“Go away!”
The speaker was an old woman, she discerned, but if she were weak or invalid, that frailty did not transfer into her voice: the words were vibrant, thrumming with a sense of power that almost forced Gretchan backward. It took all of her resolve to reply.
“I want to talk to you. Will you let me in?” she asked directly.
“I said, go away!” The words were tinged with clear anger.
“I will not!” Gretchan shot back. “I’ve come to Hillhome, traveled hundreds of miles, to meet you. You are known in places far beyond the Kharolis range. Now will you open this door, or must I shout at you from the front step?”
Surprisingly, the door creaked open, and the Mother Oracle stood in the entryway, confronting the dwarf maid. She was shorter than Gretchan, thin, and wrapped in a threadbare shawl. Her face was creased with wrinkles and her eyes were milky pale, seemingly blind-except that the dwarf maid felt those useless eyes examining her very carefully. Gretchan sensed the power in her, and her hand tightened around her staff. The anvil at the head of the pole glimmered slightly, and the oracle snorted in contempt.
“Do you think the light of the Forge can protect you here? Hillhome is lost to you-and soon, so will be the rest of the Kharolis!”
“Who are you?” demanded Gretchan, clinging to her staff even more tightly than before.
“You may learn someday, but that day will be your last!” sneered the old crone. She waved a hand, and abruptly fire crackled around the door of her house, searing yellow flames surging into the night. The heat forced Gretchan to recoil.
“Help!” screamed the old woman, and she did sound feeble, weak, and terrified. “I am being attacked!”
A second later Gretchan heard doors bang open farther down the street. The old woman screamed again, and other dwarves, swarming out of their houses, shouted in alarm and surged toward the flames.
“It’s Mother Oracle!” someone cried.
Gretchan backed up farther, throwing up her hands to screen her face from the searing heat. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a half dozen or more hill dwarves charging toward her. Some carried buckets, but at least a few bore pitchforks or axes. She turned back to the hut and saw that the oracle had slammed the door-with herself inside. The flames surged higher, but the dwarf maid discerned that they were not consuming, not even charring, the dry planking on the outside of the building.
“Hey, you! Get away from there!” came another shout, undeniably hostile.
“You old fox,” Gretchan declared, shaking her head in dismay. With no good choice in front of her, she clutched her staff, put down her head, and ran into the darkness. It took her ten minutes to circle around to find Gus and Kondike where she had left them. By then, she saw that the flames were out, and she was not surprised to observe that the oracle’s house was none the worse for the experience. A number of agitated hill dwarves milled about in the narrow land in front of the hut.
“Come on,” she said in disgust to her two relieved companions. “We’re getting out of here.”
Harn Poleaxe came to with a throbbing headache. His mind was foggy, but when he remembered what had happened-he had had the wench on her bed, was holding her down, when that ferocious dog and stupid gully dwarf had interrupted them-his fury wiped away his pain. He stood, staggering slightly. He limped on a sore foot and looked down at his bloody toes, cursing the damned little Aghar that had dared to chomp him.
A quick look around was enough to show him that the beautiful dwarf maid had taken her possessions and gone. How dare she! A low growl rumbled in his chest. Then he sagged onto the bed, too tired to pursue her-she was probably long gone, anyway-his rage fading away. Holding his throbbing head in his hand, he just felt weary.
A momentary thought flashed though his mind: had she taken everything?
Quickly he reached into his boot, still on the floor behind the door where he had left it as he prepared for his encounter with the voluptuous maid. He felt weak with relief as he touched the cold glass and pulled out the bottle of dwarf spirits, the one that she had left on her night table. The one he had quickly stolen for his own.
He’d been pleasantly surprised to discover it-she didn’t seem the type to be carrying strong drink around-but he’d snatched it up right after he broke into her room, having the foresight to set it aside for later. She hadn’t taken everything with her, and if she were going to leave something, he was glad it was that bottle of strong drink. Just what he wanted and needed right at the moment. It was all he needed. Poleaxe gazed fondly at that perfect blend of distilled spirits, swirling like liquid treasure in the flask.
“Midwarren Pale.” he read. It sounded like a mountain dwarf vintage but not one he was familiar with; that didn’t matter; he had broad tastes when it came to strong drink.
He could resist no longer. Pulling out the cork, he placed the bottle to his lips and tilted it upward. The first drops of the liquid touched his lips, and he experienced an exquisite agony, a pain pure and piercing that rapidly became an overwhelming pleasure. It was not dwarf spirits, not even a foul and sour version of that splendid drink.
The elixir trickled down his throat, flowing from his belly into his limbs, invigorating him, thrilling him. He gulped down the contents of the bottle in one long guzzle, feeling a liquid fire surging in his chest. He trembled, feeling the rush all over his body, black and smothering but at the same time comforting and protecting.
Suddenly convulsing, the hill dwarf fell onto the floor, the empty bottle tumbling from his nerveless fingers. His body quivered as the essence of the elixir seeped through every fiber of his being. Shivering, he lay helpless on the floor, surrendering to wave after wave of ecstasy. He felt vibrantly, fully, sensually alive in a way he had never been before.
He couldn’t move, could barely breathe. But his mind was filled with powerful images, scenes of conquest and triumph.
Lying there, almost peacefully, he recalled the command of the Mother Oracle and knew the Kayolin prisoner must die. He, Harn Poleaxe, would make it happen, and the people of his village would hail him as a hero for doing the deed.
Then he stared into the haze of the distance, and it was as though his vision were more keen than it had ever been before. He swept closer until he stood in the middle of a battle, untouched by enemy blade, laying waste to all sides. He saw a host of foes, dead and dying all around him. He saw an army of Neidar, charging at his command, sweeping toward a high fortress.
Yes, he, Harn Poleaxe, was a great leader of dwarves!
He recognized the fortress even as his consciousness slipping away: the two towers, the long connecting wall, and the gate-the gate standing open to admit him, to admit his army.
Finally, the towers and walls came crashing down, and Harn Poleaxe stood victorious upon the wreckage of Pax Tharkas.
The minion soared over the town of hill dwarves, flying low since the lights were dimmed with most of the citizens retired for the night. The red and white moons had set, leaving the black moon master of the skies-for those, like the minion, who could sense its presence. The creature watched from the air as the dwarf maid who had burned it with her horrible staff stalked into the street, accompanied by her dog and the gully dwarf that was the creature’s quarry. But she still walked with that pole in her hand, swinging it easily at her side, and the minion dared not approach, for fear of that searing brightness.
Snarling like a rasp of wind through dry branches, the monster banked, hovering above the two dwarves and the dog. Its nostrils flared and its red eyes glowed as it sought the spoor of the treasure that the gully dwarf carried, the flask of potion that he had stolen from the wizard in Thorbardin. The minion’s keen senses probed, seeking, looking, smelling. Its master had commanded it to retrieve that elixir, and it had to find it.
But to its great surprise, its senses told it that the potion was no longer carried by either the gully dwarf or the female.
Once again the gaunt creature veered, curling through the skies over the town, circling, roaming, seeking. It found itself in a quandary, one of conflicting goals: the wizard had charged it with killing the Aghar and returning to Thorbardin with the missing potion. No longer was the potion in the possession of the gully dwarf, though.
The minion stared at the dwarves as they strode rapidly down the road and out of town, thinking of that tall, magical staff.
The dwarves could go, for the time being. The minion would circle in the skies over the town and try to figure out what had happened to the potion.
