Brandon himself couldn’t quite believe the enthusiasm with which the citizens of Kayolin had responded to his plea for volunteers. In two weeks he had raised an army of exactly the size and strength that he had desired. Dwarves had come from all walks of life, leaving their jobs as miners and cooks, bartenders and brewers, to pledge their support to the mission that had captured the imagination of all Kayolin: Liberate Thorbardin! Return the true high king to his throne! Bring all the dwarf peoples back under a single crown!
Fortunately, nearly all of the recruits, as was standard in dwarf society, were skilled in combat and already owned their own armor and weapons, be they swords, crossbows, axes, hammers, or halberds. A disciplined people by nature, the dwarf recruits had accepted assignment into platoons, companies, brigades, and legions, and served under captains and commanders who, everyone knew, had proved their worth in many previous battles and wars.
Brandon marched at the head of a column more than four thousand dwarves strong, the largest force Kayolin had sent into the field in hundreds of years. And they would fight not for the safety of their own homeland, but for the restoration of dwarven pride and security, as represented by the ancient nation of Thorbardin.
He wished, not for the first time, that Gretchan could be there to see the proud spectacle. But his booted feet were buoyed by the knowledge that, with each southward step, he moved closer to her.
A hundred paces or so outside of the gate, he stepped to the side of the road, accepting the congratulations of several sturdy miners who, judging by their slurred hellos and raucous demeanor, had obviously left their workplace some hours earlier to gather under the awning of a friendly beer vendor. Brandon politely declined ten or a dozen offers of free drinks and turned to face the road, watching his newly raised army as it marched past.
First came the elite company of the Garnet Guards, their red tunics looking sharp and warlike in the bright sunlight. They were led by the elderly, but still spry, General Watchler. Watchler and his splendid soldiers had fallen out of favor under the regime of Regar Smashfingers, the previous governor, who would have styled himself a king, and the red-garbed fighters had proved to be a key ally when Brandon and his father had challenged Smashfingers’s right to rule. With the help of the Garnet Guards, the ambitious would-be king was deposed, Garren Bluestone had been placed in the governor’s chair, and the events were set in motion that allowed the commencement of their epic campaign.
Watchler, his gray hair and beard woven into long braids, flashed Brandon a wink as he marched past, back and shoulders straight, eyes twinkling as long-banked martial fires were rekindled in his soul. His Redshirts, some three hundred strong, followed in precise formation, feet stomping to the beat set by the drummers.
Those drummers, marching right behind, were young dwarves led by a quartet of stalwarts carrying bass drums the size of beer kegs. They pounded in a steady cadence, the boom boom boom setting the early pace. Next came many rows of different-sized percussion instruments, ranging from rattling snares to crashing brass gongs. Altogether nearly one hundred dwarf drummers raised a cacophony, and the crowd cheered all the louder as they passed.
Next came a long file, some fifteen hundred dwarves, that formed the First Legion, under the command of a proud, strutting Tankard Hacksaw. His unit was followed by the engineers, hauling a dozen wagons, including three Firespitters and an array of oil casks, the ammunition for the lethal, incendiary weapons. The experimental device had performed so well against the horax that Brandon had commissioned two more of them, deciding that they might provide a crucial advantage on any underground battlefield. Finally, Fister Morewood led his Second Legion down the road, tromping in steady cadence to the still audible drummers who were, by then, ahead by nearly a mile.
Only when the last of Morewood’s men, a lightly armored company of fast-moving scouts, had passed did Brandon step back onto the road. His flush of elation had diminished as the enormity of the task before him hit home.
His mind whirled with questions. Was the emperor of Solamnia reliable enough to provide the ships that he had promised, ships that were utterly necessary if the Kayolin Army was to make its way to southern Ansalon? Would Tarn Bellowgranite be ready to seize the opportunity of alliance presented by the strong Kayolin force? Would the hill dwarves honor their pact with the mountain dwarves of Pax Tharkas? Would Gretchan be there, waiting for him in that lofty fortress? Did she miss him as he missed her? Was she all right?
It was the last question, more than anything else, that returned him to the mood of anticipatory excitement with which he first had greeted the day. Unconsciously, he brightened, picking up the length of his strides, moving faster even as he maintained the pace of the drummers.
For every step took him closer to her.
Willim the Black worked at the table in his laboratory, mixing a gruel consisting of finely ground dried bat wings leavened with a few drops of draconian blood. His hands and nimble fingers moved quickly, without conscious effort, grinding the wings to an even finer powder in his mortar, dripping the blood into the vessel with a hollowed quill, then using the tip to stir the ingredients into a viscous paste. When he was satisfied with the mixture, he scooped it out with his finger and smeared it onto a slab of marble, spreading it into a thin, even layer. Finally, he set it aside to dry; he would not be able to complete the next step of the process for several intervals, not until the paste was ready to crumble into dust. Only then would he add the rest of the components then heat it to create a precious dose of a potion of transformation—one of many hundreds of elixirs and lotions that he kept locked in his most cherished cabinet.
Nearby, two blue sparks shimmered and floated, aimlessly circling around within a clear bell jar. Once in a while the sparks would probe along the base of the jar, as if seeking escape. But the rim of the vessel rested securely upon a base of smooth rubber, and there was no way even a bubble of air, much less anything more concrete, could escape.
Willim turned his eyeless face toward the wall, listening, peering into the darkness with the keen sense of his spell of true-seeing. As always, he remained alert for any sign of fire or heat, any clue that might signal the stealthy, lethal approach of the vengeful fire dragon Gorathian.
His senses tingled but not because the serpent of Chaos was near. Instead, it was a prickling of magical awareness along the hairs at the back of his neck. Quickly he spun. Then he saw her, outlined even more clearly to his magical vision than she would have been to normal vision under brightest daylight.
“Facet! My pet!” he cried, a crooked smile creasing his scarred, bearded face. “I am so glad to have you back!” He reached for her, already anticipating her willing embrace, the warmth of her flesh, the softness of her skin …
But she hesitated and he felt a glimmer of alarm. He noticed that she was alone and he scowled. “The Mother Oracle?” he asked coldly.
Facet pressed a hand to her beautiful, blood-red lips, and shook her head. “She’s dead,” she said, her whisper almost a moan. “Killed by the priestess of Reorx.”
Her eyes widened as she stared at Willim, noting the expression of rage that contorted his features. Before she could react, he lashed out a hand, striking her hard on the cheek and sending her whimpering away from him.
“You failed me!” he hissed.
“Please, Master—have mercy! It was a trap; she knew we were coming!”
Willim stood still except for the trembling in his hands that he could not control. He turned his face away from Facet, but she understood that his attention was still riveted upon her. “Tell me what happened,” he barked.
Hesitantly, Facet began to speak. “We discovered her camp on the trail, just where your spell had told us she would be. The oracle and I approached from opposite directions. We would have had her, Master, except for that cursed hound! The animal sounded a warning, and the power of her god protected her.”
“I gather that you did not recover the artifact.” Willim’s
voice was flat, level.
“I had no chance, Master! The power of Reorx was in her; I would have perished in an instant had I not spirited myself away!” Facet’s voice caught, and her large eyes moistened with tears.
She flinched but did not pull away when the wizard reached out a hand to touch her cheek. He caressed her soft skin, tracing the line of her jaw, reaching up to trace the curl of her ear, entwining his fingers in her long, dark hair … then he gripped that same lovely hair and pulled, hard. She dropped to her knees with a gasp of fear, staring up at him as he twisted, pulling her tresses taut, yanking tighter and tighter.
Nearby, the two blue sparks flittered around within the jar, bright and flickering, as though excited by the scene enacted before them.
“How dare you fail me?” spat the wizard, his voice low, each word stabbing like a dagger. “After all that I have given you, the training, the skills, the spells …” His voice softened, and he released his grip on her hair. “… the affection,” he whispered, almost sadly.
“Please, Master!” Facet fell to the floor at his feet. “Allow me to make it up to you! Punish me but let me serve you.”
She sobbed, her black robe heaving from the intensity of her anguish. Willim spent a long time looking down at her. He was still trembling with tension, with fury and desire, until finally he exhaled and relented.
“Very well,” he said. “I shall whip you, and then you shall be forgiven.”
“Oh, thank you, my lord!” Facet exclaimed, daring to raise her teary eyes toward his scarred, grisly visage. “It is more than I deserve!”
“Go to the rack,” he instructed. “Remove your robe!”
Facet did as ordered while Willim went to a shelf near his workbench. A number of torture implements were arrayed there, including a half-dozen whips featuring leather strands of varying lengths and thicknesses. He considered one, an especially wicked-looking tool, in which several strands of cord were intertwined with sharp bits of steel, tiny razors that could easily tear flesh and draw blood.
He was tempted, but he shook his head; her flesh was too precious, too soft and welcoming, for him to want to scar her body. Instead, he took a shorter whip, one with four cords of supple leather, and flexed it against his leg with a sharp snap of sound.
Facet, her bare back exposed to him, did not look at him but instead gripped the handles on the whipping rack with white-knuckled fingers. A shiver ran down her spine as he stepped closer, and he briefly wondered if it was a tremble brought about by fear or anticipation. Slowly, relishing the moment, he raised the whip in his hand and hoisted it over his shoulder.
In the bell jar, the two blue sparks spun and whirled in a frenzy.
In that instant Willim froze. His senses tingled and a sheen of perspiration broke, unbidden, onto his forehead. He trembled and listened and felt a stab of fear lance through his bowels.
It was growing very warm in his lair.
He dropped the whip and spun around with a gasp. An orange light emanated from the dark chasm in the floor, the crevasse that should have been lightless and cool. Instead, radiant warmth rose from that crack, and the vague light grew more intense, brighter, and hotter as it swelled upward to fill his laboratory.
“Gorathian!” he screamed, even as a draconic head reared into sight, jaws gaping, flaming skin outlining the hellish contour of the fire dragon’s skull.
With a blink of magic, the terrified Willim vanished from sight, teleporting away from his lair before the monster could strike.
“I have this feeling that we’re never going to see him again,” Karine Bluestone admitted quietly, though no hint of doubt disturbed the serene expression of her countenance as she watched the tail end of her nation’s army disappear down the mountain road. Brandon marched by himself in the rear of the military procession.
She and Garren stood upon a lofty ledge, high on the shoulder of Garnet Peak. The isolated aerie could be reached by air or through the access tunnel that connected directly to the governor’s mansion. It was one of the perks of her husband’s new office, that perch, the only place in Garnet Thax, other than the great gate, where a dwarf could go from the city directly to a view of the surface world.
“Did you hear what I said?” she asked, mildly surprised that her husband hadn’t immediately tried to soothe her concern by contradicting her.
“Yes, I heard,” Garren replied. He wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders and held her tightly, a gesture that at least helped to assuage some of her concern. “I wish I could say ‘everything’s going to turn out just fine,’ but I’m not sure I believe that myself.”
“Do you think they shouldn’t be going to Thorbardin?” she asked stiffly. “Why on Krynn did you let them?”
“I don’t know the answer to either of your questions,” he admitted, his tone so frank she regretted her tartness. “Surely I have to question my own wisdom. I’ve been governor for less than a year, and I’ve authorized the raising of the largest army in our history. And not only that, but I’ve sent them off to fight a foreign war, with my son in command.”
“He’s the best dwarf for that job. You know that, don’t you?” Karine chided gently.
“Aye, I do, beyond any doubt. He’s grown into a fine figure of a man, if I say so. I’d trust him with my life. But this is even more than that.”
“Is it the task itself, then?” she wondered. “Liberating Thorbardin from a fanatical king and a dark wizard?”
“’Tis a worthy goal,” Garren said. “Probably the greatest thing we as Kayolin dwarves can fight for, now that our own nation is secure. The rest of the world is moving on. The elves are vanished, so far as I know. We have a new human emperor in Solamnia, and he regards us as important allies. That’s a good thing. But without Thorbardin as an anchor for our people, as the place where our one crown stands, and our people are united under a council of thanes, we in Kayolin are only an outpost. An ally of Solamnia, yes, but I would not have us be a colony of any realm, human or otherwise. Rather, we should be a proud and independent nation of dwarves, a worthy supporter of our true king.”
“Then Brandon and his army have to go there, don’t they? They have to fight their way into Thorbardin and win. That’s all there is to it,” Karine declared, her tone growing confident once again.
“Yes,” Garren said, holding her even more tightly. “That’s all there is to it.”
“Then let Reorx bless us, and bless Brandon, with his good will. And bring our son home to us again.”
Again Garren didn’t reply to his wife’s words. They both understood that there was really nothing left to say.
Facet clung to the whipping rack, remaining very still as the roaring fire dragon burst upward from the chasm, flaming wings beating against the floor. Willim was already gone; she had heard him bark the single-word teleport command and felt the rush of air as he had vanished. Embers swirled through the dark space, touching Facet’s exposed skin as she still clutched the iron, her face averted, eyes tearing from the soot and the acrid smoke.
Gorathian flew upward and, with another pulse of those fiery wings, flashed through the air, sweeping into one of the tunnels leading outward from the wizard’s lair. The monster’s bellow of rage and pursuit lingered and echoed in the air as the fiery creature sped away from the place, again chasing its former master through Thorbardin.
Only when the dragon was gone, when darkness again had cloaked the cavern and the burning heat of the creature’s flight slowly cooled back to the natural chill of the subterranean stone, did the apprentice magic-user release her grip on the rack and stand free. She pulled her black robe around her again and glanced once in the direction of the flying dragon—gone, leaving only a fading, orange glow from the infernal heat of its passage.
Facet was no longer weeping. Instead, her face was a mask of cold resolve as she went to the cabinet in which Willim kept his potions. From long experience, she manipulated the lock, pulled open the door, and looked inside.
The road down from Garnet Peak was an easy march, on a descending grade, but even so it took the Kayolin Army more than two days to reach the edge of the foothills, where the road spilled onto the Solamnic plain. Immediately before them was a place familiar to many dwarves who had bothered to travel more than a few miles from Kayolin’s gate.
The city of Garnet was a lively, raucous place—one of Brandon’s favorite cities, in fact. But he knew that the presence of four thousand Kayolin dwarves, armed and thirsty and primed for battle, would be more than the thriving trading community could absorb. So in the face of some considerable grumbling and a few acts of insubordination that provided the first real test of his command authority, General Bluestone ordered that the marching army bypass the city and make camp in the forested fringe of the mountain range, some five miles beyond the city gates.
In a tree-shaded river valley, the army made bivouac along a broad, dry shelf of the riverbank. Scouts went out to hunt, and several returned with fresh-killed deer. Still, it was clear that wild game would not be enough to feed the whole force. Although the dwarves marched with stocks of grain and dried pemmican, Brandon didn’t want to break into the food reserves so early in the trek. Besides, given the proximity of the city and its famed stockyards, it seemed only right that he authorize the purchase of a hundred beeves. Some he ordered to be butchered right away, while the others would be herded along, feeding the army as it continued the fortnight-long march to the port of Caergoth.
Thus, even though they were barred from the city’s assortments of taverns and inns and show houses, the soldiers of the Kayolin Army were reasonably content as they settled into the camp and let their stomachs growl to the permeating odors of roasting roasts and grilling steaks.
The Fate of Thorbardin Page 6
