by Markus Heitz
The mason had carved the verse in the shape of a tree, symbolizing renewal and the eternal cycle of life.
There was no way of gauging the age of the inscription, especially since the treatise on dwarven language in Lot-Ionan's library made no mention of such things, but Tungdil couldn't escape the impression that the runes were terribly old, a message from a long-forgotten era at least a thousand cycles past.
He breathed life into the words, reciting them aloud and listening raptly to the strange yet familiar syllables, so different from human speech. The language moved him, stirred him, churning his emotions.
He wasn't the only one roused by the sound. The ancient runes rolled through the folds and wrinkles of the mountain and woke the Blacksaddle too. Something shifted in its memory and its hatred of the dwarves returned with a vengeance, this time directed at Tungdil. The Blacksaddle quaked.
"I'm not going anywhere!" He pressed his back against the rock, determined not to be shaken out of the alcove by the shuddering mountain.
Just then the wall behind him stirred as well. Grinding and groaning it slid back to reveal a tunnel. The shaking stopped abruptly.
Tungdil decided it meant one of two things: Either the Blacksaddle was trying to lure him inside and hold him prisoner in its flesh, or Gorйn was welcoming him to his den.
With that, the matter was settled. He collected his things, shouldered the bag of artifacts, and strode determinedly into the tunnel.
After barely three paces he felt an almighty shudder and the doorway closed on Girdlegard's night sky. The stars of Girdlegard twinkled their farewell and the dwarf was trapped inside. Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin, Girdlegard, Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle The lofty buildings of the majestic palace shone luminous white against the clear blue sky. Sable turrets rose among the domed roofs, sparkling in the sunshine. Like beacons, their shimmering brightness and imposing height lit the way to Lios Nudin from a distance of fifty miles. A traveler would have to be blind to miss Porista.
Lot-Ionan feasted his eyes on the view. The circumstances surrounding the council's meeting were worrying, but he was looking forward to seeing the others all the same. With a tug on the reins, he curbed his mount and rode through the city at a more sedate pace. Snorting, Furo made it known that he would rather gallop and feel the wind in his mane.
Tradition dictated that the meetings of the council took place in Porista's opulent palace, a custom upheld by Girdlegard's magi for two millennia. The reason for the venue was twofold: Firstly, the practical consideration of a central location, and secondly, and more crucially, Lios Nudin's heart-shaped form. Like a well of enchantment, Lios Nudin supplied the other five realms with magic, the energy flowing outward to Ionandar, Turguria, Saborien, Oremaira, and Brandфkai.
Lot-Ionan patted his indignant stallion on the neck and laughed. "There'll be plenty of time for galloping on the way home," he assured him, keeping an attentive eye on the crowds.
The walls of Porista offered shelter and protection to forty thousand men. Grassy plains extended for hundreds of miles in every direction and the population made a decent living from livestock and crops. Farming was profitable in these parts: Porista's produce was considered to be almost as good as that of Tabaоn, the northwestern kingdom nicknamed the Breadbasket because of its fertile fields.
Lot-Ionan steered his horse through the bustling streets, dodging carts and carriages and taking care not to trample pedestrians underfoot. He was already missing the tranquillity of his vaults.
At length he reached the gates of the palace, closed to ordinary mortals except by permission of the council. An invisible trap ensnared foolhardy individuals who tried to slip over the walls. Glued to the masonry like insects on flypaper, they were left to die of hunger and thirst, their magic bonds loosening only when nothing remained but bare bones. In matters of security the council was unbending: The palace belonged exclusively to the magi and their staff.
Lot-Ionan recited the incantation. The doors swung open as if propelled by an invisible hand and the magus rode on.
On reaching a sweeping staircase of buff-colored marble, he reined in Furo and slid from the saddle. His path took him up wide steps and through sunlit arcades on paving of elaborate mosaic. White pillars channeled the light from a vaulted glass roof to shine on the colored tiles and show off the intricate designs. The walkway led all the way to the conference chamber where his presence was awaited. He gave the password and the doors flew back.
The others were there already, seated at the circular table of malachite: Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty, Turgur the Fair- Faced, Sabora the Softly-Spoken, Maira the Life-Preserver, and Andфkai the Tempestuous.
With Lot-Ionan, they formed the council of six and disposed of almost limitless power. Each used their magic to pursue a goal of their choosing. Had the magi seen fit, they could easily have toppled the seven human kingdoms of Girdlegard and annexed their land, but they were intent on perfecting their wizardry, not acquiring worldly might.
Lot-Ionan spoke first to Sabora, then greeted the others in turn, before taking his place between her and Turgur. His arrival was acknowledged with brief, stately nods.
Sabora clasped his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'm glad you're here," she said, smiling warmly. Her high-buttoned dress of yellow velvet, a straight and somewhat stern affair, reached to the floor. Her short hair looked more silvery than at their last meeting, but her gray-brown eyes were as lively as ever. She sought his gaze. "Andфkai was beside herself with impatience." She lowered her voice to a whisper so only he could hear. "So was I, but for entirely selfish reasons."
Lot-Ionan returned her smile. Sabora made him feel like an amorous young man. Their affection was mutual.
"We know why you didn't respond to our summons," Andфkai told him. Her harsh tone made it sound like a reproach. She was attractive in an austere sort of way and her physique was uncommonly muscular for a maga, lending credence to the rumor that she could fight as well as any warrior. She wore her hair in a severe blond plait and her blue eyes seemed to search for a quarrel.
"Friedegard and Vrabor are dead," Maira explained. She was taller and slimmer than Andфkai, with red hair that fell about her pale white shoulders. Her simple dress of light green cloth was the perfect complement to her eyes and showed off the gold trinkets hanging from her neck and ears. "The news arrived just before you did." She looked over at Nudin. "It seems to us that the evidence points to the дlfar. We think the Perished Land sent them to thwart our meeting."
Lot-Ionan frowned. "The дlfar are the Perished Land's deadliest servants, but they've never been known to venture so far south. Nudin tells me that our girdle is failing." He paused. "Enemy reinforcements are streaming into Girdlegard in greater numbers than before. Unless we seal the Northern Pass, we'll be meeting in Porista on a regular basis to renew our magic shield." He drummed his finger vigorously on the table. "Enough is enough! The Perished Land must be destroyed!"
"Oh, absolutely," Turgur said scornfully. The famously fair-faced magus had perfectly symmetrical features, a meticulously shaven chin, a thin mustache, and flowing black locks. Women of all ages swooned at the sight of him, for which he was hated and admired by others of his sex. He was far and away the most handsome man in Girdlegard. "Why didn't we think of it before? What a fabulous plan, Lot-Ionan."
"This is no time for sarcasm," Nudin rebuked him in a hoarse, rasping voice.
There was a brief silence as the magi reflected on their past attempts to defeat their invisible enemy.
"Our magic has done nothing to prevent the Perished Land from casting its shadow over Gauragar, Tabaоn, Вlandur, and the fallen kingdoms of Lesinteпl and the Golden Plains," Lot-Ionan said at last.
"And it's not for want of trying. We've used enough energy to topple mountains and drain oceans," added Andфkai, who knew all about destruction. Samusin, the god of winds, was her deity and she focused her magic on controlling even the slightest movement of air. Her mood was
as changeable as the weather and her quick temper caused many a storm.
"It wasn't enough, though," said Turgur. "The Perished Land has dug its claws into our soil like a great dark beast and won't be shifted."
"No," Andфkai contradicted him. "It's lurking and ready to pounce. If we do nothing, it will attack."
Lot-Ionan cleared his throat. "I've been thinking. We know from experience that our combined power is enough to keep the threat in check. If we summon our apprentices to Porista and add their magic to the ritual, we may be able to defeat it." He looked expectantly at the others. This was no idle suggestion: They each had thirty or more famuli, all of whom could practice magic to some degree. "If we were to harness the magic of a hundred and eighty wizards, our strength would surely prevail."
"Failing that, we'll know for certain that neither might nor magic can defeat our foe," Nudin commented dryly.
The possibility was too dire for Lot-Ionan to contemplate. If nothing was capable of stopping the Perished Land's incursion, it was only a matter of time before Girdlegard fell. Every living thing, man, beast, or plant, would be forced to live out its existence as a revenant, dead and yet forever in the service of the northern pestilence. A shiver of fear ran through him. No, we can't let that happen.
Andфkai was the first to find her voice. She seemed anxious as she scanned the faces of the others. "I know some of you don't approve of my allegiance to Samusin, but I stand by my faith. We must act."
"I thought your faith would forbid you from driving out the Perished Land," Lot-Ionan said in surprise.
"Samusin strives for equilibrium, but in the blackest of nights, nothing survives, not even a shadow. If we stand by and do nothing, Girdlegard will be in thrall to the darkness," she explained. "Once the Perished Land is defeated, the balance will be restored. I'm in favor of the proposal."
The motion was put to the vote and received the council's unanimous support.
"Very well," Nudin said hoarsely, "but we should renew the existing girdle first. If our defenses crumble before the apprentices get here, we won't be in a position to undertake anything at all. I suggest we break for an hour and have some refreshments before proceeding."
The magi concurred with the suggestion and the council dispersed. Nudin beckoned Lot-Ionan to the north-facing window.
Seen from close range, the ruler of Lios Nudin looked bloated and swollen. The whites of his eyes were shot with red veins and his pupils glinted feverishly. It was clear to Lot-Ionan that he was seriously ill.
Just then Nudin was seized by a coughing fit and held a handkerchief to his mouth. With his free hand he steadied himself on his maple staff. He stuffed the handkerchief hastily away.
Lot-Ionan thought he glimpsed blood on the cloth. "You should ask Sabora to lay hands on you," he said anxiously. "You look…To be honest, you don't look well."
Nudin arranged his swollen features into a smile. "It's nothing, just a nasty cold. It's good for the body to have something to pit itself against." He gave Lot-Ionan an approving nod. "That was an excellent idea of yours, you know. Even Andфkai was convinced of the scheme, so the others are bound to fall into line." His face went a violent shade of purple as he struggled to suppress another cough. "We magi have pursued our own private interests for too long," he continued in a strangled voice. "I'm not talking about Sabora, of course; she's always been different. But it's good to see that there are some things on which the council is prepared to take a stand. It's a pity it had to come to this first."
"Indeed," Lot-Ionan said uncertainly. For once Nudin seemed perfectly amenable and even his condescending tone was gone. If this was the effect of the illness, Andфkai and Turgur could do with catching it as well. "Are you sure we shouldn't be calling you Nudin the Solicitous?"
Nudin chuckled good-humoredly and ended up coughing instead. Lot-Ionan caught a clear glimpse of blood on his lips before he hurriedly dabbed it away.
"That does it. I'm sending you to Sabora," the white-bearded magus said firmly. This time it was an order. "The ritual will be draining and you look weak enough as it is."
Nudin raised his hands in surrender. "I give in," he rasped. "I'll go to Sabora. But one last question: Where are my artifacts, old friend?"
Lot-Ionan had rather hoped that the matter had been forgotten. "I left them in Ionandar," he admitted. "I'll get my famuli to bring them when they come."
Nudin smiled. "Well, at least you know where they are now. Don't worry. There's no rush. The Perished Land is our primary concern."
"It slipped my mind entirely. I meant to go through the cabinet in my study and pack the things together, but after what you told me about the orcs and the girdle…"
Nudin gave him a pat on the back. "Don't worry about it." He swayed slightly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll lie down." He turned and made for the door, his voluminous robes rustling softly and his staff tapping out a steady rhythm against the floor.
"Don't forget to see Sabora!" Lot-Ionan called after him.
Pensively, he gazed out of the window beyond the artful palace gardens and over the roofs of Porista to the horizon where the green plains fused with the bright blue sky. There was no sign of the Perished Land from this distance, but he knew it was there, only a few miles from the city.
After a while he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and a delicate fragrance wafted through the air. It had been a long time since he had smelled that perfume and his old heart quickened. He placed his right hand over hers. "My favorite maga," he said, turning to face Sabora.
"My favorite magus," she replied with a smile.
He was always delighted to see Sabora. They shared the same attitude where aging was concerned: Neither attempted to disguise the passage of time. He found it reassuring that he wasn't the only one with wrinkles, especially when the others looked so young.
No one could accuse Lot-Ionan of being vain, but the meetings in Porista made him feel ancient. Andфkai, with her hundred and fifty cycles, looked no older than thirty, while Maira could be taken for fifty, despite being six times that age. Turgur, of course, was always refining his looks and maintained the appearance of a vigorous man of forty cycles.
Sabora guessed his thoughts. "Oh, Lot-Ionan," she commiserated, "they're getting older as well, you know." They embraced.
"So tell me about your work," she said when they finally drew apart.
"It was coming along nicely until one of my assistants ruined a vital part of the formula before I had a chance to try it out," he reported. "Still, it won't be long before I can render the presence of magic in people and objects visible to the eye. It should mean a breakthrough in our understanding of what magic energy really is. But let's hear about you. Can you cure all our illnesses and ailments?"
Sabora slipped her arm through his and they set off leisurely through the arcades. "I've mastered injuries and wounds and now I'm focusing my efforts on eliminating the plague. I've been quite successful, actually," she confided. "The trouble is, there's no shortage of people with new and mysterious diseases. The gods send us new ailments every day."
"You'll get there eventually," he said encouragingly. "Has Nudin been to see you? He looks dreadful."
Sabora shook her head. "I saw him hurry past earlier, but he didn't stop to talk." A mischievous smile spread across her face. "If it's his waistline that's bothering him, he'd better ask Turgur. He's the one who knows how to remodel his body and his face."
"He must be nearing his goal, don't you think? He seems to have lost more of his wrinkles since the last time I saw him. Everlasting beauty can't be much farther off."
They stopped in one of the palace's many gardens and sat down.
Sabora laid her head on Lot-Ionan's shoulder. "It's incredible, isn't it?" she said softly. "We all pursue such different goals, but for once we're in agreement."
"Maira's support was as good as guaranteed. I suppose you've heard that she's opened her forests to the purest animals of Girdlegard? She's determined
to save them from the orcs. As the eldest among us, she knows better than anyone what the northern pestilence would do to Girdlegard."
"Yes, her realm is a sanctuary. The last of the unicorns have taken refuge in Oremaira." She paused. "If everything goes to plan, Girdlegard will be safer than it has been for eleven hundred cycles-and it won't be a moment too soon."
Lot-Ionan laid an arm around her shoulders, savoring her presence. Duty and geography made such moments all too rare. "I was pleasantly surprised by Turgur," he confessed. "He usually seems so self-obsessed. His life revolves around physical perfection, beauty, aesthetics, and yet…"
Sabora laughed. "I expect he's worried about his flawless blossoms and flower beds. He's lavished so much time on perfecting his gardens that it would be a pity to see them ruined by the Perished Land." She straightened up suddenly. "I heard Gorйn was here. Wasn't he one of your apprentices?"
"Gorйn? What would Gorйn be doing in Porista? He lives in Greenglade."
"Turgur said something about a meeting he held with Gorйn and one of Nudin's apprentices. It was here in Porista, the last time we met."
"Now, that sounds suspicious," the magus said jokingly. "Turgur the Fair-Faced meets two of his rivals' apprentices and steals their secrets. He'd know all about my work!"
"Much good it would do him: charmed beauty combined with the power of discerning magical presences, and…" She hesitated. "What does Nudin do?"
"He hasn't said." The magus shrugged. "Judging by the look of him, he doesn't have time for exercise, so it must be demanding." Now that he thought about it, he was intrigued; at the next opportunity he would ask Turgur what Gorйn had wanted in Porista. "Let's forget about the others," he said tenderly, wrapping his arms around Sabora and hugging her gently. "We don't spend nearly enough time together."
