Tungdil and company hurried toward the shelter of the forest, the other three following purposefully behind.

"A word, oh worthy hoarders of gold and gems. Would you consent to us accompanying you for a while on your overland excursion?" inquired the fabulous Rodario, doing his best to dazzle them with his smile. "I don't mean to be personal, but you look like the sort of fellows who could tackle the green- hided beasts. These are dangerous times, and my friends and I are feeble artists, aficionados of the stage." He turned his tanned face toward his thin arms, which protruded like broomsticks from his expensive cloak. "A fine group of soldiers we'd make: two men as slender as saplings and a beautiful, yet vulnerable woman who wears her armor merely for show. I shudder to think what would happen if the orcs were to…"

"Very well, you can join us," conceded Tungdil. With Boпndil still under the influence, they were two axes down, and in the event of a skirmish, the gasbag and his companions would serve as a distraction while he and the others attacked.

"A word," Goпmgar echoed in disbelief. "I think I lost count of them."

"Men talk a lot when they're frightened," Bavragor said knowledgeably. "If you ask me, he must be scared silly. Have you seen their teeny beards? I had more hair when I was born!"

Tungdil headed in the direction of their ingots and gems, steering a course through the forest toward the plateau. He was only grateful that his new companions were oblivious to the comments being bandied about in dwarfish.

We'll have to carry the ingots up the stairs, past the waterfall, and out to the ponies, he thought. It's bound to take a while. The delay was infuriating, particularly since the wagon's mishap seemed to have been planned.

He decided not to wonder where Gandogar and his companions might be. There I go again, he cursed, banishing the thought of their rivals from his mind. He focused on picking a path through the forest and listening for noise.

"Little man," opened Rodario, blundering through the undergrowth in an effort to catch up with the dwarf. He didn't seem to notice the snapping twigs or his echoing voice. "Unless I'm much mistaken, you are the leader of this merry band, and so I address myself to you. Groundlings-"

"Dwarves," Tungdil corrected him automatically.

"As you prefer…As I was saying, dwarves are a rare sight in these lands, and so I wonder: Why did the five of you abandon your underground home? Were you driven out by your kin?"

"That's our business, Mr. Rodario."

"True, very true. It was impolite of me to ask. But perhaps you and your companions would consent to join my itinerant theater and collaborate on a play?" He beamed at Tungdil. "With your permission, I'd like to pen a script especially for five dwarves. People would come from far and wide to see our show. There wouldn't be anything like it in Girdlegard. They'd shower us with coins!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Rodario, but we've business to attend to."

"Business? What kind of business?" He frowned. "Are you in search of treasure?"

"We're on a quest to forge Keenfire!" came a rambunctious shout from the back of the pony. In spite of the slurring, the words were clearly audible. "We'll go to the Gray Range and fashion a weapon more powerful than Nфd'onn himself. The fat wizard won't be bothering us much longer-"

"Shut up, you drunken fool!" Boлndal barked gruffly. "If you're going to give away all our secrets, at least have the decency to do it in dwarfish!"

"Sorry about him," said Tungdil, turning to Rodario with an apologetic shrug. The impresario's face had lit up with interest. "I'm afraid his imagination gets the better of him when he's had too much to drink." He did his best to sound nonchalant, not wishing to give the impression that Boпndil's ravings bore any relation to the truth.

"Don't apologize," Rodario said lightly. "I'm all in favor of imagination. A good writer welcomes inspiration, whatever its source. Besides, I like the sound of the idea. It's just the sort of story that audiences love to see on stage. The trouble is, who would I cast?" He threw up his arms despairingly. "I can't use children or gnomes or kobolds with false beards! I need stocky fellows, proper groundlings, like you. Nothing else would do! Are you sure I can't persuade you?"

"We're dwarves, not groundlings," Boлndal told him crossly. "And keep your voice down, unless you're looking for inspiration on the tip of an orcish sword."

With an offended toss of his long brown locks, the man fell into line with his friends and drew them into a whispered conversation.

"Actors," tutted Boлndal. "You wait: He'll perform our story in every marketplace in Girdlegard before we've finished forging Keenfire. If Nфd'onn finds out what we're up to because of that peacock…" He left the rest of the sentence unsaid.

"Nфd'onn will be long dead before he gets round to writing his play," said Tungdil, clapping him reassuringly on the back. He glanced round to see the fabulous Rodario scribbling frantically in a little notebook that dangled on a ribbon round his neck. Suddenly Tungdil's optimism seemed a little misplaced. "We'll have to take them with us," he said, having thought the matter through.

"You can't seriously suggest that we-"

"I mean it, Boлndal. We'll take them as far as the firstling kingdom. The impresario won't be able to resist an adventure like that. We'll get Borengar's dwarves to lock them in their stronghold for a while-or until the mission is over, if need be. I'm sure they'll find somewhere cozy where our friends will be obliged to enjoy their dwarven hospitality for as many orbits as it takes."

"Assuming they fall for it."

Tungdil gave him a confident wink. The full brilliance of his plan was dawning on him. "Don't worry, they will. When the impresario hears the incredible stories I'm going to tell him, he'll be desperate to see the firstling kingdom for himself."

Boлndal muttered unhappily into his beard.

"Fine," said Tungdil, "I'll warn the others. I don't want them looking too surprised."

He stopped to talk to Goпmgar, then Bavragor, on the somewhat flimsy pretext of checking their armor, and informed them in whispers of his plan.

They were almost on the other side of the forest when they came to the last resting place of the slaughtered unicorns. Rodario immediately stopped to sketch the corpses and make notes on the once-beautiful and peaceable creatures.

Was it wrong to abandon Mifurdania? The sight of the dead unicorns was a painful reminder that they had abandoned the settlement and left Girdlegard's last surviving unicorns to their fate. The gods will understand that we had no other choice.

The group approached the foot of the narrow path that wound its way up to the plateau. From ground level, the track was completely hidden.

"On guard!" Stopping abruptly, Boлndal drew his crow's beak. Bavragor responded by reaching for his war hammer, while Goпmgar interpreted the warning in his own fashion and hid behind his shield.

"On guard? My dear fellow, whatever for?" said the bewildered Rodario. His female companion drew her weapons. The first seemed to consist of a pair of scythes mounted on either side of a metal haft, while the second was a straight-bladed version of the same. Judging by the shimmering keenness of the blades, both the inner and outer edges were deadly sharp. She wore metal baskets on her wrists to protect her fingers from enemy swords.

The impresario turned to her. "What could you want with those, precious rose of Girdlegard?"

If Tungdil had learned anything since the start of his journey, it was to trust his friends' instincts. He steeled himself to face the threat.

A moment later he detected the stench of their hidden foes. They smelled sweeter and stronger than orcs, but there was definitely a whiff of rancid fat on the gentle breeze.