Brandon neared the mountain dwarf camp just as dawn began to color the sky. The raiding party slumbered in a small field beside a winding stream, with a fringe of pine forest screening them. He had watched the camp through the night, and he moved carefully through the dim light, making sure not to crack dried branches under his feet or to rustle against the underbrush. He reasoned that, if he were able to walk straight up to the Klar captain and demonstrate he had entered the camp without meaning any harm, his chances of a moderately friendly reception would be significantly improved.
His plans were shattered by the appearance of four-no, six-armed Klar, who leaped out of the brush to surround him before he even reached the camp’s perimeter.
“Hey,” he objected, raising his hands in the middle of a ring of spears. One of the mountain dwarves plucked his sword from his belt while the others prodded him toward the center of the camp. “I just want to talk. I’m not an enemy!” he protested.
His protestations were to no avail. A half hour later, Brandon found himself a bound prisoner again, his wrists lashed together behind him, a sturdy chain shackled around his neck. The Klar were busy breaking camp and preparing to move out.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded of the captain. “I tell you, I just want to talk!”
“Ha!” said the dwarf who commanded the company. His eyes bulged as he thrust his face so close to Brandon that he could smell the Klar’s rancid breath. He laughed, a gleeful, high-pitched sound that did not sound entirely rational.
“You’re a hill dwarf spy, or I’m a gully dwarf,” the captain hooted. “And you’d like nothing better than to follow us into Pax Tharkas!”
“You’re wrong!” Brandon cried, appalled at the abrupt evaporation of his luck-again. “I’m a mountain dwarf!”
But the Klar captain, still chuckling, was already ordering his amused warriors onto the road.
And Brandon Bluestone, his neck chain tethered to two burly Klar axemen, was once again tugged toward a captor’s lair.
Harn Poleaxe sat in the darkness of his house, seething over the events of the day. Even the executions of the two prisoners, bloody and gratifying as that had been, could not erase the sting of defeat, frustration, humiliation. The Kayolin dwarf had escaped, vanishing into the wilds of Kharolis, and Poleaxe’s hard-won treasure, the Bluestone that was going to vault him to greatness, had been stolen by the treacherous mountain dwarves.
Nursing another jug of dwarf spirits-his first one had not lasted until sunset-he scratched at the newest sore that had open up on his face. His fingernails came away red with blood. He put the neck of the bottle to his lips and leaned back, gurgling for a long time. The day had started with such fine portents and had degenerated into a disaster.
He deserved so much better!
His troubles started, he reflected, the previous night, when the seductive dwarf maid had eluded him and her companions had accosted him. That was followed by the trial that went awry, the botched battle with the Klar, and Brandon’s scot-free escape.
Yet, he told himself, he was empowered, mighty and commanding and capable in ways that he could have only dreamt about before. And it was all the result of a potion.
He took another drink of dwarf spirits, and the powerful alcohol only seemed to enhance his abilities. Beyond that drink, he felt the potion’s power coursing through his body, embellished by the spirits but not intoxicated. The enchanted liquid had changed and strengthened him, and once he had mastered his new powers, he would track down the mountain dwarves and the wench who had spurned him and all of them would pay. He would crush those opponents and any others who stood in his path. He would triumph, and in the end he would be Lord Poleaxe, master of all the hills!
He had been foolish to think of Brandon Bluestone as a naive blunderer; clearly the Hylar from Kayolin was dangerous in ways Harn hadn’t understood.
Brandon had eluded him once. Next time he would die.
And Gretchan Pax would suffer.
His gorge rose as he recalled how she had spurned him, lied to him. How dared she! His lust surged as he recalled her beauty, her pride, her sparkling eyes and swelling breasts. Before he was done, she would enjoy submitting to him, by Reorx. In the end, it would be she who desired him, and only then would he spurn her. Oh, and she’d have to die as well.
The room was very dark, and he barely noticed the shape taking form in front of him. Only when the shape’s two orbs, glowing like embers in the Abyss, opened did he feel the deep power, the mesmerizing presence of his visitor. He noted the great bat wings, smelled the fetid breath emerging from that fanged maw. The creature filled up all the space, darkening it like a great shadow, like a new and more intense form of night. The shape rose above him and stretched around him, a display of chilling power.
Harn Poleaxe dropped to his knees, gaping in a mixture of terror, awe, and reverence. “You! You will show me the way!” he gasped, certain beyond any doubt that the monster was his new ally, sent by the gods. The jug fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers, tumbling onto its side, but it was already so empty that none of the dregs spilled out.
The creature snorted, and again that foul breath washed over the hill dwarf. But it was like a perfume to him, anointing and blessing him, crowning his greatness. Harn Poleaxe shivered in delight and, pressing his face to the floor, waited for the monster to speak.
“Harn Poleaxe, you are a servant of the Black One,” declared the creature. “It is his elixir that has empowered you and his will that you must obey.”
“Speak!” Poleaxe begged. “Only tell me what to do, and I will do it. Tell me how I may strike at Pax Tharkas.”
The creature hissed, a rasping sound that might have been taken for laughter. “You already know our master’s will, I see. He will be pleased.”
“I know his will, and I know mine! I am fated to wipe out the mountain dwarves in the fortress! I know what I must do. I must raise an army of Neidar, and we must attack the walls. But the gates, oh my lord! How can we take the gates?”
The thing made that noise again, and Harn was certain that it was a sound of amused pleasure. The red eyes glowed, and the maw gaped open again.
“Leave the gates to me,” it said.
Brandon stared upward at the massive towers and wall blocking passage up the valley. He had seen Pax Tharkas portrayed in drawings and sketches, but the reality of the monument took his breath away. It was as if a part of the mountain range itself blocked their path-a massive slab with a flat, carved face, flanked by summits of utterly symmetrical, perfectly solid peaks. For a moment he forgot that he stood in chains, an abject prisoner of his fellow mountain dwarves. The legacy of that place, its all-encompassing majesty, seemed to banish all trivial emotions into the far corners of his brain.
For two weeks his Bluestone luck had held true. He had been treated miserably. His lowly status as a prisoner had been pounded home every day he had been marching with Garn Bloodfist’s Klar.
For several days he had tried to convince the wild-eyed warrior that he was, in fact, a mountain dwarf of clan Hylar. Every time he made the claim, however, the Klar had grown more agitated, more paranoid. The Klar loudly accused Brandon of spying; he was convinced the Kayolin dwarf was a Neidar from Hillhome. He was fed stingily, poked and kicked, and threatened with execution if he didn’t shut up.
At least Brandon caught a glimpse of the Bluestone and its companion Greenstone now and then when Garn took the colored stones out and studied them lovingly. Captain Bloodfist was proud of his prizes. His eyes seemed to shine in their glow, and he giggled and chortled as he carried them around the camp, endlessly enjoying their heft and beauty. It was clear, at least, that he treasured his treasures.
Other glimpses were less encouraging, however, as on the nights-about every forth evening-when Garn stalked, alone, into the darkness beyond the perimeter of his camp. He would shout and rail against the sky, the stars. Most of his words were garbled, and sometimes he would sob in abject grief or howl in a seeming frenzy of rage. On those nights, even his bravest warriors gave him a wide berth. When the captain returned to camp, exhausted from his ranting, he invariably slept through the following dawn, and the company was several hours late getting onto the trail.
But finally, they had reached their destination. The Klar had spent some time that morning, before they broke camp, in polishing their black armor and shields and cleaning some of the dust and grime from their hair, beards, and boots. They entered Pax Tharkas in a proud column of fours, each dwarf with his shield slung across his back, feet pounding the pavement in regular cadence, up the broad ramp leading to the massive wall.
The great gate in the center of the main wall was wide open. Brandon, in the middle of the column, was chained to a pair of burly warriors, the links fastened to the collar around his neck. Even so, he could swivel his head in awe, taking in the massive structure.
Even the atrium of Kayolin, which was essentially bottomless, was not as far across as the breadth of the massive hall. The whole place seemed to be hollowed out, at least on the ground level. There was a pile of rocks and boulders roughly jumbled in the center, but neither wall nor any other kind of partition divided the enormous space. Very high overhead he could discern a series of catwalks crossing back and forth and side to side through the upper reaches of the wall. The ceiling itself seemed to be lost in shadows, but he was certain that it was well over a hundred feet above his head.
“Bring the prisoner with me,” ordered the captain. “We’ll go see the thane.”
A trio of Klar warriors fell in behind Brandon, whose wrists were bound behind him. At least one hundred other mountain dwarves were in view. Most were working, hauling, levering, and carrying large rocks to a series of lift cages at one side of the great hollow hall.
As they approached, one of those lifts was filled with rocks, and a dwarf rang a bell. Brandon watched as the container, which was little more than a sturdy wooden box attached to a block and tackle, creakingly rose into the darkness far overhead.
“Hold that work, there,” Garn barked as several laborers approached an empty lift with the beginnings of the next load. The captain, the prisoner, and the three guards crammed into the box, and Garn signaled to the bellman. Once more the gong sounded, and that crate, like the other, began to rise into the heights overhead.
The lift climbed smoothly and swiftly with no yawing or pitching movements even as the floor fell away. Brandon estimated they were hoisted more than a hundred feet into the air before the cage slid snugly into a notched landing. There they found a dozen dwarves, some with shovels and picks, others cranking away on the block and tackle winch.
“Welcome back, Bloodfist,” called one burly foreman. “At least you don’t weigh as much as a box of rocks.”
“Where’s Tarn Bellowgranite?” asked the captain, ignoring the pleasantry.
A harsh voice answered him from out of the darkness. “Damn it, Bloodfist! Are you crippled? You know there’s stairs you could climb-why did you waste the time of the load men?”
“I have a hill dwarf prisoner, my thane, and important treasure,” Garn Bloodfist called as sternly as his leader had spoken. “I didn’t want to waste any time in bringing you the news.”
The captain turned and fixed Brandon with his piercing, intense eyes. “You will now meet the thane of Pax Tharkas. Mind your tongue, or I will have it cut out of your head.”
Tarn Bellowgranite stepped into view, making his way along a dark, narrow wooden catwalk to the lift landing. The dwarf looked old and tired, except for the undying spark of anger in his eyes. His head was bald on top, surrounded by a fringe of gray hair, and his shoulders slumped, his back bent, as he clumped along. To Brandon, he looked like a dwarf who had been carrying a great weight-greater than any box of stones-for a long, long time. The thane was accompanied by another elderly dwarf, a sturdy-framed fellow with white hair and a beard who, though his belly bulged perhaps more than he would have liked, still bore himself like a lifelong warrior.
“Greetings, my thane,” said Captain Bloodfist, bowing low. His men did the same and, after a moment’s hesitation and an elbow in his sides, so did Brandon. The Klar straightened and spoke again, addressing Tarn’s companion. “Greetings too, General Shortbeard,” he said. “I am glad that you, also, are here to receive my report.”
“Well?” demanded the thane, looking Brandon up and down. “What manner of hill dwarf is this? Rather an unusually big fellow, to be sure.”
“I keep telling this dummy, I’m not a hill dwarf!” the prisoner retorted, meeting Tarn’s angry eyes with his own steady glare. “And I would expect better treatment from my own kinfolk in the mountain clans!”
“Shut up, you,” declared one of the guards, delivering a ringing blow to the back of Brandon’s head with the hilt of his sword.
While the Kayolin dwarf staggered, fighting the urge to slump to his knees, Garn spoke solemnly. “We caught this fellow following us back from Hillhome-he came from there, clearly. I believe he’s a thief and a spy; he sought to pass himself off as a mountain dwarf, but you have heard his accent. Clearly he’s not one of us. And my thane-”
Garn’s breathing grew excited, and he was almost panting as he reached into his belt pouch to pull out the Bluestone and the Greenstone, which he set on a nearby workbench for all to admire.
“This is the booty the thief was after-the prizes we claimed from Hillhome. Look at them! I have a hunch they are valuable artifacts!”
The facets on the two wedges glittered and winked in the diffuse torchlight. Tarn Bellowgranite’s eyes, like those of all the other dwarves, were drawn almost hypnotically to the pair of colored stones.
“Hmm, yes. Look at these, Otaxx,” the thane said, addressing the one called General Shortbeard. “What do you think they are?”
“Where did they come from?” Otaxx asked Garn.
“The Bluestone is mine and it comes from Kayolin, just like me,” Brandon interjected before anyone else could speak. “It was stolen from me by the leader of the hill dwarves, Harn Poleaxe. The other stone, the Greenstone, was already in the town of the hill homes when I was brought there-as their prisoner!” he concluded insistently.
“He keeps telling this preposterous story,” Garn said, sounding more amused than upset. “All the way from Kayolin! Have any of you ever met a dwarf from Kayolin?”
As the thane regarded Brandon with frank suspicion, Captain Bloodfist continued enthusiastically. “These stones may be magical. Or think what even one would bring in the bazaar in Caergoth or Sanction. Wealth beyond imagining! The vital funds to outfit a proper army, to overwhelm the hill dwarf scum once and for all! Oh, that would be a glorious day for the mountain dwarves-and your Hylar legacy would be restored.”
“I am a Hylar too!” Brandon shouted.
That was one interruption too many for Garn Bloodfist. Brandon felt Garn’s blade pressing against his throat, colder by far than the metal collar encircling his neck. “I told you-cease your lies! Or do you want me to cut the tongue right out of your head?”
Brandon glowered but kept his mouth shut. His eyes appealed to the Hylar thane, who seemed preoccupied with his own troubles. But the Kayolin dwarf was surprised to see the old general, Otaxx Shortbeard, looking at him with an expression unlike all the others-pensive, even curious.
The old, weary thane gestured to the load men, who immediately started the empty crate descending toward the floor of the great hall again.
“This is the true Hylar legacy,” Tarn Bellowgranite declared, waving his hand at the vast operation. “Restoring the great trap to operability. We are very close now; you see that the hall is nearly emptied, nearly done. These other matters are distractions.”
“Yes, my thane, I know, I know,” said Garn tersely. “You always preach patience.”
But Brandon got the impression the Klar captain was humoring his ruler; Bloodfist’s eyes narrowed in an expression very much like contempt as he scrutinized the older dwarf. “About the prisoner… I would like your authorization to lock him in the dungeon while his fate is determined.”
Tarn was leaning over the catwalk’s railing, looking at the dwarves who were busily filling the next lift. “You there! Watch that load; you’re overbalancing to the left!” he barked. After a second he turned back to the Klar, blinking as if surprised to find him still standing there. He didn’t spare a glance at Brandon. “Do what you must,” he muttered.
Just my luck, Brandon reflected morosely. His fate would remain in the hands of the erratic, excitable Klar.
Without another word, Garn gestured to his guards, and Brandon was hustled into another lift crate, just emptied of its rock cargo. With a wave to the load men, the captain started their smooth descent back down into the cavernous hall.
“They go into Big House?” questioned Gus. He was staring in awe at the great fortress.
The column of mountain dwarves they had followed for so long was marching in through the vast central gate. That gate had been standing open during the whole of their approach, and the dwarves could see right through it and a second gate beyond to the valley on the other side of the massive wall.
“Yes, they’re going into the Big House,” Gretchan replied, her thoughts preoccupied. She, Kondike, and the gully dwarf were crouched behind a clump of boulders beside the road that approached the huge gate carved into the Tharkadan wall. There were many sentries on the wall in clear view, and no doubt others watching from concealed vantages. For the ninth or tenth time, she pushed Gus’s head down. She didn’t care to take any chances on being discovered.
Kondike was also watching warily. The dog’s ears perked upward, nostrils flaring gently as they sampled the air and searched for any scent of danger. Gretchan kept a hand on the Aghar’s shoulder as he squirmed and craned to get a better look. She was ready, at a moment’s notice, to snatch the gully dwarf by the scruff of his neck and pull him back into concealment.
“We go into Big House too?” asked Gus hopefully.
“Well, yes and no,” the maid replied.
“Yes and no you always say. What mean you yes and no?” asked the gully dwarf with a scowl.
“Well, we’re both going to go inside,” she said, eliciting a happy grin from the Aghar, “but we won’t be using the front gate. I’m not sure the master of Pax Tharkas will be happy to see me. Anyway, I don’t want to have to talk my way past those officious guards.”
“Guards are fishes? We sneak?” Gus suggested brightly. “That fun. Aghar great sneakers!”
“I know,” Gretchan said. “I’m counting on it. And I know just the place for some sneaking.”
“Where that?” the Aghar asked eagerly.
“Well, it’s a place I’ve never seen, but it’s been well described in the histories. During the War of the Lance, some heroes used it to sneak in to Pax Tharkas so they could save many thousands of lives. It’s an old place, disused nowadays, but I think it might just work.”
“What old place this?”
“Come with me,” Gretchan said. “And I’ll show you the way called the Sla-Mori.”