by Markus Heitz
“Do you fear a danger, Prince Mallen?” the king asked. “In this hall there are only people that I trust. None here would dare to lay a hand on my possessions.” He raised his right hand, a movement noted on the dais nearby. The soft music died away, to be replaced by fanfares, calling the attention of all the guests to their royal host. Tabaîn’s ruler mounted the steps to his throne. “Trusted friends! The winds may rage outside, but we shall not let them affect our welcome for our honored guest, Prince Mallen, ruler of Idoslane and hero of many battles fought to protect our land, and for whom this celebration ball is held.” The crowd clapped enthusiastically. Nate gestured toward Rejalin, who had come to where Mallen was standing. “The people of landur likewise have honored us by sending a wise and dazzling beauty. Rejalin is my guest and is having discussions with me about how our two realms can help each other with the knowledge we have each amassed.” The crowd applauded once more.
“Dazzling beauty is usually to distract from some hidden flaw,” muttered Alvaro. One of the guests in orc costume turned his head.
King Nate signed to the guards to open the door. As Tabaîn’s anthem sounded, a servant brought out a velvet cushion bearing a diamond. The people held their breath. The stone caught the light from the chandeliers and glowed with cold fire.
“Humans and elves are here assembled. And so I want to complete the circle of peoples by repeating the words of Gandogar Silverbeard, the high king of the dwarves, when he handed this gift to me.” Nate cleared his throat. “Just as this and thirteen further stones all resemble each other, may our thoughts henceforth be in harmony and our hearts beat for the benefit of all our lands. If doubts arise within the community of our peoples, let us look at the stone and remember.” He lifted the diamond in both hands and held it above his head. “Let us remember these words! For Tabaîn! For Girdlegard!”
Cheers resounded as the assembled guests were swept on a wave of enthusiasm. But Alvaro grimaced. He thought the king’s words were aimed at him.
“Though it shine never so brightly,” said Mallen to Rejalin “it is a lifeless thing and cannot match your living beauty.” He held out his hand. “Will you do me the honor of taking the floor with me?”
The elf nodded and laid her left hand on his outstretched palm. “You will have to show me how. I am not familiar with the dance steps humans use.”
The prince led her to the middle of the ballroom, oblivious to all else. “Simply follow my lead, Rejalin.”
Nate came over to Alvaro, who was furiously watching the spellbound prince. “You will have taken note of my words, Alvaro?” enquired the king, holding out the stone. “Harmony is the order of the day.”
The officer bowed. “Certainly, Your Majesty.” He looked at the diamond. “But you are aware that only one of the fourteen gems is the real diamond,” he said, so quietly that none of the others could hear. “That is the way with false beauty. Many allow themselves to be dazzled by it,” he added regretfully, his eyes on the dance floor, “while others recognize it for what it is.”
King Nate closed his fingers over the diamond, his voice angry now. “Alvaro, you are an incorrigible warrior, blinkered and unwilling to recognize goodness even when it is dancing in front of your nose. The costume of a gnome is indeed well suited to you tonight.”
“Whereas the garb of a magus that you wear is pretentious on your shoulders,” retorted Alvaro with anger. “I say what I mean, even to the most powerful in the land.” He tapped himself on the chest. “For I have fought for this land. In the front line, man to man. It is to a blinkered, incorrigible warrior such as myself that you owe your title.” He glanced over at the guest in the älfar costume. “Excuse me, I will join the other monsters. I have wise phrases, too: it was always mistrust that averted disaster, never trust.” His heart beating fast, Alvaro made his bow, only too well aware of the enormity of the words he had spoken to the ruler.
At that moment the door of the ballroom balcony flew open as a mighty gust of wind blew out most of the candles; only those in glass lanterns resisted staunchly.
A fizzing, crackling object swept through, throwing off sparks, and clanking and clattering as it bounced down from step to step. It looked like two hemispherical iron braziers fused together, but in its center there was not burning charcoal but a strange figure. Stone flags cracked under the weight of the contraption.
The dancers pushed each other out of the way in horror and the guards rushed up with their halberds at the ready to protect the king.
The huge metal globe, a cage of strong iron bands each the width of two fingers, crashed through the crowd, mowing down two of the men; there was the sound of breaking bones. The guards were left screaming in agony.
In full view of the terrified spectators the grim object came to a halt. Locks clanked open and the metal bands folded away, disappearing into a kind of iron sack on the creature’s back.
What the frightened guests had only vaguely been able to see up to now emerged grinning and baring its teeth. It was as tall and broad as an orc, with shimmering gray skin streaked with black and dark green. The creature’s face had a terrifying grace and symmetry that the humans here had heard of in tales of quite another people: the älfar. Sharp ears protruded through the long black hair, and as it drew its mighty sword, it opened its mouth in a roar, revealing a powerful set of pointed teeth.
“Stay back!!” Mallen pushed Rejalin aside and ran over to the king. There was no doubt in his mind that the creature wanted the diamond. The diamond.
He raced to the head of the line of guards who stood in front of their ruler with lowered spearpoints at the ready. Someone quickly handed him a shield.
The prince took a closer look at the strange monster. On its legs it wore a flexible armor covering so that its lower body looked to be made of iron. Chest, upper arms and throat were protected by metal plates with runic decorations: these plates, Mallen was shocked to notice, were fastened directly into the creature’s skin by means of thick metal wire.
“Stone!” it commanded in a voice as clear as glass, thrusting its hand out toward King Nate. The fingers clicked open and reflected the lamplight; like the rest of the creature’s forearm they were covered in metal. Mallen saw the countless bolts and thin rivets holding body and armor welded together.
“By Palandiell! Is the evil one reincarnated?” asked Alvaro, appearing at the prince’s side and holding a sword he had grabbed from one of the injured guards. “Whatever it is, it should by rights be dead. Do you see what it has on its back?”
Mallen took a closer look. It was not a rucksack but a kind of metal box held in place by six long rods piercing the body. The ends protruded from the creature’s chest and were reinforced with crossbeams so that they were not torn out of the flesh by the sheer weight of the metal. No living being could withstand such torture.
“Stone!” it repeated forcefully, stepping forward; an iron shoe landed with a crash on the flagstone, cracking it in half. The runes glowed an intimidating green—all except one. Mallen would not otherwise have noticed it, but it was very different in appearance from the others—namely, elvish!
“What are you?” asked King Nate, who continued steadfastly to hold the gemstone concealed in his hand. “What do you want with the stone?”
Mallen turned round to Rejalin, who had remained out on the dance floor, white-faced as a corpse, staring at the monster. He could read recognition in her eyes. What can this mean? he thought.
Then the monstrosity sprang. Without noticeable effort it jumped over the row of soldiers and landed next to the king; the marble cracked noisily where it came down. Before anyone could act, it had grabbed hold of the monarch, tearing the diamond out of his hands and taking three of Nate’s fingers with it. He screamed and sank to his knees, blood gushing over his hand and staining the costly garments he wore.
Alvaro and Mallen both attacked at once: one from the right, one from the left.
The monster roared and parried Alvaro’s b
low with its bare hand. The runes on the armor glowed green, and the creature shattered the descending blade as easily as if it had been made of balsa wood. Then it kicked the officer in the chest so hard that he shot against the guards as if from a catapult, knocking three of them flying.
Mallen was sure at least his own attack would be successful, but his opponent turned with unbelievable speed, so that Mallen’s blade landed on the armored breastplate. The sword thrust was deflected harmlessly.
The response was a flying iron fist.
Mallen ducked and the blow shattered his shield rather than his face. He had an idea how a wall might react to the blows of a battering ram. In spite of the weight of his armor it knocked him over so that he lost his footing and sailed two paces back through the air. He fell heavily against the wall and saw stars dancing before his eyes. “What are you waiting for?” he yelled. “It’s taken the stone! Don’t let it get away.” He threw down the useless shield and launched another onslaught.
By this time the soldiers had been shaken out of their trance and were pinning their hopes on the superiority of their numbers.
The monstrous being thrashed around itself with a captured sword, bringing down one of the men. The rune-glow grew stronger, seeming to give the creature immense power. Picking up its victim by one leg, it screamed and hurled him against the attacking guards, who reeled back in horror to avoid the human cudgel. This provided the monster with the gap it needed to dash through and escape. It had what it had come for. The bloody cadaver of the unfortunate guard was dropped, horribly twisted and battered.
At the stairway Alvaro confronted the fleeing creature; crouched forward in readiness, he brandished his outstretched sword in the direction of the beast. “The face of an elf, the body of an orc and the magic runes of Dsôn Balsur on your armor; what are you?” he demanded to know.
Mallen raced after the monster, five guards in his wake. He was desperate to retrieve the stone. Alvaro knew he had no chance of vanquishing the beast on his own. He wanted to give his prince time to attack from behind.
But the monster had seen through the plan. It glanced back over its shoulder at its pursuers, bared its teeth, threw down its sword and dashed past Alvaro.
“Halt!” The officer raised his weapon to strike.
The ghastly thing touched him on the head with its left hand; runes flashed and a lightning bolt was released, incapacitating everyone in the room with the dazzling light.
When Mallen could see again it was clear that the intruder had disappeared. Rejalin was kneeling next to Alvaro cradling his head; blood gushed from his throat in a stream impossible to staunch.
The guards bolted up the steps to look outside for the escaped monster, while Mallen dropped on his haunches by the side of his mortally wounded comrade. “No, my friend. Do not let your soul depart.” He pulled off the false gnome mask, took the man’s hand in his own and pressed it hard. He tried to hide the depth of his concern at his friend’s condition so that Alvaro would not realize how close he was to death. Hope was essential. “I beseech you.”
Alvaro attempted to speak, his gaze sliding over to the elf maiden. But he was coughing blood and his croaking voice could not be understood; finally his body fell back and his eyes relinquished all signs of life.
Tears flowed down Mallen’s cheeks. He was not ashamed to weep. He had lost a man at whose side he had ridden and fought through countless battles, against enormous odds—and yet they had always survived. What no orc sword had ever achieved this monster had brought about with a single touch of the hand. “There, you see what has come of your longing for combat,” he murmured as he gently closed the dead man’s eyelids. “You shall not be forgotten. Your death shall not stay unavenged.” He nodded over to Rejalin, who was watching him, compassion in her gaze. “Is it true what he said?”
“What do you mean, Prince Mallen?” She carefully laid the officer’s head back on the ground, dismayed at the sight of the blood sticking to her fingers. Mallen thought this must be the first time in her sheltered existence that she had been confronted with violent and brutal death in such a way. She had lived among art and poetry, not warfare.
“Alvaro recognized the runes on the armor as being of älfar origin. I, too, found them familiar in some way. They were similar to those I saw on enemy armor at Porista. What can you tell me?”
The elf maiden avoided his eyes.
Mallen let go of the dead man’s hand. “Did I see elf runes on the armor?”
“You are mistaken.”
Contrary to all rules of respect and courtly conduct he took fast hold of her arm and gently forced her to look him in the eyes. “Rejalin! What do you know?”
“Nothing,” she said harshly, pulling free. “I was too far away to be able to recognize anything about the creature.”
“You are lying. Your eyes—”
“You dare to accuse me, Rejalin of landur, of speaking an untruth?” She sprang to her feet. “I should have known better. You are an uncultured yokel, no better than any other human I have ever met,” she said with disdain. “I fear your realm must undergo intense scrutiny before it can be judged worthy to receive the gifts of our knowledge.”
It seemed to Mallen that a mask concealing the elf’s real nature had fallen from her countenance; her anger revealed her true attitude toward himself and his kind. The admiration he had been feeling for her started to ebb away. “One of the diamonds has been stolen, but this is all you can think of now?”
“It is one of fourteen.”
“It is the second of fourteen,” Mallen corrected, standing up. “Rejalin, you will tell me what you…”
Rejalin turned on her heel and went over to King Nate.
The prince started to follow her but was prevented by the two guests dressed as orcs. “Rejalin has no wish to continue speaking to you, Prince Mallen of Idoslane,” came the voice from behind the papier-mâché. The man lifted his hand to remove the mask; the face underneath was that of an elf. It bore a smile, but a cool one. “She prefers to attend to the care of her host and to see what the elves’ knowledge of healing can do to aid him.”
“This is knowledge which you have yet to earn. Go and seek the diamond,” said the other elf, slipping in his turn out of his disguise. “We shall inform you when Rejalin wishes to speak to you about what has occurred.”
Mallen pushed them to one side, but they overtook him and barred his way. He stopped short and was about to raise his sword arm in earnest when he recalled the words spoken so recently by the king. Harmony; the peoples united. “Tell Rejalin that I expect an explanation and that I shall inform all the other royal houses of Girdlegard about this event and the strange attitude an elf woman displayed. If she won’t speak to me she will have to account for herself when her own ruler, Prince Liútasil of landur, commands it.”
“Certainly, Prince Mallen,” the elf on the right nodded superciliously. “We shall pass on your words.”
Mallen sheathed his sword, called some of his soldiers and gave the order for them to carry the body of his friend out of the ballroom.
As they laid him on a stretcher and bore him away up the steps, a thought occurred: Alvaro had been touched on the head by the monster’s hand—not on the neck where the deadly wound had been. While all were blinded by the flash no one had been near him. No one save the elf woman.
An incredible idea came to him. Mallen stopped on the dais and turned to Rejalin, who was attending to the king. Was she exacting revenge for his insults, he wondered, or was Alavaro too close to the truth in what he said today at the feast?
The unique beauty of the elf woman had disappeared completely. From now on Mallen resolved to treat her with the strongest suspicion.
Her and all other elves.
III
Girdlegard,
The Mountains of the Gray Range on the Northern Border of the Fifthling Kingdom
Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle
Tungdil and Boïndil were in one of Gandogar�
�s own chambers waiting impatiently for the high king to arrive. The dust of the Outer Lands was still chafing their skin and clinging to their beards, but nothing, not even the glimpse of a water trough, had kept them from the opportunity of an immediate meeting. There was simply too much to discuss.
“Did you see how she wept when we handed over her son’s helmet?” asked Boïndil, filling a jug with water. For once he felt like quenching his thirst with water rather than beer—unlike Tungdil, who had already downed a tankard of the black stuff.
“It was better to let her assume that her son is dead,” insisted Tungdil.
“But you said yourself that he might well be alive, and that you didn’t trust those obvious signs.”
“Better to find her son within the cycle and bring him back to her, than to leave her in this uncertainty.”
Ireheart was silent. “And what do you think that figure was? And the strange thing behind it?”
“Maybe a gnome in disguise,” said Tungdil, gulping down a draught. “Or a dwarf?”
“Or an Undergroundling?”
Tungdil had asked himself this question countless times on the way back from the Stone Gateway.
The fact was that they had found indecipherable runes on the tunnel walls. He and Boïndil had assumed they were of dwarf origin because of the perfection of the craft used in their execution.
It was also a known fact that old records and drawings described a race related to their own on the other side of the mountain chain encircling Girdlegard. It was they who had forged a first Keenfire so they must have loved working with red-hot metal and have been experts in the smithy. But regrettably it seemed that not a soul had ever seen one of them face to face. “I just don’t know,” admitted Tungdil honestly. “But if it was one of those dwarves, then we know now they don’t like us.”
The warrior’s brow furrowed, his expression thunderous. “You think they’re after our treasure?” He put the beaker down and ran his finger along the edge of his spurred ax. “Just let them try it,” he growled aggressively.