"Do you know what they're calling it?" Bislipur shouted, his voice echoing against the rock. "The quarrel of the cripples: one-armed Balendilнn against Bislipur the lame. Is that how you see it?"

Balendilнn paused, hoping to hear sounds of other dwarves, but the tunnels were deserted. He and Bislipur were alone. "Quarrel is too strong a word," he answered. "You have your convictions, I have mine, and we're both trying to persuade the assembly of our views." He took a step forward, then another one. Bislipur did the same. "What is it that you want?"

"To serve the dwarves," Bislipur said, grim-faced.

"What is it you want from me?"

"A change of heart. How can I persuade you that the future of the folks and clans lies with Gandogar and me?"

"If you persist in campaigning for a war against the elves, I will never be able to support your king," Balendilнn said frankly. He stood his ground and Bislipur stopped too. Fifteen paces remained between them.

"Then a quarrel it is," Bislipur told him harshly. "Until Gandogar has been elected, I shall regard you as an enemy and a danger to the prosperity and safety of our race. The others will come round to my view." He walked toward Balendilнn, who was advancing along the bridge. Only an arm's length separated the two dwarves. "It's about time the high king was spared your counsel so he can come to his senses at last."

By now they were so close that their noses were almost touching.

"To his senses? That's rich, from you." Balendilнn stared at Bislipur and saw implacable hatred and enmity in his eyes. "Let me tell you this," he said, trying not to betray his fear, even though Bislipur undoubtedly intended to harm him. "Your war against Вlandur will never happen. Even the fourthling chieftains are having second thoughts."

"The throne is ours. You're no match for Gandogar and me." The words were spat violently, Bislipur's pent-up fury ready to erupt at any moment.

"I didn't realize you were bidding for a joint succession."

Neither flinched as they glared at each other, eyes locked in combat. All of a sudden Bislipur's air of menace fell away.

"Well, good luck with your lost cause," he said breezily. "May Vraccas be with you." He stepped past Balendilнn and continued along the bridge.

The high king's counselor closed his eyes and swallowed. Having resigned himself to a duel, he could scarcely believe that he was going to make it across the chasm without a fight. Bislipur's whistling reverberated through the tunnel, the simple melody repeating itself and overlapping as he strode away.

It was a relief to leave the bridge and feel solid ground beneath his feet. At least I know be means business, thought Balendilнn philosophically. He pressed on, anxious not to keep the fourthling delegates waiting.

He was just approaching a bend in the passageway when the floor seemed to shake. The movement was so slight that a human would never have detected it, but the dwarves had learned to take notice of the faintest vibrations in the rock. Something heavy was heading his way.

The next instant, he heard agitated mooing and thundering hooves. From what he could gather, a herd had been startled on its return from the meadows.

Balendilнn scanned his surroundings, searching in vain for a niche that would save him from the cattle's charge. There was no choice but to regain the bridge, climb over the parapet, and balance on the narrow ledge.

He turned and sped back along the passageway, spurred on by the sound of horns scraping against the polished walls. Panting heavily, he reached the end of the tunnel and the bridge came into view; the animals were right behind him.

Without hesitating, he swung himself over the side and steadied himself on the ledge. The momentum nearly carried him into the abyss, but the daring maneuver paid off and the cows streamed past behind him.

Vraccas be praised!

There was a jolt and the bridge cracked audibly. He could see the first fissures running through the rock.

It was only then that it occurred to him that the bridge was not designed to bear the weight of stampeding cows. It had been built for dwarves, not cattle. The herd exceeded its strength by a matter of tons and the rhythmic pounding of their hooves had a devastating effect.

The first crack opened at the midpoint of the bridge where the stone was at its thinnest. The struts beneath it snapped, heralding the next stage in the disaster.

A section of stone measuring four paces in length gave way, sending a number of cows plummeting into the abyss. From there the destruction spread along the bridge. Slab by slab the stone fell away, cows tumbling to their deaths, their moos becoming fainter and fainter. At the back of his mind Balendilнn was aware that there was still no sign that they had hit the bottom.

His position was precarious in the extreme. With the bridge crumbling before his eyes, he was faced with a choice of dying among the cows or casting himself voluntarily into the abyss.

At last the herd stopped surging and the dwarf summoned the courage to leap into their midst. Barely had his feet touched the ground when the stone gave way beneath him. Grabbing wildly at the edge, he managed to catch hold of a jagged overhang and clung on for dear life.

An able-bodied dwarf would have hauled himself to safety easily, but Balendilнn, dangling by his only arm, had no means of saving himself and no prospect of being rescued. He knew it was merely a matter of time before his muscles gave out.

"Is anyone there? Help!" he shouted, straining his voice to alert his kinsmen to his plight. With any luck, someone would be on their way to retrieve the wayward herd. "Over here!"

The cows were calmer now and answered his cries with gentle, mindless moos. Two of the animals ventured to the edge and, sniffing at his hand, licked it heartily. Their saliva collected in a pool, making his position more dangerous than before.

It seemed to Balendilнn that three grown orcs could not weigh more than he did. His arm was getting longer, while his voice grew hoarse.

Suddenly the herd parted as someone barged through their midst.

"Over here," he called, relieved that help had arrived before he lost his grip. "I'm falling!"

Dust showered over him, coating his hair and his beard, and he found himself looking into the green face of a gnome whose sizable nose was tipped with a wart of impressive dimensions. The creature's round eyes stared at him greedily and its clawlike fingers slithered down his arm.

"Nearly done." Sverd leaned over the edge and fumbled with Balendilнn's belt. "Just one moment," he told the unfortunate dwarf.

A clasp clicked open and Sverd straightened up, a look of satisfaction on his face. He brandished Balendilнn's purse and the jewel-encrusted belt. "Much indebted to you, I'm sure! You can let go now." Chuckling maliciously, he beat his retreat.

"You can't just leave me!" Balendilнn shouted, aghast. "Come back!" It was too late: His fingers slipped and in spite of his frantic efforts, he failed to get a purchase on the saliva-covered overhang. He steeled himself for the long slide into darkness.

At that moment, an ax sped toward him, the short metal spur catching in the rings of his mail shirt. Balendilнn was reeled in like an anchor on a chain.

Breathing heavily, he lay on the floor beside his rescuer, who was panting from the strain.

"Gandogar!" Balendilнn could not conceal his astonishment at being saved from his fate by the fourthling king.

"You and I may not always agree with each other, but we're hardly enemies," said the monarch, smiling wryly. "First and foremost, we're dwarves, children of the Smith. Our enemies are Tion's minions, not the other clans or folks. That's how I see it, in spite of our differences." He straightened up and helped the royal counselor to his feet. "What happened?"