The Heir of Kayolin

FIVE

Willim looked over the battlefield with steadily mounting frustration. The Theiwar commander stood atop a captured gate tower, a vantage with a view across the entire Center Gate of the city’s main defensive line. The troops of the rebel forces held the gate, the towers to either side of that wide portal, and the minifortresses carved into the bedrock of the cavern in support of those gate towers. From each fortress, a narrow, lofty bridge arched toward Norbardin’s wealthiest districts. Below, the wide plaza, usually a scene of vigorous commerce, spread out as a ravaged battlefield, marked by upturned carts, wrecked stalls, and many dying and dead dwarves.

For hours that fight had raged back and forth across the square. The energy of the Klar charge had been dispersed on the right flank as the undisciplined troops had broken away from their companies to plunder and drink. Roaring laughter and bawdy songs rose, incongruously, from many of the taverns and ale stalls on the fringe of the square.

Willim knew there was no point in even trying to rally those troops until the plundering and the carousing and their aftereffects had passed.

In the center and to the right, the more disciplined formations of Hylar, Theiwar, and Daergar troops had battled themselves to exhaustion against the firm stand of the Royal Division. Casualties had been heavy on both sides, and a lull had settled over that area as both offensive and defensive troops sought the rest, water, and food that was necessary before they could resume the fighting.

With a muttered curse, Willim teleported to General Darkstone’s headquarters, hastily established on the second floor of a masonry shop at the edge of the square. From there, the veteran commander could observe the royal palace nearly a mile away.

“Why aren’t you pressing the attack?” demanded the black wizard, materializing next to the general, who didn’t flinch at his sudden appearance.

“We carried the outer defenses in the first rush, my lord,” General Darkstone reported stolidly. “But the city defenders rallied surprisingly well. They have met each of our probes with fierce counterattacks. We cut them down by the dozens, but they bring up replacements by the hundreds. Now, in the center, we have two full divisions standing against us.”

“Then kill them by the hundreds or the thousands!” Willim snapped, gesturing irritably.

Darkstone, no fool, bit his tongue rather than make an impertinent reply. Instead, he stared as though thinking before nodding tersely.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “We hear them still invoking the king’s name, Master. It would seem that the assassination attempt was not successful.”

“No!” barked the wizard, though it was news to him-bad news. Gypsum and Facet had failed? How could that have happened? Even as he pondered the prospect, he pictured Facet slain, maybe captured, and felt a surprising pang of heartache at the thought she might be dead. Why did she affect him so? What sort of bewitchment did she possess?

“What about the Black Cross?” Willim pointed at the deadly regiment of Daergar heavy infantry, currently idle in the rear ranks of the center column.

“Yes, I’m holding them in reserve, sir. In the event of an enemy breakthrough, we’ll need them to plug the gap.”

“An enemy breakthrough?” snapped the black robe wizard. “It is we who will do the breaking through! Send them now to the attack. And that’s an order!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Blade Darkstone evenly. Though he disagreed with the command, he knew it would be unwise to say so. Instead, he ordered a signal flag raised, and the Black Cross regiment started moving forward.

“What about the heavy infantry?” muttered Willim darkly.

The old commander repressed a sigh, saluting firmly. “Master, that part of the Black Cross I was also holding in reserve. However, they are ready,” he reported.

Willim gestured impatiently at the tight, neat ranks of the Daergar heavy infantry unit. They covered a front some two hundred yards wide, with sword- and shield-bearing heavy troops in the front, a rank of spearmen behind, another line of heavy troops in the third rank, and the elite crossbow teams in the very back of the formation. “Send them in!”

General Darkstone gave the signal.

The main complex of fortifications was firmly in the control of General Darkstone’s forces, and the other gatehouses were also in the hands of the attackers, who blocked all routes of access between Norbardin and the Urkhan Sea. But the royal garrison troops of the First Division had marched into the middle of the great square and formed a line that the rebels had not been able to crack.

Willim cast a fireball to open the attack, sending the churning sphere of flame through the very center of the royal ranks. A hundred dwarves died on the spot, but before Darkstone’s skirmishers could rush into the gap, a full complement of reinforcements charged up and over the still-smoldering bodies of their slain comrades to again tighten the formation and hold the line.

Willim and his general watched as the Black Cross and the heavy infantry moved into position for a full-on assault against the royal defenders.

“Those are General Ragat’s men,” Darkstone declared, watching the royal troops as they stoically prepared their defenses. “I’d know that drill anywhere.”

“What does it matter who commands them?” snapped Willim. “I want them pushed out of the way!”

“It’s the commander what makes all the difference,” Darkstone retorted, in a tone that sounded very much like insolence to the short-tempered wizard. “Any other general, and they’d have routed away when that fire blew out their center.”

Willim stared at the flanks of the Royal Division, where a motley lot of citizens, no doubt the king’s pathetic conscripts, were rushing forward to support the veteran troops. The recent arrivals, a veritable mob, were armed with pitchforks, hammers, picks, and a few swords and spears. If anything, they would weaken the defense.

Willim spotted Captain Veinslitter in the middle of the Black Cross regiment. The Daergar leader wore a silver helm that was festooned with a crimson plume, and he was looking up at the rampart, toward his general and the wizard. Feeling those eyes upon him, Willim nodded, and General Darkstone ordered the climactic attack forward.

With a roar of battle lust, the Daergar attacked. They advanced in a rush, sword tips extended past the line of shields. Even at full speed, their discipline held-there was no wavering in the straightness of the line, no gap opening between one fleet dwarf and his slower comrade. Like an advancing wall of steel, the Black Cross bore down on the ill-equipped and virtually unarmored troops of the king’s militia.

The roar of the charge swelled into a thunder as a thousand throats chanted “Black-Black-Black!” in steadily hastening cadence. They were calling out the name of their own unit, but Willim the Black allowed himself to reflect on the irony that it was his name as well. Plus it was the stark and chilling color of the order of magic he had cherished all his life. The power of the Black Robes: soon it would rule Thorbardin!

Shortly, the rebels’ shield wall smashed into the first of the defending troops. The hammers and pitchforks of the royal contingent broke against the steel shields, and the untrained troops dropped by the score. Yet they showed a fanatical willingness to die and fell back only when the Black Cross veterans put their shoulders down and pressed ahead in murderous fashion. The line of battle surged, shouts and screams rising from the wounded, and finally the irregulars started to roll back, pushed and trampled.

The line of the Daergar veterans wavered once or twice as some pockets of resistance proved more stubborn than others, but it made a steady advance. The hobnailed boots of the heavy infantry stomped over the bleeding bodies of the enemy wounded and slain, and the dwarves put their weight against the heavy steel shields, pressing ahead. Their swords, every blade streaked with blood, hacked and gouged at the mass of defenders.

“They show some courage, Master,” General Darkstone allowed as more and more of the militia troops hurled themselves into the fray to assist the royal guards.

“Then let them be courageous fools!” snapped Willim. “I want their blood to flow like a river down the streets!”

Moments after the first impact, the second rank of the Black Cross halted, dwarves cocking back their arms, holding their short, stout javelins at shoulder height. At a command from Veinslitter, they launched the weapons in a dense volley. Each spear was tipped with a razor-sharp, barbed tip of the strongest steel, backed by the weight of a heavy shaft, and when the rain of missiles came down, the lethal points tore through whatever paltry shield or armor lay in its path and the flesh, bones, and bodies beneath.

Hundreds of the defenders fell, pierced through, many writhing in agony amid spreading pools of blood. Others, stabbed in the heart or the skull, lay still, killed instantly. Some twisted the weapons free from gory wounds, even as the cruel barbs tore painfully at the victims’ flesh. A very bold and lucky few, having eluded the barrage, picked up the javelins and tried to hurl them back at the attackers. But most of the return missiles missed their marks, bouncing off the armor and shields of the regulars, clattering to the ground with more noise than effect.

Still the shield wall pressed forward, advancing steadily over the bodies of the hapless defenders. Captain Veinslitter strode forward step by step with the first rank, shouting exhortations, clapping his men on the shoulders as he stalked behind the line, wielding his own blade whenever a tiny niche allowed him to lunge directly at a foe.

The royal guards and the undisciplined, conscripted citizens were undeniably outmatched by the steady, well-equipped veterans of the Black Cross. But for some reason that Willim didn’t readily understand, the defenders refused to break, to surrender, or to flee.

He watched as one white-bearded old fellow charged forward with a pitchfork, jabbing it futilely against the shield wall until he was cut down by a stab to the abdomen. As he fell, he thrust his weapon one more time, and one of the Black Cross dwarves stumbled, taking a tine in the hinge gap of his armor around his knee.

At the same time, another pair of dwarves, wearing only stiff leather smithy tunics, raised hammers and hurled themselves against the shield wall. Even from his lofty vantage, Willim could hear the resounding bang of the heavy mallets against the metal shields. One of the smiths went down, cut almost in two by a sideways slash, but the other brought his hammer down heavily on the swordsman’s wrist, breaking bone and forcing the veteran to drop his sword. The injured infantryman backed out of the line, his place quickly taken by a comrade, but too many Black Cross dwarves were being similarly attacked and forced to yield their positions on the shield wall.

“Why do they stand?” he demanded of General Darkstone. “We’re killing a score of them for every one of our men wounded!”

“I know,” growled the commander unhelpfully. “But our numbers are limited. Look.”

He pointed toward the wall around King Stonespringer’s fortified palace. Willim saw the gate open, spilling hundreds more irregulars onto the plaza. Some of them weren’t even armed, but still they howled and charged, hurling themselves with suicidal frenzy into the mass of dwarves battling the Black Cross. They picked up weapons from the dead and wounded, eagerly surging forward to join the battle against the rebels.

At the same time, more of the irregulars were advancing from the side streets, swarming into the square with little semblance of order or formation. Some came at the Black Cross ranks from the side or even from behind.

Fortunately, the veteran Captain Veinslitter recognized the fresh threat, pivoting his troops on the right flank to meet the new danger. At the same time his crossbowmen fired at the dwarves surging toward the rear of the Black Cross. So effective was that volley that a hundred of the enemy fell, and the few survivors among them were so intimidated by the deadly crossbows that they pulled back. Under their captain’s steady, shouted orders, the Black Cross resumed its slow, deliberate advance.

“They are penetrating too far,” Darkstone declared grimly. “They’re in danger of getting cut off.”

“No!” retorted Willim. “Keep charging-break them! Smash through to the palace!”

The general nodded and, when Veinslitter looked up, simply gestured the captain to continue pressing the attack. The Daergar captain touched his silver helm and cheered the Black Cross regiment forward with renewed determination. Every few steps they had to pause and launch a volley of crossbow bolts against the militiamen who were milling around near the streets that spilled onto the plaza from nearby neighborhoods.

More and more citizens attacked from the side, rushing out of the alleys and streets, carrying makeshift weapons or picking them up from beside the bodies of the slain. It was a floodtide more than a thousand strong, a relentless force of nature.

“There-a breach!” called Willim, spotting a gap in the defenders.

No sooner had he spoken than a hundred howling irregulars filled the gap, threatening to sweep around the exposed flank of the outnumbered veterans. Veinslitter reacted by pulling his right flank back, thinning out his ranks to extend the length of his line. Even so, there were too many of the militia, too few of the Black Cross. The king’s loyalists started to spill around both sides of the Daergar heavy infantry, and there were no longer enough troops to extend the line. The Black Cross curled back to the right and the left until it resembled a horseshoe, fighting countless foes to the left, ahead, and to the right.

And still more of the king’s troops and volunteers, ill-trained and poorly armed but seemingly infinite in number, charged into the square toward the beleaguered Daergar.

At last even Willim recognized the grim reality.

“Sound the retreat!” he barked tersely, and Darkstone immediately passed the command to his trumpeter. The brass call finally signaled the dwarves of Veinslitter’s elite company to back away from the grip of the frenzied mob.

But already it might be too late. The possessed defenders followed the thinning lines of the Black Cross as the veteran Daergar tried to fight their way free of what was becoming a deathtrap. At the same time, organized ranks of the Royal Division advanced against Veinslitter’s left flank, nearly surrounding the formation. The line fractured, the Daergar on both flanks fighting as islands of resistance in an enemy sea, while the remnant of the center struggled back toward the gate. Willim grimaced in anger as more and more of his veterans fell, vanishing under the press of the enemy’s rabble.

The few surviving Daergar finally made it to the gatehouse, where the rest of the rebel army stood ready to support them. Even so, Willim could see that his elite company had been decimated; only about a quarter of those veteran warriors had made it back to his own position. The wizard ground his teeth, knowing that his best regiment had been squandered, without a single foot of ground gained to show for the sacrifice.

Beside Willim, Blade Darkstone covered his eyes with his gloved hand and uttered a sob of despair. The wizard grimaced and turned away.

“What did you mean, telling them there might be a way to get them out of Thorbardin?” Peat demanded soon after the Hylar family, buttressed by sudden hope, had departed with the promise to return in twenty-four hours. “Surely you’re not thinking of our ring?”

The two Guilders had several very precious treasures that were definitely not for sale. One of those was a ring of teleportation, a device that would allow the wearer to magically travel to another destination. Only a few were said to exist on all of Krynn.

“Of course not!” Sadie retorted. “There’s only the one ring, and therefore only one person could use it. It wouldn’t be much good to those four Hylar!”

“Well, I know that,” replied her husband, peering at her with his watery, nearsighted eyes. “But what in Reorx’s name are you talking about then?”

“That spell!” Sadie replied, a wide grin brightening her nearly toothless mouth. “The spell on the scroll, the one that I’ve been saving for a very long time.”

Peat harrumphed. “I know what’s in the scroll cabinet. There’s nothing in there that will get a blind rat out of Thorbardin, much less a family of Hylar.”

“Ah,” Sadie said, her eyes gleaming in her wrinkled face. “But this is a special scroll! I have been trying to copy it for a while now, and I am almost done.”

With her husband tottering along behind, she led him into the storeroom at the back of the shop. With considerable effort, she bent down and tapped several times at a piece of rock that looked like the foundation of the bottom shelf. To Peat’s immense surprise, the rock swiveled away to reveal a dark aperture-the entrance to a secret compartment.

“Eh?” he said. “How’d that get there?”

“I made it myself,” his wife said smugly as she reached inside to pull out a long tube. She handed it to him and stood up with surprising alacrity, given her age and arthritic limbs. “Now take it over here to the worktable!” she instructed.

Peat, speechless for once, did as he was told. He unscrewed the cap on the end of the tube and pulled out a roll of parchment while Sadie muttered a quick spell, igniting the candle that rested in a wall sconce above the table. Under the bright yellow glow, Peat could make out the words at the top of the piece of parchment.

“A dimension door?” he asked in surprise. “You want to conjure a dimension door?” He had intended to ask how she had gained access to such a powerful spell, why she had hidden it from him, what she had planned to do with it. Instead, he just gaped at her, amazed at the idea and imagining the possibilities.

Sadie smiled so wide that her toothless gums were exposed. “Just imagine how much we could charge to use it,” she said.

“Aye,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “Pretty much whatever we want to for someone who really wanted to get out of here. And who had the money to pay.”

“Darn tootin’!” his wife rejoined, cackling gleefully. “Now get out of my way. I need to finish the copy so we can save the original. We’ve got a lot of work to do!”

He looked over her shoulder at the complicated magical scribing. It was a spell far beyond his ability, and he was slightly awed by the knowledge that his wife had kept the scroll a secret from him. But mainly he felt proud that she was capable of such magic.

“So … tell me again how it works,” he finally asked.

“It’s a dimension door,” she snapped, though a measure of pride softened her tone. “When I read the spell, the door will open-one portal here, wherever I cast the spell. We can step through the door and come out at the other end, which will be wherever I want it to be. Or we could let somebody else go through-somebody who could pay. And then I would have to make another copy for us to use later.”

“So we could actually leave, escape Thorbardin,” Peat said, scarcely daring to believe it. “Even the Master couldn’t-” He bit his tongue, unwilling to finish the thought. Yet even his partial admission scared his wife, who clocked him over the head.

“Don’t even think such things!” she hissed. “Think about the Hylar and how much they will pay.”

Only then did another, eminently logical, question occur to him. “But where would we send them?” he asked.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Sadie replied. “We don’t want them to end up in the wilderness somewhere or in some den of humans or draconians. That would be bad for business. I think the safest thing would be to send them to some mountain dwarf holding outside. I was thinking of Pax Tharkas.”

“Yes,” he agreed thoughtfully. “Pax Tharkas might work. There won’t be any war going on there, not now. We could even go there ourselves!” he added, surprised at how tempting the notion was.

“There won’t be many customers for us in Pax Tharkas either,” Sadie said tartly. “And we can’t exactly take our inventory through the door, in any event. We would hardly have enough steel to live there. We’d be paupers!”

Peat nodded, crestfallen.

His wife had started another scroll, copying the first one she had so laboriously created. He frowned and cleared his throat, looking at her questioningly.

“Think about it!” she barked at him. “These Hylar are not the only dwarves who want to get out of Thorbardin,” she said. “I’m going to make another copy of the scroll. It’ll take me a day or more to rewrite the scroll, but then we’ll use it for their escape, and they’ll pay us very well for the privilege. And they might not be the only ones willing to pay a hefty sum of steel to get out of here before the war sweeps his whole world away.”

“And we … we could charge them all to use the door?” Peat said. “How much could we ask?”

“How much is a rich dwarf’s life worth?” Sadie asked.