Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

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 were 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.