The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,17

when two contestants pulled out of the competition within minutes of each other.

And certainly not under circumstances such as these.

II

Girdlegard,

Protectorate of Northwest Idoslane,

Winter, 6491st Solar Cycle

The squad of black ponies was well known in Idoslane’s northwest province and their one hundred and fifty riders were known even better: The Desirers. These armored and helmeted dwarves were associated only with loss and pain in the minds of the inhabitants. The residents of Hangtower, the small town the band was heading for, were no exception.

The name of the unit had no romantic connotations. It had purely practical origins: Whatever they desired, they had to have; no ifs, no buts.

The watchtower bell sounded the alarm and Enslin Rotha, the burgomaster, hurried over accompanied by the town’s leading citizens to receive the dwarf-squad at the main gate. News of their approach had interrupted Rotha’s siesta, so he had hurriedly flung a mantle of rough sheep’s wool over his disordered clothing. He was not concerned with appearances.

“They’re too early,” he murmured, waiting for his fellow councilors to join him before the gate was opened up.

He signaled for the wagon with the tribute to be brought over and positioned himself in front of it. That way the dwarves would be assured at first glance that their tribute was going to be paid, but he could discourage them from actually entering the town.

In spite of the chill, Rotha was starting to sweat. Recent winters had been colder than ever. He saw it as a sign of how badly things were going for the peoples of Girdlegard, although, as the protectorate of the thirdling dwarves, Hangtower had got away comparatively lightly. The regions in Gauragar where the älfar held sway or where they had delegated authority to power-hungry despots were in a more parlous position, it was said. Rotha had no reason to doubt the truth of such rumors. In all probability the details of cruel treatment were spot on.

One of the councilors, Tilda Cooperstone, a long-standing close friend, joined him. She was as tall as he was, with blond hair peeking out from under her cap; her green eyes were full of concern. As were his own. “They’re much too early,” she nodded over to him, pulling the belt of her white bearskin coat tight and putting the collar up.

“My thoughts exactly,” replied Rotha, wiping his brow. It was fear, fear pure and simple, that was making him sweat. It was a wonder the perspiration wasn’t turning to drops of ice.

Cooperstone’s face grew more worried still. “We haven’t done anything wrong, have we?”

Rotha shook his head. “No. All the time I’ve been burgomaster we’ve complied with the thirdlings’ demands. To the letter.” He raised his arm and the gate was pushed open. A cold wind blew in, finding any gaps in their clothing and making them all shiver.

When the gate was fully open they could see the squadron of thirdlings less than one hundred paces off. And this time they were accompanied.

“The älfar!” Cooperstone exclaimed. The black armor of the three tall riders contrasted sharply with the white of the falling snow. Each time a night-mare hoof hit the ground, sparks flew, making the whiteness fizz and disappear.

The älf on the left held a lance bearing a pennant showing a strange rune. The sight of the blood-red symbol fluttering in the wind chilled Cooperstone to the core, though she could not have said why. Terror made not flesh, but fabric.

“Did you think the alarm was sounded for fun?” Rotha bit his lip. The tension was making him behave unfairly toward her. “Forgive…”

She smiled at him. It was a wavering smile. “You are forgiven, Burgomaster.” Cooperstone watched the rest of the councilors take up position behind them. “I saw my last älf about…” she did calculations in her head “… fourteen cycles ago. When they introduced the new squadron commander.”

“I wouldn’t mind if it were something like that,” grumbled Rotha, trying to identify the thirdling riding at the front. “But I don’t think that’s the reason. Their leader is still Hargorin Deathbringer.” The faces of the älfar told him nothing; they were handsome, perfect, narrow, beardless—and cruel. Like all their kind.

The eye sockets seemed empty. That was the distinguishing feature when comparing them with their friendly relations, the elves. In daylight the whites of the eyes turned black as night. They couldn’t conceal that.

He lifted his head and looked at the gate-watchmen. “None of you is to raise a weapon against the älfar,” he called. “Or against the