Page 10 of Revenge of the Elf Lord

Cyran stepped up to the bridge separating the elf realm of Alfheimr and the dwarf realm of Svartálfheimr. Before the war, the two realms were one, and all elves came and went without penalty. Now, there was a definite divide, which was sad.

He had memories from childhood of deep blue lakes that were great for swimming and rich mountains with plants not found anywhere else. Now, they were shielded by the dwarves, not that he could blame.

Getting his hands on even one of the plants seemed bleak since elves weren’t allowed in the dwarven realm after their liberation from slavery. Over the centuries, however, he had heard rumors of dwarves still being enslaved, although no one had ever found any evidence of the deplorable practice.

Maybe one day, things between the races would change. He would love to get his hands on some of the rare specimens growing under the shadow of the king’s mountain. Their healing capabilities were magical.

Glancing at the lush elven lands behind him, he knew the best places where there were abundant trees and colorful plants, but here… He turned his gaze back to the barren black plains of the dwarf kingdom before him. He didn’t remember it being so stark. No plant or tree could be seen for miles.

The only object marring the empty horizon was the tall spires of a single mountain surrounded by a strange gray haze obscuring the landscape. Not even the sun was clearly visible. He also knew the dwarf sentries would never let him go that far into Svartálfheimr.

His gaze returned to the tall peak on the horizon. A shiver stole through him, his gaze narrowing on the mountain.

Exhaling, he walked across the wooden bridge and stepped onto the stone path that would take him farther into Svartálfheimr, the last place he wanted to go. He would much rather be standing in front of a firing squad in Nazi Germany than here. At least he knew the passage of time on Midgard. Here, time stood still. Not even Freyja had seen anything about Svartálfheimr in her God’s Glass. It was as if the realm was being blocked somehow.

“Dar!” a male voice cried out. Cyran did as the guard demanded and halted. Two dwarves appeared, walking out of the gray haze. They stopped in front of him, their long golden swords aimed at his midsection. “Elves are not welcome here. Return to Alfheimr or suffer the consequences.”

Cyran’s gaze moved over the speaker. The handsome dwarf was dressed in black, and his upper body was protected by a golden breastplate with matching arm and leg guards, both beautiful and functional in battle. His hazel eyes were sharp and seemed to miss nothing, and his brown hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, sharpening his features and giving him an air of fierceness.

If he were placed side by side with an Elven soldier, there would be no difference between them, making this schism all the more heartbreaking.

“I have been sent here by the co-regents of Alfheimr,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.

“We don’t care who sent you.” The other dwarf raised his sword a few inches to point it at Cyran’s heart. “Turn around and leave.”

Cyran noticed the similarities between the two dwarves. The only difference besides age was the slight red tint in the younger male’s hair. He returned his gaze to the first guard. “You need to teach your brother to rein in his anger, or it will get him killed.”

“Why—!” The younger dwarf stepped forward, only to be stopped by the sword arm of his brother. “Niall, you go too far. Stand back and learn. When father hears of this…”

The brown-haired guard sheathed his sword and gave Cyran a quick nod. “I am sorry for my brother, sir. Our father is the leader of the nearest village, and we were instructed to watch out for strangers passing through here.”

Cyran raised one brow. “Who told you to be wary? I’m sure many pass through Svartálfheimr.” He glanced around at the bleak landscape behind the brothers. “Although, I wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t stay long. It is…barren.”

The younger dwarf scuffed his black boot through the dirt. “It didn’t use to be like this. We had thick forests and more flowers than a person could ever pick. Our mother would fill our home with fresh bouquets daily, and our father would laugh at her for it.” He met his brother’s sad gaze. “If she had lived to see how our realm looked now…” his voice trailed off, but not before Cyran heard the wobble.

He understood the youngster’s sorrow as his memories turned to his mother and how hard he had taken her death. He stepped closer and placed a hand on the youth’s shoulder, the heat from Niall’s body warming the metal plate under Cyran’s palm. “I, too, lost my mother at an early age. Be thankful your father is still alive to guide and teach you. He sounds like a good man.”

Once more, his gaze was drawn to the horizon. He shook his head. “I remember the lush valleys and lakes covering this area. This,” he motioned with a wave of his arm, “is a travesty.”

The older dwarf nodded. “Our father is an amazing leader. He watches out for those less fortunate and ensures they have enough to eat and a place to live, which takes up much of his time. He cares for the townsfolk, but we know he loves us.”

He sent a furtive glance to their left and right, then again met Cyran’s gaze. “My name is Siall. We were warned by a close friend who works in the palace. Strange things are happening there, and he wanted us to be careful. Watchful.”

Cyran nodded. “Can you tell me more about what’s happening?” He lowered his voice so only the two brothers could hear him.

Niall threw his brother a worried glance. He leaned close to his brother’s ear and whispered in the dwarven tongue—a language Cyran hadn’t heard since his mother’s death. Because of dialect, not every word was intelligible, but he understood enough of what Niall said. He wanted to take him back to their village so their father could explain—maybe even convince Cyran to help them. He bit back his smile.

After a few seconds, Siall nodded and pulled out his sword. “The king has spies everywhere, so play along. We will take you to our home, and you can talk with our father. Explain to him why you are here.” Cyran tilted his head in agreement and raised his hands. He stepped between the two and walked into the haze. “Follow the path ahead until you reach a fork in the road. Take the left path, which will lead into our village proper.”

“I think this is overkill, but whatever.” Cyran continued along the path. Following their instructions, he turned left when he reached the first branch. “Have either of you heard of an old law stating a healer is allowed in all realms?”

After a brief hesitation, Siall’s lower voice answered. “No. Proceed through those two stone columns. Keep on the main road. Our father’s hut is in the village center. You can’t miss it. It’s the largest hut.”

As he passed the columns, Cyran noticed the runic etchings on each, the ancient words welcoming those with no ill will and wishing them a peaceful visit. “Nice sentiment,” he muttered. “Too bad the rest of the realm didn’t pay heed.”

“What?” Niall asked, walking close behind him.

“Just admiring the greeting on the stones.”

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