The Heir of Kayolin dh-2

by Douglas Niles

  Regar Smashfingers dropped to his knees, scrambling around the floor and snatching up a sapphire here, another winking gem there. “My crown!” he wailed, his voice spiking to a shrill, high pitch. His courtiers and guards stepped back, staring at the ruler as if desperate to get out of the way of his clutching fingers. One fawning nobleman dropped down to help, but Regar slapped his hand away as he reached for one of the rolling gems.

  “Mine!” shouted Smashfingers, his voice cracking.

  “I tell you, this is treason!” cried Alakar Heelspur, stepping around the king, ignoring his ruler as he pointed at the two advancing dwarves. “How dare you challenge the rightful law of this place! The rightful government, your new king?”

  He waved at the rank of Enforcers who stared aghast at the figure of their ruler crawling around on the floor.

  “The rightful law, the one that killed my brother, Nailer Bluestone?” Brandon roared, taking another step forward. “The lawful government that allowed that murder, that practices treachery and theft, giving to House Heelspur the treasure rightly won by House Bluestone?”

  He raised the Bluestone Axe in his right hand, pointing at Baracan with his left. “I call you murderer! I name you thief! And Nailer Bluestone will be avenged.”

  He advanced at a rush, as Baracan drew his sword and circled away from the throne to give himself fighting room.

  “Stop him!” shouted Lord Heelspur. “Enforcers, take him down!”

  The agents of the League finally reacted as the command snapped them from their shock. Swords slid from sheaths; mighty halberds were raised high; and the black-garbed dwarves started toward Brandon from both sides and from behind.

  “Murderer!” the younger Bluestone repeated, sprinting toward Baracan before the Enforcers could interfere. He raised his axe, haft held in both of his hands, over his head.

  “Bluestone! Bluestone! Bluestone!” The chant resounded through the throne room, echoing from the ceiling and thumping through the very bedrock itself. The Enforcers hesitated, glancing at each other nervously. Several swordsmen of the Garnet Guards stepped forward, weapons sheathed, to interpose themselves between the black-clad agents of Heelspur’s League and the duel taking shape before them.

  Brandon brought his axe down in a short, controlled chop. Baracan, expecting a more forceful blow, parried the attack and retreated, circling around behind the throne. With his axe dancing right, left, high, and low, Brandon followed. A part of his mind reminded him to be cautious, but cold fury doused his attempts at restraint. He made a sudden rush again, slashing back and forth, while his enemy jabbed, carving a cut on his wrist before he could push out of the way.

  The two battlers came around the other side of the throne. Brandon glanced up, looking for danger, but he saw that the Garnet Guards, while not taking part in the fight, had formed enough of a barrier that the Enforcers were effectively held back. At the very least, they would have had to push aside the stalwart members of that ancient regiment in order to get to Brandon. Garren Bluestone, too, was holding back, though he held his sword at the ready, his eyes shifting from Regar to Alakar to Baracan.

  Even the ruler had ceased his hunt for the scattered gems. He rested upon his knees, looking up at the duel raging before him, wincing every time steel clashed against steel.

  Brandon’s mind flashed a picture of Nailer, his older brother hoisting a mug, toasting his friends, his face full of youth, beaming with pleasure. Then he saw that same face, lifeless and bloody, on the floor of a lonely cave. Nailer had died because Lord Heelspur craved the vein of gold the Bluestone brothers had just discovered, and Lord Heelspur’s son had led the assassins. That murder would finally be avenged!

  With a grimace, the axe-wielding dwarf flew at his opponent, launching another flurry of blows, forcing Baracan into a rapid retreat. The other dwarf’s sword flashed back and forth, each time knocking away the Bluestone Axe, but always that keen blade pressed a little closer to the noble scion’s pale skin.

  The throne room had fallen silent-even the “Bluestone” chant fading away-as the witnesses stared at the do-or-die battle enacted before them.

  “Look out!”

  Brandon heard the shrill cry of alarm, recognized it as Gretchan’s voice, and tried to spin away. But Baracan, eyes alight with impending triumph, thrust once, then again, forcing the axe-wielding Bluestone to parry his blows or suffer death. Then Baracan’s eyes, looking past Brandon’s shoulder, widened in shock and dismay. A groaning sigh, mingled with cheers, erupted from the crowd. As Brandon finally broke away from the fight, he saw Lord Heelspur fall on his face. Garren Bluestone stood behind the dying nobleman, holding a bloodied sword.

  “He tried to take you from behind,” the senior Bluestone said almost apologetically.

  “Thanks, Dad,” Brandon replied sincerely.

  Setting his axe at the ready, he again advanced toward Baracan, who retreated with fear in his eyes. “This isn’t the way it was with my brother, is it?” demanded Brandon, smashing the axe down in a series of measured, controlled hacks, forcing Baracan’s retreat. “You had four of your assassins with you when you killed him, didn’t you? You’d never take on someone in a fair fight-at least, not someone like Nailer, who knew how to use a weapon.” He taunted Baracan loudly, shaming his foe, instinctively feeling the mood of the city swing over to his side.

  Baracan screamed and charged, overreaching as Brandon skipped out of the way of the thrust blade. The Bluestone Axe swung through a full half-circle-measured and controlled no longer, but like a living thing bent on blood and vengeance. The keen edge bit into Baracan Heelspur’s neck, slicing all the way to his spine before Brandon finally pulled it free.

  His enemy’s head flopped backward, barely connected to the torso, as a geyser of blood erupted from the slashing wound. Already dead, Baracan’s body swayed like a drunk; his knees collapsed, and he fell heavily to the floor.

  For a moment, all was silent. Regar Smashfingers stared in dumbfounded horror. The Enforcers looked about nervously, slowly edging away from the dwarves of the Garnet Guards and the two Bluestones. The murmurs started softly, quickly swelling.

  “Hail to House Bluestone!” General Watchler said. “And shame to Regar Smashfingers and his legacy of greed!”

  “Spare me!” Regar cried. Already on his knees, he threw himself face-first onto the floor, hands groping for Garren’s feet. “Don’t kill me!” he pleaded, nearly blubbering. “You can have the kingship! The throne is yours!”

  “Throne? No, you speak of the governor’s chair,” Garren Bluestone said, drawing a deep breath and speaking so that all could hear. “The throne is in Thorbardin!”

  Then the cheers began, the cry of “Bluestone, Bluestone, Bluestone!” rose to the domed ceiling, echoed through the shaft of the Atrium, and thrummed in all the many levels of Garnet Thax. Dwarves embraced each other, cheering and sobbing with relief. The Enforcers beat a hasty retreat, and in moments there were none of the black-clad bullies to be seen.

  Gretchan and Karine made their way down to the floor, and Brandon embraced the priestess, reveling in the feel of her soft skin against his face, her kisses finding his lips in the midst of his bristling beard. He pulled her close, almost weeping in relief, and spotted his mother as she ran up to embrace his father.

  “Here-you should take this spot,” said General Watchler, escorting Garren Bluestone up the steps before the great throne. “You would do it honor!”

  The citizens of Kayolin cheered as Garren Bluestone sat on the great seat and was appointed, by acclamation, to be the new governor. The shouts and accolades thundered through the throne room, lasting for a very long time. The Bluestone chant changed to the new cry: “The throne is in Thorbardin!”

  Brandon watched his father accept the acclaim, and he felt a burst of pride, accompanied by a lump in his throat. Nailer should be there, seeing that, he knew. But that would never be. Still, when he saw the pride, the pure happiness, on his mother’s face, he was ab
le to feel his own sense of accomplishment and joy.

  “Hey, where did he come from?” Brandon asked in surprise, staring open mouthed at Gus and two other filthy gully dwarves mingling with the crowd and moving toward them. The little females to either side of him clutched his arms desperately, while Gus looked around in amazement, unsure of himself but clearly rather proud.

  Gretchan nodded toward the little Aghar tenderly, smiling at Brandon. “Oh, I meant to tell you. Gus and his friends are here. I think the Master of the Forge was looking out for him and them-and for us. He came here through a magic spell; he’s not sure exactly how. But the big news is that he brought us something important.”

  She pulled a crimson wedge of rock from her sagging pouch, and Brandon’s eyes widened. “It’s the same size and shape as the Bluestone …” he began, understanding slowing sinking in.

  “And the Greenstone,” she said. “Both of which are in Tarn Bellowgranite’s hands, in Pax Tharkas.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Garren, rising from the seat and stepping close. “This stone matches the Bluestone of our clan; I can see that much.”

  “It’s part of an ancient artifact,” Gretchan explained. “It’s called the Tricolor Hammerhead, and it can smash any fortification-including, according to the legends, the Gates of Thorbardin itself. But it can only be forged with all three stones.”

  “And we thought the Redstone was locked away in Thorbardin,” Brandon added. “So it didn’t help much that Tarn Bellowgranite has the blue and the green parts.” He blinked and looked at Gretchan. “Where did this come from anyway?”

  “I brought it!” Gus said, stepping forward proudly. “Out of Thorbardin, when whole place burnin’ up and stinkin’.”

  Brandon raised an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Gretchan. She gave him a “we’ll talk about it later” look.

  Then she smiled and put an affectionate hand on Gus’s stringy-haired head-which she quickly removed when she caught a glimpse of the dour glares on Berta’s and Slooshy’s faces. The two Aghar females continued to hug Gus’s arms, each pulling so firmly that they seemed about ready to dislocate his shoulders. The male gully dwarf, meanwhile, gazed blissfully up at the priestess.

  “Gus said we could have this stone on one condition,” the cleric explained seriously to Brandon and his father.

  “What condition?” asked Governor Bluestone, already assuming an air of authority.

  “He tells me that one of King Jungor Stonespringer’s acts, as ruler of Thorbardin, was to outlaw the very presence of the Aghar. He killed their highbulp and had his chair removed from Thorbardin’s Council of Thanes. The rest of his people are being hunted and killed. I told Gus that if we use this stone to complete the hammer and if we are able to liberate the kingdom, I promised him the gully dwarves would be restored to their traditional chair at the council.”

  “That’s fair enough,” Garren said. “You have done all dwarfkind a great service,” he solemnly told Gus, who beamed so brightly, his face turned red.

  General Watchler came forward to join the discussion. “What is this about Thorbardin burning?”

  Gretchan did her best to summarize the Aghar’s extensive descriptions of the chaos in that ancient nation, with Gus chirping in every now and then with added detail.

  “It sounds like the whole place is being torn apart by civil war,” she finished at last, looking around at everyone’s grim expressions. “The dwarves there need help, but since the king sealed the gates, a whole army could march against the place without any prospect of success. There has never been any way to reach them … until now.”

  “But with the Tricolor Hammerhead, we could enter Thorbardin!” Brandon exclaimed, seized by the grandness of the idea. “Tarn Bellowgranite would help, I’m sure. But we’d need a bigger army, more than just his refugees in Pax Tharkas-”

  “A force like the Kayolin Army?” General Watchler suggested.

  “Yes!” Brandon said. “With that, and Tarn Bellowgranite’s support, we could restore him to his rightful throne, and bring Thorbardin’s nightmare to an end!”

  “That would be a mission worthy of our steel,” the general noted. “But we have the horax to deal with.”

  “The horax are an engineering problem, not a combat enemy,” Brandon explained. He described the fallen barriers, which upon interrogation, Regar Smashfingers had readily admitted were destroyed by his and Alakar Heelspur’s orders. Regar had one of his courtiers retrieve a map of the deep caverns, on which the Heelspurs had marked every place where they had removed the barriers to horax exploration.

  “We’ll have to hold them back toward their hive,” Brandon explained. “And that’ll take some time and effort. But once we do that and rebuild those walls, they’ll be no more of a menace than they’ve been for the last thousand years.”

  “And in the meantime …?” Watcher said, eyeing Brandon shrewdly.

  “In the meantime,” the younger Bluestone said confidently. “I’d like to plan with you to lead an army of Kayolin dwarves to the south, where we’ll join with the Pax Tharkas refugees, smash the North Gate, and liberate Thorbardin from the grip of the mad king.”

  “Bluestone! Bluestone!” echoed the chant from the gallery.

  And in that same instant, the army that would liberate Thorbardin began to take shape.

  EPILOGUE

  With his treacherous agents suitably punished, Willim the Black and Facet teleported back to the comfort and security of his laboratory.

  “But what about the fire dragon, Master?” asked the female. “Can it not seek us, find us, here?”

  They both knew that Gorathian still flew wildly through Norbardin, but the wizard was not ready to face the creature of Chaos in open combat. “Perhaps it has doubled back into the city,” he suggested. “I suspect that it is intent upon seeking out and slaying me. But it will not find me until I am ready to face it, and that time has not yet come.”

  Instead, Willim chose to return to his laboratory and make a new plan. He had his mistress by his side, and all other concerns seemed to fade in the face of that truth. He stretched, sighed, and was pleased.

  “How can we fight that beast?” Facet asked, clinging to her master’s arm.

  “Powerful magic, my sweet,” the wizard told her reassuringly. Even so, he turned his face, stitched eyelids squinting in concern, toward the lofty wall of the lair. He murmured the words to a spell, a powerful protection, even as he held her close and felt the warmth of her flesh soothing, invigorating, and empowering him.

  Moments later he broke the embrace and gestured toward the black-rimmed gap through that wall, the place where Gorathian seared through the thick divider. “Already I have a barrier on that hole, one I think even the fire dragon would find daunting.”

  “Yes, Master,” Facet replied, eyes downcast. She was well aware that the monster, capable of melting a hole through any density of rock, would have no need of using its point of egress as a route of attack. But she did not give voice to her fear.

  Instead, she turned toward the large, central worktable in the laboratory. A sturdy bell jar rested there on a circle of marble. Within that jar, two shimmering shapes writhed and drifted. They were devoid of dwarf features, more like wispy scraps of pale blue silk or even smoke, yet they were clearly alive. The two imprisoned beings circled and swooped and intertwined with each other in a manner that could have signaled affection or anger-or both.

  “I see that your spies have found a new home,” Facet said, stroking her white-fingered hand across the surface of the jar.

  Willim hacked out a dry chuckle. “Yes. They will have much time-forever, in fact-to contemplate the consequences of treachery.”

  The black wizard sighed and ran a hand through his beard. The hairs were bristling and tangled, and he could feel the grit of smoke and grime on his fingers. With a quick magical word, he groomed himself, instantly combing his hair and beard, vanishing the grit and grime right off his skin. Onl
y then did he turn to his apprentice-though it was getting harder and harder to think of her as a student; in many ways, she seemed to be teaching him-with a grimace that was his best approximation of a smile.

  “But I am weary, my pet. Come with me to our chambers … where we might rest. Or find ourselves reinvigorated,” he added with a throaty chuckle.

  “Certainly, Master,” Facet said with a low rasp that set Willim’s blood to tingling. “But first, can we share a sip of wine?”

  “A splendid idea,” the wizard said. “Please, pour us both refreshment.”

  Facet shifted against the counter as she poured the wine. Her gown slipped to the side, exposing her curving leg all the way to the hip. Willim’s attention, the full force of his true sight, focused on that white skin; it was all he could do to keep his tongue from licking his lips. His pulse pounded in his head, and his breathing grew short. How could she be so beautiful, so compelling, so irresistible?

  And he never saw the bottle of potion, the charm that had been serving her so well, that Facet tipped over his glass. A few drops splashed into the surface of the wizard’s wine, but the bottle was stoppered and shelved a moment later, when she turned to offer him his glass.

  She smiled and his attention was swallowed by her eyes-so soft, so yielding … so impenetrable.

  King Jungor Stonespringer sat in the darkness of his ruined palace. He touched the golden eye that filled his old, empty socket. The fresh wound where the wizard had destroyed his other eye was a gory gash, but he didn’t feel any pain. Even as his fingers probed at the scab, he felt a liberating joy. Reorx was his master, his comfort, his protection. He did not need to see!

  Instead, he would feel, and right then he felt heat. There was a mighty warmth before him, a roasting presence that was greater than any normal fire. He turned his face toward that radiance and knew that the fresh blood on his face was crusting and drying under the baking heat. His skin reddened, his robe smoldered, but still he relished the power of that great fire.