Secret of Pax Tharkas

TWO

The chamber was far beneath the summits of the Kharolis, well below the reinforced bastion that was the north gate, underneath, even, the teeming city of Norbardin. In fact, the very lowest portion of that city, the slum known as Anvil’s Echo, was far above the deep and isolated cavern, the large space that had been excavated at great expense from the very solid bedrock under the nation of Thorbardin.

That place had once been intended as the new Council Hall of the Thanes, the seat of Thorbardin’s government in the wake of the Chaos War’s devastation. It had been designed at the commission of King Tarn Bellowgranite-he who was called the Failed King-and many years of labor, including complicated architecture and engineering, had gone into its creation. Though it had never been used for the purpose for which it had been intended, it had been almost completely finished before being abandoned. Each throne had a lofty dais that, even incomplete, overlooked the circular floor of the chamber. Proud columns lined the distant walls, and broad stairways provided access to the upper rim that extended around the whole periphery of the huge room.

Along one wall a broad ramp extended upward. At one time the ramp had connected to the environs of Norbardin, but no longer. Barely a quarter mile from the vast chamber, a solid wall of rock, tight-fitting stones installed by dwarf craftsmen, blocked all passage. The barrier was so well made that even air and water couldn’t penetrate and so thick that the pounding of a hammer on one side of the barrier would be inaudible to a listener on the other.

To the rest of Thorbardin, the chamber was an ill-omened place, and most did not care to remember it or acknowledge its existence. Shortly before its intended completion, a rare earthquake had shaken the normally stable dwarven kingdom. Damage and injury had been minimal, except there, in the intended council hall. Along the base of the vast chamber, a great crack had scored the floor, opening up an apparently bottomless trench and releasing fires in the bowels of the world up into the realm of the dwarven kingdom.

When the new king had banished the Failed King, he had ordered that place sealed, closed off, and forgotten. The wall had been built, the roads above realigned to avoid even the dead-end passage, and the story of the grand hall was officially dismissed as just one more of the Failed King’s unrealized dreams. According to the decree of the new king, the hall would remain forever unused, isolated, and forgotten.

But it was not.

Instead, one had come there who had no need to travel down roads, who found thick walls no barrier, who feared no fire, and who would be intimidated by no obstacle. He was a powerful wizard of the Theiwar-in his own mind he was the most powerful wizard of the Theiwar-and he had claimed that place as his own.

His name was Willim the Black, and he had been a powerful wizard for a very long time. He was ruthless and cruel. He delighted in the suffering of his enemies, so he had made many enemies indeed. When, decades earlier, the gods had taken leave of the world after the Chaos War, and the gods of magic departed with their other immortal kin, Willim-along with every other wizard of Krynn-had lost his magical prowess. His enemies had seized him and secured him in the deepest dungeon of the Theiwar quarter, gouging out his eyes as part of their punishment. He had languished in that prison, given only enough food and water to keep him, and his suffering, alive. And through all those dark years, his hatred had grown and grown, and his desire for vengeance had driven him to survive.

Until, finally, there came the summons he had awaited. The gods of magic returned! And when they did, the long-absent powers of their wizards had been awakened and revitalized. Willim had broken his bonds, killed his nearest and most dire enemies, and joined the rest of the wizardly orders in their fight to reclaim the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth Forest. Black, red, and white wizards had fought in unison to drive out the forces of wild magic and corruption that had claimed that sacred place. And finally, the true orders of magic had reclaimed their rightful status. The Wizards’ Conclave was restored, and the practitioners of the magic arts had gone their separate ways.

Willim’s path had brought him back to Thorbardin shortly after the Failed King had been banished and the new one installed. Such political realities were of little consequence to the Theiwar mage, who fostered his hatreds on a more personal basis. It just so happened that one of those hatreds, dating back to long before his imprisonment, was aimed at the new king, and it pleased Willim to know he worked toward his enemy’s destruction in the very chamber that once had been intended as the seat of the king’s power.

Willim the Black had much to do to effect his goals.

He sensed a stirring deep within the crack in the floor, and he knew that Gorathian was awake. The black-robed wizard perceived the movement of his pet, and he welcomed the presence as a more mortal dwarf would have welcomed a long-lost lover.

Willim had no need for lovers, however.

Gorathian was different. Gorathian was mighty-mightier even than Willim, in some ways-but Gorathian was also trapped, a creature bound by a stricture not of its own making. Willim held the key to Gorathian’s trap, and Willim had promised that, someday, Gorathian would be set free. But that day was far in the future, and before then the beast had much to do to aid the wizard in achieving his ends.

The soft light of the beast’s awakening was beginning to suffuse the dark lair, the deep place where, when Willim had magically come there, he had discovered Gorathian. It had occurred some years before, and the Theiwar mage had not been ready yet to employ an ally as powerful, but uncontrollable, as Gorathian. So Willim had ensured that Gorathian stayed down in its foul hole, lurking somewhere close to the very bowels of the world. Willim had taunted the creature, had fed it morsels to whet its appetite, had provoked it with tales of the evils done to the beast and its world. Gorathian had been roused to fury, but as yet William had kept it from emerging from the deep lair.

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.