by Markus Heitz
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 a
re 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.