The Dwarves (36 page)

“To serve the dwarves,” Bislipur said, grim-faced.

“What is it you want from
me?
”

“A change of heart. How can I persuade you that the future of the folks and clans lies with Gandogar and me?”

“If you persist in campaigning for a war against the elves, I will never be able to support your king,” Balendilín said frankly.
He stood his ground and Bislipur stopped too. Fifteen paces remained between them.

“Then a quarrel it is,” Bislipur told him harshly. “Until Gandogar has been elected, I shall regard you as an enemy and a
danger to the prosperity and safety of our race. The others will come round to my view.” He walked toward Balendilín, who
was advancing along the bridge. Only an arm’s length separated the two dwarves. “It’s about time the high king was spared
your counsel so he can come to his senses at last.”

By now they were so close that their noses were almost touching.

“To his senses? That’s rich, from you.” Balendilín stared at Bislipur and saw implacable hatred and enmity in his eyes. “Let
me tell you this,” he said, trying not to betray his fear, even though Bislipur undoubtedly intended to harm him. “Your war
against Âlandur will never happen. Even the fourthling chieftains are having second thoughts.”

“The throne is ours. You’re no match for Gandogar and me.” The words were spat violently, Bislipur’s pent-up fury ready to
erupt at any moment.

“I didn’t realize you were bidding for a joint succession.”

Neither flinched as they glared at each other, eyes locked in combat. All of a sudden Bislipur’s air of menace fell away.

“Well, good luck with your lost cause,” he said breezily. “May Vraccas be with you.” He stepped past Balendilín and continued
along the bridge.

The high king’s counselor closed his eyes and swallowed. Having resigned himself to a duel, he could scarcely believe that
he was going to make it across the chasm without a fight. Bislipur’s whistling reverberated through the tunnel, the simple
melody repeating itself and overlapping as he strode away.

It was a relief to leave the bridge and feel solid ground beneath his feet.
At least I know he means business,
thought Balendilín philosophically. He pressed on, anxious not to keep the fourthling delegates waiting.

He was just approaching a bend in the passageway when the floor seemed to shake. The movement was so slight that a human would
never have detected it, but the dwarves had learned to take notice of the faintest vibrations in the rock. Something heavy
was heading his way.

The next instant, he heard agitated mooing and thundering hooves. From what he could gather, a herd had been startled on its
return from the meadows.

Balendilín scanned his surroundings, searching in vain for a niche that would save him from the cattle’s charge. There was
no choice but to regain the bridge, climb over the parapet, and balance on the narrow ledge.

He turned and sped back along the passageway, spurred on by the sound of horns scraping against the polished walls. Panting
heavily, he reached the end of the tunnel and the bridge came into view; the animals were right behind him.

Without hesitating, he swung himself over the side and steadied himself on the ledge. The momentum nearly carried him into
the abyss, but the daring maneuver paid off and the cows streamed past behind him.

Vraccas be praised!

There was a jolt and the bridge cracked audibly. He could see the first fissures running through the rock.

It was only then that it occurred to him that the bridge was not designed to bear the weight of stampeding cows. It had been
built for dwarves, not cattle. The herd exceeded its strength by a matter of tons and the rhythmic pounding of their hooves
had a devastating effect.

The first crack opened at the midpoint of the bridge where the stone was at its thinnest. The struts beneath it snapped, heralding
the next stage in the disaster.

A section of stone measuring four paces in length gave way, sending a number of cows plummeting into the abyss. From there
the destruction spread along the bridge. Slab by slab the stone fell away, cows tumbling to their deaths, their moos becoming
fainter and fainter. At the back of his mind Balendilín was aware that there was still no sign that they had hit the bottom.

His position was precarious in the extreme. With the bridge crumbling before his eyes, he was faced with a choice of dying
among the cows or casting himself voluntarily into the abyss.

At last the herd stopped surging and the dwarf summoned the courage to leap into their midst. Barely had his feet touched
the ground when the stone gave way beneath him. Grabbing wildly at the edge, he managed to catch hold of a jagged overhang
and clung on for dear life.

An able-bodied dwarf would have hauled himself to safety easily, but Balendilín, dangling by his only arm, had no means of
saving himself and no prospect of being rescued. He knew it was merely a matter of time before his muscles gave out.

“Is anyone there? Help!” he shouted, straining his voice to alert his kinsmen to his plight. With any luck, someone would
be on their way to retrieve the wayward herd. “Over here!”

The cows were calmer now and answered his cries with gentle, mindless moos. Two of the animals ventured to the edge and, sniffing
at his hand, licked it heartily. Their saliva collected in a pool, making his position more dangerous than before.

It seemed to Balendilín that three grown orcs could not weigh more than he did. His arm was getting longer, while his voice
grew hoarse.

Suddenly the herd parted as someone barged through their midst.

“Over here,” he called, relieved that help had arrived before he lost his grip. “I’m falling!”

Dust showered over him, coating his hair and his beard, and he found himself looking into the green face of a gnome whose
sizable nose was tipped with a wart of impressive dimensions. The creature’s round eyes stared at him greedily and its clawlike
fingers slithered down his arm.

“Nearly done.” Sverd leaned over the edge and fumbled with Balendilín’s belt. “Just one moment,” he told the unfortunate dwarf.

A clasp clicked open and Sverd straightened up, a look of satisfaction on his face. He brandished Balendilín’s purse and the
jewel-encrusted belt. “Much indebted to you, I’m sure! You can let go now.” Chuckling maliciously, he beat his retreat.

“You can’t just leave me!” Balendilín shouted, aghast. “Come back!” It was too late: His fingers slipped and in spite of his
frantic efforts, he failed to get a purchase on the saliva-covered overhang. He steeled himself for the long slide into darkness.

At that moment, an ax sped toward him, the short metal spur catching in the rings of his mail shirt. Balendilín was reeled
in like an anchor on a chain.

Breathing heavily, he lay on the floor beside his rescuer, who was panting from the strain.

“Gandogar!” Balendilín could not conceal his astonishment at being saved from his fate by the fourthling king.

“You and I may not always agree with each other, but we’re hardly enemies,” said the monarch, smiling wryly. “First and foremost,
we’re dwarves, children of the Smith. Our enemies are Tion’s minions, not the other clans or folks. That’s how I see it, in
spite of our differences.” He straightened up and helped the royal counselor to his feet. “What happened?”

Balendilín seized his hand thankfully. Gandogar had spoken from the heart and his heroic intervention was evidence enough
of his sincerity. “Something must have startled the cattle,” he said.

He didn’t elaborate further. He wasn’t prepared to blame Bislipur and Sverd for engineering the “accident” until he had firm
proof. The gnome’s appearance on the scene had convinced him that Bislipur was behind his attempted murder; Sverd always acted
on his master’s command.

“I owe you my life,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t mean I think you’re right about the elves, but I’m deeply indebted to
you all the same.”

“Spoken like a true dwarf,” the king said warmly. “Besides, I didn’t do anything that you wouldn’t have done for me.”

“Oh really?” Balendilín paused and smiled. “I’m not sure I would have helped.”

Gandogar looked at him, shocked. “I…”

“How could I have rescued you with only one hand?” Balendilín burst out laughing and, after a short silence, Gandogar joined
in. It saddened the counselor that the fourthling monarch was so determined to go to war; he had a feeling that Gandogar would
make an excellent king.

Later, when Balendilín regained his chamber, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the whole episode had been a trap. The
delegates who supposedly wanted to see him were an invention.

At least his purse and his buckle had been deposited by his door. The gnome must have thought better of harboring evidence
of his despicable crime. Balendilín replaced the purse, fastened his belt, and vowed not to give his would-be murderers another
chance.

Kingdom of Sangpûr,

Girdlegard,

Early Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle

A
utumn left the travelers in no doubt that it was a force to be reckoned with, particularly at night. Even though they were
deep in the south of Girdlegard, having crossed the border into Queen Umilante’s realm, there was little warmth to be found
in the desert, only a constant barrage of tiny grains of sand.

No sooner had darkness drawn in and the sun sunk below the horizon than the air took on a nasty chill. Andôkai wasted no time
in lighting a blazing fire, in spite of the twins’ disapproval. To Boëndal’s mind, the comfort it provided was outweighed
by the risk of attracting orcs and other riffraff; it seemed foolish to court danger when they had come so far and were almost
at their goal. Somewhat begrudgingly, Boïndil agreed with him. But the maga ignored them anyway and persisted in tossing logs
into the flames.

They were only eight or so orbits from Ogre’s Death when they came to a village among the dunes. The settlement was situated
next to a tranquil lake, which made it a popular and flourishing trading post. Tungdil and the others decided to grant themselves
the luxury of a night’s shelter.

For merchants returning home from the secondling kingdom, the village was a last oasis before the long journey through Sangpûr,
where nothing awaited them but desolate wasteland and the occasional brigand.

“It’s safe here,” Boëndal assured them. “The traders like dwarves because they know we offer decent, solid wares that fetch
good prices when they sell them in other towns.”

The party still attracted considerable attention, but only, as Tungdil realized, because they were accompanied by a walking
tionium tower. Children crowded round them, marveling at Djerůn, who bore the fuss with equanimity. The giant was accustomed
to causing a stir.

Visitors to the settlement were accommodated in tents by the lake. Depending on the needs of each party, the canvas and wood
constructions could be expanded or reduced in size, with the option of adding an extra floor to create a two-story dwelling
not dissimilar to a house.

Djerůn was too tall for a standard model, so they opted for a two-story tent and removed the upper floorboards. The wind was
freshening, so they retreated under the canvas, lit a fire in the corner, and got the kettle boiling.

“Just think,” Tungdil said excitedly, sipping his steaming mug of tea, “I’m about to meet my folk. I can hardly wait!”

“I’m not surprised,” Boëndal agreed, smiling at him warmly. “And the others will be pleased to meet you too. The delegates
will be dying of impatience.”

“Ugh!” his brother interrupted. “Why would anyone drink this stuff? I’m off to find some beer. There aren’t any sensible buildings
in this village, but they’re bound to sell something that tastes better than tea!” He got up and left.

“So tell me, Tungdil,” said Andôkai, who had been poring over the books, “what makes you special enough to merit a royal escort?”
Gorén’s letter rested on her knee. It was the first time she had taken any interest in why the twins had been sent to find
Tungdil.

He hesitated. “What does it matter?” he said disdainfully. “The Estimable Maga is abandoning Girdlegard. I don’t see why she
needs to know.”

Andôkai broke off her study, taken aback by Tungdil’s harsh tone. “Dear me, I’ve incurred your eternal displeasure, have I?
I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’re wasting your breath if you think you can stop me by appealing to my conscience.”

Boëndal glanced at Tungdil, eyebrows raised.

As far as Tungdil was concerned, the maga had no right to give up on her homeland so easily. She wasn’t the only one who stood
to lose by staying in Girdlegard. In spite of his excitement at being reunited with his folk, he knew that his chances of
survival were slim, unless of course there was something in the books that could help them vanquish Nôd’onn. But unlike the
maga, he was determined to fight beside his kinsmen to the end.

Rain pattered against the canvas. Fat droplets left meandering tracks on the outside of the tent and pitted the dusty ground.
Autumn showers were nothing unusual in Sangpûr’s deserts. In most other places, the wet and dry weather would have been ideal
for agriculture, but the soil was impossibly barren in these parts. Trees and plants rarely took root and were tended jealously
by their owners.

Just then the tent flap swung open and a cloaked intruder appeared in their midst.

Like a statue conjured to life, Djerůn leaped into action. His left gauntlet closed around his two-hander; then he raised
the sword with both hands, dropped into a half crouch, lunged forward, and brought the blade whistling toward the stranger’s
throat.

“Stop!” the maga commanded. Djerůn froze.

“Forgive me,” stammered the man. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was told to deliver this.” Hands trembling, he deposited
the keg of beer and fled, worried that the giant would change his mind and cut him down regardless.

“Good work,” Boëndal said admiringly. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible that a man could move so fast wearing all that
armor.”