The Balborite Curse (Book 4)

by Kristian Alva

  “As far as I’m concerned, the priests are already using a nonbeliever.” Skera-Kina held her arms up. The swirling tattoos covering her skin were a walking testament to her dedication to the temple. “These markings are proof of my faith… where are yours?”

  “Your tattoos signify nothing. I am not mageborn, so I do not need a face full of black ink to prove my worth. I serve the temple as faithfully as you, albeit in a different fashion.” He crossed his legs and popped another grape in his mouth. “Moreover, who could replace me?”

  Skera-Kina smiled, as if she had caught him in a trap. “I know a dozen others who would gladly take your place. Don’t forget that.”

  Damn this infernal woman, he thought, swallowing his bitterness. He had to keep calm and play this deadly word-game with her—if she discovered that he was a traitor, she would eviscerate him. Skera-Kina’s eyes were fixed on Druknor’s hands, which began to tremble slightly. “I swore to serve the temple, the same as you! And I don’t appreciate what you are implying.”

  She watches me with such loathing, he thought.

  Skera-Kina glared, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m going to expose you for what you really are… a spineless traitor.”

  “Stop these wild accusations! What am I, compared to you? You are a master assassin, and I am just a spy—not even mageborn. In fact, I could just as easily accuse you of treason, so get out of my sight!”

  Her upper lip curled into a snarl. “Are you so bold to speak to me thus?” She stepped closer to his chair.

  He flinched. “What are you doing? Stay back!” His voice rose in alarm. Druknor’s two dogs barked menacingly, moving forward to defend their master.

  “You sicken me.” Skera-Kina waved a glowing hand. “Sofna,” she said, and the dogs collapsed in a jumble at her feet. She stepped over them soundlessly.

  Druknor’s face blanched. “Don’t come any closer! Guards! Guards!”

  "No one can hear you scream, you egotistical fool.” She slid toward Druknor slowly, like a snake stalking a mouse. “I cast a spell of silence as soon as your chamberlain left the room. Yell as loudly as you wish; you may as well be screaming into a windstorm.”

  “I order you to stand back!” he screamed. “I am the Duke of Sut-Burr!” His voice was frantic. “I will kill you—I swear I will!”

  She let loose a harsh bark of laughter. “Your pathetic title means nothing. I only answer to the priests. A king or a slave, it doesn’t matter to me—because you all die the same way.”

  Druknor gulped loudly. “You do not frighten me,” he whispered.

  Skera-Kina smiled. “You are lying... I can smell your fear.” She loomed over him now, silent and menacing. She was so close that he could smell the almond oil on her skin; it was used by the Balborite assassins to keep their tattoos dark and fresh.

  He sunk down in his seat, retracting his neck back like a turtle. “Don’t touch me, you vile woman!”

  In a blur, she clamped her hands over his wrists. Druknor struggled to free himself, but could not break her grip. She leaned in, her breath hot on his face. “You forget your place, Druknor. Allow me to remind you who you’re dealing with.”

  She pushed down hard with her left palm and heard a crack as his wrist snapped. Druknor screamed, and the sharp odor of urine filled the air. An amber stream ran down the seat cushion and pooled beneath his chair, trickling down in hot rivulets. She pushed again, and Druknor cried out as his other wrist collapsed.

  “Mercy!” he said, writhing in his chair like a trapped animal.

  She pressed her lips to his ear as if whispering to a lover. “Stop your sniveling and be silent. Do not beg for pity like a dog.” She leaned back, and Druknor crossed his limp hands on his lap, sobbing quietly.

  “Please, just leave me be,” he whimpered. “Go away…and leave me be.”

  “I intend to but first, you must listen.” She stepped back and picked up her cloak from the floor. “While it is true that I do not have authority to kill you, if you ever speak disrespectfully to me again, I’ll skin you alive and throw your body to your hounds. Is that clear?”

  Druknor nodded dumbly.

  “Good, good, I’m pleased we understand each other.” She reached over and patted Druknor on the head, as one would pat a dog.

  He looked up at her with terrified eyes. “W-what are you going to do to me now?”

  “To you? Nothing. I’m going to sleep. I had a long journey, and I’m tired. Tomorrow, I’ll search your entire keep, gathering information for the priests. I’ll be looking through all your records. Advise your men not to approach me, because anyone who interferes with my work shall be killed.”

  “B-but why did the priests send you here? Just for that? Or only to torture me? I would have provided any information that they wanted, if they had asked!”

  “The priests have been uncertain of your loyalties for some time. I am here to verify your… faithfulness to our cause.”

  Druknor didn’t like the sound of that, but he nodded his agreement. “Anything else?” he asked quietly, trying to keep his voice steady.

  An icy smile materialized on her lips. “Yes, as a matter of fact; a bit of friendly advice—you should clean up the urine on the floor in here. It’s slippery, and you wouldn’t want to accidentally break your neck.”

  With that, she spun on her heel and left. Druknor sat trembling on his wet chair, cradling his broken wrists. It was an hour before he had the courage to exit the room and find his healer.

  Outlanders

  Tallin and Duskeye stayed at the Southern Oasis for another night, enjoying Sa’dun’s hospitality and excellent food. On their last evening among the nomads, a feast was prepared, and they were honored with a storyteller’s performance. After the evening meal was over, Tallin and Duskeye said their goodbyes and ascended into the air, taking advantage of the cool evening air.

  The pair continued south, stopping frequently to rest and explore. Tallin’s promise to help Endrell’s wife and son had not been forgotten, but he was deeply distressed that Shesha, a surviving female dragon, might be starving to death somewhere in the desert.

  His eyes scanned the horizon constantly, searching for the sulfur mudhole. Finally, after many days of travel, he and Duskeye crossed over the Elburgian Mountains and into the southern territories.

  They arrived in Hwīt Rock soon after, landing in a forested area away from the main outpost. The area was clouded with fog. After decades of living in the desert, the frigid dampness of the air seemed foreign to him.

  He dismounted and donned his heavy cloak, drawing his hood down low over his face.

  “Stay hidden, and keep your eyes open,” he said to Duskeye. “It will be difficult enough to keep from drawing attention to myself.” Tallin’s dwarvish features made him an unusual sight, even in a busy port like this.

  Duskeye nodded his agreement. "I shall wait here until you return. Be careful."

  Tallin walked through the trees, avoiding the main path, then cut through a small meadow to the portside section of the harbor. Hwīt Rock was larger than he remembered, but the wharf still looked impeccably clean.

  He watched a sailboat maneuver carefully next to dozens of others already moored along the dock. At the waterfront, men unloaded cargo onto waiting carthorses, goods bound for nearby cities and villages. Everywhere he looked, people were conducting business.

  He encountered an old woman selling spiced ale, and she struck up a conversation with him. “Where do ye hail from, boy?”

  “Faerroe,” replied Tallin, “Just got into port today.” He accepted a cup of ale, paying her with a few copper coins.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “That town’s full o’ crooks. What brings ye ‘ere?”

  “I’ve come to purchase some herbs. Faerroe doesn’t have a proper apothecary shop—not a good one, anyway.”

  The woman smiled understandingly, accepting Tallin’s simple lie. “Oh, aye! I understand ye, the shops are better ‘ere, and t
he prices, too. Not all herbalists are good, but the one ‘ere is worth his salt—he does quite well for ‘isself.”

  Tallin nodded as if it was the most interesting comment in the world. The old woman was thrilled to have such a rapt audience, and she expounded her opinion on everything that was happening at the outpost. Tallin listened attentively to every word, responding frequently in order to continue the conversation. Eventually, the discussion turned to smuggling, as Tallin knew it would.

  “Yep, we've been havin’ a bit o’ trouble with smugglers here. Smuggled goods come through this port sometimes, but our mayor is workin’ hard to stop it. Dock sentries search the boats randomly now, and they’ve caught a few bad apples. The confiscated goods get turned over to the king. Usually they find stolen merchandise, but one time they found a ship full o’ slaves, headed for Balbor. A dozen of them—all tied up in the ship’s hold. That was a sad day; those poor wretches were in terrible shape.”

  This was the information that Tallin had been waiting for. “Who do you think is smuggling goods around here?” he asked as casually as he could.

  “Well, there’s a lot o’ theories, but…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Everyone knows it’s Druknor… Druknor Theoric.”

  Tallin gave her a blank stare, and she explained. “You know…the constable from Sut-Burr! He’s the gov’nor up there, but everybody ‘round here knows that Druknor’s no better than a common criminal.”

  “I see. I’ve never heard of him myself. Don’t much like the cold, so I’ve never been that far north. If Druknor’s so bad, why doesn’t the king do anything about it?”

  “Don’t rightly know. Maybe because no one seems to work for ‘im directly. Druknor hires a lot o’ mercenaries. But there’s always clues. A few outlanders come here to collect his goods every few days, and they’ve got loose lips. Everyone knows who they work for—‘cause they never shut up about it.”

  “They sound dangerous. I’d just as soon avoid them altogether,” said Tallin.

  “Well, don’t go to the miller’s shop, then. They’re downright chummy with that bugger. If ye ask me, they’re a hornet’s nest o’ trouble.”

  “Great, thanks for the tip.” Tallin smiled and walked away. The woman’s face fell once she realized her audience was gone.

  Now that he knew where the outlanders were staying, it would be easy. Tallin walked along the coastline, watching the boats come into port. Once darkness fell, a thick fog rolled in from the water, cloaking the entire outpost. The sky was dark, and there was no visible moonlight. Only the dim glow of scattered oil lamps lit the road.

  Once the shops closed and the streets emptied, Tallin walked away from the outpost and down a narrow street, which led to the small village. There were fewer than a dozen houses, along with other buildings used for storage. These were the few permanent residents who made this outpost their home.

  Tallin moved through the fog like a phantom, slipping back and forth between trees whenever he heard footsteps. He silently thanked the gods for his dwarvish eyesight, which made travel through the semi-darkness easy. No one saw him as he peeked through windows, stopping at every home.

  He didn’t see anything unusual until he reached the largest dwelling, which was also the farthest from the other homes. Tallin tiptoed quietly to the window.

  The sound of raucous laughter drifted through the air. Peeping through a tiny window, Tallin’s gaze fixed on two men seated inside, drinking ale. The glow of an oil lamp illuminated indigo tattoos on their necks and wrists, a telltale sign of the outlanders’ trade. The symbols were protective runes and had the power to block some spells. The runes made Tallin nervous.

  The outlanders were definitely northerners—pale complexion, blue eyes, and white-blond hair. There was also a third man in the room, older and greasy-haired, with a distended belly from overindulgent drinking. The fat man sat cross-legged on the floor, counting coins into stacks.

  In the shadows beyond the firelight, there was a mound of straw covered with a heavy blanket. Tallin felt discouraged. There wasn’t anyone else here. But then, he heard a loud wail. The straw moved!

  One of the men yelled, “Hey! Shut up and stop movin’ around, or I’ll give ye another fist in the gut!” There was a whimper, and the straw pile was motionless again.

  Tallin smiled. Success!

  These were the kidnappers, and their victims were alive. He crawled through the shadows, hiding behind a tree near the front door. Moments later, he threw a pebble toward the house. It hit the window, startling the men inside. Tallin heard their chairs scrape back on the floor.

  “What was that?” one said.

  “It’s nothing. Just the wind. Sit down and enjoy your beer.”

  Tallin waited a few seconds and tossed another pebble. This time, it hit the front door.

  “Bugger it, I’ll check the door,” the miller said, draining his cup before getting up from his spot on the floor. “It’s probably my idiot neighbor. He’s always complaining about something. I’ll straighten him out.”

  The miller opened the door and stepped outside. “There’s nobody—,” his words were cut short as Tallin sprinted forward and smacked the door against the man’s temple. He screamed, “Ow!” He didn’t even have a chance to look up before Tallin kicked him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

  “Ungh!” he gasped, crumpling to the floor. The miller rolled into a fetal position, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he struggled to draw air into his lungs. Tallin kicked him again, rolling his body back inside the cottage, then slamming the door behind him.

  Tallin drew his sword and faced them. The two bounty hunters hopped up, drawing their own weapons. The men were lean and tall, wearing blue-patterned leather armor. The first man said quietly, “Cut him off, Gunnar.”

  The second man made a motion to advance. He held a short knife in his right hand. “You’ve overpowered a fat old drunk. Good for you—but I guarantee that we won’t be such easy targets.”

  The blade hissed through the air in a silver blur, passing so close to Tallin’s neck that he felt it flutter against his skin. Tallin ducked sharply, and the blade stuck into the wall behind him.

  “Lucky,” growled the bounty hunter. The man lunged, but Tallin feinted with his sword, blocking the blow.

  The other one thrust forward, and another knife materialized in his hand. He aimed for Tallin’s armpit. Tallin twisted his body back and avoided the blade; the knife only grazed him.

  Swords flashed, and both men attacked Tallin at the same time. They pressed him back until he was almost pinned to the wall.

  Tallin dropped to the ground, twisting his body as he fell. His right leg swept under both men, flipping them onto their backs. The outlanders cursed and jumped up in an instant. This time, Tallin was in a better position, away from the wall. One of the bounty hunters winced—he had injured his ankle in the fall.

  Tallin noticed the limp and aimed for the man’s injured leg, swinging low with his sword. His aim was true, and his blade sliced a bloody rent in the man’s thigh. Bright red blood spurted from the wound, and the man collapsed, cursing as he fell. “The bastard stabbed me, Gunnar! Get ‘im before he gets away!”

  The other bounty hunter snarled and brought his sword down, aiming for Tallin’s neck. Tallin moved quickly, but was unable to avoid the blow completely. The weapon sunk deep into Tallin’s shoulder, cutting to the bone. He clenched his teeth in pain.

  Tallin drove his knee into his attacker’s stomach and lurched back, breathing hard. His injured arm hung at his side, limp and useless. Pain shot through his body, and blood soaked through the front of his tunic.

  Tallin knew he would have to use a healing spell, or he would lose too much blood. “Curatio,” he whispered under his breath. A shiver ran through his body as the healing spell drew its energy from him. The spell drained him by degrees, and he felt weaker and weaker with each passing second.

  It would be several minutes until the
shoulder healed enough to be of any use, and he would have to stall until then.

  Tallin glanced around the room. The miller, now recovered, rose up from the floor. He had a small knife in one hand, and an iron poker in the other, red-hot from the fireplace. The bounty hunter with the injured leg propped himself up against a chair and tore a piece of fabric from his undershirt to make a tourniquet for his leg.

  The other bounty hunter was unscathed, and he leapt forward again, aiming for Tallin’s injured shoulder. Tallin anticipated the attack and jumped forward to deliver a spinning kick. There was a sharp crack as the man’s jaw connected with Tallin’s foot, but the blow only stunned him.

  The man swung his fist, but Tallin ducked, landing a punch with his good arm before kicking him hard in the groin. The man collapsed with a groan, holding his groin in pain.

  Tallin withdrew, breathing heavily. He waited against the wall until the healing spell could finish repairing his shoulder. The drain on his energy was incredible—he felt exhausted, as if he had run many leagues without stopping.

  Now, the fat miller approached him, keeping his distance while swinging a hot poker in Tallin’s face. Despite his portly appearance, the man moved quickly, and Tallin’s flesh sizzled as the heated iron grazedhis cheek. He hopped forward and grabbed the miller’s forearm, twisting the poker out of his hand. It clattered to the floor.

  The miller swung his knife, but Tallin blocked his arm, flipped the knife, and sank it into the man’s cheek. The miller’s head lashed back with an agonized shriek; he clawed at his face, trying to pull out the blade. He succeeded and then fainted, falling onto the pile of straw in the corner.

  “Oooof!” emerged a muffled sound.

  The prisoners! Tallin rushed over and kicked the unconscious miller off the pile. The man rolled over and tumbled to the floor. Tallin looked back at the two bounty hunters—the one with the injured leg was awake but deathly pale from loss of blood. The other was on his hands and knees, rolling on the floor, still clutching his bruised groin.

  Tallin tossed aside mounds of straw, revealing two bound prisoners, a frightened boy and an unconscious older woman. Their wrists were chafed and bruised from the ropes. The boy was awake, his cheeks covered in bruises.