Disenchanted

by Kroese, Robert

  “What do you want?” Boric growled.

  “You should be more patient,” Arvin said. “How do you expect to learn how to break the curse if you threaten to kill anyone who can help you?”

  “I won’t allow my dignity to be insulted,” said Boric. “And those fools have nothing to offer me.”

  “Boric, you’ve been dragging your own remains all over Dis. Just how much dignity do you think you have left? And those fools, as you call them, know more than you think. The one who cut his thumb, Caelphas? He thinks he knows one of the elves who designed the swords.”

  “What?” Boric cried. “He knows who designed them? I must speak to him!”

  Arvin shook his head. “You should have thought of that before you threatened to cut his throat. You’re not going to be allowed near any of the council members again.”

  Boric howled a terrible curse, frightening away all the wildlife in the area that wasn’t already pinned to a tree. “Then I am doomed to walk Dis forever as a wraith!”

  “Not so fast,” said Arvin. “Before you stomped off, they actually said quite a bit about your sword. Some of it may be helpful to you.” He began recounting the council’s discussion to Boric.

  Brand’s mother was an elf princess who became pregnant by the seed of an Avaressian soldier during King Calapus’s invasion of the Thick Forest. There was no marriage among elves and it was not uncommon for an unattached female to become pregnant. When the child was born, however, it was instantly recognized as half-human and ordered to be left to die in the forest.[12] Brand’s mother couldn’t bear to let the child die and left him in a basket by the side of the Avaressian Road with a note indicating that he was the half-human child of an elven princess. He was found by a traveling merchant and raised in an orphanage, where he was mercilessly teased by the other children for his slight build and pointed ears. Brand’s mother was put to death for allowing the abomination to live.

  Brand eventually ran away from the orphanage and disappeared for many years. One day he was found in the Thick Forest and brought before the local council. To their amazement, Brand demanded the inheritance that was due him as the son of a princess. Most of the elves wanted him thrown out of the forest, but several council members noted that Brand actually had a case: elven law, Arvin explained, was more egalitarian than human law; property and titles could be inherited both from one’s mother and one’s father, and there was no provision disenfranchising orphans or children of executed criminals. The law was generally thought to apply only to elves, but there was no precedent for denying an inheritance to a half-breed. A meeting of the Laocoon, or Grand Council, was called, with elves traveling from all over the Thick Forest to meet on the matter.

  The Laocoon seemed headed for deadlock when Brand suggested a compromise: he would relinquish any claim to his inheritance in exchange for elven assistance with a project on which he was working. He was trying to infuse swords with a strange substance that seemed to possess magical properties. It was suspected that this is what Brand was after all along; his claim to an elven inheritance was simply a bargaining chip. The elves agreed to send three of their best craftsmen to Brand’s laboratory for three years to work on the swords. The elves never returned, and it was suspected that Brand had them killed when their tenure was finished so that they could not tell anyone about what they had been working on. When reports surfaced that several human kings were carrying swords that appeared to be of elven design, the elves suspected that it was the work of Brand. The exact nature of the swords remained unknown; the elves hadn’t known anything about a curse until Boric showed up.

  “Well that’s just fantastic,” said Boric. “So nobody knows anything about the curse.”

  “No,” said Arvin. “But here’s the thing: we elves try to keep to ourselves. We don’t like a lot of attention. I know you humans must think that we’re constantly sending out evil artifacts to wreak havoc in the Six Kingdoms, but frankly it’s bad publicity for us. Do you think we like being invaded by human armies?”

  “What’s your point?” asked Boric.

  “My point is that if there’s any way we can contain the damage caused by these swords, we’ll do it. We just don’t have much to go on right now. My suggestion would be to try to get your hands on some of this substance that Brand used to create the swords. Bring it back here and our alchemists may be able to determine the nature of its hold over you.”

  “Where would I get any of this substance? I don’t have any idea what it is.”

  “It’s some sort of mineral, or metal,” said Arvin. “When Brand came to the Thick Forest, he came from the north. There’s no reason for anyone to come from the north, even if they were traveling from the Wastes of Preel. It would be much simpler to travel south through Avaress. And Caelphas says he had the red dust of the Feldspaal Mountains on his boots.”

  “That’s dwarven territory,” said Boric.

  “Exactly,” said Arvin. “My guess is that the substance Brand used in the swords was unearthed by the dwarves in the mines of Feldspaal. If you go there, you may be able to find the mine where the substance was found. Get some of it and return here. The council will do what it can for you.”

  “Ugh,” said Boric.

  “The council isn’t so bad,” said Arvin.

  “No, it’s not that,” said Boric.

  “What then?”

  “More walking,” Boric muttered, shaking his head.

  [12] Humans are thought to be a lower race by elves, and elf-human hybrids are considered to be abominations.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Arvin convinced Boric to allow the elven healers to make some repairs to his body before he left for the Feldspaal Mountains. After an hour of deliberations, however, the healers threw up their hands and walked off, leaving the job to the taxidermy elves, who did a remarkable job of making Boric look almost human again. His missing flesh was replaced with pouches of sawdust and his torn and filthy wrappings were swapped for fresh gauze. They even wrapped the lower part of his face with a scarf and replaced his tattered cloak. He looked like a shiftless brigand when they were done, but this was a vast improvement over mutilated corpse. There followed an awkward moment during which several of the taxidermists, who had misunderstood the purpose of their endeavor, insisted they be allowed to place their creation in a diorama with three stuffed wolves and a glass waterfall. They were more than a bit put out when their masterpiece stomped off into the woods.

  Three days later — after managing to avoid the mineshrooms and red-leafed needleworts (but not a razor fern that sliced halfway through his right arm), Boric found himself at the foot of the Dagspaal Mountains. They were gigantic — not only thousands of feet high, but extending as far as he could see in every direction except the one from which he had come. There could be hundreds of mines in these mountains; finding the source of Brand’s mysterious substance could take years. The utter hopelessness of his task struck him anew.

  Fighting against the urge to find a cave in which to once again lie down and give up, he forced himself to think rationally. He knew that the dwarves lived primarily to the north and east, so the mine he was looking for was probably in that direction. He decided to head north along the edge of the Feldspaals, looking for any sign of the reddish dust that had been on Brand’s boots. It was the only lead he had.

  Just before dawn, he caught sight of something in the sky that he at first thought was a very large bird. But it was soon apparent that it was much larger than even the largest bird he had ever seen. With a great gust of wind, Bubbles the wyndbahr landed right in front of him.

  “Has it been a week already?” he asked.

  “Yep,” said Viriana, dismounting Bubbles. “No luck with the curse yet, huh?”

  “Bloody elves sent me up here,” replied Boric. “I have to find the mine where they got the stuff that they used to make the sword.”

  “Are you sure they weren’t just trying to get rid of you?”

  “I have no ide
a,” said Boric. “Probably. I’m never going to find it. Hey, you haven’t seen any mines around here, have you? Preferably some place where the dirt is red?”

  Viriana shook her head. “Doesn’t ring any bells. But hey, there’s something kind of weird a few miles north of here. Hop on and I’ll take you there.”

  Boric paused, looking toward the lightening sky in the east. He really needed to find a place to hunker down for the day. On the other hand, getting a ride with Viriana would save him several miles of walking. And maybe he’d be able to spot the mine from up above.

  “Now or never,” said the Eytrith. “I have a schedule to keep.”

  “Okay,” said Boric, hopping onto the wyndbahr’s back. Bubbles launched into the air.

  Boric couldn’t see anything noteworthy in the mountains, but after a minute or so he saw what Viriana was talking about: two parallel lines running east-west across the Wastes of Preel. The lines ran as far as he could see to the east and disappeared into a tunnel in the mountainside to the west. Bubbles landed just to the south of them and Boric jumped off to inspect the lines more closely. The lines were in fact a pair of thick metal rails, spaced about four feet apart, secured to a series of perpendicular wooden ties. The spaces between the ties were filled with gravel. Boric knew that the dwarves sometimes used carts on a system of rails to move dirt and ore from their mines, but he had never heard of a rail system anywhere near as large as this. There was only one possible terminus for a railway across the Wastes of Preel: the stronghold of “Lord Brand. But what was transported on the rails?

  “Gotta go,” said Viriana. “I can leave you here or take you back to the forest.”

  Boric hesitated again. Any second the sun would peek above the horizon. If he stayed here, the tunnel was the only place to hide. But if he had Viriana take him back to the forest, that meant at least another ten miles of walking. He was so sick of walking.

  “I think I’m good,” said Boric.

  “Okay, then,” said Viriana. “In that case, I shall return in one week! Pray that you have broken the curse by then!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Boric.

  “No, seriously. I can’t keep coming back for you. You’ve got one week, that’s it.”

  “And if I don’t break the enchantment by then?”

  Viriana shrugged. “Just do it, okay?” She dug her heels into Bubbles and the wyndbahr leapt into the air.

  Boric ran along the rails toward the tunnel. Peering inside, he could see that the rails disappeared around a corner perhaps a quarter mile in. The tunnel was only slightly wider than the rails and barely tall enough for Boric to stand. There was no way of knowing how long it was. But he had no choice: already the first rays of the sun were burning his back. He stepped into the tunnel.

  The air in the tunnel was cool and still, and Boric found the near-total darkness comforting. He rounded the corner to see that the tracks extended perhaps another quarter mile to an opening on the far side. His next move was unclear. He couldn’t exit the tunnel during the day, but he feared the possibility that a cart would come through while he was in the tunnel. Even if he didn’t get run over, he was certain to be caught skulking in the tunnel. He had no quarrel with the dwarves and he would prefer not to get into a fight with them if he could avoid it. There might come a time when he would need their help, and he’d prefer that their first meeting not be in a dark tunnel where he would probably scare them half to death.

  He managed to find a crevice in the tunnel where he could hide and not be in the way of a passing cart. With any luck, he wouldn’t be noticed. He had no idea how often the rails were used — or even if they were used, but he preferred not to wait on the tracks if he could avoid it.

  As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait long. Within an hour he heard a rumbling on the tracks that indicated a something was approaching. Seeing nothing to the west, he ventured a look around the corner and saw, in the distance, what looked like a mule approaching. As it got closer, he saw that it was actually several mules traveling in single-file along the tracks. He ducked back into his crevice and waited for the procession to pass.

  It took a while. As slow as the mules had been traveling, they slowed down even more in the tunnel, as it was barely large enough for them to fit through. Boric reminded himself that the tunnel was almost pitch black; the mules had to be navigating entirely by the feel of the rails against their hooves. They brayed and snorted nervously. “Come on, ya lazy brutes!” growled a gruff voice. “Ya been through this tunnel a hundred times. We’ll never make it to Buren-Gandt before nightfall at this rate!” Boric wondered if the animals could sense that something wasn’t right. There was the sound of a whip cracking and more piteous braying. At long last, the first of the mules approached Boric’s hiding place. It stubbornly refused to go any farther.

  “Yer halfway through now, stupid!” growled the voice. “Keep movin’!” The whip cracked again and the mule jerked forward. It raised its muzzle in the air and opened its mouth in a sort of grimace, as if smelling something rotten. It slowly turned its head to face Boric, who was as still as a corpse. There was no way the animal could see him, but it seemed to sense that something was lurking in the dark. Its eyes and nostrils went wide and it broke into a run. The mules behind it were pulled forward and each of them panicked in turn as it reached Boric. Boric counted seven of them. The whole team was now running at top speed. Behind them, a short, solidly built man with a long brown beard sat in a cart pulling on the reins. “Slow down, ya idiot mules! Yer gonna break yer legs!” But the mules kept running.

  Behind the driver’s cart followed a series of a dozen or so mostly empty carts. Boric saw that several of them contained tarps that could be used to cover cargo. As the last one passed, Boric stepped out of the crevice and caught hold of it, vaulting into the cart. He grabbed a tarp and did his best to tie it to the hooks on the corners of the cart. As the train emerged into the sunlight, he ducked under the tarp and pulled his cloak tightly around him. The mules seemed reassured by the open air and slowed to a walk. It wasn’t a very dignified way to travel, but it beat walking — and it seemed his best bet to find the mine he was looking for. The only explanation for such an extensive rail system was the need to move large amounts of something very valuable from the Feldspaal Mountains to Brand’s stronghold.

  The driver had mentioned “getting to Buren-Gandt before nightfall.” Boric had never heard of such a place, but he assumed it was the location of the mine. He could only hope that the driver’s estimate of his arrival time was roughly accurate — and that there weren’t any other stops along the way. He listened intently for any sign that the train was slowing or approaching any sort of settlement or outpost, but he heard nothing but the rhythmic clomping of hooves on the gravel and the occasional squeak of a metal wheel on the rails. For several hours they seemed to be on a slight upward slope that gradually grew steeper. Then they reached a long downhill grade.

  He smelled Buren-Gandt before he heard it: the scent of burning coal filled the air. Venturing a glance from under the tarp, he saw that the sky was dark with soot. There was no sign of any sort of settlement yet, but it had to be close. The sun had disappeared behind the mountains and the light was growing dim. Boric climbed out of the cart and dropped onto the tracks, shielding his eyes from the remaining daylight.

  He was in a valley in the middle of the Feldspaal Mountains, with great snowy peaks towering on all sides. Boric continued along the track, following the mule train at a hundred paces or so. He doubted the driver would look back, and in any case would be unlikely to make him out in the dying light. The smoke grew thicker and echoes of clanging machinery filled the valley. Soon the track began a precipitous drop; the mules were no longer pulling the train so much as breaking its descent. Here the track was sunk in an ever-deepening crevice carved into the rock, and he could see that ahead the valley fell away into a vast canyon with sheer rock sides. The track disappeared around a corner to the left and Boric c
ould see that it continued on the other side of the canyon, spiraling ever downward. Rather than follow the train down through the crevice, Boric remained at the top of the canyon, creeping stealthily toward the rim. He noticed that the dust clinging to his boots was red. Reaching the edge, he peered over into the chasm below.

  The sight filled him with awe. The canyon was probably a mile deep at its deepest, roughly circular and maybe a mile wide; it had been excavated to varying depths in different places and each level swarmed with dwarves. Some were swinging picks; others were digging with shovels; still others were moving piles of rock with wheelbarrows. In the middle of it all, about a half a mile down, sat a giant metal machine that was unlike anything Boric had ever seen. There was a great revolving wheel some fifty feet high, and next to it a huge cantilevered metal beam that rocked up and down like a giant hammering a nail. Alongside this was a riveted iron tank the size of one of the Kra’al Brobdingdon’s massive guard towers. Below the tank was a gigantic furnace that blazed with such intense heat that Boric could feel it at the canyon’s rim, and with such light that it illuminated the entire canyon almost as if it were day.

  Four metal chutes ran to the furnace, each chute manned by a score of dwarves, who were frantically shoveling coal into them. At the same time, other groups of dwarves were delivering wheelbarrow loads of coal to keep the dwarves on the chutes supplied. A third set of dwarves rested out of the way of the commotion, drinking and dousing themselves with water from a trough. Every so often a group of the resting dwarves would take the place of the coal-delivering dwarves, the coal-delivering dwarves would take the place of the chute-filling dwarves, and the chute-filling dwarves would head to the resting area. No whistle or bell sounded, but somehow the dwarves all knew exactly where they were supposed to be and when they were supposed to switch places. After some time, Boric realized that they were all working in time with the movements of the giant beam. Every switch was ten beats apart, and the schedules of the workers at each of the four chutes were staggered by ten beats. The shrewdness of this system was instantly evident: the workers shoveling coal were always fresh, so they could keep the furnace roaring at full capacity; none of the workers ever got in each other’s way; and everyone knew what they were supposed to be doing at all times. It was still unclear what the machine actually did, of course, other than cast a hellish glow over the canyon, belch foul smoke into the air, and throw off nearly as much heat as the midday sun, but Boric was convinced that whoever had designed this scheme — not to mention the machine itself — was some kind of diabolical genius. Brand, he thought. It had to be.