The Dwarves (6 page)

The delegates stared at him, dumbfounded. Bislipur’s surprise tactics had worked.

“Gandogar, we gathered here today to elect a new high king,” Balendilín said evenly, trying to deflate the excitement. It
was clear from the murmured conversations that the fourthling king’s proposal had struck a chord. “It is not for us to talk
of war with the elves. Our duty is to protect the peoples of Girdlegard.” He turned imploringly to the benches. “Friends,
remember the commandment given to us by Vraccas!”

Gandogar scanned the faces of the delegates. He could see that they were torn. “First listen to what I have to say. Documents
have come into my possession, ancient documents uncovered by Bislipur and handed to me. Hear what they speak of; then decide
for yourselves what should be done.” He took a deep breath, unfurled a roll of parchment, and read in a solemn voice:

And the elves were filled with envy.

Desirous of the dwarven treasure, they fell upon the fifthling kingdom and ambushed Giselbert’s folk.

Fierce fighting broke out in the underground halls and at the Stone Gateway.

Some of the enemy were trapped by Giselbert in a gloomy labyrinth, never to be seen again.

But the treacherous elves used their magic to poison the children of the Smith. One by one the fifthlings succumbed.

The elves seized their chance and slaughtered the ailing dwarves. Only a handful of Giselbert’s folk escaped the massacre.

Silence descended on the great hall. Gandogar’s words echoed in the minds of his listeners, his commanding voice breathing
new life into the ancient script.

Drawn by the smell of death and bloodshed, orcs and trolls marched on the Stone Gateway and gathered at the border.

The cowardly elves fled in terror, abandoning Girdlegard to its fate.

But before they fled, they used their cunning to open the portal. Giselbert and his remaining warriors defended the pass with
the staunchness of true dwarves, but their depleted army could do nothing against the hordes.

It was then that evil entered Girdlegard.

He paused to measure the force of his speech. With a little more persuasion, he would have them on his side. Only Gundrabur’s
one-armed counselor was shaking his head.

“I do not trust these lines, King Gandogar. Why were they not discovered before now? It seems strange that a document incriminating
the elves should emerge at this time. It suits your purpose rather well.”

“The document was hidden, who knows for what purpose — perhaps by a doubting dwarf like yourself who lacked the conviction
to go to war,” came Gandogar’s scornful reply. He raised his ax and buried the blade in the map, cleaving Âlandur. “You heard
what the document says. They killed our kin and betrayed us! They must pay for their murderous deeds.”

“And then what?” Balendilín asked harshly. “Tell me, King Gandogar, who would benefit from the destruction of the elves? Their
deaths won’t further our interests, nor those of mankind! No, destroying Âlandur will profit the Perished Land alone. We may
as well join forces with the älfar and help them to victory. Is that what you want?” The counselor fixed his eyes on Gandogar,
who suddenly felt dangerously exposed. “Our real enemies aren’t the elves, Your Majesty. Vraccas didn’t give us the authority
to fight the peoples of Girdlegard. By my beard, none of us can stand the elves; it’s in our nature not to like them. There
have been skirmishes, even deaths, I know.” He placed a hand on his left shoulder. “I lost a limb in a fight with four orcs,
but I’d sooner sever my one good arm than raise it in a war against the elves. Our races have their differences, but Vraccas
bade us protect the elves and we have never neglected our task. Do you propose to break his commandment?”

Gandogar fixed the one-armed counselor with a furious glare. Balendilín had sabotaged his plans for vengeance and nothing
he could say would mend the damage. Through the silence he heard Bislipur grinding his teeth.

“The älfar are no friends of mine,” he said at last. “No, this is about seizing our opportunity. Once the elves are defeated,
I will lead our armies to victory against the Perished Land. Tion’s minions have plagued Girdlegard for too long. The dwarves
shall triumph where humans have failed!”

“You surprise me, King Gandogar,” said Balendilín, an expression of open bewilderment spreading over his age and experience-lined
face. “Surely you don’t mean to defy the commands of our god? It seems to me your reason has been subdued by hatred.” He paused
and eyed Bislipur suspiciously. “Unless false counsel is to blame.”

The delegates shuffled and muttered until a secondling from the clan of the Bear Hands rose to his feet.

“In my opinion, the matter is worthy of debate,” he said firmly. “What if the document speaks the truth? Once a traitor always
a traitor! The elves might leave their crumbling kingdom and found a new settlement by seizing human land.”

“What if they betray another of our folks?” The speaker, a chieftain of the same clan, leaped up, burning with zeal. “The
pointy-ears will stoop to any level. I can’t say whether or not they murdered the fifthlings, but they should be punished
all the same!” He left his place and stood alongside Gandogar in a public show of support. “You may be a fourthling, but I
stand by your cause.”

Shouts of approval sounded from the benches. The dwarves’ low voices rumbled through the chamber until all that could be heard
was a single word:
war
. Balendilín’s calls for order were drowned out by the noise.

Gandogar sat back and exchanged satisfied looks with his adviser.
Girdlegard will soon be free of elves
.

At that moment an almighty bang rocked the hall. “Silence!” a voice thundered sternly through the din.

The delegates turned in astonishment.

Crown on his snowy head, Gundrabur stood perfectly erect before them, the ceremonial hammer in one hand. He had swung it against
the throne so furiously that the marble revealed deep cracks.

His eyes showed no sign of age, only recrimination, as he looked down at the chieftains and elders. No dwarf was more majestic,
more imposing than he. His former weakness and frailty had vanished, driven out by rage.

His white beard rippled as he raised his head. “ Shortsighted fools! You should be worrying about Girdlegard, not settling
old scores. Any race that pits itself against the Perished Land is our ally! The longer the elves can repel the powers of
darkness, the better.” His gaze fell on Gandogar. “You are young and impetuous, king of the fourthlings. Two of your kin were
slain by elves and for that I am prepared to excuse your misguided call to arms. The rest of you should know better. Instead
of indulging him in this lunacy, you should be voices of reason.”

Gundrabur scanned the assembly. “The time has come to bury our grievances. An alliance is what we need, what I desire! The
elves of Âlandur, the seven human sovereigns, the six magi, and the dwarven folks must stand united to repel the Perished
Land. I…”

Just then the hammer fell from his grasp and crashed to the floor, chipping the flagstones. The high king swayed and sank
backward into his throne, his breath coming in short gasps.

Balendilín instructed the delegates to retire to their chambers and await his summons. “We shall resume our meeting when the
high king has recovered.”

The representatives from the various clans filed out silently, Gundrabur’s words still echoing in their minds.

Bislipur cast a scornful look at the wheezing figure on the throne. “He won’t last much longer,” he muttered to Gandogar as
they made their way out. “When his voice dries up entirely, we’ll have the chieftains on our side. They were ready to join
us before the high king interrupted.”

Gundrabur’s chosen successor made no reply.

Enchanted Realm of Ionandar,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

J
olosin sped through the underground vaults, followed by the panting Tungdil on his considerably shorter legs. They hurried
down a gallery past oak-paneled doors leading to classrooms where young apprentices were taking lessons from more senior famuli.
Only four students were taught by Lot-Ionan himself, one of whom would be chosen to inherit his academy, his underground vaults,
and his realm.

On reaching the laboratory Jolosin stopped abruptly and flung open the door. Small clouds of white smoke wafted toward them,
creating an artificial fog. “Get a move on,” he barked at Tungdil, who was racing to catch up.

Breathing heavily, the dwarf stepped into the chamber and was instantly wreathed in mist. “Watch your manners, Jolosin, or
you’ll be fixing the problem yourself.”

“Climb up the flue,” the famulus ordered tersely, propelling Tungdil across the room. “Something’s blocking the chimney.”
Suddenly the fireplace appeared out of nowhere and beside it a bucket, which seemed to contain the source of the smoke.

“I thought you were one of Lot-Ionan’s best apprentices. Wouldn’t a bit of magic do the trick?”

“I’m asking you to fix it,” the famulus said firmly. “What would a dwarf know of sorcery? You’re wasting everyone’s time.
My pupils can’t see a thing in here.” There was some low coughing and a clearing of throats.

“What’s the magic word?”

“Pardon?”

“I should have thought a wizard would have a bit more charm.”

Jolosin scowled.
“Please.”

Tungdil grinned, picked up the poker, and hooked it through his belt. “And as if by magic…” He stepped into the fireplace,
where the embers had faded to a weak red glow. A quick upward glance confirmed that a thick layer of opaque smoke had sealed
the chimney like a screen.

Climbing confidently, he set about scaling the flue. The soot was slippery, but his fingers found easy purchase on the uneven
brickwork and he hauled himself up, rising slowly but steadily one, two, three paces until the hearth disappeared beneath
him amid the smoke.

He reached up and nudged something with his fingers. “I think there’s a nest up here. It must have fallen into the chimney,”
he called down.

“Then get rid of it!”

“I was hardly going to lay an egg in it.” He braced himself against the wall of the chimney, took hold of the offending twigs
with one hand, and gave them a vigorous shake.

The nest came free.

At that moment he received an unpleasant surprise. A torrent shot toward him, drenching him in a foul-smelling liquid that
stung his eyes and his skin, followed soon after by a cloud of delicate feathers that tickled his face and his nose. Overcome
with the urge to sneeze, he let go of the brickwork and fell.

Tungdil had the good fortune not to graze himself on any of the jutting bricks, sustaining nothing more serious than a few
nasty knocks to the chest and landing in the remains of the nest, whose twigs had ignited among the embers. Clouds of ash
fell around him and coated him in fine gray soot. He sprang up, fearful of burning his bottom, but the hot embers had already
scorched through his breeches.

The raucous laughter left him in no doubt that he was the victim of a malicious joke.

At once the clouds cleared miraculously so the class of twenty young famuli could observe the humiliated and disheveled dwarf.
Jolosin was leading the general merriment and slapping his thighs in glee.

“Help! The stunted soot-man is here to get us!” he cried in mock horror.

“He stole the elixir from the skunkbird’s nest!” one of his pupils jeered.

“You never know, it might be his natural smell,” said Jolosin, dissolving into laughter all over again. He turned to Tungdil.
“All right, midget, I’ve had my fun. You can go.”

The dwarf wiped his face on his sleeve. His head was crowned with ash and feathers, but now it shrank menacingly into his
shoulders and his eyes flashed with rage.

“You think this is funny, do you?” he growled grimly. “Let’s see if you laugh at this!” He made a grab for the bucket, which
felt cool to the touch, giving him all the encouragement he needed to hurl its contents. He raised his arm and took aim at
the famulus, who had turned his back and was joking with his pupils.

A warning shout alerted Jolosin to the threat. Whirling round, the quick-thinking famulus saw the contents of the bucket flying
toward him and raised his hands to ward off the water with a spell. In a flash the droplets turned to shards of ice and flew
past him without drenching his freshly changed robes.

The tactic worked, but at a price, as the assembled famuli realized from the sound of tinkling glass. The hailstorm had passed
over their heads, only to land among the neat rows of phials whose contents — elixirs, balms, extracts, and essences — were
used in all manner of spells. The containers shattered.

Already the potions were seeping from the broken phials and mingling in pools on the shelves. The mixtures crackled and hissed
ominously.

“You fool!” scolded Jolosin, pale with fear.

The dwarf bridled. “Don’t look at me!” he retorted indignantly. “You’re the one who turned the water into ice!”

Just then a shelf collapsed and a flurry of sparks shot to the ceiling, exploding in a flash of red light. Something was brewing
in the laboratory, this time quite literally. Some of the pupils decided that enough was enough and ran for the door. Jolosin
darted after them.

“This is all your fault! Lot-Ionan will be sorry he ever took you in. You won’t be here for much longer, dwarf. Not if I can
help it!” he shouted furiously, slamming the door as he left.

“If you don’t let me out of here this instant, I’ll strap you to my anvil and beat you with a red-hot hammer!” threatened
Tungdil as he rattled the handle in vain. He suspected that Jolosin had placed a spell on the door and locked him inside to
take the blame.

You won’t get away with this!
The dwarf ducked as something exploded behind him. Looking up, he scanned the room hurriedly for somewhere to shelter until
he was released.