The Balborite Curse (Book 4)

by Kristian Alva

  The battle was on.

  The two adversaries circled each other for a few moments. All the while, Skera-Kina hissed and spat like a viper. Her tattooed tongue darted between her lips. Neither combatant was permitted to leave the ring during the fight, and no other fighter could enter, or the battle was forfeited.

  Suddenly, the orc lunged forward. He swung a meaty fist at Skera-Kina’s head, but she sidestepped easily. If the punch had connected, she would be dead or unconscious, but he moved slowly. She shot her fist at the orc’s chin. Her punch connected, but the orc was unfazed.

  She twisted her spine like a cat, and her foot shot out in a solid blur, striking the orc’s wrist with a loud crack. He gasped and drew back, shocked by her speed and strength. The orc swung his fist again, but missed completely when she ducked.

  The orc turned around, and Skera-Kina slipped behind him. Before he could react, she kicked out both of his knees with two quick motions of her foot. The orc howled and fell backward.

  He scrambled to flip himself over and get back to his feet. Before he could rise, something in his leg spasmed, and she kicked his knee again, this time from the side. Skera-Kina smiled as she heard a crack. The orc groaned in pain and collapsed forward, landing on his chest. She stepped back and waited, allowing him to rise.

  One knee was badly injured, but it was too late for him to withdraw from the fight. The orc tried to prop himself on his good leg but was unable to regain his prior fighting stance. His breathing accelerated, and Skera-Kina’s gaze fastened on his face.

  Skera-Kina realized he was afraid.

  The orc’s shoulders bunched with tension, and he sprung again, leaping forward with his good leg. Skera-Kina toppled back, kicking the orc in the jaw as she flipped. The orc spat out teeth and blood. Before he could regain his bearings, Skera-Kina’s hand shot out, and with nails like spikes, she gouged at her opponent’s eyes. The orc shrieked and fell, momentarily blinded. Skera-Kina sprang like a cat, smashing both her heels down on the orc’s injured leg. She heard a pop as the knee was crushed.

  The orc roared, thrashing about in pain and frustration. The other two males outside the circle sat shock-still, immobilized by fear. They had never seen anything like this; the orc never even touched her.

  Skera-Kina stood over the injured male and spoke, her expression hardening. A noble attempt, she thought, but the outcome was never in dispute.

  As the orc’s ancient language flowed from her lips, she felt a shiver of euphoria. She said in a slow, grave voice, “I am the Lady of Death—devourer and destroyer. When the Final Battle comes to pass, I shall bring ruin and devastation upon this land. It is the law of nature that the weak shall fall before the strong. I am the winner, and your life is mine.”

  The orcs paused, frozen in fear. The foggy air carried the rasping echo of Skera-Kina’s voice, and the sound reverberated across the sea like the tolling of a great bell. She leaned down near the orc’s face and asked, “Uggun nee ibixtuk?—Do you choose life or death?”

  “Ibixtuk,” he spat. “I choose death.” Skera-Kina nodded gravely, then stepped outside the circle and recovered the orc’s axe from the dirt. There was really no other choice, but if he had shown fear and pleaded for his life, she would have slaughtered them all. As it was, she would allow the other two males to live, and they would carry this story back to their elders.

  She lifted the weapon above her head, and the orc snarled at her with steely hate. Skera-Kina nodded in satisfaction. He was unflinching and defiant to the end—a worthy adversary. This orc had fought well and deserved an honorable death.

  As the axe came down, she happily granted it.

  Bolrakei Returns

  Hundreds of leagues from Parthos, the dwarf clans were arguing. Two opposing factions had formed within Mount Velik: one faction calling for a new king, the other supporting the ailing King Hergung, bedridden and sickly.

  The Vardmiter clan, led by the rebel leader Utan, had broken off and left Mount Velik for good, relocating to the Highport Mountains. They would not return.

  For centuries, the Vardmiter clan had been treated like outcasts, performing all of the other clans’ undesirable jobs: the cleaning of sewers, butchering animals, garbage pick-up, preparing the dead for burial, to name a few.

  The jobs were unpleasant, but they were necessary, and when the Vardmiters left, the largest segment of the dwarves’ manual labor force had vanished. None of the other clans wanted to do these “dirty jobs,” and Mount Velik had descended into chaos.

  Despite several attempts, the dragon riders had failed to negotiate a peaceful settlement between the clans. Today, the dwarf council would meet again to discuss the reinstatement of a clan leader to her former position. Bolrakei was the former leader of Klora-Kanna, the wealthy jewelcutters’ clan. Even after being stripped of her office several years ago, she had remained defiant. She simply refused to abandon her authority, staying the de facto leader for her clan. A replacement for her office had never been elected, and she continued to rule through her advisors. It was evident that a majority supported her return to leadership, and a few even supported her bid for complete control over all the clans.

  An arrogant smile crossed Bolrakei’s lips as she strutted into Mount Velik’s vast atrium, where the dwarf council waited for her to arrive. The council had been formed recently, with the oldest and most powerful families coming together to establish law and settle disputes. Members included heads of each of the powerful dwarf families, but King Hergung was conspicuously absent, represented only by his bitter-faced councilor. The councilmembers all sat at a long wooden table in the middle of the hall, each doing little to hide their mistrust of one another.

  Bolrakei plopped down, adjusting her vast bulk in an ornate gilded chair. She was surrounded by dozens of supporters and several advisors with whom she traded conspiratorial whispers. Today, the members would vote on her official reinstatement. She suppressed a smile as she eyed the assembly. She knew exactly what would happen: behind closed doors, the council argued as they pretended to consider her petition. Then, they would unanimously approve her reinstatement—she had paid hefty bribes to ensure it.

  She looked smugly around the table. There were a few councilmembers that she had been unable to bribe, but they were powerless by themselves. The king hadn’t even bothered to attend the meeting. King Hergung had become a recluse, agoraphobic and sealed away in his private rooms. He was the weakest dwarf king in a thousand years. There would be no opposition from him, especially since she had already bribed Hergung’s closest staff.

  Now that Utan was gone, along with his raggedy group of Vardmiter outcasts, her only real adversary was Skemtun, the leader of Marretaela, the miners’ clan.

  The dwarves who remained at Mount Velik had chosen sides, with a third supporting their ever-weakening king, a third supporting Skemtun, and the remainder supporting Bolrakei. It was only a matter of time before the balance of power tipped in her favor.

  Councilmember Pilfni Grinderiees rose from the table and cleared his throat. “Attention, everyone! Attention!” He rapped his gavel and motioned for his guards to quiet the crowd. “Please settle down, folks. We have a lot to do today.” The chatter died down slowly. “First on the agenda, we will revisit the issue of Bolrakei Shalevault’s reinstatement as the clan leader for Klora-Kanna.” A cheer went up from the crowd gathered behind Bolrakei’s seat. Her expression remained somber, but her eyes were smiling.

  “Before we take our vote, Ms. Shalevault will make an official statement.”

  Bolrakei stood up, her face a picture of contrite apology. She clasped her hands in front of her. “My brothers and sisters, thank you so much for coming today. I know that I’ve made mistakes in the past, but please believe me when I say that I always acted with the best interests of our people in mind—I’ll never stop fighting for all the dwarf clans. I hope that everyone recognizes that and votes accordingly. I sincerely appreciate your support.” She bowed her head and retu
rned to her seat.

  “Thank you, Bolrakei. That was a very nice sentiment,” said Pilfni. He pounded his gavel on the table three times. “Now we shall vote. All in favor of Bolrakei’s reinstatement say ‘Aye!’”

  “Aye!” shouted the crowd.

  Pilfni waited for the noise to die down before speaking again. “And those opposed?”

  Silence dominated the hall. Skemtun frowned, shaking his head in disgust, but remained quiet. He knew that he was outnumbered.

  “The clans have spoken The ‘ayes’ have it, and the amendment is adopted. Congratulations, Bolrakei, you are officially reinstated.”

  Cheers rose up from the crowd. Bolrakei grinned as she spoke. “Thank you, my friends! I’m pleased for this opportunity to serve my clan again. Tonight there will be feasting in Klora-Kana’s mead hall, and all of the clans are invited. Please, join us and partake of my clan’s hospitality.”

  “Thank you for the invitation, Bolrakei,” Pilfni answered. “I’m sure everyone will do their best to attend.”

  King Hergung’s councilor remained silent during the meeting. He left without saying a word, returning to the king’s private chambers. The other councilmembers offered their congratulations to Bolrakei, shaking hands, sometimes with a knowing wink in her direction. Most of them left the table to mill with the crowd, and eventually, only Skemtun and Bolrakei remained seated.

  Skemtun had not spoken a single word, and now the aged clan leader stared across the table at his rival. His voice was a whisper. “I never thought I would see the day where you returned to power.”

  Bolrakei offered him a patronizing smile. “How could you not? Hergung’s madness is incurable, and he will be gone soon. My clan will not tolerate another year of chaos. Our people need a reliable leader—a pureblood who acts in their best interests. It’s only a matter of time before everybody realizes that I’m the best one for the job.”

  “Buying votes on the council doesn’t make you a strong leader,” said Skemtun. “It makes you a nothing more than a crooked politician.”

  “What do you know, old man?” Bolrakei’s lips stretched into a steely grin, but the smile did not reach her eyes. “In just a few generations, you’ve steered your mining clan into financial ruin. Your power grows weaker with each passing year. And now, with the Vardmiters gone, your clan has the lowest standing in our society. Mount Velik needs more nether-workers, and it is your clan that will take over the lowly jobs the Vardmiters used to do.”

  His eyes blazed with fury. “How dare you! My clan isn’t going to clean sewers or sweep up trash. My clan has been mining this mountain for generations—and our numbers are greater than yours. Why don’t you order your people to do those jobs!”

  Bolrakei leaned in and crooned, “Silly old goat! While it’s true that my clan isn’t the largest, we are the wealthiest. And unlike yours, my workers are skilled craftsmen. From the fairy folk to the humans, all the races of Durn want my magnificent gems. My jewelcutters make money for me all over the continent. I profit in peace and war. I care not which races are fighting, or even why. Let the humans or the orcs slaughter one another—it makes no difference to me. There will always be a market for my stones. You don’t have enough money or power to stop me.”

  “Bah! My people will never consent to this. This is an injustice!” He sat back down, turning his face away.

  “Wrong, Skemtun. You have no choice but to follow me. Where can you go? Utan and his rebel Vardmiters have already left—they are comfortably entrenched in the Highport Mountains, and your opportunity to join their little ragtag rebellion has passed. When the Vardmiters were still here, they asked for your help—and you were too afraid to take sides. Your own clan members lost respect for you for that, and the Vardmiters hated you for it. You’re a coward—and you’ve been sitting on the fence for a long time, but now I’m forcing you off of it.”

  “Be quiet, you arrogant witch! As long as I have breath in my body, I’ll never bow to your demands.”

  A strange smile split Bolrakei’s round face. “You have no choice. Do you truly believe that the clans will remain faithful to a king that sits in his chambers like a frightened rabbit while his kingdom crumbles into anarchy? Hergung’s physicians hover around him like bees, but even they know his days are numbered. Hergung shall not live to rule another summer, and he has no heir who is experienced enough to replace him. The selection of his successor will fall to the council.”

  Silence fell in the room. “I am a loyal subject of King Hergung, and I support his rule. You speak treason, woman.”

  “I speak truth!” Bolrakei slammed her fist on the table. “By Golka, you are a greater fool than I thought! Are you really loyal to the king? Because he’s going to die, and everyone knows it. Eventually, Klora-Kana will become the most powerful clan on the mountain, and I shall become queen. I am high-born, and no one else has the resources or the power to challenge me.”

  “You are not fit to be the queen! You have neither the strength nor the wisdom.” Skemtun crossed his arms in front of his chest and glared.

  “Believe what you will—your opinion matters not. I shall be the queen, a queen of legend! All your sour apples shall not sway the clans against me.”

  “And what about the Vardmiter rebels? Utan and his people will never follow you. How will you include them in your deceitful plans?”

  Bolrakei waved her hand indifferently. “Meh! To me, the Vardmiters are less than nothing. Those lowly traitors shall bow to me yet.”

  “Ha! Such confidence! What if Utan does not agree to your demands? His numbers are greater than any other clan.”

  Her stony gaze fixed on him. “Once I become queen, I’ll raise ten legions to march against the Vardmiters. Utan will have no choice but to accept my judgment. The rebels shall surrender, or else I shall slaughter them all—down to the last man.”

  Skemtun’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You cannot mean this.”

  Bolrakei leaned forward and stabbed her finger in the air. “Yes I do… every word of it. Do not misunderstand me, Skemtun. I shall assign workers as I see fit, and your clan shall become the lowest caste. However, fear not! There will always be dwarves below you. After I crush the rebellion, the Vardmiters will return to Mount Velik—in chains. They shall be our slaves, stripped of all their rights and privileges. They shall not be allowed to vote, own property, or even choose their own mates. That is their punishment for the havoc they have wrought.”

  “You are despicable,” he said.

  Bolrakei’s cold eyes met his, and Skemtun saw that she was deadly serious. Skemtun could not even respond. He rose from his chair, turned on his heel, and left the table.

  Moments later, he looked back over his shoulder and noticed that several of his own clan members had stayed behind to congratulate his rival. One dwarf even kissed Bolrakei’s ring.

  As Skemtun walked away, he was overcome by a great weariness. His anger fell away, leaving only sadness. He reached his quarters and sank down into an old chair. When he glanced up, a shift of light caught his eye. A huge bronze mirror stood in the corner, and Skemtun stared at the old man looking back at him from its reflection. The lines on his face had grown deeper, and a scraggly beard had turned from brown to gray. His hooded eyes revealed deep fatigue and something else—the impotence of his anger.

  His clan had been mining this mountain for thousands of years. Most were still dedicated to their ancestral jobs, but some of the clan had already started to clean sewage and pick up garbage. Skemtun had told himself that it was only temporary, but as the seasons passed and fewer men chose the mining pick, he had begun to fear that the tools of the Marretaela would soon be the mop and bucket. Was Bolrakei right? Would his clan become the new outcasts? He felt the walls of Bolrakei’s trap falling all around him.

  Would his people be shunned and displaced, treated like outsiders? Bolrakei was right about one thing—with the Vardmiters gone, the lowest clan was now Marretaela, and he had neither the ener
gy nor the resources to challenge her.

  Skemtun set his teeth grimly. He knew, in the deepest part of his soul, there was nothing he could do to stop her.

  Endrell the Smuggler

  Sela and Brinsop flew through the night. The northern winds blew strong and carried them faster through the desert. By sunrise, they were within sight of the city. They spiraled down to land on the palace rooftop, where Tallin and Duskeye were already waiting for them.

  The dragons exchanged pleasantries, and then both lay down on the warm cobblestones and went to sleep. Sela and Tallin greeted each other briefly. “Hello, Tallin.” Sela nodded politely.

  “Good day, Sela,” he replied, raising his hand to his collarbone as a gesture of respect.

  “Is the prisoner ready for questioning?”

  “I prepped him, but he refuses to cooperate. Other than the kudu oil, we found nothing else of interest in his belongings. I saved his saddlebags in case you wanted to check them yourself.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I have everything I need. Please lead the way.” Sela grabbed her dusty rucksack and flung it over her shoulder.

  “Before we go—are you hungry? The prisoner can wait, if you would prefer to rest a little and eat,” said Tallin.

  She shook her head. “I could certainly use a hot meal and a bath, but no... I’ll interrogate him first.”

  Tallin nodded. “Follow me, then. The smuggler is being held under guard in my private quarters. I kept him separated from the other prisoners, as you requested.”

  The two dragon riders left the ramparts together, walking into the castle through the rooftop entrance. Although he preferred sleeping outside in the desert, as Tallin’s official duties had increased, he stayed more often inside the city walls. He now had a permanent suite near the roof, with a giant open window so he and Duskeye could leave directly from their quarters.

  As the pair passed through the hallways, servants stopped what they were doing and bowed respectfully. Two guards stood watch at the door to Tallin’s room. They opened it as Tallin and Sela approached, closing it firmly once the riders had passed inside.