by Markus Heitz
The motion was put to the vote and received the council’s unanimous support.
“Very well,” Nudin said hoarsely, “but we should renew the existing girdle first. If our defenses crumble before the apprentices get here, we won’t be in a position to undertake anything at all. I suggest we break for an hour and have some refreshments before proceeding.”
The magi concurred with the suggestion and the council dispersed. Nudin beckoned Lot-Ionan to the north-facing window.
Seen from close range, the ruler of Lios Nudin looked bloated and swollen. The whites of his eyes were shot with red veins and his pupils glinted feverishly. It was clear to Lot-Ionan that he was seriously ill.
Just then Nudin was seized by a coughing fit and held a handkerchief to his mouth. With his free hand he steadied himself on his maple staff. He stuffed the handkerchief hastily away.
Lot-Ionan thought he glimpsed blood on the cloth. “You should ask Sabora to lay hands on you,” he said anxiously. “You look… To be honest, you don’t look well.”
Nudin arranged his swollen features into a smile. “It’s nothing, just a nasty cold. It’s good for the body to have something to pit itself against.” He gave Lot-Ionan an approving nod. “That was an excellent idea of yours, you know. Even Andôkai was convinced of the scheme, so the others are bound to fall into line.” His face went a violent shade of purple as he struggled to suppress another cough. “We magi have pursued our own private interests for too long,” he continued in a strangled voice. “I’m not talking about Sabora, of course; she’s always been different. But it’s good to see that there are some things on which the council is prepared to take a stand. It’s a pity it had to come to this first.”
“Indeed,” Lot-Ionan said uncertainly. For once Nudin seemed perfectly amenable and even his condescending tone was gone. If this was the effect of the illness, Andôkai and Turgur could do with catching it as well. “Are you sure we shouldn’t be calling you Nudin the Solicitous?”
Nudin chuckled good-humoredly and ended up coughing instead. Lot-Ionan caught a clear glimpse of blood on his lips before he hurriedly dabbed it away.
“That does it. I’m sending you to Sabora,” the white-bearded magus said firmly. This time it was an order. “The ritual will be draining and you look weak enough as it is.”
Nudin raised his hands in surrender. “I give in,” he rasped. “I’ll go to Sabora. But one last question: Where are my artifacts, old friend?”
Lot-Ionan had rather hoped that the matter had been forgotten. “I left them in Ionandar,” he admitted. “I’ll get my famuli to bring them when they come.”
Nudin smiled. “Well, at least you know where they are now. Don’t worry. There’s no rush. The Perished Land is our primary concern.”
“It slipped my mind entirely. I meant to go through the cabinet in my study and pack the things together, but after what you told me about the orcs and the girdle…”
Nudin gave him a pat on the back. “Don’t worry about it.” He swayed slightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll lie down.” He turned and made for the door, his voluminous robes rustling softly and his staff tapping out a steady rhythm against the floor.
“Don’t forget to see Sabora!” Lot-Ionan called after him.
Pensively, he gazed out of the window beyond the artful palace gardens and over the roofs of Porista to the horizon where the green plains fused with the bright blue sky. There was no sign of the Perished Land from this distance, but he knew it was there, only a few miles from the city.
After a while he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and a delicate fragrance wafted through the air. It had been a long time since he had smelled that perfume and his old heart quickened. He placed his right hand over hers. “My favorite maga,” he said, turning to face Sabora.
“My favorite magus,” she replied with a smile.
He was always delighted to see Sabora. They shared the same attitude where aging was concerned: Neither attempted to disguise the passage of time. He found it reassuring that he wasn’t the only one with wrinkles, especially when the others looked so young.
No one could accuse Lot-Ionan of being vain, but the meetings in Porista made him feel ancient. Andôkai, with her hundred and fifty cycles, looked no older than thirty, while Maira could be taken for fifty, despite being six times that age. Turgur, of course, was always refining his looks and maintained the appearance of a vigorous man of forty cycles.
Sabora guessed his thoughts. “Oh, Lot-Ionan,” she commiserated, “they’re getting older as well, you know.” They embraced.
“So tell me about your work,” she said when they finally drew apart.
“It was coming along nicely until one of my assistants ruined a vital part of the formula before I had a chance to try it out,” he reported. “Still, it won’t be long before I can render the presence of magic in people and objects visible to the eye. It should mean a breakthrough in our understanding of what magic energy really is. But let’s hear about you. Can you cure all our illnesses and ailments?”
Sabora slipped her arm through his and they set off leisurely through the arcades. “I’ve mastered injuries and wounds and now I’m focusing my efforts on eliminating the plague. I’ve been quite successful, actually,” she confided. “The trouble is, there’s no shortage of people with new and mysterious diseases. The gods send us new ailments every day.”
“You’ll get there eventually,” he said encouragingly. “Has Nudin been to see you? He looks dreadful.”
Sabora shook her head. “I saw him hurry past earlier, but he didn’t stop to talk.” A mischievous smile spread across her face. “If it’s his waistline that’s bothering him, he’d better ask Turgur. He’s the one who knows how to remodel his body and his face.”
“He must be nearing his goal, don’t you think? He seems to have lost more of his wrinkles since the last time I saw him. Everlasting beauty can’t be much farther off.”
They stopped in one of the palace’s many gardens and sat down.
Sabora laid her head on Lot-Ionan’s shoulder. “It’s incredible, isn’t it?” she said softly. “We all pursue such different goals, but for once we’re in agreement.”
“Maira’s support was as good as guaranteed. I suppose you’ve heard that she’s opened her forests to the purest animals of Girdlegard? She’s determined to save them from the orcs. As the eldest among us, she knows better than anyone what the northern pestilence would do to Girdlegard.”
“Yes, her realm is a sanctuary. The last of the unicorns have taken refuge in Oremaira.” She paused. “If everything goes to plan, Girdlegard will be safer than it has been for eleven hundred cycles — and it won’t be a moment too soon.”
Lot-Ionan laid an arm around her shoulders, savoring her presence. Duty and geography made such moments all too rare. “I was pleasantly surprised by Turgur,” he confessed. “He usually seems so self-obsessed. His life revolves around physical perfection, beauty, aesthetics, and yet…”
Sabora laughed. “I expect he’s worried about his flawless blossoms and flower beds. He’s lavished so much time on perfecting his gardens that it would be a pity to see them ruined by the Perished Land.” She straightened up suddenly. “I heard Gorén was here. Wasn’t he one of your apprentices?”
“Gorén? What would Gorén be doing in Porista? He lives in Greenglade.”
“Turgur said something about a meeting he held with Gorén and one of Nudin’s apprentices. It was here in Porista, the last time we met.”
“Now, that sounds suspicious,” the magus said jokingly. “Turgur the Fair-Faced meets two of his rivals’ apprentices and steals their secrets. He’d know all about my work!”
“Much good it would do him: charmed beauty combined with the power of discerning magical presences, and…” She hesitated. “What does Nudin do?”
“He hasn’t said.” The magus shrugged. “Judging by the look of him, he doesn’t have time for exercise, so it must be demanding.”
Now that he thought about it, he was intrigued; at the next opportunity he would ask Turgur what Gorén had wanted in Porista. “Let’s forget about the others,” he said tenderly, wrapping his arms around Sabora and hugging her gently. “We don’t spend nearly enough time together.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I’ll ask Andôkai to swap kingdoms and then we’ll be a little closer.”
“I’m sure her subjects would welcome the change. The calm after the storm — isn’t that what they say?”
“Still waters run deep,” she informed him with a playful sparkle in her gray-brown eyes.
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle
Tungdil’s sharp dwarven vision soon adapted to the darkness. The walls around him had been hewn cleanly from the dark flesh of the mountain and polished to a sheen. Smooth surfaces were the hallmark of dwarven masonry; he couldn’t imagine a human laborer going to such lengths.
The chilling legend of Cloudpiercer had sounded convincing at the time, but he no longer gave it much credence. From the evidence around him, it seemed likely that the mountain had served as a dwelling, not a mine.
Tungdil clambered up a short flight of steps and came to an open portcullis. Beyond the raised grating, a heavy oak door reinforced with metal hasps and steel plating stood ajar. He knew there would be no way out if the door slammed behind him.
“Hello? Is that you, Master Gorén? Is there anyone there?”
For a while he listened to the dull echo of his shouts; then the deathly hush returned. He went in.
“Master Gorén, can you hear me?” he called. “My name is Tungdil. I’m here on an errand for Lot-Ionan.” The last thing he needed was to be mistaken for an intruder. Hidden behind the door was a set of levers with which the portcullis could be raised or lowered. It made a dreadful racket, as he discovered by trying it out.
“Sorry,” he shouted, hurrying on. It was time he found Gorén.
The tunnel delved deeper and deeper inside the mountain. After a while Tungdil could almost convince himself that he had stumbled on a dwarven stronghold. Staircases and passageways wound into the core of the enduring rock and for the first time he had a clear idea of what it would be like to live with his kinsfolk in one of Girdlegard’s ranges. At length he came to the kitchen, a large chamber neatly hollowed from the rock, equipped with stoves and kitchenware that had not been used for some time.
“Master Gorén?” Tungdil sat down, lowered his packs, and waited awhile. A terrible thought occurred to him. Who’s to say that Gorén isn’t dead? Galvanized into action, he put aside his reticence and began to search the place for anything that might lead him to the wizard.
He flung open one of the doors and strode along a corridor. It took him to another chamber of vast dimensions, at least two hundred paces long by forty paces wide and full of plants. The allotment had been laid out in accordance with horticultural lore, but the plot had been sorely neglected and was overgrown with weeds. Despite the musty air, a system of mirrors provided the plants with adequate light, while slits in the ceiling took care of the watering, allowing rain to seep through and plop to the earth in a steady stream of drops.
Tungdil battled his way through the rampant vegetation, rejoined the corridor, and came to a study. The chaos inside was all too familiar: Every surface, including the floor, was littered with loose sheets of parchment, closely written manuscripts, and abandoned books.
“Surely he can’t have written all this?” he marveled aloud. There was enough material to fill a good-sized library. Gingerly he riffled through the papers, looking for clues.
Most of the dusty tomes were written in a scholarly script known only to the magi and their senior famuli. He flicked through them, but their contents remained a mystery. What was Gorén working on? Longevity? Perpetual health? Prosperity? Reminding himself that it was none of his business, he focused on the task in hand: reuniting the artifacts with their rightful owner.
He continued the search, reaching behind a cabinet to pull out a bundle of letters. Two scholars had been in correspondence with Gorén about the nature, form, and guises of demonic possession, including known instances of men being inhabited by other beings and whether it was possible to be controlled by a spirit.
It seemed likely that one of the correspondents was a scholar of some distinction since his part in the discussion was written in scholarly script. The letters of the other, whom Tungdil judged to be a high-ranking famulus, were devoted to describing how an unnamed person had changed in character and appearance. Nothing in the correspondence gave him any indication as to Gorén’s whereabouts.
The dwarf resumed his quest, searching the adjoining rooms and venturing farther and farther from the mountain’s core as he rummaged through small laboratories, libraries whose contents had been partially cleared, and storerooms of potions and ingredients.
He turned the situation over in his mind. Although Gorén no longer seemed to be in residence, there was still the matter of the artifacts. Tungdil had promised Lot-Ionan that he would deliver them, so deliver them he would. A dwarf’s word was binding. And until I find him, Jolosin can keep peeling potatoes…
Tungdil’s eye was caught by a series of inscriptions that were unmistakably dwarven in nature. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he read. Carved into the rock were tirades of terrible loathing and murderous hatred. Whoever had wielded the chisel was bent on heaping dire accusations and dreadful curses on four of the dwarven folks and their clans.
Tungdil knew immediately what it meant: The mountain had once been home to Lorimbur’s dwarves. Here in the human kingdom of Gauragar he had stumbled upon a chapter of dwarven history that was missing from most books.
He remembered the runes at the entrance to the tunnel.
Erected against the fourthlings, it fell against the fourthlings.
So Lorimbur’s dwarves had built a stronghold in the heart of Girdlegard. But for what purpose? Had they intended to wage war on the other folks? Assuming he had interpreted the inscription correctly, the thirdlings had been defeated. In any event, a curse had been placed on the Blacksaddle to ensure that the stronghold was never used again: Cursed by the fourthlings, then abandoned by all five.
He could imagine the sequel. Gorén must have learned of the maze of tunnels in the mountain and decided to make his home there. As a wizard, he commanded the necessary expertise to lift the dwarven curse and turn the stronghold into a refuge where he could study in peace. Built with blood, it was drenched in blood. A famulus would never allow himself to be intimidated by such threats.
A sudden whisper caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. The walls were talking to him, muttering and whispering, animated by a ghostly presence that seemed to be closing in.
You’re imagining things, he told himself.
There was a ringing and clattering of axes, chain mail jangled, and warriors shouted and wailed. The din grew louder and louder until a battle was raging around him, the shrieks of the maimed and wounded echoing intolerably through the rock.
“No!” bellowed Tungdil. He pressed his hands to his ears. “Get away from me!” But the clamor only intensified, becoming fiercer and more menacing. At last he could stand it no longer and took to his heels. Nothing could keep him in the mountain: His only desire was to escape from the Black-saddle and its ghosts.
The whispers, screams, and crashing blades faded as he raced away.
Tungdil was not the sort to scare easily, but his courage had never been put to such a test. He would sooner endure scorching sun or pouring rain than spend a night in this place. Now that he knew the mountain’s frightful secret he could already imagine the ghosts of his ancestors crowding round his bed.
He went back to scouring the tunnels and searched for hours without finding proof of Gorén’s fate. The only clues to his whereabouts were love poems he had written to a certain elven beauty and the name of a forest that was circ
led on various crumbling maps. Tungdil surmised therefore that Gorén had moved to Greenglade.
For the dwarf to get there, his legs would have to carry him an extra three hundred and fifty miles on a northwesterly bearing. Greenglade lay at the edge of the Eternal Forest in the elven kingdom of landur. According to legend, it was a uniquely tranquil place where the trees blossomed continually, irrespective of the seasons.
Tungdil mulled the matter over and smiled. To think a wizard would leave his home for the sake of a pointy-eared mistress! For his part, he had never been especially fond of elves, and this new development, which served to prolong his adventure, did nothing to improve his opinion of their race.
He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he took a wrong turn and failed to find his way back to the kitchen, where he had hoped to rejoin the passageway that led to the door. The diversion took him through yet more of the thirdlings’ halls. It was obvious that the masons had intended the stronghold to make a stately impression, but the result was disappointing. Some of the galleries were lopsided, the steps were all shapes and sizes, and the intervals between them didn’t match. The curse of Vraccas had robbed Lorimbur’s folk of the most elementary of dwarven skills.
At length he came to a solid stone wall, carved with an arch of voussoirs. Tungdil read out the runes on the keystone, conjuring a chink in the otherwise featureless rock. A door took shape, grinding against the floor as it opened to let him pass. No sooner had he stepped out of the tunnel than the door rolled back behind him. Try as he might he failed to discover any cracks, fissures, or other signs of a hidden opening. In this at least the thirdlings had shown some skill.
The short walk through the dense pine forest helped his eyes to adjust to the light and by the time he was marching along the road to Greenglade the sun scarcely bothered him at all.
For once Tungdil appreciated the buzzing insects, sweet-smelling grasses, and sunshine: Anything was better than the Blacksaddle.