The Dwarves

VII

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin, Girdlegard, Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle Rantja scanned the crowd. Assembled in the atrium were 180 trainee wizards, the best famuli in Girdlegard, all waiting to be welcomed by Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty. At the behest of their respective magi, they had journeyed to Porista to lend their magical power to the crusade against the Perished Land. The high-ceilinged room echoed with their expectant chatter.

"The girdle must be in trouble if lowly apprentices like us are being summoned to keep out Tion's hordes," said a voice in her ear. "You look prettier than ever, Rantja."

"Jolosin!" she exclaimed in delight, shaking his outstretched hand. It was then that she noticed his navy blue robe. "Oh my, you're a fourth-tier famulus already. How long did you have to pester Lot-Ionan before he caved in?"

"Only thirty-two cycles old and already in Nudin's fifth tier! I'm impressed," teased the dark-haired famulus admiringly. "How are you?"

"Fine." She smiled, then said soberly, "At least I was fine until I heard about the threat to Girdlegard." She pointed to the cuts on his fingers. "What happened there?"

"Don't ask," he muttered gloomily. "But between you and me, I'm working on a spell to make potatoes peel themselves. It's a relief to be out of the kitchen and doing something useful." He glanced around. "Have you seen the council?"

"No. Even my magus has disappeared," Rantja said anxiously. "What do you make of it?"

"All I know is that the rituals require their full attention, so they might not be able to brief us until later," he said uneasily. He took a leather pouch from his shoulder and tightened the green drawstrings. "Has it ever been this bad before?"

Rantja shook her head.

The doors swung open, and Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty stepped into the room. He was swaying slightly and his face looked drawn and tired.

"Welcome to Porista," he greeted them, his voice cracking as he spoke. To some of the famuli it sounded as if two people, a man and a woman, were talking at once. "These are dark times for our realms. Come this way and see for yourselves what the Perished Land has done." The magus turned toward the conference chamber, motioning the apprentices to follow.

"Are you sure he's not wearing heels?" Jolosin whispered, surprised. "He's bigger than when I last saw him-and fifty pounds heavier at least."

"I know. Everyone keeps saying he looks taller."

"Much taller, not to mention fatter. But men of his age aren't supposed to grow. A botched experiment, perhaps?"

They were less than a pace behind him now, and a sweet, almost putrid odor filled their noses. Jolosin put it down to moldering aftershave, but the magus seemed oblivious to the smell.

Just then Rantja skidded across the flagstones and would have fallen, if Jolosin hadn't reached out and caught her in time. "Thanks," she said, straightening up and hurrying on, propelled by the famuli behind them. The incident was over too quickly for anyone to notice the long crimson streak on the floor. The magus was leaking blood.

Nudin walked briskly, striking his staff against the marble at regular intervals and leading them through a maze of arcades and corridors until they reached a double door. His onyx-tipped staff glistened darkly as he raised his left hand.

"Steel yourselves," he warned them, and recited the incantation to open the doors.

Even before the doors were fully open, a fetid smell wafted out of the room, causing the famuli at the front of the queue to cover their faces. Rantja swayed and clutched at Jolosin, who steadied her bravely while he tried not to retch.

The magus was apparently unaffected by the stench. "See for yourselves why Girdlegard needs your help!" Hesitantly, the famuli entered the chamber.

There were cries of distress as the shocked apprentices surveyed the remains of their tutors: a statue, a heap of clothing, a rotting corpse, and in the case of Andфkai, a body so mutilated that its features were no longer recognizable.

"Palandiell have mercy on us," gasped Jolosin, staring in horror at Lot-Ionan's marble face. He would never have wished such a dreadful fate on his magus, no matter how many potatoes the wizard had forced him to peel. "Girdlegard is finished," he muttered despairingly, depositing the leather bag at the foot of the statue. Lot-Ionan had specifically asked him to bring it, and now he was dead. "If the council could do nothing, what hope is there for-"

He was silenced by the sound of a staff striking the floor. A hush descended on the chamber as everyone turned to face Nudin.

"We underestimated the power of the Perished Land," he said shakily. "It waited for us to channel the magic into the malachite, and then it attacked. The table was destroyed and I myself was almost killed. My good friends here"-he waved his staff in the direction of the fallen magi, whose rotting remains and frozen corpses reflected nothing of their former power- "were unlucky. As their most senior famuli, you are the highest-ranking wizards in Girdlegard." He stopped to cough up a mouthful of blood and staggered backward, leaning against the fossilized Lot-Ionan for support. "The attack has taken its toll on me, as you can see. It is our duty to repair the table as quickly as we can, for only then will we be able to repel the Perished Land. The survival of humankind depends on our success; ordinary armies will be helpless against the pestilence."

The famuli looked at one another bleakly, shaken to the core by Nudin's sobering words and the sight of their dead mentors.

"They were so powerful, but the Perished Land subdued them," whispered Jolosin despondently. "How are we supposed to-"

"We should give them a proper burial," Rantja said distractedly. "We can't just leave them here." She was trembling.

"Girdlegard is relying on you to be strong," Nudin exhorted them. "If you don't act now, we'll lose our only hope of repelling the Perished Land. You can mourn the dead when it's over." He traced a circle on the floor with his staff. "Gather round, join hands, and repeat the incantation after me."

The famuli did as instructed, Rantja and Jolosin standing side by side and drawing strength and comfort from each other.

Nudin took his place in the circle and laid his staff on the floor. His fat, clammy fingers reached for Jolosin's free hand and the unfortunate famulus clasped them with revulsion. "If you please, Estimable Magus, I've brought the artifacts you loaned to Lot-Ionan." He turned in the direction of the bag, and Nudin nodded curtly.

Then they began the incantation, calling on the magic to come forth and enter the splinters of the table. The hours wore away. Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin, Girdlegard, Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle It was raining at daybreak, or pouring, to be precise.

Summer in all its glory reigned over Girdlegard, but for the duration of a few hours the sun had retreated, allowing the sky to cloud over and quench the parched soil.

No doubt the vegetation was grateful for the downpour, but the dwarves were unimpressed. Huddled under a tree, they waited grumpily for the rain to stop.

"Now you see why we live in the mountains," scowled Boпndil, who was taking the opportunity to shave his cheeks. Over the past few orbits he had become increasingly restless. His warrior's heart longed for action so that he could swing his ax and shriek and spit at some orcs, but the chances of that in Lios Nudin were depressingly slim.

"What if he goes into a frenzy?" Tungdil asked Boлndal in a whisper. "Should 1 hide in a tree?"

The dwarf wrung the rainwater out of his plait and grinned from ear to ear. "You'll be safe so long as I'm around to direct his fury onto something else. I try to steer him clear of anything that breathes, and it works quite well, for the most part."

They kept their eyes fixed on the nearby thoroughfare, watching the carts and carriages roll past. One young couple seemed more interested in each other than in driving their oxen. The dutiful animals kept up a steady trot.

The sight of the lovers reminded Tungdil of a subject that had been bothering him for a while. He wondered whether to ask the twins' advice, although he was beginning to feel embarrassed about his ignorance of dwarven life. For someone who had spent his formative years surrounded by books, he asked incredibly foolish questions. So much for being a scholar! Curiosity got the better of him eventually. "What do girl dwarves look like?" he asked, avoiding their gaze.

There was silence.

The patter of rain on the leaves seemed deafeningly loud. The brothers let him stew for a while; then Boпndil said: "Pretty."

"Very pretty," added Boлndal, amplifying his brother's terse reply.

"Right."

There was silence again.

Overhead, the shower was easing, the drumming raindrops fading to a steady drip-drip of water trickling from the twigs and branches.

He tried again. "Do they have beards?"

Silence.

Tungdil became acutely aware of the rich variety of noises made by falling rain.

"Not beards, exactly," said Boпndil.

"More like wispy down," explained Boлndal. "It looks lovely."

No one spoke.

The sun burned a path through the dark gray cloud, and summer triumphed over Girdlegard. Tungdil decided to broach an even more delicate topic. "When men dwarves and girl dwarves-"

He broke off under the secondlings' withering stares. Boлndal took pity on him. "It's high time our scholar got to know his kin," he said dryly. He glanced up at the tree. "The downpour's over; let's go." He stood up, followed by his brother.

"You didn't answer my question!"

"You didn't ask a question, and anyway, you're the one with all the learning, not me."

"Do girl dwarves fight too?"

"Some do, but in our clan they mostly stay at home," said Boлndal as they moved off along the road. "Our womenfolk devote themselves to domestic duties: herding animals in the valleys, stocking our pantries, brewing beer, and making clothes."

"No good ever came of the sexes fighting side by side," Boпndil added darkly. He seemed to be speaking from experience, but there was something in his voice that warned Tungdil not to probe.

"Don't make the mistake of belittling their talents, though. They're just as proud as we are. Some of the best masons and smiths in the kingdom are women. When it comes to artisan contests, they use their chisels and hammers so proficiently that other competitors stop and marvel at their work."

"Anomalies and exceptions," growled Boпndil, who was obviously of the opinion that certain tasks were the preserve of male dwarves. "For the most part they belong by the hearth. The kitchen is their calling."

Tungdil had been listening attentively. "It's like that in human kingdoms too," he told them. The idea of female dwarves seemed more appealing than ever and he was eager to become acquainted with their kind.

At last they reached Porista. Tungdil gazed in wonderment at the turrets and domes of the palace, but his companions exchanged bored smiles, needing no further evidence that human architecture was inferior to their own.

Tungdil had been hoping to find Lot-Ionan and unburden himself of Gorйn's books and artifacts, but he was sorely disappointed. At the palace they were told that the council had dispersed some orbits earlier and that Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty was not receiving guests. There was nothing for it but to follow Lot-Ionan to Ionandar.

They were on their way out of the city when Tungdil spotted a stable in one of the side streets. The horse inside it looked strangely familiar.

"Wait here," he instructed, striding toward the chestnut steed. He felt sure he had shod her not so long ago. He lifted her right foreleg and examined the shoe. The nails were unmistakably his own. "It's them," he hissed.

"Friends of yours?" asked Boлndal, whose crow's beak was resting casually on his shoulder. His brother was absent-mindedly stroking his freshly shaven cheeks in search of stray whiskers.

"Not exactly." Noting the bulging saddlebags, Tungdil fetched a bucket, turned it over, climbed on top of it, and fumbled with the buckles. The bag came open and the dwarf rummaged inside until his fingers came into contact with a jar. He pulled it out quickly.

"Remember the dead dwarf in the caravan?" His instincts had been right; the jar unscrewed to reveal a head. The bounty hunters had shaved the poor fellow's hair and beard so that the grisly trophy would fit inside the container, which was filled with honey to stop the air from getting in, thus preventing decay. Streaks of blood trailed through the golden fluid, staining it red. "We've found the villains who killed him."

There was a clatter of chain mail and the brothers were beside him like a shot. Neither spoke as they stared in horror at what had been done to their kinsman for the sake of a reward.

"By the blade of Vraccas, I'll cut them to pieces," roared Ireheart. Fury ignited within him, flushing him red and prompting his axes to fly into his hands. "Just wait until I-"

The door swung open and one of the headhunters walked into the stable from the house. Tungdil knew him immediately, and the recognition was mutual as the man stopped abruptly and swore. After considering the three dwarves for a moment, he decided that the odds were against him and fled.

"Cowardly as a runt," scoffed Ireheart. "Come back here and fight!" He chased him into the house, and there were sounds of a brief but energetic skirmish that climaxed in the man's dying screams.

"Don't-" Tungdil's shouted warning came too late. "He would have been more use to us alive," he finished mildly. He could hardly blame Boпndil: The fiery warrior was at the mercy of his temper and came to his senses only when his opponent lay bleeding on the floor.

"We'll wait for the others to return," Boлndal said phlegmatically. "Didn't you say there were five of them in total?" Tungdil nodded, and they took up position in the stable.

It was early evening when the men returned. Judging by their sullen faces, their honey pots were empty and their efforts had been in vain.

Waiting for them behind the door was the vengeful Ireheart, an ax in each hand and seconded by his brother, who had concealed himself among the straw. The twins were so accustomed to fighting together that any intervention on Tungdil's part was likely to be a hindrance, so he lurked in the background and kept out of the way.

Once the men had entered the stable and dismounted, Boлndal and Boпndil nodded to each other and launched their assault.

"Leave one of the villains alive!" shouted Tungdil, joining the tail end of the charge.

Alerted by the commotion, one of the headhunters turned and reached for his sword.

The blade was only halfway out of its scabbard when Boпndil's ax thudded into his left hip. The force of the blow sent him tumbling against the wall. Before he could recover, the dwarf's second ax hit his right calf, hewing skin and sinew and shattering his knee. The man collapsed in screams of pain.

Satisfied with the crippling effect of his blows, Ireheart moved on. Cackling terribly, he hurled himself on the next of his foes.

His brother was left to deal with the remaining men. Shoulders squared, he charged toward the first of the two, leveling his crow's beak as he ran.

His opponent had enough time to snatch his shield from the horse and thrust it in front of his body, but he underestimated the weapon's force. The spike at the tip of the crow's beak pierced the metal, ripping through the shield and stabbing the man in the arm. Wood and metal had done nothing to repel the weapon; now flesh and bones yielded too. The soldier screamed.

Boлndal jerked the spike out of the shield and rammed the poll against the man's unprotected knee. The force was enough to smash the joint and buckle the leg. The second headhunter was down.

"I'll show you what happens to spineless dwarf killers!" Boiling with rage, Ireheart slashed at his opponent with fast, powerful strokes.

Tungdil could see that the men were doing their best to parry the frenzied blows of their attackers, but their expressions revealed the hopelessness of their plight; where there was fear, defeat often followed, and so it was this time.

Boпndil whirled his axes above his head. Unable to guess the direction of the attack, the panicked headhunter turned to his horse.

His legs outpaced the dwarven warrior, but his speed was no match for Boлndal's weapon. The crow's beak soared through the air, hitting the man's back just as he was swinging himself into the saddle. The impact cracked his ribs, stopping him momentarily. It gave Ireheart enough time to catch up.

"You're too tall for my liking, long-un," he snorted, slashing at the man's legs and severing his tendons. His victim toppled, and Ireheart dealt him a double blow to the collarbone that finished him off.

The dwarf went in search of the fourth headhunter, who was cowering behind the mound of straw. "Now it's your turn!" Ireheart's chain mail was spattered with his opponents' blood and his eyes glinted crazily. "Who do you pray to? Palandiell? Samusin?"

The man cast down his sword and raised his hands. "I surrender," he said hastily.

Ireheart bared his teeth. "Too bad," he growled, thrusting his axes into his enemy's unprotected midriff. The man collapsed amid agonized groans. He died quickly but painfully, as Tungdil could tell from his muted whimpers.

Tungdil surveyed the stable. The chief headhunter, whom Ireheart had put out of action at the beginning of the fight, was lying in a pool of blood. He seemed to be fading rapidly. The dwarves hurried over.

"Who pays for your handiwork?" demanded Tungdil. "Tell us, and you'll be spared."

"We'll leave you to drown in your blood if you don't," Ireheart said threateningly.

"Bind my wounds," the man implored them, pressing his hand to the flowing gash in his hip. "In the name of Palandiell, have mercy on me." The blood was flowing so fast that Tungdil doubted anything could save him; the magic of a magus, perhaps, but certainly not a bandage.

Ireheart turned on him furiously. "Tell us, or I'll let my axes do the talking!" Before he could make good on the threat, the headhunter expired.

The dwarves left his side and hurried to the remaining survivor, whose shield and arm had been pierced by Boлndal's crow's beak.

The man was gritting his teeth. Pride prevented him from screaming aloud, but the pain from his shattered knee was almost too much to bear.

"Be m-merciful," he stammered. "I don't know much, but I'll tell you. We heard about the reward in Gauragar-they were offering gold in return for groundlings' heads." He pointed to Tungdil. "It was just after we met him."

"Who's they?" bellowed Ireheart. He laid the bloodied blade of one of his axes against the man's throat.

"The guild! The master of the guild!" he choked fearfully. "He sent us here. We harvest the heads and every thirtieth orbit he sends a man to fetch the jars. We get our share of the reward-thirty coins apiece for each head."

"The guild? What guild?" demanded Tungdil.

"The guild of the bounty hunters." The man groaned as the pain threatened to overwhelm him. "Let me go now. I've told you everything I know."

Tungdil believed him, but he knew the twins would never let him live. His murderous deeds would have to be punished.

"You're not going anywhere." Ireheart's axes settled the matter before Tungdil could object. The headhunter had breathed his last.

"Come on," Boлndal said evenly. "We need to get out of here before the watchmen arrive."

Hefting their bags, they hurried out of the city in the direction of Ionandar. At first they were worried that someone would find the bodies and chase after them, but no one did.

Tungdil felt a pang of conscience. "It wasn't right to kill them," he said, as they were sloshing their way through puddles and mud. "We should have handed them over to the watchmen along with the jar."

Boпndil's eyes narrowed. "Are you telling me I should have let the villains live?" He shook the raindrops from his beard. "They would have been tried and hung anyway. What difference does it make?"

"They deserved to die, I know. But if we'd…" Tungdil couldn't think of how to describe his nagging guilt in a way that Ireheart would understand.

Boлndal leaped to his brother's defense. "No, scholar, there are no two ways about it. They murdered for money and died because of it. What does it matter that we killed them? Boпndil's right: The long-uns would have hung them, but we saved them the trouble-and we avenged the dead dwarf." He tossed his plait over his shoulder to signal that his mind was made up. "It was the right thing to do."

Tungdil could find no argument that might persuade him otherwise. He was still too much the scholar to understand his companions' dwarven way of thought.

"We need to press on," Boпndil reminded them in a more conciliatory tone. "The high king is waiting." The battle in the stable had cooled his raging temper and he was calmer again. Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin, Girdlegard, Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle I can't keep this up for much longer," Rantja muttered despairingly.

"You mustn't stop now," whispered Jolosin. "If any of us leaves the circle, the ritual will be broken. I owe it to my magus; we all owe it to Girdlegard to keep going."

Just then he heard a change in Nudin's voice. The croaky rasp became a high-pitched purring that didn't seem to belong to him at all. After a while it lowered to a bass tone so deep that it vibrated through the apprentices' bodies. None of them, not even the highest-ranking famuli, had heard anything like it.

And yet it worked.

Pulsing with light, the dark green fragments of malachite rose into the air and came to rest three paces above the floor. Even the splinters in the decaying flesh of Maira the Life-Preserver left her body, exiting with a gentle pop as they bored through her skin.

"What did I tell you?" said Jolosin, giving Rantja's hand an encouraging squeeze. "We're nearly there now."

Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty began a new incantation and the famuli resumed their chanting, only to break off shortly afterward, unable to follow the words. Babbling and gibbering incoherently, the magus had lost his thread. With the rest of the circle reduced to silence, the ritual was doomed.

Meanwhile, the fragments of malachite clustered together in a flat disc, ten paces in diameter. The glowing circle began to spin.

"Is this part of the ritual? I've never done this before," hissed Jolosin. Rantja made no reply.

The disc spun faster and faster, the splinters drawing closer as the speed increased. Soon the individual fragments joined together in a circular sheet of flawless crystal.

"My magus knows what he's doing," Rantja whispered proudly, breathing a sigh of relief.

A hush descended on the room as the ring of apprentices watched in awed silence while the glowing malachite morphed under Nudin's command. At last the impressive spectacle drew gasps of admiration and relief from some of the famuli.

"We did it!" Jolosin was about to throw his arms around Rantja but was stopped by the magus, who tightened his grip on his hand.

Nudin spoke, uttering a single, unintelligible word.

A splinter flew out of the disk and pierced Jolosin in the chest. No one noticed.

"What…" Groaning, the young man tried to free his hand and touch the spot where the jagged splinter had entered his flesh and buried itself deep inside his chest. He could feel the blood seeping from the wound and trickling down his abdomen, but Nudin was gripping him firmly in his cold, clammy clasp.

"Estimable Magus," Jolosin said, his voice strained with pain, "I'm… I'm hurt. I've been hit by a shard."

Nudin turned his pale bloated face toward him. His pupils were dilated, almost obscuring his irises. Then the black dots turned the color of tarnished silver. His misty eyes glinted.

"I know, my boy. I needed your magic. There was no other way." He squeezed his hand reassuringly. "It won't hurt for long." The magus closed his eyes.

Another tiny splinter of malachite flew across the room and hit Rantja. From then on, the splinters followed in quick succession, striking the apprentices so rapidly that half of their number had been wounded before the others noticed. They called to the magus for help.

"Stay where you are or everything will be ruined," he commanded, eyes still closed.

The remaining famuli were unpersuaded by his words. Rather than stay and be killed by the lethal crystal, they decided to run for cover, but by then it was too late. As they tried to pull away, they realized with horror that their hands were stuck together, tying them to one another until they too were struck by shards.

The malachite disc sent dark bolts in the direction of each famulus, green light caressing their bodies eagerly in search of the splinters and slipping inside the wounds.

Nudin looked up, an insane glimmer in his eyes. Throwing open his cloak, he uttered another incomprehensible command.

At once a finger-length shard of malachite flew toward him on a bolt of green lightning and planted itself in his chest. The beam intensified, pulsing and rippling with light, while the tendrils of energy binding the famuli to the crystal faded and dimmed. Soon they were gone altogether.

"Victory!" The magus's shriek of triumph was too shrill and powerful to be human. He laughed exultantly. "The time for dissembling is over; Nфd'onn the Doublefold is once more!"

The famuli slid to the floor. Jolosin, Rantja, and the others were incapable of speech; the malachite had wrested the magic from their bodies and plundered their strength.

The more fragile among them were the first to succumb. Their hearts stopped, their breathing failed.

A small band of famuli, Jolosin and Rantja included, summoned the energy to drag themselves across the floor in a desperate effort to reach the doors.

The magus plunged his fingers into his chest and was feeling around for the splinter. He withdrew the bloodied fragment, gazed at it dreamily, then replaced it in the wound. He took a step toward the malachite disc.

"You served your purpose, now be gone!" No sooner had his onyx-tipped staff made contact with the hovering crystal than it fell to the ground, littering the floor with myriad splinters.

Don't just stand there, he told himself sternly. Let the next phase begin! Gathering the leather bag brought by Jolosin, he hurried to the door, skewering three crawling famuli as he passed. A tidemark of blood stained the white maple of his staff.

On reaching the doorway, he stopped and looked back, scanning the foul-smelling room. The stench of decay would soon be overwhelming, but it was all the same to him. His work was almost done and he was leaving the conference chamber for the final time.

It was then that he noticed Rantja and Jolosin. With a brutal swipe of his staff, he crushed the famulus's skull. His own apprentice had nearly reached the door, but he nudged her back into the chamber with his boot.

Rantja rolled onto her back, tears streaming over her face, and uttered a healing charm. Her magic failed her.

The magus stooped to stroke her long brown hair. He knew the famula well and she was talented, one of his most gifted pupils, in fact. She would probably have made it into his discipleship in Lios Nudin, but he knew that she couldn't be relied on to cooperate with his plans.

"The malachite splinter inside you has left you weak and helpless," he told her. "The magic is gone. You'll die like the others, Rantja."

The young woman stared up at him accusingly. Her dark eyes were full of contempt for the magus whom she had trusted implicitly and who had forfeited her respect.

Nфd'onn looked away, surprised at how much he was affected by his dying apprentice. "I didn't want to kill them," he said defensively. "There was no other way of obtaining their magic. What was I supposed to do? Andфkai, Lot-Ionan, Maira, Sabora, and Turgur refused to help me, and you and the other famuli would have turned against me too. I knew it was going to be difficult, but I did it because I had to. This is my destiny. Girdlegard must be protected from evil."

"There is no greater evil than the Perished Land," she said, breathing in rapid gasps. "The gods will punish you for betraying our circle."

Nфd'onn thought for a moment. "Perhaps you're right. But the vengeance of the gods is a small price to pay for saving mankind." He got to his feet and stepped out of the chamber. "And mankind can be saved only by the Perished Land and the chosen few."

"You're mistaken," whispered Rantja. Her gaze faltered. "You're…" A sigh ran through her body and her head slumped back, falling to the side.

"No," Nфd'onn contradicted her sadly. "I'm right, but no one understands. My dear friend told me this would happen."

Closing the doors with a wave of his hand, he turned away quickly and hurried through the palace to the vaults. There was a dull thud as the doors of the chamber slammed behind him, sealing Girdlegard's most powerful wizards in their tomb.

Clumping down the stairs, Nфd'onn reached the room where the energy was at its strongest. From Lios Nudin, the force field extended outward in five directions, supplying the other realms. He was about to change all that.

The magi and their highest-ranking famuli had been taken care of, but there was still the matter of the lowlier apprentices. Nфd'onn was incapable of stopping the flow of energy, but he intended to reclaim the young wizards' meager powers by other means.

First there's something I need to attend to. He loosened the green drawstrings, opened the bag, and turned it upside down.

An hourglass hit the floor, shattering on impact, followed closely by two amulets, which tinkled against the marble. A roll of parchment landed on top.

Nфd'onn stared at the motley collection. These aren't my things! he thought furiously, scattering the pool of sand in all directions with his staff. Confound Lot-Ionan!

He reminded himself of the need for calm. Besides, he could always ask the orcs to retrieve the items from Ionandar.

Focusing his mind, he used his powers to search for the force field and, on finding a connection, uttered the charm provided by the Perished Land, thereby releasing the magic he had plundered.