Free The Dwarves by Markus Heitz

around Gandogar and Bislipur and keep them from the throne until the last belligerent syllable
     has been squeezed from their lungs.”
    Balendilín helped the king to his feet. He had no faith in the plan succeeding, but he kept his misgivings to himself.
    G andogar was in good spirits when he woke the next morning and was summoned with the other delegates to the great hall. Proceedings
     were about to recommence and he felt confident that the high king would name him as his successor, after which the members
     of the assembly would endorse his choice with their votes. It was as good as decided already.
    Gundrabur’s plea for peace had rankled with him, but he no longer held a grudge. The aged dwarf’s long reign had produced
     nothing worthy of posterity and he was destined to be forgotten before too long. It wasn’t dignified to quarrel with a dying
     king.
    Gandogar entered the hall and sat down, while Bislipur took up position behind him. The pews filled quickly as the chieftains
     and elders filed in.
    A few of the delegates looked at him encouragingly and rapped their ax heads. Far from being threatening, the gesture was
     a sign of support.
    Gandogar noticed an unusual trinket hanging from the neck of a secondling chieftain. He strained his eyes to take a closer
     look. The shriveled trophy was an elven ear worn with obvious pride by the chieftain, who nevertheless tucked it hurriedly
     under his mail as soon as the high king’s arrival was announced. It was still too early for open displays of aggression toward
     a protected race.
    Gundrabur appeared at the door, his sprightly appearance belying rumors of his impending death. Gandogar felt a wave of disappointment
     at seeing the high king in such excellent form, then immediately felt guilty for harboring such dreadful thoughts. He didn’t
     actually want the old chap to die; it was just that Gundrabur’s disapproving speech of the previous orbit had struck a raw
     nerve.
    Tunics of mail creaked and rasped as the delegates went down on one knee to greet the high king. Axes on high, they signaled
     their unwavering devotion and their willingness to live — and die — as he decreed.
    Gundrabur answered by lifting the ceremonial hammer and bringing it down smartly. The delegates were free to rise, which they
     did, amid much clunking of armor.
    Balendilín stepped forward and turned his earnest brown gaze on Gandogar: “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 said ceremoniously.
    Gandogar rose from his seat, pulled his ax from his belt, and laid it on the table. “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. Such was his inner
     turmoil that he failed to notice that Balendilín, not the high king, had taken charge of the proceedings. It occurred to him
     when the counselor cut in before he could continue.
    “King Gandogar, the assembly has heard and noted your claim. A decision will be taken when we have heard the second candidate
     speak. You and he must decide which of the two of you will withdraw. Until then we must wait.”
    “Wait?” bellowed Gandogar, blood rushing to his head. He turned to search the faces of his chieftains, all of whom seemed
     genuinely surprised. “Who was it?” he thundered. “Which of you had the audacity to go behind my back? Step forward and make
     yourself known!” He reached for his ax, but was stayed by Balendilín.
    “You do your kinsfolk an injustice,” said the counselor. “Your rival is not here.” He produced a letter and held it up for
     all to see. “The dwarf in question was separated many cycles ago from his folk. He is mindful of his heritage and has announced
     his return. He lives in Ionandar and is preparing to join us as we speak.”
    “Ionandar?”