Douglas Niles - Fate of Thorbardin

“Looks like we might as well get on with it,” the smith said calmly.

Brandon took one last glance behind him, holding up his hand to halt the initial vanguard of the column several dozen paces behind him. Gretchan remained at his shoulder, though they both backed up enough to avoid the backswing of the mighty artifact, which Bardic intended to drive upward and over his head in a straightforward blow.

The cleric started to chant, invoking the name of Reorx, speaking words in an ancient tongue. Brandon did not recognize the words, but they seemed to infuse him with strength, causing the blood to pulse through his veins, the energy of his body to hum and crackle in his ears. The head of Gretchan’s staff glowed, so bright he couldn’t look at it.

Bardic Stonehammer stood still, with the artifact resting on his shoulders. His face was peaceful, eyes half closed, and he seemed to be listening very carefully to the priestess’s prayer. Brandon took a half step forward, unable to restrain his eagerness, until the smith breathed a long sigh and shook his head.

“Don’t try to help me,” he warned. “I will do this alone.”

So instead, Brandon stepped back alongside the priestess and waited. The face of the gate was outlined brilliantly in the glow from the cleric’s anvil, and in that light he discerned a faint line, a crack no wider than a blond hair, running vertically through the surface of Thorbardin’s gate.

Bardic apparently saw that possible crack too. Taking the Tricolor Hammer in both hands, he drew a deep breath, raised it high, and let the artifact drop slightly to swing it low behind his shoulders. His muscles tensed until, with a smooth exhalation, he whipped the hammer upward, impossibly high, and drove it with all his strength into the granite surface of the gate. The three stones of the hammerhead met the gate exactly above that hairline crack.

Then a storm broke around them all.

Kondike paced around the upper wall of Pax Tharkas. Frequently he stopped at one of the crenellations in the battlement, rose to rest his forepaws on the stone, and stared anxiously along the winding southward road. She, his mistress, his beloved Gretchan, had gone that way, accompanied by a countless swarm of other dwarves, all girded for war. And she had bade him, Kondike, to stay there and wait for her.

He wasn’t used to that kind of treatment, and he didn’t like it, not one bit. Restlessly he backed down from his upright perch and paced some more, back and forth across the platform. He whined and sniffed the air, but there was neither promising scent on the breeze nor any sound that might indicate his owner’s imminent return.

He looked toward the door, the way that led into the tower, that allowed passage down the stairs and eventually out the front gate. That door was still closed, so the dog resumed his pacing, broken only by the frequent looks toward the Kharolis Mountains. He ignored the two sentries who paced back and forth, just as they ignored him. Every once in a while, another anxious whimper escaped him, and he would return to the parapet, rise onto his hind legs, and once again stare southward. Seeing nothing, he’d then go back to pacing, occasionally glancing toward the door.

Finally that door opened, and the dog’s ears perked up at the sight of the young dwarf emerging into view with a dish and a bucket. Kondike raced over, tail wagging, and immediately set to work chewing and swallowing the scraps of bread, gravy, and fatty meat that filled the bowl to the top.

Of course, he still missed Gretchan, but food was food. And the food was right there.

While Kondike ate and drank deeply from the bucket of fresh water, the young dwarf scratched the big dog’s head or stroked the strong ridge of backbone extending down along his sturdy frame. The nice, young dwarf had been there every day since Gretchan had left, and Kondike had gone from tolerating him to welcoming him, especially since, at least once a day, the lad brought him food.

“I wish I could go too,” the young dwarf said in a low voice, speaking more to himself than to the dog. “My father’s going to war to get his kingdom back. Gretchan and all those other dwarves are going to help him, and I’m stuck here, waiting to find out what happened. I should be out there with them. I’m certainly old enough to wield a sword!”

The dog gave the youth an ambiguous look, swiping a sopping tongue across his smooth face. Then Kondike sat, hopeful and attentive. It would be unusual for the dwarf, or anyone, to give him a second meal immediately following the first. But in case it happened, the dog would be ready to eat. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Instead, the dwarf boy wanted to talk, apparently. Kondike huffed, not impatiently, and settled on his belly, resting his head on his forepaws while he listened, only half interested at first, to the sounds of the lad’s voice.

“Want to know a secret?” the young dwarf was saying, his voice tense and quiet. “About Garn Bloodfist? No one else knows, but I let him out, you know? He didn’t escape on his own. But I didn’t like my mother talking to him all the time; I wanted him to get out of here. So I unlocked his cell door and let him go.”

The dog raised his eyebrows, almost quizzically, as the quiet words reached his ears. He, like most dogs, was a good listener, nonjudgmental and very patient. The boy seemed to appreciate that.

“I never thought my mom would actually leave. Going back to Hillhome, they said. Why? Why?”

Finally he stood up and went over to the wall, to the same parapet where Kondike had been staring to the south. The dog trotted over after him, while the young dwarf simply stared into the distance, resting his beardless chin on his fist.

“This is stupid!” he said finally, his tone vehement enough to cause the dog to tilt his head in puzzlement. “I mean, we’re just sitting here, doing nothing.” He waved at the mountain range rising along the southern horizon. “Everything happening in the world is going on out there!”

Finally he seemed to make a decision, looking down at Kondike as if seeking some kind of agreement or validation.

“Come on!” he said finally, starting-at last! — for the door to the stairs, to the hall, and to freedom. “Let’s go to Thorbardin,” he added quietly.

Kondike wasn’t sure about Thorbardin, but for the dog, it was enough just to “go.”

General Blade Darkstone walked once again through the ranks of his garrison troops, the veteran dwarves he had handpicked to stand at the north gate of the kingdom. His master and king, Willim the Black, had ordered him to be ready to defend the gate against attack, so Darkstone had made ready. He had been ready for days.

Scant hours earlier, the wizard had informed him that an enemy army was indeed approaching Thorbardin and that he and his men should get themselves ready to face a fierce attack. Darkstone had studied the fortifications of the great gate, seeking any potential weakness, and came away satisfied there was none. He made sure that his men were alert and sober, ready to fight if they were attacked. And he kept his own eyes open.

Still, Darkstone couldn’t imagine how any army could hope to drill its way through the massive gate, not without a thunderous amount of noise and at least a week’s worth of intensive labor, during which time he and his defenders would easily slaughter them. But his was not to question his ruler-that he knew from long experience-so instead he obeyed and prepared and kept his eyes open. He had even gone so far as to bring another three hundred dwarves up there, all of them trusty Theiwar, so he had five hundred veteran warriors crammed into a barracks designed to hold half that number.