“What crime, damn you?”
“You were hiding a fugitive, your son, from the king’s duly appointed authorities! Do you dare to deny your treason?”
“Yes!” shouted Garren, forgetting all thoughts of restraint. He struggled against his bonds, glaring at the secret police captain. “And I accuse you and your father of murdering my oldest son and conspiring to steal my family’s lawfully discovered vein!”
“Well, that simplifies matter, then,” Baracan said coldly, “since you have proved your treason here, now, in front of witnesses. You will sign a confession, and then the matter will be referred to the king for adjudication.”
“I’ll sign nothing, you criminal!” spit Garren. “What makes you think I will?”
Baracan turned those coal black eyes toward one of his assistants. “Bring in the prisoner’s wife,” he ordered. “And summon the Interrogator.”
Garren stared in horror as Karine was pushed through the door. She was gagged, her hands tied behind her, but his heart broke to see the terror in her eyes as she looked at him. The captive dwarf strained against his own bonds as his wife was roughly pushed into a chair. When he thrashed futilely, someone bashed him over the head, and when he cursed, a dirty gag was stuffed into his mouth.
The next dwarf to arrive was the Interrogator. He wore a black leather mask over his face, and his hands were clad in supple gloves of the same material. An array of knives, hooks, pincers, and shackles dangled from his belt. With great, almost loving care, he began to lay out his tools. Some of them were barbed; others had narrow, serrated edges. All of them looked very sharp. Only when the whole collection lay spread on the table, within easy reach, did he turn his masked face toward Baracan Heelspur.
“Would you like me to start with the bitch, my lord?” he asked in a smooth, oily voice.
It was Garren who replied, groaning through his gag and slumping in his seat. He moaned through his gag, shaking his head, while his wife struggled to protest.
“You’re a little hard to understand right now, but I take it you will sign?” the captain of Enforcers asked Garren.
The prisoner nodded weakly, looking at his wife with a beseeching expression, seeing her eyes fill with tears.
Baracan snapped his fingers at the Interrogator and waved him away. With a heavy sigh of disappointment, the masked dwarf packed up his tools. Karine was taken from the room while another Enforcer removed the male prisoner’s gag.
Two minutes later, Garren Bluestone had signed and sealed a confession, admitting that he was treasonously planning to hide his fugitive son from the king’s authorities. Karine Bluestone was allowed to leave, while Garren was taken away to a dark cell somewhere in the middle of the secret Enforcer headquarters. For the second time during the interview, Baracan allowed himself a flash of emotion, emitting a tight smile as Garren was dragged away. He was obviously pleased as he reflected that the king would review the confession and would almost certainly pronounce a sentence of death.
Even as she screamed, Gretchan pushed herself off of Brandon, struggling to pull free the staff she had thrust through her belt before their hasty descent into the Atrium. Brandon, reacting by instinct, rolled from his back and bounced to his feet, pulling the Bluestone Axe from his own belt and staring into the darkened cave.
He found himself face-to-face with an arachnoid horror, a monster that reared upward, segmented body lifting its ghastly head high. Two solid mandibles clacked audibly in front of its thin, slicing mouth, while four legs thrust menacingly forward. Four more supported the back half of the body, which reminded Brandon of a horrible snake, head raised, poised to strike. The monster was huge, the multiple segments of its body forming a whole that was at least twelve feet long. The portion that reared above the floor was higher than Brandon, who was a very tall dwarf in his own right.
The monster’s body was the same gray-white as the stone walls of the cavern. But its eyes chilled him the most. They were multifaceted and seemed to reflect Brandon’s horror-stricken image in at least a dozen different planes. They bulged obscenely, shifting and glittering, clearly focused on the crouching, trembling dwarf. Some of those facets seemed to blink, while others simply stared. The huge eyes were cold and emotionless, yet somehow Brandon sensed in them a profound, almost insatiable, hunger.
The creature was a horax, Brandon realized at once. He had never seen one of the creatures-indeed, few dwarves had encountered the arachnoid monsters and lived to tell about it-but the realization set off an instinctive fury, an inherent hatred within him. The traditional enemies of the Kayolin dwarves were such a visceral, long-standing foe that he was almost compelled to hurl himself at the creature, driven by a battle fury that settled like a red cloud over his vision. He growled deep in his chest, like some savage animal, raising his axe over his head. His beard and face tingled as strength and tension thrummed in his veins, and he felt an almost irresistible compulsion to attack.
But some voice of reason held him back. He saw more of the long, segmented bodies creeping along the floor of the cavern behind the first one, and-almost too late-realized that at least two horax were clinging to the ceiling of the tunnel. They were all of that same pale gray color, and when they were still, they blended very well into the stone of their surroundings. If he had tried to attack, those overhead would have dropped onto his head and back, and he would have been devoured at once. He was chilled by the thought.
So he forced himself to stay calm, standing protectively in front of the priestess, axe lowered to chest height. He warily regarded the looming monsters. Gretchan’s hand pressed against his shoulder, and he heard her murmuring a prayer to the Master of the Forge. A sense of keen readiness flowed into his body, as if the blessing of the god were being transferred directly through his cleric into the flesh of the warrior dwarf.
For long seconds the ancient, hereditary foes stood staring at each other, two dwarves confronted by ten or twelve of the giant bugs. Suddenly the first horax acted, the forefront of its body lashing out with whiplike speed. Two vicious mandibles clicked loudly, the sound a loud, startling snap as they flashed toward Brandon’s face. But the dwarf was ready, raising his axe in a single smooth movement, then driving the enchanted blade down in a slashing blow. Gretchan’s prayer calmed and focused his aim. The keen edge struck the monster right between its bulging eyes, splitting the hard carapace of the head almost as though he were chopping into a piece of firewood.
A spray of disgusting, greenish ichor burst from the wound, and the monster, twitching and thrashing, fell dead. But the next one sprang forward in the same instant, clawing and scratching on the stone surface as it charged over its slain fellow, making the same loud clicking with its wicked jaws. Brandon brought his axe around in a sideways slash, and the second creature recoiled, then snapped its head forward with lightning quickness. The dwarf used the side of his axe as a shield, blocking the lunging strike. He took a step to the side and chopped again, slicing deep into one bulging eye.
The horax pulled back, uttering an ear-splitting squeal and flailing. Brandon didn’t give it a chance to recover; instead, he stepped into his swing and brought the axe down in a crushing, overhand blow against the crown of its bulging head. That horax, too, fell dead.
But more of the giant bugs were approaching, apparently undeterred by the loss of their two mates. A trio of them advanced side by side, clawing over the bodies, rearing high to lunge down at Brandon. Still steadied and strengthened by Gretchan’s hand on his shoulder-and her words, as she continued to chant her ritual prayer-the steel-wielding dwarf didn’t allow the monsters to get too close. The evil heads lunged and struck, but he rushed to meet them with the blade of the Bluestone Axe. He gashed one so deeply the monster went into a frenzy of thrashing and twisted itself right off the ledge, into the depths of the Atrium. When two others pulled back, he struck again, gouging a deep gash into the belly of another horax. He grimaced as he wrenched his weapon free, realizing that the abdomen of
its segmented body was just as heavily armored as its head.
Still, the injured horax, dripped fluids, backed away, clearly weakened. Brand followed up the strike with a charge, stepping onto the body of one of the slain monsters, scrambling up to slash his axe against another. The keen blade sliced through the connecting tissue, and its entire head tumbled free and rolled off the precipice.
The other wounded monster collapsed, legs splayed, mandibles silent. Behind it, Brandon could see at least two more of the horax, tentatively scuttling forward out of the cave. He angled to parry their attack, positioning himself to shield Gretchan if the creatures charged in tandem.
But, just then, the wounded horax snapped upward and sideways, the sharp pincers of its jaws biting into Brandon’s thigh with crushing force. Brandon couldn’t suppress a cry of pain, even as he reflexively twisted around to bring his axe against the creature’s head, crushing the carapace and killing it at once.
Gasping in pain, blinking away the tears that swam in his eyes, he felt himself swaying, the injured leg threatening to collapse beneath him. The two horax in the cavern lunged ahead together, climbing over the bodies of their slain hive-mates, rearing high and snapping forward. Brandon tumbled away from one pair of snapping jaws, swinging his axe around and cutting off one foreleg. Two more limbs reached for him, gouging his arms with what he realized were sharp, curving claws-a single hooklike talon tipped each of the monster’s legs. He bashed aside the offending limbs, but then his smashed thigh gave way with a searing, stabbing blast of pain. The agony shot through his entire body, seeming to freeze the air in his lungs as it whitened his vision. He fell heavily to the stone floor, struggling mightily just to draw a gasp of air.
One of the horax scrambled over to him, rising high, mandibles poised to strike downward into his face or chest. With a frantic effort, he swung his axe upward and felt the blade bite deep, slicing into the narrow gap between two segments of the monster’s body. The horax shrieked, wrenching backward, spilling guts and gore onto the prone dwarf. The creature’s flailing death throes pinched the blade of the axe between two plates of the armorlike shell, and as it twisted away, the weapon was wrenched from Brandon’s hand.
The final horax pounced. The injured, bleeding dwarf, his body wracked with pain, looked up at the hideous face, its mandibles clicking and snapping with almost palpable hunger. Brand felt Gretchan beside him and wished he could do something to protect her from the hideous beast, but his strength was ebbing, his leg was broken, and as the horax lunged closer, he felt his awareness slip away, leaving only blackness.
FIFTEEN
THE HORDE
Brandon regained consciousness very gradually, which was a blessing since, for a long time, he recalled nothing of the terrifying horax, the slicing mandibles, and the cruel wounds that had scoured his flesh. He forgot about the king’s League of Enforcers, the descent into the Atrium, and his and Gretchan’s precarious position on a narrow ledge a thousand feet or more below the lowest levels of Garnet Thax. His pain was pushed to the fringes of his awareness, and he held his axe close to his heart, as if some benefit from the enchantment of his family’s ancient talisman could seep directly into his bloodstream.
Instead of dangers, perils, and pains, his awareness suggested that he was with Gretchan in some comfortable camp on their long journey north. He could almost smell fresh trout grilling over the coals of an oak fire-possibly with a hint of wild onions! Was that the sound of geese flying overhead? He sighed and stretched out, luxuriating in the feeling of soft grass beneath his back, a mossy hummock for a pillow. Somewhere water splashed, and he imagined that Gretchan had slipped away to bathe in some forest pool. With a sly grin, he thought about sneaking through the shrubs for a peek; strangely, at the moment even that little voyeuristic excursion seemed like too much effort, so he lay back and allowed himself to rest some more.
It took him a long time to realize he was lying on something much harder than a grassy meadow. He sniffed and decided that, whatever he smelled, it wasn’t fresh-grilled trout. Only when he tried to open his eyes did the memories start flowing back, and he groaned in painful recollection. His thigh was burning, and every muscle in his body seemed as though it had been stretched on a rack. Each twitch of movement was sheer agony.
Only after taking stock of his many pains did it occur to him that he should probably be surprised and grateful to be alive. He recalled the blackness creeping over him as he fell under the charge of the last horax and wondered how it was that the monster hadn’t killed him and Gretchan as well.
Gretchan!
He grunted, coughed, and tried to open his eyes. They were shut tightly, apparently sealed with some kind of crusty glue-like dried blood. He called her name, but his throat was dry, his voice an inarticulate croak. He could hardly part his lips.
But he felt her soft hand against his face, then the merciful relief of cool water, trickling slowly through his lips, bringing blessed wetness to his mouth, throat, and flesh. He sucked greedily until the bottle was pulled away-and just in time as he coughed and choked.
Finally, he forced his eyes open, breaking the brittle crust that tried to blind him. All of the terrible memories that had come flooding back proved to be accurate. He was lying on the same shelf of rock where the two fugitives had alighted after their glide down into the Atrium. The long shaft rose into the mountain right beside him, and high above he could barely make out the glimmering lanterns of Garnet Thax, the lights that dangled from so many of the plazas at the edge of the deep shaft. How far down were they? A thousand feet? Two thousand? A mile or more? He had no way of knowing, but they might as well have been stars in the sky for all the help they offered right then.
His view was blocked, then, by the welcome image of Gretchan’s face, rosy cheeked and free from wounds, her nose and eyes crinkled upward into an expression of deep concern that he found vaguely comical. He couldn’t help it; he laughed.
“What’s so funny?” she demanded. “You could have been killed!”
“I thought I was killed,” he replied. “And I’m happy to find out I was wrong!”
“Don’t try to talk,” she urged. “You were hurt pretty bad. Your leg was broken, and you lost a lot of blood.”
“Tell me about it,” he said with a grimace. Being the stubborn dwarf that he was, he flexed his “broken” leg. The muscles protested with a stab of pain, but he found he could move the limb. He reached across his chest to touch his wrist where the horax claw had torn his flesh and found that, beneath the crusted blood, his skin was whole, unbroken.
“Did you …?” He left the question unasked.
She smiled gently and touched the miniature anvil on top of the staff that lay across her knees. “I prayed for you, and Reorx granted his blessing. The worst of your wounds-the broken bone, the deepest cuts-are healed. He also granted my plea for sustenance since we didn’t have time to pack a lunch before jumping down here.”
She offered him the waterskin again, and he drank greedily without coughing or choking. Next she handed him a small piece of bread and a wedge of cheese, food magically conjured by her cleric spell. Feeling more like himself, he sat up and took a bite of each. The food was not exceptionally tasty, but it seemed as though he could feel the nourishment seeping right into his bloodstream. He looked around, not surprised to see the bodies of five or six dead horax lying in a heap at the mouth of the cave.
“What about the last one?” Brandon asked abruptly, feeling strength return to his voice as well. “I thought it was going to have me for dinner … and you for dessert!”
“That’s it lying there,” she replied, pointing to the nearest of the dead monsters. “You hurt it, badly, with your axe, before it knocked you out. I hit it over the head with my staff, and then Reorx struck it down.”
“Reorx again, eh? Seems like I should probably get to a temple more often,” Brandon said wryly. “And, um, thanks. I guess I’d be in the hands of the Enforcers right now if it wa
sn’t for you. When I was fighting these damned bugs, I felt something-you touched me and were chanting. Whatever you were doing helped. It was like my strength had doubled; I didn’t feel a lick of fear. Was that Reorx too?”
She nodded. “It was my battle prayer, a blessing upon warriors who fight in Reorx’s name.” Suddenly she leaned over and put her arms around him, and he held her fiercely, feeling her shaking from the emotion of barely contained sobs. “Oh, Brand-I was afraid I was going to lose you!”
“I guess we were both in a bit of a pickle,” he admitted gruffly, enjoying the embrace. “Still, it seems like we don’t do so badly when we work together.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “But what are we going to do now?”
“Well, I don’t suppose Reorx would agree to fly us out of here?” Brand asked with a grin.
“Oh, you!” She pushed away from him and glared for a moment, softening when she saw he was joking. “My magic doesn’t work like that!” she pointedly informed him.
“Frankly, I’m glad,” he replied. “That was a nice escape you arranged, but I’m happy to have some solid rock underfoot. Let’s have a look in this cave. There’s a lot of connecting passages through this mountain, and my people have been working to expand them and map them out for more than a thousand years. With any luck at all, we’ll be able to find our way into the lower mines, and from there we might be able to sneak back to the city.”
He grimaced then, remembering what awaited them in Garnet Thax. His stomach tightened with worry as he pictured his parents in the hands of Heelspur’s Enforcers. “It’s my fault they have taken my parents!” he growled, shaking his head, suddenly guilty over the time they were wasting sitting on the ledge. “My father warned me not to come home, but I didn’t listen, and now look what it’s happened!”
His muscles creaked and strained in protest as he stiffly rose to his feet, but he found that his body responded to its instructions with complete obedience, if not the supple quickness he was used to. The kinks, he told himself, would work themselves out.
The Heir of Kayolin dh-2 Page 18