Markus Heitz - The Revenge of the Dwarves

“Don’t worry, Goda. We’ll be quiet soon,” grinned Tungdil. “And as for you, Ireheart, I expect the new elf lord will summon you soon enough.” He turned to face the wall and closed his eyes.

And then, just before he nodded off, he realized what the connection was between the two ravaged settlements. But by the next morning the recollection had gone.

Girdlegard,

Queendom of Weyurn,

Early Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

R odario was woken by a strange noise and was astonished to realize that it was him making the clicking sound himself-faster than a rabbit mating, his teeth were clattering against each other. They could have shredded his tongue to ribbons.

He opened his eyes. Shaking all over, he threw himself onto his back and struggled up. There was thick fog all around, but bright, as if the sun were about to come up over the horizon.

He found himself lying on a shingle beach, with waves lapping around his legs and hips, pulling and sucking at him on the gravel, coaxing him back into their waters.

“Elria, I give you thanks for sparing my life. So you decided you didn’t want an actor in your realm,” Rodario stammered. He got to his feet to walk along the beach and look for help. He assumed he must be on one of the islands he had sailed past the previous night.

Soon he came across a fisherman’s hut with nets hung out to dry.

“Anyone awake?” he called out, knocking at the door. “Please let me in. I’m catching my death.”

The door opened a little way. Two sets of curious young eyes peered out at him from the dark interior. Then the smaller girl disappeared. The older sister, maybe eleven cycles, studied him. She was wearing a worn old dress and two aprons. She had greasy short brown hair sticking to her head. “Who are you?”

“My name is Rodario. My boat capsized.” He could not stop shivering. He was shaking like aspen leaves. “Please, let me come in and dry my clothes by the fire.”

“Father is out fishing and Mother said we mustn’t let anyone in when she’s off looking for herbs.” The girl considered him. “You’re not a pirate. You’re much too thin.” She opened the door and let him in. “Over there,” she said, pointing to the open fire they cooked on. “I’ll put some more blocks on, but you’ll have to pay-they’re expensive.”

“Thank you… What’s your name, little one?” he walked past her, striding to the fire in the middle of the hut, relishing its warmth. There was a smell of fish, of smoke and of fat from a cauldron bubbling gently further along. Either they were rendering blubber or making soap. It was a miracle, he thought, wrinkling his sensitive nose, that they could put up with the smell.

“Flira.” She introduced five siblings and then clambered up a ladder to get blocks of compressed seaweed for the fire. She threw them down to him. “One coin each.”

Rodario felt on his belt for his day’s takings. He unfastened the purse and threw it over to the girl. “Keep it. You need it more than me.” He piled the seaweed blocks on and enjoyed the heat they gave.

With a suspicious look she opened the purse and counted. “That’s seven! Thank you. May Elria bless you.”

“She already has,” he grinned, stretching out his hands to the flames. “I survived that huge damn wave. But my boat didn’t.”

Flira’s eyes widened. “Another one? When?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Some time ago.” Then he understood why she was asking: she would be scared for her father. “Do these waves happen often?” He pulled off his shirt and flapped the legs of his breeches about to dry better. He did not want to take them off in front of the children.

“Father says they never used to. Not till the earthquake and the flood, that’s when he says the lake got so treacherous-as dangerous as any monster in Tion’s dreams, he calls it.” Flira sat down and passed him a cup of hot tea. “They keep coming, and out of nowhere. Seven fishing boats have been lost just from here. He says other islands have fared even worse.”

Her brother, called Ormardin, came over. The light in his eyes told the impresario that the young boy was fascinated by the occurrences on the lake. “Tell him about the alfar Nightmare Island.”

Flira cuffed the back of his head. “Who said you could come and talk with the grown-ups? Tell him yourself.”

“A nightmare island? Sounds intriguing!” laughed Rodario. “I’m all ears, Ormardin.” He sipped his tea and waited to hear what fairy story the boy would serve up.

Ormardin grinned and began.

“Five cycles ago, just before the Judgment Star rose in the sky, a band of alfar was abroad in Girdlegard, sent out by the unslayable siblings to look for a new and safer base.

They came to Weyurn and traveled through our homeland on a ship they’d made out of the skeletons and skins of humans and elves.

They looked at island after island-solid ones and floating ones. Nobody saw what they were up to and any unfortunate fishermen they met on the high seas got killed. And eaten.

One night the alfar landed on a wonderful island that awoke their curiosity. They saw it had mountains and caves where they could hide.

They slaughtered all the inhabitants and took the island over, dragging the corpses to the caves, where they skinned them and removed the bones.

They were about to set up a spit to roast their kill, when one of them stuck his lance in the ground. It penetrated the island’s crust. Water shot up and flooded the caves.

The island sank down into the depths, together with the alfar. That’s how it escaped the effect of the Star of Judgment, whose power could not reach the bottom of Weyurn’s lakes.

But Elria did not let them die. They were to do penance for the evil they had wreaked on the people of Weyurn. She granted the alfar everlasting life and condemned them to eternal exile on the island.

Sometimes, when the stars are favorable, the alfar are allowed up to the surface with their island, so that they may see the night. It’s said they will not die until they have covered the walls of every cave and grotto with paintings.

Anyone surviving the huge wave they bring and unwise enough to set foot on their island, gets eaten by the starving alfar, their skin is torn off and their blood used for cave-paintings.”

Ormardin fell silent and looked at Rodario, his cheeks scarlet. “Did you like my story?”

The showman applauded. “Young friend, I bow to your talent. If your parents don’t have another trade in mind, you’ll be the best storyteller in Weyurn one day. I would bet my daily theater takings on that.”

“You’re an actor?” The boy couldn’t believe his luck.

“Oh yes, I’m the Incredible Rodario, the Emperor of Actors and Showmen in all of Girdlegard,” he boasted in his normal patter. “I have the good fortune to lead my own company, the Curiosum, the best in the world. If it were nearer, I would invite you to see it, young man.” He ruffled the boy’s short brown hair.

Ormardin stood tall. Praise from the mouth of such a master meant a great deal to him.

The door opened and, silhouetted against the light, Rodario saw the figure of a long-haired woman carrying a basket. “Who are you?” she asked, in obvious agitation. “Get away from the children!”

Rodario took her point. “Don’t be afraid, good woman.”

“It’s the Incredible Rodario. He’s an actor. And he’s washed up,” said Ormardin at once, jumping up and embracing his mother, full of delight. “I told him the Nightmare Island story and he said I’ve got talent!”

“Has he been giving you big ideas?” She came in, shutting the door behind her.

Rodario saw a woman slightly older than himself, in simple linen clothing. Fishermen, it seemed, weren’t doing too well in Weyurn. “My greetings,” he said, then remembered he was not wearing a shirt. “Forgive my appearance, but my clothes were wet.”