The bear spirit roared in Lornaal’s mighty chest, outraged that its prey had been stolen. Dangerously narrowed eyes flashed to Terrence and then into the dark, scanning for Matrim. With effort, Lornaal mastered the beast.
These are my allies! They have not stolen my victim, merely aided in vanquishing him.
As the spirit reluctantly receded the mighty northman felt a wave of fatigue overcome him. His limbs shaking, Lornaal collapsed to his knees, suddenly aware of the terrible pain in his forearm. Grasping the jagged wound he watched helplessly as blood surged out, spilling onto the hungry soil of the grasslands.
Lornaal remained wordless as Matrim and others rushed to care for his wounds. Victory had little flavour to it. He felt a fool for being deceived by such a tiny foe. Nudging the goblin’s body with the butt of his spear, Lornaal resolved to kill a hundred greenskins to vindicate himself and put right his pride.
Turning from such thoughts, he gazed towards the wagon, examining for the first time the captives that the goblins were undoubtedly taking to sacrifice. A sudden hope ignited in his chest. Perhaps she had been right in telling him not to despair. Maybe the boy was still alive, a captive, like these, beyond the mountains in the land of Lodd…
The thought nagged at the back of Lornaal’s mind while-after his wounds were cared for-the tribesman quickly made ready to depart before reinforcements could be brought down upon them.