“No, we can’t-we won’t,” she said immediately. She looked around the bare room, at her backpack-it had tumbled open somehow, scattering her few possessions-and suddenly knew they had to get out of that place. Hillhome had proved inhospitable.
“We’re going to leave,” she announced. “Tonight. After I go talk to one more person.”
She quickly gathered up her possessions and strapped them into her pack. Kondike and Gus hurried to keep up as she left the inn at a trot and made her way to the shadowy street where Garrin Hammerstrike had pointed to the oracle’s hut. A few minutes later, she stood in the darkness of an overhanging barn roof, studying her objective. The house of the Mother Oracle was obvious: it stood at the end of the narrow lane, dilapidated and dark. There were no other houses, barns, or other structures nearby.
“You two wait here,” she ordered sternly, worrying more about disobedience from the gully dwarf than from the dog.
Her staff in her hand, she started down the street. She strained for some sensory suggestion-sight or sound, smell, or even something on a more subconscious level-that would help her prepare to enter the small house. She felt nothing at all, and that fact disturbed her deeply. It was as if some kind of protective screen surrounded the house, like the building itself was prepared to resist her.
She approached the battered, shabby front door and she felt the resistance more directly. It took an extra effort of will to take the last two steps to bring her up to the portal. Gretchan, always confident and serene in the face of danger, felt a surprising unease and hesitated to touch the door. Uncertain whether she would knock or just push it open, she started and gasped when she her a sharp voice from within.
“Go away!”
The speaker was an old woman, she discerned, but if she were weak or invalid, that frailty did not transfer into her voice: the words were vibrant, thrumming with a sense of power that almost forced Gretchan backward. It took all of her resolve to reply.
“I want to talk to you. Will you let me in?” she asked directly.
“I said, go away!” The words were tinged with clear anger.
“I will not!” Gretchan shot back. “I’ve come to Hillhome, traveled hundreds of miles, to meet you. You are known in places far beyond the Kharolis range. Now will you open this door, or must I shout at you from the front step?”
Surprisingly, the door creaked open, and the Mother Oracle stood in the entryway, confronting the dwarf maid. She was shorter than Gretchan, thin, and wrapped in a threadbare shawl. Her face was creased with wrinkles and her eyes were milky pale, seemingly blind-except that the dwarf maid felt those useless eyes examining her very carefully. Gretchan sensed the power in her, and her hand tightened around her staff. The anvil at the head of the pole glimmered slightly, and the oracle snorted in contempt.
“Do you think the light of the Forge can protect you here? Hillhome is lost to you-and soon, so will be the rest of the Kharolis!”
“Who are you?” demanded Gretchan, clinging to her staff even more tightly than before.
“You may learn someday, but that day will be your last!” sneered the old crone. She waved a hand, and abruptly fire crackled around the door of her house, searing yellow flames surging into the night. The heat forced Gretchan to recoil.
“Help!” screamed the old woman, and she did sound feeble, weak, and terrified. “I am being attacked!”
A second later Gretchan heard doors bang open farther down the street. The old woman screamed again, and other dwarves, swarming out of their houses, shouted in alarm and surged toward the flames.
“It’s Mother Oracle!” someone cried.
Gretchan backed up farther, throwing up her hands to screen her face from the searing heat. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a half dozen or more hill dwarves charging toward her. Some carried buckets, but at least a few bore pitchforks or axes. She turned back to the hut and saw that the oracle had slammed the door-with herself inside. The flames surged higher, but the dwarf maid discerned that they were not consuming, not even charring, the dry planking on the outside of the building.
“Hey, you! Get away from there!” came another shout, undeniably hostile.
“You old fox,” Gretchan declared, shaking her head in dismay. With no good choice in front of her, she clutched her staff, put down her head, and ran into the darkness. It took her ten minutes to circle around to find Gus and Kondike where she had left them. By then, she saw that the flames were out, and she was not surprised to observe that the oracle’s house was none the worse for the experience. A number of agitated hill dwarves milled about in the narrow land in front of the hut.
“Come on,” she said in disgust to her two relieved companions. “We’re getting out of here.”
Harn Poleaxe came to with a throbbing headache. His mind was foggy, but when he remembered what had happened-he had had the wench on her bed, was holding her down, when that ferocious dog and stupid gully dwarf had interrupted them-his fury wiped away his pain. He stood, staggering slightly. He limped on a sore foot and looked down at his bloody toes, cursing the damned little Aghar that had dared to chomp him.
A quick look around was enough to show him that the beautiful dwarf maid had taken her possessions and gone. How dare she! A low growl rumbled in his chest. Then he sagged onto the bed, too tired to pursue her-she was probably long gone, anyway-his rage fading away. Holding his throbbing head in his hand, he just felt weary.
A momentary thought flashed though his mind: had she taken everything?
Quickly he reached into his boot, still on the floor behind the door where he had left it as he prepared for his encounter with the voluptuous maid. He felt weak with relief as he touched the cold glass and pulled out the bottle of dwarf spirits, the one that she had left on her night table. The one he had quickly stolen for his own.
He’d been pleasantly surprised to discover it-she didn’t seem the type to be carrying strong drink around-but he’d snatched it up right after he broke into her room, having the foresight to set it aside for later. She hadn’t taken everything with her, and if she were going to leave something, he was glad it was that bottle of strong drink. Just what he wanted and needed right at the moment. It was all he needed. Poleaxe gazed fondly at that perfect blend of distilled spirits, swirling like liquid treasure in the flask.
“Midwarren Pale.” he read. It sounded like a mountain dwarf vintage but not one he was familiar with; that didn’t matter; he had broad tastes when it came to strong drink.
He could resist no longer. Pulling out the cork, he placed the bottle to his lips and tilted it upward. The first drops of the liquid touched his lips, and he experienced an exquisite agony, a pain pure and piercing that rapidly became an overwhelming pleasure. It was not dwarf spirits, not even a foul and sour version of that splendid drink.
The elixir trickled down his throat, flowing from his belly into his limbs, invigorating him, thrilling him. He gulped down the contents of the bottle in one long guzzle, feeling a liquid fire surging in his chest. He trembled, feeling the rush all over his body, black and smothering but at the same time comforting and protecting.
Suddenly convulsing, the hill dwarf fell onto the floor, the empty bottle tumbling from his nerveless fingers. His body quivered as the essence of the elixir seeped through every fiber of his being. Shivering, he lay helpless on the floor, surrendering to wave after wave of ecstasy. He felt vibrantly, fully, sensually alive in a way he had never been before.
He couldn’t move, could barely breathe. But his mind was filled with powerful images, scenes of conquest and triumph.
Lying there, almost peacefully, he recalled the command of the Mother Oracle and knew the Kayolin prisoner must die. He, Harn Poleaxe, would make it happen, and the people of his village would hail him as a hero for doing the deed.