The War of the Dwarves (59 page)

“Great,” snorted Boïndil. “First Andôkai, now Narmora. Where the heck are these Djer
ns coming from?”

“More to the point, who are they being sent by?” muttered Tungdil. “You’re a genius, Boïndil!”

“Thank you.” The secondling paused. “Er, why?”

The little group hurried after Myr, who was racing across the bridge to the stronghold.

“You raised an excellent question, and I don’t think Lorimbas will have an answer for it—which is worrying… Very worrying.”
He exchanged glances with Myr, who seemed to share his concern.

Djer
n, or rather, what was left of Djer
n, was lying on the floor.

His armor looked old and battered, with countless scratches, scorch marks, and dings. It was obvious from the broken-off swords,
lances, and spikes embedded in his mail that his journey had been fraught with danger. He was smeared all over with bright
yellow blood, and he hadn’t stirred since their arrival.

“Hmm,” said Boïndil, scratching his beard. “Can anyone speak Djerush?”

All eyes were turned on Narmora.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “The maga didn’t teach me his language. She took the secret with her when she died.”

“Where’s my mistress?” rasped a strange voice inside her head.

“Listen!” exclaimed Boïndil. “Did you hear him growling? Come on, buckethead, speak a language we understand!” Fearlessly,
he took a few steps toward him. “You’d better not be an impostor.” He leaned over and peered at the visor. “Balyndis would
know from the metalwork…” His stubby fingers reached for the beak of the visor. “I’ll take a peek at his face.”

“Tell him to stop,” said the voice to Narmora, who finally realized that Djer
n was talking to her. “You’ve changed, half
älf. There’s something inside you—something that belonged to Nôd’onn.”

“Ha, listen to him growl,” said Boïndil, laughing. “Don’t you dare bite me,” he warned the armored giant, menacing him with
the blunt edge of his ax. “I’ll wallop your metal skull so hard you’ll—”

“That’s enough, Boïndil,” snapped Narmora. “I’ve… I know what he’s saying after all.” Her lips moved effortlessly, forming
strange syllables that came to her of their own accord.
It must be the malachite
, she thought.

“It’s not the malachite, it’s the energy within it,” said Nudin, appearing at Djer
n’s side. “It’s more powerful than you
think.” Suddenly he was gone.

I must be hallucinating
, thought Narmora, blaming it on the fall from the parapet.
I’m probably still concussed
. “Your mistress is dead, Djer
n,” she told the giant, hoping that the others hadn’t noticed her distraction. “She was murdered
by a giant, a giant wearing your armor. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Are you the new maga?”

“Why won’t he get up?” asked Boïndil impatiently, prodding him in the chest with the haft of his ax. “Maybe he’s asleep. Are
you sure he’s not snoring, Narmora?”

“Be quiet,” his brother shushed him, tugging him away. “Do you
want
him to eat you alive?”

“He’s not armed, is he? What’s a half-dead giant going to do to a warrior like me?”

“If he doesn’t stop prodding me, I’ll rip through his chain mail and tear him in two,” Djer
n told Narmora. “Answer my question:
Are you the new maga?”

“It wasn’t my choice.” She paused. “The late maga’s legacy will abide in me forever. They call me Narmora the Unnerving.”

“You were her famula and you worship her god. Narmora the Unnerving will be my new mistress.”

“She sent you to the Outer Lands. What did you see?”

“My strength is fading, mistress. I need your help.”

“Did Andôkai have an incantation or a—”

“I don’t need magic, mistress,” he said, lifting his head a little.

“Hoorah!” whooped Boïndil, edging closer. “Old buckethead is alive! Assuming it’s really him…”

“Boïndil!” chorused the others disapprovingly. He shrugged moodily and kept quiet, although no one believed for a moment that
the silence would last.

“I need your blood, mistress.”

“My blood?”

“The blood of a maga is more nourishing than my prey. It will give me power—and bind me to you.”

“Everyone out,” said Narmora, trying to hide her agitation. “I need to heal Djer
n’s wounds. The incantation is powerful—I
don’t want anyone getting hurt.” The others traipsed out reluctantly, dragging the protesting Boïndil with them. As soon as
Narmora was alone with Djer
n, she kneeled beside him, heart thumping in her chest, and rolled up the sleeve of her robe.

Djer
n raised a hand to his visor and flipped it open. It was all Narmora could do not to run away. Like Balyndis, she was
filled with terror at the sight of his face. She held out her wrist.