The Dwarves (49 page)

“Don’t flatter yourself,” the artisan said coldly. “You’re not the enemy. You’re nobody, not even a fourthling. You can say
what you like about your lineage; all I know is you’re not one of us. If you want my opinion, you’re a common thief who’s
trying to steal the throne, and I won’t let you get away with it. I know what King Gandogar said about obeying your orders,
but I’ll see to it personally that the rightful heir is crowned.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to join the expedition?”

“ Maybe — or maybe I don’t like traveling, fighting, and enduring all kinds of unpleasantness when I’d rather be at home.
The journey to Ogre’s Death was bad enough, but now I’m risking my life for a liar.”

“This isn’t about being made high king,” Tungdil said earnestly. “Frankly, the whole business is rather a bore.”

Goïmgar looked at him in astonishment. “Then why are you here?”

“All I care about is forging Keenfire so we can fight Nôd’onn and put a stop to the evil. Girdlegard is in danger and we dwarves
are the only ones who can save her inhabitants from the magus’s deadly scheme. That’s what I’m interested in — not the throne.”

“How do I know you’re not lying? In your position, I’d swear blind that my beard was blue and the mountain was made of cheese.
And besides, what if we get to Ogre’s Death first? According to the rules of the contest, you’d have to be king. I don’t see
why we’re hurrying if you’re not interested in the throne.”

Tungdil could tell that the discussion was going nowhere. It would take more than a single night to convince Goïmgar that
he was mistaken about his intentions. The fourthling didn’t trust him one bit.

In any case, Tungdil didn’t like to be reminded about the uncertainty of his ancestry. All his efforts were focused on playing
the part of the long-lost heir, but deep down he felt lonely and confused. It was only the thought of Lot-Ionan and Frala
that gave him the strength to keep pretending. He would do anything to lead the company to the fifthling kingdom so that Keenfire
could rob Nôd’onn of his power and his life.

“There’s no point arguing,” he said glumly. “You should get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.” He wrapped himself in a blanket
to ward off the underground cold. At that moment he heard something. It sounded like a single strike of a hammer on rock.

Goïmgar stopped fussing with his bedding and froze. “An ogre,” he whispered tremulously. “Or the ghost of a dwarf who died
here when the tunnels were being built…”

Tungdil made no reply.
It could be anything,
he thought. Reaching for his ax, he listened to the darkness. There was silence. “It was probably just a stone,” he said
slowly, relaxing his vigil. “A bit of stone falling from the ceiling and hitting the floor. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Shouldn’t we wake the twins? I bet they’d know what to do.”

“It was nothing,” Tungdil said firmly. “Forget it and go to sleep.”

Goïmgar pulled up his blanket until his beard was completely hidden, then balanced his shield across his chest. Tungdil heard
him draw his sword. At last, the artisan decided that it was safe to close his eyes.

Tungdil rose quietly and paced up and down, listening at the mouths of the tunnels for footsteps or any sound of movement.
I wonder what it could have been…

Silence. The underground network was at peace.

Even so, his uneasiness remained.
There’s no reason why other creatures shouldn’t have occupied the tunnels.
He hoped to goodness that Boïndil’s bluster hadn’t elicited an unfavorable response.

T
ungdil waited until they were back in the wagon before telling the others what he and Goïmgar had heard. Boïndil was torn
between excitement and pique, thrilled at the thought of possible antagonists, but angry with Tungdil for letting him sleep.
He made a show of sulking and refused to say a word.

The wagon tore through the tunnels like the wind, accelerating, slowing, rolling uphill, and swooping back down. Twice they
ran out of momentum and had to push the vehicle to the next downward slope.

For Bavragor, the interludes were an excuse to belt out a stirring melody, presumably to lift their spirits while they toiled.
To make matters worse, he switched to a mournful love song and succeeded in antagonizing Boïndil so much that he could barely
contain his rage.

Anyone would think he was baiting him on purpose.
In fact, Tungdil was under the impression that the brawny mason was throwing just a fraction of his weight behind the wagon
in order to make Boïndil take the strain. He took Bavragor aside and confronted him with his suspicions.

“Of course I’m doing it on purpose,” the mason said without batting an eyelid. “I want him to suffer every mile of the way.”

Tungdil looked at him reproachfully. “You know that’s not fair.”

Bavragor just shrugged.

“Is it because of your sister?”

The mason glanced back at the twins. Boëndal was handing his heavily perspiring and thoroughly exhausted brother some water.
“Yes,” he said slowly, taking out his own drinking pouch and removing the bung. There was an instant smell of brandy. He took
a sip and wiped a few stray drops from his jet-black beard. “Yes,” he whispered a second time, staring absently into the distance.
He lowered his head.

“What happened between your sister and Boïndil?” Tungdil asked gently.

Bavragor raised his head slowly. His jaw was clenched and a single teardrop leaked from his patch and rolled down his cheek.
He couldn’t speak, so he took another draft.

“Is it because of her that you’re drinking yourself to death?”

He put the pouch away. “No, I drink to forget how good I used to be,” he said sadly. “Not that it helps, of course. Every
corner of Ogre’s Death is filled with my masonry. My sculptures and engravings look down at me and mock my useless hands.”
He leaned back against the wall and let his gaze sweep the room. “Do you know why I came on this mission?” he asked abruptly.
Tungdil shook his head. “To get out of Ogre’s Death and never go back.” His hoarse voice was full of drunken earnestness.
“I’m tired of being pitied. I want to be remembered as Bavragor Hammerfist, mason extraordinaire who sculpted the spurs for
Keenfire and gave his life for the dwarves — not as drunken old Bavragor whose chisel danced over the rock of its own accord.”
He smiled wanly. “I promise to do my bit for the dwarves and for Girdlegard, but I won’t return from the fifthling kingdom.”
He took another long draft to show that his mind was made up.

Tungdil’s heart went out to the mason. Bavragor wasn’t the noisy, occasionally rude but fundamentally cheerful and resilient
character he had taken him for. “We can’t leave you in the fifthling kingdom,” he protested, realizing at once how feeble
he sounded. “We’ll need your fists in the fight against Nôd’onn.”

Bavragor reached for his arm and squeezed it tightly. “No, Tungdil, you need warriors like the twins, true fighters whose
confidence never falters.” He released his grip. “Don’t worry, my hands are steady enough to sculpt the strongest, most beautiful
spurs ever fashioned by a dwarven chisel. I’ll tell you about my sister another time. For now, I’d like a moment with my pouch.”

Tungdil got up and strolled over to the twins, who were snacking on ham and cheese.
Poor Bavragor.

Boëndal had observed the conversation from a distance, but refrained from asking questions because he didn’t want Boïndil
to get wind of the mason’s distress. He offered Tungdil a morsel of goat cheese. “Well, scholar, only two more orbits and
we’ll be in the firstling kingdom — assuming we don’t have any problems with the wagon.”

“Gandogar will be there already,” Tungdil said gloomily.

“For all we know, he might have gone the wrong way.” Boïndil laughed and wiped his glistening brow. “I hope his blasted shortcut
leads him straight into a fathomless chasm.” Goïmgar glared at him. “You can stare all you like,” Boïndil told him, rising
to the silent reproach. “The king of the dwarves is sitting right here. Your king is a warmonger, a cowardly —”

“That’s enough, Boïndil!” Tungdil interrupted. “I know you’d rather be fighting than trundling along in a wagon, but you’re
going to have to keep your temper under control.” He waited until Boïndil had finished growling. “Right, let’s get going.
The sooner the first leg of the journey is over, the better.” He stood up and the other four followed him to the wagon.
Will they ever stop squabbling?

“I wonder what it’s like in their kingdom,” mused Boëndal, preparing to get the wagon rolling. “The firstlings are supposed
to be consummate smiths. Do you think they’ll forge me a weapon to beat my trusty crow’s beak?”

“Good thinking, brother,” his brother applauded him. “Not many axes are as good as mine, but I’ll lay them aside if the firstlings
can do better.”

The wagon crept along the rail. Boëndal waited until they were inches from the downward slope, then jumped in and they thundered
into the tunnel.

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle

B
islipur knelt before the high king. “I came because you summoned me,” he said, rising. “Not because you can change my mind.”

His obdurate tone left Gundrabur and his counselor in no doubt that the private meeting in the great hall would come to nothing.
They could only hope and pray that Vraccas would knock some sense into Bislipur’s intransigent skull. Gundrabur motioned for
the burly dwarf to be seated.

Bislipur appraised him intently.
He looks weaker. His fingers are shaking and he can barely lift his arms. Nature is on my side.

“We should have been straight with each other from the beginning,” said Balendilín, taking his place beside the king. “We’re
tired of game playing. I know we don’t share the same opinions, but it’s no excuse for scheming like kobolds.”

“Our folks have been offered a unique opportunity, and I’m trying to persuade the assembly to take it. Is that what you mean
by scheming?” Gandogar’s adviser retorted.

“His Majesty and I have been wondering what could possibly motivate you to agitate for war,” Balendilín said forth-rightly.
“It baffles us that you should wish to lead the children of the Smith against the elves when a battle of far greater magnitude
awaits us.”

Bislipur seemed to find the topic too tedious to be worthy of anger. “Your Majesty, there’s nothing to be gained by talking.
Your concerns are as unintelligible to me as mine to you. I’ve got better things to do than —”

“Better things?” Balendilín cut in. “Such as what?”

“Private cogitation,” Bislipur answered dourly. Without waiting for the high king to dismiss him, he got up and limped to
the door.

“You’re going to cogitate, are you?” Gundrabur called after him. “Well, here’s something for you to consider: None of the
fourthlings knows anything about your family.”

The dwarf stopped short, but didn’t turn. “What are you insinuating?”

“I’m not insinuating anything. I thought you should be warned.”

The elderly monarch paused and Balendilín took over. “You questioned Tungdil’s lineage, and you’re entitled to do so. But
I’m sure you’ve heard the maxim about scorched dwarves not playing with fire…”

Bislipur strode toward him, his huge hands clenched into fists. “And you dare to accuse
me
of scheming like a kobold,” he snarled. “What do you want?”

“ Nothing — although, of course, we may find ourselves obliged to share our suspicion that your ancestry is no clearer than
that of the high king’s nominated successor,” the counselor said gravely. “Incidentally, the document accusing the elves of
treachery was a fake.”

“You’re lying!” Bislipur struck the marble table with a resounding thwack.

“You don’t look like a child of Goïmdil. No other fourth-ling comes close to rivaling your stature. You’ve never been seen
polishing diamonds or fashioning trinkets, but your reputation as a strong and talented fighter is known even to the orcs.
I learned this from my inquiries,” Balendilín told him coldly. “Anyone with a less charitable mind would be inclined to think
you’re one of Lorimbur’s dwarves.”

“I have never heard such scandalous bile in all my life! By my beard, if you weren’t a helpless cripple I’d fight you for
insulting my honor with your lies!”

Balendilín listened in satisfaction. He had no evidence for his allegations, but he seemed to have touched a nerve. “This
is what we propose: First, that you cease your scheming until one or the other of the companies returns from the expedition;
and second, that you make it known that the elves’ involvement in the fall of the fifthling kingdom can’t be proven, since
the document was forged. For our part, we’ll say nothing of the doubts surrounding your lineage.”

“The outcome of the expedition must decide the succession,” Gundrabur added. “Are we agreed?”

Jaw clenched, Bislipur nodded curtly.

“How about a beer to seal the truce?” proposed Balendilín.

Bislipur turned away. “Drink all you like. I have matters to attend to.” He smiled balefully. “You needn’t worry: I’ll keep
my word and say nothing about the succession. As for the business about the elves, I assume you’ll permit me to convene an
assembly so I can explain to the delegates.” He took leave of the high king without bowing.
I’ll show you yet,
he thought grimly.
You’re both mistaken if you think I care about your truce. From now on, I’ll be more discreet about my scheming.

An attendant appeared at the far end of the corridor. He was carrying a pitcher in one hand and three tankards in the other.

Perfect timing,
thought Bislipur.
The high king’s refreshments. This is my chance
. He waited until the dwarf was level with him, then stumbled and clutched at him, knocking him over. Like a shot, Bislipur
reached out and caught the pitcher and two of the tankards, allowing the third to shatter on the marble flagstones.