Excusing himself from the table, he made his way back to his chamber, this time looking fixedly at the floor so as not to be distracted by the magnificent marble carvings. The speech that was taking shape in his mind was going to cover all the events of the previous weeks and more.
Tungdil drained the strong malt beer from his tankard, wiped his beard, and looked up at the assembly. The delegates had listened patiently while he'd read out Lot-Ionan's letter and tried to establish his lineage as the illegitimate offspring of the dead fourthling king.
True to their word, three of Gandogar's chieftains claimed to recall a rumor about a missing heir. Bislipur instantly accused them of lying.
"I expect you're wondering why I think I would make a good king," said Tungdil, raising his voice above the tumult. The beer had settled his nerves and quashed his inhibitions about appearing before an assembly of dignitaries and chieftains. "The fact is, I know better than anyone the dangers that lie ahead. I know the power of the Perished Land; and I know we need to stand united. It would be fatal to squander our strength on a campaign against the elves. Their numbers may have dwindled, but their army is not to be mocked."
"We're not afraid of the pointy-ears!" Bislipur shouted, incensed.
"Maybe not, but dead heroes are no use to us at all," Tungdil retaliated. "The elves have been fighting the дlfar for hundreds of cycles. What chance would we have of defeating them? Their bowmen are the best in Girdlegard. Before we get within three hundred paces, they'll bombard us with arrows!"
"Not if we sneak up on them," Bislipur objected.
"You can't honestly believe they won't notice an army of a thousand dwarves! Friends, this war will end in our defeat." He looked at them beseechingly. "Darkness has eaten its way into the heart of our lands. Vraccas entrusted the safety of Girdlegard to our race; it's our duty to defeat Nфd'onn and expel Tion's minions-and if the elves and humans are able to help us, we must ally ourselves with them!"
"The high king's puppet has learned his part well," sneered Gandogar.
"Our minds think alike because we both see reason. If there was anything between your ears but sheer bloody-mindedness, you might see sense as well." A ripple of laughter swept the room.
"The elves must be punished," shouted Bislipur, drawing himself up to full height. "You heard how they betrayed our kinsfolk and allowed Tion's beasts to storm the Stone Gateway. Their crimes cannot go unavenged!"
"And what of Nфd'onn? A war against the elves would weaken us dangerously." Tungdil thumped his hand against the marble. "Of course, if we really want to make things easy for the magus, we could always open our strongholds to the orcish invaders! Is that what you want? Maybe you should ask the runts if they'd like to join us in a campaign against the elves!" He waited for the commotion to settle. "In my possession are two tomes belonging to Lot-Ionan in whose household I was raised. Once I have unlocked their meaning, we will hold the key to defeating Nфd'onn and the Perished Land." He neglected to mention that even Andфkai had failed to make sense of the books. "Just think of the glory if the dwarves were to save Girdlegard! Our heroism would humiliate the pointy-ears far more than military defeat."
There was a hum of excitement from the benches. Books that could defeat the Perished Land; that was news indeed!
"He's lying!" roared Bislipur. "Since when did magic ever help the dwarves? It brings us nothing but trouble! Magic is to blame for the dark wizard's power!"
"I say we fight the elves, then retreat to our ranges until the humans have settled the matter for themselves," added Gandogar, springing to his feet. He hurried to the middle of the assembly to be sure of the delegates' attention. "Don't listen to the foundling who learned our lore from books. He'll never understand our ways." He laughed. "A high king who knows nothing of his race? It's downright ridiculous!"
"It can't be that ridiculous or you wouldn't be so het up," Tungdil said pointedly. There was another low rumble of laughter. He was doing Lot-Ionan proud with his witticisms, although the beer could take some of the credit. I mustn't get carried away, he told himself.
Gundrabur had heard enough. He raised the hammer and pounded it against the marble table. "Both candidates have made their cases and the assembly must decide. Delegates, remember you are voting for your future high king. Those in favor of Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, raise your axes!"
Tungdil counted the glistening blades. To his great surprise, Gandogar's share of the vote had dwindled to less than two-thirds among the fourthling chieftains. When his own name was called, the number of axes was far greater than expected. Balendilнn gave him an approving nod.
Tungdil's personal victory did nothing to change the end result: The majority had voted in favor of Gandogar, which amounted to a mandate for war. Bislipur held his head high. It was clear from his triumphant expression that he thought his work was done.
"At this stage in the proceedings, it falls to me, the reigning high king, to approve the assembly's choice," declared Gundrabur. "Regrettably, in view of King Gandogar's foolish determination to steer our race toward destruction, I see no option but to declare him unfit for office. For that reason, I nominate Tungdil in his place. Who will back me?"
Gandogar and Bislipur watched in stunned silence as a third of the delegates raised their axes, thereby investing Gundrabur with the authority to proceed.
The hammer crashed noisily against the marble. "Then the succession shall be decided on merit. Our candidates will prove their ability in a contest: Gandogar and Tungdil will each nominate a task, two further tasks will be set by the assembly, and the fifth task will be drawn at random. You have seven orbits to prepare." With that, he called the hustings to a close.
Dazed, Tungdil made his way along the line of supporters who were queuing to pat him on the back, wish him well, and intercede with Vraccas on his behalf. Faces, beards, and chain mail loomed on either side of him, disappearing in a blur. His mind was reeling from the uncommonly strong beer and the exhilaration of success. It was incredible to think that dozens of dwarves had been won over by his arguments, but there was no escaping the knowledge that his triumph was founded on a lie.
Although the chances of discovering anything about his provenance were slim, Balendilнn had promised to do what he could to investigate without arousing suspicion. The counselor was too tactful to mention the possibility that the foundling was descended from Lorimbur's folk, and the notion of it seemed ludicrous to Tungdil, who felt comfortable living in Ogre's Death and shared nothing of the thirdlings' murderous dislike of other dwarves. In any case, there were more urgent matters than establishing his origins. First and foremost, he needed to practice his axmanship in case Gandogar opted to challenge him to a duel. And he still had to settle on a task of his own.
No one knew what to expect from the fifth and final task. Each candidate could nominate four challenges and one would be drawn from a pouch. Only Vraccas could predict the outcome.
Tungdil returned to his chamber to find Gorйn's books and the contents of the leather bag strewn across his bed. Andфkai must have broken the spell and examined the artifacts!
He turned over the fragments of two silver-plated decanters and studied the runes. What a pity! If the inscriptions were to be believed, it took a single drop of liquid for the vessels to fill themselves over and over again. Mixed in with the shattered decanters was a broken hand mirror. The fractured glass cast back a cracked reflection of his bearded face. Seven years of bad luck. He chuckled grimly as he picked up a shard. To be cursed by a mirror was the least of his problems.