[Bêthberry]

"No more talk," said Grash firmly.

Darash and Lyshkia had been watching silently from their side of the ledge as the men argued with the dwarf. They whispered back and forth, neither one trusting anyone strongly, but both worried that the incessant bickering would harm their chances of getting out. It was pointless to argue the way the men were, regardless of which race they came from.

"You know way?" Darash asked Lyshkia.

Lyshkia shook her head no. The memories were too far back of when she had been brought here. Darash's eyes darted around the ledge. "I don't know the way. Can't read the stars well enough. But Grash, he says he knows."

"He knew tunnel and that meant the Spider."

Darash nodded. "But who else spoke up , with idea? None. Grash, has long eyes, sees far."

Lyshkia was quiet for a time but then finally nodded her assent. Darash looked at her, and then rose, calmly but of a swift and sure movement which besoke her resolve and her decision. She strode into the group, her height an easy forearm above that of the remaining dwarves. The men were not used to their women so tall and magestic. The elves were not used to another race who moved with a grace and poise which belonged to them. Everyone stared at her with wary eyes. Bròr had retreated and others moved about uneasily.

Darash glared at the angry pygmy.

"Do-rim shown honour. Words to walk with him, stone to stone. And still you argue?

Bròr watched her through lazy, half-closed eyes but said nothing. She looked around at the others who were wavering, unsure of the right decision to follow Grash or not and leary of waiting longer to move.

"Green land. Grash has seen. Anyone else?"

She looked around, searching each face intensely, even that of the pale man Aldor with the falling sickness, whose face now looked better after Grash had lanced the bite. None dared speak up. Her eyes flashed, and Darash took a short, sharp breath, breathing in the smell of her own courage on her skin.

"We die. Always die. Everything die. Monster die. Orcs die. No escape." Darash was weighing the lives of the group, thinking that if death was inevitable, why walk away from it? Better to die valiantly than to die slowly. Yet no sense in taking useless risks.

"Night fights with us. Clothes us in surprise. Darkest time best." She looked around at others, wondering if any would challenge her. They seemed balanced on an edge, wanting to hear her say more before they responded. She decided not to wait, but to finish her thoughts.

"Grash takes us. No other way. The road he travelled." She put her hand on the knife on her belt and with her other hand, the one Lyshkia had swaddled, she held out her small stolen orcish blade to Grash. She looked him straight in the eye and then at the knife.