Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“Yes. I sensed you would defeat him. I was not able to.” He raised his head once more. “What will you do now?”

“We…” Tungdil hesitated. The alfar did not know that he had been born as the elves’ deadliest enemy. It might well be that he was playing a low trick and that he was pursuing the same despicable ends as his father before him. But if he wanted the diamond, why was he not attacking?

“You don’t trust me, although I spared your life in Toboribor? Although I told you where to find my begetter? And you are still alive although I could so easily have killed you and tossed you overboard?” He stood up with a swift and elegant movement that combined strength and agility. “Then I shall tell you what I want. Take me to the elves that are different from my creator father. I know there are elves that are good and peace-loving. I wish to live amongst them.” He stepped out of the shadows toward the dwarf.

Tungdil saw his dark eyes. “You are not an elf,” he said solemnly. “You are an alfar. They are merciless enemies of the elves, Aiphaton. You cannot live with them. They would kill you outright.”

“Why? I have not harmed them.”

“But you belong to the race that persecuted their kind for a very long time and nearly wiped them out. They will never forgive you your lineage.”

The alfar clicked his tongue. “Let me speak to them and we’ll see.” He folded the black lock of hair into a piece of waxed cloth and slid it inside his glove.

Tungdil shook his head. “Aiphaton, listen to me. I advise you to hide away from dwarves and humans and elves. No one will see you without feeling fear and hatred. Leave Girdlegard and seek your own kind.”

“But I don’t want to join those you call alfar,” he hissed, baring his teeth. “If they are like my begetter it’s best I kill them all.” He raised his hand and reached for the spear that was still lying on the deck. The runes on the weapon started to glow. It leaped into his hand. “I don’t want to be like them.”

Tungdil still did not have the slightest idea whether the alfar could be trusted. Everything pointed to the opposite: both what he knew from stories and what he had personal experience of. Sinthoras, Caphalor and Ondori were the alfar he had met in combat himself. But then there had been Narmora, the half-alfar woman who had been Furgas’s companion. In spite of her ancestry she had fought for the good and had paid a high price: she had surrendered her happiness and the lives of her children. Her own life, too.

“What can you tell me about your begetter and the dwarves?” he asked, to turn the conversation in a different direction.

“They are dead. What is there to say?”

Tungdil hesitated. “Did you see Furgas? The man who was kept captive by the dwarves?”

“Yes.” Aiphaton raised his armored hand. “It was he who turned me into what I am. My begetter asked him to. He made me like I am. He was their…” He struggled to find the word. “They did what he said and they followed his orders,” was how he expressed it. “There was a lot that I heard.”

“He was their leader?”

“Yes, that’s it. He discovered the island together with the dwarves, and he came with soldiers to take it over. The humans all had to work for him. The magister made machines that he gave to the dwarves and they took them away. He made the constructions he sent through the mountain. They were to locate the monsters. And it was for the monsters that he built the tunnel.” The alfar sat next to Tungdil at the gunwale. “He was in Toboribor, too, looking for orcs to use with his other machines. That’s when he found my creators and the orcs. My creators gave him my siblings and he took them away and made new creatures out of them.”

“How did he know about the magic source? He’s a magister technicus, not a magus.”

“I don’t know. I just know that he did.”

However painful it was, Tungdil had to believe the alfar. He had heard the truth first from the mouth of Bandilor and now Aiphaton was confirming it. Tungdil had wished to hear a different version.

The alfar looked out over the waves. “I’ve told you what I want, I’ve told you what I know and where I’m from. Now tell me what you are going to do.”

“We’re going to the Outer Lands-”

“To the monsters Furgas spoke of?” he interrupted.

“No, not to the west. To the north.” And before Aiphaton could ask, he said, “You cannot come with us.”

Aiphaton shrugged his shoulders helplessly. It was difficult to read his state of mind from his face: the black eyes hid all feeling. But his body language spoke of deep distress. “What shall I do here in Girdlegard where nobody will have me?” A red teardrop ran down his cheek, leaving a pink smear. “I have nowhere to go. I only have enemies.”

By now Tungdil was convinced that Aiphaton was genuine. “Come with me, I’ll introduce you-”

“No.” Aiphaton’s attitude was determined. He had reached a decision. “If there is no place for me in Girdlegard, then I will make a place for myself.” He smiled kindly. “Whatever you are planning, I wish you success. I am sure we will meet again.” He vaulted over the side of the ship and slipped silently down into the water, the waves closing over his head.

Tungdil leaned over the side. He could not see anything. Aiphaton was gone as if he had never existed.

“Hey, what’s up?” the watch called out, noticing the dwarf. “Man overboard?” The man came nearer.

“No. A fish jumping.” Tungdil turned around and went back to the cabin.

Like the first time, he decided to tell his friends nothing of the encounter.

He would not have been able to explain to them where the alfar had suddenly appeared from. He prayed to Vraccas that he and the alfar would never have to face each other as adversaries.

And yet he was almost certain that sooner or later they would.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Urgon,

Pendleburg,

Early Autumn, 6241st Solar Cycle

From his fortress walls Ortger was watching the black-clad troops of the advance guard approach. “The people here in Urgon all went into hiding when they heard that this allied army was on its way,” he told Prince Mallen. “And I know why. No one wants friends like these.” He surveyed the head of the silent procession. These creatures were taller and broader than orcs; they were terrifying and were heavily armed.

“I can see why they’re afraid. It was the same in Idoslane.” Mallen headed down to the hall for the ceremony. Tungdil and his friends had arrived in Pendleburg in the course of the previous orbit, together with Lot-Ionan and the diamond.

“We’ve had five cycles free of Tion’s monsters and now they come marching through Girdlegard. That’s what the people are saying.” Ortger accompanied him. “The common people have no faith in their professed peaceful intentions. I’m glad the ubariu will be leaving again. Otherwise I’m afraid there’d be incidents. Too many people have suffered at orc hands.”

The generals entered the castle courtyard; undergroundlings and ubariu presented a strange picture marching side by side. By Girdlegard standards it was a case of sworn enemies becoming brothers; it seemed unnatural.

Flagur and Sirka stepped out from an adjacent building to welcome them; Tungdil was with them.

Ortger said nothing, but his face showed what he thought. He was disturbed to see Tungdil showing interest in these mixtures of dwarf and orc. Worse still, rumor said he had even chosen one of them as his new partner.

“Come, let us go into the armory.” He strode off, followed by Mallen.

“You are the host. Aren’t you going to greet them?”

“I don’t want them to feel welcome, Prince Mallen. One hundred thousand mouths won’t be easy to feed; the sooner they go, the better. We will hold the leave-taking ceremony, that is all.”