by Markus Heitz
“It’s broken open the door of the treasure chamber! Palandiell save us!” whispered Ortger in terror as he stepped backwards. “The stone… is lost.”
There was a dull thudding sound approaching the stairs, repeated at regular intervals like the footsteps of a giant. The light of the fire threw a long broad shadow, which advanced toward them, growing in size and coming nearer and nearer until their own shadows were overwhelmed and swallowed up. The creature causing the monstrous silhouette soon followed, bent double because it was too large to fit into the passage.
But this was not the figure he had seen in his dreams. This was something far, far worse.
It was made of tionium, completely of black tionium! Arms and legs were two paces in length, the rump no less tall and as wide as three barrels of beer. The demonic metal head, shaped like a bull’s, displayed fiery red eyes, and clouds of white and black steam rose from behind the visor.
There was a mesh with indecipherable symbols covering the whole construction; these signs gave off an eerie pale green light as if lowering in wait for an opportunity to blaze out. Arrayed all round the structure were shining blades with spikes dripping with poisonous liquid. The blood of the fallen soldiers could be seen adhering to nearly all parts of this hideous form. Ortger saw scraps of clothing and bunches of hair on the spikes.
Meinart grabbed Ortger’s arm. “May Palandiell protect us! Look at that, by its neck—isn’t that an elf rune?”
Ortger’s eyes were not able to locate the spot. His terrified gaze surveyed the surface of the whole monster but his mind refused to register the horror in its entirety.
Whenever the creature set a limb in motion, it gave out a hiss and somewhere in the center of the colossal black armor-plating a mechanical whirring, rattling and clanking could be heard. Just one of the metal claws would have been able to encompass the heads of three men at once. Underneath the neck there was a porthole of thick glass, through which a terrible but compelling visage could be espied, with fangs bared threateningly.
For Ortger this sight was more than enough. His quivering fingers opened of their own accord and his sword clanked as it dropped out of his grasp to the floor, smashing onto the stone and sliding down the stairs.
“Away from here, we must get away,” he stammered, turning in retreat.
Suddenly the runes flared up and blazed with light. On one side of the metal figure five holes opened in a horizontal line, horribly reminiscent of muzzles.
Steam issued from these openings and the soldiers standing near Ortger fell screaming to the ground; he himself felt only a sharp breath of wind shooting past his left ear. The bodies of the fallen had the feathered shafts of steel-reinforced crossbow darts sticking out of them. The vicious arrows had pierced the trunks of the guards standing at the front, and had been traveling with enough force to injure those standing in the second row. Meinart, the captain, was among those slain.
Now there was no holding them.
The soldiers fled up the stairs, with Ortger racing ahead of them all, pissing himself with fear. An experienced warrior would surely have given the order to man the battlements and dismantle the stonework to get missiles to hurl down at this creature. But the young king did not have the steady nerves needed for such leadership. Not after that dream. Not after this sight.
He was more than willing to allow himself to be led to a horse and then to flee Pendleburg—to flee for dear life. There was nothing left of the earlier eagerness for battle he had displayed when they had been climbing the pass. Not until he was a safe distance away did he call his retinue to a halt and send two men back to the city to find out what had happened after they left.
The reports they brought back were devastating.
“The diamond is taken, Your Majesty,” one of them confirmed what they had all feared. “That creature just tore down the door and smashed its way in. It didn’t take anything else. Your crown jewels are still…”
Ortger silenced the man with a gesture and looked at the second of the scouts. “They are saying different things about which way the monster went. Some say it went through the town streets and made its way to the mountains—the others say it vanished into thin air, Your Majesty. The fires in the palace have been put out now and the injured are being cared for.”
The king could smell the drying urine on his clothes. It brought back to him the sense of shame and reminded him of the cowardice he had shown. It had been all too human and understandable a reaction. This enemy did not look like the opponent Mallen had described in his letter—apart from two details. Ortger conjured up again the sight of that terrible face behind the glass and he knew now what the illuminated symbols on the armor plates signified: sorcery.
“We’ll head out for Porista again,” he decided. “The rulers must be told that another of the stones has been stolen. It’s vital the remaining jewels are put under much stronger guard.” He spurred his horse onwards. “There is no time to be lost. It seems that there’s someone in Girdlegard who’s adept at magic and crazy for power. Onwards!”
The troop started off at a gallop and raced along the same road for the second time that day.
Ortger did not allow himself another glance back toward his city of Pendleburg. He was too afraid of having disaster stare him in the face.
Girdlegard,
Elf Realm of landur,
Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle
You are up already, Tungdil Goldhand! I hope I am not late with your breakfast?”
The dwarf jumped, although the friendly tones gave no cause for alarm. The greeting did not sound in any way threatening, only surprised and a little hurt. The elf must have seen the letter that he had been working on all night. There was nothing for it but to seize the initiative.
“I’m used to getting up with the birds,” replied Tungdil and turned to face Tiwalún, who had come in silently and was standing right behind him. “I know knocking on a tent is difficult but you might at least have tried.”
“My apologies. The breakfast was intended as a surprise,” said the elf, bowing, but never taking his eyes off the piece of paper. “So you found it?”
Tungdil was not sure what Tiwalún meant: did he mean the letter itself or the secret message it contained? “Yes. My friend had put it somewhere silly.” He decided to employ some of the truth. “It got wet and then these lines started appearing.” He pointed to the pale blue symbols. “I insist on an honest answer: What is the meaning of all this cobold-like secrecy? Your delegations all over Girdlegard—are they spies? They seem to be. Don’t try to lie, because I shall be asking Prince Liútasil.”
Tiwalún looked at him intently, trying to see just how much he did or did not know. “I could never lie to a hero who saved landur from destruction,” he said earnestly. “The writing that becomes visible on application of heat has nothing to do with the dwarf people. I swear it by Sitalia.”
“Then tell me what it says.”
“I can’t do that. Ask our prince. It’s by his orders.” He held out his hand for the paper. “May I have it?”
Tungdil folded it and slipped it under his leather robe. “I’d prefer to give it to Liútasil myself,” he said amicably. That way he could be sure that the elf prince would actually grant him an audience; then he could ask him in person about all these goings-on.
Tiwalún made the face he might have made if an orc had asked for his hand in marriage. “As you wish, Tungdil Goldhand. He will be glad to speak to you.” The smell of fresh bread pervaded the tent. “Have some food, then I’ll take you and your friend on a tour of our land.” He bowed and went out and some elves in less extravagant attire laid the table and served refreshments.
Boïndil appeared in his mail shirt as usual; nose in the air, he sniffed noisily. “Doesn’t that smell good?” he called enthusiastically. He was looking forward to his food and watched as the elves completed their preparations at the table before retiring. “Did you stay up all night on watch?” he asked, once he wa
s sure they would not be overheard.
“I was translating,” Tungdil said and went over to the table.
“And?” urged Ireheart. “What had the elves written?”
Tungdil told him about his short exchange with Tiwalún. “What he doesn’t know is that I’ve translated part of the letter. But it doesn’t help us with the secret. The rest is illegible, either because of the bathwater or else written in symbols I’m not familiar with.” He helped himself to a piece of bread, poured out some tea and put honey in it. The scent of cloves and cinnamon and two varieties of cardamom rose to his nostrils. The infused ingredients in combination with the herbs and the milk made an excellent spiced drink, he realized, after taking the first sip. Even though his whole body was crying out for beer, brandy or any other alcoholic beverage, he did not give in to the craving: he stuck with the tea.
Boïndil watched him crossly. “Are you doing this on purpose, Scholar? Keeping me on tenterhooks?”
“Oh, you mean the letter?” Tungdil grinned. “Sorry, I was miles away.” With the slice of bread in his hand he looked round, as Ireheart was doing, for some juicy meat. It seemed that the elves didn’t serve meat in the morning, so he helped himself to the boiled eggs. “What I could read was a recommendation, praising us as heroes and encouraging the greatest possible vigilance. The remaining words were keep them from Liútasil and only show them the outsides and then again keep them away from our new buildings and not longer than four orbits; after that get rid of them with any old excuse. Say it’s because of their bad manners.” He tasted one of the eggs and was surprised. Although he hadn’t used condiments it tasted of salt and other aromas.
Boïndil had noticed the same thing. “Wonder what they feed their hens on?”
“Who says they’re hens’ eggs?”
The dwarf chewed more slowly. “I underestimated the dangers of this type of mission: foreign food,” he sighed and swallowed noisily. He recalled the first meal he’d had with the freelings in Trovegold; there had been the oddest of ingredients like beetles and maggot beer. “I reckon the instructions mean that the elves are only to show us selected places, and not to let us meet up with Liútasil, and that we’re to leave landur very soon.”
Tungdil nodded. “The mention of new buildings is bothering me. What is it about them that they want to keep hidden from us, and probably from the rest of Girdlegard, too?”
Ireheart was displaying his old fighting grin, even if he no longer had that fire-rage in his eyes like before. Apart from the sense of humor and the hair, he was exactly like his twin brother, the one who had died. “I get it. If they tell us to go right, we’ll go left.”
“Handing them a reason for getting rid of us even sooner?” Tungdil took some more of the eggs, slicing them onto his bread and putting garlic sauce on top.
“But they haven’t read the letter so they haven’t got the instructions.”
“Tiwalún came creeping in here as silent as a mountain lion. I don’t know how long he’d been standing behind me. I think he must have been able to read quite a bit of it,” he said. “We’ve got three orbits. During the days we’ll do as they say and at night we’ll go out snooping. Get ready to manage without sleep.”
“Slinking around like a perfidious älf,” complained Boïndil. “Never my strong point. I hope I don’t muck things up.”
“We’ll have to fight them with their own weapons there,” said Tungdil. “What choice do we have?”
They finished their breakfasts calmly and did not let themselves be hurried by Tiwalún when he came to collect them. Around midday they set off on the ponies again toward the interior. They rode through the peaceful lush-green woods, where dark thoughts had no chance. It was all simply too beautiful even if there weren’t any mountains, much lamented by Ireheart.
The elf did not tire of eloquently listing the particular charms of the various trees they passed; it was as if he were trying to lull them into a sense of security with his long descriptions.
And if it had not been for that coded letter he might have succeeded.
As it was, Tungdil and Ireheart simply nodded, but they had a good look around, keeping an eye out for anything unusual. It didn’t escape their notice that they never rode through mountain territory, always remaining in the forest, where you could only see about as far as an arrow might fly.
Of course they knew the reason. When Tungdil asked Vilanôil about mountain ranges or perhaps less wooded hills, the elf looked mortified that the guests were tired of the unique marvels of the quiet forest glades of landur. He promised them an outing with a view for the following day.
As darkness fell they rode up to a brightly lit building that Tungdil and Boïndil were already familiar with. They had been here before when they came with Andôkai to ask the ruler of the elves for help in resisting the forces of Nôd’onn. Mighty trees formed living pillars holding up the thickly woven roof of treetops, two hundred paces overhead.
But the forest halls had changed radically since that first visit.
The artistically fashioned mosaics of wafer-thin gold and palladium sheets that used to sparkle suspended between the tree trunks were missing. In their place now you saw giant paintings, compositions in various shades of white; here and there a randomly placed diamond shimmered in the torchlight. Where once there had been showiness and skilled craftsmanship now there was a strange clarity in the work that impressed the dwarves just as much as its monumental nature.
“What have you done with all that other stuff?” Boïndil found himself asking.
“Is one constrained to seek artistic expression only in one single vein for all eternity?” responded Tiwalún. “We have hardly any visitors in our forests to see how often our tastes change, seeking subtle nuances and variety. Let us tell you, Boïndil Doubleblade, that we have experimented with many different art forms over the cycles. As with your own people, one or two hundred cycles are as nothing to us.”
He took a left turning and was attempting to lead them out of the tree-hall when Ireheart pointed to a triangular white monolith standing where once they had seen Liútasil’s throne. Guessing from this distance, the object must be at least fifteen paces high and seven in circumference. “May I have a closer look, Friend Elf?”
“It is nothing of significance,” said Tiwalún, in an attempt to downplay the importance of what they had seen. “The meal will be waiting for us…”
Boïndil had forgotten Tungdil’s advice that they should pretend to follow the elves’ suggestions in all things during the daylight hours. Boldly he marched straight past Tiwalún to inspect the three-cornered monolith. “The eye of a stone-expert is called for here,” he announced. “My people are renowned as excellent stonemasons.”
The elf swiftly overtook him and walked backwards in his path, shielding the object from his view. “No, Boïndil Doubleblade. I would ask you not to do that. It is a holy and revered object that may only be touched by us elves. You should not have been permitted to see it even!”
Ireheart looked up the length of the elf’s legs, slowly up along his body, till his gaze reached Tiwalún’s face. “That seems very discourteous,” he complained. “Your delegation is shown every inch of our land, but here I am not allowed to cast eyes on a stone?”
“It is a holy relic: didn’t you hear, Boïndil?” Tungdil interjected to save the day.
“So why did he say it wasn’t of any great significance?”
“Not of any significance for you,” said Tiwalún with a smile. A drop of sweat rolled down his forehead, over that smooth unblemished skin that would surely remain wrinkle-free and youthful for at least a hundred cycles. “Please turn around.”
“Elves revering stones?” grinned the warrior. “Our peoples have more in common than I had thought. Aside from the type of things you like to eat, of course.” He turned around quite calmly and pointed to the passageway Tiwalún had previously indicated. “This way, is it?”
“This way,” confirmed Tiwal�
�n, sounding relieved. He strode off before the troublesome dwarf could change his mind. “Thank you for showing such understanding, Boïndil Doubleblade.”
“But of course,” grinned Ireheart, looking at Tungdil.
Late evening brought a surprise for elf and dwarf alike.
They were sitting with Vilanoîl and Tiwalún finishing the final course of a light but lavish supper when a messenger came in with a letter. On reading it the elf looked at the dwarves.
“Very worrying news,” he said. “Three of the diamonds have been stolen—King Nate’s has gone and so have King Ortger’s and King Malbalor’s. They’re talking about dreadful creatures and dwarves, too, launching these raids.” He read out the lines that described just how these terrible deeds had been committed in each of the three kingdoms. The guests listened in horror: the attacks by the awful machines in the Red Mountain Range were mentioned. “Evil has taken hold and is stretching out its claws to grasp total domination,” Tiwalún finished.
“We’ll leave first thing,” said Tungdil, extremely concerned. In such circumstances he would have to ensure that the stone Gandogar had entrusted him with, hidden away safely in the vault, was being properly guarded. He was frightened for Balyndis, his wife, who wouldn’t have heard the news. If these unknown raiding parties had found the stones in all these kingdoms and dwarf realms, then they would have no difficulty locating his own, deposited simply in mine galleries that were comparatively easy to enter. The only soldier left in charge was Balyndis herself, and she would be hopelessly outnumbered.
“But our mission…” objected Boïndil, until he remembered that his friend had one of the diamonds in his possession. “Forget it, Scholar. The ponies will carry us to your home like the wind.”
Tungdil stood up from the table. “We don’t wish to be rude, Tiwalún and Vilanoîl. We need to get some rest. The next orbits will be hard for us. Please give Prince Liútasil our warmest greetings. I assume we will see him very soon at the rulers’ assembly.”
