"Let's see how His Majesty fared in the forge," said a sweat-drenched Tungdil, preparing to strike. The blade, still glowing with heat, traced an orange semicircle through the gloom of the hall, hitting its target in a shower of sparks. The ax withstood the blow.

"Better than you thought," retorted Gandogar. He struck the shield with equal force and the blade held true.

They dealt six further blows apiece, but on the eighth strike Tungdil heard a faint crack when Gandogar's ax hit the shield. He knew the next blow would be its last. "Take a look at this," he called to the king. The blade fractured, shattering into countless shards. Panting, Tungdil threw the haft to the floor and fumbled for his water pouch.

A murmur went through the watching crowd. The fourthling king tensed his muscles, summoning all his strength for the final blow. The shield groaned and shuddered, but the blade survived the strike.

"Hurrah for the smith!" boomed Boпndil. "Two-one to Tungdil. It was the singing that did it. Even the poorest metal can't resist a good tune."

Gandogar laid down his ax in order to shake his opponent's hand. "I didn't think anyone could forge such a fine blade from such woefully inadequate metal. You are the undisputed master of the forge-but I shall be king of the dwarves. The next victory will be mine."

"We'll see about that."

Already Balendilнn was unfolding the next piece of paper. There was no time for the dwarves to catch their breath. "The fourth challenge will be a race. Each candidate will be given a tankard of molten gold and must carry it to the end of the first meadow and back before proceeding to the gates. In addition to your chain mail, you will be given a pack weighing precisely forty pounds. The first to return with a full tankard wins the task."

To ensure that both competitors ran the full distance with their tankards, Balendilнn dispatched a pair of dwarves to the meadow and another to the gates.

This is my kind of task, thought Tungdil, hefting the knapsack to his shoulders. He was accustomed to the heat of the forge and as for carrying gold, it was more a privilege than a burden. Even the thought of racing with a forty-pound knapsack didn't deter him: He had walked hundreds of miles across Girdlegard with two heavy packs.

They were handed their tankards, thick-rimmed glass vessels with a thin layer of pewter plating. The contents had been heated to several hundred degrees and would sear through the flesh on contact with the skin. There was an obvious risk of serious injury; even the steam rising from the molten metal was treacherously hot.

"Go!" shouted Balendilнn. With that, the race was underway.

Gandogar surged forward, barely glancing at his tankard as he focused on his course. Tungdil took the opposite approach, feasting his eyes on the pool of liquid sunshine. He had marched for enough miles to have faith in his footing.

Soon the king was in the lead and had vanished from the hall. Tungdil followed leisurely. Balendilнn had said that the task would be won by the first to return with a full tankard. He would rather take his time and bring back his quota than waste any of the precious gold. He even stopped and set down his tankard occasionally to give his calloused smith's hands a chance to recover from the heat.

He had almost reached the valley when Gandogar raced past in the opposite direction.

"You'd better hurry if you want to beat me, Tungdil," he shouted. There was an unmistakable whiff of scorched skin, but the king kept going regardless, content to let his fingers suffer. As far as Tungdil could tell, not a drop of gold had been spilled.

He stopped in the meadow, gave his hand a quick rest, and set off in hot pursuit. I shouldn't have counted on Gandogar making a mistake, he admonished himself.

It wasn't long before his hand began to shake. He was feeling the effects of the duel and the metalworking contest, but no amount of self-pity was going to help him win the task. He was just approaching the gates when Gandogar ran past, sweating and cursing, on his homeward leg. The fourthling smiled cockily at Tungdil, his tankard still full.

"We're even now! One last challenge and victory will be mine," he vowed.

That was enough to revive Tungdil's competitive spirit, and he hurried after Gandogar, determined to pass him as quickly as he could.

Just then a small creature darted into the passageway and collided with his legs. Tungdil stumbled and caught himself. "What in the name of Vraccas…"

The molten gold was swirling dangerously, ready to spill over the edge, but Tungdil had no intention of releasing his grip. A golden wave slopped over the side and splashed onto his skin. The pain was excruciating, but he gritted his teeth and continued without so much as a curse. His eyes scanned the passageway furiously, but the offending creature was gone.

Owing to the mishap, he reached the hall in second place and without his full quota of gold. He had lost by either reckoning. But Gandogar's victory had not been won without sacrifice and his poor scalded hands were being treated with ice and water by a nurse.

This time it fell to Tungdil to congratulate his rival. He refrained from shaking his hand out of consideration for his burns. "Well, you kept your promise this time," he said, immersing his own tender skin in the ice-cold water.

"Don't worry, I intend to keep all my promises," Gandogar informed him, turning quickly away.

Tungdil held up his hand to inspect the damage. The gold had solidified, leaving a permanent coin-sized patch on his skin.

The golden stain made his right hand glisten in the light of the coal lamps, catching Boпndil's eye. "Take a look at that, brother."

"Tungdil Goldhand! That's what we'll call him," said Boлndal. "I hope he likes it. I reckon it suits him well."

"It's a darned sight better than Bolofar," his twin agreed.

"Attention, delegates," called Balendilнn. "The score stands at two all, so we must progress to the fifth and final challenge, on which the choice of successor and the future of the dwarven folks shall rest." He instructed the rivals to note down a maximum of four tasks.

It has to be something I can definitely win… Tungdil thought for a moment, then grinned. Of course! The perfect task had occurred to him in the nick of time.

Each slip of paper was folded in the same fashion and placed in a leather pouch held open by Balendilнn. The counselor pulled the drawstrings, gave the bag a good shake, and paced along the row of dwarves, stopping in front of Bislipur.

"Once the task has been drawn, there can be no complaints about the fairness of the choice. Bislipur, my friend, I should like you to pick the challenge." He held the pouch toward him.

The thick-set dwarf seized the bag without any pretense at politeness. He fixed the counselor with a stony glare.

Without looking down, he reached inside the bag, swept the bottom, and came up with a slip of paper. He was about to unfold it when the parchment slipped out of his fingers and fell back into the pouch. His hand plunged after it and he thrust the note wordlessly toward Balendilнn.

"No," said the referee. "You picked the task; you read it."

Bislipur shifted his gaze from the counselor's face to the note. He unfolded the paper and scanned its contents. "Oh," he said breezily, "that's not the one I drew first." He reached inside the bag again.

"Rules are rules." Balendilнn snatched the pouch away. "You made your choice; now read out the challenge."

Bislipur's jaw was clenched as if to hold back the challenge and prevent it from reaching the delegates' ears. He took a deep breath, hesitating for so long that Tungdil began to hope.

"The fifth and final task is an expedition," he announced, his voice trembling with rage. "The candidates are challenged to journey to the Gray Range and return with Keenfire. The winner will wield the ax against Nфd'onn."