The Dwarves (7 page)

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6233rd Solar Cycle

B
alendilín watched in concern as the last of the delegates filed out of the hall. The meeting of the assembly had taken an
unexpected and unwelcome turn. It was a serious setback for the high king’s hopes of uniting the peoples of Girdlegard in
a grand alliance against the Perished Land.

Please, Vraccas,
make that obdurate fourthling see sense,
he prayed fretfully.

Once the hall had emptied, Gundrabur extended his hand shakily and reached for Balendilín’s arm.

“Our planning will come to nothing,” he said dully. “The young king of Goïmdil’s folk lacks experience.” With a weak smile
he squeezed his counselor’s fingers. “Or maybe he needs a wise adviser, my loyal friend.”

He struggled upright and reached for his gleaming crown. His right hand, which moments earlier had wielded the heavy hammer,
trembled as he lifted the finely wrought metal from his head.

“A war… ,” he muttered despondently, “a war against the elves! What can Gandogar be thinking?”

“Precisely nothing,” his counselor replied bitterly. “That’s the problem. There’s no point reasoning with Gandogar or his
adviser. I don’t believe in their mysterious parchment for a moment. It’s a forgery, I’m sure, written with the intention
of winning support for a war that —”

“It served its purpose,” the high king reminded him. “The damage has been done. You know how headstrong the chieftains can
be. Some of them are itching to go to war with the elves, regardless of whether the document was faked.”

“True, Your Majesty, but some of the fourthlings seemed rather more reticent. Gandogar’s victory is by no means assured. The
matter will be decided by a vote, with each chieftain following his conscience. We must convince the clans of both folks of
the merit of our argument.”

The two dwarves fell silent. A more lasting solution was needed to prevent Gandogar from reviving his plans for war at a later
date. Once he was crowned high king, he would be able to implement his scheme with little or no resistance.

Neither Gundrabur nor Balendilín was worried about the military might of the elves. The dwarves’ traditional enemy was considerably
weakened, having suffered serious losses in the ongoing battle against the älfar, who profited from reinforcements streaming
into Girdlegard via the Northern Pass. In the event of a war, the elven army would be easily defeated, but casualties would
be inflicted on both sides and any loss of life among the children of the Smith would leave the gates of Girdlegard vulnerable
to attack.

Gundrabur’s gaze roved across the deserted chamber. “The great hall has seen happier times. Times of unity and cohesion.”
He bowed his head. “Those times are over. Our hopes of forging a great alliance have come to nothing.”

A great alliance
. Deep in thought, Balendilín stared at the five stelae at the foot of the throne. The stone slabs were engraved with the
sacred laws of the dwarves, including the name of a folk with whom the others would have no truck: Lorimbur’s dwarves in the
thirdling kingdom to the east.

“For the sake of an alliance I would do the unthinkable and invite the thirdlings to join our assembly.” The high king sighed.
“In times such as these, old animosities must be forgotten. We’re all dwarves, after all, and kinship is what counts.”

The counselor was in no doubt that Girdlegard needed every ax that could cleave an orcish skull, but he also knew his fellow
dwarves too well. “After Gandogar’s rabble-rousing, the assembly will be in no mood for appeasement.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Balendilín. I know our vision of a united and unstoppable dwarven army is fading, but we cannot permit
the assembly to sanction a war against the elves. We must convince the delegates that attacking Âlandur would be foolhardy.”
The high king’s voice sounded weaker than ever. “We need more time.”

“The timing depends on you,” his counselor said gently. “Gandogar will not ascend the throne while you are strong enough to
rule.”

“No one should rely on the failing fires of a dying king.” Gundrabur smoothed his beard. “We need something more decisive…
We shall use the dwarven laws to silence the warmongers and put a stop to the matter once and for all.”

He descended the throne, negotiating the steps with utmost concentration. Every movement was small and considered, but at
last he reached the stelae. Balendilín was at his side in an instant to offer him a steadying arm.

Golden sunlight poured through the slits carved into the rock, illuminating every flourish of the runes. Gundrabur’s weak
eyes scanned the symbols.

“Gandogar is certain to be elected,” he muttered absently, “but if my memory serves me correctly, there is a way of delaying
the succession. It will buy us some time so we can talk to the chieftains and strive for peace and an alliance with the elves.”

His eyesight had dimmed with the cycles and was now so poor that he was forced to stand with his nose almost touching the
stone. The law stated that the throne, currently occupied by a dwarf of Beroïn, should pass to one of Goïmdil’s folk. On that
basis, Gandogar’s succession was secure. Tradition dictated that the heir should stake his claim and be elected by the assembly
unless there was reason to contest the appointment.

“I’m sure it’s here somewhere,” he murmured to himself, fingertips gliding across the stone.

His efforts were rewarded. With a sigh of relief, he closed his eyes and pressed his brow against the cold tablet whose surface
had been engraved long before he was born.

“After such a wretched beginning, the orbit has taken a turn for the better. Listen to this.” He straightened up and ran a
crooked index finger over the all-important words. “Should the folk in question produce more than one possible heir, the clans
of that folk must confer among themselves and decide on a candidate before presenting their preferred successor to the assembly,”
he finished in a satisfied tone.

His counselor read the passage again, fiddling excitedly with the trinkets in his graying beard. There was nothing to say
that the chosen candidate would be the existing monarch: Any dwarf could stake a claim.
“Accordingly, a dwarf of any rank may be elected high king, provided he has the support of his kinsfolk.”

Balendilín saw what his sovereign had in mind. “But who would challenge Gandogar?” he asked. “The fourthling clans are in
agreement. To be sure, there are those who doubt their king, but…” He stopped, baffled by the look of satisfaction on the
high king’s craggy face. “Or is there such a dwarf?”

“No,” Gundrabur answered with a wily smile, thinking of the letter that had been sent to him several orbits ago. “Not yet,
but there will be.”

Enchanted Realm of Ionandar,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
here was almost nothing left in the candleholders on Lot-Ionan’s desk. The flickering light and short stumps of wax were sure
signs that the magus had been in his study for hours, although it seemed to him that only minutes had elapsed.

He leaned awkwardly over the parchment, poring over the closely written runes. Inscribing the magic formula had consumed countless
orbits, even cycles of his time. There was one last symbol to be added; then the charm would be complete.

He smiled. Most mortals had no experience of the mystic arts and were suspicious of magic in any form. For simple souls, the
constellation of the elements was a mysterious business, but for Lot-Ionan, the sorcery that drove fear into the heart of
peasants was nothing more than the logical outcome of elaborate sequences of gestures and words.

It was one such sequence that occupied him now. Everything had to be exactly right. One wrong syllable, a single character
out of place, an imprecise gesture, a hurried movement of his staff, or even a sloppily drawn circle could ruin a spell or
unleash a catastrophe.

The magus could name any number of occasions when his pupils had conjured fearsome beasts or caused themselves terrible harm
because of their carelessness. It always ended the same way: with an embarrassed apology and a plea for help.

He never lost patience with his famuli. Once he had been an apprentice too. Now he was a magus, a master magician or wizard,
as some folks called him.

Two hundred and eight-seven cycles
. He stopped what he was doing, hand poised above the parchment. His gaze, alert as ever, took in his creased and blotchy
skin, then roved over the jumble of cupboards, cabinets, and bookshelves in search of a mirror. At length his blue eyes came
to rest on the shiny surface of a vase.

He appraised the reflection: wrinkled face, gray hair with white streaks, and a graying beard dotted with smudges of ink.
There’s no denying I’m older, but am I wiser? That’s the question…

His beige robes had been darned and patched a thousand times, but he refused to be parted from them. Unlike some of his fellow
magi, he took no interest in his appearance, caring only that his garments were comfortable to wear.

In one important respect the old scholar agreed with the common people: Magic was a dangerous thing. To minimize the fallout
from failed experiments, he pursued his studies in the safety of the vaults.

Of course, the magus’s motives for retreating below the surface were not entirely selfless. In the calm of the vaults he could
forget about his fellow humans and their trivial concerns. He delegated the running of the realm and the settling of minor
disputes to his magisters, functionaries picked expressly for the job.

The enchanted realm of Ionandar stretched across the southeastern corner of Girdlegard, covering parts of Gauragar and Idoslane,
its borders defined by a magic force field, one of six in total. Certain regions of Girdlegard were invested with an energy
that could be channeled into living beings, as the very first wizards had learned. Once transferred to a human, the energy
became finite, but a person could renew his store of magic by returning to the field. No sooner had the magi made this discovery
than they seized the land, divided it into six enchanted realms, and defended the territory against existing monarchs who
had no weapons to match their magic powers. Generations of rulers had been forced to accept that swathes of their kingdoms
were under foreign rule.

The force fields were the key to the magi’s power. The six wizards’ skills and knowledge had increased over time and now their
formulae, runes, and spells were capable of working great beauty, terror, and good.

Keep your mind on the formula,
he chided himself. Carefully wiping the tip of his goose quill against the inkwell, he lowered it to the parchment and traced
a symbol slowly on the sheet: the element of fire. Every flourish of the quill was vitally important; a second of inattention
would ruin all his work.

His diligence paid off. Satisfied, he rose to his feet.

“Well, old boy, you’ve done it,” he murmured in relief. The formula was complete. If the sequence of runes worked as he intended,
he would be able to detect the presence of magic in people, creatures, or objects. But before he put the theory into practice,
it was time for a little reward.

Lot-Ionan shuffled to one of his cabinets, the oldest of a timeworn lot, and removed a bottle from the third shelf. He glanced
at the skull on the label and took a long swig.

The liquid was not poisonous, in spite of the warning symbol. Experience had taught him that it was the most effective way
of preventing his finest brandy from disappearing into thirsty students’ throats. The precaution was by no means unwarranted:
Some of his apprentices, especially the older ones, were only too partial to a drop of good liquor. Lot-Ionan was prepared
to share his learning but not his precious drink. He had run out of barrels of this particular vintage, so the bottle was
worth protecting.

Just then a powerful explosion rocked the walls of his underground chamber. Fragments of stone rained down from the ceiling
and landed on his desk, while phials and jars jangled in the cabinets, bouncing so violently that their stoppers struck the
shelves above. Everything in the higgledy-piggledy study rattled and shook.

The magus froze in horror. The open inkwell was dancing up and down on his desk, tilting farther and farther until… Lot-Ionan’s
hastily uttered incantation came too late. Ink poured over the precious manuscript and his lovingly drawn runes were drowned
in a viscous black tide.

For a second Lot-Ionan was rooted. “What in the name of Palandiell was that?” His kindly face hardened as he divined the origin
of the bang. Gulping down the remains of his brandy, he turned sharply and strode from the room.

He raced through the shadowy galleries, practically flying past doorways and passageways, his fury at his wasted efforts increasing
with every step.

By the time he reached the laboratory, he was seething with rage. Half a dozen famuli were talking in hushed voices outside
the door, through which strange noises could be heard. They were evidently too afraid to go in.

“There you are, Estimable Magus,” Jolosin began respectfully. “What a calamity! We got here too late. The dwarf slipped into
the laboratory and before we could —”

“Out of my way!” Lot-Ionan barked angrily and unbolted the door.

The devastation could scarcely have been more complete if a mob of lunatic alchemists had rioted inside his precious laboratory.
Equipment was floating through the air while small fires flared and spluttered at intervals throughout the room. The shelves
dripped with valuable elixirs that had burst from the phials and formed foul-smelling pools on the floor.

Huddled in the corner behind an upturned cauldron was the culprit. His fingers were in his ears and his eyes were closed tightly.
Despite his singed hair and scorched beard, there could be no mistaking who he was: Tungdil Bolofar.