It’s good to see order returning to the kingdom, thought Tungdil, trying to overcome his nagging fears. I shouldn’t worry so much…
Boïndil interrupted his thoughts. “Ha, look at Ogre’s Death, rising from the ruins,” he said proudly. “The secondling flags are flying from the stronghold, and the bones of the invaders have been scattered across the range. They thought they’d destroyed us, but our spirit can’t be crushed.” Quickening his pace, he made straight for the vast gateway, eight paces wide and ten paces high, leading from the uppermost terrace to the underground halls.
Tungdil looked up at the flagpoles. On the last stage of their journey through Sangpûr, the flags had been visible as tiny squares of cloth, but now he could make out the details. The colors of the firstlings and fourthlings flew proudly beside the crests of the seventeen secondling clans.
He tapped his forehead. The assembly meeting! It had slipped his mind entirely. “By my beard, Boïndil,” he called out to the secondling, who was practically at the gateway. “Another orbit, and we would have missed the coronation.”
Boïndil stopped in his tracks. “To think a pack of orcs and bögnilim could make us forget a thing like that! It wouldn’t have happened if Boëndal had been with us.” A look of consternation crossed his face and he sniffed the air anxiously. “It’s all right,” he declared. “We haven’t missed anything important. They haven’t brought out the food.”
The other dwarves caught up and they set off together through the gateway, into the secondling kingdom. The passageway delved through the mountain, leading to ornately carved chambers supported by soaring columns. Ahead of them towered an enormous stone statue of Beroïn seated on a white marble throne. They filed between his feet and entered the corridor leading to the assembly hall.
“Remember what happened last time?” Boïndil asked softly.
“How could I forget?” Every detail of that orbit was etched on Tungdil’s mind. On arriving at Ogre’s Death, he and the twins had entered the great hall to find the delegates warring among themselves. Soon after, he had embarked on a long journey—a journey that turned him into a proper dwarf.
“It’s a mercy to be out of the light,” said Boïndil, whose hair had been bleached by the harsh desert sun. “We belong in the mountains, as Vraccas intended.” He gave his plait a good shake to dislodge the sand. “Do you think the delegates will be arguing again?”
Tungdil shook his head. “Gandogar is the legitimate heir, and no one could dispute his right to the throne. He proved his character as soon as he freed himself from Bislipur’s wiles.”
The secondling grinned. “Not as much as you proved yours.”
“I don’t want to be high king, Boïndil. My calling lies elsewhere.” Raising his hand decisively, he knocked three times, took a deep breath, and pushed open the mighty stone doors.
Light streamed toward them. Blinking, Tungdil gazed in horror at the ruins of the hall.
Barely half of the towering cylindrical columns had survived the beasts’ invasion, and it was only thanks to the secondlings’ expert masonry that the ceiling hadn’t collapsed.
Tungdil’s heart sank as he looked at the desecrated tablets and bas-reliefs on the walls. The orcs had attacked the artwork with clubs and cudgels, smashing the marble and destroying the carefully chiseled chronicle of past victories and heroic deeds.
Glancing at his companion, he saw the secondling’s expression change from horror to fury. Boïndil, already a ferocious orc-slayer, was planning his revenge.
Lanterns and braziers lit the chamber, casting a warm glow over five magnificent chairs, one for each folk, arranged in a semi-circle around a marble table.
Tungdil spotted Gandogar Silverbeard, ruler of the fourthlings and head of Goïmdil’s line. Seated beside him were Xamtys II of the clan of the Stubborn Streaks, queen of the firstlings and ruler of Borengar’s folk, and Balendilín Onearm of the clan of the Strong Fingers, former counselor to Gundrabur Whitecrown, the late high king. Balendilín had been crowned king of the secondlings after Gundrabur’s death. The remaining delegates—chieftains and elders from the firstling, secondling, and fourthling kingdoms—had taken their places in the elegantly carved pews behind their leaders and were talking among themselves.
Scanning the ranks of the firstlings, Tungdil found Balyndis and gave her a special smile. Then it was time to address the assembly. Orbits earlier, he had reached a decision regarding his future, and he intended to see it through.
His eyes lingered on the two unoccupied chairs and the empty pews behind them.
One of the chairs was reserved for the king of the thirdlings, although none of their number was likely to attend. The other belonged to the late king of the fifthlings, whose folk were no more.
If everything went to plan, one of the chairs would soon be filled.
“Monarchs, elders, chieftains,” he began loudly, although his heart was beating furiously in his chest. “I salute the assembly.”
“Can’t you talk normally?” hissed Boïndil, rolling his eyes. He was secretly in awe of his friend, who spoke with the authority and facility of a king. Tungdil’s sixty cycles in Lot-Ionan’s school had expanded his mind and honed his reason, making him wiser and more knowledgeable than most dwarves twice his age.
“The finest and best dwarves of the three dwarven folks are gathered here for the second time in four hundred cycles to elect a new high king.” Tungdil stepped away from the doors and took up position in front of the table where the dwarven rulers were seated. He kept his right hand on Keenfire to steady his nerves. “This time there won’t be any last-minute challenges—at least not from me.”
A faint smile crossed Balendilín’s timeworn features, and downy-cheeked Xamtys raised her eyebrows in surprise. To everyone’s relief, Gandogar laughed good-humoredly, allowing the other delegates to chuckle as well.
Tungdil pointed to the empty chair belonging to the fifthlings. “Most of you know by now that I’m a thirdling. I’d give anything not to be descended from Lorimbur, but a dwarf can’t choose his lineage. My heart doesn’t burn with vengeance, and maybe, Vraccas willing, there are other thirdlings like me who weren’t born with hatred in their blood. I feel a bond with my fellow dwarves—one of them, especially.” He turned to look at Balyndis and allowed himself to bask for a moment in her dazzling smile. Then he strode to the empty chair on Gandogar’s right.
“Some of you think I belong in the thirdling kingdom,” he continued, placing his hands on his diamond-studded weapons belt, a gift from Giselbert Ironeye. He paused for a moment, remembering his parting conversation with the fifthling monarch. “But I see my place elsewhere.”
Leaving the chair, he made his way to the fifthling benches and stepped onto the front pew for everyone to see him.
“I made a promise to Giselbert Ironeye. He asked me to drive the orcs from his kingdom and rebuild his halls.” Pausing, he allowed the delegates a few moments to imagine the revival of the fifthling folk. “Giselbert gave me this belt in remembrance of the fifthlings, who defended their kingdom to the last. Their spirit was stronger than the curse of the Perished Land, and they served the Smith in death and beyond. For a thousand cycles they tended the Dragon Fire furnace and kept its flames alive. Without the fifthlings, Keenfire would never have been forged.” He drew the ax and held it aloft for the delegates to see. “Your Majesties,” he began, turning to the dwarven rulers, “you promised me enough masons and warriors to rebuild the fifthling kingdom and seal the Northern Pass. It was a truly generous offer, but no dwarf should be forced to leave his kingdom at his monarch’s command. Those who wish to remain with their clansfolk should do so, but those who want to join me will be welcomed with open arms.”