The Dwarves d-1

by Markus Heitz

  He knew there had to be more to it than that. You don't just invent those sorts of weapons and you certainly don't wield them with such proficiency unless you've been properly trained.

  He glanced at Bavragor and Boлndal, who were obviously thinking the same. None of them had any doubt that Narmora was really a warrior, an accomplished fighter who had abandoned the battlefield in favor of the stage.

  Tungdil watched as Furgas looked at Narmora tenderly and drew her to him. Did she lay down her weapons for love? He would ask her when he had the chance. I bet she was a mercenary in Umilante's or Tilogorn's army, although she still looks very young…

  Furgas and Narmora helped the impresario out of his oversize breeches, while Goпmgar turned his attention to the startled ponies, who, contrary to all expectations, had stood their ground throughout the fight. The inebriated Boпndil was still draped over the back of one of them, snoring.

  "Listen to that racket," said Bavragor. "He's making more noise than a lumberjack in a forest."

  "I can't wait to see his expression when he hears he missed a battle," said Boлndal with a wicked grin. "I bet he'll never want to drink again."

  The humans and dwarves strung out in a line as they made their way up to the plateau that overlooked Mifurdania and its surrounds. Thick banks of smoke hung over the settlement and a swarm of tiny black dots surged back and forth around the walls. Nothing they saw gave them any reason to believe that the Mifurdanians would prevail against Nфd'onn's troops. Even the otherwise ebullient Rodario was distressed by the sight. Narmora stood impassively at the edge of the platform, peering down at the forest, while Furgas and the dwarves crouched by the waterfall and washed the blood from their hands.

  "Where to now?" he asked, noticing that the track went no farther.

  "Back down to the bottom, just as soon as we've loaded the ponies," Tungdil told him. "We stopped here on our way to Mifurdania and left our gifts for the firstlings in a cave."

  "Can I give you a hand?"

  "There's no need," said Tungdil, not wanting to reveal the existence of the underground network. "You should probably get some sleep. We'll need someone to sit watch for us later." He took his leave with a quick nod and edged behind the waterfall with Goпmgar, Bavragor, and Boлndal.

  Shifting the ingots was every bit as onerous as Tungdil had expected. At last, after hours of hard work, the bars of gold, silver, palandium, vraccasium, and tionium were stacked safely at the top of the stairs. The sun was setting by the time the dwarves collapsed wearily on the floor, worn out from all the fetching and carrying, not to mention their earlier run-in with the bцgnilim.

  They were almost asleep when an embarrassed Boпndil emerged from his drunken slumber, mortified at getting sloshed on five tankards-which in his estimation was not nearly enough. Bavragor took particular pleasure in informing him that he couldn't hold his drink.

  Later, Boпndil was introduced to the players, whom he viewed with suspicion. He made a point of ignoring them, preferring to treat them coolly until they earned his respect. Not having witnessed the battle, he hadn't seen their fighting spirit and refused to be swayed by his companions' reports. Rodario could be as obliging as he liked: Boпndil was impervious to his charm. Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle Soon your kingdom will be ours," a voice warned Gundrabur. The дlf was almost invisible in the darkness of the chamber. He stepped closer to the bed. "You'll lose your kingdom, as the fifthlings lost theirs."

  "Nothing you can do will stop us," said a second дlf, emerging from the shadows and stooping over the bed. Black runes were tattooed across his face, making his pale skin appear translucent and lending him a menacing air. "You're dying, Gundrabur. Vraccas will gather you to his eternal smithy, where you can weep and wail all you like."

  "No one will remember you," a third дlf told him, stepping noiselessly out of the darkness and stopping at the foot of his bed. "You're old and weak, a high king who waited until his dying cycle to do something worthwhile and failed in all his endeavors." He broke off, raising his violet eyes to the ceiling and listening intently. "Do you hear that?" A chisel was tapping away at the rock. "The secondlings are expunging your name from their annals. You failed them, Gundrabur." Even as he spoke, the tapping and hammering intensified so that Gundrabur could hear a thousand chisels working in unison, chipping away at his skull. "Nothing will remain of your works. Yours will be the Nameless Era that brought humiliation and defeat on the dwarves. You are to blame for their destruction, Gundrabur. You are to-"

  "Gundrabur! Gundrabur!"

  The дlfar whirled round and turned to face the door. Light flooded into the chamber.

  "We'll be back," they told him, melting into a darkness so complete that not even Gundrabur's dwarven eyes could fathom it.

  "Gundrabur!"

  The high king woke with a start. His heart was pounding and it took a moment for him to find his bearings. He covered his face with his hands and groaned.

  Balendilнn was sitting on the edge of the royal bed, mopping the sweat from his sovereign's brow. He wrung the cloth into a bowl that was resting on Gundrabur's chest and wobbling slightly as it rose and fell. "Your Majesty was having a nightmare," he said, pressing his hand.

  "They're waiting for me," whispered Gundrabur. He looked even older than usual, a time-wizened dwarf so frail and ancient that he was in danger of being swamped by the sheets. He gave Balendilнn a short, breathless account of his dream. "They were right," he sighed. "I'm not going to leave this bed alive. I wanted to die fighting Nфd'onn, or at the very least to cleave one more orcish skull." He tried to laugh, but it came out as a choke. "If it weren't for this confounded weakness…"

  Balendilнn was in no doubt as to what had prompted Gundrabur's decline. He himself had been sick for three orbits following their interview with Bislipur. The beer that had been brought to them after the fourthling's departure had given Balendilнn an upset stomach and a temperature, but his constitution was sturdy enough to withstand the shock. The elderly king was unlikely to recover.

  It had come to light that the attendant who had served the refreshments had collided with Bislipur on his way to the hall. There was no doubt that Bislipur had a koboldlike talent for skulduggery, but Balendilнn couldn't accuse him of anything without proof.

  He won't get away with it this time. Poisoning Gundrabur's beer is murder-murder and high treason. As soon as evidence came to light of Bislipur's wrongdoings, Balendilнn was determined to put him on trial and execute him for his crimes. And if the fourthling didn't trip up of his own accord, the counselor intended to help him fall.

  "I have no other heir but you, Balendilнn. Be a strong leader to our folk. Serve them better than I did."

  Balendilнn dabbed at the beads of sweat on his brow. "You served the secondlings well," he told him. "You were a good king and you still are."

  Tears welled in Gundrabur's eyes. "I should like to go to the High Pass, where I fought my proudest battles."

  "Your Majesty, that's not wise. An excursion like that could kill you."

  "If I die, it is Vraccas's will and you shall take my place." He lifted the bowl from his chest and sat up. "Fetch me my ax and armor," he ordered, becoming the dwarves' stately ruler as he donned his battle dress: leather jerkin, leather breeches, a light knee-length tunic of mail, and a bejeweled aventail, then helmet, gloves, and armored boots. Gathering his ax, the haft of which was as long as his legs, he hobbled to the door.

  His counselor pleaded with him to reconsider, but Gundrabur had made up his mind and was as obstinate as any dwarf.

  Together they marched through the passageways of the stronghold, Balendilнn guiding the high king and steadying him during the frequent pauses after every flight of steps. At length they reached the defenses built by their ancestors to keep out the waves of invading orcs and other beasts and made their way to the highest parapet.

  Groaning with effort, Gundrabur sat down on a ledge
between two merlons. His hands and arms were trembling and his face was covered in a sheen of perspiration, but he was content. A light southerly wind blew in, ruffling his almost transparent white hair, and he closed his eyes.

  "I expect you think Bislipur put something in my beer," he said. "You're probably right. He'll go to any lengths to achieve his goals, but you'll never defeat him by responding in kind. Don't play him at his own game, Balendilнn, or he'll drag you down to his level."

  Balendilнn drew closer and looked the monarch in the eye. "What would you have me do? Is it wrong to fight fire with fire?"

  "Bislipur's mask will slip, and when it does, you must be there to expose his duplicity. When the truth is out, even his closest friends will turn against him, but until then you must bide your time. If you speak too soon, the fourthlings will accuse you of troublemaking and slander. Fires are best fought with water: It puts out the flames without adding to the blaze." Gundrabur's cloudy eyes settled on his heir. "Be like water, Balendilнn, not for me, but for the sake of our folks." He gazed down at the trench, surveying the bleached bones of the countless creatures who had died there. "Not a single orc entered our stronghold during my reign," he murmured, not without a hint of pride. "We defended Girdlegard against Tion's minions, and now you must protect it from the threat within."

  There was a short silence as he took in the splendor of the stronghold's defenses; then he sniffed the air quizzically.

  "Is this your doing, my loyal friend?" he whispered gratefully. "Am I to die in battle after all?"

  At that moment the guards on the battlements spotted the advancing beasts and sounded the alarm. The gates of the stronghold flew open as the echoing blare of the bugles called the dwarves to arms. Warriors left their stations at the foot of the ramparts and streamed up the stairways to the battlements.

  Balendilнn stared at the high king's countenance. He looked visibly younger. The foul stench of the approaching orcs was fanning the flames of his inner furnace, steadying his hands and sharpening his sight.

  "Lower the bridge," came the order from Gundrabur. He sprang to his feet. Moments earlier, his legs had trembled under the weight of his mail, but now they bore him with ease, and he seemed to have gained a few finger lengths in height. "Let's see whether the orcs have learned anything about fighting over all these cycles. I'll warrant they can't scare this old dwarf."

  The portcullis lifted, pillars rose from the base of the trench, and the first slabs of stone were lowered to form a bridge across the trench. Already five hundred dwarves had formed a guard around their king.

  Balendilнn tried one last time to dissuade him. "I'm begging you, Gundrabur, you'll be killed-"

  The elderly monarch patted his shoulder reassuringly, then took his hand and gripped it firmly. "My loyal friend, I would rather die like this than have the spirit sucked out of me by poison. Bislipur shan't have the satisfaction of ending my life." He clasped Balendilнn to him. "I will die a glorious death, a death befitting a secondling king. History will remember me kindly." He stepped back and looked solemnly at his counselor and friend. "The first ten orcs that fall by my ax will be vengeance for your arm. Farewell, Balendilнn. We'll meet again in Vraccas's smithy." With a smile, he turned and faced his troops. "Warriors of Beroпn," he cried, his voice traveling through the stronghold and echoing against the rock, "let us fight together and defend our kingdom. For Ogre's Death and Girdlegard!"

  A cheer went up among the secondling warriors who knew nothing of their monarch's illness and rejoiced to see him fighting at their side.

  We'll meet again. Balendilнn felt a lump in his throat as he watched his friend stride majestically through the gates and across the bridge, shielded by the secondlings' arrows and catapults until he and his warriors were close enough to engage their orcish foes.

  Balendilнn didn't have long to wait until a cry went up among the horrified warriors that Gundrabur had fallen. It was then that he decided to ignore the late king's advice and see to it that Bislipur died. Dwarves are no friends of water, he thought grimly. Fire is our element.

  On the fifth orbit after the high king's passing, the taverns, quarries, and workshops of the secondling kingdom were still closed. Thousands of dwarves from the seventeen clans of Beroпn's folk had gathered in the funeral hall whose vast pillars towered so high and dwindled into the distance.

  The focal point was a stone sarcophagus, hewn by the secondlings' finest masons and decorated with wondrous carvings commemorating Gundrabur's glorious deeds, not least his last battle at the High Pass where the orcs had been routed.

  Carved into the lid of the coffin was a perfect likeness of the monarch in his younger years. The marble Gundrabur was dressed in his finest armor, his right hand clasping the haft of his ax.

  Even those at the back of the hall could see the sculpted body resting on the dais, high above the heads of the crowd. Slender rays of sunshine slanted through chinks in the ceiling, converging on the coffin from all points of the compass and bathing the effigy in iridescent light.

  The moment of parting has come. Balendilнn ascended the steps and stopped at the high king's feet. Kneeling down, he lowered his head and paid his respects to the fallen monarch. Then he got up and surveyed the secondlings for a final time before he was appointed king.

  "Gundrabur sensed the invaders before they were spotted from the watchtowers. He was always the first to detect our enemies and preserve us from harm." As he spoke, he found himself looking at Bislipur, who was standing with the fourthling delegates at the edge of the crowd. Not even Gandogar's scheming adviser could excuse himself from an occasion such as this. "Our king was called to Vraccas before he could realize his dream of a united dwarven assembly, but he took the first step toward creating a new and stronger union of the folks. From this moment on, his goals will be mine, and I swear in the name of Vraccas to complete his work before I die."

  Banging the hafts of their axes against the floor, the secondlings signaled their approval. A low roll of thunder rumbled through the mountain.

  Balendilнn was too choked with emotion to say anything further, so he walked to the head of the coffin, kissed the brow of the marble king, bowed again, and left the dais.

  With that, fifty dwarves hurried over and hooked long poles into the metal rings subtly incorporated into the coffin's design. As soon as the order was given, they lifted the coffin, carried it from the dais, and bore it silently past the rows of dwarves, who bowed a final time as their dead monarch was taken to his resting place in the crypt of kings.

  Balendilнn walked behind the coffin. He would watch over Gundrabur's body during the long hours of the night, ending his vigil in the morning, when he would leave the crypt with the secondling crown. In time, he too would be laid to rest with the rulers of his folk.

  From the corner of his eye he spotted Bislipur pushing his way to the front of the crowd. The fourthling's gaze was fixed on him as if to read his thoughts and divine the nature of the vengeance that Balendilнn had in mind. You are right to fear me, Bislipur. Your crimes won't go unpunished. Looking straight ahead, Balendilнn didn't let on that he had seen the brawny dwarf.

  At length the pallbearers entered the crypt of kings and placed the coffin on its basalt stand. High above, an opening had been cut out of the mountain, allowing the light of Girdlegard to shine on Gundrabur's marble face. The attendants filed out of the vast crypt that housed the mortal remains of the secondling kings, twenty-six in all.

  Balendilнn walked to the far end of the vault, placed the haft of his ax on the floor, and leaned on the ax head. His gaze fell on the sculpted countenance of his friend and sovereign. Fare you well, Gundrabur. As the moments passed, he too became stone, insensible to the passing of time. His eyes stared blankly at the coffin, while his mind relinquished all thought and drifted on a sea of sorrow.

  At times it seemed to him that voices were speaking to him in ghostly whispers, but he understood nothing of what they said.

 
According to secondling legend, Vraccas would open the eternal smithy and release the spirits of the dead kings, who would visit the prospective monarch and pass judgment on his worth. In some cases, the heir to the throne entered the vault and was never seen again. Balendilнn was spared such a fate.

  The next morning, tired, aching, and bleary-eyed, he left the crypt to find the waiting dwarves exactly where he had left them many hours before. The secondlings bowed and drummed their axes against the floor, hailing their new king and offering him beer, bread, and ham to restore his strength.

  Balendilнn took a few mouthfuls, washed them down, and ascended the dais where Gundrabur's coffin had lain.

  "I did not seek this office," he said in a loud, clear voice. "It was my hope that Gundrabur would reign for another hundred cycles so I could serve him loyally, but Vraccas decided otherwise. Fourteen orcs died by Gundrabur's ax and four arrows pierced his flesh before our king was gathered to the eternal smithy." His gaze swept the hall. "He named me as his successor, and so I ask you: Will you have me as your king?"

  The crowd chorused a resounding "aye," wooden hafts pounded the stone, and Balendilнn realized with a rush of emotion that the secondlings were chanting his name.

  "Beroпn's folk has chosen. Let us never forget Gundrabur or his dream of uniting our kin. It is our shared duty, irrespective of clan or folk, to defend Girdlegard against all harm." His eyes sought Bislipur and found him where he had been standing before. "Join me," he said, extending his hand.

  The startled Bislipur limped up the steps to the dais and greeted the new monarch with a nod. His cold brown eyes stared at him uncertainly.

  "The death of Gundrabur has robbed our folks of their high king. The succession will not be decided until the fifth and final challenge is complete. As I'm sure you know, Bislipur and I have not seen eye to eye, but I cannot allow a rift to open between our folks. Friendship must not be turned to enmity, which is why I solemnly swear to put aside our differences until one or the other of the candidates has returned." He drew himself up to his full height. "When dwarf fights dwarf, only our enemies stand to gain. The new high king will set our course and we will obey his orders and submit to his will." Balendilнn held out his hand to Bislipur. "Let us shake on it."