Douglas Niles - Fate of Thorbardin

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.