Douglas Niles - Secret of Pax Tharkas

And even more significant to Brandon’s eye was that battle axe itself: the Neidar Rune carried Brandon’s own weapon, the family heirloom that had been Balric Bluestone’s, stolen from Brandon upon his first capture. The Kayolin dwarf growled an almost animal sound and flexed his knees, stepping toward the edge of the platform. Even though he was unarmed, he eagerly awaited the hill dwarf’s charge, and he looked almost foolishly vulnerable to his frenzied attacker.

With a howl of rage, Rune sprang upward, hesitating only slightly in the face of Brandon’s reckless advance. That was all the opening the Kayolin dwarf needed. He stepped back nimbly, and Rune stumbled as he tried to land on the lift platform, which was a few feet higher than the floor. Brandon lowered his shoulder and charged, driving into his opponent’s solar plexus, plunging too close for the long-hafted weapon to come in to play.

The two dwarves tumbled to the platform, rolling to the side, and Brandon-his muscles fueled by long weeks of frustration and indignity-drove a fist into the underside of Rune’s jaw. The hill dwarf’s head snapped back with a crack of bone as his spine fractured. He fell dead, and Brandon snatched the axe from his lifeless fingers before his body even stopped twitching.

Still tense from the sudden combat, he raised the axe over his head and shouted at his dumbfounded observers. “I’m telling the truth! Get out while you can!”

The flow of the attackers coming in the gate had slowed dramatically as they heard the warnings from Brandon and from other fleeing Neidar, and in another few moments, the advance had stopped altogether, the front rank of hill dwarves remaining outside the gate, peering nervously upward and edging back. More and more of Brandon’s listeners were streaming toward the gate as well.

Getting the attention of the dwarves actively engaged in combat was a tougher challenge, the Kayolin dwarf knew. “Warn your comrades!” he exhorted his listeners. “Get them out of here-as many as will listen. There’s no time to waste!”

Some of the Neidar did head toward one or the other pocket of battle, though more thought ill of the risk. Brandon stayed on the lift platform, waving and shouting, drawing the attention of more and more Neidar. Then he heard an enraged shout, a voice that compelled his attention.

“My prisoner!” roared Harn Poleaxe, rushing toward him from the skirmish at the base of the East Tower. The enemy commander stood head and shoulders above his men, his own hulking size augmented by the helm with its lofty plumes.

“He’s condemned to die! Don’t listen to him, you fools!” cried the Neidar commander, swatting at several dwarves. He shouted at the warriors waiting outside the gates. “Attack! Hit them now while the hour of victory is at hand!”

Looking shamefaced and sheepish, the hill dwarves tried to swallow their fears and move, albeit reluctantly, back into the hall. Harn had his sword drawn as he charged toward the mountain dwarf, through the ring of Brandon’s listeners, his face contorted with rage. Brandon was shocked to see that face, scarred as it was by blisters and scabs, lumpy and misshapen, swollen like an overripe melon too long in the sun.

“He’s the spy we had in chains!” cried Poleaxe to warriors left and right as he raced toward Brandon. “What kind of idiots are you-letting him talk you out of our great victory? Leave him to me; my sword will put an end to his lies.”

Brandon, with relish, raised his axe, the haft so familiar that it felt like an extension of his own hands. He met Harn at the edge of the lift platform, parrying the Neidar’s first blow with a crossing block, but he was sent stumbling back, overcome by the big hill dwarf’s strength. Harn sprang upward onto the lift platform, raising his sword to brush aside Brandon’s return slash, a powerful overhead swing. His face was crazed, more monstrous than dwarf, and he closed in with a rush. The two blades met with a ringing clash, and again Brandon stepped back, astonished at Harn’s strength.

Harn had always been a big, sturdy dwarf, but it was obvious to Brandon that he had grown in size and power since their journey from Kayolin. It all had started, Brandon remembered, on the day Poleaxe had presided over his trumped-up trial in Hillhome’s square. The dwarf had seemed magically enhanced that day and from that day on. Brandon understood that he was in the fight of his life and that he was at a clear disadvantage with his opponent.

For several seconds the two dwarves circled each other on the lift platform. Brandon was grateful, at least, that the rest of the hill dwarves didn’t rush to their leader’s assistance. Not that Harn needed help in any event, but as the hill dwarves pressed closer to the lift to watch the fight, they seemed more curious than angry.

Harn charged in a bull rush, and the Kayolin dwarf parried and blocked, skipping nimbly to the side and falling back. He avoided the corners of the square platform, knowing he’d be trapped if he let Poleaxe force him into one of them. The big Neidar came at him again, swinging his sword over his head and bashing it down with the full weight of his brawny muscles and his white-hot rage. It took all of Brandon’s strength to hold his axe up, canting the blade at an angle to deflect the enemy’s blows. He couldn’t hope to stop Harn’s blow, but at least he could knock it aside.

Dusk had fallen outside, but the pitch of battles inside the tower only mounted in fury. The Neidar had nearly attained their victory as the last of the small pockets of mountain dwarf defenders fought to little effect outside the doors leading into the towers. One by one the garrison’s warriors were escaping through those doors.

Harn shrieked and foamed in growing frustration as Brandon continued to dodge and weave away from him. The Neidar watching the duel were muttering their disappointment in their champion as the Kayolin dwarf used his venerable axe to bash aside another series of crushing blows. Out of the corner of his eye, Brandon noticed many hill dwarves making their way toward the great gate and the growing darkness outside, casting nervous glances upward as they hurried to depart.

Apparently Harn Poleaxe, too, noticed the beginnings of a withdrawal, for he abruptly turned to face the warriors retreating. “Get back here, you cowards!” he roared.

And Brandon saw his chance. Harn’s attention was distracted for only a split second, but that was enough time for the Kayolin dwarf to strike. He lunged and drove the blade of his axe down through the shoulder plate of Poleaxe’s metal armor. The weapon cut through skin, sliced the bone of the hill dwarf’s ribs and shoulder, and penetrated the flesh and lung below.

With a wheezing gasp, Harn Poleaxe stumbled away, dropping to his knees while Brandon wrenched his deadly axe free of the ghastly wound. The hill dwarf coughed, and blood spumed out of his mouth. Eyes staring, he looked at Brandon in disbelief. He tried to speak, and more blood spilled. Swaying on his knees, he dropped to his face and lay motionless in a growing pool of sticky crimson.

Exhausted, panting, holding his bloody axe with the blade pointed down, the mountain dwarf felt no sense of victory-only a weary relief. He slumped to his own knee, trying to catch his breath, hearing the distressed muttering of the surrounding hill dwarves. He wondered if they were going to attack him; he didn’t really care if they did. But his ears pricked up; they weren’t talking about him and Poleaxe. They were muttering in fear.

Only then did he raise his eyes to see the cause of their fright. Harn’s lifeless body was twitching unnaturally, bulging and squirming at the back, the legs, the head. It was as if the Neidar’s flesh were a sack containing some writhing creature-a creature that wanted very much to get out.