The Balborite Curse (Book 4)

by Kristian Alva

  “How can you be so certain that the clans will fall into war? Hergung is still king, and he supports a peaceful compromise to the clan rebellion. Have you the gift of Sight?”

  “I do not need the gift of prophesy to know that Hergung shall not survive another winter, and his son is too young to succeed him. The clans have had years to work out their differences, and have not! In Mount Velik, there is one whose power grows stronger with each passing season, and it is she that will take Hergung’s place.”

  “Bolrakei.” He pounded his fist on the table in frustration. “That manipulative, scheming witch…”

  A humorless laugh escaped Sisren’s lips. “She’s crafty and as ruthless as they come. And she knows how to manipulate others to get her way. Unfortunately, she’s ambitious and intelligent enough to rule. The clans treat her with deference, and she pushes strongly for war. If she takes the throne, she will crush the rebellion by force. Bolrakei will never accept a treaty from the Vardmiters—she wants to make an example out of them.”

  “I knew of Hergung’s weakened condition, but not of Bolrakei’s plans. Skera-Kina almost killed her five years ago, when she infiltrated the mountain. Bolrakei was tortured and left for dead. She survived, but I discovered that she had been passing information to Skera-Kina for years. Once Bolrakei’s collusion with the Balborites was exposed, she was stripped of her office. I assumed that she had abandoned any leadership aspirations.”

  “Bolrakei has never given up her ambitions. She would declare herself a queen tomorrow, if she thought the clans would accept her. Hergung is crippled by illness, and Bolrakei’s power grows. There is no clan leader powerful enough to challenge her.”

  “I didn’t know she was reinstated,” he said.

  “Then you have been ill-informed. Bolrakei aims to supplant King Hergung, either by controlling him through puppetry, or removing him by force. Hergung’s health has been steadily declining for years, and no one would question her if he were to die.”

  “Why did the dwarf council reinstate her? The mountain of evidence against Bolrakei was damning. Hergung could have executed her for treason. She was utterly disgraced.”

  Sisren looked at him with flashing green eyes. “Hergung should have executed her—but he didn’t. There’s a separate set of laws for the rich and powerful—and Bolrakei is both of those things. She bribed the dwarf council for her reinstatement, claiming that any collusion with the Balborites was against her will. Her request was granted. No one can stop her now. Bolrakei’s ascension to the throne is all but assured.”

  The rain had stopped, and the breeze coming in from the doorway smelled fresh and cool. “I must go,” Tallin said, standing suddenly. He drained the last swallow from his flagon and turned to leave. “My ship will be leaving soon.”

  “Wait,” she said, placing her hand on his forearm. “I’ll walk with you.” She rose from her seat and put on her cloak.

  “As you wish,” he replied.

  Sisren was taller than Tallin by more than a hand’s-breadth, and he had to tilt his chin to look into her eyes. He felt the caress of her hand, but her touch left him cold. Despite her beauty, he felt nothing for her.

  As they exited the tavern, Tallin dug in his pocket and dropped a coin into the musician’s hat. The man tipped his cap and smiled up at him.

  The once-crowded streets were now deserted, and most of the vendor stalls were closed. Tallin returned to the livestock area and paid the farmer for the hog, which had been slaughtered and packed in ice.

  Tallin slipped the farmer a few extra coppers to deliver the meat to his ship before the city gates closed. He looked up at the sky. Overhead, the clouds had cleared and stars began to appear.

  “I must go,” he said, with a shred of a smile. “The hour is late, and the ship’s captain won’t wait for me.” Tallin felt the beginning of a headache settling around his temples.

  They said their goodbyes awkwardly at the city gates. “May Baghra guide you,” she said, placing her hand over his curled fingers.

  She smiled, and once again Tallin felt prickles along his spine, but they were even stronger this time.

  “Thank you,” he replied, covering his mouth as if he were coughing. Instead, he quietly whispered a warding spell. He felt a burst of power; Sisren gasped and yanked her hand away, but it was too late. The damage was done.

  She had been touching him when he uttered the spell, and his hastily spoken words shattered Sisren’s carefully built illusion. Her true face appeared, with all her fair glamour stripped away.

  Tallin frowned deeply. “I suspected as much—you’re one of them.”

  She was... ugly. Her ears were pointed and longer, her skin slightly greenish. Her hair, once a glorious mane of copper curls, was now a tangled mass of rust-colored knots. Tallin saw her true face—the face of an elf half-ling.

  “How could you?” she cried out, her cheeks flush with embarrassment and rage.

  “I make no apologies. I sensed something—you tried using faerie magic on me, to manipulate me. You’ve disappointed me greatly, Sisren.”

  “It’s none of your business!” she shouted. “You meddlesome dwarves are all alike!”

  “I could say the same of you elves,” he shot back, flicking her a disgusted glance. “Don’t bother trying to explain yourself—I don’t want to hear your reasons anyway. You chose to hide your true nature. Take your spitting rage elsewhere, and don’t debase yourself any further with me.”

  Sisren shook with fury, but did not respond. Instead, she turned on her heel and left. As she walked away, Tallin saw a bright shimmer as her fairy glamour was restored.

  Without another backward glance, Tallin left Morholt.

  The Vardmiter Clan

  Tallin jogged to the river, making it to the docks just in time. He ignored the captain’s angry stare and went below deck. The water was calm on this night, but sleep would not come. He sat in the clean straw, trying to rest, but he could not settle his thoughts.

  The ship continued up the river, stopping several times along the way to unload cargo and pick up new goods. Tallin remained the only passenger, and he kept to himself, avoiding the crew whenever possible.

  Days later, the ship passed beyond Ironport, and Tallin disembarked. There were patches of snow on the ground, and the air was bitterly cold. The waning light of the dusk turned the horizon a pale shade of orange. He went quickly into town and bargained for a cart and horse: an old chestnut gelding with a graying face and a calm demeanor. The seller wanted ten silver pieces, but Tallin haggled him down to eight.

  The horse was older than he would have liked, but fit enough to ride. Tallin placed the sow carcass in the cart, packing the meat with snow again before continuing his journey.

  He crossed a narrow bridge and started on the main road toward the Highport Mountains. The path veered upward through the ancient mountain range that was now the home of the Vardmiter clan. He knew these territories well enough; the area had changed little since his childhood. A few cottages lined the road at first, but these eventually disappeared as the road became steeper.

  Mist gathered around him, and the air grew colder and thinned. Evergreens replaced birch trees.

  The way became narrower as he rode on, and the road eventually became a rocky path. The cart slowed his progress considerably, and he now regretted having purchased the meat.

  However, the path remained clear, and he only saw a handful of other travelers. When Tallin heard others on the road, he moved his horse and cart to the side and cast a simple concealment spell. Once the other travelers moved on, he dropped the spell and continued on his way.

  At night, he slept under the stars on a bed of evergreen boughs. The temperature dropped during the night, and although he was uncomfortably cold, he didn’t want to attract attention by making a fire. He lay awake most nights, wrapped tightly in his cloak, feeling the dampness of the forest surrounding him.

  Eventually, only tall evergreen trees surrounded him, l
ining both sides of the path as far as he could see. The undergrowth was lush and green, with tangled ferns and creeping vines everywhere he looked. The vegetation was so thick and tall that it obscured anything beyond the road.

  One morning, after he had been traveling for several days, he saw a gray eagle overhead, a freshly-caught fish wriggling in its huge talons. The bird landed in a nearby tree to eat its meal, and Tallin stopped for a few moments to admire its beauty. He resisted the urge to call the majestic bird to him—eagles were rarely seen in the desert.

  That same day, he discovered a circle of smooth white pebbles at the foot of an ancient tree. He picked up one of the glistening stones and felt the immediate spark of faerie magic.

  There are tree pixies here, he thought, placing the pebble back on the grass. The little creatures were fond of creating mischief, so he kept an idle watch for them, but did not see any, even in the morning when they were known to drop down from the trees and bathe in dew.

  Shortly after midday the mist cleared somewhat, and the huge gates of Highport became visible. Once a great mining fortress, the labyrinth of caves had been abandoned long ago. Not even the Kynn Oracle had a record of its previous inhabitants. Only the elves were old enough to know anything about the people who had once occupied this mountain, and it was doubtful that they cared enough to remember.

  The old iron gates had been rebuilt and painted a garish shade of red. From a distance, the huge doors looked like two pools of blood against the mountainside. There was a little graveyard near the entrance, and simple granite headstones dotted the ground outside.

  When the Vardmiters first arrived in Highport, they were forced to dig many graves, most of them for children. The deaths slowed as the years went by, and now the clan was stronger.

  Most of the shrubbery outside the mountain was eaten up by the Vardmiters’ goats, but an old apple orchard outside the gates gave fruit. Tallin rode along slowly and arrived at the main gates just before sunset. From deep inside the mountain, he heard the clanging of iron tools. The Vardmiters were hard at work, forever expanding their new home.

  As he approached the gate, Tallin saw two mismatched staves, wrapped with a colored ribbon. On each stave flew a tattered yellow pennant, the Vardmiters’ attempt at an official flag.

  When he was footsteps away, a tiny panel opened, and a gruff voice called out, “Halt! Identify yourself and state your business! Are ye friend or foe?”

  Tallin raised his hand and announced solemnly, “I am Tallin Arai, dragon rider. I am here to visit my kinswoman, the Lady Mugla Hoorlick. She is not expecting me. I have a message for her of utmost importance.”

  Through the tiny slit, he saw the guard’s eyes widen. Moments later, the doors swung open. The guard smiled, revealing several missing teeth and a cleft palate. He wore a surcoat and leggings, as well as a helmet that was covered in dents. The surcoat was a size too small and was stitched in several places. He grasped a halberd in one hand, sawed off at the bottom and chipped along the blade. It was his only weapon. The guard introduced himself as the “captain of the gate,” with a lisp so pronounced that Tallin had difficulty understanding him.

  The guard did not question why a dragon rider would arrive at their city, unannounced, on an old horse, tethered to a donkey cart with the carcass of a slaughtered hog in the back.

  The man bowed low. “Welcome, dragon rider! Please enter our humble keep. Our larder is yours.” Beyond the doors, the caverns seemed dark and foreboding. Tallin waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.

  He turned and addressed the guard. “This horse, cart, and pig are my welcoming gift to Utan. Please see that they are taken care of.”

  “I will, my lord,” he replied, accepting the horse’s reins. The guard pointed down a cavern on the right. “Follow that path to reach a set of stairs up to the main level. From there, someone will help you find Miss Mugla.” Tallin nodded his thanks. The guard bowed again and turned around, leading the horse away.

  Tallin exited the chamber and walked about ten paces before he saw the glow of torchlight. Dozens of oily torches sputtered on the walls, spread out over sporadic intervals. The pungent smell of burning animal fat carried through the air.

  Tallin paused for a moment, absorbing the sights and sounds around him. He could hear children’s laughter and the sound of a hammer against an anvil. Water dripped constantly in these caves, and the path was muddy and crumbling on one side.

  An adult dwarf passed by him and nodded, and then a few moments later a child did the same. Although they eyed him curiously, they greeted him with warm smiles. Tallin was pleased to see that the dwarves at Highport now looked healthy and well fed. Several seasons ago, so many of them were starving.

  Tallin arrived at the Welcomer’s Hall, which was simply a larger cave off the main atrium. There was a single torch on the wall and wooden stools for seats. Tallin could smell the thick odor of manure mixed with topsoil. The cave had a steep drop overlooking the main cavern. Tallin peeked out over the edge and saw vast mushroom fields, as far as the eye could see. Mushrooms grew everywhere, including up the walls. There was a pond below, as well as animal pens. Hundreds of goats bleated behind wooden fences, waiting to be led outside to graze.

  At the center of the mountain, a path traversed the inside of the caldera, where reflected sunlight allowed for limited agriculture. The Vardmiters worked hard to cultivate plants that would grow well in the dappled shade. From a distance, Tallin saw rows of crimson-leafed rhubarb, cabbage, and a variety of beans.

  An older dwarf walked by, pushing a handcart full of baskets. Several children followed behind him, each holding a basket. They gathered mushrooms as they walked, chattering happily. The dwarf straightened up and stretched. “Good day, sir!” he said with a wave. “Are ye the visitor?”

  “Yes,” Tallin responded. “I seek Mugla Hoorlick, your spellcaster. Do you know where she is?”

  The man seemed rather excited about this, and he nodded enthusiastically. “She lives in the upper chambers in a cave near the iron forge. Just a moment.” The man waved one of his youngsters over to him. “My son will find Miss Mugla for you.”

  The boy raced off in the opposite direction, running as fast as his feet would take him.

  Tallin exhaled deeply and sat down to wait.

  Mugla

  Mugla grabbed her tortoiseshell comb and tried to pull it through her hair, tugging at her unruly gray curls. The tangled mess was impervious and she gave up, opting instead to tie it back with a scrap of fabric. Her arthritic fingers struggled with the knot, but she finally succeeded, smoothing a few stray hairs back from her forehead.

  Her body ached. She was old, even for a dwarf. She had seen a lot in 450 winters. Or was it 451? She could never remember. Taking a moment to massage the crick in her back, she looked into the silver mirror hanging on the opposite wall. The reflection looking back at her was that of an old woman.

  Long ago, further back than she cared to remember, Mugla had been pretty. Many had asked for her hand, but she never married, choosing instead to study the magical arts. She became a skilled spellcaster, training with the finest dwarf mages in Mount Velik. She had a hazy recollection of those years, when she studied with the great masters.

  It all seemed so distant now, like a half-remembered dream. Mugla sighed—she could not recall what she looked like when she was a maiden—even the color of her hair escaped her. It had been gray for so long that she had forgotten.

  Now her face was seamed with countless wrinkles, her cheeks sunken, her hair wiry like a pig’s bristle. Some days she felt so old.

  Then she shivered. Enough of this nonsense! What am I complaining about? I need to get to work—these people need me. She flung a sheet over the mirror and walked into the kitchen.

  She poured herself a cup of hot tea, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and stepped outside.

  The main cavern was right outside her door. It was barely dawn, and the Vardmiters
were already hard at work. Groups of dwarves toiled below, working feverishly on new caves.

  Five years ago, the Vardmiter clan defied King Hergung and abandoned Mount Velik, moving west to the Highport Mountains.

  Their new home had insufficient caves, deep tunnels that led nowhere, and hazardous sinkholes in inconvenient places. Unlike Mount Velik, which had a logical structure, the Highport Mountains were a labyrinth of fragmented caverns. The Vardmiters dug new caves constantly, wherever there was space. It was not uncommon for several families to share a single cave, sleeping in cramped piles on the floor or crammed into hastily built bunk beds. Any new caves were quickly occupied by growing families. The Highport caves were not well suited to them, but somehow, the Vardmiters managed.

  Due in part to their history of strife, the Vardmiters believed that true prosperity existed in large families. Therefore, married couples were eager to produce as many children as possible to add to their “wealth,” and young women were married off right away. There were never any orphans, because another family immediately adopted any child who lost his parents.

  Since a dwarf’s fertility could last sixty years, it was common for a Vardmiter family to have twenty children or more. Despite their poverty, Vardmiter children seemed happy, and extended families were close.

  Mugla was the only mage serving the entire clan, so her cave was in a place of honor, elevated above the main hall. Her quarters were huge. When she first arrived here, Utan, the leader of the Vardmiter clan, was so thankful that he gave her the best sleeping furs and pottery to decorate her cave. She appreciated Utan’s thoughtfulness, but she would have preferred a smaller cave down in the main cavern with the other dwarves.