Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Slin had grasped the idea and pretended he was afraid. “Blasted dwarf-haters!”

Ireheart was still hovering in the doorway; it did not seem right to deceive these humans. On the other hand, they could learn things about Hargorin Deathbringer that he would not be vouchsafing to his guests. “Again, our thanks,” he said and entered the house. “May Vraccas always keep your hearth warm to reward you for your bravery and generosity.”

Ireheart, Slin and Balyndar were led to a large kitchen where the rest of the family was gathered. Ireheart counted eleven, ranging from ancient to newborn, round the table. The food smelled of cooked cereal of some kind and hearty smoked bacon.

“Grolf and Lirf! Go and put their sledges in the barn, then hide their tracks,” the young woman ordered. Two young fellows jumped up. “We have guests,” she said, introducing the dwarves. “True children of the Smith and not thirdlings.”

“By Palandiell, you’ve chosen the worst place to stop in the whole of Gauragar,” called the old man, whose mouth showed only two teeth. His laugh was as hollow as an empty tin. “They’re going to spend the night here. We can think about how to get them away in the morning without being seen. The thirdling lord won’t let them live if he finds them.” The young woman put her hand to her brow. “By the gods! I have forgotten to tell you who I am. I am Rilde, and this is my farm.” Then she went round the table doing the introductions.

“Boindil Doubleblade?” An older woman, called Mila, was staring at him. “ The Boindil, who fought so many battles for Girdlegard?”

Ireheart felt himself grow taller with pride.

“Then he’s come to kill Hargorin,” whooped the girl called Xara.

“Be quiet!” Lombrecht hushed her. He was the toothless old farmer to whom the farm had once belonged. “Hargorin is a good overlord. Who knows who would succeed him?”

Ireheart saw that Lombrecht had a pendant depicting Sitalia. “A human who worships the elf goddess?” he said, while a bench was being dragged over for them. “That’s a rarity.”

“And brave.” Slin nodded to the window to show that the thirdlings disliked the elves even more than they hated the dwarf-tribes.

“Someone has to keep their memory alive,” answered the elderly farmer, while Rilde filled wooden bowls for them. “They were always a part of Girdlegard and must not be forgotten.”

The three dwarves exchanged surprised glances.

“I thought all the elves had fled to a secret hiding place,” Ireheart said, eating his first spoonful. It wasn’t bad, though not a patch on Goda’s minced gugul. “They’re in a grove somewhere, waiting for the children of the Smith to pull the diamond out of the fire again before they get burned. Isn’t that so?”

Rilde sat next to them and Xara brought them three cups and a jug of light beer. “It would be nice if that were the case,” she sighed. “But the legends of my people tell a different story.”

“I think I should spend more time with the long-uns,” Slin whispered to Balyndar, as he tamed his hunger. “This is where to get the latest news.”

Ireheart looked at Rilde. “Tell us what you know. Where are the last of the elves?”

“I’ll tell you the story of how the alfar came back to Girdlegard and destroyed the last of the elves.” Lombrecht cleared his throat. “It was over two hundred cycles past. A pair of elf lovers met at a pond, the Moon Pond, over where the old elf realm of Lesinteil used to be. Their names were Fanaril and Alysante…”

The children were wide-eyed; the dwarves listened, rapt, to the old man’s words and were soon so drawn in that they forgot where they were. They saw the tale unfold in their imagination.

“My life shall be your life. Now and forever,” whispered the elf-girl, bowing her head to kiss her darling. Water streamed out of her wet hair onto his naked chest, dripping down his skin and into the soft grass.

Fanaril laughed and returned her caresses. “You look like a water nymph-a mermaid, not an elf,” he teased, sitting up.

Alysante squatted naked before him; the last rays of

sun shone through the trees, making her face glow and adding to her beauty.

The elf took her hand and kissed it gently, first on the back, then on the palm. “My life for your life,” he vowed. “I cannot exist without you.”

Alysante embraced him tenderly. With the warmth of their young bodies, passion arose; they made love on the bank of the dream-touched pond.

Afterwards they ran hand in hand to the ice-cold waters to refresh themselves, diving energetically head first into the lake.

The splashing made waves, causing the blue and white water lilies to bob up and down on the surface and the pond to overflow, lapping onto the banks up to the rich green grass.

“See how they dance, Fanaril!” she laughed and swam over to her heart’s darling, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him. “They’re dancing for us.”

“But they only flower for your sake,” he answered, stroking her face tenderly as he broke away. “I’ll gather some for you.” Fanaril swam off.

“No!” Alysante tried to prevent him. “There’s an undertow! Be careful or it’ll pull you down.”

The elf-girl trod water, keeping her eyes on her companion, but the sun’s last rays reflected on the wavelets so strongly that she had to look away. She could hear the slap of his arms in the water and the splash that his feet made…

Suddenly these regular sounds stopped.

“Fanaril!” she cried, frightened for him. Her voice echoed over the pond but there was no answer.

Alysante quickly swam back to land and clambered onto a rock to get a better view.

Three water lilies were missing, but she could not see the elf.

Her fear increased.

The clear waters of the Moon Pond, which the rest of the elves in their village tended to shun, was suddenly as dark as ink. The beauty of the place disappeared with the last rays of the setting sun and shadows made the dreamy surroundings appear somber and forbidding. The deep waters, in which they had bathed so gaily, could suddenly be housing some gruesome monster. Alysante had always been warned by her father that the pond became evil at nightfall. Now they were to pay the price for their disobedience.

The fine blond hairs rose on the back of her neck. The elf-girl did not dare approach the bank. She ran to where she had left her clothes and dressed quickly. One last look at the surface of the pond and then she was going to run to get help-but a body shot up through the water three paces away from her and launched itself on her with a roar.

Alysante stumbled back with a scream, her hand on the handle of her knife. She stabbed at the creature attacking her.

“No! Stop!” the creature begged, holding out three water lilies. “It’s me: Fanaril!”

Her fear subsided and her vision cleared so that she could recognize her beloved, who was now bleeding from a knife wound on his chest. “By Sitalia! Forgive me!” she exclaimed in horror. “I thought…”

Fanaril inspected the shallow wound. “It’s just a scratch,” he reassured her, handing her the bunch of flowers. “It’s my own fault. I should not have given you a fright like that.”

In her relief, Alysante pressed a kiss onto his lips before bringing him his clothes in exchange for his gift. “Never do that again,” she begged. “You know what they say about the pond, however beautiful it is here.” She was shaking as she put away her dagger. “I thought a beast must have caught hold of you under the water and it wanted to eat me before I could go for help.”

Fanaril burst out laughing. “It’s only a pond the old folk tell stories about. But they’re not true. That’s all it is.” Suddenly he stared at the waves, his eyes wide. “There!” he shouted. “Look there! What’s that?”