The Dwarves that almost loomed over the group of survivors were every bit as menacing as they were stout and displeased to see them. The forest was seated high atop the promontories behind them, the suns high in the heavens and the number of weapons the men-folk hefted as they stared long and hard at the new arrivals suspiciously.

  Behind the Dwarves lay a large alder and pine-wood forest, with a great deal of the trees green and large, proof of the good health of the locality, with the forest stretching around to the east of where they presently found themselves. It made for a goodly first impression, in Cormac’s eyes, though this along with the vast fields to the left of them, or west of their present positions overlooked a small village.

  This village was built of pine-woods or so it seemed to his eyes, with the manor houses large and distinctive, with these houses built in the shape of long-houses. Ones that were painted black for reasons that escaped Cormac, with each of the homes decorated with emeralds, sapphires and sea-shells along the sides of the houses.

  It was bewildering, for the still panting and bleeding travelers, who would have preferred in some cases such as Kyrenas, might have otherwise preferred to leap over the edge back into the water. His sentiment of fear was shared by Calandra, who looked upon the Dwarves with an air of disgust and apprehension, with the two Elves attempting to shield the still unconscious Glarald.

  Off to one side, the Elves clung together, just as those from ériu clung together, though they bore a far more polite set of expressions. Daegan and Cormac clung to one another, facing the angry-looking Dwarves with anxious expressions on their own faces.

  Bardulf was the one who stepped forth from the group with a pained grimace on his face, more from being pulled up the promontory than from the sight of the Dwarves. “Thank you, we are in your debt.”

  The Dwarf at the head of the small tribe of bearded Dwarves, all dressed in linen and woollen tunics either grey or faded blue in colouration, eyed the Wolfram with a mistrustful glare. “Aye, you are a Wolfram.”

  There was some sort of significance to his words, one that the youth did not at once grasp. If he remained fairly ignorant of what was implied by the Dwarf, the other diminutive folk certainly understood as the lot of them studied each of the humans and beast-folk with cautious eyes. This did not stop them from approaching them with a menacing gleam in their eyes, which caused a number of the new arrivals upon the Misty-Island to back away.

  Fearful Cormac could feel his stomach drop back down the way he had been pulled up from, with the youth pulling Daegan behind him. Or at least he tried.

  Stepping forward with an air of anger in her emerald eyes, the scarlet-haired ‘She-Paladin’ of Glasvhail bellowed at the Dwarves, “Why do you crowd nearer to us? What do you mean by ‘aye we owe you a debt’? Speak plainly; else we shall have to treat you as we have treated all others of our enemies!”

  It was a stunningly defiant speech, and a foolish one.

  All of her companions felt horrified by the impulsiveness of her tone and actions, even the Elves gazed upon her as though she had gone daft.

  “Dae, tush! Tush!” Cormac hissed at her, shocked at her poor-judgement.

  The head-Dwarf gazed at her, his hand that had hefted up his great war-axe up to his left shoulder, which was covered by his untamed black mane of hair, the menace behind his gesture apparent. His people followed his example, by hefting up their own weapons or otherwise taking menacing steps towards them. The message was evident.

  “Bah, approach if you will, but we will not surrender!” the crimson-haired lass menaced hand on the unicorn-hilt of her sword.

  This was not the case to Daegan, who was along with Lyr one of the only two members of their group still armed, as all their arms had hitherto been lost to the sea. The loss of all their possessions in the world not directly girded to them was a loss few were unconscious of.

  Without his arms, Bardulf appeared to have lost some of his confidence, and held himself upright still, though with an air of resignation. Catching Daegan’s hand ere it could unsheathe, the silver-white blade of her father, the wolf-man demanded of her, “Daegan what in the name of the war-god do you intend to do?”

  “If we must do battle with them, then we shall!” The lass argued passionately, with such vigour that the Dwarves looked upon her with expressions that were a mixture of bemusement and respect.

  “Will you persist in resisting us?” the lead-Dwarf demanded of them with continued impatience, fingering still his axe.

  “Nay, we will submit for the moment and agree to be your guests, as we are not without gratitude,” Bardulf decided politely for his companions.

  *****

  All of them objected at once, with the Dwarves soon herding them away from the cliff-edge, and down the local hill. No one, when the time came was to offer any resistance beyond a few token words. Daegan was not disarmed, not until the Dwarves menaced Lyr and Cormac with their hatchets so that she reluctantly surrendered her father’s finely crafted blade. The weapon was one that their captors held up with considerable awe, though they were puzzled by it.

  “A magnificent weapon, though why does it have a unicorn head?” One of their numbers asked, confused by the shape of the pommel, which he fingered with a fascinated gleam in his eyes.

  This inspired worry in not only Daegan, but in Cormac. The Dwarvish reputation for greed was proving itself quite true.

  “It was crafted by my father,” Daegan boasted adding when they muttered disbelieving remarks, along with disparaging ones about her father. “‘Tis the truth! I would never lie about swords! For only he in all of Caledonia could have crafted such a weapon.”

  This was not wholly believed by them, or so the hard looks in their eyes appeared to imply in Cormac’s view, as he saw them continue to gaze sceptically at her.

  One of their numbers went so far as to mutter, “It appears to be of Dwarvish make,” a few others looked to this blonde-haired and bearded Dwarf who was dressed in a dark-brown tunic and trousers rather than grey or faded blue. His was a more knowledgeable nature it appeared, his vivid brown eyes studying the still sheathed sword attentively. “I have seen such craftsmanship but twice or thrice in the whole of my life.”

  This admission consternated the Dwarves.

  It was when they came at last to round up Lyr and Cormac that the next great shock for them occurred. The former would not part with his ring, which was a signet ring from ériu that he had brought with him, nor would he part with the arm-band given to him by his aunt Ríonal.

  Both were made of gold, with the former gift from his father one that had the image of an elk embedded into it. A symbol treasured by the ériu-people, it was a symbol that in the past several years had become known amongst most travelers familiar with the Emerald-Isle as that of the crown-prince of the island.

  This was the case for almost four of the Dwarves, who were merchants who had traveled as far as Fialinn, the greatest port city of the island. It was there that they professed to have met, Lyr’s uncle Magni, one of the most trusted vassals of the High-King, and his cousin.

  What also bewildered them was the discovery of the war-horn Delauvaran had given over to Cormac. Many recognised it at once, as the possession of the Jarl Sweyn, being unaware that it had disappeared from the Northman’s holdings; they thus mistook Cormac at first for a thief.

  An accusation that he took poorly, defending himself with utter indignation, “I did not steal it! I would never pilfer from another, especially from Delauvaran who received this very horn from my father!”

  This admission garnered him more attention and suspicion from the Dwarves, who began to mutter between themselves in their peculiar, harsh tongue. Ere long, they decided that the best thing they could do was to take them away to the village headman, and leave the matter to him.

  *****

  As they walked, as Cormac was to discover he was not alone in feeling confused, at the sight of the Dwarves living in long-houses by the shores of the island. In the several minutes that it took to reach the large village of two hundred longhouses occupied with a discussion about this very peculiarity on the part of the Dwarves.

  “I always thought that Dwarves lived under-ground, digging and mining and favouring building kingdoms under the mountains.” Kyrenas it was who made this observation, not being particularly better travelled than the two Caleds.

  The answer that he received made it visible how little Connor thought of him, “Most are but those are Deep-Dwarves as we call them over in ériu. We do not have those there; though I hear Caledonia and Gallia have a great number of them. These appear to be Sea-Dwarves, they visit Fialinn often, ever since the coronation of his Grace the High-King.”

  “I too have met Sea-Dwarves, though it was in passing in Roven, the greatest of Norléans’ cities,” Bardulf added numbly, referring as he spoke to that most important of cities in the mightiest of the duchies of Gallia.

  “But are they not too short to take to the seas?” Cormac asked which earned him a kick to the shins by one of his captors, who scowled at him.

  “We may not look it, but we have built some of the finest vessels to have ever graced the seas,” The blonde-Dwarf from earlier growled at him heatedly, face red with fury.

  While Cormac glowered down at the Dwarf who had kicked him, Calandra whispered to Kyrenas fearfully, “You do not suppose, they intend to eat us as old Myrthwn tended to recount in his stories?”

  Kyrenas shrugged his shoulders uncertainly, as fearful as she was with Connor snorting his nose at that question. Bardulf was the one who answered her question reassuringly, with the three of them walking some distance ahead of the two from Glasvhail who were at the rear of their troupe.

  “Fear not lady Calandra, I highly doubt the Dwarves intend any such nonsense.” His dismissive tone served only to heighten the laughter of their captors who had found considerable mirth in her foolish question.

  His leg aching, the son of Murchadh the fisherman soon had reason to look away from the furious face of the Dwarf just behind him. For it was at this time that, they reached the village of the Sea-Dwarves.

  *****

  The village was one that had high stone walls all around it, ten meters high, and four meters thick with high-parapets. The walls were painted the same dark colour as some of the long-houses had been. Covering a space as wide and long as a whole league, there was thus plenty of space for there to be several hundred more houses added to the collection of those within the town-walls.

  Most of the long-houses were almost six meters wide and twice that measurement in length. They were all placed apart from one another by nigh on ten meters, as most of the kin-groups that inhabited the long-houses enjoyed building up small gardens or pulling up some of their boats between their homes and those of their neighbours.

  It was their boats that offered the Sea-Dwarves the most pride, with their smaller ones hardly very different from the drakkar or dragon long-ships of the Northmen.

  There were several structural differences as the new arrivals were keen to notice; with the first notable difference being the elevated seats for the rowers. Another difference was that mechanism for turning the vessel was to be found near the front of the ship.

  These were the vessels that were found betwixt the various houses of the inhabitants of the village. Those larger ships that were to be found tied to the shores, were of a much more formidable if ancient design. They were dromons of a distinctly Dorian design or so it appeared at first glance. Dubbed by the Gallians ‘dromont’, they had two large masts from which they could spread their massive sails.

  The ships under the Dorians measured thirty-two meters long, with twenty-five oars to each side below-deck, with another thirty-five rowers to be positioned on deck. What was more was that there were two large rudders for turning the ship at the stem of the boat; with this also the location of what appeared to be a small square manor house where the captain of the ship was housed.

  There were also holes for arrows, and a chain mechanism though the travelers had yet to see this chain in action, one which could be jettisoned from the sides to latch onto the enemy ships. With this feature one that was purely of Dwarvish design.

  What also differentiated these large ships from the South-Agenorian ones was the addition not of a Dorian-fire hole near the prow but a large prow itself. One in the shape of a gryphon, a beast that these Dwarves had apparently taken to, and crafted directly into the pine-wood used to put together their majestic warships.

  It was a startling realisation to have heard of how there was conflict upon Antillia, and to have seen Murchadh pass on due to injuries sustained, upon this island.

  A wholly separate feeling to behold the nigh on one hundred dromon styled war-ships. Of course, they were familiar with those particular sort of ships, the Dwarves as Cormac soon discovered termed their own ships, ‘gryphon-ships’.

  There were a few buildings that were different in their shape, with the first noteworthy building apart from the rest, having been built nearer to the forest and promontory, and thus resting upon a hill.

  It was a large square-shaped temple that was near to three storeys high, with large open spaces for windows, and built of black-painted pine-wood, with a bronze statue of a goddess who held a large trident in her left hand and was adorned with an oar-crown upon her brow.

  The sight of this imposing goddess had quite the effect upon them all. For all the members of their entourage, were good pious folk, save for perhaps Connor MacBaronk. He was of a far more flippant nature and was hardly disturbed by the vision of a heathen goddess.

  The other two buildings of a similar design were those of Vulcan, the traditional Dwarf god of the forge, with his temple located at the opposite end of the village. It was thereby the other woods and smithies that the statue of the giant bearded crippled god could be seen with his mighty hammer raised up high, above his head.

  The other large blacksmith-shrine was that of Khnum and this one did not have a large wooden statue upon its door-step. This temple had embedded in the fashion of the Quirinian faith the symbol of the hammer of Khnum, into the wood just above the door of the temple.

  With this large shrine having its own large statue placed within it, so that it had one statue where the other shrines of the village had two one outside and one indoors, with each of the shrines painted a dark colour.

  There was also the house of the headman of the village which was located at the rear of the village, and was where the shrines were three-storeys high, this one was but two storeys and had slightly larger windows than the sea-goddess shrine. From these openings a great gulf of smoke was oft sighted, as the headman of the village was also one of the chief-most blacksmiths of the town of Hléralacius.

  *****

  The village in truth bore a closer resemblance as you might well imagine to a fortress-town, one that appeared about prepared for war.

  It was the shrine of the sea-goddess though that first captured Cormac’s attention, as he soon found himself reminded of his father’s tale of how Salmon and Waltigon his grandfather had seen just such a goddess long ago.

  If he was fascinated by the large wooden monument that like the distant statue of Vulcan loomed high at twenty meters high, and was so finely crafted as to appear almost real, his companions were disquieted. In particular, Daegan and Bardulf appeared the most mortified by the sight of the statue, hissing in disgust at the sight of her.

  “Such a terrible sight to behold,” Hissed out the former in disdain, averting her eyes from it in a gesture of piety.

  “Aye,” The Wolfram murmured.

  “What statue is that?” Cormac asked to the shock of his oldest friend who glared at him, with revulsion.

  “Cormac, how can you ask such a thing?” She queried at him, in a whisper.

  “It is our sacred goddess, Salacia as the Romalians knew her,” was the answer from the blonde-haired Dwarf, who added. “It was she; we believe who first gifted us with the knowledge of ship-craft and who brought us here, to the Misty-Island, after we were chased away from Bretwealda by the Dark Elves in the first of the Wars of Darkness.”

  “You once lived upon the Lairdly-Isle?”

  “Aye in the south, though that was long ago.”

  “Enough blathering, Gordul,” Growled the dark-bearded Dwarf, yelling from his place at the head of the troupe escorting them to the headman’s house.

  “I was simply explaining the situation Thvalin,” Gordul complained beneath his breath.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  There were no further discussions after this, between the Dwarves.

  Not until they had reached the home of the mighty headman of the village who was as yet unaware of their return. As they were brought to a halt, they took to studying the many people of the village who manned the fields and who guarded it. Most of those they saw were women, children and elders, with but a few men-folk, for most of those had taken the vast majority of their ships out from the shore to fish for cod, salmon, sunfish and many others.

  “Why, these women have no beards,” Observed Daegan imprudently, having heard a great many foolish tales of Dwarf-women being bearded.

  She was struck in the back of her crown, with a great hewing blow by Bardulf who took exception to this ignorant and highly ridiculous statement. “Think lass, ere you speak for there are no women in all the lands I have journeyed through who wear beards.”

  Daegan sought to defend her foppish statement, only to be quieted by not only her companions but the glowers of those who surrounded them.

  Thvalin the dark-bearded Dwarf grumblingly hurried up the four steps that led up to the door of the headman, whereupon he gave the door a great many blows so that the door shook a little. “Dáinn, Dáinn! Hurry hither lest I shall knock this blasted door, from its frame!”

  It took Dáinn some time ere he answered, throwing open the door with a scowl on his face. “Aye?”

  He was a queer sort of Dwarf, by any stretch of the imagination. For where most of the men-folk of that species favoured long-beards and still longer hair, Dáinn wore his hair short. He also trimmed his beard so that it hardly went down below past his chin. Dressed in a red-tunic in marked contrast to the rest of his people, he carried himself upright though it was evident by the wrinkles on his face that he was of a rather advanced age.

  Irritated, he greeted Thvalin with rather more surliness than Cormac might have expected from someone with such an important post. “Aye? For what reason do you interrupt me nephew? You know full well, I have so much more important work to do, than to whatever it is you would have me worry about.”

  “We have prisoners.” Thvalin retorted with exaggerated patience.

  Blinking in surprise, the old man looked past him, to study those whom his nephew had made seat themselves in a line before the large house of his uncle. The lot of them exchanging worried glances, save for Glarald who remained unconscious, if not for considerably longer.

  “Prisoners he says,” Connor grumbled with a glower in Bardulf’s direction, “You have done very well at negotiating with these Dwarves that we now find ourselves, little better than slaves.”

  “What is worse is they have my ring and armband!” Lyr added bitterly, “If it were not for you Bardulf, we might have overpowered these Dwarves, and remained free.”

  “If you think we could have overpowered these Dwarves, I daresay you took one spare blow to the noggin than the rest of us,” Cormac growled at the two of them, earning for himself a ‘spare’ glower from them.

  Their argument which had served to so distract them, from their captors had had no such effect upon the latter folk, who were divided between those who glowered at them or looking to their chiefs for directions. The two chieftains in question though, spent some time distracted by their own argument, regarding the newcomers.

  “I really do not see how this concerns me, could you not have decided the matter by yourself, by now Thvalin?” Dáinn grumbled exasperatedly throwing his arms in the air as he refused to step down from the doorway of his home.

  “Uncle, they are no ordinary travelers and prisoners.” Thvalin retorted with equal irritation, gripping his uncle by the arm, so that he could not retreat back into his arm.

  “How so?” The elder Dwarf demanded.

  “They carried these,” the nephew explained clicking his fingers at one of his followers, who stepped forward thither to stand by their sides with the ring and armband of ériu and Cormac’s war-horn. The former two items passed the chieftain by without any real interest, with it being his nephew who informed him, “Some of our merchants reported that these are possessions of the prince of Amadan, the heir to the throne of ériu.” Seeing the indifference on his uncle’s face, the younger man sighed ere, he had the guard who carried the war-horn show it to the old man. It was now that a spark of interest entered into his eyes. “Do you know this horn uncle?”

  “But of course I do!” He growled furiously, only to signal the other man forward nearer to him.

  The war-horn of Sweyn in hand, he held it as a man who had dreamt of such a moment for years, eyes glittering with such greed that Cormac almost leapt to his feet and towards the Dwarf. Held back by Bardulf, who growled at him, to keep him from advancing any further, “They will kill you, if you take one step further.”

  “But that’s mine!”

  “It does not matter anymore,” Kyrenas retorted with a shrug of his shoulders.

  It was then as the chieftains approached Cormac that the eldest of their Elvish companions was distracted, by his son who lay near to his side, regained consciousness. Visibly shaken, he was confused as to their whereabouts.

  “Where are we?” He asked of his father.

  “Glarald!” Kyrenas exclaimed taking him up in his arms, just as Calandra also leapt forward, with her own exclamation of joy. “My son, you have returned to us!”

  As they distracted themselves with such an overt display of joy that the Dwarves guarding them, became embarrassed and bewildered. The question of whether an Elf could ever experience emotions was one that they had never truly considered until now, so that they now looked to one another troubled.

  Their leaders hardly paid the Elves any mind, turning their attention upon Cormac with the elder of the two demanding of him. “How did you come by this war-horn, lad?”

  “I did not steal it, if that is what you think,” Cormac snapped at the two of them, whereupon he was scolded by the younger of the two Dwarves.

  “Show some respect, lad, less it shall be the last thing you do,” Was his sharp warning.

  Cormac was on the verge of snapping once more, being weary of the ill-tempered Dwarves, he came very near to emulating Daegan’s courageous example. It was only when, he saw from the corner of his eyes Connor and Bardulf shaking their heads at him, subtly telling him not to lose patience with their captors.

  “I inherited it from my father,” He answered shortly, preferring to avoid mentioning Delauvaran, or the greater context of the tale.

  At this mention the Dwarves of the village who had been muttering among themselves, fell silent. A great many of them turned now from speaking in the Caled tongue, to that of their own folks. They discussed the seated lad on the green grass before them at some length, ere the excited youth was pressed by the Dwarf chieftain.

  “You lad, from whom did you receive your golden locks from?” His question was so sudden and came from seemingly nowhere, so that the youth stared in bewilderment at his captor.

  “My father, why do you ask?”

  This won him another hard stare.

  Then he was asked, “Stand up and tell us your age.”

  He did so, towering over the Dwarves though not nearly as much as Connor or Kyrenas did. Saying as he stood, “I am fifteen years of age, near to sixteen.”

  For some reason that escaped him, the sight of him looming over the Dwarves at his full-height, startled and appeared to please the Dwarves for reasons that escaped him.

  It was now that uncle and nephew withdrew to one side to discuss the matter between themselves; doing so for such a length of time that the travelers stared in confusion.

  Only Connor was not wholly bewildered at the sight and sound of the duo speaking in their own tongue, with Daegan asked of him, “What are they saying?”

  “I only know a few words, but for some reason they appear to be utterly fascinated by Cormac,” Connor remarked flabbergasted.

  “If only I had paid more attention to those Dwarves who visited my father’s court,” Lyr complained with a shake of his head.

  “Aye, if only you had,” The anger in the Bairaz’s eyes left his companions in no doubt that he was utterly disappointed by the pompous prince.

  Cormac’s hopes to understand what it was about his war-horn that had the chiefs of the Sea-Dwarves so fascinated, and why they had asked him about his father. The question of his age and the interest in his height, intrigued him so that he stared at his chief-most captors expectantly, his heard beating wildly.

  At last the head of the village commanded, “Throw them in the hole, and I want a messenger sent north-east to those filthy humans to inform them that we have their Jarl’s youngest son, Fólki.”

  The command was uttered in the Caled tongue, with a predatory gleam in his eyes, as his prisoners protested.

  “Heed my words, we have come not to trouble you, but are on an important quest to liberate this island,” Bardulf called out to the diminutive non-humans who ignored his warnings.

  They thought him mad, with the Elves in particular poorly handled as they were driven over to near to the northernmost gates. It was thereon the elevated small hill where those gates were located that the travelers found the hole of which the Dwarves spoke of.

  A large pit almost ten meters deep, with the sand-covered ground, with the heroes lowered down, save in the case of the Elves who were tossed down. Caught by Connor and Lyr, they came to no real harm, with Thvalin supervising the lowering of the prisoners with visible interest. Keen to keep any harm from befalling Cormac in particular, with the youth sneered at by the deputy-chieftain.

  “I do not know why you came to be here, or why you sought out people from ériu, Fólki but consider yourself are captive until such a time, as your father grants us a worthy-enough ransom.”

  This provided hope to the short-sighted Lyr, who uttered cheerily, “So you do recognise me as prince of ériu! If such is the case, I command you to release us!”

  “Bah, we will see what your father will pay for you, prince of ériu,” Thvalin snapped back at him with a roll of his eyes.

  This served to deflate the muscular érian who was as stricken as Cormac.

  *****

  It was only when they found themselves in the hole with the pine-wood ladder pulled up and the cage bars that had been pushed out of the way for some time, it seemed were pulled closed high above them. Sealing them inside of the cold, dank cell to the despair of each and every individual imprisoned below ground.

  Bewildered by what had transpired as he had not been properly informed of their situation properly, Glarald was a little short until Calandra had explained all to him in Elvish. Once he understood all that had transpired, he grew rather more optimistic than the rest of them.

  “I suppose, we ought to take comfort,” Said the son of Kyrenas with cautious enthusiasm, “In the knowledge that they may prefer to ransom us.”

  “How is that a comfort? They specified only that they might ransom prince Lyr and Cormac for some reason,” Kyrenas retorted sharply, turning away from his son with his old hostility towards his heir.

  Glarald for his own part wounded as always by this rejection, shrugged his shoulders.

  Calandra bit her lip at the sight of the division between the two Elves, yet said nothing to either of them. Preferring to go sit by Bardulf’s side, as the Wolfram was already making himself, comfortable to one side of the hole into which they had been thrown into. His fur stunk so badly that it clogged out all other scents so that Cormac wrinkled his nose, in disgust.

  It was just as Calandra had seated herself, with Glarald taking to her side, while his father favoured the opposite end, the right-hand side of the cell that a new voice spoke up.

  “A ransom is preferable to no ransom,” Remarked a new voice, this one scratchy and hardened by nature, echoing from the shadows to the southern side of the cell.

  “Who goes there?” Daegan demanded unsheathing her father’s sword, of Cosantóir in one smooth gesture, just as Connor who had remained undecided about where to seat himself, picked up some rocks with an equally furious gleam in his eyes.

  Cormac reached over for a stone of his own, frightened of what could lie farther within the cell, only to blink as the other voice sniggered mockingly. “If you wish to know my name, answer my question first; who are you?”

  The group of travelers glanced amongst themselves, with Kyrenas the first to recognise the voice only to remark scornfully, “It is evident by his accent that, he is a Sea-Dwarf.”

  “I am prince Lyr, this is my groom Connor MacBaronk, and these are companions of mine,” Lyr stated ere he introduced his various companions. With special emphasis given to the ladies, something that caught the disapproving attention of Cormac and Kyrenas, who disappeared for very different reasons, one due to envy and the other out of disdain for his humanness. Not that the prince of ériu paid them much attention, with the two forgetting their earlier ill-mood when the Dwarf’s voice echoed once more from the shadows.

  “I see that I am in the presence of greatness,” the Dwarf sneered with a small titter, mocking them, “To sit in the presence of Bardulf the hero, a crown prince, an Elvish princess and ‘the great Daegan’!” This last part was directed towards the red-haired lass who had introduced herself far more pompously, than even Lyr had.

  “Enough of this,” Connor grunted, as he marched thither into the shadows to pull forth from it by the scruff of the neck the Dwarf who had hitherto that moment sneered at them.

  The Dwarf that he pulled forth from the shadows and into the little light cast by the suns into the small cell which was hardly eight meters in length, was scraggly haired and bearded. It was impossible to tell whether his hair was grey or brown given how dirty he was.

  With the Dwarf thinned from too much time without having been fed properly. With his tunic and trousers almost little more than rags, so that he bore more the appearance of a beast, than a proper person.

  Such was the sorry state of his shabby appearance and the dirt that covered him that Cormac felt both repulsed, and full of pity for the poor creature, the Bairaz carried forward.

  This was not to be the sort of reaction on the part of some such as Calandra who let loose a terrible shriek of fright, with this Dwarf truly the embodiment of how she had always imagined his people. Glarald appeared apprehensive also though his anxiousness was mixed, with a little curiosity in marked contrast to his father and Lyr who were both filled with utter disgust.

  Daegan for her own part was equally disgusted, though she half-unsheathed her sword out of mistrust of the beast that was tossed down almost at her feet.

  Only Bardulf appeared to share Cormac’s sympathy for their fellow prisoner, with the Wolfram snapping viciously at the Bairaz. “Are you wholly devoid of compassion?”

  “What do you mean? Why must I treat him with compassion, when he has done naught but mock us?” Connor retorted confused and angered, by the heir of Griogair as he always was.

  Before either of them could continue to quarrel between themselves, the son of Murchadh the fisherman stepped past his older friend dropping the rocks in his hands, so as to help the visibly frightened Dwarf up to his feet.

  The Dwarf accepted his aid with a start, gazing at him suspiciously with half-mad dark eyes, as Cormac asked him, “Are you alright? I apologize for Connor; he is simply a little obtuse at times, is all.”

  The insult was one that the Bairaz snorted loudly at in fury, taking a step to menace the youth who met his own gaze evenly, it was some time ere he backed away.

  With a wary glance towards those who surrounded him, the Dwarf stammered if against his will, “I am Andvari the ‘Imprisoned One’ as my people have taken to calling me, as my name is now forbidden in the village.”

  Having never seen someone so frantic, so utterly crushed by imprisonment, driven to such a state of half-madness Cormac felt his heart almost grind to a halt, so great was the pity he felt for Andvari. The Dwarf all but supplicated before them, with his whole body shaking from fright, his gaze shifting from one to the next.

  The stench of his breath was almost enough to curl Cormac’s nails and turn away in disgust. As it was, the stench of the man made Bardulf turn away in repugnance, just as the equally keen-scented Bairaz did. Though where the latter waved his hand in front of his piggish nostrils, the former simply hissed a little.

  “Why is your name forbidden in the village?” Cormac demanded of the Dwarf, though he too felt repulsed by his breath and the stench of his unwashed body, he refused to turn away or show too much revulsion.

  To do so would be terribly rude, as his mother would have told him. He imagined that the seamstress might have squawked and kicked up a fuss to their captors over the stench, and made them provide the ‘Imprisoned One’ with a bath.

  “Because, I know the truth! I dared to speak it, and this greatly displeased Dáinn and his filthy, clever nephew Thvalin.” The Dwarf who had knelt before them lurched forward a little, surprising Cormac who fell over.

  Most retreated from him, with Calandra whimpering to one side, stricken by the scent and sight of him, while Lyr appeared visibly disconcerted. It was Daegan who might otherwise have made the mistake of striking him dead in that instant.

  Her gleaming silver-white blade shimmered with its own light, only for it to slide back down against her will into its sheath. Cursing at it, she leapt back a little when she noticed how near to her the Dwarf was.

  To the repugnance and sympathy of Cormac Andvari did not strike at him but rather he clung to his arm and hand, desperately so, as he spoke.

  “What truth?” Glarald asked of him, half-rising ere he was almost pulled back down by Arduinna’s youngest daughter in her fright.

  He was helped by Bardulf who sought to comfort her and shield her by raising himself a little to position himself between her and Cormac, who was himself betwixt those three and Andvari. Off to one side, Kyrenas drew back in disgust.

  “The truth that it is the Dark-Laird who controls all of us he is on the cusp of victory hereon the island of Antillia, without a blow having been struck!” Andvari hissed from between his cracked jagged teeth, his thin lips almost pressed together when he spoke then.

  As he told them this, he glanced up above them, at the outside world with a mixture of wariness and mortal terror.

  The admission was met with everyone stiffening in shock.

  Not a single face was not clouded over with fear and stupefaction with the first of them all to recover, being Lyr, who asked of him, “Do you know this for certain?”

  “Aye, as surely as I breathe air, or kneel here before thee!” Andvari cried out, becoming increasingly frenetic with each word he uttered. “The Amazons have fallen though they do not yet realize it, the three Jarls are divided; with the senior of the three broken by age. What few men realize is that each of the Jarls’ are controlled as surely, as the Centaur tribes, and we Dwarves are, by agents of the Dark Laird. He also controls events in Brittia and Gallia, due to key nobles and lairds in those lands having over the years been seduced by his promises of conquest, just as our chiefs have been.”

  This revelation was hardly believed by the majority of their group, due to the madness with which he spoke. What was more was the notion that the tendrils of influence, extended so far as Gallia and Brittia.

  It was Connor who snorted and asked of him, “And how does he exert this influence, o wise Andvari?”

  “Via his riders, and other agents,” Andvari snapped at him evenly, “I know he has a great store of wealth and has wielded his treasures to bribe where necessary, has used it also to hire sell-swords. His weapons are discord and treachery; this is how he intends to conquer every kingdom ere he claims the power the previous Dark Laird held.”

  “Impossible, he shan’t ever succeed,” Kyrenas sneered full of disbelief.

  “Aye, if he were to advance upon Gallia the King, would stop him, for there is no warrior or king as majestic as King Clovis.” Daegan added full of confidence in the High-King of Gallia.

  Andvari shrugged his shoulders in response to their dismissals; the look in his eyes was such that he likely thought them fools. The Dwarf looked then to Cormac who was as stricken with doubt as the rest of them were.

  A reaction that the Dwarf hardly took well to, looking betrayed for reasons that escaped the fisherman’s son. Only Glarald considered his words, with an air of seriousness that was to be contrasted to those of his friends.

  Confused by the cynicism involved in the Dwarf’s warnings, the manner in which he uttered them and the stench that almost appeared to surround his words. Cormac was to remain unsure of which way to go physically; whether to pursue Andvari or to do as Daegan bade him, with a sneer in the madman’s direction.

  “Come Cormac, there appears to be naught to be gained from spending time with him,” Daegan declared with a toss of her bright mane.

  Leaving them to their corner of the hole, Andvari returned thither from whence Connor had pulled him, saying over his shoulder as he did so, “Aye, I am the fool that is until such a time, as he invades us all.”

  *****

  In the days that followed, the Dwarves threw down some cooked fish, hard bread and a bit of goat-milk for them to imbibe with their small meal. There was enough food to feed almost half their numbers, so that most ended up going hungry. Some such as Connor and Kyrenas refused their meals, in order to give a little extra to Lyr and Glarald respectively.

  Both of the younger men rejected this at first, with the prince saying, “How can I take from you Connor, when your strength will likely be far more useful than my own?”

  “Take it, if you return it to me, Lyr I shall only throw it away.” Connor vowed aggressively.

  As he spoke, Bardulf snorted in a fair imitation of the pig’s own sort of snort, “Doubtful.”

  This began a lengthy row between the two of them, as the Bairaz turned red-faced at the implied slight against his honour.

  While they bickered, Glarald sought to refuse the food himself only for Kyrenas to have already turned his back to him, and stalked off to the opposite end of the prison. Despairing, the Elven youth turned over a sizeable amount of his meal to Calandra, who had by this time calmed herself though she still refused to glance in Andvari’s direction.

  Cormac for his part was to on the first day; eat only a little, preferring to tear in half his fish with the larger half going to Daegan who at first demurred, ere he insisted. “Dae, please do eat, you must retain your strength.”

  “But, what of you, Cormac?” Daegan asked worriedly.

  “I will be fine, I will have a bit more of the bread you see,” He suggested though in truth he had no such plans, he only said so to convince her to eat the share he wanted her to.

  Reluctantly she gave in. It was a little later as she was distracted discussing escape plans with Bardulf that Cormac slipped over away from the side of the cavern occupied by his friends.

  But he was caught almost at once, by Daegan who called out to him, “Cormac what are you doing?”

  But he did not answer, not at once which caused several of the others to call out, notably Bardulf and Glarald. Even Calandra appeared stunned by his actions, and called for him to be careful, which he ignored as he did the other cries.

  Food in hand, he came to a stop a short distance from the shadows from which Connor had torn the Dwarf from. It was there that he placed the food, after he called out to the non-human for a time, “Andvari, Andvari? I have food here for you.”

  His cries appeared to be ignored, whereupon he put the food down.

  Cormac returned to his friends, who stared at him with big, round eyes, with some such as Daegan studying him disapprovingly whereas Bardulf and Glarald appeared awed by his actions. He could only shrug helplessly when Calandra asked him, “Why did you do that, Cormac?”

  “It was foolish!” Daegan cried out.

  “It was weak,” Lyr scorned.

  “I think it was the opposite of those two things,” Bardulf stated quietly, eyeing the lad with a great deal of respect in his eyes.

  Lyr snorted, with Connor who was ordinarily swift to disagree with the Wolfram simply studied him with a contemplative look in his eyes. At the same time that the father of Glarald went on to study the blonde-haired youth for a time with his almond-shaped gleaming eyes.

  Helpless before their gazes and the scornful one of Daegan, he replied with a sigh, “No one should starve to death.”

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