Free The Dwarves by Markus Heitz Page A

Gandogar exclaimed incredulously. “Vraccas forgive me, but what kind of dwarf lives with sorcerers?” He drew himself
     up. “Is this some kind of joke? A stranger writes a letter that you accept without question and now the ceremony must be delayed.
     What name does he go by?”
    “His name is of no account. He was raised as a foundling and named by humans. But the items discovered with him show him to
     be a member of your folk.”
    “Hogwash!” Gandogar retorted angrily. “The letter is a fake!”
    “And what of the document purporting to tell the truth about the elves?” Balendilín said sternly, one hand resting lightly
     on his belt.
    “Silence, both of you!” The high king levered himself from his throne. “King Gandogar, do you presume to call my counselor
     a liar?” The old dwarf was powerful and majestic in his fury, his words thundering through the lofty hall. The fourthling
     monarch sounded shrill and petty as a fishwife by comparison. “You will abide by my decision. When the candidate arrives,
     the fourthling chieftains will decide which of you will make the better king.”
    Gandogar pointed to his retinue. “Why the delay? Ask the chieftains now and you shall hear whom they elect. Their minds are
     made up. How could a stranger —”
    The high king raised a wizened hand. “No.” He waved toward the engraved stelae. “We will follow the law as it was given to
     us by our forefathers. What they ordained will be fulfilled.”
    The silence that descended on the vast hall was by no means uniform in quality. For the most part it was born of astonishment,
     but in a number of cases it was prompted by helplessness and rage. There was no choice but to wait for the audacious stranger
     to appear.
    Gandogar sat down heavily and pulled his ax across the table toward him. The blade left a deep white gouge in the polished
     stone, scarring the surface over which the masons had toiled so long.
    “So be it,” he said coolly. He dared not risk a longer speech for fear that he would say something he might regret. Turning,
     he cast an abject glance at Bislipur, who seemed a model of composure, but whose unruffled expression Gandogar could read.
     His adviser was already turning over the situation in his mind, searching for a solution. Bislipur could be relied on to be
     resourceful.
    “The journey from Ionandar will take weeks. How are we supposed to occupy ourselves until the dwarf arrives?” asked Gandogar,
     eyes fixed on the sparkling diamonds on his armor. “What makes you think that our aspiring high king will find us?”
    “Or that he’ll make it here alive,” added Bislipur.
    “We’ll have plenty to discuss in the meantime,” said Balendilín. “The assembly will turn to matters of imminent importance
     for our clans.” He smiled. “But your concern is touching. Rest assured that the dwarf will get here safely. We’ve sent an
     escort.”
    “In that case we should send one too,” Bislipur insisted with forced benevolence. “The fourthlings are always happy to look
     after their own. Where should we send our warriors?”
    “Your offer is most generous, but unnecessary. The dwarf will be a guest of the high king, so the high king has sent warriors
     of his own,” Balendilín said diplomatically. “Given the stormy start to the proceedings, I suggest we take a break and cool
     our tempers with a keg of dark ale.” He raised his ax and rapped the poll twice against the table. The clear ring of metal
     on stone sang through the air and echoed through the corridors.
    At once barrels of dark roasted barley malt were rolled into the hall, and in no time the delegates were raising their drinking
     horns to the reigning high king and his successor, who most assumed would be Gandogar.
    Bislipur laid his hand on his monarch’s shoulder. “Patience, Your Majesty. Let us honor our forefathers by satisfying every
     requirement they name. It’s important we don’t give anyone the