by Markus Heitz
No, he whimpered, closing his eyes and curling into a ball. Leave me alone.
But the noises persisted until tiredness overcame him, numbing his tormented mind. Before he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, he had a vision of Bulingar and Glaïmbar looming over him, and hatred and anger took hold of his heart.
Porista,
Former Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
Surely he can’t have destroyed all Girdlegard’s famuli? thought Andôkai as she made her way through the sunlit arcades of the palace in Porista. Sighing, she remembered how Nôd’onn had rooted out his rivals’ apprentices, killing them with his magic or putting them to the sword.
In place of her customary leather armor she wore a close-fitting dress of crimson cloth. The skirt was slit at the sides and the low neck emphasized her figure, lending her a femininity absent from her angular face.
For orbits she had been focusing her energies on finding apprentices to school in the art of magic. Nôd’onn can’t have killed them all. Her legs, clad in soft suede boots, strode purposefully over the beautiful mosaic floor. The last of the sun’s rays filtered through the vaulted glass roof, illuminating the passageway and causing the white marble columns to shine like beacons.
She reached the base of the second-highest tower and descended the steps to the vaults, where the flow of energy was strongest. Located at the heart of Girdlegard, the former realm of Lios Nudin was the source of the force fields, a wellspring of magic energy supplying the other enchanted realms.
Andôkai sat on the floor of the carpeted room. She turned her focus inward and felt for the invisible force, sensing at once how the energy had been changed. Nôd’onn, drawing on knowledge given to him by the Perished Land, had contaminated the force fields, making them dangerous for other wizards to use.
Andôkai was an exception. Her chosen deity was Samusin, god of equilibrium, champion of darkness and light. She was a conduit for good—but also for forces commonly described as evil, which was why she could channel the tainted energy without succumbing to the poison. A practitioner of white magic would not be so lucky.
Senses keyed, she checked for signs that the force fields were recovering, but even with Nôd’onn dead and the Perished Land defeated, the magic energy flowing from Porista was under the magus’s spell.
She rose to her feet. How long will it take the force fields to cleanse themselves of Nôd’onn’s evil? A hundred cycles or even a thousand? If they ever recover at all…
She ascended the stairs, left the palace through the main doors and came to a halt on the steps leading down to the courtyard.
The sun was resting on the horizon, creating a shimmering tableau of color, cloud, and light. The warmth of the sunset reached as far as Porista, steeping the palace in its reddish glow and transforming the sable turrets to vibrant amber. Andôkai felt the breeze and smelled the aroma of freshly turned soil. Birds were soaring and dipping in pursuit of buzzing insects. It looked the picture of harmony and order.
Andôkai was reminded of past occasions when she and the other magi had lingered on the palace steps, waiting for the sun to set and knowing that it would rise again in a blaze of light to announce the new dawn.
While she had little doubt that the sun would continue to put on its twice-daily spectacle, she was beginning to wonder whether she would be the last maga in Girdlegard to admire the fiery orb.
For two thousand cycles the council of the magi had met in Porista, but Nôd’onn had turned his palace into a slaughterhouse, sending four of Girdlegard’s magi to their deaths, killing their famuli, and destroying the magic girdle. Andôkai had barely escaped with her life.
Now, with Nôd’onn defeated, she had returned to the palace, the only building untouched by the inferno that had raged through Porista.
Andôkai had little affection for the city where her colleagues had met their deaths, but she had elected to live there for one simple reason: It was the best place to instruct apprentices in the magic arts.
She surveyed the ruined houses and rubble beyond the palace walls. Little remained of the eight thousand dwellings that had once stood proudly on Lios Nudin’s plains. Faced with an army of revenants, Prince Mallen had razed the city to the ground.
On hearing of Nôd’onn’s death, the first brave souls had returned to the city, and more had followed, reassured by the sight of Andôkai’s pennants flying from the flagpoles. Porista had a new mistress, who through no desire of her own, had come to preside over six enchanted realms.
Looking up, she gazed at the ever-darkening sky, watching her pennants rippling on the breeze. Samusin, god of equilibrium, master of winds, I need apprentices. Send me famuli, old or young, with the ability to learn. If the danger is as great as Nôd’onn foretold, I won’t be strong enough to combat it on my own.
She heard a loud knock on the gates to the forecourt. Runes lit up throughout the palace, the signal for a servant to rush out and determine whether to admit the waiting person or persons.
But the palace staff had been discharged.
For want of a doorman to answer the knock, Andôkai uttered an incantation, and the gates swung open to reveal a tall slender woman and a young man.
The pair stepped into the forecourt and headed toward the steps. Dressed in black leather armor, the woman was carrying a weapons belt with two outlandish weapons that Andôkai recognized as unique to their bearer. Porista, like most ruined cities, was plagued by looters and thieves, and this particular woman preferred to be armed. She walked briskly and fearlessly, while her companion hurried after her, scanning the forecourt anxiously and hugging his pack to his chest.
A shadow fell over Andôkai.
“It’s all right, Djern,” she told her bodyguard, keeping her eyes on the couple. “They’re quite harmless.” She flashed him a wry smile. “Although quite frankly, I wouldn’t mind if they were Nôd’onn’s chief famuli.” She looked up at the towering warrior, eying the demonic metal visor that always masked his face. “Even hostile apprentices would be better than none at all.”
Djern stayed where he was, diagonally behind her. He seemed to be watching the approaching couple, but the eyeholes in his visor gave nothing away. His helmet appeared to be empty, but he was capable of fixing his enemies with terrible rays of violet light.
His stillness was also deceptive. Clad from head to toe in armor, he looked heavy and inert, but at the sight of an enemy, or if his mistress was in danger, he moved with incredible agility, running, jumping, and fighting as if he were made of shimmering silk. Few could say what lay beneath his armor—and it was better that way.
The woman and her frightened companion ascended the steps. Andôkai realized that she had been mistaken. “Narmora, who’s this?” she demanded, forgetting to welcome her guest. “I mistook him for Furgas.”
The half älf smiled. Like Djern, she was careful to hide her striking features from strangers, and her pointed ears were covered by a crimson headscarf. The daughter of an älf and a human, she had thrown in her lot with the men, elves, and dwarves, but älfar were feared and hated throughout Girdlegard, and she knew better than to expect any mercy from a baying mob. The headscarf was vital for her safety.
“Maga, I found him roaming the city. He wanted to see you, but he was too afraid to knock.”
The man lifted his eyes and saw Djern, who stood three paces tall. His gaze traveled fearfully over the metal breastplate that mimicked the curve of bulging muscle. He took in the tionium gorget, the terrifying visor, and the ring of metal spikes encircling his helmet like a crown. “What in the name of Palandiell…” Stepping back, he almost tumbled down the staircase, but the nimble Narmora grabbed him by the elbow. “Djern won’t hurt you,” she assured him.
The man did his best to compose himself. “Wenslas is my name. I served Turgur the Fair-Faced,” he said timorously.
Andôkai’s heart sank. The only famulus in Girdlegard, and h
e was trained by a preening dandy. “There’s no need to be afraid,” she told him. “Which tier did you reach before your magus died?”
“I didn’t,” he said softly. “I wasn’t actually a famulus. My name was on the list for the academy, and I was waiting to take the exam. I heard the Estimable Maga was looking for students, so I came to Porista.”
“That’s when I found him,” chimed in Narmora. “He saw the ruined city, and his courage failed him, so I escorted him myself. Did I do well?”
Andôkai looked the man up and down. “I need to know how strong you are, Wenslas. You’ll do the exam right away.” Privately she doubted that the nervous young man had the mental fortitude to handle complicated formulae and strength-sapping rituals. He knows nothing about magic. It will take cycles to turn him into a tolerable apprentice. Turgur had put him on a waiting list, which meant only one thing: Wenslas was a last resort.
Turning sharply, she went into the palace. “I’ll need your help, Narmora—if you can spare a little time.”
“Furgas was busy when I left him—he won’t mind if I stay for a while.” She gave Wenslas a little shove; he sidestepped quickly around the armor-plated giant and set off after Andôkai.
The little party made its way through the deserted palace. Wenslas’s boots echoed through the empty marble passageways, setting him further on edge. None of the stories he had heard about the tempestuous maga had prepared him for meeting the real-life Andôkai and her disquieting companions. He was about to announce that he had decided not to go through with the exam when they passed through a doorway and came to a halt in the conference chamber.
The hall, once famous for its domed roof of gleaming copper, was in ruins. It was here that Nôd’onn had revealed himself as a traitor and an enemy of Girdlegard, and his battle with the council had destroyed the ancient room. Large chunks were missing from the ceiling, some of the pillars had been smashed to pieces, and ash, blown into the chamber from the burned-out city, had mingled with rainwater, forming a thick black sludge on the marble floor.
Amid the wreckage stood the fossilized form of a man, an enduring reminder of Nôd’onn’s treachery. The cruel magus had used his dark magic to turn Lot-Ionan the Forbearing to stone.
Wenslas stepped over the fallen columns and followed Andôkai to the center of the chamber where the floor was littered with splintered malachite.
“I’m going to send a charm in your direction—only a weak one, so you won’t come to any harm, but enough to gauge your aptitude for magic.” She signaled for Narmora to position herself behind him and catch him if he fell. “Ready?” Without waiting for an answer, she hurled a glowing blue sphere toward Wenslas, who raised his arms unthinkingly, palms outstretched to stop the missile.
The spluttering sphere hit his hands and sent him flying backward. There was a hissing noise, and he yelped in pain and shock. Narmora was behind him straightaway, holding him by the armpits to save him from the splinters on the floor.
But the glowing sphere continued on its path.
Whizzing through the air, it spiraled higher and higher, gathering speed for its next attack. Like an angry wasp, it circled above them, then swooped toward Wenslas.
“Maga?” gasped Narmora, alarmed. When no help was forthcoming, she laid Wenslas gently on the floor and prepared to face the magic weapon. Using a wooden plank as a shield, she took up position and watched as the sphere zigzagged crazily toward her. It came within half a forearm of her; then it burst.
Andôkai’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Congratulations, Wenslas,” she praised him. “I believe in challenging my pupils; it brings out their talent.” She walked over and examined his scorched palms. “Don’t worry about your hands; the skin will soon heal.”
Groaning, Wenslas clambered to his feet. “Estimable Maga, it’s no use pretending that I passed,” he said dejectedly. “We both know that I didn’t stop the sphere. It’s nice of you to be encouraging, but I’m not a magician. If you hadn’t taken pity on me, I would have been killed.” He picked up his bag. “Turgur told me that I wasn’t cut out to be a famulus, and he was right. If only I could… Oh, what’s the use?” Sighing, he bowed before the maga and took his leave. “May the gods be with you.”
They heard his footsteps echoing through the arcades, then Djern set off after him to escort him through the gates.
The maga studied Narmora’s face. “So it was you,” she murmured incredulously. “You destroyed the sphere.” Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “How? You told me you inherited a few tricks from your mother, nothing more. Correct me if I’m wrong, but älfar can’t do magic.”
Narmora seemed as surprised as she was. “I… I didn’t use a spell or anything. I just wanted the sphere to go away. I was thinking about it disappearing and then…” She tailed off and raised a hand to her eyes. “It disappeared, just like that,” she whispered. She seemed almost scared.
Andôkai was the first to recover her composure. “Do you know what this means, Narmora?” she said excitedly, laying her hands on the half älf’s shoulders. “I’ve found my apprentice! It won’t take long before you’re ready to—”
“No.”
Narmora’s refusal was spoken with such intensity and conviction that Andôkai let go and took a step back. “No?” she said uncomprehendingly, searching Narmora’s face for signs that she might be swayed. “You can’t mean that.”
Narmora drew herself up to her full height. “Yes I can.” She wasn’t afraid of Andôkai’s wrath. “I’m sure there are better candidates, and I’m willing to help you find them, but I won’t be your famulus.” She met the maga’s questioning stare. “Remember what happened at the Blacksaddle? It’s a wonder that we survived. No more adventures, that’s what we decided, and I’ve given Furgas my word. We came to Porista so that Furgas could help you rebuild the city, and I’m here because of him. Nothing is going to separate us again.” She paused, noticing the maga’s baffled expression. “It doesn’t make sense to you, I suppose.”
She sat down on a fallen column and lowered her voice. “Listen Andôkai, I want to grow old with Furgas; I want to have children and grandchildren, and I want to see them grow up. How am I supposed to do that if I train to be a maga? I don’t want to risk my life for Girdlegard; I love Furgas, and I’m happy the way I am.” She lifted her loose-fitting breastplate; her figure was fuller than usual. “I’m going to be a mother,” she said, stroking her bump. “The baby is due in ninety orbits.”
Andôkai snorted angrily and made no reply.
The news hadn’t produced the intended effect. Narmora took a deep breath. “Excuse me, Maga, it’s getting late. It’s time I went home to Furgas.” She got up and walked to the door.
“Is there anything I can say to persuade you?” the maga called after her, undaunted. “How can I change your mind?”
Narmora glanced over her shoulder and saw Andôkai silhouetted in the light of the rising moon. “I don’t intend to break my promise,” she said firmly as she made her way out.
Sighing, the maga went over to the statue of Lot-Ionan, formerly a man of flesh and blood. “My poor friend, I could do with your support,” she whispered absently. Her fingers stroked the smooth marble, tracing the folds of his cloak. The magus of Ionandar was dead—dead like Turgur the Fair-Faced, Sabora the Softly-Spoken, and Maira the Life-Preserver.
She turned around sadly, surveying the wreckage of the hall.
Narmora was a fool to sacrifice her talents for love of a man.
Richemark,
Southeastern Gauragar,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle
King Bruron stood at the gates and watched as a steady stream of loaded wagons left the storehouse. His entourage was made up of seven bodyguards and two stewards, whose job was to write down how many drums of grain were heading north.
The first wagon had left the capital at dawn, on course for the far reaches of the kingdom, where the soil had been blighted by the Perish
ed Land. The fields and meadows were beginning to recover, and by summer they would be fertile, but there was nothing for the farmers to sow. They desperately needed seeds, not to mention food to see them through.
“Supplies are dangerously low, Your Majesty,” said the first steward, noting another figure on his wax tablet. He pointed the stylus at the convoy of wagons.
“The silos are almost empty,” replied the king, dressed inconspicuously in dark brown cloth as if he were an ordinary stocktaker. He watched for a moment as the last of his provisions left the capital for the provinces, the drums of grain jiggling up and down in the wagons. “I’ve taken the necessary measures. Yesterday King Nate received payment for five thousand drums of grain to be delivered to the northern provinces. Idoslane will supply the rest.” He smiled and thumped the steward on the back. “I’ve been keeping count as well. None of my subjects will go hungry—another five thousand drums are on the way.”
His bodyguard alerted him to a group of riders who seemed intent on cantering through the gates of the storehouse. There were thirty in total, three dwarves and the rest men, and their grim faces left little doubt as to their mood.
Bruron’s smile vanished from his lips. The arrival of the delegation wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it filled him with dread. It was too late to slip away unnoticed, so he would have to face his troublesome guests.
The first rider reined in his horse. No sooner was he out of the saddle than a group of servants surrounded the horse and led it away. His soldiers stayed mounted, but the three dwarves lined up beside the man. “Greetings, King Bruron,” said the ruler of Idoslane with a cursory bow.
“Welcome to Richemark, Prince Mallen,” the king replied warmly. “I was heartened to hear of your victory against the orcs.” He turned to the dwarves and smiled. “Please extend my thanks to your commanders. The people of Gauragar won’t forget how the allied army saved them from the green-hided beasts. They’re very grateful.” He laid a bejeweled hand on his chest. “As am I.”