The Silver Dwarf (Royal Institute of Magic, Book 4)

Royal Institute of Magic

The Silver Dwarf

By

Victor Kloss

Cover artwork by Andrew Gaia

Text copyright © 2016 Victor Kloss

All Rights Reserved

www.RoyalInstituteofMagic.com

Table of Contents

Chapter One - Dangerous Decisions

Chapter Two - Chasing the Key

Chapter Three - Spellstrike Training

Chapter Four - Delaying Tactics

Chapter Five - Desperate Measures

Chapter Six - The Big Build-Up

Chapter Seven - Spellstrike

Chapter Eight - Back to the Apprenticeship

Chapter Nine - The War Room

Chapter Ten - Second-Grade Exam

Chapter Eleven - The German Kobold

Chapter Twelve - The Third-Grade

Chapter Thirteen - The Dark Elves Advance

Chapter Fourteen - A Visit to Plompton

Chapter Fifteen - An Unwelcome Visit

Chapter Sixteen - Research and Discovery

Chapter Seventeen - Director of Diplomacy

Chapter Eighteen - A New Plan

Chapter Nineteen - A Meeting with Bagdor

Chapter Twenty - Shopping at Goblin Avenue

Chapter Twenty-One - Magical Mayhem Ltd

Chapter Twenty-Two - An Awkward Make-up

Chapter Twenty-Three -Back to the Cavern

Chapter Twenty-Four - The Void

Chapter Twenty-Five - The Southern Path

Chapter Twenty-Six - The Demon’s Prison

Chapter Twenty-Seven - Hellhounds

Chapter Twenty-Eight - Elander Farseeker’s Story

Chapter Twenty-Nine - A New Challenge

Chapter Thirty - Aaron’s Warning

Chapter Thirty-One - Journey to Drinkmorr

Chapter Thirty-Two - Good Food and Heated Meetings

Chapter Thirty-Three - Voters and Dark Elves

Chapter Thirty-Four - Shadowseekers

Chapter Thirty-Five - Arcane Dwarves

Chapter Thirty-Six - Elizabeth’s Breastplate

Chapter Thirty-Seven - The Silver Dwarf

Chapter Thirty-Eight - A Little Revenge

A Message From the Author

Date:
5th June 1613

Michael Greenwood glanced back, and saw a flash of red and gold – the royal guard; lots of them. Another glance. How many? Ten? Twenty? It was hard to
tell as they had spread out among the many alleys and lanes. Their intention was obvious – they were blocking any chance of escape.

The royal guards weren’t after him, but only because they weren’t aware he was back in town. However, the bounty for the man they were after was almost as
big.

Angus Breeze, Guardian of Elizabeth’s Breastplate.

Michael increased his pace, darting through narrow passages and stepping over foul-smelling puddles that soaked the muddy ground. The weather was grim,
matching his mood. Dark clouds blocked the summer sun and a brisk breeze whipped through the alleyways. It was noisy here, with people flogging their wares
and complaining about the weather. Their chatter would cease the moment they spotted the royal guards.

Michael came to a crossroads and he paused. His heart jumped as he spotted guards in both directions, and he quickly concealed his features underneath his
hood. For a moment he thought they might have spotted him, but his concern eased when the subsequent charging and screaming failed to materialise.

The road started to gently incline. At the top of the hill was his intended destination. Five minutes away, no more, which meant the royal guards would be
there in less than ten, assuming they knew exactly where to go. Michael broke into a jog, his eyes fixed on an unassuming wooden house in the distance. He
gave a little smile as he approached. Angus could have lived anywhere with the salary the Institute paid him as the Director of Diplomacy, but he had
always preferred mediocrity over extravagance. Such anonymity was the sole reason Angus was the last remaining director with a house in London that hadn’t
been destroyed. But that honour was going to last only another ten minutes.

The front door was a little cleaner than its neighbours, and there were colourful flowerpots by the entrance, but nothing else gave any clue as to the type
of individual who lived inside.

Michael rapped the handle three times. He gave several furtive glances about while waiting for a reply.

A friendly, perfectly round face appeared, and gave a smile the moment he recognised the visitor.

“Ah, Director Greenwood, what a pleasant surprise,” Angus said, opening the door to let Michael in.

Michael stepped inside and shut the door quickly. He turned to Angus, who appeared so relaxed that he was clearly oblivious to the threat that was about to
enter his house. He was short and chubby, reminding Michael of a snowman, with a beach ball stomach matching his balding head. He had big, friendly, brown
eyes, which in most circumstances could calm the most bad-tempered argument – hence the role of Director of Diplomacy.

“They’re coming,” Michael said, walking past Angus and into his small living space. “You need to pack up essentials and get out of here.”

Michael turned, and saw Angus giving him a good-natured smile.

“I know they’re coming,” Angus said, ambling forwards leisurely. “I’ve been expecting them actually.”

Michael frowned. “Then why are you still here?”

“I’m going to talk to them,” Angus said, plucking a piece of fruit from a bowl on the table.

“Angus, no,” Michael said, his voice suddenly urgent. “Nobody knows more than me how good you are with your voice, but the royal guards might as well be
deaf. You’ve got more chance of getting a pig to stop eating.”

“You are right,” Angus said with a shrug of his wide shoulders. “But it would be deeply hypocritical of me not to try. How can I possibly encourage people
to resolve conflicts by communication if I don’t do it myself?”

“In most circumstances, I would agree with you,” Michael said. “But they have Captain Moorlock with them.”

Michael said the name with an undertone of gravity and resentment, but to his surprise, Angus appeared unflustered.

“I know he is with them, and I also know my chances of persuading someone as zealous as Moorlock are virtually non-existent.”

“Then why try?”

“Because I must,” Angus said. He smiled, but Michael could detect a hint of sadness in those eyes. “Even Captain Moorlock has some humanity to him.”

“I would argue that point,” Michael said.

The sound of faint footsteps interrupted their conversation. Michael hurried to the window and peered down the hill.

“They’re almost here.”

Angus nodded. “Good.” His relaxed expression became grave. “Now, you must go, Michael. They do not know you are here, and it would put your family and
friends in danger were they to see that you are back in London. I will be fine by myself.”

Michael ran a hand through his hair. His eyes went to Angus’s ample hips; there was no spellshooter, nor any sign of a weapon.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Michael said, touching his own spellshooter. “You will need me, once diplomacy fails. They are armed, and they will not be
gentle.”

Angus walked with frustrating leisure over to the table and picked up a broom leaning against it. He unscrewed the brush at the end.

“Now I am armed,” Angus said with a smile.

“I’m not sure how well a stick will fare against the swords of the royal guard,” Michael said.

Michael made a move to stand beside him, but Angus raised a chubby hand. “In ordinary circumstances, a quarterstaff would not be sufficient. But I have
something else to add a little punch.”

Angus lifted his jumper. Underneath was a gleaming silver breastplate, fitted snugly against Angus’s round stomach.

Michael’s eyes widened, and his heart skipped a beat. “You have the Queen’s Breastplate here? Angus, that’s madness. We were instructed to hide each piece
to the very best of our ability, not keep it at home as a curiosity.”

Angus nodded, looking suitably guilty. “You are right, but I have an explanation for keeping Her Majesty’s Breastplate here. However, I fear it will have
to wait, as we have guests.”

The sound of the footsteps grew, and Michael saw a flash of colour beyond the window. He turned quickly back to Angus.

“The breastplate – do you know what powers it holds?”

Angus nodded. “Yes, I can feel it. Trust me, I will be okay. You need to go before they arrive.”

Michael smiled. “I’m not going anywhere. But I will disappear.”

He lifted his spellshooter, pointed it to his chest, and fired. A small white pellet exploded into his shirt, and the world shimmered. He positioned
himself at the corner of the room. He might be invisible, but he wasn’t a ghost, and if the royal guard accidentally crashed into him, they would
immediately suspect an intruder.

“Good luck. You’re going to need it,” Michael said.

A heavy rapping on the door drowned out Angus’s reply.

“Open up in the name of the prince!” a commanding voice said. Michael recognised Captain Moorlock’s nasal tone immediately.

“Certainly,” Angus said, and ambled forwards to open the door.

As soon as it was ajar, Captain Moorlock pushed the door violently, sending Angus stumbling backwards. Moorlock strode right past him, and waved his
soldiers in.

“I want six upstairs and six down here,” Moorlock said briskly. “I want no stone unturned. If I come up there and find even the smallest closet that hasn’t
been thoroughly searched, you will all be fined a day’s pay.”

The royal guards filed in, and immediately got to work. Chairs were upturned, dishes were broken and Angus’s possessions were strewn carelessly across the
floor.

Angus watched calmly as his house was destroyed. Michael toyed with his spellshooter, but as if reading Michael’s mind, Angus raised a hand and gave a
subtle shake of the head.

Captain Moorlock turned to face Angus. He was tall, but skinny. The cruel smile on his thin lips were, Michael suspected, part of his default expression.
His neck protruded forwards, like a vulture, and his long, pointed nose seemed perfectly suited for poking into other people’s business.

“You are under arrest, Breeze,” Moorlock said, spitting out the words with relish. “If you tell us where the breastplate is, I may be able to have a word
with the judge and convince him to order a painless death.”

“Most kind of you,” Angus said. His hands were placed behind his back, which gave the effect of his ample stomach being thrust out even further than
normal. “On what charge, may I ask?”

“Treason,” Moorlock said, stamping the point of his sword into the floorboards for emphasis. “Colluding with the Royal Institute of Magic and hiding a
piece of Elizabeth’s Armour, keeping it from the prince, its rightful owner. Spying on the king’s allies, selling information to the French and seeking to
supply them with magical weapons. Need I go on?”

Michael watched Angus as Moorlock delivered his damning indictment.

“I do find some of those accusations slightly difficult to believe,” Angus said, now tapping the broomstick against his hand. “First of all, technically,
the prince is commander of the Institute, so I’m unsure how colluding with them would constitute treason. Secondly, I have several documents, witnessed by
some of the highest lawmakers in the country, testifying to the transference of ownership of the late queen’s armour. Finally, the French and I are not on
good terms, since they kidnapped and tortured my cousin.”

Michael saw a look of regret cross a couple of nearby royal guards’ faces. Angus’s soft, honest voice had a way of changing ordinary people’s minds. But
Moorlock was not an ordinary person, and Angus’s clear rationale seemed only to infuriate Moorlock further. He went red, and then a funny shade of purple.
But before he could speak, Angus continued.

“No sane man would call me a traitor. And to prove it, I will happily submit myself before a court of justice. All I ask for is to be treated as innocent
until proven guilty.”

Angus’s offer clearly resonated with some of the royal guards – one or two even relaxed a little. But Moorlock shook his head, and gave a nasty smile.

“Nice try, silver tongue,” Moorlock said. “But your honeyed voice doesn’t fool me. Innocent until proven guilty? Madness.”

Most people would have missed it, but Michael spotted the subtle change in Angus’s expression. The faint hope there had been of some productive dialogue
disappeared. He still looked calm, serene even, but Michael could see Angus’s grip on the broomstick tighten. Angus might have acted as a successful peace
negotiator between some of the most powerful Unseen Kingdoms, but at the end of the day, it was difficult to reason with an insane man.

Moorlock drew his sword and stepped forwards, thrusting it right under Angus’s chin, and turned to one of his guards, who was busy de-feathering Angus’s
couch.