"I'm not surprised," said Tungdil, refraining from further comment. He pointed to the steep track. "We'd better get going before the bцgnilim recover from the shock."

He knew there had to be more to it than that. You don't just invent those sorts of weapons and you certainly don't wield them with such proficiency unless you've been properly trained.

He glanced at Bavragor and Boлndal, who were obviously thinking the same. None of them had any doubt that Narmora was really a warrior, an accomplished fighter who had abandoned the battlefield in favor of the stage.

Tungdil watched as Furgas looked at Narmora tenderly and drew her to him. Did she lay down her weapons for love? He would ask her when he had the chance. I bet she was a mercenary in Umilante's or Tilogorn's army, although she still looks very young…

Furgas and Narmora helped the impresario out of his oversize breeches, while Goпmgar turned his attention to the startled ponies, who, contrary to all expectations, had stood their ground throughout the fight. The inebriated Boпndil was still draped over the back of one of them, snoring.

"Listen to that racket," said Bavragor. "He's making more noise than a lumberjack in a forest."

"I can't wait to see his expression when he hears he missed a battle," said Boлndal with a wicked grin. "I bet he'll never want to drink again."

The humans and dwarves strung out in a line as they made their way up to the plateau that overlooked Mifurdania and its surrounds. Thick banks of smoke hung over the settlement and a swarm of tiny black dots surged back and forth around the walls. Nothing they saw gave them any reason to believe that the Mifurdanians would prevail against Nфd'onn's troops. Even the otherwise ebullient Rodario was distressed by the sight. Narmora stood impassively at the edge of the platform, peering down at the forest, while Furgas and the dwarves crouched by the waterfall and washed the blood from their hands.

"Where to now?" he asked, noticing that the track went no farther.

"Back down to the bottom, just as soon as we've loaded the ponies," Tungdil told him. "We stopped here on our way to Mifurdania and left our gifts for the firstlings in a cave."

"Can I give you a hand?"

"There's no need," said Tungdil, not wanting to reveal the existence of the underground network. "You should probably get some sleep. We'll need someone to sit watch for us later." He took his leave with a quick nod and edged behind the waterfall with Goпmgar, Bavragor, and Boлndal.

Shifting the ingots was every bit as onerous as Tungdil had expected. At last, after hours of hard work, the bars of gold, silver, palandium, vraccasium, and tionium were stacked safely at the top of the stairs. The sun was setting by the time the dwarves collapsed wearily on the floor, worn out from all the fetching and carrying, not to mention their earlier run-in with the bцgnilim.

They were almost asleep when an embarrassed Boпndil emerged from his drunken slumber, mortified at getting sloshed on five tankards-which in his estimation was not nearly enough. Bavragor took particular pleasure in informing him that he couldn't hold his drink.

Later, Boпndil was introduced to the players, whom he viewed with suspicion. He made a point of ignoring them, preferring to treat them coolly until they earned his respect. Not having witnessed the battle, he hadn't seen their fighting spirit and refused to be swayed by his companions' reports. Rodario could be as obliging as he liked: Boпndil was impervious to his charm. Beroпn's Folk, Secondling Kingdom, Girdlegard, Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle Soon your kingdom will be ours," a voice warned Gundrabur. The дlf was almost invisible in the darkness of the chamber. He stepped closer to the bed. "You'll lose your kingdom, as the fifthlings lost theirs."

"Nothing you can do will stop us," said a second дlf, emerging from the shadows and stooping over the bed. Black runes were tattooed across his face, making his pale skin appear translucent and lending him a menacing air. "You're dying, Gundrabur. Vraccas will gather you to his eternal smithy, where you can weep and wail all you like."

"No one will remember you," a third дlf told him, stepping noiselessly out of the darkness and stopping at the foot of his bed. "You're old and weak, a high king who waited until his dying cycle to do something worthwhile and failed in all his endeavors." He broke off, raising his violet eyes to the ceiling and listening intently. "Do you hear that?" A chisel was tapping away at the rock. "The secondlings are expunging your name from their annals. You failed them, Gundrabur." Even as he spoke, the tapping and hammering intensified so that Gundrabur could hear a thousand chisels working in unison, chipping away at his skull. "Nothing will remain of your works. Yours will be the Nameless Era that brought humiliation and defeat on the dwarves. You are to blame for their destruction, Gundrabur. You are to-"

"Gundrabur! Gundrabur!"

The дlfar whirled round and turned to face the door. Light flooded into the chamber.

"We'll be back," they told him, melting into a darkness so complete that not even Gundrabur's dwarven eyes could fathom it.

"Gundrabur!"

The high king woke with a start. His heart was pounding and it took a moment for him to find his bearings. He covered his face with his hands and groaned.

Balendilнn was sitting on the edge of the royal bed, mopping the sweat from his sovereign's brow. He wrung the cloth into a bowl that was resting on Gundrabur's chest and wobbling slightly as it rose and fell. "Your Majesty was having a nightmare," he said, pressing his hand.

"They're waiting for me," whispered Gundrabur. He looked even older than usual, a time-wizened dwarf so frail and ancient that he was in danger of being swamped by the sheets. He gave Balendilнn a short, breathless account of his dream. "They were right," he sighed. "I'm not going to leave this bed alive. I wanted to die fighting Nфd'onn, or at the very least to cleave one more orcish skull." He tried to laugh, but it came out as a choke. "If it weren't for this confounded weakness…"

Balendilнn was in no doubt as to what had prompted Gundrabur's decline. He himself had been sick for three orbits following their interview with Bislipur. The beer that had been brought to them after the fourthling's departure had given Balendilнn an upset stomach and a temperature, but his constitution was sturdy enough to withstand the shock. The elderly king was unlikely to recover.

It had come to light that the attendant who had served the refreshments had collided with Bislipur on his way to the hall. There was no doubt that Bislipur had a koboldlike talent for skulduggery, but Balendilнn couldn't accuse him of anything without proof.

He won't get away with it this time. Poisoning Gundrabur's beer is murder-murder and high treason. As soon as evidence came to light of Bislipur's wrongdoings, Balendilнn was determined to put him on trial and execute him for his crimes. And if the fourthling didn't trip up of his own accord, the counselor intended to help him fall.

"I have no other heir but you, Balendilнn. Be a strong leader to our folk. Serve them better than I did."

Balendilнn dabbed at the beads of sweat on his brow. "You served the secondlings well," he told him. "You were a good king and you still are."

Tears welled in Gundrabur's eyes. "I should like to go to the High Pass, where I fought my proudest battles."

"Your Majesty, that's not wise. An excursion like that could kill you."

"If I die, it is Vraccas's will and you shall take my place." He lifted the bowl from his chest and sat up. "Fetch me my ax and armor," he ordered, becoming the dwarves' stately ruler as he donned his battle dress: leather jerkin, leather breeches, a light knee-length tunic of mail, and a bejeweled aventail, then helmet, gloves, and armored boots. Gathering his ax, the haft of which was as long as his legs, he hobbled to the door.