The Heir of Kayolin

THREE

Though the metropolis of Norbardin lay some six or seven miles from the lake, several winding tunnels and one wide, smooth roadway connected the city to the shore of the Urkhan Sea. Each of the routes was guarded by a small garrison, but the two flanking tunnels lacked any kind of defensive fortifications. Instead, they terminated simply in stone wharves at the shore of the Urkhan Sea. The landings were manned typically by two dozen guards, but the number had been cut in half because of the king’s decision to reinforce his troops in the inner city. Wharf-watching was boring duty, and the sentries at those outposts spent most of their time sleeping, gambling, and drinking; only rarely did one even bother to look out across the dark lake that never changed appearance.

The wide central road had a sturdier protection against attack from the sea. A vast ramp, constructed of timbers brought into the dwarf nation a century earlier, when commerce between the surface and underground worlds was routine, stood like a wall against the shore of the great body of water. Controlled by winches and levers on the landward side, it presented a solid barrier to anyone trying to reach the city from the water.

It was to that ramp that five of Willim’s apprentices had teleported themselves.

Unlike the two side tunnels, the barrier was not garrisoned by the king’s guards, for it was believed that any attempt to breach the ramp would have to be so loud and destructive that a company of defenders from the main gateway, just a few miles away, would have plenty of time to reach the platform before it could be destroyed.

Quickly the Theiwar magic-users went to work, deploying a mixture of spells, magically silenced hammers, and brute strength. They released the locks holding the ramp in place, activated the winches, and, using the weight of the ramp itself to assist them, lowered the huge barrier until the edge dropped right to the surface of the water.

The five apprentices gathered on that ramp, gazing across the Urkhan Sea, straining for a glimpse of movement. Finally they discerned what they were looking for: white wakes trailing away from the bows of a dozen, a score, a hundred boats, all churning toward the city under the power of expertly coordinated oarsmen.

“Here they come,” said the tallest of the magic-users, nodding in satisfaction. The apprentices stood aside and waited for their master’s army to arrive for the assault against Norbardin.

Three Theiwar magic-users, more of Willim’s apprentices, teleported into the middle of the great gatehouse that, after the Urkhan Ramp, was Norbardin’s second line of defense against the potential rampages of a band of feral Klar or any other threat that advanced against the city from the direction of the Urkhan Sea. The displacement of air caused a slight pop of sound, quiet enough that even those guards who were awake didn’t notice anything. Quickly the young wizards-in-training went to work.

One of them descended the long stairway into the largest storage locker, near the front rank of the ramparts. There he found thousands of arrows and crossbow quarrels, casks of oil, bales of tinder to be ignited and tossed from the walls upon enemies, as well as a host of spare armor and weapons. With instant determination, the dark wizard picked out the oil casks and quickly tumbled some of the bales around the large, greasy kegs. When he judged the pile sufficient, he backed off a dozen steps and pointed his finger.

“Igniti!” he hissed, the single magic word bringing a spark to his fingertip. The glowing ember that had materialized drifted through the air and came to rest among the pile of dry tinder. A tiny flame erupted immediately, quickly consuming the fuel, growing in brightness and warmth as it embraced the heavy, flammable casks.

By then, the arsonist was out of the storeroom, scrambling back up the stairs as fast as his short legs could carry him. He met one of his Theiwar companions on top of the ramparts just as a trio of royal guards on routine patrol emerged from a nearby doorway. They gaped in momentary astonishment, startled by the presence of the black-robed dwarves who were lurking just a few paces away.

The second apprentice raised a hand. “Slumbris!” was all he said. The spell of sleep went to work immediately; the guards staggered and dropped to their knees. One was carrying a shield, and the first apprentice leaped forward and caught the metal disk before it could clang onto the floor.

By then, the third of their companions, also operating according to Willim’s instructions, had arrived at the lofty arch over the high gate leading into the city. That gate was currently open, but it pivoted on a pair of massive stone hinges, and could be slammed shut with only brief seconds’ notice.

The last of the apprentices glanced at the hinge and saw that the massive stone slab was poised to turn. He extended a hand and touched the stone.

“Decripis,” he whispered, and immediately that stone began to crumble. As it rotted away, the ten-ton slab of the gate settled onto the ground. It did not move appreciably, but no longer was it ready to be moved easily. Rather, when the gate crew tried to close the gate, they would discover that the entire massive weight of the barrier was resting very comfortably on the ground. It would take about a hundred ogres or a thousand dwarves to budge the gate.

Well satisfied with their work, the apprentice wizards took up their daggers and retired to the shadows of the great gatehouse. They knew that they wouldn’t have long to wait.

The shore of the Urkhan Sea, in most places, rose as a steep slope of rock directly from the waterline toward the looming ceiling above the vast subterranean space. In several places, however, caverns and excavated passages reached the lakeshore and provided access to the large network of tunnels, cities, and food warrens-the living space of Thorbardin’s dwarves. As the fleet of boats approached the shore, General Blade Darkstone divided his army into three groups directed toward three landing sites.

“Row, you worms!” hissed the helmsmen, beating a stealthy rhythm on muted, leather-topped drums. The sound whispered across the lake, almost inaudible beyond a few hundred paces, but the drumbeat kept the boats moving at a steady speed even as the three detachments slowly diverged toward their beachheads.

To the left and right, the landing sites were the small tunnel mouths terminating in docks and wharves; each was the objective of a small force, numbering some fifty boats. It was the center, where the broad ramp had been lowered, that the main portion of the attacking force, numbering more than two hundred boats, would come ashore.

General Darkstone, in the lead boat, could see the ramp had been lowered precisely as the wizard had planned. The commander was the first dwarf ashore, and he was met by two black-robed apprentices.

“We have not been discovered,” one of them informed him.

“Good.” Darkstone turned back to the boats, which were drawing up to the ramp as close together as their many oars would allow. “Debark and form up,” he said in a hushed voice. The word swiftly passed from boat to boat: the main route to the city was open.

He watched the veteran troops splash onto the ramp and move rapidly forward to clear the way for the next arrivals. When he turned to look along the dark road leading toward Norbardin, he didn’t see his army; instead, he saw his daughter’s face in his mind’s eye. She was beautiful and young, as he remembered her-before she had been captured by the king’s agents and given away like some sacred token to Ragat Kingsaver. When she had killed herself, she had salvaged her honor and signed a death sentence for the king and his commanding general.

“Rest well, my child,” Darkstone whispered to himself.

Then his brow knitted and he pictured Jungor Stonespringer, General Ragat, and the task ahead.

“Your hour of judgment is near,” he promised his enemies, who remained unseen in the darkness. But surely they must know he was coming.

“Hey! Who goes there?”

The first challenge came from the leftmost of the landing sites, where one of the royal garrison had taken note of the disturbance on the water. The reply came in the form of a hundred crossbow bolts, loosed by archers standing in the prows of the approaching boats. The sentry fell into the water with a gurgling splash, and the panicked cries of his comrades receded quickly, as the small garrison fled precipitously toward Norbardin.

The garrison at the right tunnel similarly bolted, and the flotillas reached dry land at the same time. The dwarves wasted no time in scrambling out of their boats. The flanking forces charged, shoulder to shoulder, along the two narrow tunnels leading into Norbardin. Veinslitter’s Daergar, a disciplined formation bearing swords and axes while protected by shields and plate armor, marched in tight ranks along the road to the left. To the right, Captain Forelock’s Klar advanced in a swarm, jogging along the smooth pavement, grunting and shouting as they picked up the pace of their advance.

General Darkstone himself led the main body of his force, the Theiwar regiments with Hylar skirmishers in the lead. As they were the largest of the army’s elements, the general took extra time to organize and form up his units as boat after boat debarked, depositing its complement of the army onto the sloping shore formed by the lowered ramp. Eight boats could pull up at a time, and the empty crafts were quickly shuttled out of the way so the next wave could beach and make ready. The dwarves of William’s army had drilled the procedure many times on the similar shores of the Isle of the Dead, and the practice paid off as the whole operation of emptying the many boats took less than fifteen minutes.

When the whole force, several thousand strong, had landed, Darkstone supervised organizing them into ranks, and finally they all started marching toward the city. They moved at a measured pace, for it was Willim’s plan that the two flanks would be engaged before the powerful knockout punch was delivered by the center.

The right wing advanced first, with General Forelock’s Klar charging at an enthusiastic trot, whooping and shouting as they swept around the bends of the narrow tunnel-stealth being not much valued by the impetuous Klar. As the right formation spread out, the dwarves of that undisciplined clan raced each other toward the nearest enemy positions. Barely a mile from the lake, the Klar berserkers encountered the first guard posts of the king’s royal garrison. Because of the inevitable noise they had made during their advance, they found the defenders stoutly waiting for them-but the fanatical attackers would not have had it any other way.

The first guard posts were blockhouses carved into the walls on both sides of the roadway. They had stout metal gates, usually left open, ready to block any undesirables. The guards, alerted brief moments earlier by the sound of the wild-eyed Klar’s advance, had already started to swing that gate shut when the attackers burst into a mad sprint. Howling wildly, the Klar hit the moving barrier at full tilt, the weight of the onslaught slamming the gate back against the defenders.

Swinging axes and swords with mad glee, the berserkers hurled themselves at the doors and the shuttered windows of the two blockhouses, quickly forcing their way inside. The outnumbered defenders had been expecting a small raiding party at best and were stunned by the onslaught of a full regiment. The king’s defenders were quickly slaughtered while the rest of the Klar spilled through the barricade and down down the tunnel in a mad rush toward the streets of lower Norbardin, some three miles away.

To the left, the Daergar also had taken out their first guard post in a sudden, silent rush, approaching the city gates with more stealth. There, the last of Willim’s apprentices had worked their sleep spells on the advance guard posts, and as a result the first company rushed through the entryway before the guards even knew what was happening. As some of Willim’s warriors took control of the wide plaza just inside the gate, the follow-up ranks swarmed over the defensive positions, killing the royal guards in their barracks, often before the startled dwarves had time to get out of bed.

In the center, finally, the Hylar skirmishers took the main gates of Norbardin in a whirlwind of fighting. The ruined hinge of the massive gate was discovered too late, and the great barrier stood useless as the attackers stormed past. Many of the garrison dwarves were distracted, having been called to fight the fire that had erupted in the gatehouse’s main storeroom. Using grappling hooks and ropes to scramble up the steep walls, Willim’s attackers carried the upper ramparts in the first few intense minutes of combat. The main bulk of Darkstone’s force, the Theiwar regiments in their tight, disciplined formations, marched through the gate and broke into a double-time march.

The first goals, all three of them, had been achieved by surprise and ferocity. Across a wide plaza, protected by a series of moats and walls, loomed the next, the main objective: the royal palace of Jungor Stonespringer, High King of Thorbardin.

The king of Thorbardin was jolted awake, wrested from a dream wherein he was being tended, most gently, by a harem’s worth of beautiful dwarf maids. The dream was exceedingly pleasant, and his initial reaction was outrage that someone would have dared to interrupt his reverie. Almost immediately, however, he realized that something was gravely wrong.

First, a dwarf-one of his guards or household members, almost certainly-had the audacity to pound loudly at the door that led into the king’s sleeping chamber.

“Your Majesty!” came the urgent cry, and Stonespringer recognized the voice of his chamberlain, Robards. “Please get up! We are attacked!”

Shaking his head, the king sat up in bed and swung his short, skinny legs over the edge of his hard mattress. Even above the clamor of Robards’s shouts of alarm, he could hear screams and battle cries, all close enough to indicate the enemy was already in the city. Even as he digested that shock, he heard the resounding clash of steel against steel, a nightmarish clanging that seemed to fill the whole of the great plaza beyond his palace walls.

His good eye flashed wildly as Jungor Stonespringer stared around his barren sleeping chamber. One object compelled his attention: the gleaming golden orb of his artificial eye. He snatched it up and pressed it into the empty socket, trying to process all the commotion.

“It is a test!” he croaked, understanding immediately. Reorx was displeased with the people of Thorbardin, and in his wisdom, the Master of the Forge had chosen to test their devotion, their strength, their faith.

“It is a test of faith!” he repeated, much more loudly, crowing his realization to Robards, to anyone else who could hear. “Reorx is testing us!”

“Yes, Majesty!” the chamberlain replied. “He tests us most assuredly! You must take up the reins of rule and prove to him our worthiness!”

Ignoring the aide-the king had no need of such advice-Jungor stood up and crossed the room, snatching his thin robe from its hanger and shrugging the plain garment over his thin shoulders. Like the rest of his lack of adornment, like the frail physique that attested that he did not overindulge in food and drink, the simple robe was intended to serve as an example for his people. They would behold their ruler in such minimalist attire and strive to emulate his disdain for riches and ostentation.

But those concerns were far from his churning mind at the moment. The king threw open the door to his chamber to confront Robards. The chamberlain’s face was flushed above the bush of his braided, oiled beard, and sweat beaded generously across his brow. “Sire, they have attacked from three directions and breached the great gates. Already the attackers swarm into Anvil’s Echo and across the great plaza!”

“Who dares attack us?” demanded the monarch.

“We don’t know,” stammered the aide. “Dwarves, to be sure-it seems there are Klar and Theiwar among them. They came at us so quickly that we have not yet divined their purpose or their lord. Could it be the Failed King, come to reclaim his throne?”

“No, no. It cannot be Tarn Bellowgranite,” Stonespringer replied, thinking aloud. “Thorbardin itself remains sealed against the outer world, and he cannot reach us from his bastion in Pax Tharkas.”

“No, indeed, lord. It cannot be Bellowgranite,” Robards agreed.

“Willim the Black!” snapped the king, fastening onto the identity of the one rebel who was known to dwell deep within the mountain fastness of the dwarven nation. “It must be him. But he has no army!”

“Perhaps he does now,” the chamberlain replied hesitantly. “There have been reports of sorcerers among the first wave of attacks. Some guards were enchanted into sleep, and it seems that magic might have been used to disable the city’s main gate.”

“Impossible!” insisted Stonespringer, even as the thought sent a stab of worry through his bowels. Sorcerers attacking! At the same time, he had been warned by General Ragat, and apparently Ragat had been right: the menace to his kingdom lay beyond, not within, the city. The king had guessed wrong, and his troops were beleaguered inside the gates of Norbardin. With the aid of his sorcerers, Willim the Black’s forces had gained access to the city and brought the war right to the gates of the royal palace.

An insurrection led by the wicked black-robed wizard was the worst nightmare King Stonespringer could imagine. Indeed, the monarch had ordered the wizard slain more than a year before, had even-at considerable expense-procured potions of teleportation to allow his assassins to magically transport themselves into the wizard’s otherwise impenetrable lair. Too late, he realized that he had not obtained enough teleport potion for his successful assassins to return and report upon their mission. He had counted on their success. Though none of them had in fact returned, he had been lulled into thinking that the wizard had been removed as a threat. Even as rumors had surfaced in the past months that talented young Theiwar were again being recruited by a mysterious magic-user, that mercenary dwarf warriors were slowly sneaking away from Norbardin and gathering at some unknown location, the monarch had convinced himself that Willim was no threat and that no one would dare to challenge his complete mastery of Thorbardin.

It seemed his mistakes would be tested by Reorx.

The sounds of battle echoed through the great plaza of Norbardin, the tide of combat threatening to wash up against the walls of the royal palace itself.

“Call up the constables and reserves!” Stonespringer barked loudly. “Get a message to General Ragat-tell him to use every available dwarf in the city’s defense.”

“It shall be done, sire!” Robards declared, frantically waving at a signalman who was standing in the doorway of the king’s chamber, hastily writing notes. “But, Your Majesty, nothing would help so much as a public appearance by yourself as soon as possible. I beg you-go forth onto your prayer tower and rally the city with your own words!”

“Yes, I shall,” Stonespringer agreed. He snatched up the royal scepter, a tall staff tipped with a large, spherical ruby. Stamping the butt of the pole on the floor, he stalked across the floor of his chamber, pushed open the outer door, and marched boldly onto his balcony.

“It’s started!” Peat shouted, closing the door behind himself and clapping the lock.

“Who farted?” Sadie demanded crossly, emerging from the shop’s back room.

“No, not farted! The war, the war! The war has started!” the male Guilder replied in exasperation. “I can hear the battle going on in the square-right at the end of the street!”

“Eh?” His wife blinked, smacking her lips as she digested the news. “So it’s started, then.”

“I guess you could say that,” Peat agreed with a silent groan.

“I don’t like it much,” Sadie warned. “Bad for business, for one thing. And if the Master needs us again …” She let the foreboding idea drift, unfinished.

“Do you think he will?” Peat asked worriedly. “I’m not as young as I used to be.” In fact, even their simple mission, the task of spreading fear and confusion in the great square, had caused his heart to flutter dangerously. He didn’t even want to think about the chance that Willim the Black would find fault in their performance, be stymied in his own endeavors, and call upon them to perform even more arduous, dangerous activities.

Their musings were interrupted by the sound of a persistent pounding on the outer door, the entry to the shop. The two Guilders hobbled out of the back, Sadie leaning on her cane while Peat squinted at the door as if trying to see right through it. The knocking was repeated, even more insistently, so finally, with some prodding from Sadie, he released the latch and pushed it open.

“Abercrumb!” he exclaimed, feigning pleasure as he recognized their neighbor, a merchant who ran a silver shop on the other side of the street. Peat pointed at the sign beside the door. “I’d love to chat-but, you see, we’re closed now.”

“We’re all closed,” muttered Abercrumb, pushing open the door and brazening his way inside. “That’s what I need to see you about. Business has come to a complete halt. I expect this, whatever it is, this war, to come spilling down First Street at any minute. Why, some dwarves are talking about the end of the world! How can I sell my silver plates to folks who are worried about the end of the world?”

Abercrumb was a Hylar, unusually slender for a dwarf. He had a nervous habit of playing with the straggling ends of his long beard while he was thinking, or listening. He was doing that as he looked worriedly from Peat to Sadie and back again.

Sadie clucked in sympathy. “True, we haven’t had a customer in days,” she said, nodding. “Business has been terrible for a long time. And now no one will buy novelties and tokens when they’re wondering if an army of rebels is going to come smashing down their door!”

“These new rebels-do you know who they are?” Abercrumb asked, looking slyly out of the corner of his eye. “That is, are they Theiwar-you know, of your clan?”

Peat chuffed irritably and straightened himself. “I’m sure I don’t know anything about it! Certainly there’s a wizard behind some of this mischief, but don’t make the mistake of thinking all the Theiwar are in some kind of league against the king!”

“Oh, no, I’d never make that mistake,” Abercrumb responded smoothly. “It’s just that, well, business has been so terrible, and I wondered if you have any ideas about what is happening all of a sudden. When things might get better or blow over.”

“Well, if we hear anything, we’ll let you know!” Sadie declared. “Not that we are getting any information that you couldn’t get yourself. Just keep your eyes open!”

“Oh, I’ll keep my eyes open. You can count on that!” Then Abercrumb departed with his words-he was known to be a curious, even nosy, fellow-hanging in the air.

“I don’t like it,” Peat groused. “For all we know, he could be spying on us while we’re spying on the king.”

“I don’t like it either,” Sadie replied in disgust. “But what are we going to do about it?”

That was a question with no good answer. Peat shook his head, discouraged. “I wish we could just get out of here, out of Thorbardin altogether,” he said morosely. He gestured at the jumbled mess of their shop. “Even if we had to leave all this behind!”

He didn’t notice his wife scratching her chin as his words plunged her deep into thought.

Gypsum and Facet saw the initial rank of the attackers burst through the gates of Norbardin, and heard the trumpets and drums sound with alarm. They remained magically concealed, poised on the parapet atop the king’s prayer tower. Each young wizard clutched a long dagger; both silently watched the door below them. Facet, still enhanced by her spell of invisibility detection, also watched her companion, stealing frequent glances at him to make certain he was following the plan; she smiled thinly to think he could no more see her than he could see the air between them.

They listened to all the clamor, the shrieks of alarm from the dying defenders, the cries of the many dwarves fleeing from the violence that stalked through the streets and square, and the curses of the many more who milled about in fear, shaken and unsettled by the old crone’s dire prophecies of earthquake and doom. The city was in panic, and if the king still slept, the two Theiwar knew that it must be a very unsettled slumber.

“Summon the king!” called one nearby officer. “Sound the alarm-we’re under attack!”

The time was soon. Gypsum raised his knife and reached out to touch Facet’s shoulder, feeling her nod in response. She gripped her own blade, staring down, intently watching the door leading to the king’s chambers. The two dwarves would have been in plain sight to any nearby observer except for the spell of invisibility that masked them from detection, so long as they stood still and made no sudden gesture or move.

Soon the king’s portal burst open, and royal guards charged out to gawk over the ramparts, witnessing the size of the attack with shock and horror.

“It’s civil war!” one cried, turning back to the doorway. “Alert the king!”

More cries of alarm and death were ringing throughout the city, and still the two assassins waited and watched, prepared for their victim to emerge. Once again the door burst open, and two armed guards charged out to flank the entrance. The two guards were followed at once by a gaunt, robed figure carrying a ruby-tipped scepter.

“Now!” Gypsum spat as the robed king raced through the doorway underneath the two Theiwar assassins. He sprang outward, dagger extended. His abrupt movements broke the thrall of the invisibility spell, but that was no hindrance, for Gypsum was on target, plunging toward the dwarf monarch’s unprotected back.

“Sire!” One of the guards at the parapet, turning to gesture his king forward, had spotted the flash of movement. With surprising quickness, the dwarf dived at his king, tackling the ruler to the ground.

The Theiwar assassin could not alter the path of his dive. Gypsum stabbed as he smashed into the floor, but his blade sliced through the back of the foolish guardsman. Even as that soldier died, King Stonespringer wriggled away, shrieking in fury and terror.

“Kill him!” gasped the king. “It is the will of Reorx that he die in my presence!”

Gypsum rolled to one side, wrenching his knife free from the soldier’s fatal wound and bouncing to his feet. He spotted the king, but already a half dozen burly Hylar had grouped themselves before the monarch and the erstwhile assassin. The Black Robe looked upward, seeking Facet where she had lurked beside him on the mantel. Nothing moved there; if she was still in place, she was still immobile and invisible.

Yet she must be there! He had touched her arm, felt her presence just moments earlier. Why did she not attack? The opportunity was golden.

“Strike now!” Gypsum called out to her, urging Facet to strike the king’s unprotected back from her vantage overhead. Certainly she, like he, would gladly sacrifice her life in the Master’s cause! The apprentice wizard feinted a charge and danced away from the guards’ swords, making sure that their attention remained focused on him, not the unseen danger. He parried a defender’s slice with his dagger, fanatical determination allowing him to smash the larger weapon aside with his slender blade.

Why did she still not attack? Retreating, he cast an urgent spell, using his left hand to aim a stream of magic missiles at the king. The sparking, hissing darts struck the chest of a guard who bravely stepped into their path, and Gypsum cursed aloud as the last of the magic missiles killed the soldier but failed to strike the monarch.

The Theiwar mage had to defend himself in earnest, swords coming at him from all sides. He couldn’t sidestep as the tip of a weapon plunged in to tear the flesh of his biceps. Cursing in pain, he spun, backing all the way to the edge of the rampart.

Blood trickled down his arm, and he grunted as another sword tip cut him, gouging his left hip. He recoiled from the blow, but there was nowhere else he could retreat. He stared into the one good eye of Jungor Stonespringer, saw the king’s face distorted by rage and fear, heard his shrill voice calling for the guards to slay the would-be assassin.

“Facet!” he cried, a desperate last croak as more blades struck home, including one that plunged into his belly. Flailing, Gypsum sliced the sword hand of that attacker, but his mind, his reflexes, failed as the blood drained out of him in too many places.

Once more he peered up at the balcony, and at last he saw his fellow apprentice crouching there. Facet had moved, shrugging away the spell of invisibility, but she stared down on him with a thinly smiling face that was cold, cruel. Her blood red lips were curled mockingly. Gypsum’s dagger fell from nerveless fingers, and he raised his hand in a mute plea. The king, his back unprotected, stood directly below the female; she could launch herself at him at any time, landing on him for a certain kill.

Gypsum dropped to his knees, not even feeling the rain of blows that continued to cut him, to kill him. His vision grew foggy, and his last glimpse of Facet was of his fellow conspirator mockingly blowing him a kiss before she spoke a magic word and blinked away, alive and treacherous, ready to fight again on another day.