The War of the Dwarves (13 page)

“It tastes delicious,” he said quickly, “but I’m not accustomed to dwarven food.” He glanced round the kitchen. “I was thinking
of adding a pinch of that cheese.”

She glared at him in disbelief. “You mean the stinking cheese that the twins always eat? It tastes as bad as it smells!”

“I like it,” he said, offended that she was sneering at the one dwarven victual that he actually liked. He headed off an argument
by changing the subject. “So your clansfolk don’t know that we’re…”

“No. How was I supposed to tell them? I’ll talk to them when I see them.”

He scratched his beard. “You don’t think they’ll mind?” Tungdil, who had been living quite happily in ignorance of dwarven
sensitivities, saw himself up against all kinds of awkward rules.

“That’s another matter,” she conceded, helping herself to a potato. “Maidens aren’t supposed to choose their partners. Widows
are allowed to, but I’m only half a widow at best.”

Tungdil took another serving of mushroom ragout to show that he appreciated Balyndis’s food. A horrible thought had occurred
to him, and he simply had to ask. “What if your clansfolk refuse?”

Balyndis put down her spoon and reached for his hand. “Listen to me, Tungdil: I’m coming with you to the Gray Range, whatever
they say.” She looked at him gravely. “But we can’t be melded if my clansfolk won’t allow it. I can’t disgrace the good name
of my clan.”

“But if we can’t be melded…?”

“I’d still be your friend.”

Tungdil stopped chewing and gasped, nearly choking on his mushroom.
Why didn’t anyone warn me that dwarven mores are so complicated?

He imagined what it would be like to see Balyndis every orbit and never come close to her again. Their kinsfolk would frown
at them for holding hands like they were doing now.

A brisk handshake, a formal embrace—that was the most he could hope for. She would never again press her lips against his.
His heart wept at the thought that another dwarf could take his place and enjoy the rights that went with the iron band.
It would be agony.

He was so distressed that he stopped worrying about Boëndal, all thought of the Gray Range and the orcs at the Stone Gateway
forgotten. He finished the ragout in silence.

“What’s the matter?” asked Balyndis, squeezing his hands. “Have I spoiled things? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He raised his eyes from his plate. The sight of Balyndis was so comforting that his mood brightened like the morning sun.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “We’ll be a wonderful couple. Just think, we’ll have lots of lovely children and they’ll all
be splendid smiths.” He kissed the back of her hand and she ruffled his hair. The bad dream was over.

Some time later, a steward knocked at the door and escorted them to the throne room. They passed through the imposing doorway
and entered the octagonal hall, the walls of which shimmered warmly with beaten gold.

The quake had shown little respect for the time-honored room, and great cracks had opened in the ceiling, proving that solid
rock was no defense against the force of a speeding comet.

Tungdil didn’t take long to spot the new columns, added for purely structural reasons. The firstling masons had done their
best to match them to the rest of the room, adorning them with intricate carvings inlaid with gold, silver, vraccasium, and
other precious metals, but for all their efforts, it was obvious that the pillars were a late addition. Glancing up, Tungdil
noticed that the majestic mosaics had been damaged and several tiles had fallen to the floor.

“There’s a lot to be done,” said Xamtys, noticing their glances. She greeted them from her metal throne.

Tungdil and Balyndis inclined their heads, but the queen held up a hand before they could kneel before her throne. “Let’s
dispense with formality. We’ve got business to attend to.” She paused for a moment while a steward brought stools for her
guests to be seated. “Tungdil, I think you should leave for the Gray Range right away. Girdlegard won’t be safe until you’ve
closed the Stone Gateway. We need you and as many of our kinsfolk as possible guarding the Northern Pass. On top of that,
there’s the quake damage to consider. If the fifthling stronghold was hit half as badly as we were, you’ll have to work flat
out to rebuild it. We know the orcs vandalized the fortifications; the quake may have flattened them completely.”

“I was thinking the same,” he said. “But you’ll need every pair of hands to repair the firstling halls. Why not send your
volunteers later, when the work has been done?”

She considered him intently. The golden rings of her mail shirt shimmered in the light of the braziers, bathing her plump
face in light. Her expression was serious. “Your generosity does you credit, Tungdil, but your new compatriots should leave
at once. It’s in Girdlegard’s interest that they go.” She turned to Balyndis. “The Steel Fingers arrived bearing news from
the western border of the kingdom. The falling star continued its trajectory and crashed to earth on the far side of the range
to the west. Since then, flames have been sighted every night on the horizon. According to the guardians of the Red Gateway,
it looks as though a fire is raging throughout the Outer Lands.” She looked from Tungdil to Balyndis. “I’ve sent word to the
elves and men. Andôkai should hear the news within the next few orbits. It’s a pity we can’t tell them more.”

Tungdil was busy trying to work out whether there was any connection between what the sentries had seen and Nôd’onn’s warning
of a threat from the west. The magus, insistent that Girdlegard was in danger, had pleaded with Andôkai to spare his life.
“I dread to think what happened when the star crashed to earth,” said Tungdil, remembering the craters formed by falling debris
from the comet’s tail. “The damage was bad enough here, but the impact of a rock of that size… Surely nothing could survive.”

“Do you think the fire is connected with Nôd’onn’s warning?” asked Balyndis, catching on.

Tungdil shrugged. “Somehow it doesn’t seem likely. No good ever came of fretting, although I dare say we’ll fret anyway—there
won’t be much else to distract us on the long march ahead.” He thought for a moment. “Your Majesty, perhaps you could propose
a council of the most learned minds in Girdlegard,” he suggested. “Together, we stand a better chance of finding a solution.”
He smiled. “Why shouldn’t a dwarven queen be the first to remind the other rulers of the newly pledged solidarity between
dwarves, elves, and men? Your Majesty would have the honor of leading an initiative devoted wholly to the common good.”

Xamtys returned his smile. “Wise words from our scholar. Giselbert chose the right dwarf to rebuild his kingdom.” She turned
to Balyndis. “You’re free to go—the Steel Fingers are impatient to see you.”

They bowed respectfully and hurried into the corridor where Balyndis’s clansfolk were waiting.

Tungdil appraised the delegation of dwarves. The women among them, four in total, were dressed in traditional brown leather
bodices and woolen skirts. Some of their male companions wore heavy chain mail and had weapons in their belts. They were warriors
in the firstling army, proud to be chosen by Vraccas to fight for their folk. Although Tungdil was standing right in front
of them, they acted as if he weren’t there.

Balyndis threw herself on the tallest, stateliest warrior and hugged him tight.

“Ah, my intrepid daughter,” he greeted her, laughing heartily. He laid his hands on her face. “I hear you fought the hordes
at the Blacksaddle! Thanks be to Vraccas that you’re safe.”

Although he and Balyndis were thrilled to see each other, their reunion was dignified and restrained. Tungdil had been half
expecting them to jump up and down with elation, but dwarves didn’t go in for the effusiveness common among humankind. Besides,
there was no need for it; the affection between father and daughter was evident in their smiling faces and shining eyes.

“How are the others?” asked Balyndis. Her expression darkened. “I heard the comet…”

“Missed us entirely!” said her father. “Vraccas was merciful and diverted the falling debris away from our halls. Boulders
landed either side of us, and a few of our chambers were damaged by the quake, but everyone’s safe. We’re looking forward
to hearing about your adventures—but first there’s some more good news.”

“More good news? And I was so worried about you!” exclaimed Balyndis, making her way through the ranks of the Steel Fingers
and greeting each in turn. At last she signaled for Tungdil to join her. “Father, this is Tungdil Goldhand. He led the expedition
to forge Keenfire and kill the dark magus.” She squeezed his arm. “He’s a good friend and, with your consent, we’d like to
be melded.”

Tungdil held out his hand to the warrior and met his steely gaze. “My name is Tungdil Goldhand—of what clan, I cannot say,
but I’m a child of the Smith and a—”

“You’re of Lorimbur’s line,” said the warrior, cutting him short. He ignored Tungdil’s outstretched hand. “Bulingar Steelfinger
of the clan of the Steel Fingers, child of the Smith and warrior of Borengar,” he introduced himself. “No daughter of mine
will ever be melded to a dwarf whose founding father swore eternal vengeance on the other folks. I know you fought valiantly
at the Blacksaddle, but you’re a thirdling, and that’s all there is to it as far as I’m concerned.”

Tungdil would rather have been beaten over the head with a cudgel, stabbed through the heart, or pushed into a chasm than
suffer the harshness of Bulingar’s words. His vision of a shared future with Balyndis shattered into a thousand jagged shards,
leaving him with a gut-wrenching feeling of emptiness.

“Believe me, I’ve never wanted to kill another dwarf,” he said, hoping to change the firstling’s mind. “All my life, I’ve
longed to—”

“All your life?” interrupted Balyndis’s father. “A dwarf of sixty cycles is practically a child! How would you know if you
wanted to kill us? You were found by a magus and brought up by men. It stands to reason that you didn’t hate us in Ionandar,
but after a few cycles in a dwarven kingdom, your true disposition will come to the fore. What if the golden warrior is made
of gilded tin?”

Balyndis’s eyes flashed angrily. “Don’t his actions count for anything?” she protested, struggling to control her temper.
“A dwarf intent on destroying our kinsfolk wouldn’t risk everything to save the dwarven kingdoms. It doesn’t make—”

“Silence!” thundered Bulingar. “There’s nothing to discuss! You won’t be getting melded to Tungdil because we’ve found someone
else.”

Balyndis took a step back. Her cheeks, which seconds ago had been filled with color, turned a sickly white. “Someone else?”
she stammered, turning to Tungdil and begging him silently to forgive her for what would surely follow.

“Cheer up, child,” said a skirted personage whom Tungdil guessed was Balyndis’s aunt. “We know you were upset about not getting
melded, so we found you a worthy suitor. Most dwarves aren’t good enough for our Balyndis, but we found one in the end.”

She clapped her hands and a figure stepped out of a side passage. The warrior was everything that a dwarven hero should be:
tall, powerfully built, with a thick black beard, and finely crafted armor.

Tungdil, gazing at the mail shirt in wonder, decided that he was looking at Borengar’s second-best smith.
No
, he prayed, hoping that the warrior would decide to walk away. He clenched his fists.

The other paid no attention to Tungdil’s silent pleading. Solemnly, he turned to Balyndis. “My name is Glaïmbar Sharpax of
the clan of the Iron Beaters, a child of your folk.” He pointed to his armor. “I’m a smith as well as a warrior, and this,”
he held out his hand and offered Balyndis a beautiful gold ring inlaid with gleaming vraccasium, “I made for you. It’s an
honor to be considered worthy of a Steel Finger; I won’t let your clansfolk down.”

Tungdil didn’t know whether to shriek or weep. His instinct and reason were pulling in different directions, the one telling
him to challenge the rival, the other warning that fighting Glaïmbar would upset Balyndis and prove her father right. He didn’t
want to be classed as a dwarf hater, after all. While his mind continued to chafe against his fate, his heart was weeping
and his soul was lamenting his loss.

She won’t turn him down; she can’t.
Defying the wishes of the clan was as heretical as breaking Vraccas’s laws. In dwarven society, clan was second only to family.
Deep down, Tungdil knew this, but he refused to give up hope.

If the situation had been reversed, he would have rejected the unwelcome suitor and turned his back on the clan.

It was different for Balyndis. She had grown up in a dwarven kingdom, surrounded by family, clan, and folk. These were the
dwarves who had fed, protected, and trained her in warfare and metalwork for thirty-five cycles—and she was expected to defer
to their desires. If Balyndis neglected her duty and followed her heart, her family would disown her, and she would be a dwarf
without clansfolk, a pebble banished from the flanks of the mountain, lonely and forlorn.

Balyndis turned to face him. Tears trickled down her cheeks, collecting on her chin and merging into a single, diamond-like
droplet. “My heart belongs to you,” she mouthed before turning to Glaïmbar and accepting his gift with trembling hands. With
that it was settled: Balyndis and Glaïmbar would forge the iron band.

“It’s time you were melded,” her father told her, visibly relieved. “The future of the Steel Fingers is safe in your hands.
You’re young and strong, and you’ll have plenty of children. And you, Glaïmbar Sharpax of the clan of the Iron Beaters, you’re
a fine addition to our clan. Our elders will be delighted to hear my daughter’s decision.” He stood between them and laid
a hand on their backs, propelling them down the corridor away from Tungdil. “Come, let’s eat together and make plans for the
biggest celebration in history. The bride is a heroine, after all.”

The Steel Fingers lined up on both sides of the corridor to let the trio pass. Balyndis turned around to look at Tungdil,
but one of her clansfolk stepped between them, his helmet blocking their view. The others joined the back of the procession,
and Balyndis was lost among the crowd. A moment later, the Steel Fingers rounded a corner, their jangling mail and stomping
boots fading away.