square, scratching at the wart on his cheek, then abruptly raised his hands in the air, fists clenched. With a sudden twitch, he dropped his right hand, finger extended, to point at Brandon.
“But it is not only good news that I bring you, my friends and fellows,” Poleaxe said, his voice ominously lowered. “Here today we have an enemy in our midst, and he presents a danger not just to our hopes and ambitions, but to our very survival.”
Suddenly, Brandon, seething inside, was keenly aware of hundreds of Neidar eyes turning to regard him with a mingling of accusation, distrust, and anger.
Finally Harn took his seat on the large throne. “I recognize the prisoner,” he cried, his voice booming through the suddenly silent square. “He is a son of the mountain dwarves and came all the way from Kayolin to Hillhome. Who will recite the charges against him?”
“He is accused of being a mountain dwarf spy!” grandiosely declared Rune, stepping forward and turning to regard Brandon with a sneer. “He came hither to infiltrate our lands, to gain intelligence and to purchase agents of sedition!”
“That’s a lie!” Brandon shouted. “I came-”
Rune’s backhand blow caught him across the mouth, knocking him staggering backward.
“Silence!” roared Poleaxe. “How dare you address this court? Gag the prisoner!”
Immediately rough hands pulled on Brandon’s hair, yanking his head back while a cloth was wound across his face. Only when the muzzle was wrapped tight and knotted behind his head was the prisoner allowed to stand again on his own.
“Now what proof can you offer?” demanded Poleaxe of Rune.
“He was taken in the night, on the very border of Hillhome’s lands, captured as he tried to sneak into town!” shouted one of the dwarves Brandon recognized as one of Poleaxe’s gang.
“Yes, he was traveling off the known roads,” cried another, pointing a stubby, accusing finger. “Truly, he was determined to arrive at Hillhome unnoticed.”
“And there is word from Flatrock: there, he pretended to be a hill dwarf, so he could pass in our midst without anyone knowing his true nature,” called a third. “A lie!” the Neidar spit. “What more proof do we need that he is a spy!”
The onlookers shouted and jeered.
Brandon twisted in the grip of his captors, struggling to speak, but the crowd of hill dwarves only laughed at his inarticulate squawking. The gag dug into his cheeks, and he felt his eyes bugging out as he strained. He caught a glimpse of Slate Fireforge, but even that hill dwarf, who had insisted on his trial, turned away, unwilling to meet the prisoner’s eyes. It seemed that whatever vestige of fortune he’d ever possessed had deserted him entirely. He heard his doom as Harn continued to rant.
“Dwarves of Hillhome! My fellow Neidar. We have been blessed by the guidance of the Mother Oracle, who has kept us from disaster these many years. Her wisdom sent me on my quest. We have seen the evidence in the shape of this blue stone that is our destiny. And we have heard how the prisoner tried to deceive and sneak his way into our midst. I suspect his true mission was to steal and abscond with these precious stones!”
He let the charge hang in the air then stood with his fists planted on his hips. “This court has seen enough!” declared Poleaxe, his eyes sweeping the crowd, meeting only nods and muttered encouragement from all present. “We sentence him to death by burning! Secure him to the rack! Bring tinder! And let us watch the spy die!”
“I should kill bad dwarf!” Gus repeated for the hundredth time, as he and Gretchan trudged through the darkness across the rugged landscape away from Hillhome. They encountered neither friend nor foe; no one was about at that hour. The dwarf maid maintained a vigorous pace, and the Aghar had to trot along breathlessly in order to keep up.
“Why you not let me kill him?” he asked forlornly, catching up and tugging on her sleeve.
Gretchan stopped momentarily. She was still shaken by the confrontation with the Mother Oracle and by the aftermath of Harn’s attack. She shook her head, heaving a sigh. “I confess-if there was ever a time I felt inclined to resort to violence, that was the time. But there’s always too much killing among dwarves. I refuse to be a part of it.” She smiled and patted Gus’s head. “Or to let my protectors be a part of it. Still, thank you. You were very brave, rescuing me.”
“I rescue you!” the Aghar said proudly. “Next time I kill!” he added, smacking his fist into his palm.
The dwarf maid patted his head again. “Oh dear, I trust there won’t be a next time. Come on,” she said. “I want to make it to the top of this ridge before it’s full daylight. We don’t want anyone in Hillhome to spot us and know where we are… or where we’re going.”
“Good deal. Where are we going?” asked Gus as Kondike bounded up a steep cluster of rocks. The big, black dog paused, his short tail wagging, as he looked back at the two dwarves and impatiently waited for the two to catch up.
“Well now that you mention it, I don’t really know,” Gretchan replied, sitting down on a big rock as she caught her breath. They had been climbing for more than an hour, making their way from the valley to high ground. She decided it was time for a break and pulled out her pipe. Carefully she started to fill the bowl. “Away from here, for sure. There are lots of other towns I have yet to visit,” the dwarf maid noted. “And, too, there’s Pax Tharkas.”
“What Patharkas?” Gus asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. It must have sounded like the name of a dark mage or a dragon, to his ears.
Before Gretchan could reply, they heard a low growl from Kondike. They looked up to see the dog springing down from the ridge top toward them. The dog crouched in the rocks nearby. His hackles bristled as he stared and growled into the dawn light to the east.
“Get down,” Gretchan whispered, quickly tucking her unlit pipe away. Gus immediately hunkered down beside her. Heart pounding, the gully dwarf stared across the rocky ground, wondering what terrible danger would befall them next.
They saw a file of dwarves walking along, just below the crest of the ridge, heading directly toward their hiding place. Each of the dwarves wore a metal breastplate and a helmet. They were armed with an assortment of weapons, including axes, hammers, swords, and spears, and they marched along in a narrow formation. Beards bristling, they looked this way and that with wide, intensely staring eyes.
Gus huddled in the shadows between the rocks as the dwarves marched past, barely a stone’s throw away from them. “Klar!” he whispered in Gretchan’s ear, obviously recognizing them.
She nodded, touching a finger to his lips and silencing him.
The company finally passed them by and continued on down the slope. By the time the sun was up, they had disappeared into a small grove of trees at the bottom of the valley.
“I fear you are right. They are Klar, and they’re on their way to attack Hillhome,” Gretchan said with a heavy heart.
“Why sad? Hillhome bad place!” Gus declared.
“No, it isn’t so bad, really,” she said. “Even if there’s a bad dwarf here and there, or more than a few for that matter, there are many more that live normal lives and try to stay out of trouble. Anyway it just means more killing-dwarves killing dwarves.”
“Where from those killer Klar?” asked Gus, growing more brave once the heavily armed band had disappeared from sight. “Thorbardin?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t see how they can be from under the mountain. Unless things have changed, the gates of Thorbardin are still sealed,” Gretchan explained. “That’s what really bothers me. I think they must have come from Pax Tharkas.”
“Patharkas!” echoed Gus worriedly.
Gretchan sighed heavily, putting her head in her hands. She pushed herself to her feet, her face dry, her expression stony.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get going.”
The hill dwarves wasted no time. As soon as Poleaxe pronounced Brandon’s death sentence, a number of burly Neidar grabbed hold of the Kayolin dwarf and carried him over to a square-framed rack. The prisoner struggled but was easily overpowered by the half dozen captors competing for who would punch and drag him. His arms were hoisted so that cuffs could be snapped around his wrists. Next, his legs were pulled apart, each ankle secured by a manacle, until he was helplessly spread-eagled in the middle of the stout, wooden frame. His captors, on a grunted
