The Dwarves (58 page)

Together they marched through the passageways of the stronghold, Balendilín guiding the high king and steadying him during
the frequent pauses after every flight of steps. At length they reached the defenses built by their ancestors to keep out
the waves of invading orcs and other beasts and made their way to the highest parapet.

Groaning with effort, Gundrabur sat down on a ledge between two merlons. His hands and arms were trembling and his face was
covered in a sheen of perspiration, but he was content. A light southerly wind blew in, ruffling his almost transparent white
hair, and he closed his eyes.

“I expect you think Bislipur put something in my beer,” he said. “You’re probably right. He’ll go to any lengths to achieve
his goals, but you’ll never defeat him by responding in kind. Don’t play him at his own game, Balendilín, or he’ll drag you
down to his level.”

Balendilín drew closer and looked the monarch in the eye. “What would you have me do? Is it wrong to fight fire with fire?”

“Bislipur’s mask will slip, and when it does, you must be there to expose his duplicity. When the truth is out, even his closest
friends will turn against him, but until then you must bide your time. If you speak too soon, the fourthlings will accuse
you of troublemaking and slander. Fires are best fought with water: It puts out the flames without adding to the blaze.” Gundrabur’s
cloudy eyes settled on his heir. “Be like water, Balendilín, not for me, but for the sake of our folks.” He gazed down at
the trench, surveying the bleached bones of the countless creatures who had died there. “Not a single orc entered our stronghold
during my reign,” he murmured, not without a hint of pride. “We defended Girdlegard against Tion’s minions, and now you must
protect it from the threat within.”

There was a short silence as he took in the splendor of the stronghold’s defenses; then he sniffed the air quizzically.

“Is this your doing, my loyal friend?” he whispered gratefully. “Am I to die in battle after all?”

At that moment the guards on the battlements spotted the advancing beasts and sounded the alarm. The gates of the stronghold
flew open as the echoing blare of the bugles called the dwarves to arms. Warriors left their stations at the foot of the ramparts
and streamed up the stairways to the battlements.

Balendilín stared at the high king’s countenance. He looked visibly younger. The foul stench of the approaching orcs was fanning
the flames of his inner furnace, steadying his hands and sharpening his sight.

“Lower the bridge,” came the order from Gundrabur. He sprang to his feet. Moments earlier, his legs had trembled under the
weight of his mail, but now they bore him with ease, and he seemed to have gained a few finger lengths in height. “Let’s see
whether the orcs have learned anything about fighting over all these cycles. I’ll warrant they can’t scare this old dwarf.”

The portcullis lifted, pillars rose from the base of the trench, and the first slabs of stone were lowered to form a bridge
across the trench. Already five hundred dwarves had formed a guard around their king.

Balendilín tried one last time to dissuade him. “I’m begging you, Gundrabur, you’ll be killed —”

The elderly monarch patted his shoulder reassuringly, then took his hand and gripped it firmly. “My loyal friend, I would
rather die like this than have the spirit sucked out of me by poison. Bislipur shan’t have the satisfaction of ending my life.”
He clasped Balendilín to him. “I will die a glorious death, a death befitting a secondling king. History will remember me
kindly.” He stepped back and looked solemnly at his counselor and friend. “The first ten orcs that fall by my ax will be vengeance
for your arm. Farewell, Balendilín. We’ll meet again in Vraccas’s smithy.” With a smile, he turned and faced his troops. “Warriors
of Beroïn,” he cried, his voice traveling through the stronghold and echoing against the rock, “let us fight together and
defend our kingdom. For Ogre’s Death and Girdlegard!”

A cheer went up among the secondling warriors who knew nothing of their monarch’s illness and rejoiced to see him fighting
at their side.

We’ll meet again
. Balendilín felt a lump in his throat as he watched his friend stride majestically through the gates and across the bridge,
shielded by the secondlings’ arrows and catapults until he and his warriors were close enough to engage their orcish foes.

B
alendilín didn’t have long to wait until a cry went up among the horrified warriors that Gundrabur had fallen. It was then
that he decided to ignore the late king’s advice and see to it that Bislipur died.
Dwarves are no friends of water,
he thought grimly.
Fire is our element
.

O
n the fifth orbit after the high king’s passing, the taverns, quarries, and workshops of the secondling kingdom were still
closed. Thousands of dwarves from the seventeen clans of Beroïn’s folk had gathered in the funeral hall whose vast pillars
towered so high and dwindled into the distance.

The focal point was a stone sarcophagus, hewn by the secondlings’ finest masons and decorated with wondrous carvings commemorating
Gundrabur’s glorious deeds, not least his last battle at the High Pass where the orcs had been routed.

Carved into the lid of the coffin was a perfect likeness of the monarch in his younger years. The marble Gundrabur was dressed
in his finest armor, his right hand clasping the haft of his ax.

Even those at the back of the hall could see the sculpted body resting on the dais, high above the heads of the crowd. Slender
rays of sunshine slanted through chinks in the ceiling, converging on the coffin from all points of the compass and bathing
the effigy in iridescent light.

The moment of parting has come.
Balendilín ascended the steps and stopped at the high king’s feet. Kneeling down, he lowered his head and paid his respects
to the fallen monarch. Then he got up and surveyed the secondlings for a final time before he was appointed king.

“Gundrabur sensed the invaders before they were spotted from the watchtowers. He was always the first to detect our enemies
and preserve us from harm.” As he spoke, he found himself looking at Bislipur, who was standing with the fourthling delegates
at the edge of the crowd. Not even Gandogar’s scheming adviser could excuse himself from an occasion such as this. “Our king
was called to Vraccas before he could realize his dream of a united dwarven assembly, but he took the first step toward creating
a new and stronger union of the folks. From this moment on, his goals will be mine, and I swear in the name of Vraccas to
complete his work before I die.”

Banging the hafts of their axes against the floor, the secondlings signaled their approval. A low roll of thunder rumbled
through the mountain.

Balendilín was too choked with emotion to say anything further, so he walked to the head of the coffin, kissed the brow of
the marble king, bowed again, and left the dais.

With that, fifty dwarves hurried over and hooked long poles into the metal rings subtly incorporated into the coffin’s design.
As soon as the order was given, they lifted the coffin, carried it from the dais, and bore it silently past the rows of dwarves,
who bowed a final time as their dead monarch was taken to his resting place in the crypt of kings.

Balendilín walked behind the coffin. He would watch over Gundrabur’s body during the long hours of the night, ending his vigil
in the morning, when he would leave the crypt with the secondling crown. In time, he too would be laid to rest with the rulers
of his folk.

From the corner of his eye he spotted Bislipur pushing his way to the front of the crowd. The fourthling’s gaze was fixed
on him as if to read his thoughts and divine the nature of the vengeance that Balendilín had in mind.
You are right to fear me, Bislipur. Your crimes won’t go unpunished.
Looking straight ahead, Balendilín didn’t let on that he had seen the brawny dwarf.

At length the pallbearers entered the crypt of kings and placed the coffin on its basalt stand. High above, an opening had
been cut out of the mountain, allowing the light of Girdlegard to shine on Gundrabur’s marble face. The attendants filed out
of the vast crypt that housed the mortal remains of the secondling kings, twenty-six in all.

Balendilín walked to the far end of the vault, placed the haft of his ax on the floor, and leaned on the ax head. His gaze
fell on the sculpted countenance of his friend and sovereign.
Fare you well, Gundrabur.
As the moments passed, he too became stone, insensible to the passing of time. His eyes stared blankly at the coffin, while
his mind relinquished all thought and drifted on a sea of sorrow.

At times it seemed to him that voices were speaking to him in ghostly whispers, but he understood nothing of what they said.

According to secondling legend, Vraccas would open the eternal smithy and release the spirits of the dead kings, who would
visit the prospective monarch and pass judgment on his worth. In some cases, the heir to the throne entered the vault and
was never seen again.

Balendilín was spared such a fate.

The next morning, tired, aching, and bleary-eyed, he left the crypt to find the waiting dwarves exactly where he had left
them many hours before. The secondlings bowed and drummed their axes against the floor, hailing their new king and offering
him beer, bread, and ham to restore his strength.

Balendilín took a few mouthfuls, washed them down, and ascended the dais where Gundrabur’s coffin had lain.

“I did not seek this office,” he said in a loud, clear voice. “It was my hope that Gundrabur would reign for another hundred
cycles so I could serve him loyally, but Vraccas decided otherwise. Fourteen orcs died by Gundrabur’s ax and four arrows pierced
his flesh before our king was gathered to the eternal smithy.” His gaze swept the hall. “He named me as his successor, and
so I ask you: Will you have me as your king?”

The crowd chorused a resounding “aye,” wooden hafts pounded the stone, and Balendilín realized with a rush of emotion that
the secondlings were chanting his name.

“Beroïn’s folk has chosen. Let us never forget Gundrabur or his dream of uniting our kin. It is our shared duty, irrespective
of clan or folk, to defend Girdlegard against all harm.” His eyes sought Bislipur and found him where he had been standing
before. “Join me,” he said, extending his hand.

The startled Bislipur limped up the steps to the dais and greeted the new monarch with a nod. His cold brown eyes stared at
him uncertainly.

“The death of Gundrabur has robbed our folks of their high king. The succession will not be decided until the fifth and final
challenge is complete. As I’m sure you know, Bislipur and I have not seen eye to eye, but I cannot allow a rift to open between
our folks. Friendship must not be turned to enmity, which is why I solemnly swear to put aside our differences until one or
the other of the candidates has returned.” He drew himself up to his full height. “When dwarf fights dwarf, only our enemies
stand to gain. The new high king will set our course and we will obey his orders and submit to his will.” Balendilín held
out his hand to Bislipur. “Let us shake on it.”

His antagonist had no choice but to comply. To Balendilín’s astonishment, he seemed neither angry nor resentful.

“I swear that neither of us will promote our separate causes until the new high king has returned,” he promised, choosing
his words with care. “We may disagree on certain matters, but we share a common enemy: evil in all its forms. As dwarves,
we are committed to wiping out evil wherever it occurs and we shall not tire in our duty.”

A loud cheer went up as the pair shook hands and looked each other in the eye. No one could tell that their gazes were locked
in an oath of eternal enmity.

“As a sign of my good faith, I should like to suggest that we begin our crusade against evil this very moment,” announced
Bislipur. “Will we stand by while orcs murder and pillage before the gates of this stronghold?” He turned to the crowd and
raised his voice to a rallying shout. “We must clear Ogre’s Death of this plague!”

On hearing the cheers, he knew he had judged the mood right. “My messenger is heading through the tunnels to the fourthling
kingdom, as I speak. He will return with five thousand of our finest warriors,” he proclaimed to the astonished Balendilín
and the crowd. “Together the dwarves of Beroïn and Goïmdil will chase the orcs from these gates. United our folks will prevail!”
He threw up his arms and brandished his double-bladed ax, dazzling the dwarves with reflected light. “This is our chance to
realize Gundrabur’s dream of a common dwarven army!”

The cheering redoubled and the mountain shook with the drumming of axes.

Balendilín bore the treachery smilingly and gazed intently into Bislipur’s hard face.
You don’t fool me, you devious bastard. Are the warriors meant for your protection, or are you after the high king’s throne?
Would you stage a coup so you can have your elven war?

Bislipur stared back, his cold eyes boring into him mercilessly. “May the hunt begin, King Balendilín,” he said, descending
from the dais. Balendilín was left to wonder who the quarry might be.

Enchanted Realm of Oremaira,

Girdlegard,

Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle

T
he following morning, after a cold night that heralded the coming of winter, they loaded the ingots onto the ponies and headed
west. The smoke had cleared above the deserted streets of Mifurdania and tiny black dots lay unmoving at the foot of the settlement’s
walls. Every dot was a corpse and they covered the area in a sea of black.

Tungdil hated Nôd’onn and the orcs more violently than ever.
First Goodwater, then Greenglade, and now Mifurdania and all the other villages, hamlets, and farms: Half of Girdlegard has
been razed to the ground
. He spotted a cloud of dust on the horizon: The army of orcs was heading northwest.
I’ll do whatever it takes,
he promised himself.