“Slay them!” Duncan’s mouth frothed in his anger, saliva dribbled down his beard. “Slay every one of them!” The dwarven king drew his own sword and leaped forward. “I’ll personally—”
“No, Thane!” Kharas caught hold of him, dragging him back. “It is too late! Come, we must get to the griffons! You must go back to Thorbardin, my king!”
But Duncan was beyond all reason. He fought Kharas viciously. Finally, the younger dwarf, with a grim face, doubled his great fist and punched his king squarely on the jaw. Duncan stumbled backward, reeling from the blow but not down.
“I’ll have your head for this!” the king swore, grasping feebly for his sword hilt. One more blow from Kharas finished the job, however. Duncan sprawled onto the ground and lay there quietly.
With a grieving face, Kharas bent down, lifted his king, plate-mail armor and all, and—with a grunt—heaved the stout dwarf over his shoulder. Calling for some of those still able to stand and fight to cover him, Kharas hurried off toward where the griffons waited, the comatose king hanging, arms dangling, over his shoulder.
The Highgug stared at the approaching army in horrified fascination. Over and over echoed in his mind Duncan’s last command to him—“You Stay Here.”
Turning around, running back to his troop, that was exactly what the Highgug intended to do.
Although gully dwarves have a well-deserved reputation for being the most cowardly race living upon Krynn, they can when driven into a corner—fight with a ferocity that generally ,amazes an enemy.
Most armies, however, use gully dwarves only in support positions, keeping them as far to the rear as possible since it is almost even odds that a regiment of gully dwarves will, inflict as much damage to its own side as it will ever succeed in doing to an enemy.
Thus Duncan had posted the only detachment of gully dwarves currently residing in Pax Tharkas—they were former mine workers—in the center of the courtyard and told them to stay there, figuring this would be the best way to keep them out of mischief. He had given them pikes, in the unlikely event that the enemy would crash through the gates with a cavalry charge.
But that was what was happening. Seeing the Army of Fistandantilus closing in upon them, knowing that they were trapped and defeated, all the dwarves in Pax Tharkas were thrown into confusion.
A few kept their heads. The sharpshooters on the battlements were raining arrows into the advancing foe, slowing them somewhat. Several commanders were gathering their regiments, preparing to fight as they retreated to the mountains. But most were just fleeing, running for their lives to the safety of the surrounding hills.
And soon only one group stood in the path of the approaching army—the gully dwarves.
“This is it,” the Highgug called hastily to his men as he came huffing and puffing back. His face was white beneath the dirt, but he was calm and composed. He had been told to Stay Here and, by Reorx’s beard, he was going to Stay Here.
However, seeing that most of his men were starting to edge away, their eyes wide at the sight of the thundering horses which could now be seen approaching the open gates, the Highgug decided this called for a little morale boost.
Having drilled them for just such an occasion, the Highgug had also taught his troops a war chant and was quite proud of it. Unfortunately, they’d never yet got it right.
“Now,” he shouted, “what you give me?”
“Death!” his men all shouted cheerfully with one voice.
The Highgug cringed. “No, no, no!” he yelled in exasperation, stomping on the ground. His men looked at each other, chagrined.
“I tell you, gulphbludders—it’s—”
“Undying loyalty!” cried one suddenly in triumph.
The others scowled at him, muttering “brown nose.” One jealous neighbor even poked him in the back with a pike. Fortunately, it was the butt end (he was holding it upside down) or serious damage might have been incurred.
“That’s it,” said the Highgug, trying not to notice that the sound of hoofbeats was getting louder and louder behind him. “Now, we try again. What you give me?”
“Un—undy... dying loy... loy... alty.” This was rather straggled-sounding, many stumbling over the difficult words. It certainly seemed to lack the ring (or the enthusiasm) of the first.
A hand shot up in the back.
“Well, what is it, Gug Snug?” snarled the Highgug.
“Us got to give... undying... loyal... ty when dead?”
The Highgug glared at him with his one good eye.
“No, you phungerwhoop,” he snapped, gritting his teeth. “Death or undying loyalty. Whichever come first.”
The gully dwarves grinned, immensely cheered by this.
The Highgug, shaking his head and muttering, turned around to face the enemy. “Set pikes!” he shouted.
That was a mistake and he knew it as soon as he said it, hearing the vast turmoil and confusion and swearing (and a few groans of pain) behind him.
But, by that time, it didn’t matter...
The sun set in a blood-red haze, sinking down into the silent forests of Qualinesti.
All was quiet in Pax Tharkas, the mighty, impregnable fortress having fallen shortly after midday.
The afternoon had been spent in skirmishes with pockets of dwarves, who were retreating, fighting, back into the mountains. Many had escaped, the charge of the knights having been effectively held up by a small group of pikesmen, who had stood their ground when the gates were breached, stubbornly refusing to budge.
Kharas, carrying the unconscious king in his arms, flew by griffon back to Thorbardin, accompanied by those of Duncan’s officers still alive.
The remainder of the army of the mountain dwarves, at home in the caves and rocks of the snow-covered passes, were making their way back to Thorbardin. The Dewar who had betrayed their kinsmen were drinking Duncan’s captured ale and boasting of their deeds, while most of Caramon’s army regarded them with disgust.
Tonight, as the sun set, the courtyard was filled with dwarves and humans celebrating their victory, and by officers trying in vain to stem the tide of drunkenness that was threatening to wash everyone under. Shouting, bullying, and smashing a few heads together, they managed to drag off enough to post the watch and form burial squads.
Crysania had passed her trial by blood. Though she had been kept well away from the battle by a watchful Caramon, she had—once they entered the fort—managed to elude him. Now, cloaked and hooded, she moved among the wounded, surreptitiously healing those she could without drawing unwanted attention to herself. And, in later years, those who survived would tell stories to their grandchildren, claiming that they had seen a white-robed figure bearing a shining light around her neck, who laid her gentle hands upon them and took away their pain.
Caramon was, meanwhile, meeting with officers in a room in Pax Tharkas, planning their strategy, though the big man was so exhausted he could barely think straight.
Thus, few saw the single, black-robed figure entering the open gates of Pax Tharkas. It rode upon a restive black horse that shied at the smell of blood. Pausing, the figure spoke a few words to his mount, seeming to soothe the animal. Those that did see the figure paused for a moment in terror, many having the fevered (or drunken) impression that it was Death in person, come to collect the unburied.
Then someone muttered, “the wizard,” and they turned away, laughing shakily or breathing a sigh of relief.
His eyes obscured by the depths of his black hood, yet intently observing all around him, Raistlin rode forward until he came to the most remarkable sight on the entire field of battle—the bodies of a hundred or more gully dwarves, lying (for the most part) in even rows, rank upon rank. Most still held their pikes (many upside down) clutched tightly in their dead hands. There were also lying among them, though, a few horses that had been injured (generally accidentally) by the wild stabs and slashings of the desperate gully dwarves. More than one animal, when hauled off, was noted to have teeth marks sunk into its forelegs. At the end, the gully dwarves had dropped the useless pikes to fight as they knew best—with tooth and nail.