The Fate of the Dwarves

by Markus Heitz

  They shouted to the squadron to stop but, not hearing them, the band rode on through the settlement, heading for the main gate of Vraccas-Spite. Finally, the three dwarves cut through the ropes and got off their sledges. Hargorin and Barskalín turned round, and Tungdil ordered a halt.

  “What’s going on, Ireheart?” The one-eyed dwarf was surprised. “Why don’t you want the safety of the stronghold?”

  “It may not bother you, Scholar.” He pointed to the inscriptions. “But it bothers me! I worship Vraccas and that’s why I won’t enter this fortress, where his name is insulted and his words are dragged through the mud.” He got up and brushed the snow off his mantle. “We’ll find a bed with the villagers.”

  “You know that the kordrion will hunt you down as the murderer of its young because of the scent on you of the cocoon?” Tungdil warned. “You won’t have much protection in one of those flimsy huts. You won’t even have woken up before the white fire gets you.”

  Boïndil indicated the Invisibles. “The Zhadár walked through the same blood and smashed eggs.”

  Barskalín looked a bit shamefaced when he said, “But our armor is made of tionium.”

  “Blasted bloody orcshit! That would have to happen to me!” He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t care. Vraccas will protect me, because I shan’t go in there,” he said, pointing to the door. “Not under any circumstances.” Slîn and Balyndar stood at his right and left.

  Boïndil was aware that the group had formed into two distinct fronts. On the one side was the Black Squadron with Barskalín and on the other was him and two dwarves he did not know very well, but one of whom, at least, he found tolerable enough.

  And it seemed to him that Tungdil would be going over to the dark ones’ side and not to his own.

  Hargorin, with Tungdil’s permission, ordered his squad to enter the fortress. The Zhadár followed them in. Deathbringer came slowly over to the three adamant dwarves. “I understand you full well, Boïndil. But trust me when I tell you that the appearance of my house is purely a front.” He pulled out a pendant from under his chain mail: a vraccasium hammer with the sign of the Smith. “I am his,” he whispered. “The whole squadron is his. But we had to disguise our intentions, like the Zhadár, so the älfar wouldn’t suspect us. That has meant we can move around freely all over the lands where the black-eyes are in power. We know a lot about Idoslane and about the resistance movement. Even if the humans consider us unspeakable, we are really on their side. One orbit we shall need this knowledge in order to break the oppressive rule of evil.” Hargorin smiled. “Believe me, Boïndil. For every stone bearing an insult to Vraccas I have begged the creator’s forgiveness and I know that I will receive mercy when I reach the eternal forge. The deception has been essential. These have not been the times for open warfare.” He looked over his shoulder. “But with Goldhand’s return the fight has begun.”

  Ireheart looked at Balyndar, then at Slîn. They seemed not to want to be convinced. “I shall be staying out here in the village,” he repeated, a little less aggressively this time. “Blasphemy is blasphemy. Can you recommend somewhere we can stay?”

  “Perhaps one of the cheaper ones. Our war coffers are not overflowing,” added Slîn.

  Hargorin gave up. “Say that I sent you and you won’t be charged anything. When we meet to arrange the rest of the journey we’ll come to the house you choose. Just let me know where you’re staying.” He turned away and exchanged a few words with Tungdil and Barskalín.

  The one-eyed dwarf lifted his hand. “We’ll be there when the kordrion comes to get you,” he called. “Sleep well.” Then he disappeared into the fortress with the others; the door closed with a dull clang, robbing the three dwarves of the sight of the high king. “Three against three,” remarked Slîn.

  “What?” flashed Balyndar.

  The fourthling pointed to the little gap through which they could just see glimpses of tionium armor. “Us three against those three. I’ll take Hargorin. He’s a good target. Ireheart should fight Tungdil and Balyndar can challenge Barskalín.”

  “I’ll have Tungdil,” said the fifthling.

  “What are you blethering about? You’re splitting the hairs in my beard,” Ireheart thundered. “We will not be fighting each other.”

  “It was just a thought. Forgive me. I got carried away.” Slîn stared at the tips of his boots and was really embarrassed. “It won’t happen again, Boïndil.”

  Ireheart thought that Balyndar’s tone of voice showed he shared the same thoughts. Serious thoughts. “Let’s find somewhere to stay. Any preferences?”

  Slîn swiveled round to look at the little stone and half-timbered houses ringing the walls of Vraccas-Spite. “They all look the same. I can’t decide.”

  “Then let’s go for the one that’s furthest away from the blasphemous inscriptions.” Balyndar went off, dragging his sledge behind him, going back the way they had come.

  They reached a farmhouse with a large barn and knocked. It was not long before someone opened the door.

  A young woman stood on the threshold studying them from head to foot. “You’re not one of Deathbringer’s people?” she said in surprise. She popped her head out to look toward the stronghold. “Quick, come in, before they see you! They’ll kill you if they see you!”

  Ireheart found her solicitude for three total stranger dwarves quite touching. “Good woman, do not concern yourself…”

  Balyndar pushed past him. “May Vraccas bless you! Thank you for the warning.” Unobserved, he winked at Ireheart. He was obviously planning to pretend he was a newcomer and nothing to do with the thirdling leader. He told her their names. “We thought it was a dwarf-fortress holding out against the älfar, but when we saw the runes we knew we were wrong. But we’re too tired to travel on.”

  Slîn had grasped the idea and pretended he was afraid. “Blasted dwarf-haters!”

  Ireheart was still hovering in the doorway; it did not seem right to deceive these humans. On the other hand, they could learn things about Hargorin Deathbringer that he would not be vouchsafing to his guests. “Again, our thanks,” he said and entered the house. “May Vraccas always keep your hearth warm to reward you for your bravery and generosity.”

  Ireheart, Slîn and Balyndar were led to a large kitchen where the rest of the family was gathered. Ireheart counted eleven, ranging from ancient to newborn, round the table. The food smelled of cooked cereal of some kind and hearty smoked bacon.

  “Grolf and Lirf! Go and put their sledges in the barn, then hide their tracks,” the young woman ordered. Two young fellows jumped up. “We have guests,” she said, introducing the dwarves. “True children of the Smith and not thirdlings.”

  “By Palandiell, you’ve chosen the worst place to stop in the whole of Gauragar,” called the old man, whose mouth showed only two teeth. His laugh was as hollow as an empty tin. “They’re going to spend the night here. We can think about how to get them away in the morning without being seen. The thirdling lord won’t let them live if he finds them.” The young woman put her hand to her brow. “By the gods! I have forgotten to tell you who I am. I am Rilde, and this is my farm.” Then she went round the table doing the introductions.

  “Boïndil Doubleblade?” An older woman, called Mila, was staring at him. “The Boïndil, who fought so many battles for Girdlegard?”

  Ireheart felt himself grow taller with pride.

  “Then he’s come to kill Hargorin,” whooped the girl called Xara.

  “Be quiet!” Lombrecht hushed her. He was the toothless old farmer to whom the farm had once belonged. “Hargorin is a good overlord. Who knows who would succeed him?”

  Ireheart saw that Lombrecht had a pendant depicting Sitalia. “A human who worships the elf goddess?” he said, while a bench was being dragged over for them. “That’s a rarity.”

  “And brave.” Slîn nodded to the window to show that the thirdlings disliked the elves even more than they hated the dwarf-tribes.

  �
��Someone has to keep their memory alive,” answered the elderly farmer, while Rilde filled wooden bowls for them. “They were always a part of Girdlegard and must not be forgotten.”

  The three dwarves exchanged surprised glances.

  “I thought all the elves had fled to a secret hiding place,” Ireheart said, eating his first spoonful. It wasn’t bad, though not a patch on Goda’s minced gugul. “They’re in a grove somewhere, waiting for the children of the Smith to pull the diamond out of the fire again before they get burned. Isn’t that so?”

  Rilde sat next to them and Xara brought them three cups and a jug of light beer. “It would be nice if that were the case,” she sighed. “But the legends of my people tell a different story.”

  “I think I should spend more time with the long-uns,” Slîn whispered to Balyndar, as he tamed his hunger. “This is where to get the latest news.”

  Ireheart looked at Rilde. “Tell us what you know. Where are the last of the elves?”

  “I’ll tell you the story of how the älfar came back to Girdlegard and destroyed the last of the elves.” Lombrecht cleared his throat. “It was over two hundred cycles past. A pair of elf lovers met at a pond, the Moon Pond, over where the old elf realm of Lesinteïl used to be. Their names were Fanaríl and Alysante…”

  The children were wide-eyed; the dwarves listened, rapt, to the old man’s words and were soon so drawn in that they forgot where they were. They saw the tale unfold in their imagination.

  “My life shall be your life. Now and forever,” whispered the elf-girl, bowing her head to kiss her darling. Water streamed out of her wet hair onto his naked chest, dripping down his skin and into the soft grass.

  Fanaríl laughed and returned her caresses. “You look like a water nymph—a mermaid, not an elf,” he teased, sitting up.

  Alysante squatted naked before him; the last rays of sun shone through the trees, making her face glow and adding to her beauty.

  The elf took her hand and kissed it gently, first on the back, then on the palm. “My life for your life,” he vowed. “I cannot exist without you.”

  Alysante embraced him tenderly. With the warmth of their young bodies, passion arose; they made love on the bank of the dream-touched pond.

  Afterwards they ran hand in hand to the ice-cold waters to refresh themselves, diving energetically head first into the lake.

  The splashing made waves, causing the blue and white water lilies to bob up and down on the surface and the pond to overflow, lapping onto the banks up to the rich green grass.

  “See how they dance, Fanaríl!” she laughed and swam over to her heart’s darling, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him. “They’re dancing for us.”

  “But they only flower for your sake,” he answered, stroking her face tenderly as he broke away. “I’ll gather some for you.” Fanaríl swam off.

  “No!” Alysante tried to prevent him. “There’s an undertow! Be careful or it’ll pull you down.”

  The elf-girl trod water, keeping her eyes on her companion, but the sun’s last rays reflected on the wavelets so strongly that she had to look away. She could hear the slap of his arms in the water and the splash that his feet made…

  Suddenly these regular sounds stopped.

  “Fanaríl!” she cried, frightened for him. Her voice echoed over the pond but there was no answer. Alysante quickly swam back to land and clambered onto a rock to get a better view.

  Three water lilies were missing, but she could not see the elf.

  Her fear increased.

  The clear waters of the Moon Pond, which the rest of the elves in their village tended to shun, was suddenly as dark as ink. The beauty of the place disappeared with the last rays of the setting sun and shadows made the dreamy surroundings appear somber and forbidding. The deep waters, in which they had bathed so gaily, could suddenly be housing some gruesome monster. Alysante had always been warned by her father that the pond became evil at nightfall. Now they were to pay the price for their disobedience.

  The fine blond hairs rose on the back of her neck. The elf-girl did not dare approach the bank. She ran to where she had left her clothes and dressed quickly. One last look at the surface of the pond and then she was going to run to get help—but a body shot up through the water three paces away from her and launched itself on her with a roar.

  Alysante stumbled back with a scream, her hand on the handle of her knife. She stabbed at the creature attacking her.

  “No! Stop!” the creature begged, holding out three water lilies. “It’s me: Fanaríl!”

  Her fear subsided and her vision cleared so that she could recognize her beloved, who was now bleeding from a knife wound on his chest. “By Sitalia! Forgive me!” she exclaimed in horror. “I thought…” Fanaríl inspected the shallow wound. “It’s just a scratch,” he reassured her, handing her the bunch of flowers. “It’s my own fault. I should not have given you a fright like that.”

  In her relief, Alysante pressed a kiss onto his lips before bringing him his clothes in exchange for his gift. “Never do that again,” she begged. “You know what they say about the pond, however beautiful it is here.” She was shaking as she put away her dagger. “I thought a beast must have caught hold of you under the water and it wanted to eat me before I could go for help.”

  Fanaríl burst out laughing. “It’s only a pond the old folk tell stories about. But they’re not true. That’s all it is.” Suddenly he stared at the waves, his eyes wide. “There!” he shouted. “Look there! What’s that?”

  The elf-girl whirled round. “Where?”

  Upon which, her lover pushed her straight into the water!

  “There’s a mermaid!” laughed Fanaríl, as she sank in the dark waters.

  The water lilies bobbed up and down on the surface. Alysante did not reappear.

  “I know what you’re up to,” grinned the elf. “But you can’t scare me.”

  He stepped nearer and scanned the murky depths for sight of her.

  He could just make out a pale oval. A face, coming closer.

  “I can see you!”

  Fanaríl got ready to grab her by the shoulders and push her under again. She burst up through the surface with a splash. Fanaríl greeted her with laughter so that she would know her attempt to frighten him had not worked.

  But his hands did not meet her naked shoulders. They met hard leather!

  For the space of one long breath he gazed into the beautiful but cold face of an unknown elf-woman, then a bolt of lightning shot through his stomach and warmth spread over him. Fanaríl saw the long sword she had rammed through his body. He collapsed, mortally wounded.

  The elf-woman rose up out of the Moon Pond and with her left hand pushed a lock of black hair out of her face. She looked round her and disappeared silently into the nearby wood.

  At the same moment Alysante jumped out of the water. Her pitiful attempt to emulate the roar of a beast turned into a gale of laughter. “It’s no good,” she spluttered, rubbing the water out of her eyes. “Did I make my darling boy die of fright?” she giggled when she saw Fanaríl lying there.

  Only when she saw the red stain and cut on his robe did Alysante understand that he was not play-acting.

  She sank down beside him on her knees and examined his wound, looking round to check for attackers. “Sitalia, save him! Fanaríl, open your eyes! You must stay awake…”

  Drops splashing onto her back warned the girl before a broad shadow fell over her. A horse snorted.

  Alysante looked over her shoulder and her hand flew to her dagger for the second time that evening. Two huge black stallions with dark saddles stood behind her with angry red eyes full of hate. In the middle of their foreheads she could see the sawn-off stump of a horn and, as the night-mares stepped up out of the water, their hooves sent out lightning flashes, lighting up the water.

  Alysante knew what she was facing.

  Black-haired twin älfar sat on the backs of the nightmares, each in elaborate dark
armor, and one of them held a mighty sword in his right hand. He brought the weapon down so fast that she missed its movement. The long sword’s tip was planted on her back. Moisture ran off the blade onto her wet bodice; now she was cold with fear.

  “Say who you are, elf-woman,” he demanded roughly. Trembling, she said her name. “Is your village far from here?” Now she stayed silent and promptly the blade dug into her ribs. Warm blood trickled out of the narrow wound, coloring her dress red. “Answer!”

  Alysante turned away from the sword and ran off toward the trees. She must warn her friends!

  Sobbing with desperation and fear she raced through the thicket. Her thoughts were in turmoil. In her mind’s eye she saw her dead lover and felt his lifeblood still sticky on her fingers. She couldn’t understand where the älfar had come from. Had they been asleep at the bottom of the Moon Pond? Had Tion hurled them in past the mountains of the dwarves?

  She was panting hard, her mind in a whirl—then she realized she was leading them directly to the very last of her people! Alysante climbed up the nearest tree to continue her flight overhead from branch to branch, leaving no prints to follow.

  At long last, fighting for breath and with aching arms, she reached the edge of the settlement. She saw the glow of lanterns illuminating the delicate houses and ancient Palandiell beech trees. They promised safety.

  She climbed down the tree in relief and was about to go over to the buildings when a strong hand grabbed her from behind, hurling her to the ground. A boot was placed on the nape of her neck, pressing her into the forest floor without mercy.

  “You were asked by Tirîgon whether your village was far from the pond,” whispered a female voice in her ear. “I shall take him your answer, elf-woman.” A knife scraped coming out of its scabbard. “Now I shall send you to your lover. Be sure the rest of your relatives will be joining you this very night.”

  Alysante tried to utter a final warning cry, but the double blade rushed down and took her to the land where Fanaríl sat waiting, tear-drenched in his despair.