Markus Heitz - The Dwarves

He shooed the remaining famuli from the room. On his way out, he picked up a broom from the corner and pressed it into Jolosin's hands.

"Don't get anyone to do your dirty work for you," he said, marching to the door. "Make sure it's tidy, and by tidy I mean absolutely spick-and-span/"

He slammed the door and the bolt rattled home.

Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Winter, 6233rd Solar Cycle It was time for the high king to initiate his counselor into the plan. He handed him a letter. "It's from the magus of Ionandar. Lot-Ionan the Forbearing, they call him in his realm."

Balendilнn knew the magus by reputation. His school lay in the east of Girdlegard and he was said to prize his solitude. Apparently, he spent most of his time studying in his underground vaults, inventing new charms and formulae, far from the worries of everyday life.

"He sends news of something most unusual: a dwarf," the high king explained. "The only dwarf in Ionandar, no less! He says he found him many cycles ago under peculiar circumstances and raised him in his realm. He wants to know whether any of our clans are missing a kinsman. He is eager to reunite him with his kind."

Balendilнn skimmed the letter. "What do we know of the dwarf?"

"The matter is mysterious but intriguing. To my knowledge, no child has been lost in the past two hundred cycles."

"And it's your intention to present the sorcerer's ward as a long-lost heir to the throne?" The counselor laid the letter on the table. "But how?" he asked doubtfully. "A dwarf raised by long-uns won't know what it means to be a child of the Smith. The fourthlings will never back him, especially not without proof of his lineage."

The high king shuffled to the conference table and lowered himself onto the secondling monarch's chair before his legs gave way beneath him.

"I expect you're right," he said in a strained voice. "Be that as it may, they can't do a thing until the candidate is here and the matter has been resolved. Even if I die, their hands will be tied." He looked squarely at his counselor. "If Vraccas should smite me with his hammer before the dwarf arrives, you must bear the burden of preventing war and preserving our kinsfolk."

Balendilнn pursed his lips. "Your Majesty won't be leaving us yet. Not when your inner furnace still burns strong."

"You're a miserable liar, like all dwarves." Gundrabur laughed and laid a hand on his shoulder. "But from now on we must speak with false tongues in order to protect our kinsfolk from a war that could destroy them. You and I will fib like kobolds, Balendilнn. For once we must make it our business to drive a wedge between the clans. Let us walk awhile and you can lend me your counsel. We shall weave a web of falsehoods around Gandogar and Bislipur and keep them from the throne until the last belligerent syllable has been squeezed from their lungs."

Balendilнn helped the king to his feet. He had no faith in the plan succeeding, but he kept his misgivings to himself.

Gandogar was in good spirits when he woke the next morning and was summoned with the other delegates to the great hall. Proceedings were about to recommence and he felt confident that the high king would name him as his successor, after which the members of the assembly would endorse his choice with their votes. It was as good as decided already.

Gundrabur's plea for peace had rankled with him, but he no longer held a grudge. The aged dwarf's long reign had produced nothing worthy of posterity and he was destined to be forgotten before too long. It wasn't dignified to quarrel with a dying king.

Gandogar entered the hall and sat down, while Bislipur took up position behind him. The pews filled quickly as the chieftains and elders filed in.

A few of the delegates looked at him encouragingly and rapped their ax heads. Far from being threatening, the gesture was a sign of support.

Gandogar noticed an unusual trinket hanging from the neck of a secondling chieftain. He strained his eyes to take a closer look. The shriveled trophy was an elven ear worn with obvious pride by the chieftain, who nevertheless tucked it hurriedly under his mail as soon as the high king's arrival was announced. It was still too early for open displays of aggression toward a protected race.

Gundrabur appeared at the door, his sprightly appearance belying rumors of his impending death. Gandogar felt a wave of disappointment at seeing the high king in such excellent form, then immediately felt guilty for harboring such dreadful thoughts. He didn't actually want the old chap to die; it was just that Gundrabur's disapproving speech of the previous orbit had struck a raw nerve.

Tunics of mail creaked and rasped as the delegates went down on one knee to greet the high king. Axes on high, they signaled their unwavering devotion and their willingness to live-and die-as he decreed.

Gundrabur answered by lifting the ceremonial hammer and bringing it down smartly. The delegates were free to rise, which they did, amid much clunking of armor.

Balendilнn stepped forward and turned his earnest brown gaze on Gandogar: "Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, ruler of the fourthlings and head of Goпmdil's line, are you ready to assert your claim to the high king's throne?" he said ceremoniously.

Gandogar rose from his seat, pulled his ax from his belt, and laid it on the table. "Unyielding as the rock from which we were created and keen as this blade is my will to defend our race against its foes," came his solemn reply. Such was his inner turmoil that he failed to notice that Balendilнn, not the high king, had taken charge of the proceedings. It occurred to him when the counselor cut in before he could continue.

"King Gandogar, the assembly has heard and noted your claim. A decision will be taken when we have heard the second candidate speak. You and he must decide which of the two of you will withdraw. Until then we must wait."

"Wait?" bellowed Gandogar, blood rushing to his head. He turned to search the faces of his chieftains, all of whom seemed genuinely surprised. "Who was it?" he thundered. "Which of you had the audacity to go behind my back? Step forward and make yourself known!" He reached for his ax, but was stayed by Balendilнn.

"You do your kinsfolk an injustice," said the counselor. "Your rival is not here." He produced a letter and held it up for all to see. "The dwarf in question was separated many cycles ago from his folk. He is mindful of his heritage and has announced his return. He lives in Ionandar and is preparing to join us as we speak."

"Ionandar?" Gandogar exclaimed incredulously. "Vraccas forgive me, but what kind of dwarf lives with sorcerers?" He drew himself up. "Is this some kind of joke? A stranger writes a letter that you accept without question and now the ceremony must be delayed. What name does he go by?"

"His name is of no account. He was raised as a foundling and named by humans. But the items discovered with him show him to be a member of your folk."

"Hogwash!" Gandogar retorted angrily. "The letter is a fake!"

"And what of the document purporting to tell the truth about the elves?" Balendilнn said sternly, one hand resting lightly on his belt.

"Silence, both of you!" The high king levered himself from his throne. "King Gandogar, do you presume to call my counselor a liar?" The old dwarf was powerful and majestic in his fury, his words thundering through the lofty hall. The fourthling monarch sounded shrill and petty as a fishwife by comparison. "You will abide by my decision. When the candidate arrives, the fourthling chieftains will decide which of you will make the better king."

Gandogar pointed to his retinue. "Why the delay? Ask the chieftains now and you shall hear whom they elect. Their minds are made up. How could a stranger-"