The Heir of Kayolin

TWELVE

All right. I guess we should head up to my old neighborhood. There’s an inn there where one of my old friends works,” Brandon replied. “Um, they might be able to help.”

“Don’t you mean ‘she’ might be able to help?” Gretchan, with a twinkle in her eye, asked.

“Well, yes I do!” Brandon snapped, dropping a steel coin on the table to pay for their drinks. He stomped toward the entryway, hastened along by her laughter. His ears burned, and he could feel them turning red.

He wasn’t sure why his face felt flushed, but he was suddenly terribly chagrined about all the carousing and womanizing he’d done in the city, back when life had seemed so much simpler. He and his brother, Nailer, had cut a wide, if shallow, swath through the maids of Kayolin, and truth to tell, they’d enjoyed every minute of it. He tried to console himself with the thought that, for the most part, the maids of Kayolin hadn’t seemed to mind much either. With his brother slain, he realized that the women he had, sometimes, treated rather shabbily were still likely to be his best allies in the city.

Gretchan seemed in a good mood regardless, humming to herself as they weaved their way through the crowd and left the Deepshelf Inn. She took in the scenery and chattered cheerfully. She remarked about the intricacies of iron tools in one shop and about the orderliness of a clean, bustling factory, glimpsed through a large door, as they made their way down the narrow street and around first one, then another, tight corner.

“They can’t be much different from similar kinds of places where you came from,” Brandon suggested, exasperated by her positive attitude.

She shook her head. “The delvings in the east, where I grew up among Severus Stonehand’s Daergar, are a lot more primitive than this. And remember, I’ve never had the chance to see Thorbardin.”

“Yeah, I guess I see your point,” he admitted. For the first time, it occurred to him that Garnet Thax was certainly the most spectacular dwarf delving that Gretchan had ever seen. Once more, he felt guilty about having taken that unique place for granted in the past.

“Let’s avoid the main road,” he suggested as they passed one of the great, spiraling ramps that connected the many levels of the city. “We can take some of the smaller stairwells that lead up through the city. They’re steeper to climb but a lot more private. I’d hate to run into Heelspur’s Enforcers.”

They followed a straight and relatively wide avenue away from the central shaft of the Atrium. To either side the smithies and manufacturing centers had given way to small residences, apartments stacked two or three high with small, round doors and, only rarely, a window looking out onto the street. Stone steps led to the higher entrances, which were recessed from the street. The flat ceiling over the roadway tended to be about twenty feet overhead, providing many shadowy alcoves, especially along the top layer of dwellings to each side.

There were a few dwarves coming and going along the street. Doors opened here and there, and a few young fellows simply sat outside of their apartments and watched the street with hopeless eyes. The dwarves were dressed if not in rags, then in relatively poor and careworn garments. The occasional lamp in the street was dark, as if no one wanted to spend the steel to refresh it with oil. Brandon couldn’t help thinking that the area was a perfect place for spies to lurk or ambushers to hide, and he constantly looked over his shoulder. But honestly, he told himself, it didn’t seem like the kind of neighborhood where they’d run into any Enforcers.

They came to an arched alcove at the side of the street. Illuminated by low-wick oil lamps, they could see that it entered onto a landing and was connected to a tightly spiraling series of stone steps leading up to the right and down to the left.

“Here’s one of the stairwells,” he said. “Let’s head up.”

They entered and climbed for a long time, ascending several hundred feet as they moved from the deep-levels into the city’s midlevels. The stairwell itself was cloaked in shadows except where dim lamps illuminated each of the landings, which provided access to streets, once every thirty or so vertical feet. As Brandon had predicted, fewer dwarves were out and about up there. The ones they met didn’t give them a second glance, though several children gawked as Kondike, eye to eye with them, trotted by.

“Here we are,” Brandon said finally. Kondike still padded along behind as they emerged into a street and turned toward the Bluestones’ neighborhood. Brandon felt a strange mix of emotions as he noted the familiar locales, the shops and inns he had frequented during most of the years in his life. The streets were lit more consistently there, and they heard loud laughter and crude boasting as they passed one open doorway. Even so, the pedestrians tended to walk with their heads down, avoiding strangers’ eyes. Even if Gretchan didn’t notice anything amiss, Brandon knew the neighborhood, and it seemed a good deal less neighborly than when he had departed the city a year and half before.

The Cracked Mug was a small and prosperous establishment, offering good food and very good beer at reasonable prices. It was only a few blocks away from the Bluestone family home, occupying a strategic position right at the level’s exit to the main ramp spiraling up from the deep-levels. The two travelers approached it from a back alley.

Brandon had spent many hours in that place, partaking of the fine fare and pleasantly flirting with the lovely barmaid Bondall Fairmont, who had been one of his first and longest-lasting lovers. As he and Gretchan stood outside the Mug’s open front door, and he smelled the familiar, tantalizing aroma of roasting meat, he felt as though he were a far-ranging traveler who had finally come home.

“This is a good place to stop and see what I can find out,” Brandon said. Still, some unspoken hesitation held him back, and for a long time he stood on the street, looking at the faded sign depicting a stout beer stein with a jagged break running through it.

“Hey, daydreamer,” Gretchan whispered, prodding him. “I think you’ll attract more attention standing here in the street than you would if we went inside.”

“Yep, you’re right,” he agreed, opening the door and holding it so Gretchan could enter first. He took a deep breath and forced himself to pick up his feet, moving through the doorway into the smoky, crowded great room. The ceiling was low, supported by arches carved from the bedrock of the mountain. Most of the tables were occupied, but he spotted a small one in back and ushered Gretchan in that direction. As usual, the dog stayed close to his mistress’s heel, moving nimbly through the crowd.

They sat down with their backs to the others in the room, though Brand kept his head cocked, looking over his shoulder. He spotted a barmaid-sure enough, it was Bondall-coming toward him and, catching her eye, surreptitiously raised a finger to his lips.

The pretty maid’s eyes widened momentarily, but she held her tongue as she bustled over to them. She cracked a sly, teasing smile as she spotted Gretchan, while the priestess, for all her bravado, blushed a pale pink.

“So, stranger, what’ll it be?” Bondall asked before leaning down to rest her elbows on the table. “You do know there are bad ones looking for you, don’t you?” she asked in a quiet voice. Then she winked at Gretchan. “And who’s your friend?”

“Uh, this is Gretchan Pax. Gretchan, Bondall Fairmont … an old friend,” he growled. “And yes, I do know they’re looking for me. They had my name on a list at the outer gate.”

“Yep. I guess old Heelspur would really like to put the screws to you. Just when he was claiming his son discovered that vein of gold, you put him on the spot by blaming him for your brother’s murder. Mind you, most of Kayolin believes your version of events-that Heelspur boy doesn’t have the gumption to search the deep delvings, let alone face a cave troll. Everybody knows that he was lazy and a coward to boot.”

“A lot of good it did me to tell the truth,” Brandon said bitterly.

Bondall shrugged. “What else were you going to do? Now, do your mum and dad know you’re here yet?” she asked.

Brandon shook his head. “I was afraid the place might be watched. I didn’t want to go up to the front door without some kind of disguise, and also I thought I should give my folks a bit of warning that I’m here.”

“Well, let me take care of that warning part,” Bondall said with a grin. But immediately she turned serious. “And hey, it’s good to see you, but be careful.”

“I will,” he replied, but she was already bustling back to the bar. Gretchan took his hand and they watched Bondall speak to another dwarf maid, one who was sitting on the customer side of the bar. That female got up to step behind the counter while Bondall bustled out the front door without a backward glance. The fill-in barmaid brought a couple of mugs over to Brandon and Gretchan, plopped them on the table, and went back to the bar without a word or a glance.

“How’d she know we wanted these?” the priestess asked.

Brandon, already taking a deep draught of the cold, hop-flavored brew, simply shrugged. “Good camouflage,” he suggested, wiping the foam from his mustache with the back of his hand. “Everyone in here is drinking their fill. We’d look silly sitting here just twiddling our thumbs.”

Gretchan allowed as how that made sense, though she sipped at her beer with a little more gentility than her companion did. They sat in silence for a half hour, nursing their drinks, until Bondall returned and came straight over to the table. She carried a woolen cloak with a deep, cowled hood.

“They’re thrilled and can’t wait to see you,” she said. “Not that they aren’t worried for you as well. But here, put this on, and cover your head. Go right to your house, and they’ll let you in.”

“Thanks, Bondy,” Brand said gratefully, standing.

“Yes-thank you so much,” Gretchan agreed sincerely.

“You’d do the same for me,” she replied, speaking to Brandon. Then she touched Gretchan on the shoulder and looked her straight in the eyes. “And you take care of him; he’s a fair catch.”

“I–I know he is,” Gretchan replied, embarrassed again. “But I don’t think I’ve, um, caught him yet.”

Bondall merely smiled, a knowing, sympathetic gesture. “Good luck,” she whispered as the couple started toward the door.

The queen horax lay atop of a vast mountain of eggs, sensing the stirrings of life beneath her. Many of the shiny orbs had already hatched, sending slick neophytes oozing toward the exits from the cavern. They twisted and thrashed, working free of the thick membranes still coating them as they emerged from the eggs, using nascent mandibles to chew a hole through which they could break free from the gummy wrap.

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.