Douglas Niles - Fate of Thorbardin

“The scouts, the men who climbed the ladders onto the burning balcony when we first stormed the gatehouse,” Brandon blurted, thinking aloud. “They were wearing armor that resisted the fire and masks. There were more than a hundred of them, weren’t there? Are they trapped in here with us?”

Fister’s face twisted in shame and grief. “Aye, General, they are. Only, half of them perished in the first counterattack. Their suits protect them if they move into a hot area, but they can’t withstand the direct force of a Firespitter’s attack.”

“All right. Still, they’re the best hope we have. Lead me to their captain.”

Five minutes later Brandon was speaking earnestly to a young Hylar, Dane Forestall. His unusual appearance was marked by very short hair, and a neatly trimmed beard-grooming that made perfect sense for one who might have to walk through fire.

“I have sixty men left, sir,” the captain said, meeting Brandon’s eyes. “Every one of us is willing to die for you and for the king. But what do you expect us to do?”

“First, you can give up one of those suits and a mask. I’d like to go with you,” Brandon declared.

He waved away the captain’s objections, and a few minutes later, after removing his metal breastplate and helmet, Brandon donned a bulky shirt of leather and a helm of the same material. There were gloves to match, though they were not exactly supple and, in fact, made his fingers resemble sausages. They just barely allowed him to grip his axe, but they would have to do. The mask, made of several layers of padded silk, he slid into place.

“All right,” he said to Dane Forestall, his voice muffled a bit by the thick mask. “You and your men follow me. We’re not going to charge right into the spout of the thing, but we’ve got to be ready to seize any chance.”

Impressed by the general’s courage and silent resolve, the men of Forestall’s company fell into line behind Brandon. They moved forward, closer to the massive, open gates leading into the city, and soon thick, choking smoke surrounded them. Too many bodies to count lay in grisly fashion along the floor; they were men of the Dwarf Home Army caught in the first lethal onslaught. The advancing warriors had to step around the charred, blackened corpses. Brandon’s only spot of hope was the fact that the smoke was so thick that, perhaps, the enemy wouldn’t see their approach until it was too late.

As they drew nearer to the wide portal, Brandon was puzzled to hear sounds of violent conflict. He heard a piercing scream, and the distinct clash of steel meeting steel. Peering ahead through the thinning murk, he saw the hulking, sinister bulk of the two Firespitters. Many dwarves swarmed around the bases of the machines, but through a gap in the smoke, he ascertained that neither crew chief’s seat was occupied.

That meant they had an opening, maybe only a few seconds of opportunity, before the Firespitters could be used again.

“Charge!” he barked, raising his axe, the weapon feeling strange and unwieldy through the heavy gloves.

The dwarves of Forestall’s company charged after him as Brandon rushed out of the gates. He homed in on a large, soot-stained Theiwar as the black-clad dwarf looked up in shock to see the Bluestone Axe plunging toward his forehead.

It was the last thing that dwarf would ever see.

Seconds later the Kayolin dwarves were swarming around the Firespitters.

Everywhere the Theiwar were beset by assailants, with sunburned troops clad in fur and leather shouting the name of Reorx as they chopped and slashed at the outnumbered defenders. The fresh recruits to the war seemed to be everywhere at once, killing and fighting with frenzied violence.

Hill dwarves!

There was no time to wonder how hill dwarves had come to be there. Brandon grabbed one of his own soldiers by the arm. “Go back down the road. Tell Fister Morewood to make haste in this direction with everyone who can still walk. Go!”

As the messenger sprinted back into the tunnel, Brandon led the charge up one stairway at the side of the great gate. Two Theiwar tried to block his path, and they both fell to a single, wild sideways slash of the Bluestone Axe. But the clumsy gloves almost caused him to drop the weapon, so he paused just long enough to pull them off. At the same time he tore the hood and mask away from his face and, thus unencumbered, sprang higher up the stairs.

From somewhere he heard crazed shouting, the battle cries of a soldier bent on killing and destruction. Dimly, he realized that the sounds were pouring out of his own mouth.

At the top of the gate, Brandon found a brace of guards protecting an officer, and he knew he had cornered the enemy commander.

“General Darkstone!” one of the guards shouted. “Get to safety, sir. We’ll handle this one!”

Those were his last words as the Bluestone Axe sliced a great gash sideways across his belly. Gore spilled from the wound as the Theiwar toppled. One of his comrades stepped up to meet the same fate.

“Ah,” said the dwarf called General Darkstone. He nodded, knowingly, at the potent axe in Brandon’s hands. “I believe you must be General Bluestone. It is fitting, is it not, that we should face each other?”

“It is fitting,” Brandon agreed. He felt a stirring of respect for the Daergar who faced him with dignity and pride. But that respect wouldn’t keep him from killing the dwarf if he had the chance.

He felt reasonably confident that Darkstone felt the same way.

The Daergar raised a sword, an ancient weapon with a silver blade and arcane scrollwork running up and down the metal. Like Brandon, he carried no shield. He settled into a fighter’s crouch and sidestepped to move away from the stairs as the Kayolin general moved onto the high platform.

They were the only two dwarves up there; the other guards had fled. The parapet blocked any view of the fight from those on the plaza or within the gates, but plenty of other dwarf warriors, those on the gatehouse walls or in the two battle towers rising to either side, could see the combatants. Those witnesses, often engaged in their own desperate skirmishes, gradually put up their weapons; hill dwarves and Theiwar came to a gradual halt and stood side by side, watching the duel.

Brandon struck first, swinging the axe in roundhouse fashion from the right, the left, and the right again, advancing carefully with each attack. Darkstone fell back but grudgingly, moving just enough to stay beyond his opponent’s reach. Suddenly, after Brandon’s fourth swing, the Daergar struck back, stabbing with lightning quickness. Twisting his axe, the Kayolin dwarf parried the blow with the handle of his weapon. Then it was his turn to give ground, backing away from a series of stabs and chops, each one coming fast.

When he had retreated almost to the top of the stairs, he paused, flexed his knees, and charged again, wielding the axe with short, controlled chops. Darkstone didn’t retreat, and for ten seconds, the two commanders met in a furious clash of steel. The Bluestone Axe slammed against the Daergar’s blade, but that was no mortal weapon; it withstood the blow. Brandon’s weapon stung in his hands. Darkstone met the same result, a slashing blow ringing off the flat of the axe blade, sending him stumbling backward.

For a moment each dwarf paused, breathing hard, trying to catch his wind. Brandon used the back of his bare hand to wipe the sweat from his eyes while Darkstone pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head as if to clear it. Then they were at it again, swinging overhand, chopping and stabbing, dancing away from each other, then charging in with a succession of aggressive blows.

Brandon’s hands stung, and sweat once more streamed into his eyes. He danced away to the side, feinting to the right then hopping to the left and coming in with another series of hacking blows. Darkstone pivoted, desperately blocking those attacks and circling away so he was the one with his back to the stairs. He lunged, sword point extended, his lead foot stomping heavily; then he repeated the attack, forcing Brandon backward with each thrust.