And in the midst of its seething meditation, it became aware of another power, a fresh source of great magic, even if it was not the magic of sorcery. Of course, it was warded by the power of a dangerous god, and Gorathian wanted nothing to do with any god.
Still, it was pure, arcane might, and there was nothing that would feed the fire dragon’s hunger more satisfyingly than such power. So Gorathian probed with its senses, wishing to learn more about that new magical presence.
“Why you goin’ to Hillhome?” Gus asked Crystal as they strode along a rocky trail between a pair of rough ridges in the foothills.
“Because it’s my home,” she declared simply. “I haven’t been there for a while, but I’ve decided to go back.”
Ignoring his two girlfriends, who stomped along behind them and repeatedly shot dirty looks at the back of Crystal Heathstone’s fur traveling cloak, Gus strolled along and pondered the situation. In truth, his new companion reminded him a lot of Gretchan, at least insofar as she didn’t try to bash him with a club or stab him with a sword just because he happened to be nearby. Yet, unlike Gretchan, Gus sensed a kind of wistful sadness in Crystal, and he wished he could do something about that. He was glad that he had killed the Klar in order to save her, but he knew that captivity in the hands of the mad dwarf was not the sole problem that had afflicted the gracious dwarf maid.
Of course, his affections had been considerably enhanced that morning, when their new companion had led them to a comfortable roadside inn, only an hour or so from her hidden camp in the woods. There she had produced a steel coin, and the innkeeper, who had at first looked askance at the trio of gully dwarves, had been persuaded to produce a loaf of bread, a pitcher of creamy milk, and even some cooked eggs that Crystal had willingly shared with the three Aghar who had rescued her in the woods.
Apparently she was still kind of lonely, for she made no attempt to shoo the gully dwarves away. Neither did she invite them to keep her close company, but that didn’t stop Gus-and, by extension, the two females who had attached themselves to him like mountain ticks-from traveling along at her heels. The word Hillhome had triggered a vague memory, and Gus scratched his head, trying to tickle out the thought.
It wasn’t until hours later, when they were descending toward a wooded valley, that the connection was finally made. “Hillhome! Gus know Hillhome dwarf!”
“Oh?” Crystal seemed surprised, even a little amused by his revelation. “And who would that be?” she asked.
“Slut Fireforge!” Gus proclaimed proudly. “Him and me was at Patharkas for Big War! Gus won Big War, but Slut help too.”
“Slut Fireforge?” she repeated. “That doesn’t sound-wait, do you mean Slate Fireforge?”
Gus frowned. He didn’t like to be corrected. “Mebbe so,” he admitted. “But Gus call him Slut.”
Oddly, Crystal was laughing. “I’m sure you did,” she said, shaking her head. “But I know Slate, and I imagine he was fairly amused. Would you like to see him again?”
“Sure! Slut big, nice guy. Even share beer with Gus.”
“Well, I think you’ll get your wish,” the hill dwarf maid replied, gesturing to a town that was just coming into view around a bend in the forest road. “Because we’ll be in Hillhome in about ten more minutes.”
SIXTEEN
General Darkstone finally emerged from the damp, constricted drainage tunnel. The drain pipe from the ancient sewer had brought him there, but just as the tube began to drop vertically into the depths below Thorbardin, he was able to wrench aside a rusty iron grate and escape. Squirming through the narrow aperture, he rolled onto his back and breathed deeply of the city’s dank but comparatively fresh air.
Mud and slime covered him from his boots to the gummy strands of his hair and beard, but he pushed himself to his feet and gave himself a shake, not unlike a dog emerging from a swamp. He stood on a narrow street, at the edge of a sewer drain. The ceiling was low overhead, filmy with mold and dripping water, and the buildings along either side of the twisting road were packed close together. Each was protected by a stout door. He didn’t see any windows.
Taking stock of his surroundings, he realized he had come into Anvil’s Echo, the lowest of Norbardin’s hierarchy of levels. It was a place where the poorest dwarves lived, the slums where a careless drunk could easily get his throat slit or his pocket picked, in no particular order. He was startled as a voice, firm but not hostile, emerged from the mouth of a narrow alley.
“Here, stranger, you look like you got down here the hard way. Any idea what’s going on up there?”
He turned with surprise to see a small platoon of Theiwar warriors, dressed in the black leather of Willim’s forces. They were a mixed lot, armed with crossbows, swords, and a few axes, and they gathered behind the dwarf, wearing a sergeant’s epaulets, who had addressed him. That one had an ancient scar slanting across his face, and his beard was long, gray, and wildly untamed.
“Thorbardin is attacked from without,” Darkstone said bluntly. “Invaders have cracked open the great gate. Their troops are pouring into the city as we speak.”
“Damn!” the sergeant replied. “It’s worse than I thought.”
“What word has filtered down here?” Darkstone asked.
“Well, we heard that a whole company has been burned to death, not two hundred feet over our head. My orders are to stay down here and watch for trouble in the Echo, but I’ve a mind to take my men up to the main level and put them to good work.” He squinted, plainly appraising the mud-slicked stranger. “I’ll go ahead and volunteer you into my band; you look like you could swing a sword rightly.”
Darkstone almost chuckled. He found himself liking the grizzled, scarred sergeant; the fact that the fellow was willing to march headlong toward the center of the fight was the first encouraging sign he’d noted that day. He straightened up, threw back his shoulders, and mustered all the force of his command into his voice.
“Sergeant!” he barked. “What’s your name?”
The dwarf blinked but then snapped to attention. “Chap Bitters, sir!” he shot back. “First Sergeant of the Third Theibardin Regiment!”
“Good man. I am General Darkstone.” He looked around as the name registered. Chap Bitters blinked in astonishment. “You are hereby promoted to captain. Bring as many of your men as you can gather in five minutes; we’re moving to the plaza!”
“Aye, General. Yes, sir!” Bitters turned and shouted at the dozen men in his small platoon. “You heard the honorable general! Fetch your fellows from whatever holes they’re hiding in. Report to the north shaft in five minutes!”
The dwarves scattered with commendable alacrity, and by the time they’d rejoined the captain and the general at the entrance to the north shaft-which was a wide, spiraling stairway leading up to the rest of Norbardin’s levels-they had collected more than a hundred other dwarves.
“Half the regiment, I’d say, sir,” Bitters reported with not a little pride.
“Good,” Darkstone acknowledged. “Now fall in and move up!”
They tromped up to the plaza in a serpentine column and a few minutes later emerged into a warehouse quarter where wide, straight streets passed between square buildings. The structures were two stories high, and the stone ceiling covered each street at the same height as the top of the warehouses.
In peacetime, it would have been a district bustling with pedestrians and commerce, but they found a city changed in ways that the Daergar general found hard to imagine.