The Revenge of the Dwarves

  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 Vilanôil 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 landur. 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 Boïndil were already familiar with. They had been here before when they came with Andôkai to ask the ruler of the elves for help in resisting the forces of Nôd’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.

  “What have you done with all that other stuff?” Boïndil found himself asking.

  “Is one constrained to seek artistic expression only in one single vein for all eternity?” responded Tiwalún. “We have hardly any visitors in our forests to see how often our tastes change, seeking subtle nuances and variety. Let us tell you, Boïndil Doubleblade, that we have experimented with many different art forms over the cycles. As with your own people, one or two hundred cycles are as nothing to us.”

  He took a left turning and was attempting to lead them out of the tree-hall when Ireheart pointed to a triangular white monolith standing where once they had seen Liútasil’s throne. Guessing from this distance, the object must be at least fifteen paces high and seven in circumference. “May I have a closer look, Friend Elf?”

  “It is nothing of significance,” said Tiwalún, in an attempt to downplay the importance of what they had seen. “The meal will be waiting for us…”

  Boïndil had forgotten Tungdil’s advice that they should pretend to follow the elves’ suggestions in all things during the daylight hours. Boldly he marched straight past Tiwalún to inspect the three-cornered monolith. “The eye of a stone-expert is called for here,” he announced. “My people are renowned as excellent stonemasons.”

  The elf swiftly overtook him and walked backwards in his path, shielding the object from his view. “No, Boïndil Doubleblade. I would ask you not to do that. It is a holy and revered object that may only be touched by us elves. You should not have been permitted to see it even!”

  Ireheart looked up the length of the elf’s legs, slowly up along his body, till his gaze reached Tiwalún’s face. “That seems very discourteous,” he complained. “Your delegation is shown every inch of our land, but here I am not allowed to cast eyes on a stone?”

  “It is a holy relic: didn’t you hear, Boïndil?” Tungdil interjected to save the day.

  “So why did he say it wasn’t of any great significance?”

  “Not of any significance for you,” said Tiwalún with a smile. A drop of sweat rolled down his forehead, over that smooth unblemished skin that would surely remain wrinkle-free and youthful for at least a hundred cycles. “Please turn around.”

  “Elves revering stones?” grinned the warrior. “Our peoples have more in common than I had thought. Aside from the type of things you like to eat, of course.” He turned around quite calmly and pointed to the passageway Tiwalún had previously indicated. “This way, is it?”

  “This way,” confirmed Tiwalún, sounding relieved. He strode off before the troublesome dwarf could change his mind. “Thank you for showing such understanding, Boïndil Doubleblade.”

  “But of course,” grinned Ireheart, looking at Tungdil.

  Late evening brought a surprise for elf and dwarf alike.

  They were sitting with Vilanoîl and Tiwalún finishing the final course of a light but lavish supper when a messenger came in with a letter. On reading it the elf looked at the dwarves.

  “Very worrying news,” he said. “Three of the diamonds have been stolen—King Nate’s has gone and so have King Ortger’s and King Malbalor’s. They’re talking about dreadful creatures and dwarves, too, launching these raids.” He read out the lines that described just how these terrible deeds had been committed in each of the three kingdoms. The guests listened in horror: the attacks by the awful machines in the Red Mountain Range were mentioned. “Evil has taken hold and is stretching out its claws to grasp total domination,” Tiwalún finished.

  “We’ll leave first thing,” said Tungdil, extremely concerned. In such circumstances he would have to ensure that the stone Gandogar had entrusted him with, hidden away safely in the vault, was being properly guarded. He was frightened for Balyndis, his wife, who wouldn’t have heard the news. If these unknown raiding parties had found the stones in all these kingdoms and dwarf realms, then they would have no difficulty locating his own, deposited simply in mine galleries that were comparatively easy to enter. The only soldier left in charge was Balyndis herself, and she would be hopelessly outnumbered.

  “But our mission…” objected Boïndil, until he remembered that his friend had one of the diamonds in his possession. “Forget it, Scholar. The ponies will carry us to your home like the wind.”

  Tungdil stood up from the table. “We don’t wish to be rude, Tiwalún and Vilanoîl. We need to get some rest. The next orbits will be hard for us. Please give Prince Liútasil our warmest greetings. I assume we will see him very soon at the rulers’ assembly.”

  Tiwalún looked distinctly relieved to hear of their departure. “Of course. He will understand why you have to leave. I shall get provisions brought for you so that you can set off as soon as you want.” He got up and bowed to them. “I would have wished for a calmer conclusion to your visit here in landur, but the gods are testing us.” He smiled. “You will have an important role to perform, will you not?”

  “I could do without tests like this,” replied Tungdil. “But if my people and Girdlegard need me I shall be there.” He strode to the door. Ireheart followed, a laden plate in his hand.

  Vilanoîl and Tiwalún watched them go. When the door had closed behind them, Tiwalún reached for the wine and poured himself a glass full to the very brim. He had seen the hidden instructions in the letter; that morning, the dwarf hadn’t noticed he had been reading over his shoulder, until alerted by the sound of his voice. This bad news could not have come at a better time, since it meant the unwelcome guests were leaving landur of their own accord.

  It had been a serious error letting the dwarves anywhere near the monolith. Any moment things could have got much worse.

  Tiwalún raised his drinking cup. “Here’s to you, Sitalia. I drink to you and in honor of your purest of creatures.” Ceremoniously he lifted the vessel to his mouth, took three sips and then poured the rest on the ground as a libation. “May the eoîl one day return and take power.”

  Vilanoîl smiled.

  But there was something afoot that night.

  In spite of extreme tiredness Boïndil could not help going out on his own to inspect the white stone Tiwalún had so adamantly insisted he should not approach. They would be leaving landur the following orbit anyway so it would not matter if he was observed. What else could happen to him? They surely wouldn’t cut off his head for it?

  Stealth didn’t come easily to him: he wasn’t good at it and didn’t like it. He’d taken off his leather-soled boots and left off his chain-mail shirt. Completely naked—that’s how it felt—he’d made his way through the tree palace as if stalking a deer; it seemed
not a soul was around. He had thought he would remember how to get to the hall but he had soon lost his sense of direction. This would never have happened to him underground. “Wretched bloody trees. They all look alike,” he’d grumbled, taking the next corridor to the left.

  At first he had been delighted that there were no elf guards about, but now he was getting worried about it. This was the prince’s residence after all and there should be servants all over the place. He bravely opened the nearest door and found an empty room; starlight fell into the deserted chamber and there were a few leaves on the floor. That was all: no clothes, no chests, no bed.

  Boïndil continued through the palace trying a few more doors. He did not find a single room with any sign of occupation. It was nothing but a refuge for ghosts.

  By chance he happened on the great hall with the tall white monolith dominating the space.

  Although no torches were burning, the stone itself gave off a glow, as if it had stored up light during the day to release in darkness.

  “So there you are.” He grinned and stepped closer, circling the stone, to give it a thorough inspection. There was not a single join on it, not a scratch, not at least as far up as the dwarf could actually see. The white surface shimmered smooth as glass. Boïndil stretched out a hand.

  When his skin came into contact with the stone he was amazed how warm it felt. So it wasn’t just storing up light but also energy from the sun. This was new to him. Well, he was a fighting man and never much good as a mason, but he’d never come across anything at all like this. It meant that they were mining new minerals here in landur, a completely different type of stone.

  Boïndil was turning to leave when he saw that where he had touched the stone there was now the mark of five black fingers.

  “Bloody orc bloody shit!” He looked at his hand: it was clean. He tried wiping the stone with his beard at first and then with a kerchief, but the marks on the stone would not shift. They stared out accusingly from the otherwise immaculate surface of the monolith. The size of the handprint desecrating the holy monument made it obvious that only a small-handed dwarf could have done this. There would be an outcry.

  With Tiwalún’s words ringing in his ears about non-elves touching the stone, he went hot and cold all at once.

  He ran back, shook Tungdil awake and grabbed his things. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he whispered. “Something’s up.” He slipped into his boots and put on his mail shirt.

  His friend struggled up, “What’s happened?”

  “I went off to look at the monolith and there are no signs of life in the palace at all. They’ve only opened it up because of us.” He quickly related what he had seen in the empty rooms. “And the stone is not normal. It shows marks when you touch it,” he murmured.

  “Marks? You mean you did touch it?” Tungdil was fully awake and alert. “But you heard what he said…”

  “Yes, I know, it’s holy. But I’m in charge of this mission and if the dwarves are keeping things secret I want to find out why,” he said defensively, crossing his arms.

  Tungdil uttered an oath and got out of bed. The elves had at least one secret they were keeping. And this three-cornered white stone seemed to be tremendously important. “Come on. Let’s see if I can clean off the marks somehow.” He collected his armor to be on the safe side and took a bowl of water, a cloth, some soap and some of the perfumed toilet water that had been provided. Perhaps they could sort something out.

  Boïndil showed him how empty the tree palace was; the scholar looked at the deserted rooms. He agreed: nobody had been living here in ages.

  There were more and more puzzles.

  As they made their way it seemed as if the wooden passage walls were shifting to prevent them finding the monolith. The corridors had turned into a maze and they were lost until Tungdil thought to cut tiny notches on the wall with his knife. No longer wandering around aimlessly, they soon found the great hall.

  The handprint had got darker still, or so it seemed to Ireheart: the marks would be on that stone for all eternity. Nothing worked: they tried soap, they tried rubbing, they tried the perfumed water.

  “It’s no good,” said Tungdil, throwing the cloth back into the bowl with a splash. “The stone is insulted because it has been touched by somebody that is not an elf.”

  “What do you think? Shall we tell Tiwalún and own up or shall we make a run for it?”

  Tungdil thought about it. If the elves had been a bit friendlier and more open then he certainly would have chosen the honest course: to speak to Tiwalún and ask for clemency for Boïndil. But their hosts had been behaving strangely. And anyway, he had to get back to protect his diamond. Speed was called for.

  He dipped the soap in the water again and rubbed it between his hands until there was a good lather. Carefully he lifted off the top layer of soft soap with the blade of his dagger, and pressed it onto the dark stains.

  It worked. “You’re the cleverest damned dwarf I know,” whooped Ireheart.

  After Tungdil had applied three thin layers, the ugly marks had been covered over. An innocent superficial glance would not reveal anything suspicious.

  “Right, that should do.” Tungdil sighed with relief. “As soon as we have left landur I’ll send Prince Liútasil a letter apologizing. You will seek an audience and ask for clemency,” he decided. His friend nodded. “So it’s off to the ponies.”

  The two dwarves found their way back to their quarters. Then they went to the stables and were off as fast as they could go toward the mines. Not until they crossed the border at dawn, when the ponies’ hooves touched Gauragar, could they relax.

  Nobody had pursued them.

  Girdlegard,

  Queendom of Weyurn, Mifurdania,

  6241st Solar Cycle, Late Spring

  When Rodario and Tassia had finished asking around in the town after Furgas, they went back to the rest of the troupe. A distraught Gesa rushed straight into their arms like a startled hen. Her plump body was bouncing all over the place, doing its best to escape from her dress: the tight bodice was unable to hold it all back.

  “Master Rodario! At last you’re back!” She took him by the hand. “Come quick! Some men came—your caravan’s been smashed to pieces and poor Reimar’s been beaten up. Then we set the dogs on them and chased them off.”

  “All right, Gesa. Calm down.” He stroked her cheek. Rodario had been expecting something like this and so could react sensibly.

  Nevertheless, it was upsetting to see how his home had been destroyed. The little house on wheels had suffered considerable damage in being ransacked for the necklace. If he set eyes on them, those heavies Nolik’s father had sent, he’d skin them for all they were worth. He’d have the pants off them, underpants too, just to pay them back in humiliation.

  “O Palandiell!” moaned Gesa in distress, staring at the mess from the doorway. “How awful!”

  Giving a sigh, Rodario sat down on the ripped-up mattress. “Thank you, Gesa. It’s all right, I’ll tidy up later.” She nodded and left.

  Tassia closed the door and retrieved the necklace from under the floorboards. “They’re too stupid to do a decent search,” she said, laughing with relief and putting the necklace on.

  “And they think we’ve flogged the jewel in Mifurdania,” he added, holding out his arms to her. “Come here, Queen of the Stage, and grant the emperor your favors. Display yourself in all your glory, with gold and jewels hung about your neck.”

  The dress she had pinched from someone’s washing-line slipped to the ground and she lay down next to him, stroking his face. “So, Emperor of Lust. Shall we start work on your dramatic production?”

  “Oh, that’s daring! You’d like to make love on stage?” His grin was dirty, and his aristocratic face took on a vulgar leer. “We’d be thrown in jail and no mistake. For indecency.”

  She smiled and tickled him with a lock of her blond hair. “Let’s do it anyway. Right now. And just for ourselves.”


  He kissed the nape of her neck and soon they were deep into their drama until they sank back exhausted into what had been a mattress and covered themselves with what had been a blanket.

  After this delightful distraction Rodario found his thoughts drifting back to his missing friend and to their current adventures. “Someone has tried to kill us, good people have been lost and a man has been carried off,” he mused. “And somehow it’s all connected with Furgas.”

  Tassia picked up the dark yellow dress and slipped it on. “Why? And what does anyone want with the blacksmith?”

  “Lambus is a highly skilled craftsman. Others will be jealous of him.” He put his own clothes back on, regretting that the girl was no longer visible in her exquisite entirety. “What if Furgas himself is behind it all?” he wondered. “Lambus told us he didn’t want to leave town. What can have been so urgent that Furgas would have kidnapped him?” He dismissed the idea. That was not the way his friend would act.

  “Didn’t you say he’d lost his partner and his children?” she asked, standing up and leaning against the door. “Perhaps he’s found someone new.”

  “You mean the child he had with him?” Rodario started tidying the mess. “I don’t understand. He loved Narmora more than anything.”

  “People’s feelings change.”

  “Sure, anyone else’s,” he agreed. “Not with Furgas. You don’t know him or you wouldn’t say that. Only if he’d changed completely.”

  “Mm.” She had her hand on the door handle. “And what if it’s not his kid? Perhaps he’s just taken it in?” Tassia smiled at him. “I’d better leave you in peace to finish your sorting and your thinking.”

  “Great. Off you go.”

  She laughed winningly. “The queen knows when she is not wanted.” And she stepped out.

  “Tassia!”

  “Yes?”

  Rodario pointed at her throat. “The necklace.”

  “Oh.” She ran her hand over the necklace that was catching the light so brilliantly. “It feels so nice against my skin.”