“The hammer … it broke the gate?” Brandon asked, still dazed and wondering.
His memories, his thoughts and vision, all seemed to return to him haltingly. He shook his head in frustration and tried to stand, but could not shake off Gretchan’s firm grip when she held him on the ground.
“Rest just for a minute. As for the Tricolor Hammer, it is as you say: It did its job. Look!”
Gretchan’s voice soothed him. She stayed right there, kneeling beside him, holding one hand against his face while the other held her staff upright. The icon of Reorx still glowed like a miniature sun, casting its light against the mountainside. Kayolin dwarves of the First Legion were racing past, two by two, moving quickly away. Only then did he look at where the gate had been.
Turning his head slowly-his neck was surprisingly stiff, as was his whole body-he saw that the smooth gate at the terminus of the mountain trail was simply gone. In its place was a wide gap, like a crack that sheared right down the face of the cliff. Leaning back, he saw that it was a very tall crack, extending as far up the precipice as he could see. Below the gate, the crack continued downward, a yawning crevasse.
The troops of Tankard’s legion were charging into that wide gap, advancing quickly straight into the side of the mountain. The small shelf before the gate was missing, shattered and expanded by some unimaginable force. The great crevasse dropped below, plunging hundreds of feet down through the face of the great mountain.
But there was a ledge beside that crevasse, and that’s where his dwarves were massing and advancing, charging with battle cries and unhesitating courage into the great, black vastness of Thorbardin’s gatehouse.
Gorathian had no need of rest, but occasionally the Chaos creature took time for stillness, a meditation and marshaling of its great strength. It had settled for a period in the deepest chasms below Thorbardin, where the soothing heat of bubbling lava warmed its skin, and the tingling explosion of Abyssal flames teased its nostrils.
Perhaps, as it absorbed the joys of the subterranean furnace, the monster was considering a course of action, even formulating the beginnings of a plan …
But that was unlikely. Ever a beast of impulse and whim, it had little use for plans or schemes. Its objectives were simple.
And right then its objective was clear: destroy the black wizard. The monster craved that wizard’s magic, like a drunkard craves a drink, and soon it would slake its thirst on the Theiwar wizard’s blood.
At the same time, a glimmer of caution still sparked in the back of its chaotic, impulsive brain. It would crave, and consume, the magic.
But it must avoid the power of the god.
THIRTEEN
Crystal rubbed the rough cord against the squared edge of a rock until her wrists bled. She moved with agonizing slowness, watching through narrowed lids as Garn Bloodfist’s head slumped forward onto his chest. His mouth dropped open, and almost immediately he began to snore loudly.
Was he finally asleep? He must be; she guessed that he was too stupid and transparent to try to fake his own drowsiness.
Then she saw the contradiction in her own reasoning. In fact, the Klar had been wily enough to capture her, to seize her before she’d even had the wits to try to run away, and to tie her hands together while she had still been trying to talk to him, to discern what he wanted, what he hoped to accomplish.
How could I have been so stupid? That, in all honesty, seemed like a more relevant query. She closed her eyes and tried to remain calm, but the reality of the nightmare was settling around her with all-encompassing gloom. What would he do to her? What did he want with her?
For the moment, it seemed important to avoid antagonizing him. The fact that he was sleeping might be something she could turn to her own advantage. So she sawed away at the rough cords, ignoring the chafing of her skin, the cramps that seemed to shift from muscle to muscle with every move she made. The rope was tough, but the edge of the rock was at least minimally sharp, and if she could keep at it long enough-and Garn stayed sleeping long enough-then she might be able to free herself.
And what would she do then? She tried to occupy her mind with thoughts of vengeance, but even then she couldn’t see herself crushing his skull with a rock or driving a dagger through his ribs while he slept. If she fled, she’d certainly make noise, and she very much doubted her ability to get away from him if it came to a chase through the woods.
She shuddered in terror and fatigue, although she allowed herself a bare glimmer of relief. Garn, for all his power, had been content thus far merely to talk to her-at least on that, the first night of her captivity. But she had to face it: her future did not bode well.
She thought back to the incident, several hours earlier, when he had accosted her in the woods. Why hadn’t she fled when she first had the feeling that someone was watching her? By the time the urge to flee had possessed her, he had already bound her wrists. Immediately thereafter he had pulled her off the road, roughly dragging her into the woods.
They had climbed a steep slope and descended another, where she had bruised her legs and buttocks sliding painfully down on rough rock. He had pulled her through a thicket with long thorns that tore at her face and hands and waded through an icy creek. Following that splashing waterway, they had pushed up through a narrow gorge, between stone walls that sometimes ran so close together that they had to wade right up through the middle of the stream, until they had arrived at the remote grotto where they stopped.
High, rocky bluffs rose to all sides, except for the twisting ravine up which they had ascended. The surrounding woods were thick, and she had seen no sign of any other inhabitants or even the work sites of a woodcutter or miner. It seemed they were really, truly alone, so much so that she felt certain that, even if she screamed, the sound of her voice would have been blocked by the stones and trees. And certainly it would awaken Garn.
When they had arrived there, the mad Klar had pushed her roughly to the ground then secured her already bound wrists to a tree trunk with a further length of the rough cord. Only when she was tightly bound had he set about making a fire.
“Garn?” she had pressed, trying to keep her voice soothing and gentle. “Why are you doing this? I thought we were friends.”
“Friends?” he said, his eyes lighting up, the whites shining brightly in the growing light of the newly kindled flames. “Yes, friends,” he agreed, nodding as if savoring the taste of the word.
“But then you don’t have to tie me up so tightly, do you? Can’t we talk about it?” She felt her voice growing shrill as her fear swelled, so she took a deep breath and tried to force herself to remain calm.
Garn, for the time being, seemed content to ignore her as he piled more and more dry branches onto the fire. He apparently didn’t have any food to cook, and, to judge by his appearance, it might have been many days since he’d had a meal. But he stoked the blaze into a roaring bonfire and settled down before it.
Abruptly those wide, staring eyes fastened upon Crystal again. “Do you have food?” he asked as if the very possibility of the question was a sudden revelation.
“Why, yes. I have a little. Some bread and cheese that I was eating on the trail. Here, if you’ll untie me, I’ll get it for you. It’s right here in my traveling pack.”
The Klar pounced on the pack as if he expected it to make a break for freedom at any moment. Pulling out her spare cloak, he came upon her sleeping robe and rubbed his filthy fingers through the soft fabric for a very long time. Finally he set it aside, taking surprising care to see that it didn’t get dirty from the ground, and fished out the small half loaf of bread and wedge of hard cheese that was all that remained of her traveling supplies.