The Return of the Dwarves Book 2

Book 0: The Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

Genres: Contemporary Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure

Synopsis

The hero Tungdil Goldhand vanished years ago. Until the gem-carver Goïmron discovers Tungdil's diary . . . and finds that the last entries are terrifyingly recent.

Goïmron gathers a small band of trusted companions, and they set off to find Tungdil and save Girdlegard from the mysterious Albae.

But the story's only half-over. Brabandor's on the trail of something extraordinary; Rodana is trying to change her fate, and Klaey remains an unknown quantity: his lust for power is unparalleled, and he'll do anything to get it. And the most worrying question of all . . . will their quest, change Goïmron himself?

The epic conclusion to the story begun in The Return of the Dwarves Book 1, filled with action, adventure, and a discovery that might change life in Girdlegard for everyone . . . forever.

Release date: October 10, 2024

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Northern United Great Kingdom of Gauragon

Foothills of the Grey Mountains

Platinshine

1023 P.Q. (7514th solar cycle in old reckoning), autumn

From his position up on the roof of the fortified house, Barbandor Steelgold from the clan of the Royal Water Drinkers was proudly appraising the progress of the current stage of the rebuilding works. As the lone sentry keeping watch over the devastated town this had been his vantage point until eventually other dwarves arrived in Platinshine ready to build the town anew.

On all sides the sounds of hammering and clattering could be heard. Cranes were being worked by sheer muscle power, heaving wooden beams, piles of stones or stacks of roof shingles. Heavy stone blocks were being placed in the breaches in the town’s double walls, and then cemented into position, thus ensuring the burned-out settlement was no longer vulnerable to attack. Foremen issued loud instructions to labourers and machine operators. Elsewhere, bagpipe and flageolet music entertained the workforce, encouraging them in their efforts and improving everyone’s mood as they toiled and sweated in the last warm rays of the sun.

By winter we’ll have broken the back of the work. Barbandor had been elected councillor because of his services to the town. He had accepted the responsibility with pride and delight, and now, over his outer clothing and chainmail tunic, he wore the embroidered white sash of office, making it clear to the townspeople that he was the person to bring their worries and queries to.

All in all the town now had about one thousand souls again sheltering within the walls. Life was returning, filling the dark-haired Fifthling with immense satisfaction.

Platinshine had been badly damaged by fire in the white dragon’s disastrous visitation, following the town’s refusal to pay Ûra the tribute she demanded, and there was a considerable amount of repair work to be embarked on. But it was the loss of all the original inhabitants that was far more grievous.

Barbandor’s brown eyes turned again to gaze over at the Grey Mountains. Since the recent changes wrought by Tungdil Goldhand’s secret plan, the rocky landscape had become almost unrecognisable. Cartographers would have a lifetime’s work ahead of them, making the necessary alterations to the old maps. Barbandor rubbed his plaited beard and played with its decorative white gold clip while he surveyed the mountain range. The outline of the peaks was no longer the same and none of the extant records concerning the tunnels, corridors and shafts were of any use at all now.

But these changes meant that Girdlegard was now safe and secure against incursion.

All five previously open access points in the mountains had been permanently destroyed by means of carefully planned rockfalls and collapses. Where the new entrances were located was known only to Goldhand.

He will announce it as soon as the Brown Mountains have been liberated, I presume. Barbandor shut his eyes, relishing the warmth of the sun on his lined and scarred face. More than a few extra furrows had been acquired in recent orbits, created by his exploits and by anxiety. Let us hope victory against Brigantia will soon be ours.

‘Hey there, Master Steelgold!’ The shout came loud and clear over the noise of construction. ‘Come down off your roof, will you? Otherwise I’ll be thinking you are your own statue, standing up there, Councillor!’

Barbandor opened his eyes and searched the lanes and alleys below to see who was calling him. About fifteen paces diagonally beneath there stood a young blonde dwarf girl dressed in a simple woollen garment and a leather mantle over it against the autumn chill. She was holding a bundle in both hands. The fabric was stretched, indicating the contents were a considerable weight.

‘What is it?’ he called down to her.

‘I’ve found something I need to show you.’ She pointed to the fortified house and hurried over. ‘Meet you in your office.’

What is this all about? Barbandor knew the young dwarf woman. Her name was Gyndala Tenderfist of the clan of the Gold Finders. She was originally from Forgeburg, near the lava fields. It was one of the eastern settlements keeping an eye on the movements of the fire-eater orcs. I don’t suppose she’ll have come just to bring me something to eat.

He went down through the hatchway and took the stairs leading from the attic to his sparsely furnished official workplace. There had been no time to arrange any decoration apart from the banner with the town’s coat of arms.

Gyndala placed the tightly wrapped bundle on the table. She wore her long blonde hair braided. Her light-coloured eyes shone with eager impatience. ‘This is for you,’ she announced.

‘Very thoughtful of you.’ Barbandor stepped closer and tried to guess what the bundle contained, going only by its bumpy shape. ‘But I suppose it’s not really a gift.’

‘No. I found it in the burned-out house that used to belong to the healer. In the cellar.’ Gyndala opened the jute bag. ‘There wasn’t much left.’

Barbandor had at first feared she might be presenting him with some of the mortal remains of Master Goldspark, but the contents of the bundle actually proved to be a random collection of charred objects that it took him some time to identify. ‘Those are orc things.’

‘From those orcs killed outside the Platinshine gates by the town’s catapults,’ Gyndala went on enthusiastically. She laid the items out carefully as if they were some kind of treasure she was displaying. ‘The fire has damaged them badly but you can still see that they’re totally different from the kind of belongings the lava field beasts we’ve been plagued with would normally have.’

Barbandor lifted two metal discs and studied them, rubbing off the rust. He opened two leather bags that gave off an intriguing smell of roasted herbs; then he picked up a dagger and knocked the dirt off it, revealing high-quality steel underneath.

‘Indeed. Very different, Gyndala. I agree with you,’ he murmured as he examined the items.

‘I was struck by the craftsmanship,’ she said excitedly. ‘It cannot compare with our own metalwork, of course. But it’s definitely as good as anything that humans might produce.’ She picked out an engraved clasp that must once have fastened a garment. ‘And look at the filigree work here. Amazing, for orcs, don’t you think?’

This find substantiated Barbandor’s idea that these beasts had come in from the Outer Lands in order to hunt for dwarves and to try to find Tungdil Goldhand’s wooden chest with his journal in it. Together with his friend he had thoroughly spoiled their little game on the banks of the Towan that time. ‘Quite clever work. If their intellect is similarly advanced then I’m mighty glad the mountain passageways through to Girdlegard are closed now.’

‘Yes, it’s more peaceful, apart from the siege going on in the Brown Mountains. But that’s a long way away. When I left Forgeburg it seemed like the fire eaters had all gone.’ Gyndala sat down and rested her chin on her hand while she investigated the various pieces. As she sniffed at what was left of the herbs, the pale fluff on her plump cheeks shimmered in the autumn sunshine.

Barbandor had heard about the orc groups in the east of the foothills. While Platinshine had had to deal with the salt sea orcs, the fire-eater beasts had tried to establish a reputation as flameproof raiders, by settling in small villages and outposts on islands high above the lakes of liquid fire. Forgeburg had always managed to control these orcs if they strayed too near to areas inhabited by dwarves or humans.

‘I thought you’d wiped them out?’ he said.

‘No. As soon as they see they’re losing, they retreat off to one of the larger islands in the lava. Or they hide out in caves filled with fumes that are noxious for us so we can’t pursue them.’ Gyndala put the brooch down. ‘Just wait. It won’t be long before the pig-faces attack again. But if they do, my big brother will sort them out and no mistake. Their weird frilly ears will be trembling and their rotten teeth will be falling out, by Vraccas!’

‘How is it you’re so sure the fire eaters will be attacking again?’

‘Winter’s on its way. They’ll need supplies.’ Gyndala rolled a few dried fibres into a small ball and stared at it. ‘I wonder what that is.’

‘Healing herbs, I suppose. Or tobacco, maybe, for chewing?’ I like a good chew of tobacco myself. I hope that’s the only thing we’ve got in common. Barbandor weighed the metal discs in his hand. They would have been part of scale or lamellar armour. Something was not right, his gut was telling him. ‘They’re too heavy,’ he muttered, suddenly understanding.

‘Too heavy?’

‘I’m thinking back to the armoured orc that came out of the Towan. I assumed he’d arrived, like the four dozen others, swept down the river from the Outer Lands, but . . .’ Barbandor furrowed his brow. ‘But in armour like this they’d never have made it in the river all the way to us.’

‘They survived the Emerald Falls. So why couldn’t they have managed to shoot the rapids . . .’ Gyndala paused. ‘By the Eternal Smith! You are right. Not even a pig-face can swim hundreds of miles in an icy river where there’s strong currents and rocks and undertows.’

Barbandor stared at the small metal plates he was holding in his tough calloused hands. I made a dangerous error. He chucked them down on the table with the rest of the things and made for the door. ‘Thank you for bringing me what you found. You’ve no idea how much you’ve helped me to make sense

of things.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Gyndala looked at him, full of curiosity. ‘Where are you off to?’

‘I’m going to check the works. At the outside wall,’ he said, grabbing his heavy battle weapon with its elaborately engraved steel axe head, and settling it in its holster over his shoulder. ‘See you later. Meet you in the Green Barrel. First round’s on me.’

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she called after him.

Well, two-thirds of what I said was true, so I wasn’t actually lying. Barbandor did not want the dwarf girl coming with him. He must make good his mistake without putting Platinshine’s inhabitants in a state of panic. The shock from recent events still sat too deep, so as leader of the council and in his capacity in charge of the town’s defences he must conduct his own enquiries.

Barbandor hurried through the streets and alleyways, handing out praise to the labouring workers as he went. He inspected the repairs to the double rampart of the town defences and then he left Platinshine on the road that led out to the Towan river and to Smallwater.

He was glad that no one stopped to ask him what he was going to the humans’ village for. This way he would not need to tell a lie.

As he made his way quickly through the shelter of a little wood towards the river and the Emerald Falls, the truth occurred to him. It was as if dragon scales had fallen from his eyes. It was obvious. Why didn’t I realise? The weight of the armour and the fact that the beast spoke in the vernacular. In the Outer Lands Girdlegard’s common tongue was hardly ever used. And certainly not by orcs.

He gave himself the excuse that the dragon Ûra had attacked them that very evening and he had himself been injured. After that he had been preoccupied with trying to protect Platinshine and then he had gone off with Goïmron and his friends in search of Goldhand. Why would I have bothered thinking about those dead orcs?

Barbandor reached the pool at the foot of the Emerald Falls, where he was greeted by rolling clouds of spray, throwing up the occasional red and yellow leaf. Autumn had made the colours of the surrounding trees strikingly attractive and the air was full of the smell of damp moss and fungi.

He looked up at the top of the waterfall. If the orcs didn’t fall from up there – and he scanned the cascading white and green curtain of water – then they must have emerged further down.

He walked forward cautiously, his upturned axe to hand as a support as he made his way over the slippery stones.

Whether there would still be the slightest trace now, after half a cycle had passed, was a moot point, he thought. No more orcs had appeared in the meantime. Neither on the building site in Platinshine nor elsewhere in Smallwater, the village that was now being rebuilt by the humans.

Ûra’s attack on our settlement maybe kept them from raiding us. Barbandor climbed across the lowest of the boulders and got within forty paces of the edge of the waterfall. Every creature is frightened of the Falls. He was drenched in the spray, soaked through in a matter of heartbeats, and he had to wipe the moisture away from his eyes several times. The going was treacherous and he picked his path with the utmost care. But now the dragon is dead. The orcs might well want to take advantage of the circumstances, and the fact that the Brown Mountains are under siege. They may try to return.

Barbandor had never discounted the threat of Elria’s curse. Suspiciously he eyed the frothing pool into which the powerful emerald waters plunged. The basin appeared bottomless and was in all likelihood keen to pull any unsuspecting dwarf to a watery grave at the instigation of the goddess Elria. May Vraccas keep me safe.

To aid concentration he kept a little ball of chewing tobacco in his cheek. Cinnamon and mint together with the sharp taste of tobacco enlivened his thinking.

At the side of the main river that the Towan had merged with, Barbandor climbed up the rocks, step by careful step, then he replaced his axe in its holster on his back and, continuously soaked by the curtain of water, edged up the vertical wall, pulling himself up with cold wet fingers.

At a height of approximately twenty paces he noticed a naturally formed ledge going off to one side behind the cascade. The carved marking on the stone was, however, certainly not natural in origin. He did not recognise the rune but he was sure it had been made relatively recently, as it had only the thinnest of moss layers over it.

As I thought! Barbandor quickly moved on to the ledge and took tiny steps along. He was approaching the waterfall itself and through the first section of the cascade and the cloud of spray he could make out a darker shape that might indicate a large niche or a cave opening.

Barbandor was undecided.

He had no evidence that there were orcs hiding behind the waterfall. But if there were any and they caught him there would be a fight with an uncertain outcome. I have no idea how many there might be.

His curiosity got the better of him. In his capacity as councillor responsible for defence it was his duty to make sure.

The water showed its true force. Even the margins of the Emerald Falls plunged down on to him with such power that it felt as though he was being pelted with stones. His fingertips gripped the crevices in the stone with all the strength he could muster. His boot soles kept slipping.

I shan’t make it over to that shadow shape. His neck, shoulders and back muscles were killing him and he could hardly breathe. Elria has devised a method to drown me while I’m standing upright! I’ll have to tackle this another way entirely. Just as he was about to give up and turn back, his right hand lost its grip on the rock.

His fingers grasped thin air and his upper body arched back outwards. The full force of the waterfall hit him mercilessly now and the combined weight of the heavy axe and his chainmail tunic was overwhelming.

The power of the cascade washed Barbandor off the ledge as if he were dirt to be swept away. He swallowed icy water and choked, which made him take more into his lungs.

His fall halted dramatically as something caught hold of his ankle and he struggled, upside down, in the noisy rush of the Emerald cataract. Gasping for air, he felt himself pulled upwards and grabbed by strong hands that then threw him down on to a hard surface.

His eyes were full of water and he vomited, bringing up water and the remains of his stomach contents. Wavering torchlight shone on him and he became aware of the vague impression of several pairs of high boots. Judging by the size of the footwear, the boots must belong to orcs.

Looped round his foot was a rope the beasts had caught him with mid-fall, saving him from toppling down into the plunge pool. But their intentions were most probably not friendly.

After a final spasm he wiped his eyes and glanced around. He did not bother with grabbing his battleaxe. They would have run him through before he could have retrieved the weapon from its holder. They had only to tug at the rope to make him trip and fall.

Three muscular orcs stood less than one pace away from him. Apart from the boots they were wearing simple leather loin protectors decorated with burned-in patterns, and belts across their chests with long daggers attached. Two of them had dark grey skin, while the third had skin of a striking night blue. Their limbs and torsos bore colourful tattooed designs; the dark blue orc’s ornately intertwined decorations were done exclusively in bright white, which made them stand out.

After a short exchange of words that Barbandor could not follow, one of the grey orcs made his way along the ledge and disappeared in the mist, moving as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

The blue-skinned orc pulled Barbandor along with a tug on the rope and dragged him into a side cave where the thunderous noise of the waterfall was somewhat reduced in volume.

‘Let us talk, groundling,’ he began, speaking in the common tongue of Girdlegard but with a heavy accent. He crouched down. Barbandor saw his strong canine teeth were painted to look like the fangs of a wolf. The other teeth had been dyed black. ‘Did you come here on your own?’

The dwarf sat up and tried to loosen the rope but a deep growl from the orc made him change his mind. ‘You are worried you will all be killed.’

‘I am concerned about quite other things that you know nothing of,’ came the amused response.

‘I shall be missed. My people will come looking for me. They’ll follow the signs I left. You and your beasts—’

The orc laughed quietly. His long, curved fingernails were clean, as was the dark mane of hair on his head. Several strands had gold thread twisted round them. The general impression was of an orc that was well groomed – or maybe the waterfall had washed him clean. ‘A designation I’ve not heard before.’

‘Are you from the Outer Lands?’

‘What are the Outer Lands?’

‘It’s on the far side of the Grey Mountains.’ Barbandor felt his strength returning. He would wait for an opportunity and then attack. At the first sign that the beast’s guard was down . . . ‘I have never come across an orc like you before.’

‘Then enjoy the sight of me as long as you can.’ The orc surveyed him. ‘What is your name?’

‘Child of the Smith.’

‘You do not wish to tell me what you are called? Do you fear your name being used? A taboo?’ The orc grinned. ‘My name is Borkon Gràc Hâl and I am not afraid who knows it. I am not afraid of any curse. Nor am I afraid of you.’

Barbandor was astonished by the civilised tone of their conversation. This was a spectacularly different type of encounter from the last time he had met one of their kind.

A loud shout was heard coming from the larger cave. Getting to his feet, Borkon turned his head, his mouth open to reply.

This will be my chance! Barbandor grabbed his axe with both hands and used the muscles in his shoulder to add leverage. The blade tip whistled through the air and hit the orc in the centre of the chest, slicing through his strong muscles. There was the crack of bone under the skin. Borkon stepped back under the impact, his head whirled round and his watery green eyes focused furiously on his dwarf attacker. He took hold of the axe head in his right hand and yanked it out of his flesh, releasing a stream of blue-black blood. The cut sealed itself immediately. The severed bits of bone fused again with a crunch, regaining their original shape.

Barbandor pulled on the axe shaft but the orc’s grip held it as fast as any metal statue might have done. ‘What in Vraccas’ name are you?’ Is he one of the Undead? Has the curse of the Dead Land come back to visit itself on us in the shape of a new demon?

‘An orc. Granted, not the usual type, but an orc all the same.’ Borkon suddenly released his hold on the axe head, making the dwarf nearly lose his balance and fall over backwards. ‘Try that once more and—’

‘Spare me your threats.’ Barbandor’s heart was beating fast as he retrieved his weapon, eyeing as he did so the dark blood sticking to the blade. ‘I am a Child of the Smith. It is in my nature to root out and kill monsters like you.’

One of the grey-skinned orcs came in and dumped Gyndala, dripping wet, on the stone floor. Bleeding from two injuries on her neck and shoulder, she sat up, gasping. ‘I’m sorry, Barbandor,’ she said, in obvious discomfort. ‘But I just had to follow you. I guessed that you—’

‘Be quiet. Silence. Both of you,’ Borkon commanded, turning to exchange words with his fellow orc in a throaty, harsh tongue.

‘Gyndala, by Vraccas!’ Barbandor whispered, concerned for her. ‘Look what you’ve got yourself into.’

‘I didn’t want you to confront the pig-faces on your own. I—’

Borkon delivered her a kick, toppling her forward so her forehead slammed into the stone. She collapsed, unconscious.

‘You are in luck, groundling. Thanks to her, you shall live.’

The grey-skinned orc grabbed her wet braided hair and yanked her head back, snapping her neck.

No! It had happened so fast that Barbandor had not been able to intervene. But as he sprang forward with an angry shout, intent on avenging Gyndala’s death, Borkon reared up in front of him. With one hand he lifted the dwarf up by the neck and with the other he took hold of the axe.

While this was happening, the grey orc severed Gyndala’s head from her shoulders with his knife, and everywhere was soon spattered in a mixture of her red blood and the water on the floor. Then he took off one of her shoes, came over to Barbandor and cut off a thick dark strand of his beard together with its distinctive white-gold clip.

Holding the dripping skull, the boot and the lock of beard hair, the grey orc turned and went out of the cave. The other grey orc came in and lifted the dead dwarf girl’s corpse by the belt of her light-coloured dress, carrying her as if she were a bag. Her arms and legs hung down and blood poured from the neck stump.

‘What are you doing?’ Barbandor groaned in horror.

‘The groundlings will find your girlfriend’s skull and your beard hair in Smallwater. We can quickly use the boot to lay the tracks and it’ll all add up. Those greedy humans must have killed you both because they did not want to hand over their loot,’ Borkon explained. ‘Nobody will think of looking for you here, behind the Emerald Falls. And if they do, by then the ledge will have disappeared.’ He picked up the engraved metal weapon without putting the dwarf down. His arm showed no sign of a quiver under the weight. He pasted blood from the blade across Barbandor’s brow and drew a sign with his finger. ‘You will be my guest. A special feast in your honour will be served very soon.’

The grey-skinned orc laughed and shook Gyndala’s decapitated corpse to make it seem as if it were still alive.

Caught in a steely pincer grip, Barbandor was running out of air and near to passing out.

‘You will now answer my questions,’ he heard Borkon’s voice say as if from a great distance. ‘I have any number of things to ask you.’

Just before he lost consciousness, Barbandor realised that the orc had been addressing him in the dwarves’ own language.

The ancient form of that tongue.

In the Brown Mountains

Brigantia

1023 P.Q. (7514th solar cycle in old reckoning), autumn

Doria Rodana de Psalí sat at the table next to her aprendisa Chòldunja and studied the brown-haired Brigantian facing them. His robe was an individually tailored affair in a sandy beige, its cut reminiscent of the älfar form of dress; the zabitay insignia was prominent on the high collar. What does he intend to do with us? She reckoned his age to be similar to her own, in the mid-twenties. His unshaven stubble gave him a slightly older appearance and his forehead bore a decorative branded scar whose design was derived from the Berengart crest.

A simple repast was on the board before them; they had what they needed. Apart from their liberty. Upon their arrival in the fortress the zabitay had assigned them these two chambers and warned them not to leave their rooms under any circumstances. He was fully aware of who it was he had brought with him to Brigantia after the battle – and he knew the women were both being sought in Girdlegard. Rodana could not work out whether he was trying to protect them or whether this was for his own benefit.

They were supplied with simple, fresh clothing that fitted reasonably well. This was unusual in itself, given the puppeteer’s sylph-like proportions. They were given an opportunity to wash. Had the situation been different, Rodana and Chòldunja might well have felt content with their comfortable accommodation. But their lives were still in danger.

The man was reading some notes he had brought with him and the expression on his face indicated his anxiety. It seemed the news was not good.

Chòldunja poured tea for her mistress and then for herself. The golden liquid steaming in the shallow dishes exuded a herbal aroma. The sixteen-year-old’s hair, which was dyed part brown and part black, had been fastened back in a bun, concealing its generous length.

Rodana cleared her throat. ‘What is to happen now, zabitay?’

‘My brother commanded me to kill you and your apprentice as soon as I found you,’ he answered, leafing through the various bits of paper. Then he looked up. His voice was harsh, a hoarse whisper that held only a hint of how musical it must once have been. The scar on his throat showed that an injury had caused the change in his vocal cords. ‘I am Klaey Berengart, the youngest brother of the Omuthan, and I am the zabitay commanding the aerial cavalry division.’ He placed all the papers on the table and pointed to an empty dish, which Chòldunja filled with tea. ‘You both saved my life. I have preserved yours by affording you refuge here in Brigantia. Girdlegard wants you dead.’ He lifted the tea to his lips. ‘This is what all my spies are telling me.’

‘You’ve sent out spies to enquire about us?’ Rodana asked in a mocking tone. She brushed a chin-length strand of blonde hair back behind her ear, emphasising her high cheekbones and her dark lips. ‘What an honour for us.’

But Klaey remained serious. ‘By sparing you now I am saving your lives for a second time. And thus endangering my own, since I am disobeying a direct command from the Omuthan,’ he explained. ‘So you are doubly in my debt.’

‘Thank you for doing the calculations for me.’ Rodana had already suspected that the hospitality granted the two outcasts would not be unconditional. ‘What do you expect from us in return?’

Klaey’s bright-blue gaze turned to Chòldunja. ‘My brother made a mistake when he ordered your death. I shall convince him of his error. You have to help our side in the current siege.’ A light smile formed. ‘You will be helping to protect your own life if you do, ragana. Set one foot outside the walls and you will be captured and executed.’ He pointed to the door. ‘The same thing will happen in Brigantia itself, too, until I can persuade my brother to change his mind.’

‘Do you speak of the same brother that you recently set alight with liquid fire?’ Rodana doubted that the star of the zabitay of the Flying Cavalry Division, as he had put it, would still be high in the firmament of the family hierarchy.

‘That was the work of a magus, whose powers I had totally underestimated,’ Klaey replied, frowning. ‘But I shall be avenged. With your assistance, ragana.’

‘But I—’ Chòldunja began.

‘We will gladly do our part,’ Rodana interrupted her apprentice’s protest, before it cost them their lives. ‘You have seen what she is capable of. Think of that ball of fire she destroyed the orcs and the riders with.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m relying on. Although I thought at first . . . Anyway, that doesn’t matter. Now I know that it was the ragana’s work.’ Klaey put down his tea. ‘We are being besieged by, among others, that famulus that calls himself a magus. He has several artefacts at his disposal from the Chamber of Wonders. And there’s a groundling who knows about magic, too.’

‘What?’ Chòldunja blurted out, laughing at this. Rodana thought she was pretending to be so surprised. ‘No, that can’t be true. There are stories, that once upon a time—’

‘I saw it happen. And experienced it myself. He is the reason that my incendiaries missed their target and set my brother’s tent on fire instead.’ Klaey’s right hand was clenched, the knuckles turning white. ‘I took note of his face. I knew exactly who he was. He was one of the group with Goldhand that we met to negotiate with immediately before the battle.’ He coughed to clear his throat. ‘I shall speak with the Omuthan and then you will be able t