The Dwarves d-1

by Markus Heitz

  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. Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Winter, 6233rd Solar Cycle Balendilнn 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 Balendilнn's arm.

  "Our planning will come to nothing," he said dully. "The young king of Goпmdil'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 Balendilнn 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 дlfar, 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, Balendilнn 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, Balendilнn. 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 Вlandur 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. Balendilнn 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 mut
tered 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 Beroпn, should pass to one of Goпmdil'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 be has the support of his kinsfolk."

  Balendilнn 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.