The Revenge of the Dwarves d-3

by Markus Heitz

  Tungdil went over to the map to look at the locations of the village that had been destroyed and the town that had been wiped out. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered. “They are much too far apart to have been attacked by the same group of orcs in such a short space of time. And why attack them but leave villages and farmsteads round about untouched? Orcs will always destroy everything in their path.”

  “Maybe these orcs are different?” interjected Mallen. “Gandogar, didn’t you say that there wasn’t a single death amongst the dwarves when the orcs stole the fourthlings’ stone? Odd, isn’t it?”

  The very moment the blond prince spoke, Tungdil remembered what had struck him as strange in the descriptions of the attacks. Neither the undergroundlings nor the mysterious orcs with the pink eyes had done any killing. The indiscriminate slaughter had only begun when the machine arrived in the lift-hoist before retreating into the galleries and disappearing.

  “Cudgels,” he breathed. “The orcs attacked with cudgels. And the undergroundlings creating that diversion in the Red Range-they injured people but killed no one.” And that was in spite of none of them surviving the battle. Two had previously evaded the queen’s guard and gone off through the body of the mountain. They had all sacrificed themselves for the sake of this robbery. He put his suspicions into words. “Gandogar, we have to find those undergroundlings, alive, to interrogate them.”

  Ireheart saw it the same way. “They are giving their lives to recover their property.”

  “Their property?” chorused Gandogar and Mallen.

  “My word, Ireheart!” Tungdil ran to his friend and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Of course! How could I miss that?” He hit himself on the forehead. “And they call me the Scholar!” he cried. “It should be your name!”

  “You never know!” Ireheart was immensely proud and felt the need to stroke his long black beard but his hand met empty air. He had managed for a time to forget about that loss.

  “They’re after the diamond, because it’s theirs!” Tungdil turned to the prince and to the high king. “Do you remember how we always thought a diamond with all those wonderful facets could only have been cut by dwarf craftsmen?”

  “By Vraccas, we must have been blind!” exclaimed Gandogar, conjuring up the exact image of the diamond in his imagination. His tribe had fashioned the imitation stones and they had needed to apply every ounce of skill to come near to the original. “The eoil had stolen it from the undergroundlings!”

  “And when they found out how powerful an artifact it has become, they wasted no time in trying to get it back. They know very well we’re not likely to surrender it voluntarily,” Tungdil deduced.

  “But what have the orcs got to do with the diamond? Why are they helping the undergroundlings to recover it?”

  “That’s what I was wondering,” grunted Boindil. “There can’t be a pact of any kind between our kind and these beasts.”

  “The undergroundlings must think differently on that score,” Tungdil reminded him. The word pact gave him an idea. “This town and the other place that have been destroyed-do they have anything in common?”

  “Apart from being located near the realms of monsters?” Mallen studied the map. “King Ortger didn’t mention any alliance. I think that many cycles ago, when the trolls ruled Borwol, the town wanted to send out a troop to negotiate with the monsters. It was about mining rights.”

  Tungdil looked at the lines delineating Toboribor. “This village will have paid tribute to the orcs in the old days, surely?”

  “I expect so.” Mallen suppressed a yawn. “Excuse me. I’m really tired and would like to go to bed.”

  “Just one more question,” said Tungdil. “When you faced the monster in Goldensheaf, did you see any elf runes on its armor?”

  “So I’m not the only one with sharp eyes,” said Mallen. He nodded. “I didn’t want to tell anyone before I’d had a chance to speak to Liutasil about it.”

  “Describe them.” Mallen sketched them out for Tungdil on a piece of paper. “I think it means YOUR,” Tungdil said, considering. “Our attackers had HAVE on their wrist protectors.”

  “Perhaps it’s a message that won’t make sense until all the monsters have appeared?” the Idoslane prince mused.

  “… to the elves.” Tungdil was more specific. “The monsters are carrying a message to the elves. Whatever the purpose might be, they want the elves to piece it together bit by bit.”

  “So they see themselves as unstoppable.” Mallen pointed to the doorway. “I’ll ask Ortger if he saw anything. Perhaps we can solve the puzzle, even if it’s not intended for us.” He shook hands with the dwarves, wishing them goodnight, then left the tent.

  “It’s time for me as well,” said Gandogar. “Tungdil, I want you to guard the fifthlings’ stone on its way to the Gray Mountains and Paland. I don’t want to take any more risks. Keenfire will be up to contending with any threats. There’s none better than yourself to be entrusted with the task.”

  Goda and the two male dwarves walked away from the square and were shown to their quarters by one of Bruron’s servants. Ireheart told Goda briefly about what had happened, and instructed her to take the first watch.

  “Master, I am tired…”

  “Yes, I know. You walked, in the sun, carrying baggage.” He dismissed her complaints. “But a warrior girl such as yourself must be ready to ward off an attack after a long march. Your enemies won’t care whether you’ve had a rest or not. They’ll be waiting, come what may.” With a sigh he slipped off his boots and his chain mail shirt, opened the fastenings on his leather jerkin and collapsed on his bed. “That’s your next lesson.”

  “Thank you, master.” She sat down on a chair by the entrance to be able to watch the door and the window at the same time.

  Tungdil lay down under his blanket and thought about the evening’s long discussions. A thousand things went through his head as he searched for explanations more convincing than Isika’s.

  The undergroundlings and the orcs held one key to the events in Girdlegard and the new beasts held the second one. Those keys would shed light on the secrets. Probably they would reveal even greater challenges in store for the homeland.

  “Why did Tiwalun not say anything?” Boindil asked.

  “About the stone?” Tungdil turned to his friend, who was sitting on his own bed and also seemed to be thinking hard; he was watching Goda. “Would it have been better if he had?”

  “Why am I having to keep watch if neither of you is even asleep?” asked Goda in a resentful huff.

  “Don’t worry, Goda. We’ll be quiet soon,” grinned Tungdil. “And as for you, Ireheart, I expect the new elf lord will summon you soon enough.” He turned to face the wall and closed his eyes.

  And then, just before he nodded off, he realized what the connection was between the two ravaged settlements. But by the next morning the recollection had gone.

  Girdlegard,

  Queendom of Weyurn,

  Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

  R odario was woken by a strange noise and was astonished to realize that it was him making the clicking sound himself-faster than a rabbit mating, his teeth were clattering against each other. They could have shredded his tongue to ribbons.

  He opened his eyes. Shaking all over, he threw himself onto his back and struggled up. There was thick fog all around, but bright, as if the sun were about to come up over the horizon.

  He found himself lying on a shingle beach, with waves lapping around his legs and hips, pulling and sucking at him on the gravel, coaxing him back into their waters.

  “Elria, I give you thanks for sparing my life. So you decided you didn’t want an actor in your realm,” Rodario stammered. He got to his feet to walk along the beach and look for help. He assumed he must be on one of the islands he had sailed past the previous night.

  Soon he came across a fisherman’s hut with nets hung out to dry.

  “Anyone awake?” he called out, k
nocking at the door. “Please let me in. I’m catching my death.”

  The door opened a little way. Two sets of curious young eyes peered out at him from the dark interior. Then the smaller girl disappeared. The older sister, maybe eleven cycles, studied him. She was wearing a worn old dress and two aprons. She had greasy short brown hair sticking to her head. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Rodario. My boat capsized.” He could not stop shivering. He was shaking like aspen leaves. “Please, let me come in and dry my clothes by the fire.”

  “Father is out fishing and Mother said we mustn’t let anyone in when she’s off looking for herbs.” The girl considered him. “You’re not a pirate. You’re much too thin.” She opened the door and let him in. “Over there,” she said, pointing to the open fire they cooked on. “I’ll put some more blocks on, but you’ll have to pay-they’re expensive.”

  “Thank you… What’s your name, little one?” he walked past her, striding to the fire in the middle of the hut, relishing its warmth. There was a smell of fish, of smoke and of fat from a cauldron bubbling gently further along. Either they were rendering blubber or making soap. It was a miracle, he thought, wrinkling his sensitive nose, that they could put up with the smell.

  “Flira.” She introduced five siblings and then clambered up a ladder to get blocks of compressed seaweed for the fire. She threw them down to him. “One coin each.”

  Rodario felt on his belt for his day’s takings. He unfastened the purse and threw it over to the girl. “Keep it. You need it more than me.” He piled the seaweed blocks on and enjoyed the heat they gave.

  With a suspicious look she opened the purse and counted. “That’s seven! Thank you. May Elria bless you.”

  “She already has,” he grinned, stretching out his hands to the flames. “I survived that huge damn wave. But my boat didn’t.”

  Flira’s eyes widened. “Another one? When?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Some time ago.” Then he understood why she was asking: she would be scared for her father. “Do these waves happen often?” He pulled off his shirt and flapped the legs of his breeches about to dry better. He did not want to take them off in front of the children.

  “Father says they never used to. Not till the earthquake and the flood, that’s when he says the lake got so treacherous-as dangerous as any monster in Tion’s dreams, he calls it.” Flira sat down and passed him a cup of hot tea. “They keep coming, and out of nowhere. Seven fishing boats have been lost just from here. He says other islands have fared even worse.”

  Her brother, called Ormardin, came over. The light in his eyes told the impresario that the young boy was fascinated by the occurrences on the lake. “Tell him about the alfar Nightmare Island.”

  Flira cuffed the back of his head. “Who said you could come and talk with the grown-ups? Tell him yourself.”

  “A nightmare island? Sounds intriguing!” laughed Rodario. “I’m all ears, Ormardin.” He sipped his tea and waited to hear what fairy story the boy would serve up.

  Ormardin grinned and began.

  “Five cycles ago, just before the Judgment Star rose in the sky, a band of alfar was abroad in Girdlegard, sent out by the unslayable siblings to look for a new and safer base.

  They came to Weyurn and traveled through our homeland on a ship they’d made out of the skeletons and skins of humans and elves.

  They looked at island after island-solid ones and floating ones. Nobody saw what they were up to and any unfortunate fishermen they met on the high seas got killed. And eaten.

  One night the alfar landed on a wonderful island that awoke their curiosity. They saw it had mountains and caves where they could hide.

  They slaughtered all the inhabitants and took the island over, dragging the corpses to the caves, where they skinned them and removed the bones.

  They were about to set up a spit to roast their kill, when one of them stuck his lance in the ground. It penetrated the island’s crust. Water shot up and flooded the caves.

  The island sank down into the depths, together with the alfar. That’s how it escaped the effect of the Star of Judgment, whose power could not reach the bottom of Weyurn’s lakes.

  But Elria did not let them die. They were to do penance for the evil they had wreaked on the people of Weyurn. She granted the alfar everlasting life and condemned them to eternal exile on the island.

  Sometimes, when the stars are favorable, the alfar are allowed up to the surface with their island, so that they may see the night. It’s said they will not die until they have covered the walls of every cave and grotto with paintings.

  Anyone surviving the huge wave they bring and unwise enough to set foot on their island, gets eaten by the starving alfar, their skin is torn off and their blood used for cave-paintings.”

  Ormardin fell silent and looked at Rodario, his cheeks scarlet. “Did you like my story?”

  The showman applauded. “Young friend, I bow to your talent. If your parents don’t have another trade in mind, you’ll be the best storyteller in Weyurn one day. I would bet my daily theater takings on that.”

  “You’re an actor?” The boy couldn’t believe his luck.

  “Oh yes, I’m the Incredible Rodario, the Emperor of Actors and Showmen in all of Girdlegard,” he boasted in his normal patter. “I have the good fortune to lead my own company, the Curiosum, the best in the world. If it were nearer, I would invite you to see it, young man.” He ruffled the boy’s short brown hair.

  Ormardin stood tall. Praise from the mouth of such a master meant a great deal to him.

  The door opened and, silhouetted against the light, Rodario saw the figure of a long-haired woman carrying a basket. “Who are you?” she asked, in obvious agitation. “Get away from the children!”

  Rodario took her point. “Don’t be afraid, good woman.”

  “It’s the Incredible Rodario. He’s an actor. And he’s washed up,” said Ormardin at once, jumping up and embracing his mother, full of delight. “I told him the Nightmare Island story and he said I’ve got talent!”

  “Has he been giving you big ideas?” She came in, shutting the door behind her.

  Rodario saw a woman slightly older than himself, in simple linen clothing. Fishermen, it seemed, weren’t doing too well in Weyurn. “My greetings,” he said, then remembered he was not wearing a shirt. “Forgive my appearance, but my clothes were wet.”

  She soon calmed down, realizing he presented no danger to the children, herself, or what they owned. A nearly naked body couldn’t conceal anything, neither a weapon, nor stolen goods.

  “I am Talena.” She placed her basket on the table. “I’m sorry I was unfriendly.”

  He waved away her apology. “But of course. I quite understand.”

  “He gave me money!” said Flira, handing the purse to her mother.

  “That was for the fuel for the fire.” Rodario smiled at her. “Can you tell me how I get off this island? I have to go to Mifurdania.”

  “If you go over the dunes and follow the path to the right you’ll get to Stillwater, a little fishing village. You’ll find someone there to take you.” Talena took the herbs out of her basket and rinsed them in a bowl of water. “Did you really enjoy my son’s story?”

  “Very much,” Rodario confirmed, giving Ormardin a wink. “And I was quite serious about his talent. I know a few storytellers who might be glad to have a gifted pupil like him.”

  “Oh please, mother. Flira will do the fishing when she grows up,” begged the boy.

  “No, I shan’t,” came the answer, quick as a flash.

  Talena turned round. “Quiet, you two. See what your father says.” She looked at Rodario. “You’d better get on your way now. Mendar will be taking his sloop over to Mifurdania around midday. He takes seliti-oysters over to the market. Tell Mendar I sent you and he won’t charge.”

  “Talena, thank you.” He pulled his shirt down from the rack and put it on. “Perhaps we will meet again,” he said to Ormardi
n, crouching down in front of the young boy. “Have you got something to write with? I’ll give you the names of some famous storytellers.”

  The boy nodded and went off to find a piece of slate and some chalk. Rodario wrote the names of two celebrated narrators and the kingdoms they lived in. “But you’ll have to ask around because they’re usually touring. You’ll find them all right.”

  He ruffled the boy’s hair again. “Palandiell will help you, Ormardin.”

  Talena gave him some bread and dried fish. “For the journey,” she said. In her eyes he could read that her son would never have the opportunity to leave the island. It was his lot in life to become a fisherman like his father, and his father and grandfather before him. “Elria be with you.”

  She went with him to the door and pointed to the fog-bound dunes. He had only gone three paces before he heard the door close again.

  The white veils of mist that enveloped him tasted sweetly of salt and sand. Rodario strode up the sand dunes and found the path Talena had described. On the way he ate some of the food she had given him; the fish had a fine aroma of smoke and salty herbs.

  As the mist lifted, Rodario saw a flat, bare island with scarcely any trees, but plenty of small shrubs and grassland where sheep were grazing. The summer sun began to dry even his shoes.

  He was taken with that saga of the island. What if it were true? Had that been how his barge had capsized? Or had the vessel run aground and then been dragged down, her back broken from the rocks?

  At least, thanks to Ormardin, he had a possible explanation for the loss of the barge, even if the idea was worrying. A lost colony of alfar that could not be pursued. It could become a breeding ground for terrible dangers for Girdlegard.

  Rodario found the village easily and the fisherman was soon located. He was told to squat in the bow with the extra sails, where a sailor sat mending holes in the canvas.

  The craft set sail, cutting swiftly through the water toward the port.

  Rodario dozed a little, then sat watching the sailors at work. His thoughts were wandering, and instead of the men on deck he saw Ormardin in his mind’s eye. How sad that this talented child would not enjoy a better life.