Their noisy skirmish in the corridor must have prepared him for their arrival. "Burn, you scoundrels!" His right arm flew up, fingers pointing at the dwarves, and he opened his mouth as if to speak. The door slammed shut.
The brothers blinked in surprise. "Surely he didn't need a spell for that?" said Boпndil.
"Why didn't he just close it before we got here? I told you wizards are weird."
"Magical mumbo jumbo. Leave it to me!" Launching himself at the door, Boпndil stormed inside, shrieking.
The young man had fallen backward and was lying motionless inside a cabinet. The doors were open and the shelves had slipped their brackets, scattering their contents on top of him. His forehead had been gouged in the process, and he was bleeding from the wound.
Tungdil straightened up and rubbed his head. "I should have put on my helmet before I head-butted him in the belly," he declared.
"Didn't I tell you those lessons would pay off?" Boпndil patted him on the back. "You've got the makings of a first-class dwarf!"
"It's about time someone explained what's going on," his brother said impatiently. "There's human broth on the stove and revenants roaming through the corridors. What kind of character is your magus, anyway?"
"None of this would be happening if Lot-Ionan were here." Tungdil gave a brief account of the eavesdropped conversation between Nudin and his famulus, then listened while the twins described the scene that had greeted them in the kitchen. In combination, the stories proved beyond a doubt that Nudin had seized the vaults and emptied them of their inhabitants.
Surely be can't have killed them all? Tungdil sat down, overcome with horror and dismay. What of the apprentices, the servants, Frala, Sunja, and Ikana? He refused to believe that the lunatic magus could have murdered a wizard as powerful as Lot-Ionan. He's alive. I just know it! He clung to the hope that Lot-Ionan had escaped with his senior famuli and was preparing to do battle with Nudin. I have to find him!
"The dwarven assembly needs to hear about this," ruled Boлndal. "Let's get out of here."
"No," Tungdil said firmly. "Not until I know where Lot-Ionan has got to." He looked at the unconscious apprentice. "I bet he could tell us." He knelt down and boxed his ears. It had the desired effect: The famulus's eyelids fluttered open.
Boпndil stood guard at the door while his brother placed the spiked tip of his crow's beak in the gap between the young man's eyes. "If you so much as think of cursing me, I'll ram my weapon through your brains." He obviously had every intention of carrying out his threat. "I crack skulls as if they were eggshells."
Tungdil bent down toward him. "Tell us where Lot-Ionan is," he demanded, torn between wanting an answer and fearing the truth.
"Are you the dwarves from Greenglade?" The famulus seemed perplexed. "But aren't you supposed to be-"
"Answer the question!" Tungdil told him roughly. Boлndal leaned on his crow's beak, applying just enough pressure to pierce the famulus's skin. Blood welled up around the metal spike as it bore into his brow. "Tell us where he is, or we'll kill you."
"Don't hurt me," the apprentice whimpered. "I'll tell you anything you want! He's dead. Nфd'onn killed him."
"Nфd'onn, commander of the Perished Land?"
"It was in Porista. He killed them all!" The terrible truth was out: With the other magi dead, there was no one in Girdlegard who could rival the traitor's power. "Nфd'onn cursed the force fields so no one else can use them."
An icy dread took hold of Tungdil when he realized what the famulus was saying. "So Nudin is Nфd'onn? Nudin commands the Perished Land?" The evidence had been staring him in the face, but either he hadn't realized or he hadn't wanted to. He felt like shrieking at the famulus or cutting him to pieces on the spot, but he forced himself to ask another question. "What does Nфd'onn want with the books and the artifacts?"
"I don't know. Nфd'onn told me to look for them, but he didn't say why. I swear I don't-"
Tungdil whacked him with the poll of his ax, returning him to his faint. Once he was safely tied up and locked in the cupboard, they debated what to do with him. It was obvious that they couldn't release him. A wizard with hostile intentions posed a serious threat and there could be no justification for not killing him while they still had the chance.
The tension over, Tungdil lowered his guard and gave in to his grief, mourning the loss of his adopted family and friends. Tears rolled down his cheeks, coursing through his beard, and he wiped them away with Frala's scarf. She had given him the talisman for luck, but now it was all he had left to remember her by. I won't let your deaths go unpunished, he promised his oldest friend.
Just then a familiar stench rose to his nostrils. Tungdil looked up and exchanged glances with the twins. They too had smelled the rancid butter, which could only mean one thing: orcs. He picked up his ax and rose to his feet. "Let's see if I can remember those lessons." They strode grimly to the door. Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle Rumor had it that the high king was on his deathbed. In fact, according to some reports, Vraccas had smitten him already and he had taken his place in the eternal smithy.
There was no need to look far to find the source of the gossip. So eager were the fourthlings to see their own king on the marble throne that they were only too happy to spread tidings of Gundrabur's demise. Come what may, they were determined to have their war against Вlandur, whether the elves were guilty of treachery or not.
At every discussion, no matter how big or small, Bislipur was there, tirelessly kindling the rumors, his every waking moment devoted to fanning the fires of his destructive campaign. No one seemed to need less sleep than Gandogar's devious adviser, except perhaps Balendilнn, whom he regarded as a personal enemy.
"If only Vraccas would hurry up and smite the high king with his hammer," muttered Bislipur on returning to the chamber where he was staying as the secondlings' guest. He lowered himself crossly onto his bed. I'm not making any progress. Some of the fourthling delegates were starting to doubt the wisdom of going to war. That blasted Balendilнn is ruining everything. The sooner I take care of him, the…
"Master, I bring news for you," a reedy voice announced from under his bed. "Not that I'd choose to tell you anything. In fact, I didn't want to come at all."
Bislipur stood up and kicked the bedpost. "Come out from there, you wretched gnome!" Sverd had barely emerged from his hiding place when Bislipur's calloused hand closed round his neck and lifted him into the air. He shook the gnome vigorously, like a cat would stun its prey, then tossed him roughly into the corner. "You're not to sneak into my chamber without my permission, do you understand?"
Sverd rose groggily and straightened his red jacket. "I wasn't sneaking, master. You weren't here, so I hid in a place where no one would find me, like you said." He tugged his hemp shirt over his rounded belly, covering his hairy green skin. His pointed ears stuck upward, as if pinning his cap to his head. There were few of his kind left in Girdlegard.
"Shall I tell you the news, master?" asked Sverd, his large round eyes filled with mock innocence. Streaks of mud and dirt covered his saggy breeches and his buckled shoes. He had tramped for many miles. "And if I do, will you let me go?"
"You'll go when I've finished with you." Bislipur rested his hand threateningly on the magical silver wire that allowed him to tighten Sverd's collar from any distance. "Talk or I'll strangle you."
"I wish I'd never tried to steal your hoard," the gnome whined piteously. "I regret it, really, I do." He looked at the dwarf expectantly, hoping to see a flicker of pity in the stony face.
"No wonder your kind is dying out if they're all as weak and pathetic as you." Gandogar's adviser stayed as cold and unbending as the many valuable trinkets that he wore. He tugged on the wire, tightening the leather band around the neck of his slave.