But the top was several feet wide, and this made a good platform for the defenders. In several places, mud-slick piles of earth from inside the compound had been used to bolster the walls. The sloping surfaces of these served as easy routes to the top, allowing many hill and gully dwarves to scram ble up.
The defenders fought resolutely. The Aghar of the Creep ing Wedgie, organized by Nomscul and Fester, found a new use for their shields, conking the derro on the head as the en emy reached the top of the wall. The hill dwarves, inspired by Fidelia Fireforge and Turq Hearthstone, used pitchforks, shovels, and spears to strike at the derro climbing the lad ders. They learned to knock the poles aside and drive the ladders toppling to the ground.
To the rear of the compound, more Theiwar hurled them selves with savage abandon against the barricaded win dows. They hacked the wooden barriers to pieces, flinging themselves through the narrow openings this created. But, within the vat-house, Basalt and Hildy directed an equally savage defense. Each attacking derro no sooner squirmed through the entrance than was impaled by the weapons of a half-dozen hill dwarves. Soon the bodies of the attackers piled up, creating an additional obstacle to the Theiwar.
The gate was the weakest point of the defense, though be hind it stood a sturdy company of hill dwarf fighters. Tybalt
Fireforge stood with these, watching the creaking gates. The portals swung farther with each crash of the ram, and the cracking of the beams became more and more visible as dawn's light diffused through the courtyard.
Then, creaking and splintering, the gates began to collapse.
Flint barely noticed the heavy pounding at the gate. He held Perian's limp form in his arms. She was unconscious, her breathing shallow and weak.
He had enlisted Fidelia's and Ruberik's help to carry her into the storeroom, where he tried to make her comfortable on a bed of hay and blankets.
Ruberik stayed with him. He brought water in a tin cup, though Perian was not aware enough to drink. He stood awkwardly to the side, not wanting to intrude on Flint's grief, yet offering any help that he could.
Finally, Flint looked up at his brother, after trying to stem the bleeding as best as he could. In his heart, he knew there was nothing more he could do.
The brothers' eyes met in a pain-filled gaze. 'You'd better get out there,' Flint said hoarsely. 'I'll be… following along.' He could say no more, dropping his head to hide his tears.
'I'm sorry, Flint,' replied the gruff farmer. Ruberik shuf fled wearily out the door.
Flint turned back to Perian. She looked as beautiful as ever to him. A few strands of coppery hair curled across her forehead, but the skin below that hair was so pale, now — so horribly pale. And at Perian's too-white throat Flint saw the aspen leaf necklace.
Suddenly her eyes fluttered open, and Flint's heart leaped.
She smiled at him weakly, and her hand closed, ever so faintly, around his. Her lips parted slightly, but she didn't have the strength to speak.
'My Perian…' Flint said, choking the words around his tears. Her hand tightened once more, breaking his heart.
And then she was gone. Flint held her long afterward, still unaware of the battle outside. His grief threatened to tear him apart. He felt as though he never wanted to leave, to do anything again.
But as the chaos of the battle grew to a crescendo, his pain slowly changed, burning its way from his heart to his soul.
And as it moved, his mourning became anger, developing into a hot, blazing rage that at last compelled him to return to the fight, and to kill those who had slain Perian.
The gates of the brewery splintered open, and even from within the building Flint sensed the urgency of the fight. He reached for the axe Perian had returned to him back in Mud hole, cursing with surprise as the weapon's haft burned his hand. The white glow of the Tharkan Axe had become tinged with red, as the metal itself heated like an iron bar in a smith's forge.
Without thinking, Flint looked around the storeroom, quickly spotting a pair of leather gauntlets. He drew these over his hands, and then picked up the gleaming weapon.
Its razor sharp blade gleamed clean, ready to drink again.
Flint charged the door of the storeroom and threw it open, looking upon a scene of mass confusion in the court yard. The derro had smashed open the gate with a heavy battering ram and now poured into the enclosure, where they were met by a sturdy line of hill dwarves.
He concentrated his gaze, looking for one hated form. Fi nally Flint saw the hunchback, limping along behind the leading mountain dwarves.
'Pitrick!' he bellowed, charging into the courtyard. The force of his voice carried even above the din, and several of the mountain dwarves, including the thane's adviser, turned toward him.
'Come and die!' Flint challenged. He raised his axe, and though its unnatural light was somewhat mutted in the growing illumination of dawn, it drew the derro's eyes like a hypnotic token.
'Fireforge,' breathed Pitrick, watching Flint's advance for just one moment. Then the hunchback seized the five heads of his iron amulet, and that cold blue light poured from the magic token.
'Reorx curse your cowardly skin!' Flint growled, sprint ing toward the savant. He knew he would never reach him before Pitrick cast his spell. Oddly, he felt no fear of his own death; just an overwhelming sense of sadness that so much other killing would remain unavenged.
Pitrick's sneer was all the answer he spared for his victim, then the derro barked the harsh command for his spell. A bolt of lightning suddenly sizzled from his hand, exploding toward Flint in a blast of magical death. The hill dwarf howled his rage, squinting against the blast of approaching magic, but not faltering in his charge.
Then the Tharkan Axe blinked brightly, and a white burst of light overpowered the pale dawn and caused Pitrick to close his eyes, crying out in pain. The axe shone as the light ning bolt crackled into Flint, and suddenly the spell was gone, inexplicably snuffed. Whatever the reason, Flint dimly realized it had something to do with the axe.
'Now you'll fight, scum!' hollered Flint in savage exulta tion. For reasons he did not stop to contemplate, the axe would protect him from Pitrick's magic!
Other mountain dwarf troops stepped in the way. Sud denly one of these was bashed away by Tybalt. Then Ru berik stepped to Flint's side, knocking back another of the savant's protectors.
'Face my blade, you miserable coward!' called the king of the gully dwarves, until only one guard stood between
Flint and Pitrick. He was charged by Fidelia, who cut him down with a blow.
'A hill dwarf will never best a mountain dwarf,' Pitrick said, his tone threatening, challenging. Trembling with both fear and joyous anticipation Pitrick raised his axe finally, knowing that he could not defeat this hill dwarf with his spells. Flint raised the Tharkan Axe and the weapon lit up the courtyard.
Resolutely, the two leaders hammered their blades to gether. The hunchback was surprisingly strong, and both dwarves staggered back from the impact of their combined blow. The ringing noise filled the courtyard, and the hill dwarf found a savage satisfaction in the clash.
Flint pressed quickly forward, feeling the heat of his own weapon through his gloves. They clashed again, and once again fell back from the resounded collision. Scowling in concentration, Flint focused all his strength, his skill, and his hatred against the repugnant derro before him. Again and again he raised the blade high, driving forward with earthshaking blows that Pitrick somehow deflected.
Flint sensed the fight around them stopping, as derro and hill dwarf alike paused to watch the duel between their lead ers. A hundred individual combats waned, forgotten in the periphery of this fight to the death.
Flint and Pitrick raged back and forth, axes clashing, fine steel meeting steel, backed by muscle and fury. The thane's adviser attacked with bestial savagery. Suddenly he flew forward, unleashing a storm of lighting-quick blows. Flint fell back, desperately deflecting the mountain dwarf's cuts.
The Tharkan Axe blocked every assault, the haft growing hotter and hotter under his palms, until even his gloves could not protect him. Ignoring the searing pain, Flint held his axe tighter — he would cling to it until death or victory freed his grip.
Suddenly Pitrick lurched away. The quick retreat caught Flint off guard, and he instantly crouched, watching
