“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 alfar walked silently past him and he leaned against the wall, his legs unable to support him. Firusha went first and her brothers followed her. One by one they pulled out their daggers and made for the entrance.
The alf 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, Firusha 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 alfar 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 alfar 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 himself onto the open part of the cart, landing on a chest. He drew his long-handled hatchet and plunged its cutting edge into the sack where he thought the woman was hiding.
In the meantime two dwarves were trying to get their ponies in front of the horses so that they could grab their reins, but the petrified animals were going too fast. One by one the members of the Black Squadron fell back, leaving the speeding cart still heading toward the wood. Hargorin was on his own.
The hatchet blade had met something hard and there was a dull moan. The sack fell forward and, surrounded by fragments of wood and silver coins, a young woman tumbled to the floor. The dwarf presumed the rebels had put the wood in the sacks to create a space for the archer woman.
Hargorin recognized her immediately. “Mallenia,” he snorted with satisfaction. “So the Black-Eyes were right to be suspicious of Hangtower. You were there.” He took another swipe at her but she ducked to one side. The blade sank into the wood immediately next to her.
Mallenia, descendant of the famous hero Prince Mallen of Idoslane, aimed a kick at the thirdling and hit him in the chest. “The orbit will come when I will kill the alfar just like I’m going to kill you today, Hargorin!” she called out. “Freedom for Idoslane, Gauragar and Urgon!”
The dwarf fell back onto another sack, the crossbow bolt burying itself deeper into his flesh and emerging the other side, making a bump in the chain-mail shirt. He could feel that something had been severed in the shoulder joint; groaning, he let his arm hang down.
“The thirdlings and the alfar will be shown no mercy,” she threatened passionately. “You’ve inflicted too much suffering on us all.”
The chest Hargorin had been standing on opened up and a masked figure stepped out in a shower of coins. Holding a saber in one hand, he placed its blade at the thirdling’s throat. “Stay where you are!” he commanded.
“You coward!” spat Hargorin. “At least have the courage to show your face like this murdering bitch.”
“Fighting oppression and killing occupying forces puts us in the right, dwarf-scum!” muttered Mallenia. “It’s you who are the murderers!”
Suddenly she spotted the Black Squadron galloping after them through the snow; they had not given up their pursuit by a long chalk. No thirdlings willingly resign themselves to failure, and this elite unit of the Desirers would be the last to think of doing so. In contrast to most other dwarf folk, they were excellent riders who had been perfecting their art for more than a hundred cycles. Because the other children of the Smith preferred not to use ponies, the thirdlings had the upper hand on the battlefield. This had been proved painfully time and again to the humans and dwarves who opposed them.
“We don’t have much time left,” she said to her companion and opened another of the chests to release another masked figure. The lock had jammed, preventing him from freeing himself from his hiding place.
The horses rushed along the narrow woodland path, clouds of snow rising in their wake. They had hardly reached the shelter of the trees before seven tree trunks came crashing down onto the path behind them to prevent pursuit. Anyone wishing to give chase would have to slash their way through dense undergrowth. This had all been prepared in advance and worked a treat.
The man got out of the wooden chest and went straight to the driving seat, fishing up the loose reins and taking control of the horses while the other man continued to hold his weapon at Hargorin’s throat.
Mallenia clambered over to the thirdling and sat on the sack next to him. Her eyes scanned the wrinkled face of her captive; then she pulled a blanket over her shoulders. She was wearing only thin clothing instead of protective armor-a considerable risk, given her mission, but that could not be avoided. Otherwise she would not have been able to hide in the sack. Her long blond hair was gathered in a braid. Black knee-high laced boots each had long-handled daggers strapped to them, and she held a small crossbow, which she aimed at Hargorin.