Dragonlance

Heroes Volume 2

Stormblade
Nancy Varian Berberick

Astinuss Note
Histonians call the years between 348 AC and 352 AC the War of the
Lance. The naming has become popular among the peoples of Krynn. It
was a time when the gods strove against each other, Good against Evil.
Takhisis lent her dragons, dark creatures of death and fire, to her war
leaders and called those leaders Highlords. Paladine and Mishakal chose
to dispense their aid and grace to those fighting against the dragonarmies
and the Dark Queen in other ways. Paladine walked for a time with the
kender Tasslehoff Burrfoot and his companions. He was known to them as
Fizban. Mishakal gave her learning and lore to one of the kenders
companions, a Plainswoman who understood the meaning of faith, and
who restored that faith to many in Krynn.
But these are the larger events of that war. Others are referred to in
history only by a line.
One such line intrigues many who study history. It is found in the
record of the year 348 AC: Nordmaar falls to the dragonarmy. The
dwarves in Thorbardin forge a Kingsword and call it Stormblade.
There is only one other line that references the Kingsword, and it
appears two years later: Lord Verminaards slaves escape from his mines
at Pax Tharkas, aided by a group of companions, among whom are the
kender Tasslehoff Burrfoot and the mage Fizban. Dwarven Kingsword
located.
Between those two lines, and beyond them, lies a tale that may explain
why, after carefully refraining from offering aid to those fighting against
the Dark Queen, the dwarves of Thorbardin at last entered the War of the
Lance.

How much of the tale is true history and how much embroidered
legend, I am yet considering. Though much of it, I will say, has the ring of
truth. For the rest, and that is only little, I offer this: In Thorbardin the
dwarves say that legend is truth condensed, so that everyoneeven a
gully dwarfcan understand it.

Prologue
As the bard hears, faint but clean, the elusive Melody and secret
harmonies of the song he was given his voice to sing, as the storyteller
knows, deep within his bones, the words and silences of the tale he was
born to tell, so the dwarf Isarn Hammerfell knew that Stormblade was the
reason he had come to swordcrafting. The sword would be his masterblade
and stood, almost seen, behind every blade he made, waiting patiently for
its birth.
It waited for Isarn Hammerfell to consider himself worthy.
When this blade was forged, when it came from the fires and the
cooling oils, to perfect balance and cold blue beauty, Isarn would offer it
to his thane, to Hornfel of the Hylar.
If Hornfel judged it good, he would honor the mastersmith, as thanes
have done for generations, by displaying the sword with masterblades
generations old.
The blade once hung, Isarn would make no other sword. The forge at
which hed labored for so many years would become the forge of his
apprentice and young kinsman, Stanach Hammerfell. Isarn would lay
down his hammer, his tongs, all the tools which he had known and loved
for so many years, and gently finish his days in honor.
Because the forging of this blade would be his finest work, the
embodiment of his vision and matchless skill, Isarn used none but the
purest steel, newly fired from hard, black wrought iron created by his own
hand.
He went to the mines himself, though he was a mastersmith and need

not have chosen his own ore. He knew, and none knew better, the look of
perfect ore, the feel of it, the bitter smell of it. He stalked the dark, lanternlit iron mines searching the broad veins for the ore he knew would be the
purest. There it was mined under his supervision.
None saw him for many days after he returned to his smithy at
Thorbardin. Deep within the mountains heart he waited, designing
Stormblade. Never once did he take ink to parchment, for the design was
composed in his heart and in his soul. He knew what the sword would
look like. His hands knew how it would feel. His ears already heard the
song of hammer and anvil, fire and steam.
The ore was brought to him. All that remained was to find the right
jewels for the swords decoration. The hilting of the sword would be the
task of Isarns apprentice Stanach Hammerfell. It was the traditional sign
of the masters trust in the one who would follow.
There are not only weapons crafters in Thorbardin, but jewelers,
goldsmiths, and silversmiths as well. Isarn went among his companions,
the masters of those crafts. From the master of the gemsmiths he received
five flawless sapphires. Four were the color of the sky at twilight; and the
fifth was the pure, deep blue of midnight and deeply starred. These would
decorate the blades grip. The finest gold was found for the blades hilt,
and a lustrous silver to chase it.
The sword conceived, it was now ready to be born. Isarn Hammerfell,
assisted by only his apprentice, began to create his masterwork.
Isarn and Stanach built the furnace fire themselves. They filled the two
troughs, one for the water to cool the wrought iron, one for the oil to cool
the steel. Stanach pumped the bellows with the slow, steady rhythm Isarn
had taught him. Coaxing the fire, Stanach watched the orange light slide
up the smooth stone walls of the forge. This was a task he had not been
required to perform since the first, fumbling days of his apprenticeship.
How familiar this task was now. Yet, how different!
None but he and his master Isarn would see Stormblade born, and
Stanach knew that he would never again feel the magic of crafting so
intensely until, years from now, he gave life to the unimaginable vision of

his own masterblade.

Steel is made from the elements of the world. Dug first as ore, it is
shaped through the agencies of fire and water into wrought iron. Stanach
watched now as Isarn made the thick, dark iron. Each of his masters
moves was careful and considered. Isarn, who had a thousand times before
made his iron with the unthinking skill of one whose hands move almost
without will, took each step of the making as carefully now as any
apprentice first permitted to approach a forge.
Stanach watched his master as though seeing him perform the task for
the first time. I will remember this, he thought. The forge fire pulled the
sweat from him. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, his eyes on
Isarn. Always, I will remember this.
And always, he thought as the ore came from the forge, he would
remember the look in Isarns eyes. It was the look of one who loved and
saw nothing but the thing he loved.
They were silent while the iron cooled. Nothing needed to be said.
Stanach had no questions. Isarn had nothing but the bond between his soul
and the elements. When the iron was finally cool and hard, a rough black
mass, Isarn placed it in a clay container, itself earthborn and still
remembering the kiss of flame.
Stanach lifted the vessel, heavy with charcoal dust and iron, and placed
it in the furnace exactly where his master directed. Sweat ran ceaselessly
down his face now, soaking his thick black beard. His hair clung to his
neck. He had long ago abandoned his loose forgemans shirt for a leather
apron. His thickly muscled arms gleamed with a golden reflection of
flame.
The heat of the furnace sought to mimic that of the fires said to burn
ceaselessly in Krynns heart. In this terrible heat the charcoal dust
combined with the surface of the wrought iron to create a hard, gleaming
sheath: steel.
Stanach dragged a bucket of water from the farthest corner of the forge.
Cool hours before, the water was now warm, as though it had been lying
in the sun. He ladled a drink for Isarn, and then another for himself. In

their parched throats it tasted like wine.

Stanach drew another ladle from the bucket and poured it over his head.
It ran hot down his neck and back, and he felt suddenly sad. For the first
time since theyd come into the forge, Stanach remembered that when
Stormblade was finally more than a vision, he and Isarn would no longer
work side by side.
Isarn, his master and his kinsman, was also his friend. A shadow of
loneliness, like a cloud racing across the moons, touched Stanachs heart.
He placed the empty bucket outside the smithy for the forge-boy to refill,
then returned to the fire and the leaping shadows. He watched the old
dwarf patiently waiting for the iron to become steel, faithfully waiting for
the miracle Reorx had worked for his children since the first dwarven
smith had set up a forge.
It is a miracle, Stanach thought. A bonding and a binding. A bond with
the gods, a binding of elements. It was the first lesson Isarn had taught
him. Trust the gods; know the elements; trust your skill. The crafting of
the simplest blade is nothing less than worship. This worship Isarn had
been perfecting for all his life.
The steel came thick from the fire, crimson as the red moon, glowing
like the sun. Stanach, his eyes squinted tightly against the wild heat,
brought the stock to the anvil. Isarn, his large hands gentle now, lifted the
hammer. He was ready to begin the shaping of Stormblade.
Steel is not carved the way wood is, but drawn by being placed upon
the anvil and hammered until it has reached the proper length and taper.
Though he had made countless swords before this one, though hammer
and hand were one, each of Isarns strokes was prudent. Every raise and
drop of the hammer was a considered one. Yet, the considering was done
quickly, based upon both knowledge and instinct. The steel could not be
allowed to cool to the point where it was no longer malleable.
The hammers anthem rang through Isarns smithy, a joyous clamor
which set Stanachs heart soaring. It was the Song of the Masterblade he
heard, and he knew that Isarns hammer and anvil had never sung like this
before. They would not sing like this again until Stanach himself forged

another masterblade.
There were no words to the song but those the master and apprentice
heard in their souls. The song celebrated a blade which was long and slim,
and Stanach knew by the look of the weapon alone that it would balance
perfectly in Isarns hand. The master shaped it with file and rasp, and the
filings fell to the stone floor of his forge like silver dust.
Stanach came to think of the blade as a shaft of argent starlight.
The blade formed, it must now be returned to the fire again to be
tempered. This! Isarn Hammerfell told his apprentice, is the blades last
journey into the fire, its last dance among the flames.
Stanach had heard the words beforeso many times! Now, as he
watched Isarn plunge the blade into the tempering fire, he heard them as if
they were fresh and new.
Isarn performed the functions of this last heating and final quenching as
carefully as all the functions before. Stanach had built the fire to exactly
the right temperature, and now he checked the oil for proper coolness.
Satisfied, he looked to his master and the sword.
In this final heating the blade was not a shaft of starlight, but a crimson
extension of the sun, a blood-red arm of fire.
When Isarn finally plunged the blade into the oil, Stanach watched the
sun-glow cool and fade. Red iron became silver steel, pure as snow, strong
as the mountain itself. Isarn, his lungs filled with bitter steam, sweat
glistening on his face and thick forgemans arms, gently withdrew
Stormblade from the trough.
He wiped the shimmering oil from the blade with a soft cloth, his
strokes gentle caresses, and laid the sword upon the face of his anvil the
way one would lay a newly born babe upon the breast of its mother.
Stanach watched the play of the forge fires reflection in the pure steel,
watched the orange light slide along the keen edge of the blade.
Fascinated, his heart thudding hard against the cage of his ribs, he stepped
between the fire and the anvil.

His shadow did not banish the light from the steel.
Stormblade, perfect in every detail, bore a heart of fire. That heart ran
in a thin streak of crimson light within the cooling steel itself, and no
shadow could dim it.
Eyes wide, old, gnarled hand shaking as though palsied, Isarn reached
for the blade, then drew back his hand as though he could not, or would
not, touch the steel.
Do you see it? he whispered. Oh, lad, do you see it?
Stanach had no words. He nodded dumbly and took a half step back
from the steel. In that moment, as his eyes filled with the beauty of the as
yet unhilted blade, the words of a fragment of poetry so ancient, so often
quoted, and so little believed that it had become the street chant of
children, whispered in his heart.

Mountain dwarves know. These things a high king make:

A Kingsword heart-touched by Reorx the Father.
A soul formed to wisdom in the crucible of strife.
The hammer which legendary Kharas keeps in the mists.

A Kingsword to wield, made for the king, carried by him through all
the days of his reign, and finally buried with him. A soul made wise by the
fires of strife: the flames of battle, aye, and experience and judgements
made, decisions lived by. The Hammer of Kharas, long hidden and
believed to be more than a myth by fewer dwarves each generation.
Yet, myth or truth, no bid for the high kingship of the mountain
dwarves had been made successfully since the Hammer of Kharas had
been lost.

Stanach shivered, suddenly cold despite the sweat trickling down the
sides of his face. He closed his eyes, breathed once deeply to still the
shivering, and looked at the sword again.
The steels crimson streak pulsed gently, as though it were indeed a
heart touched by the hand of Reorx and brought to life. As he watched it,
Stanach s own heart began to take on that newly born beat and rhythm.
Legend told that only a Kingsword breathed like that.
No Kingsword had been forged in Thorbardin in three hundred years.
And yet now
Stanach shook his head.
He knew the legends. What dwarf did not? There had been a line of
high kings once. The last, Duncan, had reigned during the Dwarfgate Wars
three hundred years ago. Hed had a champion and friend, legendary
Kharas of the poem. It was told that Kharas, whose name meant knight
in Solamnic, had crafted a war hammer at Reorx s forge. It was told that
none fought with more skill than Kharas during the bloody and bitter time
after the Cataclysm, when the invading armies of humans and hill dwarves
led by the mysterious mage Fistandantilus had sought admittance to the
mountain kingdoms and access to what they imagined were the riches of
Pax Tharkas and Thorbardin.
Thorbardin had been successfully defended from the attackers, but
more than Pax Tharkas had been lost. Dwarf had warred against dwarf.
This, the greatest of all sins, enraged Reorx. In his fury, the god struck
with the same hammer he once used to forge the world; the one, legend
said, that had helped make Kharass war hammer. He was not pleased to
simply destroy the world that so filled him with anger. He unmade it.
In that unmaking, the face of the world, twisted and torn ab it was by
the Cataclysm, was changed yet again. The Plains of Dergoth became a
seeping and haunted marsh, known now as the Plains of Death. When the
gods hammer struck Zhaman, which had once stood tall and proud, the
fortress of the mages collapsed and fell in upon itself, unleashing a great
scorching storm of sand and stone.

It has been said that the ruins of that place, when first Kharas saw them,
were shaped in the image of a huge and grinning skull. Now called
Skullcap, it is a fitting grave-marker for the thousand who were slain as
they killed their kin.
But the face of the world was not the only thing changed. Soon after the
war, Duncan died. His sons greedily fought for the high kings throne
before Duncan had even been buried. Kharas, grieving for his friend and
king, watched their cynical fight for power and decided that none of them
would rule.
He entombed Duncan in the magnificent burial tower now known as
Duncans Tomb. A place of mourning and magic, it hung magically
suspended above the ancient dwarven burial place called the Valley of the
Thanes.
He then hid his war hammer with the aid of magic and Reorx himself,
and decreed that no dwarf would rule as high king in Thorbarin without it.
Legend or truth, Stanach reminded himself, no dwarf had been crowned
high king since. The histories were filled with tales of dwarven suffering
during times when a high king was needed to rule the people. Times like
these, he thought, when rumors of war seeped in from the Outlands,
accompanied by reports of dragons and the Dark Queens rising.
Stanach wiped cold sweat from his forehead with a shaking hand. None
could rule without the hammer, and none could rule without a Kingsword.
Through the years, many had tried to have such a sword forged, some
because they knew that it would be enough to rule Thorbardin as king
regent, some because they hoped it would point the way to the Hammer of
Kharas. Though these swords had been beautiful works of craftsmanship,
none had ever been a Kingsword. Reorx had never touched the blades,
never gave them the crimson heart of red-glowing steel. . . . Until now.
It was said among the smiths that the voice of every dwarven hammer
striking an anvils plate would be recalled for all time in Anvils Echo, the
huge, dwarf-built cavern connecting Northgate to the city of Thorbardin. If
the legends were true, Stanach thought, the ringing of Isarns hammer
must be sounding the keynote and shaping the echoes of centuries of work

into an eternal song in Anvils Echo.

He_shivered again. When he looked away from the god-touched steel,
he saw that Isarn was weeping. He had crafted a Kingsword for his thane,
for Hornfel of the Hylar.

Chapter One
Though in times past, in the years before the Cataclysm, it had been a
city exactly like every other dwarven-built city. Thorbardin, the last of the
once-great dwarven kingdoms, was now unique in Krynn. Built inside the
mountain, in a cavern spanning twenty-two miles from north to south,
fourteen from east to west, Thorbardin was both a great city and an almost
unbreechable fortress. Southgate, with its fortifications and several
secondary lines of defense, guarded the city at one end. The ruins of
Northgate, destroyed during the Cataclysm and now only a slim, five-foot
ledge above a valley one thousand feet below, warded the way to
Thorbardin from the Plains of Death.
Here the mountain dwarves had lived for centuries among their
smithies and taverns, temples, shops and homes, and even parks and
gardens. They grew their crops in the farming warrens deep below even
the city itself, having abandoned the fields outside Southgate long ago,
after the Dwarf gate Wars. Their light came from crystal shafts, sunk deep
in the caverns walls and ceiling, which guided the suns light into their
city and farms from the outside.
Though Thorbardin itself was called a city, it was composed of six
smaller ones, one for each of the six thanedoms, or realms, which lay
within the mountain. All but one bordered the edges of the dwarf-made
body of water called the Urkhan Sea.
The sixth, and most beautiful, was the Life Tree of the Hylar. Shaped
like a stalactite, it rose from the sea itself in twenty-eight levels. In this
central city, approachable only by boat, the business of government was
conducted. The council of Thanes sat there, presided over by its nominal
leader, Hornfel. It was the only ruling body Thorbardin had possessed for
three hundred years.

The politics and policies of six dwarven realms were woven there,
tangled there, and sometimes fought for there with all the ferocity of a
fierce and independent people. The dwarves watched vigilantly over their
rights and freedoms and would not suffer them to be encroached upon.
Thorbardin was the ancient home of the mountain dwarves. All else,
even their own lands outside the mountain, were the Outlands.
There were places below the great city of Thorbardin where none but
the derro Theiwar mages went. These were the Deep Warrens, and they
were far below even the dungeons and the farming warrens, beyond the
wide, high delved cavern that cradled the city in the mountains heart.
Magic was done in these places, and all of it was black.
Deep in the mysterious realms of the Theiwar lay the Chamber of the
Black Moon. Torchlight, like transparent blood, splashed across the walls
of the high-ceilinged cavern and vanished into the heights. Though upon
first view the place seemed to be a wholly natural and virtually untouched
cavern, the chamber was in truth the result of many years of skilled labor.
On the walls were gilded metal cressets shaped like tightly woven
baskets. These cressets fit neatly into stone niches carved from the living
rock of the walls. The walls themselves were smooth, the stone polished to
display its natural colors in all their striated variety.
The floor at first appeared to be jagged stone. Upon closer inspection, it
proved to be as smooth as polished wood. A thick layer of glass overlaid
the contours of the stone. Poured as liquid fire from a vat, guided by the
arts of magic, it had not settled in the depressions made by the natural
rock, but formed as a clear, thick sheet an inch above the floors highest
point.
Despite the use of four centuries, no place could be found where the
glass floor was damaged. It was said that the glass would never scratch,
not even under the tip of the hardest diamond.
In the center of the floor, crafted by the same magic art, was a simple,
round dais of solid black marble. Upon the dais, as though suspended in
air, rested a thick-legged clear glass table. Behind that table was a deep

seated chair, dressed in soft black velvet.

It was here that Realgar, thane of the Theiwar, studied his ancient
magical tomes, worked his spells, and plotted murders.
This night, while Stanach and his master watched a crimson heart of
fire beat in a sword made for Hornfel, Realgar did not plan a murder.
This night he planned a theft. The murder, he thought, smiling, would
come later, when history would call Hornfels death a traitors execution.
A Kingsword had been forged for the Hylar.
The informer had used no such word as Kingsword. He didnt seem to
know what the strangely marked blade really was. He had simply been
repeating tavern gossip carried by the bucket-lad who served at Isarns
forge.
According to the lad, the sword was strangely marked, the informer
said. Red-scarred steel. Not the perfect blue-silver that usually comes
from the masters forge.
No, Realgar thought now. Not the perfect blue-silver, but a steel blade
with a heart of fire, as the legendary Duncans was said to have.
But was this a Kingsword, made to invest a high king and then be
entombed with him when he died? No dwarven smith had forged a
Kingsword since Duncans had been buried with him three hundred years
before; since Kharas, Duncans champion, had hidden his god-forged
hammer and rendered the dwarves kingless until it could be found again.
But the gods were abroad now, ranging in the worldly plane, and would
manifest their strivings, Good against Evil, in the war some said would
soon rage across Krynn. Dragons, dark creatures of Takhisis, had been
seen on the mountain and coursing the night sky. Realgar bared his teeth
in a slow smile. This night a god may well have visited Thorbardin.
Had Reorx touched Isarns forge fire? Had he transformed simple steel
into a Kingsword?

Isarn must have thought so. Though the master himself had gone from
the smithy in exhaustion to rest, he left his apprentice to hilt the blade and,
according to the bucket-lad, charged the apprentice to stay all night with
the sword.
If it were a Kingsword, Isarn Hammerfell would not leave it
unattended, but would set a guard. Realgars hand fisted. Aye, guard it
well through the night and present it to their thane in the morning, newly
forged and hilted. A mark of the gods favor.
A Kingsword would not make Hornfel high king. Nothing but the
Hammer of Kharas would do that, and even Hornfel could not believe that
the hammer could be found now. Too long lost, too secretly hidden, the
hammer would never again invest a dwarven high king.
But a Kingsword, gleaming with the forges light, could invest a king
regent, and the thane invested would be Hornfel.
Many on the Council of Thanes would welcome Hornfels investiture.
If any could tame the quarrelsome council, it was the Hylar. True, even he
would not be able to tame them often. Yet, even now, with only a
hereditary right to head the council and no more rank than the other five
thanes, he did so more frequently than any other. Far too often the Council
of Thanes moved as Hornfel wished them to move. As king regent,
Hornfel would rule the council. Though none would call him high king, he
would rule Thorbardin.
Realgar hissed a curse. The desire for power had always sung in him,
like the wash and sigh of his own blood through his veins. He had
advanced to the thaneship of the Theiwar not by hereditary means, but
along a wide path cut by murder, deceit, and dark magic. He hated the
Hylar, son of ancient high kings, as naturally as he loathed sunlight.
Slowly, Realgar unclenched his fist. He moved his hand in a graceful
gesture of magic and whispered the words of a summoning spell. A clutch
of shadows pooled before the glass dais, becarhe thicker, and took on a
smoky substance.
Aye, Thane, a voice whispered in the moment before the shadows
had fully become form.

Realgar did not speak until the thief knelt before him. When he did, he
spoke only briefly, gave the thief his charge, and dismissed him. Alone
again, he turned to the planning of Hornfels death.
Isarn might think it a sign of his gods favor that a Kingsword had been
created at his forge. Realgar, who worshipped a dark and evil goddess, felt
Takhisiss hand moving in the currents of the night. By morning, he would
have the Kingsword and be king regent of the six dwarven realms.

Skarn was Realgars thief, but not Realgars man. He wiped the blood
from his hands, thought about killing the apprentice where he lay
unconscious on the stone floor of the smithy, and then saw the sword.
Stanach was forgotten.
Newly hilted, straight and slim, its blade was the color of Solinari itself.
The steels heart was streaked with the suns red light. It lay on the anvils
face where it had been when Stanach, bending over it to smooth some
final work, had fallen to a blow from the hilt of Skarn s dagger.
Skarns plan came fully formed. Realgar owed him a debt of
vengeance. Master, he called the thane, but had never thought of him as
such. Skarn thought of him always as the one who had caused the death of
his son.
A carelessness with magic, Realgar had said. It was no apology, barely
an explanation for why Tourm had died.
Though the derro were a race inclined to the dark arts, Realgar did not
permit mages about him. He was too jealous of his own power. He did,
from time to time, train as assistants those talented enough to learn the
skills for simple spells. Magelings, he called them, and spoke the word
always with a proud sneer.
Tourm had been one of these. He could have been more. With the
proper training he could have gone into the Outlands, traveled to the
Tower of High Sorcery, and taken his Test with the masters of the Black
Robes. He would have passed that Test. The fire of magic had burned in
his soul, the desire to dance with its flame was the thing by which his life

had been ruled.

And Realgar had known that. He must have sensed the potential of
Tourms power. Sensing that potential, he recognized a threat. Hed asked
Tourmno, commanded himto work a spell he knew his mageling had
no skill to control. Realgar had watched him die screaming, while
formless things of darkness and shadow, born in the Abyss, gnawed the
flesh from his bones and tore the soul from his body. Tourm had worked
the spell, it was true, but worked it at Realgars command.
Tourms was a death Skarn had been waiting many years to avenge.
Now hed found the path to vengeance.
Skarn lifted the sword from the anvil and smiled coldly. Realgar
wanted this sword. The thief didnt know why, and he didnt care. He only
knew that when the thane had spoken his orders, his desire for the blade
lay naked in his eyes. More than desire, Skarn thought now. Realgar
needed that sword.
There were secret ways out of Thorbardin, shadowed paths across the
Outlands that even the border patrols didnt know. Skarn knew them. He
left Stanach lying where hed fallen. By the time Realgar knew that the
Kingsword was not coming to him, Skarn was gone from Thorbardin.

Chapter Two
A child woke, whimpering and sobbing from the same nightmare that
haunted most of the eight hundred humans trying to find peace in sleep:
the nightmare of slavery. The stars, dancing silver lights in the black vault
of the sky, watched as a woman rose wearily and lurched, still half asleep,
toward the child. She was not the youngsters mother. She was a woman
who had seen her own child die that same morning. In the two days since
these people, once slaves in the mines of Pax Tharkas, had fled the
mountains, five men, sick and old, and two children had died.
So far, Tanis Half-Elven thought. He stared into the flames of the dying
campfire and toed a bundle of kindling closer. He was tired to his bones.
Eight hundred people went only slowly through the narrow mountain
passes between Pax Tharkas and the South Road.
And the South Road was not a route to freedom. It was only a place to
start.
A footstep, soft as the womans whisper of comfort to the whimpering
child, sounded behind Tanis. He turned, dropping his hand to his short
sword, and then smiled an apology when he saw who stood behind him.
Goldmoon, he whispered. Ive been wondering where you were.
She was lovely, the Plainswoman, and though her face was pale and
lined with the same exhaustion Tanis felt, she radiated a kind of calm
peace that touched the half-elf like a soothing hand. I was looking for
Tasslehoff.
Find him?

Goldmoon smiled. No. Of course not. It was a good excuse to walk

into the hills for a while.
I wouldnt think anyone would be looking for an excuse to do what
weve been doing for two days and will likely be doing for too many
more.
She dropped gracefully to a seat beside Tanis. Sometimes walking
alone is what I need to help me think. Tanis, where are we going to take
these people?
Where, indeed. Tanis cocked his head. There arent many choices.
Verminaard will have his draconians all over this mountain behind us soon
if he doesnt now. Tas blocked the gate well enough, but it wont hold.
Weve got to get these people out of here soon. We cant go back now.
We have to go ahead.
To where?
Theres only one place that would hold them, Goldmoon, only one
place that is anything like safe now.
Thorbardin. Goldmoon shook her head. The dwarves havent taken
any interest in the war these three years, though its been tearing Krynn to
pieces. What makes you think theyll admit eight hundred refugees to
Thorbardin now?
Tanis tossed the kindling onto the fire and watched the flames lick the
twigs and bark. Well reason with them.
Its been tried.
Well plead.
Goldmoon sighed. They hear no pleas, Tanis. Tanis, his green eyes
glittering dangerously, smiled with no humor. Then well make them
hear.
Eight hundred voices, he thought, cannot be ignored.

High on the eagle-haunted slopes outside Thorbardin, there was a series

of narrow ledges which, though they could not be seen from the deep
clefts and valleys far below, have been known to the dwarves for as long
as Thorbardin has stood. It was impossible to climb to the ledges from the
valley. The mountains forbade it. But from within the dwarven fortress
there is a way to reach the ledges. Narrow paths led up from the Southgate
wall, paths that only a mountain goat or a dwarf born in Thorbardin would
use. A wild windsong howls along those paths. Summer or winter, the air
is cold there and thin. Stanach Hammerfell always thought of these ledges
as his own.
He climbed to them now, a filled flask tied to his belt. All day the forge
fires had dragged sweat from him like blood; the steam of the cooling
troughs sucked at his lungs until he wondered if he would ever breathe
again. He needed the peace of the heights now; he needed a place to think.
Stanach propped his back against the eternal strength of the mountain
stone. The first sip of the potent dwarven spirits warmed his belly. Far
down in the valley, night settled to fill the deeps and clefts, covering the
gold and brown leaf-strewn slopes with cold black velvet.
Only an hour ago, Stanach had learned that Stormblade had been found
in the Outlands beyond Thorbardin. From the lands where dragons cut the
sky on wide leather wings and armies fought while gods strove against
each other, whispering rumor came of a young ranger who carried a
sapphire-hilted sword. Two years after its theft the Kingsword was found,
and Hornfel even now prepared to send men to fetch it home. It would be
no easy thing. Hornfel feared that the Theiwar Realgar had also heard the
rumor. The Hylars men would have to be swift and on their guards. A
Kingsword was something Realgar would kill to nave.
There was never a time when Stanach looked into the flames of his
forge and did not remember the night Stormblade had been born of ore,
fire, and water. There was never a time when he forgot that on the night
the Kingsword was born, it was stolen. That night, Isarnhis master, his
kinsman, and his friendbegan a slow descent into grief and madness.
Stanach did not care about the danger. He wanted to bring Stormblade

home.
He would be going, if going he were, with his kinsman Kyan Red-axe.
A border patroller, no one knew the Outlands as well as Kyan did. Or so
Kyan said, and Stanach, for the most part, believed him. Though he and
Stanach were of an age, Kyan had always seemed older. It was his
experience, his look of being always on guard for dangers that Stanach
could only imagine, and the look of being able to handle those dangers
with ease, that made him so. Stanach who never ventured outside
Thorbardin, but stayed close to his home and family, as most dwarves did,
would willingly place his life and safety in Kyans hands.
Were Kyan not safety enough, Hornfel was sending the mage Piper to
accompany him. What, Stanach thought, could possibly happen that Piper
couldnt take care of? Hed known the golden-haired human for all of the
three years that Piper had been at Thorbardin. Jordy, his name was, though
all in Thorbardin called him Piper. Named so by the dwarven children for
all the glad singing of his flute, lanky Piper and Stanach were close
friends. The mages carefree good spirits lightened the dark brooding that
had become Stanachs nature.
The best times were spent in the taverns of Thorbardin, killing time and
kegs of ale. The best times got better when Kyan, in from the borders,
joined them, trying to pass off one outrageous story after another as
Reorxs own truth.
Stanach wanted badly to accompany them. But he needed to find a way
to convince Hornfel that he should be with those sent to retrieve the
sword.
He did not consider this easily. The thought of leaving the mountain
and separating himself from the pattern of well-ordered days frightened
him.
A son of wealthy Clan Hammerfell, his future was assured. He was a
fine craftsman in a respected trade. His father had lately begun to speak of
marriage contracts, and his mothers dinner conversation was now laced
with references to one dwarf maid or another, subtle recommendations
which both amused Stanach and intrigued him. Seventy-five was not a

great many years for a dwarf to have attained. Stanach was young yet by
his peoples reckoning and not in any great hurry to take a wife and begin
his family. But a family, too, is wealth and riches of a kind. That wealth
cannot be inherited from a fathers coffers.
You earn it with trust, his mother had told him. Its not a matter of
filling cradles and watching children grow. Its a matter of giving the
woman you wed, the children you sire, the friends you find, reasons to
trust you. Then, though you go dressed in rags, you are wealthy.
Stanach rested his forehead on his drawn up knees. He was poorer than
any ragged gully dwarf. He was a trust-breaker.
I should have guarded the sword better!
Aye, but he hadnt. The Kingsword had been stolen. Though Isarn did
not blame his apprentice, there was no need to; Stanach blamed himself
and paid the guilt-price every time he saw a forge fire.
A warrior Hornfel would send, and a mage. What need would there be
to send the apprentice who had lost the sword in the first place?
Then Stanach smiled. His cousin Kyan Red-axe was a fine warrior;
Piper, a powerful mage. But neither of the two had seen the sword, neither
would know it but from its description. Stanach saw it every night in his
sleep.
He raised his eyes to the jeweled sky, to the red star gleaming above the
mountains highest peak. Legend said this star was the gleam of Reorxs
forge.
I know I should have guarded it better, he told the god. Father, if
you give the wit-craft to convince Hornfel to allow me to accompany
Kyan and Piper, I swear by Stormblade itself that I will ward it well and
carry it home.
His prayer made, Stanach rose from the ledge and, framing the words
of his request to the thane, returned to Thorbardin. Trust-breaker, he called
himself. He couldnt live with the name any longer. With Reorxs help, he
would find a way to go with his cousin and Piper into the Outlands and

bring Stormblade home.

Chapter Three
Blood soaked the bust of the road. Four dwarves lay dead, and the only
things moving were the wind plucking with cool fingers at their hair and
beards, and a crow screaming in the hard blue sky.
Stanach had no thought for three of the dwarves but to be glad that they
were dead. The fourth was Kyan Red-axe.
Stanach closed his eyes and bowed his head. Even the finest, most
skilled warrior cannot always defend himself from a cowards attack. His
kinsman Kyan Red-axe was dead of a crossbow bolt in the back.
A cairn, Stanach thought. He looked up at the crow. We have to build a
cairn. For a dwarf to die, with no cairn or tomb to shelter his body was a
traitors death. Kyan Red-axe did not deserve that. Stanachs belly twisted
sickly when he realized that this might be his kinsmans fate.
The breeze, light and cool, freshened and carried the fading scent of
sulphur. Smoke, thick and rolling only a few moments before, thinned to
curling tendrils now that the magic fire was gone. Stanach turned and
looked for the mage. He saw him a little way off to the side of the road,
leaning against the broad trunk of an oak. His red robes were the color of
Kyans blood.
Blood spilled for Stormblade.
Piper, we cant leave him here.
Piper shook his head. We cant stay. Theyll be back. Theyre here for
a reason, my friend. The only place this road goes to is Long Ridge or the
sea. Realgars men jumped us the minute we came out of the transport

spell. They were waiting for us. Were in trouble, Stanach.

Stanach, his hand on Kyans chest as though still reaching for a sign of
life, looked closely at the mage. Like most humans. Piper seemed taller
than anyone needed to be. His face white and drawn, his blue eyes dim.
The mage was spent. He sweated in the cold air, and the sweat plastered
his sun colored hair to his face and neck.
Piper had loosed two fire-spells, long arms of flame, the instant he and
the two dwarves had come out of the transport spell. Realgars guards had
been waiting. Now, drained by the exertions of the transport and the fire
spells, the mage would be no threat to anyone for at least a few hours, and
certainly not to the four Theiwar guards still lurking somewhere nearby.
Stanach looked around. The dark line of the forest lay in the shadows to
his right. Barren ground rose to stony hills on his left. Half as high as the
trees, a tumbled pile of stone climbed to the sky at the brink of the woods.
The crows hoarse cry seemed closer now.
Piper pushed away from the oak, passed through the shadows, and
stood behind Stanach. We have to leave him, my friend. Im sorry. But
we dont dare stay here any longer.
Stanach closed his eyes again. Kyan had a war-cry like summer
thunder, like a madmans howl. He had a strong right arm and a warriors
heart, fierce and generous. He would have no eulogy and not even a
hastily built cairn. But he would be remembered.
Stanach got slowly to his feet. He looked up at the sky. The sun had
started its long slide down to the west and soon would be setting. He
didnt want to be caught in the night. Theiwar did their best work in the
dark.
Piper, how far to Long Ridge?
The mage shrugged. Eight, maybe ten miles through the forest. Five
by the road.
Stanach grunted. He picked up his sword, wet with Theiwar blood, and

cleaned it as best he could on the grass by the roadside. He slid it into the
scabbard across his back and slung his pack over his shoulder. Wed
better go. If thats an occupied town as you say, I dont imagine theyll be
letting strangers in after dark, eh?
Likely not. And Piper stopped suddenly and pointed to the crest of
the closest hill.
Dark as wolves, the four Theiwar, only recently fled, had returned. The
shortest among them pointed down toward the edge of the trees.
Piper laid a light hand on his friends shoulder. And wed better split
up.
The four drifted slowly down the slope. Wolves circling. Theyd been
waiting for the mages fire to vanish, waiting to return and finish the
killing theyd started.
Stanach shook his head. No. We stay together.
Pipers voice was shadowy and thin. If we stay together you can be
sure well die together. His fingers tightened on Stanachs shoulder. One
of us has to get to Long Ridge. Lets double our chances, eh? You head
for the town. These woods arent Qualinesti, but neither are you a
woodsman, so dont wander, Stanach. It wouldnt take elven wards and
magic to get you firmly lost in there.
Keep to the shadows and the trees. Have the road always in sight and
youll find yourself in a farming valley before you know it. The town sits
on the crest of the valleys northern slope. Find Stormblade, do what you
have to do to get it. Then get out.
The dwarves began to put distance between themselves. They fanned
out in a semi-circle, still moving slowly. The wind kicked up dust at their
feet so that they seemed to be moving a hands width above the stony
ground. Stanach cocked an eye at his friend.
And you?
Pipers grin was slow and knowing. I still have it in me for one more

spell. Leave me to me, Stanach. One of the guards laughed, a high,

howling sound. And leave them to me, too. Ill lead them a fine chase
and lose them fast. You just find the sword. Ill double back and meet you
here in two or three days. Well be back in Thorbardin before you know
it.
Aye, Stanach said wryly, on the wings of another one of your
transport spells, staggering and stumbling and looking for a place to
vomit.
Piper shrugged. Its better than walking.
Stanach agreed. Wait then. But not forever. If I dont find the sword
soon, were going to have to track it together. Give me a five-day. If Im
not backwith the sword or without itdo what you think is best. He
looked one last time at Kyan and at the blood in the road. Luck, Piper.
Aye, luck, Stanach. And if youre luckless, do what you have to do.
Now go!
Stanach scrambled for the shadows and the trees. Five yards into the
wood, he heard voices raised in oaths to evil gods and turned to look back.
Like a wave of smoke, a thick black cloud funneled down from the sky.
Rustling and a high, nervous chittering filled the air as a sweep of bats,
day-blind and guided only by Pipers will, descended upon the slope of the
near hill like a hundred small carrion crows.
Silently, Stanach blessed his friend for the time that spell purchased
and headed north.

Stanach gagged on the thick stench of old burning. Hed heard reports
of the war from Kyan and his fellows who walked the border patrol along
the western edge of the dwarven holdings. He thought he knew, from their
tales, what he might find here in the Outlands. He had never imagined the
kind of destruction that lay before him now.
At one time, and not too long ago, the valley must have been fertile.

Now, he thought, the sparrows would starve before winter. As Piper had
said, the town lay on the ridges crest on the valleys northern end. Almost
everything below that ridge lay in scorched ruin.
The light of the setting sun fell soft and purple across once-cultivated
fields, showing wide black swaths where the flames had run down the
length of the vale. Here and there, in scattered patches, small sections of
the crops had gone untouched by the fire. These crops, unharvested,
shimmered like narrow veins of gold. The fire-blackened willows along
the banks of the river, which bisected the valley north to south, clawed the
sky like the groping fingers of skeletons. As far as Stanach could see,
farmhouses, barns, and small outbuildings lay collapsed, mere piles of
rubble now.
A dragon had flown through here.
Laughter, rough and drunken, rose from the valley and echoed against
the ridge. Looters, Stanach thought. The place had not been burned that
long ago. It would take the dragonarmy soldiers weeks to finish stripping
the farmhouses and the dead.
Only two weeks ago, Pax Tharkas in the Kharolis Mountains had been
taken by the Highlord Verminaard. The forces of Takhisis had begun their
assault on Abanasinia. The wisdom of Thorbardin had it that these
humans, blind seekers after new gods, and the elves who had recently fled
Qualinesti, had brought this war down on their own heads. They were
living with the disaster theyd called upon themselves now. Or they were
dead of it.
No business of mine, Stanach thought as he slid his sword from its
scabbard and turned away. His business was to find a Kingsword, and at
least two hours of walking lay between him and the town. If he didnt
want to be caught in this wretched valley hed have to hurry.
Still, he was happy to leave the place behind. The wind was picking up
now and it mourned through the ruined fields sounding like newly made
phantoms.

Breathing the dark scent of rich loam, Piper lay as silently as a ghost
behind a tangled pile of uprooted trees. The Theiwar guards were as noisy
as a passing herd of cattle. Brown and brittle, the fallen leaves rustled
beneath their feet, and twigs snapped and popped under their booted feet.
When hed fled into the woods, Piper had regretted that he hadnt the
strength for an invisibility spell. He grinned now as one guard with a
wounded arm tripped over an oaks tangled roots. A blind and deaf mule
could keep out of their way!
He listened for long moments as they went on, calling to each other and
cursing the thick underbrush. Piper hoped they planned to hunt their
dinner in these woods; theyd likely warn every rabbit, deer, and squirrel
for miles around that there were dwarves about.
After a time, they angled north as Stanach had, keeping to the edge of
the wood. Piper shook his head. At the rate these four were going, Stanach
would be in and out of Long Ridge before the Theiwar penetrated the
valley. Stanach, dwarf though he was, and as likely to make a racket as
these four, had at least a two hour start on them. Piper sat up, peered
around, and satisfied himself that he was alone.
Two hours head start, he thought, and not searching for a mage who
had somehow managed to make himself invisible without a spell. Piper
grinned and got to his feet, brushing off his red robes. He squinted up at
the sky, brighter here in the shadows of the trees than it had seemed out on
the road.
Another hour or so before the sun set. Enough time to tend to Kyan.
Piper approached the dead still lying in the road. Like black creatures
of the night, a half-dozen carrion crows cursed at him before taking flight.
One, perched on the shoulder of one of Realgars guards, only found a
better balance and cocked his head, eyeing the intruder with cool
insolence. I see you, the crow seemed to be saying, and Ill see you again.
Piper shuddered and pitched a stone at the bird. The crow took flight,
screaming. Piper bent to his work.
The mage dragged Realgars three assassins off the road and far into

the darkening woods. Like Stanach, he was only concerned about Kyan.
He would make a true cairn for Kyan Red-axe. He looked again at the
sun and judged that he would be commending the dwarfs spirit to Reorx
as the sun turned the stone red with its last light.
Piper thought it was fitting.
Aye he said, speaking softly to the dead as he worked. Youll not go
untombed, Kyan, my friend. When word is brought back to Thorbardin
that Kyan Red-axe is dead, a king regent will mourn for you.
As he worked, the mage also thought. Realgars guards had ambushed
them while he, Kyan, and Stanach were hardly more than a shimmering of
the transport spell in the air. Are we that unlucky he wondered, or are they
that lucky?
Piper dragged the last of the cairn stones into place and went to sit
beside Kyan in the road. The sun was only a red glow and slanting golden
shafts behind the western horizon. The road to the north lay in darkness.
Piper smoothed the dark leather jerkin over the breeched and
bloodstained mail shirt that had failed to protect Kyan Red-axe from a
crossbow bolt. Perhaps, he thought as he bent to lift his friend and bear
him to the cairn hed prepared, perhaps Realgar set guards on this road
because he already has people in Long Ridge who are looking for
Stormblade. They are either going to return this way, or Realgar looks to
make certain that no other searcher gets into town.
He laid Kyan in the cairn, then carefully placed the covering stones
over his body. As he knew it would, the suns last crimson light glowed
across the stones.
Let it be a reflection of the light of the gods forge, he murmured.
Farewell Kyan Red-axe.
Without thinking, he moved his hand to the flute at his belt. While hed
been working, soft, sad notes had been playing in his mind. Piper shook
his head. Kyans dirge would have to go unsung for a while. The notes of
the flute would carry far in the clear night air.

Night settled fast on the road, and Piper sat down in the grass, his back
against Kyans tomb. He watched the first early stars appear in the sky and
marked the places where the two moons, the red and the silver, would
soon rise. He would wait, as hed promised Stanach.
Piper drew a long breath. Stanachs no warrior, he thought, and no
mage. But hes sworn and ready to keep his oath no matter what he meets.
He wondered if he should try to catch up with Stanach but discarded
the idea. No sense crossing paths in the dark. If Stanach found the
Kingsword tonight, hed be back tomorrow.
When you set a place to meet, Kyan once said, you either keep it or you
spend a few days chasing down your friends while they wander around
looking for you.
Kyan had often dispensed his border-lore over ales in Thorbardins
taverns. On one such tour of the citys drinking spots, he mentioned this
bit of wisdom. Piper bowed his head. Hed hear no more such lore from
Kyan Red-axe, no tales of his adventures. Kyan was dead in the Outlands.

Chapter Four
The citizens of Long Ridge did not become seriously interested in
questions of theology until the red dragon struck. The town supported the
religion of the new gods, the religion of the ancient gods, and the more
common religion of indifference. In Long Ridge, the High Seekers were
not zealots, and the believers in the old gods, whom some called the true
gods, were quiet enough about their creed. In some towns, the faithful of
each party broke the heads of unbelievers. In Long Ridge, life had been
too steady, too assured, too sweet for religious arguments.
Fed from the produce of the rich farms along the river valley and the
game abounding in field and wood, Long Ridge proved the old dictum that
a hungry man will fight, while a well fed man will smile contentedly and
look toward his next meal. When Solace to the north of them was
destroyed, the citizens of Long Ridge should have looked to the skies.
They did not.
When he came, red-armored Verminaard, fresh from his easy victory
over Solace, took Long Ridge in a day. He needed no flight of dragons,
only one, his crimson Ember. He barely needed his troops of soldiers, still
stinking of burned vallenwoods and death.
While his army poured into the town, Verminaard and the red dragon
Ember fired the farms in the valley, dealing destruction and death with an
iron-fisted hand. By the time the farms were reduced to burning
wastelands, his troops had surrounded Long Ridge, moved in, and
strangled the town like a torturers band of soaked leather, drying and
tightening around a helpless victims throat.
The Highlord permitted his soldiers enough license to blunt the edge of
their bloodlust. Then, with half the town destroyed and a good portion of

the populace dead or marked for slavery in the mines at Pax Tharkas,
Verminaard called a halt to the looting, raping, and killing. He set Carvath
in command of the occupation with orders to squeeze out of the town and
its citizens whatever wealth remained. A dark eyed, thin young human
captain, Carvath reminded all who saw him of a wolverine, though some
might have thought the comparison unfair to that foul-tempered, vicious
animal.
Hideous draconians, drunken human soldiers, and even goblins owned
the streets of Long Ridge now. They were brutal and savage victors who
took what they wanted when they wanted it and did not hesitate to kill any
who offered protest. They were like wolves feeding in a shepherdless fold.
While the elves cast the blame at the door of the humans, the dwarves,
in their mountain fastness of Thorbardin, filled with bitter and ancient
disdain, held both races accountable for sins of the past and the present.
They would happily have blamed them for sins of the future as well.
In Long Ridge, people tried to survive the occupation of Highlord
Verminaards brutal army day by day. When the slaves in the mines of
Pax Tharkas rebelled and fled the mountains, Verminaard turned his
attention away from insignificant Long Ridge and left the town wholly in
Carvaths hands.
In the dark cold nights of late autumn, the people of Long Ridge
wondered if they should have taken their gods more seriously.

The tavern was called simply Tennys and it was, in as much as it could
be, a free tavern. That meant it was only occasionally visited by the
draconian officers of the occupation and, by Carvaths orders, forbidden to
the common soldiers. It was an open secret that Carvaths spies frequented
the place, though their business most often had to do with things well
outside the ken and concern of the towns citizens. It was for the sake of
these that Carvath had granted the tavern free status.
Tyorl watched Hauk over the rim of his tankard of ale. Hauk was just
the type of man Finn liked best for his rangers, for his Nightmare
Companyyoung and bold, with a grudge against the dragonarmy in

general, and with Verminaard specifically. Every man or elf in the

company had lost friends or kin to Verminaards draconians. Hauks
village had been wiped out by the savage warriors; his old father, his only
kin, had been killed by them. Tyorl, though his own kin were safely fled to
Qualinesti, had lost friends and a homeland. The two were typical of
Finns rangers.
Finns men prowled the eastern borderlands between Qualinesti and the
Kharolis Mountains for the pleasure of wreaking that vengence on isolated
draconian patrols. Finn saw no reason not to take advantage of Tennys
status and had sent Hauk and Tyorl to find out what they could about
Carvaths plans for patrol movements in the area.
Tonight, Tyorl had heard something to confirm the rumor of a troop
movement into the foothills of the Kharolis Mountains. The Highlord
would be moving not only troops, but a supply base as well. Verminaard,
still furious over the loss of his eight hundred slaves and looking for a way
to salve his wounded pride, wanted to take his war south and east. He
wanted Thorbardin, and he wanted to take the dwarven kingdoms before
winter.
The rangerlord would snarl when he learned of Verminaards plans and
most of the snarling would be in the direction of Thorbardin. Finn railed
constantly against the dwarves who would happily let ranger companies
scour the borders of Thorbardin but still held back from entering the war.
Still, it would not stop him from doing his best to torment the Highlords
warriors.
But first things first. Hauk laid his sword on the table beside his hornhandled dagger. Firelight from the deep, broad hearth slid along the
swords golden hilt, with its silver chasing and five sapphires. The light
warmed the coldly perfect facets of the jewels and illuminated the thin
crimson streak which seemed to live in the heart of the steel blade. The
four men drinking and playing at daggers at the next table had fallen
silent.
Aye, the elf thought, trouble. He hoped he could get the both of them
back to Finn in one piece. Tyorl crooked what he hoped was a diverting
smile.

Thats a fine sword, the largest of the men drawled. He rubbed his
fist along his jaw, scrubby with a weeks growth of beard, and lifted his
tankard in salute to the blade. Ale slopped over the tankards rim, running
down his fist and arm.
Recognizing the local, Hauk eyed the sword, his head cocked as though
it had only now occurred to him that the blade was, indeed, a fine one. He
nodded, his smile easy and open. Aye. Fine enough to stand at wager,
Kiv?
Kiv glanced around the table. His three companions nodded, noses
deep in their tankards, eyes tight with the look of men who wished to
betray no interest in a matter for which they had, in fact, a great deal of
interest. Those sapphires were worth a fortune! Kiv looked last at the elf,
Tyorl.
The elf only shrugged. Its his sword. I suppose that means he can
wager it where he will.
Kiv grinned and wiped his hand, wet with ale, along the leg of leather
breeches stiff with old grease. So it is. He turned to Hauk. Well then,
pup, the target will be of my choosing. Miss or refuse it, and the sword is
mine.
Hauk rested his hands lightly on the wide-planked table, still smiling
with disarming innocence. None but the elf saw the chill in Hauks eyes.
With a sigh, Tyorl lifted his tankard and settled against the wall. Hed
known Hauk for three years. Those three years had taught him that he
could depend on Hauk to watch his back in battle, to put himself between
Tyorl and a sword blade if he had to; theyd also taught him not to
interfere in any matter when Hauks eyes looked like ice.
He and Hauk had been playing at daggers the whole night for dinner
and ale, and as yet they had not had to pay for a crumb or a round. It was a
good thing, too. The last of their money had gone for lodging, and neither
had so much as a bent steel coin. Hauk liked to boast that he could feed
them by wit and dagger alone. He usually made good his boast, but Tyorl
sensed they were playing another game now.

No one was offering food or drink as a wager. Kivs belt pouch had
jingled with steel coins at the nights start. Though considerably more
drunk than he had been an hour ago, the big man still had enough sense to
know that it was time to start recouping the nights losses if he wanted to
eat tomorrow.
The sword, Kiv rumbled, against what?
You tell me.
Kiv leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked softly. He folded his
hands comfortably over his belly and stared at the taverns low, blackbeamed ceiling. Everything in my friends pouches.
The three shifted uncomfortably. One made as though to protest. Kiv,
his eyes still on the smoky beams, only gestured absently at the sword as
though to call the mans attention to the gold and silver, the gems. The
man subsided, a greedy light in his small dark eyes.
Hauk snorted. How do I know theres anything left in those pouches?
Kiv snapped his fingers, and the three dropped their pouches on the
table. Neither Hauk nor Tyorl missed the full, heavy sound of coin ringing
against coin.
The elf, his eyes sleepy and hooded, smiled again. The coins werent
worth a hundredth of the sword, but Hauk would not miss the target. On
the far wall someone had painted a gray, vaguely man-like shape. A wine
stain was its heart. All but five of the two dozen strikes at the targets heart
were Hauks.
Around them the rise and fall of a dozen conversations seemed to find a
level and settle. At another table, four townsmen collected fresh tankards
from the barmaid and hitched their chairs around for a better view. Other
men shifted in their seats, picking up the scent of a grand wager.
Across the long common room, two dark-clothed dwarves leaned a
little forward. Not enough to seem very interested, Tyorl noted. That in
itself was interesting when he considered that the two had no attention to
spare for anything but their own conversation until now.

The barmaid, her wooden tray now empty, left the table beside Tyorl.
Weaving through the tables with a sure grace, straight-backed and slim,
she deftly avoided the laughing snatches of the taverns patrons. Her hair,
the color of a sunset and catching the firelight like polished copper, hung
in two thick braids over her shoulders. Pretty creature, Tyorl thought
absently.
Kiv, glancing over his shoulder, settled deeper into his chair, made it
groan, and closed his eyes. The targets the girl, he said softly.
Hauk feigned a look of bemusement and scratched his beard. He
means her tray, doesnt he, Tyorl?
For a moment, Tyorl did not think Kiv meant the tray at all. He took a
long, slow drink, and set the tankard down on the table. As though
considering Hauks question, he looked from the girl, halfway to the bar
now, and back to Hauks dagger on the table. Spilled ale gleamed on the
blade.
Of course he means the tray, Tyorl slipped his own dagger from its
sheath. Dont you, Kiv?
Kiv never opened his eyes. He grinned, a cats lazy, dangerous grin.
Of course. Her tray. Dead center or its no hit.
The man who had objected to the wagering of his purse laughed
nervously. No points for hitting the wench?
Firelight danced down the edge of Tyorls dagger. Kiv opened his eyes,
saw the blade, and shrugged. None at all, he said pointedly.
The room was silent now but for the light sound of the girls footfalls
as she returned to the bar. None stirred or seemed to breathe, and she,
knowing suddenly that she was the focus of attention, turned slowly, the
wooden tray in her hand.
Hauk, his eyes hard as his swords blue sapphires, closed his fingers
over his daggers grip. Tyorl almost heard him thinking: bad wager! But
he wasnt going to back out of it.

Tyorl cursed silently. His own dagger still in his right hand, he
snatched up a tankard with his left and flung it hard.
Girl! Duck!
Green eyes wide, the barmaid dropped and, as she did, she raised the
tray over her head to deflect the tankard. Hauks dagger cut the smokethick air, a flash of silver too swift for the eye to follow.
The girl screamed, someone raised a staggering, drunken cheer, and
then the only sounds heard were the low thud of steel in wood and the
barmaids sobbing gasp. That gasp hung for a long moment in the air, then
vanished under a rising wave of voices and the clatter of a chair falling to
the floor as one of the townsmen at the next table ran to the girl. She had
fainted.
The serving tray also lay on the floor, Hauks dagger quivering in its
exact center.
One of the dwarves at the far end of the tavern, one-eyed and narrowfaced, rose and left the common room. Cool, fresh air swept into the
tavern; the blue haze of hearth smoke danced, then fell still as the door
closed behind him.
Tyorl noticed the movement. His friend, face white above his short
black beard, pushed himself to his feet and sheathed his sword. Dead
center, Kiv.
Kiv closed his eyes again, not turning to see. A slow flush mottled his
face.
Tyorl swept the three money pouches from the table. Go apologize to
the girl, Hauk. Our friends will be leaving now.
Kiv shook his head. Ive got no place to go just yet.
Find someplace. Tyorl ran his thumb along the hilt of his dagger.
Youre done drinking and wagering for tonight, your pouches are
empty.

Kiv looked from Tyorls dagger to Hauks hand where it lay on the hilt
of his scabbarded sword. The decision was taken from him as his
companions rose.
Come on, one said sourly. Youve lost us our coin, Kiv. Leave us
our heads in one piece, eh?
Kiv licked his lips and drew a careful breath. I think weve been
cheated. You interfered, elf.
No, Tyorl said simply.
Sapphires gleamed between Hauks fingers like cold blue eyes. Kiv
moved forward but his companions hand dropped hard on his shoulder
and held him.
Come on, Kiv. Give it up.
Tyorl smiled.
The big man shoved himself hard to his feet, kicked his chair out from
behind him and left. Hauk loosened his grip on his sword and went across
the room to retrieve his dagger.
The talking in the common room wavered and then rose. Tyorl settled
back again against the wall. He couldnt wait to get out of Long Ridge.

The flat odor of spilled ale mingled with the sour reek of unwashed bar
rags. Slumped behind the bar, Kelida clamped her back teeth hard and
swallowed tightly. She closed her eyes and again saw the firelight
streaming on the daggers blade.
She heard a moan and knew the voice for hers. Hed nearly killed her!
Outside in the common room, the hum of conversation had returned to
normal. Tenny, the barman, snapped an order to the scrub boy. Ale
splashed into a tankard from the keg by the door.
Shed worked at the tavern for only two weeks, but the first thing shed

learned was to keep out of a daggers path. Tenny admired the sport and
did not mind that his wall served as a target. Nor did he seem to mind that,
a moment ago, his barmaid had been the target.
Consciousness was returning. Someone had sat her up, splashed her
face with water. Now, footsteps sounded behind her. She turned. It was the
dagger-throwing young man.
The blade was sheathed again. His hand was nowhere near it. His face
gray beneath its weathered tan, he dropped to a crouch beside her, and
Kelida saw that he was perspiring heavily.
Im sorry, he said. His voice was deep, and when he tried to pitch it
softly it broke a little.
You gambled with my life, she accused.
He nodded, I know.
When he held out his hand, big and rough with callouses, Kelida shrank
back. He was like a bear, stocky, broad-chested, and black-bearded.
Unlike a bears, his eyes were blue. She kept her eyes on his, aware
suddenly that he was between her and the door to the common room. He
read anger in her face and sprang to his feet. When he stepped to one side,
the path to the door was clear.
Im sorry, he said again.
Kelida stood, edging toward the door. Just leave me alone!
Its over, he said. He smiled then, a self-deprecating twitch of his
lips. I was sorry the moment the dagger flew.
Before she thought, Kelida turned on him sharply, her hands fisted.
Would you be sorrier if I was dead?
He didnt move. But I did not intend to miss
You gambled with my life! Suddenly she blazed with outrage and
fury. She flew at him, scratching and kicking. She raked his face with her

nails. Before he captured both her wrists in one of his big hands, she saw
blood spring from the scratches above his beard. He held her hands high
and away from his face. She spat in his eye.
He wiped his face with the back of his free hand and drew his sword. In
that moment, Kelida saw his blue eyes very clearly. He stopped and freed
her hands at once.
Im sorry. I did gamble with your life. He balanced the sword across
his two open hands and held it out as though making an offering. The
sapphires on its grip captured what light there was in the dim storeroom
and made the jewels look like twilight. As though it were the soul of the
blade, or a blood stain, a slim crimson streak marked the blue-edged steel.
Kelida backed away, not understanding the gesture.
Take it.
Ino. No. I dont want it.
Its mine to give. He smiled encouragingly. Its what I wagered
tonight. Its yours; rightly won when your life was gambled.
Youre drunk.
He cocked his head. Drunk? Aye, a little, probably. But, drunk or
sober, Im giving you the sword.
When she made no move to accept the weapon he laid it on the floor at
her feet. He unbuckled the plain leather scabbard at his hip and laid that
beside the sword. Saying nothing more, he turned and left.
For a long time Kelida stared at the wealth of jewels, gold, and steel.
Then, very carefully and as though it were a snake and not cold steel, she
stepped around the sword and into the ale and smoke reek of the common
room.
The young man was just walking out the door. The elf, his companion,
leaned comfortably against the wall. He looked up from his tankard, gave
her a long and considering look, and raised his drink in salute. Kelida

avoided his eyes.

The townsmen at a table next to the elf rose to leave. Fresh air gusted
into the tavern again as they left. The table did not remain empty long. A
black-bearded dwarf claimed it. He tossed his pack down on the floor,
unslung an old leather scabbard from his back and laid it near to hand. He
signaled for a drink, and Kelida went back to work.

The one-eyed dwarf lurking outside the tavern had no rank and, worse,
had no clan. The Theiwar were, above all, dwarves of Thorbardin, and so
viewed a clan-reft dwarf as nothing less than a living ghost. He was a
creature to be ignored, to be looked past as though he did not exist. No
unnecessary word was ever spoken to him by Realgars guards. In the
normal course of social interaction, such a one did not exist. None knew
what the clanless guard had done to deserve his fate, though many
speculated.
Some said his mortal offense had been commited at the thanes behest.
Some said he had acted on his own for the sake of the thane. Whatever the
reason for his crime, Realgar kept him close.
The blood of mages ran in his veins and, though he was not a fully
trained mage himself, he was competent enough in the minor workings of
magic to cast small spells and to act as Realgars eyes and voice. Through
his eye the thane saw; with his voice the thane spoke.
His name was Agus. Among the Theiwar he was known as the Gray
Herald. It had been whispered that the Gray Herald could slit a mans
throat and smile into his eyes while doing it.
In the dark shadows of the alley between the tavern and the stable,
Agus now waited for Hauk. The opposite end of the garbage-strewn alley
opened on the stables paddocks and smithy. The Gray Heralds
companion, Rhuel, waited there.
Across the street two dragonarmy soldiers, humans both, walked
unsteadily in the direction of their barracks. Drunk, the Gray Herald
thought, and no problem to me.

From the stable came the quick impatient thud of a horse kicking back
against its stall. The dwarf felt the wood at his back shiver with the
impact. A stableman cursed, and the horse whinnied high.
The taverns door opened. Noise and light spilled into the street, then
faded as the door closed. The Gray Herald stood away from the stable
wall, his dagger in hand. Footsteps, hollow and slow, approached. Down
the alley, Rhuel stepped from the shadows.
The Gray Herald drew a short breath and peered out into the street.
Hauk, head down and thinking, walked away from the tavern in the
direction that would bring him past the alley. The Gray Herald smiled and
moved his right hand in a swift gesture. Magic sighed in the shadow of the
alley.
Hauk stopped at the alleys mouth and cocked his head as though hed
heard his name called. He looked back the way hed come and saw no one.
The street was empty. All he heard now was the muffled sounds of
laughter and conversation from the tavern. The Herald moved his hand
again, the gesture more complicated now.
Though he believed he was continuing down the street, Hauk stepped
into the alley and a sleep spell. The one-eyed dwarf doubted Hauk would
even remember the long, slow fall before he hit the ground.
Kelida turned up the last chair and dropped the floor mop into a
wooden bucket of dirt-scummed water. The tavern was quiet now but for
the banging of pots in the kitchen and Tennys grunts and curses as he
hauled empty ale kegs out to the alley. With the back of her hand she
brushed at the hair escaping in wisps from her braids. Her feet sore, her
arms aching from carrying trays loaded with tankards, she was more tired
tonight than shed ever been. Not even during harvest time, with field after
field of corn, wheat and hay to cut, stack and haul, had she ever felt as
tired as this.
Her throat tightened. Unbidden, sharp tears pricked behind her eyes.
There would be no harvest this year. None next year. Someone, in bitter
humor, had said that the farms were plague-struck. A plague of dragons.
No, Kelida thought now, just one dragon. One had been enough. She

would have nightmares about the day the red dragon struck for a long,
long time.
She turned around at the sound of the front door opening. Some latereturning lodger, she thought, and looked to see who had entered. The elf,
whose friend had wagered with her life at daggers, closed the door quietly
behind him. Kelida bent to lift the bucket, and the elf crossed the room
with three long strides and took it from her hand.
Let me, he said. Where does it go?
Kelida gestured behind the long trestle that served as the bar. Thank
you. She stepped behind the trestle to finish wiping it down.
The elf left the bucket near the kitchen door and returned to the
common room. He leaned his elbows on the bar and, saying nothing,
watched Kelida work.
The bar is closed, she told him, not taking her eyes from her wiping.
I know. Im not looking for a drink. Im looking for Hauk.
Who?
Hauk. Tyorl smiled a little and mimed throwing a dagger. You met
him earlier. Have you seen him?
No. Kelida scrubbed hard at a sticky wine stain.
By the look of you, you dont care if you ever see him again.
She glanced up at him then. His eyes, long and blue, danced with
amusement. Where his friend had been stocky and muscular, this elf was
tall and lean. Hauk had moved with the solid step of a bear. This one had a
deers grace. Kelida did not know how to judge his age. He might be
young or old. One could not often tell with an elf.
Tyorl, he said, as though she had asked his name.
Kelida nodded. I havent seen your friend sincesince he left the

tavern earlier tonight.

He hasnt been back to claim the sword?
He gave it to me.
Tyorl shurgged. Oh, yes. Hauks apologies, when hes had too much
to drink are always extravagant.
Kelida glanced at him quickly. She thought suddenly that the sword
which shed thought so fine and expensive, might more appropriately have
come from an elflords coffers.
Was it yours? He said it was his to wager. But
Oh, its his, all right. Hes the swordsman, lady, Im the bowman. If I
need anything else, Ive my dagger. Tyorl smiled. I taught him to play
daggers and can still beat him. Its enough for me.
In spite of herself, Kelida smiled. That sword would buy half the
town.
It would buy the town and two more like it. He hasnt been back at
all?
No. II have the sword. Shed left it in the storeroom, but wrapped
in old flour sacking and well hidden behind two tuns of old wine. The
wine was Tennys best, and no one dared draw from the barrels but he. He
hadnt had reason to draw from them tonight. Shed thought about the
sword and the riches represented by the gold and sapphires all night.
Perhaps she could sell it and find a way out of Long Ridge, though she had
no idea of where to go.
Shall I get it for you?
He frowned. Youd just give it to me?
What will I do with it?
Sell it.

Kelida shook her head. And then what?

I dont know. Get out of here.
Theres no place to go. My familymy family is dead. No one travels
the roads alone. I certainly wouldnt if I had something worth stealing.
She looked at him closely. Besides, thats your friends sword. Why do
you want me to sell it?
I dont want you to sell it. Im just surprised that you dont want to
sell it. Just as well. Sooner or later hell be back for it.
Kelida returned to her wiping. I said he gave it to me.
Tyorl ndded. Well, you deserve a certain amount of revenge upon our
friend Hauk. He smiled and pushed away from the bar. Dont give it
over quite so easily, lady. Make him sweat a little for it, eh?
Kelida said nothing, but watched as Tyorl left the common room and
mounted the steps for the rooms above. She retrieved the sword, an
awkward bundle in the old brown sacking, and took it to her cold, drafty
attic room at the top of the tavern.
The room smelled of the stableyard which it overlooked and the sour,
smoky reek from the tavern, to which she had almost become accustomed.
The lodging was fully two thirds of her pay. Meals and a few coins were
the other third.
Kelida sank down on the pile of straw and rough woolen blankets that
served her as a bed. She unwrapped the sword, slid it a little way from the
simple, undecorated scabbard, and watched gold and silver, sapphires and
steel catch the faint light of the stars.
Hauk had wagered all this wealth on the skill of his hand! Was he mad
or had he simply been drunk? His clothes, hunting leathers and tall boots,
made her think of a ranger.
His voice, she decided, was better used to shouting the triumph of a
hunting kill or roaring a challenge. It hadnt dropped to soft apology
easily. Suddenly, she found herself looking forward to morning and

Hauks return for the sword.

Then she remembered that she was angry with him. A little revenge,
the elf had said. Kelida smiled. She supposed she did deserve a little
revenge.

Chapter Five
The stones wore badges of blood, the marks of the passage of eight
hundred people. The refugees stretched out in a long, straggling line,
staggering, lurching, falling. Some who fell picked themselves up. Others
lay, tasting red dust and shuddering with cold, until they were passed by or
helped to their feet. If helped, they thanked their rescuers when they had
breath to. If passed, they picked themselves up. If they did not, they were
dead.
Women with children in tow, babes at their breast, followed their men.
Hungry, always hungry, they looked restlessly to the sides of the ragged
line for signs of something to eat. The plains were empty. Nothing grew
here, and the game had long fled before the army of refugees.
Hungry. They were always hungry.
The hills rose before them, passed under bleeding feet, and rose again.
These were the Hills of Blood, red as their name, heartless crests of bitter
stone and choking dust. The water here was brackish, foul tasting. No one
stopped to fill a water flask. No one lagged behind to quench a thirst as
painful as hunger.
Few thought to wonder if Thorbardin would be their place of sanctuary.
Few had the strength to wonder, and none had the strength to consider
what would happen to them if the dwarves refused them shelter.
We will make them hear, Tanis had said.
That was enough for people who had no place else to go.

Hold! Enough! Gneisss cry for order cut through Ranees outraged
tirade like lightning through a thick summer night. The Great Hall was
hung with tapestries, each vividly depicting a scene from dwarven history,
each skillfully woven with shimmering, richly colored threads. The
hangings did not serve to mute Gneisss deep bellow. Gneiss tried to
ignore the headache thundering behind his eyes.
The hangings had never muted the roar and the rage of the battles
waged in this Court of Thanes. Gneiss did not know why they should now.
Torches in silver-chased cressets flickered, as though before a storm
wind. Shadows ran up the guardian columns and mingled with the
darkness of the vaulted ceiling. The six dwarves meeting in the Court of
Thanes fell silent.
Hornfel, Hylar and the son of high kings, waited patiently for calm to
settle. Realgar, dark-eyed, dark-souled derro mage and plotter of murders,
watched Gneiss like a snake watching prey. Ranee, his ally, of the
murderous temper and mind-clouding furies, stood stiffly, waiting not for
a place to speak, but for his rage to cool enough so that he could carry on
his tirade. Tufa, combed his fingers through his red beard in a way
carefully chosen not to offer insult, but neither to offer encouragement. He
looked away first. The gully dwarf Bluph looked at nothing but the inside
of his eyelids and snored gently, sleeping even through the thunder of
Ranees outrage and the lightning strike of Gneiss cry for silence.
Ranee, the Daergar thane, clenched his fists, his jaw as hard as stone.
He was not easily silenced. By the gods forge, it is enough! Eight
hundred? His voiced dropped, dangerously low. I say no. Are we to
welcome every tramp and vagabond who makes his way to our gates?
No. He snorted scornful dismissal. Next thing youll ask is that we issue
invitations to hill dwarves.
All eyes turned to Gneiss, till now quiet. Gneiss did not smile, though
he could have. He prided himself on his control. He glanced at Tufa, the
Klars thane and ruler of the only clan of hill dwarves now living in
Thorbardin. Ranees arrogant, disdainful remark told. Tufas brown eyes,
normally mild and patient, hardened.

Here is one, Gneiss thought, just ready to fall into Hornfels camp.
Hornfel knew it and smiled. Aye, Gneiss thought, hide your smile in
your beard, my friend. You see that Tufa is yours now.
Gneiss sighed and drummed his fingers on the broad marble arm of his
throne. Bluph of the Aghar would also cast his vote Hornfels way. He
always did so as long as he was awake. The gully dwarf was a pathetic and
useless creature at almost any juncture, but Gneiss did not think that
Hornfel was prepared to scorn any aid in his bid to grant refuge to
outsiders. Even that of a casteless gully dwarf.
At this moment, Bluph was snoring and gurgling, his head pillowed
blissfully on the stone arm of his throne. Bluph had been happily doing so
throughout the unprecedented evening council and even during Ranees
most thunderous roaring.
Gneiss still didnt know where he stood upon the issue of admitting
eight hundred human refugees to Thorbardin. He, like Ranee, had no
desire to fill Thorbardins halls with humans. He was not, at the last,
surprised that the Hylar harbored a kindly feeling or two toward them.
After all, Hornfel had kept that gangling, yellow-headed mage close to
him for the last three years. Where was that odd fellow, Piper, now?
Realgar leaned against the arm of his rightful throne with the bored
attitude of one who watches endlessly quarreling children. The Theiwar
throne held several scrolls, the sword he habitually wore to council
meetings (which some believed was more than ceremonial), and his light
cloak. Gneiss shivered as Realgar, sensing eyes upon him, turned and
smiled.
It was the bloodless smile of a snake stretching wide jaws as he basked
in a warm fall of sunlight.
Caught by the snakes eyes, Gneiss did not look away. Shuddering, he
had the sudden impression that Realgar had been eavesdropping on his
thoughts. Dark magics and darker passions lurked like shadows in the
derro mages flat, black eyes. They seemed to display the fierce
satisfaction of one who carefully lays a plan that cannot go awry.

What plan? A cold thread of fear wove through the Daewars belly and
he forced himself to look away. It was no secret that Realgar opposed
Hornfel. None lived today who could rightfully take the empty throne of
the high king. None ever would. But there was a rumor that a swordsmith
had forged a true Kingsword, that it was intended for the Hylar, and that
blood had already been shed in dispute over its possession.
Gneiss gave the whispers scarcely more credit than the idea that
someone would one day find the Hammer of Kharas. But . . . if the rumor
were true, Hornfel might preside as king regent. That was not a thing
Realgar would ever tolerate. The Theiwars passion for power ran as deep
as his dark soul.
Aye, Hornfel, Gneiss thought, I dont know if there is a Kingsword.
But I do know that youd better watch that ones eyes carefully. They may
someday be the gauge of how long you have to live.
Gneiss leaned forward. I will tell you this: there are points to be
considered on both sides. Aye, this war is no business of ours. We did not
cause it, and we dont fight in it. What the humans and the elves have
brought upon themselves, they must deal with themselves.
Ranee drew a breath to speak. Gneiss fixed him with an icy stare and
continued. Yet, the Hyiar is right. We can choose to ignore the war, but
that wont make it vanish. And it draws closer.
The scouts report has it that these refugees have only now set out
from Pax Tharkas. They are eight hundred and they are weak. They are
not clamoring at the gate yet. Retire the matter. Think about it. It is also
time to start thinking about how we will defend Thorbardin when there are
dragonarmies crossing the Plains of Death and not ragged war refugees.
Hornfel, silent till now, glanced at Gneiss. There was more Gneiss
could say, but he chose to defer to the Hylar.
When he spoke, Hornfels voice was low and even. The Daewar is
right. We have time. But its marked by the sound of the footsteps
approaching our gates. Think, my friends, and think well. Like it or not,
were going to need allies soon. Pax Tharkas has not fallen. Its still a
dragonarmy stronghold. Verminaard is not dead. The slaves he kept in our

ancient mines have been freed, but not by an army. If the scouts report is
true, those eight hundred have been freed by a band of only nine
adventurers.
Hornfels eyes narrowed. Golden torchlight gleamed in the depths of
his chestnut colored beard. Those refugees, wanted or not, are heading
for Thorbardin. Make no mistake . . . Verminaard knows it.
Aye, Ranee growled, I dont doubt that he does. Why, then, do you
want to welcome them?
Gneiss heard stone and ice in the Hylars voice when he replied.
Because, Ranee, we are dwarves of Thorbardin and we make our own
choices. Verminaard does not dictate where and when we offer our
hospitality.
He rose abruptly and gestured toward Bluph, still snoring and
muttering. The first good suggestion Ive heard from the Aghar all year.
Its late and we are all tired. Well meet again tomorrow.
Gneiss watched as Hornfel strode from the Court. It was traditionally
his right as a Hylar thane to open and adjourn council meetings.
He rarely exercised the right, Gneiss thought wryly, but when he did,
he did so with not so much as a by-your-leave. The Daewar rubbed the
heel of his hand thoughtfully, as Ranee and Realgar exchanged glances.
Realgar traveled the dark tunnels beneath the fanning warrens with
ease. He carried no torch, nor was he obliged to feel his way. He was
Theiwar, who not only tolerated the dark, they craved it. Here in the
absolute blackness of the tunnels, his perfect night vision guided him.
Widely dilated pupils obscured the brown rims of his irises. A dim red
glow the color of the stone for which Realgar was named burned steadily
within the depths of his eyes. Anyone looking into those eyes would think
of bottomless flame.
Though he had spent all of the day trying, Hornfel had not yet won the
Council of Thanes to his thinking. But he was close. It was a schemers
ploy, Realgar thought scornfully, to invoke the sacred tradition of dwarven
hospitality. It was a ploy that might work. Few, if any, of the council

members actually wished to offer refugeand certainly not hospitality

to eight hundred vagabonds. Yet, none would view kindly a challenge to
their right to do so.
As he traveled deeper into the heart of the mountain beneath
Thorbardin, Realgars thoughts became darker, taking on the lightless
aspect of the tunnels.
He was a powerful speaker, this Hylar who pretended to the regency.
Given enough time, he might convince Gneiss to cast his vote with the
other witlings who then would open Thorbardins gates to the ragtag
legions of humans who were fleeing a war of their own making.
Realgars fists tightened at his side. In the midst of the rant and the rage
of Ranees opposition, the Theiwar had felt, like a cold blue shadow on
snow, the touch of the Gray Heralds mind. At that moment, hed seen the
Gray Herald standing against a mud-spattered stable wall in a rain-wet
alleyway in Long Ridge.
Theyd found the ranger. Theyd not found the sword.
Ranees fury was a childs pouting when compared with what tore
through Realgar in that moment. None knew and none saw. Not even
Gneiss, so intently staring. But the Gray Herald had heard his curse.
Earlier, hed tracked the ranger with the Kingsword. When they set to
waylay him, hed had it. Now, they didnt know where it was.
Realgar snarled. That other ranger, the elf, must have it!
Or . . . who? Kyan Red-axe was dead. Hornfels pet mage and mad
Isarns apprentice were still near the town, but as yet knew nothing of
Hauk and Stormblade. They were busy eluding Brek and his guards. The
human must be secured, and the elf must be shadowed.
Bring me this ranger, he had communicated to Agus, even as he
smiled at Gneiss. Ill know who has the sword within the hour.
At that moment the Gray Herald had laid his hands upon the head of
the young man and spoke the words of a transport spell. Rhuel and Agus

now waited with the ranger, Hauk, in the depths of Thorbardin.

The tunnel widened, its weeping walls swept back and up to a suddenly
heightened ceiling. Realgar bared his teeth in a deadly smile as he entered
a broad, roughly circular cavern. The place was as dark as the tunnel had
been, its walls as rough and damp. Realgar crossed the floor, smoother
here, and stood over the body of the unconscious ranger.
Hauk stirred. The Theiwar smiled and waved absently, dismissing his
two guards.

Chapter Six
In an alley, behind what had once been the most prosperous street of
shops in Long Ridge, an old kender squinted against the wet night wind
and brought his face closer to a locked door. The stink of burned wood
filled the alley, and the kender sneezed once, then again. This shop was
among the very few on the street still undamaged. The dragon had missed
it, intentionally or not, and even the looting soldiers had not damaged it
too much. The kender was having a difficult time with the lock.
Lavim Springtoe was absolutely not prepared to consider that he was
getting too old to finesse even this simple lock. He was sixty, and that was
not a great accumulation of years at all. Why, Lavim, like every kender,
knew that Uncle Trapspringer had lived until well past seventy before he
even admitted to feeling less than youthful.
Actually, Uncle Trapspringer had reputedly lived until the ripe old age
of ninety-seven before the dire phantom of Rigars Swamp finally got him.
For his part, Lavim was not certain that any dire phantom had actually
gotten Uncle Trapspringer. That doubtful piece of information came
from his fathers cousins aunt, and it was well known in the family that
Aunt Evalia could never get the facts straight. Lavim had always heard
from his mothers sisters nephew, a far more reliable source who was a
connection of Uncle Trapspringers via a second cousinthat it was
Uncle Trapspringer who got the dire phantom. Certainly it made for a
better story.
The kender, a little stooped and very white-haired, surveyed the alley
again, listened carefully for approaching foosteps, heard none, and
returned his attention to the back door of the shop.
His eyes were not weak, his sight was simply impaired by the miserable

pall of soot and smoke that had become what used to be air in Long Ridge.
If his hands shook, Lavim was certain that they did not shake with age but
with hunger. The place he sought entry to being a bakers shop, Lavim
thought it likely that there would be something to eat lying about that no
one was interested in. Afterwards, he would fix the lock so it locked even
better.
He tossed his head, flipping his long white braid over his shoulder, and
set to work again. All the fine lines of his wrinkled brown face deepened
with his concentration. He leaned a little against the door, not so that his
long, canted ear might be closer to the lock to hear the tumblers fall, but so
that he could brace his shoulder for perfect balance.
It is said that eye level for a kender is door-lock height for the same
reason a chipmunk has extra cheek space. A twist of the locks horizontal
bar brought the satisfying snick! of a tumbler tumbling. A second twist,
and then a third, and the lock was a lock no more. Obviously, Lavim
thought as he stepped silently into the back of the baker shop, this lock
was not meant to keep anyone out. In its own way it was an invitation.
A small loaf of brown bread lay on a table. Lavim pocketed it and
thought how pleased the baker would be to discover that someone had
saved his shop from the depredations of the mice that would surely have
trooped through the place once they discovered food lying about. By
removing three small honey cakes from a nearby shelf, Lavim rescued the
baker from rats. He defended the hapless shopkeeper from ants when he
filled a small pouch with sweet rolls, and considered his nights work done
when he scooped four small muffins into his pocket, thereby saving the
poor baker from an infestation of roaches.
Satisfied that the baker would return to his shop in the morning a happy
man, Lavim Springtoe slipped back out the alley door, reset the improved
lock, and headed for the tavern.
He wondered whether the tavern still stocked dwarf spirits. The current
occupationinfestation, his father would have saidmade the possibility
highly unlikely. Few supplies were getting into Long Ridge these days,
and those few were rapidly claimed and consumed by Verminaards army.
However, Lavim was a forward looking fellow. His father, who had

possessed an endless store of kender common knowledge and passed most

of it on to his son, liked to say than an empty pouch will never be filled
unless you open it.
Lavim set out for the tavern chewing a large bite of honey cake and
fortified with his fathers optimism.
He was thirsty from all his work and good deeds, and a few hours still
remained before the watch would cry curfew.

Stanach felt oppressed by the noise and heat of the tavern. The place
smelled of wet wool and leather, sour wine and flat ale spilled long ago.
But these were no worse than the odors in some of the taverns he and
Kyan had frequented in Thorbardin. His sense of oppression was rooted in
the overwhelming feeling that he was a stranger among strangers. Tennys
held more humans than Stanach had ever seen. Only a few of them, small
groups here and there, seemed to know each other. Others stood shoulder
by shoulder with fellow drinkers, yet seemed to stand alone.
The sound of their talking, the closeness of them, made Stanach wonder
if there were enough air in the place for all to breathe.
We need more air in our lungs than you do, Piper would have said. The
mage would have made the remark, Stanach thought, with a wry smile and
a cocked head, if he were here to make it. Stanach didnt know where
Piper was and he didnt even know whether the mage was still alive.
He smeared a ring of ale on the scarred table and scowled. Piper had
survived. He was, after all, a mage. And a clever one, at that. He was also,
Stanach realized, a stag surrounded by a pack of wolves. But a stag can
break free and do serious harm to the pack. He held onto that thought and
prayed that Piper had been able to lose Realgars guards in the woods, as
he had.
Stanach had come into Long Ridge at sunset last night, a cold wind at
his back. Hed looked first for a place to lodge and then for a place to eat.
Hed found both in Tennys.

Food and a room were not all hed found. Stormblade was, indeed, in
Long Ridge. At least it had been last night.
Stanach tangled his fingers in his glossy black beard, tugging a little.
When hed come into the tavern last night, the place buzzed with the story
of a rangers grand wager: his sword against the money pouches of three
companions.
A magnificent sword! Gold hilted and silver chased . . . five wonderful
sapphires on the hilt . . .
A grand wager, Stanach thought. Aye, a grand wager. Though hed
looked for the ranger and the sword, even made discreet inquiries, he saw
no sign of them last night. He had found no trace of Stormblade today
either. The sword, and the ranger who had wagered it at a game of
daggers, seemed to have vanished.
He was with an elf, one man had said last night. Stanach took a long
pull on his tankard of ale and looked to the bar. The only elf hed seen in
the place, last night and tonight, was the tall, slim fellow talking now to
the red-haired barmaid.
Stanach looked closely at him. He wore hunting leathers and high
boots. A dagger was sheathed at his hip, a longbow and full quiver
strapped across his back. He bore his weapons with casual ease. Stanach
thought he had a look about him of one who had spent more time in the
woods than in taverns. A hunters look. Or a rangers.
The barman called for the serving girl. His bellowing rose over the
sound of men talking, the scrape of chairs, and the hiss and snap of the fire
in the hearth. The call died in the mans throat. As though by command,
the tavern fell silent. The door had opened and the dry, musty odor of
reptile filled the room.
Givrak, someone whispered, nearly choking on the name.
Stanachs first impulse was to close his eyes, to shut out the sight of
what shoved through the silent crowd. When he was a child, Stanach had
nightmares about things that looked like Givrak. He did not close his eyes,
though, but looked. Every instinct warned him that this Givrak bore close

and careful watching, if only so that one knew where to run when running
became necessary.
Like the creatures of Stanachs evil dreams, Givrak was as big as a tall
man, broad in the chest and shoulders, and had a reptiles head, flat and
spine-crested. Wide, claw-tipped leathery wings were folded over his
back. Though the things in his nightmares did not wear chain mail, Givrak
did. Stanach, from where he sat at a corner table near the door, could not
tell where the mail left off and the draconians scaly hide began. His
thickly muscled legs did not seem to be meant for walking, though Givrak,
stalking the space before the bar, walked well enough on them. Worse,
though, were his flat, black eyes.
Nothing like pity or mercy had ever moved in those eyes.
The draconian lifted his head. The light of the hearth fire and small
lanterns glittered and danced along mail and skin.
The draconian moved slowly, like a snake rising from its coil. Stanach
had not been in the town long, but two nights and a day were enough to
know that in Long Ridge a draconian in foul temper did not often go
victimless.
Everyone in the place held perfectly still. The barmans rag hung in his
hand like a limp and dirty flag of surrender. Around the common room,
men sat or stood in perfect silence. The place stank of fear. Stanachs
sword lay across the table. He slid his hand closer to the hilt.
The barmaid, her face the color of whey, the freckles on her cheeks
standing out like fever blotches, drew a small, tight breath, Givrak turned
at the sound.
The brutish draconian scented the girls fear. His narrow, forked tongue
flickered around lipless jaws. Stanachs fingers closed around his swords
grip.
His movements slow and easy, the elf stood away from the bar. His
unstrung bow would be useless to him, but his right hand hovered near his
dagger. Briefly, Stanach was aware of the elfs cool blue gaze as it judged
him, quickly satisfied. The dwarf glanced at the girl. Her eyes were the

color of emeralds and huge with fear.

It was then that the kender Lavim Springtoe sauntered into the tavern.
Dressed in bright yellow leggings, soft brown boots, and a black,
shapeless coat that fell nearly to his knees, he was old and wore his long
white hair in a thick braid. A fine netting of wrinkles made his face look
like that of an ancient pug-nosed child. He saw the draconian right away,
but did not reach for the hoopak staff strapped across his back. Instead, he
strode purposefully toward him, dusted his hands on his yellow leggings,
and peered up at Givrak.
There, he sighed. Do you know Ive been looking all over the town
for you?
Fearless as kender are, Stanach thought he saw the old ones breathing
hitch just a little when Givrak turned toward him. But then, maybe not.
The draconian scowled, an expression as twisted and fearsome as any
Stanach had ever seen. For me, little thief?
The kender did not flicker an eye at this gross insult, but grinned
instead. His voice was smooth and surprisingly deep for one so small.
Yes, for you. Theres someone looking for you, and he sent me to find
you.
Who?
The kender shrugged. I dont know who he is. He was wearing red
armor and carrying a big helmet. You know, that helmet looked just like a
dragons head. It had horns and a mouthpiece that looked like fangs. Well,
at least, I think it looked like a dragonthe helmetI mean. Ive never
really seen a dragon except for that red one that flies over every day. But
then, it flies so high I cant really see its face and
Givrak snarled. The kender sighed as though over the impatience and
ill manners of the draconian.
Anyway, he said something about troop deployments, or the Highlord,
or something like that.

Givrak hissed. He, as well as anyone in the room, recognized the

description of Carvath, the captain who commanded the occupation of
Long Ridge. And if Carvath were an invocation he could ignore, the
mention of the Highlord was not. None knew these days where
Verminaard, still smarting from the loss of eight hundred captive slaves,
would unleash his temper next. The draconian snarled again, and turned,
kicking a table on his way out, sending tankards and goblets spinning to
the floor. The door was slammed ^vith enough force to rattle the walls.
The tavern was silent for a moment longer. Then, a groundswell of
murmuring began which turned quickly into a wave of voices, some
frightened whispers, others angered.
The serving girl scurried around the bar to clean the mess. Stanach
scooped up a goblet and two tankards and handed them to her. Close,
lass.
Oh, aye, the girl said, her face still white. Im thinking Ive just
spent all my luck for the year.
Youve made a good purchase with it, if you did.
The girls smile of agreement was wobbly.
Stanach turned back to his table. The kender had claimed a seat there.
A runner for a dragonarmy captain, Stanach thought, is not one Id like to
share a table with. He moved to find another place when the kender waved
him over. The old ones eyes, green as springs leaves, were bright with
suppressed amusement.
Come on, join me. Youre just the person Ive been looking for.
Stanach eyed the kender carefully, checked the placement of anything
that was valuable to him, and resumed his seat. He was curious.
Me, kender? I thought it was Givrak you were looking for.
The kender shrugged. No, not really. Givrak, you say? Is that his
name? When I walked in and saw him, I figured it would be better for
everyone if he had an appointment somewhere. He grinned. They tell

me Im getting old, but I can still think young.

Stanach laughed. You certainly can. Can you think far?
The kender cocked his head. What do you mean?
What happens when Givrak gets to that captain and finds out that it
hasnt been sent for at all?
Oh. The wrinkles around the kenders long green eyes momentarily
knit into a frown. But the smile was resilent. I was hoping it would take
Givrak at least a few hours to track him down and find that out.
Aye, you hope. Perhaps youd better talk fast, just in case. Why are
you looking for me?
Well not you especially. Just a dwarf. My father used to say that if
youre going to order dwarf spirits, check with a dwarf first. Hell tell you
if its worth drinking. Is there any spirits here, and is it worth drinking?
Stanach eyed the little kender doubtfully. A good mug of dwarf spirits
had been known to send brawny humans sliding for the floor. This kender,
sapling thin and seemingly frail, did not look as though he could stand up
to even one sip of the clear, potent drink.
Stanach shrugged. The question was moot. This tavern stocked nothing
more than ale and pale elven wine. Not a drop, he said. Youll have to
make do with wine or ale. Whats your name, kender?
Lavim Springtoe. The kender extended his hand. Stanach, thinking of
his fathers ring on his finger, not to mention the copper rivets on the
sleeve of his leather jerkin, did not accept La vims hand, but smiled
instead.
Stanach Hammerfell of Thorbardin. Ill stand you a drink of whatever
you want, Lavim Springtoe, and well wish for dwarf spirits instead.
It had to be good enough. Lavim offered to go for the drinks, but
Stanach shook his head. By the look of him, this Lavim Springtoe had
been around long enough to have acquired the skill to filch the teeth out of

a dragons head. Let him pass once through the common room and the
owners of missing money pouches, daggers, pocket knives, wrist braces,
and Reorx only knew what else, would shortly be eager to hang him by his
long white braid from the nearest roof beam.
Stanach went himself for the drinks. When he stepped up to the bar, the
elf nodded to him, an acknowledgement of what had briefly passed
between them when Givrak had turned on the serving girl. Stanach
returned the nod. Now was not the time, here was not the place, but he
knew that when he could approach the elf on the subject of Stormblade, he
would stand a good chance of having his questions heard, if not answered.
Stanach was grateful for the chance that had brought the draconian
Givrak into the tavern.

Lavim Springtoe peered into the quickly approaching bottom of his

fourth mug of ale and deftly but absently relieved a passing townsman of
his belt pouch. He was thinking hard, barely knew that hed captured the
purse, and was rather surprised when Stanach stuck his large, scarred hand
almost under his nose.
Give it over, the dwarf said firmly.
Lavim raised an eyebrow. Give what over? Oh, this?
Aye, that.
Lavim held up the soft leather pouch and looked at it as though he did
not quite understand how he came to be holding it. Careless of the fellow
to have lost it. Lavim hefted the pouch. It was heavy with coins. They
clinked comfortably when he tossed the purse from one hand to another.
Stanach caught the pouch in midair. He turned, tapped the townsman
on the shoulder and offered the purse.
The man grabbed the pouch swiftly from Stanachs hand. He would
have raised a protest but saw something forbidding in the dwarfs
expression and only offered a grudging thanks. Stanach nodded curtly and

returned his attention to his mug of ale.

Hes not thinking about the ale, Lavim decided, hes watching that elf
at the bar for some reason.
The least perceptive kender can smell a secret when he is within a mile
of its holder. Lavim Springtoe watched Stanach as carefully as the dwarf
listened to the bits and pieces of conversation drifting around him.
Though Stanach had willingly stood for all the kender wanted to drink,
sometimes signaling the barmaid, sometimes going himself for the refills,
he listened to Lavims chatter only absently, and only absently answered.
Lavim fell silent watching the firelight smoldering in the smoky amethyst
ring on Stanachs finger and flashing from the small silver hoop he wore
in his left ear.
Nothing about Stanach seemed to settle into a firm impression. The
ring made Lavim think of someone who wore wealth casually; the silver
hoop conjured images of highwaymen and bandits. The dwarfs bearded
face seemed at first to be settled into a fierce and forbidding expression.
There were moments, however, when he wasnt remembering to look
fierce, when the vulnerability of youth softened eyes black as coal and
strangely flecked with blue.
This Stanach, Lavim thought, is quieter now than hed been at first, like
a tightly shuttered house. Closed things, locked things, were Lavims
favorite challenge.
Lavim leaned forward, elbows on the table, and began, by what he
considered subtle means, to delve for the secret. He started with Stanachs
sword. Scabbarded in old, well-oiled leather, the swords hilt was simple,
undecorated. The place where the guard met the hilt was not smoothly
joined, though Lavim could see that this was the weapons only fault.
I see, Lavim said as though hed just noticed, that you dont carry an
axe for a weapon.
Stanach nodded.
I only mention it because Im not sure Ive ever seen a dwarf without

his axe.
Most of us prefer axes.
But you carry a sword. Its a kind of a beat-up old thing, isnt it? Not,
of course, that it isnt a good blade. Im sure it is, but I just wondered.
Its old.
Was it your fathers, maybe?
Stanach looked up then, his eyes sharp and cautious. Its mine. Then,
as though aware of the abruptness of the answer, he smiled a little. I
made it.
Youre a swordsmith! Of course, I should have known by your hands.
The skins all scarred and pitted. From the forge, right?
Thats right.
Have you made a lot? Does it take long to make a sword? Youve
made daggers, too, Ill bet, and lots of other things. Did you ever make an
axes blade? They say that a dwarven blade is the best you can find and

Stanach laughed aloud, genuinely amused. Let a kender get in one

question and you cannot possibly live long enough to answer the
thousands of others that follow! Whoa, now easy, Lavim Springtoe. Yes,
Ive made a lot of swords. This one I made first. The blade is good, the
balance maybe not so good, but Im used to it. And yes, daggers, too, and
axe heads.
Lavim glanced again at the dwarfs hands, folded now around his
empty mug. Though some of the scars were silvered with age, others were
more recent. One, a long burn along his right thumb, still looked raw. No
camping fires burn, that.
It is as if he left his forge only yesterday, Lavim thought. But
Thorbardin was hundreds of miles away. Still, here he is. By the look of
him, he is one of the Hylar, one of the ruling clan at Thorbardin. Those,

Lavim knew, left the mountains about as happily as a fish leaves water.
Long Ridge lay squarely under Verminaards heel. Ember, the
Highlords red dragon, made daily passes over the town. Those people
who had not been killed in the battle for the town were only barely
surviving here. Why would anyone, except himself, of course, come to
Long Ridge? Lavims curiosity was like a spark in tinder.
What would bring a dwarf out from the safety of Thorbardin to this
forsaken place?
There was no time to ask. From outside, the sound of a commotion, and
finally a roar of fury silenced the tavern.
Givrak! Stanach snatched the kenders arm and jerked him to his
feet. Go to ground, Lavim. Hes back, and Ive no doubt its you hes
looking for.
Lavim only shrugged. Maybe. His green eyes danced with mischief
as he sat down. I knew a draconian once who could never remember what
it was he was looking for. It irritated him to no end, as you can imagine.
He would turn purple after a while, so strictly speaking perhaps he wasnt
a draconian
If you dont go, you wont be drinking your ale, but leaking it like a
sieve, kender. There must be a back way out, behind the bar. Go, now,
go.
But
Go! Stanach shoved the kender halfway across the room toward the
bar.
Lavim stumbled, righted himself, and looked back over his shoulder.
Who can understand a dwarf? Moody one minute, companionable in the
next, then, all of a sudden and for no reason at all, like thunder and
lightning! He made for the door behind the bar. Not because he was afraid
of Givrakthe capacity for fear was not in himbut because the matter
seemed so important to Stanach.

Dwarves, he thought, always tend to be a little touchy. Its all those

hundreds of years in the mountains by themselves.
He flashed a grin at the serving girl. A tall elf, his blue eyes alight with
amusement, grabbed Lavims arm and hustled him through the doorway
and into a storeroom.
Go, kender, he whispered, and dont stop running till youre out of
townl
Lavim wasnt going to run anywhere. Hed slip out the back, since it
seemed to matter to everyone that he did, but he wasnt going to forget
about Stanach. The kender pocketed a bung-starter, a small flask of wine,
and several other interesting objects and slipped out the back door into the
alley just as Givrak entered through the front and roared something about
a god-cursed, lying kender whod lived too long for his own, or anyone
elses, good.

Chapter Seven
The Draconian Givrak was troubled with just enough intelligence to
permit him to carry out his orders and, occasionally, to plan a simple
strategy. Having received few orders this day, he turned a considerable
portion of his slim intellect to the problem of avenging himself on the
kender who had the night before cost him a venomous reprimand from
Carvath for disturbing his sleep.
Givrak was of the opinion that the kenders hide would make a fine
ornament for a stable door.
The draconian had two squads of soldiers under his command. These
he roused at dawn with orders to set up barricades at the three roads
leading from the town and then to accompany him on a search of Long
Ridge. Givrak was certain that hed find the kender before nightfall.
As he stalked the streets of Long Ridge, Givraks anger became unholy
anticipation. He was going to be enjoying himself soon. He knew a dozen
ways to kill a kender and, even when he employed the quickest of these
methods, the screaming did not stop before two days had passed.

The mornings cold wind up from the valley did nothing to freshen the
sooty air of Long Ridge. It seemed to Kelida, walking out beyond the
town proper, that the gray air could never be clear again. She stumbled,
tugged at the sword smacking against her leg, and tried to settle the
scabbard belt more comfortably around her waist. Sighing impatiently, she
wondered how anyone could wear something this cumbersome and still
manage to walk.

Shed tried carrying it and found it too awkward. Each step she took
had sent the sword either sliding from its scabbard or digging painfully
into her arms. Stupid thing! Shed be glad to be rid of it. She stopped at
the broad roads first bend and tugged at the scabbard belt again. Her skirt
twisted and bunched at the waist, and her blouse caught on the buckle and
ripped.
Stupid sword! She didnt want it and she wasnt going to keep it. All it
had given her was bruised legs and torn clothes. Well, Tyorl was just
going to take the thing back. There had been no sign of his mad friend
Hauk since the night hed given her the miserable thing. Wherever he was,
he wasnt interested in his wretched sword.
Or me, she thought miserably. Not that he ever really had been. Hed
been drunk when hed given her the sword. Likely hed wandered off
someplace and run afoul of dragonarmy soldiers. Then, probably, he
would be wishing that he had his sword!
Kelida shivered, partly from cold and partly from the thought that Hauk
might truly have had a need for his sword. She looked around. The road
dropped beyond the bend to begin a long, steep descent into the valley.
From where she stood, Kelida could not see the valley. Neither could she
see the barricade set up by Carvaths soldiers, but she knew it was there.
Like those at each of the three roads leading into Long Ridge, it had been
set up at dawn. For some reason, it had been declared that no one would
leave Long Ridge today. Some luckless person had (alien under the
attention of the occupation.
Kelida wanted to see neither the farm where she had once lived nor the
soldiers who had ravaged that valley.
What I want to see, she thought, is Tyorl!
Hed left a message for her with Tenny that he was looking for her. He
was leaving Long Ridge and wanted to speak with her outside the town
before he left. Kelida had felt a little sad when shed gotten the message. If
the elf was leaving, it must surely mean that he didnt expect to find his
friend Hauk here in Long Ridge. If she would have welcomed a chance to
work a little vengeance on the young man, she also would have welcomed

the opportunity to hear his bears growl of a voice again.

Kelida unbuckled the sword belt and let the weapon fall to the ashy
dust in the road. The wind carried a rough curse and grating laughter from
the direction of the barricade. Kelida would go no farther. She took a seat
on a boulders flat top, drew up her knees, rested her chin on her forearms,
and stared at the black, scarred fields across the road.
The dragons fire had been capricious here on the outskirts of the town.
East of the road was black desolation. The western verge, however,
defended by the broad, golden width of the dirt road, still showed sign of
life. The thicket of slim silver birches that crowned the ridge was almost
untouched. Sedge, its plumes the rusty gold of autumn, drooped at the
roadside. White dead-nettle had scattered its blossoms in tiny petals
around its roots, as though presaging winters snow. Even the yellow toadflax showed here and there.
Well, fine, she whispered to the sword lying in the road, Im here.
Where is he?
His hunting leathers were the color of shade and birch. Kelida started
and gasped when all of a sudden Tyorl stepped out of the shadows.
Right here, Kelida. He smiled and cocked a thumb at the sword.
Whats that doing here?
Kelida let go the breath she had caught. Where else should it be? If
youre leaving, youll want to take it with you.
He gave it to you.
Exasperating elf! I dont want it anymore. I never did want it. What
would I do with it? I cant sell it; I cant wield it; I cant even carry the
thing! Wont you please just take it, go wherever it is youre going, and
leave me alone?
Tyorl cast a quick look down the road toward the barricade and
motioned her to silence. Be easy, Kelida. Im going, and thats what I
wanted to talk to you about. He gestured toward the birch thicket. Come
here. I dont want to say this in front of half the dragonarmy.

She hesitated, then made a quick decision to do as he asked. The smile

had vanished from his eyes, his voice was low and tense. Kelida picked up
the sword and let him draw her into the shadows of the trees.
Listen, he whispered, and listen well. I dont know where Hauk is. I
dont know whats happened to him, but I know hes not in this town
anymore. He paused. You know were rangers.
Kelida nodded.
Aye, and our lord is a man called Finn. He and our band are waiting
for our return. I cant stay here any longer.
Youre just going to forget him?
Anger flashed in the elfs eyes. Too late, Kelida realized that her
question had been close to an insult.
No, Kelida. Im not going to stop looking. Theres a lot of ground
between here and the foothills. Ill look for Hauk every step of the way.
But I have to get back to Finn. He gestured to the sword in her hands.
Please keep it. It may be that Hauk will come back here, looking for the
sword and me. Will you tell him where Ive gone?
But
Tyorls fingers closed with a strong grip on her wrist. Kelida, its time
for me to leave Long Ridge. Hauk and I managed to convince those who
have an interest in such things that we are hunters. If I stay any longer,
someone will surely notice that I havent been doing much hunting. Their
next guess is going to be that Im a ranger.
Fear skittered up Kelidas spine. She asked the question before she
realized it wouldnt be wise to know the answer.
Where are you going?
Tyorl hesitated only briefly. Qualinestis south border. Finn has work
for us there. Im sorry you brought the sword all the way out here. I wish I
could carry it back for you, but I cant delay any longer.

What about the barricade?

What about it? Finn would have my skin if I couldnt slip past a
couple of half-drunk dragonarmy scum. He took the sword from her and
ran his palm down the length of the shabby old scabbard. Cold sunlight
glinted on the sapphires, making them gleam like ice. He won this at
daggers.
Im not surprised. Kelida smiled. He has a good aim.
Tyorl chuckled. Aye, he does at that. Keep it for him?
The wind seemed to grow colder. Kelida thought of the mountains
south of Qualinesti, wet and bleak in winter. She thought of Hauk and
wondered where he was, why he had abandoned so valuable a sword, and
as good a friend as Tyorl.
Then she wondered, where she had not before, if Hauk had simply
slipped off in the night, deserting the ranger band. She stole a quick look
at Tyorl.
No, the elf would never consider it. Kelida shivered and took the
sword. How awkward it was! Ill keep it. She hesitated for only the
space of a breath, then rose on tiptoe and lightly kissed his cheek. Good
luck to you.
Aye, well, well both need some luck, eh? He smiled. Thank you.
He took her arm and walked her back to the road. Because she was
fumbling with the sword belt, Kelida didnt know that their way was
blocked until she felt the elfs grip tighten. She looked up.
Three soldiers, a human, and two draconians, stood across the path to
the road. One of the soldiers grinned, showing gapped yellow teeth. A
sweet good-bye, he drawled. His eyes flicked over Tyorl dismissively
and fastened on Kelida, lingering.
Kelidas stomach twisted weakly.

Lavim Springtoe ran like a rabbit who knows he is too fast for the
hound, reveling in speed and the chase. Head down and laughing, he led
the four draconians up one street, down another, through a tavern, and out
the back door. Roaring and cursing in pursuit, they sounded like animated
junkpiles, their swords crashing against their armor as they ran.
He ducked down a sooty alley. Nimbly leaping a fence, he gleefully
shouted vile taunts to the four who, weighed down with armor and
weapons, struggled furiously to climb. Before the first draconian dropped
to the ground, the kender squeezed between a clammy brick wall and a
garbage keg. He was only a little out of breath.
Lavim let the first one past. It was the second he was most interested in.
He was Givrak and Lavim was certain that he would be by in a minute.
When Givrak lumbered by, sword out and gleaming in the watery
morning light, La vims hoopak shot out between the draconians legs and
sent him sprawling into the first pursuer. The third, coming too fast to
stop, piled into the other two, and the fourth only missed them by
throwing himself against the opposite wall.
Lavim hooted with laughter and scrambled over the garbage keg and
the three tangled draconians. He darted between the legs of the fourth and
headed for the street. He dashed around the wide skirts of a woman,
ducked under the long legs of a horse, and tore across the road. Behind
him the draconians curses told him that theyd untangled themselves and
were yet in pursuit.
Lavim knew the streets and byways of Long Ridge as only a kender or
a street urchin could. He made for a warehouse, half-burned in the taking
of the town, snatching up stones and loose cobbles from the street as he
ran. Hed not had this much fun since hed run, two yards all the way,
ahead of an avalanche of snow and stones down a mountainside in Khur.
(The two yards was his estimation. Ish, the gnome who was with him at
the time, claimed that the distance was closer to a quarter mile, that the
avalanche was no avalanche at all but a little slide of snow, and that all of
this did not take place on a mountainside, but on a gently sloping hill.)
The warehouse was huge, half a block long and wider than any building

in the town. Once every kind of trade goods had been stored here: flour,
wheat, corn, even bales of snowy wool. Of all the things stored here at the
time of the fire, only ashes remained.
Lavim darted into the roofless building. Splashing through dark, ashy
puddles from a recent rain, he made for the stairs at the back of the first
floor. Givrak and his soldiers pounded behind him, bellowing curses and
threats, scattering people like chickens before a gale.
The stink of burning permeated the building. The old kender paused at
the bottom of the stairs. Leaning against a fire-thinned wall to catch his
breath, he squinted up. There was still a second flooror part of one. It
jutted out from the stair wall like a barns loft, black edged and splintered,
covering only half the width of the building. From that perch he would be
able to fire, with perfect impunity, the stones hed collected.
Sucking in huge gulps of air still tainted with the acrid smell of burned
wool and grain, Lavim eyed the stairs. He decided that a light-footed
kender would be able to negotiate them and he started up. He moved
swiftly on the theory that a soft, quick step would stress the already
creaking stairs less than a heavy, cautious one. With half the steps
negotiated, his left foot on an upper step, his right on the one below, the
lower tread groaned and then collapsed with a splintering snap.
Lavim moved fast. He threw himself against the wall and grabbed for
purchase above. There was none. Like a collapsing house of cards, the
steps above fell away from the second floor. Lavim yelped, dove, and
caught the splintery edge of the floor.
His hands clinging to the crumbling wood, the rest of him dangling
over the two story drop at full arm extension, Lavim thought it might be
better for him now if kender possessed wings.
He almost lost his hold when a hard, sharp bark of laughter sounded
from far below on the first floor. Givrak, his reptilian eyes glittering
balefully in the gray light, his thin, snakey tongue flickering, laughed up at
the kender.
All his life, Lavim had never been able to resist a sure target. He
twisted and spat down between his elbows. Though his aim had been a

source of pride in his youth, it had lately been known to fail. It did not fail
him now. He hit Givrak squarely between the eyes. The draconians shriek
of fury echoed around the empty warehouse.
Lavim flinched away from the silver flight of a dagger and elbowed
himself higher. He wrapped one hand around a charred, wobbly post. He
pulled, felt the post give a little, and dropped his hand back to the floor.
Givrak laughed, a grim, cold sound. Give it up, ratling! Theres no
place to run, and I would like to discuss something with you.
Lavim twisted again, got a knee up, and then slid back. The weakened
boards of the second floor groaned.
Metal crashed against wood. The draconian was abandoning his armor.
Lavim, whose curiosity could not be quenched were he about to drop into
the shadowy horror of the Abyss, peered down again. Givraks armor was
a pile of red metal on the floor, his short sword was clamped between
long, fanged jaws. His wings, wide stretches of bone and claw-tipped
leather, unfolded with crude, jerking motions. The other three stepped
back, grinning. They scented an ending.
Theyre gliding wings, Lavim reminded himself, and draconians cant
really fly. Everyone knows that . . .
Givrak couldnt fly. However, he had thick, powerfully muscled legs
and could leap higher than even Lavim would have imagined. On the first
leap, the draconians long clawed hand raked and missed the shakey post
to which Lavim clung.
On the second, black wings thrusting powerfully down, Givrak caught
the splintered edge of the floor with one hand and shifted his sword from
jaws to free hand.
The kender moved fast then, brought both knees up tight to his chest
and twisted, throwing himself up onto the groaning floor. Givrak, laughing
horribly, easily hefted himself onto the floor.
The rabbit was no longer certain that he could outrun the hound.

Lavim snatched his dagger from its belt sheath and slashed wildly. The
blade did little damage to the draconians tough, scaled arm. Lavim shifted
his grip and tore the blade down and across Givraks left wing, ducked
beneath the roaring beasts huge arm, and brought the blade ripping up
through the leather of the creatures right wing. A huge, clawed hand came
down on Lavims wrist and twisted cruelly. The kenders dagger fell from
nerveless fingers.
Lavim, with the persistence of his kind, drove his knee into Givraks
belly. When the draconian doubled, howling, Lavim brought his other
knee up hard as he could under the creatures jaw. Teeth clashed, Givraks
head whipped back. Lavim jerked his wrist free, retrieved his dagger, and
bolted.
There was no place to run.
What used to be walls here were now only fire blackened beams and
posts and lowering sky. A hauling strut jutted out from the side of the
building, a black finger pointing to the hills. Below were the cold, hard
cobbles of the streets of Long Ridge. Lavim stopped and turned. The
draconian, limping and wings torn, lumbered toward him, murder in his
black reptilian eyes.
Kender do not think often, but when they do, they think fast. Lavim
Springtoe waited just long enough for Givrak to get up a a little speed, and
then he ran for the sky.

Stanach had been looking for the elf since dawn with no luck. The
kender was another matter. Stanach heard word of him everywhere.
The cooper, the blacksmith, and the candlemaker all had complaints.
The cooper wanted his small adze back. The blacksmith vowed to turn
Lavim over to Carvaths authority if he did not have his stamp and chisel
in his shop by noon. The candlemaker only cursed his own foul luck to
have survived the armys incursions only to see his few remaining goods
carried off by a plague of kenders.
Stanach did not try to explain to the man that one kender hardly

constitutes a plague. Semantics, in the matter of kenders, often depend

upon which side of the counter one stands behind.
Still searching for Tyorl, the dwarf crossed Lavims trail at the
butchers shop, the tanners, and the potters. A boy had seen the kender
dashing through the alley across the street from a tavern. From there, he
heard that Lavim had indeed been in the tavern, but only briefly. Hed
been chased by draconian soldiers.
Givrak! It could be no one else. Stanach thought about Tyorl and the
sword. The chances were looking slimmer every hour that the elf would
know where the sword was. But he was Stanachs only clue. If this clue
proved fruitless, hed have to start looking somewhere else soon or get
back to Piper.
The kender could likely take care of himself. Kenders usually could.
Aye, Stanach thought then, but if hes caught? He didnt want to think
about what would happen to Lavim if the draconian caught him.
Damn kender! he muttered. He supposed he could look for the
kender and the elf at the same time.
The next thing Stanach heard was that Lavim, white braid flying and
legs pumping for all he was worth, had headed for a burned out warehouse
in the middle of the block, the draconians still in pursuit. Reluctantly
Stanach checked the release of his sword and headed for the warehouse.
He approached the warehouses blackened skeleton from the opposite
side of the street. A catbirds laughter, or a kenders, rang mockingly from
above.
Stanach looked up in time to see a draconian plunge from the unwalled
second floor of the warehouse, arms and legs whirling. The creature
spread his wings, now useless, dagger-slashed leather, and screamed. Had
the drop been steeper, Stanach would have been able to hear the wind
whistling through those slashes. As it was, he only heard the thud of the
draconian hitting the ground, the scrape and crack of scales and bones on
cobbles. And Lavims catbird cackling.
Stanach drew his sword and crossed the street. He kicked the draconian

over. It was Givrak.

Stanach shuddered. Even as he recognized the draconian, Givraks
carcass turned to stone. His heart lurching hard, Stanach backed quickly
away from the thing. Hed heard tales of what happened to the bodies of
dead draconians, but had only half believed those tales till now.
Lavim leaned out over the edge of the building. Stanach! Good to see
you again! Is he dead? He forgot about those holes in his wings. The little
details, my father used to say, are very important sooner or later andYo!
Stanach! Look out!
Givraks three companions, having heard their fellows scream, had
bolted out the door opposite Stanach. Without a pause, they leaped over
their fallen comrade, whose stony corpse was now turning to dust, and
charged the dwarf.
After the manner of a good swordcrafter, Stanachs knowledge of the
weapon did not stop at knowing how to make one. He was no warrior; he
hadnt a fighters instincts. But he had an intimate knowledge of the
weapon and in his hand a blade was a deadly thing. He lopped the sword
arm off his first attacker and left him howling on his knees in the street.
He noticed that, wounded, the thing did not become stone.
Stanach did not waste time wondering why. He backed the other two
against the warehouse, his sword a silver flash in the air. He wielded the
blade double-handed as though it were an axe. Every move his two
opponents tried to make was blocked by singing steel. A good many spans
shorter than his attackers, Stanach stood naturally under their guard and
pressed that advantage every time he could. One of the draconians
stumbled, and in that moment between balance lost and balance recovered,
Stanach raised his sword to strike.
Stanachs sword high, his guard clear, the draconians companion
lunged from the left and would have neatly skewered the dwarf had a fistsized stone not caught him hard at the unprotected base of his neck and
dropped him like a felled ox.
Stanach! Dont let your sword get caught in em! The body will hold
the blade till they turn tobehind you! Duck!

Stanach did, and a blade whistled in the air an inch above his head.
Another rock flew and missed. Stanach scrambled to his feet and turned
only barely in time to deflect and arrest the downward thrust of a
draconians sword with his own. The draconian hissed. Teeth bared and
dripping in long jaws, thin red tongue flicking, he threw all of his weight
against Stanachs defense.
Stanachs blade moved back. Its razored edge was only a fingers width
from the dwarfs neck. His hand, wet with cold sweat, slipped on the
swords grip. His attacker had the advantage of size and bore down on
Stanachs blade with his own, all his weight behind. A bleak
understanding shivered through the dwarf: he would not go down until
hed torn his muscles from his bones. Grimly, Stanach put his back into a
last push.
A wild cackling sounded from above, Lavims laughter. Another of his
deadly missiles flew true and hit Stanachs opponent in the eye.
The next flew foul. A sharp edged stone caught Stanach on the right
elbow, numbing his arm to the wrist. His sword flew from his useless
hand.
His heart thundering painfully against the cage of his ribs, Stanach spun
and dropped to his knees on the cobbles, groping for his weapon, sure that
he would feel the fatal plunge of steel between his shoulders before he
reached it. He cursed the kenders aim and gasped a prayer to Reorx all in
one breath. At the same instant Lavim, shouted a hasty apology and fired
another rock from above.
The draconian roared, staggering now under a rain of stones and
cobbles. Lavim whooped. Get im, Stanach! No! Dont! Theres more of
em coming! Run, Stanach! Run!
Steel-soled boots rang against the cobbles like thunder roaring. Four
more draconians rounded the corner at the top of the street. Stanach
snatched up his sword in his left hand, scrambled to his feet, and waved up
to Lavim.
Get down here, kender!

Lavim would have liked to, but he didnt see how that was possible.
Wings, he thought, kender really do need wings! He crawled out onto the
hauling strut and clutched at the beam with both hands. He dropped to his
full length, peered down at Stanach below and yelled, Catch!
The best Stanach could do was break the kenders fall.
They went down in a tangle of arms and legs, cobbles biting into backs
and knees. Stanach hauled Lavim to his feet, hoping that most of the
kenders bones were still intact. Hanging onto Lavims arm, Stanach ran
faster than hed ever run before.

Tyorl stepped in front of Kelida.

The soldiers eyes narrowed. He closed his fingers around the hilt of his
sword.
Aye, the soldier said, his fingers tapping a restless pattern against the
hilt. A sweet good-bye. You werent leaving, were you, elf?
The draconian laughed, a short, hard bark. I think he was, Harig. What
you saw must have been the wenchs farewell kiss.
Tyorls hand itched for a sword. Kelida looked up, her eyes wide. Her
breathing harsh with fear. The pulse in her neck leaped.
Id wager shed forget the elf fast enough after hes dead, Harig.
Think you could take him?
The elf? Harig snorted. My blades tasted elf blood before. Thin and
old, but it will do.
Tyorl grabbed Kelidas shoulder and spun her aside, snatching Hauks
sword. As he did, Harig drew his sword, too. The draconian and the other
human stood away. Neither made a move to intervene, but their eyes were
red and hungry.
Harig bared broken, yellowed teeth in a grin. What say you, elf? Is she

worth a little blood?

The breeze strengthened and moaned around the top of the ridge. The
stench of burning and death gusted up from the valley. Along the hilt of
Hauks sword, sapphires winked and danced in jeweled pattern to a silent
song of light.
Tyorl took an easy, loose stand and leveled his sword as though he
were not the defender but the challenger. All your blood, he said, his
voice low and cold as only an elfs can be, would not begin to measure
the worth.
Tyorl saw Harigs intent to strike in his muddy brown eyes. Hauks
blade rose high and fell hard. The two soldiers howled and Kelida
screamed. Harig was dead before he ever moved.
Tyorl moved fast. He grabbed Kelidas wrist and pulled her close.
Again he leveled his blade in challenge, this time at the two remaining
guards. I can deal the same death to you if you want it.
The soldiers, swords drawn, flanked him. The draconians hissed, a
sound that reminded Tyorl of snakes rising to strike. As they closed in, he
prayed to gods too long neglected that his boast was true.

The cobbled streets of Long Ridge left behind, Stanach and Lavim
made good speed. So did the pursuing draconians. The kenders head was
down, his small legs pumping. Three belt pouches made of leather, two of
cloth, bounced and swung wildly as he ran. Lavim wheezed now like an
old bellows and wasted no breath in laughing aloud, though Stanach could
still see the laughter in his shining green eyes. Lavim ran for the sheer
pleasure of hearing the draconians furious cursing.
When one of their pusuers lost his footing in a mud puddle, tangling
two others and sending searing curses through the street, Lavim slowed to
watch them thrashing and trying to sort themselves out. Stanach grabbed
the kenders arm and, ducking down an alley, dragged Lavim after him.
Lavim sprang over cracked barrels stinking of sour wine. Stanach didnt
and only scrambled up out of the mud as the draconians entered the alley

roaring. Stanach ran.

Stanachs heart crashed against his ribs. His legs began to weigh as
heavily as lead and the stitch in his side threatened to drop him with every
step.
As they approached the last bend before the road wound out of the
town to begin its steep descent into the valley, a woman screamed, high
and terrified. Neither the dwarf nor the kender could have slowed if hed
wanted to. They were at the bend in the road before the echoes of the
womans scream had finished rolling down into the valley. Lavim
snatched Stanachs arm, dragged him to a halt, and pointed.
Stanach cursed. The elf hed been searching for all morning was
battling for his life against two dragonarmy soldiers. Blood streamed from
his right shoulder and his face.
In the road, the serving girl from the tavern scrambled for rocks. She
threw what she found at the draconians. Though her aim was good, her
missiles gave the elf no help at all, but rebounded harmlessly from the
mail of his opponents. What was she doing in the company of the elf,
anyway?
Backed to the rocky edge of the ridge, the elf wielded his sword
double-handed and with considerable skill. But Stanach knew that skill
was not going to win out over numbers and a cliffs edge. The elf could
not possibly hold his ground against the two draconians. If he didnt miss
a step and plunge to his death over the ridge, hed die on a draconians
blade.
Lavim, on the theory that anyone fighting a draconian could be none
but a friend, bellowed an enthusiastic battle cry and threw himself
headfirst at one of the embattled elfs attackers. The soldier and kender
went down in the road.
Stanach moved more cautiously and with considered intent. He had not,
as Lavim had, fogotten their pursuit. At any moment, four more
draconians were going to round the bend. A kender, a girl, a bleeding elf,
and a winded dwarf were not going to be proof against six of Carvaths
creatures. Two dead draconians turning to dust in the road, however,

might stop the other four long enough to make escape a slim possibility.
There was nothing Stanach wanted more at this moment than to be
away from Long Ridge. He ducked in under the draconians guard and
thrust hard and up, killing the creature and dragging his sword free just as
the elf fell to his knees, his blade rattling to the ground.
Stanach reached to return the sword. He found the elfs hand on the
grip before his own. He looked down then and, for a long moment, he
stopped breathing.
Crimson light streaked through the blood on the steel.
Great Reorx, he thought numbly. This is it! Stormblade!
Then, Tyorl was up and Stormblade was gone, lifted high in the elfs
hand and out of Stanachs reach.
In the road, Lavim had snatched a rock from the girl and brought it
down hard on his fallen opponents skull. Bone cracked, the soldier
screamed, and Lavim bashed again for good measure.
The elf was breathing hard. Stanach eyed him doubtfully. He was
bleeding from a shoulder wound, his eyes were dull, almost unfocused. If
you fall here, Stanach thought coldly, I will have what Ive been searching
for, my friend, and I will thank you for it. Oh, I will thank you for it!
The elf did not fall. He lifted his chin, wiped blood from his face, and,
by an effort of will, focused on Stanach. I am all right.
Stanach snorted. But can you run?
The elf barely flinched. Run? If I have to.
Stanach pointed back toward the town. As hed feared, the four
draconians were rounding the bend. You have to, he said grimly.
Aye, he thought, you have to. You and Stormblade have to run with
me, my friend.

They ran.

Chapter Eight
There was no light at all. There had been none since he became aware
of being in this place. Hauk didnt know how long ago that was. He was
neither bound nor chained, yet he could not move. He lay on damp stone
and cold seeped into him, twining around his bones with a fevers grip.
It seemed as if he had never been warm. His memories were all of a
bone-deep terror, dyingand a question, endlessly repeated.
Where is the sapphire-hilted sword?
He had died twice since finding himself here. His first death was swift
and agonizing, with cold steel in his belly and his blood rushing out of
him. The second time, he lay in the eternal dark and felt deaths slow
approach. Hed sensed its remorseless hunters stalk, heard it coming for
him like a summer storm rolling into a valley. Though unbound, he had
been helpless to move and he lay in the darkness, listening to deaths
approach. Voicelessly, he had prayed to every god he thought would
listen. Death still came, its footsteps like thunder, its voice like a dirge
calling his name.
Between his two deaths lay the one question: Where is the sapphirehilted sword?
Hauk never answered. He did not even permit himself to think the
answer or remember the sword or the tavern girl to whom hed given it.
Whoever could kill him twice could snuff out the light in the girls green
eyes like a man pinching out a candle.
Whoever could kill him twice could pierce her heart with only his will.
Like a dagger flying, silver in blue-hazed smoke, through a tavern.

Why anyone should want the sapphire-hilted sword so badly, he did not
know.
So, he existed in a wasteland of waiting and terror. He did not know
when he slept or when he was awake. The darkness bred nightmares and
the same evil dreams that haunted him sleeping haunted him waking.
Yet now, in the wasteland, Hauk slowly became aware that he was not
alone. A change in the feel of the air around him brought the sense that
something or someone moved, though only slightly, nearby.
Someone breathed in the darkness. Harsh gasping echoed around him,
and by this he knew that the place he was in had walls. A voice muttered
and whispered. Fear crawled through Hauk and settled, cold and heavy, in
his belly.
This was not the merciless voice that had asked about the sword. That
voice had been hard, as sharply edged as steel. This voice was different:
thinner, broken.
Or was that his own muttering, his own whispering?

Light exploded in the darkness, sending shadows leaping up the walls

and arrows of fire into his eyes. Hauk roared in pain. He had no ability to
turn his head, none even to close his eyes. The light was quickly doused.
The fire-edged image of a dwarf, crouched on the floor by his feet,
lantern held high, burned behind Hauks aching eyes.
Who . . . ? he moaned. No answer came but a sharply drawn breath
and the soft scuffing of booted feet on stone.
Who are you! A sob. A low, tormented growl. Silence. Hauk was
alone again in the wasteland.

Chapter Nine
The cold wind pursued them to the very bounds of the forest and only
softened once they stepped under the forests eaves. Stanach shivered as
the cool touch of superstitions fingers danced up his spine. Never did he
think he would come into Qualinesti and it did not help that he was only a
quarter-days journey into Elvenwood. At the forests edge, or at its heart,
Stanach was certain that the place would feel the same: posted, warded,
guarded.
All his life Stanach had heard tales of travelers who had wandered into
Qualinesti. Those tales were never told by the travelers themselves. No
one who entered uninvited ever came out of Elvenwood. Were it not for
Stormblade and his promise to return it, Stanach would have made his
farewells at the edge of the forest and taken his chances with the
draconians. But his oath had been sworn by the swords name, and his
promise given to Hornfel, his thane.
He, Lavim, and Kelida had entered the wood following Tyorl. The elf
was limping and slow, but none argued when he assured them that no
draconian would follow them into fabled Qualinesti.
Though he offered no argument, Stanach was not happy to be heading
west into the forest when Piper would be waiting for him in the
southeastern hills. It had been two days since he left the mage to fend for
himself in the hills south of Long Ridge. Had Piper escaped their
pursuers? Four against one were bad odds.
Still, he thought as he shouldered through a thicket of thorny
underbrush, we had no choice. One of us had to get to Long Ridge.
Someone had to find the sword.

Stanachs heart sank. Ground creepers tangled with fallen branches.

Thickets and underbrush swept across the ground as though theyd been
commanded to confuse the path. He was following Stormblade blindly
into Elvenwood and he felt like an intruder in the forest.
But someone had to find the sword, someone had to give meaning to
Kyan Red-axes death. He would follow Stormblade, find a way to claim
it, and trust in Piper to be at the meeting place.
Kelida had carried Stormblade ever since theyd come into the forest.
Tyorl had offered to carry it and been refused. Stanach didnt know why
she had insisted on wearing the sword. The blade jolted against her leg
with almost every step she took. He would not have wanted to nurse those
kind of bruises.
The dwarf wondered how she had come by the sword. It didnt matter,
in the end, how Kelida had acquired Stormblade; it only mattered now that
he find a way to bring it back to Thorbardin.
He didnt know how he was going to do that. While it was true that he
would not have scrupled to steal Stormblade, it was also true that he
wouldnt take the risk of stealing from an elf in Qualinesti. Stanach didnt
know what the girl and the elf were to each other, but he sensed at once
that stealing from Kelida would be the same as stealing from Tyorl.
The elf was wounded, but not so badly that he wouldnt track the thief
of so valuable a weapon through a forest he had known from childhood
and which Stanach knew not at all. What run Stanach might make through
the woods with Stormblade could only end with him dead of an arrow in
the neck and the Kingsword lost again.
No, he thought grimly, let the girl carry it for a while longer, until I
figure out what to say and what to do.
So, though he shivered with cold in the sunless forest, Stanach followed
Tyorl. Hed come too close now to see Stormblade vanish into dark and
deep Elvenwood.
Lavim, trotting along beside Tyorl, looked up, his green eyes bright.
Not too many ghosts, are there?

Tyorl smiled at that, a crooked lifting of his lips. Have you been
expecting ghosts, kenderkin?
And phantoms and specters, although I think they might be the same
thing. You hear all kinds of stories about this place. Thats pretty odd,
dont you think? I mean, they say that theres no way out of here once you
get in, then they tell all these stories about things with no hearts, no souls,
maybe even no heads! How could they know about
Lavim, shut up, Stanach warned. Lavim turned and, seeing Stanachs
dark scowl, snapped his mouth shut.
Kelida, who had maintained a grim silence during their flight from
Long Ridge, kept pace with the others despite the awkward burden of
Stormblade. She said nothing, but shadows moved like nightmares across
her white face. Stanach caught her elbow and steadied her.
Tell me, then, Tyorl, he muttered, is the place haunted or do you
simply hope to frighten us?
Tyorl stopped and turned, his eyes sleepy and hooded. No more
haunted than anyplace else in Krynn.
Lavim, with a shrug in Kelidas direction, trotted off the path. He
wondered what bothered Kelida and hoped hed remember to ask her
about it later. In any case, this was Elvenwood, and with any luck, though
Tyorls answer had been vague, the place would be haunted. Lavim peered
into thickets and the deep, black shadows wondering what form the
haunting would take. Things, from the kenders point of view, were
beginning to look up.
After another hour of walking, when the crimson moon had set and the
silver one was only a dim and ghostly glow behind lowering clouds, Tyorl
stopped at last in an oak-sheltered glade. When La vim volunteered to take
the nights first watch none argued.
Tyorl limped to the stream to clean the cuts on his face and the long,
shallow gash in his shoulder. Stanach gathered wood and laid the nights
fire. Lavim had hunted while he explored and returned with two fat
grouse. Kelida fell asleep before the birds were plucked.

The damp, cold wind danced with the flames and set the bare branches
above clacking together and groaning. Stanach poked at the fire and eyed
the clouding sky.
Itll rain before morning. he said. Tyorl agreed. An owl swooped low
just out of the fires light, a shadow and a clap of wings. A fox barked
beyond the stream. Near a small stand of silver birch, Lavim paced his
watch. Neither Stanach nor Tyorl expected that the kender would hold his
post long and both sat awake in unspoken accord.
Tyorl leaned back against a log, stretching his legs out beside the fire.
His belly full, the fire warm, he settled almost peacefully. He looked at
Stanach, his smile lazy and knowing as he ran his thumb along the edge of
his jaw.
Say it, dwarf.
Stanach looked up from the fire, startled. What do you want me to
say?
Whatever it is youve been about to say all evening. Whatever it is
you want to say every time you look at Kelidas sword. Its a fine blade
and youre likely wondering about how she came to have it. Tyorl
nodded in Kelidas direction. She slept with one hand pillowing her head,
the other on the sword. Youve no doubt figured out that shes not a good
hand with the thing.
How did she come by it?
Is that the question?
One of them, Stanach said drily.
Fair, I suppose. It was a gift.
Who gave it to her?
Why does it matter?

Stanach watched the fire leap and curl around the hickory and oak logs.
Tyorls challenge was mild enough. Still, it needed answering. He tangled
his fingers in his black beard, tugging thoughtfully. He remembered
Pipers warning: Do what you have to do to get the sword. He sighed.
It matters more than you know. The dwarf gestured toward the sword
beneath Kelidas hand. Its called Stormblade.
Old brown leaves skittered across the clearing, scrabbling against the
rocks at the streams edge and whispering in the underbrush. For a
moment, the light of the red moon escaped the covering clouds, turning
the shadows purple. Tyorl leaned forward.
Nice name. How do you know that?
I didnt just make it up, if thats what you think. Near the place where
the hilt joins the steel is the mark of the smith who forged it: a hammer
bisected by a sword. Isarn Hammerfell of Thorbardin made the blade, and
he named it. Theres a rough spot on the hilt where the chasing hasnt
been smoothed. Check, if you doubt me.
Ive seen both. You still havent answered me, friend Stanach. How
does it matter who gave Kelida the sword?
Good blood has been shed for Stormblade. And bad. Four that I know
of have died trying to claim it. One, a dwarf called Kyan Red-axe, was
killed two days ago. He was my kinsman.
Tyorl settled back against the log. Suddenly, he remembered the two
dwarves in Tennys and how they had watched the daggerplay with
marked interest.
Neither Hauk nor the dwarves had been seen in Long Ridge since that
night. There had been no reason to connect the dwarves to Hauks
disappearance. Until now. Go on. he said.
Stanach heard the edge in his voice and tried not to react to it. This one
would want the whole story and Stanach knew that he had come too far in
the telling to start amending the tale now.

Im no storycrafter, Tyorl, but heres the tale. The sword was made in
Thorbardin and stolen two years ago. My thane, Hornfel, and another,
Realgar, have been searching for it since. Not long ago, word came that
Stormblade had been seen. A ranger carried it and he was last known to be
in Long Ridge.
Its only a sword, Stanach. Tyorl snorted. People kill with a sword,
not for one.
This one they kill for. Its a Kingsword. None can rule the dwarves
without one. With one? Stanach shrugged. Thorbardin is controlled by
the dwarf who holds Stormblade.
A good reason to want ityourself.
Hes an Outlander, Stanach reminded himself, and too ignorant to
know what hes saying. The dwarf tried patiently to explain. It would do
me no good at all. Im a swordcraf ter, nothing more. I dont have the
armies backing me that Realgar has. Id mount a pretty shabby revolution
without a soldier or two at my back, eh?
Tyorl shrugged. Ill wager your Hornfel has a soldier or two.
He does.
Do you serve him?
Hes my thane, Stanach said simply. I helped make the sword for
him. I was there whenwhen Reorx touched the steel. He stared for a
long moment at his hands, tracking the scars on his palms. He hasnt
done that in three hundred years, Tyorl. No sword is a Kingsword without
the gods touch. I wasI was supposed to guard the sword. I turned my
back for only a moment . . .
And you lost it.
Stanach said nothing until the elf urged him to continue.
It was a strange story. Tyorl followed the paths of dwarven politics
with some difficulty, but he had no difficulty understanding that for

Stanach, and for the two thanes who sought the sword, Stormblade was
more than a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. It was a talisman that would
unite Thorbardins factioned Council of Thanes.
Tyorl listened carefully, wondering as he did if the dwarves knew that
Verminaard was even now laying plans to bring dragonarmy troops into
the eastern foothills of the Kharolis Mountains. The Highlord had a
hungry eye for Thorbardin.
His gods were elven gods, silver Paladine and the forest lord, the bardking Astra. But Tyorl, watching the shadows pooled beneath the trees,
sliding across brown carpets of oak leaves, recognized a pattern that only
Takhisis the Queen of Darkness could weave. He moved closer to the fire,
suddenly chilled.
If you know the sword, Stanach said, youve seen the red streak in
the steel. Its the mark of the gods forge, the refection of Reorxs own
fire. I saw it come red from the fire and, when the steel cooled, I saw the
gods mark. This is a Kingsword, and the thane who has Stormblade will
rule in Thorbardin as king regent. Theres been no one thane to rule the
dwarf-realms in three hundred years.
Its a hard thing to be kingless. Something will always be . . . missing,
longed for but never found. We know that we will never have a high king
again. The Hammer of Kharas is made up of legends and hopes; its not
about to be found again. But, Stormblade will give us a king regent, a
steward to hold the throne in the place of the high king who will never be.
If Realgar becomes that king regent, the dwarves of Thorbardin are
lost to slavery. He is derro, a mage and a worshipper of Takhisis.
Thorbardin will be hers and will have fallen without a fight. He will do
anything to capture Stormblade, and hes killed for far less than this.
A log, light and laced with gray ash, slid from the fire. Stanach toed it
back into place. In the end I suppose it doesnt matter how Kelida got the
sword.
It matters, dwarf. Tyorl sat forward, his blue eyes as hard as the blade
of his dagger glinting in the firelight.

Stanach sat perfectly still, his eyes on the steel. Aye, then? How?
It matters because she had it as a gift from a friend of mine. The
ranger you mentioned. Hes been missing these two days past. Would you
know anything about that? Two dwarves, one of them was missing an eye,
were in Tennys the night Hauk disappearedwere they, by any chance,
friends of yours?
Stanach went cold to his bones. Realgars agents had been in Long
Ridge! No friends of mine. I left Thorbardin with Kyan Red-axe and a
human mage called Piper. Kyan is dead. Piper is waiting for me in the
hills. I went to Long Ridge alone.
Im wondering if youre lying.
Wonder all you want, Stanach snapped. He remembered Kyan and
the heartless scream of crows in the sky. Those two in Long Ridge were
no friends of mine. More likely, they were part of Realgars pack. Id
wager that at least one of them is a mage. No doubt they waylaid your
friend and didnt find the sword because hed already given it to the girl.
And if those two were mages, Tyorl, they could have had him to
Thorbardin before you even thought to miss him. If hes not dead, Realgar
has him. Me, Id rather be dead. Know it: hes using every means to
discover where the Kingsword is now.
Its likely, Stanach thought, the ranger is dead. He would not live two
days if he had to depend upon Realgars mercy. But Hauk must have kept
his silence to the end. He saw the same thought in the sudden darkening of
the elfs eyes.
Aye, you know it. Stanach whispered.
Tyorl shook his head and looked up. I only believe weve lost our
watch. The kender is gone.
You dont doubt me, the dwarf thought. If you do, youre not going to
take the chance that someone who will kill for Stormblade is following us
now, following the girl.

Stanach nodded toward the birches, ghostly gray in the darkness. Ill
keep the fire. You get some sleep.
Tyorl shook his head. The kender is your friend. It strikes me as
convenient that hes gone and left you to take the watch . . . and maybe the
sword, too.
Me? Stanach snorted. Where would I go with it? Aye, back to
Thorbardin if I could. I suppose I could kill you where you sleep. But you
know better than that. Id never get out of this forest before I died of old
age. Stanachs smile held no humor. Lavim said it: who enters
Elvenwood doesnt get out without an elf to show him the way. Go to
sleep. Im willing to wait for morning to talk about it again.
Tyorl, who had trusted the dwarf in Long Ridge, did not trust him now.
He did, however, trust the forest. He didnt know what Stanach might do if
he didnt have to fear Qualinesti. Though Stanachs assurances had been
smooth and easily given, Tyorl wondered if they had also been true.

Kelida curled up tightly against the chill and damp seeping into her
bones from the hard ground. Shed overheard enough of the tale Stanach
had told Tyorl to know the sword that had bruised her legs, the one that
now lay under her hand, was no ordinary blade.
Their voices, though pitched low, had wakened her. Then, she was glad
enough to be awake. Her sleep had been foul with nightmares of fire and
death.
She hadnt intended to eavesdrop, but when she heard the sword
mentioned, heard it named, she could not help herself.
Hauk! Was he dead? Was he a prisoner of this Realgar?
Kelida squeezed her eyes shut. She remembered his hands, large and
calloused, as he placed the sword Stormblade!at her feet. She
remembered his smile and the way his voice broke when he offered his
apology. What had happened to him?

If hes not dead, Realgar has him. Me, Id rather be dead.

Tyorl slept nearby. Across the fire from her, Stanach sat his watch.
Firelight gilded the silver earring he wore and gleamed red in the depths of
his thick black beard. When he reached for a stout branch to toss onto the
fire, Kelida sat up. He said nothing, only nodded. Kelida tucked a
straggling wisp of her hair behind her ear and handed him another branch.
He took the wood and thanked her. She was surprised that his voice,
often a deep, rumbling growl when he spoke to Tyorl, could be so soft.
Kelida offered him a tentative smile. Though he did not return it, his dark
eyes lost some of their grimness.
Encouraged, she went to sit beside him. She did not share his log, but
sat on the ground, her back braced against it. She did not take her eyes
from the hot dance of the flames.
Fire, thick and hot as the flames of a hundred torches, poured from the
dragons maw. Kelida screamed as the fire found the tinder-dry thatching
of the farmhouses roof. The house exploded around her brother and her
mother. For a long, horrible moment, Kelida saw her mothers face, and
her brothers. The boy was shrieking, the tears on his face were the color
of blood, reflecting the flames. Her mother, hunched over the boy as
though her own body might protect him from the heat, wore strangely
mingled looks of desperation and resignation.
Then there was nothing to see but two small human torches in a house
made of fire.
Kelida took no warmth from the campfire. A small, tame reminder of
her familys deaths, it only set her shivering.
Stanach, where is Lavim?
Stanach shrugged. Out on kender-business. Who knows? Likely hell
be back before dawn. Looking for ghosts, he thought. He did not say this
aloud.
Have we thanked you for saving our lives? she asked quietly.

He didnt answer at once, but held perfectly still as though asking

himself the question. No, he said at last.
Im sorry. We should have before now. Thank you. If it wasnt for you
and Lavim, Tyorl would be dead now, and I She faltered, hearing
whispers from her nightmares in the hiss and sigh of the flames.
Stanach shook his head. Dont think about it. It never happened. Tell
me, how did you come to be at the barricade with Tyorl?
I was saying good-bye. He was leaving Long Ridge.
Ah?
Kelida saw the speculation in his eyes and blushed. No, its not what
you think. IIve only known him for a day or two. When Hauk gave me
the sword, and then couldnt be found, I wanted to give it back to Tyorl.
He wouldnt take it. He said Hauk might come back for it.
Stanach smiled. He saw the way of it now. The girl wasnt interested in
Tyorl at all. She was, however, interested in this missing ranger, Hauk. He
heard it in her voice and saw it in the way she looked back at Stormblade.
The sword could have been hilted with lead, the sapphires could have been
no more than rocks from the streams bed. It was Hauks sword and that
was all that mattered to Kelida.
What mattered to Tyorl. however, was something else. He had an
interest in the girl. Aye, that elfs eyes could be hard as Stormblades
jewels, but never when he looked at Kelida, never when he spoke of her.
This would be something to consider.
Kelida, he said, wont your family be wondering where you are?
My father, my mother, and Mival, my little brother Kelida drew a
steadying breath. Theyre dead. We had a farm in the valley. Itthe
dragon came and
Stanach looked away, out beyond the fire and into the still and silent
forest. The wind sounded like the echoes of looters howls. Suddenly, he
felt like one who, from idle curiosity, stares at a strangers raw, open

wound. Hush, Kelida, he said gently, hush. Ive seen the valley.
Her sigh was ragged. I have no one to miss me.
She was a pretty creature by human standards. Stanach looked at her
out of the corner of his eyes. How old was she? Maybe twenty. It was hard
to tell. Tall and russet haired, the farmers sons in Long Ridge had likely
been drawn to her green eyes like moths to a candle. Here in the dark
forest, however, hers were not the eyes of a woman, they were the eyes of
a lost child, large and frightened and staring at a world gone suddenly
mad.
Twenty years! Stanach, who at twenty had been but a child, and who
had never been able to understand how someone who had lived so short a
span of years could be considered an adult, saw only a child in Kelida.
A child who had no one. For humans there is the family and all others
outside the family were often only strangers. There is no clan, no large and
deep well of strength and understanding to draw upon when a parent, a
brother, a child dies. Stanach tried to imagine what that emptiness must be
like, but could not. Once in a great while, for great crimes or sins against
the clan, a dwarf would be declared outlaw, clan-reft. Such unfortunates
were shunned by all and pitied by some. Kelidas condition was not the
same. For her it was as though her whole clan, parents, brothers, children,
cousins, aunts, uncles, all who shared her name, were dead.
Stanach shuddered. It was not to be imagined. He poked at the fire
again and watched the small eruption of sparks dance into the night. The
fires light slid over Stormblades gold hilt, colored the silver chasing to
orange, and danced down the blue path of sapphires.
Stanach tugged at his beard. Aye, the ranger meant something to her.
This fellow Hauk, have you known him long?
No. Only long enough for him to give me the sword. Kelida smiled
shyly. Its a foolish story. The smile died at once. Her green eyes grew
dark and sad. Hes dead, isnt he? I heard what you said to Tyorl.
Stanach almost told her that Hauk was, indeed, dead. How could he still

be alive? Then the dwarf realized, if she thought Hauk were alive and still
Realgars prisoner, a prisoner gallantly refusing to tell Realgar where the
sword is in order to protect the girl he gave it to, shed give him the sword.
But only if he could convince her that by doing so, shed have a chance to
prevent Hauks death. It shouldnt be hard to make her believe that if
Realgar got the sword, Hauk would certainly die. The Theiwar couldnt
leave him alive to give warning to anyone who might prevent his takeover
of Thorbardin.
Oh, yes, shed give him the sword. The chances were slim that she
could save Hauks life, but Stanach knew she would take those chances.
Shed carried Stormblade into the forest, slept with it under her hand. It
was Hauks sword and she wouldnt let anyone else so much as hold it . . .
unless she thought it would save Hauks life.
He glanced at Kelida. Her arms clasping her drawn up legs, head
pillowed on her knees, she was asleep where she sat. Just a ragged human
girl, he thought, fallen in love with a rangerthough likely she doesnt
know it yet.
Stanach touched her shoulder lightly to wake her. He returned her
questioning smile with a nod. Go sleep more comfortably, Kelida. The
morning comes soon enough.
She returned to her cold bed and the sword. Stanach spent the rest of
the watch carefully working out the details of his plan and ignoring the
gnawing of his restless conscience.
Do what you have to do, Piper had said.
He wondered where Piper was now, if he was safe, if he was waiting by
the tumble of rocks that looked so much like a cairn. Four against one.
Aye, but four against one mage. It would make a difference.
Do what you have to do.
Well, Piper, he thought, I am.

Chapter Ten
Lavim returned to his companions as the wet gray dawn lighted the sky.
Cold and shivering, the kender sighed and wished that hed found some
dwarf spirits in Long Ridge. His flask knocked hollowly against his hip.
White Disaster, some called the potent dwarven drink. Lavim had
always considered the stuff the next best thing to a warm hearth.
Sometimes better, he thought, shoving his hands into the deep pockets
of his shapeless, old coat and hunching against the icy drizzle. Hed found
no ghosts, no specters, and no phantomswith or without heads. For a
forest hedged about with rumor and fear, Qualinesti was a singularly dull
place. The campsite, however, promised to be more interesting.
Tyorl glowered at Stanach across the fire. Kelida, her green eyes sharp,
her jaw stubbornly set, looked at no one.
Somethings roused her, La vim thought. The kender, careful of his
cold-stiffened knees, dropped down before the fire. He held his hands as
close to the flames as he dared and cocked an eye at Stanach. Whats
going on?
Stubbornness, Stanach growled. Simple-minded, damned, elven
stubbornness. He tossed a bark chip into the fire and looked up at Tyorl,
his black eyes hard and mocking. Tell me, then, elf, are you going to take
the chance that your friend Hauk is not Realgars captive? Are you going
to abandon him for his sword? Aye, well, I suppose youd live well on
what you could sell it for.
Tyorl leveled his icy stare at the dwarf. Ill tell you what Im not going
to do: Im not going to hand Hauks sword over to you on the strength of a
pretty tale. Where the sword goes, I go.

Lavim pricked up his ears. Where are we going?

No one answered.
Fine then, Stanach said to Tyorl. Come along. I think you believe
me, elf. If you dont, there will be Piper to confirm my tale. Stanach
laughed bitterly. I suppose youll grant that, if Im lying, he could not
have made up the same lies without my prompting, eh? Aye, come along.
Ask him before I ever say a word. But, if youre coming, youd best make
up your mind soon. Piper wont stay around much longer before he
decides Im dead. Then, Ill be walking to Thorbardin, Stanach smiled
grimly. I suppose you will be, too.
Whos Piper? Lavims face was a mass of wrinkles and a puzzled
frown. Why would he decide youre dead? Were going to Thorbardin?
Ive never been there, Stanach. I cant think of a better place to find some
really good dwarf spirits, either. He glanced at the elf. Is Kelida going,
too?
No, Tyorl said.
Kelida, silent till then, looked up and spoke quietly. Yes, I am.
Tyorl moved to protest. Kelida overrode him.
Im going with the sword. I cant go back to Long Ridge now. I would
never find my way and She stopped, her eyes bright and almost fierce.
Andand the sword is mine. Youve said it yourself. If Hauk is still
alive, heswhat hes going through is to protect me. It was convenient
for you to say the sword was mine when you thought he might be coming
back for it, when you thought I could tell him where youd gone. Then, the
sword was mine. Well, it still is, and it seems that Im the only one with
any right to say where the sword goes.
Hauk? Lavim looked from one to the other of them. He should have
stayed in camp, he decided. Clearly hed missed something last night.
What sword? His eyes widened as he saw Stormblade lying across
Kelidas knees. Oh. Are you talking about that sword?
Stanach dropped his forge-scarred hand onto the kenders shoulder.

Easy, old one, save your questions for later. He nodded to Kelida. Are
you coming?
Yes, I am
Aye, Tyorl drawled. Do you know what youre getting yourself
into?
Something worse than what Ive already been through?
Tyorl had no answer. It didnt matter, though. Instinct had warned him
last night to keep silent on the matter of Finn. Now, he was glad that he
had. Finns rangers were waiting outside Qualinesti. Tyorl was certain that
Finn would pick up their trail and find them before Stanach found the
mage, Piper. He would lay the whole matter before the rangerlord: sword,
tale, and his news that Verminaard was moving a supply base into the
foothills of the Kharolis Mountains. Finn would decide what must be
done.
Very well, Kelida, he said. Youll need warmer clothes. He held up
a hand to forestall Stanachs protest. I know a place where we can
scavenge something for her. Its on the way.
Stanach tossed another chip into the fire. Where?
Where? echoed Lavim, all the more confused.
Qualinost.

The sun broke from behind lowering, slate-colored clouds and its
sweet, warm columns of light shafted down on the city. Four slim spires of
the purest white stone rose from the corners of Qualinost at perfect map
points: north, south, east, and west. Gleaming silver veins twined in
almost-pattern through the snowy stone of the towers. Running out from
the northern tower, high above the city, a seemingly frail arch leaped and
connected with the southern spire. It was the same with the other towers,
and so the city was bounded.

In the very center of the elven city, alive with light more vibrant than
the suns, rose the elegant Tower of the Sun. Sheathed in gleaming gold,
the tower had been for years uncounted the home of the Speaker of the
Suns. It, like all of Qualinost, was empty now that the speaker had taken
his people, his children, into exile.
The elven city of Qualinost had been built by dwarves, from the design
of elves, in a time when friendship, not todays brooding, sullen antipathy,
graced the dealings between the two races. Tyorl entered the city of his
birth with a heart torn between joy and sorrow.
Joy, he thought, because I never thought to see you again; sorrow that I
should find you the vacant and empty-eyed corpse of a place once
beautiful, now only coldly lovely.
The chill wind of late autumn moaned through the deserted city,
sobbing around the eaves of buildings once brimming with life. It rattled
through the last golden leaves of the countless aspens lining the streets.
Once the sound had been rippling laughter, now it was a weak and weary
dirge.
Beneath the wind, Tyorl heard the voices of memory. His fathers quiet
laughter, his sisters song. Where were they now?
Flown into exile with the rest of their people. Tyorl wondered if he
would ever see them again. He shook his head as though to shake off the
memories and the questions.
The houses and shops and all the buildings of Qualinost were made of
quartz the color of dawns light. These, too, were empty now, their
windows dark, their doorways filled with shadows and the echoes of
memories only Tyorl noticed. Broad paths of shimmering crushed stone
marked the streets and avenues of Qualinost. All along these glittering
paths were black fire-rings and piles of gray ashes, like dirty thumb marks
on the streets of Qualinost.
Kelida, shivering and silent beside Stanach, leaned against an aspens
thick, gray trunk. The city was not ravaged, only empty, but she felt here
the same sense of despair she had felt when she looked at the blackened,
skeletal beams and posts of her own home.

Stanach, who counted his mountain home among the riches of his life,
recognized Tyorls sorrow. He looked from Tyorl to Kelida, he homeless,
she clanless, and Stanach shivered.
It was Lavim who finally broke the silence. There was nothing in his
deep, merry voice to tell any that he sensed the elfs sorrow or the dwarfs
pity. He sidled up beside Tyorl and pointed to the nearest pile of ashes.
Tyorl, what are those? They look like the remains of watch-fires, but
theres too many of em to be that.
Tyorl glanced down at the kender. They were not watch-fires,
kenderkin. I wasnt here to see it, but Im told that the people burned most
of what they couldnt carry with them into exile. Those are the marks of
funeral pyres, and the funeral was for a way of life.
Lavim tucked his blue-knuckled, freezing hands beneath his arms.
What a shame, Tyorl. Burning is the worst, if you ask me. Whatever it
was, I would have hidden it, or carried it in my pouches, or sold it to a
gnome vendor. Burning is such a waste. Now, you have to start all over
again.
It would never be the same. It has changed. He might have said it
has vanished or it has died.
Stanach shook his head. All who live change, he said quietly. Even,
it seems, elves.
Tyorls blue eyes, soft only a moment ago with his sadness, iced over
and grew hard. No, dwarf. We have known no change for too many long
centuries. The only change an elf knows is death.
Stanach snorted impatiently, already regretting his fumbling attempt at
comfort. Then youre dead already, Tyorl, and wasting good air that
others could be breathing. Your city, your way of life has changed.
Perhaps we should consider you not an elf but a ghost, eh?
Tyorl drew a breath to answer, then turned back to the silent city.
Perhaps.

Lavim watched as Tyorl led Kelida away. His long eyes narrowed, and
he absently twirled the end of his thick white braid around a finger.
Stanach, he said, if the elves burned everything before they left here,
whats Tyorl going to find for Kelida to wear?
Stanach shrugged. I dont know. Ever since we got within a mile of
this place, that damn elf has been more ghost than anything else. Maybe
hell spirit up something for her. Stanach started down the road. Lets
go, Lavim. The sooner we get out of here, the easier Ill be.
Lavim fell in beside the dwarf. He still didnt know half of what was
going on. Kelidas sword, some missing ranger, and a couple of dwarven
thanes all figured into it somehow. And who was Piper?

A small wooden stag, frozen by the woodcarvers art into a graceful

leap, lay caught in a tangled nest of silver necklaces and golden earrings.
A childs toy amid a mothers jewelry. Stanach reached for the oak stag
and freed it as gently as though it lived. He turned it over idly and then
smiled. Carved in the belly of the stag with deft strokes that might have
been only the careful feathering of the beasts fur, was a stylized anvil
bisected by a dwarven F rune. A dwarfs craft.
Stanach put the stag carefully aside and looked around the room. The
place was a shambles.
Beautifully wrought tapestries, woven floor coverings, and soft pillows,
whose designs were picked out in bright silk thread, lay scattered about
the room as though thrown down in desperate haste. A tall wardrobe,
elegantly painted with a delicate, stylized hunting scene, lay where it had
fallen during someones frantic preparations for exile.
Lavim staggered into the room, his arms loaded with a pile of
mismatched clothing. Here you go, Stanach. Tyorl says to look through
these for Kelida.
Aye, and where is she?
Taking a wash. She insisted, and Tyorl didnt argue. Said it would

give him some time to look for gear. Lavim dumped the clothes on the
floor and dropped down among them, happily rumaging through cloaks
and hunting costumes, boots and blouses. I guess they didnt burn
everything before they left, did they?
You know, Stanach, this place mustve been really nice not so long
ago. Its too bad the elves decided to leave. Me, Id make those draconians
drag me out of a place like this before Id leave.
Fear, like shadows, hung in the air. It clung to the lovely buildings,
lurked in the darkness of the apple garths and pear groves. Fear and
sorrow walked the streets and laughed darkly at each dying aspen.
Stanach shook his head. Fear was nothing a kender could understand,
and there was no sense wasting time trying to explain it.
The dwarf crossed the room and dropped cross-legged onto the icy
marble floor. Curbing his impatience to be out of this sad room, this sad
house, and the whole deserted city, he sorted through the clothing before
Lavim could find a way to stuff the half of it into his pouches. The
kenders pockets and pouches were bulging already. His middle looked
too thick for one Stanach knew to be sapling-thin. If the search through the
deserted homes and shops of Qualinost had been painful for Tyorl and
uncomfortable for Kelida and Stanach, it had been a kenders dream for
Lavim.
Stanach rescued a thick cloak from Lavims interest. The color of pine
boughs and lined with gray rabbit fur, it had been made for someone about
Kelidas height and size. Next, he found a pair of hard-soled doeskin
boots. The boots felt too heavy for their look. He peered into the interior
of one and pinched an edge. The soft, supple leather was two layers thick
and lined between with goose down.
These look like theyll probably fit her.
Lavim picked up first one boot and then the other. Nice stuff, Stanach.
Kelidas going to be warmer than all of us.
Shes been colder than all of us this far. Its about time her luck
turned. Why dont you take those to her and then go see if you can find

Tyorl and hurry him up. And, Lavim

The kender turned, his arms full of cloak and boots. Yes?
Knock before you go in, empty out your pouches before you find
Tyorl, and dont take anything else on your way.
Lavims wrinkled face was all innocence.
Stanachs expression was firm. And dont bother spinning any of your
tales about how you came by the stuff just get rid of it.
But, Stanach
I mean it, Lavim. That damn ghost of an elf is touchy enough. By the
look of him, youd think he was giving away his mothers best gowns.
Maybe he is, Lavim said thoughtfully. His eyes, in their webbing of
wrinkles, looked unaccountably wise. Well, not gowns, because Kelidas
probably going to be wearing breeches and not a gown, but maybe Tyorl
used to know the person this stuff belongs to.
Maybe he did, Stanach thought. He didnt think on it further and did
not regret his sour remark. It was a fine defense against the silent sorrow
drifting around the room like old dust.
Go on, Lavim.
Alone, Stanach swept the clothing into a pile against the wall and sat,
elbows on drawn up knees, to wait in moody silence for his companions to
join him.
Hed done what he had to do. It hadnt taken much to direct Kelida or
Tyorl into believing that Hauk might still be alive. Kelida had even made
the crucial connection herself: if Hauk was alive, he was protecting her.
On the walk through the forest, Kelida had told the dwarf the story of
how Hauk had given her the sword. Even as she described her fear of
Hauk in the storeroom, her voice told him that she had been moved by his
apology.

Stanach was certain now that any doubt Tyorl might again raise about
the wisdom of taking Stormblade to Piper would be countered by the girl.
Kelida was convinced that the half-drunk ranger who had given her the
sword was even now, like some paladin, protecting her from the derro
mage who would kill to get Stormblade.
Maybe Hauk had been protecting herwhile he lived. However, he
was surely dead now.
Stanach closed his eyes.
Once Stanach found Piper, Stormblade would be magically returned to
Thorbardin, and in Hornfels hand, before Kelida or Tyorl had a chance to
know it was gone. All Stanach had to do was keep the girls hope alive,
play on her dreams a little longer. And how did the foolish dreams of a
simple barmaid weigh in the balance against the certainty of having one
ruleHornfels rulein Thorbardin?
They weighed not at all, Stanach told himself. Not at all.
A light, thin fingered hand touched his shoulder. Stanach looked up to
see Kelida standing before him.
Stanach? Are you all right?
Shed contrived to wash somehow. In her borrowed clothes, a hunting
costume of bark-gray wool and soft doeskin boots, the green cloak around
her shoulders, she looked like a wood sprite. Stormblade was scabbarded
around her waist.
Stanach scrambled to his feet. Aye, fine.
I thought I heard
Im fine, he snapped. He jerked his chin at the Kingsword. You still
insist on carrying it?
Fire leaped in Kelidas eyes. Ive carried it this far.
Aye, and tripped over it every second step. This isnt Long Ridge. If

you carry a sword, people just naturally assume you can use it. Youd
better know how, or youll find yourself dead before you can untangle
your feet and haul it out. Let me carry it. Or if that doesnt suit you, give it
over to your friend the elf.
Kelida shook her head. For now, the sword is still mine.
Stanach sighed. The sword will be the death of you if you dont at
least learn how to carry it. He jerked his thumb at the scabbard. Buckle
that lower and let your hip take the weight.
Kelida adjusted the sword beltr The drag of Stormbldes weight on her
hip felt strange, but less awkward. She looked up at Stanach and smiled.
Now what?
Now, go find yourself a dagger. You wont be able to defend yourself
with the sword.
Suddenly, he was angry with Kelida for no reason, angry with himself
for every reason, and lonely behind the walls of his duplicity. Stanach
turned away and stalked across the room to a window. He looked down
into a courtyard; it was better than looking at the shadows of hurt in
Kelidas eyes.
Aspen leaves, like brittle golden coins, skittered and whirled before a
damp wind. Their dry rattling was the only sound to be heard in this sad,
deserted city. Ghosts wandered all over silent Qualinost. Ghosts and
memories.
Or the whispers of his conscience.

Thirty feet long, its head as thick and wide as a big horse, its
powerfully muscled legs longer than two tall men, the black dragon might
have been a huge piece of the night as it separated itself from the cover of
the clouds and dove low over the ridges of eastern Qualinesti. A cloud
bank shredded under the wind of its passing. Solinari had long since set,
but Lunitaris blood-red light ran along the metallic scales of its hide,
leaped from its claws and dagger-sharp fangs in crimson points, and

turned its long, narrow eyes, normally pale as frost, to fire. Sevristh was
its secret and sacred name in dragon speech. It permitted itself to be called
Darknight.
The dragon caught the wind under its wings and glided down toward
the pine-forested, stony ridges that formed the border between Qualinesti
and the dwarven mountains. A hater of light, its vision was superb when
the sun had flown west. Though it did not fear the cold light of the moons,
it saw more clearly when, as on this night, they were hidden behind thick,
dark clouds.
The black dragon observed the lands below as a man might who stands
over a well constructed map table. Dropping still lower, it swept over the
high forests east of Crystal Lake and out across the low hills bordering the
Plains of Dergoth, which the dwarves call the Plains of Death.
Darknight flew as Lord Verminaards emissary to Realgar of
Thorbardin. It would soon be addressing the dwarf as Highlord, if he
accepted Verminaards offers. He undoubtably would accept. The dwarf
was known to be canny, ambitious, bold, and a little mad. He had the soul
of a Highlord, a soul only a little less arrogant than that of a dragon. He
waited for it now to arrive from Pax Tharkas. Sevristh would serve a new
Highlord.
At least for a time. Verminaards gifts all had teeth. Even as he
prepared to welcome Realgar as a Highlord, ruthless Verminaard already
had plans afoot to move supply bases and troops in the mountains. With
their strength to back him, he would depose the Theiwar and claim
conquered Thorbardin as his eastern stronghold. Sevristh knew all this,
and more.
The wind was a cold, fierce opponent who challenged the black dragon
to dare its willful currents and invisible waves. Laughing as it flew over
the marshes, Darknight skimmed the cloud-heavy sky, diving and rolling,
thrusting with wings as wide as a ships sail, and climbing, climbing until
it burst through the thick, icy boundary of the clouds and came to the stars
above ancient Thorbardin.
Aye, the dragon thought, all Verminaards gifts had teeth and mine are

sharp indeed!
Let him do the work, the Highlord had said, and give him whatever
help he needs to do it. When the Council of Thanes is safely fallen, get rid
of him.
For nothing but the pleasure of arcane exercise, Darknight cast a spell
of fear and blackness. Tonight, in the dark and secret comfort of its den in
the caverns below the cities of Thorbardin, it would lull itself to sleep with
thoughts of small marshland creatures dying of a stopped heart and an
overwhelming terror they could not have understood.

Chapter Eleven
The cold night wind cut through the valley. Sighing in the boughs of
the pines, turning the days rain to slick ice on the shoulders of the
mountain. Somewhere within the stone of the mountain itself lay
Thorbardin.
Women with babes on their hips, men whose eyes were almost empty
of hope, the refugees stood at the mountains feet, searching the shoulders
and flanks of the peaks for a sight of great Southgate. Some thought they
saw it, shimmering in the night. Others turned away, too tired to look any
longer.
A childs laughter rose high in the night air. It was hard to keep the
children quiet. Only exhaustion would do that, and the journey of the past
day had been a slow one. It was as though the eight hundred were
reluctant now to approach the gates of the dwarven fortress, afraid to learn
that their hopes had been in vain, that they had fled Verminaards mines
and the horrors of slavery only to be turned away from Thorbardin, the
only hope of sanctuary they knew.
Fires sprang up in the valley, dim lights like small, hesitant stars. The
smoke of wood, then of cooking, drifted through the air, settling like a
gray pall over the river.
It would be a night of waiting and praying. It would not be a night for
sleeping as the refugees sent their representatives, the half-elf Tanis and
the Plainswoman Goldmoon, to lay their plea before Thorbardins Council
of Thanes.

There were many things Hornfel loved about his people. He admired
their skills at crafting, found joy in their soul-deep loyalty to kin and clan,
and appreciated their courage as warriors. He valued their hard-headed
stubbornness and common sense. He loved their independence.
It was that independence that made it not an insult, but a kind of tribute,
when the grizzled Daewar warrior, a member of the Guard of Watch on
Soughtgates ramparts, only turned for a moment to nod greeting to the
two thanes in the rose light of dawn, then returned to his watch.
They are not awed by those above their station, Hornfel thought. They
trust their thanes because we are their kin. None bows or kneels to kin.
He glanced at his companion whose eyes were sharper on the guards
than Hornfels. At this hour, Gneisss Daewar made up the Guard of
Watch, and Hornfel knew his friend well enough to know that he wanted
his warriors to keep their watch with the best military precision. When the
time came that Thorbardin entered the war, these Daewar would be the
spearhead of the dwarven army. Gneiss was fiercely proud of his warriors.
Hornfel listened to the ring of mail and steel, the scuff of boots on
stone, the barked order of the watch captain, and looked again at Gneiss,
gone to lean against the breast-high wall overlooking the valley far below.
Cold wind raced around the ramparts. Born in the mountains, which
shouldered proudly against the sky, the wind smelled of frost-touched pine
forests and already freezing lakes, winters icy promise. A thousand feet
below lay the broad sweep of a string of alpine meadows. Dressed now in
the rusty brown of autumn grasses, gilded with the new rising sun, the
meadow held some of the richest soil in the Kharolis Mountains. This
valley had lain fallow for generations. The cities in Thorbardin fed
themselves from the produce of the farming warrens deep inside the
mountain.
See, Gneiss, Hornfel said, tracing the valleys borders with a sweep
of his hand. Eight hundred could farm this valley and manage to keep out
of their own way and ours.
Gneiss snorted. Are you on about that again?

Im on about it still, my friend. We cant defer the issue any longer.

You yourself brought me the word that the refugees have been challenged
by the border patrols. How long do you think the border guards can hold
back eight hundred hungry and frightened people? They are peacefully
awaiting the word of the council. They wont wait long.
Aye, blackmail, is it? Gneiss turned away from the wall, his fist
clenched, his eyes flashing with sudden anger. Admit them or face them
across a battlefield? He cocked a thumb at the valley. That meadow will
be covered with snow soon, and the snow will be red with human blood,
Hornfel. The council will not be forced.
Hornfel chose his next words carefully. Youve made up your mind
about the matter? You think as Realgar and Ranee do?
I think my own thoughts, Gneiss growled. The wind tugged at his
silver-shot brown beard. His back still to the wall, to the valley and the
idea of humans settling so near to Thorbardin, he watched his guards pace
their watch. His expression, narrow-eyed and hard, gave Hornfel no clue
to the thoughts that the Daewar claimed were not Realgars, but his own.
Tell me what you think, Gneiss. Ive gone too long guessing, and none
of my guesses seem to be right ones.
Gneiss, his eyes still on his guards, shook his head. I think that my
warriors are going to die in lands far from these mountains where we were
born. I think theyre going to die in a war that is no business of theirs.
The old argument! Hornfel had tired of it months ago, knew no better
defense against it than the one he had already presented in countless
council meetings. Still, he didnt speak until hed mastered his impatience.
It is our business now. Gneiss, there are eight hundred refugees at our
very gate. A moment ago, you offered to water these meadows with their
blood. They are not our enemies. Our enemy is Verminaard, he whos
driven the elves from Qualinesti and walks the ramparts of Pax Tharkas.
Verminaard enslaved these people. Hed like to do the same to us.
When he controls the Kharolis Mountains, Gneiss, he controls the
whole north and east of the continent. If you dont think he wants

Thorbardin now, you are not the military leader I think you are.
It was a mark of his regard for Hornfel that Gneiss kept his clenched
fists at his side. Your words are hard, Hornfel, he said coldly.
Aye, theyre hard. The times are hard, Gneiss. If we dont choose
soon, Verminaard will decide for us. I dont think we could live with his
choice.
Gneiss smiled without mirth. Gallows humor doesnt suit you.
And a gallows wouldnt suit you.
The Daewar looked at him sharply. Hanging is a traitors death.
Do you think Realgar would consider you anything else if he ruled in
Thorbardin?
Realgar? Verminaards creature? That is a harsh accusation.
Hornfel shrugged. Only a suspicion, my friend.
Gneiss looked around him, at the mountains and the meadows, at the
far reaches of sky, as though he suddenly understood something that he
should have comprehended sooner. When he looked back to Hornfel his
eyes held both anger and admiration.
There is a Kingsword.
Hornfel nodded. There is.
What are you saying? You cant just make one of these, Hornfel! You
by Reorx!you cant just trot down to the smith and order one up!
Hornfel smiled wearily. I know it. Isarn meant to make nothing more
than a masterblade. But Reorx touched his hand to steel that night, and he
made a Kingsword. Youve heard the rumors you must have. Its been
stolen, Gneiss.
Then why?

I know where it is. So does Realgar. Hornfel briefly told him the tale
of the swords theft and finding. Realgar wants Stormblade as much as I
do. Reorx defend us, I hope hes no closer to having it than I am.
Verminaards creature or not, Realgar is dangerous.
Gneisss hand dropped to the dagger at his side. Hell be stopped.
No. Not unless you want to fire Thorbardin with revolution.
Gneiss understood Hornfels warning at once. The Council of Thanes
was badly divided on the issue of the war and the issue of the refugees.
Both, at times, seemed to be the same thing. Emotions, mainly anger, ran
high. If Realgar died now, by fair means or foul, his realm would rise in
war. Aye, then it wouldnt matter who had the Kingsword. The fire
gleaming in its steel heart would be nothing more than a symbol of bloody
revolution. The halls of Thorbardin would ring with the cries of dwarves
killed by dwarves, as it had not done since the Dwarfgate Wars three
hundred years ago.
Tonight I will drink to his good heath, Gneiss growled, and pray
that he dies in his sleep before dawn.
Hornfel laughed. Gneiss the Cautious! He sobered. Its time to stop
being cautious; its time to welcome those eight hundred refugees.
Verminaard or Realgar, we are going to need them as allies.
Humans? They wont all be like your fey mage Jordy.
No one is like Piper. He is clever and he is staunch. I am surprised
your deep-seeing eyes do not see that. It wouldnt matter if the refugees all
had the sensibilities of gully dwarves. We need allies now.
Gneiss was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, Hornfel
knew that if the Daewar had not come yet to a decision, he was very close.
Call a council meeting for tonight, Hornfel. Ill give you my thinking
then. He started back toward the gatehouse and, when Hornfel moved to
join him, he shook his head. No, stay a while. You like the air out here.
Stay and look down into your meadows and try to imagine what they will
look like rilled with humans. Then, listen for the sound of their voices in
Southgate, my friend. They cant winter out there and will have to be

sheltered in the mountain.

Eight hundred. Gneiss snorted. There wont be air enough in
Thorbardin for a dwarf to breathe.
Hornfel watched the Daewar leave and turned back to the valley. An
eagle sailed the wind far out over the meadows, the sun gold on its back.
He would not try to second-guess Gneiss. It couldnt be done. He thought
of his fey mage Jordy and wondered where the mage was now, and if he,
Kyan Red-axe, and Isarns apprentice, Stanach, were still alive.
It had been four days since Piper had transported himself and his two
companions to Long Ridge. Would it take four days to find the
Kingsword? Aye, and longer if the ranger who had been said to be
carrying it had left the town before they arrived.
They might all three be dead. Or not. They might have found the
sword. Or not. The only thing he knew for certain was that Realgar didnt
have it. The fact that he, Hornfel, still lived was the proof of that.
Though Hornfel had never seen Stormblade, he longed for the sword as
though it had been his, cherished for many long years before it was stolen.
He wanted to touch the steel, feel the bridge to rulers hundreds of years
dead. Stormblade was his heritage, a Hylar sword made for the Hylar
thane who would rule in Thorbardin as his eldfathers before him had
ruled.
The wind from the mountains skirled high, as though it were an echo of
one of Pipers war songs, or one of his tavern songs. Hornfel turned away
from the valley.
Young Jordy, he said, if youre living still, I pray youre bringing
the sword back.
If you are not, he thought as he returned a guards nod and entered the
gatehouse, then wed all better watch our backs. If Realgar finds the
Kingsword, it will only be a matter of time before war, revolution, or
tyranny falls on Thorbardin.

The dwarf Brek put the tall pile of rock and stone between his back and
the crimson light of the hated sun. Between this huge, nature-crafted cairn
and the smaller, man-built one, lay the darkest pool of shadow. Here Agus,
called the Gray Herald, communed with their thane. Brek closed his eyes
against the growing light and hoped that Realgar would soon call them
home.
He and his patrol had seen five dawns in the Outlands, cursing the day
and longing for the deep warrens beneath Thorbardin. Mica and Chert,
sleeping now as best they could in the shadows, had stood well against the
rigors of the suns bitter light. However, Wulfen, who was known as the
Merciless, was not quite right in his head. Brek was surprised that
Hornfels pet mage had survived under Wulfens guard.
Brek bared his teeth in a feral grin. The ambush had worked well.
Theyd taken Piper as the moons set. He was returning from the nearby
forest, a rabbit in hand for his breakfast. Even a mage must give way to a
set crossbow at his back and swords gleaming before his eyes.
Brek hoped that Realgar wouldnt want the mage in a healthy
condition. Wulfen, it seemed, had wreaked a full measure of vengeance
upon the mage for the wound he took in the battle four days ago. Brek
listened to the dawn wind as it rustled through grasses dead of frost. That
wind sounded like the dry whispering voice of the Gray Herald. Brek
shuddered.
It was not the doings of magic that made him shudder. Though he was
no mage, Brek had been in the derro thanes service long enough to
become, if not comfortable, at least familiar with the workings of magic.
No, it was the clan-reft Gray Herald himself who stirred the hair on the
back of his neck.
Shadow separated from shadow between the giant cairn and the Herald
came to the edge of the comforting darkness. He threw back the hood of
his dark cloak. A cold, baleful light flickered in the magelings black eye;
darkness filled the socket where his left eye had been. His face, normally
mobile with strange, dark thoughts, was as still as a carved mask.
Watching the Gray Herald the way one would watch a starving wolf, Brek
put his back closer to the pile of stone.

The thane will speak with you, the Herald whispered. Agus lifted his
head. Like the reflection of distant storms, light flared high and then died
in his eye. When he spoke again, it was not with his own rough, growling
voice. As though Realgar stood beside him, Brek heard the thanes
vibrant, steady voice.
You have the mage.
The dwarf moistened his lips nervously, drew a breath to speak and
found he had to draw yet another breath before he could answer. The Gray
Herald, the voice of Realgar, waited.
Aye, Thane, we have him living still.
The sword?
Brek swallowed dryly. He doesnt have it, Thane. We took him before
dawn. Wulfen has been questioning him. The mage says nothing. Brek
glanced at the small cairn, recently built. A fire ring and the little bones of
past meals lay near the cairn. But, he was waiting here, and seems to
have been since we first did battle with him and killed Kyan Red-axe.
The Gray Herald sighed as though hed heard something his companion
had not. But, it was Realgar, many miles distant, who spoke, and it was
the fire of the thanes anger Brek saw now flaring in the Heralds one eye.
The apprentice? The third one?
There is no sign of him. Brek spoke quickly now. The mage was
waiting for someone. I think he was waiting for this apprentice, this
Stanach Hammerfell. Hell have the sword, Thane. At least, he will have
word of it.
Aye? Well, maybe he will. Wait for him. If he has the sword, kill him
and take it. Hes only one.
The thanes voice turned bitter, scornful.
Its likely you can manage that. If he doesnt have the sword, the
Herald will bring him here to me. It may be that he will be better at

providing the answers this gods-cursed ranger refuses to give.

And if he has no word?
Brek shuddered again, for now the thane spoke to Agus alone and it
seemed that the Gray Herald spoke to himself, as the mad are said to do.
Yes, Herald, yes. The task of making an end to him will be yours, as it
always is. Co. Amuse yourself with Hornfels pet mage. Arrange it so that
hes no trouble to us.
When he laughed, the Gray Heralds hands twitched as though they
wound the ends of a garrote.

Piper saw fire behind his eyes, red and glowing as the mark of the
Kingsword was said to be, crimson as the blood for which dead Kyans
axe had been named. He saw the light of the rising sun through eyes
tightly closed against the overwhelming agony of broken hands.
The Theiwar spoke together in the shadows between Kyans barrow
and the giants cairn. Piper heard the words as they echoed between the
two piles of stone and knew that they would soon come to kill him.
Then, he thought, theyll sit here comfortably between the cairns and
wait for Stanach and the sword. Hell be here today with the sword or
without.
The words of a healing spell flickered in his mind like promises just out
of reach. He had no means to enact the spell: Wulfen had broken his hands
before he did anything else to him. Without the patterned dance of
gestures, the spell was useless. Wulfen was not stupid. Hed swiftly
removed any chance Piper might have had for arcane defense. The only
thing of magic left to him was the old wooden flute still hanging at his
belt.
They saw no harm in a flute long known to amuse children. They were
wrong, and they were right. The flutes magic was a powerful force and
could call up several spells. Some required precise fingerplay, some none

at all. These were the most difficult spells, for they depended wholly on
the timing of Pipers breathing. Yet, it all was useless to a mage whose
fingers were ruined, who could barely draw a breath.
Hornfels pet mage, these Theiwar called him. It was not a naming
Jordy resented, though he, as most of the dwarves in Thorbardin, thought
of himself as Piper. He was the thanes man, bone and blood, and to be
called Hornfels was no disgrace at all.
There was blood in Pipers lungs. He heard it bubbling, swishing with
every agonized breath he managed to draw. When he coughed, as he did
now, small flecks of it stained his lips and then the cold hard ground. His
thoughts, fragmented and scattered, drifted along the currents of pain. As
though he could not bear to think on this moment, this place, this pain,
Pipers thoughts drifted to other places.
Hornfels pet mage. Aye. Piper had arrived at Thorbardin suddenly, and
as bedraggled as a hound, three years ago. The storms had been raging that
night: a wild summer battle in the sky, full of roaring thunder and blinding
lightning. Piper still did not remember much about his arrival, though hed
heard the tale often enough. .
A member of the Guard of Watch at Southgate had nearly tripped over
the mage. Sodden and barely breathing, he lay huddled in the lee of the
breast-high wall where only the watch himself had stood a moment earlier.
Like storm-leavings at the waters edge, the guard had said later,
enthusiastically quenching his thirst with his fellows in the guard house. I
tell you, I thought that boy was dead. That said, he drank deeply, his eyes
thoughtful. Maybe he was and magicked himself back to life. You dont
ever know about a mage.
Piper hadnt been dead, though he had been as close to being dead as he
thought he would ever like to come. Until now.
Piper swallowed only a little and tried not to breathe at all. He began to
drag his broken right hand, inch by inch, down to his side.
They hadnt quite known what to do with him in Thorbardin. The
captain of the Guard voiced the suspicion that the mage might well have

been sent to spy out Thorbardins defenses, and so saying, found the
solution to the problem of the mage on the doorstep.
There are prison cells deep and dark in Thorbardin, and Piper woke in
one of them, shackled and wondering whether he had miscast a spell
seriously enough to transport himself into the Abyss.
Hed only wanted to go to Haven, and that was no long leap from the
Forest of Wayreth. No long leap in magic.
Hed known he was yet in the mortal plane when he discovered that his
jailors outside his cell were dwarves. The dwarf who brought him his
rations of warm water and dry bread was uncommunicative, answering his
questions with a grunt or not at all. Though he once brought the mage
warmer blankets against the cold and damp, the dwarf guard never said a
word more and was careful that Pipers hands were never free.
Always, he thought, his eyes still shut against the pain, his hand
growing strangely numb as he dragged it toward the flute, always they
know about a mages hands.
After two days, Piper was brought before the Council of Thanes. Still
bound and shackled for fear that he would try to defend himself with
magic, or charm the council into believing him innocent of the charge of
spying, Piper told his story of a transport spell gone awry to the six thanes
in their great council chamber.
They wrangled long over the issue, as they were accustomed to do over
almost any matter. Spy! some cried. Others had their doubts about that
charge, but were not inclined to be understanding or absolve the mage of
the sin of trespassing in the dwarven holdings. Dragons flew the skies of
Krynn openly now, and armies were massing for war in the Outlands. If
they could not be certain that Piper was innocent of the charge of spying,
the Council of Thanes would happily consign him to the dungeons and
iron shackles for the rest of his life, thereby settling the matter to
everyones satisfaction except Pipers.
Only one of the thanes had even considered the matter of Pipers
freedom. That one was Hornfel, and he argued hard for the sake of the
young human whose disarming innocence and genuine goodwill, coupled

with the tale of miscast magic, moved him. Hornfel pledged his own word
as bond for the mage and so pledging, bought Pipers freedom.
Piper, his hand wholly numb now, knew hed touched the flute when he
felt it roll against his side. He listened to the wash of his own blood in his
lungs and seemed to hear Hornfels bemused sigh again.
I usually judge a man aright the first time. But know this, young
Jordy: you are the keeper of my word now. See that you keep it well.
Jordy had thought then that hed have no trouble keeping Hornfels
pledge. He instinctively liked the dwarf and owed him his freedom. He
was also fascinated by Thorbardin, where few humans had come before
now. Jordy spoke impulsively and never regretted that he did.
Well trade pledges, sir, Jordy had said gravely to the dwarf who had
saved him from the endless cold and darkness of Thorbardins dungeons,
Im in your debt and, if youll have me, in your service.
In those two years, the young man was called by some Jordy, by others
Hornfels pet mage. Then, the children who ran in Thorbardins streets
and great gardens, delighted by the blond giants music, began to call him
Piper. The mage had found his by-name, a thane and lord to serve, and,
though he wasnt looking for one, a home.
Piper, sweating in the cold dawn, marshalled all his strength and, with
his forearm, nudged the flute carefully out and away from his side. It lay
near his shoulder now. Bracing his feet against the hard ground, he did a
slow, painful bend and grasped the scooped lip of the instrument in his
teeth.
One of the Theiwar laughed, a sound like wind howling around
barrows. Piper straightened. When he did, a broken rib moved in his lung,
tearing and tearing. Blood leaked into the place where air should have
been. He had no breath left for the complicated spells now. He had no time
left either.
A spell, he thought, swift and sure to get me out of here!
A transport spell. Not to take him far, he hadnt the strength for that,

but just to hide him well in the forest where they would have to search for
him. It was likely not all of them will search, he thought as he slowly,
painfully filled his lungs with air. However, Stanach might hear them and
be warned long before he sees them.
Piper closed his eyes and thought of a glade he knew deep in the
woods, near the borders of Elvenwood. These Theiwar would search long
and far before they ventured too close to haunted Qualinesti.
Three notes he needed, all low and sounding like wind when it sweeps
through the grass. Three words of magic. The words he had and the breath
he found.
For a timeless space Piper felt no pain, no need to breathe. All sense of
being drained away, like the tide dragging away from a shore, as Piper
rode the music.

Chapter Twelve
The mid-morning sun shone thin and bright, offering little warmth. Its
light arrowed down between the eaves of the tallest trees, rebounding like
gleaming silver darts from the last shivering brown and red leaves of the
underbrush. A cold breeze carried the rich scent of damp earth and
moldering leaves through the forest. Little more than a deer trail, the path
often seemed invisible to Kelida, like something Tyorl followed more by
instinct than sight.
Tyorl moved first down the narrow, shadow-dappled path; Stanach
next; Kelida behind him. Lavim followed last and only occasionally. Like
an old dog in new territory, the kender ranged the forest on either side of
the trail. No thicket, glade, beck, or stone outcropping of the slightest
interest was left uninvestigated Though Lavim had long before given up
trying to call these fascinating landmarks to his companions attention, he
kept up a running commentary in a voice that still seemed too deep to
Kelida for one of his small stature, but one that clearly spoke of the
kenders pleasure in his surroundings and the sunny day.
Damn good thing were not trying to get through this wretched forest
without anyone knowing, Stanach muttered.
Kelida smiled. Tyorl had made a similar comment moments before. For
her part, she enjoyed the kenders delight. His cries of discovery ran like a
tuneless, rhymeless trailsong through what would have been a silent
journey were it left to Tyorl to provide conversation. Stanach was not to
be looked to for anything but dour silence.
Her eyes on Stanachs broad-shouldered back, neatly bisected by his
scabbarded sword, Kelida thought about his bad-tempered suggestion that
she learn how to use the slim dagger she now carried.

When hed snapped the warning to her in the sad, deserted chamber in
Qualinost, Kelidas first reactions had been anger, then hurt. Her second
had been to find a dagger. She had not, however, given Hauks sword over
to Stanach or into Tyorls keeping. Since shed adjusted the scabbard,
Stormblade rode easier en her hip and leg, though it still dragged, and the
sword belt caused her borrowed hunting leathers to chafe and rub at her
skin.
She had set her sights on the modest goal of learning to use the dagger
Lavim helped her find before theyd left Qualinost. Stanach, though hed
volunteered the suggestion that she find a blade, hadnt volunteered to
teach her how to use it. According to what Stanach had said over the dawn
campfire, they would soon be near the place where he expected to meet his
friend Piper. Then, Thorbardin would be only a shaky breath and a
transport spell away.
Tyorl had looked thoughtful at the news and made no comment.
Remembering the look in his eyes, Kelida wondered now whether the elf
was beginning to doubt Stanachs tale. Which part of it, she wondered, the
part about the sword or the part about the mage?
Kelida shook her head and stepped over a downed sapling in the trail.
Stanach, a little ahead, looked back, his dark eyes moving, as they always
did, to Stormblades richly decorated hilt.
No, she thought, the tale is true. There was a light in his eyes when he
looked at Stormblade, and it wasnt the cold light of avarice. He looked at
the sword the way Kelida imagined someone would view a holy relic.
Whatever Tyorl thought, Kelida knew that Stanachs tale was not one
spun to help him steal a valuable sword. He called it a Kingsword,
Stormblade, or masterblade. He spoke of king regents and legends become
truth. Behind his words, behind the tale, Kelida saw Hauk, somehow more
shy and gentle than he seemed, and with his silence defending her from
the wrath of a cruel derro mage who would kill to retrieve Stormblade.
From their first night in Qualinesti, Kelida had instinctively liked the
dwarf. She remembered their conversation before the dying campfire.
When shed attempted to tell him about the destruction of her home, the

deaths of her parents and her brother, hed gently whispered Hush, girl,
hush.
So deep in her thinking was she that she did not see the tangle of thick
gray roots snaking across the path. Her foot caught, she gasped, and fell
hard to her knees. Up ahead Tyorl stopped and turned, but it was Stanach
who came back for her. He grasped her elbows and lifted her easily to her
feet.
Are you hurt?
Kelida shook her head. No, Im fine. Im sorry. She apologized
before she could even decide whether or not she needed to.
Youd be sorrier if youd broken an ankle. Stanach softened the
warning with a smile, barely seen before it was lost in the depths of his
black beard. Our part is to watch the ground, Kelida. Tyorl will watch the
forest.
Kelida looked after him when he turned and continued up the path.
Silent as a cat rounding a corner, Lavim came up beside her.
You all right? Startled, Kelida gasped. Lavim! Where did you come
from? The kender grinned and jerked his head.
Back down the trail. Dwarves: I dunno. Strange fellows. They brew a
good drink, though. Me, if I had all the dwarf spirits I could drink, Id be
the happiest person around. Swords, and kings who arent kingsI dont
know about that business. The dwarf spiritsre why Im going to
Thorbardin. Can you imagine? All the dwarf spirits you could want, and
made by the people who know how to do it! I figure I wont be cold all
winter!
Kelida hid a smile. No one had invited the kender along, but no one
seemed inclined to try to banish him either.
Stanachs right, though, you should watch the ground. I dont think
youre used to walking in the woods, are you?
No, Im not. Ill manage though. Her eyes on the faint trail, Kelida

set out again, hurrying her pace to catch up with Stanach and Tyorl. La
vim fell in beside her.
I only look up at the sky when Im sleeping, he said. Or when a
dragon flies by. Thats my secret.
Good advice, she murmured.
The kender shrugged, ducked off to the side to make certain there
wasnt anything of interest behind a broad-trunked oak, and rejoined her.
That Stanachs a moody fellow. Have you noticed that?
I have.
He used to be a swordcrafter, did you know that? You should look at
his hands sometime. Theyre scarred all over with little burns. Thats from
the forge fires.
Lavim warmed to this receptive audience and grinned, remembering
Givrak in the tavern and the draconian patrols in the warehouse. Stanach,
hes nice enough when hes not being moody, but he has this strange
knack for annoying people. He could really get into trouble one of these
days if hes not careful. Lavims eyes were suddenly wise, or so he
imagined. This mage, Piper I figure itll be a good thing when Stanach
finally catches up with him. Somebodys got to keep him out of trouble. I
figure thats what this Piper fellow does. You know, kind of keeps an eye
on him?
Kelida remembered the four draconians that had precipitated their flight
from Long Ridge. What did he do to get the draconians so mad?
Oh, you cant ever tell about a draconian. Theyre not like us, you
know. Theyre mean as a way of life. Stanach aggravated a bunch of them
outside an old, burned warehouse. Lavim paused, looked thoughtful, and
then shrugged. Maybe it had something to do with the four who were
chasing me, or the one who fell out the window . . . I dunno. Like I said,
you cant tell about em.
The kenders chatter was like a warm summer breeze. Ill tell you, he
said, cocking an eye at the girl, the only thing meaner than a draconian is

a minotaurand even that bears thinking about. Ever see a minotaur,

Kelida? Theyre, well, kind of strange looking. Big fellows! They have fur
all over them. Not long fur, you see, but short. Like a bulls. Lavim
frowned, then grinned. And no sense of humor at all! If you ever see one
try to remember not towell, um, suggest that his mother was a cow.
Kelidas eyes widened. Why would I suggest that?
Oh, it would be a natural mistake. Lavims green eyes twinkled.
They kind of remind you of cows or bulls. They have real thick faces and
horns and a disposition that definitely makes you think of a bad-tempered
bull. I was around the Blood Sea last year, just passing through Mithas
His laughter, deep-throated and merry, rang out suddenly. Thats when I
learned that I might be old, but I can still run! No, they really dont like it
if you talk too much about cows. I dont think theres a minotaur alive
who knows what a joke is.
Kelida, smiling, trudged along beside Lavim, trying to follow the
winding paths of a tale about three minotaurs, a gnome named Ish, and a
bale of hay offered as dinner, for some reason Lavim never made clear.
As the track of the story became more confused and obscured with
exaggeration and hyperbole, Kelida contented herself with watching the
ground and trying to present the appearance that she was, indeed, listening
to the kender. After a time, she remembered Stanachs insistence that she
learn to use her dagger. She dropped her hand to the sheath at her hip. It
was empty, the dagger gone.
Lavim!
Lavim looked around and up. What?
My daggerits gone!
Oh, have one of mine. He slipped a bone-handled dagger from his
belt and held it out to her. I found it back on the trail, but, of course, I
already have six or seven. Here.
It was obviously the one she was missing.

Kelida snatched the dagger and sheathed it awkwardly. Just where did
you find it?
Lavim scratched his head in puzzlement. I dont remember, but I knew
it would come in handy.
Skillfully, he veered away from a mossy outcropping. I heard Stanach
tell you that you should learn. He was a little testy about the matter, but
hes right. I could teach you.
Would you?
Sure, Kelida, Id be happy to. Lavim peered up the trail. Stanach and
Tyorl stood waiting. When he winked, Kelida thought he looked like a
disreputable old conspirator. In my youth I was a sort of champion of
Kendertown. Well, actually, second place. Sort of. Second place is really
quite impressive, especially if there are at least two contestants, dont you
think? Oops! Better catch up!
Kelida smiled. She trailed after Lavim, her hand on the daggers hilt,
and reminded herself to check to see what else of hers the old kender
might have found.

The warm boulder felt good at Kelidas back. Here, on the high ground,
the sun of the morning and early afternoon had dried the dampness from
the grass and heated the rocks. The tree line was, temporarily, below them.
The rock-strewn hill rose like a small island from the forest. This, Kelida
knew from questioning Stanach as theyd climbed the hill, was not part of
the foothills.
Just a bump in the ground, the dwarf had said, his dark eyes on the
tall, blue peaks to the south. The real hills are farther east.
Kelida rubbed her aching legs. Real hills. As though this were a
meadow! The outcropping against which she leaned was as comfortable as
the bricks her mother used to heat in winter to warm cold feet. A clouds
shadow slipped across the ground, and Kelida closed her eyes. The
memory of her mother touched an empty, aching place within her. As

though it had fled into that empty place, all the warmth seemed to bleed
out of the day. Behind her eyes, she saw fire and death and a wide-winged
dragon dropping from the sky.
To her left and a little below where she sat ran a laughing stream, cold
from its passage through the earth. The sound of splashing and then an
impatient snarl that could only have been Stanachs cut through Kelidas
dark memories. She looked around.
Lavim, who had gone to fill their flasks at the stream, leaped up the
slope and around the rocks bulging from the earths thin skin with all the
unconcerned skill of a mountain goat. The kender dropped down beside
her.
I did not! he shouted over his shoulder, his eyes filled with impish
green light. He passed Keldia her flask and unstoppered his own to drink
deeply. Stanach fell in the stream. The way he tells it, youd think I
pushed him!
Did you?
Not me! He slipped on a mossy rock. Look at him. Now, at least, hes
got something to snap and snarl about.
Kelida peered over her shoulder. Stanach, wet to the knees, stalked up
the slope like a grudge-holding hunter. He saw Kelida sitting with Lavim,
so he veered away to join Tyorl. Kelida watched him take a seat on the
ground near the elf. Each sat silently, not sharing his thoughts. When she
turned back to the old kender, she saw her dagger again in Lavims
possession.
Lavim grinned and held up his hand, the dagger point balanced on his
palm. Look what I found again.
Lavim, give it back.
The kender pulled back his hand and snapped his wrist. The blade now
balanced on his other palm. I thought you wanted me to teach you how to
use it.

I do, but
Well, then?
Kelida smiled. All right. But, I dont think I need to know jugglers
tricks.
Oh, I dunno. Itd be easy to teach you some really simple tricks. Im a
really good juggler. Well, I spose its not polite to say that myself, but I
am and He shrugged when Kelida frowned impatiently. All right.
How about this?
The kender jerked his wrist again, brought the weapon hilt-first to his
right hand, and sent the dagger flying from his grip with a swift and subtle
movement.
Kelida looked around quickly but saw no sign of the dagger. Where is
it?
La vim gestured toward a scrubby growth of naked brush. There,
getting us some supper. The kender scrambled to his feet, trotted across
the stony ground, and reached into the brush. When he turned, he had a
large gray-furred rabbit by the hind legs. The creature stirred weakly and
then fell still. The slim, little dagger had pierced it cleanly through the
heart. Lavim returned, tossed the rabbit down, and resumed his seat.
Thats one Tyorl wont have to waste a draw on later. A dagger is for
stabbing and throwing, Kelida, he said, his tone serious now. Clearly, he
was enjoying his role as weapons instructor. Those are about the only
things you can do with a knife. Well, besides cutting meat and picking
locks, maybe.
He eyed her consideringly and then nodded. Youve got a good
throwing arm. I saw that in the road outside Long Ridge. If those soldiers
hadnt been wearing mail, youd have taken em down with those stones
you were pegging at em. Of course, you should have been aiming at their
heads. You were probably too distracted to think about that. Here, take the
knife.
The rabbits blood steamed on the blade in the cool air. Kelida took the

hilt between two fingers.

No, no, not that way. Here, like this. Lavim laid the hilt along her
palm, closed her fingers over the bone handle. There, grip it likeI
dunno, like youre shaking hands with it, but not too tight. There, pleased
to meet cha.
The daggers hilt was cold in her hand. Blood tapped against the hem
of her cloak. Kelida shuddered. Dark and creeping, she felt nausea rolling
around in her stomach.
Now, Lavim said, throw it. Throw overhand, just like youd peg a
rock, only a daggers lighter so you have to get a higher arc on it. Go
ahead, try to hit that old stump over there.
The blackened remains of a lightning-struck ash jutted up from a low
scoop in the ground about five yards to the north. Kelida judged the
distance, took a sighting, and threw. The blade wobbled a little, made the
distance, and fell among the stumps gnarled roots.
Not too bad. You got where you wanted to go, but you have to really
put your arm into it. La vim retrieved the dagger. Try again.
She did, and this time the daggers blade grazed the rough bark. On the
third try, the dagger struck hard into the wood and stayed, quivering.
There! Youve got it now. La vim fetched the dagger again and
dropped down beside his student. Now, throwing is fine when you have
the room for it, and when youre more interested in hitting your target than
keeping the dagger. The other thing a dagger is for is stabbing.
Kelida shivered again. She closed her eyes and drew a long, steadying
breath.
Lavim tugged at her sleeve. Kelida, are you listening?
Kelida nodded dumbly.
All right, then. Stabbing is funny stuff. Well, not funny, really, but
strange. Dont stab down if youre in close. All youll do is hit bone and

make someone mad. You sure wont disable him. Stab up from below.
That way you stand a really good chance of hitting something important
like a liver or kidney. Got it?
II think so.
Lavim looked at her again. You look a little green, Kelida, you feeling
all right?
Kelida swallowed against rising nausea. Im fine.
You sure? Maybe we should talk about stabbing later? Why dont you
try a few throws again?
Kelida tried. Her first throw was off by a fingers width, her second hit
the mark.
One more. Lavim encouraged, Youre getting the feel of it. Kelida
threw again and missed the stump by a yard.
Brown sedge and dead grass were thick around the stump. Kelida
searched for a moment, but did not find the dagger. Beyond the stump, the
hill dropped down toward the woods. Just before the dark line of the trees
shadows, she saw sun glinting off steel, the daggers blade. Kelida started
down the hill.
The low ground in the shadow of the hill was wet and marshy. Her
boots squelched in the puddles and slopped in the mud. Kelida retrieved
the dagger quickly. When she turned to start back up the hill, something
fluttering in the close underbrush of the forest caught her eye. Frowning,
Kelida took a few steps toward the thickets.
She pushed through the thorny scrub brush and stopped. The
underbrush framed a small sward of late green grass. A young man lay
there, his right arm twisted in an impossible angle beneath him, his
swollen, broken left hand outflung as though appealing for mercy. From
where she stood, Kelida could not tell if he breathed.
She raised a hand to her mouth and caught a finger between her teeth so
that she wouldnt scream. Long blond hair trailed in a thin rivulet of water,

mud-fouled and plastered to the side of his face. Encrusted with blood at
the edges and angry red along the trough, a blades deep cut scored that
face from a swollen, bruised eye to just beneath his jaw. Great rusty
splashes of blood stained his red robes; some were brown and old, some
crimson and still spreading. Kelida drew a short, choppy breath.
Lavim! she cried. Tyorl! Stanach!
The young man moaned and opened his eyes. Once, they might have
been as blue as a summer sky. Now, they were muddy and dull with pain.
Lady, he whispered. He gasped and squeezed his eyes tightly shut,
then ran his tongue around blood-stained lips and tried again. Lady, will
you help me?

Stanach, his hands cold and shaking, dropped to his knees. His palm on
Pipers chest, he felt for the rise and fall of life as he had when he
crouched in the dusty road beside Kyan Red-axe five days ago. Piper still
lived, if only barely. His breath was a bubbling wheeze in his lungs. The
mage had not spoken since hed asked for Kelidas help, but only lay still
and silent.
He was not dead, but it would not be long before he was. Both of his
hands and several ribs were broken, too much blood stood in his lungs.
Tyorl, who had left to quickly scout the glade for signs of the young
mans attackers, returned now. He carried his longbow, an arrow still at
nock, in his left hand; in his right, he held an old cherry wood flute. This
he silently offered to Stanach.
Stanach took the instrument, running his thumbs down the smooth
length of polished wood. After a moments hesitation, he laid the flute
beside Pipers broken right hand. Where did you find it?
A little way off. Stanach, I have to talk with you.
Stanach nodded and climbed wearily to his feet.

The elf, his long blue eyes unreadable, glanced at Piper, then looked
around for Kelida. He saw her standing with Lavim at the edge of the
glade and motioned for her to join them.
Stay with him, Kelida.
Kelida said nothing. Green eyes wide with pity, face paled by fear, she
settled beside the mage. Lavim, silent for once, crouched down opposite
her. Stanach sighed heavily and followed Tyorl into the deepening
shadows of the forest until they were well out of the others hearing.
Tyorl returned the arrow to his quiver, but did not unstring his bow.
He looks like he was set on by a mob.
Stanach nodded.
I found no sign at all that anyone else has been here. I found no track
or mark that even he had come into the glade. How do you suppose he got
here?
I dont know. Hes magi and Stanach swallowed against the
tightening of his throat. and known in Thorbardin for his transport
spells. Memory caught him and he smiled. He gets you where you want
to go, but the magic always feels like its going to pull the days dinner out
of your belly. Hesknown for that, too.
I dont think it happened very far from here, though. He wouldnt
have had the strength to transport any great distance. Is the road into Long
Ridge near?
Five miles, maybe a little more, Tyorl said.
Then, thats where it happened. Or near there. Its where he was
waiting for me.
Im sorry.
Aye, Stanach muttered roughly, so am I. He turned and started
back to Piper. He didnt get two steps before Tyorl caught his arm.

What about the sword?

What about it? Stanach tangled the fingers of his right hand in his
beard and closed his eyes. I dont know, he said bitterly. I didnt get to
Piper in time, did I? He cant help me and II cant help him. Let me at
least sit with him while he dies.
So saying, the dwarf turned and left the shadows for the sun-dappled
sward. Tyorl followed silently.
Kelida moved aside when Stanach came to sit beside her. Hes still
breathing, Stanach. Hes still alive.
Stanach said nothing, only drew the back of his hand across his mouth
and nodded, his eyes on Pipers broken hands.
Kelida, following his gaze, whispered, Why?
So he couldnt defend himself with magic. He touched a finger to the
flute. They didnt know about the pipe. It got him away, but not in time
to save his life.
Ah, Jordy, Stanach thought. Im sorry, Piper!
We might as well camp here. Tyorl said, Its a muddy hole to pass
the night in, but Ive a feeling well want the lee of the hill to shelter our
fire tonight. Wed better set our night watch fireless on the hilltop. Tyorl
motioned to the kender who looked like he wanted to ask questions. Fuel
and kindling, aye?
Lavim rose stiffly and, with one look at Stanach, slipped into the
woods. The elf climbed the hill to walk the watch. Alone, Kelida sat
beside Stanach. She, who had watched her family and friends fall before a
dragons rage, saw the deep and desolate sorrow in the dwarfs eyes and
knew that he mustnt sit alone.

Solinari, as it always did, rose first above the horizon. Lunitari did not
lag far behind. Night, deep blue and cold, flowed into the glade. Shadows

and firelight turned the naked brush to glowing black webbing.

When the red moons light crested the hill and ran down into the
woods, Stanach realized that he hadnt heard the thick, rasping sound of
Pipers labored breathing for many moments. He leaned forward, gently
placed his hand on the mages chest. There was no movement. The
lifebeat in his neck was stilled. Stanach sat listening to the thunder of his
own heart.
Im sorry, Kelida whispered.
Stanach nodded. He looked at her for a long moment, then at the
Kingsword she still wore at her hip. Gold caught the fires light, and
shadows glided over the silver. The five sapphires winked coldly. Stanach
thought he could see the crimson heart of the steel glowing through the
shabby leather scabbard.
Kelida covered his right hand with her own.
Stanach still said nothing.
The music that had enchanted the dwarven children of Thorbardin was
flown. The magic was gone. Jordy was dead and Kyan was dead.
In that moment, Stanach didnt let himself feel a thing for fear that his
grief would overwhelm him and he would weep.

Chapter Thirteen
Where is the sword?
The voice, as hard and cold as black obsidian, became the darkness.
The darkness became the voice. Hauk did not know whether he saw the
dwarf with his eyes or felt him, like a shape-shifting nightmare, in his
mind.
Where is the sword?
Hauk answered carefully. The dwarf could see into his mind. Or he
stood inside his mind. I dontI dont know.
The questioning had become like a defensive sword fight. Parry and
deflect, retreat, then parry again. Like a fighter whose back is to a cliffs
drop, Hauk knew that he could not retreat much longer. His answer was
true. He didnt know where the sword was now.
Who has the sword?
I dont know. I dont, he told himself. I dont know her name. He
cached the picture of the red-haired barmaid behind the wall of his will.
Its mine, he told himself over and over again. I own this memory. I
own it! He buried it deep and far, as a miser does who hides a treasure of
immeasurable worth.
Realgars laughter washed sickeningly up against the edges of Hauks
soul. Like a miner with a sharp pick, the mage dug and scraped at Hauks
mind and held each memory up to cold, white light.
Hauk smelled smoke in the air of a taverns common room.

Realgar laughed again. The white light vanished, its afterglare

throbbing and pulsing. Between one heartbeat and the next, it leaped high,
a column of flame. Stormwinds howled.
Hauk tasted ale in his mouth, the rise of bile in his throat. A silver flash
cut the smoke. He saw Tyorls blue eyes, amused and tolerant of his
young friends follies.
His daggers steel blade quivered in the exact center of a wooden
serving tray. The sound of the blades vibration rose, high and humming,
and Hauk felt it. The floor of the cell trembled as though an earthquake
shook the stone.
Darkness fell hard, and Hauk, his heart trembling, let it settle over him
and told himself that the darkness was good. It hid treasures.
Realgars laughter became the raucous noise in the taverns common
room. Hauk had found Tyorl in his mind, and he clung to the image of his
friend. He filled his mind with all the memories of the years, boy and man,
that he had known the elf.
Blood tapped on stone. It slid across a shadow-pocked, rock floor.
Tyorl lay dead at Hauks feet. The elfs fingers stiffened in death, still
clutching the mortal wound in his belly.
Stormblade, sapphires breathing like soft twilight, hung from Hauks
hand, blood hissing down the blade.
Where is the sword?
Hauk threw back his head and howled in grief and rage and denial.
He never, not even for a moment, allowed himself to remember the girl
with the copper braids and eyes like emeralds. She was no real girl to him
now. She was only a light, bright memory in the darkness. That memory
was his and he clung to it the way a drowning man clutches the last
splintered board from a storm-whelmed ship. He had nothing else.

Chapter Fourteen
Before the moons had set, Stanach began to build Pipers cairn. Tyorl,
walking watch on the hill, thought the dwarf worked with all the
dispassion of a mason constructing a wall. Stones littered the hills crest,
and Stanach used these to lay the base for the mages tomb.
The dwarf asked for no help, but he offered no protest when Tyorl
asked Kelida to relieve him at watch and, instead of seeking his own rest,
bent his back to dragging stones for the cairn. Neither said a word to the
other, each was tired and wrapped in his own thoughts. By the time
dawnlight turned the dark sky a soft, cool blue, the tomb was laid and
ready to accept Pipers body.
By that time, too, Tyorl had made some decisions. He gratefully
accepted Kelidas water flask, took a hard pull on it, and passed it to
Stanach.
Kelida, wait, Tyorl said as she moved away from him to return to
guard.
Stanach, his back against the pile of cairn stones, looked around. The
dwarfs expression was cool, his large forge-scarred hands moved
restlessly over the broad flat rock hed chosen for the cairns footstone.
What now?
Tyorl chose his words carefully. Its time we know what were going
to do, Stanach.
Im going to Thorbardin.
Tyorl nodded. I thought you would be.

Tyorl looked for Lavim and found him sitting cross-legged next to the
mages body. He wondered what so fascinated the kender that he would
voluntarily sit watch for the dead.
Tyorl, Stanach said, Im going to Thorbardin with Stormblade. He
smiled and there was no humor in his black eyes at all. If you dont come
with me, Ill be pleased to give your greetings to Hauk. If he lives.
Youve played that tune one time too many, dwarf, Tyorl snapped.
He could be alive. Care to risk it? The dwarf jerked his head at the
empty cairn waiting in the morning shadows for Piper. You build these
things awkwardly still. Youll get better with practice.
Youre skilled enough at it, Tyorl said coldly. Your friends dont
seem to live very long, Stanach. How many cairns have you built since
you left Thorbardin?
Kelida, standing in silence between them, clutched Tyorls shoulder.
No, Tyorl, no.
Stanach held up his hand. People are dying for this sword. More will
die because of it if I dont fetch it back to where it belongs. True, Tyorl?
Tyorl said nothing for a long moment. Stanach spoke truly and the elf
would not deny it. He looked up at Kelida, still standing between them.
The days new light ran like gold through her thick red braids, sent her
shadow leaping out before her. In that moment, dressed in the gray
hunting leathers hed found for her in Qualinost, Stormblade at her hip, the
frightened girl hed known seemed to vanish. Mud-stained leathers, hand
resting on Stormblades hilt she looked like she would be at home in
Finns company of rangers.
Aye, but she wouldnt be! The girl could barely use a dagger and had
only yesterday learned how to walk with Stormblade on her hip without
tripping over it. She was no ranger, no warrior woman. She was a farmers
girl turned barmaid.
Tyorl shook his head and got quickly to his feet. Ill tell you this,
Stanach: I dont know if Hauk is living or dead, but I believe your tale

about the sword. Stormblade is no longer his. The sword should go to

Thorbardin. He heard Kelidas sigh of relief and saw it mirrored deep in
Stanachs dark eyes.
However, it goes someplace else first. He cut off the dwarfs protest
with with an angry gesture. My ranger company is nearby. You werent
the only one hoping to meet friends on the road, Stanach. Finn will want to
know whats happened to Hauk, and hell need to know something I was
sent to Long Ridge to learn.
Quickly, with spare detail, Tyorl told Stanach what he and Hauk had
discovered in Long Ridge of Verminaards plan to move supply bases into
the mountains.
Understanding moved like pain across Stanachs face. Verminaard
plans to attack Thorbardin?
Oh, yes, Tyorl said dryly. Did you think your precious mountains
would be safe forever? Did you think the war would part around them like
water around an island? The first supply trains are likely moving around
Qualinestis borders now. The season advances and Verminaard will want
to have his bases in place for a strike before winter. It will be a good idea,
dont you think, if we get to those hills before a horde of draconians
arrive? And before whoever killed the mage finds us?
The sun, now above the tree line in the east, poured its light over the
hill and gilded the stones of Pipers cairn. The dwarf rose slowly and
started down the hill with no word to either Tyorl or Kelida.
Kelida watched as Lavim scrambled to his feet and went to meet
Stanach. Her eyes were sorrowful and her expression softened by pity.
When she looked at Tyorl, the sorrow was gone. The pity remained and
Tyorl had the uncomfortable feeling that it was for him.
That was cruel, Tyorl.
What was?
What you said about his friends dying. She left him abruptly and
jogged down the hill.

Standing alone, Tyorl shivered in the sunlight.

The high, tuneless squeal of a flute, soared up from the foot of the hill.
Down in the hollow, La vim yelped as Stanach snatched Pipers flute from
his hands.
Tyorl bounded down the slope, his doubts and misgivings forgotten.
Draconians and murderous seekers after god-touched swords paled when
compared with the nightmare of a kender with an enchanted flute.

The dwarf Brek ran thick fingers along the side of his face. The tic near
his right eye jumped again. Wheres Mica?
I saw his tracks this side of the road. Hell be back. Chert shifted
uneasily from foot to foot and offered the only piece of information hed
discovered. The mage is dead.
The noon sun, thick and as sickening as the stench of something lately
dead and rotting, rebounded in golden darts of light from Cherts bloodhued helm and mail, and stained the rocky hills with light. The southern
road to Long Ridge was only a thin, brown ribbon seen from these low
fells; the dark forest a smoky border, its shadows reaching out to pool
around the high fall of rock and debris that looked like a giants cairn. The
smaller one, the real cairn, could not be seen from this distance. Behind,
them to the east, the broad blue heights of the Kharolis Mountains reached
for the sky. Beneath those mountains lay the Deep Warrens and home.
Brek spat and wondered if he would be dead of the light or the Heralds
dagger before he ever saw the warrens again. He looked sidelong at Agus
the clan-reft. Hed been reading his death warrant, glittering in the deeps
of the Gray Heralds one eye, since Hornfels pet mage had vanished
yesterday.
How do you know the mage is dead?
Theres a newly built cairn in the woods, Chert offered.
There wont even be that for me, Brek thought. My bones will rot and

crumble in the sun if I dont recover that sword!

He glanced at the Herald again. Realgar did not tolerate incompetence
and it would not matter at all to him that Brek had given good and faithful
service for the twenty years past.
I dont care about cairns, he snapped.
Aye, but someone must have built it. Who would take the time but a
friend? I saw the signs of three, maybe four people. Chert grinned and
scratched his tangled beard with a battle scarred hand. Warriors silver,
the Theiwar named the scars earned in battle. Chert was wealthy in it.
One was clearly a dwarf.
Wulfen, standing apart from his companions, laughed low in his throat.
The sound reminded Brek of vulpine snarling.
Aye, who but a friend? HammerfeHs apprentice. Could you tell
where they were heading?
East into the foothills.
East into the foothills . . . Hammerfells apprentice, tracking home to
Thorbardin, was afoot and without the mages spells to protect him. Brek
relaxed and smiled.
Cherts hand slipped to the crossbow slung across his shoulder. Do we
follow?
No, Brek said. We cut him off. Wulfen! Lets go.
Not right in his head, Brek thought again as the slim dwarf loped up the
hill. Eyes like iced-over mud, Wulfen raised his head and laughed, an
eerie howling. He scented prey.
As though Wulfens howl were a signal, Mica crested the hill. Brek
hailed him and motioned for him to fall in with his fellows.
The Herald, one-eyed Agus, said nothing as he followed the three north
across the hills.

Tyorl welcomed their return to the forest. Out on the hill, even in its
lee, hed felt exposed and vulnerable. He breathed easier in the shade and
shelter of the woods. The berms they had seen the day before, softened by
a thin covering of earth and fallen leaves, were now naked gray stone
outcroppings, thrusting up from the ground and often half the height of the
tall pines. The trail was only an uneven winding path through stone and
thick, gnarled tree roots.
The forest, though it looked like part of Qualinestis border, was in fact
the beginning of what Finn termed his run. The rangerlord, and his
company of thirty elves and humans, hunted the narrow strip of land
between Qualinesti and the Kharolis Mountains. Their best prey were
draconian patrols.
Finns Nightmare Company had been restless, deadly predators since
the first draconians had fouled the forests with their presence. Borderkeepers some in the remote villages and towns called them. The people
gave the rangers aid when they could. Sometimes it was only a loaf of
bread and a drink at the well. Sometimes aid came in the form of
information or, more precious, silence when a squad of draconians passed
through in search of those that had savaged a hapless patrol of
Verminaards soldiers.
Much as he did in Elvenwood, Tyorl felt at home in these stony woods.
In a day or two, if not before, he would find Finn.
Or, he thought, Finn will find me.
Tyorl walked ahead, an arrow nocked and ready on his bowstring. He
looked over his shoulder, caught the wink of sunlight on the dwarfs silver
earring, and saw that Stanach had dropped back to last position. Though
Stanachs old sword still rested in his back scabbard, Tyorl knew that it
was within easy reach. Hed made no comment at all about Tyorls plans
to seek the rangers, but Tyorl supposed the fact that Stanach was still with
them was acceptance enough. Stanach would go where Stormblade went,
and, though she had castigated him for what she called a cruel remark,
Kelida had to agree that Tyorls idea was a good one.

Tyorl scowled. Pipers flute hung by a thong from Stanachs belt.

Though Tyorl had tried to convince him to entomb the instrument with the
mage, Stanach would have none of it.
Ive buried him, Stanach had said stubbornly, Ill not bury his
music. Piper was Hornfels man. The flute Ill give to him.
As far as any of them knew, Lavims piping had done no mischief. But
the potential for mischief, for danger, was real. According to Stanach, the
mage had not only invested the flute with several spells, the instrument
possessed a magic of its own.
Piper used to say that it has its own mind, Stanach had said.
Sometimes, it chose its own song, and then it wouldnt matter at all what
Piper wanted to play. Or so he liked to say.
The dwarf had said nothing more, only slipped the thong through his
belt and run the palm of his hand along the polished wood.
Tyorl looked at the kender, jogging along beside Kelida, spinning some
disconnected tale of improbabilities. As often as Lavim looked up at
Kelida, that often did his attention wander back to Stanach and the cherry
wood flute. Tyorl would have been as happy to lose the kender as the
flute. He knew, watching Kelidas smile, that she would have none of that.
He did not stop then to wonder why it mattered to him what Kelida
wanted.
Shadows lengthened and the suns light was losing its warmth when
Tyorl waved Stanach forward. Kelida, her expression telling clearly of
aching muscles, sank to a seat on a lichen-painted boulder and only
offered a thin smile when Stanach, passing her, dropped a hand onto her
shoulder in a gesture of encouragement.
Lavim, uninvited and not caring in the least that he was, followed
Stanach. Whyre we stopping, Tyorl?
Tyorl ran his thumb along his bowstring. Were stopping to hunt,
Lavim. Youre stopping to make camp.

But I dont
No arguments, Lavim. Theres a hollow beyond those rocks. Tyorl
gestured with his bow toward a cobble of trees and stone rising to their
left. Youll find a beck for water and likely the wood youll need to make
a fire. He tossed his water flask to the kender and motioned for Stanach
to do the same. Fill the flasks, then get kindling and fuel.
Lavim scowled, his face a mass of wrinkles and puzzlement. You
know, all Ive been doing lately is making camp! How come Stanach gets
to go hunting and I have to skin catches and drag around wood and
kindling? He slipped his hoopak from his back and looked from one to
the other. Kender-quick, his expression changed to a guileful smile of
assurance. Im an awfully good hunter.
No ones doubting that, kenderkin. Tyorl drawled. What Im
doubting is whether we can trust you to come back with dinner when some
bird or bush or cloud catches your eyes.
Lavim bristled, about to argue, when Stanach held up a hand.
He didnt mean that the way it sounded, Lavim. He meant Stanach
faltered. Tyorl had said exactly what hed meant. He tried another
approach. Well, someone has to stay here with Kelida.
Yes, but
That someone is you. You wouldnt want to hurt her feelings, would
you?
No, but I dont see how me not staying would
Tyorl moved restlessly, impatiently, but Stanach waved him to silence.
If Tyorl or I stayed, shed be sure that she was being, well, looked after.
Shed think maybe we dont trust her to take care of herself.
You dont?
If she could, I would. She cant. But you can manage the thing better
than we could. Youre good at that, Lavim.

The kender dug in stubbornly. Kelida knows how to use her dagger. I
taught her and
Ah, shes that quick a study, is she? Well all be taking lessons from
her soon, I guess.
Lavim drew in a chestful of air and let it out in a gusty sigh. No, of
course not. I havent taught her my over-the-shoulder double-trouble trick
yetamong other things. But Stanach, I
Well, then? Are you going to leave her by herself to make camp and
maybe just hope shes there when we get back? He sighed deliberately. I
guess I was wrong about one thing.
Lavim wore the look of one who suspects he is being led, but he
couldnt resist the question. About what?
I got the idea that youd taken Kelida under your wing. You know,
teaching her to use the dagger, telling her stories to keep her mind off
being tired and frightened. Stanach, his dark eyes as wide and innocent as
any kenders, shrugged. I guess I was wrong.
Tyorl swallowed a smile as Lavim, dragging his heels and kicking at
small stones, returned to Kelida. I never heard of anyone trying to
actually reason with a kender before; I certainly never heard of it
working, said Tyorl.
Stanach shrugged. He really is fond of Kelida. I figured I could take a
chance on that. I dont expect that ploy will work every time. He jerked a
thumb at Tyorls longbow. I suppose I get to flush the grouse?
Not unless youd like to chase a squirrel or two with your sword.
Stanach said nothing, but followed the elf into the woods.

The stars promised a clear day. The moons, both red and silver, rode
high in the midnight sky, spilling light through the forest. Shadows
wavered like ghosts across the ground.

Someday, Lavim told himself, Id like to be able to move around as

quietly as a ghost. He crouched down by the streams edge and scooped up
a handful of icy water. Without, of course, actually being one. Still, there
would be advantages.
Moonlight sparkled on something just beneath the waters surface.
Lavim slipped his finger back into the water and pried a gleaming stone
about the size of his fist from the stream bed. Brownish red and shot
through with green striations, the rock seemed to shimmer in the faint
moonlight. Flecks of yellow and and white danced on the stones surface.
Like gold and diamonds! Well, theyre probably not bits of gold and
diamonds. Theyre probably something with some name that only gnomes
or dwarves would know.
Lavim tucked the stone into one of his pouches. He sat back on his
heels and watched the moonlight rippling through the water. A gray fox
barked in the thickets behind him. A nighthawk screamed high in the sky
beyond the roof of the forest and a rabbit dove for its burrow in skittering
panic. All around the kender, leaves rustled with the comings and goings
of night creatures, stalked and stalking.
Why do you suppose, he asked himself, that people always say silent as
a forest at night? This place is noisier than a market fair!
The kender laughed silently. Hed lately fallen into the habit of talking
to himself. Probably because Im getting old, he thought. People always
said that the old talk to themselves because they know theyre the only
ones wholl give themselves a good answer.
Lavim found a more comfortable position and settled back to watch the
forest and think in the moonlight.
Thats what Im really doing: Im thinking, he thought. Im not talking
to myself because Im not all that old. Sixty isnt really that old. Maybe
my eyes arent what they used to be, but I still managed to save young
Stanach from all those draconians!
He smiled. Right. And as long as were talking about Stanach . . .

Lavim knewand recognized the matter with only a careless shrug

that what hed really been doing all along (as well as talking to himself)
was trying to find a good answer to the puzzle of how to get his hands on
Pipers flute. Stanach had kept it close and never once let it out of his sight
all day.
All I want to do, Lavim assured himself, is just borrow it for a minute
or two. I could see, he went on, why the flute is really important to him,
seeing as it was Pipers and they were such good friends. Poor Stanach.
He must be lonely without Piper. He was really looking forward to seeing
Piper again. Hes a long way from home and probably would have
appreciated seeing a friendly face. Though youd think hed be happy hes
getting the sword back. Now what was I saying? Oh, right. The flute. Hed
be really happy to find out afterwardif I managed to get my hands on it
in the first placethat he didnt lose it but that I only borrowed it.
Lavim grinned up at the moons. He hadnt the least doubt that hed be
able to get his hands on the flute. It only required the right time and place.
Red and brown cherry wood, long and light, the flute had haunted the
kender ever since hed first seen it. Hed managed to squeek just a note or
two out of it before Stanach had grabbed it away. He wondered now what
kind of spell must live in a mages flute. The kind that teaches you songs,
maybe?
Lavim wrapped his arms around his drawn up knees. Aye, the kind that
teaches you songs. He understood nothing about playing songs and music,
but he just knew that if he ever got his hands on Pipers flute again that
would change.
The kender climbed stiffly to his feet. The ground was cold and he
hadnt caught anything for breakfast yet. It was about the only thing
anyone let him do besides make camp, find wood, fill flasks, and break
camp.
He slipped into the shadows, thinking about enchanted flutes, rabbits,
and hot broth made from what was left of the grouse.

The smoke drifting up to the top of the cobble still smelled sweetly of
roasted grouse. Stanach looked down at the camp and wondered when
kenders slept. Lavim was nowhere to be seen. Kelida slept close to the
fire. Tyorl, his back against a hawthorn, slept with his head resting on
drawn up knees.
Not for long, Stanach thought as he started down the rocks. Tyorl
should have taken the watch before now, and the dwarf wasnt going to
wait any longer for him to wake. All Stanach wanted was the fires
warmth for a few moments and then a place to sleep that wasnt too stony.
The fire threw black shadows against the trees and made them seem to
sway in a silent wind. Stanach caught a glint of fire on steel and saw
Stormblade under Kelidas outflung hand. The peace strings on the
scabbard were loose and the blade lay half outside its sheath. He knelt to
slide the sword back into the scabbard.
His palm touched the rough place on the chasing. Hed been smoothing
that silver when the Kingsword was stolen, when the walls of the forge
had shattered before his eyes.
Fire had exploded in his head and hed felt blood running down his
neck, before darkness swallowed the world and hed fallen, senseless, to
the floor.
A crimson light pulsed in the steel that was not the reflection of the fire.
Stanach slid Stormblade from the scabbard so quietly that Kelidas
breathing never hitched. He stood slowly and stepped away. He held
Stormblade across both palms.
Kyan Red-axe had died for this sword. Piper had died for it, too.
Realgars men would have searched for the mage. They would have
seen the cairn. I shouldnt have built it, he thought. He shook his head. No,
the Theiwar would have found Pipers body sooner or later. By the carrion
crows. Stanach shuddered.
Do what you have to do. It was the last thing Piper had said to him.
Im doing it, Stanach thought.

It was what hed planned all along. Find Piper, take the sword, and get
back to Hornfel. Now, by taking the sword, he would be leaving his
companions to their deaths if the Theiwar caught up with them.
Stanach looked down at Kelida. Her heart was so simple to read! He
wondered when she would realize that she had fallen in love with the halfdrunk ranger who had given her his sword.
When she knows that hes dead, his minds voice whispered. Shell
know it when she finally knows that hes dead.
Stanach looked at the Kingsword in his hands. He would happily have
taken the sword that first night in Qualinesti. He would gladly have left
her, Tyorl, and La vim behind in the forest and made his own way to
Thorbardin. Because he couldnt do that, he did the next best thing: hed
given Kelida a reason to carry Stormblade to Thorbardin. Hed given her a
dead man to love.
Im sorry, shed said as he sat mourning for Piper. Shed stayed with
him for a long time, her hand on his, warm and silently telling him that,
for this moment at least, he was not alone. The comfort she offered had
been as simple as a kinswomans, a sisters silent understanding.
Knowing that he ought to leave now, make off into the forest with the
Kingsword and hope that he could buy time by leaving these three to the
Theiwar, Stanach knelt and slipped Stormblade into the scabbard again.
Aye, Stanach thought, you understand, dont you? Youve lost kin and
friends. You understand, lyt chwaer, little sister.
He tied the peace strings, two leather thongs on each side of the sheath,
and silently rose to wake Tyorl.

Chapter Fifteen
Finn watched dawnlight glint on his dagger as he cut the draconians
throat. He jerked his hand back quickly, pulling the blade free of the
creatures scaly flesh before the steel could be caught in the corpses
transformation from flesh to stone. His stomach pulled tight with disgust,
as it always did. He hated these misbegotten beasts living; he loathed them
dead. Their kind killed his wife and murdered his son. He couldnt kill
enough of them.
The stenches of battle, blood, and fire filled the small clearing. Rising
high on the cold morning breeze, the smoke from burned supply wagons
swirled around the tops of the tall pines and slid down toward the nearby
river. It caught the currents of air over the water and drifted back to the
glade where the draconian patrol and the supply train of three wagons had
been caught just before dawn by Finn and his rangers.
Before dawn, Finn thought, and just in time to fill their sleep with the
last nightmares they would have.
Thirty strong, the ranger company had not lost a man, though a few
were injured. Finn smiled cold satisfaction and looked around for Lehr.
Dark shaggy hair lifting lazily in the small breeze, Lehr sighted the
rangerlord and trotted across the clearing, jogging around the charred
wagons bristling with arrows, and leaping nimbly over bodies turning to
stone and dust.
Any sign of more?
Lehr shook his head. Only these, Lord. Ive been up on the ridge. You
can see for miles up there. Nothing moving but the crows, and theyre
only wondering when well be gone so they can have breakfast. Lehrs

eyes lighted with dark humor. Poor birds. Nothing to pick here but whats
left of the draconians dinner last night. Unless they want stone and dust.
Finn grunted. Make camp by the river, Lehr. When your brother is
finished with his work, both of you join me here.
Aye, Lord? It was an invitation to explain further. When Finn did not
accept it, Lehr shrugged and went to find his brother. Finn did not often
explain his motives. Lehr didnt often expect that he would, though he
didnt mind trying for an explanation now and then.
He found Kembal already tending the worst of the wounded and gave
him Finns word. Somethings up, Kem. What do you think?
Kembal, healer and ranger both, looked up at his brother mildly. Dont
know, but Ill bet it has something to do with the signs you picked up
yesterday. Kembal eased the arrow from a mans leg with gentle hands.
The man flinched. His face paled, then settled into grim lines of
resignation as the blood began to pour from his wound. He knew, as well
as Kembal did, that draconian arrows were often poisoned. The blood flow
now would be a cleansing, and, though he didnt like to see it, he accepted
it. Kem worked swiftly to clean the wound and didnt watch as his brother
left.
Both knew that Finn had not appreciated the surprise of stumbling upon
a draconian patrol and supply train. He knew, too, that though the
rangerlord had sent Tyorl and Hauk to Long Ridge to discover just such
news of Verminaards movements in the foothills, the two had not
returned from the town.
It was Lehrs thinking that the signs hed seen earlier were Tyorls.
Kembal expected that Finn agreed. He wrapped the wound and rose to
move on to the next man awaiting his attention. He supposed that Finn
was going to take this time to let his men breathe, and to track back along
the trail and satisfy himself that the tracks Lehr had seen were or were not
Tyorls.
But what would the elf be doing with such an oddly assorted party as
the signs had indicated? A dwarf, a kender, and a light-stepping human or
elf?

And where, Kem wondered, was Hauk?

The late afternoon sun, freakishly hot as it sometimes was in autumn,

appeared as white splashes on rocky outcroppings. Old brown leaves
rattled across the rocks in the light, cool breeze. Stanach wiped sweat from
his face with the heel of his hand and dropped to one knee in the shadowcrossed path. Someone had passed along the trail not long ago. The dwarf
glanced up at Tyorl standing at his shoulder.
Your rangers?
Tyorl shook his head. He pointed to a white-scarred rock in the path.
The stone had been scraped by steel. No ranger in Finns company wears
steel-capped boots. Look at that foot mark over there.
Off to the side of the path, the moss, still cool and moist in the shade of
a tall larch, held one well-formed impression. No woodsman, Stanach
shook his head, frowning.
A dwarf, Tyorl said patiently. Look, the size almost matches your
own.
Stanach closed his eyes thinking of Pipers cairn crowning the hilltop a
day and a halfs journey back through the forest. The Theiwar must have
seen it and picked up their trail. It wouldnt be hard to guess where the
four companions were heading now. Realgars men.
Its likely. Tyorl passed silently up the path, eyes to the ground, and
returned after only a moment. Theyre headed for the river. It looks like
they passed here at dawn.
The path, such as it was, led to the only fording place within a days
walk. The next closest ford lay ten miles south. Stanach rose and tugged
absently at his beard. Damn! he muttered. They mean to cut us off!
Wheres the kender?
Back with Kelida. Why?

I want to get across the river today. More than that, I want to know
these mage-killers arent waiting at the ford. Youve a steady hand with
your sword, Stanach. The elf slipped his longbow from his shoulder. He
strung it quickly and drew an arrow from his quiver. At best, well be
three against four, with Kelida to protect. That wont be easy. The sword
marks her as their target. Can you convince La vim to stay with her again
while we scout?
I wouldnt even try. Dont worry about it. Hes talking to Kelida, hell
be occupied for a few minutes. Lets check the ford while we can.
Hesitating, Tyorl glanced back down the trail. The bend in the path hid
the place where Kelida and Lavim had stopped. The girl, unused to
walking and climbing all day, spoke no word of complaint, but wisely
took each chance she could to rest. Lavim, never one to lose an audience,
kept pace with her.
Sunlight glinted like gold in Tyorls hair as he ploughed his fingers
through it. Stanach watched as the elf considered.
Kelidas soft laughter drifted to them on the cool breeze. Lavims deep
tones ran as counterpoint to her light voice.
Tyorl and Stanach moved down the path, their footfalls on the rising
path sounding loud in the still forest. Ten yards beyond the place where
theyd found the tracks, the path angled east, narrowing so they could no
longer walk abreast.
The path climbed steeply now. Dark, damp earth clung to overturned
stones in the path. Moss showed on the tops of some, the sides of others,
and in many places the thick, green cover was scraped and scored. They
were hurrying, Tyorl said, and not bothering to cover their trail. They
cut onto the path just where we first saw their sign. He looked back over
his shoulder. We shouldnt have left her alone.
The breeze quickened, and the shadows sprawled across the path
swayed and danced. Stanach tried to catch the sound of Kelidas voice and
heard nothing but the scratching of old leaves against stone. Im thinking
youre right. Go back. If Lavims still there, send him ahead and tell him
to catch up with me.

Tyorl frowned and Stanach, seeing his doubt, snorted. Im no ranger,

Tyorl, but Im not blind either. He nodded to the signs on the path. I can
follow this, and I can keep quiet enough when I have to.
He didnt have to say it: the elfs longbow could defend Kelida better
than a lone sword. Tyorl nodded. Leave the track here, Stanach. Keep it
in sight and follow it from the woods. If theyre waiting up ahead, theyll
have a guard posted along here soon. If you sight him, get back here
quietly and quickly. If we can take them, we will.
And if we cant?
Tyorl shrugged. We try to cross the river someplace else. However, I
dont want to worry about these mage-killers cropping up in front of us
again.
Go on then. Ill be back.
Stanach watched him go. The dwarf picked his way as quietly as he
could through rustling underbrush whose slim branches clawed at his
beard and scratched at his face and hands. He paralleled the path for a
dozen yards, then was stopped by the broad, high face of an outcropping
of stone. Around or over? he wondered, eyeing the obstacle. The stone
was hard and old, rough with good grips. Stanach, who had seen nothing
but forest for too long, grinned. Over, he decided.
He ran a careful hand over the stone, testing hand- and footholds. The
holds were good, and he climbed swiftly, gaining the crest of the
outcropping in a few moments. A foolhardy young pine clung to the the
top of the rocks, with a few scrawny bushes for company. Except for
these, the stone was gray and naked. Crouching low, Stanach kept to the
north side of the pines trunk. From this cover, he saw the empty trail
below. No guard.
Several yards beyond the outcropping, the trail turned again to the
right, ran just below the rock where Stanach crouched, and dropped off
suddenly. Stanach shifted position a little to gain a clearer view.
The trees ended abruptly here, and the path snaked down into a stony
river valley. The river itself was a narrow silver ribbon, the ford a shallow

place at the paths end, fringed with browning reeds. There was no sign
that whoever had come up the trail before them lingered now in the stony
vale.
A hawk wheeled high over the valley and slid down the wind on long,
lazy spirals, searching for prey. The waters wind-ruffled surface split as a
small bass leaped high, a silver flash in the sun. Before the fish reached
the height of its arc, the hawk dove hard and caught it with a triumphant
cry.
Aye, dinner for you, Stanach thought, and likely youve left some for
us.
The vale was empty, the river full of fish, and the fording would be
easy. Smiling, he rose and turned.
He stood face to face with the one-eyed Theiwar known in Thorbardin
as the Gray Herald.
Cold fear filled his belly. Trapped! Even as he understood that, Stanach
instinctively ducked his right shoulder and pulled his sword free of the
scabbard across his back. The high, singing whine of steel coming free
was overwhelmed by the Gray Heralds hard, brittle laughter. Stanach,
fearing that he had already lost, knew it was so when his mighty doublehanded blow rebounded inches from Aguss neck. The air around the
mageling flared scarlet, spat hot, fat sparks, and Stanachs arms ached to
the shoulders as though hed struck mountain stone.
Agus, laughing still, lifted his right hand, caressing the air. He
whispered a word, then another, and the sun-filled air around Stanach
became cold as a winter night. The sky, blue a moment ago, became
heavy, smelled of fear and despair. As though a huge hand had struck him
from behind, Stanach crashed to his knees. Dimly, he heard the clatter of
his sword on stone and saw Agus reach for the blade and snatch it up from
the boulder.
Stanach tried to find air to breathe. There was none. It was as though
the Gray Heralds spell had sucked all the air out of Stanachs lungs.
This, Stanach thought, is how Piper was taken. Ambushed by a

Theiwar mageling.
Thinking of Piper, he remembered his friends flute hanging from his
belt. Though Piper had invested it with several spells, though the flute
possessed an inherent magic of its own, it was useless to Stanach, who
was not versed in magic. He knew instantly that it would be a powerful
tool in the hands of the Gray Herald. The Theiwar would surely fathom its
use if he had the time to study it. Under the guise of struggling to move,
Stanach freed the flute from his belt and shoved it fast and hard into a
crack in the boulder.
Agus lifted his hands again, and Stanach knew the gestures he made
now. The words he spoke, only three, were oddly gentle ones which gave
Stanach no comfort at all. They were the words of a transport spell.
Agus reached down, touched Stanachs head, and smiled into his eyes.
Caught in the familiar wrench and grab of a transport spell, Stanach
doubled over as all feeling drained from his arms and legs, all sense of
being fled his heart and mind.

Lavim perched on a boulder just off the trail where he could see up the
path and down. His hoopak balanced across his knees and a large leather
pouch containing stones ranging from smooth pebbles to rough-sided, fistsized rocks lay between his feet. He examined the stones one by one, the
way an archer will check his arrows. He held up a reddish brown and
green stone mottled with shining bits of yellow pyrite and white calcite for
Kelidas inspection.
This rock, he said, watching the sun catch the pyrite and calcite,
killed a goblin at a hundred paces.
Kelida eyed him doubtfully. A hundred, Lavim? The old kender
nodded casually as though his veracity had not been questioned. Maybe a
hundred and ten. I didnt have time to count, you understand.
But you fetched back the rock after it killed this goblin?
Oh, yes. Its a good rock, a lucky rock. Ive had it for a long time. It

was my fathers, and he had it from his father.

Kelida swallowed a smile. Sort of a family heirloom, is it?
Lavim tucked the stone back into his pouch. Well, I never thought of it
like that, but yes, I suppose it is.
The picture of two generations of kenders dutifully retrieving this rock
each time it flew from a hoopaks sling was too absurd to consider.
Though she hid her smile behind her hand, Lavim saw it in her green eyes.
Whats so funny about that, Kelida?
Oh, Im not laughing, not really. ImIm smiling because its nice
that you have something to remember your father and grandfather by.
Kelida drew her legs up tight to her chest and rested her chin on her
knees. She watched the kender continue his inspection of his weapons.
Thin sunlight ran like silver down his long, white braid. In his weatherbrowned and wrinkled face, his green eyes shone like spring leaves in
sunlight.
I was just thinking I dont have anything to remember my family by
no lucky rock, at least.
Lavim looked up. Oh, there are plenty of them in Khur. Have you ever
been there? Thats where I was born. Its a nice country, all hills and
mountains. Some pretty valleys, too. You should see it sometime, Kelida.
Id like to go back there myself. I always mean to butI dunno,
something always tugs me in the opposite direction. Like this Stormblade,
although Ill be darned if I can figure out what it is, exactly.
You didnt always used to be a barmaid, did you? You used to live on
a farm with your family, right? Before the dragonuh, well, before you
were a barmaid. Well, if you like farming, youd love the valleys in Khur.
Id be happy to take you there. That way Id get back, too. For a while,
anyway. After we take care of Stormblade. He paused. Say, you dont
suppose this Hauk fellow is going to want to come to Khur, too, do you?
Kelida watched sun dazzle on stone. Why would he want to?

Well, if you were there he might. He probably knows youre coming

to Thorbardin to rescue him, and hell probably be grateful. I wonder if
theyve got him in a gaol or a dungeon? Gaols are all right, I guess, for
limited duration. The foods usually really nasty, but its pretty regular.
Dungeons? I dont like them so much. The foods not much worse, but
you dont see it as often. The people who put you there tend to forget
about you after a while.
You know, Thorbardins a really big place. Not one citysix of em.
Theyre all sort of connected somehow. Maybe with bridges. And its built
right inside the mountain. Can you imagine that?
Theres gardens, too. Did you know that? But, if theyre inside the
mountain, how do they get sunlight? How do they get rain? Well, I
suppose they could save up the rain and water their gardens, but that
would be a big job, dont you think? Even if they didwater the gardens,
I mean that still doesnt solve the problem of sunlight. You cant carry
that in a bucket.
La vim rambled on. Kelida only half heard him. She was thinking of
dungeons and gaols and wondering if Hauk did, indeed, know that
someone was coming to help him.
He must know, she thought. He must know that Tyorl is searching for
him. She ran her hand along the sheathed flat of the Kingsword. He has to
know his imprisonment is because of this sword.
Of course, if you were going to carry sunlight in buckets, the buckets
would have to have a tight lid, wouldnt they?
If hes alive, she thought, Hauk knows. Can he still be alive? It had
been six days since the night hed walked out of Tennys. She thought of
Piper, the mage, and the cairn on the hill in the forest, and of Stanachs
eyes when he spoke of his kinsmans death. She closed her eyes and rested
her forehead on her drawn up knees.
She tried to hear Hauks voice, find the little break in it that told of a
gentleness hiding behind the bears rumble. She imagined that if she could
always hear his voice in her memory, he would still be alive. If she could

always see his eyes as he laid the sword at her feet, he would not be dead.
She had built, of the few moments shed spoken with him, an image of
gallantry and kindness, and she no longer remembered that, in those real
moments in Tennys, she had feared him.
. . . And theyd have to be dark bucketsmaybe lined with lead or
something like thatso the sunlight wouldnt always be leaking out.
Hmmm. I wonder if theyve thought of that.
Kelida closed her fingers around the scabbarded sword. Kingsword,
Stanach called it. Stormblade. For Kelida it would always be the sword of
the man who risked her life for a gamble and then gambled with his own
to keep her safe.
Bushes rustled, a stone skittered on the path, and Lavim scrambled
from his rocky perch, scooping rocks back into his pouch. Kelida looked
around and saw Tyorl standing beside her. She moved to get to her feet,
but the elf waved her back.
Not yet. Lavim. Get up the trail and catch up with Stanach, will you?
The kender slung his hoopak across his back. Sure, Tyorl. Whats
going on?
Nothing. Go find Stanach. And dont wander.
Grinning happily, the kender loped away up the trail, pack and pouches
jogging.
I heard him halfway up the trail. Tyorl said. He settled on the boulder
that the kender had abandoned. What was he on about?
Kelida smiled. Thorbardin and sunlight in lead-lined buckets.
Sunlight in? Tyorl scratched his jaw. Why?
Oh, for the gardens. He says there are a lot of gardens in Thorbardin.
Are there?

The elf shrugged. I dont know. The citys inside the mountain so I
dont see how there could be. Kender-talk is half dreams and half
imagination.
Kelida watched in silence for a long moment as Tyorl ran his thumb
along the longbows string. Where is Stanach?
Up the trail. Tyorl shrugged again. Running scout.
Shouldnt we catch up with him?
Tyorl looked into the shadows. Though he heard nothing but wind in
the trees, he shook his head. In a minute. Its a long climb up the trail.
We can wait here still.
Kelida nodded and fell silent, watching the shadows weaving on the
trail. Tyorl watched the sunlight running like gold thread through her hair.
You see, the thing about the buckets, Lavim told himself, is that they
might work and they might not. But you never know until you try, right?
The wind sighed in the treetops, and Lavim trotted up the trail.
Right, he thought. Of course, if they do have gardens in Thorbardin,
then they mustve figured something out about the light.
Lavim had decided that he wasnt going to worry about this new habit
of talking to himself. Besides, he enjoyed it almost as much as talking to
someone else. For one thing, he never interrupted himself. Besides, it
seemed as though Stanach and Tyorl just couldnt be happy unless they
were cutting him off in mid-sentence. Kelida listened, sometimes. But, all
in all, he was beginning to enjoy his conversations with himself. He gave
and got good answers.
He left the path where broken bushes and trampled underbrush showed
him Stanachs trail.
Just like a dwarf! He cuts a path a mile wide so everyone can see where
hes been. Theyre not real good in the woods, dwarves, are they?

A stone outcropping rose tall and gray before him. Lavim grinned. Ill
bet he went this way. Why didnt he stick to the path? Oh, well. Ill ask
him when I find him.
He grabbed for hand and footholds and scrambled up the stone. Oh,
yes, Stanach had been here. The lichen clinging to the rock was scuffed
and torn. Lavim shook his head. Might as well paint a sign in red that says,
I WENT THIS WAY.
Sunlight winked on something smooth and red-brown where it lay in a
narrow crevice in the stone. Lavim reached for the gleam and frowned
when he picked up Pipers flute.
Lavim drew a long breath and let it out in a low whistle. Pipers flute!
What a find!
He raised the flute to his lips, ready at once to make good his resolve to
see if the flute would teach him songs. He tried a note and then another.
Before he could draw another breath, he was stopped by a sudden thought.
Now why, he thought, would Stanach leave this up here? Hes always
real careful not to leave things lying around annoyingly carefuland
here is Pipers flute, just tossed aside.
The kender rubbed his thumbs along the smooth cherry wood, then held
the flute up to the sunlight, watching the red and brown glints deep inside
the wood. Had the dwarf dropped it?
Lavim snorted. Not likely! It was Pipers flute and, so Stanach said,
magic. You dont just drop a magic flute thats been hanging from your
belt for two days and that you check every six minutes to make sure is still
there.
Lavim peered closely at the stone beneath his feet. Someone else had
been here, too. The dirt around the small pine at the crest of the stone
showed two sets of footprints.
Not Tyorls footprints, the kender thought. He dropped to his haunches
and laid his hand along the prints. One set was narrower than the other, but
both were of a length. Another dwarf.

Now why do you suppose thered be another dwarf way out here in the
middle of the woods? Oh, he thought, right, the whadyacallems.
Theiwar.
Right, he said, Theiwar. That means Lavim snapped his mouth
shut and looked around. Wind sighed in the underbrush. The river in the
valley below whispered and laughed. A jay scolded from the top of an oak
and took noisy wing. There was no one around, but hed heard a voice,
hollow as the wind or a distant flute song. Uh, hello?
Lavim, Stanach is in trouble.
Lavim turned this way and that, frowning into the valley, scowling at
the thickets back down the trail. Where are you? he said aloud. For that
matter, who are you? How do you know Stanachs in trouble?
You have to help him, Lavim.
Yes, butNow wait a minute! How do I know youre not one of
those, uh . . .
Theiwar.
Right! How do I know
Why would I tell you hes in trouble?
Why dont you show yourself? How about that? Where are you?
Right behind you.
Lavim spun around. No one stood behind him. He turned back. No one
stood there. He couldnt be hearing a voice if no one was there to speak.
Was he talking to himself again?
This didnt sound like his voice. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to
remember what his voice sounded like when he was talking to himself.
(Thinking, he reminded himself.) But he couldnt recall, and on the chance
that he wasnt having some strange conversation with his own mind, the

kender opened his eyes again and peered around.

Now listen
The voice, behind and on all sides of him now, had changed from windhollow to steel.
Lavim, you called me. Now listen to me! Go get Tyorl!
Lavim sighed. If he was still talking to himself, hed picked up Tyorls
and Stanachs annoying habit of interrupting himself.
I called you? I didnt call anyone. I didnt
Well talk about it later! Go!
Lavim scrambled down the outcropping and headed for the trail. Fear
didnt send him running. Neither did obedience.
What caused him to run, as noisy as a dwarf through the underbrush,
was the sudden and complete realization that, this time, it was not his
voice and he had not been talking to himself.
Well, he amended, I mightve been talking to myself, but someone else
was answering!
Lavim laughed and brandished the old wooden flute high as he ran. He
guessed who had been answering him.

Chapter Sixteen
Gneiss heard the newly lighted braziers in the countcil chamber hiss,
then sigh and settle to slow, steady burning. He massaged his temples,
realizing as he did that the gesture had become as much a habit as his
headache seemed to be. The cause of that headache, the eight hundred
refugees who had been the subject of council meetings for too many days
now, waited in the valley outside Southgate. Their representatives,
glimpsed only briefly as he had entered the council chamber, were a halfelf and a tall, lovely Plainswoman. Gneiss rubbed his temples more gently.
The two waited now in an antechamber for the decision of the council. On
the councils word, they would either take their eight hundred elsewhere
orGneiss sighed wearilysettle them into Thorbardin.
The Daewar looked once around the broad, oval table. None of the
other thanes gathered here seemed any happier than he.
Tufa studied the surface of the polished granite table, tracing patterns in
the gray stone that only he could see. Hed been silent since the council
had been called to order. Bluph, the gully dwarf, drummed his boot heels
against the leg of his chair. As though hed gained a dim understanding of
the importance of todays meeting, he made an attempt to stay awake.
If you can call someone awake, Gneiss thought sourly, who yawns
every other minute!
The two derro thanes, Ranee of the Daergar and the Theiwar Realgar,
kept to the shadows the way a fish likes water, Ranee because these days
he was never very far from the Theiwar. The two were as thick as fleas on
a dogs hind end.
Hornfel, his eyes speaking of sleepless nights, rose from his place at the

head of the table.

We have agreed that there will be no further debate on the issue of
admitting the refugees to Thorbardin. Ranee drew a breath to interrupt.
Hornfel, as though he hadnt seen, continued smoothly. The refugees
representatives await our word. I will keep them waiting no longer. This
council has other matters to attend to.
A silence, pensive and waiting, settled over the chamber. Bluph settled
for swinging his legs in the air and not permitting his heels to thud against
the chair.
We will vote. Hornfel turned to the Klar. Tufa, give us your word.
The thane of the Klar declined with a slow shake of his head. My
thinking hasnt changed. I will abide by the councils decision. He shot a
quick, and for him defiant, look at Realgar. Whatever that decision is.
Gneiss sighed. Unless any of the others now voted differently than hed
previously indicated, his would indeed be the word that would determine
the councils decision. As hed told Hornfel on the Southgate battlements,
hed come to a decision. Though hed spoken to no one about it, his
solution was the best he could devise.
Hornfel closed his eyes, drew a breath, and then nodded to the gully
dwarf. Bluph, turn them away or admit them?
Bluph straightened in mid-yawn and stopped scratching. He blinked,
then grinned widely. Admit them. He narrowed his eyes and looked as
though he might reconsider.
Hornfel spoke quickly. Ranee.
No! No! And no!
I thought not, Hornfel said wryly. Realgar?
The Theiwar shrugged. In that moment his eyes reminded Gneiss of a
cats, narrow and hungry. Ill save you the trouble of reading my mind,
Hornfel. Turn them away. Weve no place for them, no liking for them,

and no need of them.

Gneiss looked up, met Realgars eyes steadily. The same, he thought,
might be said of you, Theiwar. Aloud he only said, We can put them in
the east farming warrens. These have gone unused for three years. We
dont know these people to like or dislike them, so that hardly matters.
Need them? He swept the table with a swift glance. We can always use
farmers. Thats what these people are. I say admit them, and theyll work
for their keep. As half-croppers, theyll pay for it, too.
Again Gneiss looked to Hornfel. Your vote?
Hornfels voice held quiet triumph. Admit them.
On his words, Realgar rose with silent grace and stalked from the
council chamber. Ranee, snarling dark curses, followed on the Theiwars
heels. There was nothing the two derro thanes could do now to prevent the
admittance of the eight hundred humans.
The council had voted, and the vote was something to hold even
Realgar. For now.
Gneiss watched the two leave and Tufa and Bluph after them. He
sighed, half-listening to Bluph wondering how the vote had turned out,
then turned to Hornfel.
Youve got your vote, my friend.
Hornfel nodded, but did not look like one who has just secured a
victory.
What now? Did you perhaps think that your ragged eight hundred
should spend the winter sleeping and lounging?
Hornfel ignored the sarcasm. Tell me, Gneiss, how are we going to
make allies and friends out of the sick and hungry people weve just put to
work half-cropping in our fields?
Gneiss sighed tiredly. They dont have to start today, Hornfel. Take
what youve won and tell your refugees they winter here. If it comes to

fighting a war from the Outlands, theyll be well by then and likely happy
to defend the place theyre living in. If it comes to . . . revolution in
Thornbardin, youve my Daewar and the Klar. Well need none else.
Yet even as he said it, Gneiss remembered the cats look in Realgars
eyes. He didnt like the chill skittering up his spine. Will you tell them
now?
Hornfel drummed his fingers on the table. I want a minute to breathe.
Breathe? Aye, go right ahead. But have a care where you do it. I dont
like the look of the Theiwar these days.
Neither do I. Hornfel said. Gneiss understood then that his friend had
not been losing sleep only to the matter of the refugees.

Hornfel was careful where he did his breathing. He went to the garden
outside the Court of Thanes. He paced the fine gravel paths, a measured
march.
He was happy for the victory hed won. And no, hed had no plan to let
his ragged eight hundred lounge and sleep the winter away. Nor had he
wished to offer what looked, even to him, like indentured servitude. It was
no way to win allies, and he knew he would need allies soon. Hed seen
the confirmation of that in Realgars eyes today.
He paused in his measured pacing. His circuit of the garden brought
him to the largest areas of planting. Here, the wildly colored mountain
flowers of summer bloomed, as they did all year round, in the carefully
controlled climate of the underground gardens.
Slim-leafed bell heather and the gray-green mountain everlasting
blossomed side by side. Royal fern spread wide fronds, more gold than
green. Hearty yellow-flowered gorse poked through those sweeping fans
as though caring little for the prerogatives of royalty, and rosebay crept up
the border of the planting in low growing mats.
Hornfel touched a finger to one of the rosebays delicate flowers. The

soft pink petals were wide in the light shining down from the many shafts
of crystal leading to the surface. The rosebays tender flower shivered a
little.
Hornfel drew back his hand and looked up at the light shaft positioned
almost directly above him. The lavender glow of approaching twilight
drifted down to the garden, but during the day, a diffused golden light
nourished the plantings.
The same system of crystal shafts illuminated the six cities as though
they lay in sunlight and provided the light needed to grow the crops that
fed hungry Thorbardin.
We may love the mountains and all their deep secrets, thought Hornfel,
but we love the light, too. At least, some of us do.
A soft footfall and a roughly cleared throat startled Hornfel. He turned
slowly, not showing his surprise. As he met the black eyes of the
Theiwars thane, Hornfel had the clear impression that Realgar, squinting
in what to him must seem the bright glare of the garden, had been
watching him for some moments. He saw the shadow of dark thoughts in
Realgars eyes. The back of his neck went cold as though the breath of
winter mourned through the garden.
Your . . . guests await you, the derro mage said. He spoke the word
as though naming a plague. With a scornful smile, the Theiwar left as
silently as hed arrived.
Dark thoughts and red fury, Hornfel thought. Realgar had fought to the
last moment of a long and exhausting council session, insisting that no
good would come of admitting humans into the mountain kingdom.
He used to think that he would be the first Realgar would murder if he
could. Hornfel thought now that if the chance presented itself, Realgar
would certainly murder him. But not before he killed Gneiss, whose
temporizing had opened the doors to the refugees just as effectively as a
firm commitment.
He supposed that the only reason they werent dead yet was Realgar
hadnt found the Kingsword. How long before he did? Or how long before

he tired of waiting for the symbol and mounted his revolution without it?
Hornfel was no longer certain that the sword would be found. It had
been too many days since word first came that Stormblade had been seen.
Last night, in the dark of midnight, Hornfel began to consider what must
be done if Kyan, Piper, and Stanach were dead; if Stormblade were lost
again. All his plans were for defense.
Gneiss, he realized, must be considering the same plans. Three of
Gneisss Daewar warriors seemed always to be nearby. Yet, how would
they defend him against magic should Realgar swerve from his usual path
of assassins and daggers in the dark?
Not at all, Hornfel thought bitterly, as he left the garden and prepared to
dole out his ragged hospitality.

Gneisss guards did not enter the Court of Thanes with Hornfel, but
stayed behind at the door within sound of his call. Three others, their
weapons close to hand, waited in the council chamber. They made no
pretense to politeness, but stood within an easy hands reach of the
refugees representatives.
Hornfel, studied the two messengers carefully as he walked the length
of the great hall. One, a red-bearded half-elf turned at the sound of the
dwarfs footfalls. He wore a sword at his hip and a longbow over his
shoulder. His green eyes were hard and sharp.
His companion, a tall woman dressed in the buckskins of the Plains,
laid a slim hand on the hunters arm as she heard Hornfels approach. Hair
that was both moon-silver and sun-gold glistened in the glow of newly
lighted torches when she moved. She murmured a word, no more, and the
half-elf relaxed.
At least, he seemed to. Those green eyes never softened. Heres one,
Hornfel mused, who doesnt like playing the supplicant! Aye, well, I cant
blame you, hunter. I wouldnt care for the role myself.
At Hornfels open-handed gesture of welcome, the guards moved back

a pace or two.
I thank you for waiting, the dwarf said.
The half-elf drew a breath to speak, but the light hand on his arm
moved in a way meant both to be gentle and, unconsciously, to command.
The woman spoke and her voice was low and soft. The soothing whisper
of a doves wings lay behind that voice, the whisper of a heart at peace.
We have been enjoying the beauty of your hall.
I doubt it, Hornfel thought, or at least your friend hasnt been. He
motioned toward an alcove off the main hall, large enough to hold a map
table made from a single cut of rose-streaked marble.
Lady, he said as he lifted a torch from a nearby cresset, be
comfortable.
She nodded graciously, and when she stepped into the shadowed alcove
and took a seat, Hornfel thought he couldnt be convinced to lay wager
which dispelled the shadows, the ladys own beauty or the light of the
torch. The hunter followed her closely, as though he were her bodyguard,
with the three Daewar on his heels. Hornfel drew an impatient breath as he
observed their maneuvering. He spoke as he positioned the torch on the
wall.
You, he said to the half-elf, go hover behind your lady if that makes
you comfortable. He jerked a thumb at the guards. You can all crowd in
here behind me or go ward the door, whichever makes you happiest.
The Daewar looked confused, but they knew a command when they
heard one. They left the alcove. Though the half-elf finally grinned
sheepishly, he went to stand behind the lady.
Do they guard you against us?
Hornfel shook his head and dropped into the chair opposite the woman.
They guard me, but it hasnt to do with you or your lady. We dont guard
ourselves against friends.
The Plainswoman considered this, then nodded. We are happy to be

named friends. She gestured gracefully to her guardian. This is Tanis

Half-Elven. She smiled. Though I am not his lady, I could be no safer
with him if I were. I am Goldmoon, Chieftains Daughter of the QueShu. Her eyes lighted with dawns own softness.
The goddess I serve is Mishakal, she said, and I am her cleric. In her
name we have come to learn if you will help the homeless refugees from
Verminaards slavery.
Hornfel shook his head. Lady, there hasnt been a true cleric in Krynn
for these three hundred years past.
I know it, thane. Not since the Cataclysm. There is now.
The dwarf closed his eyes. Mishakall Mesalax, the dwarves called the
goddess, and they loved her no less than they loved Reorx, whom they
named Father. For, if he was the maker of the world, Mesalax was the
fountain from which its beauty sprang.
Hornfel looked from Goldmoon to the one called Tanis. Was it true?
He thought it might be. Gods moved in Krynn now, lending their fire to
Kingswords and their dragons to Highlords. Why wouldnt Mesalax grant
her blessing to a woman out of the barbarian Plains?
Goldmoon smiled, and it might well have been Mesalaxs own light the
dwarf saw in her eyes.
Hornfel glanced at Tanis. The half-elfs determined jaw relaxed a little
beneath his red beard when he looked at the Plainswoman as he did now.
My lady Goldmoon, Hornfel said at last, be welcome in
Thorbardin.
He would figure out what to do about the farming warrens later. He
didnt know if Goldmoon were, indeed, what she claimed to be. He did
know that he wouldnt permit her to languish in a cobbled-together
fieldkeepers hut any more than he would allow her to languish in a
dungeons cell. And she, he knew, would go where her people went.

Darknight spread its wings to half extension, admiring the play of its
shadow stetching up the black, gleaming walls of its lair and nearly
spanning the width of the rough, high ceiling. It snaked its neck to its full
length and stretched its jaws wide. Though it could not see the effect, it
imagined that the light of the small brazier near the far wall made its fangs
appear to be gleaming daggers of flame.
It turned its head and spoke to a shadow on the wall.
My Lord, all in all, I prefer the sunny lairs in the cliffs of Pax Tharkas
to these wet, cold warrens beneath this wretched Thorbardin.
That doesnt surprise me, the shadow whispered. Verminaard threw
back his head and laughed in his chamber in Pax Tharkas. His shadowimage on the cave wall did the same.
Darknight lashed its tail impatiently and rumbled deep in its massive
chest. It preferred the iron-fisted martial order of Pax Tharkas under
Verminaards rule to the tempestuous storms of dwarven politics in a
kingdom under no ones rule. Highlord, I heartily wish that Realgar
would mount his wretched revolution and be done with it, so that I can be
done with him.
The shadow sharpened to knife-edged clarity. Darknight could almost
see Verminaards eyes as red lights on the stone.
Hes still wasting his time on the ranger?
The ranger had given Realgar no good answer to the question of the
Kingswords whereabouts in all the days hed been the Theiwars captive.
Aye, Lord. Its the difference between you, the dragon snarled as it
listened to its belly rumble. Were the ranger your prisoner, I would have
been sucking the marrow out of his bones days ago. As it was, Darknight
had to forage at night for mountain sheep while Realgar marched bloodyfooted through the rangers soul for nothing but enjoyment.
Darknight snorted and closed its eyes. Simple enjoyment is all hes
getting from it now. He admits that if there is an answer to be had, the
ranger isnt going to provide it. Enjoyment, and a soothing revenge for

time wasted.
Shadow eyes flared red and it scraped its claws on the stone floor of its
lair. It doubted that the ranger had ever known where the sword was, and
if he had, there could be nothing left of his mind now in which to sift for
an answer.
Lord, how go your own plans?
Well enough. The troops move into the mountains and the bases will be
in place. Ember will fly tonight as cover for the last of them.
Ember! Flying with fire and fear as its weapons, and it was lodged here
in this dank, foul hole! Darknight gnashed its teeth.
Cover, Lord? Does Ember Darknight caught itself. Haughty Ember
would never admit to needing assistance. want company? By the
Dark Queen! Its legs were cramped, its wings aching for a night flight!
The shadow seemed no shadow at all, but an image reflected on
polished ebony. The dragon saw Verminaards face nowcoldly
handsome that face was, ice-eyed and hard as stone.
Ember needs nothing more of company than itll have, good Sevristh,
and that is me. Its a small matter of rangers.
He might have said a small matter of gnats. Darknight sighed.
Verminaard laughed, ice booming in a frozen river.
Patience, Darknight. Stay with your new lord for a time yet.
And the shadow was gone. The red lights faded as though theyd never
been.
The black dragon growled. In Darknights estimation, its new lord was
an ass. Realgar commanded an army of anarchists and commanded them
well. It was not any easy task to control a race of murderous derro whose
most pleasant dreams were of torment, revolution, and death. Still, Realgar
was an ass.

Sevristh was not a political creature and had little understanding ofor
patience forRealgars need to acquire this Stormblade, this Kingsword.
It sighed and the air shivered. These dwarves, and the Theiwar most
especially, were mad for talismans and symbols. Realgar would not light
revolutions fire in Thorbardin until he held Stormblade in his greedy,
white-knuckled grip. And Verminaard seemed content to wait.
What matter, it thought scornfully, whether Realgar wields the
Kingsword or some humble, nameless blade? Hornfel must be killed and it
could hardly matter whether he died by a Kingswords stroke or a daggers
blade. The one who kills him owns history. He can write the tale to his
own preference later and name himself king regent or high king of the
dwarves, if he wishes.
Aye, as long as he can manage to stay alive. Darknight smiled and felt
a little better. That wouldnt be long, no matter how Realgar styled
himself.
The dragon felt the feathery vibrations of footsteps in the stone of the
caverns floor and heard the distant whisper of breathing. It closed its
eyes. That breathing was Realgars, and the dragon picked up the high,
bright excitement in his scent.
Please the Dark Queen, hed found the miserable sword!
Sevristh opened its eyes and sighed. He hadnt. Or had he? Darknight
looked a little closer. Aye? Maybe.
Realgar came close and smiled, a cold pulling of his lips across his
teeth. I greet you, Darknight.
And I you, Highlord.
The title did nothing to warm the new Highlords smile. It never did.
High king was what he wanted to be called, and anything else would not
do.
The Kingsword has been found.
Verminaards gift ran a forked tongue over sharp teeth. No it hasnt,

Darknight thought scornfully. It knew the look in his eyes by now. He

only hoped it had been found. The dragon rustled its wings. Aye? Shall I
fly, my Lord?
And then, the Theiwar surprised the dragon. Yes, fly. The Herald is
expecting you.
Sevristh stretched its lipless mouth in a wide grin. Fly it would and, in
flight, apprise the only Highlord it truly acknowledged that his plans might
well be moving forward with more speed than even he thought.

Chapter Seventeen
Where are you? the kender had asked.
Piper didnt know where he was. Hed told the kender he was right
behind him. It was a good enough answer. He might have been, since he
seemed to be both nowhere and everywhere at once. There were no
landmarks in this fogbound drifting plane, it all seemed to run on forever.
The things he saw he didnt see with his eyes, but rather with his mind.
It was not magic that showed him these things. There was no magic left to
him but the spell he was caught in now.
Piper was a ghost, made so by his flutes magic. He was dead. He
stopped thinking for a moment. It was rather like holding his breath. But,
like breathing when he was alive, thinking was not something he could go
long without doing.
Tentatively, like a man running gentle fingers over a healing wound, he
reached for the memory of his last living moments.
There had been all the pain and all the bone-deep exhaustion. Hed
heard the young woman call for help, heard her cry Stanachs name. He
hadnt heard anything else after that for a long, long time until Stanachs
thoughts, grieving and heavy, brushed up against the edges of his mind.
Ah, Jordy! Im sorry, Piper!
Hed wanted to speak then, to find some way to warn Stanach about
Realgars men. He hadnt the strength. He had only the need.
When Stanach laid his flute beside him, he saw the instrument, though
he could see nothing else at all. The flute held his music and his magic. It

sang his own songs to him with a friends voice and gave voice to songs
hed never imagined. He found the small strength to work one last spell.
The magic was the flutes.
Was this ghostly state more or less than being dead? He reached around
him with his mind. He couldnt see everything the way hed imagined a
ghost would be able to. He sawor knewonly a little more than he
would be able to see were he alive. However, that was changing even as
he tried to extend this new sense. Like the potential hed once sensed in
his strong body, he knew that the ability to see farther would increase
with using it. He would have to explore this netherworld the way he would
have done the physical world, a little at a time. He was not alone here.
The souls he sensed behind the fog were few and showed no interest in
him at all. They were, like he, beings moving to their own purposes and
only brushed past him like sighs.
Piper laughed ruefully and the fog shivered. How many of the spirits
here were bound to a kender for the rest of his natural life?
Thats what the flutes spell had done: tied him to La vim, the person
who had triggered it, for as long as the kender lived. The spell not only
gave Lavim a ghostly companion, but because of the connection to Piper,
access to the flutes magic.
Of course, he hadnt imagined that the kender would be the first to play
the flute. Hed thought Stanach would. The dwarf hadnt and La vim had.
The summoning spell had called Piper back, all right, but it had called him
to a kenders attention. It had taken Piper all night and half the day to
make his way through the labyrinths of Lavims confusing mental chatter
and get to a place in the kenders mind where La vim could hear him.
Stanach, when he was taken by the Theiwar, had dropped the flute for
fear that it would end up in a Theiwars hand. He couldnt have known
that the flutes magic would work for no one but Lavim now.
Piper hoped he wasnt in for more trouble than he could handle. Hed
have to convince Lavim to give Tyorl the flute.
The fog seemed to thicken and grow dark and heavy with Pipers fear.

Soon it would be too late to help Stanach.

Lavim danced impatiently from one foot to the other. As delighted and
surprised to find himself in conversation with Piper, hed come to his
senses before hed come to the place where Kelida and Tyorl waited near
the path. He had tucked the cherry wood flute into the deepest pocket of
his old black coat, certain that Tyorl was going to want to snatch it right
out of his hand.
Now, he had Tyorl plaguing him with questions in one ear and Piper
whispering directions in the other. He didnt know who to answer first.
Tell him about Stanach and give him the flute.
Tyorl clamped both his hands on the kenders shoulders and held him
still. Lavim, tell me about Stanach!
I will. In a minute. Lavim blinked, not exactly sure who he was
answering.
Tyorls blue eyes flared with sudden anger. Tell me now!
Tell him now! Give him the flute!
Lavim squirmed away and put Kelida between himself and Tyorl.
Though he was a lean, slim fellow, the elf had a bears grip and looked as
though hed like to shake all the information out of him.
All right, all right, I am! Theres some rocks up ahead and I found, uh,
footprints and some of them were Stanachs and some of them werent.
Stanach isnt there now, and I dont know where he is, but I came back
here because
Because youre going to give him the flute. Tell him about the flute!
Because I figured you should know.
Lavim! Give him the

Lavim steadfastly ignored the voice in his mind. Tyorl, what do you
suppose happened to him? The other footprints were a dwarfs and he was
probably one of those, urn,
Theiwar, Piper muttered.
Theiwar, Tyorl said.
Lavim blinked. He was getting a headache. Right. Those are the
fellows whore looking for Kelidas sword, arent they?
Tyorl reached for his bow. His mouth a grim, hard line, he drew an
arrow from the quiver on his back. Kelida looked from one to the other of
them.
Tyorl, theyll kill him, she whispered.
The sunlight on the path had deepened to gold. Shadows gathered in the
thickets and under the trees, soon to spread through the forest and become
night. The breeze sighed colder now.
Aye, Tyorl thought, they will. Sooner or later.
They couldnt have taken him far, the ranger said.
Hes in the river caves.
Lavim nodded. Hes in the river caves, Tyorl.
How do you know that? Damn, Lavim! What else do you know?
Lavim didnt know what else he knew. He hadnt even known that till
just now. Tyorl, I He started to try to explain, then he snapped his
mouth shut as Piper bellowed No! right inside his head.
But, he demanded silently, how am I going to tell him if I dont tell him
about you? Stop yelling, would you? Ive got a headache already and
You can tell him later. Theres no time to go into the part about me
now, Lavim. The way you tell it, youd be explaining all day. Stanach

doesnt have all day.

But what am I going to say?
Piper sighed heavily. Tell him you saw the caves.
But I didnt see any
Dont get virtuous on me now, Lavim.
I saw the caves. Where else could he be? With Pipers prompting, he
told the rest of the tale. Theres five of em. Not caves, dwarves. Theres
only three caves. Theyre this side of the river and
Tyorl knows where. Hes been here before. Finn caches weapons in a
cave in the forest, but he doesnt know that this one connects with the
river caves.
Lavim nodded. Oh, Finn caches
No! Dont tell him that! And give him my flute!
Lavim shoved his hands into his pockets and grasped the flute. He
wasnt going to give that up yet. Uh, stuff in the forest, doesnt he?
Like weapons and things?
Has he ever . . . ?
Has he ever used those caI mean, any caves around here?
The elf shook his head, impatient again. Aye, Lavim, he has. But those
are woodland caves, and theyre too far south of here to connect to caves
in the riverbank.
Yes, theyIwell, I mean, maybe they do. Lavim curled his fingers
around the flute. He was beginning to get the knack of talking to two
people at once. He hoped.
You heard something about caves . . .
I heard something about the caves in these woods. I dont know where

I heard it, but I did. Something about, um, right, caves that start out at the
river and end up back here in the woods.
They were saying back in Long Ridge that bandits used to hide out in
em and sometimes theyd go to ground here in the woods because they
wanted to lose whoever was chasing em. You pick up all kinds of stuff
like that if you just listen and
Tyorl, Kelidas hand trembled as she laid it on the elfs arm. Weve
got to help Stanach.
Tyorl let his breath out in a frustrated sigh. He was caught between
having to believe something a kender had heardwhich meant he could
have heard it, or thought hed heard it, or imagined the whole idea right
nowand the realization that if Stanach was made to tell his captors
where the sword was, Kelidas life now stood in danger.
The proverbial bear and the cliffs edge, he thought bitterly.
Weve got to help Stanach, Kelida had said. That was another matter.
He couldnt leave her behind, alone and with the sword to mark her as the
dwarves target, but he didnt want to take her into danger with him either.
Hands tied by circumstance, Tyorl cursed. Where was Finn? Thirty
rangers in these woods and he should have run across their trail by now.
He damned the sword, damned the dwarves, and made the only decision
he could make.
Cautioning the girl and the kender to follow him as silently as they
could, he slipped off the path and headed south.
Pipers gusty sigh of relief made Lavims ears pop.

Horror crawled all over Stanach with clammy, plucking fingers.

Trapped in the one-eyed derros magic, he wasnt breathing well, nor was
he thinking well. Like the echoes of dreams, he heard voices, thin and
distorted.

No clear blue sky stretched above him now, only a rough, low ceiling
of stone, smelling like mud and the river. Stones dug into his shoulders
and back as he lay on a rocky floor. Though his hands were not bound, he
could not move.
No, he thought, it wasnt that he couldnt move. He hadnt the strength
to move, or he didnt want to move. Like thick, wet fog, lassitude seemed
to have seeped into his muscles, his very bones.
Light, soft and fading toward gloaming, shimmered around the edges of
the caves mouth. Stanach didnt remember coining here. He had no
memory of anything beyond the cold glitter in the Heralds one black eye,
the sudden, wrenching sickness that accompanied a transport spell, and a
long, sickening slide into sleep.
And the distant voices.
They wanted Stormblade.
A dwarf, thin and holding an arm stiffly at his side, moved into
Stanachs field of vision, cutting the soft light with shadow. Wulfen they
were calling him. Stanach knew him as one of the Theiwar whose blood
hed wiped from his sword in the grass on the side of the road to Long
Ridge.
A cold lump of fear lay heavily in Stanachs belly. He saw hunger for
revenge in Wulfens eyes and heard it in his low, vulpine laughter.
Stanach was no mage, as Piper had been. He had nothing arcane with
which to defend himself. He had only his ragged strength and the hope
that his companions would not try to rescue him.
Tyorl, he thought, get the Kingsword out of here! Find your rangers
and get it to Thorbardin!
But would he? Or had he finally counted his friend Hauk as dead?
Aye, maybe. But Kelida hadnt. Stanach had made sure of that. Hed
given her a brave ranger to love, and she didnt know that the ranger was
dead. Stormblade would come to Thorbardin and Kelida would carry it

there. The elf would go where she went.

Stanach stared hard at the roof of the river cave. He would not lose
Hornfels Kingsword again. Hed do what he had to do, as Kyan Red-axe
had, as Piper had.
Wulfen rumbled low in his throat. Stanach told himself that he was no
longer a swordcrafter. He was a merchant, one who was in the business of
buying time.

The cache was empty. Tyorl and Hauk had helped store the quivers of
arrows, the swords, and daggers the night before theyd set out for Long
Ridge. By the signs, Finn had been here only recently to gather supplies.
Tyorl wished again that he knew where the rangers were. An empty
cache place meant theyd had a need for the weapons. They were fighting
somewhere and hed seen no sign that any battle had taken place nearby.
Damn! he thought. I need them and theyd likely appreciate my bow.
Where in the name of the gods are they?
Tyorl smiled wryly. Likely Finn knew about the dragon-army supply
bases by now anyway; likely the dragonarmy knew about Finn and his
Nightmare Company by now, too.
The cave wasnt high enough for Tyorl to stand comfortably and only
deep enough for him and Lavim to enter. Kelida stood watch. Tyorl
listened for her footstep scuffing on stone, caught a glimpse of gold-shot
red braids, and turned to La vim.
Theres no way back to the river from here, he said irritably.
The kender nodded vigorously, his long white braid bobbing on his
neck. There is, Tyorl. Its, urn, just behind the back wall.
Lavim, theres nothing behind that wall but dirt and stone.
Tyorl ran a hand over the rock, his thumb over the cracks forced there

by the thick roots of the pines that lived on the cobble above. The place
smelled of rich, dark earth and stone. Tyorl missed the warm fall of the
setting suns light. Caves were fine for secreting stores of weapons, but
they were too dark and heavy with the weight of the earth for the elfs
taste.
Lavim squeezed past Tyorl and dropped to his heels before the widest
of the fissures. He shoved his right hand into the crack and curled his
fingers around the stone as one would around the edge of a door. He
smiled up at the elf, green eyes gleaming.
Theres air moving back there, Tyorl.
Lavim ran his left hand along the wall at arms length and shoulder
height and followed the thin crack he saw there down to the floor. He
peered up at the ceiling, squinting mightily, and saw a narrow fissure there
as well. His smile became a grin as he eyed the distance between his
outstretched arms. We could fit through here easily.
Aye, Tyorl drawled, if we could walk through stone.
No, we dont have to do that. Theres . . . Lavim cocked his head as
though listening for something, then nodded. I think I hear echoes. Kind
of like waterthe riverand if we can get this stone to move, we can get
right to the water. The cave back there runs . . . uh, the river smell means it
heads straight and straight is east and . . . uh, thats probably where
Stanach is.
Guesses, kenderkin.
Oh, no, theyre not guesses I Lavim cleared his throat and nodded.
Youre right. Theyre guesses. I hear the river, Tyorl, and I can feel the
edge of this stone. He withdrew his right hand and held it up for Tyorls
inspection. This walls no thicker than my palm, and the edge of the
crack is smooth. Ill bet if we can just get this stone to move . . .
Lavim pressed his shoulder to the wall and shoved.
Lavim, Tyorl sighed heavily.

The kender braced his feet against the stone floor and squeezed his eyes
tightly shut, all his weight behind his efforts.
Lavim, I dont think
The kender grunted. Could you stop thinking for a minute, Tyorl, and
give me a hand here? Or a shoulder? Put your weight against the right of
the stone.
If only to disabuse the kender of his foolish notions, Tyorl lent the
weight Lavim asked for. Amost immediately, the stone began to move.
Air, dank and heavy with earth smells, moved lazily through the opening.
Beneath the scent of dirt and stone drifted the odor of the river: fish, silt,
and decaying vegetation.
Bandits caves! Lavim cried. See! WeI was right!
He dove for the opening, and Tyorl quickly caught him by the collar of
his shapeless black coat. Wait, Lavim!
But the kender was waiting for no one. He squirmed away from the
elfs hold and darted into the newly opened cave.
Tyorl called quickly for Kelida. She slipped into the cave, eyed the
dark, narrow doorway into the earth and then the light over her shoulder.
She looked as doubtful as Tyorl felt.
Wheres Lavim?
Tyorl jerked a thumb at the fissure. Where youd expect. Ready?
Kelida nodded.
Stay close then, and lets see if we can catch up with the kender.
He hadnt meant it as a jest, but when Kelidas emerald eyes lighted
with a sudden spark of laughter, Tyorl smiled and stepped aside as though
ushering her into a safe and comfortable chamber. Unthinking, she laid her
hand on his shoulder as she passed. He felt the light touch of her fingers
long after hed left the opening and the faint light behind.

Three!
Stanach clung to the idea of the cipher through another red-hazed spin
into darkness. Theyd snapped three of his fingers. Seven, he thought,
seven to go. Or two if they only want to leave me one-handed. Seven or
two . . .
The lethargy of the sleep spell had worn away, but he still couldnt
move. It was as though invisible bonds held him to the stone floor. More
of the Heralds work, he thought.
The red star, the ember from Reorxs forge, hung low in the purpling
sky. The only thing Stanach could move were his eyes. These he kept
fixed on the star.
Seven or two. It doesnt matter . . . it doesnt matter . . . soon Im not
going to be able to feel this at all.
Wulfen, his black Theiwar eyes like bottomless pits in the shadows of
night, leaned forward. Where is the sword?
Stanach did not have the heart or the strength to wonder why Wulfens
tone was so coolly reasonable. The midnight wings of pain rustled around
him. He swallowed back bile and vomit.
I told you, he whispered, his voice hoarse and thin, I dont know. I
didnt . . . find it.
The Herald nodded, smiling.
Stanach screamed and the sound almost drowned out the searing pain
and another dry snap.
Four! Six, his mind panted, six or one . . . six or
Five!
When his thumb was finally broken, Stanachs scream almost sounded
like triumphant laughter in his own ears. His right hand was a swollen,
blue mass of flesh on the stony floor.

Those dont look like fingers, his minds voice observed thinly, not at
all. Now theres a hand that wont be lifting a hammer again.
Behind him, the Herald made a sound like rumbling laughter. Another
of the Theiwar drifted past the caves mouth as he walked his patrol, paced
back again, and turned. Faint as old memories, Stanach smelled the smoke
of the guards watch fire.
The red star winked and vanished and appeared again. Icy sweat
trickled into Stanachs eyes, slid down his cheeks and into his beard like
cold tears. He closed his eyes, then opened them, only to find the cave
faded a little around the edges.
Wulfen took a dagger from his belt. The only light in the cave was
fading twilight reflected in the mirror of the blades steel. Creeping and
tentative, smoke wafted into the cave, stinging Stanachs eyes as it passed
him, clutching at his throat.
Stanach looked to the side, saw the fingers of his left hand, whole and
straight, and closed his eyes. In the darkness he saw the Kingsword, redstreaked steel, four sapphires the color of twilight, a fifth like a midnight
star. Hed seen the steel born in fire, and hed seen Isarns wonder, his
dawning understanding when the reflection of the forge fire hadnt faded.
Hed watched in grief and pity as the old master became slowly mad when
Stormblade had been stolen. Kingsword!
Kingsword, he thought. Kingsword, Realgar! By the gods forge, you
wont have it!
Steel, like winters ice, touched the thumb of his left hand at the first
joint in cold caress. Stanach drew a long breath and let it out in a tattered
sigh.
Hell crack that knuckle like a tightly closed nut, Stanach my lad, with
a thrust and a snap . . .
Stanach opened his eyes and saw only his own fear reflected in the
daggers blade.
Where is the sword?

Stanach thought he might be a little mad. He laughed, and the laughter

kept perfect time to the beat and thunder of the fire consuming his right
hand. Itold you. I dont have it.
No! That was the wrong answer! Stanach saw it in the flicker of interest
in Wulfens eyes.
The Theiwars voice was soft as the smoke now. Who does?
Stanach couldnt see the star anymore. The guard stood between him
and the sky. He closed his eyes again.
If Realgars men found Kelida with the sword theyd kill her before
shed have a chance to scream.
Lyt chwaer, hed named her, little sister. Shed tried to ease his grief for
Pipers death with understanding and a kinswomans gentle silence. Lyt
chwaer, who has a dead ranger to love.
I do what I have to do. I lie to friendless barmaids, and I watch my own
friends die. How does it balance, how does it balance?
Wulfens breath was hot against Stanachs face. His strange derro soul
shone in the madness reflected in his eyes. He was close now, and his
daggers steel lay at the base of Stanachs jaw. Who has the Kingsword?
The Herald moved forward. Stanach heard his breathing, soft as a snake
hissing.
Stanach looked at his right hand, twisted and swollen out of
recognition. Hed never lift a hammer again. Hed never again know the
magic of crafting. His own masterblade lay lifeless, stillborn amid the
wreckage of his broken fingers. Wulfen had stolen that. In that way, he
and his mad derro kin would rob all of Thorbardin, twisting and breaking
everything beautiful under their trampling reign.
The daggers tip traced a thin, bleeding line up to just below Stanachs
right eye. The muscles tightened across the back of Wulfens hand.
Ill ask again, but this will be the last time. Who has Stormblade?

Stanach spat, and prepared to lose his eye.

Chapter Eighteen
The low ceilings of the caves grew high before Lavim had gone several
yards past the entrance. The rivers moisture glistened on the rock walls
and plastered the dust to the smooth stony floor. Dim light filtering in
from the rangers cache place did little to illuminate these interior caves
and only served to cast confusing shadows. Behind him, Lavim heard
Tyorl and Kelida stepping carefully in the darkness.
Piper, he whispered, as something that looked like a spider with too
many legs scuttled across his boot. I dont suppose you can do a little
magic from where you are and give me some light? That looked like a
spider, but Im not real sure and
No, I cant. Dont waste time stumbling around in the dark and getting
lost. Go catch up with Tyorl.
Oh, dont worry. I never get lost. I just find new places to be. I
hmmm, I wonder whats over here?
Dirt. Lavim, Tyorl and Kelida are getting ahead of you now.
Uh-huh. Thanks for telling me. Ill catch up.
The kender intended toin a minute. Though he couldnt see very
well, Lavim still had his hands and his curiosity. Hed told Tyorl that these
were bandits caves and, in the course of convincing the elf that this was
so, hed convinced himself as well.
He made his way around a pile of heaped rubble, felt around a small
chamber, backed out of it when he found nothing of interest, and edged
into another. With a sound like restless wind in the tree tops, the far wall

began to rustle.
Piper! Look! I think that wall way back there is moving!
Bats, Piper warned, get out, Lavim!
Bats? So? Im not afraid of
Theyre afraid of you and when they fly theyll warn everyone in sight
that youre in here. Get out!
Lavim sighed. He supposed Piper was right. He backed out of the cave,
moving as silently as only a kender can.
Tracking east, following the scent of the river, Lavim veered aside
only a littleto squeeze himself into a spider-webbed corner.
Piper, who in life had thought himself the most patient of men, lost his
patience for the fourth time in a quarter hour. Lavim! Get moving!
But these are bandit caves, Piper, and I
Theyre not bandit caves. Go catch up with Tyorl. And give him my
flute!
Lavim poked at the rubble and dust in a natural alcove. Tyorl and
Kelida had passed him by a few moments ago, but he was sure that he
could catch up with them again. All he had to do was follow the scent of
the river and the sound of their breathing.
You said they were bandit caves. Though he did think, even as he
said it, that Piper might have been mistaken. The alcove held nothing but
scatterings of rock. Not even a tumble of old bones.
What were you hoping for, a skeleton? And you said these were bandit
caves, I didnt.
Lavim sighed heavily. He wasnt at all certain that he liked having
someone right inside his head and reading his every thought. No, Piper, I
really do think it was you who said these were

Damn it, Lavim!

Not only a ghost, Lavim thought sourly, but a testy ghost whos as bad
as Stanach and Tyorl ever were about letting him finish a sentence.
Aye, testy! When you start a sentence that makes sense, then maybe
youll get to
The scream shivered through the darkness, a hollow, forlorn echo of
pain. Like what a ghost should sound like, Lavim thought. All hope of
finding bandit treasure fled as the kender suddenly remembered why he
was here.
Stanach? he whispered. Up ahead he heard Kelidas gasp and a low,
murmured word from Tyorl.
Aye, Stanach. Lavim, stay back a minute.
But you just said to catch up with them. Piper, how am I supposed to
figure out what you want me to do if you dont even know?
Stay! Wait here.
Yes, but-
Take out my flute.
Lavim grinned. Aye, that hed be happy to do! Though he thought it a
little odd to be playing music now when Stanach needed his help, he dug
into his pocket, pulled out the flute, and raised it to his lips.
No! Piper bellowed. Not yet! Put it down and listen to me very
carefully.
Reluctantly, Lavim lowered the flute.
Aye, now do exactly as I say, Lavim. The gods know I must be halfmad, but if you listenvery carefully!and do just what I say, exactly the
way I tell you

A second scream, like horrible laughter, tore through the cave.

Listen, now. The flute knows Im nearno, dont start asking
questions! It senses my mindmy spirit, I guess is a good word, eh? It
will lend its magic to my needs. Take a deep breathno, deeper than that.
Aye, thats it. The flute will play the tune, and the tune is the magic, but
you have to supply the air and the intent.
Aye, Lavim thought (because he couldnt very well speak while
holding his breath), and what do I intend? Can I summon monsters? Am I
going to be invisible? Can I turn all Tyorls arrows into fire?
None of that, now, Lavim. Piper said sternly. This is what you intend
and only this.
Lavim felt Piper smile and, because the mage seemed to be in such a
good humor, he quickly decided to try a little idea of his own.

The low-roofed, narrow-walled tunnel connecting the woodland cave to

the one opening onto the river held the echo of the scream for many
moments. Tyorl shuddered and glanced over his shoulder at Kelida. She
stood where hed told her to, in the webbing of shadows and darkness
where the tunnel bent left and back in the direction they had come. Her
eyes bright in the darkness, her mouth a hard, determined line, Kelida
grasped her dagger in a firm and steady hand the way Lavim had taught
her.
The tunnel stank of musty earth, and rank, stagnant water pooled in the
center of the floor. The litter of rubble and mud lay mostly undisturbed but
for a footprint or two. If the Theiwar had explored this corridor at all, or
the cave beyond, theyd likely been turned back by the seemingly
impassable wall at the back of the woods cave. Tyorl wondered fleetingly
how Lavim had found an entrance.
Aye, but a kender will find his way into a misers purse if he wants to.
No reason why solid rock should stop him.
The half-rotted carcasses of beached fish, washed into the tunnel from a

high tide swollen by storm rains, shimmered with the strange, evil light of
putrification. His back to the wall, Tyorl edged around the water careful
not to cause even the faintest whisper of a splash.
A second scream, a deep-throated and terrible roar, made the muscles
in Tyorls belly wrench sickeningly. Under cover of the echo, the elf
inched forward until he reached the entrance to the river cave. Narrow,
barely wide enough for Tyorl to get through sideways, the entrance was
blocked by a cloaked and hooded dwarf who stood with his back to the
ranger.
The dwarf shifted his stance, moved aside and forward, and Tyorl
closed his eyes. He hadnt seen much, just an arm and a hand.
Tyorl trembled with a cold rage. Each finger of the hand had been
twisted and broken. His own fingers tightened around the hilt of his
dagger. The hooded dwarf stood within striking distance, and Tyorl knew
hed smile to feel his daggers blade slide between this ones ribs. Before
he could move, the sound of a flutes voice, hollow and chased by its own
echoes, floated through the tunnel. From behind.
No! Gods, no! The kender has the mages flute!
The Theiwar turned sharply. One eye, he had, filled with hatred and the
love of death. He snarled a curse when he saw Tyorl. His hands groped at
the cold, damp air of the river cave, and took sudden flight in magics
winged dance. Tyorl barely had time to see the Theiwars hands falter, like
arrow-shot birds, before his own knees went weak and watery.
Back in the tunnel, Kelida cried out, her cry torn by gagging and
choking.
The music, a perversely light and merry air, drifted toward the elf on
currents of the vilest odor hed ever smelled. The stench of middens years
uncleaned, eggs rotting, dead rats under a taverns floor, and vegetation
moldering and turning to thick, greasy slime, filled the tunnel. Tyorl
dropped to his knees, helpless to do anything but wrap his arms tightly
around his belly, and clamp his back teeth against the overwhelming urge
to vomit.

From within the river cave, and more distantly from without, came
gagging and the sounds of wrenching pain. A voice, one that could only
have been Lavims, echoed from behind the elf in deep, booming laughter.
Small hands pounded at the elfs back and pulled at his arms.
Tyorl! Doesnt this smell awful! Everyones just about throwing up
everything theyve eaten in the last week! Isnt it great? Hey, Tyorl! Get
up, would you? Tyorl! You ought to run in there and rescue Stanach and
get rid of those wad-dayacallems while theyre alluh, Tyorl?
Kender, Tyorl gasped weakly, I swear by every god there is Im
going to Caught by a stabbing belly cramp, he doubled over and knew
very suddenly that trying to speak had been the wrong thing to do. He
finished his threat in groans and gagging. When he was able to look up
again, Tyorl was alone.
I am going to kill him, he thought as he wiped the back of his hand
across his mouth. He staggered to his feet, braced his back against the
wall, and tried not to breathe. I am going to lay that damned kender open
from neck to gut and kill him!
A hand, shaking from the sudden and violent attack of nausea, gripped
Tyorls arm. Kelida, dazed and weak-kneed, leaned against the elf.
Shuddering, she whispered, Are you all right?
Aye. Tyorl lifted her chin. Then, surprised by his own gesture, he
dropped his hand and held her gently away. You?
She shrugged and managed a wan smile. The noxious odors were
beginning to drift in the direction of the river, dragged reluctantly away by
damp, cold breezes. Tyorl, what happened? What is this horrible smell?
The damned kender has the mages flute! Did you see where he
went?
Kelida looked quickly around then shook her head. Those screams
Her face was white. Stanach.
Within the river cave, the hard, bitter noises of retching and choking
had fallen still. La vims laughter rose and then stopped with ominous

suddenness. Tyorl stepped into the cave, Kelida right behind him.
The freshening night wind cleared away the last of Lavims
malodorous spell. Tyorl took a tentative breath and then another. The
aching nausea left him. He looked around the cave and saw Stanach lying
in the shadows against the wall. Kelida slipped past him and ran to the
dwarf.
Realgars assassins lay on the stony floor and did not rise again. The
skulls of two were crushed and the rock that killed them lay near Tyorls
foot, smeared with blood and brains. The third was dead of a dagger in the
ribs. Tyorl quickly checked outside and saw a dwarf lying far down the
river, sprawled half in the water, half out.
Lavim, Tyorl said, his voice low with astonishment, you killed all of
them?
Lavim, crouched in the darkest shadows of the night-filled cave, looked
around. I wish! One of em got away, Tyorl, and he was my favorite, or,
he was the one I wanted to kill the most. I should have waited for you, I
suppose, but you seemed to be having some temporary difficulty and
Stanach!
A small and pitying sigh on her lips, Kelida dropped to her knees and
laid light, hesitant fingers on Stanachs throat. She nodded to Tyorl; shed
found a faint lifebeat.
Tyorls belly went tight with what the dim starlight showed him. Blood
and dirt matted the dwarfs black beard. A daggers trail scored his face
between eye and chin. It was the wreckage of Stanachs right hand that
sickened him.
If he had been schooled in the craft of war, Tyorl had also been
schooled in other things. An artisans hand, someone once told him, is
sacred. Without it, there is no bridge between what he envisions and what
he can ultimately create. Stanachs bridge lay in twisted ruin.
A low, bubbling moan, thick with pain, startled Tyorl. Stanach, his
blue-flecked black eyes flat and dull, looked at Kelida. When Stanach

spoke, his voice was only a thin whisper.

I dontI dont feel my hand.
A glimmer of panic broke the dullness of his eyes. He shifted a little on
the ground and tried to move his fingers. When not even his smallest
finger responded, Stanach closed his eyes again.
Is it there? I feel my armbut not my hand.
Kelida tried to speak but found no words. She stroked his head gently,
brushed his blood-matted hair away from his forehead. Tyorl, his heart
aching, caught the glimmer of tears on her cheeks.
In a voice strangely thick, Lavim said, Aye, young Stanach, your hand
is there.
I dontfeel it.
For Stanachs sake, Tyorl mustered a crooked smile and dropped to one
knee beside him. You may thank some god that you cant just now, but
your hand is there, Stanach. Tyorls heart went cold and aching. All the
better for you that you dont feel it, he thought. Aloud he only said, Rest
easy now.
Stanachs breath shuddered in his chest. Piper. They killed Piper. They
wantStormblade.
Tyorl saw understanding darken Kelidas eyes. Aye, Hauk, she hopes
youre alive. Lad, I hope youre dead. They had a few hours at the dwarf.
Theyll have been a week or more at you. Gods, I hope youre dead!
Kelidas hand dropped to Stormblade at her hip and then jerked away
as though her fingers had been seared. She knew she would be dead now if
Stanach had not somehow managed to keep silent through the agonizing
ruining of his hand.
No, she murmured. Oh, Stanach, no!
How do you bear the weight of knowing that you live because others

are suffering and dying? Tyorl shook his head. You tear your cloak for
bandages, you cool the unbearable fire with the water from your flask.
Watching Kelidas gentle hands, listening to her soft words of comfort as
she cleaned Stanachs face and soaked the strips of green cloth for
bandaging, Tyorl understood that he had fallen in love with Kelida just as
surely as she had fallen in love with Hauk.
No, he thought, no. Im tired, half sick still, and I dont know where
were running to next. Im a lot of things, but Im not in love with a
barmaid, and a human one at that. No, and not with the woman who loves
Hauk.
Tyorl nudged Lavim and walked slowly to the caves mouth. He
needed air to clear his lungs and his head. The kender rose slowly and
followed.
Lavim, you said one got away?
Lavim nodded. He was fast, that one-eyed piece of gully dwarf He
glanced over his shoulder, saw Kelida, and shrugged. Lucky for him.
Besides, I had my hands full with the others.
Aye, you must have. Tyorl looked downriver. And that one?
Uh, hes dead, too. Pretty near, at least.
So I see. You were a busy fellow for a minute or two.
Oh, yes, really busy, Tyorl. There wasnt a whole lot of time, but did I
ever tell you what a good cave-fighter I am, unless Im outnumbered too
badly, and my hands are tied, and Ive lost my knife, and
Wheres the flute?
Lavim studied the night sky. Urn, the flute?
The mages flute. The elf held out his hand. Give. And dont waste
any breath telling me that you dont have it.
But, Tyorl, I dontuh, I think I lost it back there in the cave. Lavim

dug into the deep pockets of his old black coat, searched a couple of
pouches, and even patted himself down, eyes puzzled and innocent all the
while. I, um, I mustve lost it back there somewhere. That smell-spell
was awfuller than I thought it would be, and, well, to tell you the truth, it
kind of startled me. Didnt it startle you? You looked pretty startled when
I caught up with you. You were kind of green, Tyorl. Not a lot green, you
understand, but sort of. Around the edges, so to speak.
Around the edges! Tyorl had no doubt that hed been as green as moldy
bread. He didnt want to argue the matter or even think about it now. He
knew he should go look for the flute himself, but there was something
about the dwarf by the river that piqued his curiosity.
Go find it, Lavim, and bring it right to me.
Well, sure, but I dont really know where Id look.
Look in the cave!
Oh. Right, in the cave. Which?
Tyorl didnt hear the rest of the question as he stalked away from the
river cave. There was something about the way the dwarf lay sprawled on
the bank, arms wide and hands frozen in a grasp at the air that made Tyorl
think he hadnt died of a broken skull or a dagger in the ribs, and that he
hadnt been killed by the kender at all.

Stanach wanted the windswept ledges above Thorbardin. He wanted

the peace. His dreams were filled with endless searching for the feel of
ancient stone against his back, the frosty scent of gold autumn. He longed
for the heatless wash of starlight, the silver spray of Solinaris light on the
early snow, and Lunitaris glow, edging the crags and peaks of the
mountains with crimson.
He found none of these in his fevered dreams, and none in his few
moments of waking. All he had was pain.
Pain was what he was made of. Not bone and flesh, nor blood and

breath. Each time he tried to climb to the sky, pain stood, a grinning
demon with Wulfens mad eyes, to block his way. He could not reach the
golden sunlight, the diamond night, the sapphire twilight. He was lost in
darkness, listening to the weeping of moisture down a black stone wall.
When he cried out none heard and no light was brought. He was alone
with no way back, no path to Thorbardin under the mountain.

Lavim returned to the river cave. As he did, he dipped his hand into his
pocket and touched the smooth cherry wood flute. He was almost
surprised to find it. Lavim did not consider himself a liar, or even a
temporizer. What he said, he believed wholly. At the moment he said it.
He cocked his head, listening for Pipers comment. The mage, it
seemed, always had something to say about what Lavim was thinking.
Piper had nothing to say now.
Piper, he thought. Piper?
Nothing.
Lavim dropped to his knees beside Kelida. He supposed Piper might be
just the least bit annoyed about his improvisation.
Well, he told himself, the flute hadnt seemed to mind.
Apparently it had played exactly the melody needed to produce what
Lavim had come to consider the smell-spell.
A nice little spell it was, too, he thought for the benefit of the silent
mage.
Kelida had wiped the blood and dirt from Stanachs face, cleaned the
dagger cut, and covered him with her cloak. With one hand she was
carefully lifting his head, with the other holding her water flask to his lips.
When he didnt swallow, Lavim leaned forward and stroked the sides of
his throat with his gnarled old hands. The dwarf swallowed once, and then
again, though he never opened his eyes.

Sometimes that helps, La vim said. He looked at Kelida and shook

his head. Poor Stanach.
The girl looked ragged and tired. She brushed straggling wisps of red
hair away from her face with an absent gesture. Wewe should do
something about his fingers, Lavim, but I dontI dont She stopped,
unable to find words to express her reluctance to tamper with that swollen
ruin of a hand.
As though he sensed her feeling, Lavim drew in a long breath and let it
out in a sigh. Youre afraid youll do something to make it worse?
That, she whispered, andoh, Lavim, whatever I do is going to hurt
him so much!
Its a shame we dont have any dwarf spirits. Ive heard that if you
have enough of that stuff in you, you probably couldnt feel a tree if it fell
on you. We dont, so youd better do what you have to do before he wakes
up. I dont think hes going to want to watch you straighten and bind those
fingers. Lavim shook his head. As a matter of fact, I dont think I want
to watch you, either.
Lavim, will you help me?
Lavim certainly didnt want to do that. His stomach went all squishy
when he thought about it. Kelida, I dont thinkwell, that is, Im not
really very good at this sort of thing and
Help her, Lavim.
Oh, but I dont think
Hold his hand at the wrist and straighten the fingers as she binds them.
Lavims stomach was really acting up now. Leftover smell-spell, he
told himself and didnt choose to remember that he, as the spell caster,
hadnt been affected by the odor at all.
No, Piper, he said silently, I dont think I want to do that.

Pipers voice was very gentle inside his head.

Lavim, hes never going to have the use of that hand again. But you
can help Kelida ease the pain.
All right, Lavim whispered.
Something was eating Stanachs hand. It gnawed one finger, chewed
flesh, spat out bone, and moved on to the next. Voiceless and surrounded
by hollow voices that should have been familiar, but were not, he tried to
scream and failed.
Three!
(Two or seven . . . )
Four!
(One or six . . . )
Reorx! I beg you! Grant me grace or strike me dumb!
Fire ran along the edges of Wulfens dagger; the steel of its blade sent
fear rebounding around the cold, wet walls of the cave the way the echoes
of pain and old, spent thoughts echoed around Stanachs mind.
Where is Stormblade?
Pieces of twilight and a midnight star.
Lyt chwaer.
Now, one more, Stanach.
Stanach heard a distant scream. Faint and very thin, it shivered the
darkness surrounding him.
Five!
Rest easy, young Stanach, the god said with the voice of an old
kender. Rest easy.

Stanach sighed as the clean, cold wind of the mountains dried his sweat
and tore through the echoing voices, shredding them the way it would
smoke.

Chapter Nineteen
Tyrol walked along the frozen mud by the rivers edge. The wind off
the water blew cold out of the mountains from the east. The elf thought it
smelled of snow. Instinct told him that though many hours remained to the
night and they should put some distance between themselves and this
wretched place, what was needed was a fire, some food, and a chance for
Stanach to gain whatever strength he could before dawn.
Inclination told him to get Stanach on his feet somehow. The one-eyed
Theiwar might still be about somewhere. Though he was alone, he was
what the dwarves called derro. Tyorl had spent enough time on
Thorbardins border to pick up a good store of dwarven words. He knew
what derro meant: half-mad and seemingly able to thrive on nothing but
hate. He was magi and dangerous as well.
Tyorl kicked a small stone into the water and regretted it the moment
he heard it splash. Childish behavior like that will get us all killed before
dawn, he thought. Childish behavior like that, and the unlooked for change
in his feelings toward Kelida. Hed held himself back in the tunnel
because of her, because he was concerned for her. Lavim could have used
his help, and, if hed been there to give it, the Theiwar would be no
problem now; hed be dead.
Damn! The woman isnt tracking through the forest, putting her life at
risk, because Hauk is important to you! She does it because hes important
to her. Hauk left Tennys without his sword and with the barmaids heart.
Did he know that?
Tyorl shook his head. He didnt think Hauk was alive at this moment to
know. For his friends sake, he hoped that he wasnt.

The elf ground a curse between clenched teeth and broke into a run.
The dead Theiwar lay just before the rivers bend.
An arrow protruded from the dwarfs chest. Four thin blue bands
marked the shaft a thumbs length above the fletching notch. He knew the
mark well and the gray fletching and black cock feather even better. Finn!
He looked around quickly. The river, never silent, ran whispering on
his left. Black shadows and blacker trees, the forest crowned the rise on
his right. Tyorl drew the arrow from the dwarfs chest and rose, sending
the red-shouldered hawks shrill keee-yeeer! echoing against the forests
wall of trees. There was only one answer to that cry, a thrushs reedy,
upward spiraling song. Tyorl heard it almost at once and laughed aloud for
sheer relief.
Finn, tall and thin as fence rails, stood on the rise between two trees.
Tyorl didnt see his smile, but he heard it in his question.
Whereve you been, elf?
Looking for you, Lord, and hoping youd find me. He kicked at the
body lying near his feet. Have you seen another one of these around?
Only this one. He raised that crossbow too fast when he saw me. Gave
me no time to ask after others.
Finn left the rise, jogging down the slope. Two shadows, dark as night,
left the forest and followed. Lehr cut ahead of the rangerlord and Kembal,
his brother, drifted behind.
Lehr, dark eyes shining with the light of his grin, shaggy black hair
ruffling in the cold wind, slapped Tyorls shoulder in greeting. Wheres
Hauk? That ones owed me three gold or twelve steel for a week and
more. I figured you twove been dragging your heels getting back because
he didnt come by it in town.
Tyorl shook his head, the brightness flown from the reunion. Hes not
here, Lehr. He gestured toward the river cave. Kem, youre needed back
there. Go with your hands on your pack. Theres a kender in there who
claims to have killed four dwarves.

Tyorl glanced at the arrow still in his hand. I know he killed three of
them. Three or four. Hes likely grown bored of being proud of himself
and will be looking around for trouble to get into.
Lehr laughed, but his brother only nodded and loped toward the cave.
Go with him, Lehr, Finn said quietly. When they were alone, the
rangerlord accepted his arrow from Tyorl and checked the fletching. He
found it still good and returned it to his quiver. Good to see you, Tyorl.
The elf looked back to the forest. And you, Lord. Are the others with
you?
No. I left them six miles north of here. Lehr crossed your trail
yesterday. Wed have come looking sooner, but it seems that Verminaard
is quick-pacing his war on the borders. Weve been busy these three
days. Finn smiled coldly. Raiding supply trains.
Have we lost anyone?
No, though Kem almost heaved himself inside out from the stink of
this place a few minutes ago. Where did that come from? If you tell me the
Abyss, Ill likely believe you.
Tyorl sighed, suddenly realizing how tired he was and how strange a
tale he had to tell. Its a very long story.
No doubt. Finn looked at him sharply. His eyes softened a little.
Tyorl, we saw no sign that Hauks with you. Is he dead?
I dont know. I think hes in Thorbardin.
Finn said nothing for a moment, only looked across the river and to the
foothills rising in the east. Thorbardin was nearly a hundred miles away.
Odd place for him to be, dead or alive, isnt it?
Odd? Oh, yes, Tyorl thought, damned odd.
Ill have your report now.

Aye, Lord, but you may not believe it.

Finn stepped a pace away from the dead Theiwar and dropped to his
heels. Tell me.
Tyorl sat down beside him. He watched the wind slide across the
waters black surface, shivering through the dwarfs brown hair and beard,
and thought, as he had not since the first night in Qualinesti, that Takhisis
the Dark Queen was moving in Krynn.
Dragonqueen, they called her in Istar and Ergoth. She was that. The
folk of Icewall knew her as Corruptor. She was that, too. In Thorbardin,
the dwarves named her Tamex, the False Metal.
Shes proved false enough to you, he told the Theiwar silently. May she
prove as false to your master!
Quietly, Tyorl told his tale of Kingsword and revolution, rangers and
barmaids, pursuit and escape.

In the high, star-frosted sky, the two newly risen moons, the red and the
white, combined their light into a garish purple spill. Darknight was a
black lance against the red moon. Ember, Verminaard riding high on the
dragons long, powerfully muscled shoulders, cut like a huge distorted
shadow across Solinari.
Its eyes hooded as much against the bitter cold of the heights as against
the moons glare, Darknight laid its broad wings against its back, darting
down and under the red. Swooping high again, the black dragon rolled and
returned to Embers side, roaring loud laughter at the reds disdain for its
antics.
Darknight cared not at all. The dank walls of the Deep Warrens no
longer confined it and it was incapable of anything but high, fierce joy.
Ten miles clear of Thorbardin, at the southwestern edge of the Plains of
Death, Darknight had sensed Ember gliding over the eastern forests. Itd
gained speed with powerful thrusts of its wings and caught up with the

Highlord and his mount over the Hills of Blood. Darknight had flipped its
wings in casual salute to Ember and given the Highlord a swift mental
picture of the situation at Thorbardin.
Such was the connection between Verminaard and Takhisis dragons,
both empathic and telepathic, that the Highlord had not only the sense of
Realgars plans, but a clear sense, too, of Darknights estimations for their
success.
Aye, bring him his Kingsword, Darknight. Help him cut the first stroke
of revolution. Verminaards satisfaction rippled through Darknights mind
like shadows on black ice. Then, give me his Stormblade when you give
me his head. Theyll both be fine ornaments.
Ember craned its long neck around, and, by the brilliant light of a gout
of flame shot from its narrow-jawed maw, Darknight saw their shadows,
small and sharp, sliding over the foothills of the Kharolis Mountains. The
black cut its wings back again and dove low over the rolling dun-colored
hills. A long-sighted creature of the night, it saw what Ember was looking
for before the red did and sent the image of a clutch of rangers directly to
the Highlord.
Several miles south of the rangers, it picked up the dark cloud that was
the Gray Heralds mind. Darknight loosed a thundering roar, wheeled, and
then dove.
Down the dragon arrowed toward the thin silver line of a river west of
the hills. Several hours remained before dawn and Darknight expected to
be back in ancient Thorbardin before sunrise. Before the sun set again,
Realgars shout of triumph would ring through the dwarf-realms.

The moons rode low in the sky, dipping toward the forest and the
western horizon. Tyorl, watching their strange purple light touch the tops
of the trees, thought about Finns reaction to his story. Tyorl knew that the
rangerlord did not think Hauk was alive. The elf had not been able to
convince Finn of that.
If the girls hope can keep someone alive, aye, hes alive.

Finns eyes told Tyorl that he already mourned Hauk as dead. You
want to go to Thorbardin.
Aye, Lord, I do.
Finn had said nothing for a long moment, only looked from
Stormblade, still scabbarded at Kelidas hip, to the ruin of Stanachs hand
as Kem unwound the makeshift bandaging and gravely complimented the
girl on her work.
Tyorl poked at the small fire. Lavim, without having to be asked, had
found kindling and fuel and set the fire outside the cave and away from the
entrance. The kender still hadnt found Pipers flute.
Lost, aye, Tyorl thought. Its lost in your pockets, imp! Enjoy your
night ranging, Lavim. By all the gods, Ill tie you down and search every
pouch and deep pocket you have when you get back.
Tyorl turned suddenly at the soft scuff of a boot on stone, the whisper
of a cloak against hunting leathers. Kelida, her eyes darkly shadowed with
exhaustion, stood hesitantly behind him.
Am I disturbing you?
Tyorl shook his head. No. Lehr caught some fish for dinner. Are you
hungry?
No. Just tired. She sat beside him, her back against the caves outer
wall.
How is Stanach?
Sleeping. Really sleeping. Kem got him to drink some mixture of
herbs and powders. He says it will help him find his strength again.
It will. Kerns a fine warrior and a better healer. Is he sitting with him
now?
Kelida nodded. She stared out across the river, listening to its ancient
travelsong. Youve spent a lot of time on these borders, havent you?

A few years.
When I was cleaning Stanachs hand, binding it, he said something. It
was in a language I didnt understand.
Dwarven, likely.
Maybe. Leet Kware, he said.
Lyt chwaer, eh? Little sister. Well, he was hurting and maybe a little
out of his head. It isnt strange that hed call out for kin. Tyorl shook his
head. So, Stanach has himself a younger sister, does he? He did say that
Kyan Red-axe was his cousin, but, somehow, I never thought of him
having kin, or being connected to anything other than his wretched
Kingsword.
The river lapped and sighed at its banks. Tyorl tossed a branch into the
small fire. He smiled at Kelida and gestured to the stocky youngster
pacing the watch at the riverside with long, restless strides. That one
sometimes reminds me of Hauk. Finn calls us his Nightmare Company.
We call Lehr, Finns Nightmare.
Why?
Because hes impulsive, restless, and too well loves a good fight.
The wind was growing steadily colder and swept across the water with
a mourners voice. Kelida huddled into her green cloak. Arent those
good traits for a ranger to have?
Tyorl answered her question with another. You see no difference
between him and Hauk?
I dont know Hauk but from that one night in Tennys. But then, I . . .
Tyorl stared at the fire. What?
I dont know, Tyorl. I thought that he might be somethingsomeone
I could like.

Like, he wondered, or love?

The wind shifted, blowing from the northeast now, straight down the
rivers path. Lehr stopped his restive pacing and stood still at the
waterside.
Hes a likable fellow, our Hauk.
But, he too well loves a fight?
Tyorl shook his head. No, not at all. He has a cool enough head most
times. Hes a good man to have at your back, but, like Finns Nightmare
over there, hes young. I suppose thats really why Lehr reminds me of
him.
Kelida remembered what seemed now a long ago night in Long Ridge,
the night Hauk had given her Stormblade. She remembered Tyorl as hed
been that night, tolerantly amused by his friends extravagant apology.
Hed watched her scrubbing at ale and wine stains on the bar, and she, as
she worked, had compared the two rangers: Hauk thick and stocky as a
bear, Tyorl like a silent-stepping stag. Shed thought, then, that it was
difficult, if not impossible, to determine an elfs age from the look of him.
She looked at him now, sun-colored hair stirred by the cold wind, blue
eyes soft with his thoughts, long legs crossed tailor-fashion as he leaned
toward the fire. Lean and fit, a border rangers air of danger and, aye,
romance hung about him. It was impossible to think that he was anything
but a few years older than Hauk.
I think, she said hesitantly, that we all seem young to you.
Well, sometimes you do. Ive seen one hundred summers, Kelida.
That makes you and Hauk seem young to me. Im a young man by the
standards of my own kin. He smiled and shrugged. It only gets
confusing when Im nof with elves. Theres all the years lived. He tapped
his chest, suddenly tight and aching. Then theres this, this heart, which
reminds me how young I truly am.
Lehr abandoned his watch path and trotted north up-river, head low like
a hound scenting trouble. Tyorl, who knew the look, got to his feet.

Kelida, go get Finn.

She felt the sudden tension in his voice and scrambled to her feet.
Before she could ask a question, he was gone, running down to the water.

Lavim smelled the smoke just as the wind shifted. Stretched at full
length on his stomach by the riverside, he thought of campfires and
warmth. Hed certainly appreciate some warmth now. His old black coat
lay nearby on the bank and he was wet to the shoulders from trying to
catch fish with his hands as hed seen Lehr doing earlier.
Youd think, he told himself, that it would be as easy as it looks!
Nothing is as easy as it looks, Lavim.
Lavim said nothing, only plunged his hands into the icy water again.
Too late! The bass flew through his fingers, tickling his palm as it darted
out of the shallows under the bank and into the center of the river. Lavim
jerked his hands out of the water and, shaking off the icy water, tucked
them under his arms.
Its all a matter of perspective, Lavim. When you look into the water
you dont see what you think you see. Neither does the fish, for that
matter, when he looks up.
Uh-huh, Lavim muttered. Youd know that, having been a fish most
of your life, eh?
All in all, Piper growled, I think the wrong one of us is being testy.
After all, Im the one whos dead. If anyone has a right to be testy, its me.
Im not being testy. Im trying to catch breakfast. Piper, he said
suddenly, Im sorry that youre dead. I didnt know you when you were
alive, butIm sorry. What does it feel like, being dead?
Piper was silent for a moment. It doesnt really feel like anything.
Where are you?

Im inside your head, and in the netherworld.

What does it look like?
Piper laughed. Its foggyin both places. Lavim, youve got another
chance at a fish.
A brown trout, nearly as long and plump as the bass, glided into the
still water of the shallows. A lazy shrug of its tail put the fish into the thick
grasses waving just below the waters surface. Lavim grinned and raised
his hands to strike again.
Aim a little ahead and to the side.
Why?
Because you want a trout for breakfast.
Judging this to be a good enough reason, Lavim did as Piper suggested.
Hah! he crowed as his fingers curled around the trout. He yanked the
fish from the water, dripping and glistening in the moonlight. Gotcha!
But the trout wriggled, squirming against his palms, and Lavim, fascinated
by the feel of scales against his skin, loosened his grip slightly. As though
winged, the fish leaped from his hands and flopped back into the water.
Damn! Lavim flipped over onto his back, disgusted and too cold to
plunge his blue-knuckled hands into the water again. The smell of wood
smoke thickened on the wind. What are they doing with that fire,
anyway? Theyre going to
Lavim!
Gods, Piper, dont bellow like thatl It makes my ears pop! What?
Dragons!
Where? Lavim snatched up his coat and hoopak and scrambled to his
feet, his eyes on the sky. Where?

North! Get back to the camp, Lavim! Theres one over the forest and
heading for the river!
Grinning, Lavim ran for the river camp. Everyone was always talking
about dragons: red ones, black ones, blue, and green, a whole rainbow of
them. Lavim had only ever seen onethe one red thatd flown high, daily
passes over Long Ridge.
The kender laughed aloud as he dashed toward the cave, trying to
watch the sky and the ground at the same time. His luck was about to
change!

Chapter Twenty
Hauks dreams were made of stone and moved like ghosts, silently on
the near wall of his prison. When theyd first come, hed thought them a
sign of approaching madness.
He didnt care anymore. He was waiting to die, and to truly die this
time. Though Realgar asked no more questions, showed him no more
twisted visions, he still amused himself with his game of death. Sudden as
a hawk dropping for prey or lazy as a vulture wheeling and waiting, death
lived in this dank tomb, whispering his name and sometimes clawing him
with cold, cold hands, dragging him through black gates to a realm where
the air gnawed at his lungs with teeth of ice.
Hauk had long ago lost count of his deaths and only lay in darkness
watching dreams on the wall as they slid across rough stone.
He saw the forest. Qualinesti, the green and shadowed homeland of the
elves, was lit by thick, honey gold columns of sunlight. Like a dream
within a dream, Tyorl drifted through glades and thick stands of pine and
aspen. A strange look haunted his eyes, long blue eyes that Hauk knew
well: a friends eyes. Pain lived there, and grief and almost
resignation. He followed paths known only to the elves and he was always
searching.
Like smoke drifting on the wind, the dream shifted and he was once
again in the tavern in Long Ridge. A girl with copper braids and leaf-green
eyes smiled at him.
Aye, he thought, but she never did, did she? Shed only shrunk from
him in fear and then, suddenly angry, spat in his eye. When the anger had
fled, wariness crept into her eyes. Never a smile.

What was her name? Hed never known.

He looked closer at the wall, trying to see the dream and see her face
more clearly. Tall, she was, or tall for a girl. Shed stood only a hand
shorter than he. The girl. The barmaid. What was her name?
The scene on the wall shimmered, wavered, and afraid that he would
lose sight of this girl who made up the only memory Realgar had never
pried from him, Hauk reached out, his hand crabbing toward the wall.
Aye, tall, he thought as the dream became suddenly sharper. She
appeared as a hunter or even a ranger, carrying a sword and wearing a
cloak the color of her eyes, with hunting leathers the color of a storm sky.
Hunter-girl, ranger-girl, what is your name?
As he asked the silent question, she turned, her face white, her emerald
eyes dark. She held out her hand, a graceful gesture of welcome. A cold
spill of light winked on sapphires and gold.
She wore his sword, the one Realgar called Stormblade, at her hip.
The dream shattered, splintered by a bolt of white hot pain striking hard
at his eyes, running in jagged edges down the length of his spine. Hauk
cried out in grief for the dream killed and the cry echoed around the
prison.
Someone held a lantern high, spilling light like fire all over the floor.
Old and dry, choking with its own kind of mourning, a voice haunted the
shadows behind the light.
He wont have it. He wont.
Hauk knew the voice. Mad and old, held together with whispers like
spider webs, hed often heard it rustling around the edges of his
nightmares, laughing or sobbing as he died.
Groaning, Hauk asked the question that had never yet received an
answer. Who are you?

Before, the voice had always vanished with the question, carried away
on the shuffling and scraping sounds of retreat. This time it didnt.
He wont have it. Up, boy, up!
Hauk couldnt rise. Gnarled hands, shaking and rough with scars,
touched his face ancient frames for his pain.
My Stormblade, he wants my Stormblade. He thinks hes found it,
boy. He thinks hes found it!
Fear lanced through Hauk. Smoke from the oily lantern streamed like
the banners of the dead. Orange light splashed across the darkness. Hauk
rolled onto his back and looked into the face of a dwarf. White hair hung,
long and unkempt, to his shoulders. A beard, thickly tangled, spilled
almost to his waist. Tears lay on his face, terror in his brown eyes.
Though it took every shred of strength that he had, Hauk lifted his
hand, frightened by the sound and the creaking of his muscles. He grabbed
the dwarfs wrist. Horror twisted the old, bearded face as it gazed into the
eyes of the one it had seen killed by Realgar many, many times.

Cavern followed cavern: rock walls soaring up to shadow-draped

ceilings; the cold, heavy scent of water; the smell of stone in an endless
chain of caves.
He was strong, the dwarf, for all that he seemed as ancient as the
mountains themselves. The dwarf flinched every time he had to bear
Hauks weight or the grip of his hands on his arms. He didnt take Hauks
weight easily, but he did take it. He badly wanted the ranger out of that
prison cave and to a place that he imagined would provide a safe haven
from Realgar.
In that way, they came at last to the final cavern. The dwarf led Hauk to
a rough pallet on the floor against the far wall. Four blankets thick, it was
warm and, despite the cold stone beneath, felt as fine and welcoming as a
lords bed. Torches lined the walls of the cave, their intricately worked
iron brackets evenly spaced. The ventilation in the place left hardly a trace

of their smoke.
The dwarf, quietly muttering to himself as though he would not, for any
price, disturb Hauks rest, went about the place checking small piles of
food supplies and water flasks. A low brazier stood in the center of the
stony chamber, and, from time to time, the dwarf stopped to tend it. Each
time he did, he looked over at the ranger and his muttering stilled.
Hauk studied him carefully. The brown old eyes were surely mad, but
something new flickered in them now, seen for the space of a heartbeat
and then gone, chased away by pain, longing, and fear. The new thing was
recognition. Hauk didnt know why it was there, he couldnt begin to
guess what it was that the dwarf recognized.
He didnt care. He gave him nothing back, not even blinking to break
the cold steady stare he knew terrified the ancient dwarf.
Little by little, like the tide creeping back at dawn to a barren shore,
Hauks strength returned. As his strength grew, so did his rage and hatred.
He would wait patiently for revenge, for as long as he had to wait.
Then, he would rise up and drag the heart out of the old bastard with
his bare hands and grind it into the stone.

Chapter Twenty-One
Stanach lifted his right hand with his leftt. Beneath its bandaging, the
broken fingers lay as heavy and senseless as steel bars in his palm. His
knees watery and weak, still he waved off the support Kem offered and
took one, then two faltering steps. Drawing a deep breath, he walked to the
caves mouth. The ranger had assured him that hed find his strength soon
enough.
Stanach leaned against the caves stone wall and looked out to the
water. He hoped Kem was right. Smoke, like dark fog, drifted upriver,
shepherded by the cold, heavy wind. The sky throbbed red, high above the
top of the forest. Kelida, Stormblade still at her hip, ran a short distance
along the bank to meet Lavim. The kender fairly danced with excitement.
Kelida snatched his arms, holding him still enough to hear what she had to
tell him. Then, pouches jouncing, Lavim scrambled downriver to where
Tyorl ranged the waters edge.
As Stanach watched, two other rangers broke from the forests cover
and joined the elf at the water. One, Finn, pointed north.
Stanach turned back to the cave. What is it?
Kem, his face sculpted of shadows and finely drawn with worry, looked
up from packing his healers kit. Forest fire, they say. Were getting out
of here, Stanach. Are you all right to walk? Finn wants to ford the river
here and put it between us and the fire as soon as we can.
Aye, does he? Then Id better be all right to walk. Stanach softened
his growl with a shrug.
Lehr, shaggy hair tumbling in the wind, stepped into the cave. He and

his lord had been well into the forest, and Lehr smelled of smoke and
burning. He eyed Stanach sharply, then slapped his shoulder hard enough
to make the dwarf grateful for the wall behind him. Aye, youll do it on
your own legs, eh? Good. Kem, lets get moving.
Kembal threw his healers pack over his shoulder. How far north is the
fire? Damn, Lehr! What started it?
Not very far, and its moving fast. The ranger checked the cave, saw
that nothing had been left behind, and cast a quick look back to the river.
We figure the leading edge is between us and the rest of the company,
but we dont know where the flanks are and we didnt have time to look.
Finn says the only place well find the companyor them usis on the
eastern bank.
The ranger was gone before either Stanach or Kembal realized that he
hadnt answered the question of what started the fire. Kem grimaced
impatiently.
Stanach left the cave carrying his sword on his back and a hard lump of
dread in his belly.

Its not much of a river here, Tyorl said, and maybe only waist high.
Can you do it, Stanach?
Whether his returning strength was a result of the healers draught or
the impetus of the distant, whispering growl of advancing fire, Stanach
knew that he would be able to keep up with his companions in the river.
He cast an eye skyward. The moons had set. The crimson glow over the
forest looked like vengeful dawn.
Aye, Ill do it.
Though the elf nodded, Stanach saw doubt like shadows in his eyes.
Ill be right behind you. Kem says youd better keep your hand dry if you
can.
Finn entered the water first, longbow high over his head. The smoke

channeling upriver hid him from sight before hed waded very far.
Bandaged hand well out of the water, trusting to his well-oiled leather
scabbard to protect the sword slung across his back, Stanach followed
Finn into the river.
He gasped as the icy water caught him, tugging with insistent strength
at his knees, then swirling high and clawing at his chest. The cold ached in
his bones and muscles and quickly numbed his feet as though they were
not stoutly booted.
Tyorl and Kelida waded in next. Taking her cue from Finn, the girl
brandished Stormblade, wrapped in her cloak, high over her head both for
balance and to keep the sword dry. Kem cut out to the side, flanking the
crossing and ready to assist any who needed help negotiating the
quickening current. Lehr kept close to Kelida, offering a hand to steady
her when she needed it. Once, he wrapped an arm around her waist and
pulled her close when the current tangled her feet.
Lehr laughed aloud as he set Kelida on her feet again. The ranger
clearly did not mind a pretty girl in soaked hunting leathers clinging to his
neck. Tyorl looked as though he minded greatly. Surprised to hear himself
wondering if the flat of his sword would teach the impudent young ranger
some manners, Tyorl passed Stanach, who readily dropped back to let him
by.
Lavim held no place in the line. Giving himself up to the inevitable, he
plunged into the icy river, cutting through the black water with all the
enthusiasm of a fish and none of that creatures grace.
When Stanach finally stumbled onto the rocky eastern shore, clumsy
with cold, heavily awkward and bound to the ground again, he turned to
look back the way hed come. Like the breath of ghosts, wavering and
dark, the smoke veiled the far bank. Kelida dropped light hands onto his
shoulders.
Are you all right?
Aye Stanach said, though he wasnt sure. The river crossing had
sucked the warmth out of him.

Finn jerked a thumb toward the low, stony hills. Kem took the right
point, and Tyorl insisted that Lehr accompany him on the left. La vim,
shaking himself like a soaked hound, scurried on ahead and quickly left
the rangers behind.
The thick odor of burning forest followed them into the foothills. The
ground on the eastern side of the river was rocky and rising. Low scrub
growth huddled in widely spaced thickets. Hills and then tall fells marched
eastward. Kelida, quiet with her own thoughts, matched her pace to
Stanachs. Each time they looked back over their shoulders they saw the
crimson stain of fire in the sky.
Guyll fyr, Stanach whispered, stopping to watch the fire ignite the
brush only a mile from the river cave. Despite the biting wind and the cold
pre-dawn air, sweat trickled down the sides of his pale face, glittering
along the edges of his moustache and clinging to his thick black beard.
Kelida, seeing his need to rest and restore his failing strength, stopped
with him.
She silently tried the words hed used, then looked up and tried it aloud.
Gueel fire?
Stanach smiled crookedly. Close enough. Wildfire. The dwarf
pointed southward along the line of the forest. The brush is up, but most
of the fire is in the treetops. If the wind changes, it will cross the river.
Thats wildfire?
Stanach searched the dark ahead of them. Kembal waited at the foot of
the first of a series of fells. No, he said, starting out again. It will be
guyll fyr when it hits the Plains of Death about thirty miles from here.
If the winds right, he thought grimly, it will do that tomorrow.
He said nothing further, about the fire or anything else.
The task of walking needed all his attention now. Kelida went a little
ahead of him, her eyes on the dark ground, always finding the rubble in
the path, the dips and holes in the stony ground, in time to catch his arm
before he stumbled.

His right hand hung at his side like iron stock, feelingless and heavy.
Stanach remembered the fire that had burned remorselessly in that hand
only hours ago. He didnt remember it in his hand, he didnt feel the
echoes of recent pain there. He felt it cold in his chest, tightening in his
stomach.
When, he wondered, would Kembals salves wear off?

Tyorl, on his heels at the top of the fell, searched the sky for signs of
the dawn. He found none. The fading stars told him that the horizon
should be graying, but the light of the fire had spread across the sky as the
forest caught the flames and sent them speeding south and east,
overwhelming the whisper of faint dawn.
Had the fire crossed the river yet? Tyorl didnt think so. He got to his
feet and stretched aching muscles. He couldnt remember when hed last
slept. He didnt know when he would sleep next.
Finn, his sharp eyes on the ground at the foot of the hill, nudged Tyorl.
Kem jogged back down the slope to help Stanach and Kelida. The dwarf
is going to have to rest soon. Aye, and from the look of him, itll be at the
foot of the hill, too.
We cant stop here. The fire could jump the river.
Finn snorted. It will jump the river.
They stood silently for a long moment. Tyorl searched west, wondering
if the thirty rangers of their company had escaped the flames. He glanced
at Finn and saw the same question in the rangerlords weathered face. And
he saw the answer in his eyes.
They couldnt have escaped. The river ran foaming in wild, treacherous
white water six miles north and could not be forded. The fire looked to
have started where Finn said the company had been camped. What had
happened?
Gods, Tyorl, who did not do so often, prayed, grant some of them life if

you cant let them all live!

Kerrith. Bartt. Old GArt. The names and faces of the thirty men and
elves who had been his friends for so many years seemed to be written on
the smoke. Tyorl shivered. That fast would they die, those friends, and as
easily as wind scatters smoke.
Finn paced the top of the fell then returned. I wonder where the
kenders got to?
Keeping out of my way, no doubt, Tyorl said.
Finn grunted. Will he return?
Hes a night rider, but he always comes back. Worse luck for me.
Aye? Finn eyed the elf shrewdly. I thought he was a friend of yours.
Trouble between you two?
One doesnt cancel out the other, Tyorl said wearily.
The moons were long set. No starlight remained to cast a shadow. Still,
Tyorl suddenly saw the shade of dread and danger in his heart as though
he had seen it cutting along the ground.
Finn bellowed a curse. As an echo, Lehrs cry of shock and alarm
sounded from the foot of the hill as he roared a warning to his brother.
A piece of midnight, shrieking like a banshees war cry, a black dragon
arrowed from the sky.

The moment the dragons cry sounded was like a fragment separated
from the line of time itself. Kelidas heart crashed against her ribs,
sickening her with the force of her fear. Cold to her bones, her muscles
frozen, she watched, helpless to move, as the creatures wings cut back
along its glittering ebony sides, watched in horror as it touched the ground,
its massive head reared high. With terrifying speed, the dragons forelegs
shot out as though reaching for something.

Reaching for her!

Stanachs howl of horror slashed the bonds of Kelidas terror as though
it were a hard-edged sword. She flung herself to the side.
Stormblade!
She didnt stop to think that she, untrained and without skill, would
likely injure herself with the sword before she could ever wound the
dragon. Dagger-sharp claws, black and curved, hung over her like a cage
waiting to close. Kelida fumbled with the peace strings, trying to haul the
sword from its scabbard. Red-hearted steel and ice blue sapphires,
Stormblades weight would drag at her wrist muscles as she tried to raise
it aloft. It didnt matter. She had to try.
A hideous cry of triumph shivered the night before she could pull the
sword free. The dragon bore a rider! Dark cloaked and hooded, a dwarf sat
astride the beast.
Stanach roared, a sound like a wordless curse, and dove between Kelida
and the beast. The dragons huge wing caught him hard and swept him to
the ground. He rolled instinctively, came up staggering, and fell to one
knee. Fast as lightnings strike, the dragons long neck whipped to the
side, its teeth bared and dripping, eyes murderously bright.
No! Kelida screamed. No! Stanach!
Heavy as a falling tree, a flying weight caught Kelida from behind. She
hit the ground hard, all the breath flown from her, and tried to scream
again. There was nothing in her with which to scream, no air, no voice. A
hand clamped roughly on her arm, dragging, dragging, and Kelida came to
her knees, sobbing and gasping. Lehr, unruly dark hair tangling in the
wind from the dragons wings, stood between the beast and Kelida. Sword
high, the ranger lunged, though he must have known that his blade would
never pierce the dragons scaly armor.
Lehrs steel struck and turned on ebony hide. The dragon rumbled deep
in its great chest. The low thundering sounded horribly like amused
laughter.

With a careless stroke of dagger claws, its eyes already on Kelida, the
black tore heart and life from the ranger. Lehrs blood, like hot rain,
spattered Kelidas face and hands. She screamed and heard only a moan.
She tried to run and only fell.
Like a cage, shed thought when she first saw the dragons claws. Like
a cage they closed around her now, and then drew tight, scraping against
each other as they captured her and dragged, then lifted her high.
No! her mind screamed. No!
The dragonrider reached for her arm, yanked hard, and dragged her
over the beasts neck. Her head snapped back and her stomach lurched
with sickening force.
Kelida had nothing of sense left, only the need to free herself. She
kicked back hard, heaved herself to sitting, and clawed at the dwarfs face.
Her fingers dragged the hood away and she saw that he had only one eye.
As the dragon thrust hard against the ground and leaped for the sky,
wings wide to catch the wind, Kelida struck at that eye with a mountain
cats instinct. Dimly, she felt a hand close quickly, with desperate
strength, on her ankle, then just as quickly loose her. Thick and strong,
two arms wrapped around her waist. The right hand, wrapped in
bandaging torn from her green cloak, slipped and then pressed hard
against her ribs. Stanach!
Blood streamed down the dragonriders face, caught in his grizzled
beard. He flung himself away from her hands. Kelida hardly recognized
the high triumphant cry ringing in her ears as her own. The sky dove for
her, then turned sickeningly at the wild thunder of wind under the
dragons black wings.
Slim and light, still she was a farmers girl and stronger than she
looked. Kelida balanced across the dragons slick, scaly neck the way she
would on a horse. Again she lunged at the dragonrider and didnt see his
dagger until a forge-scarred hand clamped on the dwarfs wrist.
Stanach!

Kelida looked around wildly and found him clinging to the dragons
ridged back behind the dark-cloaked dwarf.
Bones snapped, the dragonrider screamed. The dragons powerful
muscles rippled under Kelidas knees as it leaped high and wheeled again.
As in a dream where there is no sound and everything moves slowly,
Kelida felt her balance slip, saw the dragonrider slide down the long black
slope of the beasts shoulder, and saw his mouth stretch wide in a futile
scream as he found no grip. Clawing at nothing but air, he fell away in a
sprawl of rigid arms and legs to the ground far below.
Her hands were nerveless with reaction to the horror, her legs too weak
now to keep their grip. Kelida doubled over the dragons neck and waited,
helpless to move against the force of the rushing air. The dun-colored
sweep of hills and stone would rush up at her, snatch her the way it had
snatched the one-eyed dwarf.
It never did.
Stanach caught Kelida quickly around the waist, his arms shaking, his
breath thin clouds in the icy air of the heights. He dragged her back and
held her tightly against him. She felt his beard against her back, thick and
warm. She watched, as from a distance, as he reached around her with his
left hand and grasped the dragons spiny crest.
The beast thundered and soared high, cutting through the wispy, gray
clouds of dawn. Kelida felt Stanachs sigh ragged in his chest, heard him
whisper something in a choked voice.
Lyt chwaer, it sounded like. Little sister.
She sagged a little, closed her eyes against the sickening pressure of the
dragons speed, and marshaled all her strength to hold on until they
reached whatever destination the dragon chose.
Lehrs blood still stained Kelidas gray hunting leathers, still speckled
her hands and arms. She shuddered deeply. The shudder became a
wrenching sob and she wept, her tears freezing to ice on her cheeks.

Darknight roared, stretching for the sky. Far below it, Realgars
mageling, called the Gray Herald, dropped like a stone from the cold blue
height.
A flight of a different kind! The black dragon howled its laughter. Itd
hated the magelings imperious commands, hated the sound of his
thoughts, the smell of him. It craned its neck back to see the two who rode
now where the Gray Herald had. Another dwarf, light as Agus had been,
and a human girl. Sevristh narrowed its eyes against the wind. The
dragons tongue, long and forked, flickered around dagger fangs. It
scented their fear and it smelled sweet indeed.
Nothing was tougher to chew than a muscular, sinewy dwarf. Nothing
was more tender than young human flesh. The girl carried the Kingsword,
and Darknight looked forward to Realgars pleasure, if only for the chance
to claim these two as a reward. As, it thought, dinner.
The black dragon made every effort to keep its riders on its back. Its
flight was smooth, and it avoided the rougher wind pockets the way a
ships captain would run his craft through the trough of the sea to keep the
waves from broadsiding his hull.

Stanach felt nothing, not the exhaustion, not the terror, not Kelidas
violent sobs, until the dragon swept out across the Plains of Dergoth, the
Plains of Death. Then, as the black climbed high to catch a favorable wind
current, canted its flight to put the wind at its back and under its broad
wings, he saw the carpet of flame advancing east.
Kelida shook against him, an aspen in a windstorm, and he had no
words to soothe her.
High in the southeastern sky, the new sun glinted on what seemed a
long crimson arrow. A second dragon, a fire-breathing red, shot through
the rolling black smoke above the forest and, wings folded, dove for the
high, dark spine of the southern mountains and Pax Tharkas.
Stanach knew then what had set the forest aflame. He didnt know why.
If Verminaards troops and supplies were moving into the mountains, why

would he risk firing the forest and destroying the lines of attack he had
only recently set in place?
The dragon caught a lower current, dropping with stomach-wrenching
speed, and Stanach pulled Kelida hard against him. Off to the side,
Stanach saw the answer to his question. Broad, deep fire breaks, looking
like plough scars from this height, scored the foothills in a straight, narrow
channel right to the plains themselves.
Channels, he thought bitterly, protecting the forests to the north and
south and leading the flames right out onto the Plains of Death.
From there the fireguyll fire!would march on Thorbardin like the
savage advance raiders of a raging army.
Stanach groaned aloud. No armys hungry raiders could do more
damage.
A hundred years ago, wildfire had swept across the boggy marshes of
the Plains of Death. Then the dwarves had tried to stop it, tried to save the
marshlands. Stark and ugly those marshes were, but they were part of the
wilds of dwarven lands, the places where birds nested, beasts watered, and
fishes dwelt. The marshes formed a large link in Thorbardins food chain.
A century ago, the marshlands had not been saved. It was true that the
farming warrens deep below the mountains were able to feed Thorbardin.
True, too, was the real danger that should blight threaten the crops and
disease take the stock, famine would result.
We are under siege!
Kelida, limp with exhaustion, half-turned and buried her face in
Stanachs shoulder. He shifted his grip on the dragons crest, hitched his
bandaged and still nerveless right hand higher to assure his grip on the
girl. She said nothing, but her weeping had stilled a few moments ago.
Stanach tried to see her face, but could not.
The dragon dropped lower, slowing its speed. Thorbardin was below
and to the southeast. The city lay within the high peaks of the mountain
just now taking the suns gilding. Snow blushed rose on the highest peaks,

where it was already winter. As the dragon slid along the currents, Stanach
was able to make out the still shadowed defile that led to Northgate,
shattered and ruined three hundred years before in the Dwarfgate Wars.
Gaping wide, stones silently screaming of pain, the mouth of the gate itself
opened onto a thin and treacherous ledge. In three hundred years, that gate
had never been closed, its mechanism destroyed in the war. Northgate was
guarded more heavily than the still operable Southgate.
Wind thundered around them as the dragon glided still lower, dropping
below the defile, below the ledge, and finally descending into the last
shadows of night at the mountains foot.
Cold fear crept through Stanach. Northgate was guarded, warded by
strong and fierce Daewar warriors. However, the caverns below, secret
holds the Theiwar called the Deep Warrens, lay far beneath the gate.
Realgar had a dragon to do his bidding, likely to call him Highlord.
Now, he waited in the Deep Warrens for Stormblade. The Kingsword
would make him more than a Highlord; it would make him king regent of
the dwarves and ruler of Thorbardin.
Stanach closed his eyes.
He felt the jolt of the dragons landing in his bones and heard the
scrape of claws on stone. Kelida stirred, then sat away from him.
Where are we? Do you know?
Stanach knew. His eyes on the glittering sword at her side, he wanted to
say that they had come to the place where they would soon die. He didnt
say that, but only shook his head.
Home. The word passed his lips hoarsely, as though it were a lie.
We are in Thorbardin.

Chapter Twenty-Two
Lavim kicked at a small rock and watched it tumble down the hill. Hed
heardand he wasnt sure whether hed heard this from Piper or someone
elsethat all this desert, all this rolling, dry, dusty, empty, shadowless,
and boring place they called the Hills of Blood, had once been a grassy
plain.
You forgot dull.
What?
You forgot to mention that the hills are dull.
Lavim sighed. I didnt think Id have to. Kind of speaks for itself,
doesnt it?
Piper smiled.
Lavim kicked at the dirt, watching the puffs of dust being carried away
by the knife-sharp wind. He thought it was curious that he could tell when
Piper was smiling.
He dove into his pocket and pulled out a map made of carefully folded,
cracked parchment. I used to have a map case for these, but I dont know
what happened to it. I had it not so long ago, about a month or so before I
went to Long Ridge. Its gone now. Lots of things tend to disappear just
after Im running to or from some place.
He dropped to a crouch and laid the map out on the ground, smoothing
the creases carefully. Look at this place, Piper. Its even ugly on a map.
He traced the map for the benefit of a ghost who could now see well
behind them and well before them.

Piper said nothing and let him go on.

See? Back here to the east is Qualinesti. La vim looked up, squinting
at the sky. Kind of odd, isnt it, that I spent most of my time there
looking for ghosts and didnt find one until I was out of the place. Well,
there it is, Elvenwood, all green and pretty. Heres the river we crossed,
that blue squiggly line. He snorted in disgust. And heres where the map
gets ugly and the land gets even uglier. Just little hills, the map says. Huh!
These arent hills, theyre little mountains.
No, theyre hills.
Easy enough for you to say; youre not walking them. La vim folded
his map and tucked it back into his pocket. It would be a whole lot easier
to get to Thordardin if we could cut across the Plains of Dergothor the
Plains of Death as the dwarves call em. Why do they call em that,
Piper?
Because thousands of dwarves, hill dwarves and mountain dwarves,
died there during the Dwarfgate Wars.
Lavim rose and stretched. The wind cut sharply from the east now,
pushing the wildfire ahead of it. Though the sky was clear of the guyll
fyrs smoke, the currents over the plains for the most part sucked the
roiling smoke along the channel of the marshland. Still, he could scent it.
With no further word, he jogged off to the south, climbed the highest
hill he could find, then dropped again to his heels.
The fire was miles distant and looked from his hilltop like a broad red
snake slithering toward the mountains in the east. The smoke overhung the
marshes, a thick black pall. When he tried very hard, eyes squeezed shut
and shoulders hunched, Lavim imagined he could hear the roar of that fire
like distant thunder.
Piper, silent for all this time, spoke suddenly and Lavim jumped. Why
dont you go talk to Tyorl?
No, I dont think so. Lavim glanced over his shoulder and down the
hill. Hes still real upset about Kelida and Stanach being snatched up by

the dragon. I could see why he would be. I dontI dont like to think
about it much myself.
Ive noticed. Maybe Tyorl needs to talk about it.
Lavim shook his head darkly. Not to me, he doesnt. Look at him.
Tyorl was sitting on his heels, watching the sky. Hed had his eye on
the hard blue heights since the dragon had snatched Kelida and carried her
and Stanach into the dawn. Lavim sighed. Hed missed nearly the whole
wonderful thing and only come back to the others in time to see the
dragon, looking like nothing as much as a sharp black tear in the sky,
winging eastward toward Thorbardin with Kelida and Stanach and without
its rider.
Theyd found the one-eyed dwarf in a gully between two fells. Bonesmashed and bleeding, he was not dead. Lavim supposed that Finn had
been moved by revenge for Lehrs terrible death when he cut the dwarfs
throat. Piper had said such a killing was a mercy.
Lavim glanced at Finn now. Forehead on drawn up knees, the
rangerlord sat unmoving in the shelter of the hill, seemingly unaware of
Kerns restless pacing. Kembal, always quiet, hadnt said a word since his
brother had been killed by the dragon. He prowled the base of the hill,
head up and ready, like a hunter waiting to resume his preys trail. He was
sharpening his arrows on the stone of revenge, Piper said.
With the change in the winds direction just after dawn, the fire had
spread fast through the hills and, racing south and north as well as east,
threw up a wall of flame behind them. Theyd headed for the desert hills
on Finns advice. There wasnt much to burn here and the rangerlord
figured theyd be safe. It had been a hard run and now, as the shadows
grew longer and darker with imminent sunset, the four had stopped to rest
before pushing east again.
Go on, Lavim. Talk to Tyorl.
And?
And what?

And give him the flute, right? Its what youve been nagging me about
all along. Give him the flute, give him the flute.
Id be happier if you did.
But he cant use it and I can!
Piper sighed. As long as I tell you what to do, yes.
Then wheres the sense in giving it to him?
Lavim! Go!
Lavim squeezed his eyes closed and clapped his hands over his ears.
Wishing that Piper had never developed this nasty habit of yelling right
inside his head, he went to join Tyorl.
The elf never looked around, even when Lavims small shadow cut
across his. Lavim cleared his throat loudly.
Tyorl got to his feet and scanned the eastern quarter of the sky. Weve
an hour or so before dark, Lavim. Lets not waste it talking. He nodded to
Finn who rose and signaled Kem that they were ready to move again.
Kem, as was his custom, took the northern point, covering ground with
his long-legged lope. Finn jogged a little ahead to the south and east,
setting their course. Soon, the smoky pall from the Plains of Death ran
high over their heads. Lavim trotted beside Tyorl, stepping quickly to keep
up.
Uh, Tyorl, I want to tell you something.
Tyorl made no response.
I want to tell you about Piper.
Hes dead, Tyorl grunted. What more do I need to know about
Piper?
Lavim sighed patiently. I know hes dead. But I think you think that if

you had his flute when the dragon grabbed Stanach and Kelida, youdve
been able to do something about it.
Tyorl said nothing.
You wouldnt have. You couldnt have.
Aye? And why not?
Because the flute only works for me, Tyorl. Piper says that it wont

Piper says?
Lavim nodded. You see, hes a ghost, Tyorl. He talks to me in my
head and he tells me things
Lavim
Please, Tyorl, let me finish. He really is a ghost. He told me when the
red dragon flew over the forest and set the woods on fire. Well, not that he
the dragon, I meanwas going to do that, but that he was flying. And
and he told me about the black dragon, too. The kender sighed and
picked up his pace. The sand and red dust seemed to drag at his feet. But
but I was too far away to do anything about it. I tried! I really did, but
Piper says that spells have ranges andIm sorry. Im really sorry. I wish
Id been closer. I wish I hadnt been out in the hills. But I was. Andand
I know you think that you would have been able to help Lehr and Kelida
and Stanach when the dragon came if only you had the flute, but you
couldnt have. You dont have Piper in your head.
And neither do you. Kenderkin, sometimes I think youre half mad
and
Tell him you are not mostly senile.
Indignantly Lavimsnapped, I am not mostly senile! Not even partly!
Tyorl stopped. It was the phrase hed been about to use What?

IPiper saidI mean I saidI am not mostly senile. Lavim drew a

shuddering breath and stopped. Hands on his knees, head low and panting,
he closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath, still talking. And Piper
says, too, that right now youre thinking that youd better find a way to
keep me quiet before Finn hears.
Tyorl blinked. Aye? Does he?
Yes, and he says that now youre thinking that the last thing you need
is a crazy kender on your hands. Im not crazy, Tyorl! Do you understand?
Im not making this up. Its true. Its real. Here. He groped through his
pockets and dragged out the flute. He pressed it into Tyorls hand before
he could decide not to. Try it. Play something.
What will it prove? I can play the instrument, but I dont know the
notes for any spell.
Lavim whistled the quick, light notes he had played to trigger his smell
spell. Try those. He whistled the tune again. Got, em?
Tyorl held the flute gingerly. Lavim.
Try it! Go ahead. Piper says its all right.
The elf looked at the flute, glanced sharply at Lavim, and drew a quick
breath.
Go on.
Tyorl tried the tune, braced for disaster at worst, for the unimaginably
foul odor that had sickened him in the river cave at best.
Nothing happened but that the breeze quickened a little.
Piper says that the wind has nothing to do with the flute. Something
about the air currents over the fire or something. See? Try it again.
Tyorl did. The breeze blew at the same strength and the air still smelled
of the wildfires smoke, but nothing else. He stared at the flute in his hand
and saw, just a moment too late, the kenders own hand dart out and

snatch the instrument back. It was secreted in deep pockets before Tyorl
could protest.
Lavim! Wait! Give
But Lavim was gone, trotting ahead to catch up with Finn, the flute
once again in his possession.
Tyorl started after him. If Lavim had been on the fell when the black
dragon had struck, he might have been able to help. But, he was night
ranging and hadnt been there. Blaming him for that now was as fruitless
as blaming himself for missing his shot at the dragon when he did.
Tyorl ran faster. He was not thinking about ghosts or chances missed.
He suddenly realized that Lavim had proved that the flutes magic worked
for Lavim alone. The implications were frightening.

From the hill where he walked the dark watch in the hours after
midnight, Tyorl saw the fire rampaging in the marshes and bogs on the
Plains of Death. The wind from the west had calmed after sunset, but the
wildfire no longer needed the winds push to speed it on its way to the
mountains. The marsh grass might as well have been lamp oil; nothing
would stop the fire now.
Tyorl cursed bitterly and looked up at the stars, tiny chips of glittering
ice scattered across the black sky. Solinari, high and bright, was girded by
a hazy silver ring. Lunitaris light crimsoned the dark hills to the east and
sent indigo shadows running down to the lowlands. The red moons ring
was pink as water-washed blood. Tyorl smelled snow in the air.
Well not be making the mountains before the fire does, the elf thought,
and that means we wont be making Thorbardin at all.
He ran his thumb along the polished wood of his longbow. Smooth as
silk the yew felt under his thumb, and familiar. And useless, useless to
defend Kelida against the dragon.
Tyorl winced as pain and regret clawed at his heart. That, too, was

familiar. His straight, true arrows had bounded off the ebony dragons
scaled hide as though theyd been repelled by steel. A bolt through the
creatures eye would have slowed it, might have killed it, but the dragon
moved too fast and had flown well out of Tyorls range before he could
sight and aim. For a moment, as the dragon leaped for the sky, hed
thought that Stanach had pulled Kelida free. He watched the struggle on
the giant beasts back, praying, then cursing as the beast took to the sky.
Stanach, the elf thought bitterly, Stormblade has cost you kin, friend,
and hand. You say Reorx blessed the blade; I say he cursed it. But you
tried. You fought like a wolf for it.
He turned his back on the lurid glare of the guyll fyr and, his eye caught
by the small, tame glow of the campfire in the hollow, watched the
shadows of its smoke playing across the ground below. Red beneath the
sun, the rocks and thick dust of the desert floor gleamed strangely purple
under the eerie glow of the moons. Lavim, as ever, was nowhere to be
seen. Tyorl hadnt caught up with him before the camp was made and
hadnt been able to find him since.
Night riding, he thought, or communing with his ghostly mage.
He veered wide of that thought. He was certain that Lavim believed
that dead Piper spoke with him. Tyorl didnt know what he himself
thought. Yet, it was true that Lavim had known his words before hed
half-thought them himself. When hed tried to discuss the matter with
Finn, the rangerlord had shrugged and expressed nothing but the most
caustic disbelief.
Tyorl glanced over the camp again. Finn lay wrapped in his cloak and
slept near the fire. Kem, whom Tyorl had relieved from the watch an hour
ago, sat staring into the shadows. Tyorl wondered when he would sleep.
Kerns silence had always been a thing of good-natured, amused
observation. Quiet by nature, the healer had left most of the talking to his
voluble younger brother. Now it seemed that Lehrs death had stolen away
the gentle, humorous light in Kerns eyes. Kem wanted revenge and so,
too, did Tyorl.
Tyorl was suddenly cold to his bones. It was the first time hed

admitted, even to himself, that he believed Kelida dead.

The black dragon had flown out of the east. Out of Thorbardin. It could
only mean that the revolution Stanach had feared was a thing
accomplished. Realgar reigned in the dwarven kingdom and had dragons
at his command. Aye, and Verminaard as his ally.
Again he whispered a curse, this time against the sudden tightening of
his throat. Last night hed been wondering whether he was in love with
Kelida, hiding from the idea and yet waiting to catch the soft sound of her
voice, hoping to feel the warmth of her casual touch.
Tonight, and too late, he knew that he loved her. Now he could only
look to memory to hear her voice, to feel her hand light on his arm, or
catch the sun glinting in her hair.
Would he have told her? Aye, in a minute!
And what of Hauk?
The elf smiled bitterly. It hardly mattered now. They were both dead,
and he had only a handful of moments, now memories of a farmers girl
turned barmaid. It was too late to worry about what might have grown
from those moments. They were gone.
Tyorl resumed his watch walk, the wildfire on his left and shadows
before and behind him. Too late for anything, he thought coldly, but
vengeance. No matter at all who ruled in Thorbardin now. Hed find a way
to the mountain cities, and hed find his vengeance for Kelida, and for
Hauk whom theyd both loved.

From a night-filled ravine west of the campsite, Lavim watched Tyorl

pacing on the hilltop. Hed recovered kender-quick from his desert run
and, knowing that Tyorl would be after the flute now, had slipped into the
shadows of the twilight and avoided all three rangers. He wanted to talk to
Piper without being bothered with Tyorls demands for the flute. Lavim
had some questions that needed answering.

He wriggled to a more comfortable seat on the rocks and scowled into

the night. The problem was that Piper hadnt been giving him many
answers at all. Hed stopped giving answers right about the time the
kender took out the flute. Lavim ran his fingers along the smooth red
cherry wood and smiled slyly. He suspected that Pipers lack of response
to his last question was an answer in itself.
I think, he said, pointing the flute to where he imagined Piper would
be standing if he were anywhere but inside his own head. I think that I
can use this flute any time I want to.
Piper said nothing.
I think it doesnt matter whether or not you tell the flute what magic
tune to play.
Piper still said nothing.
Lavim grinned. Thats what I think. You know why? Well, Ill tell
you: because that smell-spell was my idea, and the flute played the song I
needed when I needed it. Thats why you want me to give the flute to
Tyorl, isnt it? I can use the magic and I dont need you to tell me how to.
I just need you to be inside my head so the flute will work. What do you
say to that?
I say that youre an ass, Lavim.
Lavim refused to be insulted. Might be, might be. But Im an ass with
a magic flute.
Pipers voice was cold inside Lavims head. Aye, and I couldnt think
of anything more foolish or dangerous.
Lavim watched the moons light run along the satin-smooth wood.
Youre mad, arent you? Strange, since its me who should be mad at you
for telling me that I needed to have you tell me how to work the magic.
He nodded solemnly. Friends dont lie to friends.
Friends dont steal from friends either, Lavim.

Stung, the kender slid off the rock. I didnt steal the flute! You gave it
to me!
I asked you to give it to Tyorl.
And I said I would. Pretty soon, too!
Lavim, I dont know what you have planned, but it had better not
involve the flute. There are only a handful of spells you can work with the
flutes magic, and you dont know what they are.
Lavim chuckled. I know what two of them are. A smell-spell and a
transport spell. And I dont need a smell-spell now!
He left the ravine, scrambling up the steep sides, and dashed toward the
campsite.
Itll be easy! he crowed. Well just transport to Thorbardin and save
Kelida and Stanach and maybe this Hauk fellow, too!
No! Lavim, no! That spell takes words, too. You have to know them as
you play the notes. If you try that spell without the right words, youll be
standing in the middle of nowhere with three piles of dust who used to be
your friends!
Lavim stopped, head cocked and frowning. Then a smile smoothed the
wrinkles on his weather-browned face. He had the solution to that
problem, too. Thats all right, Piper. Just tell em to me when I have to
know em.
Piper, who might as well have been riding a runaway horse down a
mountain, wished desperately that he had something to hold on to. Hed
need it. There was no way to stop Lavim now.

Tyorl knew he believed in Lavims haunting the instant he saw the

kender pull out the mages flute. Puffing like an old bellows from his run
up the side of the ravine, Lavim waved the elf down from the hilltop.

Tyorl! Cmerel Ive figured it all outl I can get us to Thorbardin before
you know it!
At once he heard a voice from memory. Stanachs, low and rough with
grief, whispering, Pipers known in Thorbardin for his transport spells.
Piper! Tyorl begged silently, Piper, dont let him do itl
Tyorl scrambled, tripping over a jutting stone and sliding most of the
way down the hill on his heels. The gods only knew what would happen if
Lavim misinterpreted the instructions for a transport spell. The words and
gestures of a spell were delicate things. How much more precise must the
notes be when a spell is enacted with a mages flute! What manner of spell
could be mistakenly loosed?
Tyorl dove for Lavim.
So did Finn.
And so did Kem.
The kender went down in a welter of arms and legs, kicking and
squirming, but held the flute with a sure grip.
Hey! Wait! Whats the matter? Let me up! You dont understand I
Tyorl pulled himself out from under Finns knee, keeping his grip on
Lavims ankle. Finn twisted away from Kerns elbow and never
relinquished his hold around the kenders middle. Kem tried to haul Lavim
to his feet. No one held his hands and no one thought to clamp a hand over
his mouth.
Lavim, certain that his companions had somehow misunderstood what
hed saidclearly if theyd understood him theyd all be much happier
than they were nowdragged air into his lungs and raised the flute to his
lips.
Hed thought, somehow, that the tune for a transport spell would be just
a little more exciting than three little notes. As he heard the first of them,
Piper bellowed in his head. Lavim thought probably the spell should have

sounded more delicate, somehow just a little more gentle, than curses.
He seemed to fade, to stretch, and suddenly his stomach twisted around
inside him and tied itself in knots.
Very strange, he thought, as all sense of feeling drained out of him.
(Through his fingers and toes, it seemed.) I think when I come out of this
spell, Im going to need to find a place to get sick for a minute or two. I
suppose Id better send us outside the city. It would be a little
embarrassing to lose your dinner in front of a whole lot of
Suddenly Lavim felt nothing at all.

Tyorl hit the ground with a teeth-jarring thud. When he tried to catch
his breath, smoke filled his lungs. Fire licked across his fingers, and he
would have cried out had he the breath to make any sound at all.
Damned kenders set us on firel
Get up! Tyorl! Get up!
That was Finn. Tyorl tried, from long habit, to obey. He dragged a knee
under himself and slipped, splashing into cold water.
Damned kenders put us in the middle of the ocean!
Tyorl, please get up! That was Lavim, and though Tyorl was not
prepared to swear that he heard fear in the kenders voice, what he did
hear there made him flounder and splash and finally push himself to his
feet. He dragged a hand across his face, wiping away thick mud and slimy,
clinging grasses. Staggering, he rounded on the kender. Lavim was only a
small indistinct form in the smoky night.
Name of the gods, he snarled, where are we?
IIm sorry, Tyorl. I didnt mean for us to end up here, really I
didnt. I just wanted to end up outside the city because I was feeling a
little, uh, queasy, and I thought it wouldnt really be polite to turn up in

somebodys house without a specific invitation. And then I kind of didnt

know what to do and there was no one to ask and the whole spell just sort
of fell apart about He scratched his head and looked around at the
flames marching ever closer. uh, here. Are you all right?
Wheres the flute?
Lavim shrugged. I dont know, I
Where is the flute?
Lavim drew a deep breath then smiled sheepishly I have it.
Give it to me.
But Tyorl, I
Now! Tyorl roared.
Lavim meekly handed over the flute. All right. But Piper says
Tyorls voice was low, dangerous, and challenging. Piper says what?
Not to throw it away. He says we might need it.
The smoke was thicker now, and, when he looked around him, Tyorl
saw Finn helping Kembal to his feet. The four stood in water up to their
knees, surrounded by tall marsh weeds. Only a quarter mile away, flocks
of cattails, like tiny torches, were ablaze as far west as Tyorl could see.
Embers from the fire and clumps of burning grass flew, wind-blown,
through the thick black air. He grabbed Lavim roughly by the shoulder
and jerked him around hard.
Look.
Lavim squirmed. I see.
Were in the bogs, Lavim, and were surrounded by wildfire. Is this
your idea of a little way outside the city?
No, but

Finn slogged through the mud and foul standing water. He grabbed
Tyorls arm and pointed east. This way. I dont know a thing about these
swamps, but heading for the clear is about all we can do. His blue eyes
hard, he flicked a glance at Lavim, then back to the elf. I think we should
kill the little bastard and then get out of here.
Lavim, about to apologize, snapped his mouth shut. He watched as
Finn vanished into the smoke and waited until Kem sloshed past before he
looked up at Tyorl. You dont think he really meant that do you?
Tyorl didnt answer but herded Lavim ahead of him.
Piper, Lavim asked silently, you dont think Finn meant that, do you?
If he doesnt, Piper said, his mental voice sounding decidedly weak and
hoarse, I do!
Butbut. Piper, he thought, I was only trying to help. I was only trying
to getPiper?
The mage did not respond.
Aw, cmon, Piper. Really, I only wanted to help!
Look around you, Lavim. Piper snarled. You havent done anything but
make sure that you and your friends are going to be roasted before you
get anywhere near Thorbardin.
Lavim glanced over his shoulder and stumbled a little trying to see
behind and walk ahead. The sheets of fire raging behind them were closer
now, leaping and snapping and sending wild sprays of embers into the
black night sky.
Lavim wisely decided to wait until they got out of the fire and the bogs
before he reminded Tyorl and Piper that, while they might not actually be
in Thorbardin, they were probably whole days closer.

Chapter Twenty-Three
Gneiss of the Daewar made his way through the crooked alleys and
paths created by the hastily built field-keepers huts that lined the walls of
the East Farming Warrens. There will not be air enough for a dwarf to
breathe, he had said. Even he admitted that the complaint was hyperbole,
but each time he came into the farming warrens the thought growled in his
mind.
The eight hundred human refugees had managed to settle quickly. The
youngest children, those who were not out in the fields with the men,
scampered through the tangle of huts, their cries high and loud, echoing
around the cavern walls and flying up to the roof many hundreds of feet
above. Women tended the stock, the few dozen horses needed for
ploughing, a rowdy herd of goats, and far, far too many chickens and
ducks.
Damn place looks and smells like a ragged border town on the edge of
nowhere! A note of reluctant admiration crept into the Daewars thoughts.
Reorx knew, it didnt take them long to recover from their trek across the
Outlands.
Though the fields were not at all what these human farmers were used
to, theyd adapted quickly to the level acres of deep black soil transported
into the warrens many years ago and replenished and refreshed seasonally
from the valley outside Southgate. No stone fouled the plough blades, not
even the smallest grade challenged the horses or their ploughmen.
Gneiss stopped at the edge of a newly furrowed field. The dark soil
glistened under the light from the many crystal shafts high above. Boys
with large, heavy canvas seed pouches slung over their shoulders followed
the carefully laid lines of the furrows, sowing to the left and right as they

walked. Soon the wealthy black soil would be covered with a tender green
carpet of new-growing wheat. Beyond this field they planted corn, and in
the cavern into which this one led, millet, hay and pasturage for the stock
would soon thrive.
Yes, they were doing well, Goldmoons people. One could almost
believe that Mesalax had blessed their efforts. One could almost believe
that the Plainswoman did, indeed, have the goddesss favor.
Almost. Gneiss snorted. He hadnt heard that one of the gifts Mesalax
granted her clerics was the ability to enchant thanes. And Hornfel was
enchanted. These days it seemed that he spent more time here among the
refugee farmers than in the upper cities.
And me, the Daewar thought, I have to drag down here after him like
some errand lad each time I want to speak a word to him! Courting allies,
he says. The best way to gain an ally is to know him, he says. Hah! What
kind of allies will these ragtag refugees make? Damn poor ones, Ill
wager.
Raucous and high, a childs shriek of laughter preceeded her as she
pelted out from behind a hut, head down and arms flailing. She bowled
into Gneiss before the Daewar could turn, staggering him, and she
tumbled to the ground.
He snatched up the child by her elbows and dumped her
unceremoniously on her feet again. Easy with your wild running, lass!
Youve two eyesuse them!
The two eyes so noted, wide and blue as the sea, stared at Gneiss as the
girl edged cautiously toward the field.
All skinny legs and skinnier arms, Gneiss thought. Someone ought to
think about feeding the thing. And what have they cut the creatures hair
with? A saws blade by the look of it.
Hold still a moment, will you?
The girl stopped where she stood and pushed ragged black hair back
from her face.

Im looking for Goldmoon and He smiled sourly her prisoner

Hornfel. Where are they?
Prisoner? The girls eyes grew, if possible, wider with sudden
laughter. Oh, yer jokin, Grandfather.
Grandfather!
She pointed with a grubby finger to his long, graying beard.
Gneisss eyes narrowed against an unbidden smile. Impudent little
scamps shouldnt be encouraged, aye, by no means.
The impudent scamps face split in a grin. I know where they are. Ill
take you.
Aye, the dwarf growled, and then youd better be taking yourself off
to your mother for a wash and a combing, eh?
She shook her head and shrugged in the most matter-of-fact manner.
Cant do it, grandfather.
Cant you? Why not?
The lady Goldmoon says m mother an m father have gone to be
with Mishakal. The childs expression clouded. I think theyre dead.
So saying, the girl scampered away, and Gneiss had to step quickly to
catch up. The children of war are fatalists, he reminded himself. Hed seen
it often enough and had never become used to it, warrior though he was.
Gneiss followed the child through the winding, newly made streets to a
field-keepers hut, low-roofed and featureless, no different than all the
others. Inside the tiny hut, he found Hornfel seated with the Plainswoman
at a table. The half-elf was on his heels by the door, there being no place
else to sit, fletching arrows with the absent skill of one who performs the
chore as much to pass the time as to keep his weapons in good order.
Though fox-haired Tanis and Goldmoon were often seen together as the
leaders of these refugees, rumor had it that there was a great and brooding
Plainsman about somewhere who might well have the right to call

Goldmoon his lady. In fact, there were nine people in this motley band
who had rescued the slaves from Verminaards mine. Gneiss had only met
and spoken with the half-elf and Goldmoon. The other seven either had
business of their own or were happy enough to leave the matter of
negotiations to these two.
Its just as well they did, Gneiss thought. Hed heard that one among
the party was a hill dwarf of the ill-famed Fireforge clan. Hed no interest
at all in speaking with a hill dwarf, let alone in being in the same room
with one whose grandfather had fought against the mountain dwarves in
the Dwarf gate Wars.
Yes, and here sits Hornfel, the Daewar thought, taking a cup of spirits
with Outlanders! As though there were nothing else to concern him or the
council but finding a pleasant way to pass the afternoon!
Gneiss regretted his assessment when he saw his friends eyes. The
dark shadows in the Hylars eyes told of heavy matters discussed.
Goldmoon smiled and gestured Gneiss into the hut as though the tiny
place were hers and she were proud to welcome a guest.
You are looking for your friend? You may accurately accuse me of
selfishness, Thane Gneiss. I have kept him here too long.
Chief tans daughter was her proper title. Gneiss thought that he would
like to have known her father, if only to meet the man who so well trained
Goldmoon to this regality.
Aye, lady. Weve had a need of him. Hornfel, he said, word has
come from the border. Guyll fyr. Hed spoken the words in Dwarven and
was surprised when the half-elf reacted.
Wildfire? Tanis, his green eyes sharp, addressed Gneiss. Where?
Running down the hills west of the Plains of Death. Two border
patrols reported seeing it last night. It has the wind behind it now and is
moving fast.
Faster than the wind before which it ran, Gneiss thought. Hed seen the

fire at dawn from the Northgate walls. Garish light leaping for the soft
opal sky, the guyll fyr had looked like a sea of flame, its waves lapping at
the forest shore of the mountains feet. Smoke, thick and black, rose in
columns to the sky or streamed out ahead of the rampaging flame as it
danced with the cold winds whirling above the Plains of Death. Its lurid
glare and deadly smoke had made the dawns light seem a pale and sickly
thing.
Gneiss turned to Hornfel. Youre needed in the council chambers, my
friend. That and other matters want your attention.
Goldmoon, she of the silver-gilt hair and wide blue eyes, rose from the
shaky-legged table where she sat. The fire.
Gneiss nodded gruffly. Aye, lady?
How did it start? Do you know?
No, lady, but you and yours are safe enough here. He saw Hornfel
grimace and shrugged. That was your concern?
No, she said softly. I know we are safe here. I know, too, what
happens when wildfire hits the plains. Ive seen it, but never this late in the
season.
Youre thinking of Verminaards dragons, are you?
I am.
Aye, well, Ive had the same thought, lady. For Hornfels sake, for
his friend seemed to value this Plainswoman, this so-called cleric of
Mesalax, Gneiss tried for a more formal tone. Lady Goldmoon, this is a
council matter. I hope you will grant us your leave.
Goldmoon said nothing, but when Hornfel and Gneiss left the cramped
litrle hut, Tanis went with them. Hornfel seemed to have no objection and
Gneiss did not protest, but only kept a little ahead, preoccupied with
wondering why his words had sounded so churlish in his own ears.
Thorbardin was made up of six small cities deep inside the mountain.

These cities connected to each other and the several auxiliary halls and
two great gates by a series of roads and transport shafts, which the two
dwarves knew well. They took their roads seemingly without thinking, as
those do who are born and have lived all their lives in such a place. The
noise of the merchants square and the quiet of the gardens moved around
them like sunlight and shadows.
Tanis walked quietly behind the two thanes, well content with his
observations and his own thoughts. As the three stepped onto a short,
narrow bridge spanning the fathoms-deep main cavern in which the cities
were built, Gneiss, hearing the half-elfs softly drawn breath, looked up
and then around.
The bridge, its arching roof and broad floor constructed of perfectly
square cuts of dark and light granite, was empty of anything but shadows
and the sound of their own breathing. From the esplanade ahead came the
shouts and laughter of dwarven children at play. The gardens behind were
silent as shadows.
What is it? Gneiss whispered.
Tanis held up a hand, head cocked to listen. Leather on stone, they
heard the scuff of a footstep. The half-elf reached for his short sword;
Hornfels fingers closed around the grip of the small dagger at his hip.
In the shadows, the Hylar said.
Even as he spoke, the shadows, which seemed to perch on the edge of
the bridge, flowing up from the cavern yawning below, took on substance
and form. A superstitious chill skittered along Gneisss neck. He
recognized the dwarf who stepped away from the darkness and, seeming
not to have seen the three, turned and entered the esplanade.
A Theiwar, one of Realgars derro magelings.
Tanis, his thumb absently stroking the hilt of his short sword looked
from Hornfel to Gneiss. Who is it?
Dont know his name, Gniess grunted.

Dhegan, Hornfel said. Aye, Dhegan. One of Realgars

underlings.
He might well have said assassins, Gneiss thought. He shook his
head and headed toward the esplanade and light.
As he walked, the Daewar noted that Hornfel gave Tanis no word of
explanation. Adept at understanding what his old friend did not say, as
well as what he did, Gneiss realized that the half-elf did not accompany
them for the opportunity to see the city. At some time in the past day or
night, Hornfel must have discussed the political climate of the dwarven
kingdom with the two leaders of the refugees. Tanis Half-Elven, Outlander
and stranger, walked with them not only as a companion but as a
bodyguard as well.
Aye, well, theyre protecting their interests. The first thing the damned
Theiwar will do after he begins his revolution is get rid of these refugees.
Suddenly, the Daewar wanted to see the light, to feel it. Soon he would
have to fight. He did not want to fight in the shadows.

Darknight had no love for the fires light. Realgar ignored its impatient
snarl and turned his back to the torch in the wall cresset. His shadow,
black and ragged, leaped out before him, crawling across the rough stone
floor of the dragons lair. A thread of fury raced through the Theiwar like
a line of flame. His right hand moved to the scabbarded sword at his hip,
fingers tracing the silver chasing and the pattern of the inlaid sapphires on
the hilt. As though he touched some calm-giving talisman, his anger
cooled. He signaled to the two guards waiting behind him in the shadows.
Between them, the guards dragged a heavy, unyielding burden into the
light.
Dead meat! Darknight growled, a jagged sound of protest and anger.
Beyond its reach, in the smaller cavern outside its lair lay better food: the
one-handed dwarf and the human girl Realgar had taken prisoner at dawn.
The dragon thought of the live meat and then eyed the corpse of a dead
dwarven guard.

Is this what you are feeding me?

Realgar laughed, a sound like breathing ice. Are you still hungry,
then? A goat and calf were not enough? Aye, dragon, youve an endless
appetite. He rounded on Darknight, his eyes flaring anger. The ranger is
gone! I found this one in the prison cave where he should have been!
Youre hungry? Well and good. Blunt the edge of it on this carcass and
find the ranger for me. Then youll have better meat. Not before.
Darknight snaked its neck forward, its great nostrils distending. Carrion
was an insult, but its belly rumbled with hunger. It sank dagger fangs into
the shoulder of the dead guard, bit down hard and snapped bones.
Realgar took no notice, but jerked his thumb at the two guards and
spoke a word of curt dismissal. He turned his back on the dragon and the
corpse at its feet. He drew the Kingsword from the scabbard.
Oily torch smoke streamed across the jeweled hilt.
The god-touched heart of the blade quickened beneath the sliding light
of the flame. Realgar lifted the sword high in both hands, brought it slowly
down to eye level. His breath, short and quick, clouded the steel. Through
the veil, the crimson heart glowed, undiminished.
A Kingsword, Stormblade was innocent of any rune or marking.
Those, he whispered to the sword, those will come later to mark the
deeds of my reign. King regent? His eyes narrowed. No. High king.
No regent, he thought now as he lowered the blade; no caretaker for the
throne of high king, waiting to the last days of my life for a mythical
Hammer to be found. I will be high king!
Darknight stretched its neck again and brought its head, low and almost
touching the damp stone, to within reach of the dwarf. The great beasts
eye was almost at a level with Realgars. What do I guard them for, Lord,
if not my own dinner?
Realgar smiled coldly, his eyes strayed from the Kingsword to his
prisoners still lying in the darkness where his guards had thrown them. His

sleep spell would wear off soon enough. He smiled again to think of them
waking to find the dragon brooding hungrily over them. The
swordcrafters apprentice, Stanach, and the human girl would be saved for
better things than Darknights belly.
Saved for my crowning ceremonies, he thought, where I will thank
them for bringing me the Kingsword, then cut their hearts out for seeking
to keep it from me. To the dragon he said nothing, only shrugged.
Darknight raised its head, its great fangs dripping, its breath stinking of
its recent kills. Lord?
Realgar held himself perfectly still, though his skin crawled to have the
dragons fangs so near his neck. You guard them at my command. It
should be reason enough.
The dragon contented itself with imagining how pleased Verminaard
would be to hang the sword on the wall of Pax Tharkass throne room
above the skull of this arrogant lordling.
Realgar smelled victory the way a wolf smells prey. It was near and he
only had to leap to catch it. His assassins stalked the other thanes, lesser
wolves but as hungry. Darknight curled its tail tightly around its flanks
and stretched its lipless mouth in silent laughter.
These stalkers, too, would be denied their prey until Realgar gave the
word to feast. That word would not be given until Hornfel was dead.
The dragon watched as Realgar, his captives forgotten, held the sword
up to the flame again, watched his eyes track the light down the edges of
the blade. Crimson light and glittering, it splashed like the shadows of
blood across the dwarfs hands.
The Hylar would die soon, fallen to Realgars dark schemes. Aye,
coward, the dragon sneered, you kill your great enemy in the dark and the
shadows, secretly with a swords blade through the back. Do you really
think that the deaths of lesser folk, achieved in the light and before the
eyes of whoever remains in this wretched kingdom, will prove your
courage?

Realgar sheathed the sword with slow, almost ceremonial motions. He

turned back to the dragon, a strange, knowing smile on his lips. You hear
my thoughts, do you, Sevristh?
Darknight stretched its wings with preening grace.
Aye, you hear them and thats good. Keep listening. Ill need you to
fly once more before this is done, and it will likely be that I cant call you
any other way.
Wings settling tightly over its sleek ebony flanks, the dragon snaked its
tongue, flickering, around the edges of its fangs. Oh, aye, Lord. I am, as
always, yours to command. Darknight watched him leave, listened to the
confident voice of his thoughts, and found not even the smallest trace of
doubt in his plans or in the dragons intentions. He was thinking about a
high kingship and the dark road leading to his goal.
Well and good, Darknight thought, using his own phrase. It ran the
edges of its claws scraping along the stone floor and nuzzled the half-eaten
carcass of the dwarven guard and imagined that the bones it snapped
between its powerful jaws were Realgars.

Chapter Twenty-Four
The air of the cavern that Hauk had come to think of as his sanctuary
was charged with mad Isarns excitement. Stammering and gulping, the
swordcrafter tried desperately to speak. The dark hair on the back of
Hauks arms lifted as it would in the charge of an approaching
thunderstorm. A chill of loathing crawled up his spine. Isarns efforts to
control his excitement made his face writhe and contort so that he could
barely force an intelligible word past his lips.
Hauk got his legs under him and sat, putting his back against the stone
wall of the cave that was their sanctuary. Easy and slow, he whispered.
Tell me again.
The lad. The elfmaid. The lad.
Hauk didnt know how to answer. He didnt know what Isarn was
trying to tell him. Yet, for all the panic he saw in the dwarfs eyes, he
thought the swordcrafter was more clear-minded than hed been in days.
Tell me, he said again. For the sake of uncovering Isarns
information, Hauk made his own voice as gentle as he could, trying not to
communicate his own urgency. He didnt know how long it would bea
matter of moments or an hourthat Isarn would remain sane enough to
talk.
The pattern of the dwarfs lucid moments had gradually changed over
the time theyd been in hiding. The light in his eyes was sometimes sharp
and focused for greater lengths of time, but at less frequent intervals.
When he was mad, he trod a frantic, pacing path around the cavern. Then
he reminded Hauk of a sparrow caught in a closed barn, fluttering to find
escape, battering himself against the walls. Nothing could calm him but

some inner word from himself.

When he was sane, as he seemed to be now, his eyes were as quiet as
shady pools under a streams banks. His hands were at rest, his pacing not
even a thing he remembered. Then, he would sit beside Hauk, speaking in
low tones as one would to a friend who had been long ill but looks now to
recovery.
His solicitous care did not make Hauk want any less to kill him. The
ranger was not thinking of killing now, though he could and did, still long
for it.
Isarn drew a long, steady breath. He leaned forward, his eyes eager, and
Hauk feared that the eagerness would precipitate another one of the dwarfs
frantic pacing fits of insanity. Stormblade has come home!
Hauk sat perfectly still and almost didnt breathe.
Listen, Isarn whispered, listen to me. The masterblade is here. The
Kingsword is back in the heart of the world where it was born!
Hauk still didnt move.
Do you hear me? Isarns hands worked in quick, jerky motions,
scrubbing and scrubbing. The stillness of the pool was about to be
shattered.
I hear you, the ranger whispered.
Ranger-girl, he thought, little barmaid! Hes found you! Ah, gods, no!
Hes found you!
Aye, back where it belongs, back with me, who gave it heart and life.
Back with me for the thane. Aye, the thane, the king who will be.
Returned with the lad.
His heart filled with fear, Hauk asked a quick question. What lad?
The boy, the boy I trained. The boy. Young Stanach. An
apprentice?

Aye, aye, the lad. And a girl, dressed as an elf and tall as one. But no
elf she! No. A fire-haired girl with jade eyes.
Isarn screamed as Hauk grabbed his wrist. A fire-haired girl with jade
eyes had carried Stormblade to Thorbardin! His ranger-girl, his barmaid!
Tell me about the girl! Tell me!
The dwarf pulled back, but a rabbit might as well have tried to pull
back from a wolfs jaws. Squirming, he gasped something, a panting that
Hauk didnt understand.
Tell me!
Realgar, he cried. Fear shot through Hauk like the lightnings strike.
He ground the bones of the dwarfs thin wrist in his grasp. Realgar has
them! Realgarhas my sword and the lad and the elfmaid who is no elf
maid!
Where?
In derro tunnels. In hiding.
Why? Hauk snapped. Tell my why!
I dontI dont know.
Take me to them, old one, or Ill snap your wrist like a twig.
It was never much of a battle. There was that in his eyes which lead
Hauk to think that Isarns surrender was planned. He understood suddenly
that the old dwarf wanted him to retrieve his precious Stormblade.
Anger, like fire, seared through Hauk. His ranger-girl, his barmaid had
been taken. He didnt stop to think why he thought of her as his now.
Perhaps because she had, for such a long time, represented the only thing
Realgar had not taken from him. It didnt matter. Hed find Isarns
Stormblade for the girls sake.

Chapter Twenty-Five
Stanach stared into empty darkness, listening to the rumble and gusting
of the dragons breath. Like a small echo of the dragons breathing, he
heard Kelidas shuddering sigh. Unmoving, as she had been since theyd
been brought to this place, the girl lay huddled beside him. His eyes on the
dragon, Stanach moved his hand slowly to the side. He slipped his fingers
around her wrist and tried to feel her life-beat. Slow and steady as it was,
it did not ease Stanachs fear. Realgars sleep spell was taking far too long
to wear off.
He put his back to cold stone again, his heart lurching each time the
dragon yawned or stretched, each time Kelida stirred and the huge beast
looked their way.
Dual chambered, the cavern held the small cave where Stanach sat now
and the broad, high-ceilinged lair of the dragon. The separation of the
chambers was marked only by a broadening of the stony floor and a
sudden high leaping of the walls. The walls, he realized, did not soar to a
ceiling but to what surely must be the sky. From the high entrance to the
dragons lair, echoes of the wind sweeping the mountainside moaned in
the caves.
His own natural dark-sight showed Stanach the dim red outline of the
dragon where it lay in its lair. He tried to estimate the distance and thought
that nearly fifty yards of rough stone floor lay between them and the beast.
Aye, he thought, and it can cross that in an instant!
A smoldering fire burned from his right wrist to his shoulder. Realgars
guards had not been gentle. Yet, for all the awakened fire in his arm and
shoulder, Stanachs hand, still bandaged, had no feeling at all. He now

knew that he had not Kerns salves to thank for the absence of pain. He
would never again feel anything in that hand. No, not even pain. Broken
bones, aye, even twisted bones, could be mended. Shredded muscle could
never be healed.
Stanach saw the yellow, malevolent gleam of the dragons eyes.
Its breathing quickened, like the pumping of a bellows. He felt its
hunger as a dread deep within his bones, and he felt it waiting. It had been
commanded not to dispatch Realgars prisoners yet, only to guard them.
And so it waited.
Darknight, Realgar called it. Some time ago it had been brought two
goats and a screaming calf to sate its appetite. Stanach still smelled the
blood, a thick, coppery reek on its breath. Among the animals bones lay
the shreds of the black and silver uniform of a Theiwar guard.
Kelida stirred, a small moving of her hand, and fell still again.
Too long, Stanach thought. Shes been unconscious too long.
How much time had passed? He had only scattered memories of
waking in this place deep below the cities. For a time his mind had been
thick with confusion and the aftereffects of Realgars sleep spell. Then, as
in dreams, time had little meaning. Even now, listening to the dragon
breathing, Stanach only remembered the few moments after Darknight set
down in a deep ravine below the Northgate ledge.
A squad of six Theiwar, Realgar at its head, had poured from the mouth
of a cave like bats seeking the night. Each of the six had crossbows trained
on Stanach and Kelida, bolts anchored and ready to be loosed at their
thanes command. Realgar had issued no such order. He bade the two
dismount and they did, both expecting every minute to feel the shock of a
bolt flying home.
Three of the guards had surrounded Stanach the moment his feet
touched stone. They disarmed him neatly and in seconds. While one guard
kept Stanach well in his bows range, two others grabbed his arms and
hustled him toward the gaping hole of darkness that was the caves mouth.
At the entrance, despite his captors holds, Stanach dug in his heels and

wrestled himself around to see Kelida similarly surrounded.

Realgar approached her, strange dark eyes alight, hands twitching
restlessly as though anticipating the feel of Stormblades cool, golden hilt.
His guards hands tightened on Stanachs arms. They yanked his arms
tightly behind him, sending white-hot bolts of pain shooting from his
elbows to his shoulders. Stunned by the pain, Stanach watched Kelidas
disarming through a dizzying, red-shot haze.
Stanachs stomach turned over as he remembered Realgars slow reach
for the Kingsword, saw again how he almost touched the sapphired hilt,
then drew back. He had motioned the guards away. Very gently, Realgar
unbuckled the sword belt from Kelidas waist.
Stanach closed his eyes now, trying not to hear again Kelidas soft
moan, trying not to hear his own cry of outrage and horror as Realgar
buckled on the swordbelt and smiled.
Now, in an echo of that thin despairing moan, Kelidas breath caught
once in her throat. Stanach reached for her hand again, covered it, and
leaned close to her.
Lyt chwaer he whispered, so low that he barely heard the words
himself, easy, now. Im here.
The cave was blacker than a moonless midnight and she, a human, had
no dark-sight. Stanach felt her hand quivering in his.
Darknight rumbled deep in its chest and snaked its neck around, a
baleful yellow light in its eyes as it observed the prisoners. Then, as
though disinterested, the huge black dragon backed away. Kelidas hand
went cold and limp in Stanachs as the rough sound of scales dragging on
stone, dagger claws scraping, echoed in the cave.
Stanach closed his fingers around Kelidas hand again, holding her still
and silent until Darknight withdrew completely. How long would
Realgars command hold the dragon?
Slowly, as silently as he could, Stanach shifted his position and

released Kelidas hand. She caught her breath and grabbed his arm, a
drowning woman clinging to her only hold in a black, cold sea. Her voice
was low and thin, tight with panic. I cantI cant see.
Oh, aye, you can, Kelida. You just cant see here. Quietly, now, hold
on to me and sit up.
She moved slowly. She got the stone wall against her back and pushed
herself straight.
Better? How is your head? Hurts, Ill wager. He tried for as careless a
tone as he could, hearing it ring false in his own ears. Aye, its the sleep
spell. All the headache of a good flask of dwarf spirits and none of the
fun.
In its lair, Darknight moaned low and deep, scales whispered again on
stone. Kelida gasped, then held perfectly still.
Just the dragon. Stanach said as he might have said just the rabbit.
Were safe enough for the moment.
Wherewhere is it?
Stanach shrugged. In its lair, playing watchdog. He lied smoothly.
Its not interested in us.
Did she believe it? Stanach didnt think so.
Why cant I see?
Stanach snorted. Because theres no light. In the Outlands theres
always light. Even on the cloudiest night, it gets caught between the
ground and the sky. Here, in the heart of the world, theres no light unless
we make it.
Butyou can see me.
Darknight sighed a gust of breath reeking with blood.
Stanach spoke quickly to still the panic he sensed rising in Kelida.

All living things give off warmth. Things not having life, stone and
mountain, those hold the days light. Thats what I see, the outline of that
warmth. Youre a dimensionless form, but I see that very well. If you
could see my eyes right now, I dont think youd like them. The pupils are
so wide, expanding to get the little bit of light, that they look like
bottomless pits.
Kelida drew in a long breath and let it out in a slow, almost silent sigh.
Whats going to happen to us?
Stanach didnt know how to answer. He shook his head, then
remembered that she couldnt see the gesture. Lyt chwaer, I dont know.
Realgar has Stormblade now. I dont know why he hasnt killed us
already.
Kelida was silent for a long moment. Stanach felt her fingers tighten
again around his hand. He knew what shed say next.
Thenthen Hauk is dead.
Stanach swallowed hard and said nothing.
Stanach?
Aye, he whispered. Hauks dead.
How could he read such grief, such pain, in a depthless outline of red
light?
Lyt chwaer he whispered.
She buried her face in his shoulder. Stanach felt her tears warm on his
neck as she silently wept. Lyt chwaer, he named her, little sister. Shed
comforted him in his grief, cared for him after his maiming, her hands
gentle, her ministrations tender as a sisters.
Stanach held her tightly as she wept. Over her shoulder, he saw his
right arm, outlined in the red glow of his bodys warmth. His hand,
bandaged in the torn strips of her cloak, lay heavy and nerveless against
her back. Lifeless as it was, no light edged the place where his hand

should have been.

Im sorry, he whispered. Kelida, Im sorry.
Kelida suddenly went stiff in his arms, then limp as though unable to
bear the burden of some new grief. Her voice thick and ragged with silent
weeping, she said, II killed him.
Stanach caught his breath, not certain hed heard her correctly. He held
her away, trying to see her face, her eyes, and saw nothing but a trembling
red outline.
Kelida, what are you saying?
I should haveI should have guarded the sword better. Her hands,
like the ghosts of red birds, covered her face. No. I should have given it
to you or Tyorl. If Id kept it safeif you could have brought it to your
thane She drew a rough breath. Oh, Stanach! If I hadnt been such a
fool about carrying it, aboutabout holding on to it, hed still be alive!
No, Stanach whispered. No, Kelida, thats not true. Theres nothing
you could have done.
If Id let you have the sword instead of pretending that that because
I had it, I had something of him. Oh, instead of pretending that he gave it
to me becausebecause he cared. That he would remember me and
maybe he would
No! he cried harshly.
The echo of that cry rebounded from the walls of the small cavern, thin
protests. Claws scraped again on stone. Darknight rumbled deep in its
chest. Yellow eyes gleamed from across the cavern. The beast didnt
move, yet Stanach was sure it was laughing.
He held Kelidas arm with his left hand and let his feelingless right
hand fall.
Kelida, Im sorry. Oh, gods, I am sorry! Hauks deathit was never a
thing you could prevent.

She swallowed hard and shook her head. Yes, if I

No, he whispered, no. Hauk is dead, aye, but you had nothing to do
with it. Kelida, he was likely dead before we left Long Ridge.
She drew away from him, slowly as though edging away from a
suddenly drawn dagger. But, you said . . . Her voice dropped to a
shuddering sigh as she groped for understanding. No, Stanach. You said .
. .
I lied. I needed the sword. I lied to you.
She moaned softly.
Stanach leaned his head against the stone wall and closed his eyes. He
didnt say that he was sorry, though only Reorx knew that he had never in
his life been sorrier for anything.
Aye, not even for the loss of the Kingsword. He couldnt find the
words for how he felt; he didnt think they existed in any language.
After a long time spent listening to the growling breath of the dragon
and the stilling of Kelidas sobs, Stanach felt her hand light on his right
arm. She lifted his hand, wrapped in the rags of her cloak. Because he
heard the faint whisper of her fingers passing over the bandage, he knew
that she held his ruined hand.

Guyll fyr raced madly across the windswept Plains of Death. Long
narrow fingers of flame charged ahead of the main body of the fire,
blazing outriders bearing pennons brighter than the sun. Greedy for
pillage, the fire raged through swamp and marsh, feeding on thin grasses
and brittle, dry bracken.
Standing before the worktable in the Chamber of the Black Moon,
Realgar watched the fire in the smooth, clear surface of the glass. A
simple spell of seeing had called the vision to the glass, and like a man on
a mountaintop, he watched the fires advance.

Well satisfied, he whispered a word as he passed his hand over the

table. The scene shifted, becoming more focused and sharper.
A marsh rat scuttled to ground beneath a shallow, reedy pool and died a
length from its nest, its blood boiled in water suddenly heated.
An emerald-headed duck caught in an airless pocket burst its lungs with
a last effort to rise to flight and escape the flames.
A long-legged crane and a prowling silver fox fled the advance of a
common enemy. Pitiless, the guyll fyr caught and killed them as it did
every creature in its path. The once cold air above the Plains writhed under
the heat of the fires passing. The wind, ever a lost and mad traveler across
the Plains of Death, twisted the path of the flames.
To the mage, the fire appeared as a furious and deranged beast, rearing
and bucking in explosive sheets of flame. The guyll fyr charged toward the
foothills of the mountains, hissing over the marshes and roaring toward the
fuller feast of a forest thick with sap-rich pines and panicked, fleeing
wildlife.
Realgar turned away from the scenes of destruction. They wove a
tapestry of lurid and violent death, but there was one thread more to be
woven in order to make the picture complete. Realgar had that thread in
his hands now.
Though no regular Guard of Watch had been set in ruined Northgate in
many years, one had been now. The crumbled gate, useless since the
ruinous battles of the Dwarfgate Wars, was unofficially sanctioned as a
Theiwar holding. Realgar dropped to a seat behind the glass table and
laughed. The watch was composed of Gneisss faithful Daewar.
Faithful all, he thought. Or almost all. Anyone can be corrupted, even a
Daewar guard.
One such was even now looking for Hornfel with the word that Gneiss
wished to meet him on the Northgate wall. The treacherous guard would
bring the message that the Daewar thane had seen the guyll fyr sweep
down to set the Plains of Death ablaze. The message would rise in urgency
as the false guard relayed Gneisss supposed anxiety about the danger to

Thorbardins food supply.

Reluctant as Hornfel might be to enter even unsanctioned Theiwar
territory, the Hylar knew that Northgate was the only place to track the
fires progress. Hed be comfortable enough in the belief that he was
going to meet Gneiss.
Only it was not Gneiss who would be waiting for Hornfel in Northgate.
It would be Realgar. And Stormblade.
Realgar ran his palm along the scabbarded sword at his side.
Aye, he whispered, youve searched long for the Kingsword,
Hornfel, and youll find it in Northgate. Youll see it at last and you will
die on it!
The hand of the goddess Takhisis, the Dark Queen, was extended to
him. He need only reach to take it. The spark of revolution that would
ignite tinder-dry Thorbardin would give life to the start of a derro reign.
Realgar closed his eyes, slipped easily into the language of the mind,
and called the black dragon.
Have you found the ranger?
Darknight had not. A thread of impatience drifted through the
Theiwars mental speech. It doesnt matter now. This will be over soon.
Well find him then.
A thought, a command, and Realgar sent the black dragon flying for the
mountaintops. Darknight would stand ready to back up his attack on
Hornfel and then on Gneisss guards at both Northgate and Southgate.

Gneiss paused in the center of the garden outside Court of Thanes. The
air was thick with the scent of white dog rose and scarlet queens plume.
He had no inclination to admire either and was uncomfortable with the
gentle serenity suggested by the garden. Beyond the green boxwood
borders, Thorbardin had a strange and brooding air. In that way that a

citys people have, the populace scented trouble. Though few could
identify it, all seemed to be reacting to it with shortened tempers and
anxious looks.
Gneiss turned to leave, taking the shortest path back to the street. When
he walked past the small pond at the gardens east border, he realized that
the garden was not as empty as hed thought it. The Outlander Tanis HalfElven crouched at the waters edge, idly pitching pebbles into the water.
Tanis turned sharply at the sound of the dwarfs approach and visibly
relaxed as he recognized the Daewar.
If youre looking for Hornfel, Tanis said mildly, hes not here.
I can see that. Gneiss eyed him carefully. Something you need
here?
The half-elf shook his head. Just enjoying the garden. When Gneisss
careful look became one of slight suspicion, Tanis smiled. Easy, Gneiss.
Hornfel was here a moment ago. We were talking and a guardone of
your own by the liverycalled him away.
Say where he was going?
Not to me.
An awkward moment of silence fell between the two. Tanis, his long
green eyes hooded, scratched his beard. Gneiss, you dont like me, do
you?
Caught off guard, Gneiss stammered, I havent an opinion one way or
the other.
Oh yes, you do. Tanis settled back on his heels and pitched another
pebble into the pond. You dont like Outlanders, and you especially dont
want them in Thorbardin. Tell me, why did you finally vote to shelter
those refugees?
Because all of Hornfels arguments made sense. Gneiss said curtly.
He narrowed his eyes. What do you want, Half-Elven?

Safety for the refugees. Tanis got to his feet with easy grace and let
the pebbles fall from his hand.
Youve got it.
Aye? Not as long as theyre in danger of being caught between the
anvil and the hammer. Or both sides of a revolution. Tanis looked out
beyond the fragrant boxwood hedges to the street outside. Theyre
nervous put there, Gneiss. Tell me you cant taste it in the air.
Gneiss said nothing. He did not consider Thorbardins politics and
problems fit matter for discussion with an Outlander.
Its very uncomfortable in the middle, Gneiss. Before you came,
Hornfel and I were talking about that. The refugees will fight if they have
to. It would be better if they were fighting with you, and not in spite of
you. If a revolution does break out here, you are going to need our help.
Gneiss shook his head. Not the help of untrained farmers, I dont.
The half-elf ran a gentle finger along the edge of a half-blown spray of
queens plume. The featherlike blossom left a faint dusting of golden
pollen on his knuckle. What about the help of the people who freed those
refugees from slaverysnatched them from under Verminaards nose,
Gneissland brought them here all the way from Pax Tharkas?
Eight hundred, Gneiss thought. Maybe half of them would be able to
fight, or at least defend the East Warrens if it came to that.
But he didnt think it would come to that. Realgar would not mount his
revolution if he were not certain that he would win. Yet, if Realgar did
strike, it would be because Ranee had thrown in his lot with the Theiwar.
The first thanes would not waste time trying a first strike on the remote
farming warrens in the east of Thorbardin. There was no need to involve
the half-elf or his refugees.
Or was there?
Gneiss eyed Tanis again. This time there was no suspicion or mistrust
in his gauging. He smiled slowly. There was not any certain way to know

when, or even if, the derro would strike. But there was a way to assure
that their blow, if struck, would be weakened.
The East Warrens opened into Ranees Daergar city from the north and
the south. Pinned in their city like rats in holes, the Daergar would find it
difficult to support Realgars attempt at revolution.
He looked at Tanis and raised an eyebrow. I dont know much about
farmers, Half-Elven. Id imagine that they have to be good at trapping
vermin to protect their crops.
Tanis shrugged. I would imagine.
Gneiss stroked his silvered beard. Then I might have a job for your
farmers after all. He bent to retrieve one of Taniss pebbles and pitched it
into the pond. Like echoes, the ripples of the stones strike sighed out to
the edges of the water.

Chapter Twenty-Six
Tyorl sagged against the rough barked trunk of a tall pine. His hunting
leathers hung wet and heavy on him, covered with mud from the bogs,
smeared with black ash and mud. His legs strengthless, his arms and back
a mass of aching muscle and bone, he knew that if it were not for the
trees support he would fall.
Smoke and ash sent hot tears running down his face. Shivering with
cold, Tyorl wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands, smearing soot and
mud across pale cheeks in the horrible semblance of a mourners ashes.
Behind him raged a swiftly advancing wall of flame. Guyll fyr rioted in
the bog, flames shooting high into the sky. Pillars of fire pierced the thick
roil of smoke billowing toward the foothills. There would not be more
than a few moments for him and his friends to rest.
Finn, he rasped. The word caught in Tyorls hot, dry throat. Finn,
what do you know of these mountains?
Finn shook his head, his lips twitching in a bitter, cynical smile. Im
no dwarf. I know as much as anyone does of this arm of the mountains
which is about nothing. I hear the dwarves call these foothills and
mountains the Outlands. But then, they have never been ones to encourage
visitors. Pity you dont have your broken-handed friend with you now.
A pity, indeed, Tyorl thought. While the young dwarf had never been a
favorite companion, he would be useful now. But Stanach, ever cold and
silently brooding, was likely dead.
Tyorl winced at the callousness of the thought. Cold Stanach had
always been, and distant, but Tyorl knew that Stanach had leaped for the

dragon and hauled himself, one-handed and exhausted, onto the beasts
back more for Kelidas sake than for that damned Stormblade.
Tyorl shook his head, tired with running and tired with thinking. His
companions were both dead now. They were part of Stormblades bloody
toll.
Finn coughed in the thickening air and Tyorl looked up. We are
guideless, Finn. Well have to do the best we can and make outrunning the
guyll fyr our goal.
Not all of us will see the goal. Finn gestured toward Lavim.
The kender, too, braced against a pines supporting trunk. His head
low, Lavims heaving gasps for breath shuddered through his small body,
rattling in his chest like wind in the reeds. Hed been limping the last mile,
muttering about stones in his boot.
There was a big enough hole in one of the kenders old boots to support
the excuse. Still, it was an excuse Tyorl did not believe. Even now,
thinking himself unobserved, Lavim bent over his right knee, rubbing it
with slow, careful strokes. Hed wrenched it hard coming out of the bog.
Tyorl glanced at Finn. The rangerlord shook his head again, a light of
pity in his smoke blue eyes. Though Finn had argued for cutting the
kenders throat and leaving him in the swamp, his anger, as always, had
been short-lived. It was he who hauled Lavim, cursing and sputtering, out
of the last and deepest waters.
We are the last of four who set out, Lavim and I, the elf thought. And
none of us really knew a thing about the others but their names. He
suddenly realized that, in a handful of days, these people had become
important to him. The deaths of two of themaye, even grim Stanach!
would echo darkly in his heart for long years.
Tyorl pushed away from the tree.
Were wasting time. Stanach isnt with us. I know the direction he
intended to take. South of the bog and east. I know little about Thorbardin,
but I do know that we must be yet north of the place. The winds are

pushing the fire north and east. It will be a hard road up and south to
Thorbardin. Wed best get moving now while we still can.
As for Lavim, hell get as far as I do, Finn, because when he cant go
any farther I will carry him.
Without a backward look, Tyorl left the rangerlord and went to join
Lavim. Dropping to one knee, he laid a hand on the old kenders shoulder.
Lavim looked around and flashed his ever-present grin. It took him a
moment, though, to get that grin rightly in place.
How are you, kenderkin? Are you ready for another run?
Im ready, Tyorl, whenever you are. And I thinkwell, that is Piper
thinks
Piper thinks what? Tyorl said warily.
He thinks that he can guide us to Thorbardin from here. He sort of
recognizes some of the landmarks, and he says youre right about heading
south and east. He wants to know if youll let him be the guide for a
while.
A ghost as a guide? Tyorl sighed tiredly. Why not? When fleeing a
house afire one abandons everything in an effort to get out alive. He
turned to look at the western sky, crimson and roiling with thick black
smoke.
Well, weve no guide at all now. Tell Piper Id be grateful for his
help. Tyorl smiled. But let me tell Finn about it, aye?
Lavim nodded, grinning. Hes not real fond of Piper, is he?
Lets say hes not fond of the idea of Piper.
Tyorl ran the flat of his hand absently along the smooth cherry wood
flute at his belt. Hed snatched it from Lavim in the bog and fastened it to
his belt by its leather thong. He hadnt let it out of his sight since.
Tyorl smiled.

Hed make Finn understand somehow. It was time to abandon

everything, including all the good sense he once credited himself with
having.

Hauk had no idea where he was, and he was quickly growing tired of
the feeling. There was no way of determining direction under the
mountain, with no landmarks to follow and no light but that spilling from
Isarns leaping torch. He followed that torch through dark and deep
corridors the way he would follow the pole star in strange lands.
Isarn had drawn, from among the supplies he had in the sanctuary cave,
a dagger and a sword. These hed given to Hauk with a proud light in his
mad old eyes.
I made them, he said simply, watching Hauk test the balance of the
finely crafted weapons. Carry them. I will carry the torch.
The dagger in his belt, the sword in his hand, Hauk felt better than he
had in many long days. Weaponed, he felt almost whole again, almost
strong. Hed accepted the steel with a curt nod of thanks.
The tunnels through which Isarn led him seemed labyrinthine, winding
and turning with no pattern or reason. Some were wide, with cressets for
torches on smooth, high-reaching walls. Others were narrow and cramped
and so low that Hauk had to stoop to get through. The smoke of Isarns
torch coiled back and caught in Hauks lungs, choking him. At the end of
one of these, shoulders aching and back stiff, he caught Isarn by the arm
and halted him.
How much farther? And where are we?
The old swordcrafter slipped away from Hauks hand. Deep Warrens.
Not much farther. Only a few tunnels.
Aye? If theyre no higher than the last, Ill be no good to anyone.
Isarn said nothing, only shrugged as though to suggest that the tunnels
hadnt been delved for tall Outlanders in the first place. They hadnt been

delved for the common traffic of Thorbardin either. In many places, Isarn
found them a tight passing as well. When, at the end of another corridor,
Hauk saw the dwarf bend low, he groaned inwardly and dropped to his
hands and knees.
Im going to be on my belly, he thought, before I ever come to where
this crazy old bastard is taking me!
So low was the ceiling in this tunnel that Hauk imagined he could feel
the whole weight of the mountain pressing down on him. So narrow were
the walls that rough stone scraped against his shoulders and arms. The
smoke of Isarns torch poured back over his shoulder and then suddenly
eddied ahead, caught by a cold crosscurrent of air.
Hauk realized then that this was no corridor at all but a kind of passage
between corridors. He dragged himself out of the tunnel on his elbows and
cautiously climbed to his feet.
Isarn, calm and almost steady till now, shuffled from foot to foot. His
breathing quickened, his hands trembled so that the torchlight was useless
for anything but making the walls of the corridor seem to dance and sway.
What is it? Hauk whispered.
Here. Theyre here. The lad and the girl.
Hauks heart lurched suddenly, leaping hard against the cage of his
ribs. Where?
Isarn didnt answer but to press the torch into Hauks hand and slip into
the weaving shadows and darkness ahead. Hauk followed, his mouth dry,
his blood singing high in his ears.
She was here! The fire-haired girl whose name hed never known. The
memory of her, straight and slim, green eyes shining, had kept him whole
and sane through all the torments that Realgar had inflicted upon him.
When he couldnt tell whether he was dead or alive, when hed seen and
felt Tyorls death, known that hed killed him and known that he hadnt,
the girls eyes had shown like emeralds in his heart.

She was here.

Slowly, following the sound of Isarns agitated breathing, Hauk edged
around a corner. Orange light from the torch spilled across the far wall,
revealing the dwarf where he knelt before a jagged crack in the stone. Just
barely wide enough for Hauk to fit through, the gap reached from the floor
to well out of the rangers sight.
In there?
Isarn nodded. Aye. The lad and
Low and ominous, a rumbling filled the corridor, rising to a high
scream in which Hauk somehow recognized dark, fierce joy. The stone
itself seemed to vibrate with that cry, to sing echoes back to whatever
voiced the soul-chilling scream.
Isarn wailed, a thin, high shriek of terror. The terrible bellowing struck
Hauk like a blow and dropped him to his knees, He hung on to the torch
with both hands while the sword fell to the floor. He didnt hear the ring
and clatter of steel on stone. As though the thing that made the cry were
rising, the roar grew. Shadows from the torchlight spun madly across the
walls and floor. Light, thin and orange, flickered around the corridor,
alternately showing him the rough walls and the niches where darkness
pooled.
There was no sign of Isarn.
Hauk shifted the torch to his left hand, grabbed up the fallen sword
with his right. Isarn! he called softly. Isarn!
Nothing moved in the stony corridor but the trembling light and madly
dancing shadows thrown by the torch. Urgent fear crowded into Hauks
mind and raced through his heart. Isarn was nowhere to be found. Hauk
caught his breath, listening. He heard nothing but the hiss and sputter of
the torch. Where was the dwarf?
Then, he had no thought for Isarn at all. Soft, like wind sobbing, a low,
moaning sound came from beyond the crack in the wall. Even as he
recognized it for a womans voice, the moaning faded and died.

Heart racing, not stopping to think, Hauk bolted through the crack in
the wall. Isarn lay, huddled and small, to the left of the entrance. Hauk
noted only peripherally that the old dwarf didnt move. The cave was cold
and filled with the dry, musty stink of reptile. In the far corner, memory
made real, crouched a girl with hair like thick copper.
She was huddled over her knees, her hands high and fisted, green eyes
wide in a white face splashed with shadows. A dwarf, black-bearded and
thick-armed, stood over her. He reached for her with a bandaged hand.
Hauk roared, a bears battle cry, and charged across the cave. As he
ran, he realized that the dwarf was too close to the girl for a sword thrust.
He reversed his grip on his weapon and raised the pommel high.
She saw him and recognized him in the instant he brought the swords
grip thundering down between the dwarfs shoulders.
Hauk! she cried. No!
Her cry echoed in the vibrations of the blow, echoed in the dwarfs
gasping, and the sound of his body hitting the rocky floor. And it echoed
in the horror and anger in her green eyes as she flung herself across the
dwarf as though to protect him from the glittering steel of the sword.
His hand trembling, his heart hammering painfully in his chest, Hauk
lowered the sword. The torch guttered and died. Darkness leaped to fill the
cave. The only sounds Hauk heard were the murmur of wind from some
far, high place and the girls raggedly drawn breath.
He reached for her shoulder, touched her gently. When she pulled
away, her cry of fear cut right to his heart.

After a long time of sickening darkness, a hand, fingers trembling,

stroked the side of Stanachs head.
Oh, please, a familiar voice whispered. Oh, please, Stanach. Please,
my friend, be alive.

It was a childs plea, made without any concession to logic and from
the heart. The plea was typically Kelidas.
The cold air gasped as fire sprang to life.
There was light in the darkness behind Stanachs eyes and it confused
him. He remembered very little beyond the sudden roar of the dragon.
Kelida had cried out in terror. His own heart had stopped beating. He
hadnt expected to feel anything but the rip and tear of Darknights fangs.
He certainly hadnt expected to feel a swords grip crash down between
his shoulders.
Lyt chwaer he sighed, unable yet to open his eyes, there is no sense
in pleading with the dead to live.
She caught her breath in a sharp, startled gasp and took his left hand
firmly in her own.
Stanach opened his eyes then, his head aching from the sharp invasion
of light. Wavering light from the reanimated torch cast black shadows
across Kelidas face. Her green eyes seemed to flicker to the flames
cadence.
Stanach?
Aye, he sighed, gratefully. What hit me, Kelida?
Shadows separated from shadows behind Kelida, and a young man,
black haired and black-bearded, stepped into the light. His brown hunting
leathers hung awkwardly from a frame that should have been thickly
muscled and stocky.
Stocky, Stanach thought, when he is eating regularly. This one has not
been eating regularly or often.
I hit you, dwarf.
There was nothing of regret in that cold voice. A feral light gleamed in
the young mans blue eyes; the eyes of a wolf held too long captive, the
eyes of a wolf cut off from the pack and afraid.

Stanach pushed himself up to sit. The young man watched his every
move. Stanach shivered and thought for one long moment that he was
looking at a ghost. Rangers garb and the look of a hungry predator. He
knew, suddenly, who this young man was. And yet, how could he still be
alive? How could he have survived the torments Realgar must have
inflicted upon him?
Those had to have been horrible torments, indeed. The heart Stanach
saw reflected in Hauks dark eyes was gaunt and needy.
The dwarf looked quickly to Kelida. She wore the wary and confused
look of one who has found what shes lost and now, for some reason she
cannot determine, hears instinct clamoring that she must fear it.
Stanach got to his feet, aching in every muscle. Hauk, head up and
tense, watched him, tracking his every move with cold, deadly eyes. The
dwarf forced what he hoped was a wry and appreciative smile.
You are Kelidas Hauk. You struck a good blow.
The hard set of Hauks jaw softened and Stanach realized that the
ranger hadnt even known her name.
Aye, he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a careful hand.
Kelida.
Kelida swallowed dryly and got to her feet. Her gestures quick and
nervous, she brushed her straggling hair from her face, smoothed her
wrinkled and stained cloak. Do you do you remember me?
His lips moved, though he made no sound. He nodded.
Will youwill you put up your sword, please?
He stiffened and tightened his grip on the weapon.
Please. She took a small step toward him, her hand out. Weve been
looking for you.
Hauk shot a sharp, suspicious look at Stanach. He lowered the sword.

Tyorl?
Kelida laid her hand on his wrist and lowered the sword. All right, I
think. She looked at Stanach.
Im fine. He smiled, an ironic twist of his mouth. Youd better tell
him about his sword, Kelida. And if he found us, maybe he knows a way
out of here. That dragon leaving so suddenly certainly means trouble.
Stanach looked around the cavern. A figure lay hunched in the black
shadows near the caverns entrance. He drew a sharp breath.
Isarn, Hauk said evenly. I dont think hes dead. Ihe led me here,
and we heard that screaming, that roaring. He went in before me and must
have caught a glimpse of the dragon leaving.
As Hauk had guessed, the old master was not dead. Not yet. He lay in
the shadows, drawing thin, rasping breaths. Stanach hardly recognized
him. The madness that had for so long ravaged his mind, the grief that had
for as long ravaged his soul, left their external marks. The old dwarf was
thin, his once strong wrists and arms nothing but bones for weakened
muscle and scanty flesh to cling to. His beard, once full, clean, and white
as snow, was ragged, tangled, and filthy.
His eyes, gently staring, did not blink or track when Stanach
approached.
Stanach dropped to his knees beside him. Once those dull brown eyes
had seen the vision of a masterblade. Once they had watched the first light
shine from the blade of the Kingsword. Stanachs heart tightened. He felt
the shadow of impending grief.
Master, he whispered. The old title came easily to his lips. Master
Isarn.
His was a voice the old one knew well, and one not heard for a long
time. Isarn ran a dry tongue over cracked lips. Lad, he said distantly.
Aye, Master, its me. Ive come back.

He saw the dirty green bandaging binding Stanachs right hand. Grief
filled his eyes like tears. What have they done to your hand, boy?
Stanach winced but did not know how to answer.
He didnt have to; the question faded from Isams mind. When he
spoke again, his voice rang out strong with conviction. Stormblade will
kill the high king!
Stanach caught his breath and held it. The words sounded like
prophecy! They rang with foretelling, and Stanach felt the foretelling as
cold fear along the skin of his arms.
It will kill the high king.
But there was no high king in Thorbardin. None had sat upon that
throne for three hundred years. Aye, and no Kingsword had been forged in
Thorbardin in three hundred years.
Master, he whispered, I dont understand.
The vacant, staring light in Isarns eyes changed, glimmered faintly
with sanity. He looked directly at Stanach, his lips moving in what could
have been a smile.
Always, lad, you tell me you dont understand. And always, you do.
Like ghosts, Stanach heard well remembered words from the long past
of his life, from a time when his hands were filled with discovery, his head
with learning.
Your hands have the knowledge, Stanach my lad, and your heart has
the desire. It remains for your head sometimes harder than the stone for
which you are named!to understand.
So saying, Isarn would impart another bit of knowledge to guide
Stanachs hand at the forge.
Stanach leaned closer. Master, there is no high king now. I dont
understand what you

Isarns brows contracted in an expression Stanach well knew. It was the

fearsome scowl he turned upon an assistant or apprentice who has failed to
listen to instruction.
There is a king, boy, he whispered hoarsely, impatiently. There is a
king. I made the sword for him. Stormblade, I called itthere is a king.
Hornfel! Stanach trembled with exhaustion and sudden understanding
of what Isarn was saying. Hornfel would be high king.
Stanach closed his eyes, trying to think. Isarn was inarguably mad. Was
this more rambling? Some said Isarns descent into madness began when
Stormblade was stolen. Stanach knew his master had begun that long
descent when he saw the unquenchable heart of fire in Stormblades steel
and knew that hed created a Kingsword.
Aye, but not for a high king. For a king regent. Even Hornfel himself
did not look to claim more than a regency. The old swordcrafter was
confused and wandering in the murky hazes of madness and death. He
could not know what he was saying.
Master Isarn, Stanach said, very gently.
Isarn made no response. Stanach looked at him closely, his heart
racing. The old swordcrafters eyes were no longer wide and staring, but
hooded and still. Master?
I made the sword, Isarn whispered, for a thane. Realgar will use it to
kill a high king. His hand, gnarled with age, pitted with forge scars,
crabbed across his chest. When his fingers touched Stanachs they were
dry as ancient parchment. You brought the sword home. Find it again.
Find it.
A knot of pain, like tears, choked any reply Stanach would have made.
He closed his fingers around the old dwarfs hand. Please, Isarn, no.
Dont charge me with . . . His words died in a whisper and a sigh.
Isarn Hammerfell was dead.

Slim, shaking fingers touched his shoulder. Stunned by the death of his
kinsman and friend, Stanach turned blindly.
Kelida dropped to her knees beside him.
Wavering in the torchlight, a black shadow cut across the girl and the
corpse. Stanach looked up to see Hauk standing behind Kelida. His eyes,
feral once, were tamer. But they were still haunted. Images of torment
lived in them.
The dwarf made to rise, then dropped back to his knees. He was too
tired, it seemed, for even this. How was he going to bear the terrible
weight of Stormblade?
Kelida reached to take his hand. Let me help you.
Stanach moved to accept her help. Before she could take his hand,
Hauks came between them.
His was a large hand, fingers hard and scarred with the marks of sword
and dagger. When he pulled Stanach to his feet, he did not, as the dwarf
expected, immediately free his hand. Instead he closed his fingers around
it in a warriors long clasp of companionship.
Stanach said nothing. There was nothing to say.
I heard what the old dwarf told you, Hauk said. I dont know
anymore whether this sword, this Stormblade, is mine. I think its not.
But Ive been a part of this. Realgar Hauks voice dropped low.
Realgar has done things to mehe showed me Tyorls death, and he
made me believe that I had killed him. I knowI know you say hes alive,
but the memory ofmurder is still in me. He has made me die, and he has
brought me back. He kept his eyes on Stanachs now because he didnt
want Kelida to see the naked emptiness in them. And he made me die
again. Stanach, Realgar owes me something.
Stanach looked down at his broken-fingered hand. He closed his eyes
and saw crows in a hard blue sky, heard wind mourning around a cairn in
the cold hills. Isarns last words had been madness, ghost-dreams of myth

and legend. The reality was that friends and kin had died for Realgars
poisonous longing for power. More would die, still.
Stanach watched with a chill of fear as Hauk handed his dagger to
Kelida. You, too? No, Kelida.
Yes. She shivered, looking around the cold cavern. I wont stay
here. I go where Hauk goes. Where you go. She stroked the hilt of the
dagger with her thumb. You were the one who insisted that I learn how to
use this. I think our friend Lavim was a good teacher. I still dont know if I
can kill with it, Stanach. I do think I can defend myself. Im going with
you.
She touched his bandaged hand gently. People have allowed
themselves to be harmed for my sake. I have to go with you.
The dwarf looked at Hauk and saw some of the emptiness vanish from
his eyes. He saw fear for her there, too. In that moment, a silent
understanding passed between the ranger and the dwarf. Come with them
she would, but both agreed that she would not come to harm.

Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bitter wind cut across the narrow, crubling ledge. Screaming like the
abandoned souls of the damned, the wind dragged behind it the black
smoke of the burning Plains of Death.
Like funeral shrouds.
From this ledge, one thousand feet above the pine forested valley,
Hornfel saw the fire as a bolt of golden silk unfolding like a banner,
rippling and shifting to the vagaries of a capricious breeze.
As Hornfel watched, the fire left the Plains. Leaping with uncanny
speed, it gained the thickly forested slopes of the mountain. Like a
rampaging army of conquerors, it made waste of everything in its way.
The wind shifted suddenly, as it will in the steep corridors of the
mountain peaks, howling now from the northwest. The wall of flames
followed the winds trail, galloping madly through the valley below
Thorbardin.
Gneisss message had been to meet at the gatehouse. Hornfel had
waited, speaking with the captain of the guard for a moment or two before
the scent and sound of fire rampaging in the valley drew him out onto the
ledge.
Now, Hornfel stood alone on the ledge, or as alone as his guard would
permit. Behind him, in the wide empty place where once the Northgate
had warded this entrance to Thorbardin, four strong dwarf warriors stood,
two facing the Hylar thane, two watching several yards farther into the
gatehouse. The eyes of those two were not on Hornfel, but on the inner
courtyard and the shadows of the rubble-strewn, ruined gatehouse itself.

Their hands hovered near the hilts of their swords. None of them forgot for
an instant that Gneiss had given them charge of Hornfels safety.
Northgate was, after all, an enemy holding. Though some of the gate
was occupied now by Theiwar, most of the great hall leading from the
gatehouse to the North Hall of Justice was thick with the dust of centuries.
The hall itself, a sometimes active guard station, was clean and repaired to
the point of easy use. But the structures of the temple and residences
beyond seemed unchanged from the time of the Dwarfgate Wars. The
marks of ancient battle scarred the stone walls and floors. In some places,
huge black stains, the shadows of old blood, fouled the cracked, shattered
tiles of the floor.
Until the Theiwar had laid claim to the area, none but the skeletons of
the dead, dwarf and human, occupied Northgate. Some still did as falls
and scatters of bones and ancient armor in black, lightless corners. The
Theiwar, that strange derro race of dwarves, took perverse pleasure in
sharing quarters with the dead.
A song of steel ringing on mail, booted feet on stone, sounded in the
corridor between the gatehouse and the North Hall of Justice. The Guard
of Watch was changing.
Deep voices murmured questions. Hornfel imagined that the new watch
was inquiring as to the state of the guyll fyr. Hornfel sensed a palpable
unease in the voices of the retiring guards.
Hornfel stepped back from the ledge. Impregnable Thorbardin was not
at immediate risk from this fire, but the destruction of the marshes and
woodlands would exact a toll on the mountain kingdoms food supply in
the spring.
We wont be hungry, he thought bitterly, but we will be lean. What will
convince the Council of Thanes that we should not only continue to aid
the refugees sheltering here now, but open our doors to others?
Hornfel sighed.
Like ghosts, thoughts of the anguished days of the Dwarf gate Wars
haunted Hornfel. Then, the Cataclysm had driven the dwarves into the

mountain kingdom. The devastation of that time had reshaped the face of
all Krynn.
The years after the Cataclysm were plague years, and the Neidar, the
hill dwarves who before the Cataclysm had left Thorbardin for the
Outlands, for what they called the freedom of the hills, wanted to come
back to the mountain kingdom. They were hungry and they could raise no
crop, hunt no game, in lands burned sere by endless drought and fouled by
plague.
They needed allies, the Neidar, and they found an ally in the great mage
Fistandantilus who, at the head of an army of ragged humans, laid seige
first to Pax Tharkas, and then to Thorbardin. The humans believed there
was treasure stored in the mountains.
Duncan knew, and so did the hill dwarves, that there was indeed
treasure: there was food. But not enough to feed even those who lived in
Thorbardin.
High King Duncan knew that his duty lay with his people. He and
Kharas, his friend and champion, laid plans for what history would come
to call the Dwarfgate Wars.
Kin made war against kin as Duncan, the last king of the dwarves made
his choice to feed and shelter what relatively few people he was able to
within ancient Thorbardin.
War again raged in Krynn. Hornfel knew, however, that, though wars
brutalities were the same from century to century, this war was not the
same as the one Duncan had fought.
For one thing, he thought, staring out into the fire-threatened valley, we
are not fighting this one. My people have chosen to hold themselves
comfortably apart from this war. For another, the refugees we shelter here
are not of the dwarven race.
No, they are humans. Is that really a difference? One could not, in any
seriousness, call those over-tall and truculent, short-lived creatures kin.
Yet, in the warlands, humans and elves had allied, if uneasily, against the
dragonarmies. An old proverb had it that the wolf at the door will make

brothers of strangers.
And so is another old saying still good, King Duncan, he whispered
to a dwarf three hundred years dead. Who does not learn from his fathers
will learn from no one.
The wolf is howling for your childrens blood, Duncan. I can smell his
breath in the guyll fyrs smoke. We have to turn these strangers into
brothers now.
So thinking, he turned away from the ledge, from the fire, and passed
between his two guards and into the gatehouse. He didnt know where
Gneiss was, and he couldnt wait for him any longer. He would leave
word with the captain of the guard that he been here and
An indrawn breath whispered, and Hornfel looked around. Realgar
leaned against the shaft of the gate mechanism, arms folded and at ease.
He wore a dark, heavy cloak against the biting wind. The cloak did not
hide the shape of a sword worn, as always, at his hip. His narrow-pupiled,
black eyes glittered.
Its like an army, Realgar said, and it comes closer.
Fire without and fire within! Hornfel remembered Dhegan shadowing
him and Gneiss on the dark bridge, and he looked to his guards. Their eyes
cold, Gneisss Daewar closed ranks.
Like an army, aye, Hornfel said. He resisted the urge to drop his hand
to the dagger at his hip. Im going to call a council. Plans will have to be
made; itll be a lean winter.
Realgar shrugged. As you say. He stepped aside to let Hornfel pass
and waited, too, until the four guards fell in behind their charge.
As he made his way through the muttering guards, Realgar amused
himself with thinking about his plans for murder and revolution. His army
of bloody-handed Theiwar were ready to begin the fight for the cities, and
Stormblade was heavy in the scabbard beneath his cloak. The Kingsword
seemed to breathe with restless, hungry power.

He closed the distance between himself and Hornfels guards.

The chill, damp corridor opening on the bridge across Anvils Echo
was not absolutely lightless, though to Kelida it seemed so after the warm,
comfortably lighted streets of Thorbardin. It took long moments for her
eyes to adjust to the faint gray light leaking into the stone hallway. This
was not light from outside the mountain, but a whisper of the stronger
illumination from the glittering shafts of crystal that guided and enhanced
the suns light in the city proper.
When her eyes adjusted, she shrank back against Hauk, who stood
close behind her. The bridge spanned a cavern so high and so deep that
Kelida, who could see neither roof nor floor, could not imagine
boundaries. Low stone rails lined each side of the wide bridge. As though
they stood sentinel, small carvings of dwarves held up the rail with strong,
stone arms.
Stanach, she whispered. The whisper echoed endlessly around the
cavern. Kelida swallowed hard and touched Stanachs shoulder to get his
attention.
His hand on the sword hed picked up in the city, Stanach turned and
Kelida gasped. As he had said in the caverns far below the cities, his eyes
were only wide, black pupils now, empty and ghostlike. A chill swept
down her back.
The dwarf grinned, a comical mock leer. Aye, didnt I tell you?
Frightening to see if youre not accustomed to the look of them, eh? With
his bandaged right hand, he patted her arm. Its me, little sister, only me.
. . . me, only me . . . me . . . me . . .
Kelida shuddered, then felt Hauks hand tentative but warm on her
shoulder. His words chased themselves around the cavern, too, when he
spoke.
I dont like this hole, Stanach. Whats Hornfel doing here? We should
have gone to your Council of Thanes for aid.

It would have been Stanachs first choice, but the Theiwar guard theyd
overpowered in a cold dark corridor near the dragons lair had responded
to their questions about Realgar and his plans with only a hard laugh and a
boast he seemed happy to make: Hornfels dead on Northgate now!
By grim, silent agreement, Stanach drew Kelida on ahead with him as
Hauk lingered with the Theiwar guard just another moment before
catching up to them. Hed left the Theiwar dead in the shadows of the
corridor.
The dead guards gleeful boast had filled Stanach with anger and
despair that hadnt abated until the three reached the upper levels of the
city. It was Hauk who pointed out that what the guard had said could not
be true. Or not yet.
Look, hed said, gesturing toward a merchants square, a tavern, a
park. These people are nervous, Stanach, but they arent behaving like
people who have heard that one of their leaders is dead.
Stanach agreed and felt the easing that hope brings. They might not be
too late to help Hornfel. The mood of Thorbardin was one of waiting and
simmering fear.
Thorbardin scented a storm and knew the lightning would strike very
soon, though it didnt know which quarter of the sky would bring it.
Stanach, roused from his thoughts, gestured to the darkness around
them. This is a Theiwar holding and even the adventurous dont come
here. The bridge should be safe enough.
Followed by the echoes of their footsteps, echoes like stealthy ghosts,
the three set out across the bridge.
Kelida started out counting steps as a way to keep her mind off the
seemingly endless drop below. Though the bridge was wide enough for
them to walk abreast, it seemed all too narrow for Kelidas comfort.
The whispers of their footsteps grew thicker, as though they were
rebounding from closer walls. Kelida sighed, the sound like the wind
wandering through canyons. The bridge over Anvils Echo was behind

them. Stanach glanced over his shoulder and then wordlessly waved them
forward.
His sense of direction below ground, as keen as an elfs in a forest, kept
them heading unfailingly north. They passed walls black with the marks of
fire and white with the scars of battle. In dark corners lay the skeletal
remains of warriors three hundred years dead. The leather and fabric of
their clothing had long since rotted, but the brittle bones of hands still
clutched shattered swords. Rusted mail and pierced armor still hung about
what had once been bodies.
Kelida kept close behind Stanach and took a little comfort from the
sound of Hauks even breathing behind her.
After a time whose passage seemed slow in the unmarked blackness,
light, like gray fog, eased the dark around them.
Kelida made out the tall broad shape of a dome-capped building to
which wide stone steps led. They were no longer in the stone walled
corridors, but a kind of plaza or square.
The temple, Stanach breathed. We are close to the gatehouse.
Listen!
Echoing flatly, like whispers from the long past, came the sound of
mail jingling and metal-shod boots scraping on stone. Fear spidered along
Kelidas skin. Hauks hand, warm on her shoulder, made her gasp and
start.
Easy, Stanach hissed. Its only the Guard of Watch changing. And
likely a good thing. Whatever Realgar plans, he cant possibly carry out
Hornfels murder in front of two full watches.
At one time the temple must have been as beautiful as any within the
precincts of the cities. Though the domed ceiling was gapped and
shattered now, it had once soared across the temple. Some of its pieces lay
on the dusty black marble floor and stars, carved deep into the stone and
blacker than the marble, showed from beneath shrouds of dust.
At first Kelida wondered why the artisan whod made this dome would

show the stars as blacker than the sky. Then she realized that these stars
had originally been deep etchings filled with gleaming silver. That silver,
tarnished now with age, must once have reflected the lights of torches and
braziers in such a way as to mimic the dance and play of true stars.
Columns of rose-colored marble, some split and fallen, some still
whole, lined the wide, crimson tiled walk leading to the central altar.
There an anvil stood, seven feet high, its face five feet across. The whole
altar had been carved from a single block of obsidian. At the anvils foot
lay what seemed to be the helve of a giants hammer.
A temple to Reorx, Kelida thought, how beautiful it must have been!
She shuddered to think that murder was being planned so close to what
had been a place of worship.
Stanach slipped behind the altar and found a clerics door.
This should lead us out into the great hall itself. This whole place is
part of the North Hall of Justice. At one time, the temple was for the
convenience of visitors to the kingdom. Now, its only a ruin. From here
on, the going should be easier. Theiwar may like the rubble and filth, but
the gatehouse is kept clear in case a watch is mounted.
Hauk moved close beside him. When he spoke, his voice was a barely
heard whisper. What lies beyond?
Before Stanach could reply, a scream, high and filled with a terrible
agony, rang from without. The echoes of that horrible cry had not fully
settled when a shout of alarm and then another followed.
Like a bolt from a tightly strung crossbow, Stanach was through the
clerics door.
Hauk grabbed Kelidas wrist. His eyes mirrored both fear for her and a
strange, fierce longing that had nothing to do with her at all. Kelida fell
back a step, recognizing the lust for battle.
Stay, he snarled. Then, perhaps hearing the harshness of his command,
or recognizing that no order of his could hold her if she took it into her
head to follow, Hauk said, Defend the door. If we can still help Hornfel,

likely this will be our only way out.

He did not stay to see that she obeyed.
Alone, the sound of battle rising and swelling close now, Kelida
swallowed back an urge to call after him, forced herself to stay where she
was and not run to follow. He had looked like some strange, heartless
warrior whose purposes all had to do with killing.
Kelidas fingers were cold and dry around the grip of her dagger. The
little weapon felt both heavy and absurdly light in her hand.
Faint memory ghosts from what seemed a long, long time ago, Lavims
incongruously cheerful instruction in the art of the dagger, whispered to
her.
Another thing a dagger is for is stabbing.
Kelida tried hard to ignore the roiling sickness in her stomach, the
weakness of her knees, and crept closer to the doorway. Stabbing . . .
The great hall beyond the temple was only a little less dark than the
disused sections of Northgate, but the illumination there was more diffuse
and even. There was enough light for Kelida to see that Realgar had
indeed attempted Hornfels assassination during the change of the Guard
of Watch, and that for a very good reason. Dwarven warriors wearing the
black and silver of Realgars service filled the place, falling upon the
Guard of Watch and outnumbering them almost two to one.
The battle thundered through the hall. Steel clashed against steel,
voices soared high in almost indistinguishable cries heralding death or
triumph. The stench of blood and fear hung over the place as though it
were the clouds from which the storm fell.
In the center of that storm, its eye and its focus both, a badly
outnumbered, embattled dwarf fought for his life. Nothing marked him as
the Hylars thane unless it was the storm raging around him, and perhaps
the innate nobility of one who knows himself beaten but fights on.
Hornfel had long been a warrior before he was thane.

There was one guardsman left to him, a young dwarf wearing the
scarlet and silver of what Kelida imagined must be the Guard of Watch.
His back to Hornfels he kept off all comers with a wolfhounds valiant
ferocity. It was for this eye, this focus, that Stanach ran. Behind him, Hauk
defended Stanachs back.
Kelida moved without thinking. She was not a half dozen yards into the
hall before the tide of battle swept between her and her friends.
Something hit her hard in the back, an arm caught her around the knees
and, too breathless to scream, she fell. Terror tightened her hand on the
daggers hilt or it would have flown from her grip. Twisting hard, kicking
out with her right foot while she got her free hand and left foot under her,
Kelida lurched to her knees.
She screamed then, but not from terror. She screamed with the rage of
one who sees her own death in the eyes of an opponent.
Stabbing is funny stuff . . . Dont stab down if youre in close. All youll
do is hit bone and make someone mad. Stab up from below. That way, you
stand a really good chance of hitting something important, like a liver or
kidney . . .
Two handed, Kelida drove her daggers blade hard and up. Steel rasped
on mail and the blade turned. Panting desperately, Kelida adjusted her aim
without thinking and plunged the dagger with all her strength up and into
the dwarfs throat.
Blood, like an ugly crimson fountain, spurted high and the Theiwar
guard fell away.
Retching from the coppery reek of hot blood, Kelida scrambled to her
feet. Again something hit her from behind. Blindly she spun and struck,
missed her mark, and simply kicked low and dirty. Her attacker fell,
gagging. Instinctively, Kelida brought her knee up hard. She heard and felt
the dwarfs jaw shatter.
Heart thundering now, Kelida spun and found herself, for a moment, in
the clear.

Quelling urges to vomit, scream, or run, Kelida searched the bloody

hall for her companions. The guards of the black and silver, though not as
many as before, still outnumbered Hornfels defenders. Tall among them
all, like an enraged bear among the battling dwarves, Hauk still fought to
keep any enemy away from Stanachs back.
Stanach, now an arms length from his thane, swept the head from the
shoulders of a Theiwar guard with his sword. He kicked the corpse away
and reached with his right hand, the bandage stained with blood and dirt,
for Hornfel.
As he did, the valiant guardsman, Hornfels only defender, died with a
Theiwar dagger sunk to the hilt between his ribs. When Stanach touched
him the thane spun.
Splattered with the blood of the dead guardsman, his eyes wide and
blazing with maddened fury, Hornfel swung his sword high for a doublehanded blow.
Kelida screamed.

Chapter Twenty-Eight
Friend! Stanach roared, Hornfel! Friend!
It was not Stanachs bellowed assurance that convinced Hornfel that he
was not an enemy. It was the mere fact that while roaring friend Stanach
proved his claim by slicing the arm from a Theiwar lunging for the thanes
back with a deadly shortsword and, on the back swing, opening the belly
of another of Realgars warriors.
Hornfel bared his teeth in a warriors welcoming grin. Aye, this was a
friend. So was the broad-chested human protecting Stanachs back. The
blade of his sword was crimsoned with blood. The light in his eyes shone
like guyll fyr.
Stanach looked wildly around the great hall. He searched the place like
a wolf caught in a canyon by hunters. Like the wolf, he wanted a way out
of the trap, and that want made every muscle quiver. When he found the
way, the bolt hole, his eyes lit.
The Guard of Watch had driven Realgars Theiwar, for a moment,
away from Hornfel. In doing so, they had left him unguarded by none but
these two.
Who holds the gatehouse? Hauk yelled.
No one. Hornfel drew a long breath and looked down at the Daewar
guard who had died defending his life. Its where we were trying to make
for when Realgar attacked.
The young man shrugged and grinned, the grin oddly out of place and
chilling. Lets go, then. Stanach?

Stanach nodded, still checking the great hall as though searching for
someone. Hornfel heard him curse low under his breath. Stanach elbowed
his companion in the back and pointed with his blood-stained, bandaged
right hand.
A human girl, with blood smeared on her hands and a face as pale as
Solinari, stood with her back to one of the tall support columns. She
fought off three black and silver liveried dwarves with a dagger and, when
the dagger missed its mark as it often seemed to do, with vicious kicks.
The girl was outnumbered and could not hold out much longer against her
attackers.
Hauk! Theres Kelida! Get her and make for the gatehouse!
Stanach hefted his sword in his left hand for a better grip and nodded
once to his thane. Ive got your back, Hornfel.
Stanach was the only defense he would have, but Hornfel thought it
would be enough. He ran for the gatehouse.

Piper explored the boundaries of his netherworld as often as he could

and found, each time, that he was able to extend himself a little farther
than the time before. It was not so much a matter of being able to go
farther as it was a matter of being able to know farther.
He was bounded by no sense of dimension now, no forward or back, no
up or down. He could hear what his companions could hear and more; he
could hear the thoughts of those around him.
It was how he became aware that, though they thought they were,
Lavim, Tyorl, and the rangers were not alone in the defile.

The soaring rock walls of the narrow defile formed a perfect channel
for the smoke, a chamber to carry and magnify the roar and snap of the
fire raging along the sides of the mountain below and above them. Tyorl
cursed bitterly.

The air was already thick with smoke, heavy and black, reeking of
burning, clogging his lungs. Tears streamed down his face as the smoke
burned his eyes raw.
Tyorl wondered if Piper were still reading his mind, then laughed
mirthlessly. Finn would say it was better to wonder if he were out of his
mind for depending upon the guide work of a ghost.
Somewhere ahead, unseen but known by their deep, wracking coughs,
Kembal and Finn ran scout. Lavim, following behind, made no sound but
for a light wheezing.
Tyorl did not like the sound of that reedy wheezing. When he turned to
check on the kenders progress, he knew at once that Lavim was not going
to make it to the end of this defile without help.
Tyorl caught his arm to stop and steady him. He went down on his
heels beside Lavim. Weve no time to rest, Lavim. Let me help you.
Lavim shook his head. No, he gasped, Im fine, Tyorl, really, I am.
He was nothing like fine. The soot blackening his face did not hide
its grayish pallor, nor did the smoke-stung tears disguise the dullness of
his eyes. The dirty, weighted air seemed to get only so far into his lungs
before he coughed it out again.
Lavim, please. He took the old kenders shoulders in a gentle but
firm grip. Please. I dont have time to argue. Now, climb up. Piggyback it
will have to be until we can find our way to better air.
Lavim shook his head, his cracked, dry lips thinned to a tight line of
both stubbornness and wounded pride. I can make it, Tyorl. I
Something cut loose inside Tyorl and it snapped painfully hard, like a
whip lashing.
Dont argue!
In that moment, he did not see Lavim, stunned to silence and staring at
him with wide green eyes. He saw the faces of all the people who had

become lost to him, snatched away by the cold hands of death and war.
Hauk and Kelida.
The companions hed fought beside in the spring, dead now and only
raw, naked bones fleshed by nothing but his memories.
Young Lehr who had challenged the black dragon and died for it.
Mule-stubborn Stanach!
Aye, and the mage Piper.
I walk with ghosts!
No more! he shouted, his voice cracking hard in his dry throat. He
saw Lavim flinch and hardly understood why, so caught was he in the tide
of fear and grief washing through him. Listen to me, Lavim! No more!
Tyorl saw his white-knuckled grip on the kenders shoulders and
realized dimly that it must surely hurt. Though he tried to relax his grasp,
he could not. He did not know how to do anything but what he was doing:
hold the kender in such a grip that not even death could snatch him away.
Lavim squirmed, and then, with a sure and fine instinct, held still. He
reached up and covered the elfs hands with his own. Nodding slowly, as
though suddenly he understood something, Lavim found a smile.
All right, Tyorl. All right. I guess I could use a rest. Piggyback it is.
But wed better hurry or well lose Finn.
His arms around Tyorls neck, his legs around his waist, Lavim tried to
settle his weight as evenly as he could. Probably, he thought, Im not
really very heavy.
Hes thinking you weigh about as much as a half-starved child, Lavim.
Aye, well, the part about being half-starved is right.
Tyorl looked around. What?

Piper says were almost there.

I did not. But youre right, we are. You can tell him for me that I
havent lost my mind, or my way. Just another mile down the defile and
well be at Northgate.
Just another mile, Tyorl. I can
And dont offer to walk. Helping you is about the only thing he can do
now to make any difference. So he thinks. Let him help.
I can really use the rest, thanks. Lavim sighed. Piper says to tell you
that he hasnt lost his mind, or his way.
He felt the elfs surprise in an involuntary hitching of his breath. When
he spoke, Tyorls voice was heavy with sarcasm.
I wouldnt mind if he wanted to stop reading my thoughts.
Sometimes, Lavim said, I know what you mean.
Piper wasnt quiet long. Lavim had no more than settled into the
uncomfortable rhythm of Tyorls gaitlike a three-legged mountain pony
who limps on one of em, he thoughtwhen Piper interrupted his
thoughts.
Dragon!
Dragon! Lavim yelped.
Dragon, Tyorl demanded, where?
On the mountain!
On the mountain! The old kender scrambled down from Tyorls
back, fumbling for his dagger and calling for the rangers. Finn! Kem!
Dragon on the mountain!
Tyorl snatched La vims arm and his attention. Where on the
mountain? Where, Lavim?

Lavim shuddered and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, caught between
Tyorls questions and Pipers answers. He did his best to sort them out,
but his head seemed to be filled with the confusing echoes of Pipers
voice, his own thoughts, and the demands of Tyorl and the rangers.
Talking to everyone at once and feeling like he was talking to himself,
Lavim tried to answer. Where? Tyorl, on the peaks . . . high . . . behind
the crest of the mountain . . . What? What are you saying? All right! All
right!
As from a great distance, the kender heard Finn mutter something and
Tyorl answer. Lavim clutched the elfs arm, his heart pounding hard now,
his breath coming in ragged gasps. Hes going to kill the Hylars thane!
That fellow that Stanach was always talking about!
Who, Lavim? What are you talking about, and where is the dragon?
Lavim shook his head hard to clear it. The dragon is on the mountain,
behind the peaks over Thorbardin. Theres a mage, a dwarf, and hes
going to kill Stanachs thane. Hes thinking about it now, Tyorl. Hes
going to do it soon andand theres going to be a battle or something.
Stanachs there! And Kelida!
Stunned, Tyorl could do nothing but stare. It was Finn who spoke.
Kender, what are you talking about? Stanach and the girl are dead.
Lavim turned to Tyorl, tugging hard on the elfs arm.
Tyorl, Piper knows what hes talking about. Its happening now
what Stanachs been afraid about all along!
Tyorl did not doubt the veracity of Pipers report. He looked around
them, along the smoky channel of the defile and at the shadows gathering
high on the mountainside. The shadows of a dragon and war. He sensed
Finns disbelief and confusion.
Lavim, he said, slowly, carefully, calm down now. Ask Piper if it is
really happening now.

No, but soon.

Lavim shook his head. Not nowbut soon. Tyorl, we have to get
Where are Stanach and Kelida?
In Thorbardin. Theyre there, Tyorl, with Lavim cocked his head,
listening to Pipers soundless words. His eyes went wide with amazement.
Theyre with Hauk. Hes all right! Piper says were real close to
Northgate now. Just another quarter mile down the defile. We could get
there in time, Tyorl, maybe.
Finn snorted. Aye, maybe. Maybe well miss our way. Tyorl, the
smoke is so thick now we cant see a yard ahead. Chances are very good
that well miss the gate completely.
Lavim answered quickly. Oh, no, we wont miss it. The defile
becomes a ledge right in front of the gate, and its real narrow. Five feet
wide, maybe. We couldnt miss that.
Finn stared at the kender as though not certain if he was joking. Wed
better not, eh? Its a thousand feet to the valley below. What does your
ghost say about that?
Nothing could have been more innocent than Lavims expression then.
He says youd better not miss your footing. He says you probably wont
want to be caught outside the gate in case the dragon notices us, so wed
better get going.

Rage coursed through Realgar the way the guyll fyr tore through the
valley below Northgate. His attack on Hornfel had failed! Like a bloody
haze across his vision, fury clouded everything. He heard nothing but his
own raving thoughts and was only dimly aware of the groans of the dying,
his own guard and the Daewar who had defended Hornfel, as distant
whispers. Then, cold and black, Darknights mental voice growled from
the heights above Thorbardin. Realgar heard that bad-tempered growling
as a deep rumbling in his mind and grabbed it. The Theiwar slipped,
staggering, into the language of the mind.

Are you ready!

Aye, ready. I am hungry and I smell blood.
Realgar smiled then. Patience, my friend. There will be food enough
for you soon. Youll have your pick of the Hylars kin.
Darknight subsided. Thin wisps of its longing drifted through Realgars
soul and twined with his own.
Realgar ran his thumb along Stormblades guards, feeling the blades
red heart of fire as a wild song in his own heart. The great hall was still
now and, but for the groans of the dying and wounded, quiet. New blood
stained the cracked and shattered paving stones of the court, spattered the
walls and broken columns. He counted twenty dead from among his own
guard, thirty from Hornfels defenders.
He had not killed all of them. Realgar cursed bitterly. He should have
killed the two humans, should have made certain that Hammerfells
apprentice was well and truly dead!
Aye, Hammerfells apprentice, he was the one who had fouled the
coup. Without his aid, the two humans would still be in the Deep Warrens,
dark-blind and secure until Realgar could finish his business with them.
Without that damned stripling of an apprentice to interfere, Hornfel
would not now be holed up in the gatehouse.
Realgar closed his eyes and breathed deeply, seeking a calm place
within where he might think. Slowly it came, and with it came an ordering
of his thoughts. With order came a solution.
Though twenty of his own men were dead, there still remained six,
uninjured and, by the look of them, eager to avenge the deaths of their
comrades. Though they were not enough to rush and take the gatehouse,
there was an easy way to increase their ranks. It would take time, but not
so much that Hornfel and his three defenders would become so
emboldened as to try for a renewed engagement in the hall.
Soon, he thought, soon hell tire of his bolt hole. There is no way out of

it. The whole of the two Guards of Watch are dead, his own guards are
dead. Now, there is no way for him to send for aid. Realgar laughed aloud.
In short order, anyone who might think to aid Hornfel would be busy
fleeing the fire of revolution.
Secure in the knowledge that the thousand-foot drop to the valley
below the Northgate wall would keep Hornfel tightly trappedand if it
did not, Darknight would! Realgar called a guard to him.
Five squads, I think, to the Northgate. Move them fast.
The guard ran, ducking back into the North Hall of Justice and into
secret passages beneath the ruined temple. There were Theiwar ready to
attack the Klar city. Among them he would find the derro to fill his
thanes need.
Realgar stroked the flat of Stormblades bloody blade.

Hornfel listened to the final cries of the dying. Here in the gatehouse,
he could not tell whether those cries were made by friends or enemies.
Muscles quivering with the exhaustion of a battles aftermath, his lungs
thick with the encroaching smoke of the guyll fyr, Hornfel leaned against
the wide shaft of the huge, ancient gate mechanism. It hardly mattered
whose cries they were. They were the cries of the dying. Treacherous
Theiwar or Gneiss faithful warriors, they were dwarves.
He shuddered. Whether or not they chose to acknowledge the fact, they
were kin. And kin had raised steel against kin, as they had in the
Dwarfgate Wars.
Then, he thought bitterly, they were fighting for the right to eat. Today,
we fight for the right to rule.
The sword Realgar wielded was the Kingsword. Hornfel had never seen
Stormblade before today. Fire-hearted steel and blazing sapphires,
Stormblade had cut through Gneisss warriors like a scythe through wheat.
The Kingsword had come back to Thorbardin.

Behind him he heard the restless pacing of the hungry-eyed human

warrior they called Hauk. He was well named. In battle he struck with a
raptors instinct to kill and kill fast, a hawks wildfire in his eyes.
The girl, possessed of a starvelings thin, pale face, they called Kelida.
Hornfel wondered who had named her and if they had known that if they
softened the d in her name she would be known as Wanderer in dwarven
speech. Kelye dtha: the one who wanders.
A hand, thick with bloody bandaging, touched Hornfels shoulder
lightly. He looked up and met the eyes of a son of Clarm Hammerfell,
black, and flecked with blue lights.
Hornfel sighed. I owe you my life.
Youd best not take an accounting, Hornfel Thane, until we find a way
out of here.
Sound enough advice, young Stanach.
Stanach crooked a smile. Bitter though it was, it softened the harsh, red
line of a knifes trail.
Aye. According to our restless Hauk, were neatly trapped and only
have to wait for the hunters to finish us, Stanach said. And according to
you, Thane?
Me, I think hes right. The only way out of here is into the great hall
or out the gate. We cant fly and were only four. You know that Realgar
is calling up more warriors even now. I say if the hunters want us theyll
have to come in and get us. If they do, let them make their peace with
Reorx.
Theyll have to earn their prey, those hunters. If we suffer a lack of
numbers, we have all the weapons we want; this is a guard hall as well as
a gatehouse.
Stanach nodded solemnly.
Wait. Hornfel drew a short breath as though reluctant to ask the

question. Kyan Red-axe and Piper?

Their cairns are in the Outlands, Thane, Stanach said simply. He
needed to say no more. Mountain dwarves know that there is no bleaker
way to describe a death.
Go arm that girl with something more suitable than a dagger, Hornfel
said softly. Then his voice hardened. No mail or helm of ours will fit
Hauk, but there may be some to fit her. See if you can find something for
us as well. Realgar may find us few, but hell find us ready.

Kelye dtha. One who wanders. Dressed in a cast off elven hunting
costume and a borrowed dwarven mail shirt too big in the shoulders and
too short at the waist, Kelida shifted from one foot to the other seeking a
balance for the new weight of the mail.
The west corridor of the gatehouse was apportioned into guards
quarters. Spare, comfortless bunks were built into the back walls, racks of
spears, crossbows, and swords lined the side walls. On either side of the
door were coffers filled with quarrels for the bows.
Little sunlight leaked into the stone-walled room from the gate, though
the air was thick with ashy scent of smoke.
Guyll fyr, Stanach thought. Hed seen the blaze from the gate, a great
sea of fire. With only the thin ledge of the wall between himself and the
thousand-foot drop into the burning valley, Stanach had felt that he was
standing at the edge of the world.
Stanach shook his head as Hauk fitted a glittering steel helm on
Kelidas head. The nose guard gave her trouble, crossing down into her
line of vision. She made a face something like a grimace, almost like a
sheepish smile.
Lyt chwaer, look beyond the nose guard, the way youd look beyond
your hand when you shade your eyes from the sun. Try not to see the
guard.

She nodded, the gesture awkward with the helms unaccustomed

weight. I feel foolish, Stanach. Like a child playing at dress-up.
With a gentleness Stanach had not seen in him before, Hauk adjusted
the helm and stroked Kelidas face, lifting her chin to kiss her lightly.
Stanach saw her shoulders tremble, looked away, and said, Foolish or
not, Kelida, this is one of those times when the costume is dictated by the
event. I would be happier if you would take a sword.
Kelida, eyes bright, thumbed the hilt of her dagger. No. I cant use a
sword, Stanach. I can use the dagger. Sort of.
The phrase held an echo of Lavims equivocating. Stanach smiled in
spite of himself.
Aye, Hauk said, and failing that, there are those who have cause to
regret getting in the way of he^ kick. He pushed her gently toward the
door. Kelida, take some swords from the rack and bring them to Hornfel.
Choose the best, for he is thane of the Hylar. Stanach and I will make do
with what remains.
When she was gone, Hauk dropped to a seat on one of the hard bunks.
Whatever tenderness had been in his expression when he spoke to Kelida
had vanished as though it had never been.
Stanach, were going to die here.
I wouldnt put odds on anything else.
Hauk smiled grimly. Neither would I. I hear you call her lyt chwaer.
What does it mean?
Its dwarven for little sister.
Good, if you mean it.
Stanach looked around then. Aye, he thought, she taught me how to
mean it. A dwarf does not claim kin lightly.

A ghost of a smile lighted Hauks face. Im glad. This is a dirty game

were engaged in, friend Stanach. She goes out there to your thane with a
warriors intent, but not with a warriors skill. It wont matter to those she
fights against. Shes going to be one of the first to fall, and you know it. Is
there a way out of here for her? A place to run to, to hide?
Stanach shook his head. The only thing she could do is bolt herself in
here.
When Hauks expression told him that he thought this a good idea, the
dwarf added, Youd never get her to agree to do it. Ill tell you this about
her, Hauk: she survived a dragon raid on her home, the occupation of
Long Ridge, and a dragon flight across the Plains of Death. She is not
going to be easily convinced that she must hide in here now. And I dont
think you should try. She deserves that respect.
Out in the corridor Hornfel called softly. Its time, Stanach. Theyre
here, and they are many.

Chapter Twenty-Nine
Smoke dragged up by the wind from the great burning in the valley,
channeled through the defile and filled Tyorls lungs. Black, hopeless
dread fill his heart. Though it was only the wail of the bitter wind on the
heights, he imagined that the shrieking he heard was a dragons battle cry.
I dont smell dragon-stink, he told himself firmly, I couldnt possibly
smell anything in this smoky reek but ash and burning!
Still, he could not banish the dread, the sense that something huge and
deadly, taloned and fanged, watched him and patiently waited for him to
come within reach.
Fear of the dragon, however, seemed like a childs warrantless night
fears compared with the rangers terror of the heights upon which he now
walked.
Tyorl cast a quick look over his shoulder. He and Lavim were running
scout. La vims strength had increased with the degree of his fascination.
Like all kender, his fascination grew in direct proportion to the degree of
danger. Tyorl was the only one who could curb Lavims inclination to
scramble too far ahead of his companions, peer out over the ledge, or
climb just a little higher up the sheer face of the wall to see down into the
burning valley.
His legs weak and trembling with both fear and exhaustion, the elf
pressed his back against the ice-sheathed stone of what must once have
been the wall of Thorbardins Northgate, waiting for Finn and Kem to
climb with painfully slow care over a tumble of rocks and gravel. The
slither and clatter of falling stone found echoes in the thumping of Tyorls
heart.

Ahead, Lavim amused himself kicking stones into the wind-torn depths
from a ledge no wider than his foot was long.
Tyorl closed his eyes against a sudden wave of vertigo, found that
darkness was worse than sight, and swallowed. He forced himself to open
his eyes again.
Though the might of the gods, unleashed during the Cataclysm, had
sheared away huge portions of the Northgate wall, the destruction had
been capricious. In some places, like the place where Tyorl now wedged
himself for balance, the raw stone of the mountain gaped like open
wounds. In others, the smooth curved masonry of the wall could still be
seen. The ledge was most treacherous in the niches and the gaps, strewn
with the rubble of centuries.
At times, the ledge narrowed to barely three feet across. No perch for
the rubble to collect, Tyorl thought, and barely a perch for an eagle to
land!
Lavim sidled up beside him, his green eyes wide, his sooty face alight
with a grin of complete delight.
Tyorl, isnt it wonderful? You can see the whole world from here!
You can see everything! I saw the bog, and I think I saw Skullcap, too. Its
not burning anymorethe bog, I mean. Skullcap couldnt burn, anyway, it
being stone.
Ill bet a person could see straight to Long Ridge if there werent all
those mountains in the way. Ill bet he could see all the way to the sea and
to Enstar and to whatever is beyond that. If theres anything beyond there,
that is. I dont know if there is.
My father, he once said that there are other places beyond the sea, but
he never knew anyone whod actually been there. Me, I figure there
probably are other places. Maybe people have gone there, and they liked it
so much they just didnt bother to come back.
The wind screamed across the ledge. La vim cheerfully raised his voice
to be heard.

Back in the hills, when we came off the Plains, I thought I was going
to give up this business of going places. I dont think so anymore, Tyorl. I
thinkonce we save this Hornfel and find your friend Hauk and Stanach
and Kelida againI think Im going to look for the places beyond
Enstar.
There was more, a happy kenders speculations about what these
imagined places beyond Enstar must look like, what the people who lived
there must be like, how long it would take to get there, whether there were
other kender there . . .
Tyorl sighed and let Lavim ramble, only half listening to him play with
his dreams and spin his plans. There was no sense trying to silence him. If
there were a dragon perched on the heights, as Piper had warned, it knew
perfectly well that they were approaching the gate.
Anyway, it would be easier to quiet an avalanche. The kender hadnt
been so voluble since theyd left the bog. Tyorl was surprised now to
discover that he had missed the sound of Lavims chatter.
Sweat freezing on his face, wind-stung eyes streaming with tears, Finn
edged up beside Tyorl. Behind the rangerlord, Kembal picked his way
carefully around the last of the rubble blocking the ledge. Tyorl waited
until the two were steady and balanced again before he spoke.
Lavim, how much farther to the gate?
The kender shrugged. Just around the next bend. Id just caught a
glimpse of it when you called me back that last time. Were really almost
there, now, Tyorl.
And where is this supposed dragon?
Lavims eyes went vague and unfocused. Then he grinned again,
nodding as though in response to Pipers information. He pointed straight
up the cliffs face.
Right up there. Its in a big cave in the mountain and Piper says its
not very happy. Its a black, and they dont like light, he says. Theres too
much light coming into the cave now.

A black. Is there a chance that it wont fly because of the sunlight?

Oh, no, Lavim said with the infuriating cheerfulness of a kender
hedged upon all sides by approaching disaster. Piper says that it hates the
light, but itll still fly. Probably the lights just making it more annoyed.
He says thats why you feel the dragonfear; its really unhappy now and
just throwing around little fear spells out of sheer bad temper. If it were
really mad and doing those fear spells for real, you wouldnt be able to
move. He cocked his head again, then nodded. And Piper says that it
knows very well that were here, too.
Finn looked like he could happily murder the kender for his lighthearted delivery of such information. Kembal slid his sword from the
scabbard as silently as he could and flattened against the cliff.
Tyorl only sighed. All right, Lavim, give the rest of it.
The rest of what?
Why hasnt the dragon attacked? Does Piper know that!
Uh, I didnt ask
Ask!
Right. Ioh, I see. Piper says its because the dragons waiting. It
knows were here, and it knows it can pick us off any time it wants to
Finn snarled something and Lavim shrugged, managing to look both
innocent and offended. Well, Im sorry, but thats what he says the
dragon thinks. Its waiting. The kender glared at Finn. And dont ask me
why, because I dont know because Piper doesnt know. All he knows is
that its waiting. I dunno, maybe its waiting for something to happen or

Lavim swallowed whatever it was he meant to say. His voice only a

shaking whisper, he said, I think were too late.
So pale was the kender that Tyorl, afraid that Lavims legs would
buckle under him, grabbed the kenders arm. Lavim, what? What is it?

Were going to be too lateoh, Tyorl, were going to be too late!

Lavim, what are you talking about?
Lavim twisted out of Tyorls grip and bolted, scrambling and limping
along the rubble-clogged ledge.
Lavim! No! Wait!
Instinctively, Tyorl lunged for him.
And missed.
Caught off balance, Tyorls ankle twisted and he fell hard to one knee.
He only dimly felt the pain as distant fire shooting through his knee and
leg.
He was aware of nothing but the long, terrible drop into the fiery valley
a thousand feet below, felt nothing but the cold, empty certainty of his
death. Though he wanted to, there was not enough air in his lungs to
scream.
With a hoarse cry, Kembal grabbed his arm. Hauling with all his
strength, the ranger had Tyorls back against the cold rock of the cliff face
before Finn could move.
Damn the kender! Finn snarled. Damn him!
Stone and bits of the crumbling ledge slid over the edge of the cliff,
rattling down to the valley below. A cold wind clawed at Tyorls face and
hair. He hardly felt it for the roaring of his blood, the thundering of his
heart. Nausea roiled in his belly, hot, acid bile stung his throat. He wanted
to vomit but hadnt the strength for it.
His hand trembled so badly that he needed two attempts before he
could clutch Kembals arm. Tyorl gasped for what breath he needed to
speak.
Forget about the kender, he whispered, wanting for some reason to
laugh when he heard the thin croak that used to be his voice. The gate is

around this bend. Give me a hand up if you can.

Finn shook his head. No, sit here a moment, catch your breath. Your
legs wont hold you if you try to stand now.
His back pressed hard against the cliff face, Tyorl pushed himself up,
sliding along the rock as though he would never allow as much as an inch
of air between his back and the stone again. We havent any time now,
Finn. Somethings happening in the mountain.
According to that damn kenders dead mage?
Yes, Tyorl panted, according to Piper. Believe it or dont, Finn. You
cannot deny that Piperor Lavim, if you choosehas been right about
everything so far.
Finn didnt deny it. Nor did he openly accept it. He only sighed with
exaggerated patience. Finn found it easier to look down into the burning
valley than at the heart-shattering terror in the elfs eyes. He gestured to
Kembal. Take the lead.
Kembal edged carefully past them. When he was safely past, Tyorl, his
face white as death, followed. Behind him came Finn, and Tyorl felt the
rangerlords eyes on his back.
Watching, the elf thought, to see that I dont slip, but I swear, I can
hardly bear the weight of his look!

The sun was failing, its light gray through the filter of smoke rising
from the distant valley. Lavim, his back to the stone and his dagger in
hand, kept himself in the shadow of the mountain as he approached
Northgates opening. When he spoke to Piper he did so silently.
It must have been a very big door!
Piper said nothing.
I said, he whispered aloud, it must have been a

I heard you, Lavim. Hush! Theres no time for chatter now. Theyve got
a few minutesyoud better get in there while you can.
Whos got
Will you hush!
Whos got a few minutes?
Hornfel and Stanach and Kelida and
Stanach! And Kelida? What about Hauk? Is he there, too? Ive heard so
much about him, and it would be nice to finally meet him. Piper
Footsteps, slow and heavy, sounded from within. Lavim peered very
carefully around the edge of the doorway. He squinted into the darkness
and held his breath.
A dwarf, his shoulders broad, his chestnut beard thick and long and
shot through with silver, walked slowly down the narrow corridor. In his
right hand he carried a sword, in his left a dagger. The clothes he wore
were blood stained and torn.
Thats Hornfel, the Hylar thane.
Is it? Really? Thats what a thane looks like? He needs a good nights
sleep and
The dwarf paused by a half-opened door and leaned against the stone
wall. Then, as though chiding himself for resting, he quickly straightened.
He looked at his sword and went back down the corridor the way he had
come. After a moment, he toed open the door.
Its time, Stanach. Theyre here, and they are many.
Stanach, Lavim whispered.
It was Stanach who entered the corridor, followed by a thick-chested,
stocky young man who looked like he needed not only a good nights
sleep, but several very good meals.

Abandoning caution like unnecessary baggage, Lavim whooped

joyfully and scampered into the gatehouse.
Hey! Stanach!
The young man turned, sword in hand, and lunged for the kender.
No! Stanach shouted, Hauk, no!
Yelping in shocked protest, Lavim ducked, barely in time to miss being
spitted by Hauks sword. His eyes on the glittering blade, Lavim picked
himself up very slowly and put his back to the wall.
Hey, Stanach, he whispered, do you think you could tell him Im a
friend of yours? He glanced at Hauk and nodded with what he hoped was
reassurance. I really am, you know. Once, in Long Ridge, there were
twenty-five draconians chasing him, and they would have caught him, too,
but I saved his life. Then, when thethe waddayacallems caught him in
the river caves, me and Tyorl and Kelida rescued him.
And, well, Stanach probably doesnt know about this but its true,
you just ask Tyorl when he gets here!I used Pipers magic flute, and we
wouldnt be here now at all if I hadnt transported us right to the
mountains. Orwell, maybe not right to the mountains. You see, the spell
makes you a little sick in your stomach, and I didnt want to turn up in
somebodys house or right in the middle of the city and, ah, make a mess.
So, we kind of ended up in the bog andgods!that place is really
burning!
Squeezed nearly breathless in Stanachs embrace, Lavim had no further
chance to list the rest of his credentials.

Chapter Thirty
The broad bay of windows in the west wall of Gneisss study looked
out onto gardens simply designed and laid out in the forms of interlocking
rectangles. The study within had been decorated in sparse, military
fashion. What few wall hangings there were depicted legendary battles
and campaigns in careful detail. Weapons, both ancient and contemporary,
bristled in cabinets and showcases. The furniture of stark wood and stone
would be inviting to few but old campaigners accustomed to the hard
fields of war.
Yet, the gardens, deep and no wider than the length of the study itself,
formed a maze of flowers, herbs, and shrubbery that was one of the
Daewars secret delights. However, lush and beautiful as the carefully
planned landscaping was, this was not the lure that brought Gneiss, as it
always did, to the window.
From where he stood, he could hear the cries of dwarven children at
play, among them his own grandsons. These sounds, and the sight of the
youngsters rowdy and raucous games, drew a sigh and a contented smile
from the old warrior that might have surprised even his friend, Hornfel.
Aye, Hornfel! Where have you been these hours past? You should have
been long back, my friend. Does your silence, he wondered, herald the
revolution weve been braced for?
None had seen Realgar for about the same amount of time.
Armor chimed against stone, and Gneiss turned from the garden to
answer the peal of battle. Two humans and the half-elf Tanis waited with
discernible impatience at the map table. Tanis and the knight, Sturm, stood
studying the map of Thorbardin. Dark-eyed and intense, the knight traced

the streets he knew and carefully connected them to access ways and
transport shafts, familiarizing himself with the infrastructure of the city.
One a planner, Gneiss thought, and the other a careful hunter.
Their companion, the helmed and armored warrior Tanis had
introduced as Caramon, lounged in a seat nearby. All long legs and
brawny arms, he was the biggest human Gneiss had ever seen.
The three seemed odd and out of place here.
Too big! Gneiss thought. All of em are just too damn big!
The dwarf cleared his throat roughly. Gneiss was, above all things, a
war chieftain. He was never an orator. He cut right to the heart of the
matter at hand.
Hornfel is too long gone in the Northgate. He nodded to Tanis.
Three hours now since hes left. I dont like it. My runners and scouts
report that the cities are too quiet. All but one. They are buzzing in the
Theiwar holding like hornets about to tear out of the nest. He held out a
hand to the map table. To work.
He briefly made the three familiar with the six small cities of the
kingdom known collectively as Thorbardin and then outlined the plan of
defense he and Tanis had hammered out earlier.
I still dont know whether Ranee will rise to fight with Realgars
Theiwar, Gneiss said. Troops of my own Daewar and the Hylar will
keep the northern roads out of their city blocked. He jerked a thumb at
the southeast quarter of the map and nodded to Caramon. With this giant
and half the refugees defending the access between the Daergar city and
the East Warrens, and Sturm holding the southern route with the other
half, I think Ranees warriors are going to be spending most of the
revolution caged, eh?
Caramon chuckled low in his throat. Depend on it.
I am depending on it, lad, the thane said quietly.

Gneiss then turned to Tanis. You will do me a kindness, he said with

awkward courtesy, if you would command your folk and the refugees.
Any questions so far?
Tanis nodded, his own smile wryly appreciative. Just one. That takes
care of the possibilities. He ran a finger over the northwestern part of the
map, tracing the areas marked as Klar and Theiwar cities, running up to
the ruins of Northgate. What about the probabilities?
Call em certainties. Thats what they are. Gneiss stabbed a finger at
the Theiwar cities. Its shadow cut like a dagger across the finely detailed
map. Here and here is where the trouble will start. Tufa has already got
his Klar between the Theiwar and Urkhan Sea. They wont be enough to
hold the sneaking bastards, but Ill reinforce them with my warriors. He
looked up then, his eyes hard with warning. Two fields of battle, and
between them is the remainder of the refugees.
You know those people best, Gneiss added. Assign them to
whichever of your two captains here you think appropriate, but keep them
as much out of the cities as possible.
A little hard on your allies, arent you? Caramon drawled.
Gneiss said nothing for a long moment, straining for the patience he
would not otherwise have wasted on a human. By the Forge! He wished he
had the manpower to do this by himself!
You are allies, he said, slowly, distinctly. But, my people are edgy
and likely wont work with strangers until its too late. Do you
understand?
Caramons eyes flashed with sudden anger. Tanis dropped a hand onto
the big warriors shoulder. The gesture itself warned Caramon to silence.
Gneiss had wondered why the half-elf, likely unwelcomed by either
humans or elves by the fact of his mixed blood, was the one to lead not
only these two humans, but all nine companions who had single-handedly
freed eight hundred slaves from Verminaards mines. There was, after all,
this fine, young knight among them. He glanced at Sturm. At best, one
would characterize the look in his eyes as one of impatience.

The dwarf snorted as Caramon settled back, hard-jawed but silent. The
hasty giant had at least half a brain.
Are there any more questions?
There were none. After another few minutes at the map, the three left
and Gneiss was alone. He crossed to the windows again and realized that
the shouts and laughter of the children had fallen silent. The gardens were
empty. He listened carefully for the sounds of the streets beyond the
garden wall. He found nothing but an eerie silence.
The captain of Gniesss own guard found him a moment later with
word that an attempt had been made on the life of the Klars thane. Tufa,
only slightly wounded, had gone to join the fighting that had broken out at
the southern end of the Theiwar holdings between the Urkhan Sea and the
Klar city.
Thane, the captain said, his eyes grim, his fist closing on the grip of
his war axe, the Klar says that the Theiwar have split their forces and
nearly fifty of them have fallen back toward Northgate. He and his
warband can hold those who remain, but he fears that the squads making
for Northgate are acting on some order.
Gneiss buckled on his sword belt and assured himself of the deadly
sharpness of the blade. He knew now where Hornfel was, and he knew
why Realgar hadnt been seen in hours. A trap had been sprung in
Northgate.
Ten squads to me, he snapped. Four of archers, the rest swordsmen.
You are under Tufas command now. Take the rest of our warriors and
support the Klar where he thinks best.
Gneiss held no hope that he could get to the ruined gate in time to
prevent Hornfels death. However, one hundred strong Daewar, forty
archers and sixty swordsmen, would cut through the Theiwar like sun
through fog. He would at least avenge his friends murder.

A bone-snapping hug from Stanach, a hearty kiss from Kelida, and the

reunion was over. Lavim tugged his old black coat into order as Stanach
fixed him with a look.
You say Tyorl is here?
Oh, yes. Lavim nodded vigorously. Hes on his way and should be
here soon. He looked around as Hauk ran toward the gate opening. Do
you think you could be just a little more careful greeting him? Theres two
rangers with him, and Tyorl might not be the first one you see. Do you
remember that ranger Finn that Tyorl was always talking about, Stanach?
Hes here, too, and Kem.
Its all right, the kender assured Hauk, much the way he would assure
a hasty watchdog that the visitors approaching the door were not to be torn
limb from limb. Theyre friends.
Hauk grinned. Aye, old one, I know they are.
Hes mighty quick with that sword, Lavim muttered when Hauk had
left. I thought for a minute there that it was going to get a bit drafty
around my middle.
Sir, he said, addressing Hornfel, did you know that there are people
trying to kill you?
Hornfel, quiet during the reunion of friends, now fixed the kender with
a hard look. I know it, Lavim. Tell me, how do you?
Lavim had the feeling that the dwarfs look was not meant as grimly as
one might think. Still, he thought it a good idea to answer as best he could.
Well, Stanach told me some of it. All the part about Stormblade and how
it was made for you, but this other thane wants it, too, and that youre all
fighting about who is going to be the king something-or-other
Regent.
Yes, thats it. Sort of like a king and sort of like the fellow who
watches the store while the shopkeeper has his dinner, right?
Bemused, Hornfel nodded.

Thats what I thought. Piper told me the part about how this other
thane is trying to kill you now. He
Piper? Kelida shook her head. Piper, Lavim? Hes
Well, yes, he is. Hes dead. But he told me. You just ask Tyorl. He
knows. Its kind of a strange story, Kelida. You see, it all started back in
Qualinesti when Stanach was building the cairn for Piper and
A confusion of cries, some from Hauk and Tyorl at the gate and some
from the south end of the gatehouse, brought Stanach to his feet.
What is it, Stanach?
Theyre coming to kill the thane, Lavim. How are you weaponed?
My dagger. I lost my hoopak in the bog, but
Youll find plenty of weapons in the guards quarters over there. Arm
yourself well and come back here to me.
As Lavim scurried toward the guards quarters, Stanach caught him
back by the collar. Wait. What do Tyorl and these rangers have?
The rangers have bows and swords. Tyorl lost his bow in the
marshes.
Show them the weapons lockers and get them armed fast.
Stanach was thinking quickly now. An increase of four in the ranks of
Hornfels defenders would make little difference at all if Realgar stood
ready to bring several squads of warriors against them. Stanach smiled
coldly. But we have archers now. That should count for something.
He touched Kelidas arm with his broken-fingered right hand.
Lyt chwaer, send Tyorl up here and Stanach stopped, suddenly
aware that he was speaking without authority.
Hornfel nodded to Kelida. Kelye dtha, when youve done as Stanach

asks, give Finn my welcome to Thorbardin. Tell him that Im in need of

good archers, and Id be grateful if he would put his men at the command
of my young captain here.
Stanach watched her sprint down the corridor with Hornfels message.

Stanach, said Hornfel, breaking the momentary silence, If Im to

die, it will not be like a rat in a hole.
Every sword is welcome here, Hornfel Thane, and yours not the
least.
Stanach turned and, with a whispered word, gave his plan of defense to
the six waiting in the gatehouse.
Outside in the great hall, the murmuring of the Theiwar fell silent, the
rattling of their swords against mail and breast plate was stilled.
Like the voice of winter, Realgars order to attack rang cold and high.
There was only room in Stanach for a last prayer, and he made that as
he lifted his sword and instinctively found its balance.
Please, Reorx, please defend us now . . .

The two archers, placed out of swords reach on the ancient gate
mechanisms shaft, kept the air thick with arrows. Kelida knew no
difference between her terror of being impaled on an opponents sword
and her terror of catching a friends arrow in the back.
More frightening than the rangers arrows were the bolts from Tyorls
crossbow. Those split the air with a wailing shriek that was always echoed
by an enemys high, dying scream.
Leave the aim up to the archers, Hauk had said. Thats their
business, Kelida. Yours is staying alive. Hed started to say something

more, but there had been no time. The battle dragged them apart.
Kelida fought with no more skill than shed had in the great hall, but
with as much, if not more, ferocity. It did not take a tacticians skill to
know that their backs were to the last wall now. There was nothing behind
them but the burning valley a thousand feet below the city.
A black and silver liveried guard lunged from her right, a second from
her left. Kelida drove her dagger into the throat of one and kicked out,
breaking the knee of the second. Blood was everywhere, steaming from
her daggers steel and running between her fingers.
Someone, she thought it was Lavim, bellowed a warning to duck and
she did, only realizing as she dropped to the blood-slick floor that the
warning had not been meant for her. A length from her and to her left, a
Theiwar, bolt cocked and ready in his crossbow, dropped to one knee and
took aim. His target was Hornfel.
No! she cried as she launched herself at the dwarfs back, dagger
high. She plunged the blade between the bowmans shoulders, and she
knew shed killed him when his scream vibrated in the daggers steel.
Before Kelida had time to react, Lavim roared warning again. A dagger
flew over her head, missing by scant inches. Kelida heard a horrible,
bubbling moan and turned.
She knew at once that turning had been a mistake. A heavy weight
toppled her from behind. Hands pinned her arms to her side, a knee driven
hard into the small of her back sent a sharp pain lancing through her.
Nausea churned in her stomach, her vision grayed.
Panicked and weak, Kelida heard someone scream her name.
There was nothing she could do to free herself, no breath to take to
even answer. She heard the rough grating of a steel blade scraping on
bone.
Had she been struck?
She didnt know. There was no pain . . . until the blade was withdrawn.

She knew then that she had been stabbed, and knew it only a moment
before she knew nothing at all.

The screams filling the gatehouse echoed the screams tearing through
Hauks soul. Like a starving raptor, he fell upon the Theiwar as though
they were nothing more than prey. He killed silently, a voiceless creature
seeking death and hoping those deaths would amount to vengeance and
that vengeance could amount to cleansing. Those who died on his sword
and were luckless enough to look into his eyes as they did, carried an
image of fire and ice with them through eternity.
Kelida! someone screamed.
Hauk yanked his sword from the belly of a Theiwar.
Kelida!
She was down, lying in a spreading pool of blood, her left arm
outflung, her hand reaching wide as though for help or pity. She didnt
move. A Theiwar lay half across her back, staring up at the dark vault of
the ceiling with sightless eyes. His body bristled with arrows, and
protruding from his neck was a crossbow bolt.
But there was no getting to her. Realgars guards swarmed through the
gatehouse, and the waves of battle carried Hauk far from the blood-stained
floor where Kelida lay, still and silent as the dead.

Kelida! Tyorl howled warning, but too late. Too late!

The bolt he loosed flew true, taking the Theiwar guard in the throat.
But too late! He looked wildly about the gatehouse, searching for someone
who was in the clear and close to her. Lavim was, but only for the second
it took Tyorl to draw a breath to call to him. One of Realgars dwarves
jumped him from behind, dragging the old kender down in a tangle of
arms and legs.

His mind worked on two levels now: the level of searching for
someone to help Kelida, and the level of attack and defense. Tyorl sent a
steel-tipped bolt through the heart of the dwarf who rose up to plunge a
dagger into Lavims back and shouted for Stanach, who was just dragging
his sword from the gut of another.
The wailing of the dying, the screams of the attackers and defenders
both dinned in his ears. Tyorl couldnt be sure that Stanach had heard him,
but he no longer had the attention to spare. Four Theiwar, their cold black
eyes gleaming with a wild blood lust, rushed him.
Too close to his attackers now to make any use of the crossbow, Tyorl
abandoned the weapon for his dagger and sword. Steel in each hand,
roaring Kelidas name as though it were a war cry and a talisman both, he
leaped among the dwarves.

Stanach kept his back so close to Hornfels that a swords blade could
not have passed between them. The thane fought with deadly skill and a
cold fury, and no Theiwar would take him from behind while Stanach still
lived.
As short as that span may be, Stanach thought grimly.
Realgar had called up fifty warriors. The enemy outnumbered them by
odds Stanach didnt care to reckon. Still, the entrance to the gatehouse was
narrow, and the three archers within exacted a deadly toll. Stanach thought
they could hold the gatehouse for a time, if all of his seven could fight
with any skill. But one was an untutored girl, one an old kender, and the
three rangers were exhausted before theyd ever picked up their weapons.
And I am one-handed and failing fast . . .
Stanach staggered as Hornfel, hard pressed by two opponents, fell back
against htm.
Break, Hornfel panted, break the form, Stanach! I can watch my
back. Youre needed in the gatehouse!

Im needed here, Stanach growled.

He sliced the arm from his opponent. Bone glared white and obscenely
naked. No sound came from the Theiwar but a thin, gasping with no voice
behind it.
Stanach read the scream in his eyes.
Blood sprayed high, steaming in the cold air. Stanach ducked to avoid
the blood and kept a firm control over a rising urge to vomit. When
Stanach recovered his stance it was to face yet another opponent.
Realgar!
Sapphired Stormblade raised for a killing blow, Realgars eyes shone
with a hatred like the heart of a raging fire. Stanach saw his death in those
eyes and in the red-shot gleaming silver of Stormblades steel.
He swung his own sword up to counter and didnt know the defense
had gone well until he heard the ring of steel on steel and felt the numbing
vibration of Stormblades strike against his sword. Stanach threw his
whole weight behind his blade, pushing with all the strength he had left.
His strength was not sufficient. As inevitably as the moons rode the sky
eastward, so did Stormblade push closer and closer.
Stanach smelled the rusty stench of blood and saw that blood, thick
gouts of someone elses life moving in slow sliding trails down
Stormblades smooth steel.
In some far place in his mind, Stanach thought that a pattern was
coming right, a circle closing. He would die on the blade of the sword for
which he had risked his life and the lives of those who had become his
friends.
Realgar hissed, and Stanach, feeling the first tremors in the muscles of
his sword arm, knew the hiss for laughter.
Someone bellowed wildly and tackled him low around the knees.
Stormblades steel cut the air where Stanachs neck had been.

He crashed to the broken tiles and slid with the force of the tackle on
the blood-slicked floor. Gasping for breath that would not come, Stanach
groped blindly for his sword.
Up! Lavim yelled, Up, young Stanach! Cmon! Get up! Theres
more of em! Look!
Stanach lurched to his feet, still gasping. He looked wildly around.
More, aye! He laughed aloud. The most of the dwarves he saw wore
Daewar scarlet and silver!
Friends, Lavim! Those are Gneisss warriors!
Stanach sucked in a long breath and realized then that the deep song of
bow strings and flown arrows was stilled. The clash of steel on steel rang
now only in the great hall. The gatehouse behind him was silent. He stared
numbly at the old kender who had once again saved his life. Wheres
wheres the thane?
Blood crimsoned the kenders hands nearly to the elbows and his old
black coat was slashed. A bruise purpled his wrinkled cheek and the mark
of a dagger scored his forehead. But he was still on his legs, his green eyes
gleaming.
Im not sure, Lavim said. He might be in the gatehouse. He ran back
toward Tyorl. Stanach, that crazy-eyed dwarf who was going to slice off
your head followed him! Piper says hes the one who wants to kill
Hornfel.
Piper says Stanach shook his head. Piper says . . . But there was no
time to think about dead mages. He had to find Hornfel.
Whos still standing? Stanach asked.
Finn has a sword cut in the leg. Hauk is all right. Kelidas hurt but I
saw Kern a minute ago and he says shell be all right. Lavim fell silent,
tugging at his long white braid.
Lavim, he said, strangely calm, who else is hurt?

II dont know if Tyorl will be all right

What happened to him? Stanach snapped.
That dwarf with the crazy eyeshe was chasing Hornf el and Tyorl
got between em andStormblade
As though he hadnt heard the old kenders words, Stanach looked
slowly around the hall. Twenty-nine Theiwar lay dead or dying. Realgar
was not one of them, and Stanach didnt know where Hornfel was.
Lavim didnt know if Tyorl would be all right.
Stanach spoke harshly, his throat thick with fear and impending grief.
I have to find the thane. II have to, Lavim. Is Hauk with Kelida?
Yes.
Get him. We owe him a debt of vengeance. Tell him I know where he
can collect it.
Lavim watched him go and only too late realized that in the excitement
of finding his friends again, of the battle, hed forgotten to tell Stanach
about the dragon.

Chapter Thirty-One
Hornfel had no sword. He had no dagger. He had only his life, and that
he would not have for long. Hornfel lifted his head and spoke with a
simple dignity.
Murder me now, Theiwar, and be known as the Cursed King. His
brown eyes glittered. And no curse carries more weight than that of a
murdered man. Meet my challenge. Here above the kingdom you want to
rule is where well decide the matter. Have you the courage to face me
without your warriors?
They faced each other on the ledge like statues carved from the living
rock of the mountain, Hylar thane and Theiwar. Though bitter wind tore at
them, whipping their hair and clothes wildly around them, Stanach had no
sense that they were anything but some stone cutters monument to strife.
Grounded on the stone of the narrow ledge, the blood-darkened swords
Realgar held reflected the eerie twilight only thinly. Though they must
have heard Stanachs approach, and Hauks a moment later, neither
Realgar nor Hornfel looked around.
Stanach heard his own voice, his words, before he was aware of
speaking. We can take him, Hornfel Thane.
Hornfel did not take his eyes from Realgars as he accepted the weapon
the Theiwar passed to him. When he spoke, he spoke to Stanach.
So you can. But, Ive made a challenge, and hes accepted it.
Yes, Stanach thought, but will you be the one to survive this? We need
a king regent, and not the mad rule of a derro mage. Hornfel Thane! Dont

do this!
Like a ghosts whisper, Isarns strange words echoed in Stanachs
heart: I made the sword for a thane. Realgar will use it to kill a high king.
In the Deep Warrens, Stanach had been reluctant to believe the old
masters words, had refused to hear the prophecy ringing behind them.
Now, standing on the ledge a thousand feet above the fiery valley, the
Kingswords crimson steel heart shining with the reflected light of Reorxs
forge, Stanach wondered if Isarn had spoken truly.
Reason tried to dissuade him. Where was the Hammer of Kharas?
Where was the legend that would consecrate a high king? No one knew.
No one even looked for the mythical hammer anymore. Yet Isarn
Hammerfell, who had crafted a god-touched Kingsword, spoke of Hornfel
and called him high king, as though, in the last moments of his life, the old
master had seen legends become real.
Behind him, Hauk moved restlessly. Stanach stilled the ranger with a
gesture.
We can take him, Hauk whispered. Stanach, we can end this.
Stanach shook his head. This is the thanes business. Well wait,
Hauk.
Hauk heard nothing in Stanachs words but a brave warriors death
sentence. His hands tightened on the grip of his sword. Well wait for
what? he said harshly. For Hornfel to die?
Hes a good fighter. He wont die.
Realgars smile was cold as ice. He lifted his head a little, as though
scenting victory. In the gray twilight, the Theiwars eyes were like a
snakes, the pupils narrowed to slits to protect his retinas from what to him
must seem a blazing glare.
Stanach shivered with sudden fear in the wind.
His eyes! No light-hating Theiwar would choose to fight even in the

dim twilight if he could avoid it. Why was Realgar here? Why hadnt he
maneuvered Hornfel back into the darkness of the gatehouse?
Realgar lifted a hand and moved his lips in a soundless word of magic.
Fear, like sudden sickness, shot through Stanach and filled him with
dread.
Hornfel!
His cry of warning came too late.
Twilight became midnight, starless, moonless, and as complete as the
darkness of the tomb. A dragons battle cry thundered against the cold sky.
All heart and strength sucked out of him, Stanach fell to his knees.
Stunned with dragonfear, blinded by the dragons spell of darkness, he
only dimly heard Hauks cry and Hornfels shout of anger.
Realgars triumphant laughter soared through the darkness as though on
the wings of the dragon.
Bastard! Stanach snarled. Treacherous bastard!
The wind of the dragons passing flung him back against the face of the
cliff and sucked the breath from his lungs. Suddenly dizzy, disoriented,
and numb with fear, Stanach was reft of his will and helpless. Caught in a
web of darkness, in a swamp of horror, he was incapable of moving. A
thousand feet below the valley still burned. The flames, leaping high,
seemed to reach for him with certain confidence that they would have him.
The wind of the heights, the blast of the dragons renewed passing
dragged him so close to the cliffs edge that Stanach knew he must fall.
Hauk screamed his name. With the unbreakable strength of panic, a
hand clamped on his right wrist. Though Stanach couldnt feel the grip, he
felt the pull in his shoulder. Hauk had him and dragged hard, hauling him
back from the drop and into the gatehouse.
Echoes from a nightmare, the belling of steel clashing against steel rang
in the darkness.

The thane! Oh, Reorx, the thane!

Hes fighting blind! Hauk cried. The young mans horror ran like
lightning through his hands and set Stanachs bones vibrating.

Tyorl pulled himself up, leaning heavily all the while on Lavims
shoulder. Hed seen men do it, stand when they should have been
incapable of even breathing. Once hed wondered what that must feel like,
and now he knew. A slow draining of life, his blood seeped from the
jagged sword wound in his belly.
It had happened fast, all in a moment. The rage and fury of the battle
had risen to a mad pitch as red and silver uniformed Daewar poured into
the great hall and the gatehouse. Tyorl, back on his vantage point on the
gate mechanism, had seen Realgar, Stormblade leveled to plunge into the
Hylars unprotected back. There was no time to load a bolt into the
crossbow. The elf had moved without thinking.
Tyorl had put himself between Realgar and Hornfel. Stormblade had
been like ice tearing through him, like fire when Realgar ripped the steel
free. Now, he felt no pain. By that, more than even the lifeless cold, he
knew he was dying.
And what was dragonfear to one who was dying?
Thethe crossbow, he whispered.
Lavim swallowed hard. Tyorl, I dont think you
Please. Help me now, Lavim.
No, Tyorl! You have to wait here for Kem. Desperate hope made the
kenders voice ragged. Hell make you better. Youll see. Youll see,
Tyorl.
Tyorl leaned his face against the stone wall and braced his legs. These
small movements, this trying to talk, only left him colder. He slid the flat
of his hand along Pipers flute, still on his belt.

Lavim had once claimed that Piper could read his thoughts. Tyorl
clutched the flute.
Piper, he thought, tell him to help me. I can kill that dragon if hell only
help, Piper . . .
Do as he asks, Lavim. Do as he asks.
As he heard Lavims frantic objections, Tyorls fingers tightened,
white-knuckled, on the kenders shoulder. Please.
Even as he pressed the crossbow into Tyorls hand, Lavim protested
again. Tyorl, you have to stay here. You have to wait for Kem. Hes with
Kelida now
Kelida! Tyorl whispered. Lavim, shes all right?
Lavim nodded vigorously. Shell be fine. Kem says so. Please, Tyorl,
please let me help you sit until he can get here.
Tyorl shifted his grip on Lavims shoulder.
Help me onto the ledge.
No, Tyorl!
The pain he should have been feeling snarled within him, not felt yet,
but stalking him like a relentless wolf.
Piper, tell him.
Tyorl watched the kender, head cocked and listening while Piper spoke
soundless words.
Lavim. Its like when you had to help Kelida set Stanachs fingers. I
know you dont want to, but you have to. Theres no time to argue. Do as
he asks.
But what are we going to do? He has to stay here! He has to wait for
Kem! Piper!

The kenders voice faded and became the howling of the wind. The
stone Tyorl now braced his back against was the mountain wall, and he
didnt know how hed come to be outside the gate. Gnarled hands gentle
and trembling, Lavim still held him up. The cold on the ledge seemed
almost warm when compared with the emptiness filling him.
Close, and yet seeming so far away, steel whined on steel. Blackness
shrouded the ledge. Distantly, like an old, old memory, fear of heights
whispered in Tyorls heart. But it only whispered. As he did not feel the
dragonfear, he did not feel the clutch and drag of the fear of heights.
Lavim, nock the quarrel.
He heard Lavim ground the crossbow and grunt with the effort of
drawing back the string. Shrieking higher than the wind, the black dragon
flew high and wheeled for another pass at the ledge.
Hauks voice, harsh and thick with fear, cried: Stanach! Hes fighting
blind!
Steel sang, boots scraped on stone.
Tyorl opened his eyes when he felt the bow pressed into his hand again.
I cant see in this darkness!
Piper can. Lavim whispered. Its all right.
Guide me!
He will-
Have you loaded the bow right?
Of course I have, Tyorl!
Tyorl drew a thin breath and stiffened as pain finally found him. A
blast of wind, like thunder, filled the darkness. The dragon dove,
screaming with savage and terrible joy. The rangers arms had been so
heavy before. They were light now. Hardly knowing that hed lifted the

crossbow, Tyorl gave himself over to Pipers direction, ready to shoot at a

dragon he could not see.

Darknights fear spell lay like a deadly weight on Stanachs heart.

Hornfel was blind in magics darkness and somehow finding the courage
to battle both the dragonfear and a relentless enemy. Blind against
Stormblade and the murderer who wielded it. Blind at the edge of a
thousand-foot cliff!
Before he could think, before he could remember that he was not
supposed to be able to move under the paralyzing constraints of
dragonfear, Stanach broke Hauks grip.
Dizzy and disoriented, his head aching with his eyes efforts to see
where no sight could function, Stanach forced himself to stop. He, who
could see in places where no light ever came, was blind.
Dragging bitterly cold air into his lungs, Stanach managed to ease the
reeling dizziness. He strained to hear and found at once that he could place
the fighters by their hoarse breathing, the clash of steel on steel.
Somewhere in the icy sky, the dragon still flew. Waves of dread, like
the restless motion of a horrible sea, churned the air around the ledge.
Concentrating only on the sounds of the fight, Stanach inched forward,
praying for some clue to tell him which of the combatants was Hornfel,
which was Realgar.
The high whine of one blade sliding along another sounded in the
darkness. Loose stone slithered, and Stanach heard a boot scrape on stone,
a tightly drawn breath.
Then, Stanach heard the deep, vibrating hum of a crossbow bolt in
flight.

They were nothing, the elf and the kender on the ledge. Hardly
anything to whet an appetite. Certainly they wouldnt satisfy Darknights

hunger for anything but cruelty. That cruelty became simple rage when the
dragon saw the crossbow in the elfs hands.
Did the puny creature really think to do it harm with that toy?
Darknight cut its wings back and reared high, forelegs reaching for the
elf on the ledge, screaming laughter as it dove.
It heard the hum of the crossbows string as nothing more than a
stirring of the air. The steel-tipped bolt tore like silver lightning through its
left eye, and the black dragons scream of joy became agonized shrieking.
There was room for nothing in its mind but surprise, and then panic, as its
wings fouled in an updraft and fire ran along its spine. No sooner had the
dragon recognized the pain, when all sense and feeling vanished from its
huge body.
There was nothing left to it but one small part of its mind, and that part
was filled, for the moment it had left of life, with astonishment.
Darknight dropped with the echoes of its death scream into the burning
valley.

Like fire in the darkness, the dragons scream tore through Stanachs
blindness, reverberating in endlessly wailing echoes from the
mountainside.
Slowly, like ice melting under the sun, the terror of dragonfear fell
away, and the darkness of the dragons spell dissolved like smoke before
the wind. Darknight was dead!
Gasping for breath, Stanach looked wildly about him for Hornfel.
Hauk bellowed warning. Steel clattered on stone, and Stanach spun to
see Hornfel, unweaponed and his back to the burning valley. Dark cloak
whipping behind him, mad derro eyes aflame, Realgar held Stormblade in
an easy grip.
The fire, he whispered, or the sword? The fall or the steel?

Hornfels expression, deadly cool and steady, warned Stanach off.

Give me the steel, he said to Realgar and crooked a finger in a mocking
come ahead gesture. Let me see if you can.
Realgar firmed his grip on the red-hearted Kingsword and leveled
Stormblade. Under the guise of shifting his stance, he lunged for Hornfels
throat.
Stanach dove for Realgar the moment Hornfel dropped low and
shouldered in under his guard. The two hit the Theiwar at the same time,
Stanach high and grabbing for his wrist with his left hand; Hornfel low
and toppling him hard to the ledge.
Stanach caught an elbow hard under the jaw and fell away. He tried to
scramble to his feet, but didnt make it. The Theiwar, Stormblade still in
his fist, struggled to free himself from Hornfels hold and kicked back
hard. Stanach felt the boot heel like lightning on the side of his head and
heard the blow as resounding thunder. Almost at once, two hands, large
and strong, hauled Stanach to his feet. Knees weak as water, Stanach still
tried to break Hauks hold.
No room, Hauk said, pinning Stanachs arms behind him. No time.
Realgar had broken free of Hornfel. Stormblade high, he launched
himself at the Hylar thane, swinging the Kingsword as though it were an
axe. Hornfel rolled back against the mountain and threw himself to the
left. Steel screamed on rock, a high, chilling shriek. Realgar, staggered by
the blow, struck and missed, reeling toward the edge of the cliff. Hornfel
growled low in his throat and then roared a furious curse. He was on his
feet before the curse had begun to echo.
Realgar staggered on the brink of the ledge, Stormblade clenched in his
right fist. Stanach saw panicked astonishment screaming in the derro
mages eyes the instant his foot missed the crumbling stone.
Panting raggedly, Hornfel dove for Realgars arm and caught it in both
hands. He fell to his knees, dragged to the stone by the weight of the
struggling mage.
Let him go! Hauk cried.

With all Realgars weight pulling on him, Hornfel gritted his teeth and
pulled back.
Let him go! Stanach whispered.
Hornfels grip slipped, his hands slid up Realgars arm to his wrist, his
fingers touching the hilt of the Kingsword just as Realgar threw back his
head and screamed. The mage fell and Hornfel lunged for Stormblade.
Steel flashed, fiery heart catching the last gray light, as Hornfel
snatched it back from the void.
Stanach closed his eyes, sharp tears clawing at his throat. For a long,
dizzying moment, he didnt know if his heart tightened for regret or for
rejoicing.
They werent Hauks hands on Stanachs arms now, but Lavims. Hauk
had rushed to Hornfel. Still staggered by the Theiwars kick, Stanach
looked around at the kender in confusion. Lavim was saying something
but Stanach couldnt make it out.
Slow, the dwarf whispered hoarsely. Lavim, go slow.
Lavim tugged at Stanachs left hand. Come with me now, Stanach,
he urged. You have to come with me now.
The dwarf said nothing. He wasnt up to arguing with Lavim and
simply went where he was pulled. He heard Kelidas voice, low and
weary. He looked around for her, his vision skewing a little.
The dwarf found her on her knees at the gaping door to Northgate,
supporting Tyorl. Her hunting shirt was torn where shed been struck, the
gray leather slit neatly where Kembal had cut it away to clean and
bandage her wound. She spoke a word to Lavim, and the kender, his
wrinkled face white, bolted for the gate, shouting for Kem.
From where he stood, Stanach could see Kelidas grief-stricken
expression, the shaking of her hand as she rested her fingers on Tyorls
throat to feel for a lifebeat that, if it still existed, could not be strong. Too
much blood stained the elfs hunting leathers.

He heard Hauks voice behind him. Stanach turned. Hauk looked down
at Stormblade in Hornfels hand.
Slowly, Hornfel laid the sword down beside Tyorl. The flash of
loathing in Hornfels eyes toward the Kingsword, momentarily seen and
instantly hidden, chilled Stanachs heart. Stormblades sapphired hilt
caught the fading light. The fire of Reorxs forge pulsed in the flat of the
blade.
Wordlessly, Hauk took La vims place. He placed shaking fingers on
Tyorls arm. His lips moved soundlessly, repeating the name of the friend
who had traveled so far to rescue him from Realgars torments. Hauks
were the bleakest eyes Stanach had ever seen.
Stanach touched Kelidas shoulder gently. Lyt chwaer. He went to
his heels beside her.
I sent Lavim for Kembal. Grief made a tattered thing of her low
voice. It wont matter. Tyorl is dying, Stanach.
He wrapped his arms around her, supporting her while she held Tyorl.
Im sorry, he whispered.
Kelida leaned against Stanachs shoulder and buried her face in his
thick, black beard.
Stanach stroked her shoulder gently and looked up to meet Hauks
eyes. The rangers disbelief, and his struggle to understand that his friend
was dying, made him seem suddenly very young.
Tyorl stirred. His lips moved as though he tried to speak. When his
hand moved in Kelidas she turned, green eyes shimmering with her tears.
Gently, so that she didnt jar him, Kelida bent and lightly kissed him.
Ah, Tyorl whispered, you kissed me for luck and farewell once
beforein Long Ridge. He lifted his hand, touched her face, her hair.
Kelida.
Stanach felt her move as she caught Tyorls falling hand. Kelida
sobbed, and Stanachs heart ached with stunned grief.

Tyorl was dead of Stormblades steel.

Chapter Thirty-Two
Stormblade.
Kingsword made from pieces of twilight and a midnight star.
Though it was his, Hornfel had not buckled on the sword, not felt its
weight on his hip, in all the three days since the battle in Northgate.
Though the dwarves of Thorbardin acknowledged him, cheerfully some
and sullenly others, as king regent, his investiture would not take place for
seven nights. It would not be appropriate for him to wear the Kingsword
before then.
Hornfel lifted the lid of the coffer that held Stormblade. Lined with
velvet the color of smoke, satin the color of the steels red heart, this
coffer had held the Kingswords of generations of high kings.
Now it holds that of a king regent, he thought, and holds it here in the
Court of Thanes, well under guard, but here for all to see, wonder at,
exclaim over.
They had come like people seeking the blessings of a relic. The Court
of Thanes had never been so well guarded as it had these two days past.
The house guards of each of the six thanedoms stood shared watches for
all the hours of the day and night.
Hornfel stepped back from the coffer, away from the long display case,
which looked more and more like a bier each time he saw it. He wondered
if any Kingsword had ever cost so dearly as Stormblade had cost.
When word returned to the Theiwar fighting at the Klar city that their
thane was dead, they had fallen into confused disarray and fled back their

dark cities.
It was a confusion, Hornfel thought now, that would not find resolution
until the Theiwar found time to stand back from the bloody waters of their
own internal politics and choose a leader from among those still living.
Though Ranee would not admit to a death count, in the farming
warrens Ranees Daergar had moved swiftly and savagely against the
refugees. Sturm had pinned them neatly in the south entrance to the
farming warrens and Caramon had closed them in from the north. Tanis
and his captains had stood true.
It was the end of the revolution. Ranee stood by his claim of defending
his holding when hed thought it surrounded by Outlanders taking
advantage of the Theiwar uprising to loot and pillage. None could prove
he was allied with Realgar.
Hornfel shuddered and found his eyes drawn to the sword. Silver
chased gold hilt, perfect sapphires, and a flame-hearted blade of finest
steel: it was the price of so many lives!
His weariness was soul-deep and he didnt know how he was going to
make his regency worth the lives of the kin, friends, and strangers who
had died for it.
He heard a footstep behind him. Hornfel turned, thinking suddenly of
Piper. He almost called the mages name aloud, but stopped himself when
the kender, Lavim, rounded a broad, high column.
Hornfel stared at the kender. He had gotten past twenty-four armed
warriors and none of them could have so much as thought a shadow was
passing!
The kender, cheerfully unconcerned, greeted Hornfel with casual
goodwill. You know, sir, theyve been looking for you all over the place.
Its almost sunset now. Theyll be waiting for you in the Valley of the
Thanes. Me, I figured this was where youd be, so I came to get you.
Besides, I kind of wanted to get another look at Stormblade. He cocked a
thumb at the Kingsword. Ive been looking at that thing for a couple of
weeks now. I have to tell you, it doesnt look like itself in there.

Hornfel smiled. What does it look like?

Well, bigger, I guess.
Lavim stepped closer to the coffer for a better look. Hornfel kept close
beside him. Amusing and ingenuous as he was, Lavim was still, after all, a
kender.
No, Lavim said, revising his opinion. Not bigger. Just I dunno,
not like Kelidas sword. Or Hauks. Or whoevers it is. Lavim shrugged
and then looked up at a deeply shadowed corner of the far ceiling, his eyes
narrowed. Right. His.
A shiver of something partly fear and partly anticipation slid along
Hornfels arms. Lavim, he said slowly, carefully, who are you talking
to?
Lavims face, a weathered mass of deep wrinkles, brightened. Piper,
of course.
Piper. Hornfel had heard the story in the gatehouse, Lavims fasttalking explanation as to how he came to be entering Northgate by a fivefoot ledge a thousand feet above a burning valley. The kender claimed that
he spoke with Pipers ghost. To his credit, Finn grudgingly backed Lavim
up. Hornfel did not know what to believe.
Lavim, his eyes full of mischief, cocked his head again, listening to
some voice Hornfel could not hear. Oh, he said as though reminded of
something, right. I forgot. Hands kender-quick, he reached into a deep
pocket of his old black coat and rummaged only a little. What he produced
from that pocket made Hornfel smile. Cherry wood, polished smooth as
satin, and so very familiar, the kender held up Jordys pipe.
You know this, dont you? Pipers flute. Its magic. I know because I
used it twice. Once to save young Stanach from thethe waddayacallems

Theiwar.
Right. And once to transport me and Finn and Kem and Lavim

hesitated only a little, his eyes darkening. and Tyorl out of the Hills of
Blood. Stanach was going to bring it back to you because he said that you
and Piper were particular friends.
Particular friends, eh? Stanach said that?
Well, no. I just did. But Stanach would have said it if hed thought of
it.
Hornfel reached out and ran a finger down the flutes length. Does he
really talk to you, Lavim?
Lavim nodded vigorously, white braid bobbing. Oh, sure he does. He
told me all about how you kept him out of the dungeons and how light
gets into the city from outside and about the gardens and farms. Lavims
eyes twinkled. And he told me something else, too. He told meoh.
Well, I cant tell you that. He shrugged. But never mind, youll know all
about it soon anyway. Theres one thing I can tell you.
Amused, Hornfel smiled indulgently. What is that?
Suddenly solemn, Lavim tucked the flute back into his pocket. He said
you should bring Stormblade to the Valley of the Thanes when you come
forwhen you come.
For Tyorls funeral. There had been funerals enough in the last few
days. Hornfel had attended those he could. This one, small and private,
would be different. Tyorls funeral would serve, at least for Hornfel, as
Pipers, too. And Kyans. Elf, dwarf, and human mage, they had died for
Stormblade. And for him.
Though it would be fitting for the Kingsword to be present, Hornfel
would not be able to wear it until his investiture. Not even for this.
The dwarf shook his head. I cant do that, Lavim. I cant wear it yet.
Mmmm. You really cant? Would it just be impolite, or is it some kind
of law or something?
Both.

Lavim thought, or listened, for a moment. So, then dont wear it. Just
bring it.
Lavim, I dont think
Now you see, Lavim said earnestly, stepping closer to the coffer as
he spoke. Thats just the problem everyone seems to have. They say I
dont think, and they really mean theyre thinking. Its no good, thinking.
Just gets you into trouble.
Quick as a trout darting, Lavim took up the Kingsword and tossed it to
Hornfel, who caught it. There! Now youve got it. If youve broken some
law or been impolitethough I think youve certainly been polite enough
all alongyou might as well do it for an hour or so as do it for ten
seconds, right?
Stormblade balanced perfectly in Hornfels grip. It had been made for
his hand and fit well there.
Piper says to bring it? Hornfel asked.
Lavim nodded solemnly.
All right then, Ill bring it. What about the flute?
Oh, that. Lavim patted his pocket. Youve got that heavy sword to
carry. Dont worry about the flute. Ill keep it for you temporarily, right
here in my pocket.

Chapter Thirty-Three
Home, Stanach thought. Im home!
Using his left hand and his shoulder, he rolled another cairn stone to the
growing pile. Hed been reminding himself since dawn that he was,
indeed, home. Now, with the sunset light red on the walls of the Valley of
the Thanes, he still needed reminding. It wasnt that Thorbardin had
changed. Stone and steel, the place was still the same. He had changed.
Stanach shied from the memory of his reunion with his parents, with
his friends. He didnt like to recall their shock when theyd seen his ruined
hand, or the way theyd looked at him when they realized he was not the
quiet, peaceable forgeman theyd known only a few short weeks ago.
Hed been in the Outlands, and hed come home changed.
The difference had not to do with his injury. It had more to do with the
stranger they saw in his eyes. Dark-eyed, he was, and knife-scarred,
changed somehow by looking at horizons more distant than those many
dwarves had seen.
The wind cut, sharp and cold, through the Valley of the Thanes. The
valley was the only part of Thorbardin open to the sky. In ancient times, it
had been a cavern. Now, the cavern long since collapsed, the sinkhole had
become a valley, holding a small lake and carefully tended gardens on the
waters edge. The barrows of lesser folk lined the edges of the valley. The
cairns of thanes and high kings stood in the gardens.
If the Valley of the Thanes was where the dwarves buried their dead, it
was also where they, normally great mistrusters of magic, rejoiced in the
working of enchantment. High above the lake, its shadow cutting always

across the water and the valley, hung Duncans Tomb. Nothing supported
the tomb but the spell of some long-dead mage.
Here Duncan was entombed, the last High King of the Dwarves. None
had reigned in Thorbardin for all the three hundred years since his death.
Despite the lives lost to regain the Kingsword Stormblade, none would
reign in Thorbardin again. Kharas, Duncans friend and champion, had
hidden his war hammer with the aid of magic and the god who had made
it. None had found it since.
Hornfel would be high king, Isarn had said.
Stanach shook his head. No, Hornfel would not sit on the high kings
throne. He was king regent, though Reorx knew hed guard the kingdom
as though he were high king. That would have to be enough.
Stanach leaned against the pile of stone and dragged an arm across his
face. Sweat and dirt grimed the loose, white forgemans shirt he wore.
Hed not stand before a forge again, but he knew no more comfortable
clothes than this old shirt and the brown leather breeches hed once worn
for forge work. There were people who would have done this cairn
building for him, stonemasons and diggers whose job it was to do it.
Stanach would have none build Tyorls cairn but himself.
Of Pipers cairn, built on the lonely edge of Qualinesti, Tyorl had said:
Youre skilled enough at it. Your friends dont live very long, Stanach.
How many cairns have you built since you left Thorbardin ?
Then, Kelida, standing watch on the hilltop, had murmured protest at
what she perceived as the elfs cruelty. Stanach had not thought the words
cruel then, he didnt think them cruel now. Only true.
The dwarfs lips twitched in a crooked, humorless smile. Pipers had
been the first cairn hed ever built. Tyorls would be the second.
And the last, he whispered. Aye, the last, Tyorl. Though Id never
thought to be building yours and never here in the Valley of the Thanes, in
the shadow of a high kings tomb.
The wind whistled high and then dropped low around the walls of the

valley, a slow, sad dirge. Stanach thought of Pipers flute. They were
mourning in Thorbardin and not the least for the mage Jordy, whom the
children had named Piper.
Lavim, perverse and adamant, still insisted that though Piper was dead,
the mage spoke to him, whispering inside his head. Mostly lecturing and
scolding, according to the kender.
Stanach bent to his work again. He hadnt the heart for believing in
ghosts. Piper was dead. Hed buried him just as he was preparing to bury
Tyorl now.

They were seven who gathered in the Valley of the Thanes, under the
shadow of Duncans Tomb and in twilights fragile glow, to honor Tyorl.
It was a measure of Hornfels gratitude toward the elf who had died in
saving his life that he had commanded that Tyorls cairn be erected in the
gardens that had been, until now, the inviolable precincts of thanes and
kings. It was a measure of his respect that he would speak Tyorls eulogy.
Why, Stanach wondered, did Hornfel carry Stormblade with him into
the Valley of the Thanes?
Grimy and sweating still, Stanach watched as Kelida, with Hauk beside
her, took her place beside the grave. The dwarf smiled, for the first time
genuinely. The two had been together only a few days. They moved in
concert now as though theyd known the way of each other for years.
Kembal and Finn carried Tyorls body into the valley and laid it within
the grave that Stanach had made. The piles of stones seemed like heaped
darkness beside the frame of Tyorls cairn. The rangers went to stand
beside Hauk. They were the last of the Nightmare Company, come to bid a
brother farewell.
With a quiet deference to the friends gathered here, Hornfel grounded
Stormblades point as though in salute and leaned the Kingsword against
the piled stones before he took his place at the foot of the cairn. Lavim,
green eyes quiet and solemn, came to stand beside Stanach. The dwarf

hoped he wasnt going to start talking about ghosts now.

Lavim reached up to gently pat Stanachs shoulder. You did all this?
Stanach nodded grimly.
Its very nice, he whispered. He cocked a thumb at Duncans Tomb.
But the shadow of that big floating thing kind of gets in the way, dont
you think? Piper says its Duncans Tomb and
Stanach closed his eyes. Hush, Lavim. Not now.
The wind, cold and thin, fluted through the Valley of the Thanes. Its
song did not disturb the silence of those gathered by the cairn but framed
it.
When he spoke, Hornfel quoted the wisdom of the proverb hed
remembered on the Northgate wall with revoloution boiling at his back
and guyll fyr raging at his feet.
The wolf at the door, he said softly, will make brothers of strangers.
The wolfs been snapping and howling outside Thorbardin, and for too
long weve bolted our doors against him, believing that there is no wolf if
we dont hear him.
We hear the howling now, who have too long ignored it. We hear it in
the mourning of the kin-reft, in the cries of those who die under the claws
and fangs of war.
We hear the wolfs howl in the wind of the dragons wings. Tyorl
silenced it for a moment, but we will hear it again.
Hornfel lifted his eyes then and looked at each person gathered at the
cairn.
But we see, too. We see brothers where we once thought strangers
stood. We see kin, if not kind. And kin weve too long turned away from,
kin who have tried to silence the wolfs bloody howl while we waited for
it to leave, to hunt some other ground.

The wolf wont leave; Verminaard still ranges our lands, and the war
will not go away until it has stolen everything and everyone. As it has
stolen Tyorl.
I mourn with you for the death of a friend.
Lost in his sorrow for Tyorls death and the echoes of past mourning;
Stanach didnt realize that Hornfel had finished until he felt, and then
heard, a change in the winds tenor. He looked up at Kelida, directly
across the cairn. Head cocked, the last light catching in her red hair, she
seemed to have noticed the change, too.
Hauk glanced at Kembal. Finn tilted his head back to look up at the
dark rim of the valley.
Lavim drew a short breath and let it out in a soft, wondering sigh.
Stanach turned in time to see the kender take an old flute from his pocket.
Pipers flute.
Listening for only a moment, as though to assure himself of the melody
and his proper place to join it, the kender raised the flute to his lips and
began to play. The hard walls of the Valley of the Thanes became faint
and gray as ancient memories.
Sunlight danced down a silver river, and Stanach not only saw the
jeweled play of light, he smelled the rich, dark mud on the waters banks,
tasted the sweet river itself.
Diamond ice sheathed winter trees, melting at the touch of a hand and
sliding away to make new jewels. Kelida lifted her hand, touched a finger
to her lips, and Stanach felt the cold on his own lips.
Dew drifting back to the sky on the summer sun glistened on Hauks
face; like tears it crept into his dark beard. Like a wraith, or only the dew
that it was, it vanished under the sunlight. It took a moment longer for the
tears to dry on Stanachs face.
In days after, he would try to capture the melody of that song. Always,
though he would remember and see again the images of the forest he saw
in the shadowless light of gloaming, the song would elude him except as

the half-remembered laughter of wind in the trees.

Lavim dropped to his heels, and watched as Hauk, Kembal, and Finn
arranged the last of the cairn stones over Tyorl. The sound of that sad
building echoed hollowly throughout the valley.
I didnt mean to make them cry, the kender whispered.
Aye, spellcaster? Pipers voice was very gentle. What did you mean to
do then?
I wanted to make a song for them to remember Tyorl by, thats all.
He sighed and shook his head, listening to the wind that was only wind
now. Andand I know that Stanach built this cairn here all by himself,
and that Hornfel said he could be buried with kings and thanes. But it
seemed kind of sad that Tyorl wouldnt be in his woods anymore. I wanted
them to remember Qualinesti for him.
And they will. You crafted a fine song, Lavim.
Lavim frowned then. I did? All by myself? It wasnt you or the flute?
Whos was the intent?
Mine.
Then it was your song, aye?
Hed done magic all by himself! Lavim scrambled to his feet, eyes
wide. Piper! Did I
Hush, now, Lavim! Its not over yet. Watchquietly! for a moment
more. And then, just do as I tell you.

Stormblade sang the high song of steel as Hornfel withdrew the

Kingsword from its scabbard. Though the last light had fled from the

Valley of the Thanes, the blades red steel heart shone. The light of
Reorxs forge pulsed gently, spilling its crimson glow across the faces of
those gathered by the completed cairn.
Like bloody shadows, Stanach thought.
Then, caught by the glow, caught by the light of the Kingsword he had
helped to forge and remembering suddenly the joy of Stormblades
making, the promise of its steel heart and the hope it represented, Stanach
thought again.
Not like bloody shadows at all, though Reorx knew enough blood had
been shed for Stormblade. Bloody shadows would be cold as death. The
light of the Kingsword shone bright in the darkness of this burial place.
Like a lantern in a brave mans hand. Aye, like that.
Hornfel raised Stormblade high and even the shadow of Duncans
Tomb did not obscure its light.
The wind fell silent. Those standing by Tyorls cairn lifted their heads a
little as though, all at the same moment, they scented something in the
silence.
Stanach heard Lavim catch his breath, a sharp sound of delighted
surprise.
Hornfel grounded the gleaming blade on the largest stone of the cairn, a
soldiers farewell. As the blade tip touched the stone, Stormblades light
seemed to grow momentarily brighter, shattering the darkness, just as
Lavims laughter, a gleeful whoop, shattered the silence.
Of course! Of course! the kender cried.
Kelida gasped. Stanach turned sharply, reaching for the kender to grab
and silence him. Lavim, nimble and quick, ducked out of Stanachs reach
and scrambled around Tyorls cairn to Hornfel.
I know where it is! I know where it is! Piper told me! He kind of
suspected it all along, ever since you got your sword back. Me, I wanted to

go get it right away, but he said no, he wasnt sure yet. Its been like an
itch in his mind, he said. But he had to wait. Once he came here, he knew.
He says hes been in the valley a few times before, but that was when he
was alive and couldnt see things the way he does now that hes dead.
Youre never going to believe it! Hornfelsir! I know where it is!
Finn grabbed the old kender by the shoulders, lifting him right off his
feet. Damn, kender! Now what? Cant we have a moments peace from
you, even now?
Hornfel, his eyes still on the Kingsword, whose light was dimming as
he watched, motioned for the rangerlord to release Lavim. What, Lavim?
You know where what is?
Lavim took a quick step away from Finn. He looked up at Hornfel, his
grin threatening to split his face. Piper told me. I know where it is. Idve
told you sooner, but I didnt really know what he was talking about. He
said that this business of being king regent wasnt for you. I said I
wouldnt know about that, but you didnt really look much like a fellow
whod watch the store while the shopkeeper has his dinner. He said to tell
you to bring Stormblade tonight, and hed show me, because the
Kingsword would know where it is. And I said, sure, Id do that
Light as spiders feet, anticipation crawled along Stanachs spine.
Isarns last words whispered in his memory. Lavim! he shouted. Out
with it!
Startled, Lavim jumped and turned wide eyes to Stanach. Im trying to
tell Hornfel something really important here, young Stanach. Just once Id
like to get through something without being interrupted. Now, He turned
back to Hornfel. Where was I? Oh, right. I know where the Hammer of
Kharas is.
Hornfel, his hand still on Stormblades grip, stared at the kender with
an aching mixture of disbelief and hope. Where? he whispered.
Oh, not far from here at all. Lavim laughed. Not very far at all.
Of course, youll have to send someone to get it. A few people

probably cause you know that Kharas hid it real well. He made it
invisible and guarded it with all kinds of traps and magic because he
didnt want just anybody finding it. He wanted a real high king to find it.
Someone like Duncan, you see. Someone like you.
Where? Hornfel whispered again.
Lavim smiled and pointed straight up.
Hornfel looked up at the sky. Stanach, following Hornfels gaze, stared
at the first faintly glittering stars and saw the red star that dwarves call an
ember from the Forge.
No, he thought, oh, Lavim, what are you on about now?
Kelida, following Lavims point exactly, gasped and touched Stanachs
arm. Hauk grinned and nodded.
Not the sky, Stanach. Kelida said, her voice shaking with wonder and
sudden understanding. The tomb.
Lavim nodded. Right. Duncans Tomb. Where else would it be?
Stanach looked at Hornfel, head bowed over the red-hearted Kingsword
in his hand. He saw the High King of the Dwarves.
Hornfel King, he whispered.
Hornfel raised his head, and Stanach dropped to his knee, suddenly
moved to this rare gesture of homage. He spoke before he thought, but the
words were heart-spoken none-the-less.
Hornfel King, the Hammer is yours. Ill find it. Ill bring it back.
Oh, yes! Lavim cried, stepping quickly to Stanachs side. It wont
be hard at all. Theres just a few little traps, some magic stuff and things
like that. Piper knows all about it, and well be able to get in and out
before you know it.
Stanach turned. We?

You and me and Piper and Lavim looked at the rangers and
Kelida. And whoever else wants to come along. I figured everyone would
becausewell, what else are they going to do all by themselves here in
Thorbardin while you and me and Piper are off getting the Hammer?
You know how these things are, Stanach. It might take a day or two.

Full night settled on the Valley of the Thanes. Shadows became

darkness. Stanach, sitting on the ground beside Tyorls cairn, looked up at
Kelida.
A day or two, he says. He crooked a wry smile. Or says Piper
says.
Stanach, do you believe that?
The dwarf shrugged. Theres no denying that Finn backs up his story
of Piper guiding them through the defile. Lavim says that Piper guided
Tyorls crossbow when he killed the dragon. Stanach was silent for a
long moment. He was a fine shot, Tyorl. But
Kelida nodded. It was dark. No one could have seen through that to
aim so perfectly at the dragons one vulnerable spot. It would be nice to
think . . .
Stanach sighed. It would be nice to think that Piper was, in some way,
still with him. It would be nice to think
Stanach drew back, scowling. Im going after the Hammer of Kharas
on the word of a ghost-haunted kender?
Were going after the Hammer.
We, eh?
Kelida dropped to a seat beside him and did not answer the question.
She ran a forefinger lightly along a cairn stone. After a moment she said,
Ill miss him.

Aye, so will I.
Kelida turned suddenly, the color high in her cheeks. Stanach, I said it
in the Deep Warrens, Ill say it now: I go where Hauk goes. I go where
you go. I will help you find the Hammer of Kharas.
Stanach looked up at the tomb suspended above the lake. The calm, icy
waters feathered in a light breeze. Starlight softened the waters black
surface to gray as it lapped gently against the shore.
Kelida covered his ruined hand gently with hers.
The dwarf rose and pulled her to her feet. Wed best get back. I dont
recall that Lavim ever gave Pipers flute to Hornfel. Ive heard enough
about what hes done with it, and therell be no sleeping for me until its
safely in Hornfels hands.
Kelida walked silently beside him as they left the Valley of the Thanes.
When he paused at the gate into the mountain and looked back, Stanach
saw the shadow of Duncans Tomb, cast in Solinaris light, shrouding
Tyorls cairn.
The breeze became a low singing wind, and Stanach entered
Thorbardin thinking of forests.

Tyorls Song
The river wide flows through the forest.
Sunlight glistening at will,
Daystars around the edge
Of an image of Autumn.

Jeweled with woven patterns of ice,

Bare trees take on new beauty
Under a cold Winters twilight.
Diamonds? Mere glass on a night such as this.

Alive with whispered promises,

New life is hidden in old thickets.
And young stir in their nests,
Turning a soft eye to Spring.

Rising with the dew burning from the leaves,

Walking through the heat of the midday sun,

A breeze dances through the glade
On a hot Summers night.

Chorus:

Seasons of beauty,
A quiet land of peace
Under seclusion of the trees.
Find the beauty at your feet.
Mark Varian