The Fate of the Dwarves

IV

Girdlegard,

Former Queendom of Weyurn,

Mifurdania,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

Coïra scuttled from one shadow to the next. She chose the town’s narrowest alleyways to avoid the orcs. The creatures never dared go down these lanes because they could only walk single file between the houses, so it was the perfect place to ambush hated enemies!

The guards seemed to have given up searching for her, convinced she must be back in her palace on the island known as Lakepride, but the Lohasbranders had got their heavily armed orcs to patrol the streets to intimidate the townspeople and bring home to them how powerful the Dragon was.

The situation in Mifurdania was extremely tense. The competition to select the most worthy person to follow in the footsteps of that fabulous actor of past renown, Rodario the Incredible, had attracted a large number of spectators, so the town was filled to bursting with visitors. And a popular freedom-fighter had been arrested after a number of the detested occupying forces had been killed. Even now calls were being made to the populace in leaflets issued from his very prison cell, encouraging them to resist and promising better times to come. A dangerous state of affairs.

There was talk in the taverns. It was said that liberation was on its way. But none of the townsfolk spreading the news in low voices over beer and wine had any idea that Coïra was keen for rumor to turn into reality. The people’s hero must not be allowed to die.

The young woman knew that freeing Rodario the Incomparable from his cell was not a purely selfless act on her part. At last she would have an opportunity to speak to the man she admired so much, not just for his poetry and courage, but also for his dazzling good looks, wit and charm. Thus her heart was beating faster than usual for several reasons. Apprehension about the coming attack on the prison was only one.

Coïra approached the eastern gate’s high tower where the Dragon had ordered anyone infringing his laws to be incarcerated.

The number of prisoners had grown in recent cycles, so the tower had been extended upwards. This had led to the nickname Reed Tower, because the slender edifice would sway from side to side in a strong wind, losing the occasional stone from the battlements, which could come crashing down through the tiles of neighboring roofs below. If they put you in one of the top levels your life was more or less forfeit.

Coïra took a deep breath and looked up. Probably they would have put The Incomparable in one of the highest cells. She would have to fight her way up and make sure that no one was able to raise the alarm, or that would mean disaster for herself, too. Her magic arts would help in some measure, but she only ever had sufficient power for a few spells before she had to return to the source near the palace to renew her energy store. This made a maga like herself vulnerable.

“They should come up with an energy source you could carry around with you,” she said to herself, scurrying over to the tower’s entrance.

Listening at the sturdy door she could hear nothing. She tried peering through the window grille but could only see a curtain. There was a light in the guardroom. That was all she could ascertain.

Coïra felt her blood pounding in her ears. So much was unknown and she had to confront it all. How many orcs are sitting there? she wondered. On normal orbits there would only be half a dozen guards, but now? Given the state of the town, perhaps three times that number.

She drew her sword from underneath her mantle, gathered her magic powers and prepared herself for a spell that would send the guards to sleep. She had tried it on humans often enough, but could not gauge how the green-skinned warders would react.

Pulling her shawl over mouth and nose, Coïra pressed down the door-catch and leaped into the room. “Don’t move…” she cried, then fell silent.

The room was—empty.

Seven tankards stood on the table, all of them full. You could see the remains of a meal: Chewed chicken bones, crumbs and odd bits of vegetables were strewn on a large platter.

Coïra closed the door and crossed the room carefully. Perhaps the warders had gone up to bring the prisoners their food?

Her tortoiseshell eyes caught sight of a board next to the stairs with a row of hooks intended for bunches of keys, all of them empty.

More and more peculiar. The longer she stood there trying to figure things out, the stronger her conviction became that someone had got there before her.

She ran up the steps to the first floor, weapon and spells at the ready.

Arriving at the first-floor landing she saw the cell doors hanging open. Did the Poet of Freedom have friends brave enough to free him despite the overwhelming numbers? She smiled at the thought. She continued running further up the stairs, finding cell after cell open and empty. Her disappointment at not being the one to liberate The Incomparable only lasted a second. What mattered was that he was free.

She hastened down the stairway again—and found herself face to face with Rodario the Seventh.

He was just as shocked as she was and even gave a little yelp of fright. His dagger clattered to the floor.

“What are you doing here?” asked the young woman.

Rodario looked bewildered and picked up his weapon, wiping it on his cloak and holding it ineffectually, then putting it away with an embarrassed air. She saw at once that he had no idea how to use it. “Probably the same as you,” he stammered, seeing the sword she was carrying. He pushed the hair out of his eyes. “I’m here to free The Incomparable.”

Coïra laughed. “All by yourself?”

The man frowned, looking hurt. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to endanger anyone else.” He glanced past her over to the steps. “Where is he?”

“We’ve both arrived too late. He’s already free.” She found it so touching that this skinny figure of a man, with no physical prowess, a contender fresh from humiliating defeat on stage, had turned out intent on fighting off the orc guards to free a rival, the favorite. This Rodario possessed none of the The Incomparable’s charisma.

Rodario smiled all over his face. “Oh, thanks be to Samusin! All the better!” He seemed truly relieved. “Then the two of us can get away from here together, then.” He watched her and obviously he liked what he saw. That was all she needed!

Suddenly they heard deep voices outside, the clank of armor and the stomp of heavy boots. It must be a guard unit back from patrol.

“There’s only one exit to the tower,” she whispered to Rodario, extinguishing the lamps. “Quick, hide!” He was about to run up the stairs to the first floor, but she grabbed his sleeve. “No, don’t head for the cells. It’d be making things far too easy for the guards.” She pushed him into a dark corner by the weapons stand, following him into the little niche, pressing herself against the wall where the shadows helped to conceal them. Maybe the guards would rush straight past.

The door burst open and an orc entered the room. Hardly three steps in, he was already bellowing out orders and pulling his sword out of its scabbard.

Eight of his soldiers stormed up the stairs with him, while four stayed down in the guardroom to secure the entrance. They lit the lamps.

Coïra knew a fight could not be avoided. And it would have to be won quickly before the other orcs came back down.

“I’ll be needing you, Rodario the Seventh,” she whispered in his ear. He was utterly transported as her breath played on his face.

“Anything you ask,” he said eagerly. Unfortunately, not very quietly.

“Over there!” called one of the orcs excitedly. “In that corner!” He drew his sword; the other three followed suit and moved in to the attack.

“Didn’t you do well?” Coïra said sarcastically under her breath as she prepared to use magic against the guards. Four yellow spheres the size of marbles flashed out of her left hand to hit the four attackers. As the spheres burst, the orcs’ heads were enveloped in sparkling glitter.

Two of the creatures simply collapsed, but the others showed no effects.

“It’s Coïra Weytana!” one of them yelled up the stairs. “The daughter of the maga is down here! Quick! Come and help us!”

“Go on, do it again!” said Rodario, brandishing his dagger. “Send them to their deaths!” He dashed up willy-nilly to the nearest orc and stabbed away.

Coïra was supremely conscious that The Seventh was neither good-looking nor articulate nor a trained fighter. His hurtling attack was so obvious that even a blind man would have seen it coming and could have taken action to avoid the blade. For a warrior, the clumsy assault did not constitute a challenge, merely an annoyance.

Accordingly the orc counterattacked with contempt. It reached for one of the tankards, stepped nimbly aside and walloped Rodario on the back of the skull as he stumbled through into thin air.

Groaning and losing his balance, the man tipped forward and spread his length on the table. The remaining tankards scattered, crashing to the floor, beer foaming in all directions…

Coïra drove her sword at the orc nearest her. He parried at the last moment as the blade came close to his throat. Grunting, he pushed the sword away, launching a thrust of his own.

The young woman held her sword against his, but the strength behind his thrust nearly forced her to open her fingers. Her hand and forearm went numb. She would have to try a different sort of defense, even though she had wanted to avoid this.

She let off a lethal spell. Crackling red lightning bolts sizzled out of her eyes to hit the orc in the face. His skin boiled and blistered, his eyes melted and vaporized to tiny spots the size of a pea, and he plunged screaming to the ground.

The orc who had felled Rodario threw his knife at the maga. She used her skills to hold the whirling blade suspended in the air. A thought and a short formula were all it took, and the metal glowed red hot.

Coïra sent the glowing ball back to the thrower, who was unable to duck out of its way; it tracked his movements! The molten steel slapped against his neck and burrowed its way through the skin. The orc tried to wipe it away in his panic, burning his fingers to the bone. Intense pain made him pass out and fall to the floor.

Loud commands rang out and boots came clomping down the stairs.

Coïra ran to the table and grabbed the befuddled actor by the collar, pulling him upright. “Come on, you sorriest of all the sorry ones,” she shouted, slapping his face to bring him round.

Rodario rolled his eyes and grinned at her vaguely. “Well done there, Princess.”

“Yeah, can’t say the same for you!” she ran to the door. “Out of here!” she ordered. “Or do you want to stay and fight the greenskins in further glorious battles?”

“But I don’t know which way to go,” he whimpered, holding a dagger in each hand. Two orcs came bounding down the stairs and stopped on the threshold.

Coïra sighed. She had suspected this would happen. “Come with me then. I’ll keep you safe, even though it should really be the other way round. You’re the man, after all.”

“I know,” he called glumly, making for the door. “The hero is supposed to rescue the princess, not vice versa.”

“Right! Remember that for next time,” she replied, running through the narrow lanes back to the place in the wall where she could slip through and where Loytan was waiting for her. With two horses. One had been intended for The Incomparable, but now Coïra found herself shepherding The Incomparable’s pale imitation through Mifurdania. “This is simply not fair, gods,” she murmured, turning her head to look at the actor.

He kept stumbling over his robe, then dropped his dagger and got down on hands and knees to look for it among the rubbish. Coïra had to pull him along.

They ran along in the shadow of the city walls without being pursued. The orcs were expecting her to be heading for the gates.

All of a sudden a form appeared out of one of the alleyways, holding a lantern in his left hand and obviously waiting for them.

Coïra recognized The Incomparable!

She ran up. He had a bloodied graze on his face and his right eye was swollen shut—evidence of orc and Lohasbrander attention. He held out his hand, first to the breathless man, then to the young woman. “I wanted to thank you both for what you were trying to do for me,” he said quickly. “I shan’t forget it.”

“Come with us,” responded Coïra, hoping he could not hear how loud her heart was beating. He had not let go of her hand. “We’ve got horses for you…”

The Incomparable shook his head. “I can’t leave Mifurdania. There are so many people to whom my words may yet give hope. Now more than ever.” He made as if to kiss her hand. “And I’ve still got to win my title.” He nodded to Rodario and it seemed to Coïra that they were exchanging silent messages. “Take my friend with you. He’s in more danger than I am. There’s nobody in the town that would give him shelter and his face is very well known.”

Rodario the Seventh gave an unhappy smile and played with the seam of his left sleeve.

Another wave of disappointment swamped Coïra, but she promised, “I will,” conscious of her desire never to let The Incomparable go. Instead she must drag this idiot along with her while her dazzling champion stayed behind doing heroic deeds. Without her. So unfair, gods!

She bent forward and breathed a kiss onto The Incomparable’s cheek, then went off, taking Rodario with her.

“What a man!” said the actor delightedly. “What wouldn’t I give to be like him?”

“And what wouldn’t I give if you were?” she added quietly, blushing. She was ashamed of herself for the mean remark, but Rodario didn’t appear to have heard.

They reached the secret door in the town wall, an ancient one from the days of the old Mifurdania, whence spies could have been dispatched during a siege to find out the enemy’s plans. Few people knew of its existence but Coïra had been shown it by Loytan. The Lohasbranders did not know about it. And who would want to show it to them?

Coïra looked for the mechanism, while Rodario kept a lookout for any orcs.

“Oy! You down there!” The shout from above caught her by surprise and then an armored night-watchman leaned over the parapet to get a better look. “What are you up to?” He ran along till he came to the next set of steps, coming down with his pike raised, pointing down toward them, ready to stab.

Coïra took a step back and lifted her left arm to hold off the man with one of her sleep spells, but she had used up all her store of magic. A slight tingle and fluttering flames appeared on the ends of her fingers, but not enough to be effective. Harmless. A waste of effort.

The night-watchman cursed and put his bugle to his lips.

Then Rodario acted with, for him, great presence of mind. He hurled his second dagger upwards with great strength—but had omitted to take it out of its sheath first!

With a dull thud it collided with the warder’s forehead. He gave a groan and disappeared behind the parapet; then they heard his body fall.

“I’ve lost my last knife!” complained Rodario. “Damn. It was expensive! It was made of…”

“Quiet!” Coïra pressed the opening mechanism and part of the wall could now be rolled to one side. “I’ll buy you another one, but now, shift!” She hustled him out. “Even a blind chicken can find a grain of corn, they say.”

“But I’m… not a chicken!” Rodario started to stammer.

Loytan was waiting on the other side and looked baffled when he recognized the actor. “You know you’ve got the wrong one, don’t you, Princess?” he said to her accusingly, feeling duty-bound to point out her mistake.

Coïra sighed and swung herself up into the saddle. “Spare me,” she hissed, watching how the actor managed to catch his foot in his robe while trying to get it into the stirrup. The horses moved quickly on and he was still hopping along next to them. “Not a word! I’ll explain on the way,” she added, seeing Loytan opening his mouth again.

At last The Seventh was in the saddle. “Right, we can escape now. I’m ready,” he announced.

“I know who I want to escape from,” she mouthed to Loytan, letting her mount gallop off.

The two men followed. “Where are we going?” called Rodario.

“To the palace,” answered Coïra, looking back at the lights she had noticed. Riders with torches were on their trail and she could hear bloodhounds baying. The Lohasbranders were not going to let her get away so easily.

All the more reason to reach the source at Lakepride to stock up on energy.

Otherwise…

Girdlegard,

Protectorate of South Gauragar,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

Hindrek steered the sledge piled high with logs toward the house in the snow-bound forest clearing.

He had prepared this store of timber a few cycles ago and now the time had come to bring the logs home ready to split them into firewood. The family’s woodpile was running out. There had been barely enough to light the kitchen fire that morning.

Hindrek stopped the horses at the barn and called his sons to help with the unloading.

The door opened and two boys came running out, aged eleven and fourteen cycles. Like their father they were wearing coats and hats made of an odd mixture of patched furs ranging from rabbit to squirrel. It did not matter as long as they kept you warm. Their mother waved from the window, holding up a freshly skinned rabbit. It was to be their midday meal.

Hindrek stood on the back of the sledge handing the wood down to Cobert, the elder of the two boys. “So who caught the rabbit?”

“Me,” said Ortram proudly. “It was in my trap.”

“He always knows the places the smallest creatures go,” laughed Cobert, grinning. “But I’m better with the bow, of course.”

“But you haven’t caught anything for ages,” said his brother, sticking his tongue out. “I’m far better than you!”

“Yes, of course, we’d have starved to death without you, wouldn’t we?” laughed Hindrek, passing him a large chunk of wood. “Go and chop this lot up. Do something for those muscles of yours, or you’ll never be able to pull the bowstring back like your brother.”

Now it was Cobert’s turn to stick his tongue out. He went over to the block where the ax lay, his little brother following at his heels.

Hindrek watched them go, then raised his hand in greeting to his wife Qelda, who blew a kiss from the kitchen window. The man watched his two boys unload the sledge, squabbling about which of them was better at doing the heavy work.

Hindrek enjoyed his life as a forester, though he would have preferred not to be in the service of Duke Pawald, a vassal of the älfar. But they left him in peace as long as he carried out his tasks properly. He could only hope that his sons would one day live in freedom, unlike himself.

The wind turned and blew from the north, bringing wonderful music to their ears. Its tones moved them instantly, lifting the hairs on their arms and on the back of their necks.

The song was a sequence of meaningless syllables but the clarity of the woman’s voice and the emotion with which she sang had them all entranced, rooting them to the spot and forcing them to stare into the forest from whence the sound came. But the melody grew ever fainter until finally silence returned.

Ortram turned to his father in ecstasy. “What was that?”

Hindrek shivered, filled with yearning, a longing to experience more of what he had just been granted. “I cannot tell. Perhaps a traveler passing the time on her journey by singing to herself.”

Cobert threw his ax down onto the snow, heading straight for the trees. “I want to see what she looks like if she sings like that,” he called, running off.

“Stay where you are!” his father ordered, leaping down from the sledge. “There’s work to do.” But he understood his son all too well. “Wait!” he called, pursuing his elder son as he disappeared among the trees. It was good that he had an excuse now to follow the song without having to face his wife’s disapproval. “Ortram, you stay here. I’m going to get your brother.”

He could see Cobert’s patchwork coat flitting between the tree trunks in the distance. As if possessed, the boy forged onwards, drawing his father ever deeper into the forest after him. Soon the woodsman was perspiring under his heavy coat.

The shadows were darker here and it seemed the sun was becoming fainter the further he got from home. Hindrek grew uneasy.

“Cobert!” he called. “Don’t go any further!” The father stopped, leaning on a Palandiell pine to get his breath back. “Something’s not right. It must be the spirits of the forest playing tricks on us. Can’t you hear me?” He listened hard.

There were those tones again.

All his cautiousness melted at the sound of that glass-clear singing voice. He knew only the desire to see the face of the singer. To admire her and hear her song. She must sing for him alone. No one else must have this pleasure!

Raging jealousy flamed up in his heart and, without realizing it, he pulled out his hunting knife. The heavy blade threw off a faint gleam.

Hindrek followed the melody; it was coming from close by now.

His swift steps turned into a run, a driven stumbling race forward, not stopping at any obstacle. The forester wanted to see the woman whose voice gave him such ecstasy of delights.

He fought his way through thickets, through snow, past banks of tearing thorns, over fallen trees, feeling no pain, his mouth set in a beatific smile, his eyes glinting feverishly. On, ever onward!

Then he stopped in his tracks, finding himself unexpectedly two paces away from his elder son. Bareheaded, Cobert was kneeling at the feet of a woman dressed in a black mantle decorated with silver thread. A song was issuing from her lips and the boy was listening spellbound. She had placed her right hand on his blond curls, stroking his head as if he were a lover.

Her countenance was full of grace; even the most beautiful woman Hindrek had ever met would have appeared ugly in comparison. In his mind nothing else existed except for this perfect figure. Her long black hair was moving gently in the breeze and framing her lovely face. On her brow a dark diadem made of tionium, silver and gold bore two large sparkling diamonds.

Hindrek felt a red-hot surge of jealousy that even the gentle song could not soften. It should be him there at her feet, not his son! Her delicate fingers should be stroking his head. What did the boy know of love and emotions?

His ill-will grew. When Cobert laid his cheek on the woman’s hand and planted a kiss, Hindrek launched himself at his son’s back with a roar and drove his hunting knife in through the ribs to the heart.

The singing stopped.

“Get away from her!” he screamed, hurling the corpse aside as if it were a sack of grain. “She is mine,” he continued, his voice turning to a whisper. “I heard her first,” and he sank onto his knees in the blood-soaked snow. He dropped his arms and gazed longingly at the silent, smiling woman. He waited for her to touch him as she had touched Cobert. He raised his head and closed his eyes in anticipation. “Please, goddess, sing for me,” he begged.

“What will you do for me, Hindrek?” she asked, reaching out to touch his cheek. “If I am to sing for you there is a price to pay.”

“Anything,” he answered at once through quivering lips. His body was racked with the pain of intense longing to hear those tones again, to hear them constantly until the end of his days. The voice must never stop. She must sing for him alone.

“Go back to your cabin and bring me the heads of your wife and child,” said the beauty seductively. “Then I shall sing for you again.” He opened his eyes and saw her bending over him. Her lips so nearly touched his own. “I shall sing you the song of lust.”

Hindrek jumped up and ran off. He ran back the way he had come, hearing her voice, the sounds of her song, urging him ever faster, giving him untold energy; he raced home like the wind.

It had grown dark. Lamps were burning inside the cabin and smoke rose from the chimney. The horses had been unharnessed and there was a small pile of firewood by the chopping block.

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 älf 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 älf, 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 älf at the door with a friendly smile. His white, even teeth shimmered like an animal’s. “Call me Sisaroth and my brother Tirîgon,” he said by way of an overdue introduction.

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

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

An älf 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.

“Well spotted,” laughed the female älf. “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. Älfar 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 älfar 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 Tirîgon a satisfied nod. “Perhaps the boy knows more,” he said, turning to Ortram. “Sister, ask him what else the messenger gave his father.”

The älf 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 Tirîgon. “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 älf 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 Môrslaron, no more than that.”

Tirîgon was amused. “And as Môrslaron 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 älf woman gave the boy a kiss on the cheek, took a deep breath and raised her voice in song.