Douglas Niles - The Heir of Kayolin

He raised the Bluestone Axe in his right hand, pointing at Baracan with his left. “I call you murderer! I name you thief! And Nailer Bluestone will be avenged.”

He advanced at a rush, as Baracan drew his sword and circled away from the throne to give himself fighting room.

“Stop him!” shouted Lord Heelspur. “Enforcers, take him down!”

The agents of the League finally reacted as the command snapped them from their shock. Swords slid from sheaths; mighty halberds were raised high; and the black-garbed dwarves started toward Brandon from both sides and from behind.

“Murderer!” the younger Bluestone repeated, sprinting toward Baracan before the Enforcers could interfere. He raised his axe, haft held in both of his hands, over his head.

“Bluestone! Bluestone! Bluestone!” The chant resounded through the throne room, echoing from the ceiling and thumping through the very bedrock itself. The Enforcers hesitated, glancing at each other nervously. Several swordsmen of the Garnet Guards stepped forward, weapons sheathed, to interpose themselves between the black-clad agents of Heelspur’s League and the duel taking shape before them.

Brandon brought his axe down in a short, controlled chop. Baracan, expecting a more forceful blow, parried the attack and retreated, circling around behind the throne. With his axe dancing right, left, high, and low, Brandon followed. A part of his mind reminded him to be cautious, but cold fury doused his attempts at restraint. He made a sudden rush again, slashing back and forth, while his enemy jabbed, carving a cut on his wrist before he could push out of the way.

The two battlers came around the other side of the throne. Brandon glanced up, looking for danger, but he saw that the Garnet Guards, while not taking part in the fight, had formed enough of a barrier that the Enforcers were effectively held back. At the very least, they would have had to push aside the stalwart members of that ancient regiment in order to get to Brandon. Garren Bluestone, too, was holding back, though he held his sword at the ready, his eyes shifting from Regar to Alakar to Baracan.

Even the ruler had ceased his hunt for the scattered gems. He rested upon his knees, looking up at the duel raging before him, wincing every time steel clashed against steel.

Brandon’s mind flashed a picture of Nailer, his older brother hoisting a mug, toasting his friends, his face full of youth, beaming with pleasure. Then he saw that same face, lifeless and bloody, on the floor of a lonely cave. Nailer had died because Lord Heelspur craved the vein of gold the Bluestone brothers had just discovered, and Lord Heelspur’s son had led the assassins. That murder would finally be avenged!

With a grimace, the axe-wielding dwarf flew at his opponent, launching another flurry of blows, forcing Baracan into a rapid retreat. The other dwarf’s sword flashed back and forth, each time knocking away the Bluestone Axe, but always that keen blade pressed a little closer to the noble scion’s pale skin.

The throne room had fallen silent-even the “Bluestone” chant fading away-as the witnesses stared at the do-or-die battle enacted before them.

“Look out!”

Brandon heard the shrill cry of alarm, recognized it as Gretchan’s voice, and tried to spin away. But Baracan, eyes alight with impending triumph, thrust once, then again, forcing the axe-wielding Bluestone to parry his blows or suffer death. Then Baracan’s eyes, looking past Brandon’s shoulder, widened in shock and dismay. A groaning sigh, mingled with cheers, erupted from the crowd. As Brandon finally broke away from the fight, he saw Lord Heelspur fall on his face. Garren Bluestone stood behind the dying nobleman, holding a bloodied sword.

“He tried to take you from behind,” the senior Bluestone said almost apologetically.

“Thanks, Dad,” Brandon replied sincerely.

Setting his axe at the ready, he again advanced toward Baracan, who retreated with fear in his eyes. “This isn’t the way it was with my brother, is it?” demanded Brandon, smashing the axe down in a series of measured, controlled hacks, forcing Baracan’s retreat. “You had four of your assassins with you when you killed him, didn’t you? You’d never take on someone in a fair fight-at least, not someone like Nailer, who knew how to use a weapon.” He taunted Baracan loudly, shaming his foe, instinctively feeling the mood of the city swing over to his side.

Baracan screamed and charged, overreaching as Brandon skipped out of the way of the thrust blade. The Bluestone Axe swung through a full half-circle-measured and controlled no longer, but like a living thing bent on blood and vengeance. The keen edge bit into Baracan Heelspur’s neck, slicing all the way to his spine before Brandon finally pulled it free.

His enemy’s head flopped backward, barely connected to the torso, as a geyser of blood erupted from the slashing wound. Already dead, Baracan’s body swayed like a drunk; his knees collapsed, and he fell heavily to the floor.

For a moment, all was silent. Regar Smashfingers stared in dumbfounded horror. The Enforcers looked about nervously, slowly edging away from the dwarves of the Garnet Guards and the two Bluestones. The murmurs started softly, quickly swelling.

“Hail to House Bluestone!” General Watchler said. “And shame to Regar Smashfingers and his legacy of greed!”

“Spare me!” Regar cried. Already on his knees, he threw himself face-first onto the floor, hands groping for Garren’s feet. “Don’t kill me!” he pleaded, nearly blubbering. “You can have the kingship! The throne is yours!”

“Throne? No, you speak of the governor’s chair,” Garren Bluestone said, drawing a deep breath and speaking so that all could hear. “The throne is in Thorbardin!”

Then the cheers began, the cry of “Bluestone, Bluestone, Bluestone!” rose to the domed ceiling, echoed through the shaft of the Atrium, and thrummed in all the many levels of Garnet Thax. Dwarves embraced each other, cheering and sobbing with relief. The Enforcers beat a hasty retreat, and in moments there were none of the black-clad bullies to be seen.

Gretchan and Karine made their way down to the floor, and Brandon embraced the priestess, reveling in the feel of her soft skin against his face, her kisses finding his lips in the midst of his bristling beard. He pulled her close, almost weeping in relief, and spotted his mother as she ran up to embrace his father.

“Here-you should take this spot,” said General Watchler, escorting Garren Bluestone up the steps before the great throne. “You would do it honor!”

The citizens of Kayolin cheered as Garren Bluestone sat on the great seat and was appointed, by acclamation, to be the new governor. The shouts and accolades thundered through the throne room, lasting for a very long time. The Bluestone chant changed to the new cry: “The throne is in Thorbardin!”

Brandon watched his father accept the acclaim, and he felt a burst of pride, accompanied by a lump in his throat. Nailer should be there, seeing that, he knew. But that would never be. Still, when he saw the pride, the pure happiness, on his mother’s face, he was able to feel his own sense of accomplishment and joy.

“Hey, where did he come from?” Brandon asked in surprise, staring open mouthed at Gus and two other filthy gully dwarves mingling with the crowd and moving toward them. The little females to either side of him clutched his arms desperately, while Gus looked around in amazement, unsure of himself but clearly rather proud.

Gretchan nodded toward the little Aghar tenderly, smiling at Brandon. “Oh, I meant to tell you. Gus and his friends are here. I think the Master of the Forge was looking out for him and them-and for us. He came here through a magic spell; he’s not sure exactly how. But the big news is that he brought us something important.”