They were all interested in the pair’s experience down in the horax den and reacted with surprise and horror when Gretchan told them that the walls protecting Kayolin from the bug monsters had been destroyed, obviously by dwarves.
“Who would do such a thing?” asked one breathless dwarf maid, the bartender who worked with Bondall. Gretchan had learned that her name was Fiona Shaveblade.
The priestess shrugged. “Who has anything to gain?” she asked. “You tell me. Is anyone using the menace of the horax to further their own position?”
The females exchanged knowing glances. “Smashfingers!” exclaimed one older matron. “That was one of his excuses for putting himself on the throne.”
“Would he really expose the people of his own nation to a threat like that?” asked another, shaking her head in dismay.
“Who lives and works in the deep-levels?” Gretchan said firmly. “Those are the ones who are placed in danger. And I’d wager they’re not the friends and associates of Regar Smashfingers.”
“No, they’re not,” Bondall said. “And I think this makes it pretty clear how much—or how little—he cares about them.”
The other women exchanged looks of horror and disgust, and Gretchan was satisfied that the news, as well as gossip and speculation about its cause, would soon be percolating throughout Garnet Thax. She was about to proceed with a more important discussion when a knock sounded at the door and another dwarf maid entered. She was cloaked and hooded so that only a shadowy glimpse of her face was visible, but she removed the outer garment to reveal herself as light-haired beauty dressed in a long gown of red satin. Jeweled rings sparkled on her fingers.
“Ah, Rona, I’m glad you could make it,” Karine Bluestone said, quickly rising and ushering the newcomer to a seat at the crowded table. “This is Rona Darkwater,” she added to the others. “I knew she was an old, um, friend of my son’s. Her clan is one of nobility, but she was most concerned when Brandon had to leave the city last year. I thought she might be interested in joining our discussion today. It turns out that she has been fending off some unwanted attentions from Baracan Heelspur.”
“Glad to meet you,” Gretchan said. “We have that in common; we’re all trying to avoid attention from the Heelspurs.”
Rona laughed wryly at that and quickly joined in the conversation. “Well, his attention has its advantages.
The young lord is quite the boaster, and he seems to think he can impress me by bragging about the trouble he and his Enforcers cause. I was able to warn a couple members of the Garnet Guards that they were going to be arrested. My warning gave them enough notice to go into hiding, for the time being.”
They spent some time talking about the League of Enforcers, who were universally despised. “What did you learn when you were in their headquarters?” the priestess asked Karine Bluestone.
“They were very happy to have an excuse to arrest Garren. Baracan Heelspur accused him of leading the ‘Bluestone Faction,’ which neither my husband nor myself have ever heard of. But the Enforcers seemed to be very worried about it.”
“The Bluestone Faction?” Gretchan mused. “Did he say what he thinks the Bluestone Faction is?”
“Not specifically,” Karine said. “But he has reason to remember our name. My son Nailer was killed on Lord Heelspur’s orders, to enrich his clan, and Regar Smashfingers benefited as well. Perhaps he fears that our resistance is more organized than it really is.”
“Well, that’s about to change, isn’t it?” Gretchan said staunchly. “From this moment forward, I suggest that the Bluestone Faction is real.”
With a clinking of mugs, they toasted the inauguration of the movement.
“But what can we do, really?” asked Fiona worriedly.
“We can tell the truth,” the priestess replied firmly. “Tell it loudly and often. Make sure that the dwarves of Kayolin know what kind of leader is trying to set himself up as their king.”
“Yes!” Rona echoed. “The kind of dwarf who would disband a loyal regiment like the Garnet Guards. Who would knowingly let the horax loose upon his citizens. And who would try to frame a good man like Garren Bluestone just to shut him up. Not to mention, chasing his son and Gretchan down into the depths of the Atrium.”
“How did you and Brandon find yourselves down in the horax hive in the first place?” asked a young woman.
Gretchan told them all about her and Brandon’s return to Kayolin and made sure that the women knew about the role the League of Enforcers had played in forcing them to flee down into the Atrium in the first place. By the time she was finished, she could see the expressions of outrage and determination on the faces of all the dwarf maids.
As a last order of business, she talked a bit about the history of the dwarven nations, leaving them with the reminder that, for all of dwarfkind, the only historic throne had been in Thorbardin.
“The throne is in Thorbardin,” Bondall repeated, nodding. “And that’s the way it should remain.”
TWENTY-ONE
THE SECOND CHAOS WAR
Willim and Facet flew after the fire dragon, twin flying spells carrying them through the tunnel carved by Gorathian as the monster sliced its way through the rock walls enclosing the wizard’s laboratory. The wizard had cast his spell upon himself but also upon the female, so she could fly on her own and did not depend on his touch to stay in the air. Facet sensed that her master was focused on something besides herself, and she fought against the fear that that knowledge provoked.
Onward they went, wind slashing their faces as they used the enchantment to fly with the utmost speed and balance. The flaming serpent had burned through the solid stone wall that had long before sealed the chamber from the rest of Thorbardin. When the two wizards flew through the hole created by the dragon, Facet winced against the lingering heat that would have blistered her skin had she not been moving so fast.
The female dwarf at her master and saw his eyeless, scarred face creased with concentration. Was it possible that he could lose control of the monster, the beast he had tended and protected—and imprisoned—for so long? She couldn’t believe that. To her, Willim the Black was capable of anything but error and defeat. His great power had lured her to him, made certain she would continue to serve him as an apprentice, as a female, even as a slave if that was what he desired. He was her key to power, to that which she craved above all else, and she would do everything she could to learn that power.
Did he even suspect how much initiative she had taken? She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be sure. So many times she had taken liberties, done things that the wizard did not suspect, and that secret knowledge thrilled her even as it terrified her. She had arranged Gypsum’s death, of course; she’d really had no choice since until that moment Gypsum had been her master’s favorite apprentice. That was a situation Facet could no longer tolerate. She herself was growing closer to the black wizard, to her source of power and influence. But she had to be careful!
The magic of the flying spell buoyed them and propelled them along, though the powerful wizard seemed to be moving faster than his apprentice. Facet applied every ounce of her strength and ability to the task, but even so, she was dropping behind the speeding black-robed mage. She wanted to call out but, knowing his temper and his impatience, dared not. Instead, she focused her energy and flew. Magic pulsed in her veins, and she held her hands before her to steer, exulting in the wind sweeping past, tearing at her robe, coursing through her hair. She strained for speed, but his dark form still pulled away from her.
They soared up the great tunnel that had once been intended to connect the new council of thanes to the great city of Norbardin. That road was unused since the chamber that had been excavated for the council had been sealed off completely once the menace of Gorathian had been discovered there. Willim had always cherished the joke: that the work of the king’s own excavators had created for him the perfect lair. Then the royal masons had secured the privacy of his laboratory by b
uilding the supposedly-impermeable wall to seal it off from the city proper.
Impermeable, that was, until the fire dragon had torn through it as though it were smoke. That barrier was far behind the wizards as they flew over the gatehouse and into Norbardin itself. Facet was awestruck by the scene of violence and chaos that met her eyes. The battles of the civil war had been one thing, with all the killing and the destruction, the magical and mortal devastation wrought upon the city.
But the assault of the fire dragon, commencing just minutes earlier, was something else entirely. Gorathian swept low over the plaza, the heat of its passage igniting the corpses still strewn there and burning the rubble and debris left from the wrecked stalls and shops of the once-thriving market. Hundreds of dwarves still survived in that place, the remnants of two armies. They no longer did battle but had been hunkering in their camps, nursing wounded and waiting for the blinded to recover their sight.
When Gorathian burst into the city and flew above the great square, dwarves of both armies fled from the fiery serpent, and those who moved too slowly were incinerated as the monster passed. The remaining dwarves took shelter in holes and craters, trembled within buildings, or fled down the adjacent streets leading into Norbardin’s maze. Some of the blinded cowered in the open, unable to see, sensing doom swirling around them. The luckiest of those were led to safety by sighted companions; others could only quail and huddle, hopeless in the face of flaming death.
Willim soared ahead of his apprentice, raising his hands, casting spells to try to restrain, control, and guide the flight of the fire dragon. But Facet could see that the creature was attacking dwarves of both the king’s and the wizard’s armies, appearing to make no distinction as it burned and killed.
Willim screamed, his words barely intelligible above all the commotion:
“To the palace! Go, my pet! Strike the palace of the king!”
The fire dragon seemed at last to hear. The monster spread its wings, each trailing sparks that tumbled to the ground and incinerated anything flammable below. It soared up to the lofty ceiling that spread its dome over the whole of the great city.
Finally, it veered to one side, banking through a spiraling turn to dive at the palace of King Jungor Stonespringer.
Gus and his two lady friends had been hiding in Norbardin for many days. Every time they came around a corner, they encountered more soldiers, and it didn’t matter to which army they belonged: the soldiers invariably struck out at the miserable Aghar with curses, kicks, and blows of sharp weapons, even loosing an arrow or crossbow bolt in their direction if the gully dwarves were too slow to run away.
They had made their way across the great square, skulking through the ruins of the stalls and shops that had been destroyed in the waves of battle. Here and there they found enough crumbs and morsels of food—once, even, a whole loaf of bread pinned underneath a broken countertop!—for them to survive. But every moment was fraught with danger, and to make matters even worse, the two females couldn’t seem to decide if they were jealous of Gus’s affections and, thus, angry at each other or if both of them were angry at Gus and, therefore, united in their contempt and disdain. Either way, they weren’t making his life any easier!
Currently the three gully dwarves were sidling along the shattered wall of one of the terraces near the king’s palace, staying in the shadowy niche at the base of the rampart. One by one they scuttled over the loose rocks, ducking into first one hole then the next. Nervously, Gus peeked over the rim of the crater and saw that they faced a good distance—at least two steps—before they could reach the next potential hiding place.
“Go first,” he said to Berta hopefully, gesturing toward a darkened doorway that was their next objective.
“You no boss!” Berta told him. “You go first!”
“Yeah! Bluphsplunging doofar Gus go first!” Slooshy chimed in. In a remarkable display of coordination, the two females reached down, each taking one of Gus’s feet, and hoisted him bodily out of their hidey-hole.
Sprawled unceremoniously on the open flagstones of the square, he clapped his hands over his head and waited for the blow that might come from any direction. Only after counting two heartbeats with no attack forthcoming did he risk peering through his fingers for a look around.
He yelped at the sight of a big soldier dwarf sitting against the base of the wall nearby then gulped in relief as he saw the arrow jutting from the fellow’s breastplate. He noted the lack of any movement or any other sign of vitality. A careful sniff confirmed that the soldier was indeed dead and had, in fact, been so for a long time—two days at least.
Seeing no sign of any living dwarf, Gus stood up and dusted himself off. Sneering back at the two females, who peered nervously up at him from their hiding place, he did his best impression of a swagger as he started toward the next dark shelter in their haphazard course across the square.
But then he felt the ground shake under his feet and heard a booming crash of sound explode through the city. So he dived right back into the hole, knocking the two dwarf maids down.
“Look out!” squawked Berta, hauling back a grubby fist.
The blow never landed. Instead, she gaped in horror at something behind Gus, who quickly scrambled around to get a look for himself.
They saw a fiery explosion tear through a rampart in the middle of the square, sending stones and dwarves flying in all directions. Noise roared through the vast cavern, forcing the Aghar to clap their hands over their ears. Fire and smoke churned in the middle of the wreckage, while screaming dwarves tumbled through the air, slamming into the ground with brutal finality. Gus gaped in slack-jawed horror, staring at the immense force, the shocking destruction all around them. Black smoke swirled, thick and choking, and at first they couldn’t even see what was causing the damaging violence.
Then a massive, burning dragon swept out of the murk, wings spreading as it soared overhead. Gus felt his guts turn to water, and when he tried to talk, he could only gibber incoherently. Helpless, paralyzed, he stared upward at the nightmarish image. The dragon swept high above them then dived, right toward the wall of the king’s palace. The monster smashed into that barrier, and a great tumble of rocks and bricks pounded the ground, many bouncing into the hole where the three Aghar huddled. One big stone conked Gus right on the head, knocking him down and leaving him groggy. He came to and found two pairs of hands tugging him, one set on each of his arms.
“I help highbulp!” Berta was declaring, pulling Gus to the right. “Go ’way, you bluphsplunging tramp!”
“No! I saw first! I help him!” Slooshy challenged, pulling Gus to the left.
With a wrenching tug, the highbulp pulled his hands free, sending both of the females tumbling into the rubble. Groggily, Gus stood, looking around to see what had clobbered him. Smoke swirled thickly, but through that black murk, he could see shimmering patches of liquid, fiery skin, and he caught a glimpse of the cavernous maw of the terrible creature, looming far above, opening to spew a great column of flame, fire so hot that it melted the stones of the palace wall as though they were made of butter.
“Help!” he squawked. “Run! Hide!”
He tried to follow his own advice but found that his limbs still wouldn’t respond. Instead, he could only sway, supported by his companions, as he stared up and saw that the fiery monster had smashed a hole right through the wall of the royal palace.
Then, even worse, he saw the black wizard, with his unforgettable stitched, eyeless sockets, flying right toward him. The same wizard who had tried to kill him so long ago. His dread nemesis. A worse nemesis, even, than the dragon.
In that moment of sheer panic, Gus found his strength. He hopped out of the hole and sprinted after the dragon, through the hole in the palace wall—and away from the wizard.
“It’s the eye of Reorx! Can’t you see that?” demanded the king, holding the wedge of red stone over his head, admiring the smooth block with madness gleaming in his eye.
�
��But … but, my liege, how can that be an eye?” Ragat asked, finally unable to mask his alarm at the king’s deranged behavior. “It looks like a hammerhead, or perhaps a wedge. But an eye?”
Even as his question lingered in the air, unanswered, Jungor Stonespringer and Ragat Kingsaver heard screams of terror and alarm from within the castle. The general started toward the door but fell hard when the room, the whole palace, was jarred by a powerful shock. Debris rained down upon him as the ceiling collapsed, heavy stones and beams slamming down to block his path. A massive slab of rock bounced just inches from his head.
It felt as though the end of the world were upon them. Fire blossomed through the room, and King Stonespringer screamed, dropping the red stone and throwing his arms over his head. The outer square echoed with screams as smoke clogged Ragat’s nose and masked his vision.
“My king! Where are you?” he called out.
“Here!” Stonespringer replied weakly. Ragat crawled to the monarch, found both of his hands, and pulled him to his feet.
“Follow me!” he said, forgetting formality as he tugged his ruler toward the gap that had opened in the wall of the room.
Jungor Stonespringer and General Ragat clawed through the wreckage of the fallen ceiling, emerging onto the palace rampart in time to see a blazing, serpentine image sweep through the air. One infernal wing touched the tower of the king’s prayer tower, and it seemed to slice through the stone like a feather. The upper portion of the tower swayed and tumbled, carrying a dozen dwarves to their deaths, while the lower portion stood like a tree stump, an irregular gash marking the place where it had been sliced asunder.
Everywhere in the city, fires burned, and the air thickened with smoke. Hundreds of dwarves coughed and choked, struggling to see. When they did regain their sight, the appearance of the fire dragon was so terrible that most simply turned and fled, dropping their weapons in fright.
“Open the gates!” cried one terrified centurion. “Open the kingdom! Let us flee Thorbardin!”
The Heir of Kayolin Page 26
