"My warriors and I have been fighting Tion's minions since the fall of my kingdom eleven hundred cycles ago," said Giselbert, who seemed the most venerable, the most majestic of them all. "We are the last of the fifthlings, killed by the дlfar and resurrected by the Perished Land. As you can see, we chose not to serve it."

Tungdil shot a quick glance at Bavragor, who was covered from head to toe in every imaginable shade of green. Orc and bцgnil blood was dripping from his hands and splashing to the floor.

"It takes a lot to kill an undead dwarf, but most of our companions were eventually slain. The rest of us retreated to the furnace, our folk's most treasured relic." He held Tungdil's gaze.

"And you're sure you don't hate other dwarves and want to murder every living creature?"

Giselbert shook his head. "We taught ourselves not to. In eleven hundred cycles you can learn to stifle the pestilent hatred." His eyes shifted to the door. "The creatures used to content themselves with guarding the entrance, but during the last few orbits they've laid siege to the doors. I daresay the change has something to do with you."

"Very likely." Tungdil ran through the introductions and gave a hasty account of the threat facing Girdlegard and the reason for their coming. "But it's all been in vain. We were supposed to light the furnace with dragon fire, but the flame went out while we were fighting by the door."

Giselbert clapped a hand on his shoulder and a kindly smile spread across the creases and wrinkles of his ancient face. "You are wrong to give up hope. The fire is burning as fiercely as ever." He stopped and listened. "The furnace has always been under our protection. Vraccas must have known we would need it one day." He and his companions stepped aside to reveal the rest of the chamber.

The hall, fifty paces long by thirty wide, boasted twenty abandoned hearths, lined up in two rows, and four times as many anvils, arranged around an enormous furnace ablaze with fierce white flames.

Countless pillars supported the ceiling eighty paces above and the walls were filled with neat rows of tools: hammers, tongs, chisels, files, and all manner of implements needed for the blacksmith's craft. Fine sand covered the floor and the upper reaches of the chamber were coated in a thick layer of soot. A stone stairway led to the flue.

The bellows and grindstones were attached to metal chains that ran through a system of rollers and pulleys to the ceiling, where they looped through the rock. Tungdil was instantly reminded of the lifting apparatus in the underground network.

He found himself imagining the smithy in its heyday when Girdlegard's finest weapons and most splendid armor had been forged by Giselbert's dwarves. He breathed out in relief and prayed to Vraccas to excuse his lack of faith. "That's the best news we've had since Ogre's Death," he said cheerfully. We're nearly there. And to think I'd resigned myself to failure…

"He's alive!" exclaimed Furgas. "His heart is beating! Rodario's alive!"

"Let me take a look at him." Andфkai swept back her hair, knelt beside the wounded impresario, and inspected his wound. "He's had a blow to the head and a slight gouge to the side. It's nothing too serious," she announced, cleaning the afflicted area with Bavragor's brandy to stave off infection.

The impresario's eyes fluttered open. "Thank you, Estimable Maga," he gasped, gritting his teeth as the alcohol stung his raw flesh. "Had I known, I would have begged the orc to strike me on the mouth so you could kiss me back to life."

"If you were a warrior, things might have been different between us," she said, responding remarkably favorably to the flirtation.

"A good actor can be many things, even a warrior."

"But it's only an act."

"I'm a warrior in spirit. Isn't that enough?"

"Maybe," she said, "but your weapon has fought for so many causes in every kingdom that I couldn't rely on you not to swap sides." Her blue eyes looked at him smilingly as she patted his cheek. "Save your charm for the women who adore you."

Giselbert pointed to a quiet corner of the smithy. "Lie down and get some rest. The doors won't fall; we'll see to it that they don't. It's important that you recover your strength before we get going with Keenfire. There are some matters we need to attend to before we can forge the blade."

"Such as…?"

The ancient monarch chuckled when he saw the look of alarm on Tungdil's face. "It can wait until you're rested. I'm sorry we can't offer you any sustenance, but you'll be safe here, at least."

The travelers were too tired to do anything but follow his advice; even Boпndil was so spent that he forgot to be suspicious of their undead hosts. In any case, no one could claim that the revenants weren't putting their lives to good use.

Tungdil went to join Gandogar, who was sitting in silence beside Goпmgar's corpse. The fourthling king had removed his battered helmet, his brown hair resting on his mighty shoulders. "He died trying to save me," he said somberly. "He threw himself in front of that orc, even though he must have known the brute would kill him." He glanced at Tungdil. "I didn't think he had it in him. I was pleased when you picked Goпmgar because he seemed too much the artisan and too little the dwarf. I misjudged him. He was a dwarf, all right."

Tungdil placed the pouch of diamonds in Gandogar's hands. "You're our diamond cutter now. You must finish his task for him."

"Gladly, although I can't promise to emulate his skill. Goпmgar was a far better artisan than I am."

Tungdil paused before broaching a rather delicate subject. "There's something I need to tell you, Gandogar." He quickly told him of Gundrabur's plan and Bislipur's trickery, and finished by producing Sverd's collar as proof.

The king recognized the choker at once. "By the beard of Goпmdil, I wish these accusations were unfounded, but the loathsome collar speaks for itself. Sverd was in thrall to his master; he could never have acted alone." He shook his head incredulously. "How could Bislipur be so blind? How could I be so blind?"

"So you don't want to wage war on the elves?"

"Absolutely not! Isn't Girdlegard in enough trouble already?" He took a deep breath. "Honestly, Tungdil, nothing could be farther from my thoughts. Gundrabur was right after all. We've been through so much since the start of this mission that the thought of another war…No, an alliance is what we need." He stopped and frowned. "I'm not saying we have to be best friends with the elves or anything. The way they betrayed the fifthlings was-"

"We weren't betrayed by elves," interrupted a fifthling who had approached in time to hear the end of their exchange. His thick black beard hung in decorative cords that reached to his chest.

"Your folk was betrayed by the pointy-ears," the king insisted. "I saw the evidence myself."

"Evidence provided by Bislipur," Tungdil reminded him.

The stranger gave them a wan smile. "My name is Glandallin Hammerstrike of the clan of the Striking Hammers." He turned to Gandogar. "I witnessed the terrible demise of our kingdom, and I saw the traitor who opened our gates."

"Yes," Gandogar said stubbornly. "A backstabbing elf."

"It was a dwarf." He paused as the others, including Balyndis, who had joined them, stared in disbelief. "Glamdolin Strongarm was the traitor who spoke the incantation and opened our gates."

"But why?"

"It was the opportunity he had been waiting for. That dreadful morning he pretended to succumb to the fever that the дlfar had spread among our folk. The battle was fierce and no one gave him a second thought. He skulked down to the gates and cleared the way for Tion's hordes. It was his doing that the дlfar found their way into our underground halls and took us by surprise."