Douglas Niles - The Heir of Kayolin

With a bellow so loud it shivered the very bedrock of the laboratory, the fire dragon flew straight at the wall. Solid stone was no barrier to that creature of Chaos-kin of those that had ruined so many of Thorbardin’s cities during the Chaos War, more than a half century earlier. As it struck the wall, it immediately gouged a hole into the rock, forcing its way through the barrier, soon bursting explosively into the wide chamber beyond.

Facet stared at the flaming wake of the monster, her eyes wide, her mouth open with awe and excitement. She stared at the large hole in the face of stone, the gap smoldering and molten with crimson fingers of fire around the fringes. She turned back to her master, evincing adoration and exultation in her expression. “What will we do now?” she asked breathlessly, her hand taking Willim’s and squeezing his scarred and stubby fingers.

“Why,” he said, with a dry chuckle. “We follow it, of course. And we watch our enemy’s destruction.”

And he cast the spell of flying upon them both, and the two wizards, master and apprentice, took to the air.

Unlike his last appearance at Regar Smashfingers’s court, when he and his father had quietly entered amid a large group of casual observers, Brandon strode forward at the head of a retinue of noisy well-wishers. Some were neighbors who’d been with him since he’d passed the Cracked Mug, while others were those who had joined as he’d climbed the long ramps to the noble level. The Enforcers who had brought him the invitation, interestingly enough, had melted away during the climb. Once again, however, he spotted some of the redcoats of the Garnet Guards. One burly veteran hoisted a mug to Brandon and winked broadly as he strode past.

The governor’s palace occupied the highest level of Garnet Thax. Two stout gates, standing open, greeted those who climbed to that lofty height. The entry led directly into the throne room, a long, rectangular chamber with the ruler’s seat at the far end. Both sides and the far end of the room were crowned with balconies, which rose twenty feet higher than the floor. They were galleries for citizens and observers, and Brandon’s first glance into the huge chamber showed him that those vantages were lined two or three deep with interested dwarves who had rushed there at the rumors of a confrontation between Brandon Bluestone and Regar Smashfingers.

As he stepped into the palace, he was greeted by saluting guards in black capes who stepped back, forming an aisle that directed him down a ramp toward the floor of the throne room. The last time he had looked at that room, he was an observer watching from the balcony that surrounded the large chamber. As he glanced at all those dwarves who reminded him of his previous experience with the room, he walked proudly toward the great seat upon which sat the dwarf who had the temerity to call himself king.

Brandon wore his axe slung over his back. He still carried the Torc of the Forge in his belt pouch, having decided over Gretchan’s objections that he might need it. The royal guards didn’t ask him to hand over his weapon anyway, though a pair of big spear carriers walked forward with him. They looked like an honor guard, but he knew they’d be ready to act against him if he made some aggressive action toward the king.

They didn’t need to worry. Brandon was there to learn and evaluate, not to do anything foolhardy. He looked around, noticed lots of smiling faces, and recognized some of the attending dwarves-including one young noblewoman, Rona Darkwater, who had been one of Brand’s lovers, once upon a time. She blew him a kiss, and he blushed.

Still looking around, Brandon was surprised but not displeased to see that neither Lord Alakar Heelspur nor his son was present. That was good; he wasn’t sure he could have controlled his temper in the presence of the dwarves who had arranged his brother’s murder and his father’s imprisonment and coerced confession.

Several well-dressed courtiers stood flanking the throne, their silk shirts and colorful cravats at odds with the more common, workmanlike garb typical of Kayolin’s citizenry.

Regar Smashfingers sat up straight in his great stone chair then leaned forward as Brandon advanced. The king had a broad face and an unusually large nose, with a tip that hooked downward, not unlike the beak of a hawk.

“Presenting Brandon Bluestone, sire!” declared one of the guards, thumping the butt of his spear against the floor.

“So you are the hero who warned us about the horax attack-and then, apparently single-handedly, sent a hundred of the bugs tumbling into the Atrium?” said Smashfingers with every appearance of graciousness. He looked Brandon up and down, smiling with a broad display of white teeth.

“I don’t know about the hero stuff,” Brandon said with genuine modesty. “And it was certainly less than a hundred of them that fell to my attack. I was fighting for my life and the life of my companion. I did what any other Kayolin dwarf would have done.”

The king’s eyes narrowed-probably because Brand had intentionally avoided using any honorific title-but he merely nodded thoughtfully, as if digesting the information.

“Unusual, isn’t it, to find the scum so high in the mountain-right up to the deep-levels, aren’t they?”

“I’ve never heard of them there in my lifetime,” Brandon admitted, thinking: Was it you who ordered the walls knocked down? He wanted to ask the question aloud, but-acting on Gretchan’s wise counsel-decided it was not the time to confront the king on that issue. “They seem to have found some new ways out of their hives,” he settled for saying.

Smashfingers sat up straight again and spoke in a loud, clear voice to all the dwarves in the throne room as well as those on the ring of the surrounding gallery. “Let it be known to all that Brandon Bluestone is a true hero of the realm! He is to be treated with the honor appropriate to his deeds, and I hereby award him a bounty of a thousand platinum pieces for his service to Kayolin!”

The gathered dwarves cheered wildly. Brandon felt a little stunned by the turn of events. The bounty, he was pretty certain, more than doubled his family’s net worth, but it wasn’t coin he was after. As the applause and shouting faded down, he bowed and decided to speak boldly.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “That is a generous reward. I hope you don’t find it inappropriate for me to ask an additional favor at this time.”

Once again the king’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but he concealed his displeasure with a broad smile, leaning back in his throne and waving expansively. “Ask away!” he declared.

“My father has been taken into custody by the League of Enforcers. The charges against him are false, but a confession was extracted from him when Baracan Heelspur threatened to harm my mother if my father would not sign a false document. He signed the false confession to spare her, of course, as any honorable dwarf would do. I ask, my lord, that the confession be discarded and my father released.”

“This is most unfortunate!” Regar Smashfingers declared with every appearance of sympathy. His eyes were wide, his expression guileless, though his hands gripped the arms of his throne so firmly that his knuckles whitened. “What is his name, your father?” he added innocently.

You know very well! Brandon’s mind screamed. Once again, he bit back the words he wanted to say. Instead, he replied. “His name is Garren Bluestone. He’s the patriarch of House Bluestone-all that’s left of us, in any event.”

Brandon watched the ruler carefully, certain that he recalled every detail of their confrontation less than two years before, when the younger Bluestone had accused the king’s strongest support, Alakar Heelspur, of murder and thievery. Yet somehow Regar Smashfingers masked any sign of recognizing the past.