Stairways linked the city’s levels for foot traffic, but several wide, spiraling ramps facilitated the ascent, or descent, for wheeled vehicles. It was as Brandon trudged up the first of those, a road that climbed through all ten of the deep-levels, that he looked up to see one of his father’s friends hurriedly approaching, his bearded face marked by an expression of grave concern.
Harn Poleaxe was a foreigner, a Neidar hill dwarf who had been a long-time visitor to the mountain dwarf city. That in itself was not unusual-there were clans of Neidar in several parts of the Garnet range-but Poleaxe was also a dwarf from south of the Newsea. In fact, he was a Neidar who hailed from the hills around great Thorbardin itself. Brandon didn’t know him well, but the visitor was a regular guest at his father’s house, and the son knew Poleaxe and his father had been discussing business dealings for more than a year. Poleaxe was an inherently likable fellow, always quick with a story or to flip a coin to the bartender to buy the next round.
As he hurried toward Brandon, however, his face was gray, and he blanched as he saw the bloody bundle in Brandon’s cart.
“Word was spreading through the bazaar just a half hour ago. I came down as soon as I heard.” Poleaxe was a big, handsome dwarf. His breath, as he leaned close, was sweet with the aroma of dwarf spirits, which was no surprise to Brandon as Poleaxe and his father were both fond of the strong drink.
The Neidar didn’t seem the least bit drink-addled right then, however. Instead, he was stern and commanding, planting his hands on his hips and glaring about at the nearby dwarves-mostly gritty miners climbing from the delvings to their inns and living quarters-as if he expected to locate Nailer’s murderer among them. “How did it-?” He grimaced. “Never mind, there’ll be time enough for the tale. You!”
He pointed at a sturdy blacksmith who was watching them curiously. “Take word to Garren Bluestone! Tell him his eldest son is slain, and we are bearing his body home!”
Brandon was impressed by the visiting hill dwarf’s sense of command and so, apparently, was the blacksmith. “Yes, sir!” he declared, hastening off at a sprint.
“Now let me give you a hand with that sad burden,” declared Poleaxe. Brandon finally felt his weariness and allowed the Neidar to help him pull on the yoke. He barely noticed as the burly dwarf took more and more of the weight, and the young Bluestone was left to stumble along beside the wagon, numbed by a mixture of grief and exhaustion.
Others were taking note, and a small crowd began to collect, trailing along with them on the curving section of ramp. Brandon didn’t even notice when one dwarf then another offered him a shoulder, but soon he was assisted along by the pair of sturdy helpers. Before he knew it, they had climbed to the fifth midlevel, the section of the city where the current Bluestone manor was.
“Thanks, all,” said Poleaxe with obvious sincerity, addressing the dozen or so dwarves who had formed their small procession. “Now let’s give the family their privacy, eh?”
“Right you are, Harn,” said one of the dwarves who’d been supporting Brandon. “You take care, lad,” he added as the numb Hylar nodded his thanks. The group quickly dispersed, leaving the Neidar and Brandon to haul the cart down the narrow street toward the stone door of the house.
Garren Bluestone himself opened the front door, and from the stricken look on his father’s face, Brandon knew that word of the vile murder had already reached the house. For some reason, the stern visage of the family patriarch steeled the young dwarf’s soul, and he suppressed the tears that felt like they wanted to burst forth.
“They killed him, Father. Five dwarves, assassins, came out of the darkness.”
“Bring him in.” The elder’s dwarf’s face was a stony mask, utterly devoid of emotion. He stared at Brandon, and suddenly his eyes showed their deep pain, a window of grief. “Are you hurt?” he asked hoarsely, his eyes going to his surviving son’s arm.
Brandon looked down and was surprised to see the dried blood crusted there-he had all but forgotten the slice of the assassin’s sword. But then the pain flared anew, together with the throbbing in his head and back, where the boulders had rained down on him. “I–I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe a little. It’s nothing.”
He looked at his brother’s body and couldn’t suppress a sob.
“Your sons were in the delvings,” Harn Poleaxe offered softly. “Brandon carried Nailer up to the deep-levels, and from there word spread through the stalls in the bazaar. I met him on the ramp.”
“I thank you for your help,” Garren declared, his voice choking as he clasped Poleaxe’s arm. Only for a 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.