“So. You failed,” she spit. “Tell me what happened.”
He drew a breath and quickly decided against making excuses and dissembling.
“The mountain dwarves of Pax Tharkas attacked us while we were preparing to execute the Kayolin dwarf. We were taken totally by surprise. The Klar scooped up the two stones, and the prisoner escaped during the battle,” he reported coldly.
“This is what I have seen,” she said. “You let the gemstones slip from your hold.”
“I did,” Poleaxe admitted glumly.
“And you failed to prevent the dwarf maid from coming to me. I was forced to drive her away myself, last night. It took a great effort from an old, tired woman, but I succeeded.”
“I am sorry, Mother,” Harn said, ashamed. Once again his throat felt dry, his tongue thick in his mouth. He couldn’t even muster enough saliva to present her with an excuse.
“This is unforgiveable,” she said, but her tone was surprisingly gentle. She raised her wrinkled face, her nose twitching as the lids over her sightless eyes flickered up and down. “You have changed,” she said bluntly. “You have grown but not naturally. How?”
He was startled by her statement, once more reminded that the Mother Oracle saw far and deep, despite her blindness. When he had awakened that morning, in the room where Gretchan Pax had eluded him, he had felt himself changed and grown. He had stared into a mirror and realized that he had changed physically. He felt in possession of a certain inner strength, a fateful power that he had not known as part of himself before. Anxiously he scratched at one of the bumps that had appeared on his face. It itched constantly, and despite his rubbing, he could not seem to ease the discomfort.
“I drank something,” he said matter-of-factly. “It was something contained in a bottle of dwarf spirits, but it was not dwarf spirits. I tasted the difference.”
She nodded, as if his explanation made perfect sense to her. “Good,” she replied. “This I have also seen. This something, this potion, will help you to get the stones back. That is why I am not as angry as you might expect. You must retrieve them soon, of course. As for the Kayolin dwarf, you will have another opportunity to kill him, soon enough, when you recover the Bluestone and the Greenstone.”
“But, Mother Oracle,” Harn said, puzzled. “Surely the Klar are taking the stones to Pax Tharkas. And who knows where the escaped prisoner will flee?”
“Oh don’t worry. He, like you, will follow the stones,” she said confidently. “As to Pax Tharkas, you are destined to go there anyway. Destined to attack and capture it.”
His mind reeled at the lofty goal the Mother Oracle had set for him. He knew that secure fortress well from the outside: its massive towers, the high wall, the vast battlements, the gate strong enough to withstand a dragon’s might. He could only croak, “How?”
She shrugged, as if that were an issue of no great import. “The answer will come to me and it will come to you in good time. Do not fear. But for now you must act here, in Hillhome.”
“What should I do?”
“The people are understandably shaken and angry. You must turn that anger to your cause with a demonstration of your vengeance, giving proof of your power and your command.”
“Yes. I know just what to do. The other prisoners! There are two Theiwar in the brig. I will make an example of them. They will die in the Kayolin’s stead. And then we will muster our resources and plan a counterattack that the Klar will not soon forget.”
“Good,” said the old dwarf woman, raising a withered claw. He knelt and kissed her hand. “Go. Plan. Conquer.”
“Thank you, Mother Oracle,” Harn declared.
And he did as she advised. As he returned to the town square, he no longer felt despair or humiliation; he felt calm, confident, in control. He took a deep draught from the jug that, not surprisingly, the townsfolk had left untouched beside his great chair. He was feeling better already as he looked across the square. The Neidar were there in teeming numbers, many hundreds, muttering and fretting. They grew silent as the big hill dwarf swaggered back and forth on the platform then flopped into his chair in one smooth gesture.
“Our vengeance begins this morning, and it will not be complete until total victory is ours!” he proclaimed. A few Neidar clapped or shouted in agreement, but he brushed their mild encouragement away.
He pointed. “There are still two mountain dwarves imprisoned in the brig,” Poleaxe declared in a calm, measured tone. “Are there not?”
“Y-yes, Lord Poleaxe!” came the reply from none other than Shriff Keenstrike, who was standing close by.
“Bring them here!” he ordered, deciding he liked, very much, being called “Lord Poleaxe.”
Five minutes later the two captives, the Theiwar miners, were shoved into the middle of the plaza. Angry Neidar pressed in on all sides as Poleaxe spoke.
“Mountain dwarf filth!” he snapped as the two prisoners were shoved to their knees before him. He gestured to the bodies, to the destruction and detritus of battle around the plaza. “This is the work of your kinfolk! A treacherous attack, innocents slain-and then a cowardly retreat. Someone must pay! Someone will pay!”
One prisoner dared to raise his head and was smacked down again by a guard.
“Your tribesmen may have fled, but you are here, and you will receive the first taste of Neidar vengeance. Guards-bring me a block!” he cried, and several of his warriors quickly produced a broad, sturdy stump, setting it on the ground in front of the prisoners.
“Yarrow-is your blade sharp?” Poleaxe demanded of one of his bodyguards.
“Yes, lord. Sharp-and thirsty,” replied the Neidar axeman with a glare at the two hapless prisoners.
“Good,” Poleaxe replied. He gestured contemptuously to the pair. “Cut off their heads!” he ordered to an explosion of cheers and shouts from the crowd.
“Kill them!” cried many of the Neidar, pressing in, faces eager with bloodlust.
Only Slate Fireforge, far to the back of the crowd, watched the executions with any expression of sadness and dismay.
Brandon kept following the high ground just below the summit of the ridge, moving steadily away from Hillhome, keeping the mountain dwarf column ahead of him in sight. He was conscious of the captured sword at his belt, but that weapon wasn’t going to be much use to him in his situation. He felt bitter regret at the memory of his cherished battle axe, no doubt treasured by some Neidar thief-possibly even Harn Poleaxe himself. Perhaps he would get it back one day. For the moment he had the sword.
And that, too, added to his sense that his luck was changing. After all, he was no longer a prisoner, he was armed, and his family’s treasured stone was, at least, in the hands of mountain dwarves, not the vile Neidar. Things were indeed looking up.
The repulsed attackers maintained a pretty good pace as they marched swiftly toward the northwest. They had the advantage of the road, so Brandon was forced to jog along, climbing up and over obstacles, rocky outcrops and clumps of gnarled woods. He was puffing for breath, jogging near the crest, when he realized he wasn’t the only person tracking the column.
A pair of dwarves accompanied by a large black dog was moving along the slope just below Brandon. Cautiously, he crouched behind a ledge of rock and observed the other pursuers. Then his eyes widened as he recognized the blonde-haired dwarf maid as Gretchan Pax, the historian who had spoken to him in the Hillhome brig.
What in Reorx’s name was she doing out there?
Even as he wondered that, he found himself rather impressed by her field craft. Unlike him, she wore a bulky, apparently heavy, backpack, but she trotted along with ease and strength, hopping gracefully across the loose rocks of the high ridge crest. Her blue leggings and soft boots outlined the muscular curvature of her legs, and the sturdy traveling cloak she wore couldn’t completely mask the alluring outline of her curvy shape.
Her companion, he was startled to realize, was a ragged-looking gully dwarf. The Aghar trailed behind her, apparently keeping up a steady stream of chatter, though they were too far away for Brandon to hear what was being said. Even as he wondered what odd circumstance could have thrown the unlikely pair together, he warily watched the dog that bounded close beside the two. The wind was in his face, so he didn’t worry about his scent wafting down to the animal, but he made sure to walk stealthily, avoiding any untoward crunching of leaves or skittering of stones that might give him away.
