Douglas Niles - Fate of Thorbardin

Sadie, too, was looking at the jar, her eyes wide with horror. “Peat!” she croaked, extending one clawlike hand for an instant before again cowering downward.

“Peat is alive … for now,” Willim declared haughtily. “And he will remain that way, with my sufferance-and your cooperation.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” asked Sadie. Facet couldn’t help but notice that her voice, while not confident, was guarded and cautiously optimistic, no longer terrified.

“I released you because I need you. I need the assistance of true wizards. There are tasks that are beyond the ability of an apprentice, even one with as many talents as Facet here.”

It was all the young dwarf maid could do to keep from moaning out loud. Her master’s words cut her like a knife, deeply, almost fatally. Facet felt her knees grow weak, and she wanted to throw herself on the floor, to plead the case of her own worthiness, to convince the wizard that he needed no one besides herself at his side.

But that reaction would be tantamount to suicide, she understood. So she held her tongue and watched in dismay as Willim extended a hand to Sadie. When the crone took it, he pulled her, roughly but not viciously, to her feet.

“Come,” he said, indicating the other end of his worktable. She shuffled after him as he guided her. “I must discuss a problem with you.”

Facet stared after them, forgotten, forlorn … and increasingly furious.

“Go! Go! Go!”

Brandon heard someone shouting the command, like a drumbeat of sound that somehow rose over the cacophony before him. It was several seconds before he realized that he was the one barking out the word, over and over.

He shook his head and realized that he was sitting on the ground, on a spur of rock with the wall of the cliff as a backrest behind him. Something was in his hands, and when he looked down he saw that it was the haft of the Bluestone Axe. He clutched the weapon as if it were a lifeline, feeling the cool comfort of its eternal strength.

Slowly his vision cleared further. He saw, nearby, a length of steel pipe, a shaft that seemed vaguely familiar. It was broken and bent, but had obviously been carefully crafted.

It was the haft of the Tricolor Hammer! But when he looked at the end of the pole, where the stone head of the weapon had been, he saw only a splintered terminus where the handle, considerably shorter than it had been a few seconds earlier, ended in a broken, jagged cut.

“It’s gone!” he cried despairingly, lifting the handle and groping for the end as if his hands might find what his eyes could not see. “And Bardic-where is he?”

“He’s gone too,” came another sad voice. It was Gretchan, he realized, as she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. He blinked and saw that she was smiling at him, though her eyes swam with tears. “He was consumed by the smash of the hammer,” she explained softly. “He gave his life to achieve our goal and smash the gate.”

“The hammer … it broke the gate?” Brandon asked, still dazed and wondering.

His memories, his thoughts and vision, all seemed to return to him haltingly. He shook his head in frustration and tried to stand, but could not shake off Gretchan’s firm grip when she held him on the ground.

“Rest just for a minute. As for the Tricolor Hammer, it is as you say: It did its job. Look!”

Gretchan’s voice soothed him. She stayed right there, kneeling beside him, holding one hand against his face while the other held her staff upright. The icon of Reorx still glowed like a miniature sun, casting its light against the mountainside. Kayolin dwarves of the First Legion were racing past, two by two, moving quickly away. Only then did he look at where the gate had been.

Turning his head slowly-his neck was surprisingly stiff, as was his whole body-he saw that the smooth gate at the terminus of the mountain trail was simply gone. In its place was a wide gap, like a crack that sheared right down the face of the cliff. Leaning back, he saw that it was a very tall crack, extending as far up the precipice as he could see. Below the gate, the crack continued downward, a yawning crevasse.

The troops of Tankard’s legion were charging into that wide gap, advancing quickly straight into the side of the mountain. The small shelf before the gate was missing, shattered and expanded by some unimaginable force. The great crevasse dropped below, plunging hundreds of feet down through the face of the great mountain.

But there was a ledge beside that crevasse, and that’s where his dwarves were massing and advancing, charging with battle cries and unhesitating courage into the great, black vastness of Thorbardin’s gatehouse.

Gorathian had no need of rest, but occasionally the Chaos creature took time for stillness, a meditation and marshaling of its great strength. It had settled for a period in the deepest chasms below Thorbardin, where the soothing heat of bubbling lava warmed its skin, and the tingling explosion of Abyssal flames teased its nostrils.

Perhaps, as it absorbed the joys of the subterranean furnace, the monster was considering a course of action, even formulating the beginnings of a plan …

But that was unlikely. Ever a beast of impulse and whim, it had little use for plans or schemes. Its objectives were simple.

And right then its objective was clear: destroy the black wizard. The monster craved that wizard’s magic, like a drunkard craves a drink, and soon it would slake its thirst on the Theiwar wizard’s blood.

At the same time, a glimmer of caution still sparked in the back of its chaotic, impulsive brain. It would crave, and consume, the magic.

But it must avoid the power of the god.

Crystal rubbed the rough cord against the squared edge of a rock until her wrists bled. She moved with agonizing slowness, watching through narrowed lids as Garn Bloodfist’s head slumped forward onto his chest. His mouth dropped open, and almost immediately he began to snore loudly.

Was he finally asleep? He must be; she guessed that he was too stupid and transparent to try to fake his own drowsiness.

Then she saw the contradiction in her own reasoning. In fact, the Klar had been wily enough to capture her, to seize her before she’d even had the wits to try to run away, and to tie her hands together while she had still been trying to talk to him, to discern what he wanted, what he hoped to accomplish.

How could I have been so stupid? That, in all honesty, seemed like a more relevant query. She closed her eyes and tried to remain calm, but the reality of the nightmare was settling around her with all-encompassing gloom. What would he do to her? What did he want with her?

For the moment, it seemed important to avoid antagonizing him. The fact that he was sleeping might be something she could turn to her own advantage. So she sawed away at the rough cords, ignoring the chafing of her skin, the cramps that seemed to shift from muscle to muscle with every move she made. The rope was tough, but the edge of the rock was at least minimally sharp, and if she could keep at it long enough-and Garn stayed sleeping long enough-then she might be able to free herself.

And what would she do then? She tried to occupy her mind with thoughts of vengeance, but even then she couldn’t see herself crushing his skull with a rock or driving a dagger through his ribs while he slept. If she fled, she’d certainly make noise, and she very much doubted her ability to get away from him if it came to a chase through the woods.

She shuddered in terror and fatigue, although she allowed herself a bare glimmer of relief. Garn, for all his power, had been content thus far merely to talk to her-at least on that, the first night of her captivity. But she had to face it: her future did not bode well.