The scar of the place where the Life-Tree had been rooted was called the Isle of the Dead. It rose from the still waters of the Urkhan Sea as a pile of loose rock, with an occasional section of shattered column or ruined facade discernible amid the broken stone.
For many years after the Chaos War, the Isle of the Dead had been truly that, a place where broken shards of rock, some of them bigger than a house, had frequently snapped free from the cracked and jagged upper tier, where the city had once supported the vast cavern ceiling. The deadly missiles had fallen steadily and relentlessly, ensuring than any dwarf-or other creature-who sought to remain upon the isle would eventually be crushed by falling stone.
Almost unnoticed by most of Thorbardin, however, that bombardment had slowed and virtually ceased over the past decade. Nearly all of the broken stones had finally broken loose, so the ceiling that remained was relatively, if not perfectly, intact.
It was on the Isle of the Dead that Gorathian came to rest, to contemplate, and to wait. The wizard had a lair and a palace and other places that he frequented, and the fire dragon knew all of those places. It could go to any of them, at will, and it frequently did, sallying from the island to wherever it wanted to go in Thorbardin, killing dwarves with thoughtless abandon-often they died merely from proximity to its incendiary transit-and further eroding the bedrock of the undermountain realm.
Sooner or later it would catch its prey. It would feed.
And at last its hunger would be sated.
FIVE
The Great Gate of Kayolin yawned wide, opening the underground kingdom to the frosty, dry air. It was a crisp morning, early in the winter, in the Garnet Mountains. Snow formed heavy cornices on the highest ridges of Garnet Peak itself, but the lesser mountains were merely dusted with a coating of white powder.
The scene outside the gate was a festive one, with a thousand or more citizens having gathered under the sky to bid their warriors good fortune on their march to war. Vendors had set up stalls, selling everything from roasted sausages and fried mushrooms to beer, ale, and dwarf spirits. To judge from the raucous cheering that erupted when the vanguard of the army marched out of the darkness and into the sun, the vendors of strong drink had been doing a brisk business over the past several hours.
Brandon was neither surprised nor displeased. He marched at the head of the army, his mighty axe held casually on his shoulder in his left hand as he raised his right in salute, responding to the swelling cheers that came from both sides of the road. The track followed the bed of a mountain valley, with thick pine forests to both sides. Near the gates the woods had been cleared back a dozen paces or more from each banked ditch, and that clearing was the scene of festive celebration and hope.
Brandon himself couldn’t quite believe the enthusiasm with which the citizens of Kayolin had responded to his plea for volunteers. In two weeks he had raised an army of exactly the size and strength that he had desired. Dwarves had come from all walks of life, leaving their jobs as miners and cooks, bartenders and brewers, to pledge their support to the mission that had captured the imagination of all Kayolin: Liberate Thorbardin! Return the true high king to his throne! Bring all the dwarf peoples back under a single crown!
Fortunately, nearly all of the recruits, as was standard in dwarf society, were skilled in combat and already owned their own armor and weapons, be they swords, crossbows, axes, hammers, or halberds. A disciplined people by nature, the dwarf recruits had accepted assignment into platoons, companies, brigades, and legions, and served under captains and commanders who, everyone knew, had proved their worth in many previous battles and wars.
Brandon marched at the head of a column more than four thousand dwarves strong, the largest force Kayolin had sent into the field in hundreds of years. And they would fight not for the safety of their own homeland, but for the restoration of dwarven pride and security, as represented by the ancient nation of Thorbardin.
He wished, not for the first time, that Gretchan could be there to see the proud spectacle. But his booted feet were buoyed by the knowledge that, with each southward step, he moved closer to her.
A hundred paces or so outside of the gate, he stepped to the side of the road, accepting the congratulations of several sturdy miners who, judging by their slurred hellos and raucous demeanor, had obviously left their workplace some hours earlier to gather under the awning of a friendly beer vendor. Brandon politely declined ten or a dozen offers of free drinks and turned to face the road, watching his newly raised army as it marched past.
First came the elite company of the Garnet Guards, their red tunics looking sharp and warlike in the bright sunlight. They were led by the elderly, but still spry, General Watchler. Watchler and his splendid soldiers had fallen out of favor under the regime of Regar Smashfingers, the previous governor, who would have styled himself a king, and the red-garbed fighters had proved to be a key ally when Brandon and his father had challenged Smashfingers’s right to rule. With the help of the Garnet Guards, the ambitious would-be king was deposed, Garren Bluestone had been placed in the governor’s chair, and the events were set in motion that allowed the commencement of their epic campaign.
Watchler, his gray hair and beard woven into long braids, flashed Brandon a wink as he marched past, back and shoulders straight, eyes twinkling as long-banked martial fires were rekindled in his soul. His Redshirts, some three hundred strong, followed in precise formation, feet stomping to the beat set by the drummers.
Those drummers, marching right behind, were young dwarves led by a quartet of stalwarts carrying bass drums the size of beer kegs. They pounded in a steady cadence, the boom boom boom setting the early pace. Next came many rows of different-sized percussion instruments, ranging from rattling snares to crashing brass gongs. Altogether nearly one hundred dwarf drummers raised a cacophony, and the crowd cheered all the louder as they passed.
Next came a long file, some fifteen hundred dwarves, that formed the First Legion, under the command of a proud, strutting Tankard Hacksaw. His unit was followed by the engineers, hauling a dozen wagons, including three Firespitters and an array of oil casks, the ammunition for the lethal, incendiary weapons. The experimental device had performed so well against the horax that Brandon had commissioned two more of them, deciding that they might provide a crucial advantage on any underground battlefield. Finally, Fister Morewood led his Second Legion down the road, tromping in steady cadence to the still audible drummers who were, by then, ahead by nearly a mile.
Only when the last of Morewood’s men, a lightly armored company of fast-moving scouts, had passed did Brandon step back onto the road. His flush of elation had diminished as the enormity of the task before him hit home.
His mind whirled with questions. Was the emperor of Solamnia reliable enough to provide the ships that he had promised, ships that were utterly necessary if the Kayolin Army was to make its way to southern Ansalon? Would Tarn Bellowgranite be ready to seize the opportunity of alliance presented by the strong Kayolin force? Would the hill dwarves honor their pact with the mountain dwarves of Pax Tharkas? Would Gretchan be there, waiting for him in that lofty fortress? Did she miss him as he missed her? Was she all right?
It was the last question, more than anything else, that returned him to the mood of anticipatory excitement with which he first had greeted the day. Unconsciously, he brightened, picking up the length of his strides, moving faster even as he maintained the pace of the drummers.