The Dwarves

I

Enchanted Realm of Ionandar, Girdlegard, Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle A volley of raps rang out as the hammer danced on the glowing ore. With each blow the metal took shape, curving into a crescent as the iron submitted to the blacksmith's strength and skill.

Suddenly the jangling ceased and a pair of tongs swooped down and tossed the metal back into the furnace. The blacksmith gave a grunt of displeasure.

"What do you think you're doing, Tungdil?" the waiting man demanded impatiently. Eiden, a groom in the service of Lot-Ionan the magus, stroked the horse's nose. "The nag can't wait forever, you know. She's supposed to be pulling the plow."

Tungdil dipped his hands into a pail of water and used the brief hiatus to wash away the grime. The dwarf wore leather breeches and a brown beard clipped close to his chin. He was naked from the waist up, save for a leather apron. Running his brawny fingers through his long dark hair, he shook out the sweat and let the drops of cool water trickle across his scalp.

"The shoe would never have fit," came his brief response. He pumped the bellows, producing a tortured hiss like the breath of a wheezing giant. The air breathed red-hot life into the glowing coals. "Nearly there now."

He repeated the procedure, this time to his satisfaction, and fitted the shoe to the nag. A foul-smelling cloud of yellowish smoke enveloped Tungdil as the iron singed the horny sole. He dunked the shoe into the pail, allowing the metal to cool, then held it to the hoof again and drove nails through the holes. Setting the hind leg down gingerly, he retreated hastily. The animal, a strong, broad-backed gray, was too big for his liking.

Eiden sniggered and stroked the plow horse. "How do you like your new shoe?" he asked her. "The smith's a midget, granted, but at least he knows his stuff. Just watch you don't trip over him." He hurried from the forge and marched the horse toward the fields.

The dwarf stretched and gave his powerful arms a shake as he strolled to the furnace. The groom's jibes did not rile him; teasing, affectionate or otherwise, was something he was inured to, having grown up in Ionandar, the only dwarf in a human realm.

He stood more chance of finding gold by the wayside than encountering another of his kind.

All the same, I should like to meet one, he thought. His gaze swept the orderly forge, taking in the rows of tongs and hammers hanging neatly from the walls. I'd ask about the five dwarven folks.

The light in the forge was dim, but Tungdil liked it that way because it brought out the beauty of the fiery coals. He worked the bellows, chasing sparks into the chimney as he fanned the flames. For a moment his face lit up as he imagined the glowing red dots flitting through the sky and taking their place in the firmament to shine brightly as stars. It was the same satisfaction that he derived from letting his hammer bounce up and down on the red-hot metal. Do real dwarven smiths do things differently? he wondered.

"Why is it always so dark in here?" Without warning, Sunja, the eight-year-old daughter of Frala the kitchen maid, appeared at his side. A bright child, she was refreshingly untroubled by Tungdil's appearance.

The dwarf's kindly face creased from ear to ear. It was astonishing how quickly human children grew; the girl would soon be taller than he was. "You're as bad as cats, you children, sneaking up on me like that! I'll tell you all about it if you help me heat the iron." He tossed a lump of metal into the furnace.

Eagerly, the fair-haired girl joined him at the bellows. As ever, he pretended to let her take over, allowing her to believe that she was compressing the firm leather pouch with her strength alone. Soon the metal took on a reddish glow.

"Do you see now?" Reaching forward with the tongs, he gripped the nugget of iron and laid it on the anvil. "It's not for nothing that I work without light. A blacksmith needs to know when the metal has reached the right temperature. Left to slumber in its toasty bed of coals, the iron overheats, but raised too soon, the brittle metal can't be forged." Tungdil was rewarded with an earnest nod. The child looked exactly like Frala. "My mother says you're a master blacksmith."

"I wouldn't go that far," he protested, laughing. "I'm just good at my job." He winked at her and she smiled.

What Tungdil didn't mention was that he had never received instruction in his trade. Watching his predecessor at work had been all the training he'd needed. Whenever the man set down his tools, Tungdil had seized his chance to practice, mastering the essentials in no time. Now, thirty solar cycles later, no job was too big or too difficult for him.

Lost in their thoughts, Tungdil and Sunja watched as the flames changed color: first orange, then yellow, red, white, and blue… The glowing coals sputtered and crackled.

Just as the dwarf was about to inquire what Cook would be serving for luncheon, a man appeared in the doorway, black against the rectangle of light.

"You're needed in the kitchens, Tungdil," came the imperious voice of Jolosin, a famulus in the fourth tier of Lot-Ionan's apprentices.

"Well, since you asked so nicely…" Tungdil turned to Sunja: "Be sure not to touch anything." On his way out, he pocketed a small metal object and then followed the apprentice into the vaults of Lot-Ionan's school.

Two hundred or so students of all ages had been selected to learn the secrets of sorcery from the magus. To the dwarf's mind, magic was a slippery, unreliable occupation. He felt more at home in his forge, where he could hammer as loudly as he pleased.

Jolosin's dark blue robes billowed as he walked, his combed hair bobbing about his shoulders. Tungdil eyed the youth's fine garments and coiffure and grinned. The vanity of the boy! They entered a large room and an appetizing smell wafted toward them. Sure enough, cooking pots were simmering and bubbling above two hearths.

Tungdil saw at once why his services were required. The pots were suspended on chains from the ceilings, but one of them had slipped its pulley and was sitting in the flames.

Lifting the vessel required more strength than a woman could muster and none of the apprentices were willing to help. They considered themselves a cut above kitchen work, refusing to dirty their hands or burn their fingers when others, such as smiths, could do the work.

The cook, a stately woman of impressive girth, hurried over. "Hurry," she cried anxiously, reaching up to stay her escaping hairnet. "My goulash will be spoiled!"

"We can't have that. I'm starving," said Tungdil. Without wasting time, he marched over to the hearth, touched the chain lightly to gauge its temperature, then seized the rusty links. Cycle after cycle at the anvil had strengthened his muscles until even the heaviest hammer felt weightless in his arms. A pot of goulash on a pulley was nothing by comparison.

"Here," he said to Jolosin, proffering him the grimy chain, "hold this while I fix it."

The young man hesitated. "Are you sure it's not too heavy for me?" he asked nervously.

"You'll be fine," Tungdil reassured him. He grinned. "And if you're half as good at magic as you say you are, you can always make it lighter." He pressed the chain into the apprentice's hands and let go.

With a muttered curse, the famulus threw his weight against the dangling pot. "Ow!" he protested. "It's hot!"

"That's my goulash you're holding!" the cook reminded him darkly. Conceding defeat to her hairnet, she allowed her brown mop to fall across her pudgy face. "I don't care if you're a famulus. I'll take my rolling pin to you if you let go of that chain!" Her plump arms rippled as she balled her fists.

On discovering the source of the problem, Tungdil decided to punish Jolosin by delaying the repair.

"This won't be easy," he said in a voice of feigned dismay. Frala raised her pretty green eyes from the potatoes she was peeling, saw what he was up to, and giggled.

At last he made the necessary adjustments and checked the mechanism again. The pulley held and the goulash was safe. "You can let go now."

Jolosin did as instructed, then inspected his dirty hands. Some of the grime had transferred itself to his precious blue robes. He shot a suspicious look at Frala, who was laughing out loud. His color rose.

"That's exactly what you were hoping for, isn't it, you stunted wretch!" He took a step toward Tungdil and raised his fist, then stopped; the dwarf was considerably stronger than he was. Angrily, he stormed away.

Tungdil watched him go and smirked. "If he wants a fight, he shall have one. It's a pity he lost his nerve." He wiped his hands on his apron.

Frala fished an apple from the basket beside her and tossed it to him. "Poor Jolosin," she said with a chuckle. "His fine gown is all soiled."

"He should have been more careful." He shrugged and strolled over. Like him, Frala was responsible for the little things that contributed to the smooth running of the school. "But I'll excuse his clumsiness, just this once." His kind eyes looked at her brightly from among his laughter lines.

"You two deserve each other," Frala sighed. "If you're not careful, someone will come to a bad end because of your feuding." There was a splash as she dropped a peeled potato into the waiting tub of water.

"What did he expect when he dyed my beard? You know what they say: Make a noise in a mine shaft and you're bound to hear an echo." Tungdil ran a hand over his stubbly beard. "I had to shave my chin, thanks to his stupid spell. He must have known we'd be sworn enemies after that!"

"I thought orcs were your worst enemy?" she said archly.

"Well, I've made an exception for him. Beards are sacred and if I were a proper dwarf I'd kill him for his insolence. I'm too easygoing for my own good." He bit into the apple hungrily. With his left hand he took something from the pouch at his waist and pressed it into Frala's hand. "For you."

She looked down at her palm and saw three horseshoe nails painstakingly forged together to form a homemade talisman. She stroked the dwarf's cheek fondly.

"What a lovely gift. Thank you, Tungdil." She got up, fetched a length of twine, threaded it through the pendant, and knotted it deftly round her neck. The talisman nestled against her bare skin. "Does it suit me?" she asked coyly.

"Anyone would think it had been made for you," he said, thrilled that Frala was wearing the iron trinket as proudly as if Girdlegard's finest jeweler had designed and forged the piece.

There was a special bond between the pair of them. The dwarf had known Frala since she was a baby and had watched her mature into an attractive young woman who turned the heads of Lot-Ionan's apprentices. These days she had two daughters of her own: Sunja and one-year-old Ikana.

Cycles ago, when Frala was still a girl, he had made tin figures for her to play with, showed her around the forge, and let her work the bellows. "Dragon's breath," she used to call it as the sparks flew up the chimney, accompanied by her laughter. Frala never forgot the pains he had taken to entertain her, nor how he cared for her daughter.

She shook the remaining potatoes into the tub and topped up the water. As she turned round, her green eyes looked at him keenly. "It's funny," she said with a smile. "I was just thinking how you haven't changed a bit in all the cycles I've known you."

Half of Tungdil's apple had already disappeared. Still munching, he made himself comfortable on a stool. "And I was just thinking how splendidly we get on together," he said simply.

"Frala!" the cook shouted. "I'm going for some herbs. You'll have to stir the goulash." The ladle, its stem scarcely shorter than Tungdil, changed hands. The cook hurried out. "You'd better not let it stick," she warned.

A delicious smell of goulash rose from the pot as Frala gave the stew a vigorous stir.

"All the others look older," she said, "even the magus. But you've stayed the same for twenty-three cycles. How do you think you'll look in another twenty-three?"

The topic was one that Tungdil was reluctant to consider. From what he had read about dwarves, it seemed he was destined to live for three hundred cycles or more. Even now it grieved him to think that he would see the death of Frala and her daughters, of whom he had grown so fond.

With these thoughts in mind, he popped the apple core into his mouth. "Who knows, Frala," he mumbled, hoping to dismiss the gloomy subject.

The maid had a particular knack for reading his mind that morning. "Can I ask you something, Tungdil?" He nodded. "Do you promise you'll look after my daughters when I'm gone?"

He choked on the sour apple pips, scratching his throat in the process. "I don't think we need to worry about that now. Why, you'll live to be"-he looked her up and down-"a hundred cycles at least. I'll ask the magus to give you eternal life-and Sunja and Ikana too, of course."

Frala laughed. "Oh, I'm not intending to meet Palandiell quite yet." She kept stirring dutifully, even though her forehead was dripping with perspiration. "But all the same, I'd… Well, I'd feel better if I knew you were there to take care of them." Her shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. "Please, Tungdil, say you'll be their guardian."

"Frala, by the time you're summoned to your goddess, Sunja and Ikana will be old enough to look after themselves." Realizing that she was in earnest, he duly gave his word. "I'd be honored to be their guardian." He slid from the stool. "If the chain slips again, send Jolosin to find me!" He made his way out with a small bowl of goulash to sustain him until lunch.

On returning to the forge he found Sunja waiting for him with yet another commission from Eiden, two wooden barrels whose iron hoops had split. No sooner had he started work than the plow was brought in, needing urgent repair.

Tungdil relished the work. The fierce flames and physical effort made it a sweaty business, and soon perspiration was trickling down his arms and plopping into the fire with a hiss. Frala's daughter watched in fascination, passing him tools whenever she was strong enough to lift them and working the bellows with all her might.

The glowing metal yielded to his hammer, letting him shape it as he pleased. At times like this he almost felt like a proper dwarf and not just a foundling raised by humans.

His mind began to drift. He had reached the age of sixty-three solar cycles without seeing another of his kind, which was why he looked forward to being sent away on errands. The occasions when Lot-Ionan required his services as a messenger were regrettably few and far between. There was nothing Tungdil wanted more than to meet one of his own people and learn about his race, but the chances of encountering a traveling dwarf were infinitesimally small.

The realm of Ionandar belonged exclusively to humans. There were a few gnomes and kobolds, but their races were almost extinct. Those that remained lived in remote caves beneath the surface, emerging only when there was something worth stealing-or so Frala said. The last of the elven people lived in Вlandur amid the glades of the Eternal Forest, while the dwarves inhabited the five ranges bounding Girdlegard. Tungdil had almost given up hope of visiting a dwarven kingdom and finding out about his folk.

Everything he knew about dwarves stemmed from Lot-Ionan's library, but it was a dry kind of knowledge, empty and colorless. In some of the magus's books, the writers called the dwarves "groundlings" and poked fun at them, while others blamed his people for opening Girdlegard to the northern hordes. Tungdil refused to believe it.

But he could understand why so few of his kind ventured outside their kingdoms; his kinsfolk were almost certainly offended by such prejudice and preferred to turn their backs on humankind. Tungdil was putting the finishing touches to the first of the iron hoops when Jolosin appeared at the door, wearing, as Tungdil noted with satisfaction, a clean set of robes. "Hurry," he spluttered, panting for breath. "Don't tell me it's the goulash again," said Tungdil, grinning. "Why don't you run along and hold the chain until I get there?"

"It's the laboratory…" Barely able to get the words out, Jolosin resorted to gestures. "The chimney…," he gasped, turning and hurrying away.

This time it sounded serious. The dwarf set down his hammer in consternation and wiped his hands on his apron. Once Sunja had been dispatched to join her mother in the kitchen, he chased after the famulus through the underground galleries hewn into the stone.

Border Territory, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Winter, 6233rd Solar Cycle Tens of hundreds of tiny grains of sand pelted their helms, shields, mail, and every inch of unprotected flesh.

Battered by the gusts, the brave band of dwarves struggled onward, mounted on ponies. Scarves muffled their faces but the cloth was no match for the fine desert sand, which worked its way through the fabric, clogging their beards and grinding between their teeth.

"Bedeviled wind," cursed Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, king of the fourthlings' twelve clans. He tugged at his scarf, pulling it over his nose.

At 298 cycles of age, Gandogar was a respected leader and accomplished warrior. He stood a little over five feet tall and his arms were strong and powerful. His heavy tunic of finely forged mail was worn with pride, despite the trying circumstances. Beneath his diamond-studded helmet his hair and beard were brown and wiry. He led the party unflinchingly through the sand and scree.

"It's the sand that gets me. I've never seen a sandstorm below the surface," complained Bislipur Surestroke, the friend and mentor riding at his side. He was taller and brawnier than the monarch and his hands and arms were laden with almost as many golden rings and bangles. He looked every inch the warrior, his chain mail bearing the scars of countless battles. The freshest marks were just five orbits old, the result of a skirmish with orcs.

"Vraccas knew what he was doing when he sculpted us from rock. Dwarves and deserts don't mix." The verdict was shared by the rest of the troop.

The ponies that had borne them on their long journey to the secondling kingdom snorted and whinnied fractiously, trying to clear their nostrils but blocking them further with all-pervasive sand.

"There's no other way of getting there," Gandogar said apologetically. "You'll be pleased to know that the worst is behind us."

The band of thirty dwarves was in Sangpыr, a desolate human realm under Queen Umilante's rule. The landscape consisted of nothing but barren dunes and godforsaken wasteland, a vista so cheerless that the dwarves preferred to stare at the tangled manes of their ponies or the tips of their boots.

Their journey south from the Brown Range had taken them through the lush valleys and steep gorges of the mountainous state of Urgon where Lothaire reigned. From there they had ridden over the gentle plains of King Tilogorn's Idoslane, where the slightest hillock qualified as a mountain and shady forests gave way to fertile fields.

The passage through Sangpыr was the last and most grueling leg of the journey, a swathe of desert forty miles wide, lying at the foot of the mountains like a moat of fine sand. It was almost as though nature wanted to prevent the rest of Girdlegard, including the fourthlings, from reaching the range.

On occasions, the wind dropped and the veil of sand fell, allowing the mighty peaks to loom before them magically among the dunes. The dwarves felt the call of the snowcapped mountains and longed for cool air, fresh water, and the company of their kin.

Bislipur tightened the scarf around his cheeks and stroked his graying beard. "I'm no friend of magic, but if ever we needed a sorcerer it's now," he growled.

"Why?"

"He could command the wretched wind to stop."

A final gust swirled toward them; then the gales died unexpectedly. Only five miles separated the dwarves from the comb of rock that ran from east to west.

"You're not a bad sorcerer yourself," said Gandogar, breathing a sigh of relief. He had never been especially fond of the world outside his kingdom and this latest foray had persuaded him that one epic journey in a lifetime was more than enough. "What did I tell you? We're almost there."

Rising out of the gloom of the mountain's shadows were the imposing walls of Ogre's Death. The stronghold grew out of the rock, the main keep hewn into the foothills, the battlements extending down the hillside in four separate terraces that were all but impregnable.

Cut into the walls of the uppermost terrace was the stronghold's entrance, eight paces wide and ten paces high. Like an enormous mouth, thought Gandogar. It looks as though the mountain is yawning.

As the company neared the stronghold, the doors opened welcomingly. Seventeen banners fluttered loftily from the turrets, bearing the insignia of the secondling clans.

"Here at last," Gandogar said thankfully. "To think we've ridden right across Girdlegard." The other dwarves joined in his grateful laughter. They were his retinue, a heavily armed band who had escorted him throughout the long journey to the secondling kingdom. Between them they were the cream of Goпmdil's folk, skilled in ax work and craftsmanship, the best warriors and artisans from each of the twelve fourthling clans. Many a legend told of the fighting prowess of the dwarves, which explained why the party had not been troubled by a single brigand or thief. They were carrying enough gold to make an ambush more than worth the risk.

Bislipur waved his hand imperiously and his summons was instantly obeyed. A little fellow measuring just three feet in height slid from his pony awkwardly and came running through the sand. He wore a wide belt around his baggy breeches and looked oddly sinewy in appearance, despite the considerable paunch that rounded his hessian shirt. The yellowed undergarment was paired with a red jacket and his blue cap was pulled low over his face, a pointed ear protruding on either side. A silver choker encircled his neck and his buckled shoes kicked up clouds of sand as he scampered through the dunes.

He bowed at Bislipur's feet. "Sverd at your service, but not of his own accord," he said peevishly.

"Silence!" thundered Bislipur, raising his powerful fist. The gnome ducked away. "Ride on and announce our arrival. Wait for us at the gates-and don't touch anything that doesn't belong to you."

"Since I don't have a choice in the matter, I shall do as you say." The gnome bowed again and hurried to his pony. Soon he was galloping away from the dwarves in the direction of the stronghold.

Even from a distance it was obvious that Sverd was no horseman. He bounced up and down in the saddle, clinging to his cap with clawlike fingers and relying on the pony to set their course.

"He'll unman himself if he goes any faster. When are you finally going to set him free?" asked Gandogar.

"Not until he's served his penance," Bislipur answered tersely. "Let's not delay." He pressed his heels into the pony's broad flanks and the animal set off at an obedient trot.

The fourthlings knew Ogre's Death from etchings and stories, but now they were seeing it for the first time for themselves.

Hundreds of cycles had passed since the last dwarf of Goпmdil journeyed through Girdlegard to visit his kinsfolk in the south. In ancient times the dwarven folks had come together every few cycles to celebrate festivals in honor of Vraccas and thank the Smith for creating their race, but the fall of the Stone Gateway, the invasion of the orcs, ogres, and дlfar, and the annihilation of the fifthlings had put a stop to that.

"Thank Vraccas we're here," sighed Gandogar, standing up in his stirrups to give his saddle-sore bottom a brief respite.

None of the company had any instinct for riding. As true dwarves, they would never consent to making a journey on horses; the beasts were untrustworthy and the saddles could be reached only by means of a stepladder, which was far too undignified. It was bad enough riding on ponies.

Their distrust of the animals ran so deep that two of the party refused to ride altogether and were traveling in small, easily maneuverable chariots at the back of the procession.

"We'll all be glad when the journey is over," said Bislipur, spitting sand from his mouth.

The woes of their travels were partly forgotten as Ogre's Death's magnificent masonry loomed into view. Gandogar's eyes traveled over the exquisitely ornamented turrets and walls – even the outermost rampart was a work of art, graced with plinths, statues, pillars, and other embellishments. Our folk boasts the finest gem cutters and diamond polishers, but Beroпn's masons are second to none.

The gates to the first of the four terraces swung open and Gandogar's company was admitted to a courtyard. Sverd had dismounted and was standing by his pony. Bislipur signaled for him to fall in at the rear of the group.

Dwarves seldom showed their age, but the figure who came toward them had seen three hundred cycles or more. "Greetings, King Gandogar Silverbeard of Goпmdil's folk. My name is Balendilнn Onearm of the clan of the Firm Fingers and on behalf of our ruler, Gundrabur Whitecrown, high king of all dwarves, I welcome you and your company to the secondling kingdom of Beroпn's folk."

Clad in a tunic of chain mail, the stocky dwarf was carrying a battle-ax at his waist. His weapons belt was secured by a finely worked stone clasp. Marble trinkets had been braided into his graying beard and a long plait dangled behind him. "Come, brothers, follow me."

He started on the path that rose toward the stronghold. As he turned, the fourthlings noticed that he was missing one arm.

Gandogar conjectured that the limb had been lost to one of Tion's minions. In all other respects, the secondling was powerfully built, perhaps because of the strength required for working with stone. His right hand was heavily callused, almost bearlike in size, the fingers exuding a power that lived up to the name of his clan.

The company followed Balendilнn through several gateways until they reached the fourth and final terrace, where he signaled for them to stop. At last they could appreciate the full genius of the stronghold's design. Their host gestured to the doors that led into the mountain. "Dismount and leave your ponies here. We'll take good care of them, I assure you. The delegates are expecting you in the great hall."

He led the procession into a tunnel of such vast proportions that a dragon could have entered with ease. What truly took the visitors' breath away, though, was the masonry. Nine-sided stone columns, each measuring ten paces in circumference, rose like fossilized trees. The ceiling was so high as to be invisible, the columns soaring into space. Perhaps the crown of the mountain is supported by pillars, thought Gandogar, gazing at his surroundings in awe.

Stone arches, richly decorated with carvings, spanned the columns, inscribed with verses and citations from the creation story of the dwarves.

Ahead of them towered an enormous stone statue of Beroпn, father of the secondlings. The ancient monarch sat on a throne of white marble, his right hand raised in greeting and his left hand clasped about his ax. His foot alone was as long as five ponies and loomed to the height of a fully grown dwarf.

But that was just the start of it.

The walls, once coarse naked rock, had been polished to a sheen and the glinting surfaces engraved with runes and patterns. The stonework was so delicate, so precise, that Gandogar slowed to examine it.

There were underground galleries and chambers aplenty in his own kingdom, but nothing compared to the secondlings' skill.

He reached out and ran his hand reverently over the dark gray marble. It was hard to believe such splendor was possible.

"By Vraccas," he exclaimed admiringly, "I have never seen such artistry. The secondlings boast the best masons of any dwarven folk."

Gundrabur's counselor gave a little bow. "Thank you. They will value your praise."

The company walked between the statue's feet and through another door. There the passageway narrowed and the air felt suddenly cool. They had reached the entrance to the hall.

Balendilнn turned to Gandogar and smiled. "Are you ready to stake your claim before the assembly?"

"Of course he is," snapped Bislipur before the king could speak.

Balendilнn frowned but said nothing, stepping forward to throw open the doors and announce the arrival of the long-awaited guests.

The great hall surpassed everything that had gone before it. Cylindrical columns towered to vertiginous heights and great battle scenes graced the walls, the sculpted marble surfaces commemorating past victories and heroic deeds. Lanterns and braziers of burning coal bathed the chamber in a warm reddish glow, but the air was cool, much to the delight of the travelers who had endured the heat of Sangpыr's deserts.

While Balendilнn was introducing the new arrivals, Gandogar fixed his adviser with a stare. "You would have beaten Sverd for such insolence."

Bislipur clenched his jaw. "I'll apologize to the counselor later."

They turned toward the assembly. Five chairs, one for each of the dwarven folks, were arranged in a semicircle around a table. Elegantly carved pews were lined up in five blocks behind them so that the chieftains and elders could follow the proceedings and have their say.

One of the chairs, together with its corresponding benches, would remain forever empty, a painful reminder of the fifthlings' fate. There was no sign of the firstling monarch or chieftains, but the seventeen clans of the secondlings had taken their seats.

The table was covered in maps and charts of Girdlegard. Before the fourthlings' arrival, the delegates had been discussing the happenings in the north, but now their attention turned to Gandogar.

The king felt a rush of excitement. For the first time in over four hundred cycles the most influential and powerful dwarves of all the folks would be assembled in one room. Never before had he been in the presence of his fellow monarchs and distant kin and at last the names that he had heard so often attached themselves to beings of flesh and blood. It was a momentous occasion.

The other dwarves rose to greet the company with hearty handshakes. Gandogar noticed how the palms differed; some were callused or scarred, others tough and muscular, while a few seemed almost delicate. He was touched by the warmth of the welcome, despite the distrust and suspicion evident in some eyes.

Then it was time for him to greet Gundrabur Whitecrown, king of the secondlings and ruler of every dwarf, clan, and folk.

He stepped forward and struggled to hide his shock.

After five hundred cycles of life, the once stately high king was so weak that the mildest breeze was liable to extinguish his inner fires. His eyes, dull and yellowed, flicked back and forth, unable to settle. It seemed to Gandogar that the monarch stared straight through him.

Because of his great age, the high king did without cumbersome mail, his feeble body wrapped in embroidered robes of brown fabric. His silvery hair and beard swept the floor and in his lap was the crown that symbolized his office, too heavy for him to bear.

The ceremonial hammer lay beside his throne, its head etched with runes and its handle inlaid with gems and precious metals that sparkled in the light of the braziers and lanterns. It seemed doubtful that the monarch could summon the strength to lift the heavy relic.

Gandogar cleared his throat and swallowed his trepidation. "You summoned me as your successor, Your Majesty, and now I stand before you," he said, addressing the high king with the time-honored formula.

Gundrabur inclined his head as if to speak, but no sound came out.

"The high king thanks you for following his summons. He knows that the journey was arduous and long," Balendilнn explained on the monarch's behalf. "If the assembly wills it thus, you shall soon wear the crown. I am Gundrabur's deputy and I will speak for the secondlings." He gestured for Gandogar to take his place at the table.

Gandogar sat down and Bislipur took up position behind him. The fourthling monarch leaned over to inspect the maps, only to realize that some of the delegates were staring at him expectantly. They seemed to be waiting for him to stake his claim more roundly, but Bislipur had warned him against showing his hand too soon. His priority was the situation in the north of Girdlegard and he was eager to see how his proposal would be received.

"Where are the nine clans of Borengar's folk?" he asked, nodding toward the empty seats belonging to the firstlings. "Not here?"

Balendilнn shook his head. "No, and we don't know if they're coming. We've heard nothing from the firstlings for two hundred cycles." He reached for his ax and lowered the blade over the far west of Girdlegard. The dwarves of Borengar's folk were the keepers of the Silver Pass, the defenders of the Red Range against invading troops. The human realm of Queen Wey IV separated their kingdom from the rest of Girdlegard. "We know they're still there, though. According to the merchants of Weyurn, the Silver Pass has not been breached." He laid his ax on the table. "It's their business if they choose to stay away. We must vote without them."

The other members of the assembly murmured their assent.

"King Gandogar, you wish to ascend the throne, but first you must hear of the challenges that await you. The Perished Land is creeping through Girdlegard. Every pace of land conquered by Tion's minions is infected with a terrible force that turns nature against itself. Its power is such that even the trees become intent on attacking and killing anything that lives. People say that those who perish on this ground return to life without a soul or a will. The dead become enslaved to the dark power and join the orcs in slaying their kin."

"The Perished Land is advancing?" Gandogar took a deep breath. It was clear from the counselor's words that the magi had failed to stem the tide of evil. "I never trusted the longuns' magic!" he said heatedly. "All those fancy fireworks and to what end? Nudin, Lot-Ionan, Andфkai, and the rest of them are too busy perfecting their magic with their too-clever-by-half apprentices. They scribble away in their laboratories and castles, studying the secret of elven immortality so they can scribble and study and scribble some more. And all the while the Perished Land is creeping forward like rust on metal that no one has remembered to treat."

His blunt words met with noisy approval.

"At least some good has come of it. The elves have been all but annihilated." Gandogar's heart leaped at the thought that the arrogant elves would soon meet their doom. It was his firm intention that he and his warriors would inflict the final blow. The elves had murdered his father and brother, but now the time of reckoning was near. Soon the feuding and fighting will be over once and for all. He was itching to tell the others of his plan.

"All but annihilated?" echoed Balendilнn, frowning.

"Elders and chieftains, this is joyful news indeed!" Gandogar's cheeks were flushed and his brown eyes shone with enthusiasm. "Vraccas has given us the means to wipe out the children of Sitalia. The last of their race are gathered here." His index finger stabbed at the small dot on the map representing all that remained of the elven kingdom. "Listen to what I propose: Let us form a great army, march on Вlandur, and extract our vengeance for deeds that have gone unpunished for cycles!"

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

"Gandogar, we gathered here today to elect a new high king," Balendilнn 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 Вlandur. "You heard what the document says. They killed our kin and betrayed us! They must pay for their murderous deeds."

"And then what?" Balendilнn 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 Вlandur will profit the Perished Land alone. We may as well join forces with the дlfar 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. Balendilнn 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 дlfar 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 Balendilнn, 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. Balendilнn'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 Вlandur, 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.

Balendilнn 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 Jolosin 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. Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Winter, 6233rd Solar Cycle Balendilнn 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 Balendilнn's arm.

"Our planning will come to nothing," he said dully. "The young king of Goпmdil'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 Balendilнn 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 дlfar, 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, Balendilнn 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, Balendilнn. 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 Вlandur 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. Balendilнn 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 Beroпn, should pass to one of Goпmdil'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 be has the support of his kinsfolk."

Balendilнn 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 There 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.

There was another loud bang. Blue sparks shot through the air, missing the magus by a hairbreadth.

"Explain yourself, Tungdil!" Lot-Ionan thundered furiously. The dwarf, who evidently couldn't hear him, said nothing. "I'm talking to you, Tungdil Bolofar!" the magus bellowed as loudly as he could.

Looking up in surprise, the dwarf saw the lean wizard looming menacingly above him. He struggled out from behind the cauldron.

"This wasn't my doing, Estimable Magus," he said firmly. He shot an accusing glance at Jolosin, who was standing in the doorway with his pupils, doing his best to look surprised. Lot-Ionan wheeled on him.

"Don't look at me!" protested Jolosin with exaggerated indignation. "I had nothing to do with it! You saw for yourself that the door was locked!"

"Silence, the pair of you!" For the first time in ten cycles, Lot-Ionan was in danger of losing his temper altogether. He surveyed the costly mess. "This feuding has to stop!" His ink-stained beard seemed to ripple with rage.

The dwarf had no intention of taking any of the blame. He planted his feet firmly on the ground. "It wasn't my fault," he said stubbornly.

The magus was visibly struggling to regain his equilibrium. He sat down on an iron-bound chest of wood and crossed his arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jolosin opened his mouth in protest.

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

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

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

He slammed the door and the bolt rattled home.