“Your little secret is safe with me,” Sadie confided in a voice that was not at all reassuring. “So long as you know your place and don’t interfere with me.”
The apprentice stared at the wizard for a long time, feeling as though a chilly fog had wrapped its tendrils around her. The old crone merely smacked her lips and went back to looking at the image in the bowl.
“What do you want?” asked Facet hesitantly, stepping forward. She wondered why the old woman hadn’t told Willim about her treachery, and she suspected immediately that it had something to do with Sadie’s own ambitions. For the first time she wondered why Willim had trapped her and her mate in the jar prison.
Sadie shrugged, not bothering to look at the younger dwarf. “I want what we all want. Power. Prosperity. Freedom. And perhaps revenge,” she said finally.
Facet smiled inwardly. She could relate to all of those desires, and that gave her, for the first time, a sense of possible kinship with the older woman. Again she advanced until she, too, was standing beside the scrying bowl. “What’s happening?” she asked again in a beseeching tone, peering into the bowl.
“The North Gate of Thorbardin has been breached by our master’s enemies,” Sadie explained, gesturing.
Yes, Facet could clearly discern an image of violent battle portrayed in the pool. Dwarves were hacking at each other with swords, stabbing with spears, charging and falling back in chaotic patterns. Flames swirled around the armies at one point, bright and vivid and so searingly real that she put a hand up in front of her face to block the illusionary heat. Eerily, she heard no sounds, but the sense of combat was so fierce and real that she was surprised that the surface of the water wasn’t vibrating from the tumultuous action.
“What is the master doing?” she asked curiously.
“For now, it seems he goes to observe. He won’t use his spells, won’t attract attention to himself right now-not so long as the fire dragon still roams free.”
“He fears that beast!” Facet burst out. “He thinks it wants to find him and kill him.”
“And he’s right,” Sadie said, nodding. “That’s why he freed me. He thinks that I might be able to help him win that fight.”
“Can you?” Facet asked.
Sadie shook her head grimly. “No. That one is beyond the reach of wizardly magic.”
“Then what can you do? If you fail, won’t he lock you up again?”
Sadie cackled and straightened her frail shape to a surprising height. “I’ll never be locked up by him, never again,” she spat. “But I have found one who might be able to help him.”
“Who?” Facet was intrigued in spite of herself.
The old sorceress gestured to the glimmering pool. Facet saw a dwarf there in the midst of the battle, a blond-haired female with a blue robe and a brightly glowing staff.
“Arcane magic is of no use against a creature of Chaos,” Sadie declared. “But that one wields the power of a god. And we’re going to seize her and use her power as our own.”
FOURTEEN
For the first time in more than sixteen hours, Brandon allowed himself to relax his grip on the handle of the Bluestone Axe. He heard Fister Morewood barking orders to his dwarves of the Second Legion, while on a lower level of the city-visible from the balcony where he and Gretchan had finally stopped to catch their breath-Otaxx Shortbeard and Mason Axeblade directed the dispersed companies of the Tharkadan Legion to move into the alleys and byways to either side of the road. The whooping sounds of the Klar company had faded into the distance as the berserkers, barely controlled by the roaring bellows of Wildon Dacker, led the charge into the heart of the city of Norbardin.
Sounds of battle rang out from several skirmishes, but the great din of the fighting seemed to have settled down. Brandon found a stone bench that had been toppled in the fray and pulled it upright. Gretchan sat down on it and leaned back against a marble column, closing her eyes and holding her staff across her lap.
“Mind if I join you?” Brandon asked, nudging the rod to the side so there was room for him to sit on the bench beside her.
“Only if you’ll show a lonely girl around a strange town, soldier,” Gretchan said, smiling through her weariness.
“We’ve made a pretty good start, for tourists,” Brandon pointed out with a grin.
And indeed, they had. The initial blast of the Fire-spitter had been enough to shatter the resistance in the gatehouse, and when the First Legion troops had poured through the breached doorway, the wizard’s defenders had been too few, too disorganized, and in many places too fearful to put up a coherent defense. As a result, the attackers had claimed more than half of the great city in the first day of the battle. They were able to concentrate their forces wherever Willim’s fighters had tried to make a stand and overwhelmed each strong point in turn before moving deeper into the legendary kingdom.
For the Tharkadan Legion, the initial victory had been a return to home. To the Kayolin dwarves, each step forward, each intersection and new building and small square or plaza, was part of the discovery of a new world that nonetheless was familiar in their hearts. None of the northern dwarves had ever seen Thorbardin before, but throughout their lives, all of them had heard of it and held the name and the place in a state of reverence and awe.
From their current resting place, Brandon and Gretchan could survey only a small portion of Norbardin, but the sight was enough to convince them both that it was the greatest underground city in all of Krynn. Even Garnet Thax, the jewel of Kayolin, looked like a piddling small town by comparison.
Great edifices rose along one wall of the vast, cavernous space. Brandon counted at least ten levels on that cliff face, each one marked by columned balconies and lofty windows, porches, and other vantages.
Between their current position and that grand facade lay a series of narrow streets and multistoried buildings, some rising far above their line of sight but others low enough that they could spot the splendid architecture beyond. The crowded lanes of the district below them no doubt usually teemed with pedestrians and vendors, but most of the citizens of Thorbardin had been content to lock themselves into their homes when the invasion began. Brandon had received encouraging reports indicating that a great portion of the populace was not enamored of either Willim the Black or his predecessor, Jungor Stonespringer. One tyrant was the same as the other, as far as they were concerned. Word of Tarn Bellowgranite’s return was slowly spreading among the common people, advancing well ahead of the army.
Brandon and Gretchan looked up to see Tankard Hacksaw heading toward them. The legion commander was caked with dirt and sweat and had a bloody cut running across his forehead. But he also carried a decanter of water, and it was the most beautiful thing either of them had ever seen.
“Help yourselves,” he said with a tight smile, handing the tall glass vessel to Gretchan.
The priestess took a deep draught and passed it to Brandon before pushing herself to her feet with an effort. “Here, let me have a look at that cut,” she said concernedly.
“Bah!” Tankard waved her away. “It’s nothing. There’s them who’re hurt a lot worse than me. Besides, you already did me more than fine when you plucked that arrow out of my shoulder.”
“Well, it looks like you hurt yourself again. Can’t you be a little more careful?” Gretchan chided good-naturedly. “Rest assured that I’ll do what I can for the rest of your men. But you’re a legion commander. We can’t have you losing blood like that. Sets a bad example.” She smiled lightly. “You’ll scare the recruits.”
“Ah, all right,” Tankard said. His knees nearly buckled as he sank down on the bench, and Brandon saw that he was more seriously injured than he’d been letting on. But the cleric pressed her palm against the bleeding cut and murmured a prayer to Reorx. After several moments she pulled her hand away, and her palm and Tankard’s forehead were both cleansed of blood.