The Dwarves (12 page)

There were those who said that Nudin’s rising power as a magus had not been gained through study and hard work. Rumor had
it that he had cast a spell on his body and invested it with the ability to retain magic indefinitely. Lot-Ionan gave the
gossip no credence, but even he was forced to concede that Nudin had changed in character and appearance.

At that moment the air cooled suddenly and a fierce gust of wind swept through the room, nearly extinguishing the candles.
A faint bluish haze shimmered at the center of the study, gradually assuming the contours of a man. In the span of a few heartbeats,
Lot-Ionan found himself staring at Nudin’s imposing bulk.

The wizard of Ionandar appraised his dark-robed guest. Nudin seemed to have grown again — outward as well as upward. His paunch
looked larger than before, which was possibly the reason for his especially voluminous malachite-green robes.

Chin-length mousy hair hung limply about his face and there were dark circles around his usually lively green eyes. The apparition
was a perfect replica of the real magician, who at that moment was standing in the circle he had cast in his study in Porista,
working the magic for his doppelgänger to appear.

The illusion was incredible. Lot-Ionan had never seen a more perfect demonstration of the phenomenon in all his 287 cycles.
Apparitions usually shimmered slightly or were marred by minor imperfections, but this one was complete.

Nudin, holding a finely carved maple staff crowned with an impressive onyx in his left hand, languidly dusted his elegant
robes with his right, dispatching the lingering blue sparks. Suddenly Lot-Ionan felt terribly underdressed.

“Do sit down,” he said, gesturing to an armchair, and Nudin’s doppelgänger lowered himself smoothly into the seat. Convention
dictated that the same courtesies were extended to apparitions as to real guests; it was only polite. “Can I offer you a drop
of tea or would you like something else?”

The question was not as absurd as it sounded. Even from a distance of five hundred miles, Nudin would be able to taste the
flavor of anything consumed by his doppelgänger.

The visitor shook his head. “Thank you, my friend, but the news I bring will suffer no delay. You must come to Lios Nudin
at once. The Perished Land is advancing.”

Lot-Ionan stopped smiling; he had not prepared himself for tidings as dire as these. “How long has it been moving?”

“Some sixty orbits. I took a trip to the border and it came to my attention.” Nudin looked anxious. “Our protective girdle
is no longer as strong and reliable as it was. The damage is too great for me to repair; I need the council’s help. The rest
of us are in Lios Nudin already; we’re waiting for you…” He trailed off.

“Go on,” Lot-Ionan encouraged him, although he had a sinking feeling that there was worse to come.

“It’s the älfar,” explained Nudin. “They’ve been sighted in the south of Gauragar, many miles from Dsôn Balsur. Meanwhile,
King Tilogorn is being plagued by marauding orcs. They’re rampaging through Idoslane, burning down villages and laying waste
to the land. He’s sent his army to deal with them…” He looked grimly at his host. “It bodes ill, Lot-Ionan.”

“The incursion of the Perished Land, the älfar, the orcs — they’re all connected?”

“We certainly shouldn’t rule it out,” he said, refusing to commit himself. “You were summoned by the magi’s council. Why didn’t
you respond?”

“Summoned?” Lot-Ionan made no attempt to disguise his surprise. “When?”

“I have it on good authority that two of the council’s best envoys were dispatched with a message: Friedegard and Vrabor are
their names. I believe you know them.”

“Of course I know them! But where have they got to?” Lot-Ionan was instantly concerned for the pair’s well-being, especially
now the älfar were known to be abroad. “Thank goodness you decided to follow it up yourself. I’ll set off as soon as I can.
It shouldn’t take more than a few orbits to get to Lios Nudin.” Lot-Ionan expected Nudin to take his leave, but the apparition
did not stir.

“Just one more thing,” his guest cut in. “It’s trivial compared to the other news, but all the same… Do you think you could
bring my instruments with you? If you’ve finished with them, I’d very much like to have them back.”

“Your instruments… Of course!” Many cycles ago Lot-Ionan had borrowed a number of items from Nudin on Gorén’s behalf. The
loan comprised a small handheld mirror, two arm-length remnants of sigurdaisy wood, and a pair of silver-plated glass carafes
with unusual etchings. After finding some reference to the items in a compendium, Gorén had been eager to examine them more
closely. Lot-Ionan could no longer recall what conclusion he had reached, but he suspected it was nothing of particular interest.
The more immediate problem was locating the things. He had a sudden vision of the wrecked laboratory and hoped to goodness
that Gorén had not left the items there.

“I’ll be sure to bring them,” he promised.

Nudin seemed doubtful. “You do still have them, don’t you?” Lot-Ionan nodded in what he hoped was a convincing fashion. “All
right, well, make haste, old friend. Only the full council can save Girdlegard from the terrors to come.”

Nudin’s double rose to his feet, positioned himself in the middle of the room, and rapped his staff firmly against the floor.
The illusion shattered in a shower of sparks. Glittering dust drizzled to the ground, disintegrating further and further until
nothing was left. The interview ended as spectacularly as it had begun.

Lot-Ionan leaned back in his chair.
If Toboribor’s orcs have joined forces with Dsôn Balsur’s älfar, the peoples of Girdlegard are in serious danger.

He decided to combine his trip to Lios Nudin with a visit to King Tilogorn in order to pledge his support. At least half of
Ionandar lay within the borders of Idoslane, so it seemed only proper to loan the monarch his magical powers in the battle
against Tion’s brutes. The magus rose.
Time is of the essence; Nudin was right.

He summoned his famuli and issued instructions regarding the luggage he required for the journey and the chain of command
among the students while he was away. Then he removed his beloved robes and exchanged them reluctantly for his little-worn
traveling garb, comprising another set of robes, also in beige, but made of more durable cloth, and a mantle of dark blue
leather.

His servants were busy grooming his bay stallion, Furo. The five-hundred-mile journey to Porista would take ten orbits at
most, so everything he needed could be stowed in the saddlebags.

At length Lot-Ionan clambered somewhat stiffly onto his horse. Furo snorted excitedly as the magus leaned forward, stroked
its mane, and whispered some enchantment in its ear.

With a loud whinny the stallion thundered out of the underground vaults and through the gates. Once out in the open, with
the path ahead and fresh air all around, it picked up speed, accelerating from a canter to a gallop. The cobbles flashed beneath
its hooves, covering multiple paces with each stride. Thanks to Lot-Ionan’s art, the horse could outstrip any mount in Girdlegard
and it relished its speed.

And thus Furo carried his master, who was clinging on for dear life, across Ionandar and beyond.

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
he Blacksaddle? Never heard of it!” The morning could scarcely have got off to a less auspicious start. Tungdil pushed the
map to one side as the publican placed his breakfast on the table.

Particles of dust danced in the wide rays of sunshine pouring through the plate-glass windows. It came as a relief to Tungdil
that he could see without peering; his eyes had adjusted to the brightness already.

None of the good people of Idoslane could tell him anything about the Blacksaddle; it was not even marked on the tavern’s
ancient map.

“Is there anyone in Goodwater who could help me?” he persisted. “A clerk or a magistrate or someone?”

The publican shook his head regretfully, sorry to disappoint the outsider. Tungdil spooned his breakfast halfheartedly. The
porridge was decent enough, but frustration had taken the edge off his hunger.

Privately he was still hoping that the villagers were too simpleminded to be relied on. The publican struck him as the sort
who had never strayed more than ten or twenty miles from home.

Annoyingly, Goodwater was not marked either, but with a bit of luck one of the mercenaries would know the area sufficiently
well to pinpoint its location and send him in the right direction.

No doubt Friedegard and Vrabor would have been of some assistance, but they had long since departed. Stopping only to give
the publican a few gold coins to pay for the window, they had struck out for Ionandar and taken the arrow with them.

Tungdil was similarly anxious to leave. “Vraccas be with you,” he called to the publican as he slung his pack and the leather
bag over his shoulder and stepped out into the street.

The sentries from the previous night had been replaced with a new set of stubbly faces, but Tungdil lost no time in inquiring
about the Blacksaddle. Thankfully, the mercenaries had heard of the wretched mountain and could point to Goodwater on the
map. It was getting on for midday when he left the settlement and set off down a narrow road, heading north as the sentries
had advised.

“If you see any orcs, tell them where they can find their dead friends!” one of the men shouted after him, thrusting his spear
at a festering skull and raising a cloud of flies.

He could still hear the soldier’s laughter as he skirted the fields that he had seen in the distance from his window the night
before.

Goodwater was an apt name for the place. Tungdil could picture what it would be like at harvest time: fields of corn blowing
gently in the breeze, ripe apples hanging from the branches, and enough nuts for countless busy hands. Idoslane struck him
as a beautiful place, with the obvious limitation that it wasn’t underground. He never felt quite comfortable in the open.

At least there’s a decent road
. He dreaded the moment when he would have to strike out across the countryside.
It’s beyond me how the pointy-ears manage to find their bearings when there’s nothing but woods and fields.
From what he’d gathered from his reading, the elves had retreated to the glades of Âlandur as part of their quest to live
in harmony with nature, art, and beauty. But the smug creatures’ desire for perfection had failed to save them from their
treacherous cousins, the älfar.

It’s funny,
thought Tungdil, remembering the face at the window,
the älf looked just the way I always imagined an elf.

The northern elven kingdom of Lesinteïl had fallen long ago and now the kingdom of Âlandur was two-thirds under the dominion
of the Perished Land. As for the elves of the Golden Plains, they were history: The älfar had seized their land, renamed it
Dsôn Balsur, and made it their base, from which they sent out scouts to reconnoiter the surrounding land of Gauragar.

Gauragar’s sovereign, King Bruron, was powerless to repel them. As warriors, men were no match for the älfar, and if it came
to a battle, Bruron’s soldiers would be lucky to draw their weapons before they were killed.

Tungdil thought of the envoys and tried to estimate the distance between the southeasterly tip of Dsôn Balsur in the north
and Lot-Ionan’s vaults in the south. Four hundred miles or more, he reckoned — a formidable distance, even for an älf.

Unless, of course, the Perished Land has edged southward and the älfar have extended their range
. If that was the case, it would explain the envoys’ business with Lot-Ionan: Any expansion southward of the Perished Land
would pose a threat to the enchanted realm of Lios Nudin.

Tungdil kept a watchful eye on his surroundings as he walked: If there were orcs abroad, he had no desire to deliver himself
into their clutches. He took particular care at blind corners, stopping to listen for clunking armor and weaponry or bestial
snarls and shouts. To his considerable relief, he encountered no one and was spared the unenviable task of choosing to stand
his ground or flee the orcs’ superior might. By the time he reached the gaily painted pickets marking the border between Idoslane
and Gauragar, it had been dark for about four hours.

His feet were weary, so he decided to journey no farther that night. Spotting a nearby oak, he walked over and scrambled into
the branches, hauling his bags after him with a rope that he had purchased in Goodwater.

He valued his life sufficiently that sleeping like a bird in the treetops seemed a fair price to pay for the extra protection
it afforded. The orcs were hardly likely to spot him and in the event of trouble, he would draw on his ingenuity to find a
way out. Wrapping the rope twice around his body, he tied himself to the tree to stop himself from falling or being shaken
from his perch, then closed his eyes — and dreamed.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the fresh cold air that swept the majestic summits of the Great Blade and Dragon’s
Tongue. The Northern Pass appeared before him and his imagination took off, soaring high above the Gray Range like an eagle.

A sudden welter of monstrous shouts shattered the serenity of the mountains and echoed hideously against the age-old rock.

On looking down, Tungdil saw the mighty portals of the Stone Gateway and all around them Giselbert and the fifthlings fighting
to the death. Axes thudded into enemy armor, biting through sinew and bone, only to be torn out and planted in the next foe.

Still the hordes kept coming.

Tungdil stared in dismay when he saw the endless tide of assailants battering the stronghold. A foul stench of dead orc rose
from the battlements where the stone was awash with green blood. He could practically taste the rancid fat on the creatures’
greasy armor. The reek was so unbearable that he woke up, retching.