As soon as he had struggled to his feet he hobbled over to the house where his son had taken refuge. “I want to hear the song of lust!” he raged, one hand on the wall for support while he smashed the ax blade into the door. From inside came the terrified screams of his son.
The riders came thundering up, yelling at the berserk woodsman as he attacked the door. He broke off and turned to them. “You want her for yourselves!” he shouted, his voice harsh. Then he hurled the ax in their direction. “You shall die!”
The ax hit Diederich’s horse. It shied and reared up, throwing its rider into the snow.
“I’ll start with you!” Hindrek drew his long dagger and hopped toward the man lying in the snow-and received another bolt in the chest. With a groan he pulled at the shaft, roughly a third of which still showed. He tipped forward and lay motionless.
Diederich, a man of about forty cycles, got up cursing; he dusted the snow off. “What, by all the hideous powers of Tion, has been happening here?”
Vlatin, the crossbow man, somewhat younger than Diederich, hooked his weapon onto his saddle and slipped down to the ground. Like his companions he sported a short beard. A cap made of sable protected him from the cold. “Loneliness gets to people. It can drive you mad, being isolated like this.” He looked at the woman’s body. “Can’t think of any other explanation for what he’s done.”
Gerobert rode to the back of the cabin. “I’ll have a look round here. Who knows what else we’ll find.”
Diederich, Vlatin and Wislaf-who, at twenty cycles of age, was the youngest of them-went gingerly to the door and kicked it in.
The interior of the cabin was clean and tidy. A pot simmered on the stove, it smelled like rabbit stew, and the table was laid. If it had not been for the dead bodies it was a peaceful enough scene.
Ortram was cowering next to the stove, a red-hot poker in his hand. His face was covered with tears and he was trembling all over.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” said Diederich gently, showing the boy that his hands were empty. “Your father can’t harm you now.”
But Ortram did not budge, wanting to keep his distance.
“There we were, off to buy furs, and we ran into a tragedy like this,” said Wislaf quietly. “The things people do to each other…”
“How hypocritical, even if you do put it so well,” chimed a harmonious voice at the door, its tone mocking. The men whirled round. Vlatin and Diederich drew their swords more out of surprise than fear.
An alf in a black cloak stepped over the threshold. He was so tall he had to duck his head to clear the doorway, and the weapon on his back made him appear taller still.
“We all know what you do to people when you feel like it.” The second voice came from the fireplace behind them, and Wislaf spun round. A second alf, probably twin to the first judging from his face, showed in silhouette against the fire’s glow. It was a mystery how the creature could emerge from flames like that without being scorched.
Diederich and Vlatin kept their swords at the ready. It seemed the new arrivals were trying to block their path.
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 alf at the door with a friendly smile. His white, even teeth shimmered like an animal’s. “Call me Sisaroth and my brother Tirigon,” he said by way of an overdue introduction.
Wislaf responded. “We’re Duke Pawald’s men and vassals of the alf Morslaron, to whom this Gauragar land belongs. You’ll know that name, I’m sure,” he added, in an attempt to ensure their safety. The alfar only respected their own kind, and if these strange siblings understood that he and his colleagues served another alf they would surely be left in peace.
To the men’s relief Sisaroth nodded, without moving away from the door. “I know Morslaron,” he said, but it did not sound as if he were afraid of him. That, thought Wislaf, was not a good sign.
An alf 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 alf. “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. Alfar 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 alfar 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 Tirigon a satisfied nod. “Perhaps the boy knows more,” he said, turning to Ortram. “Sister, ask him what else the messenger gave his father.”
The alf 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 Tirigon. “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 alf 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. “Curse you! You devious creatures!” he spat. “Fine allies you are!”
Sisaroth laughed out loud. He said arrogantly to his brother, “How does he come to think that humans could be seen as our allies? They are vassals of Morslaron, no more than that.”
Tirigon was amused. “And as Morslaron is so far beneath us we can use anything that belongs to him as the fancy takes us.” His voice turned deadly serious. “Use it or destroy it, as we please.”