They were talking about the Big War, the same war that Gretchan was going to. Gus leaned in and tried to understand what the other dwarves were saying.
“Tarn Bellowgranite has marched on Thorbardin?” Slate Fireforge expressed surprise at the news. “Why didn’t he call on our help? Like we pledged in the treaty?”
Crystal shook her head, saddened. “I’m afraid it’s the old fears, the old prejudices again. Brandon Bluestone came down from the north with four thousand dwarves of Kayolin, and apparently Tarn felt that would be enough to get the job done.”
“Aye. And he didn’t want to share the spoils with any Neidar, unless I miss my guess,” said another big hill dwarf-one who Crystal had welcomed by the name of Axel Carbondale. Gus knew that Axel had come from a different town, and in fact he looked vaguely familiar. At last it came to him: Axel had also been with the hill dwarves in the battle of Pax Tharkas.
“Is that the case?” Slate asked bluntly.
“I suppose it is,” Crystal was forced to agree. “My husband is a very stubborn dwarf. And I’m afraid, sometimes, that he’s getting even worse in his old age. In the end, I disagree with him. I think we should all come together. That’s why I decided to come home, on my own. I came to tell you what Tarn is doing and to ask if you’d be willing to help him.”
Suddenly she turned and flashed Gus a smile that, once again, reminded him very much of Gretchan. “I almost didn’t make it back home, and I wouldn’t have if not for Gus here.”
The little gully dwarf beamed and helped himself to another thick slice of ham.
“So the old fool is willing to risk defeat?” Axel growled. “Just because he’s too proud to ask for Neidar help? I say we let him face the defeat he deserves!”
That statement drew a few rumbles of assent from the gathered throng, but Gus saw that Slate, though listening carefully, wore a noncommittal expression on his face.
Crystal apparently noticed that too since she turned and put a hand on the Hillhome leader’s arm. “Slate, is that what you think too? That Tarn and the exiles should go down to defeat because they failed to ask for your help?”
There was a long silence, during which even the conversations among the dwarves at the more distant feasting tables settled down to whispers, waiting for Slate’s reply. Finally, Slate Fireforge shook his head. He stood up, his broad shoulders and lush mane of brown hair making him look larger than life.
“I say we should march to Tarn Bellowgranite’s aid. I say we should ally ourselves with our cousins from Kayolin, cousins who have marched much, much farther than we would have to go in order to join this brave campaign.”
He cleared his throat, as if embarrassed by his strong statements. But he raised his face and looked around the crowded plaza, at all the celebratory dwarves, with an expression of stern determination. He climbed onto his bench, stepped up onto the table, and from there climbed atop a huge keg. From that vantage, he could gaze all across the wide town square.
“Since when do we depend on mountain dwarves for wisdom?” he asked, his voice booming through Hillhome. He turned and addressed the dwarves on the other side of him and all around. “Since when do we depend on mountain dwarves to make our decisions or to decide our future? Hear me, brave Neidar!
“We have here the chance to right ten generations’ worth of wrongs!” Slate Fireforge declared from atop the sturdy keg. “I say we seize that chance, we gird ourselves, and we march to Thorbardin!”
“And I agree!” Axel Carbondale said, pushing himself to his feet. “The time for feuding is done. Let us work together and claim the future for all dwarves!”
His bold statement roused a few cheers, but those cheers quickly swelled into a roar of acclamation as the plan for the campaign swept like wildfire through the large crowd of hill dwarves thronging the central square of Hillhome.
Willim the Black paced back and forth before Gretchan’s cage with his hands crossed behind his back and his scarred lips pressed together in an expression of concentration. Notwithstanding his grotesque visage and hunched posture, for the moment he seemed to have an aura more like a lecturing professor than a megalo-maniacal magic-user.
The priestess watched him warily. She was shackled inside the cage and remained muted by the spell of silence. She had watched the wizard and his two female assistants for a long time, alert for any chance to escape. But no such opportunity had presented itself, and she could do little but listen.
“The creature of Chaos will be drawn to many things … to your beauty, perhaps, and even your faith. But most of all, it shall be drawn to your power. That power is the key to all my hopes, so please, take care that you do not disappoint me.”
The priestess leaned forward and strained against the chains binding her wrists. If she had been free, she would have cheerfully fastened her hands around Willim’s neck and throttled the life out of him. For the time being, she could only glare.
He seemed to sense-and enjoy-her fury. He beamed as she glared.
“You are probably thinking that you would rather die than cooperate with me.”
Her eyes widened slightly, the fury and fear in her gaze telling Willim that he was right in his assumption. The wizard shook his head, dismissing her objection. “You alone will not die. You will see: there will be many, many more who will perish.”
The wizard went to his table and raised the Staff of Reorx, which had been laid there following the cleric’s capture. Gretchan’s stomach lurched in revulsion against the blasphemy of Willim’s hands touching that sacred artifact, but she couldn’t turn away as she watched in horror. Holding the staff before him, he made sure that she watched his every move then continued his tutelage in that maddeningly calm voice.
“This is a powerful tool-in some ways more powerful than any other device at my disposal.”
Gretchan shook her chains, trying to stress that the Staff of Reorx was not his to use.
Again, the wizard seemed to read her mind. “Oh,” he said with a deep, wet chuckle. “But it is.”
“General Bluestone! The king is coming with the rest of the Tharkadan Legion.”
Brandon turned to see that Mason Axeblade had reached him. Axeblade was accompanied by a few dozen of his own men, all as sooty and bloodied as any other dwarves-proof that they had seen heavy action during their advance into the city.
The Kayolin commander stood with the front rank of his men, facing a shattered wall in the middle of Norbardin’s central cavern. It was the royal palace, and though Brandon very much doubted that Willim the Black-and his prisoner Gretchan Pax-would be waiting for them in the battered but still formidable edifice, there was no way around the position. He and his captains realized they would have to storm the place.
In his fury and determination, Brandon had almost forgotten about the rest of the army, and he had to shake his head and force himself to think about Tarn Bellowgranite.
“How far away is he?” Brandon asked.
“An hour, maybe less. He got a very warm welcome from the people when he led the legion into the northern quarter of the city. It seems they’re plenty sick of Willim the Black and of Jungor Stonespringer before him.”
Brandon nodded, still distracted, thinking of Gretchan’s dire peril. But he had to admit that Mason’s report was encouraging; if the dwarves of Thorbardin were prepared to cheer for their exiled monarch, that would make the position of Willim the Black even more tenuous.
But what was the wizard doing to Gretchan?
He forced himself to think and act. “All right. You see that building there, the palace?”
Mason nodded, studying the stony edifice. It was surrounded by a stone wall; that wall was broken and cracked in many places, the damage that still remained from the recent civil war that had resulted in Willim’s gaining of the throne. The large gate was barricaded with several large slabs of stone piled in place, blocking access in and out of the courtyard beyond. One tower rose into view behind the wall, but it was a jagged,
broken spire. At one time it had apparently risen high above the floor of the underground city, but it looked like the trunk of a tree that had lost its top to a lightning strike.
“There are a hundred or more Theiwar holed up in there. The rest of the enemy army, mostly remnants, has moved beyond, into the widest of the roads leading down to the Urkhan Sea. But we can’t get at them until we fight our way through the palace.”
He looked up the road, in the direction Mason had come from. He was looking for signs of the two Fire-spitters, but the machines still were not moving forward. Both had exhausted their oil and coal in fighting their way into the city, and Brandon knew they were being reloaded. How much longer would that take?
Only vaguely did Brandon realize that Axeblade was waiting for the general to say something.
“I’m sorry,” Brandon said. “I’m worried about this attack. What was it you asked?”
“Where do you want the king to come?” the captain repeated. “Should I ask him to wait in the north quarter or advance here to the city center?”
“Have him come here, if he’s willing,” Brandon replied. “Maybe the clear proof of his return will bring all the people onto our side and we can be done with this fighting sooner than we ever thought.”
“Aye, General. Good idea,” Mason Axeblade replied. Instead of saluting, he placed a hand on Brandon’s shoulder. “And I heard about Gretchan,” he added solemnly. “We’re all praying for her, and I’m willing to bet that she’s more than a match for that devil wizard!”
“From your mouth to Reorx’s ears,” was all Brandon could think of to say.
SEVENTEEN
THE FIRE DRAGON AND THE GOD
Gretchan watched warily as the wizard paced back and forth in front of her small cage. She didn’t know how long she’d been imprisoned, though she guessed that it was more than one day and less than two. Working to battle despair, she had found anger to be powerful medicine, so she focused on her fury.
There were many things to hate about the vile magic-user, beginning with the very philosophy of his order. Wizards of the black robes were those who practiced the darkest forms of magic. Anything was fair business to them in the quest for power. Killing, theft, corruption, control: they were mere tools in the arsenal of any black wizard. Their god, Nuitari, was such a dark presence that his moon was invisible to all mortals, except those who dedicated themselves to the magic of that conscienceless deity.
And, too, she had seen enough of Willim’s works to further fuel her contempt and her rage. She knew that he had planned to kill the hapless but innocent Aghar Gus Fishbiter, disposing of him merely as a means to study the effectiveness of some lethal concoction. It was only pure dumb luck that had allowed the gully dwarf to escape.
Furthermore, Gretchan recognized the beautiful, raven-haired apprentice as the dark wizard who had accosted her in the forest with the intention of killing her. It had only been her dog’s alertness that had saved Gretchan from that assassination attempt. And the apprentice had made it clear that she was operating then under her master’s instructions.
All of those facts fueled her anger and allowed her to resist the powerful urge to fall into despair. So she did not despair, but she was thirsty and hungry-ailments strange to her since her clerical powers allowed her to conjure food and drink more or less whenever she required them.
That conjuring, however, required her to speak a prayer to her god, to ask his favor and blessing. Thus far during her confinement, she had been utterly silenced by the wizard’s spell, unable to vocalize so much as a whisper or even a whimper, which, in her deepest soul, was all she felt like mustering.
Still, she would not give the hideous magic-user the satisfaction of noting her distress. She watched impassively as he came closer, studying her. She sensed that there was something that he wanted to say, so she waited, keeping her guard up and her wits about her.
“You probably expect that you will die in my cage, do you not?” the Theiwar finally said, his voice a sibilant whisper. If he were going for charming, she reflected, he missed the mark by a good deal. She waited for him to continue without reacting to his question.
“You might die here; you very well could die here!” he growled, leaning menacingly close to the bars of her cage. His tone dropped again. “But you do not have to die here,” he teased.
Still she offered no reaction. The wizard frowned, paced away a few steps, and turned back. On the other side of the laboratory, his two female accomplices sat in chairs at a small table. Their backs were turned, but Gretchan sensed that they were listening carefully to every word their master spoke. The cleric spent a moment reflecting about those two, wondering how she might use them, if she might use them, as leverage against their master.
She had observed enough to know that the two females feared the wizard almost as much as Gretchan did. The elder one hated Willim as well for reasons that the priestess didn’t know but could easily imagine. The younger one-the beautiful one-simpered and flattered and generally seemed to worship the eyeless wizard. But in that devotion Gretchan sensed a falseness, and she spent some time wondering about the apprentice’s relationship with her master.
“There is a creature of Chaos in Thorbardin,” Willim continued. “My powers are great, but they fall within the sphere of arcane magic-the magic powered by the three moons, and most especially by Nuitari, the black moon.”
Tell me something I don’t know, Gretchan challenged him silently, still without changing her expression or posture.
“This Chaos creature is a fire dragon and, thus, is immune to the magic of my sphere. It knows only the void, and the void is now the province of the gods. Of Reorx, too, of course-he who is lord of all dwarves.”
She felt a swelling of contempt. To hear the name of her deity-a stern and powerful god to be sure, but also a god of fairness and hope-spoken by a creature such as the vile Black Robe practically turned her stomach. Still, she began to get an inkling of what the magic-user desired, and in that desire she found cause for hope-not just hope for survival, but also for freedom and, eventually, revenge.
Once again he took up her staff, holding it in his gloved hands, caressing the smooth wood in that insidious, sensual manner. Gretchan prayed to Reorx, begging her god to smite the cruel magic-user, even as she acknowledged to herself that that was not the way her deity usually worked. She knew that it was up to her to deal with her villainous foe.
For the first time, she allowed herself to display a visible reaction. She mouthed the words: I need to talk.
Willim the Black nodded and went over to the work-table, where he carefully laid the staff down amid a collection of potion bottles … scrolls … and other, not easily identified odds and ends. Turning back to the cage where she was imprisoned, he advanced and snapped his fingers. Gretchan cleared her throat and was astounded-and relieved-by how loudly the sound echoed in her ears.
“What makes you think I can defeat this monster?” she asked quickly.
He smirked, a truly grotesque smile twisting his eyeless face. “Because it will kill you if you don’t. And that is a chance I am willing to take.”
“But if I die, then you will die as well,” she challenged, though not with a great deal of confidence.
The wizard shook his head, dismissing the idea. “No, you don’t understand. I shall teleport myself away. You will face the monster when it comes for me. And it always comes for me. But there will be many others standing in its path as well.”
“You will have to let me have my staff,” Gretchan asserted.
“Yes, when the time is right,” Willim replied calmly. “Facet!” he barked without turning his face from the cleric’s. “Take the staff and hold it ready.”
The younger magic-user bowed and rose from her chair. Gretchan knew that the young female was an apprentice, and judging from her beauty and the obsequious way in which she seemed to worship the wizard, the priestess guessed that she served her master in many ways-not all
of them having to do with her magical training. With another disgusted look at that scarred visage, she reflected on the thought of physical intimacy with such a dastardly creature. It was impossible for her to comprehend. She could even smell his fetid breath, like the stink of a pile of fertilizer, and he was six feet away from her.
The dwarf maid came over carrying Gretchan’s staff, and when Willim turned and held out his hands, she gave it to the wizard. He took the long shaft of wood absently, running his hands up and down the smooth surface while he continued to pace. Gretchan wanted to shout at him to drop the precious talisman, to get his corrupt and filthy hands off her treasure. But she suspected that such a tantrum would only please him, so she remained silent.
“I shall give it to you when the monster approaches but not before. If your god is with you, he may-I cannot say for sure, but he may-consent to match his own strength with that of the fire dragon. If Reorx is willing and mighty enough, the power of this staff may be enough to vanquish the creature. If he is not willing, you will perish and many others will perish, and I will teleport away to fight another day.”
The wizard scowled and shook his head, as if dismissing the thoughts of escape that had immediately popped into Gretchan’s head when she heard his plan. “And you should know that these bars are protected by many traps. Should you try to work your own magic upon them, they will burst into flames, and they will burn very hot and for a long time. You will not escape, but neither will you die quickly.”
“How can you claim to know what I would do?” she challenged angrily. She gestured at the two female magic-users. “And how do you know you can trust these two? How can you trust anyone? Don’t you think-?”
Abruptly he snapped his fingers again, and Gretchan’s voice was immediately muffled.
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