The Dwarves

XI

Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle Knowing that he would require the services of a mason, Tungdil had asked the high king's counselor to recruit a suitable artisan from the secondling clans. Balendilнn felt strongly that the final decision should rest with Tungdil, and so it was agreed that a group of candidates would be selected for him to take his pick. Not long afterward a one-eyed dwarf knocked on Tungdil's door.

Tungdil looked him over in surprise. "Are you the only one? Balendilнn promised to narrow it down, but I didn't expect him to be quite so ruthless. Who are you?"

"Bavragor Hammerfist of the clan of the Hammer Fists, mason and stoneworker of two hundred cycles." His bearlike hands reminded Tungdil of Balendilнn. His black hair hung loose about his shoulders, and his beard was artfully shaped around his cheeks and chin. "My masonry is second to none and my right eye sees twice as keenly as two. Nothing escapes me, not the tiniest fault in the stone nor the slightest flaw in the working of it."

Tungdil explained that the expedition required a mason to fashion the spurs for an ax. Since the blade was to be forged in the Gray Range, the other components of the weapon would be made and assembled there. "Which means journeying through the Perished Land. It's bound to be hazardous-only Vraccas knows what will befall us." Tungdil left the briefing at that and looked the mason in the eye. A dark red ring encircled the brown iris. How peculiar.

"Count me in," said Bavragor. He held out his hand. "Let's shake on it. Do you promise that I, Bavragor Hammerfist, will be your one and only mason?" Tungdil obliged by clasping his hand and giving his word. The mason grinned and seemed almost relieved. "When are we leaving?"

"In two orbits' time. I need to recruit a diamond cutter from the fourthling delegation."

"Then I'll start packing. A weapon like Keenfire deserves my finest tools." He hurried from the room.

Tungdil had expected the interview to last a little longer, but he soon forgot about the mason and turned his attention to finding a diamond cutter.

None of the fourthlings could be expected to join his company of their own accord, so he was obliged to ask Gandogar to spare him a suitable dwarf. The strategy was safer than it sounded: The fourthling delegation was composed of first-rate artisans and warriors, as tradition dictated.

The more Tungdil thought about it, the less inclined he was to ask his rival for a favor, but in the end he swallowed his pride, reminding himself that vanity was a luxury when Girdlegard's future was at stake.

He was just leaving his chamber when he saw four dwarves hurrying down the passageway toward him. One by one they introduced themselves. "Balendilнn sent us. He says you're to choose."

Bewildered, Tungdil stared at the bearded countenances looking at him expectantly. "I've made my choice," he said. It hadn't occurred to him that there might be other candidates. Now he was regretting his haste. "I chose Bavragor."

"Bavragor Hammerfist? Not Bavragor who polishes the stone with the beer on his breath?" said one of the dwarves incredulously. "Not the merry minstrel?"

"He got here first."

"He didn't make the final cut! You can't take him!" The masons looked at him, aghast. "He's been trying to drown himself in beer for as long as anyone can remember. Four full tankards are barely enough to steady his hands!"

"I gave him my word. I can't go back on it now." Tungdil's cheeks flushed with fury when he realized that he'd walked straight into the one-eyed mason's trap. I shall ask him to release me from our agreement.

The secondlings directed him to Bavragor's favorite tavern, and Tungdil marched off to give the trickster a piece of his mind.

He soon found the place. A line of lamp-lit columns ran down the center of the barrel-vaulted chamber, and lanterns dangled from the ceiling, casting golden halos through panes of tinted glass. At the far end was a stone-hewn counter where four barmaids were filling tankards from huge dark barrels and carrying them to the waiting clientele. The band was made up of two krummhorns, a stone flute, and a drum, whose task consisted mainly of accompanying the rowdy choir.

Bavragor was sitting at a table with a group of laborers who had come straight from the quarry and were covered in dust. He was celebrating his selection for the expedition in timeworn mason's fashion, waving his tankard and singing at a volume that sent tremors through the room. Beer slopped out of his tankard, spattering his brown leather breeches with white froth.

"Bavragor!" Tungdil shouted sternly.

"Ah, the high king to be!" The mason raised his vessel. "Three cheers for Tungdil Goldhand!" His drinking companions joined in, raising their tankards and scrambling to their feet in a fog of gray dust.

Tungdil seethed. In a few determined strides he crossed the tavern, tore the tankard from Bavragor's hand, and slammed it onto the table. "Balendilнn didn't send you to me. You tricked me into giving you my word and now I want you to release me."

"Oops, careful there. That's good beer you're spilling." The mason gave him an innocent smile. "I didn't actually say that Balendilнn sent me, did I?"

Tungdil was lost for words. "Well, no, you didn't, but…"

Bavragor picked up his tankard. "Was it part of the deal?"

"Yes… I mean, no…"

"Look, here's what happened: I came in, asked for the job, and you agreed. We shook hands, you gave me your word of honor, and that was that." He took a long gulp. "In any case, you made the right choice: There's no better mason than me. I expect you saw my work when you got here: inscriptions, statues, the lot. Pretty impressive, I'd say." He raised his right hand. "This is the hand you shook, and your grip was true. The sooner you find a diamond cutter, the better; we can't hang around forever." He turned back to his fellow drinkers and launched into song.

Tricked by a drunkard! Speechless with rage, Tungdil stomped off to find Gandogar. He tried to swallow his anger and think about it logically. Perhaps Bavragor really was the best mason in the secondling kingdom-but it didn't make up for his barefaced cheek.

He was halfway down the corridor when he suddenly burst out laughing. It was almost as if Vraccas were trying to demonstrate that a little bravado could go a long way. The Smith had shown a fine sense of irony in saddling him, the false heir to the throne, with an impudent drunkard who had bluffed his way into the mason's role. I'll have to remember to pack enough brandy and beer to steady his hands when we reach the Gray Range. At least Balendilнn will be able to tell me whether he's really as good as he claims…

Tungdil fetched one of the two lengths of sigurdaisy wood and entered the assembly room where Gandogar was waiting.

The fourthling monarch was sitting at the table with five of his entourage. Tungdil was struck by their glittering jewels and diamonds; compared to the secondlings, their tunics and mail were unashamedly ostentatious.

"It is not in my nature to make others beg. You don't need to explain yourself, Tungdil. I know what you want." He pointed to the delegates, who rose to their feet. "Take your pick. They're all expert craftsmen, masters in the art of cutting and polishing gems."

Tungdil paced along the line of dwarves, studying their faces and allowing his instincts to guide him.

The artisans were a little on the small side, but for some reason he was drawn to the puniest of the lot. Something told him that this was the one. The dwarf's beard glittered with diamond dust that had caught in his curly whiskers. It looked as though thousands of tiny stars were shimmering under his chin. Tungdil's mind was made up.

"Goпmgar Shimmerbeard," said Gandogar, introducing him. "A fine choice," he added.

The artisan's nervousness turned into full-blown panic. He turned to his monarch. "But, Gandogar, Your Highness…Surely you won't make me…You know that I can't…"

"I gave Tungdil a free choice," Gandogar said sharply. "Do you want me to break my promise? You're going with Tungdil, and that's that."

"B-but, Your Majesty…" the artisan stuttered desperately.

"Think of the reputation of our folk. Do exactly as Tungdil tells you, and if you get to the Gray Range before us, be sure to cut the diamonds as conscientiously as you would for me. Farewell-and, Goпmgar, come back in one piece."

The king rose and signaled for the remaining four dwarves to follow. When he reached the door, he stopped and turned.

"I don't want you to come to any harm, Tungdil Goldhand, but as the rightful heir, I can't honestly wish you well. Vraccas will lead me to victory and expose you as a sham. I will be Gundrabur's successor."

"You can have the title, King Gandogar," Tungdil said graciously, handing him the sigurdaisy wood. "Just remember to slay Nфd'onn and protect Girdlegard and our kingdoms from harm."

He hurried away without waiting for a reply. The scrawny artisan followed him, eyes cast gloomily to the floor.

Tungdil, Bavragor, Goпmgar, and the twins were sitting in the central hall of the library, a ribbed vault lined with lamps and mirrors that afforded sufficient light for reading and study. All around them were tablets and rolls of parchment, the collected knowledge of hundreds of cycles. The archive, the secondlings' repository of the past, seemed the ideal place to hold a meeting about the future.

Tungdil unrolled a map showing the territory between the five ranges. "We'll go down and take a look at the entrance to the underground network," he told them. "With a bit of luck and the blessing of Vraccas we'll be able to travel west-"

"You mean north," interrupted Bavragor. The strapping dwarf leaned forward and pointed at the Gray Range. "We need to go north."

"Sure, but first we'll go west to Borengar's folk. The firstlings have always been the best smiths. They're the only ones capable of forging the blade."

"That's as may be," objected Bavragor, giving Tungdil a searching look with his right eye. "But who's to say they're still there? For all we know, they may have been wiped out by orcs." He reached for his beer. "We should take a smith with us and head north right away."

"Ah," said Boлndal, "so we've got a new leader, have we? Don't tell me you want to be high king as well?"

"I wouldn't mind being high king if it meant I could lock up maniacs like your brother," the mason retorted harshly.

Boпndil frowned, his hand moving automatically to his ax. "Careful, one-eye, or you'll end up blind."

"They never liked each other," Boлndal explained in a whisper. "The incident with Bavragor's sister only made things worse."

Tungdil sighed. He had a nasty feeling that the journey was going to be harder than he'd thought. "His sister?"

"I'll tell you later," hissed Boлndal. "They'll only end up fighting-or worse."

"What are we going to do with the dragon if we actually find it?" asked Goпmgar. The skinny artisan was barely half the width of Bavragor or the twins. "If you ask me, the whole thing sounds dangerous. Orcs, the Perished Land, дlfar, a dragon…" He swallowed nervously. "I must say, I am a bit…concerned."

"Concerned? It's going to be fabulous!" bellowed Boпndil, clapping him on the back. Goпmgar winced in pain.

"We all like a good bit of orc-baiting, don't we? It's good dwarven fun."

True to his name, Goпmgar beard shimmered in the candlelight. "Speak for yourself. I'd rather be in my workshop."

Boпndil eyed him suspiciously. "You do know how to use an ax, don't you? You sound more like a whining long-un than a child of the Smith." He jumped up and threw him an ax. "Come on, then, show us how you fight!"

The ax clattered across the floor and slid to a halt in front of Goпmgar, who left it where it lay. He patted his sword. "I'd rather use this and my shield," he said peevishly, offended by the secondling's mocking tone.

"Call that a sword? It looks more like a bread knife. A gnome would be too embarrassed to use a pathetic blade like that." Boпndil whinnied with laughter. "By the beard of Vraccas, you must have been hewn from soapstone!" He sat down, shaking his head in despair. Bavragor chuckled into his beer, emptied his tankard, and burped. On the subject of Goпmgar, the two archenemies were united in scorn.

Boлndal turned his attention to the map. "We'll be able to get to the firstling kingdom without coming up against the Perished Land. Let's hope we can use the tunnels. I wonder what kind of state they're in."

"I expect we'll find out when our wagon hits a broken sleeper and we plunge to our deaths," Goпmgar said despondently. "No one's been in the tunnels for cycles and cycles. It'll be a miracle if-"

"Now I know why Gandogar said we could take you with us. What a pumice-hearted weakling you are! I've never heard so much wailing and sighing," Boпndil said scornfully.

Bavragor eyed him coldly. "If you'd been at my sister's funeral-"

"Enough!" Tungdil silenced them. He was starting to have serious doubts about his ability to hold the group together. Vraccas give me strength. "Is this an expedition for dwarves or for children? No one would ever guess that you're older than me! We're not visiting a gold mine or a salt works. We're supposed to be saving Girdlegard."

"Oh, I thought we were risking our lives so you could steal the throne," Goпmgar said spitefully. Bavragor turned his tankard upside down and caught the last drops in his hand. He licked them up regretfully.

Tungdil smiled at the artisan. "No, Goпmgar, that's not true. Our priority is to forge a weapon that will slay Nфd'onn and give us the means to fight the Perished Land. Without Keenfire we don't stand a chance." He hadn't let on that he was missing a section of the instructions for Keenfire that Andфkai hadn't managed to translate.

"Is that how you're planning to persuade the firstlings to lend us their best smith?" the mason asked derisively. "They've probably never heard of the magus or the Perished Land."

Tungdil looked from Bavragor to Goпmgar and back again. "Why are the two of you so keen to make problems before we've even started?" he asked frankly.

Bavragor scratched his beard. "I'm not the one who's sitting here chatting," he retorted. "But if you want my opinion, we'll need more than Vraccas's blessing if we're to forge the blade and make it back across Girdlegard."

"Then take it from me that he'll give us his blessing and more. If you'd experienced half the adventures that I went through on my journey, you wouldn't be so skeptical. And remember, Bavragor, we're not doing this for me, we're doing it for Girdlegard and the dwarves." And for Lot-Ionan, Frala, Sunja, and Ikana, he added silently. He smiled. "Just think: If we're lucky, we'll find some gold."

"Well, I'd drink to that, but I need some more beer," said the mason. He lumbered out of the room.

Tungdil turned to Goпmgar. "What about you? Do you see why we're doing this?"

"Absolutely. For Girdlegard, like you said." The flippant response did little to satisfy Tungdil, who tried to look him in the eye. Goпmgar stared fixedly at the bookshelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling.

It wasn't long before Bavragor returned with an even larger tankard, having drunk at least half of its contents on the way. "To the next high king!" he said loudly, omitting to stipulate which of the candidates he had in mind. "I hope he achieves all his goals." He downed the rest of his drink.

"He hasn't even stopped for breath," Boпndil said in astonishment. "There must be a lake of the stuff inside him."

Bavragor wiped the froth from his beard. "Back in a minute," he said, rising to leave.

"Stop!" commanded Tungdil in a firm but friendly voice. "You can drink all you like as soon as we've finished." Bavragor sat down sullenly, dropping the empty tankard to the floor. The hallowed library echoed with the noise. "Our first stop is the Red Range. If the firstlings haven't heard about Nфd'onn, we'll tell them of the danger and ask for the loan of a smith. Then we'll continue through the tunnels to our next stop, the Gray Range."

He picked up another map and laid it out in front of the dwarves. "This is an ancient map from the 5329th solar cycle, showing the main paths through the fifthling kingdom."

Boлndal peered at the yellowing parchment. "Look, there's Flamemere. That's where we'll find our dragon."

"And then what?" Goпmgar inquired weakly.

Tungdil leaned back on his chair. "The way I see it, there's no need to actually fight the beast when all we need is a bit of its fire. Boпndil, if you dance around on its tail for a while, the rest of us can wait until it spews flames, at which point we'll jump out, light our torches, and hurry to the furnace."

"Can I slay it, or am I only allowed to dance on its tail?" asked Boпndil, practically bursting with excitement. Goпmgar gave him a sideways look.

"If it makes you happy, you can slay it-but only after we've got the fire," his brother instructed him firmly. "Dead dragons don't breathe flames."

"The furnace is near the entrance to the stronghold." Tungdil gave Boпndil a stern look. "I know you're looking forward to killing some orcs, but the fifthling kingdom will be crawling with them. If you take them on, neither you nor the rest of us will come out of there alive. You're going to have to be reasonable."

"Fine," Boпndil said obstreperously. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I won't kill the stinking orcs-yet. I'll slaughter the lot of them when it comes to the showdown with Nфd'onn." He glared at the others. "And let's get this straight: If we run into orcs on the journey, the first ten are mine. You can fight among yourselves for the others."

"Not on your nelly," muttered Goпmgar, just loud enough for Tungdil to hear.

He changed the subject. "Goпmgar and Bavragor, have either of you had much experience of humans?" They shook their heads. "I'll give you some tips on dealing with them in case we end up traveling overland for part of the way. But first you should get some sleep. We'll be leaving in the morning."

Bavragor and Goпmgar set off in the direction of their chambers.

"What about us?" asked Boлndal.

"We've got some exploring to do." Tungdil and the twins followed a stairway that wound deeper and deeper inside the mountain, taking them toward the ancient tunnels that had carried their forefathers through Girdlegard at incredible speed.

Tungdil walked in front with the map, while Boпndil and Boлndal trailed behind, staring wide-eyed at galleries and passageways whose existence they had never suspected. None of their folk had entered this part of the kingdom since it had been contaminated by sulfur hundreds of cycles before.

The air smelled dank and a little staler than usual, but there was no hint of gas. From time to time they came across a skeleton of a sheep or a goat that had lost its way and died a slow and painful death of thirst.

They followed the stairway for what seemed like hours. Broad-backed bridges of stone carried them over plunging chasms whose depths shone with a mysterious yellow glow. They passed mighty waterfalls and many-columned chambers as splendid as their own great hall. Overcome with wonderment, they walked in silence, hearing only the tread of their boots and the sound of rushing water. Soon the path sloped upward again.

"To think these shafts have been here all the time," said Boпndil, unable to keep quiet any longer.

"It's what happens when things aren't used. They get forgotten. I bet it's been free of poisonous gases for ages," his brother remarked.

"Aha!" Tungdil pointed to a door measuring four paces wide and three paces high and inlaid with golden runes. "This must be it."

They held up their oil lamps and scraped away at centuries of accumulated grime until they could read the runes. The inscription was written in an ancient dwarven dialect, and it took a bit of concentration for Tungdil to work it out. At last he recited the lines to the twins:

Whether finding friends

Or fighting foes,

May Vraccas be with you

And bring you safely home.

As he uttered the last syllable, the door creaked back, allowing the three dwarves to enter. Inside was a vast chamber filled with all manner of cogs, their teeth meshing vertically and horizontally in a confusion of rust and verdigris. Various rods connected them to a series of cauldronlike vessels and the apparatus was topped with chimneys of all shapes and sizes. There were hatches below.

Boлndal studied the machinery with interest. "To think the three of us have restored to life a forgotten miracle of science," he said reverently.

"Not yet we haven't." Tungdil took a closer look at the cauldrons and discovered slim tubes of glass, each with a single leaden ball. The tubes were calibrated and the cauldrons marked with the dwarven symbol for water. He knelt down to look inside the hatches and came across traces of ash. He laughed and thumped the sheet of metal. "Bavragor would say it's a distillery, but I reckon it's some kind of engine."

"How does it work, scholar?" asked Boлndal, while his brother disappeared behind the array of cauldrons and crankshafts.

Tungdil had seen diagrams of similar devices in Lot-Ionan's hooks. "Think of it as a kind of mill," he explained. "The gears turn and drive the equipment."

"Look at this!" called Boпndil from the far side of the machinery. "There's more stuff over here!" They followed.

At the center of the chamber was a starting ramp wit h eight metal rails sloping gently toward eight closed doors. The uppermost end of four of the rails terminated in a wooden barrier, slung over with decaying sacks of straw.

"Those must be tracks for the wagons," said Boлndal.

Tungdil nodded. "We'll be gliding along a monorail. It's a hundred percent safe."

"Try telling that to Goпmgar," joked Boлndal.

Tungdil glanced across at Boпndil, who had discovered a depot of a hundred or so wagons in a corner of the hall. "Let's take a look."

There were various different designs of wagon. Some boasted ten narrow benches, while others had a single seat and were obviously meant for freight.

Near the front of each vehicle was a lever. Tungdil took hold of one and jiggled it gently. There was a squeaking sound from below. He peered beneath the carriage. "Brakes," he announced. "If you pull on the lever, the wagon slows down. We'll have to scrape off the rust, though."

"Hang on, scholar," said Boлndal. "How do you propose to lift the wagons onto the rails?" He glanced at the starting ramp, which was two paces high at its uppermost end. "They're too heavy for us to carry."

"True." Tungdil pointed to the ceiling. "But look up there."

"Hoists! We can use the hooks to raise the wagons and place them on the rails. I say we give it a go and see what happens."

They collected some leftover charcoal and set light to it with their oil lamps. Next they set out to fill at least one cauldron, which they did by drawing water from a pool at the bottom of a nearby waterfall.

"What now?" Boпndil asked eagerly.

"We wait," said Tungdil.

They dozed for a while, worn out from their exertions, until Boпndil woke up and grabbed Tungdil's arm. "Look!" he shouted. "The lead ball just moved!"

Tungdil sat up. The ball had risen and was dancing excitedly halfway up the glass tube. Hot steam shot from two of the vents.

"Well, well," exclaimed Boлndal, watching attentively to see what happened next.

The crankshaft turned on its axis and the first of many gears screeched into action, achieving half a rotation before grinding to a halt. A third valve opened and a hiss of air escaped.

"It's powered by steam," explained Tungdil, full of admiration for the engineers who had designed the contraption millennia ago. "It's like a water wheel, except it's turned by steam instead of water." The twins looked at him blankly. "Surely you must have tried holding a lid on a boiling pan?"

"What do you think I am?" Boпndil said testily. "A cook?"

His brother understood what Tungdil was getting at. "The steam turns the gears and the gears power the hoist, so the wagons can be lifted onto the rails without us breaking our backs!" He looked at the thicket of rods and wheels. "It'll take more than just one cauldron of water to get that going."

"It shouldn't be a problem," said Tungdil. "We're leaving tomorrow morning and by then we'll-"

Boпndil spun round and glared at the door. "Did you hear that?" he growled, already keyed up for a fight.

"An orc by the sounds of it," teased Tungdil. "You'd better go and look."

"Too right!" He set off at a jog, stopping to peer both ways at the door. Picking up a stone, he weighed it in his hands and turned to the right, only to whirl round and cast his missile into the shadows.

There was a loud squeal, then the rapid patter of footsteps in the darkness. Tungdil saw a small yet somehow familiar silhouette dart past the entrance where Ireheart was waiting, ax in hand. The creature was too quick for him.

"What was it?" Tungdil asked Boлndal. "Did you see anything?"

"No, but from the way it took off, I shouldn't think it was a threat." He watched his brother traipse back dejectedly.

"Shame it wasn't an orc," he grumbled. "I would have killed the little critter if it hadn't been so fast."

"We're nearly done here anyway," said Tungdil. He pointed to the row of eight doors. "We can head back once we've had a look at these."

"Even I know what's behind them," protested Boпndil, who had been longing to whet his ax on a worthy opponent. "Rails, that's what."

There were eight levers at the top of the starting ramp. Tungdil pulled the one next to the first rail and the corresponding door swung open. The rail continued through the opening, into utter darkness.

"It's going to be quite some journey," said Boпndil. "We'll be as good as blind in there. It's darker than a troll's backside."

His brother laughed. "Stop exaggerating. You know perfectly well that we don't have any trouble seeing in the dark." Even so, he had to concede that the tunnel would pose a considerable challenge. Visibility was limited to about ten paces. "The long-uns would need torches," he said.

"We should use torches as well," Tungdil told them. "If we get too accustomed to the darkness, we'll be dazzled by the least bit of light. What happens if there's a cleft in the rock? Even the tiniest chink of sunshine would blind us."

Boпndil, always the intrepid explorer, disappeared through the opening and took a few paces along the rail. Tungdil read the inscription chiseled into the wall.

"It leads to the firstling kingdom," he announced for the benefit of the twins. He was beginning to understand how the underground network had worked.

Four of the rails carried outgoing passengers away from Ogre's Death, and the other four were for wagons returning home. The wooden barriers and straw sacking served to absorb the impact in case the brakes failed.

He turned the matter over in his mind and paced along the row of doors. "Look at this," he exclaimed, stopping suddenly. "There's even a tunnel to the thirdling kingdom!" Maybe the folks were more united back then. Why else would they build a tunnel to Lorimbur's dwarves?

"It's probably so we could attack them," boomed a hollow voice inside the tunnel. "By the beard of Vraccas, it's pretty tight in here," cursed Boпndil. "No more than a dwarf's breadth either side of the wagon, I reckon."

Tungdil ignored Boпndil's typically warlike explanation of the tunnel's purpose and chivvied him along. "It's time to get going!"

"Hang on, I'm nearly at the end and…Whoa, the tunnel goes straight down! We'd better not tell Goпmgar or he'll die of fright." Boпndil's muffled laughter grew louder as he finished his reconnoiter and returned. "Look at the state of me!" He was covered from head to toe in spiderwebs, the desiccated corpses of countless insects sticking to his beard. He fished the cobwebs from between the rings of his tunic and dusted his whiskers.

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

Boпndil 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 Boпndil, 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? Nфd'onn's days are numbered, just you wait and see."

"Boпndil'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," Boлndal reeled off.

"We'll take everything with us," said Tungdil, guessing the nature of his concern. "I asked Balendilнn 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," Boпndil 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 Boлndal.

"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.

Tungdil 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 Balendilнn 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, Goпmgar, 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 Balendilнn'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 Goпmgar how long they needed to get here!"

"They're not traveling on foot," Boлndal broke in. "They've all vanished except Bislipur, and no one knows where they've gone."

"They didn't go through the gates," added Boпndil.

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 Boпndil 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 Goпmgar 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 Balendilнn 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?"

Balendilнn 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 Balendilнn'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?" Balendilнn 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, Balendilнn 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 Balendilнn.

"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," Balendilнn 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," Balendilнn said flatly. "Tungdil is a fourthling. 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."

Balendilнn 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 Nфd'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.

Tungdil threw his most important belongings into a knapsack and hurried down the passageways at a jog. As an afterthought, he had briefed Balendilнn 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," Boлndal 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," Boлndal 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?

Goпmgar 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," Boлndal 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 womenfolk in the brewery. They know a good deal about vats."

Tungdil stared at him in surprise. All of a sudden the one-eyed dwarf was bubbling with enthusiasm and confidence. Balendilнn had been right: The mason's mood was unpredictable. "Good work, Bavragor; those are excellent suggestions," he said approvingly.

"I know." Grinning, the mason rewarded himself with another draft of beer.

The combined efforts of the tinker and his apprentices, assisted by the women from the brewery, resulted in the cauldrons being repaired to the point where they could withstand the build-up of steam for long enough to get the machinery going.

It took a further two orbits to undo the rest of the damage. At last the cauldrons were filled with water and fired from below, the gears moved smoothly, and the hoists did as instructed. By the afternoon of the third orbit their wagon was stationed on its new rail, ready to begin its journey into the unknown.

Tungdil and Boпndil sat at the front, with Bavragor and Goпmgar on the next bench and Boлndal at the rear. Their luggage, including comestibles, equipment, and the materials for Keenfire, was shared among them and stowed at their feet.

Tungdil turned round and scanned the faces of his companions. There was no telling what awaited them at the bottom of the first steep drop or how much of an advantage Gandogar had gained. Everyone looked understandably grave.

"Trust in Vraccas," he said, shifting his gaze to focus on the door ahead. His left hand grasped the lever beside the rail. He pulled it back and the door swung open, clearing their passage into the darkness ahead.

"And now to save Girdlegard…" He let up on the brakes and the wagon rolled gently down the ramp toward the tunnel.

"What if Gandogar sabotaged the rail?" Goпmgar asked anxiously. "Or what if we're too heavy and fly off the side?"

"Let's hope we don't find out!" There was a crazed glint in Boпndil's eyes as they rushed toward the final pitch. "Here we come!"

Gathering speed, the wagon reached the point where the tunnel took a sudden plunge. Its passengers held on tightly as the vehicle tipped over the edge and careered into the abyss.

Ireheart whooped in excitement, Boлndal held on for dear life, Bavragor burst into song, and Goпmgar petitioned Vraccas, while Tungdil wondered whether any of his companions were sane.