by Markus Heitz
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 their 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.
“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 dropp
ed 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 was 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.