Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“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 alfar 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 Alandur, 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-mache. 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 Liutasil of Alandur, 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.

Girdlegard,

The Mountains of the Gray Range on the Northern Border of the Fifthling Kingdom

Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

Tungdil and Boindil 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 Boindil, 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 Boindil 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.

“Let us see why Gandogar wanted us back here so swiftly,” Tungdil said to calm him. “The messenger we found at the gate-he must have been sent out after us just after we left.”

“It can’t be anything terrible,” said the warrior twin, “or the guards at the gates would have been on high alert.”

The door opened to admit Gandogar. Three elves followed him, completely out of place here in their fine raiment, garments of delicate fabrics in the lightest of colors. In Tungdil’s view their robes alone were disturbing enough, contrasting with the muted browns and subdued tones that the children of the Smith preferred to wear.

But really, he thought, it wasn’t their apparel. It was the elves themselves he didn’t like. Not elves in general: he had nothing against them in principle. Their way of life, from their buildings to their clothing and their language: it all formed an organic whole in Alandur. But here their very presence struck a discordant note, like a shrill soprano singing out high above the mellow harmonies of a dwarf-voice choir.

Judging from the expression on Boindil’s face, he was of like mind. “It is something terrible,” he murmured, half in earnest, half in jest. “It’s delicate little elves.”

“So the heroes have returned!” Gandogar greeted them warmly, shaking hands. “Were you pleased to find your old friend, Tungdil?”

“Your little surprise worked well, Your Majesty,” Tungdil smiled.