The Fate of the Dwarves d-4

by Markus Heitz

  The Incomparable One wasn’t intimidated. He smiled and allowed the orcs to lead him away.

  It had grown eerily quiet in the market square.

  As The Incomparable One passed Rodario the Seventh he turned his head and said, “Stand tall, my friend. That’s what’s important, whatever you do. Never forget that. Next competition you’ll make the grade.” Pashbar gave him a shove and he moved on.

  Nobody could remember a cycle when two contestants pulled out of the competition within minutes of each other.

  And certainly not under circumstances such as these.

  II

  Girdlegard,

  Protectorate of Northwest Idoslane,

  Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

  The squad of black ponies was well known in Idoslane’s northwest province and their one hundred and fifty riders were known even better: The Desirers. These armored and helmeted dwarves were associated only with loss and pain in the minds of the inhabitants. The residents of Hangtower, the small town the band was heading for, were no exception.

  The name of the unit had no romantic connotations. It had purely practical origins: Whatever they desired, they had to have; no ifs, no buts.

  The watchtower bell sounded the alarm and Enslin Rotha, the burgomaster, hurried over accompanied by the town’s leading citizens to receive the dwarf-squad at the main gate. News of their approach had interrupted Rotha’s siesta, so he had hurriedly flung a mantle of rough sheep’s wool over his disordered clothing. He was not concerned with appearances.

  “They’re too early,” he murmured, waiting for his fellow councilors to join him before the gate was opened up.

  He signaled for the wagon with the tribute to be brought over and positioned himself in front of it. That way the dwarves would be assured at first glance that their tribute was going to be paid, but he could discourage them from actually entering the town.

  In spite of the chill, Rotha was starting to sweat. Recent winters had been colder than ever. He saw it as a sign of how badly things were going for the peoples of Girdlegard, although, as the protectorate of the thirdling dwarves, Hangtower had got away comparatively lightly. The regions in Gauragar where the alfar held sway or where they had delegated authority to power-hungry despots were in a more parlous position, it was said. Rotha had no reason to doubt the truth of such rumors. In all probability the details of cruel treatment were spot on.

  One of the councilors, Tilda Cooperstone, a long-standing close friend, joined him. She was as tall as he was, with blond hair peeking out from under her cap; her green eyes were full of concern. As were his own. “They’re much too early,” she nodded over to him, pulling the belt of her white bearskin coat tight and putting the collar up.

  “My thoughts exactly,” replied Rotha, wiping his brow. It was fear, fear pure and simple, that was making him sweat. It was a wonder the perspiration wasn’t turning to drops of ice.

  Cooperstone’s face grew more worried still. “We haven’t done anything wrong, have we?”

  Rotha shook his head. “No. All the time I’ve been burgomaster we’ve complied with the thirdlings’ demands. To the letter.” He raised his arm and the gate was pushed open. A cold wind blew in, finding any gaps in their clothing and making them all shiver.

  When the gate was fully open they could see the squadron of thirdlings less than one hundred paces off. And this time they were accompanied.

  “The alfar!” Cooperstone exclaimed. The black armor of the three tall riders contrasted sharply with the white of the falling snow. Each time a night-mare hoof hit the ground, sparks flew, making the whiteness fizz and disappear.

  The alf on the left held a lance bearing a pennant showing a strange rune. The sight of the blood-red symbol fluttering in the wind chilled Cooperstone to the core, though she could not have said why. Terror made not flesh, but fabric.

  “Did you think the alarm was sounded for fun?” Rotha bit his lip. The tension was making him behave unfairly toward her. “Forgive…”

  She smiled at him. It was a wavering smile. “You are forgiven, Burgomaster.” Cooperstone watched the rest of the councilors take up position behind them. “I saw my last alf about…” she did calculations in her head “… fourteen cycles ago. When they introduced the new squadron commander.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if it were something like that,” grumbled Rotha, trying to identify the thirdling riding at the front. “But I don’t think that’s the reason. Their leader is still Hargorin Deathbringer.” The faces of the alfar told him nothing; they were handsome, perfect, narrow, beardless-and cruel. Like all their kind.

  The eye sockets seemed empty. That was the distinguishing feature when comparing them with their friendly relations, the elves. In daylight the whites of the eyes turned black as night. They couldn’t conceal that.

  He lifted his head and looked at the gate-watchmen. “None of you is to raise a weapon against the alfar,” he called. “Or against the dwarves, either, whatever they do to me or the other councilors.”

  The soldiers saluted.

  Cooperstone, still looking shocked, studied the burgomaster’s face. “You think they want to harm us?”

  “They’d be the first alfar ever to bring us anything good,” he responded. The more the sweat dripped off his forehead or ran down under his clothing, the drier his mouth became. “Let them take us to task for whatever they think we’ve done wrong, as long as they spare the citizens.”

  “Very high-minded. But many think we should be fighting for the cause of freedom,” the councilor said quietly, because the leader of the band was close now.

  “Stop that. I’ve heard enough!” Rotha stared at her. “You know my views. We would have no chance at all against a hundred and fifty, and even if we did-what then?” He sighed and bowed his head to the rulers of East Idoslane. “They’d send out the next lot and Hangtower would never survive. Freedom isn’t worth it. Those who won’t serve should get out or commit suicide and not force their ideas of heroic death on others.”

  Cooperstone gritted her teeth and bowed to the thirdlings and the alfar, who had brought their night-mare mounts to a halt four paces away; in this position she could no longer see what was happening.

  Leather creaked, harnesses clinked, the ponies snorted. Sometimes you could hear the rattle of chain mail under the warriors’ black furs.

  But neither the alfar nor Hargorin addressed the councilors. And until they did so, the latter were not allowed to raise their heads.

  Rotha and Cooperstone heard someone dismount, landing heavily. There was the sound of crunching snow and then regular footsteps approached, announced by the rhythmic clink of metal.

  The burgomaster saw iron-tipped boots the right size for a thirdling. And, anyway, everyone said the alfar made no noise when they walked and left no footprints. One of their many scary tricks. He was sweating even more heavily now; the silence was wearing him down and grating on his nerves more harshly than any yells or accusations.

  A weapon was drawn slowly, then something swished through the air. To the right next to him there came a grinding sound followed by a gasp.

  There was another swipe and blood poured down onto the fresh white snow. The head of Councilor Cooperstone rolled between his feet and Rotha cried out in horror. At the same moment the decapitated body of the woman crashed full length to the ground.

  He could hold back no longer, he had to look up.

  Hargorin Deathbringer, a dwarf of impressive stature, had thrown back his mantle to take better aim. In his right hand he held a long-handled hatchet whose blade was covered in blood. His chain-mail tunic with its metal discs was splashed now with red, and the tattooed visage and black-streaked tawny beard had blood spatters, too.

  The reddish-brown eyebrows joined in a scowl as the dwarf noticed Rotha. “Who said you could raise your eyes?” he barked.

  The burgomaster opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him. He saw that the saddles of the night-mares were empty. There we
re no footprints around where these brutalized former unicorns were standing. So it was true what they said! Meanwhile, the pennant with the cruel but fascinatingly beautiful runes flapped from the pole attached to the saddle.

  “Let him off, Hargorin,” said a soft voice next to his left ear, and Rotha jumped. The breath that had wafted past his nose had smelled of nothing, nothing at all. “A weak human! Loss and fear have robbed him of his senses and are making him stupid.”

  Rotha was about to turn but his legs would not obey him. The alf had moved behind him soundlessly and the gods alone knew where the other two had got to.

  Hargorin wiped his hatchet clean on the dead woman’s clothes. “If you insist, Tirigon,” he said, crossing his arms. “He’ll want to know why I took the councilor’s life. You tell him. It was on your orders.”

  “She was guilty,” the voice whispered into Rotha’s ear. It sounded like it was a different speaker this time. “Cooperstone was in league with a condemned murderess and revolutionary. Stupidly, she was related to her as well. Foolish indeed!”

  “A fairly far-flung family relationship, though,” said one of the alfar, and this time Rotha thought it must be the third of them, speaking on his left side. “Did you not know, perhaps, wretched human?” Rotha croaked out a No and stared at Cooperstone’s head. One eyelid hung down and the dead woman’s final gaze seemed to be intended for him. He carefully covered it with snow. He couldn’t bear the sight of his murdered friend.

  Hargorin gruffly told the assembled Hangtower notables that they could lift their heads. “I see the tribute is ready. Good. We expect nothing less of Hangtower.” He put the hatchet back in its holder on his back and then gave a sign; five dwarves dismounted and came to join him as he approached the wagon. They inspected the chests and sacks filled with coins and gold bars.

  Rotha finally managed to stop himself shaking and turned around. The alfar were standing in the gateway, talking. He saw they were two males and a female, but could not begin to guess their ages. If they had been humans, he’d have said not more than seventeen cycles, but they were certainly more mature than that.

  What struck him was the similarity of their faces. The burgomaster assumed they were siblings. The female alf was robbed of any feminine attributes by her armor; your attention was drawn to her fascinatingly graceful, balanced features. Any male opponent would immediately be distracted by the sight of her-and would meet his death at her hands.

  The alfar carried long slender swords on their backs. Rotha noted the solid parrying staves that stuck out, right and left; double-bladed daggers were fastened on their thighs. Their armor had a metal reinforcing band running the length of the spine. One of the men had a store of metal discs the size of the palm of a hand just above the buttocks; the woman had the same, attached to her upper arms. Perhaps for throwing?

  The female alf came away from the group and approached him with a disarming smile that seemed reassuring-until he saw the black eye sockets. Any admiration for her beauty turned to fear.

  “Firusha is my name,” she introduced herself in melodious tones. Rotha bowed to her again, as if she were a queen. If you thought about it, that’s just what she was, for him. She decided who should live and who should die. She decided whether the town should perish or thrive. “There is a task. It is not aimed at Hangtower and its citizens but, all the same, if anyone should stand in our way, be he courageous or simply foolhardy, then the town will not survive to see the morrow.” Firusha’s voice had remained friendly. “We wish to be taken to the family of the woman councilor, as quickly as possible. You will take us there, weak man.”

  Rotha gulped and choked. His throat was more constricted than the eye of a needle. “What-”

  “No, burgomaster. Not what,” she interrupted him kindly, and placed her gloved forefinger on his lips. “Where. Take us there. Hargorin and his soldiers will carry the tribute away now.” She brushed the cap from off his head and stroked his brown hair. “You only need to be afraid if you don’t follow my instructions.”

  Hargorin had swung himself up onto the driving seat and was driving the wagon out through the gate. One of the alfar mouthed something and the thirdling nodded. He left the town, the escort squadron stand surrounding him, and the dwarves moved slowly off.

  The three night-mares stood snorting outside the gate, their red eyes fixed on the sentries. Now and then they would run their tongues across their muzzles, displaying vicious incisors.

  The men drew back. No one wanted to risk being bitten or even torn to pieces. There were terrible stories about these alfar mounts. It was said they ate humans alive if they took the fancy. And that was one of the relatively harmless fates reported.

  Meanwhile Rotha strode ahead, acting as guide for the alfar triplets. All the time he was thinking of how he could perhaps help the councilor’s family without getting anyone into trouble. It was a decent family: A big one.

  “She has three daughters and two sons,” said Firusha, as if she had read his thoughts. “Her mother lives with them. And her half-sister; that’s right, isn’t it?”

  Distressed, Rotha nodded. There were no secrets. The only thing he could do was to stretch out the walk through the alleyways. He prayed to Palandiell that the news of the three merciless murderers would get round quickly enough for the family to have escaped.

  “We won’t let ourselves be taken for a ride, burgomaster,” one of the alfar said, laying a sword blade on Rotha’s shoulder. “Try it and we’ll be coming knocking at your own door.”

  “No,” stammered Rotha. “No, not that! I swear we’ll reach the house any time now.” Tears ran down his cheeks as he rounded the corner and pointed to the large house to which he was bringing death in threefold form. What else could he have done?

  The alfar walked silently past him and he leaned against the wall, his legs unable to support him. Firusha went first and her brothers followed her. One by one they pulled out their daggers and made for the entrance.

  The alf woman knocked on the door, while one of the brothers disappeared up a side alley to reach the back of the house and the second launched himself upwards to land on the sill, vaulting on to reach the balcony, from where he made it onto the roof to enter the house via the chimney. At the same time, Firusha kicked the door open.

  Enslin Rotha sobbed when he heard the screams. He put his hands over his eyes. He couldn’t bear to look.

  Yet those awful screams of the dying, echoing round the narrow lanes, burned their way into his brain, forever reproaching him.

  Hargorin guided the wagon away from the town; the Black Squadron surrounded their leader and the valuable tribute.

  For today’s orbit their destination was not far from Hangtower. They were due to go to Morningvale, a village in thirdling thrall. Hargorin had been granted possession by the alfar because of his loyalty and he had been grateful to receive it.

  Here stood one of his strongholds, Vraccas-Spite.

  It had taken fifty cycles to build it exactly to his specifications. It had no equal anywhere among the dwarf realms-or rather, in what remained now of the dwarf realms-for the strength and thickness of its walls. The alfar had been very impressed and surprised by his fortress, but he had explained to them that collecting the tribute tax wakened covetousness in others and the treasure had to be protected. There was no arguing with that.

  When the squad turned east, rounding a small wood, the stronghold came into sight. At its highest point it was over thirty paces high, proudly displaying to travelers precisely who ruled this tract of land. And anyone who knew about dwarf-runes would be able to see that the incumbent hated all dwarves apart from the thirdling folk. From afar, the inscription on the castle wall promised all other dwarves death and destruction. Elsewhere the chiseled devices contained general vilifications. To the ignorant they might look like decoration, but any child of the Smith happening on these runes would be incensed and would attack immediately. Hargorin grinned in satisfaction as he admired his ho
me.

  Smoke billowed up from the chimneys of the houses and the shacks surrounding Vraccas-Spite. The human residents of Morningvale had sought the shelter and warmth of their own dwellings. He left them in peace. There was no urgent need for them to be doing the forced labor they owed him. He was distracted by the sound of cloth tearing on the cart behind him. He had heard it clearly even over the noise of the ponies’ hooves.

  Hargorin turned his head and looked at the sack that had torn because of the weight of its contents. He couldn’t afford to lose a single coin. He would have to make good anything missing from the tribute and that went against the grain.

  He was even more surprised to see a crossbow bolt sticking out of the sack.

  “Keep going straight ahead into the wood,” a woman’s voice ordered.

  Hargorin was certainly not going to do that. Instead, without warning, he hurled himself to the right. A whizzing brought a dull blow to his left shoulder. He only felt the pain a moment or two later.

  The dwarf cowered down to get protection from the side of the wagon, but the horses, terrified by his swift movement and the sound of the arrow, whinnied wildly and bolted, leaving the reins trailing in the snow. They galloped up against the ponies in front of them, veering round to overtake them, the wagon swaying uncontrollably. Then they changed direction and headed for the trees, exactly the course the woman had demanded.

  The thirdlings riding alongside watched in alarm and spurred their mounts to keep up with the runaway horses. The bloody shaft jutting out from Hargorin’s back showed them that it was no accident that had sent him reeling from the driving seat.

  “Rebels!” he shouted, pulling himself along the side of the cart. “At least one of them.” Despite the pain, he swung himself onto the open part of the cart, landing on a chest. He drew his long-handled hatchet and plunged its cutting edge into the sack where he thought the woman was hiding.