“I flew over that place just moments ago,” replied the creature. “The gates are open now, as they have been every night for the past month. You may be able to carry the entrance by storm even before the mountain dwarves know you are upon them.”
“If you say so, I will try,” pledged Harn. “But what if that doesn’t work?”
“You must attack as soon as you can. Do not rely entirely upon me.”
Poleaxe knew they still had a long way to go; they would have to negotiate several twists and turns and something of an uphill grade before reaching their objective. “We will be in position to attack some time in the middle of the afternoon,” he calculated.
“Very well. Do so. And if you are outside of the fortress when night falls, I will emerge with the darkness to smite them. But remember, you must attack as soon as possible.”
“I shall, my… my lord,” Harn replied. He might have been daunted by the task before him, but as the monster flexed its wings, Poleaxe felt a new invigoration. He watched the beast, but it did not leave. Instead, he came to him and wrapped him in an embrace of shadows. The hill dwarf tingled to a strange sensation, a piercing joy as the intangible essence of the thing seeped directly through his skin.
Moments later, it was gone, but it was with him as well. Tingling with energy, possessed, finally, by the full power of his dark master, Harn leaped to his feet. He drained the last swallows from his jug and knew that he and his men were ready.
There could be no turning aside, not anymore. Harn Poleaxe, and the black creature within him, would lead the charge.
“Where are we?” asked Brandon as he followed Gretchan up a narrow, winding staircase that spiraled up through a shaft so confining that his shoulders brushed the walls and he had to duck every time they reached another of the ubiquitous, and solidly built, arches.
“We’re climbing the East Tower,” she replied, pausing to breathe heavily. “This is a secret stairway, not the main route. That’s why the ceiling is so low,” she noted somewhat apologetically. “But I thought you’d prefer it to Main Street.”
“I do,” Brandon agreed, gasping for breath. He, too, was exhausted by the climb and welcomed the respite, however brief. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that Gus and Kondike were also weary and panting. The gully dwarf had plopped down on a step, while the dog, tongue hanging out and flanks heaving, watched his mistress attentively.
“Seems like a long way up,” the Hylar remarked sourly. He was still coming to grips with the ease with which she had smashed his cell door after his long days languishing in the filthy cell.
“Take heart-we’re almost halfway there,” she replied.
“Halfway! That’s encouraging. Aren’t we allowing ourselves to be trapped, caught like a bear in a tree, so to speak, if we keep climbing higher?” He even found himself wondering if he could really trust her but quickly acknowledged that he didn’t have any other choice, at least not right at the moment.
She shrugged, which didn’t do a lot for his confidence. “Maybe, but I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m betting we’re going to find a way into the Tharkadan Wall. There’s a whole network of catwalks and tunnels up in the top of that space where I think we can hide.”
“You’re holding all the cards,” Brandon admitted. “Lead on.”
They resumed the climb, hoisting themselves up two steps at a time, trying to avoid noise and conversation as they continued to the top of the tower. The stairway wound back and forth, a series of flights in a column without windows. Occasionally they passed wooden doorways, but Gretchan ignored each of those in her steady progress up.
Finally the dwarf maid paused at a landing, she and Brandon catching their breath as they waited for Gus, red faced and puffing, to join them. When he did, she opened a nearby door. They entered a huge, square room lit by sunlight streaming through narrow windows on two of the walls.
“Daylight,” Brandon said, feeling something akin to deep pleasure. “I’d forgotten what it looks like.”
“Daylight not so great,” Gus scoffed. He stomped off to one of the windows, crossing his arms over his chest while he looked out.
“What’s eating him?” Brandon wondered aloud.
Gretchan smiled. “I think he’s jealous of a certain big kisser dwarf.”
“Big kisser-oh,” the Kayolin dwarf replied, blushing slightly as he stared at the Aghar’s back.
“Gus did a certain amount of uh, spying down there in the dungeon,” she explained.
“Why did you leave me in there?” he challenged.
“Did you ever think that it was maybe to keep you safe?” she shot back heatedly. “After all, every time you were out on your own, you ended up in some kind of trouble!”
He blinked, surprised at her vehemence and her answer. “That’s the curse of the Bluestone luck,” he retorted, wishing he had a stronger comeback.
“Maybe it’s not just luck!” she snapped. “Maybe it’s the choices you make! Did you ever think of that?”
“I-damn it, no!” he admitted angrily.
“Anyway,” she said, seeming to force herself to calm down. “Do you want to go back or come with me?”
“Like I said,” Brandon replied through clenched teeth, “lead on.”
He wondered where they were going. When he looked around, he saw a massive chain rising up from a hole in the floor in the center of the room. Each link was roughly as long as he was tall, with the metal bands themselves as thick around as his muscle-bound thigh. The chain rose up at an angle then nestled into a groove around the outer rim of a giant wheel. The wheel appeared to serve as a gear, and the chain extended straight from the top of the wheel to a hole leading into the Tharkadan Wall itself.
“That’s part of the ancient trap,” Gretchan said, taking note of Brandon’s astonishment. “It’s anchored to the bedrock outside the fortress itself. So even if the towers and the wall are destroyed, the rocks can fall and the pass can be sealed.”
“And from what you tell me, Tarn Bellowgranite has spent all the years of his exile loading that trap so that it can be used again if the pass is threatened,” Brandon said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Yes,” Gretchan replied. She sighed. “But not just that. I think he wants to open the pass to trade caravans and commerce as well. That would be a more useful renewal of its legacy, if you ask me. Though there are no guarantees it will come to pass.”
Another door to the room burst open, and Tarn Bellowgranite and Garn Bloodfist, accompanied by a half dozen armed dwarves, rushed inside. They were followed by the white-bearded elder, Otaxx Shortbeard, who was ruddy faced and panting after the long climb.
“There they are!” cried the Klar captain, pointing to Brandon and Gretchan as he waved his soldiers forward. “Take them!”
“Stop!” shouted Gretchan, stamping the butt of her staff against the floor. The shaft made a surprisingly loud bang when it struck the stones, and to Brandon’s surprise, the men-at-arms froze. From the gaping looks on their faces, they were as surprised as he was. Each tried to move his feet, swaying and struggling, but it appeared as though the Klar warrior had been nailed to the floor.
“See, my thane!” shouted Garn, who could talk though he couldn’t move his legs. “Behold that sorcery! She is a witch! I sensed it that night she came to me, beside the river!”
“Oh, be quiet!” snapped the dwarf maid.
Brandon desperately wished for a weapon, but he was as unarmed as he had been in his cell. And Gretchan had only that little hammer. He didn’t like their chances if it came to a fight, and he didn’t think her magic and bravado-impressive as it was-could hold the mountain dwarves at bay for long.
Struggling to move, the Klar captain cuffed one of his dwarves, knocking him to the floor. “Fool,” he cried. He loomed over the fallen soldier and glared at Gretchan, clenching his fists, but he seemed unable to make any further advance.
Beyond Bloodfist, Tarn Bellowgranite sighed, suddenly looking very
old. He took out a cloth and mopped his bald pate, which was slick with sweat. He looked at Gretchan, and his expression grew cold.
“I don’t know who you are or why you have come here to vex us. You’ve managed to spook my bravest captain, and he tells me you’ve taken the liberty of breaking a prisoner out of my dungeon. How do you explain yourself? Are you indeed a witch?”
Gretchan was looking past the thane at the old general. “You there. Are you the Daewar Otaxx Shortbeard?” she asked.
“I am,” he replied stiffly. “And I, too, demand that you answer my thane’s questions.”
“You are in no position to make demands,” she said. Then, softening her tone, she added, “I am not a witch.” She raised her staff, and the miniature anvil atop the pole suddenly glowed with a golden light even brighter than the sunlight spilling in through the windows. “I am a priestess of Reorx,” she said. “And I have been traveling the lands of the dwarves for a long time, studying our people, trying to understand why we do what we do.”
“The Reorx of the mountain dwarves or of the hill dwarves?” challenged Garn Bloodfist belligerently.
“He is the same god, you fool!” she snapped. “And his heart is breaking to see the strife that exists between his two tribes.”
“So you sympathize with the Neidar, then.” The Klar sneered. He pointed at Brandon. “Witness, my thane, that she has freed the hill dwarf spy from his cell in the dungeon.”
“I tell you again for the last time: I’m as much a Hylar as Tarn Bellowgranite!” Brandon declared, fists clenching as he took a step toward the Klar.
“More, actually,” Gretchan said calmly. “For you are only a half-blood Hylar, are you not, Thane?”
Tarn nodded, staring intently at the priestess. “Yes, my mother was a Daergar,” he said. “This is not a secret. But who are you, and why do you come here and cause all this commotion? You seem to know very much about us, yet you have revealed very little about yourself-save that you are a cleric of our shared god.”
“Yes, you are a cipher,” Otaxx Shortbeard said to Gretchan, sounding more curious than angry. “You rightly called me a Daewar. But what clan are you from? And where is your home?”
“I am a Daewar too,” Gretchan said. “My home… my home is in the east.”
“Do you mean… Thoradin?” asked the old general in a tone of wonder.
She nodded. “Yes. I left there more than a decade ago, intending to return to Thorbardin, to see my people’s ancestral home, to meet my kinfolk and the fellow clans. But the undermountain kingdom was sealed before I arrived in the Kharolis.”
“Then… you mean to say…?” Otaxx was still wrestling with the incredible revelation. “Did Severus Stonehand actually reach Zhakar? Did the Mad Prophet lead the Daewar to a new home in the old mountains? For years we have believed that his entire expedition ended in disaster, that everyone perished. Please-I must know!”
“Severus Stonehand and most of the Daewar did reach the Khalkist Mountains,” Gretchan said. “The way was difficult and spotted with tragedy. But he survives and most of his people survive in the caverns that were once the home of the Zhakar dwarves. They still endure many struggles, and Thoradin itself-at least, as it once was-remains an elusive dream. But clan Daewar survives.”
“By the grace of Reorx,” Otaxx said, his eyes tearing. “It is as if my deepest wish has been granted. My thane, this is wonderful news!”
“This is all damned irrelevant!” snapped Garn Bloodfist, eyes all but bursting out of his skull. Forgetting that his movements were frozen, he cuffed his man-at-arms and pointed at Brandon.
“Seize him-take him back to his cell!”
Before the poor man-at-arms could react, however, another door burst open and a gasping, red-faced watchman, one of the sentries posted atop the Tharkadan Wall, staggered into the room.
“There’s a column of hill dwarves in sight!” he announced, panting for breath following his long run down from the parapet. “Thousands of them! They’re two miles away, and they’re fast nearing the gates!”
TWENTY-SIX
Kin’s Blood And Blood feud
“Is this attack your doing?” Tarn Bellowgranite demanded coldly. His eyes never left Gretchan’s. “Perhaps you are the true Neidar spy-come here to divert us! You hold us here, captive to your magic. And all the while your allies in the hill dwarf army are creeping up on the fortress, readying a surprise attack!”
“I tell you, she cannot be trusted!” Bloodfist declared, shaking his fist, straining to move his feet from where the priestess’s magic had stuck him to the floor. “Her whole story is a lie-a distraction, as you have well guessed, my thane.”
“No!” Gretchan protested, her voice breaking. “I know nothing of this attack; I’m against all wars and attacks!”
“I can’t afford to believe you,” Tarn Bellowgranite declared. “Not when my fortress, my whole community, is at risk. Release us at once! I command you, treacherous witch!”
“I’m telling the truth!” she insisted, wincing as if the thane had struck her.
Brandon listened, trembling with barely controlled anger. If he’d carried a weapon, he would have turned it against the Hylar thane and his bloodthirsty captain.
“What are your orders, my thane?” asked the messenger from the top of the wall, whose eyes darted around, confused, as he listened to all their strange talk. He was the only one of the Pax Tharkas dwarves who was not immobilized by Gretchan’s spell.
“Get word to the garrison troops at once!” Otaxx Shortbeard ordered when it seemed that Tarn could not tear his eyes away from Gretchan. “Order the gates closed.”
“Free us at once!” Garn shrieked, eyes bulging. “Your treachery is further proved with each passing second!”
The priestess stepped to Brandon’s side and took his hand. “Be ready to move quickly,” she whispered and shifted toward the far wall of the room, the place where the chain disappeared into the Tharkadan Wall. To Gus she instructed: “Gus, I want you to listen closely now. It’s time for you to go. Go safely, go down below, to Agharhome. I know about your… friend down there. She’s a good friend and she misses you. I know that she’s been looking for you.”
The Aghar stared up at her, enchanted and dumbfounded. His eyes welled up with tears. She knew everything, it seemed.
Her gaze flickered over to Garn Bloodfist as she gave the gully dwarf a good-bye hug. “And don’t let a mountain dwarf bully scare you. You’re one of the bravest dwarves I’ve ever known.”
“You have seen the proof yourself!” Garn insisted, reaching out, grasping Tarn’s arm in one of his hands. “She’s a witch! An enemy! A traitor!”
Gretchan stamped her staff onto the floor, and the silver anvil on the head of the staff pulsed with light. “I am a priestess of Reorx! I serve the Lord of the Forge and seek only the betterment of dwarfkind. Sometimes it seems that dwarves themselves are the biggest obstacles to their own happiness!”
She lifted the staff from the floor, holding it in both of her hands as she gazed raptly at the men-at-arms who had been frozen by her command. “I free you,” she said. Then she looked at Garn, shook her head, and turned her gaze on Tarn.
“Thane Bellowgranite, I am no enemy, no traitor, nor am I a witch. I seek a better world for all dwarves! That means mountain dwarves and hill dwarves.” She smiled wanly and winked at Gus. “Even gully dwarves. We’re all the favored children of Reorx.”
“The Neidar are even now launching an attack against us-and surely you know the story of what the dwarves of Thorbardin did to me-to clan Daewar as well-to all of those who remained behind!” Tarn protested. “The fanatics of Thorbardin rose up in revolution, were blinded by ideology and rank greed. They threw me out of my own kingdom! How can you suggest that I find common ground with them?”
“Because it’s the only way! You must find a way to forgive them, to lead your people into the future.”
“Impossible!” roared Tarn, stepping forward h
esitantly, as if uncertain that his feet really had been freed. He shook his head ruefully. “You may not be a witch, but you are a sorry idealist.” He turned to his veteran commander, finally, when he was convinced that the spell had been broken. “General Shortbeard, see to the garrison. Get the troops on the walls, the auxiliaries taking care of ammunition. The gate crew should start turning the capstan; we don’t have much time.”
“Aye, my thane,” declared the elder officer, limping toward the door… but not before he cast a speculative glance at Gretchan over his shoulder. He finally charged from the room, his voice booming with command; he still sounded like a dwarf general, even if he wasn’t as spry as he used to be.
Meanwhile, Tarn’s eyes flashed with anger as he pointed firmly at the priestess. “You will leave this place and never return! And this one”-he pointed at Brandon but spoke to the dwarves closest to Brandon-“Garn is right for once; take him back to his cell!”
“Go-now!” Gretchan said, seizing Brandon’s hand and sprinting to the wall of the large room. He saw her idea at once: the gap where the heavy chain passed through the wall into the interior of the Tharkadan trap. It would be a narrow squeeze between hard stone and even harder iron, but the Kayolin dwarf followed Gretchan as both leaped into the narrow notch and scrambled like monkeys along the links that disappeared beyond the hole.
Garn’s dwarves came charging after. One Klar lunged after Brandon, reaching for his foot, but Brandon kicked him in the face, knocking him backward with a satisfying crunch of bone. The dwarf fell and his companions tripped over him. By then, Brandon was chasing Gretchan into the darkness. It was only later that he wondered about the gully dwarf and the dog Kondike.
“The gates are open, Lord Poleaxe!” shouted one of the hill dwarf spearmen, hoisting his weapon over his head and shaking it joyfully.
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