Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

She could not go on. The tree and all its gory detail had swamped her imagination. The tiny bunches of different-colored hair, attached to look like leaves, making the whole work so horrendous…

Mallenia saw the disgust in the eyes of those around her. “Be glad you didn’t see it.” She continued softly, “In the fields round about they’d stripped and eviscerated the bodies, using the bones to form huge symbols on the ground, with the town at the center. Maybe it was all dedicated to one of their gods, who knows. But it was so incredibly awful that you actually had to look at it. A terrifying fascination. Bone laid next to bone as if there had never been another function for them apart from making those symbols on the ground.” The young woman looked at Zedrik. “They’d placed the intestines in between the bones to give color. When we first saw it from the distance we didn’t know what it was made of. Then we used our telescopes…”

The watchman ran outside, two others following him, not wanting to vomit over the feet of their friends.

Frederik had grown very pale, but kept his head. “And yet you think of giving up?” he confronted the others. “If the alfar decide to turn Topholiton into a work of art -you’ll die with the knowledge that you were too cowardly to stand up and resist!” Anger had brought out the veins on his forehead.

“So what do we do?” called Zedrik from the doorway, wiping his mouth. The tips of his boots were shiny and wet, bits of food still clinging to them. “Go to war? Against the thirdlings and the alfar? We’d have to kill our own families first so they’re not executed by the enemy.” He gave a choked laugh. “No one can save us from them, Frederik. Only the gods, perhaps, but they must have made up their minds to make us suffer for many cycles yet.”

“The gods would come to our help if we dared to rebel against the vassal-rulers,” replied the butcher fervently, but he was calmed by Mallenia’s hand on his shoulder.

“I know how worried you all are but I do see that I should withdraw from the campaign for a time, as my good friend Frederik suggests,” she announced, and a sigh of relief went round the room. “I shall let you know when we next ride out together but, until then, stay with your families and behave as if nothing were wrong. I need you alive.” She stood up. “There will come a time when we will rise up against the alfar, but it will not be tomorrow and will not be in thirty orbits. We will know when an opportunity presents itself, and all three of the realms will be ready and waiting.” She drew her sword and held it high. “For Gauragar, Urgon and Idoslane! For freedom for all!”

They all echoed her cry, cheering and applauding Mallenia, descendant of the famous prince.

Suddenly the lamps went out!

Somebody laughed nervously in the dark, others cried out in dismay, calling for light; Mallenia could hear that at least two of the conspirators had drawn their swords, fearing an attack-or was this an attack?

She ducked down and placed her left hand on her second sword, thinking through various possibilities of who could be attacking her here in the cellar: The thirdlings with Hargorin, some bounty hunters or the Dson Aklan alfar?

She realized there had not been a draft strong enough to extinguish all four lamps. Magic? A particular sort of magic. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck. Have they found me?

The cellar door banged open, dim light coming from the windows opposite.

A figure stood on the threshold, bending slightly forward, a long sword in his hand. The conspirators immediately recognized the sharply pointed ears and were terrified by the sight, because they knew what it meant for all those in the cellar: Death.

Behind the alf stood the sheriff, his face like wax in the light of a single ray of light.

“Well, well, what have we here? The rebels,” said the alf in a velvety voice. “Well spotted, Sheriff. They have indeed broken into your cellar to steal supplies.” The tone betrayed that he was protecting the sheriff and did not intend to connect him with the deeds of the rebels. The alf took a bag of gold from his belt and threw it over his shoulder, so that it fell in the snow in front of the sheriff. “Here-here’s your reward.”

“Have mercy, sire!” Zedrik was the first to whine. “Have mercy on our families! They knew nothing about what we’ve done.” Sinking to his knees at the bottom of the steps, which were the only way out of the cellar, he stretched up his arms in supplication. “Spare their lives!”

The alf took two steps down in order to accommodate his full height. They could still only see his silhouette because the light was behind him. No one had dared try to relight the candles.

“So what exactly have you done? Let’s have some confessions and then your families shall be allowed to continue to enjoy the light of day.” He raised his sword arm and rested the weapon in the crook of his right arm as if he were holding a baby. “What do I hear?”

Zedrik sobbed. “We are guilty…”

“… guilty of wanting freedom for Gauragar,” interrupted Mallenia, standing up. “Of wanting to throw out our oppressors, the alfar, the thirdlings and the vassal-rulers, and bring them to justice!”

“No,” shouted Zedrik. “Be quiet! You don’t know…”

“Yes I do. I know full well. They are hunting down not only me but all who belong to the line of my forefather, Prince Mallen.” She stared at the alf. “Look at him,” she urged the conspirators. “He is playing a game and has no intention of sparing any of you. The only way to save your loved ones is to kill him before he learns your names and can pass them on.” The young woman clenched her two swords tight in her fists and took up an attack stance.

The alf raised his head and looked at her. “Mallenia! I would be lying if I said I had not expected to find you here.” He still kept his sword up against the crook of his arm, but let go of the hilt and drew something out from beneath his mantle. He tossed it to her. “I found this. Is it yours?”

An envelope fell at her feet. She recognized it at once. It contained a warning to Hindrek, a second cousin thrice removed. The fact the letter was here at her feet made it plain what had happened to him and his family. “Monsters, you are monsters. You deserve death a thousand times over,” she hissed.

“Isn’t it strange, then, that we bring thousandfold death rather than receiving it?” He made a gesture and the lamps were relit. Then he put his hand back on the hilt of his weapon. “We bring death ourselves if we must. Or if we are in the mood. I was outside the cellar for some time, listening to what you said about Tareniaborn.” His tone was conversational, as if he were chatting to friends or at some reception. The metal plates of his lamellar armor showed under his cloak. “I was moved by your words, proud of having had the pleasure of being the creator of the work of art you described. I, Tir??gon, designed the work you had admired in awe.” He bowed in her direction. “It was both a pleasure and an honor to elevate the town in such a way and to release the inhabitants from their mortal concerns. All alfar remember Tareniaborn fondly. Humans, one finds, are at least good for one thing.”

The horror experienced by the people in the cellar was palpable.

The alf was pleased to note it. “The vast gap between our race and yours is one that cannot be bridged,” he said, breaking the silence. “On occasions such as this I notice it particularly: You are not prepared to take up your swords and kill for any other cause than to fight for freedom, or to gain riches or power. My race, however, can. Death and art form a unit. The transitory nature of life moves with grandeur and perfection.” Tirigon paused and looked at them all with regret. His eyes were steely blue, reflecting the lights. “I can see some very acceptable bone formations here in rather ugly bodies. They could be put to satisfactory aesthetic use.”