Duncan stared coldly at the Dewar. Argat had presented this strategy at the W ar Council, and Duncan had wondered at the time how he had come up with it. The Dewar generally took little interest in military matters, caring about only one thing their share of the spoils. Was it Kharas, trying once again to get out of fighting?
Duncan angrily shook off the Dewar’s arm. “Pax Tharkas will never fall!” he said. “Your strategy is the strategy of the coward. I will give up nothing to these rabble, not one copper piece, not one pebble of ground! I’d sooner die here!”
Stomping away, Duncan clattered down the stairs, his beard bristling in his wrath.
Watching him go, Argat’s lip twisted in a sneer. “Perhaps you would die upon this wretched rock, Duncan King. But not Argat.” Turning to two Dewar who had been standing in the shadows of a recessed corner, the dark dwarf nodded his head twice. The dwarves nodded in return, then quickly hurried away.
Standing upon the battlements, Argat watched as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Preoccupied, he began to absentmindedly rub his hands upon his leather armor as though trying to clean them.
The Highgug was not certain, but he had the feeling something was wrong.
Though not terribly perceptive, and understanding little of the complex tactics and strategies of warfare, it occurred to the Highgug nevertheless that dwarves returning victorious from the field of battle did not come staggering into the fortress covered with blood and fall down dead at his feet.
One or two, he might have considered the fortunes of war, but the number of dwarves doing this sort of thing seemed to be increasing at a truly alarming rate. The Highgug decided to see if he could find out what was going on.
He took two steps forward, then, hearing the most dreadful commotion behind him, came to a sudden halt. Heaving a heavy sigh, the Highgug turned around. He had forgotten his company.
“No, no, no!” the Highgug shouted angrily, waving his arms in the air. “How many time I tell you?—Stay Here! Stay Here! King tell Highgug—‘You gugs Stay Here.’ That mean Stay Here! You got that?”
The Highgug fixed his company with a stern eye, causing those still on their feet and able to meet the gaze of that eye (the other was missing) to tremble in shame. Those gully dwarves in the company who had stumbled over their pikes, those who had dropped their pikes, those who had, in the confusion, accidentally stabbed a neighbor with a pike, those who were lying prone on the ground, and those who had gotten turned around completely and were now stalwartly facing the rear, heard their commander’s voice and quailed.
“Look, gulphfunger slimers,” snarled the Highgug, breathing noisily, “I go find out what go on. It not seem right, everyone coming back into fort like this. No singing—only bleeding. This not the way king tell Highgug things work out. So I Go. You Stay Here. Got that? Repeat.”
“I Go,” echoed his troops obediently. “You Stay Here.”
The Highgug tore at his beard. “No! I Go! You—Oh, never mind!” Stalking off in a rage, he heard behind him—once again—the clattering of falling pikes hitting the ground.
Perhaps fortunately, the Highgug did not have far to go. Otherwise, when he returned, he would have found about half of his command dead, skewered on the ends of their own pikes. As it was, he was able to discover what he needed to know and return to his troops before they had inadvertently killed more than half a dozen or so.
The Highgug had taken only about twenty steps when he rounded a corner and very nearly ran into Duncan, his king. Duncan did not notice him, his back being turned. The king was engrossed in a conversation with Kharas and several commanding officers. Taking a hasty step backwards, the Highgug looked and listened anxiously.
Unlike many of the dwarves who had returned from the field of battle, whose heavy plate mail was so dented it looked like they had tumbled down a rocky mountainside, Kharas’s armor was dented only here and there. The hero’s hands and arms were bloodied to the elbows, but it was the enemy’s blood, not his own that he wore. Few there were who could withstand the mighty swings of the hammer he carried. Countless were the dead that fell by Kharas’s hand, though many wondered, in their last moments, why the tall dwarf sobbed bitterly as he dealt the killing blow.
Kharas was not crying now, however. His tears were gone, completely dry. He was arguing with his king.
“We are beaten on the field, Thane,” he said sternly. “General Ironhand was right to order the retreat. If you would hold Pax Tharkas, we must fall back and shut the gates as we had planned. Remember, this was not a moment that was unforeseen, Thane.”
“But a moment of shame, nonetheless,” Duncan growled with a bitter oath. “Beaten by a pack of thieves and farmers!”
“That pack of thieves and farmers has been well-trained, Thane,” Kharas said solemnly, the generals nodding grudging agreement to his words. “The Plainsmen glory in battle and our own kinsmen fight with the courage with which they are born. And then comes sweeping down from the hills the Knights of Solamnia on their horses.”
“You must give the command, Thane!” one of the generals said. “Or prepare to die where we stand.”
“Close the god-cursed gates, then!” Duncan shouted in a rage. “But do not drop the mechanism. Not until the last possible moment. There may be no need. It will cost them dearly to try to breach the gates, and I want to be able to get out again without having to clear away tons of rock.”
“Close the gates, close the gates!” rang out many voices.
Everyone in the courtyard, the living, the wounded, even the dying, turned their heads to see the massive gates swing shut. The Highgug was among these, staring in awe. He had heard of these great gates—how they moved silently on gigantic, oiled hinges that worked so smoothly only two dwarves on each side were needed to pull them shut. The Highgug was somewhat disappointed to hear that the mechanism was not going to be operated. The sight of tons of rock tumbling down to block the gates was one he was sorry to miss.
Still, this should be quite entertaining...
The Highgug caught his breath at the next sight, very nearly strangling himself. Looking at the gate, he could see beyond it, and what he saw was paralyzing.
A vast army was racing toward him. And it was not his army!
Which meant it must be the enemy, he decided after a moment’s deep thought, there being—as far as he knew—only two sides to this conflict—his and theirs.
The noonday sun shone brightly upon the armor of the Knights of Solamnia, it flashed upon their shields and glittered upon their drawn swords. Farther behind them came the infantry at a run.
The Army of Fistandantilus was dashing for the fortress, hoping to reach it before the gates could be closed and blocked. Those few mountain dwarves brave enough to stand in their way were cut down by flashing steel and trampling hoof.
The enemy was getting closer and closer. The Highgug swallowed nervously. He didn’t know much about military maneuvers, but it did seem to him that this would be an excellent time for the gates to shut. It seemed that the generals thought so too, for they were now all running in that direction, yelling and screaming.
“In the name of Reorx, what’s taking them—” Duncan began.
Suddenly, Kharas’s face grew pale.
“Duncan,” he said quietly, “we have been betrayed. You must leave at once.”
“Wh—what?” Duncan stammered in bewilderment. Standing on his toes, he tried in vain to see over the crowd milling about in the courtyard. “Betrayed! How—”
“The Dewar, my Thane,” Kharas said, able, with his unusual height, to see what was transpiring. “They have murdered the gate wardens, apparently, and are now fighting to keep the gates open.”