Douglas Niles - Secret of Pax Tharkas

Abruptly the body burst open, spattering blood and bone and flesh in an explosive spray. Immediately a great shape, winged and black as night, rose from the ravaged corpse like an apparition, looming above the dead Neidar. It fixed a monstrous gaze on Brandon and opened eyes that glowed like the very fires of the Abyss.

Gretchan had worriedly watched Brandon’s descent. She couldn’t hear his words over the clash of swords and the shouts and cries of the battling dwarves, but she could see he wasn’t being attacked immediately and seemed to be attracting more and more listeners. She was awed by his courage but even more so by his goodness toward a former enemy. She’d never known that kind of dwarf before, and she shook her head in amazement.

She had started back along the catwalk when the door to the tower opened, admitting Tarn Bellowgranite, Otaxx Shortbeard, and Garn Bloodfist to the open-sided platform where the control lever for the Tharkadan trap was cocked and ready.

Garn immediately started for that lever.

She rushed to stop him. “You can’t do this!” she cried.

“Don’t try your sorcery, witch, or I’ll have you killed!” The Klar sneered.

“I can’t stop you with magic,” she admitted truthfully, addressing the thane and the general even as the Klar captain moved to block her path. “You have to stop this madness for your own reasons, with your own hearts! Thane Bellowgranite, is this the legacy you want to leave to history? A catastrophic massacre of your own race? A taint on your reputation and on dwarf hearts that will be worse than the wounds left by the Cataclysm?”

“That is not my legacy!” Tarn replied testily. “It is not my choice. We are hard pressed, under attack by foes; you can see that yourself. We must defend ourselves!”

“This is not the way to win!” Gretchan cried. She gestured over the edge of the catwalk to the two small pockets of battle swirling down below. “Look, your garrison has almost completely withdrawn. They’ll be safe in the towers-they could hold those doors for weeks, I’m certain, if they had to. You have, in fact, safely defended Pax Tharkas. You don’t have to go the rest of the way. You don’t need to kill all those hill dwarves.”

“The priestess is right, my liege,” interjected Otaxx, causing Tarn to raise an eyebrow and Garn to curse under his breath. “Each tower is a fortress unto itself. And we command the top of the wall, as well. We can threaten the Neidar with the trap and force them to withdraw, but we don’t need to crush them to every last man.”

Tarn Bellowgranite scratched his beard, considering that reasonable suggestion.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to listen to this witch?” Garn Bloodfist spit at Tarn Bellowgranite’s feet in disbelief. His eyes darted wildly from the thane to Gretchan to the lever that would release the trap.

“My thane, this is a historic opportunity,” he cried. “Never again will our enemies be so completely in your power. We must act-now!”

“The Neidar will be your enemies forever if you do!” Gretchan insisted. “If you kill all those in this army, you’ll be faced by ten times as many, all of them out for blood, next time. You can never wipe them all out, and future generations will dream of blood revenge. This is not the way to peace and unity among the dwarves!”

At that moment, the clamor from down below suddenly dwindled. The reason was the last of the mountain dwarves had withdrawn from the hall, leaving the vast space filled with milling, confused hill dwarves who, for the moment, were unable to reach their enemies. Those enemies sheltered behind stoutly barricaded doors. There was no one left to fight.

“If you won’t act, I will!” cried Garn, lunging to the lever that would release the trap. He seized the shaft and pulled, activating the big flywheel that would tug the cable and pull the pins holding up the trap door. The mechanism of the Tharkadan trap began to groan.

At the same time, a shrill cry keened through the hall below them. Gretchan looked down to see a black shadow, large as a giant and a hundred times more menacing, rise above the floor.

Brandon Bluestone, a bloody axe in his hand, stood alone before it.

Gus had unspooled a long section of cable, winding it off of the big stone wheel. He scaled down the wire while Berta, still grumbling about Gretchan, grudgingly held the line above. Gus swayed back and forth dizzyingly, but he’d almost reached the ledge where Kondike was trapped. The dog barked and wagged his tail eagerly, watching the Aghar descend toward him. If Gus could just reach Kondike’s side, he thought he could wrap the cable around the dog and, with Berta’s help-or maybe even some big dwarves-lift the stranded animal to safety.

Abruptly the hub above him, the great stone from which he had removed the wire, began to spin. He couldn’t know that Garn had pulled the lever, had started the mechanism in motion. He could only see that the massive stone wheel was spinning with increasing speed.

But even though that hub had been connected to the gear itself, bearing the huge weight of the chain, the gear didn’t move. In his effort to save the dog, Gus had unspooled the cable that connected it to the flywheel. The Aghar slid down the vibrating cable, remembering to hold onto the end of it as Kondike gave him a sloppy lick on his face.

But for the first time, he wondered what it was he held in his hand. He looked at the spinning wheel, the disengaged gear, and he knew exactly what had happened.

“Oh, no!” he wailed, slumping next to the big dog. “I broke it!”

The dark creature rose like a black tower above Harn Poleaxe’s ravaged corpse. The monster was taller than a giant, and it exuded menace with its great, arching, black wings and hideously glowing eyes. The huge maw gaped like a cave mouth, studded with jagged fangs like stalagmites and stalactites. Brandon needed all of his strength just to keep his grip on his axe. His knees shook and his guts churned at the sight of the horrific thing.

What remained of Harn Poleaxe was shriveled and ghastly, like a discarded suit of skin. The monster reared above the bloody mess and looked toward Brandon, who felt helpless in the gaze of those horrid red eyes. The creature swelled even larger, looming to an impossible height, flaring those black wings, and casting its gaze over the whole of the great hall. The fanged jaws gaped, and a roar bellowed forth, the sound reverberating from the walls, shaking the very bedrock of the floor.

The hill dwarves around the lift platform recoiled in horror, many of them running out the fortress gate, others whispering prayers to Reorx and staring in wide-eyed fear. The monster roared again, and Brandon found some control of his limbs, stumbling away in abject fear. Still clinging to his axe, he sprang down from the platform and staggered across the floor, feeling those crimson eyes burning into his back.

He felt a shocking chill and looked back to see the black beast pounce after him, springing like a massive winged cat. Brandon ducked to the side, falling and rolling across the floor as the monster came down on the spot where he had been. All around, the hill dwarves were fleeing, shouting in panic and dismay, thronging into a packed bottleneck in their frantic efforts to get out of the massive gate.

The monster spun and roared again, the blast of sound actually brushing Brandon’s hair and beard like a gust of wind. He could never outrun it, he knew, so he raised his axe and his voice, roaring a war cry of his own.

“For Bluestone and Kayolin!” he cried, rushing forward with his axe upraised. The monster reared, wings flapping, as if it couldn’t believe the dwarf’s effrontery. Brandon swung his axe, the ancient blade of his ancestors, the keen steel slashing through the talons of the monster’s foot with a hiss like red-hot metal touching water. The beast howled in fury. With one backhanded blow, it knocked the dwarf to the side, sending him tumbling like a gaming pin. It took all of Brandon’s concentration to hold on to his axe as he rolled across the floor.