“Stop talking, and listen!” shouted Tremdalf, shaking his bony fist at the assembled company of dwarfs. There was silence. “It’s no use arguing among yourselves. We have to get that magic herb somehow. Terebron needs it to make his potions. The success of the whole war against the Orcs depends on it.”
No-one disagreed. But who should go? The way was long and hard and success could not be guaranteed. The herb did not always flower. Everyone continued to tell his neighbour why he could not possibly be spared from his daily work. Then, into the clamour, a shrill voice sounded. “I’ll go! Let me get the herb!” A laugh filled the cave, lit by a thousand blinking fireflies. “What! Bloddon! He couldn’t find a piece of toffee in a paper bag!” More laughter. The little dwarf’s face burned with shame, but he felt anger welling up inside too. He’d show them – and, leaping to his feet, he jumped forward and grabbed the map to the enchanted forest out of a surprised Tremdalf’s hands.