Douglas Niles - Fate of Thorbardin

Tarn ignored the question, though that scowl flashed on his face again, fleetingly, before he clapped his hands. “Very well-we’ll hear your news in my council chamber. Otaxx, Mason, come along with us. Tor, you too.”

“Um, Father … there’s something I have to do. Can you tell me about it later?” said Tor.

Tarn shrugged as though it were no matter to him. “Very well,” he replied. “Now come this way,” he concluded, taking Gretchan by the arm and leading her toward the official chambers at the base of the West Tower.

The mad dwarf huddled in his cell, chewing on his lip, which was worn bloody by the relentless assault of his teeth. The salty blood was like nectar to him, and he could feel it sinking into his gullet, restoring his strength, clearing his mind, helping as always to focus his thoughts.

It had been a long time since the queen had come to speak with him, and Garn Bloodfist’s thoughts had grown darker and more tormented in that interval. He hated so many things that it was getting hard to keep them straight. But he would try.

He hated the king, his former master, who had ordered him locked away there.

He hated Mason Axeblade, his former comrade, who had affixed the shackles to his wrists and brought him there.

He hated the priestess Gretchan Pax, who had preached her foolish and naive message of peace and, in doing so, thwarted the bloody victory that had stood just within reach of the mountain dwarves.

He hated the hill dwarves who had been his enemies for all his life.

But he loved the hill dwarf who was queen in that place … but she was the wife of the hated king … but she was the only one who had come there to talk to him, to soothe his anxious soul. Didn’t he love her? It was hard to remember. But he had to! He should! She was good and kind and gentle!

Yet it had been very long since she had come there, so perhaps he hated her too.

It helped the mad dwarf, helped very much, for him to organize his thoughts in such an orderly fashion. For a short time, he was able to stop chewing his lip, to cease the relentless chatter in his mind as he contemplated and studied the long list of his enemies.

So intent was his meditation that he did not hear the subtle sound until several seconds had passed. Even then he wasn’t sure. Had he imagined the noise, or had someone been in the hallway just outside of his cell?

Slowly, stealthily, the mad dwarf rose from his pallet of filthy straw, stepping carefully across the tiny chamber until he reached the door. The noise had come from just outside that door. He was certain that it had been more than his imagination.

“Who is it?” he hissed warily.

There was no response.

Tentatively, he reached forward, touching the door, almost as if he hoped to feel the presence of his visitor through the hard, wooden planks. He strained upward and peered through the bars of the narrow window, but he could see nothing. Yet as he stood tall, he lost his balance, tumbling against the door.

He put his hands out to block his fall, and to his astonishment, the door swung open.

The sound! It had been the catch on the door being released by a stealthy visitor! That visitor was gone.

And the mad dwarf was free.

It took but a few minutes for Gretchan and her hosts to retire to Tarn’s office, but she still had to fidget impatiently as Tarn took care of getting everyone a cool glass of dwarf spirits. She knew that such imbibing was a traditional part of any high-level council of dwarves, but she could barely contain her impatience as the king filled her glass then Otaxx’s, Mason’s, and finally his own.

He had barely finished his courtesies when the door opened to reveal Tarn’s wife, Crystal Heathstone. Gretchan had become good friends with the hill dwarf female, who was considerably younger than her husband, during the cleric’s stay in Pax Tharkas, and she quickly rose and gave Crystal a warm embrace. At first glance she noticed the former queen’s haggard look, the lines of tension radiating outward from her suddenly old-looking eyes. She filed that observation away for future, private conversation. For the time had finally come for her to share her astounding news.

She opened her backpack and pulled out the wedge of blood-red stone. She laid the artifact on the exiled king’s desk and stood back as his eyes widened in appreciation and recognition.

“The third part of the hammer!” Tarn said at once. “But … how did you come to have it? You were going to Kayolin, and we all thought that it was in Thorbardin.”

“You’re right on both counts,” Gretchan said. “It’s a long story, but in brief, we owe it to a gully dwarf.”

“You reached Kayolin, then?” asked her father. “And Brandon-is he well? Did you leave him there?”

“There’s so much to tell,” Gretchan said. “Brandon is on his way here, with several thousand Kayolin troops. I came on ahead with the Redstone so that we could meld it with the blue and green parts, and forge the Tricolor Hammerhead. You’ll have to assemble your best smiths and alchemists, of course. And I’ll help in any way I can-that is, if a humble priestess can be of service.”

“Wait!” Tarn held up a hand. “Kayolin is sending an army? Here? Maybe you should take your time and start at the beginning.”

So she did. Her four listeners found seats as Gretchan paced around the spacious office, describing the events that had resulted in Brandon Bluestone’s father rising to the governorship of Kayolin and the new sense of political will and cooperation that led to the dispatching of a large force to aid Tarn in reclaiming his rightful throne in Thorbardin.

“Gus Fishbiter, of all people, is the one who brought us the Redstone. You’ll all remember him; he’s the Aghar who-accidently but fortunately-disabled the trap here before Garn Bloodfist could release it on the Neidar. Anyway, he was able to magically travel from here back to Thorbardin, and he somehow stumbled onto the Redstone. He also learned that the war is actually happening there, the civil war between the black wizard and Jungor Stonespringer’s fanatics. Then he used the same kind of magic-a dimension door spell, it was, cast by some Theiwar wizards-to escape. Only instead of returning here, he found himself in Kayolin. That’s where Kondike found him and brought him to me.”

“Stop!” Tarn ordered again, frowning. “We discovered some Hylar and Daergar here, in Pax Tharkas. They said they came here through this dimension door you speak of. They said they’d been eager to get away, that conditions in Thorbardin were very bad. But what’s this about the war? You say a war’s really happening? In Thorbardin?”

“Yes! Gus couldn’t make up the details he gave me. He even talked about a huge dragon, a fiery serpent, fighting on the side of the wizard’s army. But victory was far from settled, and the destruction, inflicted by and upon both sides, is great. Thorbardin is suffering, and her defenses are weakened and conflicted. The time is perfect for us to move against the underground nation. While they are tearing at each other’s throats, we can return and claim your throne back for you and your line.”

“But the Kayolin Army …?”

“They’re on the march by now, certainly. Garren Bluestone was going to arrange for passage across the Newsea; he thought he could get assistance from the emperor of Solamnia. I came on ahead so that we could forge the hammer. And also so that we could have time to recruit the hill dwarves to help in our campaign. Slate Fireforge, in Hillhome-can we send for him at once, enlist his help in raising troops?”

Gretchan noticed the frown creasing Tarn Bellowgranite’s face. “What is it?” she asked immediately. “Have the Neidar gathered against you again? Just in the time since I’ve been gone?” She couldn’t hide her despair. She had been convinced that the treaty signed at the end of the previous year’s battle would be one that would stand the test of time. “We have their promise on the pact! Have they given some kind of word that they won’t honor it?”