The Dwarves

III

Enchanted Realm of Ionandar, Girdlegard, Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle Reclining in his wing chair with his feet on a stool, Lot-Ionan had made himself comfortable in a corner of his study and was leafing contentedly through a grimoire, one of the many that lined his walls. In addition to his slightly shabby beige robes he wore even shabbier slippers and his pipe lay beside him, tobacco at the ready. Steam rose from a glass of herbal tea on the table. The magus was savoring the peace and quiet.

"Do you hear that, Nula?" he asked the barn owl who was perched on the back of his chair and seemed to be studying his spells. "Not a sound. No noise, no explosions. I was loath to say goodbye to Tungdil, but I know it was the right decision."

Blinking approvingly, Nula replied with a gentle twit-twoo. Lot-Ionan knew full well that she couldn't understand him, but he enjoyed their conversations. It was an excellent way of collecting his thoughts.

"I suppose it was a bit mean of me, really," he confessed. "Gorйn left the Blacksaddle goodness knows how many cycles ago. He abandoned the mountain after falling for the charms of a beautiful and intelligent elf." The owl blinked again. "You want to know how I heard about it? My former apprentice told me himself. It was all in a letter that he wrote from Greenglade. He seemed most contented with his new abode and gave a full account of the superior allure of elven women."

The thought of Gorйn's mistress reminded Lot-Ionan of his age. He had long since lost interest in pleasures of the flesh; other matters took precedence in his mind.

"Tungdil will find out his new address, I shouldn't wonder. And when he does, he won't rest until he's tracked Gorйn down and accomplished his errand." He took a sip from his steaming glass. The cold air of the vaults was conducive to study, but he found himself drinking countless cups of tea.

Nula blinked, this time almost reproachfully.

"What?" he said defensively. "Don't you remember how he and Jolosin ruined my work? You know how fond I am of Tungdil, but another incident of that kind while I'm rewriting the formula would be disastrous! I took the necessary measures to ensure a lengthy absence, that's all."

The owl seemed unconvinced.

"Come on, the journey will do him good! After everything he's read about Girdlegard, it's time he saw the country for himself. Besides, he'll be back before you know it, pleased as punch for finding Gorйn on his own. And as for Jolosin, he'll never want to look at another potato, let alone eat one, and he'll be cured of playing tricks. We'll all be better off in the long run." His eyes fell on his solar calendar. "What's that I see? Nula, we're expecting an important guest!"

The circular slide rule indicated that Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty would be visiting that orbit. Needless to say, his fellow wizard would not be putting in a personal appearance. With five hundred or more miles separating their realms, they communicated via magic, availing themselves of an elaborate ritual that could be implemented only during certain phases of the moon.

Not that Lot-Ionan minded the distance. Nudin was fast developing into the most disagreeable character that Lot-Ionan had ever known. At the same time, he was becoming a formidable magus, his growing skill as a wizard correlating almost exactly with his objectionableness as a man.

Of course everyone developed his own personal approach to studying the mystic arts, but only Nudin seemed to think that being rude, bad-tempered, arrogant, and overweight would somehow serve his cause.

"I'll be honest with you, Nula: That man has spells and charms at his fingertips that others could barely decipher, let alone perform." He reached under the table and fished out a jug of water and a glass. After giving the latter a quick polish on his robes, he held it critically in the candlelight.

There were those who said that Nudin's rising power as a magus had not been gained through study and hard work. Rumor had it that he had cast a spell on his body and invested it with the ability to retain magic indefinitely. Lot-Ionan gave the gossip no credence, but even he was forced to concede that Nudin had changed in character and appearance.

At that moment the air cooled suddenly and a fierce gust of wind swept through the room, nearly extinguishing the candles. A faint bluish haze shimmered at the center of the study, gradually assuming the contours of a man. In the span of a few heartbeats, Lot-Ionan found himself staring at Nudin's imposing bulk.

The wizard of Ionandar appraised his dark-robed guest. Nudin seemed to have grown again-outward as well as upward. His paunch looked larger than before, which was possibly the reason for his especially voluminous malachite-green robes.

Chin-length mousy hair hung limply about his face and there were dark circles around his usually lively green eyes. The apparition was a perfect replica of the real magician, who at that moment was standing in the circle he had cast in his study in Porista, working the magic for his doppelganger to appear.

The illusion was incredible. Lot-Ionan had never seen a more perfect demonstration of the phenomenon in all his 287 cycles. Apparitions usually shimmered slightly or were marred by minor imperfections, but this one was complete.

Nudin, holding a finely carved maple staff crowned with an impressive onyx in his left hand, languidly dusted his elegant robes with his right, dispatching the lingering blue sparks. Suddenly Lot-Ionan felt terribly underdressed.

"Do sit down," he said, gesturing to an armchair, and Nudin's doppelganger lowered himself smoothly into the seat. Convention dictated that the same courtesies were extended to apparitions as to real guests; it was only polite. "Can I offer you a drop of tea or would you like something else?"

The question was not as absurd as it sounded. Even from a distance of five hundred miles, Nudin would be able to taste the flavor of anything consumed by his doppelganger.

The visitor shook his head. "Thank you, my friend, but the news I bring will suffer no delay. You must come to Lios Nudin at once. The Perished Land is advancing."

Lot-Ionan stopped smiling; he had not prepared himself for tidings as dire as these. "How long has it been moving?"

"Some sixty orbits. I took a trip to the border and it came to my attention." Nudin looked anxious. "Our protective girdle is no longer as strong and reliable as it was. The damage is too great for me to repair; I need the council's help. The rest of us are in Lios Nudin already; we're waiting for you…" He trailed off.

"Go on," Lot-Ionan encouraged him, although he had a sinking feeling that there was worse to come.

"It's the дlfar," explained Nudin. "They've been sighted in the south of Gauragar, many miles from Dsфn Balsur. Meanwhile, King Tilogorn is being plagued by marauding orcs. They're rampaging through Idoslane, burning down villages and laying waste to the land. He's sent his army to deal with them…" He looked grimly at his host. "It bodes ill, Lot-Ionan."

"The incursion of the Perished Land, the дlfar, the orcs-they're all connected?"

"We certainly shouldn't rule it out," he said, refusing to commit himself. "You were summoned by the magi's council. Why didn't you respond?"

"Summoned?" Lot-Ionan made no attempt to disguise his surprise. "When?"

"I have it on good authority that two of the council's best envoys were dispatched with a message: Friedegard and Vrabor are their names. I believe you know them."

"Of course I know them! But where have they got to?" Lot-Ionan was instantly concerned for the pair's well-being, especially now the дlfar were known to be abroad. "Thank goodness you decided to follow it up yourself. I'll set off as soon as I can. It shouldn't take more than a few orbits to get to Lios Nudin." Lot-Ionan expected Nudin to take his leave, but the apparition did not stir.

"Just one more thing," his guest cut in. "It's trivial compared to the other news, but all the same… Do you think you could bring my instruments with you? If you've finished with them, I'd very much like to have them back."

"Your instruments… Of course!" Many cycles ago Lot-Ionan had borrowed a number of items from Nudin on Gorйn's behalf. The loan comprised a small handheld mirror, two arm-length remnants of sigurdaisy wood, and a pair of silver-plated glass carafes with unusual etchings. After finding some reference to the items in a compendium, Gorйn had been eager to examine them more closely. Lot-Ionan could no longer recall what conclusion he had reached, but he suspected it was nothing of particular interest. The more immediate problem was locating the things. He had a sudden vision of the wrecked laboratory and hoped to goodness that Gorйn had not left the items there.

"I'll be sure to bring them," he promised.

Nudin seemed doubtful. "You do still have them, don't you?" Lot-Ionan nodded in what he hoped was a convincing fashion. "All right, well, make haste, old friend. Only the full council can save Girdlegard from the terrors to come."

Nudin's double rose to his feet, positioned himself in the middle of the room, and rapped his staff firmly against the floor. The illusion shattered in a shower of sparks. Glittering dust drizzled to the ground, disintegrating further and further until nothing was left. The interview ended as spectacularly as it had begun.

Lot-Ionan leaned back in his chair. If Toboribor's orcs have joined forces with Dsфn Balsur's дlfar, the peoples of Girdlegard are in serious danger.

He decided to combine his trip to Lios Nudin with a visit to King Tilogorn in order to pledge his support. At least half of Ionandar lay within the borders of Idoslane, so it seemed only proper to loan the monarch his magical powers in the battle against Tion's brutes. The magus rose. Time is of the essence-, Nudin was right.

He summoned his famuli and issued instructions regarding the luggage he required for the journey and the chain of command among the students while he was away. Then he removed his beloved robes and exchanged them reluctantly for his little-worn traveling garb, comprising another set of robes, also in beige, but made of more durable cloth, and a mantle of dark blue leather.

His servants were busy grooming his bay stallion, Furo. The five-hundred-mile journey to Porista would take ten orbits at most, so everything he needed could be stowed in the saddlebags.

At length Lot-Ionan clambered somewhat stiffly onto his horse. Furo snorted excitedly as the magus leaned forward, stroked its mane, and whispered some enchantment in its ear.

With a loud whinny the stallion thundered out of the underground vaults and through the gates. Once out in the open, with the path ahead and fresh air all around, it picked up speed, accelerating from a canter to a gallop. The cobbles flashed beneath its hooves, covering multiple paces with each stride. Thanks to Lot-Ionan's art, the horse could outstrip any mount in Girdlegard and it relished its speed.

And thus Furo carried his master, who was clinging on for dear life, across Ionandar and beyond. Kingdom of Gauragar, Girdlegard, Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle The Blacksaddle? Never heard of it!" The morning could scarcely have got off to a less auspicious start. Tungdil pushed the map to one side as the publican placed his breakfast on the table.

Particles of dust danced in the wide rays of sunshine pouring through the plate-glass windows. It came as a relief to Tungdil that he could see without peering; his eyes had adjusted to the brightness already.

None of the good people of Idoslane could tell him anything about the Blacksaddle; it was not even marked on the tavern's ancient map.

"Is there anyone in Goodwater who could help me?" he persisted. "A clerk or a magistrate or someone?"

The publican shook his head regretfully, sorry to disappoint the outsider. Tungdil spooned his breakfast halfheartedly. The porridge was decent enough, but frustration had taken the edge off his hunger.

Privately he was still hoping that the villagers were too simpleminded to be relied on. The publican struck him as the sort who had never strayed more than ten or twenty miles from home.

Annoyingly, Goodwater was not marked either, but with a bit of luck one of the mercenaries would know the area sufficiently well to pinpoint its location and send him in the right direction.

No doubt Friedegard and Vrabor would have been of some assistance, but they had long since departed. Stopping only to give the publican a few gold coins to pay for the window, they had struck out for Ionandar and taken the arrow with them.

Tungdil was similarly anxious to leave. "Vraccas be with you," he called to the publican as he slung his pack and the leather bag over his shoulder and stepped out into the street.

The sentries from the previous night had been replaced with a new set of stubbly faces, but Tungdil lost no time in inquiring about the Blacksaddle. Thankfully, the mercenaries had heard of the wretched mountain and could point to Goodwater on the map. It was getting on for midday when he left the settlement and set off down a narrow road, heading north as the sentries had advised.

"If you see any orcs, tell them where they can find their dead friends!" one of the men shouted after him, thrusting his spear at a festering skull and raising a cloud of flies.

He could still hear the soldier's laughter as he skirted the fields that he had seen in the distance from his window the night before.

Goodwater was an apt name for the place. Tungdil could picture what it would be like at harvest time: fields of corn blowing gently in the breeze, ripe apples hanging from the branches, and enough nuts for countless busy hands. Idoslane struck him as a beautiful place, with the obvious limitation that it wasn't underground. He never felt quite comfortable in the open.

At least there's a decent road. He dreaded the moment when he would have to strike out across the countryside. It's beyond me how the pointy-ears manage to find their bearings when there's nothing but woods and fields. From what he'd gathered from his reading, the elves had retreated to the glades of Вlandur as part of their quest to live in harmony with nature, art, and beauty. But the smug creatures' desire for perfection had failed to save them from their treacherous cousins, the дlfar.

It's funny, thought Tungdil, remembering the face at the window, the дlf looked just the way I always imagined an elf.

The northern elven kingdom of Lesinteпl had fallen long ago and now the kingdom of Вlandur was two-thirds under the dominion of the Perished Land. As for the elves of the Golden Plains, they were history: The дlfar had seized their land, renamed it Dsфn Balsur, and made it their base, from which they sent out scouts to reconnoiter the surrounding land of Gauragar.

Gauragar's sovereign, King Bruron, was powerless to repel them. As warriors, men were no match for the дlfar, and if it came to a battle, Bruron's soldiers would be lucky to draw their weapons before they were killed.

Tungdil thought of the envoys and tried to estimate the distance between the southeasterly tip of Dsфn Balsur in the north and Lot-Ionan's vaults in the south. Four hundred miles or more, he reckoned-a formidable distance, even for an дlf.

Unless, of course, the Perished Land has edged southward and the дlfar have extended their range. If that was the case, it would explain the envoys' business with Lot-Ionan: Any expansion southward of the Perished Land would pose a threat to the enchanted realm of Lios Nudin.

Tungdil kept a watchful eye on his surroundings as he walked: If there were orcs abroad, he had no desire to deliver himself into their clutches. He took particular care at blind corners, stopping to listen for clunking armor and weaponry or bestial snarls and shouts. To his considerable relief, he encountered no one and was spared the unenviable task of choosing to stand his ground or flee the orcs' superior might. By the time he reached the gaily painted pickets marking the border between Idoslane and Gauragar, it had been dark for about four hours.

His feet were weary, so he decided to journey no farther that night. Spotting a nearby oak, he walked over and scrambled into the branches, hauling his bags after him with a rope that he had purchased in Goodwater.

He valued his life sufficiently that sleeping like a bird in the treetops seemed a fair price to pay for the extra protection it afforded. The orcs were hardly likely to spot him and in the event of trouble, he would draw on his ingenuity to find a way out. Wrapping the rope twice around his body, he tied himself to the tree to stop himself from falling or being shaken from his perch, then closed his eyes-and dreamed.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the fresh cold air that swept the majestic summits of the Great Blade and Dragon's Tongue. The Northern Pass appeared before him and his imagination took off, soaring high above the Gray Range like an eagle.

A sudden welter of monstrous shouts shattered the serenity of the mountains and echoed hideously against the age-old rock.

On looking down, Tungdil saw the mighty portals of the Stone Gateway and all around them Giselbert and the fifthlings fighting to the death. Axes thudded into enemy armor, biting through sinew and bone, only to be torn out and planted in the next foe.

Still the hordes kept coming.

Tungdil stared in dismay when he saw the endless tide of assailants battering the stronghold. A foul stench of dead orc rose from the battlements where the stone was awash with green blood. He could practically taste the rancid fat on the creatures' greasy armor. The reek was so unbearable that he woke up, retching.

Tungdil opened his eyes and was surprised to discover that it was light. What…?

At the foot of the tree, a dozen fires were burning in a ring. Guttural laughter, low grunts, snarls, and angry curses sounded from below.

His blood ran cold. He was trapped: The bands of orcs so eagerly awaited by Goodwater's mercenaries had set up camp around his tree. No wonder he had dreamed of the fifthlings' battle against the hordes. His ears had heard the brutes, his nostrils had smelled them, and his sleeping mind had conjured the images to fit.

The dwarf pressed himself against the trunk, stiff as a statue, willing himself to become part of the tree. What if they notice me?

One thing was certain: A mob of this size would make short work of the handful of mercenaries in Goodwater.

Red flames blazed up from the fires, towering as high as several lances and alerting nighttime wanderers to the danger. For the dwarf amid the boughs, the warning came too late.

Tungdil totted up the heads in sight and came to the conclusion that over a hundred beasts were camped below-sturdy, powerful orcs for whom a wooden palisade would be no deterrent if there was prey on the other side.

He took another look and was seized with the urge to vomit. The meat being roasted over the fires and consumed with gusto was unmistakably human in form. Two human torsos were turning on specially constructed racks like chickens on a spit.

Tungdil had to fight back his nausea. It didn't take a genius to work out that the beasts' suspicions would be aroused by a porridge-spewing tree.

Judging by the color of the bandages, he deduced that the ragged strips of cloth covering the wounds of the handful of injured orcs had been torn from the uniforms of King Tilogorn's men. So much for Goodwater's eagerly awaited reinforcements. It seemed Idoslane's soldiers had underestimated the strength of the enemy and paid a high price, having been killed and eaten into the bargain.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, thought Tungdil, remembering the previous night's brush with the дlfar. What have I done to deserve this?

The poor villagers of Goodwater had no idea that the green-hided peril was heading their way. He was the only one who could warn them, but that was impossible with the beasts camped round his tree. His only hope was to bide his time, then climb down and creep past them while they slept.

Suddenly it occurred to him that he could use the situation to his advantage by sneaking a little closer to the fires. If he could eavesdrop on the orcs' conversation, he might learn something of their plans. He was familiar with their language in its written form, at least. It paid to have been raised by a magus with a very large library: Studying was his favorite occupation after working in the forge.

Unlikely as it might sound, there was a logic to the grunts, snarls, and shouts that passed for orcish communication. Scholars had studied the speech of orcs in captivity and discovered a language with an unusual emphasis on curses and threats.

His heart raced at the prospect of stealing closer to the stinking beasts. He would be finished if they caught him, but a dwarf was obliged to do everything in his power to protect the races of Girdlegard from Tion's ugly hordes. The Smith's commandments applied to every single one of his children, and that meant Tungdil too.

His mind was made up. He eyed the trunk, looking for the best way of reaching the ground without making any noise. Even as he was lashing his bags to the tree, a commotion sounded below. One by one the orcs rose to their feet amid a tumult of shouted exclamations. Guests were approaching.

The ring of orcs closed around the tree. The dwarf edged away from the trunk, crawling as far along the tapering branch as he dared. At last he was close enough to hear what they were saying, provided he strained his ears. Thankfully the chieftains were forced to raise their voices above the din, which made things a little easier.

He reached out gingerly and pushed the leaves aside. The beasts were gathered in a large circle around three chieftains whose fearsome tusks had been sharpened and tattooed. At once the noise died down, the cheering fading into silence.

Tungdil heard the clatter of horseshoes. Two riders made their way through the ranks of waiting orcs, the hooves of their black steeds striking the ground in a shower of blue and white sparks. The crimson-eyed horses moved with feline fluidity and had nothing of the typical equestrian gait.

The tall, slender riders directed their steeds to the center of the circle and dismounted. Tungdil's instincts told him they were дlfar.

The creatures were clad in finely tailored leather armor and from their shoulders hung long cloaks. Their black leather breeches were tucked into dark brown boots that reached above their knees and their hands were sheathed in burgundy gloves.

The first of the pair, an дlf with long fair hair, held a spear tipped with a head as fine as an icicle. A sword dangled from his belt.

His companion's hair was pulled away from his face, his dark plait disappearing into the mantle of his cape. He carried a longbow in his hand and a quiver of arrows on his back. A pair of daggers was lashed to his thighs with leather straps.

Tungdil recognized the дlf at once: It was the face he had seen at the window of the tavern. Please, Vraccas, he begged silently, may Friedegard and Vrabor be alive.

The fair-haired дlf took charge of the proceedings, speaking in the common tongue. It was clearly below his race's dignity to communicate in the primitive grunts of the orcs.

"I am Sinthoras of Dsфn Balsur, here at the command of my master, Nфd'onn the Doublefold, commander of the Perished Land, to present the three princes of Toboribor with an offer of an alliance." His voice was cold, barely courteous. He was there to present a deal and his tone told them they could take it or leave it. "Prince Bashkugg, Prince Kragnarr, Prince Ushnotz, you have been chosen by Nфd'onn to conduct a campaign of subjugation and destruction the like of which has never been seen. You, the strong arm of the south, shall lead the orcs to victory and sunder the skull of mankind."

"And who shall be the commander?" demanded Kragnarr, who stood as tall as the дlf but with twice his girth. The other princes were of smaller stature.

Bashkugg gave him an angry shove. "You think you're better than us, do you?" he shouted belligerently.

Kragnarr responded to the insult by lumbering round to face his challenger. He leaned across until their broad foreheads were touching. Neither moved as they stared at each other, clawed fingers clutching the pommels of their massive swords. Ushnotz proved altogether wilier and took a step backward, waiting to see how the squabble would unfold.

"My master intends to make you equal in rank," announced Sinthoras, straining to make himself heard above the snarling.

"No," growled Kragnarr quickly, promptly followed by Bashkugg.

The дlf cast them a disgusted glance. Even from a distance Tungdil could tell that he would rather kill the princes than negotiate with them, but Nфd'onn had given his orders. It was the first time that Tungdil had heard mention of any name at the source of the evil.

"In that case, my master will grant the office of commander to whosoever conquers the most land." The дlf held his spear loosely, but his taut stance betrayed his distrust of the beasts. His dark-haired companion seemed equally wary.

"Land?" grunted Ushnotz scornfully. "It should be corpses, not land! Whoever gets the most bodies will be commander!" He stroked his belly and the other two princes hastened to agree.

"No," the дlf said firmly. "This is about territory, not corpses."

"Why?" thundered Bashkugg. "Why not corpses? My soldiers have to eat!"

"Content yourselves with killing the armies that are raised against you," the дlf advised him coldly. "You know my master's will."

"Exactly," Ushnotz said slyly. " Your master. We've no obligation to obey him. He doesn't rule the south; we do!"

Sinthoras directed a pitying smile at him. "Not for much longer. My master is advancing from the north with an army of orcs who will seize the south faster than you can fashion cudgels from the trees." He looked each of the princes in the eye. "Give him your allegiance now and he will reward you with land of your own. Toboribor is nothing compared with what will follow. Each one of you will have your own kingdom with humans for slaves. But defy him, and you will cross swords with others of your race."

The threat of a green-hided army from the north with designs on their territory achieved its intended effect. A hush descended as the three princes digested the information, all memory of their quarrel forgotten.

From his post among the branches Tungdil listened and watched in disbelief. Nфd'onn, if that was the name of the Perished Land's lord, was forging all kinds of unholy alliances in order to subjugate the southern lands. The coming cycles would bring untold suffering for men and elves.

"Fine," Ushnotz said finally, although clearly unhappy with the solution. "I shall do as your master proposes – and he shall make me commander in chief."

Kragnarr glowered at him murderously. "Count me in as well," he snarled. "The tribe of the Kragnarr-Shorrs will conquer more land than the two of you put together." He jabbed a clawed finger derisively at the others. "I'll be commander, you'll see!"

"I wouldn't bet on it," Bashkugg retorted angrily. "My troopers will overrun the fleshlings' cities before you've even started!"

"You'll all have a chance to prove yourselves," said Sinthoras, reaching into his belt pouch and producing three plain amulets of blue crystal. He tossed them to the princes. "Leave here and go your separate ways. These are gifts from my master; they offer protection against the magic of our foes. You are to carry them always."

The meeting had almost reached its conclusion when a foolhardy orc sidled up to the дlfar's steeds and sniffed the air hungrily.

Without warning, one of the horses whipped round, jaws opening as it pounced. Sharp teeth closed around the ore's shoulders and ripped out a sizable clump of flesh.

Green blood spurted from the wound as the orc retreated, shrieking. A second orcish trooper drew his sword and made to fell the rabid horse.

Before he could strike, the steed's hind leg lifted and sped into the orc's broad chest. There was a flash of blinding light and the orc was thrown backward, traveling several paces before crashing to the ground.

The trooper had no time to right himself before the second horse was upon him. Its forelegs stove in his chest, hollowing his breastplate. His stomach burst with a sickening bang. In an instant the creature's black jaws were at the orc's unprotected throat. There was a sound of crunching bone and the orc's anguished screaming broke off abruptly.

Tungdil watched in stunned horror as the steed swallowed the mouthful of flesh. The second creature let out a whinny of savage enjoyment.

The fair-haired дlf issued an order in an unintelligible language and the steeds, horses in nothing save appearance, settled down at once, trotting obediently to their masters. The дlfar swung themselves gracefully onto their backs.

"You know what my master expects of you. Make haste and keep to the terms of our agreement," Sinthoras said grimly, turning his steed to leave.

A wide corridor opened before him as the crowd parted hastily, drawing back from the animals' lethal jaws. At length the silence was broken.

The orc with the wounded shoulder shoved his way to the front. "Look what they did to me!" he shouted furiously, waving his gore-encrusted claws in Bashkugg's face. "The pointy-ears killed Rugnarr; the pointy-ears deserve to die!"

The powerfully built chieftain wiped the trooper's blood from his eyes. "Hold your tongue, you cretin!" he thundered, adding a string of foul-mouthed epithets. "They're with us."

"In us, I reckon! We'll eat 'em like we'll eat the fleshlings!" The threat brought grunts of approval from three of his tribe. Emboldened by their support, he nocked an arrow to his bow and took aim at the vanishing riders. "Mmm, what's tastier-дlfar or horse?"

Tungdil knew better than to mistake the mounts for horses. He had read about shadow mares in Lot-Ionan's books. They were creatures of the night, unicorns who had been possessed by evil and stripped of their purity, their white coats, and their horns. They ate flesh and were ferocious hunters, driven by an all-consuming hatred of goodness in any form.

Bashkugg was tired of the trooper's posturing. Drawing his clumsily forged sword, he struck at the wounded orc's throat. The blade sliced halfway through the neck, withdrawing with a vicious jerk. The prince grabbed the second orc and hewed his head from its shoulders, holding it aloft for the others to see. With a terrible warning cry, he bared his fangs and dropped the dripping skull, grinding it into the ground until dark gray brains oozed through splintered bone. The other two orcs who had joined in the rebellion were put to the sword as well. The matter had been resolved in the traditional orcish way.

Cowed by the display of might, the troopers skulked back to their campfires, grunting and snarling, to resume their victory celebrations. The five bloodied corpses of their comrades, one trampled by the shadow mare and four slaughtered by the prince, were abandoned where they lay.

"What now?" Ushnotz wanted to know.

"I'll go south," decided Kragnarr. "You," he said, pointing to Bashkugg, "head west, while Ushnotz takes care of the east." The others nodded their assent. "What do we do about the fleshling settlement?"

"I say we attack together," Ushnotz said greedily. "It's not far and we can get a quick feed before we go our separate ways."

Bashkugg scratched his chin doubtfully. "Didn't the дlf tell us not to-"

"The southern lands are our business, not theirs. Besides, this wasn't part of the deal. The дlf told us to conquer new territory; this is ours already." He smiled slyly.

"The fleshlings skewered my troopers' skulls on their palisades; I want revenge!" roared Kragnarr, his breastplate jangling as he thumped his brawny chest. "No дlf can stop me from punishing them."

"At dawn, then?" proposed Bashkugg to a chorus of approving grunts.

Tungdil let the twigs spring back and retreated slowly along the branch. He had heard enough to know that Girdlegard was in serious danger, but before he could warn Lot-Ionan about Nфd'onn's designs he had to sound the alarm in Goodwater and deliver the bag to Gorйn. The magus would know what to do about the threat; he would probably call a meeting of the council or, better still, summon the rulers of the human kingdoms as well.

It seemed to Tungdil that it was time for the magi and the human sovereigns to join forces against the Perished Land. They could even ask the dwarves to help them: A combined army, bolstered by his kinsfolk, would surely be victorious.

Tungdil waited until all but a handful of orcs were asleep, but even then there was no guarantee that his escape would be successful: Three dozen orcs had been posted around the camp's perimeter to keep watch for intruders.

The dwarf took a deep breath and decided on his route, picking a particularly bored and sleepy-looking sentry who had propped himself on his rusty spear and was fighting to stay awake.

After a good deal of deliberation he resolved to take his packs with him. In view of his recent bad luck, it seemed too risky to leave them in the tree. The orcs would only discover them, and the last thing he needed was to lose the precious artifacts and admit his failure to Lot-Ionan and Gorйn.

An eternity seemed to pass as Tungdil abandoned his hiding place as quietly as possible. Even the rustling of a branch would seal his fate.

He kept hold of the firm bark with both hands, sliding down gradually and taking care to avoid the light of the fire. Every now and then a twig would snag on his chain mail, but he succeeded in prizing himself free without a telltale snapping of wood.

At last he was back on solid ground, pressing his face into the grass and filling his nostrils with its fresh dewy scent. It was a welcome antidote to the pungent stench of orc.

Stealth had never been his strong point, so it seemed best to proceed on his belly like a caterpillar, pushing the bags in front of him while endeavoring to keep his posterior out of sight.

It turned out to be much harder than he'd hoped. The haft of his ax was forever jamming between his legs, his chain mail jangled with the slightest movement, and his boots struggled to find purchase on the slippery grass. His nerves were in tatters.

I knew I was a terrible climber, but trying to be quiet is worse, he thought, stopping to mop the sweat from his brow. Vraccas had intended the dwarves to fight in open combat. They took deliberate strides to get wherever they were going and built staircases when the gradient dictated. There was none of this sneaking around.

Barely ten paces separated the dozing sentry from Tungdil as he slithered past. Every feature of the trooper's hideous countenance was visible in the moonlight. Its face was crisscrossed with war paint and ceremonial scars and milky saliva dribbled out of its mouth and down its protruding tusks, dripping onto its fat-slavered armor. The nostrils in its flat nose flared from time to time.

The dwarf was tempted to bury his ax in the beast's oafish head, but he doubted his proficiency and in any case, one dead orc would scarcely save Goodwater from attack.

Relieved to be out of the camp, he crawled through the grass until he reached an irrigation channel at the edge of the field and slipped inside, disappearing from view.

The ditch allowed him to reach the fringes of a wood without being seen and at last it was safe to stand up. Now, that was an adventure by anyone's standards. His clothes were coated in mud, but he had other, more pressing concerns. As far as he could recall, the wood was fairly small and the best course was to cut straight through it. He hoped to goodness that he wouldn't lose his way.

Having put a decent distance between himself and the orcs, Tungdil stopped worrying about trying to move quietly. Provided he could get to the village fast enough, there was still a chance that lives could be saved.

He settled into a steady trot and reached the edge of the wood in short order. With a sigh of relief he stepped out into the open.

Vraccas almighty! He froze at the sight.

Four hundred paces from the wood was another orc encampment, three times larger than the first. The field was carpeted with sleeping beasts. No fires were alight to alert him to the danger.

Tungdil retreated quickly before he was spotted. In spite of his best efforts, he failed to find an alternative route: If he wanted to reach the settlement, he would have to sneak past the sleeping bodies. Soon his misgivings were replaced by dwarven obstinacy. Determined to warn the villagers of the coming danger, he crept along the edge of the wood, trying to stay hidden while he picked out the best path through the camp.

Suddenly his boot met with resistance and he heard a faint click. Leaves swirled into the air and a metal jaw snapped shut, trapping his left calf just below the knee. The ground opened and Tungdil plummeted downward, landing headfirst. Everything went dark.

It was the pain that woke him.

When Tungdil came to, there was an excruciating throbbing in his left leg. Groaning, he struggled into a sitting position and gazed up at the dark earthen walls. Gleaming green fronds framed the opening of the pit; it was dawn already.

Clamped to his leg and strangling his blood supply was a contraption whose purpose he knew only too well. Villagers set traps like these to catch wolves. The metal teeth had pierced his leather breeches, leaving a crust of dark red blood around the wound. His calf throbbed dully.

Tungdil did not bother to prize the trap apart but took up his ax, gritted his teeth, and set about hammering the thin pins at the heart of the spring.

Every blow to the trap was a blow to his leg and he moaned softly in pain. Trying not to flinch, he worked on the metal determinedly until the jaws fell open and the pressure was released.

With cautious movements he removed the trap, then flung it away furiously. Using the loamy wall to support himself, he stood up and placed his injured leg gently on the ground. Pain seared through his calf. Running was out of the question; hauling himself out of the pit was going to be difficult enough.

His concern for the people of Goodwater gave him the necessary strength. After tossing his knapsack out of the pit, he slung the leather pouch over his shoulder and wound his fingers around the roots protruding from the soil. Gasping, he hauled himself up and, with a final burst of energy, swung himself onto the grass, where he lay panting for air.

I'll be more careful where I put my feet in the future, he thought grimly. After a while he crawled to the edge of the wood. The fresh scent on the spring breeze was all the evidence he needed that the orcs had moved on. The field was deserted.

There could be little doubt where they had gone: Smoke was rising in the distance, gathering like a storm cloud in the sky. Tungdil scrambled up, shouldered his knapsack, and hurried off, shaking the dead leaves and mud from his hair.

Anger and loathing dulled the pain, driving him faster and faster until he realized that he was running after all. He wanted to be there with the people of Goodwater since his clumsiness had prevented him from warning them in time.

Such was his resolve that he paid no heed to the voice of reason that bade him take more care. Nothing could stop him from racing toward the settlement, spurred on by the ever-growing column of dark smoke.

That afternoon, sweat-drenched, he reached the top of the hill and looked down on the settlement.

Goodwater was ablaze. Breaches several paces across had opened in the palisades and there were two large gaps where the wooden defenses had been razed to the ground. Mutilated limbs and bodies littered the perimeter.

He soon spotted the remains of the mercenaries, heads impaled on their spears. Their unseeing eyes stared down from the watchtower as the fire raged unchecked through the settlement, reducing the houses to charred shells.

There were no cries for help, no shouted orders to fetch water or quench the blaze. All Tungdil could hear was the crackling of flames, the roar of burning wood, and the crash of collapsing roofs and walls. There was no sign of life.

Clutching his ax, Tungdil marched toward the burned-out settlement. Maybe I'll find a few survivors trapped among the ruins. He gripped his weapon a little tighter as he passed through the gates and turned onto the high street, limping as he walked.

The warm wind smelled of scorched flesh, and flames were shooting out of the houses where panes of glass had shattered in the heat. The whole settlement was on fire.

Human corpses were strewn across the streets and pavements, bodies piled up like dead vermin. Some of the women were naked, the flesh of their breasts and buttocks gouged with bite marks and scratches. There was no mistaking their particular fate.

Shuddering, Tungdil stepped over the slaughtered villagers and listened intently for the slightest sign that anyone was still alive. It was deathly quiet.

All the while the heat was intensifying. The surviving walls acted like a furnace, trapping the fire and raising the temperature dangerously. The dwarf had no choice but to leave the dying settlement.

Back on the hilltop, Tungdil sat down and made himself watch Goodwater's final moments. It's my fault. He buried his bearded chin in his hands and wept in despair. Long moments passed before the tears of anger and helplessness began to slow.

Now he could see why his kinsfolk stood guard at Girdlegard's passes: Humans were powerless to defend themselves against the brutal beasts. Tungdil looked down through his tears at the burned-out settlement. Nowhere should ever be made to look like that.

He dried his salt-streaked cheeks and wiped his hands on his cloak. His calf was throbbing so painfully that he decided to delay his departure until the following orbit. Curling up on the hillside, he pulled his cloak over him and watched the flames flicker as evening drew in.

The fire raged long into the night until there was nothing left to burn. Red glimmers illuminated the ashes and Tungdil was reminded of the shadow mares' menacing eyes. So much evil in such a short space of time, he thought sadly.

Tomorrow he would press on with his errand and deliver the pouch. Then it would be time for him to persuade Lot-Ionan to take action before the orcs and дlfar grew any more powerful. When Tungdil woke the next morning, he was forced to concede that the sacking of Goodwater was not, as he had hoped, just a dream.

Gray clouds obscured the sun and the smell of rain hung in the air. There was nothing left of the settlement besides smoking embers, rubble, and burned-out houses whose scorched girders rose starkly into the sky like blackened skeletons.

The fields and orchards were covered with a white mist that advanced over the remains of Goodwater, hiding it from view. The land was mourning the villagers, laying a shroud over the settlement that only an orbit earlier had bustled with life.

The sight was too much for Tungdil to bear, so he gathered his packs and set off. As he hobbled on his way, he tried to eat a little something from his provisions, but the bread he had bought in Goodwater stuck in his throat. There was a cloying taste of death and guilt. He stowed the loaf away.

The gashes in his calf were angry and painful. If he left the wound untreated, he ran the risk of infection or even gangrene, which could cost him his leg or, worse still, his life.

That aside, the journey passed without incident and he crossed back into Gauragar and camped that evening beneath the now-familiar oak. Its leafy canopy sheltered him from the downpour that started that night, only easing late the next morning.

By the fifth orbit the skin surrounding the crusty wound felt hot to the touch and thick yellow pus oozed from the scab. Gritting his teeth, Tungdil walked on.

There was no use waiting for help by the wayside. Instead he kept going, trailing his injured leg through the fine drizzle that was rapidly transforming the trail into a mud bath. At last he reached a small hamlet numbering six farmhouses. His forehead was burning.

A fair-haired woman in simple peasant dress, a milk pail in either hand, spotted the staggering figure. She stopped in her tracks.

Tungdil could barely make out her features; she was just a faint shadow. "Vraccas be with you," he murmured, then toppled over, landing face-first in the mud, his arms too weak to break his fall.

"Opatja!" the woman called urgently, setting down her pails. "Come quickly!"

There was the sound of hurrying footsteps; then Tungdil was rolled onto his back.

"He's feverish," said a blurry, misshapen figure, his voice echoing oddly in the dwarf's ears. Someone was examining his leg. "He doesn't look good. It's gangrenous. We'll have to move him to the barn." Tungdil felt himself hovering in midair. "He'll need an herbal infusion." "He looks funny," said a childish voice. "What is he?"

"He's a groundling," the woman answered.

"You told me they live in the ground! What's he doing up here?"

"Not now, Jemta. Take your brothers and sisters inside," the man said impatiently.

The air was warm and smelled of hay. Tungdil could hear mooing. The rain seemed to stop and the light dimmed. "Goodwater," he said weakly. "Goodwater has fallen to the orcs." "What did he say?" The woman sounded worried.

"Pay no attention," the man said dismissively. "He's feverish, that's all. Look, he must have been caught in a wolf trap. Either that, or the orc had metal jaws." They both chuckled.

The dwarf clutched at the man's arm. "You're right; I'm feverish," he said, making a last attempt to warn them, "but the orcs are coming. They're heading in three directions: west, south, and east. Three tribes. At least three hundred troopers."

Footsteps approached rapidly. "Here's the infusion," said the girl. "So that's what a groundling looks like!"

"Ava, you go inside too," the man ordered. There was a brief pause; then Tungdil felt as though his leg were being dunked in boiling oil. Even as he screamed the world went dark around him.

… but he doesn't even have a proper beard!" Tungdil detected a note of disappointment in the girl's voice. "Grandpa said they always have long beards, but this one's shorter than Father's. It's like… scratchy wool.

"Do you think he's got gold and diamonds?" The speaker took a step closer. "Remember what Grandma told us? Groundlings are richer than anyone."

"Come back here!" hissed the girl. "You can't just search his pockets. It's rude!"

Tungdil's eyes flicked open. Squealing, the children jumped back in a flurry of straw. He sat up and looked around.

Nine children were gathered around him, staring with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Their ages ranged from four to fourteen cycles and they were clad in plain garments. Nothing they wore could have cost more than a single bronze coin.

His leg had been dressed and was throbbing a bit, but the pain was gone and his temperature was back to normal. They had taken good care of him.

"Vraccas be with you," he greeted them. "Could you tell me where I am and who was kind enough to tend to me?"

"He speaks just like us," said a redheaded boy with sticking-out ears.

The eldest girl, her brown hair in two plaits, grinned. "Of course he talks like us. Why wouldn't he?" She nodded at him. "I'm Ava. Mother found you five orbits ago. You fell over in the mud, but Father and the others picked you up and looked after you." She sent a fair-haired girl, Jemta, to fetch the grown-ups. "Are you better now? Do you want something to eat?"

"Five orbits ago?" To Tungdil it seemed more like a short doze. His stomach rumbled loudly. "Hmm, I suppose some food would be in order-and something to drink as well." He smiled; the children reminded him of Frala, Sunja, and baby Ikana. "Haven't you ever seen a dwarf before?" The harmless inquiry unleashed a deluge of questions.

"Which folk do you belong to?"

"Are you rich?"

"Where are your diamonds?"

"How many orcs have you slain?"

"Are all groundlings small like you?"

"Is it true you can smash rocks with your bare hands?"

"Why isn't your beard very long?"

"How many names have you got?"

"Stop, stop!" Tungdil pleaded, laughing. "I can't answer everyone at once. You can take it in turns, but first I have to tell your parents something." He wanted to save the news of the orcs for the grown-ups; there was no need to scare the children.

A fair-haired woman whom he vaguely remembered from his last lucid moment five orbits ago came in with a basket of victuals on her arm. The smell was enough to make his mouth water. "I'm Rйmsa," she said.

"And I'm Tungdil. You saved my life and for that I'm eternally grateful." He lowered his voice. "But I'm going to have to ask you to send the children away."

"Why?" Jemta protested cheekily.

He grinned at her. "Because certain things aren't meant for young ears!" They left.

"You're not still on about Goodwater, are you?" said the woman. "You had all kinds of nightmares while you were ill."

"They weren't nightmares, Rйmsa. It's the truth! The orcs, they…Never mind about that: You have to get out of here! They're coming. They're heading south, east, and west-three whole tribes of orcs, numbering a hundred troopers each. You'll be killed. They'll slaughter your animals and set light to your farms. You have to go!"

Rйmsa placed a hand on his brow. "The temperature's gone," she said thoughtfully. "You don't seem feverish…" She unpacked some bread, milk, cheese, and cured meat and laid them on the blanket to protect them from the straw. "So it's true, is it? I'll tell Opatja and we'll send a messenger to Steepleton. The privy council will know what to do."

"There's no time for that! They're on their way already!" he said with as much urgency as the mouthful of sausage allowed. Hunger had got the better of him and he was tucking in ravenously.

"You've been sick for five orbits, don't forget. They'd be here by now if they wanted to attack. We'll send out a scout, just in case."

"Is there any way of getting a message through from Steepleton?" A rider or even a carrier pigeon would reach the major cities of Girdlegard faster than anyone else. Those services were by no means cheap, but at least they could be relied on to spread the news quickly.

"A message? I'll send someone who can note it down for you."

"It's no trouble," Tungdil interrupted politely. "I can write." He could hardly blame her for assuming he was illiterate; most country people were unschooled. "I just need some parchment and ink-and someone to take the letter as far as Steepleton. It's for Lot-Ionan in Ionandar."

She nodded and checked the dressing on his calf. "You were lucky not to lose your leg, you know. It's a good thing we found you when we did; another orbit and you'd be wearing a wooden peg. That trap must have been a rusty old thing. Make sure you eat and get some rest."

She gave strict instructions to the children to leave him in peace, but they soon returned, giggling and bearing parchment and a quill.

From then on it was impossible to get rid of them. Knowing nothing of dwarves save for stories and legends, they were determined to satisfy their curiosity while they had the chance. They stared at him raptly, following every loop and flourish of the quill as he composed his message to the magus.

The letter contained a full account of all that had happened in Goodwater, the pact between the orcs and дlfar, the designs of Nфd'onn, who was said to be the ruler of the Perished Land, and other salient facts. I hope it gets there in time, he worried silently. He made a second copy in case the first went missing en route, then lay back in exhaustion on his soft bed of straw.

As soon as the children saw that the letter was complete, they pestered him with yet more questions. This time Tungdil answered with one of his own: "Who can tell me about the Blacksaddle?"

"I can!" Jemta volunteered proudly. "It's almost three hundred miles from here. Father says it's near the highway. He knows all about Girdlegard from when he used to be a trader." She paused for a second. "I know-I'll go and get him for you. He'll describe it better than me." Jumping to her feet, she dashed out like a whirlwind and returned a few moments later with Opatja, a stocky gray-haired man. To Tungdil's delight, he came bearing a tankard of beer.

"The Blacksaddle, you say?" he asked. "An unnatural sort of place. There's a road, all right, but it doesn't lead straight to the mountain; you'll have to hack your way through the forest for the final mile or two." He picked up Tungdil's map and traced a rough route. "You can't miss it: a flat black mountain poking above the trees."

"Flat?" said the dwarf in surprise, taking a grateful sip of his beer. The children drew closer, listening intently.

Opatja nodded. "Think of it as a giant tablet of soap that slipped from Palandiell's hands. It's four hundred paces high, three hundred paces wide, and it runs for a full mile plus another two hundred or so paces." To show the dwarf exactly what he meant, he sliced a hunk of cheese and cut long vertical gouges into its sides. "That's from the wind and rain," he explained to the children.

"Ah, a table mountain! They call them that because the summit is flat like a tabletop. I read about them in my magus's library." He tried to imagine how the Blacksaddle would look in real life. Opatja's description had vaguely reminded him of a legend, but he couldn't for the life of him remember how it went. Oh well, the three-hundred-mile march would give him ample opportunity to search his memory.

"What do you want with the Blacksaddle?"

"I'm looking for a wizard, a former apprentice of my magus. He moved there some time ago and now Lot-Ionan is concerned for his well-being. He won't rest until I've seen him for myself."

Opatja contemplated Tungdil's injured leg. "Leave it a few more orbits before you set off. We'll give you some healing herbs so you can keep treating it while you're on the move." He picked up the letters to Lot-Ionan and rose to his feet.

"Thank you," Tungdil said warmly. "I'm most grateful to you."

"Don't mention it," replied the former merchant with a laugh. "I've never seen the little rascals so quiet!"

He left his guest with the children, who resumed their persistent questioning as soon as he was gone. They could hardly believe their ears when Tungdil told them he was sixty-three cycles old.

"Shouldn't your beard be much longer?" Jemta asked suspiciously. "I asked Grandpa and he said groundlings grow their beards to the floor."

"I'm a dwarf, not a groundling! And besides, I grew my beard for thirty cycles before I had to shave it off. It kept getting scorched by the sparks in the forge and then some scoundrel dyed it blue."

The boy with the protruding ears reached out to touch it. "It's much wirier and curlier than Father's!" he pronounced.

"You should try combing it! Imagine how long it takes to braid." The dwarf grinned and showed them one of his plaits. "It's willful and unruly, just like us. We dwarves hold competitions to see who can grow the longest, bushiest beards, and we decorate our braids with beads and metal trinkets. Most of my kinsfolk look like me. Very few of us have mustaches, sideboards, or chinstraps, and fewer still have no beard at all." He could tell them all about it, thanks to Lot-Ionan's books.

Giggling, the children fashioned their own beards by plaiting stalks of hay and sticking them to their chins with globules of sap scraped from the wooden beams.

"Do all groundlings… I mean, do all dwarves have beards?"

"Absolutely. If you see a clean-shaven dwarf, you can be sure that it's a punishment for something. An exiled dwarf won't be allowed home until his beard has reached the length of his ax haft. And since our beards grow so slowly, the banishment lasts for cycles." Book-learning, he thought sadly. Book-learning passed on to me by humans. He sighed.

Jemta seized her chance and snatched the straw from the chin of the jug-eared boy. "There, you're banished! Be off with you!"

In no time the battle of the beard was raging with all the youngsters intent on banishing one another from the barn. In the end Rйmsa reappeared and put an end to the fun. Amid loud protests, the children were made to say their good nights and go to bed.

The woman smiled at him warmly. "They've taken to you," she said. "They're not this friendly with everyone, you know. Good night to you, Tungdil. We'll ask Palandiell to mend your leg."

They actually like me. It came as a welcome surprise. Frala and her daughters would surely feel at home here. So much has happened already; they won't believe the half of it! He stroked the scarf that Frala had given him, then lay back and put his arms behind his head. If only he could have answered the children's questions about dwarven hoards and dwarven customs with proper authority instead of gleaning his knowledge from books. It's about time I got to know my own people, he thought.