The Heir of Kayolin

SEVEN

The rebel army faced the royal troops across the wide swath of Norbardin’s plaza. For a number of hours, the two forces had remained frozen, two gigantic entities that had fought to exhaustion and could no longer move. Yet each understood that the battle was far from over and would resume when both were refreshed.

The king’s troops had spent the interval eating, repairing broken weapons, sharpening dulled blades, and strengthening defensive positions. They had piled makeshift ramparts along their front, forming barricades from the detritus of the stands and stalls that had once occupied so much of the square. The building materials of the stalls-usually stone slabs occasionally mixed with fibrous fungi-boards and rare planks of real wood imported, long before, from the surface world-formed walls and platforms.

With the notable exception of the ale vendors, whose goods had been confiscated by the combatants and quickly consumed, even the products of the sellers had been used in the manufacture of the barricades. The stock of the stonemasons had been hastily organized into solid walls; the finished products of the metalworkers were converted to use as weapons; even the raw ingots of iron and tin were stacked by the catapults to serve as ammunition in the face of the next enemy charge.

The rebel forces, alternatively, had spent little time picking over the battlefield except to clear paths and evacuate the wounded. The wounded warriors had been dragged back to Willim’s lines. Those with only minor hurts were bandaged and returned to their companies; the more grievously injured would be left to their own devices on the tables and floors of several inns that had been commandeered as infirmaries. Those who could recover were expected to do so; those who could not were left to die.

Willim’s troops, too, needed food and were given sustenance in the form of dried meat and mushroom bread. After the dwarf warriors ate, the black wizard ordered the rebel troops to assemble on the plaza in front of the city’s main gate. He, Facet, General Darkstone, and two other captains who had failed in their jobs mounted the steps to the highest platform, where the five dwarves stood in plain view of the assembled troops.

At a nod from the wizard, Facet stepped up behind one of the officers.

His eyeless face expressionless, Willim addressed his voice to the throng of troops while directing his words at the first doomed soldier.

“Captain Balfour. Your axemen failed to carry the corner redoubt. Do you deny this charge?”

“No, Master. I failed, and I deserve to be punished.” Balfour’s voice was steady, dispassionate.

Willim nodded at Facet, and her hand moved swiftly, the keen blade slicing through Balfour’s thick beard and the equally thick neck underneath. With the wet gurgle of air and blood mixing in his slashed windpipe, the captain pitched forward and lay still in the midst of a puddle of blood.

Facet’s black eyes gleamed and she licked her crimson lips as she took up position behind the next officer.

“Captain De’Range. Your pikemen broke and fled in the face of an enemy counterattack. Do you deny this charge?”

“No, Master!” croaked De’Range, his eyes wide with terror as Facet stepped up to him. The veteran dwarf’s legs shook, and General Darkstone, one step to his left, flashed him a scornful look. Again the wizard nodded; again the keen dagger slashed, and the captain fell beside his fellow officer. Facet took a step to her left, blood still streaming from the knife blade as her eyes came to rest, almost affectionately, upon the general.

“General Darkstone!” Willim barked. The sturdy Daergar veteran stood at attention, eyes front. “You are my army commander. Yet your army failed to win the battle. Do you accept responsibility for your abject performance?”

“Master, I can only offer my worthless life as penance,” Darkstone said stiffly. Despite himself, his eyes shifted warily to Facet. The female wizard was stroking her bloody blade, careless of the sticky liquid covering her fingers. She seemed nonchalant, even bored. Her alabaster features, chiseled and beautiful and as cold as marble, were a warning to the troops who stood rapt below.

Willim nodded. “That is the honorable answer I expected. Therefore, I decline the offer of your life and instead give you this charge: you will lead the next attack, and you will carry the battle into the king’s palace. Do you accept this task?”

“Yes! Thank you! With all my heart and soul, Master-with all my sinew and steel! I shall prove myself worthy of your trust or die in the attempt.”

“Yes,” declared the wizard loudly. “I believe you will.” Willim stepped close to his general and lowered his voice, speaking into Blade Darkstone’s ear. “And when you enter the palace, you may take revenge for your family, for your daughter. You may take the one called Ragat Kingsaver and exact payment in flesh. But the king you shall save for me.”

“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 highbulp 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 talons, 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.

Sadie frowned. “I’ve been thinking about that.” She glanced around, confirming that they were alone-a rather extreme precaution since they were in the back room of the shop and the front door was locked with the Closed sign prominently displayed. “We better make sure the king’s men don’t find out that we’ve opened up a magic way out of Thorbardin.”

“Of course I know that!” Peat retorted. “It’s got to remain a secret from the king, sure. But you have made one copy of the spell; make another one, and then you can cast it again as soon as we find another dwarf or two willing to pay for the dimension door.”

“So,” Sadie challenged him. “That’s what’s troubling me. How do we get more customers when we can’t let anyone know what we’re doing? Not the king, and certainly not the Master; you can imagine what he’d do if he found out we’re freelancing!”

Peat frowned, scratching his balding head. “That’s a problem,” he admitted. “We’ve gotta be careful, so we can’t advertise. And those Hylar came right to us. We were just lucky the first time, I guess.”

A loud knock banged against the front door, and both Guilders looked at each other, wide eyed and trembling. Moving toward the front of the shop, Peat was startled to hear a great commotion, shouting and crying and the trampling of many feet, coming from out in the street.

“Well, go see who it is!” Sadie demanded, collecting her wits.

The old dwarf clumped to the front door and opened it a crack. He saw dwarves running past, fleeing from the square, screaming in panic-something about a monster and rebel butchers running wild. Right in front of him stood Abercrumb, his fist raised for another knock on the door. He wasted no time in pushing his way into the shop.

“You know we’re closed!” the Theiwar merchant protested feebly, still gawking at the chaos in the street.

“Who isn’t?” the silversmith replied. “I mean, I was keeping my own place locked and my sword handy, just in case things got worse. And they have! Now look what’s happening!”

“What’s going on?” demanded Sadie, hobbling out of the back room.

“The rebels are storming the palace!” Abercrumb replied indignantly. “There’s some monster afoot too. Those folks out there are lucky to have gotten out of the square with their lives! As for me, I’m just trying to avoid ruin and thought we should stick together in these dangerous times.”

“Yes, stick together,” Peat repeated unenthusiastically. He added rather pointedly, “You’re right about how close we all are to ruin. Why, we haven’t had a customer in weeks!”

“Oh?” Abercrumb said, raising his eyebrows. “I thought I saw a rather prosperous-looking fellow-Hylar, if I guess correctly-coming in here just yesterday. Looked like he brought his whole family with him. Had the look of real wealth about him too. So he wasn’t a customer?”

“No!” Peat said, feeling a knot grow in his stomach. “He was-was lost! Very lost. Was looking for directions to-to-”

“He couldn’t remember where, that’s where,” Sadie interjected. “And he left a few minutes later. I hope the poor fellow found his way.”

“Oh, I see. Well, thank you,” said Abercrumb, shifting his penetrating glance from one Guilder to the other. “Though, funny thing. I was sitting by my front window all night, yesterday. Nothing else to do, you know. And I could swear I never saw that Hylar leave. Never saw any of ’em leave.”

“Oh,” Sadie said quickly. “Most likely, you drifted off to sleep and didn’t see him leave. Let me guess-did you have a bottle of dwarf spirits near at hand?”

Abercrumb flushed. “Well, there’s no call for that sort of remark!” he huffed before stiffly turning and stomping out the door. Peat noticed that the crowd in the street had thinned to a few stragglers, though sounds of battle still rang from the direction of the square.

Sadie wasted no time in slamming the door shut behind him, while Peat swiftly refastened the lock. “So the Master’s forces are storming the palace!” he croaked.

“Good,” she said. “He’ll have other things on his mind until the battle is through.”

Still, the elderly Theiwar were trembling as they made their way into the back room, looking at each other’s wide eyes and ashen faces.

“Do you think Abercrumb suspects anything?” asked Peat, his voice tremulous.

“Of course not!” Sadie snapped. “How could he have the slightest idea what we are up to? I don’t think there’s a Hylar in Thorbardin who even imagines that a dimension door is possible, much less than I am able to cast one. Still, I don’t like him visiting all the time. I think he has friends in the court. He’s too nosy-and too close-for comfort.”

“What are we going to do about this? About him? About everything?” moaned Peat, sitting on a work stool and wringing his hands.

“Well, we’re not going to panic, for one thing,” Sadie said firmly. “Now, stop groaning and let’s talk this over.”

Peat drew a ragged breath, and they began to talk. Had anyone else seen the refugees coming through the shop? They hoped not. Did anyone else suspect they had a fortune in gems in a secret lockbox? They really hoped not. Had they attracted the attention of the king or, even more terrifying, Willim the Black? They really, really hoped not. Sadie reassured Peat, and Peat reassured Sadie, and they started to make a plan.

All the same, they were both startled when, a few hours later, another knock sounded from the front door. It was much quieter than Abercrumb’s, but both Guilders just about jumped out of their skin when they heard the tapping. Still, Peat made his way to the door, opened it, and found another dwarf standing there. He was dressed in a fine silk cloak, and he looked surreptitiously up and down the street, which was at last empty and quiet.

“Hurry-come in!” said Sadie, following her husband closely and all but yanking the dwarf into the shop. “What do you want?”

“Well, I … it’s kind of a secret,” the dwarf said. He appeared to be a swarthy Daergar, but the gold chains adorning his neck and the sparkling buttons and cufflinks on his tunic suggested a personage who was very well off financially. “I have, that is, I had a neighbor, Horth Dunstone. A Hylar merchant. Perhaps you know him?”

The two Theiwar looked at each other, eyes wide. “You had a neighbor, you said,” Sadie repeated. “What happened to him?”

“Well, I know he was anxious, desperate even, to get himself and his family out of Thorbardin. He told me, in the strictest confidence, that you were going to help him.” The Daergar looked at them imploringly, but neither of the Guilders made any reply.

“So now, well, I was wondering … do you think you could do the same thing for me?”