The Dwarves

X

Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Early Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle I call on the assembly to decide the matter without further delay," said Gandogar loudly, his voice ringing out across the great hall. With the intention of cutting a regal figure, he had put on full mail and was wearing his diamond-encrusted helmet. "Thirty orbits have passed, thirty orbits in which…"

He continued his address, the chieftains and elders listening in silence.

Gundrabur's eyes were closed and the ceremonial hammer was resting on the arms of his marble throne. His counselor was following the speech without visible emotion. He had not succeeded in uncovering any evidence to incriminate Bislipur or Sverd, and worse still, the mood among the delegates was tipping in favor of war.

"You saw the smoke! It came from a village across the border with Sangpыr." Turning slowly, Gandogar scanned the semicircle of dwarves; he knew he had to make eye contact if he wanted to win their trust. "The settlement was razed to the ground by orcs. Tion's runts are marauding through the countryside, brazenly attacking the races of Girdlegard. We can't afford not to know who our next leader will be. Every orbit brings new dangers. According to the traders, strange things are happening in the enchanted realms and Вlandur is in turmoil. Some say that the elves have abandoned their kingdom and are scouting for land elsewhere. We must act!"

"Here or in Вlandur?" said a bewildered voice from the benches.

"Here and in Вlandur!" bellowed Bislipur, before Gandogar had a chance to reply. His dwarven blood was boiling over with impatience and he couldn't endure the prospect of another interminable speech. "Вlandur must be invaded before the pointy-ears give us the slip and vanish Vraccas knows where!" He raised a clenched fist. "Destroy the elves and avenge our murdered kin!"

The call was taken up by most of the delegates, although a few of their number abstained from the general excitement, some signaling their disagreement by frowning or shaking their heads.

Gandogar's gaze settled on a chieftain who was wearing his withered elf's ear with pride. The call to arms had been resoundingly successful, but there was still the matter of the succession, and the elderly monarch showed no sign of preparing to vacate the throne.

At that moment, Gundrabur's eyes opened wearily. "Silence!" he commanded. "Baying for blood like beasts… You should be ashamed of yourselves!" He raised a gnarled hand and pointed to the dwarf who was sporting the grisly trinket. "Get rid of it!"

The chieftain looked to Gandogar for support.

Seizing the hammer, the high king rose from the throne and made his way from the dais to confront the disobedient dwarf. His wrinkled fingers gripped the chain and snapped it from the delegate's neck. The shriveled ear dropped to the floor.

"I'm not dead yet, and while I'm your high king, I shall set our course," he thundered. "The assembly will wait!"

"No," Gandogar contradicted him, "we have waited long enough. Beyond these walls, orcs are laying waste to Girdlegard and the elvish villains are getting away. I will sit and wait no longer!"

Balendilнn stepped down from the platform and strode over to the fourthling monarch. "You forget yourself," he said, hand resting lightly on his belt. "The high king deserves your respect." The reprimand was delivered without any of the usual formalities behooving Gandogar's rank.

"The high king has been wearing the crown for too many cycles to know what's best for our folks!" Gandogar snapped back. "I won't put up with this nonsense any longer. Why should I sit back and do nothing when we should be seizing our opportunity and getting vengeance on the elves? Вlandur is as good as defeated! We need to attack while we can, not sit here, wasting our energy on pointless discussions. Orbit after orbit, all we ever do is talk and drink!"

Balendilнn squared his shoulders. "Think carefully before you continue, King Gandogar. Our laws were not made to be broken by you." He pointed to the stone stelae engraved with the sacred commandments of the dwarves. "They're the very basis of our existence. Defy them, and you'll be endangering the fragile unity of the folks. Why not take a hammer to the tablets if that's your intention? By all means, write your own laws, but remember: History will be your judge."

Hand on his ax, Bislipur stepped forward, positioning himself at Gandogar's side. The atmosphere in the great hall was unbearably tense; for the first time it seemed that the difference of opinion was going to end in blows.

Suddenly, the doors swung open.

"Get out!" Gandogar shouted furiously. "We don't need more confounded beer!"

But this time the interruption wasn't the fault of attendants bearing tankards. A herald walked in. "The second candidate has arrived!" he announced.

The delegates whirled round and stared excitedly at three squat figures silhouetted in the doorway. Behind them stood a human female and an armored giant. A buzz of whispers filled the room.

"Let me speak with him," said a visibly relieved Gundrabur. "The assembly is dismissed." Balendilнn helped him back to the throne and they waited for the delegates to leave the hall.

The departing dwarves cast curious glances at the stranger standing between the twins, but no one dared to address him. Then Bislipur drew level.

He stopped and took a menacing step toward Tungdil. "You're not one of us," he said scornfully. "Go back to Lot-Ionan and leave us to settle our own affairs. You needn't have bothered coming; we've decided on a successor already."

"Oh really? Let's hope he's as good as this one," Boлndal said coolly. He stepped in front of his charge. "Didn't you hear what Gundrabur said? The assembly is dismissed."

Boпndil joined him and flashed the fourthling adviser an insolent smile. "Looking for trouble, are you? I'll shave your miserable chin with my axes, you see if I don't." Bislipur merely snorted and left. The doors closed behind him, shutting Andфkai and Djerun outside.

The high king motioned for the trio to approach. He and his counselor looked at Tungdil warmly. "The lost dwarf has returned to his kinsfolk," he said, rising to clap a hand on his shoulder. "Thanks be to Vraccas for bringing you here."

Tungdil bowed his head, overcome with emotion. He wanted to say something, but his throat was dry with excitement. He felt sweaty and grubby, and his body ached all over in spite of Boпndil's efforts to treat his wounds. In fact, the shoulder that the high king was gripping was particularly sore. All in all, he was too tired and disheveled to appear before Gundrabur, but the king of all dwarves generously refrained from commenting on his state.

The monarch turned to the twins. "You've done yourselves and the secondlings proud. Ogre's Death boasts no finer warriors than you," he lauded them. "You can be sure of my gratitude. Retire to your chambers and get some rest."

Boпndil stared at the floor, uncomfortable at being praised. He hadn't forgiven himself for what had happened in the desert oasis when Tungdil had nearly been killed. It was mortifying to think that his charge would have died without Djerun. Gloomily, he left the hall with his twin.

"You'll hear our side of the story in a moment," promised Balendilнn, "but why don't you tell us about your journey first?"

This was the moment that Tungdil had been waiting for. He tried to swallow his nerves, but it was hard not to be distracted by the great hall's monumental galleries, pillars, and statues. It was all so very dwarven.

"Gladly," he said, "but what of Andфkai and Djerun? They were loyal protectors during our travels. I trust they will be provided for?" Without really meaning to, he had adopted a more flowery way of speech, perhaps because of his magnificent surroundings.

Balendilнn gave his word that the maga and her companion would be taken care of, so Tungdil launched into his account, beginning with Lot-Ionan, the vaults, and his errand, then proceeding by means of the Blacksaddle, Greenglade, the fate of the magi, the treachery of Nudin (or Nфd'onn, as he called himself), his run-in with the bounty hunters, Gorйn's mysterious books, and the дlfar's attempts to track them down, then concluding with the magus's threat to the dwarven kingdoms and his plans to bend Girdlegard to his will.

Soon his cheeks were flushed with talking, but he tried to state the facts plainly, without glossing over the horror or embellishing his report.

He spoke without faltering, save for one occasion when he was understandably thrown. It happened when three serving girls opened the doors and walked into the hall. Tungdil, who yearned to become acquainted with the fairer sex, was transfixed by the mysterious creatures who had colonized his imagination for as long as he could remember. They were a little shorter than he was and not as broadly built, but their ample robes betrayed an unmistakable fullness of figure. Fine, almost imperceptible fluff covered their plump faces from the cheekbones to the lower jaw. The wispy down matched the color of their hair and, unlike his own bristly whiskers, their furry skin seemed soft and smooth. This then was the origin of the myth about bearded women. Tungdil found them utterly beguiling.

His remaining composure crumbled when they turned to him with shy, friendly smiles. His heart started beating so wildly that he had to abandon his story until they were gone. Gundrabur and Balendilнn made no comment, although the one-armed counselor could barely suppress a grin.

At last Tungdil concluded his report, ending with a brief account of the attack on the desert oasis. He reached for his tankard, which smelled enticingly of beer. The dark liquid washed over his thirsty lips, coating his tongue with its powerful malty flavor. A single sip was enough to convince him that humans knew nothing of beer. It tasted so good that he could have kissed the dwarf who had invented the recipe, but instead he took another swig.

"These are ill tidings," Gundrabur said sadly. "We intend to be honest with you, Tungdil, so you shall hear of our problems too." His counselor described the dwarves' predicament, including the proposed war, the question of the succession, and the rift among the delegates, as succinctly as he could. "It seems from what you've told us that an alliance is imperative. The races of Girdlegard must unite and fight together against the Perished Land."

Tungdil sighed. "An alliance won't save us if we can't make sense of the books or the artifacts. There must be a way of getting to Nфd'onn or he wouldn't be so afraid. The trouble is, we can't do anything without Andфkai and she's determined to wash her hands of Girdlegard. Without her power and knowledge, our chances of defeating the evil are no better than any of the other realms'."

"And we must watch powerlessly while the northern blight advances," Gundrabur murmured somberly, closing his eyes. "Then it is settled: I shall appeal to the maga for help."

Tungdil said nothing, although he doubted the efficacy of the scheme. No amount of dwarven reasoning could influence the workings of the maga's mind. The thought of Andфkai reminded him that Djerun had been permitted to enter the stronghold without raising his visor. At the time it hadn't occurred to him, and it clearly hadn't registered with the sentries or the twins, who had blithely waved the armored warrior through their gates. She must have put a spell on us. He decided not to say anything, least of all to Boпndil, whose hot temper would explode in incandescent fury. The last thing they needed was for Djerun to be challenged to a duel.

He took the opportunity to broach the subject of the succession. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful," he said, determined to nip the matter in the bud. "You've done me a great service in reuniting me with my folk, but I can't be made king. I was raised by long-uns and learned the dwarven ways from books-extremely inaccurate books, I might tell you. My rival is a much more suitable candidate, so I intend to renounce my claim and vote in favor of him. We need a high king whom everyone will respect."

"Your speech and sentiments do you credit," Gundrabur praised him, "but the fact is, we made up the story about your birth. Lot-Ionan played along because we swore him to secrecy. I'm afraid you have no claim to the throne; there's no proof that you're even a fourthling."

Tungdil's mind was reeling. "But why…I mean, I don't see why you made me come all this way just to tell me it isn't true…"

"Think of all the good that has come of it already," Balendilнn said soothingly. "It's put us in a better position to do something about Nфd'onn. And if we hadn't sent the twins to look for you, the orcs would have killed you in Greenglade."

"True, but…" He fumbled for the right words. "What of the delegates? All this time, the assembly has been waiting for me, and I'm not even a genuine heir!"

He felt as if the ground had been tunneled from under his feet. After the ordeals of his journey he had just been getting comfortable, and now he had nowhere to call home.

"Please don't be angry with us," Gundrabur entreated him. "If Gandogar is crowned, our race will be locked in combat with the elves, and we can't let that happen. Our idea was to postpone Gandogar's appointment until the assembly had been persuaded of the folly of waging war. When your magus wrote to us with news of a foundling dwarf, we took the liberty of inventing a story about your lineage to buy some extra time."

"We were hoping to find a solution-an ancient law or suchlike that would force the assembly to vote against a war," Balendilнn explained. "Fighting the elves would be ruinous for both our races, but Gandogar just won't see it. I expect you think we're as dishonest as kobolds, but our intentions are honorable: We want the best for our race."

Tungdil kept his mouth shut for fear of saying something he might regret. He helped himself to more beer and emptied the tankard in a single draft. "And did you find anything?"

"Not exactly," the high king confessed. "That's why we're asking you to join our conspiracy and challenge Gandogar for the throne."

"What good would it do?" Tungdil shrugged. "They'd never elect me."

"No," agreed Gundrabur, "but if I'm not happy with the assembly's choice of heir, I can veto the succession."

"And what then? Would you rather our folks fought each other than waged war on the elves?"

"It won't come to that," Balendilнn reassured him. "Our laws state that the heir must challenge his rival to a duel. Of course, the rival candidate would have to be backed by some of the chieftains and elders, but roughly a third of the delegates have been won over to our cause. That should suffice."

"And then Gandogar will have the privilege of slicing me in two." Tungdil scowled. "I still don't see how it changes anything."

The high king and his counselor exchanged glances.

"Swear that you won't breathe a word of this to anyone," Balendilнn demanded, eyeing Tungdil solemnly until he complied. "We need to banish Bislipur and Sverd from Gandogar's circle. Bislipur is obsessed with the idea of wiping out the elves and his zeal has rubbed off on Gandogar. Thanks to Bislipur's constant whispering, the fourthling king rarely has time to think for himself." He frowned. "The villain tried to kill me. I can't prove it yet, but I will."

"But assuming you succeed," Tungdil said doubtfully, "won't Gandogar still go ahead with his plan?"

"We'll open his eyes to the perfidy of his mentor and the folly of an elven war. Gandogar is a good dwarf at heart; his adviser is to blame." Balendilнn paused and looked at Tungdil intently. "But I need more time; and for that we're depending on your help."

"You'll be doing your kinsmen a great service," Gundrabur assured him. "They'll realize it eventually. History will record how a foundling dwarf named Tungdil was hewn by Vraccas to save his children from destruction."

"I'll do it," agreed Tungdil, "but I'll need your full support."

"We'll do everything we can for you," promised Balendilнn. "You're an honorable dwarf, Tungdil. Forgive us for burdening you with our troubles before you've even had a chance to rest. Now that we've settled the important business, you should get some proper sleep. You'll have one orbit in which to recover and prepare yourself for the hustings." The one-armed counselor smiled at him encouragingly.

"Buy us some time, and we'll forge a better future without the likes of Bislipur," the high king exhorted him. He picked up the ceremonial hammer and held it out to the dwarf. "Swear on the hammer that brought us into being that you won't tell a soul."

Tungdil gave his word and left the great hall. Outside, Andфkai and Djerun were still waiting in the corridor.

"They said we could stay for a while," she said evenly. "As it happens, I could do with a break. These past few orbits together have been horribly stressful."

"My sentiments exactly," said Tungdil, leaving the maga to decide whether it was the journey or her company that he found such a trial.

An attendant arrived to take them to their rooms. As they followed, Tungdil marveled at the splendor of their surroundings. The masons had worked the walls with incredible finesse and the smooth surfaces were decorated with sculpted reliefs and chiseled inscriptions. Dwarven runes inlaid with precious metals shimmered in a kaleidoscope of silver, gold, and red.

But what really caught his attention was the staircase. He had always thought of steps as being rectangular, smooth, and plain.

These were a revelation. Each slab of stone was different from the next, the flat treads decorated with elaborate patterns and the uprights engraved with runes.

It was only when he read the runes in sequence that he realized the purpose of the design: The staircases spelled out stories that served to distract the weary secondlings from the grueling ascent. Tungdil could tell from Andфkai's expression that she too had noticed the runes and was reading with interest.

The stories told of glorious days of old, evoking heroic adventures, each more impressive than the last. Tungdil climbed eagerly, relishing every step until at length they reached their chambers.

Andфkai disappeared inside her room before he could inquire about the books. He was sure that her change of heart was connected to something she had seen or read.

Maybe Gundrabur will be lucky, he thought hopefully as he shuffled to bed.

That's the beauty of being among friends," said a deep voice. "You don't even have to lock the door."

Tungdil woke with a start and sat up drowsily, only to discover Bislipur in his room.

"Good morning, Tungdil." Somehow the greeting sounded suspiciously insincere. "We'll talk properly at the hustings, but I'm sure you're as impatient as I am to have a little chat."

"I wasn't really expecting visitors," Tungdil said hesitantly. The sudden appearance of Gandogar's adviser had thrown him slightly. In fact, now that he thought about it properly, walking in without an invitation was downright rude. His friendly feelings toward Bislipur as a kinsman had withstood their bristly encounter in the great hall, but this was something else.

Bislipur sat down on the bed and gave him a long stare. "You think you're one of us, do you?" he mocked. "A poor little foundling, raised by a wizard, but of genuine royal blood-it sounds like a fairy tale, doesn't it?" He leaned forward. "Because it is! I'm not going to beat about the bush: You're an impostor. What proof do you have of your lineage?"

"You'll see soon enough," Tungdil said firmly. If it hadn't been for his conversation with Gundrabur and Balendilнn, he would have stepped aside for his rival. Only last night he had been assailed by doubts about the wisdom of maintaining the deception, but now, thanks to Bislipur's obnoxious behavior, his mind was made up.

"None of the fourthlings can remember a case of a missing child."

"And I suppose you know them all in person and every detail of their lives. That's really quite a claim." Tungdil stood up. He had a feeling that the long hours spent reading in Lot-Ionan's library and studying the art of disputation would stand him in good stead. All of a sudden he felt naked without his chain mail and his weapon. He threw on his tunic and belted his ax to his waist. His confidence flooded back. "Wait until tomorrow and you'll hear the full story."

"I've got a better idea," said Bislipur. "Cancel the hustings, and we'll adopt you as one of our folk. All we ask is that you agree to back Gandogar. Retract your claim and you'll never want for anything."

"Supposing I refuse?"

"Supposing you refuse?" Bislipur laid a muscular hand on his ax. "If you refuse, you'll see what happens when a fourthling-or a fake fourthling, in your case-turns against the leader of his folk. None of us will submit to your rule. Even if you're elected, you'll never really be king."

Tungdil could tell from the muffled fury in his voice that Bislipur meant business. "That's for the assembly to decide, not you," he informed him, doing his best to sound like a prospective monarch. "Now go," he commanded.

"Supposing I refuse?" the thick-set dwarf said mockingly.

"Supposing you refuse?" thundered Tungdil, placing a hand on his ax. "If you refuse, I'll throw you out myself! I've dealt with enough orcs and дlfar to know what to do with a dwarf who sneaks his way into my chamber while I'm asleep." His brotherly tolerance of Bislipur had given way to undisguised dislike. "Get out!"

Bislipur wavered for a moment, unsure whether he should commit to a trial of strength. To Tungdil's relief, he decided to see himself out. "You'll regret this," he threatened by way of a farewell.

"That's a risk I'm prepared to take," Tungdil retorted. Alone in his chamber, he stood in front of the mirror, put his hands on his hips, and squared his shoulders. Rather than get dressed, he practiced looking steely until he was confident of his ability to assume a determined expression whenever he pleased. It took considerable willpower not to crawl back into bed.

He was in the process of removing his nightshirt when someone knocked on the door. Without waiting for an answer, a female dwarf in a skirt and leather blouse strode in and placed some fresh linen on the marble dresser. She giggled when she saw him rooted to the spot. I should say something, he thought, racking his brains desperately, but already she was gone.

"I guess it takes practice," he muttered, pulling on his clothes absentmindedly. His mind was whirring with a thousand different thoughts.

It was dispiriting to know that he was still a foundling dwarf. For the first time in his life he was surrounded by others of his race, but deep down he was the loneliest soul in all Girdlegard. In fact, he'd been better off when he'd lived among humans; at least then he'd belonged to Lot-Ionan and the school.

It didn't help that he was obliged to pose as a fourthling and put on a show of happiness at being reunited with his folk. For all his honest intentions, it made him feel like a terrible fraud.

Keen to distract his thoughts, he reread Lot-Ionan's letter about his provenance, memorizing every fabricated detail until he was sure that none of the delegates could pick a hole in his story. There was nothing else to do in his chamber, so he wandered into the corridor and roamed the majestic stone passageways while his stomach growled hungrily.

Dwarves streamed past him, clad in leather aprons and covered in a dusting of rock. Tungdil guessed from their appearance that they were heading for the quarry. They smiled and called out to him and he returned their greetings with a nod.

Soon afterward he was intercepted by an attendant who marched him off to breakfast. Tungdil understood the real purpose of the summons when he was welcomed to the table by Balendilнn, who wanted to prepare him for the hustings.

"It's all under control," the counselor assured him. The trinkets on his braided beard swung back and forth as he spoke, which earned him fascinated glances from Tungdil. "Three dwarves from Gandogar's delegation have agreed to say they remember hearing a rumor about a missing child. Their testimony, together with the letter from your magus, should give us the credibility we need. After that, you'll make your speech and then-"

"My speech?" said Tungdil, looking up sharply from the array of pungent cheeses, salamis, pickled mushrooms, and roasted lichen. All of a sudden he stopped caring about the absence of ham, porridge, and bread: The prospect of addressing the assembly had banished any thought of food.

"It needn't be terribly long. You can talk a bit about your journey and your encounters with Nфd'onn and the Perished Land. You'll lose the vote, of course, but that's no great inconvenience; we'll proceed to the next stage of our plan." Balendilнn's eyes twinkled. "It's all under control," he said again.

"I'm glad you think so." Tungdil sighed and piled his wooden plate with a small helping of everything. He told the counselor of Bislipur's visit.

"That's just the kind of underhanded behavior I'd expect from him." Balendilнn seemed to take the news in stride. "You know what it means, don't you? We're on the right track. The scoundrel wouldn't bother with you unless he thought you were a threat."

Tungdil didn't share his optimism. He hadn't forgotten that Bislipur had tried to murder Balendilнn, and he saw no reason to suppose that the fourthling wouldn't do the same to him.

"There's one more thing," said the counselor. "The maga and her bodyguard have gone."

"Gone?" Tungdil echoed, aghast. So she's really left us? How could she give up like that and leave Girdlegard to its fate? "When did she leave?"

"This morning, just after dawn. We had to let her cross the pass. There wasn't any justification for detaining her, and besides… how do you stop a maga?"

"You don't." Tungdil put his head in his hands. It was hopeless; no one apart from Andфkai had anything like Nфd'onn's power and now she was searching for force fields beyond the Blue Range. She must have given up on Gorйn's books. Why couldn't one of the other magi have survived instead? He felt certain that Maira or Lot-Ionan would have stayed and led the fight against the traitor.

"We'll have to rely on you to decipher the tomes," said Balendilнn. "You can always consult our archives, if you think they'll be of use."

"You should ask your historians. I'm sure they'd do a better job than me," muttered Tungdil.

Balendilнn shook his head. "They don't know the magi's writings as well as you do. No one understands the long-uns better than you." He looked encouragingly at the dejected dwarf. "I know it's a heavy burden, but a great deal is at stake. We'll never forget it."

"I'll do my best," he promised, forcing down his mouthful. He hiccuped discreetly. His palate had adjusted to the cheese, but his stomach was proving less adaptable-not unreasonably, considering the quantities involved. To round off the meal he poured a mug of sour milk and stirred it through with a spoonful of honey. Dwarven cuisine was a lot better than he had thought.

Excusing himself from the table, he made his way back to his chamber, this time looking fixedly at the floor so as not to be distracted by the magnificent marble carvings. The speech that was taking shape in his mind was going to cover all the events of the previous weeks and more.

Tungdil drained the strong malt beer from his tankard, wiped his beard, and looked up at the assembly. The delegates had listened patiently while he'd read out Lot-Ionan's letter and tried to establish his lineage as the illegitimate offspring of the dead fourthling king.

True to their word, three of Gandogar's chieftains claimed to recall a rumor about a missing heir. Bislipur instantly accused them of lying.

"I expect you're wondering why I think I would make a good king," said Tungdil, raising his voice above the tumult. The beer had settled his nerves and quashed his inhibitions about appearing before an assembly of dignitaries and chieftains. "The fact is, I know better than anyone the dangers that lie ahead. I know the power of the Perished Land; and I know we need to stand united. It would be fatal to squander our strength on a campaign against the elves. Their numbers may have dwindled, but their army is not to be mocked."

"We're not afraid of the pointy-ears!" Bislipur shouted, incensed.

"Maybe not, but dead heroes are no use to us at all," Tungdil retaliated. "The elves have been fighting the дlfar for hundreds of cycles. What chance would we have of defeating them? Their bowmen are the best in Girdlegard. Before we get within three hundred paces, they'll bombard us with arrows!"

"Not if we sneak up on them," Bislipur objected.

"You can't honestly believe they won't notice an army of a thousand dwarves! Friends, this war will end in our defeat." He looked at them beseechingly. "Darkness has eaten its way into the heart of our lands. Vraccas entrusted the safety of Girdlegard to our race; it's our duty to defeat Nфd'onn and expel Tion's minions-and if the elves and humans are able to help us, we must ally ourselves with them!"

"The high king's puppet has learned his part well," sneered Gandogar.

"Our minds think alike because we both see reason. If there was anything between your ears but sheer bloody-mindedness, you might see sense as well." A ripple of laughter swept the room.

"The elves must be punished," shouted Bislipur, drawing himself up to full height. "You heard how they betrayed our kinsfolk and allowed Tion's beasts to storm the Stone Gateway. Their crimes cannot go unavenged!"

"And what of Nфd'onn? A war against the elves would weaken us dangerously." Tungdil thumped his hand against the marble. "Of course, if we really want to make things easy for the magus, we could always open our strongholds to the orcish invaders! Is that what you want? Maybe you should ask the runts if they'd like to join us in a campaign against the elves!" He waited for the commotion to settle. "In my possession are two tomes belonging to Lot-Ionan in whose household I was raised. Once I have unlocked their meaning, we will hold the key to defeating Nфd'onn and the Perished Land." He neglected to mention that even Andфkai had failed to make sense of the books. "Just think of the glory if the dwarves were to save Girdlegard! Our heroism would humiliate the pointy-ears far more than military defeat."

There was a hum of excitement from the benches. Books that could defeat the Perished Land; that was news indeed!

"He's lying!" roared Bislipur. "Since when did magic ever help the dwarves? It brings us nothing but trouble! Magic is to blame for the dark wizard's power!"

"I say we fight the elves, then retreat to our ranges until the humans have settled the matter for themselves," added Gandogar, springing to his feet. He hurried to the middle of the assembly to be sure of the delegates' attention. "Don't listen to the foundling who learned our lore from books. He'll never understand our ways." He laughed. "A high king who knows nothing of his race? It's downright ridiculous!"

"It can't be that ridiculous or you wouldn't be so het up," Tungdil said pointedly. There was another low rumble of laughter. He was doing Lot-Ionan proud with his witticisms, although the beer could take some of the credit. I mustn't get carried away, he told himself.

Gundrabur had heard enough. He raised the hammer and pounded it against the marble table. "Both candidates have made their cases and the assembly must decide. Delegates, remember you are voting for your future high king. Those in favor of Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, raise your axes!"

Tungdil counted the glistening blades. To his great surprise, Gandogar's share of the vote had dwindled to less than two-thirds among the fourthling chieftains. When his own name was called, the number of axes was far greater than expected. Balendilнn gave him an approving nod.

Tungdil's personal victory did nothing to change the end result: The majority had voted in favor of Gandogar, which amounted to a mandate for war. Bislipur held his head high. It was clear from his triumphant expression that he thought his work was done.

"At this stage in the proceedings, it falls to me, the reigning high king, to approve the assembly's choice," declared Gundrabur. "Regrettably, in view of King Gandogar's foolish determination to steer our race toward destruction, I see no option but to declare him unfit for office. For that reason, I nominate Tungdil in his place. Who will back me?"

Gandogar and Bislipur watched in stunned silence as a third of the delegates raised their axes, thereby investing Gundrabur with the authority to proceed.

The hammer crashed noisily against the marble. "Then the succession shall be decided on merit. Our candidates will prove their ability in a contest: Gandogar and Tungdil will each nominate a task, two further tasks will be set by the assembly, and the fifth task will be drawn at random. You have seven orbits to prepare." With that, he called the hustings to a close.

Dazed, Tungdil made his way along the line of supporters who were queuing to pat him on the back, wish him well, and intercede with Vraccas on his behalf. Faces, beards, and chain mail loomed on either side of him, disappearing in a blur. His mind was reeling from the uncommonly strong beer and the exhilaration of success. It was incredible to think that dozens of dwarves had been won over by his arguments, but there was no escaping the knowledge that his triumph was founded on a lie.

Although the chances of discovering anything about his provenance were slim, Balendilнn had promised to do what he could to investigate without arousing suspicion. The counselor was too tactful to mention the possibility that the foundling was descended from Lorimbur's folk, and the notion of it seemed ludicrous to Tungdil, who felt comfortable living in Ogre's Death and shared nothing of the thirdlings' murderous dislike of other dwarves. In any case, there were more urgent matters than establishing his origins. First and foremost, he needed to practice his axmanship in case Gandogar opted to challenge him to a duel. And he still had to settle on a task of his own.

No one knew what to expect from the fifth and final task. Each candidate could nominate four challenges and one would be drawn from a pouch. Only Vraccas could predict the outcome.

Tungdil returned to his chamber to find Gorйn's books and the contents of the leather bag strewn across his bed. Andфkai must have broken the spell and examined the artifacts!

He turned over the fragments of two silver-plated decanters and studied the runes. What a pity! If the inscriptions were to be believed, it took a single drop of liquid for the vessels to fill themselves over and over again. Mixed in with the shattered decanters was a broken hand mirror. The fractured glass cast back a cracked reflection of his bearded face. Seven years of bad luck. He chuckled grimly as he picked up a shard. To be cursed by a mirror was the least of his problems.

He turned his attention to a couple of lengths of wood. They were as long as his arm and had a gray, almost metallic shimmer to them. The grain was wayward and irregular. What are they? He supposed they could be cudgels. But what would they be doing in the bag? He tossed them carelessly onto the bed.

The maga had written him a note. Furious with her for leaving Girdlegard and for rummaging through his things, he left it unread. Then curiosity got the better of him.

The mystery is solved, or as good as.

You were right: There is a way to defeat Nфd'onn and the books explain how. However, the means are beyond us, which is why I'm leaving Girdlegard for good.

The first book is an account of the Outer Lands that tells of a place called Barrenground, where demonic beings have the power to enter human souls, take possession of them, and invest them with extraordinary power. Men possessed of such demons are driven by an urge to destroy goodness wherever they find it and bend everything to their will.

The second book tells of a race called the undergroundlings who invented a mighty ax to destroy the demonic power.

The blade of this ax must be made of the purest, hardest steel, with diamonds encrusting the bit and an alloy of every known precious metal filling the inlay and the runes. The spurs should be hewn from stone and the haft sculpted from wood of the sigurdaisy tree.

The ax must be forged in a furnace lit with the fiercest of all flames and its name shall be Keenfire.

This is the weapon with the power to slay the demonic spirits. Keenfire can slice through flesh and bone, cutting through the human body to destroy the evil presence within. Any harm that has been done reverts to good.

Regrettably, I was unable to make sense of one passage, which means I cannot vouch for the method's success. The task is as good as hopeless.

All the same, it explains why Nфd'onn is interested in the artifacts. The bag contains two fragments of sigurdaisy wood.

The sigurdaisy is extinct in Girdlegard, but its wood is exceptionally hard, so hard that it can't be worked with ordinary tools. Humans used to believe that the trees were sacred and they burned the wood for its powerful aroma and deep crimson flames. They stopped conducting the rituals when all the trees were gone. I once witnessed a sigurdaisy fire in honor of Palandiell, but that was over a hundred cycles ago.

Even if were possible to make such a miraculous weapon, no one would get close enough to Nфd'onn to slay him. The whole business is ridiculous.

If the dwarves have any sense, they will cross the ranges and settle in the Outer Lands. Maybe the undergroundlings will give them shelter.

My work here is done.

Tungdil read and reread the letter until there was no further doubt: Lot-Ionan's murderer was not completely invincible. They had everything they needed to kill him-even the wood.

He hurried to find Balendilнn. The counselor had lit a number of oil lamps, which bathed his chamber in light. Like the rest of Ogre's Death, the room was hewn from rock and the masons had even thought to sculpt a bed and cabinets. It looked as if the mountain had created a furnished chamber especially for his use.

Tungdil handed him the letter.

"There is mention in our records of distant kin on the far side of the mountain," he said when he saw the reference to the mysterious undergroundlings. "The inhabitants of the Outer Lands seem to have more experience of fighting the Perished Land."

Tungdil brandished the piece of parchment. "It explains why Nфd'onn was desperate to get his hands on the books and the bag! Well, it's too late now: His secret is out. Balendilнn, you've got to tell the human sovereigns of our discovery before they lose all hope. They need to keep the magus fighting while we work on the weapon. If only they can keep him busy until then!"

Balendilнn studied the passages relating to the making of the ax. "We'll have to enlist the help of the fourthlings: Their skill in diamond cutting is unsurpassed. Our people can take care of the stone, but as for the best smiths…"

"Borengar's folk!"

"Yes, but none of their nine clans are here. The firstlings ignored our summons. Giselbert's fifthlings were exceptional blacksmiths, but their line was snuffed out." Balendilнn scowled. "And that's not the only hitch. The fieriest furnace in Girdlegard belonged to the fifthlings. Its name was Dragon Fire and the hardest metal would melt in its flames. But the Gray Range has been in the hands of the Perished Land for over a thousand cycles." He rested his head in his hands. "The maga was right. It's not possible."

"We can't give up now. Call a meeting and let the delegates decide. We need to send word to the firstlings and ask for their assistance. Then we'll…" He trailed off. "Well, I'll take a look in the archives. Maybe I'll find something that will help."

"Good luck to you, Tungdil."

The dwarf left the chamber and headed for the vaults, where the written record of the secondlings' history was preserved. Now that the initial excitement was over, he was left with the sobering realization that they were barely any closer to saving Girdlegard from Nфd'onn's grasp.

I'm not giving up! The very hopelessness of the situation made Tungdil more determined than ever to succeed.

He settled down to his task with all the stubbornness and persistence typical of his race. It was his solemn intention not to leave the secondlings' archives until he found something of use.

Tungdil hurried back and forth, fetching ancient tomes, rolls of parchment, and stone tablets from their places in the vaults. He piled everything on a table to examine it at length.

Lot-Ionan must have known that my schooling would come in handy. Some of the parchment was so fragile that it tore or crumbled at his touch. It made Tungdil appreciate the durability of the marble tablets that lasted an eternity, provided they weren't dropped.

After a good deal of reading, he found evidence to back up Balendilнn's vague assertions about the undergroundlings. According to the archives, a race of dwarves on the other side of the ranges went by that name. Whether or not Vraccas had created them was anyone's guess, but they seemed to have much in common with the children of the Smith. They were accomplished metal workers and shared the dwarven passion for the forge.

On the fourth orbit he learned the secret of Dragon Fire, and his optimism, which had survived in spite of everything, was dealt a grievous blow.

The flames of the fifthlings' fiery furnace had been lit by the white tongue of Branbausнl, a dragon who had roamed the Gray Range until Giselbert's dwarves stole its fire, killed it, and seized its hoard. Argamas, its mate, had taken refuge in Flamemere, a small lake of molten lava at the heart of the fifthling kingdom. The creature had never been seen again.

The stolen fire enabled the dwarves to heat their furnace to phenomenal temperatures and create alloys from metals that had never been melded. Dragon Fire was powerful enough to melt tionium, the black element created by Tion, and combine it with palandium, the deity's pure white metal.

Later records indicated that the furnace had fallen with the fifthlings. Neither the дlfar nor any other creature of Tion could find a use for the strange white flames, and Dragon Fire had been extinguished.

Tungdil's only hope lay in finding the dragon's mate who had escaped the dwarves' axes. If the firstlings could provide a smith and Argamas could furnish the fire, Keenfire could be forged and Nфd'onn defeated.

"More traveling." He sighed. We'll have to go west to the firstlings, then north through the heart of the Perished Land to the lost fifthling kingdom. But how are we supposed to cross Girdlegard without Nфd'onn finding out?

He put the question to Gundrabur and Balendilнn when he met them in the great hall to report on his findings and share a keg of beer. The king and his counselor looked at each other knowingly.

"There is a way," the high king told him, "a secret way that has faded from memory over the cycles. My predecessor told me of it." He lit his pipe and sucked on it vigorously. "It dates back to the glorious orbits of old. In those happy times traveling was easy. We used underground tunnels that crisscrossed the whole of Girdlegard, linking our kingdoms."

"Tunnels…So we could travel unseen. With ponies we could-"

"You won't need ponies. You'll get there soon enough." Gundrabur pulled his cloak tighter and sent for another blanket. His inner furnace was burning worryingly low.

Tungdil frowned. "I don't follow."

"You've seen the wagons carrying iron ore through the mines?"

"Sure, but…" Then he grasped what the high king was saying. "We can go by wagon?"

Gundrabur smiled. "Indeed. Our forefathers used wagons to travel by the shortest route from the firstling kingdom to the seconding kingdom and the secondling kingdom to the fourthling kingdom and so forth, unimpeded by marshland, wilderness, rain, or snow. They could convey troops wherever they wanted in no time at all. Within a matter of orbits an entire army could cross from north to south undetected by men, elves, or magi."

"That's the answer!" Tungdil cried excitedly. "If the tunnels are still intact, we'll be able to forge the ax before the dark magus has time to defeat the human armies and conquer their kingdoms."

"I can't guarantee what kind of state they're in," warned Gundrabur. "According to the ancient records, some sections of the tunnels have collapsed. Balendilнn, fetch the maps." "Why hasn't anyone come across them since?"

"The entrance lies in an area of the Blue Range that became polluted with sulfurous gas. Our kinsfolk abandoned that side of the mountain and the tunnels were forgotten."

At length Balendilнn returned with two ancient maps showing the path of the tunnels through the secondling kingdom. The tunnels cut straight through the heart of the Blue Range and were well hidden, with numerous mechanisms and traps securing them against intruders. Even if Tion's creatures had known about the tunnels, there was no way of breaking into them, so the forces of darkness were obliged to conduct their invasion overland.

"Well, that's settled," Tungdil told the others. "I'll do it."

"Good," said Balendilнn with a smile. He refilled their tankards. "In that case, you should be the one who tells the assembly of the tunnels' existence. The delegates will be impressed." They clunked tankards and drank.

Vraccas made me party to this knowledge so that the dwarves could liberate Girdlegard from evil," said Tungdil, coming to the end of his impassioned speech. "Why else would he have given me the artifacts and books?"

"Forgotten relics from a glorious era!" Gandogar said scornfully. "Nothing you've stumbled upon is of any practical use. A miracle ax to be forged secretly in a furnace fired by dragon's breath at the heart of the Perished Land-it can't be done! If you ask me, the whole thing's a fiction, a legend that found its way into our archives by mistake!"

"You may not believe it," Tungdil cut in, "but Nфd'onn clearly does. He wiped out a whole settlement to get his hands on the books. He tried to kill me too! Why would he be so worried if it were just an old story? Clansmen," he begged the assembly, "we need to send an expedition. Vraccas will see us through this."

"Of course he will," jeered Bislipur. "If you don't mind my asking, how exactly were you intending to slay the dragon? They're tough old beasts, but tell it one of your stories and the poor thing will probably die of laughter on the spot."

The roars of merriment were enough to convince Tungdil not to put the matter to the vote. The motion would only fail. Common sense had yet to bludgeon its way into the delegates' thick skulls.

"To business," Gandogar said impatiently. He threw off his cloak, revealing a shimmering mail shirt. His adviser handed him his shield and his ax, while another fastened his helmet. "The purpose of this meeting is to decide the succession. Let the contest begin! For the first task I challenge my rival to a duel. Victory will go to whoever draws first blood or forces his opponent to his knees."

In an instant Boпndil and Boлndal were at Tungdil's side, helping him on with his armor. His metal tunic looked cheap and dull compared to Gandogar's glittering mail. "Beware of his shield. He's bound to try to ram you with it," whispered Boпndil. He clenched his fists. "If only I could take your place," he growled. "I'd hammer him into the marble."

"You've been wonderful teachers," Tungdil reassured the twins as he buckled his chinstrap. "And I'm not just talking about the past few orbits; you taught me a great deal during our journey as well. If I lose, it won't be because of you."

The two candidates stepped into the semicircle between the throne and the benches. Balendilнn acted as referee. His eyes smiled reassuringly at Tungdil. "Fight valiantly and honorably," he told them as he backed away. The rivals were alone in the arena.

The fourthling king lost no time in launching his attack. Tungdil parried blow after blow, all the while trying not to be distracted by the twinkling diamonds on Gandogar's ax. He watched the swooping trajectory of the blade from behind his shield, retreating farther and farther until his back came up against a column.

As the next blow swung toward him, Tungdil ducked and struck back. There was a shrill metallic shriek as his blunted ax scraped over Gandogar's hastily raised shield and struck the lower edge of his helmet. Head spinning, the king staggered back.

"Now attack!" yelled Boпndil, caught up in the excitement. Fired on by his success and the encouragement of his tutor, Tungdil rushed forward.

Not if I can help it. Bislipur had no intention of allowing Gandogar to be defeated. Sverd was standing beside him, so he gave him a little shove. The gnome pitched forward and struck his head on a tankard. Beer slopped to the floor.

The incident was Tungdil's undoing. In his haste he didn't notice that the slippery marble floor was as treacherous as an ice rink. His right foot skidded to the side; he struggled to keep his balance and flailed out vainly with his ax.

"Foolish gnome!" Bislipur unleashed a volley of curses, threatening to thrash the hapless Sverd and tighten his collar until it cut off his breath.

"The scoundrel did it on purpose!" protested Boлndal.

"He's just clumsy, that's all. He'll pay for this, believe me!" said Bislipur, still pretending to be furious with the gnome.

None of that was any comfort to Tungdil, who skidded past Gandogar just as the latter straightened up and took aim. The king's ax thwacked his back with enough force to send him spinning out of control. Cursing, he lost his footing and forfeited the task.

A cheer went up from the fourthling corner where Gandogar's supporters were gathered. The jubilation turned to mocking laughter when Tungdil struggled to his feet. The contest wasn't unfolding quite as he'd hoped.

"Now for my task," he shouted above the din. The great hall fell silent.

"What is the nature of the challenge?"

"We shall both transcribe a text. The first to finish wins."

"What?" Gandogar protested. "I'm a king, not a poet!"

"You don't have to be a poet; all you have to do is write. A good monarch must have a steady hand and a smart mind to guide it; how else would he make the laws? But maybe fighting is your only virtue…" Without further ado he sat down at a desk and waited for Gandogar to follow suit.

"What if I refuse?"

"If you refuse," said Balendilнn, "you'll lose the challenge and the tally will be one task each, leaving the succession to be decided by the final three challenges."

"Besides," Boлndal added snidely, "it would be cowardly not to accept. The scholar wasn't afraid to face your ax. I hope the fourthling leader isn't frightened of a quill!"

The gibe and resulting hilarity prompted Gandogar to lay down his shield and helmet and take a seat at the desk.

The referee called for the rolls of parchment and chose one at random. "You may begin."

In no time the scholar, as Boлndal jokingly called him, was scribbling furiously, while his opponent glared at the runes and scratched awkwardly at the parchment with his quill. The dwarves devoted themselves to the task in industrious silence.

"Finished," declared Tungdil at length. His work was scrutinized and found to be faultless. Gandogar took longer and made several errors along the way. Balendilнn awarded the task to Tungdil.

The twins whooped in delight, pleased that their charge had used his cunning to secure a draw. "Too bad you lost that one, eh, Bislipur?" Boпndil shouted cheerfully.

At Balendilнn's request, the delegates noted down their challenges and the slips of paper were collected. Gandogar would draw first, then Tungdil.

"For the next challenge," announced the referee, "you will forge an ax from the poorest quality iron and strike it ten times against a shield without fracturing the blade."

Tungdil had spent so much time at Lot-Ionan's anvil that he was sure he would prove the superior smith. Balendilнn declared a break in the proceedings while the necessary equipment was set up in the hall and soon the high-ceilinged chamber was echoing with the sound of ringing hammers.

Tungdil hit his stride, working in time with a dwarven ballad that had been taught to him by the twins. Not to be outdone, Gandogar belted out a song of his own and hammered all the more furiously.

"You'd think it was a singing competition." Boлndal grinned and hoisted his belt. "If that doesn't please Vraccas, I don't know what will."

"Tungdil is the better singer, so Vraccas will favor his cause," said his brother.

The singing continued until both candidates had finished their blades. Balendilнn instructed them to attach the ax heads to iron hafts; then each took up the other's weapon, ensuring the blade's exposure to maximum force. They positioned themselves in front of their shields and at the referee's signal, the contest began.

"Let's see how His Majesty fared in the forge," said a sweat-drenched Tungdil, preparing to strike. The blade, still glowing with heat, traced an orange semicircle through the gloom of the hall, hitting its target in a shower of sparks. The ax withstood the blow.

"Better than you thought," retorted Gandogar. He struck the shield with equal force and the blade held true.

They dealt six further blows apiece, but on the eighth strike Tungdil heard a faint crack when Gandogar's ax hit the shield. He knew the next blow would be its last. "Take a look at this," he called to the king. The blade fractured, shattering into countless shards. Panting, Tungdil threw the haft to the floor and fumbled for his water pouch.

A murmur went through the watching crowd. The fourthling king tensed his muscles, summoning all his strength for the final blow. The shield groaned and shuddered, but the blade survived the strike.

"Hurrah for the smith!" boomed Boпndil. "Two-one to Tungdil. It was the singing that did it. Even the poorest metal can't resist a good tune."

Gandogar laid down his ax in order to shake his opponent's hand. "I didn't think anyone could forge such a fine blade from such woefully inadequate metal. You are the undisputed master of the forge-but I shall be king of the dwarves. The next victory will be mine."

"We'll see about that."

Already Balendilнn was unfolding the next piece of paper. There was no time for the dwarves to catch their breath. "The fourth challenge will be a race. Each candidate will be given a tankard of molten gold and must carry it to the end of the first meadow and back before proceeding to the gates. In addition to your chain mail, you will be given a pack weighing precisely forty pounds. The first to return with a full tankard wins the task."

To ensure that both competitors ran the full distance with their tankards, Balendilнn dispatched a pair of dwarves to the meadow and another to the gates.

This is my kind of task, thought Tungdil, hefting the knapsack to his shoulders. He was accustomed to the heat of the forge and as for carrying gold, it was more a privilege than a burden. Even the thought of racing with a forty-pound knapsack didn't deter him: He had walked hundreds of miles across Girdlegard with two heavy packs.

They were handed their tankards, thick-rimmed glass vessels with a thin layer of pewter plating. The contents had been heated to several hundred degrees and would sear through the flesh on contact with the skin. There was an obvious risk of serious injury; even the steam rising from the molten metal was treacherously hot.

"Go!" shouted Balendilнn. With that, the race was underway.

Gandogar surged forward, barely glancing at his tankard as he focused on his course. Tungdil took the opposite approach, feasting his eyes on the pool of liquid sunshine. He had marched for enough miles to have faith in his footing.

Soon the king was in the lead and had vanished from the hall. Tungdil followed leisurely. Balendilнn had said that the task would be won by the first to return with a full tankard. He would rather take his time and bring back his quota than waste any of the precious gold. He even stopped and set down his tankard occasionally to give his calloused smith's hands a chance to recover from the heat.

He had almost reached the valley when Gandogar raced past in the opposite direction.

"You'd better hurry if you want to beat me, Tungdil," he shouted. There was an unmistakable whiff of scorched skin, but the king kept going regardless, content to let his fingers suffer. As far as Tungdil could tell, not a drop of gold had been spilled.

He stopped in the meadow, gave his hand a quick rest, and set off in hot pursuit. I shouldn't have counted on Gandogar making a mistake, he admonished himself.

It wasn't long before his hand began to shake. He was feeling the effects of the duel and the metalworking contest, but no amount of self-pity was going to help him win the task. He was just approaching the gates when Gandogar ran past, sweating and cursing, on his homeward leg. The fourthling smiled cockily at Tungdil, his tankard still full.

"We're even now! One last challenge and victory will be mine," he vowed.

That was enough to revive Tungdil's competitive spirit, and he hurried after Gandogar, determined to pass him as quickly as he could.

Just then a small creature darted into the passageway and collided with his legs. Tungdil stumbled and caught himself. "What in the name of Vraccas…"

The molten gold was swirling dangerously, ready to spill over the edge, but Tungdil had no intention of releasing his grip. A golden wave slopped over the side and splashed onto his skin. The pain was excruciating, but he gritted his teeth and continued without so much as a curse. His eyes scanned the passageway furiously, but the offending creature was gone.

Owing to the mishap, he reached the hall in second place and without his full quota of gold. He had lost by either reckoning. But Gandogar's victory had not been won without sacrifice and his poor scalded hands were being treated with ice and water by a nurse.

This time it fell to Tungdil to congratulate his rival. He refrained from shaking his hand out of consideration for his burns. "Well, you kept your promise this time," he said, immersing his own tender skin in the ice-cold water.

"Don't worry, I intend to keep all my promises," Gandogar informed him, turning quickly away.

Tungdil held up his hand to inspect the damage. The gold had solidified, leaving a permanent coin-sized patch on his skin.

The golden stain made his right hand glisten in the light of the coal lamps, catching Boпndil's eye. "Take a look at that, brother."

"Tungdil Goldhand! That's what we'll call him," said Boлndal. "I hope he likes it. I reckon it suits him well."

"It's a darned sight better than Bolofar," his twin agreed.

"Attention, delegates," called Balendilнn. "The score stands at two all, so we must progress to the fifth and final challenge, on which the choice of successor and the future of the dwarven folks shall rest." He instructed the rivals to note down a maximum of four tasks.

It has to be something I can definitely win… Tungdil thought for a moment, then grinned. Of course! The perfect task had occurred to him in the nick of time.

Each slip of paper was folded in the same fashion and placed in a leather pouch held open by Balendilнn. The counselor pulled the drawstrings, gave the bag a good shake, and paced along the row of dwarves, stopping in front of Bislipur.

"Once the task has been drawn, there can be no complaints about the fairness of the choice. Bislipur, my friend, I should like you to pick the challenge." He held the pouch toward him.

The thick-set dwarf seized the bag without any pretense at politeness. He fixed the counselor with a stony glare.

Without looking down, he reached inside the bag, swept the bottom, and came up with a slip of paper. He was about to unfold it when the parchment slipped out of his fingers and fell back into the pouch. His hand plunged after it and he thrust the note wordlessly toward Balendilнn.

"No," said the referee. "You picked the task; you read it."

Bislipur shifted his gaze from the counselor's face to the note. He unfolded the paper and scanned its contents. "Oh," he said breezily, "that's not the one I drew first." He reached inside the bag again.

"Rules are rules." Balendilнn snatched the pouch away. "You made your choice; now read out the challenge."

Bislipur's jaw was clenched as if to hold back the challenge and prevent it from reaching the delegates' ears. He took a deep breath, hesitating for so long that Tungdil began to hope.

"The fifth and final task is an expedition," he announced, his voice trembling with rage. "The candidates are challenged to journey to the Gray Range and return with Keenfire. The winner will wield the ax against Nфd'onn."

There was a faint sigh as Gundrabur released his pent-up breath in relief. Balendilнn closed his eyes and permitted himself the briefest of smiles.

No one could have anticipated that the greatest challenge to Gandogar's succession would come from a task chosen and read by Bislipur himself. It was obvious that Tungdil was far cleverer than his fellow dwarves had thought. Silence descended on the hall as the delegates digested the unexpected twist.

Tungdil stepped forward quickly to forestall any protests about the nature of the task. "I issued the challenge, and I accept." He turned to Gandogar.

The fourthling king was visibly seething. "Ditto," he growled.

"Stop! We must draw again," insisted Bislipur, knowing that an expedition to the Gray Range would sabotage his plan for a war against the elves. "You saw me drop the first note. This isn't the right one!"

Balendilнn stood his ground. "What do you propose I do? We'll never know which note was drawn first. No, the decision must stand. Both candidates have accepted the challenge, and the outcome will decide the succession."

"But what of the delay?" protested Bislipur. "An expedition will saddle us with orbits of uncertainty."

"Please don't worry unduly," Tungdil said politely. "I'll endeavor to return as quickly as I can." The delegates laughed. "If you'll excuse me, I need to get going and choose my traveling companions. There's no time to waste." He signaled to Boлndal and Boпndil to follow. "I would never have got this far if it hadn't been for you. With your agreement, I should like you to accompany me on my expedition to the Gray Range. Can I count on your assistance in escorting me there and back again?"

Boпndil guffawed. "Did you hear that, brother? He's the same old scholar!" He turned to Tungdil. "We'd be honored to join you, but only if you promise to drop your fancy speech. Besides," he added with a tinge of sadness, "there's the matter of restoring my good reputation after I failed you in the desert."

Tungdil placed his hands on the brothers' shoulders. "Don't worry, Boпndil, I'm sure you'll have more than enough opportunities to save me from certain death."

The dwarf grinned and his brother nodded. "You earned yourself a new name today, scholar." Boлndal pointed to the shimmering metal grafted to his skin. "Tungdil Goldhand. What do you think of that?"

"Goldhand…" Tungdil held up his right hand. "Yes, I rather like the sound of it." His hand hurt devilishly, but he managed a smile. Goldhand-a proper dwarven name.

The delegates dispersed and Bislipur and Gandogar stormed out of the great hall, leaving the high king and his counselor alone.

"Was that your idea?" inquired Gundrabur, reaching for his pipe.

Balendilнn laughed softly. "Not at all. I would never have come up with such a preposterous suggestion. If you ask me, Tungdil was sent here by Vraccas himself." He ascended the dais and stood by the throne. "He'd make an excellent high king, you know. His ideas are pure gold."

"Tungdil chose wisely," agreed the monarch. "Whichever of the candidates comes back first, Girdlegard will be the real winner-and of course the dwarves. Our task is to make sure nothing untoward happens while the two of them are away."

"It means keeping your inner furnace alight a little longer," Balendilнn reminded him anxiously.

Gundrabur levered himself out of his throne and stuck his pipe between his teeth. "Vraccas knows our need and will stay his hammer until the time has come," he said, undaunted.

His counselor watched him go, then sat down on the footstool to examine the contents of the leather pouch. His efforts were focused on finding the slip of paper that Bislipur had originally drawn. He knew it as soon as he saw it because of the nick in one corner. Bislipur's expression on reading the challenge had discouraged him from intervening and correcting the mistake.

And rightly so, as he discovered when he opened the note. If Bislipur had kept hold of the paper, Tungdil would be cutting diamonds instead of preparing for his quest. He would have lost the challenge and Gandogar would be high king.

He unfolded the other slips of paper and laughed out loud: four times diamond-cutting and four times an expedition.

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