The Dwarves

VI

Roodacre, Kingdom of Tabaоn, Girdlegard, Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle Tungdil was woken by the sound of scraping metal. He opened his eyes.

Djerun had got to his feet and drawn his mighty sword. He was holding the weapon outstretched in his right hand, blade angled toward the door. Andфkai, still in bed, was wide-awake too. She signaled to Tungdil, instructing him to keep quiet and lie still.

They watched as a thin strip of wood slipped through the doorframe and rose toward the latch, pushing the oak beam noiselessly out of the catch. Little by little the door came open. Faint light sloped into the dormitory from the corridor, illuminating the outline of a stocky figure.

The intruder was roughly the size of a dwarf. He was wearing a helmet and, judging from his silhouette, was blessed with an exceptionally bushy beard. In his left hand he was clutching a sack. The sight of Djerun stopped him in his tracks. Andфkai gave the command.

The giant shot forward to seize the intruder, but his phenomenal speed was not enough. Ducking away, the little fellow surprised them all by darting in instead of out.

"Stop right there!" Tungdil sprang out of bed and barred his path. He made to grab him, but the dwarf proved astonishingly agile, leaving the startled Tungdil with a clump of whiskers in his hand.

The intruder leaped nimbly onto the windowsill, hurled his sack at his pursuers, and fled across the roof. The bag smacked Tungdil in the chest, spilling its contents across the roughly hewn tiles.

The clattering and jangling woke the others. Boпndil was up like a shot, running around the room, brandishing his axes and bellowing for the orcs to fight him if they dared. The rest of the company reached for their weapons.

Balyndis, dressed only in her undergarments, had taken up position on her bed and was gripping her ax with both hands. A shaft of moonlight slanted through the curtains, exposing her curves. It occurred to Tungdil that she probably didn't realize how much she was revealing, but he couldn't bring himself to look away.

"Where did they go?" demanded Boпndil, spoiling for a fight.

"We had an uninvited guest," said Andфkai, leaning out of the window to see where the fellow had got to. "A dwarf. There must have been something funny about him because he didn't respond to my spell. And now he's gone."

"Gold," exclaimed Tungdil in surprise, finally noticing the shiny coins on the floor. He bent down and scooped them up. Some of them were stuck together and left damp traces on his hands.

"And a dagger," observed Goпmgar, who was cowering in a corner.

Boпndil picked it up and eyed it carefully. "Forged on a dwarven anvil," he said slowly, handing it to Balyndis. "You're the expert. What do you reckon?"

Booted feet thundered up the stairs and across the landing to their room. The next moment, armored guards burst inside, halberds pointing menacingly toward them.

"Light, I need more light!" shouted someone, and in an instant lamps were passed forward and more guards thronged inside.

The coins and the knife! Tungdil was about to throw the gold out of the window and tell Boпndil to put away the dagger, but already the room was bathed in light, revealing telltale red smudges on his fingers: The coins and the dagger were covered in blood.

"By Palandiell," exclaimed the captain of the guards, a strong man of some forty cycles with a small scar on the left side of his face. "I've never seen such brazen criminals. Just look at the ruffians! Sitting here calmly, dividing their loot." His eyes shifted to the dagger in Boпndil's hand. "He's even holding the murder weapon!" He waved his men forward. "Arrest the lot of them, the men as well as the little fellows. We'll soon find out which of them were embroiled in this dastardly business."

"What business would that be, oh worthy guardian of our municipal safety?" inquired Rodario in his most amiable and gracious tone. He could easily have been inquiring about the weather. He adjusted his undergarments with aristocratic elegance. "Perhaps you would care to enlighten us?"

"Sir Darolan was murdered at knifepoint not three streets from here." He glared at Boпndil. "The game's up. You were seen and followed." He turned to one of his men. "There's a whole band of them. Professionals, I'll warrant."

"I'm afraid there's been a terrible misunderstanding," chimed in Tungdil. He outlined what had happened before the arrival of the guards, holding up the lock of beard as evidence. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a snippet of fleece.

The captain laughed in his face. "A likely story, groundling. I've never heard such nonsense."

"I know it sounds strange, but-"

"Strange? It's preposterous! I'm arresting you and your accomplices in the name of King Nate. One of you will sign a confession soon enough. We've solved every murder in this city by putting the suspects on the rack."

"As I was saying," Rodario resumed smoothly, "the dwarves are nothing to do with us." He winked furtively at Tungdil. "In fact, my companions and I were accompanying the lady when-"

"Save your stories for the interrogator," the captain interrupted him harshly. Just then his dour face brightened and he looked at them with sudden kindness. "Although, I must say, the evidence in your favor is quite compelling…" He took the strand of fake beard from Tungdil and gestured to the door. "We've been wasting our time," he told his guards. "The real murderer led us here on false pretenses. We need to get after him before the trail goes cold."

"But, Captain!" one of his subordinates protested vigorously. "We saw the dwarf run into the tavern-"

"Get a move on," the captain ordered. "Outside on the double! We'll never find him at this rate." Realizing that he was not to be dissuaded, the baffled guardsmen followed his instructions and exited the room. Soon afterward their clunking armor could be heard through the open window.

"That was close. Thank goodness he changed his mind." Rodario breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Can we go to bed now?"

Andфkai was already packing her things. "He'll come to his senses before too long. The sooner we leave, the better. The spell won't last forever."

"What do you mean, come to his senses? He's always like that," objected Boпndil, scratching his beard in confusion.

"She means the captain, not Rodario," explained Tungdil with a grin. It dawned on him why no one ever challenged Djerun; the maga could obviously control people's thoughts. "She put a spell on him. Why else would he let us go?" He stared pensively at a tuft of fleece that had stuck to his fingers. The whole thing was a setup and it almost succeeded. "Someone was trying to get us into trouble."

"And it nearly worked! The villain disguised himself as a dwarf," said Boпndil, scandalized. He started to pack. "Just wait until I get my hands on him. He'll wish he'd never been born."

"Children can't move that fast," mused Balyndis, gathering her things. "It must have been a gnome or a kobold or…"

Tungdil raised his hands to his head in sudden understanding. "Of course! Bislipur's gnome!" They hurried out of the room and down the stairs. "Sverd must have followed us and waited for the opportunity to land us in real trouble. Bislipur's behind it all!"

"You can't fault the gnome's persistence," said Bavragor admiringly, tugging on the straps of his pack. "To think he followed us all this way."

"It would have been easy enough to track us," argued Boпndil. He peered into the front room of the tavern before waving the others on.

"Not necessarily," countered Balyndis, impressed by Sverd's tenacity. "He must have snuck into the firstling kingdom and found his way into the tunnels. That takes some doing."

"Remember the buckle we found in the runaway wagon?" Tungdil tiptoed to the door and scanned the street. "I knew I recognized it from somewhere." He slipped out of the tavern with Boпndil at his side. "We're safe," he said. "They're searching another street."

"You mustn't run," Boпndil told Goпmgar. "Running in the middle of the night only attracts attention. They'll assume you're a criminal."

The travelers proceeded at a leisurely pace, chatting and smiling as if they were out for a nighttime stroll. Nothing in their behavior suggested they were engaged in illicit activity or fleeing a murder scene. Djerun stayed in the shadows, trying to keep a low profile.

Before they could reach the gates, a group of guards approached on a routine patrol.

"Remember, Goпmgar: Just stay calm," whispered Boпndil.

"Shush," hissed Balyndis with one eye on the trembling artisan. "You're only making things worse!"

The guards were getting closer and had almost drawn level when a thin voice piped up. "Arrest the villains! Those are the culprits! Arrest them, guards! They're getting away!"

"That blasted gnome. I'll wring his scrawny neck," growled Ireheart, whipping out his axes to defend himself. The bewildered guardsmen looked to their leader for direction.

Just then the captain of the first patrol burst onto the street, shouting orders for their arrest. Candles blazed in the windows, shutters were opened, and the city awoke from its slumber.

"We don't have time for explanations," said Andфkai, drawing her sword. "They won't believe us and we'll rot in their dungeons."

"So what do we do?" demanded Bavragor, gripping the haft of his hammer, ready to fight his way out of the gates.

"It's probably best if I slip away now," said Rodario, shouldering his precious bag of costumes and hastily taking his leave. "I'll see you outside the city. I don't want to get in your way." He hurried into a side street before the guards could surround them.

"Never trust an actor." Narmora grinned and pulled out her weapons.

Tungdil held up his ax, poll first. "Don't kill unless you have to," he instructed them. "We're leaving Roodacre-whether they like it or not."

Tungdil couldn't help noticing that their opponents were woefully underprepared. More accustomed to chasing purse snatchers and incarcerating drunks, the guards had little experience with combat and stood no chance of restraining four staunch dwarves, a maga, a half дlf, and a giant.

Furgas wasn't much of a warrior, but he held his ground valiantly and cleared enough space for Narmora to swing her weapons unimpeded. Goпmgar was tasked with guarding the rest of the ingots.

After the shortest of skirmishes, they hurried to the gates, where Rodario was conversing with a guard. The whole company descended on the distracted sentry before he could sound the alarm. When he eventually noticed the maga, it was already too late.

"You will let us through," she intoned. "You will let us through and tell no one that we passed this way." Even as she spoke, the sentry's eyes glazed over and he raised the portcullis without a word.

"Didn't I do well?" the impresario said to Andфkai. "I bewitched his senses with my silvery speech, thus enabling the Estimable Maga to cast her spell. Magic certainly has its uses. I don't suppose you'd consider a spot of backstage conjuring? Together we could put on a spectacle of such-"

Furgas shook his head despairingly. "For pity's sake, Rodario!"

"There's no harm in asking. We need to earn a living somehow when our amazing adventure is at an end."

Bavragor laughed. "Assuming you survive that long."

Buffeted by the wind, the rising portcullis made enough of a racket to wake the other sentries, whom Boпndil attacked with enthusiasm. He stuck to using his poll as instructed, but Tungdil detected the sound of splintering bone.

He's desperate to finish them off. He looked in consternation at the bloodied and oddly misshapen face of a sentry. The man keeled over as Ireheart landed a follow-up blow. With at least one dead, the company would be wanted for multiple murder as well as theft.

Meanwhile, the portcullis was still rising slowly, but Sverd had followed them and was hiding in an alleyway, preparing to alert the guards a second time. "They're escaping! The murderers are escaping through the gates!"

Even the last determined sleepers in the city were torn from their slumber by his shouts. Everyone with two legs and a weapon found their way onto the street, including the first courageous members of the militia, who came running out of their houses, having barely stopped to dress.

"Do something, Andфkai," shouted Tungdil, terrified of what would happen to the citizens of Roodacre if the battle-crazed Boпndil was to rampage through the city. "We won't be able to hold them off."

This time she didn't turn to sorcery. "Djerun," she barked, and issued an unintelligible order.

The giant stepped forward. The torches of the assembled crowd bathed his armor in flickering light, bringing the threatening visor to life. At that moment the helmet produced a noise unlike anything Tungdil had heard in his life. It was a cross between a reptilian hiss and the dull, ponderous rumble of an earthquake, a sound so full of aggression and menace that anyone in earshot knew instantly not to approach. Tungdil felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. He took a nervous step back.

Inside the helmet, the violet glow intensified, streaming out of the eyeholes and outshining the torches. The horrified faces of the transfixed crowd were steeped in a purple light that was painful to behold.

The second roar was even louder and more terrifying than the first. This time everyone, including the guardsmen, turned in panic and fled, running back through the streets and alley-ways to safety.

The portcullis was almost fully raised. "Let's g-go," stuttered Tungdil, still shaken by the sound of Djerun's voice. Assuming it was his voice…

They ran into the night, glancing over their shoulders as they hurried down the snowy road. No one followed. The giant's performance had made enough of an impression to dissuade the townspeople from hunting them down.

As for Tungdil, he was more curious than ever about the armored warrior, although he suspected the truth would be less than reassuring. It's not a human, at any rate, he decided.

The company jogged in silence through the snow. After a while, Bavragor, who had fallen in line behind Goпmgar, pointed to the artisan's back. "Where are the ingots?" he panted breathlessly, listening in vain for a response. "Hey, I asked you a question!"

Goпmgar sped up, intent on getting far enough ahead before he dared to answer. "I lost them," he said plaintively. "A guardsman knocked the bag from my hand and I couldn't reach it in the scrum. I'm sorry, I honestly didn't mean to-"

"Didn't mean to…? I'll give you didn't-mean to, you worthless little-" Bavragor lunged at him but was rest rained by Tungdil from behind.

"It's all right, Bavragor."

The mason was beside himself. His chestnut eye glinted angrily. "All right? We've lost every single one of the ingots! We can't exactly fetch them now!"

"We'll be in the fifthling kingdom before you know it; we're bound to find something there," said Tungdil in a firm, confident voice that reminded everyone that he was the leader. To his mind, the matter was closed.

"But you said we shouldn't rely on finding materials on the way," Bavragor objected stubbornly. "So why-"

"What's done is done," Tungdil said sharply. "We'll have to make the best of things." He loosened his hold on Bavragor and clapped him on the back. "No matter what happens, we're not going to let it stop us. We can't! No one else is going to forge the ax and save Girdlegard. It's up to us."

"It would be a darned sight easier without Goпmgar," grumbled Bavragor. "He only drags us down."

"Vraccas must have made him part of this mission for a reason." Tungdil noticed that the mason was wheezing. "Steady on, Bavragor, you'd better stop talking before you get a stitch. Goпmgar's fitter than you."

"Cowards always make good runners." Even as he spoke, there was a jangling noise and he stiffened. Before he could take another step, his legs buckled and he toppled over, raising a cloud of glistening snow. When the flakes settled, he was buried beneath a layer of white crystals. Sticking out of his neck was a bolt fired from a crossbow.

The others, with the exception of Djerun, threw themselves to the ground so as not to fall victim to the archer.

Once again, Andфkai barked an unintelligible command, whereupon the giant scanned their surroundings and set off at a sprint.

It definitely wasn't an дlf, thought Tungdil. Unlike Djerun, he could see no sign of their hidden assailant. Guardsmen? But guardsmen carry torches…

The maga crawled through the snow to examine the mason's wound. Balyndis wriggled over to join her.

"The tip stopped just short of his spine," said Andфkai, after a cursory inspection. "If it weren't for his cloak and the metal-plated nape of his helmet, it would have penetrated farther." She gripped the shaft of the bolt resolutely and pulled it from his flesh. With her right hand she stemmed the blood from the wound. "I hope he'll forgive me for using my dastardly magic to save his life." She closed her eyes in concentration. "I can't say I've had much experience in healing dwarves. I hope I can do it."

So do I. Something whirred past Tungdil, just missing his head; then a third missile rebounded off Goпmgar's shield. They heard a high-pitched scream, which stopped abruptly as Djerun seized his prey.

He cast their tormentor into the snow beside them. A yellowy-green circle sullied the pristine snow around the diminutive corpse. A head with two long pointed ears plumped beside it.

Goпmgar shrank back in horror. "Sverd!" The dead cross- bowman was Bislipur's former slave. The artisan looked at the mangled gnome and shuddered, then stared at the dent in his shield where the third bolt had struck. "But why would he…" He broke off, not wishing to draw attention to the matter, but Tungdil finished the question for him.

"Why would Sverd be aiming at you?" He stared into the gnome's unseeing eyes, but Djerun's ruthless solution to the problem had ruled out all hope of an answer. "You were traveling with the wrong party, I suppose."

He bent down to pick up the now-redundant choker. Sverd was free at last, but not in the way he had hoped. Pensively, he pocketed the collar, intending to confront Bislipur with the evidence when they next met. As he looked down, he noticed a shiny lump of butter-yellow metal. Gold! There could be no further doubt that the gnome was responsible for the mishaps that had befallen them on their journey.

Boпndil got straight to the point. "Bislipur is the most contemptible dwarf that ever lived." He wiped the snow furiously from his thick cloak and beard. "Setting his lackey on us and trying to have us killed! Dwarves don't assassinate their kinsfolk; it's the most dastardly crime a child of Vraccas could commit!"

"The gnome did all his dirty work," commented Tungdil, his mind still whirring. "Bislipur wasn't going to kill us himself. He would have washed his hands of all responsibility."

"Just wait until I get hold of his wretched king," threatened Boпndil, praying to Vraccas to hasten their encounter. "I'm going to beat him black-and-blue."

Still struggling to digest what had happened, Goпmgar shook his head slowly. "No, Gandogar would never have agreed to it; he's not a murderer, whatever you think. Bislipur must have taken it upon himself to…" The artisan lapsed into a helpless silence, no longer sure what to believe.

"Hang on a minute; you want Gandogar to be high king, don't you?" Boпndil accused him suspiciously.

"Of course I do! I said so from the start. But to murder a dwarf because of it…" He shuddered. "Bislipur must be mad," he murmured, staring at Bavragor's motionless form. "He must be so desperate for Gandogar to be crowned that he doesn't know what he's doing. He's insane."

Balyndis took Bavragor's hand to comfort him. Slowly the open wound in his neck shriveled until only a small scar was left. Exhausted, Andфkai sank down and cooled her face on the snow.

"I've healed the wound," she said faintly. "In a moment he'll…"

"Magic," Bavragor muttered sleepily. "I've been thinking; maybe it's not so useless after all." Groggily, but with a profoundly serious expression, he nodded to the exhausted maga. There was no need for him to thank her in any other way.

A question if I may, glorious captain of our troupe." The sun was just rising when Rodario, shivering with cold but gripping his duffel bag with grim determination, drew alongside Tungdil. The impresario pointed furtively at Djerun. The events of the previous night had reminded him and the others that the giant was unlikely to be an unusually tall man. "What kind of creature is he?" The question was barely audible through the layers of scarf wrapped around his head.

"I have no idea," Tungdil said frankly without slowing his pace.

Rodario displayed his customary persistence. "No idea? But I thought the lot of you had been traveling together for a while…"

"She told us that he isn't a monster." Tungdil suddenly remembered the night in the desert when he had caught a glimpse of what lay behind the terrifying visor. A shiver ran down his spine.

The impresario blew on his frozen fingers. "Not a monster, eh? Then what in the name of Palandiell is he? I've never known a human to light up a darkened street with the power of his eyes. If it's a trick, I'd give anything to know the secret; the audience would love it."

Hoping that Rodario would give up and go away, Tungdil said nothing and trudged energetically through the snow, glancing at the map to get his bearings.

"Very well. I'll have to assume that he's a creature of Tion." Looking pretty pleased with himself, Rodario stuck his hands into the pockets of his fur coat. "It adds a bit of drama to the plot. Ye gods, the play will be brilliant. The whole of Girdlegard will flock to see it." He stopped and cursed. "I wish my blasted ink would stop freezing. At this rate, I'll have forgotten the best bits before I get a chance to write them down."

"You should carry the inkwell next to your skin," Tungdil advised him. "That way the ink will be nice and warm and you can scribble as much as you like."

Rodario gave him a friendly pat on the back. "There's a sharp mind hiding under all that hair, my little friend. I was thinking the same thing, but thank you nonetheless."

Not a single footprint marred the snowy road ahead. The wintry weather and marauding orcs had convinced the people of Tabaоn to stay by their hearths and barricade their doors.

The terrain was so flat that raiding parties could be spotted well in advance. In clear weather the watchtowers commanded views of over a hundred miles, but no amount of warning could save the settlements from the orcs. The northern hordes could be stopped only by good swordsmen, and Tabaоn had precious few of those.

Tungdil checked their position against the map. They were closer than ever to the southernmost reaches of the Perished Land. Who knows how far the pestilence has spread? There's no way of telling with the landscape blanketed in snow.

"Orcs," came Boпndil's warning from the front of the procession. "Twenty miles to the west. They're…Hang on, they're turning east," he reported, surprised. "They're moving fast. You don't think they're looking for us, do you?"

Bavragor pointed to a hamlet situated in the direction that the beasts had been heading originally. The superior vision in his remaining eye enabled him to see what the others could not. "That would have been their next stop, but they've abandoned their quarry." He wiped the sweat from his forehead. A red glow had settled over his face.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Balyndis asked. "You look a bit feverish."

"What if it's gangrene?" said Boпndil. "Maybe the hocus-pocus hasn't worked as well as it should."

The allegation spurred Andфkai into action. She asked the mason to lean forward so she could inspect the wound on his neck. Boпndil was beside her in a flash. They came to the same conclusion.

"The wound has healed nicely," he admitted. "I can't argue with that."

"I've lost a bit of blood, that's all," said Bavragor, trying to allay the others' fears. He was obviously uncomfortable at being the center of attention, but Balyndis persevered. She pulled off her left glove and laid her hand on his forehead.

"For the love of Vraccas, I could forge a horseshoe on there," she said in alarm.

"With a skull as thick as his, I don't suppose it would do much harm," Tungdil joked. "He's a tough customer, our Hammerfist."

"I'm serious, Tungdil, he's feverish. Either that, or he's got a nasty cold. We need to get him inside before he loses consciousness or worse."

"Don't be ridiculous," objected Bavragor. "I'm perfectly-" He doubled up in a coughing fit that went on and on until he was shaking so violently that his legs caved in. Tungdil pulled him upright and steadied him.

"I'd say it's a cold." Balyndis scanned the horizon. "He needs a warm bed for the night."

Tungdil nodded. "We'll stop at the next hamlet. Sorry, old fellow, but a dead mason won't be any good to us."

"A cold!" Goпmgar chuckled maliciously. "So who's the weakling now? I might not be big, but at least I'm hardy." He was practically glowing with satisfaction at not being the underdog anymore. Head held high, he strode past the ailing mason with a smug smile that prompted Furgas to throw a snowball in his face.

Tungdil soon realized that their efforts to find a bed were destined to fail; there wasn't a single farmhouse, let alone a hamlet, between them and the Gray Range. Since Bavragor refused to make a detour, they walked without stopping in order to reach the entrance to the tunnels as soon as they could.

A nasty surprise awaited them when they finally reached the spot. The mouth of the shaft had transformed itself into a frozen pond.

"We'll have to walk, then," said Bavragor cheerily, doing his best to downplay his illness and seem sprightly despite his fragile state. His bright red face and the beads of perspiration forming beneath his frozen helmet told a different story. "I can see the range from here."

"The range has been in sight since the moment we entered Tabaоn," moaned Goпmgar, dreading the prospect of another long march in the cold. "Are you trying to get us all snow-blind or something?"

Grumpily, he set off through the snow, the others following in his wake. Toward evening they came to a deserted barn filled with bales of hay.

They lit a fire in spite of their qualms and made themselves comfortable, then cleared a spot for Bavragor to lie beside the flames, swaddling him in three blankets so he sweated out the cold. Rodario curled up in the warmth, while Djerun stood guard by the door, leaving the others free to look after the invalid. They clustered around him.

"It's nothing, honestly." Just then he choked and spat out a large clot of blood. He was gasping for air, groaning rather than breathing, and he seemed to be losing strength. The warmth was making things worse. "If you give me a sip of brandy, I'll be fighting fit."

"It can't be a cold," Boпndil said firmly. He got up. "It's gangrene, I know it. Sometimes it spreads beneath the skin, even after the wound has healed."

"No, Boпndil," snapped Andфkai, "I cleaned the flesh thoroughly."

A terrible thought occurred to Tungdil. He got up, went over to Goпmgar, and picked up his shield to examine the dent. Where the bolt had hit, the metal was discolored and there were traces of a clear frozen liquid that neither he nor the artisan had noticed before. His spirits sank. The bolt had been dipped in something that had stuck to the shield.

Vraccas, give him strength. "Do you have a spell against poison?" he asked Andфkai hoarsely. "By the look of things, Sverd wasn't relying purely on his aim."

"Poison?" Bavragor swallowed his cough and grinned. As his lips parted, his companions saw the blood leaking from his gums and coloring his teeth. His mouth was full of blood. "I knew it! Did you hear that, Goпmgar? What's the betting you'd be dead already? I've drunk enough brandy and beer in my lifetime to toughen me up. Ha, a cold!"

The maga closed her eyes. "I can't do anything against poison. My art is… I'm afraid, it's not my kind of magic," she said in a soft, apologetic tone. "Healing the wound drained a lot of my energy. My strength is all but exhausted."

A terrible silence settled over the group. There was no mistaking what Andфkai's words meant for the mason. Balyndis reached for his calloused hand and squeezed it encouragingly. She was too choked to speak.

"I know what you're thinking," croaked Bavragor at length. "Things don't look good for the merry minstrel. It's all right; I wasn't intending to return from the mission anyway." He looked up at Tungdil. "Still, I'd give anything to see the fifthling kingdom and fashion Keenfire's spurs. I wanted to go out with a bang, not in a dingy barn miles away from my beloved mountains."

Blood was seeping through his pores, the droplets merging into rivulets and soaking his straw mattress. In no time his garments were drenched with red.

"You're not going to die," Tungdil told him shakily. His smile, which he hoped would be encouraging, looked more like a grimace. "We can't fashion Keenfire without you! You're Beroпn's best mason."

Bavragor had to swallow a mouthful of blood before he could reply. "In that case, you'll have to take me with you. We'll make the ax to kill Nфd'onn, you'll see." He nodded to the door. "Carry me to the Perished Land. I'll fulfill my mission after my death."

"But…but you'll be a revenant," stuttered Boпndil, horrified. "Your soul-"

"I'll do my bit for Keenfire and confound the rest!" The outburst ended in another coughing fit.

"What if you turn against us? The other dead souls tried to kill us and eat us!" Boпndil glanced at the others for support. Some were struggling with their emotions, the remainder looked embarrassed.

"Chain my hands together, if you're worried," the mason told them. "My will is stronger than the drive to do evil. Dwarves are too stubborn to be conquered by darkness." He closed his eyes. "You'll have to hurry," he gasped. He coughed again and blood spewed from his mouth, trickling into his well-kempt beard.

"Djerun!" At Andфkai's bidding, the giant stooped to lift the dwarf. Cradling Bavragor gently in his arms like a mother would carry her child, he left the barn and stomped through the snow.

His long tireless limbs bore the mason toward the north, where the Perished Land had established its dominion, awakening anything that died to hideous life.

The rest of the company packed their things and followed the giant as fast as the sparkling snow and the dwarves' stumpy legs would allow.

Tungdil looked up at the stars and wept silent tears for the mason who was sacrificing his soul for the sake of the ax on which Girdlegard's future depended. For all Bavragor's eccentricities and occasional-crotchetiness, he was a good dwarf whom Tungdil regarded as a friend.

He heard a sniff beside him and turned to the tearful Balyndis. Her eyes were red with crying, but she smiled and squeezed his hand. Suddenly his courage, which had all but deserted him in the barn, came flooding back.

So much had happened since they had left the secondling kingdom-too much, in fact. Their adventure had turned into something far bigger and more perilous than they'd ever imagined. Even Rodario, renowned for his pompous comments, had fallen silent and was brooding over the mason's death.

"I hope Girdlegard is worth it, Vraccas," murmured Tungdil, gazing up at the sparkling firmament. "When all this is over, I shall see to it that our folks don't barricade themselves back in their mountains. From now on, we'll work together."

Balyndis gave his hand another squeeze, but he pulled away and hurried to join Boпndil at the head of the procession. It was the wrong time to be thinking of anything except Keenfire.

"You like her, don't you?" the secondling said immediately, without glancing round.

"Don't start," Tungdil told him. "It's the last thing I want to talk about."

"I can't say I blame you. She's an attractive lass, and to someone like you, with no experience of the fairer sex, she must look as pretty as Vraccas's own daughter."

"I've decided not to think about it until Nфd'onn has been defeated. My duty is to Girdlegard."

"Trust a scholar to want to think about it." Boпndil took care not to meet his eye: For all intents and purposes, he was addressing Djerun's snowy footprints. "Think about it if you must, but remember: If something is worth pursuing, you shouldn't waste time. Situations change faster than you can split an orcish skull, and a moment's hesitation could cost you your chance."

"What makes you say that?"

"No reason." He peered into the distance. "They're up ahead." He whipped out his axes. "Let's hope the drunkard can defy the bidding of the Perished Land." It was evident from his hefted weapons that he was prepared to take decisive action.

The maga called out to Djerun, who raised his armored hand and beckoned them over. At his side was Bavragor, arms dangling limply and gaze fixed blankly on the Gray Range.

"Bavragor?" Tungdil said gently, searching the pale face for a trace of recognition. His features had aged terribly; he looked waxen and corpselike.

"I feel… nothing," came the ponderous response. It seemed to cost him a great deal of effort to open his mouth and form the words. "I can't feel my body. My mind is… empty." The soulless eyes roved over the group and settled on Tungdil. "It feels bad; everything feels bad. Things I loved, I hate. Things I hated…" He stared past Tungdil and fixed his gaze on Boпndil. "I want to slaughter the things I hated-tear them apart and devour them. Tie my hands together; I don't know how much longer I can resist. The evil is inside me."

"Very well," said Tungdil, unthreading the leather strap from Goпmgar shield. He bound Bavragor's hands behind his back.

"Tighter," growled the mason. "You don't have to worry about my blood flow: My heart stopped beating when I died." He seemed tense and agitated, but once the bonds had been tightened to his satisfaction, he relaxed a little and turned to Tungdil. "I want you to behead me as soon as my work is done. I don't want to serve the Perished Land for eternity and patrol the abandoned fifthling galleries, massacring innocents and spreading the pestilence."

"No dwarf will ever serve the Perished Land," Tungdil promised. "You have my word."

"As for you," the mason snapped at Boпndil, "take my advice and stay away. I want nothing better than to sink my teeth into your gullet and tear you to shreds." He squared his shoulders and his chestnut eye glimmered cruelly before he looked down and stared at the snow. He took a first step, then another. "Hurry, I don't want to be a soulless corpse for a moment longer than necessary."

On a signal from the maga, Djerun assumed the role of Bavragor's keeper, walking close behind him so the others were shielded from his jaws by a solid metal frame.

Time wore on, orbit after orbit, as they trudged across the never-ending flats of Tabaоn. The Breadbasket, as the fertile fields were nicknamed in summer, was so inhospitably cold that it was essential to keep moving in order not to freeze.

Tungdil had read somewhere that light reflected by the snow could harm the eyes and cause permanent damage. To protect his companions from blindness, he ordered them to bind cloth around their faces and look out through tiny slits.

Their journey was slow and laborious. The only members of the company who didn't seem to mind the march were Djerun and the undead mason, who plowed their way impassively through the snow. Since their provisions were frozen solid, they had the onerous task of thawing their food by the fire every evening before they could eat. Without the warm garments given to them by Xamtys, they would surely have perished in the cold.

At length Boпndil became more restless, his fighting instincts ever harder to repress, while Bavragor had been stripped of the very things that made him who he was; he didn't drink, didn't sing, didn't laugh, just stared into the distance. On one occasion he took the edge off his hunger with a mountain hare. Ripping it from a metal trap, he ate it alive, leaving nothing but bones and fur. The sound of his frenzied eating and the cracking of bones made Goпmgar, whose hand rested permanently on his sword, more nervous than ever.

The Gray Range edged closer and closer. Its peaks seemed almost in touching distance, yet still they struggled through the snowdrifts of Tabaоn, finally crossing the border into Gauragar and, after an exhausting march of many orbits, reaching the slate-gray foothills of the range.

On their way they encountered neither orcs nor any other beasts, although they occasionally saw their tracks. Great armies were advancing southward, but fortunately for the company, their paths never crossed.

At last they neared the stronghold's outermost defenses. Even from a distance they could see that no one had been posted to defend the ramparts against intruders from Girdlegard's interior.

The beasts from the north had torn stone from stone, destroying walls and toppling towers until nothing remained of the stronghold's former splendor. Their work had been done so thoroughly that Tungdil and the others were hard-pressed to imagine how the kingdom had looked during Giselbert Ironeye's era. Fragments of stonework testified to the fifthling masons' skill, but the glorious ramparts were nothing but ruins. It was a harrowing sight for the dwarves.

Although the defenses seemed deserted, the company approached the gates with caution.

"Stay here and don't make a sound," Boпndil told them as they struggled to the top of a steep pathway. "Narmora and I will check for sentries."

The pair slipped away, darting between the gray rocks and hiding behind sections of masonry that loomed out of the snow. Their goal was an open gateway, as tall as a house, leading straight inside the mountain.

Tungdil scanned their surroundings and listened intently. A chill wind whistled through the cracked ramparts, producing high-pitched notes that rolled together in a tune. Icicles hung like glassy stalactites from the mountain ledges, and fifty paces to their left, a waterfall had stopped midstream in a frozen sculpture of ice.

No orcs, no ogres, no дlfar, nothing.

"Did you hear what he said?" Goпmgar smiled bitterly. "He told us to be quiet! If only he could hear himself."

"He's not exactly graceful," agreed the impresario, "although the comparison with the delightful Narmora certainly doesn't help."

Tungdil watched as they stole forward, Boпndil relying on his diminutive size, while the half дlf sprang between the rocks with the elegance of a dancer. There were no telltale noises from the snow beneath her feet; she seemed barely to land at all, skimming across the ground as light as a feather. Boпndil's chain mail, by contrast, made a terrible racket, even through his thick fur coat.

Narmora was the first to reach the gates. She pressed herself against the wall, listening intently to the darkness before slipping inside. Her silhouette melted into the gloom and she disappeared from sight.

Furgas fiddled determinedly with his gloves. "Sometimes I wish she wasn't so daring," he whispered.

"Don't worry, old chap," Rodario soothed him. "Narmora is a woman who knows her talents and isn't afraid to use them. You know the sort of thing she got up to before the three of us were a troupe. This is child's play by comparison."

"I'd rather not talk about Narmora," Goпmgar chipped in hurriedly. "She's scary enough as it is."

Boпndil had also reached the gates to the fifthling kingdom, conquered over a thousand cycles earlier by the Perished Land. He stopped, apparently undecided, and looked about, but the coast was clear.

At that moment, Narmora emerged from the enormous tunnel. The black shadows stuck to her like cobwebs, wrapping themselves around her lovingly, reluctant to set her free. She waved to them, her relaxed manner signaling that there was nothing to fear.

"How did she do that?" Goпmgar whispered nervously. "It was like she was covered in ink."

"Half magic," came the maga's answer. "It's something she was born with. Дlfar are children of darkness."

"She'll swap sides as soon as we meet any of her kind," Goпmgar predicted darkly. "Blood is thicker than water."

"And love is stronger than both," Furgas countered firmly. "Narmora would rather die than betray me, and I'd give my life to protect her from harm."

The puny dwarf grumbled unintelligibly and followed the others to the gateway. He held his shield in front of him, ready to ward off an attack.

"All clear," said Narmora, not bothering to lower her voice. "They seem to have contented themselves with knocking down the defenses and vandalizing the gates to the point where they can't be closed."

"So where are all the runts?" demanded Boпndil, whirling his axes over his head.

"At the Stone Gateway, I expect-and for our sake, I hope they stay there," said Tungdil, who remembered the strong hold's layout from a book he'd once read. He turned to the archway. "Time to relight the great furnace of Dragon Fire!"

It was with reverence, apprehension, and a good deal of emotion that he took his first careful step into the tunnel, knowing that no dwarf had set foot in the stronghold since the fifthlings' defeat.

Life flooded back to the kingdom as Rodario and Furgas lit their lamps. The walls reflected the light so radiantly that they hastily damped the flames.

At last they could see that they were standing in a passageway whose walls were clad with polished palandium. A thousand cycles of neglect had done nothing to subdue the metal's white sheen. The likeness of dwarven kings had been etched into the polished panels and a row of bearded rulers gazed benevolently at the visitors, their shiny red axes of cast vraccasium raised in greeting.

"Such majesty," murmured Rodario.

Filled with wonderment, the dwarves sank to their knees and prayed to Vraccas. Even the soulless Bavragor was awed by his surroundings, but every word of his prayer was uttered with immense concentration as the evil within him strove to break his will and seize control of his thoughts and beliefs. It hadn't reckoned with his resolve and the legendary stubbornness of the dwarven mind.

Andфkai, Djerun, and the players waited patiently.

At length Tungdil rose and breathed deeply. The passageway smelled old, dusty, and venerable; it had retained its character in spite of the invasion of orcs and other beasts. "We'll have to do some exploring if we're going to find Flamemere." He set off with Boпndil at his side.

Their boots raised clouds of dust, and from time to time a small creature scurried to safety. The ground was littered with fragments of bone, shields, and mail.

They proceeded in silence until they reached a second archway. The door had been ripped from its hinges, allowing them to enter the many-columned hall. Leading out from the vast pentagonal chamber were fifteen passageways. The stone signposts had been smashed to smithereens.

"There's such a thing as too much choice," Rodario said glumly. "Especially when we haven't got all day to scamper around like mice until we find the right tunnel."

"We could pick the one with the least footprints," proposed Tungdil. "I can't imagine orcs are frequent visitors to Flamemere. There's no reason for them to go there."

"Good idea," agreed Boпndil, making a beeline for one of the passageways. Narmora, Djerun, and Andфkai set about inspecting the others, while the rest of the company found a less exposed corner of the hall to sit and rest.

Rodario scribbled a few thoughts, then shared a meal with Furgas, while Bavragor stayed standing and stared emptily ahead. Goпmgar took shelter behind his shield, chewing nervously on a strip of cured meat and scanning the room for threats. The thought of fifteen passageways converging on his resting place did nothing to help him relax.

"He must be wondering what's happened to Gandogar," Balyndis said softly to Tungdil.

"He's not the only one. We've come all this way and no one's said anything about another group of dwarves. Your folk hadn't seen him either. I hope nothing dreadful's happened," he said, concerned. He closed his eyes, only to open them suddenly and unbutton his fur coat. It was much warmer in the hall than outside and the heat was making him tired.

"Get some sleep," Balyndis told him. "I'll keep watch and wake you as soon as there's anything to report."

"I'm your leader; I'm not supposed to sleep."

"Tired leaders make mistakes," she said firmly, pushing on his shoulders until he capitulated and lay down. "There, that's much better. Now you can dream of rescuing our kingdoms." Smiling, she pushed a wayward lock of hair behind her ear and turned to get a better view of the hall.

Sitting next to him like that, her gaze watchful and one hand resting confidently on her ax, she looked every inch the warrior.

It's definitely this way." To nobody's great surprise, Boпndil, his mind made up, had no intention of listening to anyone else.

"Fine," said Tungdil, signaling for them to start moving, "we'll start with this one and if it doesn't work out, we'll try Andфkai's next."

They had snatched a few moments' sleep to recover their strength in preparation for facing the dragon, but now it was time to move on.

"Argamas is the mate of Branbausнl," Tungdil explained to Balyndis. "Branbausнl lived in the Gray Range until Giselbert's folk stole his fire, killed him, and plundered his lair. Argamas fled to Flamemere…"

"… never to be seen again," Goпmgar finished gladly. "Let's hope the fire-breather stays there. I can't say I'm particularly convinced by our strategy. Dragon scales are as hard as steel."

"We don't need to kill her, only to steal her fire," said Andфkai, unconcerned. "I thought you'd be happy about that."

"Happy?" chimed in Boпndil. "It's a waste! Why do we have to let her live? Argamas is the biggest beast in Girdlegard, or thereabouts, and I'm not allowed to kill her!" From the injured look on his face, it was obvious that the warrior felt cruelly misunderstood. He tried again. "Name me one other place where I can find a real dragon! It would be scandalous to pass up an opportunity like this!"

"I'm afraid the Estimable Maga is right," said Rodario.

"That's exactly the kind of reaction I'd expect from a coward like you," Boпndil told him dismissively. "Balyndis, what do you say the two of us-"

"Quiet," cautioned Tungdil. There was a smell of sulfur in the air and the temperature was rising. Their route had taken them down countless flights of stairs and through endless shafts, and now at last they were closing in. "Not another word until we know what's out there. We don't want Argamas leaving her lava bath until we're absolutely ready."

Goпmgar shrank behind his shield. "Maybe we should ask her to help. Dragons aren't stupid, you know, and she might be quite reasonable."

"You can't ask the dragon to give us her fire," Boпndil blazed up angrily. "Are you determined to ruin everything? You've got to take it! Take it, do you hear?"

"Goпmgar, Argamas's mate was killed by dwarves. I hardly think she'll be willing to help us," said Tungdil, shaking his head. "Our priority is to stay alive, so we'll settle for stealing her fire." He patted the stash of torches on his belt. "We need to bait her, nothing more."

"Unbelievable," grumbled Boпndil. "Why does everyone have to spoil my fun?"

They stepped out of the passageway and were bathed in an intense yellow glare. There was a pervading smell of rotten eggs and it was difficult to breathe, but the view made up for the other unpleasantness.

A wave of heat rose toward them as they approached the seething lake. The molten lava was alive with bubbles, some swelling and showering incandescent droplets as they burst, others collapsing meekly, while new pockets formed on the surface in a boiling, churning mass.

Tungdil couldn't be sure of the lake's exact proportions, but the expanse of simmering lava measured at least four thousand paces across. Islands of solid rock rose above the surface and strange basalt columns hung from the cavern's ceiling, where cycle after cycle of spitting magma had cooled. Everything was suffused with the lake's yellow glow.

"Is that where the dragon lives?" asked Goпmgar, who was staring with the others in amazement. "Thank goodness we're not going to fight her. Any creature tough enough to survive in that inferno won't be slain by our blades."

Djerun raised his sword to direct his mistress's attention to something a thousand paces farther along the shore. "You can stop worrying about Argamas," said Andфkai. "Take a look over there."

To their horror they saw a gigantic skeleton, which, judging by its size and shape, was all that was left of Branbausнl's mate.