Most notable was the lingering smoke and the many charred, burned bodies of soldiers they found scattered in the streets. Some of the corpses were still smoking, though it seemed as though the main fight had moved on. They heard some sounds of a clash coming from somewhere up ahead, but there was no sign of the major force that must have inflicted such terrible casualties.
“Keep your men here; have them hide in one of these warehouses,” Darkstone ordered Captain Bitters. “Then come with me. We’ll do a little reconnaissance.”
“Aye, sir,” agreed the Theiwar with the old scar. “You heard the general,” he barked to his men. “Find one of these places where there’s room for the whole lot of you to stay out of sight.”
In a few moments, several of the Theiwar had pried open a large door to find a mostly empty space inside. Several mounds of coal along the back wall, along with a layer of black dust covering everything, suggested the commodity that was usually stored there. For the moment, fortunately, the stockpile was low, and the hundred-plus dwarves of Bitters’s company were able to make themselves comfortable and, more important, stay out of sight of the street.
The men pulled the door closed as Darkstone and the captain started up the street. The two officers clung to the shadows near the dark buildings, moving stealthily, slowly advancing in the direction of the sounds of battle.
Hearing the approach of a large body of warriors, the pair melted into a shadowy alcove and watched the cross street a dozen paces in front of them. They spied a file of dwarves dressed in red shirts, carrying shiny, unbloodied swords at the ready, double-time past. There were several hundred men, and they moved along one of the main avenues leading from the north gatehouse into the main center of Norbardin.
“It’s clear they’ve come into the city in force,” Dark-stone said in a low voice. However brave his surviving troops at the gatehouse had been, they could not have stood for long against such overwhelming numbers.
The two officers waited a minute or two until the sounds of the marching dwarves had faded into the distance. Then they emerged to continue their scouting. They crossed the main avenue and continued down another side street; like the one where the company had hidden, it too was devoid of traffic or other activity.
“Where are all the dwarves?” Captain Bitters wondered, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“Hiding, most likely,” replied Darkstone. “Probably waiting to see how this all comes out.”
Once more they arrived at a main thoroughfare, and there they found a number of bodies, mostly Theiwar wearing the black tunics of Willim’s troops. Some had been felled with swords and arrows, but in one place there was a wide circle of soot on the pavement with half a dozen charred and blackened bodies captured in the ring of fire.
“Did they come in with a dragon, General?” asked Captain Bitters, more angry than afraid.
“Worse than that, I think,” Darkstone declared, choking on his words.
He couldn’t speak as he walked past the terribly burned dwarves. Most of them were dead, and the few who still managed to open a wild, staring eye or to twitch a charred, stinking limb would perish soon enough.
He heard a groan and found one Theiwar whose legs were charred and ruined. But his eyes were bright and alert, and he uttered a hoarse curse as Darkstone knelt beside him.
“What happened here?” asked the general.
“A machine, sir! They attacked us with a great, fire-breathing machine. They pointed it at us, and it spat the huge fireball that killed half my platoon. It spit fire all the way down the street. I tried to fight them, sir-I–I really did! But I couldn’t!”
“No one could, son. I’m proud of you,” Darkstone said, touching the man’s cheek where his beard had been burned away. Another look at that charred torso and legs confirmed that the soldier was doomed; no one could recover from a wound like that. The general looked at him with frank compassion. “I wish there was something I could do for you.”
“My-my knife, General,” croaked the dying soldier. “Could you put it in my hand?”
The commander found the weapon, which had a blackened, half-melted hilt but a keen, undamaged blade, lying just out of the dwarf’s reach. “Here it is, lad,” he said, handing him the weapon then rising and turning so he didn’t see what the fellow did with the instrument.
Then he heard the sound of the cut and the spurt of arterial blood.
The Daergar general clenched his jaw and stalked onward, deadly resolve churning in his belly, his heart, and his mind. The fire cannon was the most terrible weapon he had ever seen, and the knowledge that it had been designed by dwarves and used against dwarves almost made him physically sick.
The hill dwarves were happy to welcome Gus, Slooshy, and Berta into their village as soon as Crystal explained how the Aghar had saved her from the mad Klar. They were further delighted to find out that Gus himself had been the gully dwarf who had spared them from the lethal barrage of the Tharkadan trap. (Under the circumstances, he decided it was not really necessary to tell them that it had all been a big accident.)
Slate Fireforge had become the leader of the town, and he recognized Crystal and Gus and was quick to declare the afternoon and evening to be the occasion for a great celebration of Crystal Heathstone’s homecoming. He welcomed the esteemed guests.
“Berta not wanta be ‘steemed,” Gus’s girlfriend whispered loudly as the plans were being announced. “But they got food for us?”
Indeed, they did have food: the hill dwarves feted the gully dwarves with fresh bread; a large, smoked ham; and a whole bushel of apples and grapes. The food was placed on a table, and they ate sitting on really comfortable seats. They found themselves looking across a plaza that was growing crowded with hill dwarves as more and more of the Neidar streamed into town from the surrounding villages, almost as if a magical summons had gone out to inform them of the impromptu celebration.
For a while, Gus was too busy eating to really pay attention to anything else, but after a couple of hours, even his very expandable belly was starting to feel comfortably full. It was then that he started listening to the earnest conversation going on between Crystal Heathstone, Slate Fireforge, and a few other hill dwarf elders.
They were talking about the Big War, the same war that Gretchan was going to. Gus leaned in and tried to understand what the other dwarves were saying.
“Tarn Bellowgranite has marched on Thorbardin?” Slate Fireforge expressed surprise at the news. “Why didn’t he call on our help? Like we pledged in the treaty?”
Crystal shook her head, saddened. “I’m afraid it’s the old fears, the old prejudices again. Brandon Bluestone came down from the north with four thousand dwarves of Kayolin, and apparently Tarn felt that would be enough to get the job done.”
“Aye. And he didn’t want to share the spoils with any Neidar, unless I miss my guess,” said another big hill dwarf-one who Crystal had welcomed by the name of Axel Carbondale. Gus knew that Axel had come from a different town, and in fact he looked vaguely familiar. At last it came to him: Axel had also been with the hill dwarves in the battle of Pax Tharkas.
“Is that the case?” Slate asked bluntly.
“I suppose it is,” Crystal was forced to agree. “My husband is a very stubborn dwarf. And I’m afraid, sometimes, that he’s getting even worse in his old age. In the end, I disagree with him. I think we should all come together. That’s why I decided to come home, on my own. I came to tell you what Tarn is doing and to ask if you’d be willing to help him.”
Suddenly she turned and flashed Gus a smile that, once again, reminded him very much of Gretchan. “I almost didn’t make it back home, and I wouldn’t have if not for Gus here.”
The little gully dwarf beamed and helped himself to another thick slice of ham.
“So the old fool is willing to risk defeat?” Axel growled. “Just because he’s too proud to ask for Neidar help? I say we let him face the defeat he deserves!”