The Heir of Kayolin

by Douglas Niles

  TWENTY

  EMPTY THRONES

  Unlike his last appearance at Regar Smashfingers’s court, when he and his father had quietly entered amid a large group of casual observers, Brandon strode forward at the head of a retinue of noisy well-wishers. Some were neighbors who’d been with him since he’d passed the Cracked Mug, while others were those who had joined as he’d climbed the long ramps to the noble level. The Enforcers who had brought him the invitation, interestingly enough, had melted away during the climb. Once again, however, he spotted some of the redcoats of the Garnet Guards. One burly veteran hoisted a mug to Brandon and winked broadly as he strode past.

  The governor’s palace occupied the highest level of Garnet Thax. Two stout gates, standing open, greeted those who climbed to that lofty height. The entry led directly into the throne room, a long, rectangular chamber with the ruler’s seat at the far end. Both sides and the far end of the room were crowned with balconies, which rose twenty feet higher than the floor. They were galleries for citizens and observers, and Brandon’s first glance into the huge chamber showed him that those vantages were lined two or three deep with interested dwarves who had rushed there at the rumors of a confrontation between Brandon Bluestone and Regar Smashfingers.

  As he stepped into the palace, he was greeted by saluting guards in black capes who stepped back, forming an aisle that directed him down a ramp toward the floor of the throne room. The last time he had looked at that room, he was an observer watching from the balcony that surrounded the large chamber. As he glanced at all those dwarves who reminded him of his previous experience with the room, he walked proudly toward the great seat upon which sat the dwarf who had the temerity to call himself king.

  Brandon wore his axe slung over his back. He still carried the Torc of the Forge in his belt pouch, having decided over Gretchan’s objections that he might need it. The royal guards didn’t ask him to hand over his weapon anyway, though a pair of big spear carriers walked forward with him. They looked like an honor guard, but he knew they’d be ready to act against him if he made some aggressive action toward the king.

  They didn’t need to worry. Brandon was there to learn and evaluate, not to do anything foolhardy. He looked around, noticed lots of smiling faces, and recognized some of the attending dwarves—including one young noblewoman, Rona Darkwater, who had been one of Brand’s lovers, once upon a time. She blew him a kiss, and he blushed.

  Still looking around, Brandon was surprised but not displeased to see that neither Lord Alakar Heelspur nor his son was present. That was good; he wasn’t sure he could have controlled his temper in the presence of the dwarves who had arranged his brother’s murder and his father’s imprisonment and coerced confession.

  Several well-dressed courtiers stood flanking the throne, their silk shirts and colorful cravats at odds with the more common, workmanlike garb typical of Kayolin’s citizenry.

  Regar Smashfingers sat up straight in his great stone chair then leaned forward as Brandon advanced. The king had a broad face and an unusually large nose, with a tip that hooked downward, not unlike the beak of a hawk.

  “Presenting Brandon Bluestone, sire!” declared one of the guards, thumping the butt of his spear against the floor.

  “So you are the hero who warned us about the horax attack—and then, apparently single-handedly, sent a hundred of the bugs tumbling into the Atrium?” said Smashfingers with every appearance of graciousness. He looked Brandon up and down, smiling with a broad display of white teeth.

  “I don’t know about the hero stuff,” Brandon said with genuine modesty. “And it was certainly less than a hundred of them that fell to my attack. I was fighting for my life and the life of my companion. I did what any other Kayolin dwarf would have done.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed—probably because Brand had intentionally avoided using any honorific title—but he merely nodded thoughtfully, as if digesting the information.

  “Unusual, isn’t it, to find the scum so high in the mountain—right up to the deep-levels, aren’t they?”

  “I’ve never heard of them there in my lifetime,” Brandon admitted, thinking: Was it you who ordered the walls knocked down? He wanted to ask the question aloud, but—acting on Gretchan’s wise counsel—decided it was not the time to confront the king on that issue. “They seem to have found some new ways out of their hives,” he settled for saying.

  Smashfingers sat up straight again and spoke in a loud, clear voice to all the dwarves in the throne room as well as those on the ring of the surrounding gallery. “Let it be known to all that Brandon Bluestone is a true hero of the realm! He is to be treated with the honor appropriate to his deeds, and I hereby award him a bounty of a thousand platinum pieces for his service to Kayolin!”

  The gathered dwarves cheered wildly. Brandon felt a little stunned by the turn of events. The bounty, he was pretty certain, more than doubled his family’s net worth, but it wasn’t coin he was after. As the applause and shouting faded down, he bowed and decided to speak boldly.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. “That is a generous reward. I hope you don’t find it inappropriate for me to ask an additional favor at this time.”

  Once again the king’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but he concealed his displeasure with a broad smile, leaning back in his throne and waving expansively. “Ask away!” he declared.

  “My father has been taken into custody by the League of Enforcers. The charges against him are false, but a confession was extracted from him when Baracan Heelspur threatened to harm my mother if my father would not sign a false document. He signed the false confession to spare her, of course, as any honorable dwarf would do. I ask, my lord, that the confession be discarded and my father released.”

  “This is most unfortunate!” Regar Smashfingers declared with every appearance of sympathy. His eyes were wide, his expression guileless, though his hands gripped the arms of his throne so firmly that his knuckles whitened. “What is his name, your father?” he added innocently.

  You know very well! Brandon’s mind screamed. Once again, he bit back the words he wanted to say. Instead, he replied. “His name is Garren Bluestone. He’s the patriarch of House Bluestone—all that’s left of us, in any event.”

  Brandon watched the ruler carefully, certain that he recalled every detail of their confrontation less than two years before, when the younger Bluestone had accused the king’s strongest support, Alakar Heelspur, of murder and thievery. Yet somehow Regar Smashfingers masked any sign of recognizing the past.

  “The name is not familiar to me,” said the king with breathtaking effrontery, managing to look puzzled. He gestured to a scribe, a young dwarf seated behind the throne who had been taking notes. “Write that name down. I shall check on the prisoner’s status.”

  Puzzled, Brandon nodded his thanks, bowed stiffly, and backed away from the king’s throne. Thinking it over, he was not surprised that he hadn’t immediately obtained his father’s release. In fact, he was reasonably satisfied with the course of the interview. He understood that he and Regar Smashfingers had taken each other’s measure, and Brandon Bluestone sensed—to his astonishment—that the ruler of Kayolin was afraid of him.

  “These are the spies, my lord,” General Ragat reported, saluting King Stonespringer in his throne room. The monarch had been pacing back and forth in agitation, but he stopped to stare at the new, pathetic arrivals with his one intense, shining eye. “Peat and Sadie Guilder, sire. They operate a shop that sells components for magic-users, with potions and elixirs, that sort of thing, for sale.”

  King Stonespringer regarded the two Theiwar. With their arms thoroughly bound and mouths gagged, they were not terribly impressive. Both were elderly, the male stooped and thin-haired, the female wrinkled and even smaller than her mate. Each was closely trailed by a strapping guard, a Hylar, who held tightly to a rope lashed around the prisoners’ wrists. The two Theiwar stared at him with eyes that bulged almost comically over their tigh
t gags.

  “I see you have taken precautions so that they cannot wield magic,” Stonespringer said approvingly.

  Ragat nodded. “We took them by surprise, sire. I considered cutting out their tongues and amputating their fingers, for more permanent hindrance, but I decided such actions should be your decision, not mine. So the gags and bonds will suffice, for now.”

  “Indeed,” Jungor said with a bark of laughter. “Tongueless spies might be difficult to interrogate.” The king waved toward the door, where another dwarf, a Hylar, stood watching the proceedings with interest. “Who is this other one?” demanded the monarch.

  Ragat gestured to the other dwarf, who stepped proudly forward from the shadows of the doorway. “This is Abercrumb, the silversmith who discovered the Theiwar spy ring. He has been one of my trusted agents for a number of years. He observed suspicious activity around the Guilders’ shop and came to inform me of his findings during the midst of the recent battle. I can testify he is brave and loyal, sire.”

  Jungor looked him over with an expression of distaste. “I don’t care for silver,” he said, waving his fingers. “Send him away!”

  Abercrumb’s eyes widened—he clearly hadn’t been expecting such a curt dismissal—but a hands-down gesture from Ragat caused him to hold his tongue. Instead, he merely bowed and swiftly backed out of the room, leaving Ragat, the king, the two Theiwar prisoners, and their brace of guards.

  General Ragat turned back, watching his king nervously. Stonespringer paced around the throne room, bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet, swiftly turning to one side, taking a few steps, then spinning back to move the other way. He glanced at Ragat, looked over the spies, but didn’t seem capable of studying anyone or anything. His golden eye glowed with an unnatural gleam, while his other eyelid blinked repeatedly.

  Ragat cleared his throat and stepped up to the king, gently ushering him to the far side of the large room, out of earshot of the captives and the guards.

  “Do you wish to speak to the prisoners separately, sire?” Ragat asked quietly. “By all accounts and appearances, they are a devoted couple. We could use one to leverage information from the other.”

  “Send them to the dungeon!” Stonespringer said suddenly, waving the spies away. “I have more important matters to attend!”

  Ragat hesitated, surprised. But the king’s intense expression did not invite disagreement, so the general nodded and turned to his guards. “Put them in the first cell, where they can he heard from the ward room if they try any mischief. Make sure that they remain gagged. And I want a man posted outside the door at all times.”

  “Aye, General,” replied one of the Hylar. Tugging none too gently on the ropes, they led the two hapless prisoners away.

  “Come with me!” the king ordered his general as soon as the door closed behind the departing captives and their escorting guards.

  Ragat followed the monarch through the great throne room and into an adjacent hall. Several dwarves in shiny armor snapped to attention as the king and the general came through the door; the two leaders ignored them as Stonespringer ushered the general into a private receiving room and stopped at a sturdy, locked door. One guard, bearing a long-hafted axe, stood at attention.

  “You are dismissed,” the king told him. “Leave the palace now, and do not return until tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sire!” the dwarf replied, clapping his fist to his chest in salute before marching stiffly away, the long pole of the axe perched stiffly on his shoulder.

  Jungor watched the fellow go. After he had departed, the king went over to the outer door, opened it to peek out, then closed and locked it. “I have something to show you,” he told the general. He laughed, almost giggling, and Ragat felt a growing prickle of alarm.

  Stonespringer produced from beneath his robe a key that dangled from a leather thong around the king’s neck. Once again he looked around, as if afraid that someone might have magically teleported into the room with them. Finally satisfied, he inserted the key into the lock on the small, stout door.

  “Take the lantern off the desk,” he ordered.

  Ragat took up the oil lamp and touched a spark to the wick while Jungor pushed the portal open with a creaking of rusty hinges. The king gestured for the general to follow him into the darkened room. The chamber was small and contained several chests secured with chains and heavy locks. Ragat had not known the place existed and found himself wondering what sorts of treasures his ruler had been concealing there.

  Stonespringer went over to the smallest chest, knelt, and used a second key to open the lid. He pulled out an apparently heavy object wrapped in a small leather cloth. Clutching it to his chest, he led the general back into the office, where he placed the treasure on the desk with obvious reverence and care.

  Ragat found himself holding his breath, waiting to see what his monarch was going to reveal. Slowly, drawing out the drama, Jungor Stonespringer unfolded first one corner, then another, from the wrapping. Finally he revealed a wedge of stone, perhaps a foot long, four inches wide at one end, tapering to a moderately sharp edge at the other. The piece of rock was red in color—not translucent and sparkling like ruby, but more like it had somehow been painted with fresh blood.

  “Look!” said the king. “It has been glowing like this, since I prayed to the Master of the Forge!”

  Ragat leaned in closer and saw that, indeed, the stone bore a faint aura of phosphorescence. Still, it was barely noticeable, certainly not the sort of thing that should have inspired the reverence and awe with which the king regarded the red stone.

  “What is it?” asked the general hesitantly.

  “It is the treasure of Thorbardin’s kings,” said Stonespringer. His one eye was glowing with much more brightness than the stone. “It has been locked up and secured for generations, for centuries. But when it began to glow, I recognized it for what it truly is!”

  Ragat waited for his king to expound. He looked more closely at the wedge of rock, not at all certain that he could discern any kind of glow emanating there.

  “Can you not see? It is the eye of Reorx!” crowed the king. “And through it he makes known his love for me and his desire for my triumph. Look!” He pointed gleefully, his eye flashing, his mouth locked into a twisted grin.

  “He loves me!” he crowed. Again he laughed, the sound a shrill, even giddy, cackle.

  The general nodded solemnly, not trusting himself to speak. How, in any event, did a loyal soldier such as himself speak the truth that was apparent. For Ragat knew, beyond any doubt, that Jungor Stonespringer was utterly, completely insane.

  Brandon made his way back down the midlevels, lost in contemplation. He was moderately relieved by the fact that, finally, he was not accompanied by a parade of well-wishers. He needed some time alone to gather his thoughts.

  However, he was surprised to hear someone with a heavy footstep come hurrying up beside him. He looked up to see one of the strapping members of the Garnet Guards who had winked at him on his way up to see Regar Smashfingers.

  “Hello,” he said, taken in by the fellow’s broad grin.

  “Hello yourself,” said the redcoat. “I wonder if you’d do me the honor of letting me buy you a drink.”

  “Well, thanks,” said Brandon, thinking of Gretchan and his mother waiting back at home for his report. “But I’d really best be getting back—”

  “Ah, the womenfolk are keeping themselves busy, mark my words,” said the soldier. “And trust me, this might be the most important drink you have all day.”

  Intrigued, Brandon agreed, and the redcoat—who introduced himself as Maxxer Dare, ushered him through an unmarked door that turned out to reveal a cozy inn. A dozen more redcoats sat around the room, enjoying the radiance from a fireplace overflowing with ashes and glowing coals. A one-armed bartender, white haired and cheerful, stood behind a dark wooden counter.

  “Garry, a draught of your best for the Horax Hero here,” Maxxer said with no trace of iron
y. He led Brandon to a table where, moments later, Garry brought them two tall mugs overflowing with creamy foam.

  “Well, thanks, friend,” Brandon said as they touched mugs and proceeded to soak their mustaches in the cool, bitter ale.

  No sooner had he set the heavy mug down than another redcoat, older and stouter than Maxxer, pulled up a chair to sit with them. The newcomer looked somewhat familiar to Brandon, and he chuckled at young Bluestone’s quizzical expression.

  “Yep, lad. I knew your grandfather quite well.” The fellow nodded at Brandon’s shiny-bladed weapon. “He bore that axe with pride and honor. I know it’d warm his heart to learn that you’re doing the same.”

  “Well, thank you … General Watchler, right?”

  “The same,” replied the old commander. His tunic was clean and bright red like those of his men, though it was not distinguished by any mark of rank. Maxxer Dare grinned, looking at both the other two dwarves with obvious affection.

  “Thanks for the drink,” Brandon said. “Um, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Just think of it as a friendly chance to get acquainted,” said the general. “I think we both have something very important in common.”

  “And that would be …?” Brandon let the question linger in the air.

  “Well, I think we share a rather powerful enemy,” said General Watchler. “And in my experience—and your grandfather’s—I would guess that that fact makes us friends.”

  Brandon nodded and lifted his mug again. “I’ll drink to that,” he agreed.

  Gretchan Pax and Karine Bluestone were finding plenty to keep them busy while Brandon was away to see Regar Smashfingers. The pair met up with Bondall in the back room at the Cracked Mug. Brandon had spoken to his old friend before heading up to the palace, and she had arranged for a number of other dwarf maids, many of whom remembered Brandon fondly, to join them for a little meeting.