Boпndil joined him and flashed the fourthling adviser an insolent smile. "Looking for trouble, are you? I'll shave your miserable chin with my axes, you see if I don't." Bislipur merely snorted and left. The doors closed behind him, shutting Andфkai and Djerun outside.

The high king motioned for the trio to approach. He and his counselor looked at Tungdil warmly. "The lost dwarf has returned to his kinsfolk," he said, rising to clap a hand on his shoulder. "Thanks be to Vraccas for bringing you here."

Tungdil bowed his head, overcome with emotion. He wanted to say something, but his throat was dry with excitement. He felt sweaty and grubby, and his body ached all over in spite of Boпndil's efforts to treat his wounds. In fact, the shoulder that the high king was gripping was particularly sore. All in all, he was too tired and disheveled to appear before Gundrabur, but the king of all dwarves generously refrained from commenting on his state.

The monarch turned to the twins. "You've done yourselves and the secondlings proud. Ogre's Death boasts no finer warriors than you," he lauded them. "You can be sure of my gratitude. Retire to your chambers and get some rest."

Boпndil stared at the floor, uncomfortable at being praised. He hadn't forgiven himself for what had happened in the desert oasis when Tungdil had nearly been killed. It was mortifying to think that his charge would have died without Djerun. Gloomily, he left the hall with his twin.

"You'll hear our side of the story in a moment," promised Balendilнn, "but why don't you tell us about your journey first?"

This was the moment that Tungdil had been waiting for. He tried to swallow his nerves, but it was hard not to be distracted by the great hall's monumental galleries, pillars, and statues. It was all so very dwarven.

"Gladly," he said, "but what of Andфkai and Djerun? They were loyal protectors during our travels. I trust they will be provided for?" Without really meaning to, he had adopted a more flowery way of speech, perhaps because of his magnificent surroundings.

Balendilнn gave his word that the maga and her companion would be taken care of, so Tungdil launched into his account, beginning with Lot-Ionan, the vaults, and his errand, then proceeding by means of the Blacksaddle, Greenglade, the fate of the magi, the treachery of Nudin (or Nфd'onn, as he called himself), his run-in with the bounty hunters, Gorйn's mysterious books, and the дlfar's attempts to track them down, then concluding with the magus's threat to the dwarven kingdoms and his plans to bend Girdlegard to his will.

Soon his cheeks were flushed with talking, but he tried to state the facts plainly, without glossing over the horror or embellishing his report.

He spoke without faltering, save for one occasion when he was understandably thrown. It happened when three serving girls opened the doors and walked into the hall. Tungdil, who yearned to become acquainted with the fairer sex, was transfixed by the mysterious creatures who had colonized his imagination for as long as he could remember. They were a little shorter than he was and not as broadly built, but their ample robes betrayed an unmistakable fullness of figure. Fine, almost imperceptible fluff covered their plump faces from the cheekbones to the lower jaw. The wispy down matched the color of their hair and, unlike his own bristly whiskers, their furry skin seemed soft and smooth. This then was the origin of the myth about bearded women. Tungdil found them utterly beguiling.

His remaining composure crumbled when they turned to him with shy, friendly smiles. His heart started beating so wildly that he had to abandon his story until they were gone. Gundrabur and Balendilнn made no comment, although the one-armed counselor could barely suppress a grin.

At last Tungdil concluded his report, ending with a brief account of the attack on the desert oasis. He reached for his tankard, which smelled enticingly of beer. The dark liquid washed over his thirsty lips, coating his tongue with its powerful malty flavor. A single sip was enough to convince him that humans knew nothing of beer. It tasted so good that he could have kissed the dwarf who had invented the recipe, but instead he took another swig.

"These are ill tidings," Gundrabur said sadly. "We intend to be honest with you, Tungdil, so you shall hear of our problems too." His counselor described the dwarves' predicament, including the proposed war, the question of the succession, and the rift among the delegates, as succinctly as he could. "It seems from what you've told us that an alliance is imperative. The races of Girdlegard must unite and fight together against the Perished Land."

Tungdil sighed. "An alliance won't save us if we can't make sense of the books or the artifacts. There must be a way of getting to Nфd'onn or he wouldn't be so afraid. The trouble is, we can't do anything without Andфkai and she's determined to wash her hands of Girdlegard. Without her power and knowledge, our chances of defeating the evil are no better than any of the other realms'."

"And we must watch powerlessly while the northern blight advances," Gundrabur murmured somberly, closing his eyes. "Then it is settled: I shall appeal to the maga for help."

Tungdil said nothing, although he doubted the efficacy of the scheme. No amount of dwarven reasoning could influence the workings of the maga's mind. The thought of Andфkai reminded him that Djerun had been permitted to enter the stronghold without raising his visor. At the time it hadn't occurred to him, and it clearly hadn't registered with the sentries or the twins, who had blithely waved the armored warrior through their gates. She must have put a spell on us. He decided not to say anything, least of all to Boпndil, whose hot temper would explode in incandescent fury. The last thing they needed was for Djerun to be challenged to a duel.

He took the opportunity to broach the subject of the succession. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful," he said, determined to nip the matter in the bud. "You've done me a great service in reuniting me with my folk, but I can't be made king. I was raised by long-uns and learned the dwarven ways from books-extremely inaccurate books, I might tell you. My rival is a much more suitable candidate, so I intend to renounce my claim and vote in favor of him. We need a high king whom everyone will respect."

"Your speech and sentiments do you credit," Gundrabur praised him, "but the fact is, we made up the story about your birth. Lot-Ionan played along because we swore him to secrecy. I'm afraid you have no claim to the throne; there's no proof that you're even a fourthling."

Tungdil's mind was reeling. "But why…I mean, I don't see why you made me come all this way just to tell me it isn't true…"

"Think of all the good that has come of it already," Balendilнn said soothingly. "It's put us in a better position to do something about Nфd'onn. And if we hadn't sent the twins to look for you, the orcs would have killed you in Greenglade."

"True, but…" He fumbled for the right words. "What of the delegates? All this time, the assembly has been waiting for me, and I'm not even a genuine heir!"

He felt as if the ground had been tunneled from under his feet. After the ordeals of his journey he had just been getting comfortable, and now he had nowhere to call home.

"Please don't be angry with us," Gundrabur entreated him. "If Gandogar is crowned, our race will be locked in combat with the elves, and we can't let that happen. Our idea was to postpone Gandogar's appointment until the assembly had been persuaded of the folly of waging war. When your magus wrote to us with news of a foundling dwarf, we took the liberty of inventing a story about your lineage to buy some extra time."

"We were hoping to find a solution-an ancient law or suchlike that would force the assembly to vote against a war," Balendilнn explained. "Fighting the elves would be ruinous for both our races, but Gandogar just won't see it. I expect you think we're as dishonest as kobolds, but our intentions are honorable: We want the best for our race."