The Revenge of the Dwarves

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Girdlegard,

The North of the Kingdom of Gauragar,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

Boindil stomped off after the undergroundling and made no attempt to conceal his displeasure. “We’re putting ourselves voluntarily into their hands. They attacked our people! It’s not good.”

“They will give us a hearing. If we can reach an agreement, that’s always going to be better than more attacks,” said Tungdil.

“And he still hasn’t told us what his name is.” Boindil found another reason for his bad mood. “Oh yes, and they’re friends with the snout-faces.”

“Just wait and see,” advised Tungdil, who had by now had enough of these complaints. Goda was walking next to her master and not getting involved, but judging by her face he reckoned she would have preferred Boindil to be less argumentative.

All three were tense as they followed the dwarf-stranger. No one knew what to expect from the coming meeting with their distant relatives from the Outer Lands.

Tungdil watched how the undergroundling moved. His walk was smoother than a Girdlegard dwarf’s rolling gait: he set his feet down in a straight line, not a little way apart like them. He kept his upper body straight and hardly made a sound as his boots touched the ground. In contrast to Ireheart. The undergroundling was so good at moving silently that he might have learned his skill from the alfar.

They marched till sundown, when they found themselves at the foot of three hills in a gentle wooded valley, in the middle of which a bubbling stream arose.

The undergroundling led them straight over to the water, called out some incomprehensible words and sat down at the edge of the spring. He drank from his hand. “Sundalon will be here soon,” he said.

Ireheart rammed the head of his crow’s beak into the soft moss-covered earth and listened. “How peaceful it is,” he murmured. “Might just as well be one of the elves’ sacred places. The only thing missing is the big white stone.”

The undergroundling looked up. “A white stone? With the broka?”

Tungdil remembered that this was the undergroundling’s word for elves. It seemed he and his folk were already acquainted with them. “Yes.” He described the stone, its appearance and the secrecy the elves had tried to maintain. “Does that sound familiar?”

“Yes,” nodded the undergroundling, giving him a sympathetic look. “We had broka and their stones in our land, too.” He drank some more water and washed his face, without smudging the sign on his forehead.

“What does that mean?” grunted Boindil impatiently.

“What do you think?” The undergroundling looked annoyed now. “That we had to destroy them before they destroyed us.”

Ireheart looked at Tungdil and gulped. “Did you hear that, Scholar?”

“Loud and clear.” Tungdil sat down on the moss and leaned back against a tree. It was high time they met up with the leader of the undergroundlings. His friend and Goda both sat down next to him.

“What do you reckon? Think they like jokes?” Ireheart considered the undergroundling. “Perhaps that will lighten the atmosphere a bit.”

“But not the asking-the-way joke,” Goda rolled her eyes. “If you must, then try the one about the elf and the dwarf and the forest.”

“Yes, you’re right. The asking-the-way they might not appreciate.” He placed his fingers round the handle of his weapon. “They’re so difficult.”

“Just because they won’t laugh at your jokes? Well, that’s certainly a good reason for mistrusting a whole people,” said Tungdil lightly. “That can be your new motto: Laugh, or I’ll thump you. You could get it engraved on the side of your crow’s beak.”

Goda laughed out loud.

“Forty push-ups for you, apprentice.” Boindil’s pride was hurt.

“No sense of humor, master?”

He pretended to be offended. “Not when the joke’s on me.” He pointed to the ground. “Forty, if you please. And right down. I want to see moss on your nose.”

Protesting, Goda stood up and did what he had ordered.

Tungdil shook his head in disapproval, but Ireheart showed his teeth.

“Get your face right down into the moss,” he reminded her after the first thirty push-ups. He was enjoying watching the play of her muscles in the upper arms. Nowadays this was a sight he was finding altogether more attractive.

The undergroundling had kindled a large fire and took no notice of the three dwarves. Flames shot up high into the night sky, sending out a clear signal.

As if from nowhere there they were: two dozen silent figures standing between the trees, in light brown and black leather armor, leather breeches and boots. Their heads were protected by helmets, none quite like the next. The faces were all hidden. Each shut visor bore a demon visage engraved on the surface. The effect was uncanny and intimidating.

In their hands or on their belts Tungdil caught sight of short blackened iron batons one pace in length. At the end of each baton flashed a slim blade and a hook. It seemed the undergroundlings did not share the dwarves’ preference for heavy weaponry.

“Show yourselves,” said the dwarf who had led them to the valley. They all opened their visors.

Tungdil watched the beardless serious faces and noted that some of them were women. This aroused his curiosity. They did not seem to have the plumpness of dwarf-women that he knew; their form was taller and slimmer-more like human females.

One of the undergroundlings, at first sight just the same as the others, stepped forward. “I am Sundalon. You want something from me?” He rammed his staff into the mossy woodland floor, lifted the helmet from off his short light blond hair and waited.

Tungdil and his companions stood up and he introduced them all. “We must talk about the diamond,” he said, speaking freely. “We know now that it belongs to you, but through broka magic it has become much more powerful. We can’t just simply hand it over.”

Sundalon reached to his belt and took out a pouch. He opened it and tipped the contents out: glittering fragments and scintillating dust spilled onto the moss. “That is all that is left of the stones that we and the ubariu have captured. They were all forgeries.”

This did not make Tungdil feel more at ease. Now it was even more likely the genuine stone would fall into the hands of the unslayable siblings. And what they might be capable of doing with its magic power did not bear thinking about.

“We demand the return of our property,” said Sundalon. “It was stolen from us by a broka. It has taken five star courses for us to complete our preparations and to have the opportunity to regain it at last.”

“Why don’t you just cut yourselves a new one and leave us in peace?” Ireheart suggested, holding his crow’s beak weapon lightly in his hands. Lightly, but ready for use. Goda held her night star ready as well.

“Because only that diamond has the quality we need,” was Sundalon’s sharp reply. “It would be like having a key that fits but won’t turn in its lock.” He looked at Tungdil. “If the news we’ve gathered is true there are still three in the hands of your people and one has disappeared? Give us those three and we swear we’ll protect them against all threats.”

“You didn’t manage to keep yours safe the first time,” Boindil rubbed it in.

“And you can’t do it at all,” Sundalon retorted. “You can’t protect them from us or from the ubariu or from these monsters.”

“If you could explain why it’s so important, perhaps we could be persuaded to let you have it.” Tungdil attempted enticement.

To his disappointment the undergroundling shook his head. “If we could explain it freely we wouldn’t have kept ourselves hidden in your homeland for so long. Our land and our town are helpless without the diamond. Our enemies are strong and would attack us at once if they were aware of our weakness.”

Tungdil took a careful step forward. “We are dwarves, as you are. We would never betray you to your foes.” He knew that his statement contained a trace of untruth. He suspected that some of the thirdlings were certainly capable of malice and deceit, but Sundalon did not have to know this. “And anyway, the kings and queens know that it’s the undergroundlings, together with the orcs, trying to get the diamonds. You might as well talk about it. Your raids are no secret, Sundalon.”

“He is right,” said the undergroundling who had brought them to the valley. “Tell him about the trouble we are in and then let’s talk to the kings and queens.”

“No,” said Sundalon harshly. “What happens in this land is not our concern.”

“But they don’t understand the danger they’re in. The broka have put up white stones,” continued the undergroundling. “It’s starting here like it did with us, Sundalon. We could help avert the worst if we warn the dwarves and the humans.”

Sundalon fell silent and thought hard.

“I don’t know how you feel about it but baldy-patch is starting to worry me,” whispered Boindil. “What’s all this about the white stones? Does he mean what we saw when we were with the pointy-ears?”

“Saw? You touched it, remember?” Tungdil said quietly. “Who knows what it’s done to you.”

Ireheart went pale.

The nameless undergroundling turned to them. “Don’t trust the broka now, neither their words, nor their deeds, nor their smiles. They have been staring too long at the sun and aspire to become like it. They have become blind to everything else.” His tone was insistent. “It will start with deaths and nobody will know by whose hand the victims died. Then towns and villages will burn and there will be no survivors. Your people will suffer losses and will lie dead in the tunnels because the water is poisoned…”

“By Vraccas!” Ireheart exclaimed, horrified. “Do you hear that? They’re describing what’s happening in Girdlegard…” He stopped, lifting up his crow’s beak. “Was it you that did that and now you’re all for peace because it’ll make it easier for you to get the diamond?” He lowered his head aggressively between his hunched shoulders. “I swear by the dwarves that have died that I shall take revenge on you if it was you that did this!”

“No, it was not us,” said Sundalon. “Agreed. You shall learn the history of the diamond. Perhaps then you will believe us.” He sat down and started to relate…

The stone originated in the deepest mine of Drestadon. The finder paid for it with his eyesight because it was so dazzlingly bright. It was only possible to view and to cut the diamond when it was covered with a thick black cloth.

The gemstone-cutter needed seven star-courses to give the diamond its true form. The work took the flesh from his fingertips; his back became permanently bent and his eyes as weak as those of an old, old man. Finally he finished cutting and polishing the stone.

We took it to the ubariu rune master and he realized why the god Ubar had sent us the diamond.

The rune master prepared for war. He gathered an army and marched with it to the Black Abyss. Arising from the lightless depths and dark crannies evil had issued unceasingly to plague us. Ever since the stars started running, evil’s progeny had surged out from thence to attack us.

But there was also an age-old iron artifact, of no apparent use. It had long lost any power it once had wielded.

The runes it bore promised to close the Black Abyss for ever-if the Star of the Mountains ever returned to it.

The rune master led us and the ubariu into the midst of our enemies. There ensued a terrible battle waged against creatures more bestial than any you may have known in Girdlegard, but yet blessed with a form of outstanding beauty. Some found their way here: creatures you know as alfar. We call them sintoitar-they crawled out of the Black Valley over the mountains and came here.

Together with the ubariu we fought tirelessly and forced a path for the rune master through the black army to reach the artifact. That day many friends and relatives lost their lives and whole generations were wiped out.

Then the beasts realized that a greater danger was threatening them than they had ever known. If you had not seen it with your own eyes you could never imagine the merciless killing and slaughter.

The rune master floated up to the artifact. He placed the stone in its setting. It fitted! The stone awoke with dazzling beauty. Splendid and terrible beams of light transformed the ancient machine and brought it to life.

Evil’s creatures were driven back into the Black Abyss; most of them had met their deaths at our hands. Only a few of the more harmless ones managed to escape. They no longer presented any danger to us.

The artifact wove a veil of impenetrable magic, under which the abyss lay captive.

Until the day the broka arrived, overpowered our guards and stole the Star of the Mountains.

Sundalon dipped his hand into the spring and drank. “So far the creatures in the ravine have not yet noticed that their prison has been opened. They had sought new escape routes, but the gaps they discovered were always dangerous and difficult to use. Again and again some of them managed to get out.” He lowered his voice. “If one of them should realize in the course of a sortie that the main exit path is now open, and if it returned to summon the others, they would storm out of the abyss fueled by hatred and fury. They would destroy everything they came across.” He pulled his staff out of the mossy floor and indicated himself. “Us first.” The sharp end now pointed at Tungdil. “Then you. The alfar are the least dangerous of them.”

“So do these hybrid monsters made of beast and metal perhaps come from the Outer Lands?” Tungdil wondered aloud.

Sundalon shook his head. “We know of none such. They must have been born here.”

“That can’t be so. The alfar and all the dark creatures were destroyed by the Judgment Star. Most of them, at any rate,” said Goda, who had listened to the story as intently as the two other dwarves.

Sundalon considered this. “Was this Judgment Star a wall of white light that swept over the land?” She nodded. He drew his dagger, plunged it into the water and held it out with the broad side facing up. “If that is your land and my finger is the wall of light,” he ran his finger along the metal, wiping off the water, “what remains under the earth?” Large drops collected on the underside of the blade.

“You mean the magic won’t have penetrated the mountains and the deep ravines?”

“That is so. We have been to regions where this had been attempted before. There were always some beasts that survived.” Sundalon gazed at the dagger’s blade, wrapped in thought. “It didn’t work with us. The broka came and stole the stone and waited for the monsters to show themselves, to destroy them by magic so as to gain sole power. But they didn’t do her that favor, so the broka left with her retinue. Afterwards all the broka behaved strangely and we had to kill them before they destroyed us all.” He put away his dagger. “It wasn’t easy to eradicate them, but it had to be done.” He gazed at the dwarves’ thoughtful countenances. “They had lost their minds.”

“You won’t deny that our elves are behaving strangely, will you?” Boindil asked Tungdil. “I mean more strangely than usual.”

“We must nurse the injured elf back to health as soon as possible. He is certain to be able to tell us more. It won’t be for nothing they shot at him.” Tungdil nodded to Sundalon. “Come with me to Paland and tell the kings and queens what you have told us. Convince them! There’s no other way for you to get the true diamond because you won’t ever get inside the fortress walls. I give you my word that no one will take you prisoner, injure or kill you.” He lifted his ax.

“I swear this on the blade of Keenfire.”

The undergroundling with no name nodded to his leader encouragingly and finally Sundalon agreed. “We shall accompany you, Tungdil Goldhand.” He stood up. “But we would have got into the fortress,” he said with a smile of utter conviction.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Porista,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T ungdil, Boindil, Goda, the fifthling contingent and the undergroundlings did not have to go all the way to Paland.

In Porista the royal banners of the human realms stirred in the breeze above the city walls indicating that the mighty rulers of Girdlegard were once more assembled. And the banners were flying at half mast.

The dwarves marched through a town that was eerily quiet. The atmosphere in the streets was muted from oppression and fear, with any pleasures or delights smothered. On the way to the assembly tent they heard what had happened in Paland and how the defense force had been destroyed.

When Tungdil, Ireheart and Sundalon entered the royal marquee in the early part of the afternoon, humans, dwarves and elves were debating what they should do next. Goda waited outside, as always.

Prince Mallen’s seat was empty and on the throne-like chair that had once been Liutasil’s Tungdil saw an elf-woman in white robes and bearing the insignia of a sovereign. In her long pale hair costly gems were set; the bright gaze of her blue-green eyes scanned the newcomers. A successor to Liutasil had been found and she surpassed all others here in her beauty and her presence. She was introduced to him as Princess Rejalin. Tungdil immediately thought of the eoil.

King Bruron received the dwarves with a half-hearted smile and looked in surprise at the beardless dwarf who was taller than Tungdil by a hand’s breadth. “You will have heard about Paland?”

Tungdil nodded and bowed to the other rulers. “I was shocked to hear the news. So now there is only one diamond in Girdlegard. And nobody knows where it is.”

“One?” said Isika, deep foreboding in her voice. With her black hair and lined face she presented a dark contrast to Rejalin. The robe of the elf princess made her own sumptuous attire seem inferior. “Were you routed by these beasts as well?”

“No, I was defeated by Sundalon.” Rejalin stepped to one side to let the undergroundling be seen. “He comes from the Outer Lands, from a town at the foot of the mountain range. And he is on a quest to regain what belongs to them. Listen to his story.”

And Sundalon told them, as previously agreed with Tungdil, about the artifact whose power had stopped up the evil chasm. He told them how the eoil had stolen it, without mentioning that this eoil was a broka-an elf-woman. “We couldn’t tell anyone. We feared there would be long-drawn-out negotiations, even though it rightfully belongs to us. We also feared the monsters would hear about the missing artifact.” He stepped up to the table and spread out the fragments of the gemstone copies. The rulers looked despondently at the shimmering pile of crystalline remains.

“Either the beasts already have the real diamond or the one that’s got lost is the one with the incomparable magic power.” Tungdil’s voice broke the silence. “I think the beasts have long been in possession of the one that’s disappeared.” He turned to address the kings and queens. “We must put all our efforts now into getting it back. Two reasons: It must not be allowed to serve the sinister purposes of the unslayables and its power must be used to permanently seal up the evil ravine. Otherwise Girdlegard will not be safe.”

Rejalin turned her head to one side and observed Sundalon. “You formed an alliance with the orcs to get the stone back. Is that correct?”

Sundalon wrinkled his face in distaste. “I would never fight side by side with those creatures. The ubariu are honorable and are sworn enemies of the orcs. They are our brothers; our races were both created by the god Ubar.”

“They are like the orcs apart from the tusks, aren’t they?” Rejalin smiled. For that smile men would worship her as a goddess.

It had no effect on Sundalon. “They are taller in stature than orcs. Their eyes are the red of the rising sun and their philosophy is a thousand times better than that of a broka,” he retorted sharply. “If you regard them as your enemy you must take us as enemies also.”

“Strange,” said the elf-woman thoughtfully. “And what are… broka?”

“They are like you, but corrupt and false. They pretend to be benign and wise and keen to befriend all other folk. In reality they are trying to spread their own ideas. With no thought for others. They must be eliminated.”

Sundalon had spoken in dark tones. He was finding it hard to restrain himself.

“He means the alfar,” Tungdil came to his aid. “We cannot judge by appearances, Princess Rejalin. Your people know that only too well.”

She dropped her penetrating gaze. “I ask your pardon, Sundalon. I did not want to offend.”

“This is not good news that you bring us, Tungdil Goldhand,” sighed King Bruron. “It will be best if you set off for Idoslane straightaway with Keenfire in your hand. Prince Mallen is laying siege to the caves of Toboribor. We think the monsters are hiding their prize there. It will be extremely dangerous to fight these monsters without a magus at your side. We have been shown that superior numbers are no threat for them.” He contemplated the wonderful engravings on the head of Tungdil’s ax. “Only Keenfire will be able to withstand attacks from the sorcery of the unslayables and their allies.”

“As soon as the sun rises, I’ll be on my way,” nodded Tungdil.

A messenger hurried into the marquee, stepped up to Bruron and whispered to him. Tungdil feared that their planned daybreak departure would already be too late.

“We have a delegation wishing to bring us news,” said the king, turning to the doorway. “Send them both in.”

The curtains parted with a theatrical flourish and in stepped Rodario, in flamboyant robes as magnificent as any worn by the assembled monarchs. “My respects to you all, mighty sovereigns of Girdlegard, you humans, dwarves and elves, one and all.” He made a deep bow.

Tungdil was delighted to see his friend. This type of grand entrance was typical. For Rodario it was in fact quite restrained. No drums, no fanfare, no herald?

The kings and queens watched the dramatic approach of the new arrival with amazement, but limited their reactions to an amused raised eyebrow here, an expression of slight disapproval there.

“Wherever heroes are gathered and history is written, I must also be to hand. For who else would take true note and show events on the stage to future generations, if not myself?” Rodario granted the company the benefit of his dazzling smile.

“What ho! Lock up your women! The Fabulous Rodario has returned!” grinned Boindil.

Rodario smiled and stroked his elegant beard-shorter now than Tungdil recalled. “I have not come on my own, Your Gracious Majesties. I bring you a man who is able to answer many of the open questions puzzling Girdlegard.” He gestured to the door with his cane.

A moment later a man appeared. His short black hair and his thin moustache gave him a fleeting resemblance to Furgas, except for how old he looked. He was wearing a simple pair of breeches, a shirt over them, boots and a cloak. His clothing all seemed too big for him and flapped around his shrunken body.

“I have come to…” he whispered and threw Rodario an uncertain look. “I have come to atone for my deeds. I cannot ask forgiveness for what I have done.”

“By Vraccas! It really is Furgas,” Boindil said, horrified. He had recognized the magister technicus only by his voice. “Rodario the Incredible has incredibly managed to dig him out.”

“No, I did not dig him out, but freed him, good friend Boindil Doubleblade. On my own. Freed him from the clutches of thirdlings known as Bandilor and Veltaga, who have made their home on an island that they can submerge or bring up to the surface as they choose. In the middle of Weyurn’s waters.” The actor used every rhetorical trick in his repertoire as he described the meeting with Furgas. His narrative arts were such that the entire audience hung on his every word. “Finally we swam the five miles through the wild waters and arrived at Mifurdania. From thence we journeyed with the traveling Curiosum outfit to reach Porista,” he told them, concluding his tale. “So we have found the culprits who send out death devices to hound the dwarf peoples.”

“Masterly, indeed, Rodario,” said Isika graciously. “Magister Furgas. What deeds were you speaking of? Why did you say forgiveness could not be sought?”

“Because not only did I construct the island for Bandilor and Veltaga. I built the machines as well,” he whispered. He repeated the account he had given to Rodario. “Through my actions countless dwarves have lost their lives. It is my fault. More will die. The next device is on its way.” He asked for a glass of water. “You must pronounce sentence on me. I will accept any punishment.”

The marquee buzzed.

Tungdil went over to Gandogar to ask for clemency for Furgas.

The high king bent forward. “Do not worry. I am not seeking his life,” he said quietly. Then, raising his voice: “We shall not hold you responsible, magister technicus. Your genius and your injured soul were both abused by the dwarf-haters. Our revenge shall be against them, not you. You were their tool; they used you for their malign plans. But we shall never forget the countless victims. We demand of you that you do everything in your power to stop further dread events. For now you have our understanding. Do not disappoint us.”

“You see? Like I said: they can tell the difference. Now be brave and tell them everything,” Rodario said gently, brushing over Gandogar’s threat. “They won’t hurt you.”

Furgas sobbed. “I… built the machines,” he repeated, in despair.

“We have pardoned you,” repeated Gandogar.

“No, there are more machines, though.” He told the story through his tears of the malformed hybrid creatures he had adapted, constructed with his own hands. The kings and queens sat thunderstruck. They listened, horrified and enthralled at one and the same time. It defied imagination. “I am to blame that they are rampaging through Girdlegard, killing, maiming and bringing destruction.”

Tungdil watched the elf princess. Apart from himself she was the only one whose countenance was not a mask of disgust and fascination. On the contrary, she seemed glad. She was assuming, as was he, that she now understood the significance of the pit at the bottom of Weyurn’s lake. She turned her head abruptly and looked him in the eyes. He felt she could read his thoughts. “Let us look on the bright side of Master Furgas’s report: it means there is a new magic source in Girdlegard.” Rejalin’s voice rang out clear and true. “And it seems the unslayables do not know where it is. Those two thirdlings will be clever enough to keep it hidden from them, so that they can hold sway over them and keep them dependent.”

“Of course.” Tungdil understood at once what she meant. “The magi of Girdlegard left nothing to chance when selecting their own prime locations. They chose to be within the magic force fields: their power source. When the magi left the fields they would find their magic diminished after a few spells,” he explained. “Andokai the Tempestuous and my own foster-father Lot-Ionan once told me how it all worked. Only by using the power of the magic source were they able to perform their incredible feats with words, gestures and immense concentration.” He stopped to catch his breath. “I assume these machine monsters function by the same principle. They will have to reload with the magic, never mind what complicated mechanics they employ.”

Gandogar slammed his fist down on the table. “At last! A weak point!” he exclaimed with relief. “Magister Furgas! Where exactly is this source?”

Furgas shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Somewhere at the bottom of Weyurn’s lake.”

“You’ve no idea? A clue? Some island in the vicinity?” Isika gave an agonized groan. “By Palandiell, get thinking, man! It’s you we have to thank for this whole ghastly plague!”

“Most of my islands float, Queen Isika,” Queen Wey came to his rescue. “Even if he had noted one of them it wouldn’t help us.”

“Then,” said Tungdil Goldhand slowly, “we must bring up the island together with its thirdlings and just ask them.”

“We’ll be with you there.” Gandogar grinned. “For a cause such as this even dwarves shall take to water and defy the curse of Elria.” He looked at Queen Wey. “This is a matter for our folk, Your Majesty. I shall send you a contingent of my best warriors, dwarves of untarnished reputation without the slightest shred of a thirdling connection. They will be glad to fill the gaps in the ranks of your own army to make good the losses sustained in the Paland massacre. The island of the thirdlings will be taken by storm. And the magic source will be protected.”

Queen Wey inclined her head in agreement.

“I suggest we retire now and convene again in the morning for the last time. Then the groups will leave and do what has to be done,” announced King Bruron. “At long last we have an opportunity to do something about the dire threats that paralyze our native land. Palandiell will protect us.”

“May I help alleviate the shock and worry?” offered Rodario, bowing deeply. “I invite the mighty rulers this evening to attend an exclusive premiere performance in the Curiosum. The production is an exquisite comedy which should restore some laughter into these serious times. If we lose the ability to laugh, we have lost everything.”

Tungdil turned to Ireheart. “Your brother in spirit. Another who enjoys a joke.”

“Nobody tells them like I do,” the warrior replied quietly.

Rodario grinned. “Entrance will of course be free of charge. I shall not discourage you, however, from making a small donation to reward the troupe for their skill and artistry.”

To his surprise the monarchs promised to attend. It would be the most important performance of his entire life.

T ungdil, Ireheart and Goda had found a big room near the square where Bruron’s new palace was being built and the assembly marquees stood. The undergroundlings were staying in the same house. The landlord was a little more puzzled by them than by the dwarves, now a familiar sight.

They were brought a decent meal and a large jug of beer.

Goda was getting a lesson from the warrior twin about standing firm in battle. Boindil was showing her the various methods of sweeping an opponent off his feet with the edge of a shield.

“You have to make yourself heavy,” he explained, ramming his own shield against hers. There was a loud crash and the dwarf-woman retreated two paces. “Make yourself heavy, I said!” he scolded.

“But I had my whole weight on the floorboards,” she protested.

“Standing firm is a skill.” He waved her back into position. “But it’s more than just having broad feet and sturdy thighs. Stand so that your center of gravity is between your two feet, then bend your knees slightly and bring your head in and down.” He demonstrated. “Now try to push me over.”

Goda lifted her shield, took a run-up and slammed against her instructor. The noise was ear-splitting.

Boindil didn’t budge. “That’s what I meant by making yourself heavy. It’s important to be able to withstand an opponent’s attack-an orc in a fury, if need be.” He rubbed his belly. “And they’re twice as heavy as me.” He tapped her shield. “Try again. We’ll practice all night if we have to.”

“Ho, stop there,” called Tungdil, who was writing notes on the discussion in the assembly. There were still some puzzles. Speaking to Balba Chiselstrike, the only one to escape from Paland, had not thrown up any clues. She couldn’t recall any of the elf runes on the wheeled monster. Even Furgas could not remember any elaborate runic designs. But Tungdil knew the rune was there. Each of the creatures had been carrying one. Now he was annoyed not to have peace and quiet to work things out. “I’m trying to think. How can I when you two are carrying on like a couple of Vangas?”

“What are you trying to work out? It’s time for fighting now, not thinking, Scholar.” Ireheart’s eyes were blazing. “We haven’t found any orcs yet but these machines are quite something.” He whirled his shield around. “Ha! I’m itching to measure my skills against one of the undergroundlings!”

“Haven’t you already done that?” Tungdil remarked. “You lost, didn’t you?”

“That wasn’t a proper fight, for Vraccas’s sake. That was like trying to catch an eel.” He gave himself a shake. “When I say fight I mean axes and blades and heavy weapons. Crashing and clattering. I don’t really think they’re related to us.”

The way he said it, he’d already made up his mind: dismissive of them. Tungdil looked up. “They are dwarves. Nothing can change that.”

“Well, they see themselves as brothers to those orcs.” Goda’s answer was too swift. It seemed the two of them had already been discussing this during their combat exercises. “Their god created them at the same time. What was it they call him?”

“Ubar,” Tungdil supplied. He put his arm on the back of the chair, his expression reproachful. “I’m glad you two agree about something for once. But you sound just like the elf princess.”

Ireheart made a face. “Scholar. We can’t make common cause with the undergroundlings. They’re taller than us, they fight differently and they don’t even use axes. Only this…” He made the shape with his hands. “… this toothpick thing. No, we weren’t made from the same stuff as them.” He nodded at Goda, who charged at him again. Another mighty crash.

“You are being unfair,” said Tungdil, shaking his head.

“And you are obsessed,” the dwarf countered. “I saw how you were constantly watching them. It was obvious you wanted to talk to them to find out more. It stops you being objective. That’s science for you.”

“On the contrary. My judgment is extremely objective.” Tungdil wasn’t taking this lying down. “I’m probably the only one in all the five dwarf folks who is looking at them clearly. From everything you say it’s obvious how blinkered your viewpoint is. And you’re one of the few who are more open to new ideas…”

“And you have the right to judge others?” Ireheart charged Goda, who was steadier on her feet this time. This earned her a nod of respect. And a long gaze right into her eyes. Perhaps overlong.

She lifted her shield to cut his stare short.

“I’m not judging anyone.” Tungdil sat sighing over his notes. He was regretting this conversation. He knew it was no use talking to a stubborn dwarf like Ireheart. Every word would be misunderstood. “I’ll speak to Furgas later, to see if I can find out anything else about these creatures’ weak points. We won’t stand much of a chance without that knowledge. None of us-not even you.”

“We’ll see. My crow’s beak always finds a crevice to latch onto.” Ireheart was offended. “Come on, Goda. We’ll go and practice outside.” She rolled her eyes and followed him.

But once the others had left the room Tungdil was not able to regain his train of thought. Instead he mulled over Boindil’s words.

His friend was right. He was indeed fascinated by the undergroundlings. He knew hardly anything about them apart from their appearance being different from his own. He didn’t know how they lived in the Outer Lands, nor what the values and philosophy of their community might be.

He stood up and went over to the window to look down onto Porista. Its roofs, smoking chimneys, laundry fluttering on washing-lines all gave an impression of settled permanence. People had found the place they wanted to remain, they had started their families there.

This all ran contrary to his own feelings. He did not feel at home either with the dwarf folk or with the exiles, or with the humans. Even Balyndis could no longer give him that feeling of belonging; he was a loner, a fighting scholar.

Or perhaps, deep down, he did not really want that safety, that sense of belonging?

“Am I destined to be an eternal wanderer? Should I maybe go back to the Outer Lands with the undergroundlings? To help them restore the diamond to its rightful place?” He spoke quietly. “Will I find happiness, Vraccas?”

He looked at the jug of beer. The alcohol was calling to him, its smell reminding him of nights he had spent under its influence. When drunk he had ceased to quibble and worry.

Tungdil tried to resist the temptation but still he moved over toward the table. Just as he stretched out his hand to the handle of the jug there came a knock.

He dropped his hand at once and went over to open the door.

In the doorway there stood an undergroundling. A woman.

He had noticed her on the journey. Her skin was as dark brown as a nomad’s and she had kept near him on the march. She wore a beige tunic embroidered with thorny branches, fastened at the front with lacing, but showing part of her breasts. Now he could see her for the first time without the rather intimidating helmet. He stared at her shaven head. He had not been prepared for that. A woman without her crowning glory!

“May I come in?” she asked him with a smile. Her speech had the attractive lilt of a foreigner’s.

“Of course,” he said quickly, stepping aside to let her in. She was a hand’s breadth taller than he was. “What message does Sundalon send?”

She strolled around the room, stopping to examine the sketches in his little notebook. Her clear blue gaze alighted on the helmet he had drawn. “You’ve drawn mine!”

“Yes. Should I not have done that?”

“It doesn’t worry me.” She held out her hand and he noticed a wide scar on it. “I am Sirka.”

He shook hands with her. “Pleased to meet you. My name you already know, I think.” He waited in vain for her to tell him Sundalon’s message.

“It would be strange if I didn’t,” she replied with another smile.

He cleared his throat. “Forgive me if I was staring just now. The dwarf-women of Girdlegard have a different skin color and they don’t shave their heads. They wear their hair long.” He was feeling awkward.

“I don’t suppose we have very much in common,” said Sirka. “Sundalon tells me you’re a scholar.” She took up the little notebook and turned the pages. “You are interested in everything that’s new?”

“I am.” Tungdil was caught unawares by the dwarf-woman’s behavior-she suddenly stepped toward him, tossing the notebook onto the table.

She put her hands to his face, and pressed a kiss onto his lips. He did not try to push her away. “I like you very much, Tungdil,” she confessed, running her fingers over his chest. “I would love to show you something new, if you’d let me do that?” There was no doubt what the offer entailed.

“You undergroundlings indeed have little in common with our dwarf-girls,” Tungdil stated, with the touch of her lips still felt on his own. He had enjoyed the kiss. A great deal.

So much that this time it was Tungdil who kissed her. His placed his hands on Sirka’s slim hips and pulled her to him. He could smell the intense perfume on her neck, could feel the warmth of her body through the thin tunic. His hands wandered up to the laces of her gown… Then his conscience flared up.

“No,” he said hoarsely and quickly stepped away. “I belong to another.”

But Sirka followed him and embraced him. “What does that mean, ‘ belong ’?”

He avoided her and put a chair between the two of them. “Sirka, you flatter me,” he said, trying hard to control his feelings and not give in to her urging. “But I am tied to Balyndis and as long as that is so I cannot allow myself to indulge in an adventure like this.”

She laughed. “Oh, I understand. You people go in for lasting relationships.”

“Don’t you?”

“No, we love for as long as we like. When feelings change, we part. Perhaps for a while, perhaps for ever. It makes life easier, Tungdil. Life is short enough.” Sirka gazed at him. “You’re looking for something new? How would this be: Accompany us to Letefora. On the way I’ll tell you everything you need to know about our people.”

“Letefora is…?”

“A town. One of many in my homeland. And very different from towns in Girdlegard.”

“Yes,” he said, without a moment’s hesitation. “That would be delightful,” he added more thoughtfully.

She laughed and gave him another kiss, running her fingers through his hair and stroking his beard. “That would be delightful,” she repeated as she went to the door. “We shall be seeing a lot of each other, Tungdil. I shall teach you well. The lesson you missed today we can take up again at leisure.” She opened the door and left the room.

Tungdil sat down. He was aflame, with her scent still in his nostrils and the taste of her mouth in his own. Sirka had captured him with her open unaffected manner. It was not only her physical charms he was thinking of. He was looking forward to the lessons she had promised him.

But first he would send a letter to Glaimbar and talk to Balyndis. Or, better still, he would write her a long letter.

He took a sheet of paper and wrote a few lines to Glaimbar first, sealing the note and laying it on the table in front of him.

Then he started the letter to his consort Balyndis, ending his relationship with her. Not an easy task, even for a scholar like himself.

The words would not flow smoothly from the pen. He was struggling. He wrote that he would never be able to make her happy. Not in the long term. Not how she would wish it. And the long term, for his people, was a very long time. He did not want to do this to her.

Meeting the undergroundling woman was only a prompt for this parting. He had long been aware in himself that things were not as they should be, but he had always sought the reason elsewhere. He had never been more certain than now that Balyndis deserved better than this.

In his choice of phrasing he was scrupulous to take the blame on himself and not to give her the impression that she bore any responsibility for the failure of their partnership. His lines would affect her harshly, all the same.

This letter, too, he sealed and laid on top of the note to Glaimbar.

There was no going back. The meeting with Sirka brought home to him what was missing in his life: passion. Something new. Scholarship and the spirit of enquiry were his curse. He did not want safety and shelter.

“Vraccas, what malleable stone did you take when you formed me?” he sighed. He had absolutely no desire to attend the theater performance.

Girdlegard,

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Porista,

Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle

T ungdil woke with a start. He must have dropped off over his notes and in the meantime night had fallen in Porista.

Standing up and stretching his aching back, he heard the vertebrae click back into place.

Sleep had brought no brilliant ideas about how to catch the elves out and expose their malice. He had no evidence-only the undergroundlings’ warnings and his own observations back in Alandur. The elf they had found in the forest was still lying unconscious in the guesthouse on the edge of town, where they had left him guarded by ten soldiers. They had managed to keep his presence quiet.

“If only he’d come round.” Tungdil shook his head. He picked up the tankard of beer. This particular temptation must be removed before he went to bed. He opened the window and chucked the contents out. It splashed onto the cobbles. The danger was past. “Why isn’t everything that simple?”

A shadow swung down from the roof and in through the window, striking him on the chest.

Tungdil crashed back and hit his head on the edge of the table. He saw stars.

Three black-garbed figures leapt in. Their faces were masked and they carried short swords. One secured the door, and the other two pinioned Tungdil’s arms. A blade was pressed against his throat.

“Where is it?” whispered a female voice.

“Where’s what?”

“Keenfire!” she hissed.

“Hey, thickheads,” said the man at the door, pointing to where the ax hung in its case from a protruding beam against the wall.

“Samusin is with us. It’s going to be easier than I thought,” she laughed. “I was afraid we’d have to deal with that mad fighting dwarf and his apprentice as well.” The man next to her stood up and reached for the ax.

This galvanized Tungdil into action. He jerked his head to one side and thrust the blade away, forcing it into the woman’s unprotected thigh. He reaped a small cut on his hand but she received a deep slash on her leg.

“It’s mine,” he yelled, drawing his knife. He had soon realized that these intruders were not trained assassins or experienced thieves. They were mere beginners and he was eager to find out why they had set their sights on the most important weapon in Girdlegard.

The woman yelped with pain and he whacked her on the forehead with the handle of his dagger so that she collapsed on the floor. He set after the man who had just grabbed the ax, stabbing him from behind in the leg.

The man roared and spun round, swinging Keenfire to attack him. Tungdil ducked and the tip of the ax buried itself in a wooden post.

“Let go,” growled Tungdil threateningly, leaping forward knife in hand to force his adversary to retreat.

The man crashed against a chest of drawers and the blade struck him in the side; he broke off cursing and pressed his hands over the spurting wound.

Tungdil wrenched the ax out of the wooden beam and whirled it in his hands. Watchfully he approached the last of the three masked intruders. “Now tell me who you are and how you got the crazy idea to steal Keenfire from me.”

The man brandished his short sword, the blade quivering. “Get back!”

“On the contrary.” Tungdil feigned an ax-blow, and while the other was trying to dodge it, he kicked him in the groin so he sank groaning to his knees. Tungdil placed the heavy blade at his neck to let him feel its deadly pressure. “Well?”

“Kill us and you will never see Lot-Ionan again,” the woman spoke, pulling herself upright on the post. She let herself fall, groaning, onto a chair and examined the wound in her thigh.

“So you’re the ones who stole him?”

“I said right at the start that it was a stupid idea to steal the dwarf’s ax,” moaned the man who had been stabbed in the side. “Get a medicus. I’m bleeding to death here.”

“No one leaves this room till I know who you are.” Tungdil stood threateningly at the door.

The woman pulled off her face-mask and used the cloth to bind her wound. She was no older than eighteen cycles. A hank of light brown hair had escaped from her headscarf. “I’m Risava of Panok. That’s Dergard, and he’s Lomostin. We were Nod’onn’s famuli and ever since his death when the force fields were lost we’ve been trying to find a way to bring magic back to Girdlegard,” she revealed to the astonished dwarf. She stood up and limped over to where the injured man lay.

“What do you want with Lot-Ionan’s statue if you were followers of Nod’onn?”

Risava looked at the men, who both took off their masks. “We were going to try to free him from the spell. He can help us. Our land needs the skills of magic so that we can stop the creatures who are hunting down the diamond.” Her face darkened. “If you had only listened to Nod’onn this would never have happened.”

Tungdil thought she must be joking. “Andokai said the petrification spell was irreversible.”

“Perhaps for Andokai it was,” Risava spoke with disdain.

“Have a care,” warned Lomostin. “Don’t tell him too much.”

“Wrong.” Tungdil stroked his ax. “Tell him everything. It is better for your health. You can still cast spells if need be without your foot.”

Risava moved back and spoke to her companions. Tungdil did not take his eyes off them and readied himself to prevent them escaping.

At last she turned back to him. “Right, I’ll explain. Andokai did not have the knowledge that we have. We have spent the last few cycles studying Nudin’s secret library and learning magic spells. In theory. But we do not have the magic energy to give life to the formulae.” Risava indicated the ax. “We thought we’d be able to get enough magic force from Keenfire to free Lot-Ionan. He would know what to do.”

“He would never teach you.” Tungdil did not dare to believe what she was saying. He could not tell whether she was speaking the truth or not.

“Nod’onn or Nudin, no matter now. He is dead,” said Dergard, still holding his privates in agony. “We mourned him for long enough to know his views had been corrupted by the daemon within. He had no free will anymore.” He looked at Risava. “She’ll understand. In our hearts we renounced Nod’onn long ago. As she said: we have Nudin’s knowledge and want to continue his works- his works, not Nod’onn the traitor’s. Lot-Ionan would have taken us on, I’m sure of it.”

“Stealing the statue wasn’t a good start.” Tungdil took the ax away from the neck of the famulus. “You should have told me and King Bruron.”

“He’d not have believed us any more than the people of Girdlegard, or you.” Risava stood up carefully leaning on a chair. “We want to bring Lot-Ionan back to life. The humans, the elves, the dwarves-they all have faith in him. He would have found a way to present us as his new initiate pupils without our reputation going before us.”

Tungdil stepped past her to check the injured man’s wounds.

“The wound in the leg isn’t bad and the left side will heal quickly,” he said after a swift inspection. “We’ll clean it up and get you stitched up. Then you should have bed-rest for a few orbits until it has all healed over.” He looked at Risava. “You will take me and my friends to the statue. You may have Keenfire and you can try to revive Lot-Ionan with it.” His eyes took on a threatening glint. “But if you try any treachery, you and your friends will be killed. At the moment you are no use to Girdlegard, so it makes no difference whether you’re around or not.”

“It’s a waste of time,” said Lomostin through clenched teeth. “I was holding the ax in my hands and there’s not enough magic in it. It won’t be any use for our plan. The magic source…”

Risava bent down and touched his wound as if by mistake; the rest of his sentence disappeared in a howl of pain.

For Tungdil the hint was enough. He grabbed her arm and twisted it. “You know about the source?”

Risava stared at him stubbornly and remained silent.

“Tell him,” said Dergard. He took a deep breath to relieve the pain in his side. “Perhaps he knows what we can do. The fate of Girdlegard is at stake now, not just our own futures as famuli.”

“So what are you supposed to tell me?” Tungdil increased the pressure on her arm. Her wrist would soon snap. “It’ll be difficult to do magic without your arm.”

She clenched her teeth, tears streaming down her face. “I’ll turn you to ashes with a single spell,” she grunted.

“But you can’t,” he replied, twisting further. There was a grating sound. “Speak now or watch your bones stick out through the skin.”

Risava moaned. “A new magic source,” she stuttered. He let go of her arm. She curled up in pain, her forearm against her chest. “We have found a new source, but it’s in Weyurn. Under the lake. It’s too deep to get to.”

Tungdil felt enormous relief. He felt elated for the first time. There was going to be an answer to the threat from the unslayables. Lot-Ionan, the submerging island and the famuli-together they gave him the answer to the prayers he had sent up to Vraccas.

But he forced himself to conceal his feelings. If they really had Nudin’s archive and had studied his spells they must not be allowed to learn that it might be possible to get down to the lakebed. Not until Lot-Ionan was restored to life and could decide for himself. “We shall see what we can come up with,” he said calmly. “First take me and my friends to where the statue is. Lot-Ionan shall be in my care from now on.”

“What are you going to come up with that hasn’t already occurred to us?” objected Risava. “The water is many hundred paces deep according to the fishermen we’ve asked. No diver can get near. If you could get down you’d never get back up.”

“My race has achieved many things,” he smiled at her. “Now, let’s get some of my friends and we’ll bring the statue to safety.” Tungdil opened the door, one hand still keeping Keenfast at the ready.

Dergard pointed to Lomostin. “What about him?”

Tungdil gave him an encouraging glance. “A medicus will come and see to him. As soon as we have the statue.” He waved the others out, closed the door and blocked it from the outside using a flagstaff that he’d taken off the wall, jamming it under the door handle.

T he performance was going very well.

The great and the good of Girdlegard were sitting in the Curiosum watching the action on stage with refined smiles. The script was from Tassia’s pen. Those who were not so great and good were splitting their sides with laughter. The combination of Tassia’s acting talent and her undoubted physical charms had enthralled the audience.

Rodario, not needed in this first act, was watching the spectators happily, if slightly enviously, through a hole in the scenery. Tassia was his creation but she was getting all the attention these days. She was overtaking him in the theater hierarchy here-in his own troupe and in front of his own audience.

“Look, Furgas,” he whispered. “The men adore her and the women admire her.”

“You’ve conjured your rival up yourself,” the props man retorted quietly, as he checked the strings that controlled the smoke colors and the flames-anything to do with his special stage effects.

He had spent the preceding orbits sorting out any small hiccoughs in the various contraptions. Time had not left his inventions unscathed. But now everything ran like clockwork. The scenery changed by itself, with the sun rising and sinking automatically. Trees moved in the wind and Furgas had even introduced some artificial forest smells to make the illusion complete.

“Have I said how glad I am to have you back with us?” Rodario said seriously.

“Because I’ve repaired everything?” his friend grinned.

Rodario turned to face him. “Not only that,” he smiled back, clapping him on the shoulder.

“I’m very glad to be out of the clutches of the thirdlings. I’m in your debt.” When the cue came on stage, Furgas tugged the yellow string and the lamp above Tassia went dark. The light faded gradually, the sun set, and the night sky was revealed, to murmured appreciation from the audience.

The actor laughed out loud. “You’re working off your debt to me splendidly.”

A door flew open and Tungdil stepped into their narrow space backstage. “Oh, sorry. I thought it was the side entrance.”

“It is. For the actors,” hissed Rodario. “Quiet. You’re much too late for the performance. We haven’t got any more seats but you can watch from the gangway. I will give permission,” he said graciously.

“There’ll soon be a seat free. I need Ireheart.” He pushed Rodario aside and looked through the spyhole to find his friend in the audience.

“What’s happened?” asked Furgas tensely. “Have the monsters arrived?”

“No. Something good’s happened at long last,” he whispered happily. “Three famuli have turned up-they stole Lot-Ionan’s statue and they tell me there’s a way to bring him back to life. One of them’s injured; up in my room. I’m going off with the other two to collect the statue.”

“By Palandiell! Can it be true?” Rodario bent down. “Shall I stop the performance?”

“No, I want to be absolutely sure they’ve got the statue, and I want it in my hands before we tell anyone else.” Tungdil beamed at him. “And they know where the source is.”

“What source?” Furgas pulled the red string now, letting a cloud of fog rise onto the stage. “ The source?”

“The magic source, exactly. The one the monsters get their power from.” He hurried to the corridor that led to the auditorium. “I’ll tell you more later,” he said excitedly. “I’ve got to get on now.” He nodded to them both. “There’s hope. Great hope.” Then he disappeared.

Watching through the spyhole, Rodario saw Tungdil go up to Ireheart and Goda. The three of them left the marquee at once. “What do you say to that?” he smiled. “It’s just one momentous occasion after another. I’ve got more material than I can ever turn into plays.” He stroked his beard. “I’ll start up another Curiosum,” he decided. “Tassia can run it. What do you think?”

“Smart idea, Rodario,” said Furgas. “That’s the way to sideline your rival-promote her.”

Rodario nodded. “Exactly. And she’ll be eternally grateful to me. Lovemaking right, left and center, nights of passion whenever I knock on her door.” He heard his cue and adjusted his costume before he stepped out through the curtain on stage, winking at Furgas. “I’m terribly pleased with myself.”

The scene was an adaptation of the time Nolik had stormed into his caravan. Here on stage the number of attackers had obviously been increased for the sake of the action; the fight for Tassia’s affections and the struggle for the jewelry were even more dramatic. Soon the ruffians lay senseless on the floor or had taken flight.

“And thus love and a sword triumph over adversity.” Rodario addressed the spectators.

Tassia joined him, holding up the necklace. “And the necklace makes up for everything I had to endure.” The thin gold shimmered and glowed; the rock crystal flashed in the lamplight from the stage and sent sparks dancing over the audience-over humans, dwarves and elves. Tassia threw herself into Rodario’s embrace. “What are you going to give me to make up for what I shall have to endure with you?” she asked, fluttering her lashes.

“The diamond!” came a shout from the audience.

“No, not a diamond,” Rodario picked up the cue. “Not a diamond-I shall give you my heart!”

Gandogar leaped onto the stage, his right hand closing over the pendant. “Lights!” he shouted.

“Your Royal Highness, Noble Majesty, high king of all the dwarf realms, sire. I know your people are awfully keen on gems and jewelry and that you get really passionate about them, but you are ruining my play!” said Rodario, politely but with impatience. He grabbed the necklace. “Go and sit down again, Your Majesty, and watch the final act. I rule here on this stage. You will be good enough to recognize my status.”

Gandogar pulled the jewel out of his hands again. “This is one of the diamonds, you idiot thespian!” insisted the king. “Can’t you understand?”

Rodario laughed. “Your connoisseur’s eye has been deceived here, Your Noble Majesty.” Faster than the dwarf could react, Rodario had taken possession of the necklace. “The pendant is made of polished rock crystal, not diamond.” He swung it from his hands. “It is paste, Your Majesty. I would never use a genuine precious gem as a stage prop.”

“I am the king of the fourthlings; my tribe is descended from the best gemstone cutters amongst the children of the Smith and if anyone knows about jewels then it’s going to be me, not some actor!” he retorted so angrily that his beard quivered. “Give me the diamond! At once!”

Tassia tried to mediate. But just then a huge creature mounted the stage. It was taller than dwarf or human and thick strings of twisting muscle showed under its gray-green skin. Apart from a leather loin cloth and boots it was naked. Round its forearms white chains hung.

Its contorted alfar gaze was focused on the pendant, the eyes glowing green. “Give me the necklace!”

Everyone in the auditorium stared in surprise.

King Bruron was the first to applaud. “What a magnificent performance!” he called. “The creature looks just like the one Tungdil and the soldiers described.”

“Totally lacking in taste,” complained Isika.

Rodario and Tassia stepped back; the actor held up his sword. “Run, Gandogar!” he said hoarsely, horror compressing his larynx. Hastily he thrust the jewel at him. “Save the last of the stones from Tion’s creatures.”

Then mayhem broke out in the theater marquee.