Douglas Niles - The Heir of Kayolin

“But, Master, I failed you!” Facet declared with a sob. “Punish me! I do not deserve to live!”

“Hush, my maid,” Willim said soothingly, feeling a rush of tenderness for Facet, for her devotion and her undeniable skill. He would find who had betrayed her-and himself! — and that treacherous dwarf would suffer. But for the moment … “You are injured,” he said, touching the flap of skin on her forehead, feeling her flinch away from the pain. “Go to the healers at once; tell them that it is my personal command that your flesh be fully restored at once.”

“Thank you, my lord. But surely there are others who need the healing magic worse than I?”

So tender, so thoughtful was she! Willim felt a rush of affection for his apprentice, an emotion he had never felt before, not in all of his adult life. “You know my command. I would like to see you well, whole, and unscarred again as soon as possible.” He stood and helped her to her feet. She clung to him, and he relished her touch until, finally, he disengaged from her embrace. “Now go,” he said gently.

She departed slowly, yet too fast for the Black Robe, who already regretted her absence.

Willim saw Captain Veinslitter, commander of the Black Cross, approaching. Good, the wizard thought. I need to punish somebody. He stood stiffly, his eyeless face turned away as he magically observed the loyal captain, a warrior whose bravery and competence had been demonstrated a dozen times or more, approach. The Daergar knelt on the rampart platform before Willim the Black and bowed his head abjectly.

“I offer you my life, Master,” declared Captain Veinslitter. “My regiment failed you. I have no excuse.”

He removed his red-plumed helmet with a flourish and even pulled his black hair aside so that the wizard could plainly see his pale, defenseless neck.

And Willim sorely would have preferred to kill him right then and there.

The failure of the Black Cross attack and the loss of so many of those steadfast, veteran troops was a bitter blow to his long-planned campaign. The death of the lackey who had failed to carry the day would have been deeply gratifying.

The logical part of the wizard’s mind, however, argued that vengeful punishment would accomplish less than nothing. Willim was an emotional firebrand, but he was also a pragmatist. He had prepared too long, fought too hard, to accept failure at that juncture. He wouldn’t allow his temper, his thirst for momentary satisfaction, to distract him from his larger goal.

“Get up,” he said, his voice dripping with disgust. “Yes, you failed. But you will have a chance to redeem yourself. See to your troops. I want them rested, their wounds healed insofar as that is possible. I will have another task for them … and very soon.”

“Thank you, Master,” declared Veinslitter tightly. If he was relieved to have his life spared, he gave no sign. Indeed, though the concept was foreign to Willim himself, he sensed that the captain was deeply saddened by the loss of so many of his loyal soldiers. Fool, Willim thought, marking it down as a lesson about the Daergar’s character. Your troops are only so much ammunition, to be used up as the commander desires!

The rage swelled up again. Veinslitter was a fool, undeserving of his master’s mercy.

Then he had another thought.

I know how Facet can redeem herself.

“Hey, Oldar,” General Ragat Kingsaver said, clasping the shoulder of the veteran soldier sitting on the stone ground outside the palace. He nodded at the bloody bandages wrapped around Oldar’s knee. “How’s the leg?”

“Ah, it’s a bother, sir,” replied the battered dwarf. His eyes lit up at the sight of the bald-headed general and his gleaming silver shield. “But I reckon it’ll hold me up if the bastards come back for more.”

“Good man,” Ragat said. “We gave them a real bloody nose; let’s hope our own bleeding stops before they come at us again.”

Oldar nodded and closed his eyes as he leaned his head against the wall. A soft smile creased his bearded lips, and Ragat knew that his brief words had done the man a world of good. He sighed as he straightened and started along the rest of the line.

There were more than a hundred wounded dwarves lined up behind the front line, and though he recognized each face, the general was ashamed to realize that he could place a name to only a dozen or so of the brave dwarves. They had limped there or been carried on the backs of others after the battle, and the priests were working among them, healing as many as their limited powers would allow, bandaging and encouraging the rest.

By Reorx, he was proud of them all! Ragat felt the emotion well up inside of him and blinked his eyes to clear away the telltale tears. He cleared his throat gruffly and looked out across the square for a moment while he recovered his composure. Thus, he didn’t see his monarch approaching but heard the whispers as they spread along the line.

“The king is coming! It’s King Stonespringer!”

“My liege!” Ragat declared, spinning on his heel to observe the stern, forbidding visage of Jungor Stonespringer as the ascetic dwarf made his way down the list of wounded. Overcome by emotion, the general dropped to his knees then pressed his face to the paving stones. He would have reached out to kiss the hem of the king’s dirty robe, but he feared that would be too forward.

“Rise, my general,” Stonespringer said gently. He reached down to touch Ragat’s shoulder, and the general shivered with a pleasure that was almost ecstasy. “You and your men did very well.”

The words sang in the Ragat’s ears. “Your leadership, sire, is like the meat of strength to your men. All would have been willing to die in your service; any of them would have felt such a sacrifice to be an honor!”

Neither the general nor the king saw the subtle looks of skepticism that passed between several of the men who overheard. But then, neither of them really cared what those minions felt; the issue of war was far too important to be left to the opinions of the ordinary fighting men.

“Get some rest, my brave general,” the king said and again his touch on Ragat’s shoulder felt like the personal blessing of Reorx. “This war is far from over, and it is my wish that you be well prepared for our enemy’s next gambit.”

“Sire, your presence, the blessing of your praise, restores my spirits better than a month of resting. When the enemy comes, we will be ready for him!”

“Good, my general. I know you will. But, even so,” Jungor chided gently. “Go to your quarters and get some sleep.”

Ragat bowed his head, overcome with pride. “As you command, my liege,” he pledged.

The king moved on, stalking among the men who had shed their blood in his service. Ragat watched him go until the shadows swallowed him, and only then did he turn to step through the ranks of the wounded, starting back to his quarters. Two bleeding dwarves shifted on the ground to let him pass through the door. One had a plaster cast wrapped around his chest; the other was missing an arm.

Neither met the general’s eyes as Ragat passed by. Nor did the commander pay them any notice: instead, his eyes fixed on a cloaked figure standing in an alcove at the base of the castle wall. As soon as Ragat caught the dwarf’s eye, the fellow ducked back into the shadows. With a glance around to make sure he was not being observed, the old warrior followed the figure into the dark niche.

“Greetings, great General,” whispered the dwarf. Even though the fellow was masked by a hooded robe, Ragat recognized the voice of his trustworthy spy.

“What do you have for me?” Ragat asked, knowing that the agent wouldn’t have come to him there, in such a risky place, if he didn’t have some urgent matter to report.