“Yes, I heard,” Garren replied. He wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders and held her tightly, a gesture that at least helped to assuage some of her concern. “I wish I could say ‘everything’s going to turn out just fine,’ but I’m not sure I believe that myself.”
“Do you think they shouldn’t be going to Thorbardin?” she asked stiffly. “Why on Krynn did you let them?”
“I don’t know the answer to either of your questions,” he admitted, his tone so frank she regretted her tartness. “Surely I have to question my own wisdom. I’ve been governor for less than a year, and I’ve authorized the raising of the largest army in our history. And not only that, but I’ve sent them off to fight a foreign war, with my son in command.”
“He’s the best dwarf for that job. You know that, don’t you?” Karine chided gently.
“Aye, I do, beyond any doubt. He’s grown into a fine figure of a man, if I say so. I’d trust him with my life. But this is even more than that.”
“Is it the task itself, then?” she wondered. “Liberating Thorbardin from a fanatical king and a dark wizard?”
“’Tis a worthy goal,” Garren said. “Probably the greatest thing we as Kayolin dwarves can fight for, now that our own nation is secure. The rest of the world is moving on. The elves are vanished, so far as I know. We have a new human emperor in Solamnia, and he regards us as important allies. That’s a good thing. But without Thorbardin as an anchor for our people, as the place where our one crown stands, and our people are united under a council of thanes, we in Kayolin are only an outpost. An ally of Solamnia, yes, but I would not have us be a colony of any realm, human or otherwise. Rather, we should be a proud and independent nation of dwarves, a worthy supporter of our true king.”
“Then Brandon and his army have to go there, don’t they? They have to fight their way into Thorbardin and win. That’s all there is to it,” Karine declared, her tone growing confident once again.
“Yes,” Garren said, holding her even more tightly. “That’s all there is to it.”
“Then let Reorx bless us, and bless Brandon, with his good will. And bring our son home to us again.”
Again Garren didn’t reply to his wife’s words. They both understood that there was really nothing left to say.
Facet clung to the whipping rack, remaining very still as the roaring fire dragon burst upward from the chasm, flaming wings beating against the floor. Willim was already gone; she had heard him bark the single-word teleport command and felt the rush of air as he had vanished. Embers swirled through the dark space, touching Facet’s exposed skin as she still clutched the iron, her face averted, eyes tearing from the soot and the acrid smoke.
Gorathian flew upward and, with another pulse of those fiery wings, flashed through the air, sweeping into one of the tunnels leading outward from the wizard’s lair. The monster’s bellow of rage and pursuit lingered and echoed in the air as the fiery creature sped away from the place, again chasing its former master through Thorbardin.
Only when the dragon was gone, when darkness again had cloaked the cavern and the burning heat of the creature’s flight slowly cooled back to the natural chill of the subterranean stone, did the apprentice magic-user release her grip on the rack and stand free. She pulled her black robe around her again and glanced once in the direction of the flying dragon-gone, leaving only a fading, orange glow from the infernal heat of its passage.
Facet was no longer weeping. Instead, her face was a mask of cold resolve as she went to the cabinet in which Willim kept his potions. From long experience, she manipulated the lock, pulled open the door, and looked inside.
Behind her, the two blue sparks in the bell jar flickered and danced, though whether from excitement or agitation it was impossible to tell.
The road down from Garnet Peak was an easy march, on a descending grade, but even so it took the Kayolin Army more than two days to reach the edge of the foothills, where the road spilled onto the Solamnic plain. Immediately before them was a place familiar to many dwarves who had bothered to travel more than a few miles from Kayolin’s gate.
The city of Garnet was a lively, raucous place-one of Brandon’s favorite cities, in fact. But he knew that the presence of four thousand Kayolin dwarves, armed and thirsty and primed for battle, would be more than the thriving trading community could absorb. So in the face of some considerable grumbling and a few acts of insubordination that provided the first real test of his command authority, General Bluestone ordered that the marching army bypass the city and make camp in the forested fringe of the mountain range, some five miles beyond the city gates.
In a tree-shaded river valley, the army made bivouac along a broad, dry shelf of the riverbank. Scouts went out to hunt, and several returned with fresh-killed deer. Still, it was clear that wild game would not be enough to feed the whole force. Although the dwarves marched with stocks of grain and dried pemmican, Brandon didn’t want to break into the food reserves so early in the trek. Besides, given the proximity of the city and its famed stockyards, it seemed only right that he authorize the purchase of a hundred beeves. Some he ordered to be butchered right away, while the others would be herded along, feeding the army as it continued the fortnight-long march to the port of Caergoth.
Thus, even though they were barred from the city’s assortments of taverns and inns and show houses, the soldiers of the Kayolin Army were reasonably content as they settled into the camp and let their stomachs growl to the permeating odors of roasting roasts and grilling steaks.
Willing to enjoy one of the perquisites of command, Brandon invited General Watchler and Captains Hacksaw and Morewood to join him for a council-and first crack at the choicest rib steaks being grilled to rare perfection by the army’s most senior cook, Cruster Flatiron. Flatiron was an innkeeper in private life back in Kayolin and presided over an establishment that was prized throughout the dwarf nation for its succulent beef dishes. When the call to arms had been passed around Garnet Thax, Cruster had signed up immediately, and Brandon had, just as quickly, placed him in charge of the army’s brigade of cooks. Not unimportantly, he would supervise the staff that would cook for the general and his officers for the duration of the campaign.
The rotund Flatiron, his face beaming with pride, personally brought over the evening meal for the quartet of commanders. Each of the dwarves was presented with a slab of meat served on a metal plate, red juice still trickling from the steaks as the aroma of wood-fired meat tickled their nostrils.
“Ah, beautiful, Cruster,” Brandon declared sincerely, taking his plate and inhaling deeply the pleasurable aroma of the perfectly cooked steak. The others mirrored his satisfaction as each, in turn, was presented with a splendid piece of meat.
Understandably, there was little talking for the next few minutes as each of the four carved off and gobbled a series of generous morsels.
Brandon had intended to discuss specific procedures for embarking the army when they arrived at Caergoth, but he and the others were distracted by a raucous squalling and squealing coming from the nearby kitchen tent. He leaped to his feet in alarm and, still holding his beef-blooded knife, raced toward the tent with his co-commanders and a number of soldiers who were similarly drawn by the commotion.
Only as he drew closer to the tent did he slow down and utter a short, surprised yelp of laughter. His reaction caused the other dwarves to stop and regard him with expressions ranging from mingled suspicion to surprise.
“Listen!” Brandon said, holding up his hands.
A shrill voice penetrated the smoke-filled air of the camp. “Put me down, bluphsplunging bully! Who you think are? Me fight two times, tell you dat! You put down me! Hey, that my meat!”
“You rotten, thieving little Aghar!” roared a much deeper voice, one that they recognized as belonging to Cruster Flatiron. “I oughta stick you on a spit and roast you till dawn!”