The Fate of Thorbardin

by Douglas Niles

  But Brandon had another reason for his haste: he missed Gretchan more than he would ever have thought possible. As they began the seventh day of the march, he hoped they would come into sight of the fortress before dark—but even if the army needed to bivouac one more night on the trail, he had resolved to press on alone, so he could once again hold his beloved dwarf maid in his arms.

  Under his watchful eye, and the steady guidance of his two legion commanders and General Watchler, the army had marched at a good pace, starting from the first hour after debarkation on the southern shore of the Newsea. Tankard Hacksaw, commander of the First Legion, marched right at Brandon’s side, with his troops forming the first part of the column. In the middle was the baggage train, a collection of two-wheeled carts pulled by mules or sturdy dwarves, bearing the dried trail provisions that ensured the dwarves didn’t have to take the time to forage for food.

  Gus Fishbiter and his two girlfriends were riding along on one of those carts, since the short-legged Aghar would not have been able to maintain the pace of their larger cousins. The two remaining Firespitters were once again in the middle of the formation, and the Second Legion, under the command of Fister Morewood, brought up the rear.

  The rocky ridges to either side of the road looked increasingly familiar, and as the path curved around another shoulder of mountainside, the familiar fortress towers came into view. The parapet was lined with cheering dwarves as the Kayolin Army stepped up its pace, singing a marching song in time with the drums as the newcomers crisply tromped up to their allies in the mountain fortress. A rain of flowers fell from the ramparts as the mountain dwarves of Pax Tharkas greeted their long-lost cousins with cheers and whoops of joy.

  Soon all four thousand of the marching dwarves were passing through the great gate of the fortress and spreading out through a massive hall that had been equipped with tables, benches, and many tempting items of food and drink for a massive welcome feast.

  Brandon had eyes for only one person, and Gretchan greeted him right inside the gate, falling into his arms with a shriek of delight that sent his blood to boiling. He inhaled the sweet smell of her hair as she clasped him in a warm embrace. For long moments they remained thus while the festivities swelled around them.

  When finally they broke apart, Brandon saw that Tarn’s dwarves, under the command of Otaxx Short-beard, mingled readily with the newcomers, and many kegs of ale had already been tapped in celebration of the greeting.

  “Come with me,” Gretchan said, taking Brandon by the hand.

  Whatever he hoped for in her firm summons, he was surprised when she led him through a small door into an office where Tarn Bellowgranite himself, in the company of a huge, burly dwarf who wore the apron of a blacksmith, awaited him.

  With a flourish, the exiled king pulled a cloak off an object that had been concealed on a table, and Brandon gaped at the Tricolor Hammer. The weapon was a perfect fusion of red, green, and blue, all the stones merged onto a massive, sturdy handle. The head of the artifact seemed to glow with an otherworldly light, as if the illumination were born within.

  “The gates of Thorbardin await us,” was all the exiled monarch had to say.

  General Blade Darkstone inspected the defenses of Thorbardin’s gatehouse. The veteran Daergar warrior, commander of Willim the Black’s army and, indeed, of all the garrison of the kingdom of Thorbardin, was worried. Willim the Black had been restless, irritable, and unpredictable lately. He had sent vague word that he would be joining his chief general for a very important inspection.

  Darkstone jumped suddenly as a tingle of energy roused the hackles on the back of his neck. “Master!” he gasped, spinning to see the eyeless wizard standing behind him. “You took me by surprise!”

  That, he realized almost at once, was the wrong thing to say. Willim’s face twisted into a snarl, and he raised a clenched fist. Darkstone was no coward—and he certainly didn’t fear a physical blow from the wizard or anyone else—but he recoiled unconsciously, raising both hands before his face as if they could ward off any attack his master cared to deliver.

  But Willim the Black limited himself to a verbal assault. “You cannot afford to be surprised!” he snapped. “That is the kind of failure that can doom me, doom us all, to a fate you cannot imagine.”

  “I am sorry, Lord Willim,” General Darkstone apologized humbly. “I pledge that it shall not happen again.”

  “If it does, it will be the last time. And I shall not have to exact the punishment myself.”

  “What do you mean, my lord?”

  “I mean that Thorbardin will be attacked from without. This great gate in which you place such faith may be breached. In that case, you must be prepared to defend our nation to the death.”

  “Of course, I could do nothing less, Master. But please allow me to ask: how is it even possible?”

  Darkstone’s question was sincere. He knew the gate itself was more than two dozen yards thick, a solid plug of stone that was literally screwed into the conical entryway that had once been Thorbardin’s main point of access to the outside world. The gate had been sealed under the orders of the previous king, Jungor Stonespringer, who had fanatically insisted that all points of connection between the undermountain realm and the surface world be closed permanently.

  Darkstone knew that outside access to the gate could only be reached by climbing a long, narrow, and tortuous trail that twisted, snakelike, up the face of a lofty cliff. The path was not wide enough for more than two dwarves to walk abreast, so any attacking army would inevitably have its strength pared down to a spearhead of two attackers. If the gate were somehow breached, the defenders of Thorbardin could meet the attackers with a front of a dozen or more, ensuring a great advantage at the point of contact.

  When Willim the Black had claimed the throne, he had seen no reason to change his predecessor’s edict, and thus the kingdom had remained sealed against the outer world. The gate was the only point of access, and it was as impregnable as any fortification on Krynn.

  “Don’t worry about how it is possible; just imagine an enemy pouring in through this place. And have your troops prepared to meet that threat.”

  “As you wish, lord. Er, would it be advisable to open the gate momentarily, to allow me to dispatch a scouting party that might give us advance warning of any threat?”

  “No! The gate remains shut for now … and forever! There is no need to open it! Do you understand?”

  “Aye, Master. I certainly do.”

  Darkstone did understand. Indeed, since the wizard himself could easily and instantly teleport himself to any place he wanted to go, the sealing of the kingdom was no barrier to him. Yet it did help him to control his subjects and to hold potential adversaries at bay.

  The wizard blinked out of sight in that startling, irritating way he had, and the general immediately set to work, though not without some misgivings. In fact, there were many things that Darkstone could be doing in the city of Norbardin, including crucial repairs, restoring vital services, and tracking down and eliminating the outlaws who roamed the city in large and unruly gangs. Yet his king had ordered him to come there, to inspect the gate, to make sure that the garrison—some hundred and twenty surly Theiwar dwarves, many of whom watched him as he paced back and forth in the gatehouse—was prepared for any eventuality.

  So General Darkstone followed his orders. He instructed the garrison troops to double the permanent guard, to position extra stocks of weapons and other defensive materials, such as casks of precious oil that could be used to immolate an opponent, and to stand alert at all hours of the day and night.

  They were hours that didn’t vary much in the sunless underdark, but still, he managed to impress on them that the danger was real and, perhaps, just outside the gate.

  “The hill dwarves aren’t going to join us?” Brandon repeated, turning to glare at Gretchan in astonishment.

  “Don’t blame me!” she retorted. “Our exiled king is every bit as stubborn as
you’d expect an old dwarf to be.”

  Brandon groaned and leaned against the nearby parapet. The two were alone atop the West Tower of the great Tharkadan fortification. A dazzling array of stars brightened the crystalline nighttime sky over their heads, a swath of brilliance that easily outshone the hundreds of campfires marking the bivouac of the Kayolin Army as it sprawled on both sides of the ancient structure.

  They had come up there specifically to get away from prying eyes and ears, to escape the celebration that was rising to a frenzy in the great hall, to share a private embrace, to express how delighted they were to once again be together. But soon their talk had turned to the task before them, and Gretchan had broken the news about the Neidar.

  “But the pact we signed—the one that Tarn Bellowgranite himself signed!” Brandon declared, clenching his fists. “It was a pledge of peace and cooperation, forged by the blood of Neidar and mountain dwarves both. Why won’t he honor it, now that we actually have a means of returning to Thorbardin?”

  “You try talking to him,” Gretchan said. “But I warn you, even his wife can’t change his mind. I think he’d rather break her heart than soften his position on that old prejudice. Besides, Tarn is convinced the hill dwarves aren’t necessary to this campaign. He thinks that your troops, plus about a thousand of his own from right here in Pax Tharkas, will be enough to retake Thorbardin.”

  Brandon shook his head. “I wish I could believe that. But we have no way of knowing what kind of enemy we’ll face under the mountain. How can he not see that we’ll need all the troops we can raise, even to have the slightest chance of success?”

  Gretchan came close to her beloved, placing her hands on his shoulders and looking him straight in the eyes. Immediately the tension flowed out of Brandon’s body, and he reached for her and pulled her close.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a whisper. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I know you did what you could.”

  “You’re right—on both counts,” she chided gently. “But look at the positives: we were able to forge the three stones into the hammer of legend. Tarn’s own master smith accomplished that. Bardic Stonehammer is an amazing dwarf. I suggest you think about asking him to wield the hammer as we approach Thorbardin. And you were able to bring the army here in very good time. If we move at once, we should be able to breach the gates of Thorbardin before Willim the Black guesses what’s happening.”

  “Still, he must suspect something, don’t you think?”

  Gretchan had told Brandon about the attack on her camp, when the apprentice magic-user and Mother Oracle had ambushed her and tried to steal the Redstone. Neither of them was willing to underestimate the powerful wizard who they believed was behind that attempt.

  She could only nod somberly in reply.

  “Perhaps we’d better get back down to the celebration,” Brandon said quietly. “There’s a lot to think about and a lot to do before tomorrow.”

  Finally the long night of counsel and feasting and prayer and celebration was winding down to a natural ending. Brandon was exhausted by the ordeal, more exhausted than he had been, he thought wryly, from a long day of marching on the trail.

  “It’s the old bastard’s stupidity that gets me most of all,” he admitted to Gretchan as they climbed the stairs from the great hall, where he would join her in her chambers at last. He shrugged out of the ceremonial robe he had borrowed for the feast and sat down on the large, inviting bed. “But that’s something to worry about tomorrow.”

  He arched an eyebrow as he watched her light several candles, kindling each with a word of magic and a touch from the anvil head of her staff. The room was suffused by a soft glow as she crossed to the window, set her staff against the wall, and knelt on a brown bearskin rug stretched across the floor. The head of her staff glowed with a golden light, slightly brighter than any of the candles, illuminating her skin and her hair in a gilded sheen.

  “Aren’t you coming to bed?” Brandon asked. He smiled slyly. “Or do you want me to join you over there?”

  She shook her head, her golden hair cascading around her shoulders, which were bared as she shrugged out of her robe, remaining clad only in a filmy shift of white gauze. “You know I have a few things I have to do first,” she chided him as she sat tall, crossing her short legs before her.

  “I thought, tonight, under the circumstances—” he began, but she silenced him with the wave of a finger.

  So instead, Brandon watched Gretchan as she tended to every little detail of her evening ritual. She closed her eyes and moved her lips in a silent prayer. After a time she seemed to relax, her posture easing, her hands resting in her lap. She breathed easily, drawing air slowly in through her nostrils then exhaling the same way. Finally, she opened her eyes and began a vocal prayer, a melodic recitation in a language so ancient that Brandon didn’t recognize a single word.

  So intense was his staring that she finally looked up from her musical chant, flashed him a secret smile, and told him to look at something else for the next few minutes.

  “I can’t,” he admitted with complete candor. “And aren’t you finished yet?”

  She sighed and rose to her feet. The light from the head of her sacred staff faded until only the thin candles illuminated the room. She crossed on bare feet toward the bed, where Brandon sat, still watching, hardly daring to breathe.

  The gauzy shift slipped from her shoulders, pooling like a liquid thing on the floor around her feet.

  “I think Reorx will understand,” she whispered.

  Then she fell into his arms.

  Somehow the dwarves providing the food and drink and music for the festive welcome party in Pax Tharkas neglected to include the three gully dwarves who had proudly ridden into the fortress on the wagons hauled by the Kayolin Army. While kegs were tapped, mugs filled to overflowing and generously passed around, and platters laden with sumptuous mountains of food were displayed to every one of the many more than two tables in the place, not one dwarf thought to invite the Aghar to join in the festivities.

  No matter: Gus and his girls quickly found themselves a comfortable space beneath a spacious banquet table, and by dint of furtive expeditions, both Slooshy and Berta were able to pluck up juicy, warm tidbits of meat; large pieces of sharp, fresh cheese; bread and fruit; and enough half-empty tankards of ale and spirits that all three Aghar were able to wind up comfortably and happily drunk.

  The next morning, of course, they had been rudely rousted by a cleaning crew of dwarf maids who battered the gully dwarves with their brooms and brushes until the trio had to make a hasty escape from the great hall. They fled through a side door into the cellars and dungeons that were quite familiar to Gus and Berta and represented a whole new world of wonder to Slooshy.

  In those stinking sewers and dungeons beneath Pax Tharkas, Gus quickly reestablished himself as the highbulp of the small but thriving Aghar community. That exalted position had become his to boast, mainly because of Berta’s advocacy when he had first come to the mountain fortress. Of course, the position was mainly honorary and, for the most part, unacknowledged. The other gully dwarves took little notice of the newcomers, occupied as they were with the usual Aghar concerns of survival and avoiding discovery and harassment by the larger dwarves who were their near neighbors. Slooshy, who had joined Gus and Berta in the dank lair, quickly and inevitably resumed her jealous bickering with her gully dwarf rival for Gus’s affections.

  In part to get away from that constant caterwauling, but mainly because he had been anxious to steal a moment or two alone with Gretchan, Gus waited only two days before he ventured up the stairs and into the main halls of the fortress. There he saw the training of new companies of infantry, the ranges where row after row of crossbow troops took target practice, and the forges where new weapons were cast and older weapons were sharpened, repaired, and readied for war. Everywhere dwarves were marching and drilling and working, but fortunately they were too busy to take note of the little Aghar huddl
ed behind a stack of shields, his bright eyes constantly alert for a sight of his beloved Gretchan.

  For the whole of the long day, he didn’t see her, and it was with a heavy heart that he returned to the dungeon. He was too morose even to partake of the drowned rat that Slooshy had discovered and, in a blatant attempt to win his affection away from Berta, offered to split with him.

  Instead, he went to bed hungry and alone, and as soon as the sun was up the next day, he returned up the stairs, telling his suspicious partners that he was going to “go for walk and get air!”

  Once again he took up his spying place, and though he didn’t see Gretchan, he did notice Brandon Bluestone stroll through the hall in the middle of the afternoon. Seizing the opportunity, he broke from cover and raced after the Kayolin general, stealthily following him out the great gate and toward a meadow around a well of clean water. There he dived into a garden of rose bushes, ignoring the thorns that tore at his skin, and was delighted to see that Gretchan was there, apparently talking to some two and two and two young dwarves, saying something about Reorx.

  She stopped her teaching to talk to Brandon for a minute, and when he departed, she resumed some boring stuff about healing prayers and curing bleeding wounds and other things that were too complicated for Gus to understand.

  Finally, just before it started to get dark, she dismissed the young dwarves—they were clerics in training, Gus had finally figured out—and remained behind by herself, rinsing her face and hands in the cool, clean water from the well.

  Mustering all of his debonair charm, Gus ambled out from the thicket of roses. His entrance was marred slightly by a treacherous vine that wrapped around his ankle and tripped him, dropping him onto his face before he could even say hello. The next thing he knew, Kondike was barking at him. Then the big dog waved his tail and licked the gully dwarf all over his face.