"I'm not dead yet, and while I'm your high king, I shall set our course," he thundered. "The assembly will wait!"
"No," Gandogar contradicted him, "we have waited long enough. Beyond these walls, orcs are laying waste to Girdlegard and the elvish villains are getting away. I will sit and wait no longer!"
Balendilнn stepped down from the platform and strode over to the fourthling monarch. "You forget yourself," he said, hand resting lightly on his belt. "The high king deserves your respect." The reprimand was delivered without any of the usual formalities behooving Gandogar's rank.
"The high king has been wearing the crown for too many cycles to know what's best for our folks!" Gandogar snapped back. "I won't put up with this nonsense any longer. Why should I sit back and do nothing when we should be seizing our opportunity and getting vengeance on the elves? Вlandur is as good as defeated! We need to attack while we can, not sit here, wasting our energy on pointless discussions. Orbit after orbit, all we ever do is talk and drink!"
Balendilнn squared his shoulders. "Think carefully before you continue, King Gandogar. Our laws were not made to be broken by you." He pointed to the stone stelae engraved with the sacred commandments of the dwarves. "They're the very basis of our existence. Defy them, and you'll be endangering the fragile unity of the folks. Why not take a hammer to the tablets if that's your intention? By all means, write your own laws, but remember: History will be your judge."
Hand on his ax, Bislipur stepped forward, positioning himself at Gandogar's side. The atmosphere in the great hall was unbearably tense; for the first time it seemed that the difference of opinion was going to end in blows.
Suddenly, the doors swung open.
"Get out!" Gandogar shouted furiously. "We don't need more confounded beer!"
But this time the interruption wasn't the fault of attendants bearing tankards. A herald walked in. "The second candidate has arrived!" he announced.
The delegates whirled round and stared excitedly at three squat figures silhouetted in the doorway. Behind them stood a human female and an armored giant. A buzz of whispers filled the room.
"Let me speak with him," said a visibly relieved Gundrabur. "The assembly is dismissed." Balendilнn helped him back to the throne and they waited for the delegates to leave the hall.
The departing dwarves cast curious glances at the stranger standing between the twins, but no one dared to address him. Then Bislipur drew level.
He stopped and took a menacing step toward Tungdil. "You're not one of us," he said scornfully. "Go back to Lot-Ionan and leave us to settle our own affairs. You needn't have bothered coming; we've decided on a successor already."
"Oh really? Let's hope he's as good as this one," Boлndal said coolly. He stepped in front of his charge. "Didn't you hear what Gundrabur said? The assembly is dismissed."
Boпndil joined him and flashed the fourthling adviser an insolent smile. "Looking for trouble, are you? I'll shave your miserable chin with my axes, you see if I don't." Bislipur merely snorted and left. The doors closed behind him, shutting Andфkai and Djerun outside.
The high king motioned for the trio to approach. He and his counselor looked at Tungdil warmly. "The lost dwarf has returned to his kinsfolk," he said, rising to clap a hand on his shoulder. "Thanks be to Vraccas for bringing you here."
Tungdil bowed his head, overcome with emotion. He wanted to say something, but his throat was dry with excitement. He felt sweaty and grubby, and his body ached all over in spite of Boпndil's efforts to treat his wounds. In fact, the shoulder that the high king was gripping was particularly sore. All in all, he was too tired and disheveled to appear before Gundrabur, but the king of all dwarves generously refrained from commenting on his state.
The monarch turned to the twins. "You've done yourselves and the secondlings proud. Ogre's Death boasts no finer warriors than you," he lauded them. "You can be sure of my gratitude. Retire to your chambers and get some rest."
Boпndil stared at the floor, uncomfortable at being praised. He hadn't forgiven himself for what had happened in the desert oasis when Tungdil had nearly been killed. It was mortifying to think that his charge would have died without Djerun. Gloomily, he left the hall with his twin.
"You'll hear our side of the story in a moment," promised Balendilнn, "but why don't you tell us about your journey first?"
This was the moment that Tungdil had been waiting for. He tried to swallow his nerves, but it was hard not to be distracted by the great hall's monumental galleries, pillars, and statues. It was all so very dwarven.
"Gladly," he said, "but what of Andфkai and Djerun? They were loyal protectors during our travels. I trust they will be provided for?" Without really meaning to, he had adopted a more flowery way of speech, perhaps because of his magnificent surroundings.
Balendilнn gave his word that the maga and her companion would be taken care of, so Tungdil launched into his account, beginning with Lot-Ionan, the vaults, and his errand, then proceeding by means of the Blacksaddle, Greenglade, the fate of the magi, the treachery of Nudin (or Nфd'onn, as he called himself), his run-in with the bounty hunters, Gorйn's mysterious books, and the дlfar's attempts to track them down, then concluding with the magus's threat to the dwarven kingdoms and his plans to bend Girdlegard to his will.
Soon his cheeks were flushed with talking, but he tried to state the facts plainly, without glossing over the horror or embellishing his report.
He spoke without faltering, save for one occasion when he was understandably thrown. It happened when three serving girls opened the doors and walked into the hall. Tungdil, who yearned to become acquainted with the fairer sex, was transfixed by the mysterious creatures who had colonized his imagination for as long as he could remember. They were a little shorter than he was and not as broadly built, but their ample robes betrayed an unmistakable fullness of figure. Fine, almost imperceptible fluff covered their plump faces from the cheekbones to the lower jaw. The wispy down matched the color of their hair and, unlike his own bristly whiskers, their furry skin seemed soft and smooth. This then was the origin of the myth about bearded women. Tungdil found them utterly beguiling.
His remaining composure crumbled when they turned to him with shy, friendly smiles. His heart started beating so wildly that he had to abandon his story until they were gone. Gundrabur and Balendilнn made no comment, although the one-armed counselor could barely suppress a grin.
At last Tungdil concluded his report, ending with a brief account of the attack on the desert oasis. He reached for his tankard, which smelled enticingly of beer. The dark liquid washed over his thirsty lips, coating his tongue with its powerful malty flavor. A single sip was enough to convince him that humans knew nothing of beer. It tasted so good that he could have kissed the dwarf who had invented the recipe, but instead he took another swig.
"These are ill tidings," Gundrabur said sadly. "We intend to be honest with you, Tungdil, so you shall hear of our problems too." His counselor described the dwarves' predicament, including the proposed war, the question of the succession, and the rift among the delegates, as succinctly as he could. "It seems from what you've told us that an alliance is imperative. The races of Girdlegard must unite and fight together against the Perished Land."
Tungdil sighed. "An alliance won't save us if we can't make sense of the books or the artifacts. There must be a way of getting to Nфd'onn or he wouldn't be so afraid. The trouble is, we can't do anything without Andфkai and she's determined to wash her hands of Girdlegard. Without her power and knowledge, our chances of defeating the evil are no better than any of the other realms'."