Toyef Bilinski witnessed no more of what followed—not because his mind clouded, but because his eyes simply failed him. The stallion bore him onward, its course aimless and wandering. Through blurred sight, he could barely discern black riders scouring the area, hunting for the escaped dwarf. Part of the redhead prayed they wouldn't find the tracks of Thorin Durin's wagon, while another part perversely wished they would find him, grant him death beside his brothers. After a cursory search, the Cynthians marched northwest—perhaps the only consolation left to Toyef in his misery.

  His mind remained painfully lucid even as his body surrendered its strength. Despite this, Toyef Bilinski clung faithfully to Walin Barklo Vaslov's final counsel—never relinquish your grip, not even in death's embrace. At last the wounded stallion's gallop slowed, its breath tearing in ragged gasps, before it sank to its knees by the river—the very same waters that had once received Caroline Tobias.

  The red-haired dwarf slipped from the saddle. The stallion knelt on folded legs, head lowered to lap feebly at the water's surface. Toyef's head rested against the beast's flank, the arrow shaft in his back impaled in the mud, his left leg submerged in the gentle current. Blood diffused like crimson smoke into the water—whether from horse or dwarf, none could distinguish. Toyef was no more than a broken doll tossed aside.

  He longed for death. He did not want this life, this useless breathing. For the first time, he noticed the startling clarity of Cynthia's sky—or perhaps he had simply never truly raised his eyes before, never genuinely appreciated that vast azure canopy.

  Time seemed to stretch interminably. Still the arrow denied him oblivion; his thoughts remained sharp, painfully clear, like a schoolboy told lessons were cancelled for the day. Then came the sound of approaching hoofbeats, followed by measured footsteps. （Good,） he thought,（ what is meant to happen will happen.）

  "We've found another one here." The voice spoke in the common tongue. "Is this one dead?" asked a second voice.

  "Can't be certain." The speaker moved into Toyef Bilinski's limited field of vision. "His eyes look like bloated wineskins... ah, but they still track."

  "...Who?" the dwarf attempted to ask, though his voice failed him.

  "You're asking about us?" the man replied. "We're knights of Godma, dispatched to extract you from the forest and ensure your safe passage homeward."

  Toyef Bilinski's lips worked silently, tears tracking from the corners of his eyes.

  "We... we saw the slaughter back there. By the gods, I'm sorry for it," the knight in leathers said, his regret seeming real. Toyef gave a faint nod.

  "But something doesn't align with our intelligence," the armored knight interjected briskly. "Four additional dwarves remain unaccounted for. Were they captured by Cynthian forces? Or did they successfully evade pursuit?"

  Toyef Bilinski feebly slapped at the water's surface, struggling to sit upright. The knights assisted him. With trembling hand, the dwarf scooped river water to his parched lips. Then, though his mouth was numb and his tongue thick in his throat, he spun out the tale—epic, tragic, and utterly ignored.

  No one offered comment. Though Arian and Norton had delivered their account with brevity, omitting numerous details, neither of their companions pressed for elaboration. "So, they bought it? All of them?" Simon was the first to speak.

  Arian nodded solemnly. "That was our assumption at the time. Yet the body count proved inconsistent. We discovered several dwarf corpses near the charred trebuchet, all decapitated. Later, we found another by the riverbank, grievously wounded by an arrow. He wasn't dead—though barely clinging to life, reduced to his final breaths."

  "And afterward?"

  "Presumably he perished," Norton shrugged with casual indifference. "We lacked the means to save him, just as you proved unable to rescue your comrade." Tyler Wynlers glanced toward the white pavilion where Carl had been carried. "The dwarf revealed that his remaining companions had fled southeast, so we spurred our mounts accordingly."

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  "And?" Tyler nudged the big knight under the table with his boot.

  "And then," Arian sighed heavily, "they all died."

  Thorin Durin lay bound to the wagon bed.

  The rope securing him was remarkably thick, originally intended for trebuchet rigging. Blue and Green had struggled considerably to extract it from the cart's storage, using it to restrain the dwarf's flailing fists. Since regaining consciousness, Thorin had attempted to commandeer or leap from the wagon no fewer than seven times. His sole desire was to return, to stand beside Toyef Bilinski, his uncle, in battle. Now, both his hope and determination were confined by unyielding hemp.

  "You must calm yourself, Thorin," Fendi Firshield urged. "That rope will not yield to your strength."

  "They'll die," Thorin whispered, his voice hollow. "Toyef, Walin, Jim, Wilton—none can withstand such numbers of black riders. You've abandoned them to certain death."

  This time Fendi offered no rebuttal. He shared Thorin's assessment, though the decision had been reached collectively. "Had we remained, our fate would mirror theirs," Blue Rascal observed quietly. "A handful more dwarven axes would not have altered the outcome."

  Nate worried a slender twig between his teeth. His mother, sharing Fendi's mount, listened to the dwarves' bleak conversation. Though uncertain of their destination, a bold yet chilling thought had taken root in her mind: to abandon these dwarves entirely, flee with Nate and her infant daughter. Such action would inevitably lead to confrontation, perhaps bloodshed. She would need to strike preemptively—yet she possessed no weapon. "Madam?" Fendi glanced back at her. "Are you well?"

  She nodded hastily, banishing the treacherous notion. Even traveling alone with her children would likely prove no safer; at minimum, these dwarves provided protection against immediate dangers. Above all else, she was afraid. "Where do we journey to, sir?"

  "A fair question," Fendi admitted awkwardly. "In truth, we lack a definite destination. Our wisest course is to follow the forest's southern edge until we encounter Godma's forces."

  "You cannot guarantee they'll welcome us," Thorin muttered bitterly. "They may dismiss our account entirely."

  "Then we trust to luck. As long as we don't stumble onto Cynthians."

  The wagon wheels crunched over brittle twigs, hooves whispered through fallen leaves. Suddenly, Green Varmint spoke: "Someone approaches." Fendi immediately pulled the reins taut. "Where?"

  "I hear hoofbeats," Green explained, leaning outward to better listen. "Behind us, though I cannot determine precise direction." "I hear nothing," the boy commented, before Blue Rascal yanked him backward. "Trust his ears, Nate," the dwarven woman admonished. "He routinely diagnoses machinery by the subtle sounds of friction. His hearing never betrays him."

  "...Two horses."

  The mother felt her throat constrict. "Can you discern their identities?"

  "Not from here. But there are only two... no, wait. Two horses, that's all."

  "Should we flee at full speed?" she asked Fendi anxiously.

  "No, madam. Our wagon would never outpace mounted pursuers."

  "They're perhaps one hundred eighty yards distant." The woman trembled visibly.

  "Thorin."

  "What now?"

  "Can I trust you to maintain composure?"

  "What precisely do you mean?"

  "You and I will dismount and confront these strangers here, while the others conceal themselves and the wagon ahead. Should they prove Cynthian, we fight to the death. If not, we improvise our response. However, this plan demands your complete self-control."

  He considered briefly. "Remove these bonds."

  Thorin Durin and Fendi Firshield each positioned themselves behind separate trees, while the twins escorted the mother and children to hide the wagon among dense underbrush further along the path. All stood ready to respond to Fendi's signal. "Sir, is your vision truly that keen?" the woman inquired doubtfully.

  "Never question her sight," the male dwarf assured her. "She routinely evaluates mechanical alignments through visual inspection alone. Her eyes never deceive."

  The strangers emerged from the denser woodland. "Wheel tracks end here..." observed the knight in boiled leather, a lumpy burlap sack tied to his saddle. "Not terminated," his companion corrected. "Merely diverted."

  "Remain motionless, knights," Fendi commanded, revealing himself from behind a tree trunk, crossbow leveled. The knights instinctively reached for weapons. "I said don't move," Thorin appeared from the opposite side, brandishing his short sword. "This crossbow is repeating-action, genuine dwarven craftsmanship. Drop your blades." The knights exchanged meaningful glances before complying. "Now state your identities."