Anest mutely studied Lily as she sat on a wet log, whetting her long knife. It was bloodstained; her quiver was empty of arrows.
Not far away, Dorain sat upon a large rock by the water, painfully resting her injured leg. The remaining elves and men were gathering the horses together, preparing to regain the road and leave this place.
At the center of the carnage stood Brogan, Damond, and Amrhost, leaning upon their swords. Grol the dwarf was seated, grinding his huge battle-axe. He and Amrhost were regarding each other with something approaching grudging respect.
"Oi! Belloc!" shouted the dwarf as the wizard approached them with Celedhan. The dwarf handed him an evil-looking iron sword, much like those carried by the goblins, except that this one was larger and well-made, and had evil writings upon it. "What do you make of this?"
Belloc and Celedhan studied the thing in grim wonderment. "Impossible," muttered the elf. "I have heard of such, but would not have have believed it possible." Belloc took the sword, hefted it, and brought it down blade first upon a boulder. There was a loud ring, as a hammer on as anvil, and a shower of sparks. The blade had buried itself several inches into the stone, which smoked yet. "Cold forged iron," he said, as if announcing the weather. "Grol, where lies the former bearer of