The thane cut the Klar captain off before he could speak. “This last step is crucial,” Tarn explained, gesturing at the complicated mechanism of gears and chains and pulleys, clearly entranced by the sight and taking no notice of the fact that his listener was trying to get a word in edgewise. “The counterbalance is important; it’s why the simple pull of a lever is enough to dump half a million tons of rock down into the gateway.”
“Yes, I see,” Bloodfist said, stopping himself from rolling his eyes. How long had he feigned interest in a task that, to his mind, was endless and meaningless?
“I’m glad you do see, my captain,” replied the old dwarf. Garn was startled at the earnestness with which his ruler addressed him. “For this great task is almost completed. At one time I felt that it would not happen during my lifetime; now I think the chances are good that I will see the final rocks raised into the trap before the end of this month.
“But when I’m gone, my valiant Klar, this great mechanism, this fortress, these hallowed towers will all be the responsibility of you and the other clan captains. I want you to welcome this trust, and I trust you will prove worthy of the task you shall inherit.”
“My liege,” Garn said, driven by exasperation to disrespectful bluntness. The image of his father’s gashed and bleeding body, the mute plea for vengeance he saw every time he looked skyward into those dying eyes, would not allow patience. “I believe you have done a great service to the Hylar and Klar exiles by your work here in Pax Tharkas. But I want you to know: my goals remain higher. Pax Tharkas is a splendid base for us, a fortress we can use to launch the next campaign. But you must know that I am still determined, before my years are through, to regain our status in Thorbardin itself!”
Tarn Bellowgranite sighed. “I understand your ambitions, my bold warrior. But I hope you will come to see that you are advocating a hopeless and destructive course. Thorbardin is sealed from within, and any intrusion by ourselves, or anyone else, would surely be met with crushing force. No, Garn, Jungor Stonespringer might as well have caved in the mountain on that entire dwarven realm, for it is lost to us and the surface world forevermore.”
“I know there is bitterness in your heart, my thane; surely it was a rank betrayal that brought us to exile! You know it cost my father his very life! But I think you are letting it cloud your judgment!”
“Don’t be a fool!” snapped Tarn. “The Hylar and the Theiwar would unite against you in a finger snap. The Daergar would not be your friends either! You would invade Thorbardin with a few hundred warriors and meet an army of ten thousand!”
Garn took a deep breath, conscious of the eyes-and ears-of the nearby laborers who had paused in their work. He trembled at the rebuke, and his own eyes bulged while his hands clenched into fists. With every fiber of will, he reminded himself that Tarn Bellowgranite was a revered figure among the Hylar exiles. It would be foolish to display overt contempt for the thane. So he hung his head with a humility he did not feel. “I accept your reasoning, my liege. Please accept my apologies. I spoke not from the head, but from the heart.”
“I understand, Garn. It is not easy to live as we do, with the memories of past greatness all around us. But we must be strong and our path must be reasoned.”
Had the old, senile thane abandoned all hope of future greatness? Garn wanted to scream the question aloud, but instead he bowed and walked meekly away.
Yet his passive demeanor marked a growing anger and a fierce determination. He had come to speak to Tarn Bellowgranite about a different matter, and as it turned out, he had not been allowed a chance to even broach the issue. He was still shaking, and only with a conscious effort was he able to unclench his fists. Reorx curse him-it was Tarn Bellowgranite who was the fool!
Never mind. He didn’t need his thane’s permission to make important decisions! By Reorx, the fool was so busy lifting his rocks, he didn’t care what else went on in the world anymore.
Garn maintained his apartments in the East Tower, claiming one floor of the tower for his own use and garrisoning the three hundred dwarves of his mobile company on the floors just below. He strode onto the uppermost of those garrison floors, where a number of his warriors were playing gambling games while others were busy sharpening their weapons or catching up on their sleep.
He nodded to two of his oldest followers, burly mountain dwarves with a great capacity for violence and an almost nonexistent penchant for analyzing the moral aspects of whatever tasks Garn Bloodfist assigned them. “Crank, Bilious,” he barked. “Come with me, and bring your swords.”
The two armed dwarves willingly accompanied him down the long series of stairways leading to the ground level and into the dungeon below that. The two thuggish Klar warriors asked no questions as Garn led them into the deepest levels of the east dungeon. They were always eager for action and oblivious to causes or motives.
“We’re going to put an end to some irritating mischief,” the captain explained as they reached the lowest level. “This prisoner is proving to be more trouble than he can possibly be worth.”
They advanced into the portcullis room, the square chamber connecting to the deepest dungeon passage, and here Garn came up short as he spotted a ragged little figure sleeping in the corner.
“You again?” he barked, rousing the gully dwarf with a sharp kick. “Didn’t I warn you to get lost?”
“Oh, great prince!” cried the miserable creature, throwing himself on the ground at Garn’s feet and salaaming the Klar. “Thank you for come here!”
“Get out of my way,” the Klar captain growled. “I have work to do!”
“Oh, not with dwarf prisoner, no!” insisted the gully dwarf with startling conviction. He stood defiantly in the path of the mountain dwarves. “My mistake. Go away!”
“What’s this?” muttered Garn, almost amused.
“Move, you,” declared Crank, whipping out his sword and waving the blade at the bold Aghar.
“You move!” declared the runt, dashing forward and biting the armed mountain dwarf on the knee.
“Hey! Ouch!” howled Crank. “You miserable little half-pint!”
He swung his blade, but somehow the gully dwarf, who was almost under his feet, scampered away. Bilious also moved to cut him off, blocking him from fleeing through the door deeper into the dungeon. “Where do you think you’re going?” the menacing warrior demanded.
The two armed dwarves closed in on the Aghar, but the little fellow dived to his belly and scooted right between Crank’s legs.
Garn had been chuckling, but he had had enough. “Cut him down and be done with him!” snapped the Klar captain. “We’ve got more important things to do!”
The mountain dwarves spun and pursued, and the gully dwarf dashed out the door. But Bilious had anticipated the move and leaped to block the Aghar’s escape. The dirty gully dwarf found himself trapped, his back to the corridor wall, one armed mountain dwarf inside the square room, the other blocking his passage down the corridor. Bilious stabbed, aiming low, and the Aghar sprang upward, flailing with his hands, clawing at the mold- slick stone on the dungeon wall. There was nothing to grab there on the surface of the wall itself, but his hand came into contact with a metal lever jutting up from a narrow slot.
The gully dwarf seized the lever with both hands, intending to pull himself up and away from his attacker’s blade. Instead, his weight caused the lever to drop sharply, plunging him onto his rump on the floor. A catch was released and unseen chains made a rattling noise as Bilious charged, stabbing wildly. The frantic gully dwarf tumbled out of the path of the attack, and the three enraged mountain dwarves stumbled over the Aghar, sprawling across the floor of the dungeon.
The chains rattled louder and faster, metal clanging against stone, as the two portcullis gates dropped into their deep sockets on the floor. Two metal grates closed off the chamber, blocking the way into the halls of prisoner cells and also closing the way back up into the East Tower. The small square room was, for all intents and purposes, a cell in its own right.
And Garn Bloodfist, Bilious, and Crank were all trapped inside.
The army of hill dwarves snaked its way through the rugged terrain, skirting the Plains of Dergoth, advancing on Pax Tharkas from the south. At its head marched Harn Poleaxe, hailed as “Lord Poleaxe” by one and all. He sat astride a horse, a mighty sword resting in his lap, while all the rest of his army advanced on foot. The plumed helm rested on his head, and he kept the visor closed-except when he took a drink-because he had seen that his dwarves were shaken by the sight of his increasingly bloody, lumpy face. Still, he barely noticed them, strung out in a column more than a mile long behind him. His eyes, for now and forever, were fixed ahead, on the future.
And the future would be found in Pax Tharkas.
Harn had been pleased and rather surprised when more than three thousand hill dwarves had answered his
