Jundag

by Chris A. Jackson

  "I so pledge," Murfindle stated solemnly, albeit reluctantly, placing his hand on the blade as he spoke. "And let it also be known that I never wished ill ta the most honored Liberators o' Zellohar, but was merely counselin' caution at lettin' an elf wizard roam about unattended."

  The others voiced similar pledges and assurances. The King of Zellohar watched in grim amusement as each glanced sidelong at the others to see if anyone would lead a protest, but none did. Dwarves such as these never had the guts to stand up on their own, only daring to speak out when they were in a pack. He gave them leave to go, fuming quietly as they slunk from the hall. He then turned back to his throne, propped his axe against the dragon-claw armrest and sank into its increasingly uncomfortable seat. He brooded there for a time, then, noticing the impatient guards shifting from foot to foot, he waved them all out. He needed to think about this, and who could think with half a dozen attendants waiting to hold a hanky if you sneezed?

  "I don't know if I agree with Shay's judgment in handlin' that old fart MurFindle, but done’s done," DoHeney said as he stepped from behind an ornate tapestry, blithely trimming his fingernails with a dagger. "It could be ye jist solved the entire matter." He paused, returning the dagger to its hidden sheath. "Then again, ye coulda jist stirred up a whole passel o' snakes."

  "How de ye figger?" DoHurley growled, not really surprised that DoHeney had been hiding in the hall during the exchange.

  "Them four've been makin' trouble ever since they lost all their highfalutin' mightiness as ruling elders, especially since they lost it ta ye," DoHeney reminded the king. "And if ye don't watch yer backside, ye jist might find a dagger pokin' out o' it."

  "They ain't got the guts ta be so brash," DoHurley scoffed. “I know MurFindle's style better than ye. It'd be more his way ta discredit me, makin' hisself look good in the process. That way he'd have a crack at the throne if I was tossed out."

  "Whatever his method, ye can be sure he wishes ye no boon, me uncle," DoHeney scowled, plopping down on the dais steps, then catching his indiscretion, "er, Yer Majesty, I mean."

  "Baahh!" the king spat, snatching up his axe and spinning the haft in his gnarled and mutilated grip. "Majesty, smagesty! I sometimes curse yer hide fer dumpin' all this mess on top o' me, DoHeney. Why, I'd give two more fingers fer a decent night o' sleep these days! All the gripin' and groanin'; so-an-so's cheatin' me, so-an-so's a dirty liar. Sometimes I'd like to jist kick their squeakin' butts off the parapets!"

  "Like Shay near done with MurFindle?" DoHeney snickered. "I woulda loved ta seen his face.”

  "Aye, lad," the king agreed, retaking his seat with a sigh. "Though yer bringin' up his name—Shay’s, that is—does bring another problem ta mind."

  "With Shay?" DoHeney stammered. "Suren yer not thinkin' o’ takin' MurFindle’s word at any value?"

  "Nay, lad," DoHurley waved, dismissing the problems with the former elders. "I'm talkin' o' our friend's behavior the last few months. And don't ye look at me like I jist said yer nose had turned blue! I know ye've noticed it as well, likely before I did."

  "Aye, I've noticed it," the worried dwarf admitted, tugging at his beard in frustration. "But figgerin' on what ta do about it has gotta be the biggest rock ever ta meet a hard spot. He's been spendin' far too much time cooped up with them gems, if'n ye ask me."

  "That's what I think is the very root o' the problem, lad," DoHurley said, lifting the uncomfortable circlet of platinum from his brow and hanging it on his axe handle. "An’ I think," he concluded, pushing himself from his seat to join DoHeney on the steps, "that we'd better figger a way ta curb our pointy-eared friend's thirst fer magic. Them gems have been told ta have odd effects even on the minds o' dwarves. How the two o' them together’ve been bendin' his thoughts, even I canna guess."

  "Aye, an’ he’s here ta borrow the emerald again,” DoHeney admitted. “But tellin' him he can't, or tryin' ta take the diamond from him, would be a bit like tellin' a dragon his treasure was too big fer his greed. But," he added hopefully, "Shay's more prudent than most magical types, bein' one o' Tem's priests as well, don'cha know. He's probably able ta handle it."

  "Fer a time, perhaps. But eventually we gotta do somethin' about it," the old warrior resolved. "Fer, if ye gotta fight a dragon, ‘tis best ta do it before he grows too big. And growin’ is exactly what Shay's wizardin’s doin' every second he's tucked away in a dark corner with them blasted magic rocks!"

  CHAPTER 5

  Mistress is back! Mistress is back!"

  Excited cries welcomed Avari and Hufferrrerrr home as twilight deepened toward night on the third day after their encounter with the thieves and murderers. To the west, the sun had already dipped into the sea; the sky along the horizon burned red and orange, then cooled to rich blue overhead. In the east, above the nearby hills, the brightest stars twinkled, mimicked closer to earth by fireflies that flitted among the trees and pastures of Searest. The horses grazing on the rich grass looked up with benign interest. Two mares with recent foals, Searest's first generation, trotted up to the fence to beg for the special treats Avari usually carried in her pocket: crisp apples, bits of rock sugar, or a particularly tasty mouthful of hay. When Hufferrrerrr roared his greeting, however, the gangly colts scattered, their own legs tripping them up as they tried to flee from this not-yet-familiar beast. Avari smiled and felt her shoulders and neck unclench as she finally relaxed and drank in the beauty and peace of her home.

  A glance behind at the grim train of horses laden with the bodies of the slain murderers, their plunder, and the one living prisoner, reminded her that she couldn’t rest yet.

  Bo's huge hooves scuffed to a dusty halt in front of the stable, and Avari leaned down to pat his neck. Horse and rider alike were exhausted, but at the approach of the familiar smiling faces, she decided that her haste had been worth it.

  "Miss Avari, it’s so good to see you home and unharmed!" A plump little woman tugged at Avari's trouser leg, encouraging her to dismount. Luellen was the housemaid at Searest, and Avari's self-appointed coddler. Miss Avari deserved only the best, and Luellen made sure Miss Avari got the best of everything, whether Miss Avari wanted it or not.

  Luellen's husband, Bjoral, the ranch farrier, held Bo's bridle while Avari dismounted. He was the only person Avari knew who could stand next to the great horse and not look totally dwarfed.

  "We're suren glad ju're back, Miss. The missus was gettin' worried, what with ju being gone fer more’n a week."

  "Of course I was worried!" Luellen exclaimed. "And don't pretend you weren't! Why, Miss Avari, he was so restless at night, he'd be up a dozen times at the window to see if you were coming up the road."

  "Thanks for your concern," she said, nodding toward their sullen prisoner, "but I've brought you a bit of work, Bjoral. Can you fit our guest with a pair of manacles tomorrow?"

  "Ja, ju bet I can sure do that, Miss Avari, and have it done before mornin' too, if'n ju say so." Bjoral favored the bandit with a malicious grin.

  "No, no. Tomorrow will be fine."

  Avari turned to help Huffer unload their vile baggage, but found the ranch hands eagerly pitching in, calling out riotous congratulations at her newest victory. The unlikely title of “Scourge of the White Cliffs” brought an embarrassed flush to her cheeks, but she let them have their fun.

  They loaded the dead onto a cart and wheeled it off to a cool cellar; tomorrow the bodies and the remaining bandit would be sent north to Fengotherond. The tired horses were walked toward the barn where they would be cared for by loving hands.

  Avari felt herself beginning an inexorable slide into a state of physical and mental exhaustion. The smell of the evening meal wafting through the open door of the house set her stomach growling, but before she would allow herself a much-needed meal, bath and sleep, she had one more task. She walked slowly toward a lone figure standing near the bunkhouse.

  "They're dead, Fullen," she told the farmer. "All except one, and the guard will take care of that in
Fengotherond. Your horses are returned, and will be cared for until we can rebuild your home and you can care for them yourself."

  The man looked at her in silence, and Avari recognized in his eyes a weariness and heart-pain even stronger than her own. After a moment, though, he nodded, acknowledgment and gratitude showing through the pain that etched his face.

  "They also had a tidy bit of loot, which should help you to rebuild your farm. You and your daughter can stay here as long as need be."

  "Thank you, Miss," he mumbled, his voice so soft that Avari could barely hear him, "but I think you should keep the gold. I have no money to reward you with."

  "Fullen, I don't want a reward. My reward—" Avari's voice cracked and she stopped as memories of another burned farmhouse, another murdered farmer—his long, braided red hair and beard disheveled, his wooden leg forever still—flashed through her mind. After a moment, she continued. "My reward will be to see you live a long and prosperous life, and to see Pixie Jean grow up healthy and happy. Believe me, I know how you feel right now. But I also know you both have the strength to overcome this." Avari grasped his shoulders and looked into his despairing eyes.

  "Please," she begged, "for Pixie Jean's sake, you have to try."

  For the first time since the horses had come up the road, Fullen turned and looked at the bodies being hauled away. The sight seemed to give strength to his wiry frame, and his shoulders straightened. He nodded slowly and looked once more at Avari.

  "Thank you, Miss. I'll try." He walked away, still slowly, but taller than he had been.

  By Eloss' hand, I hope that's enough, Avari prayed. Finally, her mission accomplished, her broad shoulders sagged and her breath left her in a sigh of utter exhaustion. A strong arm encircled her waist, and a friendly voice spoke in her ear.

  "I am believing that a wonderful dinner is on the table for us." Huffer nodded toward the door of the main house. Light streamed out around the gaunt frame of the cook as she stood there, arms folded sternly across her chest, a long wooden spoon in one hand. "And I am believing that we will be severely chastised if we keep good cook Mayjen waiting any longer."

  As if she had heard him, Mayjen called to them.

  "This dinner will be absolutely ruined if you don't come and eat this very minute. I will not be responsible if it's inedible."

  The two weary friends smiled at one another and trudged toward the warm glow of the house, ready for a good meal and a peaceful, well-earned night’s rest.

  Yenjil Thallon, Captain of the Fengotherond Guard, sat hunched over a piece of creamy white parchment, quill in one hand, lost in thought. Suddenly, he plunged the quill into the ink well like he was stabbing an enemy, and began writing.

  My Fair Warrioress,

  Cursing, he crumpled the parchment and tossed it aside.

  “No,” he mumbled, “that will never do. Too close to the heart of the argument.”

  Carefully placing another piece of parchment before him, he began again.

  My Dearest Avari,

  Please hear me out. I miss you terribly, and I apologize for offending you with my ill-chosen words. I would like to meet with you at your convenience to discuss our situation. Please write to me with the time and place of your choice, and I will be there. I eagerly await your reply.

  Fondest wishes,

  Yen

  P.S. Have you not received my previous letters?

  Rereading the letter, he nodded in approval, then groaned as a fat drop of ink fell from the quill onto the message. He crumpled the letter, tossed it, readied yet another piece of parchment, and rewrote the message.

  “Yen!”

  The call startled him and he looked furtively toward the door as it opened and a beautiful woman poked her head in.

  “What are you doing in here?” she asked in exasperation. “We’ll miss the emperor’s introduction at the ball if you waste much more time, and you know how I love to hear him speak.”

  Yenjil rolled his eyes when he considered the long-winded speeches the emperor insisted on giving at each ceremonial celebration. This was the third they had attended in the last week, and he was weary of the polite politicking and courteous back-stabbing that occurred at the events. He longed to spend a quiet evening by the fire, enjoying a home-cooked meal. But the woman opened the door farther and posed, one hand on the knob, the other high on the doorjamb.

  “Do you like my gown?” she asked. “I had it specially made for tonight. Am I not beautiful?”

  “Of course you’re beautiful,” Yen confessed. And she was. Her flaxen hair was piled atop her head, setting off her long, white neck and shapely shoulders. The pale blue gown hung precariously from her bosom, and when she breathed deeply, Yen was afraid the garment might fall off altogether. Her waist was tiny, constricted by a corset with enough stays to stop a sword stroke, and accentuated by the gown’s incredibly full skirt; he’d seen castles surrounded by narrower moats. She was beautiful, but... He pictured Avari in her simple gown, as sleek and deadly as a golden sword, and his heart grew warm. Involuntarily, he glanced to the letter on his desk.

  Her eyes followed his and narrowed.

  “What is that?” she asked, her voice still gay, but with a false ring. “Such pretty parchment.”

  “Military correspondence,” he answered as he folded and sealed the parchment, and tucked it into the middle of the rest of his letters to be dispatched. Smiling disarmingly at her, he extended his arm.

  “Come, Elestia, let us go attend to the emperor.”

  With a gleaming smile, Elestia wrapped her gloved hand around his forearm and allowed herself to be led out, casting an inquisitive glance over her shoulder.

  CHAPTER 6

  Jundag shifted wearily, clenching and unclenching his fists in an effort to keep the blood flowing through his suspended arms. The manacles in which his wrists were locked were just high enough so he could relieve the strain on his wrists if he stood straight, a position a body could maintain for only so long. He was just starting to sag when Calmarel finally whirled into the room, dismissed Tredgh, and slammed the door shut behind her retreating servant. Jundag stood tall, carefully blanking his expression, while in his heart he dared to hope. Usually, Tredgh remained; Calmarel sometimes required a helping hand when she performed her tortures. But sometimes...

  During his last life—Or would that be incarnation? Existence? He wasn’t sure what to call the periods he lived after revivification, before he died again at Calmarel’s or another’s hand—Calmarel on occasion would meet with him alone. During these sessions, she would still torment him, but they were half-hearted efforts. Instead, she talked. She talked to him as if he was a sounding board, reciting her worries or woes, protesting against those she believed plotted against her, lauding the deeds of her clan, or boasting of her own cleverness. She had never done this before. Jundag would have laughed at her had he not known that his digression would have been paid back with pain. So he listened, and he learned.

  He had learned that he was in the city of Xerro Kensho, carved out of an immense living column of rock shaped like an hourglass, surrounded by a vast subterranean lake. The clan castles occupied the choice estates high on the outer walls. Farther down, lesser folk lived among the shops and inns and all the facilities necessary to maintain a bustling city. Deep inside the hourglass, where the stone was cold and the darkness complete, were the dungeons and arenas, and armories that produced weapons of all styles and employ. Long ago, Calmarel had told him, great battles between the dark cities were common, but an accord had been reached such that they now expended their energies against their common enemies: the races that inhabited the surface and worshiped the gods of light.

  He had learned the hierarchies of the ruling clans, with their matriarchs and patriarchs. Absolute power came to the eldest child—the heir—except in Calmarel’s case, in which the remarkable acceptance by not one, but two of the Dark Gods had elevated her to equal status with her sister elder, Lysethra. If Calmare
l loved, or at least tolerated anyone, it was her sister, who had accepted co-matriarch status with well-bred grace.

  Of course, Calmarel had confided to him in a low voice, as if the walls themselves might have ears, if Lysethra knew that her sister younger had sacrificed two of her favored cousins to Pergamon to gain his good graces in order to escape from her future as a subordinate sibling, the true matriarch of Clan Darkmist might not have been quite so accepting. Iveron, she confided, had suspected her deed, but had no proof.

  Jundag had learned also of her hopes and ambitions to be a mediator. Only clan matriarchs or patriarchs could perform the rite to become mediator, so her present position was only a stepping-stone to her ultimate goal. Lysethra encouraged her in this path, and talked incessantly of the prestige her ascension would bestow on Clan Darkmist, for few clans ever produced a mediator. How much of what she told him was truth and how much was lie, he didn’t know. But he listened, and he learned, and he waited...

  Now Calmarel approached him, and he again noted a wrongness about her. Her stride lacked its usual languid grace, and her robes didn’t sway and ripple to reveal a length of pale thigh. In fact—he nearly shuddered but held his control—she almost resembled the spider pendant she always wore, with a dark, bloated abdomen... His gasp was involuntary, and Calmarel acknowledged his lapse with a sly smile.

  “Hello, my pet! We have a great deal of catching up to do,” she said as she stoked his cheek with one hand while cradling her bulging belly with the other.

  His gasp had elicited a hacking cough, and Calmarel shook her head sadly.

  “I’m sorry, my pet. Your discomfort results from revivification after a long period of death: six months, in this case. Thankfully,” she added as she ran her long nails down his chest, “your body was kept in a kind of suspended animation, so it shouldn’t affect your strength or...virility.” She laughed as he pulled himself away from her caress.