The War of the Dwarves (26 page)

Pendleburg owed its colorfulness to the different types of rock available to the masons, who created mosaics and bold geometric
patterns from the contrasting hues. Romo felt at home among the solid walls and soaring mountains, which bore comparison with
the peaks of his native range.

“I didn’t want to be king,” said the man on the throne. He was probably about forty-five cycles old, small and rather portly.
He pointed to a portrait of a young man with long fair hair. “Lothaire was a true king of Urgon…” His voice cracked and he
broke off, burying his lopsided face in his hands. Tears seeped between his fingers.

Romo, who couldn’t abide weakness, masked his scorn by staring at the ceiling until the sobs had subsided.

“Forgive me,” said King Belletain, wiping the salty tears from his clipped brown beard. “The loss is still very fresh. My
dear brother, Lothaire’s father, died seven cycles ago in the war against the trolls, and as for me…” He raised his hand and
tapped his helmet. “I took a blow to the head. Since then I’ve had a face like a lopsided pumpkin, and I have to wear this
helmet or my skull will fall apart. I thought I’d suffered enough, but the gods stole my nephew. I loved him like a son.”

That was Romo’s cue. From what he had seen so far, the king of Urgon would be easier to deal with than Mallen. “I don’t mean
to be disrespectful, Your Majesty,” he ventured, knowing that if he hit the right note, Belletain would dance to his tune,
“but the gods didn’t kill Lothaire. It was the dwarves.”

The king raised his head wearily and stared at his visitor. “Your kinsmen killed my nephew?” His hand reached for his sword.
“Kneel in front of me, dwarf. Lothaire’s death must be avenged!”

“Not
my
kinsmen,” said Romo hastily. “I was referring to the fourthlings, the dwarves of Goïmdil whose stronghold lies to the northeast
of your kingdom, the dwarves who live off the treasures of the Brown Range—treasures that belong to you.” Romo took a step
toward the invalid on the throne. The king’s face was empty and unresponsive. “The fourthlings stood by while your nephew
took arms against the magus. If they’d fought at Porista like they did at the Blacksaddle, Lothaire would have lived.”

“Tell me about your folk. Don’t they call you the dwarf haters?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty, which leaves me at liberty to expose their deceit,” he said quickly, determined to steer the conversation
to less treacherous ground. “Remember the ax that killed Nôd’onn? It was in the fourthlings’ possession all along. They kept
it back because they wanted to be Girdlegard’s saviors. It was their intention that the human armies should be crushed.” He
leaned forward. “They could have defeated Nôd’onn whenever they wanted, but they let your nephew die.”

Belletain gave him a long look, then roared with laughter. “I’m not falling for this nonsense. Why in the name of Palandiell
would they—”

“Glory,” cut in Romo. “Glory, and power. The way they saw it, the human kingdoms weren’t showing enough gratitude for their
defense of Girdlegard’s borders. And now they’re heroes, thanks to their scheming. They set themselves up as Girdlegard’s
saviors because they wanted to take the reins. Thousands of humans died because of the fourthlings, and you thanked them for
their treachery. Girdlegard is ruled by the dwarves; you welcomed them into your kingdoms, and even Lord Liútasil has fallen
for their tricks.” He glanced at Lothaire’s portrait. “Thankfully, the thirdlings are loyal guardians of your people. We don’t
want to rule your kingdoms—it’s enough to guard the gates.”

His speech had struck a chord, as he could tell by the expression on the king of Urgon’s face.

“I need to think,” said Belletain wretchedly. “If what you’re saying is true… It hurts my head to imagine what…” He broke
off and raised a hand to his helmet. Even the light pressure of his fingers caused the broken sections of his skull to move
apart. “Leave me a while. I’ll call for you when I’m…” He cried out, clutching the arms of his throne, and slumped to the
side.

The doors flew open, admitting three physicians who set about reviving the king. One held his head, the other loosened his
helmet, exposing his bandaged head, while the third unwrapped the dressing and inserted a needle into his skull. Romo watched
in amazement as pale pink fluid spurted from Belletain’s brain, splashing into a bronze bowl.

“Wait in your quarters,” said one of the healers, whose efforts were focused on holding together his ruler’s crown. “His Majesty
will be incommoded for some time.”

The dwarf assented with a growl, turning and leaving the chamber. Once outside, he smiled: Belletain would side with the thirdlings,
and a wedge would be driven between the dwarves and their allies, just as his uncle had planned.

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

N
armora raced through the corridors of the palace with little thought for the unborn baby in her womb. The person whose life
she valued more than any other was critically ill.

She stopped and clutched her side, gasping for breath and feeling her lack of condition. The baby was still kicking in protest
at the sudden burst of speed.

Her path was barred by Djer
n, who was standing guard outside the chamber where Andôkai was tending to the two wounded men.

“Let me through,” she said sharply, reaching for the handle. The metal giant stood firm, blocking the doorway entirely with
his bulk. “Andôkai,” shouted Narmora angrily, “tell your bodyguard to let me in or I’ll force my way past him, I swear.”

A muffled answer sounded from the chamber, and Djer
n snapped out of his paralysis, allowing her to pass. Narmora heard his
armor creaking and groaning as if the metal were under tremendous stress.

She rushed forward and burst through the double doors. The maga was bending over Furgas’s bed. His eyes were closed, his forehead
shiny with perspiration, and the sheets looked damp.

Narmora hurried over. “Furgas,” she whispered fearfully. “His lips… They’re blue.” Glancing down, she saw the blood-soaked
bandages around his abdomen. “He’s not…”

“No,” said Andôkai quickly. “Keep your voice down; he needs absolute quiet or he won’t recover from his wounds. The blade
was poisoned; with what, I don’t know. It’s lucky the watchmen found him and brought him straight here. Samusin saved him.”

The half älf kneeled before her, sobbing with relief. “Thank you, Estimable Maga. I don’t know how to repay you.”

Andôkai signaled for her to rise. “You won’t be so eager to thank me when I’ve finished,” she said darkly. “My magic is strong
enough to keep him alive, but I don’t have the power to cure him.” Her clear blue eyes searched Narmora’s face. “Furgas was
poisoned by someone with knowledge of dark magic. The men who attacked him weren’t highwaymen; they were famuli of Nôd’onn’s.
Furgas was brought here with a blade in his belly. It was stamped with Nôd’onn’s crest.”

Narmora straightened up and took hold of his cold, clammy hand, warming his fingers in hers. “Famuli? Why would the magus’s
famuli ambush Furgas?” She stroked his pale face. “He knows nothing of magic.”

“No, but he works for me, and that’s enough. Nôd’onn’s famuli thought that the palace would pass to them; in their eyes, I’m
a usurper.” She laid a hand on Narmora’s shoulder. “While the servants of evil are at large, Porista is in danger, and no
one in Girdlegard is safe. Nôd’onn’s famuli must be defeated before it’s too late.” She paused. “Listen, Narmora, I need an
apprentice—someone I can rely on, someone whom I can trust with my life. What if I were to die in the struggle against the
magus’s supporters? Who would continue in my stead? When I’m gone, the enchanted realms of Girdlegard will fall to Nôd’onn’s
disciples.”

Narmora closed her eyes. “If I were to help, could we heal him?” she asked hoarsely.

Andôkai interpreted the question as a pledge of support. “I’m sure of it,” she said, visibly relieved. “Together, you and
I can make him well—but Furgas must be healed in half a cycle, or the poison will be his death. Your apprenticeship will be
intensive.” She laid a hand on the half älf’s rounded belly. “Can you cope?”

“Yes,” came the determined reply. “No child should be born to a dead father and a grief-stricken mother.” She let go of Furgas’s
hand and clenched her fists. The whites of her eyes darkened and fine lines spread like cracks across her narrow face. “My
nursery songs will chronicle the passing of those who conspired against Furgas. No punishment can be too great.”

On the other side of the room, Rodario watched the scene in silence. His bandaged head was pounding horribly from its encounter
with the highwayman’s cudgel, which counted among the least enjoyable experiences of his life. He was keenly aware that Narmora
hadn’t looked in his direction, but he magnanimously forgave her. The father of her child was in a coma, and she had other
things on her mind.

After the attack, Andôkai’s guardsmen had carried him to the palace while he watched in a daze as the ruined streets of Porista
passed before his eyes. In spite of his wooziness, he knew for a fact that Andôkai hadn’t deemed his condition worthy of a
charm or a spell. After a while, someone had cleaned his wounds and bandaged his head; he could picture the hands, but not
the face.

Andôkai glanced over. “Feeling better, Rodario?”

Not wishing to appear a weakling, he mustered a valiant smile.

“Excellent,” she said briskly, “I’m sure you’re in a hurry to get home.”

His smile became a pout. “Fine,” he said proudly. “You’ve made it perfectly obvious that you don’t want me here.” He sat up
cautiously, expecting his head to start spinning, but instead he felt irritatingly well. Sighing, he slipped his feet into
his buckled shoes, stood up slowly and went over to Furgas’s bedside.

In the meantime, Narmora had composed herself and the signs of her älvish heritage, brought on by the emotional intensity
of the situation, had disappeared from her face. Her eyes returned to their usual color, and her skin was flawless again.
She looked the model of an expectant mother. “Rodario,” she said apologetically, laying a hand on his arm. “You mustn’t think
I’m ignoring you. It’s just I’m a bit…”

Rodario waved airily. “Don’t apologize; I understand.”

The maga looked at him squarely. “Answer me this: Can you take over from Furgas?”

“Me?” He raised his arms in astonishment. “You’re asking me, the best impresario in Girdlegard, to rebuild your city?” He
was about to refuse when something made him change his mind. “I can always try.”

“Trying isn’t enough; I need someone who can do it,” she snapped. “If you don’t have the skill, I’ll hire someone else.”

“Never fear, Estimable Maga,” he assured her. “While poor Furgas is in a coma, your city will be in capable hands.” She eyed
him skeptically, but he was too busy thinking about his salary to care. He gave a flamboyant bow. “As for my own affairs,
they can wait. The construction of my theater, the premiere of the masterpiece that I—”

“Very well,” she said, interrupting his overblown speech. “Go home, get some sleep, and be ready to start in the morning.
I don’t want any extra delays.” She turned to Narmora. “I’ll ask for your things to be fetched to the palace; there’s no shortage
of space, as you know. I’ll leave it to you to choose a room.”

“I’ll stay here with Furgas. It’s big enough for—”

“No,” ruled Andôkai. “Furgas needs peace and quiet. Too much noise could elevate his heart rate and push the poison through
his system. Come, we’ve lingered long enough.” She steered them to the door. “You can visit every orbit,” she told Narmora.
“Sit with him, hold his hand if you want to, but don’t speak to him, and stay no longer than an hour. The slightest agitation
could be the death of him.” She opened the doors, and Djer
n shifted to let them pass. “I’ve got a few things to do here,
but I’ll join you in a moment.”