potions. The attackers were momentarily disoriented and converged toward the table, behind which the invisible Ochre waited for them. From his cabinet of potions, Willim snatched a certain bottle-a potion of teleportation-but did not drink it immediately. As a last resort, he could use the magic to escape, but he was not about to leave his treasures in the hands of the assassins unless it was absolutely necessary to his survival.
“He’s gone!” one of the attackers shouted, the first to come around the table where Willim and Ochre had been hiding. The dwarf wielded a short sword, but the wizard was more interested to diagnose the accent in the fellow’s voice: a Daergar!
The treacherous Daergar were prime allies of the Hylar king, he knew. The monarch was inclined to employ them as agents for all manner of dirty tasks for which his Hylar minions were temperamentally unsuited-tasks such as espionage and attack expeditions and murder. The first of the Daergar was grabbed by the invisible Ochre, however.
The Daergar screamed as he died, and the veil of invisibility fell away from the Theiwar apprentice, who turned and roared at the others closing in on him. Ochre picked up another assassin as if the dwarf were a toy, tossing him high in the air so he smashed against a stone column and tumbled limply to the floor, his back broken.
An assassin fired a crossbow bolt directly at the apprentice, but Ochre snatched it out of the air with a gesture too swift for the eye to follow. Even in the midst of the precarious fight, Willim couldn’t help but be pleased at the clear demonstration of the potion’s power. The young Theiwar sprang forward, more like a panther than a dwarf, and bore the shooter to the floor where, with a quick twist, he broke the Daergar’s neck.
Willim spit the command word for another spell, even though the casting caused his own perfect invisibility to shimmer, revealing himself as a hazy outline. But the attackers had their backs to him, and he didn’t care; he was not going to flee his place after all.
He and Ochre were going to kill the Daergar.
His spell took effect as a coil of magic swirling outward, looping about the neck of the nearest Daergar. Willim clenched his fist, and the magic cord snapped tight. The stricken dwarf clawed and clutched as his neck was constricted. The doomed villain even tore away his mask in a desperate effort to breathe. He lurched against the bench and stumbled to his knees, his pale face purpling as the magic slowly strangled him.
Meanwhile, Ochre had grabbed another of the black-clad Daergar, spinning him around with a grip on his ankle and letting go to cast the fellow across the laboratory, right into the crack of Gorathian’s lair. Immediately, the flames percolating there flared high, followed by a rumble that shook the floor of the place as the Daergar toppled, shrieking, into the depths. The burgeoning illumination brightened the vast chamber, and the noises of the dying assassin and awakening monster shook the stone foundations and the air.
Two Daergar were rushing at Ochre with blades extended, but he parried the blows with a swipe of his fist, knocking one of the swords out of the attacker’s hand and forcing the other back to the wielder’s face. That Daergar retreated two steps, overwhelmed by the apprentice’s enhanced physical strength, ferocity, and fearlessness.
One of the remaining Daergar boldly tried to distract the wizard, hurling himself at Willim with an upraised sword. The Black Robe struck him down with a simple gesture, a paralyzing stab that rendered the dwarf’s limbs weak and caused him to crumple on the spot.
Only two were left alive. Those two skirted the edge of the chasm, battling Ochre, trying to maneuver him into a mistake. The apprentice, growing more powerful by the minute thanks to the experimental potion, punched to the side, knocking one assassin down with a single blow of his fist, then wheeled to glare at the other. That Daergar, not unsurprisingly, hesitated. But his real enemy did not stand before him, for Gorathian, as ever, lurked in the pit.
The beast had been following the progress of the battle, its flaming tendrils lashing upward, seeking, probing, snapping like whips over the rim of the chasm. Two of those flame fingers wrapped themselves around the ankles of the two remaining Daergar, constricting like a snake and pulling with inexorable force. The two dwarves buckled, one of them losing his sword as he clawed futilely, sliding across the unforgiving stone. The other kept his grip on his blade and tried to hack at the tendril, as thick around as a dwarf’s arm. However, his keen steel melted away as it made contact with that otherworldly flame.
Willim saw, to his horror, that a third tendril had wrapped itself around Ochre’s waist, searing the apprentice while dragging him toward the chasm.
“No! Stop!” cried the wizard, rushing forward. “Not that one! Release him!”
But the beast was determined to have its prey, and Willim’s command had no effect. The three victims were pulled slowly toward the rim. The dwarves shrieked and screamed, the fools even begging mercy from Willim. But the wizard could only stand and watch as the doomed assassins and his own loyal assistant were inexorably drawn to the edge. There Gorathian seemed to toy with its prey, even loosening the grip of its tentacles slightly, giving the dwarves the brief illusion of hope. They clawed and tried to crawl away.
But there was no hope. Again those powerful fire-limbs constricted, and the beast did not stop until the three dwarves had vanished over the lip of his prison, their screams echoing for a very long time as the trio plunged into the depths.
Willim found himself trembling with barely suppressed rage. He counted the bodies of his nine apprentices, all dead, and thought of the immense amount of work he had invested in their training-all work wasted.
Stalking angrily but purposefully through his laboratory, he came to the Daergar he had stricken with the choking spell. The dwarf’s tongue and eyes bulged from his head, but he still clawed at the invisible noose, still clung to life. With a snap of his fingers, Willim dispelled the enchantment, watching with contempt as the would-be assassin drew a ragged breath then coughed the air back out. For long seconds the wretch struggled to breathe, his bloodshot eyes gradually focusing on the eyeless Theiwar who stood over him.
“Please…” croaked the attacker, raising a beseeching hand.
“Surely you don’t expect mercy?” demanded the wizard.
“No… I beg you…”
Willim placed his boot on the dwarf’s chest and stepped down, snapping bones and driving the air from his lungs. Then the wizard released the pressure of his weight and watched impassively as the Daergar was racked by another fit of painful coughing.
“Who sent you?” demanded the Black Robe when the other dwarf finally drew a breath.
“It… it was the council of thanes-and the king himself! He fears you!” croaked the doomed one.
“As well he should,” Willim answered dryly. “But how did you find me?”
“A traitor… one of your apprentices. He revealed the location of this place for payment in gold and the promise of high office when you are dead.”
“Liar!” snapped the wizard, once again stomping down on the dwarf’s chest, in his fury grinding his heel into the rib cage. Yet even as he accused the fellow of lying, he was analyzing, thinking, contemplating.
And he knew that the enemy dwarf must have spoken the truth. He was appalled, sickened at the notion that one of his trusted students would have betrayed him, but there was too much fear and despair in the dwarf’s eyes for him to be lying. Who had it been? He couldn’t know, couldn’t even begin to imagine, as he pondered that cruel revelation.
Willim would have to be more careful in the future. For the moment there was one last puny act of vengeance. He reached down and seized the Daergar by the beard, his deceptively powerful arm pulling the wretch to a sitting position and finally to his feet.
“Your master has made many mistakes-this is but the latest-and he will make more in the short time left to him. For you should know, Daergar, know before you die, that the reign of Jungor Stonespringer will soon come to a terrible end. I will end it, as I will end him, and place myself on the throne. The next high king of Thorbardin will be the greatest, and he will be Theiwar, and he will be a mage of the black robes!”
With that, Willim hurled the would-be assassin aside, sending him tumbling across the floor to the rim of the pit. He halted there at the edge, blubbering, frantically trying to move away.
Then Gorathian’s tentacle touched him, and he was gone.
EIGHT
