The Fate of the Dwarves - By Markus Heitz Page 0,41

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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.