A little something…

“You little lard-faced bastard,” yelled the Svart, kicking at me as I held him aloft by his ratskin weskit.
Like the blackhead had room to talk. If I stretched him, he’d be a quarter my height and a tenth of my weight, and his face was the same color as maggot, only scrawnier than most maggots.
“What did you do with her, Glibflint?” I snarled at him. “And if you kick me, so help me, I’ll eat you, and puke your remains into the sea.”
He blew me a raspberry.
I shook him so hard his that his little sharp teeth nearly rattled out of his head.
“Answer me, or that’s just the start!” I screamed into his face.
“Not going to,” he hissed, working his mouth to find spit.
I knew what that meant. Svartalfar are as brave as a mouse with a cat… unless they’re being watched.
I grabbed his leg, with the other hand. Dropped his weskit and swung him savagely at the shadows behind me. They’d never be in the shadows in front, let alone the light. He was a lousy club as I thrashed into the squalling mass of them. They poured out of their little crack like roaches. Yammering and ululating in their nasty triumph, surging around me, trying to get behind me.
I flung Glibflint at them, trying to haul out my sword as the gibbering shrieking mass snatched at me. Biting, pulling, kicking, clinging.
Down I went under a stinking tide of little vermin, shrieking their triumph as I fell.
I hit the ground hard. Tried desperately to roll.
Cold little pinching hands made a net, holding me down.
The sharp lava-rocks beneath me stabbed at me, tore my shirt as I struggled desperately to get up, to break free.
My nose was full of the smell of moldy cloth and half rotten meat, and fresh blood.
They were trying to cram something into my mouth, crushing my lips back against my clenched teeth.


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