“Not a word about it, I warn ye.” The dwarf wouldn’t meet his gaze. “He’s got a temper, Barius does, and he’s throwing a right fit about you. I persuaded him to let you keep breathing for a while yet, but you’re to lose the sword. And it’s back to the rope.”

“Riana?” Jig asked.

“I stopped the bleeding. Earthmaker should kick me for not thinking of that myself. A bit of magic, and the skin healed over as smooth as an egg. She’s a little put out, mind you, but she should live.” He grabbed his hammer on its thong and closed his eyes. “Now let me see what I can do about that arm.”

This time, Jig watched closely as Darnak called upon his god to work his healing magic. With the hammer hidden in his thick fist, he began to mumble. Jig listened closely, but the words were foreign. Dwarvish, he guessed. The language sounded like a mixture of coughing, spitting, and gnashing of teeth. A bit like Goblin, really, but not close enough for him to understand.

So intent was Jig on watching the dwarf, he didn’t notice when the pain in his arm began to recede. What had been a sharp tearing pain became a dull burn, unpleasant but less intense. He could feel his blood pound with each beat of his heart. The rhythm grew louder, booming in his ears until he expected to see his very skin throb. The heat in his arm grew.

Like a blacksmith, Jig thought suddenly. Each pulse was a hammer blow that forged the flesh whole again. Fitting, coming from a dwarven god.

When Darnak pulled his hand away, a dark blue scar ran the length of Jig’s forearm. Blood still smeared the skin, but it was dark and crusted. He brushed his arm, marveling at the new scar. His battle scar. Not, he admitted, that he had come by it in the normal way. But he doubted any goblin would ever learn he had inflicted the wound with his own hand.

“Best I can do, lad. Dwarven magic doesn’t work so well on goblins, it seems.”

Jig ignored him. He flexed his arm, watching the way his new scar moved with the muscles beneath. Bits of blood flaked away as he moved. He wondered if the scar would fade with time. If only he had been allowed to keep the short sword as well. But Barius had already taken the weapon and tucked it into his own belt. The exuberance of his scar faded as he realized what it had cost him.