The Balborite Curse (Book 4) (21 page)

The young father paused. “B-but I want to…”

“Listen, I know you’re as anxious as a beetle-bug. But you’re not going to be any help in there—so go enjoy a cup of ale and a hot meal, and come back in a few hours. By then, your wife and sons will be rested, scrubbed up, and ready to meet you.” She pushed him out the door and pointed toward the main hall. “Now do as I say.”

The man left smiling. He was soon celebrating loudly with friends. It was a happy ending. Two healthy boys.

Two more mouths to feed, Mugla thought. Like all the dwarves at Highport, Hiyle and her husband were desperately poor. They barely scratched out a living. These young parents had nothing of value –all they had were each other. If they were lucky, they might have enough to eat.

Mugla sighed. With this birth, the number of dwarves needing her skills grew. Each day, there were more demands on her powers. And she wasn’t getting any younger. Mugla moved on to the next family on her list. She would never get to them all.

There were simply too many dwarves here, and only one spellcaster to serve them. And there would never be another to help her. She knew it in her heart—she was on her own.

All dwarvish spellcasters were skilled because they had so many years to learn their craft. However, there were so few of them—the mageborn gift was so rare among her people. Of all the dwarf spellcasters, Mugla was the most experienced. She could even forge magical weaponry, given enough time. Few could match her skill. But she was old, and tired.

She sat down to rest for a moment, setting down her cup and sinking into a wicker chair. In a small cavern off the main hall, a group of children sat listening to their teacher explain the basics of rune writing. The improvised classroom would serve until a permanent schoolhouse was finished, which would take several years.

The teacher spoke with a pronounced stutter, writing notes on a slateboard with a sliver of chalk. None of the children were bothered by their teacher’s speech impediment; in fact, they hardly seemed to notice it. The boys and girls listened attentively, raising their hands to ask questions, smiling proudly when their answers were correct.

Mugla coughed, and the teacher noticed her for the first time. He smiled and waved, clearing his throat to continue, but he grew nervous, and his stutter worsened. By the end of the lesson, he was impossible to comprehend. He looked back at Mugla, and then at the class. The students sensed their teacher’s discomfort and fell silent.

He tried writing on the slateboard, but his hands started to tremble. “S-s-s-sorry,” he mumbled.

Mugla stood up. She enjoyed watching the class, but her presence was too disruptive. “Don’t worry, I’m leaving.”

“N-no! D-d-d-don’t go! S-s-sorry! I d-d-didn’t mean to s-scare you off!”

“It’s fine,” she said, shaking her head, “I’ve got to go back to my quarters, anyway.”

She hummed quietly to herself as she walked back to her cave. Would the other dwarves always be uncomfortable around her? She had hoped to make a few friends here, but even Utan treated her with deference. She missed Mount Velik—at least the other spellcasters treated her normally.

A small boy ran up and tapped her on the shoulder. Mugla turned and examined the boy. He was a sturdy young man, just beginning to ripen into manhood. His carrot-colored hair flared up in a thousand directions, wild tufts that refused to submit to a comb. Red hair, bare feet, and freckles—the common traits of the Vardmiter clan.

“Yes, boy? What do you want?”

“Miss Mugla, I got a message for ye!” His cheeks, streaked with dirt, spread in a cheerful grin.

“A message?” she asked. “Who sent you? Who’s your pap, boy?”

The boy’s chest puffed up with pride. “Beeks Stoneweaver is me pap, Miss Mugla. Everybody knows ‘im—he’s the best stonebreaker on the mountain!” The boy’s left eye turned in sharply, a congenital defect that he shared with his father and five brothers.

“Ah, I should have guessed. I remember you now. You’re Arit Stoneweaver, then?”

“Naw, Arit is me brother. I’m Pendit.”

“Pendit? Why, I remember you as a ginger-haired baby.” Mugla’s eyes rounded. Was it really that long ago that she had attended this child’s birth? “Now look at you—you’re almost a grown man!” The boy giggled.

“Ye got a visitor at the front gate. My pap said to run and tell ye.”

“A visitor?” she asked, genuinely surprised. She wondered who it could be. Not anyone from Mount Velik—none of the other clans were welcome here. “Did my visitor give you his name?”

“Nay, nay… he didn’t—but he said ye would know who he was,” Pendit said, with complete conviction. Mugla waited for the boy to elaborate, but he stood there, smiling up at her.

Like many of the Vardmiters, the boy assumed she was psychic. “Okay, Pendit, let’s try something else. What did my visitor look like?”

Pendit tapped his chin with one finger. “Hmmmm… let me think. Well… ‘e’s taller than my pap. An’ ‘e’s got red hair, like mine. Oh, and ‘e’s old… but not quite as old as you.”

Sigh.
The boy had just described half the male population in this mountain. Mugla tried to remain patient.
“Do ye remember anything else about him?”

“Och, aye!” he cried, suddenly remembering. “He’s got a bloody ‘uge stone on ‘is chest!” The boy made a circular motion with his finger, tapping his sternum. “Right ‘ere!

Mugla’s wrinkled face creased into a wide grin. “A stone on his chest, eh?”

“Aye! A ‘uge stone, blue as a lingberry. Do ye know ‘im?”

"Aye, I know him,” Mugla chuckled. “I smacked his bottom when he was born. Come to think of it, a few times when he was older, too, after he decided to sass me.”

“Really?” Pendit giggled. “Shall I take ye to ‘im, then? He’s waitin’ for ye.” His eyes were expectant and curious—visitors were rare, and Pendit wanted to see how this story played out.

“Nay, child, that won’t do at my age,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m too old to rush after every young scamp that comes calling for me at the gate.”

“What should I tell ‘im, then?”

“Don’t tell him anything, boy.” Mugla repeated. “Just go fetch him for me. Drag him down here by the hair.”

“By ‘is hair?” Pendit blinked, astounded by this request. He pointed at his face in disbelief. “Me?”

“Aye, of course, you’re strong and brave, aren’t you?”

“Aye, I’m strong!” said the boy, jutting his chin out proudly. “Feel this!” he said, yanking his sleeve up above his elbow.

Mugla reached out to pinch the little boy’s bicep. “My, my! What a big muscle you have!”

The boy nodded. “I help my pap in the caves every day! I can lift big rocks, as big as this!” He spread his arms out wide to demonstrate.

“Och, Pendit, now don’t exaggerate. My visitor will be needing a guide to get through these tunnels, and I want you to help him. So go fetch him for me. If you do as I say, I’ll give you this coin.” The old woman grabbed the boy’s hand and pressed a tiny copper circle into his palm.

The boy stared at the coin with astonishment. “By golly, do ye mean it? I’ve never had any real money before.”

“Hush up about that. That’s just between you and me.”

“But what should I say to your visitor?”

She folded her tattered shawl underneath her and sat down. “His name’s Tallin, and he’s my nephew. Tell him I’ll be right here in this spot, waiting for him.” So many years had passed since the last time Mugla had seen Tallin. She was so happy he was here!

The red-haired boy rushed back to the Welcomer’s Cave, grinning. “I’m back, mister. Miss Mugla is waiting for you. I’m supposed to take you to her. She said she’s too old to be runnin’ after every gentleman caller that comes to visit.”

Tallin’s lips curved up in a slight smile. “That sounds a lot like her. Lead the way, young man.”

“Follow me, sir,” he said proudly. He felt important today, as the official intermediary between these two.

They marched down a dark corridor then down a steep staircase. And there, sitting quietly on her shawl, was Mugla Hoorlick. She smiled, her mouth opening in a toothless grin. “Tallin, my boy!” she said merrily. “Come over here and give me a hug!”

Tallin walked over and opened his arms to her embrace. “Hello, aunt. You look wonderful.”

She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Don’t lie, boy.” Mugla patted his hand and laughed. “I’m as old and ugly as a dunghill. Help me up.”

Tallin retrieved her cane and offered his hand. He could feel her enlarged knuckles, painfully swollen with arthritis. Mugla winced as she lifted herself up. “It’s been years since I saw you last, boy. You look thinner.” She poked his stomach.

“It’s been a rough year,” he responded.

She snorted derisively. “Do you have a woman? Are you promised yet to anyone?”

“No, aunt…” he answered, not willing to elaborate. “I didn’t come here to talk about my personal life.”

Mugla clucked her tongue. “Tsk! Tsk! No woman? No children? What about all those nieces and nephews you promised me?”

Tallin scowled. “I never promised that…”

“Let me see you,” she interrupted, reaching up to grasp his chin. She moved his face from side to side, examining him as if he were a farm animal. She jabbed a bony finger at him. “You’re certainly handsome enough, but as pigheaded and stubborn as your mother.”

“With all due respect, aunt, I’ll ask you to respect my privacy.”

Mugla threw her head back and laughed. “Fah, fah! Aren’t you just as tart as a raspberry! Have you forgotten that I was the one who birthed you—pulled you out of your mother’s belly and slapped your pink bottom with
this hand!
”
She held up her right palm.

Tallin drew a breath to speak, but Mugla continued unabated.
“I changed your dirty nappies and wiped your butt more times than I can count. You used to pee right down the front of my apron!” She hooted and slapped her knee.

Tallin’s face grew hot. “Aunt, please…” A small crowd had gathered, attracted by Mugla’s energetic laughter.

“Oh, all right, I’ll stop teasing you now.” She embraced him again. “It’s so good to see you, nephew. I’ve missed you—something fierce.” Suddenly, she looked small and fragile again. “Things have been a mite rough for me lately.”

“Are you getting enough sleep?”

“No, I’m not. There’s never enough sleep, because there’s never enough time.”

“You're overworked. Let me help you. I can stay here for a while and ease your burden.”

She sighed heavily. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll manage. It’s just a bit rough juggling all my duties here, especially at my age. I’m the only mage, and I can’t help everyone, much as I’d like to.”

He reached over and took Mugla’s right hand in his. “There’s no one at Mount Velik willing to help?”

“Nay, none of the other dwarf mages want to come here, and who can blame them? They’re sympathetic, of course, but the Vardmiters can barely feed themselves, much less afford to pay a spellcaster. Dwarf mages are used to having certain luxuries, and the Vardmiters have nothing to offer.” She shook her head sadly. “I’m too old for this job, and there’s no one else to help me or take my place.”

“What if they had their own spellcaster? Has the mageborn trait showed up in any of the Vardmiters? Have you tested any of them?”

“It’s not worth it—there’s never been a dwarf spellcaster found in this clan, not in recorded history. There’s no mixed blood among the Vardmiters—no one else is willing to marry into this clan. Haven’t you noticed that they all look alike? No, unless some elf comes here and decides to bed one of these wenches, there will never be a spellcaster with Vardmiter blood.” She patted his forearm and gave him a drawn smile. “But enough of this negativity! It’s not my intent to worry you. Let’s go up to my chambers. It’s time for my evening cup of tea.”

They walked together until they reached Mugla’s cave, where Tallin guided her over to a chair. “Why don’t you sit down and relax? I’ll make the tea.”

Mugla smiled and said in mock protest, “You’re already giving orders! I would enjoy a little sit-down, though.” She plopped down into a chair, gathering her shawl around her.

Tallin lit an oil lamp on the table with a simple fire spell. Then he went over to the ancient coal stove in the corner. There was a teapot on the stove already, and he added more water from a chipped pitcher nearby. “The tea will be ready soon.”

She patted the chair next to her. “Come over and chat with me, nephew. Tell me why you’re here. Are you just visiting your old aunt Mugla?”

Tallin sat down and grasped Mugla’s hand in his own. “In truth—I seek your advice. You know the clan infighting has escalated, and it’s getting worse. Bolrakei’s leadership has been restored, and she’s working with Druknor Theoric to smuggle gemstones all over the continent. Bolrakei pushes for war, and she aims to supplant Hergung.”

“Bolrakei’s a greedy witch, and Druknor’s even greedier,” Mugla replied. “But I’ve been around long enough to see lots of clan quarrels. They come and go. Sometimes these spats can last a few decades, but a little patience will see it all worked out.”

Tallin shook his head. “Patience isn’t going to work this time. We can’t risk open war between the clans. Not right now. There are deeper forces at work here. So I need your help.”