Douglas Niles - The Heir of Kayolin

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!”