Gneiss regretted his assessment when he saw his friend’s eyes. The dark shadows in the Hylar’s eyes told of heavy matters discussed. Goldmoon smiled and gestured Gneiss into the hut as though the tiny place were hers and she were proud to welcome a guest.
“You are looking for your friend? You may accurately accuse me of selfishness, Thane Gneiss. I have kept him here too long.”
Chieftain’s daughter was her proper title. Gneiss thought that he would like to have known her father, if only to meet the man who so well trained Goldmoon to this regality.
“Aye, lady. We’ve had a need of him. Hornfel,” he said, “word has come from the border. Guyll fyr’.” He’d spoken the words in Dwarven and was surprised when the half-elf reacted.
“Wildfire?” Tanis, his green eyes sharp, addressed Gneiss. “Where?”
“Running down the hills west of the Plains of Death. Two border patrols reported seeing it last night. It has the wind behind it now and is moving fast.”
Faster than the wind before which it ran, Gneiss thought. He’d seen the fire at dawn from the Northgate walls. Garish light leaping for the soft opal sky, the guyll fyr had looked like a sea of flame, its waves lapping at the forest shore of the mountains’ feet. Smoke, thick and black, rose in columns to the sky or streamed out ahead of the rampaging flame as it danced with the cold winds whirling above the Plains of Death. It’s lurid glare and deadly smoke had made the dawn’s light seem a pale and sickly thing.
Gneiss turned to Hornfel. “You’re needed in the council chambers, my friend. That and other matters want your attention.”
Goldmoon, she of the silver-gilt hair and wide blue eyes, rose from the shaky-legged table where she sat. “The fire.”
Gneiss nodded gruffly. “Aye, lady?”
“How did it start? Do you know?”
“No, lady, but you and yours are safe enough here.” He saw Hornfel grimace and shrugged. “That was your concern?”
“No,” she said softly. “I know we are safe here. I know, too, what happens when wildfire hits the plains. I’ve seen it, but never this late in the season.”
“You’re thinking of Verminaard’s dragons, are you?”
“I am.”
“Aye, well, I’ve had the same thought, lady.” For Hornfel’s sake, for his friend seemed to value this Plainswoman, this so-called cleric of Mesalax, Gneiss tried for a more formal tone. “Lady Goldmoon, this is a council matter. I hope you will grant us your leave.”
Goldmoon said nothing, but when Hornfel and Gneiss left the cramped little hut, Tanis went with them. Hornfel seemed to have no objection and Gneiss did not protest, but only kept a little ahead, preoccupied with wondering why his words had sounded so churlish in his own ears. Thorbardin was made up of six small cities deep inside the mountain. These cities connected to each other and the several auxiliary halls and two great gates by a series of roads and transport shafts, which the two dwarves knew well. They took their roads seemingly without thinking, as those do who are born and have lived all their lives in such a place. The noise of the merchants square and the quiet of the gardens moved around them like sunlight and shadows.
Tanis walked quietly behind the two thanes, well content with his observations and his own thoughts. As the three stepped onto a short, narrow bridge spanning the fathoms-deep main cavern in which the cities were built, Gneiss, hearing the half-elf’s softly drawn breath, looked up and then around.
The bridge, its arching roof and broad floor constructed of perfectly square cuts of dark and light granite, was empty of anything but shadows and the sound of their own breathing. From the esplanade ahead came the shouts and laughter of dwarven children at play. The gardens behind were silent as shadows.
“What is it?” Gneiss whispered.
Tanis held up a hand, head cocked to listen. Leather on stone, they heard the scuff of a footstep. The half-elf reached for his short sword; Hornfel’s fingers closed around the grip of the small dagger at his hip.
“In the shadows,” the Hylar said.
Even as he spoke, the shadows, which seemed to perch on the edge of the bridge, flowing up from the cavern yawning below, took on substance and form. A superstitious chill skittered along Gneiss’s neck. He recognized the dwarf who stepped away from the darkness and, seeming not to have seen the three, turned and entered the esplanade. A Theiwar, one of Realgar’s derro magelings.
Tanis, his thumb absently stroking the hilt of his short sword looked from Hornfel to Gneiss. “Who is it?”
“Don’t know his name,” Gneiss grunted.
“Dhegan,” Hornfel said.
“Aye, Dhegan. One of Realgar’s—underlings.”
He might well have said “assassins,” Gneiss thought. He shook his head and headed toward the esplanade and light.
As he walked, the Daewar noted that Hornfel gave Tanis no word of explanation. Adept at understanding what his old friend did not say, as well as what he did, Gneiss realized that the half-elf did not accompany them for the opportunity to see the city. At some time in the past day or night, Hornfel must have discussed the political climate of the dwarven kingdom with the two leaders of the refugees. Tanis Half-Elven, Outlander and stranger, walked with them not only as a companion but as a bodyguard as well.
Aye, well, they’re protecting their interests. The first thing the damned Theiwar will do after he begins his revolution is get rid of these refugees. Suddenly, the Daewar wanted to see the light, to feel it. Soon he would have to fight. He did not want to fight in the shadows.
Darknight had no love for the fire’s light. Realgar ignored its impatient snarl and turned his back to the torch in the wall cresset. His shadow, black and ragged, leaped out before him, crawling across the rough stone floor of the dragon’s lair. A thread of fury raced through the Theiwar like a line of flame. His right hand moved to the scabbarded sword at his hip, fingers tracing the silver chasing and the pattern of the inlaid sapphires on the hilt. As though he touched some calm-giving talisman, his anger cooled. He signaled to the two guards waiting behind him in the shadows. Between them, the guards dragged a heavy, unyielding burden into the light.
Dead meat! Darknight growled, a jagged sound of protest and anger. Beyond its reach, in the smaller cavern outside its lair lay better food: the one-handed dwarf and the human girl Realgar had taken prisoner at dawn. The dragon thought of the live meat and then eyed the corpse of a dead dwarven guard.
“Is this what you are feeding me?”
Realgar laughed, a sound like breathing ice. “Are you still hungry, then? A goat and calf were not enough? Aye, dragon, you’ve an endless appetite.” He rounded on Darknight, his eyes flaring anger. “The ranger is gone! I found this one in the prison cave where he should have been! You’re hungry? Well and good. Blunt the edge of it on this carcass and find the ranger for me. Then you’ll have better meat. Not before.”
Darknight snaked its neck forward, its great nostrils distending. Carrion was an insult, but its belly rumbled with hunger. It sank dagger fangs into the shoulder of the dead guard, bit down hard and snapped bones. Realgar took no notice, but jerked his thumb at the two guards and spoke a word of curt dismissal. He turned his back on the dragon and the corpse at its feet. He drew the Kingsword from the scabbard. Oily torch smoke streamed across the jeweled hilt.
The god-touched heart of the blade quickened beneath the sliding light of the flame. Realgar lifted the sword high in both hands, brought it slowly down to eye level. His breath, short and quick, clouded the steel. Through the veil, the crimson heart glowed, undiminished.
A Kingsword, Stormblade was innocent of any rune or marking.
“Those,” he whispered to the sword, “those will come later to mark the deeds of my reign. King regent?” His eyes narrowed. “No. High king.”