by Markus Heitz
“Come on,” Boëndal said evenly. “We need to get out of here before the watchmen arrive.”
Hefting their bags, they hurried out of the city in the direction of Ionandar. At first they were worried that someone would find the bodies and chase after them, but no one did.
Tungdil felt a pang of conscience. “It wasn’t right to kill them,” he said, as they were sloshing their way through puddles and mud. “We should have handed them over to the watchmen along with the jar.”
Boïndil’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me I should have let the villains live?” He shook the raindrops from his beard. “They would have been tried and hung anyway. What difference does it make?”
“They deserved to die, I know. But if we’d…” Tungdil couldn’t think of how to describe his nagging guilt in a way that Ireheart would understand.
Boëndal leaped to his brother’s defense. “No, scholar, there are no two ways about it. They murdered for money and died because of it. What does it matter that we killed them? Boïndil’s right: The long-uns would have hung them, but we saved them the trouble — and we avenged the dead dwarf.” He tossed his plait over his shoulder to signal that his mind was made up. “It was the right thing to do.”
Tungdil could find no argument that might persuade him otherwise. He was still too much the scholar to understand his companions’ dwarven way of thought.
“We need to press on,” Boïndil reminded them in a more conciliatory tone. “The high king is waiting.” The battle in the stable had cooled his raging temper and he was calmer again.
Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,
Girdlegard,
Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle
I can’t keep this up for much longer,” Rantja muttered despairingly.
“You mustn’t stop now,” whispered Jolosin. “If any of us leaves the circle, the ritual will be broken. I owe it to my magus; we all owe it to Girdlegard to keep going.”
Just then he heard a change in Nudin’s voice. The croaky rasp became a high-pitched purring that didn’t seem to belong to him at all. After a while it lowered to a bass tone so deep that it vibrated through the apprentices’ bodies. None of them, not even the highest-ranking famuli, had heard anything like it.
And yet it worked.
Pulsing with light, the dark green fragments of malachite rose into the air and came to rest three paces above the floor. Even the splinters in the decaying flesh of Maira the Life-Preserver left her body, exiting with a gentle pop as they bored through her skin.
“What did I tell you?” said Jolosin, giving Rantja’s hand an encouraging squeeze. “We’re nearly there now.”
Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty began a new incantation and the famuli resumed their chanting, only to break off shortly afterward, unable to follow the words. Babbling and gibbering incoherently, the magus had lost his thread. With the rest of the circle reduced to silence, the ritual was doomed.
Meanwhile, the fragments of malachite clustered together in a flat disc, ten paces in diameter. The glowing circle began to spin.
“Is this part of the ritual? I’ve never done this before,” hissed Jolosin. Rantja made no reply.
The disc spun faster and faster, the splinters drawing closer as the speed increased. Soon the individual fragments joined together in a circular sheet of flawless crystal.
“My magus knows what he’s doing,” Rantja whispered proudly, breathing a sigh of relief.
A hush descended on the room as the ring of apprentices watched in awed silence while the glowing malachite morphed under Nudin’s command. At last the impressive spectacle drew gasps of admiration and relief from some of the famuli.
“We did it!” Jolosin was about to throw his arms around Rantja but was stopped by the magus, who tightened his grip on his hand.
Nudin spoke, uttering a single, unintelligible word.
A splinter flew out of the disk and pierced Jolosin in the chest. No one noticed.
“What…” Groaning, the young man tried to free his hand and touch the spot where the jagged splinter had entered his flesh and buried itself deep inside his chest. He could feel the blood seeping from the wound and trickling down his abdomen, but Nudin was gripping him firmly in his cold, clammy clasp.
“Estimable Magus,” Jolosin said, his voice strained with pain, “I’m… I’m hurt. I’ve been hit by a shard.”
Nudin turned his pale bloated face toward him. His pupils were dilated, almost obscuring his irises. Then the black dots turned the color of tarnished silver. His misty eyes glinted.
“I know, my boy. I needed your magic. There was no other way.” He squeezed his hand reassuringly. “It won’t hurt for long.” The magus closed his eyes.
Another tiny splinter of malachite flew across the room and hit Rantja. From then on, the splinters followed in quick succession, striking the apprentices so rapidly that half of their number had been wounded before the others noticed. They called to the magus for help.
“Stay where you are or everything will be ruined,” he commanded, eyes still closed.
The remaining famuli were unpersuaded by his words. Rather than stay and be killed by the lethal crystal, they decided to run for cover, but by then it was too late. As they tried to pull away, they realized with horror that their hands were stuck together, tying them to one another until they too were struck by shards.
The malachite disc sent dark bolts in the direction of each famulus, green light caressing their bodies eagerly in search of the splinters and slipping inside the wounds.
Nudin looked up, an insane glimmer in his eyes. Throwing open his cloak, he uttered another incomprehensible command.
At once a finger-length shard of malachite flew toward him on a bolt of green lightning and planted itself in his chest. The beam intensified, pulsing and rippling with light, while the tendrils of energy binding the famuli to the crystal faded and dimmed. Soon they were gone altogether.
“Victory!” The magus’s shriek of triumph was too shrill and powerful to be human. He laughed exultantly. “The time for dissembling is over; Nôd’onn the Doublefold is once more!”
The famuli slid to the floor. Jolosin, Rantja, and the others were incapable of speech; the malachite had wrested the magic from their bodies and plundered their strength.
The more fragile among them were the first to succumb. Their hearts stopped, their breathing failed.
A small band of famuli, Jolosin and Rantja included, summoned the energy to drag themselves across the floor in a desperate effort to reach the doors.
The magus plunged his fingers into his chest and was feeling around for the splinter. He withdrew the bloodied fragment, gazed at it dreamily, then replaced it in the wound. He took a step toward the malachite disc.
“You served your purpose, now be gone!” No sooner had his onyx-tipped staff made contact with the hovering crystal than it fell to the ground, littering the floor with myriad splinters.
Don’t just stand there, he told himself sternly. Let the next phase begin! Gathering the leather bag brought by Jolosin, he hurried to the door, skewering three crawling famuli as he passed. A tidemark of blood stained the white maple of his staff.
On reaching the doorway, he stopped and looked back, scanning the foul-smelling room. The stench of decay would soon be overwhelming, but it was all the same to him. His work was almost done and he was leaving the conference chamber for the final time.
It was then that he noticed Rantja and Jolosin. With a brutal swipe of his staff, he crushed the famulus’s skull. His own apprentice had nearly reached the door, but he nudged her back into the chamber with his boot.
Rantja rolled onto her back, tears streaming over her face, and uttered a healing charm. Her magic failed her.
The magus stooped to stroke her long brown hair. He knew the famula well and she was talented, one of his most gifted pupils, in fact. She would probably have made it into his discipleship in Lios Nudin, but he knew that she couldn’t be relied on to cooperate w
ith his plans.
“The malachite splinter inside you has left you weak and helpless,” he told her. “The magic is gone. You’ll die like the others, Rantja.”
The young woman stared up at him accusingly. Her dark eyes were full of contempt for the magus whom she had trusted implicitly and who had forfeited her respect.
Nôd’onn looked away, surprised at how much he was affected by his dying apprentice. “I didn’t want to kill them,” he said defensively. “There was no other way of obtaining their magic. What was I supposed to do? Andôkai, Lot-Ionan, Maira, Sabora, and Turgur refused to help me, and you and the other famuli would have turned against me too. I knew it was going to be difficult, but I did it because I had to. This is my destiny. Girdlegard must be protected from evil.”
“There is no greater evil than the Perished Land,” she said, breathing in rapid gasps. “The gods will punish you for betraying our circle.”
Nôd’onn thought for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right. But the vengeance of the gods is a small price to pay for saving mankind.” He got to his feet and stepped out of the chamber. “And mankind can be saved only by the Perished Land and the chosen few.”
“You’re mistaken,” whispered Rantja. Her gaze faltered. “You’re…” A sigh ran through her body and her head slumped back, falling to the side.
“No,” Nôd’onn contradicted her sadly. “I’m right, but no one understands. My dear friend told me this would happen.”
Closing the doors with a wave of his hand, he turned away quickly and hurried through the palace to the vaults. There was a dull thud as the doors of the chamber slammed behind him, sealing Girdlegard’s most powerful wizards in their tomb.
Clumping down the stairs, Nôd’onn reached the room where the energy was at its strongest. From Lios Nudin, the force field extended outward in five directions, supplying the other realms. He was about to change all that.
The magi and their highest-ranking famuli had been taken care of, but there was still the matter of the lowlier apprentices. Nôd’onn was incapable of stopping the flow of energy, but he intended to reclaim the young wizards’ meager powers by other means.
First there’s something I need to attend to. He loosened the green drawstrings, opened the bag, and turned it upside down.
An hourglass hit the floor, shattering on impact, followed closely by two amulets, which tinkled against the marble. A roll of parchment landed on top.
Nôd’onn stared at the motley collection. These aren’t my things! he thought furiously, scattering the pool of sand in all directions with his staff. Confound Lot-Ionan!
He reminded himself of the need for calm. Besides, he could always ask the orcs to retrieve the items from Ionandar.
Focusing his mind, he used his powers to search for the force field and, on finding a connection, uttered the charm provided by the Perished Land, thereby releasing the magic he had plundered.
VIII
Enchanted Realm of Ionandar,
Girdlegard,
Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle
To speed their progress, the three dwarves bought ponies and rode without stopping, dismounting only to spare their aching backsides. Even then they kept moving, continuing on foot.
Over the course of the journey the twins taught Tungdil a number of ballads that were known to all dwarves, irrespective of folk or clan. Little else remained of the common heritage linking all the children of the Smith.
The melodies were simple and easy to remember, embellishments and ornaments playing no part in dwarven songs. To Tungdil’s ear, they sounded rather melancholy, a tendency he attributed to the gloominess of the underground halls. The mood was noticeably lighter in songs such as “Glinting Diamond, Cold and Bright” or “There Is a Golden Shimmer in a Faraway Range,” where the lyrics told of great treasures and gold, and he enjoyed the drinking song “A Thousand Thirsty Gullets, A Thousand Flagons of Beer,” taught to him by Boïndil, who had procured a keg of beer.
Tungdil awoke the next morning and cursed his pounding head. According to Boëndal, it was all the fault of the long-uns’ ale, which was vastly inferior to the dwarves’ own beer.
Farther along the way they encountered Sami, a peddler with stubbly cheeks and peasant’s clothing, who had strange stories to tell. “Some people say that the cleverest famuli in the other five realms have left for Lios Nudin,” he informed Tungdil, who was examining the array of trinkets on offer while the twins waited patiently. He wanted to buy something for Frala before he forgot.
“Any tidings from Greenglade?”
“The elf maiden is dead. The northern pestilence laid waste to the forest, and King Bruron is worried that wayfarers might get themselves killed. He wants to set fire to it.” Sami made a show of unpacking his herbal soaps. “Perhaps you groundlings could do with some of these.”
“Just because we’re dwarves doesn’t mean we stink!” growled Ireheart. “I’ll put you in a lather, you lanky-legged rascal!”
“My mistake,” Sami said hurriedly. “I thought he wanted something for a lady friend.”
“Actually, Boïndil, the peddler’s probably got a point,” Tungdil said slyly, throwing him a bar of plain soap. He also bought a jasmine-scented soap, a patterned comb, and a doll each for Ikana and Sunja.
Boïndil sniffed the soap, scratched at it, and put a shaving in his mouth. “Ugh, it tastes disgusting! I’m not washing with that!” He tossed it disdainfully into his bag.
“So the Perished Land is still advancing?” probed Boëndal.
“It looks that way. Most of landur has fallen already and the elves are under constant attack. Some have fled to the plains of Tabaîn, or so I’ve heard.” The peddler packed the gifts in coarsely woven cloth. “Everyone says the älfar are getting the better of them. They’ve taken the other elven kingdoms, and if you ask me, landur will be next. It’s only a matter of time before the älfar conquer the last of their land.” He handed the parcel to Tungdil. “A silver coin, please, master groundling.”
“Dwarf,” Tungdil corrected him.
“Pardon me?”
“We’re dwarves, not groundlings.”
“Of course,” Sami said, again hurriedly. “Absolutely.” He cast a distrustful glance at Boïndil, who was admiring his shaven cheeks in a mirror.
Tungdil was still digesting the news about landur. “What do you think the assembly will have to say about it all?” he asked the twins.
“Serves the elvish tricksters right,” said Boïndil with a shrug. “Most of them are dead already and the others will follow if they set foot in our range. The pointy-ears aren’t welcome near Ogre’s Death; I don’t care whether they call themselves elves or älfar, they won’t be moving in with us.”
Tungdil scratched his beard. “What of the orcs?” he asked Sami.
“Oh, they’re in three places at once, if you believe the rumors.” The peddler looked at them dolefully. “It’s not safe on the roads anymore. Tion’s creatures are on the rampage and King Bruron can’t do anything to stop them. Innocent folks like us have to fear for our lives and our wares.”
Boïndil scanned the horizon longingly and licked his lips. Tungdil heard him making “oink” noises under his breath.
A while later they took their leave of the peddler and rode on.
To keep their purse stocked with coins, Tungdil jobbed as a smith, helped by the brothers, who also ornamented window frames and doorways with wonderful carvings. That way they kept themselves in ham and cheese while making good progress toward Lot-Ionan’s vaults.
“You’ve got bits of cheese in your beard,” Tungdil said to Boïndil at the end of a meal.
“What of it?”
“Well, it’s not nice to look at,” he answered, trying to be diplomatic.
Boïndil ran a hand over his chin and dislodged the largest morsels.
“There’s still…”
“Look here,” Boïndil told him brusquely, “the rest can stay where it is. It keeps the whisker
s sleek and smooth.” As if to emphasize the point, a bread crumb fell from his lips and landed in his beard.
Tungdil had an image of the hairs coming to life and feeding on the scraps. It would explain why nits weren’t a problem; the whiskers would gobble them up before they had a chance to settle. “Surely the girl dwarves must have something to say about your —”
“There you go again!” Boïndil clapped Tungdil on the back and grinned lewdly. There was cheese between his teeth. “Always on about girl dwarves.”
“Patience, scholar,” Boëndal advised him. “Play your cards right, and you’ll find out firsthand. You’re not bad-looking; I’m sure we’ll find you a suitable lass.”
“And then what do I do?”
“You make eyes at her, of course.” Boëndal gave him a playful dig in the ribs. “You sing her a song. You give her a hand-forged ring. Then you kiss her feet, cover her in a nice thick coating of her favorite cheese, swing her four times in a circle, and the gates to her Girdlegard will open.”
“That’s… It doesn’t say that in the books,” said Tungdil, bewildered. He looked at Boëndal, whose eyes sparkled roguishly. Boïndil couldn’t contain himself any longer and let out a side-splitting guffaw.
“Idiots,” huffed Tungdil. “It’s not funny, you know. I can’t help it if I’ve never met a female dwarf.”
“We didn’t mean to offend you,” apologized Boïndil, wiping away tears of merriment. “But maybe you should try it; it seems to work for Boëndal!”
That was it; his brother dissolved into laughter too, the gentle hills of Ionandar echoing with their mirth.
“Just be yourself,” said Boëndal, endeavoring to be serious. “I can’t speak for everyone, but it’s no good pretending to be something you’re not.”
“He used to say he was a poet,” his brother chuckled. “His lady friends never believed it, but with you it might work.”
“What sort of presents do they like best?”
“Ah, very cunning,” exclaimed Boëndal. “Sorry, scholar, but you can’t bribe your way into a lady’s heart. There’s no secret formula. Either she likes you, and she’ll tell you as much; or she doesn’t.”
