Gandogar pretended to ignore him, but the speech resonated with his own deliberations. He had been pondering the same questions, although he was still no closer to deciding what to do. The laws come from Vraccas, but should we stick to them slavishly? What if it means forfeiting opportunities and exposing ourselves to danger? He gave up and focused on the laborers below. They were working with incredible care and precision, handling the stone with as much consideration as if it were alive. Each sheet of marble was measured painstakingly before being prized from the mountain with pick axes, crowbars, hammers, and chisels. Water mills powered the blades of the enormous saws.

Dust hung in the air like gray mist and the laborers wore cloths to protect their mouths and noses. A thick layer of powdered stone covered any piece of equipment not in regular use.

It made Gandogar proud to think that he would soon be king of the dwarven folks. The children of Vraccas had their differences, but they were dwarves-united by ancestry, heritage, and a common foe.

Should we suffer because of our laws? He pictured the faces of his father and brother who had been felled by elvish arrows. They were killed in cold blood. His fists clenched and his face darkened.

He had made up his mind. "Very well, Bislipur, we shall act. I am the one who is destined to unite the children of Vraccas and what better way of strengthening the bonds between our kingdoms than a joint campaign against the elves? Victory over our enemies will pave the way for a new united future and put an end to this feuding and quarreling."

"And your name will be linked forever with the start of a glorious era," Bislipur added approvingly, relieved that his constant sermonizing had eventually paid off.

"We've wasted enough time already. I shall tell Gundrabur that he has thirty orbits to hold a vote in which my succession will be confirmed."

"And if he dies before then? He's old and infirm…"

"Then I'll be crowned, whether the mountebank has got here or not. Let's go back. I'm tired and hungry."

Privately, Bislipur was already working on his next assignment, unwittingly conferred on him by the king.

A great deal can happen in thirty orbits, he thought grimly. Murder was not the worst of his crimes, and a little more skulduggery would be neither here nor there. But this time he needed to do everything right.

"Coming, Your Majesty," he replied. Leaning over the parapet, he peered into the open quarry. Anyone who had the misfortune to plummet from such a height would never be seen again. He had just the assignment for Sverd. Enchanted Realm of Ionandar, Girdlegard; Late Summer, 6234th Solar Cycle Come on, scholar, time to get up," a voice whispered in his ear. A wiry beard scratched his throat and he was roused from his carefree dreams.

Boлndal and Boпndil were peering out of the ditch, scanning the woods for roaming orcs, but the beasts had continued their search elsewhere. Tungdil and the others were free to head south toward the secondling kingdom.

What a mess, he thought glumly. Things had turned out worse than he could have imagined. His errand had seemed simple enough, but now he was caught up in a succession crisis and everyone he had known and loved was dead, leaving him and his two companions to flee for their lives across Girdlegard while a crazed magus waged war on their kingdoms and tried to steal his bags. And I don't even know what's inside them.

Tungdil pulled the twigs and foliage out of his hair and beard. He was still fretting over Nudin's threat: The magus had declared war on all Girdlegard, men and elves included, and was planning to do battle with the dwarves.

"You look as though something's bothering you," said Boпndil, handing him some bread and cheese. He pointed to the woods. "Come on, you can eat on the way."

Tungdil fell in behind them. "Warning the dwarven kingdoms is a big risk. Nudin wouldn't mention the invasion unless he thought he could win."

Boпndil snorted. "Ha, that was before we chopped off his head!"

"Not that it had much effect," his brother reminded him gravely. "What did you make of it, scholar? Is it normal for magi to survive a mortal wound?"

Tungdil shook his head. "Wizards are just ordinary humans. They live a little longer than most, but they're susceptible to injury like everyone else. Lot-Ionan once cut himself on a knife and wove a spell to heal the skin. I asked whether his magic could counteract death, but…" He pictured Lot-Ionan and Frala and was too choked to continue. His companions didn't press him.

"Magi don't have the power to thwart death," he said finally.

"Nфd'onn was definitely dead," Boлndal told him. "He had my crow's beak buried in his back and his ugly mug was rolling on the ground. Maybe it's something that only dark wizards can do."

"If you ask me," said Boпndil, "it's a special kind of jiggery-pokery taught to him by the Perished Land."

Tungdil didn't know what to make of it all. Seeing the magus recover from his beheading had put pay to any theories about him being a revenant, leaving the dire possibility that Nudin had discovered the secret of eternal life-in which case, Girdlegard was doomed.

"We should have chopped him into tiny pieces and burned the lot," growled Boпndil.

"It wouldn't have worked," said a voice from the trees. The clear tones rang through the forest. "No known weapon can harm him. Swords, axes, magic-nothing will kill him. I tried and failed."

The trio whipped out their axes, and Ireheart wheeled round to cover their rear. "It can't be an orc," Boлndal whispered to Tungdil.

"Maybe, maybe not," said his brother. "I'm game for any kind of challenge, big or small."

The man who stepped out from among the pines drew a gasp of amazement from Tungdil. He had never imagined that a human could attain such dimensions; this one had a chest like a barrel and was as tall as two dwarves.

Although Tungdil had seen pictures of suits of armor in Lot-Ionan's books, nothing had prepared him for the sight of a real plated warrior. The man's breastplate, gorget, spaulders, and greaves were made of fine tionium and forged in such a way that the metal mimicked the curve of bulging muscle. The rings of a mail tunic, worn to give extra protection, were visible between the plates. A thin layer of cloth separated the segments of metal and dampened the clunking.

Sabatons protected the warrior's huge feet, and his head was encased in a helmet. A demon's face stared out from the elaborately engraved visor and a ring of finger-length spikes encircled his helm like a crown.

In his left hand he held a shield, while in his right he gripped a double-bladed ax, the mighty weapon raised effortlessly as though it were made of mere wood. A cudgel and a scabbard hung from his belt, the long blade resembling a dagger because of his great size. And as if this arsenal were not weighty and powerful enough, a two-handed sword was slung across his back.

Boпndil glanced over his shoulder to see what was going on and was instantly transfixed by the colossus.

"Swap places with me," he begged his brother. "You cover our backs and I'll bring down this mountain of metal." His eyes flashed eagerly. "That's what I call a big challenge. Better than a pack of runts!"

"Shush," Boлndal silenced him sharply. "Wait and see what he wants."

"His voice seems very high for a man of his size," said Tungdil, bewildered.

A blond woman with a severe face and a long plait stepped out from behind the warrior. "The voice wasn't his." Her blue eyes pierced the trio. "It was mine."

Tungdil appraised her commanding features and striking garb and wondered whether they had met before. She was athletic in appearance and wore black leather boots, gloves, and a tunic of dark brown leather, slit at the sides to give maximum movement. Her right hand rested on the pommel of her sword. There was something about her that reminded Tungdil of a woman that Lot-Ionan had once described.