The War of the Dwarves (52 page)

Tungdil was brooding over the news. “It doesn’t bode well for Girdlegard,” he muttered. A new challenge and the awkwardness
of seeing Balyndis awaited him in Porista, whereas in Trovegold he led a peaceful scholarly life with Myr, interrupted only
by training sessions with Sanda and the occasional afternoon in the forge.

He glanced into the adjoining room and glimpsed the diamond-studded weapons belt given to him by Giselbert Ironeye. It was
hanging on the wall beneath two crossed axes—his own work, of course.

Boëndal followed his gaze. “It doesn’t bode well,” he agreed, although it wasn’t clear whether he was referring to the changes
in Girdlegard or in his friend.

“You’re living the scholar’s life, are you?” mumbled Boïndil, picking up another dumpling and waving it vaguely in the air.
“No chain mail, comfortable boots—are you sure you haven’t put on weight?”

Tungdil laughed and fetched three glasses of beer. “I doubt it. I’m taking lessons in axmanship from Sanda Flameheart. You
should see her muscles; she’d lay you out cold in a fight.”

“It’s easy to impress a novice,” said Boïndil, smiling. “She probably hasn’t fought a true warrior. I’d show her who’s boss.”
He swallowed the dumpling, washed it down with a draft of beer, and belched loudly.

“It’s time to dust off your weapons belt,” said Boëndal earnestly. “I hope you’re not too settled here. Gandogar needs you
in Porista; no one can go to the meeting but you.”

Boïndil, always the pragmatist, pushed past him and unhooked the belt and one of the axes from the wall. He handed them to
Tungdil. “Don’t make me force you,” he said with a wink. “Are you ready?”

The front door opened, and Myr walked in, carrying her medicine bag. “Vraccas almighty, we’ve been flooded!” she said in mock
horror. “I thought they’d fixed the sluice for the canals…” She put her hands on her slender waist and followed the trail
of water to her guests. “So it was you!” she said, pretending to be cross. “I see you found the kitchen.” Laughing, she hugged
Boïndil and then Boëndal. “I smell dumplings,” she commented, sniffing the air. “That’s strange—they’ve disappeared…”

“It’s your own fault,” protested Boïndil. “You left them unguarded.”

“I assume you didn’t come here to steal my food,” she said, noting their earnest faces. Boëndal explained the purpose of their
visit. “If Tungdil’s leaving, so am I,” declared Myr. “I’ll accompany the three of you as far as Porista, and we’ll see from
there. I can’t bear to separate our freshly melded hearts.”

“Freshly melded?” exclaimed Boëndal. “Congratulations! May Vraccas bring you happiness and wealth.” He shook hands with them
vigorously. “We should have brought a present.”

Boïndil responded to the unexpected news by choking on a handful of cranberries and would have died an in-glorious and untimely
death, were it not for Myr, who thumped him on the back. The red-faced warrior took a sip of beer. “To the happy couple,”
he gasped.

Tungdil showed them the ring on the middle finger of his right hand and the smaller version worn by Myr. He had forged them
himself. “We had the ceremony in the temple.”
And no one was there to stop us
, he added silently.

“In that case, we’ll take
two
scholars to Porista,” said Boëndal, smiling. “All the better for Girdlegard and the dwarves.”

Myr beamed. “I can’t wait to see a human city. How am I going to find enough parchment for all my sketches and notes?” She
hurried upstairs. “We’ll set off as soon as I’ve packed a few things…”

“Personally, I’d rather dry out first,” said Boïndil, tapping his foot against the floor. His boot squelched unpleasantly.
“There’s no point in getting blisters.”

B
efore they left, Tungdil paid a final visit to the stronghold and took his leave of Gemmil and Sanda. As usual, he was greeted
warmly, and Sanda offered him a drink. He gave as full an account as possible of the situation in Porista. “It’s essential
I go,” he concluded.

Sanda had been listening attentively. “I know Romo Steelheart. His uncle dotes on him. He’s a dedicated dwarf killer, one
of the worst I’ve ever met. He was trained by Salfalur himself. Entrusting Romo with the fate of Girdlegard is like asking
an orc to look after a playground. Lorimbas is up to something serious.” She glanced at Gemmil. “Romo doesn’t make deals;
he’s there to enforce his uncle’s will. He won’t back down.” She turned back to Tungdil. “Romo and his associates can’t be
trusted. The meeting could be an ambush—or worse. You’ll have to watch your back.”

“I’ll remember your advice,” he thanked her with a bow. “Myr and I will return to Trovegold as soon as we can.”

“Myr’s going with you?” asked Sanda, taken aback. Almost immediately she recovered her composure and smiled.

Tungdil decided that she was probably pleased at the prospect of not being watched for a while.
Except Myr says she doesn’t know about the surveillance…
Arrangements had already been put in place for Myr’s friends to keep an eye on Sanda during her absence.

“Perhaps you could give the high king my regards,” said Gemmil. “I’d like to pay a visit to Gandogar once Girdlegard’s safety
has been assured. I think a meeting would be useful. I don’t suppose many of the freelings would be interested in rejoining
their folks, but a trade relationship would benefit us all. I’ll leave it to you to describe our realm and assure him that
we’re not a band of criminals and murderers. May Vraccas be with you on your journey.”

“I’ll talk to Gandogar for you,” promised Tungdil. “He’ll hear nothing but praise from me.”

He left the modest hall and was halfway down the stairs when footsteps sounded behind him. Turning, he found himself looking
at the tattooed features of the queen.

“You won’t like what I’m going to tell you,” she said gravely, “and you probably won’t believe me, but be warned: Whatever
happens on your journey, keep a close eye on Myrmianda.” She glanced about nervously to satisfy herself that they were unobserved.

Tungdil frowned and took a small step away from her. “I don’t follow.” His eyes searched her face, looking for an explanation.
“What’s Myr got to do with anything?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you,” she said obscurely. “Myrmianda is who she is because of her family. You mustn’t breathe
a word of what I’ve told you, especially not to her.” A sentry appeared at the top of the steps and watched them from afar.
“I know she’s spying on me,” she whispered. “Myrmianda could outscheme a gnome. For your own sake, don’t trust her.” She held
out her hand. “This is for Gandogar,” she said loudly. “May Vraccas protect you and your friends.”

Looking into her eyes, it seemed to Tungdil that she was telling the truth.
She’s a thirdling, though, and Myr thinks she’s a spy
, he reminded himself as he continued down the stairs.
I don’t see why she’d try to drive us apart—unless she’s plotting something in Trovegold or conspiring with the thirdlings
in Porista…

Barely an hour later he was marching through the tunnels toward the surface with Myr and the twins.

When he looked into Myr’s warm, red eyes, the conversation with Sanda seemed ridiculous. Soon afterward, when Myr kissed him
lovingly, he forgot what the thirdling had said.

Porista,

Former Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6235th Solar Cycle

I
did it for you, Furgas.
Narmora kneeled at her husband’s bedside, pressed her forehead against his cold hand, and buried her face in the covers.
I punished her and took her power so that I might cure you. It won’t be long until Dorsa can meet her father.

She got up, kissed his colorless lips, and slipped out of the room. She could feel the warmth of the malachite crystal around
her neck. The stone had absorbed the maga’s magic, transferring her power to Narmora, who intended to use the crystal to cure
Furgas—as soon as she learned how.

The half älf’s satisfaction at killing her hated mentor had been disappointingly brief. With Furgas critically ill and Girdlegard
in danger, she hadn’t been able to enjoy the victory as much as she had hoped. She ran a hand over her bodice, feeling the
malachite splinter beneath the fabric.

Rodario emerged from one of the passageways and walked alongside her. They hadn’t seen each other for orbits; in fact, they
had barely spoken since Andôkai’s death. “I keep thinking about what happened,” he began. “An awful business.”

“Ideal for one of your plays,” she said tersely.

“Too dramatic,” he countered. “Even for me. My valued spectators would storm out of the Curiosum if I were to tell them that
Girdlegard’s only maga was dead, killed—in all probability—by Tion’s descendants, the devious avatars, more dangerous than
anything our kingdoms have ever—”

She stopped and glared at him. “You’ve been eavesdropping on the assembly!”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I just happened to overhear.” He assumed a look of wounded innocence. “The walls are extremely thin.”
His hand slapped the sturdy marble. “Well, some of them are…”

She set off again, with Rodario walking determinedly alongside her.

“I suppose you know what would really upset my spectators?” he said softly.

“The abysmal acting?”

“No, my sharp-tongued beauty.” He barred her way. “The calculated murder of the maga by her famula, who committed her heinous
crime in front of Girdlegard’s assembled kings and queens, none of whom realized what was unfolding before their eyes.”

“Are you out of your mind?” hissed Narmora, rounding on him.

“An excellent question—and one that I was saving for you. I saw what you did, Narmora.”

“And what would that be?”

As a longstanding friend of Narmora’s, Rodario refused to be intimidated. “I followed the dwarves into the conference chamber.
I was standing beside you, in case you needed help. I saw what you did with the crystal.”

“I see.” Her dark eyes seemed to look right through him. “And what are you going to do about it?”

He pouted. “Nothing. Provided that—”

She stuck her chin out scornfully. “The fabulous Rodario, a blackmailer.”

“Oh please,” he said dismissively, “I’m too classy for blackmail, and besides…” He took a step closer and looked her in the
eye. “I’m Furgas’s friend. Whether I’m your friend or not is another matter. You’re not the old Narmora anymore.”

“How could I
not
change?” she said, her haughtiness evaporating. “Andôkai deserved to die—you of all people should know that. I’ve studied
hard to get this far—I can handle the avatars.”

“No one, not even the most diligent famula, can become a fully fledged maga in the space of half a cycle.” He tilted his head
to one side and stared at her bodice, eying the spot where the shard of malachite was hidden. “Unless of course…”

She strode past him in the direction of the conference chamber. “If you’ve got something to say, I recommend you say it,”
she snapped.

“Fine,” he said calmly, setting off behind her at a leisurely pace. “I’m going wherever you’re going. I want to be privy to
all your decisions. From now on, I’m here to advise you—like Furgas would, if he were well.”

She laughed. “How do you think the kings and queens of Girdlegard will like the idea of sharing their confidences with an
impresario? Not everyone wants to be featured in your plays.”

He jogged to catch up with her. “That’s easily solved,” he said brightly. “You’ll tell them I’m your famulus.” He raised his
right hand and looked at her solemnly. “Think of the benefits—I can help with your lines. Listen, Narmora,” he said sincerely,
“I want to be your friend. You need someone you can trust, someone you can share your thoughts with. I’m offering you my help.”

They hurried through the arcades in silence. At the door to the conference chamber, Narmora stopped and turned to Rodario.
“You’re right, a friend is exactly what I need.” She smiled, and for a few heartbeats she was the old Narmora, leading lady
of the Curiosum. “Come on, it’s time to save Girdlegard.” She threw open the doors and walked in.

The leaders of the other kingdoms were waiting for her. Only the dwarves were missing. In the interests of Girdlegard, they
had agreed to absent themselves from the assembly, as per Romo’s churlish instructions. Narmora had promised to brief them
later.

The half älf sat down on the throne belonging to Andôkai, while Rodario claimed the chair beside her and tried to look the
part. “This is my famulus, Rodario,” she introduced him. “The late maga discovered his talent for magic and schooled him in
the mystic arts. He will continue his studies under me.”

Rodario rose and gave a deep bow. The combination of his aristocratic features and fine robes would have dazzled a lesser
audience. “My gifts as an actor are well known, but Andôkai made a secret of my apprenticeship. I’m delighted to announce
that my growing skill as a weaver of enchantment will be placed in the service of our new maga, Narmora the Unnerving, as
she leads the fight against Tion’s fiery avatars. With my help—”

“A fat lot of good he’ll do,” jeered Romo, cutting short the impresario’s speech. He glanced at Narmora. “She won’t defeat
the avatars either. Not even the famous Andôkai could halt their advance.” He stood up, crossed the chamber and came to a
halt beneath the copper dome, armor glistening in the intersecting rays of sunlight from the lofty windows. His companion,
a taciturn, almost man-high dwarf, watched impassively from his seat.

Prince Mallen of Idoslane leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “And I suppose Lorimbas is the only one who can stop
them?”

Romo bowed. “Greetings, Prince Mallen. My uncle was wondering how your kingdom was faring. We saw the smoke rising over Idoslane
from our watchtowers across the border. It must be hard without our mercenaries to beat back Toboribor’s orcs.”

“Enough of this childishness,” snapped Narmora. “We’re here to listen to your proposal—although, frankly, it seems a waste
of time.”