Douglas Niles - The Heir of Kayolin

Her soldiers had been feeding her well, lately, bringing warm, bloody morsels of dwarf meat that the queen greedily consumed. She was not introspective, probably not even capable of that which is called “reflection,” but she perceived that the space around the hive was expanding and that her soldiers were venturing farther and farther afield, finding new sources of food, bringing that food to her so she could birth more soldiers.

The horax were timeless beings; they had dwelled in that cavern since the Age of Dreams. Once they had been small in number, the offspring of the very first queen, until the dwarves had come there. Then began the reign of the second queen, and the horax had swarmed steadily upward, feasting, thriving, growing, until the dwarves had blocked them off and sealed the tunnels, preventing the hive from spreading.

But at this moment, in the reign of the third queen, some of those tunnels had been opened again-not by the horax, who could not dig through solid rock, but by some other unknown force. The bugs had been quick to exploit those openings, and her soldiers roamed and explored, claiming unprecedented prey, bringing to themselves and to their queen a greater supply of food. They were horax; they did not question the nature or motives of their benefactor, one that clearly wanted the swarm to expand, to reach out …

To kill and eat more dwarves.

Outside of the Cracked Mug, the street seemed much busier than it had when they’d first arrived. “Changing shifts at the mill, I think,” Brandon guessed, judging from the dusty cloaks on many of the dwarves moving to and fro. He pulled his robe over his shoulders, using the hood to conceal his face, and led Gretchan and Kondike down the street and around the corner. He felt a lump in his throat as he approached the front door of his beloved house, from which he had fled a year and a half earlier.

Before he could knock, however, the portal opened and he stepped inside into the frantic embrace of his mother, Karine Bluestone. Gretchan and the dog quickly followed, and his father, after a nervous glance up and down the street, quickly shut the door.

Brandon extricated himself from his mother’s embrace to introduce his companion. He noted at once the expression of concern, even anger, on Garren Bluestone’s face.

“Why did you come back here?” his father asked finally. “Do you know what they want to do to you?”

“I got some idea at the outer gate!” Brandon retorted. “If Gretchan hadn’t worked her magic, I’d be in chains already.”

“Magic?” Karine asked, wide eyed. She took in Gretchan’s ruddy skin, her golden hair, and the tall staff she held in her hand. “You don’t look like a Theiwar …”

“I’m Daewar,” Gretchan replied smoothly. “And I’m a priestess of Reorx. Not a wizard.”

“Oh, well, yes, of course,” stammered Brandon’s mother, unclear about the distinction. “But you saved my son from the guards. We owe you quite a bit.”

“That’s not the half of it,” Brand said. “She broke me out of a dungeon in Pax Tharkas and won a war against the hill dwarves after Harn Poleaxe tried to kill me.” He shot his father an accusing look.

“Harn? My old friend?” gasped Garren Bluestone.

“I think we have a lot of catching up to do,” Karine interjected smoothly. “Why don’t you all sit down, and I’ll pour us some drinks. And, um, Gretchan: it’s terribly nice to meet you.”

“And you both as well,” she replied, the warmth of her smile even soothing Garren’s bristling nerves.

Karine went into the kitchen while Brandon met his father’s disbelieving gaze. “Harn betrayed you?” Garren asked, shaking his head. “He was only after steel after all, huh?” The old dwarf’s face suddenly blanched. “What about the Bluestone?”

“It’s safe,” Brandon said. “That’s what Harn was after, and he stole it for a time-but I got it back. Now it’s in Tarn Bellowgranite’s hands-he’s the former king of Thorbardin, living in exile in Pax Tharkas.”

“King of Thorbardin? Pax Tharkas?” Brandon’s father was stunned as he mouthed the legendary names. He shook his head again, trying to digest the stunning news. Gretchan escorted him to a seat while Karine returned with a tray that was weighted down with four heavy mugs.

Soon they were all seated around the hearth, sipping warm mead from a fresh keg Karine had just tapped. Brandon sensed his father’s edginess-both of the men cast frequent glances at the front door-but Gretchan calmed them a bit by doing most of the talking. She told Garren and Karine all about the hill dwarf war against Pax Tharkas, exaggerating Brandon’s heroic role and downplaying her own contribution. Garren and his wife were caught up in her story, and Brandon was surprised-and more than a little pleased-to see his father looking at him with an expression of unrestrained pride. Responding to Karine’s questions, Gretchan talked a little about her own family and background and told them of the great history she hoped, one day, to write.

But finally they had caught up with the past, and the present worries that had been gnawing away at Brandon burst to the surface.

“What about what’s going on here in Kayolin?” Brandon asked anxiously. “Your letter finally caught up to me in Pax Tharkas. So now, I understand, Regar Smashfingers has created his own League of Enforcers? And the horax are on the march again, so much that the king has mustered troops and is making war on them?”

“Aye, to the first, anyway,” Garren said. “Lord Heelspur’s son, the same one who stole the claim you and Nailer found, leads that nasty bunch of rascals, the so-called League of Enforcers. They are the king’s eyes and ears, everywhere in the city.”

“And the war against the horax?”

“That’s been more talk than action, to tell you the truth. I’ve heard of a few companies being mustered but not of anyone moving out to fight the danged things. They do seem to be creeping about more than usual. We hear mostly rumors, though.”

“But Smashfingers is making no pretense anymore about his status? He’s claiming the throne of a king?”

Both Bluestone elders nodded. “He claims his people-his Enforcers, really-have discovered the Torc of the Forge, down in the delvings under the city,” Karine explained. “Do you remember the story of the torc?”

“I know it from my own readings,” Gretchan said when Brandon shook his head. “It was a silver collar, surrounded by a ring of blue sapphires, that was supposedly forged by the god himself during the Age of Light. For years it was handed down from one dwarf king to another, but it was lost more than a thousand years ago, when the dwarves-and their king-marched out of Thorbardin to join Huma’s war against the Dark Queen.”

“Yes,” Karine said. “And as the king reminds us, when it was lost, the legend arose that it would be discovered when dwarfkind was in dire need of a new king. Now he’s claiming the torc is proof that the time is right for his coronation.”

“Has he let a priest of Reorx examine the artifact?” Gretchan asked. “To make sure it’s authentic?”

Karine sighed. “That would be a good idea. Unfortunately the priesthood of our god has not exactly flourished in Kayolin during the last … oh, since the time of the Chaos War. I doubt if the king would agree to such an inspection, even if a priest could be found. Most of the worshiping done in Garnet Thax now, I fear to say, is done at the altars of power and steel.”

“That part hasn’t changed, then,” Brandon agreed. “Then what can we-?”

The door smashed in without warning, and two burly dwarves, dressed in black leather tunics, charged into the room. One flourished a large hammer-the tool that he had obviously used to smash in the door-while the other pointed a sword at Brandon’s face. Two more similarly clad dwarves, swords drawn, swaggered into the room behind them.