The Revenge of the Dwarves

IV

Girdlegard,

Queendom of Weyurn, Mifurdania,

Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

Mind out, Rodario!” He heard Tassia’s warning just in time. He ducked, the slops aimed at his back missing him by inches and hitting the girl instead. She cried out and stumbled backwards into Mifurdania’s floodwaters, which washed the pail’s stinking contents from her dress.

“That’s good luck,” grinned Rodario, punching an injured pursuer full in the face as he was trying to jump onto the walkway from one of the boats. The thug landed in the water. Then the actor spun around, beaming. “Master Umtaschen? You haven’t forgotten me? Delighted to find you still so lively.”

“You foul seducer!” shouted the older man, who had attacked so suddenly with the bucket. “She was promised to the judge’s son. He would have none of her with your bastard in her belly!” He swung the bucket again. “I’ll have your balls off for that!”

“Master Umtaschen, it was your daughter who seduced me,” retorted Rodario, fending off the pail. “And I wasn’t the first. Believe me, I’d have noticed.” He grabbed the bucket and hurled it at the last of the band of pursuers Nolik’s father had sent after them.

The man, who had been balancing precariously debating his next move, was sent flying into the water to join Tassia and his comrade in thuggery.

“At least the others didn’t make her pregnant!” Umtaschen roared, swinging both fists.

“If that is the case, Master Umtaschen, I’ll be happy to meet with her again and show her a good time. It seems I have your blessing as long as I’m careful where I aim this time,” laughed Rodario as he took a sudden step forward.

Umtaschen sprang back out of range inside his house. “We’re not done yet!” he threatened and disappeared as fast as he could when Rodario gave a warning stamp with his foot.

Someone splashed him. He turned round.

A girl’s hand waved from below the edge of the landing stage. “Help me up before the other two get me,” Tassia called and he hurried over to haul her out. As she stood in front of him soaked to the skin, he could see how the water had made her dress transparent.

The two who had been following them had given up and were swimming back to their three colleagues on the other side of the canal.

“What do we do now?” asked Tassia, smoothing back her wet fair hair. In Rodario’s eyes she was temptation itself. “They’re bound to have gone to the Curiosum.”

“They didn’t find the necklace there so they think one of us has it,” Rodario said and nodded. “Hey, you blockheads!” he called out to the men, pretending to be holding something. “You want the necklace? Think again! Tell Nolik’s father we’re going to sell it. He can come to Mifurdania and buy it back.” One of the heavies was about to clamber onto the string of tethered boats, but Rodario moved up to the end of the landing stage. “Stop right there! If anyone follows us we’ll chuck the necklace into one of the canals and you can go diving for it.” A gesture from his leader stopped the man in his tracks. “Well done,” the actor praised him, taking Tassia’s hand and running off. “Stay where you are!” he warned and ran off round the corner with a laugh.

When they were passing under an awning formed by garments drying on a washing line, Tassia stopped. “Wait! Give me a leg up!”

Rodario did as she asked, and she placed one foot on his locked hands and wedged her other foot against the wall; sprightly, as if on solid ground, she filched a dark yellow dress from the line and jumped down again. Without taking any note of her surroundings she stripped off her wet clothing and slipped into the stolen garment; then she gave Rodario a passionate kiss, laughed and ran off.

“This wild creature will be the end of me or the making of me,” he grinned, hurrying after her.

Late in the afternoon they finally arrived at the forge where Lambus worked. Rodario wanted to thank him and to get a few more details about where Furgas might be.

The inner gate to the forge stood open. A fire burned in the furnace and two pieces of metal lay red-hot in the flames waiting to be worked on. They couldn’t see the blacksmith.

“Lambus, you old iron-basher,” called Rodario. “Are you here?” He stepped into the half light but before his eyes could adapt to the dark he tripped over something on the ground. “What the…?” He bent down and saw what had nearly made him fall: a young man’s outstretched legs. In the man’s side there was a gaping hole. Blood had spread over the floor. “Mind out, Tassia,” he warned the girl, who was hot on his heels. “There’s been a murder.”

“Perhaps one of the heavies sent by Nolik’s father?” She peered over his shoulder and went pale. She stepped back, retching, then turned and fled for the door to get fresh air.

Rodario studied the brutal wounds: the work of a very sharp ax. “I don’t think so. Those men didn’t have weapons that could make injuries like these.” Rodario got up and went over to look at the iron objects in the furnace. One of them could indeed have been an ax head. “Lambus?” he called out, taking a poker and moving slowly into the dark recesses at the back of the forge.

At that point a figure jumped out of the shadows at him.

With great presence of mind Rodario stepped to one side and a dagger just missed his throat. “Assassin!” he shouted and took a wild swing with the poker, hitting the dark-clad attacker full in the face so he collapsed in a groaning heap. The knife clattered to the floor. To be on the safe side he gave the man another blow with the poker, then grabbed him and dragged him over to the part of the outbuilding where there was better light. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

He saw a dirty face marked with burns. The man was a good fifty cycles old and looked more like a simple workman than a professional killer. The poker blow had broken his nose and knocked out two of his teeth. There was blood coming out of his nostrils and his mouth. In a daze, he was trying to break away, but couldn’t.

“Tassia, bring me a red-hot iron!” Rodario requested. “We can pierce his tongue with it.”

“No, let me go,” he mumbled, terrified. “He’ll kill them if I’m not back on time.”

“Did you kill this man?” Rodario picked up the glowing metal and held it in the man’s face. His eyes widened in fear. “Who sent you and where is Lambus?”

The man was trembling like a fish on a hook. “I don’t know. Ilgar did it because the boy refused to come along and he threatened to betray us.”

Each answer brought more questions in its wake. “Get the story out, old man, or I swear-by Samusin-I’ll put out your eyes with this iron.” Rodario threatened the man again, putting on his most villainous expression, a face that went down well on stage. Not for a moment did he really intend to harm the old man any further.

“Are you a friend of the blacksmith?” the man asked, coming to his senses. “If so, by the grace of Palandiell, don’t tell anyone what you’ve seen. Tell them Lambus is off on his travels. Get rid of the boy’s body. That’s the only way your friend will ever be able to come back.”

“Is Furgas in the power of whoever’s got Lambus?” asked Rodario, guessing wildly. “He’s about my size, black hair and…”

The man’s face changed suddenly. He looked surprised. “You know the magister?”

“He’s my best friend.”

The man spat in his face. “May all the demons…”

Rodario heard a faint swishing noise, one he knew well from his adventures outside the world of theater. A jolt-and the man fell slack in his grip. An arrow shaft stuck out from the man’s back. Death had been instantaneous.

“Get down, Tassia. Get under cover,” called Rodario, going to one side to crouch down behind a heap of coal, and wiping the bloody spittle out of his face. There had been many times in his life when things had happened beyond his understanding, but so far, this was the height of not-understanding.

Quiet steps could be heard approaching; Rodario could hear the creak of leather armor straps, and iron rings clanked. There was the sound of a sword being drawn. When he saw a boot next to him he took hold of the tongs and dropped the red-hot metal down inside.

There was a hissing. The man yelled fit to bust and ran out of the shed, smoke streaming after him. Immediately after that they heard a splash. The man had jumped into the water to cool the burned leg.

“Ha!” Grabbing a smaller hammer from the forge, Rodario ran out in pursuit. But the man had disappeared. Rings on the surface of the water showed where someone had dived in.

Tassia came over to his side. “Drowned?” she asked in surprise. “Must have hurt so bad he forgot he can’t swim.” Out of the corner of his eye Rodario caught sight of a boat that was pulling away from Mifurdania. It was a squat little barge, heavily laden and so low in the water that any small wave would have swamped it. The broad sail was letting it pick up speed as it headed north.

At the stern of the barge stood a brunette in a simple brown dress. She was looking over toward them through a long tube, the sunlight glinting off glass. Then she put it down behind her.

“Tassia. We’re off.” Rodario kept his eye on the brown-haired woman. She reminded him of someone, but it couldn’t be…

Tassia was staring at the circles on the water. “Perhaps he’ll come up again for air?”

The other woman took out an arrow and fitted it to a bow.

“Tassia. Come with me.”

The bowstring was drawn back, the arrow pointing straight at him and at his self-appointed “wife.”

“What is it, O Fabulous One? Look over there on the left. That could be him. I can see something dark. Perhaps…?”

Rodario had just enough time to throw himself at Tassia and tumble them both into the water to avoid the arrow. The waters surrounded him in a cold embrace. Spluttering, he came up to the surface again under the shelter of one of the walkways. Tassia came up cursing loudly and tried to hit him. “What on earth are you doing? To get me soaked twice in one day, Rodario; it’s the limit!”

“Slow down, mermaid.” He pointed over to the barge.

The woman was still at her post and fitting another arrow to her bow, waiting for a target.

When someone’s head popped suddenly out of the water like a cork, she did not hesitate-the movement was fluid, steady and sure. The arrow flew and entered the side of the skull over the right temple. The scream turned to bubbling sound as water gushed into the mouth. Without realizing it she had killed one of her own henchman.

“Thanks be to Palandiell!” mouthed Tassia, not taking her eyes from the dead body that drifted past them, face down. An arrow stuck out like a dead branch. “And thanks be to you, too, Rodario. You’ve saved my life,” she said in a serious voice and kissed him long and hard on the lips. In spite of the cold this was starting to give him a warm feeling.

When they looked for the barge again it had disappeared behind a row of houses. They clambered out onto dry land and made their way, soaked through as they were, to the Curiosum ’s site.

What they left behind were three dead bodies and a whole lot of things that didn’t make any sense. Most of the uncanny things that had happened that day seemed to be connected to his friend Furgas, and he was utterly determined to work out what was going on. He was going to write a play about it.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Porista,

Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

Y oung Lia was sitting, a boyish figure, with the other workers. She gazed out over the pancake-flat plain in the middle of Porista, drank her cold tea and took an occasional mouthful of the stew they gave her. Her task was dangerous, but it was well paid: she was to gather information, scouting in a particular area.

In recent cycles Porista had undergone difficult changes.

Once it had been the center of Nudin’s realm-Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty, one of Girdlegard’s magi. But when he had turned into Nod’onn the Treacherous it had become the field of a terrible battle, and had to a great extent been destroyed by a conflagration. People had only gradually been returning, salvaging what they could from the smoking ruins to build anew, when an army of avatars swept through the land, determined to secure for themselves the magic wellspring that lay underneath the palace of the magus. The rest of Girdlegard could not sit back and let that happen and so had hastened to its defense; the resulting fighting had left fresh scars on the new Porista. Even the grounds of the palace had become just an ugly heap of stones.

Then peace had arrived.

About five cycles earlier, after the defeat of all the great magae and magi, and after the resultant collapse of the magic fields, King Bruron had laid claim to the land and annexed the territory.

Since then the city had been growing steadily.

A friendly army of casual laborers had been sent out by the monarch to remove, stone by stone, the debris of the flattened palace to make way for his own new residence. They had just completed the work. Now all that remained were the foundations and the rubble-filled cellar entrances. This was all that told of the extent of the gigantic building that had previously stood on the site.

Lia’s slim build had an advantage: it allowed her to slip down past the fallen stones into the interior of the cellars to reconnoiter. Once back in the daylight she would report to the king’s construction masters so they could decide how work on the chambers should progress: fill them in with shale or excavate carefully by hand.

None of the overseers on the site had any idea that Lia was conducting her own research at the same time.

Franek, one of her friends, came over and offered her some flatbread. Like her he wore simple clothing, the material looking the worse for wear in places. His mop of dark blond hair was covered with a leather cap. “Have you found anything?” he whispered. He was one of the scouts, too, and was working in another part of the site. He also was on a higher mission.

The girl took the bread, placing it on the bowl of stew, and then rearranged the headscarf that protected her brown hair from the dust below ground. “No,” she answered quietly, making gestures with her hands to imply that she was complaining about the quality of the baking.

Franek sighed. “Then I don’t know how long we should carry on looking. There aren’t many cellars still to search.”

“I said straightaway that it must be broken. Have you seen how even the largest blocks of stone are split right through? That’s how great the pressure was.” Lia always looked on the black side. “There’s nothing left of some walls but brick dust.” She held the bread out to him again and he stuck it under his jacket.

“Samusin won’t desert us,” Franek said as he went off back to his work.

Lia finished her meal, wiped her hands on her breeches and went back to the opening, which was sheltered by a canvas awning to protect the workers from the sun. Tamas and Ove, two of the building masters, were studying their plans. She greeted them as she passed.

Tamas, the younger one, greeted her in return and looked at her. He liked what he saw and his inquiring gaze was no longer totally academic. “You’re late. Two others have gone down already,” he said, smiling. “I hope there’s room for you all. If not, come back up here and keep us company drawing up the charts.”

Lia stopped in her tracks. “Excuse me, sir. Who has gone down?”

“Two boys I just sent down,” murmured Ove without lifting his eyes from the plans. “We haven’t got much time. King Bruron wants to get started with the building. We need the last secrets of the vaults found quickly. And since you were on a break I sent down two young lads who were free.” He turned a page and made a mark on the site plan.

“It’s dangerous down there. I’ll go and find them.” She forced herself to smile and hurried down the cellar steps.

That was all she needed: children at work. She wasn’t worried about any of the other people she worked with because they could not move in the cramped conditions underground. Young lithe bodies, on the other hand, were competition.

Lia could see the boys working their way forward outside where the domed roof had once been. They were chattering, talking about their wages and about how they hoped to find treasure buried by past occupants of the palace.

“Hey, you boys,” she called, slithering through the narrowest of spaces like an eel. “Off with you! This is my cellar!”

“You wish!” laughed one of them.

“Master Ove sent us down here,” called the other one. “Go and complain to him if you don’t like the idea of us finding the treasure before you do.”

Lia forced her way through under one of the fallen blocks of stone. It rocked worryingly while she was still underneath it. “There is no treasure to find,” she said. “It’s not safe here for you. The chamber hasn’t settled.”

“We’ve done this a lot,” come the high-spirited response. “And anyway…”

Some of the rubble collapsed and clouds of dust rose up so she could not see. She coughed and cursed at the same time. “Are you all right?” she called, rubbing her eyes.

“Well I never! There’s someone down here! An old man with a long beard!”

Lia tried to move more quickly. It had happened. Now there were things she must prevent. “Where are you?”

“Idiot!” snarled the other boy at his friend. “You pushed against that pillar and you nearly had me buried in dirt. And that thing is not a man,” there was the sound of wooden boards clattering “-it’s a statue.”

“That wasn’t me. It fell in on its own,” came the defense. Now Lia could see both of the squabbling boys.

They were standing in a small cave-like space, no bigger than a store cupboard. It had somehow been formed when beams and pillars had twisted and collapsed. Between all the rubble lay a statue with its face uppermost. It was so true to life that Lia was not surprised the boy had thought it was real.

“So that’s where you are!” She slipped under one of the supports without touching it, then stood up. Slowly she approached the two treasure-seekers, her eyes sliding over the statue’s form. Everything was in place. Every fine detail of the clothing, each single beard hair, every fold and wrinkle in the old face could be recognized.

“It’s as if they’d turned someone into stone,” whispered the taller of the boys with respect. “It’s amazing.”

“It’ll bring us a good bit of extra money. One of those rich guys will want it for his garden or in his study, I bet. A good day’s work!” nodded his friend, giving a skeptical glance at the distance the statue would have to be heaved up. “We’ll have to dig a way to the top and get a hoist set up. We won’t be able to pull it through the rubble.” He threw Lia a warning look. “The statue is ours. Got that?”

She was furious that she’d taken that lunch break. If only she’d got back to work a little bit sooner she wouldn’t have run into trouble with these two kids at all. “Of course you found it. But it won’t get you any money. It’s already the property of Tomba Drinkfass,” she said, inventing a name. “He gave the statue to Nudin originally.”

“Even better,” said the taller of the two. “We’ll get a reward for finding it.”

“Yes, we will,” the other one stressed, pointing to his friend and himself. “You won’t.”

Lia had a quick think about how to make the best of the situation. She could go along with this and wait for her chance, follow the statue to its new owner and take it then. That would demand time and effort. And there’d be quite a to-do once any of Porista’s older citizens got wind of what had been found. Or she could…

“Samusin is my witness I won’t say a word about the statue. Or about you.” She spoke slowly before swiftly plunging her dagger into the throat of the boy at her left.

She cut his throat and then thrust her weapon into the other boy’s chest. Eyes wide open in surprise, he sank onto the statue’s base, blood gurgling. He stared at his murderess in complete astonishment at what she had done.

His friend grew weaker by the second and crumpled onto the floor, expiring soon afterwards. The blood from his slit throat no longer spurted out of the open gash, but overflowed much as a stew might boil over in an unwatched pot.

Lia watched them both die. The sacrifice was essential. For the greater good, more important than two young lives. Perhaps thousands would be saved. She dragged the two bodies, still warm and convulsing, into a small hollow under some debris and pushed away the supporting beams over where they lay.

Then she started on her way back, counting her steps so that she would be able to locate the statue again. Still gasping for air and sobbing she returned to the building supervisors and told them a terrible accident had happened.

“The cellar walls are soft as wax,” she reported, bursting into tears again. “It would be madness to go back in there.”

Ove and Tamas conferred briefly, then stopped the works for the day out of respect for the two children who had died. On the next day, they decided, the bodies should be fetched up and then the cellar area filled in.

L ia returned to the building site that night with Franek and ten helpers.

They carried poles, pickaxes, pulleys, rope and cable winches with them. A cart with two horses waited in a side road to transport their prize away. They had placed watchers in strategic places to warn them if anyone should approach. They had to work quickly. And they had to succeed, whatever the cost, whatever lives might be lost.

On the surface Lia paced out the distance she had calculated. Then she placed a marker on the flagstone. “It must be right under here,” she said to her companions. The men set to work.

Franek and Lia helped to shovel the debris to one side while the hole the men were digging grew steadily bigger. They had to take great care that none of the surface material broke off and fell back in.

“And to think I was ready to give up,” said Lia, thrilled that the treasure would soon be salvaged.

Her joy triumphed over her guilty conscience about the murder of the two young boys. She had told Franek what she had done, hoping the confession would make her feel better, but it had not worked. At least he had agreed that she had done the right thing. She would have to leave Porista once and for all. If the bodies were found she would be accused of the murders.

“Samusin is on our side again,” he nodded, watching the men shifting away the loose earth and hacking through the vaulted cellar roof.

“Don’t speak too soon,” said Lia. “Let’s not thank the god of retribution until we’ve got the statue safely out of Porista.”

With a crack, a section of the tunnel roof gave way; two of the men fell though to the cellars, yelling out as they dropped down.

Franek looked round in alarm, checking with their watchers. Nobody seemed to have heard the noise. “Quick! Get them out of there!” Five others jumped down with lanterns in their hands.

“Get the statue first,” called Lia after them anxiously, stepping a couple of paces back from the hole in case another section should cave in. “Then get the injured out.”

The others worked at the entrance to make the opening wider while another group put the pulleys and the hoist together. They tossed ropes down to fasten round the stone figure.

Soon the statue was winched up, rising in the dark to the surface. It was covered in a fine coating of dust and there was a huge red stain-the blood of the young boys who had paid for their find with their lives. It looked as if it were the statue that was bleeding.

“Bring the cart over here,” ordered Franek, lifting a lamp and giving the prearranged signal. Soon the wheels were turning, muffled with cloths to avoid making any sound; the horses’ hooves had been wrapped in hessian as well.

Lia was getting more and more uneasy. “Come on up; hurry!” she called down into the vaults. “Let’s get out of here.”

The rope snagged, the pole bent under the weight, but did not break. The men climbed out of the hole and heaved the heavy statue onto the sacking that had been put on the wagon in readiness.

“The guards!” came a shout from across the site, echoing back to Franek and Lia.

“Stupid idiot!” Franek cursed their watchman, who had meant well with his warning, but had certainly risked alerting Bruron’s soldiers. They saw pinpricks of light-torches coming nearer. “Take the rags off,” he told the others and leaped up onto the wagon. “They’ve seen us now-the noise won’t make it any worse.”

Lia followed him and jumped up to crouch beside the statue. The whip cracked and the wheels rattled along.

“Halt!” They heard the challenge from the guards. “Stop in the name of King Bruron!” There were no more niceties-arrows were already flying in their direction, most of them falling short, but two buried themselves in the wood of the wagon, one hit the statue and broke, and one caught Lia in the leg. She cried out.

By the light of the torches they could see the guards falling on the men who had helped them with the statue. Anyone who put up a defense was killed outright-the rest were taken prisoner. Bruron had issued a strict new law five cycles ago, protecting people’s property and condemning to death anyone suspected of pilfering. The fact that they had emptied the vaults belonging to a man who was dead made no difference.

Out of the darkness of the side streets four mounted guards came galloping up; they had heard the noise and it was simple for them to overtake the wagon.

“Stop!” the first rider shouted to Franek. “I can…”

Her friend turned, whip in hand, and caught the soldier full in the face. His eyeball burst under the force of the slashing leather and he fell from the saddle. The next rider had to swerve to avoid him, and lost ground.

One of the guards made a bold leap straight onto the cart and hit Lia in the face with his balled fist to silence her, then climbed over the statue to get at Franek.

“Look out!” she croaked in warning, swallowing her own blood. Groaning, she drew her dagger and crawled across the swaying cart to reach the guard.

Another rode past them, heading for the gate to get the sentries to stop the unscrupulous thieves escaping with their plunder.

Franek had seen him. He hurled his sword at the man when he was three arms’ lengths away from him, catching him in the side. At full gallop he fell to the ground, rolled over and over, and was crushed under the back wheel of the wagon.

Just as the last of them was attacking Franek from behind, Lia thrust her dagger into his upper arm.

She had been aiming for his neck, but the wagon was rocking so violently it was impossible for her, especially with the injury to her leg, to be more accurate. She swayed, falling on her opponent and dragging him down with her. Together they fell over the statue and tumbled off the speeding wagon.

This time Lia was out of luck.

She landed under the heavily armored man and broke his fall with her own body. As her head crashed against the cobblestones of Porista’s streets, she felt her skull crack and a sharp pain in her breast. Warmth surrounded her head; then she was weightless, outside her body.

“Lia!” she heard her friend calling-she could just hear his voice above the noise of the hooves and the wheels.

“Keep going,” she said, speaking with difficulty, and knowing that he would be unable to hear her. “We have taken the first step, Samusin,” she whispered up to the stars. “For that I gladly surrender my life, O god of retribution.” Lia tried to smile before death turned her face to stone. She could not.

The guard who was lying half conscious a few steps away sat up slowly and reached for his bugle to warn the sentries at the gate. But the bugle was not hanging at his belt. He found it buried in the girl’s breast. As they had fallen from the wagon it had pierced her flesh and bone and shattered. Blood was pouring out of it as if it were an upturned funnel. He would not be placing it to his lips again.

“Curses,” he muttered angrily as he staggered to his feet. The thief had got away with his booty. And if he had seen aright back there on the wagon, the prize that had been stolen was something very special: it was the magus Lot-Ionan, turned to stone.

Girdlegard,

Black Mountain Range,

Realm of the Thirdlings,

Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

K ing Malbalor White-Eye from the clan of the Bone Breakers in the thirdling folk of Lorimbur read through the message brought him by the envoy of Queen Xamtys. It spoke of a machine and of dwarf runes promising death. There was to be an assembly, and the rulers and freeling city kings were to travel to the Gray Range.

“This will open the old rifts,” he said to the representatives of the clans of the four other dwarf tribes sitting round the table with him in the hall.

The realm of the thirdlings had survived in name only. At the demise of Lorimbas Steelheart and the almost complete annihilation of the thirdlings by the army of the now-deposed mad king Belletain, the other dwarves had sent warriors to the east to protect the passage into Girdlegard. There were only a few thirdlings remaining in the Black Range and they were in the minority. People said it was a minority that was tolerated.

“You know that most of the survivors of my race have made peace and now live side by side with you.” Malbalor held the paper aloft. “These lines threaten our new community.”

“If it ever was a new community,” muttered somebody.

The king could not work out who had expressed those words. He rose up in anger, showing his impressive stature. He was a classic thirdling: tall, sturdily built and battle-hardened. Over his mail shirt he was dressed in armor formed of thin metal plates; his legs were protected by chain mail. His brown eyes sent out sparks of fire.

“It is remarks like that which open up the old rifts,” he called out, pounding the table with his fist; his long blue-dyed beard quivered. “Don’t you see it is a contrivance? The runes are intended to incite hatred and sow distrust of the thirdlings who live amongst you in peace. Have we not shown, we the descendants of the dwarf-killer Lorimbur, that we do not desire the death of the other dwarves?”

“What are five cycles?” came another objection.

This time the heckler was betrayed by his neighbor turning to him and asking, “Why don’t you stand up and speak out, instead of hiding away like a coward, Ginsgar Unforce of the clan of the Nail Smiths of the firstling folk of Borengar?”

Thus exposed, the dwarf rose to his feet; he was broad in the chest and wore a fire-red beard and long locks of hair. In his left hand he held raised his war hammer, as befitted a dwarf from the clan of the best smiths. “I have never liked the thirdlings. I despise them for their baseness, their trickery and their lack of honor,” he spoke out fearlessly, looking the king in the face. “That it’s one of your kind, Malbalor, that has invented this devilry of a machine, comes as no surprise to me. I see that thirdlings are at their killing again, and that is even less of a surprise.” He turned to face all those present. “Let us send out an army to destroy the camp in the Outer Lands. Then let’s drive all the thirdlings together and take them captive. Then we will have peace and quiet for once.”

The neighbor who had placed him in the spotlight raised his eyebrows. “There are thirdlings who pretend to belong to another dwarf folk in order to stir up trouble. To hear you talking like that, and to see your physical appearance, one might reach strange conclusions.”

Ginsgar whirled round and brandished his hammer. “You dare to call me a thirdling?” he yelled furiously. “My clan has been living in the Red Range for countless cycles and-”

“Enough!” ordered Malbalor. “Sit down again, Ginsgar. I couldn’t care less who you belong to. I will not tolerate any such inflammatory talk. Not here in this hall and not here in this kingdom. We will all keep cool heads.” He took a deep breath. “I have asked you all here for you to warn your people to keep their eyes open for danger, but to steer clear of making unfounded accusations. From today the mines and tunnels will only be entered by gangs of forty dwarves at a time to continue the repair work. They must take long iron poles, hooks and chains. So equipped I would hope that you will be able to bring down these machines.” He looked at the assembled dwarves intently. “They are machines! If dwarf hand has made them then a dwarf hand can destroy them. May Vraccas help us to withstand this test. In two orbits’ time I shall be setting off for the northwest, to take counsel with Gandogar and the others.” He nodded to them all and dismissed them.

M albalor waited until he was alone in the hall, then sank back like lead onto his seat. When Gandogar had asked him to become king and he was elected to the role, he had never for a moment thought the task would be so onerous.

Five dwarf folks had united to form an army-Glaimbar Sharpax had managed it with no trouble at all in the Gray Range. It was a melting pot there, giving rise to a new form of dwarf. But in the Black Range it was not working. Nothing was melting in this pot, nothing integrating. On the contrary, the individual elements were getting harder and more determined than ever not to form new compounds and combinations.

The superstitious amongst their people said it was the curse of Lorimbur, the founding father of the thirdling race, that was invested deep in the stones of mountains here and preventing any chance of peaceful coexistence. Malbalor was starting to believe it.

He took some of the water in the carafe in front of him, and regarded the reflection of his tired countenance. Worry had driven deep furrows in his face, and chiseled out lines around his eyes and on his brow. The rest lay hidden behind his beard; that was best so. He had no wish to appear any older than he already felt.

The cool water ran down his throat; refreshed, he got up and left the hall in order to make preparations for his coming absence. As he strode through the high galleries he made the decision to appoint Ginsgar as his deputy, so the trouble-maker could experience first-hand what responsibility the role of king involved. He thought this would be suitable revenge.

When he turned the corner, a company of dwarves approached: having been hard at work, they looked and smelled as if they had just come out of a quarry after an orbit’s solid laboring. They only wore short breeches and heavy knee-high boots; thighs and upper torsos were naked. To protect their heads from falling stones they also wore helmets, and they carried pickaxes and shovels. Over their mouths and noses they had bound cloths to keep the fine dust out; the ends of their beards peeked out below.

On the face of it the appearance of such a group had nothing strange about it. In any other part of the Black Range Malbalor would quickly have dismissed the memory of meeting a group of twenty dwarves.

But two things seemed wrong. For a start there was no reason for them to be there; there was no dwarf accommodation near and no collapsed tunnels needing repair; and then not a single one of them greeted him as they passed, although he had nodded to them in acknowledgment.

Malbalor was not one of those rulers who absolutely had to see every head bowing in deference but a certain amount of respect he did demand. He stopped and turned. “Hey, you! Wait a moment!”

They went on walking.

Now his suspicions were aroused.

He caught up with the last of the group, grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. Seen from close up the helmets appeared unusual; their shape was different from any he knew. The nose protector was longer and reached down to the chin, while iron wires formed a cage which hid the eyes from view.

“I’m speaking to you!” the king said severely and he pulled down the cloth over the lower parts of the face. Horrified, he took a step back. For the first time in his life he saw an adult dwarf without a beard. The black curls that had showed at the edges of the cloth were just stuck on as a disguise. The deception had worked up to now. “By Vraccas, what the…” His hand fastened tightly on the handle of his club.

Without warning, the dwarf struck him on the head with the flat of his shovel, sending Malbalor flying back against the wall half senseless.

“Treachery!” he shouted as loud as he could, but then his heavy eyelids closed.

When he opened his eyes again soon after he saw Ginsgar’s concerned face with its red beard floating into his field of vision. To his surprise he was no longer lying in the corridor but on his own bed. He must have been unconscious for some time.

“He’s coming round,” Ginsgar called over his shoulder, “So, king. We have news for you that will make you doubt the honor of your own people,” he said, enjoying his words. Then he stood back to make way for another dwarf.

Malbalor knew this one: Diemo Deathblade from the clan of the Death Blades commanded the troops in charge of protecting the passage to Girdlegard and the way to the treasure house. Seeing this dwarf and being told there was news made the king very uneasy.

“King Malbalor-there’s been an attack,” he admitted reluctantly. “We are the victims of a malicious ambush from within our own forces.”

Malbalor sat up and got to his feet. “You don’t have to tell me: There were about twenty of them-they looked like laborers,” he guessed calmly. “One of them laid me low just now.”

“Yes, the guards at the treasure house saw them and thought they had taken a wrong turning. By the time they noticed it was all a trick it was too late. They were attacked with shovels and overcome…”

“Overcome or killed?”

“Overcome. Slight injuries and cuts and bruises mostly, and hit over the head like yourself, Your Majesty.”

Malbalor was pleased to be alive, of course, but he was surprised at the sudden restraint the thirdlings were showing with dwarves not of their own kind. “They weren’t thirdlings,” he said firmly and directly to Ginsgar. “I pulled the face cloth off one of them. None of us would willingly forgo a beard.”

“A dwarf without a beard?” Ginsgar said incredulously. “Then maybe they are outcasts. We always treated outlaws like that in the firstlings; if you break the law your beard is shaved off and you have to leave until a new one has grown.” He put his hand to his belt. “A malicious thirdling or robbers from the freeling cities?”

“What would the freelings want…?” Malbalor looked over at Diemo. “What did they take?”

The warrior ground his teeth angrily. “Only the diamond, king.”

“What diamond? We…” His voice died away as he understood the significance of the words. “That diamond? Gandogar’s gift?” The furrows on his brow grew deeper; he could feel them cutting right into his flesh.

Ginsgar stepped forward. “What you told us is very useful. I suggest we send a message to the high king. I stick by the view it was the thirdlings or the freelings.”

“What makes you so sure, Ginsgar?” Malbalor’s question was harsh; he was removing this firstling from his mental list of those who might deputize for him. “What use is a diamond to them if they do not have a magus?”

“The freelings could be envious because they were not given one. They are outcasts-outlaws: criminals. We must not lose sight of that.”

“You never lose sight of anything, Ginsgar. You never forget the past of the thirdlings or that of the freelings,” the king answered sharply.

“As opposed to many others,” he replied determinedly. “Thirdlings steal, to bring us trouble. First they construct these machines, then they rob us to get the better of us: to make us look stupid. They take the most valuable thing in Girdlegard.”

Malbalor strode past him. “The most valuable thing in Girdlegard is the common resolve of those who live here. Our common resolve.” He looked at Ginsgar: “You, Ginsgar Unforce of the Nail Smiths of the firstlings, shall leave the Black Range tomorrow with your clan. You may cause trouble in your own land but not here where I rule.” He left him standing and walked out.

He could not accept the interpretation of events this dwarf had given him, even if it would have been simpler to do just that.

Girdlegard,

Elf Land of Alandur,

Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

L ooking at the forest they were passing through, Tungdil found it had changed a good deal since his last visit to see Liutasil. Trees in Alandur obviously flourished and grew faster than anywhere else.

Ireheart, likewise walking along beside his pony, followed his friend’s glance. “I thought I was imagining it,” he said. “These shrubby things have shot up like weeds.” He pulled his crow’s beak out of the pack horse’s saddlebag and weighed it lightly in his left hand. “Same as ever-I always feel naked here,” he explained to Tungdil. “I may have lost my fighting fury but I’m still a warrior through and through. If one of these tendrils tries to grab me, I’ll be ready for it.”

“I trust the elves.”

“So do I, Scholar.” Ireheart shouldered his weapon. “But I don’t trust their vegetation.”

Two elves stepped suddenly out of the shelter of the trees. They wore robes of delicate textiles and had precious silver and gold clips in their long blond hair; the elegant clothing fell loosely about their tall, slim figures.

“Welcome to Alandur, Tungdil Goldhand and Boindil Doubleblade.” The right-hand elf sang, rather than spoke, the words. Both elves bowed to the dwarves.

“By Vraccas, their faces look more fragile than ever,” muttered Ireheart. “Or is it their clothes that give that impression?”

Tungdil grinned. “You’re the one leading the mission. You must answer them,” he whispered back.

“Me?”

“Of course, who else?”

“But you’re the scholar.”

“Gandogar entrusted this to you. I’m just here because you kidnapped me.” Tungdil was greatly enjoying the warrior’s discomfiture.

Boindil sighed and gave a bow in his turn, even if his was not as low and gracious as that with which the elves had greeted him. “May Vraccas be with you,” was his faltering salutation. “We are emissaries of our high king, and come to pay our respects.” He pointed to the bundles on the back of the mule. “That is for Liutasil, and…” He went through his pockets slowly until he had unearthed the note from Eldrur. “And this is our letter from your own delegate.” He held it out to the elves. “We… come in peace.” Then he looked over to Tungdil and rolled his eyes. “I can’t do it,” he whispered helplessly. “Help me out here, or I’ll end up starting a war.”

The elves were studying the letter closely and smiling again. “We are pleased that the children of the Smith are warming to our culture. We shall be happy to take you through our realm and show you how we live,” said the spokesman, standing aside and indicating the path. “Come. We have prepared quarters for you.”

“I only hope it’s not up in the tree-tops,” Ireheart couldn’t help remarking as he held his hand out for the letter. There was a moment’s hesitation before it was returned. “The nesting places I’d rather leave to the birds.”

“We know what your preferences are,” the elf answered amicably, leading the way.

“Very considerate of you,” Tungdil thanked them, aware that he should do the talking now after the mid-level insults his friend had offered their hosts. Boindil sighed with relief. “We bring gifts for your Prince Liutasil.”

“Our prince will be delighted about the donkey.” One of the elves laughed, clear as glass; so high and pure a sound was almost painful to dwarf ears.

“No, of course it’s not the donkey that’s the gift,” said Tungdil, joining in with their merriment-anything to drown out those high tinkling tones. “The donkey is carrying the treasures.”

“As I thought. But nobody has ever given him a donkey before. It would be a novelty for him.” He bowed once more, introducing himself. “I am Tiwalun, and this is Vilanoil. We have been sent to escort you through Alandur. Please ask us anything you want to know. We will be glad to satisfy your curiosity.”

“My thanks, Tiwalun.” Tungdil recognized the path. It would lead to the clearing where he had first met the elf lord Liutasil and had spoken with him about the eoil. He enquired courteously about the ruler’s health.

“Our prince is well, but at the moment he is in the southwest of the realm dealing with important matters,” explained Tiwalun, stepping into a clearing where a tent stood. “As soon as he has settled affairs there he will come to speak to you. Now I wish you both a good night.”

Tungdil saw the walls of green velvet. “It is Liutasil’s tent,” he told Ireheart. “Thank you for the honor you show us,” he said to Tiwalun, adding an dwarf-saying in their own elf language: “We know our friends by the hospitality they accord us.”

Vilanoil was startled and Tiwalun’s countenance for a moment registered alarm. “Liutasil mentioned that you are known as the Scholar, but he did not tell us you had learned our language,” said Tiwalun in acknowledgment, as he bowed, turning to leave. Then he stopped. “Might I please have that letter, Boindil Doubleblade? I should like to send it to our prince so that he may read with his own eyes what good things Eldrur has written about you.”

“Of course, Friend Elf,” grinned Ireheart, groping at his belt. “A thousand dead beasts! I seem to have lost it!” he exclaimed. “I must have dropped it on the way here.”

He made as if to turn round and go and look for it, but the elf lifted a hand. “That won’t be necessary, Boindil Doubleblade. Nothing in our forests ever gets lost, any more than a gold coin could go astray in your mountains. We will find it, never fear.” He made another bow. “We shall see you in the morning. May Sitalia send you pleasant dreams from the skies.” With these words the two elves disappeared into the shadows cast by the trees.

“Well, I’ll be struck down by the hammer of Vraccas! Hearing you talk like that!” gasped Boindil. “Made me come over all funny. How long have you been able to do that?”

“I came across some old books in Lot-Ionan’s vaults. There was a partly damaged work I found all about the lost realm of the northern elf, Lesinteil. The author included some notes about the language. I only know a few of their sayings, that’s all. It’s awfully complicated.” Tungdil held back the draped material at the tent door. “Let’s get some rest.”

“You cook us something delicious. I’ll see to the ponies and be with you in a tick,” answered Boindil as he went over to where the animals were enjoying the juicy grasses on the forest’s ferny floor.

Tungdil went into the tent, remembering exactly how the last meeting with the elf prince had gone. The carved wooden posts holding up the roof were the same, the pleasing fragrance, the gentle light from the oil lamps hanging from the supports and the warmth given out by the two stoves-it all created a relaxing atmosphere. He let the hardships of the journey slide from him.

Shedding his mail shirt, he threw it over a stool and went over to wash his face. In the middle of the tent he saw there was a table set with warm food. He would not have to cook anything.

Boindil hurried in, wrinkled his nose because his friend had taken off his armor, and took a seat at the ready-laid table. “This is the life,” he said. “No worries about the mission if this is what it’s going to be like!” He pulled the first of the dishes over. “There’s a strong smell of flowers about this but it doesn’t look too bad.” He heaped his silver plate with portions of the various different foods, tried a bit of everything then hesitated with his fork above a yellowy ball-shaped thing. “Oh no, I remember this from last time. Didn’t like it at all.” Pulling a face, he moved it to the edge of his plate. “Come on, Scholar, dig in. You’ve lost some weight with all that walking, so you can afford to tuck in.”

Tungdil laughed. “You were right to be so severe with me.” He left the dark malt beer standing and poured out some water. He knew if he touched even a drop of the barley he’d be lost to it. The vise had held him in its grip far too long.

Their meal was delicious. When Tungdil afterwards discovered a curtained off section of the tent containing a tub and a large container of water which was heating on a stove there was no stopping him. He prepared a bath for himself, took a handful of the red crystals he found in a shallow dish next to the tub, strewed them into the water and lay back, eyes closed, in the warm water, his muscles relaxing from the journey.

His friend’s voice called him out of his reverie. “I’ve got it!”

“Do you think you could get it slightly more quietly?” he complained, opening one eye to look at Ireheart who was standing next to the tub with only a cloth round his nether regions. He was waving a piece of paper excitedly. “I’ve found the letter again. I’d put it in my pocket. It fell out when I took my breeches off just now. Those elves will be angry when I let them know tomorrow they’ve spent a whole night searching through the bushes in vain,” he grinned. “But let’s not tell them just yet.”

Tungdil remembered Tiwalun saying he wanted to send the letter on to Liutasil, and his curiosity was aroused. “Show me,” he said, stretching out his hand for it. “I’d like to see the praises they heaped upon us.”

It happened as the letter was being passed over. Either Ireheart let go too soon or Tungdil failed to take it in time-the page fluttered down into the bathwater. Both of them made a grab for it and it tore straight down the middle.

“That was the curse of Elria,” said Boindil knowingly, and looked down sadly at his half. “She destroys all our folk-knowledge with her water.”

“Perhaps it was just us being clumsy,” suggested Tungdil, getting out of the tub and wrapping a towel round himself. “The water’s still hot if you want to get in.”

“Me? Get in there? When the letter just drowned in it as a warning of how full of malice water is?” The warrior refused the offer of a bath.

“It’d do you good. You smell. And that’s putting it mildly.” He took both halves of the letter and placed them on one of the stoves to dry.

The elf runes were smudged and partially illegible, and only a few of them were similar to those used by the northern elves of Lesinteil. Either their speech and script had always been different from that of their relatives or else their language had undergone changes in the course of past cycles.

As the paper dried, new pale blue runes started to appear between the lines.

“A secret message,” said Tungdil in surprise. Why had Eldrur used invisible ink in the letter of introduction? Perhaps he had been afraid that one of the dwarves might decipher the runes and so he had not dared write his words openly.

Perhaps the delegates are spies, after all? wondered Tungdil, taking the letter and sitting down with it at the table to examine its contents in the light of the oil lamps. There had been some water damage to the script, which did not make the translation easier.

“Boindil, come and look at this!” he called his friend over.

“Just a…” There was a loud splash and water ran out from under the curtain screening the tub from view; then came some spluttering and a volley of dwarf curses.

Tungdil grinned. “Are you all right?”

“Bloody water!” Boindil raged, pushing the curtain aside and toweling himself. “Now I’ll have to grease my beard all over again.” He lifted the damp black mass of beard that hung sodden on his chest. “It’s taken me a whole cycle to get it just right, with a proper shine.” He turned round and gave the tub a hefty kick. “It’s nothing but one of Elria’s special tricks-a trap for dwarves. It shouldn’t be allowed.” He wrapped himself up. “It’s enough to turn me mad again. I can feel the old anger welling up. It’s too bad.”

“Calm down. What happened?”

“I slipped, didn’t I?” he complained. “Slipped on a piece of soap. And before I knew it I was underwater.” He made a face. “Bah, it tastes dreadful!”

“If you’re thirsty, why not try water on its own? But now you’ll smell good inside and out.” Tungdil joked, then pointed to the letter and grew deadly serious. “I’ve made a discovery.”

Ireheart noted the differing colors of ink. “So they are spies, after all,” he remarked with satisfaction. “I did not entirely mean it before, but it seems to be true.”

“Don’t let’s jump to conclusions,” warned Tungdil. He lifted the silver pot from the stove and poured himself a beaker of tea. “I’m going to see what I can translate. Perhaps it’s an instruction not to show us every single secret in Alandur.”

“Spies,” repeated Ireheart grimly. “There’s no doubt in my mind now.” He walked over to one of the guest beds and lay on it. After tossing and turning for a while, he grabbed a blanket off the bed and went to lie down on the floor. “Too soft,” he said, closing his eyes. “You’re on watch first. Wake me when you need me to take over.”

“On watch? What do you mean?”

“I don’t trust the pointy-ears anymore.”

“But it may just be a harmless instruction…”

“… then they wouldn’t have needed to write in secret ink.” He remained stubborn. “They could have written it out in the body of the letter.”

“… and we’d have thought that very discourteous, wouldn’t we?” Tungdil was reluctant to pre-judge the elves, even if their behavior struck him as odd. A bit more than odd.

A loud snore showed him that Boindil was not intending to pursue the argument. He turned up the wick in order to be able to see better. It was going to be a long night.