The hill dwarves and their captive moved under a slate-gray sky, which occasionally spit at them with rain showers; the sky perfectly mirrored Brandon’s mood. They trekked away from the campsite but remained on the rugged crest of the ridge instead of moving into the more easily passable valley floor. They descended a bit to avoid a lofty, open promontory, but then quickly climbed back to resume the trek on the ridge crest.
When they came to a steep-sided ravine, his captors pushed him roughly, and he skidded down to land on his hip, sliding roughly to the bottom, unable to use his bound hands for any help. Grimly he plodded up the winding trail on the opposite side, resolving that he would not give the Neidar the satisfaction of hearing him complain or seeing him suffer. Nor would he give them an excuse to beat or, worse, ridicule and mock him.
All the while he was nursing his anger, which had already flared into hatred. They were not like any dwarves he had ever imagined; they were not worthy of Reorx’s chosen! They were worse than the lowest gully dwarves, he finally decided.
It was many hours later before the troop of hill dwarves finally marched down off the rocky ridges onto a smooth road. The pair who had originally been charged with Brandon’s execution had been marching grimly behind the prisoner all day, never hesitating to poke him between the shoulders, in the area of his kidneys, or right in the buttocks with the sharp tips of their short swords. He had noted that one of those two was also carrying Brandon’s axe, clearly displaying his enjoyment at the feel and heft of his new weapon. The dwarf’s chuckles of amusement proved, to Brandon, that he considered the dishonorable torment to be fine sport.
The captive barely felt those small annoyances, however, so deep was the gloom that had settled around him. The whole day he trudged along, mourning the loss of his father’s treasure, cursing himself for the foolishness that had led to his capture without even a respectable show of self-defense. All was lost, and it seemed only a matter of time until Poleaxe staged his charade of a trial and executed the Kayolin dwarf as a spy.
It wasn’t until near sunset that Brandon finally, forcefully, reminded himself that he wasn’t dead yet. And, he told himself, if all he did was wallow in self-pity, his life may as well end in an ignominious whimper. He could not, would not, give up! If he was to perish here, he would make sure the Neidar bastards paid dearly for the privilege of killing him.
But his wrists were still securely bound, and his captors numbered a full dozen, so there was no release for his anger-at least, not in his present circumstances. He vowed to Reorx, to his father, and to the memory of his slain brother that someday, somehow, he would find the means to claim vengeance. For the moment, he would stay alert, nursing his anger.
His eyes, when he raised them, sought Harn Poleaxe, who strode at the head of the little column, swaggering along, regaling his companions with tales of Kayolin hubris and wealth.
“Their governor has decided to call himself a king,” Poleaxe declared in an incredulous tone. “Even though he doesn’t have half the holdings of Thorbardin. Believe it or not, he does most of his trading with humans!”
“Ah, you’re making that up!” said one of Harn’s ruffians.
“I swear on the Forge of Reorx!” Harn declared with an air of wounded dignity. “He sells steel to the emperor of Solamnia, and in return, the humans protect Kayolin from the goblins.”
That was a lie, Brandon knew-Kayolin was in no danger from even the most numerous and aggressive bands of goblins-but the prisoner wasn’t about to waste his breath rebuking Poleaxe, not when his own life was hanging in the balance.
The other Neidar, all except the one called Fireforge, laughed heartily at Harn’s anecdotes while Brandon’s rage simmered. He watched that hill dwarf, whose full name was Slate Fireforge, for any signs he might be able to appeal to him for help. Despite the fact he had objected to Harn’s plan to summarily execute the captive, however, Fireforge gave no sign that he was willing to extend him any other unusual sympathy.
As his mind cleared-from both the effects of Poleaxe’s blows and the lingering hangover-he reflected on the events that had led him to his sorry state. For there was more than just bad luck involved. Clearly, Poleaxe had planned the theft carefully; he had sent word to his cronies, and the band had waited in hiding for the travelers, moving in to assist when the treacherous Neidar acted.
That itself was an interesting fact, Brandon realized. Why had the big hill dwarf felt that he needed help? After all, he stood a half head taller than the mountain dwarf, who himself was a bigger-than-average specimen. And Poleaxe outweighed Brandon by a good two stone. Yet even with his victim extremely drunk, he had not struck until backed up by significant reinforcements. Perhaps Poleaxe was not as fearless as he pretended.
And why had he made his move out in the wilds? Poleaxe just as easily could have had Brandon surrounded or captured in town at an inn or in a tavern. Instead, he’d arranged for his handpicked men to effect the betrayal away from eyewitnesses.
The more Brandon thought about it, the more he wondered whether Harn’s behavior might not meet with the approval of every citizen of Hillhome. Perhaps he might be able to find, if not outright allies, a few decent dwarves once they got to the town.
The road they were following meandered along a valley surrounded not by mountains, but by forested ridges. Soon they passed a dam-made of stones set so perfectly it could only be the work of dwarves-and a millhouse, where a large wheel turned with the flow of the stream. Brandon began to spot stone houses in the woods to either side, and when the road passed around another bend, they came upon a bustling village, filling the valley before him from wall to wall.
“Welcome to Hillhome!” gloated Poleaxe, calling back to his captive. “Now you can have a taste of Neidar hospitality.”
“False hospitality, you mean,” Brandon retorted. “Not like my father’s, when he fed you and gave you drink at his own table.”
“All the more fool him,” Harn shot back, though he glowered unpleasantly. Was it possible? Did he feel some guilt over his foul treachery?
“Take him to the brig behind the smelting plant. Then come and report to me; I’ll be at Moldoon’s place,” Poleaxe added, instructing the two guards who had tortured Brandon during the long march.
The prisoner, determined not to miss any chance at escape, looked around carefully as the guards escorted him through the town. He saw immediately that Hillhome consisted of two parts: a small central section of neat stone buildings, and an outer ring of wooden buildings and shacks. The houses in the town center were mostly modest, though a few boasted several rooms and outbuildings. Sturdy slate roofs and ornate rock gardens gave those structures a sense of permanence, as though they were every bit as old as the hills themselves. The inns-he spotted several-were large but similarly neat, as were the mill, smithy, and a few other shops they passed.
Brandon got a good look at both parts of the town, as he was marched down a curving lane that seemed to serve as a boundary between the two districts. The outer ring contained more buildings, and covered more area, than the rock-solid center. Those structures looked more temporary and seemed more crowded. He saw lines of laundry stringing between many of the buildings, and as his captors led him past a large inn, called Snarky’s Place, a band of swarthy dwarves called down to them from the long porch.
“Hey, Rune! What’s that garbage you’re dragging into our town?” shouted a burly, black-bearded Neidar with a bulging belly and a patch over one eye.
“Ah, he’s a mountain dwarf,” called the captor, the one who was carrying Brandon’s axe. “Harn Poleaxe is back, and he brought this fellow with him as a souvenir.”
“Mountain dwarf?” screeched a female hill dwarf, a toothless crone sitting on the steps of the inn. She hawked and spit a gob of saliva that Brandon nimbly sidestepped. Eyes forward, he kept plodding on, and his guards hurried beside him, quickly leaving the belligerent drinkers behind.