Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

Rodario the Seventh stood next to the steps looking rather lost with his dried flower. Studying it sadly, he failed to see members of the audience moving bad-temperedly out of the way to make room for a troop of orcs moving over through the market square. Twenty of them surrounded the stage, and four climbed up.

Anyone acquainted with the history of the orcs in Girdlegard would have been surprised to see these particular specimens. The difference in their appearance, it was said, came from the fact that they were from the western part of the Outer Lands and had always been followers of Lohasbrand.

Their height was impressive, and though the ugly shape and greenish-black skin characteristic of orcs showed no change, they certainly didn’t stink the way others did. They looked after their weapons better than in the past and didn’t go about the place yelling and grunting. They were clever and behaved sensibly-all of which made these Dragon-serving monsters much more dangerous.

They clanked and stomped their way over the boards and their captain positioned himself face to face with The Incomparable One. Coira was horrified to see that he was holding one of the papers in his hand.

“Damnation,” Loytan cursed under his breath. “Your trick nearly worked, Princess.” He placed one hand on the pommel of his sword and with the other took her by the elbow. “Time for us to leave.”

Coira was about to object. “I…”

“You told lies for the man,” he whispered to her. “What do you think the Lohasbrander will do to you when he realizes? The Dragon has been waiting for an opportunity like this!”

She turned pale and got up cautiously from her seat. Loytan did likewise and followed her to cover her back.

The leader of the Lohasbranders had got up and was looking at the stage. “What’s that, Pashbar?”

The orc held up the paper in his fist. “A scurrilous leaflet in this man’s writing; this criminal who calls himself the Poet of Freedom.” He pulled out his shining jagged-edged sword and placed the blade at The Incomparable One’s throat. “It came from him. Everyone saw it.”

“What?” The Lohasbrander looked over his shoulder for Coira but saw she had left. “So that’s it!” He drew his sword from its scabbard. “Arrest the actor and throw him in prison. And find the queen’s daughter! She tried to protect him!”

“But…” The comrade on his right was unsure. “She’s a maga, they say, just like her mother, and I…”

“I don’t care what she is,” he shouted furiously. “Find her! And if you can’t catch her, then kill her. The fact that she’s run off is proof enough of her guilt. She and that criminal are in cahoots.” He ran down the steps of the tribune and rushed through the throng with his companions.

The Incomparable Rodario did not dare to move. The sharp blade was too close to his throat, so he had to allow himself to be taken captive. The orcs tied his arms behind his back while their captain stared at him intently.

“So it was you ambushing and killing our soldiers,” growled Pashbar, baring his fearful teeth. “I shall ask Wielgar to let me eat you alive, so I can hear you scream at each bite.”

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.

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.