The War of the Dwarves (14 page)

Tungdil stared after them, feet welded to the ground. He tried calling himself to order, but his thoughts were spinning in
all directions, hopelessly out of control.

Incapable of formulating a single clear idea, he took the only course of action left to him and wandered aimlessly through
the passageways of the firstling kingdom, blind to the beautiful friezes and inscriptions on the walls. Mind in a fever, he
crossed suspension bridges and wandered through grottos, stumbling from hall to hall, not knowing or caring where he was or
whom he encountered on the way; all he could see was Balyndis’s face. After a while he lost all sense of time.

At last, he came to rest in a dimly lit cavern and pressed his sweat-drenched forehead to the floor. Droplets splashed from
the ceiling, calling the name of his beloved as they dropped to the ground. In the distance, a pickax was hammering against
the rock, and the noise joined the chorus of droplets. Every sound that came to his ears seemed to echo with her name.

No
, he whimpered, closing his eyes and curling into a ball.
Leave me alone
.

But the noises persisted until tiredness overcame him, numbing his tormented mind. Before he fell into a deep and dreamless
sleep, he had a vision of Bulingar and Glaïmbar looming over him, and hatred and anger took hold of his heart.

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

S
urely he can’t have destroyed all Girdlegard’s famuli?
thought Andôkai as she made her way through the sunlit arcades of the palace in Porista. Sighing, she remembered how Nôd’onn
had rooted out his rivals’ apprentices, killing them with his magic or putting them to the sword.

In place of her customary leather armor she wore a close-fitting dress of crimson cloth. The skirt was slit at the sides and
the low neck emphasized her figure, lending her a femininity absent from her angular face.

For orbits she had been focusing her energies on finding apprentices to school in the art of magic.
Nôd’onn can’t have killed them all.
Her legs, clad in soft suede boots, strode purposefully over the beautiful mosaic floor. The last of the sun’s rays filtered
through the vaulted glass roof, illuminating the passageway and causing the white marble columns to shine like beacons.

She reached the base of the second-highest tower and descended the steps to the vaults, where the flow of energy was strongest.
Located at the heart of Girdlegard, the former realm of Lios Nudin was the source of the force fields, a wellspring of magic
energy supplying the other enchanted realms.

Andôkai sat on the floor of the carpeted room. She turned her focus inward and felt for the invisible force, sensing at once
how the energy had been changed. Nôd’onn, drawing on knowledge given to him by the Perished Land, had contaminated the force
fields, making them dangerous for other wizards to use.

Andôkai was an exception. Her chosen deity was Samusin, god of equilibrium, champion of darkness and light. She was a conduit
for good—but also for forces commonly described as evil, which was why she could channel the tainted energy without succumbing
to the poison. A practitioner of white magic would not be so lucky.

Senses keyed, she checked for signs that the force fields were recovering, but even with Nôd’onn dead and the Perished Land
defeated, the magic energy flowing from Porista was under the magus’s spell.

She rose to her feet.
How long will it take the force fields to cleanse themselves of Nôd’onn’s evil? A hundred cycles or even a thousand? If they
ever recover at all…

She ascended the stairs, left the palace through the main doors and came to a halt on the steps leading down to the courtyard.

The sun was resting on the horizon, creating a shimmering tableau of color, cloud, and light. The warmth of the sunset reached
as far as Porista, steeping the palace in its reddish glow and transforming the sable turrets to vibrant amber. Andôkai felt
the breeze and smelled the aroma of freshly turned soil. Birds were soaring and dipping in pursuit of buzzing insects. It
looked the picture of harmony and order.

Andôkai was reminded of past occasions when she and the other magi had lingered on the palace steps, waiting for the sun to
set and knowing that it would rise again in a blaze of light to announce the new dawn.

While she had little doubt that the sun would continue to put on its twice-daily spectacle, she was beginning to wonder whether
she would be the last maga in Girdlegard to admire the fiery orb.

For two thousand cycles the council of the magi had met in Porista, but Nôd’onn had turned his palace into a slaughterhouse,
sending four of Girdlegard’s magi to their deaths, killing their famuli, and destroying the magic girdle. Andôkai had barely
escaped with her life.

Now, with Nôd’onn defeated, she had returned to the palace, the only building untouched by the inferno that had raged through
Porista.

Andôkai had little affection for the city where her colleagues had met their deaths, but she had elected to live there for
one simple reason: It was the best place to instruct apprentices in the magic arts.

She surveyed the ruined houses and rubble beyond the palace walls. Little remained of the eight thousand dwellings that had
once stood proudly on Lios Nudin’s plains. Faced with an army of revenants, Prince Mallen had razed the city to the ground.

On hearing of Nôd’onn’s death, the first brave souls had returned to the city, and more had followed, reassured by the sight
of Andôkai’s pennants flying from the flagpoles. Porista had a new mistress, who through no desire of her own, had come to
preside over six enchanted realms.

Looking up, she gazed at the ever-darkening sky, watching her pennants rippling on the breeze.
Samusin, god of equilibrium, master of winds, I need apprentices. Send me famuli, old or young, with the ability to learn.
If the danger is as great as Nôd’onn foretold, I won’t be strong enough to combat it on my own.

She heard a loud knock on the gates to the forecourt. Runes lit up throughout the palace, the signal for a servant to rush
out and determine whether to admit the waiting person or persons.

But the palace staff had been discharged.

For want of a doorman to answer the knock, Andôkai uttered an incantation, and the gates swung open to reveal a tall slender
woman and a young man.

The pair stepped into the forecourt and headed toward the steps. Dressed in black leather armor, the woman was carrying a
weapons belt with two outlandish weapons that Andôkai recognized as unique to their bearer. Porista, like most ruined cities,
was plagued by looters and thieves, and this particular woman preferred to be armed. She walked briskly and fearlessly, while
her companion hurried after her, scanning the forecourt anxiously and hugging his pack to his chest.

A shadow fell over Andôkai.

“It’s all right, Djer
n,” she told her bodyguard, keeping her eyes on the couple. “They’re quite harmless.” She flashed him
a wry smile. “Although quite frankly, I wouldn’t mind if they were Nôd’onn’s chief famuli.” She looked up at the towering
warrior, eying the demonic metal visor that always masked his face. “Even hostile apprentices would be better than none at
all.”

Djer
n stayed where he was, diagonally behind her. He seemed to be watching the approaching couple, but the eyeholes in his
visor gave nothing away. His helmet appeared to be empty, but he was capable of fixing his enemies with terrible rays of violet
light.

His stillness was also deceptive. Clad from head to toe in armor, he looked heavy and inert, but at the sight of an enemy,
or if his mistress was in danger, he moved with incredible agility, running, jumping, and fighting as if he were made of shimmering
silk. Few could say what lay beneath his armor—and it was better that way.

The woman and her frightened companion ascended the steps. Andôkai realized that she had been mistaken. “Narmora, who’s this?”
she demanded, forgetting to welcome her guest. “I mistook him for Furgas.”

The half älf smiled. Like Djer
n, she was careful to hide her striking features from strangers, and her pointed ears were
covered by a crimson headscarf. The daughter of an älf and a human, she had thrown in her lot with the men, elves, and dwarves,
but älfar were feared and hated throughout Girdlegard, and she knew better than to expect any mercy from a baying mob. The
headscarf was vital for her safety.

“Maga, I found him roaming the city. He wanted to see you, but he was too afraid to knock.”

The man lifted his eyes and saw Djer
n, who stood three paces tall. His gaze traveled fearfully over the metal breastplate
that mimicked the curve of bulging muscle. He took in the tionium gorget, the terrifying visor, and the ring of metal spikes
encircling his helmet like a crown. “What in the name of Palandiell…” Stepping back, he almost tumbled down the staircase,
but the nimble Narmora grabbed him by the elbow. “Djer
n won’t hurt you,” she assured him.

The man did his best to compose himself. “Wenslas is my name. I served Turgur the Fair-Faced,” he said timorously.