Harn had always been a big, sturdy dwarf, but it was obvious to Brandon that he had grown in size and power since their journey from Kayolin. It all had started, Brandon remembered, on the day Poleaxe had presided over his trumped-up trial in Hillhome’s square. The dwarf had seemed magically enhanced that day and from that day on. Brandon understood that he was in the fight of his life and that he was at a clear disadvantage with his opponent.
For several seconds the two dwarves circled each other on the lift platform. Brandon was grateful, at least, that the rest of the hill dwarves didn’t rush to their leader’s assistance. Not that Harn needed help in any event, but as the hill dwarves pressed closer to the lift to watch the fight, they seemed more curious than angry.
Harn charged in a bull rush, and the Kayolin dwarf parried and blocked, skipping nimbly to the side and falling back. He avoided the corners of the square platform, knowing he’d be trapped if he let Poleaxe force him into one of them. The big Neidar came at him again, swinging his sword over his head and bashing it down with the full weight of his brawny muscles and his white-hot rage. It took all of Brandon’s strength to hold his axe up, canting the blade at an angle to deflect the enemy’s blows. He couldn’t hope to stop Harn’s blow, but at least he could knock it aside.
Dusk had fallen outside, but the pitch of battles inside the tower only mounted in fury. The Neidar had nearly attained their victory as the last of the small pockets of mountain dwarf defenders fought to little effect outside the doors leading into the towers. One by one the garrison’s warriors were escaping through those doors.
Harn shrieked and foamed in growing frustration as Brandon continued to dodge and weave away from him. The Neidar watching the duel were muttering their disappointment in their champion as the Kayolin dwarf used his venerable axe to bash aside another series of crushing blows. Out of the corner of his eye, Brandon noticed many hill dwarves making their way toward the great gate and the growing darkness outside, casting nervous glances upward as they hurried to depart.
Apparently Harn Poleaxe, too, noticed the beginnings of a withdrawal, for he abruptly turned to face the warriors retreating. “Get back here, you cowards!” he roared.
And Brandon saw his chance. Harn’s attention was distracted for only a split second, but that was enough time for the Kayolin dwarf to strike. He lunged and drove the blade of his axe down through the shoulder plate of Poleaxe’s metal armor. The weapon cut through skin, sliced the bone of the hill dwarf’s ribs and shoulder, and penetrated the flesh and lung below.
With a wheezing gasp, Harn Poleaxe stumbled away, dropping to his knees while Brandon wrenched his deadly axe free of the ghastly wound. The hill dwarf coughed, and blood spumed out of his mouth. Eyes staring, he looked at Brandon in disbelief. He tried to speak, and more blood spilled. Swaying on his knees, he dropped to his face and lay motionless in a growing pool of sticky crimson.
Exhausted, panting, holding his bloody axe with the blade pointed down, the mountain dwarf felt no sense of victory-only a weary relief. He slumped to his own knee, trying to catch his breath, hearing the distressed muttering of the surrounding hill dwarves. He wondered if they were going to attack him; he didn’t really care if they did. But his ears pricked up; they weren’t talking about him and Poleaxe. They were muttering in fear.
Only then did he raise his eyes to see the cause of their fright. Harn’s lifeless body was twitching unnaturally, bulging and squirming at the back, the legs, the head. It was as if the Neidar’s flesh were a sack containing some writhing creature-a creature that wanted very much to get out.
Abruptly the body burst open, spattering blood and bone and flesh in an explosive spray. Immediately a great shape, winged and black as night, rose from the ravaged corpse like an apparition, looming above the dead Neidar. It fixed a monstrous gaze on Brandon and opened eyes that glowed like the very fires of the Abyss.
Gretchan had worriedly watched Brandon’s descent. She couldn’t hear his words over the clash of swords and the shouts and cries of the battling dwarves, but she could see he wasn’t being attacked immediately and seemed to be attracting more and more listeners. She was awed by his courage but even more so by his goodness toward a former enemy. She’d never known that kind of dwarf before, and she shook her head in amazement.
She had started back along the catwalk when the door to the tower opened, admitting Tarn Bellowgranite, Otaxx Shortbeard, and Garn Bloodfist to the open-sided platform where the control lever for the Tharkadan trap was cocked and ready.
Garn immediately started for that lever.
She rushed to stop him. “You can’t do this!” she cried.
“Don’t try your sorcery, witch, or I’ll have you killed!” The Klar sneered.
“I can’t stop you with magic,” she admitted truthfully, addressing the thane and the general even as the Klar captain moved to block her path. “You have to stop this madness for your own reasons, with your own hearts! Thane Bellowgranite, is this the legacy you want to leave to history? A catastrophic massacre of your own race? A taint on your reputation and on dwarf hearts that will be worse than the wounds left by the Cataclysm?”
“That is not my legacy!” Tarn replied testily. “It is not my choice. We are hard pressed, under attack by foes; you can see that yourself. We must defend ourselves!”
“This is not the way to win!” Gretchan cried. She gestured over the edge of the catwalk to the two small pockets of battle swirling down below. “Look, your garrison has almost completely withdrawn. They’ll be safe in the towers-they could hold those doors for weeks, I’m certain, if they had to. You have, in fact, safely defended Pax Tharkas. You don’t have to go the rest of the way. You don’t need to kill all those hill dwarves.”
“The priestess is right, my liege,” interjected Otaxx, causing Tarn to raise an eyebrow and Garn to curse under his breath. “Each tower is a fortress unto itself. And we command the top of the wall, as well. We can threaten the Neidar with the trap and force them to withdraw, but we don’t need to crush them to every last man.”
Tarn Bellowgranite scratched his beard, considering that reasonable suggestion.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to listen to this witch?” Garn Bloodfist spit at Tarn Bellowgranite’s feet in disbelief. His eyes darted wildly from the thane to Gretchan to the lever that would release the trap.
“My thane, this is a historic opportunity,” he cried. “Never again will our enemies be so completely in your power. We must act-now!”
“The Neidar will be your enemies forever if you do!” Gretchan insisted. “If you kill all those in this army, you’ll be faced by ten times as many, all of them out for blood, next time. You can never wipe them all out, and future generations will dream of blood revenge. This is not the way to peace and unity among the dwarves!”
At that moment, the clamor from down below suddenly dwindled. The reason was the last of the mountain dwarves had withdrawn from the hall, leaving the vast space filled with milling, confused hill dwarves who, for the moment, were unable to reach their enemies. Those enemies sheltered behind stoutly barricaded doors. There was no one left to fight.
“If you won’t act, I will!” cried Garn, lunging to the lever that would release the trap. He seized the shaft and pulled, activating the big flywheel that would tug the cable and pull the pins holding up the trap door. The mechanism of the Tharkadan trap began to groan.
At the same time, a shrill cry keened through the hall below them. Gretchan looked down to see a black shadow, large as a giant and a hundred times more menacing, rise above the floor.
Brandon Bluestone, a bloody axe in his hand, stood alone before it.
Gus had unspooled a long section of cable, winding it off of the big stone wheel. He scaled down the wire while Berta, still grumbling about Gretchan, grudgingly held the line above. Gus swayed back and forth dizzyingly, but he’d almost reached the ledge where Kondike was trapped. The dog barked and wagged his tail eagerly, watching the Ag
har descend toward him. If Gus could just reach Kondike’s side, he thought he could wrap the cable around the dog and, with Berta’s help-or maybe even some big dwarves-lift the stranded animal to safety.
Abruptly the hub above him, the great stone from which he had removed the wire, began to spin. He couldn’t know that Garn had pulled the lever, had started the mechanism in motion. He could only see that the massive stone wheel was spinning with increasing speed.
But even though that hub had been connected to the gear itself, bearing the huge weight of the chain, the gear didn’t move. In his effort to save the dog, Gus had unspooled the cable that connected it to the flywheel. The Aghar slid down the vibrating cable, remembering to hold onto the end of it as Kondike gave him a sloppy lick on his face.
But for the first time, he wondered what it was he held in his hand. He looked at the spinning wheel, the disengaged gear, and he knew exactly what had happened.
“Oh, no!” he wailed, slumping next to the big dog. “I broke it!”
The dark creature rose like a black tower above Harn Poleaxe’s ravaged corpse. The monster was taller than a giant, and it exuded menace with its great, arching, black wings and hideously glowing eyes. The huge maw gaped like a cave mouth, studded with jagged fangs like stalagmites and stalactites. Brandon needed all of his strength just to keep his grip on his axe. His knees shook and his guts churned at the sight of the horrific thing.
What remained of Harn Poleaxe was shriveled and ghastly, like a discarded suit of skin. The monster reared above the bloody mess and looked toward Brandon, who felt helpless in the gaze of those horrid red eyes. The creature swelled even larger, looming to an impossible height, flaring those black wings, and casting its gaze over the whole of the great hall. The fanged jaws gaped, and a roar bellowed forth, the sound reverberating from the walls, shaking the very bedrock of the floor.
The hill dwarves around the lift platform recoiled in horror, many of them running out the fortress gate, others whispering prayers to Reorx and staring in wide-eyed fear. The monster roared again, and Brandon found some control of his limbs, stumbling away in abject fear. Still clinging to his axe, he sprang down from the platform and staggered across the floor, feeling those crimson eyes burning into his back.
He felt a shocking chill and looked back to see the black beast pounce after him, springing like a massive winged cat. Brandon ducked to the side, falling and rolling across the floor as the monster came down on the spot where he had been. All around, the hill dwarves were fleeing, shouting in panic and dismay, thronging into a packed bottleneck in their frantic efforts to get out of the massive gate.
The monster spun and roared again, the blast of sound actually brushing Brandon’s hair and beard like a gust of wind. He could never outrun it, he knew, so he raised his axe and his voice, roaring a war cry of his own.
“For Bluestone and Kayolin!” he cried, rushing forward with his axe upraised. The monster reared, wings flapping, as if it couldn’t believe the dwarf’s effrontery. Brandon swung his axe, the ancient blade of his ancestors, the keen steel slashing through the talons of the monster’s foot with a hiss like red-hot metal touching water. The beast howled in fury. With one backhanded blow, it knocked the dwarf to the side, sending him tumbling like a gaming pin. It took all of Brandon’s concentration to hold on to his axe as he rolled across the floor.
“Behold the true power of Harn Poleaxe!”
Gretchan’s shouted voice rang out amid the suddenly eerie silence of the great hall. She was riding down in a second lift platform, her staff grasped in her hand, her golden hair shimmering in the light from the glowing anvil of Reorx. She pointed to the monster but addressed the gawking, awestruck hill dwarves who still remained in the hall and were trying to decide what to do.
“This is the corruption that ate away his soul! This is the power that drove him to this mad war-that almost resulted in death on a scale you can’t even imagine.”
The lift continued to drop, bringing her down to the docking station next to Brandon.
The creature’s red eyes glared in fury and hatred at the priestess and her shining light. As she neared, it raised up taloned foreclaws as if to shield its face from the burning glare. Growling and shivering, it stood its ground, and when she raised the staff in challenge, it flapped and, instead of recoiling, stepped closer to her.
Gretchan’s face was locked in a grimace of determination. She put both hands on the staff, bracing her feet as if she were trying to withstand a gale of wind-and, indeed, when the monster bellowed again, her hair blew back from her head like a golden plume. The light on the head of the staff wavered, and the monster roared another exultant challenge, taking a second step closer to the dwarf priestess.
She shook her head to ward off the onslaught, hair cascading in a halo, and raised her voice in the face of the beast’s challenge.
“Good hill dwarves!” she cried. “Is this the kind of master you serve? A creature of darkness, of foul magic and even more foul gods? Haven’t you been deceived enough by Harn Poleaxe, who was a slave to that master?”
The lift came to a rest on the floor. Brandon stood on shaky legs, breathing hard, his fingers clenched around the haft of his axe. The Kayolin dwarf stumbled toward her as she pointed to him.
“This dwarf, whom you would have killed under Harn’s orders, risked his own life to try and save you. He warned you of the trap, which the Klar captain was ready to spring, and if those stones had fallen, he, too, would have perished under their weight, as well as most of you. But he was willing to take the chance to save Neidar lives… and work toward peace.”
The beast roared, wings flailing, and it reared high, snarling and snapping toward the priestess. With a sudden lunge, it sprang toward her.
“Begone!” cried Gretchan. She pounded the base of her staff against the platform with a thump that echoed through the vast hall. Her talisman pulsed with light, so bright that even the hill dwarves couldn’t look at it.
But the creature waved a massive paw and seemed to wipe that light away. Roaring again, it pressed closer, looming five times Gretchan’s height, throwing back its head with the fanged maw gaping. It pounded taloned fists against its chest, the sound thrumming like a massive drumbeat through the cavernous hall.
The priestess struggled to stand, to hold her staff, but the force of the monster was too great. She stumbled back, almost falling. The light of Reorx’s forge flickered again and faded.
In the sight of her peril, Brandon found his nerves and his strength. He raised his axe and charged, bringing the weapon in a great downward sweep as he approached the creature from the flank. He couldn’t reach its head or even its torso, but his axe blade sliced through the beast’s thigh, cutting the black flesh, tearing through enchanted sinew and bone. The thing wailed in savage pain and staggered, sinking down as the limb collapsed underneath it.
“Go!” Gretchan shouted again, her voice pitched to a piercing scream. Her staff blazed anew, the white light searing into the creature’s face, burning, charring, killing. Shrieking and writhing, the dark monster slumped, weakened, and vanished, leaving the hill and mountain dwarves staring in horror.
Brandon staggered up to Gretchan and took her in his arms. She collapsed with a sob, and for long heartbeats they held each other. Only gradually did they become aware of the eyes of the Neidar, many hundred of whom still remained in the hall, watching them in awe and apprehension.
“Let the killing cease, in the name of Reorx.” Gretchan spoke almost in a whisper, but her voice carried through the whole vast chamber.
“Peace,” said the hill dwarf called Slate Fireforge as the restive Neidar looked warily around the vast chamber, as if expecting another attack. “Let’s talk about this for a moment.”
“Good idea,” replied Gretchan Pax.
Mason Axeblade took charge of Garn Bloodfist, who was on his knees, sobbing and wailing at the failure of the trap. The Daewar captain secured the rebellious Klar’s wrist
s with manacles and ordered two of his Hylar warriors to lock him up in the dungeon.
Tarn Bellowgranite and Otaxx Shortbeard descended to the floor of the main hall, where some of the Neidar remained. The hill dwarves’ morale had been badly shaken by the death of Poleaxe and the manifestation of the monster, and the vast majority had been only too willing to march back out of the fortress. Some had headed straight home, no matter how many miles away. Many others camped on the flats outside the wall, huddled around hundreds of fires that dotted the field for an expanse of nearly a mile.
Within the Tharkadan Wall, torches burned all around the big room. The bodies of the slain were being collected and prepared for burial, hill and mountain dwarf corpses arrayed side by side. Two hill dwarf captains, Slate Fireforge and Axel Carbondale, met with Tarn and Otaxx to parley.
Gretchan and Brandon were there too, while Gus and Berta sat with Kondike off to the side, watching the bigger dwarves with mingled awe and skepticism. The two gully dwarves had managed to capture the attention of a couple of Hylar men-at-arms, and those sturdy dwarves had been able to hoist both Gus and the dog back up to the catwalk.
“When Gus escaped from the black wizard, he inadvertently brought a bottle of the wizard’s brew with him,” Gretchan was explaining to everyone between puffs on her pipe. A bluish haze of sweet smoke surrounded her.
“I don’t know what it was, but it obviously had some kind of corrupting effects. It was in a bottle of dwarf spirits, and Harn Poleaxe stole it from my room in Hillhome. I have no doubts that he drank it and became the tool of that darkness we saw looming just a short time ago.”
“And you killed it?” Otaxx Shortbeard asked in awe.
“I don’t think so,” Gretchan said honestly. “But it was banished by the power of Reorx, through my staff-and Brandon’s axe.”
Secret of Pax Tharkas dh-1 Page 34
