The Dwarves (27 page)

“What in all the peaks of Girdlegard was that?” Boëndal asked peevishly. “Not some magical nonsense, I hope.”

“I just wanted to see… Well, I wanted to see if the booby trap worked,” fibbed Tungdil, trying to breathe evenly. He was every
bit as startled as the twins. “The magus put it there to, er, he put it there to stop the bag from being stolen!”

“All that noise from a little leather pouch?” Boïndil stared incredulously at the bag. “I still don’t see what the fireworks
are in aid of, unless the magus wanted whoever stole it to earn a fortune as a street magician.”

“It’s so I’ll know where it is and be able to get it back,” Tungdil told him, inventing an explanation that was rather more
flattering than the truth. He didn’t want them to know that his nosiness was to blame.

“If he didn’t want it stolen, why didn’t he put a proper spell on it?” growled Boïndil. He spat contemptuously in the bushes.
“I always said that the long-uns’ magic was no good.”

His brother joined in. “He could have conjured a hammer to whack the villain on the head!” he suggested.

“Or a drawstring that crushes his wrists! That would teach the blackguard to keep his hands off other people’s belongings.”

Boëndal sat back down. “The magi work in mysterious ways. All that power and no common sense.”

Tungdil swallowed, thankful that his punishment had been mild by comparison. “I’ll pass on your ideas,” he promised.

“We’ll tell him ourselves!”

“No,” he said quickly. “It would be best if you didn’t. He doesn’t take kindly to anyone interfering in his business, especially
if they’re strangers.” He could feel his cheeks burning as he spoke, but luckily for him, the twins were busy poking about
in the fire, trying to retrieve a portion of cheese that had been dropped in the confusion.

“A stunt like that could have been the death of us in Greenglade,” muttered Boïndil. He looked at Tungdil sternly. “Leave
the bag alone in the future!” Sighing, he impaled the morsel on a stick, dunked it briefly in some water to wash away the
ash, and popped it into his mouth. “No harm done,” he said.

But Tungdil had taken the lesson to heart.
From now on I won’t touch the bag except to sling it over my shoulder and take it off at night.
For all he cared, it could be stuffed full of gold; nothing could persuade him to open the drawstrings.

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

R
antja scanned the crowd. Assembled in the atrium were 180 trainee wizards, the best famuli in Girdlegard, all waiting to be
welcomed by Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty. At the behest of their respective magi, they had journeyed to Porista to lend their
magical power to the crusade against the Perished Land. The high-ceilinged room echoed with their expectant chatter.

“The girdle must be in trouble if lowly apprentices like us are being summoned to keep out Tion’s hordes,” said a voice in
her ear. “You look prettier than ever, Rantja.”

“Jolosin!” she exclaimed in delight, shaking his outstretched hand. It was then that she noticed his navy blue robe. “Oh my,
you’re a fourth-tier famulus already. How long did you have to pester Lot-Ionan before he caved in?”

“Only thirty-two cycles old and already in Nudin’s fifth tier! I’m impressed,” teased the dark-haired famulus admiringly.
“How are you?”

“Fine.” She smiled, then said soberly, “At least I
was
fine until I heard about the threat to Girdlegard.” She pointed to the cuts on his fingers. “What happened there?”

“Don’t ask,” he muttered gloomily. “But between you and me, I’m working on a spell to make potatoes peel themselves. It’s
a relief to be out of the kitchen and doing something useful.” He glanced around. “Have you seen the council?”

“No. Even my magus has disappeared,” Rantja said anxiously. “What do you make of it?”

“All I know is that the rituals require their full attention, so they might not be able to brief us until later,” he said
uneasily. He took a leather pouch from his shoulder and tightened the green drawstrings. “Has it ever been this bad before?”

Rantja shook her head.

The doors swung open, and Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty stepped into the room. He was swaying slightly and his face looked drawn
and tired.

“Welcome to Porista,” he greeted them, his voice cracking as he spoke. To some of the famuli it sounded as if two people,
a man and a woman, were talking at once. “These are dark times for our realms. Come this way and see for yourselves what the
Perished Land has done.” The magus turned toward the conference chamber, motioning the apprentices to follow.

“Are you sure he’s not wearing heels?” Jolosin whispered, surprised. “He’s bigger than when I last saw him — and fifty pounds
heavier at least.”

“I know. Everyone keeps saying he looks taller.”

“
Much
taller, not to mention fatter. But men of his age aren’t supposed to grow. A botched experiment, perhaps?”

They were less than a pace behind him now, and a sweet, almost putrid odor filled their noses. Jolosin put it down to moldering
aftershave, but the magus seemed oblivious to the smell.

Just then Rantja skidded across the flagstones and would have fallen, if Jolosin hadn’t reached out and caught her in time.
“Thanks,” she said, straightening up and hurrying on, propelled by the famuli behind them. The incident was over too quickly
for anyone to notice the long crimson streak on the floor. The magus was leaking blood.

Nudin walked briskly, striking his staff against the marble at regular intervals and leading them through a maze of arcades
and corridors until they reached a double door. His onyx-tipped staff glistened darkly as he raised his left hand.

“Steel yourselves,” he warned them, and recited the incantation to open the doors.

Even before the doors were fully open, a fetid smell wafted out of the room, causing the famuli at the front of the queue
to cover their faces. Rantja swayed and clutched at Jolosin, who steadied her bravely while he tried not to retch.

The magus was apparently unaffected by the stench. “See for yourselves why Girdlegard needs your help!” Hesitantly, the famuli
entered the chamber.

There were cries of distress as the shocked apprentices surveyed the remains of their tutors: a statue, a heap of clothing,
a rotting corpse, and in the case of Andôkal, a body so mutilated that its features were no longer recognizable.

“Palandiell have mercy on us,” gasped Jolosin, staring in horror at Lot-Ionan’s marble face. He would never have wished such
a dreadful fate on his magus, no matter how many potatoes the wizard had forced him to peel. “Girdlegard is finished,” he
muttered despairingly, depositing the leather bag at the foot of the statue. Lot-Ionan had specifically asked him to bring
it, and now he was dead. “If the council could do nothing, what hope is there for —”

He was silenced by the sound of a staff striking the floor. A hush descended on the chamber as everyone turned to face Nudin.

“We underestimated the power of the Perished Land,” he said shakily. “It waited for us to channel the magic into the malachite,
and then it attacked. The table was destroyed and I myself was almost killed. My good friends here”—he waved his staff in
the direction of the fallen magi, whose rotting remains and frozen corpses reflected nothing of their former power— “were
unlucky. As their most senior famuli, you are the highest-ranking wizards in Girdlegard.” He stopped to cough up a mouthful
of blood and staggered backward, leaning against the fossilized Lot-Ionan for support. “The attack has taken its toll on me,
as you can see. It is our duty to repair the table as quickly as we can, for only then will we be able to repel the Perished
Land. The survival of humankind depends on our success; ordinary armies will be helpless against the pestilence.”

The famuli looked at one another bleakly, shaken to the core by Nudin’s sobering words and the sight of their dead mentors.

“They were so powerful, but the Perished Land subdued them,” whispered Jolosin despondently. “How are we supposed to —”

“We should give them a proper burial,” Rantja said distractedly. “We can’t just leave them here.” She was trembling.

“Girdlegard is relying on you to be strong,” Nudin exhorted them. “If you don’t act now, we’ll lose our only hope of repelling
the Perished Land. You can mourn the dead when it’s over.” He traced a circle on the floor with his staff. “Gather round,
join hands, and repeat the incantation after me.”

The famuli did as instructed, Rantja and Jolosin standing side by side and drawing strength and comfort from each other.

Nudin took his place in the circle and laid his staff on the floor. His fat, clammy fingers reached for Jolosin’s free hand
and the unfortunate famulus clasped them with revulsion. “If you please, Estimable Magus, I’ve brought the artifacts you loaned
to Lot-Ionan.” He turned in the direction of the bag, and Nudin nodded curtly.

Then they began the incantation, calling on the magic to come forth and enter the splinters of the table.

The hours wore away.

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

I
t was raining at daybreak, or pouring, to be precise.

Summer in all its glory reigned over Girdlegard, but for the duration of a few hours the sun had retreated, allowing the sky
to cloud over and quench the parched soil.

No doubt the vegetation was grateful for the downpour, but the dwarves were unimpressed. Huddled under a tree, they waited
grumpily for the rain to stop.

“Now you see why we live in the mountains,” scowled Boïndil, who was taking the opportunity to shave his cheeks. Over the
past few orbits he had become increasingly restless. His warrior’s heart longed for action so that he could swing his ax and
shriek and spit at some orcs, but the chances of that in Lios Nudin were depressingly slim.

“What if he goes into a frenzy?” Tungdil asked Boëndal in a whisper. “Should I hide in a tree?”

The dwarf wrung the rainwater out of his plait and grinned from ear to ear. “You’ll be safe so long as I’m around to direct
his fury onto something else. I try to steer him clear of anything that breathes, and it works quite well, for the most part.”

They kept their eyes fixed on the nearby thoroughfare, watching the carts and carriages roll past. One young couple seemed
more interested in each other than in driving their oxen. The dutiful animals kept up a steady trot.

The sight of the lovers reminded Tungdil of a subject that had been bothering him for a while. He wondered whether to ask
the twins’ advice, although he was beginning to feel embarrassed about his ignorance of dwarven life. For someone who had
spent his formative years surrounded by books, he asked incredibly foolish questions.
So much for being a scholar!

Curiosity got the better of him eventually. “What do girl dwarves look like?” he asked, avoiding their gaze.

There was silence.

The patter of rain on the leaves seemed deafeningly loud. The brothers let him stew for a while; then Boïndil said: “Pretty.”

“Very pretty,” added Boëndal, amplifying his brother’s terse reply.

“Right.”

There was silence again.

Overhead, the shower was easing, the drumming raindrops fading to a steady drip-drip of water trickling from the twigs and
branches.

He tried again. “Do they have beards?”

Silence.

Tungdil became acutely aware of the rich variety of noises made by falling rain.

“Not beards, exactly,” said Boïndil.

“More like wispy down,” explained Boëndal. “It looks lovely.”

No one spoke.

The sun burned a path through the dark gray cloud, and summer triumphed over Girdlegard. Tungdil decided to broach an even
more delicate topic. “When men dwarves and girl dwarves —”

He broke off under the secondlings’ withering stares. Boëndal took pity on him. “It’s high time our scholar got to know his
kin,” he said dryly. He glanced up at the tree. “The downpour’s over; let’s go.” He stood up, followed by his brother.

“You didn’t answer my question!”

“You didn’t
ask
a question, and anyway, you’re the one with all the learning, not me.”

“Do girl dwarves fight too?”

“Some do, but in our clan they mostly stay at home,” said Boëndal as they moved off along the road. “Our womenfolk devote
themselves to domestic duties: herding animals in the valleys, stocking our pantries, brewing beer, and making clothes.”

“No good ever came of the sexes fighting side by side,” Boïndil added darkly. He seemed to be speaking from experience, but
there was something in his voice that warned Tungdil not to probe.

“Don’t make the mistake of belittling their talents, though. They’re just as proud as we are. Some of the best masons and
smiths in the kingdom are women. When it comes to artisan contests, they use their chisels and hammers so proficiently that
other competitors stop and marvel at their work.”

“Anomalies and exceptions,” growled Boïndil, who was obviously of the opinion that certain tasks were the preserve of male
dwarves. “For the most part they belong by the hearth. The kitchen is their calling.”

Tungdil had been listening attentively. “It’s like that in human kingdoms too,” he told them. The idea of female dwarves seemed
more appealing than ever and he was eager to become acquainted with their kind.

At last they reached Porista. Tungdil gazed in wonderment at the turrets and domes of the palace, but his companions exchanged
bored smiles, needing no further evidence that human architecture was inferior to their own.

Tungdil had been hoping to find Lot-Ionan and unburden himself of Gorén’s books and artifacts, but he was sorely disappointed.
At the palace they were told that the council had dispersed some orbits earlier and that Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty was not
receiving guests. There was nothing for it but to follow Lot-Ionan to Ionandar.