by Markus Heitz
The älf said nothing, her gray eyes looking daggers at him. Boïndil refused to succumb to her murderous glare.
Furgas raised a hand. “She’s stopped,” he whispered. Ondori stepped forward and raised her bow. “Hang on… she’s off again.”
The älf handed the bow to Furgas. “Wait here. I’ll find out what he’s up to,” she said, making for a door that led inside. She listened for a moment, then opened it quietly.
Rodario was sitting in a tub of warm water, washing away the grime of the journey. The mud and dust of Gauragar dissolved into the perfumed foam, and a couple of pine needles floated to the surface, a reminder of the forest where they had slept the previous night. He picked up a razor and, holding a mirror in one hand, shaved the stubble from his incredibly handsome face.
“Never assume you’re alone,” said Ondori, staying his hand in case he slit his throat. “So you found your way into the palace?”
He breathed out in relief. “For the love of Palandiell,” he gasped. “You’re as bad as Narmora with your sneaking about.” She released his hand and he continued to shave. “It’s nice of you to join me—are you the only one?”
“They’re waiting outside. I wanted to find out what you’re planning.”
“Tell the others not to worry,” he said in a self-important tone. “In a few moments I shall be dining with a beautiful woman who happens to be part of the avatars’ entourage. I’ll ply her with wine, engage her in small talk, flirt with her a little—and she’ll be putty in my hands.” He put down the razor and stroked his cheeks. “She’ll tell me where to find Balyndis, how to get to Dorsa, and what we can expect from our phony gods of fire.” He checked his cheeks for stray whiskers and smiled at himself in the mirror. “I’ll save the child and the dwarf, and Boïndil will be indebted to me for the rest of his life. An excellent plan, don’t you think?”
She smiled behind her mask. “Not bad, considering you came up with it on the spot.”
“It was my intention all along,” he said indignantly. “Anyway, what about you?”
“Sounds like there’s nothing left for us to do.” She glanced at the conjuring equipment stacked on one of the chairs. “You stick to your plan, we’ll stick to ours. Who knows, we might find Balyndis and Dorsa first.”
He picked up his razor and drew it through the foam. “You’ll be grateful when I save you,” he predicted. “Now get out of here before the maid comes back.” She didn’t reply, and when he looked up, she was gone. “I know exactly what she and Narmora could do with—a pretty anklet with a bell.” He ran the razor over his cheeks, smoothed his pointed beard, and smiled; Lirkim wouldn’t be able to resist him.
He’s going to save us?” said Boïndil disbelievingly. “Only in one of his stupid plays! He’s dreaming.”
“It sounds like a sensible plan,” said Tungdil, wondering how the impresario did it. He had a habit of making an entrance at the critical time. “Rodario might be able to help if we run into trouble later.”
“Might,” snorted Boïndil. “An anvil might fall over in the breeze.” He didn’t believe for a moment that their mission would fail.
Furgas preempted a quarrel by steering them into a passageway. “Let’s find Dorsa. We’ll try the nursery first.”
A short while later they were standing outside the door. Once again it fell to the älf to steal into the room and assess the situation while the dwarves waited as quietly as their armor allowed.
She ushered them in. “All safe—unless the child is a threat.”
Furgas hurried past her and peered into the cot where his daughter was sleeping peacefully. There was nothing to suggest she had been hurt. Tungdil, Boïndil, and Boëndal looked on in silence and shared the father’s relief.
Ondori signaled to them that someone was approaching. The door opened and a woman came in. Before she had time to realize what was happening, the älf grabbed her from behind and set a knife to her throat. “Not a sound,” she whispered savagely.
“It’s all right,” said Furgas. “It’s the nursemaid.” Ondori hesitated, then released her grip.
“Rosild!” Furgas threw his arms around her. “Thank goodness you and Dorsa are all right. What happened?”
Well, sir…” she stuttered, still recovering from the shock. “They marched in and took over the palace. I didn’t know what to do, so I told them Dorsa was my daughter. They said I could stay here if I cooked for the palace guards.”
Boïndil could scarcely believe his ears. “Just like that? A bit gullible, these avatars.”
“I have to taste the food to prove it’s not poisoned. If anyone gets gut ache, Dorsa and I will be killed. My nerves are in shreds.”
Furgas laid his hands on her shoulders. “Poor Rosild, your ordeal is nearly over. We’ll get you out of here as soon as we can.”
“First we need to know what’s happened to Balyndis.” Tungdil stepped forward. “Do you know where she is? She was brought here seven orbits ago, someone said.”
“Do you mean the dwarf-woman?” She furrowed her brow. “A band of soldiers turned up at the palace. They seemed agitated about something and they were carrying a prisoner—a child or a gnome, I assumed. It didn’t occur to me they’d captured a groundling.”
“A dwarf,” said Boïndil.
“I meant a dwarf,” she corrected herself. “They took her to the big chamber with the copper dome. I haven’t seen her since.”
“Get ready to leave,” Tungdil instructed her. “Don’t let the guards see you packing and try to avoid suspicion. Once we’ve rescued Balyndis, we’ll need to get out of the palace as fast as we can. Be sure to bring blankets for Dorsa—it’s cold outside.” Rosild paled slightly, but nodded. Tungdil looked into the grave faces of his companions. “I suppose this is it. For Vraccas and Balyndis!”
* * *
Rodario had eyes only for his charming hostess. Lirkim was wearing an exquisitely embroidered dress made of shimmering white material that reached to her calves. Her face looked more beautiful than ever in the light of the candelabra.
“Even the candles look dull and lifeless compared to you,” he said appreciatively, raising his glass. He could feel his sleeve slipping down his arm and threatening to reveal the tinderbox strapped to his wrist. Gesturing expansively, he encouraged the fabric to fall toward his hand, taking care not to spill his wine. “To a goddess whose beauty will never fade.”
“Very chivalrous, my eloquent friend, but wait two decades and my skin will resemble a fishing net.” They clinked glasses and gazed at each other, her green eyes telling him that she accepted the compliment nonetheless.
Rodario was enjoying the opportunity to make use of his talents. Farmer’s daughters, innkeeper’s wives, and rich gentlewomen were easy to impress, but with Lirkim, flirtation was an art. It gave him high hopes for her lovemaking, which he intended to sample that night. But first he had to obtain a few key pieces of information so that he could leave her sated, asleep, and smiling, while he completed his mission and got one over on the dwarves.
He adjusted his sleeves and rounded the table to refill her glass. A drop of red wine splashed from the decanter and landed on her shoulder.
“How careless of me.” On the spur of the moment he decided to kiss away the droplet with his lips. She did nothing to stop him and turned her head so that he could press his mouth to her soft, snowy skin. “Oh, there’s another one,” he said, lifting her long brown hair and kissing her neck. To his satisfaction he saw a shiver of pleasure run down her back. I’m irresistible, he thought smugly, returning to his seat. The sparks of passion are flying; how long until the fire is lit?
His sleeves rode up again. He swore silently and pulled them down to cover the tinderboxes. He was wearing the contraptions only because he had nowhere to put them except his pockets, and Lirkim would notice the bulge. Later, he would have to distract her sufficiently so that he could remove his props before he stripped off his clothes.
“Only two droplets
?” she asked teasingly, turning back to her plate.
His eyes twinkled. “We’ll see what happens next time. Incidentally, where did you get the wine?”
“It’s from the maga’s cellars. It pays to be on the right side: The winner takes all.”
“Do you think the avatars mind that you’re dining with Narmora’s former aide?”
“Former?” she queried, eying him intently.
Rodario felt suddenly queasy. Has she guessed? “Well…” He cleared his throat. “I’m a citizen of Porista, and Porista belongs to the avatars, so I’m assuming I work for them.”
“I applaud your wisdom. It will save you a lot of trouble.” She laughed a tinkling laugh. “No, the avatars don’t mind. Their enemies are right to be terrified, but innocent people have nothing to fear.”
“I imagine the maga’s servants were relieved,” he remarked, trying to steer the conversation to Dorsa. “Didn’t Narmora have a personal maid?”
Lirkim nodded and popped a morsel of meat into her mouth. He waited while she chewed her mouthful and swallowed it down. “Yes, Rosild and her baby daughter are still in the palace. She’s an excellent cook. Nothing much has changed, as you can see.”
“The avatars aren’t nearly as frightening as I’d heard,” he said, trying not to look relieved by the news that Rosild and Dorsa were well.
“Really?” Lirkim rested her cutlery on her plate. “What have you heard?”
“Everyone says they’re mythical creatures, fiery beings that scorch the earth beneath their feet…” He stopped short. “It doesn’t make sense, if you think about it.”
“Of course it doesn’t, otherwise Porista wouldn’t be standing now. What else have you heard? It sounds like good material for a play.”
“For several plays.” Passing off the story as hearsay, he described what he had seen in Dsôn Balsur, including everything from the cloud of fire to the soldiers’ shining armor. He didn’t mention the deaths of the avatars. Lirkim listened attentively and seemed amused. “According to some, they even captured a dwarf-woman,” he added. “Personally, I don’t believe it. What would the avatars want with a dwarf?” He speared a piece of meat on his fork.
“Much of what you say is true,” she said, smiling. She took a sip of wine, prompting him to toast her again and refill her glass. He had been plying her with alcohol for over an hour, and he was gratified to see that her cheeks were a healthy red. “The rest is smoke and mirrors.” She clapped a hand to her mouth and looked worried. “Forget what I said.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, laughing it off. “I’m not going to report you to the avatars. I’m sure they’re capable of conjuring as many illusory dwarf-women as they please.”
“Oh, she’s real enough. They took her prisoner because she had a secret.” She laughed girlishly. “But groundlings are tough little characters.”
“A secret, you say? Don’t tell me the celestial avatars are interested in turning iron into gold?” He chuckled contentedly to set her at ease.
“The avatars don’t need gold.” She clinked glasses again with Rodario. “No, the dwarf-woman knows how to make a special… It’s old news, anyway. Things have moved on.” Her eyelids were getting heavier and she reached for his thigh. “Well, my fabulous Rodario, perhaps we should…?”
“Absolutely,” he said eagerly. “Who cares about a dwarf-woman’s secrets?”
“The avatars don’t.” She got up and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Soon they’ll be so powerful that even the gods will fear them. They’ll take whichever lands they like and rule over vast swathes of territory. They’ll be mightier than the mightiest kings, all-powerful and invincible, and Girdlegard…” She bit her lip, a gesture that Rodario would normally have found incredibly alluring. “But enough of that.”
Rodario was never slow to show off his manhood, but Lirkim’s description of the avatars had roughly the same effect as ice in his breeches or an angry husband in the room. His ardor was gone.
Just then the door flew open with a bang.
There’s the husband, so where’s the ice? He knew from the sound, a sound he had heard on countless occasions, that the person was furious—as furious as a cuckold had every right to be.
A fair-haired man of thirty cycles burst into the room. He was wearing white robes and carrying a short staff like a shepherd’s crook. Behind him were three soldiers whose faces Rodario recognized from his arrival at the palace earlier that evening. The cozy little dinner had reached a premature end. “Are you married?” he hissed at Lirkim, who shook her head and seemed taken aback by the intrusion. “I guess the avatars don’t approve of my presence after all…”
“That’s him,” cried one of the soldiers, pointing his sword at Rodario. “I told you, Fascou, it’s definitely him.”
“Move away, Lirkim.” The man in the robes looked at her sternly.
She put herself between the soldiers and Rodario. “No, Fascou, you’re not going to hurt him. Go back to tinkering with the force fields and leave us alone. You’ve got the groundling to entertain you; let me have my fun.”
“Come on, Lirkim,” he said soothingly. “You’ve had a bit to drink, but the man you’re protecting is our enemy. His name is Rodario and—”
“The fabulous Rodario,” she said thickly. “I know. He’s an impresario and he owns the Curiosum. He’s—”
The man stepped forward and held out his hand, beckoning to her. “His name is Rodario the Fablemaker, and he’s apprenticed to Narmora.”
The soldier nodded. “That’s right, I saw him on the battlefield. Throwing fire, he was, and melting my comrades like butter in the sun.”
Rodario couldn’t believe it. His biggest dream was to be recognized by strangers, for his reputation to extend beyond the confines of a particular city or realm. At last he had attained true celebrity—and it was likely to end in his death.
A good actor never disappoints his audience… Standing tall, he grabbed the astonished Lirkim with his left hand and flung his right arm toward the white-robed man. “Rodario the Fablemaker is my name!” he proclaimed, letting out an evil-sounding cackle. “Stay where you are! Move and this innocent woman will…”
Suddenly, faster than a gust of wind can snuff out a candle, a blinding light appeared before him. Dazzled, he saw nothing but brilliant whiteness. He let go of Lirkim, who had turned into a fiery sun.
Furgas led the group confidently through the dark corridors of the palace. At last they reached the great hall. The avatars obviously weren’t worried about the dwarf escaping because the doors had been left wide open.
“What if it’s a trap?” asked Boëndal, but Ondori was already inside, reconnoitering the room. She returned in an instant.
“We’ve found the groundling,” she reported, stepping aside to let them in.
It was immediately clear why no one was guarding the hall.
Balyndis was lying on the floor in the middle of the room. Her legs and arms had been broken, and bits of bone were poking through her skin. She was smeared with blood and pus, and her bare chest was covered in cuts and burn marks. Clumps of brown hair lay scattered on the flagstones. Her hands and feet were shackled and chained to the floor.
Tungdil’s eyes welled with tears. What have they done to you? He kneeled down and placed his hand on her brow. She’s feverish. Raising his ax, he smashed through her chains. She didn’t acknowledge his presence or register the noise: Her eyes were closed.
“I’ll teach them to torture a dwarf,” growled Ireheart, enraged by the sight of the suffering Balyndis. His eyes glinted wildly. “By the ax of Beroïn, I’ll rip them to pieces with my hands.”
Boëndal took off his coat and gave it to Tungdil to wrap around their motionless friend. “It’s bad enough what they’ve done to her body. What about her mind?”
“The fact that she’s alive is proof of her resilience—she’s still holding out, despite what they’ve done to her.” Tungdil picked her up and balanced her on his s
houlder. “They would have killed her if she’d cracked.”
He made up his mind to show no mercy to the false avatars, who claimed to be fighting in the service of good. Nothing could justify their treatment of those who stood in their way.
He turned around and froze. On the other side of the hall, in the eastern corner, was his foster father, Lot-Ionan.
“But it’s impossible,” he whispered. He took a few uncertain paces toward the magus before realizing his mistake: He was looking at a statue. His beloved Lot-Ionan, who had raised and schooled him, had been turned to stone. Nôd’onn had killed him.
The spell can’t be reversed. He remembered what Andôkai had told him, and a sob rose in his throat as he thought of Lot-Ionan and Frala and the happy times in the magus’s realm. He stroked the statue tenderly and walked away. Now wasn’t the time for mourning, only revenge.
They hurried back to Rosild who was waiting anxiously with Dorsa in her arms. She found an extra blanket and they wrapped it around Balyndis to protect her from the cold. Furgas volunteered to carry the unconscious dwarf. Their presence in the palace hadn’t been detected.
The procession was led by Ondori, followed by the dwarves, Furgas and Balyndis, and Rosild and Dorsa. Slowly but surely they edged toward freedom and at last they left the palace and entered the grounds, steering a course for the hidden gate.
The double-dealing hussy! She’s an avatar! Rodario was obliged to behave in a deplorably unchivalrous fashion. He aimed a kick at what he believed to be Lirkim’s posterior, although he couldn’t be certain because of the glare. She stumbled forward. There was a crash, and the light went out.
He aimed his flamethrowers at the soldiers and shouted a few improvised incantations. When he heard their cries, he followed up with a couple of phials of acid and threw himself under the table.
He firmly expected to be transformed into a heap of ashes, but nothing happened. There was an overwhelming smell of burning, but it was coming from several paces away.