Fate of Thorbardin

EIGHT

The crossing of the sea took only four days, but that was enough time to bring the seasick, frightened, and claustrophobic dwarves almost to the point of mutiny. Conditions aboard the galleons, those ships that had looked so majestic and spacious from the land, proved to be confining and constricting and unsettling in ways that even the subterranean-dwelling dwarves found incredibly stifling. By the third day, half the army was practically in revolt, and only Brandon’s calm assertion that they were only one day away from their destination-whereas it would take three days to turn around and go back to Caergoth-allowed him to calm the men enough to, however impatiently, wait for landfall.

When it came, it was a smudge of brown hill on the horizon and a harbor sheltering a small fishing village. With no wharf available, most of the dwarves had to be rowed to shore in small boats, and that alone was a harrowing enough experience to cause most of them to swear off water transport forever. More challenging still was the debarking of the Firespitters, and in fact, one of the heavy, iron machines toppled into the water and was lost. The other two were laboriously, one at a time, loaded onto hastily constructed rafts and slowly pulled to shore.

But at last the army, without losing a dwarf, had assembled on the southern coast of the Newsea. They were two score miles south of the ancient ruin known as Xak Tsaroth and, by Brandon’s best estimate, about a week’s march north of their first destination: the fortress of Pax Tharkas. They wasted little sorrow in watching the ships hoist sail and head for the north, and instead turned their landlubber eyes southward, seeking the road to their objective in the mountain pass.

The next week of marching took them through terrain that was far more rugged and varied than the monotonous flats of the Solamnic plain. They crossed rugged, flinty ridges that lay like barriers across their path, forged paths between swampy bottomlands, and even skirted a desolate plain where the ghastly mountain known as Skullcap-a permanent scar of the Dwarfgate War-rose into view from the western horizon.

Finally they approached a mountain range, and as the highland’s extent expanded over the course of two full days’ march they realized they were traversing much greater heights, loftier summits, and broader ridges than anything in the familiar Garnet Mountains back home.

“That’s the High Kharolis,” Brandon informed them solemnly. “Beneath that great summit, Cloudseeker Peak, lies Thorbardin itself. And those lesser mountains stand in our path to the North Gate.”

Despite the arduous climbing required, the dwarves were eager to return to a mountainous environment. The marching soldiers swung along easily, as always accompanied by their drums, and the miles fell behind as they climbed along rugged roads, ascending into the heights.

Finally the route became so tortuous that they were forced to narrow the column to single file, following a dusty track in a formation that stretched nearly two miles long, as all of the soldiers of Brandon’s army filed southward through the rugged hill country rising toward the fortress of Pax Tharkas. Brandon himself strode along at the head of the column, setting a brisk pace. It was partly because he wanted the Kayolin Army to make good time and to march in peak condition. Once again his men were hardened, tough, and strong, and it was that strict pace that had toned and sharpened them.

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.