The Fate of Thorbardin

by Douglas Niles

  “We need to bring up more oil, General!” protested the crew chief, a soot-stained former miner named Stoker Coalman. “I only have enough fuel for one more shot, and then the tank’ll be drained.”

  “Use it up!” snarled Brandon. He spotted movement through the doorway of a nearby building, an inn carved from the bedrock of Norbardin’s main level. Several of Willim’s dwarves had piled benches and chairs in the open doorway. One fired a crossbow, the bolt striking a Kayolin dwarf in the neck. “Fire it right in there!”

  The chief obliged, calling out his commands in a loud but surprisingly unemotional voice.

  “Pressure up, there, in the boiler! All right, you men, shift us around here, thirty degrees to the right. Hop to it now!”

  Six gunners set their shoulders to the handles on the side of the big machine, and the Firespitter slowly rotated in place until the long snout of the barrel was lined up on the door of the target building.

  “Up the furnace, now—full draft!” Stoker barked, and another operator pulled open the vents on the firebox. That container was already a dull red from the fire held within it, but the roar of the increased heat was audible and made the crimson glow even brighter.

  “Fire!”

  Another gout of churning flame spewed from the machine, streaking through the open door before blossoming like a fireball, filling the inn so thoroughly with fire that tongues of orange flame licked out from the upper room onto a balcony overlooking the street. Screaming dwarves, afire from head to foot, came bursting out of the place to sprawl on the roadway, dying in a horrific stench of burned hair and flesh. In moments the massacre was over, the corpses lying in grotesque, blackened shapes. To Brandon they looked more like gnarled old tree stumps than the bodies of dwarves.

  “Move out!” demanded the general. He pointed at the captain of a company of light infantry. “You! Take your men down that street to the right. Check every building—kill every dwarf that offers any resistance. The rest of you, follow me!”

  Raising the Bluestone Axe, Brandon uttered a guttural battle cry and charged through the still-smoldering corpses of the slain defenders. Hundreds of Tankard Hacksaw’s men followed him, echoing his battle cry with hoarse challenges and vengeful shouts. All had heard of their legion commander’s death at the hands of the black wizard himself, and they intended to show no mercy toward any of Willim’s dwarves.

  A pair of dwarves, hiding behind a stack of kegs outside of a tavern, were flushed from cover and bloodily butchered before they could take more than a few halting steps. A little farther on, a detachment of six or eight or Willim’s defenders tried to form a shield wall across the mouth of a narrow alley. The Kayolin dwarves smashed into them with a sharp, brutal charge, the weight of thirty attackers breaking apart the wall so each of the defenders could be quickly cut down from either side or from behind.

  More and more, however, the invading troops seemed to be advancing without meeting any organized opposition. The enemy was dwindling somehow. Brandon smashed down the stone door to another inn, shattering the portal with a single blow of the Bluestone Axe. He rushed inside, followed by a dozen of his men, to find a score of dwarf maids and youngsters cowering against the rear wall.

  “Where are your warriors?” he demanded, his voice a growl.

  “None here, my lord!” cried one of the women, an elderly matron who nonetheless pushed herself to her feet and faced Brandon boldly. “They have all fled to the great plaza or the roadway down to the Urkhan Sea.”

  “And good riddance to them!” shouted another, younger maid. “And when you find that bastard, the black wizard, may you cleave his skull with that blue axe!”

  Brandon nodded vehemently. His rage still possessed him, a fury of frustration and vengefulness demanding release. But through that haze, he forced himself to remember that the dwarves before him were not his enemies; indeed, their words gave him some hope for the future of the kingdom.

  Lowering his head, Brandon turned and ran from the inn, joining the charge that continued down the road. He could tell from the widening street, the vista broadening into a vast cavern before him, that they were nearing the plaza the woman had indicated. His troops were converging from all directions, and they would meet there with a powerful force. Their victory could not be denied.

  But all of that paled against the truth of the questions tearing at his heart, his soul, his mind: Where was Gretchan?

  And could he possibly find her in time?

  Awakened by the violence and killing, Gorathian rose from the magma-fueled furnace of the underworld, once again seeking the vitality of the dwarf world. The beast hungered for blood, for the sheer joy of killing. It had languished long enough in the lava lake of the deep caverns. So once more the rock melted away in the face of the fire dragon’s advance as the creature of Chaos bored a passageway through the bedrock of Krynn.

  As it rose, it was drawn to the ongoing battle as a moth is drawn to a flame. It remembered war, and it craved war.

  But, too, it remembered the lure of the wizard’s magic, and that caused it to hesitate in its destructive course. It came to a halt in the midst of the solid stone, probing with its nostrils, with all of its senses, seeking that alluring power, that fundamentally throbbing sorcery that had driven it for the past long intervals of its existence.

  The wizard was there, somewhere, in the midst of that violent war. That much the fire dragon realized. But where he would be found and how he could be killed before he used his magic to flee remained the great and frustrating questions of the Chaos creature’s awareness. So it sniffed and it pondered and it craved.

  And in the midst of its seething meditation, it became aware of another power, a fresh source of great magic, even if it was not the magic of sorcery. Of course, it was warded by the power of a dangerous god, and Gorathian wanted nothing to do with any god.

  Still, it was pure, arcane might, and there was nothing that would feed the fire dragon’s hunger more satisfyingly than such power. So Gorathian probed with its senses, wishing to learn more about that new magical presence.

  “Why you goin’ to Hillhome?” Gus asked Crystal as they strode along a rocky trail between a pair of rough ridges in the foothills.

  “Because it’s my home,” she declared simply. “I haven’t been there for a while, but I’ve decided to go back.”

  Ignoring his two girlfriends, who stomped along behind them and repeatedly shot dirty looks at the back of Crystal Heathstone’s fur traveling cloak, Gus strolled along and pondered the situation. In truth, his new companion reminded him a lot of Gretchan, at least insofar as she didn’t try to bash him with a club or stab him with a sword just because he happened to be nearby. Yet, unlike Gretchan, Gus sensed a kind of wistful sadness in Crystal, and he wished he could do something about that. He was glad that he had killed the Klar in order to save her, but he knew that captivity in the hands of the mad dwarf was not the sole problem that had afflicted the gracious dwarf maid.

  Of course, his affections had been considerably enhanced that morning, when their new companion had led them to a comfortable roadside inn, only an hour or so from her hidden camp in the woods. There she had produced a steel coin, and the innkeeper, who had at first looked askance at the trio of gully dwarves, had been persuaded to produce a loaf of bread, a pitcher of creamy milk, and even some cooked eggs that Crystal had willingly shared with the three Aghar who had rescued her in the woods.

  Apparently she was still kind of lonely, for she made no attempt to shoo the gully dwarves away. Neither did she invite them to keep her close company, but that didn’t stop Gus—and, by extension, the two females who had attached themselves to him like mountain ticks—from traveling along at her heels. The word Hillhome had triggered a vague memory, and Gus scratched his head, trying to tickle out the thought.

  It wasn’t until hours later, when they were descending toward a wooded valley, that the connection was finally made. “Hillhome! Gus know Hillhome dwarf!”
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  “Oh?” Crystal seemed surprised, even a little amused by his revelation. “And who would that be?” she asked.

  “Slut Fireforge!” Gus proclaimed proudly. “Him and me was at Patharkas for Big War! Gus won Big War, but Slut help too.”

  “Slut Fireforge?” she repeated. “That doesn’t sound—wait, do you mean Slate Fireforge?”

  Gus frowned. He didn’t like to be corrected. “Mebbe so,” he admitted. “But Gus call him Slut.”

  Oddly, Crystal was laughing. “I’m sure you did,” she said, shaking her head. “But I know Slate, and I imagine he was fairly amused. Would you like to see him again?”

  “Sure! Slut big, nice guy. Even share beer with Gus.”

  “Well, I think you’ll get your wish,” the hill dwarf maid replied, gesturing to a town that was just coming into view around a bend in the forest road. “Because we’ll be in Hillhome in about ten more minutes.”

  General Darkstone finally emerged from the damp, constricted drainage tunnel. The drain pipe from the ancient sewer had brought him there, but just as the tube began to drop vertically into the depths below Thorbardin, he was able to wrench aside a rusty iron grate and escape. Squirming through the narrow aperture, he rolled onto his back and breathed deeply of the city’s dank but comparatively fresh air.

  Mud and slime covered him from his boots to the gummy strands of his hair and beard, but he pushed himself to his feet and gave himself a shake, not unlike a dog emerging from a swamp. He stood on a narrow street, at the edge of a sewer drain. The ceiling was low overhead, filmy with mold and dripping water, and the buildings along either side of the twisting road were packed close together. Each was protected by a stout door. He didn’t see any windows.

  Taking stock of his surroundings, he realized he had come into Anvil’s Echo, the lowest of Norbardin’s hierarchy of levels. It was a place where the poorest dwarves lived, the slums where a careless drunk could easily get his throat slit or his pocket picked, in no particular order. He was startled as a voice, firm but not hostile, emerged from the mouth of a narrow alley.

  “Here, stranger, you look like you got down here the hard way. Any idea what’s going on up there?”

  He turned with surprise to see a small platoon of Theiwar warriors, dressed in the black leather of Willim’s forces. They were a mixed lot, armed with crossbows, swords, and a few axes, and they gathered behind the dwarf, wearing a sergeant’s epaulets, who had addressed him. That one had an ancient scar slanting across his face, and his beard was long, gray, and wildly untamed.

  “Thorbardin is attacked from without,” Darkstone said bluntly. “Invaders have cracked open the great gate. Their troops are pouring into the city as we speak.”

  “Damn!” the sergeant replied. “It’s worse than I thought.”

  “What word has filtered down here?” Darkstone asked.

  “Well, we heard that a whole company has been burned to death, not two hundred feet over our head. My orders are to stay down here and watch for trouble in the Echo, but I’ve a mind to take my men up to the main level and put them to good work.” He squinted, plainly appraising the mud-slicked stranger. “I’ll go ahead and volunteer you into my band; you look like you could swing a sword rightly.”

  Darkstone almost chuckled. He found himself liking the grizzled, scarred sergeant; the fact that the fellow was willing to march headlong toward the center of the fight was the first encouraging sign he’d noted that day. He straightened up, threw back his shoulders, and mustered all the force of his command into his voice.

  “Sergeant!” he barked. “What’s your name?”

  The dwarf blinked but then snapped to attention. “Chap Bitters, sir!” he shot back. “First Sergeant of the Third Theibardin Regiment!”

  “Good man. I am General Darkstone.” He looked around as the name registered. Chap Bitters blinked in astonishment. “You are hereby promoted to captain. Bring as many of your men as you can gather in five minutes; we’re moving to the plaza!”

  “Aye, General. Yes, sir!” Bitters turned and shouted at the dozen men in his small platoon. “You heard the honorable general! Fetch your fellows from whatever holes they’re hiding in. Report to the north shaft in five minutes!”

  The dwarves scattered with commendable alacrity, and by the time they’d rejoined the captain and the general at the entrance to the north shaft—which was a wide, spiraling stairway leading up to the rest of Norbardin’s levels—they had collected more than a hundred other dwarves.

  “Half the regiment, I’d say, sir,” Bitters reported with not a little pride.

  “Good,” Darkstone acknowledged. “Now fall in and move up!”

  They tromped up to the plaza in a serpentine column and a few minutes later emerged into a warehouse quarter where wide, straight streets passed between square buildings. The structures were two stories high, and the stone ceiling covered each street at the same height as the top of the warehouses.

  In peacetime, it would have been a district bustling with pedestrians and commerce, but they found a city changed in ways that the Daergar general found hard to imagine.

  Most notable was the lingering smoke and the many charred, burned bodies of soldiers they found scattered in the streets. Some of the corpses were still smoking, though it seemed as though the main fight had moved on. They heard some sounds of a clash coming from somewhere up ahead, but there was no sign of the major force that must have inflicted such terrible casualties.

  “Keep your men here; have them hide in one of these warehouses,” Darkstone ordered Captain Bitters. “Then come with me. We’ll do a little reconnaissance.”

  “Aye, sir,” agreed the Theiwar with the old scar. “You heard the general,” he barked to his men. “Find one of these places where there’s room for the whole lot of you to stay out of sight.”

  In a few moments, several of the Theiwar had pried open a large door to find a mostly empty space inside. Several mounds of coal along the back wall, along with a layer of black dust covering everything, suggested the commodity that was usually stored there. For the moment, fortunately, the stockpile was low, and the hundred-plus dwarves of Bitters’s company were able to make themselves comfortable and, more important, stay out of sight of the street.

  The men pulled the door closed as Darkstone and the captain started up the street. The two officers clung to the shadows near the dark buildings, moving stealthily, slowly advancing in the direction of the sounds of battle.

  Hearing the approach of a large body of warriors, the pair melted into a shadowy alcove and watched the cross street a dozen paces in front of them. They spied a file of dwarves dressed in red shirts, carrying shiny, unbloodied swords at the ready, double-time past. There were several hundred men, and they moved along one of the main avenues leading from the north gatehouse into the main center of Norbardin.

  “It’s clear they’ve come into the city in force,” Dark-stone said in a low voice. However brave his surviving troops at the gatehouse had been, they could not have stood for long against such overwhelming numbers.

  The two officers waited a minute or two until the sounds of the marching dwarves had faded into the distance. Then they emerged to continue their scouting. They crossed the main avenue and continued down another side street; like the one where the company had hidden, it too was devoid of traffic or other activity.

  “Where are all the dwarves?” Captain Bitters wondered, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  “Hiding, most likely,” replied Darkstone. “Probably waiting to see how this all comes out.”

  Once more they arrived at a main thoroughfare, and there they found a number of bodies, mostly Theiwar wearing the black tunics of Willim’s troops. Some had been felled with swords and arrows, but in one place there was a wide circle of soot on the pavement with half a dozen charred and blackened bodies captured in the ring of fire.

  “Did they come in with a dragon, General?” asked Captain Bitters, more angry than afraid.

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sp; “Worse than that, I think,” Darkstone declared, choking on his words.

  He couldn’t speak as he walked past the terribly burned dwarves. Most of them were dead, and the few who still managed to open a wild, staring eye or to twitch a charred, stinking limb would perish soon enough.

  He heard a groan and found one Theiwar whose legs were charred and ruined. But his eyes were bright and alert, and he uttered a hoarse curse as Darkstone knelt beside him.

  “What happened here?” asked the general.

  “A machine, sir! They attacked us with a great, fire-breathing machine. They pointed it at us, and it spat the huge fireball that killed half my platoon. It spit fire all the way down the street. I tried to fight them, sir—I—I really did! But I couldn’t!”

  “No one could, son. I’m proud of you,” Darkstone said, touching the man’s cheek where his beard had been burned away. Another look at that charred torso and legs confirmed that the soldier was doomed; no one could recover from a wound like that. The general looked at him with frank compassion. “I wish there was something I could do for you.”

  “My—my knife, General,” croaked the dying soldier. “Could you put it in my hand?”

  The commander found the weapon, which had a blackened, half-melted hilt but a keen, undamaged blade, lying just out of the dwarf’s reach. “Here it is, lad,” he said, handing him the weapon then rising and turning so he didn’t see what the fellow did with the instrument.

  Then he heard the sound of the cut and the spurt of arterial blood.

  The Daergar general clenched his jaw and stalked onward, deadly resolve churning in his belly, his heart, and his mind. The fire cannon was the most terrible weapon he had ever seen, and the knowledge that it had been designed by dwarves and used against dwarves almost made him physically sick.