Chapter 21
Eye of the Storm

Only an occasional beam of sunlight filtered through the thick canopy of dark pine boughs. Still, the forest floor seemed an uncomfortably bright place to the dwarves of the Theiwar army. They made camp before full daylight, fortunately finding a dense patch of woods where the pale-skinned, underground-dwelling derro could all but avoid the direct rays of the sun.

The ground lay beneath a blanket of snow, and the sticky, straight trunks of the trees seemed to merge overhead into a solid blanket of needles and snow-covered branches. The dampness and chill of the camp seemed a small price to pay for its chief virtue: that same thick canopy that provided a blessed escape from the light.

Many of the Theiwar veterans now tried to rest, having scraped the snow away from the small patches of ground that served as beds. A damp chill sank into their bones from the still, cold air.

One of the dwarves made no attempt to sleep, however: Pitrick paced between several large trunks, following the tracks of his previous pacing, where he had worn the snow down to bare ground. His hands were clasped behind him, and the throbbing pain in his foot put him into a foul temper. Perversely, he would not sit and rest that foot, even though the dwarves would be on the march again as soon as night fell.

“Where are they? Where’s Grikk and his party?” he demanded, turning to look at a nearby derro, not expecting an answer. “They should have reported back by now!”

The hunchback peered anxiously between the trunks. “They’ve deserted—that’s what they’ve done!” He sneered at the imagined treachery. “I send them to find the Silver Swords, and instead the miserable cowards have likely fled back to Thorbardin! They’ll pay for this! By all that’s mighty, I’ll see Grikk flayed alive, slow-roasted! I’ll see—”

“Excellency?” A sergeant approached him tentatively.

“Eh? What?”

“Grikk’s coming, sir. Returned from the search.”

“What?” Pitrick blinked, confused by his own tantrum. “Very well—send him to me at once.”

The scout, Grikk, a grizzled veteran with a patch over one eye and a beardless cheek that had been permanently scarred by a Hylar blade, clumped up to the adviser. “We searched the valley along this whole shore of the lake, Excellency. There is no sign of the Swords—at least, nothing that we could see.”

“Then go back and look again!”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Grikk drew himself to his full height, his unpatched eye staring into his commander’s face. “But we can’t. We were blinded out there—I lost one of my scouts in the lake, simply because he couldn’t see a drop-off under his feet!”

Pitrick saw that Grikk’s exposed eye was puffy and bloodshot. He knew that the sun reflecting off the snow created an impossible brightness. Frustration gnawed at him. His body shook with tension, and he made little effort to bring himself under control.

“Excellency,” Grikk said. “Perhaps we could go back and search tonight. It would only mean delaying the attack on Hillhome for one day.”

Pitrick’s thoughts immediately turned to that nest of insolent hill dwarves, little more than a mile away. His decision was easy.

“No!” he cried. “Tonight we attack Hillhome! Nothing can be allowed to delay our vengeance!” He stared through the woods, in the direction of the village filled with those loathsome enemies, the hill dwarves.

“When the sun rises tomorrow, it must shine upon Hillhome’s ruined remains.”

When they finally crested a low ridge and Hillhome lay before them, Flint and Perian anxiously looked for signs of smoke or massive destruction. To their relief, they found neither. Instead, they saw that a large earthwork had been erected along the south border of the town—right across the Passroad, Flint noted with satisfaction.

“So that’s Hillhome,” Perian breathed, picturing a young Flint in that setting. She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “It would appear they’re expecting an army.”

Flint let his arm fall around her shoulder for a moment, pride making his eyes sparkle. “The young harrn pulled it off. Basalt actually did it. We did it.

“Double time, you bug-eating, belching bunch of Aghar!” Flint bellowed, using their favorite pet names, and they started down the long ridge.

At the bottom of the slope, the gully dwarves, sensing the importance of the moment, marched in the precise military formation Flint had dubbed the “mob of chaos.” Its success could be said to be achieved when the majority of the gully dwarves were moving rather quickly in approximately the same direction.

This was easily accomplished now because the Aghar were universally fascinated by the small community before them. They climbed over each other and pushed one another in their haste to enter Hillhome.

For all of the Aghar, this was their first experience with a hill dwarf community, or any above-ground community for that matter. As they approached Hillhome, they stared to the right and left, awestruck by the architectural marvels around them.

“What in the name of all the gods is this?” said Mayor Holden, witnessing the gully dwarf stampede as he stood with a shovel at the outskirts of town. “Oh, it’s you, Fireforge,” he added, recognizing Flint at the lead. He cast a scornful gaze at the whooping gully dwarves. “What are those slugs doing here, and at a time like this?”

Flint grabbed the mayor, whom he had never really liked, by the lapels. “Nobody calls my troops slugs except me! Show some respect to the Aghar who are willing to give up their lives protecting your town!”

“Uncle Flint!” cried Basalt from nearby, throwing down his shovel and racing toward his uncle. Flint released the mayor, who muttered some sort of apology as he skulked back to his digging.

“You really came through,” said Flint. “I’m proud of you, pup.” He gestured at the wide earthwork, the bustling dwarves extending it to either side.

“We’ve gathered some weapons, too,” said Basalt, his pride obvious in his voice. “A couple hundred, anyway—enough for half the town.”

“You mean four hundred hill dwarves are willing to fight for this old town?” Flint said, honestly surprised.

“Yup!” Basalt was clearly proud of his kinsmen, and Flint enjoyed the change in his nephew. “And even the ones who can’t fight are busy sewing leather right now. They’re making padded leather breastplates for as many of us as they can.”

“Excellent,” Flint pronounced. “But what’ll they do when the fighting starts?”

“We’ve got provisions stored in some caves, up in the hills. At first sign of the mountain dwarves, the old folks and youngsters will head out of town,” Basalt explained.

Tybalt, Ruberik, and Bertina joined them, together with an attractive young dwarf maid whom Flint recognized as Hildy, the daughter of the town’s brewer. They greeted him warmly, and even Ruberik unbent his spine—just a little, for a brief moment—to nod his respect toward his brother. Flint, in turn, introduced them to Perian, who stood at his side. Bertina gave her a scrutinizing glance, but was satisfied enough with the mountain dwarf to give her a cheerful hello.

“What about the mountain dwarves?” asked Tybalt. “Basalt told us that they’re on the move already. How far have they gotten?”

Flint looked to Basalt in surprise and the young harrn held up his hand, showing the steel-banded ring on his finger. “It was easy, with this,” he explained. “I teleported down the road until I saw ’em marching toward the shore of Stonehammer Lake. That was early last night. I was afraid they’d attack this morning, before you could get here.”

“Hey—cut that out!” At the sound of the irate voice, Flint looked around to see another young dwarf chasing a pair of Aghar who had snatched his shovel while he rested from the rigors of excavation. “Give that back to me, you little runts, or I’ll rip yer ears off!”

Somehow, Flint wasn’t surprised to find gully dwarves at the other end of the rebuke. If the Aghar were ever going to work with the hill dwarves, some ground rules had to be established.

“Limper! Wet-nose! Stop that right now!” Flint bellowed. Each of the gully dwarves actually stopped to look at him before they went on to make insulting gestures at their pursuer with their feet.

Groaning, Flint turned back to his comrades. “The mountain dwarves, yes. We lost sight of them before dawn. For all I know they could be coming around the bend of the valley in ten minutes.”

“I don’t think so,” Perian disagreed. “I’m sure they won’t be moving during the day. We have till at least sunset to prepare, but I’ll be surprised if we don’t see them right around then.”

“Well, that’s something, anyway—a few hours,” said Flint, pleased both at Hillhome’s farsightedness and the fact that his Aghar had marched considerably faster, over rougher country, than had the dwarves of Pitrick’s army.

Basalt took the arms of both Flint and Perian. “Why are we talking in this dusty street? We’ll be here by need soon enough. Let’s go to Moldoon’s—Turq Hearthstone is running it now—to discuss the details.”

Everyone agreed. Admonishing Nomscul to behave and make sure his fellow Aghar did the same, Flint and the rest set out through the village and past the brewery to the north edge of town, where Moldoon’s Inn beckoned invitingly. For a moment the dwarf almost believed that his old companion would come to the door of his inn to greet them. The truth brought a thick lump to his throat, and he made a silent vow to avenge Moldoon’s death tenfold.

It was early afternoon, and Flint and Perian were famished. Turq brought them heaping plates of fresh, buttered bread and stew. The innkeeper noted their noses wrinkled in distaste.

“The bread’s great, Turq, but have you something other than stew?” At the dwarf’s puzzled expression, Flint held up a hand and shook his head ruefully. “Don’t ask; it’s too complicated and not worth the bother to explain. But some meat would be most welcome, if you have it.”

Turq brought two steaks back within minutes. Flint and Perian dug in like starving dwarves, while the bulk of Flint’s family looked on, waiting for them to finish. The pair ate with great relish, with much smacking of lips and licking of fingers. The steak, Flint swore, was the best food he had ever eaten. Finally, some time later, Perian pushed back her chair. “I’m stuffed,” she admitted. “And one of us had better check on the Aghar.” She quickly got up to go.

“Mmmph,” Flint agreed, still shoveling in the tender meat.

Only after Flint popped the last bite into his mouth did he even stop to notice where he was. Something about the inn felt different than the last time he’d been here.

“I know what’s changed!” he cried, slamming his fist to the bar. “No derro!” Flint nodded his approval. At the same time, he realized how much he missed Moldoon, and his earlier melancholy returned.

“The ones we caught are still in jail,” Basalt explained. “Maybe we’ll let ’em out after the battle.”

“Yeah,” Flint agreed, suddenly serious. The few hours of peace remaining to Hillhome could be counted in the low angle of the sun to the horizon. “Well, I’d better check on Perian,” he said.

The others accompanied him from the inn, and they started back toward the earthen wall defending Hillhome. From some distance away they heard Perian castigating her charges, and Flint unconsciously picked up his pace.

“No! Higher! Make the wall higher!” Perian shouted. Her voice came out as more of a pale croak than a command.

“But look, Queen Furryend! We make nice notch right here!” A dirt-caked Fester protested, indicating with pride the deep cut the gully dwarves had gouged in the earthwork. “Pretty soon road go right through, no problem!”

“Yes, problem—big problem! Road go—damn! Look, if the road goes right through, then the mountain dwarves can go right through. Do you understand?”

“Sure!” beamed Fester. “No problem!”

“We don’t want the mountain dwarves to go through. We want to stop them here, stop them with the wall that used to cross the road!” Perian felt her temperature rising, and was frustrated that the woeful state of her overworked voice did not allow her more effective vent of her displeasure.

“Oh,” said Fester, crestfallen. For a moment she looked at the pile of dirt they had moved, then turned back to Perian. “Why?”

The queen had been trying to supervise the gully dwarves while they learned the art of military fortification. In the few short minutes she’d been at it, she had decided that it was an unrewarding pipe dream.

She was spared the further rigors of instruction by the arrival of Flint, Hildy, and Basalt. Flint chuckled in sympathy, taking her hand.

The hill dwarf turned his attention to the growing earthwork project. “Looks impressive,” he complimented. Indeed, the redoubt was now a great, curving wall, shaped roughly like a horseshoe, with western Hillhome protected by its dirt shelter. It averaged perhaps eight feet high, though of course with gully dwarf craftsmanship there was no excess of precision.

“We’ll have about four hundred hill dwarves and three hundred gully dwarves. At least the thane’s troops won’t have us outnumbered too badly.”

Flint’s heartiness seemed forced. The disciplined ranks of Realgar’s elite guards, with their metal armor, deadly crossbows, and well-practiced combat formations, were a more formidable force than the rabble of armed, but unarmored, unpracticed, and wholly undisciplined Hillhome folk and gully dwarves.

“What’s the plan?” Mayor Holden called to them as he approached from the center of town. They turned to see Turq and the mayor climbing the wall.

Holden seemed eager to inspect the fortification. Now that the evidence of mountain dwarf treachery was inescapable, Flint reflected sourly, the mayor had become a devout patriot to the cause of Hillhome. Perhaps I’m being unfair, Flint chided himself. The mayor only reflected the consensus of the majority of the hill dwarves. The dwarves of Hillhome had simply grown comfortable in their good life. Anyone would be reluctant to rashly reject his prosperity when confronted with claims of an unseen, secret enemy.

And, Flint reminded himself, when the fact of the enemy had been made plain finally, the dwarves of Hillhome had jumped to the defense of their community. The four hundred harrn and frawl who had taken up arms ranged from young adults to venerable grandfathers, and all were strong and dedicated. And those who were not physically capable of battle had been busy, too.

“Splendid, splendid!” crowed the mayor unnecessarily, looking around the graceful curve of the earthen wall. “Now, what is our strategy?”

Flint, Perian, Basalt, Hildy, and Turq looked at one another over the stupidity of the question, as if they were dividing up for a game of luggerball. But the mayor had inadvertently revealed one thing: they had not officially appointed a commander over their force.

“I suggest that Flint Fireforge be given the task of assigning the plan of defense,” proposed Turq Hearthstone quietly.

“Aye,” echoed Basalt and Hildy.

“Yes,” piped up Perian.

Flint looked around at his companions. He tried rationally to consider the alternatives. Basalt and Hildy were too young. Mayor Holden was not a harrn of action. Perian was an outsider—a mountain dwarf, to boot—though it did not matter to him in the least. She would fight loyally for the town’s cause, but she was not the choice to be its champion. Tybalt, Ruberik—his brothers—he now sensed, looked to him for leadership.

“We’ll meet them here,” Flint began, indicating the wall. He looked self-consciously at the others to gauge their reactions, but when he saw that they listened unquestioningly, his confidence rose, and so did the strength of his voice.

“I’ll manage the Sludge Bombers right in the middle,” he decided. “That should break the cohesion of their attack. Then, we’ll try to hold them … where?” He looked at the line, evaluating the ground and finding what he desired. “There.” He pointed at the right side of the horseshoe, where it curved almost to the bank of the river.

“Basalt, you’ll command a small company of hill dwarves over there, enough to stop them when they try to climb the redoubt. Perian can back you up with the Wedgies.”

His followers listened attentively. He and Perian had already explained the gully dwarf formations, and indeed the Aghar had demonstrated the creeping wedge and the Agharpult. They had come dangerously close also to acquainting the hill dwarves with the dread sludge bomb, but fortunately Perian had come upon the bombers in the nick of time.

“Then, over here,” Flint continued, turning to the left, where the wing of the earthwork extended into a field beyond the Passroad. Perhaps a hundred feet beyond the end of the barrier began the tree line, but there was no time to carry the redoubt that much farther. “Tybalt and Hildy will take the rest of the hill dwarves and the Agharpults.”

He surveyed the expanse of the line, satisfied. “Then, when the enemy line is broken by the bombs and half of them are occupied over here, Tybalt and Hildy, you charge forward and attack with your company of dwarves. With luck—and lots of that—we can carry half of the thane’s forces away before sweeping around to catch the others in the rear. With those trees blocking them from too wide of a movement, we might have the chance to hit ’em hard, cause them some real confusion.

“Now, Ruberik,” he said, turning to his brother. “Are you still a dead shot with that crossbow?”

“I’ve been keeping my hand in,” the farmer admitted.

“Good. I have a job for you.” Briefly he explained another idea he had, and Ruberik gave his hearty approval. Flint’s brother headed into town, seeking the two large, clay jars he needed to put the plan into operation.

“Now, we’ll need some bonfires out there in the field. That’ll at least give us a picture of where they are when they’re advancing.” He stopped to think while Tybalt and Hildy organized a score of hill dwarves. The group gathered dry wood and quickly started to form several large piles in the field before the redoubt. These bonfires would be lit as soon as the derro came into view, providing the hill dwarves some view of their advancing enemy.

Soon Flint turned to the others. “Now, how are we fixed for straw? Can we get fifty bales? A hundred would be even better.”

Tybalt nodded.

“Good. And lamp oil? How many kegs do you have in your store?” he asked Mayor Holden.

“Well, there’s not, that is, it’s my most expensive item! I can’t.…”

Conscious of the stares of all the other hill dwarves, the mayor stopped speaking and flushed with embarrassment. “Well, I guess I’ve got a couple of kegs. But what on Krynn do you need them for?”

Flint explained his plans, assigning dwarves to gather the necessary ingredients and make the required preparations. Slowly, the various elements of Hillhome’s defense came together.

The defensive strategy sounds good, Flint realized with satisfaction.

Even as they were speaking Flint noticed that it grew steadily darker. The sun dipped beyond the western hills, and twilight settled over the town and its valley. They’ve got to be coming soon now, he told himself.

“If they break the line here, everyone fall back through the town,” he added, developing a contingency plan. “We’ll make a final stand in the brewery, if it comes to that.” Hildy had already offered the building—the largest structure in Hillhome—for that purpose.

“Look!” cried Perian suddenly, turning toward the south. The others squinted into the distance. The movement along the Passroad was painfully obvious to them all, even in the fading light. A long column snaked its way through the mud.

The armored mountain dwarf troops of Pitrick’s legion.

“They must have started right at sunset,” Basalt guessed. “And they’re coming fast.”

“They’ll be here in an hour,” Flint judged, “maybe sooner if they hurry. That doesn’t give us a lot of time. Everybody spread out!” Flint ordered. “Pass the word through the town—every dwarf with a weapon should get down here. The rest should take shelter in the hills if they’re not gone already!

“Basalt, Hildy—get your crews out there and light those fires. I want them blazing high by the time the Theiwar get down to the field. And then hurry back—remember, the battle’s to be fought here, not out there!”

Basalt grinned as he trotted off with the fire brigade. The others, too, turned toward the stations for the imminent battle.

Perian turned to leave, and Flint caught her by the shoulders. “Not you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Not yet.” Flint clasped her to him, and tucked her face into his throat beneath his beard.

He smelled of salty perspiration and soap, an honest, good scent. Flint’s scent. She nuzzled him for the first time since they had left Mudhole.

“Don’t tease me, you heartless wench!” he growled, gathering her up tightly. He pulled back abruptly, taking her face in his thick, callused hands. “I’ve grown quite fond of you,” he grumbled. “For Reorx’s sake be careful!”

Perian tilted her head back slightly and gave him a lingering, bittersweet kiss that was salty with tears. “I’ll be careful—but only if you promise that you will, too.” He nodded somberly, and she kissed him on the nose this time, reluctantly wiggling out of his arms.

Perian gave him a playful pat and a smile. “Mind you remember that promise.” Then she was gone to her assigned post.

Flint watched her go, and then got caught up in the frenzy of activity that swirled across Hillhome. Dusk settled over the town. Looking to the field, Flint saw one fire, then another, then several more spark to life.

And the Theiwar troops marched onward to Hillhome. Twilight faded to night as Basalt, Hildy, and the other hill dwarves kindled the bonfires laid in the field before the redoubt. These blazes crackled quickly upward as the dry wood ignited, sending pillars of sparks into the dark sky.

These dwarves scurried back to the safety of their companions as Pitrick’s forces neared the town. The bright yellow firelight soon reflected off of rank upon rank of black-armored, steel-tipped death.

Darkness grew as the mountain dwarf wave started forward again, marching inexorably toward the confrontation with their dwarven kin on the dirt embankment.

In the next instant, as if from a single throat, Pitrick’s legion raised a hoarse cry. With a clash of their arms against their shields, they surged forward into a charge.