The Dwarves (43 page)

Thank Vraccas for Bislipur’s clumsiness!
he thought, chuckling in relief.

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle

K
nowing that he would require the services of a mason, Tungdil had asked the high king’s counselor to recruit a suitable artisan
from the secondling clans. Balendilín felt strongly that the final decision should rest with Tungdil, and so it was agreed
that a group of candidates would be selected for him to take his pick. Not long afterward a one-eyed dwarf knocked on Tungdil’s
door.

Tungdil looked him over in surprise. “Are you the only one? Balendilín promised to narrow it down, but I didn’t expect him
to be quite so ruthless. Who are you?”

“Bavragor Hammerfist of the clan of the Hammer Fists, mason and stoneworker of two hundred cycles.” His bearlike hands reminded
Tungdil of Balendilín. His black hair hung loose about his shoulders, and his beard was artfully shaped around his cheeks
and chin. “My masonry is second to none and my right eye sees twice as keenly as two. Nothing escapes me, not the tiniest
fault in the stone nor the slightest flaw in the working of it.”

Tungdil explained that the expedition required a mason to fashion the spurs for an ax. Since the blade was to be forged in
the Gray Range, the other components of the weapon would be made and assembled there. “Which means journeying through the
Perished Land. It’s bound to be hazardous — only Vraccas knows what will befall us.” Tungdil left the briefing at that and
looked the mason in the eye. A dark red ring encircled the brown iris.
How peculiar.

“Count me in,” said Bavragor. He held out his hand. “Let’s shake on it. Do you promise that I, Bavragor Hammerfist, will be
your one and only mason?” Tungdil obliged by clasping his hand and giving his word. The mason grinned and seemed almost relieved.
“When are we leaving?”

“In two orbits’ time. I need to recruit a diamond cutter from the fourthling delegation.”

“Then I’ll start packing. A weapon like Keenfire deserves my finest tools.” He hurried from the room.

Tungdil had expected the interview to last a little longer, but he soon forgot about the mason and turned his attention to
finding a diamond cutter.

None of the fourthlings could be expected to join his company of their own accord, so he was obliged to ask Gandogar to spare
him a suitable dwarf. The strategy was safer than it sounded: The fourthling delegation was composed of first-rate artisans
and warriors, as tradition dictated.

The more Tungdil thought about it, the less inclined he was to ask his rival for a favor, but in the end he swallowed his
pride, reminding himself that vanity was a luxury when Girdlegard’s future was at stake.

He was just leaving his chamber when he saw four dwarves hurrying down the passageway toward him. One by one they introduced
themselves. “Balendilín sent us. He says you’re to choose.”

Bewildered, Tungdil stared at the bearded countenances looking at him expectantly. “I’ve made my choice,” he said. It hadn’t
occurred to him that there might be other candidates. Now he was regretting his haste. “I chose Bavragor.”

“Bavragor Hammerfist? Not Bavragor who polishes the stone with the beer on his breath?” said one of the dwarves incredulously.
“Not the merry minstrel?”

“He got here first.”

“He didn’t make the final cut! You can’t take him!” The masons looked at him, aghast. “He’s been trying to drown himself in
beer for as long as anyone can remember. Four full tankards are barely enough to steady his hands!”

“I gave him my word. I can’t go back on it now.” Tungdil’s cheeks flushed with fury when he realized that he’d walked straight
into the one-eyed mason’s trap.
I shall ask him to release me from our agreement
.

The secondlings directed him to Bavragor’s favorite tavern, and Tungdil marched off to give the trickster a piece of his mind.

He soon found the place. A line of lamp-lit columns ran down the center of the barrel-vaulted chamber, and lanterns dangled
from the ceiling, casting golden halos through panes of tinted glass. At the far end was a stone-hewn counter where four barmaids
were filling tankards from huge dark barrels and carrying them to the waiting clientele. The band was made up of two krummhorns,
a stone flute, and a drum, whose task consisted mainly of accompanying the rowdy choir.

Bavragor was sitting at a table with a group of laborers who had come straight from the quarry and were covered in dust. He
was celebrating his selection for the expedition in timeworn mason’s fashion, waving his tankard and singing at a volume that
sent tremors through the room. Beer slopped out of his tankard, spattering his brown leather breeches with white froth.

“Bavragor!” Tungdil shouted sternly.

“Ah, the high king to be!” The mason raised his vessel. “Three cheers for Tungdil Goldhand!” His drinking companions joined
in, raising their tankards and scrambling to their feet in a fog of gray dust.

Tungdil seethed. In a few determined strides he crossed the tavern, tore the tankard from Bavragor’s hand, and slammed it
onto the table. “Balendilín didn’t send you to me. You tricked me into giving you my word and now I want you to release me.”

“Oops, careful there. That’s good beer you’re spilling.” The mason gave him an innocent smile. “I didn’t actually say that
Balendilín sent me, did I?”

Tungdil was lost for words. “Well, no, you didn’t, but…”

Bavragor picked up his tankard. “Was it part of the deal?”

“Yes… I mean, no…”

“Look, here’s what happened: I came in, asked for the job, and you agreed. We shook hands, you gave me your word of honor,
and that was that.” He took a long gulp. “In any case, you made the right choice: There’s no better mason than me. I expect
you saw my work when you got here: inscriptions, statues, the lot. Pretty impressive, I’d say.” He raised his right hand.
“This is the hand you shook, and your grip was true. The sooner you find a diamond cutter, the better; we can’t hang around
forever.” He turned back to his fellow drinkers and launched into song.

Tricked by a drunkard!
Speechless with rage, Tungdil stomped off to find Gandogar. He tried to swallow his anger and think about it logically. Perhaps
Bavragor really was the best mason in the secondling kingdom — but it didn’t make up for his barefaced cheek.

He was halfway down the corridor when he suddenly burst out laughing. It was almost as if Vraccas were trying to demonstrate
that a little bravado could go a long way. The Smith had shown a fine sense of irony in saddling him, the false heir to the
throne, with an impudent drunkard who had bluffed his way into the mason’s role.
I’ll have to remember to pack enough brandy and beer to steady his hands when we reach the Gray Range. At least Balendilín
will be able to tell me whether he’s really as good as he claims…

Tungdil fetched one of the two lengths of sigurdaisy wood and entered the assembly room where Gandogar was waiting.

The fourthling monarch was sitting at the table with five of his entourage. Tungdil was struck by their glittering jewels
and diamonds; compared to the secondlings, their tunics and mail were unashamedly ostentatious.

“It is not in my nature to make others beg. You don’t need to explain yourself, Tungdil. I know what you want.” He pointed
to the delegates, who rose to their feet. “Take your pick. They’re all expert craftsmen, masters in the art of cutting and
polishing gems.”

Tungdil paced along the line of dwarves, studying their faces and allowing his instincts to guide him.

The artisans were a little on the small side, but for some reason he was drawn to the puniest of the lot. Something told him
that this was the one. The dwarf’s beard glittered with diamond dust that had caught in his curly whiskers. It looked as though
thousands of tiny stars were shimmering under his chin. Tungdil’s mind was made up.

“Goïmgar Shimmerbeard,” said Gandogar, introducing him. “A fine choice,” he added.

The artisan’s nervousness turned into full-blown panic. He turned to his monarch. “But, Gandogar, Your Highness… Surely you
won’t make me… You know that I can’t…”

“I gave Tungdil a free choice,” Gandogar said sharply. “Do you want me to break my promise? You’re going with Tungdil, and
that’s that.”

“B-but, Your Majesty…” the artisan stuttered desperately.

“Think of the reputation of our folk. Do exactly as Tungdil tells you, and if you get to the Gray Range before us, be sure
to cut the diamonds as conscientiously as you would for me. Farewell — and, Goïmgar, come back in one piece.”

The king rose and signaled for the remaining four dwarves to follow. When he reached the door, he stopped and turned.

“I don’t want you to come to any harm, Tungdil Goldhand, but as the rightful heir, I can’t honestly wish you well. Vraccas
will lead me to victory and expose you as a sham. I will be Gundrabur’s successor.”

“You can have the title, King Gandogar,” Tungdil said graciously, handing him the sigurdaisy wood. “Just remember to slay
Nôd’onn and protect Girdlegard and our kingdoms from harm.”

He hurried away without waiting for a reply. The scrawny artisan followed him, eyes cast gloomily to the floor.

T
ungdil, Bavragor, Goïmgar, and the twins were sitting in the central hall of the library, a ribbed vault lined with lamps
and mirrors that afforded sufficient light for reading and study. All around them were tablets and rolls of parchment, the
collected knowledge of hundreds of cycles. The archive, the secondlings’ repository of the past, seemed the ideal place to
hold a meeting about the future.

Tungdil unrolled a map showing the territory between the five ranges. “We’ll go down and take a look at the entrance to the
underground network,” he told them. “With a bit of luck and the blessing of Vraccas we’ll be able to travel west —”

“You mean north,” interrupted Bavragor. The strapping dwarf leaned forward and pointed at the Gray Range. “We need to go north.”

“Sure, but first we’ll go west to Borengar’s folk. The firstlings have always been the best smiths. They’re the only ones
capable of forging the blade.”

“That’s as may be,” objected Bavragor, giving Tungdil a searching look with his right eye. “But who’s to say they’re still
there? For all we know, they may have been wiped out by orcs.” He reached for his beer. “We should take a smith with us and
head north right away.”

“Ah,” said Boëndal, “so we’ve got a new leader, have we? Don’t tell me you want to be high king as well?”

“I wouldn’t mind being high king if it meant I could lock up maniacs like your brother,” the mason retorted harshly.

Boïndil frowned, his hand moving automatically to his ax. “Careful, one-eye, or you’ll end up blind.”

“They never liked each other,” Boëndal explained in a whisper. “The incident with Bavragor’s sister only made things worse.”

Tungdil sighed. He had a nasty feeling that the journey was going to be harder than he’d thought. “His sister?”

“I’ll tell you later,” hissed Boëndal. “They’ll only end up fighting — or worse.”

“What are we going to do with the dragon if we actually find it?” asked Goïmgar. The skinny artisan was barely half the width
of Bavragor or the twins. “If you ask me, the whole thing sounds dangerous. Orcs, the Perished Land, älfar, a dragon…” He
swallowed nervously. “I must say, I am a bit… concerned.”

“Concerned? It’s going to be
fabulous!”
bellowed Boïndil, clapping him on the back. Goïmgar winced in pain. “We all like a good bit of orc-baiting, don’t we? It’s
good dwarven fun.”

True to his name, Goïmgar’s beard shimmered in the candlelight. “Speak for yourself. I’d rather be in my workshop.”

Boïndil eyed him suspiciously. “You do know how to use an ax, don’t you? You sound more like a whining long-un than a child
of the Smith.” He jumped up and threw him an ax. “Come on, then, show us how you fight!”

The ax clattered across the floor and slid to a halt in front of Goïmgar, who left it where it lay. He patted his sword. “I’d
rather use this and my shield,” he said peevishly, offended by the secondling’s mocking tone.

“Call that a sword? It looks more like a bread knife. A gnome would be too embarrassed to use a pathetic blade like that.”
Boïndil whinnied with laughter. “By the beard of Vraccas, you must have been hewn from soapstone!” He sat down, shaking his
head in despair. Bavragor chuckled into his beer, emptied his tankard, and burped. On the subject of Goïmgar, the two archenemies
were united in scorn.

Boëndal turned his attention to the map. “We’ll be able to get to the firstling kingdom without coming up against the Perished
Land. Let’s hope we can use the tunnels. I wonder what kind of state they’re in.”

“I expect we’ll find out when our wagon hits a broken sleeper and we plunge to our deaths,” Goïmgar said despondently. “No
one’s been in the tunnels for cycles and cycles. It’ll be a miracle if —”

“Now I know why Gandogar said we could take you with us. What a pumice-hearted weakling you are! I’ve never heard so much
wailing and sighing,” Boïndil said scornfully.

Bavragor eyed him coldly. “If you’d been at my sister’s funeral —”

“Enough!” Tungdil silenced them. He was starting to have serious doubts about his ability to hold the group together.
Vraccas give me strength.
“Is this an expedition for dwarves or for children? No one would ever guess that you’re older than me! We’re not visiting
a gold mine or a salt works. We’re supposed to be saving Girdlegard.”

“Oh, I thought we were risking our lives so you could steal the throne,” Goïmgar said spitefully. Bavragor turned his tankard
upside down and caught the last drops in his hand. He licked them up regretfully.

Tungdil smiled at the artisan. “No, Goïmgar, that’s not true. Our priority is to forge a weapon that will slay Nôd’onn and
give us the means to fight the Perished Land. Without Keenfire we don’t stand a chance.” He hadn’t let on that he was missing
a section of the instructions for Keenfire that Andôkai hadn’t managed to translate.