Except that he had forgotten about the dog. Kondike stood anxiously on the upper catwalk, barking, bouncing back and forth from foot to foot. Before Gus could think of any way to stop him, the big dog came after the gully dwarf, launching himself into space, stretching toward the curving links of the chain.
But, unlike the dwarves, the dog didn’t have hands to grasp the chain. He clawed at a link, tumbled on his back onto the catwalk, and rolled over the edge.
TWENTY — SEVEN
Otaxx Shortbeard strode along the battlement atop the Tharkadan Wall. The platform was more than a hundred feet above the ground, and he had a clear view of the approaching Neidar column-and of the mountain dwarves who had rallied to the defense.
Hundreds of his people, Hylar and Klar and the occasional Daewar who, like himself, had refused to follow the Mad Prophet, manned the top of the wall. The warriors wore their armor, including breastplates and helmets, and in many cases they carried shields as well. Two fighters stood at every notch in the crenellated rampart, peering down at the attackers, occasionally raising a shield or ducking behind the stone wall to deflect the aim of the sporadic arrows being launched by the Neidar.
Behind the front rank of warriors was a long single rank of mountain dwarf archers armed with short bows. They were the younger males and the females, who were not as brawny as their armored comrades but could send a veritable shower of arrows raining down from the wall-and would do so as soon as Otaxx gave the command.
Beyond the archers were the auxiliaries, mainly children and elders, whose job was to bring up fresh supplies of arrows and to establish caches of other ammunition. Some of those dwarves had kindled fires, while others readied kettles in which they would heat oil or water to dump on the enemy once they reached the base of the wall so far below. Still others hauled small boulders, establishing those weapons in neat piles just behind the battlements. The rocks couldn’t be hurled as far as the arrows, but when the enemy was just below, they could be rained down with devastating impact.
“The gates?” demanded Otaxx when he saw Tarn Bellowgranite approaching. “I don’t hear them closing yet.”
“They’re not,” replied the thane, shaking his head reluctantly. “Garn has a plan: he wants to let the Neidar into the Tharkadan Wall.”
“And crush them all with the trap?” guessed the old Daewar at once. He whistled. “Dangerous, but it might work.”
“Aye. And if it does, we’ll be free of the Neidar menace for good,” Tarn acknowledged, sounding as though he were trying to convince himself as much as his general.
By that time, the first rank of the hill dwarves had reached within a hundred paces of the wall. The road column had spread out into a front more than a hundred dwarves wide. At a signal from the leader, who was distinguished by a massive helmet topped by black and white feathers, they rushed forward at a sprint, howling the glory of Reorx and their hatred of the mountain clans at the top of their lungs.
Long ago Otaxx had ordered markers to be installed beside the road, at every twenty paces, for just such a showdown. Because of those white posts, the bowmen knew the exact range to their target.
“Archers, fire!” the general barked. “Range is one hundred paces.”
The first volley flew like a swarm of locusts, dark shafts filling the sky, showering down upon the leading ranks of the hill dwarf attackers. Dozens fell-it looked to the general as if every Neidar in the first rank, save the hulking captain brandishing his great sword in the center of the line, was slain by the initial volley. But the next ranks continued to surge forward.
The archers reloaded quickly and fired again and again, each bowman-or woman-shooting as fast as individual skill allowed. The missiles continued to pepper the assaulting formation, sending dwarf after dwarf to the ground, writhing or dying, but still the furious charge continued. The surviving Neidar roared their fury, a wave of sound that rose up and over the wall. They came on, the column pressing together in the very shadow of the high wall, for it was too wide for all of them to pass through the gate at once.
The burly mountain dwarves picked up rocks and hurled them into the mass of targets packed so tightly that it was hard for any missile to miss. Skulls were crushed, shoulders and breastbones shattered, spines snapped, and limbs broken under the onslaught, which in a few seconds left nearly a hundred hill dwarves battered and bleeding on the road.
But the momentum of the attack was barely dented, and the first of the attackers were racing through the lofty, wide-open gate.
“Keep up the barrage,” Otaxx ordered his men. “Take down as many as you can before they get to the gates!”
He turned and addressed the thane of Pax Tharkas. “It’s time to take the fight inside,” he said and ran to the door in the tower, ready to command the battle erupting inside the Tharkadan Wall.
“Death to the Hylar!” cried Harn Poleaxe, sprinting at the head of the long hill dwarf column.
He could scarcely believe his eyes: the great gate of Pax Tharkas still stood open! His warriors scrambled over the rough ground, streaming past the mines and the fields, charging toward that lofty, inviting opening.
The barrage from the parapet was devastating, but Harn felt as though he were somehow invulnerable. Every dwarf in the first rank with him perished in the initial volley of arrows, but somehow-even though he was the largest target in the line-he escaped injury. Was it the potion of the dark one that protected him? Or was it that he was blessed with the favor of Reorx? No matter-he never felt more alive and more confident of success.
“Onward, Neidar!” he shouted, waving his sword. “Remember Hillhome!”
They rushed toward the yawning entrance to the great wall. Harn was thrilled that the minion’s prediction had proved true-he never even paused to wonder why that gate hadn’t closed up yet, even though the defenders must certainly have had a good half hour’s warning of attack from the time the first hill dwarves came into view.
A scattering of mountain dwarves stood in that gateway. No more than a dozen defenders were in position to face the rush of a thousand hill dwarves, so Poleaxe wasn’t surprised to see them break and run as the attackers drew closer. The Neidar were within the very shadow of the looming entrance.
Some of the mountain dwarves fled to the left, while others ran to the right.
“Split up!” ordered Poleaxe, flush with the anticipation of victory. He led a huge number of his warriors to the left, while another large contingent, under the command of Carpus Castlesmasher, veered right.
The whole of the great vault of the Tharkadan Wall loomed above them. Mountain dwarves formed defensive lines at the opposite ends of the massive hall, but Poleaxe could see that his troops would easily overwhelm their surprisingly slipshod defense.
“Take them all!” he howled. “For the glory of Reorx and the graves under the mountains!”
He raised his visor, turning his bloody face upward as he took a long drink. His dwarves poured through the open gate, spilling through the vast hall beyond. The jug was empty, but even that didn’t matter; Harn simply cast it aside, raised his mighty sword, and joined in the attack.
Meanwhile, high above the battle, Gretchan led Brandon along the chain for a hundred feet, crawling as fast as she could. The great links extended through a horizontal passageway, and there was barely enough room for a big dwarf such as Brandon to scrape his way between the heavy iron links and the stone tube through which they passed.
At least they had left Garn and his warriors behind.
Then the dwarf maid abruptly swung her feet down toward a shaft plunging through the stone framework. Brandon followed her, and they both dropped onto a lofty catwalk, more than a hundred feet above the fortress floor.
“Hey!” barked a Klar sentry, startled by the two dwarves who had dropped to the platform very close to him. He started to draw his sword, but Brandon sprang at him and felled him with a single sharp punch to the jaw. The
