by Doug Niles
Hence, the test.
Willim watched as the two apprentices dragged the quivering Aghar from his cage. The abject wretch bawled and struggled. Then in the space of an instant, both apprentices were hurled backward, Tarot crying out in pain as he fell to the floor.
The black bolts were thin, almost invisible, but the mage’s spell of true-seeing allowed him to observe them clearly. Unseen attackers must have fired the missiles from the other side of the laboratory, and each bolt had struck its target unerringly in the heart. Even as he spun, seeking the intrepid intruders, Willim was aware of the last breath expelled through the lips of his slain students. He winced at the loss of Tarot; he had invested many years in the training of that unique pupil! But there was no time for regret.
“We’re attacked!” he cried. “Find the enemy! Kill them!”
The apprentices turned and raced around the workbench, charging across the laboratory. Several brandished daggers while one, another fairly advanced student, paused and began to cast a magic-missile spell. Ochre, still on the floor, grew still, blinking his eyes and trying to turn his head. A large bulge, like a blood-red wart, had appeared on his left cheek. His hand flailed up and scratched at the growth.
Willim watched in disbelief as his missile-spellcasting apprentice was shot down as soundlessly and certainly as the first two. He roared his rage and cast a spell of illumination. Bright light spilled across the vast chamber, clearly marking a company of assailants, at least twenty strong, rushing toward them from the banished darkness. They burst from the shadows behind the tall columns lining the upper rim of the bowl-shaped floor of his laboratory. The lingering effects of the mass teleportation spell, like sparks lingering but slowly dying in the air, faded behind them, and the mage understood that, somehow, his lair had been discovered and the murderers magically transported there.
The attackers carried small crossbows. Each dwarf was concealed by a mask, and all were dressed entirely in black. They wore no armor, instead moving quickly and stealthily in soft boots and fitted shirts and trousers. And they displayed a military discipline as they stopped, raised their weapons, and fired a volley of lethal darts.
Willim cursed, instinctively waving his hands and barking out a powerful word. Immediately a shield, magically conjured, shimmered in the air before him. Fully half the bolts had targeted the mighty Black Robe, and those struck the shield and were obliterated into harmless dust.
His apprentices were not so lucky—nor could his magical barrier extend to them. Four more went down, fatally pierced, while the remainder dived for shelter behind the benches, chests, and casks that cluttered the wizard’s cavernous workspace. Furious, Willim called forth a fireball, a tiny bubble of flame that erupted from his finger and sailed, like a propulsive, glowing marble, toward the enemy. The Black Robe could only snarl in disbelief as one of the foes leaped at the globe, snatching it in his hands and holding it to his breast. The fireball exploded, but somehow, inexplicably, the blast was absorbed by the brave assassin. That unfortunate fellow blossomed into yellow flame, vanishing into a cloud of ashes and charred flesh, yet his sacrifice had saved his fellows.
“Impossible!” hissed Willim, even as he knew the word to be a lie. It was all too possible. The mage turned, wondering how many of his apprentices survived, and was surprised to notice that the Aghar prisoner had, foolishly, scrambled back into his cage—as if that could provide him with safe shelter! There was Ochre, forcing himself up into a sitting position but staring around in confusion. Before Willim could say anything to the dazed apprentice, the wizard’s full attention shifted back to the deadly troop of killers.
Another of his apprentices managed to cast a magic-missile spell, the sparkling arrows driving into the chest of one of the trespassers and felling him at once, but two of his fellows shot the spellcaster, and that apprentice, too, dropped with a bolt through his heart.
“Die!” spat Willim, casting another spell, which sent a cloud of green gas spewing from his fingers, billowing through the cavern.
The cloudkill was an imprecise, even desperate tactic, but the Black Robe was in a desperate situation. The first to die were his own two remaining apprentices, for the cloud swept over them and they couldn’t help inhaling the green death. But the gas continued to flow, sweeping across the room, enveloping at least half of the attacking force, while also drifting through the cage containing the two precious elf prisoners. They died as miserably as they had lived, but so, too, did at least ten of the intruders, Willim noted with satisfaction.
The remainder pressed the assault, dispersing to minimize the impact of another area-effect spell but charging as aggressively before. They fired another volley, and once more Willim was forced to raise a shield spell, distracted from the counterattacks he would have preferred to launch. He did spit off a magic-missile spell of his own, greater than any his apprentices could summon, spraying the conjured arrows in a wide arc that bloodily cut down another of the attackers, but then he was forced to ignominiously dive for cover as a burst of magic exploded from the finger of one of the masked killers.
Ochre was shaking his head, pushing himself to one knee. He locked eyes with Willim, and something in the Theiwar’s eyes convinced the wizard that, indeed, his potion was at work. “Master?” he croaked, clearly confused.
“We’re attacked,” the Black Robe explained curtly. He gestured to the far side of the laboratory. “Kill them—but wait! Let them come to us.”
“I shall obey,” Ochre said, bowing his head, quivering in his eagerness. He stood shakily, once again scratching at the strange wart that swelled even larger on his cheek.
The pair was, for the moment, blocked by the large, overturned table. Willim snapped out a spell of invisibility, touching first his apprentice—who immediately vanished—then absorbing the effects himself. As soon as he had disappeared from sight, the mage scuttled across the laboratory to a cabinet where he kept a variety of potions. The attackers were momentarily disoriented and converged toward the table, behind which the invisible Ochre waited for them. From his cabinet of potions, Willim snatched a certain bottle—a potion of teleportation—but did not drink it immediately. As a last resort, he could use the magic to escape, but he was not about to leave his treasures in the hands of the assassins unless it was absolutely necessary to his survival.
“He’s gone!” one of the attackers shouted, the first to come around the table where Willim and Ochre had been hiding. The dwarf wielded a short sword, but the wizard was more interested to diagnose the accent in the fellow’s voice: a Daergar!
The treacherous Daergar were prime allies of the Hylar king, he knew. The monarch was inclined to employ them as agents for all manner of dirty tasks for which his Hylar minions were temperamentally unsuited—tasks such as espionage and attack expeditions and murder. The first of the Daergar was grabbed by the invisible Ochre, however.
The Daergar screamed as he died, and the veil of invisibility fell away from the Theiwar apprentice, who turned and roared at the others closing in on him. Ochre picked up another assassin as if the dwarf were a toy, tossing him high in the air so he smashed against a stone column and tumbled limply to the floor, his back broken.
An assassin fired a crossbow bolt directly at the apprentice, but Ochre snatched it out of the air with a gesture too swift for the eye to follow. Even in the midst of the precarious fight, Willim couldn’t help but be pleased at the clear demonstration of the potion’s power. The young Theiwar sprang forward, more like a panther than a dwarf, and bore the shooter to the floor where, with a quick twist, he broke the Daergar’s neck.
Willim spit the command word for another spell, even though the casting caused his own perfect invisibility to shimmer, revealing himself as a hazy outline. But the attackers had their backs to him, and he didn’t care; he was not going to flee his place after all.
He and Ochre were going to kill the Daergar.
His spell took effect as a coil of magic swirling outward, l
ooping about the neck of the nearest Daergar. Willim clenched his fist, and the magic cord snapped tight. The stricken dwarf clawed and clutched as his neck was constricted. The doomed villain even tore away his mask in a desperate effort to breathe. He lurched against the bench and stumbled to his knees, his pale face purpling as the magic slowly strangled him.
Meanwhile, Ochre had grabbed another of the black-clad Daergar, spinning him around with a grip on his ankle and letting go to cast the fellow across the laboratory, right into the crack of Gorathian’s lair. Immediately, the flames percolating there flared high, followed by a rumble that shook the floor of the place as the Daergar toppled, shrieking, into the depths. The burgeoning illumination brightened the vast chamber, and the noises of the dying assassin and awakening monster shook the stone foundations and the air.
Two Daergar were rushing at Ochre with blades extended, but he parried the blows with a swipe of his fist, knocking one of the swords out of the attacker’s hand and forcing the other back to the wielder’s face. That Daergar retreated two steps, overwhelmed by the apprentice’s enhanced physical strength, ferocity, and fearlessness.
One of the remaining Daergar boldly tried to distract the wizard, hurling himself at Willim with an upraised sword. The Black Robe struck him down with a simple gesture, a paralyzing stab that rendered the dwarf’s limbs weak and caused him to crumple on the spot.
Only two were left alive. Those two skirted the edge of the chasm, battling Ochre, trying to maneuver him into a mistake. The apprentice, growing more powerful by the minute thanks to the experimental potion, punched to the side, knocking one assassin down with a single blow of his fist, then wheeled to glare at the other. That Daergar, not unsurprisingly, hesitated. But his real enemy did not stand before him, for Gorathian, as ever, lurked in the pit.
The beast had been following the progress of the battle, its flaming tendrils lashing upward, seeking, probing, snapping like whips over the rim of the chasm. Two of those flame fingers wrapped themselves around the ankles of the two remaining Daergar, constricting like a snake and pulling with inexorable force. The two dwarves buckled, one of them losing his sword as he clawed futilely, sliding across the unforgiving stone. The other kept his grip on his blade and tried to hack at the tendril, as thick around as a dwarf’s arm. However, his keen steel melted away as it made contact with that otherworldly flame.
Willim saw, to his horror, that a third tendril had wrapped itself around Ochre’s waist, searing the apprentice while dragging him toward the chasm.
“No! Stop!” cried the wizard, rushing forward. “Not that one! Release him!”
But the beast was determined to have its prey, and Willim’s command had no effect. The three victims were pulled slowly toward the rim. The dwarves shrieked and screamed, the fools even begging mercy from Willim. But the wizard could only stand and watch as the doomed assassins and his own loyal assistant were inexorably drawn to the edge. There Gorathian seemed to toy with its prey, even loosening the grip of its tentacles slightly, giving the dwarves the brief illusion of hope. They clawed and tried to crawl away.
But there was no hope. Again those powerful fire-limbs constricted, and the beast did not stop until the three dwarves had vanished over the lip of his prison, their screams echoing for a very long time as the trio plunged into the depths.
Willim found himself trembling with barely suppressed rage. He counted the bodies of his nine apprentices, all dead, and thought of the immense amount of work he had invested in their training—all work wasted.
Stalking angrily but purposefully through his laboratory, he came to the Daergar he had stricken with the choking spell. The dwarf’s tongue and eyes bulged from his head, but he still clawed at the invisible noose, still clung to life. With a snap of his fingers, Willim dispelled the enchantment, watching with contempt as the would-be assassin drew a ragged breath then coughed the air back out. For long seconds the wretch struggled to breathe, his bloodshot eyes gradually focusing on the eyeless Theiwar who stood over him.
“Please …” croaked the attacker, raising a beseeching hand.
“Surely you don’t expect mercy?” demanded the wizard.
“No … I beg you …”
Willim placed his boot on the dwarf’s chest and stepped down, snapping bones and driving the air from his lungs. Then the wizard released the pressure of his weight and watched impassively as the Daergar was racked by another fit of painful coughing.
“Who sent you?” demanded the Black Robe when the other dwarf finally drew a breath.
“It … it was the council of thanes—and the king himself! He fears you!” croaked the doomed one.
“As well he should,” Willim answered dryly. “But how did you find me?”
“A traitor … one of your apprentices. He revealed the location of this place for payment in gold and the promise of high office when you are dead.”
“Liar!” snapped the wizard, once again stomping down on the dwarf’s chest, in his fury grinding his heel into the rib cage. Yet even as he accused the fellow of lying, he was analyzing, thinking, contemplating.
And he knew that the enemy dwarf must have spoken the truth. He was appalled, sickened at the notion that one of his trusted students would have betrayed him, but there was too much fear and despair in the dwarf’s eyes for him to be lying. Who had it been? He couldn’t know, couldn’t even begin to imagine, as he pondered that cruel revelation.
Willim would have to be more careful in the future. For the moment there was one last puny act of vengeance. He reached down and seized the Daergar by the beard, his deceptively powerful arm pulling the wretch to a sitting position and finally to his feet.
“Your master has made many mistakes—this is but the latest—and he will make more in the short time left to him. For you should know, Daergar, know before you die, that the reign of Jungor Stonespringer will soon come to a terrible end. I will end it, as I will end him, and place myself on the throne. The next high king of Thorbardin will be the greatest, and he will be Theiwar, and he will be a mage of the black robes!”
With that, Willim hurled the would-be assassin aside, sending him tumbling across the floor to the rim of the pit. He halted there at the edge, blubbering, frantically trying to move away.
Then Gorathian’s tentacle touched him, and he was gone.
EIGHT
THE THRONE OF KAYOLIN
What are we going to do, Father?” Brandon asked. He felt like a young, wide-eyed lad again, helpless against the chaotic events of the “grown-up” world. Garren Bluestone had ever been his anchor in that world, and even as an adult dwarf warrior with a number of successful fights under his belt, he needed his father’s strength and advice as never before.
“We’re going to put on our formal garb and go to the king’s palace. There, we will file your claim.”
Brandon nodded, for once not even bothering to correct the improper use of the governor’s title. “What about Nailer’s murder?” he asked.
Garren’s eyes shone with rage and grief, but he placed a cautioning hand on his son’s shoulders. “Listen, Brandon,” his father said finally with a sigh. “Nailer must be—will be—avenged. But we don’t know enough to embark on a vendetta—not yet, anyway,” he added grimly. “So we will work on the first task we should accomplish and endeavor to learn more before we act on the other. Now I suggest you go talk to your mother for a few minutes while I have the servants assemble our garments.”
Brandon nodded, wondering if it was his own exhaustion or his father’s clear rationality that had knocked the stuffing out of him. Numbly, he went into the next room, where Nailer’s body had been laid out on the bed. His mother and several of the servants were tenderly combing his hair and beard, weeping softly. When her younger son entered, Karine swept him into an embrace, clinging to him, sobbing into his beard. Her grief, somehow, made Brandon feel stronger, and he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, letting her anguish slowly drain away.
> “I—I’m sorry, Mother,” he said when her tears had dried.
“I know,” she whispered. “We all are. Now go with your father. Make us proud.”
He saw Garren was standing in the doorway of the room, waiting for him. Gently disengaging, he followed his father to the anteroom, where the servants had laid out formal capes trimmed with bear fur and a fresh tunic to replace Brandon’s torn and bloodstained shirt. He sat down and exchanged his miner’s boots for the formal black footwear preferred at court, and they were ready to go.
A small crowd of neighbors and friends was waiting quietly in the street when they emerged from the front door, and one by one those gruff dwarves and teary-eyed dwarf maids offered condolences as the two Bluestones started down the street.
“Terrible,” one muttered sadly.
“Our condolences,” said a pair, husband and wife, holding hands.
“It’s that old Bluestone luck,” whispered an old dwarf to his nearly deaf companion, the words carrying clearly to Brandon’s ears.
“I’m so sorry, Brandon,” said Bondall, the barmaid who ran the Cracked Mug—the level’s most popular tavern. She gave him a long, shuddering hug, and he held her tenderly, feeling his own eyes grow wet. Finally, sensing his father’s growing impatience, Brandon thanked her and broke away to enter the great stairwell.
They climbed the long, spiraling stairway connecting the city’s levels in grim silence, the air of foreboding surrounding them clearing any dwarves they encountered out of their path. At many places the stairwell gave out onto wide plazas, popular gathering places with inns and gaming floors and fungus gardens, but the two Bluestones took no note of those popular diversions as they climbed ever higher.