by Markus Heitz
The metal grab-hand gave him another mighty shake, a sharp pain shot through his shoulder, then he was thrown to one side.
The death machine had aimed well. Ingbar was hurled straight into the mess of whirring cables and winches. He crashed against a speeding chain, landed under a huge rotating cogwheel and he and his chain mail armor were crushed to pieces.
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Gauragar,
Porista,
Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle
Prince Mallen sat in his room on the top floor of the house he and his companions had been assigned. Through the window he observed the cranes on the site of the new palace, constantly in motion, turning, lifting, lowering. A continuous stream of carts loaded with stone rolled through the streets, and the army of laborers grew from orbit to orbit. The breeze brought the sounds of a new beginning to Mallen’s ears: banging, clattering, sawing, hammering—and there was singing and the workmen’s shouts.
King Bruron was losing no time. The empty space in the middle of Porista was to be filled with a splendid building which promised to outshine Nudin’s palace in opulence. Five towers and three keeps were planned, arranged stepwise and connected by smaller transept buildings. The architects had estimated the work would take five cycles, and the foundation stone was already in place.
Mallen stood up, and now he could see the tips of the tent poles emerging from the top of the huge white canvas marquee erected in the center of the cleared site. This was where the kings and queens were meeting this afternoon. Bruron wanted the great monarchs assembled on the spot whence in former times the mightiest power of Girdlegard had issued. In the place of the magic wellspring they now had unity and harmony among the rulers—this was the sign for all of their peoples.
Mallen chose a light fabric coat to throw over the bright red robe. He strode out of the room. The bodyguard waiting outside fell in beside him. On horseback he moved through the busiest streets of the town, where the crowds drew back respectfully, proud to be providing hospitality to such visiting dignitaries.
In silence the prince rode on, not responding to the occasional cheer. As so often, he was preoccupied with thoughts of the terrible raid on Goldensheaf; he was missing his trusted comrade in arms, Alvaro, whose dead body he had examined in minute detail. It had been the slash to the throat that had robbed him of his lifeblood and he knew it had not been the terrible creature that had inflicted this wound. Of that he was convinced. Since that day he had never turned his back for a second on Rejalin or any other elf. The matter of the elf runes he had kept from the other rulers when he described the events of that day. He could not have said why this was. He wanted to speak to Liútasil in private about it.
His troop reached the marquee. Young pages hastened to take hold of the guests’ horses.
The prince stepped inside the airy enclosure; the tent was lined with colorful silks and decorated with ribbons and painted banners. It must have taken several orbits to bring in all the furnishings—the long table, the heavy chairs and cupboards—so that the meeting hall looked dignified and stately in spite of being under canvas.
Apart from himself only one other was present: a man in dark attire. The frog-like eyes and short black hair identified him as King Ortger of Urgon. Mallen went up and shook hands. “It is good to see you again,” he greeted the young ruler.
“The last time we met it was at the celebrations for the third cycle of my reign,” Ortger nodded. He was obviously pleased to meet the blond-haired Idoslane prince again, having found him from the start to be someone he trusted. “The occasion for our present meeting is far more serious.”
“I heard that you too have suffered under an attack from one of these monstrous beings.” Mallen let go of his hand and sat down opposite Ortger. Servants brought wine and water, and then withdrew discreetly. “I don’t want to jump ahead of the plenary discussion, but can you tell me what happened?”
“It was quite a different type of creature from the one you had warned me about in your letter,” sighed the young king as he took a mouthful of wine to give him courage. “A monster made of tionium, black as evil itself and as strong as ten oxen, but more cunning than a nest full of malicious vipers. And inside it there was something alive, staring out at us from behind a glass window.” He took a drawing out of the bag that lay next to him. “Some say it had wings of iron, others that it flew up to the heavens on flames and transformed itself by magic into a black cloud. Here, that’s what it looked like.”
King Nate entered the tent, dressed in dark green ceremonial robes embroidered with stylized depictions of ears of corn. “My greetings. You are at work already?” He made a perfunctory bow to the two men and joined Ortger to study the picture. “No, it’s not in the slightest like the creature that robbed me of my diamond and of three of my fingers,” he said after a preliminary look. He was about to add something but stopped because all the other kings and queens from the human realms were now entering the tent. The ceremony of welcome took some time. Mallen would have liked to ask them all to get straight to business.
His mood did not improve when two elves simply attired in white joined their circle and introduced themselves as Vilanoîl and Tiwalún. They had traveled to Porista from landur on the orders of their elf lord to give his excuses and to represent him in the talks.
This gave Mallen a valid reason for his ill-feelings. “Why would Liútasil stay away from this conference?” he enquired, although it would have rightly been the office of their host, King Bruron, to ask this. “We’re not here for fun. There are vital issues to discuss. The presence of the prince of the elves could have been expected.”
The kings and queens threw him looks that ranged between surprise and displeasure. To use such a sharp tone with the elven envoys was not, in their view, justified.
Mallen thought they were acting in their own interests. He considered they were afraid that if he were brusque with the elves their promised knowledge-sharing would be jeopardized.
“And where are the dwarves, then?” asked King Nate, jumping to the defense of the elves.
“I can explain.” Bruron lifted his hand. “High King Gandogar told me that they have themselves called a gathering of their clans to discuss events that have occurred recently in their tunnels. When that meeting is over, he writes, they will come here to Porista. But one of their representatives is on his way to us.”
“It is a similar circumstance that makes it impossible for my own lord to be with you,” said Tiwalún, following this with a smile. “We too are holding an emergency meeting about occurrences in landur.” He bowed again, as did Vilanoîl. “I offer our apologies once more.”
“You must forgive Prince Mallen’s way,” King Nate requested, taking a sideways glance over to the fair-haired Ido, “but in the attack on my castle he lost a close friend. It will be his grief that overwhelms him and lets him speak out of turn and unfairly.”
“It is kind of you to speak for me, but it has nothing to do with the unfairness you accuse me of,” objected Mallen. “I was speaking about the status of this meeting, the vital importance of our assembly.”
“And since that attack he tends to view the peoples of landur with the same mistrust his fallen comrade had harbored,” continued Nate.
“I understand,” said Tiwalún with regret. “My commiserations, prince.”
A messenger entered with a message for King Bruron. He gestured over to the entrance. “How good to see that you, Glaïmbli Sparkeye from the clan of the Spark Eyes in the kingdom of the fourthlings, have been able to make the journey so swiftly,” he greeted the dwarf at the door. “You are welcome. Please take your place at our table. We are about to tackle the real reason for calling this assembly,” he added quickly, before Mallen had a chance to challenge the elves on anything.
“My thanks, King Bruron.” The dwarf bowed to Bruron and to all the others gathered there. His plated armor glinted immaculately, as polished as a silver salver; his dark hair
and beard were well groomed. He must have changed and washed before appearing.
Mallen, who knew his dwarves, recognized immediately that this was a fourthling. A slighter figure and slimmer build told of his race, and the gemstones worked into his armor gave another indisputable clue.
“I bring you greetings from the high king and his regret that he and the other delegates of the dwarf folks, and also those from the Five Free Towns, will not be arriving in Porista for a few orbits. Until they come I am to represent them.” He took his seat and was acknowledged by all with nods of welcome.
“Let us begin.” Bruron looked at the assembled participants. “The events are extremely worrying. In the meantime five diamonds have either been stolen or have simply disappeared.” In response to Bruron’s gesture, servants brought out and displayed a large map of Girdlegard. “Tabaîn, Rân Ribastur, Urgon, and the dwarf kingdoms of the thirdlings and fourthlings have all been robbed of their jewels. As far as Tabaîn and Urgon are concerned, we know that the raids were carried out by creatures, the like of which have never been seen before. Not even when the Perished Land had everything under its influence in our realms. Furthermore I have been brought the news that it was orcs who stole the fourthlings’ diamond.” He hit the map. “Orcs! These beasts have not appeared for over five cycles, not since the Star of Judgment fell. What is behind this? Does anyone have an idea?”
“The beings Ortger and I were faced with look like a cross between several monsters. They use magic and bear runes on their armor, runes like the ones the älfar are described as having,” said Nate. “It all points to unknown creatures from the Outer Lands suddenly invading our realms.”
“The passes are guarded and defended,” Mallen pointed out. “They could never have got past the axes of the dwarves.” Glaïmbli nodded in agreement.
“Perhaps not past them.” Tiwalún smiled him down. “If you can’t get past an obstacle you can sometimes go under it.”
Ortger nodded. “The same thought had occurred to me. There’s none of the evil left in Girdlegard, if we discount the malice of some of the thirdlings that I’ve heard about.” With his protruding eyes, he gazed directly at Glaïmbli, awaiting an answer.
The dwarf opened his mouth, then hesitated. “I don’t know if I should speak for my high king on that matter.”
“Oh, then I misunderstood you. I thought you said you were his representative, Glaïmbli Sparkeye,” interjected Tiwalún.
“I certainly am. But it is not my place to reveal everything. There are some issues about which only the high king himself should speak.” He crossed his arms over his chest in an unambiguous gesture of refusal; he was like a defensive wall of muscle and bone: the embodiment of the innate stubbornness of dwarves.
Queen Isika, a woman of middle age, pale-faced, with long black hair and with a penchant for luxurious clothing, turned to Mallen. “Prince, be good enough to explain to our friend here how unfortunate the whole situation is. You get on better with dwarves than I do.”
Mallen leaned forward, his arms on the table. “Look, Glaïmbli, we’re just trying to explore the connection between the horrific incidents of the last few orbits. If you’ve got something to contribute, please let us know. Then your high king can fill us in later on the details.” He looked the dwarf directly in the eyes. “I’m asking you, please, to tell us what you have learned.”
Glaïmbli fidgeted uneasily on his chair. He disliked having so many people staring at him. He dropped his head down between his shoulders—the age-old reaction of a dwarf in trouble. Only when he spotted the haughty smiles of the elves did he let himself be moved to comment. “The thirdlings have declared war on us again. They are making war with machines.”
“Machines?” echoed Nate in surprise. “It’s the first I’ve heard of this. What sort of machines?”
“A device that can travel through our tunnels and attack our people. More I cannot say. You must wait till our high king arrives.” Glaïmbli’s head sank even lower and his eyes sparkled defiantly; he’d not tell them anymore now.
“This is news to me as well,” said Queen Isika sharply. “If you put this information together with what we had already heard one could surmise that the thirdlings have formed a united front with these malformed nightmare progeny of Evil.”
Bruron turned to her. “What makes you say that?” Her light blue gaze was directed first to the obstinately silent dwarf, then to Mallen. Receiving no indication from him she went on, “You know the thirdlings well, prince, because you made use of their services against the orcs. How great a thirst for revenge might they be harboring?”
“They always hated the other dwarf folks, but the need to sustain Girdlegard must rank higher for them,” he replied. “You remember, King Lorimbas wanted to eradicate them all and to take on the task of protecting the passes himself?”
“I am not speaking of hatred for other dwarves.” She looked round the circle. “I am speaking of hatred toward us, the humans.” She turned her pale, stern face to Ortger. “The thirdlings were almost completely annihilated in the course of mad king Belletain’s attack on the Black Mountains.” Her gaze fell on Mallen once more. “Do you think them capable of breaking a new tunnel through to the Outer Lands for monsters to come through, bringing disaster and destruction to our homeland, prince?”
“If that were the case there’d be armies of orcs in one of the kingdoms by now,” ventured Mallen.
Tiwalún had not taken his eyes off Glaïmbli and had seen the bearded face of the dwarf twitch briefly as Queen Isika spoke these words. “Even if you vowed just now that you would say no more, Glaïmbli Sparkeye, I must insist you let out some more of the truth that you are holding back between clamped teeth,” he said quietly, but clearly enough for all to hear. “I ask you to tell us, so that our suspicions, vague as yet, may give us more insight into how we can stave off the threat of Evil and protect Girdlegard.”
“No!” returned the obdurate Glaïmbli.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Bruron. “You may be here as the high king’s representative, but you bear responsibility for the fates of humans and elves. I implore you in the names of Vraccas, Palandiell and Sitalia. Speak!”
Again, at first, the dwarf was silent. Not until he had exchanged glances with Prince Mallen did he open his mouth. “After the orc raid there was another attack by a thirdling machine,” he reported reluctantly. “The orcs pushed it into the lift to cover their escape.” Glaïmbli’s mouth was distorted. “High King Gandogar thinks the orcs and the thirdlings are working hand in glove. They have set up their encampment on the far side of the Stone Gateway up on the Northern Pass to the Outer Lands. It’s from there that they are launching their attacks. We’ve seen nothing yet of the creatures that bear the älfar runes on their armor.”
“So the thirdlings are against all of us and not just at war with the other dwarf folks.” Tiwalún’s face was full of concern and Vilanoîl looked downcast. “What is Gandogar undertaking against the traitors in his midst?”
“They are outside Girdlegard,” reiterated the dwarf, throwing him a hostile glance.
“I beg to differ on that point,” said the elf courteously. “The thirdlings used to have spies in all the dwarf realms and why should these spies no longer exist? Admittedly, in the past five cycles things have been more or less peaceful between the tribes. I agree with Queen Isika. Who is to say that the thirdlings are not plotting to open up all five gateways at once, to flood Girdlegard with Tion’s monsters?”
“The Revenge of the Dwarves,” murmured Ortger.
“If it were revenge, it would be revenge of the misguided thirdlings, not of all the dwarves,” corrected Mallen, turning to the elves. “And you are exaggerating with your fears, Tiwalún,” he warned. “Anyone would think you had persecution mania.”
“Am I exaggerating?” The elf smiled persuasively. “A degree of persecution mania, as you choose to call it, Prince Mallen, would well become us all. Personally, I fear
the worst when I hear that the thirdlings have formed a pact with orcs from the Outer Lands in order to steal the diamonds.”
“He is right. Gandogar must sift out and reject the poisoned corn in his peoples.” With a smile, Queen Isika added: “Or, to phrase it better, he must sort the false gold from the genuine article. Only if he roots out the concealed thirdlings in the dwarf tribes can we have any security.”
“And just how is that to be done?” objected Glaîmbli.
“Interrogations? Investigations? Torture?” suggested Vilanoîl helpfully. “The sooner we find and eradicate the spies, the better it will be for humans, elves and dwarves.”
Mallen held his breath, seeing Isika, Nate and Ortger nodding in approval, and then the face of the dwarf, suffused and dark red with anger.
“You’re seriously suggesting we arrest and torture dwarves who may be completely innocent?” Glaïmbli growled at the elves. “It may be that your folk do things like that but it’s certainly not our way—it’s not the way of the children of the Smith.”
“Leave the decision to your high king,” came the reproof from Isika. “You said yourself that you only represent him. Let us deal with the question of what the orcs and the thirdlings can possibly want with the diamonds.” She took a sip of her wine and ignored the vicious looks winging her way from the dwarf.
Mallen was getting the impression more and more that the elves were trying to drive a wedge between the participants, endangering the harmonious community of the different peoples and various dwarf folks. With Nate, Isika and the inexperienced Ortger they had already achieved a measure of success. Alvaro’s distrust of the proud elf race seemed increasingly justified.
“They are aware that one of the stones has particular properties. But there have never been any dwarves with the slightest desire to learn or use the magic arts,” said Tiwalún. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Glaïmbli. The thirdlings wouldn’t know what to do with the power latent in that stone. And the stupidity of the orcs is well known.”