their devotion that their aching arms and bruised knees barely registered
in their minds.
At last Lorimbas rose, kissed the sacred boots of his ancestor and locked the shrine.
Salfalur lingered for a moment, gazing at the shimmering gold doors. Like all thirdlings, he loved the founder of his kingdom
better than Vraccas, who had forsaken his bold-minded son.
Lorimbur’s crime was to insist on his right to choose his own name. The flint-willed dwarf, who possessed a special measure
of that dwarven quality referred to as obduracy, had argued until he achieved his purpose, but in so doing he displeased the
dwarven god. His brothers each received a talent, but Lorimbur was condemned to mediocrity, and his descendants never fully
mastered the dwarven arts.
Salfalur leaned forward and studied the doors. In his eyes, the inscriptions looked beautiful, but a firstling would compare
the metalwork to the imperfect efforts of a human smith.
They’ll pay for their arrogance
, he vowed darkly, flexing his muscles. He wore heavy vambraces equipped with knives to protect his arms in battle. “What
did you have in mind, Your Majesty?” he asked, bowing his head as he descended backward from the shrine.
The king followed him down the steps and they returned to the marble table to study the map. “We’ll drive a wedge between
them and shatter their alliance,” said the king, reaching for a pitcher and filling their silver tankards with beer. The index
finger of his right hand hovered over the Blacksaddle. “The thirdlings built that stronghold, and I intend to get it back.
It’s ours by right.” He raised his tankard. “To our cousins, for restoring its defenses.” He drank thirstily and replaced
the tankard on the table with a noisy clunk. “Well?” he prompted, eying his silent commander. “What do you say?”
The plan made little sense to Salafur, who didn’t mind airing his concerns. “What use is the stronghold, Your Majesty? If
it’s the tunnels you’re interested in, we’ve got access to them here.”
Lorimbas smiled. “The tunnels… exactly. Remember when we first heard how our stronghold had been taken over by the dwarven
army? I sent our scholars to do some digging in the archives. They came back with some fascinating information about the Blacksaddle.
Our dwarven cousins have no idea.”
Salfalur sipped his beer and looked at the king intently. “They’ve been ensconced in the stronghold for orbits. How can you
be sure?”
“Trust me, faithful warrior, they know nothing. If our cousins had discovered the Blacksaddle’s secret, every dwarf in Girdlegard
would know of it by now. News like this travels fast, and our eyes and ears are everywhere. Our spies tell us everything—and
they’re more subtle than Bislipur.” He handed Salfalur the archivists’ findings: a packet of manuscripts tied with a ribbon
and a stack of engraved tablets.
The commander-in-chief glanced at them briefly and waved his hand dismissively. “They’re in the old tongue,” he snapped. “I
can’t read them.”
Lorimbas stared at Salfalur’s bloodshot left eye, the distinguishing feature of the Red Eye clan, and nodded in satisfaction.
“That’s the beauty of it—hardly anyone can read the ancient script. The Blacksaddle will be in our hands before anyone fathoms
its secret.”
“True,” said Salfalur slowly. He took a deep breath. “But how will we persuade the other folks to leave the stronghold? To
fight them would be—”
“None of our kinsmen will lose their lives.” The king laughed cruelly and leaned back in his chair. “We won’t be doing the
fighting. We’ll get someone to do it for us.”
“Who would fight for the thirdling cause?”
“King Bruron of Gauragar.”
Salfalur’s bushy brown eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “This is worthy of Bislipur,” he said reprovingly. “I thought
we’d agreed that scheming is useless. So far I
in their minds.
At last Lorimbas rose, kissed the sacred boots of his ancestor and locked the shrine.
Salfalur lingered for a moment, gazing at the shimmering gold doors. Like all thirdlings, he loved the founder of his kingdom
better than Vraccas, who had forsaken his bold-minded son.
Lorimbur’s crime was to insist on his right to choose his own name. The flint-willed dwarf, who possessed a special measure
of that dwarven quality referred to as obduracy, had argued until he achieved his purpose, but in so doing he displeased the
dwarven god. His brothers each received a talent, but Lorimbur was condemned to mediocrity, and his descendants never fully
mastered the dwarven arts.
Salfalur leaned forward and studied the doors. In his eyes, the inscriptions looked beautiful, but a firstling would compare
the metalwork to the imperfect efforts of a human smith.
They’ll pay for their arrogance
, he vowed darkly, flexing his muscles. He wore heavy vambraces equipped with knives to protect his arms in battle. “What
did you have in mind, Your Majesty?” he asked, bowing his head as he descended backward from the shrine.
The king followed him down the steps and they returned to the marble table to study the map. “We’ll drive a wedge between
them and shatter their alliance,” said the king, reaching for a pitcher and filling their silver tankards with beer. The index
finger of his right hand hovered over the Blacksaddle. “The thirdlings built that stronghold, and I intend to get it back.
It’s ours by right.” He raised his tankard. “To our cousins, for restoring its defenses.” He drank thirstily and replaced
the tankard on the table with a noisy clunk. “Well?” he prompted, eying his silent commander. “What do you say?”
The plan made little sense to Salafur, who didn’t mind airing his concerns. “What use is the stronghold, Your Majesty? If
it’s the tunnels you’re interested in, we’ve got access to them here.”
Lorimbas smiled. “The tunnels… exactly. Remember when we first heard how our stronghold had been taken over by the dwarven
army? I sent our scholars to do some digging in the archives. They came back with some fascinating information about the Blacksaddle.
Our dwarven cousins have no idea.”
Salfalur sipped his beer and looked at the king intently. “They’ve been ensconced in the stronghold for orbits. How can you
be sure?”
“Trust me, faithful warrior, they know nothing. If our cousins had discovered the Blacksaddle’s secret, every dwarf in Girdlegard
would know of it by now. News like this travels fast, and our eyes and ears are everywhere. Our spies tell us everything—and
they’re more subtle than Bislipur.” He handed Salfalur the archivists’ findings: a packet of manuscripts tied with a ribbon
and a stack of engraved tablets.
The commander-in-chief glanced at them briefly and waved his hand dismissively. “They’re in the old tongue,” he snapped. “I
can’t read them.”
Lorimbas stared at Salfalur’s bloodshot left eye, the distinguishing feature of the Red Eye clan, and nodded in satisfaction.
“That’s the beauty of it—hardly anyone can read the ancient script. The Blacksaddle will be in our hands before anyone fathoms
its secret.”
“True,” said Salfalur slowly. He took a deep breath. “But how will we persuade the other folks to leave the stronghold? To
fight them would be—”
“None of our kinsmen will lose their lives.” The king laughed cruelly and leaned back in his chair. “We won’t be doing the
fighting. We’ll get someone to do it for us.”
“Who would fight for the thirdling cause?”
“King Bruron of Gauragar.”
Salfalur’s bushy brown eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “This is worthy of Bislipur,” he said reprovingly. “I thought
we’d agreed that scheming is useless. So far I
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