Another day, another Council meeting, and Isadora was once again unfortunately bored. She had settled into her new responsibilities fairly well but the meetings she were still finding tiresome. However, the next point on the agenda was sure to pique her interest; sure to grab the attention of all around the table.
"We have received word from the Low King of the Dwarves," Cornelius said, turning over one of the sheaves of parchment in front of him. "He writes to congratulate King Caspian on both his coronation and his success in the North and wishes to arrange a date suitable for a party of dwarves to visit Beaversdam to pay homage to the royal court."
"Oh, by the Mane!" Trumpkin exclaimed loudly. "Don't agree to it!"
They all stared at him. He turned an interesting red colour and reached for his tankard.
"Why did you call him a king?" Isadora asked after the pause. "I thought Caspian, as King of Narnia, is also king of the dwarves."
"He is," Trumpkin said. "The Low King is the closest translation of the Dwarfish word into the Common Tongue that we can manage. He's more like a governor or a judge anyway; it's an elected position, not hereditary."
"If I might?" Cornelius said and then made a noise that sounded like he was gargling a mouthful of gravel. Trumpkin toasted him.
"Not bad," he said. "The good doctor could use a little more khzumkf in his ghark but that's approximately the word in Dwarfish. Would you rather use that or Low King?"
"Low King," the humans around the table muttered.
"Make all the arrangements, would you, Cornelius?" Caspian said.
"Not a wise idea, your Majesty," the old tutor said. "On account of my human father. Pure-blooded dwarves look on half-breeds like myself with a great deal of prejudice and they don't look too kindly to most humans either."
"Aye, that's true," Trumpkin agreed. "The Elder families won't look kindly on a teuchach trying to speak on behalf of the King."
Cornelius had flinched slightly as the dwarf had said teuchach, Isadora had noticed. Clearly it was not a nice word. She had never considered the Narnians having their own languages. The Telmarines had once spoken another language, the Old Tongue, but that was long dead and now only existed in their oldest books and records. Most countries spoke in the Common Tongue; Narnia, Archenland, most of the islands, and the near-side of Calormen. The Seven Isles spoke an odd language called Sevenese and she knew there was some sort of Calormene language spoken deep in the deserts beyond Tashbaan. Obviously, some of the different races within Narnia also had their own tongues to speak in.
Trumpkin was examining Caspian closely. "How quickly can you grow a beard?"
"Will that help?" Caspian asked.
Trumpkin nodded.
Caspian sighed and rubbed a hand across his currently shaven chin. Isadora smirked and tried to hide it behind her hand. The idea of a bearded Caspian was hilarious to her.
"Trumpkin, would you please make all the necessary arrangements then?" Caspian said.
The Red Dwarf pulled a face but nodded. As the Council moved on to the next item on the agenda, he downed the contents of his tankard and went to fill it again.
He went through another three before the meeting was out. Caspian watched him carefully as they moved through all the matters. He looked ever more surly than usual and his face was slowly changing colour with every minute that passed. As the meeting came to an end, he look decidedly green.
"Trumpkin, a word," Caspian said as everyone prepared to leave. Isadora paused on her way out but he shook his head and she took the cue to leave.
When everyone had left, the King attempted to fix a regal eye upon his dwarfish subject.
"Is there some reason why you can't arrange this meeting with the court and your dwarfish brothers?" he said slowly.
Trumpkin sighed and sat back in his seat. Grumbling to himself immensely, he placed each of his feet quite deliberately on the Council table and drained his goblet again.
"Does the name of Iceguard mean anything to you, sire?" he asked.
"No, should it?"
"Just checking. It is the Common Tongue translation of one of the great Dwarfish Families; mine is Stonefist," Trumpkin explained. "The Low King is an Iceguard. His personal name is Njálabrik."
Caspian paled. "Like Nikabrik?" he said, remembering the sly Black Dwarf who had betrayed them during the revolution.
"He was Njáll's cousin and heir to the Iceguard family. I imagine by now that word of Nikabrik's death has made its way back to the Deep Chasm," Trumpkin said. "And since we were both instrumental in his death I wonder how chatty Njáll is feeling."
"You seem like you are on good terms with him though," Caspian said. "Surely if you explain that you were halting the return of an ancient evil-"
"The Iceguards are Black Dwarves and while they submit to Aslan, they have always held sympathies with the Dark Narnians who were driven out after the Great Thaw," the dwarf told him. "I don't know how Njáll will respond to any communications from me."
"What are you not telling me?" Caspian sighed. Trumpkin looked uncomfortable.
"I was betrothed to Njáll's sister. I broke off the engagement shortly before I met you," he admitted.
Caspian sighed again and rubbed his eyes. "Is it wise that you act as our ambassador in this situation then?" he asked.
"I'll send a bird off and we'll wait to get a reply," Trumpkin said gruffly. "I need to face them sometime anyway."
"Why did you break off the betrothal?" Caspian asked after a moment's silence. "Did you not like her?"
"No, sire," Trumpkin chuckled. His face uncharacteristically softened. "I never deserved Tórví."
"Is she beautiful?"
"Aye, as beautiful as the sunlight through a vein of quartz," Trumpkin said, his eyes distant. "Sorry, dwarfish metaphors must seem odd to humans."
"Well, I have every faith in you to fix things," Caspian said. "I can trust you, can't I?"
"Of course," Trumpkin promised. As he said good night to Caspian and began the walk back to his rooms, his mind turned to the night they had met. It had only been a short time since he had ran from the Deep Chasm, the ancestral home of the Dwarves, and from all the whispers he had heard…
"Thanks for letting me stay," he said gruffly.
"Aye, I still don't know why I'm letting you," Trufflehunter sniffed. "Poor Lady Tórví. She's too sweet a girl to be treated so."
The badger slid a chopping board and a knife across his table. "There's potatoes in that sack next to you," he said. "Peel some and I'll make soup this evening."
Trumpkin dug in the sack beside him and drew out a few potatoes. However, he pushed aside Trufflehunter's knife in favour of his own little dagger. As he began to peel the potatoes, he watched Trufflehunter slowly pull a pot across his home and position it over the fire.
"Yes… potato soup," the badger muttered to himself. "We'll use Mam's recipe… and those leeks Hywel brought the other week need using."
He sat down with an armful of leeks and began to chop them.
"So," he said eventually. "Why did you leave so abruptly? I doubt you said anything to Tórví before you left."
Trumpkin paused. "No, I didn't," he said. "And out of everything in this mess, it is she that I am most sad to lose. I never deserved her."
"So why leave? I never put you down for one with cold feet," his friend said, now inspecting a bunch of carrots.
"It wasn't due to cold feet," Trumpkin replied and hesitated again. Should he tell Trufflehunter? He did not even have any definitive proof, only rumour. The whole thing was just one big Dwarfish mess anyway. Dragging Talking Beasts and the other Narnian races into the mix was surely only going to complicate the matter. However, he did desperately want some advice.
"There is a rumour floating around the Deep Chasm," he said slowly, "that some of the Black Dwarfs have been trying to contact a hag."
Trufflehunter snorted. "So what? The Black Dwarfs have had dealing with the Dark Narnians for centuries! This is nothing new," he said.
"Yes," Trumpkin agreed, "except this hag claims she has the remnants of Jadis' wand. She also claims she knows a way to bring the Witch back."
Trufflehunter gasped and stared at Trumpkin in horror. "No! Surely not?"
The dwarf nodded solemnly. "Now, I doubt Tórví would get herself mixed up in any business like that but her family… well, their ancestor Ginnarbrik was the personal servant of the Witch herself after all."
"You don't think…" Trufflehunter stammered. "No, you surely don't think Nikabrik is somehow mixed up in this? Or worse, Njálabrik? I thought he'd just been elected Low King!"
"If Njáll was, I imagine he's pulled out. He worked far too hard to be elected to throw it all away on a myth," Trumpkin noted, slumping back on his chair. "But Nikabrik? He's not the dwarf you once knew, Truffs. His father's death hit him hard and I think he's hurt that our people chose his younger cousin over him as the Low King."
"But… but this is all a rumour, yes?" the badger asked, blinking rapidly.
"I've got no proof," Trumpkin confirmed. "That's why I left; to find some. There's apparently a half-breed that's managed to wiggle his way into the Telmarine court as a tutor or something. I've made contact with him and he's done some research on whether there is such a ritual to bring Jadis back to life. I'm on my way to meet him now."
Trufflehunter leapt to his feet.
"Don't be a fool!" he snapped, his eyes blazing. "You are going to go try to go there? To that castle? What if the Telmarines catch you? No, there is no if about it; they will catch you! You are no use to the Narnians dead, Trumpkin!"
"I dare not go to Glenstorm or Asterius without proof! Aslan save us, do I even go to Asterius?" Trumpkin spat back. "If this whole plot is not merely a fabrication then for all we know the Minotaurs could be caught up in it too! Then we'll be back where we were in the Hundred Year Winter, them on one side with the Witch and us on the other with Aslan; only this time there will be Telmarines caught in the middle too!"
Trufflehunter's eyes suddenly widened and he fell back down on his stool with a thump.
"That's exactly it," he murmured. "Don't you see? Something wants to drive us apart. Something wants to set the Narnians fighting amongst themselves."
Trumpkin paused and laid his knife and the half-peeled potato down on the table.
"You think?" he asked. "Who do you think it could be? The Witch?"
"No. Her end-goal would be a resurrection and she has followers more loyal than the Black Dwarfs she could turn to for that," Trufflehunter said, raising a paw up to stroke his snout. He often adopted that gesture whilst thinking and Trumpkin stayed silent for a moment; allowing his friend to quickly tread through his paths of thought.
"Someone wants us scattered and alone," the badger said eventually. "Someone desperately wants to set us wrangling amongst ourselves in such a way that has never been seen since before the Golden Age. But why? And, more importantly, whom?"
They both jumped as someone banged on Trufflehunter's front door.
"Now, who could that possibly be at this time of night?" the badger muttered.
As he waddled towards the door, Trumpkin reached down under the table and slowly drew his sword from its sheath.
He relaxed slightly as he heard a familiar voice. Well, maybe not relaxed exactly.
"Evening, Trufflehunter. Is Trumpkin here?"
"Aye, he is. You better come in."
Trufflehunter shuffled back down the stairs followed by a certain Black Dwarf.
"Trumpkin," he said as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
"Nikabrik," Trumpkin replied. The Black Dwarf stuck his thumbs into his waistcoat and glanced around Trufflehunter's home as if expecting an assailant to come leaping out from some shadow.
"Tórví is distraught," he said, taking the seat Trufflehunter indicated. "She has not left her rooms all day."
Trumpkin looked down at his lap. "You will give her my sincerest apologies, won't you?" he said miserably.
"No, I won't," Nikabrik replied, "because you are coming back with me."
Trumpkin was forever a little confused about what exactly transpired next. Words were exchanged, some more heated than others, and both dwarfs had leapt to their feet in anger, when suddenly, Trumpkin found himself floundering under the sack of potatoes and Nikabrik was sprawled on the floor with his head underneath Trufflehunter.
"Are you both going to behave now?" he growled at the pair of them. They nodded meekly (or, at least, Trumpkin nodded and Nikabrik made a small mewl of agreement from beneath Trufflehunter's rump). "No respect," the badger muttered as he climbed off the Black Dwarf. "Come into my home, my home, and behave like it is some dark tavern in the depths of the Deep Chasm!"
The dwarves took an uneasy seat at the table once more.
"You two were going to be kin!" the badger snapped at them, leaning his paws on the table. "Act like it!"
Nikabrik turned back to Trumpkin with veiled irritation in his eyes but a clear desire to speak openly.
"Are you going to come back?" he asked.
"There are things that require my attention first," Trumpkin said. Including whether or not you are involved with a plot to resurrect one of the greatest enemies we have ever known, he thought.
"Why now? Why not wait until after the wedding?"
"They require my attention urgently. Tórví will understand."
"She'll chop your head off herself the second you step foot back in the Chasm. You have made a mockery of her and our family. The Iceguards aren't accustomed to being embarrassed – especially by a pathetic little-"
Nikabrik found himself interrupted and all three froze as there came a great crash and a thunder of hooves from outside the house.
"By the Mane, what was that?" Trufflehunter breathed.
"We'll go check," Trumpkin said. He and Nikabrik crept towards the door and opened it. Just outside in a pile of leaves lay a young Telmarine soldier. His eyes fluttered rapidly but they locked onto the two dwarves hiding in the shadows of the doorway. Nikabrik hit Trumpkin quickly.
"He's seen us!" he hissed.
Trumpkin ran the few steps between the door and the boy, drawing his sword as he did so. Then the moonlight caught off something white and he hesitated. There, lying in the leaves between him and the Telmarine, was a horn. A horn Trumpkin had seen only in pictures; the white horn of Queen Susan the Gentle. He glanced up at the boy, noted his gaze turn to panic as those who had been pursuing him crashed towards the small hollow, and turned back to Nikabrik still skulking in the doorway of Trufflehunter's house.
"Take care of him," he called and ran towards the Telmarines on horseback.
Legend said the horn of Queen Susan could recall her and her royal siblings. If anybody could help them stand against this hidden foe, surely it would be the Kings and Queens of Old.
Enough hiding in the shadows; the Narnians were going to rise again.
Thank you to Wildhorses1492, AStarElvenLight2, and TortoisetheStoryteller for your reviews last chapter.
The title of Low King for leader of the dwarves has been shamelessly borrowed from the Discworld series by Sir Terry Pratchett; one of my personal favourite series that I can quote from endlessly.
If you are interested in pronunciations:
Njáll is supposed to be pronounced the same as Niall but in my head it is more N-Yall.
Tórví is pronounced Torvee.
I am also about to go away for a few weeks during which I will not be able to upload a new chapter until I get back in July. So, hold tight, and when I return we shall introduce some dwarves! Trumpkin can't run forever! :P
