Willim wandered through the maze of his lab toward the deep, virtually bottomless, crevasse carved through the floor. The dwarf’s eyelids were sewn shut, but he saw more clearly than any of the several Theiwar assistants who scuttled out of his way. Enlightened by a spell of true-seeing, Willim’s mind perceived not just the variations of light, but heat, spiritual presence, objects masked by utter darkness-in short, everything there was to see and many things that could not be seen by ordinary beings. His powers were such that the spell was a permanent feature of his consciousness; the loss of his eyes was by then merely a long-ago unpleasantness, one that had been thoroughly avenged.
He wore the loose robe of black silk that was the symbol of his order. Though numerous runes of power had been woven into that material, the symbols were as dark as the silk itself and, thus, invisible to anyone who looked at him. His skin was almost albino pale, like many of his race, though his wiry beard bristled with gray. He wore soft boots that allowed him to walk silently even without the assistance of magic. His beard was long and black, tucked into the belt where he also wore a pair of short, needle-sharp daggers. He caressed the hilts of his weapons as he approached the great crack through the floor of his laboratory.
The deep fires burning in the pit where Gorathian lived warmed the place, and the radiant energy felt good on the dwarf’s face and hands, the only parts of his body that were exposed around the enveloping cloak of his black wizard’s robe. The heat grew more intense as he approached the crevasse until he had to murmur a magical word, conjuring a spell of protection against that infernal warmth. His flesh cooled slightly. His robe was immune to such temperatures, though a garment of normal cloth would have smoldered or worse as he stepped closer to the chasm.
Stopping at the very edge, he let the fiery embrace wash over him. The intensity there would sear normal flesh and kindle wood into instant flame, yet the wizard of the black robe was merely comfortably warm in the presence of the deep, subterranean inferno.
“Gorathian, my pet. The time will be soon,” he whispered, lying and taunting as ever.
He sensed the movement deep within the pit, a writhing of serpentine coils, a shapeless body rearing, reaching, straining upward with limbs of pure fire. The end of a sinuous tendril, a slithering rope of flame, extended out of the pit and wrapped itself around the Theiwar dwarf’s boot in an almost tender stroke. Willim smiled. He sensed the need, the hunger, in that incendiary touch, and he knew Gorathian’s well-stoked frustration and fury would serve the dark dwarf very well indeed.
“Patience, my pretty one. But a morsel, for your pleasure.”
He turned his eyeless face toward the far corner of his lair, where the cages were positioned. “Ochre,” he called, attracting the attention of one of his apprentices. That Theiwar, a young male with bristling black hair, broad shoulders, glowering visage and very long arms, looked up immediately at his master’s command.
“Fetch me…” Willim’s voice trailed off as he inspected the occupants of the cages. The cells were solidly built, barred with steel, standing in a row of a half dozen along the floor a good distance away from the crevasse. He kept a variety of prisoners there since his work so often required fresh components, blood or tissues or organs drawn from living flesh. Currently the cages held a pair of elves, gaunt and hollow eyed, yet still projecting the stubborn dignity of that ancient race; a miserable goblin that, misunderstanding the wizard’s attention, clawed at the bars and yelped in an effort to nominate himself; a filthy gully dwarf, sleeping as usual; and several Klar prisoners, feral dwarves who had been captured by the wizard personally, and stared sullenly at their vicious captor.
The elves were unique, too precious to waste. The goblin might be useful for something else, someday. Each of the Klar could be a valuable political pawn, each might find a place in the grand scheme of Willim’s that drew ever closer to fruition.
“Fetch me the gully dwarf,” the wizard said with a slight sigh.
“Up, you!” snarled Ochre, kicking the cage to awaken the filthy creature. The Aghar howled in fear, backing into the corner of his cell as Ochre opened the door. Seizing the gully dwarf in one meaty paw, the Theiwar apprentice dragged him from the cage and across the lair toward Willim the Black. Ochre threw a hand across his face to shield himself from the heat as he approached, but even so, he dared not come within twenty steps of the chasm. Instead, stopping as near as he could venture before the heat overcame him, he hurled the dwarf facedown onto the stone floor.
“You!” barked the mage, pointing a finger at the cringing Aghar. “Come!”
The word was not just a word, but a command of dark sorcery. The dimwitted creature could not have disobeyed even if he had been shrewd enough to sense the doom awaiting him.
So the Aghar numbly pushed himself to his feet and stumbled forward, into the aura of heat. His skin reddened from the blistering radiance, and his tattered shirt began to smoke. He howled miserably, but he endured the pain, compelled by the word of command.
Gorathian’s fiery tentacle released its caressing hold upon Willim’s foot, rearing like the head of a snake up from the floor. It waved and danced, almost as though it were sniffing the air, sensing the approach of its master’s gift. When the Aghar was six or eight steps away, the tentacle lashed out, slapping the stone floor, stretching to wrap itself around the hapless creature’s ankle. Flame seared the Aghar’s dirty skin, and the tendril of fire pulled like a whip.
The gully dwarf toppled onto his back. He shrieked in terror as the effect of the command spell was broken. Twisting, clawing the floor with his dirty fingernails, the terrified Aghar tried to break away but to no avail. Gorathian tugged, and the gully dwarf vanished over the lip of the chasm, trailed by only the lingering echoes of his screams.
Ochre quickly retreated from the heat to return to his daily task: crushing the coal that the wizard used to fuel his forge and ovens. The other apprentices-there were ten in all-had not even looked up from their labors. Willim nodded, pleased with their dedication, satisfied that they feared him and, more, feared him absolutely.
He glanced once more into the depths of the chasm. He could sense Gorathian seething down there. The morsel had not satisfied him, not at all. If anything, it had merely whetted his hunger.
Willim was pleased.
THREE
D ay and night were meaningless concepts in sunless Thorbardin, but an industrious society such as that of the dwarves required a method for keeping track of the passage of time. The typical convention among the Theiwar, Daergar, and other mountain dwarves involved counting intervals, each of which roughly approximated a twenty-four-hour cycle on the surface. That method allowed laborers to get paid for their time, rents to be charged, and other duration-specific matters to be calculated with remarkable accuracy.
The Aghar measured time in intervals as well, but it was fair to say they were a trifle less accurate than their more advanced cousins when it came to keeping track of the passage of hours, days, weeks, or years. To a gully dwarf, “one interval” was a short time, and “two intervals” was anything longer than a short time.
Thus, Gus calculated that it was two intervals later when he returned to the sludge pond and its dam in the ravine over his house. For once, he wasn’t terribly hungry. Birt had snared a bat that carelessly flew into the family’s house, and in the ensuing tug-of-war, Gus had claimed not only one wing, but a good portion of the furry little body. He had gulped it down before either of his brothers or parents had been able to snatch it away.