Fate of Thorbardin

THREE

The file of Kayolin dwarves emerged from the horax caverns into the deep levels of their great nation, where their kinsmen struggled and strived and labored to carve out a world under the mountains. The victorious warriors climbed past the mines and smelting plants, through the coal yards and the sturdy pillars supporting the city of Garnet Thax. They beat their drums and chanted the news of their triumph, so by the time they reached the city’s midlevels, the whole population of Kayolin had turned out to welcome the returning heroes.

“Bluestone! Bluestone!” The sound of his name was a proud roar in Brandon’s ears, and he practically felt his chest swelling from the thundering accolades. He led the column, the Bluestone Axe slung easily over his shoulder, and though he tried to deflect some of the praise, to spread it to the sturdy shoulders of his lieutenants and foot soldiers, his men didn’t begrudge him the honor.

Indeed, as they moved onto a large ramp, one of the avenues circling steadily upward through the vertical city of Garnet Thax, Tankard Hacksaw and Fister Morewood themselves stepped forward and bodily lifted their captain onto their shoulders without missing a step in their rhythmic marching.

“Put me down, damn it!” Brandon insisted, rocking backward so much that he had to grab Tankard’s shoulder to restore his balance. But better to fall than to relinquish his axe!

“Ah, let yerself enjoy it, Captain,” Fister proclaimed. Someone in the throng had handed the sergeant a foaming mug, and he took a deep draught, smacking his lips in satisfaction. Another vessel was proffered by a cheering maid, and the loyal soldier willingly passed that second mug up to his commander.

Though still teetering, Brandon decided that he might as well ride the wave of adulation to the top of the city, so he took a drink himself and left it to his carriers to make sure that he didn’t take an ignominious fall. When he had drained the mug, he threw it hard, smashing it against the stone wall of the underground roadway and whooping in joy as the file of marching dwarves surged on, the drums pounding even faster.

He looked across the sea of beaming faces: the bearded men; the apple-cheeked dwarf maids; youngsters hopping up and down or, for a fortunate few, hoisted onto the shoulders of a willing adult. All the dwarves were cheering, and most of them were drinking. The crowd had continued to swell, spilling forward from the walls until the column of soldiers had barely room to march in double file down the middle of the wide avenue.

Unconsciously he found himself searching for Gretchan’s face, though he knew that she was far away from there by then. For a wistful moment, he wished that she could be there waiting for him, joining the happiness of the victory celebration, though even a moment’s rational reflection reminded him that if Gretchan had been in Kayolin when he had embarked on the recent campaign, she would have been down in the horax hive with the soldiers, not up there in the city waiting for Brandon’s return.

But she had told him what she had to do, and he had agreed; they both had important missions, and the sooner they got going, the better. He reminded himself, also, that he had accomplished only a single, first step on the long and difficult road that lay before him. Defeating the horax had been a necessity but only because he needed to secure the safety of Kayolin before embarking on his more important tasks.

As if reading his mind, Chamberlain Wicket came into view, standing in the roadway before the column as the boisterous celebrants gave the governor’s aide enough room, barely, to wave his hand at Captain Brandon Bluestone as he approached.

The drums still pounded, but Tankard and Fister came to a stuttering halt and lowered Brandon to the ground with as much dignity as they could muster. The captain felt acutely conscious of his muddy, sooty tunic and the flecks of ale foam still clinging to his mustache and beard.

“Congratulations!” Wicket declared, abandoning courtly manners to clasp the young warrior in an enthusiastic embrace. “Now come with me,” he added firmly. “Your father needs to see you right away.”

“This is Dram Feldspar. He’s representing the emperor of Solamnia in these negotiations,” explained Garren Bluestone, the governor of Kayolin.

Brandon’s father was holding court in his private office, a marble-furnished chamber with several chairs and a desk, adjoining the great throne room of Garnet Thax. He was a smaller, thinner dwarf than his son, and certainly more well groomed at the moment. Garren’s beard was braided and tucked into his suspenders, his hair neatly combed, his nails trimmed and cleaned.

Brandon had reported there immediately upon receiving the summons from the chamberlain to find the two elder dwarves seated, each enjoying a small glass of pungent dwarf spirits.

“Sorry for my appearance,” the younger dwarf said, acutely aware of the soot and stains upon his leather tunic, not to mention his scuffed and hobnailed boots. “I came here as soon as we returned from the campaign.”

“No worries, I’m sure,” his father said genially. “Dram Feldspar is no stranger to war.”

“I’ve heard of you; all Kayolin owes you a debt,” Brandon said, sizing up the stranger, who was regarding him with a friendly grin. Feldspar’s skin was bronzed and weathered by long exposure to the outside world. His full, brown beard was shot with gray, and he wore a plain, woolen jersey and trousers. The only sign of his official status was a mantle of black silk, embroidered with silver thread, resting easily upon his broad shoulders.

Brandon bowed formally and extended his hand; Dram rose out of his chair to take it in a firm grip. The elder dwarf’s exploits-he had helped the emperor of Solamnia, a former fugitive, to battle and defeat an army of ogres and goblins that had terrorized the Garnet Mountains and surrounding plains for several years-were well known to all Kayolin.

“I may have lived under the sky for these last years, but Garnet Thax is my home too,” Dram said as if, like Brandon, he was embarrassed by too much praise. “And anyway, we dwarves can’t leave it to the humans to do all of our fighting for us!”

“Well said,” Garren Bluestone acknowledged. “And that leads me to our current goal, and to the reason we seek the assistance of the emperor and, specifically, of his ships.”

“That’s what he said when he sent me up here. He was intrigued by your request and asked me to make the trip to Garnet Thax posthaste. You want to send an army all the way down to Thorbardin?” Dram asked with seemingly genuine interest.

Garren nodded. “We have reason to believe that the elder home is in dire straits. It is our wish to restore the rightful high king to his throne.”

Dram Feldspar frowned. “How can you know this?” he asked. “Isn’t the kingdom sealed up tight?”

The governor gestured to his son, allowing Brandon to answer the question. “It’s still sealed against physical entry. But some of the activities there have been marked by powerful sorcery. Several gully dwarves used that magic to escape and provide us key intelligence about Thorbardin. In addition, we are assembling an artifact that, we believe, will give us the means to gain entry to the place with a significant force of troops.”

“Gully dwarves?” Dram’s tone was droll. Brandon decided against telling him that one of the Aghar, Gus Fishbiter, had actually escaped from Thorbardin twice. No need to flesh out the story with even more startling and barely believable details.

“Yes. They’ve been questioned by many of us, not the least of whom is a wise priestess of Reorx. She and I are both convinced they are telling the truth.”

“Convinced enough that you’re willing to send an army, then,” Dram noted, making the phrase a statement, not a question.

“Exactly,” the younger Bluestone replied.

“It hasn’t escaped our notice that you call yourself ‘governor’ here, not ‘king,’” the Solamnic emissary said, directing the remark at Garren. “Somewhat of a change from the previous regime, eh?”

“Many things have changed since the time of Regar Smashfingers,” Garren Bluestone acknowledged. “Not the least of which is the matter of succession. No longer do we dispatch our former leaders with violence. Smashfingers, for all his faults, is enjoying a relatively comfortable retirement in a manor on the nobles’ level. And I have made it my further responsibility to right the wrongs that are occurring in Thorbardin, so that we may restore all the dwarf nations of Krynn to their historic roles.”

“A worthy goal,” Dram acknowledged, though he suppressed a smile at the governor’s fervor. “And do you know how many ships you might require? And where you will wish to embark and disembark your army?”

“My son has experience with the journey to the Kharolis Mountains and back,” Garren said. He nodded at Brandon. “I believe you said that Caergoth would be the ideal port to begin?”

The younger Bluestone nodded. “It’s the only large enough port in Southern Solamnia,” he noted. “It has the capacity to load up an army-say, at least four thousand dwarves-over the course of a day. We could march to one of the smaller ports, which are closer, but it would take us a week to load up the transports.”

“That’s what I would have recommended,” Dram replied approvingly. “No dwarf likes to have water under his feet-and to spend six days at anchor, waiting for your comrades to get rowed out to their ships, would give even the most hearty warrior a bad case of the nerves.”

“Right! So then I thought your ships could put us ashore on the coast, just south of Xak Tsaroth,” Brandon continued. “That puts us within a short week’s march of Pax Tharkas, with Thorbardin’s North Gate not too far beyond.”

“Aye …”

Dram seemed to assent, but his tone, his quizzical expression, conveyed his skepticism.

“I know what you’re thinking: ‘The North Gate is a narrow tunnel, set high up in a cliff wall. No army could even reach it, much less attack,’” Brandon said.

Dram chuckled. “That’s pretty close to the mark.”

“Well, I think we’ve found a way to breach the mountain itself,” the younger Bluestone continued. “It has to do with an artifact of Reorx, which consists of three parts or smaller artifacts, actually. We have now come into possession of the third and final part, which is being carried to Pax Tharkas. And with the army of Kayolin, Tarn Bellowgranite’s brigade, an army of hill dwarves, and this artifact of Reorx on our side, I think we will prevail.”

“Hill dwarves?” Dram looked pained. “Now I’ve heard it all.”

“They are pledged by pact with Tarn Bellowgranite to aid him in this attempt,” Brandon said. “I was there at the signing. All the exiled king need do is ask for their help.”

“And of course, we are willing to pay for the sea passage,” Garren said.

After a long, suspenseful pause, Dram nodded, accepting the offer. “Emperor Markham appreciates the wealth of Kayolin, as well as your friendship and, in this matter, the needs of the dwarves. He has instructed me to tell you that your army will be transported at the expense of the Solamnic Navy. He wishes you to see this as the gesture of enduring friendship and trust that it is. The ships will be dispatched upon my return to Palanthas, and they should be gathered in Caergoth within four weeks’ time.”

“We are humbled by his generosity,” Garren said sincerely.

The emissary from Solamnia stood and cleared his throat. “Good luck to you,” was all he said.

In a dark cell in the dungeons far below the fortress of Pax Tharkas, a bitter dwarf slowly yielded to the insanity that had ever lurked just below the surface of his awareness. He pulled at the hair that still bristled from his head, though his scalp was marred by bloody, bare patches which he had previously violated. His eyes, always wide and startled looking, like any Klar’s, darted wildly around the cell, swinging from the barred door to the ceiling, the walls, the floor, as if wary of an enemy or seeking some avenue of escape, in any direction.

“I’m mad!” his whispered, careful to keep his voice low so the turnkey couldn’t hear him. He also worried about listeners in the adjacent cells, though through his long year of imprisonment, he had discerned no evidence of any other prisoner down there. Still, he wouldn’t put it past the king to trick him, to post some scum eavesdropper right next door, listening for the prisoner to make a damning confession.

Garn Bloodfist had never been exceptionally well-balanced, even by the standards of the volatile and impetuous Klar. For most of his adult life, he had been a leader of that clan and a more or less loyal follower of the king in exile. But still he was a Klar.

The king had never fully recognized the threat posed by the hateful, deceitful hill dwarves who lived all around the area near Pax Tharkas. Garn had known! Garn had seen the danger and had led his valiant Klar on campaigns against the Neidar, up to-and sometimes even beyond-the limits imposed by his monarch.

Then, with the moment of his greatest triumph at hand, with the teeming mass of the enemy army funneled within the walls of the fortress, caught within a perfect trap-many thousands of tons of crushing rock, ready to be released, ready to kill all the hill dwarves-the king had finally lost his nerve. He had ordered Garn to hold his hand, to not release the trap.

But Garn had seen the truth! Garn knew what to do! He had disobeyed his king and pulled the lever to release the trap, and the killing mechanism had failed to release!

An idiot of a gully dwarf had, all unwittingly, ruined the trap’s release. For Garn, his life had all but ended on that day, when the exiled king made peace with the hill dwarves, and the once-loyal Klar captain had been clapped in irons and hauled off to the dungeon.

He languished there, slowly going mad, or madder. He chewed on his lip, shivering, until he tasted blood. He smashed his fist into his temple and stopped his chewing, though he still shivered. He huddled on the floor, rocking back and forth. He wanted to whimper, to shriek, but he wouldn’t give his imagined eavesdropper the satisfaction.

He wished that she would come back but knew that it was too soon since her last visit. She was the only bright spot in his life-odd, since she was a hill dwarf. Her visits were the only thing that kept him from falling utterly into despair. She listened to him, and he was careful to mask his insanity when he talked back to her in reasonable, calm tones. She spoke to him, offering comfort and hope, not so much through her words-which he frequently didn’t understand-but merely from her presence and the soothing sounds she made.

Suddenly Garn Bloodfist stiffened. He’d heard a noise in the outer hall-something he recognized as a real noise, not the imagined sounds triggered by his paranoia.

“Who’s there?” he demanded. I’m not mad! She must not know that I’m mad!

“It’s me,” came the whispered reply.

But it was not the cherished lady’s voice that responded. Instead, the speaker sounded like a youngster, a dwarf male whose voice had not fully deepened into manhood. Garn shrewdly remained silent, listening, and the mystery was soon resolved.

“I’m Tor Bellowgranite. My mother is Crystal Heathstone. She comes here sometimes … to talk to you. Doesn’t she?”

What to say? What to do? Garn’s tongue froze in his mouth, and he felt a suffocating pressure close around his throat. He opened his mouth, but for seconds he could force only a hoarse croak to emerge.

“Yes,” he finally articulated. “She talks to me. She is a kind woman, your mother.”

“But she’s a hill dwarf!” the lad replied, his voice an accusatory hiss. Even through his madness, Garn realized that his visitor was speaking in a harsh whisper and was no more interested in being overheard by eavesdroppers than was the Klar himself. “And you spent your life making war against the hill dwarves!”

“That war-that war is over,” Garn said, somehow forcing his voice to be calm even as the lie spilled forth. That war would never end! “I … I care for her. She is good to me.”

“You aren’t trying to harm her?” asked the young dwarf.

“No!” wailed Garn, forgetting the need for discretion, forgetting everything in the searing hurt of the question. “No! I would never hurt her! I would never do her wrong!”

“My father thinks you’re dangerous,” Tor declared.

“But I’m not dangerous!” Garn replied, calming himself, putting all of his imagined sincerity into the denial.

He held that thought close to his heart as the young dwarf finally padded quietly away, back to his royal apartments, to his life of sunlight and family and good food.

I’m not dangerous! Garn argued with himself, persuasive, convincing, settling himself into a corner of the cell and repeating the truth like a mantra.

Not dangerous at all.