The Revenge of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  “What makes you so sure, Ginsgar?” Malbalor’s question was harsh; he was removing this firstling from his mental list of those who might deputize for him. “What use is a diamond to them if they do not have a magus?”

  “The freelings could be envious because they were not given one. They are outcasts—outlaws: criminals. We must not lose sight of that.”

  “You never lose sight of anything, Ginsgar. You never forget the past of the thirdlings or that of the freelings,” the king answered sharply.

  “As opposed to many others,” he replied determinedly. “Thirdlings steal, to bring us trouble. First they construct these machines, then they rob us to get the better of us: to make us look stupid. They take the most valuable thing in Girdlegard.”

  Malbalor strode past him. “The most valuable thing in Girdlegard is the common resolve of those who live here. Our common resolve.” He looked at Ginsgar: “You, Ginsgar Unforce of the Nail Smiths of the firstlings, shall leave the Black Range tomorrow with your clan. You may cause trouble in your own land but not here where I rule.” He left him standing and walked out.

  He could not accept the interpretation of events this dwarf had given him, even if it would have been simpler to do just that.

  Girdlegard,

  Elf Land of landur,

  Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

  Looking at the forest they were passing through, Tungdil found it had changed a good deal since his last visit to see Liútasil. Trees in landur obviously flourished and grew faster than anywhere else.

  Ireheart, likewise walking along beside his pony, followed his friend’s glance. “I thought I was imagining it,” he said. “These shrubby things have shot up like weeds.” He pulled his crow’s beak out of the pack horse’s saddlebag and weighed it lightly in his left hand. “Same as ever—I always feel naked here,” he explained to Tungdil. “I may have lost my fighting fury but I’m still a warrior through and through. If one of these tendrils tries to grab me, I’ll be ready for it.”

  “I trust the elves.”

  “So do I, Scholar.” Ireheart shouldered his weapon. “But I don’t trust their vegetation.”

  Two elves stepped suddenly out of the shelter of the trees. They wore robes of delicate textiles and had precious silver and gold clips in their long blond hair; the elegant clothing fell loosely about their tall, slim figures.

  “Welcome to landur, Tungdil Goldhand and Boïndil Doubleblade.” The right-hand elf sang, rather than spoke, the words. Both elves bowed to the dwarves.

  “By Vraccas, their faces look more fragile than ever,” muttered Ireheart. “Or is it their clothes that give that impression?”

  Tungdil grinned. “You’re the one leading the mission. You must answer them,” he whispered back.

  “Me?”

  “Of course, who else?”

  “But you’re the scholar.”

  “Gandogar entrusted this to you. I’m just here because you kidnapped me.” Tungdil was greatly enjoying the warrior’s discomfiture.

  Boïndil sighed and gave a bow in his turn, even if his was not as low and gracious as that with which the elves had greeted him. “May Vraccas be with you,” was his faltering salutation. “We are emissaries of our high king, and come to pay our respects.” He pointed to the bundles on the back of the mule. “That is for Liútasil, and…” He went through his pockets slowly until he had unearthed the note from Eldrur. “And this is our letter from your own delegate.” He held it out to the elves. “We… come in peace.” Then he looked over to Tungdil and rolled his eyes. “I can’t do it,” he whispered helplessly. “Help me out here, or I’ll end up starting a war.”

  The elves were studying the letter closely and smiling again. “We are pleased that the children of the Smith are warming to our culture. We shall be happy to take you through our realm and show you how we live,” said the spokesman, standing aside and indicating the path. “Come. We have prepared quarters for you.”

  “I only hope it’s not up in the tree-tops,” Ireheart couldn’t help remarking as he held his hand out for the letter. There was a moment’s hesitation before it was returned. “The nesting places I’d rather leave to the birds.”

  “We know what your preferences are,” the elf answered amicably, leading the way.

  “Very considerate of you,” Tungdil thanked them, aware that he should do the talking now after the mid-level insults his friend had offered their hosts. Boïndil sighed with relief. “We bring gifts for your Prince Liútasil.”

  “Our prince will be delighted about the donkey.” One of the elves laughed, clear as glass; so high and pure a sound was almost painful to dwarf ears.

  “No, of course it’s not the donkey that’s the gift,” said Tungdil, joining in with their merriment—anything to drown out those high tinkling tones. “The donkey is carrying the treasures.”

  “As I thought. But nobody has ever given him a donkey before. It would be a novelty for him.” He bowed once more, introducing himself. “I am Tiwalún, and this is Vilanoîl. We have been sent to escort you through landur. Please ask us anything you want to know. We will be glad to satisfy your curiosity.”

  “My thanks, Tiwalún.” Tungdil recognized the path. It would lead to the clearing where he had first met the elf lord Liútasil and had spoken with him about the eoîl. He enquired courteously about the ruler’s health.

  “Our prince is well, but at the moment he is in the southwest of the realm dealing with important matters,” explained Tiwalún, stepping into a clearing where a tent stood. “As soon as he has settled affairs there he will come to speak to you. Now I wish you both a good night.”

  Tungdil saw the walls of green velvet. “It is Liútasil’s tent,” he told Ireheart. “Thank you for the honor you show us,” he said to Tiwalún, adding an dwarf-saying in their own elf language: “We know our friends by the hospitality they accord us.”

  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.