by Markus Heitz
His eyes showed no sign of age, only recrimination, as he looked down at the chieftains and elders. No dwarf was more majestic, more imposing than he. His former weakness and frailty had vanished, driven out by rage.
His white beard rippled as he raised his head. “ Shortsighted fools! You should be worrying about Girdlegard, not settling old scores. Any race that pits itself against the Perished Land is our ally! The longer the elves can repel the powers of darkness, the better.” His gaze fell on Gandogar. “You are young and impetuous, king of the fourthlings. Two of your kin were slain by elves and for that I am prepared to excuse your misguided call to arms. The rest of you should know better. Instead of indulging him in this lunacy, you should be voices of reason.”
Gundrabur scanned the assembly. “The time has come to bury our grievances. An alliance is what we need, what I desire! The elves of landur, the seven human sovereigns, the six magi, and the dwarven folks must stand united to repel the Perished Land. I…”
Just then the hammer fell from his grasp and crashed to the floor, chipping the flagstones. The high king swayed and sank backward into his throne, his breath coming in short gasps.
Balendilín instructed the delegates to retire to their chambers and await his summons. “We shall resume our meeting when the high king has recovered.”
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.
Beroïn’s Folk,
Secondling Kingdom,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6233rd S
olar Cycle
Balendilín 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 Balendilín’s arm.
“Our planning will come to nothing,” he said dully. “The young king of Goïmdil’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 —”
“It served its purpose,” the high king reminded him. “The damage has been done. You know how headstrong the chieftains can be. Some of them are itching to go to war with the elves, regardless of whether the document was faked.”
“True, Your Majesty, but some of the fourthlings seemed rather more reticent. Gandogar’s victory is by no means assured. The matter will be decided by a vote, with each chieftain following his conscience. We must convince the clans of both folks of the merit of our argument.”
The two dwarves fell silent. A more lasting solution was needed to prevent Gandogar from reviving his plans for war at a later date. Once he was crowned high king, he would be able to implement his scheme with little or no resistance.
Neither Gundrabur nor Balendilín was worried about the military might of the elves. The dwarves’ traditional enemy was considerably weakened, having suffered serious losses in the ongoing battle against the älfar, who profited from reinforcements streaming into Girdlegard via the Northern Pass. In the event of a war, the elven army would be easily defeated, but casualties would be inflicted on both sides and any loss of life among the children of the Smith would leave the gates of Girdlegard vulnerable to attack.
Gundrabur’s gaze roved across the deserted chamber. “The great hall has seen happier times. Times of unity and cohesion.” He bowed his head. “Those times are over. Our hopes of forging a great alliance have come to nothing.”
A great alliance. Deep in thought, Balendilín stared at the five stelae at the foot of the throne. The stone slabs were engraved with the sacred laws of the dwarves, including the name of a folk with whom the others would have no truck: Lorimbur’s dwarves in the thirdling kingdom to the east.
“For the sake of an alliance I would do the unthinkable and invite the thirdlings to join our assembly.” The high king sighed. “In times such as these, old animosities must be forgotten. We’re all dwarves, after all, and kinship is what counts.”
The counselor was in no doubt that Girdlegard needed every ax that could cleave an orcish skull, but he also knew his fellow dwarves too well. “After Gandogar’s rabble-rousing, the assembly will be in no mood for appeasement.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Balendilín. I know our vision of a united and unstoppable dwarven army is fading, but we cannot permit the assembly to sanction a war against the elves. We must convince the delegates that attacking landur would be foolhardy.” The high king’s voice sounded weaker than ever. “We need more time.”
“The timing depends on you,” his counselor said gently. “Gandogar will not ascend the throne while you are strong enough to rule.”
“No one should rely on the failing fires of a dying king.” Gundrabur smoothed his beard. “We need something more decisive… We shall use the dwarven laws to silence the warmongers and put a stop to the matter once and for all.”
He descended the throne, negotiating the steps with utmost concentration. Every movement was small and considered, but at last he reached the stelae. Balendilín was at his side in an instant to offer him a steadying arm.
Golden sunlight poured through the slits carved into the rock, illuminating every flourish of the runes. Gundrabur’s weak eyes scanned the symbols.
“Gandogar is certain to be elected,” he muttered absently, “but if my memory serves me correctly, there is a way of delaying the succession. It will buy us some time so we can talk to the chieftains and strive for peace and an alliance with the elves.”
His eyesight had dimmed with the cycles and was now so poor that he was forced to stand with his nose almost touching the stone. The law stated that the throne, currently occupied by a dwarf of Beroïn, should pass to one of Goïmdil’s folk. On that basis, Gandogar’s succession was secure. Tradition dictated that the heir should stake his claim and be elected by the assembly unless there was reason to contest the appointment.
“I’m sure it’s here somewhere,” he murmured to himself, fingertips gliding across the stone.
His efforts were rewarded. With a sigh of relief, he closed his eyes and pressed his brow against the cold tablet whose surface had been engraved long before he was born.
“After such a wretched beginning, the orbit has taken a turn for the better. Listen to this.” He straightened up and ran a crooked index finger over the all-important words. “Should the folk in question produce more than one possible heir, the clans of that folk must confer among themselves and decide on a candidate before presenting their preferred successor to the assembly,” he finished in a satisfied tone.
His counselor read the passage again, fiddling excitedly with the trinkets in his graying beard. There was nothing to say that the chosen candidate would be the existing monarch: Any dwarf could stake a claim. “Accordingly, a dwarf of any rank may be elected high king, provided he has the support of his kinsfolk.”
Balendilín saw what his sovereign had in mind. “But who would challenge Gandogar?” he asked. “The fourthling clans are in agreement. To be sure, there are those who doubt their king, but…” He stopped, baffled by the look of satisfaction on the high king’s craggy face. “Or is there such a dwarf?”
“No,” Gundrabur answered with a wily smile, thinking of the letter that had been sent to him several orbits ago. “Not yet, but there will be.”
Enchanted Realm of Ionandar,
Girdlegard,
Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle
There was almost nothing left in the candleholders on Lot-Ionan’s desk. The flickering light and short stumps of wax were sure signs that the magus had been in his study for hours, although it seemed to him that only minutes had elapsed.
He leaned awkwardly over the parchment, poring over the closely written runes. Inscribing the magic formula had consumed countless orbits, even cycles of his time. There was one last symbol to be added; then the charm would be complete.
He smiled. Most mortals had no experience of the mystic arts and were suspicious of magic in any form. For simple souls, the constellation of the elements was a mysterious business, but for Lot-Ionan, the sorcery that drove fear into the heart of peasants was nothing more than the logical outcome of elaborate sequences of gestures and words.
It was one such sequence that occupied him now. Everything had to be exactly right. One wrong syllable, a single character out of place, an imprecise gesture, a hurried movement of his staff, or even a sloppily drawn circle could ruin a spell or unleash a catastrophe.
The magus could name any number of occasions when his pupils had conjured fearsome beasts or caused themselves terrible harm because of their carelessness. It always ended the same way: with an embarrassed apology and a plea for help.
He never lost patience with his famuli. Once he h
ad been an apprentice too. Now he was a magus, a master magician or wizard, as some folks called him.
Two hundred and eight-seven cycles. He stopped what he was doing, hand poised above the parchment. His gaze, alert as ever, took in his creased and blotchy skin, then roved over the jumble of cupboards, cabinets, and bookshelves in search of a mirror. At length his blue eyes came to rest on the shiny surface of a vase.
He appraised the reflection: wrinkled face, gray hair with white streaks, and a graying beard dotted with smudges of ink. There’s no denying I’m older, but am I wiser? That’s the question…
His beige robes had been darned and patched a thousand times, but he refused to be parted from them. Unlike some of his fellow magi, he took no interest in his appearance, caring only that his garments were comfortable to wear.
In one important respect the old scholar agreed with the common people: Magic was a dangerous thing. To minimize the fallout from failed experiments, he pursued his studies in the safety of the vaults.
Of course, the magus’s motives for retreating below the surface were not entirely selfless. In the calm of the vaults he could forget about his fellow humans and their trivial concerns. He delegated the running of the realm and the settling of minor disputes to his magisters, functionaries picked expressly for the job.
The enchanted realm of Ionandar stretched across the southeastern corner of Girdlegard, covering parts of Gauragar and Idoslane, its borders defined by a magic force field, one of six in total. Certain regions of Girdlegard were invested with an energy that could be channeled into living beings, as the very first wizards had learned. Once transferred to a human, the energy became finite, but a person could renew his store of magic by returning to the field. No sooner had the magi made this discovery than they seized the land, divided it into six enchanted realms, and defended the territory against existing monarchs who had no weapons to match their magic powers. Generations of rulers had been forced to accept that swathes of their kingdoms were under foreign rule.
The force fields were the key to the magi’s power. The six wizards’ skills and knowledge had increased over time and now their formulae, runes, and spells were capable of working great beauty, terror, and good.
