Douglas Niles: The Heir of Kayolin

So, too, did the others on the flattened hilltop. Even in the absolute darkness of the vast Urkhan cavern, Willim could see and relish the size and quality, the utter obeisance, of his army.

General Darkstone’s Theiwar lieutenants, commanders of heavy infantry, crossbow, and scout companies, stood behind the general with clenched fists and wide, warlike grins, already imbibing the fierce joy of the imminent battle. Nearby, Captain Forelock, leader of the Klar berserkers, stared so wildly around that it looked as though his eyes were darting in two different directions. He all but drooled at the prospect of the coming conflict, caressing the long haft of his warhammer as if it were an object of love-which, no doubt, it was. Captain Veinslitter, leader of the Black Cross Regiment of Daergar heavy infantry, clapped his brawny fist to his chest, while Captain Harlan, keen-eyed leader of the Hylar skirmishers, merely greeted his master with a studied bow.

One other warrior, not a dwarf but an ally of the dwarf army, lurked at the fringe of the circle and waited to catch the eye of his master. The other dwarves could not see that other one, but they sensed its sinister presence and gave it a wide berth.

To Willim, the creature was clear and manifest. Real and powerful, it stood beyond the fierce dwarf warriors, looming at the back of the circle, black-winged and crimson-eyed, and eager to get started. The black wizard’s minion was a creature of an alien and terrible realm, summoned to Krynn to do Willim’s bidding. Its black wings, jagged as a bat’s, trembled in anticipation. Waves of power emanated from the huge monster. When Willim nodded in its direction, the creature quickened and growled, and the dwarves gave the minion an even wider berth. The being rattled its claws and breathed its steamy breath, trying to stay patient.

“The time has come, my bold warriors,” the wizard declared at last, pleased at the vast power arrayed before him. He turned and paced across the flat hilltop, noting the ranks of the captains’ companies waiting around the shore of the island. Hundreds of boats had been assembled, their prows resting against the Isle of the Dead. Each was captained by an experienced Theiwar helmsman; each would be propelled by its passengers, a dozen of whom would man oars in each boat.

“The king sleeps and dreams his misguided dreams,” Willim proclaimed. “Tomorrow, we will awaken him from his last slumber!”

The men stiffened and saluted; only the need for stealth held them back from a lusty cheer.

“Now, cross the lake!” Willim the Black ordered. “The attack on Norbardin begins in twelve hours!”

The plans had been established, rehearsed, memorized, modified, and refined over the past year. There was no need for any more talking. Each of the commanders gestured in the darkness; their sergeants barked marching orders to the men. The dwarves tromped steadily down the steep grade of the cone’s slope, breaking into the sections, twenty-four dwarves strong, that would cross in each individual boat. At the water’s edge, they filed smoothly into the flat-bottomed crafts, and in a matter of minutes, the small vessels were pressing through the still, dark sea, propelled by the soft splash of hundreds of bone-handled oars.

Only Willim and his chief minion remained on the hilltop. For a long time they watched as the boats sliced through the water. They did not move yet, but neither were they going to lag far behind the army.

For when they moved, they would travel in the blink of an eye.

The blue jar pulsed with light, filling the small room at the back of the Two Guilders Novelty and Pharmology Emporium with a lingering glow. Peat Guilder, who had been sleeping with his wife on their pallet in the corner, immediately sat upright. His nerves tingled with alarm. In his twenty years of service to the Master, that light had flashed three times, and each occasion had brought mortal danger to Sadie and him.

Urgently he nudged his wife, who was a deeper sleeper than Peat. By the time she stirred, he was up and moving, making his way across the workshop, stepping around the piles of books, wedging his way between two overflowing trunks, stretching to reach the bell jar. The vessel still glowed with that lingering blue aura, a magical light originating from the frail-looking sheet of parchment that reposed within the jar.

“What is it?” Sadie asked, rubbing her eyes as she stiffly climbed to her feet.

Peat donned a glove and lifted the hot jar. He squinted, but couldn’t make out the intricate details on the note so he handed it to Sadie as she limped over to him. She read swiftly as the magical paper turned to smoke in her hand.

“Climb the Cloudseeker,” she said aloud.

Peat nodded in resignation. “So the Master’s war begins,” he said. “We’d better get ready.”

“Yes,” his wife agreed. Her hand, in the midst of the smoke cloud, was trembling. “Yes,” she repeated. “The Master needs us … must get ready.”

“I’m ready right now!” he said defiantly as though she had challenged him.

“You don’t have to do anything but look foolish and be ready to cast a spell!” Sadie snapped in reply. She rummaged in a trunk and pulled out a large woolen cloak that she wrapped around her shoulders. A smaller kerchief covered her hair, and when she pulled the hood of the robe up, her face was deeply cast in shadow. She murmured a spell, and her nose grew long and hooked, while her chin sprouted a few bristling hairs.

“Can you tell that it’s me?” she asked a tad vainly.

“I wouldn’t know you if I was standing right in front of you,” Peat replied, blinking. He was certain that even someone with decent vision would not recognize her.

“Good. Now get out of here. Remember, we can’t be seen together.”

“I remember,” Peat retorted, though in fact he had momentarily forgotten that crucial part of the plan. He took hold of his cane and quickly left the store, tapping up the street toward the great market square at the city’s center. The place, as usual, was crowded but quiet-the king didn’t tolerate rowdiness or unruliness among his subjects. Once there, he mingled with a crowd of old dwarves at an ale wagon, paying a copper coin and helping himself to a glass in order to blend in. He kept his eye on the street, and soon Sadie-looking a hundred years older, more stooped and withered even than her real self-emerged and made her way through the aisle between the stalls in the big plaza. Even with his blurry vision, Peat could follow the disguised crone’s progress.

Finishing his beer, he was about to order another when he recognized Abercrumb pushing his way up to the cart. Ducking his head and turning away, Peat regretfully decided he had better not have a second ale. Instead, he followed quickly behind Sadie as she moved on.

The market square of Norbardin was crowded, a teeming maze of aisles, stalls, plazas, and shops. But the dwarf citizens moved in small groups, making way for each other with undwarflike politeness and with little conversation or eye contact.

The wide plaza covered a vast area of flat pavement, terraced into several levels, sprawling out for nearly a mile behind the great central gate of the dwarves’ city. Stalls and carts covered much of the space, lined up in orderly ranks, creating roads and alleys between the vendors. The whole place, as with the rest of Thorbardin, lay under a vast, overhanging roof, studded with spearlike stalactites. The only illumination came from the oil lamps burning here and there, each at the expense of one of the merchants so as to better illuminate that seller’s wares and to draw attention to that particular location in the midst of the hundreds of similar booths.

A hubbub of commotion up ahead caught Peat’s attention, and he saw that Sadie had turned toward the noise as well. Still keeping a safe distance from each other, they drew up to the back of a crowd that had gathered around a royal herald. The speaker was flanked by twenty armed dwarves of the palace guard, and the warriors of the escort glowered so fiercely that the citizens averted their eyes as they listened abjectly.