Douglas Niles - Secret of Pax Tharkas

“Seize him-take him back to his cell!”

Before the poor man-at-arms could react, however, another door burst open and a gasping, red-faced watchman, one of the sentries posted atop the Tharkadan Wall, staggered into the room.

“There’s a column of hill dwarves in sight!” he announced, panting for breath following his long run down from the parapet. “Thousands of them! They’re two miles away, and they’re fast nearing the gates!”

“Is this attack your doing?” Tarn Bellowgranite demanded coldly. His eyes never left Gretchan’s. “Perhaps you are the true Neidar spy-come here to divert us! You hold us here, captive to your magic. And all the while your allies in the hill dwarf army are creeping up on the fortress, readying a surprise attack!”

“I tell you, she cannot be trusted!” Bloodfist declared, shaking his fist, straining to move his feet from where the priestess’s magic had stuck him to the floor. “Her whole story is a lie-a distraction, as you have well guessed, my thane.”

“No!” Gretchan protested, her voice breaking. “I know nothing of this attack; I’m against all wars and attacks!”

“I can’t afford to believe you,” Tarn Bellowgranite declared. “Not when my fortress, my whole community, is at risk. Release us at once! I command you, treacherous witch!”

“I’m telling the truth!” she insisted, wincing as if the thane had struck her.

Brandon listened, trembling with barely controlled anger. If he’d carried a weapon, he would have turned it against the Hylar thane and his bloodthirsty captain.

“What are your orders, my thane?” asked the messenger from the top of the wall, whose eyes darted around, confused, as he listened to all their strange talk. He was the only one of the Pax Tharkas dwarves who was not immobilized by Gretchan’s spell.

“Get word to the garrison troops at once!” Otaxx Shortbeard ordered when it seemed that Tarn could not tear his eyes away from Gretchan. “Order the gates closed.”

“Free us at once!” Garn shrieked, eyes bulging. “Your treachery is further proved with each passing second!”

The priestess stepped to Brandon’s side and took his hand. “Be ready to move quickly,” she whispered and shifted toward the far wall of the room, the place where the chain disappeared into the Tharkadan Wall. To Gus she instructed: “Gus, I want you to listen closely now. It’s time for you to go. Go safely, go down below, to Agharhome. I know about your… friend down there. She’s a good friend and she misses you. I know that she’s been looking for you.”

The Aghar stared up at her, enchanted and dumbfounded. His eyes welled up with tears. She knew everything, it seemed.

Her gaze flickered over to Garn Bloodfist as she gave the gully dwarf a good-bye hug. “And don’t let a mountain dwarf bully scare you. You’re one of the bravest dwarves I’ve ever known.”

“You have seen the proof yourself!” Garn insisted, reaching out, grasping Tarn’s arm in one of his hands. “She’s a witch! An enemy! A traitor!”

Gretchan stamped her staff onto the floor, and the silver anvil on the head of the staff pulsed with light. “I am a priestess of Reorx! I serve the Lord of the Forge and seek only the betterment of dwarfkind. Sometimes it seems that dwarves themselves are the biggest obstacles to their own happiness!”

She lifted the staff from the floor, holding it in both of her hands as she gazed raptly at the men-at-arms who had been frozen by her command. “I free you,” she said. Then she looked at Garn, shook her head, and turned her gaze on Tarn.

“Thane Bellowgranite, I am no enemy, no traitor, nor am I a witch. I seek a better world for all dwarves! That means mountain dwarves and hill dwarves.” She smiled wanly and winked at Gus. “Even gully dwarves. We’re all the favored children of Reorx.”

“The Neidar are even now launching an attack against us-and surely you know the story of what the dwarves of Thorbardin did to me-to clan Daewar as well-to all of those who remained behind!” Tarn protested. “The fanatics of Thorbardin rose up in revolution, were blinded by ideology and rank greed. They threw me out of my own kingdom! How can you suggest that I find common ground with them?”

“Because it’s the only way! You must find a way to forgive them, to lead your people into the future.”

“Impossible!” roared Tarn, stepping forward hesitantly, as if uncertain that his feet really had been freed. He shook his head ruefully. “You may not be a witch, but you are a sorry idealist.” He turned to his veteran commander, finally, when he was convinced that the spell had been broken. “General Shortbeard, see to the garrison. Get the troops on the walls, the auxiliaries taking care of ammunition. The gate crew should start turning the capstan; we don’t have much time.”

“Aye, my thane,” declared the elder officer, limping toward the door… but not before he cast a speculative glance at Gretchan over his shoulder. He finally charged from the room, his voice booming with command; he still sounded like a dwarf general, even if he wasn’t as spry as he used to be.

Meanwhile, Tarn’s eyes flashed with anger as he pointed firmly at the priestess. “You will leave this place and never return! And this one”-he pointed at Brandon but spoke to the dwarves closest to Brandon-“Garn is right for once; take him back to his cell!”

“Go-now!” Gretchan said, seizing Brandon’s hand and sprinting to the wall of the large room. He saw her idea at once: the gap where the heavy chain passed through the wall into the interior of the Tharkadan trap. It would be a narrow squeeze between hard stone and even harder iron, but the Kayolin dwarf followed Gretchan as both leaped into the narrow notch and scrambled like monkeys along the links that disappeared beyond the hole.

Garn’s dwarves came charging after. One Klar lunged after Brandon, reaching for his foot, but Brandon kicked him in the face, knocking him backward with a satisfying crunch of bone. The dwarf fell and his companions tripped over him. By then, Brandon was chasing Gretchan into the darkness. It was only later that he wondered about the gully dwarf and the dog Kondike.

“The gates are open, Lord Poleaxe!” shouted one of the hill dwarf spearmen, hoisting his weapon over his head and shaking it joyfully.

“I can see that, you fool. Now keep running!” Harn commanded. He took a deep, satisfying gulp from his spirits and felt the potent liquor augmenting the potion, pulsing through his bloodstream with eerie, arcane force. He wanted nothing so much as to drive his sword through an enemy’s flesh, to warm his hand in the flow of fresh blood.

“Move! We must get there before the damned mountain dwarves have a chance to close it in our faces!”

In fact, every Neidar in the army was running as fast and hard as he could. The prospect of a surprise attack against the vaunted fortress drove them to an impressive burst of speed. They were running so hard that they didn’t have any breath left to give voice to their battle cries.

Harn, in the very front rank of the surging column, could scarcely believe his eyes. He saw the two towers, the massive, square citadels that flanked the walls, rising like mountains before him. Even at more than a mile’s distance, he had to crane his neck just to see the tops of the spires. And that vast wall, stretching like a cliff across the whole breadth of the steep-walled valley, looked like an utterly impassable obstacle, a perfect defensive bastion.

Except that the broad, tall gate was standing open, almost as if the mountain dwarves were extending a welcome to their cousins from the hills.