Douglas Niles - The Heir of Kayolin

“Ah, that’s better,” said Willim, leaning back and propping his feet on one of the workbenches. “It’s so much better when one doesn’t have to listen to lies. Especially the lies of formerly trusted, lowly underlings. I’m sure you’d agree, wouldn’t you? That is, if I allowed either of you to talk.”

The wizard made a show of emitting an elaborate sigh. Leaning back his head, he called out. “Facet, my dear. Won’t you come in here now?”

The two Guilders stared in apprehension as the shapely young magic-user, her black robe swirling easily as she moved with uncanny grace, strolled through the door into the back room of the shop. “Tell me, has there been any change in the plaza?” Willim asked.

“No, Master,” she replied. “The fire dragon seems to have departed. I have not been able to learn anything about the whereabouts of the king.”

“No matter, that,” the wizard replied with a shrug. “He is blinded now, and I don’t believe his god will bless him with the gift of sight-not in the way my magic does. I will find him in good time. But first, there is this little matter to attend.”

He gestured to the pair of elderly Theiwar, who were gawking at him with slack jaws, faces gone white with terror. “Do you know?” Willim said casually. “Once I trusted them. Once I would have rewarded them. Once they might have attained power that most dwarves could only dream of.”

“I understand, Master. But now what?” Facet said. She looked at the two Guilders, licking her crimson lips. “Shall I kill them for you? It would be an honor-and a pleasure.”

The wizard, almost reluctantly, shook his head. “No. Killing them would be pleasurable, of course. But it would of necessity be quick, even merciful. And this is not the time for mercy. No, I would like them to contemplate their treachery, to reflect upon their greed and their failures.”

Abruptly he sat up and snarled a quick phrase, the command to a short, powerful spell.

Immediately Peat and Sadie Guilder screamed-soundlessly as they remained in the grip of the wizard’s spell of silence-and began to writhe. Facet watched, fascinated, her eyes shining as the two dwarves shrank and shriveled before their eyes. In seconds they had diminished a foot in height, then two, then even more. They were the size of young children by then and still growing smaller.

“Catch them, my dear, before they scuttle away to some mouse hole,” Willim directed gleefully, and his female apprentice swept forward to snatch up the small Theiwar by the scruffs of their necks. Holding one in each hand, she lifted them up for her master’s inspection.

Only then did Willim the Black rise. He crossed the room to the place where a clear bell jar rested atop a marble burner. Lifting the glass jar, he held it expectantly while Facet placed the two shrunken dwarves on the burner. Peat collapsed to his knees, while Sadie glared upward, barking something soundless at them as she shook a tiny fist.

The wizard quickly placed the jar down on the marble circle again, trapping the two miniaturized dwarves underneath it. His face twisted into a wicked grin as he looked at his beautiful apprentice. He gestured to the little oil pot underneath the marble burner.

“Now,” he said with uncharacteristic cheerfulness, “light the stove.”

Brandon approached the doors leading into the headquarters of the League of Enforcers. Two burly guardsmen flanked that entrance, each dressed in the shiny black leather tunic of their order and holding a long-hafted axe with the butt braced on the floor and the blades held upright, as high as their heads. It took all of Brandon’s willpower to remind himself that, courtesy of a little priestess magic, he, too, wore a shiny black leather tunic and bore an axe that had been magically enhanced to exactly match the weapons of the two Enforcers.

The one difference in their uniforms was the silver bar that decorated each of his shoulders. It was that insignia that caught the eyes of the two guards, bringing each to attention. They clapped their fists to their chests in salute, one standing aside while the other reached out to open the door for the “captain.”

Brandon nodded a curt thanks, remembering to maintain the haughty air that Gretchan had coached him into adopting. He strode into the headquarters as if he owned the place, hoping that his confusion-and his desperation-didn’t show on his face. Apparently it did not, for the guards let him pass then closed the door behind him.

Fortunately, his mother had accurately described some of the details of the interior of the headquarters, based on her own memories. First he entered the ward room. The interrogation rooms lay to the left beyond that, and Brandon remembered his mother’s suspicions that the dungeon cells lay farther back in that direction. Several Enforcers were seated around a table in the main room, but he ignored them and they ignored him as he turned and went through the door leading to the left.

That led into the hall his mother had described, with a series of doors on either side, currently shut. At least one led into the interrogation room where she had last seen Garren Bluestone. He burned with anger as he pictured that confrontation: the Enforcers threatening his mother, using her terror to coerce Garren into signing his false confession.

Operating only on his hunch and his mother’s best guess, Brandon continued down to the end of the corridor, which made a turn to the right and led deeper into the complex of rooms. Again there were doors to either side, but his attention was centered on the door at the very end of the hall. Unlike the other plain plank barriers, it was bracketed with iron straps and clasped with a heavy lock, latched on the side from which he was approaching. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing over his shoulder and was relieved to see no one was in the corridor with him. Reaching out, he lifted the latch and released the clasp, pushing the door open.

He found himself in a darkened corridor, a place that smelled of damp stones, stale air, and urine. Blinking against the darkness, he hesitated a moment, letting his keen eyes adjust to the lack of light, and he listened.

The place was as silent as any tomb, but Brandon refused to be discouraged. Step by step, he advanced cautiously along the darkened hall, trying to set each foot down as soundlessly as possible. Pace by pace he moved into the dungeon, past doors that were marked with small iron grates, confirming his hunch it was indeed where the League of Enforcers kept its prisoners. The doors were closed, secured with stout-looking locks. He couldn’t hear any noise in any of the cells.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of any silent means of finding out what, or who, lurked behind any of those closed doors. Acutely conscious of time passing, fearing that, at any moment, the executioners might come looking for Garren Bluestone, he finally decided on a bold course.

“Dad?” he asked, his tone at a conversational level. “Are you here?”

He heard a scuffle of movement from one of the rooms halfway down, to the left, and took a few steps closer until he was right outside that door. “Dad?” he probed again.

“Brandon?” came the incredulous, whispered reply.

His heart soaring, Brand reached for the door, not surprised to find that it was locked. “Yes, it’s me!” he whispered back. “I’ve got to get you out of here!”

“How?” demanded Garren. “You can’t take the chance! Get out of here. I can take care of myself!”

“Stand back,” Brandon growled, hefting the Bluestone Axe. “This door is coming down!”

His father had the sense to stop arguing, and Brandon leaned back, gathering his strength for a single blow. The enchanted blade smashed into the wooden door with a loud crash, sending a shower of splinters into the cell and cracking the sturdy barrier right down the middle.