[Arry]

‘. . . you can’t take Riv’s place.’

‘I think you’re probably right on that count,’ Skald said. ‘And here’s hoping I never have to try.’ He rolled from his blankets with a grunt as his stiff joints protested.

It was only a short way to where the Elves had left a cask of water for their new allies. Skald took a dipperful of water and bending over a bit, sluiced his sticky beard. A repeat was called for to get where the juice had seeped in deeply. When at last the hair felt free of stickiness, he ran his fingers through it, combing out the knots then shook the last of the water from it. With an economy of motion, Skald parted his beard and quickly braided it into two thick braids.

‘Well, that’s that, then,’ he said nodding his head at Bror as he scooted back down between his blankets. ‘Prank time is over . . . for us . . . for now. I can’t stay the same like you want me to, not for all the jokes you might have up your sleeve. And, no . . . there isn’t much hope in me. Sorry if you need that, too. You’ll have to be the strong, hopeful Stonecut for now.’

He laid down, stuffing his rolled up cloak beneath his head, and stared up at the star filled sky. ‘Oh, there’ll be no problems when I swing my axe. Orc blood will flow deep round my boots.’ He paused for a moment, his eyes flicked briefly toward his brother. There was a feeling of such doom upon Skald and yet he knew Bror had no understanding of the depth of his despair.

Just as well . . . it will keep fear from him . . .

‘Come on . . . lay yourself down, brother mine,’ he said, reaching out to pat where Bror ahd laid out his blankets. ‘The night’s getting shorter.’ Skald rolled over on his side, his back to Bror.