That statement drew a few rumbles of assent from the gathered throng, but Gus saw that Slate, though listening carefully, wore a noncommittal expression on his face.
Crystal apparently noticed that too since she turned and put a hand on the Hillhome leader’s arm. “Slate, is that what you think too? That Tarn and the exiles should go down to defeat because they failed to ask for your help?”
There was a long silence, during which even the conversations among the dwarves at the more distant feasting tables settled down to whispers, waiting for Slate’s reply. Finally, Slate Fireforge shook his head. He stood up, his broad shoulders and lush mane of brown hair making him look larger than life.
“I say we should march to Tarn Bellowgranite’s aid. I say we should ally ourselves with our cousins from Kayolin, cousins who have marched much, much farther than we would have to go in order to join this brave campaign.”
He cleared his throat, as if embarrassed by his strong statements. But he raised his face and looked around the crowded plaza, at all the celebratory dwarves, with an expression of stern determination. He climbed onto his bench, stepped up onto the table, and from there climbed atop a huge keg. From that vantage, he could gaze all across the wide town square.
“Since when do we depend on mountain dwarves for wisdom?” he asked, his voice booming through Hillhome. He turned and addressed the dwarves on the other side of him and all around. “Since when do we depend on mountain dwarves to make our decisions or to decide our future? Hear me, brave Neidar!
“We have here the chance to right ten generations’ worth of wrongs!” Slate Fireforge declared from atop the sturdy keg. “I say we seize that chance, we gird ourselves, and we march to Thorbardin!”
“And I agree!” Axel Carbondale said, pushing himself to his feet. “The time for feuding is done. Let us work together and claim the future for all dwarves!”
His bold statement roused a few cheers, but those cheers quickly swelled into a roar of acclamation as the plan for the campaign swept like wildfire through the large crowd of hill dwarves thronging the central square of Hillhome.
Willim the Black paced back and forth before Gretchan’s cage with his hands crossed behind his back and his scarred lips pressed together in an expression of concentration. Notwithstanding his grotesque visage and hunched posture, for the moment he seemed to have an aura more like a lecturing professor than a megalo-maniacal magic-user.
The priestess watched him warily. She was shackled inside the cage and remained muted by the spell of silence. She had watched the wizard and his two female assistants for a long time, alert for any chance to escape. But no such opportunity had presented itself, and she could do little but listen.
“The creature of Chaos will be drawn to many things … to your beauty, perhaps, and even your faith. But most of all, it shall be drawn to your power. That power is the key to all my hopes, so please, take care that you do not disappoint me.”
The priestess leaned forward and strained against the chains binding her wrists. If she had been free, she would have cheerfully fastened her hands around Willim’s neck and throttled the life out of him. For the time being, she could only glare.
He seemed to sense-and enjoy-her fury. He beamed as she glared.
“You are probably thinking that you would rather die than cooperate with me.”
Her eyes widened slightly, the fury and fear in her gaze telling Willim that he was right in his assumption. The wizard shook his head, dismissing her objection. “You alone will not die. You will see: there will be many, many more who will perish.”
The wizard went to his table and raised the Staff of Reorx, which had been laid there following the cleric’s capture. Gretchan’s stomach lurched in revulsion against the blasphemy of Willim’s hands touching that sacred artifact, but she couldn’t turn away as she watched in horror. Holding the staff before him, he made sure that she watched his every move then continued his tutelage in that maddeningly calm voice.
“This is a powerful tool-in some ways more powerful than any other device at my disposal.”
Gretchan shook her chains, trying to stress that the Staff of Reorx was not his to use.
Again, the wizard seemed to read her mind. “Oh,” he said with a deep, wet chuckle. “But it is.”
“General Bluestone! The king is coming with the rest of the Tharkadan Legion.”
Brandon turned to see that Mason Axeblade had reached him. Axeblade was accompanied by a few dozen of his own men, all as sooty and bloodied as any other dwarves-proof that they had seen heavy action during their advance into the city.
The Kayolin commander stood with the front rank of his men, facing a shattered wall in the middle of Norbardin’s central cavern. It was the royal palace, and though Brandon very much doubted that Willim the Black-and his prisoner Gretchan Pax-would be waiting for them in the battered but still formidable edifice, there was no way around the position. He and his captains realized they would have to storm the place.
In his fury and determination, Brandon had almost forgotten about the rest of the army, and he had to shake his head and force himself to think about Tarn Bellowgranite.
“How far away is he?” Brandon asked.
“An hour, maybe less. He got a very warm welcome from the people when he led the legion into the northern quarter of the city. It seems they’re plenty sick of Willim the Black and of Jungor Stonespringer before him.”
Brandon nodded, still distracted, thinking of Gretchan’s dire peril. But he had to admit that Mason’s report was encouraging; if the dwarves of Thorbardin were prepared to cheer for their exiled monarch, that would make the position of Willim the Black even more tenuous.
But what was the wizard doing to Gretchan?
He forced himself to think and act. “All right. You see that building there, the palace?”
Mason nodded, studying the stony edifice. It was surrounded by a stone wall; that wall was broken and cracked in many places, the damage that still remained from the recent civil war that had resulted in Willim’s gaining of the throne. The large gate was barricaded with several large slabs of stone piled in place, blocking access in and out of the courtyard beyond. One tower rose into view behind the wall, but it was a jagged, broken spire. At one time it had apparently risen high above the floor of the underground city, but it looked like the trunk of a tree that had lost its top to a lightning strike.
“There are a hundred or more Theiwar holed up in there. The rest of the enemy army, mostly remnants, has moved beyond, into the widest of the roads leading down to the Urkhan Sea. But we can’t get at them until we fight our way through the palace.”
He looked up the road, in the direction Mason had come from. He was looking for signs of the two Fire-spitters, but the machines still were not moving forward. Both had exhausted their oil and coal in fighting their way into the city, and Brandon knew they were being reloaded. How much longer would that take?
Only vaguely did Brandon realize that Axeblade was waiting for the general to say something.
“I’m sorry,” Brandon said. “I’m worried about this attack. What was it you asked?”
“Where do you want the king to come?” the captain repeated. “Should I ask him to wait in the north quarter or advance here to the city center?”
“Have him come here, if he’s willing,” Brandon replied. “Maybe the clear proof of his return will bring all the people onto our side and we can be done with this fighting sooner than we ever thought.”
“Aye, General. Good idea,” Mason Axeblade replied. Instead of saluting, he placed a hand on Brandon’s shoulder. “And I heard about Gretchan,” he added solemnly. “We’re all praying for her, and I’m willing to bet that she’s more than a match for that devil wizard!”