“But you said yourself that he might well be alive, and that you didn’t trust those obvious signs.”
“Better to find her son within the cycle and bring him back to her, than to leave her in this uncertainty.”
Ireheart was silent. “And what do you think that figure was? And the strange thing behind it?”
“Maybe a gnome in disguise,” said Tungdil, gulping down a draught. “Or a dwarf?”
“Or an Undergroundling?”
Tungdil had asked himself this question countless times on the way back from the Stone Gateway.
The fact was that they had found indecipherable runes on the tunnel walls. He and Boindil had assumed they were of dwarf origin because of the perfection of the craft used in their execution.
It was also a known fact that old records and drawings described a race related to their own on the other side of the mountain chain encircling Girdlegard. It was they who had forged a first Keenfire so they must have loved working with red-hot metal and have been experts in the smithy. But regrettably it seemed that not a soul had ever seen one of them face to face. “I just don’t know,” admitted Tungdil honestly. “But if it was one of those dwarves, then we know now they don’t like us.”
The warrior’s brow furrowed, his expression thunderous. “You think they’re after our treasure?” He put the beaker down and ran his finger along the edge of his spurred ax. “Just let them try it,” he growled aggressively.
“Let us see why Gandogar wanted us back here so swiftly,” Tungdil said to calm him. “The messenger we found at the gate-he must have been sent out after us just after we left.”
“It can’t be anything terrible,” said the warrior twin, “or the guards at the gates would have been on high alert.”
The door opened to admit Gandogar. Three elves followed him, completely out of place here in their fine raiment, garments of delicate fabrics in the lightest of colors. In Tungdil’s view their robes alone were disturbing enough, contrasting with the muted browns and subdued tones that the children of the Smith preferred to wear.
But really, he thought, it wasn’t their apparel. It was the elves themselves he didn’t like. Not elves in generaclass="underline" he had nothing against them in principle. Their way of life, from their buildings to their clothing and their language: it all formed an organic whole in Alandur. But here their very presence struck a discordant note, like a shrill soprano singing out high above the mellow harmonies of a dwarf-voice choir.
Judging from the expression on Boindil’s face, he was of like mind. “It is something terrible,” he murmured, half in earnest, half in jest. “It’s delicate little elves.”
“So the heroes have returned!” Gandogar greeted them warmly, shaking hands. “Were you pleased to find your old friend, Tungdil?”
“Your little surprise worked well, Your Majesty,” Tungdil smiled.
Gandogar took a step to one side. “These are Eldrur, Irdosil and Antamar. A delegation from the elf ruler, Prince Liutasil-not messengers but ambassadors to initiate cooperation between our hitherto hostile peoples.” He presented the two dwarves.
The elves bowed to Tungdil and Ireheart. This gesture of respect would not have been so sincere ten cycles before-if indeed it would have been made at all. They had been warned about the likely state of Tungdil, otherwise the elf faces might have betrayed natural feelings of disgust.
Boindil could not help himself. “Well, knock me down with a shovelful of coals!” he laughed out loud. “The…” and he nearly said “pointy-ears,” “… elves and dwarves living under one roof?” He dug Tungdil in the ribs. “What do you say to that, eh, Scholar?”
Eldrur joined in with the laughter. “It may seem strange to you, Boindil Doubleblade, but our ruler considers it was high time this came about. He needed to wait until he had persuaded the last of the doubters in our ranks of the great benefits of close cooperation.” He looked around. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say we were moving in permanently. We shall be staying here for the next hundred orbits, as we shall do in all the dwarven kingdoms, to learn more about their land and culture.”
“Sounds like spying to me,” said Ireheart. “You want our formulae for iron and steel smelting, don’t you?” He winked at Tungdil.
“No, on the contrary. We want to share our knowledge with you. We are not looking for recompense, but I am sure that your people,” here Eldrur turned to Gandogar, “will reward us for our generosity. By this I do not mean with gifts of monetary value, but with the knowledge and rich experience of your forefathers.”
“So, not spies but blackmailers,” mouthed Boindil. He was enjoying himself. “Even if their speech is flowery.”
Tungdil answered, “At long last Girdlegard is uniting.” He licked his dry lips, wanting his next beer. “It seems exactly the right time, because we have something to report from our excursion into the Outer Lands.”
The elves exchanged glances. “The high king has already intimated something. You have shown courage again, Tungdil Goldhand,” Eldrur said, according him respect.
“I asked him to,” said Gandogar, inviting them over to partake of the modest refreshments on the table in the middle of the room. The word “modest” in connection with dwarven cuisine is always to be interpreted generously, as is familiar from their classic dishes. The elves appreciated the simmered mushrooms but their palates were offended when it came to the strongly spiced cheese or the dessert prepared from the intestines of gugul larvae. Tungdil was particularly cheered by the sight of a small barrel of black beer.
“We acquire the beetles from the freeling markets in the south, and we process them here ourselves,” explained the high king proudly. He had not noticed the faces of his elven guests, who were trying their best to appear hungry. Gandogar helped himself to the white cream. “If for nothing else, you have proved invaluable in opening up trade for us in this way,” he said to Tungdil, who was also tucking in, careful, however, to avoid those dishes that reminded him too acutely of time spent in the city of the freelings and with Myr.
“A dwarf-woman had asked us to look out for her son, Gremdulin,” said Tungdil, downing the next two tankards as he launched into his report on their trip to the Outer Lands. Ireheart had to signal to him that his speech was getting slurred. “We found piles of orc bones in a cave-the monsters had been slaughtered by the hundred, it seems. We were just about to investigate further when a dwarf we didn’t know turned up and somehow brought the whole cave crashing down around us. He was working with the weirdest machine. Never seen the like…” He gestured with his arms to indicate the dimensions. “When we’d escaped the rockfall we headed straight back out to the gate,” he said, hurriedly ending his report. He just managed to suppress a huge belch, disguising it as a long exhalation, but it was enough to shatter the equilibrium of the elves.
“I’ll wager they regret they ever came,” whispered Boindil merrily. “Look, their pointy ears are drooping. Maybe I can cheer them up with the one about the dwarf and the orc.”
Gandogar ignored the crude behavior of his heroes. “It sounds as if we have a completely new danger to contend with,” he said, concerned, addressing them all. “Do your people know about these machines Tungdil is describing?”
Eldrur hesitated, his brown gaze fixed on Tungdil’s empty tankard. “Forgive me if I speak bluntly, but can we really believe him? Is there not a possibility he may be exaggerating?” He glanced at Ireheart. “Is that exactly how it was, Boindil Doublebade, or did you both perhaps succumb to your thirst on the way?”
Had it been spoken before the death of his brother, the politely voiced insult would have brought Boindil vaulting over the table to grab the elf by the ears, using one hand to dunk the scoundrel’s face in the soup while he wielded his ax in the other to cut him into tiny slices.
But nowadays his combat-fury was stilled, and the curse was broken that made his blood boil. “I would say only this, Friend Elf: even if a dwarf is too drunk to tie his shoelaces, he will never, ever tell a lie.” And his laughter was as sharp-edged as the blade of an ax.