The Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  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 an
d 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 ä
lfar 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.