The Dwarves (19 page)

He flung open one of the doors and strode along a corridor. It took him to another chamber of vast dimensions, at least two
hundred paces long by forty paces wide and full of plants. The allotment had been laid out in accordance with horticultural
lore, but the plot had been sorely neglected and was overgrown with weeds. Despite the musty air, a system of mirrors provided
the plants with adequate light, while slits in the ceiling took care of the watering, allowing rain to seep through and plop
to the earth in a steady stream of drops.

Tungdil battled his way through the rampant vegetation, rejoined the corridor, and came to a study. The chaos inside was all
too familiar: Every surface, including the floor, was littered with loose sheets of parchment, closely written manuscripts,
and abandoned books.

“Surely he can’t have written all this?” he marveled aloud. There was enough material to fill a good-sized library. Gingerly
he riffled through the papers, looking for clues.

Most of the dusty tomes were written in a scholarly script known only to the magi and their senior famuli. He flicked through
them, but their contents remained a mystery.
What was Gorén working on? Longevity? Perpetual health? Prosperity?
Reminding himself that it was none of his business, he focused on the task in hand: reuniting the artifacts with their rightful
owner.

He continued the search, reaching behind a cabinet to pull out a bundle of letters. Two scholars had been in correspondence
with Gorén about the nature, form, and guises of demonic possession, including known instances of men being inhabited by other
beings and whether it was possible to be controlled by a spirit.

It seemed likely that one of the correspondents was a scholar of some distinction since his part in the discussion was written
in scholarly script. The letters of the other, whom Tungdil judged to be a high-ranking famulus, were devoted to describing
how an unnamed person had changed in character and appearance. Nothing in the correspondence gave him any indication as to
Gorén’s whereabouts.

The dwarf resumed his quest, searching the adjoining rooms and venturing farther and farther from the mountain’s core as he
rummaged through small laboratories, libraries whose contents had been partially cleared, and storerooms of potions and ingredients.

He turned the situation over in his mind. Although Gorén no longer seemed to be in residence, there was still the matter of
the artifacts. Tungdil had promised Lot-Ionan that he would deliver them, so deliver them he would. A dwarf’s word was binding.
And until I find him, Jolosin can keep peeling potatoes…

Tungdil’s eye was caught by a series of inscriptions that were unmistakably dwarven in nature. A cold shiver ran down his
spine as he read. Carved into the rock were tirades of terrible loathing and murderous hatred. Whoever had wielded the chisel
was bent on heaping dire accusations and dreadful curses on four of the dwarven folks and their clans.

Tungdil knew immediately what it meant: The mountain had once been home to Lorimbur’s dwarves. Here in the human kingdom of
Gauragar he had stumbled upon a chapter of dwarven history that was missing from most books.

He remembered the runes at the entrance to the tunnel.

Erected against the fourthlings, it fell against the fourthlings.

So Lorimbur’s dwarves had built a stronghold in the heart of Girdlegard. But for what purpose? Had they intended to wage war
on the other folks? Assuming he had interpreted the inscription correctly, the thirdlings had been defeated. In any event,
a curse had been placed on the Blacksaddle to ensure that the stronghold was never used again:
Cursed by the fourthlings, then abandoned by all five.

He could imagine the sequel. Gorén must have learned of the maze of tunnels in the mountain and decided to make his home there.
As a wizard, he commanded the necessary expertise to lift the dwarven curse and turn the stronghold into a refuge where he
could study in peace.
Built with blood, it was drenched in blood
. A famulus would never allow himself to be intimidated by such threats.

A sudden whisper caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. The walls were talking to him, muttering and whispering,
animated by a ghostly presence that seemed to be closing in.

You’re imagining things,
he told himself.

There was a ringing and clattering of axes, chain mail jangled, and warriors shouted and wailed. The din grew louder and louder
until a battle was raging around him, the shrieks of the maimed and wounded echoing intolerably through the rock.

“No!” bellowed Tungdil. He pressed his hands to his ears. “Get away from me!” But the clamor only intensified, becoming fiercer
and more menacing. At last he could stand it no longer and took to his heels. Nothing could keep him in the mountain: His
only desire was to escape from the Black-saddle and its ghosts.

The whispers, screams, and crashing blades faded as he raced away.

Tungdil was not the sort to scare easily, but his courage had never been put to such a test. He would sooner endure scorching
sun or pouring rain than spend a night in this place. Now that he knew the mountain’s frightful secret he could already imagine
the ghosts of his ancestors crowding round his bed.

He went back to scouring the tunnels and searched for hours without finding proof of Gorén’s fate. The only clues to his whereabouts
were love poems he had written to a certain elven beauty and the name of a forest that was circled on various crumbling maps.
Tungdil surmised therefore that Gorén had moved to Greenglade.

For the dwarf to get there, his legs would have to carry him an extra three hundred and fifty miles on a northwesterly bearing.
Greenglade lay at the edge of the Eternal Forest in the elven kingdom of Âlandur. According to legend, it was a uniquely tranquil
place where the trees blossomed continually, irrespective of the seasons.

Tungdil mulled the matter over and smiled.
To think a wizard would leave his home for the sake of a pointy-eared mistress!
For his part, he had never been especially fond of elves, and this new development, which served to prolong his adventure,
did nothing to improve his opinion of their race.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he took a wrong turn and failed to find his way back to the kitchen, where he had
hoped to rejoin the passageway that led to the door. The diversion took him through yet more of the thirdlings’ halls. It
was obvious that the masons had intended the stronghold to make a stately impression, but the result was disappointing. Some
of the galleries were lopsided, the steps were all shapes and sizes, and the intervals between them didn’t match. The curse
of Vraccas had robbed Lorimbur’s folk of the most elementary of dwarven skills.

At length he came to a solid stone wall, carved with an arch of voussoirs. Tungdil read out the runes on the keystone, conjuring
a chink in the otherwise featureless rock. A door took shape, grinding against the floor as it opened to let him pass. No
sooner had he stepped out of the tunnel than the door rolled back behind him. Try as he might he failed to discover any cracks,
fissures, or other signs of a hidden opening. In this at least the thirdlings had shown some skill.

The short walk through the dense pine forest helped his eyes to adjust to the light and by the time he was marching along
the road to Greenglade the sun scarcely bothered him at all.

For once Tungdil appreciated the buzzing insects, sweet-smelling grasses, and sunshine: Anything was better than the Blacksaddle.

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
hat evening the six magi assembled in the conference chamber to prepare for the ritual.

First they took away the chairs, leaving the malachite table at the center of the room. Then they traced a large white ring
on the marble floor around it and filled the circle with colored chalk marks. The symbols and runes would serve to bind the
magic energy conjured by their invocation and stop it from dispersing before it could be used. From there they would channel
it into the malachite table.

It took hours to complete the preparations. Not a word was spoken, for the work demanded absolute concentration and an incorrectly
drawn symbol would oblige them to begin the process all over again.

Lot-Ionan was the first to finish. Stepping back, he gazed at the malachite table, recalling its curious past. He had happened
upon it fortuitously in a shop selling odds and ends. The dark green stone had intrigued him and on further investigation
he discovered that the mine from which it was quarried was located on the fringes of a force field. His experiments had confirmed
the stone’s special properties: Magic could be stored in the malachite and set free upon command. In the following cycles,
Lot-Ionan’s discovery had saved Girdlegard several times over, for without the table to help them harness and channel energy,
the magi would never have been able to hold back the Perished Land. Generations of wizards had turned the power of malachite
to their advantage; now the council would draw on it again.

Turgur straightened up and looked at the circle in satisfaction. He shot a glance at Nudin. “He’s up to something,” he said
in a low voice to Lot-Ionan. “Keep an eye on him.”

“On Nudin?” Lot-Ionan asked, astonished. “Whatever for?”

Just then Nudin rose to his feet and glanced in their direction. A look of suspicion crossed his swollen features when he
saw the whispering men.

“I can’t explain now. I’ll tell you later,” Turgur promised. “You’ll second me, won’t you?”

“Second you?” The white-bearded magus had spent his life studying spells and conjurations and was baffled by Turgur’s hush-hush
tone.

Before he could probe any further, Maira summoned them to their places. The moon and the stars were shining brightly as the
six magi stepped into the circle. It was time for the ceremony to begin. The copper dome parted, sliding back to unite the
wizards with the firmament above.

Closing their eyes, they held their arms horizontally and began the incantation that would conjure the energy.

Each spoke according to his or her nature: Maira singing, Andôkai hissing and spitting, and Sabora whispering, while Turgur
enunciated his words with a pride befitting his character. Their voices combined in a complex chant beseeching and commanding
the magic to come forth.

Only Nudin and Lot-Ionan spoke as one person, reciting their formulae ceremoniously, as if respectfully addressing a king.

Lot-Ionan had not forgotten Turgur’s strange whisperings. He stole a glance at Nudin through half-closed eyes and was relieved
to see that there was nothing the least bit unusual about his behavior.

One by one the symbols surrounding Maira the Life-Preserver lit up, sheathing her in an iridescent column of light that reached
high into the dark night sky. The maga of Oremaira was ready.

The glow surged around the circle, bathing each of the wizards in light. By now the citizens of Porista would be staring at
the palace, transfixed by the extraordinary sight.

So intense was the flow of magic that the chamber crackled with energy, purple bolts of lightning scudding between the columns.

Maira laid her hands on the malachite table and the others followed suit. Lot-Ionan noticed that Turgur, eyes fixed on Nudin,
seemed incredibly tense.

The energy coursed through the magi and flowed into the malachite, the dark green crystal pulsing with light. The six waited
until the glow had intensified, then lifted their hands from the cool surface and stepped away.

“Go forth!” commanded Maira. “Go forth and strengthen the unseen girdle protecting our lands!” She recited the formula, and
the magic in the malachite did her bidding, shooting from the center of the table in a dazzling blaze of white light.

As it streamed upward, Nudin seized his staff and thrust its tip into the flow. The onyx absorbed the light. A black bolt
sped from the jewel, striking Nudin. As the energy discharged into his body, the wizard writhed and screamed in pain.

“The blackguard has betrayed us!” Turgur raised his arm, intending to dash the onyx from Nudin’s staff, but an invisible shield
protected the jewel.

As the last of the magic flowed into the onyx, the malachite grew dull and the light of the circle was extinguished. The ceremony
was over: The energy had been harnessed and released. Nudin staggered back in exhaustion and leaned against a marble column
for support.

Lot-Ionan turned to Turgur for guidance. The fair-faced magus had obviously suspected that something was awry. “He betrayed
us!” Turgur raged furiously. “Nudin betrayed us to the Perished Land. If only I’d seen it sooner.”

“Explain yourself, Nudin!” stormed Andôkai, striding purposefully toward him. She gripped him firmly by the shoulders and
for a moment it seemed as though she might strike.

He beat her to it.

His fist raced toward her chin with such speed that she had no opportunity to defend herself. Andôkai the Tempestuous flew
several paces through the air and slammed down on the malachite table. She lay motionless.

“You’d better tell us what you’ve done,” Lot-Ionan commanded sharply.

Nudin drew himself up and smoothed his dark robes. “Be quiet, you old fool,” he retorted, directing his onyx-tipped staff
at Lot-Ionan’s chest.

The four magi reacted immediately, steeling themselves to deflect a magic strike. Whatever was ailing Nudin had clearly affected
his brain. Madness was not uncommon among wizards.

“Tell us what you’ve done,” Sabora urged him. “This isn’t about power, is it, Nudin? Was this meeting a ploy to increase your
own strength? If Turgur’s right, you’re more foolish than I thought.” She looked to the others for support. “Lay down your
staff before it’s too late.”

“It’s too late already,” he informed her. “You made your choice. For hundreds of cycles you’ve been fighting it, when all
you had to do was listen. Much of what it says is true.”