Douglas Niles - Fate of Thorbardin

Pax Tharkas had been built in a long-past age of Krynn. Despite its martial bearing and purpose, it had initially been created as a symbol of peace between the dwarves of Thorbardin and the elves of Qualinesti. Yet it was, at heart, an edifice built for war. Pax Tharkas straddled a very strategic pass in the Kharolis Mountains, a pass that provided the only practical land route between a wide array of southern and northern realms.

Gretchan knew the key to that protection was a great, unique trap concealed within the high walls. Pax Tharkas was built to provide a roadway through the mountains in times of peace, but in times of war, the trap could be released, dropping thousands of tons of rock into the interior of the vast, hollow chamber between the two high walls. That trap had been dropped, many years earlier, to block the advance of the Dark Queen’s army during the War of the Lance.

In the recent decade, Tarn Bellowgranite had become the new master of the place, and he had made it his exiled subjects’ task to carry that rubble up and out of the hall, reloading the trap for a potential future use, and in the meantime, reopening the pass to ease transit for trade and migration.

Most recently, Gretchan and Brandon helped fight a battle to hold that pass against an army of hill dwarves. The attackers had spilled through one of the gates that had been intentionally left open and found themselves packed shoulder to shoulder in the great hall. One of Tarn’s captains, a Klar named Garn Bloodfist, had attempted to release the trap, unleashing a crushing onslaught on the attacking Neidar; only good fortune, or as Gretchan preferred to think, the beneficence of Reorx, had prevented that catastrophe. By rallying the mountain dwarves who garrisoned the place, she and Brandon turned aside the onslaught and exposed the enemy captain, Harn Poleaxe, as a tool of unvarnished evil and blatant sorcery. With the obvious and dramatic assistance of her powerful god, Gretchan the priestess had banished Harn’s dark master and, with Brandon’s help, convinced the hill and mountain dwarves to agree to an uneasy truce.

It seemed that the truce was working. As she approached Pax Tharkas, she saw dwarves working the fields, harvesting the hops, wheat, and barley that ripened early in the high country. One sturdy, white-bearded farmer was hoeing a field near the road, and he gave Gretchan a cheerful wave and a “Howdy, stranger!” welcome. Kondike barked a reply, and a moment later the fellow blinked and let out a whoop of delighted recognition.

“No stranger at all, are you?” he chortled. “It’s Gretchan Pax, come home to her poppa’s fortress!”

Gretchan didn’t recognize the farmer, but that was not surprising; as a high priestess of Reorx, she had been something of a celebrity in the small community for the year before her departure. But at the same time, she was warmed by the greeting, for it reminded her of the unexpected treasure she had discovered there upon her first visit. Otaxx Shortbeard, the father she had not known while she grew to adulthood, still served as Tarn’s chief adviser. She had met him after the battle, and when the two of them had realized their connection, they had both been overcome by a powerful sense of love and destiny.

Invigorated by the memory, she waved cheerfully to the farmer and continued up the steeply climbing road.

The gates of Pax Tharkas, as always except in times of active warfare, stood open, one to the south and one to the north, allowing travelers on the road to stroll right through the great structure. As Gretchan approached, her view revealed the long, lofty hall of the central chamber in the partial shadows of the vaulted ceiling. Her eyes turned upward to the dwarves on the rampart far above her. Dozens of them waved and shouted greetings, apparently alerted to her approach by some unseen word-of-mouth network that carried the news ahead of her, even though she still moved at a brisk walk.

Kondike bounded forward into the hall to be greeted by a butcher with a fresh haunch of pork. The dog woofed appreciation and settled down to gnaw on the bloody morsel. Moments later Gretchan entered and was surrounded by well-wishers and cheerful dwarves. They clapped her on the shoulders and shouted their greetings until, like magic, the crowd parted to allow two old and familiar figures to approach.

“Father!” she cried, welcoming the embrace of Otaxx Shortbeard. He was trembling, she realized, but there was no frailty in his sturdy frame, his muscular arms, his bowed and stocky legs. It was the power of his emotion, she knew, as her own eyes grew moist and she clung to him for an extra few heartbeats, burying her head in the comforting scratchiness of his beard.

The second gray-bearded dwarf approached and held out his arms. Gretchan hugged him then stepped back and curtsied. “And King Bellowgranite,” she said, smiling broadly. “You’re looking well indeed!”

“Oh, posh with this ‘king’ business,” Tarn Bellowgranite replied. “That’s too lofty of a title for the leader of this little mountain outpost. But I must say, I’m glad to see you, child!”

“And I’m glad to be back here, but it’s not just a homecoming. I have wonderful news, so much to tell you all! Can we go somewhere to talk?”

“Reorx knows we could use some positive news,” Tarn said with a sudden, dour look, prompting a stab of concern from Gretchan. What had gone wrong there in the time since she’d left for Kayolin?

But the expression vanished from the king’s face as quickly as it had appeared, and just as quickly he threw an avuncular arm around her shoulders. “Surely all the news can wait,” he said. “You must be famished! I’ll have the kitchen get an early start on the evening meal. We can eat and then we can talk.”

“Really, I’m fine,” Gretchan said. “And just so excited to let you know what’s happening.” At the same time, another burly dwarf, grinning broadly and wearing a metal breastplate, approached. Behind him was a younger fellow, and it took Gretchan a moment to recognize him.

“Oh, hi, Mason!” she said, greeting the king’s garrison captain. She pecked him on the cheek then smiled broadly at the younger dwarf. “And Tor-you’ve grown a foot in the time since I’ve been gone!”

“Uh, not really,” Tor said, awkwardly looking away. Gretchan frowned in puzzlement and not a little concern since the youthful Bellowgranite had always been outgoing and friendly during her previous time in Pax Tharkas.

“Where’s your sister?” the priestess asked cheerfully, and in the sudden silence and with the stricken looks of the gathered dwarves, she understood at least a part of the strange, somber mood.

“She died last winter,” Otaxx explained gently, his voice gruff with emotion. “The fever came through here and took her and several other youngsters.”

“I’m so … so sorry,” she said, clasping Tarn’s hand in both of her own, feeling the hollowness of the words.

He sighed and shook his head sadly. “I guess it’s sunk in now, though we’re still grieving. For a time there, Crystal couldn’t even get out of bed. But Reorx calls only the best to him at an early age.”

“I know that verse,” she replied, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She had never believed it, and it angered her to hear others place the blame for random tragedy at the feet of her ever-just god. Yet if Tarn wanted to believe that it was the will of Reorx, she did not have the heart to contradict him.

“Are you sure you don’t want a hearty meal? Our kitchen does very well for us, you know,” Tarn pressed, changing the subject with forced heartiness.

“Oh, I remember,” she said with a weary smile. Suddenly the import of her great news seemed to have paled. But still, she forced herself to remember that her mission was both important and urgent. “I’ll look forward to joining your meal at the usual time, really I will,” she said. “But I think you should hear my news. All of you-your wife too. Where is Crystal? Is she well?”