Free The Madness of Gods and Kings by Christian Warren Freed Page A

rest of the world for so long they knew next to nothing of modern Malweir. He struggled to adapt to the subtleties and nuances of the lowland races, lost within the knowledge that their ability to work with and understand each other before the inevitable final battle arrived. Thus far he’d only bonded, loosely, with Skuld, Boen and the stout Dwarven warrior.
    “I seldom feel cold or hot,” he replied. “Living on the roof of the world gives you thick skin, as does spending the majority of each day in the forges.”
    No stranger to iron work, the Dwarf admitted the logic of the statement. He’d done his time in the smiths deep under the mountains, crafting weapons and armor. Every Dwarf did. It was a rite of passage from youth to adult. That being said, Ironfoot had no desire to live or work high atop the mountain peaks without the comforts and heat he’d spent a lifetime taking for granted. Groge could keep his lofty home.
    “Doesn’t the wind tear through there?” he asked, more for conversational purposes than the need to know.
    Groge nodded. “It does, but we aren’t foolish enough to be caught in the open when it does. Personally I prefer sitting in front of a warm fire with a tankard of ale than being outside.”
    They shared a brief laugh abruptly cut off by the sudden snap of a branch. Ironfoot had his axe in his hands in one swift movement as he immediately took cover behind the nearest tree. Not so conveniently sized, the young Giant froze in place and scanned the surrounding forest. Night had fallen, shrouding the area in the hazy world trapped between light and dark. Bushes could well be enemy soldiers drawing ever closer and Groge would be none the wiser. Never the warrior, he felt the pull of the Blud Hamr. It called to him, whispering the promises of power should he take it in his hand and use it against the enemy. Conflicted, Groge struggled with the newfound urge to commit violence.
    “What do you see?” Ironfoot hissed. He crouched, ready to strike.
    Groge continued looking in the direction the sound came from. He saw nothing. But something or someone had broken the branch. But who? What? His inability to find even the most remote trace of movement stilled his blood. His hand drifted towards the hammer. Another snap, crisp and loud in the night air, immediately drew his attention. His heart thumped louder, surely drawing attention from the perpetrator. Unused to tense situations, even after their harrowing flight from the Gnaals in the jungle, the Giant bordered on panic. He relaxed instantly when a female elk emerged from the dark, calmly going about her business. His sigh was audible.
    “I must be getting old. Sent into a frenzy over an elk,” Ironfoot snarled as he sheathed his axe. Crisis averted, the unlikely pair continued with their patrol. It was getting late and both were starving.
    * * * * *
    Rekka Jel and Dorl Theed stalked through the undergrowth of the lightly wooded area to the south of the camp with the grace of experienced trackers. Neither spoke, knowing all too well the dangers Delranan posed. They’d already been run out of the kingdom once, harried practically the entire way by Harnin’s forces. Rekka briefly thought of her confrontation with the Dae’shan in the woods of Rogscroft. She’d been taken off guard for the first time since Artiss Gran dispatched her to Delranan and vowed never to let that happen again. Their lives depended on her ability to perform her job. The momentary respite in Trennaron did nothing to remove or reduce the edge she’d spent countless years building. It was her greatest protection.
    She was light enough to barely leave any tracks, a feat Dorl couldn’t hope to match. He lumbered through the snow in comparison. Rekka found his attempts at stealth amusing, if not entirely hazardous. Eventually he’d make enough noise to rouse the suspicion of any eavesdroppers or spies in the area. She couldn’t let that happen but neither did she feel