Douglas Niles: Secret of Pax Tharkas

Then he remembered: sting thumb, not tongue!

That axiom of cavebug dining had been passed down through generations of gully dwarves, and Gus remembered it just in time. The little, wormlike bug wriggled in his grasp, the numerous legs-at least two on each side-flailing for purchase. At the tail he spotted the sharp stinger, erect and thrashing. Squinting, carefully concentrating, Gus held up his thumb and let the wicked-looking barb plunge into the pad of flesh.

“Ow!” he shouted as fiery tendrils of pain shot through his thumb, his hand, and up his arm. The stinger itself detached from the bug to jut from the gully dwarf’s skin. Knowing his prey was disarmed, Gus popped it into his mouth, breaking the segmented body with a crunch of his teeth and quickly swallowing the still-wriggling parts of the doomed creature. He smacked his lips and enjoyed the sensation of delicious food. If he was not exactly full, neither was he starving, and starving was a very pleasant thing not to be doing.

For a few moments, he inspected the floor of the alley, looking, hoping, seeking another one of the bugs. But he was lucky to have found the one creature and was unsurprised that no more were in view. He smacked his lips again, ignoring the searing pain in his thumb, wishing Slooshy would come along so he could brag about his precious discovery.

Only after two minutes did he remember that precious discovery, his mission, his crucial news. Then he hopped to his feet again and started down the steeply sloping alley toward his house, which was right around the next bend. Tumbling to a stop before the Fishbiter residence, he burst inside-fortunately, the Aghar family had no use for a front door-and immediately collided with Birt, who was lunging to outmaneuver Ooz to claim the rock that Pap, dripping with sludge, had once again vacated.

“Everything goes down!” Gus cried.

“Hey! That my rock!” Pap cried, knocking the momentarily triumphant Birt out of the way.

The patriarch resumed his place of honor, just as another dribble of goop gathered below the crack in the ceiling. Gus watched, waiting, knowing that it wouldn’t be long. The globule grew heavy, distended, drooping ever further downward while Pap, once more king of his household, glared sternly at his wife and sons.

Plop.

The chamber was far beneath the summits of the Kharolis, well below the reinforced bastion that was the north gate, underneath, even, the teeming city of Norbardin. In fact, the very lowest portion of that city, the slum known as Anvil’s Echo, was far above the deep and isolated cavern, the large space that had been excavated at great expense from the very solid bedrock under the nation of Thorbardin.

That place had once been intended as the new Council Hall of the Thanes, the seat of Thorbardin’s government in the wake of the Chaos War’s devastation. It had been designed at the commission of King Tarn Bellowgranite-he who was called the Failed King-and many years of labor, including complicated architecture and engineering, had gone into its creation. Though it had never been used for the purpose for which it had been intended, it had been almost completely finished before being abandoned. Each throne had a lofty dais that, even incomplete, overlooked the circular floor of the chamber. Proud columns lined the distant walls, and broad stairways provided access to the upper rim that extended around the whole periphery of the huge room.

Along one wall a broad ramp extended upward. At one time the ramp had connected to the environs of Norbardin, but no longer. Barely a quarter mile from the vast chamber, a solid wall of rock, tight-fitting stones installed by dwarf craftsmen, blocked all passage. The barrier was so well made that even air and water couldn’t penetrate and so thick that the pounding of a hammer on one side of the barrier would be inaudible to a listener on the other.

To the rest of Thorbardin, the chamber was an ill-omened place, and most did not care to remember it or acknowledge its existence. Shortly before its intended completion, a rare earthquake had shaken the normally stable dwarven kingdom. Damage and injury had been minimal, except there, in the intended council hall. Along the base of the vast chamber, a great crack had scored the floor, opening up an apparently bottomless trench and releasing fires in the bowels of the world up into the realm of the dwarven kingdom.

When the new king had banished the Failed King, he had ordered that place sealed, closed off, and forgotten. The wall had been built, the roads above realigned to avoid even the dead-end passage, and the story of the grand hall was officially dismissed as just one more of the Failed King’s unrealized dreams. According to the decree of the new king, the hall would remain forever unused, isolated, and forgotten.

But it was not.

Instead, one had come there who had no need to travel down roads, who found thick walls no barrier, who feared no fire, and who would be intimidated by no obstacle. He was a powerful wizard of the Theiwar-in his own mind he was the most powerful wizard of the Theiwar-and he had claimed that place as his own.

His name was Willim the Black, and he had been a powerful wizard for a very long time. He was ruthless and cruel. He delighted in the suffering of his enemies, so he had made many enemies indeed. When, decades earlier, the gods had taken leave of the world after the Chaos War, and the gods of magic departed with their other immortal kin, Willim-along with every other wizard of Krynn-had lost his magical prowess. His enemies had seized him and secured him in the deepest dungeon of the Theiwar quarter, gouging out his eyes as part of their punishment. He had languished in that prison, given only enough food and water to keep him, and his suffering, alive. And through all those dark years, his hatred had grown and grown, and his desire for vengeance had driven him to survive.

Until, finally, there came the summons he had awaited. The gods of magic returned! And when they did, the long-absent powers of their wizards had been awakened and revitalized. Willim had broken his bonds, killed his nearest and most dire enemies, and joined the rest of the wizardly orders in their fight to reclaim the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth Forest. Black, red, and white wizards had fought in unison to drive out the forces of wild magic and corruption that had claimed that sacred place. And finally, the true orders of magic had reclaimed their rightful status. The Wizards’ Conclave was restored, and the practitioners of the magic arts had gone their separate ways.

Willim’s path had brought him back to Thorbardin shortly after the Failed King had been banished and the new one installed. Such political realities were of little consequence to the Theiwar mage, who fostered his hatreds on a more personal basis. It just so happened that one of those hatreds, dating back to long before his imprisonment, was aimed at the new king, and it pleased Willim to know he worked toward his enemy’s destruction in the very chamber that once had been intended as the seat of the king’s power.

Willim the Black had much to do to effect his goals.

He sensed a stirring deep within the crack in the floor, and he knew that Gorathian was awake. The black-robed wizard perceived the movement of his pet, and he welcomed the presence as a more mortal dwarf would have welcomed a long-lost lover.

Willim had no need for lovers, however.

Gorathian was different. Gorathian was mighty-mightier even than Willim, in some ways-but Gorathian was also trapped, a creature bound by a stricture not of its own making. Willim held the key to Gorathian’s trap, and Willim had promised that, someday, Gorathian would be set free. But that day was far in the future, and before then the beast had much to do to aid the wizard in achieving his ends.