Already Gisgurd, Bundror, and Gimdur were on their feet, axes raised and ready to strike. A shout went up, waking the rest of the unit. Three hundred dwarves prepared to fight.
“The älfar don’t scare us,” Gisgurd said grimly. “We gave them a good thrashing at the Blacksaddle.” He eyed the stranger suspiciously, his distrust deepening when nine others appeared at her side. “Who are you and what do you want?”
“My name is Shanamil, sent by Lord Liútasil to bring you to him. He wants us at the camp by dawn.”
“Nice try,” growled the dwarf. “And my name is Balyndis Steelfinger, sent by Vraccas to forge the mighty blade. Prove you’re telling the truth or I’ll…” He stopped short, realizing that if the stranger was who she said she was, he was likely to cause offense.
Gimdur was only too happy to take over. “You pointy-ears all look the same in the dark. How do we know you’re not an älf?”
She unfastened her necklace and showed them a gold pendant bearing the seal of Lord Liútasil. “I’m his envoy,” she said, throwing the pendant to Gisgurd and taking a seat by the fire. “Kill me if you don’t believe me. I’m sure Lord Liútasil will understand.”
Bundror positioned himself next to Gisgurd and examined the seal. “It’s elven, all right. One of the bowmen at the Blacksaddle was wearing one just like it. A bögnil killed him and tried to make off with his chain—I buried my ax in his back.”
Shanamil inclined her head toward him. “Thank you for avenging my kinsman. Your forebears would have danced on his grave.” Her gray eyes rested on him kindly.
Bundror, convinced of her integrity, lowered his weapons. “I’ll vouch for them,” he whispered to Gisgurd. “They’re elves from Âlandur.”
Gisgurd and Gimdur inspected the maiden’s companions, studying their armor, their weapons, their slender faces, as pure as they were fair. The dwarves relaxed their guard.
“Fine,” said Gisgurd finally. “We’re prepared to believe that Liútasil sent you—but don’t expect us to trust you properly until we’ve seen your eyes in the light. When the sun rises over the plains tomorrow, we’ll know if you’re monsters or elves.”
The elf maiden took the speech with good grace. “You’re right to be wary,” she said calmly. “It would be just like the älfar to trick you into trusting them. A unit of ten älfar could kill three hundred warriors by slitting their throats in the dark.” She motioned for her companions to sit beside her at the fire. “No, I don’t blame you at all. It’s a good thing the älfar won’t be around for much longer—you’ll know who you’re dealing with when you meet an elf at night.” She reached for her drinking flask. “How were you planning to find the allied camp?”
Gisgurd sat down, and Bundror and Gimdur followed suit. “We thought we’d head for the spot where the sun is at its zenith. I think we were roughly on course; it’s not easy finding our bearings on the surface.”
“I’d be lost underground,” she said with a smile that revealed two rows of even white teeth.
Gisgurd felt a deep, almost physical aversion toward her. Her beauty offended his eyes. The elves were created from earth, dew, and sunlight, which explained why he found her abhorrent; sunlight was anathema to the deep-dwelling dwarves. It confirmed his belief that he could never really be friends with one of her kind. But at least the maiden didn’t seem as arrogant as the rest of the elves, an observation that he shared with her candidly.
“I suppose we’re all reviewing our opinions,” she said. She produced a hunk of bread from her bag and started eating. “To be honest, I was expecting a rowdy pack of stinking, drunken groundlings, not a disciplined unit of warriors with a healthy distrust of strangers.” She smiled. “Although I still think a few sentries wouldn’t go amiss.” She tore off another hunk of bread and her companions unpacked their victuals. “Balyndis Steelfinger isn’t your real name, is it?” she asked suddenly, turning to Gisgurd.
Bundror roared with laughter. “Well spotted,” he said, shaking his head. He proceeded to tell her how Tungdil Goldhand and his companions had traveled to the Gray Range, overcoming innumerable obstacles to reach the fifthlings’ smithy and forge Keenfire while the enemy was pounding on the door.
“Just orcs, or älfar as well?” asked the elf.
“Both,” he said, explaining how Tungdil and the secondling twins had killed their first älf in Greenglade, long before the expedition proper had begun. Later, they had put an end to two of their dogged pursuers, Sinthoras and Caphalor. “They were the most dangerous älfar in the whole of Dsôn Balsur.”
The elf clapped her hands appreciatively and Bundror’s companions, who had listened attentively to his narrative, joined the applause. “You’re an excellent storyteller,” she praised him. “But soon tales about fighting the älfar will be a thing of the past.”
“More’s the pity,” murmured Gisgurd to the others’ amusement.
Gimdur ran a hand through his thick black hair. “I’ve always wondered how the älfar were created. Perhaps you can tell us…”
Shanamil nodded, crossed her legs, and looked from one dwarf to the next. In spite of their venerable age and wrinkled skin, there was something childlike about their upturned faces.
Inàste was the daughter of Elria the Helpful, who ruled over the water.
Inspired by the beautiful creatures fashioned by Sitalia, daughter of Palandiell, Inàste set to work. Taking dew, soil, and light, she called into being a new race of elves.
But Palandiell, afraid that Sitalia’s work would be eclipsed, seized the new elves and threatened to destroy them.
Inàste pleaded with Elria to intervene, but her mother was unbending. After a furious argument, Inàste swore eternal vengeance on her mother and Palandiell.
Turning her back on the other deities, she opened her chamber to Samusin, and bore him a son, a beautiful baby who resembled an elf in appearance but who burned with his mother’s hatred of Palandiell and Elria.
In time, he grew up to become the first älf, and Inàste gave him weapons and sent him to live among the elves.
Palandiell lost patience with the murdering, treacherous älf, and cast him over the mountains to the north where he took up with Tion’s creatures, spreading his seed throughout the Outer Lands.
Patiently, he bided his time, waiting for a chance to cross the border and wage war against his cousins. Since then, he and his descendants have served the Perished Land devotedly, driven by their determination to wipe out the elves.
No one clapped.
It wasn’t because the dwarves hadn’t appreciated the story; on the contrary, they were under the legend’s spell. Enchanted by the elf’s soft, singsong voice, they waited in vain for her to continue. Shanamil stayed silent and bowed her head.
“I see,” said Gisgurd after a while. He cleared his throat. “So Inàste and Samusin are to blame for the älfar.”
“What about Palandiell, Elria, and Sitalia?” objected Bundror. “They shouldn’t have argued with Inàste.” He shook his head vigorously, making his beard swing from side to side. “Vraccas would never have behaved like that. Nothing good ever comes of a quarrel.”
“It’s a legend, remember,” said Gimdur. “An interesting legend—but I bet if you asked the älfar, they’d tell you a different story and say the elves were to blame.” He looked at the envoy. “What do you say to that?”
Shanamil looked at him evenly. “I’ve told you our version of the story, and I believe it—just as you believe that the dwarves were hewn from the mountain by Vraccas. Anyway, it’s as well you’re made of the hardest granite,” she said, changing the subject. “Our army could do with your strength and persistence. What of the dwarven heroes you spoke of? Are they here?”