The Heir of Kayolin

EIGHTEEN

King Jungor Stonespringer, wrapped in his shabby robe, with his golden artificial eye gleaming, studied General Ragat carefully. The military commander did not flinch under the scrutiny but stood at attention and waited for his monarch to speak. The great square of Norbardin was silent, as it had been for the several days since the battle had ended. Though there were many dwarves throughout the city, those that dwelled there were in their homes, hiding, while those that belonged to the two armies remained in their camps, healing and resting and awaiting the future with a universal sense of foreboding.

The two dwarves stood on the summit of the prayer tower, which had, miraculously, survived the ground-shaking tremors that had rocked Norbardin and brought the civil war to an abrupt halt. It was the same place where the black minion had been obliterated by its collision with the Kingsaver Shield, the place where Willim the Black and his female apprentice had flown to confront the king directly-and from which they had toppled when the ground shook and the stone-lined cavern began to crack and crumble.

Ragat still held the Kingsaver Shield, the metal disk burnished to a high gleam, even after the dissolution of Willim’s flying minion. The city of Norbardin, sadly, was not so untarnished. Even then, several days after the fighting had ceased, smoke lingered like a miasma of gloom. The convulsion of the brief earthquake had smashed buildings and brought large pieces of rock tumbling from the ceiling. Bodies were rotting all across the vast square, still lying where they had fallen during the battle as their comrades, blinded by the explosion of god’s light, cowered in their camps, barely able to feed themselves or bandage their own wounds. As to the citizens of the once-great city, they remained hiding in their homes, terrified even to venture onto the streets.

“The will of Reorx was made real!” the king declared forcefully. “You were here; you saw it!”

“Yes, my king. His will was a blinding light, and when it seized the bedrock of our nation, he shook the world and brought the battle to a stop in the same instant,” Ragat agreed, even as he studied his king warily. The shield had blocked the loyal general from the flash of light, so he hadn’t been blinded, but the king had suffered along with the rest.

“And he drove the wizard and his wench away!” the king exulted. “The will of Reorx rendered the rebel army weak kneed. Even now they cower under archways and stout columns; they fear to venture on to the attack!”

“Yes, Reorx’s display did all those things, my liege,” agreed the general noncommittally.

“Then why can you not muster a counterattack?” the king demanded. “The black wizard’s army is scattered, ill prepared. You could sweep them from the gates and reclaim the city’s outer defenses!” Stonespringer blinked, his good eye shifting wildly across the war-torn city until finally, again, settling on his general.

“The men refuse to fight, my liege,” Ragat declared bluntly. “They took the message from our god as an immortal command, an expression of Reorx’s displeasure with the war. Many are still blinded or can see only a little. Even those who had their eyes averted, who were unaffected by the light, will not fight. It seems that neither the enemy’s nor our own soldiers will agree to recommence the attack.”

“The fools!” snapped Stonespringer, turning to stalk to the edge of the parapet. “The god was showing his pleasure with me, his favored prophet and spokesman! I demanded his action, and he acted. His blow struck at our enemies when they stood at the verge of triumph-Reorx brought their attack to a halt so that we could prevail! Do the men not see that?”

“I regret to say, sire, that they do not. Those who saw the blast of light sweep from the tower at the middle of the battlefield still are blinded. The priestly healers tell me it will be days, if not weeks, before their vision begins to return. And even those who were not blinded felt the tremor that threatened to bring the mountain down on our heads, and they took that to mean that they should no longer fight their kinsmen.”

“But those arrogant rebels are still there! They cling to the gate fortresses. They could strike the city again at any moment.” The king waved his arms, gesturing at the plaza, to the gatehouses, and to the many places where the enemy forces crouched in their camps.

“Begging your majesty’s pardon, but my spies suggest that the rebel troops are no more anxious to fight than are your own soldiers,” Ragat reported, repeating the assurance he had been giving the king over and over since the battle had been interrupted several days earlier. He spoke calmly, patiently, though his heart broke to reject his king’s orders.

“Spies can be wrong!” Jungor hissed. He trembled, clenched his fists, and made a visible effort to restrain himself from striking the loyal general in the face. Instead, he turned abruptly toward the door into the palace. “We need to know Willim’s plans, to understand his resources and what actions he might take next. Where did he go after he fell from this tower?”

“It is impossible to say, my liege. All who might have witnessed his flight were still suffering from the blindness of Reorx’s light. But it is certain that neither his body nor that of the female are anywhere below the tower. We must conclude that he was able to escape Norbardin.” Ragat himself had led that search, and he, too, had at first refused to believe that their enemies could have escaped. But an exhaustive investigation of all the grounds around the palace had confirmed beyond any doubt that Willim the Black and his female lackey were gone.

“We must know more!” the king declared. “What does the black wizard intend next? How many of his troops survive? When might they be ready to attack?”

“Begging my king’s pardon, but I have a spy who has been very accurate in his reports to me,” the general reported. “He came to me even during the battle for the palace. He says he has identified some of the wizard’s agents, here in Norbardin. It may be that, if we take those spies, they will be able to tell us something about their master’s intentions.”

“Go to him, then,” ordered the king. “Seek out your agent and have him take you to these enemy spies. Be sure to take them quickly, and with surprise; remember, our enemies possess arcane magic, obscene power that we cannot fully understand. Arrest them, and bring them to me!”

“Bluestone! Bluestone! Bluestone!”

The cry echoed through the tunnels of the deep-levels, up and down the Atrium, rising into the city of Garnet Thax on a cresting wave of triumph and celebration. Brandon held on to Gretchan’s hand and let the swelling shouts, the pats on the back, the cheers, and the congratulations sweep him along. They had just emerged from the Deepshelf Inn and made their way along a street suddenly crowded with boisterous revelers. It was only then dawning on Brandon that they were celebrating because of him.

In the midst of the fight with the horax, he’d been only vaguely aware of the rest of Kayolin-at least, beyond those dwarves in the Deepshelf Inn who had helped rescue them by throwing them the rope ladder-but he realized that his battle and almost single-handed defeat of a swarm of the bug monsters had been observed by a significant portion of the population. They had watched in horror as the clicking, hungry monsters had swarmed up the walls of the Atrium like some nightmare from the ancient past. And they had seen the wielder of the Bluestone Axe fight them back, slashing through the webs of the tanglers and sending dozens of the horax tumbling to their doom.

Clearly, from the adulation he and Gretchan received as they strode proudly along, with more and more citizens of Kayolin streaming out of houses, shops, and inns, the word had spread rapidly among the city’s dwarves about their amazing fight.

“You’re quite the hero,” the cleric said, pressing his hand and impulsively leaning over to kiss him. That gesture drew another round of cheering as well as some hoots and whistles from the crowd, mainly male, for there were many miners and smith-workers who thronged the lower levels.

Brandon couldn’t hide his grin until he remembered the reason they had plunged down the Atrium in the first place. “I imagine the League of Enforcers are going to hear about this,” he said grimly, glancing around for a glimpse of the dread shiny black leather uniforms.

“Do you think they’d dare to arrest you now?” Gretchan asked, shaking her head vigorously. “Even a king has to pay a certain amount of attention to the peoples’ wishes. I would say, right now, the people would like to see you rewarded, not arrested. And remember, he isn’t even the blasphemous king yet; he won’t be until they clap that sapphire-studded crown on his head, the one he’s having made from the Torc of the Forge.”

Brandon wasn’t so sure, but Gretchan’s words reminded him of the treasure he had claimed from the horax lair-the torc encrusted with blue stones that he hadn’t had a chance to show to Gretchan yet. He wasn’t going to pull it out from his belt pouch there on that crowded street, so he leaned over and told her, “As soon as we can get some privacy, I have something to show you.”

“You rascal!” she teased.

He blushed and lowered his voice. “Not that!” he growled. “Can’t you be serious for a moment?”

“Serious? When I’m in a parade with the greatest hero of Garnet Thax? I don’t think so!” she replied teasingly. She took his arm and hugged it close, beaming at the cheering dwarves surrounding them.

They turned onto the nearest spiraling ramp-no more darkened stairways for the Horax Hero, Gretchan declared-and started the trek upward. At each landing they met crowds of friendly, congratulatory dwarves, many of whom joined the march along behind them, whooping and shouting in the impromptu victory parade. More and more dwarves thronged the plazas and streets around the landings as they climbed, and Brandon had to decline multiple invitations to sit down for a beer or share a bottle of dwarf spirits. The name “Bluestone” echoed from the walls, down the streets, into the houses and inns.

As the accolades continued and grew, he noticed the utter absence of the king’s Enforcers in the crowd. He was further surprised to note several members of the Garnet Guards, veteran professional soldiers distinguished by their bright red cloaks. They seemed to be off duty but were good-naturedly following along the procession, joining in the cheers and hoisting overflowing mugs with the rest of the citizenry.

“Who are they?” Gretchan asked when he pointed them out.

“They’re the oldest regiment in Kayolin,” he explained. “Their leader, General Watchler, was a protege of my grandfather, in fact, back during the War of the Lance. When I left here they were in charge of watching the city gates and patrolling the streets-not that there was ever much trouble. Seems like a lot of their work has been taken over by the League of Enforcers, now.”

The outpouring of affection continued, with the celebration steadily growing, spilling onto side streets and different levels. Yet suddenly, Brandon wanted nothing more than to get away from all the hubbub. He felt a cold stab of shame and fear when he remembered the raid on his parents’ house and the panic of his and Gretchan’s flight from the royal agents.

“I have to get home!” he protested forcefully as a pair of strapping young millworkers tried to bodily haul him into a tavern. They released him, agreeably enough, and went on their way, but Brandon pushed ahead with increased urgency, tugging Gretchan at his side.

They continued rapidly up the long flights of stairs from the lower deep-level to the upper middle part of Garnet Thax, steadily approaching the Bluestone manor. Everywhere it seemed as though a national holiday had been declared, with boisterous drinking and cheering of the “Horax Hero” as they passed through the city.

By the time they reached the fourth midlevel and emerged from the ramp, the street was thronged with cheering dwarves, his name having been shouted upward and the news traveling before them faster than the two dwarves could climb.

Outside the Cracked Mug, Bondall met them with two full mugs of chilled ale, handing them over then impulsively kissing Brandon on the cheek.

“My hero!” she declared, smiling broadly. “And the hero of all Garnet Thax!”

The hero of Garnet Thax could only blush, as Bondall gave Gretchan a congratulatory hug. “You’re a lucky gal!” she said.

“I know,” replied the priestess, amused. She winked at Brandon. “I’m rather proud of him myself. You know, he saved my life down there.”

Only as they made their way down the street to the Bluestone house did the crowds thin a bit and grow more solemn and watchful. Many dwarves, friends and neighbors he’d known for years, clapped Brandon on the back and offered a hearty “well done.” But they knew he risked his life by coming back home, and their knowledge filled him with dread.

His mood lightened somewhat when he saw his mother waiting for him. But there was no sign of his father, and when he embraced Karine Bluestone and she started to sob in his arms, he could only fear the worst.

Willim the Black was alone in his laboratory. His terror at Facet’s frightening plunge, coupled with his fury at his own army’s cowardice, had driven him back to his laboratory-to work, to scheme, to prepare. He had left the blinded female with the healers who were tending the rebel army’s infirmary, ordering that she receive the best care, before teleporting by himself back to his laboratory.

He still remembered the gagging fear that had gripped him when his beloved female acolyte toppled over the edge of the king’s prayer tower. Blinded by the god’s light, flailing in terror, she had plunged toward the stone paving a hundred feet below. She hadn’t been enchanted with the flying spell herself since she had been borne through the air by her master, and when she had toppled from the rampart, gravity had swept her toward certain doom.

It had taken all of the wizard’s skills-along with the good fortune that he himself was still enchanted by the spell of flying-to muster the power to swoop down and catch her in his arms just before she crashed into the ground. She had sobbed, clutching him in her terror, and her emotions had touched him deeply. The confrontation with the king forgotten, he had flown away from the palace, toward the safety of his own army.

After finding General Darkstone blinded on the gatehouse parapet, groping for the stairway leading down to the plaza, Willim had demanded that the attack be resumed at once. The veteran commander had stood firm in the face of the wizard’s rage and argued, irrefutably, that blind troops could not very well be expected to wage war.

“I desire vengeance against the king as much as anyone, Master,” Darkstone declared. “But I cannot even see the blasted foe! How can I or anyone attack?”

The black wizard’s most frenetic commands, dire threats, and hysterical exhortations had been unable to sway more than a handful of his troops-those that had been inside buildings or otherwise screened from the brilliant flash-to organize for another attack. Even those stalwarts had simply advanced a few hundred feet, until they were away from their commander’s influence. Shaken and pale, looking around as if they were afraid that Reorx would smite them directly, they had quickly gone to ground.

After railing against even his most veteran commanders and loyal troops, mocking their refusal to fight in the face of what they considered to be clear proof of Reorx’s displeasure, Willim departed Norbardin in disgust. The wizard had returned to his lab, seeking a solitary place to brood, to plan, to marshal his power, and to scheme.

His enemies would pay.

He continued to believe that he was alone, but then his spell of true-seeing detected the glimmer of magic very nearby. He straightened, summoning the words to powerful spells of death and destruction. If it was an enemy arriving, his foe would be killed instantly.

But it was not an enemy. Instead, Willim recognized his apprentice Facet. She was wearing a black robe, but it was not the thick material of her wizardly garb. Instead, it was a silken outfit, gauzy and transparent-seductively transparent, and would have been so even without the benefit of the black wizard’s gift of true sight. The female apprentice was alluring in her shapeliness, beguiling in her expression. Her lips glowed like fresh blood, and her hair shimmered and flowed like liquid with each step she took. She came up to her master and bowed deeply, lowering her head in supplication. She no longer seemed to be suffering ill effects from her near-death experience.

“Why did you come here?” he asked, surprised at the unusual catch in his voice. “I left you with the army in Norbardin. But let me ask you: How are your eyes?”

“The healers were good to me, Master. In you, I can see all that I need to see.”

He felt himself stirred by her words as well as her presence. She took a step closer, and his blood pulsed in a way both frightening and thrilling. He reached out, touched her smooth, black hair, lifted the pale face with the lips painted so shockingly, so appealingly crimson.

“I am worried about you, Master,” she stated softly. “I sense your keen disappointment. I detest those who pledged you their loyalty but now fail you in your hour of opportunity … and of need.”

She understood! Willim felt a stab of powerful desire, an almost breathtaking awareness that the dwarf maid was the only one who could see into his soul, could sense that the wonderful prize, which had lurked so close, had seemed so attainable, was disastrously, tantalizingly out of reach.

“You are precious to me, a rare treasure,” he said, reaching for her, casting his scarred, eyeless face down upon her own image of rare beauty. If she was repulsed by his appearance-for the first time ever, he actually worried that his visage might be upsetting to another dwarf-she gave no outward sign. She melted into his embrace, and he held her, kissed her, pulled her close.

“You are suffering, my master,” she whispered to him. “I will do anything in my power to ease your distress.”

An hour later, he knew that she spoke the truth.