The Fathers were doubtful, but a lull in the fighting had left the younger men and women of the hills in a comparatively energetic mood.
Sitting on enough granite to bung up Thrond's arsehole!" "Aye, this whacker will knock helmets into slop-bowls easy enough, but I'd prefer to see something made for once! I'm a quarry-man and a builder by trade, and you're The shoulder and nearly bowling him over. Mard roared with amusement, slapping the nearest Father on The Fathers were quick to offer the warrior the few things they still possessed in return for his protection. He was not a native of Belrond, nor were his features familiar to anyone who had traveled abroad, but his ready smile and booming laughĭissolved all barriers of mistrust. The size of a birthday breadloaf, he called himself Mard Hammerhand. Fifteen hands across at the shoulders, tall enough to fill the garrison's archway, and carrying a mallet It was in this climate of despair that a man came to offer his services to the Fathers of Belrond. Belrond's captive daughters came to worse fates. Food was notĪll they took - if the brigands fell upon a Son of Belrond, he was killed for sport. Question of allegiance - neither army attempted to ally with the hill people, who seemed to exist only to raise stunted crops to be eaten, half-grown, by pillagers from one army or another. Nobody could remember how the war had started, nor could anyone imagine that it would ever end. The landscape and driving its inhabitants to seek furtive shelter in cracks and dark places. Battle-lines waxed and waned like sea-waves, wiping clean
Three generations of open war between the Vlemish in the south and the Plenor in the north had wrecked the once-fertile hills of Belrond.
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