Brandon shook his head. “I was afraid the place might be watched. I didn’t want to go up to the front door without some kind of disguise, and also I thought I should give my folks a bit of warning that I’m here.”
“Well, let me take care of that warning part,” Bondall said with a grin. But immediately she turned serious. “And hey, it’s good to see you, but be careful.”
“I will,” he replied, but she was already bustling back to the bar. Gretchan took his hand and they watched Bondall speak to another dwarf maid, one who was sitting on the customer side of the bar. That female got up to step behind the counter while Bondall bustled out the front door without a backward glance. The fill-in barmaid brought a couple of mugs over to Brandon and Gretchan, plopped them on the table, and went back to the bar without a word or a glance.
“How’d she know we wanted these?” the priestess asked.
Brandon, already taking a deep draught of the cold, hop-flavored brew, simply shrugged. “Good camouflage,” he suggested, wiping the foam from his mustache with the back of his hand. “Everyone in here is drinking their fill. We’d look silly sitting here just twiddling our thumbs.”
Gretchan allowed as how that made sense, though she sipped at her beer with a little more gentility than her companion did. They sat in silence for a half hour, nursing their drinks, until Bondall returned and came straight over to the table. She carried a woolen cloak with a deep, cowled hood.
“They’re thrilled and can’t wait to see you,” she said. “Not that they aren’t worried for you as well. But here, put this on, and cover your head. Go right to your house, and they’ll let you in.”
“Thanks, Bondy,” Brand said gratefully, standing.
“Yes-thank you so much,” Gretchan agreed sincerely.
“You’d do the same for me,” she replied, speaking to Brandon. Then she touched Gretchan on the shoulder and looked her straight in the eyes. “And you take care of him; he’s a fair catch.”
“I–I know he is,” Gretchan replied, embarrassed again. “But I don’t think I’ve, um, caught him yet.”
Bondall merely smiled, a knowing, sympathetic gesture. “Good luck,” she whispered as the couple started toward the door.
The queen horax lay atop of a vast mountain of eggs, sensing the stirrings of life beneath her. Many of the shiny orbs had already hatched, sending slick neophytes oozing toward the exits from the cavern. They twisted and thrashed, working free of the thick membranes still coating them as they emerged from the eggs, using nascent mandibles to chew a hole through which they could break free from the gummy wrap.
At first the neophytes wriggled like snakes or slugs, but by the time they reached the connecting tunnels, they had stretched their legs away from their segmented bodies, standing shakily and starting to crawl.
The massive, bloated shape of the queen occupied her place in the center of the hive, and she steadily created more eggs, spewing them from her swollen abdomen onto the ever-growing pile. Resting atop the eggs, she had been steadily lifted over the recent years, until her bulbous body lay very near the ceiling of the large chamber. But still she ate, and still she produced many eggs.
Her soldiers had been feeding her well, lately, bringing warm, bloody morsels of dwarf meat that the queen greedily consumed. She was not introspective, probably not even capable of that which is called “reflection,” but she perceived that the space around the hive was expanding and that her soldiers were venturing farther and farther afield, finding new sources of food, bringing that food to her so she could birth more soldiers.
The horax were timeless beings; they had dwelled in that cavern since the Age of Dreams. Once they had been small in number, the offspring of the very first queen, until the dwarves had come there. Then began the reign of the second queen, and the horax had swarmed steadily upward, feasting, thriving, growing, until the dwarves had blocked them off and sealed the tunnels, preventing the hive from spreading.
But at this moment, in the reign of the third queen, some of those tunnels had been opened again-not by the horax, who could not dig through solid rock, but by some other unknown force. The bugs had been quick to exploit those openings, and her soldiers roamed and explored, claiming unprecedented prey, bringing to themselves and to their queen a greater supply of food. They were horax; they did not question the nature or motives of their benefactor, one that clearly wanted the swarm to expand, to reach out …
To kill and eat more dwarves.
Outside of the Cracked Mug, the street seemed much busier than it had when they’d first arrived. “Changing shifts at the mill, I think,” Brandon guessed, judging from the dusty cloaks on many of the dwarves moving to and fro. He pulled his robe over his shoulders, using the hood to conceal his face, and led Gretchan and Kondike down the street and around the corner. He felt a lump in his throat as he approached the front door of his beloved house, from which he had fled a year and a half earlier.
Before he could knock, however, the portal opened and he stepped inside into the frantic embrace of his mother, Karine Bluestone. Gretchan and the dog quickly followed, and his father, after a nervous glance up and down the street, quickly shut the door.
Brandon extricated himself from his mother’s embrace to introduce his companion. He noted at once the expression of concern, even anger, on Garren Bluestone’s face.
“Why did you come back here?” his father asked finally. “Do you know what they want to do to you?”
“I got some idea at the outer gate!” Brandon retorted. “If Gretchan hadn’t worked her magic, I’d be in chains already.”
“Magic?” Karine asked, wide eyed. She took in Gretchan’s ruddy skin, her golden hair, and the tall staff she held in her hand. “You don’t look like a Theiwar …”
“I’m Daewar,” Gretchan replied smoothly. “And I’m a priestess of Reorx. Not a wizard.”
“Oh, well, yes, of course,” stammered Brandon’s mother, unclear about the distinction. “But you saved my son from the guards. We owe you quite a bit.”
“That’s not the half of it,” Brand said. “She broke me out of a dungeon in Pax Tharkas and won a war against the hill dwarves after Harn Poleaxe tried to kill me.” He shot his father an accusing look.
“Harn? My old friend?” gasped Garren Bluestone.
“I think we have a lot of catching up to do,” Karine interjected smoothly. “Why don’t you all sit down, and I’ll pour us some drinks. And, um, Gretchan: it’s terribly nice to meet you.”
“And you both as well,” she replied, the warmth of her smile even soothing Garren’s bristling nerves.
Karine went into the kitchen while Brandon met his father’s disbelieving gaze. “Harn betrayed you?” Garren asked, shaking his head. “He was only after steel after all, huh?” The old dwarf’s face suddenly blanched. “What about the Bluestone?”
“It’s safe,” Brandon said. “That’s what Harn was after, and he stole it for a time-but I got it back. Now it’s in Tarn Bellowgranite’s hands-he’s the former king of Thorbardin, living in exile in Pax Tharkas.”
“King of Thorbardin? Pax Tharkas?” Brandon’s father was stunned as he mouthed the legendary names. He shook his head again, trying to digest the stunning news. Gretchan escorted him to a seat while Karine returned with a tray that was weighted down with four heavy mugs.
Soon they were all seated around the hearth, sipping warm mead from a fresh keg Karine had just tapped. Brandon sensed his father’s edginess-both of the men cast frequent glances at the front door-but Gretchan calmed them a bit by doing most of the talking. She told Garren and Karine all about the hill dwarf war against Pax Tharkas, exaggerating Brandon’s heroic role and downplaying her own contribution. Garren and his wife were caught up in her story, and Brandon was surprised-and more than a little pleased-to see his father looking at him with an expression of unrestrained pride. Responding to Karine’s questions, Gretchan talked a little about her own family and background and told them of the great history she hoped, one day, to write.