The Adventures of Trik the Elf

The bells on Trik’s saddle jingled as his stallion’s hooves clomped against the icy gravel of the Frozen North. It was late autumn, and a cold one at that. The sun was just beginning to rise in the east, glinting off the snowy tundra. Beyond the tundra lay the Dwarven Mountains with their icy white peaks standing sentry over the barren landscape.

As the sun climbed over the mountains, Trik took some dried mutton from his saddlebag. He had not eaten for several hours, and he knew he would need his strength for the pass between the mountains. Before he could bite into the tough meat, he was startled by the sound of a shrill whistle. A moment later, as if in answer, another whistle screeched over the tundra.

An arrow sped past Trik and struck the ground a few paces in front of him. The bright red fletching of the arrow stood out against the ivory snow. He tugged on the reins of his horse, bringing it to a halt. Two dark figures marched down a snow-covered hill to the road. Trik drew his sword. They were half-dwarves, bearded and barrel-chested, taller than dwarves but shorter than men. One of them wielded a crossbow and the other a long spear. The tip of the spear was iron, and it had a smear of blood on its point. “It seems we’ve caught something,” said the spear-wielding half-dwarf. He peered at the elf with small blue eyes framed by bushy gray eyebrows.

“You there,” said a third half-dwarf approaching Trik from the other side of the road. He wore a wolf fur coat with an iron chest plate strapped over it. His gray beard stretched past his belt buckle. He wielded a heavy double-sided battle axe.

Trik looked down at the axe-wielding half-dwarf from his horse. “Hail and well met, good dwarfman,” he said

The half-dwarf with the axe grinned, and the gold tooth at the front of his mouth glinted in the morning light. “You’re alone today, stranger,” he said.

Trik glanced at the two half-dwarves, who were approaching him from the other side of the road. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. “I want no trouble,” he said.

The half-dwarf with the axe smiled. “I will decide whether there will be trouble or not,” he said. “These are my kin. This is my road.”

“Tell your kin to stand down,” said Trik.

The half-dwarf laughed a deep laugh. “Stand down, bah,” he said. “You speak bravely for a nobleman without a guard.”

“I am not a nobleman,” said Trik, “and if you do not stand down, then I cannot spare you.”

The half-dwarf with the axe snapped his fingers. The half-dwarf with the crossbow raised the weapon and pointed it at Trik. The half-dwarf with the axe pressed the head of the axe into the snow and rested on its grip. “I give the commands here,” he said. He glanced at the leather purse on Trik’s belt. “That purse of yours, is there coin in it?”

“A few coppers only,” said Trik.

“You are on my road,” said the half-dwarf. “You must pay to pass this way.”

“I have nothing to give you,” said Trik.

The half-dwarf glanced at Trik’s sword. “You have a fine weapon,” he said. “It would fetch a good price.”

Trik moved the point of the sword near the half-dwarf’s throat. “It’s not for sale,” he said.

The half-dwarf with the crossbow called out. “Shall I put a bolt up his ass, Captain?” he shouted.

The captain looked up at the elf. “Who are you?” he asked.

“A traveler,” said Trik. He looked out at the mountains before him. “I seek Chief Boros, lord of these lands.”

“Chief Boros,” said the captain, his brow furrowing. “Why do you seek him?”

Trik faced the captain. “He has summoned me,” said Trik.

The captain’s eyes fell on Trik’s long pointed ears beneath his dark and wavy hair. “You’re an elf,” he said.

“Yes,” said Trik.

“There are no elves, not in all the lands of Estern,” said the captain.

“I am the last,” said Trik.

There was a crack, as the half-dwarf with the spear smacked the tip of it into a patch of ice. “Let me stick him, Captain,” he said.

“No,” shouted the captain. He glared at the two half-dwarves on the other side of the road. “Stand down, and lower your weapons.”

The half-dwarves groaned but they did as commanded, lowering their weapons and stepping back from the road. Trik returned his sword to its leather scabbard. The captain pointed at the icy gravel road that disappeared into the pass. “You will need my help,” he said.

“You will take me to Chief Boros?” asked Trik.

The captain nodded. “Yes,” he said. He turned to his companions. “The mounts,” shouted the captain. “Bring them.”

The companions trudged across the snow to a dark gray camp in the distance. There at the camp were three mules, saddled and laden with supplies. The two companions led the mules to the road, and there they mounted the lesser beasts. The captain joined them and mounted the greater mule, a spotted white beast with sullen gray eyes.

The captain rode beside Trik and behind his companions. “My name is Captain Broglar,” He said. “My nephews Ingor and Sordred serve under my command. We are the guards of the lower pass.”

“Trikodemos,” said the elf, staring straight at the pass ahead.

“There will be another set of guards on the pass,” said Broglar. “Chief Boros has doubled the watch.”

“For what reason?” asked Trik.

“That,” said Broglar, “I will leave for Chief Boros to answer.”

*

The half-dwarves led Trik over the mountain pass to the valley beyond. A light snow was beginning to fall, and a cold wind was blowing. From the road, smoke could be seen rising into the cold blue sky from the chimneys of a mountain village in the distance.

Trik surveyed the village as they descended from a snowy hilltop. A frozen river snaked along the northwestern edge of the village and disappeared into the mountains beyond. The village lay in a valley cradled on all sides by high mountains. The huts were made of stone and piled earth, and smoke spewed from chimneys on their snow-covered roofs. Some huts possessed little round windows made of transparent rock, and others had no windows at all.

As they approached the first huts of the village, little half-dwarven children ran alongside the riders. The young boys and young girls looked up at the riders with eyes round and wide. They had fair skin with blue or gray eyes, but their hair was dark and curly.

“This is my uncle’s village,” said Broglar. “There are forty families under his protection. For nearly one-hundred years we have lived here in peace.”

Trik’s eyes narrowed. He knew that there would never be peace on the borderlands of the Empire.

Broglar and the other two half-dwarves led Trik to the largest stone and earthen hut. The company halted there. While the other two half-dwarves remained seated on their mounts, Broglar dismounted. Trik dismounted beside him, letting the reins slip from his hands. He stood beside Broglar, easily five hands taller than he was.

Broglar approached the wooden door of the large hut and whistled.

The door crept open. A tall and muscular half-dwarf with thick and curly red hair and beard stood inside. He wore a heavy iron sword in a scabbard, and his hand was on its hilt. He gave Trik a hard look before turning to Broglar.

“Come,” said Broglar, stepping through the doorway and past the red-haired sentry.

Trik followed him down a dim passage, ducking at times to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. The hall descended deep into the earth. On its walls were carved images of great battles and feats of bravery, which were illuminated by candles in sconces. At the end of the long hall was another door, and behind that door was a large round court room. A dozen or so half-dwarves with gray beards moved about the room. At the far end of the room was a finely carved stone throne, yet it was empty.

“You brought him,” said a very fat half-dwarf with an enormous gray beard, making his way from among the others. “Trik, my boy,” said the half-dwarf. “It’s been ages. But you look as young as ever.”

“An accident of my race,” said Trik, eyeing the fat half-dwarf. He looked about the room. “You have done well for yourself, Boros.”

“Not as well as all that,” said Boros. “But tell me, how was your journey?”

“Long and cold,” said Trik, “and my welcome colder still.”

A sorrowful expression swept across the half-dwarf’s face. “The years have not been kind,” said Boros. “The winds of fate have blown ill for too long.”

“Yet fate has brought me to you,” said Trik. “Tell me, why you have summoned me all the way from Rule.”

“I will not say in this present company,” said Boros, “but come aside and have a drink with me.” Boros called to one of his ministers to fetch a drink. The minister brought him a ram’s horn filled with dark ale.

Boros led Trik to a small candlelit room that connected to the main throne room. The ceiling of the room was so low that Trik could not stand without ducking. There was a stone table and two chairs in the center of the room. Boros mounted the grander chair, and placed two wooden cups on the table. He drained ale from the ram’s horn into each cup. “Drink,” he said, taking the cup closest to him.

“To your health,” said Trik, taking the other cup and drinking from it.

“To yours,” said Boros, and he drank. When he had drained the cup, his expression became grim.

Trik set his cup back on the table. His eyes narrowed on Boros. “So, tell me why you have summoned me,” he said.

Boros did not look at Trik as he spoke. “A fortnight ago,” he said, “barbaric dwarves from the deep mountains raided my village and stole from me the one thing that I cannot live without. They took my daughter Elendra from me.” His fingers gripped his cup.

“A terrible crime,” said Trik, sharply. “It saddens me greatly. Elendra is as fair in heart as in countenance.”

“Fairer,” said Boros.

“Was there a ransom?” asked Trik.

“Yes,” said Boros, “but a price that not even the Emperor of Rule himself can afford.”

“Then we shall have to steal her back,” said Trik.

Boros nodded. “Indeed we must,” he said, “and if I were younger I would go myself. But as you can see, time has worn me down.”

Trik looked at his empty cup on the table. “Why do the barbarians raid so far south?” asked Trik.

Boros scratched his beard. “The summer was short this year,” he said. “Whenever summer is short the barbarians come.”

“Yet they have never harmed this village before,” said Trik.

“This year they are commanded by a new leader,” said Boros, “a brute by the name of Konrath the Foul-Tempered.”

Trik sighed. “If he is half as pleasant as his namesake,” he said, “then I shall have to meet him.”

Boros poured another drought into Trik’s cup. “For your sake,” he said, “I hope you will not. He is not a reasonable dwarf. Even his own warriors call him mad.”

Trik drained the ale from the cup and placed it carefully on the stone table. “You know I can’t resist a good fight, Boros,” he said.

“This is not an ordinary task,” said Boros. “I pray that you will not engage with Konrath. My nephew Broglar will lead you to Konrath’s camp. Save my daughter Elendra, and I will reward you well.” He dropped a handful of rare gems from his purse onto the stone table.

“You have my word,” said Trik, his eyes catching the reflected light of the gems. “I will return your daughter to you.”

“Good,” said Boros, nodding. “Then, we’ll have another drink before you leave.”

*

That evening, Broglar and Trik approached the village stables, a long low building made of stone with a timber roof. As they walked inside, a young stable groom pushed a wheelbarrow filled with hay down the main aisle of the building.

“Chief Boros speaks well of you,” said Broglar to Trik. Broglar was wearing his wolf furs, and he held a wolf’s head helm under his arm.

“We have been friends for many decades,” said Trik.

“My uncle is a great dwarfman,” said Broglar. “He has protected this village for many years. One day he will choose me as his heir, and I will keep his legacy.”

Trik picked up some hay from a stand nearby and took it to his horse. The horse raised its head and began to munch on the hay. “You are next in line?” said Trik.

“Yes,” said Broglar. “I am his oldest relative.”

“What of Elendra?” asked Trik, “the daughter of Boros.”

“Elendra cannot lead,” said Broglar. “It is written on the Holy Tablet that no female child may take the role of Protector. Only dwarfmen may lead the tribe. Besides, Elendra is too young to lead a great people.”

“I see,” said Trik.

“Bah,” grumbled Broglar. “I am in no mood to discuss politics tonight. Let us ride.” He approached his mule from the adjacent stall. It had on a fine saddle emblazoned with a Boros coat-of-arms, a gray dire wolf against a white mountain peak. Lying over the saddle was a wolf pelt. Broglar climbed atop the beast.

The stable groom raised the latch on Broglar’s stall and stepped out of his way. “You are free, Captain Broglar,” he said.

Broglar rode out of the stall and into the main aisle of the stables. From there, he looked back at Trik. “Are you coming, lad?” he asked.

“Boros tells me that you know the way,” said Trik. He mounted his horse.

Broglar pulled on the reins of his mule, turning the mount toward the elf. “Yes,” he said, “I know where the bastard is.”

The stable groom released the stall latch for Trik and opened the gate for him, stepping back into the main aisle of the stables. Trik clicked his tongue and rode his horse up to Broglar’s mule. “Why do we wait?” asked Trik.

“My nephew Ingor will join us,” said Broglar. “He is the finest arbalest in the Frozen North. I would not think of leaving without him.”

“He appears to be late,” said Trik, and as he said this, the door to the stables crept open.

Ingor appeared at the far end of the stables. He was handsome for a half-dwarf, with a short and sable beard and hair. He wore goat-leather armor, and a goat’s fur coat and a goat-head helm with horns. He walked down the main aisle of the stables to a stall housing a plain brown mule.

“You’re late,” said Broglar to Ingor.

“I beg your pardon, uncle,” said Ingor. “I managed a late supper.”

“It’ll be your last supper if you delay me any longer,” said Broglar, glaring at Ingor.

Ingor mounted his mule, and the stable groom opened the stall gate for him. He rode into the main aisle of the stables and joined the other two.

The three mounted warriors rode out of the stables and onto the village road. The sun was low, and it would soon descend below the mountains in the west. They rode in file with Broglar in the lead, Trik close behind him, and Ingor the Arbalest in the rear.

*

When the sun fell behind the mountains in the west, Trik and Ingor rode by moonlight and starlight, following Broglar on his spotted white mule. The path wound between high mountains, a trail of ice and snow and rock. As they reached the bank of a frozen river, Broglar halted and they halted beside him.

“The rest of the way is on foot,” said Broglar. He hopped down from his beast, and Trik and Ingor did the same. They took their reins and followed Broglar on foot down to the frozen river.

“I cannot see my own feet,” said Ingor, looking down at the snow-covered river. “We should wait until daybreak.”

“It is only by night,” said Broglar, “that we will catch the barbarians by surprise.”

Trik looked over the snowy path by which they came. Their footprints trailed off into the darkness, where even he could not discern them. “Your uncle is right,” he said to Ingor. “In the dark they will be caught by surprise, and we may take Elendra without a fight.”

“Come,” said Broglar, leading them to a trail beside the frozen river.

They ascended the rocky trail, gaining many feet in elevation. As they reached the summit of the trail, Broglar halted. Before him was a deep precipice.

“Light a torch,” said Broglar to Ingor.

Ingor ignited a torch from his bag and handed it to Broglar. Broglar held the flaming torch over the precipice. The light did not reveal the bottom of the precipice. Broglar frowned deeply. “We cannot go this way,” he said. “Ice has fallen here, and it is barred.” He turned to Trik. “We must go the hard way.”

Ingor’s face paled in the firelight, and his eyes grew wide. “But there are dire wolves that way, Uncle,” he said.

“We have no choice,” said Broglar, “unless my uncle’s friend knows of some elven spell to ferry us across.”

“I will not break our company over this,” said Trik. “What is the other way?”

Broglar led them again, this time with the torch in his hand. As they crossed the frozen river again, Broglar pointed at a mountain in the distance. A dark cloud drifted away from the moon, and the full height of the mountain was revealed. Its peaks were jagged, and its skirt sloped steeply. “We must get over this mountain,” said Broglar. “Konrath’s camp is on the other side.”

“But the wolves,” said Ingor, his voice trembling.

“Shut your mouth,” said Broglar firmly to Ingor. “We will not be troubled if we are wise.”

“What of the wolves?” asked Trik.

Broglar faced Trik. “In the mountains the wolves are not ordinary,” he said. “They grow monstrously large, and prey upon flesh.”

“Then best not to disturb them,” said Trik.

Broglar put out the torch in the snow, dousing its flame. Then he pointed at a trail through the snow leading up the side of the mountain. “This way,” he said, trudging forward through the snow. He pulled his mule behind him.

Trik and Ingor followed Broglar, Trik stepping lightly over the snow and Ingor trudging through it. They came to a place of shallow snow with firm earth beneath it. There they mounted their beasts and rode for a while.

*

As they approached the summit of the mountain, the wind suddenly grew fierce. It howled against the mountainside, tearing at their clothes and upsetting their mounts. Trik’s cloak billowed behind him as he rode. “Is it much farther?” shouted Trik.

“Not much,” said Broglar, but his answer was lost on the wind.

They halted under a granite cliff, which provided them shelter against the wind. “My mule has quit,” said Broglar. “Let us rest here until the wind dies.”

“Where is the camp?” asked Trik.

“Not far,” said Broglar, “but we must wait or we will be lost in this storm.”

“Curse this wind,” shouted Ingor.

“A blessing in disguise,” said Trik. He looked up at the snow drifting across the top of the granite cliff. “If we strike tonight, we will have cover.”

Broglar nodded. “Indeed,” he said.

“Captain Broglar,” said Trik, “you say the camp is near.”

“Aye, it is,” said Broglar.

“Then let me lead,” said Trik. “My eyes see far in this storm.”

“Let him lead, Uncle,” said Ingor. “I must get off this horrid mountain.”

Broglar only nodded and said nothing.

Trik dismounted from his horse, landing with a thump on the icy trail. He took the reins of his horse and marched it past the two half-dwarves, leading it out of the shelter of the granite cliff and back into the storm. “Come,” he shouted, and waved them forward.

Broglar and Ingor followed him into the storm. Trik led them over the summit and to a trail that descended from the mountain. Not long after they began descending the wind slowed until at last the stars could be see in the sky above. Trik halted at the edge of a cliff overlooking the firelight and billowing smoke of a camp in the valley below the mountain. With his elf eyes, he perceived sixteen tents arranged in a circle around a large tent near a blazing fire.

Broglar stepped to the edge of the cliff and pointed at the camp. “Konrath’s camp,” he said. “They will sleep until sunrise.”

“We will be gone well before then,” said Trik. He turned to Broglar. “Where are they keeping Elendra?”

Broglar’s brow furrowed. “I know Konrath,” he growled. “He will keep Elendra in his own tent. That is the way of these barbarians.” He pointed at the largest of the seventeen tents, a large round leather structure stretched over timber poles.

“One of us should remain here with the mounts,” said Trik, “and prepare them to make our escape when we return.”

“Ingor,” said Broglar. “I think this task is most suited for you. The elf and I will steal into the camp,” he said. “You must make everything ready for our escape.”

“Gladly,” said Ingor with a smile.

“Good,” said Broglar. He looked up at Trik. “Now is our time.”

“At last,” said Trik, stepping back from the cliff’s edge and joining Ingor at the mounts. He took something from the saddlebag of his horse and placed it in his cloak.

Broglar placed his wolf-helm on his head. “For honor,” said Broglar, and he strode down the mountainside toward the camp of the dwarves, and Trik marched beside him.

*

As Trik and Broglar approached the camp, they drew their weapons. There were footprints in the snow everywhere about them, yet the camp seemed deserted. Each of the sixteen tents was unguarded, and the small fire pits beside each tent had burned to ash. Only the large fire pit near Konrath’s tent still burned. “No sentries,” whispered Trik to Broglar.

“None at all,” whispered Broglar, his eyes moving about the empty camp.

They continued in shadows, making their way to the largest tent. There they halted.

“Wait here,” whispered Trik to Broglar. “I will go in alone.”

Broglar gripped the handle of his double-sided war axe and nodded. “Be quick,” he whispered sharply.

Trik stepped around the tent to its entrance, a broad opening with a flap hanging over it. He stepped inside. There were no dwarves inside, yet in its center, with her hands tied to the main tent pole, was Eldendra. She was awake, but her mouth was gagged with a cloth. Her blue eyes widened in the firelight. Trik crept up to her and knelt before her.

She groaned and turned her head away from him.

“I’m here to help you,” he whispered to her. He slid his sword into his scabbard. He reached into his cloak and retrieved a knife he had taken from his saddlebag. He took the gag from behind her head, and cut it with the knife.

She struggled against him. “Don’t,” she said.

He took her chin in his hand. “Quiet,” he said, staring into her eyes. “The dwarves will hear you. Your father sent me to rescue you. But you must be quiet.”

She nodded.

He reached behind her back and cut the bonds that held her hands. Then he backed away from her. “Come with me,” he whispered. He took her hand, and led her out of the tent.

Broglar was waiting for them outside. “My lady Elendra,” he whispered.

“Let’s go now,” said Trik, “while they are away.” But as he said this, a ram’s horn was blown.

Torches blazed in the camp, and many dwarves rushed out from hidden places.

“Hurry,” said Broglar, running. Trik and Elendra ran behind him.

Trik, Elendra, and Broglar raced across the snow, but they had not gotten far when a great dwarf in full plate armor with a great battle axe blocked their way. Beside him were a dozen others dwarves all wearing plate mail and wielding battle axes. The big dwarf removed his plate helm, and held it at his side. His beard was gray and thick, and one of his eyes was covered by a black patch. “Well, well,” he said, “what have we got here.”

“Konrath,” said Trik, reaching for his sword.

Broglar gripped his battle axe. “Run,” he said to Trik and Elendra.

Trik stood firm and drew his sword.

Broglar faced Trik, and his expression was fierce. “Run, now,” he growled.

Trik grasped Elendra’s hand and led her away. As the dwarves marched toward Broglar, Trik and Elendra dashed toward the mountain. And as Trik and Elendra climbed the mountainside, the storm engulfed them, and they were lost to the pursuing dwarves.

*

Trik and Elendra emerged from the storm at the mountain ledge overlooking Konrath’s camp. Ingor approached them. “You were gone so long,” said Ingor, “I thought you were captured.”

“We may still be,” said Trik, approaching his horse. He prepared the saddle for Elendra, laying down a saddle blanket.

“Where is Broglar?” asked Ingor.

Trik said nothing as he finished tightening the leather straps of the saddle.

“Where is my uncle?” asked Ingor.

“He has fallen,” said Trik, but even as he said this, Broglar appeared before them in the blowing snow.

“I’m not dead yet,” said Broglar.

Trik faced Broglar with a surprised expression. “How in the world did you manage to escape?” he asked.

“Never mind all that now,” said Broglar. “The story must wait. Let us go.”

“Elendra,” said Trik. “Take my horse. I will lead you over the mountain and back to your father.” He took her hand and helped her onto his saddle.

When Elendra was seated comfortably, she nodded. “I’m ready,” she said.

Trik took the reins of his horse and led it forward. Already Broglar and Ingor were trudging through the snow, leading their mounts to the summit of the mountain. There was a faint glimmer of light upon the horizon in the east. Soon the sun would rise.

Trik and Elendra had not gotten far when Broglar and Ingor marched out of sight.

“Where has my uncle gone?” asked Elendra.

Trik peered into the darkness with his elf eyes. “I cannot see them,” he said.

The wind whistled harshly across the mountainside, bitterly cold. It was little consolation that the sun had just broken the horizon in the east. As they made their way out of the channel between the peaks, a wolf howled in the distance.

Trik halted and released the reins of his horse.

“What is wrong?” asked Elendra.

“There is a wolf ahead,” said Trik.

“Dire wolves,” cried Elendra, and her expression grew fearful.

Trik hushed her, but it was too late. The wolf came rushing across the snow, a huge beastly creature as white as the snow and nearly as large as Trik’s horse. Its jaws snapped open, revealing many long and pointed teeth. As it approached Trik and Elendra, it made a deep growling sound in its throat.

“Away,” shouted Trik, waving his hand.

The dire wolf charged, and Trik had only enough time to draw his sword and turn before the creature’s teeth caught his cloak. He swung his sword, striking the beast from below and cutting a deep wound into its belly. The dire wolf shrieked, and bolted away from them.

“Are you hurt?” asked Elendra.

Trik inspected his torn cloak. The dire wolf had taken a large piece from it. “No,” he said.

“Where is my uncle?” asked Elendra, looking about.

“I am here,” said Broglar, standing now before them in their way. The snow was drifting across the path between them. Beside him was Ingor, and he was holding his crossbow with a bolt loaded in the firing shaft. The bolt was pointed at Trik.

“There are seven wolves,” said Trik. “One is hurt.”

Broglar glanced at Ingor, whose expression was hard and distant. “Don’t let him raise his sword,” said Broglar. “They must die here. The wolves will consume them.”

Trik’s eyes widened. “You have betrayed us,” he said.

“I warned my uncle,” said Broglar, his face suddenly turning grim. “I warned him not to request outside help, but he was insistent.”

“You spineless coward,” said Trik. “You are behind all of this.”

Broglar glared at Trik. “My foolish uncle denied me three times my rightful leadership of the clan,” he said. “Then in his final insult, he made Elendra his heir. Imagine it, a girl leading a clan of dwarfmen.” He gave Elendra a cold glance. “So I made a deal with Konrath.”

“You betrayed my father and the clan,” said Elendra. “You are a traitor.”

There was the growling of many wolves. Broglar grinned. “Do you hear that?” asked Broglar. “They are hungry.”

“You won’t get away with this,” said Elendra.

“But I have already,” said Broglar. He turned to Ingor. “Shoot the elf first.”

Ingor’s finger moved to release the crossbow bolt, but as he did so something struck him from behind. He fell in the snow. One of the dire wolves, a terrible beast with red eyes and sharp white teeth, tore at his chest, at his throat, spilling blood. “Uncle,” cried Ingor.

Broglar rushed to defend Ingor, but the other six dire wolves attacked them, and Broglar had only enough time to raise his axe before they pounced on him.

As the half-dwarves fell to the dire wolves, Trik hopped up onto his horse with Elendra. He smacked the reins, and the horse galloped away in the snow.

*

It was mid-morning when Trik rode into the village with Elendra in the saddle behind him. The villagers came out of their homes to greet them, half-dwarf men and women and many half-dwarf children. Their faces brightened upon seeing Elendra.

Trik rode to the house of Chief Boros and halted there. He hopped down from his horse. The red-bearded half-dwarf stood before the door. He noted Trik’s tattered cloak. “You were in a battle,” he said.

“Where is Boros?” asked Trik. “I need to speak with him.”

“He is inside,” said the guard.

Trik held out his hand for Elendra. She took his hand and he helped her to dismount.

The red-beareded guard held the door open for them. “My lady Elendra,” he said, and bowed his head as she passed by.

“Come,” said Trik, leading her down the hall.

As Trik and Elendra entered the court room, the ministers began to murmur. Boros was among them, conversing with them. He broke into tears when he saw Elendra. “My darling,” he said.

“Father,” cried Elendra, and she was also in tears. They embraced in the middle of the court room before the ministers and Trik.

Boros looked up at Trik. “You have done a great deed,” he said. “But where is my nephew Broglar and his nephew Ingor?”

“My Chief Boros,” said Trik, “when I fled from Konrath’s camp I was stayed by Broglar and his nephew Ingor. He tried to kill me and Elendra.”

Boros’ eyes widened. “This cannot be true,” he said.

Elendra looked up at her father. “It is true,” she said. “But the elf saved me from them.”

“What times,” said Boros, “when a dwarfman cannot trust his own kin.” He turned to one of his ministers, a half-dwarf woman. “Take my daughter to her room,” he said. “See that she lacks for nothing.”

The half-dwarf woman bowed to Boros, and then she departed with Elendra. But Boros remained in the court room with Trik. “I am indebted to you now more deeply than ever,” he said.

“Nonsense,” said Trik. “You are a friend.”

“You have returned my daughter and my heir,” said Boros. “Ask for anything, and I will give it to you.”

Trik looked about the room before fixing his gaze once again upon Boros. “A good ale,” he said, “before we discuss any payment.”

At this, Chief Boros laughed heartily. “Come,” he said, waving Trik forward. “We shall have an ale together.”