Douglas Niles - Fate of Thorbardin

“The creature of Chaos will be drawn to many things … to your beauty, perhaps, and even your faith. But most of all, it shall be drawn to your power. That power is the key to all my hopes, so please, take care that you do not disappoint me.”

The priestess leaned forward and strained against the chains binding her wrists. If she had been free, she would have cheerfully fastened her hands around Willim’s neck and throttled the life out of him. For the time being, she could only glare.

He seemed to sense-and enjoy-her fury. He beamed as she glared.

“You are probably thinking that you would rather die than cooperate with me.”

Her eyes widened slightly, the fury and fear in her gaze telling Willim that he was right in his assumption. The wizard shook his head, dismissing her objection. “You alone will not die. You will see: there will be many, many more who will perish.”

The wizard went to his table and raised the Staff of Reorx, which had been laid there following the cleric’s capture. Gretchan’s stomach lurched in revulsion against the blasphemy of Willim’s hands touching that sacred artifact, but she couldn’t turn away as she watched in horror. Holding the staff before him, he made sure that she watched his every move then continued his tutelage in that maddeningly calm voice.

“This is a powerful tool-in some ways more powerful than any other device at my disposal.”

Gretchan shook her chains, trying to stress that the Staff of Reorx was not his to use.

Again, the wizard seemed to read her mind. “Oh,” he said with a deep, wet chuckle. “But it is.”

“General Bluestone! The king is coming with the rest of the Tharkadan Legion.”

Brandon turned to see that Mason Axeblade had reached him. Axeblade was accompanied by a few dozen of his own men, all as sooty and bloodied as any other dwarves-proof that they had seen heavy action during their advance into the city.

The Kayolin commander stood with the front rank of his men, facing a shattered wall in the middle of Norbardin’s central cavern. It was the royal palace, and though Brandon very much doubted that Willim the Black-and his prisoner Gretchan Pax-would be waiting for them in the battered but still formidable edifice, there was no way around the position. He and his captains realized they would have to storm the place.

In his fury and determination, Brandon had almost forgotten about the rest of the army, and he had to shake his head and force himself to think about Tarn Bellowgranite.

“How far away is he?” Brandon asked.

“An hour, maybe less. He got a very warm welcome from the people when he led the legion into the northern quarter of the city. It seems they’re plenty sick of Willim the Black and of Jungor Stonespringer before him.”

Brandon nodded, still distracted, thinking of Gretchan’s dire peril. But he had to admit that Mason’s report was encouraging; if the dwarves of Thorbardin were prepared to cheer for their exiled monarch, that would make the position of Willim the Black even more tenuous.

But what was the wizard doing to Gretchan?

He forced himself to think and act. “All right. You see that building there, the palace?”

Mason nodded, studying the stony edifice. It was surrounded by a stone wall; that wall was broken and cracked in many places, the damage that still remained from the recent civil war that had resulted in Willim’s gaining of the throne. The large gate was barricaded with several large slabs of stone piled in place, blocking access in and out of the courtyard beyond. One tower rose into view behind the wall, but it was a jagged, broken spire. At one time it had apparently risen high above the floor of the underground city, but it looked like the trunk of a tree that had lost its top to a lightning strike.

“There are a hundred or more Theiwar holed up in there. The rest of the enemy army, mostly remnants, has moved beyond, into the widest of the roads leading down to the Urkhan Sea. But we can’t get at them until we fight our way through the palace.”

He looked up the road, in the direction Mason had come from. He was looking for signs of the two Fire-spitters, but the machines still were not moving forward. Both had exhausted their oil and coal in fighting their way into the city, and Brandon knew they were being reloaded. How much longer would that take?

Only vaguely did Brandon realize that Axeblade was waiting for the general to say something.

“I’m sorry,” Brandon said. “I’m worried about this attack. What was it you asked?”

“Where do you want the king to come?” the captain repeated. “Should I ask him to wait in the north quarter or advance here to the city center?”

“Have him come here, if he’s willing,” Brandon replied. “Maybe the clear proof of his return will bring all the people onto our side and we can be done with this fighting sooner than we ever thought.”

“Aye, General. Good idea,” Mason Axeblade replied. Instead of saluting, he placed a hand on Brandon’s shoulder. “And I heard about Gretchan,” he added solemnly. “We’re all praying for her, and I’m willing to bet that she’s more than a match for that devil wizard!”

“From your mouth to Reorx’s ears,” was all Brandon could think of to say.

Gretchan watched warily as the wizard paced back and forth in front of her small cage. She didn’t know how long she’d been imprisoned, though she guessed that it was more than one day and less than two. Working to battle despair, she had found anger to be powerful medicine, so she focused on her fury.

There were many things to hate about the vile magic-user, beginning with the very philosophy of his order. Wizards of the black robes were those who practiced the darkest forms of magic. Anything was fair business to them in the quest for power. Killing, theft, corruption, control: they were mere tools in the arsenal of any black wizard. Their god, Nuitari, was such a dark presence that his moon was invisible to all mortals, except those who dedicated themselves to the magic of that conscienceless deity.

And, too, she had seen enough of Willim’s works to further fuel her contempt and her rage. She knew that he had planned to kill the hapless but innocent Aghar Gus Fishbiter, disposing of him merely as a means to study the effectiveness of some lethal concoction. It was only pure dumb luck that had allowed the gully dwarf to escape.

Furthermore, Gretchan recognized the beautiful, raven-haired apprentice as the dark wizard who had accosted her in the forest with the intention of killing her. It had only been her dog’s alertness that had saved Gretchan from that assassination attempt. And the apprentice had made it clear that she was operating then under her master’s instructions.

All of those facts fueled her anger and allowed her to resist the powerful urge to fall into despair. So she did not despair, but she was thirsty and hungry-ailments strange to her since her clerical powers allowed her to conjure food and drink more or less whenever she required them.

That conjuring, however, required her to speak a prayer to her god, to ask his favor and blessing. Thus far during her confinement, she had been utterly silenced by the wizard’s spell, unable to vocalize so much as a whisper or even a whimper, which, in her deepest soul, was all she felt like mustering.

Still, she would not give the hideous magic-user the satisfaction of noting her distress. She watched impassively as he came closer, studying her. She sensed that there was something that he wanted to say, so she waited, keeping her guard up and her wits about her.

“You probably expect that you will die in my cage, do you not?” the Theiwar finally said, his voice a sibilant whisper. If he were going for charming, she reflected, he missed the mark by a good deal. She waited for him to continue without reacting to his question.