Douglas Niles - Fate of Thorbardin

“You do seem to know when I have a thirst,” Willim acknowledged approvingly. “It seems you understand all of my needs, my pet.”

“Perhaps you should have a closer look at that drink, my lord,” Sadie interjected coldly, keeping her eyes fixed upon Facet.

“No!” cried the younger woman, immediately pulling the flask to herself. “Don’t listen to her!” Even as she protested, her eyes widened in horror, and Willim the Black put a pensive finger to his lips.

“Why, Sadie,” the wizard asked calmly but intrigued, “what do you mean?”

“I mean just what I say, Master. Perhaps you would wish to examine the drink she offers you.”

“There really is no need, is there?” Willim said, addressing Facet.

“No, Master,” she returned miserably. “There is no need.”

The black wizard sighed, a sound that seemed to mock and rebuke Facet. “I have taught you so much, and I have trusted you,” he said to the beautiful apprentice. “I have given you understanding of my power. I have given you access … to my potion cabinet. Haven’t I?”

“Yes, Master,” Facet replied in a whisper.

“Such power to be found there, in those potions. The power of flight, of invisibility … you could have tried to poison me with my own potion if you’d wanted to. Couldn’t you?”

“I would never poison you, never harm you, Master. Surely you must know that!”

“Oh, I do. I do. You could never harm me. Just as you could never deceive me.”

“Nor would I try, Master!” croaked the terrified Theiwar female.

“But you did!” Willim pointed out with a great air of wounded feelings. “You have deceived me for a long time. Do you think I didn’t notice that I had less charm potion in my cabinet than I should have? Do you think I don’t know what that potion has been used for, these years-these too-short years-that you have served me?”

Facet sobbed and dropped to her knees, covering her face, which was even more pale than its usual alabaster whiteness, with her hands.

“For you see, my dear apprentice, my charm potion doesn’t work on me. I let you believe that it did, for it amused me to know your treachery. It amused me to let you please me, to serve me …”

“Please, Master! I will serve you faithfully! Punish me; I deserve it! Let me please you as only I can do.”

“Oh, there are many who can please me the way you do. You were an amusing diversion, a tempting morsel, for a time. But I am through with you now.”

Facet groaned piteously. Gretchan watched in horror, her own stomach twisting into a knot. Despite her situation, she felt a powerful sympathy for the young woman and a frustrating knowledge that there was nothing she could do to help her.

“I wish I didn’t have to do this,” Willim said softly. “I really do.”

Then he snapped his fingers, the sound as harsh as the crack of a dry pine branch. Facet toppled backward, gagging, clawing at her neck with her hands, her crimson fingernails. She struggled and thrashed, groping as if trying to pull a noose away from herself. She scratched so desperately that she cut her skin, left her beautiful, ice-white throat slashed and bleeding.

But there was no succor there. Her face, so pale a moment earlier, grew red, bright red from the concentration of blood. Her tongue protruded, swelling grotesquely, and her eyes bulged from their sockets, staring wildly, seeing nothing.

Facet rolled on the ground, kicking her feet, arching her back. She made no sound as she thrashed and struggled, trying to pull away from the invisible thing that was choking her.

But there was no noose there, no physical thing that she could pull away, to relieve the suffocating pressure, to give her the freedom to breathe again.

There was only the wizard’s dark, lethal magic.

And soon its work was done.

The very public suicide of General Blade Darkstone sapped the fight out of those few of his soldiers who had survived the ferocious wave of the hill dwarf onslaught. Perhaps because they had fewer immediate grudges and scars from their brief but decisive participation in the campaign to reclaim Thorbardin, the Neidar-unlike the vengeance-minded mountain dwarves-actually accepted the Theiwar as prisoners. Many who had served in Willim the Black’s force surrendered to the new regime.

That regime, in the person of Tarn Bellowgranite, emerged from the Urkhan Road in the wake of the victory to find soldiers of his own Tharkadan Legion, the Kayolin Army, and the hill dwarves celebrating wildly in the great plaza of Norbardin.

An exhausted Brandon Bluestone, still numbed from his ferocious fight with Darkstone, was trudging down the steps from the gatehouse platform when he encountered the king.

“What happened?” Tarn Bellowgranite asked rather plaintively. He looked around grimly, seeing the sooty residue of the Firespitter attack and the hundreds of charred or bloody corpses scattered in every direction.

“We-you, me, our whole army-was saved by a counterattack by the hill dwarves,” Brandon informed him sharply. “Somehow, they decided it would be a good idea to honor the treaty that they signed, even though their allies didn’t ask them for help. Apparently they aren’t as stubborn as some of our people.”

Tarn’s face flushed-with shame, not anger. “They came out of the hills, even after I refused to ask for their help?” he asked in wonder.

“Let’s go find out; there’s Slate Fireforge,” Brandon said, feeling little warmth for Tarn at the moment. “And unless I’m mistaken, there’s the woman who used to be your queen.”

Indeed, the Hillhome commander and Crystal Heathstone, together with Axel Carbondale, General Watchler, and Mason Axeblade, were exchanging weary embraces in the very shadow of the gatehouse. Beyond them and to both sides, the victorious dwarves of the Dwarf Home Army and the Neidar of the hills were rolling out kegs of ale and spirits, cracking them open with axes-there was no time to use a proper tapper-and dipping in with mugs, bowls, helmets, and any other containers they could find.

Many of the citizens of Norbardin, too, were emerging from the side streets, cautiously poking out of the apartments and houses that ringed the square, and coming forward with greater and greater enthusiasm to join the growing celebration.

“I … I need to talk to Crystal. To all of them,” Tarn said, making to excuse himself.

“Yes, you do. And I’m coming along,” Brandon said firmly.

Side by side, they approached the other commanders, who looked up with varying measures of satisfaction, suspicion, and joy as they recognized the former and finally restored king.

“Crystal …” Tarn began nervously. “And Slate, Axel … there are no proper words to thank you enough for what you have done, in spite of my stubbornness, my foolishness. My mistake, my upholding of an old prejudice over a new alliance, almost doomed us. And you were wise enough to see through my error and to have come anyway.”

“You can start by thanking your wife,” Slate began. He tried to appear stern and angry, but a smile of delight and victory kept forcing its way through the tangle of his beard. “She makes a fine recruiter! And just to hear you apologize and to see your face as you came out of that tunnel-why, that made the whole thing worthwhile!”

“And you can thank a gully dwarf,” Crystal said, “or I never would have made it to Hillhome.” To Tarn’s puzzled expression, she merely replied. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it … later. But you shouldn’t be surprised to know the gully dwarf is Gus Fishbiter.”

“Gus?” It was Brandon’s turn to be freshly amazed. “He’s here with you? He sure does have a knack for being in the right place when he needs to be.”