dwarf2

III

Enchanted Realm of Ionandar,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nula blinked, this time almost reproachfully.

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

The owl seemed unconvinced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The incursion of the Perished Land, the älfar, the orcs — they’re all connected?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll be sure to bring them,” he promised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And thus Furo carried his master, who was clinging on for dear life, across Ionandar and beyond.

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

The Blacksaddle? Never heard of it!” The morning could scarcely have got off to a less auspicious start. Tungdil pushed the map to one side as the publican placed his breakfast on the table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still the hordes kept coming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” growled Kragnarr quickly, promptly followed by Bashkugg.

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

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

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

“No,” the älf said firmly. “This is about territory, not corpses.”

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

“Content yourselves with killing the armies that are raised against you,” the älf advised him coldly. “You know my master’s will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What now?” Ushnotz wanted to know.

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

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

Bashkugg scratched his chin doubtfully. “Didn’t the älf tell us not to —”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vraccas almighty! He froze at the sight.

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

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

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

It was the pain that woke him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow he would press on with his errand and deliver the pouch. Then it would be time for him to persuade Lot-Ionan to take action before the orcs and älfar grew any more powerful.

When Tungdil woke the next morning, he was forced to concede that the sacking of Goodwater was not, as he had hoped, just a dream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s feverish,” said a blurry, misshapen figure, his voice echoing oddly in the dwarf’s ears. Someone was examining his leg. “He doesn’t look good. It’s gangrenous. We’ll have to move him to the barn.” Tungdil felt himself hovering in midair. “He’ll need an herbal infusion.”

“He looks funny,” said a childish voice. “What is he?”

“He’s a groundling,” the woman answered.

“You told me they live in the ground! What’s he doing up here?”

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

The air was warm and smelled of hay. Tungdil could hear mooing. The rain seemed to stop and the light dimmed. “Goodwater,” he said weakly. “Goodwater has fallen to the orcs.”

“What did he say?” The woman sounded worried.

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

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

Footsteps approached rapidly. “Here’s the infusion,” said the girl. “So that’s what a groundling looks like!”

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

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

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

“Come back here!” hissed the girl. “You can’t just search his pockets. It’s rude!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which folk do you belong to?”

“Are you rich?”

“Where are your diamonds?”

“How many orcs have you slain?”

“Are all groundlings small like you?”

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

“Why isn’t your beard very long?”

“How many names have you got?”

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

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

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

“Why?” Jemta protested cheekily.

He grinned at her. “Because certain things aren’t meant for young ears!” They left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A message? I’ll send someone who can note it down for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want with the Blacksaddle?”

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

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

“Thank you,” Tungdil said warmly. “I’m most grateful to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IV

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

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

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

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

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

“We’re dwarves, not groundlings.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plate armor, thought Tungdil, blinking nervously.

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

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

“Are you the smith?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The conversation was over.

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

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

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

“We can’t accept this,” the villager objected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t mean to be nosy,” said Tungdil, “but you seem a little on edge.”

Hîl stopped laughing abruptly. “You’re observant, groundling.”

“Dwarf. I’m a dwarf.”

“A dwarf. I see. I didn’t know there was a difference.” “There isn’t; but the proper term is dwarf. Just as you prefer to be called humans and not grasslings or beanpoles.”

Hîl grinned. “My mistake.”

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

“So what’s wrong with the mountain?” asked Tungdil, dipping a crust into the egg yolk.

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

Hîl settled down by the fire and his companion began his tale.

Many cycles ago there was a mountain called Cloud-piercer, whose summit towered high into the sky. Taller and prouder than any other peak in Girdlegard, it was tipped with snow throughout the seasons and its loftiest pitches were made of pure gold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Long moments passed while Tungdil studied the markings, struggling to make sense of the strange, cumbersome formulations. At last, when he had translated the runes into modern dwarfish, he was able to divine the meaning of the lines.

Built with blood,

It was drenched in blood.

Erected against the fourthlings,

It fell against the fourthlings.

Cursed by the fourthlings,

Then abandoned by all five.

Roused by the thirdlings

Against the will of the thirdlings.

Drenched again

In blood,

The blood

Of all their

Line.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After barely three paces he felt an almighty shudder and the doorway closed on Girdlegard’s night sky. The stars of Girdlegard twinkled their farewell and the dwarf was trapped inside.

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

The lofty buildings of the majestic palace shone luminous white against the clear blue sky. Sable turrets rose among the domed roofs, sparkling in the sunshine. Like beacons, their shimmering brightness and imposing height lit the way to Lios Nudin from a distance of fifty miles. A traveler would have to be blind to miss Porista.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Our magic has done nothing to prevent the Perished Land from casting its shadow over Gauragar, Tabaîn, landur, and the fallen kingdoms of Lesinteïl and the Golden Plains,” Lot-Ionan said at last.

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

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

“No,” Andôkai contradicted him. “It’s lurking and ready to pounce. If we do nothing, it will attack.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t forget to see Sabora!” Lot-Ionan called after him.

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

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

“My favorite magus,” she replied with a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gorén? What would Gorén be doing in Porista? He lives in Greenglade.”

“Turgur said something about a meeting he held with Gorén and one of Nudin’s apprentices. It was here in Porista, the last time we met.”

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

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

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

“You’re right,” she said. “I’ll ask Andôkai to swap kingdoms and then we’ll be a little closer.”

“I’m sure her subjects would welcome the change. The calm after the storm — isn’t that what they say?”

“Still waters run deep,” she informed him with a playful sparkle in her gray-brown eyes.

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

Tungdil’s sharp dwarven vision soon adapted to the darkness. The walls around him had been hewn cleanly from the dark flesh of the mountain and polished to a sheen. Smooth surfaces were the hallmark of dwarven masonry; he couldn’t imagine a human laborer going to such lengths.

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

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

“Hello? Is that you, Master Gorén? Is there anyone there?”

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

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

“Sorry,” he shouted, hurrying on. It was time he found Gorén.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He remembered the runes at the entrance to the tunnel.

Erected against the fourthlings, it fell against the fourthlings.

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

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

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

You’re imagining things, he told himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

V

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle

That evening the six magi assembled in the conference chamber to prepare for the ritual.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t explain now. I’ll tell you later,” Turgur promised. “You’ll second me, won’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He beat her to it.

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

“You’d better tell us what you’ve done,” Lot-Ionan commanded sharply.

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

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

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

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

“‘It’?” Maira queried, horrified. “You don’t mean the Perished Land? Are you saying you talked to it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For Girdlegard,” Maira shouted. “Stop the traitor!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You had your chance,” he rasped, drawing a few paces closer and stopping by the fallen Andôkai. “I asked you to help me and you refused. Much good will it do you. I’ll show you what —”

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

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

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

“Andôkai!” In an instant, Sabora was at her side, laying hands on the wound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nudin, I’m begging you —” she whispered urgently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When everything was still in the chamber, a colossal warrior forced himself through one of the windows, stepped over the bodies, and knelt beside Andôkai. The palace echoed with his bestial howls.

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Early Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

Tungdil was making swift progress. His boots devoured the miles, carrying him on a northwesterly course ever closer to Greenglade. The shortest route to his new destination took him through the enchanted realm of Lios Nudin, home to Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A branch snapped loudly.

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

Another branch snapped.

“Who goes there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You and whose army?” the orc jeered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not done yet!” Rolling onto his front, he used his momentum to plant his ax in the orc’s right thigh, almost severing his leg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That makes two, Tungdil thought grimly.

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

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

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

“Gladly, groundling!” The orc gave a grunt of delight as he eyed Tungdil’s knife. “What’s that, a toothpick? Just what I need to clean your flesh from my jaws!” He raised his sword.

Kingdom of Urgon,

Girdlegard,

Early Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

A joint army?” Lothaire laughed out loud. Urgon’s sovereign was a youth of twenty-one cycles. He flicked his long blond hair and gestured for more water. “You want us to fight together against the Perished Land?”

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

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

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

“Absolutely. Our survival depends on it.”

“Shouldn’t we leave it to the magi to repair the girdle before we —”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Our armies shall follow my lead.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

His guest leaned over the table to study the map.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tilogorn hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VI

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Early Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

Over here, you runt,” a voice cried lustily in dwarfish. “Come here so I can slaughter you!” A squat figure pushed its way between the orc’s legs, whipped out two short-hafted axes, and planted them in the orc’s vulnerable nether regions.

Oinking derisively, the diminutive warrior jerked the weapons out of his opponent’s crotch and launched himself into the air like an acrobat, seemingly unhampered by his heavy mail. On his way down he struck again, hewing the neck of the orc who was doubled up in pain. The axes sliced from both sides, almost meeting in the middle. The beast crumpled to the ground.

“By Beroïn’s beard,” the warrior scolded Tungdil, “what were you doing dropping your ax?”

“You’re a… dwarf!” Tungdil gasped in surprise, scrambling to his feet.

“Of course I’m a dwarf! What did you think I was? An elf?” He bent down, picked up the ax, and tossed it to Tungdil. “Don’t let go of it this time. We’ll save the talking for later.” With a grim laugh he threw himself back into the frenzied scrum.

Tungdil spotted a second dwarf, identical to the first in every detail except his beard. He was slashing vigorously at his opponents with a crow’s beak, a kind of spiked war hammer equipped with a curved spur as long as his lower arm.

“I thought you said you wanted our flesh? Too bad you didn’t bring more of your friends!” shouted Tungdil’s rescuer, taunting the orcs. “Your pig-ugly mothers must have slept with a hideous elf to make monsters like you,” he boomed. “With a one-legged, mangy, no-eared elf. She probably enjoyed it!” When one of the orcs lunged forward, snarling with rage, the dwarf dispatched him with a flash of his axes. “Come on, don’t be shy,” he harried them. “You can all take a turn.”

His fellow warrior preferred to work silently, wreaking his own brand of deadly havoc, slicing through limbs and hewing torsos with well-aimed swipes.

By now the orcs numbered just four, their slain comrades littering the ground around them and drenching the soil with their blood. Closing ranks, the last of the beasts prepared for a joint attack. The dwarves immediately drew together, standing back-to-back.

“Huzzah! That’s more like it!” shouted Tungdil’s savior, his eyes gleaming maniacally.

Rather than wait for the orcs to engage them, they whirled their way forward into the mob, spinning on their axis like a dancer in a music box, each warning the other in dwarfish of any threats from behind.

This unconventional strategy secured the dwarves a speedy victory against their more numerous foes. The last orc went to his death to the sound of their laughter and cries of “oink, oink!”

Tungdil was profoundly impressed. The dwarven warriors had dispatched an entire band of orcs without incurring so much as a scratch. He gazed at them in dumb admiration, then realized he had done nothing to help.

“May the fire of Vraccas’s furnace burn in you forever,” the second dwarf greeted him. “My name is Boëndal Hookhand of the clan of the Swinging Axes and this is my twin brother, Boïndil Doubleblade or Ireheart, if you prefer. Secondlings, the pair of us.” His friendly brown eyes studied Tungdil shrewdly.

“You can see straightaway that he wouldn’t stand a chance against a band of orcs,” his brother said, guffawing. “He had enough trouble with just one of those runts. What kind of idiot drops his only ax?” He checked himself and looked at Tungdil. “I’m assuming you weren’t planning to strangle them with your bare hands?”

“Oh no, sir,” said Tungdil. “I’d be dead by now if you hadn’t come along.” He blinked. There was something peculiar about Boïndil’s eyes, a strange flicker that gave him a rather frenzied look. He was probably still fired up from the battle.

“There are no sirs here,” said Boëndal with a smile. “We dwarves were all hewn from the same rock.”

“Absolutely, I’m sorry. All the same, you saved my l-life,” stuttered Tungdil, his relief at being rescued already eclipsed by the excitement of meeting others of his race: For the first time since Ionandar — for the first time ever — he was face-to-face with real dwarves. A thousand questions jostled for attention in his head.

Boëndal’s plait rippled down his back like a long black snake as he shook his head good-naturedly. “You don’t have to be grateful. We’d do the same for any dwarf.”

“Even a thirdling,” chortled Boïndil, “although we’d give him a good hiding as well.” He bent down to wipe his gore-encrusted axes in the long grass.

“It took us a while to find you.” Boëndal paused. “You are Tungdil Bolofar, aren’t you?”

“What a name!” his brother grumbled. “Bolofar! It’s not some magical piffle paffle, is it?”

Tungdil’s astonishment was stamped on his face. “Yes, that’s me,” he said slowly. “But how did you —”

“What’s the name of your magus and the purpose of your journey?” the twins demanded.

“ Lot-Ionan the Forbearing is my magus, and as for my journey…” He paused, then continued firmly. “You have my undying gratitude and deepest respect, but the purpose of my journey is my own private business and I’m not ready to share it with you yet.”

Boïndil roared with laughter. “Pompous as a scholar, but I like his spirit.” He clapped Tungdil on the back. “Don’t worry. Lot-Ionan told us that he’d sent you to look for Gorén. We wanted to be sure that we had the right dwarf.”

“The right dwarf?” For a moment Tungdil was mystified; then he remembered Lot-Ionan’s letter to the secondlings. “My clansfolk want to meet me!” He could barely keep the excitement from his voice. “But why the escort? Is it because of the orcs?”

“That too, but it’s more a matter of getting you safely to the high king. Gundrabur is expecting you as a matter of urgency,” explained Boëndal, tearing a scrap of cloth from an orcish jerkin and carefully wiping his crow’s beak.

His brother produced an oily rag and polished his gleaming axes. “Someone should get the orcs an escort,” he chuckled. “Vraccas knows they need all the help they can get.”

“The high king,” Tungdil whispered, awestruck. “What an honor! But why would he want to see me?”

“We’re supposed to get you back to Ogre’s Death so you and the other contender can stake your claims to the throne.” He made it sound like the most natural thing in the world.

“My claim?” Tungdil echoed incredulously. He looked at the twins’ craggy faces. “What claim? Which throne? What’s this got to do with me?”

“He should change his name to Baffledbrain!” wheezed Boïndil. “Well, fry me an elf if the poor fellow isn’t quite ignorant! Let’s get away from these snout-features before the stench makes me vomit. I say we walk another mile or so, set up camp, and tell him everything, agreed?” He looked to his twin for confirmation.

Tungdil wasn’t consulted on the matter, but luckily for the others, he was dying of curiosity and followed without a fuss. They marched for a while, then left the path and camped in the woods.

“There’s nothing better than a decent meal after a hard-fought victory.” Boïndil kindled the fire, skewered some cheese, and held it above the flames.

“And after a defeat?”

“If you’re dead, your belly won’t bother you. In any event, Vraccas will give you some victuals from his smithy.”

The smell of molten cheese was overpowering. Tungdil choked. “I think I know that aroma. I smelled it when I pulled off my boots after twenty-one orbits of walking.”

“Oh, our food isn’t good enough for you, is it?” said Boïndil, trying to copy Tungdil’s look of disdain. “This is the best cheese in the kingdom, I’ll have you know. Come on, give him a piece, Boëndal. It’s time he got used to the taste. Living with humans has spoiled his palate.”

His brother cut a slice of bread and handed it to Tungdil with some cured ham and cheese. “Right, I suppose you want an explanation. I’ll make it brief: The high king is dying and a fourthling must claim his throne. Gundrabur found out about your secret because of the magus’s letter.”

“My secret?” groaned Tungdil. “I didn’t know I had one.” He still hadn’t convinced himself to eat the cheese. It was all a bit too much.

“It’s time you learned the truth, then. You weren’t stolen by kobolds. The long-uns made that up so you —”

“ Long-uns?”

“It’s dwarfish for men — just a little joke. In any event, the magus didn’t want to burden you with the story until it was time.” Boëndal handed him the water canteen. “So there you have it: You’re a fourthling.”

Tungdil thought about Girdlegard’s geography. “I can’t be. The fourthling kingdom is miles away.”

“There was a good reason for the distance,” Boëndal said soberly. “You’re the son of the fourthling king — illegitimate, mind. The birth was kept a secret and you were entrusted to the care of friends. When the queen found out, she was furious. No bastard child of her husband’s was going to lay claim to the throne while she was around to stop it. She wanted you dead.”

“Are you going to eat that cheese?” Boïndil interrupted. “It’ll fall into the fire if you don’t get on with it soon.” Tungdil handed him the skewer wordlessly and the warrior wolfed it down. “Much appreciated.”

Boëndal resumed his account. “Your adopted family took pity on you and carried you off. They took you to Lot-Ionan for one simple reason: No one would ever think of looking in a magus’s household for a dwarf.”

“You do realize that dwarves have no truck with the longuns’ wizardry, don’t you?” Boïndil said suspiciously.

“Quiet!” his brother shushed him. “Just let me finish.” He turned back to Tungdil. “So now you know why you grew up in Ionandar, miles from your kinsfolk. When the assembly of dwarves heard of your existence, it was obliged to summon you in accordance with our laws and consider your claim to the throne.”

Tungdil held the canteen to his lips and took a long draft. “I don’t mean to be rude,” he murmured weakly, “but it can’t be true. Lot-Ionan would have told me.”

“He intended to tell you on your return.” Boëndal produced a letter from his pack. It was written in the magus’s hand. “He gave me this, in case you didn’t believe us.”

Tungdil unfurled the parchment, fingers trembling, and scanned the lines. The story was true, down to the last detail.

All I wanted was to meet a few of my kinsfolk, not be crowned king of all dwarves. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t do it. I’ll gladly accompany you to Ogre’s Death, but the other contender should be crowned.” He laughed wryly. “How could I rule over anyone? No one will ever accept me as a dwarf. They’ll think I’m a —”

Suddenly a morsel of stinking cheese was thrust under his nose. “Stop grousing,” snapped Boïndil. “It’s a long way to Ogre’s Death. We’ll make a dwarf of you yet.” The molten cheese wobbled threateningly. “You may as well start now.” He still had a faintly crazed look in his eyes. “Go on, taste it!”

Tungdil pulled the warm cheese from the stick and popped it in his mouth. It tasted revolting. His fingers would reek for orbits, not to mention his breath. “I can’t do it,” he said firmly. “I promised to deliver the pouch to Gorén.”

“You don’t have to come right away,” Boïndil said magnanimously. “It’s not far from here to Greenglade village. We’ll go with you.”

His brother nodded. “And you don’t have to worry about the magus; he’s given us his blessing already.”

“What if you were to return without me?”

The brothers exchanged a look.

“Well,” Boëndal said thoughtfully, “I expect they’d crown Gandogar, but no one would ever accept him as the rightful king.” He fixed his brother with a meaningful stare.

“Exactly,” Boïndil put in quickly. “There’d be all kinds of arguments and whatnot. Some of the chieftains might even… well, they wouldn’t take orders from him, so before you know it, there’d be terrible feuds and…” He gazed into the flames for inspiration, then rushed on. “It could all end in war! The clans and the folks would fight each other, and you’d be to blame!” He sat back with a satisfied expression on his face.

Tungdil didn’t know what to make of it all. Too much had happened since that morning. Having never raised his ax in anger, he had slain two orcs in succession and now his kins-folk were trying to bundle him onto the throne. He needed time to reflect. “I’ll think it over,” he promised them, curling up beside the fire and closing his eyes wearily.

Boïndil cleared his throat and began to sing. It was a dwarven ballad with deep mysterious syllables that charmed the ear, telling of the time before time began…

Desirous of life, the deities fashioned themselves.

Vraccas the Smith was forged from fire, rock, and steel.

Palandiell the Bountiful rose from the earth.

The winds gave birth to Samusin the Rash.

Elria the Helpful, creator and destroyer, emerged from the water.

And darkness fused with light in Tion the Two-Faced.

Such are the five deities, the…

For Tungdil, the song ended there. It was the first time in his life that he had heard a dwarven ballad sung by his kin and the sound was so soothing that it lulled him to sleep.

Tungdil awoke with the smell of cheese in his nostrils and his mind made up: He would go with the twins to the secondling kingdom. His doubts had been conquered by a desire to meet more of his kin.

“Just so you know, I haven’t changed my mind about being high king,” he told them. “I’m doing this only because I want to see my kinsfolk.”

“It’s all the same to us,” Boëndal said equably. “The main thing is you’ve decided to come.” He and his brother packed their bags and they set off briskly. “The sooner we get to Greenglade, the sooner we’ll be home. Eight hundred miles are a good long way.”

“We’ll accompany you to the edge of the village and no farther,” snapped Boïndil. “We want nothing to do with that elf maiden. It’s bad enough having to walk through an elfish forest, let alone visit an elf house or whatever they build for themselves.” He made a show of spitting into the bushes.

“What did the elf maiden ever do to you?” Tungdil ran his hand over Gorén’s bag; there was no avoiding the fact that some of the artifacts were no longer in their original state. The encounter with the orc’s sword had done them no favors, which made him doubly certain that the beast had deserved its fate. “Six hundred miles!” he muttered crossly. “Six hundred miles through Gauragar, through Lios Nudin, past beasts and other dangers without the artifacts coming to any harm, only for a confounded orc to ruin everything. Another three or four hours and I could have handed them over, safe and sound!” He hoped the wizard would be understanding.

Boïndil’s mind was still on the elves. “Oh, she didn’t have to do anything! Her race has caused enough trouble as it is,” he blurted out angrily. “Those self-satisfied, arrogant pointy-ears are enough to —”

Overcome with fury, he whipped out his axes and fell upon a sapling, swinging at it with unbridled rage.

Boëndal, an impassive expression on his face, lowered his packs, pushed his long plait over his shoulder, and waited for the outburst to end.

“He does this sometimes,” he explained to the dumbfounded Tungdil. “His inner furnace burns stronger than most. Sometimes it flares up and he can’t contain his anger. It’s why we call him Ireheart.”

“His inner furnace?”

“Vraccas alone can explain it. Anyway, take my advice and keep out of his way. It’s fatal to challenge him when he gets like this.” Boëndal sighed. “He’ll be all right again once his furnace has cooled.”

Boïndil finished hacking the sapling to pieces. “Bloody pointy-ears! I feel better now.” Without a word of apology, he wiped the sap and splinters from his blades and carried on. “We need to find a proper name for you,” he grumbled. “Bolofar is no better than Bellyfluff, Sillystuff, or Starchyruff; it’s plain daft! We’ll come up with something on the way.” He glanced at Tungdil. “What are your talents?”

“Er, reading…”

“ Book-learning!” Boëndal burst out laughing. “I should have guessed you were a scholar! But we can’t call you Pagemuncher or Bookeater. Dwarves should be proud of their names!”

“Reading’s important. It —”

“Oh, books are very useful when it comes to fighting orcs. You could have killed the whole band of them with the right bit of poetry!”

Boïndil looked at Tungdil and frowned. “No one could call you a warrior, but you’ve certainly got the build for it. Your hands are nice and strong — with a bit of practice, it might come right.”

Tungdil sighed. “I like metalwork.”

“That’s not exactly unusual for a dwarf. How about —” Boëndal trailed off and sniffed the air attentively. His brother did the same. “Something’s burning,” he told them, alarmed. “Wood and… scorched flesh! It must be a raid.” Boïndil pulled out both axes and broke into a jog. The other two followed.

The trees grew farther apart as the path rounded a corner and emerged into a clearing. Until recently, the spot had been home to a settlement, but the elf maiden’s haven at the heart of the forest had been ravaged by flames. Charred ruins hinted at the former elegance of the many-platformed dwellings that were set about the boles of the tallest trees. The carved arches, smooth wooden beams, and panels embellished with elven runes and gold leaf were so perfectly at one with the forest that they seemed to have grown with the wood.

But most of the gold was missing and the beauty of the glade had been savagely destroyed. For the second time on Tungdil’s journey, the orcs had got there first. He tried in vain to recapture something of the leafy harmony, but the desecration was complete. “By Vraccas,” he gulped. “We’d better see whether —”

“Absolutely,” Boïndil said cheerily. “With any luck, we’ll find a few runts. You’ve got to hand it to them: We couldn’t have done a better job ourselves!”

“It’s what you’d call rigorous,” his brother said admiringly, gripping the haft of his hammer. As true children of the Smith, the twins were unruffled by the wreckage around them; it wasn’t in their nature to feel pity for elves.

Tungdil felt differently. Wandering through the smoldering ruins, he lifted up planks and peered under girders in the hope of finding Gorén alive. Instead he found corpse after corpse, some of them horribly mutilated. At the sight of the carnage, memories of Goodwater came flooding back and he stepped away from the bodies, closing his eyes to the horror. The images stayed with him, more gruesome than ever in his mind.

Pull yourself together, he told himself firmly. How are you going to recognize Gorén if you find him? Where would a wizard hide if he survived? Tungdil’s gaze settled on the largest dwelling, which had come off slightly better than the rest. “Keep an eye out for any trouble,” he called to the others. “I need to find out what’s happened to Gorén.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Boïndil shouted jauntily to his brother. “Forget what I said earlier about not going in. We might find some orcs.”

While the twins began patrolling the ruins, Tungdil climbed the sagging staircase toward the front door. The charred steps groaned beneath his feet, but at last he reached the first platform and walked across the blackened planks.

The house was pentagonal in form, with the bole of the tree at its center. Linking the rooms was a corridor that encircled the trunk, its inner wall comprised of bark. Rope bridges led out to the sturdier branches where colored lanterns swung mournfully in the breeze.

Leaves were already floating to the ground, as if the tree were mourning the elves who had lived among its branches for so many cycles.

Tungdil gazed at the fluttering foliage, then tore himself away and searched the rooms. There was no sign of Gorén or any survivors, but the library had been spared the worst of the damage and he came upon a sealed envelope addressed to Lot-Ionan and some objects wrapped in a shawl.

He picked up the envelope and hesitated. Surely these are exceptional circumstances by any standard? He broke the seal, scanned the contents, and sighed. Yet another errand for me to run! In the letter, Gorén thanked Lot-Ionan for the loan of some books. The wizard had evidently intended to return them by courier, which meant Tungdil had landed himself another job.

There was a second letter, written in scholarly script and therefore indecipherable to anyone but a high-ranking wizard. He packed it away with the other items and continued his search.

A shudder ran through the platform. It started as a slight tremor, but in no time the planks were shaking violently. The wooden dwelling groaned and creaked furiously; then the commotion stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The dwarf took it as a sign that it was time for him to leave.

He hurried into the corridor and stopped in surprise. The tree was moving, its leafless branches squeezing and crushing the groaning timber of the house. The trunk gave a ligneous grunt and swayed to the left. A gnarled bough swung toward him.

“Hey! You’ve got the wrong dwarf! I’m not the one who killed the sapling!”

The tree took no heed of his protests and swiped at him again. Tungdil ducked, the cudgel-like branch smashing into the paneled wall behind him. He darted to the steps, but found himself engulfed in a sea of white. In his confusion he thought for a moment that it was snowing; then he saw that the haze was made up of petals that were swirling around the tree. The flowers and trees of the forest were hurling their blossoms at him, the glade’s shattered harmony turning to violent hatred.

The house shook again, this time cracking some of the joists and sending debris crashing to the ground. Tungdil clattered down the steps to safety.

The twins were no less surprised than he was. Weapons at the ready, they were eyeing the glade suspiciously.

“It’s nasty elfish magic!” shouted Boïndil above the din of rustling leaves. “They’ve turned the trees against us.”

“We’d better get out of here,” Tungdil called to them. “The trees mean to punish anyone who —” He broke off as a Palandiell beech loosed a shower of withered leaves, exposing the gruesome secret hidden among its naked boughs.

They had found the elf maiden. Her delicate white visage, previously obscured by a thick screen of leaves, stood out against the murky bark. From the neck down she was a skeleton, stripped entirely of flesh but glistening wetly with crimson blood. Long metal nails pinned her slender limbs to the trunk.

The sight was too much, even for the otherwise imperturbable twins. “Vraccas almighty,” exclaimed Boëndal, “what kind of mischief is this?”

“That settles it,” his brother decided. “We’re leaving before the same thing happens to us.”

“Not yet,” Tungdil told them. “I need to keep looking for Gorén.” The horror exercised a strange attraction on him and he walked on, obliging his companions to follow. “The wizard’s body might be somewhere round here too.”

On closer inspection, it looked as though the elf maiden’s bones had been gnawed. Her murderers had finished the job by driving a nail through her mouth, pinning the back of her skull to the bole of the tree. In place of her beautiful elven eyes were two empty sockets.

“They pinned her to the tree and ate her alive,” said Boïndil. “It’s a bit too fancy for runts. They eat their victims on the spot and suck out their marrow.”

Tungdil swallowed and took another look. Even in death, the elf’s face had retained its beauty. For all his inborn antipathy toward her and her race, he was sorry she had ended so gruesomely.

Boëndal rounded the tree and discovered further corpses as well as a trail of curved black prints. “They’re hoof marks, but they’ve been burned into the soil. What do you make of that, scholar?”

Tungdil remembered the two riders who had parleyed with the orcish war bands on the night before Goodwater was destroyed. “Shadow mares,” he murmured. “They strike sparks as they walk. The älfar ride them.” It explained why the elf maiden had suffered so cruelly before she died: The älfar took pleasure in torturing their cousins.

“Älfar?” Boïndil’s eyes flashed with enthusiasm. “It’s about time we came up against something more challenging than those dim-witted orcs! How about it, brother? I say we blunt our axes on Tion’s dark elves!”

Tungdil, his gaze still riveted on the skeleton, was beset by awful visions of the mistress of Greenglade writhing and screaming on the tree while shadow mares ripped the flesh from her bones. The urge to vomit became uncontrollable and he covered his mouth with his hand, unwilling to forfeit the last shreds of credibility in front of the twins.

One corpse, a male body crumpled not far from the tree, excited their particular attention. A circle of scorched earth bounded the patch of grass where the dead man was lying, pierced by arrows. By the dwarves’ reckoning, seven orcs had perished in the towering ring of flames.

Tungdil was as good as certain that magic had been involved. “I think we’ve found Gorén. He probably conjured the ring of fire to defend himself.”

Hands trembling, he searched the dead man’s pockets and brought out a small metal tin engraved with Gorén’s name.

“He would have done better with a shield,” Boïndil said dryly. “I always said that magic can’t be trusted.”

His brother’s gaze was fixed on the rustling trees that were shedding their leaves furiously in spite of the season. “There’s something wrong with this place,” he decided. “If we hang around much longer, those trees will tear up their roots and attack us. We’re leaving.”

“What about Gorén and the others?” objected Tungdil. “Don’t you think we should —”

“What about them? They’re dead,” Boïndil said breezily.

“Elves, elf lovers, and orcs.” Boëndal set off at a march. “They needn’t concern us.”

As far as the twins were concerned, the matter was settled, so Tungdil fell in behind them, hurrying through the ruined village in the direction from which they had come.

Before they reached the path, he glanced round to bid the wizard and his mistress a silent farewell and apologize for leaving them without a proper burial. It was then that he saw something strange.

An easel, he thought to himself in surprise. In spite of the surrounding wreckage, it was standing upright, as though the painter would be back at any moment. Tungdil felt sadder than ever at the thought of the elf maiden or one of her companions abandoning their work in terror. The unfinished painting was a silent testimony to the moment in which the invaders had arrived.

I wonder what she was painting. “Back in a minute!” he told the others as he clambered over the charred timber, curious to see the elven artwork.

Boëndal sighed resignedly, setting his beard aquiver. “We’ve got our work cut out with this one.”

“You can say that again,” Boïndil said testily, wiping his sweaty brow with the end of his plait. Muttering under their breath, the secondlings hurried after their charge.

They caught up with him in front of the easel. There was something very obviously wrong with the picture: It showed the settlement in the aftermath of the attack.

There was no denying that the artist was incredibly gifted. The scene had been painted entirely in shades of red, every detail of the destruction reproduced with chilling precision on the smooth white canvas: corpses, the burned-out shells of buildings, scorched trees.

Tungdil peered at the work more closely. There’s something funny about that canvas. He walked to the back of the easel and paled. The reverse of the painting was a damp, shiny red. He reached out gingerly to touch it, then whipped his hand away. Skin! The scene had been painted on skin so flawless that it could only belong to the mistress of the glade. Tungdil had a nasty feeling that the paint was far from conventional too. He showed his grisly discovery to the twins.

Two smaller pictures had been propped up nearby. The first showed the tortured face of the elf, her eyes dull with pain and fear. The second depicted her crucified body in all its gory detail. Tungdil knocked them over in disgust.

“It’s still wet,” said Boëndal, peering at the easel. “The freak who painted these pictures could be back at any time.”

“So much the better,” growled Boïndil. “We’ll see how he likes to be flayed alive.”

“I’ve never seen anything so monstrous,” said Tungdil. Any admiration he still felt for the artist’s talent was overshadowed by his revulsion at the foulness of the work. He shouldered the easel and hurled it into the burning embers of the fire. The two smaller pictures met the same fate.

Silently they turned to leave the village, but were halted by an aggressive snort. It was followed by angry neighing and a furious whinny.

A black steed left the forest and stepped into the clearing twenty paces to their right. Its eyes gleamed red, and white sparks danced around its fetlocks as its hooves clipped the ground.

Mounted on the shadow mare was a female älf, tall and slim with long brown hair. She was clad in mail of stiff black leather with polished tionium trimmings.

“What do we have here?” The hilt of her sword was visible above her head and in her right hand she held a curved bow. A clutch of unusually long arrows of the kind favored by älfar protruded from a saddlebag. Tungdil needed no reminder of their murderous force.

“The stinking groundlings have ruined my pictures, have they? In that case, I’ll need some fresh paint.” She sat up in the saddle to get a better look at the dwarves. With her delicate features and fine countenance she could have passed for a creature of Palandiell, save for the gaping eye sockets that proved she was no elf.

“I hope your blood doesn’t clot too fast,” she said, reaching with her free hand for an arrow. “I won’t be able to paint the finer details unless it’s nice and fluid.”

“I was beginning to think we’d been cheated of our battle.” Boïndil grinned. “Quick,” he instructed in dwarfish, “make for the ruins or she’ll shoot us down like rabbits.”

The first arrow came singing toward them just as they were ducking behind a timber wall. It passed through the wood as if it were parchment and struck Boëndal’s mail with a ping. The black tionium cut a gouge in the metal, causing the dwarf to curse.

Keeping low, they scurried deeper into the smoldering village, hoping to throw off the älf, then attack her from behind.

Tungdil peered around the next corner and spotted the slender nose of the mare. There was something feline about the way it slunk through the ruins, branding the ground with its hooves. The earth gave a low hiss as the false unicorn passed over it, nostrils flaring as it tracked its prey.

Suddenly the dwarf had a terrifying thought. The mare’s saddle was empty. Where’s the rider? The älf was at large in the village. He closed his eyes, trying to forget everything he knew about her race.

When he opened them again, Boëndal and Boïndil were gone. He wasn’t afraid anymore; he was panicked.

“Psst,” he hissed, “where are you?” He tightened his grip on his ax, cursing the twins for abandoning him in the ruins. First they tell me I’m no warrior; then they leave me at the mercy of a shadow mare and an älf!

Someone touched his arm. Tungdil started and lashed out with his ax. The blade buried itself just below the man’s rib cage. The dwarf stared at him in horror. “Gorén? I thought you were dead.”

The wizard looked at the wound distractedly and ran his fingers across the gaping flesh. He fixed his gaze on Tungdil. “Nothing,” he moaned softly. “I feel nothing.” He plucked an orcish arrow from his body. “Nothing,” he said again, this time more desperately. He reached for a wooden beam, locking the dwarf in his empty stare. “All I can feel is hate…”

“Hang on, Gorén, I…” Tungdil leaped aside as the wizard brought the beam crashing toward him. It smashed into a wall.

The din was enough to alert everyone to their presence. There was a clatter of hooves and the shadow mare whinnied.

Tungdil made his escape by crawling under a sunken ceiling. Anything would be better than being discovered by the mare.

“Nothing…” Gorén straightened up and swayed drunkenly out of the ruined building, dragging the beam behind him.

The shadow mare leaped toward him, trampling him to the ground. Tungdil watched as its forelegs crushed the wizard’s abdomen in an explosion of sparks. To the dwarf’s horror, Gorén rolled over and picked himself up.

The truth hit him in a flash: Greenglade had fallen to the Perished Land. Any who die here will rise again as revenants! The forest wasn’t grieving for the elf maiden; the canker had spread into the soil, poisoning the tree roots and filling the trunks and branches with malice.

But that’s impossible! Unless… Tungdil realized with horrible certainty that the girdle had failed. I can’t go to Ogre’s Death without warning Lot-Ionan that the shield has been breached. If the Perished Land has encroached this far, it might be advancing on other fronts as well.

But first he faced the immediate problem of leaving the glade alive, and the odds were stacked against him.

The shadow mare had picked up his scent and was heading his way. Its hooves struck Tungdil’s hiding place and the timber erupted, crackling with light. The steed was intent on driving the dwarf into the open.

Tungdil had no choice. He rolled out, hoping to throw himself under the nearest piece of debris, but the shadow mare was faster.

In a single powerful leap, it soared over the wreckage and landed beside him, its head shooting forward to seize Tungdil’s right shoulder in its jaws. The dwarf’s chain mail saved him from its sharp teeth, but the pressure was excruciating.

“Get your filthy teeth off me!” Tungdil’s fighting spirit came to the fore, and he forgot his terror, swinging his ax at the steed.

But the shadow mare had no intention of relinquishing its quarry. Jerking its head, it shook Tungdil back and forth like a doll. Without warning, its jaws flew open and he sailed through the air, landing on the ashen grass with a thud. The shadow mare whinnied, carving deep furrows as it pawed the ground. Tungdil was still coming to his senses when it thundered toward him.

The twins sprang into action. As the mare drew level with them, they burst out of their hiding places on either side of its path.

“Here, horsey, horsey,” shouted Boïndil, driving an ax with both hands into the steed’s right knee. Boëndal’s crow’s beak carved into its left foreleg.

The black beast staggered and fell, tumbling along the ground in a pother of ash. In spite of its obvious agony, it tried to drag itself up again, but the dwarves rushed in.

“You’re not a horse anymore, you’re a pony,” Boïndil yelled at it. “How do you fancy fighting eye to eye?” The shadow mare lunged at him and was rewarded with an ax blow to the jaw. “Try sinking your teeth into that!” The mare jerked away, thereby sealing its fate.

Boëndal embedded his beaked war hammer into its long bony nose and hauled the beast in. Not for nothing was Hookhand his second name. Triceps bulging and heels digging into the ground, he dragged the mare closer so that his brother could sink an ax into its neck.

“So you want to bite me, you worthless bunch of bones,” cried Boïndil, hefting his ax to strike again. The blade severed the shadow mare’s spinal cord and it slumped to the ground.

Boëndal put one foot on the steed’s nose and levered the crow’s beak out of the corpse.

His brother grinned at him. “Now for the pointy-eared rider!” He signaled to Tungdil to stay hidden. “Make yourself scarce, scholar, and watch how it’s done!”

They crouched next to the mare’s fallen body and waited. Tungdil started to tell them about his encounter with the revenant, but they waved him away. All that mattered for the moment was dispatching the älf.

Before long an unnatural scream, more drawn out and high-pitched than the voice of any human female, rent the air.

Waggling his eyebrows in gleeful anticipation, Boïndil straightened his plait and steeled himself for combat. “Music to my ears.”

Boëndal listened intently, then leaped to his feet. His brother followed.

I should be out there helping, not watching like a coward. Tungdil felt compelled to do something, even if only to act as a decoy. Sighing, he was about to emerge from his hiding place when two skeletal hands grabbed him from behind and thrust him to the ground.

“Who are you?” a musical voice demanded. Damp, foul-smelling bones fingered his face. “A small man or maybe a groundling…”

The dwarf was rolled onto his back and found himself looking into the tortured face of the once-beautiful elf. She too had become a revenant. Robbed of her eyes by the älfar, she had torn herself from the trunk of the beech and was groping blindly through the ruins.

“Let go of me!” shrieked Tungdil, reaching for his ax. His arms were clamped so tightly that he went for his dagger instead. The blade clunked harmlessly against her rib cage.

“Who gave a dwarf permission to enter my glade?” she demanded imperiously. A bony hand tightened around his throat. “Are you in league with the älfar? Do you hate us enough to ally yourselves with these monsters?”

Tungdil fought back his fear and realized that there was something different about her tone of voice. Unlike the wizard, she seemed to be in possession of her will. “Listen to me, my lady,” he pleaded. “Lot-Ionan sent me here to return some items belonging to Gorén.”

She turned her fathomless gaze on him. “I’m changing,” she whispered fearfully. “Something’s happening to me. They killed me, but my soul… my soul…” She trailed off. “You say Lot-Ionan sent you? My beloved Gorén thought highly of his magus.” She released her murderous grip. “You’ll find a book in the house; it’s in the library. Gorén was going to send it to your master, but then the älfar attacked and —”

“I’ve got it already,” he broke in excitedly.

“Don’t let them have it!” she instructed. “Take it to Ionandar and give it to the magus; he’ll know what to do as soon as he reads the letter.” Her skeletal fingers clutched at him again. “Swear you’ll do it!”

Tungdil stammered out a solemn oath, swearing first by Vraccas and then by the magus. The elf seemed satisfied and backed away.

“Now behead me,” she said softly. “I can’t allow the Perished Land to steal the little I have left.” She stretched out her bony arms. “Do you see what they’ve done to me? Without your help, I’ll be yoked to their evil forever, a blind servant of destruction.”

There was something almost mesmerizing about the two dark pits in her face. Tungdil hesitated. “But I —”

“Everything I loved has been taken from me: Gorén, my beauty, my home, my glade.” She raised her left hand and poked a finger gingerly into her empty eye sockets. “Look, even tears are denied me. Have pity on me.”

Her face and voice spoke so eloquently of her sorrow that Tungdil had no option but to comply. He rose to his feet, took a few shaky steps toward her, and swung his ax. As the elf’s head rolled through the debris, her skeletal body slumped to the ground. The lady of the glade was dead.

The trees around them gave a piteous groan, the crackling and rustling mingling with the sounds of a raging battle. Tungdil remembered with a start that the twins were locked in combat with the älf.

They still don’t realize! he thought in alarm, quickly pulling himself together. If we don’t decapitate the corpses, they’ll rise up and attack us.

Meanwhile, Boëndal and Boïndil had discovered that their opponent had no intention of playing by their rules. The älf was nimble as a cat, ducking, skipping, and leaping to evade their blows. But for all her agility she had yet to penetrate the dwarves’ heavy mail.

“Over here!” Tungdil lunged forward and hurled his ax. The älf spotted the missile just in time and stepped aside briskly.

Suddenly Gorén loomed up behind her, swinging a plank. She heard the wood whistling toward her, but it was too late to move.

The plank connected with her back, catapulting her forward. With a cackle of frenzied laughter, Boïndil rushed up and took aim at her thinly armored thighs. “Fight on my level, no-eyes!”

The axes sliced deep into her flesh and the älf shrieked in agony, only to be winded by Boëndal, who rammed the butt of his crow’s beak into her belly. Before she could make another sound, Boïndil raised his blades and hewed her neck.

“What did you do that for?” he asked the wizard indignantly. “Couldn’t you see we almost had her?” Puzzled, he stared as Gorén staggered toward him. “Hang on, shouldn’t he be dead?”

“He won’t die unless you behead him!” Tungdil called out to him. “This is the Perished Land. You’ve got to chop his head off!”

“Well, if you insist…” Boïndil dodged the wizard’s clumsy attempts to fell him and sliced off his head with a single strike of his ax. Gorén was no more.

“Seeing as we’re here, we should probably take care of the rest,” said Boëndal, nodding in the direction of the ruins.

Brought back to life by the dark power, the charred corpses of the orcs and the elves were beginning to stir. The Perished Land made no distinction between its own soldiers and those who had died at their hands, so the twins were obliged to execute their task with utmost rigor, fighting and beheading every single revenant in order to deliver them from their fate. Tungdil chose to watch.

“They could have tried a bit harder,” complained Boïndil when the gory business was over at last. “At least it’s out of my system, though.” Sure enough, the glint in his eyes was slowly fading. “Shall we go?”

They set off on a southerly bearing, quickly leaving the ravaged village behind them.

Perhaps the trees wanted to do a last favor to those who had slain one of the despoilers of the peaceful glade, but in any event they made no attempt to block their path. Creaking and groaning, the leafless boles and boughs swayed menacingly, stooping low and swinging above their heads, but allowing them to pass.

The only other sound was the crackling of dry leaves beneath their boots. They saw no sign of the forest’s many animals; even the birds were too afraid to sing.

“There’s been a change of plan,” Tungdil informed the twins, recounting his promise to the elf. “Ionandar is far enough west to be safe from the Perished Land and Toboribor’s orcs. We need to tell Lot-Ionan about Greenglade and give him the books. The elf maiden seemed to think at least one was important.”

“But we won’t get back to Ogre’s Death for ages!” objected Boëndal. “We’re late enough as it is, without walking an extra six hundred miles.”

“I’m afraid there’s no choice,” Tungdil said firmly. “It’s either that or ask to see the council in Lios Nudin.”

“That’s the spirit,” chuckled Boïndil. “Cussed as a dwarf!”

Boëndal relented. “All right, we’ll go to Lios Nudin. The high king has seen so many cycles that he won’t begrudge us the odd orbit here or there. Vraccas will keep his fires burning.” He took a sip from his water pouch.

His brother turned the conversation to Tungdil’s fighting prowess. “You didn’t do too badly, considering you haven’t been taught,” he commended him. “But there’s one thing you need to remember: Never throw your ax unless you’ve got another one in reserve. Of course your technique needs a bit of working on, but I’ll soon have you fighting like a proper dwarf. Mark my words, Tungdil: The runts will be as scared of you as they are of me.”

Tungdil could see the sense in being tutored by Boïndil. “The sooner we get started, the better.” He nodded.

They walked until the light faded and they were obliged to stop and rest. After a while Boëndal launched into a dwarven ballad about the age-old feud between their kinsfolk and the elves. When he saw the look of dismay on Tungdil’s face, he trailed off into silence: The last thing they needed was a song about destruction and death.

“What do you know about my folk?” Tungdil asked.

“The fourthlings?” Boëndal scratched his beard and unpacked a wedge of cheese to melt above the fire. “Goïmdil’s folk are made up of twelve clans and they tend to be shorter, scrawnier, and weaker than the rest of us — typical gem cutters and diamond polishers, I suppose.” He looked Tungdil up and down and nodded. “I’ve never heard of any fourth-ling scholars, but in terms of your build… Actually, you’re a bit too big. Your shoulders are too broad.” He thought for a moment. “I’m not trying to offend you, you know,” he said simply. “Vraccas made us just the way we are.”

“What else do you know?” persisted Tungdil, who found the answer too vague to be revealing.

The brothers looked at each other and shrugged.

“You’d best see for yourself once we get there. It’s been hundreds of cycles since the folks had anything to do with each other,” Boëndal explained. “I’ll tell you what, though: We may not know much about Goïmdil’s dwarves, but you can ask us anything about the secondlings. Our seventeen clans boast the finest masons in all the dwarven kingdoms, and the mightiest human stronghold isn’t a patch on Ogre’s Death. It’ll take your breath away, you’ll see.”

Boëndal talked and talked, waxing lyrical about the fortifications and ornaments that were the envy of the other folks, while Tungdil listened contentedly, eagerly anticipating the moment when he would see his kinsfolk’s architecture for himself.

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

The orbits wore on as the three dwarves journeyed to Porista to request an audience with the council.

At Boïndil’s insistence, they had taken the precaution of walking through the undergrowth parallel to the road, but by the fourth orbit they were tired of scratching themselves on branches, finding thorns in their chain mail, and avoiding twigs that seemed determined to poke Tungdil in the nose or eye. They rejoined the dusty road, keeping an eye out for other travelers.

Tungdil still bore the scars of his recent ordeals. His sleep was haunted by nightmares and on stopping to fill his pouch from a stream, he noticed that the reflection looking back at him was older, more weathered, and more serious than before. The horrors he had witnessed were inscribed on his face.

Determined not to fall victim to the orcs, Tungdil applied himself to his daily training sessions with Boïndil. He was a fast learner — uncannily fast, his tutor said. While the two of them practiced fighting, parrying, and feinting, Boëndal sat and watched them, smoking his pipe and keeping his thoughts to himself.

From time to time they came upon wayfarers or a settlement and Tungdil was always sure to mention Greenglade and warn anyone from venturing too close to the Perished Land.

The long line of carts rolling into Lios Nudin reinforced his advice. With war bands of orcs terrorizing Gauragar, people preferred to trust Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty rather than rely on King Bruron to protect them.

It was midafternoon when Tungdil fell back a few paces. Guessing that he wanted to answer a call of nature, the twins walked ahead.

When Tungdil set off again, feeling much relieved, he came to a junction, only to find that Boëndal and Boïndil were nowhere to be seen. A signpost pointed east to Porista, so he set off at a jog.

A short distance along the road was a wooden caravan, its sides painted gaily with pictures of scissors, knives, axes, and other implements. The horses had been unhitched and the driver had abandoned his vehicle in a hurry.

“Hello?” The rear door was ajar, allowing Tungdil to peer into the darkness within. There was something odd about the situation. “Is everything all right in there?”

He drew his ax, just in case. If runts had ambushed the caravan, they might be hiding nearby. Where are Boëndal and Boïndil when I need them?

“Hello?” he called again, climbing the two narrow wooden rungs that led up to the door. He pushed it open with the poll of his ax and glanced around the little workshop. Drawers had been turned out, cupboards pulled open, and in the far corner a pair of shoes poked out from under a cabinet.

He stepped inside. “Hello in there! Is something the matter?” The smell of metal was mixed with a sweeter, almost sickly, odor. Blood. Tungdil had seen enough to suspect that the wearer of the shoes was no longer among the living. I knew it! There could be only one explanation for the string of calamities unfurling around him: His journey was cursed.

Hooking his ax on his belt, he bent down and gave the feet a shake. “Are you injured?” On receiving no response, he lifted the cabinet to free whoever was trapped underneath. It was a dwarf, or rather, the body of a dwarf. His throat had been cut and his head was missing. A ring of crimson gore encircled his neck, indicating that he hadn’t been dead for long.

“What in the name of Vraccas is going on?” Tungdil was so perturbed by the sight of the dead dwarf that he let go of the cabinet, dropping it onto the corpse. As he stepped away, he tried to think logically. The poor victim was obviously an itinerant dwarf whose smithy had been ransacked by highwaymen. His death was an unfortunate consequence of the dreadful human greed for precious metals and coin.

No one deserves to be left like that. Tungdil grabbed the feet again and was dragging the corpse from beneath the cabinet when something clattered to the floor.

On closer inspection, the object turned out to be a blood-encrusted dagger, and although there wasn’t much light inside the caravan, he was sure he had seen it before: It belonged to the brigand whose horse he had shod several weeks earlier.

Just then he heard the clip-clop of hooves. Peering warily out of the narrow window, he uttered a strong dwarven oath. Five armed bandits had come to a halt beside the caravan. He flattened himself against the wall and hid behind the door: Concealment was his only hope of survival against a band of seasoned warriors. Unlike Boëndal and Boïndil, he wasn’t ready to fight five against one.

Heavy footsteps approached, the ladder groaned, the caravan wobbled, and a shadow blotted out the sunlight falling through the door.

Tungdil gripped his ax with both hands.

A man entered, mumbling indistinctly, and knelt beside the corpse. “Someone’s been in,” he called to the others. “He wasn’t lying like this before.” He scrabbled around for his knife. “Don’t let anyone near the caravan, and hide the darned honey pot,” he ordered. “The last thing we need is for people to ask what we’re doing with the head of an ugly groundling.”

“Stands to reason what we’re doing. Earning our money like everyone else,” said one of the company, laughing coarsely.

“No need to shout about it,” snapped the murderer. “The little fellows are hard enough to get hold of, without every last Tom, Dick, or Harry competing for the loot. Ah, here it is!” He picked up the dagger, wiped the blade on the corpse’s jerkin, and returned it to its sheath.

Straightening up, he stood for a moment in the light of the window, his mail reflecting the sun. A beam hit Tungdil’s blade and rebounded. “What in the…” The murderer whirled round.

Tungdil had to act while the element of surprise was with him. Rushing forward, he drove his ax into the man’s boots, cutting through the leather and cleaving the bone. In his panic he struck with such force that the blade embedded itself in the wooden floor. It took all his strength to pull it out.

The brigand bellowed in pain. If his companions hadn’t noticed the commotion, they were certainly aware of it now.

“It’s no worse than you deserve!” Tungdil grabbed his ax and fled. Whooping and yelling to spook the horses, he leaped out onto the road.

The panicked animals shied away, unseating their riders, who had dropped their stirrups and were preparing to dismount.

Tungdil didn’t wait for them to recover, heading instead for the dense forest to the right of the highway. He knew there was no room between the trunks for the men to pursue him on horseback and the undergrowth would slow their progress if they chased him on foot. For once his diminutive stature was an advantage. Besides, daylight faded quickly beneath the thick canopy of leaves and his eyes were accustomed to seeing in the dark.

“Catch the dwarfish bastard,” the company’s leader commanded. “We’ll get a fortune for his head.”

Tungdil tore through the forest, stopping occasionally to listen. Loud curses and snapping branches informed him of the brigands’ dogged pursuit, but the gap between them was growing. After a time, their heavy footsteps faded entirely, and he knew that he had given them the slip.

Leaning back against a tree trunk, he stopped to recover his breath. No amount of marching could have prepared him for sprinting through a forest, laden with bags. He made a quick check of his things; the pouch with Gorén’s artifacts was still slung from his shoulder, rattling and jangling as soon as he moved. The bag had been making strange noises ever since his misadventure with the orc.

Still listening attentively for his pursuers, he took a sip of water. The brigands are hunting dwarves for a reward. He could scarcely believe it. Of all the terrible things that had happened, this new revelation shocked him to the core. Putting gold on dwarven lives ran counter to the laws of Girdlegard and it was hard to see the sense of it: What would anyone want with a disembodied head?

As soon as he had recovered sufficiently he made a beeline through the forest toward the nearest path. To his astonishment, Boëndal and Boïndil were coming the other way.

“About time too!” Boïndil called out to him. “You went the wrong way!”

“I went the right way,” Tungdil corrected him. “You missed the turn to Porista!”

Boëndal took a closer look at him. “What happened, scholar? Did you run into trouble?”

“Just my luck to miss all the excitement,” his brother grumbled moodily. Then he laughed. “I know, I bet a squirrel was after his n —”

“Headhunters,” Tungdil cut him off. “They’re decapitating dwarves in return for a reward.”

“What?” screeched Boïndil, eyes rolling wildly. His voluminous beard billowed. “Where are they?”

“I don’t know,” Tungdil told him, “and to be perfectly honest, I’m just glad they’ve stopped chasing me.”

They stopped in a clearing to decide what to do.

“Did they say who was paying them?” Boëndal asked.

“No, but I’ve seen them once before. They didn’t lay a finger on me at the time — too many other people nearby, I suppose.” Given half a chance, they would have killed me, he realized with a shudder.

“Sounds like the thirdlings are up to their tricks again. They’re probably paying the bounty hunters to wipe out the rest of the dwarven race, or it could be a ploy to turn us against the long-uns so we end up feuding with them as well as the elves.” Boëndal looked at his companions. “There’ll be plenty to talk about when we get back to Ogre’s Death.”

They unpacked their blankets and spent the night under a dense roof of leaves. It seemed prudent to do without a fire: It was dark enough for the flames to be seen for miles around and the mere snapping of a twig seemed alarmingly noisy in the stillness. Tungdil snuggled down and put his hands behind his head, only to sit up abruptly and pluck a beetle from his thick shock of hair. “It’s strange,” he mused out loud, “but the two of you must have left Ogre’s Death at roughly the same time as the headhunting began.”

Boïndil, who had coiled his long plait into a pillow, frowned. “You mean it’s nothing to do with the thirdlings? You think they were after us?”

His brother shook his head. “That hardly seems likely, Boïndil. No, our scholar thinks they were after him. Am I right?”

Tungdil sighed. “I’m probably making too much of it, but didn’t you say I had a rival for the throne?”

Boëndal saw what he was getting at. “Gandogar Silver-beard would never do a thing like that,” he said firmly. “He’s an upstanding dwarf!”

“I don’t know what you’re getting so offended about,” his brother said reproachfully. “He isn’t even a secondling.”

“No, but he’s a dwarf, an honorable dwarf with some funny ideas.” He thought for a moment. “Besides, Gundrabur didn’t tell anyone about Tungdil until after we’d left. No,” he insisted, “the headhunting is another nasty thirdling ploy. It’s bad enough that one of our folks has turned against us, but we can’t start suspecting Gandogar. Our race will be doomed if we can’t trust one another; it mustn’t be true, it can’t be.”

They lay in silence, pondering the matter uneasily until they fell asleep.

Tungdil’s dreams were filled with all kinds of unsettling nonsense. Hordes of orcs and älfar were pursuing him with shaving soap and razors, determined to cut off his burgeoning beard. In the end they caught him, held him down, and shaved his face; it was humiliating and infuriating to be lying on the ground with cheeks as naked as a baby.

The thought of it jolted him from his restless sleep and he got up, ate some of his provisions, and offered a fervent prayer to Vraccas, asking for protection from bounty hunters and safe completion of his mission.

You’re not making it easy for me, Vraccas. Tungdil longed to be back in Ionandar’s vaults with Frala, Sunja, and Ikana; even the prospect of seeing Jolosin no longer seemed so bad.

The long journey made friends of the trio and Boïndil devoted every spare moment to instructing Tungdil in the art of combat.

“So tell me, scholar,” Boëndal said softly one evening when his brother was snoozing by the fire, “what do you make of the first dwarves you’ve ever been acquainted with?”

Tungdil grinned. “Do you want my honest opinion?”

“Of course.”

“Boïndil has the fierier temper. His fists move faster than his thoughts and he generally acts on impulse, although once he decides himself on something, no one will convince him otherwise.”

“I didn’t need a scholar to tell me that. Go on!”

“He hates orcs and elves with a vengeance and his life is devoted to warfare. He fights with uncommon zeal.”

“You know my brother well.” His twin laughed. “Just don’t let him hear you say so! And what of me?” he inquired eagerly, passing him a pipe.

“You have a gentler temperament. Your mind is sharper and you’re willing to listen to other people’s ideas.” Tungdil drew on the pipe. “Your brown eyes are friendly, whereas your brother’s… I can’t describe the look in his eyes.”

Boëndal clapped his hands softly. “True, all true.”

“Why did the two of you become warriors?”

“Neither of us has any talent for masonry, so we decided to join the guard. The secondlings are custodians of the High Pass, the steep-sided gorge through the Blue Range. At ground level, the pass is fifty paces wide, but its walls are over a thousand paces high, and the sides slope inward after eight hundred paces, leaving the path in shadow except for a short span of time when the sun is directly above.”

“Sounds pretty gloomy to me.”

“Throughout our history a handful of custodians have defended our kingdom against invaders, no matter how powerful their ranks.”

“Don’t you have a portal like the fifthlings’ Stone Gateway?”

“No, our forefathers cut a trench in the path, forty paces long and a hundred paces deep. On our side of the trench they built a rampart with a mechanical bridge. The engineers worked on the design for almost as long as it took for the masons to hew the trench.” Boëndal paused, recalling the genius of the engineering. “They made a collapsible walkway from thin slabs of stone. It’s incredibly light but can bear any load. At full extension, it rests on columns that rise up at the pull of a lever from the base of the trench, but the bridge can be retracted instantly by means of chains, cogs, and ropes.”

Tungdil was lost for words. “That’s… I’ve never heard anything like it! But what happens when orcs or ogres force their way onto the bridge?”

“We send them crashing into the trench. Tion’s creatures are forever littering the fosse with their bones.” He laughed softly. “One lot were so determined that they catapulted each other to the opposite side. Most died on impact; the others felt the fury of our axes.”

Tungdil joined in his mirth. “If I were trying to cross over,” he said thoughtfully, “I’d fill in the fosse or climb down and up the other side.”

“They thought of that too, but they didn’t stand a chance. There was only one occasion when our folk came close to going the same way as poor Giselbert’s dwarves.” Like every secondling, Boëndal knew this episode of his kingdom’s history by heart. “An army of ogres had the same idea as you. On reaching the trench, they didn’t even try to find a way of bridging it; they just climbed down carefully, waded through the bones of their ancestors, and appeared before us in their hundreds.”

“But the secondlings managed to stop them?”

“Why do you think it’s called Ogre’s Death?” Boïndil chimed in chippily. “Can’t you keep the noise down when I’m trying to get some sleep?” He rolled closer and gazed into the fire. “I’m wide-awake now, thanks to you!”

He fetched some cheese from his pack and melted it over the flames. This time Tungdil accepted a morsel. It didn’t taste nearly as bad as he’d thought.

Boëndal resumed his story. “The ogres had got as far as storming the ramparts when their chieftain was killed. That was our salvation. Without their leader, the ogres didn’t know what to do and our warriors succeeded in pushing them back to the edge of the trench. They fell to their deaths. But that was a long time ago, when Boïndil and I were still in nappies. There hasn’t been a single attack on the High Pass for at least thirty cycles.”

“No wonder.” His twin guffawed. “The beasts are too scared of us. Actually, the High Pass has been so quiet lately that Gundrabur decided to send us in search of you.” He looked across the fire at Tungdil and his brown eyes glinted. “You were right, of course. I was born to fight. Combat is my calling; it’s who I am.”

“And I go where he goes. Twins belong together; find one and you’ll find both. It’s just the way it is.”

“Does every dwarf have a calling, then?” asked Tungdil, wondering what his might be. “Do you think I’ll be a stone hauler or a trench digger, or will I be an artisan with a proper talent?”

“Most fourthlings are gem cutters and diamond polishers. Maybe trinkets are your thing?”

Tungdil had never taken much of an interest in precious stones. Lot-Ionan possessed a few items of jewelry and Tungdil had enjoyed looking at the sapphires, rubies, diamonds, and amethysts because of the way in which they caught the light. He had never felt the slightest urge to craft a sparkling jewel from uncut stone, though.

“I don’t think so.” There was a hint of disappointment in Tungdil’s voice. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to the forge. The smell of molten iron, tongues of fire that writhe like living things, the ring of the hammer, the hiss of hot metal as it enters the water — ever since I saw my first anvil, that’s what being a dwarf has meant for me.”

“You’ll be a smith, then,” Boïndil said approvingly. “A scholarly smith. Very dwarflike.”

Tungdil shuffled closer to the fire and tried to divine the secrets of his inner self. He pictured mountains of diamonds and then a column of dancing orange sparks rising from a furnace. He felt more affinity with the furnace. Gold appealed to him too, though; he loved its soft warm shimmer.

“I like gold as well, you know,” he confessed in a whisper. “I pick up any lost gold I can find — gold pieces, gold jewelry, gold dust dropped by prospectors. I collect it all.”

The brothers roared with laughter. “He’s got himself his own private hoard! If that isn’t properly dwarven, I don’t know what is. You’ll be a warrior soon,” Boïndil promised him, reaching for the pipe.

“I don’t know,” Tungdil said doubtfully. “The way you and Boëndal can fight and win against the odds. I’ll never —”

“There’s no such thing as having the odds against you,” Boïndil broke in. “Some challenges are bigger than others; that’s all there is to it.”

“All the same, I feel safer at the anvil; a forge is where I belong.” Tungdil decided not to dwell on the matter, so he opened his knapsack and pulled out Gorén’s books. The brothers watched as he slid the volumes out of their wax covering and examined them carefully.

“Well, what do they say, scholar?” Boïndil demanded impatiently. “Maybe that’s your calling, to be a learned scribe or an engineer. The dwarves are renowned for being prodigious inventors.”

“I can’t make head or tail of them.” To his immense disappointment, even the wording on the spine was written in scholarly script. “They were written for magi.” In some ways it was surprising that Gorén, an ordinary wizard, had been able to read them at all.

Tungdil tapped his forehead and scolded himself for being so slow. He had forgotten that the elf maiden would have been familiar with the workings of high magic. She must have helped Gorén unlock the secrets of the books.

He stroked the leather binding of the books. Why are their contents so important to the älfar? Since when have the elves’ dark relatives been afraid of parchment and ink?

“We’ll find out soon enough from Lot-Ionan,” he said, trying to rally their spirits. He was just returning the books to their wrapping when his gaze fell on the bag of artifacts. It had suffered visibly from the journey. In spite of the hard-wearing leather, the pouch was bleached from the sun and scuffed in several places, and there were sweat marks and grease stains where it had come into contact with his food. A faint line stretched across its surface like a scar, an eternal reminder of its run-in with the orcish sword.

The longer Tungdil looked at the pouch, the more he desired to look inside. He had been fighting the urge to undo the colored drawstrings for some time.

What harm is there in looking? Surely I’ve got the right to know what I’ve been lugging about all this time. Besides, Gorén is dead. Tungdil’s self-control failed him.

Trying to look nonchalant, he reached for the pouch. He didn’t want the others to know that the magus had forbidden him to look inside. He untied the knot and the drawstrings came open.

At that moment an ear-splitting, bone-shattering bang rent the air. A volley of sparks shot upward and exploded in a blast of color.

“By the hammer of Vraccas and his fiery furnace!” Leaping to their feet, the twins stood back-to-back, weapons at the ready.

Tungdil swore and tugged at the drawstrings, but the fire-works continued until he tied the knot exactly as it had been before. Lot-Ionan had booby-trapped the bag. He must have reckoned with his inquisitive nature and decided to teach him a lesson.

“What in all the peaks of Girdlegard was that?” Boëndal asked peevishly. “Not some magical nonsense, I hope.”

“I just wanted to see… Well, I wanted to see if the booby trap worked,” fibbed Tungdil, trying to breathe evenly. He was every bit as startled as the twins. “The magus put it there to, er, he put it there to stop the bag from being stolen!”

“All that noise from a little leather pouch?” Boïndil stared incredulously at the bag. “I still don’t see what the fireworks are in aid of, unless the magus wanted whoever stole it to earn a fortune as a street magician.”

“It’s so I’ll know where it is and be able to get it back,” Tungdil told him, inventing an explanation that was rather more flattering than the truth. He didn’t want them to know that his nosiness was to blame.

“If he didn’t want it stolen, why didn’t he put a proper spell on it?” growled Boïndil. He spat contemptuously in the bushes. “I always said that the long-uns’ magic was no good.”

His brother joined in. “He could have conjured a hammer to whack the villain on the head!” he suggested.

“Or a drawstring that crushes his wrists! That would teach the blackguard to keep his hands off other people’s belongings.”

Boëndal sat back down. “The magi work in mysterious ways. All that power and no common sense.”

Tungdil swallowed, thankful that his punishment had been mild by comparison. “I’ll pass on your ideas,” he promised.

“We’ll tell him ourselves!”

“No,” he said quickly. “It would be best if you didn’t. He doesn’t take kindly to anyone interfering in his business, especially if they’re strangers.” He could feel his cheeks burning as he spoke, but luckily for him, the twins were busy poking about in the fire, trying to retrieve a portion of cheese that had been dropped in the confusion.

“A stunt like that could have been the death of us in Greenglade,” muttered Boïndil. He looked at Tungdil sternly. “Leave the bag alone in the future!” Sighing, he impaled the morsel on a stick, dunked it briefly in some water to wash away the ash, and popped it into his mouth. “No harm done,” he said.

But Tungdil had taken the lesson to heart. From now on I won’t touch the bag except to sling it over my shoulder and take it off at night. For all he cared, it could be stuffed full of gold; nothing could persuade him to open the drawstrings.

VII

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

Rantja scanned the crowd. Assembled in the atrium were 180 trainee wizards, the best famuli in Girdlegard, all waiting to be welcomed by Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty. At the behest of their respective magi, they had journeyed to Porista to lend their magical power to the crusade against the Perished Land. The high-ceilinged room echoed with their expectant chatter.

“The girdle must be in trouble if lowly apprentices like us are being summoned to keep out Tion’s hordes,” said a voice in her ear. “You look prettier than ever, Rantja.”

“Jolosin!” she exclaimed in delight, shaking his outstretched hand. It was then that she noticed his navy blue robe. “Oh my, you’re a fourth-tier famulus already. How long did you have to pester Lot-Ionan before he caved in?”

“Only thirty-two cycles old and already in Nudin’s fifth tier! I’m impressed,” teased the dark-haired famulus admiringly. “How are you?”

“Fine.” She smiled, then said soberly, “At least I was fine until I heard about the threat to Girdlegard.” She pointed to the cuts on his fingers. “What happened there?”

“Don’t ask,” he muttered gloomily. “But between you and me, I’m working on a spell to make potatoes peel themselves. It’s a relief to be out of the kitchen and doing something useful.” He glanced around. “Have you seen the council?”

“No. Even my magus has disappeared,” Rantja said anxiously. “What do you make of it?”

“All I know is that the rituals require their full attention, so they might not be able to brief us until later,” he said uneasily. He took a leather pouch from his shoulder and tightened the green drawstrings. “Has it ever been this bad before?”

Rantja shook her head.

The doors swung open, and Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty stepped into the room. He was swaying slightly and his face looked drawn and tired.

“Welcome to Porista,” he greeted them, his voice cracking as he spoke. To some of the famuli it sounded as if two people, a man and a woman, were talking at once. “These are dark times for our realms. Come this way and see for yourselves what the Perished Land has done.” The magus turned toward the conference chamber, motioning the apprentices to follow.

“Are you sure he’s not wearing heels?” Jolosin whispered, surprised. “He’s bigger than when I last saw him — and fifty pounds heavier at least.”

“I know. Everyone keeps saying he looks taller.”

“Much taller, not to mention fatter. But men of his age aren’t supposed to grow. A botched experiment, perhaps?”

They were less than a pace behind him now, and a sweet, almost putrid odor filled their noses. Jolosin put it down to moldering aftershave, but the magus seemed oblivious to the smell.

Just then Rantja skidded across the flagstones and would have fallen, if Jolosin hadn’t reached out and caught her in time. “Thanks,” she said, straightening up and hurrying on, propelled by the famuli behind them. The incident was over too quickly for anyone to notice the long crimson streak on the floor. The magus was leaking blood.

Nudin walked briskly, striking his staff against the marble at regular intervals and leading them through a maze of arcades and corridors until they reached a double door. His onyx-tipped staff glistened darkly as he raised his left hand.

“Steel yourselves,” he warned them, and recited the incantation to open the doors.

Even before the doors were fully open, a fetid smell wafted out of the room, causing the famuli at the front of the queue to cover their faces. Rantja swayed and clutched at Jolosin, who steadied her bravely while he tried not to retch.

The magus was apparently unaffected by the stench. “See for yourselves why Girdlegard needs your help!” Hesitantly, the famuli entered the chamber.

There were cries of distress as the shocked apprentices surveyed the remains of their tutors: a statue, a heap of clothing, a rotting corpse, and in the case of Andôkal, a body so mutilated that its features were no longer recognizable.

“Palandiell have mercy on us,” gasped Jolosin, staring in horror at Lot-Ionan’s marble face. He would never have wished such a dreadful fate on his magus, no matter how many potatoes the wizard had forced him to peel. “Girdlegard is finished,” he muttered despairingly, depositing the leather bag at the foot of the statue. Lot-Ionan had specifically asked him to bring it, and now he was dead. “If the council could do nothing, what hope is there for —”

He was silenced by the sound of a staff striking the floor. A hush descended on the chamber as everyone turned to face Nudin.

“We underestimated the power of the Perished Land,” he said shakily. “It waited for us to channel the magic into the malachite, and then it attacked. The table was destroyed and I myself was almost killed. My good friends here”—he waved his staff in the direction of the fallen magi, whose rotting remains and frozen corpses reflected nothing of their former power— “were unlucky. As their most senior famuli, you are the highest-ranking wizards in Girdlegard.” He stopped to cough up a mouthful of blood and staggered backward, leaning against the fossilized Lot-Ionan for support. “The attack has taken its toll on me, as you can see. It is our duty to repair the table as quickly as we can, for only then will we be able to repel the Perished Land. The survival of humankind depends on our success; ordinary armies will be helpless against the pestilence.”

The famuli looked at one another bleakly, shaken to the core by Nudin’s sobering words and the sight of their dead mentors.

“They were so powerful, but the Perished Land subdued them,” whispered Jolosin despondently. “How are we supposed to —”

“We should give them a proper burial,” Rantja said distractedly. “We can’t just leave them here.” She was trembling.

“Girdlegard is relying on you to be strong,” Nudin exhorted them. “If you don’t act now, we’ll lose our only hope of repelling the Perished Land. You can mourn the dead when it’s over.” He traced a circle on the floor with his staff. “Gather round, join hands, and repeat the incantation after me.”

The famuli did as instructed, Rantja and Jolosin standing side by side and drawing strength and comfort from each other.

Nudin took his place in the circle and laid his staff on the floor. His fat, clammy fingers reached for Jolosin’s free hand and the unfortunate famulus clasped them with revulsion. “If you please, Estimable Magus, I’ve brought the artifacts you loaned to Lot-Ionan.” He turned in the direction of the bag, and Nudin nodded curtly.

Then they began the incantation, calling on the magic to come forth and enter the splinters of the table.

The hours wore away.

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

It was raining at daybreak, or pouring, to be precise.

Summer in all its glory reigned over Girdlegard, but for the duration of a few hours the sun had retreated, allowing the sky to cloud over and quench the parched soil.

No doubt the vegetation was grateful for the downpour, but the dwarves were unimpressed. Huddled under a tree, they waited grumpily for the rain to stop.

“Now you see why we live in the mountains,” scowled Boïndil, who was taking the opportunity to shave his cheeks. Over the past few orbits he had become increasingly restless. His warrior’s heart longed for action so that he could swing his ax and shriek and spit at some orcs, but the chances of that in Lios Nudin were depressingly slim.

“What if he goes into a frenzy?” Tungdil asked Boëndal in a whisper. “Should I hide in a tree?”

The dwarf wrung the rainwater out of his plait and grinned from ear to ear. “You’ll be safe so long as I’m around to direct his fury onto something else. I try to steer him clear of anything that breathes, and it works quite well, for the most part.”

They kept their eyes fixed on the nearby thoroughfare, watching the carts and carriages roll past. One young couple seemed more interested in each other than in driving their oxen. The dutiful animals kept up a steady trot.

The sight of the lovers reminded Tungdil of a subject that had been bothering him for a while. He wondered whether to ask the twins’ advice, although he was beginning to feel embarrassed about his ignorance of dwarven life. For someone who had spent his formative years surrounded by books, he asked incredibly foolish questions. So much for being a scholar!

Curiosity got the better of him eventually. “What do girl dwarves look like?” he asked, avoiding their gaze.

There was silence.

The patter of rain on the leaves seemed deafeningly loud. The brothers let him stew for a while; then Boïndil said: “Pretty.”

“Very pretty,” added Boëndal, amplifying his brother’s terse reply.

“Right.”

There was silence again.

Overhead, the shower was easing, the drumming raindrops fading to a steady drip-drip of water trickling from the twigs and branches.

He tried again. “Do they have beards?”

Silence.

Tungdil became acutely aware of the rich variety of noises made by falling rain.

“Not beards, exactly,” said Boïndil.

“More like wispy down,” explained Boëndal. “It looks lovely.”

No one spoke.

The sun burned a path through the dark gray cloud, and summer triumphed over Girdlegard. Tungdil decided to broach an even more delicate topic. “When men dwarves and girl dwarves —”

He broke off under the secondlings’ withering stares. Boëndal took pity on him. “It’s high time our scholar got to know his kin,” he said dryly. He glanced up at the tree. “The downpour’s over; let’s go.” He stood up, followed by his brother.

“You didn’t answer my question!”

“You didn’t ask a question, and anyway, you’re the one with all the learning, not me.”

“Do girl dwarves fight too?”

“Some do, but in our clan they mostly stay at home,” said Boëndal as they moved off along the road. “Our womenfolk devote themselves to domestic duties: herding animals in the valleys, stocking our pantries, brewing beer, and making clothes.”

“No good ever came of the sexes fighting side by side,” Boïndil added darkly. He seemed to be speaking from experience, but there was something in his voice that warned Tungdil not to probe.

“Don’t make the mistake of belittling their talents, though. They’re just as proud as we are. Some of the best masons and smiths in the kingdom are women. When it comes to artisan contests, they use their chisels and hammers so proficiently that other competitors stop and marvel at their work.”

“Anomalies and exceptions,” growled Boïndil, who was obviously of the opinion that certain tasks were the preserve of male dwarves. “For the most part they belong by the hearth. The kitchen is their calling.”

Tungdil had been listening attentively. “It’s like that in human kingdoms too,” he told them. The idea of female dwarves seemed more appealing than ever and he was eager to become acquainted with their kind.

At last they reached Porista. Tungdil gazed in wonderment at the turrets and domes of the palace, but his companions exchanged bored smiles, needing no further evidence that human architecture was inferior to their own.

Tungdil had been hoping to find Lot-Ionan and unburden himself of Gorén’s books and artifacts, but he was sorely disappointed. At the palace they were told that the council had dispersed some orbits earlier and that Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty was not receiving guests. There was nothing for it but to follow Lot-Ionan to Ionandar.

They were on their way out of the city when Tungdil spotted a stable in one of the side streets. The horse inside it looked strangely familiar.

“Wait here,” he instructed, striding toward the chestnut steed. He felt sure he had shod her not so long ago. He lifted her right foreleg and examined the shoe. The nails were unmistakably his own. “It’s them,” he hissed.

“Friends of yours?” asked Boëndal, whose crow’s beak was resting casually on his shoulder. His brother was absentmindedly stroking his freshly shaven cheeks in search of stray whiskers.

“Not exactly.” Noting the bulging saddlebags, Tungdil fetched a bucket, turned it over, climbed on top of it, and fumbled with the buckles. The bag came open and the dwarf rummaged inside until his fingers came into contact with a jar. He pulled it out quickly.

“Remember the dead dwarf in the caravan?” His instincts had been right; the jar unscrewed to reveal a head. The bounty hunters had shaved the poor fellow’s hair and beard so that the grisly trophy would fit inside the container, which was filled with honey to stop the air from getting in, thus preventing decay. Streaks of blood trailed through the golden fluid, staining it red. “We’ve found the villains who killed him.”

There was a clatter of chain mail and the brothers were beside him like a shot. Neither spoke as they stared in horror at what had been done to their kinsman for the sake of a reward.

“By the blade of Vraccas, I’ll cut them to pieces,” roared Ire-heart. Fury ignited within him, flushing him red and prompting his axes to fly into his hands. “Just wait until I —”

The door swung open and one of the headhunters walked into the stable from the house. Tungdil knew him immediately, and the recognition was mutual as the man stopped abruptly and swore. After considering the three dwarves for a moment, he decided that the odds were against him and fled.

“Cowardly as a runt,” scoffed Ireheart. “Come back here and fight!” He chased him into the house, and there were sounds of a brief but energetic skirmish that climaxed in the man’s dying screams.

“ Don’t —” Tungdil’s shouted warning came too late. “He would have been more use to us alive,” he finished mildly. He could hardly blame Boïndil: The fiery warrior was at the mercy of his temper and came to his senses only when his opponent lay bleeding on the floor.

“We’ll wait for the others to return,” Boëndal said phlegmatically. “Didn’t you say there were five of them in total?” Tungdil nodded, and they took up position in the stable.

It was early evening when the men returned. Judging by their sullen faces, their honey pots were empty and their efforts had been in vain.

Waiting for them behind the door was the vengeful Ire-heart, an ax in each hand and seconded by his brother, who had concealed himself among the straw. The twins were so accustomed to fighting together that any intervention on Tungdil’s part was likely to be a hindrance, so he lurked in the background and kept out of the way.

Once the men had entered the stable and dismounted, Boëndal and Boïndil nodded to each other and launched their assault.

“Leave one of the villains alive!” shouted Tungdil, joining the tail end of the charge.

Alerted by the commotion, one of the headhunters turned and reached for his sword.

The blade was only halfway out of its scabbard when Boïndil’s ax thudded into his left hip. The force of the blow sent him tumbling against the wall. Before he could recover, the dwarf’s second ax hit his right calf, hewing skin and sinew and shattering his knee. The man collapsed in screams of pain.

Satisfied with the crippling effect of his blows, Ireheart moved on. Cackling terribly, he hurled himself on the next of his foes.

His brother was left to deal with the remaining men. Shoulders squared, he charged toward the first of the two, leveling his crow’s beak as he ran.

His opponent had enough time to snatch his shield from the horse and thrust it in front of his body, but he underestimated the weapon’s force. The spike at the tip of the crow’s beak pierced the metal, ripping through the shield and stabbing the man in the arm. Wood and metal had done nothing to repel the weapon; now flesh and bones yielded too. The soldier screamed.

Boëndal jerked the spike out of the shield and rammed the poll against the man’s unprotected knee. The force was enough to smash the joint and buckle the leg. The second headhunter was down.

“I’ll show you what happens to spineless dwarf killers!” Boiling with rage, Ireheart slashed at his opponent with fast, powerful strokes.

Tungdil could see that the men were doing their best to parry the frenzied blows of their attackers, but their expressions revealed the hopelessness of their plight; where there was fear, defeat often followed, and so it was this time.

Boïndil whirled his axes above his head. Unable to guess the direction of the attack, the panicked headhunter turned to his horse.

His legs outpaced the dwarven warrior, but his speed was no match for Boëndal’s weapon. The crow’s beak soared through the air, hitting the man’s back just as he was swinging himself into the saddle. The impact cracked his ribs, stopping him momentarily. It gave Ireheart enough time to catch up.

“You’re too tall for my liking, long-un,” he snorted, slashing at the man’s legs and severing his tendons. His victim toppled, and Ireheart dealt him a double blow to the collarbone that finished him off.

The dwarf went in search of the fourth headhunter, who was cowering behind the mound of straw. “Now it’s your turn!” Ireheart’s chain mail was spattered with his opponents’ blood and his eyes glinted crazily. “Who do you pray to? Palandiell? Samusin?”

The man cast down his sword and raised his hands. “I surrender,” he said hastily.

Ireheart bared his teeth. “Too bad,” he growled, thrusting his axes into his enemy’s unprotected midriff. The man collapsed amid agonized groans. He died quickly but painfully, as Tungdil could tell from his muted whimpers.

Tungdil surveyed the stable. The chief headhunter, whom Ireheart had put out of action at the beginning of the fight, was lying in a pool of blood. He seemed to be fading rapidly. The dwarves hurried over.

“Who pays for your handiwork?” demanded Tungdil. “Tell us, and you’ll be spared.”

“We’ll leave you to drown in your blood if you don’t,” Ire-heart said threateningly.

“Bind my wounds,” the man implored them, pressing his hand to the flowing gash in his hip. “In the name of Palandiell, have mercy on me.” The blood was flowing so fast that Tungdil doubted anything could save him; the magic of a magus, perhaps, but certainly not a bandage.

Ireheart turned on him furiously. “Tell us, or I’ll let my axes do the talking!” Before he could make good on the threat, the headhunter expired.

The dwarves left his side and hurried to the remaining survivor, whose shield and arm had been pierced by Boëndal’s crow’s beak.

The man was gritting his teeth. Pride prevented him from screaming aloud, but the pain from his shattered knee was almost too much to bear.

“Be m-merciful,” he stammered. “I don’t know much, but I’ll tell you. We heard about the reward in Gauragar — they were offering gold in return for groundlings’ heads.” He pointed to Tungdil. “It was just after we met him.”

“Who’s they?” bellowed Ireheart. He laid the bloodied blade of one of his axes against the man’s throat.

“The guild! The master of the guild!” he choked fearfully. “He sent us here. We harvest the heads and every thirtieth orbit he sends a man to fetch the jars. We get our share of the reward — thirty coins apiece for each head.”

“The guild? What guild?” demanded Tungdil.

“The guild of the bounty hunters.” The man groaned as the pain threatened to overwhelm him. “Let me go now. I’ve told you everything I know.”

Tungdil believed him, but he knew the twins would never let him live. His murderous deeds would have to be punished.

“You’re not going anywhere.” Ireheart’s axes settled the matter before Tungdil could object. The headhunter had breathed his last.

“Come on,” Boëndal said evenly. “We need to get out of here before the watchmen arrive.”

Hefting their bags, they hurried out of the city in the direction of Ionandar. At first they were worried that someone would find the bodies and chase after them, but no one did.

Tungdil felt a pang of conscience. “It wasn’t right to kill them,” he said, as they were sloshing their way through puddles and mud. “We should have handed them over to the watchmen along with the jar.”

Boïndil’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me I should have let the villains live?” He shook the raindrops from his beard. “They would have been tried and hung anyway. What difference does it make?”

“They deserved to die, I know. But if we’d…” Tungdil couldn’t think of how to describe his nagging guilt in a way that Ireheart would understand.

Boëndal leaped to his brother’s defense. “No, scholar, there are no two ways about it. They murdered for money and died because of it. What does it matter that we killed them? Boïndil’s right: The long-uns would have hung them, but we saved them the trouble — and we avenged the dead dwarf.” He tossed his plait over his shoulder to signal that his mind was made up. “It was the right thing to do.”

Tungdil could find no argument that might persuade him otherwise. He was still too much the scholar to understand his companions’ dwarven way of thought.

“We need to press on,” Boïndil reminded them in a more conciliatory tone. “The high king is waiting.” The battle in the stable had cooled his raging temper and he was calmer again.

Enchanted Realm of Lios Nudin,

Girdlegard,

Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

I can’t keep this up for much longer,” Rantja muttered despairingly.

“You mustn’t stop now,” whispered Jolosin. “If any of us leaves the circle, the ritual will be broken. I owe it to my magus; we all owe it to Girdlegard to keep going.”

Just then he heard a change in Nudin’s voice. The croaky rasp became a high-pitched purring that didn’t seem to belong to him at all. After a while it lowered to a bass tone so deep that it vibrated through the apprentices’ bodies. None of them, not even the highest-ranking famuli, had heard anything like it.

And yet it worked.

Pulsing with light, the dark green fragments of malachite rose into the air and came to rest three paces above the floor. Even the splinters in the decaying flesh of Maira the Life-Preserver left her body, exiting with a gentle pop as they bored through her skin.

“What did I tell you?” said Jolosin, giving Rantja’s hand an encouraging squeeze. “We’re nearly there now.”

Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty began a new incantation and the famuli resumed their chanting, only to break off shortly afterward, unable to follow the words. Babbling and gibbering incoherently, the magus had lost his thread. With the rest of the circle reduced to silence, the ritual was doomed.

Meanwhile, the fragments of malachite clustered together in a flat disc, ten paces in diameter. The glowing circle began to spin.

“Is this part of the ritual? I’ve never done this before,” hissed Jolosin. Rantja made no reply.

The disc spun faster and faster, the splinters drawing closer as the speed increased. Soon the individual fragments joined together in a circular sheet of flawless crystal.

“My magus knows what he’s doing,” Rantja whispered proudly, breathing a sigh of relief.

A hush descended on the room as the ring of apprentices watched in awed silence while the glowing malachite morphed under Nudin’s command. At last the impressive spectacle drew gasps of admiration and relief from some of the famuli.

“We did it!” Jolosin was about to throw his arms around Rantja but was stopped by the magus, who tightened his grip on his hand.

Nudin spoke, uttering a single, unintelligible word.

A splinter flew out of the disk and pierced Jolosin in the chest. No one noticed.

“What…” Groaning, the young man tried to free his hand and touch the spot where the jagged splinter had entered his flesh and buried itself deep inside his chest. He could feel the blood seeping from the wound and trickling down his abdomen, but Nudin was gripping him firmly in his cold, clammy clasp.

“Estimable Magus,” Jolosin said, his voice strained with pain, “I’m… I’m hurt. I’ve been hit by a shard.”

Nudin turned his pale bloated face toward him. His pupils were dilated, almost obscuring his irises. Then the black dots turned the color of tarnished silver. His misty eyes glinted.

“I know, my boy. I needed your magic. There was no other way.” He squeezed his hand reassuringly. “It won’t hurt for long.” The magus closed his eyes.

Another tiny splinter of malachite flew across the room and hit Rantja. From then on, the splinters followed in quick succession, striking the apprentices so rapidly that half of their number had been wounded before the others noticed. They called to the magus for help.

“Stay where you are or everything will be ruined,” he commanded, eyes still closed.

The remaining famuli were unpersuaded by his words. Rather than stay and be killed by the lethal crystal, they decided to run for cover, but by then it was too late. As they tried to pull away, they realized with horror that their hands were stuck together, tying them to one another until they too were struck by shards.

The malachite disc sent dark bolts in the direction of each famulus, green light caressing their bodies eagerly in search of the splinters and slipping inside the wounds.

Nudin looked up, an insane glimmer in his eyes. Throwing open his cloak, he uttered another incomprehensible command.

At once a finger-length shard of malachite flew toward him on a bolt of green lightning and planted itself in his chest. The beam intensified, pulsing and rippling with light, while the tendrils of energy binding the famuli to the crystal faded and dimmed. Soon they were gone altogether.

“Victory!” The magus’s shriek of triumph was too shrill and powerful to be human. He laughed exultantly. “The time for dissembling is over; Nôd’onn the Doublefold is once more!”

The famuli slid to the floor. Jolosin, Rantja, and the others were incapable of speech; the malachite had wrested the magic from their bodies and plundered their strength.

The more fragile among them were the first to succumb. Their hearts stopped, their breathing failed.

A small band of famuli, Jolosin and Rantja included, summoned the energy to drag themselves across the floor in a desperate effort to reach the doors.

The magus plunged his fingers into his chest and was feeling around for the splinter. He withdrew the bloodied fragment, gazed at it dreamily, then replaced it in the wound. He took a step toward the malachite disc.

“You served your purpose, now be gone!” No sooner had his onyx-tipped staff made contact with the hovering crystal than it fell to the ground, littering the floor with myriad splinters.

Don’t just stand there, he told himself sternly. Let the next phase begin! Gathering the leather bag brought by Jolosin, he hurried to the door, skewering three crawling famuli as he passed. A tidemark of blood stained the white maple of his staff.

On reaching the doorway, he stopped and looked back, scanning the foul-smelling room. The stench of decay would soon be overwhelming, but it was all the same to him. His work was almost done and he was leaving the conference chamber for the final time.

It was then that he noticed Rantja and Jolosin. With a brutal swipe of his staff, he crushed the famulus’s skull. His own apprentice had nearly reached the door, but he nudged her back into the chamber with his boot.

Rantja rolled onto her back, tears streaming over her face, and uttered a healing charm. Her magic failed her.

The magus stooped to stroke her long brown hair. He knew the famula well and she was talented, one of his most gifted pupils, in fact. She would probably have made it into his discipleship in Lios Nudin, but he knew that she couldn’t be relied on to cooperate with his plans.

“The malachite splinter inside you has left you weak and helpless,” he told her. “The magic is gone. You’ll die like the others, Rantja.”

The young woman stared up at him accusingly. Her dark eyes were full of contempt for the magus whom she had trusted implicitly and who had forfeited her respect.

Nôd’onn looked away, surprised at how much he was affected by his dying apprentice. “I didn’t want to kill them,” he said defensively. “There was no other way of obtaining their magic. What was I supposed to do? Andôkai, Lot-Ionan, Maira, Sabora, and Turgur refused to help me, and you and the other famuli would have turned against me too. I knew it was going to be difficult, but I did it because I had to. This is my destiny. Girdlegard must be protected from evil.”

“There is no greater evil than the Perished Land,” she said, breathing in rapid gasps. “The gods will punish you for betraying our circle.”

Nôd’onn thought for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right. But the vengeance of the gods is a small price to pay for saving mankind.” He got to his feet and stepped out of the chamber. “And mankind can be saved only by the Perished Land and the chosen few.”

“You’re mistaken,” whispered Rantja. Her gaze faltered. “You’re…” A sigh ran through her body and her head slumped back, falling to the side.

“No,” Nôd’onn contradicted her sadly. “I’m right, but no one understands. My dear friend told me this would happen.”

Closing the doors with a wave of his hand, he turned away quickly and hurried through the palace to the vaults. There was a dull thud as the doors of the chamber slammed behind him, sealing Girdlegard’s most powerful wizards in their tomb.

Clumping down the stairs, Nôd’onn reached the room where the energy was at its strongest. From Lios Nudin, the force field extended outward in five directions, supplying the other realms. He was about to change all that.

The magi and their highest-ranking famuli had been taken care of, but there was still the matter of the lowlier apprentices. Nôd’onn was incapable of stopping the flow of energy, but he intended to reclaim the young wizards’ meager powers by other means.

First there’s something I need to attend to. He loosened the green drawstrings, opened the bag, and turned it upside down.

An hourglass hit the floor, shattering on impact, followed closely by two amulets, which tinkled against the marble. A roll of parchment landed on top.

Nôd’onn stared at the motley collection. These aren’t my things! he thought furiously, scattering the pool of sand in all directions with his staff. Confound Lot-Ionan!

He reminded himself of the need for calm. Besides, he could always ask the orcs to retrieve the items from Ionandar.

Focusing his mind, he used his powers to search for the force field and, on finding a connection, uttered the charm provided by the Perished Land, thereby releasing the magic he had plundered.

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 Boïndil, who had procured a keg of beer.

Tungdil awoke the next morning and cursed his pounding head. According to Boëndal, 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, Boïndil, 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.

Boïndil 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 Boëndal.

“It looks that way. Most of landur has fallen already and the elves are under constant attack. Some have fled to the plains of Tabaîn, or so I’ve heard.” The peddler packed the gifts in coarsely woven cloth. “Everyone says the älfar are getting the better of them. They’ve taken the other elven kingdoms, and if you ask me, landur will be next. It’s only a matter of time before the älfar 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 Boïndil, who was admiring his shaven cheeks in a mirror.

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

“Serves the elvish tricksters right,” said Boïndil 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 älfar, 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.”

Boïndil 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 Boïndil at the end of a meal.

“What of it?”

“Well, it’s not nice to look at,” he answered, trying to be diplomatic.

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

“There’s still…”

“Look here,” Boïndil 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!” Boïndil clapped Tungdil on the back and grinned lewdly. There was cheese between his teeth. “Always on about girl dwarves.”

“Patience, scholar,” Boëndal 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.” Boëndal 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 Boëndal, whose eyes sparkled roguishly. Boïndil 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 Boïndil, wiping away tears of merriment. “But maybe you should try it; it seems to work for Boëndal!”

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

“Just be yourself,” said Boëndal, 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 Boëndal. “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,” Boïndil 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.

Boïndil 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.”

Boïndil 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, Boïndil, 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 Boëndal 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. Boëndal and Boïndil grew uneasy at the thought of wizardry and spells.

“I didn’t like coming here the first time,” grumbled Boïndil. “ 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!” Boëndal 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 negligeßnce would soon regret it. He intended to give the vault’s inhabitants the shock of their lives.

“ Tut-tut,” Boïndil 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 protégé for confirmation, but Tungdil chose not to get involved. Boïndil 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.”

Boëndal 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.”

Boïndil 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,” Boïndil 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.” Boëndal 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!” Boïndil rolled his eyes. “No wonder Vraccas told us to take care of the longuns! 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 Boïndil out loud. “Hardly surprising, given the state of the place.”

The comment earned him a reproving look from Boëndal. “Surely they’d take the cook with them?” he couldn’t help asking.

“Not necessarily.” Boïndil 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 Boïndil,” Boëndal 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.

Boïndil 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.” Boïndil 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.

Boëndal 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 Boïndil, 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,” Boëndal 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.

Boëndal 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 Boëndal 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,” Boïndil 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?”

Boëndal 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.”

Boïndil 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 Boïndil 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,” Boëndal 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, Boïndil leading and Boëndal 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 — Gorén’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 Boëndal or Boïndil; 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 älfar, 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 älfar are good allies.” Nudin’s doppelgänger 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 älf, 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 draw-strings. I took the wrong bag! I marched for miles across Girdlegard, and Gorén’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 Gorén 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 älfar 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 Gorén 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 älfar 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.

Boïndil 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.

Boëndal 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 Boïndil 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 Boïndil.

“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, Boïndil 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?” Boïndil 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 he 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 Boëndal. “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.

Boïndil 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. Boëndal 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. Nôd’onn killed him.”

“Nôd’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. “Nôd’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 Nôd’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 Nôd’onn want with the books and the artifacts?”

“I don’t know. Nôd’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.

Beroïn’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 landur, 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 Balendilín, 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 Balendilín 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 Nôd’onn’s fleshy hands.

He could hear Boïndil laughing behind him, his frenzied cackles competing with the orcs’ dying shrieks. Boëndal 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.” Boëndal 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,” Boïndil 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 Boëndal was less reckless than his brother and his sharp eyes had noted his exhaustion.

“Oh, all right, then,” conceded Boïndil 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.”

Nôd’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.” Nôd’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 Nôd’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 Nôd’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. Nôd’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.

Nôd’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 Boëndal swung his crow’s beak above his head and rammed it into Nôd’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, Boëndal 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. Nôd’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!” Boëndal 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.

Boëndal 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 Boëndal 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 Beroïn, I thought we’d…”

Nôd’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 Nôd’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,” Boïndil 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,” Boëndal 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 Nôd’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.

Beroïn’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 landur. 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.

Boëndal and Boïndil 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 Boïndil, 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.”

Boïndil 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.

“Nôd’onn was definitely dead,” Boëndal 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 Boïndil, “it’s a special kind of jiggerypokery 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 Boïndil.

“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,” Boëndal 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.

Boïndil 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,” Boëndal 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 Andôkai the Tempestuous?” he ventured at last.

The maga nodded. “And you need no introduction: Tungdil and his two friends who cheated Nôd’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 Djerůn, a loyal ally.”

Boëndal eyed her suspiciously. “What do you want?”

Tungdil took over quickly. “What’s happened to Lot-Ionan? Is he alive?”

Andôkai looked at him with angry, tortured eyes. “ Lot-Ionan is dead — and so are Maira, Turgur, and Sabora. They’re all dead. Nôd’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. Nôd’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!” Boïndil 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,” Boëndal 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.” Andôkai took a step toward them. “I came here because I wanted to ask what Nôd’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 Nôd’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 Boïndil, 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?” Andôkai said scornfully. She straightened up. “Your problems won’t seem important when Nôd’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 Boïndil 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 Nôd’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. Boïndil’s objections were overruled: The other two had learned from their encounter with Nôd’onn and could see that the maga would be a useful ally when facing the dangers ahead.

Boïndil 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!” Boïndil 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!”

“Djerůn 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 Boïndil, 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 Andôkai, 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?” Andôkai 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, Djerůn 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.” Andôkai 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. “Nôd’onn must have forgotten that Djerůn 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 Djerůn stole a corpse from the morgue, dressed it in my clothes, and left it with the other bodies. We wanted Nôd’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 Djerůn found me, your magus had been turned to stone. Nôd’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?” Boïndil 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.

Boïndil 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!”

Boëndal 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 Andôkai to have one of Tion’s monsters at her side. I can’t let Boïndil pick a fight with Djerůn. If he starts on the giant, Andôkai 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 Boïndil, 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?” Boïndil was shocked. “It’s pretty gruesome, don’t you think?”

“That’s what it says in the books.”

Boëndal 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.

Boëndal shrugged. “Sooner or later he’ll show his face. He’ll have to lift his visor when he eats.”

IX

Kingdom of Gauragar,

Girdlegard,

Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

It had been a long time, perhaps thousands of cycles, since Girdlegard had last seen a band of travelers as strange as the company that had been toiling through Ionandar and Gauragar for several orbits.

First to appear over the hilltop was Djerůn, his formidable armored body provoking horrified panic among any peasants who happened to be tending the land.

The dwarves led the way, but their stocky figures took longer to loom into view. Boëndal and Boïndil walked ahead, with Tungdil in the middle and Andôkai and the giant a few paces behind. Djerůn was forced to take miniature strides in order not to outpace his mistress and the dwarves. The maga had offered a farmer a ridiculous number of gold coins to part with his horse, which now bore the weight of her bags and the giant’s spare weaponry.

Tungdil was still trying to work out whether to tell Andôkai about the books. He had no idea what was written in the scholarly tomes, but it was encouraging to know that Nôd’onn feared their contents as much as the artifacts. Who knows if I can stop him, but Andôkai surely can. She’s the last of Girdlegard’s magi. He was determined to do whatever it took to make her stay. Slowing his pace a little, he fell in beside her. “I’ve been thinking about your magic and I can’t figure out why it still works. Didn’t Nôd’onn corrupt the force fields?”

“Why do you ask?”

“It’s important?”

“For you or for me?”

“For Girdlegard.”

“For Girdlegard! Very well, Tungdil, how could I refuse?” She smiled balefully. “I was never as kind-spirited as my fellow magi. My god is Samusin, god of equilibrium, who cherishes darkness as well as light. Thanks to him I have the ability to use both. It’s harder for me to store and use dark magic, but the corruption of the force fields hasn’t really affected my powers. Nôd’onn knows that, but he wasn’t expecting me to survive. Not that he’s got anything to worry about — my art is nothing compared to his.” Shielding her eyes with her hand, she squinted into the distance. “There should be a forest ahead. I can’t stand this sun much longer.”

You’ve got to ask her now, Tungdil told himself. He summoned all his courage. “Maga, suppose there was a way of stopping the traitor. Would you try it?” he asked.

There was silence. Just as the tension was becoming unbearable, Andôkai spoke. “Would this have something to do with the contents of your bags, little man?”

“We found something in Greenglade,” he told her, giving a brief account of what had happened in the woods. “Nôd’onn sent in the älfar, but we got there first.”

“Are you going to show me?”

Tungdil thought for a moment and decided that there was no point leaving the matter half-solved. He slid the package out of his knapsack, removed the wrapping, and handed over the books.

Andôkai opened each of the tomes in turn and leafed through the pages, her face remaining an inscrutable mask.

Tungdil couldn’t help feeling disappointed: He had reckoned with her amazement. Seeing her dispassionate expression made him fear the worst.

At length she returned the volumes. “Was there anything with them?”

“What are they about?” he asked, deciding not to give away anything until he’d found out more.

“They’re anthologies: descriptions of legendary beings and mythical weapons, and an obscure tale about an expedition across the Stone Gateway into the Outer Lands. It says in the preface that a single survivor returned, mortally wounded but bearing manuscripts that are reproduced in the book. Why Nôd’onn should take an interest in the volumes is a mystery. I suppose he’s just as knowledge-lusty as before.”

“What else do they say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Nôd’onn wouldn’t have sacked Greenglade for nothing! He had us chased by a war band of orcs just to get his hands on the books!” He glared at the maga defiantly. “With respect, maga, I think you’re wrong. There’s something important in those volumes, even if you can’t see it.”

“Are you daring to.…?” The mistress of Brandôkai stopped and erupted into laughter. “Did you hear that, Djerůn? Here I am, traipsing along a dusty road, being corrected by a dwarf who thinks he knows best!”

The giant kept walking, impassive as ever.

“I didn’t mean to cause offense,” said Tungdil, “but at least I’m not as arrogant and sure of myself as you are. I shouldn’t wonder if there’s elfish blood in your veins!”

“Fighting talk, little dwarf!” she said in amusement. She nodded in the direction of the twins. “The other two would have drawn their weapons and settled the matter another way, but you learned from Lot-Ionan, I can tell.” Suddenly she was serious again. “I’ll take a proper look at the volumes tonight. Maybe you’re right and there’s more to them than I thought.”

“Thank you, Estimable Maga.” The dwarf inclined his head respectfully and quickened his pace to catch up with the twins. “We’ll soon find out what the magus wanted with our books,” he announced proudly.

“What? You didn’t tell the wizard-woman about them, did you?” gasped a horrified Boïndil.

“Not only that; I showed them to her.”

The secondling shook his head reprovingly. “You’re too trusting, scholar. It’s time you became a proper dwarf and stopped acting like a human.”

“I see. So you’d like me to splice her skull if she disagrees with me, would you?” said Tungdil, his temper beginning to fray.

“I’d like to see you dare,” Boïndil retorted with venom.

Boëndal quickly squeezed between them. “Stop it!” he said firmly. “Spare your fury for the orcs; I doubt we’ve seen the last of them. For what it’s worth, I think Tungdil was right to tell the maga. I don’t like being hounded because of a couple of books I know nothing about.”

His brother just grunted and surged on.

“I never said traveling with us would be easy,” Boëndal said with a grin.

Tungdil sighed, then burst out laughing.

Dusk was falling when they set up camp. The air had cooled and there was a smell of earth and grass. A band of crickets was chirping its evening concert.

The dwarves divided up their dwindling provisions — the sight of the Blue Range’s summits in the distance reassured them that they would soon be feasting on fresh dwarven treats. Meanwhile, Andôkai kept her word and studied the books.

Not wanting to distract her, Tungdil allowed the maga to read in peace, approaching only to bring Djerůn his supper. Like every other evening, he placed a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and a large slab of meat beside the warrior.

This time he was determined to keep an eye on the giant while he ate; so far neither Tungdil nor the twins had seen behind the metal visor.

“Djerůn will sit the first watch,” said Andôkai without looking up from her reading. “The rest of you can get some sleep.”

“Suits me fine,” said Boïndil, then burped. He shook the worst of the crumbs from his beard, coiled his plait into a pillow, and settled down next to the fire. “Listen, long-un,” he told the giant, who was sitting motionless as usual, “don’t forget to wake me if you see any orcs. It’s about time they had a taste of my axes.”

The twins seized the chance to get some sleep, and in no time loud snores were reverberating through the woods, setting the leaves aquiver.

Andôkai slammed down her book. “Now I know why they always take the first watch,” she said irritably. “It’s a wonder their snores never woke me. How am I supposed to concentrate when they’re making such a din?”

Tungdil chuckled. “Imagine what it sounds like in Ogre’s Death.”

“I don’t intend staying long enough to find out.”

Tungdil looked at her rippling muscles as she stretched. She was impressively strong for a woman — stronger even than the scullery maids who were used to hard labor.

“Have you found anything new in the…” Tungdil checked himself. He had resolved not to ask her about the books.

Hugging her knees to her chest, she rested her chin on her hands and turned her blue eyes on him. “You think I’ll change my mind if the books tell us how Nôd’onn can be defeated.”

“Samusin is the god of equilibrium; surely it’s your duty to strive for a balance between darkness and light,” he said, appealing to her faith since honor alone was not enough to persuade her. Her decision to abandon her realm was proof enough of that.

Andôkai laid a hand on one of the leather-bound volumes. “If I could find a spell or a charm that would cause Nôd’onn’s downfall, I would take the traitor on,” she said earnestly, “but the books contain nothing of the kind — just far-fetched stories and myths.”

“So you’re turning your back on Girdlegard?”

“My art is useless against Nôd’onn’s power. I was lucky to escape.” She flicked through the book, opening it at random. “Maybe there is some kind of hidden meaning. All I know is that I don’t have the key.”

Tungdil decided to come clean. He produced the letter that Gorén had written in scholarly script. “This was with the books. I suppose it might help.”

“Is there anything else you’re not telling me, or is this the last of your secrets?”

“It’s the last, I swear.”

Andôkai accepted the sheet of parchment, folded it, and placed it between the pages of one of the books. She rubbed her eyes. “The darkness is hardly conducive to study. I’ll read it tomorrow.” She returned the volumes to their wax paper wrapping, arranged the parcel as a pillow, and nestled her head on top.

“Tomorrow?” Tungdil had been expecting her to read the letter at once. He sighed; the maga was a troublesome person to deal with. He settled down next to the fire and glanced at Djerůn.

The giant was still wearing his helmet, but the food was gone. Tungdil cursed: Talking to Andôkai had distracted him from looking at Djerůn’s visor, although, now that he thought about it, he hadn’t been alerted by a telling clunk of metal. There was something unnerving about the maga’s companion.

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle

Balendilín barely had a moment to himself. On reaching his chamber, he discovered that two dwarves from the fourthling delegation had requested to see him.

Not a moment too soon. It’s about time Gandogar put a stop to this foolishness. He turned round and hurried to the meadows, where the delegates were expecting him.

The high king’s counselor was feeling remarkably upbeat. For weeks he had poured most of his energy into rebutting the rumors about Gundrabur’s failing health, and rightly so: The high king had a strong heart and an even stronger will, which he employed in persuading the assembly to await the arrival of the other pretender to the throne. Such was his success that there was talk of strengthening the bonds among the folks in more permanent ways.

It’s going almost too well, thought Balendilín, gripped by a sudden apprehension. He stepped out of the passageway and onto a bridge across a chasm fifty paces wide. Deep in thought, he made his way over the disused copper mines two hundred paces below.

It bothered him that Bislipur never seemed to tire of rekindling the passions of those who favored a war against the elves. He and Gundrabur would have achieved much more if it hadn’t been for the fourthling’s inflammatory speeches. He’s a rabble-rouser. You can guarantee his influence is at the heart of Gandogar’s misplaced zeal.

Just then he noticed a movement in the mouth of the tunnel ahead. Bislipur was on the bridge in front of him, his left hand resting lightly on his ax. For a moment Balendilín wondered whether the fourthling could have heard his thoughts through the thick stone walls. There was something threatening about his demeanor. Balendilín stopped and waited. “Were you looking for me?”

“Do you know what they’re calling it?” Bislipur shouted, his voice echoing against the rock. “The quarrel of the cripples: one-armed Balendilín against Bislipur the lame. Is that how you see it?”

Balendilín paused, hoping to hear sounds of other dwarves, but the tunnels were deserted. He and Bislipur were alone. “Quarrel is too strong a word,” he answered. “You have your convictions, I have mine, and we’re both trying to persuade the assembly of our views.” He took a step forward, then another one. Bislipur did the same. “What is it that you want?”

“To serve the dwarves,” Bislipur said, grim-faced.

“What is it you want from me?”

“A change of heart. How can I persuade you that the future of the folks and clans lies with Gandogar and me?”

“If you persist in campaigning for a war against the elves, I will never be able to support your king,” Balendilín said frankly. He stood his ground and Bislipur stopped too. Fifteen paces remained between them.

“Then a quarrel it is,” Bislipur told him harshly. “Until Gandogar has been elected, I shall regard you as an enemy and a danger to the prosperity and safety of our race. The others will come round to my view.” He walked toward Balendilín, who was advancing along the bridge. Only an arm’s length separated the two dwarves. “It’s about time the high king was spared your counsel so he can come to his senses at last.”

By now they were so close that their noses were almost touching.

“To his senses? That’s rich, from you.” Balendilín stared at Bislipur and saw implacable hatred and enmity in his eyes. “Let me tell you this,” he said, trying not to betray his fear, even though Bislipur undoubtedly intended to harm him. “Your war against landur will never happen. Even the fourthling chieftains are having second thoughts.”

“The throne is ours. You’re no match for Gandogar and me.” The words were spat violently, Bislipur’s pent-up fury ready to erupt at any moment.

“I didn’t realize you were bidding for a joint succession.”

Neither flinched as they glared at each other, eyes locked in combat. All of a sudden Bislipur’s air of menace fell away.

“Well, good luck with your lost cause,” he said breezily. “May Vraccas be with you.” He stepped past Balendilín and continued along the bridge.

The high king’s counselor closed his eyes and swallowed. Having resigned himself to a duel, he could scarcely believe that he was going to make it across the chasm without a fight. Bislipur’s whistling reverberated through the tunnel, the simple melody repeating itself and overlapping as he strode away.

It was a relief to leave the bridge and feel solid ground beneath his feet. At least I know he means business, thought Balendilín philosophically. He pressed on, anxious not to keep the fourthling delegates waiting.

He was just approaching a bend in the passageway when the floor seemed to shake. The movement was so slight that a human would never have detected it, but the dwarves had learned to take notice of the faintest vibrations in the rock. Something heavy was heading his way.

The next instant, he heard agitated mooing and thundering hooves. From what he could gather, a herd had been startled on its return from the meadows.

Balendilín scanned his surroundings, searching in vain for a niche that would save him from the cattle’s charge. There was no choice but to regain the bridge, climb over the parapet, and balance on the narrow ledge.

He turned and sped back along the passageway, spurred on by the sound of horns scraping against the polished walls. Panting heavily, he reached the end of the tunnel and the bridge came into view; the animals were right behind him.

Without hesitating, he swung himself over the side and steadied himself on the ledge. The momentum nearly carried him into the abyss, but the daring maneuver paid off and the cows streamed past behind him.

Vraccas be praised!

There was a jolt and the bridge cracked audibly. He could see the first fissures running through the rock.

It was only then that it occurred to him that the bridge was not designed to bear the weight of stampeding cows. It had been built for dwarves, not cattle. The herd exceeded its strength by a matter of tons and the rhythmic pounding of their hooves had a devastating effect.

The first crack opened at the midpoint of the bridge where the stone was at its thinnest. The struts beneath it snapped, heralding the next stage in the disaster.

A section of stone measuring four paces in length gave way, sending a number of cows plummeting into the abyss. From there the destruction spread along the bridge. Slab by slab the stone fell away, cows tumbling to their deaths, their moos becoming fainter and fainter. At the back of his mind Balendilín was aware that there was still no sign that they had hit the bottom.

His position was precarious in the extreme. With the bridge crumbling before his eyes, he was faced with a choice of dying among the cows or casting himself voluntarily into the abyss.

At last the herd stopped surging and the dwarf summoned the courage to leap into their midst. Barely had his feet touched the ground when the stone gave way beneath him. Grabbing wildly at the edge, he managed to catch hold of a jagged overhang and clung on for dear life.

An able-bodied dwarf would have hauled himself to safety easily, but Balendilín, dangling by his only arm, had no means of saving himself and no prospect of being rescued. He knew it was merely a matter of time before his muscles gave out.

“Is anyone there? Help!” he shouted, straining his voice to alert his kinsmen to his plight. With any luck, someone would be on their way to retrieve the wayward herd. “Over here!”

The cows were calmer now and answered his cries with gentle, mindless moos. Two of the animals ventured to the edge and, sniffing at his hand, licked it heartily. Their saliva collected in a pool, making his position more dangerous than before.

It seemed to Balendilín that three grown orcs could not weigh more than he did. His arm was getting longer, while his voice grew hoarse.

Suddenly the herd parted as someone barged through their midst.

“Over here,” he called, relieved that help had arrived before he lost his grip. “I’m falling!”

Dust showered over him, coating his hair and his beard, and he found himself looking into the green face of a gnome whose sizable nose was tipped with a wart of impressive dimensions. The creature’s round eyes stared at him greedily and its clawlike fingers slithered down his arm.

“Nearly done.” Sverd leaned over the edge and fumbled with Balendilín’s belt. “Just one moment,” he told the unfortunate dwarf.

A clasp clicked open and Sverd straightened up, a look of satisfaction on his face. He brandished Balendilín’s purse and the jewel-encrusted belt. “Much indebted to you, I’m sure! You can let go now.” Chuckling maliciously, he beat his retreat.

“You can’t just leave me!” Balendilín shouted, aghast. “Come back!” It was too late: His fingers slipped and in spite of his frantic efforts, he failed to get a purchase on the saliva-covered overhang. He steeled himself for the long slide into darkness.

At that moment, an ax sped toward him, the short metal spur catching in the rings of his mail shirt. Balendilín was reeled in like an anchor on a chain.

Breathing heavily, he lay on the floor beside his rescuer, who was panting from the strain.

“Gandogar!” Balendilín could not conceal his astonishment at being saved from his fate by the fourthling king.

“You and I may not always agree with each other, but we’re hardly enemies,” said the monarch, smiling wryly. “First and foremost, we’re dwarves, children of the Smith. Our enemies are Tion’s minions, not the other clans or folks. That’s how I see it, in spite of our differences.” He straightened up and helped the royal counselor to his feet. “What happened?”

Balendilín seized his hand thankfully. Gandogar had spoken from the heart and his heroic intervention was evidence enough of his sincerity. “Something must have startled the cattle,” he said.

He didn’t elaborate further. He wasn’t prepared to blame Bislipur and Sverd for engineering the “accident” until he had firm proof. The gnome’s appearance on the scene had convinced him that Bislipur was behind his attempted murder; Sverd always acted on his master’s command.

“I owe you my life,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t mean I think you’re right about the elves, but I’m deeply indebted to you all the same.”

“Spoken like a true dwarf,” the king said warmly. “Besides, I didn’t do anything that you wouldn’t have done for me.”

“Oh really?” Balendilín paused and smiled. “I’m not sure I would have helped.”

Gandogar looked at him, shocked. “I…”

“How could I have rescued you with only one hand?” Balendilín burst out laughing and, after a short silence, Gandogar joined in. It saddened the counselor that the fourthling monarch was so determined to go to war; he had a feeling that Gandogar would make an excellent king.

Later, when Balendilín regained his chamber, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that the whole episode had been a trap. The delegates who supposedly wanted to see him were an invention.

At least his purse and his buckle had been deposited by his door. The gnome must have thought better of harboring evidence of his despicable crime. Balendilín replaced the purse, fastened his belt, and vowed not to give his would-be murderers another chance.

Kingdom of Sangpûr,

Girdlegard,

Early Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle

Autumn left the travelers in no doubt that it was a force to be reckoned with, particularly at night. Even though they were deep in the south of Girdlegard, having crossed the border into Queen Umilante’s realm, there was little warmth to be found in the desert, only a constant barrage of tiny grains of sand.

No sooner had darkness drawn in and the sun sunk below the horizon than the air took on a nasty chill. Andôkai wasted no time in lighting a blazing fire, in spite of the twins’ disapproval. To Boëndal’s mind, the comfort it provided was outweighed by the risk of attracting orcs and other riffraff; it seemed foolish to court danger when they had come so far and were almost at their goal. Somewhat begrudgingly, Boïndil agreed with him. But the maga ignored them anyway and persisted in tossing logs into the flames.

They were only eight or so orbits from Ogre’s Death when they came to a village among the dunes. The settlement was situated next to a tranquil lake, which made it a popular and flourishing trading post. Tungdil and the others decided to grant themselves the luxury of a night’s shelter.

For merchants returning home from the secondling kingdom, the village was a last oasis before the long journey through Sangpûr, where nothing awaited them but desolate wasteland and the occasional brigand.

“It’s safe here,” Boëndal assured them. “The traders like dwarves because they know we offer decent, solid wares that fetch good prices when they sell them in other towns.”

The party still attracted considerable attention, but only, as Tungdil realized, because they were accompanied by a walking tionium tower. Children crowded round them, marveling at Djerůn, who bore the fuss with equanimity. The giant was accustomed to causing a stir.

Visitors to the settlement were accommodated in tents by the lake. Depending on the needs of each party, the canvas and wood constructions could be expanded or reduced in size, with the option of adding an extra floor to create a two-story dwelling not dissimilar to a house.

Djerůn was too tall for a standard model, so they opted for a two-story tent and removed the upper floorboards. The wind was freshening, so they retreated under the canvas, lit a fire in the corner, and got the kettle boiling.

“Just think,” Tungdil said excitedly, sipping his steaming mug of tea, “I’m about to meet my folk. I can hardly wait!”

“I’m not surprised,” Boëndal agreed, smiling at him warmly. “And the others will be pleased to meet you too. The delegates will be dying of impatience.”

“Ugh!” his brother interrupted. “Why would anyone drink this stuff? I’m off to find some beer. There aren’t any sensible buildings in this village, but they’re bound to sell something that tastes better than tea!” He got up and left.

“So tell me, Tungdil,” said Andôkai, who had been poring over the books, “what makes you special enough to merit a royal escort?” Gorén’s letter rested on her knee. It was the first time she had taken any interest in why the twins had been sent to find Tungdil.

He hesitated. “What does it matter?” he said disdainfully. “The Estimable Maga is abandoning Girdlegard. I don’t see why she needs to know.”

Andôkai broke off her study, taken aback by Tungdil’s harsh tone. “Dear me, I’ve incurred your eternal displeasure, have I? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’re wasting your breath if you think you can stop me by appealing to my conscience.”

Boëndal glanced at Tungdil, eyebrows raised.

As far as Tungdil was concerned, the maga had no right to give up on her homeland so easily. She wasn’t the only one who stood to lose by staying in Girdlegard. In spite of his excitement at being reunited with his folk, he knew that his chances of survival were slim, unless of course there was something in the books that could help them vanquish Nôd’onn. But unlike the maga, he was determined to fight beside his kinsmen to the end.

Rain pattered against the canvas. Fat droplets left meandering tracks on the outside of the tent and pitted the dusty ground. Autumn showers were nothing unusual in Sangpûr’s deserts. In most other places, the wet and dry weather would have been ideal for agriculture, but the soil was impossibly barren in these parts. Trees and plants rarely took root and were tended jealously by their owners.

Just then the tent flap swung open and a cloaked intruder appeared in their midst.

Like a statue conjured to life, Djerůn leaped into action. His left gauntlet closed around his two-hander; then he raised the sword with both hands, dropped into a half crouch, lunged forward, and brought the blade whistling toward the stranger’s throat.

“Stop!” the maga commanded. Djerůn froze.

“Forgive me,” stammered the man. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I was told to deliver this.” Hands trembling, he deposited the keg of beer and fled, worried that the giant would change his mind and cut him down regardless.

“Good work,” Boëndal said admiringly. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible that a man could move so fast wearing all that armor.”

Djerůn returned to his former position, cross-legged on the floor. Boëndal’s comment failed to elicit a response from the giant or his mistress.

The secondling persevered. “The warrior is your business,” he told Andôkai, “but our sentries won’t let him cross the High Pass unless he’s prepared to show his face and declare his lineage.”

“What kind of foolishness is this?” the maga said irritably, weary of the constant interruptions. “We’ll be leaving Girdlegard! What does it matter what he looks like or where he comes from? You’d be well advised to focus on your defenses, instead of interfering in the business of travelers who can’t wait to leave your land.”

“Whether you’re coming or going is of no concern to us,” Boëndal said emphatically. “No beast of Tion will set foot on our pass.”

“Hang on,” Tungdil told him, “he’s just an elongated —”

Boëndal didn’t let him finish. “I played along to keep the peace, but we’re almost home now.” He looked at Andôkai grimly. “When we reach the Blue Range, the giant will be bound by the same laws as everyone else. You’re welcome to seek your own route through the mountains, but you won’t be crossing our kingdom if you’re hiding something dangerous behind that mask.”

“I’ll take my chances,” said the maga, returning to her book.

“Your chances!” exploded Boëndal. “Do you mean we’ve been traveling all this way with a creature of darkness?”

“That’s not what I said. Besides, I don’t recall there being anything in the creed of Samusin to forbid it.”

“Samusin? I won’t have any truck with him.” The dwarf’s face hardened and he rose to his feet, the long shaft of his crow’s beak clasped in one hand. “Tell me what’s behind the visor.”

“That does it!” Andôkai closed her book with a snap. “Nôd’onn himself could be hiding inside that armor and I wouldn’t tell you! Djerůn is with me.” If anyone had been wondering how Andôkai the Tempestuous had earned her name, the matter was now resolved. “Who cares if he’s an ogre or a dark spirit or Tion knows what? He’s the perfect traveling companion and he doesn’t stink like a pig — which is more than can be said for you and your brother!” Her blue eyes glinted menacingly as she swept the long blond hair from her face. “He’ll raise his visor when he’s good and ready, and if you don’t like it, too bad!” She pointed toward the main village. “Did you notice the bathhouse on your way in? I recommend you pay it a visit. It’s a wonder the birds don’t die of asphyxiation when you’re around.”

She fixed him with an icy stare and opened the second volume with a thud.

The silence that followed was broken by the sound of someone running toward the tent. The next moment, Boïndil burst through the door.

“ Pointy-ears!” he spluttered. “Pointy-ears from landur! The trader said they —” He noticed the keg of beer abandoned forlornly on the floor. “I thought you’d be thirsty!” he said, shaking his head in surprise. He pierced the lid with his ax, filled his tankard, emptied it in a single draft, and burped. “Not bad,” he pronounced, helping himself to more.

“You were saying?” Andôkai reminded him sharply, diverting his attention away from the beer.

“Er, elves!” Boïndil sat down on a leather stool. “I bought the keg from a trader who told me what’s been happening in landur. He thought we’d be drinking to the ruin of the elves. From what he said, their kingdom is all but done for. He reckoned they were scouting Girdlegard for new places to live.”

“In Sangpûr?” the maga said incredulously. “Why come this far south when there’s nothing but sand, dust, and stone? It doesn’t make sense. What would an elf want with a treeless desert?”

Tungdil glanced at Boëndal, who was clearly thinking on similar lines.

It took another sip of beer before his brother caught on. “Are you saying they’re älfar?” he ventured finally. Ideas invariably took longer to penetrate Boïndil’s mind.

“Nôd’onn wants the books,” Tungdil explained patiently. “A motley company like us doesn’t go unnoticed. They must have followed us here and waited until nightfall to enter the settlement. As soon as it’s dark, you can’t see their eyes and there’s no way of telling they’re not elves.”

“In which case, they could be either,” Boëndal pointed out. “I say we post a watch. If they’re älfar, they’ll be after us. Why else would they be staying in the village, if not to steal the books? From now on, none of us leaves the tent, no matter what. We’ll let them come to us.”

“Nonsense, we’ll go after them!” Boïndil said fiercely. “If they’re älfar, we’ll kill them, and if they’re elves… we’ll kill them too! The pointy-ears deserve to die.” It had been a while since he’d last used his axes.

Andôkai listened, then signaled to Djerůn and settled down to sleep.

“No, brother,” ruled Boëndal, “we’ll leave them in peace. The whole village could turn against us if we start a fight. We’re not in our own kingdom yet, remember. Cool your temper. I’ll take the first watch.”

Tungdil yawned and finished his tankard of beer before lying down on a pile of rugs. His fingers clutched the haft of his ax, making him feel a little less exposed. He wasn’t sure what to think, but in some ways he was hoping that the älfar would attack. At least that would persuade Andôkai of the importance of the books.

Tungdil was just dozing off when a shouted warning woke the desert oasis. The dwarves were on their feet in a flash, weapons at the ready. Andôkai had drawn her sword and was monitoring the tent flap and the walls.

Ax raised and shield held in front of him, Djerůn knelt by the entrance, blocking it like a wall. His helmet glinted, the demonic visor coming alive in the dying firelight. For a fraction of a heartbeat, Tungdil thought he glimpsed a purple glow behind the eyeholes.

Boëndal damped the flames lest their shadows be seen through the canvas. The three dwarves stood back-to-back, the maga beside them.

For a few moments it was quiet; then agonized screams rent the air. Now sounds could be heard from the other tents as people emerged from their flimsy shelters, their voices mingling in a clamor of questions as each tried to establish the cause of the noise. Willowy silhouettes and strange shadows flitted across the canvas walls, while all around there was a clunking of metal as shields knocked against tent poles, armor was donned, and weapons were unsheathed. Roused abruptly from its slumber, the village among the dunes was preparing to fight.

“What’s going on?” asked Tungdil in a whisper. “Do you think it’s a trap?”

Just then a human voice cried out in terror, “Orcs!” Swords met in a ringing din. The battle had commenced.

The beasts stopped skulking through the settlement and abandoned all pretense at stealth. Listening to their grunts and snarls, Tungdil was reminded of Goodwater, of Ionandar, of those who had died…

He was torn between staying in the tent and running to the aid of the people outside. His instinct was to help, but for all he knew, the älfar were out there, waiting for him and his companions to emerge.

“What do we do?” he asked the battle-hardened twins.

“We wait,” came Boëndal’s strained reply. He tightened his grip on his crow’s beak.

The clash of swords was getting louder and more violent, mingled with the screams of dying men. Sounds of fighting echoed from every corner of the village. The orcs had evidently surrounded the settlement and were attacking from all sides simultaneously, making it impossible for anyone to escape.

As the fighting raged around them, Tungdil and the others followed the progress of the battle on the walls of their tent, men and orcs locked in combat like figures in a shadow theater.

Boïndil held a whispered conference with his brother. At last a decision was reached. “We need to get out of here,” he announced. “The runts will sack the settlement and we can’t risk Tungdil getting —”

An orc burst through the tent flap, grunting and waving his sword. He ran full tilt into the expanse of unforgiving metal that was Djerůn’s shield.

Nose gushing with blood, he staggered groggily to the side, only for the giant to hew his collarbone with a downward swipe of his ax. The force of the blow cleaved armor and bones, slicing the orc diagonally in two. Blood and guts spilled from the body in a horrible, reeking mess.

“Hey! I thought I told you to leave the runts to me,” protested Boïndil. “The next one’s mine, all right?”

A second orc stormed into the tent, and Andôkai called out to Djerůn, who swung his shield obediently to the side. The beast ran on unhindered, failing to notice his fallen comrade or the colossal warrior.

“That’s more like it!” Boïndil rushed forward and stopped the beast without ado. Felled by his axes, the orc died with a final grunt.

“No more tomfoolery, Boïndil,” his brother said sternly. He cut a slit in the rear of the tent and peered through the gap. “All clear.” The sharp blade of his crow’s beak tore neatly through the canvas and he slipped outside. When he was sure it was safe, he signaled for the others to follow.

They had taken no more than a few paces when a long, slender shadow appeared in front of Boëndal and attacked.

Only the dwarf’s helmet prevented the sword from cleaving his skull. Even so, the force of the blow brought him to his knees.

“Elf or älf, prepare to die!” His brother hurled himself at the figure with a blood-curdling shriek.

As their assailant stepped back, his cloak fell open to reveal a black metal breastplate that reached to his thighs. His beautiful face and pointed ears removed any doubts about the identity of their attacker.

Another älf appeared out of nowhere and challenged Djerůn, while a third bore down on Andôkai. Stretching out her hand, the maga conjured a glimmering black sphere and cast a bolt of lightning in his direction.

Tungdil expected the creature to burst into flames, but his hopes were disappointed. The älf produced an amulet, which intercepted the spluttering charm, absorbing the magic and leaving the target unharmed. Cursing, the maga drew her sword.

Tungdil glanced round, looking for a possible fourth attacker. To his horror an älf leaped from a nearby cart and landed in front of him. His eyes took in the crimson gloves, long spear, and golden hair… It was one of the two älfar who had parleyed with the orcs near Goodwater. Sinthoras! His lips appeared to be moving.

“Speak up!” commanded Tungdil, dwarven bloody-mindedness conquering his fear. He had no intention of surrendering.

“Look at me: Sinthoras is your death,” the fair-haired älf whispered softly. “I will take your life as I have taken the life of every groundling before you.”

“We’ll see about that. Vraccas helped us to kill one of your kind in Greenglade and he’ll help us again.” Tungdil decided not to wait for the älf to attack. “For Lot-Ionan and Frala!” Raising his ax, he charged.

Sinthoras laughed, easily evading the energetic but poorly planned attack. Realizing at once that he was dealing with a novice, he decided to have some fun with his victim before dealing the fatal blow.

His spear flashed forward, its long, tapered point boring through Tungdil’s mail shirt and passing through his under-garments. The tip pierced his left shoulder, deep enough to hurt him but too shallow for serious harm. The wound enraged the dwarf further and he redoubled his efforts, little realizing that the älf was toying with him.

Slowly but surely Sinthoras drew his victim away from his companions, leading him into the jumble of tents. While the älf skipped and danced ahead, Tungdil blundered among the guy ropes and tent pegs, grimly focused on staying on his feet.

The älf’s weapon approached with such speed that Tungdil gave up trying to block its attack. One moment the creature would be in front of him; the next his spear would be buried in his back. He was losing blood from myriad perforations that smarted abominably.

At last Tungdil looked round and realized his mistake. Amid the confusion of ropes and tents he had lost sight of the others and even the giant was gone. A moment later, Sinthoras vanished as well. The älf was enjoying his murderous little game.

Wherever Tungdil looked, men were fighting with a courage born of despair, knowing with grim certainty that the orcs would show no mercy. Meanwhile, the beasts kept coming at them, more determined than ever to sink their teeth into the traders and their wares.

A number of tents had been pulled to the ground and the canvas caught fire. Flames and glinting swords reflected in the surface of the lake, the watery image of destruction warped by rippling waves.

“Where are you hiding?” Tungdil was learning to his cost that älfar were harder to deal with than orcs. He decided to rejoin his friends while he still had the chance.

But Sinthoras wasn’t finished with him.

“Over here!” The älf loomed up behind him, thrusting his spear violently into the dwarf’s right shoulder.

Something seemed to tear inside Tungdil’s arm, the pain surging through him like liquid fire. His hand opened and the ax fell from his grasp.

The dwarf’s tormentor pulled his legs from under him, tipping him face-first to the ground. Crouching over him, Sinthoras threaded the spear through his mail shirt on a level with his heart. The metal spike ground against the rings.

“What did I tell you?” said a whisper in Tungdil’s ear. “Sinthoras is your death. It would have been wiser to leave the books in Greenglade, but it’s too late for that now.”

“Go ahead and kill me, but answer me one thing: What do you want with the books?”

Sinthoras laughed. “Only a groundling could be so simple-minded! To think that you’ve been lugging around the volumes, and you don’t even know what they are!” He thought for a moment. “They’re precious, more precious than anything you can imagine. A single syllable is worth a sack of gold. They could make you the wealthiest being in Girdlegard — or the most powerful, if you kept the secret to yourself. Acting on their contents would make you a hero beyond compare.” He leaned on his spear and lowered his voice to a malicious whisper. “All this you had — but you lost it. I’ll take even more pleasure in killing you now.”

Tungdil shuddered as the älf muttered unintelligibly in his own dark tongue. At any moment the spear would reach his heart and put an end to his life.

Before the weapon could penetrate farther, a shadow fell over them and something whirred through the air. The älf dove to safety, only this time the maneuver was anything but elegant. He hit a tent, the canvas collapsing around him.

Djerůn strode past the stricken dwarf and went after the älf. Using the lower edge of his shield as a knife, he beat down on the muffled body, first with his shield, then his ax, until the bloodied canvas lay still. Three orcs tried to stop him but were slain on the spot.

Tungdil wondered whether he was hallucinating when he saw what happened next.

The giant, whose back was turned to Tungdil, opened his visor — or so the dwarf concluded from the movement of his arm — and tore a chunk of flesh from an orcish corpse. He raised the dripping meat toward his face.

What is he doing? Grunting with pain, Tungdil lifted himself onto his knees, leaned on his ax for support, and called to the giant.

Djerůn whirled round in surprise and pushed down his visor.

In the light of the burning tents, Tungdil caught a brief glimpse of a skull with wide jaws, long fangs, and slits for eyes. The helmet clicked into place and violet light glimmered through the demon’s eyes. The chunk of flesh had vanished, but it was obvious from the mutilated corpse and the green blood dripping from Djerůn’s gauntlet that something extraordinary had occurred.

He’s not an orc or an ogre, so what kind of creature is he?

Djerůn gestured with his ax in the direction from which he had come. Tungdil followed his lead, relying on the giant to slay the orcs who barred their path. He was finding it difficult enough to walk with his injuries.

Before they were out of the maze of tents, Boïndil rushed toward them, a panicked look on his face. His lips twitched and his jaw tightened when he saw the blood on Tungdil’s shirt; he didn’t need to be told that the giant had saved his charge’s life.

The trio hurried on, arriving in time to see Andôkai drive her sword through the neck of a dying älf who was flailing at her feet. She snatched up the amulet that had warded off her magic power. Her leather armor seemed to strain at the seams as she gasped for breath, her physical strength exhausted.

She greeted Tungdil with a brief nod, then led the company out of the village on a southerly bearing. Between them, Djerůn, the twins, and the maga had put pay to three älfar.

Boëndal stoically ignored the blood trickling down his neck. It took more than a blow to the head to make a dwarf complain.

Tungdil gritted his teeth and followed at the rear. His wounds could be bandaged just as soon as they had got the books to safety, which meant throwing off Nôd’onn’s henchmen and making their way to Ogre’s Death as quickly as they could.

Three orcish sentries were waiting for them at the top of a dune. Djerůn drew his sword.

“That’s enough from you, long-un!” In no time Ireheart was at his side, hacking savagely at the beasts. The rage he felt at neglecting his duty to Tungdil was channeled into his blows and he cut down two of the beasts in the time it took Djerůn to slay one.

“At least I’m faster than you,” he told the giant.

Down in the village, the noise of the battle was fading. From the jeering and grunting it was obvious that the orcs had prevailed against the inhabitants of the desert’s lone oasis. Flames were spreading from tent to tent and the orcs were loading chopped-up corpses onto carts. A band of runts spotted the travelers on the crest of the dune and set off in pursuit. Two dozen beasts scrambled up the sandy slope behind them.

“You’d think they’d have the sense to give up.” Andôkai waited until they were almost upon them, then raised her arms and uttered an incantation.

A tearing wind swept out of nowhere, gusting and circling until it formed a tornado four paces in diameter, becoming stronger and fiercer with the maga’s every word. Sand, scree, and boulders were sucked into its midst; then, on Andôkai’s command, the gale unleashed its force on the orcs, who were hanging back in confusion.

The wind and debris peeled the skin from their bones. Grunting and yelping, the orcs fled the lethal gust.

“Carry on without me,” Andôkai told the dwarves. “I’ll keep the orcs busy for a while.”

The trio resumed their march and soon the maga was back in their midst, with Djerůn behind them, on the lookout for any attacks from the rear.

This time, though, the orcs let them go. Unlike the älfar, they weren’t equipped to deal with magic, and the night of looting and destruction had been profitable enough.

X

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Early Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle

I call on the assembly to decide the matter without further delay,” said Gandogar loudly, his voice ringing out across the great hall. With the intention of cutting a regal figure, he had put on full mail and was wearing his diamond-encrusted helmet. “Thirty orbits have passed, thirty orbits in which…”

He continued his address, the chieftains and elders listening in silence.

Gundrabur’s eyes were closed and the ceremonial hammer was resting on the arms of his marble throne. His counselor was following the speech without visible emotion. He had not succeeded in uncovering any evidence to incriminate Bislipur or Sverd, and worse still, the mood among the delegates was tipping in favor of war.

“You saw the smoke! It came from a village across the border with Sangpûr.” Turning slowly, Gandogar scanned the semicircle of dwarves; he knew he had to make eye contact if he wanted to win their trust. “The settlement was razed to the ground by orcs. Tion’s runts are marauding through the countryside, brazenly attacking the races of Girdlegard. We can’t afford not to know who our next leader will be. Every orbit brings new dangers. According to the traders, strange things are happening in the enchanted realms and landur is in turmoil. Some say that the elves have abandoned their kingdom and are scouting for land elsewhere. We must act!”

“Here or in landur?” said a bewildered voice from the benches.

“Here and in landur!” bellowed Bislipur, before Gandogar had a chance to reply. His dwarven blood was boiling over with impatience and he couldn’t endure the prospect of another interminable speech. “landur must be invaded before the pointy-ears give us the slip and vanish Vraccas knows where!” He raised a clenched fist. “Destroy the elves and avenge our murdered kin!”

The call was taken up by most of the delegates, although a few of their number abstained from the general excitement, some signaling their disagreement by frowning or shaking their heads.

Gandogar’s gaze settled on a chieftain who was wearing his withered elf’s ear with pride. The call to arms had been resoundingly successful, but there was still the matter of the succession, and the elderly monarch showed no sign of preparing to vacate the throne.

At that moment, Gundrabur’s eyes opened wearily. “Silence!” he commanded. “Baying for blood like beasts… You should be ashamed of yourselves!” He raised a gnarled hand and pointed to the dwarf who was sporting the grisly trinket. “Get rid of it!”

The chieftain looked to Gandogar for support.

Seizing the hammer, the high king rose from the throne and made his way from the dais to confront the disobedient dwarf. His wrinkled fingers gripped the chain and snapped it from the delegate’s neck. The shriveled ear dropped to the floor.

“I’m not dead yet, and while I’m your high king, I shall set our course,” he thundered. “The assembly will wait!”

“No,” Gandogar contradicted him, “we have waited long enough. Beyond these walls, orcs are laying waste to Girdlegard and the elvish villains are getting away. I will sit and wait no longer!”

Balendilín stepped down from the platform and strode over to the fourthling monarch. “You forget yourself,” he said, hand resting lightly on his belt. “The high king deserves your respect.” The reprimand was delivered without any of the usual formalities behooving Gandogar’s rank.

“The high king has been wearing the crown for too many cycles to know what’s best for our folks!” Gandogar snapped back. “I won’t put up with this nonsense any longer. Why should I sit back and do nothing when we should be seizing our opportunity and getting vengeance on the elves? landur is as good as defeated! We need to attack while we can, not sit here, wasting our energy on pointless discussions. Orbit after orbit, all we ever do is talk and drink!”

Balendilín squared his shoulders. “Think carefully before you continue, King Gandogar. Our laws were not made to be broken by you.” He pointed to the stone stelae engraved with the sacred commandments of the dwarves. “They’re the very basis of our existence. Defy them, and you’ll be endangering the fragile unity of the folks. Why not take a hammer to the tablets if that’s your intention? By all means, write your own laws, but remember: History will be your judge.”

Hand on his ax, Bislipur stepped forward, positioning himself at Gandogar’s side. The atmosphere in the great hall was unbearably tense; for the first time it seemed that the difference of opinion was going to end in blows.

Suddenly, the doors swung open.

“Get out!” Gandogar shouted furiously. “We don’t need more confounded beer!”

But this time the interruption wasn’t the fault of attendants bearing tankards. A herald walked in. “The second candidate has arrived!” he announced.

The delegates whirled round and stared excitedly at three squat figures silhouetted in the doorway. Behind them stood a human female and an armored giant. A buzz of whispers filled the room.

“Let me speak with him,” said a visibly relieved Gundrabur. “The assembly is dismissed.” Balendilín helped him back to the throne and they waited for the delegates to leave the hall.

The departing dwarves cast curious glances at the stranger standing between the twins, but no one dared to address him. Then Bislipur drew level.

He stopped and took a menacing step toward Tungdil. “You’re not one of us,” he said scornfully. “Go back to Lot-Ionan and leave us to settle our own affairs. You needn’t have bothered coming; we’ve decided on a successor already.”

“Oh really? Let’s hope he’s as good as this one,” Boëndal said coolly. He stepped in front of his charge. “Didn’t you hear what Gundrabur said? The assembly is dismissed.”

Boïndil joined him and flashed the fourthling adviser an insolent smile. “Looking for trouble, are you? I’ll shave your miserable chin with my axes, you see if I don’t.” Bislipur merely snorted and left. The doors closed behind him, shutting Andôkai and Djerůn outside.

The high king motioned for the trio to approach. He and his counselor looked at Tungdil warmly. “The lost dwarf has returned to his kinsfolk,” he said, rising to clap a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks be to Vraccas for bringing you here.”

Tungdil bowed his head, overcome with emotion. He wanted to say something, but his throat was dry with excitement. He felt sweaty and grubby, and his body ached all over in spite of Boïndil’s efforts to treat his wounds. In fact, the shoulder that the high king was gripping was particularly sore. All in all, he was too tired and disheveled to appear before Gundrabur, but the king of all dwarves generously refrained from commenting on his state.

The monarch turned to the twins. “You’ve done yourselves and the secondlings proud. Ogre’s Death boasts no finer warriors than you,” he lauded them. “You can be sure of my gratitude. Retire to your chambers and get some rest.”

Boïndil stared at the floor, uncomfortable at being praised. He hadn’t forgiven himself for what had happened in the desert oasis when Tungdil had nearly been killed. It was mortifying to think that his charge would have died without Djerůn. Gloomily, he left the hall with his twin.

“You’ll hear our side of the story in a moment,” promised Balendilín, “but why don’t you tell us about your journey first?”

This was the moment that Tungdil had been waiting for. He tried to swallow his nerves, but it was hard not to be distracted by the great hall’s monumental galleries, pillars, and statues. It was all so very dwarven.

“Gladly,” he said, “but what of Andôkai and Djerůn? They were loyal protectors during our travels. I trust they will be provided for?” Without really meaning to, he had adopted a more flowery way of speech, perhaps because of his magnificent surroundings.

Balendilín gave his word that the maga and her companion would be taken care of, so Tungdil launched into his account, beginning with Lot-Ionan, the vaults, and his errand, then proceeding by means of the Blacksaddle, Greenglade, the fate of the magi, the treachery of Nudin (or Nôd’onn, as he called himself), his run-in with the bounty hunters, Gorén’s mysterious books, and the älfar’s attempts to track them down, then concluding with the magus’s threat to the dwarven kingdoms and his plans to bend Girdlegard to his will.

Soon his cheeks were flushed with talking, but he tried to state the facts plainly, without glossing over the horror or embellishing his report.

He spoke without faltering, save for one occasion when he was understandably thrown. It happened when three serving girls opened the doors and walked into the hall. Tungdil, who yearned to become acquainted with the fairer sex, was transfixed by the mysterious creatures who had colonized his imagination for as long as he could remember. They were a little shorter than he was and not as broadly built, but their ample robes betrayed an unmistakable fullness of figure. Fine, almost imperceptible fluff covered their plump faces from the cheekbones to the lower jaw. The wispy down matched the color of their hair and, unlike his own bristly whiskers, their furry skin seemed soft and smooth. This then was the origin of the myth about bearded women. Tungdil found them utterly beguiling.

His remaining composure crumbled when they turned to him with shy, friendly smiles. His heart started beating so wildly that he had to abandon his story until they were gone. Gundrabur and Balendilín made no comment, although the one-armed counselor could barely suppress a grin.

At last Tungdil concluded his report, ending with a brief account of the attack on the desert oasis. He reached for his tankard, which smelled enticingly of beer. The dark liquid washed over his thirsty lips, coating his tongue with its powerful malty flavor. A single sip was enough to convince him that humans knew nothing of beer. It tasted so good that he could have kissed the dwarf who had invented the recipe, but instead he took another swig.

“These are ill tidings,” Gundrabur said sadly. “We intend to be honest with you, Tungdil, so you shall hear of our problems too.” His counselor described the dwarves’ predicament, including the proposed war, the question of the succession, and the rift among the delegates, as succinctly as he could. “It seems from what you’ve told us that an alliance is imperative. The races of Girdlegard must unite and fight together against the Perished Land.”

Tungdil sighed. “An alliance won’t save us if we can’t make sense of the books or the artifacts. There must be a way of getting to Nôd’onn or he wouldn’t be so afraid. The trouble is, we can’t do anything without Andôkai and she’s determined to wash her hands of Girdlegard. Without her power and knowledge, our chances of defeating the evil are no better than any of the other realms’.”

“And we must watch powerlessly while the northern blight advances,” Gundrabur murmured somberly, closing his eyes. “Then it is settled: I shall appeal to the maga for help.”

Tungdil said nothing, although he doubted the efficacy of the scheme. No amount of dwarven reasoning could influence the workings of the maga’s mind. The thought of Andôkai reminded him that Djerůn had been permitted to enter the stronghold without raising his visor. At the time it hadn’t occurred to him, and it clearly hadn’t registered with the sentries or the twins, who had blithely waved the armored warrior through their gates. She must have put a spell on us. He decided not to say anything, least of all to Boïndil, whose hot temper would explode in incandescent fury. The last thing they needed was for Djerůn to be challenged to a duel.

He took the opportunity to broach the subject of the succession. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” he said, determined to nip the matter in the bud. “You’ve done me a great service in reuniting me with my folk, but I can’t be made king. I was raised by long-uns and learned the dwarven ways from books — extremely inaccurate books, I might tell you. My rival is a much more suitable candidate, so I intend to renounce my claim and vote in favor of him. We need a high king whom everyone will respect.”

“Your speech and sentiments do you credit,” Gundrabur praised him, “but the fact is, we made up the story about your birth. Lot-Ionan played along because we swore him to secrecy. I’m afraid you have no claim to the throne; there’s no proof that you’re even a fourthling.”

Tungdil’s mind was reeling. “But why… I mean, I don’t see why you made me come all this way just to tell me it isn’t true…”

“Think of all the good that has come of it already,” Balendilín said soothingly. “It’s put us in a better position to do something about Nôd’onn. And if we hadn’t sent the twins to look for you, the orcs would have killed you in Greenglade.”

“True, but…” He fumbled for the right words. “What of the delegates? All this time, the assembly has been waiting for me, and I’m not even a genuine heir!”

He felt as if the ground had been tunneled from under his feet. After the ordeals of his journey he had just been getting comfortable, and now he had nowhere to call home.

“Please don’t be angry with us,” Gundrabur entreated him. “If Gandogar is crowned, our race will be locked in combat with the elves, and we can’t let that happen. Our idea was to postpone Gandogar’s appointment until the assembly had been persuaded of the folly of waging war. When your magus wrote to us with news of a foundling dwarf, we took the liberty of inventing a story about your lineage to buy some extra time.”

“We were hoping to find a solution — an ancient law or suchlike that would force the assembly to vote against a war,” Balendilín explained. “Fighting the elves would be ruinous for both our races, but Gandogar just won’t see it. I expect you think we’re as dishonest as kobolds, but our intentions are honorable: We want the best for our race.”

Tungdil kept his mouth shut for fear of saying something he might regret. He helped himself to more beer and emptied the tankard in a single draft. “And did you find anything?”

“Not exactly,” the high king confessed. “That’s why we’re asking you to join our conspiracy and challenge Gandogar for the throne.”

“What good would it do?” Tungdil shrugged. “They’d never elect me.”

“No,” agreed Gundrabur, “but if I’m not happy with the assembly’s choice of heir, I can veto the succession.”

“And what then? Would you rather our folks fought each other than waged war on the elves?”

“It won’t come to that,” Balendilín reassured him. “Our laws state that the heir must challenge his rival to a duel. Of course, the rival candidate would have to be backed by some of the chieftains and elders, but roughly a third of the delegates have been won over to our cause. That should suffice.”

“And then Gandogar will have the privilege of slicing me in two.” Tungdil scowled. “I still don’t see how it changes anything.”

The high king and his counselor exchanged glances.

“Swear that you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone,” Balendilín demanded, eyeing Tungdil solemnly until he complied. “We need to banish Bislipur and Sverd from Gandogar’s circle. Bislipur is obsessed with the idea of wiping out the elves and his zeal has rubbed off on Gandogar. Thanks to Bislipur’s constant whispering, the fourthling king rarely has time to think for himself.” He frowned. “The villain tried to kill me. I can’t prove it yet, but I will.”

“But assuming you succeed,” Tungdil said doubtfully, “won’t Gandogar still go ahead with his plan?”

“We’ll open his eyes to the perfidy of his mentor and the folly of an elven war. Gandogar is a good dwarf at heart; his adviser is to blame.” Balendilín paused and looked at Tungdil intently. “But I need more time; and for that we’re depending on your help.”

“You’ll be doing your kinsmen a great service,” Gundrabur assured him. “They’ll realize it eventually. History will record how a foundling dwarf named Tungdil was hewn by Vraccas to save his children from destruction.”

“I’ll do it,” agreed Tungdil, “but I’ll need your full support.”

“We’ll do everything we can for you,” promised Balendilín. “You’re an honorable dwarf, Tungdil. Forgive us for burdening you with our troubles before you’ve even had a chance to rest. Now that we’ve settled the important business, you should get some proper sleep. You’ll have one orbit in which to recover and prepare yourself for the hustings.” The one-armed counselor smiled at him encouragingly.

“Buy us some time, and we’ll forge a better future without the likes of Bislipur,” the high king exhorted him. He picked up the ceremonial hammer and held it out to the dwarf. “Swear on the hammer that brought us into being that you won’t tell a soul.”

Tungdil gave his word and left the great hall. Outside, Andôkai and Djerůn were still waiting in the corridor.

“They said we could stay for a while,” she said evenly. “As it happens, I could do with a break. These past few orbits together have been horribly stressful.”

“My sentiments exactly,” said Tungdil, leaving the maga to decide whether it was the journey or her company that he found such a trial.

An attendant arrived to take them to their rooms. As they followed, Tungdil marveled at the splendor of their surroundings. The masons had worked the walls with incredible finesse and the smooth surfaces were decorated with sculpted reliefs and chiseled inscriptions. Dwarven runes inlaid with precious metals shimmered in a kaleidoscope of silver, gold, and red.

But what really caught his attention was the staircase. He had always thought of steps as being rectangular, smooth, and plain.

These were a revelation. Each slab of stone was different from the next, the flat treads decorated with elaborate patterns and the uprights engraved with runes.

It was only when he read the runes in sequence that he realized the purpose of the design: The staircases spelled out stories that served to distract the weary secondlings from the grueling ascent. Tungdil could tell from Andôkai’s expression that she too had noticed the runes and was reading with interest.

The stories told of glorious days of old, evoking heroic adventures, each more impressive than the last. Tungdil climbed eagerly, relishing every step until at length they reached their chambers.

Andôkai disappeared inside her room before he could inquire about the books. He was sure that her change of heart was connected to something she had seen or read.

Maybe Gundrabur will be lucky, he thought hopefully as he shuffled to bed.

That’s the beauty of being among friends,” said a deep voice. “You don’t even have to lock the door.”

Tungdil woke with a start and sat up drowsily, only to discover Bislipur in his room.

“Good morning, Tungdil.” Somehow the greeting sounded suspiciously insincere. “We’ll talk properly at the hustings, but I’m sure you’re as impatient as I am to have a little chat.”

“I wasn’t really expecting visitors,” Tungdil said hesitantly. The sudden appearance of Gandogar’s adviser had thrown him slightly. In fact, now that he thought about it properly, walking in without an invitation was downright rude. His friendly feelings toward Bislipur as a kinsman had withstood their bristly encounter in the great hall, but this was something else.

Bislipur sat down on the bed and gave him a long stare. “You think you’re one of us, do you?” he mocked. “A poor little foundling, raised by a wizard, but of genuine royal blood — it sounds like a fairy tale, doesn’t it?” He leaned forward. “Because it is! I’m not going to beat about the bush: You’re an impostor. What proof do you have of your lineage?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” Tungdil said firmly. If it hadn’t been for his conversation with Gundrabur and Balendilín, he would have stepped aside for his rival. Only last night he had been assailed by doubts about the wisdom of maintaining the deception, but now, thanks to Bislipur’s obnoxious behavior, his mind was made up.

“None of the fourthlings can remember a case of a missing child.”

“And I suppose you know them all in person and every detail of their lives. That’s really quite a claim.” Tungdil stood up. He had a feeling that the long hours spent reading in Lot-Ionan’s library and studying the art of disputation would stand him in good stead. All of a sudden he felt naked without his chain mail and his weapon. He threw on his tunic and belted his ax to his waist. His confidence flooded back. “Wait until tomorrow and you’ll hear the full story.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” said Bislipur. “Cancel the hustings, and we’ll adopt you as one of our folk. All we ask is that you agree to back Gandogar. Retract your claim and you’ll never want for anything.”

“Supposing I refuse?”

“Supposing you refuse?” Bislipur laid a muscular hand on his ax. “If you refuse, you’ll see what happens when a fourthling — or a fake fourthling, in your case — turns against the leader of his folk. None of us will submit to your rule. Even if you’re elected, you’ll never really be king.”

Tungdil could tell from the muffled fury in his voice that Bislipur meant business. “That’s for the assembly to decide, not you,” he informed him, doing his best to sound like a prospective monarch. “Now go,” he commanded.

“Supposing I refuse?” the thick-set dwarf said mockingly.

“Supposing you refuse?” thundered Tungdil, placing a hand on his ax. “If you refuse, I’ll throw you out myself! I’ve dealt with enough orcs and älfar to know what to do with a dwarf who sneaks his way into my chamber while I’m asleep.” His brotherly tolerance of Bislipur had given way to undisguised dislike. “Get out!”

Bislipur wavered for a moment, unsure whether he should commit to a trial of strength. To Tungdil’s relief, he decided to see himself out. “You’ll regret this,” he threatened by way of a farewell.

“That’s a risk I’m prepared to take,” Tungdil retorted. Alone in his chamber, he stood in front of the mirror, put his hands on his hips, and squared his shoulders. Rather than get dressed, he practiced looking steely until he was confident of his ability to assume a determined expression whenever he pleased. It took considerable willpower not to crawl back into bed.

He was in the process of removing his nightshirt when someone knocked on the door. Without waiting for an answer, a female dwarf in a skirt and leather blouse strode in and placed some fresh linen on the marble dresser. She giggled when she saw him rooted to the spot. I should say something, he thought, racking his brains desperately, but already she was gone.

“I guess it takes practice,” he muttered, pulling on his clothes absentmindedly. His mind was whirring with a thousand different thoughts.

It was dispiriting to know that he was still a foundling dwarf. For the first time in his life he was surrounded by others of his race, but deep down he was the loneliest soul in all Girdlegard. In fact, he’d been better off when he’d lived among humans; at least then he’d belonged to Lot-Ionan and the school.

It didn’t help that he was obliged to pose as a fourthling and put on a show of happiness at being reunited with his folk. For all his honest intentions, it made him feel like a terrible fraud.

Keen to distract his thoughts, he reread Lot-Ionan’s letter about his provenance, memorizing every fabricated detail until he was sure that none of the delegates could pick a hole in his story. There was nothing else to do in his chamber, so he wandered into the corridor and roamed the majestic stone passageways while his stomach growled hungrily.

Dwarves streamed past him, clad in leather aprons and covered in a dusting of rock. Tungdil guessed from their appearance that they were heading for the quarry. They smiled and called out to him and he returned their greetings with a nod.

Soon afterward he was intercepted by an attendant who marched him off to breakfast. Tungdil understood the real purpose of the summons when he was welcomed to the table by Balendilín, who wanted to prepare him for the hustings.

“It’s all under control,” the counselor assured him. The trinkets on his braided beard swung back and forth as he spoke, which earned him fascinated glances from Tungdil. “Three dwarves from Gandogar’s delegation have agreed to say they remember hearing a rumor about a missing child. Their testimony, together with the letter from your magus, should give us the credibility we need. After that, you’ll make your speech and then —”

“My speech?” said Tungdil, looking up sharply from the array of pungent cheeses, salamis, pickled mushrooms, and roasted lichen. All of a sudden he stopped caring about the absence of ham, porridge, and bread: The prospect of addressing the assembly had banished any thought of food.

“It needn’t be terribly long. You can talk a bit about your journey and your encounters with Nôd’onn and the Perished Land. You’ll lose the vote, of course, but that’s no great inconvenience; we’ll proceed to the next stage of our plan.” Balendilín’s eyes twinkled. “It’s all under control,” he said again.

“I’m glad you think so.” Tungdil sighed and piled his wooden plate with a small helping of everything. He told the counselor of Bislipur’s visit.

“That’s just the kind of underhanded behavior I’d expect from him.” Balendilín seemed to take the news in stride. “You know what it means, don’t you? We’re on the right track. The scoundrel wouldn’t bother with you unless he thought you were a threat.”

Tungdil didn’t share his optimism. He hadn’t forgotten that Bislipur had tried to murder Balendilín, and he saw no reason to suppose that the fourthling wouldn’t do the same to him.

“There’s one more thing,” said the counselor. “The maga and her bodyguard have gone.”

“Gone?” Tungdil echoed, aghast. So she’s really left us? How could she give up like that and leave Girdlegard to its fate? “When did she leave?”

“This morning, just after dawn. We had to let her cross the pass. There wasn’t any justification for detaining her, and besides… how do you stop a maga?”

“You don’t.” Tungdil put his head in his hands. It was hopeless; no one apart from Andôkai had anything like Nôd’onn’s power and now she was searching for force fields beyond the Blue Range. She must have given up on Gorén’s books. Why couldn’t one of the other magi have survived instead? He felt certain that Maira or Lot-Ionan would have stayed and led the fight against the traitor.

“We’ll have to rely on you to decipher the tomes,” said Balendilín. “You can always consult our archives, if you think they’ll be of use.”

“You should ask your historians. I’m sure they’d do a better job than me,” muttered Tungdil.

Balendilín shook his head. “They don’t know the magi’s writings as well as you do. No one understands the long-uns better than you.” He looked encouragingly at the dejected dwarf. “I know it’s a heavy burden, but a great deal is at stake. We’ll never forget it.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promised, forcing down his mouthful. He hiccuped discreetly. His palate had adjusted to the cheese, but his stomach was proving less adaptable — not unreasonably, considering the quantities involved. To round off the meal he poured a mug of sour milk and stirred it through with a spoonful of honey. Dwarven cuisine was a lot better than he had thought.

Excusing himself from the table, he made his way back to his chamber, this time looking fixedly at the floor so as not to be distracted by the magnificent marble carvings. The speech that was taking shape in his mind was going to cover all the events of the previous weeks and more.

Tungdil drained the strong malt beer from his tankard, wiped his beard, and looked up at the assembly. The delegates had listened patiently while he’d read out Lot-Ionan’s letter and tried to establish his lineage as the illegitimate offspring of the dead fourthling king.

True to their word, three of Gandogar’s chieftains claimed to recall a rumor about a missing heir. Bislipur instantly accused them of lying.

“I expect you’re wondering why I think I would make a good king,” said Tungdil, raising his voice above the tumult. The beer had settled his nerves and quashed his inhibitions about appearing before an assembly of dignitaries and chieftains. “The fact is, I know better than anyone the dangers that lie ahead. I know the power of the Perished Land; and I know we need to stand united. It would be fatal to squander our strength on a campaign against the elves. Their numbers may have dwindled, but their army is not to be mocked.”

“We’re not afraid of the pointy-ears!” Bislipur shouted, incensed.

“Maybe not, but dead heroes are no use to us at all,” Tungdil retaliated. “The elves have been fighting the älfar for hundreds of cycles. What chance would we have of defeating them? Their bowmen are the best in Girdlegard. Before we get within three hundred paces, they’ll bombard us with arrows!”

“Not if we sneak up on them,” Bislipur objected.

“You can’t honestly believe they won’t notice an army of a thousand dwarves! Friends, this war will end in our defeat.” He looked at them beseechingly. “Darkness has eaten its way into the heart of our lands. Vraccas entrusted the safety of Girdlegard to our race; it’s our duty to defeat Nôd’onn and expel Tion’s minions — and if the elves and humans are able to help us, we must ally ourselves with them!”

“The high king’s puppet has learned his part well,” sneered Gandogar.

“Our minds think alike because we both see reason. If there was anything between your ears but sheer bloody-mindedness, you might see sense as well.” A ripple of laughter swept the room.

“The elves must be punished,” shouted Bislipur, drawing himself up to full height. “You heard how they betrayed our kinsfolk and allowed Tion’s beasts to storm the Stone Gateway. Their crimes cannot go unavenged!”

“And what of Nôd’onn? A war against the elves would weaken us dangerously.” Tungdil thumped his hand against the marble. “Of course, if we really want to make things easy for the magus, we could always open our strongholds to the orcish invaders! Is that what you want? Maybe you should ask the runts if they’d like to join us in a campaign against the elves!” He waited for the commotion to settle. “In my possession are two tomes belonging to Lot-Ionan in whose household I was raised. Once I have unlocked their meaning, we will hold the key to defeating Nôd’onn and the Perished Land.” He neglected to mention that even Andôkai had failed to make sense of the books. “Just think of the glory if the dwarves were to save Girdlegard! Our heroism would humiliate the pointy-ears far more than military defeat.”

There was a hum of excitement from the benches. Books that could defeat the Perished Land; that was news indeed!

“He’s lying!” roared Bislipur. “Since when did magic ever help the dwarves? It brings us nothing but trouble! Magic is to blame for the dark wizard’s power!”

“I say we fight the elves, then retreat to our ranges until the humans have settled the matter for themselves,” added Gandogar, springing to his feet. He hurried to the middle of the assembly to be sure of the delegates’ attention. “Don’t listen to the foundling who learned our lore from books. He’ll never understand our ways.” He laughed. “A high king who knows nothing of his race? It’s downright ridiculous!”

“It can’t be that ridiculous or you wouldn’t be so het up,” Tungdil said pointedly. There was another low rumble of laughter. He was doing Lot-Ionan proud with his witticisms, although the beer could take some of the credit. I mustn’t get carried away, he told himself.

Gundrabur had heard enough. He raised the hammer and pounded it against the marble table. “Both candidates have made their cases and the assembly must decide. Delegates, remember you are voting for your future high king. Those in favor of Gandogar Silverbeard of the clan of the Silver Beards, raise your axes!”

Tungdil counted the glistening blades. To his great surprise, Gandogar’s share of the vote had dwindled to less than two-thirds among the fourthling chieftains. When his own name was called, the number of axes was far greater than expected. Balendilín gave him an approving nod.

Tungdil’s personal victory did nothing to change the end result: The majority had voted in favor of Gandogar, which amounted to a mandate for war. Bislipur held his head high. It was clear from his triumphant expression that he thought his work was done.

“At this stage in the proceedings, it falls to me, the reigning high king, to approve the assembly’s choice,” declared Gundrabur. “Regrettably, in view of King Gandogar’s foolish determination to steer our race toward destruction, I see no option but to declare him unfit for office. For that reason, I nominate Tungdil in his place. Who will back me?”

Gandogar and Bislipur watched in stunned silence as a third of the delegates raised their axes, thereby investing Gundrabur with the authority to proceed.

The hammer crashed noisily against the marble. “Then the succession shall be decided on merit. Our candidates will prove their ability in a contest: Gandogar and Tungdil will each nominate a task, two further tasks will be set by the assembly, and the fifth task will be drawn at random. You have seven orbits to prepare.” With that, he called the hustings to a close.

Dazed, Tungdil made his way along the line of supporters who were queuing to pat him on the back, wish him well, and intercede with Vraccas on his behalf. Faces, beards, and chain mail loomed on either side of him, disappearing in a blur. His mind was reeling from the uncommonly strong beer and the exhilaration of success. It was incredible to think that dozens of dwarves had been won over by his arguments, but there was no escaping the knowledge that his triumph was founded on a lie.

Although the chances of discovering anything about his provenance were slim, Balendilín had promised to do what he could to investigate without arousing suspicion. The counselor was too tactful to mention the possibility that the foundling was descended from Lorimbur’s folk, and the notion of it seemed ludicrous to Tungdil, who felt comfortable living in Ogre’s Death and shared nothing of the thirdlings’ murderous dislike of other dwarves. In any case, there were more urgent matters than establishing his origins. First and foremost, he needed to practice his axmanship in case Gandogar opted to challenge him to a duel. And he still had to settle on a task of his own.

No one knew what to expect from the fifth and final task. Each candidate could nominate four challenges and one would be drawn from a pouch. Only Vraccas could predict the outcome.

Tungdil returned to his chamber to find Gorén’s books and the contents of the leather bag strewn across his bed. Andôkai must have broken the spell and examined the artifacts!

He turned over the fragments of two silver-plated decanters and studied the runes. What a pity! If the inscriptions were to be believed, it took a single drop of liquid for the vessels to fill themselves over and over again. Mixed in with the shattered decanters was a broken hand mirror. The fractured glass cast back a cracked reflection of his bearded face. Seven years of bad luck. He chuckled grimly as he picked up a shard. To be cursed by a mirror was the least of his problems.

He turned his attention to a couple of lengths of wood. They were as long as his arm and had a gray, almost metallic shimmer to them. The grain was wayward and irregular. What are they? He supposed they could be cudgels. But what would they be doing in the bag? He tossed them carelessly onto the bed.

The maga had written him a note. Furious with her for leaving Girdlegard and for rummaging through his things, he left it unread. Then curiosity got the better of him.

The mystery is solved, or as good as.

You were right: There is a way to defeat Nôd’onn and the books explain how. However, the means are beyond us, which is why I’m leaving Girdlegard for good.

The first book is an account of the Outer Lands that tells of a place called Barrenground, where demonic beings have the power to enter human souls, take possession of them, and invest them with extraordinary power. Men possessed of such demons are driven by an urge to destroy goodness wherever they find it and bend everything to their will.

The second book tells of a race called the under-groundlings who invented a mighty ax to destroy the demonic power.

The blade of this ax must be made of the purest, hardest steel, with diamonds encrusting the bit and an alloy of every known precious metal filling the inlay and the runes. The spurs should be hewn from stone and the haft sculpted from wood of the sigurdaisy tree.

The ax must be forged in a furnace lit with the fiercest of all flames and its name shall be Keenfire.

This is the weapon with the power to slay the demonic spirits. Keenfire can slice through flesh and bone, cutting through the human body to destroy the evil presence within. Any harm that has been done reverts to good.

Regrettably, I was unable to make sense of one passage, which means I cannot vouch for the method’s success. The task is as good as hopeless.

All the same, it explains why Nôd’onn is interested in the artifacts. The bag contains two fragments of sigurdaisy wood.

The sigurdaisy is extinct in Girdlegard, but its wood is exceptionally hard, so hard that it can’t be worked with ordinary tools. Humans used to believe that the trees were sacred and they burned the wood for its powerful aroma and deep crimson flames. They stopped conducting the rituals when all the trees were gone. I once witnessed a sigurdaisy fire in honor of Palandiell, but that was over a hundred cycles ago.

Even if were possible to make such a miraculous weapon, no one would get close enough to Nôd’onn to slay him. The whole business is ridiculous.

If the dwarves have any sense, they will cross the ranges and settle in the Outer Lands. Maybe the under-groundlings will give them shelter.

My work here is done.

Tungdil read and reread the letter until there was no further doubt: Lot-Ionan’s murderer was not completely invincible. They had everything they needed to kill him — even the wood.

He hurried to find Balendilín. The counselor had lit a number of oil lamps, which bathed his chamber in light. Like the rest of Ogre’s Death, the room was hewn from rock and the masons had even thought to sculpt a bed and cabinets. It looked as if the mountain had created a furnished chamber especially for his use.

Tungdil handed him the letter.

“There is mention in our records of distant kin on the far side of the mountain,” he said when he saw the reference to the mysterious undergroundlings. “The inhabitants of the Outer Lands seem to have more experience of fighting the Perished Land.”

Tungdil brandished the piece of parchment. “It explains why Nôd’onn was desperate to get his hands on the books and the bag! Well, it’s too late now: His secret is out. Balendilín, you’ve got to tell the human sovereigns of our discovery before they lose all hope. They need to keep the magus fighting while we work on the weapon. If only they can keep him busy until then!”

Balendilín studied the passages relating to the making of the ax. “We’ll have to enlist the help of the fourthlings: Their skill in diamond cutting is unsurpassed. Our people can take care of the stone, but as for the best smiths…”

“Borengar’s folk!”

“Yes, but none of their nine clans are here. The firstlings ignored our summons. Giselbert’s fifthlings were exceptional blacksmiths, but their line was snuffed out.” Balendilín scowled. “And that’s not the only hitch. The fieriest furnace in Girdlegard belonged to the fifthlings. Its name was Dragon Fire and the hardest metal would melt in its flames. But the Gray Range has been in the hands of the Perished Land for over a thousand cycles.” He rested his head in his hands. “The maga was right. It’s not possible.”

“We can’t give up now. Call a meeting and let the delegates decide. We need to send word to the firstlings and ask for their assistance. Then we’ll…” He trailed off. “Well, I’ll take a look in the archives. Maybe I’ll find something that will help.”

“Good luck to you, Tungdil.”

The dwarf left the chamber and headed for the vaults, where the written record of the secondlings’ history was preserved. Now that the initial excitement was over, he was left with the sobering realization that they were barely any closer to saving Girdlegard from Nôd’onn’s grasp.

I’m not giving up! The very hopelessness of the situation made Tungdil more determined than ever to succeed.

He settled down to his task with all the stubbornness and persistence typical of his race. It was his solemn intention not to leave the secondlings’ archives until he found something of use.

Tungdil hurried back and forth, fetching ancient tomes, rolls of parchment, and stone tablets from their places in the vaults. He piled everything on a table to examine it at length.

Lot-Ionan must have known that my schooling would come in handy. Some of the parchment was so fragile that it tore or crumbled at his touch. It made Tungdil appreciate the durability of the marble tablets that lasted an eternity, provided they weren’t dropped.

After a good deal of reading, he found evidence to back up Balendilín’s vague assertions about the undergroundlings. According to the archives, a race of dwarves on the other side of the ranges went by that name. Whether or not Vraccas had created them was anyone’s guess, but they seemed to have much in common with the children of the Smith. They were accomplished metal workers and shared the dwarven passion for the forge.

On the fourth orbit he learned the secret of Dragon Fire, and his optimism, which had survived in spite of everything, was dealt a grievous blow.

The flames of the fifthlings’ fiery furnace had been lit by the white tongue of Branbausíl, a dragon who had roamed the Gray Range until Giselbert’s dwarves stole its fire, killed it, and seized its hoard. Argamas, its mate, had taken refuge in Flame-mere, a small lake of molten lava at the heart of the fifthling kingdom. The creature had never been seen again.

The stolen fire enabled the dwarves to heat their furnace to phenomenal temperatures and create alloys from metals that had never been melded. Dragon Fire was powerful enough to melt tionium, the black element created by Tion, and combine it with palandium, the deity’s pure white metal.

Later records indicated that the furnace had fallen with the fifthlings. Neither the älfar nor any other creature of Tion could find a use for the strange white flames, and Dragon Fire had been extinguished.

Tungdil’s only hope lay in finding the dragon’s mate who had escaped the dwarves’ axes. If the firstlings could provide a smith and Argamas could furnish the fire, Keenfire could be forged and Nôd’onn defeated.

“More traveling.” He sighed. We’ll have to go west to the firstlings, then north through the heart of the Perished Land to the lost fifthling kingdom. But how are we supposed to cross Girdlegard without Nôd’onn finding out?

He put the question to Gundrabur and Balendilín when he met them in the great hall to report on his findings and share a keg of beer. The king and his counselor looked at each other knowingly.

“There is a way,” the high king told him, “a secret way that has faded from memory over the cycles. My predecessor told me of it.” He lit his pipe and sucked on it vigorously. “It dates back to the glorious orbits of old. In those happy times traveling was easy. We used underground tunnels that crisscrossed the whole of Girdlegard, linking our kingdoms.”

“Tunnels… So we could travel unseen. With ponies we could —”

“You won’t need ponies. You’ll get there soon enough.” Gundrabur pulled his cloak tighter and sent for another blanket. His inner furnace was burning worryingly low.

Tungdil frowned. “I don’t follow.”

“You’ve seen the wagons carrying iron ore through the mines?”

“Sure, but…” Then he grasped what the high king was saying. “We can go by wagon?”

Gundrabur smiled. “Indeed. Our forefathers used wagons to travel by the shortest route from the firstling kingdom to the secondling kingdom and the secondling kingdom to the fourthling kingdom and so forth, unimpeded by marshland, wilderness, rain, or snow. They could convey troops wherever they wanted in no time at all. Within a matter of orbits an entire army could cross from north to south undetected by men, elves, or magi.”

“That’s the answer!” Tungdil cried excitedly. “If the tunnels are still intact, we’ll be able to forge the ax before the dark magus has time to defeat the human armies and conquer their kingdoms.”

“I can’t guarantee what kind of state they’re in,” warned Gundrabur. “According to the ancient records, some sections of the tunnels have collapsed. Balendilín, fetch the maps.”

“Why hasn’t anyone come across them since?”

“The entrance lies in an area of the Blue Range that became polluted with sulfurous gas. Our kinsfolk abandoned that side of the mountain and the tunnels were forgotten.”

At length Balendilín returned with two ancient maps showing the path of the tunnels through the secondling kingdom. The tunnels cut straight through the heart of the Blue Range and were well hidden, with numerous mechanisms and traps securing them against intruders. Even if Tion’s creatures had known about the tunnels, there was no way of breaking into them, so the forces of darkness were obliged to conduct their invasion overland.

“Well, that’s settled,” Tungdil told the others. “I’ll do it.”

“Good,” said Balendilín with a smile. He refilled their tankards. “In that case, you should be the one who tells the assembly of the tunnels’ existence. The delegates will be impressed.” They clunked tankards and drank.

Vraccas made me party to this knowledge so that the dwarves could liberate Girdlegard from evil,” said Tungdil, coming to the end of his impassioned speech. “Why else would he have given me the artifacts and books?”

“Forgotten relics from a glorious era!” Gandogar said scornfully. “Nothing you’ve stumbled upon is of any practical use. A miracle ax to be forged secretly in a furnace fired by dragon’s breath at the heart of the Perished Land — it can’t be done! If you ask me, the whole thing’s a fiction, a legend that found its way into our archives by mistake!”

“You may not believe it,” Tungdil cut in, “but Nôd’onn clearly does. He wiped out a whole settlement to get his hands on the books. He tried to kill me too! Why would he be so worried if it were just an old story? Clansmen,” he begged the assembly, “we need to send an expedition. Vraccas will see us through this.”

“Of course he will,” jeered Bislipur. “If you don’t mind my asking, how exactly were you intending to slay the dragon? They’re tough old beasts, but tell it one of your stories and the poor thing will probably die of laughter on the spot.”

The roars of merriment were enough to convince Tungdil not to put the matter to the vote. The motion would only fail. Common sense had yet to bludgeon its way into the delegates’ thick skulls.

“To business,” Gandogar said impatiently. He threw off his cloak, revealing a shimmering mail shirt. His adviser handed him his shield and his ax, while another fastened his helmet. “The purpose of this meeting is to decide the succession. Let the contest begin! For the first task I challenge my rival to a duel. Victory will go to whoever draws first blood or forces his opponent to his knees.”

In an instant Boïndil and Boëndal were at Tungdil’s side, helping him on with his armor. His metal tunic looked cheap and dull compared to Gandogar’s glittering mail. “Beware of his shield. He’s bound to try to ram you with it,” whispered Boïndil. He clenched his fists. “If only I could take your place,” he growled. “I’d hammer him into the marble.”

“You’ve been wonderful teachers,” Tungdil reassured the twins as he buckled his chinstrap. “And I’m not just talking about the past few orbits; you taught me a great deal during our journey as well. If I lose, it won’t be because of you.”

The two candidates stepped into the semicircle between the throne and the benches. Balendilín acted as referee. His eyes smiled reassuringly at Tungdil. “Fight valiantly and honorably,” he told them as he backed away. The rivals were alone in the arena.

The fourthling king lost no time in launching his attack. Tungdil parried blow after blow, all the while trying not to be distracted by the twinkling diamonds on Gandogar’s ax. He watched the swooping trajectory of the blade from behind his shield, retreating farther and farther until his back came up against a column.

As the next blow swung toward him, Tungdil ducked and struck back. There was a shrill metallic shriek as his blunted ax scraped over Gandogar’s hastily raised shield and struck the lower edge of his helmet. Head spinning, the king staggered back.

“Now attack!” yelled Boïndil, caught up in the excitement. Fired on by his success and the encouragement of his tutor, Tungdil rushed forward.

Not if I can help it. Bislipur had no intention of allowing Gandogar to be defeated. Sverd was standing beside him, so he gave him a little shove. The gnome pitched forward and struck his head on a tankard. Beer slopped to the floor.

The incident was Tungdil’s undoing. In his haste he didn’t notice that the slippery marble floor was as treacherous as an ice rink. His right foot skidded to the side; he struggled to keep his balance and flailed out vainly with his ax.

“Foolish gnome!” Bislipur unleashed a volley of curses, threatening to thrash the hapless Sverd and tighten his collar until it cut off his breath.

“The scoundrel did it on purpose!” protested Boëndal.

“He’s just clumsy, that’s all. He’ll pay for this, believe me!” said Bislipur, still pretending to be furious with the gnome.

None of that was any comfort to Tungdil, who skidded past Gandogar just as the latter straightened up and took aim. The king’s ax thwacked his back with enough force to send him spinning out of control. Cursing, he lost his footing and forfeited the task.

A cheer went up from the fourthling corner where Gandogar’s supporters were gathered. The jubilation turned to mocking laughter when Tungdil struggled to his feet. The contest wasn’t unfolding quite as he’d hoped.

“Now for my task,” he shouted above the din. The great hall fell silent.

“What is the nature of the challenge?”

“We shall both transcribe a text. The first to finish wins.”

“What?” Gandogar protested. “I’m a king, not a poet!”

“You don’t have to be a poet; all you have to do is write. A good monarch must have a steady hand and a smart mind to guide it; how else would he make the laws? But maybe fighting is your only virtue…” Without further ado he sat down at a desk and waited for Gandogar to follow suit.

“What if I refuse?”

“If you refuse,” said Balendilín, “you’ll lose the challenge and the tally will be one task each, leaving the succession to be decided by the final three challenges.”

“Besides,” Boëndal added snidely, “it would be cowardly not to accept. The scholar wasn’t afraid to face your ax. I hope the fourthling leader isn’t frightened of a quill!”

The gibe and resulting hilarity prompted Gandogar to lay down his shield and helmet and take a seat at the desk.

The referee called for the rolls of parchment and chose one at random. “You may begin.”

In no time the scholar, as Boëndal jokingly called him, was scribbling furiously, while his opponent glared at the runes and scratched awkwardly at the parchment with his quill. The dwarves devoted themselves to the task in industrious silence.

“Finished,” declared Tungdil at length. His work was scrutinized and found to be faultless. Gandogar took longer and made several errors along the way. Balendilín awarded the task to Tungdil.

The twins whooped in delight, pleased that their charge had used his cunning to secure a draw. “Too bad you lost that one, eh, Bislipur?” Boïndil shouted cheerfully.

At Balendilín’s request, the delegates noted down their challenges and the slips of paper were collected. Gandogar would draw first, then Tungdil.

“For the next challenge,” announced the referee, “you will forge an ax from the poorest quality iron and strike it ten times against a shield without fracturing the blade.”

Tungdil had spent so much time at Lot-Ionan’s anvil that he was sure he would prove the superior smith. Balendilín declared a break in the proceedings while the necessary equipment was set up in the hall and soon the high-ceilinged chamber was echoing with the sound of ringing hammers.

Tungdil hit his stride, working in time with a dwarven ballad that had been taught to him by the twins. Not to be out-done, Gandogar belted out a song of his own and hammered all the more furiously.

“You’d think it was a singing competition.” Boëndal grinned and hoisted his belt. “If that doesn’t please Vraccas, I don’t know what will.”

“Tungdil is the better singer, so Vraccas will favor his cause,” said his brother.

The singing continued until both candidates had finished their blades. Balendilín instructed them to attach the ax heads to iron hafts; then each took up the other’s weapon, ensuring the blade’s exposure to maximum force. They positioned themselves in front of their shields and at the referee’s signal, the contest began.

“Let’s see how His Majesty fared in the forge,” said a sweat-drenched Tungdil, preparing to strike. The blade, still glowing with heat, traced an orange semicircle through the gloom of the hall, hitting its target in a shower of sparks. The ax withstood the blow.

“Better than you thought,” retorted Gandogar. He struck the shield with equal force and the blade held true.

They dealt six further blows apiece, but on the eighth strike Tungdil heard a faint crack when Gandogar’s ax hit the shield. He knew the next blow would be its last. “Take a look at this,” he called to the king. The blade fractured, shattering into countless shards. Panting, Tungdil threw the haft to the floor and fumbled for his water pouch.

A murmur went through the watching crowd. The fourth-ling king tensed his muscles, summoning all his strength for the final blow. The shield groaned and shuddered, but the blade survived the strike.

“Hurrah for the smith!” boomed Boïndil. “ Two-one to Tungdil. It was the singing that did it. Even the poorest metal can’t resist a good tune.”

Gandogar laid down his ax in order to shake his opponent’s hand. “I didn’t think anyone could forge such a fine blade from such woefully inadequate metal. You are the undisputed master of the forge — but I shall be king of the dwarves. The next victory will be mine.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Already Balendilín was unfolding the next piece of paper. There was no time for the dwarves to catch their breath. “The fourth challenge will be a race. Each candidate will be given a tankard of molten gold and must carry it to the end of the first meadow and back before proceeding to the gates. In addition to your chain mail, you will be given a pack weighing precisely forty pounds. The first to return with a full tankard wins the task.”

To ensure that both competitors ran the full distance with their tankards, Balendilín dispatched a pair of dwarves to the meadow and another to the gates.

This is my kind of task, thought Tungdil, hefting the knapsack to his shoulders. He was accustomed to the heat of the forge and as for carrying gold, it was more a privilege than a burden. Even the thought of racing with a forty-pound knapsack didn’t deter him: He had walked hundreds of miles across Girdlegard with two heavy packs.

They were handed their tankards, thick-rimmed glass vessels with a thin layer of pewter plating. The contents had been heated to several hundred degrees and would sear through the flesh on contact with the skin. There was an obvious risk of serious injury; even the steam rising from the molten metal was treacherously hot.

“Go!” shouted Balendilín. With that, the race was underway.

Gandogar surged forward, barely glancing at his tankard as he focused on his course. Tungdil took the opposite approach, feasting his eyes on the pool of liquid sunshine. He had marched for enough miles to have faith in his footing.

Soon the king was in the lead and had vanished from the hall. Tungdil followed leisurely. Balendilín had said that the task would be won by the first to return with a full tankard. He would rather take his time and bring back his quota than waste any of the precious gold. He even stopped and set down his tankard occasionally to give his calloused smith’s hands a chance to recover from the heat.

He had almost reached the valley when Gandogar raced past in the opposite direction.

“You’d better hurry if you want to beat me, Tungdil,” he shouted. There was an unmistakable whiff of scorched skin, but the king kept going regardless, content to let his fingers suffer. As far as Tungdil could tell, not a drop of gold had been spilled.

He stopped in the meadow, gave his hand a quick rest, and set off in hot pursuit. I shouldn’t have counted on Gandogar making a mistake, he admonished himself.

It wasn’t long before his hand began to shake. He was feeling the effects of the duel and the metalworking contest, but no amount of self-pity was going to help him win the task. He was just approaching the gates when Gandogar ran past, sweating and cursing, on his homeward leg. The fourthling smiled cockily at Tungdil, his tankard still full.

“We’re even now! One last challenge and victory will be mine,” he vowed.

That was enough to revive Tungdil’s competitive spirit, and he hurried after Gandogar, determined to pass him as quickly as he could.

Just then a small creature darted into the passageway and collided with his legs. Tungdil stumbled and caught himself. “What in the name of Vraccas…”

The molten gold was swirling dangerously, ready to spill over the edge, but Tungdil had no intention of releasing his grip. A golden wave slopped over the side and splashed onto his skin. The pain was excruciating, but he gritted his teeth and continued without so much as a curse. His eyes scanned the passageway furiously, but the offending creature was gone.

Owing to the mishap, he reached the hall in second place and without his full quota of gold. He had lost by either reckoning. But Gandogar’s victory had not been won without sacrifice and his poor scalded hands were being treated with ice and water by a nurse.

This time it fell to Tungdil to congratulate his rival. He refrained from shaking his hand out of consideration for his burns. “Well, you kept your promise this time,” he said, immersing his own tender skin in the ice-cold water.

“Don’t worry, I intend to keep all my promises,” Gandogar informed him, turning quickly away.

Tungdil held up his hand to inspect the damage. The gold had solidified, leaving a permanent coin-sized patch on his skin.

The golden stain made his right hand glisten in the light of the coal lamps, catching Boïndil’s eye. “Take a look at that, brother.”

“Tungdil Goldhand! That’s what we’ll call him,” said Boëndal. “I hope he likes it. I reckon it suits him well.”

“It’s a darned sight better than Bolofar,” his twin agreed.

“Attention, delegates,” called Balendilín. “The score stands at two all, so we must progress to the fifth and final challenge, on which the choice of successor and the future of the dwarven folks shall rest.” He instructed the rivals to note down a maximum of four tasks.

It has to be something I can definitely win… Tungdil thought for a moment, then grinned. Of course! The perfect task had occurred to him in the nick of time.

Each slip of paper was folded in the same fashion and placed in a leather pouch held open by Balendilín. The counselor pulled the drawstrings, gave the bag a good shake, and paced along the row of dwarves, stopping in front of Bislipur.

“Once the task has been drawn, there can be no complaints about the fairness of the choice. Bislipur, my friend, I should like you to pick the challenge.” He held the pouch toward him.

The thick-set dwarf seized the bag without any pretense at politeness. He fixed the counselor with a stony glare.

Without looking down, he reached inside the bag, swept the bottom, and came up with a slip of paper. He was about to unfold it when the parchment slipped out of his fingers and fell back into the pouch. His hand plunged after it and he thrust the note wordlessly toward Balendilín.

“No,” said the referee. “You picked the task; you read it.”

Bislipur shifted his gaze from the counselor’s face to the note. He unfolded the paper and scanned its contents. “Oh,” he said breezily, “that’s not the one I drew first.” He reached inside the bag again.

“Rules are rules.” Balendilín snatched the pouch away. “You made your choice; now read out the challenge.”

Bislipur’s jaw was clenched as if to hold back the challenge and prevent it from reaching the delegates’ ears. He took a deep breath, hesitating for so long that Tungdil began to hope.

“The fifth and final task is an expedition,” he announced, his voice trembling with rage. “The candidates are challenged to journey to the Gray Range and return with Keenfire. The winner will wield the ax against Nôd’onn.”

There was a faint sigh as Gundrabur released his pent-up breath in relief. Balendilín closed his eyes and permitted himself the briefest of smiles.

No one could have anticipated that the greatest challenge to Gandogar’s succession would come from a task chosen and read by Bislipur himself. It was obvious that Tungdil was far cleverer than his fellow dwarves had thought. Silence descended on the hall as the delegates digested the unexpected twist.

Tungdil stepped forward quickly to forestall any protests about the nature of the task. “I issued the challenge, and I accept.” He turned to Gandogar.

The fourthling king was visibly seething. “Ditto,” he growled.

“Stop! We must draw again,” insisted Bislipur, knowing that an expedition to the Gray Range would sabotage his plan for a war against the elves. “You saw me drop the first note. This isn’t the right one!”

Balendilín stood his ground. “What do you propose I do? We’ll never know which note was drawn first. No, the decision must stand. Both candidates have accepted the challenge, and the outcome will decide the succession.”

“But what of the delay?” protested Bislipur. “An expedition will saddle us with orbits of uncertainty.”

“Please don’t worry unduly,” Tungdil said politely. “I’ll endeavor to return as quickly as I can.” The delegates laughed. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get going and choose my traveling companions. There’s no time to waste.” He signaled to Boëndal and Boïndil to follow. “I would never have got this far if it hadn’t been for you. With your agreement, I should like you to accompany me on my expedition to the Gray Range. Can I count on your assistance in escorting me there and back again?”

Boïndil guffawed. “Did you hear that, brother? He’s the same old scholar!” He turned to Tungdil. “We’d be honored to join you, but only if you promise to drop your fancy speech. Besides,” he added with a tinge of sadness, “there’s the matter of restoring my good reputation after I failed you in the desert.”

Tungdil placed his hands on the brothers’ shoulders. “Don’t worry, Boïndil, I’m sure you’ll have more than enough opportunities to save me from certain death.”

The dwarf grinned and his brother nodded. “You earned yourself a new name today, scholar.” Boëndal pointed to the shimmering metal grafted to his skin. “Tungdil Goldhand. What do you think of that?”

“Goldhand…” Tungdil held up his right hand. “Yes, I rather like the sound of it.” His hand hurt devilishly, but he managed a smile. Goldhand — a proper dwarven name.

The delegates dispersed and Bislipur and Gandogar stormed out of the great hall, leaving the high king and his counselor alone.

“Was that your idea?” inquired Gundrabur, reaching for his pipe.

Balendilín laughed softly. “Not at all. I would never have come up with such a preposterous suggestion. If you ask me, Tungdil was sent here by Vraccas himself.” He ascended the dais and stood by the throne. “He’d make an excellent high king, you know. His ideas are pure gold.”

“Tungdil chose wisely,” agreed the monarch. “Whichever of the candidates comes back first, Girdlegard will be the real winner — and of course the dwarves. Our task is to make sure nothing untoward happens while the two of them are away.”

“It means keeping your inner furnace alight a little longer,” Balendilín reminded him anxiously.

Gundrabur levered himself out of his throne and stuck his pipe between his teeth. “Vraccas knows our need and will stay his hammer until the time has come,” he said, undaunted.

His counselor watched him go, then sat down on the foot-stool to examine the contents of the leather pouch. His efforts were focused on finding the slip of paper that Bislipur had originally drawn. He knew it as soon as he saw it because of the nick in one corner. Bislipur’s expression on reading the challenge had discouraged him from intervening and correcting the mistake.

And rightly so, as he discovered when he opened the note. If Bislipur had kept hold of the paper, Tungdil would be cutting diamonds instead of preparing for his quest. He would have lost the challenge and Gandogar would be high king.

He unfolded the other slips of paper and laughed out loud: four times diamond-cutting and four times an expedition.

Thank Vraccas for Bislipur’s clumsiness! he thought, chuckling in relief.

XI

Beroïn’s Folk,

Secondling Kingdom,

Girdlegard,

Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle

Knowing that he would require the services of a mason, Tungdil had asked the high king’s counselor to recruit a suitable artisan from the secondling clans. Balendilín felt strongly that the final decision should rest with Tungdil, and so it was agreed that a group of candidates would be selected for him to take his pick. Not long afterward a one-eyed dwarf knocked on Tungdil’s door.

Tungdil looked him over in surprise. “Are you the only one? Balendilín promised to narrow it down, but I didn’t expect him to be quite so ruthless. Who are you?”

“Bavragor Hammerfist of the clan of the Hammer Fists, mason and stoneworker of two hundred cycles.” His bearlike hands reminded Tungdil of Balendilín. His black hair hung loose about his shoulders, and his beard was artfully shaped around his cheeks and chin. “My masonry is second to none and my right eye sees twice as keenly as two. Nothing escapes me, not the tiniest fault in the stone nor the slightest flaw in the working of it.”

Tungdil explained that the expedition required a mason to fashion the spurs for an ax. Since the blade was to be forged in the Gray Range, the other components of the weapon would be made and assembled there. “Which means journeying through the Perished Land. It’s bound to be hazardous — only Vraccas knows what will befall us.” Tungdil left the briefing at that and looked the mason in the eye. A dark red ring encircled the brown iris. How peculiar.

“Count me in,” said Bavragor. He held out his hand. “Let’s shake on it. Do you promise that I, Bavragor Hammerfist, will be your one and only mason?” Tungdil obliged by clasping his hand and giving his word. The mason grinned and seemed almost relieved. “When are we leaving?”

“In two orbits’ time. I need to recruit a diamond cutter from the fourthling delegation.”

“Then I’ll start packing. A weapon like Keenfire deserves my finest tools.” He hurried from the room.

Tungdil had expected the interview to last a little longer, but he soon forgot about the mason and turned his attention to finding a diamond cutter.

None of the fourthlings could be expected to join his company of their own accord, so he was obliged to ask Gandogar to spare him a suitable dwarf. The strategy was safer than it sounded: The fourthling delegation was composed of first-rate artisans and warriors, as tradition dictated.

The more Tungdil thought about it, the less inclined he was to ask his rival for a favor, but in the end he swallowed his pride, reminding himself that vanity was a luxury when Girdlegard’s future was at stake.

He was just leaving his chamber when he saw four dwarves hurrying down the passageway toward him. One by one they introduced themselves. “Balendilín sent us. He says you’re to choose.”

Bewildered, Tungdil stared at the bearded countenances looking at him expectantly. “I’ve made my choice,” he said. It hadn’t occurred to him that there might be other candidates. Now he was regretting his haste. “I chose Bavragor.”

“Bavragor Hammerfist? Not Bavragor who polishes the stone with the beer on his breath?” said one of the dwarves incredulously. “Not the merry minstrel?”

“He got here first.”

“He didn’t make the final cut! You can’t take him!” The masons looked at him, aghast. “He’s been trying to drown himself in beer for as long as anyone can remember. Four full tankards are barely enough to steady his hands!”

“I gave him my word. I can’t go back on it now.” Tungdil’s cheeks flushed with fury when he realized that he’d walked straight into the one-eyed mason’s trap. I shall ask him to release me from our agreement.

The secondlings directed him to Bavragor’s favorite tavern, and Tungdil marched off to give the trickster a piece of his mind.

He soon found the place. A line of lamp-lit columns ran down the center of the barrel-vaulted chamber, and lanterns dangled from the ceiling, casting golden halos through panes of tinted glass. At the far end was a stone-hewn counter where four barmaids were filling tankards from huge dark barrels and carrying them to the waiting clientele. The band was made up of two krummhorns, a stone flute, and a drum, whose task consisted mainly of accompanying the rowdy choir.

Bavragor was sitting at a table with a group of laborers who had come straight from the quarry and were covered in dust. He was celebrating his selection for the expedition in timeworn mason’s fashion, waving his tankard and singing at a volume that sent tremors through the room. Beer slopped out of his tankard, spattering his brown leather breeches with white froth.

“Bavragor!” Tungdil shouted sternly.

“Ah, the high king to be!” The mason raised his vessel. “Three cheers for Tungdil Goldhand!” His drinking companions joined in, raising their tankards and scrambling to their feet in a fog of gray dust.

Tungdil seethed. In a few determined strides he crossed the tavern, tore the tankard from Bavragor’s hand, and slammed it onto the table. “Balendilín didn’t send you to me. You tricked me into giving you my word and now I want you to release me.”

“Oops, careful there. That’s good beer you’re spilling.” The mason gave him an innocent smile. “I didn’t actually say that Balendilín sent me, did I?”

Tungdil was lost for words. “Well, no, you didn’t, but…”

Bavragor picked up his tankard. “Was it part of the deal?”

“Yes… I mean, no…”

“Look, here’s what happened: I came in, asked for the job, and you agreed. We shook hands, you gave me your word of honor, and that was that.” He took a long gulp. “In any case, you made the right choice: There’s no better mason than me. I expect you saw my work when you got here: inscriptions, statues, the lot. Pretty impressive, I’d say.” He raised his right hand. “This is the hand you shook, and your grip was true. The sooner you find a diamond cutter, the better; we can’t hang around forever.” He turned back to his fellow drinkers and launched into song.

Tricked by a drunkard! Speechless with rage, Tungdil stomped off to find Gandogar. He tried to swallow his anger and think about it logically. Perhaps Bavragor really was the best mason in the secondling kingdom — but it didn’t make up for his barefaced cheek.

He was halfway down the corridor when he suddenly burst out laughing. It was almost as if Vraccas were trying to demonstrate that a little bravado could go a long way. The Smith had shown a fine sense of irony in saddling him, the false heir to the throne, with an impudent drunkard who had bluffed his way into the mason’s role. I’ll have to remember to pack enough brandy and beer to steady his hands when we reach the Gray Range. At least Balendilín will be able to tell me whether he’s really as good as he claims…

Tungdil fetched one of the two lengths of sigurdaisy wood and entered the assembly room where Gandogar was waiting.

The fourthling monarch was sitting at the table with five of his entourage. Tungdil was struck by their glittering jewels and diamonds; compared to the secondlings, their tunics and mail were unashamedly ostentatious.

“It is not in my nature to make others beg. You don’t need to explain yourself, Tungdil. I know what you want.” He pointed to the delegates, who rose to their feet. “Take your pick. They’re all expert craftsmen, masters in the art of cutting and polishing gems.”

Tungdil paced along the line of dwarves, studying their faces and allowing his instincts to guide him.

The artisans were a little on the small side, but for some reason he was drawn to the puniest of the lot. Something told him that this was the one. The dwarf’s beard glittered with diamond dust that had caught in his curly whiskers. It looked as though thousands of tiny stars were shimmering under his chin. Tungdil’s mind was made up.

“Goïmgar Shimmerbeard,” said Gandogar, introducing him. “A fine choice,” he added.

The artisan’s nervousness turned into full-blown panic. He turned to his monarch. “But, Gandogar, Your Highness… Surely you won’t make me… You know that I can’t…”

“I gave Tungdil a free choice,” Gandogar said sharply. “Do you want me to break my promise? You’re going with Tungdil, and that’s that.”

“B-but, Your Majesty…” the artisan stuttered desperately.

“Think of the reputation of our folk. Do exactly as Tungdil tells you, and if you get to the Gray Range before us, be sure to cut the diamonds as conscientiously as you would for me. Farewell — and, Goïmgar, come back in one piece.”

The king rose and signaled for the remaining four dwarves to follow. When he reached the door, he stopped and turned.

“I don’t want you to come to any harm, Tungdil Goldhand, but as the rightful heir, I can’t honestly wish you well. Vraccas will lead me to victory and expose you as a sham. I will be Gundrabur’s successor.”

“You can have the title, King Gandogar,” Tungdil said graciously, handing him the sigurdaisy wood. “Just remember to slay Nôd’onn and protect Girdlegard and our kingdoms from harm.”

He hurried away without waiting for a reply. The scrawny artisan followed him, eyes cast gloomily to the floor.

Tungdil, Bavragor, Goïmgar, and the twins were sitting in the central hall of the library, a ribbed vault lined with lamps and mirrors that afforded sufficient light for reading and study. All around them were tablets and rolls of parchment, the collected knowledge of hundreds of cycles. The archive, the secondlings’ repository of the past, seemed the ideal place to hold a meeting about the future.

Tungdil unrolled a map showing the territory between the five ranges. “We’ll go down and take a look at the entrance to the underground network,” he told them. “With a bit of luck and the blessing of Vraccas we’ll be able to travel west —”

“You mean north,” interrupted Bavragor. The strapping dwarf leaned forward and pointed at the Gray Range. “We need to go north.”

“Sure, but first we’ll go west to Borengar’s folk. The firstlings have always been the best smiths. They’re the only ones capable of forging the blade.”

“That’s as may be,” objected Bavragor, giving Tungdil a searching look with his right eye. “But who’s to say they’re still there? For all we know, they may have been wiped out by orcs.” He reached for his beer. “We should take a smith with us and head north right away.”

“Ah,” said Boëndal, “so we’ve got a new leader, have we? Don’t tell me you want to be high king as well?”

“I wouldn’t mind being high king if it meant I could lock up maniacs like your brother,” the mason retorted harshly.

Boïndil frowned, his hand moving automatically to his ax. “Careful, one-eye, or you’ll end up blind.”

“They never liked each other,” Boëndal explained in a whisper. “The incident with Bavragor’s sister only made things worse.”

Tungdil sighed. He had a nasty feeling that the journey was going to be harder than he’d thought. “His sister?”

“I’ll tell you later,” hissed Boëndal. “They’ll only end up fighting — or worse.”

“What are we going to do with the dragon if we actually find it?” asked Goïmgar. The skinny artisan was barely half the width of Bavragor or the twins. “If you ask me, the whole thing sounds dangerous. Orcs, the Perished Land, älfar, a dragon…” He swallowed nervously. “I must say, I am a bit… concerned.”

“Concerned? It’s going to be fabulous!” bellowed Boïndil, clapping him on the back. Goïmgar winced in pain. “We all like a good bit of orc-baiting, don’t we? It’s good dwarven fun.”

True to his name, Goïmgar’s beard shimmered in the candlelight. “Speak for yourself. I’d rather be in my workshop.”

Boïndil eyed him suspiciously. “You do know how to use an ax, don’t you? You sound more like a whining long-un than a child of the Smith.” He jumped up and threw him an ax. “Come on, then, show us how you fight!”

The ax clattered across the floor and slid to a halt in front of Goïmgar, who left it where it lay. He patted his sword. “I’d rather use this and my shield,” he said peevishly, offended by the secondling’s mocking tone.

“Call that a sword? It looks more like a bread knife. A gnome would be too embarrassed to use a pathetic blade like that.” Boïndil whinnied with laughter. “By the beard of Vraccas, you must have been hewn from soapstone!” He sat down, shaking his head in despair. Bavragor chuckled into his beer, emptied his tankard, and burped. On the subject of Goïmgar, the two archenemies were united in scorn.

Boëndal turned his attention to the map. “We’ll be able to get to the firstling kingdom without coming up against the Perished Land. Let’s hope we can use the tunnels. I wonder what kind of state they’re in.”

“I expect we’ll find out when our wagon hits a broken sleeper and we plunge to our deaths,” Goïmgar said despondently. “No one’s been in the tunnels for cycles and cycles. It’ll be a miracle if —”

“Now I know why Gandogar said we could take you with us. What a pumice-hearted weakling you are! I’ve never heard so much wailing and sighing,” Boïndil said scornfully.

Bavragor eyed him coldly. “If you’d been at my sister’s funeral —”

“Enough!” Tungdil silenced them. He was starting to have serious doubts about his ability to hold the group together. Vraccas give me strength. “Is this an expedition for dwarves or for children? No one would ever guess that you’re older than me! We’re not visiting a gold mine or a salt works. We’re supposed to be saving Girdlegard.”

“Oh, I thought we were risking our lives so you could steal the throne,” Goïmgar said spitefully. Bavragor turned his tankard upside down and caught the last drops in his hand. He licked them up regretfully.

Tungdil smiled at the artisan. “No, Goïmgar, that’s not true. Our priority is to forge a weapon that will slay Nôd’onn and give us the means to fight the Perished Land. Without Keenfire we don’t stand a chance.” He hadn’t let on that he was missing a section of the instructions for Keenfire that Andôkai hadn’t managed to translate.

“Is that how you’re planning to persuade the firstlings to lend us their best smith?” the mason asked derisively. “They’ve probably never heard of the magus or the Perished Land.”

Tungdil looked from Bavragor to Goïmgar and back again. “Why are the two of you so keen to make problems before we’ve even started?” he asked frankly.

Bavragor scratched his beard. “I’m not the one who’s sitting here chatting,” he retorted. “But if you want my opinion, we’ll need more than Vraccas’s blessing if we’re to forge the blade and make it back across Girdlegard.”

“Then take it from me that he’ll give us his blessing and more. If you’d experienced half the adventures that I went through on my journey, you wouldn’t be so skeptical. And remember, Bavragor, we’re not doing this for me, we’re doing it for Girdlegard and the dwarves.” And for Lot-Ionan, Frala, Sunja, and Ikana, he added silently. He smiled. “Just think: If we’re lucky, we’ll find some gold.”

“Well, I’d drink to that, but I need some more beer,” said the mason. He lumbered out of the room.

Tungdil turned to Goïmgar. “What about you? Do you see why we’re doing this?”

“Absolutely. For Girdlegard, like you said.” The flippant response did little to satisfy Tungdil, who tried to look him in the eye. Goïmgar stared fixedly at the bookshelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling.

It wasn’t long before Bavragor returned with an even larger tankard, having drunk at least half of its contents on the way. “To the next high king!” he said loudly, omitting to stipulate which of the candidates he had in mind. “I hope he achieves all his goals.” He downed the rest of his drink.

“He hasn’t even stopped for breath,” Boïndil said in astonishment. “There must be a lake of the stuff inside him.”

Bavragor wiped the froth from his beard. “Back in a minute,” he said, rising to leave.

“Stop!” commanded Tungdil in a firm but friendly voice. “You can drink all you like as soon as we’ve finished.” Bavragor sat down sullenly, dropping the empty tankard to the floor. The hallowed library echoed with the noise. “Our first stop is the Red Range. If the firstlings haven’t heard about Nôd’onn, we’ll tell them of the danger and ask for the loan of a smith. Then we’ll continue through the tunnels to our next stop, the Gray Range.”

He picked up another map and laid it out in front of the dwarves. “This is an ancient map from the 5329th solar cycle, showing the main paths through the fifthling kingdom.”

Boëndal peered at the yellowing parchment. “Look, there’s Flamemere. That’s where we’ll find our dragon.”

“And then what?” Goïmgar inquired weakly.

Tungdil leaned back on his chair. “The way I see it, there’s no need to actually fight the beast when all we need is a bit of its fire. Boïndil, if you dance around on its tail for a while, the rest of us can wait until it spews flames, at which point we’ll jump out, light our torches, and hurry to the furnace.”

“Can I slay it, or am I only allowed to dance on its tail?” asked Boïndil, practically bursting with excitement. Goïmgar gave him a sideways look.

“If it makes you happy, you can slay it — but only after we’ve got the fire,” his brother instructed him firmly. “Dead dragons don’t breathe flames.”

“The furnace is near the entrance to the stronghold.” Tungdil gave Boïndil a stern look. “I know you’re looking forward to killing some orcs, but the fifthling kingdom will be crawling with them. If you take them on, neither you nor the rest of us will come out of there alive. You’re going to have to be reasonable.”

“Fine,” Boïndil said obstreperously. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I won’t kill the stinking orcs — yet. I’ll slaughter the lot of them when it comes to the showdown with Nôd’onn.” He glared at the others. “And let’s get this straight: If we run into orcs on the journey, the first ten are mine. You can fight among yourselves for the others.”

“Not on your nelly,” muttered Goïmgar, just loud enough for Tungdil to hear.

He changed the subject. “Goïmgar and Bavragor, have either of you had much experience of humans?” They shook their heads. “I’ll give you some tips on dealing with them in case we end up traveling overland for part of the way. But first you should get some sleep. We’ll be leaving in the morning.”

Bavragor and Goïmgar set off in the direction of their chambers.

“What about us?” asked Boëndal.

“We’ve got some exploring to do.” Tungdil and the twins followed a stairway that wound deeper and deeper inside the mountain, taking them toward the ancient tunnels that had carried their forefathers through Girdlegard at incredible speed.

Tungdil walked in front with the map, while Boïndil and Boëndal trailed behind, staring wide-eyed at galleries and passageways whose existence they had never suspected. None of their folk had entered this part of the kingdom since it had been contaminated by sulfur hundreds of cycles before.

The air smelled dank and a little staler than usual, but there was no hint of gas. From time to time they came across a skeleton of a sheep or a goat that had lost its way and died a slow and painful death of thirst.

They followed the stairway for what seemed like hours. Broad-backed bridges of stone carried them over plunging chasms whose depths shone with a mysterious yellow glow. They passed mighty waterfalls and many-columned chambers as splendid as their own great hall. Overcome with wonderment, they walked in silence, hearing only the tread of their boots and the sound of rushing water. Soon the path sloped upward again.

“To think these shafts have been here all the time,” said Boïndil, unable to keep quiet any longer.

“It’s what happens when things aren’t used. They get forgotten. I bet it’s been free of poisonous gases for ages,” his brother remarked.