by Markus Heitz
Vilanoîl was startled and Tiwalún’s countenance for a moment registered alarm. “Liútasil mentioned that you are known as the Scholar, but he did not tell us you had learned our language,” said Tiwalún in acknowledgment, as he bowed, turning to leave. Then he stopped. “Might I please have that letter, Boïndil Doubleblade? I should like to send it to our prince so that he may read with his own eyes what good things Eldrur has written about you.”
“Of course, Friend Elf,” grinned Ireheart, groping at his belt. “A thousand dead beasts! I seem to have lost it!” he exclaimed. “I must have dropped it on the way here.”
He made as if to turn round and go and look for it, but the elf lifted a hand. “That won’t be necessary, Boïndil Doubleblade. Nothing in our forests ever gets lost, any more than a gold coin could go astray in your mountains. We will find it, never fear.” He made another bow. “We shall see you in the morning. May Sitalia send you pleasant dreams from the skies.” With these words the two elves disappeared into the shadows cast by the trees.
“Well, I’ll be struck down by the hammer of Vraccas! Hearing you talk like that!” gasped Boïndil. “Made me come over all funny. How long have you been able to do that?”
“I came across some old books in Lot-Ionan’s vaults. There was a partly damaged work I found all about the lost realm of the northern elf, Lesinteïl. The author included some notes about the language. I only know a few of their sayings, that’s all. It’s awfully complicated.” Tungdil held back the draped material at the tent door. “Let’s get some rest.”
“You cook us something delicious. I’ll see to the ponies and be with you in a tick,” answered Boïndil as he went over to where the animals were enjoying the juicy grasses on the forest’s ferny floor.
Tungdil went into the tent, remembering exactly how the last meeting with the elf prince had gone. The carved wooden posts holding up the roof were the same, the pleasing fragrance, the gentle light from the oil lamps hanging from the supports and the warmth given out by the two stoves—it all created a relaxing atmosphere. He let the hardships of the journey slide from him.
Shedding his mail shirt, he threw it over a stool and went over to wash his face. In the middle of the tent he saw there was a table set with warm food. He would not have to cook anything.
Boïndil hurried in, wrinkled his nose because his friend had taken off his armor, and took a seat at the ready-laid table. “This is the life,” he said. “No worries about the mission if this is what it’s going to be like!” He pulled the first of the dishes over. “There’s a strong smell of flowers about this but it doesn’t look too bad.” He heaped his silver plate with portions of the various different foods, tried a bit of everything then hesitated with his fork above a yellowy ball-shaped thing. “Oh no, I remember this from last time. Didn’t like it at all.” Pulling a face, he moved it to the edge of his plate. “Come on, Scholar, dig in. You’ve lost some weight with all that walking, so you can afford to tuck in.”
Tungdil laughed. “You were right to be so severe with me.” He left the dark malt beer standing and poured out some water. He knew if he touched even a drop of the barley he’d be lost to it. The vise had held him in its grip far too long.
Their meal was delicious. When Tungdil afterwards discovered a curtained off section of the tent containing a tub and a large container of water which was heating on a stove there was no stopping him. He prepared a bath for himself, took a handful of the red crystals he found in a shallow dish next to the tub, strewed them into the water and lay back, eyes closed, in the warm water, his muscles relaxing from the journey.
His friend’s voice called him out of his reverie. “I’ve got it!”
“Do you think you could get it slightly more quietly?” he complained, opening one eye to look at Ireheart who was standing next to the tub with only a cloth round his nether regions. He was waving a piece of paper excitedly. “I’ve found the letter again. I’d put it in my pocket. It fell out when I took my breeches off just now. Those elves will be angry when I let them know tomorrow they’ve spent a whole night searching through the bushes in vain,” he grinned. “But let’s not tell them just yet.”
Tungdil remembered Tiwalún saying he wanted to send the letter on to Liútasil, and his curiosity was aroused. “Show me,” he said, stretching out his hand for it. “I’d like to see the praises they heaped upon us.”
It happened as the letter was being passed over. Either Ireheart let go too soon or Tungdil failed to take it in time—the page fluttered down into the bathwater. Both of them made a grab for it and it tore straight down the middle.
“That was the curse of Elria,” said Boïndil knowingly, and looked down sadly at his half. “She destroys all our folk-knowledge with her water.”
“Perhaps it was just us being clumsy,” suggested Tungdil, getting out of the tub and wrapping a towel round himself. “The water’s still hot if you want to get in.”
“Me? Get in there? When the letter just drowned in it as a warning of how full of malice water is?” The warrior refused the offer of a bath.
“It’d do you good. You smell. And that’s putting it mildly.” He took both halves of the letter and placed them on one of the stoves to dry.
The elf runes were smudged and partially illegible, and only a few of them were similar to those used by the northern elves of Lesinteïl. Either their speech and script had always been different from that of their relatives or else their language had undergone changes in the course of past cycles.
As the paper dried, new pale blue runes started to appear between the lines.
“A secret message,” said Tungdil in surprise. Why had Eldrur used invisible ink in the letter of introduction? Perhaps he had been afraid that one of the dwarves might decipher the runes and so he had not dared write his words openly.
Perhaps the delegates are spies, after all? wondered Tungdil, taking the letter and sitting down with it at the table to examine its contents in the light of the oil lamps. There had been some water damage to the script, which did not make the translation easier.
“Boïndil, come and look at this!” he called his friend over.
“Just a…” There was a loud splash and water ran out from under the curtain screening the tub from view; then came some spluttering and a volley of dwarf curses.
Tungdil grinned. “Are you all right?”
“Bloody water!” Boïndil raged, pushing the curtain aside and toweling himself. “Now I’ll have to grease my beard all over again.” He lifted the damp black mass of beard that hung sodden on his chest. “It’s taken me a whole cycle to get it just right, with a proper shine.” He turned round and gave the tub a hefty kick. “It’s nothing but one of Elria’s special tricks—a trap for dwarves. It shouldn’t be allowed.” He wrapped himself up. “It’s enough to turn me mad again. I can feel the old anger welling up. It’s too bad.”
“Calm down. What happened?”
“I slipped, didn’t I?” he complained. “Slipped on a piece of soap. And before I knew it I was underwater.” He made a face. “Bah, it tastes dreadful!”
“If you’re thirsty, why not try water on its own? But now you’ll smell good inside and out.” Tungdil joked, then pointed to the letter and grew deadly serious. “I’ve made a discovery.”
Ireheart noted the differing colors of ink. “So they are spies, after all,” he remarked with satisfaction. “I did not entirely mean it before, but it seems to be true.”
“Don’t let’s jump to conclusions,” warned Tungdil. He lifted the silver pot from the stove and poured himself a beaker of tea. “I’m going to see what I can translate. Perhaps it’s an instruction not to show us every single secret in landur.”
“Spies,” repeated Ireheart grimly. “There’s no doubt in my mind now.” He walked over to one of the guest beds and lay on it. After tossing and turning for a while, he grabbed a blanket off the bed and went to lie down on the floor. “Too soft,” he said, closing his eyes. “You’re on
watch first. Wake me when you need me to take over.”
“On watch? What do you mean?”
“I don’t trust the pointy-ears anymore.”
“But it may just be a harmless instruction…”
“… then they wouldn’t have needed to write in secret ink.” He remained stubborn. “They could have written it out in the body of the letter.”
“… and we’d have thought that very discourteous, wouldn’t we?” Tungdil was reluctant to pre-judge the elves, even if their behavior struck him as odd. A bit more than odd.
A loud snore showed him that Boïndil was not intending to pursue the argument. He turned up the wick in order to be able to see better. It was going to be a long night.
V
Girdlegard,
Pendleburg, Capital of the Kingdom of Urgon,
Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle
Is it warmer in Gauragar than it is here?” asked King Ortger. A man of nearly twenty cycles, he was built much like any other and had regrettably protruding eyes; if it were not for the frog eyes one might have described him as dapper. He adjusted his gold-plated leather armor and took off his helmet to reveal short black hair already thinning at the back. But he did sport a thick black beard, thinking it made him appear older.
“Majesty, your journey takes you to Porista. I have heard that it is a very attractive region,” his manservant answered.
Ortger looked over at the ten chests containing his robes for the journey. “I asked whether it would be warmer there. If so, I could manage with just the one chest.”
“Only one chest?” asked his servant incredulously.
“Definitely. I want to travel fast and that will be impossible if we’re weighed down like a cloth merchant’s baggage train. I’ll take this one. The rest stay here.”
“Of course, sire.” The servant bowed and gestured to four serving women, who began the task of placing the unwanted garments back in the cupboards.
Ortger watched them, then went over to the window to gaze at the seemingly endless mountain chains that stretched out as far as the eye could see.
The palace stood on the largest of the three hills on which the capital city was built. Below, he could see the settlement with its brightly colored stone houses. There was little wood to be had in the mountains, so they used stone for construction as far as possible. Employing different types of rock gave a range of shades, so in spite of the dull squat shapes of the houses, the town was bright and colorful.
It had been something of a surprise to Ortger to accede to the throne in Urgon. When the mad Belletain had threatened, in his deluded state, to launch a further attack following the foray into the Black Mountains and the deaths of thousands of innocent dwarves, courageous officers in his army had mutinied and ousted him. Ortger was a distant relative of Lothaire, the well-loved predecessor of Belletain, and had been leading a contemplative life far away from Pendleburg, up near the border with the troll country Borwôl, when the news reached him that he was to be the next ruler in the mountains of Urgon. He had not taken long to reach his decision. And he had never regretted it in all the five cycles of his reign.
There was a knock at the door and a guard came in. “The escort awaits, Your Majesty.”
“Only the swiftest horses, as I requested?” Ortger wanted to know.
“Just as you ordered, sire. The five hundred miles to Porista will be covered very quickly.”
Ortger fitted his helmet on and had the clothes chest carried downstairs. “Speed is indeed of the essence.” He called to mind again the message that had come from Prince Mallen describing the raid. The news had given him a nightmare: how violently the frightful creature had attacked the guards in its quest for the diamond! The dream had been so real that he had awoken with a start, his heart racing. The beast had been chasing him through the palace and with its bare hands tore any man to pieces that stepped in its path. He had heard the shrieks and roars as clearly as if they had come from right by his bed.
He was terrified. Ortger did not want to think about the pictures conjured up in the past night, so he let his eyes wander over the landscape: the peaceful mountains of Urgon, and his own city.
This robbery brought back thoughts of the way the first of the diamonds had been stolen, in Rân Ribastur. “Is our diamond held secure?”
“We put it where you showed us, Your Majesty.”
“How many men to guard it?”
“We have thirty men on duty, day and night. There are four spear slings ready to fire. We load and unload them in turn, so that the strings don’t get overstretched and snap.”
Urgon’s ruler was pleased with this answer. He could not provide better protection than was already being given. Anyone forcing their way through the ranks of his soldiers would be met by the stone door of the vault, deep in the heart of the palace. The door was so strong and so massive that it had had to be chiseled out of the rock right there, and afterwards hinges had been attached. Only then had they tunneled out the chamber behind it. You needed the strength of four oxen to move it with the special equipment of pulleys and rope. Not even a troll would be strong enough to shift it.
Nevertheless it was with a feeling of unease that Ortger strode through his simple palace, more a fortress than a royal residence in appearance. He reached the courtyard, swung himself up into the saddle and rode up next to Meinart, the captain of the guard. “Off to Porista at full gallop!” he ordered. The horses thundered out through the gate and down through the streets of Pendleburg toward the southwest.
They raced along roads so narrow only two could travel abreast. To their right the walls rose sheer to the skies, while to their left loomed the dark abyss, the edge of a precipice, and long rocky slopes. Ahead, the sun shone on the far peaks and mountain pastures in an interplay of light and shadow. If you were to forget for a moment where you were riding, bewitched by the beauty of the view, you would be lost: sudden death awaited the unwary.
Their swift progress made constant vigilance essential. The captain sent an advance guard to ensure they met no other vehicles or riders coming suddenly round a bend on this treacherous path. They could lose some of their number to injury or death. If you fell from the saddle or from a wagon, the chasms of Urgon’s mountains knew no pity.
They crossed a narrow pass.
Ortger remembered his dream and looked back, prompted by some vague feeling. From here there was a good view back to Pendleburg, which lay bathed in picturesque light. In one of the rays of sunlight breaking though the white clouds he caught sight of a metallic flash directly below the entrance to the palace.
“Halt!” Ortger ordered, reining his horse to a standstill and turning to get a clearer look.
Again there was a dazzling spark, this time too bright to be coming from a helmet or reflected off a shield. Immediately he saw there was smoke rising from the palace.
“We’re going back!” The king’s thoughts were with his capital city. “They’re under attack. Our diamond is in danger. We’ll take the enemy by surprise from behind.”
“Your Majesty, is it wise to return now in the thick of the attack?” objected Meinart. “Think of Prince Mallen’s message. If magic is being used you should stay well away from the fighting. Send a scout to find out…”
Ortger would gladly have followed this suggestion, but was reluctant to show any weakness. In his dream the creature had pursued him. Now it was time to turn the tables. “It’s only a creature, Meinart. It took the men of Goldensheaf by surprise, but my soldiers are forewarned and ready. We will destroy it.” Ortger thrust his spurs into his horse’s flanks and raced back the way they had come.
The place was in uproar. The townspeople were running around in the streets, pointing up to the palace where smoke was pouring out of the windows. Many had armed themselves with buckets to help with the firefighting; others carried swords and spears to go to the aid of the soldiers. News of the attack had swiftly made the rounds.
With Ortger at the
ir head the band galloped through the ruins of the main gate. The portcullis had melted out of shape as if giant red-hot fingers had played with it. Smoldering torn-off limbs, charred spear shafts and melted sword blades lay scattered in the courtyard. In places, blackened flagstones had crackled and split asunder in the intense heat.
“Our defenses won’t have been able to stand up to this,” Ortger said to Meinart, horror in his voice. He could not take his eyes off the blood-covered bodies. At dawn that very morning he had talked and even laughed with some of these his subjects who now were reduced to mutilated corpses. Ortger stifled a choke and trembled all over. Whatever it was that had done the killing had strength far beyond anything known in Girdlegard in recent history. Far beyond anything he himself had ever experienced.
They followed a trail of destruction through the devastated central tract of the palace; fire had broken out in several places. Ignoring the injured men lying moaning in agony, they raced straight down the steps to the cellar. The safety of the diamond was paramount.
As the soldiers ran down the last steps to reach the lobby to the treasure vault they heard a loud hissing sound and saw light flickering over the walls and the stairs. At the same time there came a beast-like roar and the cries of men in agony. A cloud of acrid smoke tumbled out of the vault toward them, so it was clear to every last man of them what was ablaze in the chamber.
Ortger stopped. The trembling that had seized him was worse now; his body refused to move toward the ghastly scene where death was raging ferociously, taking its victims at will. Even if his spirit knew clearly what power and what value were inherent in the diamond they had kept watch over so well, nothing could have made the young king move a muscle now in its defense. The being that had visited him in his nightmare was now reality.
With a loud crash the rock burst apart, great boulders breaking off and tumbling down off the walls, landing at the king’s feet. They heard triumphant laughter. There came the clank of iron, then two heads rolled over to the bottom of the stairway.
