The Dwarves (20 page)

“‘It’?” Maira queried, horrified. “You don’t mean the Perished Land? Are you saying you talked to it?”

“I learned from it,” he corrected her. “I can’t protect Girdlegard without changing it first. It’s up to you whether you decide
to help me.”

Lot-Ionan reached for his staff. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing to consider. “Your actions today have turned
five friends against you,” he said sadly. “Your thirst for knowledge and power has led you astray. You should never have listened
to the voice of destruction.”

“You are wrong to call it that.” Even as Nudin began to speak, his left eye and his nostrils dribbled blood, leaving thin
crimson streaks on his doughy face. He faltered.

“Can’t you see what it’s doing to you?” Maira said gently. “You still have the power to renounce it, Nudin.”

“N-no,” he stammered, agitated. “No, never! It knows more than all my books put together, more than all the magi and scholars
combined.” His voice took on a hysterical edge. “It’s what I dreamed of. Don’t you see? There’s no choice.”

“Only because you agreed to be a part of it. And what did the Perished Land demand in return for this wonderful knowledge?
All Girdlegard and its inhabitants!” Turgur laughed scornfully. “You strike a poor bargain, my friend.”

“None of us can help you,” Sabora whispered. She shook her silvery head. “Nudin, how could you?”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he protested, disappointed. “It wants to help us; it wants to protect us from harm.”

“Protect us?” Maira signaled to the others. “No, Nudin, there is nothing more harmful than the Perished Land. We must fight
it.” She took a deep breath. “And we must fight you too.”

“You fools! Do you think you can hurt my friend?” Nudin dropped his voice to an unintelligible whisper and smote his staff
against the floor. The marble cracked, a deep fracture ripping through the stone and channeling in the direction of the chalk
circle. A heartbeat later it reached the table.

The malachite disintegrated like rock candy in hot tea, crumbling into a thousand pieces. Andôkai, whose motionless body was
lying on the tabletop, landed heavily on the flagstones. Green shards rained around her, tinkling on the floor, but still
she made no sound.

Lot-Ionan, the words of a counterspell frozen on his lips, gaped with the others in horror at the wreckage. The table, their
precious focus object, had been destroyed.

He was still staring at the sparkling green fragments when a blue fireball whooshed overhead, on course for the treacherous
magus. Before it could reach its target, Turgur’s fiery projectile was torn apart by a counterspell.

“For Girdlegard,” Maira shouted. “Stop the traitor!”

The sound of her voice startled Lot-Ionan into action. Pushing aside his fears for his realm and his disappointment at Nudin’s
betrayal, he focused on the challenge ahead. He knew the others were depending on his support, but in all his 287 cycles he
had never once used his powers to kill or harm.

They assailed the traitor with fireballs and lightning bolts, then joined forces for a combined attack.

Flames and projectiles bombarded Nudin’s shield and he disappeared amid the inferno. Sabora toppled the pillars on either
side of him, bringing a section of ceiling crashing to the ground. Dust swirled around them, obscuring their view.

None of them dared to check on Andôkai; all energies were focused on Nudin.

“Let’s take a look.” Maira summoned a gust, propelling the dust through the open roof. As the clouds dispersed, they found
themselves looking into thin air — Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty was gone, but there was nothing to suggest that he had been destroyed.

“He can’t have survived,” wheezed Turgur. “It’s impossible. He must have —” His eyes widened in horror as he looked at his
hand. The skin was wrinkling, its surface filling with age spots that blackened and turned into sores. A hastily invoked countercharm
did nothing to stop the rot. The festering infection spread along his arm, eating into his chest, then his legs.

Sabora rushed to his aid. Without flinching she laid a hand on the putrefying skin. This time her healing powers failed her.

With nothing to hold his flesh together, Turgur slid to the floor. He tried to speak, but his rotten tongue twitched helplessly
in his mouth. The fair-faced magus had been robbed of his beauty; a moment later, he forfeited his life. A deathly canker
had eaten him alive.

Lot-Ionan struggled to contain his growing dread. Nudin commanded powers the like of which had never been seen. The Perished
Land had taught him terrifying secrets.

Stepping out from behind a pillar, the false magus appeared at Maira’s side. She shrank away.

“You had your chance,” he rasped, drawing a few paces closer and stopping by the fallen Andôkai. “I asked you to help me and
you refused. Much good will it do you. I’ll show you what —”

At that moment, Andôkai, who had been lying seemingly dead on the floor, shot up and drew her sword. The blade sang through
the air and pierced Nudin’s chest.

“Take that, you traitor!” she thundered, raking the sword upward. The metal tore through the left side of his rib cage and
continued through his collarbone, hewing his shoulder. Nudin staggered and fell.

As he went down, he raised his staff and hurled it with all his might. The tip buried itself in Andôkai’s chest. She gave
a low moan and toppled backward, fingers clutching at the malachite splinters that littered the floor. Then she was still.

“Andôkai!” In an instant, Sabora was at her side, laying hands on the wound.

The sight of the traitor lying in a pool of blood allowed Lot-Ionan and Maira to draw breath. They knelt alongside the injured
Andôkai, but their magic could do nothing to help her.

“We’re not strong enough,” said Sabora, scrambling to her feet. “Our powers have been depleted by the ritual and the battle.
Try to stop the bleeding while I go for help. A rested famulus with a knowledge of healing might save her yet.”

She took two paces toward the door and froze midstep. Her face took on a bluish tinge that spread rapidly through her body.

“Sabora?” Lot-Ionan reached out to touch her. A stab of cold rushed through his arm, freezing his fingertips to her skin.
Sabora had turned to ice.

“Andôkai the Tempestuous lies still, Turgur the Fair-Faced has lost his looks, and Sabora the Softly-Spoken will forever keep
her peace. What will become of Lot-Ionan the Forbearing, I wonder?” a voice rasped behind him.

Nudin?
Lot-Ionan howled furiously, tugging his hand away from the maga’s frozen arm and skinning his fingertips. His sorrow at the
fate of his beloved Sabora turned to violent rage. “You’ll pay for this, Nudin. You won’t cheat death again!” A terrible curse
on his lips, he whirled round to face the traitor. Nudin’s staff was pointing straight at him. His robes were bloodied, but
there was no sign of the grisly wound inflicted by Andôkai’s sword; a rip in his cloak was the only evidence of the blade’s
gory passage.

Before Lot-Ionan could react, he was seized by an insidious paralysis. The heat seemed to vanish from his body, chilling him
to the core, while his skin tightened so excruciatingly that tears rolled down his rigid cheeks. Only his eyes were free to
move.

“Can’t you see it’s using you, Nudin?” Maira tried to rise from Andôkai’s side, but slipped on the fragments of malachite
and swayed. Nudin saw his chance. On his command, the splinters rose up like an uneven carpet of thorns. He hurled a curse
at her.

Maira deflected the black bolt, but staggered and fell among the shards. The jagged crystals cut through her robes, slashing
her skin and inflicting grievous wounds.

“Nudin, I’m begging you —” she whispered urgently.

“
No one
has the right to ask anything of me!” He stood over her and brought the staff down heavily with both hands. Maira let out
a tortured scream as the onyx smashed into her face. There was a flash of black lightning. “From now on, I listen to no one.”

Possessed of a crazed fury, he battered her head until the skull gave way with a sickening crack. Nothing was left of Maira’s
once-dignified countenance.

Panting for breath, Nudin drew himself up, triumph flashing wildly in his eyes. He looked at the bodies strewn around him.

“You’ve got only yourselves to blame,” he shouted angrily, as if to justify his actions. “
You
wanted it to end this way, not me.” He ran a hand over his face and found sticky smears of blood. Disgusted, he wiped them
away with his gown. “It was your choice,” he said more quietly, “not mine.”

Unable to do anything but weep, Lot-Ionan cried tears of despair. The magi had been betrayed and destroyed by one of their
own, a man whom they had counted as their friend.

The traitor dropped his guard. Lowering himself onto a chair, he tilted his head back and gazed up at the stars.

“My name is Nôd’onn the Doublefold,” he told the glittering pinpricks of light. “Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty is no more. He
departed with the council, never to return.” He gripped his staff. “I am two and yet one,” he murmured pensively, lumbering
to his feet. Lot-Ionan followed him with his gaze as he strode toward the door.

“You too will die, my old, misguided friend,” the treacherous magus prophesied. “Your whole being will soon be fossilized;
you’ll be nothing but stone.” He fixed him with bloodshot eyes, a look of untold weariness and disappointment on his face.
“You should have sided with me and not that backstabbing Turgur. Still, for old times’ sake I won’t deny you a proper view.”
His swollen fingers took hold of Lot-Ionan and he embraced him briefly, hauling him round to face Sabora. “Now you can watch
her while you’re dying. It won’t be long before she follows. Farewell, Lot-Ionan. It’s time I got on with saving Girdlegard
— single-handedly, since the rest of you won’t help.”

He stepped out of Lot-Ionan’s line of sight, and the doors slammed shut. Alone in the chamber and beside himself with grief,
the magus of Ionandar surveyed his dead friends. The sight of Sabora, frozen and motionless, was enough to break his heart.

Will the gods stand by and watch the ruin of Girdlegard? Do something, I implore you!
Rage, helplessness, hatred, and sorrow welled within him until despair took hold of his being and nothing could check his
tears.

At length the curse relieved him of his torment. The salty rivulets petrified on his marble cheeks, forming a lasting memorial
to his anguish, while his breathing faltered and his heart turned to stone. If death had not claimed the kindly magus before
daybreak, the sight of Sabora melting in the merciless sunshine would surely have killed him.

When everything was still in the chamber, a colossal warrior forced himself through one of the windows, stepped over the bodies,
and knelt beside Andôkai. The palace echoed with his bestial howls.

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Early Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
ungdil was making swift progress. His boots devoured the miles, carrying him on a northwesterly course ever closer to Greenglade.
The shortest route to his new destination took him through the enchanted realm of Lios Nudin, home to Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty.

It was unsettling to think that the distance separating him from the Perished Land was dwindling with every step. The southern
frontier extended almost as far as Lios Nudin, although Greenglade was a good hundred miles clear of the danger. Nonetheless,
if the girdle was to fall, Gorén would be obliged to move elsewhere.

On the far side of the Blacksaddle he came across a messenger post. Knowing that Lot-Ionan would be worried about his whereabouts,
he composed another short letter in which he informed the magus of where he was going and what had come to pass. He paid for
the courier with the last of his precious gold coins.

The weather was treating him kindly. The sun shone benevolently from the sky, a light wind kept him pleasantly cool, and on
the few occasions when the warmth threatened to overwhelm him, he retreated to the shade of a tree and waited for the midday
heat to pass. His legs were much stronger now than at the start of his journey and he was barely aware of the weight of his
mail. The walk was doing him good.

The landscape of Lios Nudin made little impression on the dwarf. It was mainly flat with a few rolling hills, referred to
locally as “highlands.” For the most part, fields and meadows stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with grazing cows
and vast numbers of sheep, herded by attentive dogs. Woodland was rare and tended to be sparse, although the trees were of
a venerable age. Having succeeded in taking root, they had every intention of standing their ground.

With the exception of Porista, which lay a considerable distance to the north of his route, there were few settlements of
note in Lios Nudin, Lamtasar and Seinach being the largest with thirty thousand inhabitants apiece.

However, the proliferation of smaller villages and hamlets made it easy for Tungdil to find work as a smith and he offered
his services in return for extra rations of cured meat, bread, and cheese. It was no good asking ordinary country folk to
pay him in gold.

For four orbits he had been following the same road on a westerly bearing toward the border, where he would cross back into
Gauragar and take a diagonal path northward to Greenglade.

With any luck Gorén won’t have quarreled with his elven mistress and moved away.
In his gloomiest moments Tungdil envisaged himself traipsing after Lot-Ionan’s famulus forever, doomed to carry the blasted
artifacts until he died. At least the journey was furnishing him with plenty of new experiences and even life on the surface
no longer seemed quite such a trial.

Weeks had passed since the attack on Goodwater and the memory of the violence was fading, allowing him to take pleasure in
his surroundings. He savored the different smells of the countryside and chatted to the peasants, reveling in their stories
and their curious accents and dialects. Girdlegard dazzled him with her infinite variety.