by Markus Heitz
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 Perished 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.”
One of the dwarves thump
ed the ground with the poll of his ax. “Yet you handed the Blacksaddle to our enemies while we were fighting on your behalf. Is that how you show gratitude? I call it disloyal and underhanded, and I don’t mind telling you that I expected better from a human king.”
Bruron looked pained. “Those are harsh accusations, master dwarf—especially as I had no choice. I agreed to take over the watch when your kinsfolk left the Blacksaddle, but I had no way of knowing that a centuries-old agreement would force me to—”
“Betray your allies,” the dwarf finished for him, the creases on his forehead deepening into furrows.
Prince Mallen studied the wagons of grain. “An agreement, you say?”
“Many cycles ago, the house of Gauragar signed a treaty with Lorimbur’s folk, according to which the Blacksaddle was ceded to the thirdlings—for perpetuity and with no recourse.”
“Are you sure the document is genuine?” asked Mallen.
Bruron inclined his gray head. “I’m afraid so. My archivists scoured our deepest vaults and highest towers—and the evidence confirms the terms of the agreement. The thirdlings helped my forebears to mine Cloudpiercer’s riches, and the Blacksaddle was their reward.” He turned to the dwarves. “The stronghold belongs to the thirdlings,” he said apologetically. “What was I supposed to do?”
“Refuse?” suggested one of the dwarves.
“My forefathers signed a treaty with the thirdlings, and it behooves me to uphold its terms. Surely the dwarves, with their fondness for tradition, can understand the situation?” His tone had undergone a sudden change, becoming sharper and more impatient; it was obvious that he considered the matter closed. “The Blacksaddle belongs to the thirdlings; I’m not thrilled about it either, but the honor of Gauragar is at stake.”
Mallen looked at him squarely. “I won’t presume to judge you, Bruron, but in your position I would have advised my allies of the treaty and looked for a better solution.”
“I didn’t have the luxury of—”
“You could have requested more time—a few extra orbits to check the treaty’s terms,” cut in Mallen. “Instead you allowed the dwarf killers to seize a stronghold that poses a strategic threat to our friends. We’ll soon find out how Lorimbas intends to use his advantage.” He locked gazes with the monarch, smiling coolly as the other looked away. It was obvious that Bruron had been offered some inducement to remind him of the treaty’s terms. “I see what this is about,” he whispered in the king’s ear.
“You have no idea,” hissed Bruron. “My subjects are starving. Grain costs money, and I’m spending a fortune to keep them alive! If my allies would waive the cost of the—”
“It’s rude to whisper,” boomed one of the dwarves. “We won’t inconvenience you any longer—we’re needed in Dsôn Balsur. But don’t worry, King Bruron; we’ll be sure to tell our kinsfolk what you said. No doubt the high king will reach his own conclusions about your obligations.”
The three dwarves raised their hands and took their leave with a gesture that could have passed for an obscenity or a wave.
“So you sold it,” said Mallen angrily as soon as they were out of earshot. “You traded the Blacksaddle for gold.”
“No,” snapped Bruron. “My forebears signed a treaty; I kept to the terms.”
“And risked the wrath of the dwarves? What if they cut their ties with the human kingdoms?” Mallen shook his head bitterly. “I said before that I wouldn’t judge you, but I’ve changed my mind. You’re a fool for ceding the Blacksaddle to the thirdlings.”
The king turned on him angrily. “How dare you—”
“I speak only the truth,” broke in Mallen, weary of Bruron’s excuses. “Even a king must be censured if he errs. Don’t you realize what’s happening in Dsôn Balsur? The dwarves lost three hundred warriors in a night! They were murdered in their sleep—duped by älfar who claimed to be envoys from Liútasil. And now a strategically crucial stronghold, complete with weaponry and supplies, is in the hands of the dwarf killers. How do you think our friends will react?”
Bruron’s self-assurance vanished. “I hadn’t heard,” he said, concerned. “I’ll tell my advisors to find a way of annulling the treaty.”
“You do that, King Bruron. New friendships are easily sundered. The dwarves are valuable allies; we can’t afford to lose them.” He paused, deciding that he had said enough. “By the way, I came to tell you that we’ve started setting fire to the forests around Dsôn Balsur. The trees are harder to burn than we thought, and we’ll need more pitch—but it’s working. The assault on the älfar’s black kingdom will soon begin.”
“I have news for you as well, Prince Mallen,” said the king. He hesitated. “The thirdlings want to speak with you. Their spokesman is in the capital, waiting for you to send word.” He gave Mallen the name of a boarding house. “I’ve met a few groundlings in my time, but these ones are…” He checked himself and tried to mask his disquiet. “In any case, you’re more experienced at handling them than me.”
Mallen swung himself onto his horse. “I’ve nothing to say to the thirdlings. We’re leaving this very orbit. A couple of orcish commanders are limping back to Toboribor and I intend to destroy their troops.” He raised his hand in farewell.
“Palandiell be with you and your men,” said Bruron sincerely.
“May the alliance hold strong,” replied Mallen. At his command, the cavalrymen formed a guard around him and they left the storeroom in the direction they had come.
The king of Gauragar lowered his yellow-flecked eyes and examined the lists that his stewards had prepared. After a moment’s consideration, he reached a decision—for the good of his kingdom.
The three cases of gold that would arrive in the capital in nine orbits’ time would allow him to purchase further supplies. There was no point in throwing the thirdlings out of the Blacksaddle until he had accumulated enough gold to secure his kingdom’s future.
Bruron was certain that Mallen and the dwarves would think differently if they knew the suffering of his people. No other kingdom was ravaged as badly as Gauragar. After orbits of eating moldering wheat, my subjects shall have fresh bread. Happier times are ahead for my kingdom.
“See to it that the silos are emptied,” he told his stewards. “Tell the farmers in the northern provinces to till every inch of fertile land. And order another nine thousand drums of barley from Tabaîn. I won’t have my subjects eating crumbs.”
I’m sorry I wasn’t in when you called.”
The deep voice sounded from near Mallen’s feet. The prince, unaccustomed to being addressed in such an irreverent manner, stopped admiring the red-tinged clouds above Richemark and looked down to identify the speaker. It was a heavily armed dwarf, who had slipped past his guards.
“I didn’t call,” he said coldly. “There was nothing to discuss.” He raised a hand to reassure his guards, fearing that any action on their part would result in blood-shed.
The dwarf’s armor was unlike anything that Mallen had seen. His reinforced spaulders were fitted with finger-length spikes, sharp blades glistened on his vambraces, and his gauntlets boasted sharp metal studs. Even without drawing his weapons he could wound or kill a man.
“If you don’t have a name,” said Mallen, “I’d be happy to choose one for you—although it might not meet with your approval.”
“In which case, I’d knock you out of the saddle—and I’m loath to hurt your splendid horse.” The dwarf smiled unpleasantly, the black tattoos on his cheeks rearranging themselves briefly. “If you care for your mount, you’d do well to call me Romo—Romo Steelheart of the clan of the Stone Grinders, descendant of Lorimbur, and nephew of King Lorimbas. I’m here on my uncle’s business.”
Mallen’s gaze traveled over the dwarf, taking in his breastplate, the steel plates protecting his thighs, and the three-chained morning star on his belt. “You’re dressed for war, not business. With a tongue like yours, you’re bound to find enemies, I suppose.”
“My
enemies are your allies, and our war has been raging since the creation of the dwarves.” He reached down and pulled a sealed leather roll from his boot. “From my uncle—he told me to bring him your reply.” He held out the roll for Mallen to take.
It seemed to the prince that he should read the missive; if nothing else, it would apprise him of the thirdlings’ intentions. He broke the seal, opened the roll, and pulled out the parchment.
He was expecting some form of blackmail, which was exactly what the letter contained. It referred to an ancient treaty between the house of Ido and the thirdlings in which the latter agreed to provide assistance in combating Toboribor’s orcs.
The arrangement still stood. Idoslane’s defenses depended on the dwarves’ undying hatred of orcs. Dwarven warriors, renowned for their toughness, staffed the outposts in parts of the kingdom most vulnerable to the marauding hordes, but it was difficult to know which of them were thirdlings because, unlike Romo, they looked no different to ordinary dwarves.
According to the letter, the thirdlings’ services were conditional on Mallen sticking to the terms of an agreement signed by his forefathers. It was the first he had heard of such a deal.
“I’m afraid your king is mistaken,” he said firmly, lowering the parchment. “Tell him I don’t like his scheming. First he seizes the Blacksaddle; then he tries to turn Idoslane against her allies. Nothing can induce me to pick a fight with the fourthlings.” He dropped the letter, watching as it floated toward a pile of horse dung. “King Gandogar is more than an ally; he’s a friend.”
“How touching,” scoffed Romo, seemingly unsurprised by his refusal. “Perhaps my uncle can take his place in your affections. We demand that you keep to the terms of the agreement. Your forebears signed the treaty of their own free will.”
“I won’t be held to ransom by your uncle. My forefathers weren’t allied to the fourthlings and their adherence to the treaty was never tested. In fact, I can’t recall any reference to an agreement with the thirdlings; it wouldn’t surprise me if the document were a fake.” He leaned forward in his saddle. “Tell King Lorimbas that bribery worked on Bruron, but it won’t work on me. He can keep his gold.”
