by Markus Heitz
“Tell me about your folk. Don’t they call you the dwarf haters?”
“Indeed, Your Majesty, which leaves me at liberty to expose their deceit,” he said quickly, determined to steer the conversation to less treacherous ground. “Remember the ax that killed Nôd’onn? It was in the fourthlings’ possession all along. They kept it back because they wanted to be Girdlegard’s saviors. It was their intention that the human armies should be crushed.” He leaned forward. “They could have defeated Nôd’onn whenever they wanted, but they let your nephew die.”
Belletain gave him a long look, then roared with laughter. “I’m not falling for this nonsense. Why in the name of Palandiell would they—”
“Glory,” cut in Romo. “Glory, and power. The way they saw it, the human kingdoms weren’t showing enough gratitude for their defense of Girdlegard’s borders. And now they’re heroes, thanks to their scheming. They set themselves up as Girdlegard’s saviors because they wanted to take the reins. Thousands of humans died because of the fourthlings, and you thanked them for their treachery. Girdlegard is ruled by the dwarves; you welcomed them into your kingdoms, and even Lord Liútasil has fallen for their tricks.” He glanced at Lothaire’s portrait. “Thankfully, the thirdlings are loyal guardians of your people. We don’t want to rule your kingdoms—it’s enough to guard the gates.”
His speech had struck a chord, as he could tell by the expression on the king of Urgon’s face.
“I need to think,” said Belletain wretchedly. “If what you’re saying is true… It hurts my head to imagine what…” He broke off and raised a hand to his helmet. Even the light pressure of his fingers caused the broken sections of his skull to move apart. “Leave me a while. I’ll call for you when I’m…” He cried out, clutching the arms of his throne, and slumped to the side.
The doors flew open, admitting three physicians who set about reviving the king. One held his head, the other loosened his helmet, exposing his bandaged head, while the third unwrapped the dressing and inserted a needle into his skull. Romo watched in amazement as pale pink fluid spurted from Belletain’s brain, splashing into a bronze bowl.
“Wait in your quarters,” said one of the healers, whose efforts were focused on holding together his ruler’s crown. “His Majesty will be incommoded for some time.”
The dwarf assented with a growl, turning and leaving the chamber. Once outside, he smiled: Belletain would side with the thirdlings, and a wedge would be driven between the dwarves and their allies, just as his uncle had planned.
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Narmora raced through the corridors of the palace with little thought for the unborn baby in her womb. The person whose life she valued more than any other was critically ill.
She stopped and clutched her side, gasping for breath and feeling her lack of condition. The baby was still kicking in protest at the sudden burst of speed.
Her path was barred by Djern, who was standing guard outside the chamber where Andôkai was tending to the two wounded men.
“Let me through,” she said sharply, reaching for the handle. The metal giant stood firm, blocking the doorway entirely with his bulk. “Andôkai,” shouted Narmora angrily, “tell your bodyguard to let me in or I’ll force my way past him, I swear.”
A muffled answer sounded from the chamber, and Djern snapped out of his paralysis, allowing her to pass. Narmora heard his armor creaking and groaning as if the metal were under tremendous stress.
She rushed forward and burst through the double doors. The maga was bending over Furgas’s bed. His eyes were closed, his forehead shiny with perspiration, and the sheets looked damp.
Narmora hurried over. “Furgas,” she whispered fearfully. “His lips… They’re blue.” Glancing down, she saw the blood-soaked bandages around his abdomen. “He’s not…”
“No,” said Andôkai quickly. “Keep your voice down; he needs absolute quiet or he won’t recover from his wounds. The blade was poisoned; with what, I don’t know. It’s lucky the watchmen found him and brought him straight here. Samusin saved him.”
The half älf kneeled before her, sobbing with relief. “Thank you, Estimable Maga. I don’t know how to repay you.”
Andôkai signaled for her to rise. “You won’t be so eager to thank me when I’ve finished,” she said darkly. “My magic is strong enough to keep him alive, but I don’t have the power to cure him.” Her clear blue eyes searched Narmora’s face. “Furgas was poisoned by someone with knowledge of dark magic. The men who attacked him weren’t highwaymen; they were famuli of Nôd’onn’s. Furgas was brought here with a blade in his belly. It was stamped with Nôd’onn’s crest.”
Narmora straightened up and took hold of his cold, clammy hand, warming his fingers in hers. “Famuli? Why would the magus’s famuli ambush Furgas?” She stroked his pale face. “He knows nothing of magic.”
“No, but he works for me, and that’s enough. Nôd’onn’s famuli thought that the palace would pass to them; in their eyes, I’m a usurper.” She laid a hand on Narmora’s shoulder. “While the servants of evil are at large, Porista is in danger, and no one in Girdlegard is safe. Nôd’onn’s famuli must be defeated before it’s too late.” She paused. “Listen, Narmora, I need an apprentice—someone I can rely on, someone whom I can trust with my life. What if I were to die in the struggle against the magus’s supporters? Who would continue in my stead? When I’m gone, the enchanted realms of Girdlegard will fall to Nôd’onn’s disciples.”
Narmora closed her eyes. “If I were to help, could we heal him?” she asked hoarsely.
Andôkai interpreted the question as a pledge of support. “I’m sure of it,” she said, visibly relieved. “Together, you and I can make him well—but Furgas must be healed in half a cycle, or the poison will be his death. Your apprenticeship will be intensive.” She laid a hand on the half älf’s rounded belly. “Can you cope?”
“Yes,” came the determined reply. “No child should be born to a dead father and a grief-stricken mother.” She let go of Furgas’s hand and clenched her fists. The whites of her eyes darkened and fine lines spread like cracks across her narrow face. “My nursery songs will chronicle the passing of those who conspired against Furgas. No punishment can be too great.”
On the other side of the room, Rodario watched the scene in silence. His bandaged head was pounding horribly from its encounter with the highwayman’s cudgel, which counted among the least enjoyable experiences of his life. He was keenly aware that Narmora hadn’t looked in his direction, but he magnanimously forgave her. The father of her child was in a coma, and she had other things on her mind.
After the attack, Andôkai’s guardsmen had carried him to the palace while he watched in a daze as the ruined streets of Porista passed before his eyes. In spite of his wooziness, he knew for a fact that Andôkai hadn’t deemed his condition worthy of a charm or a spell. After a while, someone had cleaned his wounds and bandaged his head; he could picture the hands, but not the face.
Andôkai glanced over. “Feeling better, Rodario?”
Not wishing to appear a weakling, he mustered a valiant smile.
“Excellent,” she said briskly, “I’m sure you’re in a hurry to get home.”
His smile became a pout. “Fine,” he said proudly. “You’ve made it perfectly obvious that you don’t want me here.” He sat up cautiously, expecting his head to start spinning, but instead he felt irritatingly well. Sighing, he slipped his feet into his buckled shoes, stood up slowly and went over to Furgas’s bedside.
In the meantime, Narmora had composed herself and the signs of her älvish heritage, brought on by the emotional intensity of the situation, had disappeared from her face. Her eyes returned to their usual color, and her skin was flawless again. She looked the model of an expectant mother. “Rodario,” she said apologetically, laying a hand on his arm. “You mustn’t think I’m ignoring yo
u. It’s just I’m a bit…”
Rodario waved airily. “Don’t apologize; I understand.”
The maga looked at him squarely. “Answer me this: Can you take over from Furgas?”
“Me?” He raised his arms in astonishment. “You’re asking me, the best impresario in Girdlegard, to rebuild your city?” He was about to refuse when something made him change his mind. “I can always try.”
“Trying isn’t enough; I need someone who can do it,” she snapped. “If you don’t have the skill, I’ll hire someone else.”
“Never fear, Estimable Maga,” he assured her. “While poor Furgas is in a coma, your city will be in capable hands.” She eyed him skeptically, but he was too busy thinking about his salary to care. He gave a flamboyant bow. “As for my own affairs, they can wait. The construction of my theater, the premiere of the masterpiece that I—”
“Very well,” she said, interrupting his overblown speech. “Go home, get some sleep, and be ready to start in the morning. I don’t want any extra delays.” She turned to Narmora. “I’ll ask for your things to be fetched to the palace; there’s no shortage of space, as you know. I’ll leave it to you to choose a room.”
“I’ll stay here with Furgas. It’s big enough for—”
“No,” ruled Andôkai. “Furgas needs peace and quiet. Too much noise could elevate his heart rate and push the poison through his system. Come, we’ve lingered long enough.” She steered them to the door. “You can visit every orbit,” she told Narmora. “Sit with him, hold his hand if you want to, but don’t speak to him, and stay no longer than an hour. The slightest agitation could be the death of him.” She opened the doors, and Djern shifted to let them pass. “I’ve got a few things to do here, but I’ll join you in a moment.”
Narmora accompanied Rodario out of the palace. “Would you do me a favor?” she asked. “You’re an expert in disguise and dissimulation. Can you find out whether the assassins were acting alone?”
He beamed. “You’ve come to the right man. I’ll slink through the streets of Porista at the dead of night, searching for the magus’s treacherous disciples and…” He trailed off, remembering his encounter with the cudgel. But the thought of poor Furgas gave him the courage to play the hero in a drama without a script. “I’ll disguise myself properly for my protection. Leave it to me. The city will be rid of Nôd’onn’s accursed famuli sooner than Andôkai thinks.”
“I’d rather you didn’t tell the maga.”
“You want revenge? Dearest Narmora, are you sure it’s advisable in your condition?”
“Right now I feel stronger than ever; I’d fight Djern if I had to.” She unlocked the side gate, reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’ll do it, won’t you, Rodario?”
He gave her a hug. “I’ll do it,” he said reassuringly. He looked both ways; there was no one in sight. “I promise,” he said with a wave, and hurried away.
Free from prying eyes, he found the courage to open his left hand.
All the while he had been hiding a drop of the mysterious substance that, according to Andôkai, was responsible for poisoning his friend. He had been spattered with it when the second highwayman mistook him for Furgas.
Rodario raised his hand to his eyes and peered at the strange fluid. It was yellow, almost luminescent, and it reminded him of something, but he couldn’t think what. He thought about what Andôkai had said about the blade. He had no recollection of a crest or any kind of symbol on the dagger; in fact, the only part of the story that he could corroborate wholeheartedly was that Furgas had been the target of the attack.
It seems like someone isn’t telling the truth… In an instant, his reservations vanished: He couldn’t wait to get to the bottom of the mystery, so long as it wasn’t anything too sinister or dangerous…
VI
Fallen Kingdom of Lesinteïl,
Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Tungdil’s weapons belt was stretched to its limits. The leather cut into his shoulder, embedding itself diagonally across his chest. His downward journey toward the safety of the water had ended with an almighty jolt, forcing the air from his lungs, but there was no danger of him fainting; the pain from the arrow wounds kept him agonizingly awake.
Above him, his captor panted with exertion. The female älf could barely hold him, let alone lift him onto the pier. Tungdil knew from her urgent shouts that she was calling for reinforcements: In a few moments, they would reel him in like a fish on a line, and there was nothing he could do.
He was trapped.
Dangling from his belt, he watched the blood leak from his chest and shoulders and splash into the pond below. Desperate to free himself, he thrashed around with his arms and legs, praying that the älf would be forced to release her grip. At last, one of his feet made contact with the pier, and he pushed off vigorously, shuttling back and forth.
The tactic seemed to work: His antagonist groaned with the effort and said something that he took to be a curse. “You’ll never take me alive,” he shouted defiantly, feeling her skid across the pier toward the water. “I’d rather drown us both.”
Shouts echoed across the pond as the älf’s companions rushed to her aid. Before he had time to realize what was happening, he felt himself being hauled inch by inch toward the pier.
He wasn’t ready to concede defeat.
The next time his boot hit the pier, he pushed back with all his might to catapult himself toward the middle of the pond. The älf and her friends clung on determinedly.
His belt was the first to give in.
The buckle, like most buckles, wasn’t designed to withstand the full weight of a dwarf, especially an armored warrior. The pin cut into the leather, which promptly gave way. Moving from hole to hole, the buckle chewed through the belt, slicing it in two.
Tungdil felt a rush of elation.
Then it dawned on him: Keenfire! His weak fingers snatched at the disappearing belt. I can’t let the älfar get…
Already he was plummeting through the water, which was as cold and forbidding as it looked from above. His chain mail weighed him down, dragging him relentlessly toward the bottom. He focused on holding his breath, a trick that he used to practice in the bath.
He seemed to fall for an eternity, sinking deeper and deeper. After a time, the darkness thickened, perhaps because of the water, perhaps because of his air-starved mind.
Tungdil could feel himself weakening. Briefly, he was tempted to open his mouth and fill his lungs with air, but his fading consciousness warned him that he would drown.
At last he saw light.
It was all around him, wrapping him in a comforting cocoon. Even as he reached out eagerly, he heard the roar of bellows. The eternal smithy! Vraccas has summoned my soul…
He got a clip on the ear for presuming to know the Smith’s intentions.
Shocked, he jerked away. A hand struck his cheek, knocking his head to the side.
He saw the blurry outlines of a dwarven god, who looked surprisingly like a regular dwarf. The red halo intensified, expanding into the darkness and filling it with light.
“That’s right, scholar,” the Smith said testily, preparing to strike again. “I’ll keep this up until you tell me to stop.”
An arm sped toward him. This time Tungdil had the presence of mind to reach up with his left hand and grab the dwarf’s wrist. “Stop,” he coughed, trying to drag himself out of the water. Someone reached down and hauled him out. He spewed a mouthful of water, coughing, sneezing, choking, and swallowing until his lungs filled with air.
He looked up. His cheeks were flushed from coughing, and his eyelids were swollen, but he could see.
Crouching beside him and beaming enthusiastically was a dripping wet Boïndil. Their watery journey had ended on the shores of an underground lake.
Tungdil traced the noise of roaring bellows to a waterfall that was tumbling into the middle of the pond from the ceiling
of the cavern, ten paces above. There was no sign of a furnace, only strings of lanterns with tinted panels that bathed the lake in a deep red glow.
The cavern itself was a mile long by a mile wide. Tungdil and Boïndil were sitting on the only section of dry rock; elsewhere the water came right up to the walls.
“Quite a drop, eh?” said Boïndil, pointing to the torrent of water. “It pitched us into the middle of the pool, and the current washed us ashore.” He furrowed his brow. “Are we the only survivors?”
Tungdil nodded weakly.
“Damn the älfar,” thundered Boïndil. “I’ll give those cowardly murderers a taste of my axes.” He thumped the floor with his hand, then remembered that he had something important to convey. “We’re in the realm of the freelings; they’re fetching a doctor.” He inspected Tungdil’s wounds. “You were lucky, scholar—assuming the arrows weren’t poisoned…”
“I’ll be fine,” said his friend in what he hoped was a convincing tone. The truth was, the cavern was still spinning, but then again, he had lost a lot of blood. Don’t let it be poison. He raised a hand and ran it over his chest, then looked for his weapons belt.
“You must have lost it on the way. The chute between here and the pond was pretty narrow; I almost got stuck.” Boïndil stood up and peered into the water. “I suppose you’ll have to dive for it.”
“It’s gone,” groaned Tungdil, laying his head against the ground. He was still too dizzy to sit up.
“Gone?” echoed Boïndil, fearing the worst. “Tell me you lost it in the water…” He kneeled down and stared at his friend in horror. “Are you certain? Anything would be better than losing Keenfire to our enemies.”
Tungdil made his report.
“That’s bad news,” muttered Boïndil. “Still, with a bit of luck, Keenfire could have fallen into the water while they were hauling up the belt.”
“Do you think we should—”