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extinguish
     his inner fires. His eyes, dull and yellowed, flicked back and forth, unable to settle. It seemed to Gandogar that the monarch
     stared straight through him.
    Because of his great age, the high king did without cumbersome mail, his feeble body wrapped in embroidered robes of brown
     fabric. His silvery hair and beard swept the floor and in his lap was the crown that symbolized his office, too heavy for
     him to bear.
    The ceremonial hammer lay beside his throne, its head etched with runes and its handle inlaid with gems and precious metals
     that sparkled in the light of the braziers and lanterns. It seemed doubtful that the monarch could summon the strength to
     lift the heavy relic.
    Gandogar cleared his throat and swallowed his trepidation. “You summoned me as your successor, Your Majesty, and now I stand
     before you,” he said, addressing the high king with the time-honored formula.
    Gundrabur inclined his head as if to speak, but no sound came out.
    “The high king thanks you for following his summons. He knows that the journey was arduous and long,” Balendilín explained
     on the monarch’s behalf. “If the assembly wills it thus, you shall soon wear the crown. I am Gundrabur’s deputy and I will
     speak for the secondlings.” He gestured for Gandogar to take his place at the table.
    Gandogar sat down and Bislipur took up position behind him. The fourthling monarch leaned over to inspect the maps, only to
     realize that some of the delegates were staring at him expectantly. They seemed to be waiting for him to stake his claim more
     roundly, but Bislipur had warned him against showing his hand too soon. His priority was the situation in the north of Girdlegard
     and he was eager to see how his proposal would be received.
    “Where are the nine clans of Borengar’s folk?” he asked, nodding toward the empty seats belonging to the firstlings. “Not
     here?”
    Balendilín shook his head. “No, and we don’t know if they’re coming. We’ve heard nothing from the firstlings for two hundred
     cycles.” He reached for his ax and lowered the blade over the far west of Girdlegard. The dwarves of Borengar’s folk were
     the keepers of the Silver Pass, the defenders of the Red Range against invading troops. The human realm of Queen Wey IV separated
     their kingdom from the rest of Girdlegard. “We know they’re still there, though. According to the merchants of Weyurn, the
     Silver Pass has not been breached.” He laid his ax on the table. “It’s their business if they choose to stay away. We must
     vote without them.”
    The other members of the assembly murmured their assent.
    “King Gandogar, you wish to ascend the throne, but first you must hear of the challenges that await you. The Perished Land
     is creeping through Girdlegard. Every pace of land conquered by Tion’s minions is infected with a terrible force that turns
     nature against itself. Its power is such that even the trees become intent on attacking and killing anything that lives. People
     say that those who perish on this ground return to life without a soul or a will. The dead become enslaved to the dark power
     and join the orcs in slaying their kin.”
    “The Perished Land is advancing?” Gandogar took a deep breath. It was clear from the counselor’s words that the magi had failed
     to stem the tide of evil. “I never trusted the longuns’ magic!” he said heatedly. “All those fancy fireworks and to what end?
     Nudin, Lot-Ionan, Andôkai, and the rest of them are too busy perfecting their magic with their too-clever-by-half apprentices.
     They scribble away in their laboratories and castles, studying the secret of elven immortality so they can scribble and study
     and scribble some more. And all the while the Perished Land is creeping forward like rust on metal that no one has remembered
     to treat.”
    His blunt words met with noisy approval.
    “At least some good has come of it. The elves have been all but