The Balborite Curse (Book 4)

by Kristian Alva

  Just before his consciousness slipped away, there was a loud crash. Skera-Kina glanced over her shoulder and stared dumbfounded as the red gates of Highport creaked open.

  Mugla hobbled out slowly, leaning on her cane. She smiled sweetly, cleared her throat, and said, “Excuse me, young lady, but I would appreciate it if you stepped away from my nephew.”

  Old Grudges

  Mugla Hoorlick faced Skera-Kina with a placid expression. “Nice sword you have there, missy. You should set it down.”

  “Stay out of this, you old witch,” barked the assassin. “I’ll deal with you later.” Tallin was unconscious, his skin turning blue as the vines drew tighter around his neck. Skera-Kina leaned down and flipped his head back, exposing his neck. Then she raised her sword again to strike.

  Mugla’s eyes narrowed. She pounded her cane into the ground, and it transformed into a glowing staff. A ball of green flame erupted on its knobby end. The old sorceress raised her finger and pointed at Skera-Kina. “I’m asking you to step back, and I’m not going to ask you again.”

  Skera-Kina didn’t budge. She looked at Mugla and sneered.

  “Have it your way, then.” The old woman raised her staff, and there was a crackling sound. The wind picked up, creating a whirlwind of pebbles in the dirt. The little cyclone seemed to circle about wildly, and then focused on Skera-Kina, driving her away from Tallin and ripping the sword out of her grip. The sword flew through the air and landed next to Mugla’s feet.

  Skera-Kina’s complexion became blotchy with anger. She clawed the air, leaping forward to attack the old woman. Without flinching, Mugla swung her staff like a club. Her aim was true, and it struck Skera-Kina hard across the face, knocking her back.

  Mugla marched forward and strategically placed herself in front of Tallin’s body. She pointed at Skera-Kina with her staff and said firmly, “Now listen, you wicked shrew, you’ve caused enough trouble here already, and I don’t want to have to kill you. So you run along now—just run along!”

  Skera-Kina rose up in shock, so livid with fury that she was unable to speak. She charged toward Mugla, her body glowing with energy. Mugla dodged and unleashed a blast of freezing air into Skera-Kina’s face. It was so cold that ice crystals formed on her eyebrows and eyelashes. It stunned her, and she covered her face with her hands.

  “Don’t test me, girl. If you push me, you’ll leave me no choice,” said the old witch. Her voice was softer now, more menacing. “I’ve been spellcasting for over three hundred years. I’ve forgotten more spells than you’ll ever know!”

  Skera-Kina circled to attack again, but this time she was more wary. She threw a fireball, but Mugla stood her ground, deflecting it easily with her staff.

  “Right then,” Mugla rasped. “You’ve run out of chances.” She threw off her shawl and raised the staff above her head. A streak of greenish fire erupted from the tip, and Skera-Kina blinked in surprise as a burst of flame shot toward her. For a moment, the air was filled with black smoke.

  Another spell hit Skera-Kina and she stiffened. Seconds later, she fell to the ground, gasping for air. Before she could rise, Mugla cast a blazing circle of green flame around her.

  Mugla grinned smugly. “That’s an old spell, dearie. One rarely used—most sorcerers don’t like using paralysis fire anymore, but I find that it has its uses. Don’t try crossing the circle, or you’ll regret it.”

  Mugla kneeled down and slapped Tallin’s face gently. “Tallin? Wake up, dear.” She slapped him again, a little harder. This time, he shifted and groaned.

  His eyelids fluttered open, and color flooded back into his cheeks. “Aunt? What happened?” His voice was hoarse. “My head’s throbbing.”

  “You were attacked. Be still a moment. I need to free you.” Mugla muttered a quick spell, and the vines withered and fell away, exposing deep bruises on his arms and around his neck. She clucked her tongue as her fingers moved across his body. “Your right arm is fractured in two places, and you have several broken ribs, as well.”

  Behind them, Skera-Kina paced inside the ring like a caged animal, waiting for the opportunity to escape. Sparks flew as she tested the perimeter of the circle for areas of weakness.

  “Get up, Tallin. We must move quickly,” she said. “That spell won’t hold her forever. She’s growing stronger and stronger, and my power is weakening. She’s too powerful—the best I can do is hold her at bay.”

  “I can’t allow her to escape,” Tallin protested. “She’s a threat to us all—I must stop her before she invades the mountain.”

  Mugla shook her head. “You can’t harm her while she’s within the circle. Any spell that you cast against her will be reversed against you. We must retreat inside the mountain.”

  “It’s my duty to stop her before she can harm anyone else!”

  “Sorry, but there is no help for it—you’ll get killed if you step inside that circle, and you’re in no shape to fight,” Mugla repeated. “You have half your strength—you don’t stand a chance against her in your condition.”

  Tallin felt sick with rage. He wanted to fly at Skera-Kina’s throat. A shower of sparks erupted behind them. Skera-Kina bellowed, hurling magic against the wards that held her.

  Mugla frowned. “For once in your life, stop arguing with me and listen!” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “We must go. Her strength is beyond imagining.”

  “Very well,” Tallin muttered. He stood up, facing Skera-Kina, and was surprised to see humor in her eyes.

  She bared her sharpened teeth and hissed. “I’ll kill you yet, dragon rider. I’ll get you—both of you.”

  “You’ve failed to kill me again. Shouldn’t you find other ways to amuse yourself?”

  “Don't worry,” she said, advancing to the very edge of the circle. “I’ll destroy you before this year is finished—even if it costs me my last breath.”

  Mugla gasped; her face flushed pink. Tallin moved forward to steady her—Mugla’s strength was ebbing fast. “We must get back inside the mountain!” he said.

  “Wait!” Mugla said weakly. “Go pick up the sword.”

  Tallin looked back at the blade. It was lying on the ground at the edge of the path. He hesitated. “I dare not touch it. It’s enchanted.”

  “That’s a dwarvish blade,” Mugla said, “and the enchantment won’t harm you. I crafted that sword myself over two hundred years ago. It will feel hot to the touch, but nothing more.”

  Tallin knelt down to retrieve the blade, groaning as his broken ribs objected. He felt a flash of heat and light that instantly made him feel better. The blade shimmered a brilliant blue, then turned to white fire. What a magnificent weapon, he thought.

  “That is the Sword of Sedaria. It’s a warrior’s blade. Bolrakei may have bartered it for a trifle, but I’m stealing it back. It belongs to us now.”

  Skera-Kina watched furiously as Tallin sheathed the sword in his belt. “That sword is mine—you have no right to it!” she shrieked in desperate rage, throwing her body against the circle in a wild frenzy to free herself. Tallin heard a sizzle and the putrid smell of burnt flesh.

  The green fire surrounding Skera-Kina began to waver, and Mugla swayed on her feet. He could not wait much longer—his aunt was growing weaker with each passing second. Tallin steadied Mugla with his good arm and helped her back inside the mountain. The guards rushed to seal the doors as they rushed inside.

  Just in time, the gates swung shut with a clang. Moments later, an ear-splitting rumble filled the air, followed by a tremendous crash against the walls as Skera-Kina resumed her attack.

  “Man the gates!” Tallin shouted. He could hear the iron hinges rasping under the strain. The walls shook and quivered, and rock showered down around them. “Support those hinges!” he ordered, as men scrambled everywhere.

  Mugla lay dazed near the doorway, too weak to move. Tallin tried to ignore the shooting pains in his arm and chest. His arm was swollen to twice its normal size and his ribs ached. He felt stunned; eve
ry breath he took was like drawing fire into his lungs. Though exhausted and injured, he could not rest. He could not risk a healing spell—it might weaken him so much that he would faint, and he knew he would have to hold the gates alone.

  The clan leader, Utan, was busy adding wood braces to the gates and surrounding walls. His beard was drenched in sweat, and he rushed about like a man in a fever, doing his best to perform the duties of three men. Guards stationed themselves at the doors, armed with a motley collection of weapons—knives, pickaxes, rusty swords, and improvised tools.

  Utan tried his best to calm the terrified dwarves, urging them to shield themselves as best they could from falling debris. Women and children fled to hide in the deepest caverns of the mountain; others huddled in groups near the doors, paralyzed by fear.

  Tallin looked around in dismay. The Vardmiters were brave, but they would be no match for Skera-Kina.

  The doors trembled as Skera-Kina struck again and again. He bit his lip and whispered a desperate spell to strengthen the iron hinges. He added a second spell to strengthen the surrounding walls, not knowing if it was already too late, or if either spell would work at all.

  Urgent moments passed. Torches bobbed on the walls every time the ground shook. Every thunderous blow was like driving a chisel into dry plaster—all around them, the walls and ceiling crumbled. Rubble fell from the walls and ceilings, creating clouds of choking dust. From inside the mountain, Tallin could hear Skera-Kina shouting out horrible words of destruction.

  Eventually the blasts lessened, and then ceased altogether. With piercing relief he saw that Mugla had awakened. She uttered a faint cry and sat up, blinking, her eyes glazed with confusion. “How long have I been unconscious?”

  “Only a short while. The attack has stopped.” His legs trembled and he felt a dull ache over his entire body. His chest was on fire.

  Mugla nodded and got up, walking toward the door. She opened the little panel and peered outside. “Skera-Kina is gone. What a nasty creature she is.”

  She scratched her arms absently. Now that Tallin had the time to notice, he saw that Mugla’s face and arms were covered with tiny blisters, a side effect of her spell.

  Tallin ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m the one she’s after. I must leave this place. As long as I stay here, you’re all in danger.”

  “But why you?” Mugla asked in confusion. “Is it some kind of personal vendetta?”

  Tallin nodded. “She wants revenge. She has a grudge against me—there’s a history of bad blood between us. The Vardmiters were just caught in the middle of it.” In a humorless voice, Tallin added, “I’ll call Duskeye to pick me up. If anything, I know that my leaving will draw Skera-Kina away from this place. There’s nothing here that she wants or needs. With your permission, I’ll take the sword, too. If she knows it’s here, she may attack again in order to recapture it.”

  “All right.” She nodded. “But let’s worry about the sword later; leave it here with me. For now, go up to my chambers and lie down for a while. I’m in better shape than you right now, so I’ll watch the gates while you rest.” Tallin opened his mouth to protest, but a quick, hard look from the old woman stopped him. “Go clean yourself up and go to bed—that isn’t advice, that’s an order.”

  He didn’t have the energy to argue. After getting directions from her, Tallin walked up to Mugla’s chambers and said a healing spell to repair his arm and broken ribs. I'll just lie down for a moment, he thought, but as soon as he put his head down, he was asleep.

  Down at the front gate, Utan was now gathering men to help clean up debris. Mugla sat nearby, watching tiredly as the men worked to clear the loose rock and rubble that lay everywhere. Utan and his guards reinforced the surrounding walls with mixed concrete. It would be dry by the next day.

  Mugla tried to stay awake, but by the time the sun rose the next morning she had dozed off in her seat. She woke with a start when she heard someone screaming nearby. A curious boy had drawn the enchanted sword from its scabbard, screaming as it seared his flesh. The blade clattered to the ground. Crossing the room, she grabbed the boy’s hand. His palm was covered in welts. The boy was hurt and trying desperately not to cry.

  Mugla frowned; the sword’s hilt had scorched the child’s palm badly. “Curatio,” she said, and the skin healed. “You've been a naughty boy,” she said, cuffing his ear. “Don’t touch things that don’t belong to you! Now go.” The frightened boy ran off in the opposite direction.

  Mugla picked up the sword and examined it carefully in the light of the flickering torches. She had forgotten about the enchantment she had set upon the sword. No!—her breath caught in her throat as the realization hit her. Since she was the sword’s maker, only she could brandish the sword and command its full potential. She was the only one… or someone who carries her bloodline. Tallin and Skera-Kina touched the blade without ill effects. That could only mean one thing—that Skera-Kina was related to her by blood.

  Mugla staggered against the wall. How is this possible? I’ve got to find out for sure—and nobody can know about this until I do!

  She said a silent prayer of thanks that her nephew hadn’t woken up yet. Then she slid the sword back into its sheath and hurried away from the gates.

  A New Beginning

  Mugla pushed the hair out of Tallin’s face and shook his shoulder gently, hoping that he did not have any other injuries.

  “Tallin, wake up.” He groaned and turned over.

  “How long did I sleep?” he muttered, wincing as he felt the pain from his nearly-healed ribs. Tallin placed his fingers to his forehead and rubbed.

  “Long enough. Let me look at those bruises.” He didn’t argue as she pulled off his tunic. She rubbed her hands together, then placed them one at a time on Tallin’s ribcage and right arm. The skin was still bright purple in many places. “That looks like it hurts.”

  “I’m fine. The bones are set, but it will take a few days for them to heal completely. I didn’t want to waste all my energy on a healing spell, especially under the circumstances.”

  Mugla nodded, with concerned eyes. “I understand.” They both knew that healing spells took a lot of energy.

  “I contacted Duskeye before I fell asleep. He’s on his way here to pick me up.” While he could communicate with Duskeye easily over great distances, he still felt exhausted. He had barely managed to send a message to his dragon before he fell asleep.

  Mugla patted Tallin’s cheek and reached for her sweater. “I’ll make us some breakfast,” she said, sliding to her feet. “I’m lucky enough to get fresh eggs once in a while.” She scooped up a brown egg and cracked it into a pan. She cooked the egg until it sizzled, and then slid it between two slices of bread. She brought him the sandwich on a plate along with a mug of tea. “Here, eat this. You’ll feel better.”

  Tallin accepted the food gratefully. While he ate, he examined the sword and saw faint writing on the hilt. The scabbard was red and inlaid with striking gold symbols—even the sheath was beautifully warded with spells. “This is a peerless weapon. I had no idea that you knew how to craft weaponry.” He turned the sword over in his hands. “The workmanship is superb—only a handful of smiths could create something so fine.”

  Mugla shrugged. “It’s been over a hundred years since I crafted a weapon. In my old age, I lost the desire to make objects that help men kill each other.” She said it without conceit—the one thing she was sure of was her own ability. “I’ll give you permission to take this sword when you leave, but only if I can come with you.”

  Tallin paused for a moment, surprised by the request. “You don't understand—it’s too dangerous.”

  “I’m coming with you.” Before he could raise another objection, she held up her hand to stop him. “Rest assured that I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself; I wouldn't have invited myself along had I the slightest doubt. Now, what’s our itinerary?”

  Tallin saw it was useless to argue with her. “I’m g
oing back to the Elder Willow. Duskeye has been searching for wild she-dragons. I need to check his progress, and I’m going to ask Chua for a foretelling. I need to know what Bolrakei and Druknor are planning to do. I should have done it weeks ago.”

  “Chua, that old soothsayer,” she chuckled. “Is he still as blind as a bat?”

  “Yes… Chua and Starclaw remain sightless.”

  “The elves could do something about that, you know—they can cast regeneration spells. It’s a shame they’re so stuck-up and self-centered. Those elves won’t lift a finger to help mortal folk unless there’s something in it for them.” She went on, musingly, “But who knows? I happen to remember that Queen Xiiltharra owes me a boon. Maybe I can trick a favor out of those toffee-nosed snobs.”

  Tallin looked at her wonderingly. “That’s all we can hope for.”

  ***

  Duskeye arrived at Highport two days later. He was quiet and somber. When Tallin pressed him for information about the females, Duskeye brushed his questions aside, reluctant to divulge anything more than vague details.

  Tallin decided to let the matter rest until they returned to the Elder Willow. After warding the front gate with various spells, Tallin and Mugla left Highport conspicuously, in the middle of the afternoon, riding Duskeye into the sky.

  They rode the dragon through the night. Mugla slept in the saddle, snoring softly while Tallin embraced her fragile frame. They landed briefly to rest and eat, and they were off again, proceeding south. They flew over hills and plains, following the path of the river and passing close to the land when it was warm.

  Finally they arrived. Chua was waiting for them at the edge of the wood, meditating as usual. Starclaw lay quietly nearby. Pinda and Marron were still there, and they greeted Tallin warmly.

  Mugla went up to Chua and embraced him. “How are you doing, you old scoundrel?”

  Chua grinned. “Just who are you to be calling me a scoundrel, you old spindle-shanks!” They laughed together as though it was a joyful reunion.