by Markus Heitz
“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 our 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,<
br />
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 quickly. “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.
“This is how we shall proceed,” said the high king. “A summons will go out this very day to all the dwarves.” He turned to the elves. “You are also welcome to attend our assembly.”
Boïndil was about to object. He thought better of it and put some food in his mouth instead. He did not like the open manner Gandogar used with the elves. Letting the pointy-ears see their customs and way of life was one thing, but to admit them to their innermost decision-making circle was a step too far, he thought. Then it occurred to him that the arrangement went both ways. “So, who will be going to landur, Your Majesty?” he asked innocently, looking at Eldrur.
“I don’t understand.” Gandogar was irritated. “What do you mean?”
“Our return visit. Our elf friends are all out visiting at the moment, if I’ve got it right?” he expanded. “They are bound to expect the children of the Smith to send a delegation to landur to pay our respects in turn.”
Eldrur’s smile came out crooked. “Prince Liútasil will not be insisting the visit be reciprocated, Boïndil Doubleblade. He is aware of the discomfort you face if you have to spend time under the open sky or in forests.”
Ireheart folded his arms over his long black beard. “Not so fast, Friend Elf. If you can cope with spending time underground we can certainly manage to do the reverse. I’m not afraid of any tree.”
Gandogar grinned. “A good idea, Boïndil. Why don’t you take on that responsibility?”
“Me?” That was hardly the outcome the dwarf-twin had been expecting. “I think it’s better if I stay here, High King Gandogar. If we’re off to the Outer Lands you will have need of me.”
“Of course, there was never any doubt about that. But it will be some time before all the dwarf clan delegates arrive,” said Gandogar unwaveringly. “landur is not far away, so I suggest you pay a courtesy visit to the realm of the elves. What more suitable ambassador than one of our greatest heroes?”
“Your Majesty, I…” Boïndil attempted to change his sovereign’s mind. He and Eldrur were looking equally unhappy about this.
“No more objections, Boïndil,” Gandogar said amicably. “It’s settled. You shall leave at daybreak with gifts for Lord Liútasil to thank him for his efforts to further understanding between our peoples. I shall send for you when our assembly reaches consensus and we are ready to set off for the Outer Lands.”
He stood up and nodded to the elves. “Eldrur, if you would be good enough to compose a document in your own language, explaining my ambassador’s mission and stating that he bears with him the most cordial greetings of the high king of the dwarves.”
“Certainly, Most High Majesty.” The elf bowed as Gandogar withdrew, leaving Boïndil and the other guests to their meal.
Eldrur considered the warrior’s bearded face. Ireheart was picking reluctantly at his food. “You are cursing yourself, aren’t you?” he remarked, hitting the nail on the head.
“No,” retorted Ireheart, chewing on a piece of mushroom. “I could hit myself in the face, though. With this weapon,” he said, pointing at the crow’s beak at his side.
The elves laughed. It was a soft melodious sound: more a refined, tinkling chorus than merry heartfelt laughter. False as gnome-gold. “You will certainly be something of a novelty for landur,” predicted Eldrur, sounding anything but pleased.
“That letter you’re writing for me to take—why don’t you tell your prince to send me straight home again?” Ireheart requested grimly.
“Are you maybe not as tough as you were telling us?” joked Irdasíl. “What wouldn’t I give to be going in your place?”
“No chance.” Ireheart gave him a disdainful glance, then looked back down at his plate. “You’re far too tall for a dwarf,” he muttered, shoving the plate away and getting up.
“I didn’t mean I wished to g
o as a dwarf, I meant…”
“So you don’t fancy being a dwarf, eh?” He looked out from under beetling black brows, laying hold of the handle of his weapon. “You got something against my race? Come right out and say it, my friend.”
“No, no, not at all,” protested Irdosíl. “What I was trying to say…”
Eldrur laughed. “He’s taking a rise out of you, Irdosíl—he’s joking, can’t you see?”
Boïndil was grinning. “Took his time, didn’t he?” He sauntered off toward the door, crow’s beak hammer harmlessly shouldered. “Have you heard the one about the orc who stops to ask a dwarf the way?” The three elves shook their heads. “Then it’s high time the forests were told some proper jokes.” He winked and left them.
Antamar, who so far had said nothing, looked at Eldrur. “Stupid mess.”
“I know.” Eldrur was annoyed. “But what should we have done?”
“Just now? Nothing.” Antamar regarded the others in turn. “But now you can compose a suitable letter for him to take with him.”
Eldrur had noted the particular stress on the word “suitable.” That was enough.
On the way to his room Tungdil had got lost a few times. Eventually someone showed him to a bed.
He had not the slightest idea where he was, but his drinking instinct immediately found the bottle of brandy on the shelf.
However much his stomach was protesting, he stood up and groped for the bottle, greedily pulling out the cork and taking a long swig.
The sharp liquor was hardly down his throat before he was sick. The food he had eaten came up again and again, and the pot he had grabbed in his haste could not hold it all.
He spluttered, gasping for air. Then he caught sight of his image in the large silver mirror. He saw himself in his full piteous glory: a bottle in one hand, a chamber pot in the other, beard and chain mail dripping with vomit, his body gross and his whole appearance utterly neglected. A fine figure of a hero now, indeed.
