Shite. Shite, shite, shite. This is bad.

The sun was getting low and Franco was still wading through the growing shadow the mountain had cast over him. He was much too far north for his liking. Leaving Odi’s secret postern tunnel he had struggled to find anything resembling a trail, and his path had not taken him anywhere near Lochtagh. Options were running out. He could hunker down and wait out the night, but that prospect didn’t appeal to him at all. He wouldn’t dare start a fire still part way up the mountain and so close to Väahn country, which would mean waking up cold and hungry and no closer to an inn. He decided to walk on, all night if he had to. As he did so, the sun set and the temperature dropped. Franco shivered as he trudged ever downwards.

Fortunately, he’d walked far enough down the mountain that he was under cover of the trees. They did something to shelter him from the wind, but still he shivered; holding his hands in his armpits with his head down. For hours he walked looking only at his feet and the moss, grass and roots he walked over. At times he rested his eyes only to open them moments later, on the precipice of losing his balance. But the hours did pass and eventually a pale, grey light began to fill the spaces between the trees. His mind was hazy as he trod on, his eyes barely open.

“Fellas, a dwarf!”

Four men stood in front of Franco. Tall, bearded men, most of whom carried axes.

Shite.

Adrenaline woke Franco up rather quickly after that. He rushed to draw his hammer, more clumsily than he would have liked. The Väahn already had their weapons at hand. No mail and no helm left Franco quite exposed, and he felt it. A glancing blow would draw blood, and any strike to his head could mean the end. The Väahn seemed to know that.

“What’s he doing out here?”

“Don’t know. Can they speak common?”

“I don’t think so. They have their own tongue, don’t they?”

“He looks scared!”

Franco changed his stance to a less defensive one, his hammer held in a striking position.

“I’ll show you scared, you mongrel!” Franco growled.

“Ha. Did you hear that, fellas? Little man called Skald a mongrel!”

The Väahn were amused, distracted in their mirth, aside from the mongrel in question who made for Franco with his hand-axe. His blow was angry, rushed, and Franco took advantage of that. He moved swiftly, his instincts and muscles making the decisions his mind was too tired for. Stepping back from the first swing he predicted the second and brought his hammer laterally about to meet it; striking the mongrel’s hand.

He had an opening, and he tried to carry his momentum and seize it and harry Skald further, but the others were just as quick. A sword came at him from the side, and Franco was forced to back off.

“He broke my bloody hand” Skald bellowed, clutching the disfigured appendage.

“I’ll break your face in a minute.”

Franco wanted to goad him, or any one, into another clumsy attack. But it wouldn’t work twice. He was in real trouble. The sword-wielder circled around. Franco stepped in an arc, trying to prevent anyone from surrounding him. His eyes were on the one with the sword when, suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his pate, and blood trickled past his brow and over his eyes.

It wasn’t until later that he would learn Skald had - with his left hand no less - thrown a rock and caught him square in the temple. In the second he was stunned the ring-leader rushed him, pushing him to the ground where the Väahn men pulled his hammer from his grasp and landed blows with gloved fists and the butts of weapons. It was all Franco could do to protect his face from the onslaught.

“Kill him!” Skald shouted, “Take his head off and leave him for the scavengers.”

The ring-leader pondered that for a moment.

“We have rope. And this one can fight. I reckon we’d get a good price for him at the pits.”

The one named Skald glowered. “Not until after I break his hand.”

“Can’t argue with that. Have your vengeance, nephew. Just be quick about it.”

Franco’s mind raced for a plan as the sword-wielder tied a rope around his right wrist and the ring-leader and another held him down. They used to rope to hold Franco’s arm taught. Skald picked Franco’s hammer from the ground with only his working hand and he lined up for his strike. He held the weapon over his head and brought it down in a clumsy arc.

With all his remaining strength Franco pulled his arm in. He brought his hand back just enough that the hammer missed, and nearly caught the sword wielder instead.

“That thing too heavy for you?” Franco forced a laugh.

The sword-welder cursed loudly, stood and kicked Franco harshly in the ribs. After all, it was he who nearly bore the brunt of Franco’s ploy. The ring-leader also bent down and punched him on the nose for good measure, and the pain from all the separate blows was beginning to accumulate. His right arm was pulled taught again, and the hammer was brought down. Franco tried to pull away again, but the sword-wielder anticipated the attempt and held firm. The head of his own hammer seemed to bury Franco’s hand deep into the ground. There was a delay between the sound of the crunch and the pain arriving, but arrive it did. The dwarf roared, loud enough they must have heard him from inside Caghdun. The Väahn stood him up and bound his wrists together. They were not gentle, and in binding him managed to make the pain worse, if that were possible. As they began marching him toward their camp he had to force himself not to look at his hand; he knew if he saw it, it would hurt all the more.

Damn it, Franco. You’re a dwarf. You’re tougher than this. One broken hand is nothing.

He bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood, raised his head and marched on.

The forced walk was excruciating; every step served to rattle the cracked bones in his hand. After an hour or so he tried to test which fingers were intact, but any such attempt brought only agony. It was a wall of pain, differentiating which fingers felt more painful than others was impossible. The sun was nearing its zenith when they entered the Väahn camp. A roar went about when the ring-leader presented his prize to the group. Then they began arguing over who would get what. The ring-leader was adamant that most of the money from selling Franco should go to him and his small band. Skald seemed to believe Franco’s hammer now belonged to him. Another Väahn ripped Franco’s coin pouch from his belt and a fight broke out over whom its contents belonged to. Another couple of raiders searched through his pockets for any valuables, and one pulled out Rosie’s lacy under-things from his pocket. The camp roared with laughter when that happened, and again when they were stuffed into Franco’s mouth. He would have been humiliated, but he was more concerned about what remained of his hand.

I need to get away from here. I need a healer. Soon.

He almost laughed when he realised he was doing all of this to avoid a beating from Bori Clagh and his lads. Almost.

A woman, sat astride a soaring Pegasus, shield in one hand and lightning-bolt in the other. A striking image, and one fitting to depict the fierce warrior-goddess Kyrja, the Sky Maiden. Her stories have enraptured the imaginations and enflamed the passions of many. Tales of her bravery, her strength and her fighting prowess; shattering the resolve of her enemies with her bolts of lightning.

But this is not another retelling of her stories, or her triumphs. The only triumphs noted in this composition are those of her followers. This is a full account of the greatest feats accomplished by legendary figures known to have sought the favour or counsel of the Sky Maiden. These are the inspiring tales of her worshippers.

The Followers of the Sky Maiden – Aered Kere

Franco awoke inside a small tent, sitting with his hands bound to the tent-post behind him.

How many times is that? Three?

Judging by the sun he’d only been in the camp for a couple of hours. An improbably short time to have passed out thrice, if not for the great pain in his hand.

Will I be able to hold a hammer again after this? Shite, will I be able to hold a bloody mug? Could I open a door?

He decided to shut those thoughts out. Even living through vicissitude as great as this he would not be despondent. If there was nothing else he could do, he could always pray. Most dwarves revered The Smith; Clardach or Virimar The Warrior, but in dire times Franco had always sought inspiration from a different figure.

“I don’t know if you can hear me. I won’t ask for a sign.”

He was muttering in Dwarven, quietly enough it could have been to himself.

“I try not to ask for favours often. I wouldn’t presume so much. But I’m really in it deep this time, Kyrja. I need help. Any assistance you can offer, Sky Maiden, I’d be so bloody grateful.”

The dwarf with the broken hand sighed, but it came out as a low growl after another spasm of pain.

“What did you say, dwarf?”

Franco’s eyes rose from the dirt in front of him to a Väahn warrior, a woman, holding open the tent-flap. She was as tall as any male Väahn, and dressed more or less the same in a rough spun gambeson and breeches with bits of fur and leather and iron where warmth or protection were required. Helmetless, she had a soft, almost caring face, though her expression was unreadable. Blonde hair was kept in a long, simple braid that draped over her chest.

“I wasn’t talking to ye.”

He would have thrown in a clever insult, something about a female Väahn.

Something, something, axe wound?

But the pain in his hand rendered forming any sentence difficult enough, let alone a witty one.

“I thought you spoke the name of the Sky Maiden, little one. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

Sometimes Franco forgot Kyrja’s name sounded the same in Dwarven and Common. So do all of the gods, come to think of it.

“So what if I did?”

“I thought all of your kind worshipped Virimar or Clardach. It seems strange, living underground and speaking a prayer to her, who rides across the skies.”

“Not all of us live underground, I’ll have ye know. And not all of us are…” the sentence trailed off into a low grunt as another spasm of pain came.

She watched him. He couldn’t be certain whether it was sympathy or appraisal in her eyes.

“I heard about your hand. Let me help you.”

Her voice was deep, a contralto. It held all the authority of a warrior’s voice, but was still very much pleasant on the ears.

“Why?”

“Consider it a friendly gesture. Between one follower of Kyrja and another. And consider yourself lucky I don’t leave you with a real axe wound.”

So I said that out loud, did I? Gods I’m delirious.

The Väahn with the braid disappeared for a short while to fetch some bandages. Franco couldn’t say for certain whether he had been able to stay conscious during that time. After returning she untied the ropes holding his wrists. Franco thought the worst was behind him, then changed his mind when she handed him a stick she’d wrapped in cloth.

“That bad?”

“Isn’t it already?”

“Fair point,” Franco muttered before biting down on the stick.

At her request he raised the hand for her to inspect, and with his other quickly grabbed Rosie’s under-things from where he’d spat them out earlier and stuffed them into his pocket, hopefully unnoticed. She felt for breaks and he let out a muffled scream.

“What’s happening in there?” It was a man’s voice.

“Tannah!” the Väahn woman exclaimed. “I’m just having some fun with this one. Put your face in someone else’s business.”

“Val?” the voice called from outside the tent.

“I said…”

“Alright, alright. Just don’t kill him. This one’s headed for the fighting pits.”

At the mention of fighting pits, the look Val gave Franco then almost bordered on sympathy. Then it reverted quickly back to stern concentration. Franco removed the stick from his mouth.

“Tannah’s a funny name.”

Not that any o’ the Väahn have proper names anyway.

Sternness vanished from Val’s face and a slight blush replaced it.

“Tannah…” she started in a low voice. “You shouldn’t say that word, little one. It certainly isn’t anybody’s name.”

“Oh.” Franco tucked that morsel away for later.

“Anyway, your vocabulary is not why I came here.”

The Väahn woman – Val, her name’s Val – replaced the stick in his mouth and, one by one, set the broken bones in his hand into their correct places, while Franco tried unsuccessfully to make as little noise as possible. By the end he had almost bitten the stick into two.

Finally, with the bandages, she wrapped his hand tightly into one neat, agonising bundle.

“All done” she said, quietly, tying up the end of the bandages. With his usable hand, Franco pulled the stick clear of his mouth.

“Thank ye, Val.”

For the briefest of moments her lips curled into a near-smile, then back again.

“You never answered my question, dwarf. How does one living under a mountain come to worship the Goddess of the Skies?”

Her voice was still a combination of commanding and mellifluous.

“Why do you worship her?” Franco asked.

“Me?” Val took a moment to consider her answer. “She’s a formidable warrior, and powerful and brave. And she is… free.”

“And can a dwarf not appreciate all that just as well as you do?”

The Väahn woman’s face pinched in thought. It was a delightful expression.

“I suppose. Do many other dwarves worship Kyrja?”

“Truthfully, no. Too many of us are obsessed with Virimar, you had the right o’ that. Never saw the attraction myself. A god with strength incalculable who spends all his time brawling and killing. Waste o’ bloody time.”

Val chuckled briefly, then suppressed it.

“I should go now. Maybe I’ll come back later. Maybe. If anyone asks where those bandages came from…”

He cut her off.

“I’ll say the gods did it.”

“Good. Now, hands.” Franco gave her a puzzled expression and she nodded to the tent-post behind him.

I suppose her setting me free would’ve been too much to ask for.

Resigned, he sat back against the pole and she retied his bonds, careful not to pull at his hand with the ropes. It was a mercy, but it left his arms in an awkward position. Val went to leave, but stopped at the tent flap and turned. Her expression was readable this time; mischievous deliberation. A girlish smile on her face was a thing of beauty, Franco thought, until she walked towards him - closing the distance in only two quick paces - reached down and pulled Rosie’s personal’s from where he had hid them.

“Say aah” she smiled devilishly.

“If ye think yer going to…” but her hand was in his mouth before he could finish his protest.

“Perfect,” she grinned.

I should never have opened my fool mouth.

Val walked back to the tent flap and ducked out without turning back.

I should never have taken these bloody things.