The Heir of Kayolin dh-2

by Douglas Niles

  They were seated in the great room, the same room where they had been when the Enforcers had turned their lives upside down only a few days earlier. Brandon was so angry that he clutched the haft of the Bluestone Axe with white-knuckled intensity, almost hoping that a mess of officials would barge in again. He was all but certain that none of them would have gotten out of there with his life.

  Gretchan put a hand on his shoulder. Her touch, as always, soothed and calmed him, and he shook off the dark, violent impulse that had been taking over his thoughts. His hands relaxed, though he still kept his weapon in his lap, ready and willing to use it.

  “No. There has been no public report. The standard procedure in a case like this, with a signed confession of wrongdoing, is for the king to determine the sentence. When he does so, that sentence will be posted at the gate of the palace. I have been going there every day, and there has been no public announcement yet.”

  She glanced from Gretchan to Brandon, her face a tight mask of fear. “It was Baracan Heelspur himself who interrogated him. He said they would do terrible things to me if your father didn’t confess. So, of course, he did.”

  “What did they charge him with?” Brandon asked.

  “Well, with harboring a fugitive, first of all,” said Karine, frowning. “But Heelspur was talking crazy. He spoke of something called the Bluestone Faction, as if your father was some kind of revolutionary. There’s nothing to it, but the Heelspurs-and the king, too, I’m sure-are terribly worried about our clan. He already had to deal with a mutiny in the Garnet Guards.”

  “What happened there?” Brandon said. “I noticed a few of the redcoats as we wended our way here. They seemed to be permanently off duty.”

  “Yes. They’ve been relieved of their official tasks since a couple of them got into a fight with some of Heelspur’s Enforcers. The Enforcers took kind of a beating, even though they had the advantage of numbers. Of course, Smashfingers took his friend Lord Heelspur’s side. The guards have been furloughed for the season without pay. I understand they’ve taken to wearing their uniforms as a point of pride, and the Enforcers haven’t been able to muster the gumption to order them to take off those red jackets.”

  “That could be useful to us,” Brandon said, glad to hear that all was not well in the ranks of Regar Smashfingers’s men-at-arms.

  “I have an idea,” Gretchan suggested. “Let’s not wait for the king’s public pronouncement. We should do whatever we can to spread word through the city about Garren’s plight and contrast it with Brandon’s heroism. From the reception we have been getting, just climbing from the deep-levels up to here, it’s clear that many dwarves will be sympathetic. You’re the Horax Hero, after all.”

  Brandon frowned and his mother shot him a sympathetic look. They had told her all about what happened, but she knew that Brandon didn’t like to play the national hero. “I’m not about to go bragging about fighting for our lives!” Brandon objected. “And we wouldn’t even have been down there if not for the League of Enforcers chasing us!”

  “And that’s a point that the dwarves of Kayolin would do well to remember. As to you bragging: no, of course you shouldn’t do that,” Gretchan said, her eyes twinkling. “Your mother and I will do that job better than you! And we’ll enlist your friends. I’d bet that Bondall would do a good job of spreading the news. This story is already taking on a life of its own.”

  “What should I do, then?” Brand asked, intrigued by the idea even as he was frustrated at the thought of handing over the initiative to Gretchan and his mother. “Just sit around and look heroic while my father rots in the Enforcers’ dungeon?”

  Only then did he remember his discovery in the subterranean throne room, when he had been racing after Gretchan and the horax that had captured her. He pulled the torc out of his belt pouch.

  “Wait, I forgot to tell you! I found this in the horax lair,” he said excitedly. “Do you think it could be real? I mean, the Torc of the Forge?” He held the silvery circle up, and the blue stones flashed in the firelight, brightening the room as if they possessed an internal source of brilliance.

  Gretchan froze with a little gasp of awe. Then she reached forward and touched the artifact, and as she did so, the miniature anvil on the top of her staff pulsed with a dazzling light. She swayed dizzily, and he caught her as she almost swooned onto her side.

  “It is, isn’t it?” he said fiercely. “It’s the real torc!”

  She nodded, awestruck. “I believe so. It’s the power of Reorx, more concentrated than anything I have ever seen before. An artifact, lost for centuries far below the civilized depths of Kayolin. And you just found it when you were coming after me?”

  “That’s it! I found you-you led me to it, even though I suppose you didn’t do it on purpose.” He described the ancient hall with its dusty floor and the solid stone throne. “I got the feeling that the place was even older than Kayolin. I don’t know if it was even inhabited by dwarves; it might have been those ancient ogres or some other culture that’s now lost to history. The whole place has been overrun by the horax for a thousand years, and this torc was just sitting there as if it had been waiting for me to pick it up.”

  “That is exactly right; Reorx wanted it found,” Gretchan said reverently.

  Brandon was quickly struck by a new thought. “Then the torc the king-the governor!”-he spat the lesser title triumphantly-“is having made into his crown … it’s a fake!”

  “It has to be!” Gretchan agreed. “His authority is built on a false claim.” She frowned thoughtfully. “But what do you plan to do about that? Are you going to take this up to the palace?”

  “Yes!” crowed Brandon. “I’ll brandish it in his face, right in front of the entire court, so the whole nation will know his falseness.”

  “That might work,” Gretchan allowed. “But I wonder if it might not be prudent to wait a little bit before you do that. You know, to let word of your triumph filter through the city. To let the people hear that you were called a fugitive by the League of Enforcers. Before you, you know, saved the city from a swarm of horax. Let the word spread.”

  “But I can’t just sit here on my hands and wait for rumors and stories to spread.”

  A rap on the door sounded before either of the dwarf maids could answer. Brandon crossed the room and, still carrying his axe, opened the door to find two dwarves standing there. They wore the black leather tunics of the secret police, with gold braid on their shoulders suggesting they held some sort of exalted rank. Unlike the last occasion, they weren’t bashing the door down, but rather stood there respectfully. One even bowed, almost sheepishly, as Brandon appeared before them.

  “What do you want?” he demanded curtly.

  “We bring a message from King Smashfingers,” said the second dwarf, the one who hadn’t bowed. He was holding a piece of parchment in his hand, and he didn’t exactly look happy to be there.

  “What is it?”

  The dwarf read from the page he was holding. “King Smashfingers has been apprised of your heroism in single-handedly defeating a horax infestation that nearly reached the city’s deep-levels. While he has dispatched some more troops to deal with any remaining threat, he would very much like to honor you with a medal of valor and to learn of your experiences with the monsters. This message is an invitation to attend to him in his court at your earliest convenience.”

  Brandon, surprised, looked back at Gretchan. “Should I go?” he silently mouthed.

  The priestess came over to him and took his hand. “Yes, your mother and I have plenty to do,” she said conspiratorially. “As for you, I suggest you go and see the king.”

  Willim the Black was sweating and breathing hard, elated in a way he had never been before. Carefully, almost tenderly, he laid his whip on the worktable of his laboratory and stepped to Facet’s side. The female apprentice was sobbing quietly as he released the straps that had attached her wrists to the rack. She fell into his arms, still crying, and he he
ld her tenderly, avoiding the bloody welts that marked her back.

  “I’m sorry, Master,” she said, shivering. “I tried so hard not to cry out-”

  “Shh, my little one,” he said. “Your courage was so inspiring to me. You have given me a great gift, one I dare not squander.”

  “Oh, thank you, Master!” she exclaimed, pulling him tight. But then she leaned back and looked at him in puzzlement. “But what gift could I possibly have given you?”

  “The gift of resolve, my brave apprentice. You have shown me the way, showed me that I must stand true to my goals, my beliefs, yes, even my desires.”

  Her eyes flashed at his words, and his vision, the magical enchantment of true sight, showed him that she really did understand. He released his female apprentice, and she gently pulled away, standing. She did not cover herself, and he was pleased.

  “Take a sip of potion,” he said gently. “Some of those cuts are deep; you must take care they do not become infected.”

  She went over to the potion cabinet and quickly took out a bottle of healing elixir as well as a jug of strong red wine. He watched her affectionately as she mixed the two and took a sip. Behind her, the cabinet was neat and orderly, a hundred bottles all polished and lined up. She had done that for him, cataloguing and organizing all of his potions as well as many of his other components.

  She smiled as the healing began to ease her pain, and he sighed, wondering how he had ever gotten along without her. Without his even asking, she poured a second glass of wine and brought it over to him.

  “What do you plan to do now, Master?” she asked as he sipped. She put her robe on, much to his disappointment, but he knew she couldn’t go unclothed forever.

  The wizard felt a new resolve. “I have one more weapon, one I have yet to use. But I think it is time,” he declared.

  Willim stood up and crossed the laboratory, stopping near the edge of the great chasm in the floor. As always, Gorathian seethed and burned down there, yearning for release, craving the destruction and chaos that, up until that moment, Willim had prevented the monster from attaining.

  “Awaken, my beast!” he barked. The wizard snapped his fingers, breaking the first spell of confinement, the enchantment that held the fire dragon at bay, deep within its rock-walled lair.

  Immediately flames surged upward, brightening the vast laboratory and warming the skin of the two dwarves. The heat increased, until their silken robes started to smolder, and Willim cast a spell of protection, a shielding globe that surrounded them both, insulating them from the fire dragon’s infernal temperatures. The monster rose from the depths, gouging the stone walls of the chasm with its fiery claws, pressing upward until the burning head and serpentine neck twisted from the narrow gap, its great maw open and roaring.

  “Now, rise!” commanded Willim, clapping his hands and breaking the second spell of confinement.

  Gorathian roared again, jaws spread wide, fire spuming outward to surround the two dwarves. Only the enchantment of the powerful wizard’s spell protected them from certain and instant immolation. The beast’s large head loomed above them, rearing back on its strong, sinuous neck. The fire dragon’s skin was like liquid lava, shiny and flowing. Its eyes were black, utterly soulless, but every bit of the rest of it was blazing orange and white, as bright as an infernal blaze. The jaws spread wide again, and a massive cloud of flame billowed forth, igniting the air just over the two magic-users’ heads.

  “Do not attack me! Do not attack my apprentice!” snarled the wizard.

  He raised his hand, palm outward, then pressed downward. The dragon writhed and howled, unable to resist the powerful magic that pressed it, against its will, back down into the chasm. The creature roared more loudly than ever, the sound rattling the potion jars on their shelves. Massive forefeet, each tipped with talons as hard as steel, clawed at the stone floor, leaving smoking, blackened gouges in the hard stone.

  Abruptly, Willim pulled his hand away, and the dragon surged upward, wings of fire spreading wide and carrying it into the air, high above the floor of the vast, domed chamber. The wizard smiled tightly, knowing that the monster would not dare to attack him or the female under his protection again.

  Gorathian roared again and flew in a tight spiral, constrained by the size of the laboratory.

  “Have you ever seen such terrible magnificence?” the black wizard demanded, gloating.

  Facet took his arm and shook her head, staring upward, shivering in terror and awe.

  “Now!” cried the eyeless Theiwar, addressing the fire dragon and pointing at the stone wall that barricaded the chamber, which blocked it from access to all the rest of Thorbardin. “Go! Find my enemy, the king! Smite him!” he shouted.

  With a bellow so loud it shivered the very bedrock of the laboratory, the fire dragon flew straight at the wall. Solid stone was no barrier to that creature of Chaos-kin of those that had ruined so many of Thorbardin’s cities during the Chaos War, more than a half century earlier. As it struck the wall, it immediately gouged a hole into the rock, forcing its way through the barrier, soon bursting explosively into the wide chamber beyond.

  Facet stared at the flaming wake of the monster, her eyes wide, her mouth open with awe and excitement. She stared at the large hole in the face of stone, the gap smoldering and molten with crimson fingers of fire around the fringes. She turned back to her master, evincing adoration and exultation in her expression. “What will we do now?” she asked breathlessly, her hand taking Willim’s and squeezing his scarred and stubby fingers.

  “Why,” he said, with a dry chuckle. “We follow it, of course. And we watch our enemy’s destruction.”

  And he cast the spell of flying upon them both, and the two wizards, master and apprentice, took to the air.

  TWENTY

  EMPTY THRONES

  Unlike his last appearance at Regar Smashfingers’s court, when he and his father had quietly entered amid a large group of casual observers, Brandon strode forward at the head of a retinue of noisy well-wishers. Some were neighbors who’d been with him since he’d passed the Cracked Mug, while others were those who had joined as he’d climbed the long ramps to the noble level. The Enforcers who had brought him the invitation, interestingly enough, had melted away during the climb. Once again, however, he spotted some of the redcoats of the Garnet Guards. One burly veteran hoisted a mug to Brandon and winked broadly as he strode past.

  The governor’s palace occupied the highest level of Garnet Thax. Two stout gates, standing open, greeted those who climbed to that lofty height. The entry led directly into the throne room, a long, rectangular chamber with the ruler’s seat at the far end. Both sides and the far end of the room were crowned with balconies, which rose twenty feet higher than the floor. They were galleries for citizens and observers, and Brandon’s first glance into the huge chamber showed him that those vantages were lined two or three deep with interested dwarves who had rushed there at the rumors of a confrontation between Brandon Bluestone and Regar Smashfingers.

  As he stepped into the palace, he was greeted by saluting guards in black capes who stepped back, forming an aisle that directed him down a ramp toward the floor of the throne room. The last time he had looked at that room, he was an observer watching from the balcony that surrounded the large chamber. As he glanced at all those dwarves who reminded him of his previous experience with the room, he walked proudly toward the great seat upon which sat the dwarf who had the temerity to call himself king.

  Brandon wore his axe slung over his back. He still carried the Torc of the Forge in his belt pouch, having decided over Gretchan’s objections that he might need it. The royal guards didn’t ask him to hand over his weapon anyway, though a pair of big spear carriers walked forward with him. They looked like an honor guard, but he knew they’d be ready to act against him if he made some aggressive action toward the king.

  They didn’t need to worry. Brandon was there to learn and evaluate, not to do anything foolhardy. He l
ooked around, noticed lots of smiling faces, and recognized some of the attending dwarves-including one young noblewoman, Rona Darkwater, who had been one of Brand’s lovers, once upon a time. She blew him a kiss, and he blushed.

  Still looking around, Brandon was surprised but not displeased to see that neither Lord Alakar Heelspur nor his son was present. That was good; he wasn’t sure he could have controlled his temper in the presence of the dwarves who had arranged his brother’s murder and his father’s imprisonment and coerced confession.

  Several well-dressed courtiers stood flanking the throne, their silk shirts and colorful cravats at odds with the more common, workmanlike garb typical of Kayolin’s citizenry.

  Regar Smashfingers sat up straight in his great stone chair then leaned forward as Brandon advanced. The king had a broad face and an unusually large nose, with a tip that hooked downward, not unlike the beak of a hawk.

  “Presenting Brandon Bluestone, sire!” declared one of the guards, thumping the butt of his spear against the floor.

  “So you are the hero who warned us about the horax attack-and then, apparently single-handedly, sent a hundred of the bugs tumbling into the Atrium?” said Smashfingers with every appearance of graciousness. He looked Brandon up and down, smiling with a broad display of white teeth.

  “I don’t know about the hero stuff,” Brandon said with genuine modesty. “And it was certainly less than a hundred of them that fell to my attack. I was fighting for my life and the life of my companion. I did what any other Kayolin dwarf would have done.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed-probably because Brand had intentionally avoided using any honorific title-but he merely nodded thoughtfully, as if digesting the information.

  “Unusual, isn’t it, to find the scum so high in the mountain-right up to the deep-levels, aren’t they?”

  “I’ve never heard of them there in my lifetime,” Brandon admitted, thinking: Was it you who ordered the walls knocked down? He wanted to ask the question aloud, but-acting on Gretchan’s wise counsel-decided it was not the time to confront the king on that issue. “They seem to have found some new ways out of their hives,” he settled for saying.