"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.

He turned his attention to a couple of lengths of wood. They were as long as his arm and had a gray, almost metallic shimmer to them. The grain was wayward and irregular. What are they? He supposed they could be cudgels. But what would they be doing in the bag? He tossed them carelessly onto the bed.

The maga had written him a note. Furious with her for leaving Girdlegard and for rummaging through his things, he left it unread. Then curiosity got the better of him.

The mystery is solved, or as good as.

You were right: There is a way to defeat Nфd'onn and the books explain how. However, the means are beyond us, which is why I'm leaving Girdlegard for good.

The first book is an account of the Outer Lands that tells of a place called Barrenground, where demonic beings have the power to enter human souls, take possession of them, and invest them with extraordinary power. Men possessed of such demons are driven by an urge to destroy goodness wherever they find it and bend everything to their will.

The second book tells of a race called the undergroundlings who invented a mighty ax to destroy the demonic power.

The blade of this ax must be made of the purest, hardest steel, with diamonds encrusting the bit and an alloy of every known precious metal filling the inlay and the runes. The spurs should be hewn from stone and the haft sculpted from wood of the sigurdaisy tree.

The ax must be forged in a furnace lit with the fiercest of all flames and its name shall be Keenfire.

This is the weapon with the power to slay the demonic spirits. Keenfire can slice through flesh and bone, cutting through the human body to destroy the evil presence within. Any harm that has been done reverts to good.

Regrettably, I was unable to make sense of one passage, which means I cannot vouch for the method's success. The task is as good as hopeless.

All the same, it explains why Nфd'onn is interested in the artifacts. The bag contains two fragments of sigurdaisy wood.

The sigurdaisy is extinct in Girdlegard, but its wood is exceptionally hard, so hard that it can't be worked with ordinary tools. Humans used to believe that the trees were sacred and they burned the wood for its powerful aroma and deep crimson flames. They stopped conducting the rituals when all the trees were gone. I once witnessed a sigurdaisy fire in honor of Palandiell, but that was over a hundred cycles ago.