“And give the elves every reason to wage war on your kingdom?” said Andôkai sharply. “No, we’ll have no need of weapons in the woods. Besides, they’ll spot us soon enough.” She stared at the forest. “What did I tell you? They’ve seen us already.” Four tall figures detached themselves from the trees. Their longbows were raised, ready to shoot. “Who’s going to talk to them?”
“I will,” Tungdil said quickly. He took a step forward, laid his ax on the ground for the elves to see, and walked toward them with measured steps.
“The woods of landur have seen a great deal,” called the voice of one of the archers, “but never a groundling. Stay where you are and state your purpose.”
Tungdil looked at the four forest-dwellers. They were clad in white leather armor, with swords hanging from their belts. Each wore a white fur cloak, and their fair hair hung loose about their shoulders. As far as Tungdil could tell, their perfectly formed faces were identical. He didn’t like them.
“My name is Tungdil Goldhand of the fourthling kingdom. My companions and I left our homes to forge Keenfire and destroy Nôd’onn the Doublefold,” he declared firmly. “Good friends of ours have died that we might accomplish our goal. If you will permit it, we should like to enter your kingdom.”
“There’s no need. You won’t find Nôd’onn here.”
“No, but we’d like to access a tunnel built by our ancestors. The entrance is within your borders. We intend to journey underground to the Blacksaddle,” he explained briefly. “We heard the magus is there.”
“You’re going to kill him with this Keenfire, are you? You and a handful of warriors?” The elf stared at him incredulously. “I bet Nôd’onn sent you here!”
“More than likely,” Tungdil said crossly. He felt like boxing the elf’s pointy ears. “What a fabulous plan that would be! Sending a bunch of dwarves to talk their way into an elven kingdom. He must have known how pleased you’d be to see us. You’d welcome us into your forests, we’d deliver you up to the magus — and you’d never suspect a thing!”
“Nôd’onn’s a traitor, not an idiot,” muttered Balyndis not quite softly enough.
Tungdil couldn’t help grinning, and a fleeting smile crossed the elf’s slender face. It wasn’t enough to change the dwarf’s opinion of him. “How can we convince you that we mean no harm?”
The elves conferred in their own tongue. “You can’t. Wait here,” came the unfriendly reply. “Set foot on our land and we’ll kill you.” With that they disappeared among the mighty trees.
“Ha, we’ve got them worried.” Boïndil grinned and crossed his arms in front of his powerful chest. “That’s something.”
They made a virtue of necessity and tried to get some rest. There were enough fallen branches to make a roaring fire and so the time passed. The sun was already sinking behind the forest when the sentries reappeared, this time accompanied by twenty archers and a warrior clad in shimmering palandium, which marked him out as an elf of rank.
“So these are the travelers.” He was handsome, so handsome that he could never look anything but arrogant. Long red hair framed his face, setting off his dark blue eyes. “A strange group claiming an even stranger purpose. Let me find out the truth.”
He raised his arms, his hands tracing symbols in the air. Andôkai responded immediately with a countercharm.
On seeing the maga, the elf broke off in surprise. “It seems you can use magic. Few among the race of men are capable of that. We heard Nôd’onn had killed them all.” He studied her intently. “In appearance you resemble the woman once known as Andôkai.”
“I am Andôkai the Tempestuous.” She gave the most cursory of curtsies. “I am weak from our journey, Liútasil, and my magic is no match for yours.” She tapped the hilt of her sword. “But I have a certain reputation as a swordswoman and if you care to cross blades with me, I shall prove I am no impostor.”
Tungdil’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Liútasil wasn’t any old warrior; he was lord of landur.
The elf laughed — a kind, gentle laugh, but still somehow superior. “Ah, the tempestuous maga. Very well, Andôkai, I believe you, but I need to reassure myself. The älfar have played too many tricks on us of late.”
His fingers moved gracefully through the air, conjuring a golden haze that settled over the group. In an instant the tiredness that had been eating into every fiber of Tungdil’s body lifted and even his hunger disappeared. Beside him Narmora was gasping with pain and the air was rent by the same terrible noise that Djerůn had made at the gates of Roodacre. The elves nocked their arrows, spanning their bows, and took aim at the pair. Liútasil lowered his arms. “Andôkai, it can’t have escaped your attention that two of your traveling companions will never be granted entry to our glades,” he said carefully.
“They’re with us,” Tungdil said quickly. “They may be descended from Tion and Samusin, but we can’t defeat Nôd’onn without them.” He pointed to the half älf. “Narmora must wield Keenfire, and Djerůn is almost as accomplished a warrior as Boïndil here.” He hoped the dwarf would appreciate the flattery. “Orcs and bögnilim flee at the sight of him.”
Liútasil pondered the matter while one of the elves advised him in an urgent whisper.
“An unusual company indeed,” the elven lord began. Tungdil could tell from his tone that he had conquered his doubts and decided in their favor. “Too unusual to be anything but genuine. You may enter landur and proceed through your tunnel.” He turned to leave.
Tungdil felt sufficiently encouraged to make his next request. “I beg your pardon, Lord Liútasil, but there is something else we should like to ask. We know the älfar are laying siege to landur and that your kingdom is under threat. You won’t be able to defend your lands alone. Join us in our fight against Nôd’onn and we will destroy the Perished Land. Afterward you can reclaim your kingdom with our assistance.”
The elf gazed at him earnestly. “Your generosity does you credit, but it will take more than a few axes to reclaim our lands.”
“He speaks on behalf of the dwarven assembly,” explained Gandogar. “The assistance he promises would come from my folk, the dwarves of the fourthling kingdom, of which I am king. And I know the secondlings would gladly rid your forests of the älfar.”
“We’ve done it before, you know,” Boïndil hastened to assure him. “We kicked them out of Greenglade.”
Liútasil could no longer disguise his astonishment. “A dwarven king? It gets more and more intriguing.” He beckoned for them to approach. “Come, you shall explain to me why the dwarves are willing to help their oldest enemies and save landur from destruction.”
He led the way, and the company followed, escorted on all sides by elven archers.
“Well spoken,” Tungdil said to Gandogar.
The fourthling king smiled. “It was our only hope. Personally, I set no store by my status, but perhaps it will convince the pointy-ears to give us the loan of their army.”
They walked on, squeezing their way through the palisade of trees. Djerůn struggled at first, encumbered by his armor, but Liútasil gave an order and the boughs swung back, allowing him to pass.
Once they had crossed the buffer of pine trees, they entered the forest proper. Even in winter, the oaks, beeches, and maples kept their foliage, and the branches showed no signs of bowing or snapping beneath the heavy snow. The towering trees reminded Tungdil and Boïndil of the splendor of Greenglade before it had succumbed to the northern pestilence and vented its hatred on every living thing.
The sheer size of the trunks took the travelers by surprise; even ten grown men with outstretched arms could not have spanned their girth.
Such was the peacefulness and serenity of the forest that the pain of what they had seen on their journey melted away from them, and they found an inner calm that deepened with every step.
Dusk was falling by the time they reached a building that was roughly equivalent to a dwarven hall. There were no stone columns, of course, only
trees whose crowns formed a canopy two hundred paces above the forest floor, keeping out the rain and snow. A profusion of glowworms bathed the interior in welcoming light.
The elves’ elegant architecture was the perfect complement to the beauty of the woods. Tungdil had experienced the same feeling in Greenglade, where the carved arches, elven inscriptions, and smooth wooden beams had seemed so at one with the trees.
This corner of landur, as yet unconquered by the Perished Land, was the very essence of harmony. Tiny squares of gold and palandium, each no thicker than gossamer, dangled from the boughs, forming shimmering mosaics that sparkled in the starlight. As the company progressed through the living hall of trees, they passed a hanging mosaic of elven runes so dazzlingly beautiful that they gasped in admiration.
“I’m not saying that I like the pointy-ears,” whispered Balyndis, sneaking a sideways glance at the tiles, “but their artwork’s pretty good.”
“Houses made of trees.” Boïndil shook his head doubtfully. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable. I’d rather have good solid rock above me. It protects you from the elements and it doesn’t burn.”
“What about volcanoes?” Rodario asked “Volcanoes don’t burn; lava does,” Tungdil corrected him.
“What do you think lava is…” The impresario dried up under Narmora’s fierce glare. “There’s no point arguing with a dwarf,” he finished.
The appearance of the company drew stares from the elves in the hall. It was the first time that a child of the Smith had visited their kingdom, and most of them had never seen a dwarf before.
“They all look the same to me,” said Boïndil, voicing his thoughts as freely as ever. Luckily he chose to speak in dwarfish. “Long faces, cheeks as smooth as babies’, and so conceited you wouldn’t believe. I bet they think Girdlegard should be thankful that they live here at all.” He gave his head a little shake and his black plait bounced on his shoulders. “I know it’s not their fault that the fifthlings were conquered, but I’m not ready to trust them yet.” The smith nodded in agreement.
Tungdil sighed and stuck his thumbs in Giselbert’s belt. He was glad that Lot-Ionan had raised him: Unlike his companions, he was able to surmount his antipathy to the elves.
Liútasil sat down on a wooden throne, the back and arms of which were decorated with rich intarsia of palandium and gold. Amber and semiprecious gems added to the opulence. Stools were brought for the guests, but Djerůn had to stand.
Rodario’s quill moved tirelessly across the page as he took notes, made sketches, and complimented the elves effusively. Furgas stared reverently at his surroundings, while Narmora’s älf ancestry made it hard for her to relax. Her lips were pressed together in a thin line and she clung to her stool, appearing agitated and unwell.
Liútasil gave an order, and his attendants brought out bread, water, and other offerings, which they served with visible reluctance to Tungdil and friends. The dwarves, whose presence in landur had obviously caused an upset, weren’t familiar with most of the victuals, but felt obliged to eat. Boïndil was the first to take a wary bite.
“I don’t care what it tastes like; you’d better not complain or spit it out,” Tungdil warned him sharply.
The look of disgust that was beginning to take shape on the warrior’s face mutated into a wonky smile. Boïndil forced down his mouthful, swallowed noisily, and reached for some water to wash away the taste. “Don’t touch the yellow stuff,” was his whispered advice to Balyndis, after which he restricted himself to bread.
More elves arrived in the course of the meal and took their places on carved chairs to either side of their monarch. They eyed the dwarves with interest.
Rodario added a little water to his last remaining drops of ink. “That should do the trick,” he said, smiling.
“Perhaps we could speak of the purpose of your visit,” began the elven lord. “I shan’t be able to reach a decision until you’ve told me all that has gone before. Speak only the truth; we will know if you try to deceive us.”
It’s my job to convince them. Tungdil glanced at the others and rose to his feet. He looked into the waiting faces of the elves. Until recently, Liútasil and his kind had been under suspicion of the most heinous betrayal, but the fifthlings’ story had cleared the way for a new beginning. It was up to Tungdil to forge the alliance that the high king had dreamed of. Speak with a scholar’s wisdom and authority, he told himself. More nervous than ever, he took a sip of water, stuck his hands in Giselbert’s belt, and commenced his account of their journey.
As he talked and talked he saw the stars wander above the glittering mosaics and watched as the dark sky turned a deep shade of blue, the moon paling as the horizon glowed red. Finally, as the sun rose above Girdlegard, sending its rays through the banks of snow-laden cloud, he concluded his report.
Liútasil’s blue eyes had not left him for an instant: He had listened to every word. “I see,” he said slowly. “So it started as a contest for the succession and became a mission of far greater consequence. I can see from your faces that the journey has been testing.”
“Indeed it has, Lord Liútasil. The dangers were many, but we survived, and now we’re here.” Andôkai rose, eyes flashing impatiently, her stormy temperament unwilling to tolerate further delay. “We’re running out of time. You’ve heard what we have to say; make your decision while we still have the choice. Girdlegard will be lost if we don’t act soon.” She took a step forward, knowing full well how imposing she looked. “What have you decided, Liútasil?” Her eyes searched his handsome face. “What have the elves decided?”
IX
Underground Network,
Elven Kingdom of landur,
Girdlegard,
Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle
Unbelievable!” Boïndil had no intention of letting the matter go. He sat down heavily in a wagon. “How can they need more time? Time to think about what? I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous! They’ll be sorry when Nôd’onn rules Girdlegard and the älfar chop down their forest to make a bonfire! They won’t need time for thinking then!” He thumped the handrail angrily. “I’d like to slice four of those elv— er, orcs — in two!”
What a blow for Gundrabur, thought Tungdil disappointedly. He took a seat beside the warrior. “I know how you feel,” he confessed. “I thought Liútasil would overrule the doubters, but obviously I was wrong.”
Furgas, who had been examining the track, took a few steps into the tunnel to assess the condition of the rail. “It looks pretty solid. There’s a bit of rust, but nothing serious. It’s almost as good as new.” Satisfied, he returned to the wagon and sat down beside Narmora. “Let the journey begin.”
The company had stayed the night in the forest while the elves were conferring. landur’s beds were the softest in Girdlegard, which suited the humans very well. The dwarves, unaccustomed to such luxury, had slept badly and woken up with sore backs. After a simple breakfast, they had packed their things and set out in search of the tunnel. The trapdoor, built into a boulder and camouflaged by a thicket of ferns, had opened without a hitch. Once inside, they had discovered four empty wagons and a ramp.
“Finished,” said Rodario, putting away his quill. “You’ll be pleased to know that the elves play a none-too-courageous role in this epic.” He beamed at them. “Girdlegard will hear how the warriors of landur declined to come to its rescue.”
“At least we found the entrance to the tunnel,” Balyndis said brightly, trying to lift the mood.
Boïndil ran his finger experimentally along his blades. “I suppose that’s something. The question is, will we reach our destination, or end up being ambushed and eaten by a war band of orcs?” A menacing smile crept over his face. “Don’t worry, my axes will take care of them. I’m longing to slit their runty throats.” As always on such occasions, he glanced sharply at Djerůn to remind him not to interfere.
Tungdil turned to Narmora, who seemed calmer now that they were leaving. “How are you feeling?”
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She smiled. “Better. It was hard for me in the forest, surrounded by so much elvishness. I’ve got my mother to blame for that.”
He cleared his throat. “Are you nervous?”
“About the showdown with Nôd’onn?” She squeezed Furgas’s hand. “No, not really — although once the magus is standing in front of me it will be a different story. Still, I’ve rehearsed what to do, so it should be all right.”
“Of course it will be all right!” roared Boïndil. “We’ll pop up behind the army and plow through the ranks. Before the runts know what’s hit them, you’ll whip out Keenfire and strike the magus in the back. He’ll die, and Girdlegard will be saved!”
Narmora smiled. “A fine plan, but I’d like to try something a little more daring. How about I pretend to be an älf? I can play the part to perfection. I’ll be able to get past Nôd’onn’s guards and apprentices without arousing suspicion.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” Andôkai said doubtfully, “but why would Nôd’onn be interested in an ordinary älf? You’ll never get close enough.”
Narmora rearranged her head scarf. “I’ll think of something.”
Of course! Tungdil broke into a grin. He had just remembered a story from one of Lot-Ionan’s books. The heroes had used a simple but effective trick that could work for them as well. “He’ll be interested, all right, when you deliver the hostages that he’s been waiting for.”
“What kind of hostages?” asked Boïndil. Then it dawned on him. “What? You want us to give ourselves up?” he protested. “No, we’ll fight our way through like I said!”
“My dear fellow,” Rodario interrupted sweetly, “I don’t wish to reawaken painful memories, but remember what happened in the fifthling kingdom? Your axes made little impression on the hordes of baying beasts.”
“Precisely my point.” Tungdil nodded. “We’ll be outnumbered. That’s why Rodario, Furgas, and Andôkai will pretend to be mercenaries who helped Narmora to capture us. Djerůn will have to stay here; his presence would give us away.”