“They’re not traveling on foot,” Boëndal broke in. “They’ve all vanished except Bislipur, and no one knows where they’ve gone.”
“They didn’t go through the gates,” added Boïndil.
Suddenly it dawned on Tungdil: “Sverd!” In an instant he was wide-awake. Bislipur’s gnome had followed them and eavesdropped on their conversation until Boïndil had scared him away. Which means Gandogar knows exactly how to operate the rails. Sverd was every bit as devious as his master.
Tungdil wriggled into his leather jerkin and pulled on his mail, leather breeches, and boots. At last he was ready for the adventure to begin. He told Bavragor and Goïmgar to follow the twins through the disused passageways and light the fires beneath the cauldrons.
“I want the wagons to be on the rails by the time I get there. I’ve got a thing or two to say to Bislipur first.”
He asked Balendilín to accompany him. “I see you’ve chosen your mason,” the counselor remarked.
“Not exactly.” Tungdil sighed. “Bavragor volunteered himself and I fell for it. It’s too late to go back on my word, but I wouldn’t mind knowing why everyone is so against him. Is his drinking really that bad?”
Balendilín drew breath. “Either he’s sober, in which case he’s bitter and rancorous; or he’s tipsy, which means he won’t stop singing and playing the clown — the merry minstrel, they call him. As far as his masonry is concerned, he’s past his peak.”
“You mean he’s not the best mason?”
“Oh, he’s the best, all right. You only need look at the parapets, halls, and passageways to convince yourself of that. But Bavragor hasn’t used his chisel for ten cycles or more. Thanks to his perpetual drinking, his hands can’t be trusted to do what his mind commands. No other mason has ever come close to rivaling his art, so yes, he’s the best.” He pursed his lips. “I didn’t want to recommend him because his mood is unpredictable and he may not be as skilled as he was. Either way, it’s not worth dwelling on now.”
They found Bislipur breakfasting in the dining hall with a group of fourthling delegates. His companions broke off their whispered conversation to warn him of Tungdil and Balendilín’s approach.
“Still here?” said Bislipur, feigning surprise. “I expected more of you, Tungdil. Strike while the iron is hot — isn’t that the smith’s motto?”
“I was waiting for Gandogar,” retorted Tungdil, struggling to contain his rage. “Why isn’t he here? And who told him how to get to the tunnels?”
Bislipur eyed him dismissively. “We did some exploring of our own,” he said casually. “Besides, there was no agreement about departing together. Gandogar and his company were ready, so they left. They’ll be back with Keenfire before too long.” He wrinkled his nose. “You’re the one who spent last night in his cups and frittered away the morning in bed. You should be setting Bavragor an example, not the other way round.”
“Then let the race begin. We’ll soon see who gets to the firstling kingdom and recruits the best smith. Your monarch will be wishing he’d had more of a lead.”
Bislipur picked up his mug of hot milk. “Well, don’t let me delay you. You’re free to go whenever you please.” There was a rumble of laughter from his companions.
“Where’s that gnome of yours?” Balendilín asked sharply. “I hope he isn’t snooping on your behalf. He wouldn’t be plotting anything untoward against Tungdil, would he?”
Bislipur jumped to his feet and drew himself up threateningly. “How dare you insult my honor, Balendilín Onearm. If you had enough limbs to defend yourself, I’d challenge you to a duel.”
“You can guarantee it will come to that if you continue to provoke me,” the counselor said evenly. “All I want is your assurance that the expedition will be conducted without interference from you.”
Bislipur put his hands on his hips. “Vraccas forfend that I should interfere! That’s precisely why I stayed behind — so no one would wrongfully accuse me.”
“And what of your little helper?” demanded Balendilín.
“The same applies,” Bislipur said haughtily. “Of course, I don’t always know what he’s up to. Sometimes he gives me the slip.”
Tungdil didn’t believe a word of it. We’ll have to keep our eyes open. He excused himself brusquely and hurried out of the hall.
“So, Bislipur,” Balendilín said softly, “why don’t you tell me why you really stayed behind?”
The dwarf laughed balefully. “I’ve given you one good reason already, but since you insist: I’m here because I don’t want you deciding our future if the high king was to die. I owe it to my folk to ensure that the secondlings don’t seize the crown while the legitimate heir is away.” He leaned forward. “When I say legitimate heir, I don’t mean your puppet. He isn’t one of us.”
“Nonsense,” Balendilín said flatly. “Tungdil is a fourth-ling. You heard the evidence just like everyone else.”
Bislipur took a step toward him. “I’ll tell you where Sverd is,” he whispered. “He’s on his way to our kingdom to study our archives and speak with those who would know of a bastard child.” His eyes narrowed. “The story of Tungdil’s origins is an outrageous lie, an insult to the honor of a king who was faithful to his queen until his dying orbit. Sverd will bring back proof that your puppet is a liar, a slanderer, and a fraud, and I shall take pleasure in exposing the deceit. I’ll smash the charlatan’s ambitions as thoroughly as this ax has splintered hundreds of orcish skulls. Make no mistake, my friend, everyone involved in this trickery will meet the same fate. I swear it on Vraccas’s hammer.”
Balendilín considered the threat and decided that Bislipur stood a good chance of uncovering the deceit. If Tungdil was to return victorious, he would have to be protected from the allegations until Nôd’onn was defeated. The crusade against the magus was more important than anything else.
“That’s good to know,” he said equably. “Like you, I’m an honest dwarf with nothing to fear from the truth. I look forward to seeing which of our candidates is the first to return. In the meantime, I’m sure you won’t mind if I examine the authenticity of your document about the elves. I think it’s important to establish who was really responsible for the fifthlings’ fall. Of course, if the text you provided turns out to be a forgery, I’ll know who to blame.” He nodded curtly and left the hall.
Bislipur sat down and watched the one-armed counselor disappear into the corridor. “Much good may it do you! Just wait and see who’ll soon be sitting on the throne,” he muttered darkly.
His ambitious plans had been foiled by the appearance of the impostor, but he had no intention of giving up. I’m not letting cycles of preparation go to waste. We’re going to war, no matter what.
In the event that the delegates changed their minds about a military offensive, he had another trick up his sleeve.
Bislipur turned back to the breakfast table to refill his plate. He cut himself a slice of ham and stared at the streaks of white fat amid the soft pink flesh. Suddenly it came to him: My enemies’ enemies are my friends.
* * *
Tungdil threw his most important belongings into a knapsack and hurried down the passageways at a jog. As an afterthought, he had briefed Balendilín and Gundrabur about the eight rails leading out through the mountain: Gandogar was gone already, but the other delegates deserved to be told of the forgotten depot of wagons and machines.
On reaching the hall, he found his companions awaiting him with faces as long as elves’. The air was damp and sticky and he was perspiring from every pore.
“Someone has gone to great lengths to delay us,” Boëndal explained grimly. “Take a look at this.”
The rail that sloped toward the firstling kingdom was lying warped and twisted on the floor. The oppressive warmth came from steam that was escaping from countless perforations in the sides of the cauldrons. Even if it was possible to repair the rail, they had no means of moving the heavy wagons.
“So much for letti
ng the best dwarf win,” Boëndal said testily. “Although it’s flattering that Gandogar feels threatened enough to cheat.”
“I’d rather do without that sort of flattery. Besides, I don’t suppose Gandogar had anything to do with it.” Tungdil bent down and examined the rail more closely. Someone had used the pulley system to prize it from the ground. “If you ask me, Bislipur decided to give his monarch a helping hand.” What are we supposed to do now?
Goïmgar had stationed himself a few paces away and was cultivating a detached expression. Meanwhile, Bavragor was leaning against one of the perforated cauldrons and drinking from his pouch. He licked his lips contentedly, sealed the pouch, and walked over to inspect the damage.
“It’s simple, really,” he breezed. “All we have to do is swap the rails.” He pointed to the neighboring rail that served as the disembarking point for passengers arriving from the firstling kingdom.
“You’ve been drinking,” Boëndal said reproachfully.
The mason didn’t bother to look at him. “So what? I don’t complain when you’ve been eating. Beer just happens to be my sustenance.” His huge calloused hands thumped the metal track. “We’ll send for one of our smiths and let him take care of it.” His right eye settled on the punctured cauldrons. “As for these, we should fetch a tinker from the trading post. I expect our artisans could handle it, but it’s more a job for a tinker. And while we’re at it, we may as well ask the women-folk in the brewery. They know a good deal about vats.”
Tungdil stared at him in surprise. All of a sudden the one-eyed dwarf was bubbling with enthusiasm and confidence. Balendilín had been right: The mason’s mood was unpredictable. “Good work, Bavragor; those are excellent suggestions,” he said approvingly.
“I know.” Grinning, the mason rewarded himself with another draft of beer.
The combined efforts of the tinker and his apprentices, assisted by the women from the brewery, resulted in the cauldrons being repaired to the point where they could withstand the build-up of steam for long enough to get the machinery going.
It took a further two orbits to undo the rest of the damage. At last the cauldrons were filled with water and fired from below, the gears moved smoothly, and the hoists did as instructed. By the afternoon of the third orbit their wagon was stationed on its new rail, ready to begin its journey into the unknown.
Tungdil and Boïndil sat at the front, with Bavragor and Goïmgar on the next bench and Boëndal at the rear. Their luggage, including comestibles, equipment, and the materials for Keenfire, was shared among them and stowed at their feet.
Tungdil turned round and scanned the faces of his companions. There was no telling what awaited them at the bottom of the first steep drop or how much of an advantage Gandogar had gained. Everyone looked understandably grave.
“Trust in Vraccas,” he said, shifting his gaze to focus on the door ahead. His left hand grasped the lever beside the rail. He pulled it back and the door swung open, clearing their passage into the darkness ahead.
“And now to save Girdlegard…” He let up on the brakes and the wagon rolled gently down the ramp toward the tunnel.
“What if Gandogar sabotaged the rail?” Goïmgar asked anxiously. “Or what if we’re too heavy and fly off the side?”
“Let’s hope we don’t find out!” There was a crazed glint in Boïndil’s eyes as they rushed toward the final pitch. “Here we come!”
Gathering speed, the wagon reached the point where the tunnel took a sudden plunge. Its passengers held on tightly as the vehicle tipped over the edge and careered into the abyss.
Ireheart whooped in excitement, Boëndal held on for dear life, Bavragor burst into song, and Goïmgar petitioned Vraccas, while Tungdil wondered whether any of his companions were sane.
XII
Underground Network,
Girdlegard,
Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle
The windswept dwarves sped through the tunnel, hair and beards streaming behind them as the wagon thundered along the rail, swooping and juddering at an incredible rate. The speed of the descent pinned them to their seats, and Tungdil felt himself being pushed and pulled in ways he had never thought possible.
Bavragor had stopped singing after choking on something that had flown into his mouth, leaving Boïndil to whoop and bellow with untrammeled enthusiasm, exhilarated by the stomach-turning ride.
Goïmgar was praying with his eyes closed and beseeching Vraccas to protect him from harm. His mortal terror betrayed a lack of confidence in Gandogar’s sense of fair play.
The carefully hewn walls flashed past so rapidly that all they could see was a blur of polished stone. After a while the tunnel opened out, becoming at least as wide as the wagon was long.
“You’ll burst my eardrums if you keep yelling like that,” Boëndal told his twin. “It’s even noisier at the back because of the wind.”
Boïndil roared with laughter. “Isn’t this fun? It’s a million times faster than boring old ponies. I’d like to shake our forefathers by the hand!”
“I don’t know,” grumbled Bavragor, wiping brandy from his eyes. “They could have made it a bit easier for me to drink.”
Tungdil smiled quietly. Being with other dwarves almost made up for the ordeals he had suffered since leaving Ionandar, and he had no regrets about visiting Ogre’s Death, even though it meant embarking on another trip. At least this time he wouldn’t be traveling alone. “If only it weren’t for their blasted feuding… ,” he said, not realizing that he was speaking aloud.
“Blasted what?” Boïndil bellowed. “Speak up! I can’t hear you!” Tungdil gave a helpless shrug.
Their steep slide into darkness ended as abruptly as it had begun and they continued at a more agreeable pace, with a few gradual climbs and the occasional gentle downhill.
They clattered over two junctions without being thrown off the rail.
“I hope we’re on the right track,” called Boëndal from the rear. “Has anyone seen any signposts?”
“I saw some levers before both sets of points,” Tungdil shouted back. “There was dust and lichen all over them. I don’t think anyone’s used them for some time.” He hoped to goodness he was right.
The tunnel stopped widening, and the view, now that they had slowed enough to see it, was disappointingly monotonous. Save for the odd patch of lichen or moss, the walls were smooth and unchanging. Twice they spotted stalagmites on the rail; then the wagon ran over them, snapping them in two.
“There’s your proof that Gandogar didn’t come this way,” said Bavragor, uncorking his leather drinking pouch and using the leisurely tempo to drink a few sips before the next descent. “Do you think they might have switched the points?”
“No,” Tungdil said firmly. “The levers definitely hadn’t been touched.” Where else could they have gone, though?
“Maybe they lifted the wagon across the rails so we wouldn’t be able to tell,” surmised Boïndil.
Tungdil didn’t argue, but privately he was wondering whether Gandogar’s company had taken an entirely different route. What if they’ve found another tunnel that will get them there more quickly? It was conceivable that Gandogar had come into possession of a proper map that showed more than just entrances and exits. Then again, maybe Bavragor was right and the points had been changed so that he and the others had been tricked into traveling in the wrong direction while Gandogar and his companions raced west. He decided not to mention his concerns.
Meanwhile, the wagon was purring along the rail as if it had been making the journey every orbit for a hundred cycles. In time the tunnel widened again and they reached a vast hall that served as an interchange with three other rails. They rolled to a halt.
Tungdil jumped down stiffly. “Come on, you lot, let’s see where we go from here.” He was glad of the chance to stretch his legs after hours of sitting down.
Between them, they explored the hall and discovered an array of hoists and cauldrons similar to the setup in
the secondling kingdom.
“It’s a kind of junction,” murmured Boëndal, shouldering his crow’s beak. He scanned the hall to make sure nothing had taken up residence in the underground network without the dwarves’ knowledge.
“Hey, Shimmerbeard! What are you doing?” boomed Boïndil.
The fourthling sprang away from the wall, revealing a tablet of light gray granite. It was roughly the height and width of a gnome and held in place with long rusty nails. “I was…” He cleared his throat. “I was wiping the dust away,” he said defiantly. “I wanted to see what it said.”
“It looks like a map,” said Tungdil, hurrying over. “Well done, Goïmgar. You’ve got sharp eyes.”
He knew the fourthling didn’t deserve his praise: Goïmgar had been scratching out the lines with his dagger to disadvantage the expedition and allow the fourthling king to get ahead. Tungdil had no means of actually proving it, so he kept the observation to himself and made a quick sketch of the map. I’ll have to keep an eye on him.
“Look, Tungdil,” Bavragor said cheerfully. “We’re on the right track; it’s this way.”
“That’s all we need: directions from a one-eyed dwarf,” muttered Goïmgar just loud enough for Bavragor to hear.
The mason turned on him, snarling with rage. His right hand shot out, his fingers winding their way into the artisan’s wavy beard and pulling him close.
“Come here, you pathetic excuse for a dwarf,” he growled, raising his free hand and peeling back his left eyelid to expose the shriveled remains of an eye. A shard of rock was impaled at its center. “You think I’m blind, do you? Ha! Let me tell you about my eye. One orbit the mountain tired of my masonry and exacted its revenge. A splinter of rock as sharp and fine as a needle flew up and robbed me of my sight, but Vraccas took pity on me and made the other eye ten times as strong. That’s ten times, Shimmerbeard. My one eye sees more clearly than ten!” He pushed the delicate artisan away and laughed grimly. “It sees the slightest flaw in the rock, the pores of your skin, and the fear in your eyes; what do you have to say about that?”