The Dwarves Omnibus

by Markus Heitz

Lorimbas smiled. “The tunnels… exactly. Remember when we first heard how our stronghold had been taken over by the dwarven army? I sent our scholars to do some digging in the archives. They came back with some fascinating information about the Blacksaddle. Our dwarven cousins have no idea.”

  Salfalur sipped his beer and looked at the king intently. “They’ve been ensconced in the stronghold for orbits. How can you be sure?”

  “Trust me, faithful warrior, they know nothing. If our cousins had discovered the Blacksaddle’s secret, every dwarf in Girdlegard would know of it by now. News like this travels fast, and our eyes and ears are everywhere. Our spies tell us everything—and they’re more subtle than Bislipur.” He handed Salfalur the archivists’ findings: a packet of manuscripts tied with a ribbon and a stack of engraved tablets.

  The commander-in-chief glanced at them briefly and waved his hand dismissively. “They’re in the old tongue,” he snapped. “I can’t read them.”

  Lorimbas stared at Salfalur’s bloodshot left eye, the distinguishing feature of the Red Eye clan, and nodded in satisfaction. “That’s the beauty of it—hardly anyone can read the ancient script. The Blacksaddle will be in our hands before anyone fathoms its secret.”

  “True,” said Salfalur slowly. He took a deep breath. “But how will we persuade the other folks to leave the stronghold? To fight them would be—”

  “None of our kinsmen will lose their lives.” The king laughed cruelly and leaned back in his chair. “We won’t be doing the fighting. We’ll get someone to do it for us.”

  “Who would fight for the thirdling cause?”

  “King Bruron of Gauragar.”

  Salfalur’s bushy brown eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “This is worthy of Bislipur,” he said reprovingly. “I thought we’d agreed that scheming is useless. So far I can’t see the merit of the plan.” He wrapped his hands around the haft of his hammer, an imposing weapon that almost matched him in height.

  “I should have explained myself more clearly from the start,” the king said soothingly. “Our archives turned out to be most instructive. The scholars found an ancient treaty dating back to the end of the 4000th cycle. It seems our ancestors signed a pact with Gauragar, which grants our kingdom everlasting ownership of Cloudpiercer in payment for our help.”

  “You mean, the Blacksaddle?” Salfalur knew the stories about the mountain’s history. According to legend, the Blacksaddle was once a mighty peak named Cloudpiercer, the summit of which stretched thousands of paces into the sky. Cloudpiercer stood taller and prouder than any other peak in Girdlegard. It was tipped with snow throughout the seasons and its loftiest flanks were made of pure gold. After trying and failing to mine the treasure, the people of Gauragar had called on the dwarves to help them.

  “Are you saying our kinsmen helped the humans to mine the gold, just like the legend says?”

  “Exactly. The dwarves of Lorimbur were the first to send a delegation to Gauragar.” Lorimbas gestured to the map. “They arrived at Cloudpiercer and succeeded in burrowing their way through the mountain and digging a tunnel to the top. They hollowed out the mountain and carried off the gold. In return for their help, they demanded a share of the treasure and ownership of the mountain. The king of Gauragar signed a treaty to that effect.”

  Salfalur knew the rest from a song that his aunt had taught him as a child. The dwarves and men had quarreled over the gold, prompting Cloudpiercer to erupt in fury and shake the miners from its core. The rest of the mountain was riddled with tunnels and the peak collapsed. From that moment on, the mountain simmered with hatred and harbored a murderous grudge against the races of dwarves and men.

  “What if the mountain recognizes us and tries to bury us under its weight?” he asked nervously.

  “That part of the story is almost certainly hogwash, but we’ll be careful all the same.” The king was still staring at the map. “Bruron should receive my missive in the next few orbits.”

  “Bruron is a man without principles. He’ll never honor the word of his ancestors,” Salfalur predicted dourly. “Besides, without the help of the other folks, his kingdom would have fallen to the magus. He’ll deny all knowledge of our agreement rather than risk the anger of the dwarves.”

  “Humans will do anything for gold; it’s simply a case of scale. A single coin won’t buy a sovereign’s loyalty, so I’m offering two full chests. How can he refuse? His kingdom was ransacked by orcs and his people will be hungry. He needs money to buy grain.” Lorimbas sat back and folded his hands across his chest. “You see, Salfalur, I can fight with my head as well as my mace. I can outscheme poor Bislipur.”

  Salfalur’s tattoos snaked across his face as he ground his teeth. “I don’t doubt it, Your Majesty. But what did Bislipur achieve?”

  “Patience, old friend. The first stage of the plan deals only with Bruron.”

  “Where would you strike next?”

  Lorimbas’s finger hovered over the map and landed on the kingdom of Idoslane. “Orcs are marauding through Mallen’s kingdom. He’ll want to destroy them, or drive them into Toboribor. We’ll wait until he’s busy; then we’ll pay him a visit.”

  “Mallen and Goldhand are friends. All the money in Girdlegard won’t change his allegiance.” The commander-in-chief frowned. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but scheming won’t get you further than poor Bislipur.”

  “You’d rather we went to war,” the king said coldly, fixing his commander with his dark brown eyes. “I don’t doubt that the odds have never seemed better. Our army is strong, and the others are weak from their battle with Nôd’onn.” He broke off and raised a warning finger. “But numbers count for nothing while the alliance still holds. We need to kindle the hatred between our cousins and the elves. Once we’ve stoked the fires of enmity, we’ll forge new wedges—wedges that will isolate Gandogar and the others from the humans and the elves.”

  It took more than flashing eyes and a raised voice to intimidate Salfalur. “I wish you every success,” he said, undaunted. “What are my orders?”

  “Tell our mercenaries to listen for the codeword Lorimbur’s Revenge. When the time comes, they must lay down their arms and fight only in self-defense. Tell them not to be tempted by offers of gold.” The king rested his chin on his hands and fell silent. Dark thoughts forced their way into his mind, swamping him with fear, self-doubt, and despair.

  “Are you worried about your daughter?”

  Lorimbas sat up sharply, startled from his thoughts. Salfalur was right; he was worried about his daughter, who had been missing for half a cycle. “Still no news,” he said with a shake of the head. There had been no message, no sighting, not the slightest indication of where she was or whether she was alive. “I’d sooner carry all the peaks in Girdlegard than endure this silence.”

  “Have faith, Lorimbas. She’s a good daughter, and an excellent wife.” Salfalur’s face softened for the first time that orbit. “I trained her in the art of combat, and you taught her to dissemble; she won’t let us down.” He stared at the fireplace, watching the flickering flames. “It’s time she sent word.” His left hand clenched into a fist, his gauntlet creaking.

  Lorimbas sighed. A single word, a single syllable would calm our fears… “It’s hard, I know. I miss my daughter, you miss your wife—but what choice did we have? No one else could achieve our purpose without arousing their suspicions.” He was trying to drown out the voice of his conscience, which reminded him that he was endangering his youngest daughter by sending her on a mission that relied on total secrecy. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. “I had no choice,” he whispered.

  II

  Beroïn’s Folk,

  Secondling Kingdom,

  Girdlegard,

  Winter, 6234th/6235th Solar Cycle

  It’s still a horse—just a small one, that’s all,” grumbled Boïndil, sliding down from the pony’s saddle. He gave himself a good shake, showering sand from his clothes and beard. “If Vraccas had wanted us to be
riders, he would have given us better padding.” He winced as he rubbed his backside.

  “You’d be complaining about your blisters if we’d walked,” retorted Tungdil with a smile. Like Boïndil, he was coated from head to toe with sand, fine grains of which had snuck through his garments, clinging to the fabric and rubbing against his skin. He dismounted and ran a hand over his pony’s mane. “Don’t listen to the old curmudgeon,” he told the pony. “You did an excellent job.”

  They were standing on the outermost terrace of Ogre’s Death, one of the most imposing strongholds in Girdlegard, home to the secondling dwarves. Its keep had been hewn into the rock, with battlements extending down the mountainside in four separate terraces.

  Until recently, no one had believed that Ogre’s Death would ever be conquered, but Nôd’onn had proved that the defenses could be breached. With the help of the treacherous Bislipur, the magus’s beasts had stormed the stronghold and laid waste to the secondlings’ halls.

  Now the stronghold was a hive of activity. Cranes were lifting, wheels turning, winches hoisting, and saws slicing through the rock. Dust filled the air, and the Blue Range echoed with a thousand hammers and chisels as hordes of industrious masons rebuilt what the beasts had destroyed. The rubble from the ruined battlements had been carted away and the fortifications were rising again, only this time the defenses would be bigger, heavier, stronger. Soon the secondlings would be safe from invaders once more.

  It’s good to see order returning to the kingdom, thought Tungdil, trying to overcome his nagging fears. I shouldn’t worry so much…

  Boïndil interrupted his thoughts. “Ha, look at Ogre’s Death, rising from the ruins,” he said proudly. “The secondling flags are flying from the stronghold, and the bones of the invaders have been scattered across the range. They thought they’d destroyed us, but our spirit can’t be crushed.” Quickening his pace, he made straight for the vast gateway, eight paces wide and ten paces high, leading from the uppermost terrace to the underground halls.

  Tungdil looked up at the flagpoles. On the last stage of their journey through Sangpûr, the flags had been visible as tiny squares of cloth, but now he could make out the details. The colors of the firstlings and fourthlings flew proudly beside the crests of the seventeen secondling clans.

  He tapped his forehead. The assembly meeting! It had slipped his mind entirely. “By my beard, Boïndil,” he called out to the secondling, who was practically at the gateway. “Another orbit, and we would have missed the coronation.”

  Boïndil stopped in his tracks. “To think a pack of orcs and bögnilim could make us forget a thing like that! It wouldn’t have happened if Boëndal had been with us.” A look of consternation crossed his face and he sniffed the air anxiously. “It’s all right,” he declared. “We haven’t missed anything important. They haven’t brought out the food.”

  The other dwarves caught up and they set off together through the gateway, into the secondling kingdom. The passageway delved through the mountain, leading to ornately carved chambers supported by soaring columns. Ahead of them towered an enormous stone statue of Beroïn seated on a white marble throne. They filed between his feet and entered the corridor leading to the assembly hall.

  “Remember what happened last time?” Boïndil asked softly.

  “How could I forget?” Every detail of that orbit was etched on Tungdil’s mind. On arriving at Ogre’s Death, he and the twins had entered the great hall to find the delegates warring among themselves. Soon after, he had embarked on a long journey—a journey that turned him into a proper dwarf.

  “It’s a mercy to be out of the light,” said Boïndil, whose hair had been bleached by the harsh desert sun. “We belong in the mountains, as Vraccas intended.” He gave his plait a good shake to dislodge the sand. “Do you think the delegates will be arguing again?”

  Tungdil shook his head. “Gandogar is the legitimate heir, and no one could dispute his right to the throne. He proved his character as soon as he freed himself from Bislipur’s wiles.”

  The secondling grinned. “Not as much as you proved yours.”

  “I don’t want to be high king, Boïndil. My calling lies elsewhere.” Raising his hand decisively, he knocked three times, took a deep breath, and pushed open the mighty stone doors.

  Light streamed toward them. Blinking, Tungdil gazed in horror at the ruins of the hall.

  Barely half of the towering cylindrical columns had survived the beasts’ invasion, and it was only thanks to the secondlings’ expert masonry that the ceiling hadn’t collapsed.

  Tungdil’s heart sank as he looked at the desecrated tablets and bas-reliefs on the walls. The orcs had attacked the artwork with clubs and cudgels, smashing the marble and destroying the carefully chiseled chronicle of past victories and heroic deeds.

  Glancing at his companion, he saw the secondling’s expression change from horror to fury. Boïndil, already a ferocious orc-slayer, was planning his revenge.

  Lanterns and braziers lit the chamber, casting a warm glow over five magnificent chairs, one for each folk, arranged in a semi-circle around a marble table.

  Tungdil spotted Gandogar Silverbeard, ruler of the fourthlings and head of Goïmdil’s line. Seated beside him were Xamtys II of the clan of the Stubborn Streaks, queen of the firstlings and ruler of Borengar’s folk, and Balendilín Onearm of the clan of the Strong Fingers, former counselor to Gundrabur Whitecrown, the late high king. Balendilín had been crowned king of the secondlings after Gundrabur’s death. The remaining delegates—chieftains and elders from the firstling, secondling, and fourthling kingdoms—had taken their places in the elegantly carved pews behind their leaders and were talking among themselves.

  Scanning the ranks of the firstlings, Tungdil found Balyndis and gave her a special smile. Then it was time to address the assembly. Orbits earlier, he had reached a decision regarding his future, and he intended to see it through.

  His eyes lingered on the two unoccupied chairs and the empty pews behind them.

  One of the chairs was reserved for the king of the thirdlings, although none of their number was likely to attend. The other belonged to the late king of the fifthlings, whose folk were no more.

  If everything went to plan, one of the chairs would soon be filled.

  “Monarchs, elders, chieftains,” he began loudly, although his heart was beating furiously in his chest. “I salute the assembly.”

  “Can’t you talk normally?” hissed Boïndil, rolling his eyes. He was secretly in awe of his friend, who spoke with the authority and facility of a king. Tungdil’s sixty cycles in Lot-Ionan’s school had expanded his mind and honed his reason, making him wiser and more knowledgeable than most dwarves twice his age.

  “The finest and best dwarves of the three dwarven folks are gathered here for the second time in four hundred cycles to elect a new high king.” Tungdil stepped away from the doors and took up position in front of the table where the dwarven rulers were seated. He kept his right hand on Keenfire to steady his nerves. “This time there won’t be any last-minute challenges—at least not from me.”

  A faint smile crossed Balendilín’s timeworn features, and downy-cheeked Xamtys raised her eyebrows in surprise. To everyone’s relief, Gandogar laughed good-humoredly, allowing the other delegates to chuckle as well.

  Tungdil pointed to the empty chair belonging to the fifthlings. “Most of you know by now that I’m a thirdling. I’d give anything not to be descended from Lorimbur, but a dwarf can’t choose his lineage. My heart doesn’t burn with vengeance, and maybe, Vraccas willing, there are other thirdlings like me who weren’t born with hatred in their blood. I feel a bond with my fellow dwarves—one of them, especially.” He turned to look at Balyndis and allowed himself to bask for a moment in her dazzling smile. Then he strode to the empty chair on Gandogar’s right.

  “Some of you think I belong in the thirdling kingdom,” he continued, placing his hands on his diamond-studded weapons belt, a gift from Giselbert Ir
oneye. He paused for a moment, remembering his parting conversation with the fifthling monarch. “But I see my place elsewhere.”

  Leaving the chair, he made his way to the fifthling benches and stepped onto the front pew for everyone to see him.

  “I made a promise to Giselbert Ironeye. He asked me to drive the orcs from his kingdom and rebuild his halls.” Pausing, he allowed the delegates a few moments to imagine the revival of the fifthling folk. “Giselbert gave me this belt in remembrance of the fifthlings, who defended their kingdom to the last. Their spirit was stronger than the curse of the Perished Land, and they served the Smith in death and beyond. For a thousand cycles they tended the Dragon Fire furnace and kept its flames alive. Without the fifthlings, Keenfire would never have been forged.” He drew the ax and held it aloft for the delegates to see. “Your Majesties,” he began, turning to the dwarven rulers, “you promised me enough masons and warriors to rebuild the fifthling kingdom and seal the Northern Pass. It was a truly generous offer, but no dwarf should be forced to leave his kingdom at his monarch’s command. Those who wish to remain with their clansfolk should do so, but those who want to join me will be welcomed with open arms.”

  He sat down on the pew, placing Keenfire in front of him. The ax head jangled against the marble, echoing through the hall.

  He wasn’t surprised to see Boïndil striding purposefully toward him. The secondling plumped down beside him, and a moment later, Balyndis took a seat on his right.

  Tungdil was thrilled to see one delegate after another stand up and join him. At last, half of the fifthling pews were taken. Among Tungdil’s new companions were seven chieftains, who promised to ask the rest of their clansmen to make their homes in the fifthling halls.

  Balendilín sat up in his chair, the marble trinkets in his graying beard clinking softly. “Tungdil Goldhand, your wisdom is proof, if proof be needed, that you belong among Girdlegard’s monarchs, not on the pews. I know that you are not inclined to push yourself forward, but the dwarves of the fifthling kingdom will recognize your qualities. At our next meeting, you will be seated among the rulers, I’m sure.” He turned to the delegates, his long gray hair curling about his shoulders like silvery wool. “We are gathered here today to settle a matter of great importance. Gundrabur Whitecrown, the late high king, was called to Vraccas’s smithy, leaving an empty throne. The new high king must be a strong leader who will set our course through good times and bad.” He unfurled a roll of parchment with his one good hand. “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 asked, repeating the words that he had spoken at an earlier assembly, many orbits ago.