The Balborite Curse (Book 4) (18 page)

Tallin covered his head and made his way to the city’s entrance. Although it was doubtful that anyone would recognize him, he hoped to avoid any awkward encounters. The crush of people grew as he walked into the city.

Morholt was cleaner than he remembered, and there were fewer beggars on the streets. He joined a queue of men heading toward the busy market square. The cold weather did nothing to deter the vendors, who screamed loudly to anyone who would listen. Customers milled around, moving from stall to stall. Servants ran errands, buying food and other staples. Apprentices dashed back and forth, replacing stock that had been sold.

At the far end of the market, there was a grassy area where farmers sold live animals. The air was thick with the smell of manure. One farmer sold wooly black sheep, another had a particularly foul-smelling billy goat, and a third had an enormous sow. Tallin walked over to inspect the pig, and the animal snarled at him from her pen, baring long yellow fangs.

A farmer in a tattered brown hat stepped forward. “Are ye in the market for a porker today, sir?” he asked, smiling. “She’s got a fine pedigree on both sides.”

Tallin gave him a skeptical look. “She looks a bit old to me, and she’s foul-tempered, as well.”

“Nay, she’s as fresh as a dewberry and as sweet as a lamb! She’ll make a whole lot ‘o sausages. I can have her butchered and trimmed by the end of the day. What do you say? Do we have a deal?”

Tallin considered the purchase. It would be a nice gift for the dwarves. The weather was cold, so he knew the meat wouldn
’t spoil along the journey. “What’s your price?”

The farmer named an outrageous sum, which they both expected. They haggled for several minutes, and once Tallin was satisfied with the price, they shook hands. “I’ll be traveling up the river, so pack the meat with ice and deliver it to the docks.”

"Will do, sir,” said the farmer, tipping his cap. “I’ll have her ready for you by this evening.”

Tallin returned to the main market, heading for the food stalls. He picked up a loaf of bread from a local bakery, and then ducked under a doorway to get out of the rain. He took his first bite and began to watch the crowd. The bread was excellent, so he ate slowly, listening to the chatter of the people walking by.

Then his ears started tingling—someone was watching him. On the opposite side of the street, his eyes fixed on a lone figure—a woman. Tall and thin, she had delicate features, like an elf. He felt a spark of recognition. Their eyes met, and he saw green eyes and a flash of red hair.

Sisren!
What is
she
doing here? He focused his gaze on her, but she vanished into the crowd, leaving Tallin to wonder if he had imagined her presence. He knew that she had recognized him, too.

Sisren was the best tracker he knew. How long had she been following him? Since his arrival? Or even earlier?

He handed the rest of his bread to a beggar, and stepped out of the alcove, melting into the crowd. Soon, he felt a tug on his right sleeve.
“Your pardon, noble sir,” the woman said.

Tallin recognized the soft voice. Without turning his head, he said, “Shall we go somewhere private to talk?”

She nodded and pointed straight ahead. “There—that tavern at the end of the alley. It’s quite crowded.” It was a seedy-looking building with peeling paint. “It’s a dodgy place—fights break out every day, but no one will pay any attention to us there.”

They entered the busy pub together. Tallin paused inside the doorway to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light. It smelled strongly of smoke and sweat, and it was very noisy. He scanned the room. A traveling minstrel played a fiddle by the door; a hat on the floor had a few coins inside. Locals chatted at the tables, and there were a few foreigners. Three soldiers sat on barstools at the counter, dressed in their orange and white tunics, official colors of King Rali’s private guard. Two merchants in brightly-colored silks argued back and forth about the price of fabric.

The place was so busy that no one looked twice at them. They found an empty table in the back and sat down. Tallin hung his damp cloak near the fireplace, and tendrils of steam drifted up from it as it dried. Sisren also removed her cloak, setting it on the back of her chair. Her tunic was richly embroidered and paired with blue breeches. The stitching on her clothing was incredibly fine.

Sisren had a dagger tucked into her waistband, and a short sword belted to her hip. Her red hair, grown just past her shoulders, was curly and damp. It fell in loose waves around her face, except for two braids that crisscrossed along her temple. She was exactly as he remembered, strikingly beautiful and confident.

Sisren placed a quick order with the serving girl. The girl disappeared behind a yellow curtain, returning moments later with two flagons of cider and slices of black bread.

The cider was bubbly and sweet as Tallin took his first sip, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. “It’s been years since I tasted cider this fine.”

“It’s good, isn’t it? This place is a rubbish hole, but their cider is superb. It’s the innkeep’s own brew, and it’s popular throughout the city, even with the nobles. He does a brisk business.” She pointed at the fireplace; there was a gold ribbon hanging above the mantle. “The owner took first place at last year’s fair, so he guards the recipe.” Sisren sat back with her arms folded and her legs stretched out in front of her like stalks of wheat.

“What brings you to Morholt?” she asked. “Have you come to enjoy the fair?”

Tallin smiled faintly. “You know me better than that, Sisren. This is not a pleasure trip.”

She gave a deep chuckle. “Enigmatic as ever, I see. It’s unusual to see you without your dragon.”

“Duskeye had other duties to attend to.”

“Of course, of course,” she said, waving her hand. “Everyone’s so busy lately. How many years since we saw each other last? Three? Four? You haven’t changed much—if anything, you look younger than before. What longevity charms are you using?”

“I have no need for charms, Sisren. My dwarf ancestry is not a secret. I could ask the same of you, though. You haven’t aged a day. Perhaps what they say is true—that you have a touch of elvish blood? If one listens to gossip, your real grandfather was one of the fair folk, who tricked his way into your grandmother’s bed under a glamour.”

“I’ve heard that ridiculous rumor all my life—it’s nonsense, just chinwagging by jealous housewives. I assure you, there’s no faerie blood in my family.” She gave him an amused smile.

He stared at her face, and just for a moment, her features wavered, like a heat haze. “How old are you …exactly?”

Sisren lowered her eyes and smiled coyly. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s impolite to ask a woman her age?”

The buzzing in his ears grew louder. He shook his head to clear it. “I don’t hear much news from the northern mages anymore. How are things in Miklagard?”

Sisren shrugged. “I have no idea. I left my position in Miklagard last winter.”

Now it was Tallin’s turn to be surprised. “You quit the High Council?”

Sisren nodded. “More than that—I no longer teach at all. Many moons have passed since I spoke last with anyone in the crystal city. When I left, the High Council was turning mageborns away; anyone below level four is no longer permitted to train there. Over a dozen applicants were rejected last year, even those who arrived with a dowry.”

“The council is turning away dowered mages?” It was a shocking change in policy.

“They claim that they don’t have the space to accommodate lower mageborns. I don’t even know if the High Council can afford to reject them, but they’re doing it anyway. It might be outright snobbery, or some kind of ridiculous scheme to only train certain types of spellcasters. I fought the decision, but I was overruled. In the end, I couldn’t sway their opinion, so I left.”

Sisren took a sip from her drink before continuing. She relayed information about her travels, and Tallin felt the buzzing in his ears again. Sisren’s gaze was unwavering, her voice cloying and sweet.

Whenever she spoke, he felt a prickle along his spine. Was she using some kind of charm? Was she telling the truth about the High Council? She used to be a leader in the Shadow Grid. Was she roaming the countryside, recruiting mageborns for the Shadow Grid’s increasing numbers? Perhaps she offered the rejected mageborns her own brand of training?

“Where will you go now?” she asked, her eyes flashing. “To Mount Velik? There’s deep trouble up north, Tallin. The anger between the clans has grown.”

“I’m going north to visit my kinsmen,” he said. “But I’m not going to Mount Velik. I’m going to the Vardmiter colony.”

“I’m glad. Those poor rebels could use some help; the caverns in Highport Mountains were never designed to support such a large group of people.”

“I would like to see a peaceful resolution to the infighting.”

Sisren shook her head. “That’s unlikely at this point. The clans have ceased any pretense of reconciliation. Even the border between the kingdoms is now under dispute. Did you know that any dwarf from an opposing clan who sets foot in enemy territory is attacked? A few dwarves have even been killed. I passed through the northern territory only a fortnight ago. Hergung claims that killing women and children is a moral obscenity, but it’s only a matter of time before a child is killed by accident. If that happens, there will be open war between the clans.”

“Are you certain? I would have intervened sooner, had I known.”

“It wouldn’t have helped. You’re a
half-ling,
Tallin. The clans aren
’t going to take advice from someone they consider an outsider.”

“I was at Mount Velik last winter,” said Tallin. “The clans were arguing, but the leaders were still speaking to each another.”

“Clan squabbles have plagued the dwarves for centuries—but even the bitterest of clan wars has never divided the dwarves like this. Now the clans have split off into separate kingdoms! The entire dwarf nation is at risk with this petty civil war.”

“The dwarves have not had a war of aggression between the clans in millennia. Give the clans some time to work out their problems.”

She paused and took a deep breath. “I’m afraid they don’t have that luxury. The orc king is waiting for an opportunity to strike Mount Velik. King Nar waits for the dwarves to weaken their numbers through civil war, and then he will strike. His orc armies will bring utter destruction to the dwarf kingdom. If the greenskins succeed in taking Mount Velik, the entire region will fall, and all the clans will be destroyed.”

Tallin snorted. “You exaggerate the danger. If the orcs are considering an attack upon the dwarves, then they have forgotten their past failures too quickly. King Nar’s readiness for battle is questionable. His ambitions outweigh his common sense.”

“King Nar is smarter than you give him credit for,” she said. “He has outlawed the
bride-death-battle.
Alpha males are still allowed to challenge one other, but the loser is no longer put to death.
” She nervously tapped the side of her glass.

Tallin had mixed feelings about this news. “I have no love for the orcs, but it’s good that Nar has outlawed the practice. It was a barbaric ritual, even by their standards.”

“You’re missing the point,” she said firmly. “King Nar outlawed the practice for one reason only—to grow his armies. Orc males used to cull their weaker members through battle challenges. The drive to increase their harems is a popular sport among the greenskins. Nar does not discourage the fighting, but forbids them to kill each other. When orc males used to fight over women, the victor took the loser’s females, and also had the right to slaughter any newborns that were not his get. Now the losers are allowed to live and retain all their pregnant females, so the male orcs have even more reason to keep their women pregnant. Their population has exploded.”

“Even if all this is true, it’s impossible that Nar could raise an army so soon. He lost tens of thousands in the desert during his siege of Parthos. That was less than six winters past.”

“Every season, the orcs grow in number. There’s an entire generation of young males whose battle urges are being stifled, and King Nar is promising them victory against the dwarves and the spoils of war, as well as expansion of their kingdom. The orcs aim to conquer Mount Velik and occupy it for themselves. It’s an ingenious plan, really. Nar knows that Mount Heldeofol can’t support their increasing numbers—the orcs must look outside their own borders to expand.”

“What is your solution? Are you advocating war against the greenskins? Our own king has promised peace throughout the land. He will never consent to a first strike against them.”

“It’s unavoidable, Tallin!” she argued. “The dwarf civil war must be contained, or else the orcs will invade. The dwarves are weaker than they have been in centuries—their largest clan has split off, and Hergung is a pathetic, weak king. If King Nar succeeds in taking Mount Velik, it will be nearly impossible to expel them, since that mountain is an ideal defensive stronghold. A dwarf civil war would place all the eastern territories at risk. We must find a way to reunite the clans.”

Tallin finished his drink and slid off his chair to order another round. When the returned, the serving girl brought two more flagons of cider and removed the empty ones.