Argat tried to catch Raistlin’s eye as he and his men trooped out, but the wizard sat wrapped in black upon his black horse, his face hidden in darkness. The only flesh and blood part of him visible were the slender, white hands, holding the horse’s reins.
Raistlin’s eyes were not on the Dewar, nor on the army marching past him. They were on the gleaming golden figure riding at the army’s head. And it would have taken a sharper eye than the Dewar’s to note that the wizard’s hands gripped the reins with an unnatural tightness or that the black robes shivered, for just a moment, as if with a soft sigh.
The Dewar marched out, and the courtyard was empty except for the camp followers. The women wiped away their tears and, chatting among themselves, returned to their tasks. The children clambered up onto the walls to cheer the army as long as it was in sight. The gates to Pax Tharkas swung shut at last, sliding smoothly and silently upon their oiled hinges.
Standing on the battlements alone, Michael watched the great army surge southward, their spear tips shining in the morning sun, their warm breath sending up puffs of mist, the chanting of the dwarves echoing through the mountains.
Behind them rode a single, solitary figure, cloaked in black. Looking at the figure, Michael felt cheered. It seemed a good omen. Death now rode behind the army, instead of in front.
The sun shone upon the opening of the gates of Pax Tharkas; it set upon the closing of the gates of the great mountain fastness of Thorbardin. As the water-controlled mechanism that operated the gates groaned and wheezed, part of the mountain itself appeared to slide into place upon command. When shut and sealed, in fact, the gates were impossible to tell from the face of the rock of the mountain itself, so cunning was the craftsmanship of the dwarves who had spent years constructing them.
The shutting of the gates meant war. News of the marching of the Army of Fistandantilus had been reported, carried by spies upon the swift wings of griffons. Now the mountain fastness was alive with activity. Sparks flew in the weapons makers’ shops. Armorers fell asleep, hammers in their hands. The taverns doubled their business overnight as everyone came to boast of the great deeds they would accomplish on the field of battle.
Only one part of the huge kingdom beneath the ground was quiet, and it was to this place that the hero of the dwarves turned his heavy footsteps two days after Caramon’s army had left Pax Tharkas.
Entering the great Hall of Audience of the King of the Mountain Dwarves, Kharas heard his boots ring hollowly in the bowl-shaped chamber that was carved of the stone of the mountain itself. The chamber was empty now, save for several dwarves seated at the front on a stone dais.
Kharas passed the long rows of stone benches where, last night, thousands of dwarves had roared approval as their king declared war upon their kinsmen.
Today was a War Meeting of the Council of Thanes. As such, it did not require the presence of the citizenry, so Kharas was somewhat startled to find himself invited. The hero was in disgrace—everyone knew it. There was speculation, even, that Duncan might have Kharas exiled.
Kharas noted, as he drew near, that Duncan was regarding him with an unfriendly eye, but this may have had something to do with the fact that the king’s eye and left cheekbone above his beard were undeniably black and swollen—a result of the blow Kharas had inflicted.
“Oh, get up, Kharas,” Duncan snapped as the tall, beardless dwarf bowed low before him.
“Not until you have forgiven me, Thane,” Kharas said, retaining his position.
“Forgiven you for what—knocking some sense into a foolish old dwarf?” Duncan smiled wryly. “No, you’re not forgiven for that. You are thanked.” The king rubbed his jaw. “ ‘Duty is painful,’ goes the proverb. Now I understand. But enough of that.”
Seeing Kharas straighten, Duncan held out a scroll of parchment. “I asked you here for another reason. Read this.”
Puzzled, Kharas examined the scroll. It was tied with black ribbon but was not sealed. Glancing at the other thanes, who were all assembled, each in his own stone chair sitting somewhat lower than the king’s, Kharas’s gaze went to one chair in particular—a vacant chair, the chair of Argat, Thane of the Dewar. Frowning, Kharas unrolled the scroll and read aloud, stumbling over the crude language of the Dewar.
Duncan, of the Dwarves of Thorbardin, King.
Greetings from those you now call traitor.
This scroll is deliver to you from us who know that you will punish Dewar under the mountain for what we did at Pax Tharkas. If this scroll is deliver to you at all, it mean that we succeed in keeping the gates open.
You scorn our plan in Council. Perhaps now you see wisdom. The enemy is led by the wizard now. Wizard is friend of ours. He make army march for the Plains of Dergoth. We march with them, friend with them. When the hour to come, those you call traitor will strike. We will attack the enemy from within and drive them under your axe-blades.
If you to have doubt of our loyalty, hold our people hostage beneath the mountain until such time we return. We promise great gift we deliver to you as proof loyalty.
Kharas read the scroll through twice, and his frown did not ease. If anything, it grew darker.
“Well?” demanded Duncan.
“I have nothing to do with traitors,” Kharas said, rolling up the scroll and handing it back in disgust.
“But if they are sincere,” Duncan pursued, “this could give us a great victory!”
Kharas raised his eyes to meet those of his king, who sat on the dais above him. “If, at this moment, Thane, I could talk to our enemy’s general, this Caramon Majere, who—by all accounts—is a fair and honorable man, I would tell him exactly what peril threatens him, even if it meant that we ourselves would go down in defeat.”
The other thanes snorted or grumbled.
“You should have been a Knight of Solamnia!” one muttered, a statement not intended as a compliment.
Duncan cast them all a stern glance, and they fell into a sulking silence.
“Kharas,” Duncan said patiently, “we know how you feel about honor, and we applaud you for that. But honor will not feed the children of those who may die in this battle, nor will it keep our kinsmen from picking clean our bones if we ourselves fall. No,” Duncan continued, his voice growing stern and deep, “there is a time for honor and a time when one must do what he must.”
Once again, he rubbed his jaw. “You yourself showed me that.”
Kharas’s face grew grim. Absent-mindedly raising a hand to stroke the flowing beard that was no longer there, he dropped his hand uncomfortably and, flushing, stared down at his feet.
“Our scouts have verified this report,” Duncan continued. “The army has marched.”
Kharas looked up, scowling. “I don’t believe it!” he said. “I didn’t believe it when I heard it! They have left Pax Tharkas? Before their supply wagons got through? It must be true then, the wizard must be in charge. No general would make that mistake—”
“They will be on the Plains within the next two days. Their objective is, according to our spies, the fortress of Zhaman, where they plan to set up headquarters. We have a small garrison there that will make a token defense and then retreat, hopefully drawing them out into the open.”
“Zhaman,” Kharas muttered, scratching his jaw since he could no longer tug at his beard.
Abruptly, he took a step forward, his face now eager. “Thane, if I can present a plan that will end this war with a minimum of bloodshed, will you listen to it and allow me to try?”