[piosenniel]

‘Let go my brother, fiend!’

There was something familiar about the voice, though what it was exactly Endamir could not say. It came from one of those Elves who had tried to carry him off from the Smith’s chambers. Who was he speaking of? That other man, perhaps, the shorter one . . . with his softer, artistic face. He too had tried to pull him away from the Smith.

Endamir watched with some satisfaction as the chains crept close to the limbs of the miscreants. His own hands ached to be about the Master’s business.

A sudden movement on the part of the shouting Elf alarmed him. In the fire’s light the Elf’s blade glinted wildly as he made to strike at the Master Smith. For one short moment, on the crosspiece of the blade, a faint inscription picked up the light catching Endamir’s attention. It made him pause, some memory struggling to the fore of his thoughts.

And as quickly as it had come, it faded.

This man was threatening the Smith. Endamir drew his own blade. He thrust at the attacker, deflecting the blow aimed at the Master.

‘Submit!’ Endamir hissed at the Elf, lunging at him with his sword . . .