So much had happened since they had left the secondling kingdom-too much, in fact. Their adventure had turned into something far bigger and more perilous than they'd ever imagined. Even Rodario, renowned for his pompous comments, had fallen silent and was brooding over the mason's death.

"I hope Girdlegard is worth it, Vraccas," murmured Tungdil, gazing up at the sparkling firmament. "When all this is over, I shall see to it that our folks don't barricade themselves back in their mountains. From now on, we'll work together."

Balyndis gave his hand another squeeze, but he pulled away and hurried to join Boпndil at the head of the procession. It was the wrong time to be thinking of anything except Keenfire.

"You like her, don't you?" the secondling said immediately, without glancing round.

"Don't start," Tungdil told him. "It's the last thing I want to talk about."

"I can't say I blame you. She's an attractive lass, and to someone like you, with no experience of the fairer sex, she must look as pretty as Vraccas's own daughter."

"I've decided not to think about it until Nфd'onn has been defeated. My duty is to Girdlegard."

"Trust a scholar to want to think about it." Boпndil took care not to meet his eye: For all intents and purposes, he was addressing Djerun's snowy footprints. "Think about it if you must, but remember: If something is worth pursuing, you shouldn't waste time. Situations change faster than you can split an orcish skull, and a moment's hesitation could cost you your chance."

"What makes you say that?"

"No reason." He peered into the distance. "They're up ahead." He whipped out his axes. "Let's hope the drunkard can defy the bidding of the Perished Land." It was evident from his hefted weapons that he was prepared to take decisive action.

The maga called out to Djerun, who raised his armored hand and beckoned them over. At his side was Bavragor, arms dangling limply and gaze fixed blankly on the Gray Range.

"Bavragor?" Tungdil said gently, searching the pale face for a trace of recognition. His features had aged terribly; he looked waxen and corpselike.

"I feel… nothing," came the ponderous response. It seemed to cost him a great deal of effort to open his mouth and form the words. "I can't feel my body. My mind is… empty." The soulless eyes roved over the group and settled on Tungdil. "It feels bad; everything feels bad. Things I loved, I hate. Things I hated…" He stared past Tungdil and fixed his gaze on Boпndil. "I want to slaughter the things I hated-tear them apart and devour them. Tie my hands together; I don't know how much longer I can resist. The evil is inside me."

"Very well," said Tungdil, unthreading the leather strap from Goпmgar shield. He bound Bavragor's hands behind his back.

"Tighter," growled the mason. "You don't have to worry about my blood flow: My heart stopped beating when I died." He seemed tense and agitated, but once the bonds had been tightened to his satisfaction, he relaxed a little and turned to Tungdil. "I want you to behead me as soon as my work is done. I don't want to serve the Perished Land for eternity and patrol the abandoned fifthling galleries, massacring innocents and spreading the pestilence."

"No dwarf will ever serve the Perished Land," Tungdil promised. "You have my word."

"As for you," the mason snapped at Boпndil, "take my advice and stay away. I want nothing better than to sink my teeth into your gullet and tear you to shreds." He squared his shoulders and his chestnut eye glimmered cruelly before he looked down and stared at the snow. He took a first step, then another. "Hurry, I don't want to be a soulless corpse for a moment longer than necessary."

On a signal from the maga, Djerun assumed the role of Bavragor's keeper, walking close behind him so the others were shielded from his jaws by a solid metal frame.

Time wore on, orbit after orbit, as they trudged across the never-ending flats of Tabaоn. The Breadbasket, as the fertile fields were nicknamed in summer, was so inhospitably cold that it was essential to keep moving in order not to freeze.

Tungdil had read somewhere that light reflected by the snow could harm the eyes and cause permanent damage. To protect his companions from blindness, he ordered them to bind cloth around their faces and look out through tiny slits.

Their journey was slow and laborious. The only members of the company who didn't seem to mind the march were Djerun and the undead mason, who plowed their way impassively through the snow. Since their provisions were frozen solid, they had the onerous task of thawing their food by the fire every evening before they could eat. Without the warm garments given to them by Xamtys, they would surely have perished in the cold.

At length Boпndil became more restless, his fighting instincts ever harder to repress, while Bavragor had been stripped of the very things that made him who he was; he didn't drink, didn't sing, didn't laugh, just stared into the distance. On one occasion he took the edge off his hunger with a mountain hare. Ripping it from a metal trap, he ate it alive, leaving nothing but bones and fur. The sound of his frenzied eating and the cracking of bones made Goпmgar, whose hand rested permanently on his sword, more nervous than ever.

The Gray Range edged closer and closer. Its peaks seemed almost in touching distance, yet still they struggled through the snowdrifts of Tabaоn, finally crossing the border into Gauragar and, after an exhausting march of many orbits, reaching the slate-gray foothills of the range.

On their way they encountered neither orcs nor any other beasts, although they occasionally saw their tracks. Great armies were advancing southward, but fortunately for the company, their paths never crossed.

At last they neared the stronghold's outermost defenses. Even from a distance they could see that no one had been posted to defend the ramparts against intruders from Girdlegard's interior.

The beasts from the north had torn stone from stone, destroying walls and toppling towers until nothing remained of the stronghold's former splendor. Their work had been done so thoroughly that Tungdil and the others were hard-pressed to imagine how the kingdom had looked during Giselbert Ironeye's era. Fragments of stonework testified to the fifthling masons' skill, but the glorious ramparts were nothing but ruins. It was a harrowing sight for the dwarves.

Although the defenses seemed deserted, the company approached the gates with caution.

"Stay here and don't make a sound," Boпndil told them as they struggled to the top of a steep pathway. "Narmora and I will check for sentries."

The pair slipped away, darting between the gray rocks and hiding behind sections of masonry that loomed out of the snow. Their goal was an open gateway, as tall as a house, leading straight inside the mountain.

Tungdil scanned their surroundings and listened intently. A chill wind whistled through the cracked ramparts, producing high-pitched notes that rolled together in a tune. Icicles hung like glassy stalactites from the mountain ledges, and fifty paces to their left, a waterfall had stopped midstream in a frozen sculpture of ice.

No orcs, no ogres, no дlfar, nothing.

"Did you hear what he said?" Goпmgar smiled bitterly. "He told us to be quiet! If only he could hear himself."

"He's not exactly graceful," agreed the impresario, "although the comparison with the delightful Narmora certainly doesn't help."

Tungdil watched as they stole forward, Boпndil relying on his diminutive size, while the half дlf sprang between the rocks with the elegance of a dancer. There were no telltale noises from the snow beneath her feet; she seemed barely to land at all, skimming across the ground as light as a feather. Boпndil's chain mail, by contrast, made a terrible racket, even through his thick fur coat.