The Dwarves

III

Kingdom of Weyurn, Girdlegard, Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle As soon as the opportunity arose, the travelers purchased a small cart for their baggage and a pair of horses-one for Rodario and the other for Narmora and Furgas. From then on, the journey westward proceeded considerably faster, not to mention more comfortably.

Rodario, fearing the wrath of the cuckolded husbands, was especially keen to make progress-although it didn't deter him from using his charm and eloquence to make a string of conquests on the way.

A fierce northerly brought with it the season's first snowstorm, the white flakes settling on the frozen ground to form a thick icy layer. Winter seemed to descend on the land and its inhabitants faster and more vigorously than usual. Sleeping in the open was too dangerous, so the company camped out in places where they would be sheltered from the elements, under trees or rocky overhangs, or in derelict houses or ruined forts.

The vast lakes that made up three-quarters of Weyurn's surface were covered in ice. The sun and clouds played on the frozen water, creating glorious displays of shadow and light, but the glittering spectacle could do nothing to win over the twins, who were too afraid of the icy depths to go fishing with Rodario and Furgas.

"Ice is just as dangerous as water," Boпndil told them. He set about making a fire in the ruined temple where they were camping for the night. "It looks so pretty that you forget to be careful, and then whoa, you find yourself sinking to the bottom, never to be seen again."

"It's like marriage," observed Rodario. "Women tempt you into their arms and before you know it, you're trapped for life. I'm more of the type for-"

"Bedding other people's wives. Not to mention being beaten by angry husbands and dying of the clap," Narmora finished for him.

"Still jealous, I see," he riposted, flashing her a dazzling smile as he hurried after Furgas, who was heading for a nearby stream.

Boпndil chuckled. "My old billy goat was a bit like Rodario. He mounted anything that stayed still for two seconds."

"What became of him?"

"The old lecher jumped on a nanny goat and didn't notice that she was grazing near a cliff. He plummeted to his death." He ran a razor over his cheeks to get rid of the stubble that was drawing attention away from his magnificent beard.

"In other words, Rodario will get his comeuppance by falling out of bed and breaking his neck," said Tungdil, grinning.

"Who said anything about a bed? It might be the window!" Boлndal pointed out.

His brother hooted with laughter. "What a sight!" He scrambled along a fallen column that was propped up amid the ruins and came to a halt at the top end where he could see for miles around. He took a seat and lit his pipe. Boлndal tossed him his share of the food. "It would serve the old prattler right," chuckled Boпndil, turning his attention hungrily to the cheese.

Goпmgar, wrapped in two blankets with his shield laid across him like a third, had said nothing for some time. Eyes closed, he seemed to be asleep.

The temple's moss-covered walls were alive with flickering shadows. Over the cycles, the frescoes had faded and there were holes in the crumbling plaster. Not that the dwarves would have recognized the painted deities anyway: To their minds, there was only one god and that was Vraccas. The rest weren't worth the time of day.

The warmth from the blazing fire spread rapidly, casting a soft light throughout the temple and making the timeworn sculptures seem strangely alive.

Tungdil found himself thinking of the performance in the Curiosum. He still couldn't decide how much of what he had seen had been acted by the players and how much had unfolded in his mind. It all seemed so real.

Muttering to himself, Bavragor returned from his tour of the ruins. "Not bad," was his verdict on the masonry, "but not worthy of us dwarves."

Tungdil offered him some bread and ham. "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

Bavragor accepted the food. "Sounds ominous."

"It's been playing on my mind. You know the business with your sister…"

"Smeralda." Bavragor placed the sandwich on a stone to warm the bread and bring out the flavor of the meat. He took a long slug of brandy before continuing and said bitterly, "I can't forgive him for what he did."

Tungdil didn't press him. He had a feeling that Bavragor was ready to open up to him, and after a while the mason cleared his throat.

"She was a slip of a thing, a lass of forty cycles, but as soon as he clapped eyes on her, he wanted her for himself. She was as much of a warrior as he was, and she trained like a demon because she wanted to be able to fight by his side." He clenched his fists as the memories flooded back. "The rest of us were worried about his fiery spirit, and we begged her to stay away. Smeralda wouldn't listen, and everything went on as before. The two of them were fighting a band of orcs when he…" He broke off, covering his good eye with one hand and raising his pouch to his mouth with the other. "He killed her, Tungdil. He was so far gone in bloodlust that he took her for an orc."

Tungdil pushed back the lump in his throat and blinked.

"An orc! Afterward they said it was a tragedy and a terrible accident and he swears he can't remember a thing, but I couldn't care less: My sister died because of him. I don't know if you could forgive him, but I don't intend to."

Tungdil knew there was nothing he could say. The story was unspeakably sad. He laid a hand on Bavragor's arm. "I'm sorry I put you through it again," he said simply.

Listening to the mason had brought back the pain of losing Lot-Ionan and Frala, who had been like a sister to him. I can almost understand how he feels.

"So now you know," sighed Bavragor, taking a deep breath and flushing away the memories with a long draft of brandy. His ham sandwich lay untouched and forgotten by the fire.

Tungdil looked up and glanced at Boпndil, who was guarding the camp from his lookout on the fallen pillar and puffing on his pipe. Blue smoke rings wafted into the darkness, rising through the falling flakes, and Tungdil thought for a moment that he could hear the hiss of hot tobacco on snow.

"The fieriness of his inner furnace is a curse," Boлndal said sadly. "He still can't remember what happened on the bridge. All he knows is that Smeralda was lying dead at his feet and he thought the orcs had killed her. When Bavragor and the others told him that she'd died by his axes…"

"Weren't you with him?"

"I wish I had been. I keep telling myself that if I hadn't been injured, I might have stopped him before it was too late." He scratched at a rusty patch on his chain mail and oiled the corroded links. "He calls out to her in his sleep sometimes. Trust me, scholar, he suffers just as much as Bavragor, but he'd never admit it."

Boлndal filled his pipe and they took turns smoking, each pursuing his thoughts. Tungdil looked out of the crumbling window and saw that the snow was falling faster than before.

A pair of snowmen appeared in the doorway: Furgas and Rodario were back from fishing. The prop master had caught two fully grown carp, but the impresario was clutching a single, insubstantial tench.

"A god among plowmen, but a terrible fisherman," commented Bavragor, hoping that a bit of banter would dispel his gloomy thoughts.

Rodario didn't rise to the taunt. "What's the use of being a god when the mortals forsake you?" He pointed to the crumbling, damp-ridden frescoes. "Deities need lesser beings to adore them, or they fade and die. They lose their purpose; there's no reason for them to exist."

"Vraccas doesn't need a purpose," Boлndal told him firmly. "He created himself because it suited him, not because of anyone else."

"I'm familiar with the creation myths, thank you, and I certainly don't need any sermons from you." The impresario turned his attention to filleting his fish. "We used to perform them on stage-very successfully, I might tell you. It's true what they say: Old stories are always the best, although in the present circumstances our play about Nфd'onn seems to strike a chord."

That was Tungdil's cue to ask him about the theatrical effects he had witnessed in the Curiosum. Ever since the performance he had been longing to find out how they made the illusions seem so real.

"You're interested in how we did it?" Rodario pointed his scaly knife at Furgas. "Ask the expert."

While the impresario continued to hack away at the unfortunate tench, Furgas finished gutting the first carp and started on the second. "I know a fair bit about alchemy. That's how we make the smoke, for example. Thick smoke, wispy smoke, red smoke, black smoke, whatever we need. The science of the elements is fascinating."

Alchemy was one of the subjects taught by Lot-Ionan at the school and Tungdil was familiar with some of the chemicals, having fetched and carried them often enough. "But how did you extinguish all the lamps at once?"

"Magic," Rodario whispered, trying to look enigmatic. "You thought Nфd'onn was the only magus left in Girdlegard, didn't you?" He leaned over to Tungdil, fiddled with his ear, and pulled out a gold coin. "What do you say to that?"

"Thank you," said Tungdil, snatching up the coin. He tested it with his teeth and knew at once that he'd been had. "Gold-plated lead," he reported. "And not even good-quality gold." He tossed back the coin. "Your magic's not up to much."

"He's a conjurer, not a magus," laughed Boлndal, pointing at the impresario with the stem of his pipe.

Rodario wagged a finger at him. "But the audience falls for it, and that's what counts. Why, even the ugly little bцgnilim were tricked by my art, and that, my friends, is what's known as success."

"So it's all a case of conjuring, illusion, and alchemy," said Tungdil, summing up.

Furgas nodded. "And makeup," he added, glancing at his slender mistress. "Makeup convinces the eye of what it otherwise only suspects. It turns Narmora into an дlf and sends the youngsters screaming to their parents." He laughed. "That's when we know that we're doing something right."

"Just be thankful it was Tungdil and not our lunatic ax man who visited your theater," Bavragor said darkly. "He would have stormed the stage."

"Poor Narmora," Boлndal murmured unthinkingly. "Even without makeup she looks remarkably like an elf. Nature can be cruel sometimes."

The comment prompted smiles from Furgas and Rodario, but Narmora shot the startled secondling a murderous look. Tungdil and Bavragor fell about laughing, thereby waking Goпmgar, who peered nervously over his shield.

"Oh," said Boлndal, embarrassed. "That came out all wrong. I didn't mean it that way," he apologized.

"Are you sure I look like an elf, not an дlf?" Narmora said threateningly. Her eyes, so dark they were almost black, glowered at him angrily. "I hope none of you get a nasty shock tonight…" She stood up, straightened her head scarf, and left the ruined temple. Her silhouette melted into the darkness.

"Ye gods, she's a natural," Rodario gushed. "Doesn't she play the role to perfection? Of course, I've no intention of telling her. She'd only demand a raise." He looked excitedly at the others for confirmation, and the dwarves concurred with mute nods. Boлndal was genuinely perturbed about what might befall him when he fell asleep that night.

The men finished filleting their catch and soon there was a smell of roasted fish. They all tucked in hungrily.

"There's one thing I don't understand," Tungdil said to Furgas. "How did you make the set? Everything-the woods, the palace… It looked so real."

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course!"

"Do I have your word?"

"Absolutely!"

"Swear by the blade of your ax."

Tungdil swore himself to absolute secrecy.

"Magic," announced Furgas with a mischievous grin. He smoothed his mustache.

"Uh-huh," sighed Tungdil, kicking himself for falling for the routine.

Boлndal sat up with a jolt and stifled a scream. For all the shock of being woken, he was glad to have escaped the visions that had plagued his sleep.

His relief was short-lived. On reaching for his crow's beak, he was alarmed to discover that the weapon was gone. Slender fingers encircled his wrist.

He rolled over to find himself staring into the cruel, lean face of an дlf. Clad in full armor, she was crouched beside him, studying him with cold, dark eyes. I'm still dreaming, he told himself frantically. It can't be…

"Let that be a lesson to you," he heard her hiss menacingly, just as his eyelids grew impossibly heavy and he drifted off to sleep.

When he woke for the second time, he leaped up, spluttering and gasping, and whirled round to face the threat. This time his crow's beak was in its proper place and he snatched it up hastily.

The players were asleep: Narmora in Furgas's arms, and Rodario, head resting in a pile of discarded fish skin, nestled beside the dying fire.

Boлndal studied them carefully. It didn't look as though they were playing a joke on him. Heart still pounding, he recovered some of his composure and vowed never to offend the actress again.

It occurred to him that Goпmgar was supposed to be keeping watch for them, but the lookout post was empty and the sentry had vanished. The horses and ponies were all safely tethered, but a trail of footprints led away from the door.

Surely he's not daft enough to run away in a snowstorm? Boлndal took a few steps outside and was almost knocked over by a flurry of snowflakes that seemed intent on laying him out. Suddenly he spotted a figure crumpled in the snow.

"Goпmgar!" Boлndal rushed over but the artisan didn't respond. Blood was trickling from a narrow gash in his head. Boлndal carried him into the ruined temple, laid him next to the fire, and threw on a couple of extra logs.

"I…" Goпmgar teeth were chattering furiously. "I slipped."

Boлndal covered him with two blankets. He can't even pee without getting himself in a fix. Tactfully, he refrained from comment: Goпmgar had humiliated himself sufficiently already. Why Tungdil had picked the troublesome artisan was beyond him, especially with four perfectly acceptable diamond cutters to choose from. Vraccas is bound to have his reasons, he thought philosophically, as the bundle of misery slowly began to thaw. His beard, hair, and eyebrows were streaming with icy water.

Boлndal leaned over to talk to him. "Were you trying to get yourself killed out there?"

"No," came the eventual reply.

"Be more careful in the future. We need you for our mission."

"You mean the impostor needs me to help him steal the throne," the shivering artisan muttered darkly.

Boлndal didn't bother to reply: The fourthling still hadn't grasped that more was at stake than the succession, despite Tungdil's well-meaning attempts to set him straight. How can anyone be so obtuse? Everything depends on the success of our mission, but he's too stubborn to see it.

Goпmgar stopped shivering and stared straight past him toward the rear of the temple, where the marble gods were grouped. He gulped. "How many?" he whispered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"How many statues were here when we arrived?"

Boлndal thought for a moment. "Seven. Four big ones and three small ones."

Goпmgar closed his eyes. "There are eight of them," he hissed. "Five big ones. What are we going to do?"

"Which one wasn't there before?" Boлndal's fingers were already wrapped round the haft of his crow's beak. He tensed his muscles.

"The third from the right."

"Fine. I'll go in for the attack and shout to wake the others. Meanwhile, you grab your shield and back me up until Boпndil takes over."

"Me?"

"Who else am I supposed to ask?"

Before Goпmgar could protest, the crow's beak swung up in a half circle, its long tip speeding toward the area just above the hips where there were no bones to slow its path. The wound would be deep and deadly. Like a miniature pennant, Boлndal's plait traced the weapon's movement in the air.

"For Vraccas!" he bellowed.

The statue shattered under the force of the blow, the crow's beak smashing through the crumbling stone and dashing it to pieces. The damage to the deity, carved lovingly by humans, was absolute and irrevocable.

"Sorry," Goпmgar said contritely, "I meant third from my right." By then it was too late.

The hitherto inanimate statue suddenly came to life. Its eyes glowed lilac beneath its visor.

"Of all the dumb mistakes…" Boлndal swore under his breath and made to strike again.

His titanic adversary had other ideas. Moving with a speed that belied its size, the statue seized the dwarf's forearms in its enormous hands and lifted him clean into the air. Boлndal found himself dangling two paces above the ground. His weapon clattered to the cracked marble floor.

His brother was on his feet already. "Let go of him!" Whipping out his axes, he was about to launch himself on his colossal opponent when he was blinded by a flash of light. The glare was so bright that he had to look away.

"That's enough, Boпndil," commanded a distinctive female voice. The glare softened to a weak glow, allowing them all to see.

The speaker emerged from behind the remaining statues and joined the giant's side. Her crimson cloak was streaked with melting snow and she was holding a glowing sphere. "You can put Boлndal down now, Djerun. I think they know who we are."

"Andфkai!" cried Tungdil in astonishment, lowering his ax. "You're back!" She threw back her hood to show them her face.

"Andфkai? Andфkai the maga of Brandфkai? Andфkai the Tempestuous?" inquired Rodario. He didn't seem to notice that his cheeks were covered in fish scales and that he was scarcely looking his best. "Isn't she supposed to be dead?" He stared at her brazenly. "Confound it, you're right!" He turned to Furgas and Narmora. "Andфkai's alive. We'll have to rewrite the play."

"What play?" Slipping the globe inside her cloak, the maga strode to the fire and warmed her hands. Djerun lowered Boлndal to the floor. "What's he talking about? Who is he, anyway?"

"An impresario," Tungdil said apologetically. It took all his self-control not to bombard her with questions.

"I see. I've been immortalized in a play already, have I? I hope the actress is suitably-"

Rodario was about to launch into a flattering explanation when Boлndal rounded on the maga.

"What the blazes was your giant up to? How was I supposed to know he was spying on us? I could have killed him!"

"He wasn't spying; he was guarding your camp. And no, there was never any danger of you killing him," she informed him in a condescending tone. She took off her cloak to allow the warmth to penetrate her other clothes. Underneath she was wearing full armor, thick winter garments, and a sword. She was broad-shouldered by nature, and the layers only added to her bulk. "He was here at my request to protect you from the дlfar. They've been following you since Mifurdania."

"I knew they were hunting us," wailed Goпmgar.

Boпndil laughed. "I'd rather die in a fight with the дlfar than be saved by a beast. Leave the pointy-ears to me." He stroked the short hafts of his axes.

"I doubt you would have spotted them in time. They managed to follow you this far without you seeing them," the maga said gravely. "Djerun killed a couple of them three miles from here, but two escaped. I sent Djerun ahead in case they tired of tracking you and decided to attack."

"So it was him who rescued me in Sovereignston! I thought as much," said Tungdil.

Andфkai nodded. "I'm afraid your attacker got away."

"I wouldn't have let the pointy-eared murderer escape with his life," growled Boпndil. "My enemies never get the better of me, even if I have to chase them down."

"I'm assuming you've never been shot at by an дlf archer." She gave the dwarf a pitying look. "And anyway, warriors who run after their enemies should be careful about being trapped."

"My enemies never trap me," Boпndil said mulishly. He took up his old position atop the fallen pillar.

The extra height brought him level with the giant. He peered through the visor, curious to see what lay among the shadows, but his eyes, despite being accustomed to darkness, failed to penetrate the gloom. It was as if Djerun's helmet contained nothing but bottomless space. The others sat down in a circle around the fire.

By this time the players were wide-awake. While Narmora returned her fantastical weapons to her belt, Rodario whipped out his notepad and quill, only to discover that the ink was frozen solid. Djerun had already retreated to the rear of the temple, where he transformed himself into a statue and waited in the gloom.

Tungdil waited for everyone to settle. "What changed your mind, maga?" he asked at last. "How did you find us?" " Your new companions can be trusted, I assume?"

"They helped us get here. You can trust them."

Boпndil grunted disapprovingly from his perch.

"You can trust us with your lives," Rodario declared expansively, seizing the opportunity to introduce the troupe in characteristically florid style. "We know all about Keenfire, of course. In fact," he said, waving his arms extravagantly, "we rescued these future heroes, these champions of legends as yet unwritten, from a fate most foul by plucking them from the claws and swords of a pack of vicious bцgnilim. We're completely reliable, most Estimable Maga."

Under normal circumstances his smile had the power to melt the thickest ice and soften the hardest stone, but this time it failed: Andфkai was unmoved.

"You made me come back," she said accusingly, glaring at Tungdil. "It's your fault for hounding me about my duty. Everything you said kept running through my head until I couldn't take it any longer. My conscience wouldn't let me abandon Girdlegard and so I returned. Besides, there are a thousand reasons why Nфd'onn deserves to die."

Her face seemed less severe in the flickering light of the fire, her features somehow softer, more feminine. Rodario couldn't take his eyes off her and was hanging on her every word. He seemed to regard her forbidding charm and stern manner as a challenge to his seductive powers.

"So I went back to Ogre's Death and took another look at the passage that I hadn't been able to make sense of. You remember, don't you? The only remaining uncertainty in the plan…" Gazing into the flames, she motioned with her hand, marshaling the sparks into the script of the common tongue. One by one the words flared up and faded in an instant.

Rodario read them aloud: "Keenfire must be forged by the undergroundlings, then wielded by the undergroundlings' foe." He snatched up a piece of charred wood. "I need to write it down before I forget. What use is a quill without ink? I could kick myself for letting it freeze."

"You write, and I'll kick," Bavragor said magnanimously.

"The gods save me from your hulking boots," exclaimed Rodario, shooing him away. "Wait and see, we'll have the best play ever performed in Girdlegard!" His hand moved busily across the page. "They'll be fighting to get through the door!" He was about to launch into another effusive speech, but Furgas jabbed him in the ribs.

"The undergroundlings' foe," murmured Tungdil, unable to mask his disappointment. What could it mean?

Boлndal couldn't make sense of it either. "We've got no shortage of foes. Ogres, for example"-he cast a sideways glance at Djerun-"not to mention orcs, bцgnilim, and all the other beasts created by Tion to plague the kingdoms of men, elves, and dwarves. Come on, scholar, surely you can think of something. A bit of book-learning might be exactly what we need."

Bavragor took a swig of his brandy. "We could have a bit of fun with this. Why don't we catch an orc and torture him until he agrees to clobber Nфd'onn? Or maybe we could talk an ogre into taking a swipe at him with our ax."

"I guess that's the end of the expedition, then," said Goпmgar, readily accepting defeat. He suddenly paled. "Who's going to tell the others? King Gandogar doesn't know!"

Tungdil expelled his breath in a long sigh. "Are you absolutely sure of the meaning?" he asked slowly.

The maga nodded. "I'm afraid so. I read it over and over again."

"Do you have any suggestions?" He glanced at Djerun.

She smiled. "Djerun isn't your foe, if that's what you're thinking. He can't do it."

Tungdil scratched his beard, which had grown to something approaching its former length. "Then we're facing a considerable obstacle." He looked into the faces of his companions. "I don't know what to suggest." He lay down and pulled up his blanket. "Maybe Vraccas will send me some inspiration in the night. Get some rest; we're bound to need our strength for whatever lies ahead."

They settled down by the fire while Djerun kept watch.

I have to think of something. I'm in charge, thought Tungdil, tossing and turning restlessly. If I don't come up with a solution to the riddle, Girdlegard will be doomed. It wasn't the sort of thought that would lull anyone to sleep.

Tungdil still hadn't received divine inspiration by the time they broke camp at first light. They decided to carry on regardless: With a bit of luck, one of them would think of something on the way, and if not, there was always a chance that the firstlings would be able to help.

We'll get there in the end, Tungdil told himself firmly, slipping his freshly oiled and rust-free mail shirt over his leather jerkin.

Andфkai rode with Rodario. The impresario had imagined himself sitting behind her on the saddle, with his arms wrapped chivalrously around her waist, but she insisted on riding bareback to give them both more space. Not only that, she forced him to take his place in front of her while she held the reins-much to Furgas's amusement.

More snow had fallen overnight, adding to the existing coating by the length of a forearm or so. The horses had to plow a path for the short-legged ponies to follow, and so they proceeded in single file with Djerun trudging behind them. From a distance it looked as if one of the marble deities had left the tedium of the temple and joined the procession instead.

The going was tough for the unusual band of travelers. Winter slowed their progress considerably, and Tungdil realized the advantage of traveling underground. They needed to get to the Gray Range as fast as possible, and by foot, or even on horseback, the journey would take too long. In a week, they advanced two hundred miles, a distance that could be covered in one or two orbits on the underground rail.

That afternoon, while they rested their horses, he pestered Andфkai to tell him how she had tracked the company down.

"It was no great challenge," she said dryly. "I left the Outer Lands, went back to Ogre's Death, and persuaded the secondlings to show me the tunnels. We came up near Mifurdania, Djerun found your tracks, and the rest was easy. People tend to notice a group of traveling dwarves. It wouldn't have been hard for the дlfar to find you either."

Tungdil glanced at Narmora, who was helping Furgas shovel snow into a pan and melt it over the fire.

The maga's gaze settled on Rodario. "These actors… How did you meet them?" Tungdil recounted the story. "Aha," laughed the maga on hearing how Narmora had got them out of Mifurdania by picking the locks, "so she's a woman of many talents. Have you seen their play?'

"I certainly have! The production was a sellout. It's called The Truth About Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty and the Grisly Circumstances Leading to His Reincarnation as Nфd'onn the Doublefold and Resulting in Girdlegard's Demise.'"

"A snappy title," she observed.

For the first time Tungdil saw the corners of her mouth turn upward and it occurred to him that smiling suited her better than her usual stern expression. Rodario chose precisely that moment to look over his shoulder and naturally assumed that the friendly smile was meant for him. He beamed back delightedly.

"And that's the star of the show, the fabulous Rodario. According to the others, he keeps a mistress in every town."

"I don't doubt it. Who plays me?"

"I'm afraid I left early, Estimable Maga. I had to chase a thief." He beckoned to Rodario. "You'll have to ask him."

The impresario bounded over to be cross-examined by the maga. "My players are the most accomplished in all Girdlegard. Your role was played by the talented Narmora, who alone could emulate your prowess with a sword." At her request he embarked on an explanation of the plot, but she cut him short when he was halfway through.

"The rise of the Perished Land, Nфd'onn's visitation, his compact with evil-what gave you the idea?"

"I listened to the rumors, combined them with some ancient legends, and added a dash of inspiration of my own." He looked at her brightly. "Does it meet with your approval?"

"It's incredibly accurate, at least as far as Nudin's transformation is concerned."

"Really?" Rodario seemed genuinely surprised. "But then, truth is at the heart of all great art, wouldn't you say?"

"Thank you, Rodario, you can go now," Andфkai told him briskly. "And don't forget to rewrite my part in your play. I'm not dead yet."

"My dear maga, you're positively blooming," he said, turning on the charm and gazing seductively into her clear blue eyes. "No man could-"

"I'm busy," she informed him, turning back to Tungdil.

Rodario's magnificent smile was wiped off his face. His pointed beard seemed to droop in dismay. "I respect your wishes," he said in a dignified tone.

"The maga has sent the peacock packing," chuckled Bavragor, who had followed the little scene. "Poor Rodario, his magnificent feathers are trailing on the ground. I'd advise him to back off now while he's still in possession of his plumage." He rummaged around for his drinking pouch and started humming a ballad under his breath.

"No chance," said Furgas. He lay back in the snow. "When Rodario's got his eye on a woman, he never gives up. Her sternness will only encourage him." He kissed Narmora and pulled her close. "One day he'll stop playing the field and settle down."

"If he doesn't get beaten to death by a pack of angry husbands," put in Boпndil, guffawing. "He must be pretty good at running because he certainly can't fight."

After a short rest, it was time for the company to continue. Tungdil and Andфkai broke off their conversation and Djerun bent down on one knee, joining his hands to create a chair for the maga. The crestfallen Rodario was consigned to riding alone.

In the orbits that followed they battled through Weyurn's snowdrifts, sometimes struggling to find a safe path. Whenever the lead horse sank up to its belly, they knew for certain that the ponies would never get through. Djerun, burdened with the weight of the maga, spent much of his time hip-deep in cold snow.

On several occasions they were forced to retrace their steps and seek another route, but at last the Red Range was firmly in their sights. The mountains towered before them, guiding them on their way, the red slopes blazing like fire whenever the winter sun scored a hard-fought victory against the somber clouds.

At last they reached the mouth of a narrow gully that meandered toward a blood-red peak. The entrance to the gully was sealed by a wall, as were each of its five sweeping curves. The firstlings had taken extensive precautions to secure their kingdom against unwanted guests.

"Well, we made it," Tungdil said happily. He rubbed his beard, dislodging a collection of tiny icicles that had formed beneath his nose. He was tired, his feet were numb, he felt cold to the core, and he couldn't risk touching his chain mail for fear that his hand would stick to the frozen steel. It's nothing a tankard of dwarven beer won't fix. "Look," he told them, "there's the entrance."

The twins followed his gaze, taking note of the six stone barriers in their path. "It makes you wonder what all the fortifications are for," said Boлndal, giving voice to their concern. His plaited hair was wrapped around his neck like a scarf to protect him from the cold. "Anyone would think Tion's hordes were approaching from this side and not the western pass."

"My dear fellows, couldn't we save the discussion for another warmer time?" pleaded the shivering impresario. "I'm in danger of losing my toes to frostbite." He too was growing stalactites from his nose.

Bavragor looked at him scornfully. "You're as bad as a girl-or as bad as Shimmerbeard, which comes to the same thing."

"Take another slug of brandy," Goпmgar hissed angrily. "With any luck, you'll trip over and freeze to death. I've got a feeling you won't be much use to us anyway. With your shaky hands, it'll be a miracle if the spurs ever fit."

"I'm surprised that someone as yellow-bellied as you can feel anything except the warm sensation in your pants," Bavragor said scathingly, not bothering to look round.

Following Boлndal's advice, they fanned out in an arc formation, weapons at the ready, and rode cautiously into the gully toward the first of the defenses, forty paces away. The wall of weathered stone rose high into the wintry sky, the only way past it through a metal door inscribed with runes. The bricks themselves were just roughly hewn blocks of stone; the firstlings hadn't lavished much attention on the masonry.

Tungdil spelled out the runes, the metal glowed, and the door swung open, allowing them to pass. "I wish everything were that easy. If it were all down to metalwork and reading, Nфd'onn would soon be dead." The company set off again.

"Reading doesn't come naturally to everyone," said Boлndal from the back of the procession. "It's just as well we've got a scholar with us. Without your-" The links of his mail shirt tinkled softly and he stopped, eyes widening in alarm. "W-what in the name of Vraccas…" he stammered, reaching behind him.

A black arrow was embedded in his back. Before he could alert the others, a second missile sang toward him, passing through his hand, piercing his armor, and tunneling into his back. By the time it came to a halt, the arrowhead had passed right through him and was protruding from his chest. Boлndal groaned and slid out of the saddle.

"Wait!" the impresario shouted frantically, calling to his companions to stop. He tugged on the reins and felt a rush of air near his throat. The arrow whizzed past him and hit his horse in the neck. With a loud whinny, the animal crashed to the ground, sending the impresario tumbling through the snow.

Djerun whipped round, only to be hit. The long arrow missed Andфkai and pierced Djerun's armor with a curious sound. Even now, the giant gave no audible sign of pain. Without hesitating, he turned away from the archer, putting himself between the maga and their foe. Andфkai cursed volubly and invoked a spell.

"What is it?" cried Furgas, who was staring in confusion with the remainder of the group.

"Over there!" Narmora pointed to a tall, fair-haired figure at the mouth of the gully. Even as they looked, the дlf nocked a fifth arrow to his bow. It hurtled toward them, this time heading straight for Tungdil.

Hurrying to escape the feathered missile, he caught his foot in the stirrups and was trapped. Suddenly he was out of time. The arrow was only a finger length away when it stopped in midflight, suspended in the air. Its tip was pointed directly at his heart. Tungdil shuddered.

"Quick, get Boлndal out of here," the maga panted. "We need to ride on. I can't maintain the charm for much longer."

Boпndil's eyes flashed dangerously. "Accursed дlfar!" he shrieked dementedly. "Look, there's another one! Leave them to me!" He made to spur on his pony.

"Stop!" Tungdil peered at the mouth of the valley. Two дlfar were standing side by side, waiting for the spell to break. "They'll shoot you dead as soon as you leave the maga's protection. Think of your brother, not revenge." He made a grab for Boпndil's reins.

"Out of my way!" raged Ireheart, staring at him without a glimmer of recognition. He raised his arm to strike.

"No, Boпndil!" shouted his brother, kneeling in the crimson snow. "You can't let it happen again!" He tried to lever himself up with his crow's beak, but one hand was still pinned to his back by the arrow. Eyes watering with pain, he mumbled something and keeled over.

Boпndil let out a terrible howl and leaped from the saddle. "Please, Vraccas, he can't be dead. He just can't." He crouched beside him. "His heart's still beating," he told them, breaking off the shafts of the arrows and gathering his brother into his arms. "We need to get him to the stronghold."

They tied the unconscious Boлndal to his startled pony and dragged the pair of them toward the next set of gates.

Tungdil felt a knot of fear in his stomach when he saw the trail of blood in the fresh white snow. Even warriors aren't safe on a mission like this.

He risked a glance over his shoulder. The fair-haired дlf looked remarkably like Sinthoras. Tungdil thought back to their last encounter in the desert village. Somehow, Sinthoras must have survived Djerun's attack. The tenacious дlf had returned to avenge himself and his mistress, whom the twins had slain in Greenglade.

Sinthoras yanked something from his neck, wound it around an arrow, and took aim. There were 250 paces between the archer and his target, but Tungdil didn't doubt for a second that the deadly missile would cover the distance and more. The дlf released the string and a moment later a second shot followed from his companion's bow.

"Look out!" Tungdil yelled to the others, promptly losing sight of the arrows, which were speeding toward them at an impossible rate.

The air crackled as the first arrow hit Andфkai's protective shield, ripping through the magic barrier and allowing the second arrow to embed itself in Djerun's back.

This time a dull moan sounded from the visor as the arrow penetrated the giant's armor and a jet of yellow fluid spurted from the wound. It was as if the tip had lanced a festering blister.

Tungdil had seen the substance once before in Sovereignston when Djerun had saved his life. He came to my aid and got hurt in the process. The giant swayed, shook his head sluggishly, and walked on, his pace considerably slowed. "We need to keep moving!" someone shouted.

They hurried on, running or riding accordingly, toward the second set of gates. Tungdil gave the command, they slipped through, and the door closed behind them; they no longer felt quite so exposed.

"Hurry!" shouted Boпndil, spurred on by the circle of blood spreading from his brother and soaking the pony's coat.

Meanwhile, the fluid seeping from Djerun's wound was turning from yellow to dark gray and his movements were increasingly labored.

They scrambled down the gentle slope toward the third set of gates. Man, dwarf, or pony, it made no difference; they were floundering to their waists in snow.

The landscape reminded Tungdil of a hill near Lot-Ionan's vaults where he used to go sledding with Frala and Sunja. He had an idea. Snatching the shield away from Goпmgar, he turned it over and laid it flat. "Put Boлndal on top. You'll get there faster like this."

They placed the wounded dwarf on the shield, his brother squatted next to him, and the pair of them swooped down the white slope, speeding toward the third door, which opened mysteriously as they approached.

The smooth underside of the shield raced over the snow, gathering speed all the time, but Boпndil could neither steer nor brake. He looked up to find himself heading straight for a group of sentries who had gathered in the gateway, weapons at the ready.

Tungdil cupped his hands to his mouth. "We're from the secondling kingdom," he bellowed, his warm breath hanging in the air. "In the name of Vraccas, lower your axes!"

The firstlings recognized that the intruders were dwarves and stepped aside just in time. The strange craft hurtled past, spraying glistening snow in all directions. Incredibly, no one was hurt.

Panting and coughing, the rest of the company sprinted to the gates, only to be stopped by the guards. Dressed from head to toe in armor and wrapped up warmly against the cold, the firstlings looked at them suspiciously through a narrow chink in their cladding of metal and fur. They leveled their spears, axes, and war hammers at the ragged group.

"May Vraccas our creator bless you and may the flames of your furnace never die. My name is Tungdil Goldhand," he introduced himself, gasping for breath and glancing back to check for дlfar. "These are my friends and companions. We were sent here by the dwarven assembly on a mission regarding the safety of Girdlegard. I need to speak with your king."

The thicket of metal parted to reveal a dwarf in chain mail, leather breeches, and a particularly striking cloak of white fur. "Many cycles have passed since we were visited by our cousins from the other ranges. Call me cynical, but isn't it strange that a collection of dwarves and long-uns should enter our kingdom just as Girdlegard is being threatened by the Perished Land?" The voice was unusually high-pitched for that of a man.

"A fine sort of welcome this is!" growled Bavragor. He took a step forward, towering over the speaker by at least a head. "Look here, dwarf-with-no-name, I'm Bavragor Hammerfist of the clan of the Hammer Fists, a child of the Smith, a descendant of Beroпn, and your equal in merit and birth. Is this what the firstlings' hospitality has come to?"

"Now, that's what I call a proper dwarven voice," said the other. The scarf was pulled away, unmasking the speaker's identity.

Tungdil gasped in surprise. The face looked distinctly feminine. There was no beard, the features were soft and delicate, and the cheeks were covered in soft down that grew thicker and darker toward the hairline.

"My name is Balyndis Steelfinger of the clan of the Steel Fingers," she told them, not in the least bit intimidated. "I'm in charge of these gates, and I make no apology for vetting our visitors before I let them in."