The Dwarves (41 page)

Even if were possible to make such a miraculous weapon, no one would get close enough to Nôd’onn to slay him. The whole business
is ridiculous.

If the dwarves have any sense, they will cross the ranges and settle in the Outer Lands. Maybe the under-groundlings will
give them shelter.

My work here is done.

Tungdil read and reread the letter until there was no further doubt: Lot-Ionan’s murderer was not completely invincible. They
had everything they needed to kill him — even the wood.

He hurried to find Balendilín. The counselor had lit a number of oil lamps, which bathed his chamber in light. Like the rest
of Ogre’s Death, the room was hewn from rock and the masons had even thought to sculpt a bed and cabinets. It looked as if
the mountain had created a furnished chamber especially for his use.

Tungdil handed him the letter.

“There is mention in our records of distant kin on the far side of the mountain,” he said when he saw the reference to the
mysterious undergroundlings. “The inhabitants of the Outer Lands seem to have more experience of fighting the Perished Land.”

Tungdil brandished the piece of parchment. “It explains why Nôd’onn was desperate to get his hands on the books and the bag!
Well, it’s too late now: His secret is out. Balendilín, you’ve got to tell the human sovereigns of our discovery before they
lose all hope. They need to keep the magus fighting while we work on the weapon. If only they can keep him busy until then!”

Balendilín studied the passages relating to the making of the ax. “We’ll have to enlist the help of the fourthlings: Their
skill in diamond cutting is unsurpassed. Our people can take care of the stone, but as for the best smiths…”

“Borengar’s folk!”

“Yes, but none of their nine clans are here. The firstlings ignored our summons. Giselbert’s fifthlings were exceptional blacksmiths,
but their line was snuffed out.” Balendilín scowled. “And that’s not the only hitch. The fieriest furnace in Girdlegard belonged
to the fifthlings. Its name was Dragon Fire and the hardest metal would melt in its flames. But the Gray Range has been in
the hands of the Perished Land for over a thousand cycles.” He rested his head in his hands. “The maga was right. It’s not
possible.”

“We can’t give up now. Call a meeting and let the delegates decide. We need to send word to the firstlings and ask for their
assistance. Then we’ll…” He trailed off. “Well, I’ll take a look in the archives. Maybe I’ll find something that will help.”

“Good luck to you, Tungdil.”

The dwarf left the chamber and headed for the vaults, where the written record of the secondlings’ history was preserved.
Now that the initial excitement was over, he was left with the sobering realization that they were barely any closer to saving
Girdlegard from Nôd’onn’s grasp.

I’m not giving up!
The very hopelessness of the situation made Tungdil more determined than ever to succeed.

He settled down to his task with all the stubbornness and persistence typical of his race. It was his solemn intention not
to leave the secondlings’ archives until he found something of use.

T
ungdil hurried back and forth, fetching ancient tomes, rolls of parchment, and stone tablets from their places in the vaults.
He piled everything on a table to examine it at length.

Lot-Ionan must have known that my schooling would come in handy.
Some of the parchment was so fragile that it tore or crumbled at his touch. It made Tungdil appreciate the durability of
the marble tablets that lasted an eternity, provided they weren’t dropped.

After a good deal of reading, he found evidence to back up Balendilín’s vague assertions about the undergroundlings. According
to the archives, a race of dwarves on the other side of the ranges went by that name. Whether or not Vraccas had created them
was anyone’s guess, but they seemed to have much in common with the children of the Smith. They were accomplished metal workers
and shared the dwarven passion for the forge.

On the fourth orbit he learned the secret of Dragon Fire, and his optimism, which had survived in spite of everything, was
dealt a grievous blow.

The flames of the fifthlings’ fiery furnace had been lit by the white tongue of Branbausíl, a dragon who had roamed the Gray
Range until Giselbert’s dwarves stole its fire, killed it, and seized its hoard. Argamas, its mate, had taken refuge in Flame-mere,
a small lake of molten lava at the heart of the fifthling kingdom. The creature had never been seen again.

The stolen fire enabled the dwarves to heat their furnace to phenomenal temperatures and create alloys from metals that had
never been melded. Dragon Fire was powerful enough to melt tionium, the black element created by Tion, and combine it with
palandium, the deity’s pure white metal.

Later records indicated that the furnace had fallen with the fifthlings. Neither the älfar nor any other creature of Tion
could find a use for the strange white flames, and Dragon Fire had been extinguished.

Tungdil’s only hope lay in finding the dragon’s mate who had escaped the dwarves’ axes. If the firstlings could provide a
smith and Argamas could furnish the fire, Keenfire could be forged and Nôd’onn defeated.

“More traveling.” He sighed.
We’ll have to go west to the firstlings, then north through the heart of the Perished Land to the lost fifthling kingdom.
But how are we supposed to cross Girdlegard without Nôd’onn finding out?

He put the question to Gundrabur and Balendilín when he met them in the great hall to report on his findings and share a keg
of beer. The king and his counselor looked at each other knowingly.

“There is a way,” the high king told him, “a secret way that has faded from memory over the cycles. My predecessor told me
of it.” He lit his pipe and sucked on it vigorously. “It dates back to the glorious orbits of old. In those happy times traveling
was easy. We used underground tunnels that crisscrossed the whole of Girdlegard, linking our kingdoms.”

“Tunnels… So we could travel unseen. With ponies we could —”

“You won’t need ponies. You’ll get there soon enough.” Gundrabur pulled his cloak tighter and sent for another blanket. His
inner furnace was burning worryingly low.

Tungdil frowned. “I don’t follow.”

“You’ve seen the wagons carrying iron ore through the mines?”

“Sure, but…” Then he grasped what the high king was saying. “We can go by wagon?”

Gundrabur smiled. “Indeed. Our forefathers used wagons to travel by the shortest route from the firstling kingdom to the secondling
kingdom and the secondling kingdom to the fourthling kingdom and so forth, unimpeded by marshland, wilderness, rain, or snow.
They could convey troops wherever they wanted in no time at all. Within a matter of orbits an entire army could cross from
north to south undetected by men, elves, or magi.”

“That’s the answer!” Tungdil cried excitedly. “If the tunnels are still intact, we’ll be able to forge the ax before the dark
magus has time to defeat the human armies and conquer their kingdoms.”

“I can’t guarantee what kind of state they’re in,” warned Gundrabur. “According to the ancient records, some sections of the
tunnels have collapsed. Balendilín, fetch the maps.”

“Why hasn’t anyone come across them since?”

“The entrance lies in an area of the Blue Range that became polluted with sulfurous gas. Our kinsfolk abandoned that side
of the mountain and the tunnels were forgotten.”

At length Balendilín returned with two ancient maps showing the path of the tunnels through the secondling kingdom. The tunnels
cut straight through the heart of the Blue Range and were well hidden, with numerous mechanisms and traps securing them against
intruders. Even if Tion’s creatures had known about the tunnels, there was no way of breaking into them, so the forces of
darkness were obliged to conduct their invasion overland.

“Well, that’s settled,” Tungdil told the others. “I’ll do it.”

“Good,” said Balendilín with a smile. He refilled their tankards. “In that case, you should be the one who tells the assembly
of the tunnels’ existence. The delegates will be impressed.” They clunked tankards and drank.

V
raccas made me party to this knowledge so that the dwarves could liberate Girdlegard from evil,” said Tungdil, coming to the
end of his impassioned speech. “Why else would he have given me the artifacts and books?”

“Forgotten relics from a glorious era!” Gandogar said scornfully. “Nothing you’ve stumbled upon is of any practical use. A
miracle ax to be forged secretly in a furnace fired by dragon’s breath at the heart of the Perished Land — it can’t be done!
If you ask me, the whole thing’s a fiction, a legend that found its way into our archives by mistake!”

“You may not believe it,” Tungdil cut in, “but Nôd’onn clearly does. He wiped out a whole settlement to get his hands on the
books. He tried to kill me too! Why would he be so worried if it were just an old story? Clansmen,” he begged the assembly,
“we need to send an expedition. Vraccas will see us through this.”

“Of course he will,” jeered Bislipur. “If you don’t mind my asking, how exactly were you intending to slay the dragon? They’re
tough old beasts, but tell it one of your stories and the poor thing will probably die of laughter on the spot.”

The roars of merriment were enough to convince Tungdil not to put the matter to the vote. The motion would only fail. Common
sense had yet to bludgeon its way into the delegates’ thick skulls.

“To business,” Gandogar said impatiently. He threw off his cloak, revealing a shimmering mail shirt. His adviser handed him
his shield and his ax, while another fastened his helmet. “The purpose of this meeting is to decide the succession. Let the
contest begin! For the first task I challenge my rival to a duel. Victory will go to whoever draws first blood or forces his
opponent to his knees.”

In an instant Boïndil and Boëndal were at Tungdil’s side, helping him on with his armor. His metal tunic looked cheap and
dull compared to Gandogar’s glittering mail. “Beware of his shield. He’s bound to try to ram you with it,” whispered Boïndil.
He clenched his fists. “If only I could take your place,” he growled. “I’d hammer him into the marble.”

“You’ve been wonderful teachers,” Tungdil reassured the twins as he buckled his chinstrap. “And I’m not just talking about
the past few orbits; you taught me a great deal during our journey as well. If I lose, it won’t be because of you.”

The two candidates stepped into the semicircle between the throne and the benches. Balendilín acted as referee. His eyes smiled
reassuringly at Tungdil. “Fight valiantly and honorably,” he told them as he backed away. The rivals were alone in the arena.

The fourthling king lost no time in launching his attack. Tungdil parried blow after blow, all the while trying not to be
distracted by the twinkling diamonds on Gandogar’s ax. He watched the swooping trajectory of the blade from behind his shield,
retreating farther and farther until his back came up against a column.

As the next blow swung toward him, Tungdil ducked and struck back. There was a shrill metallic shriek as his blunted ax scraped
over Gandogar’s hastily raised shield and struck the lower edge of his helmet. Head spinning, the king staggered back.

“Now attack!” yelled Boïndil, caught up in the excitement. Fired on by his success and the encouragement of his tutor, Tungdil
rushed forward.

Not if I can help it.
Bislipur had no intention of allowing Gandogar to be defeated. Sverd was standing beside him, so he gave him a little shove.
The gnome pitched forward and struck his head on a tankard. Beer slopped to the floor.

The incident was Tungdil’s undoing. In his haste he didn’t notice that the slippery marble floor was as treacherous as an
ice rink. His right foot skidded to the side; he struggled to keep his balance and flailed out vainly with his ax.

“Foolish gnome!” Bislipur unleashed a volley of curses, threatening to thrash the hapless Sverd and tighten his collar until
it cut off his breath.

“The scoundrel did it on purpose!” protested Boëndal.

“He’s just clumsy, that’s all. He’ll pay for this, believe me!” said Bislipur, still pretending to be furious with the gnome.

None of that was any comfort to Tungdil, who skidded past Gandogar just as the latter straightened up and took aim. The king’s
ax thwacked his back with enough force to send him spinning out of control. Cursing, he lost his footing and forfeited the
task.

A cheer went up from the fourthling corner where Gandogar’s supporters were gathered. The jubilation turned to mocking laughter
when Tungdil struggled to his feet. The contest wasn’t unfolding quite as he’d hoped.

“Now for my task,” he shouted above the din. The great hall fell silent.

“What is the nature of the challenge?”

“We shall both transcribe a text. The first to finish wins.”

“What?” Gandogar protested. “I’m a king, not a poet!”

“You don’t have to be a poet; all you have to do is write. A good monarch must have a steady hand and a smart mind to guide
it; how else would he make the laws? But maybe fighting is your only virtue…” Without further ado he sat down at a desk and
waited for Gandogar to follow suit.

“What if I refuse?”

“If you refuse,” said Balendilín, “you’ll lose the challenge and the tally will be one task each, leaving the succession to
be decided by the final three challenges.”

“Besides,” Boëndal added snidely, “it would be cowardly not to accept. The scholar wasn’t afraid to face your ax. I hope the
fourthling leader isn’t frightened of a quill!”

The gibe and resulting hilarity prompted Gandogar to lay down his shield and helmet and take a seat at the desk.

The referee called for the rolls of parchment and chose one at random. “You may begin.”

In no time the scholar, as Boëndal jokingly called him, was scribbling furiously, while his opponent glared at the runes and
scratched awkwardly at the parchment with his quill. The dwarves devoted themselves to the task in industrious silence.