Douglas Niles - The Heir of Kayolin

“Bluestone faction? Nefarious?” Garren had never heard his family referred to as a ‘faction’ before. “What in Reorx’s name are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Baracan sneered. “When there’s a band of rebels in the city and they use your name to identify their group, you can be pretty sure my Enforcers are going to take action.”

“I tell you, I don’t know anything about any so-called Bluestone faction!”

The head of the king’s secret police force just laughed. “Apparently there are still some Kayolin dwarves who don’t understand that the Bluestone Luck is a genuine curse. They don’t recognize that the misfortune that has befallen your once illustrious line only proves that you are not fit to rule this city-and you never were!”

“Who claims I want to rule Garnet Thax?” Garren snapped angrily. “That’s preposterous!”

Baracan shrugged. “Deny it all you like. In any event, you have now been caught committing a clear, undeniable crime.”

“What crime, damn you?”

“You were hiding a fugitive, your son, from the king’s duly appointed authorities! Do you dare to deny your treason?”

“Yes!” shouted Garren, forgetting all thoughts of restraint. He struggled against his bonds, glaring at the secret police captain. “And I accuse you and your father of murdering my oldest son and conspiring to steal my family’s lawfully discovered vein!”

“Well, that simplifies matter, then,” Baracan said coldly, “since you have proved your treason here, now, in front of witnesses. You will sign a confession, and then the matter will be referred to the king for adjudication.”

“I’ll sign nothing, you criminal!” spit Garren. “What makes you think I will?”

Baracan turned those coal black eyes toward one of his assistants. “Bring in the prisoner’s wife,” he ordered. “And summon the Interrogator.”

Garren stared in horror as Karine was pushed through the door. She was gagged, her hands tied behind her, but his heart broke to see the terror in her eyes as she looked at him. The captive dwarf strained against his own bonds as his wife was roughly pushed into a chair. When he thrashed futilely, someone bashed him over the head, and when he cursed, a dirty gag was stuffed into his mouth.

The next dwarf to arrive was the Interrogator. He wore a black leather mask over his face, and his hands were clad in supple gloves of the same material. An array of knives, hooks, pincers, and shackles dangled from his belt. With great, almost loving care, he began to lay out his tools. Some of them were barbed; others had narrow, serrated edges. All of them looked very sharp. Only when the whole collection lay spread on the table, within easy reach, did he turn his masked face toward Baracan Heelspur.

“Would you like me to start with the bitch, my lord?” he asked in a smooth, oily voice.

It was Garren who replied, groaning through his gag and slumping in his seat. He moaned through his gag, shaking his head, while his wife struggled to protest.

“You’re a little hard to understand right now, but I take it you will sign?” the captain of Enforcers asked Garren.

The prisoner nodded weakly, looking at his wife with a beseeching expression, seeing her eyes fill with tears.

Baracan snapped his fingers at the Interrogator and waved him away. With a heavy sigh of disappointment, the masked dwarf packed up his tools. Karine was taken from the room while another Enforcer removed the male prisoner’s gag.

Two minutes later, Garren Bluestone had signed and sealed a confession, admitting that he was treasonously planning to hide his fugitive son from the king’s authorities. Karine Bluestone was allowed to leave, while Garren was taken away to a dark cell somewhere in the middle of the secret Enforcer headquarters. For the second time during the interview, Baracan allowed himself a flash of emotion, emitting a tight smile as Garren was dragged away. He was obviously pleased as he reflected that the king would review the confession and would almost certainly pronounce a sentence of death.

Even as she screamed, Gretchan pushed herself off of Brandon, struggling to pull free the staff she had thrust through her belt before their hasty descent into the Atrium. Brandon, reacting by instinct, rolled from his back and bounced to his feet, pulling the Bluestone Axe from his own belt and staring into the darkened cave.

He found himself face-to-face with an arachnoid horror, a monster that reared upward, segmented body lifting its ghastly head high. Two solid mandibles clacked audibly in front of its thin, slicing mouth, while four legs thrust menacingly forward. Four more supported the back half of the body, which reminded Brandon of a horrible snake, head raised, poised to strike. The monster was huge, the multiple segments of its body forming a whole that was at least twelve feet long. The portion that reared above the floor was higher than Brandon, who was a very tall dwarf in his own right.

The monster’s body was the same gray-white as the stone walls of the cavern. But its eyes chilled him the most. They were multifaceted and seemed to reflect Brandon’s horror-stricken image in at least a dozen different planes. They bulged obscenely, shifting and glittering, clearly focused on the crouching, trembling dwarf. Some of those facets seemed to blink, while others simply stared. The huge eyes were cold and emotionless, yet somehow Brandon sensed in them a profound, almost insatiable, hunger.

The creature was a horax, Brandon realized at once. He had never seen one of the creatures-indeed, few dwarves had encountered the arachnoid monsters and lived to tell about it-but the realization set off an instinctive fury, an inherent hatred within him. The traditional enemies of the Kayolin dwarves were such a visceral, long-standing foe that he was almost compelled to hurl himself at the creature, driven by a battle fury that settled like a red cloud over his vision. He growled deep in his chest, like some savage animal, raising his axe over his head. His beard and face tingled as strength and tension thrummed in his veins, and he felt an almost irresistible compulsion to attack.

But some voice of reason held him back. He saw more of the long, segmented bodies creeping along the floor of the cavern behind the first one, and-almost too late-realized that at least two horax were clinging to the ceiling of the tunnel. They were all of that same pale gray color, and when they were still, they blended very well into the stone of their surroundings. If he had tried to attack, those overhead would have dropped onto his head and back, and he would have been devoured at once. He was chilled by the thought.

So he forced himself to stay calm, standing protectively in front of the priestess, axe lowered to chest height. He warily regarded the looming monsters. Gretchan’s hand pressed against his shoulder, and he heard her murmuring a prayer to the Master of the Forge. A sense of keen readiness flowed into his body, as if the blessing of the god were being transferred directly through his cleric into the flesh of the warrior dwarf.

For long seconds the ancient, hereditary foes stood staring at each other, two dwarves confronted by ten or twelve of the giant bugs. Suddenly the first horax acted, the forefront of its body lashing out with whiplike speed. Two vicious mandibles clicked loudly, the sound a loud, startling snap as they flashed toward Brandon’s face. But the dwarf was ready, raising his axe in a single smooth movement, then driving the enchanted blade down in a slashing blow. Gretchan’s prayer calmed and focused his aim. The keen edge struck the monster right between its bulging eyes, splitting the hard carapace of the head almost as though he were chopping into a piece of firewood.