moment did his expression harden again. “But you must know, my decision is final.”
“Of course,” Poleaxe said, bowing humbly. “Though, with respect, old friend, this”-he gestured to Nailer’s body-“makes it all that much more important that we reach an agreement.”
“Now is not the time!” snapped Garren sternly.
“Certainly. I understand. My deepest apologies and regrets. I merely wished to help a friend in his hour of need. I shall leave you to your grief in privacy.”
The hill dwarf quickly backed away as Karine Bluestone, Brandon’s mother, rushed up to the cart and, sobbing, embraced the body of her son.
“Tell me how it happened,” demanded Garren, leading Brandon into his study as Karine and several family attendants wept over the body and gingerly carried Nailer toward the room where he would be prepared for burial.
Starting with the discovery of the “haunted” passage, Brandon recounted the fight with the cave troll, the search that led them to the fabulous vein of gold ore, and the treacherous attack as the two brothers had returned to the known passages of Kayolin.
“You say you made the connection through the Zhaban Delving?” Garren pressed grimly.
“Yes, down some of the deeper passages that were tapped out a hundred years ago. There was nobody there to witness.”
“This smacks of the Heelspurs,” declared the elder dwarf. His eyes were moist with grief-inspired tears, but his voice growled with an undercurrent of rage. “And there is one way to find out.”
“Tell me, Father!” pleaded Brandon. “I will avenge my brother.”
“Wait, and be patient,” said Garren. “We must be very careful. Come with me now to the king’s atrium.”
“You mean the governor’s atrium,” Brandon corrected, immediately recalling the conversation he and his brother had shared.
“I fear that may be only memory,” Garren suggested grimly. “But we may know more when we arrive at court.”
SEVEN
T he newest potion was done, and as Willim the Black admired the ink-black liquid, the consistency of fatty cream, he was pleased. The bottle contained barely enough of the stuff to fill up half of a dwarven drinking mug, yet if the black-robed wizard’s calculations were correct, the poison would be strong enough to kill a hundred men or more.
He set the bottle on his granite-slab table, next to another potion, the product of his previous day’s work. Where the first poison was black and rested in a clear bottle, the second elixir was clear, and as a matter of humorous conceit, he was storing it in a bottle that was labeled as Midwarren Pale, a well-known and especially potent distillation of dwarf spirits. Behind him, his heating surface had cooled, and he had used a few brief cantrip spells to clean his mixing bowls, his steel knives, and his other utensils. Willim was done working for a while; it was finally time to test.
“Apprentices, come to me,” he barked. He spoke softly, but even though more than half of his students were in corners of the cavern well removed from the laboratory, the magically enhanced power of his voice was enough to ensure that all of them heard his words. Fear of their master, as he well knew, was enough to ensure they all obeyed promptly.
Within a minute the ten young Theiwar males had gathered before their master. Willim looked the group up and down and was not displeased. Each of the dwarves had demonstrated keen intelligence and the kind of ruthless purposefulness that indicated the clear potential for the Order of the Black Robes. They were young, but they were learning.
Tarot, the most experienced of the group, stood erectly at attention at the end of the line. He had already mastered the spell of the lightning bolt and was a natural at finding the subterranean-based components-including fungi, mineral, and animal-that were necessary for developing the most potent toxins. Beside him stood Ochre, not as clever as Tarot but big, strong as an ox, and utterly loyal. A stolid, if plodding, researcher, Ochre had demonstrated a dedication to his master that Willim had rarely encountered.
Of course, the others of the group of ten had shown similar, if less advanced, dedication. It was a good class, he reflected, realizing with some surprise that it had been more than a year since he had been forced to put one of his apprentices to death.
“You have labored well for me this past year,” the wizard began, clearly surprising the young dwarves with his praise. “I have asked much of you, and you have responded. You know I expect all of you to serve me well, but you will be well rewarded when we are ready to strike at the new king and all of his fanatical fools on his council of thanes.”
“Thank you, Master,” Tarot said, replying for the group. “We ache with eagerness for the day we may assist you in claiming that lofty throne.”
“I know you do,” Willim said. “But patience. That day remains well in the future. Of course, we could kill him in a moment, if that was our only goal, but you should know that my aspirations are higher. We must do more than merely assassinate the king; we must prepare the dwarves of Thorbardin for a new king, so that they will accept, even embrace, a Theiwar wizard on the high throne. For that to happen, they must learn to hate and fear their current ruler.”
Willim turned to his table and snatched up the bottle labeled Midwarren Pale. Holding it reverently, he turned back to his apprentices.
“This is a new creation,” he said, watching without surprise as their eyes widened in appreciation. “It is a potion, but a transformative, not a magical spell. It will embed in the one who drinks it new powers, advantages that will, I suspect, be not only permanent, but will continue to grow with the passage of time. I would like one of you to volunteer to test it.”
“I will, Master!” came the reply from ten throats, each apprentice immediately taking a step forward then turning to glare warily at his rival colleagues.
Willim held up his hand. “I knew you would all reply in the affirmative, and I am grateful for your zeal. Tarot, you have earned the right to test this, by your performance. But you are my best and brightest pupil, and I do not care to risk losing you.”
That apprentice, who had brightened at the sound of his name, looked suitably crestfallen-even to Willim’s power of true-sight, which had been watching for any carefully concealed sign of relief that the apprentice was relieved of the dangerous test. The wizard was pleased to note that Tarot’s disappointment was genuine.
“Ochre,” he continued smoothly. “I have chosen you to test my elixir. You have proved your allegiance many times, but you will never be the spellcaster that Tarot is expected to be. Therefore, it might prove useful to enhance your power in other ways.”
“Thank you, Master!” cried Ochre, lumbering forward with his long arms swinging at his sides. If he felt any slight by his teacher’s assessment, Ochre gave no sign. Instead, the apprentice bowed before the wizard then watched excitedly as Willim poured a small amount of the potion-about the equivalent of a shot of rotgut-into a small glass. When the Black Robe extended the vessel, the apprentice took it from his hands and, upon seeing the mage’s gesture of encouragement, drank it down in one swallow.
Immediately he began to cough. The glass fell from his nerveless fingers, shattering unnoticed on the floor. Rigid, Ochre leaned back, quivering in all his limbs.
“Catch him-quickly!” Willim snapped, and two apprentices stepped forward to break Ochre’s fall as he toppled over backward. “Lay him on the floor, and do not be concerned. The magic is working as I anticipated.”
His apprentices did as they were told, though several looked askance at the quivering Ochre, who by all appearances seemed to be suffering the effects of a powerful seizure. His jaws clenched, his eyes rolled back into their sockets so only the whites showed, and a froth of foam appeared at his lips. All the while his limbs trembled uncontrollably.
