Another door to the room burst open, and Tarn Bellowgranite and Garn Bloodfist, accompanied by a half dozen armed dwarves, rushed inside. They were followed by the white-bearded elder, Otaxx Shortbeard, who was ruddy faced and panting after the long climb.
“There they are!” cried the Klar captain, pointing to Brandon and Gretchan as he waved his soldiers forward. “Take them!”
“Stop!” shouted Gretchan, stamping the butt of her staff against the floor. The shaft made a surprisingly loud bang when it struck the stones, and to Brandon’s surprise, the men-at-arms froze. From the gaping looks on their faces, they were as surprised as he was. Each tried to move his feet, swaying and struggling, but it appeared as though the Klar warrior had been nailed to the floor.
“See, my thane!” shouted Garn, who could talk though he couldn’t move his legs. “Behold that sorcery! She is a witch! I sensed it that night she came to me, beside the river!”
“Oh, be quiet!” snapped the dwarf maid.
Brandon desperately wished for a weapon, but he was as unarmed as he had been in his cell. And Gretchan had only that little hammer. He didn’t like their chances if it came to a fight, and he didn’t think her magic and bravado-impressive as it was-could hold the mountain dwarves at bay for long.
Struggling to move, the Klar captain cuffed one of his dwarves, knocking him to the floor. “Fool,” he cried. He loomed over the fallen soldier and glared at Gretchan, clenching his fists, but he seemed unable to make any further advance.
Beyond Bloodfist, Tarn Bellowgranite sighed, suddenly looking very old. He took out a cloth and mopped his bald pate, which was slick with sweat. He looked at Gretchan, and his expression grew cold.
“I don’t know who you are or why you have come here to vex us. You’ve managed to spook my bravest captain, and he tells me you’ve taken the liberty of breaking a prisoner out of my dungeon. How do you explain yourself? Are you indeed a witch?”
Gretchan was looking past the thane at the old general. “You there. Are you the Daewar Otaxx Shortbeard?” she asked.
“I am,” he replied stiffly. “And I, too, demand that you answer my thane’s questions.”
“You are in no position to make demands,” she said. Then, softening her tone, she added, “I am not a witch.” She raised her staff, and the miniature anvil atop the pole suddenly glowed with a golden light even brighter than the sunlight spilling in through the windows. “I am a priestess of Reorx,” she said. “And I have been traveling the lands of the dwarves for a long time, studying our people, trying to understand why we do what we do.”
“The Reorx of the mountain dwarves or of the hill dwarves?” challenged Garn Bloodfist belligerently.
“He is the same god, you fool!” she snapped. “And his heart is breaking to see the strife that exists between his two tribes.”
“So you sympathize with the Neidar, then.” The Klar sneered. He pointed at Brandon. “Witness, my thane, that she has freed the hill dwarf spy from his cell in the dungeon.”
“I tell you again for the last time: I’m as much a Hylar as Tarn Bellowgranite!” Brandon declared, fists clenching as he took a step toward the Klar.
“More, actually,” Gretchan said calmly. “For you are only a half-blood Hylar, are you not, Thane?”
Tarn nodded, staring intently at the priestess. “Yes, my mother was a Daergar,” he said. “This is not a secret. But who are you, and why do you come here and cause all this commotion? You seem to know very much about us, yet you have revealed very little about yourself-save that you are a cleric of our shared god.”
“Yes, you are a cipher,” Otaxx Shortbeard said to Gretchan, sounding more curious than angry. “You rightly called me a Daewar. But what clan are you from? And where is your home?”
“I am a Daewar too,” Gretchan said. “My home… my home is in the east.”
“Do you mean… Thoradin?” asked the old general in a tone of wonder.
She nodded. “Yes. I left there more than a decade ago, intending to return to Thorbardin, to see my people’s ancestral home, to meet my kinfolk and the fellow clans. But the undermountain kingdom was sealed before I arrived in the Kharolis.”
“Then… you mean to say…?” Otaxx was still wrestling with the incredible revelation. “Did Severus Stonehand actually reach Zhakar? Did the Mad Prophet lead the Daewar to a new home in the old mountains? For years we have believed that his entire expedition ended in disaster, that everyone perished. Please-I must know!”
“Severus Stonehand and most of the Daewar did reach the Khalkist Mountains,” Gretchan said. “The way was difficult and spotted with tragedy. But he survives and most of his people survive in the caverns that were once the home of the Zhakar dwarves. They still endure many struggles, and Thoradin itself-at least, as it once was-remains an elusive dream. But clan Daewar survives.”
“By the grace of Reorx,” Otaxx said, his eyes tearing. “It is as if my deepest wish has been granted. My thane, this is wonderful news!”
“This is all damned irrelevant!” snapped Garn Bloodfist, eyes all but bursting out of his skull. Forgetting that his movements were frozen, he cuffed his man-at-arms and pointed at Brandon.
“Seize him-take him back to his cell!”
Before the poor man-at-arms could react, however, another door burst open and a gasping, red-faced watchman, one of the sentries posted atop the Tharkadan Wall, staggered into the room.
“There’s a column of hill dwarves in sight!” he announced, panting for breath following his long run down from the parapet. “Thousands of them! They’re two miles away, and they’re fast nearing the gates!”
TWENTY-SIX
“Is this attack your doing?” Tarn Bellowgranite demanded coldly. His eyes never left Gretchan’s. “Perhaps you are the true Neidar spy-come here to divert us! You hold us here, captive to your magic. And all the while your allies in the hill dwarf army are creeping up on the fortress, readying a surprise attack!”
“I tell you, she cannot be trusted!” Bloodfist declared, shaking his fist, straining to move his feet from where the priestess’s magic had stuck him to the floor. “Her whole story is a lie-a distraction, as you have well guessed, my thane.”
“No!” Gretchan protested, her voice breaking. “I know nothing of this attack; I’m against all wars and attacks!”
“I can’t afford to believe you,” Tarn Bellowgranite declared. “Not when my fortress, my whole community, is at risk. Release us at once! I command you, treacherous witch!”
“I’m telling the truth!” she insisted, wincing as if the thane had struck her.
Brandon listened, trembling with barely controlled anger. If he’d carried a weapon, he would have turned it against the Hylar thane and his bloodthirsty captain.
“What are your orders, my thane?” asked the messenger from the top of the wall, whose eyes darted around, confused, as he listened to all their strange talk. He was the only one of the Pax Tharkas dwarves who was not immobilized by Gretchan’s spell.
“Get word to the garrison troops at once!” Otaxx Shortbeard ordered when it seemed that Tarn could not tear his eyes away from Gretchan. “Order the gates closed.”
“Free us at once!” Garn shrieked, eyes bulging. “Your treachery is further proved with each passing second!”
The priestess stepped to Brandon’s side and took his hand. “Be ready to move quickly,” she whispered and shifted toward the far wall of the room, the place where the chain disappeared into the Tharkadan Wall. To Gus she instructed: “Gus, I want you to listen closely now. It’s time for you to go. Go safely, go down below, to Agharhome. I know about your… friend down there. She’s a good friend and she misses you. I know that she’s been looking for you.”