The Balborite Curse (Book 4) by Kristian Alva Read Free Book Online Page A

front of his chest and glared.
    “Believe what you will—your opinion matters not. I shall be the queen, a queen of legend! All your sour apples shall not sway the clans against me.”
    “And what about the Vardmiter rebels? Utan and his people will never follow you. How will you include them in your deceitful plans?”
    Bolrakei waved her hand indifferently. “Meh! To me, the Vardmiters are less than nothing. Those lowly traitors shall bow to me yet.”
    “Ha! Such confidence! What if Utan does not agree to your demands? His numbers are greater than any other clan.”
    Her stony gaze fixed on him. “Once I become queen, I’ll raise ten legions to march against the Vardmiters. Utan will have no choice but to accept my judgment. The rebels shall surrender, or else I shall slaughter them all—down to the last man.”
    Skemtun’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You cannot mean this.”
    Bolrakei leaned forward and stabbed her finger in the air. “Yes I do… every word of it. Do not misunderstand me, Skemtun. I shall assign workers as I see fit, and your clan shall become the lowest caste. However, fear not! There will always be dwarves below you. After I crush the rebellion, the Vardmiters will return to Mount Velik —in chains. They shall be our slaves, stripped of all their rights and privileges. They shall not be allowed to vote, own property, or even choose their own mates. That is their punishment for the havoc they have wrought.”
    “You are despicable,” he said.
    Bolrakei’s cold eyes met his, and Skemtun saw that she was deadly serious. Skemtun could not even respond. He rose from his chair, turned on his heel, and left the table.
    Moments later, he looked back over his shoulder and noticed that several of his own clan members had stayed behind to congratulate his rival. One dwarf even kissed Bolrakei’s ring.
    As Skemtun walked away, he was overcome by a great weariness. His anger fell away, leaving only sadness. He reached his quarters and sank down into an old chair. When he glanced up, a shift of light caught his eye. A huge bronze mirror stood in the corner, and Skemtun stared at the old man looking back at him from its reflection. The lines on his face had grown deeper, and a scraggly beard had turned from brown to gray. His hooded eyes revealed deep fatigue and something else—the impotence of his anger.
    His clan had been mining this mountain for thousands of years. Most were still dedicated to their ancestral jobs, but some of the clan had already started to clean sewage and pick up garbage. Skemtun had told himself that it was only temporary, but as the seasons passed and fewer men chose the mining pick, he had begun to fear that the tools of the Marretaela would soon be the mop and bucket. Was Bolrakei right? Would his clan become the new outcasts? He felt the walls of Bolrakei’s trap falling all around him.
    Would his people be shunned and displaced, treated like outsiders? Bolrakei was right about one thing—with the Vardmiters gone, the lowest clan was now Marretaela, and he had neither the energy nor the resources to challenge her.
    Skemtun set his teeth grimly. He knew, in the deepest part of his soul, there was nothing he could do to stop her.
     

Endrell the Smuggler
    Sela and Brinsop flew through the night. The northern winds blew strong and carried them faster through the desert. By sunrise, they were within sight of the city. They spiraled down to land on the palace rooftop, where Tallin and Duskeye were already waiting for them.
    The dragons exchanged pleasantries, and then both lay down on the warm cobblestones and went to sleep. Sela and Tallin greeted each other briefly. “Hello, Tallin.” Sela nodded politely.
    “Good day, Sela,” he replied, raising his hand to his collarbone as a gesture of respect.
    “Is the prisoner ready for questioning?”
    “I prepped him, but he refuses to cooperate. Other than the kudu oil, we found nothing else of interest in his belongings.