“Where is Gus anyway?” asked Brandon.
Crystal opened her mouth to reply when suddenly she looked around then regarded Brandon with an expression of deep concern. “Wait, where’s Gretchan?” she asked.
“Gone,” he replied grimly. “Taken by the wizard. Still alive but captive, so far as we know. But to be honest, we don’t know where she or Willim the Black are.”
“Then there’s still work to be done,” the former and future queen acknowledged.
“General Bluestone!” It was a breathless messenger, red-faced and panting from exertion. He hailed them from the direction of the Urkhan Road as he raced closer.
“Yes! What is it?”
“I bring a message from Otaxx Shortbeard. He says you must come at once! He told me that he thinks he knows where she is!”
Tor and Kondike made their way along a lofty ridge, looking down at the valley so far below. They could see a narrow track twisting through marshy meadows before vanishing into a small grove of pines. The young dwarf wasn’t even sure if that was the route to Thorbardin; for too long, he had been traversing the alpine meadows, always working his way higher and higher. Plus, it seemed that a road followed by an army, especially one hauling machines like the Firespitters, would have to be more obvious than that.
Yet he was not displeased to think that he had drifted farther and farther from the path followed by the Dwarf Home Army. He was enjoying the solitude and the wilderness. It made him happy to be by himself, with only the big dog for company. He loved the heights, the mountains and glaciers and secluded lakes and groves.
He was a mountain dwarf, after all, but he was a hill dwarf too. He might find himself at home under the mountains, but he felt equally at home under the sky. He couldn’t even recall life in the subterranean realm-he’d been barely one year old when his mother and father had been exiled from Thorbardin-but he wasn’t sure he’d ever want to go back to living in a place where one never saw the sun, never felt the rain or the wind or the snow on his face. There was no place that he felt happier than on those high slopes.
Having made his way south for many days, there was really only one destination that drew him on, and it was not a destination that lay under the mountain.
Oddly, the summit of Cloudseeker Peak seemed as far away as it had appeared three days earlier. Every time he thought they were getting closer to the peak, they’d stumbled upon a deep chasm blocking their path. Going around obstacles, still climbing, he’d approach an elevation that he was certain would prove to be the top of the mountain. Eagerly he’d increase his pace, with the dog loping along, sometimes kicking up clots of snow from a glacier or skirting along the rim of a precipitous cliff, while the young Bellowgranite stayed on the crest of the ridge and drew ever closer to the top.
Except that whenever he reached that crest, he invariably discovered that it was a false summit. His position on the high ridge caused every next knob to look like the top of the mountain, but then there always seemed to be a higher knob a mile or two beyond. He continued onward and upward, and he was always fooled, but he loved the discovery of the new vista, the mystery of what lay beyond. He was determined to keep climbing.
Of course, he had enough experience in the mountains to know that it was dangerous to spend a night on the unprotected slopes, so each afternoon he and the dog would descend into a narrow valley, dropping down at least until they reached the tree line. There, amid scraggly cedars that were sometimes no taller than a grown dwarf, he would scrounge enough wood for a fire and kindle a blaze that would keep the two of them, if not warm, at least alive through another chilly night.
But when the sun came up the next morning, the young dwarf felt anew the allure, the purity, the summons of the mountain heights. Always accompanied by the black dog, he’d once again set out to climb some sloping, but still steep, shoulder of the great mountains until, one more time, he crested a hopeful ridge and set his sights toward the distant summit that, he was certain, could only be the very top of the world.
Brandon ran down the Urkhan Road, reaching the lake as soon as he could. He was out of breath, panting and sweating, but he found Otaxx Shortbeard standing at the wharf beside the water, staring out over the darkened sea.
“What is it?” the Kayolin general gasped. “I got your message; the courier said it was urgent, so I came as fast as I could.”
“Out there,” the elderly soldier pointed. “I was looking across the water, barely more than an hour ago. And I saw … something.”
“What?” demanded Brandon. “What did you see?”
“It was a flash of light, very brief. But bright, explosive even. Like a flash of lightning in the darkness.”
“It must have been magic!” Brandon said excitedly. “There can’t be real lightning in Thorbardin.”
“Aye, and more than that … revealed in the glow, if my old eyes aren’t deceiving me, I think I saw a cage!”
“Gretchan!” Brandon was certain that there could be no other explanation.
“I can only hope so,” said the old dwarf. “But yes, I believe it was a cage like the one that held my daughter when last we saw her on the palace tower. It was too far away and fleeting to see if anything, or anyone, was inside the cage. But I thought you should know.”
“Yes! It has to be her! Of course, it makes sense that the wizard would take her to the Isle of the Dead. It’s a perfect place for him to hide, to watch, to observe what’s happening in the kingdom!”
“I am thinking the same thing,” replied Otaxx. “I thought you would want to go there as soon as possible.”
“Yes, of course!” Brandon’s mind whirled through the possibilities. “A boat! I need a boat!”
“Yes, we need a boat,” Otaxx replied. “For I intend to go with you. And as for a watercraft …”
He pointed down and Brandon saw a sleek metal hull lashed to the dock at his feet. Unlike all the other boats, it seemed whole and was floating.
“The smith has been working hard. He’s been making patches, and he welded one onto the hull of this watercraft just a few minutes ago.”
“Then let’s go at once!”
“I thought you would say that,” the old warrior agreed. “I have here two oars and leather rags to muffle the oarlocks. It seems we would be wise to row as silently as possible.”
“Certainly, yes. Good thinking.” Brandon said.
In another minute, they slipped away from the shoreline at the end of the Urkhan Road. Brandon stroked the oars while Otaxx sat in the bow, trying to peer through the darkness, staring toward their destination.
Willim the Black approached Gretchan, but her eyes were not on the wizard; they were fixed on the precious artifact he carried in his hands. He had hidden the Staff of Reorx away some time earlier, and she had wrestled with despair at the thought that, somehow, he had figured out a way to destroy it.
But there it was, still intact, resting in both of his hands as he casually swung it around before him. He stopped a dozen paces away from the cage, his eyeless face turned toward the priestess.
“I have lost the war,” he announced bluntly. “My army has failed me. My general has killed himself, to save me the bother. I am no longer the king in this place.”
Though his comments were the first good news she had heard in the long days of captivity, Gretchan refrained from making any comment. Instead, she watched him warily, sensing that he had not come there merely to explain that his life was over. Indeed, he did not sound even vaguely disappointed. His mood seemed, almost, weirdly upbeat.
But he waited before saying anything else, seeming to be very patient, and finally she could contain her curiosity no longer. “What are you going to do, then?” she asked.
To her surprise, he giggled.