Secret of Pax Tharkas

by Doug Niles

  Garnet Thax was the capital city of Kayolin and the one great city in that nation. It was aligned vertically, with levels and half-levels and terraces and tunnels all arrayed around the wide, virtually bottomless pit called the atrium. The deep-levels were the lowest of those, centers of manufacturing, smelting, and refining. Those were the smoky neighborhoods that Brandon had passed through while bringing Nailer’s body up and out of the delvings, which were the vast mining networks extending far out and below the city. The midlevels, where the Bluestones dwelled, were numerous terraces of houses, shops, inns, and other places of business, where the majority of Kayolin’s population resided. They were the heart of the city.

  As they climbed through the upper-levels, they approached the nerve center where the important decisions in Kayolin society were made. The inns at the landings became more exclusive, the crowds less teeming, the dwarves behaving more quietly and wearing better clothes. Brandon knew his family’s house once had been located on those exalted floors, but as he looked at the aloof dwarves—mostly Hylar—seated in their comfortable chairs near the atrium, he was happy he had lived his life in a more humble place.

  All dwarfkind could be found in Kayolin. Unlike the Thorbardin of lore, wherein each clan maintained its own separate city, Garnet Thax was host to all types and clans. True, there was a Theiwar quarter on a number of the deep-levels, and the hapless Aghar maintained their miserable warrens wherever they could dig enough living space out of the rock. But for the most part the Daergar, Daewar, Hylar, and Klar lived beard by jowl with each other, pervasively in the midlevels. Of course, as was ever the case among dwarves, some of the Hylar considered themselves better than the rest of their kin and maintained their own exclusive lodgings in the best, and highest, levels.

  Brandon thought briefly and ruefully of his grandfather, who had been the last patriarch of the Bluestones to live up there. Then a question started percolating in his brain. He gave voice to the query as he and his father continued on the long climb.

  “Father, what did Harn Poleaxe mean when he said that ‘now was the time to do it’ or something like that? What does he want you to do?”

  Garren looked sideways at his son, even as he continued his measured, ascending steps. For a time the elder dwarf said nothing, but Brandon got the impression he was considering his reply.

  “You’ve heard the history: how our family was named for the sapphire infused rock strata that led to the Third Delve?” his father began.

  “Yes, of course,” Brandon replied. “That’s why we’re called House Bluestone.” He saw that Garren was looking at him strangely. “Isn’t that true?” he asked.

  “No, it isn’t—at least, not entirely,” replied the elder dwarf, startling his son with the revelation. “In fact, we possess an actual wedge of bright blue rock, an artifact that our ancestor Galric Axeblade discovered, and brought back to the city with him. He knew it was valuable, and unique, and so he invented the tale of the sapphire strata to keep the existence of the real Bluestone a secret.

  “But the story is partly true, as well, insofar as Galric Galric Axeblade discovered it when he was exploring the mine that would become the Third Delve. He changed his named to Galric Bluestone and founded our house with the wealth he gained from those mines.”

  “I never heard that,” Brandon declared. “I always believed the story of the official history—that the sapphires, and the rich mines, were the source of our house’s foundation, and fortune.”

  Garren shook his head. “It wasn’t just the Third Delve that made Galric a wealthy dwarf. It was the stone itself. It’s a powerful talisman in its own right. Now it’s all we have left of the wealth that once exalted our family; the rest was lost in the Cataclysm and its aftermath as my father tried to stay in business, to pay his workers and his loyal clients even after his mines had been destroyed.” There was something in Garren’s tone that showed he approved of his own father’s decision, and Brandon felt a stab of fierce family pride.

  “Harn Poleaxe wants to buy the Bluestone from me,” Garren said quietly, his steps still steady as they spiraled up the wide, stone stairs. “He is offering me a tremendous amount of money; he’s been raising the offer for more than year, every time he sees me.”

  Brandon knew Poleaxe had visited his father at least every five or ten intervals over that time. He struggled to digest the information. “Why does he want it so badly?” he asked finally.

  “He says it’s part of a hill dwarf legacy, one the Neidar have only recently uncovered. There are several of these stones, all of them dating back to the days of the Graygem. His clan, the Neidar, already possess the green one, which he calls the Greenstone. He assures me if he could return home with the Bluestone, his status among his people would be permanently cemented. He would become a virtual lord.”

  “And how much is he offering you for the stone?”

  Garren stopped climbing for the first time and looked straight into his son’s eyes. “Enough money for me to move our house up to the highest levels again. It would make me a force in Kayolin, not quite with the clout of, say, the Heelspurs, but very nearly. It would change our luck for the better in a way that the whole nation would see.”

  Brandon whistled aloud. “All that—for a single stone?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes, for the stone that is our family’s legacy,” Garren replied, shaking his head. “For the stone that is all we have left of our ancestors, of the good fortune that made us a family house in the first place.”

  “I can see why you won’t make the deal,” the son said. “I wouldn’t either, not ever.”

  Garren smiled somewhat wistfully. “I can’t say I won’t make the deal—not ever. But the deal isn’t right, not yet. Plus, there’s something …” His voice trailed away.

  “What? What is it?” pressed Brandon.

  “Something about Harn himself. I like him well enough; he’s good company, generous, helpful.”

  “He likes his dwarf spirits,” the younger Bluestone suggested.

  “If fondness for strong drink was a fatal flaw, I daresay none of us would survive to old age,” Garren said mildly. “But you’re right, he does seem to have a bit more of a weakness for the stuff than you’d like to see in a mature person.”

  The elder dwarf shook his head, his gray hair cascading around the ursine fur fringing his cloak. “Anyway, this discovery of yours and Nailer’s might have made the whole issue irrelevant. Let’s get to the top so we can file your claim, and then we’ll see.”

  They started but after a few steps, Garren stopped again. “But remember: Regar Smashfingers calls himself a king. So we call him a king. Understand?”

  “Yes, I do,” Brandon replied, taking his father’s point.

  The king/governor’s palace was fully a thousand feet above the midlevel city quarter inhabited by the Bluestones, but neither of the dwarves was the slightest bit out of breath when at last they arrived at the regal caverns that formed Garnet Thax’s uppermost level. Immediately to the side of the stairwell was the pit known as the Governor’s Atrium. Only recently, Regar Smashfingers had rechristened the shaft as the King’s Atrium, signaling to his subjects his intent to claim the high title that had so long been limited to the ruler of Thorbardin.

  The atrium was a deep shaft that connected with all of the city’s levels. Illuminated by a glow of magma far below, it was the source of a constant updraft of warm air that seeped through the city, providing its passages, levels, homes, and shops with a more comfortable temperature than could typically be expected underground. Rings of balconies, many of them containing the tables and chairs of popular inns, surrounded the pit, and throughout the ages skilled carvers had worked images of dwarf heroes into the very bedrock of the mountain. Legend had it that the statues of those heroes watched over Kayolin and that—if the nation found itself in perilous need—those graven images would spring to life and fight in the land’s defense.

  Brandon wasted scarcely a glance a
t the hero images. All his attention was directed to the wide-open doors, flanked by pillars as thick around as a giant’s torso, that marked the entrance to the governor’s palace.

  As they approached, a female voice cried out. “Brandon Bluestone!”

  It was Rona Darkwater, a Hylar dwarf maid from one of the city’s elite families. She had been in the audience watching Brandon win a wrestling tournament a year or so ago, and they’d enjoyed a casual, but passionate, romance in the time since.

  “Hi, Rona,” he said, somewhat sheepishly as his father raised an eyebrow.

  She was a stunningly beautiful female with golden hair extending in a sweep as far as her knees, a trim waist, and a swelling bodice that she flattered at that moment with a filmy, low-cut top of red silk.

  “What brings you to the nosebleed levels?” she asked mischievously before taking note of his stern, solemn manner. “Is something wrong?”

  “My brother was murdered a short time ago. Our family is grieving. Now I have come with my father to see the gov—the king,” he amended.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry,” she said with obvious sincerity. “Please, let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, following his father toward the palace.

  “Rona Darkwater?” Garren said quietly. “Maybe you’re already starting to move your way up the levels?”

  Glowering, Brandon didn’t reply. Instead, he strode determinedly beside his father toward the royal entrance. A score of armored dwarves, elite members of the King’s Guard, stood to attention at either side of the entry. Each was a brawny Daergar with long, black hair and beards all combed and oiled to slick perfection. They wore shiny black boots and plate mail breastplates of the same color. On each of their chests was emblazoned the sigil of House Smashfingers: a golden fist atop a black anvil. The guards held spears with tips upraised but merely watched the flow of interested citizenry who entered and exited the palace without interference.

  Brandon had been there many times before, but in the past he had been merely a curious onlooker. This was the first time he had come into the palace with a goal to set before the governor (no, the king, he reminded himself), and the memory of his brother’s death—he could still feel Nailer’s blood spattering against his skin—fueled his resolve. As if sensing his passion, his father reached out a hand, laying a touch that appeared to be gentle but was in fact a steely grip, on his youngest son’s arm.

  “Remember: patience,” Garren whispered. “We are here to stake a claim, not to gain vengeance.”

  The court was meeting in a large, circular chamber, a dozen feet below the level of the gallery where the Bluestones and other onlookers were ushered. The gallery formed a ring around the entire court, an expanse some two hundred feet in diameter. The crowd was sparse, so Brandon and his father had no difficulty pushing their way to the front of the gallery, where they could look down directly on the governor and his court.

  Regar Smashfingers sat in a grand chair, raised on a dais so, even when he was seated, his head rose a foot or two higher than the tallest dwarf standing before him. Courtiers and dwarf maids, dressed in the silken finery that had recently become the style of Kayolin’s wealthy, stood attentively to either side, leaving the space directly before the throne open to the petitioner.

  That petitioner, Brandon recognized with a flash of anger, was none other than Lord Alakar Heelspur, head of the wealthiest clan in all Kayolin and long a toadying adherent of the king/governor’s policies.

  Heelspur was a tall, brawny dwarf. His hair and beard had gone to gray, but his posture presented a picture of robust health and aggressive manner. He was gesturing with his hands outspread, speaking in a formal, polite tone.

  “This new delving, Your Majesty, promises to expand the worth of the royal treasury by a virtually unprecedented amount. My assessors have not yet completed the formal survey, but they confirm there is enough gold in this vein to keep a thousand miners busy for a dozen years, and that is only to excavate the ore that is already patently visible. As Your Majesty well knows, past experience indicates that the total value of the claim will likely exceed this estimate by a figure tenfold or even a hundredfold greater.”

  “It sounds impressive, very impressive indeed,” declared Regar, who was sitting up straight and paying very close attention to his subject and loyal lord. The king stroked his fingers through his beard. “And your men discovered it only recently?”

  “Yes, majesty. It is an adjunct of our old Zhaban Delving, long thought to be haunted. But we Heelspurs are nothing if not intrepid, and it was my own son who led the expedition force that discovered the vein.”

  Brandon stared in amazement. He couldn’t believe his ears. He immediately understood who had attacked him and slain his brother. “That’s our claim!” he whispered to his father, more loudly than he had intended, provoking looks and muttered reactions from some of the other onlookers. Garren’s eyes flared, but he laid a restraining hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “In fact,” Heelspur continued, puffing out his chest, preening for the crowd. “My son single-handedly slew the cave troll that was guarding the new delving.”

  The gathered courtiers oohed and aahed at his impressive claim, which was too much for Brandon.

  “Fiend! Liar!” the young Bluestone shouted impulsively, his words booming from the balcony. “That vein was discovered by Nailer Bluestone and myself—and my brother was murdered by your dark servants and I was left for dead as we returned to Garnet Thax to file our claim!”

  That declaration was met by gasps and grumbles from the gallery and, at first, stony silence on the floor. Still, the king and Lord Heelspur both looked up to see who voiced the angry challenge.

  “Silence!” hissed Garren, squeezing his son’s arm again, but the words were already spoken, and they had been clearly heard.

  “Who speaks?” demanded Regar Smashfingers after a long pause.

  “I am Brandon Bluestone, Sire. And I speak the truth!” he declared defiantly.

  “You interrupt this lord to make a Bluestone claim?” Regar Smashfingers growled. “This is an unacceptable, even intolerable violation of decorum!”

  “Not only is it a false claim, my liege!” cried Lord Heelspur, his voice choking with wounded pride. “He levies a slanderous worse charge—of murder! Must I put up with this insult, this dishonor, here in open court?”

  Brandon was ready with a reply, but his father was already pulling him away from the gallery. “It’s true!” he shouted, but the words were muffled by Garren’s hand planted firmly across his mouth.

  “Don’t be a fool!” snapped the elder Bluestone, dragging Brandon back between the guards flanking the palace gate. Garren propelled his son toward the stairways spiraling back down to the city’s midlevels. “Now move! Get out of here before you do more damage!”

  “But, father, he was claiming our find! The find that cost Nailer his life!” spit Brandon, finally breaking free from the patriarch’s steely grasp. “He is behind Nailer’s murder!’

  “I know that!” retorted Garren. “But we must present our case to the king—and now you have humiliated his ally in public court! Quickly, down the stairs.”

  “But—” Brandon was forced to obey, propelled by his father’s stern push. “What are you—we—going to do?”

  “We?” growled Garren Bluestone, pushing even harder. Behind his father’s anger, Brandon realized, was a very powerful undercurrent of fear. “It’s you I’m worried about now. We are going to do the only thing we can! We are going to try to save your life!”

  NINE

  WINGS OF MAGIC

  With his hands pressed tightly over his face, Gus peered through the gaps between his fingers. He watched in terror as the deadly bolts flew through the wizard’s lair, cringed as one dwarf after another was killed by weaponry or magic. The green cloud of lethal gas drifted near to his cage, and he couldn’t help coughing and gagging as he drew small, painful breaths, but
the bulk of the poison gas passed over his head. He could only stare in horror as the two elves in the next cage writhed and puked and, ever so slowly, died. The gully dwarf tried looking away, but the male elf was staring at him, and he couldn’t help staring back, watching those ancient eyes until they slowly glazed over and finally went dark and still.

  He gaped in awe when the wizard vanished from sight, then watched him reappear. He saw the bottle that the Theiwar pulled from his cabinet and watched as the mage set that bottle down on the bench, near to the bottle of black liquid and the other of dwarf spirits that the Black Robe had seemed to cherish so much. Gus cowered at the sight of a young Theiwar, one of the wizard’s helpers, who seemed to fight like a crazed monster—throwing his foes around the room and leaping after them with a speed and agility unlike any dwarf’s.

  When at last the fiery tentacles emerged from the deep pit, he yelped in abject horror and pressed his face to the floor. He heard terrible screaming and felt the heat of infernal fires warming his skin. Only as the sounds of battle slowly faded and the intense warmth waned did he risk looking again through the stubby fingers that offered so little protection.

  He listened to the talk between the wizard and the doomed assassin, not entirely understanding what they were talking about—though even a miserable Aghar knew that Jungor Stonespringer was the high king of all dwarves, the mightiest and most lofty ruler in all the world. And the black-robed wizard sought to supplant him!

  He must be very mighty indeed, and that thought made Gus even more afraid.

  That last prisoner died, and the terrible, powerful usurper was looking around his lair again. The Aghar tried to make himself very small … to no avail.

  “You!” snapped the wizard, pointing at Gus. “Come out of there.”

  The words were more than just an audible command. They were a summoning spell, and Gus could no more have disobeyed than he could have turned himself into a cave bat and winged away. His knees knocked as he forced himself to his feet and stumbled forward, clumping like an automaton as he emerged from the still-open door to his cell. Once outside he stopped, for the wizard had made no further immediate command.