The Balborite Curse (Book 4) (19 page)

“Do you have any evidence of a troop buildup in Mound Heldeofol? The orcs have kept to themselves these past five years. I would prefer not to stir up trouble with them, at least not right now.”

“The orcs have expanded outside Mount Heldeofol, creating above-ground settlements outside the mountain. I’ve seen the new settlements myself. Their numbers have doubled, at least.” Sisren grabbed his hand and stared at him straight in the eye. “Listen to me! The orcs are our biggest threat. Their very existence is an affront to nature. They are creatures of darkness, an abomination against the gods. They must be destroyed.”

Tallin leaned back, surprised by the vitriol in her voice. “What do you propose then? Wholesale murder? Genocide? Where will that lead us? Have you become so bitter in your own heart that you would destroy an entire race?”

Sisren’s mask of serenity fractured. “Orcs are different! They are not like us! Cruelty and death are the only things they understand. Even the Balborites have some concept of morality!”

Tallin’s voice grew cold. “Of all people, you defend the Balborites? Have you forgotten that it was Skera-Kina, one of their trained assassins, who attacked the dwarves five years ago? It was she that crippled Hergung and killed two clan leaders. If anyone is responsible for the current situation in Mount Velik, it is them.”

Sisren frowned and pursed her lips. “The Balborites are like us, except for their blind fanaticism to that blood-religion of theirs—at least they believe in the rule of law. The orcs are cold-blooded lizards, more like their drask than us.”

“You sound so much like the elves. They would happily eradicate the orcs completely, given the chance. Do you support war against the greenskins in order to please the elf Queen Xiiltharra?”

Sisren sniffed dismissively. “Don’t be absurd. I have no obligations to the fair folk or their pretentious queen. The ancient grudge between the elves and orcs is none of my concern. I’m only worried about the future of this land—an orc conquest in the east would be catastrophic for the entire region, and none of the mortal races would be secure. It would affect everyone, not just the dwarves.”

“How can you be so certain that the clans will fall into war? Hergung is still king, and he supports a peaceful compromise to the clan rebellion. Have you the gift of Sight?”

“I do not need the gift of prophesy to know that Hergung shall not survive another winter, and his son is too young to succeed him. The clans have had years to work out their differences, and have not! In Mount Velik, there is one whose power grows stronger with each passing season, and it is she that will take Hergung’s place.”

“Bolrakei.” He pounded his fist on the table in frustration. “That manipulative, scheming witch…”

A humorless laugh escaped Sisren’s lips. “She’s crafty and as ruthless as they come. And she knows how to manipulate others to get her way. Unfortunately, she’s ambitious and intelligent enough to rule. The clans treat her with deference, and she pushes strongly for war. If she takes the throne, she will crush the rebellion by force. Bolrakei will never accept a treaty from the Vardmiters—she wants to make an example out of them.”

“I knew of Hergung’s weakened condition, but not of Bolrakei’s plans. Skera-Kina almost killed her five years ago, when she infiltrated the mountain. Bolrakei was tortured and left for dead. She survived, but I discovered that she had been passing information to Skera-Kina for years. Once Bolrakei’s collusion with the Balborites was exposed, she was stripped of her office. I assumed that she had abandoned any leadership aspirations.”

“Bolrakei has never given up her ambitions. She would declare herself a queen tomorrow, if she thought the clans would accept her. Hergung is crippled by illness, and Bolrakei’s power grows. There is no clan leader powerful enough to challenge her.”

“I didn’t know she was reinstated,” he said.

“Then you have been ill-informed. Bolrakei aims to supplant King Hergung, either by controlling him through puppetry, or removing him by force. Hergung’s health has been steadily declining for years, and no one would question her if he were to die.”

“Why did the dwarf council reinstate her? The mountain of evidence against Bolrakei was damning. Hergung could have executed her for treason. She was utterly disgraced.”

Sisren looked at him with flashing green eyes. “Hergung
should
have executed her
—but he didn’t. There’s a separate set of laws for the rich and powerful—and Bolrakei is
both
of those things. She bribed the dwarf council for her reinstatement, claiming that any collusion with the Balborites was against her will. Her request was granted. No one can stop her now. Bolrakei
’s ascension to the throne is all but assured.”

The rain had stopped, and the breeze coming in from the doorway smelled fresh and cool. “I must go,” Tallin said, standing suddenly. He drained the last swallow from his flagon and turned to leave. “My ship will be leaving soon.”

“Wait,” she said, placing her hand on his forearm. “I’ll walk with you.” She rose from her seat and put on her cloak.

“As you wish,” he replied.

Sisren was taller than Tallin by more than a hand’s-breadth, and he had to tilt his chin to look into her eyes. He felt the caress of her hand, but her touch left him cold. Despite her beauty, he felt nothing for her.

As they exited the tavern, Tallin dug in his pocket and dropped a coin into the musician’s hat. The man tipped his cap and smiled up at him.

The once-crowded streets were now deserted, and most of the vendor stalls were closed. Tallin returned to the livestock area and paid the farmer for the hog, which had been slaughtered and packed in ice.

Tallin slipped the farmer a few extra coppers to deliver the meat to his ship before the city gates closed. He looked up at the sky. Overhead, the clouds had cleared and stars began to appear.

“I must go,” he said, with a shred of a smile. “The hour is late, and the ship’s captain won’t wait for me.” Tallin felt the beginning of a headache settling around his temples.

They said their goodbyes awkwardly at the city gates. “May Baghra guide you,” she said, placing her hand over his curled fingers.

She smiled, and once again Tallin felt prickles along his spine, but they were even stronger this time.

“Thank you,” he replied, covering his mouth as if he were coughing. Instead, he quietly whispered a warding spell. He felt a burst of power; Sisren gasped and yanked her hand away, but it was too late. The damage was done.

She had been touching him when he uttered the spell, and his hastily spoken words shattered Sisren’s carefully built illusion. Her true face appeared, with all her fair glamour stripped away.

Tallin frowned deeply. “I suspected as much—you’re one of them.”

She was...
ugly.
Her ears were pointed and longer, her skin slightly greenish. Her hair, once a glorious mane of copper curls, was now a tangled mass of rust-colored knots. Tallin saw her true face
—the face of an elf half-ling.

“How
could
you?
” she cried out, her cheeks flush with embarrassment and rage.

“I make no apologies. I sensed something—you tried using faerie magic on me, to manipulate me. You’ve disappointed me greatly, Sisren.”

“It’s none of your business!” she shouted. “You meddlesome dwarves are all alike!”

“I could say the same of you elves,” he shot back, flicking her a disgusted glance. “Don’t bother trying to explain yourself—I don’t want to hear your reasons anyway. You chose to hide your true nature. Take your spitting rage elsewhere, and don’t debase yourself any further with me.”

Sisren shook with fury, but did not respond. Instead, she turned on her heel and left. As she walked away, Tallin saw a bright shimmer as her fairy glamour was restored.

Without another backward glance, Tallin left Morholt.

Tallin jogged to the river, making it to the docks just in time. He ignored the captain
’s angry stare and went below deck. The water was calm on this night, but sleep would not come. He sat in the clean straw, trying to rest, but he could not settle his thoughts.

The ship continued up the river, stopping several times along the way to unload cargo and pick up new goods. Tallin remained the only passenger, and he kept to himself, avoiding the crew whenever possible.

Days later, the ship passed beyond Ironport, and Tallin disembarked. There were patches of snow on the ground, and the air was bitterly cold. The waning light of the dusk turned the horizon a pale shade of orange. He went quickly into town and bargained for a cart and horse: an old chestnut gelding with a graying face and a calm demeanor. The seller wanted ten silver pieces, but Tallin haggled him down to eight.

The horse was older than he would have liked, but fit enough to ride. Tallin placed the sow carcass in the cart, packing the meat with snow again before continuing his journey.

He crossed a narrow bridge and started on the main road toward the Highport Mountains. The path veered upward through the ancient mountain range that was now the home of the Vardmiter clan. He knew these territories well enough; the area had changed little since his childhood. A few cottages lined the road at first, but these eventually disappeared as the road became steeper.

Mist gathered around him, and the air grew colder and thinned. Evergreens replaced birch trees.

The way became narrower as he rode on, and the road eventually became a rocky path. The cart slowed his progress considerably, and he now regretted having purchased the meat.

However, the path remained clear, and he only saw a handful of other travelers. When Tallin heard others on the road, he moved his horse and cart to the side and cast a simple concealment spell. Once the other travelers moved on, he dropped the spell and continued on his way.

At night, he slept under the stars on a bed of evergreen boughs. The temperature dropped during the night, and although he was uncomfortably cold, he didn’t want to attract attention by making a fire. He lay awake most nights, wrapped tightly in his cloak, feeling the dampness of the forest surrounding him.

Eventually, only tall evergreen trees surrounded him, lining both sides of the path as far as he could see. The undergrowth was lush and green, with tangled ferns and creeping vines everywhere he looked. The vegetation was so thick and tall that it obscured anything beyond the road.

One morning, after he had been traveling for several days, he saw a gray eagle overhead, a freshly-caught fish wriggling in its huge talons. The bird landed in a nearby tree to eat its meal, and Tallin stopped for a few moments to admire its beauty. He resisted the urge to call the majestic bird to him—eagles were rarely seen in the desert.

That same day, he discovered a circle of smooth white pebbles at the foot of an ancient tree. He picked up one of the glistening stones and felt the immediate spark of faerie magic.

There are tree pixies here,
he thought, placing the pebble back on the grass. The little creatures were fond of creating mischief, so he kept an idle watch for them, but did not see any, even in the morning when they were known to drop down from the trees and bathe in dew.

Shortly after midday the mist cleared somewhat, and the huge gates of Highport became visible. Once a great mining fortress, the labyrinth of caves had been abandoned long ago. Not even the Kynn Oracle had a record of its previous inhabitants. Only the elves were old enough to know anything about the people who had once occupied this mountain, and it was doubtful that they cared enough to remember.

The old iron gates had been rebuilt and painted a garish shade of red. From a distance, the huge doors looked like two pools of blood against the mountainside. There was a little graveyard near the entrance, and simple granite headstones dotted the ground outside.

When the Vardmiters first arrived in Highport, they were forced to dig many graves, most of them for children. The deaths slowed as the years went by, and now the clan was stronger.

Most of the shrubbery outside the mountain was eaten up by the Vardmiters
’ goats, but an old apple orchard outside the gates gave fruit. Tallin rode along slowly and arrived at the main gates just before sunset. From deep inside the mountain, he heard the clanging of iron tools. The Vardmiters were hard at work, forever expanding their new home.

As he approached the gate, Tallin saw two mismatched staves, wrapped with a colored ribbon. On each stave flew a tattered yellow pennant, the Vardmiters’ attempt at an official flag.

When he was footsteps away, a tiny panel opened, and a gruff voice called out, “Halt! Identify yourself and state your business! Are ye friend or foe?”

Tallin raised his hand and announced solemnly, “I am Tallin Arai, dragon rider. I am here to visit my kinswoman, the Lady Mugla Hoorlick. She is not expecting me. I have a message for her of utmost importance.”

Through the tiny slit, he saw the guard’s eyes widen. Moments later, the doors swung open. The guard smiled, revealing several missing teeth and a cleft palate. He wore a surcoat and leggings, as well as a helmet that was covered in dents. The surcoat was a size too small and was stitched in several places. He grasped a halberd in one hand, sawed off at the bottom and chipped along the blade. It was his only weapon. The guard introduced himself as the “captain of the gate,” with a lisp so pronounced that Tallin had difficulty understanding him.