The Heir of Kayolin

by Douglas Niles

  “Yes, Master. As you command,” Darkstone pledged grimly.

  Willim stalked to the very edge of the platform, stepping up onto the knee-high rampart so his assembled troops could see him from his boots to the top of his head. He turned his eyeless face upward and raised his voice to a shrill yell.

  “My brave warriors!” he cried. “We will attack again, and this time, I will send a leader before you, one who will sweep the enemy from his entrenchments and pave the stones with his blood. Facet! Bring me the hearts!”

  Immediately the female dwarf bent down over the slain captains. With a word of magic, she touched their metal armor, and the breastplates broke open to reveal the lifeless chests underneath. With quick slices of her keen blade, she cut out first Balfour’s then De’Range’s heart. Reverently she carried the still warm organs to the wall, where she knelt and placed them at her master’s feet.

  “Thank you, my dear one,” the wizard said, surprising all the dwarves—none so much as Facet herself—with his tender tone and unusual words of endearment. Then he touched her chin, lifted her face toward his, and absorbed the beauty of her perfect features, her blood red lips, the swelling wonder of her magnificent breasts.

  He barked loudly again, his words cutting through the vast cavern like a crack of thunder.

  “Now, my warriors. Watch and take courage! I shall summon the one who will lead your attack!”

  He shouted words of pure magic, and the two hearts swelled and began to spew black smoke.

  Meanwhile, far away and blissfully unaware of all that …

  Gus Fishbiter, Highbulp of all the Aghar in Pax Tharkas, was living the good life. He had shelter from the weather, food when he needed it, and affectionate female companionship. Furthermore, no one had tried to kill him for as long as he could remember, a span of at least two days. He tried to count the days: one, two, one two. Yes, two.

  He reflected on his wonderful fortune as he leaned back on his mattress—packed with real straw!—and watched Berta massage his large and exceptionally filthy feet.

  “You miss that one,” he said, wiggling the large toe on his left foot. “Needs a good rub.”

  “All right, Highbulp,” Berta said with a sigh. “But how ’bout then you rub my feet?” she asked hopefully.

  Gus snorted and chortled. That was one thing he really liked about her: how funny she was. In truth, he was a pretty lucky gully dwarf.

  “Finish two feet; then get highbulp some food,” he declared, stretching out and loudly cracking his joints. He yawned, smacked his lips, and indulged in a long, slow, luxurious excavation of his left nostril. His efforts were so productive that he was about to repeat the procedure on the other side when he was distracted by something.

  “What that?” he said, his sparsely whiskered chin dropping in astonishment. Something was happening to his wall!

  He stared at the side of his throne room—the throne room that was, in fact, merely an unused cellar chamber in the great fortress of Pax Tharkas. Many Aghar—more, even, than two, which was the highest he could count—lived in that cellar and the surrounding, moldy dungeons. They grubbed and rooted and scavenged, as did gully dwarves everywhere on Krynn, surviving on garbage, bugs, rats, blindfish, and whatever scraps they could steal from the other clans of dwarves who occupied the higher reaches of their ancient fortress. They stayed out of Gus’s way, and he, in turn, didn’t try to give them any orders since that would have tested his authority.

  It was a nice, quiet, stinky place to live, lacking the hostile Klar and Theiwar that had made Gus’s former life, in Thorbardin, such a trial. In Agharhome, he had lived with his family, each member of which was larger and meaner than Gus and regularly tried to steal his food. Whenever he had ventured out of the den, he had to worry about feral Klar hunters and Theiwar bunty hunters.

  Of course, he would have lived his whole life in that great underground nation except for the unfortunate encounter that had led him into the clutches of a nasty Theiwar black-robed wizard. He never failed to shudder when he remembered that mage’s eyeless face as his captor had studied the hapless gully dwarf in his steel-barred cage. Gus still didn’t understand how he had escaped from that horrible wizard’s lair, but he knew that it had something to do with a strange drink he’d snatched off the wizard’s table. He could still remember the mad dwarf’s rage as Gus had swilled the liquid and suddenly found himself outside of Thorbardin, on a mountaintop, standing in a deep drift of what he had later learned was called “snow.”

  And Gus had benefited from more than few lucky breaks since then.

  He’d met the most beautiful dwarf maid in the world, the priestess of Reorx called Gretchan, and accompanied her to that wonderful place. He’d eaten fabulous and tasty foods, witnessed majestic objects—most notably the sun—that he would have never seen in Thorbardin, and he’d even learned to value the smell of clean, fresh air.

  In his earlier life, Gus could never have imagined an existence as pleasant, as luxurious, as comfortable as the one he had created for himself there in the Agharhome of Pax Tharkas. Berta—it was she who had recognized his greatness and proclaimed him highbulp—was a wonderful consort and saw to his needs with selfless devotion. The other Aghar around there more or less left him alone, which is all any oft-persecuted gully dwarf could ask for. If they didn’t seem to recognize him as their lord and master, neither did they try to beat him up or kill him. There was usually enough food to eat and never any Theiwar bunty hunters trying to cut his head off.

  Still, in a quiet corner of his mind (actually, all the corners were pretty quiet, but anyway, when he stopped to think about it) Gus had to admit that, sometimes, it was kind of boring in Pax Tharkas. Yes, boring. Things were getting boring.

  A fellow could eat only so often and get so many foot rubs or back rubs or whatever else rubbed without feeling like he needed to go and do something else. Sometimes he missed Thorbardin’s fabulous lake, the miles and miles of tunnels that he could explore, the massive caves of the food warrens that he could enter if he could manage to sneak past the jealous guards. Pax Tharkas, in contrast, was just, well, there.

  So when the wall of his throne room started to glow with a blue light that was almost certainly magical, Gus was not so much frightened as intrigued and yes, thrilled—though he did take the altogether sensible precaution of pulling Berta in front of him so, if something horrible emerged from the blue light, it would have to eat through her before it got to him. He gaped at the swirling azure image, saw a dark spot, like a deep hole, appear in the middle of the bizarre light, and yelped out loud when he saw something moving around in there.

  A big, fat dwarf appeared in the midst of the swirling blue image, lunging from the wall directly into the highbulp’s throne room with a wild-eyed stare. He was pulling a smaller dwarf by the hand, and almost immediately after that came a dwarf maid, also holding the hand of a child. She looked at Gus and screamed.

  Gus and Berta screamed too.

  Four new dwarves stood in the Aghar throne room, huddled together in a knot, gaping in shock at their surroundings.

  “Where are we?” demanded the fat dwarf, reaching out a hand to try and calm the still screaming dwarf maid.

  “Who you?” demanded Gus, clutching the quivering Berta to his chest as he stared over her shoulder.

  “Agharhome!” Berta screamed, apparently deciding to answer the fat dwarf’s question in a selfish attempt to preserve her own life.

  “Agharhome Pax Tharkas!” Gus shot back. “Where from, you?”

  “Why, we come from Thorbardin,” said the fat traveler smoothly, apparently calmed by the information. “So this is Pax Tharkas, eh? The old crone was telling the truth, it would appear. Where are the other dwarves? The Hylar and such?”

  “Up there,” Gus replied, pointing at the ceiling. Deciding that he was in no immediate danger of assassination, he released Berta, who scrambled away and, for some reason, shot him a hurt look. “Up those steps,” the highb
ulp added, helpfully pointing to the throne room door and the stairwell leading up to the fortress proper. “This way.”

  “Er, yes,” said the traveler, clearing his throat. “Um, thank you, and sorry to startle you.”

  Gus simply shrugged. He was watching the wall where the blue circle with its black hole—a dark passage that looked like a tunnel—was slowly disappearing. The four surprise visitors, who appeared to be normal, if affluent, Hylar, quickly departed through the door, starting up the stairs. It was a minute later that Gus made the connection.

  “Huh,” he said to the still-sulking Berta. He pointed at the place where the magic blue portal had faded.

  “That wall go to Thorbardin!”

  “What is that thing?” demanded King Stonespringer. He and General Ragat stood atop the wall of the royal palace, staring across the wreckage of what had once been the great market plaza of Norbardin. The rebel force, nearly a mile away, had started to advance. At first, it looked as though only the left flank was moving, while the right flank remained in place; there seemed to be a big gap in the center of Willim the Black’s formation, with something unusual filling the gap.

  “I don’t know, sire,” Ragat Kingsaver replied, hoisting his silver shield. He set his feet and braced himself. “It’s certainly no dwarf. I suspect the wizard’s power at work.”

  Indeed, as the enemy swept closer, the unnatural shape that strode at the head of the rebel army came into all too clear a view. It was three or four times taller than any dwarf, twice as tall as a large man. But no part of it was humanoid.

  It was a being of pure black, except for the burning red coals that gleamed like eyes from its face. A pair of jagged wings, like a bat’s, spread behind its shoulders, waving sedately with an air of sinister power, deep and abiding menace. It strode upon taloned feet, and similarly clawed hands curled into fists at its sides. As it walked, it kicked through the debris of crushed benches and stalls, even smashed through an intact herbalist’s shop that had somehow survived the first round of battle.

  To the left of the monster marched one great part of the rebel army. The Black Cross regiment, those of its members who still survived, formed the nearest flank, with its tattered battle pennant proudly raised above the two or three hundred remaining troops of that veteran company. Other units, Hylar and Theiwar and Daergar, spread out to the side of the Black Cross and advanced with the same measured tread as their fellows.

  On the other side of the rebel army, the Klar, marked by their characteristic shouts and blood-curdling whoops, massed and seethed and gestured, shouting challenges and brandishing fists and weapons. Still, even as the main army advanced, the impetuous Klar curiously held their ground, for the time being holding back from the attack.

  “Huh! Why is Willim holding his Klar in reserve?” asked the king skeptically. He doubted there was any way a commander could hold the berserkers back from a good fight for very long.

  “I am puzzled by it,” Ragat replied evenly. “Likely, he doesn’t want them to get too far ahead of the rest of his force, so he’s biding his time before releasing them.”

  “Should we pull the royal army back to the palace?” wondered the king. Mutely he pleaded with his god for wisdom. Why didn’t Reorx show him what to do?

  “There’s no room for them all within the palace grounds, sire. No, we have a good formation here. My advice is to meet them where we stand.”

  As if to prove the truth of his general’s surmise, the enemy commander chose that moment to release the Klar. With an unworldly howl, the mob swept forward in a rush, quickly catching up to the great army that had been marching forward for the past few minutes. At the same time, that army picked up its own pace.

  King Stonespringer clenched his jaw, physically bracing himself for the imminent onslaught. The king saw swords, shields, pikes, and crossbows, all poised for battle as the two lines, each thousands of dwarves strong, swept toward a violent clash.

  Yet it was the black creature at the center of the rebel army that riveted the king’s attention, and it was that monster that started the battle. Those ragged wings spread wide as it took to the air, swooping low above the plaza, straight at the middle of the Royal Division. Those brave and loyal dwarves didn’t waver; instead, they launched a volley of crossbow missiles as soon as the beast approached close enough. Jungor gaped in shock as he saw the bolts pass without effect right through the hulking black body.

  “Is it a ghost?” he asked in mute horror.

  But the monster immediately proved itself all too tangible as it came to ground in the midst of the Royal Division’s first line. It picked up a dwarf in each of its taloned hands and tossed the heavy, armored fighters through the air as though they were children’s toys. The bodies tumbled through the ranks of their comrades like rolling stones, shattering the neat ranks even as their bones were crushed and their flesh bruised into pulp.

  Disciplined veterans formed the front of the division’s line, and many stood fast in the face of the horror, while others, in displays of exceptional courage, rushed forward to strike at the unholy monster. Dwarves stabbed and slashed with their keen steel blades, but the swords merely bounced off the creature’s sinuous black flesh. The minion swept to the right, kicking with a powerful, taloned foot, and those wicked claws raked through the line, leaving three or four dwarves ripped and bleeding in the wake of the strike.

  The dwarves hurled more missiles—arrows and heavy spears—at the creature, but like the first volley, the flying weapons simply soared through the black creature’s body as if the minion were nothing more than smoke. It whirled and charged to the left, clearing out more of Ragat’s frontline warriors and driving the rest of the division back in chaos.

  The rebel dwarves wasted no time in exploiting the breach. Charging Hylar, sprinting on the heels of the minion, slammed hard into the broken line, thrusting and sweeping with long swords. Some of the king’s troops tried to rally, only to be smashed by the minion as it pounced, catlike, right into the midst of the knot of brave fighters. The dwarves tried to stumble away from the lethal swiping talons and snapping jaws, only to fall victim to the Hylar skirmishers who relentlessly continued to press forward.

  The rest of the rebel force came on quickly, snapping the cohesion of the royal line in many places. The heavy infantry of the Black Cross regiment, clearly desiring to avenge so many fallen comrades, smashed into the line with such momentum that the defending dwarves could only stagger backward in a daze. Here and there the shield line broke, and hulking Daergar axemen thrust themselves into any fresh gap. They hacked and chopped in every direction, splitting shields and smashing helmets, acting with such fury that the king’s troops had no choice but to mount constant counterattacks—and each new gap or melee pulled more strength from the once-impenetrable shield wall.

  Then the howling Klar struck the juncture of the regular and militia lines, doing so with such force and frenzy that the defenders, those who didn’t instantly flee headlong from the maniacal berserkers, were simply cut down on the spot. Whooping with shrill cries of triumph, the Klar sprang after the fleeing dwarves, leaping on their backs and bearing them to the ground, where they were summarily dispatched with bloody hacks and crushing blows. The surge of battle was a continuous thunder.

  “You men of the Echo company, stand firm there!” shouted the general to one group. General Ragat marched back and forth on the wall above and behind his troops, exhorting them to greater courage, challenging them when they began to waver. “Hold, dwarves! Gainer, look to your left!”

  The king watched it all, clutching his scepter, feeling his heart pounding against his ribs. Ragat’s movements had become more urgent, his voice cracking and hoarse as the pressure swelled. A company of young spearmen suddenly broke and ran; another formation of axemen was overwhelmed by the intensity of the enemy attack.

  The monster seemed to be everywhere, pouncing upon helpless dwarves, using its wings to carry it along the line, rending with talo
ns, and biting with its terrible jaws. Trailing blood from every limb, it flew up, threw back its horrid head, and uttered an earthshaking howl.

  Even the most steadfast of the king’s troops quailed in the face of the unnatural horror. Ragat shouted in vain, trying to stem the growing tide of fear, but even to Jungor Stonespringer it was obvious that his royal troops were breaking in too many places to reverse the tide. Frenzied Klar scrambled over the dead bodies of their foes. The Black Cross survivors, seeking vengeance, burst through a narrow gap in the defense, and a hundred Hylar skirmishers spilled after them, savagely expanding the breach.

  “Fall back! Retreat to the palace!” General Ragat finally ordered when the line had been shattered in too many places to count.

  The troops of the Royal Division and the hordes of loyal militia dwarves started running for the open gates. A great throng backed up at the entry as the panicked dwarves struggled to get through, to enter the imagined safety of the palace. Others, seeing the bottleneck, turned and fled from the plaza into other escape routes, running down the many streets that led into the crowded quarters of Norbardin.

  And the rebel wave came on.

  “So when can we do it again?” Peat asked, scooping the diamonds he had just counted—for about the twentieth time—off the worktable and into a small, sturdy lockbox. He turned the key to secure the little chest and muttered a spell of sealing as he touched the lid. That secured the gems against any lock-picking thief, and the box would stay that way until he got the urge to count the stones again.

  “I thought you couldn’t wait until we got out of here ourselves,” his wife replied tartly.

  “What? Now? No! This is the business chance of our lifetime. Why, we made more steel from that Hylar than we have in twenty years of peddling potions and gadgets!” Peat beamed, thinking of all that treasure in gemstones; he knew there was more, much more, to be made. “So when can we do it again?” he repeated.