Fate of Thorbardin dh-3

by Douglas Niles

  She tossed another limb onto the fire and watched as it crackled loudly, fueling the blaze enough that sparks were sent showering skyward. An experienced camper, Gretchen had previously cleared the dry needles and branches from a wide space around her fire, so there was no chance of the blaze spinning out of control.

  It was not the fire that worried her, not there, not that night. Nevertheless, she threw a couple more branches into the blaze and settled back to scratch Kondike, the great, black dog that was her conversation partner, between the ears atop his broad, flat head. The animal huffed contentedly, but his flopped ears perked slightly upward. His brown eyes flashed as he shifted his head, and she could see his black nostrils flaring gently as he smelled the air, seeking some telltale spoor that might be carried by the faint breeze.

  Leaning back, Gretchan tried to let the familiar presence of a wilderness camp surround and soothe her. She was a very beautiful woman, by dwarven or human or even elven standards. Her golden hair flowed down to her waist, and even after days on the trail, it shone with a coppery sheen as she loosed her braid. Her blue tunic fit snugly across her buxom torso, and leggings of the same color encased her shapely legs. Soft moccasins protected her feet so comfortably that even though she was done walking for the day, she felt no need to remove them.

  Even so, she found it hard to relax entirely. Gretchan couldn’t figure out why she was so worried and preoccupied. She had been traveling down a rutted cart track, leading away from the coast, which gradually meandered into the hill country. Before choosing a campsite, she’d broken away from the trail, making her way into the trackless woods for nearly a mile. With her usual care, she’d covered her passage, so even if anyone had been following her down the road, which was unlikely in that wilderness, they’d have a hard time tracing her path into the bush.

  She’d made camp in a pleasant vale. A shallow creek nearby provided her with fresh water and a couple of fat trout for supper. To the west, the trees opened slightly, revealing the glimmering surface of a small lake; she’d spent a contented hour watching the beautiful reflections as the sun had set. Her camp was far enough back into the trees that no glow of her fire would have been visible from the lake, even if anyone had been there.

  Yet it wasn’t some wayward logger or even roaming band of highwaymen who worried her. She piled more dried pine logs onto her fire, watching as the flames crackled nearly as high as her head. The tops of the trees surrounding her camp were brightened by the light, a far-from-subtle declaration of her presence. But the light, the heat, even the smells of her cooking fish, were not the kinds of clues that would give her away, of that she was certain.

  Uneasily, she rose to her feet and walked the circuit of her little camp, holding her precious staff in her hand. The anvil atop that staff, a symbol of Reorx, her immortal god, remained dark and cold, and from that, at least, she could take some comfort. She came back to the fire and settled onto the makeshift seat she’d made with a mossy stump as a backrest. Her backpack was nearby, and she put her hand upon it.

  Unbidden, her mind drifted to Brandon, and she was annoyed with herself when she felt a palpable sense of longing. If only he were there …

  “Damn it!” she whispered, shaking away the thought. Hadn’t she crossed a continent by herself, safely making hundreds of camps with just her dog as a companion? In some of those places, there’d been hostile armies nearby, raiding bands of goblins, even ogre and minotaur slavers. She’d taken care of herself just fine, thank you very much!

  So why was she so nervous?

  It was the Redstone, she realized, as her hand tightened involuntarily over the flap of her pack. She had insisted on bringing the artifact with her; she was taking it to Tarn Bellowgranite at Pax Tharkas as proof that the exiled king’s throne was within reach again.

  “I’ll come with you!” Brandon had pledged. “As soon as we clear out the horax hive! We’ll travel together-it will be a splendid trip!”

  “I have to go now.” Her reply had been firm, unbending during the week of awkward discussion preceding her departure, and indeed, her resolve had resulted in the kind of stiffly formal farewell that, in the depths of the woods, struck her as foolishly prideful and petty. She wished she had kissed him with all the passion she felt, had held him against herself for a long time. Why hadn’t they spent her last night in Kayolin in a blissful embrace, locked themselves away from the distractions of the world?

  Instead, they had shared a formal dinner with his parents and some of the governor’s associates. They had talked of politics and warfare until everyone was tired, and she had bade them all her weary and somewhat sulky farewell.

  Of course, she knew she was doing the right thing. Her job was to seek out the exiled king in Pax Tharkas, so he could be convinced to prepare his dwarves for the upcoming campaign. When Brandon came after her, a few weeks or months later, he would be marching with a large contingent of the Kayolin Army. Together with Tarn’s dwarves of Pax Tharkas and the hill dwarves of Kharolis, they would be armed with the legendary Tricolor Hammerhead-the Redstone was the final component of that hallowed artifact. Then the dwarves of three nations, acting in unison, would return to fabled Thorbardin, smash their way inside, and liberate their long-suffering countrymen from the reign of despotism, fanaticism, and dark magic that had too long held them in sway.

  No, hers had been the right decision. Besides, in addition to cleaning out the horax scourge, Brandon needed to finish recruiting and supplying the large army he was raising, preparing that army for an arduous cross-country march, arranging for naval transport to move the dwarves through the Newsea, and a myriad other details that would have left him no time for Gretchan. Of course, logic and necessity dictated what they must do.

  But, damn it all, she still missed him!

  Almost unconsciously she pulled out her pipe, carefully cleaned and filled it, then touched it off with an ember from the fire. Inhaling the piquant smoke, she exhaled through her nostrils. Yet even her time-honored ritual couldn’t dispel the melancholy that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her.

  It was Kondike’s low growl that finally broke through her veil of loneliness. Immediately she stiffened, both hands closing around the Staff of Reorx. The black dog slowly rose to his feet, the fur on the nape of his neck bristling. His ears were fully raised, and he stared at one shadowy stretch of wood. After the first audible growl, he made no further sound, but when Gretchan touched his shoulder, she found that he was shivering with tension.

  With a sudden gesture, she raised the staff, lifting the anvil high over her head. Immediately the clearing around the fire was revealed in a bright wash of light. The glow emanated from the anvil, so Gretchan knew that anyone looking at her would be at least partially blinded from staring at the light, while her own vision remained keen. She stared between the trees, seeking whatever it was that had alarmed Kondike.

  She spotted a patch of color, like a woven shawl, and a moment later an old dwarf maid came into view, hobbling out from behind a pine tree. Her hand was held up to shield her eyes from the glowing anvil, partially blocking her face, but even so, Gretchan recognized her.

  “The Mother Oracle! From Hillhome!” she declared, loud and accusing. “You worked for Harn Poleaxe!”

  The old crone snorted contemptuously. “Harn Poleaxe wasn’t fit to sew the heel on my moccasin,” she retorted. “Don’t confuse me for his tool merely because we served the same master.”

  Gretchan rose to her feet, in a wide stance, staff still held high. Beside her Kondike bristled and growled.

  Undeterred, the old dwarf woman took a step closer.

  “What do you want?” demanded Gretchan Pax. “Why do you seek me out in the wilderness?”

  The oracle shrugged. “To do you a favor,” she said. “To give you a warning.”

  “What do you have to warn me about?”

  “The warning comes not from me, but from my true master.”

  Gretchan studied the e
lderly female, her hand still unwavering as it held aloft the staff and its gleaming anvil. The oracle wore a patched robe, so ratty that it might have been assembled from a hundred multicolored rags. Her face was creased with deep wrinkles, her posture stooped so much that Gretchan could see the thin, white hair on top of her head.

  She recalled her first meeting with the oracle, in the town of Hillhome, when the old dwarf woman had conjured up a fire around her hut, then claimed to the aroused citizenry that Gretchan had attacked her. The young priestess had been forced to flee, thwarted in her attempt to learn more about the oracle’s mysterious purpose.

  “Do you serve the black minion?” she asked. “The creature that rose from Harn Poleaxe when the dwarf was killed?”

  Well did she remember that horrifying apparition, its ember-red eyes, clutching talons, and batlike wings spread wide. The thing had loomed high above her amid the battle in Pax Tharkas, but the power of her god had banished it, driven it back to the nether plane from which it had emerged. And even as she asked that question, Gretchan knew that the minion was not the oracle’s master, that it, too, served the one who had corrupted Harn Poleaxe.

  “What is it, then?” the cleric pressed. “What is the threat? Why do you warn me?”

  She lowered the staff slightly, though the anvil still cast a broad swath of light. Gretchan was suspicious and alert, wondering whether the oracle brought a genuine warning or planned to spring some kind of trap.

  “My master knows of your mission, and he wants you to turn back from Pax Tharkas. If you go there, you will be doomed; Tarn Bellowgranite, all the exiles, will perish.”

  “Doomed by what?” demanded Gretchan even as she felt a cold stab of fear. Whether or not the oracle was bluffing, she clearly knew a lot about the cleric’s supposedly secret mission.

  “Doomed by forces that will overwhelm the puny power of your priestly magic,” the old dwarf maid sneered. “By powers of sorcery drawn from the black moon, Nuitari! The same powers that devoured the soul of Harn Poleaxe, that drew the minion into this world to serve my master’s bidding!”

  Gretchan stamped the butt of her staff on the ground, relishing the solid, fundamental strength of the blow. “I will stand with the power of Reorx at my back and face anything your dark arts can conjure!” she declared.

  The oracle laughed, as if the cleric’s pronouncement were utterly predictable. Something was strange about the confrontation and Gretchan struggled to understand what was happening. The old woman wasn’t threatening her, not directly anyway, nor did she seem the least bit concerned about the power wielded by the dwarf priestess. It was as if she were content to talk, to torment and agitate Gretchan, simply holding her attention … to distract her!

  The realization came with a sudden burst of insight, but it was almost too late. Gretchan spun around, instinctively crouching, grasping her staff in both hands as the light instantly faded to a pale glow.

  At the same time, Kondike uttered a bestial snarl and hurled his big body toward the woods but not at the place where the oracle stood. Instead, the dog charged into the dark place between two trees as Gretchan lifted the staff, casting a beam of light into that area with cold, unerring accuracy.

  A beautiful dwarf maid stood there, black-haired and pale-skinned, with full lips outlined in ruby, as shiny as if they were covered in a sheen of fresh blood. She wore a black robe, supple material hanging smoothly over the lush curves of her body. Her finger was extended, pointing directly at Gretchan, and as the spill of light revealed her, she uttered a single, sharp bark of sound.

  But Kondike was there first. The dog barreled into the dwarf wizard, knocking her off balance. A burst of magic, like a searing bolt of lightning, erupted from her finger, crackling through the air over the cleric’s head, bursting and burning in the tops of the dried pine trees across the campsite. The dog snapped at the magic-user’s face and she screamed. Gretchan saw a flash of shiny steel in the dwarf’s hand then heard a yelp as Kondike’s skin was pierced. The dog flinched away, still growling, as the female Black Robe climbed to her feet.

  Only then did the cleric remember the oracle. She spun back to see that the old woman had produced a slender stick from within her shawl. She held it in one hand, a wand pointed straight at Gretchan as she chanted to words to an unknown but clearly deadly spell.

  The priestess whipped her staff over her head, calling out the name of Reorx as magic exploded from the tip of the wand. A bolt of lethal power shot toward Gretchan, but it was deflected by the swirling vortex of the glowing staff. Instead of striking the priestess, the oracle’s spell rebounded, arrowing back against the caster. It struck her in the face and, with a single, splitting scream, the old crone toppled backward and lay still.

  Kondike barked furiously, lunging again at the black-robed wizard. Gretchan sprang to help the dog, already glimpsing defeat in that pallid but beautiful face. The female’s porcelain-doll features twisted in rage, but apparently she recognized that the fight had turned against her. She uttered a single, guttural word, and vanished from sight.

  Only then did Gretchan notice that the forest was on fire all around her, the tinder-dry pines having been ignited by the magic-user’s misfired lightning bolt. She trotted over to the oracle, determining at once that the old woman was dead. After a shiver of revulsion, Gretchan picked up the wand, prying it from the oracle’s stiff fingers, and stuffed it into her own pack.

  Kondike was limping, blood pooling at the base of his foreleg. She knelt, tracing her fingers over the knife wound and murmuring the incantation to a gentle healing spell. At once the dog shook off the injury, staring around with ears upraised and hackles still bristling.

  “Yes, I agree. I think we need to get out of here. Let’s go,” Gretchan said, staring as the flames leaped from tree to tree, the forest fire roaring into life on the far side of the camp.

  The dog and the dwarf maid jogged away from the blaze that ignited the once-pastoral camp. She didn’t know how the servants of dark magic had found her, though she knew that there was no warning intended: their mission had been to kill her, and they had very nearly succeeded.

  Whatever the source of the threat, whatever the means at its disposal, one thing was clear: Gretchan couldn’t get to Pax Tharkas too soon.

  The king’s bedroom was cold, far colder than it should be that temperate, late-autumn evening. Tarn Bellowgranite looked out the window, reluctant to draw the shutters even against the chill.

  For the icy grip that had settled around his heart was an even more oppressive frost, like a glacier that had settled over his whole spirit, his being.

  “Father?”

  Tor was there, speaking to the king’s rigid back. Tarn winced, almost as if physically wounded. Then he clenched his jaw and turned to look at the boy.

  “Yes, son. What is it?”

  As he spoke, he appraised the sturdy, young dwarf, clearly more than a boy, though not yet quite a man. Tor stood nearly as tall as his father, but his long, brown hair had the softness of youth, and his beard was merely a foreshadowing of maturity, tufts of whiskers that dusted the sides of his face, just in front of his ears.

  “Mother is down in the dungeon again, isn’t she?” Tor said, his tone halfway between wounded and challenging. “Talking to Garn Bloodfist.”

  “I don’t know where she is,” the exiled king retorted, a half truth-though he hadn’t seen her go down the stairs, he knew her habits and knew that his son was right.

  “Why does she do that?” Tor said. “He’s the one who wanted to kill all the hill dwarves! And now she’s the only one who visits him in his cell! Has she forgotten that she’s a Neidar herself?”

  Tarn shook his head ruefully, turning back to look out the window at the darkness gathering through the foothills and the deep mountain valley. “Your mother will never forget that she’s a hill dwarf!” he snapped, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  “Then why? Why even listen to Garn Bloodfist, give h
im the comfort of her presence?”

  “Your mother is a very sympathetic person,” Tarn replied evenly. “She remembers Garn as a loyal lieutenant to me-wild and unpredictable as any Klar, but a fierce warrior and a good guardian of Pax Tharkas when we needed that protection.”

  “But you’re the one who threw Garn in prison!” their son said, confused.

  “Because he disobeyed my direct order!” the former monarch declared hotly. “If he’d succeeded, Pax Tharkas would be a tomb, and neither side would have emerged from the war with anything other than deep, incurable wounds.”

  “Do you think she’s helping Garn to see that?” pressed Tor, rather insolently in his father’s mind.

  “We’ll have to talk about that, your mother and I,” Tarn replied.

  Even as he replied in vague terms, his mind, his heart, focused on the real reason Crystal went down there, the reason she spent as much time away from him as she could within the constricting environment of the fortress. She was trying to forget about Tara, and Tarn and Tor were constant reminders of her loss.

  Of their loss, damn it! Did she think that he hadn’t lost a daughter as well? Tarn and Crystal both had watched their child, their beloved and beautiful girl, get taken by the fever last winter, the disease so cruel that it seemed to eat her away from the inside out.

  Why, Reorx? Why did you take her?

  For the thousandth time, Tarn voiced the question to the unanswering sky. The bitterness rose within him, the anger and bile that it seemed he would never escape. She had been too young, younger even than Tor. And she had been innocent of everything! Yet the illness had claimed her and not him, not Crystal, not even a deserving soul such as Garn Bloodfist, trapped in the moldering dankness of the dungeon so far below!