The Dwarves

XIII

Underground Network, Girdlegard, Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle By now the five dwarves had a rough sense of how far they were from their destination. At first they hadn't noticed the numerals on the tunnel walls, marking the completion of each twenty-five-mile stretch. In no time they covered an incredible two hundred miles.

After a while they rolled to a halt in another large hall and decided to rest for a few hours before embarking on the next descent. Traveling by wagon was less tiring than walking, but their muscles were sore after hours of sitting uncomfortably and being thrown from side to side. Even the constant rattling was wearying after a while.

Boпndil told the others to stay seated while he stood on top of the wagon and scanned the dusty floor for prints. "Either they've been pulverized or no one's been this way in ages," he said. He jumped down and vanished in a thick gray cloud.

Boлndal thought for a moment. "The rail doesn't look especially clean. Gandogar must have taken a different route."

Tungdil unfolded the map he had sketched in the previous hall. "It's possible, I suppose."

"I hope the ceiling collapses on top of him," scowled Boпndil, searching the hall for firewood. He found a stash of abandoned timber, but it turned to dust in his hands. There would be no melted cheese on toasted mushrooms after all.

They ate their meal in silence, each absorbed in his thoughts. Bavragor took long drafts from his drinking pouch and eventually burst into song, ignoring his companions' objections. His powerful voice reverberated through the hall, echoing down the tunnels.

"For pity's sake, be quiet! We don't want every creature below the surface knowing that we're here," snapped Goпmgar.

Boлndal grinned. "I don't think it's much of a secret. He hasn't stopped warbling since we left."

"Poor little Shimmerbeard," teased Boпndil, laying his axes in his lap and setting to work with his grindstone. "You're not scared, are you? Don't worry: My brother and I are here to protect you." He tested each blade with his thumb. "It's a long time since they tasted orc flesh. They're almost as impatient as me."

"Orc flesh? Down here?" Goпmgar asked anxiously.

"Who can tell?" the secondling replied. Boлndal and Tungdil saw the strange glint in his eyes and knew at once that he meant to have some fun: The poor artisan was about to be scared witless. "The tunnels have been abandoned for hundreds of cycles. All kinds of creatures could have moved in without us knowing." He tapped out a noisy rhythm with the butts of his axes. "It won't be safe until we get rid of them. From now on, it's war!"

"That's enough, mighty warrior," Tungdil warned him.

Boпndil laughed, spurred on by his fiery spirit. "Show yourselves, you ogres, trolls, orcs, and beasts of Tion! Come out and be hacked to pieces by the children of the Smith!" He had to shout at the top of his voice to drown out the mason's singing. "Come out, so I can kill you!"

"Don't provoke them," Goпmgar pleaded, edging away until he was sitting with his back against the wall. "You shouldn't bait them like that."

"Someone once told me about hideous beasts that live down here and plague the dwarves," said Bavragor, joining in the fun. He oiled his throat with another helping of whatever he kept in his mysterious pouch. "Tion created them as our natural enemies, like he created the дlfar to wipe out the elves."

"Someone once told me about innocent creatures dying in agony because of your singing," quipped Boлndal.

"More than likely," said his brother. "You'd better keep your mouth shut, Bavragor. I won't have you chasing away my orcs."

The mason gesticulated rudely and launched into another rousing song, only to be silenced by Tungdil. "We need to know if anything's sneaking up on us," he explained. Goпmgar and the twins hastened to agree.

"All right, you win." Bavragor lowered his voice to a hum and curled up in his blankets. Soon he was snoring at a volume to rival his singing. The twins settled down for the night, but Goпmgar stayed exactly where he was. At last Tungdil handed him a blanket since he clearly intended to sleep with his back against the wall.

"I saw what you were up to," he said softly when he was sure that the others were asleep.

"I don't know what you mean."

"You know, when we stopped in the other hall. You were trying to ruin the map so we wouldn't be able to read it. Why?"

The diminutive fourthling glared at him defiantly. "I was dusting it."

"Not with the tip of your dagger, you weren't." Tungdil looked at him intently and tried to meet his eye. "I wish you'd stop seeing me as the enemy."

"Don't flatter yourself," the artisan said coldly. "You're not the enemy. You're nobody, not even a fourthling. You can say what you like about your lineage; all I know is you're not one of us. If you want my opinion, you're a common thief who's trying to steal the throne, and I won't let you get away with it. I know what King Gandogar said about obeying your orders, but I'll see to it personally that the rightful heir is crowned."

"Is that why you didn't want to join the expedition?"

"Maybe-or maybe I don't like traveling, fighting, and enduring all kinds of unpleasantness when I'd rather be at home. The journey to Ogre's Death was bad enough, but now I'm risking my life for a liar."

"This isn't about being made high king," Tungdil said earnestly. "Frankly, the whole business is rather a bore."

Goпmgar looked at him in astonishment. "Then why are you here?"

"All I care about is forging Keenfire so we can fight Nфd'onn and put a stop to the evil. Girdlegard is in danger and we dwarves are the only ones who can save her inhabitants from the magus's deadly scheme. That's what I'm interested in-not the throne."

"How do I know you're not lying? In your position, I'd swear blind that my beard was blue and the mountain was made of cheese. And besides, what if we get to Ogre's Death first? According to the rules of the contest, you'd have to be king. I don't see why we're hurrying if you're not interested in the throne."

Tungdil could tell that the discussion was going nowhere. It would take more than a single night to convince Goпmgar that he was mistaken about his intentions. The fourthling didn't trust him one bit.

In any case, Tungdil didn't like to be reminded about the uncertainty of his ancestry. All his efforts were focused on playing the part of the long-lost heir, but deep down he felt lonely and confused. It was only the thought of Lot-Ionan and Frala that gave him the strength to keep pretending. He would do anything to lead the company to the fifthling kingdom so that Keenfire could rob Nфd'onn of his power and his life.

"There's no point arguing," he said glumly. "You should get some sleep. I'll keep watch." He wrapped himself in a blanket to ward off the underground cold. At that moment he heard something. It sounded like a single strike of a hammer on rock.

Goпmgar stopped fussing with his bedding and froze. "An ogre," he whispered tremulously. "Or the ghost of a dwarf who died here when the tunnels were being built…"

Tungdil made no reply. It could be anything, he thought. Reaching for his ax, he listened to the darkness. There was silence. "It was probably just a stone," he said slowly, relaxing his vigil. "A bit of stone falling from the ceiling and hitting the floor. It's nothing to worry about."

"Shouldn't we wake the twins? I bet they'd know what to do."

"It was nothing," Tungdil said firmly. "Forget it and go to sleep."

Goпmgar pulled up his blanket until his beard was completely hidden, then balanced his shield across his chest. Tungdil heard him draw his sword. At last, the artisan decided that it was safe to close his eyes.

Tungdil rose quietly and paced up and down, listening at the mouths of the tunnels for footsteps or any sound of movement. I wonder what it could have been…

Silence. The underground network was at peace.

Even so, his uneasiness remained. There's no reason why other creatures shouldn't have occupied the tunnels. He hoped to goodness that Boпndil's bluster hadn't elicited an unfavorable response.

Tungdil waited until they were back in the wagon before telling the others what he and Goпmgar had heard. Boпndil was torn between excitement and pique, thrilled at the thought of possible antagonists, but angry with Tungdil for letting him sleep. He made a show of sulking and refused to say a word.

The wagon tore through the tunnels like the wind, accelerating, slowing, rolling uphill, and swooping back down. Twice they ran out of momentum and had to push the vehicle to the next downward slope.

For Bavragor, the interludes were an excuse to belt out a stirring melody, presumably to lift their spirits while they toiled. To make matters worse, he switched to a mournful love song and succeeded in antagonizing Boпndil so much that he could barely contain his rage.

Anyone would think he was baiting him on purpose. In fact, Tungdil was under the impression that the brawny mason was throwing just a fraction of his weight behind the wagon in order to make Boпndil take the strain. He took Bavragor aside and confronted him with his suspicions.

"Of course I'm doing it on purpose," the mason said without batting an eyelid. "I want him to suffer every mile of the way."

Tungdil looked at him reproachfully. "You know that's not fair."

Bavragor just shrugged.

"Is it because of your sister?"

The mason glanced back at the twins. Boлndal was handing his heavily perspiring and thoroughly exhausted brother some water. "Yes," he said slowly, taking out his own drinking pouch and removing the bung. There was an instant smell of brandy. He took a sip and wiped a few stray drops from his jet-black beard. "Yes," he whispered a second time, staring absently into the distance. He lowered his head.

"What happened between your sister and Boпndil?" Tungdil asked gently.

Bavragor raised his head slowly. His jaw was clenched and a single teardrop leaked from his patch and rolled down his cheek. He couldn't speak, so he took another draft.

"Is it because of her that you're drinking yourself to death?"

He put the pouch away. "No, I drink to forget how good I used to be," he said sadly. "Not that it helps, of course. Every corner of Ogre's Death is filled with my masonry. My sculptures and engravings look down at me and mock my useless hands." He leaned back against the wall and let his gaze sweep the room. "Do you know why I came on this mission?" he asked abruptly. Tungdil shook his head. "To get out of Ogre's Death and never go back." His hoarse voice was full of drunken earnestness. "I'm tired of being pitied. I want to be remembered as Bavragor Hammerfist, mason extraordinaire who sculpted the spurs for Keenfire and gave his life for the dwarves – not as drunken old Bavragor whose chisel danced over the rock of its own accord." He smiled wanly. "I promise to do my bit for the dwarves and for Girdlegard, but I won't return from the fifthling kingdom." He took another long draft to show that his mind was made up.

Tungdil's heart went out to the mason. Bavragor wasn't the noisy, occasionally rude but fundamentally cheerful and resilient character he had taken him for. "We can't leave you in the fifthling kingdom," he protested, realizing at once how feeble he sounded. "We'll need your fists in the fight against Nфd'onn."

Bavragor reached for his arm and squeezed it tightly. "No, Tungdil, you need warriors like the twins, true fighters whose confidence never falters." He released his grip. "Don't worry, my hands are steady enough to sculpt the strongest, most beautiful spurs ever fashioned by a dwarven chisel. I'll tell you about my sister another time. For now, I'd like a moment with my pouch."

Tungdil got up and strolled over to the twins, who were snacking on ham and cheese. Poor Bavragor.

Boлndal had observed the conversation from a distance, but refrained from asking questions because he didn't want Boпndil to get wind of the mason's distress. He offered Tungdil a morsel of goat cheese. "Well, scholar, only two more orbits and we'll be in the firstling kingdom-assuming we don't have any problems with the wagon."

"Gandogar will be there already," Tungdil said gloomily.

"For all we know, he might have gone the wrong way." Boпndil laughed and wiped his glistening brow. "I hope his blasted shortcut leads him straight into a fathomless chasm." Goпmgar glared at him. "You can stare all you like," Boпndil told him, rising to the silent reproach. "The king of the dwarves is sitting right here. Your king is a warmonger, a cowardly-"

"That's enough, Boпndil!" Tungdil interrupted. "I know you'd rather be fighting than trundling along in a wagon, but you're going to have to keep your temper under control." He waited until Boпndil had finished growling. "Right, let's get going. The sooner the first leg of the journey is over, the better." He stood up and the other four followed him to the wagon. Will they ever stop squabbling?

"I wonder what it's like in their kingdom," mused Boлndal, preparing to get the wagon rolling. "The firstlings are supposed to be consummate smiths. Do you think they'll forge me a weapon to beat my trusty crow's beak?"

"Good thinking, brother," his brother applauded him. "Not many axes are as good as mine, but I'll lay them aside if the firstlings can do better."

The wagon crept along the rail. Boлndal waited until they were inches from the downward slope, then jumped in and they thundered into the tunnel.

Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle Bislipur knelt before the high king. "I came because you summoned me," he said, rising. "Not because you can change my mind."

His obdurate tone left Gundrabur and his counselor in no doubt that the private meeting in the great hall would come to nothing. They could only hope and pray that Vraccas would knock some sense into Bislipur's intransigent skull. Gundrabur motioned for the burly dwarf to be seated.

Bislipur appraised him intently. He looks weaker. His fingers are shaking and he can barely lift his arms. Nature is on my side.

"We should have been straight with each other from the beginning," said Balendilнn, taking his place beside the king. "We're tired of game playing. I know we don't share the same opinions, but it's no excuse for scheming like kobolds."

"Our folks have been offered a unique opportunity, and I'm trying to persuade the assembly to take it. Is that what you mean by scheming?" Gandogar's adviser retorted.

"His Majesty and I have been wondering what could possibly motivate you to agitate for war," Balendilнn said forth-rightly. "It baffles us that you should wish to lead the children of the Smith against the elves when a battle of far greater magnitude awaits us."

Bislipur seemed to find the topic too tedious to be worthy of anger. "Your Majesty, there's nothing to be gained by talking. Your concerns are as unintelligible to me as mine to you. I've got better things to do than-"

"Better things?" Balendilнn cut in. "Such as what?"

"Private cogitation," Bislipur answered dourly. Without waiting for the high king to dismiss him, he got up and limped to the door.

"You're going to cogitate, are you?" Gundrabur called after him. "Well, here's something for you to consider: None of the fourthlings knows anything about your family."

The dwarf stopped short, but didn't turn. "What are you insinuating?"

"I'm not insinuating anything. I thought you should be warned."

The elderly monarch paused and Balendilнn took over. "You questioned Tungdil's lineage, and you're entitled to do so. But I'm sure you've heard the maxim about scorched dwarves not playing with fire…"

Bislipur strode toward him, his huge hands clenched into fists. "And you dare to accuse me of scheming like a kobold," he snarled. "What do you want?"

"Nothing-although, of course, we may find ourselves obliged to share our suspicion that your ancestry is no clearer than that of the high king's nominated successor," the counselor said gravely. "Incidentally, the document accusing the elves of treachery was a fake."

"You're lying!" Bislipur struck the marble table with a resounding thwack.

"You don't look like a child of Goпmdil. No other fourthling comes close to rivaling your stature. You've never been seen polishing diamonds or fashioning trinkets, but your reputation as a strong and talented fighter is known even to the orcs. I learned this from my inquiries," Balendilнn told him coldly. "Anyone with a less charitable mind would be inclined to think you're one of Lorimbur's dwarves."

"I have never heard such scandalous bile in all my life! By my beard, if you weren't a helpless cripple I'd fight you for insulting my honor with your lies!"

Balendilнn listened in satisfaction. He had no evidence for his allegations, but he seemed to have touched a nerve. "This is what we propose: First, that you cease your scheming until one or the other of the companies returns from the expedition; and second, that you make it known that the elves' involvement in the fall of the fifthling kingdom can't be proven, since the document was forged. For our part, we'll say nothing of the doubts surrounding your lineage."

"The outcome of the expedition must decide the succession," Gundrabur added. "Are we agreed?"

Jaw clenched, Bislipur nodded curtly.

"How about a beer to seal the truce?" proposed Balendilнn.

Bislipur turned away. "Drink all you like. I have matters to attend to." He smiled balefully. "You needn't worry: I'll keep my word and say nothing about the succession. As for the business about the elves, I assume you'll permit me to convene an assembly so I can explain to the delegates." He took leave of the high king without bowing. I'll show you yet, he thought grimly. You're both mistaken if you think I care about your truce. From now on, I'll be more discreet about my scheming.

An attendant appeared at the far end of the corridor. He was carrying a pitcher in one hand and three tankards in the other.

Perfect timing, thought Bislipur. The high king's refreshments. This is my chance. He waited until the dwarf was level with him, then stumbled and clutched at him, knocking him over. Like a shot, Bislipur reached out and caught the pitcher and two of the tankards, allowing the third to shatter on the marble flagstones.

"I'm really sorry," he said apologetically. "My lame leg is a curse on these slippery floors. Still, I managed to save everything except one of the tankards."

It took a moment for the attendant to recover. He got up shakily and looked at the debris. "Er, actually, the tankard was for you. I'll go and fetch a-"

"Don't trouble yourself," Bislipur interrupted. "I wasn't thirsty anyway. You may as well clear up the mess."

The attendant stooped and gathered the pieces into his apron. "All done," he said, straightening up again. "Now, if you pass me the other tankards and the beer…"

Bislipur hesitated and gave the pitcher a little shake, watching the layer of white foam slop back and forth without mingling with the beer. "Light on top and dark below," he said thoughtfully. He returned the vessels to the waiter. "Let's hope light will triumph over darkness in Girdlegard as well. You'd better hurry; the high king is thirsty."

Humming contentedly, he set off to find the fourthling delegation, while the attendant continued down the corridor toward the great hall. Underground Network, Girdlegard, Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle The next downward pitch gave the wagon a burst of speed that sent them careering through the tunnel. For the first time Tungdil was obliged to pull sharply on the brake. Any faster, and we'll come flying off the rail. There was a flurry of sparks and a terrible squealing and screeching.

"It's worse than Bavragor's singing," Boпndil objected, shouting above the noise. Obligingly, the mason burst into song, thereby adding to the din. Boпndil rolled his eyes despairingly.

The tunnel opened out and they found themselves inside a natural grotto, shooting along an enormous bridge hewn from stone. A river raged beneath them, drowning out the squealing of brakes. Tendrils of spray splashed against the sides of the wagon; then they were back in the tunnel and racing on.

"Did you see that?" marveled Tungdil.

"How could we miss it?" Goпmgar said unhappily. "We could have fallen in and died."

Tungdil was bubbling with enthusiasm. "What a spectacular bridge! Our forefathers must have been incredible masons."

If Bavragor had been in the driver's seat, he would have turned back to take another look. "I bet it was sculpted by secondlings," he said proudly. "We're the only folk who could build a bridge like that." He paused, waiting for someone to contradict him. "In that case, I propose a toast…" Suddenly the wagon started to judder and rattle. "Steady on, Tungdil! You're spilling my drink and we don't want Goпmgar spewing all over the place."

Tungdil was less inclined to joke. "There's gravel on the track. I'm worried we'll-"

They felt a terrible jolt and the wagon tilted dangerously to the right. Orange sparks shot to the ceiling.

Before the dwarves could react, the wagon lurched, turned over, bounced, turned over, and crashed to a halt. The tunnel ahead was blocked with fallen stone.

Tungdil was catapulted into the air and had to curl into a ball to preserve his limbs. He hit the ground with a thud, grazed his face on the rock, and whacked his helmet against something unyielding. I suppose it was bound to end this way. He sat up groggily, looking for the others.

The twins were already on their feet. Like Tungdil, they had scuffed and torn their breeches, but seemed otherwise unharmed.

Bavragor picked himself up with a groan, clutching his hip. Only Goпmgar was lying still beside the battered wagon. His breath was coming in faint gasps.

"Vraccas have mercy!" Tungdil made his way unsteadily toward the stricken dwarf. Much to everyone's relief, Boлndal and Boпndil took charge of the examination and declared the artisan to be intact.

"We'll have you up in no time," said Bavragor, administering a sip from his pouch. "I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I'm making."

The fragile fourthling wasn't much of a brandy drinker and came to with a splutter. Sitting up sharply, he yelped and clutched his right shoulder. He grimaced in pain. "It's broken, I know it is!" Boлndal bent down to take a closer look, but Goпmgar waved him away. "No! You'll only make it worse!"

"Keep acting like that and I'll make it worse," Boпndil growled menacingly.

"Come on, Goпmgar," Tungdil pleaded. "Boлndal and Boпndil are warriors. They know about injuries."

"Cuts and bruises, maybe, but not broken bones," said Goпmgar, shrinking away. Groaning loudly, he struggled to his feet, his right arm dangling limply. "I've broken my collarbone," he whined. "I can't move my arm."

"Here, have a sip of this to ease the pain," said Bavragor, tossing him the pouch. Goпmgar reached out and caught it with both hands. The others turned on him accusingly.

"You lava-livered liar!" barked Boпndil. "Stringing us along, were you?"

"I thought it was broken," Goпmgar protested hastily. "But I guess it was, er… dislocated! What a stroke of luck! I put it into joint when I moved. Did you hear it click?" He lifted his arm gingerly and feigned discomfort. "Hmm, it's still quite sore, but I should be able to put up with it." He returned the pouch to Bavragor. "You can keep your rotgut. It tastes like poison."

"Next time I'd advise you to try a bit harder," fumed Boпndil. "Hoodwink us again, and I'll wallop your backside until it's redder than a forge."

If only I hadn't chosen him in the first place, Tungdil thought ruefully. I didn't realize I was hanging a millstone around my neck. He could see now why the fourthling monarch had let him pick Goпmgar: The artisan was a pest. From now on I won't believe a single word he says.

Tungdil decided to focus on their immediate plight: The tunnel leading west to the firstlings was completely blocked by an avalanche of rock, and the ingots and gems for Keenfire were scattered across the floor. He beckoned to Bavragor. "When do you think the roof collapsed?"

The one-eyed mason inspected the rockfall, clambered all over it, and ran his fingers over the fractured stone. At length he returned. "Quite recently. There's a fair bit of dust about, but it must have come down with the ceiling. See how shiny these edges are?" He patted the warped chassis of the wagon. "We were lucky the wagon derailed itself when it did. If we'd hit this lot at full tilt…"

"Do you think it was sabotage?"

Bavragor rubbed the dust from his one good eye. "I can't say for sure, but it wouldn't surprise me." He stroked the wall lovingly. "It seems strange that the tunnel would collapse of its own accord after all these cycles."

"It was probably your singing that did it," Goпmgar said witheringly. "Your singing and the idiot's lunatic yells."

"You're the one who keeps whining. If I were the mountain, I'd cave in on myself rather than listen to your voice," the mason retorted.

"You're both wrong," said Boпndil, not wanting to be outdone. "The tunnel split its sides laughing because of Goпmgar's size."

The artisan opened his mouth to protest, but Tungdil ordered them to pile up the ingots and cover the treasure with rocks. "We're going up to the surface," he decided. "The next hatch isn't far from here. We'll leave the underground network, find a settlement, and buy a pony." He unfurled the map. "We can reenter the tunnel here. It's only eighty miles overland."

"That's all very well, but what are we going to do without a wagon?" asked Boлndal.

"If we don't find a wagon when we get to the tunnel, we'll buy a couple of extra ponies and ride the last two hundred miles." Tungdil rolled up the map and helped the others to stack the heavy ingots. He put the wood in his pack.

He sneaked a sideways glance at his four companions. All this squabbling is bad for the mission. I need to make them work together or I won't have a company to lead at all. Help me, Vraccas.

They bowed their heads and delivered a quick vote of thanks to their creator for saving their lives, then marched back through the tunnel. At last they came to a narrow flight of steps that zigzagged steeply to the surface.

Bavragor led the way, but Goпmgar refused to follow. "Where are we?" he demanded suspiciously.

"According to the map, we'll be entering Oremaira," said Tungdil. "It used to be ruled by Maira the Life-Preserver, but there's no telling what's happened since Nфd'onn took charge."

"Not another enchanted realm," moaned Boпndil. He laid his hands on the hafts of his axes. "Still, it might be a chance to slay a few runts. I just hope the magus doesn't plague us with any of his tricks."

The rest of the company nodded in mute agreement.

After a long and arduous ascent the five dwarves reached a door inscribed with runes. Weapons at the ready, they prepared themselves for the outside world.

The stairway led out into a cave some four paces high and seven paces wide. The noise of a waterfall roared in their ears. Water was streaming past the mouth of the cavern and tumbling down the mountainside, sending showers of spray that spattered their dusty mail, helms, and cloaks. Faint rays of sunshine sloped through the watery curtain, forming pools of light on the dank rock floor.

"Bloody typical," shouted Boпndil, straining to drown out the noise. "I'll wash when I'm good and ready, not because of some blasted waterfall."

His brother laughed. "And when might that be?"

They found a narrow path that led past the waterfall toward a rocky plateau. With a bit of luck, we'll be able to see for miles, thought Tungdil.

"Come on," he chivvied the others, "let's see where we are."

One by one they edged past the cascading water, treading carefully because of the slippery stone. None of them escaped without a good soaking and Goпmgar was nearly knocked off his feet.

It was around about noon when they emerged into the autumn sunshine. A rainbow was shimmering in the waterfall and the air smelled fresh and moist. They reached the edge of the plateau and peered down at the fifty-pace drop. The firs, pines, and spruces formed a dark green mass of bristling spears. Judging by the gathering clouds, they were about to be rained on.

To the west, a vast lake shimmered on the horizon, but in the north they could see a collection of houses ringed by a wall. The settlement lay on the other side of the forest, and beyond that were fields.

Tungdil was heartened by its proximity. It shouldn't take more than an orbit to get there. "Vraccas has been merciful," he told the others. "We'll have our pony in no time."

"A town full of long-uns," Goпmgar said glumly. "What if they don't like us?"

"Stop whining! We don't need the hillside caving in on us as well," snapped Boпndil. "I don't know why you're worried about long-uns. They might be tall, but I'm strong."

"Let me do the talking," said Tungdil, alarmed. "I've dealt with humans all my life."

The others saw no reason to argue, so they set off to find a way down from the plateau, taking a narrow path that led through the forest below.

There wasn't much light beneath the canopy of conifers. The mist, fine and wispy in the upper branches, thickened toward the ground, forming a dense milky layer around the dwarves' waists. Their eyes needed time to adjust to the sunlight and they were grateful for the gloom.

"Maira turned these woods into a sanctuary for unicorns," Tungdil told them. He felt a rush of excitement at seeing the forest that he had read so much about. "If we're lucky, we'll see one."

Boпndil looked at him blankly. "What's the good of that? We can't ride them, can we?"

"No, but they're beautiful creatures and they're rare. The дlfar hunted them almost to extinction."

"Quiet, isn't it?" said Bavragor. "You'd think no one else lived here. Maybe I should sing something. The unicorns might show themselves if they know we're here."

"Unicorns are timid animals. Singing-"

"Isn't caterwauling the word you're looking for?" Boлndal chimed in softly.

"Either way, making a noise won't help. Legend has it that they only approach young virgins," explained Tungdil.

"Young virgins, eh?" said Bavragor. "That's me out, then. I don't suppose any of you…?" He look slyly at Tungdil, who tried desperately not to blush.

Just then Boпndil stumbled into something and came to a halt in the fog.

"What do we have here?" he said in surprise, feeling his way through the mist with one of his axes. The blade met something soft and came up tinged with blood. "Here, give me that," he said, grabbing Goпmgar's shield and waving it back and forth until the bloodied body appeared through the mist.

"It's a horse," exclaimed Bavragor, staring at the white-coated mount. "At least…Hang on a minute, it's not a unicorn, is it?"

Tungdil knelt beside the dead animal. Its throat hung in shreds, chunks were missing from its flesh, and its beautiful horn had been wrenched from its skull.

"It was a unicorn," he said sadly, stroking the animal's white flank. Lot-Ionan's books described the unicorns as pure creatures, incapable of malice or evil, but their gentle nature had done nothing to save them from their fate. "Nфd'onn's hordes must have got here first."

"Do you think they're still around?" Boпndil asked hopefully. "They might be lurking in the bushes."

Goпmgar retreated hastily, only to fall over backward in the mist.

For a moment he was lost; then he reappeared, shrieking. His hands were stained with blood. "There's another one," he shouted, sheltering behind the others. "I need my shield! Give it back to me this instant!"

Boпndil strode off and fanned away the mist where Goпmgar had fallen. A light wind gusted through the milky swathes and helped to clear their view.

They stared in silence at the gruesome sight. Strewn across the ground were twelve dead unicorns and three times as many orcs. The fabled mounts had been brought down by arrows and slashed to pieces, but not before they had gored their attackers with their fearsome horns and hooves.

As the mist continued to clear, the outlines of a corral made of tree trunks loomed into view. The unicorns had been rounded up and slaughtered.

"They hunted them down," Bavragor said, aghast. "Aren't unicorns almost extinct?" he asked Tungdil.

"There used to be just over a dozen of them," Tungdil answered shakily. Even in death, the unicorns looked dignified, peaceful, and pure; they must have been exceptionally beautiful before their mauling by the vilest of beasts. "There can't be more than a couple of them left."

"Girdlegard is in a bad way," Boлndal said sadly. "It's time we got a move on and bought a pony. Nothing except Keenfire can stop Nфd'onn from taking innocent lives." Setting aside their sorrow, they scrambled over the stockade and set off through the forest.

How many more deaths? The sight of the murdered unicorns reminded Tungdil of how much he wished Lot-Ionan, Frala, and her daughters were still alive.

Boпndil was still brandishing his axes, hoping to encounter an orcish war band and work off his pent-up rage. Suddenly a strange look came over him and he smiled. His brother reached silently for his crow's beak.

"Smell that?" Ireheart whispered excitedly. "Oink, oink!"

The next moment, the rancid odor of fat-smeared armor reached Tungdil's nostrils too. It smelled doubly repugnant among the fresh moss, damp earth, and fragrant pines. "We can't stop now, Boпndil. We're going straight to the settlement."

"Not until I've split their ugly skulls," Boпndil growled defiantly. His fiery spirit had been trapped for so long that his inner furnace had overheated, driving him to open mutiny. "Come out, you runts! Come here and be slaughtered!" He threw back his head and let out a long, drawn-out grunt.

His call was answered by grunting and snarling amid the dense trees.

Goпmgar shrank back, disappearing behind his shield. "Shut up, you lunatic!" he hissed fearfully. "They're…"

The clunking and jangling of armor was getting closer all the time. Eyes closed, Ireheart listened in rapt concentration. "They've climbed the stockade," he told them. "There must be"-he listened intently-"oh, twenty of them at least!" He swung his axes impatiently. "They've found us. They're picking up speed!"

His eyes flew open and he was off, grunting and oinking as he ran. With an apologetic glance at the others, Boлndal chased after him. There was a short pause, then the sound of steel impacting steel. The woods echoed with the din.

It was all too much for Tungdil. If he's not careful, his inner furnace will melt his mind.

"Well," Bavragor asked quizzically, "aren't we going to help them?" He raised his war hammer.

"I should think not!" snapped Goпmgar. "It's their fault for starting it. Let them finish it themselves."

"No, we'll fight together," ruled Tungdil. "And after that, we're heading for the settlement as fast as we can."

They hurried off. Charging ahead, Bavragor hurled himself on the nearest orc with a bloodcurdling howl. The beasts were too busy surrounding the twins to spot the new arrivals and were taken off guard. Their response was predictably poor.

Moments later, two dozen orcish corpses littered the forest floor-no thanks to Goпmgar, who had avoided all contact with the enemy by hiding behind the mason's back.

Ireheart was responsible for most of the carnage, but Boлndal and Bavragor had fought with such ferocity that Tungdil had barely had a chance to land a blow.

"Serves them right, the stupid runts," laughed Boпndil, mopping his sweaty brow. "They won't be killing any more unicorns now!" He kicked out at one of the corpses. "That's for Tion," he told the dead orc. "Be sure to give it to him with my regards."

"Shush," Goпmgar hushed him. "Did you hear that? There's more!" He raised his shield and sneaked fearful glances over the top.

Boпndil nudged his brother boisterously. "Look, a two-legged shield!" He turned in the direction of their new adversaries and grinned. "This is my lucky orbit!" Listening attentively, he tried to calculate the number of approaching orcs. "One, two, three…" His voice became more measured and less exuberant. "… four, five." His carefree expression was gone. "One, two, three…" His eyes widened and he squared his shoulders defiantly. "This is a challenge worthy of a dwarf."

By now they could hear the clunking of armor.

"Exactly how many are there?" Tungdil demanded. He had a bad feeling about Boпndil's idea of a challenge.

"Five plus two," Ireheart said laconically. "Most of them are advancing head-on, but a smaller party is closing in from the right."

"Only seven?" Goпmgar breathed a sigh of relief and emerged a little from behind his shield.

"Five dozen infantry, plus two on horseback," Boлndal explained.

Tungdil grabbed Ireheart by the shoulders. "That's not a challenge; it's lunacy. We need to get ourselves safely behind those walls." Goпmgar didn't hang around for the discussion; he fled toward the town.

Ireheart refused to budge.

"This time you'll do as I say," Tungdil ordered him. "You've had your fun. You need to put our mission first."

The warrior fidgeted moodily. "All right, all right. Those runts don't know how lucky they are – but they'd better not catch up with us, or I'll show them what for!" He turned on Bavragor. "As for you, keep your confounded hammer away from my orcs. If I wanted your help, I'd ask for it."

"My help?" scoffed the mason. "I was helping your brother, not you. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than seeing you sliced down the middle by an orcish sword!"

"Not now," Tungdil scolded them, setting off at a jog.

They raced through the forest, crashing through branches, snapping twigs, and doing everything they could to throw off their pursuers. There was no sign of Goпmgar, who had disappeared ahead.

From the sound of the bugles, it was obvious that the orcs were fanning out to hunt them down, but the dwarves' smaller stature worked to their advantage, allowing them to slip through the undergrowth while the beasts blundered and stumbled behind them.

Soon they reached the fringes of the forest where the trees grew farther apart.

Panting and wheezing, Tungdil risked a glance over his shoulder and realized that the dark silhouettes of their pursuers looked bigger than before. It's going to be close, he thought.

Once out of the forest, they settled into a steady trot. Salvation lay half a mile away in the shape of the settlement's walls: Goпmgar was almost halfway there already.

What in the name of…Tungdil blinked, not trusting his eyes. The dark forest seemed to be keeping pace with them, advancing on either side. Then he heard the jangle of chain mail and the clatter of armor and realized the truth: We're in the middle of a raid.

A division of orcs left the shelter of the trees. There were a thousand of them or more, all advancing toward the settlement in a living line of weaponry. The line became a circle as orcs closed in from every direction. The town was surrounded-and so were the dwarves.

"Run!" Tungdil urged the others. "Run for your lives!" Enchanted Realm of Oremaira, Girdlegard, Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle Goпmgar reached the protective walls of the settlement and hammered on the locked gates. Faces peered down at him from the battlements. "Let me in!" he shrieked. "In the name of Vraccas the Eternal Smith, save me from these beasts!"

"You'd think he'd put in a good word for the rest of us," snorted Bavragor, as he and the others struggled to catch up.

A panel opened in the gates and Goпmgar pushed his way through. The door slammed behind him. It remained closed, even when his companions arrived.

"Hey! What about us?" Bavragor bellowed.

Not again, cursed Tungdil. Surely he won't abandon us out here?

The orcs were dangerously close. Arrows whined toward them and landed just short.

Raising his axes, Boпndil turned to face the oncoming hordes. "Looks like I'll get my battle after all," he said, bringing the polls of his axes together in a loud, ringing beat. "Oink, oink!"

"Open the door!" shouted Tungdil. "We're dwarves! Dwarves like the other fellow. We're on the same side!"

There was no response.

The first beasts were already upon them. Ireheart dealt with them swiftly and bloodily, but their agonized howls brought orcish reinforcements to the scene.

The twins got down to business, fighting so savagely that the floor was awash with green blood. None of the orcs came within striking distance of Bavragor and Tungdil, who were standing at the back. After a while, Ireheart took an arrow to the leg, but he stood his ground, laughing manically and sending orcs to their deaths.

At least a dozen of the beasts had been massacred before the door finally opened to let them in.

Ireheart, still intent on slaying his opponents, had to be dragged inside. Boлndal talked to him in a low, soothing voice until the crazed glimmer left his eyes.

Bavragor gave Tungdil a satisfied look. "What did I tell you? He's a nutcase! A dangerous, unpredictable lunatic."

Tungdil made no reply.

Their reception committee was made up of thirty heavily armed and armored men. The soldiers eyed them suspiciously, not sure what to make of the dwarves. Goпmgar was waiting by the door, his face a deathly shade of pale.

The captain stepped forward. "Who are you and what do you want?" he asked gruffly.

Tungdil introduced them by name. "We're dwarves on a mission to track and kill orcs," he explained. "It's our Vraccas-given duty. We heard Girdlegard was in terrible danger, and we're trying to help the humans as best we can."

"Killing orcs is our specialty, as you probably noticed," added Ireheart. "I wanted to stay and flay the beasts alive, but the others were worried about being outnumbered."

Boлndal knelt down to inspect the damage to his brother's leg. The arrow had passed through the flesh without hitting the bone, so he snapped off the arrowhead and extracted the shaft from the opposite side. His brother endured his ministrations uncomplainingly, wincing only slightly when an herbal dressing and bandage were applied.

The captain was impressed by his stoicism. "In that case, Mifurdania welcomes you," he said. "The present moment augers well for orc hunters, but less favorably for our town. You'll have plenty to do here. Report to me when you're ready to join our ranks."

He hurried away. Ten of his soldiers stayed behind to barricade the door, placing a steel panel across the gates and securing it with sturdy bolts. There was a clattering and banging as the orcs laid siege to the gates, but after a time they retreated, defeated by the steel.

"That was close," Bavragor said to one of the guards. "Why didn't you open up earlier?"

The man glanced at the pale-faced Goпmgar, who was cowering in a corner. "He said to bolt it behind him," he told them. "You'd better ask him."

With that, the soldier turned away and returned to his comrades who were reinforcing the steel cladding with all available means. The gates were required to withstand the impact of a battering ram, hence the need for supporting struts and bars.

"That's not what I s-said," stammered Goпmgar. "I told him to bolt it after you." Bavragor took a menacing step toward him, and the artisan sidled out of the gate tower, ready to flee through Mifurdania's streets.

"You've been nothing but trouble since we set out," the mason accused him, waving his mighty fists in Goпmgar's face. "I'll beat you to a pulp, you miserable liar."

"And I'll shave off your shimmering whiskers with my axes," added Boпndil.

That did it. Picturing himself bruised and beardless, Goпmgar fled, vanishing into the bustling town.

"Stop!" Tungdil shouted after him, but the artisan didn't look back. I should have known this would happen. Tungdil fixed Bavragor and Boпndil with a stony glare. "Congratulations," he said with heavy sarcasm. "How extraordinarily helpful of you both! We're on an urgent mission and thanks to your childish taunting, a vital member of our company has taken to his heels. Perhaps a nice game of hide-and-seek will take our minds off the fact that we're surrounded by orcs.'" This time Tungdil didn't bother to conceal his rage; he wanted them to know how furious he was.

Bavragor and Boпndil stared sheepishly at the floor.

"He nearly got us killed," ventured Bavragor.

"Says who?" snapped Tungdil. "You didn't let him finish. You had only the guard's word for what happened and you threatened to beat him up."

"Why else would he take off like that?" protested Boпndil. "If that's not the sign of a guilty conscience, I don't know what is!"

"Unbelievable: The one time you're in agreement, and it has to be this. Once we've tracked down Goпmgar, we'll get to the bottom of the matter-by discussing it calmly.''' He scanned the streets and spotted a tavern. "I want the two of you"-he nodded at Bavragor and Boпndil-"to take yourselves over there and wait at a table for Boлndal and me to return. Don't get into any arguments-and remember what I told you about dealing with humans."

Bavragor scratched his beard. "But where are you going?"

"To find Goпmgar, of course! Do you think he'd show himself in front of you? You scared the living daylights out of him." Tungdil hurried off, signaling to Boлndal to follow.

Bavragor and Boпndil did as instructed and found themselves a table in the tavern. They ordered a hot meal to fill their bellies and a tankard of beer to while away the time.

The other drinkers stared in open amazement at the two dwarves whose mail was covered in orcs' blood. Stone-faced, the pair returned their glances and focused grimly on their meal.

At last Boпndil emptied his tankard and took the first step toward ending their feud. "Listen, about what happened between me and-"

Bavragor held up a hand to silence him. "I don't want to hear it," he said, spurning the attempt at a truce. "I wish she'd never had anything to do with you. I told her so from the beginning, but she was too stubborn to listen. Don't expect me to forgive you, because I won't; I want you to be tortured by your conscience for the rest of your life." He poured the contents of his tankard down his gullet and burped. "After what you did, I don't even want to share a table with you."

He got up and strode to the door. "Tell Tungdil that I've gone to buy a pony."

Boпndil watched him go and bit his lip. The publican brought him another tankard of beer.

Meanwhile, Boлndal and Tungdil had split up and were scouring the streets of Mifurdania in search of Goпmgar. Tungdil had made straight for the battlements and was reeling from his first bird's-eye view of the town.

The sheer number of houses was incredible. Mifurdania consisted of nothing but roofs, the solid expanse of thatching and tiles interrupted only by marketplaces or temples. A dwarf on the run from a beating and an unwanted shave would find no shortage of places to hide.

Tungdil permitted himself a final sigh, then put his mind to finding Goпmgar. Before he made his way down into the jumble of houses and streets, he crossed over to the other side of the battlements and looked out at the forest. For the time being, the orcs had retreated and were setting up camp among the trees. There could be no further doubt that Mifurdania was under siege. We're trapped, he thought glumly.

Tungdil started down the street that the fourthling had taken. At first he called out Goпmgar's name, but after a while he fell silent, discouraged by the townspeople's stares.

It seemed to him that Goпmgar's disappearance was the predictable outcome of the quarreling among the group. Please, Vraccas, help me find him. He peered down every alleyway and searched every courtyard, but the missing fourthling was nowhere to be found.

At length he came to a marketplace where a man in bright garments was standing on a platform, ringing a bell and shouting at the top of his voice.

"Roll up, Mifurdanians, roll up for Theater Curiosum and learn the truth about Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty. Witness the grisly circumstances leading to his reincarnation as Nфd'onn the Doublefold and resulting in Girdlegard's demise," he called stirringly. "Marvel at our celebrated actor, the fabulous Rodario; be transported by Furgas, the best prop master in Girdlegard; allow yourselves to be spirited away to a world where the sun always shines!"

The man took a sip from his hip flask, seized his torch, and sent a tongue of fire crackling over the townspeople's heads.

"Mifurdanians, for one orbit only this rare entertainment can be viewed in our magnificent theater for the bargain price of three small coins. Don't delay a moment longer-we won't be performing tomorrow if the orcs have their way!" There was scattered laughter from the crowd as he mimed his own beheading. "What are you waiting for, Mifurdanians? Roll up and join the queue!" He motioned to the building behind him. "The players are ready and the spectacle awaits! Leave your worries at the door!"

The townspeople were already streaming through the double doors, glad of the chance to forget their woes.

Tungdil clambered onto the platform. "Excuse me," he asked the man, "have you seen a fellow who looks a bit like me?"

"Like you?" The man grinned. "You're not exactly the ordinary type." He made a show of rolling his eyes and squinting; then his features fell back into place. "Hang on a minute; he wouldn't be a bit scrawnier, would he? Scrawnier, but with a bushier beard?" Tungdil nodded. "In that case, he's in the Curiosum already." Tungdil leaped down from the platform and joined the back of the queue.

He paid for a seat in one of the boxes in order to get a better view. It seemed a strange time for Goпmgar to be cultivating a passion for the arts. Maybe he thinks Bavragor and Boпndil won't find him if he hides among the crowd.

The auditorium was shaped like a circle with a raised platform at the center, allowing the stage to be seen from every side.

Tungdil noticed that the building was made entirely of wood. The stalls and galleries groaned with the weight of the audience, but the theater bore the strain valiantly.

Perfume and perspiration battled for mastery of Tungdil's nose. He caught a whiff of petroleum from the lamps in the rafters, the lone source of light in the windowless room. The noise of the chattering spectators made him think of a gaggle of geese.

Tungdil found his seat in a narrow booth with flimsy walls. The hard wooden bench was so low that he had to perch on the backrest and place his feet on the cushions in order to see the stage. Come on, Goпmgar, where are you? he thought impatiently.

His brown eyes searched the audience without discovering the familiar features of the dwarf.

He must be somewhere, he thought. He could only hope that Goпmgar was seated on the other side of the theater, hidden from view by the crimson curtains that were draped around the stage. He waited patiently for the performance to begin.

Suddenly the lights went out and the voices dropped to a whisper. A tense silence descended on the room.

The first soft notes sounded from the orchestra, inviting the spectators to enter the actors' world. The musicians, seated in a separate gallery, continued the melody, while a winch squealed into action and the curtain went up on the stage. Tungdil found himself looking at a grassy plateau.

The scenery was so convincing that he almost had to pinch himself. He could practically feel the wind and smell the soil.

Overhead, daylight flooded into the theater as prop hands unveiled the windows in the roof. The glass panels were arranged in such a way that only the stage was illuminated, leaving the wings and the rest of the auditorium shrouded in gloom.

It didn't matter to Tungdil that the spectators were seated in the shadows: His eyes were accustomed to seeing in the dark. At last he could survey the whole auditorium and continue his hunt for the missing dwarf.

He barely noticed that the performance was underway, having more important things to think about than humans in fancy dress. He scanned the audience attentively, but could see no sign of Goпmgar.

I may as well keep looking outside. He stood up with the intention of leaving and was amazed to see a beige-clad figure on the stage. He froze.

Surely it can't be…Resting on a rock, delivering a monologue, was an elderly man with a white beard. Lot-Ionan! The fair-haired woman clad in armor, hand resting encouragingly on his shoulder, looked exactly like Andфkai. Tungdil listened to see whether the voices were as he remembered them.

In no time the purpose of his visit was forgotten and he was focused on the plot. The actors were so convincing that he felt as if the real Lot-Ionan and Andфkai were before him, even though he knew that the magus was dead and the mistress of Brandфkai had left Girdlegard forever.

"Come, Lot-Ionan," said Andфkai, "the time for forbearance is over." Entr'acte We must fight the Perished Land!"

Lot-Ionan sighed. "We can halt its advance, but that is all." He ran a hand over the lush grass. Barely half a mile away the meadows gave way to a bleak expanse of withered vegetation and gray earth: No living plant could survive within the Perished Land. "It is not in our power to defeat it."

Andфkai chose not to reply, turning instead to ascend the slope where the other magi were waiting. Lot-Ionan followed, leaning heavily on his staff. At last the six members of the council were assembled on the grassy knoll, looking down on their foes.

A few paces away, the promontory fell away in a sheer cliff. The wind gusted toward them, whipping at their clothing and carrying the foul cries of the invaders to their ears.

Held back by the magic girdle, the beasts were pushing, shoving, snarling, and jostling in their eagerness to breach the unseen barrier and invade the lands beyond.

Seen from above, their massed ranks were a rippling sea of darkness. Orcs toting all kinds of lethal weaponry mingled with hideous trolls, ogres, and other vile beasts, forming a ragged and disorganized force. All had left their homeland north of Girdlegard and swarmed over the Stone Gateway like a plague of locusts, laying waste to towns and villages in an orgy of destruction.

The rulers of men had sent an army to stop them, but the beasts had cut them down. Now only the magi could check the invasion and hold back the Perished Land.

"Let them come to us," said Andфkai. "Stay your magic until they're in reach of the village, then attack."

Maira looked at the buildings below. Nestled at the foot of the mountain, the little wooden huts seemed to be clinging to the hillside for support. "They must be terrified," she said softly, her voice full of compassion. "How desperate they must feel."

"Utterly desperate," agreed Turgur, whose splendid robes were more suited to a banquet than a war. "Which means, of course, they'll be doubly grateful when we come to their rescue."

Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty was too busy scanning the enemy ranks to respond. It was exciting to see so many new and unfamiliar creatures, and he was looking forward to learning more about their kind. I'll spare a few of them and question them later, but I won't tell the others. They'll only accuse me of being too lenient with the beasts.

Maira seemed to read his mind. "Every last beast must die, Nudin. We can't let the Perished Land encroach any farther."

Nudin nodded, already focused on the battle ahead. Everything hinged on the magi intervening at the critical time. Without his efforts, they would never have discovered the flaw in the girdle: He had used the malachite table to pin point the problem and identify a place where they could wait for the beasts and take them unawares.

Just then a loud crackling filled the air. The Perished Land was launching an attack on the girdle and at length it gave way. Snarling and shouting, Tion's minions charged toward the village, the ogres and trolls outpacing the orcs and the diminutive bцgnilim squawking in frustration at the rear.

At once Andфkai summoned a storm, and the sky darkened above the promontory, bright lightning flickering between the roiling clouds. The first volley of bolts shot toward the charging hordes.

That was the signal for the others to join in. Together they unleashed their magic against the forces of the Perished Land.

Orbs of fire soared through the air, wreaking havoc among the troops. The earth gave birth to strange creatures of rock and dust who hurled themselves on the orcs, while the ground opened up, swallowing ogres and trolls.

The assault on the village faltered, then failed. The first to retreat were the short-legged bцgnilim, who sought shelter in the Perished Land, little realizing that the destruction of the girdle had laid them open to attack. The magi's missiles scorched through the ranks of the fleeing creatures, setting them ablaze.

Every effort was made to destroy the beasts entirely, so that nothing could be salvaged by the Perished Land's dark power. Corpses were consumed by tongues of fire, cremated by lightning, turned to dust, or dashed to pieces against the ground.

Andфkai whipped up a fearsome gust that tore into the last dogged attackers, sweeping them back into the Perished Land. Meanwhile, the other magi were preparing to restore the girdle and make it stronger than before.

With a sweep of his robed arm, Lot-Ionan summoned the waiting apprentices, who hurried over with the malachite table. The six magi joined together for the complex ritual, channeling their energies and harnessing the magic to restore the barrier, thus securing Girdlegard against future attacks. At last it was safe for the villagers to leave their houses and thank their deliverers with waves and cheers.

As for the magi, their relief was tempered by the knowledge that the northern pestilence had spread. The Perished Land had extended south, claiming every inch of territory trodden by Tion's beasts and advancing as far as the gates of the village, where the new girdle was in place.

Turgur waved back at the devoted crowds. "We should let them thank us in person," he said. "The simple souls would be delighted to have us in their midst."

Nudin managed a weary smile. "Do the simple souls need Turgur or does Turgur need the simple souls? Be careful about casting yourself into their adoring arms, fair-faced magus. It's an awfully long way down." The others chuckled gently.

"I vote we retire to our tents, recover our strength, and enjoy a glass of wine," proposed Maira.

"Someone needs to tell the villagers to leave their homes without delay. Next time the Perished Land attacks, they might not be so lucky," said Nudin. "I'll take care of it while the rest of you relax."

Andфkai gave him a hard look, but said nothing.

A narrow path led down from the promontory to the settlement below. On nearing the village, Nudin was showered with gifts of bread, fruit, and wine as the villagers offered him simple tokens of gratitude.

Nudin acknowledged their generosity by stopping and accepting a sip of wine. He lost no time in warning them of the continued threat. "I'll send some men to help you with the move," he promised. "We'll find a safer place for you to make your homes."

He helped himself to an apple, then made his way back, skirting the edge of the battlefield without venturing into the Perished Land.

Here and there the ground was still smoldering, the energies unleashed by the magi vaporizing the soil and turning grains of sand to glass. The earth was pocked with craters and furrows and everywhere reeked of death.

The shallow sound of breathing brought him to a sudden halt. He listened, heart pounding, trying to locate the wounded beast. The death rattle sounded again and this time he was able to trace its source.

Gingerly, he stepped over the corpses and poked about in the jumble of body parts until his staff uncovered the injured beast. Lying beneath the vast torso of a troll was a bцgnil, unable to free itself from the colossal weight. It looked rather like a stunted ore.

"Don't be afraid," Nudin reassured it in the language of Tion's beasts. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The bцgnil stuck out its tongue and fumbled for its sword.

"I'll make a deal with you," said the magus. "I'll get you out of your predicament, but only if you answer my questions. I want to know about your species: where you come from, what kind of society you live in, and how you employ your time when you're not invading Girdlegard." He produced a roll of parchment and an inkpot from his satchel. "Remember: I have the power to ensure that you speak nothing but the truth." The creature stared back at him with soulless eyes and blinked in confusion. It didn't know what to make of the crazy stranger who was proposing something more complicated than rescue or death. It still hadn't responded when a long black arrow bored through its throat and pinned it to the troll.

"Andфkai?" Nudin wheeled round and blanched. Even a confrontation with the tempestuous maga would be preferable to this. He watched in horror as four дlfar slipped through the magic girdle, effortlessly breaching the unseen barrier. The lead дlf set another arrow to his string and leveled the bow at Nudin.

Just you try it! Nudin's hastily conjured charm stopped the quivering arrow in midflight and sent it speeding back toward the archer. A look of panic crossed the creature's dark eyes in the instant before he died.

Nudin raised his left hand and killed two of the дlfar with searing bolts of light. He restricted himself to stunning the fourth дlf with the intention of interrogating him.

Stooping down, he examined their faces. Their elegant features reminded him of their cousins, the elves of Вlandur and the Golden Plains, whom Turgur admired for their flawless beauty. His gaze settled on the amulets fastened around their necks.

Protective charms, he muttered in astonishment, taking one of the crystals in his hands. The mystery of how the дlfar had crossed the girdle was solved. The Perished Land has found a way of sending its most lethal emissaries through the magic barrier. I must tell the council of this.

He disarmed the stunned дlf with a curse, then roused him from his faint. The creature's eyes opened, revealing fathomless pits. In the bright sunlight, Nudin could see that he possessed neither pupils nor irises. The magus held up the amulet. "Who gave you this?"

The дlf returned his stare.

Nudin invoked a truth spell to coax out his secrets, but the creature spoke in an unintelligible tongue. Like elvish, the language was melodious and elegant, but with a sinister, darker tone.

The learned magus was none the wiser. He stood up, took a few steps back, and incinerated the creature in a towering blaze. Its three companions and the bцgnil met a similar fate.

"It won't be long before the Perished Land renews its attack," he muttered fretfully.

Still, he thought to himself, there's no need to spoil the celebrations. The news of the amulets can wait until breakfast. After exhorting the sentries to be doubly vigilant, he retired to his tent.

That night Nudin was visited by the strangest of dreams.

Fog settled around his tent, pushing through the canvas and swirling around his bed. Tiny streaks of black, silver, and red rippled through the gloomy mist as it snaked through the bedposts, encircled the mattress, and contracted warily around the sleeping man. At last it was so close that Nudin appeared to be hovering on the glimmering cloud.

A wisp of vapor, long and spindly as a finger, slid toward him and touched his hand. The magus awoke at the soft, velvety touch.

"Don't be afraid," a voice whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Nudin sat up slowly and examined the flickering mist. "Afraid? My name is Nudin the Knowledge-Lusty, not Nudin the Timorous," he informed it calmly. "Who are you?"

"The soul of the Perished Land," came the whispered reply. "It is time for you to make your choice."

"What choice? The Perished Land kills its enemies. Is that what you mean by choice?"

The mist rose a few inches and wrapped itself around Nudin's feet, stealing slowly along his legs. It felt warm and soft. "You can choose to rescue Girdlegard-or join the other magi in hastening its doom. That is your choice."

"The magi are committed to rescuing Girdlegard. You are its doom," the magus said firmly.

"My power can protect these lands and the races that inhabit them-men, elves, and dwarves," the mist replied. "I want to secure Girdlegard against the coming threat, but your magic won't let me." The mist arranged itself into a human face, opening and closing its mouth in time with the voice. "The tide of evil will soon be upon us, streaming through the Stone Gateway or surging over the western ranges to swamp Girdlegard and wash me away. The belt of mountains will stay standing, but everything within them will be destroyed."

"Why should I believe you? What kind of soul nourishes itself on the souls of the dead?"

"The greatest of souls," the voice purred. "I do not feed on them; I gather them to me for their protection. When the threat has passed, I shall release them to their gods. For now, while Girdlegard is in danger, I need their power."

"Be gone," Nudin commanded. "I have heard enough of your lies."

The mist began to dissolve away. "Listen to my proposal," it whispered. "I need your body. Lend it to me for a while and acquire my knowledge while I borrow your form. You will learn things beyond your wildest dreams, things whose existence exceeds the power of your imagination. I know charms devised by illustrious magi in faraway lands; I know nature, life, and the stars; I know mankind in ways that you will never glean from books. With my knowledge, you will be the wisest, most powerful magus in the history of Girdlegard and your name will be Nudin the All-Knowing." The particles melted into nothingness. "The All-Knowing…"

The All-Knowing… Nudin woke with a start, sitting upright in bed and glancing frantically round the tent. Unable to discover anything unusual, he told himself off for being foolish and settled back to sleep.

At breakfast the next morning he sat in silence, his mind on other matters, while his colleagues discussed their projects and plans.

He said nothing of his peculiar dream and omitted to mention his encounter with the дlfar, keeping the news of the amulets to himself.

The messenger arrived just as Nudin was preparing for bed. He read the letter and froze.

Lesinteпl, the elven kingdom of the north, was in the hands of the дlfar. They had breached the magic girdle and overwhelmed the unsuspecting elves.

According to the letter, the first settlements had been taken in a matter of orbits. The дlfar had overrun the kingdom before the elves had had time to raise a proper army, and the outcome of the battle had never been in doubt.

Now the northern pestilence was creeping through the exalted lands of Lesinteпl, destroying the blossoming beauty that centuries of nurture had elevated to its highest form.

Nudin hurled the roll of parchment to the floor and clambered into bed. In less than forty-eight hours, the council would meet to erect a girdle around the fallen kingdom. Already the дlfar were using their newly conquered land to send war bands into Gauragar, Idoslane, and Urgon to extend the boundaries of the Perished Land.

Nudin felt a stab of conscience. Unlike the other magi, he had a good idea of how the дlfar had breached the girdle. He tried telling himself that nothing could have stopped them, even if the council had known.

That's not quite true, his conscience contradicted him. If you'd shown them the amulet, they would have studied the inscription and erected a barrier impervious to its power. By saying nothing, you allowed the дlfar to advance.

"But I…"

Lesinteпl fell because of you. You broke faith with the council and betrayed the elves.

Pulling the covers over his head, Nudin tried to silence his troublesome conscience by falling asleep.

But sleep brought no delivery. That night the soul of the Perished Land cajoled its way into his dreams and the whispering mist paid another visit to his bed.

"Have you made up your mind? Has Nudin the All-Knowing resolved to rescue Girdlegard?"

"You breached the barrier and took Lesinteпl. How did you do it?"

"Nudin the All-Knowing wouldn't need to ask." The mist slipped beneath the covers, where it soon became pleasantly warm. "The first elven kingdom is mine. Вlandur will be next, and the magi can do nothing to stop me. My protective power will extend deep into the south of Girdlegard, but I'm running out of time."

"Protective power? You're seizing the lands by force!"

"Only for a heartbeat in the continuum of time. Remember, Nudin, no one relinquishes freedom gladly. Rulers and races are like children and I am their mother. I protect them from harm." The swirling mist became a human face. "Imagine a small boy whose mother won't let him play with a dog. She picks him up because she knows that the dog is dangerous, but he resents her intervention. He kicks, screams, and struggles against her, not realizing that the dog would bite him as soon as it had the chance." The voice paused for a moment. "The mother chases the dog away, then sets her son down and lets him play as he pleases. The boy is too young to understand, but in time he'll see that she did the right thing. His resentment will turn to gratitude because she helped him in spite of his protests."

The analogy made perfect sense. Nudin's conscience warned him against the silver-tongued whisperer, but he shut out his inner voice. "You've explained it to me, so why can't you explain it to the rulers of the other realms and kingdoms? And why ally yourself with beasts? Orcs and дlfar are feared by men and loathed by elves and dwarves: Why choose them to carry out your will?"

The mist swathed the bed, covering every inch of his body and shrouding his eyes. It felt like the caress of a thousand soothing hands. "Girdlegard is in danger. I didn't have time to choose my allies; I had to take what I could find. My creatures can be counted on to bring me rapid victories. It's the best way of protecting Girdlegard from the threat."

"And this threat, have you fought it before?" Nudin asked sleepily. He was struggling to focus.

"More times than I can remember, but the enemy is powerful, swift, and wily. Victory has always eluded me. We need time to prepare ourselves properly if we are to win." The caressing intensified, the whispers multiplying and echoing through Nudin's mind. "I need your body, Nudin. Lend me your form and I will give you my knowledge, a knowledge greater than any possessed by mortal man. Remember, when our enemy has been vanquished, your body will be your own. You will always have the power to drive me out. You must make your decision, Nudin."

"What if your knowledge isn't as spectacular as you claim?"

"Watch. I will show you." The mist contracted around his temples, pulsing furiously with streaks of black, silver, and red.

The soul of the Perished Land gave Nudin's dreaming consciousness a glimpse of the marvels that would soon be his.

Strange runes danced before the awestruck magus and unintelligible languages filled his ears. Images flashed through his mind-snatches of spells and curses, strange and formidable landscapes in the Outer Lands, and faraway cities and palaces more splendid than anything known to men, elves, or dwarves.

He drank in the wonderful sights and sounds, thirsted for more, and was rewarded. Plunged into an endless stream of images, he bathed in knowledge and imbibed its wisdom until the vision was brought to a halt.

"Don't stop," Nudin said greedily. "Show me more."

"Will you lend me your body?"

"Let me-"

Runes glimmered in the air while distant voices reverberated in unknown tongues. The sun dimmed over a breathtakingly beautiful meadow and the landscape dissolved away. Stacks of books swayed dangerously and learned volumes of spells and incantations moldered, leaves perishing and turning to dust.

"Will Nudin the All-Knowing save Girdlegard?" the mist whispered. "Will he help a mother protect her child?" The magus's defenses crumbled.

"I will help you," he whispered hoarsely, peering into the mist. By letting the spirit in, he would be able to control it, or so he told himself. If I find out it's lying about the threat to Girdlegard, I'll force it to give back our lands and send its servants over the Northern Pass. Whatever happens, I'll get the promised knowledge and Girdlegard will win. "What must I do?"

The mist glimmered excitedly. "Nothing. Lie still and don't stop me. Open your mouth, empty your mind, and think of nothing. You'll know when I'm in."

Nudin lay back and did as instructed.

Three tendrils of mist snaked toward him and slipped between his lips. It felt as if they were reconnoitering the territory in preparation for an invasion.

What happened next took Nudin by surprise. Suddenly, the mist contracted and forced itself inside his mouth. The pressure was so great that his jaws seemed to break apart and his ears were filled with the sound of cracking. His hands dug into his bedclothes, ripping the sheets.

Once inside him, the mist pushed onward with no regard for his body. It expanded along his gullet, cutting off his airway and expelling the breath from his lungs. His veins throbbed frantically, his blood racing at four times its usual speed.

Red fluid spurted from his nose and eyes and he realized with horror that he was losing blood from every pore. His lifeblood was seeping from his body, streaming over his skin and staining his sheets.

He sat up, gurgling unintelligibly, and tried to reach the door. The floor rushed toward him.

He had no control over his legs or any other part of his body; even his mind refused to obey him. Babbling, laughing, and choking, he screamed in pain and terror, crawling and writhing through his chamber and leaving a glistening crimson trail.

He could feel the mist pushing through every vessel in his body, pounding his flesh, foraging in his guts, torturing his manhood, and never pausing for a moment on its agonizing path.

Then at once the suffering was over.

Nudin lay on the cold marble floor, struggling to regain his breath. Slowly, his dazed senses cleared, and his thoughts and perceptions became extraordinarily acute.

He clambered to his feet. Blood was caked to his skin and the smell of excrement clung to his robes. Repelled by the filth, he hurried along the corridors and stood beneath a fountain to wash away the dirt. The cold water revived his spirits, leaving him refreshed and alert.

And now for a test… He tried to recall the spells he had heard. The words and gestures returned to him effortlessly, but more remarkably, he knew their purpose and the correct inflection of every syllable: It was all imprinted on his mind.

Strictly speaking, it wasn't his mind that was furnishing the information, but he brushed that thought aside.

With a rush of exhilaration he thought of all the wonders he had seen, and at once they returned to him, only this time he could hear, taste, and smell them. The beautiful meadow had its own distinctive aroma, which he recognized instantly. He remembered the melodies sung by the birds, and he knew that Pajula, for that was the name of the spot, was located beyond the mountains of his homeland in a place that no one in Girdlegard had heard of, let alone mapped.

Chuckling delightedly, he let the water splash over his skin.

Well, are you satisfied? asked a voice inside his head. Have I kept my side of the bargain?

"Yes," he said aloud, then corrected himself. Yes, your knowledge is everything you promised it would be. He decided on a further test. I want you to leave.

At once he felt an unpleasant burning sensation, then a sudden chill and a feeling of abject loneliness and abandonment. The mist was preparing to depart. Nudin shuddered at the thought of experiencing such agony a second time.

Stop! he commanded. You can stay. I wanted to be sure I could trust you to go.

I entrusted you with my knowledge and memory; you have to trust me. We two are one.

"We two are one," the magus murmured. He clambered out of the fountain to look for a mirror. There was nothing peculiar about his reflection: He looked the same as before, although the shirt he took from his wardrobe seemed tighter than usual and the sleeves were a little too short.

The soul of the Perished Land shared his satisfaction. I chose well, it whispered. You needn't feel ashamed. You're not a traitor.

So you can read my thoughts? Nudin felt embarrassed that his doubts had been detected.

We are one.

Then I should be able to read yours.

Patience! Such things take practice, and practice you shall have. For now our pact must remain a secret. Buy me some time and say nothing to the other magi until I am ready to be a mother to these lands. Begin your preparations, but work alone and be sure not to arouse their suspicions. They will accuse you of treachery, Nudin the All-Knowing, but you're not a traitor; you're my friend-my one and only loyal friend. The whisper faded and the magus was alone.

He strolled to the window and looked out. Sunrise was only a few hours away, but Porista was still slumbering. He turned his back to it and scanned the rows of books that lined his room.

All these folios, encyclopedias, and grimoires contained only a fraction of the knowledge that was stored in his head. It gave him a feeling of contentment, infinite wisdom, and completeness. No sooner had a thought occurred to him than he knew everything there was to know on the matter. He could sate his lust for knowledge without the help of study, travel, experiments, or books.

A moment later he felt bored: Everything he yearned for was already accomplished. Saving Girdlegard is the last remaining challenge and nothing and no one can take it from me.

Nudin drew up a plan of action and devoted himself to his task. It seemed wrong to leave the responsibility of saving Girdlegard to his knowledgeable friend. He could picture the terrible threat bearing down on his homeland, ready to sweep over the high mountains and take Girdlegard by storm, and he knew that it was up to him to stop it.

There was no doubt that his new knowledge was useful, but incantations and formulae weren't enough. In order to apply the magic, he needed power-more power.

He had already devised a way of acquiring it, channeling it, and making it his own. When the magi next gathered in Porista to renew the girdle, he would harness their magic energies and present his colleagues with a choice: Join him-or get out of his way.

Every waking moment was devoted to his plan. He ensconced himself in his laboratory and selected a few of his most loyal famuli to assist him; when the time was right, they would help him with whatever he had to do.

Дlfar emissaries took to visiting him in secret, bringing intelligence gathered in the mountains of Urgon, the plains of Gauragar, and the highlands of Idoslane. His scouts informed him that the orcs in Tilogorn's kingdom were prepared to fight on his behalf.

Nudin's greatest fear was betrayal. Resistance was not to be tolerated: Anyone who challenged him was a threat to Girdlegard and a traitor to the cause. Dissenters were crushed.

Sometimes, in rare moments of doubt, he wondered whether he was in charge of his actions or whether the spirit inside him was governing his will.

His misgivings soon disappeared, vanishing as mysteriously and abruptly as they had come. Every now and then his friend would speak to him and offer his advice, rounding out his plan with helpful suggestions and ideas.

We are one, he thought gratefully. Together we will save the race of men.

And yet your cause has been betrayed.

How so?

One of your apprentices, Heltor, talked to a man by the name of Gorйn, a former famulus of Lot-Ionan's. Our friends heard them talking at the doors of the palace when the council was in session. He thinks he knows our secret and how we can be sundered.

Nudin was aghast. Sundered? That's impossible. I can't allow it!

Listen to me, Nфd'onn. Gorйn won't be working alone. Lot-Ionan gave him books that tell of our pact. They're jealous of your knowledge and power. Don't let them tear us apart. We are one!

Nudin decided to have Gorйn killed. The дlfar will deal with him. They'll bring back the books and have the famulus punished.

If you kill Gorйn, the others will be suspicious. You'll have to kill them all.

No, I'll reason with them. They're bound to understand if I explain it to them, as you explained it to me. Just think what we could achieve with the power of six magi. We'll be able to advance on different fronts and our friends will be grateful for the speedy victory.

The spirit doubted the wisdom of the scheme but said nothing to oppose it, fearing that a disagreement might alienate the magus. I'm afraid you'll be disappointed, my one and only friend.

"I hope not," Nudin said softly. He turned his attention to a book whose contents he knew by heart: There was nothing in his library that wasn't present inside his head.

A drop of blood fell onto the open page, obscuring four characters so that the word became unreadable. Blood seeped from his nose and his eyes, slowly at first, then faster and faster until it became a constant stream.

Nфd'onn knew what lay in store. He rose quickly and hurried to his bed. His bones creaked, his head throbbed, his brain hissed, and his skin stretched painfully as he suddenly gained another few inches in height.

He screamed, cried, bit his lips until they bled, and thrashed about so violently that he fell out of bed and blacked out.

When he woke, the suffering was a distant memory and all he felt was the habitual desire to eat. His regular feasts resulted in enormous weight gain, obliging his tailors to replace his wardrobe every week.

He scrubbed the blood from his face and his hands. How much longer until it stops hurting?

Not long, the voice whispered. All this knowledge is too much for a human body. It needs more room. You won't come to any harm, I promise. We are one.

Nudin made his way hungrily to the dining hall and had his servants set the long trestle table. He ate enough to feed a whole family, but his appetite wasn't sated and the cook had to bring out a pair of sizzling roast chickens before he declared himself full. As he rose from the table he noticed that his sleeves were too short.

A female дlf entered the room, holding a letter in her hand…