Douglas Niles - Fate of Thorbardin

“Only if you’ll show a lonely girl around a strange town, soldier,” Gretchan said, smiling through her weariness.

“We’ve made a pretty good start, for tourists,” Brandon pointed out with a grin.

And indeed, they had. The initial blast of the Fire-spitter had been enough to shatter the resistance in the gatehouse, and when the First Legion troops had poured through the breached doorway, the wizard’s defenders had been too few, too disorganized, and in many places too fearful to put up a coherent defense. As a result, the attackers had claimed more than half of the great city in the first day of the battle. They were able to concentrate their forces wherever Willim’s fighters had tried to make a stand and overwhelmed each strong point in turn before moving deeper into the legendary kingdom.

For the Tharkadan Legion, the initial victory had been a return to home. To the Kayolin dwarves, each step forward, each intersection and new building and small square or plaza, was part of the discovery of a new world that nonetheless was familiar in their hearts. None of the northern dwarves had ever seen Thorbardin before, but throughout their lives, all of them had heard of it and held the name and the place in a state of reverence and awe.

From their current resting place, Brandon and Gretchan could survey only a small portion of Norbardin, but the sight was enough to convince them both that it was the greatest underground city in all of Krynn. Even Garnet Thax, the jewel of Kayolin, looked like a piddling small town by comparison.

Great edifices rose along one wall of the vast, cavernous space. Brandon counted at least ten levels on that cliff face, each one marked by columned balconies and lofty windows, porches, and other vantages.

Between their current position and that grand facade lay a series of narrow streets and multistoried buildings, some rising far above their line of sight but others low enough that they could spot the splendid architecture beyond. The crowded lanes of the district below them no doubt usually teemed with pedestrians and vendors, but most of the citizens of Thorbardin had been content to lock themselves into their homes when the invasion began. Brandon had received encouraging reports indicating that a great portion of the populace was not enamored of either Willim the Black or his predecessor, Jungor Stonespringer. One tyrant was the same as the other, as far as they were concerned. Word of Tarn Bellowgranite’s return was slowly spreading among the common people, advancing well ahead of the army.

Brandon and Gretchan looked up to see Tankard Hacksaw heading toward them. The legion commander was caked with dirt and sweat and had a bloody cut running across his forehead. But he also carried a decanter of water, and it was the most beautiful thing either of them had ever seen.

“Help yourselves,” he said with a tight smile, handing the tall glass vessel to Gretchan.

The priestess took a deep draught and passed it to Brandon before pushing herself to her feet with an effort. “Here, let me have a look at that cut,” she said concernedly.

“Bah!” Tankard waved her away. “It’s nothing. There’s them who’re hurt a lot worse than me. Besides, you already did me more than fine when you plucked that arrow out of my shoulder.”

“Well, it looks like you hurt yourself again. Can’t you be a little more careful?” Gretchan chided good-naturedly. “Rest assured that I’ll do what I can for the rest of your men. But you’re a legion commander. We can’t have you losing blood like that. Sets a bad example.” She smiled lightly. “You’ll scare the recruits.”

“Ah, all right,” Tankard said. His knees nearly buckled as he sank down on the bench, and Brandon saw that he was more seriously injured than he’d been letting on. But the cleric pressed her palm against the bleeding cut and murmured a prayer to Reorx. After several moments she pulled her hand away, and her palm and Tankard’s forehead were both cleansed of blood.

“That’s a small miracle right there,” admitted the captain, wiping his own hand over his face and looking at it in amazement. “Praise be to Reorx!”

“And praise be to you too,” Brandon added sincerely. “That was a masterful job of leading your legion through the barracks.”

“The hardest part was getting over my astonishment, when Bardic Stonehammer broke the mountain open with that three-colored piece of rock! It was the most astounding thing I’ve ever seen!”

“I’ll grant you that,” the Bluestone dwarf replied. “I couldn’t quite believe it myself.”

“Now you both need to get some rest,” clucked Gretchan maternally. “The war will still be going strong when you wake up, I’ll warrant.”

“Only if you agree to get some sleep as well,” Brandon said. His eyes narrowed in concern as he noted the weariness in Gretchan’s face, the glaze of exhaustion that had suddenly seemed to settle over her eyes.

At first, she looked ready to argue, but apparently she took stock of his words and realized that his advice was sensible. She nodded and leaned on her staff as they looked around for a likely place to stretch out for a few hours.

For the moment, there were only the three of them on that high balcony, though hundreds of dwarves-all from their own army-were in sight on the streets and plaza below. The barracks hall connecting to the balcony was already home to dozens of sleeping dwarves, weary survivors of the First Legion, but Brandon reasoned that there’d be an office or storeroom nearby where Gretchan, at least, could have some privacy.

“You’ll be safe here, far behind the battle lines,” Tankard said. “And now that I feel a lot better, I think I’ll go check on my men.”

“Aye, old friend,” Brandon said, clapping him on the shoulder. “And once again, well done.”

“You too, General,” Tankard said. Brandon turned to Gretchan as Tank took a step toward the door into the barracks. That was when the captain abruptly halted and cried out in alarm.

“Look out!”

The words were barely uttered when Tank flew backward and past Brandon, propelled by some unseen force that blasted him right over the railing and toward the street two dozen feet below.

Brandon was already reaching for his axe when another blast of force knocked him over, battering him like a falling wall. He heard Gretchan scream, and he struggled to turn around and go to her aid, battling a great weight that seemed to press him to the floor.

Gretchan cried out again; then he saw her, bound by some kind of web that had simply materialized in the air. But no! There were dwarves there, two of them. They were dressed in black robes. One was a strikingly attractive female, with blood red lips and flowing black hair. The other was a sturdy Theiwar male who had his back to Brandon. The web seemed to be exploding from the Theiwar’s hands, wrapping Gretchan around and around until she might as well have been secured in a cocoon.

“No!” Brandon cried, pushing himself to his knees.

The black-robed Theiwar turned, flashing a wicked smile, and Brandon was shocked by his scarred visage, a hideous face with the eye sockets sewn shut. Even so, as he took in that cruel, gloating expression, he knew that the villainous dwarf could see him!

Then, in a flash of magic, the two black-robed wizards disappeared. With a sickening lurch of fear, Brandon saw that Gretchan had vanished too. They had taken the priestess with them.

“I don’t have any food to speak of,” the rescued dwarf maid admitted to the trio of rapt gully dwarves who had fixated on the word food . “But I’ll take you to some first thing in the morning. Eggs, bacon, milk, cheese … I’ll treat you to a real feast.”