As a last order of business, she talked a bit about the history of the dwarven nations, leaving them with the reminder that, for all of dwarfkind, the only historic throne had been in Thorbardin.
“The throne is in Thorbardin,” Bondall repeated, nodding. “And that’s the way it should remain.”
TWENTY-ONE
Willim and Facet flew after the fire dragon, twin flying spells carrying them through the tunnel carved by Gorathian as the monster sliced its way through the rock walls enclosing the wizard’s laboratory. The wizard had cast his spell upon himself but also upon the female, so she could fly on her own and did not depend on his touch to stay in the air. Facet sensed that her master was focused on something besides herself, and she fought against the fear that that knowledge provoked.
Onward they went, wind slashing their faces as they used the enchantment to fly with the utmost speed and balance. The flaming serpent had burned through the solid stone wall that had long before sealed the chamber from the rest of Thorbardin. When the two wizards flew through the hole created by the dragon, Facet winced against the lingering heat that would have blistered her skin had she not been moving so fast.
The female dwarf at her master and saw his eyeless, scarred face creased with concentration. Was it possible that he could lose control of the monster, the beast he had tended and protected-and imprisoned-for so long? She couldn’t believe that. To her, Willim the Black was capable of anything but error and defeat. His great power had lured her to him, made certain she would continue to serve him as an apprentice, as a female, even as a slave if that was what he desired. He was her key to power, to that which she craved above all else, and she would do everything she could to learn that power.
Did he even suspect how much initiative she had taken? She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t be sure. So many times she had taken liberties, done things that the wizard did not suspect, and that secret knowledge thrilled her even as it terrified her. She had arranged Gypsum’s death, of course; she’d really had no choice since until that moment Gypsum had been her master’s favorite apprentice. That was a situation Facet could no longer tolerate. She herself was growing closer to the black wizard, to her source of power and influence. But she had to be careful!
The magic of the flying spell buoyed them and propelled them along, though the powerful wizard seemed to be moving faster than his apprentice. Facet applied every ounce of her strength and ability to the task, but even so, she was dropping behind the speeding black-robed mage. She wanted to call out but, knowing his temper and his impatience, dared not. Instead, she focused her energy and flew. Magic pulsed in her veins, and she held her hands before her to steer, exulting in the wind sweeping past, tearing at her robe, coursing through her hair. She strained for speed, but his dark form still pulled away from her.
They soared up the great tunnel that had once been intended to connect the new council of thanes to the great city of Norbardin. That road was unused since the chamber that had been excavated for the council had been sealed off completely once the menace of Gorathian had been discovered there. Willim had always cherished the joke: that the work of the king’s own excavators had created for him the perfect lair. Then the royal masons had secured the privacy of his laboratory by building the supposedly-impermeable wall to seal it off from the city proper.
Impermeable, that was, until the fire dragon had torn through it as though it were smoke. That barrier was far behind the wizards as they flew over the gatehouse and into Norbardin itself. Facet was awestruck by the scene of violence and chaos that met her eyes. The battles of the civil war had been one thing, with all the killing and the destruction, the magical and mortal devastation wrought upon the city.
But the assault of the fire dragon, commencing just minutes earlier, was something else entirely. Gorathian swept low over the plaza, the heat of its passage igniting the corpses still strewn there and burning the rubble and debris left from the wrecked stalls and shops of the once-thriving market. Hundreds of dwarves still survived in that place, the remnants of two armies. They no longer did battle but had been hunkering in their camps, nursing wounded and waiting for the blinded to recover their sight.
When Gorathian burst into the city and flew above the great square, dwarves of both armies fled from the fiery serpent, and those who moved too slowly were incinerated as the monster passed. The remaining dwarves took shelter in holes and craters, trembled within buildings, or fled down the adjacent streets leading into Norbardin’s maze. Some of the blinded cowered in the open, unable to see, sensing doom swirling around them. The luckiest of those were led to safety by sighted companions; others could only quail and huddle, hopeless in the face of flaming death.
Willim soared ahead of his apprentice, raising his hands, casting spells to try to restrain, control, and guide the flight of the fire dragon. But Facet could see that the creature was attacking dwarves of both the king’s and the wizard’s armies, appearing to make no distinction as it burned and killed.
Willim screamed, his words barely intelligible above all the commotion:
“To the palace! Go, my pet! Strike the palace of the king!”
The fire dragon seemed at last to hear. The monster spread its wings, each trailing sparks that tumbled to the ground and incinerated anything flammable below. It soared up to the lofty ceiling that spread its dome over the whole of the great city.
Finally, it veered to one side, banking through a spiraling turn to dive at the palace of King Jungor Stonespringer.
Gus and his two lady friends had been hiding in Norbardin for many days. Every time they came around a corner, they encountered more soldiers, and it didn’t matter to which army they belonged: the soldiers invariably struck out at the miserable Aghar with curses, kicks, and blows of sharp weapons, even loosing an arrow or crossbow bolt in their direction if the gully dwarves were too slow to run away.
They had made their way across the great square, skulking through the ruins of the stalls and shops that had been destroyed in the waves of battle. Here and there they found enough crumbs and morsels of food-once, even, a whole loaf of bread pinned underneath a broken countertop! — for them to survive. But every moment was fraught with danger, and to make matters even worse, the two females couldn’t seem to decide if they were jealous of Gus’s affections and, thus, angry at each other or if both of them were angry at Gus and, therefore, united in their contempt and disdain. Either way, they weren’t making his life any easier!
Currently the three gully dwarves were sidling along the shattered wall of one of the terraces near the king’s palace, staying in the shadowy niche at the base of the rampart. One by one they scuttled over the loose rocks, ducking into first one hole then the next. Nervously, Gus peeked over the rim of the crater and saw that they faced a good distance-at least two steps-before they could reach the next potential hiding place.
“Go first,” he said to Berta hopefully, gesturing toward a darkened doorway that was their next objective.
“You no boss!” Berta told him. “You go first!”
“Yeah! Bluphsplunging doofar Gus go first!” Slooshy chimed in. In a remarkable display of coordination, the two females reached down, each taking one of Gus’s feet, and hoisted him bodily out of their hidey-hole.
Sprawled unceremoniously on the open flagstones of the square, he clapped his hands over his head and waited for the blow that might come from any direction. Only after counting two heartbeats with no attack forthcoming did he risk peering through his fingers for a look around.