The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,19

dead woman’s final gaze seemed to be intended for him. He carefully covered it with snow. He couldn’t bear the sight of his murdered friend.

Hargorin gruffly told the assembled Hangtower notables that they could lift their heads. “I see the tribute is ready. Good. We expect nothing less of Hangtower.” He put the hatchet back in its holder on his back and then gave a sign; five dwarves dismounted and came to join him as he approached the wagon. They inspected the chests and sacks filled with coins and gold bars.

Rotha finally managed to stop himself shaking and turned around. The älfar were standing in the gateway, talking. He saw they were two males and a female, but could not begin to guess their ages. If they had been humans, he’d have said not more than seventeen cycles, but they were certainly more mature than that.

What struck him was the similarity of their faces. The burgomaster assumed they were siblings. The female älf was robbed of any feminine attributes by her armor; your attention was drawn to her fascinatingly graceful, balanced features. Any male opponent would immediately be distracted by the sight of her—and would meet his death at her hands.

The älfar carried long slender swords on their backs. Rotha noted the solid parrying staves that stuck out, right and left; double-bladed daggers were fastened on their thighs. Their armor had a metal reinforcing band running the length of the spine. One of the men had a store of metal discs the size of the palm of a hand just above the buttocks; the woman had the same, attached to her upper arms. Perhaps for throwing?

The female älf came away from the group and approached him with a disarming smile that seemed reassuring—until he saw the black eye sockets. Any admiration for her beauty turned to fear.

“Firûsha is my name,” she introduced herself in melodious tones. Rotha bowed to her again, as if she were a queen. If you thought about it, that’s just what she was, for him. She decided who should live and who should die. She decided whether the town should perish or thrive. “There is a task. It is not aimed at Hangtower and its citizens but, all the same, if anyone should stand in our way, be he courageous or simply foolhardy, then the town will not survive to see the morrow.” Firûsha’s voice had remained friendly. “We wish to be taken to the family of the woman councilor, as quickly as possible. You will take us there, weak man.”

Rotha gulped and choked. His throat was more constricted than the eye of a needle. “What—”

“No, burgomaster. Not what,” she interrupted him kindly, and placed her gloved forefinger on his lips. “Where. Take us there. Hargorin and his soldiers will carry the tribute away now.” She brushed the cap from off his head and stroked his brown hair. “You only need to be afraid if you don’t follow my instructions.”

Hargorin had swung himself up onto the driving seat and was driving the wagon out through the gate. One of the älfar mouthed something and the thirdling nodded. He left the town, the escort squadron stand surrounding him, and the dwarves moved slowly off.

The three night-mares stood snorting outside the gate, their red eyes fixed on the sentries. Now and then they would run their tongues across their muzzles, displaying vicious incisors.

The men drew back. No one wanted to risk being bitten or even torn to pieces. There were terrible stories about these älfar mounts. It was said they ate humans alive if they took the fancy. And that was one of the relatively harmless fates reported.

Meanwhile Rotha strode ahead, acting as guide for the älfar triplets. All the time he was thinking of how he could perhaps help the councilor’s family without getting anyone into trouble. It was a decent family: A big one.

“She has three daughters and two sons,” said Firûsha, as if she had read his thoughts. “Her mother lives with them. And her half-sister; that’s right, isn’t it?”

Distressed, Rotha nodded. There were no secrets. The only thing he could do was to stretch out the walk through the alleyways. He prayed to Palandiell that the news of the three merciless murderers would get round quickly enough for the family to have escaped.

“We won’t let ourselves be taken for a ride, burgomaster,” one of the älfar said, laying a sword blade on Rotha’s shoulder. “Try it and we’ll be coming knocking at your own