“Dear one,” Alanna fussed, guiding Kevon to the bed. “You have much to think about. Rest. I have matters that need attended.” She stroked the side of his face, looking as sincere as he’d seen her since he woke in shackles.
If she wanted me dead, I would be dead. Although not the most comforting sentiment, it helped him drift into an uneasy sleep, where he dreamt of a woman that was sometimes Alanna, sometimes Marelle, surrounded by people who were either Magi or farmerfolk.
* * *
“They’re not positive you’re here,” Alanna commented at Kevon’s first sign of wakefulness. “But they’re still looking.” She waited for him to sit up and rub the sleep from his eyes. “I’ve lost several men to attacks on the Magi over the past week, and we’ve only managed to kill two of them.”
“I’m sure I could take two or three myself, getting in close and surprising them,” Kevon mused, “If they’re moving in groups as you say.”
“Three. That’s good…” Alanna agreed. “But what about the nine or twelve that are watching from a distance? Are you strong enough to face them, or fast enough to run from them?”
Kevon frowned. Unless I can isolate groups of the enemy Magi, I have no chance of surviving the first attack. “No,” he admitted. “What did you have in mind?”
“We don’t have the numbers we used to, not enough for a surprise attack that would take them all at once,” she admitted. “If they were focused on something else, and on the move, we might be able to destroy enough of them that we could face the others without the advantage of surprise.”
“Focused on me, you mean?” Kevon grimaced. He did not relish playing the role of bait, but had been successful at it before, against arguably a fiercer opponent. “I suppose we have little choice.”
“It will take a few days to scout out their movements, pick a time and place that will work to our advantage,” Alanna mused. “There might be openings for crossbowmen to thin their ranks a bit further.”
Kevon nodded. “They wouldn’t know who I am in this outfit,” he told her. “I’ll need new clothes, wooden weapons, and some paints.”
Alanna furrowed her brow at his request, but nodded, turned, and left.
Chapter 34
Bertus startled awake at the pealing of the gong. He’d grown used to the deep horn that signaled sundown in the outside world, but the morning alarm rattled him to the bone, set his teeth on edge.
Mirsa stirred in the bed alongside his, wincing, then relaxing as the penetrating thrum tapered down to silence.
“I don’t know how you stand it,” Bertus complained, sitting upright and rubbing his fingers at the base of his ears. “Every morning, my head is ringing for hours, and you…”
Mirsa lay still, eyes closed, the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile.
“Hey! You’re… That’s not fair!” He launched a pillow that smooshed into the side of the Master Mage’s head, disrupting her concentration.
“You think it wise to anger a fellow Hero on the morning of our formal presentation to the Dwarven King?” She rose from her blankets and stretched, the shimmering, nearly translucent fabric of her nightclothes draping in ways that made Bertus avert his eyes.
“That wasn’t what I…” he began as Mirsa turned to pad off to the adjoining bath chamber. As he turned to watch her leave, the pillow he’d thrown leapt back to strike him in the face. “You’ll pay for that, Wizard!” he bellowed as she dashed around the corner to the bath.
Bertus put the pillow back behind his head and stretched out, awaiting his turn in the giant recessed stone tub. The last three days had been a whirlwind of activity interspersed with unexpected stints of luxurious relaxation. Things that the nobility in Navlia would have marveled at were commonplace here, hundreds of yards deep in the mountain. The bath chamber itself was a perfect example. Two miniature sluice gates fed into the polished granite tub, and one led out. No servants bearing pails of hot water like in the palace. He was unsure if every Dwarven dwelling had such conveniences, but the earlier tour of the river led him to believe it was possible. Waterwheels turned millstones, ran pulleys that lifted water filled vessels through the ceiling to the upper levels. Workers walked along sturdy causeways, checking for frayed rope and cracking boards. Mirsa had been impressed and disappointed at turns, alluding that there was no easy way for her to duplicate the processes through magic, and that the simple machinery was superior to anything she could accomplish on her own.
It did not stop her from enjoying it immensely, it appeared. Bertus woke what must have been an hour later when Mirsa, fully attired for a regal audience, shook him. “The tub is filling,” she announced, “and I’m going for a walk. Meet you in the dining hall for a late breakfast?”
Bertus nodded and yawned. Mirsa ruffled his hair and headed toward the doorway. The Seeker smiled and lingered in thoughtful repose a moment longer. Daily he saw more of what Waine had in the Wizard, and he hated himself for it. The Adept had been his brother, his friend, even more of a father than Bertus had ever had, excepting Carlo. Spending so much time with the increasingly attractive Mage was bound to affect him, but he still felt as if the feelings were an affront to the memory of his dead companion.
He shook off the worries and the covers. Today, of all days, I need to be the Hero I’ve been branded. Anything less could cost lives. Even the delay of the last few days may have rendered our mission pointless… Bertus hurried to the bath chamber and scrubbed himself clean, dressed, and set out to find Mirsa.
* * *
Kylgren-Wode and Mirsa were in the dining hall near the kitchen, conversing over half eaten plates of food. The Dwarven ambassador signaled to one of the kitchen staff, and a bowl of the customary morning gruel, along with a plate of thick sliced crusty bread and crisp vegetables were brought out and set before Bertus shortly after he sat down.
“We were just talking about yer meeting with the King,” Kylgren said, laying his fork down. “I’m not sure how he’ll take yer request to help out with anything… magical,” the last word whispered after a quick glance around the room. “Not that there’s much difference either way. But… Yer the first Mage that’s been in the Hold since anyone ken remember.”
Mirsa nodded and clasped Kylgren’s hand, squeezing it as she spoke. “I appreciate how quickly you’ve all adjusted to my being here,” she laughed. The first day, all of the iron and steel fixtures that they might have come in contact with were covered over with bright red cloth, and the following day were replaced with copper, silver, or brass; metals that were magically neutral. “Any help or advice he might give would be more than we could have hoped for.”
“We’ll see…” Kylgren moped.
He’s important now, Bertus thought, as he has never been before. He’ll miss it when it’s over. Knowing how he would feel if his journey with Kevon, Mirsa, and Carlo was coming to an end, the Seeker decided to try to do something that would give the kindly Dwarf something to remember their time together.
Bertus finished his meal while Mirsa and Kylgren conversed quietly about last minute points of etiquette for their upcoming meeting. They had spoken of it at length during the previous days, but everyone wanted things to proceed as smoothly as possible.
“Bargthar-Stoun, Master of this Hold, and King of all the Dwarves… grows impatient.” Kylgren-Wode admitted, as Bertus finished his meal. “He has no great love fer Men, and even less fer Magi. Staying calm the last few days has taxed him, and his household. He’s ready te be quit with ye before ye even meet.”
“We may be able to use that to our advantage,” Mirsa reassured the Dwarf. “Let us worry about the King.”
Kylgren grumbled some more in Dwarven under his breath, but did not speak of it further.
The morning gong sounded again. Bertus, Mirsa, and Kylgren-Wode all stood as some of the kitchen staff peered out into the dining area. “It’s time,” the Ambassador announced.
Dwarven guards, almost looking comfortable in their new leather a
rmor, appeared at the entrance to the hall, and waited until Kylgren-Wode led his charges into their midst before forming up around them and marching through the hallways to the throne room.
The path they took led through a part of the tunnels they had not seen before, by a handful of forges that Dwarven smiths were working, pounding out odd-looking pieces of armor. The hammering… Mirsa had grown used to the oddly restrained Earth magic that had surrounded them for the last few days, but as they passed close to the forges, she could feel the energy pulsing and ebbing with each clang of the hammers. Dwarves cannot use magic… she thought, remembering her studies at Gurlin’s tower, and before that at the feet of Tarska Magus. What is happening here?
Kylgren-Wode did not slow as they passed through the smithing district, and no one spoke at all.
At last, they came to a large set of marble doors inlaid with gold and silver etchings, runes that Mirsa recognized as Dwarven, but could not comprehend.
“Beyond lies the throne of the Lords of the Earth,” Kylgren announced, pointing at the runes. “Enter ye who would marvel at the bones of the world.”
The front two escorting guards each placed a hand on one of the doors, and pushed. The massive stone slabs groaned, but moved steadily inward.
Mirsa felt the same sort of fluctuation in the surrounding Earth magic, but slighter, more steady and drawn-out than the quick pulses accompanying the hammer-blows of the Dwarven smiths they had passed earlier. Just when she could almost tell where the magic was being drawn from, where it was going, the doors creaked to a stop.
Roaring fireplaces lined the sides of the regal chamber, heating the room and throwing faint shadows over the muted glow of the light-stones. Tapestries with action-filled scenes hung separated by no more than a foot or two each, hinting at the rich history that the Dwarven people alternately celebrated, and tried to live down. The flickering firelight brought out the best in the lighter tapestries, the proud face of a Dwarven noble and his love renewing their partner-bonds. It also deepened the darkness in others, chained humans and gnomes seemed to writhe under a taskmaster’s whip in a masterful depiction of a cruel age long ago.
Kylgren-Wode led the procession at a pace that allowed the humans to take the spectacle in, but not study anything too closely as they moved through toward the throne at the far end of the room. Stout Dwarven guards surrounded the steps leading up to the focus of power in the Hold. They bristled with weapons, in full suits of armor that seemed to be made of the same metal as the war axe that Bertus carried.
Mirsa slowed as they neared the end of the chamber, the magic flooding her senses as she approached the Dwarven King. “I can almost see it…” she whispered, noticing how the lines in the caged power seemed to echo the cut marble slabs and their polished gold seams, the flawless obsidian columns where their warped, dark reflections slid by in an eerie parody of their movement. The focal point of the increasing energy was the throne itself, pulsing with unseen power.
I wish Kevon were here to see this, Mirsa thought, nearly passing out from the intensity of the magic, even though it was not crushing in against her as it had when she and Kevon had used the sympathetic energies on their way to Gurlin’s tower. The unadorned basalt seat appeared to her to be shifting like quicksand, the inexorable pulsing of the magic manifesting visibly to her as one layer of reality began to overtake another. A Seat of Power? She wondered.
The armored Dwarves moved apart to the sides of the steps that led up to the throne, but their demeanors left no doubt that any hostile movement would be met with deadly force. The guards escorting Mirsa and Bertus also parted, taking up station alongside the last two obsidian columns. The Ambassador sank to one knee and bowed his head.
Bargthar-Stoun began speaking, but Mirsa could not understand a single syllable of the Dwarven ruler’s words. He finished, and looked at Kylgren-Wode expectantly.
The Ambassador stood and turned to his guests. “Bargthar-Stoun greets ye on behalf of the Dwarven nation. He trusts yer stay here thus far has befitted yer station.”
Mirsa bowed to the ruler. “These halls have provided as much as any Hero could hope for. Your hospitality has been most welcome after our long journey.” She elbowed Bertus, who merely nodded.
“Yer journey, to this Hold, puzzles our King,” Kylgren continued, after conversing with Bargthar-Stoun once more. “What brings champions of Men to the Throne of the Earth?”
“We’ve battled darkness to the West, defeated an Orclord and staved off the Magi that sought revenge for it. My companions and I are charged with strengthening the Realm against these continuing threats, and our path has led us here.”
Kylgren-Wode thought a moment before translating, and Bargthar-Stoun frowned before answering. “What could the Dwarves offer ye that the royals in Navlia could not?”
“Your language.” Mirsa explained. “An ancient text has been entrusted to us, which may help ensure the continued safety of the Realm. Its author was presumably a Mage, but the script is Dwarven.”
“We don’t know a thing about yer magic,” Kylgren translated. “Ye’ll have to take yer things and we’ll be done with ye.”
“No.” Bertus said, in a calm, yet forceful tone. “You will help us,” he continued, taking a step forward and drawing the battle-axe.
Spears and crossbows leveled at the young Hero’s chest.
“You will help us because you know the merit of our claims.” He held the weapon in upturned palms, showing it to the Dwarven King. “This weapon was gifted to another of our companions, a sign of our worthiness that you would be a fool to ignore.”
Kylgren-Wode cringed, and stammered a hasty translation to his enraged ruler.
“If the Magi behind the destruction to the West are allowed to continue as they wish,” Bertus continued, not waiting for an answer, “They will not stop with Navlia. The Orclords of old were kept in check by the wastes to the South. If these Magi are unleashing them in the North, how long do you think you will remain safe, even here?”
Mirsa, who had stepped aside at the first sign of the weapon, stepped forward as well. “While I do not agree with my companion’s behavior,” she said, glaring at Bertus, “He has seen the devastation firsthand, and lost friends to it. We all have.”
The Dwarven Ambassador calmed and continued interpreting, but Mirsa was not waiting for a response. “This boy has fought those who seek to bring this land to ruin, while you have hidden here, sharpening your axes.” She laughed. “And you quibble about looking at a book. We are done here.”
Without further hesitation, the Master Mage turned on her heel and marched back toward the massive entry doors. Bertus shook his head, twirled the axe, and slid it into the loop he’d pulled it from at his back. Giving a mock bow, he followed Mirsa out of the chamber, the guards who had escorted them looking to their King for instruction. Kylgren-Wode rushed through the translation, and waited, breathless, for his Lord’s response. After several moments of waiting, the Ambassador threw his hands up in frustration, and chased after his errant charges.
Mirsa stopped to wait for Bertus at the beginning of the smithing district. It was far enough away from the restrained potency of the throne room that she could concentrate once more. The hammering, made somewhat alien by the acoustics of the Hold, nevertheless served to make the underground warren a bit closer to the world above that she was familiar with. The rhythmic pounding beat a strain that syncopated with her heart and breath. She closed her eyes, and could feel the waves of magical disturbance spreading like ripples in a pond from the forges, following the lines of force built around all the surfaces of the Hold’s passageways. The longer she listened and felt, the further she could detect the ripples traveling. She stretched her senses, and rested a hand against one of the walls. Several waves passing by her distorted at her touch, ruining the effect. Curious, she anticipated one of the next waves passing by, and trailed her fingers behind and through it, and the section she disturbed intensified and accelerated wit
h her motion. She could sense it careening down the hallway, around corners, nearly reaching the throne room. Waiting a few heartbeats, she caught another wave, and focusing her intent, launched it after the other.
The very act of focusing kept the ripple intact, causing it to speed up as a whole, brightening in her mind, winding down the hallways into the Throne Room. For an instant, she could see the whole room as the wave refracted around and over the stone walls and obsidian columns, a phantom image in her head. Then several parts of the ripple struck the Throne.
The power pulsing from the throne absorbed and disgorged the wave, amplified beyond anything she had expected. Instead of a rapid ripple bouncing along the walls and floors at odd angles, the discharge from the throne room was lightning-fast sheets of the same energy, mapping out everywhere they had been in their brief stay, part of the springs and waterways, and all the residences and other chambers they had not been through. The thing that surprised Mirsa the most was the passage hidden behind the Throne, doors twice as large as the ones they had passed through led down a wide stairway to a chamber that had tunnels leading straight for many miles in several directions. The Master Mage felt very small and exposed, and shook free of the sensory assault before she could see just how far and where the passages led.
“Are you all right?” Bertus asked, catching up to her.
“I’m fine,” she said, steadying herself before taking her hand off the wall she was leaning on. “We just need to leave here before I’m not.”
“I’ll have the wagon readied, you see to our things, we’ll be on our way within the hour,” the Seeker assured her. “We’ll be back with Kevon before we know it.”
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