The Dwarves (40 page)

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.

“We’ll have to rely on you to decipher the tomes,” said Balendilín. “You can always consult our archives, if you think they’ll
be of use.”

“You should ask your historians. I’m sure they’d do a better job than me,” muttered Tungdil.

Balendilín shook his head. “They don’t know the magi’s writings as well as you do. No one understands the long-uns better
than you.” He looked encouragingly at the dejected dwarf. “I know it’s a heavy burden, but a great deal is at stake. We’ll
never forget it.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promised, forcing down his mouthful. He hiccuped discreetly. His palate had adjusted to the cheese,
but his stomach was proving less adaptable — not unreasonably, considering the quantities involved. To round off the meal
he poured a mug of sour milk and stirred it through with a spoonful of honey. Dwarven cuisine was a lot better than he had
thought.

Excusing himself from the table, he made his way back to his chamber, this time looking fixedly at the floor so as not to
be distracted by the magnificent marble carvings. The speech that was taking shape in his mind was going to cover all the
events of the previous weeks and more.

T
ungdil drained the strong malt beer from his tankard, wiped his beard, and looked up at the assembly. The delegates had listened
patiently while he’d read out Lot-Ionan’s letter and tried to establish his lineage as the illegitimate offspring of the dead
fourthling king.

True to their word, three of Gandogar’s chieftains claimed to recall a rumor about a missing heir. Bislipur instantly accused
them of lying.

“I expect you’re wondering why I think I would make a good king,” said Tungdil, raising his voice above the tumult. The beer
had settled his nerves and quashed his inhibitions about appearing before an assembly of dignitaries and chieftains. “The
fact is, I know better than anyone the dangers that lie ahead. I know the power of the Perished Land; and I know we need to
stand united. It would be fatal to squander our strength on a campaign against the elves. Their numbers may have dwindled,
but their army is not to be mocked.”

“We’re not afraid of the pointy-ears!” Bislipur shouted, incensed.

“Maybe not, but dead heroes are no use to us at all,” Tungdil retaliated. “The elves have been fighting the älfar for hundreds
of cycles. What chance would we have of defeating them? Their bowmen are the best in Girdlegard. Before we get within three
hundred paces, they’ll bombard us with arrows!”

“Not if we sneak up on them,” Bislipur objected.

“You can’t honestly believe they won’t notice an army of a thousand dwarves! Friends, this war will end in our defeat.” He
looked at them beseechingly. “Darkness has eaten its way into the heart of our lands. Vraccas entrusted the safety of Girdlegard
to our race; it’s our duty to defeat Nôd’onn and expel Tion’s minions — and if the elves and humans are able to help us, we
must ally ourselves with them!”

“The high king’s puppet has learned his part well,” sneered Gandogar.

“Our minds think alike because we both see reason. If there was anything between your ears but sheer bloody-mindedness, you
might see sense as well.” A ripple of laughter swept the room.

“The elves must be punished,” shouted Bislipur, drawing himself up to full height. “You heard how they betrayed our kinsfolk
and allowed Tion’s beasts to storm the Stone Gateway. Their crimes cannot go unavenged!”

“And what of Nôd’onn? A war against the elves would weaken us dangerously.” Tungdil thumped his hand against the marble. “Of
course, if we really want to make things easy for the magus, we could always open our strongholds to the orcish invaders!
Is that what you want? Maybe you should ask the runts if they’d like to join us in a campaign against the elves!” He waited
for the commotion to settle. “In my possession are two tomes belonging to Lot-Ionan in whose household I was raised. Once
I have unlocked their meaning, we will hold the key to defeating Nôd’onn and the Perished Land.” He neglected to mention that
even Andôkai had failed to make sense of the books. “Just think of the glory if the dwarves were to save Girdlegard! Our heroism
would humiliate the pointy-ears far more than military defeat.”

There was a hum of excitement from the benches. Books that could defeat the Perished Land; that was news indeed!

“He’s lying!” roared Bislipur. “Since when did magic ever help the dwarves? It brings us nothing but trouble! Magic is to
blame for the dark wizard’s power!”

“I say we fight the elves, then retreat to our ranges until the humans have settled the matter for themselves,” added Gandogar,
springing to his feet. He hurried to the middle of the assembly to be sure of the delegates’ attention. “Don’t listen to the
foundling who learned our lore from books. He’ll never understand our ways.” He laughed. “A high king who knows nothing of
his race? It’s downright ridiculous!”

“It can’t be that ridiculous or you wouldn’t be so het up,” Tungdil said pointedly. There was another low rumble of laughter.
He was doing Lot-Ionan proud with his witticisms, although the beer could take some of the credit.
I mustn’t get carried away,
he told himself.

Gundrabur had heard enough. He raised the hammer and pounded it against the marble table. “Both candidates have made their
cases and the assembly must decide. Delegates, remember you are voting for your future high king. Those in favor of Gandogar
Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, raise your axes!”

Tungdil counted the glistening blades. To his great surprise, Gandogar’s share of the vote had dwindled to less than two-thirds
among the fourthling chieftains. When his own name was called, the number of axes was far greater than expected. Balendilín
gave him an approving nod.

Tungdil’s personal victory did nothing to change the end result: The majority had voted in favor of Gandogar, which amounted
to a mandate for war. Bislipur held his head high. It was clear from his triumphant expression that he thought his work was
done.

“At this stage in the proceedings, it falls to me, the reigning high king, to approve the assembly’s choice,” declared Gundrabur.
“Regrettably, in view of King Gandogar’s foolish determination to steer our race toward destruction, I see no option but to
declare him unfit for office. For that reason, I nominate Tungdil in his place. Who will back me?”

Gandogar and Bislipur watched in stunned silence as a third of the delegates raised their axes, thereby investing Gundrabur
with the authority to proceed.

The hammer crashed noisily against the marble. “Then the succession shall be decided on merit. Our candidates will prove their
ability in a contest: Gandogar and Tungdil will each nominate a task, two further tasks will be set by the assembly, and the
fifth task will be drawn at random. You have seven orbits to prepare.” With that, he called the hustings to a close.

D
azed, Tungdil made his way along the line of supporters who were queuing to pat him on the back, wish him well, and intercede
with Vraccas on his behalf. Faces, beards, and chain mail loomed on either side of him, disappearing in a blur. His mind was
reeling from the uncommonly strong beer and the exhilaration of success. It was incredible to think that dozens of dwarves
had been won over by his arguments, but there was no escaping the knowledge that his triumph was founded on a lie.

Although the chances of discovering anything about his provenance were slim, Balendilín had promised to do what he could to
investigate without arousing suspicion. The counselor was too tactful to mention the possibility that the foundling was descended
from Lorimbur’s folk, and the notion of it seemed ludicrous to Tungdil, who felt comfortable living in Ogre’s Death and shared
nothing of the thirdlings’ murderous dislike of other dwarves. In any case, there were more urgent matters than establishing
his origins. First and foremost, he needed to practice his axmanship in case Gandogar opted to challenge him to a duel. And
he still had to settle on a task of his own.

No one knew what to expect from the fifth and final task. Each candidate could nominate four challenges and one would be drawn
from a pouch. Only Vraccas could predict the outcome.

Tungdil returned to his chamber to find Gorén’s books and the contents of the leather bag strewn across his bed.
Andôkai must have broken the spell and examined the artifacts!

He turned over the fragments of two silver-plated decanters and studied the runes.
What a pity!
If the inscriptions were to be believed, it took a single drop of liquid for the vessels to fill themselves over and over
again. Mixed in with the shattered decanters was a broken hand mirror. The fractured glass cast back a cracked reflection
of his bearded face.
Seven years of bad luck.
He chuckled grimly as he picked up a shard. To be cursed by a mirror was the least of his problems.

He turned his attention to a couple of lengths of wood. They were as long as his arm and had a gray, almost metallic shimmer
to them. The grain was wayward and irregular.
What are they?
He supposed they could be cudgels.
But what would they be doing in the bag?
He tossed them carelessly onto the bed.

The maga had written him a note. Furious with her for leaving Girdlegard and for rummaging through his things, he left it
unread. Then curiosity got the better of him.

The mystery is solved, or as good as.

You were right: There
is
a way to defeat Nôd’onn and the books explain how. However, the means are beyond us, which is why
I’m leaving Girdlegard for good.

The first book is an account of the Outer Lands that tells of a place called Barrenground, where demonic beings have the power
to enter human souls, take possession of them, and invest them with extraordinary power. Men possessed of such demons are
driven by an urge to destroy goodness wherever they find it and bend everything to their will.

The second book tells of a race called the under-groundlings who invented a mighty ax to destroy the demonic power.

The blade of this ax must be made of the purest, hardest steel, with diamonds encrusting the bit and an alloy of every known
precious metal filling the inlay and the runes. The spurs should be hewn from stone and the haft sculpted from wood of the
sigurdaisy tree.

The ax must be forged in a furnace lit with the fiercest of all flames and its name shall be Keenfire.

This is the weapon with the power to slay the demonic spirits. Keenfire can slice through flesh and bone, cutting through
the human body to destroy the evil presence within. Any harm that has been done reverts to good.

Regrettably, I was unable to make sense of one passage, which means I cannot vouch for the method’s success. The task is as
good as hopeless.

All the same, it explains why Nôd’onn is interested in the artifacts. The bag contains two fragments of sigurdaisy wood.

The sigurdaisy is extinct in Girdlegard, but its wood is exceptionally hard, so hard that it can’t be worked with ordinary
tools. Humans used to believe that the trees were sacred and they burned the wood for its powerful aroma and deep crimson
flames. They stopped conducting the rituals when all the trees were gone. I once witnessed a sigurdaisy fire in honor of Palandiell,
but that was over a hundred cycles ago.