The Dwarves

Part Two
I

Enchanted. Realm of Oremaira, Girdlegard, Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle Tungdil was so wrapped up in the story that he couldn't be sure how much of the drama had been enacted by the players and how much he had imagined for himself.

The spell was finally broken when a hand reached out from the curtain at the rear of the box, took hold of his knapsack, and pulled it carefully by the straps.

Tungdil saw none of this and was alerted only when the villain lost patience and jerked the bag across the floor. He turned just in time to see the filcher's fingers disappearing behind the curtain, together with his pack.

"Hey! Stop thief!" he shouted furiously. "Come back with my bag!" Whipping out his ax, he stormed into the aisle, his hobnailed boots clattering on the floorboards. "I'll teach you to respect other people's property!"

The dramatic tension barely withstood his heavy footsteps and was demolished by his booming voice. There were angry shouts from the audience, most of them directed at the victim and not the thief.

Count yourselves lucky, Tungdil thought grimly, ignoring the outcry. He raced after the dark-robed figure, his short legs powering up and down and filling the auditorium with a thunderous rumble.

"Perhaps the gentleman could make a little less noise!" boomed the counterfeit Nфd'onn from the stage. His дlf emissary put her hands on her slender hips and frowned. She was clad in black armor and looked remarkably convincing despite the ruined play. The fearsome magus was just an indignant actor. "If you don't mind, I'm trying to entertain our audience!"

"I've been robbed!" the dwarf bellowed without slowing. "Your precious theater is harboring a thief!"

"The only thief in this theater is you, my stunted friend," the actor said waspishly. "You're stealing my time, not to mention plundering my patience, neither of which you can afford. Kindly take your thieving presence out of my theater and allow those of more cultured sensibilities to see the rest of the play, which shall have the finale it deserves!"

On hearing the cheers and laughter, he took a deep bow.

Jackass, muttered Tungdil. Bursting out of the theater, he stopped on the street, looked both ways, and ran on. On rounding the next corner, he spotted his man. The scoundrel had slung the stolen pack over his shoulder in order to free his hands.

"Stop! That's my bag you've stolen!" Tungdil set off in hot pursuit.

At the end of the third street he still had the thief in his sights, but somewhere along the fourth street, after what must have been the tenth sudden change in direction, the fellow vanished into a marketplace. Tungdil was left stranded among a crowd of people with no hope of spotting his knapsack amid the seething mass.

The sigurdaisy wood! He felt hot and cold all over at the thought that the relic was lost. Of all the misfortunes that could have befallen him, this was surely the worst. I didn't come all this way to be thwarted by a petty criminal! he thought determinedly, forcing himself to continue the chase.

Still gripping his ax with one hand, he used the other to push his way through the crowd until he reached a table piled high with woven baskets. He clambered on top.

From this angle the situation looked no better than before. The only way of recovering the bag was to enlist the help of the guards, but his plight was unlikely to elicit much sympathy-and understandably so. What could he possibly say to convince them of the importance of retrieving his pack?

Er, excuse me, I know the town's surrounded by orcs, but I've lost a lump of wood. I was hoping to use it to save Girdlegard and its inhabitants from the Perished Land.

No one would ever believe him.

He jumped to the ground and set off toward the tavern where, Vraccas willing, Bavragor and Boпndil would be waiting. To his unspeakable dismay he realized that he was lost.

Tungdil had sent his companions to the tavern without checking its name. Now his only hope of finding them was to return to the gates.

Which gates? Did we enter from the north?

He started on his way, grumbling to himself and glancing up from time to time to check his position against the watchtowers that rose above the sloping roofs. Striding along determinedly, he passed a dingy side street without slowing and heard a muffled groan.

He stopped in his tracks, gripped his ax with both hands, and doubled back. Stepping warily into the darkness, he spotted a tall, slender figure whose garments were enveloped by a dark gray cape.

At his feet was the villain who had stolen Tungdil's pack.

The thief was lying on the cobbles, bleeding from a dozen stab wounds, while his killer rummaged eagerly through the bag.

Tungdil's instincts told him something was wrong. In height and build the stranger looked less like a man than an дlf. Vraccas be with me, he murmured.

The knapsack's new owner buckled the lid, grabbed the straps with his left hand, and hid the bag beneath his cape. Groaning in agony, the thief rolled onto his back and clutched the ground. His assassin was unmoved by his suffering and strolled away without looking back.

"Excuse me! That's my bag," shouted Tungdil.

The stranger whipped round and his cape flew open, obscuring his face. Tungdil was still trying to get a proper look at him when two heavy objects collided with his chest. The throwing knives glanced off his chain mail, clattering to the cobbles.

Before Tungdil could recover, his crafty assailant had taken off down the alleyway and rounded the next bend. The dwarf was at a disadvantage because of his stumpy legs, and by the time he reached the corner, the stranger was nowhere in sight.

Tungdil stepped back into the shadows and leaned against a wall to catch his breath. One blasted misfortune after the next! What have I done to displease you, Vraccas?

He felt an arm wrap itself around his neck. A narrow blade flashed in front of his face and came to rest against his bare throat.

"It's your knapsack, is it?" whispered a voice in his ear. "In that case, you must be Tungdil. We weren't expecting you here. A friend of mine has been longing to make your acquaintance ever since you murdered his companion in Greenglade."

Tungdil tried to prize away the arm, but the pressure on his neck increased.

"Keep still," the voice commanded. "You've got some explaining to do."

"I'm not telling you anything," Tungdil said defiantly, now certain that the stranger was one of Nфd'onn's дlfar.

"We'll see about that." His attacker stepped backward, dragging Tungdil beneath a covered archway at the front entrance to a house. Total darkness engulfed them. "Where are you taking the relic?"

The dwarf maintained a stubborn silence.

"Talk or I'll kill you."

"You'll kill me anyway. What difference does it make?"

The дlf laughed. "The difference between a quick death and an agonizing end. Let's try again. Are you alone?"

Footsteps hurried along the alleyway, accompanied by clunking mail. Two figures rounded the corner. The дlf fell silent.

By some vindictive twist of fortune, Boлndal and Goпmgar chose precisely that moment to make their appearance.

Boлndal was doing his best to reassure the wary artisan that neither Bavragor nor Boпndil had any intention of carrying out their threats. Tungdil heard him vow to protect Goпmgar from any rash acts of vengeance; then he and the fourthling disappeared from sight.

"Very well," the дlf whispered, "so there are five of you. What is the purpose of your journey?"

"To foil you, your master, and all of your ilk!" Tungdil said loudly, choosing that moment to make his escape. He made a grab for the knife and threw his weight backward, hoping to ram his captor against the wall. The дlf stepped aside, and Tungdil barreled into the brickwork, still struggling ferociously to fend off the blade.

The noise was enough to alert the other dwarves. They rushed to his aid.

"Is that you, scholar?" Boлndal skidded to a halt in front of the archway, leveled his crow's beak, and barred the way. Skulking behind him was Goпmgar, doing a convincing impression of a two-legged shield.

The дlf thrust his knee into Tungdil's nose guard, forcing the metal into his face. Tungdil's eyes watered, blurring his vision; then the knife tore a gash in his unprotected left arm. The дlf set about making his escape.

I don't think so! Tungdil darted after the knapsack and managed to catch hold of the flap. He clung to it, growling, and aimed his ax at his antagonist's wrist.

The дlf whipped his hand away and the blade missed, slicing through the air, hitting the knapsack, and slitting the canvas. The flap came away in Tungdil's hands, and he lost his balance and fell.

"I've got what I came for." The situation was too perilous for the дlf and he turned to leave, trying to wrong-foot the experienced Boлndal, who saw through the feint and timed his attack to perfection. The deadly tip of the crow's beak passed through the leather armor, penetrating deep into the flesh.

The дlf uttered an unintelligible curse and staggered sideways, stepping into a lone shaft of light. His deep blue eyes became two dark pits.

But that was only the beginning of his transformation. Thin lines appeared on his pale skin, and in no time his face and throat were patterned with what looked like tiny cracks. Clutching his wounded side, he stumbled down the alleyway, the knapsack bouncing on his back.

"He's not going anywhere!" Boлndal was about to sprint after him when Tungdil called him back.

"Let him go. For all we know, it might be a trap."

"But he's got the knapsack!"

Tungdil wiped the blood from his nose, then proudly produced the sigurdaisy relic. "This is what he was after, and it's right here with me!"

"How did he find you in the first place?"

"I'll explain on the way. We'd better get back to the others." He gave a quick nod to Goпmgar. "Don't worry, those hotheads won't hurt you."

"I told them to close the door after you," the artisan said softly. "Honestly, I did."

"It's all right, Goпmgar," Tungdil reassured him, although deep down he wasn't sure what to believe. The fourthling had forfeited his right to be trusted, and there was still no sign of him understanding what the mission was all about.

"We ought to warn the guards that at least one дlf has found his way inside the gates," Boлndal reminded him. "Whichever way you look at it, it's bad news for Mifurdania. It's probably a trick to open the settlement to the orcs."

"They know we're here now," Goпmgar pointed out. "Do you think they'll come after us?"

"They've been after us all along," Tungdil told him bluntly. "It's a shame they had to find us. We need to get back to the tunnel as soon as we can. The дlfar don't know about the underground network."

The trio hurried through the streets until they reached the southern gates, where Tungdil told the sentries of his brush with the дlf. Then they set off toward the alehouse where Bavragor and Boпndil had been instructed to wait.

They were still some distance from the rundown tavern when the sound of Ireheart's ranting reached their ears. They heard cracking wood, then a chorus of screams.

"Bavragor and Boпndil! The дlfar must have found them!" Boлndal charged ahead to save his twin.

Just then glass sprayed everywhere as a narrow window shattered and a man hit the cobbles with a thud. The next unfortunate was ejected from the tavern together with the door. Bruised and bleeding, he picked himself up and fled.

The three dwarves rushed inside to be met with a scene of devastation. It looked as if a tornado had hit the bar. Nothing was in its proper place, the chairs, tables, and benches broken or upturned and the floor strewn with groaning bodies. All had taken a beating, some more severely than others.

At the heart of the carnage was Boпndil, glowering like a dwarven god of vengeance. He was busy ridding a man, hair by hair, of his mustache. There was no sign of Bavragor.

"What's got into you?" his brother asked incredulously, staring at the mess. "Is this your doing?"

Ireheart turned to face them, and they saw his singed beard. "You'd better believe it!" he slurred. "The long-uns set fire to my whiskers, so I gave them a good walloping." He giggled and plucked out another hair. "This ruffian started it. I only meant to punish him for ruining my beard, but the others piled in. I suppose I should thank them, really; it made a better fight."

"Tell him I'm sorry," groaned his victim. "It was a misunderstanding. I was offering him a light for his pipe, that's all. I'm begging you, make him stop hurting me."

Ireheart seized him by the ears and looked at him blurrily. "Will you never, ever burn another hole in a dwarf's bearded glory?"

"Never," the man whimpered.

"Then swear it!" The man complied and was released.

"Get out of my sight," barked Boпndil. As a parting shot, he grabbed another clump of hair and aimed a kick at the man's behind. He sat down on the table, laughing, and reached for his tankard. He took a noisy slurp. "I haven't had this much fun in ages," he burped. Just then he spotted Goпmgar. "Ah, there's our little flower."

"He's drunk as a skunk," said his brother, pursing his lips.

"Where's Bavragor?" asked Tungdil. Keeping tabs on this lot is worse than herding cats, he thought crossly. "Don't tell me we'll have to look for him too."

"Oh, him… He'll be back in a moment. He went to buy a pony so we can fetch the ingots from the-"

"Boпndil!" His brother snatched away the tankard and pulled him down from the table. "What in the name of Vraccas are you thinking? We're in a strange town, the orcs are at the gates, and all you can do is drink yourself silly. You're as bad as Bavragor!"

"So that's the thanks I get for buying two ponies," came an offended voice from the door. "He's the one who's been beating up locals, not me!"

"I told you he'd be back!" Boпndil said happily. He seized the tankard from Boлndal and knocked it back. "There, try taking it from me now!" He grinned and burped again.

"Orcs!" They heard the shout even before the guard rushed in. "To arms! To arms! The southern gates have fallen and the enemy has invaded! To arms, good people of Mifurdania, to arms!" He stopped short, noticing the bodies strewn around the room. "What in the name of…"

"To arms!" shouted Boпndil excitedly. "Let's get the runts! Oink, oink!" He drew his axes and stumbled to the door. His brother pulled him back and gave him a good talking to.

"Boлndal didn't mean what he said," Tungdil told Bavragor, hoping that the comment wouldn't spark another feud.

"Old Hookhand can say what he likes; he's usually right," the mason said mildly. "You'll find a couple of ponies waiting for us outside. I got them cheap, but they're sturdy little beasts."

"We need to get out of here," muttered Tungdil, deciding to save the story of what had happened in the theater until they were safely out of town-not that he had the faintest idea as to how they would escape. "The дlfar are after me."

"In that case, we need a plan," observed Bavragor.

"I've been thinking, scholar," said Boлndal. "Our enemy will be focusing on the main gates, so all we need is a side exit. Once we're out, we can hack our way through the fringes of the battle." He glanced at his brother, whose uncharacteristic silence was explained by the fact that he was snoring in the doorway. "Obviously, the circumstances aren't ideal," he finished with a sigh.

Goпmgar shuddered. "Through the battle?" In his mind's eye he was already fleeing from snarling orcs, grunting bцgnilim, and nimble-footed дlfar, while arrows rained down on him and swords, spears, and pikes slashed and jabbed all around. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"I don't suppose you can fly, can you?" asked Bavragor. The artisan shook his head wretchedly. "In that case, we don't have a choice."

There was a loud crash behind them. Ireheart had gone down like a felled oak and was lying inert on the floor. His loud snores were the only indication that he hadn't been smitten by Vraccas's hammer.

"A fat lot of use he is," Goпmgar said accusingly. "Just when we could do with a bloodthirsty warrior, he knocks himself out on beer. Think of how many orcs he could have butchered for us."

"I know." Bavragor nodded, helping Boлndal to drape the unconscious Boпndil over one of the ponies. "It beats me how he got into this state. The long-uns' beer is no better than flavored water."

"He drank five whole tankards of it," Goпmgar told him. He looked at the mason in sudden amazement. "You're not saying…"

"I had seven, not counting the two at the market." He winked at the smaller dwarf and passed him both sets of reins. "Here, look after the ponies."

Hefting his mighty war hammer, he took up position at the rear of the procession. Boлndal and Tungdil took the lead.

From time to time they heard the clatter of swords, but they avoided trouble by taking frequent detours and keeping out of sight. The tactic was to Goпmgar's taste.

People were charging past them in every direction, some armed and rushing to defend the town, others clutching their children and possessions and hoping to find refuge in passageways and backstreets that hadn't yet fallen to the orcs.

Another doomed settlement, thought Tungdil, remembering the charred wreckage of Goodwater. He knew what the orcs would do to Mifurdania and he was tempted to forget about the mission and rush to the townspeople's aid. They were desperately in need of a few extra axes. He wondered whether to declare a change of plan.

What if one of us gets killed? If we don't forge Keenfire, Girdlegard will be lost. He agonized for a moment and decided that he had to put the mission first, regardless of how hard it was to leave the Mifurdanians to their fate. May the gods preserve you, he thought bleakly, lowering his head.

Boлndal laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. It was clear from his expression that he shared Tungdil's torment.

At length they reached the eastern battlements and discovered a small door watched over by a pair of sentries. Moments later, a bugle sounded and the sentries grabbed their spears and raced to the northern gates. The streets and marketplaces echoed with the sounds of fighting as the orcs advanced through Mifurdania, beating back the defenders.

The dwarves inspected the door. Heavy-duty chains and padlocks prevented anyone from tampering with the four steel bolts.

"Well, well, well," said a disapproving voice. "What do we have here? Five plump cannonballs on legs…I hope you weren't intending to slip out unnoticed."

The man who stepped out of the side street had an aristocratic face and a pointed beard. His flamboyant robes looked expensive. Behind him was a tall, slender woman in leather armor with a crimson head scarf over her long black hair. A plainly dressed man with gray-green eyes, dark hair, and a thin mustache brought up the rear. All three were carrying duffel bags.

"Dear me, little giants," said the man with the pointy beard, "didn't anyone tell you that this door is out of bounds?"

"Thieves, are you?" growled Bavragor, grasping his hammer in his brawny hands.

The man laughed theatrically. "Thieves! That's a good one! What funny little fellows… No, my bearded warrior, we're not even commoners, let alone common thieves! Surely you don't need two eyes to see that?"

The snarling and grunting was getting louder all the time.

"Let me through," the dark-haired woman commanded. She pushed past the bewildered dwarves and lifted her sword belt to reveal a leather pouch. Producing a number of finger-length implements, some sharpened to a point, others curved or bent at right angles, she set to work on the locks. Soon there was a click.

"I knew they were thieves," said Bavragor, pleased to be proven right.

"We're nothing of the sort, my good fellow." The man with the pointed beard gestured to his male companion. "Meet Furgas, the most accomplished prop master since"-he waved vaguely, unable to think of a suitable period of time-"since time began." He pointed to the woman. "It is my pleasure, nay, my privilege, to introduce you to the delightful Narmora, whose exquisite beauty caused the mayor of Mifurdania's roses to wither in shame. As for myself, I am-"

"The fabulous Rodario!" exclaimed Tungdil, who had suddenly placed the actor's voice.

At once the man seemed to warm to him. "An admirer of my art? Who would have thought it! And I took you for a-" He stopped short and his features hardened. "Drown me in a privy, if it isn't the racket maker, the despoiler of my scene, the saboteur of the illusion skillfully woven for the delectation of the public." His brown eyes stared accusingly at Tungdil's boots. "That's him, all right, the dwarf and his accursed footwear. His trampling and shouting ruined my act!"

There was another click as Narmora opened the final padlock and unthreaded the chain, letting it clatter to the ground. "Hurry!"

"Aren't you coming?" Furgas said anxiously.

She smiled and gave him a lingering kiss on the lips. "You go through and I'll lock up behind you. I don't want to be blamed for handing Mifurdania to the orcs. I'll climb over the parapets."

The dwarves led the way, followed by Rodario and Furgas.

It was immediately obvious that the invaders were throwing all their energy into besieging the main gates and had forgotten about the flanks of the town. The runaways were spotted by a pair of Mifurdanian soldiers, who shouted at them from the parapets to identify themselves, but the order went unheeded. Only the actor turned to wave. "Take good care of my theater for me. We'll be back when you've fought off the orcs. The very best of luck!"

"This is real life, Rodario, not one of your plays," Furgas chided, dragging him on.

The impresario seemed not to grasp the full seriousness of their plight. "All the hallmarks of drama are there, though," he said thoughtfully. "What an excellent suggestion, my dear Furgas. I shall write a new work." He put his hands on his hips and struck a heroic pose. "A fearless guardsman-that's me, of course-spots an army of orcs advancing and, in a pitched battle with, say, half a dozen of them, saves the town from certain ruin."

Just then a rope unfurled from the top of the wall and Narmora descended nimbly, hand after hand, and joined them at the base. Shouting wildly, the guards stormed along the parapet and hauled up the rope before it could be spotted by the orcs.

Tungdil and company hurried toward the shelter of the forest, the other three following purposefully behind.

"A word, oh worthy hoarders of gold and gems. Would you consent to us accompanying you for a while on your overland excursion?" inquired the fabulous Rodario, doing his best to dazzle them with his smile. "I don't mean to be personal, but you look like the sort of fellows who could tackle the green- hided beasts. These are dangerous times, and my friends and I are feeble artists, aficionados of the stage." He turned his tanned face toward his thin arms, which protruded like broomsticks from his expensive cloak. "A fine group of soldiers we'd make: two men as slender as saplings and a beautiful, yet vulnerable woman who wears her armor merely for show. I shudder to think what would happen if the orcs were to…"

"Very well, you can join us," conceded Tungdil. With Boпndil still under the influence, they were two axes down, and in the event of a skirmish, the gasbag and his companions would serve as a distraction while he and the others attacked.

"A word," Goпmgar echoed in disbelief. "I think I lost count of them."

"Men talk a lot when they're frightened," Bavragor said knowledgeably. "If you ask me, he must be scared silly. Have you seen their teeny beards? I had more hair when I was born!"

Tungdil headed in the direction of their ingots and gems, steering a course through the forest toward the plateau. He was only grateful that his new companions were oblivious to the comments being bandied about in dwarfish.

We'll have to carry the ingots up the stairs, past the waterfall, and out to the ponies, he thought. It's bound to take a while. The delay was infuriating, particularly since the wagon's mishap seemed to have been planned.

He decided not to wonder where Gandogar and his companions might be. There I go again, he cursed, banishing the thought of their rivals from his mind. He focused on picking a path through the forest and listening for noise.

"Little man," opened Rodario, blundering through the undergrowth in an effort to catch up with the dwarf. He didn't seem to notice the snapping twigs or his echoing voice. "Unless I'm much mistaken, you are the leader of this merry band, and so I address myself to you. Groundlings-"

"Dwarves," Tungdil corrected him automatically.

"As you prefer…As I was saying, dwarves are a rare sight in these lands, and so I wonder: Why did the five of you abandon your underground home? Were you driven out by your kin?"

"That's our business, Mr. Rodario."

"True, very true. It was impolite of me to ask. But perhaps you and your companions would consent to join my itinerant theater and collaborate on a play?" He beamed at Tungdil. "With your permission, I'd like to pen a script especially for five dwarves. People would come from far and wide to see our show. There wouldn't be anything like it in Girdlegard. They'd shower us with coins!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Rodario, but we've business to attend to."

"Business? What kind of business?" He frowned. "Are you in search of treasure?"

"We're on a quest to forge Keenfire!" came a rambunctious shout from the back of the pony. In spite of the slurring, the words were clearly audible. "We'll go to the Gray Range and fashion a weapon more powerful than Nфd'onn himself. The fat wizard won't be bothering us much longer-"

"Shut up, you drunken fool!" Boлndal barked gruffly. "If you're going to give away all our secrets, at least have the decency to do it in dwarfish!"

"Sorry about him," said Tungdil, turning to Rodario with an apologetic shrug. The impresario's face had lit up with interest. "I'm afraid his imagination gets the better of him when he's had too much to drink." He did his best to sound nonchalant, not wishing to give the impression that Boпndil's ravings bore any relation to the truth.

"Don't apologize," Rodario said lightly. "I'm all in favor of imagination. A good writer welcomes inspiration, whatever its source. Besides, I like the sound of the idea. It's just the sort of story that audiences love to see on stage. The trouble is, who would I cast?" He threw up his arms despairingly. "I can't use children or gnomes or kobolds with false beards! I need stocky fellows, proper groundlings, like you. Nothing else would do! Are you sure I can't persuade you?"

"We're dwarves, not groundlings," Boлndal told him crossly. "And keep your voice down, unless you're looking for inspiration on the tip of an orcish sword."

With an offended toss of his long brown locks, the man fell into line with his friends and drew them into a whispered conversation.

"Actors," tutted Boлndal. "You wait: He'll perform our story in every marketplace in Girdlegard before we've finished forging Keenfire. If Nфd'onn finds out what we're up to because of that peacock…" He left the rest of the sentence unsaid.

"Nфd'onn will be long dead before he gets round to writing his play," said Tungdil, clapping him reassuringly on the back. He glanced round to see the fabulous Rodario scribbling frantically in a little notebook that dangled on a ribbon round his neck. Suddenly Tungdil's optimism seemed a little misplaced. "We'll have to take them with us," he said, having thought the matter through.

"You can't seriously suggest that we-"

"I mean it, Boлndal. We'll take them as far as the firstling kingdom. The impresario won't be able to resist an adventure like that. We'll get Borengar's dwarves to lock them in their stronghold for a while-or until the mission is over, if need be. I'm sure they'll find somewhere cozy where our friends will be obliged to enjoy their dwarven hospitality for as many orbits as it takes."

"Assuming they fall for it."

Tungdil gave him a confident wink. The full brilliance of his plan was dawning on him. "Don't worry, they will. When the impresario hears the incredible stories I'm going to tell him, he'll be desperate to see the firstling kingdom for himself."

Boлndal muttered unhappily into his beard.

"Fine," said Tungdil, "I'll warn the others. I don't want them looking too surprised."

He stopped to talk to Goпmgar, then Bavragor, on the somewhat flimsy pretext of checking their armor, and informed them in whispers of his plan.

They were almost on the other side of the forest when they came to the last resting place of the slaughtered unicorns. Rodario immediately stopped to sketch the corpses and make notes on the once-beautiful and peaceable creatures.

Was it wrong to abandon Mifurdania? The sight of the dead unicorns was a painful reminder that they had abandoned the settlement and left Girdlegard's last surviving unicorns to their fate. The gods will understand that we had no other choice.

The group approached the foot of the narrow path that wound its way up to the plateau. From ground level, the track was completely hidden.

"On guard!" Stopping abruptly, Boлndal drew his crow's beak. Bavragor responded by reaching for his war hammer, while Goпmgar interpreted the warning in his own fashion and hid behind his shield.

"On guard? My dear fellow, whatever for?" said the bewildered Rodario. His female companion drew her weapons. The first seemed to consist of a pair of scythes mounted on either side of a metal haft, while the second was a straight-bladed version of the same. Judging by the shimmering keenness of the blades, both the inner and outer edges were deadly sharp. She wore metal baskets on her wrists to protect her fingers from enemy swords.

The impresario turned to her. "What could you want with those, precious rose of Girdlegard?"

If Tungdil had learned anything since the start of his journey, it was to trust his friends' instincts. He steeled himself to face the threat.

A moment later he detected the stench of their hidden foes. They smelled sweeter and stronger than orcs, but there was definitely a whiff of rancid fat on the gentle breeze.

Suddenly the enemy disgorged from the bushes.

Shouting and shrieking, the bцgnilim stormed toward the humans and dwarves. Bringing up the rear were two orcs wielding studded riding crops, which they used to whip the beasts into a frenzy and galvanize the attack.

The bцgnilim, cowardly creatures by nature, were carrying short swords whose notched blades were encrusted with gore from their previous victims. Lolloping and leaping like apes, they screamed and screeched, partly in terror, partly in hatred. Their fighting technique relied on numbers, not skill: If one fell, two or three others would rush into the breach, biting, scratching, and slashing or hurling themselves at their opponents and knocking them off their feet. They descended on the company, stabbing and hacking with indiscriminate rage.

"Back-to-back!" came the terse order from Boлndal. Bavragor took up position, dragging Goпmgar with him, so the artisan had no choice but to join the fight. Rodario was nowhere to be seen, but Furgas and Narmora lined up with the others.

The dwarves' weapons swooped back and forth relentlessly, cleaving skulls and hewing bones, but they had to be careful that none of their slippery assailants sneaked past their guard. Goпmgar barricaded himself behind his shield, his short sword darting out like a flash of silvery lightning and slashing through the bцgnilim's insubstantial leather armor. Pus-colored fluid spurted from the gashes and dripped down his shield.

Narmora fought at triple the speed of her companion, her light yet phenomenally sharp weapons giving her an immense advantage over their foes. Just as it seemed the bцgnilim had lost the battle, the orcs gave their smaller relatives such a thrashing that they relaunched their attack with a ferocity fueled by mortal fear.

The surging bцgnilim caused the defenders to draw closer together until there was barely enough room for the dwarves to swing their weapons. The long blade of the crow's beak caught on the haft of the war hammer, and Bavragor's weapon was torn from his grip. Two or three of the beasts darted forward and knocked the mason to the ground. Others poured through the breach and Tungdil found himself dangerously overextended.

Just then there was a loud hiss and a cloud of green smoke took shape between two trees, crackling and spluttering menacingly. As the air cleared, an enormous two-headed monster loomed out of the mist. With a terrible roar, it opened its vicious jaws and engulfed the bцgnilim in a torrent of flames. Two died in the blaze; the others were rooted with shock.

The ensuing commotion sufficed for Bavragor to retrieve his hammer and overwhelm the bцgnilim who had infiltrated their circle, pounding them to a pulp. Tungdil and Boлndal also went on the attack.

"I'll take care of the monster if it ventures our way," said Boлndal. "If it sticks to killing bцgnilim, so much the better."

Narmora ducked out of the circle and vanished into the bushes, reappearing behind one of the orcs. Her curved blades sliced through his beefy neck, and his headless body toppled to the ground. The second orc lashed out at her, but she dove beneath the whistling whip and launched herself into the air, landing coiled at his feet." Her straight-bladed weapon drove into his belly. The sharp blades cut through his mail, spilling intestines and killing the beast.

Alarmed by the appearance of the fire-spewing monster and thrown into confusion by their flagellators' deaths, the bцgnilim panicked and fled in all directions. None were left, save the thirty or so whose corpses were littered about the ground.

Boлndal turned to the two-headed dragon. "Now for you, foul beast of Tion," he growled, preparing to charge. The monster hastily retreated behind the fading smoke.

"Don't strike!" Furgas cried suddenly. "It's Rodario!"

"Rodario?" echoed Bavragor, bewildered. He was brandishing his weapon, ready to join the attack. Hurriedly, he stayed his hammer's momentum by swinging it round his head.

They heard a rustling in the bushes, then a peal of laughter. "Did you see them run?" the impresario said happily, stepping out of the smoke. He was dressed in a leather costume that was several paces too long for him. In his right hand he held two enormous heads; in his left was a pair of hinged stilts.

"I had a feeling I'd be more useful as a monster than a swordsman. I prefer to reserve my fighting prowess for the stage-outside the theater my enemies tend to laugh instead of tremble. Thankfully, I had time to grab a few props and teach the wee beasts some respect. With a little bit of alchemy, anything is possible."

"But we nearly killed you," Bavragor said, stunned.

"I looked the part, didn't I?" Rodario smirked, gratified. He gave a deep bow. "What's this, worthy spectators? Don't I deserve a round of applause?" The dwarves continued to look at him in mute disbelief.

"All humans are barmy," the mason observed. "He makes Boпndil look sane."

"He might be barmy, but he probably saved your life," Tungdil reminded him. "Vraccas knows what would have become of us if it hadn't been for him. To think we were fooled by a man in fancy dress!" He chuckled, and after a while the others saw the funny side too.

The impresario gave another low bow, straightened up, and smiled. "Thank you. You're most kind. I gather from your laughter that you enjoyed my performance. I'm deeply flattered."

This was the moment that Tungdil had been waiting for. He summoned the three players. "My friends and I have been discussing the matter," he said solemnly, as if he had something of vital importance to convey. "You're a trustworthy trio, and we've decided to tell you where we're going. We're on a mission to the firstling kingdom, home of Borengar's dwarves, who guard the western pass."

"Aha! So you're gathering an army to fight against Nфd'onn!" Rodario said excitedly. "Does that mean the story about Keenfire is true?" He scrabbled for his quill.

Tungdil ignored him and plowed on. "You came to our aid, and we'd like to show our gratitude. You may accompany us to the firstling kingdom, where you will enter a dwarven stronghold and behold its splendor. That, and a bag of gold coins, should cover our debt." It seemed to Tungdil that only the foppish actor had been won over by his words, so he tried again, this time waxing lyrical about the wonders of a kingdom he had never set eyes on. For the benefit of Furgas, he invented all kinds of extraordinary machinery and ascribed it to the genius of the firstling engineers, while Narmora was treated to descriptions of wondrous jewelry and armor. On finishing his protracted speech, he fell silent and awaited their decision with mounting impatience.

To his horror he realized that Bavragor had reached for his blood-encrusted hammer and intended to attack the players should they decline. Boлndal looked equally resolute.

"Just think," mused Rodario, stroking his pointed beard. "I could found a new theater. We'll see wonders in this kingdom never known to humankind! Furgas, imagine all the new contraptions you could build!"

Furgas nodded enthusiastically, leaving Narmora looking unimpressed. He stroked her hair fondly and kissed her. "You'll come too, won't you?" She pouted.

Tungdil looked at her intently. He still thought of her as the actress who had played the дlf. Her face isn't quite elven enough, he told himself. She's just an unusually beautiful human, that's all.

"I hope you don't mind me asking," he said brightly. "But how did you learn to use these?" He pointed to the weapons hanging in narrow leather sheaths from her belt. "I've never seen the like of them. What are they?"

"Their names are Crescent and Sunbeam. I designed them myself."

"You designed them?"

Furgas planted another kiss on her cheek. "She's our lead дlf, and we didn't want her to have the same weaponry as everyone else." He glowed with pride at his mistress's ingenuity. "We had to ask around a bit until we found a smith with the skill to forge the blades."

"I'm not surprised," said Tungdil, refraining from further comment. He pointed to the steep track. "We'd better get going before the bцgnilim recover from the shock."

He knew there had to be more to it than that. You don't just invent those sorts of weapons and you certainly don't wield them with such proficiency unless you've been properly trained.

He glanced at Bavragor and Boлndal, who were obviously thinking the same. None of them had any doubt that Narmora was really a warrior, an accomplished fighter who had abandoned the battlefield in favor of the stage.

Tungdil watched as Furgas looked at Narmora tenderly and drew her to him. Did she lay down her weapons for love? He would ask her when he had the chance. I bet she was a mercenary in Umilante's or Tilogorn's army, although she still looks very young…

Furgas and Narmora helped the impresario out of his oversize breeches, while Goпmgar turned his attention to the startled ponies, who, contrary to all expectations, had stood their ground throughout the fight. The inebriated Boпndil was still draped over the back of one of them, snoring.

"Listen to that racket," said Bavragor. "He's making more noise than a lumberjack in a forest."

"I can't wait to see his expression when he hears he missed a battle," said Boлndal with a wicked grin. "I bet he'll never want to drink again."

The humans and dwarves strung out in a line as they made their way up to the plateau that overlooked Mifurdania and its surrounds. Thick banks of smoke hung over the settlement and a swarm of tiny black dots surged back and forth around the walls. Nothing they saw gave them any reason to believe that the Mifurdanians would prevail against Nфd'onn's troops. Even the otherwise ebullient Rodario was distressed by the sight. Narmora stood impassively at the edge of the platform, peering down at the forest, while Furgas and the dwarves crouched by the waterfall and washed the blood from their hands.

"Where to now?" he asked, noticing that the track went no farther.

"Back down to the bottom, just as soon as we've loaded the ponies," Tungdil told him. "We stopped here on our way to Mifurdania and left our gifts for the firstlings in a cave."

"Can I give you a hand?"

"There's no need," said Tungdil, not wanting to reveal the existence of the underground network. "You should probably get some sleep. We'll need someone to sit watch for us later." He took his leave with a quick nod and edged behind the waterfall with Goпmgar, Bavragor, and Boлndal.

Shifting the ingots was every bit as onerous as Tungdil had expected. At last, after hours of hard work, the bars of gold, silver, palandium, vraccasium, and tionium were stacked safely at the top of the stairs. The sun was setting by the time the dwarves collapsed wearily on the floor, worn out from all the fetching and carrying, not to mention their earlier run-in with the bцgnilim.

They were almost asleep when an embarrassed Boпndil emerged from his drunken slumber, mortified at getting sloshed on five tankards-which in his estimation was not nearly enough. Bavragor took particular pleasure in informing him that he couldn't hold his drink.

Later, Boпndil was introduced to the players, whom he viewed with suspicion. He made a point of ignoring them, preferring to treat them coolly until they earned his respect. Not having witnessed the battle, he hadn't seen their fighting spirit and refused to be swayed by his companions' reports. Rodario could be as obliging as he liked: Boпndil was impervious to his charm. Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle Soon your kingdom will be ours," a voice warned Gundrabur. The дlf was almost invisible in the darkness of the chamber. He stepped closer to the bed. "You'll lose your kingdom, as the fifthlings lost theirs."

"Nothing you can do will stop us," said a second дlf, emerging from the shadows and stooping over the bed. Black runes were tattooed across his face, making his pale skin appear translucent and lending him a menacing air. "You're dying, Gundrabur. Vraccas will gather you to his eternal smithy, where you can weep and wail all you like."

"No one will remember you," a third дlf told him, stepping noiselessly out of the darkness and stopping at the foot of his bed. "You're old and weak, a high king who waited until his dying cycle to do something worthwhile and failed in all his endeavors." He broke off, raising his violet eyes to the ceiling and listening intently. "Do you hear that?" A chisel was tapping away at the rock. "The secondlings are expunging your name from their annals. You failed them, Gundrabur." Even as he spoke, the tapping and hammering intensified so that Gundrabur could hear a thousand chisels working in unison, chipping away at his skull. "Nothing will remain of your works. Yours will be the Nameless Era that brought humiliation and defeat on the dwarves. You are to blame for their destruction, Gundrabur. You are to-"

"Gundrabur! Gundrabur!"

The дlfar whirled round and turned to face the door. Light flooded into the chamber.

"We'll be back," they told him, melting into a darkness so complete that not even Gundrabur's dwarven eyes could fathom it.

"Gundrabur!"

The high king woke with a start. His heart was pounding and it took a moment for him to find his bearings. He covered his face with his hands and groaned.

Balendilнn was sitting on the edge of the royal bed, mopping the sweat from his sovereign's brow. He wrung the cloth into a bowl that was resting on Gundrabur's chest and wobbling slightly as it rose and fell. "Your Majesty was having a nightmare," he said, pressing his hand.

"They're waiting for me," whispered Gundrabur. He looked even older than usual, a time-wizened dwarf so frail and ancient that he was in danger of being swamped by the sheets. He gave Balendilнn a short, breathless account of his dream. "They were right," he sighed. "I'm not going to leave this bed alive. I wanted to die fighting Nфd'onn, or at the very least to cleave one more orcish skull." He tried to laugh, but it came out as a choke. "If it weren't for this confounded weakness…"

Balendilнn was in no doubt as to what had prompted Gundrabur's decline. He himself had been sick for three orbits following their interview with Bislipur. The beer that had been brought to them after the fourthling's departure had given Balendilнn an upset stomach and a temperature, but his constitution was sturdy enough to withstand the shock. The elderly king was unlikely to recover.

It had come to light that the attendant who had served the refreshments had collided with Bislipur on his way to the hall. There was no doubt that Bislipur had a koboldlike talent for skulduggery, but Balendilнn couldn't accuse him of anything without proof.

He won't get away with it this time. Poisoning Gundrabur's beer is murder-murder and high treason. As soon as evidence came to light of Bislipur's wrongdoings, Balendilнn was determined to put him on trial and execute him for his crimes. And if the fourthling didn't trip up of his own accord, the counselor intended to help him fall.

"I have no other heir but you, Balendilнn. Be a strong leader to our folk. Serve them better than I did."

Balendilнn dabbed at the beads of sweat on his brow. "You served the secondlings well," he told him. "You were a good king and you still are."

Tears welled in Gundrabur's eyes. "I should like to go to the High Pass, where I fought my proudest battles."

"Your Majesty, that's not wise. An excursion like that could kill you."

"If I die, it is Vraccas's will and you shall take my place." He lifted the bowl from his chest and sat up. "Fetch me my ax and armor," he ordered, becoming the dwarves' stately ruler as he donned his battle dress: leather jerkin, leather breeches, a light knee-length tunic of mail, and a bejeweled aventail, then helmet, gloves, and armored boots. Gathering his ax, the haft of which was as long as his legs, he hobbled to the door.

His counselor pleaded with him to reconsider, but Gundrabur had made up his mind and was as obstinate as any dwarf.

Together they marched through the passageways of the stronghold, Balendilнn guiding the high king and steadying him during the frequent pauses after every flight of steps. At length they reached the defenses built by their ancestors to keep out the waves of invading orcs and other beasts and made their way to the highest parapet.

Groaning with effort, Gundrabur sat down on a ledge between two merlons. His hands and arms were trembling and his face was covered in a sheen of perspiration, but he was content. A light southerly wind blew in, ruffling his almost transparent white hair, and he closed his eyes.

"I expect you think Bislipur put something in my beer," he said. "You're probably right. He'll go to any lengths to achieve his goals, but you'll never defeat him by responding in kind. Don't play him at his own game, Balendilнn, or he'll drag you down to his level."

Balendilнn drew closer and looked the monarch in the eye. "What would you have me do? Is it wrong to fight fire with fire?"

"Bislipur's mask will slip, and when it does, you must be there to expose his duplicity. When the truth is out, even his closest friends will turn against him, but until then you must bide your time. If you speak too soon, the fourthlings will accuse you of troublemaking and slander. Fires are best fought with water: It puts out the flames without adding to the blaze." Gundrabur's cloudy eyes settled on his heir. "Be like water, Balendilнn, not for me, but for the sake of our folks." He gazed down at the trench, surveying the bleached bones of the countless creatures who had died there. "Not a single orc entered our stronghold during my reign," he murmured, not without a hint of pride. "We defended Girdlegard against Tion's minions, and now you must protect it from the threat within."

There was a short silence as he took in the splendor of the stronghold's defenses; then he sniffed the air quizzically.

"Is this your doing, my loyal friend?" he whispered gratefully. "Am I to die in battle after all?"

At that moment the guards on the battlements spotted the advancing beasts and sounded the alarm. The gates of the stronghold flew open as the echoing blare of the bugles called the dwarves to arms. Warriors left their stations at the foot of the ramparts and streamed up the stairways to the battlements.

Balendilнn stared at the high king's countenance. He looked visibly younger. The foul stench of the approaching orcs was fanning the flames of his inner furnace, steadying his hands and sharpening his sight.

"Lower the bridge," came the order from Gundrabur. He sprang to his feet. Moments earlier, his legs had trembled under the weight of his mail, but now they bore him with ease, and he seemed to have gained a few finger lengths in height. "Let's see whether the orcs have learned anything about fighting over all these cycles. I'll warrant they can't scare this old dwarf."

The portcullis lifted, pillars rose from the base of the trench, and the first slabs of stone were lowered to form a bridge across the trench. Already five hundred dwarves had formed a guard around their king.

Balendilнn tried one last time to dissuade him. "I'm begging you, Gundrabur, you'll be killed-"

The elderly monarch patted his shoulder reassuringly, then took his hand and gripped it firmly. "My loyal friend, I would rather die like this than have the spirit sucked out of me by poison. Bislipur shan't have the satisfaction of ending my life." He clasped Balendilнn to him. "I will die a glorious death, a death befitting a secondling king. History will remember me kindly." He stepped back and looked solemnly at his counselor and friend. "The first ten orcs that fall by my ax will be vengeance for your arm. Farewell, Balendilнn. We'll meet again in Vraccas's smithy." With a smile, he turned and faced his troops. "Warriors of Beroпn," he cried, his voice traveling through the stronghold and echoing against the rock, "let us fight together and defend our kingdom. For Ogre's Death and Girdlegard!"

A cheer went up among the secondling warriors who knew nothing of their monarch's illness and rejoiced to see him fighting at their side.

We'll meet again. Balendilнn felt a lump in his throat as he watched his friend stride majestically through the gates and across the bridge, shielded by the secondlings' arrows and catapults until he and his warriors were close enough to engage their orcish foes.

Balendilнn didn't have long to wait until a cry went up among the horrified warriors that Gundrabur had fallen. It was then that he decided to ignore the late king's advice and see to it that Bislipur died. Dwarves are no friends of water, he thought grimly. Fire is our element.

On the fifth orbit after the high king's passing, the taverns, quarries, and workshops of the secondling kingdom were still closed. Thousands of dwarves from the seventeen clans of Beroпn's folk had gathered in the funeral hall whose vast pillars towered so high and dwindled into the distance.

The focal point was a stone sarcophagus, hewn by the secondlings' finest masons and decorated with wondrous carvings commemorating Gundrabur's glorious deeds, not least his last battle at the High Pass where the orcs had been routed.

Carved into the lid of the coffin was a perfect likeness of the monarch in his younger years. The marble Gundrabur was dressed in his finest armor, his right hand clasping the haft of his ax.

Even those at the back of the hall could see the sculpted body resting on the dais, high above the heads of the crowd. Slender rays of sunshine slanted through chinks in the ceiling, converging on the coffin from all points of the compass and bathing the effigy in iridescent light.

The moment of parting has come. Balendilнn ascended the steps and stopped at the high king's feet. Kneeling down, he lowered his head and paid his respects to the fallen monarch. Then he got up and surveyed the secondlings for a final time before he was appointed king.

"Gundrabur sensed the invaders before they were spotted from the watchtowers. He was always the first to detect our enemies and preserve us from harm." As he spoke, he found himself looking at Bislipur, who was standing with the fourthling delegates at the edge of the crowd. Not even Gandogar's scheming adviser could excuse himself from an occasion such as this. "Our king was called to Vraccas before he could realize his dream of a united dwarven assembly, but he took the first step toward creating a new and stronger union of the folks. From this moment on, his goals will be mine, and I swear in the name of Vraccas to complete his work before I die."

Banging the hafts of their axes against the floor, the secondlings signaled their approval. A low roll of thunder rumbled through the mountain.

Balendilнn was too choked with emotion to say anything further, so he walked to the head of the coffin, kissed the brow of the marble king, bowed again, and left the dais.

With that, fifty dwarves hurried over and hooked long poles into the metal rings subtly incorporated into the coffin's design. As soon as the order was given, they lifted the coffin, carried it from the dais, and bore it silently past the rows of dwarves, who bowed a final time as their dead monarch was taken to his resting place in the crypt of kings.

Balendilнn walked behind the coffin. He would watch over Gundrabur's body during the long hours of the night, ending his vigil in the morning, when he would leave the crypt with the secondling crown. In time, he too would be laid to rest with the rulers of his folk.

From the corner of his eye he spotted Bislipur pushing his way to the front of the crowd. The fourthling's gaze was fixed on him as if to read his thoughts and divine the nature of the vengeance that Balendilнn had in mind. You are right to fear me, Bislipur. Your crimes won't go unpunished. Looking straight ahead, Balendilнn didn't let on that he had seen the brawny dwarf.

At length the pallbearers entered the crypt of kings and placed the coffin on its basalt stand. High above, an opening had been cut out of the mountain, allowing the light of Girdlegard to shine on Gundrabur's marble face. The attendants filed out of the vast crypt that housed the mortal remains of the secondling kings, twenty-six in all.

Balendilнn walked to the far end of the vault, placed the haft of his ax on the floor, and leaned on the ax head. His gaze fell on the sculpted countenance of his friend and sovereign. Fare you well, Gundrabur. As the moments passed, he too became stone, insensible to the passing of time. His eyes stared blankly at the coffin, while his mind relinquished all thought and drifted on a sea of sorrow.

At times it seemed to him that voices were speaking to him in ghostly whispers, but he understood nothing of what they said.

According to secondling legend, Vraccas would open the eternal smithy and release the spirits of the dead kings, who would visit the prospective monarch and pass judgment on his worth. In some cases, the heir to the throne entered the vault and was never seen again. Balendilнn was spared such a fate.

The next morning, tired, aching, and bleary-eyed, he left the crypt to find the waiting dwarves exactly where he had left them many hours before. The secondlings bowed and drummed their axes against the floor, hailing their new king and offering him beer, bread, and ham to restore his strength.

Balendilнn took a few mouthfuls, washed them down, and ascended the dais where Gundrabur's coffin had lain.

"I did not seek this office," he said in a loud, clear voice. "It was my hope that Gundrabur would reign for another hundred cycles so I could serve him loyally, but Vraccas decided otherwise. Fourteen orcs died by Gundrabur's ax and four arrows pierced his flesh before our king was gathered to the eternal smithy." His gaze swept the hall. "He named me as his successor, and so I ask you: Will you have me as your king?"

The crowd chorused a resounding "aye," wooden hafts pounded the stone, and Balendilнn realized with a rush of emotion that the secondlings were chanting his name.

"Beroпn's folk has chosen. Let us never forget Gundrabur or his dream of uniting our kin. It is our shared duty, irrespective of clan or folk, to defend Girdlegard against all harm." His eyes sought Bislipur and found him where he had been standing before. "Join me," he said, extending his hand.

The startled Bislipur limped up the steps to the dais and greeted the new monarch with a nod. His cold brown eyes stared at him uncertainly.

"The death of Gundrabur has robbed our folks of their high king. The succession will not be decided until the fifth and final challenge is complete. As I'm sure you know, Bislipur and I have not seen eye to eye, but I cannot allow a rift to open between our folks. Friendship must not be turned to enmity, which is why I solemnly swear to put aside our differences until one or the other of the candidates has returned." He drew himself up to his full height. "When dwarf fights dwarf, only our enemies stand to gain. The new high king will set our course and we will obey his orders and submit to his will." Balendilнn held out his hand to Bislipur. "Let us shake on it."

His antagonist had no choice but to comply. To Balendilнn's astonishment, he seemed neither angry nor resentful.

"I swear that neither of us will promote our separate causes until the new high king has returned," he promised, choosing his words with care. "We may disagree on certain matters, but we share a common enemy: evil in all its forms. As dwarves, we are committed to wiping out evil wherever it occurs and we shall not tire in our duty."

A loud cheer went up as the pair shook hands and looked each other in the eye. No one could tell that their gazes were locked in an oath of eternal enmity.

"As a sign of my good faith, I should like to suggest that we begin our crusade against evil this very moment," announced Bislipur. "Will we stand by while orcs murder and pillage before the gates of this stronghold?" He turned to the crowd and raised his voice to a rallying shout. "We must clear Ogre's Death of this plague!"

On hearing the cheers, he knew he had judged the mood right. "My messenger is heading through the tunnels to the fourthling kingdom, as I speak. He will return with five thousand of our finest warriors," he proclaimed to the astonished Balendilнn and the crowd. "Together the dwarves of Beroпn and Goпmdil will chase the orcs from these gates. United our folks will prevail!" He threw up his arms and brandished his double-bladed ax, dazzling the dwarves with reflected light. "This is our chance to realize Gundrabur's dream of a common dwarven army!"

The cheering redoubled and the mountain shook with the drumming of axes.

Balendilнn bore the treachery smilingly and gazed intently into Bislipur's hard face. You don't fool me, you devious bastard. Are the warriors meant for your protection, or are you after the high king's throne? Would you stage a coup so you can have your elven war?

Bislipur stared back, his cold eyes boring into him mercilessly. "May the hunt begin, King Balendilнn," he said, descending from the dais. Balendilнn was left to wonder who the quarry might be.