“Put me down, damn it!” Brandon insisted, rocking backward so much that he had to grab Tankard’s shoulder to restore his balance. But better to fall than to relinquish his axe!
“Ah, let yerself enjoy it, Captain,” Fister proclaimed. Someone in the throng had handed the sergeant a foaming mug, and he took a deep draught, smacking his lips in satisfaction. Another vessel was proffered by a cheering maid, and the loyal soldier willingly passed that second mug up to his commander.
Though still teetering, Brandon decided that he might as well ride the wave of adulation to the top of the city, so he took a drink himself and left it to his carriers to make sure that he didn’t take an ignominious fall. When he had drained the mug, he threw it hard, smashing it against the stone wall of the underground roadway and whooping in joy as the file of marching dwarves surged on, the drums pounding even faster.
He looked across the sea of beaming faces: the bearded men; the apple-cheeked dwarf maids; youngsters hopping up and down or, for a fortunate few, hoisted onto the shoulders of a willing adult. All the dwarves were cheering, and most of them were drinking. The crowd had continued to swell, spilling forward from the walls until the column of soldiers had barely room to march in double file down the middle of the wide avenue.
Unconsciously he found himself searching for Gretchan’s face, though he knew that she was far away from there by then. For a wistful moment, he wished that she could be there waiting for him, joining the happiness of the victory celebration, though even a moment’s rational reflection reminded him that if Gretchan had been in Kayolin when he had embarked on the recent campaign, she would have been down in the horax hive with the soldiers, not up there in the city waiting for Brandon’s return.
But she had told him what she had to do, and he had agreed; they both had important missions, and the sooner they got going, the better. He reminded himself, also, that he had accomplished only a single, first step on the long and difficult road that lay before him. Defeating the horax had been a necessity but only because he needed to secure the safety of Kayolin before embarking on his more important tasks.
As if reading his mind, Chamberlain Wicket came into view, standing in the roadway before the column as the boisterous celebrants gave the governor’s aide enough room, barely, to wave his hand at Captain Brandon Bluestone as he approached.
The drums still pounded, but Tankard and Fister came to a stuttering halt and lowered Brandon to the ground with as much dignity as they could muster. The captain felt acutely conscious of his muddy, sooty tunic and the flecks of ale foam still clinging to his mustache and beard.
“Congratulations!” Wicket declared, abandoning courtly manners to clasp the young warrior in an enthusiastic embrace. “Now come with me,” he added firmly. “Your father needs to see you right away.”
“This is Dram Feldspar. He’s representing the emperor of Solamnia in these negotiations,” explained Garren Bluestone, the governor of Kayolin.
Brandon’s father was holding court in his private office, a marble-furnished chamber with several chairs and a desk, adjoining the great throne room of Garnet Thax. He was a smaller, thinner dwarf than his son, and certainly more well groomed at the moment. Garren’s beard was braided and tucked into his suspenders, his hair neatly combed, his nails trimmed and cleaned.
Brandon had reported there immediately upon receiving the summons from the chamberlain to find the two elder dwarves seated, each enjoying a small glass of pungent dwarf spirits.
“Sorry for my appearance,” the younger dwarf said, acutely aware of the soot and stains upon his leather tunic, not to mention his scuffed and hobnailed boots. “I came here as soon as we returned from the campaign.”
“No worries, I’m sure,” his father said genially. “Dram Feldspar is no stranger to war.”
“I’ve heard of you; all Kayolin owes you a debt,” Brandon said, sizing up the stranger, who was regarding him with a friendly grin. Feldspar’s skin was bronzed and weathered by long exposure to the outside world. His full, brown beard was shot with gray, and he wore a plain, woolen jersey and trousers. The only sign of his official status was a mantle of black silk, embroidered with silver thread, resting easily upon his broad shoulders.
Brandon bowed formally and extended his hand; Dram rose out of his chair to take it in a firm grip. The elder dwarf’s exploits-he had helped the emperor of Solamnia, a former fugitive, to battle and defeat an army of ogres and goblins that had terrorized the Garnet Mountains and surrounding plains for several years-were well known to all Kayolin.
“I may have lived under the sky for these last years, but Garnet Thax is my home too,” Dram said as if, like Brandon, he was embarrassed by too much praise. “And anyway, we dwarves can’t leave it to the humans to do all of our fighting for us!”
“Well said,” Garren Bluestone acknowledged. “And that leads me to our current goal, and to the reason we seek the assistance of the emperor and, specifically, of his ships.”
“That’s what he said when he sent me up here. He was intrigued by your request and asked me to make the trip to Garnet Thax posthaste. You want to send an army all the way down to Thorbardin?” Dram asked with seemingly genuine interest.
Garren nodded. “We have reason to believe that the elder home is in dire straits. It is our wish to restore the rightful high king to his throne.”
Dram Feldspar frowned. “How can you know this?” he asked. “Isn’t the kingdom sealed up tight?”
The governor gestured to his son, allowing Brandon to answer the question. “It’s still sealed against physical entry. But some of the activities there have been marked by powerful sorcery. Several gully dwarves used that magic to escape and provide us key intelligence about Thorbardin. In addition, we are assembling an artifact that, we believe, will give us the means to gain entry to the place with a significant force of troops.”
“Gully dwarves?” Dram’s tone was droll. Brandon decided against telling him that one of the Aghar, Gus Fishbiter, had actually escaped from Thorbardin twice. No need to flesh out the story with even more startling and barely believable details.
“Yes. They’ve been questioned by many of us, not the least of whom is a wise priestess of Reorx. She and I are both convinced they are telling the truth.”
“Convinced enough that you’re willing to send an army, then,” Dram noted, making the phrase a statement, not a question.
“Exactly,” the younger Bluestone replied.
“It hasn’t escaped our notice that you call yourself ‘governor’ here, not ‘king,’” the Solamnic emissary said, directing the remark at Garren. “Somewhat of a change from the previous regime, eh?”
“Many things have changed since the time of Regar Smashfingers,” Garren Bluestone acknowledged. “Not the least of which is the matter of succession. No longer do we dispatch our former leaders with violence. Smashfingers, for all his faults, is enjoying a relatively comfortable retirement in a manor on the nobles’ level. And I have made it my further responsibility to right the wrongs that are occurring in Thorbardin, so that we may restore all the dwarf nations of Krynn to their historic roles.”
“A worthy goal,” Dram acknowledged, though he suppressed a smile at the governor’s fervor. “And do you know how many ships you might require? And where you will wish to embark and disembark your army?”
“My son has experience with the journey to the Kharolis Mountains and back,” Garren said. He nodded at Brandon. “I believe you said that Caergoth would be the ideal port to begin?”
The younger Bluestone nodded. “It’s the only large enough port in Southern Solamnia,” he noted. “It has the capacity to load up an army-say, at least four thousand dwarves-over the course of a day. We could march to one of the smaller ports, which are closer, but it would take us a week to load up the transports.”