Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“Let’s lose no more time.” King Bruron gave the signal to dissolve the assembly. “Is there anything more to discuss?”

“In all our concern about protecting the diamonds there’s something we mustn’t forget. I extend my sympathies to you both, Tiwalun and Vilanoil, on the death of your sovereign lord.” Mallen’s voice was heard. “His death, and that of all who have died in defense of the diamonds, shall not have been in vain. But before we part, to meet again in Paland, tell us: Who is to succeed Liutasil?”

Vilanoil smiled. “My thanks to you and all who mourn with us in our loss. In ten orbits I shall be able to answer your question, Prince Mallen of Idoslane. We are presently deliberating. Liutasil named no successor. We shall inform the realms of humans and the kingdoms of dwarves when joy replaces sorrow in our hearts.”

The elves left the tent and the leaders made their way back to their quarters.

Mallen and the dwarves remained there under the canvas roof, drinking up and thinking back on what had happened and on the plans that had been forged.

Tungdil went over to the map to look at the locations of the village that had been destroyed and the town that had been wiped out. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered. “They are much too far apart to have been attacked by the same group of orcs in such a short space of time. And why attack them but leave villages and farmsteads round about untouched? Orcs will always destroy everything in their path.”

“Maybe these orcs are different?” interjected Mallen. “Gandogar, didn’t you say that there wasn’t a single death amongst the dwarves when the orcs stole the fourthlings’ stone? Odd, isn’t it?”

The very moment the blond prince spoke, Tungdil remembered what had struck him as strange in the descriptions of the attacks. Neither the undergroundlings nor the mysterious orcs with the pink eyes had done any killing. The indiscriminate slaughter had only begun when the machine arrived in the lift-hoist before retreating into the galleries and disappearing.

“Cudgels,” he breathed. “The orcs attacked with cudgels. And the undergroundlings creating that diversion in the Red Range-they injured people but killed no one.” And that was in spite of none of them surviving the battle. Two had previously evaded the queen’s guard and gone off through the body of the mountain. They had all sacrificed themselves for the sake of this robbery. He put his suspicions into words. “Gandogar, we have to find those undergroundlings, alive, to interrogate them.”

Ireheart saw it the same way. “They are giving their lives to recover their property.”

“Their property?” chorused Gandogar and Mallen.

“My word, Ireheart!” Tungdil ran to his friend and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Of course! How could I miss that?” He hit himself on the forehead. “And they call me the Scholar!” he cried. “It should be your name!”

“You never know!” Ireheart was immensely proud and felt the need to stroke his long black beard but his hand met empty air. He had managed for a time to forget about that loss.

“They’re after the diamond, because it’s theirs!” Tungdil turned to the prince and to the high king. “Do you remember how we always thought a diamond with all those wonderful facets could only have been cut by dwarf craftsmen?”

“By Vraccas, we must have been blind!” exclaimed Gandogar, conjuring up the exact image of the diamond in his imagination. His tribe had fashioned the imitation stones and they had needed to apply every ounce of skill to come near to the original. “The eoil had stolen it from the undergroundlings!”

“And when they found out how powerful an artifact it has become, they wasted no time in trying to get it back. They know very well we’re not likely to surrender it voluntarily,” Tungdil deduced.

“But what have the orcs got to do with the diamond? Why are they helping the undergroundlings to recover it?”

“That’s what I was wondering,” grunted Boindil. “There can’t be a pact of any kind between our kind and these beasts.”

“The undergroundlings must think differently on that score,” Tungdil reminded him. The word pact gave him an idea. “This town and the other place that have been destroyed-do they have anything in common?”

“Apart from being located near the realms of monsters?” Mallen studied the map. “King Ortger didn’t mention any alliance. I think that many cycles ago, when the trolls ruled Borwol, the town wanted to send out a troop to negotiate with the monsters. It was about mining rights.”

Tungdil looked at the lines delineating Toboribor. “This village will have paid tribute to the orcs in the old days, surely?”

“I expect so.” Mallen suppressed a yawn. “Excuse me. I’m really tired and would like to go to bed.”

“Just one more question,” said Tungdil. “When you faced the monster in Goldensheaf, did you see any elf runes on its armor?”

“So I’m not the only one with sharp eyes,” said Mallen. He nodded. “I didn’t want to tell anyone before I’d had a chance to speak to Liutasil about it.”

“Describe them.” Mallen sketched them out for Tungdil on a piece of paper. “I think it means YOUR,” Tungdil said, considering. “Our attackers had HAVE on their wrist protectors.”

“Perhaps it’s a message that won’t make sense until all the monsters have appeared?” the Idoslane prince mused.

“… to the elves.” Tungdil was more specific. “The monsters are carrying a message to the elves. Whatever the purpose might be, they want the elves to piece it together bit by bit.”

“So they see themselves as unstoppable.” Mallen pointed to the doorway. “I’ll ask Ortger if he saw anything. Perhaps we can solve the puzzle, even if it’s not intended for us.” He shook hands with the dwarves, wishing them goodnight, then left the tent.

“It’s time for me as well,” said Gandogar. “Tungdil, I want you to guard the fifthlings’ stone on its way to the Gray Mountains and Paland. I don’t want to take any more risks. Keenfire will be up to contending with any threats. There’s none better than yourself to be entrusted with the task.”

Goda and the two male dwarves walked away from the square and were shown to their quarters by one of Bruron’s servants. Ireheart told Goda briefly about what had happened, and instructed her to take the first watch.

“Master, I am tired…”

“Yes, I know. You walked, in the sun, carrying baggage.” He dismissed her complaints. “But a warrior girl such as yourself must be ready to ward off an attack after a long march. Your enemies won’t care whether you’ve had a rest or not. They’ll be waiting, come what may.” With a sigh he slipped off his boots and his chain mail shirt, opened the fastenings on his leather jerkin and collapsed on his bed. “That’s your next lesson.”

“Thank you, master.” She sat down on a chair by the entrance to be able to watch the door and the window at the same time.

Tungdil lay down under his blanket and thought about the evening’s long discussions. A thousand things went through his head as he searched for explanations more convincing than Isika’s.

The undergroundlings and the orcs held one key to the events in Girdlegard and the new beasts held the second one. Those keys would shed light on the secrets. Probably they would reveal even greater challenges in store for the homeland.

“Why did Tiwalun not say anything?” Boindil asked.

“About the stone?” Tungdil turned to his friend, who was sitting on his own bed and also seemed to be thinking hard; he was watching Goda. “Would it have been better if he had?”

“Why am I having to keep watch if neither of you is even asleep?” asked Goda in a resentful huff.