The Revenge of the Dwarves

V

Girdlegard,

Pendleburg, Capital of the Kingdom of Urgon,

Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

Is it warmer in Gauragar than it is here?” asked King Ortger. A man of nearly twenty cycles, he was built much like any other and had regrettably protruding eyes; if it were not for the frog eyes one might have described him as dapper. He adjusted his gold-plated leather armor and took off his helmet to reveal short black hair already thinning at the back. But he did sport a thick black beard, thinking it made him appear older.

“Majesty, your journey takes you to Porista. I have heard that it is a very attractive region,” his manservant answered.

Ortger looked over at the ten chests containing his robes for the journey. “I asked whether it would be warmer there. If so, I could manage with just the one chest.”

“Only one chest?” asked his servant incredulously.

“Definitely. I want to travel fast and that will be impossible if we’re weighed down like a cloth merchant’s baggage train. I’ll take this one. The rest stay here.”

“Of course, sire.” The servant bowed and gestured to four serving women, who began the task of placing the unwanted garments back in the cupboards.

Ortger watched them, then went over to the window to gaze at the seemingly endless mountain chains that stretched out as far as the eye could see.

The palace stood on the largest of the three hills on which the capital city was built. Below, he could see the settlement with its brightly colored stone houses. There was little wood to be had in the mountains, so they used stone for construction as far as possible. Employing different types of rock gave a range of shades, so in spite of the dull squat shapes of the houses, the town was bright and colorful.

It had been something of a surprise to Ortger to accede to the throne in Urgon. When the mad Belletain had threatened, in his deluded state, to launch a further attack following the foray into the Black Mountains and the deaths of thousands of innocent dwarves, courageous officers in his army had mutinied and ousted him. Ortger was a distant relative of Lothaire, the well-loved predecessor of Belletain, and had been leading a contemplative life far away from Pendleburg, up near the border with the troll country Borwol, when the news reached him that he was to be the next ruler in the mountains of Urgon. He had not taken long to reach his decision. And he had never regretted it in all the five cycles of his reign.

There was a knock at the door and a guard came in. “The escort awaits, Your Majesty.”

“Only the swiftest horses, as I requested?” Ortger wanted to know.

“Just as you ordered, sire. The five hundred miles to Porista will be covered very quickly.”

Ortger fitted his helmet on and had the clothes chest carried downstairs. “Speed is indeed of the essence.” He called to mind again the message that had come from Prince Mallen describing the raid. The news had given him a nightmare: how violently the frightful creature had attacked the guards in its quest for the diamond! The dream had been so real that he had awoken with a start, his heart racing. The beast had been chasing him through the palace and with its bare hands tore any man to pieces that stepped in its path. He had heard the shrieks and roars as clearly as if they had come from right by his bed.

He was terrified. Ortger did not want to think about the pictures conjured up in the past night, so he let his eyes wander over the landscape: the peaceful mountains of Urgon, and his own city.

This robbery brought back thoughts of the way the first of the diamonds had been stolen, in Ran Ribastur. “Is our diamond held secure?”

“We put it where you showed us, Your Majesty.”

“How many men to guard it?”

“We have thirty men on duty, day and night. There are four spear slings ready to fire. We load and unload them in turn, so that the strings don’t get overstretched and snap.”

Urgon’s ruler was pleased with this answer. He could not provide better protection than was already being given. Anyone forcing their way through the ranks of his soldiers would be met by the stone door of the vault, deep in the heart of the palace. The door was so strong and so massive that it had had to be chiseled out of the rock right there, and afterwards hinges had been attached. Only then had they tunneled out the chamber behind it. You needed the strength of four oxen to move it with the special equipment of pulleys and rope. Not even a troll would be strong enough to shift it.

Nevertheless it was with a feeling of unease that Ortger strode through his simple palace, more a fortress than a royal residence in appearance. He reached the courtyard, swung himself up into the saddle and rode up next to Meinart, the captain of the guard. “Off to Porista at full gallop!” he ordered. The horses thundered out through the gate and down through the streets of Pendleburg toward the southwest.

They raced along roads so narrow only two could travel abreast. To their right the walls rose sheer to the skies, while to their left loomed the dark abyss, the edge of a precipice, and long rocky slopes. Ahead, the sun shone on the far peaks and mountain pastures in an interplay of light and shadow. If you were to forget for a moment where you were riding, bewitched by the beauty of the view, you would be lost: sudden death awaited the unwary.

Their swift progress made constant vigilance essential. The captain sent an advance guard to ensure they met no other vehicles or riders coming suddenly round a bend on this treacherous path. They could lose some of their number to injury or death. If you fell from the saddle or from a wagon, the chasms of Urgon’s mountains knew no pity.

They crossed a narrow pass.

Ortger remembered his dream and looked back, prompted by some vague feeling. From here there was a good view back to Pendleburg, which lay bathed in picturesque light. In one of the rays of sunlight breaking though the white clouds he caught sight of a metallic flash directly below the entrance to the palace.

“Halt!” Ortger ordered, reining his horse to a standstill and turning to get a clearer look.

Again there was a dazzling spark, this time too bright to be coming from a helmet or reflected off a shield. Immediately he saw there was smoke rising from the palace.

“We’re going back!” The king’s thoughts were with his capital city. “They’re under attack. Our diamond is in danger. We’ll take the enemy by surprise from behind.”

“Your Majesty, is it wise to return now in the thick of the attack?” objected Meinart. “Think of Prince Mallen’s message. If magic is being used you should stay well away from the fighting. Send a scout to find out…”

Ortger would gladly have followed this suggestion, but was reluctant to show any weakness. In his dream the creature had pursued him. Now it was time to turn the tables. “It’s only a creature, Meinart. It took the men of Goldensheaf by surprise, but my soldiers are forewarned and ready. We will destroy it.” Ortger thrust his spurs into his horse’s flanks and raced back the way they had come.

The place was in uproar. The townspeople were running around in the streets, pointing up to the palace where smoke was pouring out of the windows. Many had armed themselves with buckets to help with the firefighting; others carried swords and spears to go to the aid of the soldiers. News of the attack had swiftly made the rounds.

With Ortger at their head the band galloped through the ruins of the main gate. The portcullis had melted out of shape as if giant red-hot fingers had played with it. Smoldering torn-off limbs, charred spear shafts and melted sword blades lay scattered in the courtyard. In places, blackened flagstones had crackled and split asunder in the intense heat.

“Our defenses won’t have been able to stand up to this,” Ortger said to Meinart, horror in his voice. He could not take his eyes off the blood-covered bodies. At dawn that very morning he had talked and even laughed with some of these his subjects who now were reduced to mutilated corpses. Ortger stifled a choke and trembled all over. Whatever it was that had done the killing had strength far beyond anything known in Girdlegard in recent history. Far beyond anything he himself had ever experienced.

They followed a trail of destruction through the devastated central tract of the palace; fire had broken out in several places. Ignoring the injured men lying moaning in agony, they raced straight down the steps to the cellar. The safety of the diamond was paramount.

As the soldiers ran down the last steps to reach the lobby to the treasure vault they heard a loud hissing sound and saw light flickering over the walls and the stairs. At the same time there came a beast-like roar and the cries of men in agony. A cloud of acrid smoke tumbled out of the vault toward them, so it was clear to every last man of them what was ablaze in the chamber.

Ortger stopped. The trembling that had seized him was worse now; his body refused to move toward the ghastly scene where death was raging ferociously, taking its victims at will. Even if his spirit knew clearly what power and what value were inherent in the diamond they had kept watch over so well, nothing could have made the young king move a muscle now in its defense. The being that had visited him in his nightmare was now reality.

With a loud crash the rock burst apart, great boulders breaking off and tumbling down off the walls, landing at the king’s feet. They heard triumphant laughter. There came the clank of iron, then two heads rolled over to the bottom of the stairway.

“It’s broken open the door of the treasure chamber! Palandiell save us!” whispered Ortger in terror as he stepped backwards. “The stone… is lost.”

There was a dull thudding sound approaching the stairs, repeated at regular intervals like the footsteps of a giant. The light of the fire threw a long broad shadow, which advanced toward them, growing in size and coming nearer and nearer until their own shadows were overwhelmed and swallowed up. The creature causing the monstrous silhouette soon followed, bent double because it was too large to fit into the passage.

But this was not the figure he had seen in his dreams. This was something far, far worse.

It was made of tionium, completely of black tionium! Arms and legs were two paces in length, the rump no less tall and as wide as three barrels of beer. The demonic metal head, shaped like a bull’s, displayed fiery red eyes, and clouds of white and black steam rose from behind the visor.

There was a mesh with indecipherable symbols covering the whole construction; these signs gave off an eerie pale green light as if lowering in wait for an opportunity to blaze out. Arrayed all round the structure were shining blades with spikes dripping with poisonous liquid. The blood of the fallen soldiers could be seen adhering to nearly all parts of this hideous form. Ortger saw scraps of clothing and bunches of hair on the spikes.

Meinart grabbed Ortger’s arm. “May Palandiell protect us! Look at that, by its neck-isn’t that an elf rune?”

Ortger’s eyes were not able to locate the spot. His terrified gaze surveyed the surface of the whole monster but his mind refused to register the horror in its entirety.

Whenever the creature set a limb in motion, it gave out a hiss and somewhere in the center of the colossal black armor-plating a mechanical whirring, rattling and clanking could be heard. Just one of the metal claws would have been able to encompass the heads of three men at once. Underneath the neck there was a porthole of thick glass, through which a terrible but compelling visage could be espied, with fangs bared threateningly.

For Ortger this sight was more than enough. His quivering fingers opened of their own accord and his sword clanked as it dropped out of his grasp to the floor, smashing onto the stone and sliding down the stairs.

“Away from here, we must get away,” he stammered, turning in retreat.

Suddenly the runes flared up and blazed with light. On one side of the metal figure five holes opened in a horizontal line, horribly reminiscent of muzzles.

Steam issued from these openings and the soldiers standing near Ortger fell screaming to the ground; he himself felt only a sharp breath of wind shooting past his left ear. The bodies of the fallen had the feathered shafts of steel- reinforced crossbow darts sticking out of them. The vicious arrows had pierced the trunks of the guards standing at the front, and had been traveling with enough force to injure those standing in the second row. Meinart, the captain, was among those slain.

Now there was no holding them.

The soldiers fled up the stairs, with Ortger racing ahead of them all, pissing himself with fear. An experienced warrior would surely have given the order to man the battlements and dismantle the stonework to get missiles to hurl down at this creature. But the young king did not have the steady nerves needed for such leadership. Not after that dream. Not after this sight.

He was more than willing to allow himself to be led to a horse and then to flee Pendleburg-to flee for dear life. There was nothing left of the earlier eagerness for battle he had displayed when they had been climbing the pass. Not until he was a safe distance away did he call his retinue to a halt and send two men back to the city to find out what had happened after they left.

The reports they brought back were devastating.

“The diamond is taken, Your Majesty,” one of them confirmed what they had all feared. “That creature just tore down the door and smashed its way in. It didn’t take anything else. Your crown jewels are still…”

Ortger silenced the man with a gesture and looked at the second of the scouts. “They are saying different things about which way the monster went. Some say it went through the town streets and made its way to the mountains-the others say it vanished into thin air, Your Majesty. The fires in the palace have been put out now and the injured are being cared for.”

The king could smell the drying urine on his clothes. It brought back to him the sense of shame and reminded him of the cowardice he had shown. It had been all too human and understandable a reaction. This enemy did not look like the opponent Mallen had described in his letter-apart from two details. Ortger conjured up again the sight of that terrible face behind the glass and he knew now what the illuminated symbols on the armor plates signified: sorcery.

“We’ll head out for Porista again,” he decided. “The rulers must be told that another of the stones has been stolen. It’s vital the remaining jewels are put under much stronger guard.” He spurred his horse onwards. “There is no time to be lost. It seems that there’s someone in Girdlegard who’s adept at magic and crazy for power. Onwards!”

The troop started off at a gallop and raced along the same road for the second time that day.

Ortger did not allow himself another glance back toward his city of Pendleburg. He was too afraid of having disaster stare him in the face.

Girdlegard,

Elf Realm of Alandur,

Late Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle

Y ou are up already, Tungdil Goldhand! I hope I am not late with your breakfast?”

The dwarf jumped, although the friendly tones gave no cause for alarm. The greeting did not sound in any way threatening, only surprised and a little hurt. The elf must have seen the letter that he had been working on all night. There was nothing for it but to seize the initiative.

“I’m used to getting up with the birds,” replied Tungdil and turned to face Tiwalun, who had come in silently and was standing right behind him. “I know knocking on a tent is difficult but you might at least have tried.”

“My apologies. The breakfast was intended as a surprise,” said the elf, bowing, but never taking his eyes off the piece of paper. “So you found it?”

Tungdil was not sure what Tiwalun meant: did he mean the letter itself or the secret message it contained? “Yes. My friend had put it somewhere silly.” He decided to employ some of the truth. “It got wet and then these lines started appearing.” He pointed to the pale blue symbols. “I insist on an honest answer: What is the meaning of all this cobold-like secrecy? Your delegations all over Girdlegard-are they spies? They seem to be. Don’t try to lie, because I shall be asking Prince Liutasil.”

Tiwalun looked at him intently, trying to see just how much he did or did not know. “I could never lie to a hero who saved Alandur from destruction,” he said earnestly. “The writing that becomes visible on application of heat has nothing to do with the dwarf people. I swear it by Sitalia.”

“Then tell me what it says.”

“I can’t do that. Ask our prince. It’s by his orders.” He held out his hand for the paper. “May I have it?”

Tungdil folded it and slipped it under his leather robe. “I’d prefer to give it to Liutasil myself,” he said amicably. That way he could be sure that the elf prince would actually grant him an audience; then he could ask him in person about all these goings-on.

Tiwalun made the face he might have made if an orc had asked for his hand in marriage. “As you wish, Tungdil Goldhand. He will be glad to speak to you.” The smell of fresh bread pervaded the tent. “Have some food, then I’ll take you and your friend on a tour of our land.” He bowed and went out and some elves in less extravagant attire laid the table and served refreshments.

Boindil appeared in his mail shirt as usual; nose in the air, he sniffed noisily. “Doesn’t that smell good?” he called enthusiastically. He was looking forward to his food and watched as the elves completed their preparations at the table before retiring. “Did you stay up all night on watch?” he asked, once he was sure they would not be overheard.

“I was translating,” Tungdil said and went over to the table.

“And?” urged Ireheart. “What had the elves written?”

Tungdil told him about his short exchange with Tiwalun. “What he doesn’t know is that I’ve translated part of the letter. But it doesn’t help us with the secret. The rest is illegible, either because of the bathwater or else written in symbols I’m not familiar with.” He helped himself to a piece of bread, poured out some tea and put honey in it. The scent of cloves and cinnamon and two varieties of cardamom rose to his nostrils. The infused ingredients in combination with the herbs and the milk made an excellent spiced drink, he realized, after taking the first sip. Even though his whole body was crying out for beer, brandy or any other alcoholic beverage, he did not give in to the craving: he stuck with the tea.

Boindil watched him crossly. “Are you doing this on purpose, Scholar? Keeping me on tenterhooks?”

“Oh, you mean the letter?” Tungdil grinned. “Sorry, I was miles away.” With the slice of bread in his hand he looked round, as Ireheart was doing, for some juicy meat. It seemed that the elves didn’t serve meat in the morning, so he helped himself to the boiled eggs. “What I could read was a recommendation, praising us as heroes and encouraging the greatest possible vigilance. The remaining words were keep them from Liutasil and only show them the outsides and then again keep them away from our new buildings and not longer than four orbits; after that get rid of them with any old excuse. Say it’s because of their bad manners.” He tasted one of the eggs and was surprised. Although he hadn’t used condiments it tasted of salt and other aromas.

Boindil had noticed the same thing. “Wonder what they feed their hens on?”

“Who says they’re hens’ eggs?”

The dwarf chewed more slowly. “I underestimated the dangers of this type of mission: foreign food,” he sighed and swallowed noisily. He recalled the first meal he’d had with the freelings in Trovegold; there had been the oddest of ingredients like beetles and maggot beer. “I reckon the instructions mean that the elves are only to show us selected places, and not to let us meet up with Liutasil, and that we’re to leave Alandur very soon.”

Tungdil nodded. “The mention of new buildings is bothering me. What is it about them that they want to keep hidden from us, and probably from the rest of Girdlegard, too?”

Ireheart was displaying his old fighting grin, even if he no longer had that fire-rage in his eyes like before. Apart from the sense of humor and the hair, he was exactly like his twin brother, the one who had died. “I get it. If they tell us to go right, we’ll go left.”

“Handing them a reason for getting rid of us even sooner?” Tungdil took some more of the eggs, slicing them onto his bread and putting garlic sauce on top.

“But they haven’t read the letter so they haven’t got the instructions.”

“Tiwalun came creeping in here as silent as a mountain lion. I don’t know how long he’d been standing behind me. I think he must have been able to read quite a bit of it,” he said. “We’ve got three orbits. During the days we’ll do as they say and at night we’ll go out snooping. Get ready to manage without sleep.”

“Slinking around like a perfidious alf,” complained Boindil. “Never my strong point. I hope I don’t muck things up.”

“We’ll have to fight them with their own weapons there,” said Tungdil. “What choice do we have?”

They finished their breakfasts calmly and did not let themselves be hurried by Tiwalun when he came to collect them. Around midday they set off on the ponies again toward the interior. They rode through the peaceful lush-green woods, where dark thoughts had no chance. It was all simply too beautiful even if there weren’t any mountains, much lamented by Ireheart.

The elf did not tire of eloquently listing the particular charms of the various trees they passed; it was as if he were trying to lull them into a sense of security with his long descriptions.

And if it had not been for that coded letter he might have succeeded.

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 Vilanoil 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 Alandur. 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 Boindil were already familiar with. They had been here before when they came with Andokai to ask the ruler of the elves for help in resisting the forces of Nod’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?” Boindil found himself asking.

“Is one constrained to seek artistic expression only in one single vein for all eternity?” responded Tiwalun. “We have hardly any visitors in our forests to see how often our tastes change, seeking subtle nuances and variety. Let us tell you, Boindil 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 Liutasil’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 Tiwalun, in an attempt to downplay the importance of what they had seen. “The meal will be waiting for us…”

Boindil 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 Tiwalun 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, Boindil 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 Tiwalun’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, Boindil?” 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 Tiwalun 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 Tiwalun had previously indicated. “This way, is it?”

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

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

L ate evening brought a surprise for elf and dwarf alike.

They were sitting with Vilanoil and Tiwalun 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,” Tiwalun 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 Boindil, 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, Tiwalun and Vilanoil. We need to get some rest. The next orbits will be hard for us. Please give Prince Liutasil our warmest greetings. I assume we will see him very soon at the rulers’ assembly.”

Tiwalun 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 Alandur, 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.

Vilanoil and Tiwalun watched them go. When the door had closed behind them, Tiwalun 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 Alandur 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.

Tiwalun 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 eoil one day return and take power.”

Vilanoil smiled.

B ut there was something afoot that night.

In spite of extreme tiredness Boindil could not help going out on his own to inspect the white stone Tiwalun had so adamantly insisted he should not approach. They would be leaving Alandur 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.

Boindil 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. Boindil 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 Alandur, a completely different type of stone.

Boindil 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 Tiwalun’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.

Boindil 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 Tiwalun 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 Tiwalun and ask for clemency for Boindil. 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 Alandur I’ll send Prince Liutasil 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

W hen 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.”

“Don’t wear it while we’re here in Mifurdania,” he told her. She took it off, ready to put it back in the hiding place. “But later we’ll use it on stage a lot as a prop.”

She blew him a kiss and ran out. He was left with the unwelcome task of restoring order in his domestic realm.

That done, he sat down on the caravan steps with a lamp and wrote some more of the play.

It came easily; Tassia and the events of the day were inspiring him. Everything they had been through found a place in the drama-it was full of passion, adventure and secrets.

How it was going to end wasn’t yet clear. For that he’d have to find Furgas first.

He was pouring himself some wine from the only bottle to have survived when he heard Tassia’s laugh. It was a very particular laugh.

Jealousy flared up. He put the glass down and went over to Reimar’s quarters. He stood on tiptoe outside the window and peeped through. Hearing that laugh had aroused his suspicions and now he was sure. His Queen of the Stage was cheating on him. So, she was seeking entertainment elsewhere. And Reimar, that bear of a man, was assisting her, not completely selflessly, in her quest.

Rodario returned to his narrow steps and picked up the glass. He laughed. He laughed and laughed until he was out of breath and inquisitive heads popped out of neighboring caravans. Even Reimar came out, a towel round his middle, to see what was up. The actor pointed at him and started laughing again, tipped over backwards, gasping for air.

“All right, folks,” he waved the observers away. “It’s only my normal attack of evening madness. It gets me whenever I hear another man making love to my woman.”

Reimar blushed and whizzed back inside his caravan. Rodario had hysterics again.

He looked up at the stars, veiled now by a thin screen of clouds that had covered them in milk. “O ye gods! That’s some girl you’ve sent me!” He grinned. “She’s paying me back for what I used to get up to with other women.” He emptied his glass. “I’m wise to your game. Was it your idea, Samusin, god of justice?” he called out, raising his glass and saluting the stars. “I thank you! I’ve not been this inspired for ages.” Cool dark wine ran down his throat. He put the vessel down and started writing.

Time sped by, but he was on fire. He cut bits out, wrote anew and changed the wording of act after act, scene after scene. It was thirsty work. Without looking, he stretched out his hand for the bottle; there was a tinkle of broken glass and the lamp he’d been using went out.

He looked up in surprise. He couldn’t have knocked it over, his hand had been lower.

A mistake, it seemed. The lamp was still in the same place, just behind him to one side on the top step. Rodario stared at the arrow that had shattered it and then buried itself in the wood. Half an ell to the left and it would have got him straight in the eye!

The archer-woman from Mifurdania! he realized in a flash as he dived to one side, crawling under the wagon. He listened out.

There were insects humming, the odd cricket chirping, the horses were dozing quietly in their temporary paddock, and Hui the gray and black hunting dog lay snoring in the grass, head on its paws.

Altogether it sounded like a perfectly normal night-apart from Tassia’s faint moans, Reimar’s loud groans and the complaints from the overworked caravan springs.

Amazing! They are bonking their brains out while I’m the victim of an assassin. So ran his gallows humor as he looked at the wagon where the girl and the workman were enjoying themselves so violently that the lamps swung to and fro. This had nothing in common with what he and Tassia had shared earlier. But what had she said? Sometimes a woman just needs a man with muscles.

Flock. A second arrow landed close to him, hitting the wood. Then a third clanged onto the metal wheel hub and broke. He threw himself flatter still and stared out at the darkness being used for cover. He didn’t want to wake the others. There was too high a risk that one of his troupe would be injured, or even killed, whether by accident or design. “Pssht, you so-called watchdog,” he hissed, “psssht. Get up, hound.” The dog opened one eye and wagged its tail. “No! No wagging. Be a bad dog. Find, go get it! Fetch! Bite!”

The hound got up and took a leisurely stretch, then trotted over to where Rodario lay under the caravan and licked his face.

“Stop that!” The actor fended off these wet offerings of affection. “Kill!” He pointed over at the other side. “Fetch!”

Hui had finally got it. He lifted his nose and sniffed, then, nose to the ground and tail straight out behind, he sloped off in the direction Rodario had indicated.

The showman felt bad about sending the dog out. He peered out again and soon could see neither the dog nor the assassin. And Reimar’s wagon wasn’t swaying anymore. They’d had enough, then.

A cold blade touched his throat. “Disappear, you!” said a rough voice. The smells of cold smoke, rust and heated metal met his nose. “First thing in the morning. Pack your stuff and scram. Take your painted wagon and be off! Out of here!”

“May I ask…?”

He felt a sharp pain at the base of his throat where the blade had cut into his skin. “Get out of here and stop asking questions about the magister, got it?” the voice whispered in his ear. “We’re watching you, showman.”

Reimar’s door opened a fraction and Tassia looked out to see whether he was still sitting on his steps. Seeing him gone and the lamp extinguished she flitted out of the caravan.

“Look at your fine mistress, showman. If you keep on trying to find Furgas, she will die,” the man threatened. His hair was grabbed and his head forced up and back until his forehead touched the underside of the caravan. “And then you. Then the rest of your troupe. Then the magister.”

There was a further jab to his neck, this time a deeper cut. Something warm dripped down over his Adam’s apple, and Rodario felt sick. He couldn’t think of how to extricate himself. He was at the mercy of whoever it was crouched behind him, ready to kill with a movement of his hand.

“Yes,” he croaked: fear and the unnatural position made speech difficult.

“Very good,” laughed the stranger. “Think about it. We’re watching, right?” The hand let go of his hair and he received a mighty blow to the back of his head, probably with the handle of the knife. It was enough to disturb his vision for a moment. He could hear the man crawl off, get up and run. The danger was over.

Groaning, Rodario struggled out from under the wagon, stumbled up the steps to his caravan and then inspected the damage in a mirror.

There was a red line all along the front of his throat; the cut was bleeding badly and it was deep. It would be difficult to apply much pressure to the wound, but he made a linen pad and tied a scarf round to hold it in place. He’d go to some healer-woman in the morning. After they’d struck camp and got away.

“The adventure side is getting out of hand. Too much even for my taste,” he murmured, checking the bandage. Looking down at his fingers, sticky with his own blood, he started to feel giddy and sat down suddenly. “Much too much.”

He dealt with the pain by drinking the rest of the wine from the half-full bottle. It was a good thing the archer-woman had hit the lamp and not the bottle.