The Dwarves (45 page)

“There’s obviously plenty of wildlife in the tunnels,” observed Tungdil, reaching for the lever to close the first door.

Boïndil sighed. “And all of it totally harmless. Still, any spider more than so big,” he said, measuring out a space the size
of his head, “belongs to me!” They all laughed.

Before they made their way home, they put out the fire beneath the cauldron and locked the door by reciting the verse. Without
the sun to guide him, Tungdil wasn’t sure how long it had taken to climb the hundreds of steps from the bustling heart of
the kingdom to the forgotten hall, but it seemed from his rumbling stomach that they had been walking for some time.

They were sweaty and tired when they finally joined the other delegates in the dining hall. Ignoring the curious glances cast
in their direction, they sat down wearily at the table.

“We won’t show them the tunnels until tomorrow,” Tungdil told the twins. “The last thing we need is for Gandogar to rush off
and get ahead. We’ll have our work cut out racing him to the Gray Range as it is.”

“What are you complaining about?” grinned Boïndil, cutting a slice of fungi about the size of his plate and sprinkling it
with pungent cheese. “You’ve got the best warriors, haven’t you? Nôd’onn’s days are numbered, just you wait and see.”

“Boïndil’s right,” said his twin, “although there
is
one thing that bothers me. Remember the description of Keenfire?”

“Which part?”

“The purest, hardest steel for the blade, stone for the spurs, precious metals for the inlay, not to mention diamonds for
the bit,” Boëndal reeled off.

“We’ll take everything with us,” said Tungdil, guessing the nature of his concern. “I asked Balendilín to supply us with ingots
and gems. He said that our task was important enough to merit a donation from the secondlings’ hoard. He’s giving us everything
we need.”

“Gold, silver, palandium, vraccasium, tionium, and a handful of diamonds… Vraccas almighty! Every bandit in Girdlegard will
be after us!”

“Don’t forget the steel, granite, victuals, and other provisions,” Boïndil reminded them. “I know we’ve got sturdy legs, but
not even an ogre could carry that much.”

“If everything goes to plan, we’ll be traveling by wagon so we won’t need to worry about transporting the materials. And if
we’re forced to leave the tunnels, we’ll buy a pony to carry our valuables. It’ll be fine; you’ll see.”

The twins said nothing and focused on their supper, but Tungdil knew from their silence that they were unconvinced.

“Fine! What do you propose we do? Quarry the ancient mines of the fifthling kingdom for precious metals and steel?” He sighed
and reached for a morsel of cheese.

“We could take some extra diamonds and buy the precious metals on the way. In fact, we could buy the metals once we get there,”
suggested Boëndal.

“Too risky,” ruled Tungdil. “What if we end up with no tionium? We’d be missing a vital component of the ax.”

He raised his fourth tankard to his lips and emptied it in a single draft.

“The decision stands: We’re taking everything with us.” He stood up briskly, cursing himself for drinking too quickly as the
beer rushed to his head. “We’ll manage,” he said encouragingly and left the hall in the direction of his chamber, swaying
slightly as he walked. Feeling rather too full and somewhat light-headed, he stretched out on top of his bed and fell to thinking
about the small silhouette that had darted past the door. He was sure he recognized it from somewhere.

Suddenly he was assailed by doubts.
I hope we’ll really manage. What have I let myself in for?
Tired from hours of walking, he fell asleep in his clothes.

T
ungdil was roused from his dreams by a vigorous shake of his arm. He sat up blearily and groaned.
I thought dwarven beer wasn’t supposed to give you headaches?

“They’ve gone!” he heard Balendilín saying. “Tungdil, are you listening to me? They’ve gone!”

He opened his eyes. The high king’s counselor was standing at his bedside, with Bavragor, Goïmgar, and the twins in the background.
They were clad in their mail and looked ready to leave. “What are you talking about? They’re behind you,” murmured Tungdil,
struggling to move his tongue.

“Not them! I’m talking about Gandogar. His party has left.” This time Balendilín’s voice was louder and sharper. “You’ll never
catch them if you don’t leave now.”

Tungdil slid out of bed. His body and mind were in no fit state to embark on a high-speed journey in the dark. “Don’t worry,”
he said soothingly. “They’ll take forever to reach the Gray Range. Ask Goïmgar how long they needed to get here!”

“They’re not traveling on foot,” Boëndal broke in. “They’ve all vanished except Bislipur, and no one knows where they’ve gone.”

“They didn’t go through the gates,” added Boïndil.

Suddenly it dawned on Tungdil: “Sverd!” In an instant he was wide-awake. Bislipur’s gnome had followed them and eavesdropped
on their conversation until Boïndil had scared him away.
Which means Gandogar knows exactly how to operate the rails.
Sverd was every bit as devious as his master.

Tungdil wriggled into his leather jerkin and pulled on his mail, leather breeches, and boots. At last he was ready for the
adventure to begin. He told Bavragor and Goïmgar to follow the twins through the disused passageways and light the fires beneath
the cauldrons.

“I want the wagons to be on the rails by the time I get there. I’ve got a thing or two to say to Bislipur first.”

He asked Balendilín to accompany him. “I see you’ve chosen your mason,” the counselor remarked.

“Not exactly.” Tungdil sighed. “Bavragor volunteered himself and I fell for it. It’s too late to go back on my word, but I
wouldn’t mind knowing why everyone is so against him. Is his drinking really that bad?”

Balendilín drew breath. “Either he’s sober, in which case he’s bitter and rancorous; or he’s tipsy, which means he won’t stop
singing and playing the clown — the merry minstrel, they call him. As far as his masonry is concerned, he’s past his peak.”

“You mean he’s not the best mason?”

“Oh, he’s the best, all right. You only need look at the parapets, halls, and passageways to convince yourself of that. But
Bavragor hasn’t used his chisel for ten cycles or more. Thanks to his perpetual drinking, his hands can’t be trusted to do
what his mind commands. No other mason has ever come close to rivaling his art, so yes, he’s the best.” He pursed his lips.
“I didn’t want to recommend him because his mood is unpredictable and he may not be as skilled as he was. Either way, it’s
not worth dwelling on now.”

They found Bislipur breakfasting in the dining hall with a group of fourthling delegates. His companions broke off their whispered
conversation to warn him of Tungdil and Balendilín’s approach.

“Still here?” said Bislipur, feigning surprise. “I expected more of you, Tungdil. Strike while the iron is hot — isn’t that
the smith’s motto?”

“I was waiting for Gandogar,” retorted Tungdil, struggling to contain his rage. “Why isn’t he here? And who told him how to
get to the tunnels?”

Bislipur eyed him dismissively. “We did some exploring of our own,” he said casually. “Besides, there was no agreement about
departing together. Gandogar and his company were ready, so they left. They’ll be back with Keenfire before too long.” He
wrinkled his nose. “You’re the one who spent last night in his cups and frittered away the morning in bed. You should be setting
Bavragor an example, not the other way round.”

“Then let the race begin. We’ll soon see who gets to the firstling kingdom and recruits the best smith. Your monarch will
be wishing he’d had more of a lead.”

Bislipur picked up his mug of hot milk. “Well, don’t let me delay you. You’re free to go whenever you please.” There was a
rumble of laughter from his companions.

“Where’s that gnome of yours?” Balendilín asked sharply. “I hope he isn’t snooping on your behalf. He wouldn’t be plotting
anything untoward against Tungdil, would he?”

Bislipur jumped to his feet and drew himself up threateningly. “How dare you insult my honor, Balendilín Onearm. If you had
enough limbs to defend yourself, I’d challenge you to a duel.”

“You can guarantee it will come to that if you continue to provoke me,” the counselor said evenly. “All I want is your assurance
that the expedition will be conducted without interference from you.”

Bislipur put his hands on his hips. “Vraccas forfend that I should interfere! That’s precisely why I stayed behind — so no
one would wrongfully accuse me.”

“And what of your little helper?” demanded Balendilín.

“The same applies,” Bislipur said haughtily. “Of course, I don’t always know what he’s up to. Sometimes he gives me the slip.”

Tungdil didn’t believe a word of it.
We’ll have to keep our eyes open
. He excused himself brusquely and hurried out of the hall.

“So, Bislipur,” Balendilín said softly, “why don’t you tell me why you really stayed behind?”

The dwarf laughed balefully. “I’ve given you one good reason already, but since you insist: I’m here because I don’t want
you
deciding our future if the high king was to die. I owe it to my folk to ensure that the secondlings don’t seize the crown
while the legitimate heir is away.” He leaned forward. “When I say
legitimate heir,
I don’t mean your puppet. He isn’t one of us.”

“Nonsense,” Balendilín said flatly. “Tungdil is a fourth-ling. You heard the evidence just like everyone else.”

Bislipur took a step toward him. “I’ll tell you where Sverd is,” he whispered. “He’s on his way to our kingdom to study our
archives and speak with those who would know of a bastard child.” His eyes narrowed. “The story of Tungdil’s origins is an
outrageous lie, an insult to the honor of a king who was faithful to his queen until his dying orbit. Sverd will bring back
proof that your puppet is a liar, a slanderer, and a fraud, and I shall take pleasure in exposing the deceit. I’ll smash the
charlatan’s ambitions as thoroughly as this ax has splintered hundreds of orcish skulls. Make no mistake, my friend, everyone
involved in this trickery will meet the same fate. I swear it on Vraccas’s hammer.”

Balendilín considered the threat and decided that Bislipur stood a good chance of uncovering the deceit. If Tungdil was to
return victorious, he would have to be protected from the allegations until Nôd’onn was defeated. The crusade against the
magus was more important than anything else.

“That’s good to know,” he said equably. “Like you, I’m an honest dwarf with nothing to fear from the truth. I look forward
to seeing which of our candidates is the first to return. In the meantime, I’m sure you won’t mind if I examine the authenticity
of your document about the elves. I think it’s important to establish who was really responsible for the fifthlings’ fall.
Of course, if the text you provided turns out to be a forgery, I’ll know who to blame.” He nodded curtly and left the hall.

Bislipur sat down and watched the one-armed counselor disappear into the corridor. “Much good may it do you! Just wait and
see who’ll soon be sitting on the throne,” he muttered darkly.

His ambitious plans had been foiled by the appearance of the impostor, but he had no intention of giving up.
I’m not letting cycles of preparation go to waste. We’re going to war, no matter what.

In the event that the delegates changed their minds about a military offensive, he had another trick up his sleeve.

Bislipur turned back to the breakfast table to refill his plate. He cut himself a slice of ham and stared at the streaks of
white fat amid the soft pink flesh. Suddenly it came to him:
My enemies’ enemies are my friends.

* * *

T
ungdil threw his most important belongings into a knapsack and hurried down the passageways at a jog. As an afterthought,
he had briefed Balendilín and Gundrabur about the eight rails leading out through the mountain: Gandogar was gone already,
but the other delegates deserved to be told of the forgotten depot of wagons and machines.

On reaching the hall, he found his companions awaiting him with faces as long as elves’. The air was damp and sticky and he
was perspiring from every pore.

“Someone has gone to great lengths to delay us,” Boëndal explained grimly. “Take a look at this.”

The rail that sloped toward the firstling kingdom was lying warped and twisted on the floor. The oppressive warmth came from
steam that was escaping from countless perforations in the sides of the cauldrons. Even if it was possible to repair the rail,
they had no means of moving the heavy wagons.

“So much for letting the best dwarf win,” Boëndal said testily. “Although it’s flattering that Gandogar feels threatened enough
to cheat.”

“I’d rather do without that sort of flattery. Besides, I don’t suppose Gandogar had anything to do with it.” Tungdil bent
down and examined the rail more closely. Someone had used the pulley system to prize it from the ground. “If you ask me, Bislipur
decided to give his monarch a helping hand.”
What are we supposed to do now?

Goïmgar had stationed himself a few paces away and was cultivating a detached expression. Meanwhile, Bavragor was leaning
against one of the perforated cauldrons and drinking from his pouch. He licked his lips contentedly, sealed the pouch, and
walked over to inspect the damage.

“It’s simple, really,” he breezed. “All we have to do is swap the rails.” He pointed to the neighboring rail that served as
the disembarking point for passengers arriving from the firstling kingdom.

“You’ve been drinking,” Boëndal said reproachfully.

The mason didn’t bother to look at him. “So what? I don’t complain when you’ve been eating. Beer just happens to be my sustenance.”
His huge calloused hands thumped the metal track. “We’ll send for one of our smiths and let him take care of it.” His right
eye settled on the punctured cauldrons. “As for these, we should fetch a tinker from the trading post. I expect our artisans
could handle it, but it’s more a job for a tinker. And while we’re at it, we may as well ask the women-folk in the brewery.
They know a good deal about vats.”