by Markus Heitz
The elf maiden avoided his eyes.
Mallen let go of the dead man’s hand. “Did I see elf runes on the armor?”
“You are mistaken.”
Contrary to all rules of respect and courtly conduct he took fast hold of her arm and gently forced her to look him in the eyes. “Rejalin! What do you know?”
“Nothing,” she said harshly, pulling free. “I was too far away to be able to recognize anything about the creature.”
“You are lying. Your eyes—”
“You dare to accuse me, Rejalin of landur, of speaking an untruth?” She sprang to her feet. “I should have known better. You are an uncultured yokel, no better than any other human I have ever met,” she said with disdain. “I fear your realm must undergo intense scrutiny before it can be judged worthy to receive the gifts of our knowledge.”
It seemed to Mallen that a mask concealing the elf’s real nature had fallen from her countenance; her anger revealed her true attitude toward himself and his kind. The admiration he had been feeling for her started to ebb away. “One of the diamonds has been stolen, but this is all you can think of now?”
“It is one of fourteen.”
“It is the second of fourteen,” Mallen corrected, standing up. “Rejalin, you will tell me what you…”
Rejalin turned on her heel and went over to King Nate.
The prince started to follow her but was prevented by the two guests dressed as orcs. “Rejalin has no wish to continue speaking to you, Prince Mallen of Idoslane,” came the voice from behind the papier-mâché. The man lifted his hand to remove the mask; the face underneath was that of an elf. It bore a smile, but a cool one. “She prefers to attend to the care of her host and to see what the elves’ knowledge of healing can do to aid him.”
“This is knowledge which you have yet to earn. Go and seek the diamond,” said the other elf, slipping in his turn out of his disguise. “We shall inform you when Rejalin wishes to speak to you about what has occurred.”
Mallen pushed them to one side, but they overtook him and barred his way. He stopped short and was about to raise his sword arm in earnest when he recalled the words spoken so recently by the king. Harmony; the peoples united. “Tell Rejalin that I expect an explanation and that I shall inform all the other royal houses of Girdlegard about this event and the strange attitude an elf woman displayed. If she won’t speak to me she will have to account for herself when her own ruler, Prince Liútasil of landur, commands it.”
“Certainly, Prince Mallen,” the elf on the right nodded superciliously. “We shall pass on your words.”
Mallen sheathed his sword, called some of his soldiers and gave the order for them to carry the body of his friend out of the ballroom.
As they laid him on a stretcher and bore him away up the steps, a thought occurred: Alvaro had been touched on the head by the monster’s hand—not on the neck where the deadly wound had been. While all were blinded by the flash no one had been near him. No one save the elf woman.
An incredible idea came to him. Mallen stopped on the dais and turned to Rejalin, who was attending to the king. Was she exacting revenge for his insults, he wondered, or was Alavaro too close to the truth in what he said today at the feast?
The unique beauty of the elf woman had disappeared completely. From now on Mallen resolved to treat her with the strongest suspicion.
Her and all other elves.
III
Girdlegard,
The Mountains of the Gray Range on the Northern Border of the Fifthling Kingdom
Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle
Tungdil and Boïndil were in one of Gandogar’s own chambers waiting impatiently for the high king to arrive. The dust of the Outer Lands was still chafing their skin and clinging to their beards, but nothing, not even the glimpse of a water trough, had kept them from the opportunity of an immediate meeting. There was simply too much to discuss.
“Did you see how she wept when we handed over her son’s helmet?” asked Boïndil, filling a jug with water. For once he felt like quenching his thirst with water rather than beer—unlike Tungdil, who had already downed a tankard of the black stuff.
“It was better to let her assume that her son is dead,” insisted Tungdil.
“But you said yourself that he might well be alive, and that you didn’t trust those obvious signs.”
“Better to find her son within the cycle and bring him back to her, than to leave her in this uncertainty.”
Ireheart was silent. “And what do you think that figure was? And the strange thing behind it?”
“Maybe a gnome in disguise,” said Tungdil, gulping down a draught. “Or a dwarf?”
“Or an Undergroundling?”
Tungdil had asked himself this question countless times on the way back from the Stone Gateway.
The fact was that they had found indecipherable runes on the tunnel walls. He and Boïndil had assumed they were of dwarf origin because of the perfection of the craft used in their execution.
It was also a known fact that old records and drawings described a race related to their own on the other side of the mountain chain encircling Girdlegard. It was they who had forged a first Keenfire so they must have loved working with red-hot metal and have been experts in the smithy. But regrettably it seemed that not a soul had ever seen one of them face to face. “I just don’t know,” admitted Tungdil honestly. “But if it was one of those dwarves, then we know now they don’t like us.”
The warrior’s brow furrowed, his expression thunderous. “You think they’re after our treasure?” He put the beaker down and ran his finger along the edge of his spurred ax. “Just let them try it,” he growled aggressively.
“Let us see why Gandogar wanted us back here so swiftly,” Tungdil said to calm him. “The messenger we found at the gate—he must have been sent out after us just after we left.”
“It can’t be anything terrible,” said the warrior twin, “or the guards at the gates would have been on high alert.”
The door opened to admit Gandogar. Three elves followed him, completely out of place here in their fine raiment, garments of delicate fabrics in the lightest of colors. In Tungdil’s view their robes alone were disturbing enough, contrasting with the muted browns and subdued tones that the children of the Smith preferred to wear.
But really, he thought, it wasn’t their apparel. It was the elves themselves he didn’t like. Not elves in general: he had nothing against them in principle. Their way of life, from their buildings to their clothing and their language: it all formed an organic whole in landur. But here their very presence struck a discordant note, like a shrill soprano singing out high above the mellow harmonies of a dwarf-voice choir.
Judging from the expression on Boïndil’s face, he was of like mind. “It is something terrible,” he murmured, half in earnest, half in jest. “It’s delicate little elves.”
“So the heroes have returned!” Gandogar greeted them warmly, shaking hands. “Were you pleased to find your old friend, Tungdil?”
“Your little surprise worked well, Your Majesty,” Tungdil smiled.
Gandogar took a step to one side. “These are Eldrur, Irdosíl and Antamar. A delegation from the elf ruler, Prince Liútasil—not messengers but ambassadors to initiate cooperation between our hitherto hostile peoples.” He presented the two dwarves.
The elves bowed to Tungdil and Ireheart. This gesture of respect would not have been so sincere ten cycles before—if indeed it would have been made at all. They had been warned about the likely state of Tungdil, otherwise the elf faces might have betrayed natural feelings of disgust.
Boïndil could not help himself. “Well, knock me down with a shovelful of coals!” he laughed out loud. “The…” and he nearly said “pointy-ears,” “… elves and dwarves living under one roof?” He dug Tungdil in the ribs. “What do you say to that, eh, Scholar?”
Eldrur joined in with the laughter. “It may seem strange to you, Boïndil Doubleblade, but o
ur ruler considers it was high time this came about. He needed to wait until he had persuaded the last of the doubters in our ranks of the great benefits of close cooperation.” He looked around. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say we were moving in permanently. We shall be staying here for the next hundred orbits, as we shall do in all the dwarven kingdoms, to learn more about their land and culture.”
“Sounds like spying to me,” said Ireheart. “You want our formulae for iron and steel smelting, don’t you?” He winked at Tungdil.
“No, on the contrary. We want to share our knowledge with you. We are not looking for recompense, but I am sure that your people,” here Eldrur turned to Gandogar, “will reward us for our generosity. By this I do not mean with gifts of monetary value, but with the knowledge and rich experience of your forefathers.”
“So, not spies but blackmailers,” mouthed Boïndil. He was enjoying himself. “Even if their speech is flowery.”
Tungdil answered, “At long last Girdlegard is uniting.” He licked his dry lips, wanting his next beer. “It seems exactly the right time, because we have something to report from our excursion into the Outer Lands.”
The elves exchanged glances. “The high king has already intimated something. You have shown courage again, Tungdil Goldhand,” Eldrur said, according him respect.
“I asked him to,” said Gandogar, inviting them over to partake of the modest refreshments on the table in the middle of the room. The word “modest” in connection with dwarven cuisine is always to be interpreted generously, as is familiar from their classic dishes. The elves appreciated the simmered mushrooms but their palates were offended when it came to the strongly spiced cheese or the dessert prepared from the intestines of gugul larvae. Tungdil was particularly cheered by the sight of a small barrel of black beer.
“We acquire the beetles from the freeling markets in the south, and we process them here ourselves,” explained the high king proudly. He had not noticed the faces of his elven guests, who were trying their best to appear hungry. Gandogar helped himself to the white cream. “If for nothing else, you have proved invaluable in opening up trade for us in this way,” he said to Tungdil, who was also tucking in, careful, however, to avoid those dishes that reminded him too acutely of time spent in the city of the freelings and with Myr.
“A dwarf-woman had asked us to look out for her son, Gremdulin,” said Tungdil, downing the next two tankards as he launched into his report on their trip to the Outer Lands. Ireheart had to signal to him that his speech was getting slurred. “We found piles of orc bones in a cave—the monsters had been slaughtered by the hundred, it seems. We were just about to investigate further when a dwarf we didn’t know turned up and somehow brought the whole cave crashing down around us. He was working with the weirdest machine. Never seen the like…” He gestured with his arms to indicate the dimensions. “When we’d escaped the rockfall we headed straight back out to the gate,” he said, hurriedly ending his report. He just managed to suppress a huge belch, disguising it as a long exhalation, but it was enough to shatter the equilibrium of the elves.
“I’ll wager they regret they ever came,” whispered Boïndil merrily. “Look, their pointy ears are drooping. Maybe I can cheer them up with the one about the dwarf and the orc.”
Gandogar ignored the crude behavior of his heroes. “It sounds as if we have a completely new danger to contend with,” he said, concerned, addressing them all. “Do your people know about these machines Tungdil is describing?”
Eldrur hesitated, his brown gaze fixed on Tungdil’s empty tankard. “Forgive me if I speak bluntly, but can we really believe him? Is there not a possibility he may be exaggerating?” He glanced at Ireheart. “Is that exactly how it was, Boïndil Doublebade, or did you both perhaps succumb to your thirst on the way?”
Had it been spoken before the death of his brother, the politely voiced insult would have brought Boïndil vaulting over the table to grab the elf by the ears, using one hand to dunk the scoundrel’s face in the soup while he wielded his ax in the other to cut him into tiny slices.
But nowadays his combat-fury was stilled, and the curse was broken that made his blood boil. “I would say only this, Friend Elf: even if a dwarf is too drunk to tie his shoelaces, he will never, ever tell a lie.” And his laughter was as sharp-edged as the blade of an ax.
Eldrur realized his mistake and bowed in apology. “Forgive me, Tungdil Goldhand.”
Tungdil waved his hand dismissively. Even if he remained calm on the surface, the words of the elf were eating into him. He had reached the point where his reports were not being believed! He looked down at himself, noting the belly, the bits of food he had dropped and the dirt on the chain mail shirt that now fitted him as tightly as a sausage skin. His eye fell on the empty tankards. What has become of me? he asked himself in desperation and disgust—and then reached out for the next beer.
“No, I have never heard of any machinery like that, High King Gandogar,” said Eldrur. “Were there not some rumors once of a dwarf people known as the Undergroundlings? Perhaps—?”
The door opened and a messenger hurried in, drenched in sweat. “Excuse my bursting in, sire. My name is Beldobin Anvilstand from the Clan of the Steely Nails.” He made a bow to the high king. “I am sent by my Queen, Xamtys the Second, with this message for you, King Gandogar,” he said, out of breath. “You must read it at once! There are terrible things happening in the Red Mountain Range.”
The leather wallet changed hands and Gandogar broke the seal; he quickly read the lines and raised his eyes from the paper. “My friends, here we have the answer to our riddle.” He read the letter out:
Honored Majesty, High King Gandogar,
I fear we have underestimated the tenacity of our enemies.
After more than five cycles of quiet they have again set out to bring death and renewed destruction to our peoples with methods previously unknown.
I have already lost fifty-four good workers and ten of my warriors to an uncanny machine that travels through our tunnels attacking anything in its path. It has teeth, tongs, blades and other deadly weaponry with which it hacks and stabs. I have enclosed a drawing, in case your people or perhaps the fifthlings with whom you are staying currently, were to come across such a machine.
It is subverting any attempt on our part to repair the tunnel network, because no one dares enter the galleries. I understand the fear only too well. So far we have found nothing with which to combat this malign contraption, as it gives no warning when or where it may strike. We are not able to defend ourselves or prepare for its attacks. Traps we have tried have proved ineffective.
We know nothing about it. Only that it is immensely strong and heavy. It is partly steam-powered. I assume it is of a similar construction to the hoists we use to lift the wagons onto the rails, but it is smaller and it is mobile.
The runes on the armor plating make it clear that a thirdling force is behind it: “Beaten yet not destroyed, we bring destruction.”
I do not want the entire thirdling community blamed for the actions of an individual or of an ignorant and malicious minority. But they must all be interrogated to find out who is capable of constructing something like this.
I have sent warnings to all the other dwarf realms, because I do not know if the danger is targeted solely on us or whether—Vraccas help us—there are similar machines elsewhere.
The dwarf assembly must be called, so that we can decide on action.
May Vraccas bless you and keep you, High King Gandogar.
Queen Xamtys Stubbornstreak
of the Clan of the Stubbornstreaks,
in the Firstling Kingdom of Borengar’s Folk
“There we are! That’s the explanation. That figure in the tunnel was a thirdling,” Ireheart exclaimed, slamming his hand down so hard that the spoons rattled. “We must have discovered their base in the Outer Lands.”
Tungdil took a deep breath. He was not feeling well. He had swigged that beer far too quickl
y. “Why would they bother to dig to the outside and send their machines from the Outer Lands into our tunnels?” he objected, mumbling and burping.
“To advance unhindered—much less likely to be disturbed than coming overland from somewhere in the Outer Lands,” said Gandogar, agreeing with the dwarf-twin.
“It would explain why they were making the tunnels collapse behind them, like you said,” Eldrur chipped in. “They want to be sure they’re not found.” He continued the line of thought pursued by the previous speakers. “I think they must be based in the Outer Lands just on the other side of the border. They’re sending the machines in from there.”
Gandogar put the letter down on the table. “Xamtys is right. I’ll call an assembly. All the dwarf folks and the freelings, too, must decide on what to do. We’ll have to send a force out through the Northern Pass to find this fiendish workshop.”
“We’ve seen one at least of these evil bastards,” said Boïndil, clenching his fists in anger. “If only we had been quicker… Who knows? Perhaps we could have put a swift end to all this horror.”
Tungdil was no longer in any condition to follow what was being said; the room was going round and his stomach was rebelling. “I must go,” he mumbled, getting up and swaying off toward the door. Boïndil sprang to his aid in case he fell. “Leave me alone.” Tungdil pushed his friend away, “I can manage.” He stumbled off through the door and disappeared.
Ireheart watched in distress. He hardly recognized the good friend Tungdil once had been. Sighing deeply he returned to the table to face the disapproving elves and Gandogar’s anger. “It’s a fever he picked up on the journey,” he said in excuse. “It’s affecting his mind.”
Irdosíl smiled; his light gray eyes said he believed not a single word yet he did not confront the lie, wanting to spare Boïndil’s feelings. A dwarf did not tell lies.
