The War of the Dwarves (29 page)

“Vraccas preserve the rest of us from joining them too soon,” added Tungdil, downing his beer.
Don’t worry,
he promised his fallen friends.
Keenfire won’t be lost forever
. A plan was taking shape in his mind. When the battle was over, he would come back with a big net and sweep the bottom of
the pond—and if that failed, he would retrieve the ax from Dsôn Balsur as soon as the allies defeated the älfar. Either way,
he would get the ax back, but the coming battle would be fought without it.
Its loss could cost us dear
. The beer tasted suddenly bitter in his mouth.

Pendleburg,

Southwest Urgon,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

Y
ou opened my eyes to the dishonesty of the dwarves,” said King Belletain. “Palandiell must have sent you.” He was sitting
in bed, his back propped up with countless cushions. His leather armor had been exchanged for a loose purple robe.

Three physicians attended his every move, dabbing continuously at his fractured skull. Pink, viscous fluid seeped into their
sponges.

Belletain pointed to the trio and snorted derisively. “Look at those crows! They circle me all the time—they’re hoping I’ll
die.” The physician standing closest to him received a violent shove. The man stumbled, bowl, sponge, and fluid dropping to
the floor. “Confounded crows,” the king screamed, his face flushing red. “Caw-caw, caw-caw!” He flapped his arms up and down.
“I’m not your carrion! I’m not dead yet! I’m the eagle of Urgon, I’m master of you all!”

Ha, he’s lost his mind.
The dwarf was careful not to show a reaction.
What a stroke of luck. He’ll do exactly as I say…

Belletain lowered his arms. “I have news for your uncle, Romo Steelheart. I think it will please you.” He assumed an air of
mystery and beckoned for the dwarf to approach. “Come here, and I’ll whisper in your ear. I don’t want the crows to hear us.”

Romo, leaning in to listen, smelled the odor of rotten gums on his breath.

“They’re watching me all the time,” the king continued. “I can’t get rid of them, you know.” He laid an arm around Romo’s
shoulder and tapped his index finger against the dwarf’s armored chest. “It will be our secret—a secret between me, the eagle
of Urgon, and you, my little falcon with the beard.” He chuckled like a child. “Your king and I are going to get on famously.
We’ll throw the fourthlings out of their stronghold!” His eyes rolled back in his head. “The Brown Range is mine!
Mine
, do you hear? The fourthlings should be paying me, and they’re squatting on my land. You were right, Romo: It’s time I threw
them out. My soldiers will…”

“Please, Your Majesty,” ventured one of the physicians, “you should be resting. Too much excitement will add to the swelling
in your brain. Here, this infusion will lower your blood pressure.” Concerned, he examined a crack in the king’s skull. The
blood was flowing faster than ever.

“Caw-caw, caw-caw,” chortled Belletain, raising a hand to his mouth.

The second physician tried to maneuver him back into position, hoping to make him sit upright and stem the flow of blood.
Belletain punched him in the stomach. “Get back, winged devil,” he raved.

“We’re trying to help you, Your Majesty,” the bruised attendant soothed him. “Your mind will clear when you’ve had some sleep.
Gandogar isn’t—”

“Eavesdropper!” screeched Belletain. He lunged forward and before Romo could stop him, he had seized the dwarf’s morning star
and smashed the three metal balls into the physician’s head, shattering his skull. “No more cawing,” he said triumphantly.
He tossed the weapon back to Romo. “Come, little falcon, help your new friend to get rid of the other nasty crows.” A malevolent
smile spread over his face as he looked at the remaining attendants.

Romo weighed the morning star in his hand.

“Don’t listen to him,” begged one of the men. “The king hasn’t been himself since the ogre cracked his skull. He won’t survive
without our—”

Belletain pressed his hands to his ears. “Stop their cawing! I can’t bear it any longer, my little falcon. I need new birds—birds
that sing!”

The dwarf took a step forward and the attendants backed away. “It’s all right,” he said reassuringly. “I wouldn’t dream of
hurting you.” Just then he swung the morning star into the crotch of the man on his left and sent his spiked fist into the
belly of the man on his right. They slumped to the floor, writhing in pain. “But a king’s word is law.” He raised the morning
star and brought it down forcefully. After two brutal blows, the whimpering stopped. The three attendants lay motionless beside
their monarch’s bed, their heads a pulpy mess of gore and shattered bone.

“My loyal falcon,” squealed the king. “The crows have stopped cawing.”

“I’ll send some new attendants from our kingdom,” promised the dwarf, wiping his dripping weapon on the dead men’s clothes.
“They’ll banish the pain from your skull, and they won’t make a peep.”

“Good,” sighed the king, slumping contentedly onto his pillows. “No more cawing—what a blessing.” He gazed out of the window
at the grassy slopes. The sun was shining and the fields looked green and lush; there would be plenty of straw by the autumn.
“Lothaire’s death will be a-ven-ged,” he chanted, fitting the words to the tune of a traditional Urgonese folk song. “And
Gandogar’s treachery will be re-ven-ged…” He turned and looked Romo in the eye. “Rivers of blood and mountains of gold; that’s
the price they’ll pay,” he declared firmly. “Tell your uncle that we have an agreement: If he can come up with a strategy,
my warriors will do the rest. They’re experienced in warfare and fleet of foot. The highest peaks, the narrowest paths, the
steepest chasms—nothing can make them fall. They will go where the eagle commands them. And when they hear the truth about
my beloved nephew’s death, their hearts will burn with fury.”

Romo bowed. “I’m glad you’ve heeded my warnings. Lesser rulers have been fooled by the reputation of the other dwarven folks.
You’re a wise king indeed.” He backed away toward the door.

“Send a few lackeys to take away the bodies. I’ll feed them to the other crows.” He stretched out his arms cheerfully. “I
can feel the wind beneath my wings. The eagle is soaring, thanks to his little friend, the falcon.” He waved him away. “Come
back soon. We need to finalize our plans.”

“You have my word, Your Majesty.” The dwarf stepped out of the chamber, closed the door carefully and let out a hearty laugh.
It had cost considerable effort to hide his amusement. The next step was to surround the king with thirdling physicians, and
Belletain would be welded to him for life.

My uncle will be well pleased.
He set off through the corridors, whistling. He was anxious to leave at once, not least because he wanted to know if Mallen
had been brought to his knees by the orcs.

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

X
amtys’s message to the rulers of Girdlegard confirmed Andôkai in her determination to make a maga of Narmora as quickly as
possible.
The firstling kingdom crushed by a shooting star, the Outer Lands engulfed in flames… Samusin, god of equilibrium, what danger
is gathering in the west?

At least Xamtys’s news wasn’t all bad. Under her leadership, the firstlings were rebuilding their stronghold and repairing
the damage inflicted by the meteor and the avalanche. Xamtys had vowed to repair the fortifications in record time so that
her warriors would be ready to fight off the threat. Her tone was somber but quietly confident.

Is she right to be hopeful? Can the threat be contained by an army of dwarves?
The maga left the letter on the table and went to find her pupil, whom she had sent to the library to familiarize herself
with scholarly script.

The half älf had a natural gift for magic, but it wasn’t the same as the maga’s knowledge of spells and charms. Narmora’s
magic derived from single syllables and an innate ability that had nothing to do with Andôkai’s art.

Her älf mother had taught her a few simple formulae, but she had never encountered symbols and runes. Mornings were spent
studying in the library, while afternoons and evenings were given over to practical exercises. The final hour before bedtime
was reserved for Furgas. Every night she sat by his bedside, holding his hand, crying tears of rage, and vowing to wreak terrible
vengeance on the villains who had reduced him to this state.

Andôkai strode into the library. The chamber was lined from floor to ceiling with stacks containing books, manuscripts, atlases,
and compendia. Some of the shelves were bowing dangerously under the weight of the recorded knowledge.

It’s all a question of quantity
, she thought to herself.
With enough sheets of parchment, you could kill a troll
. She swept past the stacks in search of her famula.

Narmora, who had swapped her armor for loose-fitting robes that accommodated her rounded form, was sitting by a narrow window.
The light shone directly on the pages of a hefty book. Particles of dust shimmered in the sun.

“It’s time for some fresh air,” announced the maga, suddenly aware of the musty smell. The library was the biggest of its
kind in Girdlegard, and it smelled of parchment, leather, glue, and dust. Andôkai, who preferred to devote her time to refining
her combat skills, had almost forgotten the odor of books. Half an orbit in the stuffy library was enough to make her restless.
“How are you getting on?”

“Some of the runes are easy to remember,” said Narmora without looking up from the page. “But they stop me from learning anything
else. It’s as if they don’t want me to forget them.” She stood up. “I can’t do it, maga. Half a cycle isn’t enough.”

“You need only learn the basics,” said Andôkai reassuringly. “Thanks to your natural talent, you’re ten cycles ahead of most
famuli.” She stopped short, realizing that the plate of food on Narmora’s desk was untouched. “You’re supposed to be looking
after yourself,” she scolded. “How do you think the baby will grow if you’re not eating? You mustn’t starve yourself.”

Narmora looked at the meat, vegetables, and bread in surprise. “I’m sorry, maga, I got distracted…” She picked up the plate
and set off behind the maga, eating as she went. “You look worried. Has something happened?”

Andôkai stopped in front of a bookcase, climbed the ladder and pulled out a book from the row of battered spines. “The firstlings
have spotted something strange,” she called from the top of the ladder. “The Outer Lands are on fire.” She leafed through
the book, closed it impatiently and took another volume from the shelf. “It appears that the magi have been regrettably short-sighted
in their quest for knowledge. Every known fact about the kingdoms of Girdlegard and the art of magic is archived in the library,
but I can’t find a single book about the land beyond our borders.” She gave up and left the volume on the top rung of the
ladder. “The Outer Lands barely get a mention—except in relation to the explorers who ventured over the mountains. Most of
them never came back.”

“Surely there must be merchants who’ve been there,” said Narmora, gazing at the rows of books. “Didn’t any of the explorers
keep a journal?”

They left the library.

“I think the only solution is to scour the other archives,” said Andôkai, unhappy at the prospect of leaving her realm. “I’m
sorry to put you through this in your condition, but I’m afraid you’ll have to come too. We should be able to find what we’re
looking for in the universities of Weyurn. The archivists keep detailed records of every occurrence, no matter how unremarkable,
in the history of the realm.”

They emerged into the courtyard. The sun was high in the sky, so they retreated to the shade of the arcades and Andôkai prepared
to start the lesson.

Narmora came to a halt and put down her plate. “We’ll have to take Furgas with us.” It was clear from her tone that she considered
the matter settled.

The maga had other ideas. “The roads of Girdlegard are full of potholes. How is Furgas supposed to rest when the carriage
is tipping from side to side like a boat?”

“Someone will have to look after him. You can’t expect Djer
n to nurse him to health.”

“No, but I’m sure his best friend Rodario will jump at the chance to sleep in my chamber, regardless of whether I forbid it,
which, needless to say, I will.”

Narmora stared at her incredulously. “Estimable Maga, the impresario is an old friend, and I’m familiar with his talents:
acting, orating, and philandering. On stage he makes a wonderful physician, but he isn’t the real thing. Quite frankly, I’d
sooner trust Djer
n than him.”