The Revenge of the Dwarves (11 page)

I
f the kingdom of Tabaîn had two defining features they were the almost infinite stretch of its sunshine-yellow rolling cornfields, and its squat low-lying houses built of blocks of stone as long as a man is tall, as high as a child may grow, as wide as an arm is long.

“It’s like a sheet of gold-leaf a clumsy worker has torn holes in,” was Prince Mallen of Idoslane’s judgment as he surveyed the golden landscape. It lay as flat as a board at his horse’s feet. There were a few hillocks, perhaps ten or twenty paces high, which, from wishful thinking and ignorance, the Tabaîner populace of the center and the south had designated mountains. None of them had ever seen the ranges proper, let alone another kingdom.

“It’s perfect territory for our heavy cavalry to storm. We’d thunder through and conquer it all in a whirlwind attack,” enthused Alvaro, companion to Mallen and commander of his bodyguard. He caught the disapproving look. “Of course, I don’t mean that seriously, my prince,” he added quickly, clearing his throat in embarrassment.

“Do you not see how they build their houses and their keeps, Alvaro?” Prince Mallen pointed to their destination, the city of Goldensheaf with its royal fortress, over to their left. The segments of his costly armor clanked as he moved. “How would we take that? There’s not a single tree in sight to make a siege ladder, no rocks for our catapults. And, of course, no wood to make the catapults from in the first place.” He patted the neck of his stallion reassuringly. “And I don’t mean that seriously, either, of course.” He grinned and clapped Alvaro on the shoulder. “King Nate is welcome to his smooth little country.” He set his horse in motion again and the troop moved off. They would soon be in Goldensheaf itself, visiting in response to an invitation from the sovereign.

Alvaro still felt uneasy about what he had said. “Your Highness, forgive me my words, if you will.” He rode at
Mallen’s side and searched for the right thing to say. “I was brought up to measure myself against orcs and other beasts and always to defend my beloved Idoslane against invading hordes, but now…” As he shrugged his shoulders in excuse, his harness clinked. “… now men like me have nothing to do. Idleness puts warlike schemes into our heads, my prince.”

Mallen unfastened the old-fashioned helmet from his belt and set it on his blond head, securing it with the leather chin strap. “I know. There are many warriors who are kicking their heels.”

“Palandiell knows the truth of that!” snorted Alvaro, relieved to hear he was understood. “The odd robber and band of highwaymen really don’t present the same challenge. I have fought against Nôd’onn, against the avatars, against marauding orcs.” He hit himself on his armored breastplate. “My sword is rusting in its sheath; I put on my leather doublet and my arms hardly know what movements to make.” He sighed. “It is good that Girdlegard and in particular that Idoslane no longer need fighting men. But it is hard for the likes of us.”

“But instead of fighting battles you can travel with me and see new things,” smiled Mallen. He was enjoying the sunshine and soaking up the fragrance of the ripening sun-drenched ears of corn. He looked up at the sky and saw two raptors were circling above the crops, searching the ground for prey. “You would never have been able to do that before. All thanks to those orcs you seem to be missing now.”

“You are right, Your Highness. I am being selfish and unjust.”

The route taken by the troop of forty horsemen and four wagons led to a generously broad road through the fields directly to the heart of Goldensheaf. The town was tucked down into the earth and even the fortifications looked as if they had purposely been made less high than one might expect.

The men admired the fields, heavy with ripening crops. This was the first winter barley, promising a rich harvest. Then the summer crop would be sown; it would fill Tabaîn’s barns and storehouses up to the rafters and help to feed the neighboring kingdoms as well. That is, if they were spared the destructive storms notorious in these flat plains.

“It must be the way of the landscape itself that tremendous storms are such a feature. Not even in the mountains of the dwarves or in the kingdom of Urgon do they suffer the whirlwinds they get here, when everything is dragged up from the ground,” mused Alvaro, watching the crops wave in the strong breeze.

“That’s why their houses are made solid as fortresses,” said Mallen. “Any normal house would get blown away at once. And the corpse of any man caught in a tornado like that might never be found.”

Alvaro looked up at the clear blue sky. “Let’s hope we’re spared that spectacle.”

They rode on, entering the city. Goldensheaf opened its gates in welcome. Hundreds of citizens lined the streets of the capital and waved flags and scarves; others strewed flower petals from windows and rooftops in honor of the guests. Strains of joyful, if unfamiliar, music interwove with the shouts and cheers of the townspeople.

Mallen noticed that none of the houses was taller than the occasional two-storey building. To lighten the overall impression of grayness, some of the stone blocks had been painted. Other people had taken the easier path and decorated their houses with colorful banners in various widths.

“It’s good to feel so welcome,” remarked Alvaro, thoroughly enjoying being the center of attention.

A delegation of youths and maidens in dazzling white robes and carrying sheaves and garlands drew near to serve the officers with refreshments: wine and slices of different types of fruit.

“This is what I call a reception,” grinned Alvaro. “Don’t worry about anything else, I’m happy just to travel through Girdlegard with you for the rest of my days, my prince.”

Mallen tried the wine, surprised at how light it tasted. Idoslane’s own wines were famous for their fullness, rich ruby-red color and a slight woody by-taste. Tabaîn, on the other hand, had learnt the skill of producing a wine so light you could drink it as easily as water. So deceptively light.

The delegation drew back when a mounted escort arrived to accompany them to the fortress. The next surprise awaited.

“They really have built right down below ground level. One easy jump and we’d be over the walls,” Alvaro whispered to his prince when they had seen more of the construction. The walls were not more than five paces high, while the yard into which they were riding down the ramp lay a good ten paces down.

“We’d have quite a fall after your one easy jump,” Prince Mallen laughed. Some of the walls had stone projections
too symmetrical to be considered mistakes. He must ask King Nate about them later.

Once in the courtyard they dismounted and followed one of the royal courtiers into the palace, the exterior of which was an unprepossessing and unadorned box shape.

But this impression was more than compensated for as soon as they took their first glance inside. Splendidly decorated walls, ceilings and floors graced the building. Carpets deadened their footsteps and made walking a pleasure; wonderful mural depictions of landscapes gave the feeling not of a gray-walled castle but of rolling fields of corn.

There were no sharp corners here or mean passageways, but generous corridors with curved lines and elegant dimensions. Likewise, none of the rooms they marched through was starkly geometrical. The whole building was a glorious feast of architecture, pleasing to the eye and to the soul.

King Nate, with his sparse wheaten-blond hair and eyes as green as fresh grass, received them in the throne room with open arms of welcome. The two rulers embraced. “So you have finally managed, after all these cycles, to come and visit us here in Goldensheaf,” King Nate said, his voice joyful. “And what do you think of the corn-basket of the whole of Girdlegard, Prince Mallen?”

“The land is as even and smooth as the face of a beautiful woman,” Mallen answered diplomatically, falling into step next to Nate, who walked him to a feast table loaded with a magnificent variety of fruit, vegetables and meat dishes, and many types of bread offered as an accompaniment.

“Don’t tell me you think it is too flat?” laughed his host, inviting Mallen to sit at his right. The seat on his left remained empty. “Surely the flatness has the great advantage of not overtiring the horses, doesn’t it?”

Mallen and Alvaro laughed. “Perhaps you would grant us a few moments to shake off the dust of the journey…?” asked the prince, but Nate dismissed the request.

“No, leave the dust on your armor. You carry part of the riches of my kingdom into the palace for me. What possible objection could I have…?” he smiled. “Take refreshment with me now, then you shall find a hot bath and a bed waiting.”

“If you insist, Your Majesty,” Mallen nodded, his stomach rumbling. He was happy to comply. Plates were being heaped with food and wine served, together with the finest water from Tabaîn’s deep wells.

“I have planned an interesting nine orbits’ entertainment for you,” announced Nate, eating surprisingly heartily for a man of his advanced years. “You shall come with me to the various farms where I can have you shown all our different agricultural skills; you shall see orchards that you will hardly believe.”

Alvaro grinned at Mallen as he chewed at his food and the prince understood his smile. What was meant was: “Ah, so they do have trees enough to make wooden siege ladders and catapults, after all.”

“And then this evening we shall have a masked ball here, to which all the nobles of the land have been invited. They are all eager to see the hero who has kept our realm safe from the evil powers on more than one occasion, prince.”

Mallen lifted his hand. “Not so, King Nate. Modesty is called for. My soldiers and myself have, it is true, made a contribution. But it is the dwarf folk who deserve your praise. Without their stamina and stubborn determination, their strong arms and their belief in goodness, we should not both be sitting at a feast together as we are doing now. The dwarves have made many sacrifices in the past.”

“True words indeed, Prince Mallen,” said a soft voice from the doorway.

An elf in flowing light green and yellow robes stood there waiting for a sign to show she was allowed to join them.

The prince and Alvaro looked at each other in surprise. It was not often you got to see an elf face to face outside the realm of Âlandur: up to now it had only been in times of war.

“Come and join us, Rejalin,” called the king and a servant pulled out the chair at Nate’s left. Now it was obvious for whom the place had been reserved. “Keep us company.”

“Gladly, Your Majesty.” She approached, her every movement the essence of a grace that no other residents of Girdlegard could hope to attain. Rejalin wore her long, light hair woven into a plait around her head; delicate filigree jewelry sparkled from it. Mallen was admiring her already; when she bowed her head slightly and addressed him—“Greetings, Prince Mallen”—he was on the point of falling under her spell. No woman he knew had eyes of such a blue-green color.

“Rejalin is with a delegation from Âlandur, sent to me by Prince Liútasil,” explained the king, as the elf maiden tasted the fruit in front of her. She elevated the normally banal act of eating to a simple but enchanting performance.

She lifted her head and smiled at Alvaro and Mallen. “It is time that my people start to share their great knowledge with others. Prince Liútasil has decided to impart what we have learned to all the rulers. Those that show themselves worthy.”

Alvaro lowered the fork that was on its way to his mouth and challenged Rejalin with a look. “So one has to prove oneself worthy in order to receive favor from the elves?” He placed his hands together and watched her face. “What would one have to do in order to be able to belong to the select circle?”

Rejalin delicately plucked an early berry fruit from its stem. “I am not at liberty to tell you,” she replied, her tone even and friendly and her voice melodious enough to subdue the most aggressive of orcs. “We see and we judge without words and then we report to our prince.”

“Then tell me, Rejalin,” he said, pointing at his own master, “how it may be that one of the greatest heroes of Girdlegard has not yet had the honor of an elven deputation?” He was listening for the smallest trace of insult or slight in her words.

She did not step onto this thin ice but instead sent a lingering glance to Mallen that had in it shades of the expression a woman might reserve for her lover. “They have certainly come to you, Prince Mallen, while you have been traveling here to Tabaîn,” she said, addressing the ruler directly and ignoring the warrior. “You are awaited by a delegation of my brothers and sisters. The journey from Âlandur to Idoslane is of a considerable length.” She smiled and he instinctively responded to her friendliness.

Alvaro had not given up by a long way. “This knowledge your people has,” he went on, “what kind is it? How to make more beautiful music?”

“Progress,” she said without turning to answer him—her gaze was fixed on Mallen. “It touches all areas of daily life. Including art.” She lowered her eyes, paused, then regarded Alvaro. “Your manner is not very friendly, sir.”

The warrior leaned back in his chair. “I should have been glad to see your pretty face when the battle of Porista was being fought. But the elves preferred to remain in the woods.”

“We fought against the älfar, Alvaro,” she corrected, speaking more sharply than before, which made him grin. She finally lost her patience.

“Of course you fought the älfar. We
all
fought the älfar at Dsôn Balsur and
nearly all
of us fought the avatars,” he followed through. “We played a part in protecting Âlandur from your malicious relations, but how do you thank Girdlegard? This is a mystery I can’t fathom out.” He reached for his beaker and raised it to her. “May you be the first one to explain it to me, Rejalin.”