The Dwarves

VIII

Enchanted Realm of Ionandar, Girdlegard, Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle To speed their progress, the three dwarves bought ponies and rode without stopping, dismounting only to spare their aching backsides. Even then they kept moving, continuing on foot.

Over the course of the journey the twins taught Tungdil a number of ballads that were known to all dwarves, irrespective of folk or clan. Little else remained of the common heritage linking all the children of the Smith.

The melodies were simple and easy to remember, embellishments and ornaments playing no part in dwarven songs. To Tungdil's ear, they sounded rather melancholy, a tendency he attributed to the gloominess of the underground halls. The mood was noticeably lighter in songs such as "Glinting Diamond, Cold and Bright" or "There Is a Golden Shimmer in a Faraway Range," where the lyrics told of great treasures and gold, and he enjoyed the drinking song "A Thousand Thirsty Gullets, A Thousand Flagons of Beer," taught to him by Boпndil, who had procured a keg of beer.

Tungdil awoke the next morning and cursed his pounding head. According to Boлndal, it was all the fault of the long-uns' ale, which was vastly inferior to the dwarves' own beer.

Farther along the way they encountered Sami, a peddler with stubbly cheeks and peasant's clothing, who had strange stories to tell. "Some people say that the cleverest famuli in the other five realms have left for Lios Nudin," he informed Tungdil, who was examining the array of trinkets on offer while the twins waited patiently. He wanted to buy something for Frala before he forgot.

"Any tidings from Greenglade?"

"The elf maiden is dead. The northern pestilence laid waste to the forest, and King Bruron is worried that wayfarers might get themselves killed. He wants to set fire to it." Sami made a show of unpacking his herbal soaps. "Perhaps you groundlings could do with some of these."

"Just because we're dwarves doesn't mean we stink!" growled Ireheart. "I'll put you in a lather, you lanky-legged rascal!"

"My mistake," Sami said hurriedly. "I thought he wanted something for a lady friend."

"Actually, Boпndil, the peddler's probably got a point," Tungdil said slyly, throwing him a bar of plain soap. He also bought a jasmine-scented soap, a patterned comb, and a doll each for Ikana and Sunja.

Boпndil sniffed the soap, scratched at it, and put a shaving in his mouth. "Ugh, it tastes disgusting! I'm not washing with that!" He tossed it disdainfully into his bag.

"So the Perished Land is still advancing?" probed Boлndal.

"It looks that way. Most of Вlandur has fallen already and the elves are under constant attack. Some have fled to the plains of Tabaоn, or so I've heard." The peddler packed the gifts in coarsely woven cloth. "Everyone says the дlfar are getting the better of them. They've taken the other elven kingdoms, and if you ask me, Вlandur will be next. It's only a matter of time before the дlfar conquer the last of their land." He handed the parcel to Tungdil. "A silver coin, please, master groundling."

"Dwarf," Tungdil corrected him.

"Pardon me?" "We're dwarves, not groundlings."

"Of course," Sami said, again hurriedly. "Absolutely." He cast a distrustful glance at Boпndil, who was admiring his shaven cheeks in a mirror.

Tungdil was still digesting the news about Вlandur. "What do you think the assembly will have to say about it all?" he asked the twins.

"Serves the elvish tricksters right," said Boпndil with a shrug. "Most of them are dead already and the others will follow if they set foot in our range. The pointy-ears aren't welcome near Ogre's Death; I don't care whether they call themselves elves or дlfar, they won't be moving in with us."

Tungdil scratched his beard. "What of the orcs?" he asked Sami.

"Oh, they're in three places at once, if you believe the rumors." The peddler looked at them dolefully. "It's not safe on the roads anymore. Tion's creatures are on the rampage and King Bruron can't do anything to stop them. Innocent folks like us have to fear for our lives and our wares."

Boпndil scanned the horizon longingly and licked his lips. Tungdil heard him making "oink" noises under his breath.

A while later they took their leave of the peddler and rode on.

To keep their purse stocked with coins, Tungdil jobbed as a smith, helped by the brothers, who also ornamented window frames and doorways with wonderful carvings. That way they kept themselves in ham and cheese while making good progress toward Lot-Ionan's vaults.

"You've got bits of cheese in your beard," Tungdil said to Boпndil at the end of a meal.

"What of it?"

"Well, it's not nice to look at," he answered, trying to be diplomatic.

Boпndil ran a hand over his chin and dislodged the largest morsels.

"There's still…"

"Look here," Boпndil told him brusquely, "the rest can stay where it is. It keeps the whiskers sleek and smooth." As if to emphasize the point, a bread crumb fell from his lips and landed in his beard.

Tungdil had an image of the hairs coming to life and feeding on the scraps. It would explain why nits weren't a problem; the whiskers would gobble them up before they had a chance to settle. "Surely the girl dwarves must have something to say about your-"

"There you go again!" Boпndil clapped Tungdil on the back and grinned lewdly. There was cheese between his teeth. "Always on about girl dwarves."

"Patience, scholar," Boлndal advised him. "Play your cards right, and you'll find out firsthand. You're not bad-looking; I'm sure we'll find you a suitable lass."

"And then what do I do?"

"You make eyes at her, of course." Boлndal gave him a playful dig in the ribs. "You sing her a song. You give her a hand-forged ring. Then you kiss her feet, cover her in a nice thick coating of her favorite cheese, swing her four times in a circle, and the gates to her Girdlegard will open."

"That's…It doesn't say that in the books," said Tungdil, bewildered. He looked at Boлndal, whose eyes sparkled roguishly. Boпndil couldn't contain himself any longer and let out a side-splitting guffaw.

"Idiots," huffed Tungdil. "It's not funny, you know. I can't help it if I've never met a female dwarf."

"We didn't mean to offend you," apologized Boпndil, wiping away tears of merriment. "But maybe you should try it; it seems to work for Boлndal!"

That was it; his brother dissolved into laughter too, the gentle hills of Ionandar echoing with their mirth.

"Just be yourself," said Boлndal, endeavoring to be serious. "I can't speak for everyone, but it's no good pretending to be something you're not."

"He used to say he was a poet," his brother chuckled. "His lady friends never believed it, but with you it might work."

"What sort of presents do they like best?"

"Ah, very cunning," exclaimed Boлndal. "Sorry, scholar, but you can't bribe your way into a lady's heart. There's no secret formula. Either she likes you, and she'll tell you as much; or she doesn't."

"And she'll tell you about that too," Boпndil added merrily.

"I wouldn't wish that on anyone," said his brother, "but if she likes you, well… anything is possible. But enough about womenfolk."

Their journey continued, and after several orbits Tungdil began to recognize his surroundings, which meant they were getting closer to Lot-Ionan's vaults.

He was looking forward to seeing the famuli and being reunited with Frala and her daughters. They'll never believe that I'm an heir to the throne! To prove that he hadn't forgotten her, he knotted Frala's scarf around his belt.

After a while they came to a river. A ferry was moored on the opposite bank near the ferry master's house and smoke was rising from the chimney.

Tungdil reached up to ring the bell that was suspended from a tree beside the berth. That way the ferry master would know to come and fetch them.

Boпndil grabbed his hand. "What are you doing?"

"I'm calling the ferry, unless you'd prefer to swim," said Tungdil. "It's either that or get the boat."

Boпndil eyed the swirling water. The river was lapping against the banks. "We'll go a different way," he decided. "It's too deep here. We could fall in and drown."

"You could fall off your pony and break your neck," Tungdil countered sharply. "Come on, Boпndil, it's too far to the next crossing-two orbits, at least." When he saw the twins' stony faces, he knew it was useless to protest. "It's this way," he sighed, pointing upriver. "But I don't see what's wrong with the boat."

It was all the encouragement that Boлndal needed to launch into the story of why dwarves and water didn't get along.

"Long ago, Elria put a curse on us. Elria was born of water and water was her element. From the beginning, she took a dislike to the dwarves-Vraccas's fire-loving, furnace-tending children couldn't have been more different from her water-dwelling creatures. To protect her children, she put a curse on the dwarves, and now any dwarf who ventures into water outside his kingdom is doomed to drown."

Lakes, rivers, ponds, or streams-according to the twins, even puddles could pose a mortal danger, and they avoided water at all costs.

"It's an excellent excuse for not washing," Tungdil told them.

They rode until nightfall and arrived the following orbit at the ford. When the time came to cross, the brothers waded nervously through the fast-flowing water, the river swirling ferociously about their thighs as if it intended to carry them off.

It was evening when they finally neared the entrance to the tunnel leading into Lot-Ionan's vaults. Boлndal and Boпndil grew uneasy at the thought of wizardry and spells.

"I didn't like coming here the first time," grumbled Boпndil. "Lot-Ionan is a nice enough fellow, I'll grant you, but he's a magus. At least we dwarves have the good sense to know that hocus-pocus never did anyone any good. We stay away from it. If Vraccas had wanted us to dabble in magic, he would have given us wands." He stared at Tungdil suspiciously. "You understand that, don't you? I hope he hasn't given you any daft ideas…"

"I can't weave magic," Tungdil said soothingly. "I've never even tried." He stopped for a second and looked at the brothers imploringly. "Promise me you'll treat him respectfully. Without his charitable intervention, there wouldn't be another claimant to the throne. In fact, it's only because of his salutary-"

"Listen to him!" Boлndal said sarcastically, mimicking his voice. "Do you hear the scholar speaking? Quite the gentleman, isn't he? He must be refining himself for highfaluffing conversations with a more h-h-educated race."

"Highfalutin," Tungdil corrected him with a smile. "All right, point taken. Either way, be nice to him or say nothing at all. You can wait at the gates if you'd rather. I'll be fine on my own."

It was already dark by the time they got there. Even from a distance Tungdil could see that the door to the tunnel was ajar. It was usually bolted and protected with a magic incantation, but one of the famuli must have forgotten to do his job.

Tungdil grinned mischievously, his tanned face creasing around his eyes. Whoever was guilty of such negligence would soon regret it. He intended to give the vault's inhabitants the shock of their lives.

"Tut-tut," Boпndil said disapprovingly when they reached the open door. "The confounded thing better not close behind us. What if it's a trap to catch innocent travelers?"

"Why would the magus want to trap travelers?" his brother inquired.

"To try out new gobbledygook on them, of course! You don't think he'd experiment on his own apprentices, do you? He needs to be sure that his wizardry works." He looked to Lot-Ionan's protйgй for confirmation, but Tungdil chose not to get involved. Boпndil unhooked an ax from his belt and mumbled threateningly into his beard. "If any of those wand-wielders so much as looks at me oddly, I'll show them what for."

Boлndal burst out laughing. "Don't worry, I'll be sure to punish them if they turn you into a mouse or a bar of soap." He gave the butt of his crow's beak an affectionate pat, but his brother was frowning grimly.

Tungdil noted their squared shoulders; it was clear from their posture that they were ready to fight. He decided to head off any possible misunderstandings by leading the way.

"Keep the noise down," he told them. "I want to take them by surprise."

Boпndil looked skeptical. "Seems to me that's just asking for trouble. What if they put a spell on us by accident? They might not recognize you in time."

Tungdil waved dismissively and stepped into the vaults. At once he was surrounded by the familiar aroma of paper, papyrus, parchment, and a hundred dusty books, mixed in with the smell of stone and a hearty whiff of supper. "Boiled potatoes and meat," he declared.

He looked over his shoulder at the twins, who were more interested in studying the tunnel and speculating in low tones about who had built the vaults and why.

"You can tell it's the work of long-uns," Boпndil was saying. "Do you see this? I noticed it last time as well. To think they didn't bother to work with the rock! They've cut through the strata with no concern for the veins." He pointed at something. "If they'd troubled themselves to look properly, they wouldn't have got themselves into such a mess. Even I could do better, and I'm a warrior!"

"A precarious design." Boлndal was gazing at the ceiling that was propped up every few paces by pillars and struts. "There's too much sand in the soil. An engineer or a miner would never have taken such a risk." He prodded the ceiling gently with his crow's beak, loosing a shower of mud and stone. "I'm no expert, but they should have dug the whole thing out. See how the warmth has dried the sand strata and made them all crumbly? Your magus needs a lesson or two in how to dig tunnels. It's a good thing we're here."

"Shush," Tungdil reminded them firmly. "You'll spoil the surprise."

"No sentries, no alarm system, nothing!" Boпndil rolled his eyes. "No wonder Vraccas told us to take care of the long-uns! The whole place would be easier to conquer than a dead dragon's den. Dwarves are more careful," he continued in a whisper still loud enough for Tungdil to hear.

Tungdil tiptoed on. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light, but the vaults were too quiet for his liking. There was no chattering of voices or banging of doors. If it hadn't been for the tantalizing smell of supper, he would have suspected the magus of moving his school elsewhere.

"Maybe they've abandoned the vaults and left the cook behind," mused Boпndil out loud. "Hardly surprising, given the state of the place."

The comment earned him a reproving look from Boлndal. "Surely they'd take the cook with them?" he couldn't help asking.

"Not necessarily." Boпndil grinned. "He might be so bad at his job that they've made him stay and practice until the ceiling caves in. Either that, or he's stewing in his soup."

Tungdil was too intent on reaching the magus's study to listen to their chatter. He knocked on the door. No one answered, so he walked straight in.

"I'll wait out here with Boпndil," Boлndal called after him. "We don't want to spoil the reunion."

On entering the room, Tungdil could scarcely believe his eyes. One half of the study was in a state of chaos with books, sheets of paper, and scribblings strewn over the floor; the other half was impeccably neat.

Tungdil had never seen such orderliness in Lot-Ionan's study. The books were stacked on the shelves in alphabetical order, the paper had been left in tidy piles, and the quill and inkwell were in their proper places.

He must have dreamed up a new charm that makes the mess tidy itself, he thought, impressed. He could see the logic in trying it out on one half of the study, but there was still no sign of the magus. I hope the spell didn't tidy him away.

He wandered round the chamber, looking for anything that might explain the silence in the vaults.

Boпndil sighed loudly. "Waiting is a hungry business," he declared. "I'm off to find the kitchens. If we ask nicely, they might spare us a bite."

"We should take Tungdil with us," his brother said anxiously. "The long-uns won't know who we are, don't forget."

"All the more reason for introducing ourselves." Boпndil was too hungry to worry about being cautious. "You can wait if you like, but there's a hole in my belly stretching down to my knees." He strode off.

Boлndal was reluctant to let him go anywhere unsupervised. They were guests at the school, and guests were expected to behave with a modicum of decorum, which didn't come naturally to his twin.

"Tungdil, we're off to the kitchens," he shouted. "I'll keep an eye on Boпndil, don't worry!" He hurried to catch up with his brother, who was disappearing around the corner.

The twins had no trouble finding their bearings in the vaults. Vraccas had given his children an infallible sense of direction when it came to orienting themselves underground. They knew instinctively whether a passageway would slope upward, downward, or curve gradually to one side, and they had no need of the stars to plot their course. In this instance, they were guided by the tantalizing smell.

All the rooms they passed were empty: There wasn't a soul in sight.

"Maybe it's dinnertime," Boлndal suggested hopefully, trying to ignore his growing unease.

They made for the passageway, where the smell of meat was strongest. Their tunics and armor clanked softly while their heavy boots clumped rhythmically on the floor. At last they reached a door that led into the kitchen, judging by the splashes and smears.

Boлndal tried to surge ahead to make a more orderly entrance, but his brother beat him to it. He gave the door an almighty shove.

Four great hearths burned in the high-ceilinged room, but otherwise the kitchens were as deserted as everywhere else. Curiously, there was evidence of recent activity: The stoves were roaring and supper simmered and hissed in covered pans. Large round cooking pots hung above two of the hearths, chunks of meat rising to the surface and sinking into the bubbling brown broth.

By now Boлndal had a definite feeling that something was wrong. Abandoned rooms and brimming cauldrons: It simply didn't add up. What's going on? He scanned the kitchen carefully.

"This is more like it," Boпndil said cheerfully. He let go of his ax, tore off a piece of bread, and headed purposefully for the nearest stove. Balancing on a stool, he lifted the lid of a pan and peered inside-juicy slabs of simmering meat and gravy. His mouth began to water. "It would be rude not to taste it."

He dunked a sizable hunk of bread into the sauce and prepared to swallow the morsel in one bite.

"Stop!"

His brother's warning brought him to a sudden halt. "What now?" he snapped, his stomach growling in protest at being neglected for so long. "Can't you see I'm eating?"

Boлndal had positioned himself next to the door, crow's beak at the ready. Judging by his stance, he was anticipating trouble. "I don't mean to spoil your appetite, but take a look over there."

Boпndil followed his gaze. The butcher's block, used ordinarily for chopping and filleting meat, was piled high with bones that had no place in a kitchen. Four skulls in particular held their attention: They were human in form.

It took a while for Boпndil to link the bones to the broth, but then he hurled away the dripping bread in disgust and jumped to the ground, drawing his axes.

"When I get hold of that magus, there won't be a spell in the world that can save him," he muttered darkly.

"Humans and wizards aren't usually cannibals," Boлndal told him. "If you ask me, there's been a change of guard. The magus didn't forget to lock the door; someone attacked." He peered into the corridor. "It's time we found our scholar."

Walking back-to-back, they retraced their steps through the eerily empty passageways, Boпndil leading and Boлndal following and watching his back.

Tungdil sat down on the footstool next to Lot-Ionan's armchair and waited impatiently for the magus to return. For want of anything better to do, he dusted off his garments. All he could think about was what the magus would say when he made his report. He had already decided to start with the most important business-Gorйn's books. There was no reason to believe that Lot-Ionan would divulge their mysterious contents, but Tungdil hoped he would.

Just then he heard someone approaching from the corridor. He knew at once that it couldn't be Boлndal or Boпndil; the soft footsteps belonged to a light, unarmored man.

Tungdil was too bored to pass up an opportunity to amuse himself and, leaving the knapsack and bag of artifacts beside Lot-Ionan's chair, he leaped to his feet and hid behind the door, intending to jump out and scare the unsuspecting famulus. Chuckling silently in anticipation, he peered around the door.

The young man who came into the room had short black hair and was dressed in the malachite robes of Nudin's school. He made straight for Lot-Ionan's papers and set about sorting through his documents with shocking disrespect.

What in the name of Vraccas is he doing? Tungdil watched from his hiding place as the famulus sifted through a stack of notes, thereby solving the mystery of the unusually tidy room. Next he made himself comfortable at the magus's desk and set to work on the higgledy-piggledy documents and books, sorting them into piles and jotting the details on a list.

Tungdil looked on in amazement. Who allowed one of Nudin's pupils to forage through Lot-Ionan's things? What's he doing here anyway? If Lot-Ionan wanted someone to tidy his study for him, he had plenty of likely candidates in his own school, but Tungdil knew that the magus was very particular about his work. The documents that the young man was handling were strictly private and no one was permitted to look at them, least of all an apprentice from another enchanted realm.

Dragging footsteps sounded in the corridor and a second figure appeared at the door. The famulus looked up crossly, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "What is it?"

Tungdil pressed his face to the crack in the door and peered at the newcomer. All he could see was a broad back and a coarsely woven shirt.

"I've finished in the kitchens," said a deep, sluggish voice. The dwarf placed it immediately: It was Eiden, the magus's groom.

"Good. Then find yourself a quiet corner and stay out of my way," came the famulus's sharp reply.

Eiden stayed where he was, filling the doorway like a fleshy statue. "I'm hungry," he said dully.

"Why don't you gnaw on some bones in the kitchens?" the famulus said impatiently. "But remember not to touch the meat-it's for our sentries. Now, leave me in peace."

"I want meat," the man insisted.

"Go!" The famulus picked up a letter opener and hurled it at him. Whether he intended to wound the groom or whether it was a poorly judged throw, he succeeding in striking Eiden in the chest. The man groaned and staggered from the room.

At last the dwarf could see his face, which was ashen and horribly mangled. A club had crushed the right side of his head and his visage looked barely human.

At the sight of his torso Tungdil took a sharp intake of breath. The pale fabric of Eiden's shirt was caked with blood from two deep gashes to his collarbone and chest. The afflicted flesh was decaying, the skin around it yellow.

Tungdil was instantly reminded of Greenglade and its gory revenants. No, he thought, the Perished Land can't have breached the magic girdle. Lot-Ionan had gone to Porista to renew the barrier and preempt an attack, and in any event, the Perished Land's dominion ended 450 miles north of Ionandar's vaults. Then why is Eiden still alive?

A gust swept through the room and a blue shimmer appeared in the air, gradually assuming the contours of a man. It was Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty.

The famulus rose and bowed before the apparition. "I've been searching the school as you requested, Estimable Magus," he reported, straightening up to face the bloated wizard. "There's no sign of the items you mentioned. Goodness knows why the old man needed so many laboratories and libraries." He decided to get his excuses in quickly. "The vaults go on and on. It's a lot for me to manage on my own."

"Which is why I shall be joining you in person."

Tungdil hardly dared to breathe, lest he give himself away. Vraccas seemed intent on making him eavesdrop on all kinds of awkward conversations. He had seen Nudin once before, but he remembered him as being slimmer, healthier, and decidedly less cruel. The Nudin before him was like a caricature, an uncharitable likeness drawn by a detractor.

"Lot-Ionan told me that the items were in a cupboard," the magus continued, swiveling to survey the room. There was something oddly high-pitched about his gravelly voice. "Have you searched the place properly?"

"Not yet," the famulus admitted. "I thought the books were more important, so I decided to hunt for them first."

Nudin shuffled toward the large cabinet from which Tungdil had retrieved the artifacts at the start of his errand. "There's no proof that the books even made it to Ionandar. According to the дlfar, a war band stole the books from Greenglade after the orcs had razed the place. Dwarven bandits, apparently."

"But didn't you tell them to… I mean, how-"

"The дlfar are good allies." Nudin's doppelganger stopped in front of the cabinet and propped his staff against the wall.

It took some effort for his swollen, spectral fingers to depress the handle, but he got there in the end. "Their only weakness is their love of art. For this particular дlf, it proved fatal." Bending down, he reached into the cabinet and came up with a leather bag identical to the one that Tungdil had been carrying. "It looks as though our search has been rewarded."

He loosened the drawstrings and tipped out the contents. Five rolls of parchment tumbled to the floor. His grunts of displeasure seemed to indicate that he had been hoping to find something else.

Tungdil peered out a little farther. His packs were hidden by Lot-Ionan's chair, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that Nudin would be delighted to discover them.

It was then that it dawned on him: The ties on his bag were blue, but the magus had said something about green drawstrings. I took the wrong hag! I marched for miles across Girdlegard, and Gorйn's artifacts were here all the time!

From the point of view of his errand, it wouldn't have made any difference if he had got to Greenglade and found Gorйn alive-he would still have been carrying the wrong set of things. But something told him that his mistake had worked out well.

Tungdil couldn't quite make sense of it all. He had no idea why Nudin and his apprentice were behaving as if the school belonged to them, much less why Eiden was acting so oddly when really he should have been dead, but the fact that the magus had allied himself with the дlfar was clearly bad news. Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty seemed to have changed sides.

He had to find out what had happened to Lot-Ionan and his famuli without alerting the intruders to his presence.

"One more thing," said the apprentice, riffling through the papers on the desk. He pulled out two pieces of parchment that Tungdil recognized as the letters that he had sent. "Lot-Ionan received a couple of letters from someone called Tungdil who was looking for Gorйn on his behalf."

He passed the correspondence to his master, who scanned the lines with bloodshot eyes. "Tungdil…" he said musingly. "Of course! The old man kept a dwarf of that name. It's perfectly possible that he's the one who took the artifacts and the books." He tossed the letters onto the desk. "Traveling dwarves are a rarity in Girdlegard, so it shouldn't be hard to find him. I'll ask the дlfar to deal with it, and they'll deliver him, dead or alive." He nodded to the famulus. "It's a pity you didn't mention it earlier, but at least we're getting somewhere. You shall have your reward when I join you. Until then, keep searching. You never know what might turn up." The apparition flickered and faded, then vanished altogether.

After his many ordeals, Tungdil was beginning to think that nothing could shock him, but he hadn't reckoned with listening in silence while someone plotted against his life. His mettle was being thoroughly tested.

The famulus smiled smugly and sat down at the desk. He had pleased his master and secured a measure of the approval that he so craved. He buried himself once more in the documents.

He was just dunking his quill into the inkwell, ready to add another entry to the list, when he happened to glance toward the armchair. The straps of Tungdil's knapsack were protruding from one side.

"What…?" He got up slowly and crossed the room to examine the object that had materialized without his knowledge. He stooped to pick up the leather bag.

Tungdil drew his ax. Speed and surprise were of the essence: He had to strike before the famulus saw him and cursed him. He tensed his muscles.

Even as he prepared to charge, a commotion sounded in the corridor, stopping them both in their tracks.

For once the twins were making a genuine effort to be quiet. They didn't know who had invaded the vaults, but it seemed safest to hack them to pieces without giving them any warning. Whoever had butchered the long-uns would surely jump at the chance to eat a dwarf-but a crow's beak in the belly or an ax through the gullet was bound to cure their greed.

They heard lumbering footsteps.

Boпndil signaled for his brother to freeze, and they waited for the creature to stagger around the corner. There was a whiff of rotten flesh; then a man stumbled toward them, groaning.

His injuries were so horrific that it was a wonder he was alive. No ordinary mortal would have survived such wounds, but on seeing the dwarves, he yelped in excitement and lunged toward them with surprising speed, spurred on by the prospect of fresh meat. His eagerness was no match for the warriors' experience.

Boлndal saw the blow coming, skipped sideways, and jabbed him in the knee. The revenant swayed.

In falling, he hurled himself on Ireheart, who greeted him with a war cry and a pair of flashing blades. The secondling avoided the toppling body and reached out to cleave the man's left arm. Teeth grinding in anger, Eiden dragged himself across the floor, baring his teeth at the twins.

"Would you believe it? He's coming back for more!" observed Boпndil in astonishment. "I know revenants are supposed to hate the living, but this is ridiculous." He decapitated the man, thereby putting an end to his undead life.

The brothers set off at a run to find Tungdil. It seemed likely that other bloodthirsty revenants would be roaming the vaults, in which case the heir to the throne could be in danger.

On reaching the door to the study, they saw a young man in malachite robes standing by an armchair, holding Tungdil's leather bag.

Their noisy skirmish in the corridor must have prepared him for their arrival. "Burn, you scoundrels!" His right arm flew up, fingers pointing at the dwarves, and he opened his mouth as if to speak. The door slammed shut.

The brothers blinked in surprise. "Surely he didn't need a spell for that?" said Boпndil.

"Why didn't he just close it before we got here? I told you wizards are weird."

"Magical mumbo jumbo. Leave it to me!" Launching himself at the door, Boпndil stormed inside, shrieking.

The young man had fallen backward and was lying motionless inside a cabinet. The doors were open and the shelves had slipped their brackets, scattering their contents on top of him. His forehead had been gouged in the process, and he was bleeding from the wound.

Tungdil straightened up and rubbed his head. "I should have put on my helmet before I head-butted him in the belly," he declared.

"Didn't I tell you those lessons would pay off?" Boпndil patted him on the back. "You've got the makings of a first-class dwarf!"

"It's about time someone explained what's going on," his brother said impatiently. "There's human broth on the stove and revenants roaming through the corridors. What kind of character is your magus, anyway?"

"None of this would be happening if Lot-Ionan were here." Tungdil gave a brief account of the eavesdropped conversation between Nudin and his famulus, then listened while the twins described the scene that had greeted them in the kitchen. In combination, the stories proved beyond a doubt that Nudin had seized the vaults and emptied them of their inhabitants.

Surely be can't have killed them all? Tungdil sat down, overcome with horror and dismay. What of the apprentices, the servants, Frala, Sunja, and Ikana? He refused to believe that the lunatic magus could have murdered a wizard as powerful as Lot-Ionan. He's alive. I just know it! He clung to the hope that Lot-Ionan had escaped with his senior famuli and was preparing to do battle with Nudin. I have to find him!

"The dwarven assembly needs to hear about this," ruled Boлndal. "Let's get out of here."

"No," Tungdil said firmly. "Not until I know where Lot-Ionan has got to." He looked at the unconscious apprentice. "I bet he could tell us." He knelt down and boxed his ears. It had the desired effect: The famulus's eyelids fluttered open.

Boпndil stood guard at the door while his brother placed the spiked tip of his crow's beak in the gap between the young man's eyes. "If you so much as think of cursing me, I'll ram my weapon through your brains." He obviously had every intention of carrying out his threat. "I crack skulls as if they were eggshells."

Tungdil bent down toward him. "Tell us where Lot-Ionan is," he demanded, torn between wanting an answer and fearing the truth.

"Are you the dwarves from Greenglade?" The famulus seemed perplexed. "But aren't you supposed to be-"

"Answer the question!" Tungdil told him roughly. Boлndal leaned on his crow's beak, applying just enough pressure to pierce the famulus's skin. Blood welled up around the metal spike as it bore into his brow. "Tell us where he is, or we'll kill you."

"Don't hurt me," the apprentice whimpered. "I'll tell you anything you want! He's dead. Nфd'onn killed him."

"Nфd'onn, commander of the Perished Land?"

"It was in Porista. He killed them all!" The terrible truth was out: With the other magi dead, there was no one in Girdlegard who could rival the traitor's power. "Nфd'onn cursed the force fields so no one else can use them."

An icy dread took hold of Tungdil when he realized what the famulus was saying. "So Nudin is Nфd'onn? Nudin commands the Perished Land?" The evidence had been staring him in the face, but either he hadn't realized or he hadn't wanted to. He felt like shrieking at the famulus or cutting him to pieces on the spot, but he forced himself to ask another question. "What does Nфd'onn want with the books and the artifacts?"

"I don't know. Nфd'onn told me to look for them, but he didn't say why. I swear I don't-"

Tungdil whacked him with the poll of his ax, returning him to his faint. Once he was safely tied up and locked in the cupboard, they debated what to do with him. It was obvious that they couldn't release him. A wizard with hostile intentions posed a serious threat and there could be no justification for not killing him while they still had the chance.

The tension over, Tungdil lowered his guard and gave in to his grief, mourning the loss of his adopted family and friends. Tears rolled down his cheeks, coursing through his beard, and he wiped them away with Frala's scarf. She had given him the talisman for luck, but now it was all he had left to remember her by. I won't let your deaths go unpunished, he promised his oldest friend.

Just then a familiar stench rose to his nostrils. Tungdil looked up and exchanged glances with the twins. They too had smelled the rancid butter, which could only mean one thing: orcs. He picked up his ax and rose to his feet. "Let's see if I can remember those lessons." They strode grimly to the door. Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle Rumor had it that the high king was on his deathbed. In fact, according to some reports, Vraccas had smitten him already and he had taken his place in the eternal smithy.

There was no need to look far to find the source of the gossip. So eager were the fourthlings to see their own king on the marble throne that they were only too happy to spread tidings of Gundrabur's demise. Come what may, they were determined to have their war against Вlandur, whether the elves were guilty of treachery or not.

At every discussion, no matter how big or small, Bislipur was there, tirelessly kindling the rumors, his every waking moment devoted to fanning the fires of his destructive campaign. No one seemed to need less sleep than Gandogar's devious adviser, except perhaps Balendilнn, whom he regarded as a personal enemy.

"If only Vraccas would hurry up and smite the high king with his hammer," muttered Bislipur on returning to the chamber where he was staying as the secondlings' guest. He lowered himself crossly onto his bed. I'm not making any progress. Some of the fourthling delegates were starting to doubt the wisdom of going to war. That blasted Balendilнn is ruining everything. The sooner I take care of him, the…

"Master, I bring news for you," a reedy voice announced from under his bed. "Not that I'd choose to tell you anything. In fact, I didn't want to come at all."

Bislipur stood up and kicked the bedpost. "Come out from there, you wretched gnome!" Sverd had barely emerged from his hiding place when Bislipur's calloused hand closed round his neck and lifted him into the air. He shook the gnome vigorously, like a cat would stun its prey, then tossed him roughly into the corner. "You're not to sneak into my chamber without my permission, do you understand?"

Sverd rose groggily and straightened his red jacket. "I wasn't sneaking, master. You weren't here, so I hid in a place where no one would find me, like you said." He tugged his hemp shirt over his rounded belly, covering his hairy green skin. His pointed ears stuck upward, as if pinning his cap to his head. There were few of his kind left in Girdlegard.

"Shall I tell you the news, master?" asked Sverd, his large round eyes filled with mock innocence. Streaks of mud and dirt covered his saggy breeches and his buckled shoes. He had tramped for many miles. "And if I do, will you let me go?"

"You'll go when I've finished with you." Bislipur rested his hand threateningly on the magical silver wire that allowed him to tighten Sverd's collar from any distance. "Talk or I'll strangle you."

"I wish I'd never tried to steal your hoard," the gnome whined piteously. "I regret it, really, I do." He looked at the dwarf expectantly, hoping to see a flicker of pity in the stony face.

"No wonder your kind is dying out if they're all as weak and pathetic as you." Gandogar's adviser stayed as cold and unbending as the many valuable trinkets that he wore. He tugged on the wire, tightening the leather band around the neck of his slave.

Sverd struggled to loosen the magic collar, but with no more success than at any other time during his forty-three cycles of bondage. The choker contracted and he sank to his knees, wheezing and panting. Bislipur waited until he was almost unconscious before slackening the leash.

"Thank you, master. Thank you." The gnome coughed. "Another joyous orbit at your side. How can I repay you?" He sank onto a stool. "Your pernicious plan failed. By all reports, the heir to the throne is still alive. Sadly, the same can't be said for our bounty hunters. There were no other takers for your cowardly mission and I didn't have time to start a proper search. Girdlegard is changing."

Bislipur took no notice of his reluctant henchman's sneers. From the beginning of his enslavement, Sverd had been trying to provoke him into killing him, but Bislipur chose to ignore him. The gnome deserved to suffer. "What happened?"

"I trailed the dwarf and the secondlings to Lot-Ionan's vaults. They were attacked by orcs…" Enchanted Realm of Ionandar, Girdlegard, Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle The beasts' approach could be heard from a hundred paces. Suddenly the clunking of their armor was interrupted by a clamor of snarls and grunts: The orcs had discovered the lifeless revenant.

On rounding a bend in the passageway, the three dwarves found themselves face-to-face with their foes. The exit to the vaults lay fewer than three hundred paces ahead, but it seemed to Tungdil that every inch of that distance was filled with orcs. A bristling thicket of weaponry blocked their escape.

"What fun!" enthused Ireheart, squaring his shoulders. "See how narrow the tunnel is? We'll have the pleasure of killing every last runt!" His whirled his axes energetically.

"Oink, oink! By the hammer of Vraccas, this is excellent sport!"

"The three of us will fight in formation," his brother told Tungdil soberly. "I know you've never done this before, but stand back-to-back with us and make sure you can feel us behind you. That way we'll all be safe." His brown eyes sought Tungdil's. "Trust us to watch your back, and we'll trust you. You're a child of the Smith, remember."

Tungdil took up position, wedging his back against the twins'. Trust in the others, he reminded himself, his heart thumping wildly. Stand by me, Vraccas. He swallowed and forgot about his fear. For Lot-Ionan, Frala, and Girdlegard!

"No more talking now!" Ireheart snapped at them, his eyes flashing wildly. "We've got skulls to cleave and shins to splinter!"

As the twins commenced their dance of death, Tungdil did his best to keep pace with them, nearly tripping over himself in his eagerness not to ruin their guard.

During the first few rotations, Tungdil could still see most of his surroundings. He glimpsed leering orc faces, saw green-hided flesh encased in various types of armor, spotted pillars among the jumble of legs, and occasionally sighted a whirling black plait.

But soon they were moving so fast that it all became a blur. Swords, daggers, and cudgels swooped toward him and he focused on dodging or parrying the blows. From time to time his ax met with resistance and after a while his blade was coated in glistening green, leading him to suppose that some of his blows had struck true.

It was the same basic strategy that the twins had used in the Eternal Forest. Back-to-back, the dwarves spun onward, boring their way through the enemy ranks, striking out furiously and never stopping for an instant, making it impossible for the beasts to land a proper blow.

Tungdil was glad of his chain mail. He lacked the secondlings' experience and was unable to field every strike, but his metal tunic protected him from the worst of it. He was willing to endure bruises, grazes, and even broken bones if it meant staying alive and saving the artifacts from Nфd'onn's fleshy hands.

He could hear Boпndil laughing behind him, his frenzied cackles competing with the orcs' dying shrieks. Boлndal was far less vocal, preferring to conserve his breath.

After a while the strain was beginning to tell on Tungdil's arms, but the battle was far from over. In addition to the orcs in front of them, there was also the problem of the survivors who were attacking from behind. In his despair, Tungdil came up with an alternative solution.

"The struts!" he yelled, straining to lift his voice above the jangling steel. "Cut down the struts!"

"Good thinking, scholar." Boлndal checked a blow, then rammed the offender with the butt of his crow's beak. A few moments later his weapon powered into a wooden pillar.

The force of the blow sent a strut crashing to the floor, followed by a shower of stone and dirt. The three dwarves repeated the maneuver until the unsupported ceiling collapsed behind them. Tion's minions disappeared under an avalanche of debris as ton after ton of rock blocked the tunnel, securing their rear.

The surviving orcs ran for the exit, afraid of being buried alive. Ireheart chased after them, swinging his axes furiously and felling all in his path. He stopped just short of the exit and waited for his companions.

"Come on," he urged them breathlessly. "There's another twenty of these runts waiting outside. It would be a shame not to kill them."

They closed ranks again. For all his hatred of orcs, Tungdil secretly hoped that the surviving beasts had seized their chance and fled. His weary arms were reluctant to lift much higher than his belt.

Spinning in formation, they whirled out of the tunnel and into the darkness outside. The stars cast a silvery shimmer over the waiting orcs. A hundred pairs of green eyes glinted menacingly in the moonlight. The beasts were growling and snarling under their breath.

"I thought you said twenty?" Tungdil muttered accusingly, his heart quailing at the sight.

"Like I told you, some challenges are bigger than others," Boпndil assured him, glossing over his mistake. "This is one of the bigger ones."

"Should we go right or left?" asked Tungdil, who was keen to establish their strategy.

"Straight through the middle. If they start slaying one another by accident, we'll have a better chance of making it unscathed. I'll deal with their chieftain, and when we're out the other side, we'll attack the flanks and hew down the rest."

"Tungdil is new to this, remember," his brother put in. "The high king told us to bring him back to Ogre's Death, not to purge the countryside of runts."

Tungdil was profoundly relieved. He hadn't wanted to say anything for fear of disappointing the twins, but Boлndal was less reckless than his brother and his sharp eyes had noted his exhaustion.

"Oh, all right, then," conceded Boпndil a little indignantly. "We'll go straight through the middle and forget about the flanks."

The plan established, they decided to act, not wanting to give the orcish archers an opportunity to use their bows. At first their tactic worked perfectly and they were mowing their way toward freedom at a tremendous rate when the enemy received unexpected support.

The ranks thinned around them as the orcs backed away, clearing a path.

"Hey! Come back here, you pug-faced monsters!" bellowed Ireheart, venting his frustration at the retreating beasts. "I'm not finished with you yet!"

The orcs continued to back away from them, and a lone man stepped forward instead. Tungdil knew the bloated figure from the apparition that had conversed with the famulus. The dark green robes cloaking the swollen body belonged to Lot-Ionan's killer.

The wizard looked doubly repulsive in the flesh. Blood trickled down his cheeks and his skin hung in flabby folds, occluding his features. He smelled as if he had been rolling in a pile of rotting rubbish.

"You've done well to get this far, but enough is enough," he purred. Fixing his gaze on Tungdil, he extended a bloated hand. "Give me the artifacts and the books you stole from Greenglade. After that, you can go."

Tungdil gripped his ax stubbornly. "These items belong to my master and I'll be damned if I'm giving them to you."

Nфd'onn chuckled. "How terribly valiant of you." He took a step toward them. "The artifacts belong to me. I'm in no mood for a discussion." The end of his staff struck the ground and he leveled the onyx-encrusted tip at Tungdil.

No sooner had he done so than the knapsack and the leather bag jerked away from Tungdil, struggling against him and trying to wrest themselves from his grip. He hung on to the straps as best he could, but his efforts were no match for the wizard's sorcery. The leather ripped and slipped from his fingers. He brought his foot down on one of the drawstrings just in time.

"I'll destroy the pouch and everything in it," he threatened, raising his ax.

"Be my guest. It would save me some work." Nфd'onn held his right arm on high, splayed his fingers, then clenched them into a fist.

The bags left the ground with such force that Tungdil could do nothing to stop them. Their flight ended when they dropped into the arms of an enormous orc, who clutched them to his chest with a grunt.

The magus was seized by a coughing fit. Blood leaked from his nostrils and he wiped it hastily away. "Go back to your kingdom, dwarves, and tell your ruler that I require his land. He can give it to me willingly, or my allies will take it by force. The choice is his." He gestured in Tungdil's direction. "Take him with you. I don't need him."

The two brothers said nothing. Gripping their weapons with steely determination, they were biding their time for an opportunity to attack. When the requisite diversion presented itself, they would hurl themselves on Nфd'onn and cut him to ribbons, but it was no good attacking while they were under the surveillance of the wizard and his hordes.

Suddenly there was confusion in the ranks. Beasts were pushing and shoving, and angry words were exchanged; then a particularly strapping specimen drew his sword against his neighbor and, snarling furiously, buried it up to the hilt in his gut. Within the space of a few heartbeats, the orcs were slaughtering one another.

Ireheart squared his shoulders, a sure sign that he was preparing to attack. His brown eyes were fixed on Nфd'onn's knees.

"Tungdil, you chop up his staff," he ordered in dwarfish. "The fatso won't stand a chance against the three of us." As always, he showed not a flicker of self-doubt.

"Ordinary weapons won't harm him." Tungdil glanced out of the corner of his eye at the iron-clad beast who was guarding the knapsack and the artifacts. "Our priority is to get the bags. Nфd'onn seems determined to destroy them, so they're obviously important."

Ireheart nodded. "You know what to do, Tungdil. On my signal…" The dwarves were preparing to leap into action when someone got there first.

From the crest of a nearby hill, a bolt of lightning flashed toward the magus and struck him in the side. Gasping, he dropped his staff and crumpled to the right.

The next bolt sped toward the orcs, reducing ten of their number to charred metal and flesh. The remaining beasts snarled in confusion, looking for the source of the attack. Spotting the figure at the top of the hill, they closed ranks and charged.

Nфd'onn raised his head and stretched out his right palm; the staff sprang into the air and flew into his hand.

This was the opportunity that the dwarves had been waiting for. Shrieking, Ireheart bore down on him, planting his axes into his legs, while Boлndal swung his crow's beak above his head and rammed it into Nфd'onn's broad back. He raked the blade upward, and the magus slumped to the ground.

The wizard's orcish protectors were too distracted by the arrival of the powerful new adversary to notice his plight. As they raced up the hill, black clouds formed above them, and a roll of thunder announced the coming storm.

The first orcs were paces away from their target when the tempest was unleashed. Lightning crackled to earth, striking the front line of orcs and splitting their skins like sausages in boiling water. The dazzling flashes blinded those farther back, and the assault on the summit faltered and stopped altogether.

A wind whipped up, raging among the beasts and knocking them over like skittles. Pitching into one another, the orcs were hurled against trees or dragged to their deaths by the gusts.

Meanwhile, Boлndal had skewered the magus on his crow's beak and was pinning him to the ground. Ireheart leaped to his brother's aid, raining four fearsome blows on the magus's neck and cleaving his vertebrae. Nфd'onn's head rolled across the grass, and foul-smelling black blood spilled from the gushing stump.

Ireheart opened his breeches and was about to sprinkle the corpse with dwarven water, but was stopped by his brother. "The artifacts!" Boлndal reminded him sternly, pulling him away.

A moment earlier, Tungdil had summoned his remaining strength for an all-out assault on the orc who was guarding his bags. He let his instinct, combined with his recently acquired knowledge, guide his ax. The beast fell sooner than he expected, the speed of his victory taking him by surprise. I can hold my own without the twins, he thought, gratified, quickly grabbing the bags.

Boлndal ran up, his plait swinging vigorously as if it were alive. "We did it! Girdlegard is free of the traitor."

They hurried off, with Tungdil and Boлndal in the lead and Ireheart covering their backs. "It was child's play," he boasted, taking the opportunity to slay another couple of orcs. "We showed the traitor who's…" Ireheart's eyes shifted sideways and he let out a terrible howl of rage. "By the beard of Beroпn, I thought we'd…"

Nфd'onn was rising to his feet. His headless body straightened, and he stretched out a hand, beckoning to his skull, which flew toward him and settled on his severed neck. Not a scar remained to show where Ireheart's axes had raged. The magus seemed as strong and alert as ever. He ordered the remaining orcs to deal with Tungdil and his companions, then turned to the hill to destroy his magical foe.

"Seize the artifacts and the books," he boomed through the darkness. "And kill the dwarves!"

The onyx on the end of his staff throbbed with light as he raised his hand toward the knoll. The ground quaked, a deep furrow opening in the earth and burrowing toward the figure on the hill. Bolts of lightning shot from the dark clouds, only to melt harmlessly into the protective shield that cocooned Nфd'onn's body.

I knew it! Ordinary weapons can't harm him. Tungdil grabbed his companions. "This way," he panted. "The path leads south."

The trio raced off, slipping into a ditch to throw off their pursuers. They listened to the heavy trample of boots as the orcs charged past without seeing them.

"We should have stood our ground," Boпndil whispered crossly.

"And been killed!" Tungdil pushed himself deeper into the warm soil of the trench. "Didn't you see what he did back there? He got up, even though you'd beheaded him! It proves he's more powerful than the Perished Land." He pointed to the leather pouch that they'd managed to salvage. "The key to his destruction is in that bag."

"You're the scholar," Boлndal told him. "Find a way of killing him and leave the rest to us. It's time we got back to Ogre's Death. Our kingdoms are in danger and we need to warn the assembly of Nфd'onn's plans. You might be the only one who can stop him."

"I don't know about that." Tungdil's hopes were centered on their mysterious rescuer, who had fought magic with magic, thereby saving their lives. Please, Vraccas, let it be Lot-Ionan, he prayed, unable to fight his tiredness any longer as he drifted off to sleep. Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

… and I was following them into the woods when they suddenly disappeared," said the gnome in conclusion. He tugged at the leather collar that had left him with a weal around his throat. "I had to get out of there quickly because the orcs were on my tail."

Bislipur was already deep in thought. Sverd's news obliged him to rethink his plans. "They're on their way here, then," he muttered to himself.

"Who? The orcs or the dwarves?" When Bislipur didn't answer, Sverd tried another tack. "You're not going to keep the news to yourself, are you? Didn't you hear what I said? The magus wants to attack the dwarven kingdoms! Only a real scoundrel would-"

Bislipur limped to the door. "Wait here," he ordered. "Don't show yourself unless I tell you."

"Yes, cruel master." With a sigh, the gnome settled on a stool, his short legs dangling above the floor.

Bislipur rapped on Gandogar's door. "It's me," he shouted. "Put your cloak on. We've got business to attend to."

Gandogar stepped out into the corridor and gave his adviser a bewildered look. "Wouldn't you rather come inside?"

"The exercise will do us good. Besides, there's enough gossip about me already. Apparently, I spend my time behind closed doors, plotting against the high king." He snorted derisively. "They're welcome to see us talking, if that's what they want."

Gandogar threw a light cloak over his mail and followed Bislipur through the stone labyrinth that was Ogre's Death.

All around them were carvings and ornaments. The secondlings had sculpted great artworks out of the humble stone, but the masonry was all the more striking because of its lack of pretension. Gandogar marveled at its simple beauty, but his reverie was cut short.

"I was just saying," Bislipur repeated softly, "that everything will be ruined if they keep us waiting any longer. The high king is an obstinate fool."

"Then what do you suggest?"

"I've consulted with the other chieftains. They think we should defeat the elves before the Perished Land gets there first."

At last he had Gandogar's attention. "Then let the Perished Land defeat them. It would solve the problem for us."

"Actually, Your Majesty, it would make our task harder. Remember what the Perished Land does to the fallen? They rise again! Our warriors would never prevail against an army of undead elves. The Perished Land is immensely powerful, remember." Bislipur's mail clunked slightly as he limped beside his king. "And what if the elves were to flee the threat and ensconce themselves somewhere quite unreachable?

Their crimes against the dwarves would go unpunished and your father and brother would never be avenged."

Despite the urgency in his voice, Bislipur was careful to speak softly. Anyone who saw them talking would assume they were preparing for the coming assembly-which was exactly what he intended.

"It's time you were made high king and led the folks against Вlandur. The Perished Land has lain dormant for some time. If it stirs, we must be back in our stronghold so we can wait in safety until the trouble has passed."

"You heard what Gundrabur said," the fourthling sovereign reminded him. "The laws were written by our forefathers, and I can't and won't defy them."

Their path led them to a beautiful sunlit valley whose verdant slopes were dotted with sheep and goats. Rocky peaks towered on either side with clouds stacked above them. To Gandogar, it seemed as if the mountains had impaled the bad weather on their summits to clear the skies for the pastures below.

"How peaceful it is here," he sighed, lowering himself onto a boulder. "I wish our assemblies were as harmonious as this."

Bislipur's cold eyes scanned the grassy slopes. "If you ask me, the other dwarves are exactly like sheep. They flock together, bleat until they get their food and beer, then fall into a self- satisfied slumber." He laid a hand on the monarch's shoulder. "You're a true king, Your Majesty, and you shouldn't be made to wait while some guttersnipe of a dwarf strolls across Girdlegard to challenge what's yours. Force a decision and the delegates will support you; I'll make sure of it."

"You're asking a great deal, Bislipur." The king rose, and they strolled back to the tunnel that led into the mountain and deep inside the Blue Range.

At length they came to a series of stone bridges whose backbones arched over dark, fathomless chasms. These were the ancient mine shafts, now empty and abandoned. The secondlings had plundered the mountain's riches and left deep gashes in its flesh. Bislipur walked in silence, allowing the king to reflect.

"But what of the laws?" muttered Gandogar, turning the matter over in his mind. "I can't force another vote without challenging the laws of our forefathers and defying the high king's decision."

"It would take courage, the courage to do what's best for our race. You need to act now, Your Majesty. You've never been afraid to take a stand."

The passageway led over one of the kingdom's many quarries, where sheets of smooth marble were being hewn from the rock. A river meandered peacefully to the right of the stoneworks. The king and his adviser stopped on a bridge 180 paces above the laborers and gazed at the bustle below.

"Gundrabur might die at any moment," said Bislipur, still pressing for a decision. "Surely you don't mean to make us wait until the stranger arrives and the hustings have been held? What if the Perished Land attacks while the throne is vacant? Without a high king, there'd be no one to organize our defenses and lead us to victory. The folks would squabble among themselves and our race would be destroyed."

Gandogar pretended to ignore him, but the speech resonated with his own deliberations. He had been pondering the same questions, although he was still no closer to deciding what to do. The laws come from Vraccas, but should we stick to them slavishly? What if it means forfeiting opportunities and exposing ourselves to danger? He gave up and focused on the laborers below. They were working with incredible care and precision, handling the stone with as much consideration as if it were alive. Each sheet of marble was measured painstakingly before being prized from the mountain with pick axes, crowbars, hammers, and chisels. Water mills powered the blades of the enormous saws.

Dust hung in the air like gray mist and the laborers wore cloths to protect their mouths and noses. A thick layer of powdered stone covered any piece of equipment not in regular use.

It made Gandogar proud to think that he would soon be king of the dwarven folks. The children of Vraccas had their differences, but they were dwarves-united by ancestry, heritage, and a common foe.

Should we suffer because of our laws? He pictured the faces of his father and brother who had been felled by elvish arrows. They were killed in cold blood. His fists clenched and his face darkened.

He had made up his mind. "Very well, Bislipur, we shall act. I am the one who is destined to unite the children of Vraccas and what better way of strengthening the bonds between our kingdoms than a joint campaign against the elves? Victory over our enemies will pave the way for a new united future and put an end to this feuding and quarreling."

"And your name will be linked forever with the start of a glorious era," Bislipur added approvingly, relieved that his constant sermonizing had eventually paid off.

"We've wasted enough time already. I shall tell Gundrabur that he has thirty orbits to hold a vote in which my succession will be confirmed."

"And if he dies before then? He's old and infirm…"

"Then I'll be crowned, whether the mountebank has got here or not. Let's go back. I'm tired and hungry."

Privately, Bislipur was already working on his next assignment, unwittingly conferred on him by the king.

A great deal can happen in thirty orbits, he thought grimly. Murder was not the worst of his crimes, and a little more skulduggery would be neither here nor there. But this time he needed to do everything right.

"Coming, Your Majesty," he replied. Leaning over the parapet, he peered into the open quarry. Anyone who had the misfortune to plummet from such a height would never be seen again. He had just the assignment for Sverd. Enchanted Realm of Ionandar, Girdlegard; Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle Come on, scholar, time to get up," a voice whispered in his ear. A wiry beard scratched his throat and he was roused from his carefree dreams.

Boлndal and Boпndil were peering out of the ditch, scanning the woods for roaming orcs, but the beasts had continued their search elsewhere. Tungdil and the others were free to head south toward the secondling kingdom.

What a mess, he thought glumly. Things had turned out worse than he could have imagined. His errand had seemed simple enough, but now he was caught up in a succession crisis and everyone he had known and loved was dead, leaving him and his two companions to flee for their lives across Girdlegard while a crazed magus waged war on their kingdoms and tried to steal his bags. And I don't even know what's inside them.

Tungdil pulled the twigs and foliage out of his hair and beard. He was still fretting over Nudin's threat: The magus had declared war on all Girdlegard, men and elves included, and was planning to do battle with the dwarves.

"You look as though something's bothering you," said Boпndil, handing him some bread and cheese. He pointed to the woods. "Come on, you can eat on the way."

Tungdil fell in behind them. "Warning the dwarven kingdoms is a big risk. Nudin wouldn't mention the invasion unless he thought he could win."

Boпndil snorted. "Ha, that was before we chopped off his head!"

"Not that it had much effect," his brother reminded him gravely. "What did you make of it, scholar? Is it normal for magi to survive a mortal wound?"

Tungdil shook his head. "Wizards are just ordinary humans. They live a little longer than most, but they're susceptible to injury like everyone else. Lot-Ionan once cut himself on a knife and wove a spell to heal the skin. I asked whether his magic could counteract death, but…" He pictured Lot-Ionan and Frala and was too choked to continue. His companions didn't press him.

"Magi don't have the power to thwart death," he said finally.

"Nфd'onn was definitely dead," Boлndal told him. "He had my crow's beak buried in his back and his ugly mug was rolling on the ground. Maybe it's something that only dark wizards can do."

"If you ask me," said Boпndil, "it's a special kind of jiggery-pokery taught to him by the Perished Land."

Tungdil didn't know what to make of it all. Seeing the magus recover from his beheading had put pay to any theories about him being a revenant, leaving the dire possibility that Nudin had discovered the secret of eternal life-in which case, Girdlegard was doomed.

"We should have chopped him into tiny pieces and burned the lot," growled Boпndil.

"It wouldn't have worked," said a voice from the trees. The clear tones rang through the forest. "No known weapon can harm him. Swords, axes, magic-nothing will kill him. I tried and failed."

The trio whipped out their axes, and Ireheart wheeled round to cover their rear. "It can't be an orc," Boлndal whispered to Tungdil.

"Maybe, maybe not," said his brother. "I'm game for any kind of challenge, big or small."

The man who stepped out from among the pines drew a gasp of amazement from Tungdil. He had never imagined that a human could attain such dimensions; this one had a chest like a barrel and was as tall as two dwarves.

Although Tungdil had seen pictures of suits of armor in Lot-Ionan's books, nothing had prepared him for the sight of a real plated warrior. The man's breastplate, gorget, spaulders, and greaves were made of fine tionium and forged in such a way that the metal mimicked the curve of bulging muscle. The rings of a mail tunic, worn to give extra protection, were visible between the plates. A thin layer of cloth separated the segments of metal and dampened the clunking.

Sabatons protected the warrior's huge feet, and his head was encased in a helmet. A demon's face stared out from the elaborately engraved visor and a ring of finger-length spikes encircled his helm like a crown.

In his left hand he held a shield, while in his right he gripped a double-bladed ax, the mighty weapon raised effortlessly as though it were made of mere wood. A cudgel and a scabbard hung from his belt, the long blade resembling a dagger because of his great size. And as if this arsenal were not weighty and powerful enough, a two-handed sword was slung across his back.

Boпndil glanced over his shoulder to see what was going on and was instantly transfixed by the colossus.

"Swap places with me," he begged his brother. "You cover our backs and I'll bring down this mountain of metal." His eyes flashed eagerly. "That's what I call a big challenge. Better than a pack of runts!"

"Shush," Boлndal silenced him sharply. "Wait and see what he wants."

"His voice seems very high for a man of his size," said Tungdil, bewildered.

A blond woman with a severe face and a long plait stepped out from behind the warrior. "The voice wasn't his." Her blue eyes pierced the trio. "It was mine."

Tungdil appraised her commanding features and striking garb and wondered whether they had met before. She was athletic in appearance and wore black leather boots, gloves, and a tunic of dark brown leather, slit at the sides to give maximum movement. Her right hand rested on the pommel of her sword. There was something about her that reminded Tungdil of a woman that Lot-Ionan had once described.

"Are you Andфkai the Tempestuous?" he ventured at last.

The maga nodded. "And you need no introduction: Tungdil and his two friends who cheated Nфd'onn's wrath." She pointed to the warrior who was standing motionless beside her like a sculpted god of war. He was five heads taller than her. "This is Djerun, a loyal ally." Boлndal eyed her suspiciously. "What do you want?"

Tungdil took over quickly. "What's happened to Lot-Ionan? Is he alive?"

Andфkai looked at him with angry, tortured eyes. "Lot-Ionan is dead-and so are Maira, Turgur, and Sabora. They're all dead. Nфd'onn didn't want them to interfere with his plans, so he killed them."

Tungdil bowed his head. It hurt to have the truth confirmed. The pain of losing his foster father gnawed away at him, leaving a void inside.

"Our senior famuli met a similar fate. Nфd'onn was careful to ensure that none survived who could challenge his power," she continued grimly.

"Then it was you who cast lightning at him!" Boпndil said excitedly. "I hope you caused more damage than we did."

"He survived. I did everything in my power to kill him, but it was useless. As soon as I saw him recover from your attack, I feared the worst, and I was right; we can't do anything to stop him."

"Wretched long-uns," Boлndal muttered crankily. "We dwarves tear our beards out patrolling the ranges and fighting Tion's hordes, and what do the humans do? Plot their own downfall! Vraccas should have made us into nannies, not warriors. Humans can't be trusted on their own."

"I'm afraid you're probably right." Andфkai took a step toward them. "I came here because I wanted to ask what Nфd'onn was after." She crouched in front of Tungdil. "We were watching from the hillside. You must have something that he covets. What is it?"

"Er, nothing really," he fibbed. "Just a few things that belonged to Lot-Ionan. I kept them to remember him by, but Nфd'onn wanted to destroy them. He and my magus can't have been good friends."

"There was a time when they liked each other well enough." She smiled wryly. "Lot-Ionan wasn't terribly fond of me."

That triggered Tungdil's memory. As far as he could recall, Lot-Ionan had disapproved of her values and her worship of Samusin. If the twins find out that she keeps orcs in her realm, things could turn nasty, and we're bound to come off worse. Not only would the maga attack them with her wizardry, but her companion looked capable of snapping trees with his hands.

"To be honest," said Boпndil, who had decided not to beat around the bush, "I don't much like you either. You go your way, and we'll go ours. We've problems enough of our own."

"Problems?" Andфkai said scornfully. She straightened up. "Your problems won't seem important when Nфd'onn invades. The dwarven kingdoms will fare no better than the realms of men and elves. The magus has allied himself with the Perished Land and together they seek absolute, unlimited power." Her chin jutted out and she eyed Boпndil with a look of contempt. "Run along and hide in your mountains. Tion's creatures will storm your strongholds from both sides."

"What do you propose to do?" asked Tungdil.

"We're leaving," she said frankly. "I'm not foolish enough to think that I could stop the Perished Land. No army will be mighty enough to challenge Nфd'onn, regardless of what the kings of men may think. What good would it do to stay? I'd only be condemned to become a revenant-a fate which, Samusin willing, I'm anxious to escape." She searched the dwarves' faces. "And you? If you're headed for Ogre's Death, we'd like to join you. Rest assured, we'll leave by way of the High Pass and never see you again, but we could journey as friends until then."

The dwarves discussed the matter in private and decided to accept the proposal. Boпndil's objections were overruled: The other two had learned from their encounter with Nфd'onn and could see that the maga would be a useful ally when facing the dangers ahead.

Boпndil made a show of complaining, but fighting with words was not his strong point and Tungdil argued him into a corner with his scholarly speech. "Fine," sulked the secondling, "but don't say I didn't warn you."

Tungdil informed the pair of their decision.

"But remember, we're the ones in charge!" Boпndil glared at the maga's companion contemptuously. He was obviously longing to pit his strength against the colossal warrior. "Hey! What's wrong with your tongue? Maybe if you took that bucket off your head, you'd be able to speak!"

"Djerun is mute," the maga rebuked him sharply. "Remember your manners or I might have a thing or two to say about your height…"

"My manners are my concern," huffed Boпndil, smarting. He tossed his plait over his shoulder and turned back to the warrior. "Take my advice and keep out of my way," he warned, quickening his pace to lead the procession. I deal with the orcs, all right? No doubt you'll learn soon enough."

Tungdil fell into line behind Andфkai, and they set off. I'll wait until this evening to find out more, he decided. It would be easier to ask his questions without the twins listening in.

Estimable Maga, how did Lot-Ionan die?" Andфkai had withdrawn a few paces from the fire and was sitting on her cloak, gazing into the flames. Instead of addressing her in dwarfish, Tungdil deliberately chose the language spoken by junior wizards. He wanted to demonstrate that he was educated and not a simple working dwarf.

It had taken a while for him to summon the courage to sit down beside her and engage her in conversation.

Back propped against a tree, Djerun was positioned nearby. The giant's weapons were arranged neatly on the grass in order of length, easily reachable with either hand. Owing to his visor, it was impossible to tell whether he was dozing.

"Lot-Ionan schooled you well, it seems," she said slowly, eyes still fixed on the flames. "An educated dwarf is a rarity in Girdlegard. Well, dwarves are rare enough." She paused. "I could tell you how your magus died, but the story of Nudin's treachery would only grieve us both."

"I want to know why Nudin changed."

"So do I, Tungdil." Andфkai turned and looked at him bitterly. "I don't suppose we'll ever find out." She recounted what had happened in Porista that night. "Nudin struck out at me without warning. He drew on his magic to deal me a blow that knocked me senseless. I didn't regain consciousness until later." She paused, resting her chin on her hands. "I cut him down with my sword, but he plunged his staff into my chest. After that I was too dazed to register anything but the sounds of the struggle." The maga took a deep breath, stretched out her legs, and looked up at the stars. "They must have fought him all the way. The sound of their screams will be with me forever. As for me, I could feel the blood seeping from my body and there was nothing I could do."

"But you survived."

"Thanks to my bodyguard." She glanced tenderly at the unmoving giant. "Nфd'onn must have forgotten that Djerun had accompanied me to the palace. As soon as the lunatic magus had gone, he broke into the room and treated my wounds. I was too weak to confront the traitor, so Djerun stole a corpse from the morgue, dressed it in my clothes, and left it with the other bodies. We wanted Nфd'onn to think he was safe." She reached for a branch and tossed it into the fire, sending sparks crackling into the night sky. "He is safe," she said dismally.

"And Lot-Ionan? What…"

"By the time Djerun found me, your magus had been turned to stone. Nфd'onn turned him into a statue." A tear of helpless rage trickled down her cheek.

"A statue," whispered the dwarf, drawing closer to the fire. "Isn't there any way to…"

The maga shook her head but said nothing. They sat in silence, their thoughts with the dead. Stars twinkled in the firmament, and long moments passed.

"So you're leaving Girdlegard," Tungdil said wearily. "Where will you go? Aren't you worried about your realm?" He wiped the back of his hand across his face. He had been staring unblinkingly at the flickering flames, and the heat had dried his tears, leaving a salty residue in his eyes. "Will things be better elsewhere?"

"I'd be a fool to throw myself in front of a rolling stone when there's nothing else to stop it," she said softly. "It's not in my nature to prolong suffering without good cause. I shall give up my realm without a fight. What good would come of resisting? I may as well take my chances across the border now that Girdlegard's defenses have fallen." It was clear from her tone that the matter was closed. "I need to sleep."

After thanking the maga for her confidences, Tungdil withdrew and joined the twins to tell them what had happened in Lios Nudin.

"The wizards are really dead?" Boпndil skewered another piece of cheese from his seemingly endless supply. "So much for their miraculous powers!"

"The strongest shield is useless when the sword is wielded by a traitor," his brother said wisely, munching on a hunk of toasted bread. "The long-uns are a wretched lot. I can't imagine what the gods were thinking when they created them." He chewed his mouthful vigorously. "It's bad enough that they kill each other without dragging the rest of us into it."

Tungdil reached for a helping of molten cheese and popped it into his mouth. He had developed a taste for the pungent delicacy, which he regarded as a sign of progress as far as his dwarven credentials were concerned.

Boпndil gave him a nudge and pointed his cheese skewer at the mismatched pair on the opposite side of the fire. "Would you believe it? He's still wearing that bucket. I bet it's stuck on his head!"

Boлndal was more respectful. "It's his height that gets me. Granted, I don't know much about humans, but he's by far the biggest long-un I've ever seen. He makes orcs look like children."

"What if he's not really a long-un?" his brother said suspiciously. "He could be a baby ogre or Tion knows what." Already he was on his feet, preparing to march over and confront the giant. "I'm telling you, if there's a green-hided runt hiding in that armor, I'll kill it on the spot." He grinned dangerously. "The same goes for the lady. So what if she's a maga? She's not much use to Girdlegard now."

Tungdil's face flushed with panic. He wouldn't put it past Andфkai to have one of Tion's monsters at her side. I can't let Boпndil pick a fight with Djerun. If he starts on the giant, Andфkai will join the fray and we'll all be in trouble.

"No, he's a man, all right," he said firmly. "Haven't you heard about the human giants? I read somewhere that they join together in formidable armies. The orcs are scared stiff of them!"

It was a nerve-racking business lying to his kinsfolk, but he knew it was for the best.

"How do they get that big?" persisted Boпndil, reluctant to let the matter drop. He jiggled his axes, hoping to find some reason that would allow him to test his strength against the giant.

"Um, it's their mothers… You see, they…" Tungdil tried feverishly to dream up an explanation; almost anything would do. "Straight after birth, the mothers tie ropes to their arms and legs and stretch them as much as they can. They keep doing it, every morning and every night," he blustered, "and it works, as you can see. They've got a fearsome reputation on the battlefield. They actually grow into their armor; they can't take it off."

The brothers looked at him incredulously. "Their mothers really do that to them?" Boпndil was shocked. "It's pretty gruesome, don't you think?"

"That's what it says in the books."

Boлndal looked the warrior up and down. "I'd like to know what he weighs and how much he can lift."

The three dwarves stared at the giant, trying to work out whether or not he was asleep. His demonic visor shone in the flames, grinning at them mockingly.

Boлndal shrugged. "Sooner or later he'll show his face. He'll have to lift his visor when he eats."