The Dwarves

  Balendilín gave his word that the maga and her companion would be taken care of, so Tungdil launched into his account, beginning with Lot-Ionan, the vaults, and his errand, then proceeding by means of the Blacksaddle, Greenglade, the fate of the magi, the treachery of Nudin (or Nôd’onn, as he called himself), his run-in with the bounty hunters, Gorén’s mysterious books, and the älfar’s attempts to track them down, then concluding with the magus’s threat to the dwarven kingdoms and his plans to bend Girdlegard to his will.

  Soon his cheeks were flushed with talking, but he tried to state the facts plainly, without glossing over the horror or embellishing his report.

  He spoke without faltering, save for one occasion when he was understandably thrown. It happened when three serving girls opened the doors and walked into the hall. Tungdil, who yearned to become acquainted with the fairer sex, was transfixed by the mysterious creatures who had colonized his imagination for as long as he could remember. They were a little shorter than he was and not as broadly built, but their ample robes betrayed an unmistakable fullness of figure. Fine, almost imperceptible fluff covered their plump faces from the cheekbones to the lower jaw. The wispy down matched the color of their hair and, unlike his own bristly whiskers, their furry skin seemed soft and smooth. This then was the origin of the myth about bearded women. Tungdil found them utterly beguiling.

  His remaining composure crumbled when they turned to him with shy, friendly smiles. His heart started beating so wildly that he had to abandon his story until they were gone. Gundrabur and Balendilín made no comment, although the one-armed counselor could barely suppress a grin.

  At last Tungdil concluded his report, ending with a brief account of the attack on the desert oasis. He reached for his tankard, which smelled enticingly of beer. The dark liquid washed over his thirsty lips, coating his tongue with its powerful malty flavor. A single sip was enough to convince him that humans knew nothing of beer. It tasted so good that he could have kissed the dwarf who had invented the recipe, but instead he took another swig.

  “These are ill tidings,” Gundrabur said sadly. “We intend to be honest with you, Tungdil, so you shall hear of our problems too.” His counselor described the dwarves’ predicament, including the proposed war, the question of the succession, and the rift among the delegates, as succinctly as he could. “It seems from what you’ve told us that an alliance is imperative. The races of Girdlegard must unite and fight together against the Perished Land.”

  Tungdil sighed. “An alliance won’t save us if we can’t make sense of the books or the artifacts. There must be a way of getting to Nôd’onn or he wouldn’t be so afraid. The trouble is, we can’t do anything without Andôkai and she’s determined to wash her hands of Girdlegard. Without her power and knowledge, our chances of defeating the evil are no better than any of the other realms’.”

  “And we must watch powerlessly while the northern blight advances,” Gundrabur murmured somberly, closing his eyes. “Then it is settled: I shall appeal to the maga for help.”

  Tungdil said nothing, although he doubted the efficacy of the scheme. No amount of dwarven reasoning could influence the workings of the maga’s mind. The thought of Andôkai reminded him that Djerůn had been permitted to enter the stronghold without raising his visor. At the time it hadn’t occurred to him, and it clearly hadn’t registered with the sentries or the twins, who had blithely waved the armored warrior through their gates. She must have put a spell on us. He decided not to say anything, least of all to Boïndil, whose hot temper would explode in incandescent fury. The last thing they needed was for Djerůn to be challenged to a duel.

  He took the opportunity to broach the subject of the succession. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” he said, determined to nip the matter in the bud. “You’ve done me a great service in reuniting me with my folk, but I can’t be made king. I was raised by long-uns and learned the dwarven ways from books — extremely inaccurate books, I might tell you. My rival is a much more suitable candidate, so I intend to renounce my claim and vote in favor of him. We need a high king whom everyone will respect.”

  “Your speech and sentiments do you credit,” Gundrabur praised him, “but the fact is, we made up the story about your birth. Lot-Ionan played along because we swore him to secrecy. I’m afraid you have no claim to the throne; there’s no proof that you’re even a fourthling.”

  Tungdil’s mind was reeling. “But why… I mean, I don’t see why you made me come all this way just to tell me it isn’t true…”

  “Think of all the good that has come of it already,” Balendilín said soothingly. “It’s put us in a better position to do something about Nôd’onn. And if we hadn’t sent the twins to look for you, the orcs would have killed you in Greenglade.”

  “True, but…” He fumbled for the right words. “What of the delegates? All this time, the assembly has been waiting for me, and I’m not even a genuine heir!”

  He felt as if the ground had been tunneled from under his feet. After the ordeals of his journey he had just been getting comfortable, and now he had nowhere to call home.

  “Please don’t be angry with us,” Gundrabur entreated him. “If Gandogar is crowned, our race will be locked in combat with the elves, and we can’t let that happen. Our idea was to postpone Gandogar’s appointment until the assembly had been persuaded of the folly of waging war. When your magus wrote to us with news of a foundling dwarf, we took the liberty of inventing a story about your lineage to buy some extra time.”

  “We were hoping to find a solution — an ancient law or suchlike that would force the assembly to vote against a war,” Balendilín explained. “Fighting the elves would be ruinous for both our races, but Gandogar just won’t see it. I expect you think we’re as dishonest as kobolds, but our intentions are honorable: We want the best for our race.”

  Tungdil kept his mouth shut for fear of saying something he might regret. He helped himself to more beer and emptied the tankard in a single draft. “And did you find anything?”

  “Not exactly,” the high king confessed. “That’s why we’re asking you to join our conspiracy and challenge Gandogar for the throne.”

  “What good would it do?” Tungdil shrugged. “They’d never elect me.”

  “No,” agreed Gundrabur, “but if I’m not happy with the assembly’s choice of heir, I can veto the succession.”

  “And what then? Would you rather our folks fought each other than waged war on the elves?”

  “It won’t come to that,” Balendilín reassured him. “Our laws state that the heir must challenge his rival to a duel. Of course, the rival candidate would have to be backed by some of the chieftains and elders, but roughly a third of the delegates have been won over to our cause. That should suffice.”

  “And then Gandogar will have the privilege of slicing me in two.” Tungdil scowled. “I still don’t see how it changes anything.”

  The high king and his counselor exchanged glances.

  “Swear that you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone,” Balendilín demanded, eyeing Tungdil solemnly until he complied. “We need to banish Bislipur and Sverd from Gandogar’s circle. Bislipur is obsessed with the idea of wiping out the elves and his zeal has rubbed off on Gandogar. Thanks to Bislipur’s constant whispering, the fourthling king rarely has time to think for himself.” He frowned. “The villain tried to kill me. I can’t prove it yet, but I will.”

  “But assuming you succeed,” Tungdil said doubtfully, “won’t Gandogar still go ahead with his plan?”

  “We’ll open his eyes to the perfidy of his mentor and the folly of an elven war. Gandogar is a good dwarf at heart; his adviser is to blame.” Balendilín paused and looked at Tungdil intently. “But I need more time; and for that we’re depending on your help.”

  “You’ll be doing your kinsmen a great service,” Gundrabur assured him. “They’ll realize it eventually. History will record how a foundling dwarf named Tungdil was hewn by Vraccas to save his
children from destruction.”

  “I’ll do it,” agreed Tungdil, “but I’ll need your full support.”

  “We’ll do everything we can for you,” promised Balendilín. “You’re an honorable dwarf, Tungdil. Forgive us for burdening you with our troubles before you’ve even had a chance to rest. Now that we’ve settled the important business, you should get some proper sleep. You’ll have one orbit in which to recover and prepare yourself for the hustings.” The one-armed counselor smiled at him encouragingly.

  “Buy us some time, and we’ll forge a better future without the likes of Bislipur,” the high king exhorted him. He picked up the ceremonial hammer and held it out to the dwarf. “Swear on the hammer that brought us into being that you won’t tell a soul.”

  Tungdil gave his word and left the great hall. Outside, Andôkai and Djerůn were still waiting in the corridor.

  “They said we could stay for a while,” she said evenly. “As it happens, I could do with a break. These past few orbits together have been horribly stressful.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Tungdil, leaving the maga to decide whether it was the journey or her company that he found such a trial.

  An attendant arrived to take them to their rooms. As they followed, Tungdil marveled at the splendor of their surroundings. The masons had worked the walls with incredible finesse and the smooth surfaces were decorated with sculpted reliefs and chiseled inscriptions. Dwarven runes inlaid with precious metals shimmered in a kaleidoscope of silver, gold, and red.

  But what really caught his attention was the staircase. He had always thought of steps as being rectangular, smooth, and plain.

  These were a revelation. Each slab of stone was different from the next, the flat treads decorated with elaborate patterns and the uprights engraved with runes.

  It was only when he read the runes in sequence that he realized the purpose of the design: The staircases spelled out stories that served to distract the weary secondlings from the grueling ascent. Tungdil could tell from Andôkai’s expression that she too had noticed the runes and was reading with interest.

  The stories told of glorious days of old, evoking heroic adventures, each more impressive than the last. Tungdil climbed eagerly, relishing every step until at length they reached their chambers.

  Andôkai disappeared inside her room before he could inquire about the books. He was sure that her change of heart was connected to something she had seen or read.

  Maybe Gundrabur will be lucky, he thought hopefully as he shuffled to bed.

  That’s the beauty of being among friends,” said a deep voice. “You don’t even have to lock the door.”

  Tungdil woke with a start and sat up drowsily, only to discover Bislipur in his room.

  “Good morning, Tungdil.” Somehow the greeting sounded suspiciously insincere. “We’ll talk properly at the hustings, but I’m sure you’re as impatient as I am to have a little chat.”

  “I wasn’t really expecting visitors,” Tungdil said hesitantly. The sudden appearance of Gandogar’s adviser had thrown him slightly. In fact, now that he thought about it properly, walking in without an invitation was downright rude. His friendly feelings toward Bislipur as a kinsman had withstood their bristly encounter in the great hall, but this was something else.

  Bislipur sat down on the bed and gave him a long stare. “You think you’re one of us, do you?” he mocked. “A poor little foundling, raised by a wizard, but of genuine royal blood — it sounds like a fairy tale, doesn’t it?” He leaned forward. “Because it is! I’m not going to beat about the bush: You’re an impostor. What proof do you have of your lineage?”

  “You’ll see soon enough,” Tungdil said firmly. If it hadn’t been for his conversation with Gundrabur and Balendilín, he would have stepped aside for his rival. Only last night he had been assailed by doubts about the wisdom of maintaining the deception, but now, thanks to Bislipur’s obnoxious behavior, his mind was made up.

  “None of the fourthlings can remember a case of a missing child.”

  “And I suppose you know them all in person and every detail of their lives. That’s really quite a claim.” Tungdil stood up. He had a feeling that the long hours spent reading in Lot-Ionan’s library and studying the art of disputation would stand him in good stead. All of a sudden he felt naked without his chain mail and his weapon. He threw on his tunic and belted his ax to his waist. His confidence flooded back. “Wait until tomorrow and you’ll hear the full story.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said Bislipur. “Cancel the hustings, and we’ll adopt you as one of our folk. All we ask is that you agree to back Gandogar. Retract your claim and you’ll never want for anything.”

  “Supposing I refuse?”

  “Supposing you refuse?” Bislipur laid a muscular hand on his ax. “If you refuse, you’ll see what happens when a fourthling — or a fake fourthling, in your case — turns against the leader of his folk. None of us will submit to your rule. Even if you’re elected, you’ll never really be king.”

  Tungdil could tell from the muffled fury in his voice that Bislipur meant business. “That’s for the assembly to decide, not you,” he informed him, doing his best to sound like a prospective monarch. “Now go,” he commanded.

  “Supposing I refuse?” the thick-set dwarf said mockingly.

  “Supposing you refuse?” thundered Tungdil, placing a hand on his ax. “If you refuse, I’ll throw you out myself! I’ve dealt with enough orcs and älfar to know what to do with a dwarf who sneaks his way into my chamber while I’m asleep.” His brotherly tolerance of Bislipur had given way to undisguised dislike. “Get out!”

  Bislipur wavered for a moment, unsure whether he should commit to a trial of strength. To Tungdil’s relief, he decided to see himself out. “You’ll regret this,” he threatened by way of a farewell.

  “That’s a risk I’m prepared to take,” Tungdil retorted. Alone in his chamber, he stood in front of the mirror, put his hands on his hips, and squared his shoulders. Rather than get dressed, he practiced looking steely until he was confident of his ability to assume a determined expression whenever he pleased. It took considerable willpower not to crawl back into bed.

  He was in the process of removing his nightshirt when someone knocked on the door. Without waiting for an answer, a female dwarf in a skirt and leather blouse strode in and placed some fresh linen on the marble dresser. She giggled when she saw him rooted to the spot. I should say something, he thought, racking his brains desperately, but already she was gone.

  “I guess it takes practice,” he muttered, pulling on his clothes absentmindedly. His mind was whirring with a thousand different thoughts.

  It was dispiriting to know that he was still a foundling dwarf. For the first time in his life he was surrounded by others of his race, but deep down he was the loneliest soul in all Girdlegard. In fact, he’d been better off when he’d lived among humans; at least then he’d belonged to Lot-Ionan and the school.

  It didn’t help that he was obliged to pose as a fourthling and put on a show of happiness at being reunited with his folk. For all his honest intentions, it made him feel like a terrible fraud.

  Keen to distract his thoughts, he reread Lot-Ionan’s letter about his provenance, memorizing every fabricated detail until he was sure that none of the delegates could pick a hole in his story. There was nothing else to do in his chamber, so he wandered into the corridor and roamed the majestic stone passageways while his stomach growled hungrily.

  Dwarves streamed past him, clad in leather aprons and covered in a dusting of rock. Tungdil guessed from their appearance that they were heading for the quarry. They smiled and called out to him and he returned their greetings with a nod.

  Soon afterward he was intercepted by an attendant who marched him off to breakfast. Tungdil understood the real purpose of the summons when he was welcomed to the table by Balendilín, who wanted to prepare him for the hustings.

  “It’s all under control,”
the counselor assured him. The trinkets on his braided beard swung back and forth as he spoke, which earned him fascinated glances from Tungdil. “Three dwarves from Gandogar’s delegation have agreed to say they remember hearing a rumor about a missing child. Their testimony, together with the letter from your magus, should give us the credibility we need. After that, you’ll make your speech and then —”

  “My speech?” said Tungdil, looking up sharply from the array of pungent cheeses, salamis, pickled mushrooms, and roasted lichen. All of a sudden he stopped caring about the absence of ham, porridge, and bread: The prospect of addressing the assembly had banished any thought of food.

  “It needn’t be terribly long. You can talk a bit about your journey and your encounters with Nôd’onn and the Perished Land. You’ll lose the vote, of course, but that’s no great inconvenience; we’ll proceed to the next stage of our plan.” Balendilín’s eyes twinkled. “It’s all under control,” he said again.

  “I’m glad you think so.” Tungdil sighed and piled his wooden plate with a small helping of everything. He told the counselor of Bislipur’s visit.

  “That’s just the kind of underhanded behavior I’d expect from him.” Balendilín seemed to take the news in stride. “You know what it means, don’t you? We’re on the right track. The scoundrel wouldn’t bother with you unless he thought you were a threat.”

  Tungdil didn’t share his optimism. He hadn’t forgotten that Bislipur had tried to murder Balendilín, and he saw no reason to suppose that the fourthling wouldn’t do the same to him.

  “There’s one more thing,” said the counselor. “The maga and her bodyguard have gone.”

  “Gone?” Tungdil echoed, aghast. So she’s really left us? How could she give up like that and leave Girdlegard to its fate? “When did she leave?”

  “This morning, just after dawn. We had to let her cross the pass. There wasn’t any justification for detaining her, and besides… how do you stop a maga?”

  “You don’t.” Tungdil put his head in his hands. It was hopeless; no one apart from Andôkai had anything like Nôd’onn’s power and now she was searching for force fields beyond the Blue Range. She must have given up on Gorén’s books. Why couldn’t one of the other magi have survived instead? He felt certain that Maira or Lot-Ionan would have stayed and led the fight against the traitor.