The Dwarves (42 page)

“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.

“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?”

Boïndil guffawed. “Did you hear that, brother? He’s the same old scholar!” He turned to Tungdil. “We’d be honored to join
you, but only if you promise to drop your fancy speech. Besides,” he added with a tinge of sadness, “there’s the matter of
restoring my good reputation after I failed you in the desert.”

Tungdil placed his hands on the brothers’ shoulders. “Don’t worry, Boïndil, I’m sure you’ll have more than enough opportunities
to save me from certain death.”

The dwarf grinned and his brother nodded. “You earned yourself a new name today, scholar.” Boëndal pointed to the shimmering
metal grafted to his skin. “Tungdil Goldhand. What do you think of that?”

“Goldhand…” Tungdil held up his right hand. “Yes, I rather like the sound of it.” His hand hurt devilishly, but he managed
a smile.
Goldhand — a proper dwarven name.

T
he delegates dispersed and Bislipur and Gandogar stormed out of the great hall, leaving the high king and his counselor alone.

“Was that your idea?” inquired Gundrabur, reaching for his pipe.

Balendilín laughed softly. “Not at all. I would never have come up with such a preposterous suggestion. If you ask me, Tungdil
was sent here by Vraccas himself.” He ascended the dais and stood by the throne. “He’d make an excellent high king, you know.
His ideas are pure gold.”

“Tungdil chose wisely,” agreed the monarch. “Whichever of the candidates comes back first, Girdlegard will be the real winner
— and of course the dwarves. Our task is to make sure nothing untoward happens while the two of them are away.”

“It means keeping your inner furnace alight a little longer,” Balendilín reminded him anxiously.

Gundrabur levered himself out of his throne and stuck his pipe between his teeth. “Vraccas knows our need and will stay his
hammer until the time has come,” he said, undaunted.

His counselor watched him go, then sat down on the foot-stool to examine the contents of the leather pouch. His efforts were
focused on finding the slip of paper that Bislipur had originally drawn. He knew it as soon as he saw it because of the nick
in one corner. Bislipur’s expression on reading the challenge had discouraged him from intervening and correcting the mistake.

And rightly so, as he discovered when he opened the note. If Bislipur had kept hold of the paper, Tungdil would be cutting
diamonds instead of preparing for his quest.
He would have lost the challenge and Gandogar would be high king.

He unfolded the other slips of paper and laughed out loud: four times diamond-cutting and four times an expedition.