An impromptu market had grown up around a bell house that Drutheira assumed was the domain of some kind of alderman or outpost captain. There were several other structures too, fashioned from wood and at the periphery. Some of these were of elven design and bore such devices as rampant Ellyrian stallions and the rising phoenix of Asuryan.
Above the archway framing the gate a sign swung in the wind on two lengths of chain. Zakbar Varf was written in chiselled runescript. It meant ‘Wolf Hut’ or ‘Wolf Wall’. Drutheira decided that ‘hut’ was a more accurate description of the place.
A dwarf trader with a cadre of guards and wagons in tow and not long arrived himself aroused her attention.
‘This way,’ she muttered. As she was walking towards the dwarfs who were unhitching their wagons and stretching the stiffness from their backs, she gripped Ashniel’s arm. Drutheira’s eyes held the fiery intensity of flaming coals.
She hissed, ‘You know what needs to be done?’
Ashniel nodded slowly.
‘You have everything you need?’
Again, she nodded.
Drutheira held the young witch’s gaze a moment longer, saw the hatred and ambition in her almond-shaped eyes.
She released her, taking a mote of pleasure in the grimace of pain Ashniel failed to conceal.
‘Good,’ said Drutheira.
Like a shadow retreats from the approach of the sun, Ashniel crept away from the others and blended into the crowd.
Silently, Drutheira conveyed a final order to Malchior and the two druchii closed to speak to the dwarfs.
‘Greetings, traveller,’ she said to the dwarf merchant, smiling politely.
He had a grizzled face, more at home on a battlefield than a trading post, and his fair hair showed up the grease and dirt. He grunted a reply of sorts.
Drutheira tried not to sneer. Fortunately for her, the dwarf was busy with his wagons and paid little attention.
‘Are you here to trade, ah…?’ She invited.
‘Krondi,’ said the dwarf, handing a barrel of something to one of his fellow traders. There were runes scorched into the hard wood that Drutheira didn’t understand. ‘Krondi Stoutback.’ He turned and firmly shook her hand.
‘Astari.’
Such physical greetings were not common amongst elves and Drutheira was unable to hide her surprise and discomfort.
‘Apologies for the muck,’ said the dwarf, misunderstanding. Belatedly, he wiped the palms of his hands on his tunic. ‘Been a long way from Barak Varr. On the road like on campaign, grime tends to get ingrained. Easy to forget it’s there.’
Drutheira smiled again and fed some sorcery into the gesture.
‘That’s perfectly all right. Barak Varr?’ she asked, struggling a little with the pronunciation.
‘The Sea Hold,’ Krondi explained, pointing roughly south with a leathery finger. Under the nail was black with dirt and Drutheira fought to hide her disdain.
She also remembered the bastion the dwarf spoke of, and its defences. She masked her interest with another question.
‘You were a soldier then? A warrior for the king, perhaps?’
‘Aye, milady,’ said Krondi, warming to the elf as his companions unloaded the wagon. Drutheira noticed one dwarf, far off at the head of the wagons, remained seated. He was also hooded and kept to himself, more than most dwarfs usually did. Not a merchant, nor a guard. This was something else. She tasted power and resolved to keep her distance.
‘I fought for the High King,’ Krondi went on proudly, ‘and my own king, Brynnoth of the Sea Hold.’
Gently putting her arm around him, hiding the urge to gag, Drutheira led the dwarf to where Malchior was waiting. She briefly searched the bustling crowds for Ashniel but the witchling was nowhere to be seen. Allowing a half-smile she said, ‘Here, then you’ll know the value of a good blade.’
Krondi began to detach himself, waving Drutheira off.
‘Not here to buy,’ he said, shaking his head as if trying to dispel an itch, ‘but to rest and pick up provisions, possibly sell, before heading on.’
She made a hurt expression, her eyes mildly pleading. Again, she used a little sorcery to enhance her charms. ‘At least look at what I’m offering before you dismiss me, Lord Stoutback.’
Krondi laughed. ‘I’m no lord, but I’ll take a gander at what yer peddling.’ He nodded to Malchior who simply bowed and then unrolled his satchel. Unbeknownst to the dwarf, he was incanting silently beneath his breath.
As the leather satchel was unfurled, a rack of stunning ithilmar weapons was revealed. Jewelled daggers, short swords and spear tips were arrayed in rows. There were shimmering axes, both for felling and throwing, and a few smaller pieces of armour.
One in particular caught Krondi’s eye.
‘Is that…?’ He breathed and looked again, closer. ‘Gromril?’ There was a glint in Krondi’s eye as he met Drutheira’s, but also something else. Anger?
‘How did you come by this?’ It was less of a question and more of an accusation.
‘A gift,’ said Drutheira, drawing closer. Her eyes shone with power. ‘I take it you’re interested then?’
Krondi went back to the gromril blade. It was a sword, an uncommon weapon amongst dwarfs, who preferred hammers and axes. There were no runes, but the star-metal it was forged from was unmistakable.
‘How much?’ he asked, his gaze fixed on the blade.
‘Only a fair price. Does anything else catch your eye?’
‘I’ll take everything. All of it,’ he said gruffly.
Drutheira smiled thinly, and bade Malchior to wrap up the leather satchel.
‘You have made a considerably wise decision.’
She met Ashniel on the outskirts of the settlement, away from prying eyes and ears.
‘Were you successful?’
‘Of course.’ Ashniel presented the athame dagger. Its blade was fire-blackened and the pearlescent gemstones had dulled to
