Secret of Pax Tharkas

TWENTY — SEVEN

Otaxx Shortbeard strode along the battlement atop the Tharkadan Wall. The platform was more than a hundred feet above the ground, and he had a clear view of the approaching Neidar column-and of the mountain dwarves who had rallied to the defense.

Hundreds of his people, Hylar and Klar and the occasional Daewar who, like himself, had refused to follow the Mad Prophet, manned the top of the wall. The warriors wore their armor, including breastplates and helmets, and in many cases they carried shields as well. Two fighters stood at every notch in the crenellated rampart, peering down at the attackers, occasionally raising a shield or ducking behind the stone wall to deflect the aim of the sporadic arrows being launched by the Neidar.

Behind the front rank of warriors was a long single rank of mountain dwarf archers armed with short bows. They were the younger males and the females, who were not as brawny as their armored comrades but could send a veritable shower of arrows raining down from the wall-and would do so as soon as Otaxx gave the command.

Beyond the archers were the auxiliaries, mainly children and elders, whose job was to bring up fresh supplies of arrows and to establish caches of other ammunition. Some of those dwarves had kindled fires, while others readied kettles in which they would heat oil or water to dump on the enemy once they reached the base of the wall so far below. Still others hauled small boulders, establishing those weapons in neat piles just behind the battlements. The rocks couldn’t be hurled as far as the arrows, but when the enemy was just below, they could be rained down with devastating impact.

“The gates?” demanded Otaxx when he saw Tarn Bellowgranite approaching. “I don’t hear them closing yet.”

“They’re not,” replied the thane, shaking his head reluctantly. “Garn has a plan: he wants to let the Neidar into the Tharkadan Wall.”

“And crush them all with the trap?” guessed the old Daewar at once. He whistled. “Dangerous, but it might work.”

“Aye. And if it does, we’ll be free of the Neidar menace for good,” Tarn acknowledged, sounding as though he were trying to convince himself as much as his general.

By that time, the first rank of the hill dwarves had reached within a hundred paces of the wall. The road column had spread out into a front more than a hundred dwarves wide. At a signal from the leader, who was distinguished by a massive helmet topped by black and white feathers, they rushed forward at a sprint, howling the glory of Reorx and their hatred of the mountain clans at the top of their lungs.

Long ago Otaxx had ordered markers to be installed beside the road, at every twenty paces, for just such a showdown. Because of those white posts, the bowmen knew the exact range to their target.

“Archers, fire!” the general barked. “Range is one hundred paces.”

The first volley flew like a swarm of locusts, dark shafts filling the sky, showering down upon the leading ranks of the hill dwarf attackers. Dozens fell-it looked to the general as if every Neidar in the first rank, save the hulking captain brandishing his great sword in the center of the line, was slain by the initial volley. But the next ranks continued to surge forward.

The archers reloaded quickly and fired again and again, each bowman-or woman-shooting as fast as individual skill allowed. The missiles continued to pepper the assaulting formation, sending dwarf after dwarf to the ground, writhing or dying, but still the furious charge continued. The surviving Neidar roared their fury, a wave of sound that rose up and over the wall. They came on, the column pressing together in the very shadow of the high wall, for it was too wide for all of them to pass through the gate at once.

The burly mountain dwarves picked up rocks and hurled them into the mass of targets packed so tightly that it was hard for any missile to miss. Skulls were crushed, shoulders and breastbones shattered, spines snapped, and limbs broken under the onslaught, which in a few seconds left nearly a hundred hill dwarves battered and bleeding on the road.

But the momentum of the attack was barely dented, and the first of the attackers were racing through the lofty, wide-open gate.

“Keep up the barrage,” Otaxx ordered his men. “Take down as many as you can before they get to the gates!”

He turned and addressed the thane of Pax Tharkas. “It’s time to take the fight inside,” he said and ran to the door in the tower, ready to command the battle erupting inside the Tharkadan Wall.

“Death to the Hylar!” cried Harn Poleaxe, sprinting at the head of the long hill dwarf column.

He could scarcely believe his eyes: the great gate of Pax Tharkas still stood open! His warriors scrambled over the rough ground, streaming past the mines and the fields, charging toward that lofty, inviting opening.

The barrage from the parapet was devastating, but Harn felt as though he were somehow invulnerable. Every dwarf in the first rank with him perished in the initial volley of arrows, but somehow-even though he was the largest target in the line-he escaped injury. Was it the potion of the dark one that protected him? Or was it that he was blessed with the favor of Reorx? No matter-he never felt more alive and more confident of success.

“Onward, Neidar!” he shouted, waving his sword. “Remember Hillhome!”

They rushed toward the yawning entrance to the great wall. Harn was thrilled that the minion’s prediction had proved true-he never even paused to wonder why that gate hadn’t closed up yet, even though the defenders must certainly have had a good half hour’s warning of attack from the time the first hill dwarves came into view.

A scattering of mountain dwarves stood in that gateway. No more than a dozen defenders were in position to face the rush of a thousand hill dwarves, so Poleaxe wasn’t surprised to see them break and run as the attackers drew closer. The Neidar were within the very shadow of the looming entrance.

Some of the mountain dwarves fled to the left, while others ran to the right.

“Split up!” ordered Poleaxe, flush with the anticipation of victory. He led a huge number of his warriors to the left, while another large contingent, under the command of Carpus Castlesmasher, veered right.

The whole of the great vault of the Tharkadan Wall loomed above them. Mountain dwarves formed defensive lines at the opposite ends of the massive hall, but Poleaxe could see that his troops would easily overwhelm their surprisingly slipshod defense.

“Take them all!” he howled. “For the glory of Reorx and the graves under the mountains!”

He raised his visor, turning his bloody face upward as he took a long drink. His dwarves poured through the open gate, spilling through the vast hall beyond. The jug was empty, but even that didn’t matter; Harn simply cast it aside, raised his mighty sword, and joined in the attack.

Meanwhile, high above the battle, Gretchan led Brandon along the chain for a hundred feet, crawling as fast as she could. The great links extended through a horizontal passageway, and there was barely enough room for a big dwarf such as Brandon to scrape his way between the heavy iron links and the stone tube through which they passed.

At least they had left Garn and his warriors behind.

Then the dwarf maid abruptly swung her feet down toward a shaft plunging through the stone framework. Brandon followed her, and they both dropped onto a lofty catwalk, more than a hundred feet above the fortress floor.

“Hey!” barked a Klar sentry, startled by the two dwarves who had dropped to the platform very close to him. He started to draw his sword, but Brandon sprang at him and felled him with a single sharp punch to the jaw. The sentry collapsed, out cold, but as the Kayolin dwarf grabbed at the Klar’s sword, the weapon bounced off the catwalk and plummeted all the way down to the floor of the wall’s interior. Shrugging at yet another incidence of rotten luck, he turned to follow Gretchan as she started along the catwalk.

To their left Brandon saw the massive wooden platform, piled high with many tons of boulders. Chains and gears connected to the front of that platform, while massive hinges fastened its back to the fortress wall. Huge steel pins held the platform in place, and he could see a smaller cable linking those pins to a block and tackle mechanism and a large lever, mounted on a heavy, notched gear. When the lever was cranked, Brandon could see, the cable would gradually pull the pins free-and when they were removed, the whole platform would swing downward, sending the rocks tumbling to the floor of the great hall.

The din of noise rose below them, and they looked down to see the army of hill dwarves rushing into the fortress through the open gates.

“Why didn’t they close the gate? It looks like they aren’t even trying to keep them out!” Brandon asked.

Gretchan grew pale and looked at him in horror. “It’s Garn’s plan, I’ll bet!” she declared. “He’s letting them into the hall so he can crush them with the rocks! They’ll all be killed!”

“Serves the bastards right,” the Kayolin dwarf said, which was his honest gut reaction.

Gretchan glared at him then shook her head in exasperation. “Look, I can understand why you hate them; they didn’t treat you with any decency or fairness. But can’t you see that if Garn causes a massacre, the feud with the Neidar will never die? Their hatred of mountain dwarves will be worse than ever. This moment will scar our race every bit as bad as what happened after the Cataclysm; we will never outgrow it!”

Brandon grimaced. Already the clash of battle filled the vast interior of the wall. He could see more of the hill dwarves rushing in through the open gate, while the mountain dwarf garrison formed two lines, defending the approaches to each of the two towers and slowly bottling the attackers in the center. Gretchan was right: Soon Garn Bloodfist’s lines would be able to pull back, out of the danger zone, and the Tharkadan trap would plunge a mountain’s weight of rocks right on top of the clustered attackers.

“What can we do about it anyway?” he asked.

“I don’t know!” the priestess declared, despairing. “But we have to do something!” She looked around, desperately trying to think. “I’ll try to find the thane and change his mind. Can you warn the hill dwarves? Tell them what Garn has planned? Maybe they’ll withdraw from here before it’s too late.”

Brandon gazed at the surging, violent battle and heard the furious cries, fueled by centuries of hatred. A number of Neidar were in the middle of the tower, unable to reach the front lines because of the congestion. Maybe, possibly, they could be made to listen to reason.

More likely, of course, they would tear him to shreds. That would be in keeping with the Bluestone luck. All his logic, all his life’s experience told him that it was sheer insanity to even consider going down there, into the midst of the enemy army. If they didn’t kill him, the imminent release of a thousand tons of rock would probably do it anyway.

He shrugged, feeling helpless and more unlucky than ever, but he could only look at Gretchan and reply, “I’ll try.”

“Form to the right and left!” shouted Garn Bloodfist, directing his mountain dwarves to take up defensive positions within the hall, trying to contain the attackers within the vast space of the Tharkadan Wall. His voice was shrill, and he fairly shivered in anticipation of the massive slaughter he was about to trigger. The plan was working to perfection! Even then, his Klar were withdrawing from the center of the hall, gathering at the base of the West Tower.

Meanwhile, Mason Axeblade had taken command of the Hylar defenders in front of the East Tower. He stood with his line, shouting similar orders. The Neidar crowded into the space between the two lines, more and more of the hill dwarves charging in through the open gate. The two mountain dwarf lines were thin, no more than a single rank with shields and swords, but that was fine with Garn. They were forced back steadily by the charging hill dwarves until the center of the hall was full of Neidar eager for battle but mostly unable to reach the ranks of the defenders.

Garn’s men, the troops of his loyal Klar company, fought with the discipline that had been instilled in them by constant drill and practice. They maintained their close ranks, shields up to protect the entire line as they stabbed and hacked, parried and thrust. The hill dwarves were hampered by the close quarters, and many of them bled and died; they were unable to break the tight line of mountain dwarves. But slowly the defenders fell back until they were packed in a semicircle against the base of the West Tower.

Within that tower other warriors opened the doors leading from the vast chamber of the wall into the interior of the sturdy tower. One by one the Klar started slipping through that door, the rank of the line tightening up to fill in the gap left by each withdrawing warrior. The captain grinned fiercely. His scheme was working to perfection.

It was finally time to move to the next phase of the plan. One of the lift baskets that had been used to haul rocks up to the trap was sitting on the floor, within the protective semicircle of the embattled Klar. Garn leaped into that lift and gave the signal to his men waiting above. Immediately they started to haul him upward until he rang the bell for them to halt, allowing him to survey the field from twenty feet up in the air.

From the lift basket, the Klar captain saw that his troops at both ends of the great hall were furtively retreating as commanded. The central space of the Tharkadan Wall was full of Neidar attackers, many of them simply milling about because they couldn’t get at the shrinking number of defenders. Only then did Garn ring the bell. Immediately, willing hands hoisted the crate and its lone occupant up higher, toward the shadowy attic where the Tharkadan trap was primed and ready.

“Kondike!” Gus cried as the dog slipped and fell from the catwalk.

Frantically the gully dwarf scrambled down into the niche, where the great chain passed around another gear. Sobbing with relief, he saw Kondike had landed on the ledge below him. The dog was panting and holding his right forepaw up. He was perched on a stone shelf that was built in to the surface of the wall itself, and somehow had stopped himself from falling down to the floor below.

How could he get down there to help the goddess’s dog? Frantically the gully dwarf looked around.

Gus spotted a wire, twisted around the center of the gear for some mysterious purpose. Maybe he could use it! He reached up and grabbed at the end, but it was too stiff; he couldn’t budge it.

“What you do?” demanded Berta, who was watching him from the upper catwalk.

“Try to get wire for catch dog. Help me!” he called. He spotted a piece of wood near her foot. “Give stick me!”

“Who Gretchan?” Berta demanded to know instead.

“What?” asked Gus, startled by the question. He slumped back onto the chain and stared at her.

“Who Gretchan?” She pouted. “You say she friend? She friend, or Berta friend?”

“Gus got two friends!” he retorted. “Help me get wire!”

“No!” she replied petulantly. She crossed her arms over her skinny chest and extravagantly turned her back.

“Berta my friend!” he shouted. “You my bluphsplunging bestest doofar friend! Now help me!”

She finally handed him the stick. He poked the end of it into the coil of wire and pulled. Somewhat amazingly, the end of the spool came free and he was able to grab it with his hands.

His stubby fingers pried at the stiff metal, slowly unspooling it from the hub.

Finally, he pulled it free.