tempted to do.

  “Do you think you’d have any mere chance of finding them? Of finding her?” the thane asked.

  Otaxx could only shrug. “I’ll always hate myself if I don’t try.”

  “Here, I brought you some warm soup.”

  Gretchan’s voice brought Brandon out of his solitude and misery, and he quickly pushed himself to his feet and crossed the cell to the securely locked door. He touched her hand where her fingers were wrapped around the bar, his stomach growling as he smelled the rich broth.

  But it was not the food that lightened his heart as much as the dwarf maid who brought it.

  “Thanks,” he said with a slight chuckle. “But how are you going to get that bowl through the bars?”

  She laughed with him. “I knew you’d point that out right away. Here’s the way we’ll do it. I’ll hold it up, and you put your lips against the bars. I’ll pour it right down your throat.”

  “Sounds all right. Be careful, though.” He gestured to his tattered and stained tunic, unwashed and unchanged in the weeks of captivity and travel. “I’m wearing my best shirt.”

  She lifted the bowl, and he sipped, feeling the soup warm his throat and his belly. Almost magically, strength and energy began to spread through his body, suffusing his limbs, brightening his eyes, lifting his spirits.

  “Did you bring this right from the royal kitchen?” he asked, wiping his lips after he’d finished.

  “Hardly. Nobody knows I’m down here yet,” she said. “I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.” Gretchan held her pipe in her hand, exhaling smoke through her nose, and Brandon relished the sweet smell of burning leaf. He had come to associate that scent with their pleasant visits and was delighted by the way the odor lingered for hours even after she departed.

  “I hope you’re being careful,” he cautioned. He didn’t know how she managed to hide in the fortress, but she’d visited him virtually every day he’d been in the cell. The memory of her last visit, and the expectation of her next, kept him from descending into utter despair.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t come here anymore,” he said, hoping she’d ignore him. “It’s too dangerous.”

  She waved away his objections. “Your stories are finally starting to get interesting,” she teased. “For your ancestor to be climbing Garnet Peak on the very day the Cataclysm occurred, for example. It almost makes me believe in all your tales of bad luck!”

  “That’s when it started,” Brandon admitted morosely. “Nothing left of him but his axe, and I left that in Hillhome!”

  “Who knows? Maybe you’ll have a chance to go back and get it someday,” she suggested. “Now, tell me again, when did the governor of Kayolin decide that he should start calling himself a king?”

  “You know all my sore points,” he said with a grin, touching her hand again. “No, let’s talk about you for a change. I don’t really know very much about you, do I? I know you don’t come from Thorbardin or Pax Tharkas or Kayolin. So when are you going to tell me more about yourself?”

  She sighed and looked at him affectionately. “In due time, I will,” she said. “But I’m begging you to be patient with me. Can you?”

  “Sure, of course I can,” he said. His eyes twinkled. “Especially if you bring me some more soup tomorrow.”

  Garn Bloodfist studied the two wedges of green and blue stone. He propped them on the desk in his office near an oil lamp, its wick set to burn bright. He was dazzled by the shiny pure colors, seduced by the flickering facets that danced across the desk and the floor and sparkled along the walls. Eyes shining, he studied the reflections, giggling in sheer pleasure.

  “Where did you come from?” he inquired of the objects.

  It was not the first time he had spoken to them. For two weeks he had been studying them with every waking moment, wondering about their origins, their value. He had even gone out onto the upper parapet of the East Tower and asked answers from his father when Dashard Bloodfist appeared to him in the night sky. Though he preferred his nocturnal communions in the wilderness, such was his fascination with the two stone wedges that he was willing to risk the uneasy looks, the whispered gossip, that inevitably resulted from his seemingly unbalanced behavior.

  Only Garn knew that his father was real, that his memory, the proof of his horrible betrayal, was the flame that kept the Klar warrior’s fiery spirit burning so bright. And Garn Bloodfist was not afraid of the uncanny, the unexplained. Indeed, he was becoming increasingly convinced there was something supernatural about the stones. It wasn’t so much the result of any special observation, though he did spend hours handling and scrutinizing the stones. It was more like a deep, growing conviction.

  It was his conviction, more than anything else, that caused him to reevaluate the prisoner he had dragged back there all the way from Hillhome. Who was Brandon Bluestone? Why had he possessed the Bluestone, as he claimed? And why had he risked his life to confront the Klar? Was it to retrieve the fascinating colored stone?

  In truth, Garn didn’t believe his prisoner was simply another treacherous hill dwarf. There was something exotic, foreign, about him that aroused other suspicions, though, and the Klar commander had waited long enough to act upon his suspicions. Scooping the two stones back into their bag, Garn locked the precious stones in a vault and started down to the dungeon, determined to get some answers.

  He was startled, but not shocked, to encounter a gully dwarf at the bottom of the stairway leading into the dungeon. The wretches were common enough pests around there, but he didn�
�t like the thought they were often straying beyond the boundaries of their filthy town.

  “Get out of here, you!” he snapped. “Or I’ll knock your head right off your shoulders!”

  Much to his surprise, the little fellow didn’t budge, but instead stood there, glaring up at him, almost as if he had something he wanted to say.

  “What is it, runt?” demanded Garn. “Don’t you understand plain speech?”

  “Prisoner complaint!” spit the Aghar with surprising vehemence. He gestured down the corridor toward the cell where Brandon Bluestone was imprisoned. “Him not locked up good enough!”

  “He escaped?” Garn asked, startled until the gully dwarf firmly shook his head.

  “Not escape. But not locked up enough!”

  “What do you mean?” asked the Klar captain with exaggerated patience.

  “Uh, him visited by nice, pretty maid. Nice, pretty maid all right, real important historian. Prisoner fools her. Gretchan visits him-and him not locked up good enough!” With that, the angry Aghar spun on his heel and sprinted away into the darkness, toward Agharhome.

  Garn stared after him, amazed and alarmed. First of all, that was a pretty long speech for a gully dwarf. Then, too, he remembered the historian named Gretchan Pax very vividly; her sudden appearance in the midst of his company’s camp had unsettled him more than he dared to admit. Her foul powers had paralyzed him in the mountain camp that night. She was either a witch or something much worse. Who was she really? Why was she there? And what was her purpose in talking to the prisoner?

  Every answer he could imagine caused him worry.

  Gus strutted proudly through the dungeon of Pax Tharkas. He was getting to know the place fairly well, and indeed, not far away he had found himself a second home in the scummy tunnels of Agharhome, on a comfortable sleeping pallet. The pallet had been graciously offered up by Berta, who volunteered to sleep on the cold stone instead, and Gus allowed himself to feel a measure of gratitude toward the dirty little gully wench.

  She even continued to call him “highbulp,” which he found a delightful and inspiring title. Thus far, the rank was not acknowledged by any other of the tower’s Aghar population, but Berta kept telling everyone that Gus was the new highbulp, and she kept telling Gus himself that, in two days, the rest of the bluphsplunging doofars in Agharhome would recognize his exalted status as well. In point of fact, he didn’t really care if the others called him highbulp. It was enough that Berta did so and that she would share the occasional rat or other morsel she acquired. Her pallet was nice too.

  But right at the moment, he was thinking of a different female. He was very proud of his boldness in speaking to the great Hylar prince, and he wanted to boast about his deed. Up till then he had been in a jealous snit for days and had avoided Gretchan Pax. Speaking to the Klar prince had made him feel better. Gretchan didn’t seem even to care if he was alive, but he had been doing some very good spying, and he knew right where to find her.

  Gretchan had made her quarters, all unknown to the Tharkan garrison, in a small, dry, secret room just next to the dungeon halls. The chamber was clean and warm, and she always seemed to find good food to eat; she was constantly taking food to the prisoner. Gus felt another stab of jealousy but set his chin, marching onward.

  Coming to the secret panel, which was concealed behind a weapons cabinet in one of the rooms that would have been used to garrison dungeon guards, should there ever be enough prisoners down there to require a garrison, Gus pulled the cabinet door open and knocked on the wooden back wall. Immediately he heard a low growl from beyond the panel.

  “Kondike! It’s me! Gus!” he whispered loudly.

  Moments later the panel was pulled aside and Gretchan Pax was beaming down at him. “Gus!” she said very sweetly, the gully dwarf had to admit. “I was afraid I’d lost you! Come in.”

  “No lose Gus!” he replied sarcastically, stepping into the room as she held the door open for him. “Gus no lose Gretchan either.”

  “Well, now you have found me and I’m glad,” she said. “This is a good hiding place, but I didn’t think anyone else knew where I was.”

  “I follow!” Gus bragged happily. Then his features twisted into a dark scowl, and his tone became accusing. “Follow when you visit big kisser dwarf in jail!”

  “Why Gus!” Gretchan chided, her eyes widening and her cheeks colored by a tinge of embarrassed redness. “Have you been spying on me?” she asked sharply.

  “No! I mean yes!” the Aghar replied, gazing steadfastly at the floor to avoid Gretchan’s beautiful eyes. His big toe jutted out the front of his worn boot, and he used it to mark irregular circles on the floor. “Not Gretchan, but Gus spy on big kisser dwarf!”

  “All right now, Gus. I’m serious. What are you talking about? What’s the big deal about this big kisser-oh, his name is Brandon, damn it. What about him?”

  “I not like big kisser dwarf. Him bad for you. Big dwarf general gonna lock him up more better! Him not locked up enough!” Gus stated bluntly.

  “Oh, isn’t that sweet. Are you jealous?” Gretchan asked amusedly. She started to laugh then caught herself, her expression growing stern. “Wait, what’s that about a big dwarf general? Did you talk to someone?”

  “Yep. Gus brave, talk to Klar chief. Him gonna lock up prisoner more better. You and I then go away like before. Forget big kisser dwarf!”

  “Oh, Gus, you didn’t!” the dwarf maid gasped, kneeling down to grasp the gully dwarf firmly by the shoulders. Her eyes were large, serious, and concerned. “Did you… did you tell the Klar general that I am here, that you saw me visiting the prisoner?”

  “Yes!” he declared hotly.

  “Oh, that’s terrible!” she said, shaking her head as her eyes moistened with tears. “Garn Bloodfist will be angry, and he’s already so twisted up with hate. There’s no telling what he might do! How could you do this to me?”

  “To you? Big kisser dwarf bad; him do to you! Klar gonna make him stop!”

  “You don’t understand!” accused Gretchan. “Brandon doesn’t mean any harm to you or anyone else. He keeps ending up in jail, but he’s innocent; he did nothing wrong! Now you might have cost him his life!”

  “Life?” gulped Gus. “N-no! Not life. Just lock him up better!”

  The dwarf maid stamped her foot angrily. She was furious, so angry she was shaking. Gus took a step backward, feeling suddenly very miserable. “You little fool!” she snapped. “You’ve just ruined everything! Oh, just get out of here! Go away, I tell you!”

  Stunned by her outburst, his heart breaking under the onslaught of her harsh words, Gus could only retreat out through the secret door still cracked open behind him. He wandered, feeling forlorn, back into the dungeon, haunted by the sound of Gretchan’s sobs coming through even after the door had slammed shut.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Roads And Gates

  G arn Bloodfist went straight to the thane, finding him-as always-on the catwalk high inside the Tharkadan Wall. Tarn Bellowgranite was supervising the placement of the rocks, nearly all of which had been lifted up from the floor where they had lain for more than eighty years. Bloodfist clenched his fists, shaking his head in a physical effort to remind himself to be calm when all he wanted was to grab Tarn by the shoulders and shake him into some sense of alarm.

  The thane cut the Klar captain off before he could speak. “This last step is crucial,” Tarn explained, gesturing at the complicated mechanism of gears and chains and pulleys, clearly entranced by the sight and taking no notice of the fact that his listener was trying to get a word in edgewise. “The counterbalance is important; it’s why the simple pull of a lever is enough to dump half a million tons of rock down into the gateway.”

  “Yes, I see,” Bloodfist said, stopping himself from rolling his eyes. How long had he feigned interest in a task that, to his mind, was endless and meaningless?

  “I’m glad you do see, my captain,” replied the old dwarf. Garn was startled at t
he earnestness with which his ruler addressed him. “For this great task is almost completed. At one time I felt that it would not happen during my lifetime; now I think the chances are good that I will see the final rocks raised into the trap before the end of this month.

  “But when I’m gone, my valiant Klar, this great mechanism, this fortress, these hallowed towers will all be the responsibility of you and the other clan captains. I want you to welcome this trust, and I trust you will prove worthy of the task you shall inherit.”

  “My liege,” Garn said, driven by exasperation to disrespectful bluntness. The image of his father’s gashed and bleeding body, the mute plea for vengeance he saw every time he looked skyward into those dying eyes, would not allow patience. “I believe you have done a great service to the Hylar and Klar exiles by your work here in Pax Tharkas. But I want you to know: my goals remain higher. Pax Tharkas is a splendid base for us, a fortress we can use to launch the next campaign. But you must know that I am still determined, before my years are through, to regain our status in Thorbardin itself!”

  Tarn Bellowgranite sighed. “I understand your ambitions, my bold warrior. But I hope you will come to see that you are advocating a hopeless and destructive course. Thorbardin is sealed from within, and any intrusion by ourselves, or anyone else, would surely be met with crushing force. No, Garn, Jungor Stonespringer might as well have caved in the mountain on that entire dwarven realm, for it is lost to us and the surface world forevermore.”

  “I know there is bitterness in your heart, my thane; surely it was a rank betrayal that brought us to exile! You know it cost my father his very life! But I think you are letting it cloud your judgment!”

  “Don’t be a fool!” snapped Tarn. “The Hylar and the Theiwar would unite against you in a finger snap. The Daergar would not be your friends either! You would invade Thorbardin with a few hundred warriors and meet an army of ten thousand!”