Markus Heitz - The Dwarves

The representatives from the various clans filed out silently, Gundrabur's words still echoing in their minds.

Bislipur cast a scornful look at the wheezing figure on the throne. "He won't last much longer," he muttered to Gandogar as they made their way out. "When his voice dries up entirely, we'll have the chieftains on our side. They were ready to join us before the high king interrupted."

Gundrabur's chosen successor made no reply. Enchanted Realm of Ionandar, Girdlegard, Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle Jolosin sped through the underground vaults, followed by the panting Tungdil on his considerably shorter legs. They hurried down a gallery past oak-paneled doors leading to classrooms where young apprentices were taking lessons from more senior famuli. Only four students were taught by Lot-Ionan himself, one of whom would be chosen to inherit his academy, his underground vaults, and his realm.

On reaching the laboratory Jolosin stopped abruptly and flung open the door. Small clouds of white smoke wafted toward them, creating an artificial fog. "Get a move on," he barked at Tungdil, who was racing to catch up.

Breathing heavily, the dwarf stepped into the chamber and was instantly wreathed in mist. "Watch your manners, Jolosin, or you'll be fixing the problem yourself."

"Climb up the flue," the famulus ordered tersely, propelling Tungdil across the room. "Something's blocking the chimney." Suddenly the fireplace appeared out of nowhere and beside it a bucket, which seemed to contain the source of the smoke.

"I thought you were one of Lot-Ionan's best apprentices. Wouldn't a bit of magic do the trick?"

"I'm asking you to fix it," the famulus said firmly. "What would a dwarf know of sorcery? You're wasting everyone's time. My pupils can't see a thing in here." There was some low coughing and a clearing of throats.

"What's the magic word?"

"Pardon?"

"I should have thought a wizard would have a bit more charm." Jolosin scowled. "Please."

Tungdil grinned, picked up the poker, and hooked it through his belt. "And as if by magic…" He stepped into the fireplace, where the embers had faded to a weak red glow. A quick upward glance confirmed that a thick layer of opaque smoke had sealed the chimney like a screen.

Climbing confidently, he set about scaling the flue. The soot was slippery, but his fingers found easy purchase on the uneven brickwork and he hauled himself up, rising slowly but steadily one, two, three paces until the hearth disappeared beneath him amid the smoke.

He reached up and nudged something with his fingers. "I think there's a nest up here. It must have fallen into the chimney," he called down.

"Then get rid of it!"

"I was hardly going to lay an egg in it." He braced himself against the wall of the chimney, took hold of the offending twigs with one hand, and gave them a vigorous shake. The nest came free.

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-"