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A string of fine, fat fish flopped against Orëmir’s leg as he and Lindir made their way back to where the others had gathered. The land was darkening as the sun slipped beneath the rim of the world. The fire their companions tended drew them like a welcoming beacon. Orëmir regarded the racks of drying clothes and blankets with a pleased expression. His own shirt and breeches were still damp and chill and he relished the thought of warm, dry clothes against his cold skin, even though the scent of them would surely be sharp with smoke.
‘Look what we’ve brought,’ he said, holding his string of six land-locked salmon up for the others to see. Lindir came up along side him and held up another string of the silvered beauties a grin on his face. ‘The fishermen have been successful,’ Oremir laughed, stepping close to the fire. ‘Or the fish gracious enough to let us catch them easily, seeing our hungry faces peering down at them from above!’ He looked about for any of the small staves left from the makeshift drying rack the others had put together. ‘Any chance there are some sticks we can spit these on to cook over the coals?’
‘And look at what else we snagged from the bottom of the pool. Lindir and I could not decide who had worn it last. We took it to be some old helm, though it’s so crusted over with hardened silt it’s hard to say what crest it bore.’ He handed his string of fish to Endamir and turned the old relic over in his hands. ‘Heavy thing. Even aside from the layers of silt. Would have given me a headache to wear it for any length of time.’
Orëmir brought it close to the fire, pointing out a tiny place that Lindir had chipped away at, flaking off some of the sediment in a section where the layers had been thin. ‘Lindir said he saw a gleam of gold flash out as he held the helm up for inspection in the dying light. Isn’t that right?’ he asked, looking toward where Lindir had crouched down and was threading his fish onto some little sharpened poles on of the others had handed him.
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