They trudged up a short flight of steps and through a long delved corridor, then down a stony slope through a natural cavern.

"It does not work on water," said Bekki, "nor when Chakka are fevered."

"The gift, you mean?"

"Aye. In boats, on barges, on rafts, or racked with ague, we are just as bewildered as other kind." Bekki snorted. "I deem we also would be confused were we somehow conveyed through the air."

Now they came to a high ledge along a wall of a huge cavern, and the light of the lantern faded away in the distance ere reaching any other walls or a floor unseen far below. To the left along the ledge Tip saw a long flight of stairs set in a carved hollow cut into the stone of the wall at hand, the narrow steps plunging into darkness and down.

There was no rail.

"This way," grunted Bekki, and he crossed the ledge and started down, his footsteps echoing back from the distant dark.

Tip followed, his heart racing. And he clung closely to the carved wall hollow on the left, away from the precipitous black fall to the right, a bare three or four feet away.

And his breath came in short, sharp puffs.

Count the steps, bucco, it'll take your mind off it.

His count had passed two hundred when he thought he could hear a far-off singing drifting along unseen faces of stone.

His count had not quite reached three hundred when he became certain of the singing: a soaring voice in solo.

Finally they reached a level floor below.

"Three hundred ninety-seven," said Tip, his voice a bit quavery.

Bekki looked at him in the blue-green light. Tip gestured at the steps and repeated, "Three hundred ninety-seven."

Bekki shook his head. "Four hundred twelve."

Tip shrugged. "I was a bit of the way down before I began counting."

They started across the floor, and still the singing echoed.

"I say, Bekki, who is that singing?"

Bekki tramped onward and did not answer.

Striding along at Bekki's side, Tip frowned up at the Dwarf but did not repeat the question.

Now several voices joined that of the singer, a chorus, and there was not a deep voice among them. Somewhat like Elven Darai they sounded, or perhaps as would War-row dammen.

Are these the voices of female Dwarves? What did Phais and Loric call them? Chakia? Yes, Chdkian.

They came to an archway where stood a pair of guards, with others asleep in a nearby chamber, and after but a brief exchange and a salute, Bekki and Tipperton went onward, the warders' surprised gazes following the Waeran. What Bekki had said to the guards and they to him, Tip did not know, for unlike the exchange at the secret door, this time the Dwarves spoke entirely in Chakur.

"Why do you have guards here deep in the holt?" asked Tip.

"We are coming to the core, Waeran, and the holt is on war footing."

Tip cocked an eye at the answer, yet asked no more.

Down long hallways they strode, turning left and right, Bekki not hesitating in choosing their path.

Now they passed by arched openings into corridors where portcullises barred passage, the black-iron rods socketed deeply into holes.

The way blocked? Is this just because of war?

At one of these barricaded archways, Tip saw the glimmer of phosphorescence gleaming 'round a distant turn, and it was from this corridor the singing came. Twenty or more voices he gauged, Chakia voices, Chakia singing together.

As he crossed the opening, Bekki's footsteps lagged, yet he did move onward. Tip, too, trailed, listening to the song, yet he could not tell if it was a choral of joy or sadness, though a thing of splendor it was.

Now Bekki's steps hastened, and Tip trotted to catch up.

They passed among Dwarves moving through the hallways on errands of their own, warriors in black-iron chain mail, axes and hammers at hand. And most, if not all, saluted Bekki, and curious gazes followed the pair.

Finally, through open iron doors and into a large chamber Bekki went, where he stopped at the edge of a polished granite floor. At the far end Tip saw a dais, three steps up to a black granite throne, ebon stone padded in red velvet. And on the throne sat a Dwarven warrior, dark beard, dark armor, dark helm. An axe leaned against the arm of the stone chair.

This was the DelfLord, no doubt, yet it was not he who captured Tip's eye. 'Twas instead a willowy figure sitting on the steps below, a figure all swathed in veils, a figure in deep converse with the DelfLord.

"I bring an emissary," called Bekki, and at these words the DelfLord looked up, and the figure on the steps turned toward them and then stood in a gossamer swirl of feathery lace and silk. She was no more than four feet tall.

Is this a Chdkia? But she is so slender, and Dwarves so very broad.

As Bekki and Tipperton waited, the figure moved down and away, across the polished floor and toward a recessed alcove, and Tipperton thought he saw delicate bare feet under floating layers of diaphanous concealment.

As soon as the figure had vanished, the DelfLord stood and motioned for Bekki and Tipperton to approach, and he moved down the steps toward them.

"Det ta kala da ta ein, Bekki, ea chek," said the DelfLord as he quickly closed the distance and embraced Bekki fiercely.

"And I am glad to be back, Father," replied Bekki in the Common tongue.

Tipperton's jewellike eyes widened. Bekki is the Delf-Lord's son!

Stepping back, the dark-eyed DelfLord glanced down at Tipperton, and then looked to Bekki and in Common said, "We thought you trapped in Dael."

"Nay, Father," growled Bekki. "The Horde passed it by, marching directly here. I remained behind to muster the men of Dael, yet King Enrik sent only a token force."

Again the DelfLord looked down at Tipperton. "This is the force? One Waeran?"

Bekki exploded in laughter, joined by the DelfLord, and Tipperton's own giggles were lost under their roars.

Finally Bekki managed to master himself and, smiling, said, "DelfLord Borl, may I present Sir Tipperton Thistledown of the Wilderland, emissary of Coron Ruar of the Dylvana, Chieftain Gara of the Baeron, and Prince Loden of the Daelsmen. Sir Tipperton brings to our aid an army of two thousand two hundred."

"And five," added Tipperton. "Two thousand two hundred and five."

Borl looked to Bekki, and then back to Tipperton, the DelfLord's puzzlement clear. "Five? And five?"

"Yes, sire," replied Tip. "If you let me count Bekki, that is."

Again Bekki broke into laughter, and at his father's wildered look, he said, "Two Lian, two Waerans, and me."

Shaking his head, DelfLord Borl threw an arm about Bekki's shoulders and said, "Come, you must tell me of these five as well as the two thousand two hundred. Are they here to aid us, and do they propose a way to rid us of the Grg?"

As Borl led his son and Tipperton to a side table and called for bread and tea, Bekki said, "Aye, Father, on both counts. If you will permit, we will summon the captains to the war room, where Sir Tipperton will lay out his plan."

Perhaps it was yet night or dawn or even day when the discussions with DelfLord Borl and his captains ended; here in the undermountain realm Tip could not tell. Yet whatever the case, day or night, he was bone weary when at last he was shown to his bed.

As he slept he dreamt he awakened for but a moment to see a slender figure in swirling veils standing at the foot of his cot and looking down upon him, yet he dreamt he immediately fell back asleep… or at least he thought he was dreaming, though as weary as he was, who could say?

He had no memory of the dream when Bekki came and awakened him.

"Time to break fast, Tipperton," said Bekki, using the Warrow's given name in the familiar for the first time. "Hotcakes and maple syrup and rashers. Then we will take a long soak in a hot tub."