The Dwarves (29 page)

“Victory!” The magus’s shriek of triumph was too shrill and powerful to be human. He laughed exultantly. “The time for dissembling
is over; Nôd’onn the Doublefold is once more!”

The famuli slid to the floor. Jolosin, Rantja, and the others were incapable of speech; the malachite had wrested the magic
from their bodies and plundered their strength.

The more fragile among them were the first to succumb. Their hearts stopped, their breathing failed.

A small band of famuli, Jolosin and Rantja included, summoned the energy to drag themselves across the floor in a desperate
effort to reach the doors.

The magus plunged his fingers into his chest and was feeling around for the splinter. He withdrew the bloodied fragment, gazed
at it dreamily, then replaced it in the wound. He took a step toward the malachite disc.

“You served your purpose, now be gone!” No sooner had his onyx-tipped staff made contact with the hovering crystal than it
fell to the ground, littering the floor with myriad splinters.

Don’t just stand there,
he told himself sternly.
Let the next phase begin!
Gathering the leather bag brought by Jolosin, he hurried to the door, skewering three crawling famuli as he passed. A tidemark
of blood stained the white maple of his staff.

On reaching the doorway, he stopped and looked back, scanning the foul-smelling room. The stench of decay would soon be overwhelming,
but it was all the same to him. His work was almost done and he was leaving the conference chamber for the final time.

It was then that he noticed Rantja and Jolosin. With a brutal swipe of his staff, he crushed the famulus’s skull. His own
apprentice had nearly reached the door, but he nudged her back into the chamber with his boot.

Rantja rolled onto her back, tears streaming over her face, and uttered a healing charm. Her magic failed her.

The magus stooped to stroke her long brown hair. He knew the famula well and she was talented, one of his most gifted pupils,
in fact. She would probably have made it into his discipleship in Lios Nudin, but he knew that she couldn’t be relied on to
cooperate with his plans.

“The malachite splinter inside you has left you weak and helpless,” he told her. “The magic is gone. You’ll die like the others,
Rantja.”

The young woman stared up at him accusingly. Her dark eyes were full of contempt for the magus whom she had trusted implicitly
and who had forfeited her respect.

Nôd’onn looked away, surprised at how much he was affected by his dying apprentice. “I didn’t want to kill them,” he said
defensively. “There was no other way of obtaining their magic. What was I supposed to do? Andôkai, Lot-Ionan, Maira, Sabora,
and Turgur refused to help me, and you and the other famuli would have turned against me too. I knew it was going to be difficult,
but I did it because I had to. This is my destiny. Girdlegard must be protected from evil.”

“There is no greater evil than the Perished Land,” she said, breathing in rapid gasps. “The gods will punish you for betraying
our circle.”

Nôd’onn thought for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right. But the vengeance of the gods is a small price to pay for saving mankind.”
He got to his feet and stepped out of the chamber. “And mankind can be saved only by the Perished Land and the chosen few.”

“You’re mistaken,” whispered Rantja. Her gaze faltered. “You’re…” A sigh ran through her body and her head slumped back, falling
to the side.

“No,” Nôd’onn contradicted her sadly. “I’m right, but no one understands. My dear friend told me this would happen.”

Closing the doors with a wave of his hand, he turned away quickly and hurried through the palace to the vaults. There was
a dull thud as the doors of the chamber slammed behind him, sealing Girdlegard’s most powerful wizards in their tomb.

Clumping down the stairs, Nôd’onn reached the room where the energy was at its strongest. From Lios Nudin, the force field
extended outward in five directions, supplying the other realms. He was about to change all that.

The magi and their highest-ranking famuli had been taken care of, but there was still the matter of the lowlier apprentices.
Nôd’onn was incapable of stopping the flow of energy, but he intended to reclaim the young wizards’ meager powers by other
means.

First there’s something I need to attend to
. He loosened the green drawstrings, opened the bag, and turned it upside down.

An hourglass hit the floor, shattering on impact, followed closely by two amulets, which tinkled against the marble. A roll
of parchment landed on top.

Nôd’onn stared at the motley collection.
These aren’t my things!
he thought furiously, scattering the pool of sand in all directions with his staff.
Confound Lot-Ionan!

He reminded himself of the need for calm. Besides, he could always ask the orcs to retrieve the items from Ionandar.

Focusing his mind, he used his powers to search for the force field and, on finding a connection, uttered the charm provided
by the Perished Land, thereby releasing the magic he had plundered.

Enchanted Realm of Ionandar,

Girdlegard,

Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
o speed their progress, the three dwarves bought ponies and rode without stopping, dismounting only to spare their aching
backsides. Even then they kept moving, continuing on foot.

Over the course of the journey the twins taught Tungdil a number of ballads that were known to all dwarves, irrespective of
folk or clan. Little else remained of the common heritage linking all the children of the Smith.

The melodies were simple and easy to remember, embellishments and ornaments playing no part in dwarven songs. To Tungdil’s
ear, they sounded rather melancholy, a tendency he attributed to the gloominess of the underground halls. The mood was noticeably
lighter in songs such as “Glinting Diamond, Cold and Bright” or “There Is a Golden Shimmer in a Faraway Range,” where the
lyrics told of great treasures and gold, and he enjoyed the drinking song “A Thousand Thirsty Gullets, A Thousand Flagons
of Beer,” taught to him by Boïndil, who had procured a keg of beer.

Tungdil awoke the next morning and cursed his pounding head. According to Boëndal, it was all the fault of the long-uns’ ale,
which was vastly inferior to the dwarves’ own beer.

Farther along the way they encountered Sami, a peddler with stubbly cheeks and peasant’s clothing, who had strange stories
to tell. “Some people say that the cleverest famuli in the other five realms have left for Lios Nudin,” he informed Tungdil,
who was examining the array of trinkets on offer while the twins waited patiently. He wanted to buy something for Frala before
he forgot.

“Any tidings from Greenglade?”

“The elf maiden is dead. The northern pestilence laid waste to the forest, and King Bruron is worried that wayfarers might
get themselves killed. He wants to set fire to it.” Sami made a show of unpacking his herbal soaps. “Perhaps you groundlings
could do with some of these.”

“Just because we’re dwarves doesn’t mean we stink!” growled Ireheart. “I’ll put you in a lather, you lanky-legged rascal!”

“My mistake,” Sami said hurriedly. “I thought he wanted something for a lady friend.”

“Actually, Boïndil, the peddler’s probably got a point,” Tungdil said slyly, throwing him a bar of plain soap. He also bought
a jasmine-scented soap, a patterned comb, and a doll each for Ikana and Sunja.

Boïndil sniffed the soap, scratched at it, and put a shaving in his mouth. “Ugh, it tastes disgusting! I’m not washing with
that!” He tossed it disdainfully into his bag.

“So the Perished Land is still advancing?” probed Boëndal.

“It looks that way. Most of Âlandur has fallen already and the elves are under constant attack. Some have fled to the plains
of Tabaîn, or so I’ve heard.” The peddler packed the gifts in coarsely woven cloth. “Everyone says the älfar are getting the
better of them. They’ve taken the other elven kingdoms, and if you ask me, Âlandur will be next. It’s only a matter of time
before the älfar conquer the last of their land.” He handed the parcel to Tungdil. “A silver coin, please, master groundling.”

“Dwarf,” Tungdil corrected him.

“Pardon me?”

“We’re dwarves, not groundlings.”

“Of course,” Sami said, again hurriedly. “Absolutely.” He cast a distrustful glance at Boïndil, who was admiring his shaven
cheeks in a mirror.

Tungdil was still digesting the news about Âlandur. “What do you think the assembly will have to say about it all?” he asked
the twins.

“Serves the elvish tricksters right,” said Boïndil with a shrug. “Most of them are dead already and the others will follow
if they set foot in our range. The pointy-ears aren’t welcome near Ogre’s Death; I don’t care whether they call themselves
elves or älfar, they won’t be moving in with us.”

Tungdil scratched his beard. “What of the orcs?” he asked Sami.

“Oh, they’re in three places at once, if you believe the rumors.” The peddler looked at them dolefully. “It’s not safe on
the roads anymore. Tion’s creatures are on the rampage and King Bruron can’t do anything to stop them. Innocent folks like
us have to fear for our lives and our wares.”

Boïndil scanned the horizon longingly and licked his lips. Tungdil heard him making “oink” noises under his breath.

A while later they took their leave of the peddler and rode on.

To keep their purse stocked with coins, Tungdil jobbed as a smith, helped by the brothers, who also ornamented window frames
and doorways with wonderful carvings. That way they kept themselves in ham and cheese while making good progress toward Lot-Ionan’s
vaults.

“You’ve got bits of cheese in your beard,” Tungdil said to Boïndil at the end of a meal.

“What of it?”

“Well, it’s not nice to look at,” he answered, trying to be diplomatic.

Boïndil ran a hand over his chin and dislodged the largest morsels.

“There’s still…”

“Look here,” Boïndil told him brusquely, “the rest can stay where it is. It keeps the whiskers sleek and smooth.” As if to
emphasize the point, a bread crumb fell from his lips and landed in his beard.

Tungdil had an image of the hairs coming to life and feeding on the scraps. It would explain why nits weren’t a problem; the
whiskers would gobble them up before they had a chance to settle. “Surely the girl dwarves must have something to say about
your —”

“There you go again!” Boïndil clapped Tungdil on the back and grinned lewdly. There was cheese between his teeth. “Always
on about girl dwarves.”

“Patience, scholar,” Boëndal advised him. “Play your cards right, and you’ll find out firsthand. You’re not bad-looking; I’m
sure we’ll find you a suitable lass.”

“And then what do I do?”

“You make eyes at her, of course.” Boëndal gave him a playful dig in the ribs. “You sing her a song. You give her a hand-forged
ring. Then you kiss her feet, cover her in a nice thick coating of her favorite cheese, swing her four times in a circle,
and the gates to her Girdlegard will open.”

“That’s… It doesn’t say that in the books,” said Tungdil, bewildered. He looked at Boëndal, whose eyes sparkled roguishly.
Boïndil couldn’t contain himself any longer and let out a side-splitting guffaw.

“Idiots,” huffed Tungdil. “It’s not funny, you know. I can’t help it if I’ve never met a female dwarf.”

“We didn’t mean to offend you,” apologized Boïndil, wiping away tears of merriment. “But maybe you should try it; it seems
to work for Boëndal!”

That was it; his brother dissolved into laughter too, the gentle hills of Ionandar echoing with their mirth.

“Just be yourself,” said Boëndal, endeavoring to be serious. “I can’t speak for everyone, but it’s no good pretending to be
something you’re not.”

“He used to say he was a poet,” his brother chuckled. “His lady friends never believed it, but with you it might work.”

“What sort of presents do they like best?”

“Ah, very cunning,” exclaimed Boëndal. “Sorry, scholar, but you can’t bribe your way into a lady’s heart. There’s no secret
formula. Either she likes you, and she’ll tell you as much; or she doesn’t.”

“And she’ll tell you about that too,” Boïndil added merrily.

“I wouldn’t wish
that
on anyone,” said his brother, “but if she likes you, well… anything is possible. But enough about womenfolk.”

Their journey continued, and after several orbits Tungdil began to recognize his surroundings, which meant they were getting
closer to Lot-Ionan’s vaults.

He was looking forward to seeing the famuli and being reunited with Frala and her daughters.
They’ll never believe that I’m an heir to the throne!
To prove that he hadn’t forgotten her, he knotted Frala’s scarf around his belt.

After a while they came to a river. A ferry was moored on the opposite bank near the ferry master’s house and smoke was rising
from the chimney.

Tungdil reached up to ring the bell that was suspended from a tree beside the berth. That way the ferry master would know
to come and fetch them.

Boïndil grabbed his hand. “What are you doing?”

“I’m calling the ferry, unless you’d prefer to swim,” said Tungdil. “It’s either that or get the boat.”

Boïndil eyed the swirling water. The river was lapping against the banks. “We’ll go a different way,” he decided. “It’s too
deep here. We could fall in and drown.”

“You could fall off your pony and break your neck,” Tungdil countered sharply. “Come on, Boïndil, it’s too far to the next
crossing — two orbits, at least.” When he saw the twins’ stony faces, he knew it was useless to protest. “It’s this way,”
he sighed, pointing upriver. “But I don’t see what’s wrong with the boat.”

It was all the encouragement that Boëndal needed to launch into the story of why dwarves and water didn’t get along.

“Long ago, Elria put a curse on us. Elria was born of water and water was her element. From the beginning, she took a dislike
to the dwarves — Vraccas’s fire-loving, furnace-tending children couldn’t have been more different from her water-dwelling
creatures. To protect her children, she put a curse on the dwarves, and now any dwarf who ventures into water outside his
kingdom is doomed to drown.”