Douglas Niles - Secret of Pax Tharkas

“These mountain dwarves in Pax Tharkas are the hated Klar, the arrogant Hylar! They are the ones who sealed Thorbardin against our kind long ago, when the gods sent the Cataclysm raining down upon our world! And they are the ones who visited such terrible devastation upon us when the wizard Fistandantilus, wanting only fairness for our ancestors, sought passage through the undermountain lands.”

He drew a breath, letting the powerful images of the past, each evoking a tragic racial memory, wash over the gathered fighters. Taking a long drink, he allowed the tension to build before he spoke again.

“This Hylar captain who struck Hillhome out of the calm of a peaceful morning, whose warriors slaughtered our women and children and left their bodies to bleed in the street, he should be the first to die… and then all the arrogant ones like him. I ask you, my clansmen, are we to put up with Hylar arrogance forever?”

A resounding “No!” roared from a thousand and more throats-at least from the throat of every hill dwarf who was close enough to hear what Poleaxe was saying. The rest filling the streets, the throng extending to the far outskirts of town, also cheered and shouted as the message that was passed to them increased in shrillness and hate.

Then a murmur, followed by a hush, spread through the gathering, moving in reverse of Harn’s message, like a wave flowing from the town’s outskirts toward the central square. Poleaxe was surprised to see that the wave originated from the narrow lane where the Mother Oracle lived, and as he watched, he saw the crowd of hill dwarves parting to allow one, still unseen from the square, to pass. He allowed himself to hope.

She came! The old dwarf crone hobbled forward, leaning on a crooked staff, her shawl wrapped tightly around her skinny frame, exposing only her wrinkled face, her pale, blind eyes, and the clawlike fingers of her hands. The hill dwarves gawked at her rare appearance-she hadn’t been outside of her hut in years-and gave her a wide berth, pressing onto the sidewalks and alleys as she tottered along the center of the street.

As she entered the square, the whole town fell silent, and a wide path appeared in the throng as it became clear that she was making for the raised platform where Harn Poleaxe stood. He hopped down to the ground and took her hand as she reached the edge. Still holding the jug in his other hand, he guided her up the steps and onto the dais.

“Behold, my Neidar!” Harn bellowed. “The Mother Oracle has come to bless our endeavor!”

The cheer that washed over them was sudden, loud, and sustained. Harn, who loomed over the old woman, was conscious of her stature, as if she were the large one. He stood back and, as the warriors settled in to listen, the crone raised her hand and waved it in the air. The Neidar, as a group, sighed in pleasure as if a physical blessing had been bestowed.

“My beloved hill dwarves,” she began, in a high-pitched voice that, somehow, seemed to carry to all the many thousands of ears in attendance. “Today you embark upon a mission that is blessed by Reorx himself. For ever is our god a foe of injustice, and never has a people suffered greater injustice than his Neidar.

“The mountain dwarves have wronged you, tortured you, made war upon you for many centuries. For all those years, you have been patient and virtuous, disdaining the vengeance that is so rightfully yours. Yet each crime against you, each murder and theft and injustice, has been catalogued by the Master of the Forge. And soon, my Neidar, that record of wrongs shall be made right!

“For know: you march on a quest that is greater than your own desires, mightier than the wrongs that have been done just to you warriors alone. You march to right the wrongs that have been done to all your people, for all the years of the world. You march in righteousness! You march to vengeance! And most of all, you march to victory!”

At her last word, she clenched her talonlike fingers into a fist. A cloud of smoke erupted from the place where she stood, provoking gasps of awe. Even Harn Poleaxe took a step back, gaping in astonishment as the smoke dissipated and he discerned that the old dwarf woman was gone. He raised his jug and took a long drink, aware of the murmurs growing into a dull roar from the gathered throng.

Poleaxe stood tall, raising his long arms over his head and clasping his hands together into a single triumphant fist. The power of the potion pulsed through him, and he felt as though he could smash down the walls of Pax Tharkas with the blows of his own flesh.

But he had an army to carry those walls.

“My Neidar!” he cried, and his voice was like the roar of a bull ogre. “March with me! Make war on the mountain dwarves! Carry their fortress, and end their miserable lives!”

And, he told himself with a private smirk, he had an even more potent ally in reserve-a creature whose desire for killing and vengeance rivaled his own. As the roars of approval rose from the throats of his troops, he sensed the power of his great band, and he knew they were invincible.

“Now, hill dwarves! Now we march! We march to avenge our ancestors! We march to punish our foes! And we march to bring the Neidar to the greatness that has ever been denied!”

The final roar swelled like thunder, carrying through the town, into the air, up and over the ridges of the surrounding hills. The noise had echoed, like terrible thunder or the crashing of powerful waves, as the hill dwarves zestfully hoisted their weapons and marched to war. Even then, a week’s march north of the town, drawing ever closer to their ancient objective, the songs of war and victory rose from the Neidar throats, resounding from the mountain ridges, carried on wings of battle toward the ears of Reorx himself.

“Open this gate, you miserable runt-you filthy gully dwarf!” roared the dwarf captain, pounding his fists against the bars of the portcullis. “Or I’ll tear your arms off and stuff them into your useless mouth!”

Gus huddled on the floor, just on the other side of the closed portcullis-wisely staying far enough away that the trapped mountain dwarves couldn’t reach him with their swords, which they had poked through the grid as soon as they realized they were trapped. He was too terrified to do anything, much less run away.

The Aghar stared, open mouthed, at the enraged dwarves. He wasn’t sure how they had managed to get trapped, though in the back of his mind he suspected it had something to do with the lever he had grabbed. The eyes of the great captain bulged so far from his face that it seemed as though they might pop right out of his head.

“I only want to climb wall,” he protested. “I not try to drop gate!”

His pleadings only seemed to inflame the dwarves. The big captain practically foamed at the mouth, while his two big henchmen each took hold of the nearest gate. Working together, straining until sweat streaked their skin and veins bulged on their foreheads, they were able to lift the massive barrier only scant inches before it crashed back down and they collapsed, gasping for breath.

“I tell you-if you don’t open this gate immediately, your fate will be a suffering that your worst nightmares could never imagine.” The captain’s eyes were wild, bulging, and staring, and he snarled like a wild animal, straining to reach through the closely set bars.

Gus, having endured some very terrible nightmares in his pathetic life, found the threat to be ominous indeed. But he simply didn’t know how to raise the gate, and all the blustering warnings in the world weren’t going to change that. He was terribly afraid of the big, furious dwarves, but it gradually dawned on him that he might sneak away from there and, so long as the gate remained closed, his antagonists wouldn’t be able to chase him.