The Dwarves d-1 Read online

  "Listen carefully, the pair of you. I'm not interested in hearing who was responsible for this disaster. Nothing, but nothing is more infuriating than being distracted from my work. Your explosion has cost me orbits, if not an entire cycle, of study, so forgive me for losing my patience. Enough is enough! I intend to restore peace to my school."

  "Estimable Magus, you're not going to banish the dwarf, are you?" exclaimed Jolosin, trying to sound horrified.

  "Enough! We'll discuss your part in this fiasco later, but first I need this nonsense to stop. The sooner we have peace in the vaults, the better!" He turned to Tungdil. "An old friend gave me the use of a few items and now he needs them back."

  The dwarf braced himself. "You, my little helper, will run the errand for me. In one hour I shall expect you in my study, bag packed and ready to go. I'll give you the items then. Prepare yourself for a good long walk."

  The dwarf bowed politely and hurried from the room. This was far better than he had expected. A journey on foot was scarcely a chore; the paths and lanes of Girdlegard were no challenge for his sturdy legs. I might meet a dwarf, he thought hopefully. If this is supposed to be a punishment, he can punish me some more.

  The magus waited until the stocky figure was out of sight before turning to Jolosin. "You wanted to land him in trouble," he said bluntly. "I know what you were up to, famulus! There's never a moment's peace with the two of you around. Well, I've decided to put a stop to it. For the duration of Tungdil's journey I want you peeling potatoes in the kitchen. You'll have plenty of time to regret your bad behavior and pray to Palandiell for his speedy return."

  Jolosin opened his mouth in protest.

  "If I hear so much as a grumble from you or the slightest criticism from Frala or the cook, you can pack your bags and leave." The young man's jaws clamped shut. "Oh, and before you start your stint in the kitchen, you can clean up here." The magus waved at the mess that had once been his laboratory.

  He shooed the remaining famuli from the room. On his way out, he picked up a broom from the corner and pressed it into Jolosin's hands.

  "Don't get anyone to do your dirty work for you," he said, marching to the door. "Make sure it's tidy, and by tidy I mean absolutely spick-and-span/"

  He slammed the door and the bolt rattled home.

  II

  Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Winter, 6233rd Solar Cycle It was time for the high king to initiate his counselor into the plan. He handed him a letter. "It's from the magus of Ionandar. Lot-Ionan the Forbearing, they call him in his realm."

  Balendilнn knew the magus by reputation. His school lay in the east of Girdlegard and he was said to prize his solitude. Apparently, he spent most of his time studying in his underground vaults, inventing new charms and formulae, far from the worries of everyday life.

  "He sends news of something most unusual: a dwarf," the high king explained. "The only dwarf in Ionandar, no less! He says he found him many cycles ago under peculiar circumstances and raised him in his realm. He wants to know whether any of our clans are missing a kinsman. He is eager to reunite him with his kind."

  Balendilнn skimmed the letter. "What do we know of the dwarf?"

  "The matter is mysterious but intriguing. To my knowledge, no child has been lost in the past two hundred cycles."

  "And it's your intention to present the sorcerer's ward as a long-lost heir to the throne?" The counselor laid the letter on the table. "But how?" he asked doubtfully. "A dwarf raised by long-uns won't know what it means to be a child of the Smith. The fourthlings will never back him, especially not without proof of his lineage."

  The high king shuffled to the conference table and lowered himself onto the secondling monarch's chair before his legs gave way beneath him.

  "I expect you're right," he said in a strained voice. "Be that as it may, they can't do a thing until the candidate is here and the matter has been resolved. Even if I die, their hands will be tied." He looked squarely at his counselor. "If Vraccas should smite me with his hammer before the dwarf arrives, you must bear the burden of preventing war and preserving our kinsfolk."

  Balendilнn pursed his lips. "Your Majesty won't be leaving us yet. Not when your inner furnace still burns strong."

  "You're a miserable liar, like all dwarves." Gundrabur laughed and laid a hand on his shoulder. "But from now on we must speak with false tongues in order to protect our kinsfolk from a war that could destroy them. You and I will fib like kobolds, Balendilнn. For once we must make it our business to drive a wedge between the clans. Let us walk awhile and you can lend me your counsel. We shall weave a web of falsehoods around Gandogar and Bislipur and keep them from the throne until the last belligerent syllable has been squeezed from their lungs."

  Balendilнn helped the king to his feet. He had no faith in the plan succeeding, but he kept his misgivings to himself.

  Gandogar was in good spirits when he woke the next morning and was summoned with the other delegates to the great hall. Proceedings were about to recommence and he felt confident that the high king would name him as his successor, after which the members of the assembly would endorse his choice with their votes. It was as good as decided already.

  Gundrabur's plea for peace had rankled with him, but he no longer held a grudge. The aged dwarf's long reign had produced nothing worthy of posterity and he was destined to be forgotten before too long. It wasn't dignified to quarrel with a dying king.

  Gandogar entered the hall and sat down, while Bislipur took up position behind him. The pews filled quickly as the chieftains and elders filed in.

  A few of the delegates looked at him encouragingly and rapped their ax heads. Far from being threatening, the gesture was a sign of support.

  Gandogar noticed an unusual trinket hanging from the neck of a secondling chieftain. He strained his eyes to take a closer look. The shriveled trophy was an elven ear worn with obvious pride by the chieftain, who nevertheless tucked it hurriedly under his mail as soon as the high king's arrival was announced. It was still too early for open displays of aggression toward a protected race.

  Gundrabur appeared at the door, his sprightly appearance belying rumors of his impending death. Gandogar felt a wave of disappointment at seeing the high king in such excellent form, then immediately felt guilty for harboring such dreadful thoughts. He didn't actually want the old chap to die; it was just that Gundrabur's disapproving speech of the previous orbit had struck a raw nerve.

  Tunics of mail creaked and rasped as the delegates went down on one knee to greet the high king. Axes on high, they signaled their unwavering devotion and their willingness to live-and die-as he decreed.

  Gundrabur answered by lifting the ceremonial hammer and bringing it down smartly. The delegates were free to rise, which they did, amid much clunking of armor.

  Balendilнn stepped forward and turned his earnest brown gaze on Gandogar: "Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, ruler of the fourthlings and head of Goпmdil's line, are you ready to assert your claim to the high king's throne?" he said ceremoniously.

  Gandogar rose from his seat, pulled his ax from his belt, and laid it on the table. "Unyielding as the rock from which we were created and keen as this blade is my will to defend our race against its foes," came his solemn reply. Such was his inner turmoil that he failed to notice that Balendilнn, not the high king, had taken charge of the proceedings. It occurred to him when the counselor cut in before he could continue.

  "King Gandogar, the assembly has heard and noted your claim. A decision will be taken when we have heard the second candidate speak. You and he must decide which of the two of you will withdraw. Until then we must wait."

  "Wait?" bellowed Gandogar, blood rushing to his head. He turned to search the faces of his chieftains, all of whom seemed genuinely surprised. "Who was it?" he thundered. "Which of you had the audacity to go behind my back? Step forward and make yourself known!" He reached for his ax, but was stayed by Balendilнn.

&
nbsp; "You do your kinsfolk an injustice," said the counselor. "Your rival is not here." He produced a letter and held it up for all to see. "The dwarf in question was separated many cycles ago from his folk. He is mindful of his heritage and has announced his return. He lives in Ionandar and is preparing to join us as we speak."

  "Ionandar?" Gandogar exclaimed incredulously. "Vraccas forgive me, but what kind of dwarf lives with sorcerers?" He drew himself up. "Is this some kind of joke? A stranger writes a letter that you accept without question and now the ceremony must be delayed. What name does he go by?"

  "His name is of no account. He was raised as a foundling and named by humans. But the items discovered with him show him to be a member of your folk."

  "Hogwash!" Gandogar retorted angrily. "The letter is a fake!"

  "And what of the document purporting to tell the truth about the elves?" Balendilнn said sternly, one hand resting lightly on his belt.

  "Silence, both of you!" The high king levered himself from his throne. "King Gandogar, do you presume to call my counselor a liar?" The old dwarf was powerful and majestic in his fury, his words thundering through the lofty hall. The fourthling monarch sounded shrill and petty as a fishwife by comparison. "You will abide by my decision. When the candidate arrives, the fourthling chieftains will decide which of you will make the better king."

  Gandogar pointed to his retinue. "Why the delay? Ask the chieftains now and you shall hear whom they elect. Their minds are made up. How could a stranger-"

  The high king raised a wizened hand. "No." He waved toward the engraved stelae. "We will follow the law as it was given to us by our forefathers. What they ordained will be fulfilled."

  The silence that descended on the vast hall was by no means uniform in quality. For the most part it was born of astonishment, but in a number of cases it was prompted by helplessness and rage. There was no choice but to wait for the audacious stranger to appear.

  Gandogar sat down heavily and pulled his ax across the table toward him. The blade left a deep white gouge in the polished stone, scarring the surface over which the masons had toiled so long.

  "So be it," he said coolly. He dared not risk a longer speech for fear that he would say something he might regret. Turning, he cast an abject glance at Bislipur, who seemed a model of composure, but whose unruffled expression Gandogar could read. His adviser was already turning over the situation in his mind, searching for a solution. Bislipur could be relied on to be resourceful.

  "The journey from Ionandar will take weeks. How are we supposed to occupy ourselves until the dwarf arrives?" asked Gandogar, eyes fixed on the sparkling diamonds on his armor. "What makes you think that our aspiring high king will find us?" "Or that he'll make it here alive," added Bislipur.

  "We'll have plenty to discuss in the meantime," said Balendilнn. "The assembly will turn to matters of imminent importance for our clans." He smiled. "But your concern is touching. Rest assured that the dwarf will get here safely. We've sent an escort."

  "In that case we should send one too," Bislipur insisted with forced benevolence. "The fourthlings are always happy to look after their own. Where should we send our warriors?"

  "Your offer is most generous, but unnecessary. The dwarf will be a guest of the high king, so the high king has sent warriors of his own," Balendilнn said diplomatically. "Given the stormy start to the proceedings, I suggest we take a break and cool our tempers with a keg of dark ale." He raised his ax and rapped the poll twice against the table. The clear ring of metal on stone sang through the air and echoed through the corridors.

  At once barrels of dark roasted barley malt were rolled into the hall, and in no time the delegates were raising their drinking horns to the reigning high king and his successor, who most assumed would be Gandogar.

  Bislipur laid his hand on his monarch's shoulder. "Patience, Your Majesty. Let us honor our forefathers by satisfying every requirement they name. It's important we don't give anyone the opportunity to question the legitimacy of your reign." They clinked tankards and he took a lengthy draft. The beer was thick and malty, almost sweet. "Ale like this can be brewed only by dwarves." He smiled, wiping the foam from his beard.

  At length the atmosphere in the great hall became jollier and more boisterous and Bislipur could slip away unnoticed. Safely ensconced in a lonely passageway, he summoned Sverd and entrusted the gnome with a mission of great importance. Enchanted Realm of Ionandar, Girdlegard, Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle Whistling, Tungdil knelt by his cupboard and packed his large leather knapsack for the trip. He took a tinderbox, a flint, and a blanket, in case he had to spend a night in the open, as well as his fishing hook, a plate, and some cutlery. His cloak he rolled into a bundle and fastened to the outside of the knapsack with a leather strap. Lastly, he pulled on his chain mail and tweaked it with practiced movements until it lay flat against his skin.

  He felt instantly better. There was something safe and incredibly homely about his shirt of steel rings. His attachment to his chain mail was a matter of instinct, not something he could explain.

  He had the same feeling when he was working at the anvil. Routine jobs-forging horseshoes, nails, and iron brackets for doors, honing blades, or sharpening tools-came naturally to him. It was his dwarven blood, he supposed.

  Hoisting his bulging knapsack to his shoulders, he picked up the ax that had been given to him by Lot-Ionan, hooked it through his belt, and set off for the magus's study. He knew the vaults like the back of his hand. The dim light posed no problem for his sharp dwarven eyes and his sense of direction never abandoned him underground. No two tunnels looked the same to him, owing to his ability to remember the slightest irregularity in the rock. It was a different story on the surface, where he was unable to find his way anywhere without a map.

  He knocked briskly and opened the door. Lot-Ionan was sitting at his desk, dressed in the old beige robes to which he was so attached. He held up a sheet of parchment accusingly as the dwarf came into the room.

  "Do you see this, Tungdil?" he said, throwing the paper disgustedly back onto the pile. "This is your doing! Orbits of study destroyed in the blink of an eye."

  "I had no idea," the dwarf said with genuine contrition but determined not to concede any guilt. Stubbornness was another of his inherited characteristics.

  "I know, Tungdil. I know." The magus's expression softened. "Go on, then. What really happened?"

  "It was another of Jolosin's pranks. He played a trick on me, so I threw a bucket of water at him…" He bowed his head and his voice fell to an indistinct mumble. "He turned the droplets into ice and the shards hit some of the phials. He tried to lay the blame on me by locking me in the laboratory." He looked up and focused his brown eyes on his patron.

  The magus sighed. "Six of one and half a dozen of the other, just as I thought. Still, I shouldn't have shouted at you like that." He motioned to the parchment. "Of course, it doesn't change the fact that I'll be spending the next few orbits reinscribing these runes. You had no business to be in the laboratory, Tungdil. No good comes of a dwarf meddling in magic or mixing potions. I thought you knew that by now."

  "But it wasn't my-"

  "What possessed you to take matters into your own hands? You had only to come to me and Jolosin would have been punished. I'm sending you on a journey, a long journey-which isn't to say I won't be pleased to have you back. On the contrary." He paused. "Rest assured that Jolosin has fared much worse; he'll be peeling potatoes until you're home. And should you decide to take a more circuitous route…" With a mischievous grin he left the rest up to Tungdil. "Well, are you ready?"

  "Yes, Estimable Magus," Tungdil answered, relieved that his patron no longer held him solely to blame. "What would you have me do?"

  After the frayed tempers of the laboratory, the atmosphere in the study, where they were surrounded by the clutter of Lot-Ionan's cabinets, gadgetry, and books, seemed all the more relaxed. Flames crackled softly in the fireplace and the magus's owl was napping in a cor
ner.

  "We'll discuss your errand later. All in good time." Lot-Ionan rose and retired with his steaming mug to the wing chair by the hearth. He stretched his slippered feet toward the flames. "There's no rush. Jolosin will be busy in the laboratory for a good while longer… Besides, there's something I'd like you to consider while you're away." His hand patted the chair beside him.

  Tungdil set down his knapsack and took a seat. It sounded as though the magus had something important to say.

  "I've been thinking." Lot-Ionan cleared his throat. "The two of us have known each other for sixty-two of your sixty-three cycles."

  The dwarf knew what was coming. At times like this, when the mood was sentimental and the magus was feeling relaxed, he would pour himself a draft of beer, warm his feet by the fire, and journey into the distant past, recalling events that had happened over a human lifetime ago. Tungdil loved these conversations.

  "It was winter and the winds were howling when there was a knock on the door and a band of kobolds deposited a bundle." He looked his ward in the eye and laughed softly. "It was you! Back then, without your beard, you could almost have been mistaken for a human bairn. They threatened to drown you in the nearest river if I didn't pay your bond. What could I do? I gave them their money and raised you myself."

  "For which I shall be eternally grateful," Tungdil said softly.

  "Yes, well, eternally…" The magus fell silent for a moment. "It seems to me that it might be time to let you go your own way." He laid a hand on the dwarf's thick shock of hair. "I've outlived my natural span and you've served me so loyally that your debt of gratitude, if ever there was one, has been repaid. Besides, if I don't come up with a more convincing charm against old age, my soul will be summoned to Palandiell."

  Tungdil didn't like to be reminded that human existence was inescapably brief, even for the likes of the powerful magus. "I'm sure you'll find a way…," he said hoarsely. "Er, didn't you want to tell me something?"