The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,20

door.”

“No,” stammered Rotha. “No, not that! I swear we’ll reach the house any time now.” Tears ran down his cheeks as he rounded the corner and pointed to the large house to which he was bringing death in threefold form. What else could he have done?

The älfar walked silently past him and he leaned against the wall, his legs unable to support him. Firûsha went first and her brothers followed her. One by one they pulled out their daggers and made for the entrance.

The älf woman knocked on the door, while one of the brothers disappeared up a side alley to reach the back of the house and the second launched himself upwards to land on the sill, vaulting on to reach the balcony, from where he made it onto the roof to enter the house via the chimney. At the same time, Firûsha kicked the door open.

Enslin Rotha sobbed when he heard the screams. He put his hands over his eyes. He couldn’t bear to look.

Yet those awful screams of the dying, echoing round the narrow lanes, burned their way into his brain, forever reproaching him.

Hargorin guided the wagon away from the town; the Black Squadron surrounded their leader and the valuable tribute.

For today’s orbit their destination was not far from Hangtower. They were due to go to Morningvale, a village in thirdling thrall. Hargorin had been granted possession by the älfar because of his loyalty and he had been grateful to receive it.

Here stood one of his strongholds, Vraccas-Spite.

It had taken fifty cycles to build it exactly to his specifications. It had no equal anywhere among the dwarf realms—or rather, in what remained now of the dwarf realms—for the strength and thickness of its walls. The älfar had been very impressed and surprised by his fortress, but he had explained to them that collecting the tribute tax wakened covetousness in others and the treasure had to be protected. There was no arguing with that.

When the squad turned east, rounding a small wood, the stronghold came into sight. At its highest point it was over thirty paces high, proudly displaying to travelers precisely who ruled this tract of land. And anyone who knew about dwarf-runes would be able to see that the incumbent hated all dwarves apart from the thirdling folk. From afar, the inscription on the castle wall promised all other dwarves death and destruction. Elsewhere the chiseled devices contained general vilifications. To the ignorant they might look like decoration, but any child of the Smith happening on these runes would be incensed and would attack immediately. Hargorin grinned in satisfaction as he admired his home.

Smoke billowed up from the chimneys of the houses and the shacks surrounding Vraccas-Spite. The human residents of Morningvale had sought the shelter and warmth of their own dwellings. He left them in peace. There was no urgent need for them to be doing the forced labor they owed him. He was distracted by the sound of cloth tearing on the cart behind him. He had heard it clearly even over the noise of the ponies’ hooves.

Hargorin turned his head and looked at the sack that had torn because of the weight of its contents. He couldn’t afford to lose a single coin. He would have to make good anything missing from the tribute and that went against the grain.

He was even more surprised to see a crossbow bolt sticking out of the sack.

“Keep going straight ahead into the wood,” a woman’s voice ordered.

Hargorin was certainly not going to do that. Instead, without warning, he hurled himself to the right. A whizzing brought a dull blow to his left shoulder. He only felt the pain a moment or two later.

The dwarf cowered down to get protection from the side of the wagon, but the horses, terrified by his swift movement and the sound of the arrow, whinnied wildly and bolted, leaving the reins trailing in the snow. They galloped up against the ponies in front of them, veering round to overtake them, the wagon swaying uncontrollably. Then they changed direction and headed for the trees, exactly the course the woman had demanded.

The thirdlings riding alongside watched in alarm and spurred their mounts to keep up with the runaway horses. The bloody shaft jutting out from Hargorin’s back showed them that it was no accident that had sent him reeling from the driving seat.

“Rebels!” he shouted, pulling himself along the side of the cart. “At least one of them.” Despite the pain, he swung