Markus Heitz - The Fate of the Dwarves

The alf brother looked at the captive. “Get her back to Idoslane alive. The rebels’ saint, their hope and inspiration, must be broken,” he said. “We shall execute her in front of all of them. Then the uprising will be destroyed. The rebels will lose their cause. There is no one to take her place.”

Firusha looked up at her brother, still mounted on his nightmare. “Isn’t there a big danger that a public execution will increase the risk of rebellion?”

Sisaroth smiled cruelly. “I certainly hope so. We’ll put down the rebellion, killing all those involved in the resistance. They’ll come, to try and free Mallenia, and they’ll be met by death.”

“A good plan.” But Firusha was still looking unconvinced.

“I see you have second thoughts,” he enquired. “You think not?”

“No. I’m thinking what Aiphaton will say.”

The alf laughed out loud, throwing his head back. “Our ruler, the Unextinguishable Emperor, is much too busy keeping up the morale of his followers in the south.” He dismounted and came up to her. “A weak fool, despite the power he has. He is afraid of a coup. What has become of him? In the past I would have died for him; now I would stand back and let him die first.” The pebbles made no sound when he trod. “I had such great hopes of him, the descendant of the Unslayables, after he had defeated Lot-Ionan! He spoke as if he wanted to bring back the glorious reign of the first generation of alfar. Instead, he dragged a collection of second-rate alfar here to Girdlegard and he behaves like their servant! We never needed them in the first place. But this will all change. And soon.”

Firusha frowned. “You’re keeping something from me, brother! Tell me what you know.”

Sisaroth grinned. “I learned that they’ve made the Unextinguishable Emperor promise to march against the magus this very cycle.”

Firusha’s eyes grew big. “That will be a hard war and will cost thousands of lives! Why would they do that?”

“To ensure access to the south is opened up again. Several of the inferior packs in the Outer Lands are waiting to be admitted. Aiphaton doesn’t realize that he’s about to lose his power to foreign hands.” Sisaroth stood by Mallenia and studied her face. “That’s why it’s important to calm the situation in Urgon, Idoslane and Gauragar. Before the war starts. Let them march south.” He lowered his voice. “We agree, you and I, that we shan’t let them into Dson Balsur, sister?”

“Agreed, as ever,” came the instant answer. “Not into any of the three former elf realms. They belong to us, the Dson Aklan, not the foreigners.” She emitted a high tone to summon the nightmare Mallenia had ridden. It trotted up, its head lowered, and came to a halt, snorting, in front of the alf woman. The girl’s blood could be seen round its nostrils and mouth.

Firusha drew her sword at lightning speed and cut off the creature’s head with one mighty swipe. The nightmare and its severed head fell to the ground, blood drenching the captive girl from head to foot.

“Eat the traitor,” Firusha commanded the other nightmares. Greedily they began to gorge themselves on the creature’s warm flesh. The long chase had made them hungry.

“What are two alfar doing here in Weyurn?” asked a woman’s voice diagonally above them; their hands flew to the hilts of their swords as they whirled round simultaneously. “The Dragon won’t like that.”

Sisaroth and Firusha saw a black-haired woman in fine raiment standing on the crest of the dunes; she carried no weapons. Her eyes shone brighter than those of a normal human-and much to the alarm of the alfar siblings.

“A maga,” Sisaroth warned his sister in a whisper. He was aware of the invisible power the unknown figure wielded. She was full to overflowing with it. “And who are you?” he raised his voice to ask.

“That’s no concern of yours,” she replied harshly, with obvious authority, gesturing toward the captive girl. “You will not harm her; you will get back on your nightmares and you will leave Weyurn. Get back to Idoslane or Gauragar or Urgon and do your evil deeds there.”

Firusha placed her right foot on Mallenia’s breast. “No, she’s going back to Idoslane, too.”

“Just try to take her,” the woman threatened, her expression amused. “The Dragon will be glad to hear of your attempt. He’d finally have an excuse to attack. The last war against the alfar was a long time ago. And I seem to remember your folk did not too well out of it.”

“She is a wanted criminal-” Firusha retorted, but the woman interrupted her fearlessly.

“Then you would have done better to catch her in Idoslane, not in Weyurn. Get out of here!” She raised her arms slightly. “This is your final warning.”

Behind where the siblings stood the noise of the waves altered, and a man splashed up out of the water. His face was badly grazed and in his hand he held a dagger; he appeared resolute. As resolute as the figure of the woman on the dunes.

“Get away from her!” he commanded them. “Leave Mallenia be, or the maga will burn you to cinders!” He knelt down by the unconscious figure of Mallenia and pulled her away from the dangerous hooves of the grotesque nightmares. One of the animals kicked out at him with a hind leg; he avoided injury by a surprisingly adroit move.

“You are not of the Dragon’s retinue,” Sisaroth said confrontationally. “You wear no dragon-scale pendant at your neck. How is it that you threaten us with Lohasbrand as if you knew him well?”

The woman did not reply-at least not with her voice. Instead, she stretched out her right arm, palm upwards. A brilliant ball shone on her gloved hand and floated slowly toward the alfar, the light growing in intensity the nearer it came.

The nightmares snorted and hissed in fear, recoiling; the bearded young man threw himself over Mallenia to protect her from their hooves. Sisaroth and Firusha grimaced as the rays hurt their eyes.

“At a word from me the sphere will burst open and blind you forever,” the woman on the dunes told them. “If you can find the way home blind, then do as you wish. If not, I suggest strongly that you leave Weyurn. I shall tell the Dragon that the alfar have violated the agreement. I wonder how he will react.”

Firusha wanted to pull out her sword, but Sisaroth restrained her. Turning to his agitated nightmare he climbed into the saddle. Then he and his sister rode off east.

The sphere pursued them for a time, as if it were a full moon come down from the heavens. After ten miles or so the ball of light gradually dissolved into glittering dust that fell onto the snow, unnoticeable on the bright crystalline surface.

Immediately, Sisaroth halted the nightmare and Firusha turned her own mount. The real moon illuminated their furious faces, on which spreading thin black lines were visible. Their tumultuous feelings could not be concealed. They would gladly have transformed their rage into murder, but they stood no chance against a maga. Not in open attack.

Looking over to the island, where numerous lights were burning now, they could make out the shape of the shaft’s iron bulkhead in the middle of the lake.

“That’s where we’ll find what is due to us,” said Sisaroth darkly, glancing at his sister. “Let us bring death to them over the water.”

“I don’t intend to leave without Mallenia,” she agreed. “She is the key to our achieving power in the three kingdoms. I want revenge for Tirigon!”

Sisaroth noticed a fishing village nearby and turned down the path towards it. “Let us enquire who lives on the Island of the Brave. And then we’ll see if there are humans suitable for a work of art. I feel the need to create something important.”