Douglas Niles - The Heir of Kayolin

He felt, again, the dizzying sense of space that the Atrium provided, and he instinctively understood why the nation’s ancestors had chosen to build Garnet Thax around the vast, airy shaft. The deep well plummeted below them. They were near the bottom of the city, so most of the view downward was simply barren stone walls, cliffs that were pocked with ledges and the occasional crack, chimney, or cave mouth. The shaft here was perhaps a hundred and fifty feet across, and if they looked directly ahead, they saw a balcony similar to theirs, though not as large or as crowded, on the other side.

A few more of those vantages marked the presence of the city’s very deepest levels, below, until the gradually narrowing shaft vanished into a blue mist. Far below, a faint crimson glow, like the embers in a dying fire, suggested the deep fires at the heart of Krynn.

“You’re right; I do feel the warmth,” Gretchan said, leaning over so precipitously that Brandon grabbed her shoulder. “It’s rising like a breeze.”

“Yep,” Brand agreed, not releasing his grip. “It warms the whole city.”

They turned their eyes upward and beheld a dazzling array of lights where lanterns marked the more prosperous parts of the city. A series of shelves jutted from the cliff as it ascended toward the heights. There were dozens of levels to Garnet Thax, each of them centered around that deep shaft. They could pinpoint numerous other balconies, and many dwarves were leaning against the railings just as they were, taking in the sights. The Atrium was the focal point for all the dwarves of Kayolin, and many innkeepers exploited that fact by establishing patios and tables with a view.

Hundreds of dwarves were visible all around them, leaning on balconies like theirs, talking, drinking, or just staring thoughtfully. Looking around, Brandon hoped no one would notice them and recognize him.

From the great room of the Deepshelf Inn, they could hear sounds of raucous laughter, mugs clinking in a steady round of toasts. “The Deepshelf is one of the lowest social establishments in the city-in elevation, as well as class. The folks in here are mostly miners and laborers.” He gestured toward the higher reaches of the great shaft. “Up there, you’ll find a lot of prosperous merchants, with the wealthiest-and the nobility-sticking to the very top levels. The midlevels have a lot more inns and cafes right on the Atrium,” he explained. “It’s always been a popular spot for Kayolin’s dwarves to congregate. On the highest levels, those just below the governor’s palace, there are private manors with their own balconies looking out onto the shaft. Those are generally considered the most desirable homes in all Garnet Thax. The Heelspur clan owns one that circles halfway around the shaft at one of its widest points.”

“It looks like it gets wider the higher you go,” Gretchan observed.

“Yes, that’s right. It’s about three hundred feet across at the palace level, and gradually narrows as it descends. Some say it’s only ten or twenty feet wide down below, but it’s been a long time since anyone went down to look.”

They found a small table near the edge and took their seats. A few minutes later, a serving maid came by to ask for their order; she returned with their drinks, but the priestess ignored hers; she was still gawking at the vast shaft of the Atrium. Brandon also wasn’t ready to dive into his tall mug of bitter beer. He sat morosely, alternately watching Gretchan, peering around, and staring at the black slate table.

“How did you do what you did back there?” Brandon asked. “How did you get me past those guards who were going to arrest me?”

“Well, it was a simple charm spell,” she replied modestly. “Pretty useful on dimwits like those four. They probably still think you’re a long-lost buddy. And when the effect wears off, I hope they’ll be too embarrassed to tell anyone what happened.”

“But to think of my name on some kind of list!” Brandon declared, still trying to wrap his head around the idea. “Things are worse here than I imagined.”

“They mentioned the League of Enforcers,” Gretchan said. “I take it there was no such vigilance at the checkpoints when you left here?”

He shook his head. “No. But times have changed-and fast. I’ve got to find my parents and hear about what’s going on here!”

“I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you,” the priestess returned mildly.

“But if my name is on a list of undesirables,” he replied, “who knows? Their house may be watched. My father helped me get out of here when the governor and Lord Heelspur wanted my head.”

“What about friends?” Gretchan asked sensibly. “Some of the people you know, who you trusted-and could still trust. Why don’t we seek one of them out, find out what’s going on, maybe see if they’ll get in touch with your father for us so you don’t walk straight into a trap.”

“That’s a good idea,” he answered. “I have friends here, and they’d probably be glad to see me. Two of them were real good friends, as a matter of fact. I’d trust them with my life.” He felt a twinge of embarrassment, and shook his head ruefully. “It’s just …” His voice trailed off.

“It’s just what?” Gretchan pressed.

He grimaced. “Well, they’re both female, and, um, I was kind of close to them. They’ll be glad to see me, I’m sure.

“But I’m not sure they’ll be too happy about you,” he concluded glumly.

The monster inched along, clawed talons scrabbling at the stone floor. Though it had large, multifaceted eyes, it was not hampered by the lightless surroundings. A pair of antennae quivered from the crown of its bulbous head, touching, smelling, and tasting the moldy air. Its legs, all eight of them, stiffened in preparation for a charge as those extra-acute senses told the being that prey was near.

Behind the creature came another, and another, and still more. The column of huge bugs moved with arachnoid stealth, joined legs smoothly propelling the long, segmented bodies, scuttling steadily forward. Each of them was protected by the armored carapace that was the monster’s natural shield. Despite their insectoid appearance, they moved in unison, like a well-trained company of soldiers.

They were similar but not entirely identical insofar as the last of the creatures in the file was a bright red in color, while most of the others were pale gray, almost white. Furthermore, while all of the others possessed wide, sharp mandibles, the red one had a smaller pair. That unimpressive weaponry was perhaps balanced by the presence of a bulbous mass underneath the creature’s head. The mass throbbed and wobbled like a living thing and was tipped with a moist knob, almost like a nozzle, which twitched and wiggled hungrily.

The heads of the monsters bulged grotesquely. The wicked pincers at their mouths were sideways-snapping jaws, and they flexed eagerly on the first of the beasts in the file. That one abruptly stiffened, bringing the column of its fellows to an abrupt halt.

The monster quivered, sensing, tasting, hungering. It was in a new place, a fresh hunting ground for the creature. It was blessed with the hive memory of all of its kind, and for thousands of years it had dwelled in those deep caverns, far below the surface of the world-a surface that the monster and its fellows had never experienced and would not have tolerated if, by some miracle, they were exposed to the brightness of the sun. But it and its race knew the deep caverns very, very well. For all those centuries, throughout the passing of millennia, it had made the caves its own.

Until, only lately, new paths had been discovered. Places where there had once been solid stone barriers were exposed as tunnels, new routes through the underground world. The monsters had crept into those new places, exploring, tasting, touching, smelling, and bringing the new knowledge back to the hive. Often those new pathways had yielded prey, and the monsters had carried much fresh meat back to the queen, allowing her to feast on dwarf blood, to grow fat and fertile, and to lay many more eggs.