by Doug Niles
As his head reached the floor level, he found himself staring directly into Nailer’s lifeless eyes. He groaned a choking cry of grief. Pulling himself out of the shaft, he collapsed on his brother’s body, cradling Nailer’s motionless form and sobbing uncontrollably. The lamp still flickered, and he angrily knocked it away, as if the darkness could block him from acknowledging the stark truth of his brother’s death …
The truth that the Bluestone luck remained as bad as ever.
Only after several minutes of grieving did he start to consider the potential danger to himself. Belatedly, he looked around, but there was no sign of the mysterious assassins. He remembered the arm he had severed, but even that limb was gone, the wound marked by only a smear of dried blood on the floor. Also removed was the body of the slain attacker.
Brandon slowly rose to his feet, resolute and grimly determined. He reached down and hoisted his brother’s body into his strong arms. Staggering under the weight, gritting his teeth against the pain that still wracked his body, he began to walk home.
For many long hours, he trudged through the abandoned passages, making his way ever upward. He had to stop frequently to rest, and in these intervals he thought of his mother and father, his heart nearly breaking at the thought of their grief when they heard his news. All of their hopes, the whole future of the clan, had been vested in the two brothers and their bold exploration.
Remembering the goal of their mission while he caught his breath, Brandon wondered if that vein of gold, somehow, had led to his attack. He didn’t see how it was possible. But then, who had killed his brother and why? He growled deep in his chest as he pondered the question and vowed that, when he had the answer, that person would die a miserable death. Then he hoisted his brother’s body in his arms and once more started trudging upward.
Eventually he came to a rail tram used for hauling ore out of the still-working parts of the delving and two kindly miners allowed him to place Nailer’s body on top of their cargo of ore. Brandon trotted along beside the cart, still moving upward, until they reached the large smelting plant at the summit of the extensive Zhaban Delving. There were a number of dwarves around, and several who were just getting off work offered to help him cart his brother’s body toward Bluestone Manor, on one of Garnet Thax’s midlevels.
“Thanks, friends. I’ll do it myself,” Brandon said. He did gratefully accept the loan of a two-wheeled wagon, and with that simple machine bearing Nailer’s corpse, he began the last long climb.
Stairways linked the city’s levels for foot traffic, but several wide, spiraling ramps facilitated the ascent, or descent, for wheeled vehicles. It was as Brandon trudged up the first of those, a road that climbed through all ten of the deep-levels, that he looked up to see one of his father’s friends hurriedly approaching, his bearded face marked by an expression of grave concern.
Harn Poleaxe was a foreigner, a Neidar hill dwarf who had been a long-time visitor to the mountain dwarf city. That in itself was not unusual—there were clans of Neidar in several parts of the Garnet range—but Poleaxe was also a dwarf from south of the Newsea. In fact, he was a Neidar who hailed from the hills around great Thorbardin itself. Brandon didn’t know him well, but the visitor was a regular guest at his father’s house, and the son knew Poleaxe and his father had been discussing business dealings for more than a year. Poleaxe was an inherently likable fellow, always quick with a story or to flip a coin to the bartender to buy the next round.
As he hurried toward Brandon, however, his face was gray, and he blanched as he saw the bloody bundle in Brandon’s cart.
“Word was spreading through the bazaar just a half hour ago. I came down as soon as I heard.” Poleaxe was a big, handsome dwarf. His breath, as he leaned close, was sweet with the aroma of dwarf spirits, which was no surprise to Brandon as Poleaxe and his father were both fond of the strong drink.
The Neidar didn’t seem the least bit drink-addled right then, however. Instead, he was stern and commanding, planting his hands on his hips and glaring about at the nearby dwarves—mostly gritty miners climbing from the delvings to their inns and living quarters—as if he expected to locate Nailer’s murderer among them. “How did it—?” He grimaced. “Never mind, there’ll be time enough for the tale. You!”
He pointed at a sturdy blacksmith who was watching them curiously. “Take word to Garren Bluestone! Tell him his eldest son is slain, and we are bearing his body home!”
Brandon was impressed by the visiting hill dwarf’s sense of command and so, apparently, was the blacksmith. “Yes, sir!” he declared, hastening off at a sprint.
“Now let me give you a hand with that sad burden,” declared Poleaxe. Brandon finally felt his weariness and allowed the Neidar to help him pull on the yoke. He barely noticed as the burly dwarf took more and more of the weight, and the young Bluestone was left to stumble along beside the wagon, numbed by a mixture of grief and exhaustion.
Others were taking note, and a small crowd began to collect, trailing along with them on the curving section of ramp. Brandon didn’t even notice when one dwarf then another offered him a shoulder, but soon he was assisted along by the pair of sturdy helpers. Before he knew it, they had climbed to the fifth midlevel, the section of the city where the current Bluestone manor was.
“Thanks, all,” said Poleaxe with obvious sincerity, addressing the dozen or so dwarves who had formed their small procession. “Now let’s give the family their privacy, eh?”
“Right you are, Harn,” said one of the dwarves who’d been supporting Brandon. “You take care, lad,” he added as the numb Hylar nodded his thanks. The group quickly dispersed, leaving the Neidar and Brandon to haul the cart down the narrow street toward the stone door of the house.
Garren Bluestone himself opened the front door, and from the stricken look on his father’s face, Brandon knew that word of the vile murder had already reached the house. For some reason, the stern visage of the family patriarch steeled the young dwarf’s soul, and he suppressed the tears that felt like they wanted to burst forth.
“They killed him, Father. Five dwarves, assassins, came out of the darkness.”
“Bring him in.” The elder’s dwarf’s face was a stony mask, utterly devoid of emotion. He stared at Brandon, and suddenly his eyes showed their deep pain, a window of grief. “Are you hurt?” he asked hoarsely, his eyes going to his surviving son’s arm.
Brandon looked down and was surprised to see the dried blood crusted there—he had all but forgotten the slice of the assassin’s sword. But then the pain flared anew, together with the throbbing in his head and back, where the boulders had rained down on him. “I—I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe a little. It’s nothing.”
He looked at his brother’s body and couldn’t suppress a sob.
“Your sons were in the delvings,” Harn Poleaxe offered softly. “Brandon carried Nailer up to the deep-levels, and from there word spread through the stalls in the bazaar. I met him on the ramp.”
“I thank you for your help,” Garren declared, his voice choking as he clasped Poleaxe’s arm. Only for a moment did his expression harden again. “But you must know, my decision is final.”
“Of course,” Poleaxe said, bowing humbly. “Though, with respect, old friend, this”—he gestured to Nailer’s body—“makes it all that much more important that we reach an agreement.”
“Now is not the time!” snapped Garren sternly.
“Certainly. I understand. My deepest apologies and regrets. I merely wished to help a friend in his hour of need. I shall leave you to your grief in privacy.”
The hill dwarf quickly backed away as Karine Bluestone, Brandon’s mother, rushed up to the cart and, sobbing, embraced the body of her son.
“Tell me how it happened,” demanded Garren, leading Brandon into his study as Karine and several family attendants wept over the body and gingerly carried Nailer toward the room where he would be prepared for burial.
Starting with the discovery
of the “haunted” passage, Brandon recounted the fight with the cave troll, the search that led them to the fabulous vein of gold ore, and the treacherous attack as the two brothers had returned to the known passages of Kayolin.
“You say you made the connection through the Zhaban Delving?” Garren pressed grimly.
“Yes, down some of the deeper passages that were tapped out a hundred years ago. There was nobody there to witness.”
“This smacks of the Heelspurs,” declared the elder dwarf. His eyes were moist with grief-inspired tears, but his voice growled with an undercurrent of rage. “And there is one way to find out.”
“Tell me, Father!” pleaded Brandon. “I will avenge my brother.”
“Wait, and be patient,” said Garren. “We must be very careful. Come with me now to the king’s atrium.”
“You mean the governor’s atrium,” Brandon corrected, immediately recalling the conversation he and his brother had shared.
“I fear that may be only memory,” Garren suggested grimly. “But we may know more when we arrive at court.”
SEVEN
THE LABORATORY
The newest potion was done, and as Willim the Black admired the ink-black liquid, the consistency of fatty cream, he was pleased. The bottle contained barely enough of the stuff to fill up half of a dwarven drinking mug, yet if the black-robed wizard’s calculations were correct, the poison would be strong enough to kill a hundred men or more.
He set the bottle on his granite-slab table, next to another potion, the product of his previous day’s work. Where the first poison was black and rested in a clear bottle, the second elixir was clear, and as a matter of humorous conceit, he was storing it in a bottle that was labeled as Midwarren Pale, a well-known and especially potent distillation of dwarf spirits. Behind him, his heating surface had cooled, and he had used a few brief cantrip spells to clean his mixing bowls, his steel knives, and his other utensils. Willim was done working for a while; it was finally time to test.
“Apprentices, come to me,” he barked. He spoke softly, but even though more than half of his students were in corners of the cavern well removed from the laboratory, the magically enhanced power of his voice was enough to ensure that all of them heard his words. Fear of their master, as he well knew, was enough to ensure they all obeyed promptly.
Within a minute the ten young Theiwar males had gathered before their master. Willim looked the group up and down and was not displeased. Each of the dwarves had demonstrated keen intelligence and the kind of ruthless purposefulness that indicated the clear potential for the Order of the Black Robes. They were young, but they were learning.
Tarot, the most experienced of the group, stood erectly at attention at the end of the line. He had already mastered the spell of the lightning bolt and was a natural at finding the subterranean-based components—including fungi, mineral, and animal—that were necessary for developing the most potent toxins. Beside him stood Ochre, not as clever as Tarot but big, strong as an ox, and utterly loyal. A stolid, if plodding, researcher, Ochre had demonstrated a dedication to his master that Willim had rarely encountered.
Of course, the others of the group of ten had shown similar, if less advanced, dedication. It was a good class, he reflected, realizing with some surprise that it had been more than a year since he had been forced to put one of his apprentices to death.
“You have labored well for me this past year,” the wizard began, clearly surprising the young dwarves with his praise. “I have asked much of you, and you have responded. You know I expect all of you to serve me well, but you will be well rewarded when we are ready to strike at the new king and all of his fanatical fools on his council of thanes.”
“Thank you, Master,” Tarot said, replying for the group. “We ache with eagerness for the day we may assist you in claiming that lofty throne.”
“I know you do,” Willim said. “But patience. That day remains well in the future. Of course, we could kill him in a moment, if that was our only goal, but you should know that my aspirations are higher. We must do more than merely assassinate the king; we must prepare the dwarves of Thorbardin for a new king, so that they will accept, even embrace, a Theiwar wizard on the high throne. For that to happen, they must learn to hate and fear their current ruler.”
Willim turned to his table and snatched up the bottle labeled Midwarren Pale. Holding it reverently, he turned back to his apprentices.
“This is a new creation,” he said, watching without surprise as their eyes widened in appreciation. “It is a potion, but a transformative, not a magical spell. It will embed in the one who drinks it new powers, advantages that will, I suspect, be not only permanent, but will continue to grow with the passage of time. I would like one of you to volunteer to test it.”
“I will, Master!” came the reply from ten throats, each apprentice immediately taking a step forward then turning to glare warily at his rival colleagues.
Willim held up his hand. “I knew you would all reply in the affirmative, and I am grateful for your zeal. Tarot, you have earned the right to test this, by your performance. But you are my best and brightest pupil, and I do not care to risk losing you.”
That apprentice, who had brightened at the sound of his name, looked suitably crestfallen—even to Willim’s power of true-sight, which had been watching for any carefully concealed sign of relief that the apprentice was relieved of the dangerous test. The wizard was pleased to note that Tarot’s disappointment was genuine.
“Ochre,” he continued smoothly. “I have chosen you to test my elixir. You have proved your allegiance many times, but you will never be the spellcaster that Tarot is expected to be. Therefore, it might prove useful to enhance your power in other ways.”
“Thank you, Master!” cried Ochre, lumbering forward with his long arms swinging at his sides. If he felt any slight by his teacher’s assessment, Ochre gave no sign. Instead, the apprentice bowed before the wizard then watched excitedly as Willim poured a small amount of the potion—about the equivalent of a shot of rotgut—into a small glass. When the Black Robe extended the vessel, the apprentice took it from his hands and, upon seeing the mage’s gesture of encouragement, drank it down in one swallow.
Immediately he began to cough. The glass fell from his nerveless fingers, shattering unnoticed on the floor. Rigid, Ochre leaned back, quivering in all his limbs.
“Catch him—quickly!” Willim snapped, and two apprentices stepped forward to break Ochre’s fall as he toppled over backward. “Lay him on the floor, and do not be concerned. The magic is working as I anticipated.”
His apprentices did as they were told, though several looked askance at the quivering Ochre, who by all appearances seemed to be suffering the effects of a powerful seizure. His jaws clenched, his eyes rolled back into their sockets so only the whites showed, and a froth of foam appeared at his lips. All the while his limbs trembled uncontrollably.
But that was the price of magic, and Willim silently watched those who appeared unduly worried; their lack of faith would be remembered.
Then his eyeless face turned from right to left, looking beyond the robed apprentices, noting the cages in the back of the laboratory where the miserable elves and dwarves huddled in silent misery. His magical vision fell upon the newcomer, the pathetic gully dwarf all alone in his large cage, and the Theiwar’s mouth wrinkled into a cruel caricature of a smile.
He gestured casually to the bottle of black liquid, the new toxin he had just created. “This is a poison, I believe, that will allow us to fell a great number of our enemies with a single blow. It, too, remains to be tested, of course.”
“With Reorx’s blessing, you will smite all of our foes,” Tarot pledged zestfully.
“Precisely,” Willim replied. He turned to the table and picked up the vial. “Now bring me the Aghar, and let us watch to see if the poison does its work.”
Tarot and another apprentice hastened over to the cage, while Willim cradled the precious bott
le of elixir in both of his hands. He could actually feel the poisonous power of the concoction. Not only was it crafted to be lethal, even in the dose of a single drop, but it had been tailored to create fiendishly cruel effects the Theiwar wizard was certain to enjoy.
If his calculations were right, the first effect would be to completely paralyze the victim, leaving him incapable of action or speech even as he remained completely aware of all that was going on around him. The second effect would be to heighten the stricken target’s sensations, so that every sound, every spark of light, would flare with excruciating intensity through every one of the stricken fellow’s nerve endings. Thus, the dying victim would not only understand what was happening to him, but would experience all taunts and tortures, the slightest prick of his skin, with searing agony. Willim could picture his ultimate victim one day—the new king, helpless at his feet—imagining the delight he would take with the application of a small dagger or perhaps a tiny spark of flame to the paralyzed king’s hypersensitive flesh. Of course the king’s remaining eye would have to be plucked out very slowly.
Then, after perhaps an hour of helplessness—Willim hadn’t settled on the duration, which depended partly on the poison—the victim’s flesh would begin to dissolve. It was his intent that the dissolution would begin at the tips of the extremities, and take an extremely long time to reach the vital organs, and only when the heart or lungs failed, finally, would death provide the doomed king with blessed relief.
His thoughts blissful, the black-robed wizard uttered a high-pitched giggle. The poison augured a truly inventive way to kill, and he had hopes of masking the potion in a keg of stout bitters, allowing it to be consumed by a banquet room full of his enemies. But just as he didn’t know the details of the agony’s duration, he was not certain how long it would take for the initial symptom, the paralysis, to manifest itself. It could not be too quick, or some of the targets would observe the effects in their comrades before they had quaffed their own drinks.