The Dwarves (18 page)

Lot-Ionan frowned. “The älfar 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, Tabaîn, Âlandur, and the fallen
kingdoms of Lesinteïl 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 Andôkai, 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,” Andôkai 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.

Andôkai 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 Andôkai 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, Andôkai 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. Andôkai, 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 Gorén
was here. Wasn’t he one of your apprentices?”

“Gorén? What would Gorén be doing in Porista? He lives in Greenglade.”

“Turgur said something about a meeting he held with Gorén 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 Gorén 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.”

“You’re right,” she said. “I’ll ask Andôkai to swap kingdoms and then we’ll be a little closer.”

“I’m sure her subjects would welcome the change. The calm after the storm — isn’t that what they say?”

“Still waters run deep,” she informed him with a playful sparkle in her gray-brown eyes.

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
ungdil’s sharp dwarven vision soon adapted to the darkness. The walls around him had been hewn cleanly from the dark flesh
of the mountain and polished to a sheen. Smooth surfaces were the hallmark of dwarven masonry; he couldn’t imagine a human
laborer going to such lengths.

The chilling legend of Cloudpiercer had sounded convincing at the time, but he no longer gave it much credence. From the evidence
around him, it seemed likely that the mountain had served as a dwelling, not a mine.

Tungdil clambered up a short flight of steps and came to an open portcullis. Beyond the raised grating, a heavy oak door reinforced
with metal hasps and steel plating stood ajar. He knew there would be no way out if the door slammed behind him.

“Hello? Is that you, Master Gorén? Is there anyone there?”

For a while he listened to the dull echo of his shouts; then the deathly hush returned. He went in.

“Master Gorén, can you hear me?” he called. “My name is Tungdil. I’m here on an errand for Lot-Ionan.” The last thing he needed
was to be mistaken for an intruder. Hidden behind the door was a set of levers with which the portcullis could be raised or
lowered. It made a dreadful racket, as he discovered by trying it out.

“Sorry,” he shouted, hurrying on. It was time he found Gorén.

The tunnel delved deeper and deeper inside the mountain. After a while Tungdil could almost convince himself that he had stumbled
on a dwarven stronghold. Staircases and passageways wound into the core of the enduring rock and for the first time he had
a clear idea of what it would be like to live with his kinsfolk in one of Girdlegard’s ranges. At length he came to the kitchen,
a large chamber neatly hollowed from the rock, equipped with stoves and kitchenware that had not been used for some time.

“Master Gorén?” Tungdil sat down, lowered his packs, and waited awhile. A terrible thought occurred to him.
Who’s to say that Gorén isn’t dead?
Galvanized into action, he put aside his reticence and began to search the place for anything that might lead him to the
wizard.