The Silver Dwarf (Royal Institute of Magic, Book 4)

by Victor Kloss

  Royal Institute of Magic

  The Silver Dwarf

  By

  Victor Kloss

  Cover artwork by Andrew Gaia

  Text copyright © 2016 Victor Kloss

  All Rights Reserved

  www.RoyalInstituteofMagic.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One - Dangerous Decisions

  Chapter Two - Chasing the Key

  Chapter Three - Spellstrike Training

  Chapter Four - Delaying Tactics

  Chapter Five - Desperate Measures

  Chapter Six - The Big Build-Up

  Chapter Seven - Spellstrike

  Chapter Eight - Back to the Apprenticeship

  Chapter Nine - The War Room

  Chapter Ten - Second-Grade Exam

  Chapter Eleven - The German Kobold

  Chapter Twelve - The Third-Grade

  Chapter Thirteen - The Dark Elves Advance

  Chapter Fourteen - A Visit to Plompton

  Chapter Fifteen - An Unwelcome Visit

  Chapter Sixteen - Research and Discovery

  Chapter Seventeen - Director of Diplomacy

  Chapter Eighteen - A New Plan

  Chapter Nineteen - A Meeting with Bagdor

  Chapter Twenty - Shopping at Goblin Avenue

  Chapter Twenty-One - Magical Mayhem Ltd

  Chapter Twenty-Two - An Awkward Make-up

  Chapter Twenty-Three -Back to the Cavern

  Chapter Twenty-Four - The Void

  Chapter Twenty-Five - The Southern Path

  Chapter Twenty-Six - The Demon’s Prison

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Hellhounds

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Elander Farseeker’s Story

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - A New Challenge

  Chapter Thirty - Aaron’s Warning

  Chapter Thirty-One - Journey to Drinkmorr

  Chapter Thirty-Two - Good Food and Heated Meetings

  Chapter Thirty-Three - Voters and Dark Elves

  Chapter Thirty-Four - Shadowseekers

  Chapter Thirty-Five - Arcane Dwarves

  Chapter Thirty-Six - Elizabeth’s Breastplate

  Chapter Thirty-Seven - The Silver Dwarf

  Chapter Thirty-Eight - A Little Revenge

  A Message From the Author

  — Chapter One —

  Dangerous Decisions

  Date: 5th June 1613

  Michael Greenwood glanced back, and saw a flash of red and gold – the royal guard; lots of them. Another glance. How many? Ten? Twenty? It was hard to tell as they had spread out among the many alleys and lanes. Their intention was obvious – they were blocking any chance of escape.

  The royal guards weren’t after him, but only because they weren’t aware he was back in town. However, the bounty for the man they were after was almost as big.

  Angus Breeze, Guardian of Elizabeth’s Breastplate.

  Michael increased his pace, darting through narrow passages and stepping over foul-smelling puddles that soaked the muddy ground. The weather was grim, matching his mood. Dark clouds blocked the summer sun and a brisk breeze whipped through the alleyways. It was noisy here, with people flogging their wares and complaining about the weather. Their chatter would cease the moment they spotted the royal guards.

  Michael came to a crossroads and he paused. His heart jumped as he spotted guards in both directions, and he quickly concealed his features underneath his hood. For a moment he thought they might have spotted him, but his concern eased when the subsequent charging and screaming failed to materialise.

  The road started to gently incline. At the top of the hill was his intended destination. Five minutes away, no more, which meant the royal guards would be there in less than ten, assuming they knew exactly where to go. Michael broke into a jog, his eyes fixed on an unassuming wooden house in the distance. He gave a little smile as he approached. Angus could have lived anywhere with the salary the Institute paid him as the Director of Diplomacy, but he had always preferred mediocrity over extravagance. Such anonymity was the sole reason Angus was the last remaining director with a house in London that hadn’t been destroyed. But that honour was going to last only another ten minutes.

  The front door was a little cleaner than its neighbours, and there were colourful flowerpots by the entrance, but nothing else gave any clue as to the type of individual who lived inside.

  Michael rapped the handle three times. He gave several furtive glances about while waiting for a reply.

  A friendly, perfectly round face appeared, and gave a smile the moment he recognised the visitor.

  “Ah, Director Greenwood, what a pleasant surprise,” Angus said, opening the door to let Michael in.

  Michael stepped inside and shut the door quickly. He turned to Angus, who appeared so relaxed that he was clearly oblivious to the threat that was about to enter his house. He was short and chubby, reminding Michael of a snowman, with a beach ball stomach matching his balding head. He had big, friendly, brown eyes, which in most circumstances could calm the most bad-tempered argument – hence the role of Director of Diplomacy.

  “They’re coming,” Michael said, walking past Angus and into his small living space. “You need to pack up essentials and get out of here.”

  Michael turned, and saw Angus giving him a good-natured smile.

  “I know they’re coming,” Angus said, ambling forwards leisurely. “I’ve been expecting them actually.”

  Michael frowned. “Then why are you still here?”

  “I’m going to talk to them,” Angus said, plucking a piece of fruit from a bowl on the table.

  “Angus, no,” Michael said, his voice suddenly urgent. “Nobody knows more than me how good you are with your voice, but the royal guards might as well be deaf. You’ve got more chance of getting a pig to stop eating.”

  “You are right,” Angus said with a shrug of his wide shoulders. “But it would be deeply hypocritical of me not to try. How can I possibly encourage people to resolve conflicts by communication if I don’t do it myself?”

  “In most circumstances, I would agree with you,” Michael said. “But they have Captain Moorlock with them.”

  Michael said the name with an undertone of gravity and resentment, but to his surprise, Angus appeared unflustered.

  “I know he is with them, and I also know my chances of persuading someone as zealous as Moorlock are virtually non-existent.”

  “Then why try?”

  “Because I must,” Angus said. He smiled, but Michael could detect a hint of sadness in those eyes. “Even Captain Moorlock has some humanity to him.”

  “I would argue that point,” Michael said.

  The sound of faint footsteps interrupted their conversation. Michael hurried to the window and peered down the hill.

  “They’re almost here.”

  Angus nodded. “Good.” His relaxed expression became grave. “Now, you must go, Michael. They do not know you are here, and it would put your family and friends in danger were they to see that you are back in London. I will be fine by myself.”

  Michael ran a hand through his hair. His eyes went to Angus’s ample hips; there was no spellshooter, nor any sign of a weapon.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Michael said, touching his own spellshooter. “You will need me, once diplomacy fails. They are armed, and they will not be gentle.”

  Angus walked with frustrating leisure over to the table and picked up a broom leaning against it. He unscrewed the brush at the end.

  “Now I am armed,” Angus said with a smile.

  “I’m not sure how well a st
ick will fare against the swords of the royal guard,” Michael said.

  Michael made a move to stand beside him, but Angus raised a chubby hand. “In ordinary circumstances, a quarterstaff would not be sufficient. But I have something else to add a little punch.”

  Angus lifted his jumper. Underneath was a gleaming silver breastplate, fitted snugly against Angus’s round stomach.

  Michael’s eyes widened, and his heart skipped a beat. “You have the Queen’s Breastplate here? Angus, that’s madness. We were instructed to hide each piece to the very best of our ability, not keep it at home as a curiosity.”

  Angus nodded, looking suitably guilty. “You are right, but I have an explanation for keeping Her Majesty’s Breastplate here. However, I fear it will have to wait, as we have guests.”

  The sound of the footsteps grew, and Michael saw a flash of colour beyond the window. He turned quickly back to Angus.

  “The breastplate – do you know what powers it holds?”

  Angus nodded. “Yes, I can feel it. Trust me, I will be okay. You need to go before they arrive.”

  Michael smiled. “I’m not going anywhere. But I will disappear.”

  He lifted his spellshooter, pointed it to his chest, and fired. A small white pellet exploded into his shirt, and the world shimmered. He positioned himself at the corner of the room. He might be invisible, but he wasn’t a ghost, and if the royal guard accidentally crashed into him, they would immediately suspect an intruder.

  “Good luck. You’re going to need it,” Michael said.

  A heavy rapping on the door drowned out Angus’s reply.

  “Open up in the name of the prince!” a commanding voice said. Michael recognised Captain Moorlock’s nasal tone immediately.

  “Certainly,” Angus said, and ambled forwards to open the door.

  As soon as it was ajar, Captain Moorlock pushed the door violently, sending Angus stumbling backwards. Moorlock strode right past him, and waved his soldiers in.

  “I want six upstairs and six down here,” Moorlock said briskly. “I want no stone unturned. If I come up there and find even the smallest closet that hasn’t been thoroughly searched, you will all be fined a day’s pay.”

  The royal guards filed in, and immediately got to work. Chairs were upturned, dishes were broken and Angus’s possessions were strewn carelessly across the floor.

  Angus watched calmly as his house was destroyed. Michael toyed with his spellshooter, but as if reading Michael’s mind, Angus raised a hand and gave a subtle shake of the head.

  Captain Moorlock turned to face Angus. He was tall, but skinny. The cruel smile on his thin lips were, Michael suspected, part of his default expression. His neck protruded forwards, like a vulture, and his long, pointed nose seemed perfectly suited for poking into other people’s business.

  “You are under arrest, Breeze,” Moorlock said, spitting out the words with relish. “If you tell us where the breastplate is, I may be able to have a word with the judge and convince him to order a painless death.”

  “Most kind of you,” Angus said. His hands were placed behind his back, which gave the effect of his ample stomach being thrust out even further than normal. “On what charge, may I ask?”

  “Treason,” Moorlock said, stamping the point of his sword into the floorboards for emphasis. “Colluding with the Royal Institute of Magic and hiding a piece of Elizabeth’s Armour, keeping it from the prince, its rightful owner. Spying on the king’s allies, selling information to the French and seeking to supply them with magical weapons. Need I go on?”

  Michael watched Angus as Moorlock delivered his damning indictment.

  “I do find some of those accusations slightly difficult to believe,” Angus said, now tapping the broomstick against his hand. “First of all, technically, the prince is commander of the Institute, so I’m unsure how colluding with them would constitute treason. Secondly, I have several documents, witnessed by some of the highest lawmakers in the country, testifying to the transference of ownership of the late queen’s armour. Finally, the French and I are not on good terms, since they kidnapped and tortured my cousin.”

  Michael saw a look of regret cross a couple of nearby royal guards’ faces. Angus’s soft, honest voice had a way of changing ordinary people’s minds. But Moorlock was not an ordinary person, and Angus’s clear rationale seemed only to infuriate Moorlock further. He went red, and then a funny shade of purple. But before he could speak, Angus continued.

  “No sane man would call me a traitor. And to prove it, I will happily submit myself before a court of justice. All I ask for is to be treated as innocent until proven guilty.”

  Angus’s offer clearly resonated with some of the royal guards – one or two even relaxed a little. But Moorlock shook his head, and gave a nasty smile.

  “Nice try, silver tongue,” Moorlock said. “But your honeyed voice doesn’t fool me. Innocent until proven guilty? Madness.”

  Most people would have missed it, but Michael spotted the subtle change in Angus’s expression. The faint hope there had been of some productive dialogue disappeared. He still looked calm, serene even, but Michael could see Angus’s grip on the broomstick tighten. Angus might have acted as a successful peace negotiator between some of the most powerful Unseen Kingdoms, but at the end of the day, it was difficult to reason with an insane man.

  Moorlock drew his sword and stepped forwards, thrusting it right under Angus’s chin, and turned to one of his guards, who was busy de-feathering Angus’s couch.

  “Lucas, have you found the breastplate yet? I was reliably informed that Angus was keeping it here. It’s a breastplate, not a needle – it can’t be that hard to find. Don’t make me punish your soldiers for failing to find it.”

  Lucas cringed. “Sorry, Captain. We have looked everywhere, but it is nowhere to be found.”

  “Have you tried beneath the floorboards? Start ripping them out.”

  Angus gave a polite cough. “You won’t find it there, I’m afraid.”

  Moorlock wheeled back to Angus, daggers in his eyes. “This is your last chance, Moorlock. Tell us where you are hiding the breastplate or face a slow, agonising death. We have torturers who can make you scream until your vocal cords give out.”

  “Well, here’s the thing,” Angus said with a little smile. “You failed to look in the most obvious place.”

  “What are you talking about?” Moorlock spat.

  Angus lifted his jumper, revealing the breastplate underneath.

  Moorlock’s eyes turned into saucers, and he almost dropped his sword in astonishment.

  “You dare wear the prince’s armour?” Moorlock asked, his voice a whisper. He appeared momentarily lost for words.

  Michael couldn’t tell if he was just stunned into silence or lost in the beauty of the breastplate.

  Moorlock shook himself out of his stupor. “Guards! Remove the breastplate from Angus’s body.”

  The guards quickly surrounded Angus, swords drawn. Michael frowned, and readied his spellshooter. Angus was resting an arm on the broomstick, but made no move to defend himself. The royal guards hesitated, their eyes anxious.

  “What are you waiting for?” Moorlock shouted. Michael noted that Moorlock himself was standing outside the circle. “It’s one small, overweight man against a dozen of you. Attack!”

  Michael knew exactly why they were waiting. Angus was wearing Elizabeth’s Breastplate. There were many rumours of its power, most of them false.

  In a fit of courage, the guard directly in front of Angus raised his sword and charged, a manic gleam in his eye. With two quick steps he was upon Angus, and he swung his sword in a vicious arc into Angus’s midriff. The sword hit the armour and promptly shattered, as if it were made of glass. The guard stepped back in astonishment.

  “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Angus said, lifting his makeshift quarterstaff.

  Three of the braver guard
s charged, encouraged by Moorlock, who was pointing his sword and screaming at the consequences of their cowardice. Michael trained his spellshooter on the attackers, but he needn’t have bothered. Angus swung his quarterstaff, ignoring the sword thrusts that penetrated his limited defence, and moments later three royal guards were rolling on the ground in pain.

  “Get that breastplate off him!” Moorlock screamed.

  The rest of the guards attacked, trying to crush him with the weight of numbers. But Angus charged forwards, and broke free of the circle. His quarterstaff was a blur, and Michael winced as it cracked against limbs. A couple of the guards had the sense to strike Angus’s exposed areas, and Michael grimaced as a sword grazed Angus’s cheek, drawing blood. But to his amazement, the wound healed within moments, leaving only the faintest scar.

  The fight took less than three minutes. Moorlock stared in horror at his fallen guards. He lifted a trembling sword at Angus.

  “Don’t hurt me,” he said, his lips quivering. “I can offer you a pardon. I can offer you freedom.”

  Michael almost choked in disgust, but Angus kept a level head.

  “No, you won’t. As soon as you leave, you will run back to the palace and get reinforcements.” He sighed. “Get your men, and leave. Some of them require medical attention.”

  Michael knew Moorlock wanted to leave without his guards, but he wasn’t about to disobey the man who had taken down his entire unit with nothing more than a broomstick. So he dragged each man out, until Angus and Michael were once again alone.

  Michael fired another spell into his chest, removing the invisibility that shrouded him.

  “That was impressive. I don’t remember you being that handy with a quarterstaff. Was that the breastplate?”

  “In part,” Angus said. “Amongst other things, it increases my reaction time and strengthens my muscles. You probably noticed that it also helps me heal.”

  Michael smiled. “Yes, I noticed.” His smile faded as he looked around the ruined house. “Why did you let them search the place? You could have stopped them.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Angus said. “I’m leaving.”

  Michael relaxed. “About time. You should have moved to the Unseen Kingdoms the moment Elizabeth passed away. I know some really nice houses on the west side of Taecia, not far from my place.”