“Ye’re to serve me and me people in our mines for five years and a day to prove yourself worthy of life and freedom.”īruenor saw that the youth had slumped back into unconsciousness. Maybe killing is in yer blood, and if it is, then let the fisherman’s blade end ye here and now! But I’m feelin’ there’s more to ye, and ye’ll have the tine to show me right.
I want ye to see the misery yer people have brung. I saved yer life here – why, I’m not quite knowin’ – but don’t ye think ye’ve been pardoned by the people of Ten-Towns. He knelt beside the lad’s head and lifted it by the hair to meet his eyes. “So ye’ve a bit of life left in ye yet,” said Bruenor. With a disgusted sigh, he headed off around the hill to find less protected victims. The fisherman returned the dwarf’s scowl, but he had witnessed Bruenor’s proficiency in battle and thought the better of pushing him too far. “Still I ask ye to let him be!” Bruenor growled, his axe bouncing impatiently against his shoulder. “What mercy would these dogs have shown to our children, I ask you? He’s half in the grave anyway.” He’s nothing but a boy, and he can’t have known truly what he an’ his people did.” Bruenor came upon them then and, recognizing the youth as the standard bearer who had dented his helmet, stayed the fisherman’s thrust. A man from Good Mead rolled the limp form of an unconscious young barbarian over onto its back, preparing to finish the job with his dagger. Yet amid the carnage of the bloody scene, a finger of mercy was to be found.
All along the hill, the fishermen of Ten-Towns moved among their fallen enemies, looting the barbarians of what small wealth they possessed and putting the sword to the unfortunate ones who were not quite dead.