His father’s house was exactly the same as Drugar’s house, which was exactly the same as every other dwarven house in Thurn. The tree’s wood had been smoothed and polished to a warm, yellowish color. The floor was flat, the wails rising to an arched ceiling. It was plainly furnished. Being king gave his father no special privileges, only additional responsibility. The king was the One Dwarf’s head and the head, though it thinks for the body, certainly isn’t any more important to the body than, say, the heart or (most important to many dwarves) the stomach.
Drugar found his father sitting at his meal, the half-full plates shoved aside. In his hand he held a piece of bark whose smooth side was thickly covered with the strong, angular letters of the dwarven language.
“What is the news. Father?”
“The giants are coming,” said the old dwarf. “The scouts have watched them. The giants wiped out Kasnar-the people, the cities, everything. And they are coming this way.”
“Perhaps,” said Drugar, “they will be stopped by the sea.”
“They will stop at the sea, but not for long,” said the old dwarf. “They are not skilled with tools, say the scouts. What tools they use, they use to destroy, not to create. It will not occur to them to build ships. But they will go around, come by land.”
“Maybe they will turn back. Maybe all they wanted was to take over Kasnar.”
His words were spoken from hope, not belief. And once the words left his lips he knew even his hope was false.
“They did not take over Kasnar,” said his father, with a heavy sigh. “They destroyed it-utterly. Their aim is not to conquer, but to kill.”
“Then you know what we must do. Father. We must ignore the fools who say that these giants are our brothers! We must fortify our city and arm our people. Listen, Father.” Drugar leaned near, lowering his voice, though the two were the only ones present in the old dwarfs dwelling. “I have contacted a human weapons dealer. Elven railbows, boltarches! They will be ours!”
The old dwarf looked at his son, a flame flickered deep in the eyes that had been dark and lackluster. “That is good!” Reaching across, he laid one gnarled hand on his son’s strong one. “You are quick thinking and daring, Drugar. You will make a good king.” He shook his head, stroked the iron gray beard that flowed almost to his knees. “But I do not believe the weapons will come in time.”
“They had better,” growled Drugar, “or someone will pay!” The dwarf rose to his feet, began pacing the small, dark room built far below the moss surface, as far from the sun as the dwarves could get. “I will call out the army-”
“No,” said the old dwarf.
“Father, you are being stubborn-”
“And you are a khadak!” [21] The old dwarf raised a walking stick, gnarled and twisted as his own limbs, and pointed it at his son. “I said you would make a good king. And so you will. IF you will keep the fire under control! The flame of your thoughts burns dear and rises high, but instead of keeping the fire banked, you let it flare up, blaze out of control!”
Drugar’s face darkened, his thick brows came together. The fire of which his father spoke burned within him, heated scorching words. Drugar fought his temper, the words seared his lips but He kept them inside. He loved and honored his father, though he thought the old man was caving in beneath this terrible blow.
He forced himself to try to speak calmly. “Father, the army-”
“-will turn on itself and fight each other!” the old dwarf said in a quiet voice, “is that what you want, Drugar?”
The old dwarf drew himself up. His height was no longer impressive: the bowed back would not straighten, the legs could no longer support the body without assistance. But Drugar, towering over his father, saw the dignity in the trembling stance, the wisdom in the dimming eyes, and felt himself a child again.
“Half the army will refuse to bear arms against their ‘brothers,’ the giants. And what will you do, Drugar? Order them to go to war? And how will you enforce that order, son? Will you command the other half of the army to pick up arms against their brothers?