Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“I’m used to getting up with the birds,” replied Tungdil and turned to face Tiwalun, who had come in silently and was standing right behind him. “I know knocking on a tent is difficult but you might at least have tried.”

“My apologies. The breakfast was intended as a surprise,” said the elf, bowing, but never taking his eyes off the piece of paper. “So you found it?”

Tungdil was not sure what Tiwalun meant: did he mean the letter itself or the secret message it contained? “Yes. My friend had put it somewhere silly.” He decided to employ some of the truth. “It got wet and then these lines started appearing.” He pointed to the pale blue symbols. “I insist on an honest answer: What is the meaning of all this cobold-like secrecy? Your delegations all over Girdlegard-are they spies? They seem to be. Don’t try to lie, because I shall be asking Prince Liutasil.”

Tiwalun looked at him intently, trying to see just how much he did or did not know. “I could never lie to a hero who saved Alandur from destruction,” he said earnestly. “The writing that becomes visible on application of heat has nothing to do with the dwarf people. I swear it by Sitalia.”

“Then tell me what it says.”

“I can’t do that. Ask our prince. It’s by his orders.” He held out his hand for the paper. “May I have it?”

Tungdil folded it and slipped it under his leather robe. “I’d prefer to give it to Liutasil myself,” he said amicably. That way he could be sure that the elf prince would actually grant him an audience; then he could ask him in person about all these goings-on.

Tiwalun made the face he might have made if an orc had asked for his hand in marriage. “As you wish, Tungdil Goldhand. He will be glad to speak to you.” The smell of fresh bread pervaded the tent. “Have some food, then I’ll take you and your friend on a tour of our land.” He bowed and went out and some elves in less extravagant attire laid the table and served refreshments.

Boindil appeared in his mail shirt as usual; nose in the air, he sniffed noisily. “Doesn’t that smell good?” he called enthusiastically. He was looking forward to his food and watched as the elves completed their preparations at the table before retiring. “Did you stay up all night on watch?” he asked, once he was sure they would not be overheard.

“I was translating,” Tungdil said and went over to the table.

“And?” urged Ireheart. “What had the elves written?”

Tungdil told him about his short exchange with Tiwalun. “What he doesn’t know is that I’ve translated part of the letter. But it doesn’t help us with the secret. The rest is illegible, either because of the bathwater or else written in symbols I’m not familiar with.” He helped himself to a piece of bread, poured out some tea and put honey in it. The scent of cloves and cinnamon and two varieties of cardamom rose to his nostrils. The infused ingredients in combination with the herbs and the milk made an excellent spiced drink, he realized, after taking the first sip. Even though his whole body was crying out for beer, brandy or any other alcoholic beverage, he did not give in to the craving: he stuck with the tea.

Boindil watched him crossly. “Are you doing this on purpose, Scholar? Keeping me on tenterhooks?”

“Oh, you mean the letter?” Tungdil grinned. “Sorry, I was miles away.” With the slice of bread in his hand he looked round, as Ireheart was doing, for some juicy meat. It seemed that the elves didn’t serve meat in the morning, so he helped himself to the boiled eggs. “What I could read was a recommendation, praising us as heroes and encouraging the greatest possible vigilance. The remaining words were keep them from Liutasil and only show them the outsides and then again keep them away from our new buildings and not longer than four orbits; after that get rid of them with any old excuse. Say it’s because of their bad manners.” He tasted one of the eggs and was surprised. Although he hadn’t used condiments it tasted of salt and other aromas.

Boindil had noticed the same thing. “Wonder what they feed their hens on?”

“Who says they’re hens’ eggs?”

The dwarf chewed more slowly. “I underestimated the dangers of this type of mission: foreign food,” he sighed and swallowed noisily. He recalled the first meal he’d had with the freelings in Trovegold; there had been the oddest of ingredients like beetles and maggot beer. “I reckon the instructions mean that the elves are only to show us selected places, and not to let us meet up with Liutasil, and that we’re to leave Alandur very soon.”

Tungdil nodded. “The mention of new buildings is bothering me. What is it about them that they want to keep hidden from us, and probably from the rest of Girdlegard, too?”

Ireheart was displaying his old fighting grin, even if he no longer had that fire-rage in his eyes like before. Apart from the sense of humor and the hair, he was exactly like his twin brother, the one who had died. “I get it. If they tell us to go right, we’ll go left.”

“Handing them a reason for getting rid of us even sooner?” Tungdil took some more of the eggs, slicing them onto his bread and putting garlic sauce on top.

“But they haven’t read the letter so they haven’t got the instructions.”

“Tiwalun came creeping in here as silent as a mountain lion. I don’t know how long he’d been standing behind me. I think he must have been able to read quite a bit of it,” he said. “We’ve got three orbits. During the days we’ll do as they say and at night we’ll go out snooping. Get ready to manage without sleep.”

“Slinking around like a perfidious alf,” complained Boindil. “Never my strong point. I hope I don’t muck things up.”

“We’ll have to fight them with their own weapons there,” said Tungdil. “What choice do we have?”

They finished their breakfasts calmly and did not let themselves be hurried by Tiwalun when he came to collect them. Around midday they set off on the ponies again toward the interior. They rode through the peaceful lush-green woods, where dark thoughts had no chance. It was all simply too beautiful even if there weren’t any mountains, much lamented by Ireheart.

The elf did not tire of eloquently listing the particular charms of the various trees they passed; it was as if he were trying to lull them into a sense of security with his long descriptions.

And if it had not been for that coded letter he might have succeeded.

As it was, Tungdil and Ireheart simply nodded, but they had a good look around, keeping an eye out for anything unusual. It didn’t escape their notice that they never rode through mountain territory, always remaining in the forest, where you could only see about as far as an arrow might fly.

Of course they knew the reason. When Tungdil asked Vilanoil about mountain ranges or perhaps less wooded hills, the elf looked mortified that the guests were tired of the unique marvels of the quiet forest glades of Alandur. He promised them an outing with a view for the following day.

As darkness fell they rode up to a brightly lit building that Tungdil and Boindil were already familiar with. They had been here before when they came with Andokai to ask the ruler of the elves for help in resisting the forces of Nod’onn. Mighty trees formed living pillars holding up the thickly woven roof of treetops, two hundred paces overhead.

But the forest halls had changed radically since that first visit.

The artistically fashioned mosaics of wafer-thin gold and palladium sheets that used to sparkle suspended between the tree trunks were missing. In their place now you saw giant paintings, compositions in various shades of white; here and there a randomly placed diamond shimmered in the torchlight. Where once there had been showiness and skilled craftsmanship now there was a strange clarity in the work that impressed the dwarves just as much as its monumental nature.