The Dwarves

IV

Kingdom of Gauragar, Girdlegard, Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle Tungdil soon had the chance to repay his hosts for their kindness in nursing him back to health. Two orbits later, when his leg was almost mended, he set to work in the hamlet's little forge, tackling all the jobs that the regular smith, the only one in the vicinity, was unable to do on account of a broken arm. From the man's point of view, the dwarf's assistance-unpaid, of course-was a godsend.

While the children worked the bellows and squabbled over taking turns, Tungdil placed the iron in the furnace and waited until it glowed red with heat.

The youngsters watched as he hammered the metal amid showers of sparks. With every thud of the hammer, there were squeals of delight.

The smith nodded at Tungdil admiringly. "It's not often you see such swift work," he complimented him. "And good quality too. Maybe it's true that metalwork was invented by groundlings."

"We're dwarves, not groundlings."

"Sorry," the man said with an apologetic smile. "I meant dwarves."

Tungdil grinned. "Well, no matter how fast I work, there's enough to keep me busy for a good long while. How about I stay another orbit? I can always leave for the Blacksaddle after that."

They were interrupted by Jemta. "Show me how to make nails!" she demanded.

"You want to be a smith, do you?" Tungdil patted the blond child on the head, then set about teaching her how to make a nail. While she ran off proudly to show her handiwork to her parents, he turned his attention to forging a new windlass for the well.

It was midafternoon when he left his perch to lie down in a tub of cool water. His clothes reeked of perspiration, so he climbed in fully dressed.

I'm surprised my skin doesn't hiss like hot iron, he thought. The cold water took his breath away, but then he sank luxuriously below the surface and came up, snorting and gasping for air. He was just wiping the water from his eyes when a shadow fell over the tub. There was a clunking of metal and the smell of oil.

Plate armor, thought Tungdil, blinking nervously.

A solid man of around thirty cycles was leaning against the outside wall of the forge, arms folded in front of his armored chest. Despite the various weapons about his person, he had no uniform or insignia to identify him as a soldier.

"Were you looking for me, sir?" asked Tungdil, stepping out of the tub. Water streamed from his clothes, drenching the sandy floor.

"Are you the smith?"

"I'm standing in for him at the moment. Is there something you'd like repaired?" The dwarf did his best to be polite even though he had taken an instant dislike to the man. The stranger's gray eyes bored into him as if to read his innermost thoughts.

"Two of our horses need shoeing. Are you up to it?"

That was enough to turn Tungdil against him forever. "I should hope so. What else would I be doing in a forge? I may as well ask you if you know how to ride!" The dwarf left the bath, trying to look as dignified as possible while leaving a trail of water behind him and making squelching noises as if he were tramping through a bog. His hair hung limply down his back.

Waiting outside on the narrow rutted road were six horses and four men in what looked like full battle dress. One of the horses was laden with kitchen utensils, leather packs, and two rolled-up nets.

The men were conversing in low tones but fell silent when Tungdil approached. They looked at him oddly but made no remark.

The dwarf instructed one of the men to work the bellows. Air hissed into the furnace, fanning the glowing coals until flames licked around them, quivering and flickering above the burning fuel. Tungdil was enveloped in heat, his hair and clothes drying in no time. He was in his element.

"Are you mercenaries?" he asked the fellow on the bellows. Unhurriedly, he chose a hammer and some nails while another man led in the lame horse. Tungdil held the shoe against the hoof; the fit was right.

"You could say that," came the curt reply. "We hunt orcs and criminals with a price on their head."

Tungdil placed the shoe among the burning embers and waited. "I suppose business is good at the moment," he probed. "What of the orcs who razed Goodwater?"

"Gauragar is a big place and Bruron's soldiers can't be everywhere at once. We've enough to keep us busy," the leader of the company said brusquely.

The conversation was over.

Working in silence, Tungdil hammered the horseshoe into shape and fitted it to the hoof. A cloud of yellowish smoke filled the forge. When the job was done, he demanded twice his usual price. The mercenaries paid without objecting and rode away. Tungdil watched them go and dismissed them from his mind.

The next orbit flew by and already it was time for him to leave. The children in particular were disappointed; they had grown fond of the stocky little fellow who showered them with metal trinkets.

Tungdil thanked his hosts profusely. "Without your healing powers a festering wound like that could have killed me." He dug out the extra money that he had taken from the mercenaries and handed it to Opatja.

"We can't accept this," the villager objected.

"That's your business, but I won't be taking it back. It's not often that a dwarf agrees to part with money." He was so insistent that the coins eventually found their way into Opatja's purse.

Rйmsa gave him a pouch of herbs. "Lay them on your wounds before you go to sleep. Soon your leg will be as good as new." They all shook hands and he went on his way. The children followed him until the sky grew darker and rain clouds gathered overhead.

"Will you come and see us on your way home?" Jemta asked mournfully.

"Of course, little one. It's an honor to have made your acquaintance. Keep practicing, and you'll make a fine smith." He offered her his hand, but she darted forward and hugged him instead.

"Now we're friends," she said, waving and running back toward the hamlet. As she rounded the corner she shouted: "Don't forget to come back!"

Tungdil was so surprised that he stood there for a moment, hand outstretched, in the middle of the road. "Well, well, who would have thought I could win over a girl-child so easily?" He marched off in good spirits, thinking fondly of the people left behind.

The spring weather had taken a turn for the worse: Dark clouds covered every inch of sky and rain had settled for the duration. After a while, even his boots were soaked, his feet cold and swollen inside the sopping leather.

In spite of the unpleasant conditions, Tungdil was making good progress, but the thought of the orcs and the incursion of the Perished Land, as foretold by the дlfar, preyed on his mind.

He remembered what Lot-Ionan had told him about the invasion of the northern pestilence. The Perished Land extended six hundred and fifty miles across Girdlegard, swallowing the whole of the former fifthling kingdom and much of the northern border besides and reaching another four hundred miles southward, where it tapered to approximately half that breadth.

Tungdil reached the shelter of a rocky overhang and examined his map. In his mind's eye he pictured the insidious evil as a wedge forcing itself into Girdlegard, its tip grinding against the magi's magic barrier and leveling off, unable to advance any farther.

Now it seemed that the Perished Land's ruler, the mysterious Nфd'onn, was intent on extending his dominion. And he was undoubtedly making progress, in spite of the magi's girdle. In the east, the дlfar kingdom of Dsфn Balsur was eating its way into Gauragar like a festering sore, covering an area two hundred miles long by seventy miles wide. And while the Stone Gateway remained open, there was nothing to stop further armies of foul beasts from entering Girdlegard from the north.

The magi will have their work cut out now that Toboribor has allied itself with the northern blight. The wizards were powerful, but they could only be in one place at a time.

At least they'll be forewarned. According to his calculations, the message would have reached Lot-Ionan by now.

All around him, the varied landscape of Gauragar was doing its best to recompense him for the dreadful events at the start of his trip. Even the rain could not dull the vibrant springtime colors, although Tungdil was too focused on his journey to pay much attention to the lush splendor of the knolls, woods, and meadows. At length he came to an abandoned temple, a small edifice dedicated to Palandiell. Light streamed through manifold windows, illuminating carvings that symbolized fertility and long life.

Palandiell commanded the loyalty of most humans, but she was too soft and indecisive for Tungdil's taste. He was a follower of Vraccas, to whom temples had been constructed in some of the larger cities-or so he had read in Lot-Ionan's books.

Some humans preferred Elria, the water deity, while others prayed to the wind god Samusin, who regarded men, elves, dwarves, and beasts as creatures of equal standing and strove for an equilibrium between evil and good. Tion, dark lord and creator of foul beasts, was more feared than admired in Girdlegard. I don't know anyone who would worship him, Tungdil thought in relief. Lot-Ionan's household, Frala included, prayed to Palandiell.

Tungdil had erected his own special altar and dedicated it to the god of the dwarves who had hewn the five founding fathers from unyielding granite and brought them to life. From time to time he smelted gold in his furnace as an offering: For all he knew, he was the only dwarf in Girdlegard to follow such a custom, but he wanted to give Vraccas a share of the best.

His brown eyes surveyed the ivy-covered walls of the derelict temple. Perhaps men will have greater cause to pray to Palandiell in the future, he mused.

Later he stood aside as a unit of well-armored cavalrymen rode by. Their mail, embellished with the crest of King Bruron, clunked noisily and mud sprayed from the horses' hooves, spattering his cloak. He counted two hundred riders in all. Will that be enough to defeat a war band of orcs?

From then on Tungdil regularly encountered patrol groups. By the look of things, news of the marauding hordes in Idoslane had traveled fast. Rather than relying on Tilogorn to put a stop to the destruction, King Bruron of Gauragar was taking steps of his own to hunt down the orcs.

It pleased Tungdil to see that the humans had heeded his warning. History would hardly remember the actions of Tungdil Bolofar, a dwarf without clan or folk who had alerted Gauragar to the danger by calling on a peasant family to send word to the authorities that Goodwater had been destroyed. What mattered was that he knew about it and it filled him with pride.

Most nights Tungdil slept beneath the stars, although occasionally he made his bed in a barn and once he allowed himself the luxury of a room at an inn. It seemed prudent to save the dwindling contents of his purse.

After nine orbits his leg was fully mended. The rigors of the journey had made a lasting impression on his girth and his belt sat two holes tighter than usual. Walking was good for his stamina and he no longer panted when he journeyed uphill. Even his feet had become accustomed to the daily toil. At night he sometimes dreamed of Goodwater, the horrors he had seen there still present in his mind.

It took another few orbits of marching before the Blacksaddle finally loomed into view. The mountain looked almost exactly like the model that Opatja had irreverently fashioned from cheese, except its sides were pitch-black.

Sunlight glistened on the deep gulleys running vertically down the mountain's sheer flanks. The forbidding rock jutted out of the landscape like an abandoned boulder and was surrounded by a murky forest of conifers. The trees looked small and fragile by comparison, although the smallest among them was fifty paces high.

In times gone by, it must have been a proper mountain with a summit towering miles above the ground. Perhaps the gods snapped it off as a punishment and left the base like a tree stump in the soil.

There was something vaguely sinister about the mountain. Tungdil couldn't define it exactly, but he knew he would never have gone there by choice. He could only assume that Gorйn prized his solitude more than most.

Brushing aside these misgivings, Tungdil hefted his bags and continued along the gravel road that wound past the forest half a mile to the east. He kept looking for a path or a gap in the trees, but at sundown he was back where he had started and none the wiser for it all.

What a strange forest. Tomorrow I'll have to cut my way through the undergrowth if the trees won't let me pass. He could feel the tiredness in his limbs, so he set up camp by the roadside and lit a fire, keeping a watchful eye on the forest for predators.

Soon afterward he was joined by two peddlers who seemed thoroughly relieved not to be spending the night on their own. They stopped their covered wagons by his fire and unhitched their mules. Their consignment of pots and pans rattled and jangled louder than a battalion of armed men.

"Is there room at the fire?" asked the first, introducing himself and his companion. Hоl and Kerolus were everything Tungdil expected of the human male: tall and unshaven with long hair, plain apparel, and needlessly loud voices. They laughed, joked, and passed the bottle of brandy back and forth, but their jollity seemed forced.

"I don't mean to be nosy," said Tungdil, "but you seem a little on edge."

Hоl stopped laughing abruptly. "You're observant, groundling."

"Dwarf. I'm a dwarf."

"A dwarf. I see. I didn't know there was a difference."

"There isn't; but the proper term is dwarf. Just as you prefer to be called humans and not grasslings or beanpoles."

Hоl grinned. "My mistake."

"We're afraid of the mountain and of the creatures in the woods," said Kerolus. "That's the truth of the matter. We wouldn't normally stop here, but our poor old nags are beat." He broke four eggs into a frying pan and invited Hоl and the dwarf to share in his meal.

"So what's wrong with the mountain?" asked Tungdil, dipping a crust into the egg yolk.

Kerolus looked at him incredulously. "I thought every groundling, er, dwarf, knew about the Blacksaddle. Very well, I shall tell you the story of the mount that lost its peak…"

Hоl settled down by the fire and his companion began his tale. Many cycles ago there was a mountain called Cloudpiercer, whose summit towered high into the sky. Taller and prouder than any other peak in Girdlegard, it was tipped with snow throughout the seasons and its loftiest pitches were made of pure gold.

Everyone could see the mountain's riches, but no one could reach them. The golden crown rested on impossibly sheer and unyielding slopes and the glare from the snow and the precious metal blinded any who looked at the summit for too long.

But the people's desire for the gold was overwhelming and they summoned the dwarves to their aid.

A delegation came to Gauragar to examine the golden mountain and set about it with pickaxes, chisels, and spades.

Owing to the superior quality of their tools, they succeeded in burrowing their way into the mountain and digging a tunnel to the top. They hollowed out the mountain and carried away its treasures without being dazzled by the gold.

Of course, the people of Gauragar were furious and demanded to be given a portion of the trove. While the men and dwarves were quarreling, the mountain came to life, quaking with fury and bent on shaking the plunderers from its core. By then, of course, its flesh was riddled with shafts and tunnels, and the tip of the mountain fell in on itself, crushing the looters beneath its weight.

And now you know the story of how Cloudpiercer lost its summit and its glory.

Since then the denuded mountain has simmered with murderous hatred, its treacherous slopes darkening with malice as it plots its revenge against the races of men and dwarves.

The fire crackled loudly. Kerolus threw on another log to keep the flames going and drive out the darkness.

I knew there was something sinister about it, thought Tungdil. He wondered what it said about Gorйn's character that he had chosen to make his home there: It seemed a strange place to live.

"Folk say that wayfarers who venture into the woods are set upon by monsters," the peddler added. "The mountain lures the creatures to it with the promise of easy prey. Sometimes hunger drives them out of the forest and into the towns. They eat anything, man or beast." He shuddered.

"Well, it's good to have company," Tungdil said sincerely, steeling himself for the next morning's march among the trees. At least he had his ax for protection. "Wait till you hear my story."

He started to tell of his recent experiences, of his night in Goodwater and the meeting between the дlfar and the orcs, but his account tailed off when he came to describing the destruction of the settlement. The memories were still too fresh.

Retreating into silence, he tried to get some sleep, but the trees had set themselves against him, creaking and groaning as soon as he closed his eyes. The forest seemed to take pleasure in keeping him awake.

Hоl and Kerolus were oblivious to the noise. Belatedly, it dawned on Tungdil why the men had partaken so freely of the brandy: Their senses had been dulled so completely that nothing could rouse them from their sleep. The task of watching over the camp and their lives was left to the unfortunate Tungdil.

With the coming of dawn, the rustling in the forest finally subsided and the peddlers packed their wagons, wished the dwarf a safe journey, and rode away, refreshed and alert. Tungdil hadn't slept a wink.

He gazed glumly at the forest, peering into the murk. Fretting wasn't going to get him anywhere and he had to press on. Gorйn lived in the Blacksaddle, probably in the ruins of the dwarven tunnels, if Kerolus's story was to be believed.

Monsters or no monsters, I'm coming through. He gripped his ax with both hands and stepped among the trees. At once his whole being was assailed by malice and spite: There was no mistaking the mountain's displeasure at his approach.

Tungdil walked on regardless, intent on delivering the artifacts to Gorйn so he could return to the comfort of Lot-Ionan's vaults. The sooner he accomplished his errand, the sooner he would be home. Who knows, maybe the secondlings have replied to the letter already, he thought brightly.

At length his obstinacy and determination paid off and he reached the foot of the mountain with the forest behind him and not a monster in sight. Maybe the beasts attacked only after nightfall; in any event, he had made it unscathed.

The sheer sides of the Blacksaddle towered above him, steep, dark, and unmistakably hostile. For a moment he was tempted to run away.

Even as he stood there, a volley of rocks sped toward him and he dove for cover just in time, the final boulder missing him by the span of a hand. Each one of the rocks had been big enough to kill him, but he refused to be daunted. He had to find Gorйn.

Tungdil circled the base of the mountain without discovering any indication of a dwelling or path. He took to calling the wizard's name in the hope that he would hear him but was met with no response.

Muttering under his breath, he set out a second time around the mountain. This time as he scanned the dark fissured walls, he spotted a narrow flight of stairs hewn skillfully into the rock. The breadth of the steps suited him exactly, but a big-booted man would have struggled to keep his footing on the narrow stone slabs,

A hundred paces, two hundred paces, three hundred paces: Tungdil ascended the mountain, crawling on all fours and clinging to the sculpted steps; there was nothing else to hold on to.

From time to time the mountain cast stones at him or loosed an avalanche of scree. Pebbles grazed his hands and face, and a rock glanced off his forehead, tearing a gash in his skin. Feeling suddenly dizzy, Tungdil pressed himself against the flank of the mountain, letting go only when the world stopped spinning. He wiped the blood from his eyes, gritted his teeth, and climbed on.

"You can't shake me off that easily! Vraccas created the dwarves from rock so we would rule the mountains. I'll conquer you yet!" he bellowed.

He could tell from the angle of his shadow that the sun had passed its zenith and was sinking in the sky. A cold wind whistled around him, tugging at his bags. With every step his situation was becoming more perilous and he hardly dared consider the descent, but at last he mustered the courage to glance down at the fair land of Gauragar, four hundred paces below.

He had never seen such an incredible display of color and light. The sun and clouds were playing on the landscape, casting fleeting shadows over the meadows, fields, and forests. If he strained his eyes, he could make out settlements in the distance, the individual buildings resembling tiny blocks of stone. Rivers wound their way through the countryside like shimmering veins and the air smelled of spring.

The view was so spectacular that it almost stopped his breath. It gave him a sense of power and majesty, as if he himself were a mountain. He could see now why the dwarves had chosen to make their homes in Girdlegard's ranges.

He continued his ascent, climbing with new vigor and courage, until at last he reached a recess in the flank of the mountain some five hundred paces above the ground. It seemed as good a place as any to spend the night.

The alcove was large enough to shelter him from the fierce winds and protect him from further attempts on the part of the Blacksaddle to pelt him with rocks. He crawled inside cautiously. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

The sinking sun bathed the gloomy walls of his simple shelter in reddish light, playing on the textured rock. Tungdil stared at the fissured surface; there was something about the markings that reminded him of runes.

He blinked. Surely not? He ran his hand over the rock. There's definitely something there. Time and nature had worn away at the rock, but his searching fingertips found the shallow furrows of chiseled runes.

Tungdil had a sudden thought. Opening his tinderbox, he kindled a flame and scorched the haft of his ax. Taking the map from his pack, he laid it facedown against the wall and ran the charred wood across the parchment.

At first the improvised charcoal wouldn't stick to the paper, but at length he succeeded in shading over the runes. The symbols appeared on the parchment, pale remnants of an ancient script.

Long moments passed while Tungdil studied the markings, struggling to make sense of the strange, cumbersome formulations. At last, when he had translated the runes into modern dwarfish, he was able to divine the meaning of the lines. Built with blood, It was drenched in blood. Erected against the fourthlings, It fell against the fourthlings. Cursed by the fourthlings, Then abandoned by all five. Roused by the thirdlings Against the will of the thirdlings. Drenched again In blood, The blood Of all their Line.

The mason had carved the verse in the shape of a tree, symbolizing renewal and the eternal cycle of life.

There was no way of gauging the age of the inscription, especially since the treatise on dwarven language in Lot-Ionan's library made no mention of such things, but Tungdil couldn't escape the impression that the runes were terribly old, a message from a long-forgotten era at least a thousand cycles past.

He breathed life into the words, reciting them aloud and listening raptly to the strange yet familiar syllables, so different from human speech. The language moved him, stirred him, churning his emotions.

He wasn't the only one roused by the sound. The ancient runes rolled through the folds and wrinkles of the mountain and woke the Blacksaddle too. Something shifted in its memory and its hatred of the dwarves returned with a vengeance, this time directed at Tungdil. The Blacksaddle quaked.

"I'm not going anywhere!" He pressed his back against the rock, determined not to be shaken out of the alcove by the shuddering mountain.

Just then the wall behind him stirred as well. Grinding and groaning it slid back to reveal a tunnel. The shaking stopped abruptly.

Tungdil decided it meant one of two things: Either the Blacksaddle was trying to lure him inside and hold him prisoner in its flesh, or Gorйn was welcoming him to his den.

With that, the matter was settled. He collected his things, shouldered the bag of artifacts, and strode determinedly into the tunnel.

After barely three paces he felt an almighty shudder and the doorway closed on Girdlegard's night sky. The stars of Girdlegard twinkled their farewell and the dwarf was trapped inside. Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin, Girdlegard, Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle The lofty buildings of the majestic palace shone luminous white against the clear blue sky. Sable turrets rose among the domed roofs, sparkling in the sunshine. Like beacons, their shimmering brightness and imposing height lit the way to Lios Nudin from a distance of fifty miles. A traveler would have to be blind to miss Porista.

Lot-Ionan feasted his eyes on the view. The circumstances surrounding the council's meeting were worrying, but he was looking forward to seeing the others all the same. With a tug on the reins, he curbed his mount and rode through the city at a more sedate pace. Snorting, Furo made it known that he would rather gallop and feel the wind in his mane.

Tradition dictated that the meetings of the council took place in Porista's opulent palace, a custom upheld by Girdlegard's magi for two millennia. The reason for the venue was twofold: Firstly, the practical consideration of a central location, and secondly, and more crucially, Lios Nudin's heart-shaped form. Like a well of enchantment, Lios Nudin supplied the other five realms with magic, the energy flowing outward to Ionandar, Turguria, Saborien, Oremaira, and Brandфkai.

Lot-Ionan patted his indignant stallion on the neck and laughed. "There'll be plenty of time for galloping on the way home," he assured him, keeping an attentive eye on the crowds.

The walls of Porista offered shelter and protection to forty thousand men. Grassy plains extended for hundreds of miles in every direction and the population made a decent living from livestock and crops. Farming was profitable in these parts: Porista's produce was considered to be almost as good as that of Tabaоn, the northwestern kingdom nicknamed the Breadbasket because of its fertile fields.

Lot-Ionan steered his horse through the bustling streets, dodging carts and carriages and taking care not to trample pedestrians underfoot. He was already missing the tranquillity of his vaults.

At length he reached the gates of the palace, closed to ordinary mortals except by permission of the council. An invisible trap ensnared foolhardy individuals who tried to slip over the walls. Glued to the masonry like insects on flypaper, they were left to die of hunger and thirst, their magic bonds loosening only when nothing remained but bare bones. In matters of security the council was unbending: The palace belonged exclusively to the magi and their staff.

Lot-Ionan recited the incantation. The doors swung open as if propelled by an invisible hand and the magus rode on.

On reaching a sweeping staircase of buff-colored marble, he reined in Furo and slid from the saddle. His path took him up wide steps and through sunlit arcades on paving of elaborate mosaic. White pillars channeled the light from a vaulted glass roof to shine on the colored tiles and show off the intricate designs. The walkway led all the way to the conference chamber where his presence was awaited. He gave the password and the doors flew back.

The others were there already, seated at the circular table of malachite: Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty, Turgur the Fair- Faced, Sabora the Softly-Spoken, Maira the Life-Preserver, and Andфkai the Tempestuous.

With Lot-Ionan, they formed the council of six and disposed of almost limitless power. Each used their magic to pursue a goal of their choosing. Had the magi seen fit, they could easily have toppled the seven human kingdoms of Girdlegard and annexed their land, but they were intent on perfecting their wizardry, not acquiring worldly might.

Lot-Ionan spoke first to Sabora, then greeted the others in turn, before taking his place between her and Turgur. His arrival was acknowledged with brief, stately nods.

Sabora clasped his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I'm glad you're here," she said, smiling warmly. Her high-buttoned dress of yellow velvet, a straight and somewhat stern affair, reached to the floor. Her short hair looked more silvery than at their last meeting, but her gray-brown eyes were as lively as ever. She sought his gaze. "Andфkai was beside herself with impatience." She lowered her voice to a whisper so only he could hear. "So was I, but for entirely selfish reasons."

Lot-Ionan returned her smile. Sabora made him feel like an amorous young man. Their affection was mutual.

"We know why you didn't respond to our summons," Andфkai told him. Her harsh tone made it sound like a reproach. She was attractive in an austere sort of way and her physique was uncommonly muscular for a maga, lending credence to the rumor that she could fight as well as any warrior. She wore her hair in a severe blond plait and her blue eyes seemed to search for a quarrel.

"Friedegard and Vrabor are dead," Maira explained. She was taller and slimmer than Andфkai, with red hair that fell about her pale white shoulders. Her simple dress of light green cloth was the perfect complement to her eyes and showed off the gold trinkets hanging from her neck and ears. "The news arrived just before you did." She looked over at Nudin. "It seems to us that the evidence points to the дlfar. We think the Perished Land sent them to thwart our meeting."

Lot-Ionan frowned. "The дlfar are the Perished Land's deadliest servants, but they've never been known to venture so far south. Nudin tells me that our girdle is failing." He paused. "Enemy reinforcements are streaming into Girdlegard in greater numbers than before. Unless we seal the Northern Pass, we'll be meeting in Porista on a regular basis to renew our magic shield." He drummed his finger vigorously on the table. "Enough is enough! The Perished Land must be destroyed!"

"Oh, absolutely," Turgur said scornfully. The famously fair-faced magus had perfectly symmetrical features, a meticulously shaven chin, a thin mustache, and flowing black locks. Women of all ages swooned at the sight of him, for which he was hated and admired by others of his sex. He was far and away the most handsome man in Girdlegard. "Why didn't we think of it before? What a fabulous plan, Lot-Ionan."

"This is no time for sarcasm," Nudin rebuked him in a hoarse, rasping voice.

There was a brief silence as the magi reflected on their past attempts to defeat their invisible enemy.

"Our magic has done nothing to prevent the Perished Land from casting its shadow over Gauragar, Tabaоn, Вlandur, and the fallen kingdoms of Lesinteпl and the Golden Plains," Lot-Ionan said at last.

"And it's not for want of trying. We've used enough energy to topple mountains and drain oceans," added Andфkai, who knew all about destruction. Samusin, the god of winds, was her deity and she focused her magic on controlling even the slightest movement of air. Her mood was as changeable as the weather and her quick temper caused many a storm.

"It wasn't enough, though," said Turgur. "The Perished Land has dug its claws into our soil like a great dark beast and won't be shifted."

"No," Andфkai contradicted him. "It's lurking and ready to pounce. If we do nothing, it will attack."

Lot-Ionan cleared his throat. "I've been thinking. We know from experience that our combined power is enough to keep the threat in check. If we summon our apprentices to Porista and add their magic to the ritual, we may be able to defeat it." He looked expectantly at the others. This was no idle suggestion: They each had thirty or more famuli, all of whom could practice magic to some degree. "If we were to harness the magic of a hundred and eighty wizards, our strength would surely prevail."

"Failing that, we'll know for certain that neither might nor magic can defeat our foe," Nudin commented dryly.

The possibility was too dire for Lot-Ionan to contemplate. If nothing was capable of stopping the Perished Land's incursion, it was only a matter of time before Girdlegard fell. Every living thing, man, beast, or plant, would be forced to live out its existence as a revenant, dead and yet forever in the service of the northern pestilence. A shiver of fear ran through him. No, we can't let that happen.

Andфkai was the first to find her voice. She seemed anxious as she scanned the faces of the others. "I know some of you don't approve of my allegiance to Samusin, but I stand by my faith. We must act."

"I thought your faith would forbid you from driving out the Perished Land," Lot-Ionan said in surprise.

"Samusin strives for equilibrium, but in the blackest of nights, nothing survives, not even a shadow. If we stand by and do nothing, Girdlegard will be in thrall to the darkness," she explained. "Once the Perished Land is defeated, the balance will be restored. I'm in favor of the proposal."

The motion was put to the vote and received the council's unanimous support.

"Very well," Nudin said hoarsely, "but we should renew the existing girdle first. If our defenses crumble before the apprentices get here, we won't be in a position to undertake anything at all. I suggest we break for an hour and have some refreshments before proceeding."

The magi concurred with the suggestion and the council dispersed. Nudin beckoned Lot-Ionan to the north-facing window.

Seen from close range, the ruler of Lios Nudin looked bloated and swollen. The whites of his eyes were shot with red veins and his pupils glinted feverishly. It was clear to Lot-Ionan that he was seriously ill.

Just then Nudin was seized by a coughing fit and held a handkerchief to his mouth. With his free hand he steadied himself on his maple staff. He stuffed the handkerchief hastily away.

Lot-Ionan thought he glimpsed blood on the cloth. "You should ask Sabora to lay hands on you," he said anxiously. "You look…To be honest, you don't look well."

Nudin arranged his swollen features into a smile. "It's nothing, just a nasty cold. It's good for the body to have something to pit itself against." He gave Lot-Ionan an approving nod. "That was an excellent idea of yours, you know. Even Andфkai was convinced of the scheme, so the others are bound to fall into line." His face went a violent shade of purple as he struggled to suppress another cough. "We magi have pursued our own private interests for too long," he continued in a strangled voice. "I'm not talking about Sabora, of course; she's always been different. But it's good to see that there are some things on which the council is prepared to take a stand. It's a pity it had to come to this first."

"Indeed," Lot-Ionan said uncertainly. For once Nudin seemed perfectly amenable and even his condescending tone was gone. If this was the effect of the illness, Andфkai and Turgur could do with catching it as well. "Are you sure we shouldn't be calling you Nudin the Solicitous?"

Nudin chuckled good-humoredly and ended up coughing instead. Lot-Ionan caught a clear glimpse of blood on his lips before he hurriedly dabbed it away.

"That does it. I'm sending you to Sabora," the white-bearded magus said firmly. This time it was an order. "The ritual will be draining and you look weak enough as it is."

Nudin raised his hands in surrender. "I give in," he rasped. "I'll go to Sabora. But one last question: Where are my artifacts, old friend?"

Lot-Ionan had rather hoped that the matter had been forgotten. "I left them in Ionandar," he admitted. "I'll get my famuli to bring them when they come."

Nudin smiled. "Well, at least you know where they are now. Don't worry. There's no rush. The Perished Land is our primary concern."

"It slipped my mind entirely. I meant to go through the cabinet in my study and pack the things together, but after what you told me about the orcs and the girdle…"

Nudin gave him a pat on the back. "Don't worry about it." He swayed slightly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll lie down." He turned and made for the door, his voluminous robes rustling softly and his staff tapping out a steady rhythm against the floor.

"Don't forget to see Sabora!" Lot-Ionan called after him.

Pensively, he gazed out of the window beyond the artful palace gardens and over the roofs of Porista to the horizon where the green plains fused with the bright blue sky. There was no sign of the Perished Land from this distance, but he knew it was there, only a few miles from the city.

After a while he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and a delicate fragrance wafted through the air. It had been a long time since he had smelled that perfume and his old heart quickened. He placed his right hand over hers. "My favorite maga," he said, turning to face Sabora.

"My favorite magus," she replied with a smile.

He was always delighted to see Sabora. They shared the same attitude where aging was concerned: Neither attempted to disguise the passage of time. He found it reassuring that he wasn't the only one with wrinkles, especially when the others looked so young.

No one could accuse Lot-Ionan of being vain, but the meetings in Porista made him feel ancient. Andфkai, with her hundred and fifty cycles, looked no older than thirty, while Maira could be taken for fifty, despite being six times that age. Turgur, of course, was always refining his looks and maintained the appearance of a vigorous man of forty cycles.

Sabora guessed his thoughts. "Oh, Lot-Ionan," she commiserated, "they're getting older as well, you know." They embraced.

"So tell me about your work," she said when they finally drew apart.

"It was coming along nicely until one of my assistants ruined a vital part of the formula before I had a chance to try it out," he reported. "Still, it won't be long before I can render the presence of magic in people and objects visible to the eye. It should mean a breakthrough in our understanding of what magic energy really is. But let's hear about you. Can you cure all our illnesses and ailments?"

Sabora slipped her arm through his and they set off leisurely through the arcades. "I've mastered injuries and wounds and now I'm focusing my efforts on eliminating the plague. I've been quite successful, actually," she confided. "The trouble is, there's no shortage of people with new and mysterious diseases. The gods send us new ailments every day."

"You'll get there eventually," he said encouragingly. "Has Nudin been to see you? He looks dreadful."

Sabora shook her head. "I saw him hurry past earlier, but he didn't stop to talk." A mischievous smile spread across her face. "If it's his waistline that's bothering him, he'd better ask Turgur. He's the one who knows how to remodel his body and his face."

"He must be nearing his goal, don't you think? He seems to have lost more of his wrinkles since the last time I saw him. Everlasting beauty can't be much farther off."

They stopped in one of the palace's many gardens and sat down.

Sabora laid her head on Lot-Ionan's shoulder. "It's incredible, isn't it?" she said softly. "We all pursue such different goals, but for once we're in agreement."

"Maira's support was as good as guaranteed. I suppose you've heard that she's opened her forests to the purest animals of Girdlegard? She's determined to save them from the orcs. As the eldest among us, she knows better than anyone what the northern pestilence would do to Girdlegard."

"Yes, her realm is a sanctuary. The last of the unicorns have taken refuge in Oremaira." She paused. "If everything goes to plan, Girdlegard will be safer than it has been for eleven hundred cycles-and it won't be a moment too soon."

Lot-Ionan laid an arm around her shoulders, savoring her presence. Duty and geography made such moments all too rare. "I was pleasantly surprised by Turgur," he confessed. "He usually seems so self-obsessed. His life revolves around physical perfection, beauty, aesthetics, and yet…"

Sabora laughed. "I expect he's worried about his flawless blossoms and flower beds. He's lavished so much time on perfecting his gardens that it would be a pity to see them ruined by the Perished Land." She straightened up suddenly. "I heard Gorйn was here. Wasn't he one of your apprentices?"

"Gorйn? What would Gorйn be doing in Porista? He lives in Greenglade."

"Turgur said something about a meeting he held with Gorйn and one of Nudin's apprentices. It was here in Porista, the last time we met."

"Now, that sounds suspicious," the magus said jokingly. "Turgur the Fair-Faced meets two of his rivals' apprentices and steals their secrets. He'd know all about my work!"

"Much good it would do him: charmed beauty combined with the power of discerning magical presences, and…" She hesitated. "What does Nudin do?"

"He hasn't said." The magus shrugged. "Judging by the look of him, he doesn't have time for exercise, so it must be demanding." Now that he thought about it, he was intrigued; at the next opportunity he would ask Turgur what Gorйn had wanted in Porista. "Let's forget about the others," he said tenderly, wrapping his arms around Sabora and hugging her gently. "We don't spend nearly enough time together."

"You're right," she said. "I'll ask Andфkai to swap kingdoms and then we'll be a little closer."

"I'm sure her subjects would welcome the change. The calm after the storm-isn't that what they say?"

"Still waters run deep," she informed him with a playful sparkle in her gray-brown eyes. Kingdom of Gauragar, Girdlegard, Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle Tungdil's sharp dwarven vision soon adapted to the darkness. The walls around him had been hewn cleanly from the dark flesh of the mountain and polished to a sheen. Smooth surfaces were the hallmark of dwarven masonry; he couldn't imagine a human laborer going to such lengths.

The chilling legend of Cloudpiercer had sounded convincing at the time, but he no longer gave it much credence. From the evidence around him, it seemed likely that the mountain had served as a dwelling, not a mine.

Tungdil clambered up a short flight of steps and came to an open portcullis. Beyond the raised grating, a heavy oak door reinforced with metal hasps and steel plating stood ajar. He knew there would be no way out if the door slammed behind him.

"Hello? Is that you, Master Gorйn? Is there anyone there?"

For a while he listened to the dull echo of his shouts; then the deathly hush returned. He went in.

"Master Gorйn, can you hear me?" he called. "My name is Tungdil. I'm here on an errand for Lot-Ionan." The last thing he needed was to be mistaken for an intruder. Hidden behind the door was a set of levers with which the portcullis could be raised or lowered. It made a dreadful racket, as he discovered by trying it out.

"Sorry," he shouted, hurrying on. It was time he found Gorйn.

The tunnel delved deeper and deeper inside the mountain. After a while Tungdil could almost convince himself that he had stumbled on a dwarven stronghold. Staircases and passageways wound into the core of the enduring rock and for the first time he had a clear idea of what it would be like to live with his kinsfolk in one of Girdlegard's ranges. At length he came to the kitchen, a large chamber neatly hollowed from the rock, equipped with stoves and kitchenware that had not been used for some time.

"Master Gorйn?" Tungdil sat down, lowered his packs, and waited awhile. A terrible thought occurred to him. Who's to say that Gorйn isn't dead? Galvanized into action, he put aside his reticence and began to search the place for anything that might lead him to the wizard.

He flung open one of the doors and strode along a corridor. It took him to another chamber of vast dimensions, at least two hundred paces long by forty paces wide and full of plants. The allotment had been laid out in accordance with horticultural lore, but the plot had been sorely neglected and was overgrown with weeds. Despite the musty air, a system of mirrors provided the plants with adequate light, while slits in the ceiling took care of the watering, allowing rain to seep through and plop to the earth in a steady stream of drops.

Tungdil battled his way through the rampant vegetation, rejoined the corridor, and came to a study. The chaos inside was all too familiar: Every surface, including the floor, was littered with loose sheets of parchment, closely written manuscripts, and abandoned books.

"Surely he can't have written all this?" he marveled aloud. There was enough material to fill a good-sized library. Gingerly he riffled through the papers, looking for clues.

Most of the dusty tomes were written in a scholarly script known only to the magi and their senior famuli. He flicked through them, but their contents remained a mystery. What was Gorйn working on? Longevity? Perpetual health? Prosperity? Reminding himself that it was none of his business, he focused on the task in hand: reuniting the artifacts with their rightful owner.

He continued the search, reaching behind a cabinet to pull out a bundle of letters. Two scholars had been in correspondence with Gorйn about the nature, form, and guises of demonic possession, including known instances of men being inhabited by other beings and whether it was possible to be controlled by a spirit.

It seemed likely that one of the correspondents was a scholar of some distinction since his part in the discussion was written in scholarly script. The letters of the other, whom Tungdil judged to be a high-ranking famulus, were devoted to describing how an unnamed person had changed in character and appearance. Nothing in the correspondence gave him any indication as to Gorйn's whereabouts.

The dwarf resumed his quest, searching the adjoining rooms and venturing farther and farther from the mountain's core as he rummaged through small laboratories, libraries whose contents had been partially cleared, and storerooms of potions and ingredients.

He turned the situation over in his mind. Although Gorйn no longer seemed to be in residence, there was still the matter of the artifacts. Tungdil had promised Lot-Ionan that he would deliver them, so deliver them he would. A dwarf's word was binding. And until I find him, Jolosin can keep peeling potatoes…

Tungdil's eye was caught by a series of inscriptions that were unmistakably dwarven in nature. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he read. Carved into the rock were tirades of terrible loathing and murderous hatred. Whoever had wielded the chisel was bent on heaping dire accusations and dreadful curses on four of the dwarven folks and their clans.

Tungdil knew immediately what it meant: The mountain had once been home to Lorimbur's dwarves. Here in the human kingdom of Gauragar he had stumbled upon a chapter of dwarven history that was missing from most books.

He remembered the runes at the entrance to the tunnel. Erected against the fourthlings, it fell against the fourthlings. So Lorimbur's dwarves had built a stronghold in the heart of Girdlegard. But for what purpose? Had they intended to wage war on the other folks? Assuming he had interpreted the inscription correctly, the thirdlings had been defeated. In any event, a curse had been placed on the Blacksaddle to ensure that the stronghold was never used again: Cursed by the fourthlings, then abandoned by all five.

He could imagine the sequel. Gorйn must have learned of the maze of tunnels in the mountain and decided to make his home there. As a wizard, he commanded the necessary expertise to lift the dwarven curse and turn the stronghold into a refuge where he could study in peace. Built with blood, it was drenched in blood. A famulus would never allow himself to be intimidated by such threats.

A sudden whisper caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. The walls were talking to him, muttering and whispering, animated by a ghostly presence that seemed to be closing in.

You're imagining things, he told himself.

There was a ringing and clattering of axes, chain mail jangled, and warriors shouted and wailed. The din grew louder and louder until a battle was raging around him, the shrieks of the maimed and wounded echoing intolerably through the rock.

"No!" bellowed Tungdil. He pressed his hands to his ears. "Get away from me!" But the clamor only intensified, becoming fiercer and more menacing. At last he could stand it no longer and took to his heels. Nothing could keep him in the mountain: His only desire was to escape from the Blacksaddle and its ghosts.

The whispers, screams, and crashing blades faded as he raced away.

Tungdil was not the sort to scare easily, but his courage had never been put to such a test. He would sooner endure scorching sun or pouring rain than spend a night in this place. Now that he knew the mountain's frightful secret he could already imagine the ghosts of his ancestors crowding round his bed.

He went back to scouring the tunnels and searched for hours without finding proof of Gorйn's fate. The only clues to his whereabouts were love poems he had written to a certain elven beauty and the name of a forest that was circled on various crumbling maps. Tungdil surmised therefore that Gorйn had moved to Greenglade.

For the dwarf to get there, his legs would have to carry him an extra three hundred and fifty miles on a northwesterly bearing. Greenglade lay at the edge of the Eternal Forest in the elven kingdom of Вlandur. According to legend, it was a uniquely tranquil place where the trees blossomed continually, irrespective of the seasons.

Tungdil mulled the matter over and smiled. To think a wizard would leave his home for the sake of a pointy-eared mistress! For his part, he had never been especially fond of elves, and this new development, which served to prolong his adventure, did nothing to improve his opinion of their race.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he took a wrong turn and failed to find his way back to the kitchen, where he had hoped to rejoin the passageway that led to the door. The diversion took him through yet more of the thirdlings' halls. It was obvious that the masons had intended the stronghold to make a stately impression, but the result was disappointing. Some of the galleries were lopsided, the steps were all shapes and sizes, and the intervals between them didn't match. The curse of Vraccas had robbed Lorimbur's folk of the most elementary of dwarven skills.

At length he came to a solid stone wall, carved with an arch of voussoirs. Tungdil read out the runes on the keystone, conjuring a chink in the otherwise featureless rock. A door took shape, grinding against the floor as it opened to let him pass. No sooner had he stepped out of the tunnel than the door rolled back behind him. Try as he might he failed to discover any cracks, fissures, or other signs of a hidden opening. In this at least the thirdlings had shown some skill.

The short walk through the dense pine forest helped his eyes to adjust to the light and by the time he was marching along the road to Greenglade the sun scarcely bothered him at all.

For once Tungdil appreciated the buzzing insects, sweet-smelling grasses, and sunshine: Anything was better than the Blacksaddle.

V

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin, Girdlegard, Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle That evening the six magi assembled in the conference chamber to prepare for the ritual.

First they took away the chairs, leaving the malachite table at the center of the room. Then they traced a large white ring on the marble floor around it and filled the circle with colored chalk marks. The symbols and runes would serve to bind the magic energy conjured by their invocation and stop it from dispersing before it could be used. From there they would channel it into the malachite table.

It took hours to complete the preparations. Not a word was spoken, for the work demanded absolute concentration and an incorrectly drawn symbol would oblige them to begin the process all over again.

Lot-Ionan was the first to finish. Stepping back, he gazed at the malachite table, recalling its curious past. He had happened upon it fortuitously in a shop selling odds and ends. The dark green stone had intrigued him and on further investigation he discovered that the mine from which it was quarried was located on the fringes of a force field. His experiments had confirmed the stone's special properties: Magic could be stored in the malachite and set free upon command. In the following cycles, Lot-Ionan's discovery had saved Girdlegard several times over, for without the table to help them harness and channel energy, the magi would never have been able to hold back the Perished Land. Generations of wizards had turned the power of malachite to their advantage; now the council would draw on it again.

Turgur straightened up and looked at the circle in satisfaction. He shot a glance at Nudin. "He's up to something," he said in a low voice to Lot-Ionan. "Keep an eye on him."

"On Nudin?" Lot-Ionan asked, astonished. "Whatever for?"

Just then Nudin rose to his feet and glanced in their direction. A look of suspicion crossed his swollen features when he saw the whispering men.

"I can't explain now. I'll tell you later," Turgur promised. "You'll second me, won't you?"

"Second you?" The white-bearded magus had spent his life studying spells and conjurations and was baffled by Turgur's hush-hush tone.

Before he could probe any further, Maira summoned them to their places. The moon and the stars were shining brightly as the six magi stepped into the circle. It was time for the ceremony to begin. The copper dome parted, sliding back to unite the wizards with the firmament above.

Closing their eyes, they held their arms horizontally and began the incantation that would conjure the energy.

Each spoke according to his or her nature: Maira singing, Andфkai hissing and spitting, and Sabora whispering, while Turgur enunciated his words with a pride befitting his character. Their voices combined in a complex chant beseeching and commanding the magic to come forth.

Only Nudin and Lot-Ionan spoke as one person, reciting their formulae ceremoniously, as if respectfully addressing a king.

Lot-Ionan had not forgotten Turgur's strange whisperings. He stole a glance at Nudin through half-closed eyes and was relieved to see that there was nothing the least bit unusual about his behavior.

One by one the symbols surrounding Maira the Life-Preserver lit up, sheathing her in an iridescent column of light that reached high into the dark night sky. The maga of Oremaira was ready.

The glow surged around the circle, bathing each of the wizards in light. By now the citizens of Porista would be staring at the palace, transfixed by the extraordinary sight.

So intense was the flow of magic that the chamber crackled with energy, purple bolts of lightning scudding between the columns.

Maira laid her hands on the malachite table and the others followed suit. Lot-Ionan noticed that Turgur, eyes fixed on Nudin, seemed incredibly tense.

The energy coursed through the magi and flowed into the malachite, the dark green crystal pulsing with light. The six waited until the glow had intensified, then lifted their hands from the cool surface and stepped away.

"Go forth!" commanded Maira. "Go forth and strengthen the unseen girdle protecting our lands!" She recited the formula, and the magic in the malachite did her bidding, shooting from the center of the table in a dazzling blaze of white light.

As it streamed upward, Nudin seized his staff and thrust its tip into the flow. The onyx absorbed the light. A black bolt sped from the jewel, striking Nudin. As the energy discharged into his body, the wizard writhed and screamed in pain.

"The blackguard has betrayed us!" Turgur raised his arm, intending to dash the onyx from Nudin's staff, but an invisible shield protected the jewel.

As the last of the magic flowed into the onyx, the malachite grew dull and the light of the circle was extinguished. The ceremony was over: The energy had been harnessed and released. Nudin staggered back in exhaustion and leaned against a marble column for support.

Lot-Ionan turned to Turgur for guidance. The fair-faced magus had obviously suspected that something was awry. "He betrayed us!" Turgur raged furiously. "Nudin betrayed us to the Perished Land. If only I'd seen it sooner."

"Explain yourself, Nudin!" stormed Andфkai, striding purposefully toward him. She gripped him firmly by the shoulders and for a moment it seemed as though she might strike.

He beat her to it.

His fist raced toward her chin with such speed that she had no opportunity to defend herself. Andфkai the Tempestuous flew several paces through the air and slammed down on the malachite table. She lay motionless.

"You'd better tell us what you've done," Lot-Ionan commanded sharply.

Nudin drew himself up and smoothed his dark robes. "Be quiet, you old fool," he retorted, directing his onyx-tipped staff at Lot-Ionan's chest.

The four magi reacted immediately, steeling themselves to deflect a magic strike. Whatever was ailing Nudin had clearly affected his brain. Madness was not uncommon among wizards.

"Tell us what you've done," Sabora urged him. "This isn't about power, is it, Nudin? Was this meeting a ploy to increase your own strength? If Turgur's right, you're more foolish than I thought." She looked to the others for support. "Lay down your staff before it's too late."

"It's too late already," he informed her. "You made your choice. For hundreds of cycles you've been fighting it, when all you had to do was listen. Much of what it says is true."

"'It'?" Maira queried, horrified. "You don't mean the Perished Land? Are you saying you talked to it?"

"I learned from it," he corrected her. "I can't protect Girdlegard without changing it first. It's up to you whether you decide to help me."

Lot-Ionan reached for his staff. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing to consider. "Your actions today have turned five friends against you," he said sadly. "Your thirst for knowledge and power has led you astray. You should never have listened to the voice of destruction."

"You are wrong to call it that." Even as Nudin began to speak, his left eye and his nostrils dribbled blood, leaving thin crimson streaks on his doughy face. He faltered.

"Can't you see what it's doing to you?" Maira said gently. "You still have the power to renounce it, Nudin."

"N-no," he stammered, agitated. "No, never! It knows more than all my books put together, more than all the magi and scholars combined." His voice took on a hysterical edge. "It's what I dreamed of. Don't you see? There's no choice."

"Only because you agreed to be a part of it. And what did the Perished Land demand in return for this wonderful knowledge? All Girdlegard and its inhabitants!" Turgur laughed scornfully. "You strike a poor bargain, my friend."

"None of us can help you," Sabora whispered. She shook her silvery head. "Nudin, how could you?"

"You've got it all wrong," he protested, disappointed. "It wants to help us; it wants to protect us from harm."

"Protect us?" Maira signaled to the others. "No, Nudin, there is nothing more harmful than the Perished Land. We must fight it." She took a deep breath. "And we must fight you too."

"You fools! Do you think you can hurt my friend?" Nudin dropped his voice to an unintelligible whisper and smote his staff against the floor. The marble cracked, a deep fracture ripping through the stone and channeling in the direction of the chalk circle. A heartbeat later it reached the table.

The malachite disintegrated like rock candy in hot tea, crumbling into a thousand pieces. Andфkai, whose motionless body was lying on the tabletop, landed heavily on the flagstones. Green shards rained around her, tinkling on the floor, but still she made no sound.

Lot-Ionan, the words of a counterspell frozen on his lips, gaped with the others in horror at the wreckage. The table, their precious focus object, had been destroyed.

He was still staring at the sparkling green fragments when a blue fireball whooshed overhead, on course for the treacherous magus. Before it could reach its target, Turgur's fiery projectile was torn apart by a counterspell.

"For Girdlegard," Maira shouted. "Stop the traitor!"

The sound of her voice startled Lot-Ionan into action. Pushing aside his fears for his realm and his disappointment at Nudin's betrayal, he focused on the challenge ahead. He knew the others were depending on his support, but in all his 287 cycles he had never once used his powers to kill or harm.

They assailed the traitor with fireballs and lightning bolts, then joined forces for a combined attack.

Flames and projectiles bombarded Nudin's shield and he disappeared amid the inferno. Sabora toppled the pillars on either side of him, bringing a section of ceiling crashing to the ground. Dust swirled around them, obscuring their view.

None of them dared to check on Andфkai; all energies were focused on Nudin.

"Let's take a look." Maira summoned a gust, propelling the dust through the open roof. As the clouds dispersed, they found themselves looking into thin air-Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty was gone, but there was nothing to suggest that he had been destroyed.

"He can't have survived," wheezed Turgur. "It's impossible. He must have-" His eyes widened in horror as he looked at his hand. The skin was wrinkling, its surface filling with age spots that blackened and turned into sores. A hastily invoked countercharm did nothing to stop the rot. The festering infection spread along his arm, eating into his chest, then his legs.

Sabora rushed to his aid. Without flinching she laid a hand on the putrefying skin. This time her healing powers failed her.

With nothing to hold his flesh together, Turgur slid to the floor. He tried to speak, but his rotten tongue twitched helplessly in his mouth. The fair-faced magus had been robbed of his beauty; a moment later, he forfeited his life. A deathly canker had eaten him alive.

Lot-Ionan struggled to contain his growing dread. Nudin commanded powers the like of which had never been seen. The Perished Land had taught him terrifying secrets.

Stepping out from behind a pillar, the false magus appeared at Maira's side. She shrank away.

"You had your chance," he rasped, drawing a few paces closer and stopping by the fallen Andфkai. "I asked you to help me and you refused. Much good will it do you. I'll show you what-"

At that moment, Andфkai, who had been lying seemingly dead on the floor, shot up and drew her sword. The blade sang through the air and pierced Nudin's chest.

"Take that, you traitor!" she thundered, raking the sword upward. The metal tore through the left side of his rib cage and continued through his collarbone, hewing his shoulder. Nudin staggered and fell.

As he went down, he raised his staff and hurled it with all his might. The tip buried itself in Andфkai's chest. She gave a low moan and toppled backward, fingers clutching at the malachite splinters that littered the floor. Then she was still.

"Andфkai!" In an instant, Sabora was at her side, laying hands on the wound.

The sight of the traitor lying in a pool of blood allowed Lot-Ionan and Maira to draw breath. They knelt alongside the injured Andфkai, but their magic could do nothing to help her.

"We're not strong enough," said Sabora, scrambling to her feet. "Our powers have been depleted by the ritual and the battle. Try to stop the bleeding while I go for help. A rested famulus with a knowledge of healing might save her yet."

She took two paces toward the door and froze midstep. Her face took on a bluish tinge that spread rapidly through her body.

"Sabora?" Lot-Ionan reached out to touch her. A stab of cold rushed through his arm, freezing his fingertips to her skin. Sabora had turned to ice.

"Andфkai the Tempestuous lies still, Turgur the Fair-Faced has lost his looks, and Sabora the Softly-Spoken will forever keep her peace. What will become of Lot-Ionan the Forbearing, I wonder?" a voice rasped behind him.

Nudin? Lot-Ionan howled furiously, tugging his hand way from the maga's frozen arm and skinning his fingertips. His sorrow at the fate of his beloved Sabora turned to violent rage. "You'll pay for this, Nudin. You won't cheat death again!" A terrible curse on his lips, he whirled round to face the traitor. Nudin's staff was pointing straight at him. His robes were bloodied, but there was no sign of the grisly wound inflicted by Andфkai's sword; a rip in his cloak was the only evidence of the blade's gory passage.

Before Lot-Ionan could react, he was seized by an insidious paralysis. The heat seemed to vanish from his body, chilling him to the core, while his skin tightened so excruciatingly that tears rolled down his rigid cheeks. Only his eyes were free to move.

"Can't you see it's using you, Nudin?" Maira tried to rise from Andфkai's side, but slipped on the fragments of malachite and swayed. Nudin saw his chance. On his command, the splinters rose up like an uneven carpet of thorns. He hurled a curse at her.

Maira deflected the black bolt, but staggered and fell among the shards. The jagged crystals cut through her robes, slashing her skin and inflicting grievous wounds.

"Nudin, I'm begging you-" she whispered urgently.

"No one has the right to ask anything of me!" He stood over her and brought the staff down heavily with both hands. Maira let out a tortured scream as the onyx smashed into her face. There was a flash of black lightning. "From now on, I listen to no one."

Possessed of a crazed fury, he battered her head until the skull gave way with a sickening crack. Nothing was left of Maira's once-dignified countenance.

Panting for breath, Nudin drew himself up, triumph flashing wildly in his eyes. He looked at the bodies strewn around him.

"You've got only yourselves to blame," he shouted angrily, as if to justify his actions. "You wanted it to end this way, not me." He ran a hand over his face and found sticky smears of blood. Disgusted, he wiped them away with his gown. "It was your choice," he said more quietly, "not mine."

Unable to do anything but weep, Lot-Ionan cried tears of despair. The magi had been betrayed and destroyed by one of their own, a man whom they had counted as their friend.

The traitor dropped his guard. Lowering himself onto a chair, he tilted his head back and gazed up at the stars.

"My name is Nфd'onn the Doublefold," he told the glittering pinpricks of light. "Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty is no more. He departed with the council, never to return." He gripped his staff. "I am two and yet one," he murmured pensively, lumbering to his feet. Lot-Ionan followed him with his gaze as he strode toward the door.

"You too will die, my old, misguided friend," the treacherous magus prophesied. "Your whole being will soon be fossilized; you'll be nothing but stone." He fixed him with bloodshot eyes, a look of untold weariness and disappointment on his face. "You should have sided with me and not that backstabbing Turgur. Still, for old times' sake I won't deny you a proper view." His swollen fingers took hold of Lot-Ionan and he embraced him briefly, hauling him round to face Sabora. "Now you can watch her while you're dying. It won't be long before she follows. Farewell, Lot-Ionan. It's time I got on with saving Girdlegard-single-handedly, since the rest of you won't help."

He stepped out of Lot-Ionan's line of sight, and the doors slammed shut. Alone in the chamber and beside himself with grief, the magus of Ionandar surveyed his dead friends. The sight of Sabora, frozen and motionless, was enough to break his heart.

Will the gods stand by and watch the ruin of Girdlegard? Do something, I implore you! Rage, helplessness, hatred, and sorrow welled within him until despair took hold of his being and nothing could check his tears.

At length the curse relieved him of his torment. The salty rivulets petrified on his marble cheeks, forming a lasting memorial to his anguish, while his breathing faltered and his heart turned to stone. If death had not claimed the kindly magus before daybreak, the sight of Sabora melting in the merciless sunshine would surely have killed him.

When everything was still in the chamber, a colossal warrior forced himself through one of the windows, stepped over the bodies, and knelt beside Andфkai. The palace echoed with his bestial howls. Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin, Girdlegard, Early Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle Tungdil was making swift progress. His boots devoured the miles, carrying him on a northwesterly course ever closer to Greenglade. The shortest route to his new destination took him through the enchanted realm of Lios Nudin, home to Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty.

It was unsettling to think that the distance separating him from the Perished Land was dwindling with every step. The southern frontier extended almost as far as Lios Nudin, although Greenglade was a good hundred miles clear of the danger. Nonetheless, if the girdle was to fall, Gorйn would be obliged to move elsewhere.

On the far side of the Blacksaddle he came across a messenger post. Knowing that Lot-Ionan would be worried about his whereabouts, he composed another short letter in which he informed the magus of where he was going and what had come to pass. He paid for the courier with the last of his precious gold coins.

The weather was treating him kindly. The sun shone benevolently from the sky, a light wind kept him pleasantly cool, and on the few occasions when the warmth threatened to overwhelm him, he retreated to the shade of a tree and waited for the midday heat to pass. His legs were much stronger now than at the start of his journey and he was barely aware of the weight of his mail. The walk was doing him good.

The landscape of Lios Nudin made little impression on the dwarf. It was mainly flat with a few rolling hills, referred to locally as "highlands." For the most part, fields and meadows stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with grazing cows and vast numbers of sheep, herded by attentive dogs. Woodland was rare and tended to be sparse, although the trees were of a venerable age. Having succeeded in taking root, they had every intention of standing their ground.

With the exception of Porista, which lay a considerable distance to the north of his route, there were few settlements of note in Lios Nudin, Lamtasar and Seinach being the largest with thirty thousand inhabitants apiece.

However, the proliferation of smaller villages and hamlets made it easy for Tungdil to find work as a smith and he offered his services in return for extra rations of cured meat, bread, and cheese. It was no good asking ordinary country folk to pay him in gold.

For four orbits he had been following the same road on a westerly bearing toward the border, where he would cross back into Gauragar and take a diagonal path northward to Greenglade.

With any luck Gorйn won't have quarreled with his elven mistress and moved away. In his gloomiest moments Tungdil envisaged himself traipsing after Lot-Ionan's famulus forever, doomed to carry the blasted artifacts until he died. At least the journey was furnishing him with plenty of new experiences and even life on the surface no longer seemed quite such a trial.

Weeks had passed since the attack on Goodwater and the memory of the violence was fading, allowing him to take pleasure in his surroundings. He savored the different smells of the countryside and chatted to the peasants, reveling in their stories and their curious accents and dialects. Girdlegard dazzled him with her infinite variety.

At times he felt lonely and longed for the comfort of Lot-Ionan's vaults, where everything was reassuringly familiar. Nothing made him feel safer than narrow passageways and low ceilings and he missed his books and his chats with junior apprentices. Most of all, though, he missed Sunja and Frala, whose scarf was still tied to his belt.

Yet deep down he also nourished the hope that his kinsfolk, intrigued by the news of an abandoned dwarf, had sent word to Lot-Ionan and requested to see him. Every orbit he prayed to Vraccas that the magus's letter wouldn't be ignored.

It was afternoon when he noticed that the landscape was becoming more wooded. The gaps between the trunks diminished until at last he was in an airy sunlit wood. This was the beginning of the Eternal Forest and he had almost reached his goal.

On consulting his map, he found he was fifty miles west of Lios Nudin and a hundred miles southwest of the Perished Land-safe enough, in other words. It would take a real stroke of bad luck to meet orcs in these parts.

A branch snapped loudly.

Tungdil's recent exposure to country noises persuaded him that the sound was more than just a cracking twig. A creature of sizable proportions was lurking in the wood. Reaching for the haft of his ax, he peered in the direction of the noise.

Another branch snapped.

"Who goes there?"

The shouted question startled the stag that had been nosing among the trees for the lushest grass. Its white rump bobbed up and down, then vanished from view.

Tungdil shook his head at himself. What did you expect it to be? he chuckled. As he wandered through the forest, a sense of calm and serenity settled over him. There was something incredibly peaceful about the trees and it rubbed off on his mood. Even the birdsong was fresher and more joyful, the forest-dwellers greeting him like an old friend whose visit was long overdue.

The dusty road gave way to a grass track that meandered through the woods like a green ribbon unfurled by nature. Every step felt luxuriously soft and springy and even the hot sun, which had reached an oppressive intensity in recent orbits, seemed pleasant beneath the dappled leaves. A light breeze chased away the muggy summer air and Tungdil felt he could walk forever.

Soon he became accustomed to the sounds of the glade and the rustling and crackling became more frequent. Deer and wild boar tore through the undergrowth at his approach. There were animals everywhere, and like him, they seemed to sense the peacefulness of the forest and feel at home there.

I won't get too friendly with the elf maiden until I've learned more about her, he decided. His race and hers were sworn enemies, but Tungdil saw no sense in hating someone who had done him no harm. I'll see how she treats me first.

A branch snapped again. Judging by the racket, the culprit was a fair-sized animal, most probably a stag. Tungdil peered ahead, hoping to glimpse its magnificent antlers.

Another branch broke, twigs snapped, and a voice cursed- in orcish.

The harmony of the forest shattered like a bauble beneath a blacksmith's hammer. Orcs spilled out of the bushes and Tungdil, who moments earlier had been basking in a sense of security, was confronted with the prospect of being eaten alive. A penetrating odor of sweat and rancid fat filled the air.

The first beast, a particularly hideous specimen, stepped onto the path. He was armed to the teeth and nearly twice the height of Tungdil.

"Bloody greenery. We'd move faster if we burned the blasted forest down." The ore snatched furiously at a twig that had wedged itself in his armor. He still hadn't seen the dwarf.

The troopers who followed him out of the bushes were more observant. "Hey, Frushgnarr, take a look at that!"

The square-jawed head whipped round. Two small deep-set eyes glared at Tungdil as the orc opened his wide mouth in a blood-curdling shout: "A groundling!" He drew his toothed sword. "I love groundlings!"

"If only the sentiment was mutual." The dwarf strained to see past him and paled. The orcs were still coming, pouring out of the woods. At thirty he stopped counting. There was no hope of evading them this time. Like a true child of the Smith, he would go down fighting and take an orc with him. He would have liked to prove his credentials before he met his Maker, but at least Vraccas would know that his intentions were sound. "Now you're here, I'll have to kill you."

"You and whose army?" the orc jeered.

Tungdil lowered his bags. It was maddening to know that he had come so close to completing his mission, but he drew unexpected courage from his frustration.

"Army? I don't need an army when I've got my ax!" His inborn hatred of the beasts, common to all dwarves, was awakened by the foul creatures' odor. An image of Goodwater, houses burning and villagers slaughtered, flashed before his eyes. The bookish part of his brain shut down and he threw himself, shrieking, upon the nearest ore.

The beast parried his blow with a shield. "Are you sure you don't need an army?" he grunted scornfully. Snarling, he took a step forward and lunged.

The dwarf retreated hastily and backed into a tree. At the last second he ducked, the sword whistling past him, almost grazing his head. It buried itself in the bark.

On seeing the orc's sturdy thigh in front of him, Tungdil swung his ax toward the unprotected flesh. "Take that!" Dark green blood gushed from the wound, streaming down the beast's shin.

Abandoning his sword in the tree, the orc reached for his dagger to stab the dwarf instead. Tungdil's mail stopped the blade from penetrating, but the impact sent him reeling. Fighting to stay upright, he tripped over his bags and fell.

"So much for your ax, groundling! Prepare to die!" The orc hurled the dagger at him but missed.

Tungdil, who had succeeded in tangling himself in the straps of his bags, was still trying to free himself when his opponent decided to retrieve his sword, wrenching it out of the tree.

The beast limped toward him, snorting with rage and brandishing his blade. It hurtled through the air.

As the dwarf dove to one side, the bag of artifacts jerked after him, landing on his back just as the blade made contact.

The famulus's precious possessions absorbed the blow, but the splintering and jangling left Tungdil in no doubt that the artifacts had paid dearly for saving his life. Who knows if they'll ever get to Greenglade? His fury redoubled.

"I'm not done yet!" Rolling onto his front, he used his momentum to plant his ax in the ore's right thigh, almost severing his leg.

The beast yelped and fell to the ground beside the dwarf. Tungdil rolled away from him, sprang to his feet, and drove his ax into the creature's throat. He heard the bone crack. "Who says I need an army?" he panted. For the first time in his life he had slain a beast of Tion. He hoped to goodness that Vraccas would be satisfied since it was likely to be his last.

The band of thirty or so orcs stormed toward him. He knew there was no chance of him surviving the attack.

If I'm going down, one of you is coming with me. Tungdil squared his shoulders and tightened his grip on the ax. He could imagine how the fifthlings had felt when the northern hordes had assailed the Stone Gateway. There was nothing for it but to follow their example and die an honorable death.

The lead orc was only ten paces away when a bright, defiant bugle sounded close by. He heard clattering armor and a peal of colliding blades; then shouts went up as dying orcs tumbled to the ground. To Tungdil's astonishment, reinforcements had arrived. He was too grateful to worry about who they were.

"The groundling has friends," roared the chief of the band. "Bring me their flesh!" The green-hided beasts turned away from Tungdil to confront the enemy that had attacked them from behind.

The elf maiden must have sent her warriors. I can't stand by while they risk their lives on my behalf. He ran after the orcs, darting forward to drive his ax into the back of a dark green knee. The beast toppled like a tree.

That makes two, Tungdil thought grimly.

One of the orcs engaged his blade while the rest piled in on the new arrivals, hiding them from Tungdil's view.

Tungdil soon realized that his unexpected victories had given him more confidence than was merited by his skill. His third opponent saw through his feints and swiped at him relentlessly.

The dwarf checked five savage blows before his luck ran out. A fierce strike dashed the ax from his hand and it landed in the grass. For want of another weapon, he drew his bread knife. "Come here, you brute!"

"Gladly, groundling!" The orc gave a grunt of delight as he eyed Tungdil's knife. "What's that, a toothpick? Just what I need to clean your flesh from my jaws!" He raised his sword. Kingdom of Urgon, Girdlegard, Early Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle A joint army?" Lothaire laughed out loud. Urgon's sovereign was a youth of twenty-one cycles. He flicked his long blond hair and gestured for more water. "You want us to fight together against the Perished Land?"

King Tilogorn nodded. At forty cycles, he had a thin, earnest face and shoulder-length brown hair. He had journeyed to Urgon with the sole purpose of forging an alliance, but after four hours of discussion in the gloomy chamber there was no indication that the message had got through. In the meantime, the sun had passed over the mountains of Urgon and was sinking behind their peaks.

"It is rumored that the girdle is weak. If the magic fails, the orcs will attack our lands with a strength and ferocity more devastating than anything that has gone before." Tilogorn pointed to the map. "The seven human kingdoms of Girdlegard must unite. Your help is vital if I am to persuade Umilante, Wey, Isika, Bruron, and Nate of our cause."

Lothaire sipped his water and stared at Tilogorn over the rim of the glass. "You're serious about this, aren't you?"

"Absolutely. Our survival depends on it."

"Shouldn't we leave it to the magi to repair the girdle before we-"

"The magi will take care of the magic, but we must be prepared to fight. I've dispatched a messenger to Lios Nudin to request a meeting with the council. I'm expecting word any orbit."

"Why would the magi deign to meet with mere mortals? Andфkai has never honored me with a visit, despite claiming swathes of my kingdom as her own."

"Consider yourself fortunate; it's not for nothing that she's called the Tempestuous." He laughed, then became serious. "The magi rarely show themselves, and they tend to keep out of our affairs, but this is different, I assure you. They know their duty."

Lothaire studied the map, pondering the Perished Land, whose frontier posed no immediate threat to Urgon. "I don't know, Tilogorn. My kingdom is as tranquil as ever."

"But will it stay that way?" Tilogorn replied patiently, doing his best to talk Lothaire round. "I know your lands are easier to defend than the plains of Gauragar or Idoslane, but the Perished Land commands orcs, дlfar, and other foul creatures. Nowhere is safe."

"The beasts shall be thrown from my mountains and drowned in my lakes. Their heavy armor will be the death of them," announced Lothaire with customary haughtiness. "My men are hardened warriors. Every day they seek out trolls in our ranges and put them to the sword. I ride with a single bodyguard, knowing that he will defend me single-handedly against a hundred foes."

"Do not confuse the дlfar with simple-minded trolls. All it takes is a well-aimed arrow and your bodyguard will be dead. The hordes in the north are more numerous than you can imagine; their power is infinite, yours is not." With a sweep of his hand, Tilogorn gestured to the former elven kingdoms. "They insisted on fighting alone and were conquered. Isn't it our duty to learn from their mistake? We must fight like with like: Only a vast army can protect us from the beasts."

"But what of the Perished Land's curse? Those who die on its territory are said to join its ranks."

"I've heard the stories too. We must burn the corpses so none can return as soulless warriors. We shall create a battalion to follow our army and set fire to the dead." Tilogorn sensed that Lothaire was almost persuaded. "Then you'll fight with me, King of Urgon?"

"Our armies shall follow my lead."

"The command will be shared. Our strengths will complement each other." Tilogorn paused. "Besides, my men will never take orders from a ruler younger than themselves." He held out his hand. "Are you with me?"

Lothaire smiled. "Very well. Our army will be the mightiest in the history of Girdlegard, powerful enough to lay waste to Dsфn Balsur and hound the дlfar across the Northern Pass. Although maybe we should kill them and be done with it… Yes," he said excitedly, "we'll destroy them altogether and then we can deal with the orcs. Peace will return to our kingdoms. It's a worthy plan." He shook Tilogorn's outstretched hand; then an anxious look crossed his face. "Er, there's one more thing. You remember Prince Mallen of Ido?"

Tilogorn snorted. "How could I forget the last of the great Idos? He lives in your kingdom, does he not?"

"He heads my army," Lothaire corrected him. "Rest assured, when the time comes to rid your lands of orcs, he will forfeit his command. No one shall accuse Lothaire of Urgon of scheming to plant the last of the Idos on Idoslane's throne."

Tilogorn took little comfort from the speech. "What if he incites rebellion in our troops? He is sure to have supporters among your men."

Lothaire sipped his water. "He's a reasonable man at heart. Perhaps your powers of persuasion will work on him as effectively as they worked on me." Before Tilogorn had a chance to reply, the young king rose and walked to the door. "I'll summon him to you. If you can convince him of our cause, the kings and queens of the other five kingdoms will be no trouble at all." He disappeared into the corridor.

His guest leaned over the table to study the map.

"Greetings, King of Idoslane," a voice said sardonically. "Who would have thought that we would ride to battle side by side? Fate plays games with the best of us, irrespective of rank."

Turning, Tilogorn saw Lothaire reentering the room with the speaker, a man of some thirty cycles, his features nondescript. His finely crafted armor bore the insignia of the Ido and testified to his wealth, although fashions had changed in the meantime.

"Prince Mallen of Ido?" It was less a greeting than an expression of surprise. "I remembered you differently."

"Yet you recognize the coat of arms to which Idoslane rightfully belongs… Are you comfortable on my throne?"

"You need not worry about my comfort, Prince Mallen. You and your coconspirators have not unseated me yet. The people are clearly fonder of my family than they were of yours. You serve Urgon's army, 1 hear?" Tilogorn asked brusquely.

"I am an exile. I have to do something to earn my keep."

"The Idos have a reputation for fighting-especially among themselves. Your bloodthirsty feuds brought suffering on the people and cost you your throne." He bit his lip. Barbed comments were hardly going to help his cause. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to-"

"Oh please, King Tilogorn, spare me the history lesson," Mallen said dismissively. "Tell me something interesting, such as what I can do to aid my country and return a free man."

"If you wish to help your country, bury our quarrel until Girdlegard is safe," Tilogorn entreated. "I'm sorry I spoke so harshly."

"You're sorry." Mallen was as distrustful as ever. "Well, we agree on one thing: An invasion of orcs or дlfar would only harm Idoslane." He glanced at the map. "It may surprise you to learn that I'm in favor of a truce between us. I agree to your proposal, on the condition that I can enter Idoslane at will."

Tilogorn hesitated.

"I miss my country and the few friends loyal to my line," Mallen said evenly. "There'll be no more conspiracies, I swear. May Palandiell be my witness."

This time the king held out his hand. "I can see in your eyes that your concern for Idoslane is genuine. I shall take you at your word."

"Make no mistake," Mallen warned him. "There is no friendship between us. Only the gods know what will become of us once the hordes have been defeated, but let us focus on saving our kingdom for now."

Lothaire, who had been hanging back, stepped in. "Excellent. Good sense has prevailed, it seems. I propose that we inform the other monarchs and make haste to raise our troops." He escorted them through the corridors of his palace.

Tilogorn stole sideways glances at the other two, trying to read their expressions.

Lothaire was visibly excited at the prospect of battle, but Mallen's face was inscrutable, revealing only that he shared Tilogorn's profound anxiety about the future.

Just then, they fell into step, their boots ringing out in unison against the marble floor.

"Hark," said Tilogorn, drawing their attention to the harmony of their stride. "Past cycles have driven a wedge between our dynasties, but now we move as one. If only it didn't take a common enemy to bridge the gulf between neighbors."

"It's no use dwelling on the past," replied the sovereign of Urgon. "Blaze a trail for others to follow, and follow they will. It's the only reasonable thing to do."

"Well spoken, King Lothaire," Tilogorn said approvingly. "I think the two of us"-he nodded at Mallen-"have shown that we are reasonable men."