Douglas Niles: The Heir of Kayolin

Sadie nodded. She knew that a tiny dose of charm potion, mixed with potent alcohol, was the method preferred by both of them when their master needed information about the royal garrison-or about anything else happening within Norbardin. She hadn’t heard the details of Peat’s report, but her husband’s notes were precise, inscribed in a code that only the two Guilders-and their master-could unravel.

“It took you long enough. I’m still surprised you got any information before the potion wore off!” she snapped.

He bit his tongue, staring at her irritably. Rather than reply directly, he put down the scrap of parchment upon which he had made his notes. They consisted of some abstract symbols, with a number beside each symbol. The note marked the locations of Norbardin’s key defensive positions, including the main gate, the two side gates, and the large ramp, currently raised, which blocked direct access to the city from the Urkhan Sea.

Sadie looked over the notes and nodded, satisfied. “They’ll be at half strength during the festival, then, the fools!”

“Do you think the Master will make his move then?”

She shrugged but then nodded thoughtfully. “I’d say the signs are right.” She handed the note back to her husband, and nodded to a bell jar on a corner table. “You send the message. I want to keep working on that scroll.”

“What scroll is it anyway?” he repeated, but her back was already turned and she either didn’t hear him or chose again to ignore his question.

Peat sighed long-sufferingly and went over the jar, using his cane to tap through the many obstacles littering the shadowy floor of the workshop. He sidestepped a pile of dusty books and, with a snap of his fingers, kindled a fire on the burner nearby. Gingerly he set the bottle and its stone base on top of the burner.

Sadie returned to her desk. The soft blue glow of magic surrounded her, and Peat watched her, still entranced after all those years, until finally the odor of baking stone reminded him that the Sender was ready.

He wheeled around to face the table and put a heavy leather glove on his left hand. Holding the note in his right, he lifted the hot bell jar and smoothly placed the note on the stone beneath it. That circle of slate was already glowing red from the steady heat. He murmured a single word of magic as he set the jar down then blinked-surprised in spite of himself-as the spell of sending took the missive and bore it away.

In an enclosed cavern, deep beneath Norbardin, a similar bell jar flashed a blue glow. The stone base, empty moments before, held a sheet of shimmering parchment-or, at least, a magical approximation of such a page. A short, black-robed wizard had been working at a nearby table. Though the jar was behind him, he immediately sensed the message’s arrival and turned to raise the glass with a gloved hand. With the other hand he picked up the illusionary sheet. He read it quickly and nodded in satisfaction as the magical missive dissolved into a shower of tiny sparks, embers drifting gently to the smooth stone floor.

“The time has come,” announced the powerful wizard, addressing the rank of attentive apprentices standing nearby awaiting his orders. His voice was soft, but the words seemed to linger in the air, each one fully absorbed by the intent listeners.

Willim the Black took a deep breath, and for a time stood stock still, relishing the moment. The missive was a significant document, and as he reflected on its importance, he understood that his life, his circumstances, were about to change dramatically. He knew beyond all doubt that the throne of Thorbardin, the leadership of that great dwarf nation, finally lay within his grasp. He wanted to savor the occasion.

Finally he would break out of the lair that had been his fortress, his prison, for the past decade. In many ways the great chamber was perfect, blocked as it was from the rest of Thorbardin by solid and impenetrable walls of stone. It had been carved from the bedrock of the mountain range on the orders of the previous king, Tarn Bellowgranite, but the chamber had been abandoned when a fearful menace had been discovered there.

That menace had become Willim’s tool, as were the young, potent Theiwar dwarves he had brought there to train. Fifteen young magic-users, out of the original forty, had survived a year of especially grueling apprenticeship. They stood before their master, each wearing the plain black robe of the wizardly order. Beards combed, chests thrust forward with justifiable pride, they awaited his inspection, his approval, his command.

Willim the Black, the most powerful wizard of Thorbardin, an ally of Dalamar the Dark himself, strutted back and forth before the row of magic-users, appraising them. The powerful master knew he was grotesque in his physical appearance, but the well-trained apprentices did not react to his terrifying visage. Willim’s eyeless face, lids sewn shut with gruesome stitches, swept back and forth across the pale, serious faces of his assistants. Through the power of the spell of true-seeing, the enchantment that permanently enhanced all of his senses, he perceived each steady gaze, beheld the tension in legs and arms, absorbed the purposeful determination behind each bearded face.

And on a lone nonbearded face as well.

Willim the Black felt pleased. Fifteen of the sixteen were young Theiwar males, pale skinned and bushy bearded, strapping and strong. The oldest, Gypsum, had proved to be exceptionally able with a variety of lethal magics, potions, and charms-as well as quick and deadly with his keen knife. Two others, Shale and Petro, had excelled in displays of reckless courage, deceit, treachery, and disguise. Like all of their comrades, they possessed cruelty and sadism in abundance in their characters and undying loyalty to Willim above all.

Almost against his will, the wizard felt his attention drawn to the sixteent apprentice, the lone female in the group-indeed, the only one of her gender Willim had ever accepted into his circle. Perhaps she, too, felt the attention of his seeing spell, for her own eyes-pale and wide-virtually glowed in response to the pleasure of his inspection.

Facet Anvilmaster would have been worthy of closer inspection to any male dwarf, of any age. She had long dark hair, in contrast to her alabaster skin, and unlike most dwarf maids, she did not constrain it in braids or tails. Instead, it flowed past her shoulders, shimmering down, far down her body, becoming virtually indistinguishable from the silken darkness of her wizard’s robe. Her breasts swelled that robe most attractively, and the pronounced curve of her hips and thighs was suggested by the ripples in the garment every time she moved. Her full lips were a bright crimson, a shocking contrast to her pale skin, suggesting nothing so much as the color of fresh blood.

Willim shook his head, startled by his own thoughts-it was no time to be so distracted. Female flesh had never held any appeal for him. Why should that change in her presence?

It was a time for action, not idle thoughts! He inspected his apprentices again, stalking along their file, knowing that none of them had failed in the tests he had presented, yet fully realizing they also needed one more crucial lesson. It would be the ultimate lesson on the subject of loyalty and, to Willim, the most important lesson that his underlings could learn. His attentions passed over a few of the most accomplished apprentices-Gypsum, Facet, Shale, a couple more-knowing they were too valuable to be wasted. Of the others, it didn’t much matter which one he picked, and he quickly settled upon a candidate.

“Krave!” he snapped, and the black-bearded dwarf in the middle of the row snapped to an even more rigid state of attention.

“Yes, Master!” replied that worthy student, honored to be singled out. He was clearly unaware of the wizard’s grim intent.