coming of the Tsurani; in fact, he had insisted life was better now, as the dark elves no longer hunted the Green Heart or the Grey Towers. Given the bloody history between the Rangers and the moredhel, Alystan was inclined to agree that his grandfather’s view had merit.
Time passed, but Alystan, like all Rangers, possessed patience born of generations of woodcraft and hunting skill. A fidgeting hunter was a hungry one, his father had told him many years before on his first hunt.
At last Toddy returned, slowly escorting the oldest being the Ranger had ever encountered. The dwarf moved with tiny steps as if he feared losing his balance. He was shrunken with age, so he barely stood a head taller than the boy, and he was slight of frame. In contrast to the robust stature of the other dwarves the Ranger knew, his appearance was startling. His skin was parchment-white and almost translucent, so the veins of his hands stood out over his swollen knuckles. He used a cane with his right hand, and the boy held him firmly under his left arm. His receding hair fell to his shoulders, whatever colour might once have graced his ancient pate now fled, leaving snow-white wisps. Cheeks sunken with age were marked with small lesions and sores, and Alystan knew this was a dwarf nearing the end of his days.
The old dwarf looked about the room, and the Ranger realized that he must be blind, or his vision so poor that he might as well be sightless. Those in the room remained silent as he found his seat.
Then he spoke, ‘So, what reason have you, to rouse an old man from his nap?’ he demanded. His voice was surprisingly strong and deep for so frail a figure.
Dolgan said, ‘Malachi, this is Alystan of the Free Cities.’
‘I can see he’s a Ranger, Dolgan,’ said the old dwarf, and Alystan reassessed his previous judgment on his eyesight. ‘Well, you have something to say, else they wouldn’t have required me to come here, so say it,’ instructed Malachi.
Alystan retold his encounter with the strange traveller. The ancient dwarf said nothing, but leant forward slightly as if paying closer attention when the Ranger began describing the creature’s true appearance.
When Alystan was finished, Malachi leaned back and let his chin drop, in thought. The room remained silent for several minutes, then the ancient dwarf said, ‘It’s an old tale, told by my grandfather’s grandfather, from the time of the Crossing.’
Dolgan said nothing, but he glanced around the room at the other dwarves who had gathered there while Alystan had spoken. There were now perhaps twenty dwarves, most of whom Alystan recognized as being part of the King’s Meet, Dolgan’s council of advisors.
Malachi paused then said, ‘At the end of my days, I am, but I remember this tale as if it were told to me yesterday.
‘My first raid was against the dark elves to the north, who had been troubling our herds in the lower meadows when calving was underway. We had chased off a band and my father, and—’ He pointed at Dolgan, ‘—and your father, though he had not the title of King, only Warleader, decided we needed to chastise the miscreants and let them know there would be no stealing of calves from the dwarves of Caldara!’ He took a breath, and said, ‘We followed the thieves for two days, and as we camped on the night before the raid, my father told me a story told to him by his grandfather.
‘He said that before the Gods warred, dwarves lived on a distant world and fought long and hard against the great goblin tribes, Lea Orcha, the orcs. Our people also defended their crops and herds from gryphon and manticore and other creatures of myth. Father spoke of ancient legends, of great heroes and deeds, their truth lost even to the Lorekeepers, for he spoke of a time before the Crossing.’
Alystan said, ‘The Crossing?’
The old dwarf nodded. ‘A madness consumed our world, a war visited upon us by beings of power beyond our most puissant Lorekeeper’s art. We know them as Dragon Lords.’
‘The Valheru,’ said Dolgan, thinking of his time spent with Lord Tomas during the war against the Tsurani. He had learned much Valheru lore while he watched the boy from Crydee grow into a being of unimaginable power; but he knew there was far more untold knowledge.
‘Aye,’ said Malachi. ‘So the elves call their former masters. My father told me the very masters of that world drove us here, by design or chance no one knows. But flee our home world we did.
‘Great tears opened in the heavens above and earth below, swallowing up those nearby. Some, it was said, went to other worlds, but most of us hunkered down and tried to withstand the forces of chaos on all sides.
‘There were races of men on our home world, along with the great goblins and our people. It was they, these masters of magic, who constructed bridges to flee from the destruction visited upon us during the Chaos Wars.
‘We lost almost everything, but this much knowledge remained: in ancient times others ranged across these lands, kin to those we warred with, but they were not those in Elvandar with whom we were at peace. He told a tale of a time when the wars on the ancient birth world forced dwarves, humans, even the magic users of the Dena Orcha—’
‘Orcs!’ spat Dolgan, as if the very word was an insult.
The Ranger looked at the old man.
‘Dena Orcha in the old tongue,’ said Malachi. ‘The true enemy of our blood. The great goblins. None live on this world.’
‘But they live in our memory,’ said the Dwarf King.
Malachi waved away the comment. ‘The magic users of many races banded together to save entire worlds in the time of the Mad Gods and raging Dragon Riders. They formed the Golden Bridge and many of our ancestors came to Midkemia.
‘But the elves and some others, the serpent men and the tiger men, already lived here and we were met with more war and magic.
‘The fighting on both sides of the Golden Bridge continued for a time without time, for the very nature of the universe was twisted and fluid.
‘Then, it was over,’ said the ancient dwarf, quietly.
‘In days after the Crossing, but before the line of Kings was named, in the dim mists of memory, the elves told our ancestors that many of their people left this world as we had fled our own, and to the elves they were known as the Lost Elves.’
The old elf sat silently for a minute and then said, ‘I can only guess, but perhaps one has returned to this world, for never have I heard of such a being before. You’d best ask the elves, for this much I know at least; many things can be said of elven magic, but I have never in my long life heard tell of them using illusion as a guise.’ He said, ‘If I may leave, King?’
His tone left no doubt the request was only a formality, as he turned before Dolgan waved permission.
As the old man was about to leave the chamber, Dolgan said, ‘Malachi, one more question. Why did my father not speak of this to me?’
Malachi shrugged. ‘You would have to be able to ask him. Your father was a quiet, thoughtful leader. He spoke very little.’ Dolgan nodded. ‘Unlike my father, who liked to tell stories.’
‘I remember something else,’ said Malachi. ‘Three great bridges were built on our birth world, or so my father said his grandfather told him. Two were built by humans and dwarves, and one by the orcs. One bridge led to the Tsurani world. If any of our people crossed, no memory of them remains with the Tsurani.
