Douglas Niles - The Heir of Kayolin

“That is exactly right; Reorx wanted it found,” Gretchan said reverently.

Brandon was quickly struck by a new thought. “Then the torc the king-the governor!”-he spat the lesser title triumphantly-“is having made into his crown … it’s a fake!”

“It has to be!” Gretchan agreed. “His authority is built on a false claim.” She frowned thoughtfully. “But what do you plan to do about that? Are you going to take this up to the palace?”

“Yes!” crowed Brandon. “I’ll brandish it in his face, right in front of the entire court, so the whole nation will know his falseness.”

“That might work,” Gretchan allowed. “But I wonder if it might not be prudent to wait a little bit before you do that. You know, to let word of your triumph filter through the city. To let the people hear that you were called a fugitive by the League of Enforcers. Before you, you know, saved the city from a swarm of horax. Let the word spread.”

“But I can’t just sit here on my hands and wait for rumors and stories to spread.”

A rap on the door sounded before either of the dwarf maids could answer. Brandon crossed the room and, still carrying his axe, opened the door to find two dwarves standing there. They wore the black leather tunics of the secret police, with gold braid on their shoulders suggesting they held some sort of exalted rank. Unlike the last occasion, they weren’t bashing the door down, but rather stood there respectfully. One even bowed, almost sheepishly, as Brandon appeared before them.

“What do you want?” he demanded curtly.

“We bring a message from King Smashfingers,” said the second dwarf, the one who hadn’t bowed. He was holding a piece of parchment in his hand, and he didn’t exactly look happy to be there.

“What is it?”

The dwarf read from the page he was holding. “King Smashfingers has been apprised of your heroism in single-handedly defeating a horax infestation that nearly reached the city’s deep-levels. While he has dispatched some more troops to deal with any remaining threat, he would very much like to honor you with a medal of valor and to learn of your experiences with the monsters. This message is an invitation to attend to him in his court at your earliest convenience.”

Brandon, surprised, looked back at Gretchan. “Should I go?” he silently mouthed.

The priestess came over to him and took his hand. “Yes, your mother and I have plenty to do,” she said conspiratorially. “As for you, I suggest you go and see the king.”

Willim the Black was sweating and breathing hard, elated in a way he had never been before. Carefully, almost tenderly, he laid his whip on the worktable of his laboratory and stepped to Facet’s side. The female apprentice was sobbing quietly as he released the straps that had attached her wrists to the rack. She fell into his arms, still crying, and he held her tenderly, avoiding the bloody welts that marked her back.

“I’m sorry, Master,” she said, shivering. “I tried so hard not to cry out-”

“Shh, my little one,” he said. “Your courage was so inspiring to me. You have given me a great gift, one I dare not squander.”

“Oh, thank you, Master!” she exclaimed, pulling him tight. But then she leaned back and looked at him in puzzlement. “But what gift could I possibly have given you?”

“The gift of resolve, my brave apprentice. You have shown me the way, showed me that I must stand true to my goals, my beliefs, yes, even my desires.”

Her eyes flashed at his words, and his vision, the magical enchantment of true sight, showed him that she really did understand. He released his female apprentice, and she gently pulled away, standing. She did not cover herself, and he was pleased.

“Take a sip of potion,” he said gently. “Some of those cuts are deep; you must take care they do not become infected.”

She went over to the potion cabinet and quickly took out a bottle of healing elixir as well as a jug of strong red wine. He watched her affectionately as she mixed the two and took a sip. Behind her, the cabinet was neat and orderly, a hundred bottles all polished and lined up. She had done that for him, cataloguing and organizing all of his potions as well as many of his other components.

She smiled as the healing began to ease her pain, and he sighed, wondering how he had ever gotten along without her. Without his even asking, she poured a second glass of wine and brought it over to him.

“What do you plan to do now, Master?” she asked as he sipped. She put her robe on, much to his disappointment, but he knew she couldn’t go unclothed forever.

The wizard felt a new resolve. “I have one more weapon, one I have yet to use. But I think it is time,” he declared.

Willim stood up and crossed the laboratory, stopping near the edge of the great chasm in the floor. As always, Gorathian seethed and burned down there, yearning for release, craving the destruction and chaos that, up until that moment, Willim had prevented the monster from attaining.

“Awaken, my beast!” he barked. The wizard snapped his fingers, breaking the first spell of confinement, the enchantment that held the fire dragon at bay, deep within its rock-walled lair.

Immediately flames surged upward, brightening the vast laboratory and warming the skin of the two dwarves. The heat increased, until their silken robes started to smolder, and Willim cast a spell of protection, a shielding globe that surrounded them both, insulating them from the fire dragon’s infernal temperatures. The monster rose from the depths, gouging the stone walls of the chasm with its fiery claws, pressing upward until the burning head and serpentine neck twisted from the narrow gap, its great maw open and roaring.

“Now, rise!” commanded Willim, clapping his hands and breaking the second spell of confinement.

Gorathian roared again, jaws spread wide, fire spuming outward to surround the two dwarves. Only the enchantment of the powerful wizard’s spell protected them from certain and instant immolation. The beast’s large head loomed above them, rearing back on its strong, sinuous neck. The fire dragon’s skin was like liquid lava, shiny and flowing. Its eyes were black, utterly soulless, but every bit of the rest of it was blazing orange and white, as bright as an infernal blaze. The jaws spread wide again, and a massive cloud of flame billowed forth, igniting the air just over the two magic-users’ heads.

“Do not attack me! Do not attack my apprentice!” snarled the wizard.

He raised his hand, palm outward, then pressed downward. The dragon writhed and howled, unable to resist the powerful magic that pressed it, against its will, back down into the chasm. The creature roared more loudly than ever, the sound rattling the potion jars on their shelves. Massive forefeet, each tipped with talons as hard as steel, clawed at the stone floor, leaving smoking, blackened gouges in the hard stone.

Abruptly, Willim pulled his hand away, and the dragon surged upward, wings of fire spreading wide and carrying it into the air, high above the floor of the vast, domed chamber. The wizard smiled tightly, knowing that the monster would not dare to attack him or the female under his protection again.

Gorathian roared again and flew in a tight spiral, constrained by the size of the laboratory.

“Have you ever seen such terrible magnificence?” the black wizard demanded, gloating.

Facet took his arm and shook her head, staring upward, shivering in terror and awe.

“Now!” cried the eyeless Theiwar, addressing the fire dragon and pointing at the stone wall that barricaded the chamber, which blocked it from access to all the rest of Thorbardin. “Go! Find my enemy, the king! Smite him!” he shouted.