Footwizard

by Terry Mancour

  Alya wasn’t in any better shape. She’d puked out her rodent pie and a considerable volume of ale in the market square before she retired. In the morning she looked almost as bad as she had after Minalyan was born. Pale, pallid, and nauseous, we rumbled down the road in the seat of a wagon that was, I am thoroughly convinced, designed to torment us as much as convey us.

  That was a pity, in a way, because the countryside was, as usual, incredibly gorgeous. We were in real llama country, now; most of the homesteads and cottages included corrals with at least one or two of the beasts, all of them uniform black. There were sheep, goats, and pigs – as well as structures I learned were cavi warrens – but llamas were the focus of the Tal Alon husbandry in the western region of their land.

  I’d always been ambivalent about llamas. I prefer horses. But I had to admit that the continuously chewing jaws and shrill, shrieking calls that penetrated your skull like a steel hunting spear made them even less appealing. I’m certain, in hindsight, that it was largely my imagination, but for miles along the road I was convinced that the placid-looking beasts were glaring at me critically as I rode past their pens. I resented their judgement. I was on holiday.

  “Here, my lord,” Fondaras said, offering me a flask, when we stopped at a small village on the road. “What we lack in magic, here, we can make up for in craft. A tonic to ease your mind.”

  “What’s in it?” I asked, looking at the glass flask uncertainly.

  “Best you not know,” he decided, after a moment’s thought. “It is a recipe of the Lakeshire Tal. Mostly vegetable-based, but . . . no,” he said, shaking his head. “Wisdom dictates that you trust me. Drink two swallows. No more, no less,” he instructed.

  “Is it poison?” Alya moaned, dully, as she slumped next to me. “Please let it be poison!”

  “Merely a local herbal remedy, my lady,” the footwizard assured. “I’ve had recourse to it myself, in years past. I secured two bottles last night before bed, in anticipation of such an appallingly bright, aggressively sunny day.”

  I tipped it back. It tasted vaguely of pears, at first, and then a bit of alcohol, and then it became the vilest concoction I’d ever put in my mouth. Bitter and acrid, it splashed over my tongue like a rotten parsnip freshly harvested from a dung heap and left to soak in a kettle of rotting fish. Perhaps with some onions. Someone had tried to sweeten it with honey or syrup, but in truth the sweetness mocked the dreadful nastiness.

  But when I didn’t vomit, I started to feel better. Marginally. It was vile. But it was worthwhile.

  “Thank you,” I said, sincerely, when I recovered. I passed the flask to Alya. “Why in six hells did you let us do that?”

  “Lakeshire is likely the safest place to indulge in a night of drunkenness,” considered Fondaras. “If it soothes your guilty conscience, my lord, your . . . indulgence impressed the Lakeshire Tal mightily. They place great value in one’s ability to consume as much liquor as that. They also enjoyed your singing,” he praised.

  “There was singing?” I asked, my eyes opening painfully in surprise. “I sang?”

  Alya groaned, handing the flask back to Fondaras. Her face came back to normal only slowly. “Gods, do you not remember the singing? Two rounds of ‘The Road to Sevendor,’ some awful, filthy little ditty you picked up from Jannik, and a song in Old Perwyneese you learned from Lilastien. It was a . . . it was a big night,” she proclaimed, as her head slumped back on my shoulder.

  “Which song?” I asked, curious. Certainly, it wasn’t the most important question in the world, but riding along with Lilastien and her tekka tablet for a few days, I’d learned several ancient tunes from our homeworld. They were catchy, sometimes, even if the words didn’t often make sense. But then you can’t sing an instrumental when you’re drunk.

  “‘Viva Las Vegas’, my lord. I have no idea what it is about, but I assume it’s a romantic ballad,” Fondaras reported, as he pushed the cork back into the flask. “You sang it four times and tried to translate it into Narasi, before you were . . . indisposed. Now,” he said, as he studied our faces, “now that I’m reasonably certain you will live until sunset, I need to take some of this potion to Gareth and Nattia. The Kasari are not known for handling their liquor with grace,” he warned.

  “Gareth couldn’t drink his way through a ladies’ garden party,” agreed Alya, sleepily. “I do feel a bit better, now,” she admitted. “Thank you, Master Fondaras.”

  “It is my pleasure to help, my lady,” the old wizard smiled. “The journey to Grost Kilnuskum will be brief, so I counsel you to rest . . . and perhaps consider abstaining from alcohol much, today. But drink as much water as you can. It will aid the elixir. I’ll have some tea for you at lunch, as well.”

  “One moment of magic and I’d have us feeling as good as a sunny morning,” I muttered, when the footwizard rode out of earshot.

  “This sunny morning doesn’t feel particularly good,” Alya complained. “It hurts. Still, it was fun. When you jumped up on the table and started singing, it was . . . fun. I don’t think Gareth and Nattia will speak of it. And I don’t think Ormar will remember it – he drank more than you did. So, your secrets should be secure.”

  “I can see why Tyndal is so eager to purchase as much of that rum as possible,” I chuckled. I regretted it. Chuckling hurt, too. “But I’m not certain I want to permit it to be imported into the Magelaw. Too dangerous. It’s like an earthquake in a bottle.”

  We were feeling much better by noon, as we stopped at the frontiers of Lakeshire. I no longer wanted to die, at least, which was an improvement. Fondaras’ tea aided it as well – and it wasn’t nearly as vile as his flask.

  “We’re heading into Kilnusk territory, now,” Gareth advised, as he stretched himself after eating. “Far less farms and ranches. Far more mines and excavations, according to Anferny’s records.”

  “Aye, the land of the dwarf lords,” nodded Fondaras. “They till little land and raise few beasts. But they mine, they prospect, they forge, and they delve. From thence they build treasures to trade to sustain them.”

  “I wonder how Azhguri and Suhi’s investigation is going,” I pondered. I had no idea what criteria they were using to evaluate their former lords, but I was incredibly curious.

  “The Kilnusk value their privacy,” considered Fondaras. “They rarely entertain visitors, preferring to conduct their affairs from Midmarket. I’ve only been to the mountain twice, and each time only briefly. It was not a particularly welcoming visit either occasion,” he warned.

  “We have the letter of introduction from the Lords of Anferny,” I reminded him. “That should at least get us in the door. After that, I’ll just use my charm and my sense of self-importance to convince them to speak to us after that. They are the most proximate to the wilder portions of the vale; they should have knowledge of what we seek, if anyone does.”

  “I warn you, my lord, the Kilnusk may stand against the savage creatures of the vale,” Fondaras cautioned, “but they have little concern for affairs outside of their mountain. Apart from their patrols, they rarely venture far from their home-in-exile. Save for prospecting, they keep to their fortress.”

  “Yet they are closest to what we seek,” Gareth objected. “And if anyone can convince them to speak of what they have seen, it will be the Spellmonger.” He said it with such confidence I was tempted to believe it.

  “We shall see,” I said, enigmatically. I’d learned that from Fondaras, who was a master of enigmatic expressions. It was worthy of study.

  We were riding along toward the little mountain at the center of the vale that afternoon when there seemed to be a shift in the wind. The warm summer breeze that had blown continuously from the west died down, for a moment, and a harsh blast of much hotter air suddenly blew down from the north. Like a blast from a smithy’s bellows, the hot wind carried a whiff of Sulphur and other alchemical agents, like rotten eggs mixed with rancid oil. Enough to make us cough, and it brought back a bit of the morni
ng’s nausea, for a moment.

  “A fell breeze from the Plain of Pillars,” explained Fondaras, apologetically. “Beyond that little ridge, it stretches out for miles. Sulphur springs, geysers, all manner of volcanic nastiness. Bide. It won’t last long,” he promised.

  “Can we go?” Ormar asked, eagerly, from the next wagon. “I’m about to vomit here. Again,” he pleaded.

  “Not until we visit the Kilnusk,” I gagged. For a brief moment I wanted to borrow one of his masks. About the time I decided that would be a bad idea – one doesn’t want to throw up while wearing a mask or helmet, after all – the hot wind died down, and the westerly breeze returned.

  Perhaps the breeze was a portent, if this place would permit such things. For a few moments later a shadow passed overhead. Expecting to see Ithalia on her winged mount, or at least Nattia’s bird, who was flying above, unaccompanied, I was startled to recognize the silhouette that was streaking from the southwest toward the northeast. One does not mistake that shadow once you’ve seen it.

  The dragon was aloft.

  I watched, petrified, as the winged drake soared with savage grace over the northern vales. It took no interest in us whatsoever, but that did not mollify my terror much; I was sitting there in the road, mere dragon bait. Had it turned its attention to us I was as helpless as my wife, without magic. The mighty weapons of the ancients I now possessed would have done little to a dragon, I knew. I’d discussed the matter with Lilastien, outside of the Cave of the Ancients, and she’d agreed.

  “I feel sick,” moaned Alya, as she watched the thing intently.

  “It doesn’t seem to have noticed us. Let’s keep moving,” I proposed. “Only perhaps a little more quickly.” With that I encouraged the team to pick up the pace.

  Grost Kilnuskum quickly grew on the horizon. The steepness of the mountain made it appear taller than it was and influenced how quickly it sprang up in front of us. Unlike most of the surrounding ridges, the stone of the mountain was bare of most vegetation beyond the base, save for a few tufts of some hardy breed of shrubbery that could endure the stony heights. The rock was a spectrum of red, from ocher to scarlet to a delicate pink. The peak, almost fifteen hundred feet over the valley floor, was sharply pointed, compared to more weathered hills. It seemed fresh, somehow. Yet it was clearly eons old.

  We saw no real sign of the Kilnusk who lived there until we were only a half-mile away from the mountain. That’s when we passed by a great, squat obelisk the size of a house that had been carefully carved in bold, angular abstract designs. At least, they looked abstract to me; it could have been a road sign, for all I knew. But whether it was art or alphabet, there was no mistaking the style. This was dwarven land.

  The road curved around the mountain to the right, counterclockwise, and skirted close enough to the Plain of Pillars that we could see it in the distance. It wasn’t until we passed the first great rocky spur of the peak that we witnessed the first evidence of actual Kilnusk. Unlike the Lakeshire Tal, they did not build much outside of their central stronghold. I found out later that their population was so small that it was unnecessary. Their ancient mansion was large enough to accommodate the entire clan within its subterranean halls.

  “Why did they build it in the first place?” I asked my footwizard guide when he joined us once again on the road.

  “The Kilnusk made this place, originally, as a remote refuge. A retreat where they could meet in privacy and practice their skills. The jevolar keeps the other clans from using magic to spy on them, and it forces them to develop their nonmagical skills when they trained here. It was never the greatest of their halls, it is said, but when they were exiled, it was the natural place to retreat to.”

  “What skills are those?” Alya asked. “The Karshak work stone, the Dradrien metal, the Wood Dwarves build in the dirt of lumber, but what do the Kilnusk do?”

  “They rule,” Fondaras explained, thoughtfully. “And they fight. But they also practice all arts of the clans they once ruled. They, among all the dwarven clans, are allowed to marry within the clans they ruled. Their children are all born with golden hair. Therefore, the Kilnusk clan are masters of all the crafts, as well as some they have developed on their own. There are Kilnusk stonesingers, steeldancers, woodmasters, the entire lot,” he reported, as we passed a cluster of well-built workshops made of stone and wood.

  There were several of the wide-statured dwarves hard at work in and around them, and it was a wonder to see. A single dwarf hefting a tree it would take four men to move was impressive. Seeing a Kilnusk use an axe to pare off the bark like a carrot’s peel was even more so.

  The north face of the mountain was lined with little workshops like that, or at least their balconies and windows. Many even had glass leaded into their frames. Dozens of chimneys released the smoke of their forges and cookfires from the upper portions of the mountain, mimicking Chimney Mountain in miniature. As we got closer, we could see many balconies and porticos lining the mountain at many levels. There was even a kind of watchtower built out onto one cliff that was impressively elegant, like a human castle.

  The gateway to Grost Kilnuskum was a wide, low door with stone lintels large enough to admit several wagons. There was a guardhouse, where a pair of enormous armored Kilnusk stood, great axes in hand. They seemed far more concerned about things on the horizon than a pack of mounted strangers approaching their gates.

  Then I remembered that there was a dragon out there, and I began to understand their preoccupation.

  “Welcome to Grost Kilnuskum,” a young dwarf bid us in accented Narasi, as we were waved through the gate. He was dressed somewhat better than the workers we’d passed on the road, and his golden beard was neatly brushed. “I am Drajo, the gatewarden. You must be the wizards that the emissaries spoke of. They said you would try to visit.”

  “At your service, Drajo,” I said, courteously. “I am Count Minalan of the Magelaw, and my companions are my wife Alya, Lords Ormar, Gareth, Taren, and Fondaras – magelords,” I added. “And that is Sky Captain Nattia of the Vanador Mewstower.”

  “The bird rider,” the dwarf grunted. “We heard tell about that. Interesting,” the gatewarden said, stroking his beard.

  “We come asking to see your mountain and speak to your scholars. And meet with your king if he is willing.”

  “I will pass that along,” he agreed. “The prince has already granted you hospitality, and a suite has been prepared for your comfort. No doubt the emissaries from the Karshak and the Dradrien will want to meet with you as well,” he added, a little uncomfortably. “They spoke very highly of you . . . for humani.”

  “I am friends of them both,” I assured him. “I’ll try to put in a good word for you. Tell me, has the dragon we spotted in the sky on the way here ever menaced you?” I asked, as I hefted the plasma rifle out of the wagon.

  “Nay, but we keep a careful watch,” he admitted. “In the olden days, the Kilnusk faced them in battle. It rarely went well.”

  “It rarely does,” I agreed, sympathetically, as Ormar and Gareth saw to the wagons. “Now, is there some place we can rest and freshen ourselves? We tarried in Lakeshire yesterday, and . . .”

  “Say no more, master wizard!” laughed Drajo, harshly. “We have all tarried in Lakeshire, from time to time. We know well the fire in the head that results. Follow me,” he offered, as courteous as a courtier. “Your rooms have been prepared.”

  Hospitality in Grost Kilnuskum was far different than the Lakeshire Tal offered. We were led into a labyrinth of corridors that wound into the mountain. Some were clearly well-crafted stonework; a few were natural formations that the Kilnusk had turned to their own purpose.

  The effect was stunning. A hall could begin with all the precise form a free-standing building demands, and by the time you reached the end of it you appeared to be in a natural cavern. The windows in the mountainside provided daylight for some of the chambers – the Kilnusk had crafted lanterns of crystal, mirror, and glass to
reflect and direct light within. At night, as we soon found, those same lanterns were fitted with lamps that provided sufficient illumination for most activities.

  Thankfully, the former kings of the dwarves thought enough of themselves to build their mountain mansion with high ceilings – for them. For us, they were at least comfortable. Gareth and Fondaras had to crouch the entire time they were in the Lakeshire tunnels. Nor did the air ever grow stale. Some contrivance captured the constant westward breeze and channeled it deep inside the mountain.

  As we walked, we politely interrogated Drajo about the place. Apparently nearly two thousand Kilnusk lived here. The tunnels and underground halls extended throughout the entire mountain, providing homes for all. The lower levels were reserved for common areas and storehouses, but as you climbed (always through cunningly built ramps, but rarely stairs) the upper chambers were reserved for workshops, and then residential areas. The highest chambers in the mountain, Drajo informed us, was where the Royal Family lived.

  When we finally came to the chambers set aside for our use, we were surprised to see our two friends had already arrived. Masters Suhi and Azhguri, the emissaries, were awaiting us. Both dwarves looked a little uncomfortable in the brightly colored garb the Kilnusk wore, but they seemed to patiently endure it for the occasion.

  Perhaps because of their commission we were given splendid lodging. There was a perfectly circular common room, complete with fireplace, fountain, and comfortable furniture, as well as doors leading to our individual rooms. We found them small but warm and cozy, and much to our liking. There was a basket of fruit and another of bread and cakes in the common area, and a small cask of ale for our pleasure and comfort.

  “We were wondering what was keeping you,” Azhguri said with a sigh once I’d tucked Alya in for a nap she needed more than food and drink, after our tedious day on the road. “More than a week, we’ve been in this mountain.”