Dunner fought a lone and thankless battle, for the dwarven chieftains considered negotiation a sign of weakness. Most never knew the small victories that Dunner single-handedly achieved or how many dwarven and human lives were saved by his tongue rather than their swords and bows. The dwarven chiefs ascribed the peaceful removal of the human settlements as the will of the gods, which—in a way—it was.
The Sovereign Stone was given to Dunner to keep by the Chief Clan Chief. Dunner placed the stone in a small shrine he had built for it in the City of the Unhorsed, where the stone sat for two years, gathering dust, for none of the dwarves were particularly interested in it. Dunner thought sadly that he was the only one of his people who found it truly marvelous, the only one who took time to pay his respects. But then he noticed that someone else was caring for the Sovereign Stone in his absence. On his return, he would find the floor of the shrine swept, the stone free of dust. He wondered who could be tending it and kept secret watch to find out.
To his astonishment, he discovered the stone’s guardians were Unhorsed children, neglected and abandoned. As bereft and unhappy as Dunner himself had been when he was a child, these beggar children had come together to found an unofficial band dedicated to the Sovereign Stone.
The children kept the temple clean and polished the stone itself with soft cloths. At first Dunner was inclined to drive them away; he thought they were making a game of it. But as he watched them, he came to see that in joining together to take care of the Sovereign Stone, the children had done something rare for the Unhorsed—they had emerged from isolation, formed friendships and loyalties that spanned clan lines. They had, as it were, developed their own clan around the Sovereign Stone.
Dunner was pleased beyond measure to realize this and was careful to leave the children to themselves, make no fuss over them, draw no attention to them. These children, he guessed, would be the future Dominion Lords. And, for now, he had strength enough to continue on alone.
As to the orken, the Captain of Captains himself had become a Dominion Lord, mainly to acquire the special armor, which he much admired. And he liked the idea of having to pass certain tests in order to achieve Dominion Lord status. A highly competitive race, the orken are quite fond of tests and challenges, puzzles and conundrums. There is a story told that a human king once saved his besieged city by giving the attacking orken a riddle to solve, promising that he would relinquish his city if they came up with the solution. While the orken sat down in front of the city to argue over the matter, the king sent posthaste to a neighbor for reinforcements. When those troops arrived to break the siege, it is further told that the orken refused to quit the field until someone had given them the correct answer, but that is considered the least believable part of the story.
The Captain wanted to devise tests for his people, but wasn’t certain what they should entail. He considered the human tests silly. Binding the sores of lepers—what nonsense. No lepers existed among the orken. As a menace to society, they would never have been allowed to live, and the orken were apparently immune to the disease anyway. The elves refused to divulge the nature of their tests, so they were no help. Dunner—the only dwarf—had elected to take the human tests.
At length, the Captain decided upon tests involving seaman-ship (most important), combat, and puzzle-solving (to test the mental capacity), courage, and the ability to make a good bargain. Having set the criteria for the tests, the Captain did not feel it would be honorable to determine the nature of the tests he himself would have to pass. He turned to his mate, instructing her to make the tests as challenging for him as possible. This she did. Feeling strongly that the honor of both her mate and herself was at stake, she made the tests so extraordinarily difficult that the poor Captain barely survived, much less passed.
The tribal shaman deemed survival an acceptable score, however, and, thanks to an exceptionally good omen—a strange black cat appearing out of nowhere and jumping into his lap—she granted the Captain the right to become a Dominion Lord. Following the rigorous and near-deadly testing procedure, the Transfiguration in which he turned from flesh to stone and then back to flesh was a minor inconvenience, hardly to be noticed.
So many orken wanted to become Dominion Lords after that—mainly in order to challenge themselves with the tests—that the Captain was hard-pressed to choose among them. Their ranks thinned considerably when the word went out that orken Dominion Lords not only had to interact with humans, but were expected to be nice to them, too.
At the Council meeting at which Dagnarus’s nomination would come up for a vote, there were then nine humans, including his brother Helmos; ten elves, including Lord Mabreton; Dunner, representing the dwarves; the Captain and the only two other orken to have survived the testing procedure.
“The ten elven votes are yours, Your Highness, as the Shield has promised. Dunner will vote for you, of course, no question there. As to the orken—impossible creatures—it is useless to try to predict what they will do. A bug crawling from left to right instead of right to left will change their votes in an instant. As to the humans, there is not a single one currently supporting you.”
“Thanks to my beloved brother,” Dagnarus said.
“You have, therefore, eleven votes in your favor, Your Highness,” said Silwyth, totaling the figures. “You need seventeen in order to win—six more.”
Dagnarus scowled. Pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back, he brought to mind the nine humans ranged against him. His brother, Helmos, would never change his vote. As to the others, Dagnarus hardly knew them. He had never paid much attention to them, except to bow to them on state occasions. He seemed to recall, at a banquet, having passed one of them the salt. He had nothing in common with these men and women, who talked of books and music, philosophy, metaphysics, and the nobility of man.
“I have heard,” Silwyth added cautiously, noting the prince’s dark and brooding expression, “that three of the human Dominion Lords are wavering in their decision.”
“Come, that’s more like it,” said Dagnarus, looking up, hope revived.
“If I might offer a suggestion, Your Highness?”
“Certainly, Silwyth. No one is better at conniving than you elves.”
Silwyth bowed to acknowledge the compliment. “In your speech to the Council, you should emphasize the fact that your brother’s continual carping on Dominion Lords being peace-minded, his refusal to admit a Lord of Battle to enter into consideration, goes against the original intent of the gods in the creation of Dominion Lords.”
“Does it? You amaze me, Silwyth. Go on.”
“Not so amazing, Your Highness. A candidate must demonstrate proficiency at combat skills in the testing procedure.”
“But from what Gareth tells me, that is all ceremonial. No real fighting goes on,” Dagnarus argued, disdainful.
“Ceremonial or not, the intent is there. But the most telling argument of all, my lord, is the fact that the gods’ gift to a Dominion Lord is magical armor. Armor, my lord.”
“True!” Dagnarus was struck by this. “You’re right, Silwyth. Magical armor. The gods intend by this—” He paused, eyed the elf.
“The gods intend, Your Highness, for a Dominion Lord to be not only the wise guide for his people but also their protector and defender. That means in war, as well as in peace. You might mention that all of the elven Dominion Lords and three of the orken are trained combatants and military leaders and that, while we hope and trust that our races will forever be at peace, we can never know what the future will hold. It would be inadvisable for the humans to be seen as being weak in this field.”
“And so it seems to me,” said Dagnarus in his Speech of Supplication before the Council, “that while we hope and trust that our races will forever be at peace, we can never know what the future will hold. Our friends the elves come here with Dominion Lords who are renowned for their courage and skill on the field of battle. Lord Mabreton, for example, is a hero of the Battle of Te
ssua’s Keep.”
A battle that had proved disastrous for the human army, as all the human Dominion Lords seated around the table well remembered. They looked very dour, especially to see the elven Dominion Lords smiling with immense satisfaction—the elves now controlled Tessua’s Keep. King Tamaros was gently nodding, Dunner struck his clenched fist upon the table, expressing agreement in the dwarven manner.
Helmos watched all this with grave concern.
Can’t you see what he is doing? Helmos asked them silently. Playing upon old fears, reviving old hatreds. Feeding us poison in sweetmeats, poison whose foul taste is masked by this sugar coating. The elves back him. He has made some deal with them, of course. Lord Mabreton speaks of Dagnarus’s kindness to his wife, how he made her feel welcome in this strange court. He says that now she is so much at home that she is loath to return to her homeland! He has not heard the whispers about her. The husband is the last to know, they say. I can prove nothing, nor would I, if I had the chance. I can only pray to the gods that my brother does not bring down disgrace upon us all and most especially upon Lady Mabreton, poor woman. What can he be thinking? Doesn’t he know it would mean her death if her infidelity were discovered?
Perhaps he does know. Helmos regarded his brother with sorrow. Perhaps he knows and does not care. So long as his lusts are gratified. And are the other whispers true—that he worships the Void, he and Gareth, for I hear that he has drawn his too-trusting and too-malleable friend down with him. I dare not say anything about that either, for, if it were true, it would break our father’s heart.
“I promise I will dedicate myself to the service of our Order,” Dagnarus was concluding humbly, “and to the service of the peoples of the world.”
He was handsome, well dressed, his hair curled and combed and shining; his body straight and muscular; he was noble and solemn, earnest and sincere. Taking Tamaros’s age-wasted hand in his own strong one, Dagnarus bent down on one knee to thank his father for his faith in him and vowed upon all that he held sacred (Which is nothing, thought Helmos, if he worships the Void) that he would make his father proud of him. Tamaros, rising to his feet, laid his hand upon his son’s shining head in blessing. Several of the humans wiped their eyes unashamedly.
Dagnarus rose and faced the Council. He bowed again, with graceful humility. The elves applauded in unison with quiet, subdued clapping of their hands. Dunner went around the table to shake Dagnarus by the hand. The human Dominion Lords murmured among themselves, several casting sidelong glances at Helmos and shaking their heads. The Captain of the orken woke up and demanded in a grumbling voice to know when they were going to eat.
Dagnarus departed; he would not be present for the vote, which, the orken were dismayed to hear, would take place before the Council adjourned for dinner.
King Tamaros rose to speak. He was frail and bent, his hair snow-white, his beard gray and grizzled, but he had not failed mentally. Though his body might be preparing for departure from this life, his mind was not. He put forward his youngest son’s candidacy in clear, strong terms, impressing everyone on the Council.
Everyone except his eldest and most beloved son.
Helmos and his father had never before disagreed on anything. Helmos held Tamaros in reverent respect, loved his father as he loved few people in this world. But in this, Helmos was going to cross his father. In this, he could not allow his father to prevail. Yet Helmos must fight this battle with both hands fettered; he must fight without wounding either his opponent or innocent bystanders, which meant that his best weapons were useless to him.
“My son Dagnarus is not a scholar,” Tamaros was saying. “He cares nothing for books. He sees no beauty in art. He grows restless and bored with the minstrel’s song. Yet that, I think, should not disqualify him if it does not disqualify others.” Here the king glanced meaningfully at the orken.
“My son Dagnarus is a soldier. He is a born leader. The men who serve under him revere him for his courage, for his good sense, for his care of them. I have spoken to many of the common foot soldiers who have fought with Dagnarus, and they are united in their praise of him. They would follow him anywhere, I believe. Even into the Void itself.”
“Speak no evil!” said the Captain suddenly, in a booming voice, which startled everyone, for they had assumed by the fact that his eyes were closed that he’d drifted off to sleep again. He sat up straight and made the sign against bad omens, as did the other two orken, seated on either side of him.
The human Dominion Lords smiled indulgently, amused and diverted. Tamaros gravely asked pardon, saying he had not meant to offend. He continued on with his praise of Dagnarus. Helmos sat silently, sadly, barely listening, his thoughts on what he must say in rebuttal, on what effect his words would have on his father.
Speech concluded, Tamaros sat down.
The Captain looked up hopefully. “We shall vote now. And then go eat.”
“Not quite yet, sir,” said Lord Mabreton, who was the newly elected Head of the Council to replace the deceased former head, Lord Donnengal. “Any who have aught to say against the nomination of Prince Dagnarus may now present their arguments.”
The Captain sighed deeply, placed his massive elbows on the table, and shook his head. “Let’s get on with it, then,” he muttered.
“Is there anyone who would like to speak against the nomination of Prince Dagnarus?” asked Lord Mabreton in a tone indicating he would be extremely shocked if there were.
He was shocked and King Tamaros was displeased when Helmos rose to his feet.
“What I have to say, I say with the greatest reluctance, knowing that my words will anger my King and grieve him. Silence would be easy for me. Acquiescence would be easy. I would do anything for my King, sacrifice anything. I would lay down my life for him and count it a privilege. I would give him anything of mine—anything—except this.”
Helmos’s eyes filled with tears. He looked down at his hands, trembling, as they rested on the table. “Except what he most wants.” This last was said in a husky voice, and Helmos stood a moment, regaining control of himself, before he continued.
The other Dominion Lords watched and waited, moved by Helmos’s anguish and the depth of his feeling, if they were not moved by his words.
He lifted his head, his tears dry. “I argue against the candidacy of Prince Dagnarus. He is most unsuitable to be a Dominion Lord. True, he is, as you say, Father, a good soldier, a charismatic leader of men. I acknowledge this and I say, Let him be a soldier. Let him be a general. Let him lead men in battle. Do not let him lead them in their lives.
“It is true, as he says, that we Dominion Lords are given marvelous, magical, powerful armor. And when we think of armor, we think of battle, of war. And, yes, we fight. We fight every day of our lives—we fight the battle the gods intended us to fight. We fight against ignorance, we fight against prejudice and hatred, we fight against greed and injustice. We fight to bring peace to our peoples. These are the god-given battles that we fight, and thus we wear the armor given us by the gods. Our weapons are not swords. Our weapons are patience, tolerance, understanding, fortitude, forbearance, mercy, and compassion. Even you must admit, Your Majesty, that none of these, none of these”—Helmos laid emphasis upon the word—“can be said to apply to Prince Dagnarus.
“The gods know that we are imperfect. I do not pretend to possess half the noble attributes I have delineated. But I strive to do so. And so, I think, do we all. Prince Dagnarus is courageous—I am the first to speak that in his favor. He is quick-witted and decisive. The King acknowledges that Prince Dagnarus is not a scholar, and he brushes aside that fact as being irrelevant in our decision-making process, pointing out by implication that others among our ranks are not necessarily scholars.” Helmos looked at the orken, who were watching him, for a change, with close attention.
“Yet, these who may not be able to read words on a page can nevertheless determine their location on the open sea with precision, using instruments
and mathematical calculations that are as meaningless to me as the printed word is to them. The fact that Prince Dagnarus chooses not to study, chooses to remain uninformed about the people and the world around him, refuses to invest the time and energy required to improve his mind, indicates to me that he lacks patience, lacks discipline of self.
“Discipline of self. To my mind, therein lies Prince Dagnarus’s greatest fault. You may say, and rightly so, that this is a common fault of the young. And, indeed, Prince Dagnarus is very young. Perhaps he may learn, in time, to overcome this fault. But until that time, if such a time comes, I say to this Council that we must vote against him. Prince Dagnarus is not suited to the noble and puissant office of a Dominion Lord. I cast my vote against him, and I urge the other members of the Council to do the same.”
Helmos sat down, pale, but composed. He had done what he believed in his heart to be right. He could even meet his father’s frowning gaze with equanimity, though to know his father’s anger was directed at him was a blow that drew blood. Helmos had hoped that his words might sway his father, might tear apart the bright and glittering web of charm Dagnarus was able to weave. Helmos saw that he had failed, that Tamaros, though not angry at his elder son, was deeply disappointed in him.
I can say nothing more, Helmos realized, helplessly. I cannot voice my suspicions, not without ruining too many lives. I must trust in the gods, that they will prevent my brother from becoming a Dominion Lord, even if we allow it.
“Is there anyone else who has aught to say on this matter?” asked Lord Mabreton gravely. His expression was thoughtful. Helmos had given him something to consider, at least.
To everyone’s surprise, the Captain rose ponderously to his feet. The orken had never before spoken up in a Council meeting (except to ask when it was time to eat).
“The omens are bad for this one. We”—the Captain nodded at his two cohorts—“vote no.” Turning to King Tamaros, the orken added, “I told you. You should have strangled him when he was a pup.”
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