TWENTY — FIVE
Help! Help us someone! Open these gates!” Garn Bloodfist shouted for the hundredth time, stalking around the small, square room where he and his two men were caged by the falling portcullis trap.
“I don’t think anyone can hear us, Captain,” Bilious suggested unhelpfully.
“Of course they can’t!” the Klar officer screamed. “Help me make some louder noise, you worthless scum!”
For a time all three of the trapped Klar shouted and hollered until they all were too hoarse to make any sound above a croaking rasp. “What are they doing up there?” demanded the captain in a whisper. “Are they all asleep?
Drunk?”
“I think we’re too far away for them to hear us,” Crank speculated none too brilliantly.
“Your weapons!” Garn said, suddenly struck by inspiration. “Bang them against the bars!”
Crank and Bilious obeyed his order with enthusiasm, drawing their swords and smashing the flats of the blades against the metal bars of the portcullis, raising a din that crashed against their ears with deafening force. The sounds rang and echoed and swelled through the subterranean passage, making an unworldly clamor. Even when the tip of Crank’s blade broke off, the two swordsmen kept up their banging until-finally-a curious Hylar sentry came wandering down into the dungeon to see what all the noise was about.
“Open the gates! Lift the portcullis!” croaked Garn, his voice grown hoarse from more than an hour of shouting. After gaping in momentary astonishment, the rescuer obligingly pulled down on the lever, with each tug of the mechanism working the winch, lifting the two gates an inch at a time. Watching impatiently, the Klar captain wanted to strangle the fellow for taking such a long time, but that would have to wait until he had caught up with the blasted Aghar and the imprisoned Kayolin dwarf.
When the grate was some two feet off the floor, Bloodfist threw himself down flat and squirmed under the barrier, to be quickly followed by Crank and Bilious.
“Finish raising it!” he called back to their rescuer before plunging deeper into the dungeon. His feet pounded on the cold stone floor as he sprinted around corners so fast that he bounced off the walls, putting his head down and urgently charging forward again.
Even before he reached the corridor where Brandon Bluestone was imprisoned, he had the sickening feeling they were going to be too late. Running down the last stretch, he grimaced in almost physical pain as he saw the open doorway to the cell. Skidding to a stop beside the empty chamber, he glared at the wreckage of the splintered door and roared out curses, kicking through the debris as if he expected to find the prisoner hiding there.
“What happened?” asked Crank, gaping stupidly. “Did that gully dwarf knock the door down?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” snapped Garn. “She did this! She’s here, somewhere, working against me. She’s a witch, I tell you; I knew it the first time I saw her! And that gully dwarf told me: she’s lurking right here, in Pax Tharkas!” He stared up and down the corridor as if he could command Gretchan to appear simply by the dint of his willpower.
But of course, that would never happen.
Instead, he ordered Crank to run back to the garrison hall and alert the company of Klar warriors.
“Make sure they are all armed. Send half the men down here to start searching in the dungeon. Have the rest disperse through the East Tower. We must catch them before they escape.”
His father’s bloody face seemed to shimmer in the air before him, and the Klar captain let out a wail of grief and fury that ensured Crank would sprint back to the tower at full speed. Drawing his own sword, Garn Bloodfist held his weapon tightly, striding through the dungeon of Pax Tharkas on a mission of punishment and revenge.
Two Neidar scouts came down from the ridge, dragging a body between them. They tossed it onto the road before Harn Poleaxe. The army commander, peering through the eye slits on his helmet visor, saw a dead dwarf with pair of crossbow bolts jutting from his back.
“He was a lookout-Klar,” said one of the scouts, spitting on the corpse. “But he won’t be doing much looking out-or anything else-anymore.”
“Good work,” Poleaxe said. He raised his visor so he could take a drink, and while he drained his jug, he looked up, scanning the steep ridges that flanked the road along which his army marched. His advance parties were swarming all over those heights, but even so, he knew it was unrealistic to think they would be able to approach the fortress unnoticed. After all, it was the only route an army could use to get into the pass from the south, and the mountain dwarves were sure to have many more sentries posted.
But the Neidar still hoped for a surprise attack. “Get back up there, and find us another one,” he ordered, and the two hill dwarves-both of whom were dressed for agility and silence in leather armor and soft walking boots- turned back to the heights at a jog.
Harn tossed his empty jug to Rune, who followed immediately behind the army commander, leading a mule that was bearing two kegs of dwarf spirits strapped to its panniers. As a reward for his assistant’s loyalty, Harn had given Rune the axe he had taken from Brandon Bluestone. The Neidar, who had been badly beaten during the prisoner’s escape, wore that weapon proudly, strapped to his back where all could admire the splendid craftsmanship, the keen steel edge.
The kegs were the exclusive refreshment of Harn Poleaxe, and they had been full when the army departed Hillhome. Rune, who took care to refill the jug alternately from the left and right keg so as to keep the mule’s load even, promptly turned the spigot. Poleaxe fidgeted in his saddle, scratching at the blisters that marred both cheeks and his entire forehead, until his subordinate, with a deep bow, brought him the freshly filled vessel. Harn took a deep drink and once again waved the column forward.
As the army neared the enemy stronghold, the ranks of the Neidar had tightened and the marching songs ceased. Morale was high; that was apparent from the joyful determination Poleaxe saw in every face, in the way the dwarves carefully sharpened their weapons at each night’s camp, in the way the scouts ranged eagerly and swiftly onto the surrounding heights.
On the tenth day of the march, several of his scouts had reported a glimpse of the fortress’s towers around the next bend of the winding but only gently climbing pass. To the best of Harn’s knowledge, no mountain dwarf lookout had survived to carry word of their approach to the Pax Tharkas garrison, but of course, if such a sentry had indeed slipped away from his scouts, it was likely that the hill dwarves would not know about it.
So they established a camp a half day’s march from their objective, protecting it with a full set of defensive preparations. Instead of sleeping in a meadow on the valley floor as they had done each previous night of the march, where fresh water would be readily available, the Neidar unrolled their bedrolls across a series of plateaulike surfaces crowning the ridge to the west of the road. They carried a plentiful supply of water up to their compounds, and the captains posted double the number of usual guards to make sure they stayed watchful in shifts throughout the night.
In the center of the large camp, Poleaxe met with his two most important lieutenants. Axel Carbondale and Carpus Castlesmasher, who had been among the first to join the campaign and swear loyalty to Poleaxe, came to the commander at his small campfire, and together the three of them plotted their maneuvers for the morrow. In the darkness of the camp, Harn removed his helmet to give him free access to scratch his itching sores. He ignored the discomfited looks of his lieutenants as he addressed them while inspecting his bloody fingers.
“We’re going to carry the day, I promise,” Poleaxe said. “We have an ally who can’t be defeated.” He ignored the surprised looks exchanged by his two lieutenants. “I will command a third of the troops directly, leading the men from Hillhome and the eastern towns. We’ll make the initial assault, but I want both of you to bring up your own wings closely behind me.” Seeing the two lieutenants accepted those orders without objection, he continued.
“Carbondale, you’ll lead all the Neidar down from the western slopes; that’s about a third of the army. When we come through the front gates, you’ll be on the left, and I want you to make for the West Tower.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Axel, frowning.
“Carpus, you’ll be in charge of the right wing-the dwarves from south of Cloudseeker. Your task is the opposite of Carbondale’s; you’ll be on the right flank as we attack, and once we’re inside the Tharkadan Wall your objective will be the East Tower.”
