The Heir of Kayolin dh-2

by Douglas Niles

  “The time has come,” announced the powerful wizard, addressing the rank of attentive apprentices standing nearby awaiting his orders. His voice was soft, but the words seemed to linger in the air, each one fully absorbed by the intent listeners.

  Willim the Black took a deep breath, and for a time stood stock still, relishing the moment. The missive was a significant document, and as he reflected on its importance, he understood that his life, his circumstances, were about to change dramatically. He knew beyond all doubt that the throne of Thorbardin, the leadership of that great dwarf nation, finally lay within his grasp. He wanted to savor the occasion.

  Finally he would break out of the lair that had been his fortress, his prison, for the past decade. In many ways the great chamber was perfect, blocked as it was from the rest of Thorbardin by solid and impenetrable walls of stone. It had been carved from the bedrock of the mountain range on the orders of the previous king, Tarn Bellowgranite, but the chamber had been abandoned when a fearful menace had been discovered there.

  That menace had become Willim’s tool, as were the young, potent Theiwar dwarves he had brought there to train. Fifteen young magic-users, out of the original forty, had survived a year of especially grueling apprenticeship. They stood before their master, each wearing the plain black robe of the wizardly order. Beards combed, chests thrust forward with justifiable pride, they awaited his inspection, his approval, his command.

  Willim the Black, the most powerful wizard of Thorbardin, an ally of Dalamar the Dark himself, strutted back and forth before the row of magic-users, appraising them. The powerful master knew he was grotesque in his physical appearance, but the well-trained apprentices did not react to his terrifying visage. Willim’s eyeless face, lids sewn shut with gruesome stitches, swept back and forth across the pale, serious faces of his assistants. Through the power of the spell of true-seeing, the enchantment that permanently enhanced all of his senses, he perceived each steady gaze, beheld the tension in legs and arms, absorbed the purposeful determination behind each bearded face.

  And on a lone nonbearded face as well.

  Willim the Black felt pleased. Fifteen of the sixteen were young Theiwar males, pale skinned and bushy bearded, strapping and strong. The oldest, Gypsum, had proved to be exceptionally able with a variety of lethal magics, potions, and charms-as well as quick and deadly with his keen knife. Two others, Shale and Petro, had excelled in displays of reckless courage, deceit, treachery, and disguise. Like all of their comrades, they possessed cruelty and sadism in abundance in their characters and undying loyalty to Willim above all.

  Almost against his will, the wizard felt his attention drawn to the sixteent apprentice, the lone female in the group-indeed, the only one of her gender Willim had ever accepted into his circle. Perhaps she, too, felt the attention of his seeing spell, for her own eyes-pale and wide-virtually glowed in response to the pleasure of his inspection.

  Facet Anvilmaster would have been worthy of closer inspection to any male dwarf, of any age. She had long dark hair, in contrast to her alabaster skin, and unlike most dwarf maids, she did not constrain it in braids or tails. Instead, it flowed past her shoulders, shimmering down, far down her body, becoming virtually indistinguishable from the silken darkness of her wizard’s robe. Her breasts swelled that robe most attractively, and the pronounced curve of her hips and thighs was suggested by the ripples in the garment every time she moved. Her full lips were a bright crimson, a shocking contrast to her pale skin, suggesting nothing so much as the color of fresh blood.

  Willim shook his head, startled by his own thoughts-it was no time to be so distracted. Female flesh had never held any appeal for him. Why should that change in her presence?

  It was a time for action, not idle thoughts! He inspected his apprentices again, stalking along their file, knowing that none of them had failed in the tests he had presented, yet fully realizing they also needed one more crucial lesson. It would be the ultimate lesson on the subject of loyalty and, to Willim, the most important lesson that his underlings could learn. His attentions passed over a few of the most accomplished apprentices-Gypsum, Facet, Shale, a couple more-knowing they were too valuable to be wasted. Of the others, it didn’t much matter which one he picked, and he quickly settled upon a candidate.

  “Krave!” he snapped, and the black-bearded dwarf in the middle of the row snapped to an even more rigid state of attention.

  “Yes, Master!” replied that worthy student, honored to be singled out. He was clearly unaware of the wizard’s grim intent.

  “How long have you been in communication with King Stonespringer, the false monarch? He who would weaken our nation with his foolish superstitions, with his fanatical devotion to ancient mythology?”

  Immediately Krave’s already pale skin blanched to a snowy white. “No, Master! I swear-not I–I never-”

  “Liar!” snapped Willim the Black, pointing a stubby, black-gloved finger at the cringing dwarf. The apprentices to either side of Krave took quick sidesteps away from their accused comrade even as that pathetic, young Theiwar raised his hands before his face.

  “Master, I promise-”

  Those were his last words. Willim snapped his fingers and uttered a guttural, deadly word. Blue magic flashed in the air, leaving a lingering stench of brimstone as a jagged bolt of light struck Krave in the chest. Blasting his black robes out of the way, the lethal spell churned through his skin, his ribs, tearing into his heart. The deadly enchantment squeezed that organ until it burst with a wet splat.

  Krave fell, instantly dead, but before the body hit the floor, Willim was already stalking back up and down the rank of survivors. He knew that his visage, with the stitched eye sockets and scarred face, was abominable to them, and he let their gaze linger on him as, one at a time, he took their measure. Many were shaken; a few, like Gypsum and Shale, remained utterly impassive, though the former had been spattered by no small amount of blood. But all of them had seen and would forever remember the price of betrayal.

  The lone female, he was intrigued to note, had licked her red lips until they glowed like enchanted rubies. Her eyes were alight, and she quivered with something very much like exhilaration.

  “Facet!” he snapped, relishing the sudden fear that tightened her mouth, rendered her face even more pale. “You and Gypsum will remain behind. The rest of you, step forward and take your potions.”

  She relaxed then, smiling slightly at his words. Gypsum remained impassive as the other black-robed dwarves advanced, each grabbing one of the bottles of elixir their master had arrayed on the stone tabletop. The Theiwar apprentices unstoppered their vials then turned to look at Willim expectantly.

  “You know your assignments,” the powerful wizard began. “For more than a year, you have all been preparing for this day. But that preparation is nothing compared what lies ahead!” He nodded in satisfaction as the looks of surprise and unease flickered across the bearded visages. “I have been waiting for this moment for decades, for more than a century! I have chosen you, trained you, taught you so that you could help me attain my goal. I expect, from each of you, success or death. Remember that: Success, or death. Now, drink your potions, and go to your stations. You will know when it is time to strike.”

  The thirteen young Theiwar nodded nervously, their bearded faces betraying a mix of eagerness and resolve. Gypsum remained rigidly at attention. Alone among the group, Facet offered that thin, suggestive smile, a slight pressing together of her lips that, Willim sensed, was an expression she reserved for him alone.

  Each of the thirteen tipped the small bottle to his lips and sipped half the contents, reserving the rest for their return to the lair. One by one they blinked out of sight as the potion of teleportation sent them instantaneously through the darkness of Thorbardin to the positions Willim had assigned them. Only Gypsum and Facet remained behind, both standing expressionless and attentive before their master.

  “I have decided that Facet will accompany you,�
�� Willim told Gypsum, watching him carefully. The wizard was neither surprised nor displeased to see an expression of resentment flicker briefly across the young male’s face.

  “As you wish, my master,” Gypsum replied briskly.

  “The two of you have the most important task of all,” the supreme magic-user continued. “Just as the attack commences, the king will have emerged from his chambers to address the people of Norbardin from his prayer tower. You will be waiting for him, and you must strike as soon he appears. When he is dead, we can expect that the rest of the royal troops will fall into disarray. Our success will be assured.”

  “Aye, Master,” Gypsum declared, his hand caressing the ivory hilt of his silver-bladed dagger.

  “Thank you for this honor, my master!” Facet declared breathlessly, that strange, alluring expression once again brightening her eyes as she stared at him, touching the long, keen knife she wore at her belt. She shivered again, and he felt the thrill of that unusual power she possessed inside of her. It was alluring, yet dangerous. Should he fear it?

  No, he told himself. He should use it.

  “Now, drink your potions and go!” barked Willim. “I still have much to do!”

  Gypsum and Facet each took up two bottles that their master had placed before them. The first, an elixir of invisibility, would mask them from discovery. The second, the potion of teleportation, would carry them to their objective.

  Moments later, the two apprentices had vanished, and the black robe was alone in his lair. He stared at the place where Facet had stood moments before, his spell of vision playing tricks with his mind. It was as though her robe had teleported before her flesh did, leaving a momentary, and tantalizing, image of her naked body lingering in the air.

  Why was he having such feelings? What purpose could lust serve him when his life’s goal was so nearly complete? He didn’t know why it was happening, but he couldn’t deny the quickening of desire, the heat that flowed, all unbidden, through his body.

  Then he remembered that he was not quite alone.

  He strode across the floor, ignoring the lofty alcoves and the wide ramp leading up and away from the great chamber. That ramp ended in a solid wall, for the room had no physical connection to the rest of Thorbardin. It had once been excavated to serve as a new council hall for the thanes, except that a chilling discovery-Gorathian-had caused the dwarves to abandon the place, to seal it off from the nation forever.

  Or so they had hoped.

  Willim stopped at the edge of a deep crack that spread in a jagged streak across the stone floor. Heat welled from that chasm, and a dim redness glowed in the depths. The wizard could feel the heat against his skin, and with the power of his seeing spell, he could perceive the creature lurking in the depths, radiating fire, and yearning with hunger.

  “Soon, Gorathian, my pet,” he whispered.

  Fire surged from the deep gap, flames licking into the air, crackling and swirling. If Willim was not protected by powerful magic, his flesh would be charred by such infernal heat. Because of those spells, however, the fiery explosion was a mere balm to his skin, inflaming his own will, strength, and determination.

  He sensed the monster rising from the depths of the cavern, its great wings spreading and vast claws tearing at the foundation of the rock. Hatred and hunger fueled its ascent, and Willim could discern the mighty jaws as they spread wide, flames surging forth. Gorathian would have killed him, consumed him, if it could but reach him.

  “Remember!” he cautioned sternly. “I am your master. You answer to my control; you remain here by my will. And soon, also by my will, you shall fly free, be released by my will,” he promised with an edge of steel to his voice. “But not yet! Not yet!”

  With a single gesture, he slashed his hand before his chest, and Gorathian fell back precipitously, restrained by a spell of such mastery that even an immortal being of raw chaos could not overcome it. And so Gorathian plunged back down to the prison in the deep bedrock below Thorbardin, fuming and frustrated, but thoroughly bound and trapped.

  Willim turned his eyeless face toward the ceiling. He muttered a single word-no potion for him! — and vanished, leaving the lair to the smoke and the heat and the churning protection of the imprisoned monster.

  TWO

  UNEASY CROWN

  The high Kharolis was the greatest mountain range on the continent, a soaring realm of rocky summits, frigid glaciers, and sheer cliffs. The inhospitable terrain was not conducive to human habitation, nor was it inviting to the cities and towns of any civilized, nor even uncivilized, folk. It was a realm of precipice and rocky crag, of ice and storm, fit only for the wild beasts and, perhaps, the occasional hill giant. Even the Neidar hill dwarves disdained the rugged heights, preferring instead to live in the more temperate and fertile valleys that surrounded the great range on all sides.

  Underneath those mountains, however, lay a different reality: a mighty kingdom, carved into the bedrock of the mountain range, including a subterranean sea, one great city, many warrens and mines wherefrom the inhabitants drew sustenance and mineral wealth. The teeming city of Norbardin and the deep, still sea were flanked by vast, ruined cities, proof of an even greater might in a time not so long past. It was Thorbardin, the ancient and greatest home of the dwarf race upon all the world of Krynn.

  Much of Thorbardin’s population, wealth, and industry were centered around the great metropolis of Norbardin, a relatively new city. Norbardin had been created by the decree of the former king, Tarn Bellowgranite, as a matter of necessity. Throughout most of the nation’s history, five great cities had thrived around the shores and in the environs of the Urkhan Sea, the great subterranean waterway of dwarfkind. A sixth city, called the Life-Tree, was the home of the Hylar clan, traditional leaders of Thorbardin. The Life-Tree had been excavated in the massive pillar of living stone that rose from an island in the middle of the sea, extending all the way to the ceiling of the vast, watery cavern. For more than a thousand years, the cities had been the homes of the five clans: Hylar, Daewar, Daergar, Theiwar, and Klar. Each group of dwarves dwelled for the most part in insular, segregated communities, Hylar living beside Hylar, Daergar among Daergar, and so forth.

  Decades earlier, when the Chaos War had wracked the world of Krynn, the ancient capitals of the clans had been weakened and scarred by the onslaught of horrible beings, legions of deadly warriors and their greatest allies, the fire dragons. The invading forces had been destroyed, but at great cost, leaving the legendary cities of Thorbardin weakened and ruined. The Life-Tree had collapsed upon itself, leaving only a few broken ruins as remembrance of that great city. A stubby, huge stalactite marked its place on the cavern’s ceiling, while a shattered island rose from the middle of the sea to mark the Life-Tree’s tomb. The great delvings along the shore of the lake had been scattered and broken, gouged and ravaged by the forces of Chaos until ceilings collapsed, columns fell, and the great, cavernous spaces were rendered too treacherous for continued settlement.

  Thus had commenced the migration and creation of Norbardin, constructed around the great fortress that had once been Thorbardin’s North Gate. Most of the dwarves had abandoned their ancient cities and moved en masse to Norbardin. The most numerous clans-the Theiwar, Daergar, and Hylar-established flourishing districts in the steadily expanding cities. The miserable Aghar, the gully dwarves, trooped along behind-until Tarn Bellowgranite, the king of Thorbardin, was dethroned. Some time after his coronation, the new monarch, Jungor Stonespringer, offered a bounty for every Aghar killed. The gully dwarves who survived lived in fear, cowering in deep warrens, risking life and limb whenever they ventured forth to raid for garbage or scraps.

  Another populous clan, the Klar, found themselves-or, more accurately, were deemed to be-unfit to dwell cheek by jowl with their fellow dwarves. Wild-eyed and unstable, the Klar were quick to anger, enthusiastic in violence, frenzied in celebration, and altogether unpleasant as neighbors. Though a few Klar lived in the underbelly of N
orbardin, most of the clan wandered like savages through the backwaters and byways of the great kingdom. Called the “feral” Klar, they remained as unpredictable and maddened as ever.

  Tyrannical and fanatical, King Stonespringer instituted a harsh and repressive regime. Claiming that he drew his power directly from the father god of dwarfkind, Reorx the Forge, the king banished females from all manner of commerce and public life; he executed criminals and foes with quick and ruthless violence; he demanded complete obedience-and significant tribute-from all who would call themselves his followers.

  Despite the reign of King Stonespringer, Thorbardin remained the greatest nation of dwarves on all the world of Krynn. More than two thousand years in the making, the vast realm was recognized by most dwarves as the only true seat of the dwarf high king-the monarch recognized by the greatest number of the stubborn and tradition-bound peoples. All clans in every dwarven city were led by the clan thane, and in other, smaller nations such as Kayolin, the rank of “governor” was the commonly accepted title of leadership.

  Frequently during the long age of those fractious peoples, the claimant of the throne was a controversial choice, and more often than not, he ascended to the lofty seat over the bleeding and broken bodies of his enemies. Indeed, fight by single combat-usually a mortal duel-was the time-accepted method of determining the worthiness of any prospective king. So it could be said Jungor Stonespringer was part of dwarf tradition.

  However, he had carried the trend to an extreme of cruelty and violence that was unprecedented. He had gained the throne through victory in the Arena of Death, and many times had defended that throne, always dispatching the challenger in cunning combat. Though in recent years he had become physically thin and frail in appearance, his wiry strength was, if anything, more legendary. He had never met a quicker opponent, and he specialized in the fatal blow-to belly, throat, or lung-that allowed the victim to fully comprehend his defeat as his blood and wind slowly slipped from his flesh.