The War of the Dwarves (15 page)

Andôkai’s heart sank. The only famulus in Girdlegard, and he was trained by a preening dandy. “There’s no need to be afraid,”
she told him. “Which tier did you reach before your magus died?”

“I didn’t,” he said softly. “I wasn’t actually a famulus. My name was on the list for the academy, and I was waiting to take
the exam. I heard the Estimable Maga was looking for students, so I came to Porista.”

“That’s when I found him,” chimed in Narmora. “He saw the ruined city, and his courage failed him, so I escorted him myself.
Did I do well?”

Andôkai looked the man up and down. “I need to know how strong you are, Wenslas. You’ll do the exam right away.” Privately
she doubted that the nervous young man had the mental fortitude to handle complicated formulae and strength-sapping rituals.
He knows nothing about magic. It will take cycles to turn him into a tolerable apprentice.
Turgur had put him on a waiting list, which meant only one thing: Wenslas was a last resort.

Turning sharply, she went into the palace. “I’ll need your help, Narmora—if you can spare a little time.”

“Furgas was busy when I left him—he won’t mind if I stay for a while.” She gave Wenslas a little shove; he sidestepped quickly
around the armor-plated giant and set off after Andôkai.

The little party made its way through the deserted palace. Wenslas’s boots echoed through the empty marble passageways, setting
him further on edge. None of the stories he had heard about the tempestuous maga had prepared him for meeting the real-life
Andôkai and her disquieting companions. He was about to announce that he had decided not to go through with the exam when
they passed through a doorway and came to a halt in the conference chamber.

The hall, once famous for its domed roof of gleaming copper, was in ruins. It was here that Nôd’onn had revealed himself as
a traitor and an enemy of Girdlegard, and his battle with the council had destroyed the ancient room. Large chunks were missing
from the ceiling, some of the pillars had been smashed to pieces, and ash, blown into the chamber from the burned-out city,
had mingled with rainwater, forming a thick black sludge on the marble floor.

Amid the wreckage stood the fossilized form of a man, an enduring reminder of Nôd’onn’s treachery. The cruel magus had used
his dark magic to turn Lot-Ionan the Forbearing to stone.

Wenslas stepped over the fallen columns and followed Andôkai to the center of the chamber where the floor was littered with
splintered malachite.

“I’m going to send a charm in your direction—only a weak one, so you won’t come to any harm, but enough to gauge your aptitude
for magic.” She signaled for Narmora to position herself behind him and catch him if he fell. “Ready?” Without waiting for
an answer, she hurled a glowing blue sphere toward Wenslas, who raised his arms unthinkingly, palms outstretched to stop the
missile.

The spluttering sphere hit his hands and sent him flying backward. There was a hissing noise, and he yelped in pain and shock.
Narmora was behind him straightaway, holding him by the armpits to save him from the splinters on the floor.

But the glowing sphere continued on its path.

Whizzing through the air, it spiraled higher and higher, gathering speed for its next attack. Like an angry wasp, it circled
above them, then swooped toward Wenslas.

“Maga?” gasped Narmora, alarmed. When no help was forthcoming, she laid Wenslas gently on the floor and prepared to face the
magic weapon. Using a wooden plank as a shield, she took up position and watched as the sphere zigzagged crazily toward her.
It came within half a forearm of her; then it burst.

Andôkai’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Congratulations, Wenslas,” she praised him. “I believe in challenging my pupils;
it brings out their talent.” She walked over and examined his scorched palms. “Don’t worry about your hands; the skin will
soon heal.”

Groaning, Wenslas clambered to his feet. “Estimable Maga, it’s no use pretending that I passed,” he said dejectedly. “We both
know that I didn’t stop the sphere. It’s nice of you to be encouraging, but I’m not a magician. If you hadn’t taken pity on
me, I would have been killed.” He picked up his bag. “Turgur told me that I wasn’t cut out to be a famulus, and he was right.
If only I could… Oh, what’s the use?” Sighing, he bowed before the maga and took his leave. “May the gods be with you.”

They heard his footsteps echoing through the arcades, then Djer
n set off after him to escort him through the gates.

The maga studied Narmora’s face. “So it was you,” she murmured incredulously. “You destroyed the sphere.” Her eyes narrowed
dangerously. “How? You told me you inherited a few tricks from your mother, nothing more. Correct me if I’m wrong, but älfar
can’t do magic.”

Narmora seemed as surprised as she was. “I… I didn’t use a spell or anything. I just wanted the sphere to go away. I was thinking
about it disappearing and then…” She tailed off and raised a hand to her eyes. “It disappeared, just like that,” she whispered.
She seemed almost scared.

Andôkai was the first to recover her composure. “Do you know what this means, Narmora?” she said excitedly, laying her hands
on the half älf’s shoulders. “I’ve found my apprentice! It won’t take long before you’re ready to—”

“No.”

Narmora’s refusal was spoken with such intensity and conviction that Andôkai let go and took a step back. “No?” she said uncomprehendingly,
searching Narmora’s face for signs that she might be swayed. “You can’t mean that.”

Narmora drew herself up to her full height. “Yes I can.” She wasn’t afraid of Andôkai’s wrath. “I’m sure there are better
candidates, and I’m willing to help you find them, but I won’t be your famulus.” She met the maga’s questioning stare. “Remember
what happened at the Blacksaddle? It’s a wonder that we survived. No more adventures, that’s what we decided, and I’ve given
Furgas my word. We came to Porista so that Furgas could help you rebuild the city, and I’m here because of him. Nothing is
going to separate us again.” She paused, noticing the maga’s baffled expression. “It doesn’t make sense to you, I suppose.”

She sat down on a fallen column and lowered her voice. “Listen Andôkai, I want to grow old with Furgas; I want to have children
and grandchildren, and I want to see them grow up. How am I supposed to do that if I train to be a maga? I don’t want to risk
my life for Girdlegard; I love Furgas, and I’m happy the way I am.” She lifted her loose-fitting breastplate; her figure was
fuller than usual. “I’m going to be a mother,” she said, stroking her bump. “The baby is due in ninety orbits.”

Andôkai snorted angrily and made no reply.

The news hadn’t produced the intended effect. Narmora took a deep breath. “Excuse me, Maga, it’s getting late. It’s time I
went home to Furgas.” She got up and walked to the door.

“Is there anything I can say to persuade you?” the maga called after her, undaunted. “How can I change your mind?”

Narmora glanced over her shoulder and saw Andôkai silhouetted in the light of the rising moon. “I don’t intend to break my
promise,” she said firmly as she made her way out.

Sighing, the maga went over to the statue of Lot-Ionan, formerly a man of flesh and blood. “My poor friend, I could do with
your support,” she whispered absently. Her fingers stroked the smooth marble, tracing the folds of his cloak. The magus of
Ionandar was dead—dead like Turgur the Fair-Faced, Sabora the Softly-Spoken, and Maira the Life-Preserver.

She turned around sadly, surveying the wreckage of the hall.

Narmora was a fool to sacrifice her talents for love of a man.

Richemark,

Southeastern Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6235th Solar Cycle

K
ing Bruron stood at the gates and watched as a steady stream of loaded wagons left the storehouse. His entourage was made
up of seven bodyguards and two stewards, whose job was to write down how many drums of grain were heading north.

The first wagon had left the capital at dawn, on course for the far reaches of the kingdom, where the soil had been blighted
by the Perished Land. The fields and meadows were beginning to recover, and by summer they would be fertile, but there was
nothing for the farmers to sow. They desperately needed seeds, not to mention food to see them through.

“Supplies are dangerously low, Your Majesty,” said the first steward, noting another figure on his wax tablet. He pointed
the stylus at the convoy of wagons.

“The silos are almost empty,” replied the king, dressed inconspicuously in dark brown cloth as if he were an ordinary stocktaker.
He watched for a moment as the last of his provisions left the capital for the provinces, the drums of grain jiggling up and
down in the wagons. “I’ve taken the necessary measures. Yesterday King Nate received payment for five thousand drums of grain
to be delivered to the northern provinces. Idoslane will supply the rest.” He smiled and thumped the steward on the back.
“I’ve been keeping count as well. None of my subjects will go hungry—another five thousand drums are on the way.”

His bodyguard alerted him to a group of riders who seemed intent on cantering through the gates of the storehouse. There were
thirty in total, three dwarves and the rest men, and their grim faces left little doubt as to their mood.

Bruron’s smile vanished from his lips. The arrival of the delegation wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it filled him with dread.
It was too late to slip away unnoticed, so he would have to face his troublesome guests.

The first rider reined in his horse. No sooner was he out of the saddle than a group of servants surrounded the horse and
led it away. His soldiers stayed mounted, but the three dwarves lined up beside the man. “Greetings, King Bruron,” said the
ruler of Idoslane with a cursory bow.

“Welcome to Richemark, Prince Mallen,” the king replied warmly. “I was heartened to hear of your victory against the orcs.”
He turned to the dwarves and smiled. “Please extend my thanks to your commanders. The people of Gauragar won’t forget how
the allied army saved them from the green-hided beasts. They’re very grateful.” He laid a bejeweled hand on his chest. “As
am I.”

One of the dwarves thumped the ground with the poll of his ax. “Yet you handed the Blacksaddle to our enemies while we were
fighting on your behalf. Is that how you show gratitude? I call it disloyal and underhanded, and I don’t mind telling you
that I expected better from a human king.”

Bruron looked pained. “Those are harsh accusations, master dwarf—especially as I had no choice. I agreed to take over the
watch when your kinsfolk left the Blacksaddle, but I had no way of knowing that a centuries-old agreement would force me to—”

“Betray your allies,” the dwarf finished for him, the creases on his forehead deepening into furrows.

Prince Mallen studied the wagons of grain. “An agreement, you say?”

“Many cycles ago, the house of Gauragar signed a treaty with Lorimbur’s folk, according to which the Blacksaddle was ceded
to the thirdlings—for perpetuity and with no recourse.”

“Are you sure the document is genuine?” asked Mallen.

Bruron inclined his gray head. “I’m afraid so. My archivists scoured our deepest vaults and highest towers—and the evidence
confirms the terms of the agreement. The thirdlings helped my forebears to mine Cloudpiercer’s riches, and the Blacksaddle
was their reward.” He turned to the dwarves. “The stronghold belongs to the thirdlings,” he said apologetically. “What was
I supposed to do?”

“Refuse?” suggested one of the dwarves.

“My forefathers signed a treaty with the thirdlings, and it behooves me to uphold its terms. Surely the dwarves, with their
fondness for tradition, can understand the situation?” His tone had undergone a sudden change, becoming sharper and more impatient;
it was obvious that he considered the matter closed. “The Blacksaddle belongs to the thirdlings; I’m not thrilled about it
either, but the honor of Gauragar is at stake.”

Mallen looked at him squarely. “I won’t presume to judge you, Bruron, but in your position I would have advised my allies
of the treaty and looked for a better solution.”

“I didn’t have the luxury of—”

“You could have requested more time—a few extra orbits to check the treaty’s terms,” cut in Mallen. “Instead you allowed the
dwarf killers to seize a stronghold that poses a strategic threat to our friends. We’ll soon find out how Lorimbas intends
to use his advantage.” He locked gazes with the monarch, smiling coolly as the other looked away. It was obvious that Bruron
had been offered some inducement to remind him of the treaty’s terms. “I see what this is about,” he whispered in the king’s
ear.

“You have no idea,” hissed Bruron. “My subjects are starving. Grain costs money, and I’m spending a fortune to keep them alive!
If my allies would waive the cost of the—”

“It’s rude to whisper,” boomed one of the dwarves. “We won’t inconvenience you any longer—we’re needed in Dsôn Balsur. But
don’t worry, King Bruron; we’ll be sure to tell our kinsfolk what you said. No doubt the high king will reach his own conclusions
about your obligations.”