He sat down on the pew, placing Keenfire in front of him. The ax head jangled against the marble, echoing through the hall.
He wasn’t surprised to see Boïndil striding purposefully toward him. The secondling plumped down beside him, and a moment later, Balyndis took a seat on his right.
Tungdil was thrilled to see one delegate after another stand up and join him. At last, half of the fifthling pews were taken. Among Tungdil’s new companions were seven chieftains, who promised to ask the rest of their clansmen to make their homes in the fifthling halls.
Balendilín sat up in his chair, the marble trinkets in his graying beard clinking softly. “Tungdil Goldhand, your wisdom is proof, if proof be needed, that you belong among Girdlegard’s monarchs, not on the pews. I know that you are not inclined to push yourself forward, but the dwarves of the fifthling kingdom will recognize your qualities. At our next meeting, you will be seated among the rulers, I’m sure.” He turned to the delegates, his long gray hair curling about his shoulders like silvery wool. “We are gathered here today to settle a matter of great importance. Gundrabur Whitecrown, the late high king, was called to Vraccas’s smithy, leaving an empty throne. The new high king must be a strong leader who will set our course through good times and bad.” He unfurled a roll of parchment with his one good hand. “Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, ruler of the fourthlings and head of Goïmdil’s line, are you ready to assert your claim to the high king’s throne?” he asked, repeating the words that he had spoken at an earlier assembly, many orbits ago.
The fourthling monarch rose. “Unyielding as the rock from which we were created and keen as this blade is my will to defend our race against its foes,” came his solemn reply. “Bislipur cast a shadow over my mind, but I have driven out the darkness. With a clear heart and mind I swear loyalty to the dwarven folks whose welfare will be my guiding concern. Let Vraccas and the dwarven monarchs witness my oath.”
Balendilín nodded. “Gandogar Silverbeard has asserted his claim.” He raised his voice. “Will anyone challenge him?”
“What are you waiting for?” hissed Boïndil, prodding Tungdil in the ribs. “Another of your fancy speeches, and the throne will be yours.”
The one-armed king dropped the parchment onto the table. “The succession is uncontested: Gandogar shall be crowned.” He sounded his bugle, producing a long, drawn-out tone.
The doors opened, and a procession of warriors from the folks of Beroïn, Borengar, and Goïmdil marched into the hall, bearing the crown and ceremonial hammer on an ornamental shield. Studded with gemstones, etched with magnificent runes, and inlaid with intarsia of vraccasium, silver, and gold, the hammer brought together the finest artisanship from all the folks, symbolizing the high king’s power.
The procession stopped in the middle of the hall and the warriors got down on one knee. Balendilín walked over to them and signaled for Gandogar to approach. “Chosen by the united will of the folks to reign over us,” he said solemnly, lowering the crown gently onto the fourthling’s head. “Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, ruler of the fourthlings, head of Goïmdil’s line—dwarf of all dwarves.” He signaled for Gandogar to take the hammer.
Reverently, the new high king reached forward and wrapped his fingers around the handle. The hammer was heavier than he had expected, and it took both hands to pick it up.
The delegates left their pews and dropped on one knee, raising their weapons and hailing the new king as they had once hailed King Gundrabur.
Tungdil listened to the jangling chain mail and scanned the faces of the delegates, his kinsfolk, the children of the Smith, united as never before. He felt a shiver of excitement.
Gandogar raised the hammer and brought it down sharply against the marble, signaling for the delegates to rise. “Monarchs, chieftains, and elders, you have heard my oath. If, in time, my actions give the lie to my intentions, I call on you to remind me of these words.”
He left the table and stopped at the place where five marble tablets bearing Vraccas’s commandments had been destroyed by Bislipur’s ax. “That which was brought down by treason will rise again in an era of unity and peace.” He ascended the dais and sat on his throne. “Together we will rebuild our kingdoms—but first we must celebrate. Let the feasting begin!”
The assembled dwarves erupted in cheers and applause, shouting their approval and banging their weapons against their shields. The jubilation showed no sign of stopping, but at last the clamor gave way to hearty laughter, spontaneous singing, and a round of toasts as stewards arrived with pitchers and platters, and the rest of the secondling folk poured into the hall.
Horns sounded, and the music began, the drummers beating out a lively rhythm. The exuberance was catching, and soon heavy-booted Boïndil was tapping his feet in time with the songs. For once he forgot all thought of battle and stopped worrying about his brother in the distant Red Range. Tankard in hand, he watched the festivities and enjoyed the brief respite.
Tungdil looked around for Balyndis. “They’re dancing the gloomy memories from their souls,” said a voice behind him.
“It’s time they enjoyed themselves, don’t you think?” said Tungdil, looking into Balendilín’s worried eyes. Balendilín was a new king, but an old dwarf, and his face was worn with care. “Maybe you should join them.”
Balendilín chuckled softly and stroked his beard. “Why not? The orcs were kind enough to leave me both legs—I’ll find myself a maiden and twirl her around the dance floor like a freshly hewn dwarf.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Tungdil. “Bad news from abroad?”
“No news,” said the king, sighing. He glanced in Boïndil’s direction to make sure he wasn’t listening. “I haven’t heard anything from the Red Range in orbits. It’s possible that the tunnels are blocked, but…” He left the sentence hanging, but it was clear that he suspected something worse.
Balyndis, overhearing their conversation, looked alarmed. “Are you talking about Nôd’onn?” She searched their faces. “He warned us about a danger in the west.” She took a deep breath, forcing down her fear. “It’s all right, though—West Ironhald is unassailable. Nothing will cross the border with my kinsmen standing guard.”
Tungdil reached for her hand. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said, trying to mask his trepidation. “The firstlings are strong enough to see off any threat.” Balyndis saw through his attempt to reassure her, but she was comforted that he had tried.
There was silence for a moment. Everyone was remembering how Nôd’onn, after killing four magi and terrorizing all Girdlegard, had spoken with terror of the threat from the west.
“Queen Xamtys will leave for the Red Range tomorrow,” said Balendilín at last. “She’s worried as well.”
“We’ll go too,” decided Tungdil. He gave Balyndis’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Her Majesty will be glad of some company, and it’s a chance for us to recruit any firstlings who want to follow their chieftains to the Gray Range.”
There was a third reason for accompanying Xamtys that he didn’t mention to the others. He wanted to be on hand with Keenfire in case the firstling kingdom was really in danger. The diamond-encrusted blade had proved its worth against Nôd’onn, and he was sure that it would make short work of any threat.
Balyndis looked at him gratefully and gave him a quick kiss while Balendilín wasn’t looking.
“You can’t fool me,” said Boïndil, joining the little group. “You’re worried about something. It’s the Red Range, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” asked Balyndis anxiously.
“It was this, um… It was the thing that fell from the sky.” Boïndil put his tankard to his lips. Dark beer trickled down his beard, mingling with the dust from the journey. “Something happened that night.” His voice was so low that the others could barely hear him through the music and laughter. “Boëndal is my twin; I can tell if he’s in trouble.”