Douglas Niles: The Heir of Kayolin

“The Festival of the Forge has become a bacchanalia of depraved behavior and dishonors the dignity of the very god is purports to exalt!” cried the herald. “It is the word of Reorx, relayed through his loyal servant King Stonespringer, that the festival is heretofore canceled. Normal schedules of industry and mercantilism will continue to apply!”

The herald continued his spiel, outlining the harsh punishments promised to any citizens who dared to flaunt the king’s decree. A few of the listeners exchanged furtive glances, but no one dared murmur a single word of objection. After all, the beloved Festival of the Forge was simply joining a long list of celebrations and rituals, long held as tradition but banned because of Stonespringer’s strict interpretation of Reorx’s will. They were almost getting used to it.

In another minute the herald finished and, still guarded by his escort, moved on to exhort another part of the great merchant square.

Even as he had departed out of earshot, no one raised a murmur of protest. Nervously eyeing nearby strangers, the citizens of Norbardin went about their business. Hunched, cloaked dwarves moved everywhere, weaving back and forth on the tangled and winding roadways, clustering around the booths and carts, examining goods and quietly quibbling about prices. Despite the throngs of customers and the hundreds of transactions in progress at any given moment, the bargaining consisted of only whispers, furtive exchanges of steel, and quick, stealthy departures. Rarely did voices rise above the background hum, and when they did, it was invariably a brief argument between two males, each short-tempered dwarf displaying his stubbornness and tenacity in the time-honored fashion. Everywhere the mood was somber, with no one daring to display anything approximating insubordination-or joy.

The females among the dwarves were especially muted, speaking, dressing, and moving so as to avoid drawing the least attention to themselves. They were cloaked from head to foot and always were escorted by a watchful male-by decree of the king, a male who was a relative or some other legal protector. Stern, frowning enforcers-a special and particularly intolerant breed of the monarch’s royal guards-stalked among the crowds, ready to club or arrest any female they discovered to be in breach of the royal decrees.

Peat followed a group of those royal guards, but broke off when he sensed that his wife was ready to act. He stood a dozen paces away, waiting, watching her.

“Did you hear?” whispered Sadie, an anonymous shape distinguished only by the fact that she was unaccompanied, as she glided among the groups of dwarf shoppers. Her masking robe suggested she was slender, even frail, but there was nothing weak about her voice or her words. “The mountain is going to fall!”

“What do you mean?” asked another dwarf maid who overheard, her tone hushed but urgent. Nearby other shoppers ceased their bargaining, shuffling closer to listen, glancing nervously around to make sure there were no enforcers nearby.

“It is in the auguries!” insisted Sadie. “Doom will rain upon the highest of the high. Thorbardin’s mighty will fall, and the meek will perish in the same storm.”

“Horrible!” gasped another listener, clasping a gloved hand to her veiled face. “But are you sure?”

“I tell you, the auguries of the Forgemaster do not lie! Take good care-hold your dear ones close! Bar your doors, and make your offerings to Reorx! The storm will come very soon.”

“How soon?” asked another breathless shopper.

“This might be the day! It will be upon us before the turning of the next interval. Beware!”

“But you cannot know for certain, surely?” protested an elderly matron, her voice rising slightly to penetrate the growing buzz of excitement and alarm. “What auguries are these?”

“The Master of the Forge-Reorx himself! — told me in a dream and confirmed it in the ashes and leaves of my morning rituals,” retorted Sadie, hunching lower, letting the cowl of her hood droop open to reveal her exaggerated features. “I consulted the priests, and they tell me there is no denying the truth! The stones are loose; the mountain is cracking. The fall is coming soon!”

Dwarves are far from the most superstitious of peoples, but something in the conviction of Sadie’s voice gave her listeners pause. By speaking of the mountain falling, Sadie made them think about an earthquake, and there was nothing more terrifying, more deadly, no menace more conceivable to the subterranean-dwelling mountain dwarves. The females looked around nervously, heads bobbing as, one after the other, they seemed to accept the grim truth of the old woman’s statement.

“What’s going on here?” demanded a burly Hylar swordsman, roughly pushing his way through a trio of female shoppers. He wore the red badge of the king’s enforcers, and he glowered with the stern, suspicious expression that seemed to be required, almost part of the uniform, of that elite and hated company.

“What did she say?” he demanded when no one answered immediately.

“It’s a warning from Reorx!” one of the citizens barked. “The mountain will fall!”

“Nonsense!” declared the Hylar. Despite his confident reply, he glanced nervously upward at the shadowed ceiling lofting far over the city’s streets.

“You there!” the guard demanded, addressing Sadie. “Is this true? You are spreading these tales?”

“The mountain will fall!” Sadie crowed fearlessly. She spoke loudly, her harsh voice spearing the darkness, carrying across the square with its brazen and shocking assertion.

“How dare you speak thus? You spread false rumors!” retorted the enforcer, eyes bulging. Certainly he had never encountered such insolence in all his years on the job. His hand went to the hilt of his sword as he glared at the old woman. “You can be whipped for that, you know.”

“I speak the truth!” she said. “The king is a fool if he doesn’t see it!”

The man’s eyes widened. “Now you speak sedition!” he growled. “You’re coming with me!”

Sadie straightened up, looking at him boldly. Something in her expression held him back as he blustered and glared at the old dwarf woman.

He didn’t see Peat gesturing, subtly flicking his finger upward, muttering the single word to a simple spell. But he heard the crack as a piece of stone, one of the slender, spearlike stalactites far overhead, broke free from the looming mantel. Many dwarves in the crowd cried out in alarm, scattering as fast as they could.

The burly enforcer didn’t hear the warning in time. His last breath was an explosive curse as the pointed shaft of stone struck him on the head. The sharp, slender stone smashed the dwarf to the ground and shattered in an explosion of smaller chips.

The king’s man lay dead in a steadily expanding pool of crimson.

By then the panicked shoppers had fled, shouting the alarm, in every direction. Their words-“The mountain is falling! Reorx is angry!”-echoed through the vast space as they stumbled over each other and crashed into carts and stalls, spilling goods and breaking bottles, their fear swelling.

The chaos rippled through the great plaza and into the streets that fanned out through the whole city. Each fleeing dwarf frightened ten more, and those ten spread out to further fan the flames of panic.

The shouts grew wilder:

“Death comes!”

“The fury of Reorx is upon us!”

“Run for your lives!”

It seemed that the terror only grew in strength as it spread, and within another two minutes, the tidal wave of fear was surging unstoppably toward even the far corners of Norbardin.

Gypsum and Facet were teleported to the highest edifice of Jungor Stonespringer’s royal palace, the king’s prayer tower. It was a lofty structure, a spire that rose almost to the ceiling of the great cavern over Norbardin. Emerging from the side of the ruler’s personal quarters, it held a lofty vantage over the royal fortress, the great square, and all of the city center. A rimmed parapet circled the shaft just below the top, while, a mile away, the city’s main gate loomed above the other side of the great market square.