Another crew of fifty had spent ten years working their fingers to the bone, sanding and polishing every inch of granite so that it looked like marble and felt like glass.
Pitrick reminded himself that there was one occasion where he liked light: when the hearth was lit for heat, the orange-yellow flames sent eerie shadows dancing across every shiny surface in his home. Pitrick snapped his fingers and flames instantly licked at the charcoal in the hearth; he kept the blaze just low enough to cast phantom shapes on the walls.
Legaer crept in at last with the mulled drink, his head bent as he held the mushale out to his master. Pitrick snatched it from his servant’s hands and then dismissed him with a wave. He was not in a mood to enjoy terrifying the pathetic dwarf today.
Pitrick absently sipped the tepid brew made from distilled balick mushrooms, waiting for its slight hallucinogenic affects to begin. The hunchback believed mushale heightened his senses and allowed him to focus beyond petty distractions and achieve a level of true meditation. Legaer had to be summoned to bring three mugs of the tasteless brew before Pitrick reached the ethereal state that just one usually accomplished.
Pitrick reflected on the possible reasons for this. He knew that it had little to do with his physical exhaustion. If anything, he should require less in his weakened condition. No, he realized, the cause was depression. The spark had somehow gone out of his life, his quest for power suddenly seemed less vital. With a start, he pinpointed the cause.
He had been goaded into pushing Perian Cyprium into the Beast Pit. Everyone else—including the thane, it seemed—bent his will to Pitrick’s own so easily. He had clawed his way from his lowly heritage in the bowels of Theiwar City to the exalted position of the thane’s adviser. No one had ever liked him, but he was feared and respected for his power, and he found fear and power to be the best tools. Except on Perian.
She alone had resisted him, had, in a sense, bested him.
The hunchback had tried everything he could think of to conquer her—physical abuse, magic, blackmail. But the frawl soldier was stronger than he, and she told him repeatedly that she would rather die than suffer his touch. She was heavily resistant to magic, perhaps because of her Hylar blood; to have her by sorcery would have been a shallow victory anyway.
He had been certain she would succumb to his threats to reveal her half-derro heritage to the thane, for she cherished her position as captain of the guard. But she had called Pitrick’s bluff time and again; she sensed her value to him, and knew that he would not seek her banishment from the clan, because it would take her from his grasp. The secret of her power over him only fanned the flames of his desire to master her.
Pitrick had never doubted he would win her, nor realized how much he had lived only for that day. The derro’s mushale-laden mind was overcome by an unfamiliar sensation. He had heard others speak of it as regret. He had never lamented a single action in his life, but he was astounded to admit to himself that he actually regretted being forced to push Perian into the pit and out of his life.
The responsibility lay entirely with the odious hill dwarf, and with Perian herself for going too far and being foolish enough to defend him. The look of admiration she’d given the other dwarf, when she’d never viewed Pitrick with anything but thinly disguised loathing, had driven the savant to the brink of insanity. Surely it was all her fault. But for once blame seemed less important to Pitrick than the fact that Perian was dead, beyond his sphere of domination. He would never possess her, never see her shivering at his feet as Legaer did. And never was a long, long time.
Just then the servant stole into the room with another mug of spirits. The disfigured dwarf treasured these times of meditation, strove to lengthen them with drink, because only then did the persecution of logic cease. Afterward … the old pleasures always returned with vigor.
Legaer quickly placed the mug under his master’s hand, careful not to disturb the trance nor to signal his activity in any way.
But Pitrick did sense his loathsome harrnservant’s presence, and it gave him an idea. A brilliantly heinous idea. His hand flew out to grab the petrified servant by the throat. Mushale heightened Pitrick’s strength, and he easily lifted the dwarf off the ground, as easily as if he were a bug.
“Perhaps there is still a way to get Perian back. Yes! I have the solution. And she could be my servant. Of course, that position is already filled.”
Legaer’s eyes bulged from his head in terror. Pitrick smiled as he twisted the dwarf’s neck until it snapped and the eyes rolled closed.
“But now it’s vacant.”
The savant casually dropped the dead dwarf onto the polished floor, stood, and stepped around the body. He picked up the filled mug, then set it back on the table again; any more ale and he might have difficulty concentrating on a spell to raise Perian from the dead.
Nomscul took the bag from his belt and slapped it in Flint’s face, sending a cloud of dust up the hill dwarf’s nose. Flint coughed and sputtered and cursed. “What are you trying to do, you darn fool, choke me with dirt?”
Mudhole’s shaman looked surprised. “That not dirt, that magic! Why you not be spellstruck like Aghar?” He thought about that for a moment. “I know, that prove you king! Nomscul no can magic king!”
Flint considered Nomscul’s stubbornly resolved expression with exasperation. “You can’t force someone to be your king!” He strained futilely against his bonds.
But the gully dwarf’s square jaw remained set. “It not I. It property. It fate. You must give in.”
“But it’s not my fate,” Flint insisted, “because your prophecy is not my concern!”
Nomscul suddenly looked crestfallen. “You mean you no want to be our king? It great honor. We wait long time for you to come—since before Nomscul be Nomscul!”
Lower lip quivering, Nomscul pulled the rusted blade from a hiltless dagger and a mold-encrusted pendant from the pockets inside his furry vest and held them toward Flint. “If you not king, who get treasures Aghar save since Kitty-clawsem? Who be our saver?” The room erupted into a symphony of wailing, moaning, sobbing, and shrieking gully dwarves, who threw themselves to their knees and pounded the ground in despair.
“Oh, for crying out loud, stop that infernal screeching!” Flint yelled. The room fell instantly quiet, and all eyes turned to him.
Including Perian’s. Flint had all but forgot her in his desperation to escape. Suddenly the hill dwarf saw himself as she must see him, strapped to the chair, and he felt more foolish than angry. Enough was enough.
Flint regarded Nomscul, who was tapping his chin. “I have an idea. It’s so much fun to be your king, that I’ve decided I’d like you to have the fun, too. I’m going to make you king for a day.”
But instead of whooping with joy, the gully dwarf looked insulted. “Property no work that way,” he said solemnly. “I no drop from mud chute with queen.”
Flint would have rubbed his own face in frustration if he could have reached it. He considered his options. He could stay tied to the chair and try to outlast their attention spans. However, these Aghar seemed a tenacious lot, and patience was not one of his virtues. Why can’t I be their king for just a while? he asked himself. He had no burning commitments, except to avenge Aylmar’s death. It would take some planning to infiltrate Thorbardin and reach Pitrick; maybe these insufferable Aghar could be some help.
Was it truly fate that he and Perian had fulfilled the Aghar’s prophecy? It was certainly one weird coincidence.
“Let me loose,” he growled suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll be your king.”
“Huh?” said Nomscul, blinking in surprise.
“I said, I’ll be your king,” Flint repeated more loudly.
Nomscul looked suspicious. “You promise? You won’t run away?”
Flint rolled his eyes. “I promise on my honor as a Fireforge that I will be your king and not run away.”
Nomscul squinted in concentration. “For how
long?”
Flint sighed. “A promise is a promise! For as long as you need me.”
“And I’ll be your queen,” Perian said, stepping forward, smiling at Flint with a twinkle in her eye. He gave her a wink.
A cheer went up in the room and spread to the rest of the Aghar waiting in the hall.
“Get crown! Get crown!” Flint saw the crowd passing something forward, until the object was placed in Nomscul’s hands. The gully dwarf shaman held forth a jagged metal crown and placed it proudly on Flint’s sweat-soaked gray hair. The cold metal ring immediately slipped over the hill dwarfs eyes, forward off of his face, and fell with a “tink!” to the dirt floor. Nomscul quickly replaced it, and just as quickly it slid down Flint’s head again, bounced off the arm of the chair, and flew through the air.
“Gee, a game! Crowntoss!” Nomscul giggled into Flint’s face. “You one fun king!” He jammed the crown back on his king’s head.
Flint screamed. “Not points down, you moron!” Nomscul hastily yanked it off and righted it.
Not a bad fit. Looked okay too, Flint decided. “Now, untie me!” The room was a flurry of gully dwarves trying to comply with Flint’s wishes, some pulling on the ropes, a fair number trying to gnaw through them with their teeth. At last the bonds fell away and Flint stood up, rubbing his wrists and legs.
The Aghar were in a delirious frenzy; their “saver” had arrived. Nomscul whistled for attention. “Shudduuuuub!” he screamed, but no one was listening. Frowning in irritation, the shaman snatched the red bag from his belt and clapped it hard, sending a cloud of dust over the gully dwarves, who fell silent, as if under a spell. “See,” he said, giving Flint a smug look. “I told you it magic.”
He turned back to the gathering. “We plan crownation party for—” His eyes shifted from left to right as he searched his mind. “What your names?” he whispered to Flint and Perian. They quickly told him. “Party someday soon in Big Sky Room for King Flunk II, and Queen Furryend! I cook big food and everyone dance!” Most of the gully dwarves streamed like lemmings from the room to begin the preparations for the upcoming festivities.
Though even Perian had to laugh at Nomscul’s mangling of her name, her face fell at the mention of his cooking. She quickly pulled Flint to the side. “Let’s tell him to send Aghar up to the north warrens for some decent food, not the garbage pile they usually raid. I can tell them exactly what to get and where to get it.” Her face brightened further. “Say, they could even get some mossweed, couldn’t they?”
“Isn’t a raid into Thorbardin risky?” asked Flint.
“The Aghar do it all the time,” replied Perian. “I’ll just tell them to be a bit more selective.”
Flint decided her suggestion was a good one and had Nomscul dispatch two gully dwarves to the warrens with Perian’s specific instructions in hand.
It was such a good idea, in fact, that Flint decided to send two more Aghar out, this time through the “big crackingrotto,” as Nomscul pronounced it, to resolve his most pressing concern: Basalt. His nephew must surely have returned to Hillhome by how, and probably thought his uncle was a goner. From Nomscul, Flint had a rough idea of where the “big crackingrotto” emerged from Mudhole into the Kharolis range; probably about a stone’s throw from the western tip of Stonehammer Lake. Flint personally selected two young harms named Cainker and Garf, and gave them his best guess for directions to Hillhome, as well as a thorough description of Basalt.
Flint stuffed a hastily scrawled note into the pocket of Cainker’s vest. “Bring this to my nephew,” he instructed as he sent them on their way. “It will tell him I’m safe.” He had no real hope that they would succeed, but it was worth a try.
Thrilled at the prospect of some mossweed, Perian had allowed herself to be swept away by some frawls, who wanted to gussy her up for the festivities. Thus, Flint, his first kingly duties attended to, and left alone, finally fell to undisturbed sleep.
Beads of perspiration joined the streaks that flowed down Pitrick’s temples, pooling above his lips. His thick tongue licked the sweat away unconsciously, since he was intent on the heavy, leather-bound tome beneath his eyes. The savant was seated behind the burnished granite desk that rose out of the floor in his cozy study to the right and three steps above the main chamber. To his left and flank were floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with heavy, bound books, faded scroll cases, a beaker of teeth, patches of fur, a harpy skull, an ivory ogre tusk, quill pens and ink bottles, ground toenails, a flask containing the breath of seven babies, and other assorted dried ingredients. The shelves to his right were reserved for bottles filled with raw components of every imaginable color, odor, and viscosity, including frog glands in phosphorescent swamp water, golden griffon blood, red-hot lava, the sweat glands of a bugbear, mercury, giant slug spittle, and rendered virgin rattlesnake.
Pitrick scanned the last page of the spellbook, the soft, fleshy tip of his index finger tracing the words. Frowning, he slapped the book shut on its front and looked up to stare into the flames in the hearth.
He would have to use his wish scroll. The spells to animate the dead, resurrect a corpse, or clone someone all required the dead body, or at least part of it. The savant also considered forcing Perian to reincarnate, but there was no way to control or predict the subject’s new form, and Pitrick had no use for Perian as an insect. Besides, it, too, required the body.
A half-day’s research had led the derro to choose one of the most simple spells there were. No bulky, disgusting, or hard-to-find components, no long incantations to memorize, no pyrotechnics to awe observers. Wishes seldom failed to be incarnated—something always happened—though casters often did not get what they thought they’d asked for. That was because the exact meaning of their words was always carried out, and they had not paused to consider the precision of their language.
A wish also carried a heavy price: it instantly aged the caster five years, whether he chose to summon a bowl of gruel or a copper-haired frawl back from non-existence. But that was a small price to pay for someone with a dwarf’s long life expectancy.
The savant turned to his shelves and sorted through the piles of scrolls until he found the one he wanted: a fragile roll of parchment edged with faded red ink. It was the greatest treasure he had discovered among his mentor’s belongings after he had poisoned the old wizard many years before. Pitrick had been saving it for a special occasion, and his fingers hesitated before he tugged the ends of the satin ribbon that held it closed. He had to carefully phrase his wish before he opened the scroll and unleashed its power.
Slipping it under his arm, he paced around the narrow space surrounding his desk to position himself in front of the hearth, the pain of his foot momentarily forgotten.
“What exactly do I want?” he said aloud. “I want her alive, my prisoner, and as beautiful as she was before she was devoured by the beast.” He stopped, and his eyebrows raised with a fanciful notion. “I could bring her back submissive, or even adoring of me!” He shook his head. “No, that would not be Perian, and I would not have the challenge of taming her, nor enjoy her hatred of my power over her. And that is everything!”
Pitrick stepped around a support pillar and over the dead body of his former servant to pick up the mug filled with mushale. He took a only a sip to rinse his mouth, then spat the distilled brew into the fire. Tongues of flame shot up, nearly licking the ceiling vent, sending more shadows dancing in the smooth chamber. Now the formidable derro savant was ready.
Taking the scroll from under his arm, he untied the strings and gently unfurled the parchment. This was a momentous occasion, and Pitrick stood as straight as his hunched back would allow. Holding the scroll open before him, he closed his eyes and mouthed the phrase he had practiced in his mind.
“I wish Perian Cyprium to be raised from the dead, restored to her former beauty, here before me, powerless to leave my apartments, and unable to kill herself or me. That is my wish.” Pitrick opened his eyes.
A how
ling wind arose from nowhere and swept through the flawlessly polished rooms, dashing papers from the desk, dousing flames, sucking the parchment from his hands. Pitrick clung to a nearby support column and waited for the spells effects to subside.
Slowly, very slowly, the wail of the wind dropped to a gentle breeze. And then the air became as still and as cold as death. Then, nothing.
The savant did not need to look for Perian in the other rooms of his apartment. He could sense—knew with chilling certainty—that Perian was not there. He stood rooted to the spot, his fists clenched, fingernails slicing the flesh of his palms.
Somehow Pitrick knew that he was indeed five years older.
But for some strange reason that he could not fathom, the spell had failed.
Chapter 13
Death of a Friend
“Gimme another one,” Basalt mumbled, sliding his empty mug toward Moldoon. The young dwarf smacked his lips and reflected that the ale didn’t taste as sweet as it once had. But no matter.
The human reluctantly filled the heavy tankard, but cast a sad, pained looked at Basalt as the dwarf raised it to his lips and chugged noisily, ignoring the foam splashing onto his beard. Basalt set the mug down heavily, disappointed that somehow the draught did not bring him more pleasure.
“Take it easy with that,” cautioned Moldoon.
The man’s normally genial tone carried an undertone of genuine rebuke when he spoke to Basalt these days. Moldoon grew more and more concerned by the behavior of the young hill dwarf. Moody and irresponsible after his father’s death, the youth had grown sullen beyond compare in the weeks since his Uncle Flint had left town.
Since his return from the Theiwar tunnel, Basalt had spent all his time drowning himself in self-pity. A new hatred of the mountain dwarves for the murder of his father and uncle, combined with a hopeless feeling of inadequacy, had left him feeling trapped. He did not feel he could trust anyone and he knew that no one would believe him, with his cockeyed story of Flint’s disappearance and Aylmar’s murder. He was, and always would be, an abject drunk.
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