Douglas Niles - The Heir of Kayolin

“I suppose not. It’s only the one thing you’ve been talking about since we met-the chance to see Kayolin with your own eyes. But we don’t have to go there.” A look of hurt flashed in her eyes, and he immediately regretted his sarcasm.

“Look,” he added hastily. “I’m sorry. I’m worried about my father. And … it’s just … you know I left under some rather stressful circumstances. I’m also worried about what we’re going to find in Kayolin in general, the whole city and nation. And if something’s happened to my parents … You know, the Bluestone Luck-”

“You changed the Bluestone Luck! Did you forget that already?” She pointed to the shiny weapon at his belt. “It was you who saved Pax Tharkas with Balric Bluestone’s axe! You fought that black minion; that is still the bravest thing I’ve ever seen!”

Her words make him look up at the snowy massif of Garnet Peak, the mountain where Balric Bluestone had disappeared-during the Cataclysm-leaving his axe to be recovered by his son, Brandon’s ancestor, immediately after the destruction had ceased to rain down upon Krynn. Legend had it that the weapon had been blessed by Reorx himself, and most assuredly, it was a mighty blade, keen and enchanted.

But the descendents of Balric Bluestone had not prospered from that blessing. Catastrophe had piled upon misfortune and mingled with tragedy through the more than four hundred years since that singular event. House Bluestone’s fortunes had waned, a series of business setbacks had taken their toll, and the family members had a way of finding disgrace or meeting up with untimely death. Brandon’s father, Garren, had struggled to survive as a moderately successful businessman, and his brother, Nailer, had been murdered by assassins that, Brandon had learned, were sent by the most ruthless and richest lord in Kayolin: Alakar Heelspur.

It had been that murder, and Brandon’s own life threatened, that had led the younger Bluestone to flee the land of his ancestors. A year earlier he had made his way south, across the Newsea. He’d been ambushed and betrayed by hill dwarves, sentenced to death, then thrown into the dungeon of his own mountain dwarf cousins when they had mistaken him for a hill dwarf spy.

Of course, all those adventures had also led to meeting Gretchan. She had rescued him from that dungeon, and together they had turned back the hill dwarf attack. Yes, he and Gretchan were not a bad team. He hung his head, forced to admit to himself that his luck hadn’t been all that bad.

“Well,” he admitted, blushing. “It was really you who banished the minion back to-well, to wherever it came from.”

“I could only do that through the will of Reorx,” the dwarf priestess replied cheerily. “And because you had the courage to stand up to the creature.”

As they hiked steadily higher into the mountains, Brandon smelled the pine forest with new delight, heard the brooks and waterfalls of the Garnet range, and was reminded of all the good things about the place that had been his home for all of his fifty years-excepting the past eighteen months. And he finally felt that it was good to be going home again.

He had spent the past peaceful year in Pax Tharkas with Gretchan and the dwarves of Tarn Bellowgranite’s Thorbardin refugees. He had shared Gretchan’s joy at the discovery that Tarn’s old general, Otaxx Shortbeard, was in fact the father she had never known.

Throughout the year, Gretchan had yearned to continue her explorations, wishing to travel to the one great dwarf nation of which, as yet, she had no firsthand knowledge. Brandon had consistently refused to take her to Kayolin-until the letter from his father had arrived. For more than a month they had been journeying northward. They had trekked across the plains south of the Newsea, booked passage on a ship to Caergoth, and even purchased horses that had carried them all the way to the city of Garnet, gateway to the mountain range of the same name. They had sold their horses in that city two days before and were completing the journey on foot, following the smooth, paved road high into the mountains.

The slopes to either side of the valley grew steadily steeper, and they came into view of some small glaciers, permanent sheets of ice clinging to the creases and couloirs in the shady recesses of the upper reaches. The Garnet range was much smaller, the cliff faces more gentle, the crests more rolling, than the lofty realm of the Kharolis. But from down here on the valley road, the mountains looked plenty big.

Brandon took comfort from that familiar, pastoral vista. It wasn’t until they came around the last bend in the road and he saw the massive gate itself that he again thought about the realities of his homecoming. Would he be welcome in Kayolin? What was the fate of his father? What business was it of his that Regar Smashfingers had crowned himself king?

Kayolin’s main gate barred entry to a lofty tunnel at the base of one of Garnet Peak’s true precipices, a soaring cliff rising some two thousand feet to a shoulder of the massive summit. In times of war, the entry was sealed by a massive stone plug, but at the moment, as usual during times of peace, that gate was retracted far into the mountain, leaving the tunnel mouth gaping as a black hole in the rock wall. The road led directly to that entrance.

It was midday, so there was no other traffic in view as the pair of dwarves strolled up to the looming entry. “In morning, it’s crowded with hunters and lumberjacks heading out,” Brandon explained. “And the same thing is usually true in reverse at night. But most of the time it’s just a few travelers coming and going, maybe some merchants from Solamnia or dwarves carrying their own goods down to the humans.”

“My skin is tingling!” Gretchan said, looking up in awe as they moved into the shadows of the tunnel. The roof towered some fifty or sixty feet over head, and the gateway was a similar length wide.

“Well, just remember. Act like you’ve been here before when we walk in. There’ll be some redcoats, soldiers of the Garnet Guards, watching the gate. We’ll have to nod politely at the guards so they can make sure we’re not goblins or ogres, and then we’ll get lost in some of the midlevels. I know a few nice taverns where we can catch our breath and I can maybe send word to my dad.”

“You don’t think the king or his men will be looking for you?” Gretchan asked as the coolness of the shady cavern enclosed them. Their dwarf eyes quickly adjusted to the low illumination.

“Don’t see why,” Brandon replied. “I’ve been gone long enough that I suspect he’s forgotten all about me. Probably doesn’t ever expect me to come home.”

They grew silent as they advanced into the tunnel of the nation’s main gate.

Brandon nodded casually to an axe-bearing guard in black metal plate armor as they started on past the guard post. He could smell the hops from a nearby brewery, and his mouth watered at the familiar, evocative scent.

“Just a minute there, fellow,” said the guard, stepping forward and, surprisingly, placing his hand on Brandon’s arm. Three more armed and armored dwarves, also garbed in black, emerged from a small alcove in the side of the cavern to back up their comrade.

“What is it?” Brand asked, puzzled.

“You can’t just walk in here!” the sentry declared. “I order you to stop, in the name of the Enforcers!”

Brandon bit back a sharp retort. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been traveling for … for a while. What do I need to do?”

“Give us your name!” snapped the guard. “Who are you?” Another stepped out to further block their retreat.

Caught by surprise, Brandon didn’t even think of lying. “Brandon Bluestone,” he said stiffly. “Of Kayolin. This is my home!”