approval of every citizen of Hillhome. Perhaps he might be able to find, if not outright allies, a few decent dwarves once they got to the town.
The road they were following meandered along a valley surrounded not by mountains, but by forested ridges. Soon they passed a dam-made of stones set so perfectly it could only be the work of dwarves-and a millhouse, where a large wheel turned with the flow of the stream. Brandon began to spot stone houses in the woods to either side, and when the road passed around another bend, they came upon a bustling village, filling the valley before him from wall to wall.
“Welcome to Hillhome!” gloated Poleaxe, calling back to his captive. “Now you can have a taste of Neidar hospitality.”
“False hospitality, you mean,” Brandon retorted. “Not like my father’s, when he fed you and gave you drink at his own table.”
“All the more fool him,” Harn shot back, though he glowered unpleasantly. Was it possible? Did he feel some guilt over his foul treachery?
“Take him to the brig behind the smelting plant. Then come and report to me; I’ll be at Moldoon’s place,” Poleaxe added, instructing the two guards who had tortured Brandon during the long march.
The prisoner, determined not to miss any chance at escape, looked around carefully as the guards escorted him through the town. He saw immediately that Hillhome consisted of two parts: a small central section of neat stone buildings, and an outer ring of wooden buildings and shacks. The houses in the town center were mostly modest, though a few boasted several rooms and outbuildings. Sturdy slate roofs and ornate rock gardens gave those structures a sense of permanence, as though they were every bit as old as the hills themselves. The inns-he spotted several-were large but similarly neat, as were the mill, smithy, and a few other shops they passed.
Brandon got a good look at both parts of the town, as he was marched down a curving lane that seemed to serve as a boundary between the two districts. The outer ring contained more buildings, and covered more area, than the rock-solid center. Those structures looked more temporary and seemed more crowded. He saw lines of laundry stringing between many of the buildings, and as his captors led him past a large inn, called Snarky’s Place, a band of swarthy dwarves called down to them from the long porch.
“Hey, Rune! What’s that garbage you’re dragging into our town?” shouted a burly, black-bearded Neidar with a bulging belly and a patch over one eye.
“Ah, he’s a mountain dwarf,” called the captor, the one who was carrying Brandon’s axe. “Harn Poleaxe is back, and he brought this fellow with him as a souvenir.”
“Mountain dwarf?” screeched a female hill dwarf, a toothless crone sitting on the steps of the inn. She hawked and spit a gob of saliva that Brandon nimbly sidestepped. Eyes forward, he kept plodding on, and his guards hurried beside him, quickly leaving the belligerent drinkers behind.
“In here, mate,” Rune said abruptly, grabbing Brandon by the shoulder and propelling him to the left, toward a wooden structure that looked more sturdy than most.
A burly guard stood at the front door, which consisted of heavy logs strapped together with iron bands. The hinges were as stout as a dwarf’s arm. There was not a window in the whole structure.
“Got a mountain dwarf, needs a room-at least for a day or two,” Rune said with an evil chuckle.
“Got just the spot,” said the jailer. He was a repulsive-looking hill dwarf with a filthy beard and dirty leather pants and shirt. He spit a messy gob onto the plank floor, and from within his tunic, he fished out a massive key, worn on a thong around his neck, and unlocked the door. He needed the weight of his shoulder to push it open, but it gradually yielded to his efforts.
Prodded by his tormentors, Brandon clumped up the two steps to the brig and stepped inside. His nostrils were assailed by the stink of overflowing gutters and unwashed bodies. As his eyes adjusted, he was being pushed down a corridor between two banks of cells. The little cages had solid walls and doors of heavy iron bars. Most of them were empty but a pair was occupied by hill dwarves who barely looked up as the new arrival passed. Each of them stank of whiskey and vomit, and the smell-which called to mind his own recent excesses-almost made Brandon gag. Their leather tunics were stained, torn, and patched, and the normal Neidar complexion, brown and weather scoured, had faded on their faces to an unhealthy pale.
Just beyond was another cell. That one held two dwarves who did not look like Neidar. Their skin was pale too, but more naturally so, and their stout boots were cobbled with metal cleats. With some surprise, Brandon guessed they were a pair of mountain dwarves. Like their hill dwarf cousins, they looked up listlessly as the new prisoner was pushed past.
In another two steps, they came to the cell at the end of the corridor, a little closet-sized room barely half the space of the others. The door stood open, but Brandon wasn’t prepared for the shove that sent him stumbling through. He dropped to his knees and, with his hands still bound behind him, couldn’t prevent his face from smashing into the slimy wall. He squirmed around, bouncing to his feet in fury, only to see the door slam in his face.
“I’m locked in good here; at least untie me!” he demanded, glaring through the grid of iron bars.
“You’re fine for now,” Rune taunted, hoisting Brandon’s axe so the prisoner would be sure to see it. “We’ll let you know tomorrow if we’re going to untie you and feed you or cut your head off!”
All three Neidar laughed raucously as they passed out of the brig, slamming and locking the outer door, leaving Brandon in the darkness and the stink and the despair.
“So the black dwarf locked you in a cage and was trying to kill you for some reason, and then, after this attack you have described, he sent that creature after you because you escaped?” Gretchan’s tone was patient but terribly serious.
Gus nodded miserably after finishing his long, long story-at least two minutes’ worth. His stubby fingers wove through Kondike’s shaggy coat, scratching the dog between his massive shoulders. The Aghar couldn’t look the dwarf maid in the eye.
“Monster come kill me on top mountain,” he admitted dolefully. “But snow kill me even better. I think him gone away.”
“The black minion failed to kill you… and you escaped?” Gretchan said, her eyes widening. “Well, that’s a formidable achievement. Reorx must be fond of you.”
“I very formable! I run fastester than him can ever chase!” the Aghar declared, suddenly boastful. “Him bluphsplunging claws not even grab me!”
“And then the snow fell down, and Kondike found you,” the dwarf maid said. “Hmm. Well, you’re certainly lucky if you’re not fast.”
She was right, Gus knew, once more feeling a little guilty for having dragged the beautiful goddess into his troubles. “I lucky sure. But I thought him gone,” he said, sniffling. “I never thought him come for you and Kondike.”
“Well, lucky thing for you we were here,” she said, not unkindly. “That minion fears me now, but that doesn’t mean it will never be back. Still, I think we’re safe for the time being. We can afford to get some rest; my dog is a very light sleeper.”
“I should go ’way,” Gus said, shaking his head, though he wanted very much to stay right there. “It’s not fair you get killed for me.”
Gretchan reached out and patted him on the knee. “None of us are going to get killed. At least, not by that thing. Indeed, I think you should stick with us for a while.” She stared at him, and he felt that her eyes were peeling back his skin, looking right through him.
“Is there anything else you ought to tell me?” she asked sternly.
Gus tried to think. “Uh. Mebbe. You know ’bout bunty hunters?”
“Bunty hunters? No. What are they?” she asked.
“Big, nasty Theiwar. Kill gully dwarf, cut him head off. Say for ‘bunty.’ ”
“That was back in Thorbardin?” she asked and Gus nodded.
“I can’t believe it!” Gretchan snapped. She suddenly seemed to be very angry. She stood up and stomped away then spun around and pointed a finger right at Gus’s face, making him a little bit afraid. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?” she demanded very seriously.
“Gus no lie! Bluphsplunging doofar bunty hunters kill Aghar! Cut off heads!”
“How in the name of Reorx is that possible?” the dwarf maid cried, smacking one fist into the palm of her other hand. She raised her hands and shouted at the sky. “Are you even paying attention?” she shouted. “Dwarves
