Drugar fingered a wooden ax that he wore thrust through his wide belt. “Where are the railbows?”
“I thought so.” Roland nodded. “Well, if that was why you saved us, you wasted your time. You’ll have to ask those creatures for them. But maybe you’ve already done that! The SeaKing told me you dwarves worship these monsters. He said you and your people are going to join these tytans and take over the human lands. That true, Drugar? Is that why you needed the weapons?”
Rega raised her head, stared at the dwarf. Paithan slowly sipped water from the gourd, his eyes on Drugar. Roland tensed. He didn’t like the glitter in the dwarf’s dark eyes, the chill smile that touched the bearded lips.
“My people …” said Drugar softly, “my people are no more.”
“What? Make sense, damn it, Blackbeard!”
“He is,” said Rega. “Look at him! Blessed Thillia! He means his people are all dead!”
“Orn’s blood,” swore Paithan, in elven, with reverence.
“Is that it?” demanded Roland. “Is that the truth? Your people . . . dead?”
“Look at him!” Rega cried, almost hysterically.
Minds confused, blinded by their own fears, they had none of them really seen the dwarf. Eyes open, they saw that Drugar’s clothes were torn and stained with blood. His beard, of which he had always taken great care, was matted and tangled; his hair wild and uncombed. A large and ugly gash had opened the skin on his forearm, blood had dried on his forehead. His large hands fingered the ax.
“If we’d had the weapons,” said Drugar, his gaze fixed black and unblinking, on the shadows moving in the tunnels, “we could have fought them. My people would still be alive.”
“It isn’t our fault.” Roland raised both hands, palms outward. “We came as fast as we could. The elf”-he pointed at Paithan-“the elf was late.”
“I didn’t know! How was I supposed to know? It was that damn trail of yours, Redleaf, up and down hundred-foot cliffs that led us right into the bastards-”
“Oh, so now you’re going to blame it all on me-”
“Stop arguing!” Rega’s voice screeched. “It doesn’t matter whose fault it is! The only thing that matters is getting out of here!”
“Yes, you’re right,” said Paithan, calming down, subdued. “I must return and warn my people.”
“Bah! You elves don’t have to worry. My people will deal with these freaks!” Roland glanced at the dwarf and shrugged. “No offense, Blackbeard, old boy, but warriors-real ones, not a bunch who’ve been sawed off at the knees-won’t have any problem destroying the monsters.”
“What about Kasnar?” said Paithan. “What happened to the human warriors in that empire?”
“Peasants! Farmers.” Roland dismissed them with a gesture. “We Thillians are fighters! We’ve had experience.”
“In bashing each other, maybe. You didn’t look so great up there!”
“I was caught off-guard! What do you expect, elf? They were on me before I could react. All right, so we won’t bring these giants down with one arrow, but I’ll guarantee you that when they’ve got five or six spears through those holes in their heads, they won’t be asking any more of their stupid questions about citadels!”
. . . Where are the citadels?
The question reverberated through Drugar’s mind, beat and hammered and pounded, each syllable physically painful. From his vantage point in one of the myriad dwarven dwellings, Drugar stared down upon the vast moss plain where his father and most of his people had gone to meet the giants vanguard.
No, vanguard wasn’t the correct word. A vanguard implies order, directed movement. To Drugar it appeared that this small group of giants had stumbled over the dwarves, coming across them by accident not design, taking a brief moment away from their larger quest to … ask directions?
“Don’t go out there. Father!” Drugar had been tempted to plead with the old man. “Let me talk to them if you insist on such folly! Stay behind, where it’s safe!”
But he knew that if he had said such words to his father, he might very well feel the lash of that walking stick across his back. And he would have had reason to beat me, Drugar admitted. He is, after all, king. And I should be at his side!