The Dinor were an ugly people. Although short in stature, an average of about five feet, they were brawny with heavy muscles. They were strong, familiar with toil … or war.
More likely was raiding, preying on each other, but united now in this quest, absolution from an ancient oath. Generally swarthy, they were hairy with bushy dark hair and full beards. Square faces, big noses with flaring nostrils – also hairy – and deep-set eyes under protruding brows. They were almost prehistoric in make-up, but their eyes swiftly belied a primitive way of thinking, revealing they were more than first appearances.
Not only were the eyes sharp in intelligence, but also startling in colour. There was not a pair of dark eyes among them; black irises encircled by opal-coloured pupils so light it bled away into the white. There was nothing prehistoric about it; these were the eyes of sorcerers.
They wore leather breeches and knee-high boots with blackened spurs – horse riders or naturally vicious? Heavy fur coats, roughly worked and smelly, enlarged already broad shoulders, and weighty scimitars hung from a leather harness looped from one shoulder across their barrel chests.
Some had drawn these intimidating weapons, and the metal, too, was besmirched. It seemed they had a liking of creeping up on the unsuspecting. The corrupted metal would reveal no tell-tale glints. Also hanging from shoulder straps were huge horns, some of wood, others of bone, and all daubed in camouflage.
The Dinor men were accustomed to fighting. To let them loose on Valaris would be unmitigated disaster.
They were familiar with sorcery. How much was difficult to guess at, but judging by their unseen waiting, the instantaneous and simultaneous materialisation, and the fact that neither Torrullin nor Tristamil sensed more than a mild signature – and then only because they were forewarned – the Dinor had no mean degree of power at their command.
A formidable enemy.