What did Gretchan Pax want with the militant Klar? He couldn’t guess the answer, but he didn’t like the chance that she might discover him. Clearly she was friendly with the Hillhome dwarves, and he wasn’t about to take any chances on her sympathy for him. Was she spying on the mountain dwarves for her own Neidar people? Somehow that explanation didn’t ring true, but what exactly she was doing remained a mystery.
Brandon moved higher up the ridge, and when he came to a notch in the rocky crest, he moved across to the other side. He wouldn’t be able to keep the mountain dwarves in sight, but he gambled that they would continue along the road, just as the winding ridge did.
Jogging along, he tried to come up with a plan. He knew he couldn’t simply walk up to the mountain dwarves and ask them for the Bluestone back. He imagined the absurdity of the scene: “Um, that treasure you’re carrying… it actually belongs to me…”
The only question was whether they’d kill him outright or simply laugh him out of their camp.
Of course, the strangers were mountain dwarves, and that, at least, gave him hope. Hylar and Klar clans, while not necessarily allied, were not traditional enemies in the manner of Hylar and Daewar, who were generally united in their hatred of the Theiwar and Daergar dark dwarves. He decided that he would follow along, wait for the Klar to make their camp, then go down and introduce himself. He hoped they would remember they had aided his rescue. With any luck, he could at least join their ranks. As a kinsman from up north, they ought not to have any reason to distrust him on sight.
Of course, he remembered with a chill, Lord Heelspur and the assassins who had killed his brother were mountain dwarves too-albeit, Hylar of his own clan.
Gretchan walked briskly along the ridge above the Hillhome road, wrapped in thought. Gus continued to prattle on about revenge, about the bold initiatives he was planning, the battles he would win. She merely ignored his boasts and blather, moderately grateful that he had something to talk about besides where the next meal was coming from. Her mind was working on deeper problems, and she was trying to come up with a plan.
Of course she had recognized the attacking dwarves as Klar clansmen. With Thorbardin sealed, it seemed likely they must have come from Pax Tharkas. She guessed the mountain dwarves would be returning to that fortress. Her guess was reinforced by the fact that the road they followed was the one leading to that great citadel.
“Oh, curse it all,” she said as the afternoon wound into evening and the Klar’s marching column remained a mile or so ahead of them on the road. They continued marching into the darkness, covering ground until almost midnight, until, at last, the company moved off the road and gathered into a cold, fireless camp in a small grove of pines.
“I need to go talk to them,” she announced curtly.
Gus looked up at her and paled. “Talk to big fighter dwarves?” he gulped, his bravado fading in an instant.
“Yes. Now that they’ve stopped for the night. They won’t hurt me, I’m sure. There’s something I wish to know. But I want you to stay here, out of sight, and keep an eye on things for me. All right? And I can’t take Kondike with me. I might have to move quietly, and he might spook the folks I want to talk to. Make sure he stays put here, out of trouble. You did an excellent job of keeping an eye on Kondike before.”
“Sure I did. I do that!” the Aghar promised. “I keep two eyes on him this time!”
“I knew I could count on you,” Gretchan said, touched by her companion’s obvious sincerity. There were evident risks in leaving the gully dwarf responsible for anything, but they were lesser risks than taking him along. She reminded herself that, back in Hillhome, he had managed to turn up in the right place at the right time.
“Just remember, don’t make any noise. I’ll be back in… call it two hours,” she concluded, remembering the limitations of gully dwarf mathematical understanding.
Leaving Gus and Kondike hidden in a clump of rocks just off the road, she trudged toward the grove where she had seen the Klar make their camp. She was not looking forward to the encounter; the mountain dwarves of that clan were notoriously stubborn, unpredictable, and almost always rage filled. But she had to try to talk to them.
“Hey!” called a sentry, stepping out from behind a pine bole as she approached the camp. He brandished a heavy axe and peered suspiciously from beneath the canopy of the tree’s branches. “Who goes?”
“It’s me-Gretchan Pax,” she announced, striding up to the dwarf.
“Who?” he demanded, squinting to get a good look. The white moon emerged from behind a cloud, washing the scene in illumination, and the Klar’s eyes widened. “Why, hel- loh there,” he said, grinning. “What can I do for such a pretty lady?”
“I need to have a word with your brave captain,” she said with a sexy smile.
“Oh,” he replied, somewhat crestfallen. “Well, Garn Bloodfist is by that big rock near the stream. I don’t know… he didn’t say anything… is he, uh, expecting you?”
“No, I’m a surprise,” she said with a wink.
The sentry turned toward the camp. “Captain! There’s someone here to see you. I, uh, think you’ll want to talk to her.”
The reply from the middle of the camp seemed, to Gretchan, like an inarticulate cry. She looked at the sentry, who simply shrugged and waved her in. “That’s the captain for you,” he muttered as she passed.
The mountain dwarves were extremely weary from their long day of battle, retreat, and hard marching. Most of them were wrapped up snugly in their bedrolls, snoring or nearly asleep. A few glanced up from their blankets as she moved among them, and she heard whispering and rustling as many of them sat up and blinked. The moonlight reflected in her hair, making it look like spun gold, and much of the snoring died out as the sleeping dwarves were nudged awake to have a look at the mysterious visitor.
Men, she thought as she followed the guard’s direction toward the stream.
She found Garn Bloodfist wrapped in his cloak, glaring at the dark waters of the stream as it flowed past. At first she thought he was with someone-she heard him muttering angrily about “Revenge!”-but a glance around suggested no one else was present.
“Hello,” she said unceremoniously, stepping to his side. “So you are the famous Garn Bloodfist. I need to talk to you.”
“Who in Reorx’s name are you?” he demanded, standing up and looking her over slowly and suspiciously. His eyes bulged from his bearded face and fixed upon her with a staring intensity she found strangely irritating.
Charm is wasted on this one, she realized. In a sense, that was a relief; it allowed her to cut right to the point.
“I saw your men at work today,” she declared. “Quite a bit of butchery. I suppose you’re very proud.”
“And why shouldn’t I be?” snapped Garn, his eyes darting this way and that. “We won the day!”
“That’s as foolish a statement as I’ve heard in a long time. Win a day, and lose a year? Or a century? Is that what you’re after?” she charged. Her voice grew stronger and more shrill. “You attacked a peaceful hill dwarf village! I suppose next you want to refight the Dwarfgate War? Maybe conjure up Fistandantilus to make another Skullcap!”
He gaped at her. “I repeat, who in Reorx’s name are you?” he said, sounding a little less sure of himself.
“I am a highly respected historian,” she said, shaking a finger in his face. “And I asked you a question. Why are you opening up old wounds and refighting the Dwarfgate War?”
Garn glared at the uppity female he had never seen before. “If you paid more attention to that history you claim to find so interesting, you’d notice that the Dwarfgate War has never ended. If we don’t kill them, they’ll end up killing us!”
She shook her head. “How can you be such an idiot? How can there be any hope for our people when fools like you will take any excuse to make war?”
“I am a warrior!” snarled the Klar, his hands twitching. He wasn’t wearing a weapon, but he raised a fist, flexing it toward Gretchan’s face.
She didn’t back down; in fact, she shouted at him. “It was a tragic, foolish waste of lives-your own as well as the Neidar! You’ve inflamed the hill dwarves now. They’ll be coming for vengeance soon enough.”
“A waste?” Garn shot back, gloating. “If you’re really such an important historian, then tell me if this looks like a waste.” He pulled out a pouch and held it open so she could see, glinting in the pale light of the stars, two large wedges of colored stones. “Look!” he declared. “Unless I miss my guess, these are valuable dwarven artifacts that rightfully belong to the exiles of Thorbardin. It’s a treasure like I’ve never seen!”
