Kny-Fia, Prologue, part two

The two stout ponies were finally showing a sweaty sheen as the midday sun passed its highest point. They'd been on the road for three days now, sleeping under the wagon at night as the animals rested and refreshed themselves, and although noon had only just passed Weraned, was already looking forward to resting again.

It felt like they'd been on the road for roughly sixteen hours, not the five they actually had. His throat was dry, and although there was water aplenty in the wagon, he knew his thirst wouldn't be slaked until he'd blown the frothy head of a beer, and swallowed have a flagon's worth without his lips leaving the cool horned rim.

Just thinking about that made him lick his lips. Salty and boring, prickly form his beard and moustache, and not even remotely refreshing. A white beer is what you needed on days like this. So cold that water formed on the outside of the flagon, forming in little droplets that would run together and drip down, pooling in his fingers as he sat, staring out at the trees and walls, knowing he deserved it after finishing a hard day's work or a long journey.

There'd still be beer when he got back, but three days travelling away from home, meant three days to get back. The Gods had made the world work that way for a reason, he was sure, and no matter how he prayed, they seemed disinclined to change the order of things just for him.

He sighed, furrowing his eyebrows in both frustration and an attempt to keep the high sun out of his eyes.

From the passenger side, a hand slowly made its way over, and thick strong fingers closed around his wrist, startling him. He had known he wasn't alone, of course. He hadn't forgotten that, but sometimes, he got into his own head so much the outside world seemed to be of things that would make jump.

The hand was reassuring at first, but the pressure of the grip built, and he turned his head, "Jongreha, what's the matter"?

"I don't know yet", she replied, "but something is".

He looked around, wondering what on earth she was worried about, They were on the same path as always; sure it was rougher here, thinner with plants trying their best the reclaim the hard dirt in the name of the forest. The trees were closer, but no one came logging in Wild Elf territory.

He tried following his wife's eyes, but he could see they were darting back and forth, up and down, clearly searching for something that wasn't there. "You're starting to worry me now Jongreha", he said, only realising as he spoke that it came out in hurried whisper, proving that something was bothering him too.

"That's the third Iron Root we've passed now", she hissed back, just as quick, just as quietly.

Not only did his brow crease again, but his mouth closed quickly, as he was about to insist that Jongreha couldn't be correct. He'd made that mistake before, when bullheadedness had kept him on a path that would have led to failure and embarrassment, and these days he knew better than to trust his own gut.

He glanced around, head turning to look behind him, to finally take in the path they'd been on for hours, that had all been reduced to a blur by boredom and repetition. The moment he looked for it though, he saw it. Iron Roots. Two on this side, at least one on the other. He'd hardly ever been so close to them, but knew them instantly.

No Wild Elf had ever let them get this far into the forest.

Jongreha watched as realisation dawned on her husband's face, but her mind had been running through possibilities for a few moments already, and she still wasn't sure what all this meant. This was the twelfth year the two of them had made this trip. It wasn't that they knew the Wild Elves, they didn't know the name of even one of them, but they were tolerated, and thought to be trustworthy, so had always been sent, ever since the first encounter on the trail.

Every single time since that first meeting, they'd hear the whistles mingling from above as scouts marked their arrival and sent the word onwards. She had no idea if the Elves were always here, she had never gone far enough to see any structures, but they had always stopped them by now.

They weren't overly aggressive about it, but there was no way to mistake their intent, as they'd drop from hidden perches in the branches, or step out from behind tree trunks she would have sworn were too thin to hide even a willowy elven figure. They always smiled, but they were also intractable, and even the ponies knew to stop as they approached.

Each pony was treated well though, given salt to lick, and stroked lovingly as they traded. Two years ago, when Feldi had died and they replaced her, all of the Elves knew instantly, and each took the time to introduce themselves to Froth who had replaced her. They seemed happier talking to the ponies.

There was a reason they'd been tolerated though, ever since that first meeting, They'd been on the road for days, Jongreha was sure they were lost, and although he outwardly denied it, she could tell that Weraned had also come to the same conclusion, but it would take hima  few more hours before he'd admit it. She loved him though, and the forest here was thick and beautiful.

She'd been about to point out that ahead of them she was sure she could see an Iron Root tree, and that was when the first Elf had fallen like a broken stick to land in front of them silently, upright, with barely a bend of the knee, and cocked his head in a silent question.

Weraned had frozen up. A dozen more Wild Elves has stepped from the tree line or fallen just as silently to surround their wagon. It was still half full, as they'd only made a couple of stops at the markets and villages that made up their trading partners, before they had become hopelessly lost.

The two Dwarves were both sat barely breathing as the Elves closed in, and it took one of them laying a hand on the canvas cover that finally spurred her husband to speak. "Hey now", he'd started, clearly louder than he'd intended, he nerves on fire.

"You're welcome to look at the goods, like any fine folks who can pay for them, but if you're just after a nosey, I'd ask you to keep your hands to yourselves".

"You rode into our forest, Dwarf", came the reply, with an obvious, sneering stress in the final word, "I'm sure you'll forgive us being wary of intruders and wanting to make sure there's no surprises waiting for us under there".

His voice sounding firmer, more confident as he spoke, Weraned jumping from the wagon as nimble as any Dwarf could, but compared to Elves, it looked like a rag sack full of sticks and mud, "Then let me put all your minds at ease my friends"!

With a quick pull, the knots came loose, and the contents of the wagon were exposed to the sunlight. There were barrels and casks, sacks and boxes, packs and piles, and this was after selling half of it. What there was not, was half a dozen blood thirsty Dwarves armed with cold iron.

"Merchants then", a different Elf said, as a few more got closer to the rear of the wagon, "I wonder what Dwarves might sell that Elves could need"?

Jongreha had been watching with interest, amazed at the situation she found herself in, but spotted an opportunity, and knew she had to take it. "Well, fine folk", she began, "as well as some fine spirits, ciders and liquors, we have worked iron into steel, cut gems to sit in gold and silver ornamentation..." Her patter drifted off, as she noticed a more than a couple of wary glances when she mentioned iron.

She'd heard the stories about the Fae folk and iron, but was never sure just how much truth lay hidden in superstition. Any cut to an Elf would hurt; they were long lived, but not invulnerable. Most cuts would heal quickly though, something to do with the glamour in their blood that kept them going longer than any other living creature. Even Dwarves, hardy though they were were considered venerable once past 500 years, and hardly any would see 800 year's worth of sunsets.

For the fair folk though, if they weren't killed by violence or disease, they were supposed to live forever! And when it came to violence, if you really wanted to kill one of them, you needed iron. The more pure, the better, even though it was harder to keep an edge sharp. For sure, a steel sword was easier to cut them with, but the mixture of metals reduced how deep and how hard the iron would cut.

Whether it was true or not, or at least, partially true, she'd also heard that Elves were just as superstitious of any metal containing iron. True, they owned steel swords and knives, but never worked the metal themselves, preferring to work with more precious materials like silver and gold, that they would imbue with their own magic to make the blades hard enough to hold an edge.

"As for what you might have that we want, well...", she paused for moment, to check if they were as interested as she thought, but damned if their faces hadn't gone back to that cool calm graceful placidess that they were known for, "Iron Root wood is impossible to hold of, and even harder for those of us without your grace and expertise. We could work steel for you, get you blades and arrowheads, more than you could use, and you provide us with handles, shafts, and anything else we can put a blade on."

She knew she had them then. Their faces remained stoic when they looked at her, but there was excitement when they glanced at each other, so she carried on, "We also have a need of furs, fresh meat, vegetables that we can't grow, and as well as steel, we work stone, very fancy stones, if you have a need."

As more and more of them came out of trees, they were openly handling the trade goods now, obviously impressed with the quality of the axe heads, even if they were not an Elven weapon traditionally. There was a bucket of arrow heads though, and they were being passed around, much to the discomfort of Weraned who was clearly trying to keep track of each individual item.

A small gaggle of the Fair Folk had gathered near to her, but must have been speaking their own tongue, as she could make not an ounce of sense from it, until there seemed to be an agreement made through slight nods, and even slighter smiles. A particularly tall Elf approached, and when it spoke, she thought it might have been female, but it was so hard to tell.

All Elves looked the same to her, to all Dwarves from what she had heard. All of them tall and skinny, faces with high cheekbones, and slender upturned noses, pointy ears and long hair, either light brown or white blonde. Even when they spoke, it was hard to be sure which were the males. It might be true that Wild Elves dressed themselves different than the Royal Elves, but all Wild Elves dressed pretty much like other Wild Elves, so even the clothes gave nothing away.

"You should not have come this way, dwarves", there was that tone again, thought Jongreha, there'll be a 'but' coming though, "But, since you are here, since we're here, there seems little point in doing anything other than making the best of it.

"We need arrowheads, knife blades, sword blades, and spear heads. We have no Iron Root to spare at the moment, but we have fine furs, and if you give us an hour, we will load with wagon with meats and fruits, fit for one of your kings."

"You have none now?", asked Weraned, "I do hope that means you'll have some for us later".

"Of course", replied the Elf, "tell us what you need, what sizes, shapes, the job they'll be doing, and in a year, we'll be back in these parts, and we will trade everything you have. We'll throw in more furs and food if you also bring the apple spirit we have tasted today".

Jongreha looked around, and for the first time noticed that one of the small casks had been taken without her noticing. "Seems fair", she said, before her husband started trying to negotiate", Weraned, let them know what we need, and I'll lend a hand unloading, and get details on what we'll be expected to bring back next summer".

And so it had gone. They'd returned home three days later, all the food still as fresh as when they had left, minus the treats they had taken for themselves, The furs were treated with something that made them hard to cut, but when they did work them, they made such fine cloaks and ornamentation, that they could be sold on for triple what they usually asked, and no one ever complained about the price.

The meats were tender and flavoursome, and even a small amount could be used to make a stew that would feed the entire stronghold well. From then until the next summer, the two of them split the work between them; making sure that every item that was going to the Elves was worked to perfection, made even more beautiful with fine engravings and filigree, and that all orders for Iron Root were collected.

Most were to be used with blades to make weapons to sell, and like the furs, each Dwarf knew they'd make more than ever with Elf worked Iron Root shafts and hafts. Some were for personal orders, for the important Dwarves who could afford them, and they would be worn with pride.

As the years went by, every Dwarf could afford an Elven weapon of their own. With the money they were making from selling their trade goods, and how little it cost them in terms of steel weapons, no matter how beautiful they looked, the entire stronghold was more prosperous than it had ever been.

Jongreha and her husband took over the trader's council, and lived the kind of life they would never have thought possible, all for the sake of one week a year on dusty roads, spines getting bruised because the suspension was never good enough. Each year, they grumbled about the trip, but each year it rolled around again, and with a wagon loaded down, they would leave their home, and come back all the richer.

It gave them time to talk, time to plan the parts of their lives that had nothing to do with dusty roads. Time to sleep under the stars, shaded by trees, listening to the wind in the leaves and if they were lucky, a river bubbling along nearby, and by all the Gods, they made the most of those nights.

On each third day, by noon if they'd made good time, and hadn't spent even longer on their bedrolls, they'd hear the whistles of the Fair Folk. The ponies would be pulled up short, and soon they'd see the same, never changing, familiar faces. They had no idea what names belonged to the faces, and had never introduced themselves, but the smiles were more than just polite, they had become friendly and welcoming.

Not today though. Today they were into the Elven wood, and the only whistles were short and discordant; birds wittering to each other, squawking in alarm at things only the birds could see. They were used to being surprised though, used to figures appearing from nowhere, just to watch them jump.

Weraned pulled the ponies to a halt, and she could see him trying to hook something out from under the bench with his foot. She knew what it was, even though she disapproved of him bringin it every year. The toe of his boot caught on cloth and a small bundle was dragged forward.

With one hand still on the reins, he started to unwrap the claw hammer that was always hidden. Ever since the second trip it had stayed under there. It wasn't that the Elves had given them reasons to prepare for the worst, but that didn't stop him worrying.

He always had a steel axe and a short bladed knife on his belt, but the hammer was iron, pure and cold. He kept it wrapped so it was out of site, and if any Elf mentioned it, he had planned to laugh it off, it was just a tool after all, not a weapon, and one that must have fallen under there years ago, totally forgotten about and had a new one forged so long ago he couldn't even remember. He'd practiced that speech in his head repeatedly, but still hoped he'd never need to give. He'd hoped even more he'd never need to hold the hammer as a weapon.

Jongreha wasn't a fool though, and although she always gave him a look each year when he made sure it was still there, she had half a dozen iron tipped bolts for her crossbow hidden under her trews, tucked into her left boot. Watching him grip the wooden haft, knuckles tight, she sighed, and pulled the leg of her trews up, grabbed the small bundle of bolts, and dared her husband to say anything with a withering look.

She needn't have worried, he was so preoccupied with worry, he seemed to barely notice as she pulled the heavy crossbow down from where it was slung near the top of the wagon's cover and quickly pulled back on the string before dropping a bolt into place.

They both jumped to the ground in unison, and started looking around, still unsure just what the hells was happening. There was no way they could track the Elves. They had no idea how long ago they'd been in the area, and even if they had the skills for it - which they didn't - even the best of hunters knew that keeping up with an Elf that doesn't want to be found in the forest was a likely as trapping smoke with a fishing net.

Still, sitting in the wagon seemed like a stupid idea, and if something had gone wrong up ahead, the ponies were far from sneaky, and the wagon was made out of things that squeaked rubbing against things that creaked. On foot it was then, neither of them really needing to say anything.

Neither of them looked like they were keen to leave the path though, even as it thinned dramatically ahead of them, Jongreha dropping back, her crossbow at the ready. It was slow going as they both looked for signs that could lead them to the Elves, jumping at snapped branches, even if they were the ones walking with heavy boots through the forest.

The sun was dipping before they even spoke again, but the idea of stopping hadn't occurred to them when Weraned spoke, "There's broken branches ahead". Jongreha tried to look around him, but the flora was densely packed and she couldn't be sure what he was talking about. After a long pause, he continued, "I mention this because apart from us, it's looked like nothing bigger than a hare has been through these trees in weeks, and, well, whatever snapped these branches, might be ahead".

He was trying to keep his voice steady, but she knew him too well to fall for that. They both knew something had happened. If any Elves were within a mile of them, any that were alive, they'd have been filled with arrows by now, so deep into the Fae forest they were. If something had killed the Elves, it could have been what had broken the branches, and if it had killed the few dozen Elves they were expecting, two Dwarves had no chance.

"I suppose the only way to be sure is to carry on then", she answered, her own voice so close to cracking she was expecting the words to come out as high pitched squeaks.

He cleared his throat before responding, "Aye", and carrying on, only top stop again fifteen minutes later. "Whatever the hell it was we were expecting to find", he whispered, "I think we've found it".

She stepped around him, and understood. Ahead of them, a clearing opened up, small buildings were built against tree trunks, with even more in the trees themselves. Each of them was a fascinating and beautiful, a marvel of carpentry, but also of function, with wide windows and interconnecting walkways marking it as a village that people lived in.

The scattered Elven corpses, some in pieces, some hanging from branches, out of windows and doorways, faces slashed, stomachs opened, made it perfectly clear that nothing still lived.

*     *     *

Neither of them had been sure before, had had no way to know, but it was there for them to see now; Elves bled blue. At least, these ones did, and there was plenty of evidence in front of their eyes. 

It staggered them at first, the scope and scale of the atrocity. Trying to count the corpses was a daunting enough task, as it looked like every resident of the village had been dragged from their homes, and used as dripping, visceral decorations. The bodies had been so badly cut apart though, that limbs and torsos were scattered so far apart that it would take hours and a grizzly determination to count them all up to get a realistic body count.

This had to be fairly recent though. Bodies were not decomposed. Blue blood still fell in drips from those bodies, and body parts, that had been left above ground level. An occasional bird landed and pecked, pulled something free with its curved beak before taking flight again, but the smell was not so bad as to have attracted flocks of carrion birds just yet.

As they stepped closer, each broken branch and dried leaf sounding like hail on steel to their ears, Weraned spoke, "There's nothing alive here, you do know that." His wife nodded, her eyes darting back and forth, daring the words to be untrue, "So, what I'm saying", he continued, "is that we should probably get back to the wagon."

"If everything's dead, then there's nothing to fear", Jongreha replied. 

"This was too recent. The bodies aren't cold, and that means whatever did this might be close to come back if they hear two Dwarves stomping around."

"I don't think it was one thing", his wife said, close enough know to smell the coppery blood in the air. Blue or red, it turns out, it all smell the same, she thinks, squatting down to look closer at the wounds of a nearby corpse. "This one's been slashed with a long blade, just the one of them, but I don't need to get closer to see that that one", she pointed to a bloody mess half hidden in a small gorse bush nearby, "has been raked with claws".

Weraned looked over, and had to agree. Four long gashes, close together and running parallel to each other had cut the Elf open from throat to belly. No sword did that. "Men or monsters. Man and monsters. If they're close, there's nothing we could to stop them having their fun with us".

"That we can't. There's time for us to make this trip worthwhile though. If they were getting ready to meet us, and I recognise a face or two enough to think these are Fae we usually deal with, they've probably got everything ready for us." Weraned felt sick just thinking about what his wife was thinking, but she was right.

"Forget the furs", she continued, "but if you seen any worked Iron Root, carry as much as you can. Make a sling if you need to. It's not heavy, but bulky. If we each load ourselves down, quietly, we can be back at the wagon by dusk and away from here."

"Gods know where they hide it. If it's up them trees, we're shit out of luck my love". There were ropes and ladders leading up to the wooden balconies, but the chances of them bringing down much were slim indeed. It may have been a cliche, but it was true; Dwarves were not good with heights.

"If anything does come back, there's no way in hell I'm going to be trapped up there", she was looking at the walkways, but her eyes were flicking from corpse to corpse. No matter how hard she tried, the bodies kept coming back into sharp focus. "You start on the east, I'll go west, check each building, holler if you find a stash, or we'll just meet in the middle".

Weraned nodded and stalked away, doing his best to keep quiet, but his steel shod boots made it near impossible to put a foot down without it being heard. Glancing back to keep an eye on Jongreha, he stepped over the torn and bloody body of an Elf, swallowing hard, the bitter stinging taste of bile rising up.

In a day, the smell of this place would attract scavengers. The bodies would stiffen, then bloat. Just being downwind would be enough for him to retch. All he could smell now was the woodland and copper, but he knew why the air smelled metallic, and that was enough to turn his stomach over.

With his heavy boots he toed open the first door, hammer gripped tight in his fist. Inside, he was expecting dark and shadows. Maybe because of the horror outside, he wanted to know that any further bodies he'd find would be cloaked in darkness, not stark and on display.

The glass in the windows was crystal clear though. Large thick pains, with the lead breaking them up into smaller segments, Elves clearly able to work glass as well as they did wood. Every item of furniture inside was elegant and simple, deceptively slender, but he had no illusions that they were also thoroughly solid.

He was sure they could take a beating, because none of them seemed to be where they were supposed to be. Two chairs leaning against a wall, two others on their backs in an opposite corner. The table was wedged into a door leading to another room. A dresser had pushed onto its front, but each drawer had been removed and thrown against a wall that bore the scratches and dents of the collisions.

Some part of his mind knew what he was doing, cataloguing destruction of Elven woodwork when there were clearly more important things going on. He was happier wondering if the beds on the first floor had been thrown around too, than making eye contact with dead elf that had been pinned the fireplace, three spear shafts sprouting from its chest.

If he stopped to think about that elf, about how much he desperately wanted to take a couple of paces forward and gently close its eyes, he might scream. No fear or panic in it, some revulsion though, and a desperate need to let the world know how wrong this was. It would be loud, he knew, and it would carry on until someone stopped him, or he's used every bit of breathe he had in him.

For a second, he was turned towards the stairs leading up, for less than a second, he'd lifted a foot to start walking towards them. In half that time, his eyes fell on the dark blue lines running down the stairs. There were more at the top than the bottom, and he knew that would mean pools of blood on the stairs.

Even thinking about whether it was dried or still wet forced him to swallow a new gush of bile, and he was turning away, from the stairs and the dead eyes. There was nothing to be salvaged upstairs, and if anyone asked, he would speak with rock solid certainty that there wasn't a single thing on the upper floor of any worth. Certainly nothing worth encountering whatever it was that was bleeding down the stairs. 

If he was expecting the fresh air and open space to ease his mind or his gut, he was wrong. It seemed like every dead pair of eyes out here was searching for him now. It was different before he went in, he was sure. Heads had turned on slashed necks to face him, faces torn open had lolled around to fix him with a glare.

They weren't accusing him, there was no anger in those dead gazes, but the passivity of the attention was making his skin crawl. He needed to get away, but Jongreha was still in the first house, and he couldn't disappoint her. He'd be quick, in and out of the next few, if nothing was obvious, they'd write the trip of as a bad experience.

Not as bad as it had been for their former business partners, but the dead weren't able to complain about it, so who knew how bad they felt.

The second house, the third and forth, were all wrecked. Broken pottery and glassware, shattered windows and splinters of looking glass scattered everywhere. Bodies torn up, blue splashed pooling in hollows of collar bones and the bottoms of broken bowls. He was doing his best not to dwell, and for a while, for days afterwards, he would be sure that he'd kept the worst of the horrors at bay, but when he'd wake up sweating and cold, the memories were of dead eyes and open wounds.

Each time he stepped out into the village, he tried to catch on of the corpses moving around to fix him with a blank eyed stare, but they were all motionless. All of them ready for him, looking at him with vacant expectation. He couldn't save them, so what did they want?

He was so happy to escape them that when the door closed behind him after entering another small house, it had already thudded into the frame before he'd had time to put a hand in the was, or a boot, to muffle the sound so the dark haired figure wouldn't hear. So it wouldn't lift its head and start to rise from where it was crouched almost double over another figure.

Even thinking about was proof that he was too late. The head turned, the neck and back started to straighten, and he was fixed with a living, malicious stare. The oval eyes were familiar, the pale skin and elongated ears too, but this was not like any elf he'd seen before. It was smiling up at him, but the baleful anger seemed to stab right into him.

By now he was used to the disdain that the Fair Folk exhibited when looking down on any other race. There was no hatred there, simply because to a Fae, you didn't matter enough to hate. You weren't even so important that tolerating you was a struggle; you'd be in a space for a while, and then you'd go. To an elf, you were seemed less of an imposition as a blink.

This was anger though, white hot and focused. He tried to step backwards, but the door had closed behind him, and his shoulder blades slammed against the hardwood as he moved away quickly. His left hand tried to find a handle, not even considering that he was stood in the way of the door and it wouldn't open with him stood there gawping down.

His right hand had a better plan though, and it relaxed slightly, letting the haft of his hammer drop a little so his grip tightened closer to the end, allowing him a wider swing when the rest of his body figured out what the best course of action was.

There was no time though. The Fae was on its feet, evening moving as slow and carefully as it had. Weraned could see a blade in its hand. Short and flashing, a wicked edge, the blade curved forward to a wicked point, splashes of dark blue covering the metal and dripping to the floor. Before he let himself think about where the blood had come from, he pushed off from the door.

Lifting one foot to plant it against the wood, his left hand flat against it as both pushed, accelerating him forward. His right arm lifted, ready to bring the heavy cold iron head down on any elf flesh it could reach. The Fae was quick though, like oil running down glass, and the dwarf felt the world narrow on him, as he saw that wicked curved knife start its upwards arc towards his gut.

The dwarf wasn't graceful though, and wasn't paying enough attention to his surroundings, the way a warrior would. As the distance between them closed, Weraned's foot landed on the wooden handle of what he would later discover was a fork, and his leg quickly gave way. Trying his best to break his fall, the hammer dropped from his fist and thudded into the floorboards.

Arms wheeling desperately, one foot skittering in front of him, the other buckled at the knee, he half turned as he fell, going down heavy on his hip and rump, even with his hands down to soften the landing. He should have been thankful though. If his angry rush had brought him any closer before the fall, the wicked knife in the Elf's hand would have done more than cut halfway through the thick leather of his jacket.

That didn't mean he'd be that lucky twice, and he was already moving. The hammer had landed in front of him, but his legs were kicked out at odd angles, and just getting them in order could cost him vital seconds. He had so few options, so he picked the one more likely to hurt the fiend in front of him, and twisted, kicking his leg out and swinging it towards the Elf's kneecap.

Of course, it missed. The creature just smiled balefully down at him, but it worked in slowing it down, making it take a half step backwards, and now he could move easier, could at least lunge in the right direction, towards the hammer.

Knees and elbows scrabbling on the wooden floorboards, catching on every broken splinter or pottery fragment, he was panicking now, knowing he wouldn't have time, expecting to feel a slash of agony as the Elf sliced deeper this time. His eyes were locked on the hammer, and now, all he had to do was reach out. His world narrowed in focus, hoping against all likelihood that he'd feel the warn handle in his fist before searing pain in his back.

The Elf was silent. He could have been stood over him the entire time, savouring the fear as Weraned's heart raced faster and faster, his breath was ragged, hurried, and loud. Jongreha had managed to kick the door open without her husband seeming to even notice.

She been keeping an eye on him since they arrived. She knew the value of the trading arrangement, and what they would lose without it. Knew that they had to make the best of a bad situation, and was just as sure that Weraned would understand that with time and space away from the bloodbath they had stumbled on. She just needed him to find some Iron Root, and help her get it back to the Hold.

Every time he came out of a dwelling, he looked even more pale and drawn. His scowl was deepening, and his eyes were everywhere except the dead. It looked like he was ashamed to meet their gazes, dead or not. After a few, he was so set on avoiding eye contact, he hadn't even looked at her.

He hadn't even seen what she had, yards distant, and with concerns of her own. She'd thought about opening her mouth, screaming a warning, but the thin figure she had seen crouched inside the doorway could have been on him before the door even closed. She was already running when she heard it thud against the frame. It hadn't been slammed, there had been no panic in it, Weraned had just stepped inside, oblivious.

With knees pumping, she sprinted across the village, hurdling over bodies, or the small sections that remained of them. Flies were starting to build, but she needed her balance too much to push them away, and just ran.

It wasn't far, but took too long. Too damned long before she was there, slowing by necessity, squaring up to the door, ready to drive a heavy boot into it. It probably wasn't locked, but why take the chance. It might have her husband against it, pinned with a long blade through his chest, but why worry about that now.

She needed to get inside, and kicking the door in, or to splinters if necessary, was the quickest way she could think to do it, and still be on her feet to face whatever was inside. As the door smashed inward, she saw Weraned on the floor, on his hands and knees, reaching for the hammer he had managed to drop. Over him, stood an Elf.

It had the long silken hair she was used to, ears like blades struck through it. It was tall, slender, each hand gripping a blade, short and curved, dripping blue onto the floor. It whipped its head around, angrily, but with a beauty and grace only offset by the hatred in its large oval eyes. Was it, hissing? She didn't want to give it time to try and talk, she was terrified that it might speak words softly and without menace, sweet poetry that would disarm her.

While she was still armed, she was determined to kill this thing. Elf or not. It was so close she barely had to aim, and barely had time to, as it turned on its hips to fully face her and was already moving. The bolt was loosed with a barely audible double click, of the mechanism, and the bowstring snapping the air. Even this close, the shot wasn't perfect.

She was panicked, and instead of the eye, the throat, or the heart, she had struck its shoulder. The scream was satisfying though, and made up for the sense of disappointment. She thought that it was trying to roar, but it was too high pitched. It was more a scream, and so piercing she could feel it in her bones.

It wasn't dead, not even down, and that meant it was dangerous. She had kept the other five iron tipped bolts in her left hand, held firm under the crossbow stock, and was now wondering why the hell she had thought that was a good idea. There was no way to transfer one easily to the stock, or keep hold firmly while she pulled the string back. She'd need second, but would be lucky to get one, maybe two before the white skinned Elf was on her.

Weraned had turned around as the screeching had started, had seen Jongreha's triumphant face, realised what had happened, and thanked the Gods without a heartbeat passing. He had been given the extra second he needed, but now Jongreha needed the same reprieve, or she's be slit in two before she had a chance of reloading. He looked at the hammer in his fist, then to Elf's leg, and acted before he gave himself a chance to think his way out of violence.

He was on his knees now, and didn't even need to change his grip to do what he wanted. There was leverage involved in what he was attempting, but if the blow landed, the satisfaction would be palpable. Starting the swing low, claw end facing out, he leaned back to add as much force as he could, and slammed the iron hammer between the Elf's legs.

Even after years of trading, he'd never been able to tell if an Elf was male or female, and had no clue now, but a claw hammer to the soft spot he hoped was there would either of them! He could never remember being so angry, and that fury was pushing the fear to one side with as much force as it was driving the hammer upwards.

As the blow landed, the claw stuck, deep inside flesh and maybe even bone, with a finality that outdid his angry strength, and his arm carried on, leaving the hammer behind.

If Jongreha had though the noise was bad when she had struck its shoulder, it was nothing compared to what her husband had caused. The pain in her ears was too much, and had assaulted her head, meeting in her brain in a pincer attack and made dark spots flash in her eyes. It was now a question of who would recover first, but she didn't have a cold iron claw hammer hanging out of her groin!

Was she smiling? Was that thought what spurred her on? Weraned didn't know for sure, but after the hammer had been torn from his grip, he'd lost his balance again, landed on his back, one leg splayed out, the other trapped under, the ankle twisted passed the point of pain, his hands over his ears. Blue blood was splashing on the ground near him, not dripping, not even running, but splashing, as the Elf staggered.

He looked up and locked eyes with it. Had he thought there was hatred there before? A mild dislike, surely compared to the pure loathing that was directed at him. It stepped, or tried to, lifting a leg so it could turn, all thoughts of Jongreha vanished in favour of seeking vengeance for this fresh injury and insult.

As it turned, a slender thigh was still enough to knock the swinging haft of the hammer, and it screamed again, lower this time, as guttural a sound as it could probably make as a fresh deluge of blood sloshed from the wound. Another half step, and the hammer fell free. He daren't look at it, not wanting to see the viscera that still clung between the claw points, so he started crawling away again and didn't see the Elf fall.

Jongreha had seen it though. Watched as it turned on Weraned, looking for all the world like it had decided that she no longer existed. When she had shot it, she could feel hatred washing over her in cold waves, but no longer. This creature was so focused on correcting the behaviour of the last attacker, it seemed to not even care that it was still in danger from her.

If it was so focused, so much the better for her. As it staggered, she grabbed the string and pulled hard, feeling it dig and cut into her ungloved fingers. As soon as she heard it click, she was reaching down, fingers already hot and aching, and pulled a bolt free from her grip inder the stock, not caring as the rest fell to the ground. She either finished it now, or they'd both be dead. With a soft click, it slipped into the groove designed for it, and before she could aim, her target had dropped from her vision.

Her brows furrowed, and she glanced down to see it fall into the dark blue pool of its own blood. A thigh landed on the hammer, but not the point and it was slumping back, teeth gritted in concentration. She had the shot, but took her time. She couldn't miss this time, not when the chance was there to loose a bolt aimed under its chin, only the palette would be able to slow it before it tore into the brain.

Sometimes though, a second is long enough to give everything away.

It lashed out with its left hand, the hand that still gripped the knife, and although Weraned had moved as far away as he could, not even ten seconds had passed since she had kicked her way in, and was still close enough for the wicked blade to cut easily through the thick sole of his heavy boot. He bellowed, in anger as much as pain, and the blade was red when she saw it again.

She wasn't going to give it a chance to swipe again though, and trusted her aim, squeezing the trigger and feeling the satisfactory thud of the string against the bow.

One last jerk was the only movement of the Elf. A final inch of feathered quarrell was all she could see protruding from it's chin. She sighed out, shuddering with relief. Weraned was still gasping in pain, but for the first time, she heard something else in the room.

She allowed the crossbow to swing down, held only by the trigger and grip, and saw the other Elf.

This one was female. It wasn't the first thing she noticed, but it stuck with her. She was naked, and covered in blood that slowly oozed from dozens and dozens of small cuts. She'd be surprised if an inch of flesh was left unmarked, but the Elf was near silent.

Sure, it was breathing heavy, but considering the noise Weraned and the other thing had been making, there was no way she could have been heard.

She was pregnant too.  Very pregnant, but wouldn't be for long.

That thing had been torturing her as she gave birth. Each contraction would have rushed the blood to her skin as she tried in vain to breath slowly. Each wound would have leaked more and more blood until there was nothing left in her.

Jongreha had never had a child of her own, but had lived long enough to be there for a couple of others. Fully dropping her bow now, she took a few hurried steps, and dropped to her knees, taking the Elf's hand, and squeezing it, inviting her to squeeze back, which she did with gusto.

But that was it. That last squeeze, was it. She couldn't believe it, it was too sudden. There had to still be time, the Elf child could still be born. There would not be another death!

She was screaming herself now, pushing down on the unmoving chest, hoping a heart was in there that could be coaxed into beating again, slapping that fiercely beautiful face, daring the Elf to strike back, to defend herself even. "No. No. No. NO!", she screamed down at her, but whatever fight she had had that had kept her going through the pain had left her, and heavy tears were running down Jonghera's face as she kept repeating the word over and over.

Weraned could hear all this, could see what had happened, but knew the mother was dead. The child had a slim chance though, and even that was only if he was quick, and willing to add an extra cut on top of the methodical brutality already carried out on her.

The body was jerking, but with no life in her, it must be Jonghera. He didn't know how much time he had, and calming her down could take minutes, he had to act quickly, and the first thing he needed to do was already making his skin crawl just thinking about it. He turned back, saw the other dead thing, crossbow bolt jutting out under its chin. In one hand it held a knife that was sharp enough to cut through his boots like they were grass.

There was another one. It had dropped it when Jonghera had shot it, but he couldn't see where it had landed. It might be under the wicked Elf, but he was in no mood to explore that possibility. Hissing in pain from his wounded foot, he scrambled over the body to pull the knife out before the grip was locked by death.

For a second, he was sure the Elf had tried to keep hold, to pull back even, but he daren't think about it. He needed it to be dead. He also needed to be careful. The blade was wicked sharp, and he was pulling it free by the blade!

Thankfully, it came loose, but Jonghera had noticed him, was looking at him quizzically, and when made to move between the female Elves legs, she grabbed at him, panic in her face, "I need to do this Jonghera. She's gone, we can see that, but the child might have a chance, as long as I act quickly".

Her eyes, sharp and dazzling, looked from him to the knife in her hand, "what..."

"She can't push Jonghera, she can't. And if I pull, who knows what I might do, so I'm going to have to get it out another way". Her eyes widened, and her grip tightened, "You need to let me do this. You can't let another life be lost right now. This day has claimed all it's going to, at least while I have anything to do with it"!

He hadn't meant to shout, but the anger was still the only thing keeping him going, and if he got it under control, he didn't know what would be left to keep him moving forward, that could stop him curling up and waiting for someone else to take over and make the hard decisions.

Usually, it was his wife. Usually she kept her cool, talked their way out of, or into, any situation that could come up. She didn't have the anger to drive her though, or if she did, it was directed somewhere else. Maybe she was raging at the world, or just at herself for not being able to do more. Weraned's anger was focused and sharp though, and pushing her back, he went to work.

He was as careful as he could be, but cutting deep enough to free the baby was risky, and the knife handle was small and fiddly, compared to a hammer or a chisel. The child wasn't moving, and he was so close to giving up. So close, he could feel the rage rising, and with it, his attention shifting. Jonghera was right; the world was to blame, the Gods even, for leaving this to two Dwarves who were just out to make some money and enjoy the journey.

What right did the Fates have to put a destiny like this in front of them?!

He slipped.

Just a tiny slip. Just a little deeper than he wanted to. Just enough though, just enough that he made the smallest of cuts on the baby, and it was enough to start it screaming.

That scream was enough for everything else though, and Jonghera was there, helping, moving his blue stained fingers away so she could take over. Enough for him to stop blaming the world and start worrying about what would follow.

Less than a minute later, he was holding the crying, tiny, stained elf in his arms. It was a boy.

*     *     *

There was no need to hurry now, no need to be quiet. The child was crying whenever the mood took it, which seemed to be based on the motion of the wind, or the bowel movements of the foxes nearby, for all the Dwarves could predict it.

If there was anything nearby, they would hear the cries, so best to just get on with things and get home. Weraned had taken to the Elf child, and had found some fine cloth to wrap it in, and a few furs for when it got cold. He had never raised a child, but it all seemed to make sense to him.

After he wrapped it up, he was looking for food and water, wondering what the hell Elves ate and drank. Thankfully, it seemed the family who lived here had been prepared, and he could find milk and other liquid foods in cupboards that hadn't been destroyed. Sniffing them, he could tell that the Elven diet wasn't too far from his own peoples'. 

He dipped the corner of a clean cloth into a jug, and let the little thing suck it dry before repeating the action. Weraned was concerned what affects the nature of its birth could have on it. So much violence and brutality could follow it all its seemingly eternal life. It had been born in blood, and no mistake. Right now though, it was grabbing hold of his fingers, holding the cloth in place, and seemed content.

Jongreha had left him to it, but had taken some time to make sure the child was safe. Her coolness had returned, but Weraned could see in her eyes that she would let no harm come to this child while she drew breath. The slight cut on its arm had stopped bleeding, and the child seemed unaware of the pain that had brought it screaming into the world. 

His wife had put together a stretcher that she could pull behind her, and was loading it with any Iron Root she could find. After completing the search, she had found a good stock of prepared wood, and even some branches that looked like they had fallen from the trees. She had stacked these on as well, explaining that there might be someone out there who'd pay for them.

He had packed a bag of supplies for the child. For Kny. He didn't want to tell his wife this, but he was already sure of its name. Kny. A simple word that meant a lot. If a human had asked him what it meant in common, the closest would be "Survivor", but there was more to it. Not just survived, but thrived, not been shaped by the threat, or made different by the injury. There was strength in the word, not just a recognition of being the victim of something terrible. Kny. It suited him.

The journey back to the wagon was slow going. Weraned could do little to help but carry the crossbow strapped to his back under the pack full of liquid food. He was walking slow, as Kny was sleeping, strapped to his chest, fingers scraping against the hard leather. Jongreha was slower though, and strong though she was, she was sweating heavily and they'd had to stop three times before returning to the path, and finding their wagon exactly where they'd left it.

A quick check revealed a forest creature or two had attempted to gain access to their own food stores, but they'd been unsuccessful. They were starving, and grateful for that, and before anything else had opened a wooden box of dried meat and cheeses, and finished their meal off which a healthy horn filled to the brim with ale.

As they finished off their repast, and Weraned let out a throaty burp, they looked each other in the eye and started to laugh. In unison they reached out to the other, and pulled them close, arms wrapping around their partner. The laughter subsided, and soon tears were running down cheeks. They stayed holding each other though, and were unashamed of their fear and grief.

Eventually, the child awoke, and started to cry, softly at first, but clearly building up to something, Weraned pulled open his pack and started searching for some food, whispering to the child, "Peace, Kny, peace my little one, almost there, just need to find..."

A hand closed on his arm, shocking him for a moment as he looked up into his wife's eyes, "Kny?" she asked.

"Aye", he replied, trying to hide his smile and make himself look guilty, hoping she wouldn't get mad. "The little fella needed a name, and doesn't he just look like a Kny"?

"Weraned", she replied, "I don't know what will happen when we return home, but I love you. Now, Kny needs feeding, and then I've got to unhitch the ponies and turn this wagon around so we can start back." He was shocked, at how easy she had taken the news, but then he remembered her anger when the mother had died, remembered how closely she had held him, only moments ago. She was always the calm one, she would also do what needed to be done, with as little fuss as possible, but right now, what was needed, was for the little Elf to be kept safe.

They'd talk on the way home, and work something out, but home was days away, and Kny was already a part of them.