dwarf1

PART ONE

Prologue

Northern Pass,

Stone Gateway to the Fifthling Kingdom,

Late Summer, 5199th Solar Cycle

Pale fog filled the canyons and valleys of the Gray Range. The Dragon’s Tongue, Great Blade, and other peaks towered defiantly above the mist, tips raised toward the evening sun.

Slowly, as if afraid of the jagged peaks, the ball of fire sank in the sky, bathing the Northern Pass in waning red light.

Glandallin Hammerstrike of the clan of the Striking Hammers recovered his breath. Leaning back against the roughly hewn wall of the watchtower, he cupped his hand to his bushy brown eyebrows and shaded his eyes from the unaccustomed light. The ascent had been grueling and his close-woven chain mail, two axes, and shield weighed heavy on his aged legs.

There was no one younger to stand watch in his stead.

Only a few orbits previously, the nine clans of the fifthling kingdom had been attacked in their underground halls. Many had lost their lives in the battle, but the young and inexperienced were the first to fall.

Then came the sickness. No one knew where it had sprung from, but it preyed on the dwarves, sapping their strength, clouding their vision, and enfeebling their hands.

And so it was that Glandallin, despite his age, was guarding the gateway that night. Two vast slabs of solid rock erected by Vraccas, god and creator of the dwarves, stemmed the tide of invading beasts. For some the sight of the imposing gateway was not enough of a deterrent; bleached bones and twisted scraps of armor were all that remained of them now.

The solitary sentry unhooked a leather pouch from his belt and poured cool water down his parched throat. A few drops spilled out of the corners of his mouth, flowing through his black beard. Elegant braids, the work of untold hours, hung from his chin and rested on his chest like delicate cords.

Glandallin replaced the pouch, took his weapons from his belt, and laid them on the parapet. The steel ax heads jangled melodiously against the sculpted rock, carved like the rest of the stronghold from the mountain’s flesh.

A ray of sunlight glowed red on the polished inscriptions, illuminating the runes and symbols that promised their bearer protection, a sure aim, and long life.

Glandallin turned to the north, his brown eyes sweeping the mountain pass, thirty paces across, that led from the watch-tower into the Outer Lands. No one knew what lay there. In times gone by, human kings had dispatched adventurers in all directions, but the expeditions were rarely successful and the few who returned to the gateway brought orcs in their wake.

He scanned the pass carefully. The beasts learned nothing from their defeats. Their vicious, choleric minds compelled them to throw themselves against the dwarves’ defenses. They were bent on destroying anyone and anything in their path, for their creator, the dark lord Tion, had made them that way. The raids were conducted in blind fury. Raging and screaming, the beasts would scale the walls. From the first tinges of dawn light until the setting of the sun, armor would be cleaved from flesh, and flesh from bone. A tide of black, dark green, and yellowy-brown blood would lap against the impregnable gates, while battering rams and projectiles shattered as they hit the stone.

The children of Vraccas suffered casualties, deaths, and crippling injuries too, yet it never occurred to them to quarrel with their fate. They were dwarves, Girdlegard’s staunchest defenders.

And yet we were almost defeated. Glandallin’s thoughts turned again to the strange beings that had invaded the underground halls, killing many of his kinsfolk. No one had seen them approach. Outwardly they resembled elves: tall, slim, and graceful, but as warriors they were savage and ruthless.

Glandallin was almost certain that the creatures were not elves. There was no love lost between the dwarves and their pointy-eared neighbors. Vraccas and Sitalia, goddess and creator of the elves, had ordained the races with common loathing from the moment of their birth. Their differences had resulted in feuds, the occasional skirmish, and sometimes death, but never war.

Then again, he thought critically, I might be wrong. Perhaps the elves hate us enough to draw arms against us — or maybe they’re after our gold.

A bitter northerly wind whistled round the mountaintops, gusting through Glandallin’s braided beard. Suddenly, his brow furrowed angrily as his nostrils detected a stench that offended the core of his being: orcs.

Spilled blood, excrement, and filth — that was the perfume of orcs — mixed in with the rancid odor of their greasy apparel. They basted their armor with fat, believing that the dwarves’ axes would slither over the metal and leave them unharmed.

No amount of fat will save them. Glandallin did not wait for the ragged banners and rusty spears to appear over the final incline of the path. Standing on tiptoe, he placed his callused hands on the coarse wooden handles of the bellows. A low drone vibrated through the shafts and galleries of the fifthling kingdom.

The dwarf worked two bellows in rotation to produce a constant stream of air. Gathering in volume, the drone became a single piercing note, loud enough to rouse the soundest of sleepers. Now, as so often in their history, the fifthlings were being summoned to fulfill their noble duty as Girdlegard’s protectors.

Sweating from the exertion, Glandallin glanced over his shoulder.

Tion’s beasts had formed a wide front and were marching on the gateway, more numerous than ever before. Elves would have fled to the woods and a man’s heart would have stopped at the sight of the monstrous hordes. The dwarf stood his ground.

The attack on the gateway came as no surprise to Glandallin, but the timing was unsettling. The coming battle would stretch the dwarves’ resources more than usual. More bloodshed and more death.

The defending warriors lined up on the battlements on either side of the gateway, their movements slow, some lurching rather than walking, weak fingers wrapped loosely around the hafts of their axes. The band of dwarves stumbling to the defense of the gates numbered no more than a hundred brave souls. A thousand would have been too few.

Glandallin’s watch was at an end; he was needed elsewhere.

“Don’t forsake us, Vraccas. We’re outnumbered,” he whispered, unable to wrest his eyes from the stinking stream of orcs that poured along the path. Grunting, shouting, and jostling, they headed for the gates. The bare rock cast back their bestial cries, the echo mingling with their belligerent chants.

The strident noises jangled in his mind, and it seemed to him that the beasts had somehow changed. There was a palpable air of confidence about the raging, shouting mob.

For the first time, he was afraid of the beasts.

What he saw next did nothing to ease his mind.

Scanning the ranks of the invading army, his gaze fell on a cluster of lofty fir trees. Since childhood he had watched them thrive and grow on the otherwise barren slopes.

Now they were sickly and dying.

The trees are faring no better than we. Glandallin’s thoughts were with his wounded and ailing friends. “What strange forces are these? Your children need you, Vraccas,” he prayed briefly, gathering his axes from the parapet.

With growing dread, he pressed his lips to the runes. “Don’t abandon me now,” he enjoined the blades softly, before turning and hurrying down the steps to join the small troop of defenders.

He reached them just as the first wave of beasts struck the wall. Quivering arrows rained down on the dwarves. Ladders were thrust against the walls, and orcs hastened to scale the wobbly rungs, while others set down their catapults and launched burning projectiles to reinforce the bombardment. Leather pouches, filled to the brim with paraffin, spluttered through the air and burst on impact, covering everything around them in an oily liquid and setting it ablaze.

The first salvo was aimed too low, but the dark hordes were undeterred by the sight of their front line burning in a storm of fire. Nothing, not the battery of stones nor the torrent of molten ore, could check their rapacious zeal. For every orc that was slain, five new aggressors scaled the walls. This time they were determined to breach the defenses. This time the gateway was destined to fall.

“Look out!” Glandallin ran to the aid of a dwarf whose shoulder had been pierced by an arrow. One of Tion’s minions, a stunted creature with thick tusks and a broad nose, had seized his chance and squeezed through an embrasure, hauling himself over the parapet and onto the battlements.

Dwarf and orc stared at each other in silence. The clamor of voices, the hissing of arrows, the clatter of axes faded to an indistinct buzz.

Glandallin’s ears were tuned to his opponent’s heavy breath. The red-veined eyes, buried deep within the head, flicked nervously from side to side. The dwarf knew exactly what was going on inside the creature’s mind. The orc was the first of its kind to have set foot on the battlement and could scarcely believe its good fortune.

A foul odor rose from the thick gray layer of tallow that coated its armor plating. The smell filled Glandallin’s nostrils, drawing his attention back to the battle.

Shrieking, he threw himself against the beast. His shield jabbed smartly downward, shattering his opponent’s foot, while he lunged with his ax from above. The blade smashed through the unarmored flesh around the armpit. The orc’s arm, sliced cleanly at the joint, fell to the stony floor. Dark green blood sprayed upward from the open wound.

The orc let out a high-pitched scream, for which he was rewarded by a mighty stroke perpendicular to the neck.

“Tell your kinsfolk I am anxious to make their acquaintance!” Glandallin gave the dying brute a final shove and sent him tumbling against the parapet, where he took the next invader with him as he fell. They vanished over the side and plummeted to the ground. With any luck, they’ll crush half a dozen others, thought Glandallin.

From then on the enemy gave him no respite. Running from one end of the parapet to the other, splitting helms, cleaving skulls, ducking arrows, and evading firebombs, he felled orc after orc.

Darkness was descending on the Stone Gateway, but Glandallin was untroubled by the fading light; even the thickest gloom could be penetrated by sharp dwarven eyes. But each blow and every movement took its toll on his weary arms, shoulders, and legs.

“Vraccas, grant us a moment to gather our forces,” he coughed, rubbing his braids across his face to free his eyes of blood.

The dwarven deity took pity on his children.

A fanfare of horns and bugles bade the hordes cease their assault, and the orcs complied, pulling away from the walls.

Glandallin dispatched a lingering assailant and sank to the stone floor, fumbling for his drinking pouch. He tore off his helmet and poured water over his sweat-drenched hair. The cool fluid trickled over his skin, revitalizing his will.

How many of us remain? He stumbled to his feet and went in search of survivors. Of the hundred-strong army, seventy were left, among them the formidable figure of the fifthling monarch.

Nowhere were the enemy corpses stacked higher than at Giselbert Ironeye’s feet. His shiny armor, made of the toughest steel forged in a dwarven smithy, gleamed brightly, and his diamond-studded belt caught the flames that licked from pools of burning oil. He climbed atop a stone ledge to speak to his folk.

“Stand firm!” Steady and true, his voice sounded across the battlements. “Be as unyielding as the rock from which we were hewn. Nothing — no orc, no ogre, no creature of Tion — will break us. We will cut them to pieces as dwarves have done for millennia. Vraccas is with us!”

The speech was met with low cheers and grunts of approval. The dwarves had been dealt a blow, but already their confidence was returning. They had grit and pride enough to stop the enemy in its tracks.

The warriors replenished their weary bodies with food and dark ale. With every sip and mouthful they felt stronger, more alive. The worst injuries were treated as time and circumstance permitted, gaping wounds sewn hurriedly together with fine twine.

Glandallin found himself a space on the floor beside Glamdolin Strongarm. The two friends ate in silence, watching the mass of orcs that had retreated a hundred paces from the gates. To Glandallin’s eyes it seemed the enemy had formed a living battering ram, intent on smashing down the gateway with their flesh.

“Such persistence,” he said softly. “I have never seen them as dogged as they are tonight. Something has changed.” The thought of the dying trees sent a chill down his spine.

All of a sudden an ax clattered to the floor beside him. Turning just in time, he saw his companion slump forward. “Glamdolin!” He caught hold of the dwarf and was dismayed to see delicate beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, drenching his face and his beard. His reddened eyes were glazed and unseeing.

Glandallin knew at once that the mystery illness had claimed another victim, finishing what the enemy had left half-done.

“Get some rest. The fever will soon be over.” Hauling Glamdolin’s heaving body to one side, he settled him as comfortably as he could, knowing full well that the illness was probably fatal.

The long wait sapped the strength of dwarves and orcs alike. Fatigue, the warrior’s enemy, set in. Glandallin dozed on his feet until his helmet hit the parapet with a thud. Awaking with a start, he looked around anxiously. Yet more of his kinsmen had fallen prey to the sickness. Fortune had turned her back upon the children of the Smith.

A bugle call rent the air, setting his heart racing.

In the cold light of the moon he watched the approaching rows of colossal silhouettes, four times as tall as the orcs. There were forty of them. Their hideous bodies were clad in poorly wrought armor and their monstrous hands clasped fir saplings, roughly fashioned into clubs.

Ogres.

The dwarves’ defenses would crumble if the giants were to scale the walls. The cauldrons of molten slag were empty, the cache of stones depleted. For a moment Glandallin’s doubts returned, but a glance at Giselbert’s gleaming figure assured him that evil would be defeated in the time-honored way.

The mass of orcs stirred and a cheer went up as the ogres approached.

Marching to the head of the army, the enormous beasts, uglier and more oafish than even the orcs, deposited their grappling irons, the four prongs of which were the length of a fully grown man. They attached long chains to the stem of each hook.

The apparatus is ill suited to climbing, thought Glandallin. The beasts intend to topple the walls.

Whistling through the air, three dozen claws buried themselves in the stonework. A shouted order summoned the watching orcs to join the ogres in their tug-of-war. A crack of whips sounded and the jangling links pulled taut.

Glandallin heard the wall groan softly. The stronghold, built many cycles ago by his kinsmen, was no match for the beasts’ raw power.

“Quick, bring the wounded to safety!” he bellowed.

The party of dwarves responsible for tending the cauldrons left their stations and carried off Glamdolin and the other ailing warriors.

Masonry crumbled as a section of crenellated battlement ripped from the wall. The grappling hook went into free fall amid the showering stonework, killing two ogres and ten orcs. The enemy forces held their ground. Soon the hook was ripping through the air again, poised to sink its claws into the wall.

This time the dwarves retreated, abandoning the parapet just in time. They took up position in the barbican above the gates.

Glandallin listened as a large section of wall crashed and shattered on the ground below. The earth quaked and the invading army howled in triumph.

Good luck to them, thought Glandallin, endeavoring to stay calm. I hope they dash their brains out on the doors. The gateway was built to withstand more than a few paltry grappling irons.

He peered cautiously over the steel-plated wall. More reinforcements were on their way. Horsemen mounted on jet-black steeds galloped to the head of the army of ogres and orcs. Glandallin instantly recognized the pointed ears of the tall, slim creatures.

A red glow shone from the horses’ eyes and their hooves struck the ground in a shower of white sparks. Two riders thundered to the gateway and gave orders to the troops. The orcs and ogres set about clearing the pathway of fallen masonry so the assault could start afresh.

Wheeling round on their horses, the riders found safe quarter from which to watch. One of the two creatures unshouldered a mighty bow and nocked an arrow against the woven bowstring. The marksman’s gloved fingers held the weapon loosely as he bided his time.

Hastily, the fifthlings pushed boulders over the parapet and onto the beasts below. The enemy flinched, jostling to evade the projectiles, and three of the orcs turned to flee. The archer raised his bow. Before the deserters could take flight, the first arrow, too fast for Glandallin to follow, sang through the air and an orc fell to its knees.

Already a second missile, uncommonly long for an arrow, sped from the archer’s bow. The second beast perished, shrieking, followed a moment later by the third. The remaining minions took heed of the warning and resumed their work on the pathway. The orcs did not venture a protest at the murder of their kinsmen.

By the coming of dawn, the path had been cleared.

The fifthlings marveled at the scene unfolding before their eyes. The sky had brightened in the east, heralding the rising of the sun, yet a thick bank of fog loomed in the north. Its luminous center, a maelstrom of black, red, and silver, flickered with coursing light.

In defiance of the wind, it rolled toward the gateway, sweeping over the beasts below. The raucous orcs fell silent, huddling nervously together and shrinking away from the fog. Stooping, the ogres allowed it to pass. As if hailing their leader, the riders bowed their heads and saluted the vaporous mass. The shimmering mist lowered itself gently to the ground and hovered in front of the horses.

Then the unthinkable happened. With a shudder, the first of five bolts on the doors shot from its cylinder. The gateway quaked. Someone had spoken the incantation, delivering Girdlegard into the clutches of the invading hordes.

“No!” bellowed Glandallin, turning his back to the enemy and leaning over the inner wall to seek the culprit below. “No dwarf would ever…”

Glamdolin Strongarm. Alone, the dwarf was standing by the doors, lips moving, hands raised in supplication.

“Silence!” Glandallin bellowed. “Can’t you see what you’re doing?”

His shouts fell on deaf ears. The second lock glowed brightly, illuminated by the runes. The bolt creaked back.

“He’s been bewitched,” muttered Glandallin. “The fog has infected his mind.”

The third bolt left its ferrule and shot free.

At last the custodians of the gateway stirred. Springing to their feet, they darted down the staircase, racing to put a stop to the treacherous magic before it was too late. The fourth bolt drew back. With one bolt remaining, Glamdolin was still standing unchallenged on the pathway.

Time is against us, Glandallin thought grimly. “Forgive me, Vraccas, but I have no choice.” He gripped his ax and hurled it with all his might and fury at his comrade-in-arms.

The blade sliced through the air, spinning, then plunged sharply toward the ground. Glandallin’s aim was unerring and the ax drove home.

Glamdolin groaned as the weapon struck his shoulder. Blood spraying from the wound, he stumbled to the ground. Watching from above, Glandallin sent a quick thanks to Vraccas for guiding his blade.

His relief was short-lived. Death had come too late to prevent the traitor from achieving his terrible purpose. The final bolt shot back.

Slowly, the colossal gateway opened. The vast slabs scraped and dragged across the ground, as though reluctant to obey the treacherous command.

There was a grinding noise of stone on stone. The chink became a narrow channel, which widened to fill the breadth of the path. Time slowed to a crawl as the gates swung open. One final creak and for the first time in creation the path into Girdlegard was clear.

No! Glandallin stirred from his paralysis and hurtled down the steps to join Giselbert and the remaining warriors defending the gates.

He was the last but one to take his place in the doorway. Already the others had closed ranks and were holding their shields in front of their bodies, their axes held aloft.

Shoulder to shoulder they formed a low wall of flesh against the tide of orcs, ogres, trolls, and riders. Forty against forty thousand.

The enemy hung back, fearing an ambush. Never before had the gates opened to allow their passage.

Glandallin’s gaze swept the front line of monstrous beasts, shifting back to survey the second, third, fourth, fifth, and countless other grunting rows, all poised for the attack. He glowered from under his bushy eyebrows, forehead furrowing into a frown.

Giselbert lost no time in reversing the incantation. At the sound of his voice, the gates submitted to his authority, swinging back across the pathway but moving too slowly to stop the breach. Giselbert strode behind his troops, laying a hand on each shoulder. The gesture was a source of solace as well as strength, calming and rallying the last defenders of the gates.

Trumpets blaring, the riders ordered the attack. The orcs and ogres brandished their weapons, shouting to drown out their fear, and the army advanced with thundering steps.

“The path is narrow. Meet them line by line and give them a taste of our steel!” Glandallin called to his kinsfolk. “Vraccas is with us! We are the children of the Smith!”

“The children of the Smith!” the fifthlings echoed, feet planted firmly on the rocky ground beneath.

Four dwarves were chosen to form the final line of defense. Throwing down his shield, the king took an ax in each hand and led the surge toward the enemy. The dwarves, all that remained of Giselbert’s folk, charged out to slay the invaders.

Ten paces beyond the gateway, the armies met. The fifthlings tunneled like moles through the vanguard of orcs.

With only one ax with which to defend himself, Glandallin struck out, slicing through the thicket of legs. He did not stop to kill his victims, knowing that the fallen bodies would hinder the advancing troops.

“No one gets past Glandallin!” he roared. Stinking blood streamed from his armor and helm, stinging his eyes. When his ax grew heavy, he clasped the weapon with both hands. “No one, do you hear!” His enemies’ bones splintered, splattering him with hot blood. Twice he was grazed by a sword or a spear, but he battled on regardless.

The prize was not survival but the closing of the gates. Girdlegard would be safe if they could stave off the invasion until the passageway was sealed.

Until this hour his ax had defended him faithfully, but now the magic of its runes gave out. Glancing to his right, Glandallin saw a comrade topple to the ground, skull sliced in half by an orc’s two-handed sword. Seething with hatred, and determined to fell the aggressor, Glandallin lunged once, twice, driving his ax into the creature’s belly and cleaving it in two. A shadow loomed above him, but by then it was too late. He made a last-ditch attempt to dodge the ogre’s sweeping cudgel, but its rounded head swooped down and struck his legs. Bellowing in pain he toppled against an orc, severing its thigh as he fell, before tumbling onward through the army of legs. He lashed out with his ax until there were no more orcs within his reach.

“Come here and fight, you cowards!” he snarled.

The enemy paid him no attention. Fired by an insatiable hunger, they streamed past him toward the gateway. They had no need of stringy dwarf flesh when there were tastier morsels in Girdlegard.

Trembling with pain, Glandallin rose up on his elbows. The rest of his kinsfolk were dead, their mutilated bodies strewn on the ground, surrounded by scores of enemy corpses. The diamonds on Giselbert’s belt sparkled in the sunlight, marking the place where the fifthling father had fallen, slain by a trio of ogres. At the sight of him, Glandallin’s soul ached with sorrow and pride.

The sun rose above the mountains, flooding through the gateway and dazzling Glandallin with its light. He raised a hand to his sensitive eyes, straining to see the gateway. Praise be to Vraccas! The gates were closed!

A blow from behind sent pain searing through his chest. For the duration of a heartbeat the tip of a spear protruded through his tunic, then withdrew. He slumped, gasping, to the ground. “What in the name of… ?”

The assassin stepped round his body and knelt beside him. The smooth elven face was framed by fine fair hair that shimmered in the sunlight like a veil of golden threads. But the vision bore a terrible deformity; two fathomless pits stared from almond-shaped holes.

The creature wore armor of black metal that reached to its knees. Its legs were clad in leather breeches and dark brown boots. Burgundy gloves protected its fingers from grime, and its right hand clasped a spear whose steel tip, sharp enough to penetrate the fine mesh of dwarven chain mail, was moist with blood.

The strange elf spoke to the dwarf.

At first the words meant nothing to Glandallin, but their morbid sound filled him with dread.

“My friend said: ‘Look at me: Sinthoras is your death,’ ” a second voice translated behind him. “ ‘I will take your life, and the land will take your soul.’ ”

Glandallin coughed, blood rushing from his mouth and coursing down his beard.

“Get out of my sight, you pointy-eared monster! I want to see the gates,” he said gruffly, brandishing his ax to ward away the beast. The weapon almost flew from his grip; his strength was ebbing fast. “Out of my way or I’ll cut you in two like a straw, you treacherous elf!” he thundered.

Sinthoras laughed coldly. Raising his spear, he inserted the tip slowly between the tight rings of mail.

“You are mistaken, my friend. We are the älfar, and we have come to slay the elves,” the voice said softly. “The gates may be closed, but the power of the land will raise you from the dead and from that moment on, you will be one of us. You know the incantation; you will open the door.”

“Never! My soul belongs to Vraccas!”

“Your soul belongs to the land, and you will belong to the land until the end of time,” the velvety voice cut him short. “Die, so you can return and deliver Girdlegard to us.”

The spear’s sharp tip pierced the flesh of the helpless, dying dwarf. Pain stopped his tongue.

Sinthoras raised the weapon and pushed down gently on the battered body. The final blow was dealt tenderly, almost reverently. The creature waited for death to claim its prey, watching over Glandallin’s pain-ravaged features and drinking in the memory.

Finally, when he was certain that the last custodian of the gateway had departed, Sinthoras left his vigil and rose to his feet.

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 landur 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 Sangpûr, 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 Sangpûr 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 snow-capped 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 Goïmdil’s folk, skilled in ax work and craftsmanship, the best warriors and artisans from each of the twelve fourth-ling 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 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 landur, 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,” Balendilín 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 landur. “You heard what the document says. They killed our kin and betrayed us! They must pay for their murderous deeds.”

“And then what?” Balendilín 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 landur will profit the Perished Land alone. We may as well join forces with the älfar 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. Balendilín 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 älfar 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 Balendilín, 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. Balendilín’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 landur, 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.

Balendilín 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.

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6233rd Solar Cycle

Balendilín 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 Balendilín’s arm.

“Our planning will come to nothing,” he said dully. “The young king of Goïmdil’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 Balendilín 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 älfar, 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, Balendilín 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, Balendilín. 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 landur 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. Balendilín 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 Beroïn, should pass to one of Goïmdil’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 he has the support of his kinsfolk.”

Balendilín 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.

II

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Winter, 6233rd Solar Cycle

It was time for the high king to initiate his counselor into the plan. He handed him a letter. “It’s from the magus of Ionandar. Lot-Ionan the Forbearing, they call him in his realm.”

Balendilín knew the magus by reputation. His school lay in the east of Girdlegard and he was said to prize his solitude. Apparently, he spent most of his time studying in his underground vaults, inventing new charms and formulae, far from the worries of everyday life.

“He sends news of something most unusual: a dwarf,” the high king explained. “The only dwarf in Ionandar, no less! He says he found him many cycles ago under peculiar circumstances and raised him in his realm. He wants to know whether any of our clans are missing a kinsman. He is eager to reunite him with his kind.”

Balendilín skimmed the letter. “What do we know of the dwarf?”

“The matter is mysterious but intriguing. To my knowledge, no child has been lost in the past two hundred cycles.”

“And it’s your intention to present the sorcerer’s ward as a long-lost heir to the throne?” The counselor laid the letter on the table. “But how?” he asked doubtfully. “A dwarf raised by long-uns won’t know what it means to be a child of the Smith. The fourthlings will never back him, especially not without proof of his lineage.”

The high king shuffled to the conference table and lowered himself onto the secondling monarch’s chair before his legs gave way beneath him.

“I expect you’re right,” he said in a strained voice. “Be that as it may, they can’t do a thing until the candidate is here and the matter has been resolved. Even if I die, their hands will be tied.” He looked squarely at his counselor. “If Vraccas should smite me with his hammer before the dwarf arrives, you must bear the burden of preventing war and preserving our kinsfolk.”

Balendilín pursed his lips. “Your Majesty won’t be leaving us yet. Not when your inner furnace still burns strong.”

“You’re a miserable liar, like all dwarves.” Gundrabur laughed and laid a hand on his shoulder. “But from now on we must speak with false tongues in order to protect our kinsfolk from a war that could destroy them. You and I will fib like kobolds, Balendilín. For once we must make it our business to drive a wedge between the clans. Let us walk awhile and you can lend me your counsel. We shall weave a web of falsehoods around Gandogar and Bislipur and keep them from the throne until the last belligerent syllable has been squeezed from their lungs.”

Balendilín helped the king to his feet. He had no faith in the plan succeeding, but he kept his misgivings to himself.

Gandogar was in good spirits when he woke the next morning and was summoned with the other delegates to the great hall. Proceedings were about to recommence and he felt confident that the high king would name him as his successor, after which the members of the assembly would endorse his choice with their votes. It was as good as decided already.

Gundrabur’s plea for peace had rankled with him, but he no longer held a grudge. The aged dwarf’s long reign had produced nothing worthy of posterity and he was destined to be forgotten before too long. It wasn’t dignified to quarrel with a dying king.

Gandogar entered the hall and sat down, while Bislipur took up position behind him. The pews filled quickly as the chieftains and elders filed in.

A few of the delegates looked at him encouragingly and rapped their ax heads. Far from being threatening, the gesture was a sign of support.

Gandogar noticed an unusual trinket hanging from the neck of a secondling chieftain. He strained his eyes to take a closer look. The shriveled trophy was an elven ear worn with obvious pride by the chieftain, who nevertheless tucked it hurriedly under his mail as soon as the high king’s arrival was announced. It was still too early for open displays of aggression toward a protected race.

Gundrabur appeared at the door, his sprightly appearance belying rumors of his impending death. Gandogar felt a wave of disappointment at seeing the high king in such excellent form, then immediately felt guilty for harboring such dreadful thoughts. He didn’t actually want the old chap to die; it was just that Gundrabur’s disapproving speech of the previous orbit had struck a raw nerve.

Tunics of mail creaked and rasped as the delegates went down on one knee to greet the high king. Axes on high, they signaled their unwavering devotion and their willingness to live — and die — as he decreed.

Gundrabur answered by lifting the ceremonial hammer and bringing it down smartly. The delegates were free to rise, which they did, amid much clunking of armor.

Balendilín stepped forward and turned his earnest brown gaze on Gandogar: “Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, ruler of the fourthlings and head of Goïmdil’s line, are you ready to assert your claim to the high king’s throne?” he said ceremoniously.

Gandogar rose from his seat, pulled his ax from his belt, and laid it on the table. “Unyielding as the rock from which we were created and keen as this blade is my will to defend our race against its foes,” came his solemn reply. Such was his inner turmoil that he failed to notice that Balendilín, not the high king, had taken charge of the proceedings. It occurred to him when the counselor cut in before he could continue.

“King Gandogar, the assembly has heard and noted your claim. A decision will be taken when we have heard the second candidate speak. You and he must decide which of the two of you will withdraw. Until then we must wait.”

“Wait?” bellowed Gandogar, blood rushing to his head. He turned to search the faces of his chieftains, all of whom seemed genuinely surprised. “Who was it?” he thundered. “Which of you had the audacity to go behind my back? Step forward and make yourself known!” He reached for his ax, but was stayed by Balendilín.

“You do your kinsfolk an injustice,” said the counselor. “Your rival is not here.” He produced a letter and held it up for all to see. “The dwarf in question was separated many cycles ago from his folk. He is mindful of his heritage and has announced his return. He lives in Ionandar and is preparing to join us as we speak.”

“Ionandar?” Gandogar exclaimed incredulously. “Vraccas forgive me, but what kind of dwarf lives with sorcerers?” He drew himself up. “Is this some kind of joke? A stranger writes a letter that you accept without question and now the ceremony must be delayed. What name does he go by?”

“His name is of no account. He was raised as a foundling and named by humans. But the items discovered with him show him to be a member of your folk.”

“Hogwash!” Gandogar retorted angrily. “The letter is a fake!”

“And what of the document purporting to tell the truth about the elves?” Balendilín said sternly, one hand resting lightly on his belt.

“Silence, both of you!” The high king levered himself from his throne. “King Gandogar, do you presume to call my counselor a liar?” The old dwarf was powerful and majestic in his fury, his words thundering through the lofty hall. The fourthling monarch sounded shrill and petty as a fishwife by comparison. “You will abide by my decision. When the candidate arrives, the fourthling chieftains will decide which of you will make the better king.”

Gandogar pointed to his retinue. “Why the delay? Ask the chieftains now and you shall hear whom they elect. Their minds are made up. How could a stranger —”

The high king raised a wizened hand. “No.” He waved toward the engraved stelae. “We will follow the law as it was given to us by our forefathers. What they ordained will be fulfilled.”

The silence that descended on the vast hall was by no means uniform in quality. For the most part it was born of astonishment, but in a number of cases it was prompted by helplessness and rage. There was no choice but to wait for the audacious stranger to appear.

Gandogar sat down heavily and pulled his ax across the table toward him. The blade left a deep white gouge in the polished stone, scarring the surface over which the masons had toiled so long.

“So be it,” he said coolly. He dared not risk a longer speech for fear that he would say something he might regret. Turning, he cast an abject glance at Bislipur, who seemed a model of composure, but whose unruffled expression Gandogar could read. His adviser was already turning over the situation in his mind, searching for a solution. Bislipur could be relied on to be resourceful.

“The journey from Ionandar will take weeks. How are we supposed to occupy ourselves until the dwarf arrives?” asked Gandogar, eyes fixed on the sparkling diamonds on his armor. “What makes you think that our aspiring high king will find us?”

“Or that he’ll make it here alive,” added Bislipur.

“We’ll have plenty to discuss in the meantime,” said Balendilín. “The assembly will turn to matters of imminent importance for our clans.” He smiled. “But your concern is touching. Rest assured that the dwarf will get here safely. We’ve sent an escort.”

“In that case we should send one too,” Bislipur insisted with forced benevolence. “The fourthlings are always happy to look after their own. Where should we send our warriors?”

“Your offer is most generous, but unnecessary. The dwarf will be a guest of the high king, so the high king has sent warriors of his own,” Balendilín said diplomatically. “Given the stormy start to the proceedings, I suggest we take a break and cool our tempers with a keg of dark ale.” He raised his ax and rapped the poll twice against the table. The clear ring of metal on stone sang through the air and echoed through the corridors.

At once barrels of dark roasted barley malt were rolled into the hall, and in no time the delegates were raising their drinking horns to the reigning high king and his successor, who most assumed would be Gandogar.

Bislipur laid his hand on his monarch’s shoulder. “Patience, Your Majesty. Let us honor our forefathers by satisfying every requirement they name. It’s important we don’t give anyone the opportunity to question the legitimacy of your reign.” They clinked tankards and he took a lengthy draft. The beer was thick and malty, almost sweet. “Ale like this can be brewed only by dwarves.” He smiled, wiping the foam from his beard.

At length the atmosphere in the great hall became jollier and more boisterous and Bislipur could slip away unnoticed. Safely ensconced in a lonely passageway, he summoned Sverd and entrusted the gnome with a mission of great importance.

Enchanted Realm of Ionandar,

Girdlegard,

Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

Whistling, Tungdil knelt by his cupboard and packed his large leather knapsack for the trip. He took a tinderbox, a flint, and a blanket, in case he had to spend a night in the open, as well as his fishing hook, a plate, and some cutlery. His cloak he rolled into a bundle and fastened to the outside of the knapsack with a leather strap. Lastly, he pulled on his chain mail and tweaked it with practiced movements until it lay flat against his skin.

He felt instantly better. There was something safe and incredibly homely about his shirt of steel rings. His attachment to his chain mail was a matter of instinct, not something he could explain.

He had the same feeling when he was working at the anvil. Routine jobs — forging horseshoes, nails, and iron brackets for doors, honing blades, or sharpening tools — came naturally to him. It was his dwarven blood, he supposed.

Hoisting his bulging knapsack to his shoulders, he picked up the ax that had been given to him by Lot-Ionan, hooked it through his belt, and set off for the magus’s study. He knew the vaults like the back of his hand. The dim light posed no problem for his sharp dwarven eyes and his sense of direction never abandoned him underground. No two tunnels looked the same to him, owing to his ability to remember the slightest irregularity in the rock. It was a different story on the surface, where he was unable to find his way anywhere without a map.

He knocked briskly and opened the door. Lot-Ionan was sitting at his desk, dressed in the old beige robes to which he was so attached. He held up a sheet of parchment accusingly as the dwarf came into the room.

“Do you see this, Tungdil?” he said, throwing the paper disgustedly back onto the pile. “This is your doing! Orbits of study destroyed in the blink of an eye.”

“I had no idea,” the dwarf said with genuine contrition but determined not to concede any guilt. Stubbornness was another of his inherited characteristics.

“I know, Tungdil. I know.” The magus’s expression softened. “Go on, then. What really happened?”

“It was another of Jolosin’s pranks. He played a trick on me, so I threw a bucket of water at him…” He bowed his head and his voice fell to an indistinct mumble. “He turned the droplets into ice and the shards hit some of the phials. He tried to lay the blame on me by locking me in the laboratory.” He looked up and focused his brown eyes on his patron.

The magus sighed. “Six of one and half a dozen of the other, just as I thought. Still, I shouldn’t have shouted at you like that.” He motioned to the parchment. “Of course, it doesn’t change the fact that I’ll be spending the next few orbits rein-scribing these runes. You had no business to be in the laboratory, Tungdil. No good comes of a dwarf meddling in magic or mixing potions. I thought you knew that by now.”

“But it wasn’t my —”

“What possessed you to take matters into your own hands? You had only to come to me and Jolosin would have been punished. I’m sending you on a journey, a long journey — which isn’t to say I won’t be pleased to have you back. On the contrary.” He paused. “Rest assured that Jolosin has fared much worse; he’ll be peeling potatoes until you’re home. And should you decide to take a more circuitous route…” With a mischievous grin he left the rest up to Tungdil. “Well, are you ready?”

“Yes, Estimable Magus,” Tungdil answered, relieved that his patron no longer held him solely to blame. “What would you have me do?”

After the frayed tempers of the laboratory, the atmosphere in the study, where they were surrounded by the clutter of Lot-Ionan’s cabinets, gadgetry, and books, seemed all the more relaxed. Flames crackled softly in the fireplace and the magus’s owl was napping in a corner.

“We’ll discuss your errand later. All in good time.” Lot-Ionan rose and retired with his steaming mug to the wing chair by the hearth. He stretched his slippered feet toward the flames. “There’s no rush. Jolosin will be busy in the laboratory for a good while longer… Besides, there’s something I’d like you to consider while you’re away.” His hand patted the chair beside him.

Tungdil set down his knapsack and took a seat. It sounded as though the magus had something important to say.

“I’ve been thinking.” Lot-Ionan cleared his throat. “The two of us have known each other for sixty-two of your sixty-three cycles.”

The dwarf knew what was coming. At times like this, when the mood was sentimental and the magus was feeling relaxed, he would pour himself a draft of beer, warm his feet by the fire, and journey into the distant past, recalling events that had happened over a human lifetime ago. Tungdil loved these conversations.

“It was winter and the winds were howling when there was a knock on the door and a band of kobolds deposited a bundle.” He looked his ward in the eye and laughed softly. “It was you! Back then, without your beard, you could almost have been mistaken for a human bairn. They threatened to drown you in the nearest river if I didn’t pay your bond. What could I do? I gave them their money and raised you myself.”

“For which I shall be eternally grateful,” Tungdil said softly.

“Yes, well, eternally…” The magus fell silent for a moment. “It seems to me that it might be time to let you go your own way.” He laid a hand on the dwarf’s thick shock of hair. “I’ve outlived my natural span and you’ve served me so loyally that your debt of gratitude, if ever there was one, has been repaid. Besides, if I don’t come up with a more convincing charm against old age, my soul will be summoned to Palandiell.”

Tungdil didn’t like to be reminded that human existence was inescapably brief, even for the likes of the powerful magus. “I’m sure you’ll find a way… ,” he said hoarsely. “Er, didn’t you want to tell me something?”

The dwarf’s clumsy attempt to change the subject brought a wry smile to Lot-Ionan’s face. “You were left here at your parents’ behest because they wanted you to be the greatest wizard of the dwarven race, or at least that’s what I told you. You saw through the story soon enough. Once I taught you to read, you learned enough about your kinsfolk to know it wasn’t true.”

“Dwarves aren’t fond of magic and magic isn’t fond of them.” Tungdil couldn’t help smiling. His hands were best suited to wielding a hammer and he could happily clutch a book from Lot-Ionan’s vast library, but a sorcerer’s staff was another matter. “Vraccas made us artisans through and through. There’s no room in our hearts for magic.”

“Indeed,” the magus agreed in amusement, remembering the long line of minor disasters resulting from Tungdil’s accidental encounters with the occult. “But you’re too modest. You’ve crammed your head with knowledge like a scholar. You know more about the peoples of Girdlegard than some of my pupils.”

“The credit is all yours, Lot-Ionan. You even schooled me in rhetoric.”

“And that was no small feat. Adhering to the proper rules of disputation is a challenge for the obstinate tongue of a dwarf!” His face became serious. “I still curse myself for not asking the kobolds where they found you. At least then I’d be able to tell you which clan you belong to.” He reached down to the floor and rummaged through a stack of papers to produce a map of Girdlegard, which he carefully unfurled. “I’ve sent word to Beroïn’s folk,” he said, pointing his index finger at the secondling kingdom. “Perhaps they’ll know something of the circumstances surrounding your birth. Given the ripe old age you dwarves can get to, there’s a reasonable chance your parents are still alive. Well, Tungdil, what do you say?”

The dwarf was visibly moved. His dream of meeting his clansfolk was on the cusp of being fulfilled. “That’s… Oh, thank you, Lot-Ionan!” he said, overcome with excitement. “Have the secondlings replied?”

Lot-Ionan was delighted to see his enthusiasm. “Not yet. But I’m sure they’ll be intrigued by the news of a lost dwarf. They’ll be in touch; you can count on it. It’s only a start, though. You shouldn’t get your hopes up yet.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” Tungdil said solemnly, still struggling to put his emotions into words.

“Now that we’ve got the map out, I may as well show you where you’re going.” Lot-Ionan traced a route from the underground vaults through Idoslane, across the border, and into the kingdom of Gauragar. His finger stopped just short of the enchanted realm of Lios Nudin, home of the powerful magus Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty, and came to rest over a peak named the Blacksaddle. “There you have it, three hundred miles on a northwesterly bearing. The paths are well marked and I’ll give you the map to take with you, of course. Failing that, you can always stop for directions in one of the villages on the way.” He rolled up the parchment. “As for your errand, I need you to convey a few items to my good friend Gorén. If you look in the ebony cabinet, you’ll find a small leather bag with green drawstrings. I borrowed the contents for an experiment many years ago and their purpose has been served. The coins on the table are for you to take.”

While Tungdil was scrabbling in the cupboard, Lot-Ionan leafed through a book, pretending to read. The dwarf pulled out a bag.

“Found it,” he said finally.

“You should go, then, Tungdil, but remember to reflect on our earlier conversation. If we find your family, you’ll be free to join them or remain with me, as you please,” he said without looking up from his tome. Tungdil turned to the door.

“And one last thing: Be careful! Keep an eye on the bag and don’t lose it: Its contents are valuable,” he warned. At last he glanced up and smiled: “I strongly advise you not to open it. We don’t want any mishaps while you’re away. Palandiell be with you — and Vraccas too!”

“You can depend on me, Lot-Ionan.”

“I know I can, Tungdil. Now, enjoy your trip and come back safely.”

On leaving Lot-Ionan’s study, Tungdil steered a course for the kitchens to stock up on victuals and tell Frala of the news.

He found her working at the large dough-trough. The stodgy mix of flour, water, and yeast took considerable effort to knead and her face glistened with sweat from the exertion.

“I need provisions,” he announced with a grin.

“The magus is sending you on an errand, is he?” Frala smiled and gave the dough a final vigorous squeeze. “I’m sure we’ll find something in the larder for Lot-Ionan’s special envoy.” She dusted her hands and led the way into a small room that Tungdil imagined was the closest thing to seventh heaven for a mouse.

Frala filled his knapsack with cured meat, cheese, sausage, and a loaf of rye bread. “There,” she said, “that should keep you going.”

“Not for three hundred miles, it won’t.”

“Three hundred?” she exclaimed in surprise. “Tungdil, that’s not an errand; it’s a serious journey! You’ll need more food than that.” She added two large sausages and some ham. “But don’t let Cook see,” she said, buckling the flap hastily.

They returned to the kitchen. “Aren’t you going to tell me where you’re going?” she asked impatiently.

“The Blacksaddle. The magus wants me to deliver a few items to one of his old apprentices.”

“The Blacksaddle,” Frala echoed thoughtfully. “I’ve never heard of it. But three hundred miles is an awfully long way. Which kingdoms will you pass through?”

Tungdil chuckled. “I’d take you with me and show you, but I don’t think Lot-Ionan would approve — not to mention your husband and daughters.” He showed her the map and traced his finger along the route.

“Through Idoslane and Gauragar! And Lios Nudin is barely a stone’s throw away. Aren’t you curious to visit?” she exclaimed in excitement.

“Not much happens in Lios Nudin,” Tungdil said dismissively. “Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty does nothing but study. But Turguria would be worth a look.”

“Why’s that?”

“Turgur the Fair-Faced is on a quest for universal beauty. He wants to make everyone into paragons of elven grace — even bow-legged farmers and squinty-eyed maids. From what Lot-Ionan told me, he hasn’t quite perfected his spells. Apparently, his experiments have led to such deformities that some of his subjects are too ashamed to leave their homes. It’s probably a good thing I won’t be going there. What if Turgur took it into his head to magic me to human size?”

“What a dreadful thought,” said Frala with feeling. She stooped to embrace the dwarf. “May Palandiell and Vraccas bless you and keep you from harm.” Before he knew it, she had unknotted her scarf and tied it round his waist. “Here, now you’ll have a talisman too.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “It’ll remind you of me — and you’ll have no excuse for forgetting my present!”

Tungdil looked into her lively green eyes and sighed. He was so fond of Frala that it was hard to imagine life without her in a dwarven kingdom, especially now that he was guardian to Sunja and Ikana. His attachment to her was not in the least bit romantic; he felt bound to her like a brother, having known her since she was a child.

“ Lot-Ionan wrote to the dwarves of Beroïn,” he said, proceeding to recount his conversation with the magus. “He wants to find out where I came from. If the secondlings know my kin, I’d like to visit them in the mountains, maybe move there. The magus said I was free to choose.”

The maid embraced him once more. “It looks as though your dream is coming true,” she congratulated him. She smiled mischievously. “Jolosin will jump for joy if you decide to go.”

“Maybe I should stay, then,” threatened Tungdil.

A shadow came over her face. “You won’t forget to come back and visit us, will you? I’d like to hear about the dwarves of the south,” she said, her voice tinged with melancholy in spite of her genuine pleasure at the news.

“Frala, who knows if I even belong there? They might not know anything about me; I could have been hewn from the mountain without any kin. In any case, my first priority is Gorén. I’ll see what happens after that.”

A wail went up from the cot in the corner. Frala hurried to comfort Ikana, who had been sleeping snugly by the hearth.

“Say hello to your guardian, little one,” she told her daughter. “He’ll always be here for you, just as he’s always been here for me.”

The baby grabbed the dwarf’s outstretched finger and pulled. Tungdil was almost certain that he heard a soft chuckle.

“She’s laughing at me!”

“Nonsense! She’s laughing with you! She likes you, see?”

“Don’t worry,” Tungdil promised the baby, “I’ll buy presents for you and your sister too.” He disengaged his calloused finger from her delicate pink hands. Now that Ikana no longer seemed so fragile, he would have liked to stay and play. She reached up and tugged a strand of his hair. He carefully loosened her grip. “So you want me to stay, do you?”

The trio made their way through the shadowy galleries to the northern exit. Sunlight seeped through the cracks in the doorway. Frala kissed him on the forehead. “Look after yourself, Tungdil,” she said. “And come back safe and sound!”

A famulus pulled on a rope to open the door and the iron-bound oak panels parted with a groan.

Outside, the rolling grassy hills, bright flowers, and leafy trees were dappled with sunshine. The aroma of warm soil wafted in on the breeze and the tunnel filled with the spring warbling of birds.

“Do you hear that, Tungdil? Girdlegard is wishing you well,” said Frala, filling her lungs with fresh air. “What glorious weather for a journey!”

The dwarf lingered for a moment in the safety of the shaded doorway. He was accustomed to having ceilings above him and walls that afforded protection on all sides. In the open, there was too much freedom for his liking and he had to acclimate himself all over again.

Not wanting Frala to think he was no braver than a gnome, he took a deep breath, stepped out into the sunshine above Ionandar, and marched purposefully away.

“Come back soon, Tungdil,” she called. He turned and waved until the doors to the vaults were closed, then continued on his way. After a few paces he came to a halt. Screwing up his eyes, he winced in the dazzling light. His subterranean existence had made him so sensitive to the sun’s powerful rays that he was obliged to shelter in the shade of a towering oak. He dropped onto the grass and laid the magus’s bag and his pack of provisions beside him.

Hmm, not the most promising start, he thought to himself. He squinted at his surroundings, straining to see something of the landscape. The canopy of leaves afforded little protection from the glare.

It was the same at the beginning of every journey, but at least the terrain, a wide track winding gently over rolling countryside, would be easily mastered on foot.

He held the map above his head to block out the light and studied his route. Assuming the cartographer knew his business, the landscape would begin to change in the region of the Blacksaddle. A dense forest of pines surrounded the mountain, through which there was no obvious path.

So much the better. Tungdil ran his thumb over the blade of his ax. Those trees will regret it if they get in my way.

The sun followed its slow trajectory across the sky.

Little by little Tungdil’s eyes adjusted to the sunshine as it weakened and mellowed to a soft orange glow. By dusk, his vision would be restored entirely, but time was running out if he wanted to cover a few miles and find a bed before nightfall.

Straightening up determinedly, he slung his packs on his back, returned his ax to his belt, and plodded on, all the while cursing the sunshine. Grumbling wouldn’t get him there any faster, but it vastly improved his mood.

The sun was disappearing over the crest of a hill when Tungdil emerged from the forest on the fifth orbit of his uneventful journey and found himself confronted by palisades bounding a village of some considerable size.

Two soldiers patrolled the wooden watchtower above the gateway. At first neither noticed the diminutive figure outside, but at last one of the men motioned to his companion. Judging by their reaction, the dwarf was not regarded as a threat.

Tungdil was relieved. After four chilly nights in the open, camped among squirrels, foxes, and more greenery than he could tolerate, he was looking forward to finding a tavern with good beer, warm food, and a soft mattress. His stomach was grumbling already.

He reached the gateway, but the doors remained closed. The sentries leaned over the parapet and watched from above.

“Good evening to you both!” he bellowed up at them. “Be so kind as to open the gates! I should like a bed for the night and a roof overhead!” Even from a distance, he could tell that their armor was well made and well cared for. This led him to two conclusions: First, the suits had been crafted by a smith of considerable skill, and second, the metal was worn for protection and not effect. The sentries were no ordinary villagers.

These thoughts were followed by another revealing discovery. In the flickering torchlight he had taken the rounded objects on the palisades to be gargoyles, but on closer inspection they turned out to be skulls. The heads of three dozen dead orcs were impaled on the defenses.

Tungdil doubted the wisdom of baiting the enemy in this fashion. As a deterrent, an array of orcish skulls had about as much chance of warding off the orcs as a dead bird would protect a field from crows. In fact, the sight of the severed heads was more likely to incite the brutes to wholesale slaughter.

From this Tungdil deduced that he had crossed the border into Idoslane and that the men hired to defend the settlement were trained fighters but foolhardy with it. Only mercenaries paid by the skull would be reckless enough to provoke the beasts so gruesomely. The bloodied heads had been set out as bait to draw in nearby bands of orcs.

“What are you waiting for?” he called indignantly. “Let me in!”

“Greetings, groundling! This is Goodwater in the fair land of Idoslane. Have you sighted orcs on your travels?”

“No,” he shouted, struggling to keep his temper. To be referred to as a “groundling” was more than he could bear. “And if you don’t mind, I’m no more a groundling than you men are grasslings: I’m a dwarf.”

The sentries laughed. At their signal, the right half of the double door creaked open and Tungdil was allowed to pass. Inside, another pair of heavily armed soldiers was waiting for him. They eyed him distrustfully.

“Well, blow me down,” one of them muttered. “If it isn’t a real-life dwarf! They’re not as tiny as everyone says they are.”

Tungdil was once again reminded that humans knew almost nothing about dwarves. He bristled under the sentries’ stares. “If you’ve quite finished gawking, maybe one of you could inform me where I might find a bed.”

The sentries directed him to the nearest tavern, which lay a short distance along the dusty street. Above the door, a shabby platter and a similarly dilapidated tankard indicated that the place sold food and beer, although, by the look of it, it wouldn’t be anything fancy.

In spite of his best efforts to slip in unseen, the rusty hinges squealed excitedly as soon as he lifted the wooden crossbar and pushed open the door. It was hard to imagine a simpler yet more effective means of guarding against intruders: The shriek of neglected metal was impossible to ignore. The dwarf hesitated for a moment, then entered.

Seated at the tavern’s roughly fashioned tables were ten villagers holding tankards of ale or mead. Tungdil’s nose was assailed immediately by the smell of food combined with tobacco and sweat. The villagers wore simple garments: hessian or coarse woolen shirts to protect against the evening chill. Their feet were encased in thick stockings and laced shoes.

Two of the men nodded hesitantly in acknowledgment; the others were too busy staring. It was always the same.

The dwarf returned the greeting and took his place at an empty table. Naturally the furniture was far too big for him, but he made himself comfortable and ordered his supper and a large ale. In no time a steaming plate of cornmeal and mincemeat was laid in front of him, followed by a tankard of beer.

He tucked in ravenously. The meal tasted wholesome, a little burned, and somewhat bland, but at least it was warm. The pale watery beer disappointed his dwarven palate, but he drank it all the same. He had no desire to cause offense, especially when there was the matter of his lodgings still to settle.

One of the villagers was looking at him so intently that he could almost feel his piercing stare. Tungdil returned his gaze unflinchingly.

“What beats me,” said the man, raising his voice so everyone in the tavern could hear, “is what a groundling would be doing in our village.” A ring of smoke left his pipe and shot toward the sooty ceiling.

“Breaking his journey.” Tungdil chewed his mouthful deliberately, dropped his spoon into the gloop, and wiped his beard. A belligerent villager was the last thing he needed. It was obvious from his manner that the man was sparring for a fight. Well, he’s picked the wrong dwarf! “I’ve no desire to argue with you, estimable sir,” he said firmly. “I’ve spent the past few nights in the open, and Vraccas willing, I’d like to sleep on something other than twigs and leaves.”

There was an eruption of mocking laughter. Some of the villagers prostrated themselves in front of the pipe smoker, calling him “sir” and “your honor”; one even went so far as to set an empty tankard like a crown on his head. They evidently found it amusing that Tungdil should address a humble villager in terms of respect.

“You think you’re quite something, don’t you, groundling?” The man hurled the tankard to the floor and faced his friends angrily. “Go ahead and laugh, you harebrained idiots! What if he was sent by orcs to spy on us? You won’t find it so funny when he sneaks out of bed and opens the gates!”

The mirth stopped abruptly.

At once Tungdil realized he would have to tread carefully. On a practical level, that meant sticking to plain speech. It was bad enough that he was a dwarf, let alone a dwarf with fancy manners.

“Dwarves and orcs are sworn enemies,” he said earnestly. “A dwarf would never throw in his lot with an orc.” He extended his hand toward the man. “Here, have my word that I mean you no harm. I swear it by Vraccas, creator of all dwarves.”

The villager stared at the sturdy fingers and weighed the matter in his mind. At last he gave the hand a brief shake and turned away.

The publican brought the relieved Tungdil another beer.

“Don’t mind him,” he said quickly. “We’re all on edge at the moment. So many villages have been plundered these past few orbits. Orcs are rampaging through the northwest of Idoslane.”

“Hence the mercenaries at the gates.”

“They’re here to protect us until King Tilogorn’s soldiers rid us of the beasts.” He turned to go.

“Wait!” Tungdil laid a hand on his grease-spotted sleeve. The man’s words had given him faint grounds for hope. “Will there be dwarves among them? I heard King Tilogorn has dwarves in his pay.”

The publican shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you, little fellow, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“When do they get here?” he asked eagerly. The opportunity of setting eyes on a fellow dwarf was reason enough to delay his mission to the Blacksaddle. All the more potatoes for Jolosin to peel.

“By rights they should have been here three orbits ago,” said the publican, signaling apologetically to the queue of thirsty customers at the bar. Tungdil let him go and returned to his supper, mulling over what he knew of Tilogorn and his kingdom.

The name Idoslane was derived from the land’s bloody past. At the heart of the historical conflict was the throne. The Idos, the kingdom’s great ruling dynasty, had plotted, conspired, and waged war on one another, bringing misery on themselves and their people, who bore the brunt of their feuds. Bit by bit the state was torn apart by their squabbling until every district was governed by a different member of the Ido clan. At last their subjects reached the limit of their endurance and felled every last sibling, cousin, and scion of the dynasty: Ido-slane.

A villager, rather the worse for wear, staggered to his feet and raised his tankard: “Long live Prince Mallen! May he drive King Tilogorn from the throne!” When no one joined in with his toast, he lowered himself to his stool, muttering darkly.

If Tungdil’s memory served him correctly, Prince Mallen was the sole surviving member of the Ido clan. He lived in exile in Urgon, the kingdom to the north of Idoslane, and was forever conspiring to return to his country as its rightful king.

Tacked to the wall of the tavern was an ancient map of Idoslane, its yellowed parchment stained by smoke. The succession of rolling hills, forests, and plains made for a pleasantly varied landscape. It would have been idyllic, if it weren’t for the orcs.

“Not a bad place, is it?” observed a fellow drinker, following Tungdil’s gaze.

“Save for Toboribor.” Tungdil pointed to the black enclave at the heart of the kingdom: The orcish stronghold was located on Idoslane’s most fertile land. He picked up his tankard and joined the villager at his table. “Why are the brutes on the move?”

“They’re bored, that’s all. Orcs don’t need a reason to plunder and pillage. They attacked a place a few miles from here and set fire to the fields and orchards. Their sort are just monsters. Robbing, fighting, killing… They don’t know any better.”

“And they’re strong,” said another, eyes widening theatrically. “There was a time when —”

“Not that old fable,” groaned the publican, stopping at the table to refill their tankards.

“You don’t have to listen. I was talking to the dwarf.” In spite of his injured tone, the storyteller had no intention of abandoning his tale. “I came up against a whole bedeviled mob of them. Great hulking beasts, they were. It was during my employ in Tilogorn’s army. We —”

“Happier times, they were. The old prattler never had time to scare folks with his stories.”

“What would a publican know about it? If you’d seen the accursed things, you’d have some respect.” He turned back to Tungdil. “I’m telling you, dwarf, they were a terrible sight. A whole head taller than most men and ugly as sin: big flat noses, hideous eyes, and sticking-out teeth. It was worse for the young lads; they nearly died of fright.”

“That’s funny,” murmured Tungdil. “I read a description just like that in —” He clamped his mouth shut, but no one had heard. To cover his embarrassment, he scratched his sunburned head. Any later in the season and his scalp would have burned to a crisp by now. The sun took a bit of getting used to.

“Half an orbit it took to kill those wretched brutes. My, they were tough! When I was young no one would hire mercenaries to keep the orcs from their gates. Orcs or no orcs, Idoslane was safe in our hands. Times have changed,” he said regretfully, mourning the decline of Tilogorn’s army and the passing of his youth. He glanced down and caught sight of Tungdil’s ax. The blade had been put to good use in the woods and was looking somewhat neglected, with blobs of dried sap and splinters sticking to the bit. “Don’t tell me you’ve been using a fine ax like that for hacking wood!” he exclaimed, aghast.

“I had to get through the undergrowth somehow.” Tungdil reddened, hoping to goodness that no one would ask him to demonstrate his race’s legendary axmanship. The truth was, he knew nothing of fighting.

Tungdil had learned everything he knew from Lot-Ionan, who took little interest in weaponry, sword fights, and close combat, leaving his ward without a military education. No one had ever shown him how to wield an ax in anger. The servants chopped wood or killed rats with their axes and that was as far as his handling of the feared dwarven weapon went. His race was supposed to be skilled in axmanship, but if faced with an aggressor, which well he might be, he was resigned to striking out haphazardly and praying that the beast would run away.

“The dwarves are great warriors, or so I’ve heard,” said the veteran trooper. “Runs in the blood, does it? Is it true what they say about a single dwarf putting pay to a pack of ten orcs?”

Tungdil had long suspected that he wasn’t a proper dwarf, but now his fears were confirmed. Listening to the men made him realize that his kinsfolk would laugh if they could see him, which put an end to his enthusiasm for meeting others of his race. Even the thought of the fairer sex seemed more alarming than appealing.

“Ten orcs,” he said, hoping the trooper was right, “absolutely…” He yawned loudly, stretched, and rose. It was time to escape his own doubts, shake off his nosy questioners, and find a bed. “You’ll have to excuse me: I need to get some sleep.”

His fellow drinkers, their initial suspicions forgotten, were reluctant to let him go, but at length he was permitted to make his way to the second floor of the timber-frame house where the publican had quartered him for the night. The room was a dormitory, but a large one, and Tungdil had it to himself.

He used the washbowl to bathe his sweaty feet, which had been confined to his boots since the start of the journey. Savoring the luxury of his third beer, he stood by the window and gazed out over the tiled roofs of Goodwater.

The settlement was a good size, numbering a thousand or so dwellings. The villagers seemed to make their living from the surrounding fields and orchards and what wealth they had was now threatened by orcs. Tilogorn’s anxiously awaited army would have to hurry if there was going to be anything left to save.

Tungdil dried his weary feet, folded his clothes over a chair, and buried himself in the thick feather duvet.

Silvery light shone on the leather bag destined for Gorén, sorely testing his resolve.

Don’t meddle with things that don’t concern you, he told himself sternly.

Even as he fell asleep he thought of Lot-Ionan and Frala, whose talisman was looped through his belt. He missed the sound of her laughter. Tomorrow he would ask the publican for directions to the Blacksaddle and press on without delay.

Muffled sounds roused him from his sleep.

Two men were taking great pains to ready themselves for bed without making any noise. Outside a storm was howling and raging around the settlement.

A whispered exchange followed, during which Tungdil felt certain that he heard Lot-Ionan’s name. He peered warily at the newcomers: a thin, well-dressed gentleman and a taller, broader fellow clad in leather mail with metal plating.

A merchant and his bodyguard? Their garments were clearly worth a gold piece or two. He caught sight of a simple yet striking trinket attached to the larger fellow’s leather lapel. It was embossed with the seal of the magi.

They’re envoys to the magi’s council! “Are you headed for Ionandar?” he asked, abandoning all pretense of sleep. Curiosity had triumphed over caution.

The broad man frowned. “What makes you think that?”

“The brooch.” He pointed to the man’s gown. “You must be envoys.”

The pair exchanged looks of surprise. “Who are you?” the bearer of the trinket demanded. Tungdil introduced himself. “What news of Lot-Ionan?” the man said sharply. “Is he well?”

“Perhaps you could tell me a little about yourselves first,” the dwarf requested with impeccable politeness. They supplied him with their names and occupations: Friedegard, a first-tier famulus apprenticed to Turgur the Fair-Faced, and Vrabor, a warrior in the service of the magi. “Lot-Ionan is in excellent health,” Tungdil informed them. “You’ll see for yourselves when you get there.” He struggled to contain himself, then gave in. “Pray, what is the…” He reconsidered and began more plainly: “What do you want with the magus?”

“Our business is with Lot-Ionan, not his message boy,” Vrabor said dismissively, loosening the buckles on his armor. “Why do you think the council sent an envoy and not a town crier?”

He had barely finished speaking when the storm outside whipped into a frenzy, gusting through chinks in the walls and emitting a strange, unnatural whine, which was followed almost immediately by a high-pitched whistle.

Tensing, the two men reached for their swords.

Not a night to be abroad, thought the dwarf as he watched the moonlit scraps of cloud chase across the gloomy sky.

Just then a slender face appeared at the window. Tungdil looked into the gray-green eyes and felt his mind go numb. The apparition was more bewitching than frightening: Long dark hair swept the beautiful visage, the occasional strand plastered against the rain-drenched skin. So pale, so perfect was the being that it resembled a marble sculpture of an elf, its bedraggled locks like fine fractures in the stone.

The dwarf stared helplessly, transfixed by the creature’s gaze. The countenance was attractive — of that there was no question — but it inspired in him an almost physical revulsion. It was too beautiful, almost cruelly so.

“Over there…” His breathless warning was enough to alert the envoys, who looked up and dove for cover.

At that moment there was an explosion of glass as a long black-fletched arrow shattered the window and whined through the air, planting itself in the wall.

“You get rid of them; I’ll deal with the window,” shouted Vrabor to his companion. Seizing the heavy table, he upturned it and slammed it into the wall, then hurriedly jammed some furniture against the makeshift barricade. There were no other openings for arrows to enter.

Meanwhile Friedegard, eyes closed and head bowed, was chanting silently and tracing strange symbols in the air. In his right hand was a coin-sized crystal set in gold.

“Can someone tell me what’s going on?” Tungdil scrambled out of bed and grabbed his ax because it made him feel safer.

The envoys listened in silence. Although the wind had abated, the rain was falling more heavily than before. They strained their ears, but there was no sound of the mysterious bowman. He seemed to have vanished with the tempest.

“Has the elf gone?”

“I can’t be sure,” said Vrabor. “Perhaps.” He sheathed his sword and sat down on the bed, hands resting on the cross guard of his weapon. “They could be biding their time.”

“They?”

“Älfar, two of them. They’ve been tailing us since Porista.”

So it wasn’t an elf after all… The älfar, a race crueler than any other, were sworn enemies of the elves. They hated their cousins for their purity, a purity that the älfar themselves had been denied. It was hatred and jealousy, according to the history books, that impelled them across the Northern Pass and into Girdlegard. “Is Lot-Ionan in danger?”

“ Lot-Ionan will come to no harm,” Vrabor assured him wearily. “The älfar are powerless against the magi and they know it. The arrow was meant for Friedegard and me; they want to know what we’re carrying. We knew they were following us as soon as we left the capital of Lios Nudin, but they waited until they could be sure of our destination before they attacked. I’m sorry, groundling,” he said, responding to the unspoken question in Tungdil’s eyes. “I’m sure you’re a loyal messenger and I know we’re indebted to your vigilance, but our business is between the council and Lot-Ionan. You’ll have to save your questions for your return.”

“I’m a dwarf, not a groundling.” Tungdil toyed with the idea of accompanying the envoys to Ionandar the next morning and telling the magus of what he had seen, but he decided against it. His mission to the Blacksaddle was more important. He sat down and laid his ax across his knees.

The rest of the night was spent in watchful silence, their fear of the älfar keeping tiredness at bay. None of them slept a wink, but Friedegard’s spell seemed to have worked and there was no sign of their assailants. At last, with the coming of dawn, the tension finally fell away and Tungdil lay back and dozed.

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