“I told you, m’lord—”

“Wait,” Dain said. He slid off the charger before Lord Odfrey could protest.  Ducking beneath the perlimons, Dain slithered down the steep bank of the gully to its bottom, where the log still lay, half-covered with drifting leaves.  He knelt and began to scoop armfuls of them away.

“Boy,” Lord Odfrey said.

“He’s lost his wits,” Sir Roye muttered.

Dain ignored them both. Laying his hand on the log’s rough bark, he felt the life force of the man within his spell, a dim, nearly spent force. Dain broke the spell, and there the huntsman lay for all of them to see. Nocine’s face had turned gray and sweaty. His mouth hung open slackly, but when Dain pressed his palm to the huntsman’s chest, he felt the erratic thud of his heart.  “Morde a day!” Sir Roye swore. “What magic is this?”

Dain turned his head to look up at them. “Only a weak nature spell,” he said.  “It fools the eyes, nothing more. I told the others to stay still. If they grew frightened and moved, the spell would break.”

None of the Mandrians replied. They were all staring at him, with expressions varying from fear, to wary admiration, to glaring suspicion, to stern neutrality.

“He’s a—Thod knows what he is,” Sir Roye said. “Best to keep well away from him, m’lord.”

Lord Odfrey said nothing. In the stony lines of his weathered face, his dark eyes looked sad and far away, as though it wasn’t Dain he saw at all.  In the distance came the sounds of more battle. Dain tilted his head to listen, and knew the main force of Bnen were coming.

“Your huntsman lives, lord,” he said to the chevard. “And the war party is not far from us.”

Lord Odfrey blinked as though coming out of his thoughts. He pointed at the unconscious huntsman. “Sir Alard, take him forth from here. See him safely home.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The knight spurred his horse down into the gully and dismounted to pick up Nocine and drape him across his mount’s withers. Returning to the saddle, he sent his horse scrambling back up the slope to the top and headed away.  Dain climbed up after him and stood there, wondering what was to happen now. He read the faces of the three remaining men and knew they intended to leave him behind.

In that moment, Dain knew he did not want to part ways. He did not want to go deep into the Dark Forest, searching out others of the Forlo Clan and claiming a home with them. With Jorb dead, the Forlo dwarves owed Dain no claim of kinship.  Even if another swordmaker accepted Dain as an apprentice, he knew suddenly, he did not want to spend his life making swords—he wanted to wield them. In the last two days, he had glimpsed a different, much larger world than the one he’d always known. His home and family were gone now. He could do whatever he wanted, go wherever he pleased, make a new life for himself.  “You have served me well, boy,” Lord Odfrey said.

“My name is Dain.”

“You acted well in saving my huntsman’s life. You brought us to the raiders responsible for the attack on my village. For these acts I thank you.” Lord Odfrey untied the food pouch from his saddle and held it out.  Dain made no move to take it. “Is food all I’m worth, lord?”

Sir Roye growled, and Lord Odfrey blinked. “You hunger, boy,” the chevard said.