The Dwarves

II

Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Winter, 6233rd Solar Cycle It was time for the high king to initiate his counselor into the plan. He handed him a letter. "It's from the magus of Ionandar. Lot-Ionan the Forbearing, they call him in his realm."

Balendilнn knew the magus by reputation. His school lay in the east of Girdlegard and he was said to prize his solitude. Apparently, he spent most of his time studying in his underground vaults, inventing new charms and formulae, far from the worries of everyday life.

"He sends news of something most unusual: a dwarf," the high king explained. "The only dwarf in Ionandar, no less! He says he found him many cycles ago under peculiar circumstances and raised him in his realm. He wants to know whether any of our clans are missing a kinsman. He is eager to reunite him with his kind."

Balendilнn skimmed the letter. "What do we know of the dwarf?"

"The matter is mysterious but intriguing. To my knowledge, no child has been lost in the past two hundred cycles."

"And it's your intention to present the sorcerer's ward as a long-lost heir to the throne?" The counselor laid the letter on the table. "But how?" he asked doubtfully. "A dwarf raised by long-uns won't know what it means to be a child of the Smith. The fourthlings will never back him, especially not without proof of his lineage."

The high king shuffled to the conference table and lowered himself onto the secondling monarch's chair before his legs gave way beneath him.

"I expect you're right," he said in a strained voice. "Be that as it may, they can't do a thing until the candidate is here and the matter has been resolved. Even if I die, their hands will be tied." He looked squarely at his counselor. "If Vraccas should smite me with his hammer before the dwarf arrives, you must bear the burden of preventing war and preserving our kinsfolk."

Balendilнn pursed his lips. "Your Majesty won't be leaving us yet. Not when your inner furnace still burns strong."

"You're a miserable liar, like all dwarves." Gundrabur laughed and laid a hand on his shoulder. "But from now on we must speak with false tongues in order to protect our kinsfolk from a war that could destroy them. You and I will fib like kobolds, Balendilнn. For once we must make it our business to drive a wedge between the clans. Let us walk awhile and you can lend me your counsel. We shall weave a web of falsehoods around Gandogar and Bislipur and keep them from the throne until the last belligerent syllable has been squeezed from their lungs."

Balendilнn helped the king to his feet. He had no faith in the plan succeeding, but he kept his misgivings to himself.

Gandogar was in good spirits when he woke the next morning and was summoned with the other delegates to the great hall. Proceedings were about to recommence and he felt confident that the high king would name him as his successor, after which the members of the assembly would endorse his choice with their votes. It was as good as decided already.

Gundrabur's plea for peace had rankled with him, but he no longer held a grudge. The aged dwarf's long reign had produced nothing worthy of posterity and he was destined to be forgotten before too long. It wasn't dignified to quarrel with a dying king.

Gandogar entered the hall and sat down, while Bislipur took up position behind him. The pews filled quickly as the chieftains and elders filed in.

A few of the delegates looked at him encouragingly and rapped their ax heads. Far from being threatening, the gesture was a sign of support.

Gandogar noticed an unusual trinket hanging from the neck of a secondling chieftain. He strained his eyes to take a closer look. The shriveled trophy was an elven ear worn with obvious pride by the chieftain, who nevertheless tucked it hurriedly under his mail as soon as the high king's arrival was announced. It was still too early for open displays of aggression toward a protected race.

Gundrabur appeared at the door, his sprightly appearance belying rumors of his impending death. Gandogar felt a wave of disappointment at seeing the high king in such excellent form, then immediately felt guilty for harboring such dreadful thoughts. He didn't actually want the old chap to die; it was just that Gundrabur's disapproving speech of the previous orbit had struck a raw nerve.

Tunics of mail creaked and rasped as the delegates went down on one knee to greet the high king. Axes on high, they signaled their unwavering devotion and their willingness to live-and die-as he decreed.

Gundrabur answered by lifting the ceremonial hammer and bringing it down smartly. The delegates were free to rise, which they did, amid much clunking of armor.

Balendilнn stepped forward and turned his earnest brown gaze on Gandogar: "Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, ruler of the fourthlings and head of Goпmdil's line, are you ready to assert your claim to the high king's throne?" he said ceremoniously.

Gandogar rose from his seat, pulled his ax from his belt, and laid it on the table. "Unyielding as the rock from which we were created and keen as this blade is my will to defend our race against its foes," came his solemn reply. Such was his inner turmoil that he failed to notice that Balendilнn, not the high king, had taken charge of the proceedings. It occurred to him when the counselor cut in before he could continue.

"King Gandogar, the assembly has heard and noted your claim. A decision will be taken when we have heard the second candidate speak. You and he must decide which of the two of you will withdraw. Until then we must wait."

"Wait?" bellowed Gandogar, blood rushing to his head. He turned to search the faces of his chieftains, all of whom seemed genuinely surprised. "Who was it?" he thundered. "Which of you had the audacity to go behind my back? Step forward and make yourself known!" He reached for his ax, but was stayed by Balendilнn.

"You do your kinsfolk an injustice," said the counselor. "Your rival is not here." He produced a letter and held it up for all to see. "The dwarf in question was separated many cycles ago from his folk. He is mindful of his heritage and has announced his return. He lives in Ionandar and is preparing to join us as we speak."

"Ionandar?" Gandogar exclaimed incredulously. "Vraccas forgive me, but what kind of dwarf lives with sorcerers?" He drew himself up. "Is this some kind of joke? A stranger writes a letter that you accept without question and now the ceremony must be delayed. What name does he go by?"

"His name is of no account. He was raised as a foundling and named by humans. But the items discovered with him show him to be a member of your folk."

"Hogwash!" Gandogar retorted angrily. "The letter is a fake!"

"And what of the document purporting to tell the truth about the elves?" Balendilнn said sternly, one hand resting lightly on his belt.

"Silence, both of you!" The high king levered himself from his throne. "King Gandogar, do you presume to call my counselor a liar?" The old dwarf was powerful and majestic in his fury, his words thundering through the lofty hall. The fourthling monarch sounded shrill and petty as a fishwife by comparison. "You will abide by my decision. When the candidate arrives, the fourthling chieftains will decide which of you will make the better king."

Gandogar pointed to his retinue. "Why the delay? Ask the chieftains now and you shall hear whom they elect. Their minds are made up. How could a stranger-"

The high king raised a wizened hand. "No." He waved toward the engraved stelae. "We will follow the law as it was given to us by our forefathers. What they ordained will be fulfilled."

The silence that descended on the vast hall was by no means uniform in quality. For the most part it was born of astonishment, but in a number of cases it was prompted by helplessness and rage. There was no choice but to wait for the audacious stranger to appear.

Gandogar sat down heavily and pulled his ax across the table toward him. The blade left a deep white gouge in the polished stone, scarring the surface over which the masons had toiled so long.

"So be it," he said coolly. He dared not risk a longer speech for fear that he would say something he might regret. Turning, he cast an abject glance at Bislipur, who seemed a model of composure, but whose unruffled expression Gandogar could read. His adviser was already turning over the situation in his mind, searching for a solution. Bislipur could be relied on to be resourceful.

"The journey from Ionandar will take weeks. How are we supposed to occupy ourselves until the dwarf arrives?" asked Gandogar, eyes fixed on the sparkling diamonds on his armor. "What makes you think that our aspiring high king will find us?" "Or that he'll make it here alive," added Bislipur.

"We'll have plenty to discuss in the meantime," said Balendilнn. "The assembly will turn to matters of imminent importance for our clans." He smiled. "But your concern is touching. Rest assured that the dwarf will get here safely. We've sent an escort."

"In that case we should send one too," Bislipur insisted with forced benevolence. "The fourthlings are always happy to look after their own. Where should we send our warriors?"

"Your offer is most generous, but unnecessary. The dwarf will be a guest of the high king, so the high king has sent warriors of his own," Balendilнn said diplomatically. "Given the stormy start to the proceedings, I suggest we take a break and cool our tempers with a keg of dark ale." He raised his ax and rapped the poll twice against the table. The clear ring of metal on stone sang through the air and echoed through the corridors.

At once barrels of dark roasted barley malt were rolled into the hall, and in no time the delegates were raising their drinking horns to the reigning high king and his successor, who most assumed would be Gandogar.

Bislipur laid his hand on his monarch's shoulder. "Patience, Your Majesty. Let us honor our forefathers by satisfying every requirement they name. It's important we don't give anyone the opportunity to question the legitimacy of your reign." They clinked tankards and he took a lengthy draft. The beer was thick and malty, almost sweet. "Ale like this can be brewed only by dwarves." He smiled, wiping the foam from his beard.

At length the atmosphere in the great hall became jollier and more boisterous and Bislipur could slip away unnoticed. Safely ensconced in a lonely passageway, he summoned Sverd and entrusted the gnome with a mission of great importance. Enchanted Realm of Ionandar, Girdlegard, Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle Whistling, Tungdil knelt by his cupboard and packed his large leather knapsack for the trip. He took a tinderbox, a flint, and a blanket, in case he had to spend a night in the open, as well as his fishing hook, a plate, and some cutlery. His cloak he rolled into a bundle and fastened to the outside of the knapsack with a leather strap. Lastly, he pulled on his chain mail and tweaked it with practiced movements until it lay flat against his skin.

He felt instantly better. There was something safe and incredibly homely about his shirt of steel rings. His attachment to his chain mail was a matter of instinct, not something he could explain.

He had the same feeling when he was working at the anvil. Routine jobs-forging horseshoes, nails, and iron brackets for doors, honing blades, or sharpening tools-came naturally to him. It was his dwarven blood, he supposed.

Hoisting his bulging knapsack to his shoulders, he picked up the ax that had been given to him by Lot-Ionan, hooked it through his belt, and set off for the magus's study. He knew the vaults like the back of his hand. The dim light posed no problem for his sharp dwarven eyes and his sense of direction never abandoned him underground. No two tunnels looked the same to him, owing to his ability to remember the slightest irregularity in the rock. It was a different story on the surface, where he was unable to find his way anywhere without a map.

He knocked briskly and opened the door. Lot-Ionan was sitting at his desk, dressed in the old beige robes to which he was so attached. He held up a sheet of parchment accusingly as the dwarf came into the room.

"Do you see this, Tungdil?" he said, throwing the paper disgustedly back onto the pile. "This is your doing! Orbits of study destroyed in the blink of an eye."

"I had no idea," the dwarf said with genuine contrition but determined not to concede any guilt. Stubbornness was another of his inherited characteristics.

"I know, Tungdil. I know." The magus's expression softened. "Go on, then. What really happened?"

"It was another of Jolosin's pranks. He played a trick on me, so I threw a bucket of water at him…" He bowed his head and his voice fell to an indistinct mumble. "He turned the droplets into ice and the shards hit some of the phials. He tried to lay the blame on me by locking me in the laboratory." He looked up and focused his brown eyes on his patron.

The magus sighed. "Six of one and half a dozen of the other, just as I thought. Still, I shouldn't have shouted at you like that." He motioned to the parchment. "Of course, it doesn't change the fact that I'll be spending the next few orbits reinscribing these runes. You had no business to be in the laboratory, Tungdil. No good comes of a dwarf meddling in magic or mixing potions. I thought you knew that by now."

"But it wasn't my-"

"What possessed you to take matters into your own hands? You had only to come to me and Jolosin would have been punished. I'm sending you on a journey, a long journey-which isn't to say I won't be pleased to have you back. On the contrary." He paused. "Rest assured that Jolosin has fared much worse; he'll be peeling potatoes until you're home. And should you decide to take a more circuitous route…" With a mischievous grin he left the rest up to Tungdil. "Well, are you ready?"

"Yes, Estimable Magus," Tungdil answered, relieved that his patron no longer held him solely to blame. "What would you have me do?"

After the frayed tempers of the laboratory, the atmosphere in the study, where they were surrounded by the clutter of Lot-Ionan's cabinets, gadgetry, and books, seemed all the more relaxed. Flames crackled softly in the fireplace and the magus's owl was napping in a corner.

"We'll discuss your errand later. All in good time." Lot-Ionan rose and retired with his steaming mug to the wing chair by the hearth. He stretched his slippered feet toward the flames. "There's no rush. Jolosin will be busy in the laboratory for a good while longer… Besides, there's something I'd like you to consider while you're away." His hand patted the chair beside him.

Tungdil set down his knapsack and took a seat. It sounded as though the magus had something important to say.

"I've been thinking." Lot-Ionan cleared his throat. "The two of us have known each other for sixty-two of your sixty-three cycles."

The dwarf knew what was coming. At times like this, when the mood was sentimental and the magus was feeling relaxed, he would pour himself a draft of beer, warm his feet by the fire, and journey into the distant past, recalling events that had happened over a human lifetime ago. Tungdil loved these conversations.

"It was winter and the winds were howling when there was a knock on the door and a band of kobolds deposited a bundle." He looked his ward in the eye and laughed softly. "It was you! Back then, without your beard, you could almost have been mistaken for a human bairn. They threatened to drown you in the nearest river if I didn't pay your bond. What could I do? I gave them their money and raised you myself."

"For which I shall be eternally grateful," Tungdil said softly.

"Yes, well, eternally…" The magus fell silent for a moment. "It seems to me that it might be time to let you go your own way." He laid a hand on the dwarf's thick shock of hair. "I've outlived my natural span and you've served me so loyally that your debt of gratitude, if ever there was one, has been repaid. Besides, if I don't come up with a more convincing charm against old age, my soul will be summoned to Palandiell."

Tungdil didn't like to be reminded that human existence was inescapably brief, even for the likes of the powerful magus. "I'm sure you'll find a way…," he said hoarsely. "Er, didn't you want to tell me something?"

The dwarf's clumsy attempt to change the subject brought a wry smile to Lot-Ionan's face. "You were left here at your parents' behest because they wanted you to be the greatest wizard of the dwarven race, or at least that's what I told you. You saw through the story soon enough. Once I taught you to read, you learned enough about your kinsfolk to know it wasn't true."

"Dwarves aren't fond of magic and magic isn't fond of them." Tungdil couldn't help smiling. His hands were best suited to wielding a hammer and he could happily clutch a book from Lot-Ionan's vast library, but a sorcerer's staff was another matter. "Vraccas made us artisans through and through. There's no room in our hearts for magic."

"Indeed," the magus agreed in amusement, remembering the long line of minor disasters resulting from Tungdil's accidental encounters with the occult. "But you're too modest. You've crammed your head with knowledge like a scholar. You know more about the peoples of Girdlegard than some of my pupils."

"The credit is all yours, Lot-Ionan. You even schooled me in rhetoric."

"And that was no small feat. Adhering to the proper rules of disputation is a challenge for the obstinate tongue of a dwarf!" His face became serious. "I still curse myself for not asking the kobolds where they found you. At least then I'd be able to tell you which clan you belong to." He reached down to the floor and rummaged through a stack of papers to produce a map of Girdlegard, which he carefully unfurled. "I've sent word to Beroпn's folk," he said, pointing his index finger at the secondling kingdom. "Perhaps they'll know something of the circumstances surrounding your birth. Given the ripe old age you dwarves can get to, there's a reasonable chance your parents are still alive. Well, Tungdil, what do you say?"

The dwarf was visibly moved. His dream of meeting his clansfolk was on the cusp of being fulfilled. "That's…Oh, thank you, Lot-Ionan!" he said, overcome with excitement. "Have the secondlings replied?"

Lot-Ionan was delighted to see his enthusiasm. "Not yet. But I'm sure they'll be intrigued by the news of a lost dwarf. They'll be in touch; you can count on it. It's only a start, though. You shouldn't get your hopes up yet."

"I can't thank you enough," Tungdil said solemnly, still struggling to put his emotions into words.

"Now that we've got the map out, I may as well show you where you're going." Lot-Ionan traced a route from the underground vaults through Idoslane, across the border, and into the kingdom of Gauragar. His finger stopped just short of the enchanted realm of Lios Nudin, home of the powerful magus Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty, and came to rest over a peak named the Blacksaddle. "There you have it, three hundred miles on a northwesterly bearing. The paths are well marked and I'll give you the map to take with you, of course. Failing that, you can always stop for directions in one of the villages on the way." He rolled up the parchment. "As for your errand, I need you to convey a few items to my good friend Gorйn. If you look in the ebony cabinet, you'll find a small leather bag with green drawstrings. I borrowed the contents for an experiment many years ago and their purpose has been served. The coins on the table are for you to take."

While Tungdil was scrabbling in the cupboard, Lot-Ionan leafed through a book, pretending to read. The dwarf pulled out a bag. "Found it," he said finally.

"You should go, then, Tungdil, but remember to reflect on our earlier conversation. If we find your family, you'll be free to join them or remain with me, as you please," he said without looking up from his tome. Tungdil turned to the door.

"And one last thing: Be careful! Keep an eye on the bag and don't lose it: Its contents are valuable," he warned. At last he glanced up and smiled: "I strongly advise you not to open it. We don't want any mishaps while you're away. Palandiell be with you-and Vraccas too!"

"You can depend on me, Lot-Ionan."

"I know I can, Tungdil. Now, enjoy your trip and come back safely."

On leaving Lot-Ionan's study, Tungdil steered a course for the kitchens to stock up on victuals and tell Frala of the news.

He found her working at the large dough-trough. The stodgy mix of flour, water, and yeast took considerable effort to knead and her face glistened with sweat from the exertion.

"I need provisions," he announced with a grin.

"The magus is sending you on an errand, is he?" Frala smiled and gave the dough a final vigorous squeeze. "I'm sure we'll find something in the larder for Lot-Ionan's special envoy." She dusted her hands and led the way into a small room that Tungdil imagined was the closest thing to seventh heaven for a mouse.

Frala filled his knapsack with cured meat, cheese, sausage, and a loaf of rye bread. "There," she said, "that should keep you going."

"Not for three hundred miles, it won't."

"Three hundred?" she exclaimed in surprise. "Tungdil, that's not an errand; it's a serious journey! You'll need more food than that." She added two large sausages and some ham. "But don't let Cook see," she said, buckling the flap hastily.

They returned to the kitchen. "Aren't you going to tell me where you're going?" she asked impatiently.

"The Blacksaddle. The magus wants me to deliver a few items to one of his old apprentices."

"The Blacksaddle," Frala echoed thoughtfully. "I've never heard of it. But three hundred miles is an awfully long way. Which kingdoms will you pass through?"

Tungdil chuckled. "I'd take you with me and show you, but I don't think Lot-Ionan would approve-not to mention your husband and daughters." He showed her the map and traced his finger along the route.

"Through Idoslane and Gauragar! And Lios Nudin is barely a stone's throw away. Aren't you curious to visit?" she exclaimed in excitement.

"Not much happens in Lios Nudin," Tungdil said dismissively. "Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty does nothing but study. But Turguria would be worth a look."

"Why's that?"

"Turgur the Fair-Faced is on a quest for universal beauty. He wants to make everyone into paragons of elven grace-even bow-legged farmers and squinty-eyed maids. From what Lot-Ionan told me, he hasn't quite perfected his spells. Apparently, his experiments have led to such deformities that some of his subjects are too ashamed to leave their homes. It's probably a good thing I won't be going there. What if Turgur took it into his head to magic me to human size?"

"What a dreadful thought," said Frala with feeling. She stooped to embrace the dwarf. "May Palandiell and Vraccas bless you and keep you from harm." Before he knew it, she had unknotted her scarf and tied it round his waist. "Here, now you'll have a talisman too." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "It'll remind you of me-and you'll have no excuse for forgetting my present!"

Tungdil looked into her lively green eyes and sighed. He was so fond of Frala that it was hard to imagine life without her in a dwarven kingdom, especially now that he was guardian to Sunja and Ikana. His attachment to her was not in the least bit romantic; he felt bound to her like a brother, having known her since she was a child.

"Lot-Ionan wrote to the dwarves of Beroпn," he said, proceeding to recount his conversation with the magus. "He wants to find out where I came from. If the secondlings know my kin, I'd like to visit them in the mountains, maybe move there. The magus said I was free to choose."

The maid embraced him once more. "It looks as though your dream is coming true," she congratulated him. She smiled mischievously. "Jolosin will jump for joy if you decide to go." "Maybe I should stay, then," threatened Tungdil.

A shadow came over her face. "You won't forget to come back and visit us, will you? I'd like to hear about the dwarves of the south," she said, her voice tinged with melancholy in spite of her genuine pleasure at the news.

"Frala, who knows if I even belong there? They might not know anything about me; I could have been hewn from the mountain without any kin. In any case, my first priority is Gorйn. I'll see what happens after that."

A wail went up from the cot in the corner. Frala hurried to comfort Ikana, who had been sleeping snugly by the hearth.

"Say hello to your guardian, little one," she told her daughter. "He'll always be here for you, just as he's always been here for me."

The baby grabbed the dwarf's outstretched finger and pulled. Tungdil was almost certain that he heard a soft chuckle.

"She's laughing at me!"

"Nonsense! She's laughing with you! She likes you, see?"

"Don't worry," Tungdil promised the baby, "I'll buy presents for you and your sister too." He disengaged his calloused finger from her delicate pink hands. Now that Ikana no longer seemed so fragile, he would have liked to stay and play. She reached up and tugged a strand of his hair. He carefully loosened her grip. "So you want me to stay, do you?"

The trio made their way through the shadowy galleries to the northern exit. Sunlight seeped through the cracks in the doorway. Frala kissed him on the forehead. "Look after yourself, Tungdil," she said. "And come back safe and sound!"

A famulus pulled on a rope to open the door and the iron-bound oak panels parted with a groan.

Outside, the rolling grassy hills, bright flowers, and leafy trees were dappled with sunshine. The aroma of warm soil wafted in on the breeze and the tunnel filled with the spring warbling of birds.

"Do you hear that, Tungdil? Girdlegard is wishing you well," said Frala, filling her lungs with fresh air. "What glorious weather for a journey!"

The dwarf lingered for a moment in the safety of the shaded doorway. He was accustomed to having ceilings above him and walls that afforded protection on all sides. In the open, there was too much freedom for his liking and he had to acclimate himself all over again.

Not wanting Frala to think he was no braver than a gnome, he took a deep breath, stepped out into the sunshine above Ionandar, and marched purposefully away.

"Come back soon, Tungdil," she called. He turned and waved until the doors to the vaults were closed, then continued on his way. After a few paces he came to a halt. Screwing up his eyes, he winced in the dazzling light. His subterranean existence had made him so sensitive to the sun's powerful rays that he was obliged to shelter in the shade of a towering oak. He dropped onto the grass and laid the magus's bag and his pack of provisions beside him.

Hmm, not the most promising start, he thought to himself. He squinted at his surroundings, straining to see something of the landscape. The canopy of leaves afforded little protection from the glare.

It was the same at the beginning of every journey, but at least the terrain, a wide track winding gently over rolling countryside, would be easily mastered on foot.

He held the map above his head to block out the light and studied his route. Assuming the cartographer knew his business, the landscape would begin to change in the region of the Blacksaddle. A dense forest of pines surrounded the mountain, through which there was no obvious path.

So much the better. Tungdil ran his thumb over the blade of his ax. Those trees will regret it if they get in my way.

The sun followed its slow trajectory across the sky.

Little by little Tungdil's eyes adjusted to the sunshine as it weakened and mellowed to a soft orange glow. By dusk, his vision would be restored entirely, but time was running out if he wanted to cover a few miles and find a bed before nightfall.

Straightening up determinedly, he slung his packs on his back, returned his ax to his belt, and plodded on, all the while cursing the sunshine. Grumbling wouldn't get him there any faster, but it vastly improved his mood.

The sun was disappearing over the crest of a hill when Tungdil emerged from the forest on the fifth orbit of his uneventful journey and found himself confronted by palisades bounding a village of some considerable size.

Two soldiers patrolled the wooden watchtower above the gateway. At first neither noticed the diminutive figure outside, but at last one of the men motioned to his companion. Judging by their reaction, the dwarf was not regarded as a threat.

Tungdil was relieved. After four chilly nights in the open, camped among squirrels, foxes, and more greenery than he could tolerate, he was looking forward to finding a tavern with good beer, warm food, and a soft mattress. His stomach was grumbling already.

He reached the gateway, but the doors remained closed. The sentries leaned over the parapet and watched from above.

"Good evening to you both!" he bellowed up at them. "Be so kind as to open the gates! I should like a bed for the night and a roof overhead!" Even from a distance, he could tell that their armor was well made and well cared for. This led him to two conclusions: First, the suits had been crafted by a smith of considerable skill, and second, the metal was worn for protection and not effect. The sentries were no ordinary villagers.

These thoughts were followed by another revealing discovery. In the flickering torchlight he had taken the rounded objects on the palisades to be gargoyles, but on closer inspection they turned out to be skulls. The heads of three dozen dead orcs were impaled on the defenses.

Tungdil doubted the wisdom of baiting the enemy in this fashion. As a deterrent, an array of orcish skulls had about as much chance of warding off the orcs as a dead bird would protect a field from crows. In fact, the sight of the severed heads was more likely to incite the brutes to wholesale slaughter.

From this Tungdil deduced that he had crossed the border into Idoslane and that the men hired to defend the settlement were trained fighters but foolhardy with it. Only mercenaries paid by the skull would be reckless enough to provoke the beasts so gruesomely. The bloodied heads had been set out as bait to draw in nearby bands of orcs.

"What are you waiting for?" he called indignantly. "Let me in!"

"Greetings, groundling! This is Goodwater in the fair land of Idoslane. Have you sighted orcs on your travels?"

"No," he shouted, struggling to keep his temper. To be referred to as a "groundling" was more than he could bear. "And if you don't mind, I'm no more a groundling than you men are grasslings: I'm a dwarf."

The sentries laughed. At their signal, the right half of the double door creaked open and Tungdil was allowed to pass. Inside, another pair of heavily armed soldiers was waiting for him. They eyed him distrustfully.

"Well, blow me down," one of them muttered. "If it isn't a real-life dwarf! They're not as tiny as everyone says they are."

Tungdil was once again reminded that humans knew almost nothing about dwarves. He bristled under the sentries' stares. "If you've quite finished gawking, maybe one of you could inform me where I might find a bed."

The sentries directed him to the nearest tavern, which lay a short distance along the dusty street. Above the door, a shabby platter and a similarly dilapidated tankard indicated that the place sold food and beer, although, by the look of it, it wouldn't be anything fancy.

In spite of his best efforts to slip in unseen, the rusty hinges squealed excitedly as soon as he lifted the wooden crossbar and pushed open the door. It was hard to imagine a simpler yet more effective means of guarding against intruders: The shriek of neglected metal was impossible to ignore. The dwarf hesitated for a moment, then entered.

Seated at the tavern's roughly fashioned tables were ten villagers holding tankards of ale or mead. Tungdil's nose was assailed immediately by the smell of food combined with tobacco and sweat. The villagers wore simple garments: hessian or coarse woolen shirts to protect against the evening chill. Their feet were encased in thick stockings and laced shoes.

Two of the men nodded hesitantly in acknowledgment; the others were too busy staring. It was always the same.

The dwarf returned the greeting and took his place at an empty table. Naturally the furniture was far too big for him, but he made himself comfortable and ordered his supper and a large ale. In no time a steaming plate of cornmeal and mincemeat was laid in front of him, followed by a tankard of beer.

He tucked in ravenously. The meal tasted wholesome, a little burned, and somewhat bland, but at least it was warm. The pale watery beer disappointed his dwarven palate, but he drank it all the same. He had no desire to cause offense, especially when there was the matter of his lodgings still to settle.

One of the villagers was looking at him so intently that he could almost feel his piercing stare. Tungdil returned his gaze unflinchingly.

"What beats me," said the man, raising his voice so everyone in the tavern could hear, "is what a groundling would be doing in our village." A ring of smoke left his pipe and shot toward the sooty ceiling.

"Breaking his journey." Tungdil chewed his mouthful deliberately, dropped his spoon into the gloop, and wiped his beard. A belligerent villager was the last thing he needed. It was obvious from his manner that the man was sparring for a fight. Well, he's picked the wrong dwarf! "I've no desire to argue with you, estimable sir," he said firmly. "I've spent the past few nights in the open, and Vraccas willing, I'd like to sleep on something other than twigs and leaves."

There was an eruption of mocking laughter. Some of the villagers prostrated themselves in front of the pipe smoker, calling him "sir" and "your honor"; one even went so far as to set an empty tankard like a crown on his head. They evidently found it amusing that Tungdil should address a humble villager in terms of respect.

"You think you're quite something, don't you, groundling?" The man hurled the tankard to the floor and faced his friends angrily. "Go ahead and laugh, you harebrained idiots! What if he was sent by orcs to spy on us? You won't find it so funny when he sneaks out of bed and opens the gates!"

The mirth stopped abruptly.

At once Tungdil realized he would have to tread carefully. On a practical level, that meant sticking to plain speech. It was bad enough that he was a dwarf, let alone a dwarf with fancy manners.

"Dwarves and orcs are sworn enemies," he said earnestly. "A dwarf would never throw in his lot with an orc." He extended his hand toward the man. "Here, have my word that I mean you no harm. I swear it by Vraccas, creator of all dwarves."

The villager stared at the sturdy fingers and weighed the matter in his mind. At last he gave the hand a brief shake and turned away.

The publican brought the relieved Tungdil another beer. "Don't mind him," he said quickly. "We're all on edge at the moment. So many villages have been plundered these past few orbits. Orcs are rampaging through the northwest of Idoslane."

"Hence the mercenaries at the gates."

"They're here to protect us until King Tilogorn's soldiers rid us of the beasts." He turned to go.

"Wait!" Tungdil laid a hand on his grease-spotted sleeve. The man's words had given him faint grounds for hope. "Will there be dwarves among them? I heard King Tilogorn has dwarves in his pay."

The publican shrugged. "I couldn't tell you, little fellow, but it wouldn't surprise me."

"When do they get here?" he asked eagerly. The opportunity of setting eyes on a fellow dwarf was reason enough to delay his mission to the Blacksaddle. All the more potatoes for Jolosin to peel.

"By rights they should have been here three orbits ago," said the publican, signaling apologetically to the queue of thirsty customers at the bar. Tungdil let him go and returned to his supper, mulling over what he knew of Tilogorn and his kingdom.

The name Idoslane was derived from the land's bloody past. At the heart of the historical conflict was the throne. The Idos, the kingdom's great ruling dynasty, had plotted, conspired, and waged war on one another, bringing misery on themselves and their people, who bore the brunt of their feuds. Bit by bit the state was torn apart by their squabbling until every district was governed by a different member of the Ido clan. At last their subjects reached the limit of their endurance and felled every last sibling, cousin, and scion of the dynasty: Ido-slane.

A villager, rather the worse for wear, staggered to his feet and raised his tankard: "Long live Prince Mallen! May he drive King Tilogorn from the throne!" When no one joined in with his toast, he lowered himself to his stool, muttering darkly.

If Tungdil's memory served him correctly, Prince Mallen was the sole surviving member of the Ido clan. He lived in exile in Urgon, the kingdom to the north of Idoslane, and was forever conspiring to return to his country as its rightful king.

Tacked to the wall of the tavern was an ancient map of Idoslane, its yellowed parchment stained by smoke. The succession of rolling hills, forests, and plains made for a pleasantly varied landscape. It would have been idyllic, if it weren't for the orcs.

"Not a bad place, is it?" observed a fellow drinker, following Tungdil's gaze.

"Save for Toboribor." Tungdil pointed to the black enclave at the heart of the kingdom: The orcish stronghold was located on Idoslane's most fertile land. He picked up his tankard and joined the villager at his table. "Why are the brutes on the move?"

"They're bored, that's all. Orcs don't need a reason to plunder and pillage. They attacked a place a few miles from here and set fire to the fields and orchards. Their sort are just monsters. Robbing, fighting, killing…They don't know any better."

"And they're strong," said another, eyes widening theatrically. "There was a time when-"

"Not that old fable," groaned the publican, stopping at the table to refill their tankards.

"You don't have to listen. I was talking to the dwarf." In spite of his injured tone, the storyteller had no intention of abandoning his tale. "I came up against a whole bedeviled mob of them. Great hulking beasts, they were. It was during my employ in Tilogorn's army. We-"

"Happier times, they were. The old prattler never had time to scare folks with his stories."

"What would a publican know about it? If you'd seen the accursed things, you'd have some respect." He turned back to Tungdil. "I'm telling you, dwarf, they were a terrible sight. A whole head taller than most men and ugly as sin: big flat noses, hideous eyes, and sticking-out teeth. It was worse for the young lads; they nearly died of fright."

"That's funny," murmured Tungdil. "I read a description just like that in-" He clamped his mouth shut, but no one had heard. To cover his embarrassment, he scratched his sunburned head. Any later in the season and his scalp would have burned to a crisp by now. The sun took a bit of getting used to.

"Half an orbit it took to kill those wretched brutes. My, they were tough! When I was young no one would hire mercenaries to keep the orcs from their gates. Orcs or no orcs, Idoslane was safe in our hands. Times have changed," he said regretfully, mourning the decline of Tilogorn's army and the passing of his youth. He glanced down and caught sight of Tungdil's ax. The blade had been put to good use in the woods and was looking somewhat neglected, with blobs of dried sap and splinters sticking to the bit. "Don't tell me you've been using a fine ax like that for hacking wood!" he exclaimed, aghast.

"I had to get through the undergrowth somehow." Tungdil reddened, hoping to goodness that no one would ask him to demonstrate his race's legendary axmanship. The truth was, he knew nothing of fighting.

Tungdil had learned everything he knew from Lot-Ionan, who took little interest in weaponry, sword fights, and close combat, leaving his ward without a military education. No one had ever shown him how to wield an ax in anger. The servants chopped wood or killed rats with their axes and that was as far as his handling of the feared dwarven weapon went. His race was supposed to be skilled in axmanship, but if faced with an aggressor, which well he might be, he was resigned to striking out haphazardly and praying that the beast would run away.

"The dwarves are great warriors, or so I've heard," said the veteran trooper. "Runs in the blood, does it? Is it true what they say about a single dwarf putting pay to a pack of ten orcs?"

Tungdil had long suspected that he wasn't a proper dwarf, but now his fears were confirmed. Listening to the men made him realize that his kinsfolk would laugh if they could see him, which put an end to his enthusiasm for meeting others of his race. Even the thought of the fairer sex seemed more alarming than appealing.

"Ten orcs," he said, hoping the trooper was right, "absolutely…" He yawned loudly, stretched, and rose. It was time to escape his own doubts, shake off his nosy questioners, and find a bed. "You'll have to excuse me: I need to get some sleep."

His fellow drinkers, their initial suspicions forgotten, were reluctant to let him go, but at length he was permitted to make his way to the second floor of the timber-frame house where the publican had quartered him for the night. The room was a dormitory, but a large one, and Tungdil had it to himself.

He used the washbowl to bathe his sweaty feet, which had been confined to his boots since the start of the journey. Savoring the luxury of his third beer, he stood by the window and gazed out over the tiled roofs of Goodwater.

The settlement was a good size, numbering a thousand or so dwellings. The villagers seemed to make their living from the surrounding fields and orchards and what wealth they had was now threatened by orcs. Tilogorn's anxiously awaited army would have to hurry if there was going to be anything left to save.

Tungdil dried his weary feet, folded his clothes over a chair, and buried himself in the thick feather duvet.

Silvery light shone on the leather bag destined for Gorйn, sorely testing his resolve.

Don't meddle with things that don't concern you, he told himself sternly.

Even as he fell asleep he thought of Lot-Ionan and Frala, whose talisman was looped through his belt. He missed the sound of her laughter. Tomorrow he would ask the publican for directions to the Blacksaddle and press on without delay.

Muffled sounds roused him from his sleep.

Two men were taking great pains to ready themselves for bed without making any noise. Outside a storm was howling and raging around the settlement.

A whispered exchange followed, during which Tungdil felt certain that he heard Lot-Ionan's name. He peered warily at the newcomers: a thin, well-dressed gentleman and a taller, broader fellow clad in leather mail with metal plating.

A merchant and his bodyguard? Their garments were clearly worth a gold piece or two. He caught sight of a simple yet striking trinket attached to the larger fellow's leather lapel. It was embossed with the seal of the magi.

They're envoys to the magi's council! "Are you headed for Ionandar?" he asked, abandoning all pretense of sleep. Curiosity had triumphed over caution.

The broad man frowned. "What makes you think that?"

"The brooch." He pointed to the man's gown. "You must be envoys."

The pair exchanged looks of surprise. "Who are you?" the bearer of the trinket demanded. Tungdil introduced himself. "What news of Lot-Ionan?" the man said sharply. "Is he well?"

"Perhaps you could tell me a little about yourselves first," the dwarf requested with impeccable politeness. They supplied him with their names and occupations: Friedegard, a first-tier famulus apprenticed to Turgur the Fair-Faced, and Vrabor, a warrior in the service of the magi. "Lot-Ionan is in excellent health," Tungdil informed them. "You'll see for yourselves when you get there." He struggled to contain himself, then gave in. "Pray, what is the…" He reconsidered and began more plainly: "What do you want with the magus?"

"Our business is with Lot-Ionan, not his message boy," Vrabor said dismissively, loosening the buckles on his armor. "Why do you think the council sent an envoy and not a town crier?"

He had barely finished speaking when the storm outside whipped into a frenzy, gusting through chinks in the walls and emitting a strange, unnatural whine, which was followed almost immediately by a high-pitched whistle.

Tensing, the two men reached for their swords.

Not a night to be abroad, thought the dwarf as he watched the moonlit scraps of cloud chase across the gloomy sky.

Just then a slender face appeared at the window. Tungdil looked into the gray-green eyes and felt his mind go numb. The apparition was more bewitching than frightening: Long dark hair swept the beautiful visage, the occasional strand plastered against the rain-drenched skin. So pale, so perfect was the being that it resembled a marble sculpture of an elf, its bedraggled locks like fine fractures in the stone.

The dwarf stared helplessly, transfixed by the creature's gaze. The countenance was attractive-of that there was no question-but it inspired in him an almost physical revulsion. It was too beautiful, almost cruelly so.

"Over there…" His breathless warning was enough to alert the envoys, who looked up and dove for cover.

At that moment there was an explosion of glass as a long black-fletched arrow shattered the window and whined through the air, planting itself in the wall.

"You get rid of them; I'll deal with the window," shouted Vrabor to his companion. Seizing the heavy table, he upturned it and slammed it into the wall, then hurriedly jammed some furniture against the makeshift barricade. There were no other openings for arrows to enter.

Meanwhile Friedegard, eyes closed and head bowed, was chanting silently and tracing strange symbols in the air. In his right hand was a coin-sized crystal set in gold.

"Can someone tell me what's going on?" Tungdil scrambled out of bed and grabbed his ax because it made him feel safer.

The envoys listened in silence. Although the wind had abated, the rain was falling more heavily than before. They strained their ears, but there was no sound of the mysterious bowman. He seemed to have vanished with the tempest.

"Has the elf gone?"

"I can't be sure," said Vrabor. "Perhaps." He sheathed his sword and sat down on the bed, hands resting on the cross guard of his weapon. "They could be biding their time."

"They?"

"Дlfar, two of them. They've been tailing us since Porista."

So it wasn't an elf after all…The дlfar, a race crueler than any other, were sworn enemies of the elves. They hated their cousins for their purity, a purity that the дlfar themselves had been denied. It was hatred and jealousy, according to the history books, that impelled them across the Northern Pass and into Girdlegard. "Is Lot-Ionan in danger?"

"Lot-Ionan will come to no harm," Vrabor assured him wearily. "The дlfar are powerless against the magi and they know it. The arrow was meant for Friedegard and me; they want to know what we're carrying. We knew they were following us as soon as we left the capital of Lios Nudin, but they waited until they could be sure of our destination before they attacked. I'm sorry, groundling," he said, responding to the unspoken question in Tungdil's eyes. "I'm sure you're a loyal messenger and I know we're indebted to your vigilance, but our business is between the council and Lot-Ionan. You'll have to save your questions for your return."

"I'm a dwarf, not a groundling." Tungdil toyed with the idea of accompanying the envoys to Ionandar the next morning and telling the magus of what he had seen, but he decided against it. His mission to the Blacksaddle was more important. He sat down and laid his ax across his knees.

The rest of the night was spent in watchful silence, their fear of the дlfar keeping tiredness at bay. None of them slept a wink, but Friedegard's spell seemed to have worked and there was no sign of their assailants. At last, with the coming of dawn, the tension finally fell away and Tungdil lay back and dozed.