Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“Well, I’ll be struck down by the hammer of Vraccas! Hearing you talk like that!” gasped Boindil. “Made me come over all funny. How long have you been able to do that?”

“I came across some old books in Lot-Ionan’s vaults. There was a partly damaged work I found all about the lost realm of the northern elf, Lesinteil. The author included some notes about the language. I only know a few of their sayings, that’s all. It’s awfully complicated.” Tungdil held back the draped material at the tent door. “Let’s get some rest.”

“You cook us something delicious. I’ll see to the ponies and be with you in a tick,” answered Boindil as he went over to where the animals were enjoying the juicy grasses on the forest’s ferny floor.

Tungdil went into the tent, remembering exactly how the last meeting with the elf prince had gone. The carved wooden posts holding up the roof were the same, the pleasing fragrance, the gentle light from the oil lamps hanging from the supports and the warmth given out by the two stoves-it all created a relaxing atmosphere. He let the hardships of the journey slide from him.

Shedding his mail shirt, he threw it over a stool and went over to wash his face. In the middle of the tent he saw there was a table set with warm food. He would not have to cook anything.

Boindil hurried in, wrinkled his nose because his friend had taken off his armor, and took a seat at the ready-laid table. “This is the life,” he said. “No worries about the mission if this is what it’s going to be like!” He pulled the first of the dishes over. “There’s a strong smell of flowers about this but it doesn’t look too bad.” He heaped his silver plate with portions of the various different foods, tried a bit of everything then hesitated with his fork above a yellowy ball-shaped thing. “Oh no, I remember this from last time. Didn’t like it at all.” Pulling a face, he moved it to the edge of his plate. “Come on, Scholar, dig in. You’ve lost some weight with all that walking, so you can afford to tuck in.”

Tungdil laughed. “You were right to be so severe with me.” He left the dark malt beer standing and poured out some water. He knew if he touched even a drop of the barley he’d be lost to it. The vise had held him in its grip far too long.

Their meal was delicious. When Tungdil afterwards discovered a curtained off section of the tent containing a tub and a large container of water which was heating on a stove there was no stopping him. He prepared a bath for himself, took a handful of the red crystals he found in a shallow dish next to the tub, strewed them into the water and lay back, eyes closed, in the warm water, his muscles relaxing from the journey.

His friend’s voice called him out of his reverie. “I’ve got it!”

“Do you think you could get it slightly more quietly?” he complained, opening one eye to look at Ireheart who was standing next to the tub with only a cloth round his nether regions. He was waving a piece of paper excitedly. “I’ve found the letter again. I’d put it in my pocket. It fell out when I took my breeches off just now. Those elves will be angry when I let them know tomorrow they’ve spent a whole night searching through the bushes in vain,” he grinned. “But let’s not tell them just yet.”

Tungdil remembered Tiwalun saying he wanted to send the letter on to Liutasil, and his curiosity was aroused. “Show me,” he said, stretching out his hand for it. “I’d like to see the praises they heaped upon us.”

It happened as the letter was being passed over. Either Ireheart let go too soon or Tungdil failed to take it in time-the page fluttered down into the bathwater. Both of them made a grab for it and it tore straight down the middle.

“That was the curse of Elria,” said Boindil knowingly, and looked down sadly at his half. “She destroys all our folk-knowledge with her water.”

“Perhaps it was just us being clumsy,” suggested Tungdil, getting out of the tub and wrapping a towel round himself. “The water’s still hot if you want to get in.”

“Me? Get in there? When the letter just drowned in it as a warning of how full of malice water is?” The warrior refused the offer of a bath.

“It’d do you good. You smell. And that’s putting it mildly.” He took both halves of the letter and placed them on one of the stoves to dry.

The elf runes were smudged and partially illegible, and only a few of them were similar to those used by the northern elves of Lesinteil. Either their speech and script had always been different from that of their relatives or else their language had undergone changes in the course of past cycles.

As the paper dried, new pale blue runes started to appear between the lines.

“A secret message,” said Tungdil in surprise. Why had Eldrur used invisible ink in the letter of introduction? Perhaps he had been afraid that one of the dwarves might decipher the runes and so he had not dared write his words openly.

Perhaps the delegates are spies, after all? wondered Tungdil, taking the letter and sitting down with it at the table to examine its contents in the light of the oil lamps. There had been some water damage to the script, which did not make the translation easier.

“Boindil, come and look at this!” he called his friend over.

“Just a…” There was a loud splash and water ran out from under the curtain screening the tub from view; then came some spluttering and a volley of dwarf curses.

Tungdil grinned. “Are you all right?”

“Bloody water!” Boindil raged, pushing the curtain aside and toweling himself. “Now I’ll have to grease my beard all over again.” He lifted the damp black mass of beard that hung sodden on his chest. “It’s taken me a whole cycle to get it just right, with a proper shine.” He turned round and gave the tub a hefty kick. “It’s nothing but one of Elria’s special tricks-a trap for dwarves. It shouldn’t be allowed.” He wrapped himself up. “It’s enough to turn me mad again. I can feel the old anger welling up. It’s too bad.”

“Calm down. What happened?”

“I slipped, didn’t I?” he complained. “Slipped on a piece of soap. And before I knew it I was underwater.” He made a face. “Bah, it tastes dreadful!”

“If you’re thirsty, why not try water on its own? But now you’ll smell good inside and out.” Tungdil joked, then pointed to the letter and grew deadly serious. “I’ve made a discovery.”

Ireheart noted the differing colors of ink. “So they are spies, after all,” he remarked with satisfaction. “I did not entirely mean it before, but it seems to be true.”

“Don’t let’s jump to conclusions,” warned Tungdil. He lifted the silver pot from the stove and poured himself a beaker of tea. “I’m going to see what I can translate. Perhaps it’s an instruction not to show us every single secret in Alandur.”

“Spies,” repeated Ireheart grimly. “There’s no doubt in my mind now.” He walked over to one of the guest beds and lay on it. After tossing and turning for a while, he grabbed a blanket off the bed and went to lie down on the floor. “Too soft,” he said, closing his eyes. “You’re on watch first. Wake me when you need me to take over.”

“On watch? What do you mean?”

“I don’t trust the pointy-ears anymore.”

“But it may just be a harmless instruction…”

“… then they wouldn’t have needed to write in secret ink.” He remained stubborn. “They could have written it out in the body of the letter.”

“… and we’d have thought that very discourteous, wouldn’t we?” Tungdil was reluctant to pre-judge the elves, even if their behavior struck him as odd. A bit more than odd.

A loud snore showed him that Boindil was not intending to pursue the argument. He turned up the wick in order to be able to see better. It was going to be a long night.