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Maulká sighed and leaned against the wall. She had been less reluctant to retreat this time; there had been great satisfaction in fighting that creature. Still, she would have liked to have killed it. A sharp pain reminded her of the cut in her side. It must be deeper than I thought, she realized; blood had soaked through the leather of her armor. Reaching up, she freed the wide leather band that was plaited into her long hair. She bound the cloth tightly over the injury, above her armor to hide the blood. Her hair would have to stay loose, a hindrance in fighting, until she could find something else to tie it with. She grimaced.
She noticed Nephil on the far side of the cave where the group had stopped, and walked over, being careful not to reveal her injury by an uneven gait. It wouldn’t do to admit to taking an injury from one of the undersized trespassers. When she got close to Nephil, she saw that he was covered in numerous scratches and cuts, including several deep cuts on his face.
"Oh my... What happened to you?" Maulká exclaimed.
Then she remembered seeing him go after the immortal warrior. “You fought the Quendi?”
“And I'm surprised I got off this lucky," he responded, nodding.
Maulká watched as he turned to where the other natives had gathered around the prisoner. She listened to the questions impatiently, more interested in the prisoner’s answers. She was surprised to hear the creature -the dwarf-refer to a master. Is he not the king? She broke off her musings in time to hear their suspicions about the Quendi confirmed.
“He is a child of a god; you have seen his speed and strength, and the ease with which he slays us mortal beings. I cannot kill him... and neither can you." Declared the prisoner.
In the sudden silence that descended on the group, Maulká said, “We must go to the Council Hall. The Elders will know if he speaks the truth.”
Nephil agreed, and gave directions for their march, setting several archers to guard in case the intruders tried to follow. Minor chaos developed as the few members of their company tried to arrange a marching order, but all was quickly sorted out. No one seemed eager to carry the prisoner, for it had dealt out many bruises with its earlier struggles. Corith knelt next to the dwarf.
“Someone throw me a knife,” he called. The prisoner seemed completely composed, but Maulká thought she saw a flicker of uncertainty in its eyes at the man's words. She threw Corith her short knife. He caught it neatly by the hilt and cut the rope that bound the captive’s feet. Then he pressed the blade against the prisoner’s neck, forcing it to walk in front of him. The company left the chamber, heading swiftly toward the Council Hall. As they left, Maulká called over her shoulder to Corith, who was near the back of the party, “Be careful not to scratch the prisoner unless you want to kill it. The blade is poisoned.”
She laughed to herself, imagining the dwarf’s discomfort.
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