Douglas Niles - Fate of Thorbardin

Instead, he found himself standing alone in a great, vaulted hall. Rubble and dust lay across the floor, and holes-the detritus of the last war, the conflict between Jungor Stonespringer and Willim the Black-pocked the walls and ceiling. Very slowly, the haze of violence fell away from his eyes, and he slumped, suddenly feeling a great weariness. The floor seemed to tilt, and he dropped to his knees, using the handle of his axe to keep from toppling onto his face.

Leaning over, pressing his face to the cool blade of his mighty weapon, uncaring of the blood that still smeared the steel surface, blood that streaked his cheek and soaked into his beard, he wept.

Vaguely, he was aware that someone was calling his name.

“General! General Bluestone!”

Footsteps clattered nearby. If it had been an enemy, Brandon would have been too dazed, too exhausted to defend himself. Instead, he felt a hand on a shoulder and looked up to see the concerned face of Fister Morewood, commander of the Second Legion.

“The palace is secure, General,” said the loyal officer. “We’ve cleaned out the rest of the garrison.” He looked around, his expression a mixture of awe and wry amusement. “That is, those few that you left for us.”

The captain’s face immediately grew serious again as Brandon pushed himself to his feet and shook off his subordinate’s supporting hand. “Were there any prisoners?” growled the general.

Morewood looked back with a grim expression. “One, sir. He escaped the notice of the first wave, but the follow-up men found him hiding in a closet. We got some information out of him, but … well, he died during the interrogation.”

Brandon nodded, not displeased. “What did you learn?”

“He claims that most of the men of Willim’s defense forces have withdrawn from the city. Apparently they’re going to make a last stand in the widest of the tunnels connecting the city to the shore of the Urkhan Sea. It’s called the Urkhan Road, and it used to be a major trade route, before the Chaos War disrupted all the cities by the sea. We’ve already located the gatehouse leading to that road. It’s well-defended, but I’ve taken the liberty of ordering the Firespitters moved in that direction.”

“Good,” Brandon said. He felt the incredible weariness again, looking around in something like surprise at the sprawl of horribly gashed bodies around him. His axe was still stained with gore, and the sight of that mess disturbed him more than the corpses of his enemy. Quickly he snatched up a piece of dusty but clean linen-apparently once an elegant tablecloth, dating back to some distant time of peace-and used it to wipe his blade to a shining brilliance.

By then, both officers could hear the sounds of loud cheering, coming from the city streets and the plaza beyond the palace wall. They made their way out of the keep to be greeted by several dwarves of the Second Legion, all of them flushed with victory and triumph.

“It’s King Bellowgranite, sir!” one of them proclaimed. “He and the Tharkadan Legion are marching into the plaza. They’re being followed by thousands of dwarves; that’s the cheering you can hear! General, the war is won!”

“It’s not won!” snapped Bluestone, his harsh tone immediately quelling the delight in the soldiers’ faces. “We’ve won a victory, a great victory even, but the enemy army still survives, and our task is not complete until it is destroyed!”

And until I get Gretchan back, or die in the attempt.

“Yes, General! Of course-and, sorry, sir,” replied the chagrined swordsman. “I–I just …”

“You were celebrating the victory, as you should,” Brandon said, much more gently. “You, all you men, have done a splendid job and have every right to be proud. Just remember, this was a battle, not the war.”

“I will, sir. And thank you.”

“Go,” ordered Morewood. “Tell the king that we’ll be out to meet him as soon as possible.”

The men jogged off, and Fister looked Brandon in the eye. He offered him a waterskin, and the general drank greedily, surprised at how thirsty he was.

“Do you need to sit down for a bit, sir? I could find you a bite to eat …”

“No. Thanks anyway, Fister. I’m all right. Let’s go meet the king and then get this whole damned thing over with.”

“Very good, sir. And … I saw Gretchan on the tower, in that cage. But I’m afraid I didn’t see very clearly what happened up there. Did the dragon …?”

Brand’s reply was a sharp bark of laughter. “The dragon died. Gretchan, and her staff, slew it. But then the wizard took her away again. I don’t know where they are now.”

“I’m sorry, General. But you know we’ll find her! There’s not a man in the army who wouldn’t give his life to bring her back.”

“I know, Fister. And thanks, old friend. I needed your good words. Now let’s go welcome Tarn Bellowgranite back to his palace.”

The two officers emerged from the keep and pushed through the main gate, which had been cleared by the diligent efforts of Kayolin diggers. “We had them ready, you recall, but didn’t need to use the Firespitters here,” Morewood explained. “Once the dragon was gone, our men were in control of the walls, and they were able to come down and clear out the courtyard in quick time. After you set the example, of course.”

Brandon blinked, realizing that he barely remembered the fight, his wild and solitary charge into the palace. For the first time, he imagined that he could understand the fury that seized a Klar when the haze of battle frenzy came over him.

Emerging onto the great plaza of Norbardin, they saw the Tharkadan Legion, with King Bellowgranite and his old general, Otaxx Shortbeard, marching at the head. The column of cheering citizenry swirled around the military formation, with maids rushing up to kiss the soldiers or to throw silken scarves at the feet of the returning monarch.

“Long live King Bellowgranite! Hail to the true king!”

The cheers resounded through the great cavern, and despite his gloom and worry, Brandon couldn’t help but feel a resurgence of hope. Yet when he reached the royal party and spotted Gretchan’s father, he was reminded of her absence again; and everything else seemed to pale to insignificance when compared to her dire peril.

Tarn Bellowgranite and Otaxx Shortbeard led the Tharkadan Legion to a station in the great central plaza of Norbardin, and it was there that Brandon joined them.

“Congratulations, my lad!” Tarn proclaimed expansively. “Your Kayolin troops did a magnificent job! The city is retaken!”

“And what word of Willim the Black?” asked Otaxx Shortbeard, ever more practical than his liege.

“He’s taken Gretchan!” Brandon said, seizing Otaxx by the shoulder, clenching the old soldier tightly. “Willim the Black has taken Gretchan! He’s magicked her away, and they’ve disappeared.”

The veteran general’s face paled. “By Reorx-do you have any idea where they have gone?”

“There’s no way to tell. We’ve learned that his army, such of it as survives, is fortifying the main road to the Urkhan Sea. We’re making ready an attack there.”

“By all means, make haste,” Tarn said, overhearing the conversation and immediately growing serious. “We’ll find that villain-and get Gretchan back, I trust.”

Brandon nodded and turned back to the war. He hoped the king was right. But that was all he could go on …

Hope.

Chap Bitters proved to be an inventive and hardworking captain. Operating under Blade Darkstone’s orders, he had sent out numerous small parties of his men, ordering them to quietly muster any of Willim’s troops they could find. Hour by hour he gathered a steadily expanding force in the concealment of the warehouse district.