There was no need to look far to find the source of the gossip. So eager were the fourthlings to see their own king on the marble throne that they were only too happy to spread tidings of Gundrabur's demise. Come what may, they were determined to have their war against Вlandur, whether the elves were guilty of treachery or not.

At every discussion, no matter how big or small, Bislipur was there, tirelessly kindling the rumors, his every waking moment devoted to fanning the fires of his destructive campaign. No one seemed to need less sleep than Gandogar's devious adviser, except perhaps Balendilнn, whom he regarded as a personal enemy.

"If only Vraccas would hurry up and smite the high king with his hammer," muttered Bislipur on returning to the chamber where he was staying as the secondlings' guest. He lowered himself crossly onto his bed. I'm not making any progress. Some of the fourthling delegates were starting to doubt the wisdom of going to war. That blasted Balendilнn is ruining everything. The sooner I take care of him, the…

"Master, I bring news for you," a reedy voice announced from under his bed. "Not that I'd choose to tell you anything. In fact, I didn't want to come at all."

Bislipur stood up and kicked the bedpost. "Come out from there, you wretched gnome!" Sverd had barely emerged from his hiding place when Bislipur's calloused hand closed round his neck and lifted him into the air. He shook the gnome vigorously, like a cat would stun its prey, then tossed him roughly into the corner. "You're not to sneak into my chamber without my permission, do you understand?"

Sverd rose groggily and straightened his red jacket. "I wasn't sneaking, master. You weren't here, so I hid in a place where no one would find me, like you said." He tugged his hemp shirt over his rounded belly, covering his hairy green skin. His pointed ears stuck upward, as if pinning his cap to his head. There were few of his kind left in Girdlegard.

"Shall I tell you the news, master?" asked Sverd, his large round eyes filled with mock innocence. Streaks of mud and dirt covered his saggy breeches and his buckled shoes. He had tramped for many miles. "And if I do, will you let me go?"

"You'll go when I've finished with you." Bislipur rested his hand threateningly on the magical silver wire that allowed him to tighten Sverd's collar from any distance. "Talk or I'll strangle you."

"I wish I'd never tried to steal your hoard," the gnome whined piteously. "I regret it, really, I do." He looked at the dwarf expectantly, hoping to see a flicker of pity in the stony face.

"No wonder your kind is dying out if they're all as weak and pathetic as you." Gandogar's adviser stayed as cold and unbending as the many valuable trinkets that he wore. He tugged on the wire, tightening the leather band around the neck of his slave.

Sverd struggled to loosen the magic collar, but with no more success than at any other time during his forty-three cycles of bondage. The choker contracted and he sank to his knees, wheezing and panting. Bislipur waited until he was almost unconscious before slackening the leash.

"Thank you, master. Thank you." The gnome coughed. "Another joyous orbit at your side. How can I repay you?" He sank onto a stool. "Your pernicious plan failed. By all reports, the heir to the throne is still alive. Sadly, the same can't be said for our bounty hunters. There were no other takers for your cowardly mission and I didn't have time to start a proper search. Girdlegard is changing."

Bislipur took no notice of his reluctant henchman's sneers. From the beginning of his enslavement, Sverd had been trying to provoke him into killing him, but Bislipur chose to ignore him. The gnome deserved to suffer. "What happened?"

"I trailed the dwarf and the secondlings to Lot-Ionan's vaults. They were attacked by orcs…" Enchanted Realm of Ionandar, Girdlegard, Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle The beasts' approach could be heard from a hundred paces. Suddenly the clunking of their armor was interrupted by a clamor of snarls and grunts: The orcs had discovered the lifeless revenant.

On rounding a bend in the passageway, the three dwarves found themselves face-to-face with their foes. The exit to the vaults lay fewer than three hundred paces ahead, but it seemed to Tungdil that every inch of that distance was filled with orcs. A bristling thicket of weaponry blocked their escape.

"What fun!" enthused Ireheart, squaring his shoulders. "See how narrow the tunnel is? We'll have the pleasure of killing every last runt!" His whirled his axes energetically.

"Oink, oink! By the hammer of Vraccas, this is excellent sport!"

"The three of us will fight in formation," his brother told Tungdil soberly. "I know you've never done this before, but stand back-to-back with us and make sure you can feel us behind you. That way we'll all be safe." His brown eyes sought Tungdil's. "Trust us to watch your back, and we'll trust you. You're a child of the Smith, remember."

Tungdil took up position, wedging his back against the twins'. Trust in the others, he reminded himself, his heart thumping wildly. Stand by me, Vraccas. He swallowed and forgot about his fear. For Lot-Ionan, Frala, and Girdlegard!

"No more talking now!" Ireheart snapped at them, his eyes flashing wildly. "We've got skulls to cleave and shins to splinter!"

As the twins commenced their dance of death, Tungdil did his best to keep pace with them, nearly tripping over himself in his eagerness not to ruin their guard.

During the first few rotations, Tungdil could still see most of his surroundings. He glimpsed leering orc faces, saw green-hided flesh encased in various types of armor, spotted pillars among the jumble of legs, and occasionally sighted a whirling black plait.

But soon they were moving so fast that it all became a blur. Swords, daggers, and cudgels swooped toward him and he focused on dodging or parrying the blows. From time to time his ax met with resistance and after a while his blade was coated in glistening green, leading him to suppose that some of his blows had struck true.

It was the same basic strategy that the twins had used in the Eternal Forest. Back-to-back, the dwarves spun onward, boring their way through the enemy ranks, striking out furiously and never stopping for an instant, making it impossible for the beasts to land a proper blow.

Tungdil was glad of his chain mail. He lacked the secondlings' experience and was unable to field every strike, but his metal tunic protected him from the worst of it. He was willing to endure bruises, grazes, and even broken bones if it meant staying alive and saving the artifacts from Nфd'onn's fleshy hands.

He could hear Boпndil laughing behind him, his frenzied cackles competing with the orcs' dying shrieks. Boлndal was far less vocal, preferring to conserve his breath.

After a while the strain was beginning to tell on Tungdil's arms, but the battle was far from over. In addition to the orcs in front of them, there was also the problem of the survivors who were attacking from behind. In his despair, Tungdil came up with an alternative solution.

"The struts!" he yelled, straining to lift his voice above the jangling steel. "Cut down the struts!"

"Good thinking, scholar." Boлndal checked a blow, then rammed the offender with the butt of his crow's beak. A few moments later his weapon powered into a wooden pillar.

The force of the blow sent a strut crashing to the floor, followed by a shower of stone and dirt. The three dwarves repeated the maneuver until the unsupported ceiling collapsed behind them. Tion's minions disappeared under an avalanche of debris as ton after ton of rock blocked the tunnel, securing their rear.

The surviving orcs ran for the exit, afraid of being buried alive. Ireheart chased after them, swinging his axes furiously and felling all in his path. He stopped just short of the exit and waited for his companions.