Douglas Niles - The Heir of Kayolin

They heard shouts from up the street and saw a whole company of the black-clad Enforcers, more than a dozen of them, charging in their direction.

“Halt!” cried the one in the lead, brandishing a short sword. “Stop them!” he exhorted the crowd. “They’re under arrest!”

As happened with the crowd outside the Cracked Mug, the pedestrians showed no inclination to tackle the wild and dangerous-looking fugitives, though neither were they so rash as to try to obstruct the large group of weapon-brandishing Enforcers. Once again Gretchan pulled Brandon along, running right onto the plaza beside the Atrium until finally they halted, facing their pursuers, with the stone railing, barely thigh-high, crowding their backs. Brandon was acutely aware of the treacherous plunge, the shaft leading into the very center of the world, yawning a mere step or two behind him.

“Now what?” he demanded, raising his axe, holding the haft across his chest as he prepared to make a last stand. As the dozen or more agents closed in, he remembered Gretchan’s stories to his parents, in which she had inflated his battle prowess. He glanced at her in exasperation. “Just how good of a fighter do you think I am? ”

He was startled to see that she still carried the large cloak he had used as a disguise, apparently having tucked it under her arm as they had fled the Bluestone house. She extended it toward him. “Trust me,” she barked as she sat down on the stone railing that marked the edge of the bottomless pit. “Here, tuck that axe in your belt, take two corners of this cloak, one in each hand, and hold on tight!”

Every instinct in his body urged him to confront her, to refuse her mad plan-whatever it was. The shouts of the pursuing Enforcers rang in his ears as the king’s men warily started to close in.

“Get down from there! Come away from that edge!” snapped an officious dwarf with a neatly trimmed black beard. His voice was shrill, nearly cracking from the high excitement as he gestured to the dwarves of his company, pointing at the two fugitives.

“Take him, men! Surrender, you!” he squawked, waving his arms wildly.

The pursuing Enforcers didn’t exactly rush to obey, for they had slowed their charge and spread out to form a semicircle, blocking any path of retreat Brandon or Gretchan might have chosen.

Instead of running or fighting, however, Brandon did as Gretchan commanded, stowing his axe and hastily taking the corners of the piece of rough cloth. He saw that she held the other two corners of the square fabric. Looking into her eyes as he sat down on the railing beside her, he was startled to see a flash of amusement in her expression. Then her face grew deadly serious and she quickly swung about on the stone railing at the edge of the Atrium, extending her legs so they were dangling dangerously over the edge.

“What in Reorx’s name …?” he muttered even as he imitated her actions. The Enforcers, only a dozen steps away, watched them skeptically; none of them seemed willing to charge toward the edge of the pit.

Somehow Brandon wasn’t surprised when she gave him her next command:

“Jump!”

What else was he going to do as he saw her start to slide off the railing?

He jumped.

Meanwhile, back in Pax Tharkas-well, actually deep below Pax Tharkas …

Gus had been spending a lot of time in his throne room-the throne being the large, flat rock upon which he sat when he was pondering the heavy responsibilities that were incumbent upon him by virtue of his exalted status as highbulp of Pax Tharkas. His prime task on that day was to determine what manner of food he would send Berta out to fetch. She had a keen eye and a steady hand when it came to bonking rats over the head with a well-aimed stone, and she invariably gave the meatiest, most tender morsels to her lord and master, the highbulp. But in point of fact, Gus was getting a little tired of rat meat.

Of course, if he had been an introspective fellow, it would have dawned on him that never before, in his life or any imagined Aghar existence, would he ever have imagined that he could get tired of any kind of food, much less good old reliable rat meat, so long as said food wasn’t actively poisoning him. (Even gully dwarves tended not to favor foods guaranteed to make them sick, though in a pinch such sustenance would do.)

Berta, as usual, was sitting attentively at his feet, waiting for him to make his wishes known so she could serve him. For a long, long time-during the first two days of his reign at least-she had assumed that posture with a beaming smile, knowing that merely to serve the highbulp was an honor beyond comprehension. Lately, Gus had noticed-for the past two days at least-she had not been smiling so much. Again, if he had been one to think carefully about things, he might have noticed that the expression on her face was actually closer to a scowl than a cheerful smile. But, of course, he didn’t notice.

“I think big dwarf food be nice, for change,” he said finally in a proclaiming voice. “You know, you steal meat and cheese and stuff from Hylar kitchens.” He breezily pointed toward the ceiling. “Up there, two times up from here.”

Shockingly, the usually obedient Berta leaped to her feet and planted her filthy fists on her hips, glaring indignantly at the highbulp. “How I get big dwarf food? Huh? What kind of bluphsplunging idea you think, anyway? Big dwarves kick Aghar right back down stairs! They watch food, not share with Berta! They beat Berta!”

She drew a deep breath while Gus blinked in astonishment. “Me think highbulp should go get Berta food!”

Gus popped to his feet, spluttering indignantly, glowering at his rebellious subject. She merely glowered back. “What kind of doofus-stoop idea be that?” the highbulp demanded of Berta when he could finally articulate. He grasped at the thin hair to either side of his scalp and pulled in exasperation. How could a lowly female speak to a highbulp like that? What kind of bluphsplunging place was Pax Tharkas, anyway?

“Me highbulp!” he croaked in a vain attempt to assert his lord-and-master-ship.

“Me Berta!” she retorted with her maddening obtuseness. “Berta sick of highbulp! You no boss no more!”

With that, she sat back down, her back straight, her chin-what there was of it-jutting stubbornly into the air. She crossed her arms over her scrawny chest and made a point of looking away from her astounded lord and master.

Gus could only stare at her in dismay.

Berta’s attention was directed toward the dungeon wall, so by chance she noticed the distortion, the haze of blue magic appearing there, before Gus did.

“Huh?” she blurted. “Here come Thorbardin again!”

“What? Where?” demanded the highbulp, following Berta’s gaze. He saw the shimmering blue image appear on the wall, right where the four travelers, the Hylar family, had stepped into the room before. He remembered that they had told him that they came from Thorbardin, a fact that made him think, longingly, of his once-beloved home.

Perhaps it was just the growling of his stomach or his shock at Berta’s sudden rebelliousness or maybe the boredom that had descended on him over the past few months had taken a deeper hold than he understood. But as he spotted that shimmering magical gateway make its appearance and discerned the figures of dwarves, two of them, lurking about somewhere inside there, he was seized with inspiration.

In that flash of insight, he realized something: Thorbardin was a world of plentiful, wonderful food, especially the sumptuous cave carp that were unknown in Pax Tharkas and abundant under the mountain. Blissfully he recalled the great Urkhan Sea, the huge caverns that he had grown up exploring, the multitude of abandoned cities and deep, fungus-laden warrens. In his nostalgia-tinted memory, even the Theiwar bunty hunters who had tried to cut his head off seemed like more of an amusing highlight than any real threat.