Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

“Well spotted,” laughed the female alf. “Wouldn’t it be appropriate to put your weapons away now? We’re all on the same side, after all.”

“Can we assist you?” asked Vlatin purposefully. He only had eyes for her.

The female exchanged glances with her brothers “If you would be so good: We are searching for a letter. Hindrek received it by mistake. When he read it he must have lost his mind. Alfar runes can have a lethal effect on humans sometimes. So I recommend utmost caution; see if you can find it but don’t look at the content.” With a curt gesture she set the men to search the cabin.

The alfar noticed the distraught child squatting by the stove, and approached him on silent feet, the wooden floorboards not even giving a hint of a creak as she walked. It was as though she were a spirit rather than a living creature.

“You poor thing,” she said, ignoring the poker he held, which was cooling rapidly but still giving off heat. She crouched down and touched his forehead. Ortram jerked away and stared at the hand in horror, but did not defend himself; her brothers stood motionless, watching Wislaf and the others as they searched the place.

“Here!” called Diederich, holding up an envelope. “This could be it, do you think?” He took great care not to cast his eyes over the writing.

Sisaroth beckoned him over and waited to be handed the letter. He skimmed the wording and gave Tirigon a satisfied nod. “Perhaps the boy knows more,” he said, turning to Ortram. “Sister, ask him what else the messenger gave his father.”

The alf woman had not taken her eyes off the boy. “You heard?” she said gently. “What did your father talk about with the man who brought the letter?” Her black eyes poured terror into the boy; it seeped through his soul while she continued to smile graciously.

“About a town,” he stammered, wanting to hit her, to poke out her terrible eyes with his fire-iron, to destroy her charming face and then run away. But he could not move; he was anchored by fear and forced to answer her.

“Tell me more, Ortram,” she enticed, stroking his cheek.

“Topholiton,” he whimpered. He thought he could see the blackness leaving her eye sockets and crawling over to him; dark threads hovered around his face. His breath came faster; he groaned.

“And who is in the town? Did the messenger say?”

The first traces of the black breath had nearly reached his right eye. Iciness radiated from it. “A woman called Mallenia,” he shouted. “She’s waiting there. I don’t know anymore!” Ortram gulped. “Please, I don’t know anything else!”

She ran her fingers through his hair. “I believe you.”

“Mallenia?” said Vlatin in surprise. “The rebel? Didn’t she recently attack the Black Squadron at Hangtower and steal the tribute money?”

Wislaf looked round. “Where has Gerobert got to? Didn’t he say he’d join us when he’d taken a look around?”

“A big sturdy fellow with a beard and a dirty gray cloak?” inquired Tirigon. “I saw him on a chestnut stallion.”

“That’s him,” said Wislaf. “He rode off, you say?”

“No, that’s not what I said.” The alf pointed outside. “We met. Behind the cabin.” He placed his right hand meaningfully on the handle of his double-edged dagger. “As I am standing before you, you may work out for yourself how our encounter went.”

Diederich drew his sword. “Curse you! You devious creatures!” he spat. “Fine allies you are!”

Sisaroth laughed out loud. He said arrogantly to his brother, “How does he come to think that humans could be seen as our allies? They are vassals of Morslaron, no more than that.”

Tirigon was amused. “And as Morslaron is so far beneath us we can use anything that belongs to him as the fancy takes us.” His voice turned deadly serious. “Use it or destroy it, as we please.”

Wislaf and Vlatin both raised their swords. “I’m warning you,” cried Wislaf.

“Sister, I think the men are getting rather hot-headed,” called Sisaroth, making no attempt to defend himself with his daggers. “Would you like to perform something to calm them down?”

“You know how much that takes it out of me,” she responded. “My voice suffers.”

“No,” groaned Ortram. “Please don’t sing! Have pity…”

“But I can give it a try.” The alf woman gave the boy a kiss on the cheek, took a deep breath and raised her voice in song.

The Outer Lands,

The Black Abyss,

Fortress Evildam,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

Ireheart stood on the south tower watching the approach of the hideous and variegated monsters emerging from the chasm: A hotchpotch collection of horror about to swarm over the entire land.

Goda was at his side, a mantle draped around her shoulders. She was listening inside herself to her own remaining magic powers. The store of energy should be sufficient. For now.

Her hand slid to the little bag at her belt where she kept the fragments of the diamond she had retrieved from the site of the damaged artifact. These tiny shards still held residual energy and every minute particle would be needed.

Before the destruction of the artifact she had been able to draw down limitless force by placing her hands on the barrier. No longer.

The nearest magic source was only a few orbits’ journey away, but lay in the region ruled by the alfar. Goda doubted she would reach it alive.

The other source was in Weyurn, much further away, and she could not think of traveling there when at any moment the Black Abyss could be spewing out rampaging hordes against Evildam. Rumor had it that the Dragon Lohasbrand was sitting on a further magic source in the Red Mountains-right in the middle of a dwarf realm, at that.

Goda sighed. All she had was a bag of diamond splinters with a fraction of the strength of the original artifact. The more of them she used up the worse the position of Evildam’s defenders would be. She reckoned that, in the long run, the fortress catapults would not be able to repel Tion’s evil creatures. They would have to find a new way to protect themselves.

“Where is Tungdil?” Ireheart asked the ubari next to him. “Have you sent a soldier to find him?”

“Yes, General.” The warrior saluted. “His chamber was empty.”

“He’s probably left to go to Girdlegard,” interjected Goda, arranging her mantle. “After all, he told us very clearly that he wanted nothing to do with fighting here. He’ll be surprised to see what awaits him at home. If Girdlegard is his true home. Let us hope to Vraccas that we’ve not let the worst of the evils simply slip away like that!”

“I think we were pushing him too much,” Ireheart ventured. “We all know what it’s like to wage a war that lasts one, two or three cycles. But for over two hundred cycles he’s done nothing else but fight battles.” He glanced at his wife. “It may be late, perhaps too late, but I do understand his refusal.”

“What is there to understand?” she replied dismissively. “I cannot…”

“No, Goda. Save your breath,” he interrupted her. “Let Tungdil go off to Girdlegard and witness with his own eyes what has happened to the land and, you’ll see, he’ll be back to lead us against our tormentors. We can’t talk him into it. He has to want to do it.” Ireheart gave the order to fire the catapults; the spear-slings sent their missiles flying to the targets. “He’ll be back soon. Of his own free will,” he said quietly, observing the beasts being killed by the sharp iron-tipped missiles. Their screams and groans came in a wave of sound that crashed against the walls of Evildam.

He had not wanted to tell Goda why he had collapsed in the corridor. No one else knew what had happened. But still he held fast to the conviction that it was indeed his friend, the Scholar, who had returned to them.