Douglas Niles - The Heir of Kayolin

Brandon wasn’t so sure, but Gretchan’s words reminded him of the treasure he had claimed from the horax lair-the torc encrusted with blue stones that he hadn’t had a chance to show to Gretchan yet. He wasn’t going to pull it out from his belt pouch there on that crowded street, so he leaned over and told her, “As soon as we can get some privacy, I have something to show you.”

“You rascal!” she teased.

He blushed and lowered his voice. “Not that!” he growled. “Can’t you be serious for a moment?”

“Serious? When I’m in a parade with the greatest hero of Garnet Thax? I don’t think so!” she replied teasingly. She took his arm and hugged it close, beaming at the cheering dwarves surrounding them.

They turned onto the nearest spiraling ramp-no more darkened stairways for the Horax Hero, Gretchan declared-and started the trek upward. At each landing they met crowds of friendly, congratulatory dwarves, many of whom joined the march along behind them, whooping and shouting in the impromptu victory parade. More and more dwarves thronged the plazas and streets around the landings as they climbed, and Brandon had to decline multiple invitations to sit down for a beer or share a bottle of dwarf spirits. The name “Bluestone” echoed from the walls, down the streets, into the houses and inns.

As the accolades continued and grew, he noticed the utter absence of the king’s Enforcers in the crowd. He was further surprised to note several members of the Garnet Guards, veteran professional soldiers distinguished by their bright red cloaks. They seemed to be off duty but were good-naturedly following along the procession, joining in the cheers and hoisting overflowing mugs with the rest of the citizenry.

“Who are they?” Gretchan asked when he pointed them out.

“They’re the oldest regiment in Kayolin,” he explained. “Their leader, General Watchler, was a protege of my grandfather, in fact, back during the War of the Lance. When I left here they were in charge of watching the city gates and patrolling the streets-not that there was ever much trouble. Seems like a lot of their work has been taken over by the League of Enforcers, now.”

The outpouring of affection continued, with the celebration steadily growing, spilling onto side streets and different levels. Yet suddenly, Brandon wanted nothing more than to get away from all the hubbub. He felt a cold stab of shame and fear when he remembered the raid on his parents’ house and the panic of his and Gretchan’s flight from the royal agents.

“I have to get home!” he protested forcefully as a pair of strapping young millworkers tried to bodily haul him into a tavern. They released him, agreeably enough, and went on their way, but Brandon pushed ahead with increased urgency, tugging Gretchan at his side.

They continued rapidly up the long flights of stairs from the lower deep-level to the upper middle part of Garnet Thax, steadily approaching the Bluestone manor. Everywhere it seemed as though a national holiday had been declared, with boisterous drinking and cheering of the “Horax Hero” as they passed through the city.

By the time they reached the fourth midlevel and emerged from the ramp, the street was thronged with cheering dwarves, his name having been shouted upward and the news traveling before them faster than the two dwarves could climb.

Outside the Cracked Mug, Bondall met them with two full mugs of chilled ale, handing them over then impulsively kissing Brandon on the cheek.

“My hero!” she declared, smiling broadly. “And the hero of all Garnet Thax!”

The hero of Garnet Thax could only blush, as Bondall gave Gretchan a congratulatory hug. “You’re a lucky gal!” she said.

“I know,” replied the priestess, amused. She winked at Brandon. “I’m rather proud of him myself. You know, he saved my life down there.”

Only as they made their way down the street to the Bluestone house did the crowds thin a bit and grow more solemn and watchful. Many dwarves, friends and neighbors he’d known for years, clapped Brandon on the back and offered a hearty “well done.” But they knew he risked his life by coming back home, and their knowledge filled him with dread.

His mood lightened somewhat when he saw his mother waiting for him. But there was no sign of his father, and when he embraced Karine Bluestone and she started to sob in his arms, he could only fear the worst.

Willim the Black was alone in his laboratory. His terror at Facet’s frightening plunge, coupled with his fury at his own army’s cowardice, had driven him back to his laboratory-to work, to scheme, to prepare. He had left the blinded female with the healers who were tending the rebel army’s infirmary, ordering that she receive the best care, before teleporting by himself back to his laboratory.

He still remembered the gagging fear that had gripped him when his beloved female acolyte toppled over the edge of the king’s prayer tower. Blinded by the god’s light, flailing in terror, she had plunged toward the stone paving a hundred feet below. She hadn’t been enchanted with the flying spell herself since she had been borne through the air by her master, and when she had toppled from the rampart, gravity had swept her toward certain doom.

It had taken all of the wizard’s skills-along with the good fortune that he himself was still enchanted by the spell of flying-to muster the power to swoop down and catch her in his arms just before she crashed into the ground. She had sobbed, clutching him in her terror, and her emotions had touched him deeply. The confrontation with the king forgotten, he had flown away from the palace, toward the safety of his own army.

After finding General Darkstone blinded on the gatehouse parapet, groping for the stairway leading down to the plaza, Willim had demanded that the attack be resumed at once. The veteran commander had stood firm in the face of the wizard’s rage and argued, irrefutably, that blind troops could not very well be expected to wage war.

“I desire vengeance against the king as much as anyone, Master,” Darkstone declared. “But I cannot even see the blasted foe! How can I or anyone attack?”

The black wizard’s most frenetic commands, dire threats, and hysterical exhortations had been unable to sway more than a handful of his troops-those that had been inside buildings or otherwise screened from the brilliant flash-to organize for another attack. Even those stalwarts had simply advanced a few hundred feet, until they were away from their commander’s influence. Shaken and pale, looking around as if they were afraid that Reorx would smite them directly, they had quickly gone to ground.

After railing against even his most veteran commanders and loyal troops, mocking their refusal to fight in the face of what they considered to be clear proof of Reorx’s displeasure, Willim departed Norbardin in disgust. The wizard had returned to his lab, seeking a solitary place to brood, to plan, to marshal his power, and to scheme.

His enemies would pay.

He continued to believe that he was alone, but then his spell of true-seeing detected the glimmer of magic very nearby. He straightened, summoning the words to powerful spells of death and destruction. If it was an enemy arriving, his foe would be killed instantly.

But it was not an enemy. Instead, Willim recognized his apprentice Facet. She was wearing a black robe, but it was not the thick material of her wizardly garb. Instead, it was a silken outfit, gauzy and transparent-seductively transparent, and would have been so even without the benefit of the black wizard’s gift of true sight. The female apprentice was alluring in her shapeliness, beguiling in her expression. Her lips glowed like fresh blood, and her hair shimmered and flowed like liquid with each step she took. She came up to her master and bowed deeply, lowering her head in supplication. She no longer seemed to be suffering ill effects from her near-death experience.