When he woke, the suffering was a distant memory and all he felt was the habitual desire to eat. His regular feasts resulted in enormous weight gain, obliging his tailors to replace his wardrobe every week.

He scrubbed the blood from his face and his hands. How much longer until it stops hurting?

Not long, the voice whispered. All this knowledge is too much for a human body. It needs more room. You won't come to any harm, I promise. We are one.

Nudin made his way hungrily to the dining hall and had his servants set the long trestle table. He ate enough to feed a whole family, but his appetite wasn't sated and the cook had to bring out a pair of sizzling roast chickens before he declared himself full. As he rose from the table he noticed that his sleeves were too short.

A female дlf entered the room, holding a letter in her hand…

Part Two

I

Enchanted. Realm of Oremaira, Girdlegard, Late Autumn, 6234th Solar Cycle Tungdil was so wrapped up in the story that he couldn't be sure how much of the drama had been enacted by the players and how much he had imagined for himself.

The spell was finally broken when a hand reached out from the curtain at the rear of the box, took hold of his knapsack, and pulled it carefully by the straps.

Tungdil saw none of this and was alerted only when the villain lost patience and jerked the bag across the floor. He turned just in time to see the filcher's fingers disappearing behind the curtain, together with his pack.

"Hey! Stop thief!" he shouted furiously. "Come back with my bag!" Whipping out his ax, he stormed into the aisle, his hobnailed boots clattering on the floorboards. "I'll teach you to respect other people's property!"

The dramatic tension barely withstood his heavy footsteps and was demolished by his booming voice. There were angry shouts from the audience, most of them directed at the victim and not the thief.

Count yourselves lucky, Tungdil thought grimly, ignoring the outcry. He raced after the dark-robed figure, his short legs powering up and down and filling the auditorium with a thunderous rumble.

"Perhaps the gentleman could make a little less noise!" boomed the counterfeit Nфd'onn from the stage. His дlf emissary put her hands on her slender hips and frowned. She was clad in black armor and looked remarkably convincing despite the ruined play. The fearsome magus was just an indignant actor. "If you don't mind, I'm trying to entertain our audience!"

"I've been robbed!" the dwarf bellowed without slowing. "Your precious theater is harboring a thief!"

"The only thief in this theater is you, my stunted friend," the actor said waspishly. "You're stealing my time, not to mention plundering my patience, neither of which you can afford. Kindly take your thieving presence out of my theater and allow those of more cultured sensibilities to see the rest of the play, which shall have the finale it deserves!"

On hearing the cheers and laughter, he took a deep bow.

Jackass, muttered Tungdil. Bursting out of the theater, he stopped on the street, looked both ways, and ran on. On rounding the next corner, he spotted his man. The scoundrel had slung the stolen pack over his shoulder in order to free his hands.

"Stop! That's my bag you've stolen!" Tungdil set off in hot pursuit.

At the end of the third street he still had the thief in his sights, but somewhere along the fourth street, after what must have been the tenth sudden change in direction, the fellow vanished into a marketplace. Tungdil was left stranded among a crowd of people with no hope of spotting his knapsack amid the seething mass.

The sigurdaisy wood! He felt hot and cold all over at the thought that the relic was lost. Of all the misfortunes that could have befallen him, this was surely the worst. I didn't come all this way to be thwarted by a petty criminal! he thought determinedly, forcing himself to continue the chase.

Still gripping his ax with one hand, he used the other to push his way through the crowd until he reached a table piled high with woven baskets. He clambered on top.

From this angle the situation looked no better than before. The only way of recovering the bag was to enlist the help of the guards, but his plight was unlikely to elicit much sympathy-and understandably so. What could he possibly say to convince them of the importance of retrieving his pack?

Er, excuse me, I know the town's surrounded by orcs, but I've lost a lump of wood. I was hoping to use it to save Girdlegard and its inhabitants from the Perished Land.

No one would ever believe him.

He jumped to the ground and set off toward the tavern where, Vraccas willing, Bavragor and Boпndil would be waiting. To his unspeakable dismay he realized that he was lost.

Tungdil had sent his companions to the tavern without checking its name. Now his only hope of finding them was to return to the gates.

Which gates? Did we enter from the north?

He started on his way, grumbling to himself and glancing up from time to time to check his position against the watchtowers that rose above the sloping roofs. Striding along determinedly, he passed a dingy side street without slowing and heard a muffled groan.

He stopped in his tracks, gripped his ax with both hands, and doubled back. Stepping warily into the darkness, he spotted a tall, slender figure whose garments were enveloped by a dark gray cape.

At his feet was the villain who had stolen Tungdil's pack.

The thief was lying on the cobbles, bleeding from a dozen stab wounds, while his killer rummaged eagerly through the bag.

Tungdil's instincts told him something was wrong. In height and build the stranger looked less like a man than an дlf. Vraccas be with me, he murmured.

The knapsack's new owner buckled the lid, grabbed the straps with his left hand, and hid the bag beneath his cape. Groaning in agony, the thief rolled onto his back and clutched the ground. His assassin was unmoved by his suffering and strolled away without looking back.

"Excuse me! That's my bag," shouted Tungdil.

The stranger whipped round and his cape flew open, obscuring his face. Tungdil was still trying to get a proper look at him when two heavy objects collided with his chest. The throwing knives glanced off his chain mail, clattering to the cobbles.

Before Tungdil could recover, his crafty assailant had taken off down the alleyway and rounded the next bend. The dwarf was at a disadvantage because of his stumpy legs, and by the time he reached the corner, the stranger was nowhere in sight.

Tungdil stepped back into the shadows and leaned against a wall to catch his breath. One blasted misfortune after the next! What have I done to displease you, Vraccas?

He felt an arm wrap itself around his neck. A narrow blade flashed in front of his face and came to rest against his bare throat.

"It's your knapsack, is it?" whispered a voice in his ear. "In that case, you must be Tungdil. We weren't expecting you here. A friend of mine has been longing to make your acquaintance ever since you murdered his companion in Greenglade."

Tungdil tried to prize away the arm, but the pressure on his neck increased.

"Keep still," the voice commanded. "You've got some explaining to do."

"I'm not telling you anything," Tungdil said defiantly, now certain that the stranger was one of Nфd'onn's дlfar.

"We'll see about that." His attacker stepped backward, dragging Tungdil beneath a covered archway at the front entrance to a house. Total darkness engulfed them. "Where are you taking the relic?"

The dwarf maintained a stubborn silence.

"Talk or I'll kill you."

"You'll kill me anyway. What difference does it make?"