by Markus Heitz
I can’t ask Andôkai, Balyndis thought glumly, weighing the tionium in one hand and the palandium in the other. She hesitated for a moment and read the formula again, but she was still none the wiser. By now the other metals were beginning to coalesce. She had to act fast.
Pulling on thick leather gloves to protect her hands from the rising heat, she dropped the black metal carefully through the hatch and followed it with the palandium. Andôkai worships the god of equilibrium; Samusin will balance everything out.
She turned a winch to lower the lid over the hatch and keep in the heat.
Back on ground level, she worked the enormous bellows and pumped air into the furnace, fanning the flames. Every now and then she opened a hatch and tossed in some white-hot coals from Dragon Fire until the furnace had reached the requisite temperature. She retreated to a safe distance of four paces.
A chimney channeled the foul-smelling gases away from the underground halls, drawing them through a duct in the ceiling to the surface.
Balyndis waited until she was sure that the metals had combined, then, taking a long stick, she broke the clay seal at the base of the furnace.
Golden and gleaming, the liquid alloy streamed forth. Balyndis skimmed the slag from the top as it flowed through a clay conduit on its way to a cart lined with firebricks. Surrounded by the heat of the furnace, she felt completely at home. Beads of sweat formed on her skin, evaporating almost instantly. She watched in anticipation as the alloy cooled and dulled.
Picking up a pair of tongs, she took hold of the red-hot hook on the end of the cart and pulled the precious load along the rail that led from the smelting works to the forge. “Right,” she said to herself. “Let’s see what happens when Samusin entrusts a formula to a dwarf…”
Wind Chime Island,
Kingdom of Weyurn,
Girdlegard,
Late Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Towering waves crashed toward the shore, dashing themselves to pieces on the rocks.
A host of tiny droplets rose high above the roiling lake and lingered, almost suspended for an instant, before dropping into the waves below and disappearing without trace. The air glistened moistly above the cliff, shrouding an ancient temple built in honor of Palandiell.
Inside the building, Narmora gathered the shawl about her shoulders and shivered. Even the thick walls of the former temple did little to muffle the constant pounding of waves against the shore. The change of season had brought storms to Wind Chime Island, with spring doing battle with summer, and winter seizing the chance to sidle in.
“What possessed you to store your books here?” Andôkai asked the chief archivist, a balding man of some sixty cycles. His costly robes looked shabby and ill-fitting, and his nose was permanently red, owing to a fondness for drink. The maga eyed him reprovingly. “It’s too damp for a library.”
“I’m afraid the timing of your visit is most unfortunate. The damp spell will be over in a couple of orbits. Wind Chime is known throughout Weyurn for its temperate weather.” Bowing respectfully, he led the women through the stacks to a cabinet measuring seven paces high and crammed with books. “The official records from the last hundred cycles,” he said with a flourish. “Births, marriages, and deaths.”
“Do you keep separate records for migrants?” asked Narmora, hoping to limit the scope of the search. She had no desire to spend longer than necessary on the island, to which she had taken an instant dislike. Besides, she was worried that Dorsa, a delicate child by nature, would catch a chill. “We’re looking for settlers from the Outer Lands,” she explained.
The archivist thought for a moment. “With a bit of luck and Palandiell’s blessing, you’ll find what you’re looking for in the south wing.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “These records deal only with Her Majesty’s subjects. Outsiders, including migrants from the rest of Girdlegard, are listed in the other wing.” He set off down the corridor to show them the way.
Narmora lagged a few paces behind, watching as Andôkai, brandishing a decree from Queen Wey, attempted to commandeer the library staff and anyone else with the power of reading to help with her quest.
In word and deed, Narmora was a model famula—hard-working and loyal. Since the accident, she had applied herself more diligently than ever to her studies, delighting the maga with her progress.
But Narmora’s motivation for learning magic had changed. The threat from the west and the future of Girdlegard were secondary concerns. After the whispered conversation with Rodario that night in Porista, Narmora had returned to Furgas’s bedside and sworn an oath of revenge that required her to bide her time and study patiently while disguising the rancor and fury that filled her thoughts.
The little party reached the south wing of the library. Andôkai turned to her famula and pointed to the stacks on the right. A wooden stepladder led up to additional shelves behind a balustrade. “You start on this side, and I’ll work toward you. The others can take the lower shelves.”
Narmora nodded and ascended the creaking steps to the narrow gangway. A low rail protected careless readers from tumbling ten paces to the floor. Andôkai waved to her from the other side and pulled out a folio. Dust scattered everywhere as she turned the first page.
Narmora reached for a volume as well and began to read, her eyes roving over the spidery handwriting without attending to the meaning. How could you go to such lengths to bend me to your will? She leafed through the volume, seeing nothing but the maga’s betrayal on every page.
The story recounted to her by the ashen-faced Rodario pointed to a single, terrible, explanation: Andôkai had orchestrated the attack on Furgas as a means of recruiting Narmora as her famula. The maga’s strange behavior, the deaths of the highwaymen, Djern’s determination to silence Nôd’onn’s former famula—it all added up.
She turned the page absentmindedly.
You’ll be sorry for teaching me your art, she thought grimly, glancing at Andôkai. She was prepared to bide her time until Furgas was cured and the threat from the west discounted or defeated, but sooner or later the maga would pay for her treachery, and Djern himself would be powerless to help her. Narmora felt nothing but loathing for the woman who had put her husband in a coma and killed her baby son.
Anger simmered inside her, and she turned her mind to other thoughts, afraid that her älvish heritage would betray her hidden rage.
“I think I’ve found something,” called Andôkai suddenly.
Her dutiful famula hurried over.
“Seventy cycles ago, a group of travelers arrived in Gastinga,” the maga continued. “It says here that they came from the Outer Lands. Their children or grandchildren should still be alive.” She summoned the archivist and enquired about the location of the place.
“It’s here on the island,” he said. “It takes two orbits to get there. I’ll loan you one of my assistants to show you the way.”
“Splendid,” exclaimed Andôkai, satisfied. “Samusin has rewarded us for the long and wearisome journey from Porista.”
The man cleared his throat. “Perhaps the Estimable Maga could refrain from invoking foreign gods in the library; it’s a consecrated building.”
Andôkai turned her head slowly and jutted out her angular chin. “I’ll speak the name of my god whenever and wherever I please. Samusin saved me from Nôd’onn and lent me his power in the fight against the Perished Land. My fellow magi, devotees of the gentle Palandiell, didn’t fare so well. It seems to me that my foreign god is more deserving of your respect.” She gestured to the shelves. “And don’t lecture me about desecrating your temple. Palandiell left here when you filled her house with books.” She started down the ladder. “I want to ride within the hour. Tell your man to be ready.” Her boots clacked harshly against the tiled floor.
Narmora raised her eyebrows and smiled sympathetically at the archivist, before following the maga out of the room. “I’m going to check on Dorsa,” she told her mentor. “Who knows, I might be in time
to stop Rosild unpacking our trunks.” Without waiting for the maga’s approval she hurried through the corridors of the vaulted building, once home to Palandiell’s priests before the temple was converted to a library and a new place of worship built in honor of the goddess.
She found her daughter in the arms of Rosild, the nursemaid employed by Andôkai for the duration of the trip. Rosild was still young and her breasts were plump with milk. It was a mystery to Narmora why the maid had agreed to leave her own small child and her family to accompany them on their journey. Unless she was forced…
“She’s a thirsty wee thing,” said Rosild. She smiled proudly. “See, she’s putting on weight.” She handed the baby to Narmora, who noticed the difference at once. The maid seemed to be gathering the courage to say something. She took a step forward. “There’s something else I’ve noticed,” she said nervously.
“She’s filling out nicely—”
“No, I don’t mean that.” Rosild adjusted the blanket to reveal Dorsa’s right ear. “Maybe it’s just me, but the tip of her ear looks pointed.” She paused, waiting for confirmation or perhaps a word of praise. “It’s only a little thing, but she’ll be teased for it later,” she added when Narmora was silent. “We used to trim the ears of our hunting dogs at home. I don’t see why it wouldn’t work on a—”
“No,” said Narmora firmly. “No one lays a hand on my daughter. She’ll look fine when she’s older, I’m sure.” She tucked the ear under the blanket. “I don’t want you speaking of this to anyone, do you hear?”
Rosild nodded, her gaze lingering briefly on Narmora’s red headscarf. She looked away quickly.
“Very good, Rosild. Pack our trunks—we’re leaving in an hour.”
With her daughter on her arm, she left the chamber and made herself comfortable in the great hall where a fire was roaring in an open hearth. The warmth drove out the cold of the wind and the spray, and Narmora and her child enjoyed the respite.
“We’ll be back in the sunshine soon,” she assured the sleeping Dorsa.
Gastinga, the village that they were heading for, lay further inland, and Narmora was looking forward to escaping from the damp.
The journey to Wind Chime Island hadn’t been easy. Following the quake, the lakes that covered fifty per cent of Weyurn’s surface had overflowed, their waters combining to form great reservoirs. The flooding had claimed a handful of casualties, and the survivors had taken their misfortune in their stride, as Narmora and Andôkai had observed. Most had abandoned their homes and moved to one of Weyurn’s many islands. The majority of Weyurnians lived on the lakes.
Narmora didn’t like the thought of it. To her mind, the islands seemed dangerously impermanent, and she was sure that some of them pitched and rolled with the waves.
It was said that a few of the smaller islets floated across the lakes like croutons in soup. The islanders floated with them, putting down anchor wherever the fishing was particularly good. Narmora felt queasy at the notion of drifting to and fro.
When the first log, a vast piece of timber bigger than the average man, had burned to a cinder, Narmora piled on more. Physically, she wasn’t strong enough to shift the logs from the woodpile at the end of the hall to the hearth in the middle, so she used magic instead. As if lifted by an invisible hand, four logs rose in the air and traveled through the hall, lowering themselves dutifully onto the flames and catching fire.
By now, simple spells came easily to Narmora, and she performed the conjuration while singing softly to Dorsa in the tongue of her mother, a beautiful, melancholy language that Furgas loved to hear.
The thought of Furgas reminded her to send a prayer to Samusin and Tion, entreating them to keep him well. Rodario had sworn solemnly to do everything in his power for Furgas, and on this occasion she believed him. He knew as well as she did that Furgas was in a critical state.
“Andôkai told me to fetch you,” said Rosild behind her. “She’s ready to leave.”
Narmora stopped singing abruptly.
“What a lovely song,” observed the maid. “What language was it? I couldn’t make sense of the words.”
“I made it up,” said Narmora, clasping the sleeping Dorsa and rising to her feet. “It’s nonsense really, but Dorsa seems to like it.” She left the room, taking care not to meet the maid’s gaze.
“You’ll have to teach it to me,” decided Rosild, shouldering her bags and following her mistress outside.
Fifthling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Late Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Balyndis ran her hand over the mail-clad arm, feeling the powerful wrist and the formidable muscle beneath her fingertips as she groped her way toward the shoulder. She checked the alignment of the spaulders and breastplate. Fitting armor to a warrior over twice her size was quite a challenge, and wearing a blindfold made things worse.
Orbits had passed while she hammered the plates into shape. Some required hinges, while others were simply laced together—although the instructions called for metal cable instead of standard leather thongs.
He won’t be undressing in a hurry, thought Balyndis, who was beginning to wonder whether Djern ever removed his armor at all.
The final adjustments could be made only while the giant was wearing the suit, so Balyndis had blindfolded herself securely, remembering how Tion’s beasts had screamed in terror on seeing Djern’s face. To make doubly sure, she kept her eyes closed whenever her head was turned toward him.
The maga’s measurements were incredibly precise. Most of the plates fitted perfectly, and a tap of the hammer brought the others into line.
Once the fit of the armor had been verified, Balyndis could set about patterning the armor as the maga had prescribed. Some of the runes were to be engraved, others etched with acid, and thin strips of gold and silver hammered into the grooves.
Since starting work, Balyndis had noticed a strange noise, similar to a growl, that seemed to be coming from Djern, although his chest was completely still.
To Balyndis’s surprise, his warm breath smelled fresh. She had expected him to stink like an orc, so either the smells of the smithy were masking the stench, or Djern was cleaner than she had thought. There was no obvious evidence of perspiration, whereas a man wearing a full suit of armor could be smelled from a hundred paces or more.
Balyndis worked swiftly. She strapped the plates around his arms and instructed him to flex his muscles while she listened intently. The joints were perfect—no grating or creaking to indicate rubbing or stress.
Relieved, she climbed down from the platform and returned to the anvil. Lifting her blindfold, she reached for Djern’s helmet. The shiny demonic visor contrasted strikingly with the matt surrounds, and a thin strip of black tionium emphasized the ferocious eyes. Proudly, she wiped the helmet with a cloth and added a drop of oil to the hinges.
“All done,” she called, not knowing whether the giant could understand her. “If this isn’t enough to frighten your enemies, I don’t know what will.” She tied the blindfold around her head and picked up the helmet, remembering to collect the skullcap, made of leather-lined mail. With her free hand, she felt her way along the rope leading back to the giant.
Just then disaster struck.
Balyndis stepped on something, probably a lump of coal. Her foot slid away from her.
She skidded, overbalanced, and flung out her arms to break her fall. The helmet whizzed past her, one of the spikes coming within a knife’s edge of her eye. It snagged on her blindfold and pulled it off.
The next Balyndis knew, she was sprawled on the floor, arms stretched in front of her, skullcap and helmet clutched in one hand. Raising her head, she looked up and froze.
Djern was leaning against the anvil in front of her—and her blindfold was off.
Balyndis had seen some unpleasant sights in her time. She had fought in gruesome battles, dueled with hideous orcs and plug-ugly ogres, and waded in rivers of blood and spilt intestines. As a warrior, s
he was unshakable; but the visage before her filled her with terror.
Her mouth opened in a silent scream.
Massive fangs protruded from Djern’s jaws, strong enough to bite through the toughest sinew and crush the strongest bone. The giant’s skull resembled that of a human, only many times bigger, and his skin looked pale and sickly, revealing the yellow blood in his pulsing veins. He had no ears, and his nose consisted of two triangular holes.
His enormous eyes bored into the stricken dwarf. Slowly, he straightened up, walked over, and reached out an armored hand, the fingers of which could crush boulders.
He knows I’ve seen him. Dear Vraccas, he’ll kill me. Balyndis tried to run away, but her stomach was cemented to the ground.
His fingers closed around her mail shirt and lifted her into the air. Trembling, she let go of the skullcap and the helmet, but Djern caught them before they hit the floor. He strode toward the platform, deposited Balyndis on top of it, and placed the skullcap and helmet in her hands. His little finger stretched toward her, sliding the blindfold over her eyes.
She blinked in confusion. He spared me! The strange growling noise resumed, which she took to mean that Djern was ready for her to continue. In any case, it was clear that she was never to mention that she had looked on his face.
Taking a deep breath, she commanded her trembling fingers to be still. A little clumsily at first, then with more assurance, she fitted the skullcap and lowered the helmet over his head, removing her blindfold as soon as the terrifying visage was hidden behind the gleaming visor. Sighing with relief, she got down from the platform and took a few paces back to admire her work.
Djern drew himself up to his full height.
Balyndis felt a rush of admiration for the giant. He seemed to like his new armor—and if he didn’t, he made no objection. The maga’s illegible writing had forced her to deviate from the instructions on several occasions, but Djern seemed happy with the result.