At first the neophytes wriggled like snakes or slugs, but by the time they reached the connecting tunnels, they had stretched their legs away from their segmented bodies, standing shakily and starting to crawl.
The massive, bloated shape of the queen occupied her place in the center of the hive, and she steadily created more eggs, spewing them from her swollen abdomen onto the ever-growing pile. Resting atop the eggs, she had been steadily lifted over the recent years, until her bulbous body lay very near the ceiling of the large chamber. But still she ate, and still she produced many eggs.
Her soldiers had been feeding her well, lately, bringing warm, bloody morsels of dwarf meat that the queen greedily consumed. She was not introspective, probably not even capable of that which is called “reflection,” but she perceived that the space around the hive was expanding and that her soldiers were venturing farther and farther afield, finding new sources of food, bringing that food to her so she could birth more soldiers.
The horax were timeless beings; they had dwelled in that cavern since the Age of Dreams. Once they had been small in number, the offspring of the very first queen, until the dwarves had come there. Then began the reign of the second queen, and the horax had swarmed steadily upward, feasting, thriving, growing, until the dwarves had blocked them off and sealed the tunnels, preventing the hive from spreading.
But at this moment, in the reign of the third queen, some of those tunnels had been opened again—not by the horax, who could not dig through solid rock, but by some other unknown force. The bugs had been quick to exploit those openings, and her soldiers roamed and explored, claiming unprecedented prey, bringing to themselves and to their queen a greater supply of food. They were horax; they did not question the nature or motives of their benefactor, one that clearly wanted the swarm to expand, to reach out …
To kill and eat more dwarves.
Outside of the Cracked Mug, the street seemed much busier than it had when they’d first arrived. “Changing shifts at the mill, I think,” Brandon guessed, judging from the dusty cloaks on many of the dwarves moving to and fro. He pulled his robe over his shoulders, using the hood to conceal his face, and led Gretchan and Kondike down the street and around the corner. He felt a lump in his throat as he approached the front door of his beloved house, from which he had fled a year and a half earlier.
Before he could knock, however, the portal opened and he stepped inside into the frantic embrace of his mother, Karine Bluestone. Gretchan and the dog quickly followed, and his father, after a nervous glance up and down the street, quickly shut the door.
Brandon extricated himself from his mother’s embrace to introduce his companion. He noted at once the expression of concern, even anger, on Garren Bluestone’s face.
“Why did you come back here?” his father asked finally. “Do you know what they want to do to you?”
“I got some idea at the outer gate!” Brandon retorted. “If Gretchan hadn’t worked her magic, I’d be in chains already.”
“Magic?” Karine asked, wide eyed. She took in Gretchan’s ruddy skin, her golden hair, and the tall staff she held in her hand. “You don’t look like a Theiwar …”
“I’m Daewar,” Gretchan replied smoothly. “And I’m a priestess of Reorx. Not a wizard.”
“Oh, well, yes, of course,” stammered Brandon’s mother, unclear about the distinction. “But you saved my son from the guards. We owe you quite a bit.”
“That’s not the half of it,” Brand said. “She broke me out of a dungeon in Pax Tharkas and won a war against the hill dwarves after Harn Poleaxe tried to kill me.” He shot his father an accusing look.
“Harn? My old friend?” gasped Garren Bluestone.
“I think we have a lot of catching up to do,” Karine interjected smoothly. “Why don’t you all sit down, and I’ll pour us some drinks. And, um, Gretchan: it’s terribly nice to meet you.”
“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 t
he 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.
The Heir of Kayolin Page 16
