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.