Douglas Niles - The Heir of Kayolin

It was then that Ragat felt the prickling of alarm in his scalp and spun away from the line of battle, staring upward. He spotted Jungor Stonespringer high above and met his king’s eye for a moment. He sensed the despair, the need in that desperate gaze and suddenly knew that he was in the wrong place. The gates would stand without him.

The king himself was endangered

“Hold courage, sire!” he called. “I’m coming to you!”

The loyal general darted into the palace and raced up the spiraling stairs, past the royal quarters, all the way up to the prayer tower. He passed the archers who were steadfastly shooting and reloading at the arrow slits along the tower walls, quickly bursting onto the rampart.

King Stonespringer gazed at him, the golden orb of his artificial eye gleaming incongruously against the sooty, sweat-stained parchment of his skin. Ragat wanted to embrace his liege, to offer him comfort, support, and love-but he remembered himself and his place, so he threw himself to the floor before his despairing lord.

“Sire!” he cried. “Take heart! The enemy grows weary, and we may yet prevail!”

“Rise, my general,” said the king with a strange calm. “Come with me to the edge of the rampart. Join me in prayer.”

“Yes, my liege, of course,” the loyal warrior, his heart breaking, replied. He was no stranger to prayer, but he didn’t believe it would help them in their hour of desperation. He followed his king to the edge of the tower’s platform but then couldn’t keep himself from gesturing mutely at the scene of violence and chaos reigning below. Hylar skirmishers charged from the burning storehouses, carrying the fight into the very barracks of the First Division’s quarters. Everywhere the attackers were making headway, charging through the chambers and courtyards of the royal palace.

“But, perhaps, my lord, your own prayers may prove sufficient. I might suggest that I should be better employed trying to command the troops?”

Stonespringer shook his head. “There is no victory for us in this battle, not by force of arms. But pray with me, as I beseech the Master of the Forge. It may be that we will find our best hope with him.”

“As you wish, my lord,” said Ragat Kingsaver resignedly. He felt a terrible sadness as he rose to his feet, hoisted his silver shield to his shoulder, and followed the king to the rampart at the edge of the prayer tower.

He could not stop himself from glancing down from the great height, and his eyes were inexorably drawn to the sight of the black minion as the monster came to rest upon the rampart above the palace gates. That was when the creature itself looked up, its red eyes flaring as they seemed to lock on the two dwarf leaders on the lofty platform.

“O Master! Lord of the Forge, Fire of the Hearth-Great God of Thorbardin and of all faithful dwarves!” beseeched the king, his voice a shrill wail that somehow carried over the crashing din of battle. “Show us thy will! Strike down our enemies, for they are thine own enemies as well! They are faithless dwarves, full of wickedness and bile!”

The minion launched itself into flight, black wings pushing through the air. Jaws gaping, it soared upward, over the battle and the palace, climbing higher and higher as it swept toward the lofty prayer tower. The monster extended its taloned hands, reaching out toward the small, unprotected figure that was the king of Thorbardin, whose sole eye had been momentarily closed in prayer. But as the words to his prayer died on his lips, Jungor Stonespringer opened that lone seeing orb and froze in terror.

“Run, sire-to the tower!” cried Ragat next to him, already full of fear but bravely stepping in front of his liege. With rising panic, he realized that Jungor Stonespringer couldn’t seem to budge. His feet might as well have been nailed to the floor as he stared into the gaping maw of the wizard’s black minion. The creature’s vast, batlike wings pulsed with almost contemptuous ease as it rose from the square, soaring higher and higher toward the king. The monarch struggled to open his mouth, to flex a muscle, to say something, but he was paralyzed by the approaching image of his own death.

Fortunately for the ruler, his commanding general still had his wits and his courage. Ragat Kingsaver, his bald head gleaming with a sheen of sweat, stood in front of his liege on the high platform, blocking him from the coming threat. He held his gleaming shield-the Kingsaver Shield-up so high that he could barely see over it.

Knees flexed for balance, the loyal warrior leaned forward with a fierce look, bracing himself to take the brunt of the minion’s attack. The winged creature flew closer, climbing higher so he was above the prayer platform. The beast was nearly scraping the ceiling dome over the city’s cavern. Then, jaws gaping, it dived toward the tower, uttering a ground-shaking, bellowing roar from its widespread maw.

The monster struck the magical shield, the silver barrier that had been blessed by Reorx himself, and Ragat met that charge with the full strength of his body, knowing full well that it was the last act of his life.

But the clash didn’t knock him backward, didn’t even upset his footing. The minion smashed against the shield and, shockingly, was jarred backward. Howling, the monster rebounded and hovered in the air, reaching around the barrier, trying to slash with claws that couldn’t quite reach the courageous Kingsaver.

The minion howled and tore at the shield, and Ragat, feeling a surge of bravado, charged forward, slamming the silvery disk against the black torso. The Kingsaver Shield struck the black minion full in the chest, and the monster flew backward, shrieking a deafening cry. The result was a searing flash of light, a silent blast of brilliance so intense that the king himself howled in horror, clasping his hands over his one good eye. The whole of underground Norbardin was illuminated, outlined like a city on the surface of the world under a bright, noonday sun.

Ragat sensed it then: The light was Reorx, and the god finally had made his displeasure known!

The flash of light shimmered through the cavern, an electrical blast so brilliant that every dwarf who was in the great chamber was effectively blinded. Those who happened to be looking right at the blast would need days to recover their vision; even those who simply saw the reflection were stunned and reeling, unable to see normally.

The light washed over the city, silent and irresistible, pulsing under doors, through shutters, and into trenches and battle redoubts. It seared into the eyes of the warriors and frightened the cowering citizenry with its power. Children cried out in terror, and their parents could only clasp them to their breasts and try to still their own trembling limbs.

Smoke erupted from the minion’s charred, black skin where the shield had struck it. The creature writhed and shivered, still shrieking. Its body seemed to be consumed, blackness turning to brilliant light that was not obscured even by the smoke churning upward from its chest. Its limbs shriveled, its wings dissolved, and its body fell away from the high tower.

In the very middle of the battle, the minion quickly faded away, leaving only a smudge of black smoke lingering in the air. Dumbfounded, Ragat watched the thing fall, peering over the rim of the shield-for he, almost alone in all the city, had been spared the brilliant light since his face had been hidden behind the barrier of the Kingsaver Shield.

Sadie and Peat were apprehensive about activating the dimension door again, but the wealthy-looking Daergar, Inkar Dale, had promised to bring them a chest full of platinum coins and a necklace of perfect-and in underground Thorbardin, exceptionally rare-pearls. In the end, their avarice had overcome their caution, and they had instructed Inkar to return as soon as he could gather suitable payment.