The Dwarves

VIII

Giselbert's Folk, Fiftbling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle For three whole orbits the forge echoed with continual pounding and thudding against the doors and the beasts' persistence began to pay off. The solid iron panels were already bulging in the middle, and the metal showed signs of cracking under the force of the brutal assault.

Tungdil had requisitioned one of the anvils and was frantically forging bars to add to the barricade, but it was obvious that the beasts would eventually force their way in.

Balyndis had almost finished the blade and was about to begin the fine-tuning. The task of engraving the metal was entrusted to Giselbert, who marked the warm steel with runes and patterns for the inlay. Gandogar had cut the diamonds to size and left them on his makeshift workbench. Each gem had been sharpened to a deadly point that would slit the magus open. The spurs, carved by Bavragor from black granite, were as long as a human index finger and were waiting to be attached.

Tungdil, under directions from Narmora, sculpted the grip using a hacksaw, a file, and a grindstone to shape the metallike sigurdaisy wood to fit her hand. He left the sanding to her and went back to reinforcing the doors. On the fourth orbit the heated blade was edged with diamonds and the spurs were put in place.

Balyndis worked with utmost concentration. The metal was unforgiving, and every strike of the hammer was vital: The slightest mistake could cost her the blade, and there wasn't enough time to reforge it. The constant gonglike pounding on the doors was a distraction that they could all have done without.

Giselbert was almost ready to combine the precious metals and create a single alloy, a process made possible by the incredible heat of the dragon fire. The others looked on in fascination as he heated the metals in individual pans: rich gold, shimmering silver, orange vraccasium, white palandium, and a coin-sized lump of black tionium.

One by one he emptied the molten contents into a bell- shaped vessel lined with glass. When it came to pouring the tionium, the black liquid hissed with Tion-like malice, angry at being united with an element as pure as palandium.

Another loud boom shook the hall, followed immediately by a cracking and snapping of metal. A battering ram smashed into the reinforced door, opening a gap half a pace across. In no time a bцgnil had squeezed through and was staring wide-eyed at his surroundings. He squealed in excitement.

"Come here, you ugly piglet!" bellowed Ireheart, whooping exuberantly as he charged. At last he could allow his fury to run riot. "So you think you're brave, do you? Let's see if my axes change your mind!"

"Narmora, you stay here," ordered Tungdil. "Everyone else, after him!" Balyndis, Giselbert, Andфkai, and Djerun rushed to help Boпndil, who shouted at them to go away.

The pounding on the doors became faster and more violent. With victory in sight, the beasts redoubled their efforts. At last the opening was wide enough for an orc to storm through. Arrows ripped through the gap, but inflicted no damage, save the occasional scratch.

Tungdil knew that the breach could not be allowed to open further if he and the others were to stem the attack. We'll drive them back with dragon fire. He ran to the furnace, heaped on some coals, and pumped the bellows until the fire roared with bright white flames.

Hurriedly he shoveled a few loads onto a wheeled anvil and rolled it to the doors. Without wasting a second he filled his spade and hurled its contents over the heads and shoulders of the invaders.

Red-hot coals showered over the beasts, covering them in sparks and coal dust that singed their faces, danced down their collars, and penetrated their chain mail. Loud screams rent the air, increasing in volume when the second fiery hail descended. There was an overwhelming stench of charred flesh, smoldering hair, and scorched leather. The orcs raised their shields above their heads in panic, allowing Tungdil and his companions to plunge their axes and hammers into their unprotected chests.

Furgas kept them supplied with hot coals until the enemy retreated. The orcs went back to bombarding the forge with arrows.

"Sooner or later they're going to force their way in," predicted Andфkai. "They'll form a shield wall and we won't be able to stop them. It's time we left."

They made a concerted effort to close the doors, but the beasts had been cunning enough to jam them open with wedges.

She's right; we need to get out of here as soon as we can. Tungdil returned to the furnace. "How much longer until the inlay is ready?" he asked Giselbert.

"The tionium and the palandium need to simmer for half an orbit. Once they've melded, the others will follow. After that I'll be able to pour the alloy into the grooves, but then there's the cooling time. Will the doors hold?"

"They'll have to," growled Tungdil, nodding resolutely. "We'll see to it that they do."

From then on, Nфd'onn's servants gave them no respite. The assault on the doors was unrelenting and the beasts proceeded as the maga had predicted: Shields raised above their heads, they advanced in formation, protected from the glowing coals.

Two of the fifthlings were beheaded, never to rise again. Their loss was a serious blow to the defenders, and already the next battering ram was pounding against the doors. The destructive will of the Perished Land was bent on assailing the forge.

It is time." The long and wearying wait ended as Giselbert lifted the vessel containing the mountain's precious metals and poured them into the indented runes and symbols. The alloy's color was strangely indeterminate: somewhere between orange and yellow with a peculiar shimmer and swirling black pinpoints. It streamed through the grooves with the assurance of a river that was familiar with its course, filling the channels without a drop to spare.

"Done," announced Giselbert, heaving a sigh of relief. "In another half an orbit, when the inlay has cooled, we can set the blade on the haft and-"

A battering ram exploded through the ravaged metal doors. The protruding end of the pillar withdrew quickly, only to reappear just above the existing hole. The beasts had decided to fashion their own entrance.

Tungdil took a deep breath. His arms were about to drop off, he had never felt hungrier in his life, and he was tired enough to sleep for an orbit. Instead he raised his ax. "We need to keep them at bay until the inlay has cooled."

He paid no attention to the pain in his back and shoulders, determined not to flag. He was leader of the company, after all, and Gandogar deferred to him without a murmur, never questioning his authority. His selfless cooperation made Tungdil respect him all the more.

Already the invaders were squeezing through the breach. In a flash, Ireheart had thrown himself on the beasts, his enthusiasm for combat apparently undiminished. He hacked at the orcs so savagely that his axes were barely visible amid the scraps of flying armor and bloodied flesh.

But even Ireheart's fury could do nothing to stem the attack. As time wore on, the battle swung steadily in favor of the beasts. With a third of the doorway smashed open, it was only thanks to Djerun and the indomitable fifthlings that the company hadn't been defeated already. Time was against them.

Giselbert fought his way to Tungdil's side. "You should go. The alloy has cooled enough for you to take Keenfire." He raised his ax. "We'll hold the beasts back until you're safely inside the flue; then we'll shut the vents and destroy the mechanism. Without it, they won't be able to get into the chimney. You'll be miles away by the time they force their way inside."

Tungdil nodded gratefully and signaled for his company to retreat.

The finished blade was lying on the central anvil, shimmering enigmatically in the bright light of Dragon Fire. The diamonds twinkled, the inlay glistened, and the runes shone with the fierce glow of the furnace, brought to life by the roaring flames.

"To think that Vraccas gave us the means to accomplish this." Tungdil gazed in awe at the result of their joint labor. "Balyndis," he said solemnly, "attach the blade." She picked up the grip and inserted it into the long metal shaft of the blade. Her face paled.

"Vraccas forfend, it doesn't fit," she said hoarsely. "See how loose it is? The blade will fly off as soon as Narmora swings the ax. But how could we have made the grip too narrow? I'm sure it-"

One by one the runes lit up. The shaft glowed, then the wood seemed to swell. Crackling and straining, it expanded to fill the gap, until the grip and the shaft were one.

Tungdil took it as a sign that Vraccas was happy with their work. He ran his fingers over the blade, cherishing the feel of the metal. Deep down, he wished he could wield the ax himself, and he held on to it for a moment before handing it to Narmora.

Giselbert stepped forward. "May I?" he asked tremulously.

"Of course. If it weren't for you and the others, it would never have been forged."

The ancient king grasped the ax, gazing at it reverently before trying a few swings. He entrusted it ceremoniously to the half дlf.

"So this is it," he said, his voice choked with emotion. "The agony of the undead, all those cycles of waiting, of fighting… There was a reason for it all." He shook hands with each of the company in turn, lingering when he came to Tungdil. "Don't abandon my kingdom to the creatures of Tion. Free Girdlegard and drive out the pestilence, then come back and rebuild my kingdom for the dwarves. Will you promise me that, Tungdil Goldhand?" He fixed him with a piercing stare.

Tungdil could do nothing but nod, rendered speechless by the zeal in the fifthling's eyes.

Giselbert unfastened his diamond-studded weapons belt and laid it around Tungdil's waist. "Wear this in memory of my folk and let it be known that we defended our kingdom to the last, in death as well as life."

Tungdil swallowed. "Your gift is too generous."

"From what I have come to know of you, it is no less than you deserve." They embraced as friends; then it was time for the company to leave.

"Let's get going," said Tungdil, looking up at the narrow staircase leading into the gloomy chimney. He glanced back at the doors, where the last of the fifthlings were locked in bitter combat with the orcs.

"But what will become of you?" Boпndil asked the fifthling king.

Giselbert stood tall, eyes fixed on the doors. "My warriors will hold them back while you get yourselves out of here. We'll fight until they chop off our heads and put an end to our undead existence," he said proudly. "Now go! The steps are shallower in the upper reaches of the chimney. Djerun will have to take care."

It was decided that Narmora, as the nimblest among them, should lead the way and test the stairs. The humans and dwarves lined up behind her, with the giant at the rear. Bavragor stayed by the furnace, a new war hammer in his hand.

"Aren't you coming with us?" Tungdil asked cautiously.

He shook his head. "I said from the beginning that I'd never go home. I set out to die a glorious death and so I shall. This is what I wanted." A profound calm had descended on him, allowing his mind, which had been battling against his undead state, to find peace. He turned his one eye toward Tungdil. "Thank you for bringing me here and for letting me be part of this."

"I gave you my word."

"You could have gone back on it. No one would have blamed you. They warned you about the merry minstrel, but you honored your promise." He took a step forward and looked him in the eye. "I shall die in the knowledge that my hands carved the most important bit of masonry in the history of the dwarves. No mason will trump it-not unless Girdlegard needs another Keenfire, which I sincerely hope it never will."

"Is there anything I can say to persuade you?"

The mason chuckled, and something about his laughter reminded Tungdil of the cheerful ballad singer and joker of old. "Persuade me? Tungdil, I'm a dwarf! I made my decision orbits ago." He nodded toward the door. "They need my help and I shall fight alongside them. There could be no greater honor than to die side by side with the founding dwarves of the fifthling kingdom, the most ancient and venerable of our kin." His calloused fingers gripped Tungdil's hand. "You're a good dwarf and that's what matters, not your lineage. Be sure to remember me-and old Shimmerbeard as well."

They embraced, and Tungdil let the tears course down his cheeks. Another friend was being taken from him, and he wasn't afraid to show his grief.

"As if I could ever forget you, Bavragor Hammerfist! I shall remember you always." He turned to look at Goпmgar's grave. "I'll never forget either of you."

Smiling, Bavragor hurried to join the fifthlings in the battle against the hordes. After a couple of paces he stopped and looked across at Boпndil. "Tell him that I forgive him for what he did," he said softly.

Tungdil stared at him in amazement. "I can't tell him that," he protested. "He'd think I was making it up to make him feel better about himself."

"Then tell him I knew he loved my sister as much as I did, but I couldn't stand losing her. I was filled with hatred, and I couldn't hate death for taking her, so I hated the one who swung the blade. Hatred helped to silence the pain and the sorrow, and it was easier to live that way. Deep down I knew he loved her and he never meant to kill her." He chuckled gently. "Death has made me wiser, Tungdil. May Vraccas protect Boпndil and the others, but especially you."

He turned and, belting out a rousing melody, hurled himself into the unequal battle. His hammer smashed into an orcish knee, then crushed a beast's skull, and still he kept singing.

Tungdil swallowed and hurried after his companions, who were rushing up the steps. Narmora had already reached the entrance to the flue.

As they ascended, Bavragor's voice accompanied them through the darkness until Giselbert set the machinery in motion to close the vents. There was a whirr, then a rattling of metal as chains unfurled and tumbled to the floor. The mechanism had been destroyed.

When the noise settled, Bavragor's singing could still be heard, softer and more muffled, but still audible.

There was no talking among them as they listened to his songs of dwarven heroism and glorious victories over the orcs. He was mocking the vast army, provoking his antagonists, luring them to their deaths.

Then everything was quiet.

There's no one here," Narmora called down to the others. "Just me and the mountains." Tungdil looked up at her slim black form silhouetted against the pale sky. She disappeared from view.

One by one they clambered to the surface. The flue terminated in a crater large enough to swallow a fair-sized house.

Tungdil ascended the final paces with weary, leaden legs. At three thousand steps he had stopped counting the soot-stained stairs that wound their way up the chimney's walls. There had been no moments of panic, no tripping, stumbling, or teetering on the edge, and the ascent had passed without incident, even for Djerun in his cumbersome mail.

We made it. Tungdil emerged from the shelter of the rock to find himself on a snow-capped mountain at the heart of the Gray Range. An icy wind whipped about them, whistling through his beard and making him shiver with cold.

Looking down, he was filled with wonderment at the mighty valleys and gorges below. All around them were mountains: the towering summit of the Great Blade, the great pinnacle of the legendary Dragon's Tongue, and the sheer sides of Goldscarp. Clad in snow and buffeted by wind, the peaks rose majestically toward the clouds, enduring and eternal. Few had seen the range from such a privileged vantage point, and Tungdil was loath to tear himself away.

He sent the half дlf ahead as their scout. The decision caused him considerable heartache: On the one hand, he wanted to protect Narmora because of her role in the mission; on the other, he knew that she stood the best chance of leading the company to safety. Furgas was sick with worry on her behalf, but she struck out confidently through the snow, allowing the others to tread in her footsteps.

Their path took them over shimmering bridges of ice, through sheer-sided chasms, and past deep gulleys. From time to time they clambered over snow-covered scree and through stone archways that seemed liable to collapse.

They walked in silence, their tongues stayed by tiredness and all that had gone before. It was enough to focus on putting one foot in front of the other without tripping.

Tungdil's thoughts drifted back to Giselbert and Bavragor. He could imagine them defending the gates against the enemy hordes, and if he closed his eyes for a second, he could almost hear the mason singing. The merry minstrel, he thought sadly.

Later, as daylight faded and the wind picked up, they sheltered inside a cave, huddling around the torchlight. Boпndil didn't seem to mind the cold, but Andфkai brushed the snow from her cloak, pulled it close, and leaned back wearily against the bare rock. She lowered her blue eyes and cursed.

"I need to find a force field," she said, putting an end to the silence. "The sooner we're back on charmed land, the better. My powers are exhausted. I never thought this would happen and it's not an experience I'd choose to repeat."

"Quite apart from that, we're bound to need your magic before too long." The shivering Tungdil produced his map of the underground network. "I get the feeling that Nфd'onn knows about the underground network. He'll guess we're heading for Ogre's Death, and he'll probably be lying in wait." He scanned the map attentively, his eyes coming to rest at a point two hundred miles from their present location. He'll never think of looking there! "We'll go to Вlandur."

"To Вlandur?" blustered Boпndil, who was carefully plucking ice from his beard. "Whatever for?"

"There's a shaft leading down to the network," he told him, pointing to the map. "There's a good chance that this part of the kingdom won't have fallen to the дlfar. We'll ask the elves to join us and take up the fight against Nфd'onn, just as the high king proposed. Unless you've got a better suggestion, of course."

"Er, no…" the secondling conceded. "But I can't help… I mean, it takes a while to get used to the idea. Elves are our enemies, our sworn rivals."

"I can't imagine it either," admitted Balyndis, nodding in agreement. She stretched her hands to the burning torch.

"How extraordinarily easy it is for one to dislike something," said Rodario philosophically. He clutched his stomach just as it growled in protest. Like the others, he was ravenously hungry. Desperation drove him to break off an icicle and pop it in his mouth.

"The gods made us too dissimilar. Sitalia created the elves to love the skies and forests. Vraccas gave us our caverns and underground halls." Balyndis hugged her knees to her chest. "They look down on us for not being beautiful like them. They despise us."

"Consequently, you despise them," the impresario divined. "Well, if one of you could see fit to stop despising the other, neither side would have reason to continue the feud. A whole history of hostility, resolved just like that." He laughed, then gripped his injured side. "Blasted orcs! Do you happen to have any other enmities that I can put to rights?"

"There's always Lorimbur's folk," Boпndil said slowly. "You heard what Glandallin said about the thirdlings. But it's no good trying to reconcile me with them." He clenched his fists. "To think that they betrayed the fifthlings!"

Rodario propped himself upright against the wall. "What was the origin of the quarrel? We humans know shamefully little about dwarves." He took up his quill. "Keep it short, if you will. My ink is running low."

Balyndis grinned. "We hate each other." His pen froze. "That was a little too short, worthy metalworker of Borengar." He flashed her a winning smile.

"I was afraid you'd say that." Without further ado, she launched into the tale. The five founders of the dwarven folks were created by Vraccas, who gave each of them a name. The father of the thirdlings cast off his Vraccas-given name and called himself Lorimbur, which is how he has always been known.

The other dwarves each received a particular talent for their folks, and so the smiths, the masons, the gem cutters, and the goldsmiths were born. But when it was Lorimbur's turn, Vraccas told him: "You chose your own name, so you must choose your own talent. Teach yourself a trade, for you can expect nothing from me."

Lorimbur tried to teach himself a trade and apprenticed himself to each of his brothers in turn, but his efforts went unrewarded. The iron cracked, the stone split, the gems shattered, and the gold burned.

And so it was that Lorimbur came to envy his brothers and his spiteful heart was filled with eternal hatred for all dwarves.

Determined to excel at something, he applied himself secretly to the art of combat. His aim was not merely to defeat his enemies, but to kill every dwarf in Girdlegard so that none of his kin could overshadow him again.

Rodario was hurriedly taking notes. "This is wonderful," he murmured. "Enough to keep me going for a hundred cycles or more."

Balyndis cleared her throat. "Do you see why we're afraid of Lorimbur's folk? They're not to be trusted."

Andфkai changed position, trying to get comfortable on the rocky floor. "The thirdlings aren't the ones we should be worrying about. How are we going to convince the elves of our intentions? Lord Liъtasil is known for his reluctance to forge new friendships. I hardly think he'll rush to the aid of a company of dwarves."

Tungdil watched the shadows cast by the torch and smiled. "I've learned from this journey that nearly everything is possible, even against the odds. I'm sure the elves will come round."

At Balyndis's request, Narmora handed over Keenfire, and the smith took to removing the excess inlay with a file. Tungdil looked on in fascination while she polished the metal. All of a sudden she put down her tools.

"It's the cold," she said apologetically. "My fingers are really numb."

He glanced at Furgas and Narmora, who were snuggled under a blanket. His mouth went dry. "You can sit a bit closer, if you like," he offered nervously.

She sidled over and nestled against him. "Like sitting by a furnace," she said with a sigh of contentment.

Tentatively he laid an arm across her shoulders. There was something indescribably wonderful about having Balyndis by his side. Kingdom of Gauragar, Girdlegard, Winter, 6234th Solar Cycle They walked quickly, speeding up to a march as soon as the terrain permitted and descending the southern slopes as fast as they could. Soon the mighty peaks of the Gray Range were behind them and they found themselves among Gauragar's hills.

They were all so exhausted that they didn't have much time to talk. After a while, Tungdil took Boпndil aside and told him of Bavragor's last words. The secondling pressed his lips together tightly and said nothing, but his eyes welled with tears.

Where possible, they avoided settlements, although on one occasion Furgas and Rodario were sent to buy provisions from a farm. Had the decision been left to the impresario, the pair would have posed as impoverished noblemen, but Tungdil, conscious of the need to keep a low profile, insisted that they pass themselves off as cobblers instead.

The food tasted dreadful. The coming of the Perished Land had spoiled the winter crops and shriveled the apples, and even the bread was so heavy that it sat in their stomachs like lead. Still, it contained enough energy to restore a little of their strength. Since the groundwater was unpalatable, they melted snow to quench their thirst.

At length Djerun hunted down a scrawny doe, which they roasted briefly over the flames and wolfed down hungrily, trying not to notice the slightly moldy taste.

They hadn't been troubled by orcs since their escape from the fifthling kingdom, but after seven orbits the company's relief turned to puzzlement: The Perished Land had seized Gauragar, but there was no sign of runts or bцgnilim.

By rights the roads should be crawling with beasts. Unable to make sense of it, Tungdil sent Furgas and Rodario to find out what was happening from the inhabitants of a nearby town.

They returned with alarming news.

"The orcs were called away," said the impresario, waving his arms to convey the drama of his report. "They've abandoned their encampments. A while ago, thousands of the beasts descended on the human kingdoms to rout the race of men, but now they're marching south on Nфd'onn's orders. The townsfolk said something about besieging a stronghold in a mountain." He frowned in concentration. "I'll remember the name in a moment."

"Ogre's Death," Boпndil shrieked excitedly. "It's got to be Ogre's Death. Ha, they need thousands of orcs to attack the dwarves of Beroпn, do they? I always said the runts were worse than useless. Oh, what I'd give to fight beside my clansmen!"

To the others' astonishment, Rodario shook his head. "That's not it," he said. "Dark… no, brown… no! I've always learned my lines perfectly and now I can't remember a simple thing like this. It was something to do with leather." His hands gesticulated frantically in the air. "With leather and riding…"

"Reins," suggested Balyndis.

Tungdil made the leap. "The Blacksaddle! They're besieging the Blacksaddle!"

Andфkai searched her memory. "The name means nothing to me. What is it?"

"A flat-topped mountain. The thirdlings built a stronghold inside it and tried to wage war on the other folks. It's right in the middle of Girdlegard." Tungdil pictured the Blacksaddle's abandoned chambers and galleries. So why all the orcs?

"Do you think someone important might be sheltering there?" asked Narmora. "You know, someone Nфd'onn is intent on getting his hands on, like one of the human kings."

Tungdil remembered telling Gundrabur and Balendilнn about the stronghold, but he couldn't see why either of them would ensconce themselves in such a dark, benighted place. "We should probably go there. The Blacksaddle is practically en route."

They resumed their journey.

Twelve orbits after leaving the fifthling kingdom they sighted Вlandur. There was no need for Tungdil to consult his map; nature was their guide.

They were trudging through a snow-filled valley when they first spotted a lush forest of beeches, oaks, and maples in the distance, surrounded by a protective fence of pines. The vibrant colors and thriving trees were proof enough that, contrary to rumor, the last elven kingdom hadn't fallen to Nфd'onn's hordes. This part of Girdlegard was free from the pestilence.

"I never thought I'd live to see the day when I'd welcome the sight of greenery," muttered Boпndil, whose spirits were suffering from the long march through the Perished Land. His eyes swept the thick line of trees that formed a natural palisade against intruders. He reached for his axes. "Looks like we'll have to chop our way through."

"And give the elves every reason to wage war on your kingdom?" said Andфkai sharply. "No, we'll have no need of weapons in the woods. Besides, they'll spot us soon enough." She stared at the forest. "What did I tell you? They've seen us already." Four tall figures detached themselves from the trees. Their longbows were raised, ready to shoot. "Who's going to talk to them?"

"I will," Tungdil said quickly. He took a step forward, laid his ax on the ground for the elves to see, and walked toward them with measured steps.

"The woods of Вlandur have seen a great deal," called the voice of one of the archers, "but never a groundling. Stay where you are and state your purpose."

Tungdil looked at the four forest-dwellers. They were clad in white leather armor, with swords hanging from their belts. Each wore a white fur cloak, and their fair hair hung loose about their shoulders. As far as Tungdil could tell, their perfectly formed faces were identical. He didn't like them.

"My name is Tungdil Goldhand of the fourthling kingdom. My companions and I left our homes to forge Keenfire and destroy Nфd'onn the Doublefold," he declared firmly. "Good friends of ours have died that we might accomplish our goal. If you will permit it, we should like to enter your kingdom."

"There's no need. You won't find Nфd'onn here."

"No, but we'd like to access a tunnel built by our ancestors. The entrance is within your borders. We intend to journey underground to the Blacksaddle," he explained briefly. "We heard the magus is there."

"You're going to kill him with this Keenfire, are you? You and a handful of warriors?" The elf stared at him incredulously. "I bet Nфd'onn sent you here!"

"More than likely," Tungdil said crossly. He felt like boxing the elf's pointy ears. "What a fabulous plan that would be! Sending a bunch of dwarves to talk their way into an elven kingdom. He must have known how pleased you'd be to see us. You'd welcome us into your forests, we'd deliver you up to the magus-and you'd never suspect a thing!"

"Nфd'onn's a traitor, not an idiot," muttered Balyndis not quite softly enough.

Tungdil couldn't help grinning, and a fleeting smile crossed the elf's slender face. It wasn't enough to change the dwarf's opinion of him. "How can we convince you that we mean no harm?"

The elves conferred in their own tongue. "You can't. Wait here," came the unfriendly reply. "Set foot on our land and we'll kill you." With that they disappeared among the mighty trees.

"Ha, we've got them worried." Boпndil grinned and crossed his arms in front of his powerful chest. "That's something."

They made a virtue of necessity and tried to get some rest. There were enough fallen branches to make a roaring fire and so the time passed. The sun was already sinking behind the forest when the sentries reappeared, this time accompanied by twenty archers and a warrior clad in shimmering palandium, which marked him out as an elf of rank.

"So these are the travelers." He was handsome, so handsome that he could never look anything but arrogant. Long red hair framed his face, setting off his dark blue eyes. "A strange group claiming an even stranger purpose. Let me find out the truth."

He raised his arms, his hands tracing symbols in the air. Andфkai responded immediately with a countercharm.

On seeing the maga, the elf broke off in surprise. "It seems you can use magic. Few among the race of men are capable of that. We heard Nфd'onn had killed them all." He studied her intently. "In appearance you resemble the woman once known as Andфkai."

"I am Andфkai the Tempestuous." She gave the most cursory of curtsies. "I am weak from our journey, Liъtasil, and my magic is no match for yours." She tapped the hilt of her sword. "But I have a certain reputation as a swordswoman and if you care to cross blades with me, I shall prove I am no impostor."

Tungdil's eyebrows rose in surprise. Liъtasil wasn't any old warrior; he was lord of Вlandur.

The elf laughed-a kind, gentle laugh, but still somehow superior. "Ah, the tempestuous maga. Very well, Andфkai, I believe you, but I need to reassure myself. The дlfar have played too many tricks on us of late."

His fingers moved gracefully through the air, conjuring a golden haze that settled over the group. In an instant the tired ness that had been eating into every fiber of Tungdil's body lifted and even his hunger disappeared. Beside him Narmora was gasping with pain and the air was rent by the same terrible noise that Djerun had made at the gates of Roodacre. The elves nocked their arrows, spanning their bows, and took aim at the pair. Liъtasil lowered his arms. "Andфkai, it can't have escaped your attention that two of your traveling companions will never be granted entry to our glades," he said carefully.

"They're with us," Tungdil said quickly. "They may be descended from Tion and Samusin, but we can't defeat Nфd'onn without them." He pointed to the half дlf. "Narmora must wield Keenfire, and Djerun is almost as accomplished a warrior as Boпndil here." He hoped the dwarf would appreciate the flattery. "Orcs and bцgnilim flee at the sight of him."

Liъtasil pondered the matter while one of the elves advised him in an urgent whisper.

"An unusual company indeed," the elven lord began. Tungdil could tell from his tone that he had conquered his doubts and decided in their favor. "Too unusual to be anything but genuine. You may enter Вlandur and proceed through your tunnel." He turned to leave.

Tungdil felt sufficiently encouraged to make his next request. "I beg your pardon, Lord Liъtasil, but there is something else we should like to ask. We know the дlfar are laying siege to Вlandur and that your kingdom is under threat. You won't be able to defend your lands alone. Join us in our fight against Nфd'onn and we will destroy the Perished Land. Afterward you can reclaim your kingdom with our assistance."

The elf gazed at him earnestly. "Your generosity does you credit, but it will take more than a few axes to reclaim our lands."

"He speaks on behalf of the dwarven assembly," explained Gandogar. "The assistance he promises would come from my folk, the dwarves of the fourthling kingdom, of which I am king. And I know the secondlings would gladly rid your forests of the дlfar."

"We've done it before, you know," Boпndil hastened to assure him. "We kicked them out of Greenglade."

Liъtasil could no longer disguise his astonishment. "A dwarven king? It gets more and more intriguing." He beckoned for them to approach. "Come, you shall explain to me why the dwarves are willing to help their oldest enemies and save Вlandur from destruction."

He led the way, and the company followed, escorted on all sides by elven archers.

"Well spoken," Tungdil said to Gandogar.

The fourthling king smiled. "It was our only hope. Personally, I set no store by my status, but perhaps it will convince the pointy-ears to give us the loan of their army."

They walked on, squeezing their way through the palisade of trees. Djerun struggled at first, encumbered by his armor, but Liъtasil gave an order and the boughs swung back, allowing him to pass.

Once they had crossed the buffer of pine trees, they entered the forest proper. Even in winter, the oaks, beeches, and maples kept their foliage, and the branches showed no signs of bowing or snapping beneath the heavy snow. The towering trees reminded Tungdil and Boпndil of the splendor of Greenglade before it had succumbed to the northern pestilence and vented its hatred on every living thing.

The sheer size of the trunks took the travelers by surprise; even ten grown men with outstretched arms could not have spanned their girth.

Such was the peacefulness and serenity of the forest that the pain of what they had seen on their journey melted away from them, and they found an inner calm that deepened with every step.

Dusk was falling by the time they reached a building that was roughly equivalent to a dwarven hall. There were no stone columns, of course, only trees whose crowns formed a canopy two hundred paces above the forest floor, keeping out the rain and snow. A profusion of glowworms bathed the interior in welcoming light.

The elves' elegant architecture was the perfect complement to the beauty of the woods. Tungdil had experienced the same feeling in Greenglade, where the carved arches, elven inscriptions, and smooth wooden beams had seemed so at one with the trees.

This corner of Вlandur, as yet unconquered by the Perished Land, was the very essence of harmony. Tiny squares of gold and palandium, each no thicker than gossamer, dangled from the boughs, forming shimmering mosaics that sparkled in the starlight. As the company progressed through the living hall of trees, they passed a hanging mosaic of elven runes so dazzlingly beautiful that they gasped in admiration.

"I'm not saying that I like the pointy-ears," whispered Balyndis, sneaking a sideways glance at the tiles, "but their artwork's pretty good."

"Houses made of trees." Boпndil shook his head doubtfully. "I wouldn't feel comfortable. I'd rather have good solid rock above me. It protects you from the elements and it doesn't burn."

"What about volcanoes?" Rodario asked

"Volcanoes don't burn; lava does," Tungdil corrected him.

"What do you think lava is…" The impresario dried up under Narmora's fierce glare. "There's no point arguing with a dwarf," he finished.

The appearance of the company drew stares from the elves in the hall. It was the first time that a child of the Smith had visited their kingdom, and most of them had never seen a dwarf before.

"They all look the same to me," said Boпndil, voicing his thoughts as freely as ever. Luckily he chose to speak in dwarfish. "Long faces, cheeks as smooth as babies', and so conceited you wouldn't believe. I bet they think Girdlegard should be thankful that they live here at all." He gave his head a little shake and his black plait bounced on his shoulders. "I know it's not their fault that the fifthlings were conquered, but I'm not ready to trust them yet." The smith nodded in agreement.

Tungdil sighed and stuck his thumbs in Giselbert's belt. He was glad that Lot-Ionan had raised him: Unlike his companions, he was able to surmount his antipathy to the elves.

Liъtasil sat down on a wooden throne, the back and arms of which were decorated with rich intarsia of palandium and gold. Amber and semiprecious gems added to the opulence. Stools were brought for the guests, but Djerun had to stand.

Rodario's quill moved tirelessly across the page as he took notes, made sketches, and complimented the elves effusively. Furgas stared reverently at his surroundings, while Narmora's дlf ancestry made it hard for her to relax. Her lips were pressed together in a thin line and she clung to her stool, appearing agitated and unwell.

Liъtasil gave an order, and his attendants brought out bread, water, and other offerings, which they served with visible reluctance to Tungdil and friends. The dwarves, whose presence in Вlandur had obviously caused an upset, weren't familiar with most of the victuals, but felt obliged to eat. Boпndil was the first to take a wary bite.

"I don't care what it tastes like; you'd better not complain or spit it out," Tungdil warned him sharply.

The look of disgust that was beginning to take shape on the warrior's face mutated into a wonky smile. Boпndil forced down his mouthful, swallowed noisily, and reached for some water to wash away the taste. "Don't touch the yellow stuff," was his whispered advice to Balyndis, after which he restricted himself to bread.

More elves arrived in the course of the meal and took their places on carved chairs to either side of their monarch. They eyed the dwarves with interest.

Rodario added a little water to his last remaining drops of ink. "That should do the trick," he said, smiling.

"Perhaps we could speak of the purpose of your visit," began the elven lord. "I shan't be able to reach a decision until you've told me all that has gone before. Speak only the truth; we will know if you try to deceive us."

It's my job to convince them. Tungdil glanced at the others and rose to his feet. He looked into the waiting faces of the elves. Until recently, Liъtasil and his kind had been under suspicion of the most heinous betrayal, but the fifthlings' story had cleared the way for a new beginning. It was up to Tungdil to forge the alliance that the high king had dreamed of. Speak with a scholar's wisdom and authority, he told himself. More nervous than ever, he took a sip of water, stuck his hands in Giselbert's belt, and commenced his account of their journey.

As he talked and talked he saw the stars wander above the glittering mosaics and watched as the dark sky turned a deep shade of blue, the moon paling as the horizon glowed red. Finally, as the sun rose above Girdlegard, sending its rays through the banks of snow-laden cloud, he concluded his report.

Liъtasil's blue eyes had not left him for an instant: He had listened to every word. "I see," he said slowly. "So it started as a contest for the succession and became a mission of far greater consequence. I can see from your faces that the journey has been testing."

"Indeed it has, Lord Liъtasil. The dangers were many, but we survived, and now we're here." Andфkai rose, eyes flashing impatiently, her stormy temperament unwilling to tolerate further delay. "We're running out of time. You've heard what we have to say; make your decision while we still have the choice. Girdlegard will be lost if we don't act soon." She took a step forward, knowing full well how imposing she looked. "What have you decided, Liъtasil?" Her eyes searched his handsome face. "What have the elves decided?"