“I want to go with you,” said Lady Landolyn Malvegil as she sat in bed beside her husband. “I can help you — in many ways.”
“No one knows that better than I, my love,” said Lord Torbin Malvegil as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. “But if you go to Lomion City with me, I’ll be worried about you every minute.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I’ll be worried that my enemies will try to kidnap you or to harm you to get at me. That worry will be a distraction that I cannot afford. I need to be at my best to accomplish my goals and to keep the Hand’s assassins at bay. My mind needs to be clear. I need you here, where you’re safe, behind our walls, and closely guarded by our own people.”
“I'm not afraid of the Chancellor, or the League, or anyone. I can defend myself better than you know. After all these years, haven’t I earned to right to be at your side?”
Torbin's jaw was set. “So do you want to put me at risk? I just told you that if you’re along, I’ll be distracted. I can’t have that.”
“Do you think that if you take me to the city, that I'll run off or something?” said Landolyn. “Is that it? You don't even trust me?”
“That's just ridiculous. You’re staying here and that's it. I’ll waste no more time on this.”
“My feelings are not a waste of time,” she said sharply. Her face had gone red. She kicked the covers off her legs and scrambled out of bed, muttering curses under her breath. She grabbed a throw pillow and flung it at the nightstand, spilling a jar of mearn, and knocking over various powders and brushes. She turned to Torbin, furious, but before she spoke, there was an anxious knock on their chamber’s door.
“My lord,” said Gravemare through the door, “an emissary approaches the Dor.”
“It’s not that stinking Alder again, is it? The tax collector?”
“No, my lord.”
Torbin turned to Landolyn. “Put on your robe,” he said quietly. He plucked his own robe from the hanger beside the bed, donned it, and cinched it about his waist. “Enter.”
Hubert Gravemare, Dor Malvegil’s grayed Castellan, opened the door slowly, but not nearly as slowly as was his custom, and stood waiting for his lord to give him leave to speak.
“Are you unwell?” said Malvegil to Gravemare, concern on his face. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine, my lord, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Considering that myths and legends have come calling to Dor Malvegil.”
“Myths and legends? What are you saying? I’m in no mood for games this morning. Who is here and what do they want?”
“Svarts,” said Gravemare. “They request an audience.”
There was a long pause as Lord Malvegil studied Gravemare's face, perhaps searching for some sign that he was jesting or else just waiting for him to continue. “Svarts, you say? Are you serious?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Black elves? Here? At my keep?”
“Aye,” said Gravemare, nodding.
“I thought they died out ages ago. No one has seen them in . . . how long? Three hundred years?”
“Four hundred, my lord, mayhap longer. But today, they are at our doorstep. And not just any svarts. The king of Thoonbarrow himself.”
“The king of Thoonbarrow!” said Malvegil. “Now that is a legend come to life. How does that old poem go? Do you remember?”
Gravemare cleared his throat and spoke the ancient rhyme.
“Well done,” said Malvegil.
“It goes and on,” said Gravemare, waving his hand, “but I don’t recall the rest. I have a book that—”
“The svarts are not elves,” spat Landolyn. “They are creatures of the black, of the deep rock. They dwell in Midgaard's darkest depths where no elf or volsung would venture.”
“Dark gnomes then,” said Malvegil. “I’ve heard them called that many a time. Or is it deep gnomes?”
“They prefer to be called svarts, my lord,” said Gravemare. “Though they take no offense in being called deep gnomes. We’ve been warned not to call them black elves, for that term causes them great offense.”
“Pfft,” went Landolyn. “Believe nothing they say, Torbin. They are lying, wicked twisted little things, devoid of feelings, compassion, and common decency. They are worse than lugron.”
“The king of the svarts, here, at my keep,” said Malvegil as he walked to his wardrobe. “How odd a thing. Curious timing, too, isn’t it? Wait — you said you were warned not to call them black elves. Warned by whom?”
“By the dwarven ambassador that travels with them,” said Gravemare. “McDuff the Mighty.”
“McDuff!” said Malvegil. “Gravemare, if this is a jest, I am not amused.”
“No jest, my lord. Though, I fear we’d be far better off if it were.”
At lord Malvegil’s command, guards accoutered in full battle regalia pulled open the doors of Dor Malvegil’s audience hall. Four squadrons of the finest Malvegillian soldiers stood at attention about the great hall. Two squadrons were positioned near the entryway, one to each side of the massive double doors, facing toward those who were about to enter. The other squadrons stood in the rear, arrayed protectively about the lord’s dais on which Torbin Malvegil and his advisors assembled.
Malvegil sat in his chair, which was in truth, more akin to a throne — high-backed, massive of limb, and bejeweled of garnet, emerald, and opal. His lady sat beside him in a smaller seat that matched his. Gravemare stood beside Malvegil, lean and stoic, his black and red robe and tall staff, similarly colored, the formal trappings of his office. Opposite him, standing beside Landolyn, was Brother Torgrist, the Dor's high cleric. To either side, various other House officials. On the main level, just in front of the dais, stood Master Karktan of Rivenwood, the Malvegils’ Weapons Master, and his brother, Stoub, Lord Malvegil’s chief bodyguard — both men, massive and black bearded, looking much like larger versions of their lord, who was no small man himself. Their armor was black and red, and they wore tall helmets adorned with black and red feathers.
Though near mid-morning, the hall was unusually dim, for the sky was so overcast that little light filtered through the great skylights high overhead at the hall’s apex. So, as in the evenings, much of the hall's light came from the oil lamps that hung by steel chains in orderly rows from the rafters. The pleasant scent of birchwood wafted from the fire pits and counterbalanced the acrid scent of the burning oil. Except for the crackling from the fire pits, the audience hall stood silent.
Then began the drums. The svart drums emitted a soft but eerie, echoey sound unlike any instrument the Malvegils had heard before. That rhythmic sounding ushered forth a grand procession into the hall. At its van marched McDuff, an usually tall dwarf, massively broad at the shoulder and upper arm, with flaming red hair and beard, dressed in burnished plate armor of intricate design and a flowing black cape that kissed the floor behind him. Six dwarven soldiers followed him.
McDuff stopped but a few steps into the hall and the drums went silent save for some odd reverberations that continued for several moments. Other figures stood behind the dwarves, but could not yet be clearly seen. “I am McDuff the Mighty, emissary of his grand majesty, Bornyth Trollsbane, High King of Clan Darendon.”
“Welcome, emissary,” said Gravemare in a loud and measured voice. “The Malvegils are happy to receive you and word from the great King Bornyth, our friend and ally, loyal and true, these many years.”
“Thank you, Castellan,” said McDuff. “You honor my clan and country with your words.”
“Tell us, emissary, who is it that travels with you this day?” said Gravemare. “And for what purpose?”
“Those with me request to announce themselves,” said McDuff as he and his fellows stepped forward and to the side. The drums began anew and the procession continued into the hall.
Those who followed the dwarves were unlike any persons that had entered Dor Malvegil in the four hundred years of its existence. Shorter even than dwarves, the svarts had sleight frames, spindly limbs that were a bit overlong, large hands with unnaturally long fingers, dark gray skin nearing to black, bald pates, hairless bodies, and disturbingly large eyes with black pupils and sclera of greenish yellow streaked with more black. Their faces were expressionless; their large teeth and long nails as black and yellow as their eyes. Their ears, sharply pointed. Their aspects were so odd, so alien, that the Malvegils could not be certain whether all those who entered were the male of the species, or the female, or whether there were some of each. Those at the fore carried staffs of bleached bone half again taller than they were, and wore long beige robes that trailed well behind them. From what manner of creature the bone staves were salvaged, no Malvegil could guess. “Their wizard-priests, the Diresvarts,” whispered Landolyn to her husband. “Each deadly and treacherous.”
The svarts hummed an eerie tune as they marched into the hall, their melody in harmony with the beat of the svart drummers that followed close behind them. They marched with a heavy step that belied their diminutive size – so heavy in fact were their steps, that the great hall shook as in they came, row after row, after row.
When the procession came within twenty feet of the dais, Master Karktan and his brother stepped before the svarts and put up their hands, palms forward, directing them to halt. They would allow their guests no closer to their lord and lady.
McDuff rushed over. He too gestured for the svarts to stop, and spoke some words in what must have been their language. The svarts halted, though they seemed confused, and looked around to their fellows, though no words escaped their lips, and no expressions formed on their faces. Their tune continued for some moments, then abruptly stopped. Their ranks parted in orderly fashion and up from the rear marched two of their number. The svarts began to hum another tune, this one deep and somber, as the two made their way to the front.
The first was accoutered as all the rest, save that he wore robes of yellow and black and his staff was a full seven feet long, also of bone. That one they called the Orator, as that was his function.
The second was the svart king, adorned all in yellow. He was the shortest of them all – less than three feet tall, smaller even than most gnomes, yet he exuded a presence, a charisma, that outshone all his fellows. No doubt, it was some combination of his regal bearing, or the strength and confidence in his voice, or the wisdom that shone on his lined face. The king's skin was darker than that of the others, his face heavily wrinkled, whereas his brethren's faces were smooth in the main. Despite his obvious age and limited height, the king's frame was broader and thicker limbed than his fellows, giving him a more robust appearance.
The Orator spoke first. He chanted all his words rather than merely speaking them. His voice had an alien quality – bold, melodic, and haunting with a strange echoing effect not unlike the drums. His words were in High Lomerian (an archaic dialect of the common Lomerian spoken about the kingdom), with a strong accent, but by and large, the Malvegils understood him. He raised his hands, palms facing each other as he announced his lord.
“Oh great lord of the Malvegils,” he said, “afore you stands Guyphoon Garumptuss tet Montu, high king of Thoonbarrow, Master of the Seven Stratems, Patriarch of Brood tet Montu, and Lord of all Svartleheim, offspring of Guyphoon Pintalia of the Windy Ways, Traymoor Garumptuss the Bold, and Trantmain lin Backus tet Montu, great king of the undermountains – may his memory outlast the ages.”
Malvegil nodded respectfully but made no other response. Gravemare seemed uncertain of what to say or do, fidgeted where he stood, and ultimately only nodded as well.
“Three parents?” whispered Malvegil to Landolyn. “I can’t pronounce his name, for Odin’s sake.”
“Some say their king has bedding rights,” she whispered, “but others say their biology requires three.”
The Orator continued unperturbed. “We come of heavy heart and dire tiding. Ancient, terrible evil from the time afore time has arisen from the bowels of Midgaard. It gathers and it grows. It festers, it plagues, and it hungers. Most of all, it hungers. Its thirsts cannot be quenched; its appetites cannot be sated. Soon it will spill Lomerian blood, for toward you it moves.”
“What is this evil of which you speak?” said Malvegil. “Name it.”
The Orator did not answer. He did not react at all – as if he didn't hear or didn't understand Malvegil's words.
“Name it,” repeated Malvegil after a few moments. The Orator turned toward his king.
The king said but a single word. “Duergar.”
As one, the svarts winced and groaned as if physically struck. Some murmured in their own language – their words unintelligible. Nearly all of them made a sign across their faces and chests – a protective ward designed to stave off bad omens and dark magic.
“What or who is this duergar?” said Gravemare.
“They who devour life and make it duergar,” said the Orator.
Gravemare and Malvegil looked to each other, confused. “Of what do they speak?” Malvegil whispered to Landolyn.
She shook her head. “I know not. That word means nothing to me.”
“We do not follow your meaning,” said Gravemare. “Please explain.”
“The gates of Helheim are sealed,” said the Orator.
Gravemare shook his head, indicating he didn't understand.
“What has stood open since time immemorial is closed,” said the Orator. “None may enter. All are turned back.”
“What does this mean?” said Gravemare.
“None may enter,” said the Orator, louder. “All are turned back.”
“Turned back from what?” said Gravemare.
“Death,” said the Orator.
Malvegil's hands gripped the arms of his chair; his face went pale, his jaw set. He feared he knew now of what the svarts spoke but he prayed to Odin that he was wrong.
“We still do not follow your meaning,” said Gravemare.
The Orator paused for some moments, searching for the right words in a language alien to him. “All life touched by duergar are turned back from death,” he said.
The king stepped past the Orator and waived Malvegil's guards aside. They parted, but Stoub closely shadowed him. The svart king made his way up to the dais, and stopped before Malvegil's feet. He waved McDuff over. The svart king spoke in svartish and McDuff repeated his words in Lomerian, as best as his translation skills allowed.
“Duergar,” said the svart king, “are the dead that walk. They are the dead that hunger. The dead that kill. The dead that feast on the living and make them duergar. They will not stop until all are duergar. Where they go, no life remains.”
The king repeated his last sentence, this time in Lomerian without McDuff's help. “Where they go, no life remains!”
“They will not stop until all are duergar,” added the Orator.
Malvegil looked to McDuff who nodded repeatedly. “Dead gods,” murmured Malvegil, for now he knew the truth, and from it, there was no escape. A truth he had feared for twenty-five years. A truth that he hoped to forget, but that he knew he never could. “Can it be?” he said so quietly that no one but Landolyn heard him. “Did we not get them all?”
Landolyn reached out her hand, placed it over her husband's, and squeezed. He looked up. The svart king stared up at him, his face expressionless. The hairs on the back of Malvegil's neck stood up when he met the svart's eerie gaze.
“Do they come in force?” said Malvegil as he leaned forward in his seat. “As an army? How soon? How much time do we have to prepare?”
The king turned toward the Orator and made some gesture, after which the Orator resumed his role as spokesman.
“We understand not the ways of the duergar,” said the Orator. “They sometimes appear mindless. A force of nature. Chaos personified. At other times, they attack in force. How soon they might venture on your lands, we know not. A day? A week? A year? Or mayhap, they are already here. Gird yourselves against them. Raise your gates. Bar your doors. They are coming. The dead are coming.”
“Where did these things come from?” said Gravemare.
“They came at us without warning, from the dark places – up from the great depths, through the olden rock, from down deeper than we have ever traveled. And we have delved deep. Their origin, somewhere beneath the place you call the Dead Fens, though they do not return there. They only spread, like a plague, outward, in all directions. They must be stopped or nowhere will be safe for the living.”
“How do your people fare?” said Malvegil.
“We recognized too late what they were. We ignored the signs and portents to our folly. We disbelieved. And as a result, ancient Thoonbarrow fell the first day of their attack. The king's palace held for but one day more. We are refugees now. Everything that was ours is gone. Our people decimated. A hundred millennia of art, culture, writings, all gone. All destroyed. Those of our people that escaped fled far afield in all directions. The dwarves have taken many of us in, and given us sanctuary, despite hard feelings amongst our peoples going back through the ages. The dwarven king, Bornyth Trollsbane is wise. He knows that the duergar are the real threat. He allies with us to combat them, such as our skills and numbers allow.”
“Hard feelings?” whispered Landolyn in Malvegil's ear. “The dwarves kill the svart on sight and burn their bodies to ash. Do not trust them, husband, for these are no tribe of men. They are an ancient breed of creatures from an old line otherwise dead. They are no more akin to a man than is a snake, and far more dangerous.”
“Enough,” whispered Malvegil.
“Do the dwarves vouch for this account?” said Gravemare.
“The svarts speak the truth on this matter, they do,” said McDuff. “The duergar threat is real,” he said, and spat on the floor in disgust. “They attack, they kill, and they eat anything alive that they find, the scum. Any that escape them, but suffer a wound at their hands, from a bite or a scratch, soon develop a fever and die – sometimes within minutes, if the wound is severe, other times, within hours, but at most a day or two. Then they rise again as duergar. They rise up from the dead! And when they do, they hunger for the living. And so the cycle continues and their plague spreads.”
“There is an ancient legend from the South about creatures that are neither dead nor alive, and that drink the blood of the living,” said Gravemare.
McDuff put up a hand. “I know those tales. You speak of blood lords. The duergar are something different. Something unknown, save in the oldest svart legends. Whatever written lore the svart knew of them is lost along with their histories and most of their scholars.”
“How can they be stopped?” said Gravemare. “How can they be killed if they are already dead?”
“Blades and bludgeons are of limited effect,” said McDuff. “The svarts cut some to pieces, though even the pieces moved of their own accord. Fire does them in eventually. Torches and oil work. What else may stop them, we know not.”
“Will you ally with us against the duergar?” said the Orator.
Gravemare looked to his lord.
“If your words be true,” said Malvegil. “We will stand against them with you.”
“But our walls are high,” said Gravemare. “Let the duergar break against them, as all our enemies have in the past.”
“We will develop our tactics in due time,” said Malvegil.
“Thank you, oh great lord of the Malvegils, for you are wise,” said the Orator. “We offer a gift to cement and strengthen this alliance.”
“Here comes the hook,” whispered Landolyn to Malvegil.
The svarts hummed a new tune – this one strong and rhythmic. Other svarts moved up from the rear carrying an ornate crate of lacquered wood painted with multicolored geometric designs. Behind the crate walked a svart female – obvious by her curves, however slight, though her head was as bald as the rest. Her eyes were even larger than the males, and her face was pleasing in its way, unlined, ageless. She wore a sheer purple dress that fluttered as she walked and trailed behind her.
The svarts set the crate down by their king and removed the top. The female reached in and removed a large spherical object draped in a thick cloth. She carefully removed the covering and held the object out for the Malvegils’ inspection.
“The Sventeran Stone,” said the Orator; a hint of pride on his face.
Landolyn gasped and rose to her feet, in part in excitement, and partly to get a better look. “A Seer Stone,” she said. The stone was maroon and black, with streaks of gold that moved of their own accord about its surface, which was smooth and well preserved.
“The duergar are coming,” said the Orator. “They are a darkness that we will not survive unless we stand together, and for that communication is key. The stones offer that. We are pleased that you recognize what they are. We feared that such things were beyond you. With them, we'll be able to communicate with each other from afar, to exchange news, and coordinate our activities against the enemy.”
“We know of Seer Stones,” said Gravemare, “though one has never afore graced this hall.”
“Then you know that it takes a true Seer of great power to use one. To any who hold not the power of a true Seer, the stones are useless. Cardakeen rack Mortha,” he said gesturing toward the female svart, “is a true Seer of rare gifts. She will remain amongst you to operate the Sventeran Stone . With it, you will be able to communicate with us at Darendor, where we have a second stone.”
“Even now,” said McDuff, “Galibar the Great, the prince of Darendor, first son to Bornyth and heir to Clan Darendon, journeys to meet with the Lindonaire elves. He carries the same warnings, the same offer of alliance, and a third Seer Stone with which we'll all be able to communicate with the elves.”
“The Lindonaire will not ally with the svart,” said Landolyn.
“Perhaps not,” said McDuff, “which is why Galibar goes there and the high king of the svart has come here. In the end, the elves must ally with us all, or they will not survive this. The Lindenwood and the elves' arrows offer little deterrent to the duergar.”
“You say you can communicate with Darendor with your stone?” said Malvegil.
“Yes,” said the Orator.
“Contact them,” said Malvegil.
“Use of the stones is difficult,” said the Orator. “There is a price that must be paid for its magics by the Seer. As such, the stones must only be used when needed. Both we and Bornyth Trollsbane anticipated your need for confirmation of our words–”
“Which is why Bornyth sent me,” said McDuff.
“Smart thinking to send an old friend that I trust like a brother,” said Malvegil. He stood and jumped down from the dais with surprising agility, landing heavily on his feet. Stoub was at his side in an instant. “Nevertheless, you will contact them now,” said Malvegil, his voice stern, his expression serious as he walked directly up to the svart king who did not flinch at his approach. Malvegil loomed over the king, standing nearly twice his height. Their eyes locked on each other’s, tension in the air. It seemed as if anything could happen; violence only a word or nod away. Strangely, the svart king smelled like lemons, but why, Malvegil had no idea. The soldiers arrayed about the room stirred and fidgeted.
“Torbin,” said McDuff, “the svarts have spoken true. They come here as friends.”
“I hear you, old friend,” said Malvegil. “Nevertheless, I will not consider an alliance unless they use the Stone to contact Bornyth. Now.”
The Orator and the svart king chattered back and forth in their language. The king was obviously very agitated – his voice was raised and his fingers danced and pointed as he spoke. More than once, McDuff winced at some remark of the king's, though what he said remained unknown to the Malvegils.
“Very well,” said the Orator after a time. He spoke some words to Seer Cardakeen and she placed the Seer Stone on the floor and sat down next to it. The hall went silent; all were watching the svart Seer. She chanted in the svartish, her voice soft and delicate, rising and falling with the words as her fingers caressed the stone. Streaks of what looked like lightning appeared within the stone's depths. They grew more frequent, brighter, and stronger, as the moments went by. After a time, an image solidified within the sphere. Malvegil drew close to see, Stoub at his side gripped his arm, so as to be able to pull him away quickly if need be. As the svart Seer gazed into her crystal ball, Malvegil's stomach went queasy. Stoub's face went gray; his brother's the same. As one, the men stepped back, well away from both the Seer and her stone. Somehow, they knew it was the source of their nausea.
“What trickery is this?” spat Malvegil.
“It's the way of Seer Stones,” said McDuff. “The svarts are not causing it. It is some byproduct of the Stone's magic. Stay well clear of the stone and the nausea will soon pass.”
The svart Seer spoke some svartish words and somehow her words were answered. The voice of another female svart projected through the Stone.
Malvegil looked to McDuff. “Well?”
“They are calling for a spokesman. Jarn Yarspitter, Bornyth's councilor has been the liaison with the svart. They're trying to find him. You know him, right?”
“These many years.”
But then something unexpected happened. Bornyth Trollsbane himself could be heard on the other side of the Stone, and Jarn Yarspitter as well. “I told you that Malvegil would want to hear it from me? You fools never listen. He's probably got the imps trussed up from the rafters by now. If only I could see through this darned thing. Stand aside and let me near the thing, but not too close for it makes my stomach tumble.”
A clanking was heard through the stone, as if a mailed fist were knocking against it. “Is this thing working?” said Bornyth. “Malvegil!” Bornyth yelled. “Malvegil, are you there?”
“Aye, I'm here,” said Malvegil.
“Was that him?” said Bornyth. “Was that him?”
“Aye, sire,” said Jarn. “I know his voice.”
“So do I,” barked Bornyth. “I just can't hear straight through this damnable thing. Malvegil – you listen close because I can't talk into this thing long or I'll puke my guts up again. You still there?”
“Still here,” said Malvegil.
“Good,” said Bornyth. “The threat is real. The duergar are out there. We don't know how many, but it's spreading. Get your people ready and for Odin's sake, warn Lomion City straight away. If we don't find a way to stop them, all Midgaard will be threatened.” Bornyth began coughing and retching, interspersed with colorful curses and threats against whoever was around him. The svart seers spoke a few more words to each other and then contact was broken.
“Gravemare,” said Malvegil, “send word to our bannermen of this threat. Direct them to secure their borders and their keeps. Every town must be fortified, every village prepared to evacuate. No time must be lost.”
“At once, my lord.”
“It's settled then,” said Malvegil as he approached the svart king. “You have your alliance,” he said extending his hand.
The svart king looked at Malvegil's large hand for several moments as if confused, and then he extended his own and they shook.
“But do not cross me,” said Malvegil with a toothy smile. “For my rafters are high.”
The svart king looked up at the rafters. He had no idea what Malvegil meant.