Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“If you insist, Your Majesty,” Mallen nodded, his stomach rumbling. He was happy to comply. Plates were being heaped with food and wine served, together with the finest water from Tabain’s deep wells.

“I have planned an interesting nine orbits’ entertainment for you,” announced Nate, eating surprisingly heartily for a man of his advanced years. “You shall come with me to the various farms where I can have you shown all our different agricultural skills; you shall see orchards that you will hardly believe.”

Alvaro grinned at Mallen as he chewed at his food and the prince understood his smile. What was meant was: “Ah, so they do have trees enough to make wooden siege ladders and catapults, after all.”

“And then this evening we shall have a masked ball here, to which all the nobles of the land have been invited. They are all eager to see the hero who has kept our realm safe from the evil powers on more than one occasion, prince.”

Mallen lifted his hand. “Not so, King Nate. Modesty is called for. My soldiers and myself have, it is true, made a contribution. But it is the dwarf folk who deserve your praise. Without their stamina and stubborn determination, their strong arms and their belief in goodness, we should not both be sitting at a feast together as we are doing now. The dwarves have made many sacrifices in the past.”

“True words indeed, Prince Mallen,” said a soft voice from the doorway.

An elf in flowing light green and yellow robes stood there waiting for a sign to show she was allowed to join them.

The prince and Alvaro looked at each other in surprise. It was not often you got to see an elf face to face outside the realm of Alandur: up to now it had only been in times of war.

“Come and join us, Rejalin,” called the king and a servant pulled out the chair at Nate’s left. Now it was obvious for whom the place had been reserved. “Keep us company.”

“Gladly, Your Majesty.” She approached, her every movement the essence of a grace that no other residents of Girdlegard could hope to attain. Rejalin wore her long, light hair woven into a plait around her head; delicate filigree jewelry sparkled from it. Mallen was admiring her already; when she bowed her head slightly and addressed him-“Greetings, Prince Mallen”-he was on the point of falling under her spell. No woman he knew had eyes of such a blue-green color.

“Rejalin is with a delegation from Alandur, sent to me by Prince Liutasil,” explained the king, as the elf maiden tasted the fruit in front of her. She elevated the normally banal act of eating to a simple but enchanting performance.

She lifted her head and smiled at Alvaro and Mallen. “It is time that my people start to share their great knowledge with others. Prince Liutasil has decided to impart what we have learned to all the rulers. Those that show themselves worthy.”

Alvaro lowered the fork that was on its way to his mouth and challenged Rejalin with a look. “So one has to prove oneself worthy in order to receive favor from the elves?” He placed his hands together and watched her face. “What would one have to do in order to be able to belong to the select circle?”

Rejalin delicately plucked an early berry fruit from its stem. “I am not at liberty to tell you,” she replied, her tone even and friendly and her voice melodious enough to subdue the most aggressive of orcs. “We see and we judge without words and then we report to our prince.”

“Then tell me, Rejalin,” he said, pointing at his own master, “how it may be that one of the greatest heroes of Girdlegard has not yet had the honor of an elven deputation?” He was listening for the smallest trace of insult or slight in her words.

She did not step onto this thin ice but instead sent a lingering glance to Mallen that had in it shades of the expression a woman might reserve for her lover. “They have certainly come to you, Prince Mallen, while you have been traveling here to Tabain,” she said, addressing the ruler directly and ignoring the warrior. “You are awaited by a delegation of my brothers and sisters. The journey from Alandur to Idoslane is of a considerable length.” She smiled and he instinctively responded to her friendliness.

Alvaro had not given up by a long way. “This knowledge your people has,” he went on, “what kind is it? How to make more beautiful music?”

“Progress,” she said without turning to answer him-her gaze was fixed on Mallen. “It touches all areas of daily life. Including art.” She lowered her eyes, paused, then regarded Alvaro. “Your manner is not very friendly, sir.”

The warrior leaned back in his chair. “I should have been glad to see your pretty face when the battle of Porista was being fought. But the elves preferred to remain in the woods.”

“We fought against the alfar, Alvaro,” she corrected, speaking more sharply than before, which made him grin. She finally lost her patience.

“Of course you fought the alfar. We all fought the alfar at Dson Balsur and nearly all of us fought the avatars,” he followed through. “We played a part in protecting Alandur from your malicious relations, but how do you thank Girdlegard? This is a mystery I can’t fathom out.” He reached for his beaker and raised it to her. “May you be the first one to explain it to me, Rejalin.”

Mallen looked at him angrily. “Stop this, Alvaro. It is obvious. The elves would have had to fight on the same side as the alfar. It would never have worked. Fire and water would be a better mix than that. They would have attacked each other and the avatars would have stormed off with the victory.”

Rejalin inclined her head. “I see you have greater insight than your friend, Prince Mallen of Idoslane. It would have been like asking you to fight alongside the same orcs who had devastated your city and slaughtered its inhabitants the previous orbit. After they had raped your women and children and consumed their bodies before your very eyes.”

“You may not believe me, but if it meant that as allies we were able to withstand a stronger enemy still, I would do it. There would be opportunities enough later on to destroy the orcs,” Alvaro went on relentlessly. “Rejalin, you elves don’t have any sense of what might be the appropriate time for action. Your turning up here is the best example: only after a full five cycles have passed does it occur to your ruler to want to share his knowledge. Five cycles! ”

“Enough, now,” said Mallen harshly. “I offer my apologies for my companion, Your Majesty,” he continued, addressing King Nate in measured tones. “He is a warrior, longing to return to battle; when there is peace he does not know what to do with his sword.” He stood up. “We will withdraw and refresh ourselves with a bath and then return rested to your presence.”

“It is forgiven,” said Nate; Rejalin nodded and met Mallen’s eyes again with her gaze. “I shall have a selection of costumes brought to your chambers.”

Mallen inclined his head and left the hall with his officer. They walked in silence, not even speaking when they reached their respective rooms. The dispute between Rejalin and Alvaro had spread to the two men.

By evening it was to be settled.

Not only was the masked ball about to begin, but the sky had suddenly changed, so when Prince Mallen awoke he found only lowering darkness as far as the eye could see.

From the window of his chamber just above the crenellated battlements he could discern the various shades of gray in the clouds, interspersed with strips of ragged black, racing across with the wind, and curtains of rain falling to the ground to soak the fields of Goldensheaf.

The wind had picked up noticeably, with the fresh breeze now a gale, undecided about whether it should get stronger still or start to die away. On the horizon lightning flashed, and Mallen heard a rumble of distant thunder.