Douglas Niles: Fate of Thorbardin

Uneasily, she rose to her feet and walked the circuit of her little camp, holding her precious staff in her hand. The anvil atop that staff, a symbol of Reorx, her immortal god, remained dark and cold, and from that, at least, she could take some comfort. She came back to the fire and settled onto the makeshift seat she’d made with a mossy stump as a backrest. Her backpack was nearby, and she put her hand upon it.

Unbidden, her mind drifted to Brandon, and she was annoyed with herself when she felt a palpable sense of longing. If only he were there …

“Damn it!” she whispered, shaking away the thought. Hadn’t she crossed a continent by herself, safely making hundreds of camps with just her dog as a companion? In some of those places, there’d been hostile armies nearby, raiding bands of goblins, even ogre and minotaur slavers. She’d taken care of herself just fine, thank you very much!

So why was she so nervous?

It was the Redstone, she realized, as her hand tightened involuntarily over the flap of her pack. She had insisted on bringing the artifact with her; she was taking it to Tarn Bellowgranite at Pax Tharkas as proof that the exiled king’s throne was within reach again.

“I’ll come with you!” Brandon had pledged. “As soon as we clear out the horax hive! We’ll travel together-it will be a splendid trip!”

“I have to go now.” Her reply had been firm, unbending during the week of awkward discussion preceding her departure, and indeed, her resolve had resulted in the kind of stiffly formal farewell that, in the depths of the woods, struck her as foolishly prideful and petty. She wished she had kissed him with all the passion she felt, had held him against herself for a long time. Why hadn’t they spent her last night in Kayolin in a blissful embrace, locked themselves away from the distractions of the world?

Instead, they had shared a formal dinner with his parents and some of the governor’s associates. They had talked of politics and warfare until everyone was tired, and she had bade them all her weary and somewhat sulky farewell.

Of course, she knew she was doing the right thing. Her job was to seek out the exiled king in Pax Tharkas, so he could be convinced to prepare his dwarves for the upcoming campaign. When Brandon came after her, a few weeks or months later, he would be marching with a large contingent of the Kayolin Army. Together with Tarn’s dwarves of Pax Tharkas and the hill dwarves of Kharolis, they would be armed with the legendary Tricolor Hammerhead-the Redstone was the final component of that hallowed artifact. Then the dwarves of three nations, acting in unison, would return to fabled Thorbardin, smash their way inside, and liberate their long-suffering countrymen from the reign of despotism, fanaticism, and dark magic that had too long held them in sway.

No, hers had been the right decision. Besides, in addition to cleaning out the horax scourge, Brandon needed to finish recruiting and supplying the large army he was raising, preparing that army for an arduous cross-country march, arranging for naval transport to move the dwarves through the Newsea, and a myriad other details that would have left him no time for Gretchan. Of course, logic and necessity dictated what they must do.

But, damn it all, she still missed him!

Almost unconsciously she pulled out her pipe, carefully cleaned and filled it, then touched it off with an ember from the fire. Inhaling the piquant smoke, she exhaled through her nostrils. Yet even her time-honored ritual couldn’t dispel the melancholy that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her.

It was Kondike’s low growl that finally broke through her veil of loneliness. Immediately she stiffened, both hands closing around the Staff of Reorx. The black dog slowly rose to his feet, the fur on the nape of his neck bristling. His ears were fully raised, and he stared at one shadowy stretch of wood. After the first audible growl, he made no further sound, but when Gretchan touched his shoulder, she found that he was shivering with tension.

With a sudden gesture, she raised the staff, lifting the anvil high over her head. Immediately the clearing around the fire was revealed in a bright wash of light. The glow emanated from the anvil, so Gretchan knew that anyone looking at her would be at least partially blinded from staring at the light, while her own vision remained keen. She stared between the trees, seeking whatever it was that had alarmed Kondike.

She spotted a patch of color, like a woven shawl, and a moment later an old dwarf maid came into view, hobbling out from behind a pine tree. Her hand was held up to shield her eyes from the glowing anvil, partially blocking her face, but even so, Gretchan recognized her.

“The Mother Oracle! From Hillhome!” she declared, loud and accusing. “You worked for Harn Poleaxe!”

The old crone snorted contemptuously. “Harn Poleaxe wasn’t fit to sew the heel on my moccasin,” she retorted. “Don’t confuse me for his tool merely because we served the same master.”

Gretchan rose to her feet, in a wide stance, staff still held high. Beside her Kondike bristled and growled.

Undeterred, the old dwarf woman took a step closer.

“What do you want?” demanded Gretchan Pax. “Why do you seek me out in the wilderness?”

The oracle shrugged. “To do you a favor,” she said. “To give you a warning.”

“What do you have to warn me about?”

“The warning comes not from me, but from my true master.”

Gretchan studied the elderly female, her hand still unwavering as it held aloft the staff and its gleaming anvil. The oracle wore a patched robe, so ratty that it might have been assembled from a hundred multicolored rags. Her face was creased with deep wrinkles, her posture stooped so much that Gretchan could see the thin, white hair on top of her head.

She recalled her first meeting with the oracle, in the town of Hillhome, when the old dwarf woman had conjured up a fire around her hut, then claimed to the aroused citizenry that Gretchan had attacked her. The young priestess had been forced to flee, thwarted in her attempt to learn more about the oracle’s mysterious purpose.

“Do you serve the black minion?” she asked. “The creature that rose from Harn Poleaxe when the dwarf was killed?”

Well did she remember that horrifying apparition, its ember-red eyes, clutching talons, and batlike wings spread wide. The thing had loomed high above her amid the battle in Pax Tharkas, but the power of her god had banished it, driven it back to the nether plane from which it had emerged. And even as she asked that question, Gretchan knew that the minion was not the oracle’s master, that it, too, served the one who had corrupted Harn Poleaxe.

“What is it, then?” the cleric pressed. “What is the threat? Why do you warn me?”

She lowered the staff slightly, though the anvil still cast a broad swath of light. Gretchan was suspicious and alert, wondering whether the oracle brought a genuine warning or planned to spring some kind of trap.

“My master knows of your mission, and he wants you to turn back from Pax Tharkas. If you go there, you will be doomed; Tarn Bellowgranite, all the exiles, will perish.”

“Doomed by what?” demanded Gretchan even as she felt a cold stab of fear. Whether or not the oracle was bluffing, she clearly knew a lot about the cleric’s supposedly secret mission.

“Doomed by forces that will overwhelm the puny power of your priestly magic,” the old dwarf maid sneered. “By powers of sorcery drawn from the black moon, Nuitari! The same powers that devoured the soul of Harn Poleaxe, that drew the minion into this world to serve my master’s bidding!”

Gretchan stamped the butt of her staff on the ground, relishing the solid, fundamental strength of the blow. “I will stand with the power of Reorx at my back and face anything your dark arts can conjure!” she declared.