“And you both as well,” she replied, the warmth of her smile even soothing Garren’s bristling nerves.
Karine went into the kitchen while Brandon met his father’s disbelieving gaze. “Harn betrayed you?” Garren asked, shaking his head. “He was only after steel after all, huh?” The old dwarf’s face suddenly blanched. “What about the Bluestone?”
“It’s safe,” Brandon said. “That’s what Harn was after, and he stole it for a time-but I got it back. Now it’s in Tarn Bellowgranite’s hands-he’s the former king of Thorbardin, living in exile in Pax Tharkas.”
“King of Thorbardin? Pax Tharkas?” Brandon’s father was stunned as he mouthed the legendary names. He shook his head again, trying to digest the stunning news. Gretchan escorted him to a seat while Karine returned with a tray that was weighted down with four heavy mugs.
Soon they were all seated around the hearth, sipping warm mead from a fresh keg Karine had just tapped. Brandon sensed his father’s edginess-both of the men cast frequent glances at the front door-but Gretchan calmed them a bit by doing most of the talking. She told Garren and Karine all about the hill dwarf war against Pax Tharkas, exaggerating Brandon’s heroic role and downplaying her own contribution. Garren and his wife were caught up in her story, and Brandon was surprised-and more than a little pleased-to see his father looking at him with an expression of unrestrained pride. Responding to Karine’s questions, Gretchan talked a little about her own family and background and told them of the great history she hoped, one day, to write.
But finally they had caught up with the past, and the present worries that had been gnawing away at Brandon burst to the surface.
“What about what’s going on here in Kayolin?” Brandon asked anxiously. “Your letter finally caught up to me in Pax Tharkas. So now, I understand, Regar Smashfingers has created his own League of Enforcers? And the horax are on the march again, so much that the king has mustered troops and is making war on them?”
“Aye, to the first, anyway,” Garren said. “Lord Heelspur’s son, the same one who stole the claim you and Nailer found, leads that nasty bunch of rascals, the so-called League of Enforcers. They are the king’s eyes and ears, everywhere in the city.”
“And the war against the horax?”
“That’s been more talk than action, to tell you the truth. I’ve heard of a few companies being mustered but not of anyone moving out to fight the danged things. They do seem to be creeping about more than usual. We hear mostly rumors, though.”
“But Smashfingers is making no pretense anymore about his status? He’s claiming the throne of a king?”
Both Bluestone elders nodded. “He claims his people-his Enforcers, really-have discovered the Torc of the Forge, down in the delvings under the city,” Karine explained. “Do you remember the story of the torc?”
“I know it from my own readings,” Gretchan said when Brandon shook his head. “It was a silver collar, surrounded by a ring of blue sapphires, that was supposedly forged by the god himself during the Age of Light. For years it was handed down from one dwarf king to another, but it was lost more than a thousand years ago, when the dwarves-and their king-marched out of Thorbardin to join Huma’s war against the Dark Queen.”
“Yes,” Karine said. “And as the king reminds us, when it was lost, the legend arose that it would be discovered when dwarfkind was in dire need of a new king. Now he’s claiming the torc is proof that the time is right for his coronation.”
“Has he let a priest of Reorx examine the artifact?” Gretchan asked. “To make sure it’s authentic?”
Karine sighed. “That would be a good idea. Unfortunately the priesthood of our god has not exactly flourished in Kayolin during the last … oh, since the time of the Chaos War. I doubt if the king would agree to such an inspection, even if a priest could be found. Most of the worshiping done in Garnet Thax now, I fear to say, is done at the altars of power and steel.”
“That part hasn’t changed, then,” Brandon agreed. “Then what can we-?”
The door smashed in without warning, and two burly dwarves, dressed in black leather tunics, charged into the room. One flourished a large hammer-the tool that he had obviously used to smash in the door-while the other pointed a sword at Brandon’s face. Two more similarly clad dwarves, swords drawn, swaggered into the room behind them.
“Brandon Bluestone, I arrest you in the name of the League of Enforcers!” cried the swordsman. His attention quickly shifted. “And Garren Bluestone, you’re coming along too this time. You’ll be charged, I daresay, with harboring a fugitive!”
Kondike leaped to his feet, barking and hurling himself at the hammer-wielding dwarf. That fellow, caught by surprise, took a wild swing at the dog. He missed and went down screaming, dropping his hammer as he struggled to hold the snapping jaws at bay.
Brandon instinctively leaped to his feet, snatching up his axe, as two more of the black-clad Enforcers rushed through the door with their short swords drawn. Gretchan scooted to the side, clutching her staff, and Brandon’s father stepped in front of his wife. As Brandon unveiled his legendary weapon, the Enforcers hesitated, eyeing the keen, shiny blade.
He was vaguely aware that the priestess was chanting something.
Then the room filled with smoke, a churning mist so thick, he couldn’t see. He heard a loud thump, and one of the Enforcers cursed and toppled with a crash. Then someone-Gretchan, he realized-took him by the hand and jerked him toward the front door. He bumped into a dwarf-from the feel of the leather tunic, he knew it was one of the king’s men-and put down his shoulder, driving the Enforcer, hard, into the wall. Still holding onto the cleric’s hand, Brandon waved his axe, hearing the blade clash into a sword.
Somewhere nearby, his mother screamed.
THIRTEEN
A FLIGHT AND A FALL
Run!” Gretchan insisted in a hoarse whisper, still pulling on Brandon’s hand as they stumbled into a murky fog so thick that the dwarf couldn’t see his axe blade, which he was holding up in front of his face. Kondike barked and growled frantically, and he heard an Enforcer cry out somewhere behind them. His shoulder had slammed into the doorframe as the priestess pulled him outside; then they were in the street, boots scuffing on the cobblestones.
That thick murk still surrounded them, more like fog or smoke, but lacking any smell or sense of wetness.
“Kondike!” Gretchan snapped, before jerking Brandon’s hand, pulling him away from the uproar at the Bluestone home.
He hated the thought of fleeing his house when he knew that the Enforcers were confronting his parents. And how had they found him so quickly? Had Bondall betrayed him? Even as he entertained the thought, he rejected the notion. Apparently Heelspur was concerned enough about Brandon to make sure his home was constantly watched.
They ran a few more steps, still blinded by the fog. “What is this damn murk?” he demanded through clenched teeth. “Why can’t we see?”
“It’s just a little spell, dearie,” the priestess replied, grunting as they bumped into some hapless pedestrian and bowled the cursing dwarf over. “It will give us a few moments to conceal ourselves, hopefully escape. But not for long, so hurry!”
“But my father!” Brandon protested even as they broke out of the cloud to find themselves on the street a short distance away from the Bluestone home. Kondike raced at their heels, his hackles high, mouth hanging open to reveal his tongue and long teeth. “They’ve got my parents now!” He glanced back and saw that the obscuring cloud still churned in front of the Bluestone domicile. But the vapor seemed to be thinning, and his companion pulled hard on his hand.
“And they’ll have you in their clutches too if you want to go back there and act the hero,” Gretchan insisted sharply. “Do you think your father wants that?”
“No,” he admitted, once more following along.
“If we’re free,” she added, “we might be able to help them more.”
Even as she spoke, he saw three more big
dwarves, wearing the black leather tunics he’d already come to despise, moving into the street before them to block their path of escape. The two on the flanks each drew a sword, while the third, weapon sheathed, advanced between them and held up a hand.
“Halt in the name of the League of Enforcers!” demanded that one.
Kondike lowered his head and put on an explosive burst of speed. He sprang into the air and smashed the unarmed dwarf in the chest, snarling jaws snapping at the flailing Enforcer’s beard. Brandon raised his axe and charged at one of the swordsmen.
As the other moved to help his comrade, Gretchan shouted one word at him: “Stop!”
Immediately the dwarf froze in his tracks, his body contorting as he tried to move feet that had apparently been cemented to the street. “What in Reorx’s name …?” he demanded.
Brandon slashed his axe at the third Enforcer and knocked the dwarf’s sword free, the weapon clanging and spinning across the stones of the roadway. He lowered his shoulder and barreled into the disarmed dwarf, sending the fellow tumbling backward. He and Gretchan plunged past and raced away, the priestess again calling back to Kondike. With a last snap of his powerful jaws, the big animal bounded after his companions.
“This way,” Brandon urged, giving Gretchan’s hand a tug. They raced down the street, past the Cracked Mug. A crowd, attracted by the commotion, was gathering outside the bar. Brandon was gratified as the dwarf citizens parted for them then closed in behind, providing another few seconds’ gap between the fleeing fugitives and Lord Heelspur’s Enforcers.
Brandon aimed for the nearest of the connecting stairwells, reasoning that they would have a better chance of losing their pursuers if they could escape from that level of the city. But as soon as they veered around another corner, he saw more of the black-garbed agents standing guard before the landing leading into the stairwell. There were something like a dozen of the dwarves in that detachment, and seeing Brandon and Gretchan, half of them charged while the others held their position at the stairwell.
“How many of those bastards are there?” Brandon wondered out loud, looking back to see more of their pursuers emerging from the crowd outside the Cracked Mug. He spun around, momentarily at a loss for direction, and was startled again when Gretchan barked an order and took off running. “Follow me!”
He was swept along, quickly sprinting up to her side. “You should let me lead!” he insisted. “I know this city!”
“I have a plan!” she shot back. More of the Enforcers appeared in front of them, so detachments were closing in from three sides. Gretchan startled him by tugging him around another corner.
“Not this way; we’re going to be trapped!” he cried out.
She plunged on, while he felt he had no choice but to follow. They ran down a narrow lane between bustling shops selling food, fabrics, drinks, and tools. Dwarf merchants and customers dodged out of their way, cursing. Kondike’s sudden appearance caused a young dwarf maid to scream, and Brandon knocked over the handcart of a vendor selling savory mushroom tarts.
“Sorry!” he called over his shoulder, still plunging onward behind Gretchan.
The fugitives approached one last intersection, beyond which loomed a wide plaza and the lip of the great Atrium of Garnet Thax.
Brandon was momentarily relieved as Gretchan skidded to a halt at the last side street before the Atrium. They could turn right or left and keep running; if they continued straight ahead, they’d be trapped at the lip of the sheer cliff wall. She whistled sharply, and Kondike stood rigid, staring at her with upraised ears.
“Kondike-go!” she commanded, pointing down the side street. “Run!”
Immediately the big dog spun about and sprang away, his long legs carrying him quickly along the lane, parallel to the edge of the Atrium. Crouching low above the street, the dog stretched out and sprinted in a blur of speed, dashing among the startled dwarves to all sides. In a flash he was gone from view, though Brandon could track his swift progress by the startled reactions of dwarf pedestrians who scrambled to get out of his way as the dog ran farther and farther away from his two companions.
They heard shouts from up the street and saw a whole company of the black-clad Enforcers, more than a dozen of them, charging in their direction.
“Halt!” cried the one in the lead, brandishing a short sword. “Stop them!” he exhorted the crowd. “They’re under arrest!”
As happened with the crowd outside the Cracked Mug, the pedestrians showed no inclination to tackle the wild and dangerous-looking fugitives, though neither were they so rash as to try to obstruct the large group of weapon-brandishing Enforcers. Once again Gretchan pulled Brandon along, running right onto the plaza beside the Atrium until finally they halted, facing their pursuers, with the stone railing, barely thigh-high, crowding their backs. Brandon was acutely aware of the treacherous plunge, the shaft leading into the very center of the world, yawning a mere step or two behind him.
“Now what?” he demanded, raising his axe, holding the haft across his chest as he prepared to make a last stand. As the dozen or more agents closed in, he remembered Gretchan’s stories to his parents, in which she had inflated his battle prowess. He glanced at her in exasperation. “Just how good of a fighter do you think I am?”
He was startled to see that she still carried the large cloak he had used as a disguise, apparently having tucked it under her arm as they had fled the Bluestone house. She extended it toward him. “Trust me,” she barked as she sat down on the stone railing that marked the edge of the bottomless pit. “Here, tuck that axe in your belt, take two corners of this cloak, one in each hand, and hold on tight!”
Every instinct in his body urged him to confront her, to refuse her mad plan-whatever it was. The shouts of the pursuing Enforcers rang in his ears as the king’s men warily started to close in.
“Get down from there! Come away from that edge!” snapped an officious dwarf with a neatly trimmed black beard. His voice was shrill, nearly cracking from the high excitement as he gestured to the dwarves of his company, pointing at the two fugitives.
“Take him, men! Surrender, you!” he squawked, waving his arms wildly.
The pursuing Enforcers didn’t exactly rush to obey, for they had slowed their charge and spread out to form a semicircle, blocking any path of retreat Brandon or Gretchan might have chosen.
Instead of running or fighting, however, Brandon did as Gretchan commanded, stowing his axe and hastily taking the corners of the piece of rough cloth. He saw that she held the other two corners of the square fabric. Looking into her eyes as he sat down on the railing beside her, he was startled to see a flash of amusement in her expression. Then her face grew deadly serious and she quickly swung about on the stone railing at the edge of the Atrium, extending her legs so they were dangling dangerously over the edge.
“What in Reorx’s name …?” he muttered even as he imitated her actions. The Enforcers, only a dozen steps away, watched them skeptically; none of them seemed willing to charge toward the edge of the pit.
Somehow Brandon wasn’t surprised when she gave him her next command:
“Jump!”
What else was he going to do as he saw her start to slide off the railing?
He jumped.
Meanwhile, back in Pax Tharkas-well, actually deep below Pax Tharkas …
Gus had been spending a lot of time in his throne room-the throne being the large, flat rock upon which he sat when he was pondering the heavy responsibilities that were incumbent upon him by virtue of his exalted status as highbulp of Pax Tharkas. His prime task on that day was to determine what manner of food he would send Berta out to fetch. She had a keen eye and a steady hand when it came to bonking rats over the head with a well-aimed stone, and she invariably gave the meatiest, most tender morsels to her lord and master, the highbulp. But in point of fact, Gus was getting a little tired of rat meat.
Of course, if he had been an introspective fellow, it would have dawned on him that
never before, in his life or any imagined Aghar existence, would he ever have imagined that he could get tired of any kind of food, much less good old reliable rat meat, so long as said food wasn’t actively poisoning him. (Even gully dwarves tended not to favor foods guaranteed to make them sick, though in a pinch such sustenance would do.)
Berta, as usual, was sitting attentively at his feet, waiting for him to make his wishes known so she could serve him. For a long, long time-during the first two days of his reign at least-she had assumed that posture with a beaming smile, knowing that merely to serve the highbulp was an honor beyond comprehension. Lately, Gus had noticed-for the past two days at least-she had not been smiling so much. Again, if he had been one to think carefully about things, he might have noticed that the expression on her face was actually closer to a scowl than a cheerful smile. But, of course, he didn’t notice.
“I think big dwarf food be nice, for change,” he said finally in a proclaiming voice. “You know, you steal meat and cheese and stuff from Hylar kitchens.” He breezily pointed toward the ceiling. “Up there, two times up from here.”
Shockingly, the usually obedient Berta leaped to her feet and planted her filthy fists on her hips, glaring indignantly at the highbulp. “How I get big dwarf food? Huh? What kind of bluphsplunging idea you think, anyway? Big dwarves kick Aghar right back down stairs! They watch food, not share with Berta! They beat Berta!”
She drew a deep breath while Gus blinked in astonishment. “Me think highbulp should go get Berta food!”
Gus popped to his feet, spluttering indignantly, glowering at his rebellious subject. She merely glowered back. “What kind of doofus-stoop idea be that?” the highbulp demanded of Berta when he could finally articulate. He grasped at the thin hair to either side of his scalp and pulled in exasperation. How could a lowly female speak to a highbulp like that? What kind of bluphsplunging place was Pax Tharkas, anyway?
The Heir of Kayolin dh-2 Page 16
