He jogged awkwardly along the road for several hundred paces until he sensed that he was getting too close to Crystal again. It was still too soon for him to reveal himself, so he jumped in the ditch again then started climbing up through the slope that would again carry him to a level high above the dwarf maid. His knee bothered him enough that he had to pull himself along by grasping tree trunks and outcrops of rocks.
The hill was not as steep nor as rugged as the previous one, and the forest of tall, thin pines extended all the way to the top. Using the woods as cover, he moved along as quickly as he was able and was at last awarded another glimpse of the beautiful white fur cloak worn by the former queen of Thorbardin. He limped along, grunting against the pain that stabbed through his leg, grateful for the thick concealment offered by the trees.
He was well hidden from her. He didn’t have to stay so far away. And as dusk started to settle through the hills, he knew it was time to move closer to her.
Once the army was ready to leave—and there was Gretchan, going away with all the soldiers—Gus was determined not to be left behind. He watched, innocently waving, as the troops packed up their gear, formed into companies, and made ready to march. The two Firespitters, with their accompanying carts of oil, were near the tail of the formation, and the gully dwarf casually made his way toward those ungainly vehicles.
As the great column of dwarves finally started along the southward road leading into the Kharolis Mountains, Gus Fishbiter left the shadows of Pax Tharkas and made his way to the dense center of the columns of the army, swelled by the soldiers of Tarn Bellowgranite’s Tharkadan Legion. He marched along, trying to look inconspicuous. Mindful of Gretchan’s orders instructing him to remain behind, he avoided going anywhere near the cleric, for the moment.
He finally found the cart in which he had ridden earlier—a vehicle carrying casks of oil for the Fire-spitters, the kegs stored carefully on beds of straw—and quickly scrambled up the side and into the bedding. Settling into the soft nest with a contented smile, he leaned back and stared up into the sunny sky, seeing the high ridges to either side of the valley road.
And almost immediately his view was blocked by two female faces, peering crossly down at him. Berta pulled herself over one side of the cart while Slooshy scrambled over the other.
“Hey! Almost forgot me!” Berta declared crossly, settling next to him in the hay.
“No! Almost forgot Slooshy! What kind of bluph-splunging doofar you are, anyway?”
Grumpily, Gus made room for his two bickering female consorts and spent the first day of the army’s march riding along, his happiness spoiled, in gloomy silence. He didn’t even spot his beloved Gretchan until late in the day, when the column started to climb a long switchback toward the first of several passes that lay between Pax Tharkas and their objective. Then, as the front of the column snaked around to pass along the road far above him, he caught a glimpse of her blue robe and golden hair. Not surprisingly, she was striding along at Brandon Bluestone’s side. Berta noticed and elbowed him for looking, and Slooshy elbowed Berta.
The army crossed over the pass during sunset, hastening down the far side to spread out across a wide valley and make camp. Gus stomped off by himself, finding a small niche behind a boulder where he could sulk out of sight of the bigger dwarves. He sent Berta and Slooshy off to steal some food and cleared a space for a reasonably comfortable bed.
Slooshy returned with a half loaf of hard bread that she had somehow coaxed from an army cook. She was prepared to share it with Gus, but when Berta returned with a real prize—a half-full flask of dwarf spirits that a grizzled sergeant had misplaced while pitching his tent—the three Aghar agreed to share and share alike.
Afterward, under the influence of the spirits, things didn’t seem so bad. Even as the troops of the army, exhausted from a day of marching, settled down to slumber, the three Aghar were sipping the fiery liquid, belching and burping and relishing the warmth spreading through their filthy little bodies.
Making their pleasure last, they didn’t fall asleep until after the flask was empty. But when they slept, they slept very soundly indeed, notwithstanding the rocks under their heads or, hours later, the cold mountain sky slowly brightening above them. That passed unnoticed by the slumbering gully dwarves.
Gus, the first one to awaken, looked up in surprise to see a blue sky, with the sun already well above the eastern ridge. His head hurt and his mouth felt like stale cotton. He grumpily kicked his girlfriends awake.
“Come on, lazy bluphsplungers!” he croaked. “Get up! Get going! We go with army!”
Only then did he look out over the other side of the rock that concealed their campsite. He blinked and looked again, certain that his eyes must be deceiving him. But when he opened his eyes again and looked hard one more time, his initial impression was confirmed: there was no army, no carts, and no tents anywhere to be seen in the wide valley.
The Aghar had overslept.
And the king’s army had marched away without them.
Willim the Black teleported through the vast chasms of Thorbardin, never remaining in one location for more than the fleeting seconds required for him to repeat his spell. In every case, he imagined the incinerating presence, the lethal breath of the fire dragon singeing his robes, charring his skin, propelling him on a barely controlled, panic-fueled flight throughout the underworld of his domain.
Finally he launched himself upward and out, his spell carrying him far away to the slopes of Cloudseeker Peak, the rocky summit dominating the Kharolis Mountains. He shivered in the unaccustomed wind and cast a spell of levitation, rising upward a foot or two above the ground so he wouldn’t have to stand in the wet snow. Slowly, carefully, he twisted through a full circle, seeking any sign of Gorathian’s deadly presence.
It was broad daylight, and nothing moved on the glacial slope. Willim began to wonder if he had imagined the creature’s pursuit. He understood, rationally, that even the powerful creature of chaos could not pursue him very easily when he employed his magic to vanish and remove himself with instantaneous speed. Just in case, his spell of true-seeing allowed him to inspect the lower slopes, sweeping his attention around the cliffs that skirted the base of the great summit. Good, there was no sign of the fire dragon.
He did, however, spot the immense approaching army. He was startled. So intent had he been on the constant menace of Gorathian that he had momentarily forgotten about the growing external threat to his domain. As he watched the serpentine column twisting along the narrow mountain roads, inching its way southward from the direction of Pax Tharkas, he realized that Gorathian might not be the worst threat to his existence after all.
Willim the Black was not afraid. Instead, his lip curled into a sneer of hatred and contempt. Did that motley army of dwarves dare think they could assault his kingdom, his city? With cold curiosity, he inspected the column, noting the many thousands of armored dwarves and the small carts hauling a miscellany of supplies. He saw two large, ungainly devices hauled along at the rear of the army; his cursory inspection of the devices revealed the spitting nozzles and the large tanks of oil. Clearly they were some kind of fire weapons, but the wizard almost chortled: did those fool dwarves think they could burn their way into Thorbardin?
Nowhere did he notice any sign of great catapults, augers, or battering rams, the kind of things that were usually required if the attacking dwarves had any hope of penetrating the solid stone of the mountain.
So the reports and predictions were true, Willim the Black concluded: Tarn Bellowgranite intended to wield some ancient artifact in order to gain entry to Thorbardin. Well—and the wizard laughed out loud at the thought—let him try!
In another second he blinked out of sight, only to arrive in his subterranean lair. The great cavern was cool and dark and eerily silent with Gorathian gone. He found Facet waiting for him, and she gasped and dropped to her knees when he materialized all of a sudden. The expression of remorse and fear warmed
him, and he found that his earlier anger, like the baking warmth of the fire dragon’s presence, had dissipated.
“Come to me, my pet,” he said gently. He settled himself in his sturdy armchair and beckoned her to kneel before him. “I am pleased to see you.”
“Oh, thank you, my lord!” she cried, leaning forward and, at a gesture of acceptance from him, embracing the wizard. “You are so good to me.”
“I know that,” he said, leaning back. He thought about Gorathian, about the army, and about the many things he needed to do. He thought about his private needs.
As if she understood those unspoken needs, she rose and went to a nearby table. There, a crystal goblet stood, already filled by her caring hand. She raised the glass and brought it to him, holding it out hesitantly. “I suspected that you would be thirsty, Master,” she offered meekly. “Would it please you to have a drink of wine?”
“Yes, my pet. It would please me to have wine. And too,” he added, taking the goblet and drinking deeply, “it would please me to have you as well.”
He raised his hand, a curt gesture of command, and a willing smile curled her crimson lips as, with a shrug of her shoulders, she dropped her black robe to the floor.
There’s the trail,” Tarn Bellowgranite said to Brandon as the two of them, with Otaxx and Gretchan, stood atop the last pass before the road to the North Gate of Thorbardin. “It’s been a long time now since I’ve laid eyes on the place. My last look up there was when I fled into exile, barely escaping with a few loyal followers and my life. Jungor Stonespringer had the gate closed behind us, and it’s never been opened since.”
Brandon was gazing up the narrow valley, not even sure he could make out the road, when he noticed the former king turn his eyes to look back wistfully over his shoulder for a moment. The Kayolin general suspected that Tarn, once again, was thinking of his wife. Brandon and Gretchan had witnessed Crystal Heathstone’s departure from Pax Tharkas, even before the army marched, and though they had perceived her anger, they had not been able to learn the full cause of the royal couple’s breakup.
Still, they could guess. Both were saddened to think that the long schism between hill and mountain dwarf had brought the royal couple to such a rupture. At one time, the marriage between Tarn and Crystal had seemed to offer the best hope of a new, peaceful future. But that hope was doused like the coals of a campfire under a steady drizzle.
In the next instant, Tarn turned back energetically to study the valley and the rising summit of Cloudseeker Peak. He clapped his hands together, rubbing them with a lively enthusiasm that seemed very different from the stoical detachment that was more his personality when the couple had first met him, more than a year previous, in Pax Tharkas.
“I say we move on the gate today!” Tarn declared heartily.
Brandon’s eyes widened and he caught the look of alarm on Otaxx Shortbeard’s face as well. Behind them, stretching for miles to the north, the whole column of the king’s army lay visible along the twisting mountain road. It would be many hours before the bulk of that force reached and climbed the pass, and it was clear to any observer that the valley of Thorbardin’s gate lay at least another six hours’ march to the south.
“A worthy goal, sire, but I fear it is not possible,” Otaxx demurred respectfully.
The Kayolin dwarf was grateful that the elder Daewar, Gretchan’s father and Tarn’s longtime and most loyal sub-commander, broached the difficulties before Brandon had to voice his opinion. “It will take at least another day to bring the whole army up here, and then they will need rest. And even a modicum of caution will require us to scout the approaches, to examine the upper slopes and uncover any traps.”
“How could the wizard trap five thousand men?” demanded Tarn, scowling.
“Look at the trail, sire,” Gretchan said, stepping forward to gesture.
The route to the kingdom’s gate was etched in plain view before them. Patches were illuminated by the afternoon sun, but even in the shadows, much of the trail was clearly visible as it twisted and clawed its way up the sheer slope. It was even more daunting than Brandon had imagined: overhung by glaciers and lofty rock slopes, it would leave any soldiers on the trail vulnerable to avalanche or rockslide or sneak attack. A single mistake or an unforeseen attack could sweep hundreds of dwarves to their deaths. It seemed that every step of the trail was exposed to danger from higher vantages.
Even Tarn seemed to grasp that reality as he stared at the road ahead. Finally he nodded reluctantly, his eyes sweeping the terrain. “Yes, well, we can make camp along the road down there,” he said, pointing, “and then move in the morning.”
Brandon studied the ground indicated by the king. A few things recommended the place—a stream flowed nearby, providing a source of fresh water, and several groves of stubby trees augured a ready source of firewood. But there were disadvantages: like the trail, the ground Tarn had selected for the encampment was surrounded on all sides by lofty ridges, with the heights protected by sheer cliffs. If enemy forces appeared on those cliffs, the army’s position would become a trap, with the only source of escape the narrow trail leading up to the very pass where the command party currently stood.
But when he tried to raise those objections, the king brushed them away with a confident declaration. “The enemy is waiting under the mountain, not lurking about outside the gates! I am quite certain Willim the Black will not bring his troops out in the open, where we could meet and defeat them on an honorable battlefield. Instead, he will make us fight our way into Thorbardin, where he can meet us on his own sneaking terms.”
So it was that, by the king’s order, the army filed over the pass and down into the valley below Cloudseeker Peak. Among the first to arrive at the bivouac area was Tankard Hacksaw. He wasted no time in sending detachments of troops from his First Legion to scramble up the steep slopes and inspect the heights to either side of the trail, ensuring that, as much as possible, they were clear of traps and there were no signs of enemy dwarves.
Brandon and Gretchan, in the meantime, decided to scout the trail leading to the gate, though they both agreed with Otaxx’s wise suggestion that they not approach too close to the actual entryway. But they wanted to get a sense of the difficulties they would face if Willim’s men did attempt to fight outside of Thorbardin.
“It couldn’t have been planned any better for defense,” Brandon admitted when the couple stopped to rest at a switchback, nearly a thousand feet above the valley floor.
“No wonder it’s never been taken by storm, not in more than two thousand years,” Gretchan agreed almost reverentially.
They stared at the narrow trail, with the sheer rock face on one side and the plummeting precipice on the other. The pathway rose at a steep angle and was never wide enough for more than two dwarves to walk side by side. In some places it was even too narrow for a double file without exposing the outer dwarf to a possibly fatal stumble. The trail twisted forward until it met the sheer wall of the mountain, where it simply seemed to end.
“And the gate.” Brandon pointed upward to the terminus of the trail, still five hundred feet above them. “It’s right there, where the path ends at the mountainside. But how sturdy it must be! How much solid rock will the Tricolor Hammer have to split?”
“My father described the mechanism to me. It’s a great screw of stone, carved into a plug in the mountainside. He estimated maybe fifty or sixty feet thick,” Gretchan explained. “It’s designed, of course, so that it can’t be forced open. And if it’s opened by some other means, it still allows only a very narrow point of access to Thorbardin.”
“Fifty feet of stone? That sounds impossible!” Brandon protested, his heart sinking. He had heard those descriptions before, but confronted with the reality of the scene before him, the task seemed hopeless.
“It would be impervious to any normal weapon. But remember, the Tricolor Hammer is an artifact of Reorx, and it was created by our god with this sole purpose in mind. If the th
ree pieces of stone—scattered through Thorbardin, Pax Tharkas, and Kayolin—could be assembled, it is said, then the wielder will be able gain access to the great kingdom under the mountain. I have faith in my god. Do you?”
Brandon sighed and looked at Gretchan. Her golden hair lay plastered to her scalp, sweaty and dirty from the trail. She was breathing hard and sniffling from the cold air. And she had never looked more beautiful to him.
“I have faith in you,” he said. And because of that, he had faith, too, in Gretchan’s knowledge of the hammer and the prophecy of the artifact’s divine might.
She smiled, a trifle wistfully, as he reached out and took her hand. “I have faith in you too,” she admitted almost shyly. “If I didn’t, I guess none of us would be here.”
“But here we are,” he said, conviction and determination growing within him. He felt a surge of optimism. “And here we’ll be tomorrow.”
“Let’s get back down to the camp,” she said. “There’s a lot of preparing to do.”
“What was that? Who’s there?”
Crystal’s voice sounded confident, even demanding, but her heart pounded in her chest as she spun through a full circle. She studied the dark, thick pine forest that seemed to reach out from both sides, several lush boughs extending almost to the middle of the narrow, winding hill road. Dusk had seemed to settle around her very quickly.
How much farther until the next inn?
She longed for the sight of a welcoming sign, the scent of wood smoke from a tavern’s hearth, and the raucous sounds of dwarves relaxing. She knew there were wayfarer’s houses every few miles along the road—she’d stayed in such establishments for the past three nights—but she feared she’d miscalculated that part of the journey. She didn’t relish the thought of continuing down the road after dark, but she didn’t seem to have any choice if she didn’t happen upon any inn or farmhouse.
The Fate of Thorbardin Page 12
