Sadie looked at Peat, who could only shrug helplessly.
“Perhaps you stole it from your master,” the black wizard suggested. “From he who established you in your store here in Norbardin, who cared for you and trained you, provided for your needs … all the while asking for so little in return.”
“Please, Master …” Sadie’s voice was a croaking whisper.
“Silence!” barked Willim the Black. He snapped his fingers, and even though Sadie’s nearly toothless mouth continued to flex, no sound came from her. Peat yelped, or tried to yelp, but his own voice was also swallowed within the cloak of the wizard’s muzzling spell.
“Ah, that’s better,” said Willim, leaning back and propping his feet on one of the workbenches. “It’s so much better when one doesn’t have to listen to lies. Especially the lies of formerly trusted, lowly underlings. I’m sure you’d agree, wouldn’t you? That is, if I allowed either of you to talk.”
The wizard made a show of emitting an elaborate sigh. Leaning back his head, he called out. “Facet, my dear. Won’t you come in here now?”
The two Guilders stared in apprehension as the shapely young magic-user, her black robe swirling easily as she moved with uncanny grace, strolled through the door into the back room of the shop. “Tell me, has there been any change in the plaza?” Willim asked.
“No, Master,” she replied. “The fire dragon seems to have departed. I have not been able to learn anything about the whereabouts of the king.”
“No matter, that,” the wizard replied with a shrug. “He is blinded now, and I don’t believe his god will bless him with the gift of sight—not in the way my magic does. I will find him in good time. But first, there is this little matter to attend.”
He gestured to the pair of elderly Theiwar, who were gawking at him with slack jaws, faces gone white with terror. “Do you know?” Willim said casually. “Once I trusted them. Once I would have rewarded them. Once they might have attained power that most dwarves could only dream of.”
“I understand, Master. But now what?” Facet said. She looked at the two Guilders, licking her crimson lips. “Shall I kill them for you? It would be an honor—and a pleasure.”
The wizard, almost reluctantly, shook his head. “No. Killing them would be pleasurable, of course. But it would of necessity be quick, even merciful. And this is not the time for mercy. No, I would like them to contemplate their treachery, to reflect upon their greed and their failures.”
Abruptly he sat up and snarled a quick phrase, the command to a short, powerful spell.
Immediately Peat and Sadie Guilder screamed—soundlessly as they remained in the grip of the wizard’s spell of silence—and began to writhe. Facet watched, fascinated, her eyes shining as the two dwarves shrank and shriveled before their eyes. In seconds they had diminished a foot in height, then two, then even more. They were the size of young children by then and still growing smaller.
“Catch them, my dear, before they scuttle away to some mouse hole,” Willim directed gleefully, and his female apprentice swept forward to snatch up the small Theiwar by the scruffs of their necks. Holding one in each hand, she lifted them up for her master’s inspection.
Only then did Willim the Black rise. He crossed the room to the place where a clear bell jar rested atop a marble burner. Lifting the glass jar, he held it expectantly while Facet placed the two shrunken dwarves on the burner. Peat collapsed to his knees, while Sadie glared upward, barking something soundless at them as she shook a tiny fist.
The wizard quickly placed the jar down on the marble circle again, trapping the two miniaturized dwarves underneath it. His face twisted into a wicked grin as he looked at his beautiful apprentice. He gestured to the little oil pot underneath the marble burner.
“Now,” he said with uncharacteristic cheerfulness, “light the stove.”
Brandon approached the doors leading into the headquarters of the League of Enforcers. Two burly guardsmen flanked that entrance, each dressed in the shiny black leather tunic of their order and holding a long-hafted axe with the butt braced on the floor and the blades held upright, as high as their heads. It took all of Brandon’s willpower to remind himself that, courtesy of a little priestess magic, he, too, wore a shiny black leather tunic and bore an axe that had been magically enhanced to exactly match the weapons of the two Enforcers.
The one difference in their uniforms was the silver bar that decorated each of his shoulders. It was that insignia that caught the eyes of the two guards, bringing each to attention. They clapped their fists to their chests in salute, one standing aside while the other reached out to open the door for the “captain.”
Brandon nodded a curt thanks, remembering to maintain the haughty air that Gretchan had coached him into adopting. He strode into the headquarters as if he owned the place, hoping that his confusion—and his desperation—didn’t show on his face. Apparently it did not, for the guards let him pass then closed the door behind him.
Fortunately, his mother had accurately described some of the details of the interior of the headquarters, based on her own memories. First he entered the ward room. The interrogation rooms lay to the left beyond that, and Brandon remembered his mother’s suspicions that the dungeon cells lay farther back in that direction. Several Enforcers were seated around a table in the main room, but he ignored them and they ignored him as he turned and went through the door leading to the left.
That led into the hall his mother had described, with a series of doors on either side, currently shut. At least one led into the interrogation room where she had last seen Garren Bluestone. He burned with anger as he pictured that confrontation: the Enforcers threatening his mother, using her terror to coerce Garren into signing his false confession.
Operating only on his hunch and his mother’s best guess, Brandon continued down to the end of the corridor, which made a turn to the right and led deeper into the complex of rooms. Again there were doors to either side, but his attention was centered on the door at the very end of the hall. Unlike the other plain plank barriers, it was bracketed with iron straps and clasped with a heavy lock, latched on the side from which he was approaching. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing over his shoulder and was relieved to see no one was in the corridor with him. Reaching out, he lifted the latch and released the clasp, pushing the door open.
He found himself in a darkened corridor, a place that smelled of damp stones, stale air, and urine. Blinking against the darkness, he hesitated a moment, letting his keen eyes adjust to the lack of light, and he listened.
The place was as silent as any tomb, but Brandon refused to be discouraged. Step by step, he advanced cautiously along the darkened hall, trying to set each foot down as soundlessly as possible. Pace by pace he moved into the dungeon, past doors that were marked with small iron grates, confirming his hunch it was indeed where the League of Enforcers kept its prisoners. The doors were closed, secured with stout-looking locks. He couldn’t hear any noise in any of the cells.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of any silent means of finding out what, or who, lurked behind any of those closed doors. Acutely conscious of time passing, fearing that, at any moment, the executioners might come looking for Garren Bluestone, he finally decided on a bold course.
“Dad?” he asked, his tone at a conversational level. “Are you here?”
He heard a scuffle of movement from one of the rooms halfway down, to the left, and took a few steps closer until he was right outside that door. “Dad?” he probed again.
“Brandon?” came the incredulous, whispered reply.
His heart soaring, Brand reached for the door, not surprised to find that it was locked. “Yes, it’s me!” he whispered back. “I’ve got to get you out of here!”
“How?” demanded Garren. “You can’t take the chance! Get out of here. I can take care of myself!”
“Stand back,” Brandon growled, hefting the Bluestone Axe. “This door is coming down!”
&nbs
p; His father had the sense to stop arguing, and Brandon leaned back, gathering his strength for a single blow. The enchanted blade smashed into the wooden door with a loud crash, sending a shower of splinters into the cell and cracking the sturdy barrier right down the middle.
Immediately Garren pulled on the wrecked door, dragging the biggest piece of it into the cell. A portion still swung from the solid hinges, but there was enough space for the dwarf to slip out through the gap. For just a moment, father and son embraced, the clasp of their strong arms saying more than any words could have done.
“Now come on, hurry,” Brandon said, taking Garren’s arm and starting back toward the entrance.
But that door swung open before him, and he raised his hands to screen his eyes against the torchlight flaring there. Two brands burned, held high in strong hands, but the Bluestones could see a host of Enforcers crowding there, completely blocking the exit.
“What excellent timing,” came the words in Baracan Heelspur’s voice. “I come to execute one Bluestone, and I catch two of them in my net!”
At the same time, the doors to several of the cells burst open, fully revealing the trap. In another second the dungeon corridor was full of dwarves, all of them dressed in the black leather of the Enforcers’ agents, closing in around the two Bluestones.
In the next breath, father and son were disarmed, and both were prisoners.
“Whoa there, Kondike!” puffed Gus, red faced and sweating as he chased the big black dog down another street in the strange city. He could barely see his waving tail as the animal coursed around a corner.
Berta and Slooshy, as doughty as their male companion, jogged steadfastly along. All three Aghar, as well as the dog, had climbed many, many stairs, but the gully dwarves were too focused on their guide even to consider to where in the world they had traveled. Kondike seemed to have a destination in mind. From the moment Gus had mentioned Gretchan’s name, the dog hadn’t wavered in his determined course.
They hurried down a street with houses and taverns to both sides. Many dwarves were walking about there. They gaped in surprise at the big dog and moved out of his way—and stayed out of the way of the three Aghar who scurried behind. Gus did take the time to reflect that it was very different from Thorbardin, where their appearance in such a crowded locale could have only ended in disaster—probably with their heads chopped off by Theiwar bunty hunters.
They passed one more tavern, marked by a sign picturing a large mug with a jagged crack running down the side, and turned down a narrower, quiet street, with Kondike taking off at a run. The three gully dwarves had just turned the corner when the dog came to a halt in front of the doorway to a dwarf house. The dog barked once, loudly, then repeated the sound with growing urgency.
The door flew open a few seconds later, just as Gus was drawing close. His heart flipped happily in his chest as he saw Gretchan rush out, kneeling down to embrace her dog as Kondike yelped and licked and generally wiggled in ecstasy.
Still panting, Gus slowed to a walk, stumbling slightly in his weariness. Still, he pictured himself as the pinnacle of dwarfish style as he sauntered up to her and offered a big, cheery smile.
“Hi … Gretchan,” he said between gasps for breath. “Sure is nice … to see you!”
“Gus?” she gasped, staring at him in shock. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, I don’t know,” he replied honestly enough. “First, tell where ‘here’ is.”
“You don’t know?” she asked then laughed ruefully. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You certainly do have a way of getting around. Somehow you’ve gotten yourself to Kayolin; I can’t even begin to imagine how.”
He was about to ask what Kayolin was when they were interrupted by a breathless dwarf running down the street. Gretchan stood up quickly, her face creased by an expression of concern.
“What is it?” she asked.
“The League of Enforcers,” explained the puffing dwarf. “They’ve got Brandon and Garren in chains—they’re taking them both up to the palace!”
TWENTY-FIVE
THE BLUESTONE FACTION
Brandon and Garren, hands shackled and the Bluestone Axe snatched away, were being marched side by side up the stairs from the Enforcers’ headquarters to the highest level of Garnet Thax, the palace of Regar Smashfingers. Baracan Heelspur led the detachment of Enforcers, more than two dozen, who escorted the prisoners up to the palace.
“Never trust a woman,” Baracan said with a chuckle, walking along behind Brandon. “Rona Darkwater thought she was good enough for me! Imagine—as if I’d accept one of your castoffs. But she served as the perfect pawn, didn’t she?”
“What have you done with her?” Brandon growled, appalled at the way the noble dwarf maid had been used.
“Oh, she’ll be fine once the bruises heal,” Lord Heelspur’s son assured him breezily. “I didn’t even break any of her bones when I beat her.”
Brandon thrashed, trying to turn, but he was cuffed harshly on the ear by one of the guards. Glowering at the floor, he kept moving, his mind churning with schemes of the vengeful violence he’d like to inflict upon Baracan Heelspur. He didn’t know how or when, but he’d make the smug bully, the murderer who had killed his brother, pay for his villainy.
They marched right in to the great throne room with the two shackled prisoners prodded forward by the sword points of several grinning Enforcers. As usual, the galleries above and to either side of the throne were lined with spectators. The whole room was wrapped in a strange pall of silence, though, and Brandon couldn’t help but take encouragement from that. He was also encouraged to spot several scarlet jackets in the crowd; he could only hope the members of the Garnet Guard would be ready to help.
Even more heartening, he heard a series of whispers—“Bluestone, Bluestone!”—coming from the gallery until Lord Heelspur, who stood behind the throne, gestured irritably. Numerous black-garbed Enforcers began to move through the crowd, and the rebellious muttering died away. The procession advanced at a steady march and came to a halt before the throne. Baracan Heelspur saluted stiffly.
“I recognize these dwarves,” Regar Smashfingers proclaimed, lounging casually back in his throne. “But why do you bring them to me in chains?” he asked innocently.
“Sire, they are rebels, plotting the overthrow of your reign!” Baracan Heelspur proclaimed, his voice loud enough to ring through the gallery. “The father has already been charged, and at your command was secured by the League of Enforcers in a cell. The son entered the League headquarters through subterfuge—a magical disguise—and attempted to free the father by smashing down the door to his cell.”
The one word, magic, seemed to echo by itself through the cavernous throne room, provoking a volley of mutters and prayers among the superstitious dwarves. The king’s eyes widened in a mocking display of surprise.
“Can this be true?” he asked of Brandon. Before the prisoner could answer, he addressed his captain of Enforcers. “What was the nature of this magic?”
“I know not, sire, except that it cloaked his appearance in deception. He was made to look like a captain of Enforcers. Even his axe”—Baracan produced and brandished the Bluestone Axe, the legendary artifact known to all Kayolin dwarves—“was concealed to resemble the halberds of the League’s guards.”
“These are serious charges!” the king declared. “And to think, barely six days ago I welcomed this criminal into my court, acknowledged him as a hero! The Horax Hero indeed! This is a sad day in the noble history of Kayolin!”
Regar Smashfingers actually managed to sound distressed as he recounted the distressing facts, though Brandon could plainly see the delight flashing in the old scoundrel’s eyes. That delight quickly focused on the two prisoners, changing into a glower of cruel cunning. The king spoke again, and though his tone conveyed regret, his expression belied the sadness of his voice.
“I had hoped my coronation would signal a new dawn in Kayolin’s days,
an era of peace and prosperity of benefit to us all. And still, it is my hope that this will be the case. It had been my intention, in fact, to promote the legendary Bluestones back into Kayolin’s nobility, to the rank they held so long, so very long, ago.
“But I shall not have the Bluestones in my court when I finally don my crown. There will be no place for rebels amid my loyal nobles.”
Smashfingers stood suddenly and, with a flourish of his right hand, gestured to Lord Heelspur. “Bring me my crown, that I may wear it now, as I pronounce sentence upon these criminals!”
Immediately the loyal follower advanced, bearing a velvet pillow upon which rested an object covered by a silken cloth. A courtier whipped the cloth away to reveal a stunning crown, a circlet of silver bejeweled with startlingly blue stones, each blinking and sparkling in the reflected light of a hundred torches.
Regar Smashfingers stepped down from his throne, descending the three steps to the chamber floor. He came to stand beside Alakar Heelspur, where all could see.
“Behold the new crown of Kayolin!” he declared. “Molded from the Torc of the Forge itself, the blessed talisman of Reorx. These blue stones are proof of his blessing, proof of his favor, proof of the rightness of my rule—”
“They are proof of nothing!”
An audible gasp rushed through the vast chamber as the words, spoken in Gretchan’s voice, resounded through the assemblage.
“Who speaks?” demanded Lord Heelspur. “Who dares to challenge the true king?”
“I speak,” Gretchan declared, stepping to the edge of the gallery. She was wearing a white bearskin cloak, and her staff was held firmly in her hands. She banged the wooden post against the floor, and it struck a blow that reverberated through the huge room, seeming to vibrate the stones under every dwarf’s feet.
“And just who are you?” demanded the king, genuinely puzzled. At the same time, Baracan Heelspur gestured to his Enforcers, many of whom began to filter through the crowd, closing in on Gretchan.
The Heir of Kayolin Page 30
