The Dwarves (5 page)

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 Goïmdil 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 älfar, 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 Beroïn’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 Goïmdil’s folk. My name is Balendilín 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 Beroïn’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 Balendilín 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 Beroïn, 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.

Balendilín 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.

Balendilín 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 Sangpûr’s deserts.

While Balendilín 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,” Balendilín 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?”

Balendilín 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, Andôkai, 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 Balendilín, 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 Âlandur, and extract our vengeance for deeds that have gone unpunished for cycles!”