The Heir of Kayolin

TWENTY-ONE

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 building 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 cry grew to a swelling chorus as more and more fighters, on both sides of the civil war, gathered around the palace, begging and pleading for the king to allow them to leave.

“Open the North Gate!” wailed many in the crowd. “Let us get out of here!”

“Cowards!” Stonespringer screamed at them from the smoldering wreckage of his medium-high rampart. “Stay and fight! You shall not leave Thorbardin; no one leaves Thorbardin! Stay and do the bidding of your king! Stay, or die!”

But his words had little effect on the frenzied mob. The fire dragon, after searing past the palace, had flown on, plunging into the bedrock that formed the city’s wall, moving vaguely in the direction of the Urkhan Sea.

“Your majesty!” The words were repeated, again and again, but so intense was the king’s focus that it took him a long time to realize that someone was speaking to him, was even tugging on his robe.

He spun in fury, his good eye flashing as he saw a dwarf recoil in terror. The fellow was wearing the uniform of a general, Jungor saw, but only gradually did he recognize Ragat, the commander of his most elite troops and of the entire castle garrison.

“What do you want?” snarled the monarch.

Ragat, surprisingly enough, stood boldly in the face of his ruler’s fury. “You command the troops to fight the monster,” he declared. “But you offer them no hope! Our weapons are useless against the fire dragon. Our defenses crumble in its presence. We are brave, O king, but we are not fools. How are we to fight that which cannot be fought?”

“Faith!” cried the king, his voice a howl. “Fight with our faith, with the courage of our righteous god!”

His eye flashed again, and his mouth curled into a wicked grin. “The eye of Reorx!” he crowed. “The red stone will give us the means to defeat the monster!”

Ragat could only watch impotently as the monarch hastened back into his quarters on the high palace level. Moments later Stonespringer returned, clutching the wedge of red rock that he called the eye of Reorx. The general watched skeptically as the king strode to the edge of the rampart and held the stone up for all of the teeming, panicked dwarves to see.

“Behold!” the king cried, his voice shrill and cracking. He held up the Redstone. “Behold the eye of Reorx. The Master of the Forge is watching us! He will protect us!

“Witness the power of our god!” he continued shouting. “Here is the talisman of his own self! Here is the means to defeat the fire dragon! Have faith, my people-”

He did not finish, for at that moment the fire dragon returned, dropping right through the ceiling of the vast cavern of Norbardin. Ragat felt the searing heat of the monster’s approach and saw blisters rising on the skin of his hands as he held them up in a futile attempt to defend himself.

Then those crushing wings came down, and the fire enveloped him. The high rampart of the palace collapsed, sending the king, the general, and the vaunted Redstone tumbling into the smoldering ruins of the palace’s courtyard.

Gorathian flew on, a being of pure Chaos. The fire dragon had no goal, no objective, no destination. It exulted in its flight, relished the sweep of destruction, reveled in killing, inflicting pain, and causing terror among the pathetic dwarves.

But it also understood that it had a very powerful enemy. For long years it had languished in the chasm below the wizard’s laboratory, imprisoned and taunted by Willim the Black. The mage had exerted powerful controls through his sorcery, occasionally rewarding the fire dragon with morsels of flesh or promises of imminent freedom. Yet always, when Gorathian strained to rise, the wizard’s magic had forced it back. A powerful barrier of sorcery had pressed the serpent down, and the bedrock of the cavern-a strata of ore heavily infused with iron-had prevented the creature of Chaos from burrowing to either side, effectively blocking it from any potential path of escape.

Gorathian had been trapped since the Chaos War, when, as one of the great legion of destructive beings, it had roared through Thorbardin, laying waste to cities and lives and everything else in its path. It had dived into the chasm, deep within the mountain, and found itself confined by the heavily metallic rock. By the time Gorathian had twisted around to seek an escape, its fellows, the whole army of Chaos, had been borne away from Krynn by the intervention of the gods.

Only Gorathian remained, sealed away in the depths of the mountain’s footings.

But the dwarves, ever industrious, had excavated great blocks of stone away from the fire dragon’s prison, carving out the chamber that was to be the new council hall for the ruling thanes. Fortunately, just before Gorathian would have been freed, the dwarves had realized it was the prison of the lethal and destructive beast. They had hastily resealed the chamber and withdrawn, leaving the monster to languish for the rest of eternity.

Then the wizard had come.

Willim the Black had been drawn to the lair in part because of the deadly monster, and he had used spells of powerful sorcery to tantalize the fire dragon, allowing it to sense freedom even as he tamped it down and kept it imprisoned in the deep crevasse.

For that the dragon feared and hated the black wizard, even as it sensed that Willim was the reason the creature had been, at long last, released from its entrapping chasm. As Gorathian felt the containing magic ease, the beast understood that the wizard was relaxing his control and aiming the fire dragon at the dwarf’s enemies. Since it had gained flight, it would never, ever, return to that stone-walled prison. Gorathian embraced the release but remained vigilant against the wizard’s control.

The dragon flew on, wings spread as it soared higher. The great dwarf nation of Thorbardin beckoned: thousands of lives, all quailing in terror at Gorathian’s approach. The fire dragon roared in exultation, fiery breath engulfing a whole block of small houses. The monster sliced through the rock, causing an entire section of Anvil’s Echo to collapse, crushing a hundred dwarves under many tons of rubble.

The fire dragon flew and it slew. It roared in the pure joy of destruction. And it knew that, for the first time in countless ages, it was free.