The Dwarves

  “That’s the answer!” Tungdil cried excitedly. “If the tunnels are still intact, we’ll be able to forge the ax before the dark magus has time to defeat the human armies and conquer their kingdoms.”

  “I can’t guarantee what kind of state they’re in,” warned Gundrabur. “According to the ancient records, some sections of the tunnels have collapsed. Balendilín, fetch the maps.”

  “Why hasn’t anyone come across them since?”

  “The entrance lies in an area of the Blue Range that became polluted with sulfurous gas. Our kinsfolk abandoned that side of the mountain and the tunnels were forgotten.”

  At length Balendilín returned with two ancient maps showing the path of the tunnels through the secondling kingdom. The tunnels cut straight through the heart of the Blue Range and were well hidden, with numerous mechanisms and traps securing them against intruders. Even if Tion’s creatures had known about the tunnels, there was no way of breaking into them, so the forces of darkness were obliged to conduct their invasion overland.

  “Well, that’s settled,” Tungdil told the others. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good,” said Balendilín with a smile. He refilled their tankards. “In that case, you should be the one who tells the assembly of the tunnels’ existence. The delegates will be impressed.” They clunked tankards and drank.

  Vraccas made me party to this knowledge so that the dwarves could liberate Girdlegard from evil,” said Tungdil, coming to the end of his impassioned speech. “Why else would he have given me the artifacts and books?”

  “Forgotten relics from a glorious era!” Gandogar said scornfully. “Nothing you’ve stumbled upon is of any practical use. A miracle ax to be forged secretly in a furnace fired by dragon’s breath at the heart of the Perished Land — it can’t be done! If you ask me, the whole thing’s a fiction, a legend that found its way into our archives by mistake!”

  “You may not believe it,” Tungdil cut in, “but Nôd’onn clearly does. He wiped out a whole settlement to get his hands on the books. He tried to kill me too! Why would he be so worried if it were just an old story? Clansmen,” he begged the assembly, “we need to send an expedition. Vraccas will see us through this.”

  “Of course he will,” jeered Bislipur. “If you don’t mind my asking, how exactly were you intending to slay the dragon? They’re tough old beasts, but tell it one of your stories and the poor thing will probably die of laughter on the spot.”

  The roars of merriment were enough to convince Tungdil not to put the matter to the vote. The motion would only fail. Common sense had yet to bludgeon its way into the delegates’ thick skulls.

  “To business,” Gandogar said impatiently. He threw off his cloak, revealing a shimmering mail shirt. His adviser handed him his shield and his ax, while another fastened his helmet. “The purpose of this meeting is to decide the succession. Let the contest begin! For the first task I challenge my rival to a duel. Victory will go to whoever draws first blood or forces his opponent to his knees.”

  In an instant Boïndil and Boëndal were at Tungdil’s side, helping him on with his armor. His metal tunic looked cheap and dull compared to Gandogar’s glittering mail. “Beware of his shield. He’s bound to try to ram you with it,” whispered Boïndil. He clenched his fists. “If only I could take your place,” he growled. “I’d hammer him into the marble.”

  “You’ve been wonderful teachers,” Tungdil reassured the twins as he buckled his chinstrap. “And I’m not just talking about the past few orbits; you taught me a great deal during our journey as well. If I lose, it won’t be because of you.”

  The two candidates stepped into the semicircle between the throne and the benches. Balendilín acted as referee. His eyes smiled reassuringly at Tungdil. “Fight valiantly and honorably,” he told them as he backed away. The rivals were alone in the arena.

  The fourthling king lost no time in launching his attack. Tungdil parried blow after blow, all the while trying not to be distracted by the twinkling diamonds on Gandogar’s ax. He watched the swooping trajectory of the blade from behind his shield, retreating farther and farther until his back came up against a column.

  As the next blow swung toward him, Tungdil ducked and struck back. There was a shrill metallic shriek as his blunted ax scraped over Gandogar’s hastily raised shield and struck the lower edge of his helmet. Head spinning, the king staggered back.

  “Now attack!” yelled Boïndil, caught up in the excitement. Fired on by his success and the encouragement of his tutor, Tungdil rushed forward.

  Not if I can help it. Bislipur had no intention of allowing Gandogar to be defeated. Sverd was standing beside him, so he gave him a little shove. The gnome pitched forward and struck his head on a tankard. Beer slopped to the floor.

  The incident was Tungdil’s undoing. In his haste he didn’t notice that the slippery marble floor was as treacherous as an ice rink. His right foot skidded to the side; he struggled to keep his balance and flailed out vainly with his ax.

  “Foolish gnome!” Bislipur unleashed a volley of curses, threatening to thrash the hapless Sverd and tighten his collar until it cut off his breath.

  “The scoundrel did it on purpose!” protested Boëndal.

  “He’s just clumsy, that’s all. He’ll pay for this, believe me!” said Bislipur, still pretending to be furious with the gnome.

  None of that was any comfort to Tungdil, who skidded past Gandogar just as the latter straightened up and took aim. The king’s ax thwacked his back with enough force to send him spinning out of control. Cursing, he lost his footing and forfeited the task.

  A cheer went up from the fourthling corner where Gandogar’s supporters were gathered. The jubilation turned to mocking laughter when Tungdil struggled to his feet. The contest wasn’t unfolding quite as he’d hoped.

  “Now for my task,” he shouted above the din. The great hall fell silent.

  “What is the nature of the challenge?”

  “We shall both transcribe a text. The first to finish wins.”

  “What?” Gandogar protested. “I’m a king, not a poet!”

  “You don’t have to be a poet; all you have to do is write. A good monarch must have a steady hand and a smart mind to guide it; how else would he make the laws? But maybe fighting is your only virtue…” Without further ado he sat down at a desk and waited for Gandogar to follow suit.

  “What if I refuse?”

  “If you refuse,” said Balendilín, “you’ll lose the challenge and the tally will be one task each, leaving the succession to be decided by the final three challenges.”

  “Besides,” Boëndal added snidely, “it would be cowardly not to accept. The scholar wasn’t afraid to face your ax. I hope the fourthling leader isn’t frightened of a quill!”

  The gibe and resulting hilarity prompted Gandogar to lay down his shield and helmet and take a seat at the desk.

  The referee called for the rolls of parchment and chose one at random. “You may begin.”

  In no time the scholar, as Boëndal jokingly called him, was scribbling furiously, while his opponent glared at the runes and scratched awkwardly at the parchment with his quill. The dwarves devoted themselves to the task in industrious silence.

  “Finished,” declared Tungdil at length. His work was scrutinized and found to be faultless. Gandogar took longer and made several errors along the way. Balendilín awarded the task to Tungdil.

  The twins whooped in delight, pleased that their charge had used his cunning to secure a draw. “Too bad you lost that one, eh, Bislipur?” Boïndil shouted cheerfully.

  At Balendilín’s request, the delegates noted down their challenges and the slips of paper were collected. Gandogar would draw first, then Tungdil.

  “For the next challenge,” announced the referee, “you will forge an ax from the poorest quality iron and strike it ten times against a shield without fracturing the blade.”

  Tungdil had spent so much time at Lot-Ionan’s anvil that he was sure
he would prove the superior smith. Balendilín declared a break in the proceedings while the necessary equipment was set up in the hall and soon the high-ceilinged chamber was echoing with the sound of ringing hammers.

  Tungdil hit his stride, working in time with a dwarven ballad that had been taught to him by the twins. Not to be out-done, Gandogar belted out a song of his own and hammered all the more furiously.

  “You’d think it was a singing competition.” Boëndal grinned and hoisted his belt. “If that doesn’t please Vraccas, I don’t know what will.”

  “Tungdil is the better singer, so Vraccas will favor his cause,” said his brother.

  The singing continued until both candidates had finished their blades. Balendilín instructed them to attach the ax heads to iron hafts; then each took up the other’s weapon, ensuring the blade’s exposure to maximum force. They positioned themselves in front of their shields and at the referee’s signal, the contest began.

  “Let’s see how His Majesty fared in the forge,” said a sweat-drenched Tungdil, preparing to strike. The blade, still glowing with heat, traced an orange semicircle through the gloom of the hall, hitting its target in a shower of sparks. The ax withstood the blow.

  “Better than you thought,” retorted Gandogar. He struck the shield with equal force and the blade held true.

  They dealt six further blows apiece, but on the eighth strike Tungdil heard a faint crack when Gandogar’s ax hit the shield. He knew the next blow would be its last. “Take a look at this,” he called to the king. The blade fractured, shattering into countless shards. Panting, Tungdil threw the haft to the floor and fumbled for his water pouch.

  A murmur went through the watching crowd. The fourth-ling king tensed his muscles, summoning all his strength for the final blow. The shield groaned and shuddered, but the blade survived the strike.

  “Hurrah for the smith!” boomed Boïndil. “ Two-one to Tungdil. It was the singing that did it. Even the poorest metal can’t resist a good tune.”

  Gandogar laid down his ax in order to shake his opponent’s hand. “I didn’t think anyone could forge such a fine blade from such woefully inadequate metal. You are the undisputed master of the forge — but I shall be king of the dwarves. The next victory will be mine.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Already Balendilín was unfolding the next piece of paper. There was no time for the dwarves to catch their breath. “The fourth challenge will be a race. Each candidate will be given a tankard of molten gold and must carry it to the end of the first meadow and back before proceeding to the gates. In addition to your chain mail, you will be given a pack weighing precisely forty pounds. The first to return with a full tankard wins the task.”

  To ensure that both competitors ran the full distance with their tankards, Balendilín dispatched a pair of dwarves to the meadow and another to the gates.

  This is my kind of task, thought Tungdil, hefting the knapsack to his shoulders. He was accustomed to the heat of the forge and as for carrying gold, it was more a privilege than a burden. Even the thought of racing with a forty-pound knapsack didn’t deter him: He had walked hundreds of miles across Girdlegard with two heavy packs.

  They were handed their tankards, thick-rimmed glass vessels with a thin layer of pewter plating. The contents had been heated to several hundred degrees and would sear through the flesh on contact with the skin. There was an obvious risk of serious injury; even the steam rising from the molten metal was treacherously hot.

  “Go!” shouted Balendilín. With that, the race was underway.

  Gandogar surged forward, barely glancing at his tankard as he focused on his course. Tungdil took the opposite approach, feasting his eyes on the pool of liquid sunshine. He had marched for enough miles to have faith in his footing.

  Soon the king was in the lead and had vanished from the hall. Tungdil followed leisurely. Balendilín had said that the task would be won by the first to return with a full tankard. He would rather take his time and bring back his quota than waste any of the precious gold. He even stopped and set down his tankard occasionally to give his calloused smith’s hands a chance to recover from the heat.

  He had almost reached the valley when Gandogar raced past in the opposite direction.

  “You’d better hurry if you want to beat me, Tungdil,” he shouted. There was an unmistakable whiff of scorched skin, but the king kept going regardless, content to let his fingers suffer. As far as Tungdil could tell, not a drop of gold had been spilled.

  He stopped in the meadow, gave his hand a quick rest, and set off in hot pursuit. I shouldn’t have counted on Gandogar making a mistake, he admonished himself.

  It wasn’t long before his hand began to shake. He was feeling the effects of the duel and the metalworking contest, but no amount of self-pity was going to help him win the task. He was just approaching the gates when Gandogar ran past, sweating and cursing, on his homeward leg. The fourthling smiled cockily at Tungdil, his tankard still full.

  “We’re even now! One last challenge and victory will be mine,” he vowed.

  That was enough to revive Tungdil’s competitive spirit, and he hurried after Gandogar, determined to pass him as quickly as he could.

  Just then a small creature darted into the passageway and collided with his legs. Tungdil stumbled and caught himself. “What in the name of Vraccas…”

  The molten gold was swirling dangerously, ready to spill over the edge, but Tungdil had no intention of releasing his grip. A golden wave slopped over the side and splashed onto his skin. The pain was excruciating, but he gritted his teeth and continued without so much as a curse. His eyes scanned the passageway furiously, but the offending creature was gone.

  Owing to the mishap, he reached the hall in second place and without his full quota of gold. He had lost by either reckoning. But Gandogar’s victory had not been won without sacrifice and his poor scalded hands were being treated with ice and water by a nurse.

  This time it fell to Tungdil to congratulate his rival. He refrained from shaking his hand out of consideration for his burns. “Well, you kept your promise this time,” he said, immersing his own tender skin in the ice-cold water.

  “Don’t worry, I intend to keep all my promises,” Gandogar informed him, turning quickly away.

  Tungdil held up his hand to inspect the damage. The gold had solidified, leaving a permanent coin-sized patch on his skin.

  The golden stain made his right hand glisten in the light of the coal lamps, catching Boïndil’s eye. “Take a look at that, brother.”

  “Tungdil Goldhand! That’s what we’ll call him,” said Boëndal. “I hope he likes it. I reckon it suits him well.”

  “It’s a darned sight better than Bolofar,” his twin agreed.

  “Attention, delegates,” called Balendilín. “The score stands at two all, so we must progress to the fifth and final challenge, on which the choice of successor and the future of the dwarven folks shall rest.” He instructed the rivals to note down a maximum of four tasks.

  It has to be something I can definitely win… Tungdil thought for a moment, then grinned. Of course! The perfect task had occurred to him in the nick of time.

  Each slip of paper was folded in the same fashion and placed in a leather pouch held open by Balendilín. The counselor pulled the drawstrings, gave the bag a good shake, and paced along the row of dwarves, stopping in front of Bislipur.

  “Once the task has been drawn, there can be no complaints about the fairness of the choice. Bislipur, my friend, I should like you to pick the challenge.” He held the pouch toward him.

  The thick-set dwarf seized the bag without any pretense at politeness. He fixed the counselor with a stony glare.

  Without looking down, he reached inside the bag, swept the bottom, and came up with a slip of paper. He was about to unfold it when the parchment slipped out of his fingers and fell back into the pouch. His hand plunged after it and he thrust the note wordlessly toward Balendilín.
br />   “No,” said the referee. “You picked the task; you read it.”

  Bislipur shifted his gaze from the counselor’s face to the note. He unfolded the paper and scanned its contents. “Oh,” he said breezily, “that’s not the one I drew first.” He reached inside the bag again.

  “Rules are rules.” Balendilín snatched the pouch away. “You made your choice; now read out the challenge.”

  Bislipur’s jaw was clenched as if to hold back the challenge and prevent it from reaching the delegates’ ears. He took a deep breath, hesitating for so long that Tungdil began to hope.

  “The fifth and final task is an expedition,” he announced, his voice trembling with rage. “The candidates are challenged to journey to the Gray Range and return with Keenfire. The winner will wield the ax against Nôd’onn.”

  There was a faint sigh as Gundrabur released his pent-up breath in relief. Balendilín closed his eyes and permitted himself the briefest of smiles.

  No one could have anticipated that the greatest challenge to Gandogar’s succession would come from a task chosen and read by Bislipur himself. It was obvious that Tungdil was far cleverer than his fellow dwarves had thought. Silence descended on the hall as the delegates digested the unexpected twist.

  Tungdil stepped forward quickly to forestall any protests about the nature of the task. “I issued the challenge, and I accept.” He turned to Gandogar.

  The fourthling king was visibly seething. “Ditto,” he growled.

  “Stop! We must draw again,” insisted Bislipur, knowing that an expedition to the Gray Range would sabotage his plan for a war against the elves. “You saw me drop the first note. This isn’t the right one!”

  Balendilín stood his ground. “What do you propose I do? We’ll never know which note was drawn first. No, the decision must stand. Both candidates have accepted the challenge, and the outcome will decide the succession.”

  “But what of the delay?” protested Bislipur. “An expedition will saddle us with orbits of uncertainty.”

  “Please don’t worry unduly,” Tungdil said politely. “I’ll endeavor to return as quickly as I can.” The delegates laughed. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get going and choose my traveling companions. There’s no time to waste.” He signaled to Boëndal and Boïndil to follow. “I would never have got this far if it hadn’t been for you. With your agreement, I should like you to accompany me on my expedition to the Gray Range. Can I count on your assistance in escorting me there and back again?”