The Heir of Kayolin

by Douglas Niles

  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 Norbardin, 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.

  He had lost one eye in the arena, but his enemies, and even his friends, whispered that the golden orb he had placed in the empty socket could sense treachery in every unseen corner and every lightless alcove within the great city of Thorbardin. The golden orb carried no such power, of course, but Jungor Stonespringer encouraged the rumors and the silent fears. And, indeed, it seemed to his few friends and many enemies alike that he had a unique ability that allowed him to smell the slightest treachery, to anticipate actions, and to prepare his own defenses to meet a foe’s best-laid schemes. Jungor Stonespringer was not only alert, paranoid, and careful; he invariably proved to be very lucky as well.

  Beyond the confines of the arena, King Stonespringer had arranged for the mutilations, disappearances, or murders of countless enemies. His decrees had forced the kingdom’s female citizens into the status of virtual chattel, enriched his friends, and impoverished his foes. Above all, he was admired and hated for the fact that he had forced the former king into exile and, following Tarn Bellowgranite’s departure, had ordered the great gates of Thorbardin sealed against the dangers—some real, many imagined—presented by the world beyond the mountain.

  Jealous and suspicious, unpredictable and insecure, quick to anger and ruthless in revenge, Stonespringer had steadily tightened his grip upon the crown through edict and action. No enemy survived his wrath, no friend was fully trusted. The king prayed to his god, and his god must have been listening, for in all things the king’s will was—had to be—obeyed.

  Unpleasant realities did not trouble King Stonespringer’s dreams. If anything, they eased his path into slumber, for Jungor Stonespringer, thane of the Hylar clan, high king of Thorbardin and all dwarfkind, was not susceptible to doubt. A true believer, he knew that his accomplishments were the will of Reorx. If anyone doubted that the Master of the Forge had chosen a humble, one-eyed dwarf as his messenger, let them step forward and speak out—and then see what would happen!

  Soothed by his certainty, the king rolled over on his hard bed and pulled the single coarse blanket over his shoulders. He was skinny, almost frail—a physique that was unusual for any male dwarf, let alone a powerful ruler—but then, he was a dwarf who had long turned his back on crude, mortal concerns. Food and drink were bare sustenance to him. The comfort of female flesh was utterly unnecessary. He lived for the righteousness of his rule, the punishment of his enemies, and the aggrandizement of his power.

  Thus, it was not hunger, nor thirst, nor lust that disturbed his slumber in the great chamber of his palace. There was no daytime, no night, in Thorbardin, but like most subterranean dwarves, the king was a creature of habit and schedule. He was amid the depths of his sleeping interval when he started awake, suddenly aware that something was very wrong.

  Immediately, he sat upright. His lone eye flashed as he glared around his cold, barren chamber.

  “What is it, my lord Reorx?” Jungor Stonespringer whispered into the darkness.

  He addressed his god aloud, though he didn’t expect a verbal response. But he listened with his ears, with his heart, with every fiber of his being. And he heard the following truth:

  Danger walked the streets of Thorbardin, reported his god. It came in the guise of bloodshed, treachery, and violence, and his own people were the source of the threat.

  He had taken the step of canceling the obscene, disgraceful Festival of the Forge, and there were many who were not happy with their king’s absolute sense of morality. There were stirrings of unrest. As always, those who disagreed with Jungor Stonespringer would have a simple choice: they would modify their thinking, or they would die.

  Stonespringer’s agents and spies provided a steady, if not entirely comprehensive, window into the schemes and activities of his many citizens. His most trusted general, Ragat Kingsaver, had a smaller network—just a few watchful regulars—but over the past years, they had proven even more reliable as monitors of subversive activities. It was one of Ragat’s best agents, a Hylar silversmith, who had recently reported strange behavior among some Theiwar residents. Ragat, ever an independent thinker, had suggested the rumors might indicate a rebellion developing outside the city of Norbardin. Jungor Stonespringer had l
istened well but disagreed, suspecting that the most likely source of trouble lay within the crowded neighborhoods and slums of the great capital city.

  In preparation, the king had posted his numerous garrison troops accordingly, ready to respond to any provocation in the city’s great square, teeming streets, or—the most likely source of unruly behavior—the squalid slum called Anvil’s Echo, lowest of Norbardin’s many low neighborhoods.

  The king was certain the attack, when it came, would come from within. He had only one known enemy in Thorbardin who was based beyond the city’s walls, and that was the mad wizard Willim the Black. But Willim was isolated in his deep laboratory, and the king was certain the wizard lacked the capacity for anything more than a brief, bothersome raid. Stonespringer’s spies, who lurked everywhere, in every inhabited city and town, reported no evidence of any substantial rebel force about to gather.

  No, the danger Jungor Stonespringer perceived, the trouble that had disrupted his sleep, must certainly come from within his own populace. Knowing he had little to fear, he laid his head back on his thin pillow, closed his eyes, and once again slept untroubled.

  It was called the Isle of the Dead, but once it had been known as the Life-Tree, the great column-city of the Hylar dwarves and the greatest of the many wonders of Thorbardin. Critically weakened during the savage depredations of the Chaos War, the great pillar had finally collapsed, leaving a massive stalactite hanging from the ceiling of the Urkhan Sea and a rubble-strewn island rising in a jagged cone from those still, black waters.

  For many years that island had been abandoned, left to the ghosts of the thousands who had perished there. It was menaced by frequent collapses as loose rocks broke free from the suspending pinnacle above to shatter on the broken terrain below. The regular bombardment was utterly lethal to anyone who dared to dwell upon the island’s surface. All who traveled the environs of the sea became familiar with the sounds of crashing stone; the impact caused an echo to reverberate for many minutes—seemingly permanently—as the sound lingered, repeating back and forth over the stillness of the sea.

  The great cities that had once lined the shores of the sea were for the most part abandoned, left to become bleak ghettos and slums, barely supporting the few refugees who eked out survival in the deepest cellars and dungeons of those once-populous places. Teams of feral Klar dwarves also still roamed the perimeter of the lake, but even those impetuous, wild savages avoided the Isle of the Dead.

  Willim the Black, however, had visited the island many times during the past decade, usually in a guise such as a gaseous form that rendered him invulnerable to the pummeling of an unfortunately timed rock collapse. His inspections had revealed a vital truth to him: in recent years, the number of rocks plunging from the lofty stalactite had slowed and virtually ceased. Most likely, the loose rocks had all broken free and fallen, while the inverted pillar that remained was solid and securely held to the vast cavern’s ceiling. In any event, though the dwarves remained superstitiously fearful of the island, it was no longer the killing zone it had been twenty or even ten years earlier.

  Thus the abandoned island was the perfect place for a secret army to gather and drill, and for months Willim had been using it for just that purpose. His teleporting spell brought him to the very summit of the cone-shaped island’s central mountain, and there, as he had expected, he found his top commanders waiting for him.

  “Greetings, my master,” said General Blade Darkstone. The Daergar warrior, with his braided beard tucked into his steel-linked belt, towered over the black-robed wizard, and the breadth of his shoulders was at least twice that of Willim’s. Nevertheless, the commander bowed most humbly as the black robe mage popped into view.

  “Greetings, General,” Willim replied. Using the unmasking power of his magic vision, he inspected his military leader and was pleased with what he saw.

  General Darkstone was a dwarf who craved vengeance, desiring to strike out at King Stonespringer with every fiber of his being. Willim knew that the general’s family had been taken by the monarch in the early years of his reign; his wife and children had been killed—all except for a lovely daughter, who had been claimed by the king and offered to one of his lackeys, Ragat Kingsaver, as a trinket for his pleasure. Darkstone’s beautiful young daughter had killed herself before Ragat had been able to take her to his bed. In their rebellion, the grieving father would at last have his vengeance.

  “Soon his blood will wet your sword,” the wizard said softly, clapping the burly Daergar on the shoulder with an almost gentle touch.

  “May Reorx make it so,” the general replied, his voice thick with emotion. “And I thank you, Master,” he added, once again bowing very low.

  So, too, did the others on the flattened hilltop. Even in the absolute darkness of the vast Urkhan cavern, Willim could see and relish the size and quality, the utter obeisance, of his army.

  General Darkstone’s Theiwar lieutenants, commanders of heavy infantry, crossbow, and scout companies, stood behind the general with clenched fists and wide, warlike grins, already imbibing the fierce joy of the imminent battle. Nearby, Captain Forelock, leader of the Klar berserkers, stared so wildly around that it looked as though his eyes were darting in two different directions. He all but drooled at the prospect of the coming conflict, caressing the long haft of his warhammer as if it were an object of love—which, no doubt, it was. Captain Veinslitter, leader of the Black Cross Regiment of Daergar heavy infantry, clapped his brawny fist to his chest, while Captain Harlan, keen-eyed leader of the Hylar skirmishers, merely greeted his master with a studied bow.

  One other warrior, not a dwarf but an ally of the dwarf army, lurked at the fringe of the circle and waited to catch the eye of his master. The other dwarves could not see that other one, but they sensed its sinister presence and gave it a wide berth.

  To Willim, the creature was clear and manifest. Real and powerful, it stood beyond the fierce dwarf warriors, looming at the back of the circle, black-winged and crimson-eyed, and eager to get started. The black wizard’s minion was a creature of an alien and terrible realm, summoned to Krynn to do Willim’s bidding. Its black wings, jagged as a bat’s, trembled in anticipation. Waves of power emanated from the huge monster. When Willim nodded in its direction, the creature quickened and growled, and the dwarves gave the minion an even wider berth. The being rattled its claws and breathed its steamy breath, trying to stay patient.

  “The time has come, my bold warriors,” the wizard declared at last, pleased at the vast power arrayed before him. He turned and paced across the flat hilltop, noting the ranks of the captains’ companies waiting around the shore of the island. Hundreds of boats had been assembled, their prows resting against the Isle of the Dead. Each was captained by an experienced Theiwar helmsman; each would be propelled by its passengers, a dozen of whom would man oars in each boat.

  “The king sleeps and dreams his misguided dreams,” Willim proclaimed. “Tomorrow, we will awaken him from his last slumber!”

  The men stiffened and saluted; only the need for stealth held them back from a lusty cheer.

  “Now, cross the lake!” Willim the Black ordered. “The attack on Norbardin begins in twelve hours!”

  The plans had been established, rehearsed, memorized, modified, and refined over the past year. There was no need for any more talking. Each of the commanders gestured in the darkness; their sergeants barked marching orders to the men. The dwarves tromped steadily down the steep grade of the cone’s slope, breaking into the sections, twenty-four dwarves strong, that would cross in each individual boat. At the water’s edge, they filed smoothly into the flat-bottomed crafts, and in a matter of minutes, the small vessels were pressing through the still, dark sea, propelled by the soft splash of hundreds of bone-handled oars.

  Only Willim and his chief minion remained on the hilltop. For a long time they watched as the boats sliced through the water. They did not move yet, but neither were they going to lag far behind the a
rmy.

  For when they moved, they would travel in the blink of an eye.

  The blue jar pulsed with light, filling the small room at the back of the Two Guilders Novelty and Pharmology Emporium with a lingering glow. Peat Guilder, who had been sleeping with his wife on their pallet in the corner, immediately sat upright. His nerves tingled with alarm. In his twenty years of service to the Master, that light had flashed three times, and each occasion had brought mortal danger to Sadie and him.

  Urgently he nudged his wife, who was a deeper sleeper than Peat. By the time she stirred, he was up and moving, making his way across the workshop, stepping around the piles of books, wedging his way between two overflowing trunks, stretching to reach the bell jar. The vessel still glowed with that lingering blue aura, a magical light originating from the frail-looking sheet of parchment that reposed within the jar.

  “What is it?” Sadie asked, rubbing her eyes as she stiffly climbed to her feet.

  Peat donned a glove and lifted the hot jar. He squinted, but couldn’t make out the intricate details on the note so he handed it to Sadie as she limped over to him. She read swiftly as the magical paper turned to smoke in her hand.

  “Climb the Cloudseeker,” she said aloud.

  Peat nodded in resignation. “So the Master’s war begins,” he said. “We’d better get ready.”

  “Yes,” his wife agreed. Her hand, in the midst of the smoke cloud, was trembling. “Yes,” she repeated. “The Master needs us … must get ready.”