The tracker, Gilmorril, had located their lair some time ago, a pitiful cave behind a waterfall in the cliffs of the gorge to the south, but there had only been a small and weak tribe of goblins. Lately, though, Gilmorril had reported a growth in numbers, added to by kobolds muscling their way into the tribe somehow. The full extent kept from the townsfolk so as not to create panic, whilst the Town Council planned their actions.

The tracker had wanted to let people know so that they could prepare in case of an assault, but the Town Council had sent him away on an errand to the east with the dwarf Rindall to investigate some far-flung fancy of a dragon's graveyard.

The priest continued to tie the limp elf to the statue, ordering the fleshrippers away to deal with the intruders. The sounds of battle behind him were intensifying and he was beginning to find it most irritating. Perhaps he would finish off this elf first, and then deal with them personally, or he might finish trussing the elf up and then kill them. Choices, choices. The manacles closed around the elf's wrists, and the priest drew his ceremonial dagger.

A low, soft moan issued from the elf, and the fingers on his right hand unclenched slowly.

The elf's eyes flickered open for a moment. Chained to the statue, he could barely move, the tautness of the chains combined with the little strength he had left in his body. His lips moved, but no sound issued. His finger kept pointing off to the north, to the place in the shadows where the unknown attacker lay.

‘Tradden, help the elf free,’ he quickly uttered. Could they have finally found Gilmorril, or was this one of Rangrim's friends? ‘Gilmorril?’ the dwarf prompted, wondering if the elf could hear him through the daze. ‘Are there others here in trouble?’

‘Below,’ the elf uttered. ‘Stop them.’

The elf coughed and spluttered – a dry bark. ‘Others… behind. Free… them.’

His eyes sparkled and the chapped lips almost drew a smile. ‘More than Blackengorge!’ he said, almost triumphantly, and then collapsed limply into Zero's embrace.

‘I will go and check on Gilmorril. Perhaps the elf scout has come round?’

Khalin realised he'd arrived at the entrance to the temple. Stepping inside he looked around for one of the resident priests to direct him to Gilmorril. He hoped the elf had finally regained consciousness, and that whatever tidings he bore were not grim.

He paused briefly at the elf, just to pat the man's shoulder and utter another silent prayer to Moradin. Then he turned and started towards the nave door.

He was yanked back, much to his surprise, an iron grip of a bony hand around his wrist, tight and fast, cutting off the circulation. He whirled in pain and anger and saw the wide open eyes of Gilmorril staring up at him, a fierce flame burning within the pupils.

‘The horns!’ the elf shrieked at him, flecks of spittle cascading down onto the floor around the cot. ‘The horns!’

Then the flame died, the eyes closed and the body succumbed to sleep. The grip relaxed and the elf's hand fell back to his side. The acolytes rushed over, water and towels in hand, but the elf had resumed his previous ravaged rest, as though the whole scene had never happened.

‘Gilmorril, wake!’ ordered Khalin, grabbing the elf's shoulders but somehow fighting the urge to pick up and shake the elf. The elf did not respond.

‘We will send word, we promise,’ said Perissa, seeing Khalin's perplexed look, ‘if there is any change. You look as though you need rest yourself.’