The Revenge of the Dwarves (24 page)

Tiwalún 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 Âlandur 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 Liútasil 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.

Tiwalún 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.

Boïndil 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 Tiwalún. “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.

Boïndil 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 Liútasil
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.

Boïndil 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 Liútasil, and that we’re to leave Âlandur 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.”

“Tiwalún 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 älf,” complained Boïndil. “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 Tiwalún 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 Vilanôil about mountain ranges or perhaps less wooded hills, the elf looked mortified that the guests were tired of the unique marvels of the quiet forest glades of Âlandur. He promised them an outing with a view for the following day.

As darkness fell they rode up to a brightly lit building that Tungdil and Boïndil were already familiar with. They had been here before when they came with Andôkai to ask the ruler of the elves for help in resisting the forces of Nôd’onn. Mighty trees formed living pillars holding up the thickly woven roof of treetops, two hundred paces overhead.

But the forest halls had changed radically since that first visit.

The artistically fashioned mosaics of wafer-thin gold and palladium sheets that used to sparkle suspended between
the tree trunks were missing. In their place now you saw giant paintings, compositions in various shades of white; here and there a randomly placed diamond shimmered in the torchlight. Where once there had been showiness and skilled craftsmanship now there was a strange clarity in the work that impressed the dwarves just as much as its monumental nature.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vilanoîl smiled.

B
ut there was something afoot that night.

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