Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

The woodsman marched up to the house gasping for breath; with both hands he pulled the chopper out of the block. It would serve well to sever heads from shoulders. He did not want to make the singer, whose voice he heard in his head, wait any longer. The song of lust-he shivered in anticipation.

The door was pulled open and Ortram, on the threshold, called out in relief, “Mother, he’s back. But where is Cobert?” The boy’s eyes grew wide as he noted the blood on his father’s coat. “What’s happened?”

Qelda appeared in the doorway, looking at her husband in concern. “Hindrek? What’s wrong? Where is the boy?”

The familiar sound of her voice ruined the memory of the woman’s song and the man stood there, his ax half raised. He blinked and saw the faces of his wife and son before him.

“I…” Try as he might he could not explain what had happened. “I was on the sledge…” Hindrek turned to the barn. “There was a voice, a song…” He attempted to hum the melody but in his mouth it sounded awful. “I followed her…”

Horror on her face, Qelda came up to him and gripped the handle of the ax. “Hindrek, where is Cobert? And whose is the blood on your coat?”

Her voice sounded discordant and shrill to his ears, so ugly in comparison with the enchanting singer’s tones. It hurt. His face brightened. “The woman! In the forest… she sang for me.”

“Mama,” wept Ortram, running up and clasping his mother’s waist. “What’s wrong with father?”

Then they heard the strange melody again.

Silkily, it drifted out from the edges of the forest to their ears, taking their minds in thrall.

“Mama, there it is again!” the boy whispered.

“Be quiet!” shouted Hindrek, glaring at the boy in fury. “You sound like a rat squealing!”

His wife retreated in horror, pulling the boy with her. “Get back in the house,” she said quickly, giving her husband a wide berth. There was only one explanation: “Your father is possessed by the forest spirits.”

Hindrek’s features darkened in distaste. “Silence! Stop that terrible screeching!” He lifted the ax, remembering the beauty’s words to him. The promise of the song of lust. The price he had to pay.

Before Qelda could speak, he struck out.

The blade went through her neck; Hindrek was strong enough to sever it completely. The decapitated body fell at his side, the head landing in a snowdrift.

Ortram screamed out and stared at his mother’s corpse, clutching himself, fists clenched, in shock and anger.

Without hesitation Hindrek stormed up to stop the terrible noise that was destroying the beautiful song. Four steps and he was in front of his son, wielding his ax, ready to strike. Soon, any moment now, he would be receiving his reward.

Something hit his right leg and he faltered. The ax blade whizzed harmlessly over the head of his son and the force of the follow-through made Hindrek overbalance. A crossbow bolt stuck out from his knee. He heard the sound of hooves. On the path that led to the village came four riders in brown leather armor and long light-colored surcoats. One of them held a crossbow that had just been fired.

“Get away from the child!” shouted the archer, reloading.

“The song of lust!” croaked Hindrek, using the ax as a crutch. He knew these men, Wislaf, Gerobert, Vlatin and Diederich, henchmen of Duke Pawald. They must have heard that divine singing as well and have come to deprive him of it!

As soon as he had struggled to his feet he hobbled over to the house where his son had taken refuge. “I want to hear the song of lust!” he raged, one hand on the wall for support while he smashed the ax blade into the door. From inside came the terrified screams of his son.

The riders came thundering up, yelling at the berserk woodsman as he attacked the door. He broke off and turned to them. “You want her for yourselves!” he shouted, his voice harsh. Then he hurled the ax in their direction. “You shall die!”

The ax hit Diederich’s horse. It shied and reared up, throwing its rider into the snow.

“I’ll start with you!” Hindrek drew his long dagger and hopped toward the man lying in the snow-and received another bolt in the chest. With a groan he pulled at the shaft, roughly a third of which still showed. He tipped forward and lay motionless.

Diederich, a man of about forty cycles, got up cursing; he dusted the snow off. “What, by all the hideous powers of Tion, has been happening here?”

Vlatin, the crossbow man, somewhat younger than Diederich, hooked his weapon onto his saddle and slipped down to the ground. Like his companions he sported a short beard. A cap made of sable protected him from the cold. “Loneliness gets to people. It can drive you mad, being isolated like this.” He looked at the woman’s body. “Can’t think of any other explanation for what he’s done.”

Gerobert rode to the back of the cabin. “I’ll have a look round here. Who knows what else we’ll find.”

Diederich, Vlatin and Wislaf-who, at twenty cycles of age, was the youngest of them-went gingerly to the door and kicked it in.

The interior of the cabin was clean and tidy. A pot simmered on the stove, it smelled like rabbit stew, and the table was laid. If it had not been for the dead bodies it was a peaceful enough scene.

Ortram was cowering next to the stove, a red-hot poker in his hand. His face was covered with tears and he was trembling all over.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” said Diederich gently, showing the boy that his hands were empty. “Your father can’t harm you now.”

But Ortram did not budge, wanting to keep his distance.

“There we were, off to buy furs, and we ran into a tragedy like this,” said Wislaf quietly. “The things people do to each other…”

“How hypocritical, even if you do put it so well,” chimed a harmonious voice at the door, its tone mocking. The men whirled round. Vlatin and Diederich drew their swords more out of surprise than fear.

An alf in a black cloak stepped over the threshold. He was so tall he had to duck his head to clear the doorway, and the weapon on his back made him appear taller still.

“We all know what you do to people when you feel like it.” The second voice came from the fireplace behind them, and Wislaf spun round. A second alf, probably twin to the first judging from his face, showed in silhouette against the fire’s glow. It was a mystery how the creature could emerge from flames like that without being scorched.

Diederich and Vlatin kept their swords at the ready. It seemed the new arrivals were trying to block their path.

Wislaf cleared his throat. “What are you doing here? Have you got anything to do with all this?”

“Us? Never. We wanted to pay a visit, that’s all. The poor forester,” said the alf at the door with a friendly smile. His white, even teeth shimmered like an animal’s. “Call me Sisaroth and my brother Tirigon,” he said by way of an overdue introduction.

Wislaf responded. “We’re Duke Pawald’s men and vassals of the alf Morslaron, to whom this Gauragar land belongs. You’ll know that name, I’m sure,” he added, in an attempt to ensure their safety. The alfar only respected their own kind, and if these strange siblings understood that he and his colleagues served another alf they would surely be left in peace.

To the men’s relief Sisaroth nodded, without moving away from the door. “I know Morslaron,” he said, but it did not sound as if he were afraid of him. That, thought Wislaf, was not a good sign.

An alf woman appeared behind Sisaroth, pushing past him into the room. She, too, wore a black mantle; a diadem crowned her black hair, emphasizing her captivating beauty.

“Triplets,” exclaimed Diederich.