Haunted Mountain

chapter 1

Visions

B !

yron Thorn ran through the darkness, dodging from tree to tree. He paused often to watch and listen, clutching the monocle that hung from a silver chain around his neck. A warm breeze was blowing. Cricket and frog song filled the forest and the blink of fireflies flecked the near and far. Lush, leafy trees hissed and waved in the wind, letting the stars peek through. The sounds of Midsummerfest were faint behind him. Cresting a low hill, Byron looked back. The glow of the fires and the huge dancing shadows of the Woodren, the people of Hiding Wood — centaurs and humans, woodland animals, and Byron’s own people, the satyrs — leaped and loomed atop Summercrest Hill. They were gathered for the shortest night of the year, dancing and singing, feasting and playing the music of celebration. Byron’s hand strayed to the silver horn on his head. He rubbed the sharp tip as one might stroke his chin in thought. The wind came stronger, making the sounds from the firelit hilltop louder for a moment. Byron frowned and rolled his eyes at the thought of Edgar Burcatcher insisting the silver tip was an ornamental cap that Byron was trying— without success— to bring into fashion. “Stupid Edgar,” Byron said. And he thought of his friends: Dindra, daughter of the great

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centaur Palter Thundershod; Shilo Prinder, a human girl who could speak to animals; Rufus and Raefer, the dryad brothers; Quill, a griffin princess; and Nosh, the prince of the dwarves. Shilo had just moved to Hiding Wood with her family the previous spring. That very night she was to leave for Bilérica, the Place of Summer, to begin her Warra training. Raefer was visiting from the great oak forest of Ghostwood, where Rufus had stayed behind to further his training as a dryad scout. Quill was at home in the mountain aeries of the griffins, under the strict and watchful eye of her mother, Queen Gulthenna. Nosh was in Bilérica with Hixima, the Warra priestess, and Thúmose, the Unicorn, who was none other than King Silverlance himself. All six of them had been with Byron the previous winter, when he’d gone off to find Silverlance, high king of the legendary realm of Everándon, journeying east by the light of the mysterious Midwinter Star. Arden, poet of the Woodland King, had written a series of ballads about the journey. Raefer had memorized them in full, and took every chance he got to sing one of them, or as many as he thought there might be time for. But nobody, not even Rufus, had the heart to tell Raefer he couldn’t sing. Still, the feat of memorizing the whole Wander Cycle in just under three months had earned Raefer the respect of Arden himself. Byron looked up at the waxing moon, still early in its first quarter. Cryolar and the griffins’ll be here soon. Don’t want to miss Shilo’s farewell. Come on Thorn, Raefer can’t cover for you forever. Byron pressed on down the hillside, silent, creeping. The lake was near, his task at hand. He crouched and listened. Laughter and the sound of splashing reached him. “Elpinor,” said a giggling female voice, trying not to be too loud. “You mustn’t!”

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“Never mind that!” came the voice of a man, less concerned with silence. “Oh, hush!” said the woman. “Someone will hear!” “Who can hear over all that music and dancing?” said the man. He gave a loud cry. Then there was a heavy splash, followed by a stifled shriek of delight and more laughter. Byron crept closer, alert to the giggling and whispers that followed the calming of the splash. Toward the bottom of the slope the trees ended in a line, giving way to an open space. Byron stopped and hid behind a tall maple. He poked his head out and took the lay of things. Twenty paces below the slope leveled off into a lawn that continued to the lake’s edge. Byron could see the discarded clothes— tunics and kirtles, belts and shoes— scattered about on the grass. A picnic was spread on a blanket with an empty wine bottle wrapped in a wicker sheath and two glasses standing near. The moon shimmered on the lake, lighting the beads of water that leaped from a playful splash. There they were: a human man and woman, flopping and floating in the dark, treading water in the lake. Byron measured the open span between the edge of the trees and the lakeside. “Oh, they’re gonna see me,” he whispered, smiling as he pulled back into his hiding place. “There’s no way they’re not gonna see me.” He peeked out again and looked at his targets: Elpinor, the king’s chamberlain, and Oleander, the barmaid from the Sickle and Sheaf, frolicking in the water with Midsummer gladness under the light of the young moon. Byron stepped from his cover and, keeping to what shadows he could, hugger-muggered his way forward onto the grass. “Oh, Elpinor, you’re wicked!” Oleander said, laughing. “Don’t say such things!”

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“More wine?” Elpinor asked. “No, I couldn’t,” Oleander said. “I’ve had too much already.” Elpinor responded with words Byron could not make out. Oleander giggled and cooed a little and laughter welled up in Byron as he crept along. He stopped and crouched, slapping his hands over his mouth, striving against hysterics. His whole body shook with the struggle. Oleander turned. “Did you hear something?” “What?” Elpinor said. “No, nothing. There was nothing.” Giggles and whispers resumed. Byron held his nose until his ears popped but a single laugh snorted through. Both heads turned at the sound. Byron could no longer contain his laughter. He broke from the shadows and ran about the lawn, laughing and leaping, gathering everything but the belts and shoes. Elpinor gave such a cry that Byron nearly dropped all the clothes. “Thorn!” the chamberlain shouted. “Byron Thorn you bring those back! Byron Thorn!” Oleander put her hands to the sides of her face and gave another shriek of delight. She beamed with a great, wide smile and soon she was laughing harder than Byron. Elpinor looked at her in complete shock. She tried to stop herself when she saw his face, but that only made things worse. He was back into the shallows down to his chest when he realized where his clothes were. He started shrieking and slapping the water as Byron turned and fled into the trees with the pile of stolen garments under one arm and the last of the roasted pheasant in the crook of the other. “Byron Thorn get back here!” Elpinor shouted again, nearly losing his voice. The last thing Byron heard was Oleander’s merry, high-pitched laughter and Elpinor shouting, “This isn’t funny!” with all the power in his lungs. Byron’s eyes were wide and searching. Leafy twigs and branches

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lashed his chest and legs as he darted among the trees, eating the roasted pheasant. After a hundred yards he stopped to listen and look back. “He’s not gonna follow,” Byron panted. “But I’ll confuse the trail a little, just in case.” He climbed the root claw of a great wind-stricken tree, and ran along its mighty trunk to where it lay across an old stone wall. At last he came to the remains of a small bridge that spanned a narrow brook. Byron hopped down into the water and waded upstream to a hawthorn thicket that overcast the brook like a natural tunnel. He stood for a moment, cleaning the drumstick of the stolen pheasant, then stepped beneath the dense weave of the hawthorn. “Can’t see a blind thing in here,” he said. No light penetrated the overarching thicket. It was in full bloom. He put his monocle up to his eye and looked around. As always, darkness became clear as noon on a sunny day. The trunks of the hawthorn mixed with grasses and thorny shoots to make two thick side walls. Above, the overgrowth was dense as a basket. There were no leaves, only gray spiny branches that had not seen sun for years. The floor of the brook bed was sandy and strewn with stones. The water rushed past, and Byron could see fish holding their place as they swam with just enough strength against the current. Once he was deep inside, Byron let the monocle drop and rubbed his eye with a knuckle. After a rest and a drink, he put the monocle back in place and started forward. The flowing water, the dark mud of the banks, the trunks and close-woven branches of the hawthorn did not appear. Instead there was firelight. Byron heard shouting and the sound of metal striking metal. Startled, he let the monocle drop again and tipped his head to listen. “What was that? ” he whispered, frowning into the darkness.

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There was no sound at all except the water flowing. “It sounded like — oh, forget it, the griffins’ll be here soon.” He put the monocle to his eye aand started forward. A vision appeared through the monocle, but it felt to Byron like he was actually in it. There were torches and he could feel the wind blowing. The hawthorn and the brook disappeared and Byron saw a giant sky filled with stars. All around him swords and spears glinted with firelight. Metal clashed on metal and harsh voices shouted. A huge creature clad in battered chain mail stepped up beside Byron, holding an enormous axe. Byron cried out and fell back. Then he was in the hawthorn tunnel again, in the utter darkness, lying on his side in the flowing water with the monocle trailing at the end of its chain. It had fallen from his eye. “What — what the — ?” he said, groping for the monocle. “What was that thing?” Dripping and dizzy, Byron stood. “It was huge.” Byron followed the chain to the monocle and held it in his fist. Then he shook his head and set the round glass to his eye. At once the vision returned. A new moon reigned and the sky was full of stars. The air was cold and Byron stood on a high mountain. The battle continued. Shadowy shapes moved all around Byron in the firelight, shouting and growling, wielding cruel, jagged weapons. Five feet away a large man in a shirt of scale armor drove a broken spear into a horrible, shrieking creature that had fallen to the ground. There were dwarves, humans, satyrs, centaurs, dryads, and strange dark creatures with kettle-like helmets. Several huge, lumbering forms roamed about, swinging clubs. In the middle of it all was a wide stone basin filled with ashes and dead embers. Ankle deep in the ashes, three enormous creatures strove to work a single white-hot coal the size of a rain

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barrel. The air around it shimmered with heat. The creatures rolled it forward with long, heavy rods of some dark metal. In a circle around them was a gathering of dark forms, each wrapped in a cape. One of them stood apart. A dim red glow filled the face of its hood. It held its gloved hands out before it, fingers splayed, as the workers strove with the coal. The fighting stopped and the victorious warriors approached the basin, holding up torches as they marched in out of the darkness. Centaurs and satyrs stood side by side with the clubwielding brutes. There were humans and dryads, gnomes and salamanders, and many terrible-looking folk the likes of which Byron had never seen. They watched in silence as the hulking workers labored. When everyone was still, Byron could hear a voice. It spoke in a strange, sinister language. Then one of the other caped forms turned and gave a shout. The voice was cool and rich, a woman’s voice that made Byron want to hear more. The crowd parted at the far end of the fire pit. Six more of the huge workers stepped up, carrying a great metal vessel. It swung on chains between two stout poles which lay across their shoulders. They set the vessel down in the ashes and two of them removed the top and put it aside. When the giant coal was near enough, three of the vessel bearers joined the laborers in the task of moving it. Standing one on each end of the long metal rods, they lay the rods across each other in a triangle beneath the coal. Then, with a mighty heave and great shouts of defiance, they lifted it and dropped it into the vessel. All the while, the figure with the glowing hood muttered the harsh, throaty words and held out its hands. But when the lid was secure on the top of the vessel, it stopped its incantation. All at once, many strange symbols, cut into the lid for air slits, filled with blinding white fire.

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The glowing hood went dark and the figure spoke. “The Balefire is ours,” it said. “Borántu will not have his feast.” It strode across the ashes with the entire hooded company behind it. The crowd parted. Those closest to the hooded figures averted their eyes and stepped on each other in their efforts to back away. A whip cracked. A small, angry fellow with a loud, shrill voice stepped up and began to lash the vessel bearers. He shouted a few harsh words and the bearers took up their poles. With shouts and loud growls they lifted the vessel. The poles flexed and creaked. The chains stretched and clinked. Then, in perfect step, the six bearers set off, slow and steady, moving through a gap in the crowd. Three on each side they went, with the strange brazier swaying between them. Byron opened his eyes to darkness and heard the sound of underwater. He thrust with his hands against the bed of the brook and broke the surface with a sputtering cry. The vision was gone and he was back in the hawthorn tunnel. “What — what’s happening?” he said with a gasp as he choked for breath and coughed the water from his lungs. He gaped around, searching for the people and the mountaintop. Then Byron stopped and locked a gaze of understanding on the darkness. “The monocle!” he said, reaching for it with both hands. He snatched up the chain and pulled until the monocle snapped into his grip. “I have to see what happened!” He thrust the monocle up to his eye, and paused. Byron bit his lower lip, then slowly, cautiously, he set the monocle in place. Again, the vision returned, but it was a different place. The air was crisp with autumn and Byron was standing in a wood, on a path covered with new fallen leaves. A small band was gathered in torchlight — satyrs and centaurs, dwarves, humans and dryads—

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standing in a circle. A tall man stood in the middle holding a torch in one hand and a long, heavy sword in the other. “I’m glad to see you alive, Rayla,” he said. “I’m told your Firedrakes have suffered great losses.” “Four of us are dead,” said the satyress to whom he had spoken. “Jaric, Mintel, Jenna, and Arcánadin.” “Arcánadin Thorn slain?” said one of the dwarves. “Do you have a new leader?” “Arcánadin’s daughter, Erolyn Thorn, has led three successful forays of her own design,” Rayla said. “It was she who discovered Wytherban’s plan for the Balefire.” “And now his plan will fail,” said a dwarf with a firm nod to the group. “Why would the Dragon permit such treachery?” the tall man asked. “His intentions for the Balefire have long been feared. Has Wytherban grown so strong as to steal his master’s prize?” “I think not,” Rayla said. “Rather, Borántu has grown weak. Something has happened to him. The Unicorn is behind it.” “And no one knows where he has gone,” the tall man said. Rayla shook her head. “Erolyn was the last to see him.” “And where is she?” “Dead, maybe,” Rayla said. “We’re scattered all over. Rumors are all I have.” A centaur holding a long spear trotted up to the group. “Thane Belemere,” he said, “The outer watch has reported torches. They are coming!” “Very good,” said the tall man. “Go and make ready. Let them pass and close on them from the rear when you see the signal.” The centaur nodded and galloped away into the darkness. “All right then,” said the tall man. “Borgelf, are the grunks ready?”

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“They’re not far, Thane Belemere,” said one of the dwarves. “I’ll go and alert them now.” “Good,” Belemere said. “We’ll need them to handle the trolls. Very well, you all know what to do. Go with the strength of the Unicorn. Bold strokes for the light!” “For the light!” each one said, and they all went off into the trees. Soon Byron heard the faint sound of a whip and a shrill, angry voice. A dim glow appeared through the trees in the distance. As it drew near, Byron heard the grunts and snorts of enormous creatures laboring under some heavy burden. At last he saw the vessel bearers marching along, three on each side of the glowing coal, with their little taskmaster driving them on with his whip. Leading the company was a band of strange dark warriors. A foul smell went before them. In the glow of the coal Byron saw that they had no flesh, only rotted, broken bone. Their armor and weapons were rusted and decayed, and in their eye sockets burned a faint red glow. A flaming arrow appeared above the forest and a war-horn sounded. A swarm of shadows flew from the trees and fell upon the guardians of the vessel. Only around the vessel itself was there light enough for Byron to see by. The trolls set down their burden and took up the huge, studded clubs they carried at their belts. They stood and waited by the vessel, watching. Their little taskmaster moved among them, shouting and putting up his hands. The trolls did not move, but stood in a tight circle around the vessel. Battle raged in the dark all around. A pair of fighters appeared — a dwarf and one of the dark warriors— silhouetted against the glow of the coal. The dwarf fell with a muffled cry as his helmet came down over his eyes and split beneath the blow of the

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warrior’s sword. The warrior lifted a splayed, bony hand. The red glow in its eyes burned brighter and it gave a terrible cry. Then the tall man, Belemere, stepped up to meet the dark warrior. They crossed swords again and again, each with incredible strength and speed. They ducked and crouched and circled until at last, in a burst of agility, Belemere came on too strong for the dark warrior and it fell beneath his sword with its head severed from its shoulders. In the place where the sword passed through the bone, a small red light flashed in the darkness. Hooves galloped down the path and the centaurs charged in behind the vessel bearers, the tips of their spears afire. The whole group of trolls turned to face the attack. The centaurs hurled their spears with all their force, but those that were not swatted aside simply glanced away or shivered to splinters on the thick hide of the trolls. Their little taskmaster shouted his shrill commands and they hoisted their clubs. Centaur after centaur fell to the ground, killed or wounded hard by the terrible force of the blows. Still they came, bounding around the circle of trolls, leveling spear after useless spear. The vessel bearers swung their clubs and thwarted attack after disastrous attack until the ground was strewn with broken centaurs, whose efforts fell more to dragging their comrades out of harm’s reach than to furthering the assault on the coal. A shout went up and there was a great crack of wood that shook the trees. A huge shape appeared, black against the darkness. It moved slowly and swayed from side to side. Four more shapes followed it, each one as big and lumbering as the first. The trolls craned their necks and peered into the darkness, wringing their clubs in their huge, four-fingered fists. Their taskmaster looked also, fidgeting and shifting his weight. “The grunks!” shouted a voice.

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As the dark shapes drew near, the trolls began to growl and brandish their clubs. The grunks made no sound except for the heavy thud of their falling feet. The little taskmaster gave a slobbering shriek and cracked his whip. Without looking at him, one of the trolls swatted him into the trees with a sweep of its club. Six trolls and five grunks fell upon each other in a ground-shaking bout of crushing blows with club and fist. The grunks were larger and slower than the trolls. They endured the mighty club blows one after another. Byron watched in horror as a troll whacked one of the grunks seven times before the grunk responded. When it did, it struck the troll with a fist the size of a large pumpkin. The troll fell to the ground, never to rise, for the grunk followed through with a single swipe of its club. When the battle ended, the warriors of the Unicorn came in from the forest. One grunk was wounded, four trolls were dead, and the other two fled into the woods. The grunks set down their clubs and took seats on the ground around their wounded companion. “Wülken,” Belemere said, kicking the severed skull of a dark warrior. A group had gathered around him. “They seem to be everywhere these days,” said one of the satyrs. “Whatever the fate of the Dragon, Wytherban has grown strong.” “He’ll soon know of his defeat here,” said Rayla the satyress. “His servants are his eyes and ears. We must get the ember away before the wyverns come.” “Where can we take it?” asked a centaur. “What place can contain it? The vessel is already beginning to fail.” “The vessel will hold a while longer,” said Borgelf the dwarf. “Its make is evil but masterful.”

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“There is a place we can go, where it will be safe,” another dwarf said. “Perhaps the only place in Everándon, besides its rightful place, I mean.” “By now it’s sure to be hazardous,” Borgelf said. “Who can say what we’ll find there.” “There’s no other way,” the other dwarf said. “The ember must be hidden before the vessel fails and no one can approach it. Wytherban must not have it back.” “Where then?” asked Rayla. “Where shall we take it?” “Byron? Byron!” cried a voice. “Raefer! Shilo! Come quick!” Strong hands pulled Byron from the water and frightened voices called his name. “Byron! Byron can you hear me?” “Turn him over, get the water out of ’im!” “Dindra —” Byron moaned. “Raefer —” A fit of coughing seized him and for a long time all Byron could get out was the water in his lungs. He gagged helplessly as it found its way up and out. His friends pounded him on the back until he finished with a final fit of coughing and tears. “Oh, Byron,” Shilo cried when at last he opened his eyes and looked around. She was there with Raefer and Dindra, all three hovering over him with stricken faces, holding torches against the dark. “Did you hit your head?” “Byron, what happened in there?” Dindra asked, moving her torch toward the opening of the hawthorn tunnel. “You came staggering out like you were being chased!” Byron sat up and looked at the tunnel. He’d found his way clear to the other end without knowing it. “I—” he said, looking from the tunnel to his friends, one by one. “Shilo— Din —” “Oh, Byron,” Dindra said. “Oh, that was close.”

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“It’s sure lucky you told me your plan, By,” Raefer said, clutching Byron’s arm. “You’d have been drowned for sure. Can you stand? Here, lean on me.” Raefer helped Byron to his hooves. Dindra crouched down and Raefer and Shilo helped Byron onto the back of her horse’s body. “You and your pranks, Byron Thorn,” Dindra said with a mix of worry and adoration. “The monocle,” Byron said. “I saw it in the monocle.” “Saw what, Byron?” Shilo asked, sharing a frown with the others. Byron blinked and looked at the hawthorn tunnel. “I’m not sure.” “Byron, we’ve got to get you back to the fire,” Dindra said. “You need to get warm. And the griffins will be here any minute.” Byron blinked and looked at Shilo. “It’s time? Shilo’s leaving?” Shilo nodded. “Soon, anyway. That’s why we came to find you. I was afraid I wouldn’t get to say goodbye.” Raefer, Dindra, and Byron all looked at Shilo. “It hasn’t seemed real,” Raefer said, “you leaving. I mean, until just now.” “You just got here,” Dindra said, swishing her tail. “Let’s not,” Shilo said. Her voice cracked and she looked away. “Not until they come, okay?” A silence followed, broken by the sound of Byron’s teeth chattering. Shilo took off her cape and threw it around him. “Come on, then,” she said. “Let’s get you to the fire. I could do with a little cider myself.”

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chapter 2

The Green God circle of fire was burning. The Woodren danced around the great central fire while the Woodland Knights performed their ceremonial duties of maintaining the smaller fires that formed a ring on Summercrest Hill. Many small picnic fires burned just inside the ring, and the space around the central fire was filled with dancing and reveling. A firm wind wafted through the summer trees. The shadows of the Woodren leaped weird and huge in the leafy, wagging boughs. People laughed and sang in small groups, lying and sitting on the ground. Children screamed and ran through the crowd, playing hiding games. Young couples hushed each other as they snuck away into the dark of the trees, looking over their shoulders at the fire as they disappeared onto the hillside paths where fireflies blinked and the night creatures of the wood hid and watched the summer feasting. Dindra strode out onto the hilltop with Byron on her back, Raefer and Shilo each to one side. Byron shivered with cold and wet, but already the warmth reached him from the great circle of fire. As they approached, they found Shegwin Reed, a tall human boy, and his father Sir Durmidere, the Woodland Knight, chatting with Arden, the king’s poet.

A !

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“Byron!” said Shegwin. He clasped hands with Raefer. “He’s all wet!” “Occupational hazard,” Raefer said with a laugh. “He stops at nothing, as you know.” “You can say that again,” Shegwin said. “Hello, Shilo.” “Hello,” Shilo said. She rolled her eyes a bit and did not look at Shegwin. Dindra shrugged when Shegwin looked to her for an explanation. “Well, Byron,” said Sir Durmidere, Shegwin’s father. He wore a heavy sword at his hip and the green wreath of the Woodland Knights on his high, proud head. “Back from another quest I see. Companions and all.” Arden smiled and nodded to Raefer. “And even a poet handy to tell the tale.” Dindra winced a little and avoided Raefer’s triumphant smile. “Hello, Sir Durmidere,” Byron said. “Hello to you all,” said the Woodland Knight. “A splendid evening.” “Yes, sir,” Dindra said. “I’m helping father keep the fire tonight,” Shegwin said, with a glance at Shilo. “No time for dancing.” “Macy Turncart is out there, Sheg,” Arden said. “You’ll never win her hand unless you give her a dance or two.” “Just like a poet,” Durmidere laughed, “always thinking of love and singing.” “War and ceremony have their place, Sir Durmidere,” Arden said. “I don’t deny it. But a young heart must have its fill, especially at Midsummer.” “I want to be a Woodland Knight,” Shegwin said. “And a fine knight you’ll make,” said Arden. “Just don’t forget what it is you hope to defend.”

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Durmidere nodded. “Well said, Arden, well said.” Arden clasped his hands behind his back. “Will you give us a bit of the Wander Cycle tonight, Raefer?” “Oh, no, not —” Dindra began. Everyone looked at her. “I mean — good!” Dindra continued. “Yes, Raefer, would you?” She glanced at Shilo who avoided her eyes. “But make sure you tell me a few minutes before you do, okay?” Raefer frowned. “What for?” “Well,” Dindra said. Everyone looked at her with expectant grins. “So I can get a good seat, of course.” “Oh, well, sure Din,” Raefer said. “You’ll know as soon as I do.” Byron looked out across the hilltop. “I’ve never seen such a crowd. Where’d they all come from? I don’t think I’ve ever seen most of them before.” “Yes,” Durmidere said. “You wouldn’t. Most are from the hinterlands. The migrations have been going on since the thaw but you don’t really see the numbers until a festival like this when everyone gathers together.” “What’s the news from the border country?” Arden asked. “The wolves are at bay in the west,” Durmidere said. “Has your father returned, Dindra?” “Oh, yes,” Dindra said. “This morning. He’s off again tomorrow for the northern marches.” Durmidere nodded. “There is much there that wants his attention, reports of wild centaurs and other strange, dark creatures. It isn’t safe for any peaceful-minded Woodren. Only a hearty few are maintaining their steadings in the farther reaches of the realm.” “You’d hardly know it from a sight like this one,” Arden said, nodding to the dancing on the hilltop. The revelers were wild with summer glee. Drums and flutes and fiddles filled the air.

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Tall shadows wagged and the stars burned bright and high. The moon ran westward into the treetops. “It’s good that they can dance,” Durmidere said with a sigh. “It’s as you say, after all.” “Byron,” Shegwin said, “if you’re looking for Gradda, he’s with Shilo’s family. Her mother puts on some picnic.” Shilo smiled and nodded at Shegwin, who stood a little taller. “Thanks, Sheg,” Byron said. “See you later, huh?” “Sure, sure,” Shegwin said, grinning at Dindra. “I don’t want to miss the Wander Cycle.” Dindra glared back at Shegwin as the companions passed on. They set off toward the hillcrest, and Arden followed with a nod to the Woodland Knight and his son. “I believe I’ll find out for myself why Mrs. Prinder’s picnic is the talk of the hilltop.” The sounds of music grew louder and the heat of the central fire set the sky and stars to shimmering. A pair of large centaurs galloped up and pitched a huge tree limb onto the great flaming heap. There were cheers and the centaurs went away congratulating each other. “Call that a branch?” one satyr shouted. He took a deep pull from his mug and his companions laughed. “Find one with a little girth next time!” The centaurs stopped and turned. “Satyrs burn better than wood!” one of them called back with a smile. “And they’re easier to get your hands on!” shouted his friend, standing with his arms crossed. He spotted Arden and the companions and pointed. “Hoy! Byron!” he shouted. “Found any more flaming birds?” The satyrs turned also. “What say, Byron?” one of them called. “How ’bout a nice two-headed wolf pup for your birthday this year, eh?”

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Byron rolled his eyes. “It’s good you’re here, poet!” one of the centaurs called. “We’ll need a song about how Byron finds his way across the hilltop!” “Not a bad idea, Grashen,” Arden shouted with a smile. “But dealing with witless banter is hardly the stuff of legends!” The centaur blinked and looked at his companion, who shrugged uselessly. The satyrs all laughed and tipped their cups in each other’s direction. “They still don’t believe it,” Raefer said, shaking his head. “All these weeks and months and they still think it’s just a story we made up.” “I believe it,” Arden said. “Every word. I could never have composed the Wander Cycle if I didn’t. And there are others.” “Gradda believes it,” Byron said. “So does my Grappa,” Shilo agreed. Raefer did not hear them. “They saw the star, they’ve got Byron’s horn. Didn’t the wolves come tearing through? Didn’t Ravinath and those painted centaurs try to take over this place before the Woodland King drove them out? They saw Cryolar and the griffins. And they’ve all seen Shilo talk to animals by now.” Arden smiled. “Raefer, you will have to get used to telling tales for people who cannot really hear them.” Raefer shrugged. “They’ve got me. How many dryads have they ever seen? I’m even blooming for sap’s sake.” He held up one of the thin, purple flowered vines that grew in his hair. “What’s wrong with these people?” “Raefer,” Dindra said, “Byron doesn’t listen to them, why should you?” Byron patted Raefer on the back and smiled. As they came to the far side of the fire they found a young satyr and satyress,

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Gretchen and Edgar Burcatcher, standing with a tall, slender human boy, Ulwyn Garnet, who was wearing a toga. When Ulwyn saw Byron he pointed at him so that the satyrs both turned around. “Hello there, Byron,” Ulwyn said. He raised an eyebrow and sucked his cheeks in a little. “Hello, Ulwyn,” Byron said without turning. “Still wearing that ridiculous silver cap on your horn?” “Uh-huh.” “Will you be dazzling us with one of your glorious capers tonight, Byron?” Gretchen Burcatcher said. “It’s been months and months you know. What would a high festival be without one?” “Yeah,” Byron said. “Uh-huh.” He kept walking. “Don’t forget to have Arden make up another song about your mysterious Midwinter adventure,” Gretchen said. “Or maybe Raefer could do it. Too bad he can’t sing.” “Ha,” Raefer said under his breath, shaking his head with a laugh. “Can’t sing.” “Whatever,” Byron said. Dindra smiled and nodded and walked on beside him. Shilo just rolled her eyes. “What’a’ya mean, Gretch,” said Edgar Burcatcher. “The Silverlance story is true. I found him hiding under my bed last night.” Ulwyn and Gretchen burst out laughing. Edgar stood there with a wide smile on his face. Dindra looked down at Byron with an eyebrow up. Raefer and Shilo glanced at each other in mild alarm and looked at Byron. Byron stopped and turned. He walked back and stood hoof to hoof with Edgar Burcatcher, who, though younger, was quite a bit larger than Byron. Byron looked up at him with fire in his eyes. “Say that again,” Byron said.

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Edgar stopped laughing and cleared his throat. “Say it again,” Byron pressed. A small flash of light glinted off his horn as if the silver had caught sunshine. Edgar blinked at the horn, leaning away and turning a little. Byron looked up at him, clenching his fists. “You watch yourself, Edgar,” Byron said. Edgar looked at Gretchen and Ulwyn. They glanced at each other with cautious eyes. Byron did not blink or break his stare. Edgar wrinkled his nose and looked away from Byron. Byron turned and walked on. On the far side of the hill, apart from the crowd, there was a small group gathered around a picnic fire. Shilo’s parents, Filo and Fidelia Prinder, were ladling out cider and preparing plates of food on a large, red-checked blanket. Byron’s grandfather, Darius Thorn, and Shilo’s grandfather, Milo Prinder, stood side by side smoking their pipes, laughing and talking. “But you must tell me more about your days in solitude, Darius,” Milo was saying. “Sometime, when it’s right. I’d dearly love to know.” “Maybe, Milo, maybe,” Darius replied. “I’ve not spoken of those days to many, it’s true.” The two huge grizzleback bears, Lucia and Manakar, sat among a company of smaller animals. A red cardinal dropped down out of a tree at Shilo’s approach to perch on her shoulder, and a raven cawed from some dark place in the branches. “There you are, Byron,” Fidelia Prinder said. “I thought you weren’t coming! Happy summer to you.” She set down the ladle to give Byron a hug and touch his silver horn. “You’re all wet! What have you — well never mind, this is Byron Thorn I’m talking to. Come and have a plate for yourself and stand by the fire.” “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Byron said. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have missed it.”

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“Thank you Mrs. Prinder,” Raefer said, taking a cup from Fidelia. “Happy summer, Byron,” Milo Prinder said. “Hoy, Byron,” Filo Prinder said. “Where’ve you been?” Byron looked at his Gradda. The old satyr was observing Byron with a deep squint. Byron felt his heart leap and he wanted to tell Gradda everything. “Oh, uh, I had — that is — I forgot something.” Then he sipped his cider and attended his plate. “What was that between you and young Burcatcher?” Filo Prinder asked. Byron shrugged, forking in a mouthful of food. “Nothing much.” “Still getting the occasional teasing about your story?” Fidelia asked. “Sometimes,” Byron said. “They never bring that to me,” Dindra said. “Nobody would doubt the word of Palter Thundershod’s own daughter, if she could hear them do it,” Gradda said. “That shouldn’t make a difference,” Dindra said. “Just be glad it does,” Byron said, glancing back at the central fire. “I’m sick of it.” “You sure gave Edgar something to think about,” Filo said. “Say what you want about Byron Thorn,” Arden said. “But leave the Unicorn out of it.” “Is that so?” Shilo’s grandfather said. “Well done Byron, well done.” “Don’t bring trouble on yourself, Byron,” Fidelia Prinder said. “Just ignore them, whatever they say.” “I doubt if Silverlance needs any of us to protect him,” Filo Prinder said, nodding in agreement to his wife. “Yes ma’am,” Byron said. “Yes, sir.” Then he sighed and looked

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at Shilo. “It’s sure been good having you here, Shi. I’m gonna miss you.” “Thanks Byron,” Shilo said. “I’ll miss you, too. But I’ll see you soon again, I’m sure.” “I wish I was coming with you,” Byron said. “I’d love to see Mr. Thúmose and Hixima again.” “So would I,” Dindra said. “And Lukos,” Byron said. “And Baruwan. I wonder what became of him.” “Baruwan,” Gradda said with a laugh. “Now there’s a tale I’d never have guessed. Well, if he’s half the friend he was an enemy, then we’re twice lucky Thúmose got to ’im.” “He’s so beautiful when he smiles,” Dindra said, touching her throat. Shilo smiled and clutched Dindra’s arm. Dindra shrugged and looked at the ground. She swished her tail. “My father still doesn’t believe he’s to be trusted.” “He sure can throw that net of his,” Byron said. “Do you suppose Nosh has got himself kicked out of the kitchen a hundred times yet?” Raefer said. Dindra smiled and shook her head. “The prince of the dwarves.” “Maybe Oatencake’ll be there, too,” Byron said. “Tell ’im I said hello, will ya, Shi?” Shilo nodded. “Of course I will, Byron. I wonder what Bilérica looks like now.” “Nosh said in his letter that they planted birch saplings all over Standing Stone Hill,” Byron said. “Well, what’s left of it I mean.” “Is he still having that dream he mentioned?” Dindra asked. Byron shrugged. “He was the last time he wrote to me. But he still hasn’t said what it’s about.” “Your friend must be lonely living in that place away from

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home,” Filo Prinder said. “It’s good of you all to take the time to write.” “He sounds like he’s having a pretty good time,” Raefer said with a shrug. “Silverlance is teaching him all sorts of dwarvish history. But come to think of it, I haven’t had word from him in about a month.” “Me neither,” Byron said. “I still can’t imagine it,” Darius Thorn said. “That old centaur Ravinath was always mighty in his way. I saw him fight in many battles. Remember it, Milo? When we fought the wolves together? How terrible he was to see? And I knew he was a delver of magic and hidden ways. But I’d never have guessed he wielded so great a power as to knock down a whole hillside with a blast of wizard-fire.” Milo Prinder nodded over a long take from his pipe. “It’s true and no denying, we may never have had a greater centaur in all of Woody Deep than Ravinath, and I have in mind even your grandfather, Dindra, the great Madican Thundershod, and your father, the chief at arms, whose test is coming I daresay. “But what stops me most, apart from the return of the Silverlance of course, is this Lukos Wolfen King. Now that was a surprise to an old tracker. To think, he was driven off by his own people for following the Midwinter Star. And to think it was the Unseen Pack itself, with Lukos at their head, who pulled Byron out of harm’s way when the wolves attacked the Thorn family all those years ago. Why, we never feared anything so much from the wolves as the Unseen Pack. And now they run for the Unicorn? Well, I . . .” Milo Prinder shook his head and his voice trailed away as he followed his thoughts into silence. Darius looked up at his friend and shook his head also, joining him in silent recollection. The two old fellows stood there smoking their pipes, remembering.

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“I’m just glad Ravinath is gone,” Byron said, doing some recollection of his own. “I’ve had a bad dream or two myself, and he’s been right there at the middle.” “Well, he’s gone as gone,” Raefer said. “I’ll never forget the phoenix fire as long as I live, even if I forget the rest, which I won’t.” “The molting phoenix,” Arden said. “I’ve read only a few accounts of it in all my studies. One of them even had a picture. What a thing to witness. No, I don’t suppose we’ll ever see Ravinath again, or anyone else who’s ever been caught within fifty feet of the phoenix pyre.” “It was almost us,” Byron said, sipping his cider. Raefer laughed. “Do you remember Quill’s face as she came flapping through that window? There was nothing funny at the time, but I laugh now, every time I think of it.” Byron laughed and slapped his goatish thigh. “Remember the pitch of her voice? ‘Look out! Look out!’ ” “Ravinath never saw her coming,” Dindra said. “I felt the very same way when I met her the first time,” Byron said. “Oh, I’ll never forget that moment,” Shilo said, laughing. “Not ever.” “I won’t either.” Byron said. “Me with that giant bandage still on my head, no solid food for days. And here comes the daughter of the griffin queen right in time for breakfast! I’m just sitting there in that big wooden chair and whammo! Quill drops out of the sky like a rock. I’ve been flattened by her horrible landings twice now.” Byron set about the picnic flapping his arms and hopping up and down. “Look out!” he cried, cupping his hands to his mouth. He bugged open his eyes and bumped into Raefer. “I can’t stop, look out!”

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Raefer fell to his knees and covered his mouth, shaking with silent guffaws. Dindra held her belly and laughed out loud, but her wide smile faded just a little and she peered into the sky beyond Byron. “Look out! Everyone look out!” Byron managed to say through his laughter, nearly tripping over the salad. Raefer blinked and calmed a little. “That’s pretty good, By.” Dindra stopped laughing all together. A hint of a smile lingered on her face, but she blinked, peering into the nighttime sky. “Look out!” Byron cried. He stopped in his tracks facing the group, smiling and blinking with amazement at what seemed a keen likeness in his voice to that of his good friend, Quill. “Wow,” he said, “that sounded good.” “Byron,” Dindra said, taking a step forward. “It sounded just like her,” Raefer said. “Byron, look out!” Shilo cried, pointing. Raefer shook his head and touched his windpipe. “More of an ‘aaaggg,’ Shi, from the back of the throat.” “Byron, look out!” Dindra shouted. Raefer nodded, “Dindra’s getting it.” “Everyone look out!” cried a voice. “Yeah, wow, Din,” Raefer said. “She’s as good as you, Byron.” Byron looked at his friends in confusion. Raefer smiled back at him, but Dindra and Shilo stared, agog, above his head. The voice cried out again, very clear, and the look shared by Shilo and Dindra crept across Raefer’s face also. “Everyone look out!” cried the voice. Byron blinked and started to turn. “Quill?” “Byron, look out!” Raefer cried. Princess Quill hammered into Byron just as he came full face to her. She was far larger than he and engulfed him in her flailing

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efforts to right herself. Together they tore through the picnic like a gust through autumn leaves. There was a shriek and a sickening crunch, and when at last the two came to rest, they were wrapped together at the feet of the grown-ups in a red and white checked tangle of feathers and horns and potato salad. Quill’s head and nearly all of Byron were tucked away in the twisting folds of the blanket. Byron squirmed and reached, searching for a gap to breathe through. He followed the cries of alarm and managed to surface, spitting a feather from his mouth. Two beautiful grinning eyes stared into his, and he found he could only grin back. “Quill!” “Hello, Byron!” the griffin princess said. Her eyes brightened. “You’re not hurt are you?” “No,” Byron said with a laugh. “But you got bigger!” “Yep.” “Still working out the bugs, I see.” “Nearly had it that time, though.” “You’ll get there.” “Quill!” Raefer cried as he came up with Shilo. “Are you two all right?” Dindra asked. “Sure we are,” Quill said. “What’d you think? Hello, everybody!” Gradda and the Prinders gathered around the companions. Fidelia crouched down to help Byron untangle his limbs from the knotted blanket. “Gosh,” Quill said. “I’m awfully sorry about your picnic, ma’am.” “Never mind that,” Fidelia Prinder said. “Just so no one’s hurt is all. Broken crockery can be fixed or found new. There now,” she said to Byron, dusting him off, “all well?”

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“Yes, ma’am,” Byron said. “Gosh, Quill,” Dindra said. “You really are bigger.” Quill stood up and shook herself out. She opened her wings and folded them against her sleek body. “Big enough to make the journey,” she said. “With a stop or two— or five.” “It’s so good to see you, Quill,” Shilo said. “Your flights are beautiful. Is that a bit of green I see?” “And a bit of red, too,” Quill said, opening a wing to show her feathers off. Nearly all of the mottled, downy brown fluff was gone and her mature feathers were emerging. “I can land well enough if I haven’t been flying long. Seems to be a matter of not getting tired out. Cryolar has been coaching me.” “Cryolar?” Byron asked. “How is he?” “Well, you can ask him yourself,” Quill said. “Here he comes now.” Six vast, dark shapes appeared in the eastern sky, black against the stars. As they approached, the treetops swayed under the force of their beating wings. The Woodren all stopped their dancing and turned. The hilltop fell silent, except for the musicians, who played on until the last drummer, eyes tight shut and deep into his rhythm, was roused by the wide-eyed fiddler who sat beside him. One by one the griffins swooped in, hovered just above the grass, and landed on their great hind legs with smooth, effortless ease. They folded their majestic wings and looked around with smiling eyes at the dumbfounded Woodren. “Cryolar!” Byron shouted. “Cryolar, over here!” “Silverthorn!” the griffin called as he bounded toward the little group at Fidelia Prinder’s picnic. “How are you, three months later?” “Just fine, Cryolar,” Byron said. The griffins were enormous creatures with rich coats of shiny

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fur on their lion flanks and tails. Their forelegs were like the legs and talons of eagles, only much larger. In their vast, fabulous wings they had long shimmering feathers of many colors, which they preened with great beaks of silver, bronze, or gold. The Woodren had parted to give the griffins room to land, but the gap was quickly filled. Fear of their winged visitors gave way to curiosity and awe, and they crowded around the majestic creatures with wide eyes and open mouths. Cryolar’s flightmates continued to preen and make friendly jokes at the expense of the stupefied Woodren. Cryolar crouched and touched the tips of his wings to the ground in greeting. “Hello, Dindra and Shilo and ah! One of the ghostling brothers! Which are you, fellow? Rufus or Raefer, for you two are as alike as eggmates!” Raefer smiled. “I’m the one who wouldn’t let you eat the horses.” “Ah, Raefer!” Cryolar said. “You’re blooming!” “Of course I am,” Raefer said. “It’s summer.” Cryolar laughed. “The wondrous dryads! How have you fared living among such outlandish folk as these satyrs and centaurs and humans, eh?” Raefer only laughed in response. “Hello to you, sirs,” Cryolar said to Gradda, and Milo, and Filo Prinder. “And hello, madam,” he said to Fidelia Prinder, “happy feast to you. Happy feast to you all!” “Happy — happy feast — sir,” Fidelia said, breathless and wide-eyed. She gaped at the enormous winged creatures and curtsied. “It is twenty-four days now since I received word to assemble my griffins and make for Woody Deep,” Cryolar said. “Glad I was to hear that command, knowing you and your people would

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be celebrating the Feast of Herne, the Green God of Middlesummer.” “Received word?” Dindra said. “From whom?” “Why, from the Unicorn,” Cryolar said. “I have been far afield of late, as have all the scouts of the Unicorn, and the Unicorn himself. Long to the north I was, and east— almost to the sea — when Peter Oatencake found me and told me of the Unicorn’s command. And now here we are all, or soon will be. Twenty-one of us, when all together. Fifteen more are expected.” “Thúmose sent twenty-one griffins to escort Shilo back to Bilérica?” Dindra said. “Twenty-two if you count Quill,” Shilo said. Cryolar gave Dindra a quizzical look. He turned to Quill. “You haven’t yet told them, then?” Quill only looked at Cryolar, returning his look of confusion. Then she blinked. “Oh! Oh my goodness! How could I forget?” “I can’t imagine, your highness,” Cryolar said with grinning eyes. “Perhaps now would be a good time?” “Tell us what, Quill?” Dindra asked. “I’m sorry everyone,” Quill said. “Seeing you all again drove it right out of my mind!” “Drove what out?” Raefer asked. “Yes, Quill,” Shilo said. “What’s going on?” “You’re not going to Bilérica after all, Shilo,” Quill said. “I’m not?” Quill shook her head. “No. There’s been a change of plans of some kind. A big change apparently.” “Then why are you here?” Raefer said. “Why are Cryolar’s griffins coming to Hiding Wood?” “They’re all coming,” Quill said. “Who?” Byron asked.

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“Everyone,” Quill said. “Well, not everyone. But Nosh and Hixima, Lukos and Baruwan, and a whole gang of dwarves.” “Mr. Thúmose?” Byron said. Quill’s eyes lit up, and she nodded her beak up and down. “Silverlance is coming?” Raefer said. “Wait till Rufus hears this!” “He already knows, Raefer,” Quill said with a laugh. “He’s coming too, and Rifkin and Resh, even Jevén. I think there are about fifteen dryads in all. It’s quite a big group.” Gradda and Milo Prinder whispered to each other, glancing at Quill and the companions. Filo and Fidelia held each other by the forearms, looking at Shilo with a mix of concern and relief. “Pardon me, your highness,” Darius Thorn said to Quill. “But did you say the Silverlance was coming? Here to Hiding Wood?” “That’s right, sir,” Quill said. “Welcome!” called a voice. “Step aside now, step aside. Welcome!” A gap opened in the crowd and the Woodland King emerged, tall and sturdy, clad in deepest green. On his head he wore the summer crown and around his neck hung the medallion of his kingship, a silver disc stamped with a unicorn rampant. He approached the little fire with his arms open. “Welcome back to Hiding Wood!” he said to the griffins. “Hail, Woodland King,” Cryolar said, bowing his head. “Your fire is burning brightly. We saw it from beyond Rathrâgodrak.” “The Old Mountain,” said the king, looking south and east. “You are welcome indeed. Have you come to enjoy the feast?” “Indeed yes, sire,” Cryolar said, “and to bring you tidings.” “Tidings?” King Belden asked. “Silverlance is coming!” Raefer said. Byron joined his cry: “Coming here to Hiding Wood!”

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The Woodland King blinked, looking back and forth from Raefer to Byron. “He will be here this very night,” Cryolar said. “He has chosen the Green Feast to come among you.” “Tonight!” Byron cried. “Tonight?” asked the Woodland King, fingering his medallion. “I — we must —” “Prepare your house, thane of the Woodland Realm,” Cryolar said. “The high king approaches, indeed he may already be here. And he has in his train a great many who will be weary with travel. Sound a trumpet. Send runners to the very fences of your domain. Make it known to all: this Feast of High Summer will be as none before. I for one will wait for him on the very porches of your hall. I beg your permission, for I will not keep my lord waiting!” Manakar, the great grizzleback bear, rumbled to his feet. His mate Lucia joined him. They set off across the hill toward the house of the Woodland King, and all the animals in their company followed. “I —” King Belden said, watching them go, “yes — yes, of course.” “Byron Thorn!” shouted a voice from the silent, gaping crowd. Byron jumped and looked around. “Uh, Cryolar’s right,” he said. “We shouldn’t keep Mr. Thúmose waiting.” “Thorn!” shouted the voice. “Byron Thorn, I say!” A lone shape emerged from the crowd, black against the fire. “Can I go with you, Cryolar?” Byron asked. “Let’s get in the air, shall we?” Gradda peered into the shadows out on the slope as the dark figure marched forward. “Is that Elpinor?” “My chamberlain?” said the Woodland King.

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“Good grief, what’s he wearing?” Milo Prinder asked. “Nothing,” Cryolar said. “Nothing but a pine frond that is. You really do put on a feast around here.” “He looks like the Green God himself!” Milo Pinder said. “I really think we should go,” Byron said. “Right now.” “Byron what’s going on?” Arden asked. Byron shrugged. “I came across Elpinor bathing out at the Crystal Pools.” “You came across him?” asked the King. “Well, more like I followed him there— him and Oleander.” “The barmaid from the Sickle and Sheaf?” Raefer asked. “You didn’t tell me that part.” “How do you know her? ” Shilo and Dindra said together. “Well,” Byron said. “I sort of took their clothes when they’d swum out too far to stop me.” Gradda started laughing and shaking his head. He stopped long enough to light his pipe, then started laughing all over again with Milo Prinder joining him. “Byron Thorn, there you are!” Elpinor shouted, stepping into the first reaches of the firelight. He held pine fronds in front and behind, and crouched as he approached. “Don’t look Shilo!” Fidelia said, covering her mouth. Shilo and Dindra failed to hold back their laughter. “Looks like you left him his shoes,” Gradda said. Byron nodded. “I guess he gave Oleander the picnic blanket.” “Well mannered of him,” Cryolar said. “Stay put where I can get you!” Elpinor growled at Byron. “I see we have greater need of haste than first we reckoned,” Cryolar said. “Come, Byron. I will pluck you from the jaws of calamity. Get ready!” The griffin reared onto his hind legs and spread his wings. He

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clutched hold of Byron in his great front talons and lifted off. The wind of his wings nearly doused the fire and sent sparks into the air. Everyone covered their eyes, including Elpinor who let go of his pine fronds to do so. When he looked down, Byron saw Elpinor trying to collect the branches and shake his fist at the same time. Within a moment, Cryolar had gone too high for Byron to hear what the chamberlain was saying, but he could see Elpinor looking up at him, shouting. Gradda, Milo Prinder, and even the Woodland King shook their heads with laughter. The great Midsummer fire and the whole ring of flame stood bright in the black of Hiding Wood. The stars came near and the wind watered Byron’s eyes. In the east, the dark Crestfall Mountains cut the stars with a jagged line— the Old Mountain, tallest and sharpest of all.

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chapter 3

On the Steps of Arbor Hall ryolar swept low above the treetops, soaring over the Hidden Hills. Byron could hear the deep drone of Whistletop Hill as the wind played upon openings of its stone-lined tunnels like the holes in a flute. Westward, the lights of King Belden’s house flickered in the deep trees. It was a low, rambling domicile of wood and stone, with many windows and porches and outdoor stairways. Water flowed through in places, filling fountains and pools, channeled in from the river Gladwater by many sluices and culverts. Bridges forded the winding paths and covered ways of Arbor Hall, the house of the Woodland King. “We are late!” Cryolar called to Byron. “Thúmose is already here!” Byron strained to see clearly as Cryolar banked to the north. Torches were burning in the courtyard of the king’s house. A tall pavilion stood there, from the top of which flew a long, slender flag. A single large fire burned and dark shapes moved about. Byron heard the sound of fiddles and flutes and drums, and above it all there were voices singing. Cryolar gave a mighty, shrieking roar and pulled once with his great wings, snapping them like whistling sails, pulling himself

C !

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earthward. Beat after beat pulled him faster and faster until the griffin tucked his wings away. Byron twisted his face in horror as his throat constricted and his stomach rebelled. The ground appeared out of nowhere. Cryolar heaved once more on his wings, arresting their fall, and set his passenger to ground on wobbling legs. Byron collapsed and lay on his back. His whole body trembled. The stars were bright above him, but all he could think about was drawing his next breath. “I forget,” Cryolar said, “that not all creatures share my taste for a spirited fall. Indeed, not all griffins even. Forgive me, Silverthorn!” “F-f-fall?” Byron said, turning over and pushing himself up onto his palms. “A fall would have been fast enough without your wings going.” “Dive then,” Cryolar said. “I got you away from Herne, didn’t I?” “Byron!” cried a voice. “Byron Thorn!” “Hixima?” Byron said. He looked up from the ground. “Byron!” called another voice, and a great many other glad voices took up the call. “Byron’s here! Byron!” He was still glaring at Cryolar, who noticed and looked away with a final shift of his wings, when gentle hands were on him. Byron looked up into the smiling face of Hixima, the Warra priestess. “Byron!” Hixima said. “Oh Byron, can you stand?” Hixima stooped and helped Byron to his hooves. “Hello,” Byron said as Hixima crouched and embraced him. The spinning in his head was winding down. “Really Cryolar,” Hixima said, steering Byron toward the pavilion. “Were you trying to make him sick?”

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“He was in as big a hurry as I was,” Cryolar said. Hixima shook her head at the griffin. “Come along Byron.” A crowd gathered. Foremost was a young dryad clad in deep green, grinning and shaking his head. He had tanned brown skin and silvery eyes. Fine green vines with tiny leaves and purple flowers grew in his hair. He wore a long bow wrapped in dark cloth slung on his back. For a moment, Byron thought he was looking at Raefer. “Rufus!” Byron cried, rushing forward. Rufus stooped and the two friends embraced. “At least Quill doesn’t get dizzy when she lands!” Rufus said. “Look at your uniform!” Byron said as they stepped apart. “You’re a dryad scout!” “Not quite,” Rufus said with a shrug. “But I’m getting there. I still have some catching up to do. Our little jaunt over the winter set me back a few steps.” Byron marveled at the longbow Rufus carried. “Have you figured out which end of the arrow goes on the string?” “Like it?” Rufus asked. He shifted the bow from his shoulder and handed it to Byron. “That’s the one place I’m ahead of the others. I’m shooting at full scout proficiency and I’ve got the black flights to prove it.” He turned his shoulder to reveal the quiver that hung on his back. It was full of stout arrows fletched with stiff black feathers. “I made them myself. Even Resh has asked me to borrow a couple. He’s still the best bow-maker, though. He crafted that one.” “Gosh,” Byron said. “Wow, Rufus. Way to go.” He handed the bow back to the dryad. “It’s sure good to see you.” “You too, Byron.” Looking around at the gathering crowd, Byron found a great many faces he had never seen before: dryads and dwarves, even

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centaurs and satyrs who were not from Hiding Wood. They all gazed at him and whispered, glancing at the silver horn on his head. At last he found three faces he recognized, the dryads: Rifkin, the scout captain who was Rufus and Raefer’s older brother; and their cousins Resh and Jevén. “Hello, findrel!” Rifkin said, smiling. “You look well!” Resh added. “Better than I did the last time Cryolar bore me any distance!” “Oh, for —” Cryolar said, rolling his eyes. “Little Byron,” Jevén said. She crouched down and kissed his forehead. “It’s good to see you well again.” “Come, Byron,” Hixima said. “There are others who are eager to see you.” She led him through the crowd. The onlookers parted and— to Byron’s amazement — bowed or gestured in the fashion of their kind as he passed. Few would look into his eyes when he returned their gazes. A wide way opened before him, and quickly closed behind. Cryolar, Rufus, and the other dryads came after Byron and Hixima, followed by the murmuring company. “How did this pavilion get here so fast?” Byron asked. “I was here this afternoon and there was no sign of it.” Hixima smiled and looked down at him. “The magic of the Unicorn.” Atop the pavilion, the long banner wafted on the summer breeze. Byron peered up at it. “I can’t make out the crest,” he said. Hixima shook her head. “There is none. It is plain, dark black. The war banner of the Unicorn.” Two tall pikes held open the flaps of the pavilion, and the entrance was filled with lamplight. Byron stepped into the yellow glow. Those who followed allowed him to proceed many steps

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before they entered. The center pole of the pavilion was wrapped in garlands and lights. The whole place was arranged for a feast, with blankets spread out on the grass, set with pitchers and covered platters and trays. Beyond the central post, at the far end of the tent, a group of creatures took their ease on the ground. Byron recognized his friends all at once and didn’t know who to greet first. Nosh was there, seated among a band of dwarves, and beside him sat Lukos, the wolf with one blue eye, rightful king of the western packs. Then Byron caught his breath and stopped in his tracks, old familiar fear seizing him, for here was Baruwan the centaur, net slung across his shoulder, spear leaning along the length of his body. But the fear left Byron when he saw the smile on the centaur’s face. Byron remembered the day when Thúmose himself had broken the spell of Ravinath that held Baruwan in its grip, turning Baruwan back from his choice to join Ravinath in his plot of destruction. Manakar, Lucia, and their company of animals were already there. Byron looked into their midst and all fear and uncertainty left him. Reclining among them, nose to nose with Brace the raccoon, was the Unicorn himself. To his own surprise, Byron’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of the shining white coat, the yellow mane and tail, the yellow tufted fetlocks, the great black burnished hooves, and the long, terrible, spiraling silver horn. “Mr. Thúmose!” Byron cried, and he broke into a run with all his great satyr speed. “Byron!” Thúmose said. Brace peddled backward and the other animals cleared away as the Unicorn came to his hooves. He bobbed his head and swished his yellow tail, nickering as he approached. “Hello, Byron.” “Hello, sir,” Byron said. Thúmose stopped a few paces from the satyr and the two beheld each other. Then Thúmose lowered

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his head and walked forward. Byron reached his arms up and around the Unicorn’s mighty neck as far as they would go. A deep thunderous nicker sounded in Thúmose’s chest. “What’s going on, sir?” Byron asked. “Why have you come?” “Of that in time,” Thúmose said. “Tonight is for friendship and feasting.” A wet nose and muzzle poked Byron in the neck. He laughed and pressed his shoulder to his ear, turning. The wolf with one blue eye stood wagging its tail. It licked Byron once on the face. “Lukos!” Byron cried, throwing his arms around the wolf’s neck. “Byron!” shouted a voice. “Nosh!” Byron replied as the prince of the dwarves grabbed him and lifted him off the ground, squeezing him so tight he couldn’t breathe. Then he put the satyr down and stepped back. “Hello, Nosh!” Byron said. He looked his friend up and down. “Hello, Byron!” “You’re wearing armor!” The dwarf prince turned full around. “Thúmose says I have to. I don’t get a sword until Thrym’s done training me. But look at the symbol!” he said, lifting the edges of his dark blue tunic with his thumbs. On it was set the device of a silver hammer. “It’s the ancient symbol of my house.” Byron gazed at his friend. “What?” Nosh said with a smile. “Is everything okay?” Byron asked in a whisper. “That dream you mentioned in your letter?” Nosh’s smile dimmed. “Yeah, the dream. Well, I’ll tell you all about it.” “Nosh, my young cousin, where are your manners?” said one of the other dwarves. The whole group of them had drawn near. Many were dressed in the same gear as Nosh. Some wore less

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lavish array, and some had only simple traveling clothes, but all of them were heavily armed. “Oh,” Nosh said. “Uh, sorry.” “Unbecoming, unbecoming,” the dwarf continued. He was old but sturdy and seemed still to have terrible strength in his limbs. His beard was braided and lashed down with leather thongs, and he had a heavy golden ring in his ear. With a hand to his chest he bowed before Byron and spoke. “I am Thrym of the house of the Hammer,” he said. “I, my kin, and my companions are at your service. We are the Sons of the Hammer.” As one, the other dwarves bowed low. “The Hammer,” they all said together at the bottom of their bows. All of them, including Thrym, glanced at Byron’s silver horn. They gazed at him with keen appraisal, some murmuring to each other and nodding. “Byron Thorn,” said the centaur Baruwan. “Hello.” Byron looked up and his jaw fell open. “Hello, Baruwan.” There was the familiar net and the long sharp spear. Baruwan’s hair was tight to his head in braided rows, bound by a leather thong that hung down his back. A strange mark was painted on his tanned muscular chest. For a moment Byron’s fear of Baruwan swept over him. But he looked at the scar on the centaur’s neck and remembered the day on the seashore when Thúmose had won Baruwan’s loyalty. “Did you get bigger?” he asked. Baruwan laughed. “Leaner perhaps. I have wandered far these last three months. It is good to see you, little one. I look forward to our friendship.” Byron nodded. “Me too. Where’s Peter Oatencake?” “On an errand of great importance,” Thúmose said. “He would have been here, had greater need not pressed him. There is much that needs doing in these days.”

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The crowd outside began to murmur and voices were raised. “Very well, very well, please step aside,” said a voice. “Yes, welcome to my home, you’re very welcome, but may I please pass through?” “Ah,” Thúmose said. “The Woodland King.” Through the flaps came King Belden, followed by Sir Durmidere, four other Woodland Knights, and four centaurs— including Palter Thundershod himself. All of the knights and centaurs glanced back and forth between Lukos, the wolf, and Baruwan, the centaur. Palter fixed a venomous look on the net-wielder. King Belden set his eyes on the majestic Unicorn and did not break his gaze, except to blink. “Hail, Woodland King,” Thúmose said. “Hail,” Belden said. He stared for a moment in wonder and then bowed. As he stood, his hand took hold of the medallion that hung from his neck. “Welcome to my home. To what do I owe the honor of this . . . visit?” Thúmose strode forward. “According to prophecy, I come, having been sought and found by one of your folk. For is it not so written?” “I —” Belden said. “Is it?” “It is indeed,” said Darius Thorn. He, Milo Prinder, and the poet Arden came through the flap and stepped aside. They all stared with wide eyes at the Unicorn. Milo gripped his cap in white-knuckled hands. Behind them came Filo and Fidelia Prinder, then Rufus, Raefer, Shilo, Dindra, and Quill, who all rushed over to Nosh and Byron. The silence in the tent and the dark looks of the Woodland Knights and the chief at arms, who stood glowering at Baruwan and the wolves, kept the companions from greeting Nosh with laughter and glad shouts. Instead, they came together

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in a tangle of embraces and clasped hands, whispering their hellos. Byron stood back while Nosh collected his hugs. Once again the Wanderers were together, their company unbroken for a time. Darius Thorn cleared his throat and spoke: When heritage of flesh and bone A spark of hope has born through time To quicken one from hearth and home By starlight of the heart and mind Eastward, through danger to the quest’s up-taking, Let chance and circumstance conspire With hidden craft of secret spells And bestow the Inheritance of Fire Where the favored bloodline dwells For there will the high king begin the Waking. “Indeed,” Thúmose said. He strode up to Darius Thorn and lowered his head. “So the magic was forged, according to the design. The measured time has passed. Chance and circumstance have indeed conspired, and the long sleep is broken.” He looked from Darius to Byron. “The Inheritance of Fire. And so it is from your home Byron, that the Waking will commence.” “Please sir,” Darius Thorn said, “and forgive my foolishness, for anyone can see who you are. But if I could hear you say it I’ll believe it straightaway. Are you the Silverlance?” “I am,” Thúmose said. “Have no doubt of it, Darius Thorn. But what is this I’m told that Misrule’s Day has been abolished and forbidden? I will have that tale from you when the time is right.” Byron and Darius Thorn both looked at the Woodland King.

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He looked up and down and everywhere but at the satyrs. A murmur outside the tent bespoke the numerous other satyrs who were gathered there and had heard what Thúmose said. Darius grinned and cast his smiling eyes to the ground. King Belden shook his head. “Once again,” he said, “I welcome you and your company to my hall. I suppose it would’ve been best if you’d asked permission before setting up camp in my courtyard, but I understand my chamberlain was not to be found.” “I beg your pardon, sire,” Thúmose said. “But we have been eager to feast with you, and we are nearly ready. Let us be merry tonight, for Herne the Green God asks only that of us, and this is his day.” “Make merry?” Palter Thundershod said. He pointed a finger at Baruwan. “Not with that jackal in our midst.” “And a pack of wolves?” said another centaur. “My father died in the Wolfen War.” “Father, please,” Dindra said. “Lukos saved my life,” Byron said. “And so did Baruwan.” Baruwan shifted and dropped a hoof. “I do not deny wrongdoing. I have come in supplication for the Woodland King’s pardon.” “You were driven out for attempting murder and overthrow,” Palter Thundershod said. “And you return in company with wolves and outlanders.” “We lost good Woodren,” Durmidere said, “centaurs and no few satyrs, to your master and his rabble.” “And still more,” said another centaur, “keeping our borders secure from this very sort.” “It is dryad arrows that keep your eastern border safe,” Rifkin said. “Or have you not noticed the quiet in those woods?”

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“This doesn’t concern you, tree-man,” the centaur said. “Father!” Dindra said. “These people are our friends! Sire, where is the courtesy of your hall?” Palter Thundershod looked at his daughter. Silence fell and even the crowd outside was quiet. Belden stepped forward and stood before the Unicorn. “My apologies for the words spoken against those good folk of your train who are guests of my house,” Belden said with a bow to the Unicorn. “But it goes hard with some of us to have wolves and traitors take their ease on the steps of Arbor Hall. However, the wolves are protected by truce. We honor that even if they do not, for it was they and not we who broke faith at Midwinter, and we lost good folk to that marauding pack. More than one account of that night has mentioned the wolf with one blue eye. Even so, truce is truce. Perhaps by giving these wolves leave, we might move toward fonder bonds between ourselves and our neighbors to the west. But Baruwan . . .” “Baruwan’s life is forfeit,” Palter Thundershod said. The knights and centaurs around him nodded and grumbled their agreement. Thúmose strode forward and spoke. “As for the Western Wolves,” he said, “you have here in your midst members of the Unseen Pack.” “The Unseen Pack!” one of the centaurs said, leveling his spear. “Darius, it was these vermin who took your son away from you! Byron, what of the memory of your family!” Byron frowned. “I just tried to tell you. King Lukos is the only reason I wasn’t killed along with them!” “King Lukos?” Belden said, regarding the wolf with new respect. “That’s right sire,” Byron said without breaking his glare at

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the centaur who had spoken to him. “And I’ll decide for myself how I honor the memory of my family.” “The lad speaks for me,” Darius said with a nod at Byron. Lukos simply sat, watching. “The Wolfen King is perhaps less welcome in his own regions than anyone gathered here,” Thúmose said. “The people of Woody Deep have never had a greater ally, except perhaps the dryads to the east. It is division among the western packs that keeps them from roaming and spoiling your woods at will these days, division over loyalty to their king. They are quite busy fighting among themselves. To welcome Lukos is to win friendship with perhaps half the numbers of your old enemy. “As for Baruwan,” Thúmose continued, turning to Palter Thundershod, “he has sworn and proven his loyalty to me. And he has come before you offering friendship and seeking pardon. It is in his mind to make up doubly in service any harm he may have done. Nothing more can be asked. To reject him is to choose hatred. Palter Thundershod, what you do to Baruwan, you do to me. Is it your wish to make me your enemy?” The chief at arms lifted his chin and looked the Unicorn up and down. His eyes rested on the spiraling lance of silver, before fleeing again to the safety of the ground. “I think not,” he said, with a glance at the Woodland King. “I would hesitate to enter into sport with such a creature, let alone conflict.” “That is good, Palter,” Thúmose said, “for I have no heart for conflict with you. It is your friendship I seek. Any who turn to me in earnest will be received and I alone will decide if they are true. I tell you this,” he continued, raising his voice so that all might hear. “Though now we may feast and make merry, I come among you tonight with war. The past is past. The time ahead will make all that has gone behind seem as dust and straw, all

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wrongdoings as the wants of children, all war and harm the nagging of a fly. Do not believe that you are spotless in my sight because the slights of others redound more loudly than your own. No matter who you are, no matter what your mettle, you have yet to be proven. But your test is coming— it is coming.” “I’m hungry,” Nosh said, intending to whisper. But in the silence his voice carried. Thrym frowned at him. Nosh shrugged. “Me too,” Byron said. “Then let us begin,” Thúmose said with a laugh. “And put aside for tonight at least any differences you may suffer. The Green Feast is upon us! Your highness, I hope you will take the high seat and allow me to sit beside you?” King Belden sighed. “Certainly, certainly.” He glanced at Palter Thundershod and Sir Durmidere. “Delightful,” Thúmose said. “With your permission, sire,” Palter Thundershod said, “I will return to my own house.” “As will I,” Sir Durmidere said. “And I,” said each of the knights and centaurs in turn. “Very well,” Belden said with a nod. Then each of the departing warriors threw dark looks at Baruwan and the wolves. “How disappointing,” Thúmose said as they went. “Darius Thorn and the Prinders will join us, I hope?” “Join you, indeed,” Darius Thorn said with a nod. “And not just for this feast you’re giving.” King Belden looked at Darius with amazement. “He’s come back, your majesty,” Darius said. “It’s as simple as that.” Thúmose gave a rumbling nicker, as he turned and headed for the far end of the pavilion. The little group followed him.

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“Open wide the sashes,” the Unicorn said. “Let them come to me who will. There is feast and friendship for all. Raefer, I’m told you’ve learned the Wander Cycle in full; I will have it from you if you are willing.” “Oh, he isn’t —” Dindra said, but she stopped herself. Raefer looked at her. So did everyone who heard her, including the Unicorn. “Well, I . . .” Dindra said. “That is — won’t you be nervous? It’s such a big crowd.” “Heck no!” Raefer said, putting his hands on his hips. “What’s with you, Dindra? You’d think you didn’t like hearing it. Sure, I’m willing, sir!” “Very good,” Thúmose said. The Unicorn strode in among the curious and frightened Woodren, and took his ease at the far end of the tent. The companions followed, along with Gradda, the Prinders, Arden, and the Woodland King, and joined the whole company of outlanders in the finest Midsummerfest anyone who attended could remember.

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chapter 4

Nosh’s Dream usiness was never better in the public houses of Hiding Wood than in the days following the arrival of the Unicorn. Even the primmest goodie-matrons turned out for “a bit of conversation,” and “perhaps just a splash in my tea, if you please, to steady my nerves.” Talk and rumor were rampant, and the Sickle and Sheaf was especially lively. “I say he’s up to no good,” Grubber Dillfarm, a short, thickchested human said over the top of his foaming mug. It was a larger than usual crowd in the front room that afternoon. “Those outlanders — dwarves I make ’em — and those tree-folk. King Belden has his eye on this Thúmose, and rightly so.” “No good?” Darius Thorn said, setting down his own leatherhandled tankard. “What is it about the three days of feasting and laughter that speaks wickedness to you, Grubber Dillfarm?” “Well, where’s he been since?” Dillfarm demanded. “Coming and going by night, meeting with outlanders and what all.” Darius shook his head and looked into his mug. “That’s none other than the Silverlance, right as rain.” “He knows everyone he meets by name!” Dillfarm said. “That can’t be right or natural.” “What are you afraid of, Dillfarm?” Oleander, the barmaid,

B !

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said, rubbing the inside of a mug with her fist wrapped in a cloth. “One glance at him is all it takes to know he means you well. Or have you not had the pleasure of looking him in the eye?” “There, you see?” Dillfarm said. “Half the wood is under his spell. Camped out all around Arbor Hall on the lawns and porches, not a bare patch of ground to be found, they say. There’s even talk that your Byron might not have been telling such a tall tale after all, Darius, about his journey over the winter.” “High time,” Oleander said, turning her back to hang the mug on a peg. “High time indeed, and talk there should be!” Milo Prinder said. “Tall tale? My granddaughter was with him. A finer, truer girl did never speak a word. If she tells a story at all it’s to be trusted.” “I meant no disrespect, Milo,” Dillfarm said, putting up his hand. “I’ve met your Shilo, lovely girl. But young Byron, now he’s another sort entirely. He’s known for trouble and tricks and all, Misrule’s Day and such. Why, I lost a sledge full of hay to one of his capers, and my mules have never listened to me the same since, always with a mind to run off with young Thorn— no disrespect intended, Darius.” Darius Thorn shrugged. “None taken.” “If Palter Thundershod doesn’t trust him, then neither do I,” Barkin Shackelwell said, wiping tables and righting chairs. “And with that Baruwan in his confidence!” “If that’s the feeling in this house,” Darius Thorn said, “I might have to retire over to Birchbow Tavern with my thirst, and my money.” “Now, Darius,” said Abner Finch from behind the bar. “Young Barkin there doesn’t speak for everyone. But it’s all a bit of a portion to swallow, you’ve got to see that.”

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“I do,” Darius said with a nod. “I do.” “And what’s all that he said about coming with war?” Barkin Shackelwell said. “And being tested,” said Dillfarm. Milo Prinder squinted and listened, sipping at his mug. “I hear he’s called a council.” “A council?” Barkin Shackelwell said. “What sort of council?” Milo Prinder nodded. “A council in the Hall of Shields.” “The Hall of Shields!” said several voices together. Darius Thorn nodded and sipped his brew. “Whatever for?” Abner Finch asked. “There hasn’t been a war council since the day you lost your son, Darius.” Thorn nodded again. When he’d finished another sip he said, “And even that wasn’t held in the Hall of Shields.” “I tell you this Thúmose fellow is trouble!” said Barkin Shackelwell. He slapped his hand on the table. “Make friends with trouble, Barkin Shackelwell,” Darius said without looking at anyone. “It might be staying a while.” “Well, Darius,” Milo Prinder said. “I’ve a mind for the Birchbow just the same. I’m told that gang of dwarves has made themselves at home over there, some of the dryads too. Friendlier talk and all.” “Have they?” Abner Finch asked. “Let ’em stay there,” said a voice from across the room. “I’ve a mind to tip a mug or two with those fellows,” Milo said. “As have I, Milo,” Darius said. “As have I. But I’ve got somewhere to be this night. I’ll be round your place in the morning.” The two old friends left their drinks unfinished. With a scrape of chairs they stood and headed out, leaving the others to gawk and shake their heads.

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! ! ! That night Byron woke to the sound of the front door closing. He crept out into the front room and by the light of the waxing moon he saw Gradda headed off down the lane, wearing a cape and hood. Byron was halfway through his breakfast when Gradda finally came home. Darius Thorn smiled at his grandson, then went into his room and closed the door. Byron did not ask Gradda where he’d been. He’d learned very young not to ask Gradda about his nights abroad. Instead he cleared away his dishes and headed off to meet his friends in the birch grove. When he got there he found Nosh waiting for him. “Hello, Byron,” Nosh said. “Hey, Nosh,” Byron said. “You’re early, too.” “Well, I knew I’d find you here,” Nosh said. “I wanted a word with you, alone.” “What’s up?” Nosh looked off into the trees. “It’s this dream I’ve been having. It’s driving me crazy. I haven’t been sleeping.” He crouched down and plucked a bit of grass from the ground. Byron shrugged. “What’s the dream about?” Nosh looked at Byron and took a deep breath. “There’s this silver fire burning. In front of the fire there’s this black throne made of stone, and there’s this little dwarfling boy sitting there all smiling and reaching out. ‘Nülfa!’ he says.” “Nülfa?” Byron asked. “It’s Old Dwarvish,” Nosh said. “It means father.” “This dwarf baby called you father?” Byron asked. “Yeah,” Nosh said. “And in the dream I am his father. And he’s my son. You know how it is in dreams. Well, I reach out for him and the silver fire surges up all bright and warm. But then

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there’s this whisper from the darkness behind the throne. The child pulls his arms away and cowers against the back of the throne, keeping away from the arms and edges. “I can see movement back there, dark shapes in the dim light from the fire, so I step around the throne for a closer look. I’m standing there with my fists clenched, see, because it seems like the child, my son, is in danger. ‘Who’s there?’ I say, but all I hear are whispers in the darkness, all muddled. The dwarfling on the throne behind me starts whimpering. ‘What do you want?’ I shout into the shadows. I can see shapes— lots of them — moving away from the firelight, and the gibberish starts to sound further off in the darkness. “ ‘Nülfa,’ the child says again. “ ‘Where are you going?’ I shout at the shapes in the darkness. I hear more gibberish, faint and distant, so I set off toward the voices. “Away from the fire, it’s really dark. ‘Hello?’ I say. And this time someone replies. ‘Nosh,’ says a voice— just a whisper, but it’s clear enough. I take one step and I pull up hard because right there in front of me there’s a dwarf with this shriveled, withered face and he’s wearing the crown of the dwarven king. He just stares at me with unblinking eyes. ‘Nosh,’ he says. ‘Another step, come closer.’ “ ‘Father?’ I say, ‘is that you?’ “ ‘Come closer,’ he says, and it’s my father’s voice all right, but it’s not his face. Still, it’s a face I’ve seen before, you know? ‘Come closer,’ he says again. “Then, behind him I see another dwarf. He’s got this thin film of red glowing over his eyes. He’s staring at me and I recognize him. It’s my grandfather, King Dornguild. He’s leaning forward, whispering in the ear of the first dwarf, the one who sounds like my father.

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“So then, behind Dornguild there’s this old dwarf matron, all tired and worn-looking. It’s my great grandmother, Queen Helna. She’s whispering in the ear of her son, King Dornguild. “Then the voice of my father speaks again. ‘Nosh,’ it says, ‘come closer,’ only now it’s harsh, like he’s getting angry. “So, there’s another dwarf behind Helna and he’s whispering in her ear. There’s this long line of shadowy figures stretched out behind the throne. That’s when it hits me: this is the line of my ancestors, all the queens and kings. There’s a whole room devoted to them in the old hall of my father’s keep. I had to memorize their names when I was little. I used to get thwapped if I missed one. “So I start walking down the line, looking at each face. They’re all leaning forward, whispering into the ear of the one in front of them. I follow it all the way back to Queen Rendegard. She isn’t much more than a legend. But there’s one more, behind her, and there’s this tall figure standing with him. It’s wearing a dark cloak with a deep hood and the face of the hood has this red glow coming from it.” “Red glow?” Byron asked. “Filling its hood?” “Yeah,” Nosh said. “Why?” Byron frowned, remembering the vision he’d seen through the monocle. “No reason. Sorry, Nosh. Go ahead.” “Well, so, I take a closer look at the final dwarf. It’s standing there wearing a shirt of blood-smattered rings, holding a great bloody sword in its hands. The sword tip is resting on the ground, and the dwarf is swaying as if it might fall. The hooded figure reaches out to steady the dwarf. But here’s the worst part. In the place on the dwarf’s shoulders where its head should be there’s only this bloody stump of a neck. It’s Rendegard’s father, Garrowthelf, the Suicide King.

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“And then I see what’s going on. Well, I just turn and run all the way back to the throne, remembering the portrait of the Suicide King in the Hall of Sovereigns. I reach the throne and the first dwarf in the line, the one speaking with my father’s voice. “ ‘Garrowthelf,’ I say, and there it is: the withered face of the Suicide King. “ ‘Nosh,’ my father voice says, ‘come closer.’ Then it reaches up, grips its head at the ears and lifts it off like a helmet. There underneath it is the face of my father all red with the smeared blood of the Suicide King. Then my father holds out the head out to me. “ ‘My son,’ he says, ‘receive your crown. Prosper the legacy of Garrowthelf.’ “Then the dwarfling on the throne speaks again. ‘Nülfa?’ he says. “I look, but all I see is the back of the throne, with the light of the silver fire burning on the other side. “ ‘Reject the brat!’ my father shouts. “ ‘But that’s my son!’ ” I say. “So, behind my father, the entire line of dwarves starts shouting: ‘Reject the brat!’ Some just growl and make these senseless noises. But the crowned head, still up there in my father’s hands, screams loudest of all: ‘Take your crown!’ it shouts. ‘Take your crown and prosper my legacy!’ “And that’s it. Then I wake up.” Byron sat there looking at Nosh with a stricken face. “Nosh, that’s horrible.” “Tell me about it,” Nosh said. “How often do you have that dream?” “Often enough to have it memorized,” Nosh said. “It’s exactly the same every time. It’s like— it’s like there’s something calling

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me, trying to find me — invade my head or something. Anyway, for some reason I thought I should tell you, Byron. I don’t know why.” “Have you told Thúmose?” Byron asked. “Or Hixima?” “No, no. I — it seems like I shouldn’t, like I’d better not.” “What are you talking about, Nosh?” Byron said. “They could help you.” Nosh shook his head and closed his eyes. “No, I said. They can’t know.” “But why —” Byron began, but he stopped himself. “Well, all right, Nosh. When you’re ready, huh? But that glowing red hood — I think I’ve —” “I love a picnic,” Raefer said, entering the clearing with a wicker basket in his hand. Behind him were Rufus, Dindra, Shilo, and Quill. “Not a word,” Nosh said, whispering hard at Byron. “Me, too,” Nosh said to the approaching group, forcing out a laugh. “I haven’t eaten since this morning.” Shilo looked at Nosh sidelong. “I thought I heard the muffin jar a little before sunrise.” “Well,” Nosh said. “Living with humans has affected my appetite.” Dindra laughed and pinched Nosh’s cheek. “I’m sure you fit right in at mealtime.” “How is it, staying with the Prinders?” Rufus asked. “Who but the best cook in Woody Deep could hope to keep Nosh happy?” Quill said, laughing. “I should’ve moved in weeks ago,” Nosh said. “The sticky buns alone are enough to make you forget your lineage.” Then he glanced at Byron, who was staring at him. “What’s wrong, Byron?” Shilo asked.

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“Nothing,” Byron said, breaking his stare to look into the trees. He clutched his monocle. “I forgot the cups.” “No problem,” Shilo said. “I brought extras. Come on, help me spread the blanket.” They ate in laughter and conversation, but soon fell to dozing and relaxing in the climbing sun. Quill crept up beside Raefer and peered at his hair. She let the tip of her talon hover above one of the little purple flowers blooming on his gossamer vines. “Quill,” Shilo said, “why are you squinting?” “I’m not,” Quill said. “Yes you are,” Dindra said. Quill looked away. “Well, these flowers are so tiny.” Raefer smiled. He plucked one and handed it to the griffin. Quill recoiled in horror. “Yuck, no!” she said. “It’s all right,” Raefer said, laughing. “It doesn’t hurt, honest. I’ll have a new one in a week or so.” “I don’t want it,” Quill said, crouching and backing away. “Come here, Quill,” Dindra said. “Shilo and I will decorate you.” “Not with one of those,” Quill said, looking sidelong at Raefer. “Now I know what to give Quill for her birthday,” Rufus said. Raefer laughed. “Yeah, when is that, Quill?” “Come on,” Dindra said. “We’ll take turns. Then we’ll do Byron and Nosh.” “Hey, what about me?” Rufus asked. “You’ve got some already,” Quill said. Byron smiled and kept on chewing the bit of grass that stuck out from his teeth. “How’s the flight practice coming, Quill?” he said.

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“Well enough,” Quill said. “Keeping up with Cryolar is hard.” “A good way to learn,” Rufus said. “I guess,” Quill said. “The landings are still kind of bumpy.” “Kind of?” Raefer said. “I saw you on the Moondance Lawn. That was awful.” “Well, there’s a lot of pressure with everyone watching all the time,” Quill said. “The people around here are always staring.” For a long time no one spoke. Shilo sat with a pile of plucked flowers on her lap, weaving ringlets. “Did you hear about the vandalism at the Lore Pavilion?” Dindra asked. “No,” Byron said as Shilo crowned him with a wreath of forget-me-nots. “What happened?” “All the doors and windows were painted red,” Dindra said. “And on the floor of the Story Well someone wrote Lord Misrule was here.” “Gosh,” Byron said, avoiding Dindra’s gaze. The image of Gradda sneaking off down the lane flashed through his mind. “Uh, do they know who did it?” “Well, Matron Farlow and the other gossips are blaming the visiting satyrs,” Dindra said. “There are so many of them.” “They just keep coming and coming,” Shilo said. “Humans too, and centaurs.” “They all want a look at the Unicorn,” Rufus said. “Can you blame them?” Quill said. “Not me,” Raefer said. “I went a whole lot further for a look myself.” “Well,” Dindra continued, “my father has another idea. I heard him talking to one of his lieutenants. He thinks it was the satyr scouts.” “The scouts of the Woodland King?” Shilo asked.

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Dindra nodded. “That’s right. The centaurs on watch said whoever the vandals were, they were definitely satyrs and they knew Hiding Wood like the backs of their hands. And the Story Well wasn’t all. Several cottage doors were painted red and fires were started on the front porches. All of them at houses where the occupants are known to be anti–Misrule’s Day. That means whoever the culprits are, they know the sentiments of the locals.” “Gosh,” Byron said, looking everywhere but at Dindra. “Your father figured all that out?” “Well, that is his job,” Dindra said. “Some of the king’s best centaurs actually chased them. They got away and left the centaurs completely confused. It was embarrassing. But it meant they had a high level of training. They were using expert tactics and obviously practiced a lot.” “My grandfather told me that the satyr scouts have always had a secret society,” Shilo said. “Do you know anything about it, Byron?” Byron shrugged and laughed a nervous laugh. “Me? No. I’m not a scout.” “But Gradda was,” Raefer said. “Well,” Dindra said, with a sidelong glance at Byron, “the scouts are pretty much left to themselves as far as training and discipline. They handle their own on their own. They’re so good at what they do that the king leaves them alone, as long as they follow orders.” Suddenly Nosh sat bolt upright. “Oh!” he said. “That reminds me!” “What reminds you?” Byron asked, throwing himself onto the change of subject like a cat onto a mouse. “Huh?” Nosh said. “You said, ‘That reminds me,’” Byron said. “What reminds you?”

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“Reminds me of what?” Nosh asked. Byron shrugged. “I don’t know, you haven’t said.” “Nosh,” Dindra said, holding up her hand. “Just say what you were about to say.” But she looked at Byron who avoided her gaze once more. “Right,” Nosh said. “Well, it seems Ravinath wasn’t alone the night he attacked Bilérica.” “Of course not,” Raefer said. “There were a dozen painted centaurs with him.” “No, no,” Nosh said. “Remember all that fire Ravinath made, how it cracked the magic dome that Hixima cast? Well, it seems there was some kind of wizard thing helping him do it. Baruwan saw it but —” Dindra straightened a little and Nosh paused to look at her. “But it was that other fellow,” Nosh continued, still looking at Dindra, “Miroaster, who figured it out for certain. Seems he knows about these things.” “Hixima said he’d turned up,” Byron said. “Who is Miroaster, anyway?” “Thúmose calls him the Lore Tracker,” Nosh said. “So, he drove off the shadow thing, or whatever it is. Hixima says if it wasn’t for Miroaster we never would’ve got away.” “So, whatever it was is still out there?” Byron asked. “Looks like it,” Nosh said. “The scouts were out running all spring, searching. Miroaster found its trail in Faerwood. That was a strange night, the night he returned to Bilérica. He brought someone back with him and left him there. Nobody would tell me who it was. I heard the Warrians running about, whispering. There was a lot of commotion and water being drawn. I thought I heard someone crying but I’m not sure. “All the night creatures were spooked— the owls and whippoorwills and flying squirrels. The woods were full of sounds.

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Thúmose was summoned— I know that for sure. After that there was no rest for any of them. They were on the go constantly, especially Baruwan. They say he covers more ground than any of the scouts, even Lukos. Well, maybe not Cryolar. Anyway it was about a week later, after that night, that Thúmose told everyone to get ready for the journey to Hiding Wood.” “Did you see Miroaster?” Byron asked. “Nope,” Nosh said. “Like the darkness itself, that fella. Didn’t even meet him that time he rescued you, Byron. He came and went before anyone but Hixima knew it.” “I knew it,” Quill said. “I led Miroaster to the spot.” “What’s he like?” Byron asked. “He’s — well — he’s human,” Quill said, “you know, carries a sword.” “Thanks, Quill,” Byron said. “That helps.” “Well, they all look alike to me,” Quill said. “He’s out there.” Nosh said. “Somewhere, keeping watch.” “Keeping watch for what?” Shilo said. Nosh shrugged. “Nobody’s saying. But oh! They recovered the Standing Stone.” “How?” Rufus asked. “When they were tilling the UnMagic out of the soil on the hilltop,” Nosh said. “It was buried pretty deep. Thúmose had my cousin Thrym take it somewhere safe. It’s in one piece, though.” “Nosh,” Dindra said. “Tell us about your new clothes. What’s that symbol all about?” “Isn’t it great?” Nosh said. “It’s the symbol of my house, the ancient symbol. I learned it in my studies.” “Studies?” Byron said. “You?” “Yep,” Nosh said. “It’s a regular education, Byron. All kinds of maps and histories. Mostly of my family and the ancient home

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of the dwarves, Showd something, it translates as Dwarvenhearth. Anyway, this is my house, at least the legend says so, the house of the Hammer. We stopped using that name a long time ago, I forget why. But Thúmose had Thrym and my relatives take up the old titles again. From what I’ve read, the Hammer is Harkatan itself, which means Fist of the Maker.” “Mazark,” Quill said. “Showd Mazark. That’s the name of your oldenhome.” “That’s right,” Nosh said. “I always forget you griffins and your lore vaults. I bet you’ve got more scrolls than the Warrians.” “Who are the Warrians anyway?” Byron asked. “The Keepers of Warra,” Shilo said. “Hixima’s order.” “When are you going to begin your training?” Byron asked. “Is that still on?” Shilo reached into her bag. “Yes,” she said with a grunt. “I have this book to read. Ugh, it’s heavy.” The companions gathered around and Shilo opened the book. Inside there were thousands of colorful pictures and words and diagrams, lines and figures. It was bound in tarnished plates of silver metal, engraved all over with leaves and curling vines. The front and back covers were hinged and a great clasp held it closed. Inside, the pages were thick and the ink was raised so it was bumpy to touch. “What’s in it?” Quill asked. “It looks old.” “It is,” Shilo said. “It’s got everything: old names for animals and plants; weather patterns; the moon and sun and stars; the constellations. Things about the water and the earth, even fire. I’ve been skipping ahead to the fire parts. Hixima says Warra comes from ‘beyond all knowledge.’ ” “So then what’s the point of reading some old book?” Byron asked.

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“Because it only comes if you seek it,” Shilo said. “Even if you have the gift. And you seek it through loving the world. And you can’t love what you don’t know, so you learn about it.” Dindra clutched a fistful of Shilo’s hair. “You’re a priestess already.” Shilo smiled. “Well, I just know I can’t stop reading this book.” “I’m glad I’m not training to be a Warrian,” Byron said. “That thing is huge.” The day passed in sunny quiet. Byron sat studying his monocle. Rufus mended the black flight on one of his arrows, while Raefer admired the long, camouflaged bow. Dindra was lost in the colors of Quill’s wings and Quill sat unblinking, looking into the sun. Shilo sat before her open book, chin in fist. Nosh lay flat on his back with his fingers laced across his chest. His eyes were closed and after a while he began to snore. Shilo smiled and threw a flower at him. “It’s sure good to see you all,” Shilo said. “I was expecting to say goodbye.” “We’d have come visit you,” Byron said. Dindra nodded. “Sure we would.” “But who knows when?” Shilo asked. “It’s great we’re all here together,” Raefer said. “Don’t get me wrong. But why? What’s going on?” “If you will all follow me,” said a voice, “you may well find an answer to that question.” “Hixima!” Shilo said. “Hello, everyone,” Hixima said, walking across the clearing. “Ah, Shilo, I’m glad to see you with your book. How is it?” “Wonderful, ma’am,” Shilo said. “I like the fire parts best.” “Read as you will,” Hixima said. “Let your interests guide you.

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I’m sorry to have been absent to you, to all of you, these past few days. I have been much occupied. But I will take you now, if you will come, and show you why. Thúmose is waiting.” “Thúmose!” Byron said. “Where has he been?” “Ranging far,” Hixima said. “Come, we all have things to talk about.”

! ! ! Hixima led the companions along a path through the forest, out beyond the birch trees, into the open wood. In a while the forest grew thick with pines and hardwoods. Soon, however, they entered a grove of colorful dogwood and cherry trees. Byron and Dindra shared a look of confusion. “Where did these dogwoods come from?” Dindra asked. “Yeah,” Byron said. “This was never here before.” “Thúmose put them here,” Hixima said. “We have need of a hidden place. His magic for such things is not so strong as it was. He needs it for other uses. But he can still spare a little when the need for healing calls.” “Healing?” Shilo said. “Indeed, yes,” Hixima said. “Deep healing. We are keeping a secret here, a secret in which you are about to share.” “I love secrets!” Quill said. “You will not love this one,” Hixima said. “But you must know it, just the same.” At the center of the dogwood grove there was a pavilion set up, very like the one in which the Midsummer feast had been held but much smaller. Its flaps were thrown back and it stood on a little rise, gathering as much sunlight as the day could afford it. Thúmose was there with a young woman, dressed as Hixima was, in green and brown linen. She was seated beside a large white

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bed, plucking a harp, singing a song in some strange language to a human boy of six or seven years who lay upon the bed. On the other side of the bed, looking down on the child with a grim face, was the Woodland King. “Thank you for coming,” Thúmose said as they drew near. He strode out onto the grass to meet them. “Have you been enjoying the day?” “Yes, sir,” the group said, almost together. Their voices were distant; their eyes and thoughts wandered to the boy on the bed. “Come and see,” Thúmose said. As they entered the open tent, the woman looked up and stopped singing. The Woodland King smiled a little and nodded, but it was clear his heart was heavy. Byron stood beside him. “Are you a Warrian, too?” Shilo asked the woman who had been singing. “Yes,” she said. She reached down and scooped a spoonful of incense onto a small brazier that had gone low. A stream of lavender-colored smoke flowed up, swirling on the faint breeze of the dogwood grove. Then the woman began to pluck her harp again. “Sounds and smells from the world around him may help lead the boy back to us.” The child was awake but he stared into the air above him. Sometimes he reached out as if groping in the dark. He muttered to himself and there was constant fear in his face. The woman began to hum softly, lifting her voice into song. Then the boy sat up and looked around. “What is your name?” Hixima asked him, but he only looked through her with wide, searching eyes. “What’s wrong with him?” Byron whispered to the Woodland King. Belden sighed and shook his head. “He wanders in darkness,” Thúmose said.

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“Will he die?” Raefer asked. “Perhaps not,” said the Unicorn. “He is searching for a way back.” “Back to where?” Nosh asked. “Here,” Thúmose said. “To where we are now. Can’t you see that he is elsewhere?” “Where did he come from?” Dindra asked. “Faerwood,” Thúmose said. The boy lay back upon the bed. He looked around as if none of them were there. He started to smile, but at once his face crumpled into deep sadness. “No,” he said, and it sounded as if he were defending himself from accusation. “No,” he insisted, shaking his head. “When Miroaster brought him in,” Hixima said, “the boy was covered with spider bites and web-shaped rune markings, and he was pale from want of sun. We fed him and bathed him and have remained with him constantly.” “Spider bites?” Rufus said. “Mr. Thúmose,” Byron asked, “what’s happening?” “The answer to that question,” Thúmose said, “is very old and very long.” “Why have you come?” Dindra asked. “Because there is work to be done,” said the Unicorn. “It begins with Thrudnelf, king of the dwarves.” “What about him?” Nosh asked, raising his eyebrows. “I mean to invite Thrudnelf to Bilérica for a feast of friendship and oath-taking. I mean to show him his place among the dwarven kings of old. I wish to restore to him the banner of his greatness, to bring him back at long last from his exile and install him again in the oldenhome of his people, where the Granite Throne of his ancestors awaits him.” Nosh took a step forward. “Dwarvenhearth?”

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“Yes, Nosh,” Thúmose said. “Showd Mazark itself.” Nosh stood for a moment with his mouth open. He stared into the air before him. Then he blinked. “What if he says no?” “Then we shall see what we shall see,” Thúmose said. “Great and terrible days have come. Heavy wheels long motionless are beginning to turn again. The dwarves are a people in exile, though they have forgotten it. Thrudnelf has a chance to reclaim his oldenthrone.” “I can tell you right now he’ll say no,” Nosh said. “In that case,” Thúmose said, “another way will be found. An evil tide is rising, an evil very old. We have found one of its engines in the Faerwood.” “A Lychgate,” Hixima said. “Yes,” Thúmose said. “Primitive and crude, for its master was no great hand at the craft. But there can be no mistaking it.” “What’s a Lychgate?” Rufus asked. “A vessel for the darkest UnMagic,” Thúmose said. “Very, very old and dreadful. It is used to create life where life should not be. It reanimates the dead by stealing life from the living, and it is best served by the young.” Everyone looked at the boy lying under the bed linens. He was reaching into the air before him as if to fend away some unseen terror. His face was desperate and his mouth was open in a silent cry. Thúmose spoke and his great voice was almost a whisper. “This boy is struggling against the evil of which I speak. He struggles with all the courage born to him. We must join him in his struggle, help him if we can and others like him. For if the true master of deathmagic is moving, there are sure to be many, many more.” “Who is this devil?” Belden asked. “Where can he be found and how killed?”

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“I will speak no more of these things here,” Thúmose said. “Not in this place of healing. All will be made plain at the council of which you and I have spoken, Woodland King.” “I will attend you, Thúmose,” King Belden said. “I, and what knights and warriors are not needed elsewhere.” “I ask it,” Thúmose said. “But knights and warriors are not all. Bring also those elders and matrons who you trust to be still and heed, and to bear forth truly what they see and hear. All your people must know of these things and it is best they hear it from ones entrusted with the task of telling, not by gossip and rumor. What is more, I ask that at the start of the council you announce Baruwan’s pardon, for he must be present. He was among those who found the child. His presence in the Hall of Shields must be tolerated by all.” “I will make the arrangements as you say, Lord Thúmose,” the Woodland King said. “Those elders will be summoned who best will serve. As for Baruwan, his presence will be tolerated at the council, but only under guard. Nothing more will I promise now.” Thúmose lifted a hoof and dropped it. There was a long pause while the two lords looked at one another. “So be it,” Thúmose said. “In five days. That will be time enough to make ready. You may send griffins to collect those elders who you must call from far away.” In the world outside the healing glade, it was nighttime when the group set out for home. They walked in silence. Nosh and Shilo headed off toward the Prinder house. Dindra wanted to see if her father was home as expected. Rufus and Raefer went to stay at the dryad camp, and Quill joined them. Byron and King Belden went together as far as the crossing at Barton’s Bridge.

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Byron was thumbing his monocle, running over in his mind all that he had seen and heard since Midsummer’s Eve. He could not escape the memory of the terrified boy on the white bed in the dogwoods. As they reached the far side of the bridge, the Woodland King turned. “If I may speak?” Byron stopped and looked up. “I admit,” the king began. “I admit, I never really believed your tale of unicorns and minotaurs and two-headed giants. I did not think you were lying. I suppose I didn’t think much of it at all. I was just glad you came back safe, Byron. I see now that you were telling the truth. I see now that I should never have doubted you. I am sorry.” “That’s all right, sire,” Byron said. “I mean, I forgive you.” “But as for this Thúmose,” the king continued. “He is clearly a great lord and warrior, but Silverlance returned? I must wait for further proof. I would be remiss as king in my own country if I simply took him at his word on that, would I not?” Byron looked at the Woodland King. He was talking to himself. “And I am king here,” Belden continued, turning to go his way. “Am I not? Great lord or no. Still, he never speaks a word that does not feel true.” Byron watched him go. Belden continued muttering to himself until he was out of sight around the bend. Byron stood for a moment, listening to the night. Then he set off for his own house, walking slowly and stopping often, clutching the monocle in his fist.

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chapter 5

At the Hall of Shields

U !

nder dark of night, a stone — painted deep red — was thrown through a window beside the front door of the Woodland King. It was wrapped in a note inscribed with the words: Heed the Unicorn! Lord Misrule was here. That same night, a band of masked satyrs gathered outside the house of Chief Constable Pragnell, a stern centaur openly critical of the Misrule tradition. The satyrs painted the front gate red, then set fire to a straw effigy and began chanting in unison: “Heed the Unicorn! Misrule Now!” When the constable appeared at the gate, they threw vegetables at him. “We are Red Misrule!” cried the leader. “We are behind all the night crime and we promise more and greater! We are everywhere! Heed the Unicorn!” Then they all threw their torches at the red painted gate as it slammed shut, and ran off into the darkness, each in a separate direction. That night, all over Hiding Wood, cows were let out of barns, fires were started in trash bins, windows were broken, doors painted red, and straw effigies were burned by the dozen.

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In the morning, an official announcement on the crier post read: The king of Woody Deep calls to council the elders and warriors of the realm. All such will attend him at the Hall of Shields on June the 28th to discuss matters of martial and public urgency. (Posted by Elpinor Dreene, chamberlain to the Woodland King.)

But over the inscription, in fat letters of dark red paint, was written: COUNCIL OF THE UNICORN

On Elpinor’s postscript was overwritten: Skinnydipper, and below it in the same red hand the increasingly familiar: Lord Misrule was here. Forgotten songs of Silverlance were dragged out of the lore books and satyrs claimed unique kinship with the legendary king, based largely on references in the texts to the special fondness Silverlance was said to have had for the mischievous folk. Some took to referring to themselves by the old word, findrel, ignoring the fact that the term also referred to centaurs. The satyrs of Hiding Wood went about in proud bands, singing songs and all but taking up residence in Birch Bow Tavern, where the dwarves and dryads had garnered affection and the talk and sentiment was generally pro-Unicorn. In the morning, the day before the council, Byron was at the parlor table eating his porridge. Gradda was settled into the larger of two armchairs that faced the fireplace, reading a book of lore he’d borrowed from the poet Arden. Byron sat, chin on fist, poking the cooling, hardening contents of his bowl with a spoon. “Gradda?” Byron said. “Yes, sir.”

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“Um . . . whatcha readin’?” Gradda lifted his eyes from the book. “What’s on your mind, Byro?” “Nothing,” Byron said. “I was just wondering what you’re reading, that’s all.” “Well, it’s a bit of history,” Gradda said. “Of the old ties between the satyrs and the wolves.” Byron left the table and sat beside Gradda in the smaller of the two armchairs. At once his eyes strayed up to the battered shield that hung on the stone chimney above the mantlepiece. “Gradda?” “Yes, sir.” “How long did you have the monocle before you gave it to me?” Gradda lay his book down and looked at Byron over his glasses. “I got it from my grandmother, on my Misrule’s Day.” “Did it ever — I mean — did you — see things — through it?” “Well, yes,” Gradda said. “Clear as day.” “No,” Byron said. “I mean, did you ever see things, things that weren’t there otherwise.” Gradda lifted his chin and frowned the gentle frown of remembering. “Once,” he said. “Really?” Byron said, sitting up. “When?” “During the war.” “What was it?” Byron asked. “What did you see?” “Well, there was a lot happening at the moment. I was, well, on a mission. But it seemed to me — it seemed to me I saw a great sword stuck in a tree.” Byron told Gradda, in as much detail as he could remember, what he’d seen through the monocle on Midsummer’s Eve. When he was finished, Gradda sat for a long time in silence. “Arcanadin Thorn,” he said at last.

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“And Erolyn,” Byron said. Gradda sighed. “That’s a mystery to be sure, Byron. Mystery through and through. Have you spoken to Silverlance about it?” “No. He’s been so busy. He’s got a lot on his mind. Anyway, I thought you’d know best, since you had it before me.” “I wonder if my grandmother ever had it happen,” Gradda said. “She had the monocle from her Misrule’s Day, too, you know. If she saw things, she never spoke of it to me.” “Where did it come from?” Byron asked. “I don’t know that. All I know is that it’s been passed down from Thorn to Thorn for generations. If my Gramma knew where it came from, she never said. Pity we satyrs aren’t better for keeping records and letters and such. I never thought twice about it when it happened to me, it was so brief and I was never sure, until now, that it wasn’t just a thought in my head. But you’ve had a different go entirely. You heard the sounds and actually felt the wind and the heat of the fire?” “That’s right.” “Since a unicorn was mentioned I’d at least let Silverlance know about it when you find a chance, so he can decide if anything should or can be done. In the meantime, write down what you can remember, and if it happens again, get that written down too.” That evening after supper, Byron sat at the parlor table with a long quill, scratching away at a parchment. He paused often, squinting to remember what he could of his vision through the monocle. He was deep into a long, clear, unbroken recollection, when he was jarred back to the present by a loud knock at the front door. “I’ll get it,” Byron called to Gradda, who was in the kitchen whistling merrily, banging pots and cupboards as he cleared the

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evening meal. Byron set down his quill, covered his ink tub, and went to see who was at the door. A gang of satyrs was standing outside, holding what looked like signs. Byron stood in the doorway looking into the twilight at the smiling faces of Jolik Burrow, a satyr of eleven years, and a gang of other satyrs of all ages. Jolik stood a little taller as Byron stepped into view. “Lord Misrule himself!” Jolik cried. The whole band took up the call. “Lord Misrule!” they cried. “You’re the one we’ve come to see, Byron,” said Theodoc Griven. Theodoc was an old satyr with a wooden leg. “We’ve come to ask for your help.” “My help?” Byron said. “Word is you’re to be at the council tomorrow,” Theodoc said. “Well, we’ve got a thing or two we’d like to have aired on our behalf.” “On behalf of all satyrs!” cried a voice. “Up Misrule’s Day!” “Up Misrule’s Day!” the crowd enjoined. “Aired?” Byron said. “What? I don’t—” “We want a voice in that council, Byron,” Theodoc said. “We’re the Satyrs for the Immediate Reinstatement of the Timehonored Tradition of Misrule’s Day.” “Sir Thetmed for short!” cried a voice. “Up Sir Thetmed!” “Up Sir Thetmed!” the crowd replied, waving their signs, on which were painted slogans like Give Us Back Our Day! and Misrule Now! and Satyr Pride! “Byron,” Theodoc continued, “your pal Jolik here has his Misrule’s Day coming in September. He’s right in line after you. If we can get Misrule’s Day reinstated, if you can convince Silverlance, why, the tradition will have been preserved unbroken.”

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Jolik stood there nodding and grinning. Byron glanced at him and then did a double take. “What’s that on your head, Jolik?” “It’s a laurel,” Jolik said. “Jolik is our figurehead,” Theodoc said. “He’s your heir, Byron!” “Up Lord Misrule!” cried the satyrs. “I don’t think Misrule’s Day will be on the list of things to talk about,” Byron said. “Well you’ll want a strategy, of course,” Theodoc said. “We’ll leave that to you. We know you can do it. Byron, satyrs are pouring in from all over Woody Deep to get behind you. Your name is on everybody’s mind. Yours was the last Misrule’s Day and the greatest on record. You went and found Silverlance, and Silverlance can get our rights back for us. You’re a public hero, Byron, we’re counting on you.” “Byron!” the satyrs cried. “Byron Thorn!” “All right then, Sir Thetmed!” Theodoc shouted. “To Arbor Hall! We’ll make Belden hear us and know what we intend! If he’s smart he’ll take action himself before Silverlance has to! To Arbor Hall!” “Arbor Hall!” the satyrs cried. Way was made for Theodoc. He passed back through the gap and the mob stepped in behind him, lifting their signs. They went down the lane chanting: We will not go away! Misrule is here to stay! That’s all there is to say! So give us back our day! Byron watched with his mouth hanging open as the singing crowd departed. He closed the door and stood there for a moment with his hand on the latch. “Sir Thetmed?”

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That night Byron lay awake looking out at the stars through his window. His thoughts went back to the human child in the glade of healing. “What’s going on?” Byron whispered. But he fell asleep and did not dream. In the morning he went into the parlor to find Gradda polishing the bright tip of a javelin. Byron noticed the battered shield was missing from the mantle. After a quiet breakfast Darius stepped into his room and came out again with the shield on his arm. Byron stared in startled wonder at his grandfather, for the old satyr had a strip of red paint on his face that came down his forehead, between his eyes, off the side of his nose, and down his cheek to the jawline. “A scout I remain, Byron,” Gradda said. Byron’s heart swelled. He took up the javelin and handed it to Gradda. Then grandfather and grandson set off for the council at the Hall of Shields.

! ! ! Byron gazed in amazement at the crowds around the Hall of Shields. A small city had formed. Tent villages had sprung up, whole families of Woody Deepers had set up makeshift homes. Even locals had locked up their houses and cottages and steadings, in order to get close to the proceedings. Booths and huts and wagons were lined up to create a marketplace, while here and there wandering merchants, minstrels, and storytellers went about selling what they had to offer. By mid-morning on the day of the council, the camps and markets were all but abandoned, and signs of the nighttime activities of Red Misrule were everywhere. At the hall, the crowds had moved in tight, packed in a throng up to its ivy-covered walls. Satyrs and human boys had

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even climbed onto the roof, laughing and calling out to friends and families below. Centaurs stood with spears wide before them, fencing out the jostling crowds on both sides of the long laneway, the only open bit of ground for a quarter mile around the hall, that led up to the stair and front doors. Two huge centaurs flanked the bottom of the stair. One held a great, curved horn, while the other stood before a deep drum. Behind them was a company of satyr scouts, javelins in hand. They watched the crowd and shared furtive glances. Rumor spread fast of the new mark they bore on their faces: a swath of red, two fingers wide, that went down the middle of the forehead, between the eyes, off the side of the nose, and down the cheek to the jawline. The centaurs eyed the smaller warriors with a mixture of respect and wariness. Satyrs for the Immediate Reinstatement of the Time-honored Tradition of Misrule’s Day were scattered through the crowd on the right side of the avenue, waving signs and leading chants. They’d been there for three days and had taken up places all along their side of the laneway. More than one had been taken away to lockup for smarting off to the centaur guards, or for harassing the anti-Misrule Woodren. The anti-Misrulers stood on the opposite side of the avenue waving their own signs, which bore slogans like No More Misrule! and Lawbreakers Beware. Fists waved and voices shouted on both sides of the line. A great cry went up and fingers pointed as a group of young satyrs who had climbed onto the roof unfurled a long banner that read Satyr Nation! Misrule Now! in red letters, from one end of the hall to the other above the front door. “Byron!” called a voice. “Gradda!” The satyrs turned to see Dindra Thundershod approaching with Rufus and Raefer Nimbletwig.

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“Good morning youngsters,” Gradda said. Rufus, Raefer, and Dindra stood staring at the red stripe on Darius Thorn’s face. “Where are the others?” Byron asked. “Nosh is with his cousins,” Raefer said, blinking. “They’ve gathered at King Belden’s. Shilo and Quill are at the healing glade. They’re coming with Hixima.” “What of Silverlance?” Gradda asked. “Haven’t seen him,” Dindra said, still looking at the old satyr with fear in her eyes. “Gradda— ?” “Be easy child,” Darius said. “We go to a council of war, don’t we? I go as a warrior. That is all.” “I think you look terrific,” Rufus said. He gazed at Gradda with admiration. “Hixima told us to find you, and wait for her,” the dryad continued. “Resh and most of the scouts have gone off on errands, but Rifkin and Jevén will be along in a minute. Hixima wants us all to go in together.” “I can’t believe this crowd,” Dindra said. “I’ve never seen so many Woodren together in one place.” “I didn’t know there were this many,” Byron said. A horn blast rose above the din of the crowd, supported by rumbling drums, as the centaurs at the foot of the stair sounded the approach of the Woodland King. He came down from his house at the head of a long line. Behind him came the Woodland Knights, marching in pairs. Each pair escorted a heavily armed dwarf dressed in the garb of the Hammer, or the simple traveling clothes of those who were not of Nosh’s house. Nosh, Thrym, and his other cousins walked with Palter Thundershod and his captains. Nosh engaged the chief at arms in conversation and the great centaur laughed and smiled with the young dwarf prince as they walked.

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Behind them came the elders: men, women, satyrs, and centaurs from all over Woody Deep. Matron Farlow was among them, looking stern and fretful. Milo Prinder walked beside her, nodding to those on the right side of the avenue who shouted his name. Behind the elders came more centaurs in Palter’s command. Like their leader and his captains, they were bare-chested and carried long spears. The king was clad in shimmering scales, girt with a leather belt from which hung a great falchion. On his head he wore the Battle Wreath of the Woodland King. Apart from the medallion of his kingship, his helm was the only thing that set him apart from the rest of his order— for Belden, too, was a Woodland Knight. Those Woodren opposed to the Misrule tradition cried out in glad voices at the approach of their king. They reached out their hands and called his name. On the other side, the crowed cried out Misrule slogans. They shouted the king’s name with a mixture of respect and reproach. “Heed the Unicorn!” they cried. “Rise to kingship! Give us back our day!” They jostled and shoved and pressed forward, but the centaurs held them back. The king was grim and silent. He nodded and met the eyes of the Woodren on both sides of the lane. “Here they come!” Raefer said, pointing. Hixima saw Raefer and she waved to the group to join her. “Where is Mr. Thúmose?” Byron asked when they were all together. “Have no fear,” Hixima said. “We will walk together in small groups. Now then, Darius, you will go first and escort me.” “Very good, madam,” Darius said. “Shilo, you come next with Rufus and Jevén; Dindra, you with Quill and Rifkin. Byron, you come last with Raefer. All right then, everyone ready? Let’s go!”

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Most of the crowd still faced the Hall of Shields, straining to see the last of the king’s company. The centaurs of the rear guard were halfway along the avenue. The king and his knights stood at the top of the stairs with the Sons of the Hammer. Palter and his centaurs escorted the elders inside the hall. “Have you ever seen the inside?” Raefer asked. “No,” Byron said. “It’s the one place I’ve never snuck into.” “Even the king’s house?” “Yep,” Byron said. They both found it funny, but neither laughed. They were too wide-eyed at the crowd all around them. “There’s Byron!” called a voice. “Lord Misrule himself!” The cheering mob turned their eyes to Byron. “We love you Byron!” cried a young, female voice. Byron stared in a stupefied trance at the faces on both sides of the line. The centaurs turned to watch him pass, looking down at him from what seemed a great height. Byron’s mouth went dry and his heart began to race. But he felt Raefer’s hand on his shoulder and pressed on. A loud, clear voice called out from the right side of the lane. “Darius! Look at Darius Thorn!” “Darius for Lord Misrule!” cried another voice. A great shout arose as Darius Thorn went by in his war gear. Sir Thetmed took up the wild cry of “Satyr nation! Misrule now!” and the throng surged forward once more. As they reached the stair, the crowd kept pounding and clapping. The satyr scouts lifted their javelins and shook them at Darius Thorn. “Darius!” they all said. “Darius!” The old satyr rapped his javelin against his shield and climbed the stair. Byron watched in bewilderment at the reception both he and his grandfather were given by the scouts. “Silverthorn!” they all said, shaking their javelins in salute.

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“Silverthorn!” Byron glanced up the stair and found King Belden looking his way. The two locked eyes and nodded at each other. At last Byron reached the top of the stair, Raefer still at his side. As he turned to look back at the crowd, the horns and drums ceased and the throng fell to total silence. Byron peered out to the end of the avenue. A murmur rose and went through the crowd, then silence fell. Byron heard the clop of hooves as the Unicorn strode up the lane. Thúmose gained to a trot and then a gallop, bucking and kicking. A thrill went through the crowd on both sides. Byron and Raefer looked at each other, grinning wide. Thúmose slowed to a walk and did not stop until he had climbed the stair. The satyrs and centaur guards all turned to face him as he passed, squaring their shoulders and standing their spears on end. As his great hooves hit the first step, the centaurs of horn and drum stood back. At the top of the stair the Unicorn went and stood before King Belden. “Hail, Woodland King,” he said, swishing his tail. “Hail, Lord Thúmose.” “I come to take counsel and receive it. May I enter the Hall of Shields?” “Enter and be welcome,” Belden said. “Walk beside me as my guest.” “And Baruwan?” Thúmose asked. Belden nodded. “Already within.” The Woodland King nodded at the centaurs at the bottom of the stair. The horns and drums rose once more. Belden led the way, with Thúmose behind him. The din of the crowd climbed again, reaching a great height. Nosh came to join his friends at the top of the stair. The Wanderers found themselves standing

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in a circle, each one clutching the arm or talon of the next. Quill spread her wings wide around her companions. No one spoke and together they turned to follow the company as it passed from view into the Hall of Shields.

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chapter 6

Council of the Unicorn t was a great chamber of hewn stone with many dark alcoves. Large wooden chairs were arranged in a partial circle in the middle of the hall. By each chair stood a little table with a pitcher and goblet. High above the floor, beneath the great beams and rafters of the ceiling, tall clear windows let in light, while further down but still higher than a centaur, panels of stained glass threw spots of color all around, letting in still more light while protecting the chamber from spying eyes. Already, however, a living ladder had been formed at several of the windows as Woodren attempted access or eavesdropping. Angry centaur voices could be heard outside, pushing the people back from the building. Each wall was hung with many shields. These were the shields of the fallen, and on them the martial history of Woody Deep was kept. For each carried with it a song, though few but the poet Arden knew them all, and many delved deep into the distant past, where fact and legend overgrew one another like the leaves and branches of trees. Some of the shields were round, others square, some flat along the top and rounded to a point at the bottom. Some were of wood, others leather, and many were wrought of iron or bronze.

!I

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Some were so large that only the strongest centaur could have borne them, others so small that only a satyr could have hoped to gain cover behind them. Many, though not all, had the crest of the Unicorn painted on them. All were battered and chipped with the harrowing of dart and blade and claw. The ordering of the seats had the king at the top of the circle. To his right were some of his knights, then the elders, who were already seated. Next came the dwarves of Nosh’s ilk, beside a single, handsomely carved wood podium at which stood Palter Thundershod. Next to the podium stood the Unicorn himself, and beside him were two more podiums. The first had not been claimed; at the second stood Dindra Thundershod. Beside Dindra sat Quill who, like the Unicorn, needed no podium. After Quill, the chairs began again. In these sat the rest of the Wanderers, then the others of Thúmose’s company: Darius Thorn, Hixima, and the dryads Jevén and Rifkin. After Rifkin were seated the remaining knights, and so back to the Woodland King. Elpinor showed the guests to their seats, deliberately ignoring Byron, who could not take his eyes from the Unicorn. King Belden stood and waited for silence. “A tale has been told to me in part,” he began, “and a sight I have seen that prompts me to bring you all to council at the request of Lord Thúmose, the Unicorn. We come to this place, where from of old have been discussed only matters of war. And so it may be, for that which I have seen has filled me with a dread that I recognize as evil and a threat to us all. But the greater knowledge in this lies with Lord Thúmose. I command you all, as your king, to heed the Unicorn closely, whatever your opinion of him. And so, Lord Thúmose, to you.” “First, your highness,” Thúmose said, “there lies before us the question of the unclaimed podium.”

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The Woodland King lifted his chin. “Forgive me. I had forgotten. Let the podium be claimed and by my command let none so much as even voice his disapproval. I leave it to you, Thúmose, to summon him, for he is yours, not mine, to command.” Thúmose strode out into the circle and turned to face the empty podium. “Baruwan,” he called, “come forth.” From a dark alcove behind the seat of the Woodland King came the sound of hooves clopping. A large form appeared in the shadows of the low arch, ducking as it came, and Baruwan appeared in the broken, colored light. “Remember my command,” Belden said. No one spoke. Byron looked around at all the knights and centaurs. All their faces went dark and grim. Jaw muscles clenched. Lips were pursed tight. One or two centaurs closed their eyes and breathed hard through flaring nostrils. All eyes flashed back and forth between Baruwan and Palter Thundershod. The war chief made no sign of surprise or discontent. He looked with an unblinking stare at Baruwan, who made his way around the circle, coming up behind the Wanderers to the empty podium between Dindra and the place set apart for the Unicorn. Thúmose stood in the middle of the circle. “I ask you all to remember my words of Midsummer’s Eve’n. Baruwan has sworn and proven his loyalty to me. He has served me in many perils already. And now, King Belden, there is the matter of Baruwan’s pardon before us.” Belden stood. “I have considered this matter as well as I might have, given that there was none from whom I could seek counsel who does not justly hate this centaur. At the bottom of the facts lies a simple truth. Baruwan has striven for the harm of my people and myself. I cannot extend pardon to such a one without turning my back on justice. And that I may never do, as

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king, as knight, or as a man, not on the word of a stranger, however worthy that stranger may seem.” A great clamor of approval erupted among the knights and centaurs gathered in the hall. Byron caught Gradda’s eye. The old satyr looked grave, but he did not stir or lift his voice. Instead he fixed his eyes on the Unicorn. The Woodland King raised his hands for quiet and received it at once. Palter Thundershod, the king’s chief at arms, stared, still unblinking, at the centaur Baruwan. Baruwan stared hard at the Woodland King, patient and waiting. “What do you say, Baruwan?” the king asked. “I have asked for pardon,” Baruwan said. “I will be content with justice.” “No —” Dindra whispered, but in the silence that followed Baruwan’s words, it sounded loud and echoed off the rock and shields of the hall. Byron glanced up at her and saw Palter Thundershod looking at his daughter, the first light of realization glowing in his face. Thúmose rumbled inside, and spoke with a deep, low voice. “As high king in Everándon,” he said, “I will respect the court and justice of a true thane, such as you are to me, Woodland King. I will not contest any judgment you render, but let all know this: I am Baruwan’s champion. Any who would seek satisfaction from him by test of arms will have it only by facing me. In this Baruwan has no choice; it is my command.” Thúmose walked the entire line of the circle, meeting every eye he passed, until he came full around and stood before the Woodland King. “So it must be,” said the Unicorn. Every eye turned to Palter Thundershod. The great centaur stared hard at Baruwan. “It will be long before you prove yourself to me, boy,” Palter said. An angry murmur arose among the

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knights and centaurs. They shook their heads and glared at Baruwan, though few dared direct their anger at the Unicorn. The Wanderers looked around at each other. Byron looked across at Gradda, who remained still, deep in thought. “Lord Thúmose has made known his intentions,” the Woodland King said. “Should it be decided that Baruwan must face a court of arms, he will have a champion. That is just. But such a contest is not yet my will. For as I have said, we have the word of one who seems worthy, that Baruwan is not as he once was, that he is deserving of pardon. While I cannot take the word of Lord Thúmose without questioning it, I cannot dismiss it either, out of hand, for in this strange, noble lord, I feel truth which I cannot explain, though neither can I deny it.” Dindra looked up at the side of Baruwan’s face, then glanced at her father and looked down. Byron watched the exchange and met Palter Thundershod’s stern, wondering gaze. The king returned to his chair and from beneath it he took out a cloth sack. Inside the sack was a heavy leather case, which he let slide out onto the floor. Two clasps held the case shut. Belden opened the case; inside was a great ironclad book etched with markings like spiderwebs and eight-legged insects. “Baruwan, come forward,” King Belden said with a stern nod of his head and he stooped to lift the book. Baruwan approached. The sound of his great hooves echoed in the silence. Byron peered at the book in King Belden’s hand. He felt sickness behind his eyes and his stomach churned. He glanced at Nosh. The dwarf prince had his head in his hand. The Woodland King himself took a deep breath, as if to fend off a fit of nausea. Byron watched Baruwan as he drew near the Woodland King. The centaur’s gaze fell upon the book and he slowed to a halt.

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“Come forward,” the Woodland King said, his voice deep with command. Baruwan obeyed, but his chest began to heave and he stared in grim wariness at the book in King Belden’s hands. The king’s knuckles were white and he clenched his jaw. Byron felt a vast, hideous power growing between the centaur and the Woodland King. Belden’s hands trembled as he held the book up. His face was pale and sweat dotted his brow. Byron glanced at Hixima. The Warra priestess was on her feet, staring with horror at the book in Belden’s hand. Thúmose made no sign, but watched closely the exchange between the centaur and the king. “Hold out your hands, Baruwan,” the Woodland King said. Baruwan flinched and looked at the Woodland King with shock in his eyes. “Hold them out!” the king shouted, straining for words as if some great struggle engaged him. Baruwan lifted his open hands. The Woodland King thrust the book into Baruwan’s grasp and fell back into his chair, spent, sweating, gasping for breath. Baruwan held the book before him, every muscle on his great frame flexed and laboring. Byron stared at the mighty centaur. Baruwan’s hands went white with exertion. His chest heaved and his body glistened with sweat. He labored for breath and great veins stood out from his temples. A look of hatred and anger swept over his face and he stared at the book in his hands with disgust and utter contempt. A deep frown furrowed his brow and he began to growl, low and violent, baring his teeth. His whole body shook until at last he threw the book to the floor. “No!” he cried. It struck and did not move. The sound smote the ears of all there gathered. There was a moment of utter darkness in the hall and in it Byron saw hideous faces. He heard cackling and shrieks

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of pain and it seemed that a thousand spiders fled the place where the book had landed, scurrying into the corners of the hall. He cried out and looked away, covering his head with his arms, and then the day returned. A crack appeared in the stone of the floor beneath the book. Baruwan, the centaur, backed away, stumbling on his hooves, staring down at it where it lay. “Did anyone else see that?” Byron whispered. No one answered. He looked down and clutched the monocle. Every eye was wide, staring at Baruwan or the Woodland King or the book on the floor. King Belden stood from his chair, still tired and shaken, and went to stand before Baruwan, who struggled for breath and balance. The book lay on the floor between them. Belden looked up at the centaur and spoke. “You reject it,” he said, but it was not a question, it was a statement of truth. Baruwan snarled at the Woodland King and at the book. “Utterly,” he said with furious contempt. King Belden nodded. He turned full circle as he made his weary way back to his chair. “Then Baruwan,” Belden said through the weight of his own breath, “I pardon you in full and declare you free in the realm of Woody Deep.” He took his seat again and for a long time only stared at the book on the floor. At last he spoke, looking around at the frightened, bewildered faces. “I do not know how he came to possess it,” the Woodland King said, “but this book I found in the cave of Ravinath, after I drove him out of Hiding Wood on Midwinter’s Eve’n. I have spoken of it to none, and looked on it only once, just long enough to put it in that case and stash it safe. It felt evil and I could not abide it. As for Baruwan’s pardon, there in that book is the very power by which he was made strong in the service of Ravinath. Is there any here who could not feel it?”

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At the king’s words, everyone— even Palter Thundershod— shook their heads in silent acknowledgment, each stealing furtive glances at the book on the floor. “And yet here, before us all,” the Woodland King continued, “Baruwan has repulsed and reviled it, despised it and hated it. I tell you he could not have done so if it still held any sway over him. I have myself felt the allure and revulsion of that book, and was tempted by it. And I have not the past intimacy with its power that Baruwan has. If he were still in the service of Ravinath’s evil, he would surely have made some strong attempt to possess it.” “You are wise, Woodland King,” Thúmose said. “Wise indeed.” Then the Unicorn strode over to the book and there were gasps and whispers of horror and concern as he lowered his nose to the ironclad tome, and nickered. “Deathmagic,” he said. “Here is a book of Wegga to be sure.” Thúmose lifted his head and walked a space away from the book. “Hixima, if you will.” Hixima crossed the floor to the book. She crouched before it with her eyes closed, singing to herself in a quiet voice. Then she opened her eyes with a fierce look. To the murmured concern of the assembly, Hixima lifted the book and clutched it to herself. At once Byron felt the sickness inside him disappear. Nosh lifted his head, blinking and looking around. Belden, Baruwan, and the whole assembly stirred as if waking, as if the air had cleared of some heavy fog. Hixima turned and walked back to her seat with slow, considered steps. Shilo looked at the Warra priestess in alarm. “It is only a book,” Hixima said, but her face was grim and already weary with struggle. “It is now in the keeping of Warra.” Thúmose strode out into the circle once more. “Long ago,” he said, “there was a dragon. Not one of the Judges of yore, who served in benevolence as the stewards of the free

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people of Everándon. No, this dragon was altogether evil. It hunted and murdered all the Judges and took for itself the rule of the land. So began the Years of Shadow and Fire. “This dragon had in its mind and heart a single purpose: to reduce to smoking stubble every inch of our country, to hunt out and end all life. Its deeds have passed even out of song, for those who knew them were loath to remember, and more loath still to forge for them words of lore. No fouler, more powerful evil has ever moved in flesh. Its name was Borántu. “Most Everándons served the Dragon, paying him tribute of hideous sacrifice, keeping his feasts, and spreading his shadow, out of fear of his wrath. But no one was safe, for Borántu was a monster of madness and deceit, killing at will even those who served him best. Yet a remnant people stood against him, fighting as they could, and under my leadership took war to the Dragon. In the end, I went out to meet him in single combat. And so the Dragon was put down, for a time.” “You — you vanquished this foe?” Palter Thundershod asked with awe in his voice and eyes. Thúmose lowered his head. “My joy would be great, War Chief, but I can tell you that it is not so.” “Then what happened?” King Belden asked. “No story tells that tale,” the Unicorn said. “But you were there,” King Belden said. “Will you not tell us how it was?” “I cannot,” Thúmose said, “for I have no memory of it. I suffered wounds, wounds of body that until recently were not fully healed.” The Unicorn turned to look at Byron. Byron glanced at the spiraling lance of silver, and remembered the scar that had marked the Unicorn’s forehead before his horn was restored. “And I suffered wounds of mind and heart that are not fully

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healed even now, scars of forgetfulness. I have no memory of that day, of my encounter with the Dragon, Borántu the Terrible, Borántu Shadowbreather. And what is worse by far, I have lost all memory of what it was I intended by it. “It is the way of Wegga, of the Dragon, to destroy hope and all of its wellsprings, to stifle the workings of the heart before a dream can take shape in the mind. It must surely have been with one last, impossible hope that I went before Borántu, but what that hope was I can no longer conceive. For even I, Thúmose, have been wrapped in the shrouds of deathmagic.” “Yet you live,” King Belden said. “Yet I live,” Thúmose said. “And whatever was the hope that led me into the Dragon’s reach must remain, or Borántu would have triumphed.” Palter Thundershod frowned. “You say you did not vanquish this Borántu, yet you live and the Dragon is gone. Is it not possible that you accomplished your task, though you have no memory of it?” “I know the Dragon lives, War Chief,” the Unicorn said. “I know this because of what Miroaster found in the Faerwood, far from here, east of the great mountains, north of Rathrâgodrak, the Old Peak.” “Who is this Miroaster?” Belden asked. “A friend,” the Unicorn replied. “One who has wandered far and suffered much in the cause of the Light.” “Where is he now?” Palter Thundershod said. “I do not know,” Thúmose said. “It is many weeks since our parting. And no one here, not even myself, can say where he is, for he has gone dark and cannot be perceived in Everándon. Indeed, for the first time since I have known him, I am concerned for his safety.”

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“What did he find?” Sir Durmidere asked. Thúmose sighed. “I was returning from the South when the owl Jyro, flying on weary wings, found me. He carried a message tied to his leg, a message from Miroaster. Thúmose, it read, Make haste to Bilérica, a child is in dire need. I have been again to Faerwood. I have found Weg-sign.” Hixima closed her eyes and rested her head in her hand. A murmur swept the room, and looks of confusion were passed from one face to the next. Belden motioned for silence. He looked at the Unicorn. “What is Weg-sign?” he asked. “Borántu had minions,” Thúmose said. “Agents of evil that roamed in Everándon, wreaking havoc. Strong among these were the Wegs, his marshals and greatest servants. There were many, though many are now dead. It has been the business of Miroaster, Weg Hunter, to pursue them through the long years. He has found and destroyed them relentlessly, to his own great peril and harm. At his bidding I returned to the Faerwood and saw for myself the place in question. “Long had Miroaster suspected a Weg presence in the Faerwood. Long had the owls of that wood spoken of a malice living there. But the Wegs are crafty, and this one remained hidden, even from Miroaster, though he watched and waited, searched and listened. There was no mistaking it. One of the Wegs has stirred and abandoned its lair in the Faerwood. There we found its Lychgate, Weg-sign clear and unmistakable, for only a Weg can build a Lychgate and set it moving upon its foul purpose. Miroaster rescued the harrowed child by which the gate was powered, and delivered him into Hixima’s care at Bilérica. It seems the Arachnamancer has quit his lair and one Weg at least now moves in Everándon. Therefore we know that the Dragon lives, for no Weg can survive unless the power of Borántu sustains it.”

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“The Arachnamancer?” Matron Farlow asked. Her voice trembled and her face was pale. She sat in her chair, gripping Milo Prinder’s arm. “One of the greater Wegs,” Thúmose said. “The Spider King. His is a special brand of UnMagic. He crosses spiders with the dead and creates creatures of particularly foul design and purpose. Indeed, if I am not mistaken, the book that Hixima now guards once belonged to the Arachnamancer. And so his power is now much less than it might have been. In this there is cause to take heart.” Belden looked with a grim face into the near distance. People shifted in their seats and at their podiums as the grim light of unhappy understanding dawned. Byron looked left and right at his companion Wanderers, and found in their faces the fear he felt in himself. Then Palter Thundershod spoke into the silence. “Harrowed child?” he asked, glancing at his daughter, Dindra. “What do you mean? What is . . . a Lychgate?” Belden spoke. “An engine of deathmagic,” he said. “It puts life where it does not belong, and so perverts and enslaves the dead.” Every face in the room turned to the Woodland King. The only sound from the world outside was the shimmering call of a hermit thrush, far off. “By some dark craft and hex work,” the Woodland King continued, “a child is . . . fed to it— over time.” “You have heard of this, sire?” Palter Thundershod asked. Belden sighed. “The Unicorn himself told me as much. But I have been little away from the lore books since my last meeting with him. I have learned all I could since then of the things of which he speaks. Tell me, Lord Thúmose, the child who this Miroaster recovered, was he the same child I met in your place of healing among the dogwoods?” “He was,” the Unicorn said. “The very same boy. Stolen from

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his home and used to fuel the dark engine. Who can say what agents of brutality were conjured during that child’s time of torture, or indeed how long he suffered at the hands of his captor.” Palter Thundershod crossed the chamber and stood before his daughter. Dindra looked up at him with shining eyes. Her mouth trembled. Palter took a lock of her hair in his great, gentle fingers. “How old is this boy of whom you speak? Tell me, Lord Thúmose, how old?” Byron gazed at the great centaur, Palter Thundershod, who had always been a symbol of strength and safety, and Thúmose, the Unicorn, larger and stronger than a farm horse, gleaming white with a golden tail and mane, and shocks of the same golden hair at his hooves. The terrible spiraling horn stood from his forehead, gleaming, proud, fierce. Both creatures were mighty, but in that moment Byron saw the war chief as a frightened child, willful and fierce, yet turning to Silverlance for answers and comfort. “I have no certain answer for you,” Thúmose said to Palter. “The boy stopped aging when he came beneath the hex of Wegga, for that is the way of the Lychgate. But I can guess at the years he had reached before he was taken, though his body was spent. Like a feather he was in the arms of Miroaster. He was seven, perhaps eight years old, but no more.” Palter looked long and deep into his daughter’s eyes. “You have seen this boy?” “Yes, Father,” Dindra said and nodded. “I want to see this child,” Palter said, turning to the Unicorn. “I want to see the boy.” Thúmose strode forward, swishing his tail. “I’m afraid that is not possible, War Chief.” “And why not?” Palter asked.

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“Because,” Thúmose said, “he died two days ago and now sleeps beneath the ground.” “Oh!” Shilo cried. “Oh, no!” Byron’s mouth fell open and his eyes filled with tears. The Wanderers looked to each other, only to find one companion after another weeping and aghast. Hixima, to whom the news was well known, did not weep, for she had spent her tears already. Darius Thorn shook his head with grim bitterness and the rest of the council fell again to murmuring. King Belden leaped to his feet and strode out into the circle. “Dead?” he said with a cracking voice. “That young boy?” Thúmose did not speak. Belden’s face was torn with sorrow. His chest heaved in a great, deep sigh. He looked down at the ironclad book on the floor. “What evil—” he said. “What evil has come?” Thúmose went to stand before the king and the two were face to face in the middle of the circle. A long silence followed. The wind whispered through the upper windows. Outside, the throng of Woodren was utterly still. Byron looked around at all the faces. Shilo was still weeping openly beside him. She looked at him with red, tear-filled eyes and he took her hand. “Remember when Rufus dropped his mitten in the woods?” Byron asked. Shilo blinked and looked at him. “What?” “Rufus’s mitten,” Byron said. “Remember? And he said, ‘How’d you know I dropped it?’ and you said, ‘It’s one of the things the squirrel didn’t tell me, because I can’t speak to animals.’ Remember? He sure believed you after that.” Shilo blinked again, and looked at Byron with question in her eyes. Then she smiled and her smile gave way to laughter, though it was sad and quiet. Dindra laughed too, through her own tears. Quill rustled her feathers and preened.

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“That was great,” Raefer said with a sniffle. “And just after he’d barked at us all for not paying attention to our tracks.” “All right,” Rufus said. “We were all there.” “No we weren’t,” Nosh said. “Quit telling stories that don’t include me.” “I’m sorry, Nosh, did you say something?” Byron asked. He started laughing in his belly and just sat there in silent shakes. “Stop it,” Dindra said, beginning to giggle with him. “I mean it.” Byron shook even harder. “This is serious, Byron,” she said, but she fell right in with him. Soon the companions were laughing together and they seemed to forget the presence of the council. Raefer leaned on the arm of his chair, glancing furtively at the grown-ups who looked at him and his friends with confusion. “Perfectly —” he said, struggling to get the words out. “Perfectly good mittens!” “All right, I said!” Rufus insisted, but his face was twisted between a frown and a smile. “I got ’em back, didn’t I?” “Hey, Rufus,” Byron managed, “how many missing socks does it take to be a dryad scout?” The Wanderers all fell to laughing. The new cheer spread throughout the room and the stern looks of the council softened, or gave way to smiles and even laughter. King Belden gazed across at the companions with wonder in his face. It lasted for a long time, and in the end they all fell quiet again. “Well done Byron,” Thúmose said. “Well done. Let the seeds of cheer and gladness grow, always. But we have much left to consider. What I have told you is only the beginning.” Thúmose strode about the circle, clopping his hooves against the stone. “To build a Lychgate,” he said, “is a long and rigorous task. Its maker must invest a great deal of power, and then make

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constant use of the gate for a very long time, before that power is recovered. “A Lychgate has many uses for its master. One use is to keep its master safe, hidden for as long as he stays within. In this way the Wegs have stayed hidden through the long years, tracked and ambushed by Miroaster only when they emerged to find children on which to prey. Will you not wonder then, Woodland King, for what reason this Weg might quit the safety of its lair, even with such a one as Miroaster lurking?” Belden only stared in exasperation at the Unicorn. “There can be only one reason,” Thúmose continued. “The Damarung. Perhaps that is a word you have come across in your recent search through the catalogues of lore?” “No,” the Woodland King said. “No, I have never heard that word, but it has an ill ring to it.” “Ill indeed,” Thúmose said. “It is the Dark Summons, the gathering of the Wegs. Long has it been foretold as the sign of the second coming of Borántu. That is why the Weg quit its lair, and it has made its way south. It seems the long sleep has ended at last. The Damarung is about to begin.” King Belden shifted in his seat, and passed his hand over his face. Palter Thundershod stared at him with deep, loyal, mutual concern. The whole gathering fell to murmuring. Byron kept his eyes fixed on the Unicorn, who paced about, meeting the eyes of each person in the hall. “I told you the trail of the Arachnamancer led south,” the Unicorn said. “The Weg Hunter tracked the creature for many days to the valley of Wodys Mara, where dwarves of the old kindred still dwell. They have forgotten, except in rare song, their relatives to the north at Valleygate where Nosh’s father, Thrudnelf, is king.

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“There is a mountain in that valley. It was once called Ratheméndurin, which means mountain of the king. Within that mountain is a cluster of mansions that belonged to the ancient dwarf people. It is called Showd Mazark, which means hearth of the dwarves. “But the dwarves of the valley have not wholly forgotten their devastation at the fall of Showd Mazark, long ago. Superstition has evolved. Tales of the ghosts in the mountain are told at fireside in the autumn, when the death of the year draws near. “They now call the mountain Rathpálamar, which means haunted mountain. Those who venture its slopes, they say, do not return. Yet they live beneath its shadow. The fear of it is buried in their minds, as the love for their oldenhome is buried in their hearts. Haunted Mountain and Mountain of the King. That pain, that hope, can be heard in their songs, and seen in their crafts of metal and stone, where they remember that the two are one. “The Weg Hunter has traveled far and learned much of the movements of his prey. But as I said, he is helpless to do little but watch until one comes forth. And so he has watched. Longest of all, he has watched the Haunted Mountain, prowled its slopes, for it is not superstition alone that breeds the fear of that place. Dark deeds and happenings have always surrounded that mountain, some rumor only, but not all. Miroaster is certain that Weg power inhabits the ancient halls of the dwarves. “And of late the signs are more clear. The dwarves there now speak of shadows in the woods, cries in the darkness of night. Children go missing in broad daylight and the Fell Clans are entering the valley in numbers never before seen. It is Miroaster’s belief that the Damarung has its center in the Mountain of the King.”

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No one spoke. They stared at the Unicorn in rapt silence. Byron leaned forward on the edge of his seat. He looked across at Gradda, who gazed at the ground in deep thought, remembering. “Two things now press us,” the Unicorn continued. “Our first business is with King Thrudnelf of the dwarves. He must be won to the cause of taking back Showd Mazark. It is his alone for the taking, for he is of the line of sovereigns who once ruled from Dwarvenhearth. What is more, he has an army that could face the growing horde in Wodys Mara if he moves soon. “And that is our second task. We must meet the foes of Dwarvenhearth and beat them. If they are not checked, they will gain an edge we may never win back in the days ahead. Their plan is clear enough: to make of Showd Mazark a Weg fortress. That must not happen. “At the time of the Dragon’s fall, a war was raging in Everándon. The war of the Dragon is waking again. It will begin at Showd Mazark. Woodland King, I ask you to come with me, you and all your strength, to face our common foe.” Belden looked at Thúmose. “March south?” “Yes,” Thúmose said. “To stem the tide that will find you in the end, no matter where you go.” Belden was silent. “Our first business is with King Thrudnelf of the dwarves,” Thúmose said. “And he is pressed with trouble of his own. Grudner, the young prince of the giants, has been kidnapped.” “Kidnapped?” Hixima said. “And Grudnevar, the giant king, places blame with Thrudnelf.” “My father?” Nosh asked. “A kidnapper?” “Not likely,” Thúmose said. “But the old enmity between dwarf and giant has warped the giant king’s perceptions. He arms

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for war with King Thrudnelf even now, unless young Grudner is returned to him. “We must go at once to Thrudnelf. For this task, I require an emissary, and I have chosen Byron Thorn.” Hixima gasped. Every face turned to Byron, who gaped back at them unsure of what he had heard. He sat there blinking with his mouth open. “Oh, no,” Nosh said. “You’re joking, Mr. Thúmose, right? You can’t mean to send Byron before my father to ask him to swear loyalty to you, can you?” “I will make that request myself when I see him,” Thúmose said. “Byron will only deliver an invitation.” “But —” Byron said, “but why can’t you go? He’ll listen to you, Mr. Thúmose.” “I am high king, Byron,” Thúmose said. “Thrudnelf must come to me.” “But you came here,” Raefer said. “And so the prophecy was fulfilled,” Thúmose said. “Mr. Thúmose,” Nosh said. “They must know all about Byron by now. They’ll know he was with me when we traveled east. You can’t send Byron there, he’d be— well — you just can’t send him there.” “Thúmose,” Hixima said. “Do you mean for Byron to go alone?” “Yes,” Thúmose said. “Cryolar will carry him as close as he safely may. The dwarves have been ordered to kill Cryolar for a traitor. Therefore, Byron will have to go alone along the Winding Way.” “What’s that?” Rufus asked. “The avenue leading to the gates of my father’s hall,” Nosh said. “Count on being greeted, Byron.” “Oh,” Byron said. “Mr. Thúmose, couldn’t you send a letter?”

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“King Thrudnelf would toss it in the fire,” Thúmose answered. “Well shouldn’t you send a warrior, or— or a wizard?” Byron asked, wringing his hands. “The Damarung has begun,” Thúmose said. “We must begin a gathering of our own. Byron Thorn, I am sending you before the king of the dwarves. Will you go, or won’t you?” Great tears welled up in Byron’s eyes. He looked around at his friends and found fear in their faces. Then, in his mind, Byron saw the boy in the white bed beneath the pavilion among the dogwood trees. He frowned, and except for the tears still falling down his face, he stopped crying. For a moment Byron stared into the air before him, the sight of the boy so clear in his mind. Then he looked across the circle and found Gradda gazing at him with fire in his eyes. Byron blinked, and for a moment he could not believe he had ever hesitated. “Yes,” Byron said, still looking at Gradda. Gradda gave him a firm nod. Byron nodded back. “Yes, Mr. Thúmose, I’ll go.” Thúmose gave a snort and swished his tail. “Well done, Byron,” he said in the same deep whisper. “Remember, my dear friend, wherever you go, I go with you.” Then there was a sound like crackling and bells, very faint. Byron’s silver horn tingled and his skin went bumpy. He looked at Thúmose through his glistening eyes. “I go with you,” Thúmose said. “And when you need me, I will come.” Byron looked out the highest window at the sun in the willow trees. He sighed a deep, heavy sigh and settled into his chair. Belden stood and looked at Byron. He stared for a long time, until it seemed he couldn’t see the satyr at all, but was deep in thought of other things. Thúmose moved out into the circle again.

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“Baruwan,” the Unicorn said. “Will you address the Woodland King?” “Yes, Great One,” Baruwan replied. He strode out and stood beside Thúmose. “I thank you, Woodland King,” Baruwan said. “For your clemency. To come and go freely in Woody Deep is a great boon. To do so with the good will of the king is greater still. But I will leave you for a time at least. It is the will of the Unicorn that I should go among the wild centaurs of the north, to my own tribe and perhaps to others. “You see, Byron,” Baruwan said, turning, “all of us who serve the Unicorn will face risks we feel we are no match for. It is my task to bring my own tribe into the service of Silverlance. To do that, I must defeat their chief. I may die. But my tribe is strong, so it is a risk worth taking. And if it can be done, others may follow.” “You are of the Hesbáni centaurs, are you not?” Palter Thundershod asked. “Ixion is your chief.” Baruwan nodded. “That is so.” Palter regarded the younger centaur with respect, and nodded his head. “Ixion may be the fiercest centaur now living. In his veins runs the blood of Koa the Strong.” Baruwan smiled. “Perhaps there is one fiercer still.” Palter smiled back. “Your mastery over the book of Wegga has won you the pardon of my king. If you do this thing, and we meet again before I die and go to roam with the herds of Epona, you will have my pardon, also.” Baruwan bowed his head and stepped back. “Much good has come from this council,” Thúmose said. “I am glad, though the days darken. Woodland King, there is little time for deliberation. My company is small and stands ready to

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depart. In three days, we will do so. It is my will that Byron Thorn depart then also. Cryolar has been summoned.” Belden stood before the Unicorn, arms akimbo. He nodded. “I will take counsel in my house with my warriors and elders. In three days time you will have my answer.” “I am content,” Thúmose said. “For my part, this council is over. May our road be made of turns well chosen.”

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Valleygate y order of the Unicorn, a special coat was made for Byron. It had a stiff, square, upright collar and trim shoulders. It fell to his fetlocks and buttoned to the waist with three black clasps. It was black with black edging at the cuffs and hems and collar. On the left breast, embroidered in black silk thread, was a rampant Unicorn. Byron fidgeted with the collar, but he could not deny that the coat was a perfect fit. A strange quiet settled on Hiding Wood. Woodren spoke in whispers even in the full light of day and nothing was heard from Red Misrule. King Belden remained closeted with his advisors. Rumor spread faster than any of the elders could control. There were tales of dragons and the living dead, a kingdom of ghosts, a book of recipes for stewing dwarves, and something about a wig. Thúmose took it upon himself to sow the truth. He went among the Woodren, visiting homes and steadings. Word came in from the Fencewood of a wolf attack on a centaur patrol. Palter Thundershod went himself. Two more reports came in from the north concerning an attack by wild centaurs in league with hoblins. Still King Belden did not appear. It was rumored that he spent many hours with Arden the poet, hearing what he could of the old tales.

B !

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In the morning on the third day, a crowd gathered at Arbor Hall. Sir Thetmed was there, but they carried no signs. Instead they stood in a quiet bunch, wearing sashes across their chests that read Misrule Now. The satyr scouts were there also. It came out that Darius Thorn had been at the council as their representative. Now they took up their post behind Byron and the Wanderers, poised with their faces painted and javelins at the ready. The Sons of the Hammer stood by, and Cryolar sat waiting with a group of curious Woodren gathered around him. He beamed down with merry eyes, leaning this way and that so they could touch his feathers and talons and beak. Thúmose was there, standing alone in the middle of the courtyard where his pavilion had stood a short time before. “Everyone’s going with Thrym to the Griffin Stair,” Raefer said, frowning. “Everyone except me and Nosh.” Nosh nodded in agreement and shared his frown. “Will you be crossing the mountains?” “Nobody’s saying,” Quill said. “Something about representing the Unicorn. Thrym promised he’d tell us on the way.” “Well, why can’t we go?” Nosh asked. “I’m sure Thúmose has his reasons,” Dindra replied. “Yeah, whatever.” Raefer said. “All we get from Thúmose is ‘My heart bids me keep you here, in case of hidden need.’ ” “That’s pretty good, Raef,” Byron said. “You sound just like him.” But there was no mirth in Byron’s voice. His breakfast was disagreeing with him. Dindra gripped his shoulder. “You’ll be fine, Byron,” Shilo said. “Just be polite.” “Whatever you do,” Nosh said, “don’t interrupt when my father is speaking. He hates that worse than anything. And if you can help it, don’t even look at my uncle. You’re gonna want to, because he won’t take his eyes off you, and you can feel it.”

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“Anything he should do?” Rufus asked. “Yeah,” Nosh said. “Look my father dead in the eye when you talk to him.” “Byron does that anyway,” Quill said. “It’s the first thing I noticed about him.” Dindra took Byron by the hand and led him away a few steps. She crouched down before him so they were nearly eye to eye. “Byron,” she said. “Before my father left, he said something I thought you should hear. He said he’s been watching you closely since the day your family was killed — the day he found you hiding behind that rock wall. He said he noticed something about you then, something in your eyes. He said that for a moment, when your eyes met, he was afraid.” “Afraid?” Byron said. “Your father? I was only three years old.” “I know,” Dindra said. “And he said something else. He said that until he met the Unicorn, my father considered you the most dangerous person he’d ever known.” “Dangerous?” Byron said. “Me?” “He didn’t mean it the way you think. He meant — well, I think he meant you’ve got something that keeps other people from sitting down. He said that when he looked into your eyes that morning, he wondered where this tiny satyr-baby was going to take us, and what we would all do when the time came to follow. Well, after the council, he said he asked himself the very same questions.” Byron stood there, blinking, dazed. He had taken it hard to learn that Baruwan had departed directly after the council. He had wanted to speak more with the centaur about all that had happened. He had felt a swelling in his chest when Baruwan addressed him in the Hall of Shields. Now, to be considered by one so great as Palter Thundershod himself was an honor Byron

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could not get used to. All he could do was shake his head. “What’s happening, Dindra?” “I don’t know, Byron. I just know Mr. Thúmose chose you for a reason. I’ve known you your whole life. Your sister was my best friend. Remember? She and I were together in the next room when you were born. I think my father was right, Byron. And I know we never would have found Silverlance if not for you. It’s almost like you were born for this. It’s as if, all you need to do is whatever feels right to you, and the whole world gets shaken. You’ve been keeping people on their toes since you were born. I’m proud of you, Byron.” Byron looked up at Dindra and the two friends locked eyes. “You remember my sister?” Dindra nodded and tears came. “My brother, too?” “Yes,” Dindra said in a whisper and she smiled. Then she squared her shoulders and blinked out her tears. “You take Silverlance to that dwarven king, Byron Thorn. You tell him what’s on, okay?” “Okay, Dindra,” Byron said, but his own eyes filled. “I sure am scared, you know?” Dindra’s tears came fresh. “I know, Byron. Me, too.” She reached out her arms and they embraced. “Dindra,” Byron said. “Sometimes I hear it, not just in dreams either.” Dindra grimaced and shook her head. “Hear what, Byron?” “The phoenix call.” An uproar took the crowd and all eyes turned to the porch of Arbor Hall. The doors opened before the Woodland King, who came out into the day, surrounded by his knights. He looked haggard, his face worn and tired. He wore a long tunic of forest green. When he held up a hand, the crowd went silent.

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“Lord Thúmose, I will be brief,” the king began. “My borders are embattled, my warriors harried. If war is coming I must look to my people, to see that they are prepared and protected. I will not join you on this journey, nor rally to you at Showd Mazark. I cannot. There is too much at stake here in my own land.” A loud murmur swept the Woodren. Many nodded their heads, smiling with relief. Many others frowned and shook their heads, throwing up their hands. The satyr scouts glared around at each other. A few centaurs clenched their jaws and looked at the ground. Even some of the knights gathered behind Belden gazed in disappointment over the top of the crowd. “Knights, warriors, and scouts,” Belden continued. “You are bound to me by blood oath from which I do not release you. But there are many in the population at large who are doughty enough. If any of you wish to follow the Unicorn I will not hinder you. Any are free to go who choose to. I will say no more. I am needed.” Belden turned and went into his house. His knights followed and the glass doors closed behind them. The crowd began to disperse, breaking up into groups of like-minded Woodren who went their ways to talk of the morning’s events. “Did you not hear?” Thúmose asked. “If you will, you may follow and aid me in the time to come. Who will join me?” The Woodren moved away as if they had not heard. They talked amongst themselves as they went, and soon the courtyard was empty of all but the Wanderers, Darius, the Prinders, and those loyal to the Unicorn. “Well, I’m coming,” Dindra said. “So am I,” said Rufus. All the Wanderers declared their fidelity. Thúmose went before them and swished his tail. “Well do I know it, first of the

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Sworn,” he said to them. “You are dear to me, all of you. But it seems we are alone.” “Where’s all their talk now?” Raefer said, looking at the last of the departing crowd. “They draw strength from their king,” Thúmose said. “And they will not leave him, even though they disagree with him. That will be to the good in the end. But we will wait no longer. Darius Thorn?” “Sire,” Darius said. “I have been with Lukos among the Western Wolves; it is arranged. Gather Red Misrule and meet the wolfen king as soon as you may. Belden will need you.” “Yes, sir.” Everyone stared at Gradda, who once again stood before them, a simple old satyr in a hooded cape and half glasses. No one had a chance to question what they heard. “Are you ready, Byron?” Thúmose asked. “Yes, sir,” Byron replied. “Good. Do not worry about what you will say when the time comes. I am with you, my dear friend.” Thúmose leaned down and touched the tip of his long, spiraling lance to the silver horn on Byron’s head. There was a crackle and flash so terrific that everyone gasped. “Be well, Byron,” Gradda said, embracing his grandson. “You too, Gradda,” Byron said. Byron turned to his friends. “So long everybody.” The companions gathered around him and embraced him one by one. “Good luck, Byron,” they said. “See you soon.” Byron shared a last glance with Dindra, as Cryolar came up. “All forgiven, then?” Cryolar asked.

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“Yes,” Byron replied. “Just try to take it easy in the air, okay?” “I will, Silverthorn,” Cryolar said. “I will. Shall we go?” Byron nodded. “I’m ready.” “A special basket has been prepared for your protection,” Cryolar said. The basket was armored below and on the sides. The top was open and inside was a padded compartment where Byron could recline or sit up. A tall handle looped up and over with a crossbar suited and sized for Cryolar’s grip. Byron climbed in and, before he was settled, Cryolar swept open his great wings, took hold of the basket, and was aloft. The world fell away below them. Byron slung an elbow over the side of the basket and looked down at his friends, waving far below. Thúmose stood apart. He bobbed his great head and swished his yellow tail. The silver lance flashed in the sun. Byron rubbed his silver horn with his thumb and sighed. “A fine day for flying!” Cryolar called. “Eh, Silverthorn?” “I like the basket!” Byron called back. The wind whipped his hair and he squinted in the bright sunlight. “So do I,” the griffin shouted. “It’s easier to grip! Be easy, Silverthorn. We have the better part of a day before us.” Byron pulled his cape tight about him and leaned back on the cushion. The sky was vast and clear. The beat of Cryolar’s wings, the warmth of the sun, and the constant rush of wind lulled Byron into unexpected sleep. When he woke, the mountain stood close. Cryolar soared low among the peaks. Great shadows fell east of the mountains, cast by the sinking sun. It was deep afternoon. Far below, south of the Old Mountain, the city of the dwarves waited in the lower cliffs. A single road wound among the trunks of the mountains,

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furrowing deep into the interior of the Crestfalls to the turrets and stairs and porticoes of Valleygate, hall of the dwarven king. “The Winding Way!” Cryolar said. “The only surface road to or from the bastion of the dwarves. Of course, there are many paths and avenues beneath the mountains into the valley beyond the Gate. And the halls within are a marvel if tales be true.” Byron did not speak. He squinted in the sunlight and looked down from beneath the shade of his hand. “Come, Byron,” Cryolar said. “You must retrieve your eagerness. It is no small part of why Thúmose chose you for this errand. Your task is a mighty one and much will be made of it. But we must go without reward for our courage, at least for a while.” “You’ve been hard at work,” Byron said. “Haven’t you, Cryolar?” “We all have. The time requires it.” “But you’re an outlaw.” “Yes! And an exile besides. And there is a price upon my head, so I am a fugitive as well!” “Why don’t the griffins hunt you?” “Those who do not love me, fear me. No griffin craves an encounter with Cryolar!” “Why doesn’t Mr. Thúmose send you to the dwarves?” “I am best with the wind in my wings, Byron. My work is to keep watch. And to bear the ambassadors of the king where duty calls them!” Then the griffin laughed. “For that is what you are, Silverthorn!” Something whistled past the basket. Cryolar banked and pulled the basket up beneath him. “What was that?” Byron asked. “An arrow,” Cryolar said. “They’ve been launching them for some time now. We’ve only just come into range.” “Who?”

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“The dwarves of course. They have been ordered to bring me down if they can.” Byron looked out from the safety of Cryolar’s talons. “Aren’t you afraid?” he asked. “I have taken arrows before,” Cryolar said. “Still, I have brought you as close as I safely may. I will alight on the Winding Way and you must walk from there alone.” Byron swallowed the lump in his throat. The mountains drew near as Cryolar began a wide, sweeping spiral. Far below, the road meandered southward among the many narrow valleys. Then there was a clang and a crack and a javelin tore through the basket. It passed between Byron’s arm and chest, and stuck into the other side of the basket. Cryolar gave a shrieking roar. “Ballista!” he called. “Mind your stomach, Silverthorn, we’ve got to dive!” The griffin beat his fabulous wings faster and faster into a fall. He folded them away and stretched his body, plummeting toward the trunks of the mountains. Byron held his breath and gripped the basket. His sight went starry. When he came to, the basket was resting on the cobbles of the Winding Way, and Byron was curled up in the basket’s padded compartment, clutching the javelin for safety. He looked up into the merry face of the griffin. “Forgive me, Byron,” Cryolar said. “The dive was necessary. Crossbows and long bows are one thing. A ballista is another.” “What’s — what’s a ballista?” Byron asked, lifting his head to peer up the path. “A contraption used for throwing enormous arrows. I didn’t know the dwarves had them this far north.” “Enormous arrows,” Byron said, looking at the shaft of the javelin.

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Cryolar looked up the road to where it rounded a bend and disappeared. “No doubt the dwarves are on their way. It will go better for you if you are alone when they find you. The sight of me will only rouse their swords. Farewell, Byron. Good luck on your errand. Yes, I hear them now. I must go.” Cryolar plucked Byron from the basket and set him gently on the ground. He took the basket by the handle and bounded away on his hind legs, south down the slope of the mountain. With a graceful flap, he took flight. Byron closed his eyes and listened to the loud rustle of the griffin’s feathers. As it faded, another sound slowly overpowered and replaced it. It was the sound of urgent voices and heavy, tramping feet. Byron struggled to his hooves. His heart no longer beat in his throat and the last hints of red disappeared from his sight. As he stood there gaining his balance, a troop of heavily armed dwarves rounded the bend. They had thick short swords at their hips, heavy spears and bows in their hands, and visored helmets on their heads. Their shoulders were disproportionately broad and draped with links of chain. They wore long beards, plaited and bound with lashings of leather. Their war gear jingled and creaked. They levelled spears at Byron. He looked back at where Cryolar had lifted off. Then he looked again at the dwarves and sighed. The Winding Way climbed into the cliffs. Nothing protected the roadside from the staggering drop-offs. Here and there waterfalls gushed and springs trickled across, conveyed by grated troughs expertly built into the surface of the road. The width of the road never varied, always with enough space for two wagons to pass with ease. Byron had to trot and sometimes run to keep up with the fourteen heavy-handed dwarves who surrounded him, forcing him to push on, up the climbing slope. At last the track

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levelled off into a wide alley, steep on both sides, that led to a sheer face. A dark tunnel opened in the wall of the cliff, covered by a huge ironclad portcullis. One of the dwarves lifted a horn from his belt and filled the mountains with a loud, echoing blast. A great many armed dwarves appeared in the cliffs above, looking down through the heavy visors that darkened their grim faces into shadow. Somewhere inside the portcullis a giant wheel began to turn. Byron could hear the creak and hum of stretching chain and the gate opened, disappearing into the mountain above the tunnel. A long, dark passage followed. The dwarves kept their pace and escorted Byron out through a bright opening, into sunlight in a vast stone courtyard. Dwarf men and women came and went, some armed or in uniform, some dressed for work. Pony carts went to and fro. The courtyard stretched out and disappeared in both directions, carrying the traffic of the day. The escort led Byron toward a towering house tucked into the cliff on the other side of the fountain. Byron noticed a pair of dwarves staring down at him from the house’s largest balcony overlooking the courtyard. One looked grim, almost angry. He glared at Byron with a heavy brow. The other had an air of serious curiosity about him. He stroked his long beard. A dwarf woman stepped up beside them to look down as well. She was grave, but not threatening like the first. All three were dressed richly, and looked familiar to Byron, as if he had seen them before. “Nosh,” he muttered to himself. There was a shout. A passage opened on the ground level and a band of dwarf dignitaries stepped out into the courtyard. They wore puffy, feathered caps and bright blue hauberks. Some had small swords tucked into their belts, and each frowned as they

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approached. They stopped with arms akimbo before Byron’s escort. “No sign of the griffin,” said the leader of the escort. “Just this — whatever it is.” The lead dignitary narrowed his eyes at Byron. “What happened to the griffin?” he asked. “Cryolar?” Byron said. “He flew away.” “A friend of yours, then?” the dignitary said, raising his eyebrows. Byron paused. He looked at the dwarf escort and up at the three well-dressed dwarves still watching from the balcony. “I have a message from the king,” he said. The dignitary pulled back his chin and blinked. A murmur swept through the courtyard. More guards gathered in the cliffs. “A message for the king, you say?” the dignitary said. “Well, you can just deliver it to me, then. I am the king’s chief counsel.” “Not for the king,” Byron said. “From the king. And I won’t tell it to anyone but Thrudnelf.” The murmuring grew louder. The chief counsel frowned. The less grim of the two dwarf men on the balcony leaned forward and put his hands on the rail. Byron drew a deep breath. “I have a message from Silverlance,” he said. And silence fell. Everyone, including the chief counsel, looked up at the balcony. The matron and the less threatening of the two dwarves turned and went in. The remaining dwarf leaned forward with a withering stare, and put his hands on the railing as the other had done. “Bring ’im!” he shouted. The chief counsel turned back to Byron with his eyebrows up. Then he motioned with his chin to the dwarves who escorted

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Byron. They started forward and one of them shoved Byron from behind. They went by many turns and up many stairs. Twice they passed through walkways open to the air. All the dwarf folk they met bowed slightly to the chief counsel as he passed. At last they came to a set of tall doors guarded by two hard-looking dwarves. They parted at the sight of the chief counsel and the doors swung open. Inside was an enormous round hall with great pillars and arches in the ceiling. Warm sunlight lit the place. A long heavy table stood in the very middle of the room and great chairs were set around it. All three of the dwarves Byron had seen on the balcony sat in tall chairs at one end of the table. The least threatening sat at the head. To his right sat the dwarf matron and to his left the grim-faced fellow, who was still staring at Byron with dark eyes. The chief counsel and dignitaries filled the table’s remaining seats. The guards vanished, leaving Byron alone on the the floor beneath the high ceiling. The dwarf at the head of the table cleared his throat. “Your name,” he said. Byron stepped forward. “Are you Thrudnelf?” he asked. The grim dwarf deepened his frown. The matron shifted in her chair. The dignitaries murmured amongst themselves, watching the head of the table. The dwarf who had spoken raised an eyebrow. “I have a message for you,” Byron said. “If that’s who you are.” “So I understand,” said the dwarf. “You are a strange little emissary, I must say. It’s clear you are not schooled in protocols and for that I cannot fault you. You are sent by a foreign king, I am told. Might I have your name, sir? You are the visitor here, it is only right you should declare yourself.” One of the advisors stepped up beside the dwarf and set before him a stack of papers, an ink tub, and a long feather pen. The

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dwarf licked his fingertips and went through the papers without looking up. Byron shrugged. “Byron, sir. Byron Thorn.” “Very well, Byron,” said the dwarf, still sifting through the documents. “Yes, I am Thrudnelf. This is my sister, the Princess Verdandi, and my brother, Prince Dornthelf. We are eager to hear what you have to say.” He paused a moment to sign one paper and set it aside. The advisor leaned in and pointed to a place on the next page and Thrudnelf signed there also. “If I’m not mistaken, you were in company with my son on that errand of madness this past winter.” “Yes, sir.” Byron said. “That is— I’m a friend of Nosh.” “A friend of Prince Nosh,” Thrudnelf said. “How nice. And how is it with my son?” “Fine sir. If you please, sir—” “Where would I send a message,” Thrudnelf said. He looked Byron straight in the eye, smiled, and tapped the stack of papers edgewise on the table. “If I wanted to get word to him?” “Well,” Byron said. Then he paused and looked around. Dornthelf and the chief advisor peered at him. Thrudnelf only smiled and Verdandi gave Byron a sober stare. “I’d like to deliver my message now, sir,” Byron said. Dornthelf’s frown returned. The advisors sat back in their chairs. Thrudnelf’s smile faded to blankness and Verdandi’s face softened. She nodded to Byron and gave a long, slow blink. “Very well,” Thrudnelf said. He stuck the pen in its tub and pushed the papers aside. The advisor collected them and backed away from the table with a slight bow. Thrudnelf folded his hands before him. “Now,” he said, “what is it you have to say?” Byron shifted his weight to one hoof, forgetting his message in the moment. Verdandi sat with her chin lifted, casting a firm,

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friendly gaze Byron’s way. When he met her stare, his horn tingled and words came before he knew he was speaking. “The high king of Everándon sends you peace,” Byron said. His voice was calm and steady. He looked at Thrudnelf without blinking. Dornthelf rolled his eyes and sighed. He leaned back and folded his arms. Thrudnelf shifted in his chair. “Go on,” he said. Byron continued with the same calm countenance and unflinching voice. “Thúmose, high king, extends his banner over you, King Thrudnelf of the dwarves. He asks that you attend him at his headquarters in Bilérica thirty-one days before autumn’s equinox, for a feast of friendship and oath-taking. “Thúmose wishes to draw your attention to the lore of your people, that you might remember the oldenhome of the dwarves, the Granite Throne of your ancestors, and the deep forge where the crafts of metal and stone were made great. He offers you renewed possession of Showd Mazark, Dwarvenhearth, at Mountain’s End, where you and your people may return at ancient last, to find rest from your burdensome waiting and liberation from your place of exile. “What is more, Thúmose offers you your rightful place in the Circle of Kings, to help him forge anew the league of alliance that was broken and lost long ago when darkness fell. But above all Thúmose craves your attendance, that he may call you friend and raise you to the greatness that belongs to you.” When Byron finished the room was silent. He felt a little dizzy and his heart was racing. The advisors glanced around the room in every direction. Verdandi leaned back a little to catch sight of the side of Thrudnelf’s face. Dornthelf, too, watched his brother. “Who is this Thúmose?” the dwarven king asked.

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“The Unicorn,” Byron replied. “Silverlance.” “Silverlance?” Dornthelf said, leaning forward. He put his hands on the table. “Sire, need I remind you of the threats issued by the giant king? To say nothing of the hoblins on the northern causeways. May we please discuss something that matters?” Thrudnelf looked at his brother. “Am I to understand, Dornthelf, that you do not consider the safe return of my son to be a matter of importance?” Dornthelf blinked and recoiled a little. “I— no, your highness. Of course not.” He sat back, glancing around at the advisors until his look darkened to a glare and came to rest on Byron. “And this fellow, this Unicorn,” the king continued. “He wishes me to visit him at the home of some herb-witch in order to lay my crown at his feet and declare my loyalty to him?” “Hixima isn’t a witch,” Byron said. “She’s a Warra priestess.” “Yes, I have heard of her — a witch then,” Thrudnelf said. “And in addition, he wants me to abandon my home and asks that my people do likewise so that I might lead them on a journey to some forgotten mountain to begin life all over again under the leadership of a complete stranger, who isn’t even a dwarf?” “Well, you see sir,” Byron said, “Showd Mazark is your real home. At least it was a long time ago. Thúmose says it’s better there.” “He does, of course,” Thrudnelf said. “Byron, my dear fellow, I believe you know where I might find my son. Will you tell me where that is, right now?” Byron blinked. “This instant sir,” the dwarven king said. “Tell me this instant or I shall set you in irons.” “But —” Byron said. “I’m supposed to carry back your answer. Thúmose will be waiting.” “Let him wait.”

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“He’ll be angry.” “Angry?” Thrudnelf said. “Do not use that word with me! You have angered me more than is safe already. Thúmose be hanged.” “But sir —” Byron said. “Enough,” said the King. At last he put aside his papers and looked at Byron without blinking. “I can only believe, Byron, that you, like my son Nosh, have been taken in by this Silverlance, and that he is using you to achieve some foul purpose beyond your reckoning.” “No sir,” Byron said. “Thúmose is—” Thrudnelf struck the table with his open hand. The papers, the pen, the ink tub, and everyone seated around the table, including Prince Dornthelf, jumped several inches at the sound of it. Byron stepped back and nearly lost his balance. The king rose from the table, hands behind his back, searching for words. “Let me tell you what I think,” King Thrudnelf continued in a calm, level voice. “I think your Thúmose is a kidnapper. Showd Mazark, you say? The oldenhome of the dwarves, you say? Let me tell you what your Unicorn has in store. He means to set my son up as a puppet king in this forgotten realm of yours, and sow division among my people. He has kidnapped my heir and I believe he is behind the disappearance of the giant prince also, for some purpose I cannot divine. So be it. Dornthelf, I want three thousand and a half ready to march on my order. Assemble them at Tartoom.” Dornthelf looked with a blank stare at his brother the king. “March where, sire?” “To Dwarvenhearth, of course,” the king said. “Showd Mazark. I will have my son back by force of arms if that is the only recourse left to me. I believe I will find him there, by the Hammers of Jargadda, I will find him.”

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“But sire,” Dornthelf said, “we don’t know where Dwarvenhearth is.” “Then get a map and find it!” the king shouted. “Are you my war duke or aren’t you? As for you, Mr. Ambassador,” the king said to Byron, “I give you one last chance. Perhaps you may yet save your friend the Unicorn from the edge of my sword. Will you tell me where my son is right now?” Byron did not speak. He only stared, slackjawed, at the dwarven king. Thrudnelf began leafing through his papers again. “Very well,” he said. “You will wait in prison until you decide to tell me. In the meantime I will present this Unicorn with an answer he is not prepared to deal with.” “Oh, but sir —” Byron began. “The matter is closed.” “But —” “Enough!” Thrudnelf shouted, his face red and savage. He struck the table again, this time with a great closed fist. Verdandi stiffened, watching Thrudnelf with caution. Thrudnelf’s eyes bulged from his face and his eyebrows furrowed deep into his brow. Dornthelf smiled. “Take him to the dungeon,” he said. Byron kicked up his hooves and started to run, but strong hands were already on him. The last thing he heard as the guards carried him from the hall was the laugh of Prince Dornthelf and the echo of the tall doors falling shut.

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Prince Dornthelf ightning blinked. It filled the small arched window at the top of the wall. The straw on the stone floor and the chains on the walls flashed into sight and were gone again. Byron looked up at the black bars covering the window and waited. Five . . . six . . . seven, and the thunder came. Rain danced on the deep sill outside the window and glistened with the lightning strokes. Byron caught sight of the lines scratched in the wall by some forgotten prisoner. “Where can Thúmose be?” Thunder rolled. Byron wiped his tear-swollen eyes on the sleeve of his specially designed coat and sighed again. He sat on a small pile of straw, shivering with cold. The little flap opened at the bottom of the door and his food was taken out. A moment later a fresh tray slid through and the welcome smell of stew filled the cell. Byron gobbled down his meal. It was hot and warmed him inside. I bet it’s not really delicious. I’m just too hungry not to like it. Just wish I could see what it was. They would have to take the monocle away from me. He chewed for a while, and sighed, tearing off a hunk of bread. “Maybe it’s better,” he said aloud. “I’d probably lose an eye with all this lightning.”

L !

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When he’d finished, Byron set the bowl aside, stood, and crossed his little cell to lean against the wall beneath the window. The small barred portal high on the door glowed orange with torch-fire from the hallway. Byron could hear movements and grunts from prisoners in the other cells. Down the hall, a guard shouted at someone to move away from the door. Byron listened. Footsteps approached. “Step back in there,” the guard said. “I’ll take your tray and leave you some water for the night.” Torchlight crept in through the little door, casting the plate, cup, and bowl into dim silhouette. Lightning flashed and Byron saw that there was a small drawstring pouch on the food tray. He gasped. A stout hand reached to slide the tray out through the opening. Byron dove the full length of the cell and crashed into the flap door before hastily rolling to the side. He had managed to snatch the pouch clean but knocked the cup into the bowl. “Say, there!” the guard barked. “Just what the ruin?” “Sorry!” Byron called back, wincing at the angry voice. “I tripped! It’s dark in here!” “Oh it is, is it?” the guard shouted. “Well, it’d be a step darker with your eyes closed, if you take my meaning!” “I’m sorry.” “Sorry, he says. While I go get a broom to sweep his mess. Sorry doesn’t pick the lock!” His footsteps faded off down the passage. “If you take my meaning!” The shadows on the floor were thick. Byron pushed the flap door open and it gave a loud creak. He froze a moment but nothing came of the noise, so he held the pouch out to the torchlight and emptied it into his hand. “The monocle!” he whispered. “And what’s this?” Byron put the monocle in with a cautious glance at the storm

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outside the window. Inside the pouch was a small piece of paper, rolled tight. “Careful, Thorn,” he said, glancing at the window again. Byron unrolled the paper and peered at it through the monocle. A single word was written upon the scroll in bold, bleeding letters. Byron read it aloud: Everándon.

He let the monocle drop into his hand. The sound of the guard’s heavy step filled the passage. Byron scurried to the back of the cell, tucked the monocle and note into the pouch, and lay very still in the dark, listening. “Everándon,” he whispered. “Thúmose.” “That’ll be the last time, see?” the guard said as he swept up the mess outside the door. Byron blinked. “What?” “That’ll be the last time, I said! Right?” “The last time?” Byron muttered. “Oh! Right, yes. I really am sorry!” “Well, all right then,” said the guard and he turned and went away. Byron held still. The storm was overhead. Thunder broke and as it faded there came a heavy jingling of keys, the well-oiled slide of locks, and the groaning creak of a thick door swinging open. Byron shielded his eyes from the torchlight as a dark shape stepped in and stood in the doorway to his cell. A long cape spread across its back and the dark hilt of a sword stuck out the side of the silhouette. The figure did not move. Another flash and thunder filled the silence. In the moment of light Byron saw Prince Dornthelf glowering down at him. “Let’s have that light,” Dornthelf said.

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“At once, my prince!” said the jailer. The doorway glowed with orange light and great shadows fled about the cell. Byron squinted and shielded his eyes at the new brightness. The jailer withdrew and pulled the door shut behind him with a heavy clack and thud. Dornthelf held up the light to Byron and looked him over. Then he waved the lamp around the cell slowly, checking the corners and ceiling. Byron slid the pouch with the note and the monocle under the straw just as the light returned. “Not quite the guest chambers of the upper hall, Mr. Ambassador,” the dwarf said. “And not altogether unpleasant at that. You have eaten well, I expect?” “Yes, sir,” Byron answered. “The guard’s been very nice.” “Hmph.” Byron struggled to swallow the lump in this throat. A great crash of white-lit thunder struck down upon the world. Byron’s small body leapt up and fell back into place. Dornthelf simply turned his head and looked at the window. “There was a rumor,” Dorthelf said, “a bit of news from my spies, that said the crown prince had crossed over to the west side of the mountains.” “Your spies?” Byron said. Dornthelf smiled. “I find it hard to believe. And the source of the information is not altogether trustworthy.” Byron kept still. He looked everywhere but into Dornthelf’s face. The dwarf prince raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you know something about it?” Byron didn’t answer. “Maybe you know a few other things.” Byron’s mouth went dry. “Maybe you know a great deal that would be useful. Maybe you’ll make things easy and talk it all over with me.”

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Byron clutched the rolled paper underneath the straw. Dornthelf scrutinized him. “Nosh is your friend, isn’t he?” Dornthelf said. Byron nodded. “You don’t want to see him come to any harm?” “No,” Byron said. “Of course not.” “Of course not,” Dornthelf said. “Well, if his father gets a hold of him, he will come to harm, believe me. You saw the king’s temper. He thinks Nosh is a traitor.” “Nosh is no traitor,” Byron said. “Maybe not, maybe not,” Dornthelf said with a nod. “But I think it would be better for Nosh if I found him before his father did. That way I could act as a sort of go-between, until my brother can get hold of his temper. Understand?” Byron nodded. “Good. So why not tell me where Nosh is, so I can go and get him?” Byron only stared at Prince Dornthelf. “There is a place I know about,” Dorthelf said. “A few days away, through the tunnels. You wouldn’t like it there; they’d only ask you questions. All kinds of questions. Of course, it isn’t the questions they ask that you’d find displeasing, but the way they ask them. You see, these people, they have methods— techniques if you will, for learning what they want to know. I’ve seen them work. It’s impressive. They’re hard to satisfy, though. Sometimes even the truth isn’t enough for them.” Lightning blinked. Thunder rumbled. Byron’s heart pounded in his ears. “I’ve made the arrangements,” Dornthelf said. “They have a space for you there. I’m hoping it won’t be necessary to send you. It’s rather expensive, you see, but if you won’t tell me what I

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want to know, I’m going to. It seems a clear enough choice; it shouldn’t take you long to decide. But I’ll give you four hours. At midnight, I’ll come for you. We’ll want to leave in secret, if we have to make the journey.” Dornthelf stepped up and beat the door one time with his fist. Byron jumped. “Open!” Dornthelf shouted. A wedge of torchlight appeared as the door opened. Dornthelf stepped out past the jailer without looking back. Byron stared into the darkness as the hinges creaked and the door slammed shut. The echo lasted long in the hall outside and, as it died, Byron could hear the voice and footfalls of Prince Dornthelf disappearing into the dark length of the passage. “Don’t let ’im sleep,” Dornthelf said. “Kick the door from time to time.” “Yes, your highness,” the jailer said. “Nothing more to eat and take his water away.” “At once, your highness.” Thunder broke again, loud and crackling. When the sky calmed there was silence. Byron sat, trembling. He clutched the pouch in his fist and gaped into the darkness. A warped smile of disbelief and terror crept across his face and his eyes overflowed with tears. His body began to shake and soon he was gulping for air. Byron struggled to keep silent but a single word escaped his lips. “Gradda,” he said in a hoarse, quaking whisper. Keys jingled in the passageway and the lock tumbled open. The guard leaned his head into the cell. With his back to the wall, Byron looked up, wiping his eyes, pushing in vain with his legs to get further away. “Thanks for putting in the word for me,” the dwarf said with a smile.

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Byron blinked. “Huh?” “Not that it did any good with the prince,” the guard continued. “But it was a fine gesture. Would you like a bit more to eat?” “But the prince —” Byron began. “He’ll never know. Maybe a hot cider?” “Yes, please,” Byron said. “How about a bit of light?” “Hmm? Oh, no thank you.” Byron sat with the hot cup between his hands. The cider was delicious. He sat for a long, silent while, looking out at the storm and darkness beyond the bars of his window. The sounds of the deepening night came — the muffled rustlings of the other prisoners, the wind through the window, the guard snoring. Byron put the monocle in and looked at the walls of his cell. A flash of lightning ripped the dark and smote Byron’s eye. “Aaahhh!” he cried, falling to the floor. He buried his face in the crook of his arm. A great commotion erupted in the passage. Voices called out. Byron bit his lip and rolled about the floor of the cell, pressing his palm into his eye. Horrible, sharp pain welled up in his head. He dragged himself to a seat against the door of the cell. “You keep quiet!” the guard shouted. “It weren’t me,” came an answer. “It’er that goat thing you got down at the end!” “Just you keep that behind your teeth, see?” said the guard, his voice approaching. “Byron,” he said softly outside the door. “Are you all right?” “Yes,” Byron said, still pressing his eye and rocking back and forth. “I had a nightmare.” “Poor little fella,” said the jailer. “How’s about a nice big slab o’ cherry pie. I’m on my way to the kitchens.”

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“Yes, thank you, sir,” Byron said. “Heh, heh,” the guard said to himself as he went down the passage. “ ‘Sir’ he calls me. Poor little fella. Shut up in there!” he shouted at another prisoner and Byron heard his heavy boot against a door. Byron’s breath came hard and he was sweating. He took his hand away slowly and found he could only see with his right eye. The left was filled with pale light. He shook his head and struggled to his hooves. Then there was a voice whispering outside the door. “Byron! Are you all right?” “Raefer?” “What happened? Are you hurt?” “Raefer! No, I’m fine!” “I was just about to call you when you screamed! That guard nearly tripped over me.” “I got your note!” Byron said. “Note?” “Everándon, way to go. How’d you get the monocle back?” “Huh? Byron, what’re you talking about?” “Didn’t you — ?” “Look, never mind that now,” Raefer said. “Nosh’ll be here in a second.” “Nosh is here?” Byron said. “What if he gets caught?” “What if any of us do? This is a jailbreak, remember? He’s getting the keys now. Lucky you woke the guard, I guess. Nosh says the kitchens are a fair walk from here. He’ll be a while.” “How did you get in?” “An old escape tunnel, in the cell across from yours. Here’s Nosh!” “Hello in there!” Nosh said. “Nosh!” Byron said. “Your uncle would pop an eyeball if he knew you were here!”

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“He’s never gonna know,” Nosh said. “This is the one, wait— no — hold on.” Nosh fumbled with the keys. Byron listened through the door as the dwarf prince tried one key after another. “Not so loud, Nosh,” Raefer said. “Nope,” Nosh muttered, poking another key against the lock. “Nope.” “Hurry up, Nosh!” Byron whispered. “They all look the same. Dang!” Nosh said as he dropped the ring to the floor. “This is just like the ettin’s cave!” Raefer said. “Quit bringin’ up stuff I wasn’t there for,” Nosh said. Byron slapped the door. “Nosh, just hurry!” A door creaked open in the distant hallway and they heard the sounds of boot-shod feet. “Quick!” Raefer hissed. Byron heard the keys drag on the stone floor and then only silence outside the door. A long, terrible moment passed. The distant footsteps drew closer and stopped. A latch rattled and the voice of the guard rasped harshly. “Blast! Not again!” Then Raefer and Nosh were back at the door to Byron’s cell. “What happened?” Byron asked. “I locked the outer door,” Nosh laughed. “He’s always doing it to himself anyway!” “Good,” Raefer answered, “Now would you hurry?” “I’m doing the best I can!” Nosh said. He tried still another key that didn’t fit. “Drat!” he hissed. “Is it the right ring?” Byron asked. “Of course it is!” Nosh snapped. “There’s only just the one!” Then, from beyond the outer door, came the sound of whistling. “He’s back!” Raefer hissed. The lock on Byron’s door rolled

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and sprang open with a clack. The outer door opened and the whistling came louder. “Come on!” Raefer said. All three dashed into the empty cell across the hall. As he reached the open door, Byron stopped. “Byron!” Raefer hissed. “What’re you doing?” Byron turned and ran back across the hall. Inside the cell he dropped to the floor and felt around in the straw. A moment later he was running again with the drawstring pouch tight in his fist. Halfway across the hall Byron stopped once more, poised and tense on his hooves. The sounds of whistling and footsteps filled the place and Raefer slapped his own forehead as he watched. Byron sprang back to the door of his cell and pushed it closed. The lock dropped shut with a loud clack and he winced at the sound of it as he darted across to his friends. In the opposite cell Raefer closed the door to a crack and they both watched the guard stop at Byron’s cell to slide a plate through the hatchway at the bottom. “There y’are, Byron,” the dwarf said. “Nice and sweet. I tried a bit of it myself while I was down there. See yer in the morning, poor little fella.” The guard passed on and they heard his chair creak as he sat down. They waited without moving until at last the jailer began to snore. The sound grew loud and steady as he fell safely to sleep. Then a dim light filled the cell. Byron and Raefer turned to see Nosh standing waist deep in a hole in the floor. A great stone was shifted aside. He smiled and gave them a wink as he adjusted the candle in the holder on the front of his leather cap. Then he disappeared into the hole. “You next!” Raefer whispered. Byron jumped in and found Nosh crouching down. Byron

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kept out of the way as his friends slid the stone back into place. Then Nosh crawled forward and led the way. “Only one prisoner ever escaped from the dungeon,” he said. “This was how he did it. The cell has never been used since.” They crawled along for a time until finally the black silhouette of a heavy grate appeared against a dim light above their heads. “How’d you know where I was?” Byron asked. “We got word from Cryolar,” Raefer said. “But he won’t say how he found out. And when Nosh heard where they were holding you, he remembered this tunnel.” Nosh snuffed his candle and listened. “Quiet, now.” He pressed the grate upward, looked out for a moment, and then stood. Setting the grate aside, Nosh scrambled from the hole to clear the way. Raefer and Byron followed. The three stood in an open yard surrounded by walls. Heavy clouds dimmed the moonlight. In the dark of the tunnel Byron’s eye cleared and he could see again. He looked up and took a long, deep breath. “This is Oldgate,” Nosh said, “the first hall of my ancestors. We’re on the north side of the mountain. No one ever comes here anymore.” “Do you know where you’re going?” Raefer asked. “Sure,” Nosh said. “I used to come here all the time when I was a kid. We’re going to the Hall of Sovereigns. That’s where the entrance to the top tower is. That’s where we meet Cryolar.” “Let’s keep moving,” Raefer said. “This place is spooky.” At the far end of the yard they ducked inside again, through a pointed arch at the foot of a stone stair. They hurried on in a tight band passing through one empty hall after another as their way unwound in the dim light of Nosh’s cap. Nothing stirred. Dark passages and stairs appeared and vanished in the gloom. Nosh did not pause even once, taking this turn or that, never

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breaking his steady pace. Soon they came to a long corridor that led through a tall arch into an enormous, wood-panelled room. “There they are,” Nosh said, looking up at the wall. “My ancestors. This is the gallery of my family line, all the kings and queens of Valleygate.” A series of huge paintings lined the wall. Each was covered with heavy velvet curtains that separated at the pull of a golden rope. “Why are they covered?” Raefer asked. Nosh shrugged as he led his friends past the mysterious portraits. “Beats me.” He stopped and drew back a set of curtains, revealing the portrait of a dark-haired dwarf with a stern face and clenched jaw. He wore a crown on his head and held a book in his hand. “Balafend,” Nosh said. “My great, great, great, great grandfather. Supposed to have been a scholar.” Nosh let the curtains fall and moved on. “Here’s his great, great grandmother, Agrathelf. She was just plain crazy, too much lead in her diet. But here’s my favorite.” Nosh stopped four paintings down and pulled the golden rope. A stalwart-looking dwarf with a long flowing beard stared out at them. He had broad shoulders and leaned on a magnificent sword. He wore a cap with a tall feather, a long vest, and a pair of gauntlets on his hands. He looked impatient, distracted, eager to be about some other business than that of posing for his portrait. “Tharrowfend,” Nosh said. “The Firehound. The last and greatest of the tunnellers. He was lost while searching for the Balefire, which used to burn on the top of Rathrâgodrak for all Everándon to see. He dug the tunnel where you and I met, Raefer.”

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“Quit talking about stuff I wasn’t there for,” Byron said. Nosh smiled. He let the curtain drop. “Down here,” he said, “on the end. This is the one I told you about, Byron.” Nosh stopped before the last painting on the wall. He pulled the rope and the curtains opened on a shadowy dwarf, brooding beneath a heavy crown that rested low on his glowering brow and set his eyes in shadow. He wore a war-shirt of heavy rings and sat on a gilded throne. The friends stared up with their mouths hanging open at the old king. “Garrowthelf,” Nosh said. “The last of my house to rule from Showd Mazark. Or so legend goes.” “The Suicide King,” said a voice from the shadows. Nosh, Raefer, and Byron all jumped and turned, pressing their backs to the wall beneath the portrait. A dark shape moved toward them, flanked by two others. “He cut off his own head. Or so the legend goes, eh, Nosh?” “Uncle Dornthelf,” Nosh said. “Hello, nephew,” Dornthelf said. He looked up at the portrait of Garrowthelf. “Still an hour to midnight, satyr. I take it you’ve made your choice?” Orange light filled the place, and sent huge shadows leaping in the great room, as one of Dornthelf’s henchmen touched an unlit torch to a small brazier of coals nearby. He handed the torch to Prince Dornthelf, who lifted it, and the weird, dancing light fell upon his angry face. “I knew you’d come for your friend,” Dornthelf said to Nosh. “That’s why I put him in the cell across from the tunnel. And this being a time of spies and secrets, I figured you’d hear of it somehow. You’re all still rather new to the game, so I don’t expect you to understand. You’re too much like your father, Nosh. You’ve just got too much backbone for your own good.”

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Two heavy-shouldered dwarves stepped up beside Dornthelf. The hoods of their capes were cast over visored helmets. They had broad swords on their belts and crossbows on their backs, and each had a length of heavy rope in his hand. “I’m tempted to kill you right now,” Dornthelf said. “No questions asked. But my friends are expecting you— all of you. And I can’t let them down, you know, or it’ll make things difficult the next time I need their services. I’m sure there’s plenty you can tell them— things you don’t even know you know.” Lightning blinked through a row of grand arched windows on the back walls. Each was a stained glass rendition of the kings and queens portrayed in the paintings. For a moment, the entire line of Nosh’s house blinked into view and was gone again. Thunder followed. The wind came up and howled at the windows. Another storm had risen. Dornthelf drew his sword and started toward them. “Uncle Dornthelf, please,” Nosh said, stepping forward. “Be quiet,” Dornthelf growled and struck Nosh with the back of his hand. Nosh was knocked off his feet and sent sprawling. “You can’t!” Raefer shouted. “You have nothing to say, tree-boy,” Dornthelf answered, pointing at Raefer with his sword. Then he turned to Nosh. “We’ve got something special planned for you, my prince. We won’t wait for midnight. We’re leaving now.” “Where are we going?” Raefer asked. “You don’t want to know,” Byron replied. “But you’re going to,” Dornthelf said. “Bind them.” The two dwarves started forward, uncoiling their ropes. Dornthelf stepped aside and leaned on his sword. “Run!” Nosh shouted and set off as fast as he could into the shadows beyond Dornthelf’s torch.

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“Run!” Nosh cried. “Follow me!” Raefer and Byron chased the faint light cast by Nosh’s cap through an arched passage onto a narrow spiral stair. Nosh leaped up the first of the steps, taking them three at a time. Raefer tailed him and Byron held his pace, not wanting to outstrip the other two. He stayed close on Raefer’s heels but slowed momentarily to look back. “They’re not following!” he said above the echoing foot- and hoof-falls. “Yes, they are!” Nosh shouted, “just come on!” No they’re not, Byron said to himself, glancing over his shoulder. There was no sound of pursuit or torchlight in the stairwell behind. Wind howled and rain pelted ahead of them. Lightning broke the darkness and he saw Nosh and Raefer against the open door at the top of the stair. They’d climbed the top tower of Oldgate. Lightning fell in stroke after stroke all over the mountains, with cracks of thunder sounding one atop the other. As Byron hit the doorway, three great dark shapes alighted on the tower wall. Byron, Raefer, and Nosh were drenched almost as soon as they stepped into the open. “Cryolar!” Byron cried, but even as he did, the griffins pulled back from the stone turret. A crossbow bolt struck the parapet and another furrowed without harm into Cryolar’s great feathers. The griffin gave a cry and withdrew from the wall, a great winged shadow against the lightning. Byron spotted the source of the arrows: a group of dwarves lying in wait behind a pile of stones. Three of them were aiming their crossbows at the griffins. Two more were reloading after firing at Cryolar, while three others worked an enormous crossbow with a single huge bolt loaded into it.

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Ballista, Byron thought, remembering Cryolar’s dive to the Winding Way. He looked from the dwarves to the griffins and back again. Raefer reached the low wall of the tower as the griffins swooped in, huge wings spread wide. Byron saw Raefer turn and point, shouting to Cryolar in warning, but the griffin plucked him up in one taloned claw and dragged him dangling and screaming from the tower. “Raefer!” Byron cried in horror, for as Cryolar wheeled away from the dwarven archers he reached down to get a better grip on Raefer, actually letting go of the flailing dryad for a terrible moment above the void, then snatching him back, tight and safe in his talons. Lightning smote the nearest peaks. An arrow sang past Byron’s ear and he ducked, clutching Nosh’s arm. There was a heavy volley of crossbow fire at the two remaining griffins. One pulled away with a shriek and a pained tug of its enormous wings— pierced in the neck and shoulder. There was a sound like a tree branch snapping. The dwarves had fired the ballista. Byron stared slackjawed at the sight of the great plumed shaft as it struck the other griffin. The poor beast gave a yowling roar that rose above the thunder. Byron struggled atop the low wall. Even in its agony, the griffin reached for him, but did not close its grip, knowing the fall that waited. “No! ” Byron screamed. He reached out too far, extending a hand toward the griffin, and would himself have fallen, had Nosh not been there to grab him. The griffin leaned away from them, flapping its wings in a last effort to control its fall. Byron and Nosh watched the dying beast disappear, plunging into unseen depths of darkness and rain below the tower. Strong hands seized Byron and dragged him from the tower wall. The

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great shape of the other griffin appeared from the darkness and she approached the wall again, pierced and bleeding, with many dwarven bolts. It only took one guard to restrain Byron and drag him back to the door. It took four to manage Nosh, flailing and enraged. The others charged the wall with their crossbows and began unlocking their bolts at the griffin. The wounded beast shrieked and roared in anger, wheeling to pull back into the murky distance. Oh, please get Raefer away! That poor griffin! They were trying to save me! Oh, please get Raefer away! Byron did not struggle as the dwarf carried him down the stairs. Sobs began to mount and heave in his chest. He was shaking and weeping openly, his tears mingling with the rainfall that dripped from his soaked hair. The dwarf threw him to the floor beside Nosh in the Hall of Sovereigns. Byron looked at his friend, who was staring up at his uncle with a stricken look on his red, rain-soaked face. “Welcome home, your highness,” Dornthelf said. Lightning flashed again, and in that moment Byron saw the terrible face of the Suicide King, glaring down from the glass of his glowing window.

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Sogfarrow t was raining when Byron woke. He was lying flat on his back beneath a dripping canvas roof. The wooden floor of the wagon rocked and pitched with the muddy grade of the road. Byron sat up and looked out through the rear bars. He was inside a rolling cage that was covered by a heavy tarp. The rain fell hard, obscuring his view, but he could make out two awful creatures, carrying sword-like clubs over their wide shoulders. They wore great round helmets, like cooking kettles with grates for seeing, anchored at the neck to iron collars that extended down into breast and back plates. They had long, thick, hairy limbs, broad heads, and bushy brows. Byron could see them scowling at him with yellow, unblinking eyes as they trudged along in the slop behind the wagon. Byron rubbed the back of his neck and stretched. He looked around inside the bare shelter and found Nosh sitting with his hands clasped across his shins. He was upright and ready, but gazed into the falling rain as if deep in thought. “Nosh,” Byron said, still clutching the back of his neck. Nosh blinked. “Are you all right?” “I think so,” Byron said. “What happened?”

!I

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“My uncle,” Nosh said with a deep frown. “I don’t know where he’s taking us, but he’s got a whole troop of Fellsmen doing whatever he says. It’s unbelievable.” “Fellsmen?” Byron said. “Members of the Fell Clans,” Nosh said. “Like those fellows out there.” Byron glanced at the guards again and sat up. “How long have you been awake?” Nosh shrugged. “A few hours.” Byron looked around at the dripping enclosure. “How long have we been in here?” “I don’t know,” Nosh said with a shrug. “Two days maybe?” “Two days is right,” said a voice. “You have your father’s sense of surroundings.” A flap at the front of the wagon opened and Prince Dornthelf looked in through the bars. He was sitting in a covered place, and beyond him Byron could see the mules that pulled the wagon. Beside Dornthelf sat another dwarf who held the reins. “Moratene wearing off, eh, Mr. Ambassador?” Dornthelf said. “Well it’s kept you quiet, which is lucky for you. Nosh shook it off a while back. It never really took, as a matter of fact. He has his father’s endurance, too.” Nosh looked out the back of the wagon into the rainfall. Dornthelf laughed and closed the flap. “Where are we?” Byron asked. Nosh did not respond. “Nosh?” Byron said. “Are you okay?” “I had the dream again,” Nosh whispered. “That’s what woke me up. No amount of moratene could keep me asleep after that.” “The Hall of Sovereigns,” Byron said.

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“Maybe seeing all the portraits reminded me.” “Did you ever tell Thúmose?” “No. I told you. No.” “Nosh, why not?” Byron asked. “What difference does it make now? I’m scared, Byron. It was different this time.” “Different how?” Nosh sighed deep and stared at the floor of the wagon. “At the end, there was another voice. It said ‘Come home Garrowthelf. Come home and take your rest.’ But it wasn’t the voice of anybody in the dream. It was all whispery and kind.” “Garrowthelf?” Byron said. “That’s my real name,” Nosh said. Byron blinked. “You were named after the Suicide King?” Nosh sighed again and nodded. “I’m scared, Byron. It’s like this dream is a message or a signal. It’s like somebody’s calling to me, somebody I don’t want to meet.” A loud voice sounded through the hammering rain and the wagon jolted to a stop. Byron and Nosh tumbled into each other and rolled to the back of the cage. Rain spattered in on them and the two yellow-eyed guards approached. They hauled Byron and Nosh out of the wagon and dropped them into the mud. Nosh shouted and struggled. One of the guards drew a broad, toothedged knife and stepped on Nosh’s chest. “Moksha doesn’t like dwarves,” Prince Dornthelf said, stepping around the back of the wagon. He wore a heavy cape of oiled hide with the hood up. “And I don’t need you much more than alive, Nosh, so behave yourself. On your feet— and — er, hooves. Careful with the goatling, grub. He’s worth more if he’s healthy.” “Vee do not like zat vord,” the guard said, glowering down at Dornthelf.

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Dornthelf squared off with the larger fellow and pointed at him with a gloved hand. “Just you do as you’re told, Fellsman,” he said to Moksha the guard. “All I need to do is say your name in the right company and you’re done for, got it?” Moksha grumbled and glanced around at his partner. He stepped back and sheathed his knife. Byron helped Nosh to his feet and the two of them stood there, soaked to the skin, covered with mud. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the rain came down heavily. Dornthelf set off walking at the head of a band of dwarves. Byron and Nosh stumbled forward, pushed and prodded by the guards in the same direction. A huge wall of stone stood before them. Dornthelf halted at the wooden gate and pounded on it with his fist. A small hatch opened and a voice shouted out. Dornthelf shouted back. Byron could not hear what was said, but the gate groaned and swung open. Dornthelf waved them on and the guards pushed Byron from behind. As soon as they crossed inside the gate, two hooded figures threw a stout wooden beam across it, then trudged away into a lamplit shed and slammed the door. “Keep moving,” Dornthelf said and laughed. “Don’t think of wandering off. You’ll be safer if you stay here with me.” It was a fortress town of stone and wood, with flat roofs and turrets stacked up and into the cliff face. Muddy alleys and cobblestone roads meandered away from the paving stones of the main track. Atop the walls and in the turrets, the dark forms of the guards stood watch in the rain. Lamplit windows dotted the dim shadows of the buildings and smoke billowed from chimneys on every side. Dornthelf led them through the town toward the mountain against which the place was built. He went up a wooden stair

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onto a porch and through a heavy door. Inside was a large, firelit room full of shadows and dark nooks. A railed balcony looked down on the main floor from the back of the place. Hunched figures sat at wooden tables drinking from large, leather-bound mugs. There were men and dwarves, gnomes and dark creatures like Byron had never seen. One terrible figure sat at a table by himself with his gear spread out before him. “Ogre,” Byron muttered. Nosh nodded and stared at the huge creature as they passed. Dornthelf laughed. “Ogres, trolls, Fellsmen of all sorts. Everybody’s welcome.” Shouts and murmurs filled the room. Harsh laughter sounded. At the table nearest the door, a heavy, hulking brute in battered armor stood up, knocking over his bench. He growled and pointed a menacing finger at two Fellsmen who sat across from him. One of them put up its hands while the other fumbled in his gear for gold coins to add to the stack already on the table. As Dornthelf passed, all three of them turned to stare. Byron paused to look at the angry brute, prompting one of Dornthelf’s henchmen to give him a shove. “Keep moving, goat boy,” the dwarf said. Byron stumbled and fell to the floor. As Nosh lifted him to his hooves, Byron saw the anger in the young prince’s eyes. “Don’t, Nosh,” he said. “You heard what your uncle said. I doubt there’s any help in a place like this.” Byron glanced up at the balcony as they pressed on. Two hooded men and a pair of gnomes sat at a table against the railing. One of the men was looking down at Byron. Firelight caught the stranger’s eyes and through the slats of the railing, Byron could see the dark shape of a great sword resting against the bench where the man sat. As they drew near, Byron locked eyes with the

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man who stared down at him unblinking. The stranger watched until they passed beneath the balcony and out of sight. Dornthelf opened another door and led them out through a hall and into an open courtyard. The rain poured down. They marched across the courtyard and entered a torchlit cave. At the entrance, beneath the heavy teeth of the portcullis, an imposing armored figure stood leaning on a spiked club. A group of Fellsmen was at hand; one held chains and manacles. The huge guard with the spiked club lifted his chin. “I’ll take it from here,” he said. “If you’ll sign this,” Dornthelf said, holding up a rolled paper. A gnome appeared from the shadows and took the document. He opened it and read, glancing from Byron and Nosh to the page, lifting an eyebrow. “Very pretty,” he said to Dornthelf. “Someone expects a handsome profit, to front such a sum. But this applies to the goatling only. What of the dwarf?” “He’s for the South,” Dornthelf said. “They’ll be along to fetch ’im.” “The South?” the gnome said. “Your own kin, Prince Dornthelf? You’ve outdone yourself at last.” “Keep your nose where it belongs, gnome,” Dornthelf said. “Just sign it and I’ll be on my way.” “Yes, yes,” the gnome said. “No need for hackles. There.” He held the paper up to Dornthelf who snatched it away and rolled it up tight. “Well that’s that,” Dornthelf said. “Good riddance to you both.” Then he turned and headed back across the courtyard, vanishing into the gray of the falling rain. “Right, then,” said the enormous guard. Four Fellsmen stepped forward. A moment later Byron and Nosh were bound in chains,

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facing the dark of the tunnel. “Section Nine,” the guard chief said. A Fellsman tugged on Byron’s chain and started walking. Byron pulled back. “Nosh!” he cried. “Byron!” Nosh shouted, his voice angry. He lashed out and took one of the Fellsmen off its feet. Byron’s guards yanked on the chains and pulled him to the ground. He kicked and screamed as they dragged him away. He thrashed onto his back and saw Nosh at the entrance. “Byron!” the dwarf prince cried, still lashing out. The last Byron saw of Nosh, the Fellsmen were on him, forcing him down with their fists and calling for more chains. Byron leaned against the rough wall with his arms fettered above him. Screams echoed from the deep recesses of Section Nine. Hours passed. Far into the night Byron stared at the darkness, listening to the moans and pleas for mercy that resounded in the near and far of the dungeon. “I wonder if I’m alone in here,” Byron said out loud. He struggled to his hooves until he was able to reach the monocle that hung on its chain beneath the cover of his coat. He lowered himself back to the floor and took a look around. “No worse than Valleygate,” he said with a shrug. It was a cold, stone floor with no bed but a scant pile of rotten straw. Byron sighed. Across from him was a stone stair leading up to a wooden door with great black straps. As Byron stared at it through the monocle it became a door of iron, standing partly open. It was like the vision in the hawthorn tunnel, and again Byron felt like he was in it. In the vision he was no longer bound with chains. He walked up to the door and pushed through it, stepping onto a landing high above the floor of a wide, round chamber of stone. A dungeon-

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like stair led down in a single torchlit flight that wound one time full around the wall of the chamber. Byron took the steps down to the bottom. Above him, muffled by stone and distance, great thuds and booms sounded like faraway explosions. The noise rumbled faintly in the stone of the floor where Byron stood. Five arched tunnel entrances opened in the curved wall. A pair of rails glistened with torchlight and led away into the darkness of each tunnel. At the center of the chamber, the rails met on a round switch platform of rusted metal. Byron went and stood beside it. Faint light appeared in the middle tunnel. It grew brighter as Byron listened, and soon he heard footfalls. A dwarf appeared, holding a torch, and stepped into the round chamber. The hilt of his great sword stuck up above his shoulder, and he wore heavy rings of muddied mail. He was bloodstained and wore his beard in a plait. Two more dwarves very like him followed, also carrying torches. Behind the dwarves, silent as mice, came a band of terrible warriors. They were men, Byron knew, for they were tall and walked on two legs, but they looked like horrible bringers of death, newly arrived from some deep place in the tunnel from which they now came forth in deadly earnest. Each wore a black scapular, pointed at the bottom and girt at the waist with a silver belt, from which hung the scabbard of the glittering sword held in hand. Upon the breast of the scapular was the crest of a red unicorn rampant. Their shields were black and set with the same image. Beneath the scapulars the men wore shirts and aprons of glittering scales, and heavy boots gaitered with woven chain. But it was the helmets that struck Byron cold, for they were

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visored with a face he knew, but crafted in such a way as to make the face seem a demon of death and vengeance. The masks were both beautiful and hideous. They were wrought in the shape of a horse’s face, covering completely the face of each man to well below the chin. On the back of each helmet was a strip of flowing hair that fell to the middle of the man’s back, like a steed’s mane. A single spiraling horn half a foot long jutted out from the forehead of each visor. “Mr. Thúmose,” Byron muttered. One by one they emerged from the tunnel. Their eyes were angry and fierce and wary, staring through the masks, as they surveyed the chamber they had entered. The last one through stopped to scratch something in the tunnel wall with his knife before emerging into the chamber. “Welcome to the lower crypts,” said the lead dwarf who was halfway up the stair. “If you’ll just follow me?” He pointed with his sword to the top. “After that door, we’re like to meet their worst.” “And the princess?” the first masked knight asked. His sword was greater than any and shone with gleaming silver light. “Thirty levels up,” the dwarf said. “If they got her to the safe house.” “Would you listen to that?” said another dwarf at the sound of a distant explosion. “They must’ve breached the main gate. The vermin are roaming at will up there.” “Your last chance lies on the dark road of time now, Turpin,” said the masked warrior with the great sword. “Do what your king could not, and trust to the long hope of your people.” Turpin, the dwarf, nodded, but the fierce anger did not leave his face. He turned and passed through the iron door. The two other dwarves followed and behind them went the dread warriors of the Unicorn, swords drawn, armor glittering with torch-fire.

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“Don’t forget to mark the door,” the lead knight said. “There’s a chance we may survive this and have to find our way out. If you get separated after we have the princess, make for the lower crypts.” The last knight paused to scratch something into the outside of the door with his knife. Byron climbed the stairs behind them. The door led into a corridor lined with other doors just like it, but smaller. At the end of the passage was another dark passage, and from it came the sound of rushing water. Byron examined the door and saw that the knight had scratched three simple lines: an open angle pointing to the side, with another line sticking off the top. “The Unicorn,” he said. “Mr. Thúmose.” A sound like keys echoed from beyond his cell and a door opened. Byron blinked and let the monocle drop from his eye. The door, the scratched marking, and the whole chamber all vanished and Byron was back in his cell, chained to the wall. Torchlight appeared in the little barred window in his cell door, and fell in a dim spot at the top of the stone stair. There were footsteps and an angry voice. Byron sat up as best he could and listened. “Open it,” said the angry voice. No one answered. There was a loud jangling of keys and the lock to Byron’s door opened with a clack. The door swung in with a sonorous groan and orange light fell across him. A tall, cloaked shape appeared in the doorway, black against the torchfire. It descended the steps, approached Byron, and looked down at him. “Get these bracelets off him at once,” the figure said. A Fellsman guard appeared, standing with hands on hips. No helmet covered his head, but a heavy iron collar to which a helmet

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could be fastened covered his face to the nose. The brute was broader than the man but shorter. “No need to fear,” it said. “He’s a hearty one, not like to die on you.” The figure spun and swung his arm, striking the guard backhand, full on the brow. The blow staggered the Fellsman and sent him onto his back in the straw. “Have you forgotten who I am?” the man asked. “Give me the key to those bracelets.” The Fellsman scrambled to a seat against the wall. He groped at his belt for the keys that dangled there. “No, no, please, boss! I meant no disrespect!” “You’ve already shown it,” the man said. “By managing my friend as you have. I should take your hands for this.” “No, please! Please, boss!” the Fellsman said, holding up the keys. With the same sudden speed, the man snatched them away. “Bring the light,” he said and he turned to face Byron again. Byron looked up at the tall, shadowy figure. The man gripped Byron’s chin with gentle strength and turned his face left and right. Byron saw the face of the man in the lantern’s pale glow. It was stern and weathered, but not old. The lamplight gleamed in the man’s eyes as he crouched to open the locks. Byron struggled to his hooves and the man reached out to support him. “Steady, Byron,” the man said. “Not too much.” He reached into his cloak and took out a hunk of cheese, wrapped in a large leaf. He handed it to Byron. The man’s cape fell so as to reveal the worn pommel of a sword of great make. Byron saw the hilt; its crux was stained as if by high heat and at its center was a round, dark opal, with flecks of fiery red and orange all through. “Where am I?” Byron asked, taking a great bite.

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“One of the worst places there is,” the man said. “Qualnáchnabard?” “No,” the man said with a laugh. “Not so bad as that. This is Sogfarrow. And, for now, that’s bad enough.” “How do you know my name?” Byron asked. “We have met before, you and I,” the man said. “Though you’ll not remember it. My name is Miroaster.” Byron stopped chewing and stared up at the man. “A name I hope you have come to trust,” Miroaster said with a smile. Then he turned to the guard. “Where is the dwarf?” “What dwarf, boss?” the guard said. “No dwarf on my block.” Miroaster leveled his sword at the guard. In the dim light of the torches in the hall, Byron saw that it was stained along its length with the marks of extreme heat. A foot-long shard, half the width of the blade, was missing from the tip. “Will you cross me even now, grub?” Miroaster shouted. “Where is the dwarf who came in with my friend?” Gaping up at Miroaster, the guard stepped back, shaking his head. “G-g-gone,” he said. “Gone, boss. Took him out straight away — took him out!” “Who?” Miroaster demanded. He gripped the hilt of his sword and took a step toward the terrified guard. “Who took him?” “Strangers! Strangers, boss! I don’t know, never seen them— well, once maybe, maybe twice— from the South. Cold strangers, cold as death — silent. Never talk, never say a word, never say where they come from. I only heard it, heard they come from the South.” Miroaster paused. He looked hard at the guard for a long moment. Then he turned. “Come Byron,” he said, “we’re going.” He lifted Byron into his arms, took the stair in two strides, and went out.

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Byron looked down at the sword. “I saw you when I came in.” “Yes,” Miroaster said as he went along. “And I saw you.” “Hixima is worried about you,” Byron said. “What are you doing here?” “I needed something. I thought I could get it here and I was right.” “What could you possibly need in a place like this?” Byron asked. “Information.” “What about?” Byron said. “I mean, well— I suppose it’s not my business.” Miroaster laughed. “Little is afoot now in Everándon that is not your business, Byron Thorn. We may speak of it more, later. For now we must get clear of Sogfarrow. Here, take this, it belongs to you.” He handed Byron a rolled-up paper. “What’s this?” Byron said. “The deed,” Miroaster said. “What’s a deed?” “A certificate of ownership,” Miroaster said. Byron opened the page and read it. “You paid fifteen thousand pieces of silver for me?” “No, only five. The rest our friend Dornthelf made up, though I doubt he knows it yet.” “How?” Byron asked. “I took back what he was given for you, when I saw him leaving.” “Even so, you paid a whole lot. Where did you get it all?” Miroaster laughed. “I have resources. Besides, to me you’re worth a great deal more. I only wish I could have done as much for Nosh.” “We have to help him!” Byron said.

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“Indeed. But he is beyond our reach, at least for now.” “Someone must know where he is.” “Without doubt, Byron,” Miroaster said. “But who they are is as much a mystery as his whereabouts.” Byron let his shoulders sag. “Don’t abandon hope,” Miroaster said. “We can be sure the guard was not lying.” “How can we be sure?” “His fear of Miroaster assures it. No, whoever has Nosh, they have taken him south. We will go south also and hope for helpful rumor. As it happens, my path leads in that direction already, to see one to whom such rumor might find its way.” “That seems like a thin hope,” Byron said. “Maybe,” Miroaster said. “But were I not already headed there, I would alter my course, for however thin it may seem, it is our best hope of helping Prince Nosh. Now keep your eyes open and don’t say anything you can keep from saying if you try.” They passed out through the long, rainy courtyard, but Miroaster did not enter the tavern room where Byron had first seen him. Instead, he went along the alleyways and dark passages of Sogfarrow, moving fast and sure. Everywhere they went, the folk they met stepped aside for Miroaster, looking away as he passed. On two occasions, Fellsman guards turned and fled at the sight of him. At the main gate, they were given no contest. The guards did not speak, but only opened wide the main door without words, so that Miroaster did not even need to slow his pace. “They all seem to know you,” Byron said. “Yes.” “You know your way around.” “It pays to,” Miroaster said. “I’ve been here many times and many times had need for escape.”

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“That seems hard to believe.” Miroaster smiled and set Byron down. “Time you found your legs again. Come, let us use what light remains to us.” Byron glanced back at the dark walls of Sogfarrow. The rain fell harder. It was cold and he could see his breath, but leaving the place behind him gave him strength. He felt a familiar tug in his pace as he followed in Miroaster’s step. “Oatencake,” he said to himself, remembering the man who had guided him and his friends through the fortress of Qualnáchnabard on their journey to follow the Midwinter star. “It’s just like it was with Peter Oatencake.” With each step he took, as it had been with Oatencake, Byron felt himself borne forward as if in tow behind Miroaster; each step was far greater than his own little stride could explain. Byron bounded along behind the tall man. Very soon they left the road behind and headed off into the wild.

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The Whispermere iroaster led Byron by paths the satyr could not see. While the daylight held, a rock or a tree or the alignment of some pair of mountain peaks told him where they were. The sky cleared as night fell and Miroaster found his way by following the summer stars and their place against the horizon. So they went, working their way south, keeping to the eastern slopes of the Crestfall range. “Who are we going to see?” Byron asked that night by the campfire. Miroaster stirred the coals. “The Whispermere.” Byron frowned. “What makes you think this Whispermere will know where Nosh is?” “I don’t,” Miroaster said. “But the Whispermere hears. If Nosh has passed within a hundred miles, it’s possible the Whispermere will have heard some thread of the tale. That will be our beginning.” Byron considered. “What do you mean, the Whispermere hears?” “All things speak,” Miroaster said. “The birds, the beasts, the trees, even the soil and wind. The Whispermere hears these things as they move around him. In time all knowledge comes to the Whispermere.”

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Byron sat quietly, gazing into the fire. He glanced at Miroaster often, taking in all the detail he could without being caught. He was a tall man and wore a heavy leather bracer on his right forearm. It covered the back of his hand and wrapped around the thumb and two largest fingers. Miroaster made no sign that he noticed Byron’s gaze. He twitched his hand and with a loud ring a long dagger blade shot out of the bracer across the top of his hand and stood there, gleaming in the firelight. Byron jumped. Miroaster laughed and recoiled the blade into its casing. “I guess that comes in handy,” Byron said with a half grin, still recovering from his start. He looked at Miroaster’s sword where it lay against a rock. He pointed at the weapon with a jerk of his chin. “It’s broken.” “Yes,” Miroaster said. He gripped the hilt and drew the heatstained blade from its hold. As the last of the sword appeared, Byron saw again its broken edge. “Is it magic?” Byron asked. “I’ve heard there are magic swords.” “Better than that,” Miroaster said. “It is dragon steel, claw and scale of dragon kind, smelted and forged with ancient skill.” “It’s old.” “Very.” “How did it break?” “Deathmagic,” Miroaster said. “I have the missing piece here, also.” He opened a buckled flap on the side of the scabbard and slid from it a long sliver of metal. Unlike the rest of the sword it was clear and unblemished silver. “This sword is called Marmaros,” Miroaster said. “Marmaros,” Byron said, gazing. “What does it mean?” “It means ghost moon,” Miroaster said. “Somewhere there are seven others of its kind. It is one of the eight swords of Isporeth.”

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“Isporeth?” Byron said. “The dragon judge? Mirabell’s mother?” “Yes,” Miroaster said. “It is told that Isporeth commanded the griffin queen, Weln Six-Pinion, and a group of dwarves and griffins chosen specially for their skill, to gather Mirabell’s molted scales and claws after she died, to forge them into weapons with which to destroy the evil that slew her.” “She was killed by Borántu,” Byron said, “the Shadowbreather. He killed all the Judges, too. I saw the skeleton of Mirador, the high judge, Mirabell’s father, on the way to Qualnáchnabard.” “Yes, I have seen it,” Miroaster said. “There was a suit of armor and a shield also made from the scales of the young dragon. No fire or blade can harm the one that wears it, so it is said.” “Why not fix it?” Byron asked. “The piece looks to fit perfectly, not a splinter missing.” Miroaster shook his head. “There is magic at work on the sword that this fragment does not share. See how it gleams, more like mirrored glass than steel. No, it came apart from the main blade before the death hex set in and was not affected by it. But even if that were not so, I know of no one with the skill and knowledge it takes to work with dragon steel. The craft was lost long ago.” Byron watched Miroaster’s face as he sheathed his great sword and put the gleaming sliver of dragon steel back in its compartment. “Why are you hiding?” Byron asked. Miroaster looked at him with a half smile. “Hiding?” “Mr. Thúmose told us you were hiding yourself and even he doesn’t know where you are. He says you’ve gone dark.” Miroaster nodded. “That’s true.” “What does it mean?” “It means I have covered myself up. My presence must not be

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known, and I cannot pick and choose who is able to sense my whereabouts. I must be hidden from all who have that power, or from none.” Byron shrugged. “Why must you be hidden?” “Because I too can perceive. And I have felt a power awaken somewhere in Everándon, a power with which I must contend. Secrecy is my strength for now.” “I wish I could just hide myself.” “Do you?” Miroaster said with a laugh. “Well, it gives a certain advantage, it’s true. But one must trade. To hide myself I must cloud my own sight. If I am invisible, that from which I hide myself is also invisible to me.” “What are you hiding yourself from?” “An ancient power, a power to which I am bound. One day I will encounter it. That much is assured.” “Assured by what?” Miroaster looked down at the sword that lay across his lap. “An oath, taken long ago.” “What kind of oath?” Miroaster smiled. “Tell me about that medallion you wear.” Byron looked down at his chest. “It’s a monocle.” Miroaster peered close. “So it is. Where did you get it?” “My Gradda,” Byron said. “It lets me see in the dark.” A light frown puckered Miroaster’s brow as he gazed at the monocle. “Really,” he said. “May I try it?” “It only works for me,” Byron said. Miroaster nodded and moved his gaze from the monocle to Byron’s face. “Does it now,” he said. Then he peered into the fire as if searching for something. He did not blink for a long moment, but then he smiled. “I have met your Gradda,” he said. “You have?”

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“Yes. Before you were born. It was in the days after the Wolfen War when he was still in his solitude.” “How did you meet him?” “I had reason to seek his counsel. He was living in the Brackenlands, north of your Woody Deep.” Miroaster smiled. “I found him fishing for his supper. We ate his catch and talked together as the moon rose and set.” “What did you talk about?” “Rumors,” Miroaster said. “Rumors that a pair of witchwolves had emerged in the western packs.” “Dindra told me about those,” Byron said. “She said her grandfather had seen them.” “Madican Thundershod,” Miroaster said. “Yes, it was he who suggested I speak with your grandfather. Madican told me that Darius Thorn had met the witches and lived.” Byron’s jaw went slack. “Gosh,” he said. “Gradda.” “He is a crafty one, your Gradda, and no small skill with a javelin. But above all his craft and skill there is his courage. I’ve never seen its equal for light or for darkness. Except perhaps in his grandson.” Miroaster smiled again. “But he never mentioned a magic monocle. I suppose it worked for him and would have worked for your father also, had he lived to possess it.” Byron looked into the fire. “My father.” He and Miroaster sat quiet for a time, watching the embers of the fire. “I will have a walk around before I lie down,” Miroaster said. Byron looked out into the darkness. “Aren’t you scared?” “No.” “I’m not scared at home,” Byron said. “But out here it’s different.”

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Miroaster nodded. “I have roamed in Everándon long. By now I’m as much a creature of the night as the wisest owl or the cleverest raccoon.” “When are you going to tell me what you were doing at Sogfarrow?” Byron asked. “Tomorrow,” Miroaster said. “In the afternoon I will tell my tale to you and the Whispermere both. For now, Byron, try to sleep. If you can’t, lie on your back and listen to the stars.” Then Miroaster turned and blended with the night. Sunlight broke through the rainy sky and a single shaft glittered in the falling water that spilled over great rocks from one pool to the next. Byron followed Miroaster along a deer trail that wound through the pines beside the cascade. In the early afternoon they stood looking down on a mere. A huge rock stood at one end and smaller rocks dotted the water. A rainbow soared above the valley, piercing the clouds and coming out again to fall into the peaks beyond. A pair of mountain goats drank from the mere. Birds splashed about in the shallows, flapping and singing. Byron followed Miroaster down the trail and the mere went out of sight. When it came into view again, the goats had moved aside for a pair of enormous creatures that looked as if they were made of stone. Byron stopped. “Trolls!” Miroaster stopped also. “No, Byron,” he whispered. “Grunks.” “Grunks?” Byron said. “That’s right, a whole family of them. Hush, now. We’ll wait until they drink and move on.” “Grunks,” Byron whispered, frowning with remembrance. The grunks had long, stout arms that reached with gigantic

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hands to the ground. Their legs were short and thick. Their backs and shoulders were wide across and they had no visible necks, though they moved their heads well enough. The three babies mingled about between their parents, identical to the adults in every way except size. All five moved with the same ponderous manner — now bending to drink from the mere, now lifting their heads skyward to observe the rainbow. When they had drunk their fill, the grunk family stood and stretched. The mother gathered her little ones and groomed each of them by licking her palm and wiping them down. They struggled and made bleating sounds of protest. Byron curled his lip. Miroaster smiled at him. “It protects them,” he said. “It covers their scent so they can hide in safety while their parents forage abroad. It seems they mean to leave the grunklets here for a while.” After their grooming, the little ones settled down and allowed their parents to lead them to the shade and safety of the trees. Then the adults set off in separate directions, away from the mere. “All right then,” Miroaster said. “Let’s go.” “Would they have hurt us?” Byron asked. “No. The grunks are strong as the mountains but docile as a falling leaf. They could have hurt us terribly, killed us without effort. But that is not their way. The grunks will rise in anger against few creatures in Everándon.” “I think I’ve seen grunks before,” Byron said as they approached the mere. “In the Woods of Deep?” Miroaster said. “Well, maybe. But I’ve never seen or heard of them west of the Crestfalls.” “Uh, well, it was in sort of a dream that I saw them,” Byron

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said. “And those red-eyed skull warriors— the wülken — I saw them, too.” “Wülken?” Miroaster said, looking down at Byron. “That’s a word few now remember.” “What are they?” “The word means infested but some translate it as haunt or even ghost.” “Where did they come from?” “Thúmose told you of the Lychgate didn’t he?” Byron nodded. “Yes.” “Well, a Lychgate is used to create wülken. They are warriors drawn from the dead to fight the living.” They stopped at the edge of the pool. Byron gazed deep into the reflection of the tall stone on the water. “I saw them,” he said. Miroaster looked at Byron for a thoughtful moment. Then he crouched to the pool, cupped the mere water in his hand, and drank. All across the surface of the pool the reflections shivered and scattered in tiny ripples. There was a deep, windy sound like a whisper from far away under the ground, and in it there was a word. “Miroaster,” it said. Byron stepped back and nearly fell down. Miroaster looked up at the ivy-covered rock at the back of the pool. “Yes,” he said. “I have come.” “I have not felt your step in many days,” said the voice. “Where have you been?” “I have need of secrecy,” Miroaster said. Byron stared at the rock. The ivy hung thick in places but here and there gaps opened to expose what lay beneath. He peered

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deeper, then caught his breath and stood blinking. Beneath the ivy he saw a great eye carved into the stone. Further down he found the corner of an open mouth, and between the two a small spur stuck out from the ivy in the shape of a nose. The lines were weathered and hard to discern, but there was no mistaking them. “Much now moves that hides itself in secrecy,” the voice said. “Things are stirring that do not wish to be perceived.” “That is why I have come,” Miroaster said. “To find answers to questions,” the voice said, “questions that press you to need.” Miroaster nodded. “Yes.” A wordless sound, like a sigh, issued from the face of the rock. Byron looked close and saw that a glistening sheet of water poured down from the place where the mouth was carved. The ivy there was wet and rustled a little as the Whispermere sighed. “Secrecy is everywhere,” the Whispermere said. “The paths of knowledge are not so free as they were. Bird and beast are hindered by fear and do not tell of what is passing. I feel the wind and water, the trees and the soil, but no words are spoken there, only feelings. And I have felt a dread in Everándon.” “Then you must also feel the thunder of the Unicorn,” Miroaster said. “Yes, I feel it. At long last I feel it again. But I feel much that I have felt before. It feels to me, perhaps distantly, that the Wegs have come again.” “That is why I hide myself,” Miroaster said. “Very wise,” the Whispermere said. “Why have you come?” “We’re looking for our friend,” Byron said. “He was captured.” The Whispermere did not respond.

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“Byron,” Miroaster said. “Take a drink of the water.” Byron crouched down and drank. As he did, the water shivered and splashed and the deep voice laughed, sonorous and hushed, drawn from unseen deeps with a cheer that caused the birds to flap and call in the trees around. “Findrel,” the Whispermere said. “Miroaster had you hidden away, but I can feel you now. You are very far from home.” “Yes,” Byron said. “Mr. Thúmose asked me to help him.” “Did he?” said the Whispermere. “Yes, you have the feel of one upon whom the Unicorn might call for aid. Now I see. Rumor has reached me of your winter travels. Glad rumor. Grateful rumor. And what has the Spiralhorn asked of you?” “Well,” Byron said, “nothing in the last few days. But the last time I saw him he asked me to deliver a message.” “What message?” the Whispermere asked. “If I may know, what message and to whom?” Byron shrugged. “I don’t think it’s any big secret. He wants King Thrudnelf of the dwarves to take his people back to Showd Mazark. He asked me to take the message.” “Showd Mazark?” the Whispermere said. There was a long pause. “I do not know that name. Wait, yes, now I remember. It lies at Mountain’s End. I had forgotten until now.” “Forgotten?” Miroaster said. “The Whispermere forgets? I have never heard of that before.” “Yes,” the Whispermere said. “There is a shadow, a swirling darkness covering places in my mind. My knowledge of Showd Mazark must surely be there.” “That is forbidding news,” Miroaster said. “Forbidding?” “Your mind sees of old,” Miroaster said, “before even the Dragon. Yours is knowledge that you alone in Everándon can

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possess. And yet you speak of a darkness that hides that knowledge like a veil?” “It is as I have said,” the Whispermere answered. “Much now moves that does not wish to be perceived. Some powers are strong and crafty.” Miroaster nodded. “Well do I know it.” The ground trembled faintly as the Whispermere sighed. “But tell me why you have come.” “We’re looking for our friend,” Byron said, stepping forward, “who was captured.” “I know such things have passed of late,” the Whispermere said. “The giant princeling has been stolen from his home. Fear could not contain news of it for long, what with the giant king’s rage and the threat of his war of reprisal against the dwarves.” “But the dwarf prince is gone too,” Byron said. “Prince Nosh. That’s who we’re looking for.” “The dwarf prince captured?” the Whispermere replied. “I’ve heard nothing of this before now. But tales are hushed. Words cease. Eyes grow distant at the mention of the things that are passing. Whatever now moves lurks behind a mask of stifling dread.” A long, deep sigh breathed out through the vines that covered the stone face of the Whispermere. “But another question presses you, I think.” “Yes,” Miroaster said. “Some time ago I had reason to track a taxim to its haunt.” “What’s a taxim?” Byron asked. “A creature of death,” the Whispermere replied. “A scavenger of graves.” “The taxim will make its home on a field of battle,” Miroaster said, “just as a ghoul or a wight will do in a burial ground. But

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taxims often live in groups, each taking for itself an area in which to tunnel and hide. It is said that a taxim can tell you the names of all who died in the place it has chosen.” “Who can say by what gruesome ritual it comes to such knowledge,” the Whispermere said. “But why were you following it?” “I came upon it keeping watch over a young girl. The girl was adorned with markings, crude UnMagic, such as a taxim might use. Together with the girl, the taxim rode in a wagon guarded by Fellsmen, led by an ogre of the North.” “One of Goth’s people,” the Whispermere said. “Goth?” Byron said. Miroaster nodded. “The ogre king.” “Rumor has reached me of the Fell Clans working together,” the Whispermere said, “in small bands. Though even among their own kind there is little unity to be found. But I wonder at the presence of a taxim in their train, that it should have quit its haunt.” “I wondered at it also,” Miroaster said. “And I have no doubt it was pressed into service. Indeed, I did not think a taxim could long survive away from the soil of its dwelling. But the wagon was filled with just such a soil, in which rested the bones of some creature. I tracked the taxim for eleven days. “Twice along the way I glimpsed it carrying a large metal ring. It was frantic and weak when it reached its haunt, but still too quick for me to catch. It escaped into a hole and when at last I reached it, it was near death. The journey proved too much for it. It shrieked in warning to the members of its colony, but I was unable to question it before it died. It was still clutching this.” Miroaster reached into his bag and took out a large, flat ring of gold, covered with markings.

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“What is it?” Byron asked. “An armband,” Miroaster said. “I never saw an arm that big,” Byron said. “Not even on Baruwan.” “It belonged to a giant, once,” Miroaster said. “And now for the reason I went to Sogfarrow. I was there to see a gnome who knows about such things. He is long learned in artifacts and has a special interest in the lore and customs of the giants. By its make and mixture he surmised that this band was crafted in the third generation after Borántu. From him I learned that it belonged to a giant of the Maug tribe, a fact I had guessed myself, because of this symbol: the full moon eclipsed. The Maugs were followers of Borántu and remain strong even now.” “Strong,” the Whispermere said, with a deep, windy whisper. “Their drums have never stopped. But what further answer can I give you, Miroaster?” “The taxim’s haunt was in the woods of Farnan, west of the mountains, in the fold above the Antler Spur. What can you tell me of a battle that happened there, in which the Maug tribe was present or represented?” The Whispermere breathed another long, deep, windy sigh, but it was not sad. There were tones in the sigh, sonorous and clear. The vines shimmered and hissed, lifting from the stone. “I can tell you,” the Whispermere began, “that the woods of Farnan were not always woods. Once they were a plain of green and gold until the feet of warring giants thundered there.” “Of course,” Miroaster said. “I had forgotten.” “The fog of forgetting spreads even to the Lore Tracker,” the Whispermere said. “The tides of the giant wars are not part of my learning, but I should have remembered that much at least by now. This is not a

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natural forgetting, for my mind has grown sharper and not less so. No, this fog attacks memories and knowledge of its choosing.” “It is so,” the Mere said. “But I can tell you further that it was on the Farnan Field that Lotigrund, the first true king of the giants, was sundered by the tribes that opposed him. Many sought to prevent the alliance of giants under one king. Even now many reject such a leader. In those days the opposition was fierce and civil war erupted after Lotigrund’s death, which left his young daughter as heir to the sovereignty. So sudden and great was the fighting that the dead of Farnan were left to be reclaimed by the soil. “No doubt the taxim crept in among the fallen,” the Whispermere continued, “and took from them whatever the scavenging Fellsmen did not claim for themselves. And above all it gathered the list of their names, and never stopped reciting it, not in all its long, sleepless years.” “Reciting the names?” Byron said. “It is the way of the taxim to be obsessed with its haunt,” Miroaster said, “with names of the dead who lay there, what they wore, the color of their hair and eyes. No doubt this poor wretch was drawn by the drums before the battle began. He would have watched, memorizing everything that happened, and could have described the battle in detail. But once a taxim claims its ground, it cannot leave on pain of its life. Yet this one did so, as did one of its friends, for so it muttered with its dying breath.” “What did it say?” Byron asked. “It swore never to leave its hole again,” Miroaster said. “And it promised to kill me in my sleep for dragging Lucrece away.” “Who’s Lucrece?” Byron said. “The dead creature you found in the wagon?” “Unlikely,” Miroaster said. “But it could be another taxim who

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was pressed into service on some other occasion. I found many places where the soil had been disturbed, as if by digging. It seems that someone has been stealing the remains of the giants who fell on the Farnan Field. That, together with the markings painted on the poor young girl I found in the wagon, has put a fear in me I have not felt in a very, very long time.” “Fear of what?” Byron asked. “Wytherban,” the Whispermere said. “Yes,” Miroaster said. “Who is Wytherban?” Byron asked. “The Lord of Fear,” Miroaster said. “The most powerful of the Wegs.” “What does he want with the bones of some giant?” Byron asked. “That girl was in the early throes of lych magic,” Miroaster said. “Someone intended to rouse that giant through a Lychgate. All the greater Wegs have skill with lych magic, but only Wytherban has the mastery it would take to rouse a creature that has been dead since the battle of the Farnan Field.” Byron shrugged. “So, what’s the taxim got to do with it?” “The taxim are often used to start the process,” Miroaster said. “And if one has claimed the ground on which the wülken fell, it must accompany the remains into the Lychgate or the deathmagic, no matter how powerful, will not work.” “It could be that Wytherban was searching for the bones of Lotigrund himself, the first king of the giants,” the Whispermere said. “Before he fell, Lotigrund was a great and terrible warrior. He was feared by all who opposed him, and even by many who did not. His sword arm was untiring, his stride unstoppable, and there was no end to the cunning of his war-craft.” “Lotigrund roused to serve as a wülken would make a bitter

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enemy,” Miroaster said. “Such a feat would require deep UnMagic, hex work of great power. Yet such a thing might well be within Wytherban’s reach.” “Perhaps,” the Whispermere said. “At its height, Wytherban’s magic was truly terrible. But to rouse a giant king would require something else, also.” “What?” Byron asked “The living flesh of Lotigrund’s line,” the Whispermere replied. “A descendent.” Miroaster blinked and a look of realization came over his face. “Do you mean to say that the giant princeling is descended from Lotigrund?” “The succession is not unbroken, and has followed a winding path,” the Whispermere said. “The sovereignty has shifted from house to house, but the blood of Lotigrund has continued to flow and has come to the throne once more. Prince Grudner’s father, King Grudnevar of the giants, has in his veins the blood of the first giant king.” “And now his son has been kidnapped,” Byron said. “And poor Nosh. I wonder if we’ll ever find either one of them.” “You must keep hoping, Byron,” Miroaster said. “It is part of your great strength. It lends possibility to things that might otherwise fade and die.” “What happened to the girl?” Byron asked with a shrug. “She is safe now,” Miroaster said. “In the keeping of Warra.” Byron nodded. “Mr. Whispermere” he said, “Is there war in Woody Deep?” “Wodys Dyp is far,” the Whispermere said. “Little news comes from there that is not many weeks and months gone by. But even at that I have heard nothing, for as I said, the paths of knowledge are stilled of late.”

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Byron’s gaze went blank and fell to the surface of the water. Miroaster laid a hand on his shoulder. “Take heart, Byron,” he said. “We will stay here tonight and perhaps hear from the Whispermere a tale of ancient Everándon.” It was still dark and starry when Byron woke. Miroaster was crouched beside him, shaking him by the shoulder. Byron sat up and blinked. The stars shimmered in the mere and the water was flat and still. “What is it?” Byron asked. “News,” Miroaster said. “A group of bats has emerged from the Whispermere’s mouth. They spoke of a young showdra in sinister company. The party emerged two days ago from a tunnel on the west side of the mountains. “Showdra?” Byron said. “What’s a showdra?” “A dwarf, Byron,” Miroaster said. “Showdra is one of the old words for dwarf.” “Nosh!” Byron said, and he sprang to his hooves. “The bats weren’t afraid to tell you?” Miroaster shook his head. “That is often the way. The night will tell what is feared by light of day. Stirrings in the dark are sometimes overheard by friendly ears.” “How far is it?” Byron asked. “Six days, south and west.” “And it’s two days already since they emerged?” Miroaster nodded. “The trail will be cold, but that does not concern me. We have a place to begin.” “That’s something,” Byron said. “We should set off at once and take food as we go. Eight days is nine too many. We will be hard pressed to gain them back, but gain them back we must.”

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Lady Veronica unset struck the Crestfall peaks in a haunting slant. Byron stopped and gazed as the shadows, eager for the coming night, crept forth on the heights. He turned and trotted along behind Miroaster, happy to be out of the mountains, among the trees of the western forest again. He wondered at the pace they were keeping. Miroaster never stopped for himself and carried Byron when the satyr needed rest. If not for the strange, quickening magic of Miroaster’s gait, Byron could never have kept up. They made a careful search as they journeyed southward, sweeping up and down the slopes from high in the rocks above the trees, down to the forest floor and back again, leaving no stone unturned. “Far slower than I like,” Miroaster said, “but I will not risk missing the tunnel. We shall be glad for our pains when we find it. I’d forgotten,” he continued, “how quiet you satyrs can be when you want.” Byron shrugged. “If you don’t want to be heard, you don’t make any noise.” “More of your Gradda’s wisdom, I expect.” In the evening they came to stand on a ledge that looked out

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at the darkening world below them. Far off there was a long, low hilltop that stood above the shadow of the forest, dotted with campfires. “What’s that?” Byron asked. “That is the Hill of Wold,” Miroaster replied. “Tallest of the Tartoom Hills. Once it was the site of a faerie fortress. You can still see the foundations if you know where to look. It offers a great vantage on the surrounding lands. But those are not faerie fires.” “Then who is it?” “The army of Valleygate.” “Thrudnelf’s army,” Byron said. “They’re headed for Showd Mazark.” “Yes,” Miroaster said. “Do you think Thrudnelf will join with Silverlance?” Byron asked. “Not likely,” Miroaster said. “Thrudnelf is fierce and noble; he bows to no one. Still, he’s sure to side with the Unicorn against a common foe, at least until that foe is thrown down. Thrudnelf is a bitter enemy of the Fellsmen. Where they are, he will fight them. But come, we still have need of haste.” After a march in the darkness they spotted a large campfire burning. They went forward in silence, creeping from rock to rock, until at last Miroaster motioned to Byron and dropped to his belly on an outcropping of stone that overlooked the fire. A hundred feet below, the flames leapt high from a heavy pile of deadwood fuel. Dark shapes moved around it. “A war party?” Byron asked. “I think not,” Miroaster said. “Guards, more likely. They must be close to home and unafraid to kindle a fire so bold and bright as that one.” “Guarding what?”

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“If I had to guess,” Miroaster said, “I’d say we’ve found our tunnel.” “Are we going down there?” Byron asked. “Yes, we are. Perhaps we’ll get some stray bit of news, or— if opportunity smiles— a prisoner to question.” Byron welcomed the darkness that swallowed them as they crept back the way they had come. He looked around with saucerlike eyes, convinced now that every shadow and sound was a kettle-headed Fellsman with its cudgel raised to strike. Miroaster was so deft that Byron had trouble seeing him, though he was never more than a few feet away. They moved down out of the rocks, through the trees to the forest floor, swift and silent until Miroaster clutched Byron’s shoulder and drew him to a stop. “Best to know and not be known,” he said. “Come along. We’ll spy a bit and take the lay of things.” Miroaster led the way up the back of a large rock. As they reached the top, a warm night breeze lifted Byron’s hair. The fire appeared before him, much closer than he had guessed. It was nearly as tall as Miroaster, and burned not twenty feet away, near a craggy rock face against the hillside. A band of heavily armed Fellsmen stood about with their weapons drawn. Two of them lugged wood in from the darkness and threw it on the flames. Three more dark shapes emerged from somewhere deep inside the craggy cliff face. A tall, broad figure with a visored helmet stood with his arms folded across his chest. “That will be the leader,” Miroaster whispered. “Large for a hoblin.” Byron peered into the shadows around the fire. “What’re they doing?” “Waiting for something,” Miroaster said.

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“Waiting for what?” “I don’t know, but we shall wait also, and see what luck— wait! Listen!” Byron strained to hear. Soon there were footfalls in the darkness of the forest off to their right. The Fellsmen shifted uneasily, but the hoblin leader made no sign of concern or even interest. A moment later there was a single harsh voice in the darkness. “Jath nalda!” “Ah,” Miroaster said. “Fell-speak.” “Fell-speak?” Byron said. “A kind of common tongue among the Fell Clans.” “What did they say?” Byron asked. Miroaster stared down at the camp. “They said, ‘By the fire!’ ” “Shat humgock. Nen bref!” the huge captain answered. “You see who we are,” Miroaster translated. “Show yourself!” Shadows appeared at the edge of the firelight. Miroaster straightened up a little. “What’s this?” he asked. Byron watched the shadows advance and then caught his breath. “Dwarves!” he whispered, and pushed himself up on his palms. “Dwarves indeed,” Miroaster said. “Dwarves of Valleygate, look at the livery.” “Jumma gorkothen, showdra,” the hoblin captain said. “Hmm,” said Miroaster. “What?” Byron demanded. “He said, ‘You’re four days late, dwarf.’ ” The lead dwarf approached the fire and stood looking across it, glaring up into the visored face of the hoblin leader. He planted his feet and put his hands on his hips as his ranks closed in behind him. “Def nemagock, grub,” the dwarf said. “Tundi lek ma.” Byron pursed his lips. “I wish I knew what they were saying.”

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“He told the grub to mind his business and guard the tunnel like he was told.” “Oh, I guard the tunnel, little one,” the hoblin leader said, abandoning the Fell-speak. “And you best have the necessary papers, or you’ll go back to your king a few dwarves short, and a limb or two besides. And don’t call us grubs.” “Yeah,” said the other guards. “Don’t call us grubs either.” “Shut up!” the hoblin leader shouted. The dwarf leader gave a command and one of his fellows stepped up. He handed the dwarf leader a leather wallet, which the dwarf leader handed to the big hoblin guard. The hoblin then handed it to one of his henchmen, who opened it and took out a set of folded papers. As he held the pages up to the firelight, the two leaders, dwarf and hoblin, stood staring at each other. “Checks out,” said the Fellsman who was reading the papers. “All in order. These are from the top.” “Gimme those,” the hoblin captain said, snatching the papers from his henchman’s hand. He squinted at them, leaning toward the firelight, glancing over the top of the pages at the dwarf leader. “Very well,” the big hoblin said, handing the papers to the lead dwarf. “You may pass. But nothing funny inside, papers or no, got it?” “We have no interest in staying here any longer than we need, grub,” the dwarf said. “Believe me.” “There he goes again,” one of the guards said, “calling us grubs.” “Shut up!” the hoblin growled. “Go find some firewood.” “I’m to inquire whether a young dwarf passed this checkpoint,” the dwarf leader continued, handing the papers back to his companion. “His progress south is of interest to my . . . king.” “Dwarves, gnomes,” the hoblin captain said. “All the same to me.”

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“I mean a very special dwarf,” the dwarf leader said. “A dwarf prince to be precise, down from Sogfarrow.” “Check the rosters,” the troll said to his henchman. “No need,” the henchman said. “He passed through some days back. I was here myself and noted it. Heavily guarded. Skull folk keeping a tight leash.” “Skull folk?” the dwarf leader said. “Haven’t had the pleasure of the wülken yet?” the henchman said. “Well, be patient, you soon will if you’re headed south. Four there were, guarding the dwarfling. He must be someone special for them to bother at all. Haven’t seen them as escorts but once before, when the giant squib came through. Twelve there were, guarding him.” Miroaster put a hand on Byron’s shoulder. “Come Byron,” he said. “We’ve heard all we need to. Nosh isn’t here. We have need of haste, or I’d leave that entry scattered with blood and bodies.” Byron was still blinking as the man slipped down off the rock and into the shadows. Miroaster signaled at Byron, who hopped down light and quiet behind him. They set off into the forest, leaving the dwarves and Fellsmen to their business. They followed a stream southward, marking its glistening white flow by the light of the moon. Miroaster pushed on all night, and Byron kept up, quickened by news of Nosh, eager to close the gap left by his friend’s captors. In the first gray of morning, the stream vanished into the mouth of a low cave. Further on they came to another opening, a black, gaping spot on the gray of the rock. Without a pause Miroaster passed inside and turned downward along a steep path. It was cold and dark, and somewhere ahead there was water rushing. At the bottom of the rocky slope

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they came to the bank of an underground river. It was filled with tiny yellow lights that shot by on the current and cast a pale glow about the cave. Strange, black shadows flicked past on the walls and ceiling. “Here is the stream again to guide us,” Miroaster said. “It joined with this flow back where we lost it under the hill. We should have swift passage from now on, if my boat is still useful.” “Boat?” Byron asked. “Come along and we shall see.” Miroaster led the way along the sandy bank. “If luck is with us, we will find it where I left it,” he said, scanning the bank. “The Fellsmen may have destroyed it since last I had need of it, but I was clever in hiding it, and thorough. Still, they are a devious lot, more likely to waste such a thing than make use of it.” Many tunnels opened onto the banks of the river, leading off into darkness. “Stay here,” Miroaster said, and went inside one of the passages. He returned a short while later, dragging a bundle with several long, heavy sticks and a great piece of stitched hide. “That’s a boat?” Byron said. “It soon will be,” Miroaster said. He set about lashing the wood poles together with stout thongs of leather. In a short while he assembled the frame of a boat about eight feet long. He draped the hide over it, snugging it down to a perfect fit all the way around. Then he flipped it upright and laced the edges to the frame at the top. Byron stood by slack-jawed with his hands on his hips as Miroaster lifted the boat into the water. “In you get,” the man said. The current was swift and deep, and very soon the little boat was moving fast. Miroaster crouched in the back, guiding them along with a paddle. Byron sat at the front, looking over the side, his face aglow from the reflection of the water. The current was

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less swift in spots where the water pooled, and Byron could see all the way to the bottom. Great patches of glowing fungus clung to the walls beneath the surface. Large fish swam about deep below, and there were shelves and cavelets all along the riverbed. Tall plants stood on the river floor where colorful fish schooled in and out of the branches and plumes. “Keeping watch for Nayads?” Miroaster asked. “For what?” “Nayads,” Miroaster said. “Water cousins to your friends Rufus and Raefer. They sometimes venture here, at need, but mostly they keep to the lakes and rivers above.” “They live in the water?” Byron asked. “That’s right. And they swim better than fish, some of them.” Byron blinked at the thought, then looked overboard again. There in the water was a fish that was longer than the boat. It had a long snout full of sharp, curved teeth, and huge, bulging eyes. “Yikes!” Byron cried and he pushed himself back. “What was that?” “Gar,” Miroaster said. “And a little one at that. You don’t want to swim with a gar nearby.” “That was a little one?” “Yes. They can be twice that long, but they must first live a very long time.” “Could it hurt the boat?” “It could, with ease, if it only knew it. There, it’s gone now.” Byron peeked over the side to see the gar hovering at a cavelet opening deep below. But it was quickly lost from sight as the boat sped along on the current. “Time for you to sit center, Byron,” Miroaster said. “In a moment here the water will go dark. Another flow feeds in up ahead and the water temperature drops. That change kills all the

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yellow lights as soon as they touch it. And we will need to be very quiet from that point on. It’s as likely a place as any for Fellsmen to be lurking.” Byron sat on a plank in the middle, up close to the prow, each of his hands clutching one side of the boat. For a long way ahead the tunnel was still lit with yellow glow. But soon they entered the darkness and as they did, Byron looked back one last time to see the wonderful world beneath the current. A long black shape was following the boat. Byron’s blood went cold. The gar. The glow of the tunnel behind looked like a spot of daylight at the mouth of a cave. Then it vanished around a bend and they were in total darkness. The air went cold and damp. Byron marveled at the mysterious skill by which Miroaster negotiated the rapid course. As he popped in his monocle to look around, a row of heavy wooden spikes thrust up out of the water, spanning the river from bank to bank. They were thick as young trees, whittled down to long, fierce points, facing upstream at an angle to the surface. There was no escape. The boat slammed hard and the frame of the prow snapped in two. The boat came around on the swift current and two more spikes rent the sides, piercing and tearing the hide. Byron shot through a gap in the spike fence and was sucked down into the cold, dark water. By the time he pulled himself to the surface he was already moving away fast on the current. “Byron!” Miroaster cried. Byron slapped his monocle up to his eye and looked back. Through the water-streaked lens he saw Miroaster pull himself to the shore using the spikes of the fence, then set off running downstream. Fellsmen came in from passages up and down both sides of the river, shouting and howling, waving swords

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and torches. The light stung Byron’s eye and he let the monocle drop. The last thing he saw before being swept around a bend was Miroaster’s heat-stained sword rising and falling in the pack of Fellsmen that surrounded him. Byron slapped the water and kicked his hooves as he chugged along on the current, trying to keep his face above the surface. It was completely dark. Then something long and slippery grazed past, and his spine went cold. He tried to cry out but the water filled his mouth. Then he saw a light flickering in the darkness ahead. A rope reached across the river to both banks and a small wooden boat was strung along it, hovering in the middle like a ferry. A tall torch was fixed at each end of the boat and inside sat three Fellsmen with their helmets off. They were bald and blotchy with wide, narrow mouths and awful teeth. Each one had a fishing pole in one hand and a bottle or flask in the other. All three turned at the sound of Byron hitting the boat broadside. “What sort of fish you got there, Martin?” asked one. “No fish at all like I ever saw, Jon,” said another. “Someone haul it in.” “Right,” said Martin, and he reached over the side and clutched Byron by the neck. “But it’s mine when it comes out.” There was a foul smell of hard liquor on his breath. Byron pulled away with a snarl and groped at his waist for his knife. “What is it?” the third Fellsman asked, standing up in the boat. “Here, sit down, Leonard,” Martin said over his shoulder. “You’ll pitch us.” “That’s no fish,” Jon said, also standing up. The boat rocked a bit, but Leonard stooped to clutch the side. Byron reached for Gradda’s knife hanging at his hip.

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“Both of you sit down, I say,” Martin barked. Byron pulled his knife and struck. Martin flung himself backward with a cry, clutching his face. The boat pitched once and both Jon and Leonard fell overboard, splashing down on both sides of Byron. He started to pull himself along the rope toward the shore, but a strong hand gripped him from above. Byron saw Martin snarling down at him with a great bleeding cut across his eye and cheek. Jon and Leonard pulled up beside Byron. Their foul breath burned across his face from both sides. They glared at him with yellow eyes that peered out from beneath heavy brows. They both had wide, low heads and upturned noses with huge nostrils. A long, black knife with a toothy edge broke the surface of the water in front of Byron’s face. “We don’t need you for nothing,” Jon said. “Yeah,” Leonard said with a stupid grin. “I’m gonna let you float on by, once you’re dead,” Jon said. “Yeah,” Leonard said. “Dead.” The knife disappeared into the water. Byron tensed, waiting for the feel of the blade, his face frozen in a terrified wince. Then Jon’s eyes went wide. He turned his head and looked down at the water. “What the — ?” he said in growing confusion. “Ah!” he cried. “Ah — it’s got me!” “Jon!” Leonard shouted. “What’s got you Jon— ah! Aaaah! It’s got me too!” They splashed and flailed at the water, crying and shrieking, as their green blood fouled the surface. First Jon, then Leonard were pulled beneath the water; each fought his way to the top more than once, but the writhing bodies of the gar fish, two on each, surfaced with them and powered them below again. Byron pulled himself away, hand over hand along the boat,

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moving toward the rope that fastened it to the shore. A sudden jerk of his neck stopped him as Martin, still in the boat, reached out with a long metal hook and hauled him back. He dragged Byron into the boat and pinned him down. “They were wrong, those two,” Martin said. “Quite wrong. We do want you alive, and that’s lucky for you. We’ve got orders from Lady Veronica. That’s where I’m takin’ you, see, and no squawking. I should open you up wide for this cut you gave me, but no telling what she’d say. Trust me, little friend, you bein’ so small won’t stop me from spitting you and hanging you up to roast, once the Lady gives the go ahead.” Martin held Byron down with one hand and tugged the boat to the riverbank by the anchor rope with the other. On the bank, four more Fellsmen, fully armed and helmeted, stood waiting. Martin pitched Byron ashore and growled in frustration when the satyr landed on his hooves. “You should’ve kept your helmet on, Martin,” said one. “That’s a pretty row you got carved in you.” “Shut it,” Martin said. “If you don’t want one just like it.” “What’s that you’ve landed, eh? A bit small for eatin’.” “Takin’ it to Lady Veronica,” Martin said. “And with her say so I’m gonna gut it and see what’s inside, eh?” As he finished his sentence, Martin smacked Byron on the back of the head. “And keep your yap shut or I’ll wreck you.” Martin prodded and pushed Byron down many torchlit turns to a great chamber filled with Fellsmen, some with their kettle helmets on, some bare-headed. A great din went up as Byron entered. Martin picked him up and tucked him under his arm. He pushed and shoved his way through the sneering mob. The Fellsmen crowded near to see and jeer at Byron. They poked, prodded, kicked, smacked, even kissed and licked him as he

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went by. He was nearly sick when at last Martin stepped free of the throng and stood in an open space before a seated figure. She was larger by far than anyone in the room, broad across the shoulders, long of limb, scarred, hairy, puckered, and blotched. Her long, stringy hair was pulled left and right into pigtails. She wore heavy armor of chain and plate, and a great black sword with cruel angles and edges stood by her chair, which was surrounded by piles of skulls. She grinned down at Byron with awful greenish eyes, jagged teeth, and black lips. She tipped her head like a young girl, but her voice was deep and harsh. “Well, Martin,” she said, looking at the long cut on the Fellsman’s face, “playing with sharp things again?” As she spoke, she forced a fat finger deep into her nose and pulled it out to examine her find. “As you see, Lady Veronica,” Martin said. “I found this floating in the river.” “And where are Jon and Leonard?” Lady Veronica asked. Martin jerked his chin back toward the entrance to the cave. “Gar got ’em.” “Better for us all, eh?” Lady Veronica said. “Maybe, your ladyship,” Martin said. “Maybe.” “And what’ve you brought me? Ah! A baby!” She reached down, took Byron by the front of his shirt and hauled him into her arms. Byron sat frozen with fear by her strength and could hardly contain his stomach at the smell of her. “What a pretty baby,” Lady Veronica said. “I like your silver horn. What’s your name?” Byron’s heart pounded in his ears and everything went purple. He looked around at all the staring Fellsmen. “WHAT’S YOUR NAME, I SAID!” Lady Veronica shouted, shaking Byron so hard his head bounced off her breastplate.

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“Byron!” he cried. “Byron Thorn!” Lady Veronica smiled and stroked Byron’s head, cooing at him. “That’s better.” Byron looked down at the skulls that littered the ground around Lady Veronica’s hairy, grotesque feet. He looked up at Lady Veronica’s horrid smiling face. Her voice became coarse and throaty. “See anyone you know?” “I brung ’im to see if you wanted him,” Martin said. “Otherwise I’d have done ’im down by the river.” “I like him,” Lady Veronica said. “He has funny feet. I will raise him as my own.” Breathing through his mouth did nothing to soften the smell. Byron gagged and his stomach surged. “Come, come little dolly,” Lady Veronica rasped. “Can’t have you teething.” She held up her fat finger in Byron’s face. It was still covered with the foul filth from her nose. He squirmed with all his strength and turned his head away. His mind raced for a way out. Veronica clutched his face tight and turned it to her as she tried to jam her fetid finger into his mouth. “Will you be joining the gathering in the South?” Byron cried in desperation. Lady Veronica stayed her finger and looked at him with widening pupils. “Are you joining the Damarung?” Byron pressed. She moved him from her lap and set him on her knee. “Where did you hear that word?” she asked, and started bouncing him. “I’ve been places where they talk about things like that,” Byron said with a shrug, casting a nervous glance at the skulls on the ground. Some of them looked fresh. “Really,” Lady Veronica said, still smiling. “What places?” “Sogfarrow,” Byron said.

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Lady Veronica looked at Byron with interest. “What a resourceful little fellow. I’m so proud.” Then she spoke to him in a gentle tone, as if explaining some difficult idea to a small child. “Well, you see dolly, I’m waiting here for the Shambler. He’s coming through the mountains on the canals. Then we’re going on to the Damarung together. He’s just had a meeting with Uncle Redcap, who will be joining us later, once he gets his army assembled.” “Joining you where?” Byron asked. “Why, at the Damarung of course,” Veronica said. “Where’s that?” Byron asked, glancing at the hideous finger as it entered Veronica’s nose again. “Why are you waiting for the Shambler?” “Well, because mean old King Thrudnelf’s army is close by. If I wait for the Shambler it’ll be safer.” “In that case why not wait for Redcap?” Byron pressed. Lady Veronica stopped bouncing him and smiled with her awful teeth. “My, but we are a curious one. Well, we’re bringing something with us that needs to get there very soon. So we’re taking the river. It’s much faster. And why should I believe a little thing like you was ever in Sogfarrow, hmm?” “Oh, he was there,” said a voice. Byron’s blood went cold at the sound, his stomach churned, and he gasped. A small company of dwarves emerged from a passage behind Lady Veronica’s chair. At the head was Nosh’s uncle, Prince Dornthelf. He wore a long cape over his glittering armor, but the hood was pulled back from his head. “I’ll never know how he got away, but I put this little truant into Sogfarrow myself. Section Nine to be exact.” Dornthelf turned and shook his head at Byron. “Am I going to have to kill you outright?”

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“Leave that to me,” Martin said. “I’ll have him on a spit within the hour.” “You’re not telling all, Dornthelf,” Lady Veronica said. “That silver horn on his head— seems to me I’ve heard of this fellow.” “You heard of him from me,” Dornthelf said. “This is the one that followed that star at Midwinter,” Lady Veronica said. Dornthelf put his hands on his belt. “Yes.” Lady Veronica peered at Byron. “Mightn’t he still be useful to us?” “If he was any use at all I’d have kept him,” Dornthelf said, rolling his eyes. “Trust me. Give ’im to Martin.” Lady Veronica looked at Byron’s horn, then at the crest on his black ambassador’s coat. She bounced him on her knee again. “And what about this Unicorn, hm? Did he give you this pretty coat you’re wearing?” “Oh, for rat’s sake,” Dornthelf said. “We’ve been through all this.” Veronica snapped her gaze back to the dwarf, “Well, Redcap seemed afraid of him.” “Redcap is a fool,” Dornthelf said. “I agree,” she said with a nod, “but he’s afraid of nothing.” “Listen,” Dornthelf said. “If you want to be afraid of someone, you know as well as I who it should be. It should be giving you nightmares. Believe me, I’ve met it.” “Met who, er — what?” Byron asked. Dornthelf ignored him. “This Unicorn is an upstart with a following you could fit in a thimble. All we need to do is follow orders and wait.” “And what about King Thrudnelf?” Lady Veronica asked, squinting with distrust at Dornthelf. “Your brother is enough of

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a nightmare all by himself.” “We’ve been over that also,” Dornthelf said. Lady Veronica pulled at one of her pigtails. “Not to my satisfaction.” “I’m leading the army of Valleygate,” Dornthelf said. “That should console you.” “WELL, IT DOESN’T!” she shouted, and rose to her full height. Byron tumbled to the ground. Dornthelf smiled, looking up at her. “What’s wrong, Veronica? Don’t you trust me?” Lady Veronica’s eyes narrowed and she smirked back. “Do you trust me? ” “Fair enough,” Dornthelf said. “But we don’t need to trust each other to get this thing done.” “And what about the dwarves living down there?” Veronica asked. “Too few to fret about, believe me,” Dornthelf said. “If they can even agree on a leader they still don’t have anything like an army. Just you wait for the Shambler. When he gets here you’ll head south together in force, safe and dangerous. You won’t have to worry about any unicorn again, or King Thrudnelf, or a rabble of bumpkin dwarves. Between you, me, the Shambler, and Redcap, nobody’s gonna take that mountain from us once the Damarung begins.” “Why isn’t Thrudnelf leading the army?” Byron asked. Dornthelf smiled. Then he pointed a finger at Byron. “This fellow is trouble and trouble follows him, Lady Veronica. The longer you keep him alive the better chance trouble will find you. They sent a squad of griffins to find him the last time. Get rid of him.” Lady Veronica took Byron by the chin and locked eyes with

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him. Try as he was able he could not hold her stare. The smell of her breath was worse than anything he’d ever known. “What’ve you got in mind, Martin?” she asked. “Are you going to cook him?” “I haven’t decided, Lady,” Martin said, grinning down at Byron. “It might be fun for him to watch us eat him.” “A bit of his gizzard might be nice,” Lady Veronica said. “Haven’t had anything so young and tender in a while.” Martin nodded. “I’ll see you get the best piece, Lady.” “I might try a bit, myself,” Dornthelf said. “Bring me something from the goat part.” “Nothing for you, dwarf scum,” Martin said. Dornthelf snapped his head around at Martin. A growling murmur went through the room. The dwarves in Dornthelf’s company gripped their swords. Lady Veronica laughed. “Turning coat on King Thrudnelf is all very nice, Dornthelf. But you’ll never have power of command around here. You had best remember where you are.” “We’ll see,” Dornthelf said. Then he pointed at Byron. “Just you make him dead.” Then the dwarf prince wheeled and marched out the way he’d come in. A terrible din went up. The Fellsmen started stomping their feet and a way was made for Prince Dornthelf. There was no spitting or hitting, but the Fellsmen jeered and screamed strange, foul words as he passed. “Well, well, dolly,” Lady Veronica said. “Mean old Dornthelf all gone? He wants me to kill you and Martin wants to eat you. What do you say to that, eh? Nothing? Well, I don’t care what Dornthelf, prince of rats, thinks about it. If this unicorn wants you alive then It will be glad to have you for itself.” “But you said I could eat ’im,” Martin said.

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“No, I did not,” Veronica said. “Eat my baby? I’m surprised at you, Martin.” “But —” “NO, I SAID!” The crowd went silent and nobody looked at Veronica. “Now assemble the ranks at the barges and take me to the landing,” she said softly, smiling at Byron. A gang of Fellsmen stepped up and lifted Veronica’s chair. She clutched Byron to her chest in a grip as strong as tree roots. They set off through a tunnel behind a band of torch-bearers. “AND DON’T FORGET THE SKULLS!” Veronica shouted as they left the great chamber behind.

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The Shambler yron rode in Lady Veronica’s lap as they carried her chair through winding, torchlit tunnels down to a vast, wide cavern that echoed with the flow of the river. On the left side of the river was a flat area, large as the Moon Dance Lawn in Woody Deep, and the bank was carved square and level. A series of ramps led down into the water, and here and there were stairs that led down to the surface of the river. Fires burned in stone ovens carved into the wall, and many tunnels crafted by skilled hands led in from unseen places. Floating in the water, fastened by stout ropes to heavy cleats set in the stone of the bank, were two great wooden barges ready to be boarded by Lady Veronica’s troops. “What is this place?” Byron asked. “Nasty dwarves made it,” Lady Veronica said. “Long ago. These mountains are full of their canals and passages. They widened the banks and dredged the river for depth. Now it all belongs to me.” They set Lady Veronica down on the flat area by the water and piled her skulls around her. A Fellsman stepped up and handed her a large skull. She put it to her lips and took a long sip of its putrid gray contents, which dripped down her chin and neck in her thirsty haste.

B !

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Fellsmen came and went in and out of the tunnels all around. Now and again one would approach her, bowing low, only to be struck or given some command. A great throng gathered on the wide, torchlit platform. They shouted and called to one another, some sparring with their sword-like weapons, others tending to their gear. Many of them were drinking from cups or bottles. Those who did would occasionally lift their drinks and call out to Lady Veronica, who would return the gesture and shout something that made them howl and push one another. The rush of the river was loud, and the shouts of the Fellsmen were even louder. Byron sat on Lady Veronica’s knee, wringing his hands. Upstream, a single great torch lit the tunnel mouth through which the river entered the cave. “Look!” Byron said. “He’s here!” Lady Veronica said. She was giddy and excited, and jumped from her chair. Byron crashed to the ground among the skulls. “Sorry, dolly,” she said, glancing back at him. “Pick any skull you like to drink from.” Torchlight spilled out of the tunnel onto the water in the cavern. As the first of the barges came through, the light of the torches glinted off the water and cast a dim glow on the rock of the far-off walls and ceiling. A horn bellowed into the chamber and thundered loud. For a moment it drowned out every other sound in the cavern. Silence fell among Lady Veronica’s clan as every one of them whipped around to watch the coming procession. Then they howled and pounded their shields, stomping their feet and shoving one another. Answering shouts from the approaching barges rang out. The Shambler’s clan hoisted their glittering weapons and pounded their shields. Byron felt tense from head to hoof. The barges were long and wide, filled with Fellsmen. Each

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one had torches burning all along its length. They moved slowly, manned by oars and poles. A horn was mounted at the front of the first barge, and one of the Fellsmen sounded a blast. One after another the barges came, seventeen in all, each with three dozen or more aboard. Byron could see the Fellsmen in the light of their own torches on the first approaching boat. They were howling and waving weapons, drinking from jugs, jostling and shoving their mates. Two of them wrestled each other overboard. One did not surface again, dragged to the bottom by the weight of his armor. The other came up sputtering and swearing, flailing to catch up with the barge. A tall, wide Fellsman stood at the front of the first barge with his hands on his hips. He was enormous and laughed louder than any at the Fellsmen who’d fallen overboard. Byron peered close. “Is that him? Is that the Shambler?” “It certainly is!” Veronica said, pressing her hands to her chest and tipping her head to one side. The huge Fellsman cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted: “Hoy, Lady Veronica!” “Yoo-hoo, Shambler!” Lady Veronica called back. “Have you brought me a present?” The Shambler laughed, loud and coarse. “I have at that, Lady! I mean to make you my bride before we set out!” “Shambler, please!” Lady Veronica called. “You know my heart belongs to Redcap!” A loud, terrified shriek pierced the din and Byron took a step forward. “What was that?” “Oh, never mind,” Veronica said. “Just some plaything.” “It sounded like a girl!” Byron said. He stared into the torchlight on the first barge. A little girl.

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“Silence that little rat!” the Shambler hollered, looking back into the barge. Then he turned to face the shore again. “Redcap is a gooseliver,” the Shambler said. “Besides, I see the way you look at me!” “You shall have to fight him for me!” The Fellsmen on the Shambler’s barge howled and laughed, lifting their cups. Twenty yards back, the Fellsman splashing in the water tried to climb aboard the second barge in the line, but the crew laughed, swatting and poking him with oars until he paddled away. Byron peered close into the torchlight on the Shambler’s barge. What was that cry? A pair of Fellsmen at the front barge threw ropes to the crowded landing and dropped a ramp onto the stone. The Shambler disembarked and behind him came his troops with a howling tumult of pushing and shoving. Lady Veronica’s mob welcomed the newcomers with punches and laughter and cups of grog. Byron shrank away from the onrush and cowered by Lady Veronica’s chair. He kept his eyes on the Shambler’s barge. As the third barge dropped its ramp and the Fellsmen aboard were piling ashore, a tall dark shadow came among them from the tunnels. It moved through the crowd with disorienting speed, as if vanishing and reappearing a few steps away. A long blade danced and hewed, flickering in the torchlight. It made no sound, it did not call or cry out in any way, making the most of the confusion that spread among the Fellsmen. It was several deadly minutes before the drunken, howling mob even thought to lift their weapons. Byron watched in horror, and winced when the Fellsmen finally cried their alarm. By then, many of their number had fallen and the tall shadow was deep in their midst. The cries of the Fellsmen were terrible. They fought with each other for space to retreat from the silent, slashing blade. Byron

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saw them in the dim light, clawing at one another to reach the safety of the barges or the tunnels leading out. The Shambler waded forward with Lady Veronica, moving toward the center of the mysterious attack, and the same strange, terrified shriek split the din once more. There was no mistaking it: that weeping scream was coming from a human girl. Byron’s face twisted into a snarl. He set off for the barge ramp at a run, growling from his guts. He darted among the panicked Fellsmen, the dead and the wounded. Harsh voices and clashing metal surrounded him and he became confused in the commotion. Byron staggered this way and that, bumped and shoved— he could not tell which way to turn. He dropped to his belly and crawled forward between the legs of a Fellsmen. When he came to his hooves again, Byron was directly in front of the ramp — and Lady Veronica. She stood blocking his way, shouting orders to her fighters. They locked eyes. The Lady pulled her chin back in a horrid grin. “Hello, my sweetie!” she said. “How’s my dolly, hmm?” Then her face went wicked, her voice harsh and angry. “GET OVER HERE!” She bolted toward Byron with astonishing speed. He leapt aside and ran past her, up the ramp and onto the barge. “Byron!” a voice shouted. “What are you doing?” Byron turned and saw the tall form of Miroaster, hooded and cloaked, looking up at him even as his sword slashed across a Fellsman with a death-dealing cut. “Get out of there!” Miroaster said. The terrified scream echoed off the cave walls. Byron and Miroaster both turned toward it. Byron looked back at Miroaster with pleading eyes. Miroaster nodded. “Be quick!”

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Byron spun around and looked into the belly of the barge. In the middle of the deck there was a wagon, covered with a tarp that was tied down with ropes. Its wheels were chained in place. Byron climbed up the spokes of one of the wheels, cut the rope with his knife, and looked inside. The wagon was filled with dirt. Enormous bones stuck out of the dark soil here and there— old bones, broken and crumbling. At the far end was a huge skull. It looked human, except that it was much too large. Byron dropped down off the wheel and walked along the length of the wagon, looking into the shadows underneath. He found her tied to a wood post at the skull end of the wagon, a little human girl of about five years. She was barefoot and wore a filthy, tattered nightdress. Crude, ugly markings were painted all over her in some foul-smelling ink. She lifted her dirty, tear-streaked face to Byron and screamed with all the breath in her lungs. Byron cut her bonds. She cowered away from him, unable to take her eyes off him. She stared at his horns and his goatish legs in terrified amazement. “It’s okay,” Byron said. Then he looked at the mayhem on the shore just a few feet away. “No, it isn’t. But I’m getting you out of here.” Byron crouched with the little girl next to the post. The wagon rolled against its chains, as the barge rocked with the weight of the Fellsmen clamoring up the ramp. Byron looked up in horror as the Shambler stepped aboard. “Lady Veronica!” the Shambler shouted. “Do you see it?” Lady Veronica dashed up the ramp, hacking through her own people to get there, striking them from behind, leaving the

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wounded to bleed or lie helpless in the panic. The dark shape moved with a dizzying speed, seeming to disappear and reappear in another spot. Veronica stopped and pointed with her hideous sword. “It’s on the second barge!” “The cargo!” the Shambler cried. Byron turned. Miroaster was running toward him along the deck of the second barge. The man seized a ladder and threw it across the span between the barges. Byron took the child by the hand and started dragging her toward the ladder as Miroaster came across it and dropped down onto the Shambler’s barge. “To the rear!” the Shambler shouted. “Protect the cargo! Archers! Give me archers!” All the Fellsmen on board the barge with the wagon headed for the rear, where the two barges floated close together. Four of them knelt to crank open their crossbows and slide the feathered bolts into place for firing. “Byron, come on!” Miroaster shouted. “Her first!” Byron cried. “I can’t lift her and she won’t budge!” Miroaster sprang across the deck and lifted the screaming child. Byron followed them to the ladder. “Follow close!” Miroaster shouted. Byron nodded and looked back. “I’m right behind you!” There was a loud thud as the first of the arrows struck the wood of the barge next to the ladder. Another hissed by Miroaster’s head. Byron ducked and scurried away as three more bolts pocked the barge wall where he’d been standing. Miroaster sprang onto the ladder and ran across with the girl before him, shielding her from the arrows. A horrid shriek rose above the din. Byron looked up as Lady Veronica approached the Shambler’s gangplank. “GET HER BACK! KILL THEM ALL! GET HER BACK!”

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Lady Veronica fell into a frenzy, cleaving and smiting everyone around her until her own folk were fleeing her in terror. She shouldered through a pair of Fellsmen and stomped onto the barge. “Polemen, cast off!” the Shambler cried. “No, you idiot!” she hollered at the Shambler, and she struck him across the face with the back of her hand. “She’ll get away!” “We’ll never get her back now,” the Shambler shouted. “That devil is everywhere; we’ve got to save the cargo!” “The cargo is useless without the brat!” Lady Veronica growled. “Do you hear me? USELESS! The taxim will die without a life to leech from!” Byron made for the ladder. The polemen shoved off with a great heave. The barge lurched and Byron tumbled to the deck. He looked up and froze as the Shambler’s bewildered gaze met his eyes. “What about him?” the Shambler said, pointing. Lady Veronica turned. “Ahhh!” she cried. A terrible smile broke across her face and she licked her lips. She headed straight for Byron with her cruel sword toward him. “Come, come my naughty dolly! SOMEBODY GRAB ’IM!” Byron sprang to his hooves and climbed onto the ladder. Behind him, Fellsmen slammed into the wall as they reached for him. Arrows sang all around Byron. The ladder slid with the movement of the barge and Byron fell across it as the end of it slipped from the wall. Clinging to the ladder, Byron fell with a heavy splash into the black water. Before he even caught his breath, hands were on him. A snarling Fellsman had him by the hooves, and Miroaster had him by the hands. Byron looked back as two Fellsman archers stepped up with their crossbows. The arrows hissed past his

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head and struck the gunwale of the barge near Miroaster. The child screamed at the approach of a gang of Fellsmen coming up from behind. Miroaster let go and whirled upon the attackers, sundering six of them in three terrifying moves. The Fellsman who had Byron’s hooves fell backward, hauling him onto the barge. Byron knocked his chin against the top of the gunwale and tumbled to the deck. “Byron!” Miroaster cried. Byron rolled onto his back as a single strong hand took him by the shirt and lifted him. He hung there in Lady Veronica’s grip, staring into her hideous face. Her nose was running down her gray, hairy lip. Byron looked back and saw Miroaster beset with Fellsmen, leading the little girl by the hand as he fought his way off the second barge. The Fellsmen on the shore clamored onto the other barges and cast off. Byron watched as the stone platform slipped past on the side of the Shambler’s barge and the river took them swiftly downstream. “Oliver,” Lady Veronica shouted to the Fellsman who held Byron. “You keep hold of that little thing, don’t let him get away!” “Leave it to me, Lady!” Oliver said. “Good dolly!” Lady Veronica said, tousling Byron’s hair. “Pretty dolly! Don’t make Oliver kill you!” “The rapids are ahead,” the Shambler said. “You know that, don’t you? We were supposed to use the pulleys for this stretch.” “Well, you’re the one who cast us off,” Lady Veronica said with a sneer. “There’s nothing for it now.” Miroaster ran along the bank of the river, hardly visible in the darkness beyond the torches. Not far along, the bank dwindled and came to an end where the river passed into a cave mouth. The Fellsmen fired arrows at him and he turned to protect the child, then picked her up and carried her into the safety of the

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caves. Total darkness took the barge as it passed into the tunnel. A great roaring thundered out of the tunnel mouth. The barge picked up speed and the polemen struggled to keep her straight. “Torches!” Lady Veronica shouted. Byron squirmed to get loose. Oliver shook Byron by the arm. “Just you hold still!” Byron kicked with his little hoof and found an opening in the brute’s armor above his knee. “Think that hurts me?” the Fellsman said. “As for you—” He picked Byron up with two hands and held him over his head. “No!” Byron cried. He went stiff as his balance was taken from him. Then he squirmed and caught hold of Oliver’s ear. “Let go!” Oliver cried. “Into the water with you!” “Oliver!” Lady Veronica shouted. “Just you put him down! He’s for the wagon! I won’t go before It with nothing to show, or it’ll have my head!” “He won’t keep still!” Oliver said, still holding Byron over his head. “THEN TIE HIM UP!” Oliver tied Byron tight and tossed him under the wagon. “And don’t come out!” the Fellsman growled. Byron lay still with his hands behind his back, tied to his ankles. The shouts of the Fellsmen working the barge faded into the thunder of the tunnel. The barge gained speed and began to pitch with rough water. Above Byron the wagon shifted, rolling back and forth, straining against the chains that held it. The air went cold and the Fellsmen struggled with their poles to manage the growing speed of the barge. “Keep her straight!” the Shambler shouted. “Nose first!” Soon it was too loud to hear him. Faint cries and shouts rose above the thunder of the tunnel. Water poured over the side and Byron had to struggle for air, lying with the side of his face on

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the deck. The whole right side came out of the water as the barge glanced off a rock. Byron slid across the deck and slammed into a wagon wheel. Two Fellsmen were pitched overboard and he saw their feet disappear. The front of the barge lifted and the wagon rolled back. It broke its chains and slammed into the rear of the barge, splitting the wall and crushing three Fellsmen. Byron squirmed as best he could to get clear. Behind him Lady Veronica shrieked and took up the chain. Her eyes bulged from her head and she bared her teeth, heaving with all her strength. A gang of Fellsmen joined her in pulling against the weight of the wagon to keep it from rolling off the boat into the rapids. Then the barge pitched forward, nosing deep as it fell over a small waterfall. The wagon changed directions and rolled toward Lady Veronica’s crew. Byron watched as Lady Veronica stepped over two Fellsmen to get out of the way and pushed another into the path of the wagon. It hammered across the fellow as he fell beneath its force, and the huge, metal-clad wheel rumbled along the deck toward Byron’s face. He squirmed to get out of the way, and tucked into a ball. The wheel rolled across a shock of his hair and pulled it until it hurt. Byron looked up to see the wagon slam into the forward wall, crushing two more Fellsmen. It almost broke through, but the split wall held. The pitching stopped. Water splashed in, but the river calmed. The rapids were behind them. “We made it,” the Shambler said. “That’s the last of the rough stuff.” “You’re an awfully clever waterman, Shambler,” Lady Veronica cooed in her gravelly voice. “Thank you, Lady,” the Shambler said. “We’ll have no more trouble with the river from here.”

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“Right, then,” Lady Veronica said, stepping up to the wagon. She threw back the tarp that covered the wagon. “Bring the goat boy.” “Here, Lady,” Oliver said, dragging Byron along the deck by his leg. Lady Veronica kissed the air with her lips and patted the dirt in the wagon with her hand. “Here, puss, puss,” she said. “Mommy’s got a new treat for you, to replace the human brat!” She lay Byron in the wagon, next to the huge skull. “Here, puss, puss. Here, Lucrece! Here, pretty taxim!” In a spot two feet away from Byron’s face, the soil moved. Byron squirmed to back away. The movement increased until the soil bulged upward and a head popped out, with a pair of eyes fixed hard on Byron. Byron watched in complete horror as a hand appeared and the creature pulled itself out of the soil as if it had been swimming. It had horrid, sleepless, bloodshot eyes. Its nose was nothing more than a single, puckered hole. It had a constant look of confusion on its long, misshapen face, and its pointed tongue dangled out of its mouth by half a foot. It crawled over to Byron on its hands and knees, and put its face up close to him. Then it coughed into its hand and a black bile flowed up from inside it, pooling in its cupped palm. It dipped its finger into the bile and began marking Byron’s face as it spoke in a rasping, whispering voice. “I remember,” it said. “It happened long ago, but I remember. I will tell it to you now, the story of my battle, so listen close. You will carry my tale in your heart until you lie down at last. First the list of names, the ones who died. There was Langervund, with his red hair and green plaid kilt. And Borglam, who screamed for his mother . . .” As the taxim spoke, dread and misery crept into Byron’s heart.

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Visions and sounds of battle invaded his mind. His eyes went heavy and he struggled to keep them open. “This is Lucrece,” Lady Veronica said with a laugh. “I’ll leave you two alone.” Byron tried to cry out, but it was only a mumble. Lady Veronica drew the tarp down over him and fatigue closed in around him. He slipped away into his own mind. The taxim was there, waiting for him on a smoking battlefield where crows and vultures browsed the dead and dying. The taxim took Byron by the hand and introduced him to the fallen, one by one, until their names and descriptions crowded out all other thought, all other memory, and a veil of darkness enshrouded Byron’s heart. It may have been hours or days or even weeks, Byron did not know, but once he opened his eyes to a twilit sky. Whether it was morning or evening he could not tell. The wagon rumbled on flat stone and the tarp was pulled back. Byron saw the top of a great doorway as the wagon passed through. There was shouting and laughing, and the gravelly voice of Lady Veronica nearby. The taxim had gone back into the dirt again. The skull was still beside him, half covered with soil, but now a faint pale red glow burned in the eye sockets. Darkness swept over Byron like a blanket again and he closed his eyes to the creaking groan— the thunderous, echoing boom of the great door closing behind him.

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chapter 13

In the Cave of the Earthwielder aefer stood wringing his hands. Dindra paced, her arms crossed before her, and Rufus stared into the large, crackling fire he tended. Quill blinked over and over again in disbelief. Shilo stood looking at Raefer with something like pity in her eyes. Cryolar hung back in the shadows, his feathers and eyes catching the firelight. Thrym sat with his back to a tree, his short, strong dwarvish legs out before him, one across the other, taking long, thoughtful pulls on his pipe. All around the fire, the Sons of the Hammer sat or stood, gazing into the flames. Everyone listened as Raefer told his tale. When he finished, a long moment of silence lingered, broken only by the snap of the fire. “Nosh and Byron both,” Quill said. “We have to try again,” Raefer said. “Try again?” Dindra said, almost shouting. “Are you crazy? You were nearly killed! And Nosh and Byron with you!” “I can’t believe this,” Rufus said, shaking his head. Almost sneering, he looked at his brother. “I can’t believe this. You were told to stay put, by Thúmose himself.” “Stay put?” Raefer said. “They had Byron in a dungeon! With chains on the walls. And I could never have stopped Nosh even

R !

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if I wanted to. He said he’d used that tunnel since he was a boy, that nobody remembered it.” “His uncle Dornthelf remembered it!” Rufus shouted. “Well who knew even he was that clever?” Raefer shouted back. “Besides, it almost worked, you know. How’d we know Dornthelf was watching the Top Tower. And with a ballista! Even Cryolar didn’t know they were there. It was a good idea.” “It was a crazy idea!” Rufus said. Dindra stamped a hoof. “I can’t believe you actually helped them, Cryolar.” Cryolar looked at Dindra from the shadows; his eyes were grinning. “He was behind us from the start,” Raefer said with a glance at the griffin. “He said he’d help Byron any way he could.” “Now wait just a second,” Dindra said. “Don’t make out like I wouldn’t have helped if I could. Are you telling me you wouldn’t get upset at a story like that? I’d do anything for Byron Thorn.” “I know you would, Dindra,” Raefer said with a shrug. “I didn’t mean it that way.” “No indeed, he did not, Miss Dindra,” Thrym said, looking at her through the smoke of his pipe. “For he knows you’d have done exacly as he did, and Prince Nosh, and Cryolar, and as I’d have done myself, or any one of us here would have done if faced with the same choice. Search yourself, Miss Dindra, Master Rufus. Say truly you’d’ve stayed put, not moving, when it seemed there might be a way to reach your friend.” “Of course we’d have wanted to,” Rufus said. “But if they had asked Thúmose he never would have allowed it.” Raefer shrugged. “Thúmose told us to do it.” Dindra and Rufus looked at each other. “No, he did not,” Dindra said, staring at Raefer agog.

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“Yes, he did,” Cryolar said. “No disrespect to Master Raefer there, but do you think I take my orders from a thirteen-year-old dryad poet? Or even from the prince of the dwarves? Certainly not. Of course Thúmose told us to do it. Else Cryolar would not have consented.” “Well,” Raefer said, “it was my idea.” “And I will tell you what the Unicorn said to us,” Cryolar continued. “He said ‘It was for just such a need that I held Raefer and Nosh back, though I could not have guessed at what the need would be. It was my heart that guided me to make that choice, and it is Raefer’s heart, and Nosh’s also that guide them, and it is Byron’s heart that guides him. Indeed, so long as there are those who heed that call, hope remains for Everándon.’ ” Rufus and Dindra looked at the griffin, then at each other, and fell silent. “Anyway, it’s done,” Shilo said. “Right?” “Yeah,” Quill said. “And it wasn’t Raefer’s fault it didn’t work. We’d all be congratulating him if it had. Would we be angry at him for trying if they’d pulled it off?” “No,” Rufus said. “I suppose not.” “No,” Dindra said. “I’d probably be jealous I didn’t get to help.” “Ah, the Silverthorn is lucky to have friends like all of you,” Cryolar said, opening and closing his wings. “And young Prince Nosh, well, he’s as sturdy as they come.” “What will happen to them?” Quill said. “We cannot know,” Thrym said, tapping his pipe against his boot heel. “But there are many things moving in Everándon now and not all are evil. Help may come to them yet. We must press on and hope our paths cross again with theirs. But ours will be task enough for the present. Come now, heal the rent in your friendship once and for all.”

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The companions stood there in awkward silence for a time. There was a flapping of wings and a huge owl alighted on the ground beside Cryolar. “Jyro?” Shilo asked. “Jyro, is that you?” The owl said nothing, but took brief, hushed counsel with the griffin, who lowered his head to hear the owl’s words. Then Jyro was off again, disappearing into the darkness without a look behind. Cryolar opened his wings. “I wish you all much luck in the days ahead. Your task is a great one. As for me, I must away. Word has just reached me of another Weg-wounded child, recovered by Miroaster from the Shambler himself. I am to go at once and bear her to Bilérica where Hixima awaits her arrival.” “I’m sorry Cryolar,” Dindra said. “I might have guessed. I’m just glad you were there to help. And I’m sorry for the griffin who died.” “A great loss,” Cryolar said. “A dear friend. But I would not take back what I did, so have no more regret, Miss Dindra. Farewell Wanderers, may we meet again soon.” Then Cryolar bounded away and with a great flap of his wings, hoisted himself skyward and was gone. Rufus sighed and strode across to his brother. “Good stuff, Raef,” he said. “It was a good try. Thanks.” “Yeah, thanks, Raef,” Quill said. “Someone had to try.” “We’ll see Byron again,” Shilo said. “I know it.” Dindra looked at Raefer, somewhat fretful. “I’m sorry, Raefer,” she said. “I’m sorry I barked at you. Cryolar is right. Byron’s lucky to have a friend like you.” “Thanks, Din,” Raefer said. “I’m sorry, too.” Thrym stood, wrapping his pipe in a cloth. He tucked it into his pack. “All right then, time for sleep,” he said. “We’re heading out early. We need to be in place at sunrise and we’ve got a bit of a climb still ahead before we reach the cave.”

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“Are we really going up the Griffin Stair?” Raefer asked. “Yes, we really are,” Thrym said, “but only part of the way. Then we’ll turn off onto another path.” Raefer looked at Rufus. “I can’t believe what we’re about to do,” he said. “Talk about crazy ideas.” “Crazy, yes,” Dindra said, “except for one thing.” “What’s that?” Raefer asked. Dindra shrugged. “Thúmose told us to do it.” They set out in darkness. Thrym led the company south through the dense forest of pine that hugged the rocky contours of the Crestfall Mountains. Everywhere there were trees broken off or pushed over, some torn out by the roots. Many of the older trees were badly damaged, with lower limbs missing and great chunks of bark stripped off. It was old damage, with months of healing behind it, but still very clear to see. “It looks like a storm tore through here,” Dindra said. They came upon the mouth of the streambed that led up into the rocks toward the Griffin Stair. It was dry as it had been the winter previous, when they had seen it for the first time. As they headed up the streambed toward the mountains, they heard a loud, angry chirping sound in the trees above them. Shilo looked up and smiled. “It’s the squirrel!” “What squirrel?” Quill asked. Shilo laughed. “The one that led us here last winter.” “Really?” Rufus said. “What’s he say?” “Well,” Shilo said, “he’s apologizing for greeting us like that just now. He says he didn’t know us at first.” “What’s he still doing here?” Quill said. “He lived away north, didn’t he?” Shilo stared up into the tree, intent on the now silent squirrel.

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The two of them communicated without sound or movement. “He’s not easy to get,” Shilo said. “But it seems he found good foraging here, after we left him, and — oh!” Shilo said with a smile. “He met a local female.” “The little blighter,” Rufus said. “He says it was the best thing he ever did, helping us that day, and he’s sorry he never thanked Dindra for all the nuts she gave him.” “It’s all right,” Dindra said with a laugh. Shilo looked at the squirrel for several silent moments. “Gosh,” she said. “What did he tell you?” Raefer asked. “Seems the ettin came down out of his cave after he woke up.” “Rufus hit him with a sleep dart,” Raefer said with pride to the Sons of the Hammer. “So we’ve heard,” Thrym said. “And shortly after that I met him and Shilo in the tunnels beyond the ettin’s lair.” “Well, the ettin spent almost a whole week terrorizing this part of the lower slopes,” Shilo continued. “That’s why all those broken trees. It killed everything it could get its hands on, which wasn’t much, thankfully. Then it wandered off and nobody’s seen or heard of it since. And nobody was sorry to see it go.” “Sheesh,” Raefer said, “I guess not.” “I’ll be glad to see the Stair again,” Dindra whispered back. “It seems like forever ago we passed this way.” “That’s when we met you, Quill,” Shilo said. “Well, sort of.” “What do griffins need with a stair, anyway?” Raefer said. “You just fly everywhere, don’t you?” “It was part of a great, long road that wandered all through Everándon,” Quill said. “It was called the King’s Highway, and it connected all the major dominions long ago. All the sovereigns

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agreed to the project, and everyone designed and built their own section. King Windhover, he was king of the griffins, he commissioned the dwarves to come and build the Stair.” “From Showd Mazark?” Rufus asked. “Yes,” Quill replied. “In the highest days of their craft. There was friendship then, between the griffins and the dwarves. It was a time of great prosperity and maybe the height of Everándish unity. The Judges were still in charge. Anyway, there are still bits of the highway scattered about here and there.” “There’s an old broken road that passes through Ghostwood,” Rufus said. “You remember it, Shilo, Dindra— the night we left and the centaurs attacked with the wolves? I wonder if that’s part of it, too.” “I don’t like hearing about things I wasn’t there for,” Quill said. A trail split off to the left and wandered up between two tall, pointed stones. High peaks surrounded the company as they climbed higher. Hard wind fell upon them from above, blowing sand before it. Behind them, the great forest of the world west of the Crestfall Mountains disappeared and the Griffin Stair began. First, the steps were simple flat places where the trail had been terraced. Further up, they were chipped from the rock and well leveled, but rough. Still higher, the steps were cleaner and sharper. The wind gathered force. To the left of the Stair, a sheer cliff rose up to form a wall. To the right, a deepening valley formed around the streambed, now hidden in the shadows of evening. The group labored on, heads bowed before the blasting wind. “It’s the magic of the Stair,” Quill said, she alone of all the company lifting her face to the sky. “This wind never dies and it keeps the way clear. Pretty clever.”

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“Yeah, clever,” Raefer said, wincing and ducking his head. “Well,” Thrym said, “we need only bear it a short while. The path we seek is near and it takes us up and out of the wind very quickly.” Two hundred yards further on, Thrym found his path and turned aside from the stair. At once the wind died and the natural cold of predawn dark set in. The path was steep and narrow, hard at times even to discern in the darkness. It wound among the rocks and low, scrubby trees of the lower peaks. Thrym walked on without any question in his step until they came to the mouth of a cave. “Keep dead quiet from here,” Thrym whispered, and led the way inside. It was a deep cavern with mineral pillars hanging down and stabbing upward. A silent stream ran through the middle of the place, winding among the pillars and forded by a small bridge of stone. Torchlight raided the deepest places, glinting off the water, banishing the shadows to find new corners in which to roost, as the Sons of the Hammer spread out in the chamber. Thrym stopped, holding his torch up before a tall figure of stone. The Wanderers gazed up at the statue. The stone dwarf was ten feet high, broad across the shoulders and chest. His hair was long and hung past his shoulders, mingling with his beard. A crown was on his head, a war coat of scales covered him, and his great hands were clasped around the haft of a hammer, holding it out in presentation. The deep stone eyes were stern, the face placid. “The Earthwielder,” Thrym said in a reverent whisper that filled the chamber. “And in his hands the Hammer of Making, Harkatan, which in the old language means Fist of the Maker. This statue is the only artifact to survive the journey northward.

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It comes from Dwarvenhearth, and was put here by Queen Nornatheld, in memorial to her husband, Garrowthelf, the Suicide King.” “Why do they call him that?” Shilo said. “Because he killed himself in despair at the closing of Showd Mazark,” Raefer said. “Cut off his own head.” Raefer’s hand went to his neck as he spoke. “Nosh told me.” “Did he also tell you he was named after him?” Thrym continued. “Nosh’s real name is Garrowthelf.” “Why does everyone call him Nosh?” Shilo asked. “It’s a nickname for any crown prince,” Thrym said. “We called Thrudnelf that when he was a boy.” “What do they call a crown princess?” Dindra asked. “Shona,” Thrym said. “Both names are part of the word Noshona, which means heir.” “So, Nosh is the Noshona to the Granite Throne?” Rufus said. “He certainly is,” Thrym said. “Anyway, since the time this statue of the Earthwielder was brought here, only the kings and queens of Valleygate have been permitted to enter this cave. We’re breaking a very old, very serious law.” “Why would the dwarves bother to carry off a statue, when they were running for their lives?” Rufus asked. “This statue is said to have been carved in Jargadda itself,” Thrym said. “It’s made of some mysterious stone no mason has ever been able to identify. It does not weather, and no chisel can cut it. Eméndurin, the dwarf chieftain who became the first dwarven king, came upon it standing in a glade in the valley where Showd Mazark now waits. It was through this statue that the Earthwielder spoke to him, and gave him the hammer, Harkatan, to carry into battle with the warring tribes, and so make of them a single people. This was all very long ago.”

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“Why have we come here?” Dindra asked. “Because Thrudnelf will come here,” Thrym replied. “It is his custom, a secret held from all but those closest to him. He comes here on the eve of battle to pray to the Earthwielder. It is a strange contradiction in King Thrudnelf, that he should turn his back on Showd Mazark, and yet cling so well to his faith in the promise of Jargadda. It has been so with all the sovereigns. “Trust in the Earthwielder has survived in them, like a whisper in their hearts, all through the years of exile, even as they sought to expel the memory of oldenhome. But what is important to our purpose is that King Thrudnelf orders his guard to remain up on the surface, at the entrance. He comes to do homage alone.” “Right,” Thrym said. “Snuff the torches and take your places. Dowse them in the stream so they don’t smoke, or the king will smell it. Now remember, you five are to have no part in this. You’re here to bear witness only, that’s from Thúmose. King Thrudnelf is a fierce warrior. He’s big, he’s tough, and he’s strong — very, very strong. So just leave this to us. Got it?” “Yes, sir,” Dindra said, speaking for the group. “Good,” Thrym said. “Now find your way over to that end while you still have light to see by. Do nothing until you hear my voice again. Expect nothing to happen until Thrudnelf has had his time before the statue. He is still our king, whatever the Unicorn may have in store for him, and this place is still sacred to us all, the Unicorn included.” As the companions made their way among the pillars to the far side of the chamber, the torches hissed in the flowing water, and the chamber went dark. It was a long, silent time before anything happened. Then a sound like footsteps echoed in the passage down which the company had come, and a dim, dancing light appeared in the opening of the chamber.

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The light grew brighter and the footfalls louder. At last a dark, broad form appeared in the passage, holding aloft a great torch. The dwarven king entered the chamber and the light of his torch smote upon his war coat of heavy scales and chain. His helmet was grand, the hilt of his sword worn and ancient. The king of the dwarves was grim, and a wave of strength went before him, a lordly strength that did not know fear, but rather inspired it. He went before the statue of the Earthwielder and set his torch in a stand. The two dwarflords, one of stone, the other living flesh, stood facing each other, and for a moment none of the companions was sure of any difference between the two. Thrudnelf went to his knees and was silent for a very long time. At last he spoke, and his words redounded on the stone of the chamber. “Earthwielder,” he said, “the darkness finds my people at last. The Old Dark, which we fled so long ago, has come again. Long have my people lived in peace from it. Long have I borne its memory alone, long has that memory haunted my dreams, handed down as it has been through the line of sovereigns from then until now. How long have I heard the screams of the dying, the weeping of the last king, though never with waking ears? How many times have I cried out to you? How many times have I asked that my son might be spared and not know the ancient pain? “And yet it rises, all around me. At long last, the feared day draws near, when my people will again know the pain from which they came. For so long has it been the task of my line to hinder that awakening, to bear the truth alone. Great is my shame that it should come while Thrudnelf keeps watch. Great is my fear that I will not be able to stop it.” Thrudnelf lowered his head. His broad shoulders sagged and a deep sigh came from him. Again he spoke, lifting his eyes to

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the face of the statue. “Earthwielder, my son is stolen from me, his body and his mind. They mean to use him against me and claim lordship of the oldenhome. This unicorn is a lover of death, whatever else he may be, for Showd Mazark is a place of death. He has taken my son, a dwarf of the line of sovereigns, back to the very source of the Old Dark, and means to keep him there, to live among the ghosts. In this way more than any other, the darkness reaches out its hand to claim my people. “But that is not all, Earthwielder, for I am falsely accused. Grudnevar, the king of the giants, has also lost his son and believes it to be at my hand. The old strife between giant and dwarf has arisen. Its sleep has never been deep, and ever has it been fitful. Now Grudnevar seeks me with war. “And still there is more, Earthwielder, for my own blood has turned traitor. Thrym, a dwarf of my father’s house, has proven false and in the service of this upstart, this unicorn. “Earthwielder, you hear my prayer. In your wisdom and mercy you hear me, but I must press you, for my need is greater still. The Fell Clans are moving in great numbers. My northern causeways are daily assailed. They have even begun mustering under unified banners, though their quarrels are not wholly healed. “Night is falling, Earthwielder. The daylight fails. And this unicorn, Earthwielder, this unicorn is the father of all I have told you. Great is my rage against him. I will make war on this unicorn now, and crush him at his root. I will have this silver horn for my speartip.” Again the king fell silent. For the longest time yet he knelt with his head bowed, and his hands held open before him. At last he began to speak:

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Earthwielder, make strong my arm. Earthwielder, make swift my step. Earthwielder, make clear my sight. Earthwielder, make plain my enemies and bring them within my reach. Earthwielder, restore my son to me. Earthwielder, restore us both to your people. Earthwielder, restore your people to yourself. Should I die upon the field, Earthwielder, may Lady Loralent seek and find me. May she hasten me to Jargadda in the East. Earthwielder, guide my heart to fear your name. Earthwielder, make dread my hand. Earthwielder, may your might be known among your enemies. Earthwielder, make dread my hand. Then the dwarven king stood and approached the statue. With his left hand he took the glove from his right and reached his bare right hand out to clutch the haft of the hammer of the Earthwielder. For a long time again Thrudnelf stood there, clutching the stone hammer in his hand. Then he stepped back, bowed low with armor clinking, and turned to retrieve his torch. The voice of Thrym cried out in the darkness, and the Sons of the Hammer came forth. They outnumbered him nine to one and still they were hard put to subdue the dwarven king. His great shoulders turned, his arms and hands flailed and pounded. He cried out not in alarm but in warning, a warning of death to his enemies. The Sons of

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the Hammer fell back and came on, some wounded by the fierceness of their king. Only Thrym was able to stand unfailing inside Thrudnelf’s reach. At last the struggle ended, with six dwarves clutching the king of the dwarves with all their strength and wariness, watchful for his sudden move. When they had him bound in heavy chains and irons, Thrym stepped before him and drew back his hood. “You!” Thrudnelf growled. He flexed and thrashed against the chains that held him. One of the Sons stepped forward and handed to Thrym the sword of the dwarven king. “You bloodless traitor! I will have your hands! You will all live for a year without your hands and then be executed! I will slay you myself with my bare hands! I will beat you to death! Unbind me at once. I am your king!” “That is so, your highnesss,” Thrym said. “You are my king and every dwarf here so recognizes you. But this must be, for there is no other way to show you what must be done.” “Here!” Thrudnelf shouted. “Here in this place! It is here, before the Earthwielder himself that you choose to carry out this— this — you will die for this, all of you!” Thrudnelf’s eyes fell to the crest on Thrym’s tunic. Then he looked around at all the dwarves who stood near enough the firelight to be seen. “The house of the Hammer? You seek to revive the House of the Dead, here in the sacred place of sovereigns?” “There is much you do not yet understand, my king and cousin,” Thrym said. “DO NOT CALL ME THAT!” Thrudnelf bellowed. “You are no blood of mine! And as your king I pronounce upon you the sentence of death!” “Wanderers come forward,” Thrym said. “Show yourselves to the dwarven king. You are the Unicorn here.”

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Thrudnelf blinked and looked around. His face went pale with silent rage and shock as the companions stepped into the light. “The Unicorn!” he growled. “He is behind this! You will take me to the Unicorn! It was you, then, who stole away the giant princeling.” “No it wasn’t,” Raefer said, “honest.” “Do not speak of honesty, sir!” Thrudnelf shouted. “Do not so speak!” He met each of the Wanderers by the eye with a fierce, derisive grin. “You are in league with death,” he said in a chilling whisper. “You have been deceived. Come back from this madness now and I will spare your lives.” “Please sir,” Shilo said, “Nosh is our friend.” “Do not speak my son’s name,” Thrudnelf said. “You are no friends of his. You or that goatling fellow who came with tokens of treachery into my halls.” “Byron,” Raefer said. Dindra put a hand on his shoulder and he fell silent. “Princess Quill,” Thrudnelf said. “A very griffin in the league of the upstart. You are no daughter to your mother, young one. You dishonor your line in the worst possible way. Great strife will rise between your people and mine, when I call for your execution as traitor.” Quill lifted her head and gazed at Thrudnelf. “Great would be the sufferings of your people, Dwarven King, if such strife should arise.” The other Wanderers blinked and looked at each other with their eyebrows up. Then they turned their collective admiration and surprise on Quill. “Bah!” Thrudnelf shouted. “You will all find death in this darkness. Go back to your homes and await it there.” “My king, there is no hope of you understanding me here,

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now,” Thrym said. “And so I will not attempt to explain. But you will have the tale in full when the time is right. I am sorry for your position, but there was no other way. As for the time and place of your abduction, there could have been no hope of succeeding otherwise. And now we must go. One last discomfort I must impose upon you, your highness.” Thrym nodded and a gag was tied around the king’s mouth. It took three dwarves and several tries, so fiercely did the dwarven king struggle. In the end he was silenced and a bag cast over his head. He had to be bound to a pole and carried like a spitted boar, for he would abide no hands upon him and his force and weight could in no other way be mastered. Even at that, it took four dwarves to bear him, two at each end of the pole, for his struggle made far greater the burden of his weight. It was a long way in winding darkness, out through another tunnel hidden in the deepest reach of the cave. At last they came beneath the stars. The moon was gone away west, beyond the peaks of the Crestfall Mountains. A narrow, sandy trail cut a level path along the sheer face of the mountainside. High above, to the north, Rathrâgodrak blocked out the night sky with its fierce dark point. The air was cold with nearing autumn, which came first to the high places. The companions walked along in single file with Thrym at their lead, and the Sons of the Hammer behind, bearing the spitted Thrudnelf. “We just kidnapped the king of the dwarves,” Raefer said. “We sure did,” Rufus said. He shook his head. “We sure did.” “What’s Thúmose got in mind?” Quill asked. “Is he going to trade Thrudnelf for Nosh and Byron?” “No,” Thrym said. “He means to put Thrudnelf on the Granite Throne, one way or another. He tried an invitation, that was one way. This is another.”

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“But Thrudnelf will never listen to Thúmose,” Raefer said with a shrug. “Now less than ever.” “He may,” Thrym said, “in the presence of certain proofs.” “What proofs?” Dindra said. “Ancient proofs,” Thrym said. “Proofs that will speak to the faith in Thrudnelf’s heart. You heard his prayer in the cave of the Earthwielder. His heart will listen when his mind will not, if the language is just so. We must all trust to Thúmose in this. He sees the hearts of all, and so can often guess their thoughts. He wouldn’t be doing this if there were no hope of success. Remember, he wants to see the dwarves reclaim their home more than does anybody else.” As dawn appeared, Thrym turned aside down a narrow track flanked by steep, sheer walls. It opened to a small box canyon with a rockslide piled at the far end. At the back of the rockslide, against the wall of the canyon, there was a passage. Thrym led the company inside, and after another hour of marching they came to a wide, terraced cave where water fell in pools down to an unseen opening in the rocks. The cave was lit by moss and fungus glowing in reds and yellows and whites, which clung to the walls and pillars, and to the bottom of the pools where it illuminated the water in sparkling ripples. The Sons of the Hammer set about the deeds of making camp in respectful silence to the plight of their king. A fire was struck beneath a wrought cauldron of water gone cold. Sleeves were rolled up and aprons tied tight. Soon pots and dishes were clattering as the dwarves prepared a meal in what was clearly a hideout well known to them all. Thrym took a seat on a stone, apart from everyone. He lit a pipe and opened a book. Several dwarves set about tending their

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panoply. War coats of heavy ring or scale were slung over rocks; swords were examined and sharpened. Here and there against a rock or pillar leaned an axe or crossbow, or a large quiver of thickshafted bolts. Collections of gear stood ready: polished armor, burnished helmets, packs and skins of provision and water. The dwarves set Thrudnelf down as carefully as they could, though he began to struggle as soon as they put their hands on him. They left the gag in place and the sack over his head until he was free of the pole on which they bore him, and standing on his own two feet. He glared around the chamber — his face purple with rage, his veins pulsing on his temples. He looked everyone in the eye one by one, but the king did not speak. Slowly, he calmed himself until his look became stern and cold as stone. From the torch-thrown shadows in the deeps of the cave came the sound of hooves upon stone. The Unicorn emerged at a walk, his golden mane shimmering, the silver lance sparkling in the firelight. “Hail, Thrudnelf,” Thúmose said. “I bid you the welcome you have refused to accept.” “I do not know you,” Thrudnelf said. His voice was a vicious whisper and the anger crept back into his face. “I am Thúmose, high king of Everándon.” “I do not recognize you,” Thrudnelf said, his chest beginning to heave with rage. “Then let us have speech together,” the Unicorn said, “and look to friendship.” “I WILL NOT HEED YOU!” Thrudnelf cried, flailing against his chains. The Sons of the Hammer gathered in a circle around the two chieftains: the Unicorn and the dwarven king. “I never thought I’d hear anyone talk to Thúmose like that,” Raefer whispered.

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“Thrudnelf isn’t just anyone,” Quill said. Thúmose stood placid, respectful. “Thrudnelf, Dwarven King, you have much to lose in not listening to what I have to say, much to lose, but also very much to gain by your attention. I speak of a changing world, for which no one alone can possibly be prepared.” “Changing world,” Thrudnelf said. “What would you have me believe? That you can rule this world? I do not see an army to back your words. I see only a rabble of slaves who have fallen prey to your wizardry and confusion. You will not sway me, Unicorn. I am not so weak-minded as that.” “I do not seek the Granite Throne for your son,” Thúmose said, “or for myself through him, as you have supposed. I seek it for you, rightful king of dwarvenkind. I force your hand, because in your ignorance you reject my offer of allegiance and time presses me. “I need your allegiance, Thrudnelf, it is true. I need the might of your arm and your dread hand. But make no mistake, Dwarven King, you need me also. There is an enemy moving that you cannot hope to suppress or even long withstand. You have noticed lately the stirrings of the Fell Clans?” Thrudnelf looked at the Unicorn with a scowl. “Certainly.” “Have you not asked yourself the cause for such massings?” Thúmose asked. “Have you not considered the strength of their collected numbers? Have you not considered the strength of one who might draw them together under a single banner? That is what awaits you at Showd Mazark. That very thing is what awaits us all and worse— far, far worse. “And yet we must march, all of us, into the reach of that very foe if we would stand at all, divided or together. That foe must be broken before it gains a strength we cannot contain.” “Give me back my son,” Thrudnelf said, “or speak not of allegiance.”

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Thúmose stepped forward a pace. “I do not have your son, Thrudnelf, as you well know. I would have him back from you, and my ambassador, Byron Thorn, also.” Thrudnelf sneered. “Already you fall to lies. What do I know of your ambassador? Your plan for his escape worked perfectly, Unicorn. Do not pretend to know nothing of what I speak. It was your own boy there,” the dwarven king said, pointing to Raefer, “the tree fellow, who managed it. Do you think me such a fool as to believe your feigned ignorance? Give me back my son, or I will listen to nothing you have to say, though the howls of all the Fell Clans bid me heed.” The Unicorn stood silent. He turned his head to Raefer, then to Thrym. “I do not have your son, Thrudnelf. Neither do I have my ambassador, Byron Thorn. I do not deny an attempt at rescue. Yes, it was this very dryad youth who went in, but the attempt failed. Prince Nosh, who himself led the attempt, was taken. Byron Thorn was recaptured. Raefer escaped with only his life. Your brother, Prince Dornthelf, would surely have told you as much.” “It was Dornthelf who told me of the escape, yes,” Thrudnelf said. Raefer stepped forward. “It was Dornthelf who foiled it, your highness. He had a trap waiting, and even managed to kill one of the griffins who was helping us. Not only did we not get Byron out, but we lost Nosh, too. They’d both be with us here if it had gone the other way.” “Your lie is well crafted, Unicorn,” Thrudnelf said with a glance at Raefer, “and your pupil is well trained. Do you not think I would know of my own son’s recovery? Do you believe there would have been no bells in the east tower, no feast in the great hall? Do you expect me to believe my son is hidden some-

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where in my own keep, outside my knowing? If Nosh is safely gained back, then where is he? And where is this precious ambassador or yours?” “That is a question only Dornthelf, your brother, can answer,” Thúmose said. “And he marches south,” Thrym said, “at the head of your army.” Thrudnelf shot Thrym a look. “My army waits on me at Tartoom.” “No, sire,” Thrym said. “It does not. Your army marches south to Showd Mazark, under the leadership of your war duke, Prince Dornthelf, into whose command you placed them yourself.” “You lie!” Thrudnelf growled. “I do not lie,” Thrym said. “We will overtake them soon enough and you will see for yourself. Clearly he does not do this at your command. I will tell you what has happened. Word has come to him of your death, secret word from one of his many spies. This spy was commanded by your brother to murder you in the cave of the Earthwielder. Dornthelf seized power without contest, or so he believes. “What he does not know is that his spy, his assassin, is in the service of the Unicorn. You have averted death at your brother’s hand, for his plan to kill you and seize your throne in this time of strife was firmly in place. In kidnapping you, we have saved you from a treacherous death.” “You lie!” Thrudnelf insisted. “All lies!” A single dwarf stepped forward. “No, your highness, it is no lie. I am the dwarf of whom Thrym speaks. Prince Dornthelf ordered me to kill you in the cave of the Earthwielder.” “It matters little now what you think of all this, Thrudnelf, Dwarven King,” Thúmose said. “You will accompany us south,

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to the Hearth of the Dwarves, and see for yourself that we speak the truth. There is enemy enough for us both at Showd Mazark, enemies and allies, too, if we proceed together in wisdom.” “Wisdom,” Thrudnelf said, and he spat upon the ground.

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King Thrudnelf in Chains y the banks of the river Gladwater, Thúmose left them. All but King Thrudnelf watched in sadness as the Unicorn made his departure. Thrudnelf spoke to no one, taking water with a stern grudge but refusing food. Each night he was unfastened from the post to which he was bound, but his hands and feet were never free of chains. Each day as they set out, he was fixed to the post again and hoisted to shoulder by four dwarves for the day’s march. In a few days they came by evening to the Tartoom Hills and made camp on the crest of the Hill of Wold. “Your army was here,” Thrym said to Thrudnelf, who hung bound to the post between the shoulders of his bearers. “Only a few days ago.” The company stood looking out at the dark forest that surrounded the hills. All over the crest of Wold there were lines beneath the grass, low walls of stone, crumbled and overgrown through time by the turf of the hilltop. Here and there sections of the stone peaked through the surface like broken teeth, and a single archway stood alone with the stars shining through it. “See how the ground is scarred?” Thrym pressed. “See the marks of the campfires? If your army awaited your highness,

B !

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those fires would be burning bright. Your banner would be flying above your tent. But your army has gone on without you, marching south at your brother’s command.” Thrudnelf was silent for a long time as he gazed out unblinking at the tiny, twinkling lights. “I will take food tonight,” he said at last. Back at camp, he sat as he always did, staring into the fire, but the scowl to which the company had grown accustomed was gone. Instead his face was placid. Gone was the hostility and defiance. When Shilo came to take away his dinner plate, he blinked with momentary acknowledgment and thanked her, before his thoughts consumed him once more. Out beyond the light of the fire, the Sons of the Hammer set their pickets, keeping watch in silence. Thrym, the Wanderers, and King Thrudnelf sat by the fire. Shilo stared down into her lap at the open book that lay there. “Sho junta,” she muttered. “Hmm?” Dindra said, looking up from the embers of the fire. “Oh, you’re at it again, eh? How’s it going?” “Sho junta,” Shilo said. Then she sighed and looked up. “Not well. The words are hard to say. I know what they’re supposed to sound like, that’s plain enough. But when I go to say them, my mouth gets all heavy and numb. It makes my jaw tired.” “I get that way after a long poem,” Raefer said. “Don’t hold it by the feathers, Raef,” Rufus said to his brother who was helping him fix an arrow. Quill and Dindra leaned back on the fallen tree against which the camp was pitched. Thrym smoked his pipe in long, thoughtful puffs and stared off into the near distance. He glanced at Thrudnelf, who sat with the firelight shimmering in his eyes. “Would a smoke be good to your majesty?” Thrym asked.

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“Jen eshadras,” Shilo said. “Jorogrev.” She opened her mouth wide and puckered her lips. Thrudnelf kept his eyes on Shilo. “It would indeed,” he said. “But I will take no comfort from you.” Thrym took a long, thoughtful pull on his pipe, which made the bowl crackle and glow. He stared at the dwarven king with a frown of consideration. “We were driven out,” he said finally. Thrudnelf looked at him. “In the days after the Dragon,” Thrym continued. “Garrowthelf was king in those days. You know about Garrowthelf.” The dwarven king was silent, but he fixed a stare on Thrym. “The Suicide King,” Thrym said, pressing on under the weight of Thrudnelf’s gaze. “He killed himself in despair at the fall of his kingdom to the forces of the Weg general. He cut off his own head. He was the last to reign from Showd Mazark. His wife, Queen Nornatheld, led the dwarves north to live in the Crestfalls. She built the first phases of Valleygate and the Library of the Tomes.” “What’s that?” Shilo asked. “It’s the chamber where the tales are written down,” Thrym said. “She built it at Miroaster’s behest.” “Miroaster?” Rufus said. “That’s right,” Thrym said. “The Lore Tracker. It was he who gathered the stories, wandering far and wide among the tribes, listening, remembering.” “How old is he?” Rufus asked. Thrym shrugged and took a pull at his pipe. “I don’t know. Old.” All the time he spoke, Thrym looked into the eyes of the dwarven king. “He doesn’t look very old,” Dindra said. Raefer shook his head. “No older than the Woodland King.”

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“Go len var,” Shilo said, still looking down into her book. “Var . . .” She opened her jaw and shifted it from side to side. Then she sighed and took a sip of water. “In the last days of the war,” Thrym said, “the UnMagic was strong. Nothing could break the power of Borántu. The Fell Clans were breeding and running amuck without need for command. A strange shadowy mist poured out of the Dragon’s temple— Qualnáchnabard — and spread everywhere, knee-deep on a centaur. No one had it easier than anyone else, but at Showd Mazark the situation was desperate. “We were locked in siege, cut off from the greater part of our own army, who were northward, working with the forces of the Thanes.” “Who were the Thanes?” Raefer whispered to Quill. “The leaders of the free peoples of Everándon,” Quill whispered back. “Hush, you two,” Dindra said. Raefer frowned. “She never hushes Shilo and her book.” Thrym smiled and continued. “The Dragon’s minions, the Fell Clans, and the strange shadow mist all broke against the slopes of Ratheméndurin— the mountain where Showd Mazark is built — like waves against a sinking island. “At the close of the siege, the avenues and halls within were overrun. The dwarves had nowhere to flee. They were utterly broken with no help. Then the Unicorn went away. No one could believe it. Word spread faster than winter wind. The Unicorn was gone. The dwarves were driven into the wilderness. Showd Mazark was lost.” Thrym paused to search the face of his king. Thrudnelf gazed into the stars on the low horizon. The fire popped and Thrym continued.

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“Then Windhover the griffin king made his offer, flying south from his aeries to bring word to the scattered dwarves. He said the dwarves of old had built the Halls of Weln and the Stair over the pass. It was right, therefore, that their descendents should find refuge in the peaks of the Crestfall range.” “Weln?” Raefer whispered to Quill. “The ancient queen of the griffins,” Thrym said, just as Quill was about to answer. “She had six wings so they called her Weln Six-Pinion.” “Uh, thanks,” Raefer said, with a sidelong glance at Dindra. “A new home awaited them,” Thrym continued. “The solace of hard work would bring comfort, easing the terrible loss of home and kin. In time, Windhover promised, the memory of the fall of Showd Mazark would fade and the dwarves would stand firm again. “Queen Nornatheld agreed and though many of her people protested, most of the dwarves who had survived the war followed her north to what would one day become Valleygate: the hall of the dwarven king.” “Lenda . . . rinlenda fojuresh . . .” Shilo murmured. She frowned and tipped her head, still rubbing her jaw, glaring into the book of Warra. Dindra smiled, glancing at her friend. “Some dwarves protested?” “That’s right,” Thrym said, still staring at the king. “They insisted that the Unicorn would return.” “But where did they go?” Quill asked. “Nowhere,” Thrym replied. “They stayed, hiding and fighting in the wilds near their home. Eventually the Fell Clans went on their way, back to their haunts. But the dwarves are there to this day, living in the shadow of the mountain.” “Shonda thonnel shon,” Shilo said.

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Raefer shook his head at her as he stood and went to the fire. “Anyone for more tea?” he asked, crouching to stir the embers. “I’ll just get the water going. How’s about I sing the phoenix part of the Wander Cycle?” “Thonnel ved!” Shilo said. The fire roared and billowed up, engulfing Raefer in a blazing orange swirl. He fell over backwards and flung the kettle into the darkness. The fire died again to embers as quickly as it had risen. Thrym caught his pipe from his mouth and sat up straight, staring at Shilo. The other dwarves scrabbled to their feet. “Yikes!” Raefer cried, rubbing his face and eyes. “Yikes!” “Raefer!” Dindra said. “What was that? ” Quill asked. “Yikes!” Raefer cried again. He sat up, blinking and looking around. “Raefer you’re on fire!” Rufus shouted. A small flame and little spots of red smoldered on Raefer’s tunic. Rufus dashed into the darkness and returned with the kettle Raefer had tossed away. He popped the lid off and sloshed the contents into his brother’s face. “Glogg!” Raefer said, gargling and gagging on the faceful of water. Dindra and Quill were staring at Shilo, who looked around sidelong in every direction she could without meeting their eyes. “Shilo,” Dindra said. “I’m sorry Raefer,” Shilo said. “I didn’t mean to.” “Didn’t mean to what?” Raefer asked, wiping his face. Rufus stood with the kettle in his hands. He joined Dindra and Quill in their gaze of amazement. “I didn’t mean it, honest,” Shilo said, her face crumpling. “Please don’t be mad.”

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“You got one right,” Quill said. “Shilo, that’s great! You got one right!” Raefer blinked and looked around. “Shilo did that?” “Do it again!” Quill said. “No!” Raefer said, snapping his head around to glare at Quill. “I don’t think I can,” Shilo said. “It was an accident.” “Accident?” Raefer said, blinking up at Shilo. “Accident?” Shilo wrung her hands. “Please, Raefer. I said I was sorry.” “She didn’t mean it, Raef,” Rufus said. “Go easy.” “Yeah, Raefer,” Dindra said. “And remember, one day she will be able to control it.” Raefer gaped at Dindra, who looked at him with a grin in her eyes and at the corner of her mouth. She raised her eyebrow a little. “Well,” Raefer said, still looking at Dindra. “That’s all right. Just try to be more careful, will ya?” Shilo sighed and closed the book. She looked at Thrym. “I think that’s enough for tonight.” King Thrudnelf stared at Shilo with a kind of angry amazement. He passed his gaze across each of the Wanderers before settling on Shilo again. Thrym set his pipe in his teeth and sat back, eyes gleaming at the young Warra novice. Raefer abandoned the idea of tea. He sat some distance from the fire, glancing back and forth between the embers in the stone ring and the book in Shilo’s lap. Dindra and Quill went back to reclining against the fallen tree, and Rufus returned to his fletching. Shilo looked up from time to time to see Raefer stealing glances at her, so she put the book in its leather case and tucked it away with her gear. “Where is Showd Mazark, anyway?” Rufus asked. “At Mountain’s End,” Quill said. She glanced at Thrudnelf, who shifted his gaze to her when she spoke.

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Thrym smiled and puffed on his pipe. “You griffins and your lore craft. Are you all so learned?” “No,” Quill said. “But I’m going to be queen some day, you know. I have to know these things.” “I didn’t know myself, until about six months ago,” Thrym said. “Just after the star appeared at Midwinter. Miroaster sought me out and told me to start preparing. ‘What for?’ I asked him. ‘Why, for the journey home,’ he said. He gave me a map, a very good one. We dwarves were so eager to forget the terrible last days of Showd Mazark that we never kept any accounts or records or maps. Anyone who tried was punished. But the griffins never forget, and the Lore Tracker has it all in his head. He drew the map we’re following.” “May I see it?” Raefer asked. He knelt down before the map as Thrym spread it out on the ground. The dwarven king sat across the fire from the rest of the company and looked down at the map. The firelight danced on his face. “I love maps,” Raefer said. “I’m making one of our journey last winter.” Thrym smiled. “Memorizing ballads and creating maps. Where are you finding the time?” “I’m doing it in my head,” Raefer said, “like a song. I want to make a song for every place I’ve been, songs that connect, like a map.” King Thrudnelf looked at Raefer with amused wonder. Raefer knelt there, arms akimbo, looking down at the partially opened map. It was stained and chipped at the edges, and a section was missing at the top. “It’s very old,” Thrym said. “Those are the Crestfall Mountains. You’ll notice Rathrâgodrak isn’t on it. That piece is in a separate case. We don’t need it, so I left it behind.”

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“We just want the southern section,” Dindra said. “That’s right,” Thrym said. “This map depicts the Crestfalls to the southern limit.” He looked up at Quill. “Mountains End.” “I never knew the Crestfalls went so far south,” Raefer said. Thrym nodded. “And further south only forest, then grassland and then, some say, desert.” “Desert?” Dindra said. “I’d love to see the desert.” “Here’s where we’re headed,” Thrym said. “See how the mountains taper down to hills?” “That must be a very tall hill,” Rufus said. “Someone gave it a name: Dûm Helnath.” Thrym nodded. “That’s Old Dwarvish.” “What does it mean?” Raefer asked. “Helmet of stone,” said a voice. The whole company turned. It was King Thrudnelf who had spoken. He looked at each one in the eye, then set his eyes upon the great ring he wore on his pointer finger. Thrym nodded. “A strong strategic point, no doubt. It commands a wide view of this valley to the south— this part here, shaped like an archer’s bow.” “Wodys Mara,” Dindra said. “What does that mean, your highness?” Everyone turned again to look at King Thrudnelf. He stared in deep thought at the ring of his kingship. For a moment his face was kind and sad. “Hmm? What’s that? It means wooded valley.” “Your majesty’s grasp of the old speech is excellent,” Thrym said. “No matter what the giants say. Thrudnelf has not forgotten.” Thrudnelf said nothing. But he did not dismiss Thrym’s words. Instead he sighed deeply and looked up at the stars. “But the mountains begin again here,” Rufus said, “south of Wodys Mara.”

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“Yes, they do,” Thrym said, “and boldly. That single peak is quite tall. Strange that it stands nearly alone.” “What’s it called?” Raefer asked, craning his neck to read the word: Ratheméndurin. I wish I knew a different language.” Thrym smiled. “Your pronunciation is quite good. That is a fine beginning. The name means mountain of the king. It was named after Eméndurin, the first dwarven king. That’s where we’ll find the mansions of Showd Mazark. But according to Miroaster, the dwarves who live there now don’t call it that anymore. Instead they call it Rathpálamar, Haunted Mountain. It’s said it was so named in the last days, when we fled. We had to leave behind all the fallen who died in the final stand. They littered the halls and byways and couldn’t be buried because the survivors were fleeing for their lives. Local legend has it that Showd Mazark is full of ghosts.” “Ghosts,” King Thrudnelf said in a distant voice. “Terrible things happened there,” Quill said. “Terrible awful things, at the end of the Dragon’s reign.” “What will we find inside?” Dindra asked. “I don’t want to think about it,” Shilo replied. Dûm Helnath was covered in a thick cap of rippling stone. The Crestfall Mountains sprouted up, shoulder above shoulder far away north toward Rathrâgodrak. Yet they did not reach very much higher than the hill on which the group was standing. Thrym ordered that the dwarven king be set down and allowed to stand, still bound hand and foot, upon the crest of the hill. “It’s true,” Quill said, looking north. “What is?” Rufus asked. “The legend of the Old Peak,” Quill said. “My teacher says Everándon is like a great, shallow bowl, sloping down and in

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from all the way around. Look at those mountains. They’re very tall, but they aren’t that much higher than we are now. Rathrâgodrak stands almost in the middle at the bottom of the bowl. And it’s still the highest of all. That’s why it can be seen from anywhere in Everándon. And when the Balefire burned there everyone could see it.” “The Balefire,” Thrudnelf said, his voice almost a whisper. He stared out at the top of Rathrâgodrak with a searching frown. “Do you know the story, sire?” Quill asked. “It was the fire that burned atop the Old Mountain in the first days of the Unicorn, long, long ago. It’s said that you could see the fire from anywhere in Everándon.” “I’ve heard the story,” Thrudnelf said, turning south. Sunlight splashed across the deep valley in a bloom of stark shadows and bright blades of light. A cluster of mountains with a single tall peak stood at the south end of the valley. The sun drove the shadows from its crags and contours to reveal windows and turrets and passages carved into the rock. At the foot of the mountain a great stair led down to a wide terrace paved with flat stones. From the terrace, five bridges reached across a swift flowing river to an open field with a cluster of barrows on its western edge. At the top of the stair three huge doors stood closed against the growing day. The whole scene was surrounded by thick forest. White mist clung to the lush green leaves and floated in heavy wisps on the field and among the barrows. “Rathpálamar,” Thrudnelf said as he stared at the mountain. His face went soft with childlike dread. “The Haunted Mountain.” “No, sire,” Thrym said. “Ratheméndurin, Mountain of the King. And look you, the Livian Doors! Wrought in ancient times by lost arts.”

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Thrudnelf gazed at the face of the mountain, and his look changed again from dread to wonder. Thrym stepped closer to the king and stared at the side of his face. “Beyond those doors,” Thrym said, “all through those mountains: the mansions of Showd Mazark, the city of the dwarves. Down inside, below the roots, the stoves of the Great Hearth. And up there at the top, sire, inside the very crown of Ratheméndurin, the mansion of the Hammer, house of the dwarven king.” The Sons of the Hammer stood with their hands at their sides, gazing across the valley. The Wanderers fell silent. Morning wind stirred by the rising sun drove across the hilltop. “The tales are true, sire,” Thrym said. “There is your forgotten home! There, in the crown of the mountain!” “Look!” Rufus said. He pointed at a gap in the forest where a road was visible for a stretch of a quarter mile. A dark mass emerged from the shadow of the trees into the yellow light of early day that fell upon the road. Thrym took a collapsing spyglass from his gear and looked out. “Dwarves,” he said, “maybe a hundred of them, on the march. Well armed, I’d say.” “You can see their weapons and armor glittering from here.” Rufus said. “I wonder where they’re going?” “They march to a Weapon Tell,” said a voice from behind the company. “They are preparing for war.” “Mr. Thúmose!” Raefer said, turning. “Silverlance!” said Quill. The Unicorn came to them across the gray stone of the hilltop. His spiraling horn glittered in the morning sun. His great black hooves clopped proudly and his mane shimmered as he

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bobbed his head. The Wanderers gathered close around him and he gladly allowed them to touch his mane and muzzle. “You are late,” Thúmose said with a merry nicker. “An hour past dawn at autumn’s equinox,” Thrym replied. “That is what you said.” “Did I?” Thúmose said. “Well then, never mind. But it leaves us with little time. Welcome home, Sons of the Hammer. Welcome to you all, you especially, King Thrudnelf of the dwarves.” Thrudnelf said nothing. “Yes, you are right,” Thúmose said. “We have no time for pleasantries. There is much to be done. You come to the brink of war.” “What’s a Weapon Tell?” Rufus asked. “A meeting,” Thúmose said. “All the houses and families of the valley will come in force, to show what strength they have. Their foe is great and grows stronger each day. The Fell Clans grow more numerous. Until recently they camped in the valley. The raids made by the house of the Wheel changed that. The Wheel killed many Fellsmen, burned their wagons, drove off their beasts, but then the Livian Doors opened. The Fell Clans now shelter inside the mountain. Even as they arrive they go straight inside and do not tarry on the valley floor.” “They are massing,” Thrym said. “Massing. Yes,” Thúmose said. He strode forward and gazed out across the valley at Ratheméndurin. “Inside the mountain. Today is autumn’s equinox. So begins the dying of the year. The power of Wegga will grow now until the return of the light at Midwinter. The moon will be new in three days, the first new moon after the Dead Equinox. That is the Festival of the Dragon, and Wegga will take on special strength. The new moon and the dead season combine. I believe the Damarung is nigh.”

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King Thrudnelf stared hard at the Unicorn. “What is this Damarung?” Thúmose faced the valley as he spoke. “It is the gathering together of all the lurkers in shadow, the summoning of those who once served the Dragon, and serve him still, bound by their lineage.” “By their lineage?” Shilo asked. “Yes, Shilo,” said the Unicorn. “The Dragon’s mastery is passed down from one generation to the next, through the heritage of mind and heart, just as your blue eyes came to you through the heritage of the body. But unlike your eyes, the Dragon’s mastery can be cast aside. Still, there are few of us now who do not bear some mark of the deathmagic. Few of us indeed who are impervious to his call.” “Who is this Dragon?” Thrudnelf asked. “And why should we fear him so?” “Long ago,” Thúmose said, “war covered Everándon. Armies of Fell Clans and hordes of creatures spawned in the Dark Backward roamed the land, wielded like weapons by the Weg captains, over whom and above all ruled the Dragon, Borántu the Great, the Shadowbreather, whose sole desire it was to dwell alone upon a charred and smoking waste — a waste where life could not come. “And not only the foul folk came to his banner, but all the tribes of Everándon: human, dwarf, dryad, gnome, giant, griffin — all the wondrous many— until those true to their own rightful sovereigns were few and desperate.” Thúmose paused. Into the silence a crisp wind blew, lifting his mane. “The Dragon has stirred. The Wegs are moving; those who have eluded Miroaster’s hunt. In the long years, only a few have escaped him. But they are the strongest and most cunning.”

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“Your speak fills me with questions, Unicorn,” Thrudnelf said. “But I will ask only one: Is it against this evil that the dwarves of this valley gather in war?” “It is, King Thrudnelf,” Thúmose said, “though they do not know the extent of their enemy.” “And why has it not been told to them?” Thrudnelf asked. “It will be, in time,” Thúmose said. “First they need a leader.” “You claim to be king of all the land,” Thrudnelf said. “You lead them.” “I would,” Thúmose said, “if I had any hope that they would follow.” “The dwarves of this valley keep a legend, sire,” Thrym said. “It’s told that Harkatan will be taken up and the Granite Throne reclaimed when Garrowthelf returns and the Spiralhorn is seen again in Wodys Mara.” “It is a powerful legend,” Thúmose said. “And the people cling to it. But I am only an omen at best. It is not Thúmose they wait for, but the dwarven king. Not far away there is a grove of poplars with a grassy floor and a stream running past. In a clearing near the stream is the Mote Stone, and upon it stands Harkatan, the Hammer of Making, crafted by the Maker himself in the forges of Jargadda before the dwarves were born, or so go the legends. It is in that place, before the Mote Stone, that the dwarves of Wodys Mara meet to discuss and debate upon matters of common concern. “That is where the Weapon Tell is to be held. We must attend and see what may come when legends collide. Will you go with me, King Thrudnelf? I hope to offer you proof at last of my friendship and truth.” “Not in chains,” Thrudnelf said. “I will go no further in chains.”

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Thrym glanced at the Unicorn and lit his pipe. As the smoke came he shook his head and tossed the match onto the stone of the hilltop. “I can’t allow your freedom, sire,” Thrym said. “You are too strong.” “I am your king.” “Yes, sire, you are my king.” “And so you will trust my word.” “Given in troth,” Thrym said. “Yes, I will trust your word.” “Then I will make you this bargain of good faith,” Thrudnelf said. “Leave my hands bound with rope only, not chains, and free my feet. I give you my word I will make no attempt to escape.” Thrym looked long into the eyes of the king. “Given in troth?” Thrudnelf nodded. “Given in troth.” “Very well, sire,” Thrym said. “It will be as you ask.” As the chains came free from his ankles, Thrudnelf turned to face the Unicorn. “I will go to your Weapon Tell,” he said. “But speak not of friendship and truth. It is only my son I seek. As for dragons and war, I am not moved. I do not march under any banner or fight under any command. I will listen to this war chief and judge for myself what is to be done.”

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Harkatan he Mote Stone was a large black rock with veins and flecks of silver all through. One end was capped with an ancient anvil, flat and shiny with use. Upon the anvil stood Harkatan, the Hammer of Making, handle upward. It was black as jet and set with silver and gold lines and lacings. Strange and ancient it looked, filled with magic and power. King Thrudnelf stared at it with a curiosity he could not hide. In a great half circle around the Mote Stone stood the heads of the houses of Wodys Mara. Naked axes and swords in hand, they wore war coats of scale and chain or polished bone. Each stood beneath a banner pole, upon which flew the banner of his house, shifting on the light midday breeze. The house of the Wheel was there, as were the Anvil and the Sword. All the greater houses mingled with the lesser houses— the Tunnel, Bear, Boar, and Ox among them. In the middle of it all flew the banner of the house of the Arch. The chosen war chief of Wodys Mara, the Arch himself, sat beneath it on a seat of turf. An old but sturdy dwarf with a great gray beard stood by the banner of the Bridge. With him was a dwarf woman, her husband, and a group of dwarf children— the youngest, a tiny baby,

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in the arms of the eldest, a dwarf girl of about twelve. Their banner, green with a golden bridge set upon it, hung from the lowest of three crosspieces at the top of their pole. On the middle and top crosspieces were two more banners, both rolled tight and tied off. Each had a length of cord hanging down. “That is our friend,” Thúmose said as the group entered the Mote Stone glen, “the old blacksmith, chief of the house of the Bridge. With him are his daughter and son-in-law, and their children. The eldest child, Lotanda, is of special interest.” “Nobody can see us,” Dindra said, looking around at the hundreds of dwarves gathering in the glade. Raefer shrugged. “Must be Thúmose wants it that way.” “The Mote Stone is the center and symbol of the Dwarflord Council,” Thúmose said. “There will be much solemnity and sharing of words before they come to matters that concern us.” The chief of the Arch stood from his seat of turf and lifted his arms for quiet. He nodded to a scrivener seated by a tree. The old dwarf dipped his feather into an ink tub and waited with it poised over his page. When the Arch addressed the crowd, the scrivener began to write. “Dwarves of Wodys Mara,” the Arch shouted. “You have chosen me to lead you in the coming fight.” “The Arch!” cried a voice. “The Arch will lead us!” The Arch put up his hands to quiet the murmuring crowd. “We are faced with war and have gathered here at the most solemn of places to decide how best to meet it. First let custom be observed. Each house must ring upon the Mote Stone and declare itself. Let it be so!” With that the Arch took up a finely crafted hammer and strode forward. “The house of the Arch comes forth!” he cried. “Havoc upon the foe!” Then he lifted the hammer and swung it

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with both hands against the top of the Mote Stone with a loud ring. In their turn, all the heads of all the houses— dwarf or dwarf matron, however old— came forth, and with the hammer of their houses each declared themselves in the same manner. When all were declared the Arch took his seat again and called for silence. “Before we begin the Weapon Tell,” he said, “we must honor custom and give any who require it the chance to air grievance and have judgment. Is there any here who seeks justice in any matter?” “Aye!” cried a voice. An old dwarf with a beard that fell nearly to the ground stepped forward, leaning on a gnarled walking stick. “Is there anyone?” the Arch continued, trying not to look at the old dwarf. “Anyone at all?” “Aye, Chief of the Arch, War Chief of Wodys Mara!” the old dwarf shouted louder. “I seek justice, for wrong has been done to me by one here present!” The Arch drew a deep sigh and his great chest swelled. He glanced at the Pillar, who stood by him, rolling his eyes. “Very well, Budge,” the Arch said. “What is your complaint?” “Someone’s sewed my trapdoor shut!” the old dwarf said. He looked around at the crowd with a glare. “And I know it was someone here, someone shiftless!” The Arch held up his hand at the laughter that moved through the crowd. “What do you mean, Budge? What trapdoor are you talking about?” “Why,” Budge said, staring in disbelief at the war chief. “The one in my pajamas!” “The one —” the Arch began. He shifted on the seat of turf and set a firm look upon the old dwarf. “Budge do you really think this is the time?”

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“If not now, when?” Budge shouted. “I’ve only got the one set! What’ll I do when winter comes?” “Yes, yes,” the Arch said, waving down another round of laughter. “You are right, Budge, this is both the time and the place. Are you ready to accuse?” The old dwarf blinked. He opened his mouth and closed it again. “Accuse?” “Well, yes,” the Arch said. “You’ve come for justice, haven’t you? Who do you claim it was who sewed your— who wronged you in this way?” “I . . . well . . .” Budge said, still blinking and staring into the near distance. “Yes!” he shouted. Then he pointed with his stick at a young dwarf standing a few feet away. “It was him! ” “What?” the dwarf said. “I never touched your pajamas!” “You did!” Budge said. “You sewed my trapdoor shut when they was hanging on the line! I take ’em off every April to wash ’em and you was waiting for it!” “You’re crazy!” the accused dwarf said. “Admit it!” Budge cried. “You came by night when they was hanging on the line, and me shivering in my bed till morning with my pajamas still wet and drying!” “I tell you it wasn’t me,” the dwarf insisted, “if it ever happened at all!” Budge gasped and his eyes bulged. “IF! IF! Are you calling me a liar?” Budge threw down his walking stick, tossed his beard back over his shoulder, pulled down the straps of his overalls, and started unbuttoning his shirt. The Arch came to his feet. “Budge, what are you doing?” “Proof!” Budge said. “I’ll show you what a liar I am!” “That won’t be necessary,” the Arch said, putting up his hands.

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“I’ve come for justice!” Budge said. “He sews my trapdoor shut and then calls me a liar in the bargain.” “I never touched your lousy trapdoor!” the dwarf shouted. “You think I’d be caught dead anywhere near it? Even if I could sew?” Budge stopped disrobing and gaped at the dwarf he’d accused. “You can’t sew?” “No, I can’t, as a matter of fact!” Budge stood with his fingers still on the button of his shirt. He stared around at the crowd with a wild look in his eye. “Then it was her!” he cried, pointing a gnarled finger at a dwarf matron with her hair in an enormous bun. She gasped and set her hand to her throat. “It wasn’t!” “It was!” Budge said. “She makes her living with needle and thread! It was her!” “Budge, that’s enough,” the Arch said. “But it was an expert job!” the old dwarf said. “I still can’t get it open and it’s nearly October!” “Very well!” the Arch shouted, and silence fell. He put his hands on his hips and took a deep breath through his nose. He looked at the old dwarf and lifted his chin. “You have no idea who sewed your trapdoor shut, do you, Budge?” The dwarf pouted and set his jaw. “No. No, I don’t.” “You can’t just go about accusing people, you know,” the Arch said. “But you told me to!” Budge said. “I —” the Arch began, but he broke off, shaking his head. A smile crept across his face. “Who sewed Budge’s trapdoor shut?” “I did, War Chief,” said a voice. A young dwarf of about ten years stepped forward from his friends, who were laughing and shifting about. “That is, well, we did. My friends and I.”

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“So!” Budge said. “Budge,” the Arch said, silencing the old dwarf. “You admit this freely?” he said to the youngster. “Yes, sir.” The Arch took his seat on the turf. “Very well. Budge, it is your right to suggest punishment.” A cruel grin lit the old dwarf’s eyes and he rubbed his palms together, glaring at the young dwarf. “I will decide if it is fitting,” the Arch continued. “And choose another if I decide it is not.” Budge blinked and stopped rubbing his hands, glancing sidelong at the war chief. “All right then,” he said. “Hang him by his feet down a well for a few hours.” “No,” the Arch said. “Down a chimney?” “No.” “From a tree.” “We won’t be hanging anyone from anything,” the Arch said. “His punishment will be to clean the glade of all debris after the Weapon Tell is over.” “What?” Budge said. “Is that all?” “Ample punishment, Budge,” the Arch said. “Why, he should have his—” “I have spoken,” the Arch said with a stern look. Budge stood with his mouth open for a moment. Then he glared at the youngster, took up his walking stick, and headed back into the crowd. “Are there any other grievances?” the Arch asked with a deep sigh. The crowd murmured and shifted. “Not after that,” said a voice. “I’ll make do without the chicken.”

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“Very well,” the Arch said. He stood from the seat of turf and took up his hammer. As he approached the Mote Stone he looked around at the gathering. “Are there no more pleas for justice?” No one spoke. “Then the time for grievance is past.” The war chief lifted his hammer and brought it down one time on the Mote Stone. “There remains only the trial. Is there any house that puts forth?” “The house of the Bear puts forth!” cried a voice. All eyes turned to the banner of the prowling grizzleback, dark brown and silver, billowing on the breeze. Below it, the dwarves of the Bear were nodding their heads and patting the back of one young dwarf who looked to have just come into adulthood. He was easily the biggest, strongest dwarf in the valley. He looked scared and eager, and he stared at the great Hammer that stood upon the Mote Stone. “Very well,” the Arch said. “Let the house of the Bear come forward.” The young dwarf approached the Hammer, still staring at it. “Only one try,” the Arch said. “That is the law of Harkatan.” With a nod, the dwarf of the Bear stepped up to the stone. The crowd hushed. A bird sang in the reaches of the poplar grove. The fellow filled his chest with a deep breath and grasped the Hammer with all his strength, pulling it as if for his life. He planted his feet on the Mote Stone as he heaved up and back. His face went red, the muscles in his great arms bulged and sprouted veins. His white teeth showed and he clenched his jaw. Harkatan did not move. “Yyyyyaaaaaaggggggh!” the dwarf cried and at last his grip came free. He flew off the Mote Stone and landed on his back. The Hammer of Making had not moved or shifted in the least. The other dwarves of the Bear ran to their cousin to help him to his feet, but he pushed them away and stood glaring at the

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Hammer. He stepped toward it for another go, but the chiefs of Arch and Wheel stepped in front of him. The dwarves of the Bear tried to lead him back to their post. “Who then?” he cried, as he twisted and struggled. “Who then?” At last they bound him with a chain they had ready for the task and laid him in the shade to regain his calm. Thúmose nickered. “So,” he said. “What’s wrong with him?” Dindra asked. “The madness of Harkatan,” Thúmose said. “The young Bear so wants the Hammer to be claimed that he will try himself, though he has no hope of lifting it. Still he must try. Harkatan has called him.” “Harkatan,” King Thrudnelf whispered. His eyes were fixed and unblinking. “Is there any other house that puts forth?” asked the Arch, stepping up to the stone. His face was grim. No one spoke. “So be it,” he said. “Let the weaponing begin!” The Arch smote upon the Mote Stone once more, then turned and took his seat. “The warriors are assembled!” he said. “Let them pass before the stone and be counted!” As the house of the Wheel came past, the chief of the Wheel stepped forward. “The house of the Wheel is awake!” he shouted. “We come with one hundred and a half, lacking twelve, each one armed with axe or sword. Eighteen of us there are, and myself the nineteenth, who may berserk when battle is pitched. We pledge ourselves to death or wounds, if only we may slay or wound! So swears the house of the Wheel!” He took up the hammer of his house and rang it down upon the Mote Stone. The crowd of onlookers lifted a great cheer. Then the warriors of the Wheel marched on and the whole of their fighting house saluted the war chief as they passed.

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So went the warriors of Wodys Mara. The chief of each house spoke the words of blood oath and rang upon the stone. “We pledge ourselves to death or wounds, if only we may slay or wound!” “So swears the house of the Gate!” “So swears the house of the Ramp!” “So swears the house of the Pillar!” So swore all the houses, the greatest and the least. Some were well equipped with sturdy weapons and armor, some with only hauberks of leather and simple swords, some with farming tools and slabs of wood strapped to their bodies for defense. One thickset dwarf from the house of the Ox wore a wine barrel over his torso, hanging from two straps of rope, and a stew pot on his head for a helmet. But no one laughed as he passed, for they knew his strength and they knew that when battle was joined some unlucky Fellsman would be parted from his shield and sword. “Not even a thousand swords,” Thrym said to Thúmose. “This cannot go well.” “Yes,” the Unicorn said, “Redcap alone outnumbers them.” “One dwarf may fight as ten,” said King Thrudnelf, “if the power of Harkatan is with him. For surely that is the Fist of the Maker.” Thúmose nickered and dropped a hoof. “Well said, Dwarven King. Well said.” Thrudnelf looked down at the cords that bound his wrists and frowned. The Arch stood from his seat of turf and raised his arms for silence. “The houses are one in their bent for war,” he said. “Is there any here who would speak who has not? Let it be now, for with the last hammer-fall the time will be past and the matters of leadership and strategy will be taken up. We must assign leaders for the hundreds and scores and half scores.”

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The old blacksmith, chief of the house of the Bridge, stepped forward. “O Chief well chosen,” he said, “great voices have spoken, oaths have been sworn, and blood bonds tied. But there is yet one of the ancient houses that has not had its speak. I bid you call upon that house to come forward as it is right that you should hear their part and reckon on them.” “Master of Metal,” said the chief of the Arch, “you are known and honored by all. Wisdom demands that your words be heeded whenever they are heard, so seldom as that may be. But of what do you speak? All of the houses are present and have spoken. For each has the hammer fallen, and by each has the blood oath been sworn. Unless one of the lost houses of old Mazark has come forth out of the past, none is left who has not been heard.” A gentle laughter passed through the crowd. The blacksmith smiled and nodded at his friend who sat on the seat of turf. “Even so, O Chief well chosen,” he said. “Even so. Out of the past, say you? Nay, not out of the past. Out of the North. Out of the North. Lo! The house of an ancient line is with you! Behold the crest of the Great Makers! Behold the banner of the king, and the house of the Hammer!” He reached up and pulled the dangling cord, and down came the blue and silver banner of Thrudnelf’s house. A great murmur of excitement rushed through the crowd. The name of the Hammer spread fast to those furthest away. The dwarflords turned to each other in confusion, glancing from the crowd, to the banner, to the look of bewilderment on the face of the war chief, who did not rise from the seat of turf. “Call them forth, War Chief,” the blacksmith said. “Call forth the house of the Hammer.” The Arch frowned and looked at the banner. “You are wise, Chief of the Bridge,” he said. “And so your folly confounds me.

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What wisdom can there be in rousing talk of legends when we are set on the brink of war?” “Next he’ll tell us of Garrowthelf’s return,” said the Pillar. “Ring upon the stone, Chief of the Arch, and let us move on to other matters.” “No,” said the chief of the Wheel. He stepped forward, staring at the pole where hung the banners of the Hammer and the Bridge. “There is greater mystery here. What of the black banner, Chief of the Bridge? Will you not unfurl that one as well?” “Not until bidden,” the blacksmith said. The Wheel frowned. “Bidden by whom?” “By him whose standard it bears.” The Wheel marched forward and stood by the Mote Stone. He was tall among the dwarves, proud, with his hair and beard lashed with thongs of hide. His great sword glittered in the late day sun. He set it point down, rested his hands on the pommel, and looked at the blacksmith through narrow eyes. “You are wise, it is true, Chief of the Bridge. And yet you speak of legends. Perhaps it is not folly as our war chief believes.” “Perhaps not,” the blacksmith said. The Wheel smiled. Thúmose nickered. Thrym laughed to himself. “Call them, Chief of the Arch,” the Wheel said. “Call for the house of the Hammer.” Another murmur swept the crowd. The dwarflords looked around at each other, frowning and shaking their heads. The Wheel paused to look up at the black banner still furled against the crosspiece. “Call them, I say,” the Wheel demanded. “Or I will do it myself, for that is my right as a dwarflord.” “The Wheel,” Thúmose said with a low, merry rumble. “The Wheel.”

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The Arch stood from his seat of turf, frowning at the Wheel. The two locked eyes for a moment, but the Wheel only raised his eyebrows in expectation. The Arch lifted his chin. “Come forth,” he called. “Come forth house of the Hammer and declare yourselves at the Mote Stone of Wodys Mara!” “That’s us,” Thrym said, starting forward with the Sons of the Hammer in tow. Thrym and his company shimmered forth, as if passing through a place where it was hard to see them. There was a crackling on the air. The gasps from the crowd at the Weapon Tell told the Wanderers that it must have looked as if the Sons of the Hammer had stepped out of the air. And it was clear also, to the Wanderers, that they themselves could still not be seen. “The lost house of the Hammer has returned,” Thrym said in a loud, clear voice. “But we will not be counted upon your stone. Not yet.” Shock went through the crowd, until old Budge himself forgot his vandalized pajamas and spoke. “In the hour of need,” he said, at first in a whisper. Then more loudly, “In the hour of need.” At last he shouted it at the top of his voice. “In the hour of need, the Hammer returns!” Soon the call was taken up and fearful frowns fled before bright smiles of wonder. “The Hammer has returned!” they all said. “In the hour of need!” Thrym planted his feet and stood with his hand on the pommel of his sword, looking out through the eyelets of his visor. “In a moment,” Thúmose said, “I will go forth myself. Do not follow, any of you, until I call.” Then he turned to the king of the dwarves. “Thrudnelf,” the Unicorn said, “You are dwarven king, by the line of your inheritance. But much may one inherit that will keep him from his birthright. Look long upon the Hammer,

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for you will find no greater proof. You are king here and no one else. Will you come to me when I call you?” Thrudnelf lifted his chin and looked at Thúmose. “Cut my bonds,” he said. “Will you come?” “Cut my bonds and we will see.” Thúmose gave a merry, rumbling nicker. “King indeed,” he said and lowered his head. With a single swipe, his horn shore through the cords that bound Thrudnelf’s wrists. “Heed your birthright, Dwarven King.” At the Mote Stone, only the Wheel, of all the dwarflords, came forward to face the strangers. He stood toe to toe with Thrym. “In the hour of need,” he said. “The house of the Hammer returns.” “The hour of need for us all,” Thrym said. “Why will you not ring upon the stone?” said the Wheel. “Have you not come to join us in our struggle?” “We have,” Thrym said. “But we leave it to our leader to declare us.” “Your leader?” the Wheel said. “Any would have taken you to be in command.” “For the moment, I am,” Thrym said. “A banner and shield do not make you true,” said the Wheel. “Where have you come from? And why? What concern can it be of yours what befalls the people of this valley?” “We have come from Valleygate,” Thrym said. “The kingdom of the dwarves, far north of here. As for why, what happens in this valley is a matter that concerns all dwarves.” “What proof can you offer of your lineage?” the Wheel asked. “I offer none,” Thrym said. “I know my blood.” The Wheel nodded and narrowed his eyes. “Well said. But the proceedings of this weaponing cannot be completed until all

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have rung upon the stone. How long need we wait to meet your leader?” “My leader comes in his own time,” Thrym said. “I do not question his movements.” “Dwarves of Wodys Mara!” the old blacksmith shouted. “We all know the stories of the Ones Who Went Away. Where did they go? North! And we who remained, why did we so? Loyalty! We wait the return of the Spiralhorn and the promise of the once king of Showd Mazark! How does the legend go?” “Garrowthelf will return,” old Budge said, “when the Spiralhorn is seen again! And the dwarves will return to Showd Mazark!” “Garrowthelf is dead,” the Pillar said, “in the worst possible way.” “His line remains,” the blacksmith said. “The northern kingdom?” the Pillar said. “That is only a tale. The fleeing dwarves were decimated on the March of Fear. We are all that remains.” “And we will choose a new king to sit on the Granite Throne,” said the Gate. “What proof do you require?” the blacksmith asked. “The Spiralhorn, of course,” said the Arch. “Let the Spiralhorn return, as legends promise. It is on him, is it not, that all claims rest?” “So be it,” said the blacksmith. He reached up and took hold of the second cord. “Behold!” he cried, pulling the cord fast, “the banner of the Spiralhorn who comes with war on our behalf!” A wind arose and hissed in the trees, catching the banner to the full, a black banner with no standard showing. A single gasp took the crowd, for at that moment Thúmose himself strode into their midst. His white coat gleamed and his silver horn flashed in

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the westerly sun. Thúmose walked up to the Hammer of Making and nibbled it with his lips. Then he turned to face the dwarflords, who all took a step back. “There is little time for persuasion,” Thúmose said, “and little use at that. Call me friend at least, and those who come with me, for I bring to you a thing beyond all reckoning, that you could not have hoped for in this darkness. Come forth, Thrudnelf of the Hammer!” Thrudnelf did not move. He stared at the mysterious Hammer on the stone and clenched his great, gloved fists. “I think Thúmose is hoping for some dramatic effect here, your majesty,” Raefer said. The companions looked with patient expectation at the dwarven king. Thrudnelf looked at each one of them, then again at Harkatan, glistening on the Mote Stone anvil. “All right then,” said the dwarven king, “Wanderers, with me.” The dwarves stared in wonder at the strangers from the North, a centaur, a griffin, and two dryads, all creatures from lore, never seen in the valley of Wodys Mara. Even Shilo attracted stares, for though humans had come at times to the valley, they were rare and far between. But all eyes fell at last upon the large, grim-looking dwarf who walked before the strangers, wearing the livery and battle crown of a kingship now lost to the seldom told stories of the Wodys Mara dwarves. Yet his greatness was so clear that a deep hush fell. Hats were removed, hands fell across chests, and all eyes stared with reverence at the sight of the mighty stranger, though none of them could long endure his gaze. The Sons of the Hammer went and stood behind Thrudnelf. Of all the dwarflords of Wodys Mara, only the chief of the Wheel dared approach the dwarven king.

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“My leader,” Thrym said with a nod. “King Thrudnelf, is it?” said the Wheel, striding forward to face the dwarven king. “You keep strange company, your highness.” Thrudnelf looked past the dwarf, ignoring him with his eyes. “I am not accustomed to addressing dwarves who do not uncover before asking permission to speak.” “Asking —” the Wheel said, blinking. Heads nodded in the crowd. Thrudnelf’s face was stern and his war coat sparkled. His great gloved hand rested on the pommel of his magnificent sword and the sun cast a regal glow on his battle crown. “Forgive me,” the Wheel said, clearing his throat. He retreated a step. “But your claim is a great one. However, I meant no discourtesy.” Thrudnelf did not reply, or even look at the chief of the Wheel. His unblinking eyes were fixed on Harkatan, Fist of the Maker. The Wheel gave a slight bow and retreated further still. “And as for this Spiralhorn,” the Wheel continued, “who can say? To claim kingship of the dwarves is no small thing. To claim kingship of all the lands in sight of the Balefire is quite another matter.” “Whether you accept me or not is of no concern,” the Unicorn said. “Time presses. I can give you proof that Thrudnelf is who he claims to be. Will you see my proof?” “I say yes,” the Wheel said. “But it is not for me to say. Such a thing is for the war chief alone to decide.” “Of course we will!” old Budge cried out. “Garrowthelf has come back! Let the proofs be shown!” The gathering buzzed. The Arch raised his hand for silence. “Show us your proofs,” he said. “And be quick.” “Quick I will be,” Thúmose said. “For there is only one proof. Behold Harkatan, the Hammer of Making, given by the Earth

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Wielder to quell the warring of his tribes and make one people of the dwarves!” The Arch nodded. “So it is said.” “Thrudnelf,” Thúmose said. There was a crackling sound and a trail of silver sparks appeared where the lance of silver cut the air. “Come and take up your birthright.” Thrudnelf approached the Mote Stone and the dwarves of the valley thronged around him, murmuring, standing on tiptoe and craning their necks to see. Harkatan cast a long shadow eastward on the green floor of the glade. “Take up the Hammer,” Thúmose said. The dwarven king looked at the Unicorn and at each of the Wanderers in turn. He frowned and glanced at the banner of the Bear and the powerful young dwarf bound in chains under the madness of Harkatan. He beheld the crowd of onlookers, then stared into the face of his cousin, Thrym. “It is time, your majesty,” Thrym said. Thrudnelf took a breath through his nose, stepped forth, and with one hand lifted the Hammer of Making from the Stone. A great gasp ran through the crowd. At once there was a din. “He’s done it!” “The Hammer!” “The stranger has lifted the Hammer!” “Garrowthelf has returned!” “There is a king for Showd Mazark!” The Arch came forward and rang upon the stone for quiet. He pounded until every voice stopped. “Silence!” he shouted. “What proof is there in legends? We cannot pause now to hoist a king when the very throne where he would sit is not yet won. We have counsel to take and plans to prepare. The force we face is grim and eager. Let no one speak of kings until the valley is free!”

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“But a king will win our freedom!” cried a voice. “A king will lead us home!” “A stranger?” the Arch said. “An outlander?” “He lifted the Hammer!” someone shouted. “He has done what only the king can do!” “I will not follow an outlander into war!” shouted the chief of the Ox. “Harkatan or no!” “Nor will I!” said the Pillar. “Though I do not deny his claim outright. Let it wait!” “Let me go!” cried the young dwarf of the Bear who was bound in chains. He stared at Thrudnelf and there were great tears in his eyes. “Let me go I say! I will kneel before my king!” “Steady cousin,” said another of the Bear who knelt to unlock his friend. “Steady now, while I unbind you.” As soon as the chains were loosed the great dwarf sprang to his feet. He ran across to the Mote Stone and fell to his knees before Thrudnelf. “At last!” he cried, weeping openly. He took Thrudnelf’s hand and kissed it. “At last, the Wielder has come. I am Gensha of the house of the Bear. I pledge myself to your throne, your house, and your person, sire. Command me!” Deep silence fell. Thrudnelf stared down at the dwarf. He lifted Harkatan and held it up before him, looking at it with the wonder of a boy. “Gensha,” Thrudnelf said. He lowered Harkatan so that it was near to the young dwarf’s face. “Kiss the Hammer, Gensha,” Thrudnelf said. “Kiss the Fist of the Maker.” “Gladly, sire,” Gensha said. “I have done so often before now.” Gensha leaned forward and kissed the Hammer of Making. “At last,” he whispered. “At last the Wielder has come.” “Rise, Gensha,” Thrudnelf said. “Rise and attend me. I will have need of you and your house.”

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The Unicorn stepped forward. “Thrudnelf of Valleygate is king of the dwarves,” he said, “heir to the throne of Garrowthelf. He has come, with those of his house, to lend aid to his people in the struggle for their ancestral home. As for the return of Garrowthelf, we must look elsewhere for that part of the prophecy. But I assure you, all will be fulfilled.” The Arch nodded and looked at the dwarflords. “I deem that the outlander may march with us. He and his company are willing and we have need of such folk, few though they be. But as to kingship, about that we will speak no further until the mountain and the valley are won.” “No,” Thrudnelf said, stepping toward the Mote Stone. “I will march beneath my own banner with those of my kin and fealty. I am the Hammer. Harkatan has recognized me. That is token enough.” The dwarflords fell to grumbling and murmuring. The war chief looked at the chief of the Wheel, who only raised his eyebrows and waited. “So be it,” said the war chief of Wodys Mara. “We recognize the house of the Hammer!” “Thrudnelf,” Thúmose said. “Come forth with Harkatan and ring upon the Mote Stone. Swear your oath and declare your house.” “The house of the Hammer comes forth!” Thrudnelf shouted, and there was a trembling in the ground. “Havoc upon the foe!” The trembling grew to a dim rumble. “We pledge ourselves to whatever end this chosen road may take us. We will heed neither death nor wounds if only we may slay or wound! So swears the house of the Hammer!” Thrudnelf lifted Harkatan over his head with both hands. Knuckles white, jaw clenched — he swung with all his great

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strength. Harkatan fell upon the Mote Stone with a piercing ring. The ground shook so that all those gathered in the crowd reached out to tree and neighbor for balance. A blast of sparks flew from the impact. A wide glowing crack raced down the ancient anvil in a jagged line and the Mote Stone was broken in half by the Hammer of Making. The pieces fell open like a book and dropped to the grassy turf of the glade. Gensha, the great dwarf of the Bear, looked at the two broken halves where they had fallen, then at Harkatan in Thrudnelf’s right hand, then to the face of the dwarven king. A grin lit Gensha’s eyes and he smiled at Thrudnelf. “Send me not from your side,” he said. Thrudnelf lifted the Hammer and beheld it in amazement. The hermit thrush called into the silence that fell. Nearby, the laughter of the brook grew louder. Thúmose strode forward to the dwarven king’s side. “Come,” the Unicorn said. “Battle is nigh. We have much to do to prepare.”

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The Damarung hose dwarves who would fight only as a last resort gathered in the deep hollows and dells between Dûm Helnath and the Crestfall Mountains. Dûm Helnath itself was turned into a command post and the fighters of Wodys Mara camped there. On the third evening after the Weapon Tell, the Wanderers gathered for supper at their own small fire on the hillcrest. After the meal, Rufus leaned back on his elbow, twisting a blade of grass. Shilo sat up against Dindra, staring into the low fire. The great book lay open in her lap; her lips moved with memorized words. The cold dark mountain of Rathpálamar hulked like an enemy against the evening sky to the south. “Raefer, it’s still your turn to clear up,” Dindra called out. Silence followed. “Raefer, did you hear?” “I heard, I heard,” Raefer said, stepping out of the tent he shared with Rufus. “Well?” Dindra said, waving her hand at the pots and plates. “Quill isn’t back yet?” Raefer asked. “She’s been gone forever.” “Still out practicing,” Rufus said, examining the edge of his sword. Shilo kept muttering to herself. Raefer looked at her with caution. “How much practice does she need? I think she just

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likes flying. Her landings aren’t any better than they were.” “May as well get a jump on it, Raef,” Rufus said, pointing with his chin toward the dishes. “I was just getting into this new poem,” Raefer said, looking back into the tent. “Well,” Dindra said, “you can think about it while you clear up. Come on Raefer, everybody else takes their turn.” “All right, all right,” Raefer said, joining his friends by the fire. “How’s the studying, Shi?” “Raefer, the dishes,” Dindra said, looking close at the arrow shaft she was making. “All right already,” Raefer said. “Can’t I make a little conversation? Sheesh.” Shilo looked at Raefer, still thinking about what she was reading. “It’s getting harder and harder to understand,” she said, flipping the book to an earlier page. “I’ve got the letters down, and their meanings, but the combinations are getting more detailed.” “Detailed?” Raefer said, crouching down to the dishes. “Yes,” Shilo said. “The words contain certain letters that are always the same, but sometimes they have other letters that change the meaning just a little. You have to get the difference from one use of the word to the next. Then you look at the other words around it and the meaning changes even more. It can take hours to get a few words.” “Here comes Gensha,” Raefer said. Then he blinked in disbelief. “And King Thrudnelf with him!” The great-shouldered dwarf of the Bear came toward the group. He wore a shirt and hood of heavy chain mail. There was a sword strapped to his broad back, and he carried a big axe in his hands. King Thrudnelf followed a few paces behind, wrapped and hooded in a heavy cloak.

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“I’m in search of a meal for the Wielder,” Gensha said. “Have you got anything left for my king?” The companions all stared at Thrudnelf. “We— sure, of course,” Raefer said. Gensha stood there looking around, in obvious wonder at the sight of such strange creatures as centaurs and dryads. He took particular interest in Rufus and Raefer, whose fine, leafy vines were in full summer bloom, with tiny flowers of purple and blue. Their skin had gone brownish but their eyes were the same silvery clear they always were, no matter the season. “Here you are, sire,” Gensha said, handing a bowl of stew to Thrudnelf. “I can’t imagine it’s enough,” Raefer said. “Never mind about that,” Thrudnelf said. “It will do. I thank you. I have long been at council with the Unicorn. What are you reading about now, miss?” Shilo hesitated, looking around at her friends before answering. “Basic UnMagic, sire. I never realized how many creatures have it, wicked creatures.” “Indeed,” Thrudnelf said. “Yes,” Shilo said. “Mostly they work it on children during the night, but sometimes grown-ups too. There’s one kind of creature called a broga that will come to a child and haunt his dreams and thoughts all his life if nothing is done to stop it. And when that child grows up and has children of his own, the broga will too, one for each of the victim’s children.” The dwarven king set down his bowl and sighed. “I fear for my son,” he said. “You are his friends. You must feel as I do.” “Yes, sire,” Dindra said. “And for our friend Byron.” “I apologize to you all for my part in their fate. I am a stern father, a stern king. Harsh perhaps. And I have been blind to my

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son. My one hope now is to live through the coming strife to see him again. He is my great treasure and I have never told him so.” The companions shared a glance around. “He is very proud of you, sire,” Shilo said. “He does fear you. But he is very proud just the same.” “You comfort me,” Thrudnelf said. “Sometimes my heart is dense with night, like rock, like days of rain, like drowning. At such times I can see only a foul end to all things.” “The Whispers,” Shilo said. “You mustn’t listen, your majesty.” Thrudnelf frowned at her. “Whispers?” “That’s right,” Shilo said. “They’re in the book. They’re always around, especially at a time like this. They lie to us. They try to make us believe that only the worst can happen. When we believe the lies, we help them come true.” “Speak on, child,” Thrudnelf said, looking closely at the yellowhaired girl. “They’re in your thoughts,” Shilo continued. “Watch for them. I couldn’t believe it when I first noticed them. Hixima says, ‘We cannot see the end, nor tomorrow, nor even this afternoon.’ We just don’t know what’s going to happen next. If you have a thought for the worst, that’s a Whisper and you mustn’t believe it, for it is the Dragon inside you speaking.” “The Dragon inside me?” Rufus asked. “That’s right,” Shilo replied. “The war for Everándon rages first in our hearts and minds.” “Where do these Whispers come from?” Raefer asked. “From the mind of the Dragon,” Shilo said. “Borántu Shadowbreather. He’s alive somewhere in Everándon and his lies are in the air. Of course, danger is real. That makes it easier to believe the Whispers. But we still mustn’t, because we can’t know anything for sure.”

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“I’m beginning to worry about Quill,” Dindra said. “She should have been back by now.” “I hope there aren’t too many of these dark creatures you mention in the battle ahead,” Gensha said. “I think even the Berserks might have trouble with this UnMagic.” “What does that mean,” Raefer said. “Berserks?” “Just what it sounds like,” Thrudnelf said. “It means they lose their minds when they fight. Sometimes they throw off their armor and clothes. They fight so hard they don’t need protection, and they don’t feel pain. They do great damage to an enemy and the Fellsmen are afraid of them. Unfortunately the Berserks usually end up dead.” “Why do they do it?” Shilo asked. “Jargadda,” Thrudnelf said. “So,” Rufus said, “they’re going to charge in naked?” “No, no,” Thrudnelf said with a laugh. “The fit usually only takes them in the heat of battle.” “Even when they don’t go berserk, they’re still fierce,” Gensha said. “They’re the toughest fighters around. We’ll need them with the foe we’re facing. They won’t be berserk when they set out, but I’d say some of them will be before it’s over.” “What sorts of creatures are inside the mountain?” Raefer asked. Gensha set down his empty bowl. “We’ve learned a bit from prisoners. The only good news is that there are no ogres. But there are plenty of tunnel wights and some heath trolls. They’ve got bugbears and hoblins, tall gnarled skaves and broad-backed nesters. It is even rumored that Aloisius the ettin has come out of the western woods.” “No, really?” Raefer said with a curl in his lip and nostril. “An ettin? Those things rot.”

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“There are kobbelds and gixxens and pincer-faced umpershunts,” Gensha said. “But worst of all are the traitor dwarves. Even some ancient houses have gone over. They’ve got their banners flying and all their folk and free-swords are ready to fight.” “Oh, the sun is setting,” Dindra said. “I wonder where Byron is. And Nosh.” Heavy clouds were massing in the west with lightning in their bellies. They were broken and patchy near the horizon and the sun moved in and out of them, at times shedding its light unblocked, then hazed over by the storm. As the companions looked on, the clouds burst into red and orange fire and the sun split the gloom with golden swords. Then it broke from the clouds altogether and set the whole thunderhead alight from beneath, before sinking at last beyond the rim of the world. For a long time the group kept looking. Beneath the coming storm the western horizon stayed bright with deepening blue and the stars appeared. “That storm is over Woody Deep,” Dindra said. “Your home,” said King Thrudnelf. “Yes, sire,” Dindra said. “And Shilo’s, too. I wonder how it’s going there.” “Do you think Quill’s mother would let me visit her library?” Raefer asked, staring into the near distance. “Oh, where is she?” Dindra said. “She’s been gone way too long.” Gensha leaped to his feet and pointed. “Rathpálamar!” he said. “Look to the mountain!” A tall flame, vermilion and flickering, appeared on the top of Haunted Mountain. A cry went up across the crest of Stonehelm. Every dwarf in the camp came to arms, running across the hilltop.

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“What’s happening?” Raefer asked. “The Damarung Flame,” Thrudnelf said. “It’s a mockery of the Balefire. The Unicorn spoke of it at council. It is a beacon to all the Fell Clans to mass in this valley.” The red fire on Haunted Mountain grew taller. It was choked and streaked with black. “Look!” Dindra said, pointing. At the foot of the mountain a red glow appeared. First it was only a slit, but it widened, opening with a slow, steady yawn, like a great mouth on its side. “They’re opening the gate!” Shilo said. “The Livian Doors! Look at the light inside!” “There are torches,” Raefer said. “Hundreds of them! They’re coming out!” “Are they attacking?” Rufus asked. “No,” Thrudnelf said. “It is the Festival of the Dragon. The Unicorn spoke of it. It is about to begin.” “What’s about to begin?” Raefer said. Thrudnelf glowered at the fire on the mountain and the torches in the valley below. “Wülkánathross,” he said. “The Grim Haunting.” A long line of torches stretched from the gate all the way down into the forest. There it scattered into the woods, and tiny points of light could be seen, hiding and appearing among the trees. Drums began to rumble, and there were cries of celebration mingled with shrieks of fear and pain. “What are they doing?” Rufus asked, clutching his bow. “Worshiping,” Thrudnelf said. “Tonight is the Feast of Borántu. Where is the griffin princess?” “Quill,” Dindra said, wringing her wrists. Thrudnelf turned to her. “Where has she gone?”

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“To practice her flying,” Shilo said. “Well, her landings really. She goes every chance she gets.” “Did she say where she was going?” Gensha asked. “The barrows,” Shilo said. “At the western end of the valley. She said there were fewer trees there.” Dindra looked out into the fear and fire and darkness. “We have to find her,” she said. Thrudnelf nodded. “And find her we shall.” “I know the barrows,” Gensha said. “I will lead the way.” Gensha led the company toward the field of barrows that guarded the western entrance to the valley. At the bottom of the hill the forest was dense and the festival went on. Fires burned. Cries and howls of laughter, shrieks of terror and torment filled the night air, mingled with the crack and thunder of falling trees. A single great fire sprang up in the middle of the woods. “Who’ve they got out there?” Raefer asked. “Prisoners,” Gensha said. “They’ve been taking prisoners for months. Now we know why. Come, let us find your friend.” After an hour of marching, they came to the eastern end of the valley. A single lane wound in from the lands beyond the mountains, wandering through a group of grass-covered mounds. “The barrows of the ancient chiefs,” Gensha said. “The first leaders of the showdren.” “Who were the showdren?” Raefer asked. “We dwarves are the showdren,” Gensha said. “I am a showdra. According to the story, a single dwarf tribe lived in Wodys Mara in the days before the first king. They were called the Dur. Their leaders are buried here: thirty-nine in all. Then the Earthwielder chose them to found the first dwarf kingdom. He gave them Harkatan, the Hammer of Making.

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“And he brought his daughter with him from Jargadda. Her name was Showdrenda. She married Eméndurin, chief of the Dur, the first sovereign of the house of the Hammer, to whom the Earthwielder gave Harkatan. Together they became the first queen and king. Since that time, our people have been called the showdren, children of Showdrenda, and our sovereigns were buried in the crypts of Showd Mazark. “Showdrenda built the deep stoves and gave to her smiths the knowledge of the ancient ways of metal and stone. It’s said she wrote it all down in books. But even those who read them couldn’t really get all their secrets. Then Lotanda was born; she was Showdrenda’s great-granddaughter. She was the one who understood the books and set the dwarves on the path to the greatness they achieved. But the books were lost in the last days of Dwarvenhearth.” Harsh voices and laughter sounded nearby. Torches flickered in the trees a hundred yards away. Rufus flexed his bow, still peering into the forest. “They’re coming this way!” he whispered. Out of the darkness, far ahead of the torches, came the sound of a single pair of running feet. The footsteps came closer, hammering without care for noise through the undergrowth. “They’re chasing someone!” Dindra said. The footsteps headed straight for the companions, and into their midst came a short, stout shape, panting and careening and bouncing off trees. “That’s a dwarf!” Rufus whispered. “Grab ’im!” Gensha cried. Dindra swung her horse’s body out in front of the stranger and caught him square with her rear flank. The fellow bounced off, stretched out in the air, feet still moving, and fell flat on his back to the forest floor.

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“Filthy pack mule!” the fellow shouted, but his wind had all but left him and his shout was no better than a gasp. “I’m a centaur!” Dindra said. Gensha threw himself across the fellow. The torches and harsh voices came closer. “Off me grub,” the dwarf shouted, “or I’ll break your neck!” “That won’t be so easy as you think,” Gensha said, pinning him with one hand. “They’re coming straight for us,” Rufus said. “Of course they are!” the strange dwarf said, gasping for air under Gensha’s weight. “They’re chasing me!” Torch-fire lit the woods only twenty yards away. Dark shapes moved about in the light. “He’s stopped running,” one voice said. “Spread out and find ’im.” “Can they climb?” asked another. “Here dwarfy-dwarf!” still another voice said. “Yoodle-ooo!” “Come out, come out! We won’t bite!” “Oh, yes we will! And more besides! Gimme another tug o’ the jug, Richard!” The Fellsmen went around prodding the underbrush with their weapons, waving their torches about. Shadowy light leaped into the lower branches. Rufus aimed his bow. “No!” the dwarf whispered. “Don’t shoot, you’ll tip ’em off!” “They’ll find us,” Rufus whispered, still aiming. “Better to take one down.” “Fire into the forest,” the dwarf said. “Draw them away!” “Which way?” Rufus asked. “Away from here!” “Right!” Rufus said. He pointed his arrow to the left and fired low. Everyone winced at the twang and hiss, but a moment later

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the arrow crackled through the leaves of the forest and struck what sounded like a stone. “Over there!” one of the Fellsmen cried. “That sounded like an arrow!” said another. “Come on!” cried the rest and they hammered off into the forest, howling and shouting. One Fellsman did not move, but stood looking into the trees toward the companions. “There he is!” cried one of the retreating Fellsmen. “No, over here!” cried another. At last the lone Fellsman moved off toward his cohorts. The companions and the strange dwarf all released their breath. “Let me up,” the dwarf said. “I know who you are and what you want. I can take you to your friend.” “Quill!” Shilo said. “The griffin princess,” the stranger said. “She’s wounded. I’ve been caring for her. Follow me and I’ll take you to ’er.” “How do we know we can trust him?” Rufus asked. “Trust me?” the dwarf said. “Well, do or don’t, it’s all the same to me. If you’ve got another lead to follow, go on with you and leave me to my business.” “He’s right,” Dindra said. “And how else could he know who we are?” “All right,” Rufus said. “What’s your name?” “John,” the dwarf said. “At your service.” “John, eh?” Gensha said. “John of what house?” The dwarf was silent. “No house, your honor. Just a simple dwarf.” “Hmm,” Gensha said. “Well, John, we’ll take you at your word, but my friend has an arrow on your back, so no tricks.” “No tricks, your honor,” John said. “On your feet,” Gensha said.

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Dindra moved aside. John stood up and brushed himself off. “This way,” he said, and they all set off toward the barrows. A strange cry split the night. It was far off but carried through the valley, shrill and throaty, angry and in pain. John stopped and wheeled around. The companions froze in their tracks. The cry came again. “What was that?” Raefer asked. “Some foul creature,” John said. “This valley is full of them tonight, foul creatures, cruel and murderous. But I never heard the like, I do declare.” “Why were they chasing you?” Shilo asked. “Not just me,” John said. “The woods are full of killing tonight. The Fellsmen have prisoners in plenty. Some they’ve turned loose in the forest and make sport of hunting them down. It’s awful what they do when they catch ’em, unspeakable, with fire and swords and teeth. I can’t bear to think of it. Others they make to fight each other, and if they refuse — well — it’s brutal what’s happening tonight. They’ve even got children out there.” “What? No!” Shilo said. She clenched her fists. “Oh, no!” “I’m sorry, miss,” John said. “But it’s true. I’ve never felt so bad as I do now. To think I— well, I’ve escaped now and I mean to make amends.” “Amends for what?” Gensha said, standing square with John. John looked at him and appraised his size and battle gear. Then he noticed for the first time the silent, hooded form of Thrudnelf, larger and broader even than Gensha. “My business, your honor,” John said. Then he looked at Dindra. “You’re not the first I’ve seen, miss, the first like yourself.” “You’ve seen another centaur?” Dindra asked. “Here in this valley?” “Well, near enough. Only two legs though, and horns and a

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lot smaller. Not like you at all, now that I think of it. But weird and freakish like you, if you don’t mind.” Dindra pulled her chin back. “Mind? Why should I mind?” she muttered. “Weird, freakish pack mule? What’s to mind?” “A satyr?” Raefer said. “You’ve seen a satyr?” “Byron?” Shilo asked. “Little fella,” the dwarf said. “Wore a black coat. Had a glint of silver on his horn.” “He’s seen Byron!” Raefer cried. “Raefer keep it down!” Rufus growled. “This place is crawling!” “Bad shape he was in,” the dwarf continued. “He couldn’t even stand up.” Shilo grabbed John by the collar. “Where? Where did you see him?” “There,” John said, pointing south. The red fire burning on Haunted Mountain danced above the trees. “Inside.” “You’ve been inside Rathpálamar?” Raefer asked. “I knew it!” Gensha said. “You’re one of the traitors! You and your people!” “Now, now, your honor,” John said. “I’ve found my way back, haven’t I?” “I ought to break you over my knee!” Gensha said. “Gensha,” Thrudnelf said from his place apart. His voice was so full of power and leadership that the whole company fell silent. Thrudnelf stepped forward. “What do you know of a young dwarf, a prisoner with the satyr you speak of?” “That place is full of young dwarves,” John said. He snickered and shook his head at the hooded form of the dwarven king. Thrudnelf threw back his cape and struck John with the back of his gloved hand. John staggered and fell to the ground. “Hearken to me, traitor!” Thrudnelf thundered. “Speak what

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you know of a captured dwarf prince and make no jest, for your life is in peril. He was last seen in company with the satyr Byron Thorn. Tell me what you know.” “Prince?” John said, staring with terror up at Thrudnelf. “You didn’t say prince, yes he’s there, or so rumor has it, I never saw him, a giant prince too, they say.” Thrudnelf pushed back his hood. His voice was level and calm once more. “Tell me what you know of him.” John looked into the stern face of the dwarven king, then noticed the Hammer of Making on Thrudnelf’s belt. “Harkatan!” John said. “I— you —” “Answer, me,” Thrudnelf said. His voice was calm but rage was creeping back into it. “I’ve told you all, I swear it, sire,” John said. “Who is this prince? What is he to you?” “He is my son,” Thrudnelf said. “If I learn that you have not told me all, I will kill you.” “Then —” Shilo said, “then Byron and Nosh are inside? Inside the mountain?” John nodded. “The little one— the satyr — came in with Lady Veronica and the Shambler himself. They was leading a wagon, making great care over it. That’s when I saw your friend. He was riding in the wagon with some sort of— of — creature.” “Byron and Nosh,” Shilo whispered. “Inside Rathpálamar.” “Ratheméndurin,” Thrudnelf said. “Ratheméndurin it was and will be again. Lead us to the griffin. And it will go ill with you if you’ve done her any harm.” “No, your honor,” John said. “No harm. I’ve risked life and limb for her already. I was away clean and hid till I found her and she needed help. I was out gatherin’ herbs for her wound when those Fellsmen spotted me again. I swear it to you.”

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“Just lead on, fellow,” Gensha said. “Not another word till it’s asked for.” John set off again, wandering among the barrows. At last he came to a mound taller than the rest and led the company around to the far side. Dim light burned in a passage with a heavy stone lintel. John led them inside. The passage was too low for Dindra, so she stayed outside, looking in. The chamber was all stone, stacked to form a beehive shape. Strange, ancient-looking marks covered the place, painted or carved into the rock. Quill was there, fast asleep on the floor in the middle of the chamber, curled up by a small crackling fire. “What happened to her?” Shilo whispered. “She took an arrow, my lady,” John said. “To the wing. Can’t fly, poor thing, but she’ll mend all right.” Quill blinked and stirred. “Rufus!” she cried. “Shilo! Raefer! Is that Dindra looking in?” Quill sprang to all fours and trotted across the chamber. “Hello, your majesty, hello Gensha!” “Quill,” Shilo said. “Stay still, your wound!” “What?” Quill said. “Don’t be silly, I’m not wounded.” “Now, Miss Quill,” John said, “I’ll be the judge of that, if you don’t mind.” “Well, I do,” Quill said. “I’ve told you eight times I’m perfectly fine.” “She’s very brave, poor thing,” John said. “Takes her pain that well. Then why can’t you fly my lady? You see your honors, I’m a bit of a griffin specialist.” “Oh, stop that,” Quill said. “And stop calling me poor thing. He’s been saying those things since I met him, trying to heal me and all. He just wants me to put in the good word for him with Thúmose.” “Well, if you’re not hurt,” Shilo said, “then what are you doing here?”

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“Oh, I got shot all right,” Quill said. “But it’s nothing serious. Just a feather.” “Now, now,” John said. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before. I’ve got the herbs I went to find.” “I’m the first griffin you’ve ever seen,” Quill said. “You’d never even heard the word until I told it to you. He’s right, I can’t fly. And with all that’s going on I decided not to risk going back to the hill before daybreak.” “You’re not injured?” Shilo asked. “A more experienced flier wouldn’t need the feather I broke,” Quill said. “When I get my full adult plumage, I’ll molt those feathers out and they won’t even grow back. But for now I need them to take off. Don’t worry, Shilo. It didn’t even hurt.” “Well,” Shilo said, “you could have been hurt when you fell.” “I guess I’ve got pretty good at crash landings,” Quill said. “We will return at once,” Thrudnelf said. From the darkness outside came the same strange, mournful howl. Rufus kicked the fire. There was a blast of sparks and the chamber went dark. “Gensha,” Thrudnelf said, “mind the traitor. I will lead. Follow me, everyone.” Outside, the night was cooler. The new moon was down. A light breeze hissed in the trees that surrounded the field of tombs. As the group rounded the barrow where Quill had been hiding, the hideous cry came again. Everyone stopped and crouched in the deep shadow of the mound and peered onto the laneway that wound among the barrows. With the howl there were other cries of terror and pain. Heavy footsteps pounded through the woods toward the barrows and a gang of Fellsmen burst from the trees, tripping and staggering over each other. One fellow struck another with his sword.

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“Outta my way!” he shouted. The other cried out and fell to the ground, clutching his neck. A large, dark shape emerged from the trees and sprang upon the fallen Fellsman, lashing down at him again and again with huge, clawed hands. It wore a hood and cape and stood man high, when it wasn’t crouched and lumbering. The companions hunkered down in their hiding spot and watched as the snarling beast ran flailing at the enemy with its huge claws. It lifted one Fellsmen with a single hand and threw him fifteen feet. One by one they tried to escape. One by one the creature caught them and slew them with hideous abandon. “What is it?” Raefer whispered. “Hush,” Dindra said. “It’s headed this way!” The monster turned and faced them, sniffing the air. “Run!” Rufus cried. As the brute started toward them, a silvery light appeared on the laneway, and hoofbeats came out of the darkness as the Unicorn galloped in and put himself between the beast and the companions. The creature stopped and shuffled backward. It huddled to the ground and looked up at Silverlance. The Unicorn cut the air with his horn, a trail of silver and white sparks following the tip. “There is nothing left for you here, Yeehanog,” Thúmose said. “Your work is in the forest this night.” A deep gurgling growl came out of the creature and it motioned with its huge clawed hand, pointing at John the dwarf. “I will deal with the traitor,” Thúmose said. The creature hissed and retracted its hand, rolling it over the other, touching its hidden face. Then it turned and hurried away into the forest the way it had come. Thúmose turned and his light fell upon the companions, dispelling the shadow in which they hid. “Silverlance!” Raefer said, stepping forward.

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“Oh Thúmose, are we glad to see you!” Quill said. “I’m glad to see you too, Princess Quill,” Thúmose said. “And all of you. Thank you for coming to find her. I joined you as soon as I could. I have been abroad in the woods, rescuing what dwarves I could and leading them to the safety of the hills.” “Then you’re not—” Quill began. “You’re not angry with me?” “Angry?” Thúmose said. “For what?” “For —” Quill said. “Nothing, never mind.” Thúmose rumbled from deep inside with a merry nicker. “King Thrudnelf, I am in your debt.” Thrudnelf did not reply. “What was that thing?” Dindra asked. “The Yeehanog,” Thúmose said. “Demon of Light. But come, we must hurry back. The woods are not safe tonight. Especially for a traitor dwarf who has plotted harm to those who would lead him to safety.” “What?” John said. “I never!” “You cannot lie to the Yeehanog,” Thúmose said. “It does not reason and it does not feel. It moves on smell and knows only its enemies. I have said I would deal with you, and so I shall. Come, you will ride on my back and we will talk together on our way home.” “Oh, Thúmose,” Shilo said. “He’s seen Byron. Inside Haunted Mountain! And he thinks Nosh is there, too!” Thúmose paused and stared up at the mountain peak where the red fire burned. He lifted a fore hoof and let it drop. “Come then, traitor dwarf,” the Unicorn said. “We have much to talk about. And see you do not lie to Thúmose, for he is far worse an enemy than the Yeehanog could ever hope to be.” All the way back to the hilltop, the Unicorn went ahead of the companions with John riding on his back.

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“Can anyone hear what they’re saying?” Raefer asked. “No,” Shilo said. “They’re too far away.” “I hope Thúmose is givin’im what for,” Rufus said. As they reached the top of Stonehelm, the companions turned to see torches crossing the open field in the valley below, making from every direction for the open gate of Showd Mazark. The cries of the Yeehanog filled the surrounding wood and spurred them. When the greatest number had passed within, the Livian Doors shut and sealed off the dark red glow. “It will roam the forest all night,” Thúmose said. “Picking off the strays too drunk with wine and carnage to hide or make their way home.” “If that thing’s on our side,” Rufus said, “then what’ve we got to worry about?” “It will be gone before the sun comes up,” Thúmose said. “Why?” Rufus asked. “Because tomorrow starts the new cycle, and the moon will again begin to shine. King Thrudnelf, will you march with me at dawn and take your stand upon the Winsted Field?” Thrudnelf looked across the valley at the red fire on Ratheméndurin. “I will help you storm that mountain, Unicorn,” the dwarven king said. “I will have my son back.” “That is good, for the time has come. Tomorrow will begin the battle for Showd Mazark.”

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Wytherban yron flinched and woke with a jolt. Someone stood above him. He tried to slit his eyes for a peek, but his lids were stuck together from the deep, dangerous sleep. He pulled just a little too hard and his eyes popped open. He looked up into the face of a dwarf. “A fighter, eh?” the dwarf said. The place was dark but for a dim red glow that left thick shadows on the dwarf’s face. “Well, keep fighting then. It won’t do you no good.” Then he turned and stepped down out of sight. Byron lifted his head for a look around. He was bound across the chest and legs to a table of stone. Three other tables stood in the red, murky distance. Byron squinted but could not make out any details. The red light was like a fog that covered the floor, and wafted in an ever-thinning mist toward the ceiling. “Stay away from it,” said a voice nearby. “What’s it called again?” asked another. “The priest called it findrel.” “Is that some old word for two-legged goat?” “Satyr,” Byron muttered. “It means satyr.” “Satyr, eh?” the dwarf said, stepping into view again. “Well,

B !

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you’ll be an empty shell in a few more hours. You might as well be a pile of rocks.” “He fought off the Sleep,” the unseen dwarf said. “Had the dream set in?” “Not from the look of him, no.” “Well, well,” said the dwarf looking down on Byron. He poked Byron in the ribs. “Sturdy little fellow, eh? Well, the priests will know what to do with you, I expect.” Then he stepped down out of sight again. “Help me with these other two.” Byron lifted his head again. There were whimperings and shufflings coming from somewhere close. The dwarf stepped up onto a bench beside one of the other tables, holding up a candle with a red flame. A small, dark form lay upon the table, strapped down as Byron was. It was twitching and moaning and moving its head from side to side. “Sleeping like a baby,” the dwarf said. “Still deep in the dream, by the look on her face.” “This one, too,” said the other voice, stepping up beside another table. Byron could see him now, another dwarf with another red-flamed candle. “How’d a pair of gnomes get here anyway?” “Sent by their king,” the first dwarf said. “Tribute. Nothing more than a couple of slaves if you asked me, judging by the way they were dressed.” “Well, how do you like your new life there, little fella? No sunrise for you, eh?” Somewhere a door bolt was thrown. It echoed through the stone deeps. There was a loud groan of hinges as the door opened, followed by an enormous boom as it fell shut again. “What was that?” one of the dwarves whispered. “It’s the wülken priests,” said the other. “They’re coming!”

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“But they’re early.” “Tell that to them! ” As the echo of the closing door died away, the sound of slow, heavy footfalls emerged and grew louder. “It only sounds like one,” a dwarf said. “But it smells like a whole troop of ’em, ugh!” A faint, foul odor filled the room and grew stronger as the footsteps drew near. Byron strained against his bonds to cover his mouth and nose, but he could not move his hands. He craned his neck to look. A dark shape emerged from the gloom, wrapped in a tattered cape with the hood drawn forward. Its waist was girt with a worn belt, from which hung an old sword in a tattered scabbard. It wore a mask of tarnished, battered metal wrought in the likeness of a fierce, charging horse. From the forehead of the mask stood a spiraling horn, half a foot long. The eyes of the mask glowed with a faint red light. It looked at the dwarves. “We, uh —” one of them said, “we were just about to go and look for your master— our master — that is, we were going—” “Speak to my servant,” hissed a rasping voice from behind the mask of the dark creature, “and I will hear.” The dwarves looked at each other sidelong in confusion. “Is that It talking — through the priest?” one said through the side of his mouth, trying not to move his lips as he spoke. The other dwarf nodded. “My cousin told me It does that sometimes.” “Speak!” the voice rasped. “Yes! Yes, master,” the first dwarf said. “I— we — you see — the goat-thing —” “Findrel,” the voice said, caught with dryness and cracking. “It is called findrel.”

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Byron shuddered. Don’t talk about me! The voice was patient, almost gentle, coddling the dwarves. They glanced at each other, then at Byron. “Well,” the dwarf continued, “it fought off the dream. It’s awake and picking its head up.” Two red glowing eyes turned on Byron and stared down at him in silence from behind the unicorn mask. A grip like a centaur’s fist caught Byron’s heart, and the cold red gaze withered his courage. “Gradda,” Byron whispered, and lay his head on the stone. Tears ran down into his ears. A sound like coarse, whispering laughter came from the priest, and when it spoke all gentleness, all coddling was gone. “I will come,” the hooded figure said, and spoke no more. The dwarves looked at each other. “It’s coming?” one of them said. The other one shrugged. “That’s what the priest said— er — I mean — that’s what It said, through the priest.” “Well I’m not sticking around.” “Me neither. I had nightmares for a month when I just passed It in the hallway.” “How do you think I feel? I just spoke with It!” “That’s right, and I’d rather you stayed away from me for a while, if you don’t mind,” one dwarf said to the other. “I’m going out the south door. You pick a different way.” They clamored off, grumbling and cursing, and Byron lay still for a long time. The dark presence remained, leaning over Byron, looking down at him with its red, glowing eyes. Byron closed his eyes tight and breathed through his mouth in a useless attempt to avoid the noxious smell of the creature. He remembered the fierce, noble Knights of the Unicorn he had seen in his vision

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through the monocle— the long tails and frightful, beautiful visors of their helmets, and the great swords they carried. He opened his eyes again and looked up at the battered, rusted mask the wülken priest was wearing, and the sword that hung at its waist. Then a chilling dread covered Byron’s heart. What is that? The dread grew colder and stronger. Something’s coming. Whatever it was, it was not near, but the dread came before it like wind before a storm. Byron clenched his fists and jaw. “Steady Thorn,” he said out loud. “Steady Thorn,” said the rasping voice of the red-eyed priest in the unicorn mask. “I am coming.” Again the door bolt was thrown back, echoing through the glowing red fog. The great hinges groaned and squealed. The dread in Byron’s heart grew painful, like a growing weight crushing his chest. His heart raced so that he could not catch his breath. The eyes in the battered unicorn mask grew brighter. Cold wind blew up through the hallway, flickering low the red flames of the candles. A greasy film settled over Byron. His flesh went clammy and his breath appeared before him, pale red like the fog that churned on the ground around the table where he lay. “You should not be waking,” a voice said. It was a smooth, inviting voice, the same voice that had been speaking all along, but it did not come from the unseen mouth of the masked wülken priest. Instead the priest bowed and stepped aside. Behind it, out of the swirling mist, a great, dark shape appeared. It was taller and broader than the Woodland King. It wore only a sheet of dark, woven chain that covered it from head to foot as a bed sheet might cover a child pretending to be a ghost.

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Its arms were folded before it, hidden beneath the folds of the garment. A feeling came over Byron that he had felt only once before: curiosity and horror all at once. He caught his breath and spoke a single word. “Qualnáchnabard,” Byron said, and the sound of it caught in his throat. Hideous laughter filled the room like faint whispers from every direction. “Yes,” said the voice. “You have been to the Dragon’s temple.” Waves of terror, like deep water, splashed back and forth between Byron and the robed creature, and Byron trembled. A name he had heard uttered with dread by Miroaster and even Silverlance came back to him. It was a name the mention of which silenced all who knew it. Sudden knowledge crashed in upon Byron’s terrified mind. Here it was, the great Weg itself. The name of it echoed in Byron’s mind like the long-forgotten scream of one of its victims, a cry muffled by the howl of storm wind. Wytherban, the voice cried. Wytherban! WYTHERBAN! The word formed on Byron’s lips, pressing him to speak it. Whether he dared not or by some hidden strength refused— he never knew — Byron did not repeat it. When Byron spoke, it was with words of his own choosing. “The Lord of Fear,” Byron said. And for a moment there was silence. Then the Weg general laughed. “He is willful. The wild-folk have ever been.” “Kill him,” said a voice from the mist. “No,” said Wytherban. “His strength still serves me in the Lychgate. The wülken he rouses is of no consequence, but one should not waste a perfectly useful victim.”

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I won’t serve you, Byron thought. “I’ll never serve you,” he managed. There was a clicking sound, like sharpened bone on stone, and Byron felt something at his hooves. He lifted his head and cried out, pulling against his bonds. Crawling over him from the foot of the table was a thing like a gigantic spider with eight long, hairy legs, each one thick as a shovel handle and tipped with a single barbed claw. Supported by the legs, where the spider’s body should have been, was a human head, all split and cracked, at once shriveled yet swollen to enormous size. A great many smaller legs stood from its scalp, reaching and wriggling, clicking their claws together. Its two eyes were yellow with tiny dark pupils, and each one blinked separately. The mouth had puckered black lips, drawn back in a mirthless smile from the slimy, pointed brown teeth. It had no nose, only two holes of exposed bone, clotted and caked with blockage. The monster leaned down so close to Byron that he could smell the rank breath of its nostrils. It glared at him, blinking with one eye at a time. “You already have served us,” it said. “By keeping the taxim alive. I suppose we should thank you for that. If the taxim had died the giant king’s bones would have been useless. But we don’t need your cooperation, dear one, just your life.” Byron’s chest rose and fell. The creature backed off a little, and grinned. “You know the Lord of Fear well enough,” the creature continued. “Have you ever heard of the Spider King?” “Arach —” Byron said, choking. “Arachnamancer.” The yellow eyes opened wide. The dark pupils grew large and the Arachnamancer smiled. “Ah! You have heard of me! I’m flattered, flattered.”

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Then he turned to Wytherban. “I want his head when he’s all used up. It’ll make a nice pet. I like the horns.” It blinked and took a closer look at Byron’s forehead. “What’s this? Silver?” “The mark of Thúmose,” Wytherban said. “Thúmose?” the Arachnamancer shouted. It pulled away and scuttled backward. “Is this the satyr that woke the Unicorn?” “Indeed yes,” Wytherban said. The Arachnamancer crouched closer to Byron. “You escaped me that night in Bilérica, little one, but only because of Miroaster. Hixima’s magic dome was no match for me. And you murdered my pupil, Ravinath.” “You —” Byron said. “You leveled Standing Stone Hill.” A gleeful chirp came from the Arachnamancer and his eyes widened. “So you remember!” He danced in place, clicking his claws against the stone of the table. “We got the stone back,” Byron said. The Arachnamancer stopped his dance and set a malevolent glare on Byron. Byron returned the glare. “And we’ve got your book.” “Why, you little—” the Arachnamancer began, but Wytherban cut him short. “Yes,” the Lord of Fear said with a smooth laugh. “You have achieved much, my dear findrel. In restoring the crown of the Unicorn you broke his last magic. The grip he had on the darkness has been loosened. Even the master has stirred.” “The master is awake?” the Arachnamancer said. “Of course not, fool,” Wytherban said. “Could anything silence the lamentations? If the Shadow Flames had risen would not you see the smoke for a thousand miles? No, Borántu is contained by a magic that cannot be broken. And that is to the

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good, for in his slumber his power is mine to wield.” “But your own power is not fully restored,” the Spider King said. “You have given thought, then, to the extent of my power?” “I — no —” the Arachnamancer said. “No, of course not, Wytherban. I only —” “You have no hope of overmastering me, Spider King,” Wytherban said. His voice was numbing and stern. “Even were you yourself at the height of your power— ah, but no, you’ve lost your book, haven’t you? Tell me, Spider King, how did that happen? Oh, yes, now I remember. You wanted a pupil, someone to teach your ridiculous brand of deathmagic. Arachnamancy, isn’t that what you call it? And so you chose some vagabond centaur with hints of deep power in him, and you let him wander off with your book.” “He needed it,” the Arachnamancer said, seething at Byron. “He learned far more quickly than I could have guessed. It was the only way.” “And he would have killed you in the end, no doubt,” Wytherban said. “Once he learned what a fool his so-called master really was. Be still, Spider King. Without your book you are nothing more than a pet toad. I am far stronger than you will ever know. While you were cowering in Faerwood I was building an army.” “What could I do with the Weg Hunter prowling about?” “The Weg Hunter, yes,” Wytherban said. “You flee at the mention of his name and leave your sad excuse for a Lychgate for him to discover. Now he knows we are moving and he has hidden himself in darkness. He could be behind you right now and you wouldn’t know it.” “Lych magic has never been my forté,” the Spider King said.

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“But my gate served its purpose, even without the use of my book. Besides, you summoned me.” “And you ignored my summons. You came to me only late. If not for your fear of the Weg Hunter you would not have come at all. Do not believe that I am blind to this. And hope for no help from the others. They have all complied with my wishes.” “The Dire Sisters have not come,” the Spider King said. “Do not concern yourself with the Dire Sisters. They have explained their absence to my satisfaction.” “And Sardis?” the Arachnamancer pressed. “Where is he?” “Enough of this,” Wytherban said. “Of all my lieutenants only you want watching. There is only one Power. Mind your allegiance and I will not smite you when I come to wield it.” “Why do you not smite me now?” the Spider King asked. “Because you may yet prove useful and for no other reason. No more of this. There is work to do here. These three must be ready by morning. The giant prince is nearly spent, but will serve us a while longer, I think.” “The giant prince? Not dead yet?” the Arachnamancer said. “He has proven far stronger than I first believed. The dwarf prince is nearly ready for the next phase. I want the giant prince placed with him in the lower crypt to hasten the process.” “Extra fuel,” the Arachnamancer said with a laugh. “Indeed,” Wytherban said. “See to it.” “At once, my lord,” the Spider King said, and he was away with a scuttling of claws. “And now, my dear Byron Thorn,” Wytherban said, “to sleep. And this time there will be dreams, oh yes.” There was a clinking of metal as the Lord of Fear drew the fold of his chain link garment over Byron’s face. Everything went black. Byron fell into a pitch-dark sleep and knew no more.

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Knocking on the Livian Doors he companions woke before dawn. There was a wind, cold and damp with coming rain. They gathered in the dark for a thin breakfast. The red Weg fire burned larger than ever atop the Mountain of the King. The black smoke it belched forth choked the red flame in the darkness of early morning. “What’s that smell?” Raefer said, wincing and holding his nose. “It’s awful,” Shilo said, gripping her cup of tea to warm her hands. “And getting worse,” Rufus said. “It wasn’t this bad an hour ago.” “I think it’s the fire,” Quill said, motioning with a nod across the valley. “Just look at that fume it’s putting out.” “I think you’re right, Quill,” Rufus said. “Have you been out in the camp, Ruf?” Dindra said. “What’s been happening?” “Plenty,” Rufus said with a tilting nod. “The dwarves are gathering their weapons and suiting up. No fires, that’s the order, and no talking. I’m amazed how quiet they can be. “They’ve already sent the wagons and war engines ahead; you

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should see the catapult they’ve built. They have these huge stones to load into it, carved to look like skulls. And they’ve got ballistae and bolt sowers, and these metal balls that are supposed to catch fire. They really mean business, those dwarves. Anyway, they’re gathering beneath their banners by the old tower at dawn. We’re supposed to be there.” “What a night,” Raefer said. “Any more about that Yeehanog thing?” Rufus shook his head. “I wonder what they learned from that traitor dwarf,” Shilo said. “Byron and Nosh inside the mountain with all those— those — oh, I can’t bear to think of it!” “Is there any talk of rescuing them?” Dindra asked. “I didn’t sleep a wink last night wondering what could be happening to them in there. I say we find a way in and look for them.” “An excellent notion,” said a voice. There was a clopping of hooves and out of the darkness stepped a shadowy form. “Mr. Thúmose?” Raefer said. “Is that you, sir?” “Forgive me,” Thúmose said. A second later his shimmering coat and lance appeared as the companions were used to seeing it, silvery and white against the dark. “I have been in the forest and have had need of concealment. You and I are of one mind, Dindra. But it is impossible for the moment. The task of the dwarves will not wait. They face a power against which they must have my help, if they may hope to succeed even by the breadth of a hair. But I promise you, I will break away and seek our friends at the first chance to do so.” “Well,” Dindra said, “I’m going with you when the time comes.” “If you are not by my side,” Thúmose said, “I will seek you out. But for the moment, do not fear. We must attend King Thrudnelf on the hillcrest. Follow me, all of you.”

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The war chief of Wodys Mara and all the dwarflords were assembled on the crest of Stonehelm. The fighters of every house were gathered under their banners, ready to march. Down in the valley, fog clung to the trees and the great lawn in front of the Livian Doors was covered with a gray, swirling blanket. The billowing red fire still burned. As the first rays of sunlight broke on the eastern horizon, Thúmose called for the attention of the assembly, and Thrym came to stand beside him, holding a wooden box in his hands. He wore a heavy cape of dark blue with silver at the hems, and his deep hood was drawn forward. Thúmose twitched at the shoulder and his mane danced. “Come forward, King Thrudnelf.” The dwarven king emerged from a tent pitched near the watchtower. With him came the Sons of the Hammer, all of them clothed like Thrym in heavy, hooded capes, which they kept closed about them. Gensha was with them for the house of the Bear. Thrudnelf was adorned for war in heavy, well-worn chain and the visored battle-crown of Valleygate. A great sword was slung across his back, and on his chest was the crest of Valleygate. At his hip on a hook of wrought silver was Harkatan, the Hammer of Making. “Last night,” Thúmose continued, “beneath the dead moon, the Feast of Borántu was celebrated, and the Damarung begun. There can be no mistaking what power it is that lurks in Ratheméndurin. Now are gathering to his beacon all the Fell creatures of the land. They will emerge from their hidden places to seek their captain, Wytherban, Lord of Fear, into whose hands was long ago placed the task of the Dark Gathering. “Today we begin the siege of Dwarvenhearth,” Thúmose said. “It is not a battle for your homes only. No, it will be one of many battles in the second war for Everándon. We must stop Wyther-

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ban here, break him utterly if we can, or failing that, hinder his plans of the moment. He is close to gaining strength that we are not ready to face. That strength must be denied him. “It is fitting, upon the brink of war, that I should declare myself, and take my place, though few acknowledge me. I am Thúmose, High King in Everándon.” At once the dwarflords fell to murmuring and grumbling. Thúmose strode forth a step and continued. “I do not seek to impose upon you lordship of any kind, though that lordship is rightfully mine. Rather it must be for each to come to me by choice. There are those who have already done so. “Yet, I am High King. I declare myself openly among you, and I declare war upon Wytherban, upon all the Weg lieutenants of Borántu, upon Borántu himself, and upon all who serve him.” The murmuring continued for a time. The Wanderers looked around with cautious glances. Thúmose lifted a hoof and let it drop. “Silence,” he said, and his voice seemed to fill the sky like faint thunder. The ground shook almost imperceptibly, and the assembly of dwarves fell still. “As my first act of renewed sovereignty, parcel to my plan of war, I recognize Thrudnelf of Valleygate as chief of the house of the Hammer, and as such, first among equals in the Council of Dwarflords. “I further recognize him as rightful heir to the Granite Throne of Showd Mazark, seat of sovereignty over all dwarvenkind. I recognize Thrudnelf as dwarven king by my own authority, and by virtue of his descent in direct line from Garrowthelf, last dwarven king to rule from Showd Mazark, as attested to by the trial of Harkatan. “Thrudnelf is the Hammer. Thrudnelf is the Wielder. Thrudnelf is the Fist of the Maker!”

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As one, Thrym and the Sons of the Hammer shouted echo to the Unicorn’s words: “Thrudnelf is the Hammer! Thrudnelf is the Wielder! Thrudnelf is the Fist of the Maker!” Then Gensha of the house of the Bear took up the cry, and all his house joined with him. The house of the Bridge, proud and few, also joined the refrain. Thrudnelf looked around him at all the gathered dwarves. The dwarflords regarded him with grim scrutiny, but none spoke up. The chief of the house of the Wheel had a slight grin in his eyes as he looked around at his fellow lords. Thúmose allowed the clamor for a time; then, with the same voice of distant thunder and trembling earth, he spoke the name of the dwarven king. At the sound of it, all the hilltop was silenced. “Thrudnelf,” the Unicorn said. “Do you take what I offer you?” Thrudnelf looked at the Unicorn with the same stern look he always wore. “I take what is mine by right. I take nothing more.” “So be it,” Thúmose said. “But still one thing is lacking. Thrym, if you will.” The dwarf commander stepped forward and set the battered wooden box on the ground. He crouched before the box and opened it. Inside was a great horn ornately carved, bound with bronze cuffs and tipped with a mouthpiece of silver. A braided strap was attached to it, so that it could be worn about the neck or shoulder. Thrym lifted the horn from the box and stood. “An artifact of your house, my king,” Thrym said. “Do you know by what name it is called?” Thrudnelf looked at the horn with wonder in his face. “Had I not already seen the Hammer,” he said, “I would never have believed it. You have there the Horn of Jargadda!” “It is yours Dwarven King,” Thúmose said. “To wind only once in your time of sovereignty, thereby to summon to you aid

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from the hosts of the fallen, who dwell in the eternal victory of Jargadda.” Thrudnelf stepped forward and reached for the horn. Thrym gave it into Thrudnelf’s hands, bowing his head and stepping back. The dwarven king held it out before him, gazing at it with reverence. “It is said that in his despair, the Suicide King refused to wind it,” Thrudnelf said, “though through doing so help enough may have come at the closing of Showd Mazark.” “His despair overpowered him,” Thúmose said. “But much also was great about Garrowthelf of the Hammer. Now the symbols of your kingship are nearly complete. Only the Granite Throne itself remains. For your part, Thrudnelf, use the horn with wisdom.” “And so I shall,” Thrudnelf said. He slung the horn over his shoulder. “And here, your highness,” Thrym said, “is a gift from the house of the Bridge, the blacksmith and especially his granddaughter, Lotanda. It is a suit of the finest armor I have ever seen, crafted especially for you, King Thrudnelf. I will give it to Gensha to carry for you, until you decide otherwise.” The war chief of Wodys Mara marched at the head of a long column of war-clad dwarves. Each of the houses marched in grim silence beneath its banner with whatever engines of war it possessed. Last in the column came the company of the Unicorn. Gensha led the way, carrying a tall banner pole. It had a crosspiece at the top upon which hung two banners: on the left, the banner of the Hammer; on the right, the war banner of the Unicorn with its empty black field. Below them, centered on the pole, flew the banner of noble and ancient house of the Bridge,

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and below that, a banner with a green field upon which was set in silver the image of a great and terrible bear. Behind Gensha came the Unicorn and King Thrudnelf, side by side, followed by the Wanderers, marching in awe at all that was happening. Behind them, in the rear guard of the column, came Thrym and the Sons of the Hammer. Last came the fighters of the houses of Bridge and Bear. They passed through a clear place where the ground was charred. It was the site of the great central fire of the Wülkánathross. Sundered Fellsmen littered the woods. They were scattered whole and in pieces all around, hanging from the trees that surrounded the clearing, or peering up at the companions from the swirling mist on the blackened forest floor. “The Yeehanog did this?” Raefer asked, curling his lip at the sight of the carnage. “Indeed,” Thúmose replied. “Well,” Rufus said, “I’m glad it’s, well, on our side. It is, isn’t it?” “In a way, yes,” Thúmose said. “Why don’t we just let him deal with the Fellsmen,” Dindra said. “They all ran for their lives from him, the ones he didn’t catch, that is.” “The Yeehanog has gone away,” Thúmose said. “Gone away where?” Quill asked. “To wherever it goes when it goes,” Thúmose said. “At any rate it will be of no more help to us here. It only comes when the moon is new.” “Too bad,” Rufus said. “Perhaps,” Thúmose said. “And perhaps not. The Yeehanog is strong, but is itself a creature of great darkness.” “Thúmose,” Dindra said. “What did John the traitor dwarf tell you about Byron?”

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“Much that is useful, Dindra,” Thúmose said. “But do not call him traitor any longer for he has returned to us fully.” “I’m sorry, sir. But what did he tell you?” Dindra asked. They came to a place where the top of Ratheméndurin could be seen through the trees. The ghastly red fire burned on, sending a dark, shadowy smoke into the sky. “Byron has been placed in the native soil of some dead thing,” the Unicorn said. “With him is a creature called a taxim, in which there is UnMagic. In the working of lych magic, a wülken cannot be roused if a taxim has a claim on it, unless the taxim accompanies it into the Lychgate and is present when the wülken is made. But to leave its haunt will kill a taxim, unless it has a life to leech from. This particular taxim has kept itself alive by making use of Byron’s living flame. It will steal Byron’s life to preserve its own until Byron is cast aside and the taxim follows the dead thing into a Lychgate. There, through the dark hex-work of lych magic, the dead thing will be quickened into service.” “Oh, Byron,” Shilo said with a crack in her voice. Dindra was silent. She clenched her jaw and stared ahead of her in disbelief. “And Nosh?” Raefer said. “What about him?” “Of that we have no knowing,” Thúmose said. “But he is in the same vile hands that hold Byron. If we had not seen the Damarung flame, news of Byron’s plight would have been evidence enough of who it is we face. Byron is in the clutches not just of a Weg, but of the Weg, Wytherban, Lord of Fear, right hand to Borántu himself.” “How did it happen?” Rufus asked. “How did Byron get from Valleygate to Showd Mazark?” “By a long and dangerous road,” Thúmose said. “A road of which we know little, except that Miroaster retrieved him from

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Sogfarrow, only to lose him again beneath the mountains. There, Byron came into the clutches of Lady Veronica and the Shambler, two chieftains of the Fell Nation.” “Miroaster let Byron get caught?” Rufus said. “I thought he was this great warrior.” “Do not doubt the skill and strength of Miroaster,” Thúmose said. “Neither should you guess at it, for you cannot imagine the power in him. And do not blame him, Rufus, though your heart be angry and fearful. It was not his fault.” “Not his fault?” Rufus said. “Why did he get away, and not Byron?” “I tell you, Rufus,” Thúmose said, “no failure of Miroaster has brought Byron into the grasp of our enemy. Rather it was Byron’s own refusal to run from the path he treads. Byron’s destiny draws him. No skill or power can save him from that destiny, nor should we wish it. “And know this, all of you,” Thúmose continued. “No contempt you can harbor for Miroaster can be greater than that which he has for himself in this matter. Do not judge him too harshly. Rather take heart. The silver thorn may yet pierce the hand that grips it.” “Byron may die,” Dindra said. “That’s true, sir, isn’t it?” Thúmose rumbled with a deep gentle nicker. “Yes, child,” he said. “Byron’s peril is great. His life is in danger. I can tell you for certain only that he lives still, for if it were otherwise I would know it. But for the moment we cannot help him. “Please believe me, all of you, that although my concern for Byron and Prince Nosh is great, my heart tells me that I have chosen well in Byron Thorn. There is a courage there that even I have not guessed, and his capture may yet prove to the good, if he can but persevere.

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“We must carry forward with our own plight, and hope our way leads us to our friends. But even if it does, the way is hard and we will face much before we see them again. This is where Byron’s star has led him, and us. The situation is dire, but if not for Byron Thorn, there would be no hope in Everándon.” Thúmose walked on in silence for a moment, and then spoke again. “Will you continue to trust in the road you have chosen?” The companions looked around at each other. Then Dindra lifted her chin. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I go where Byron goes.” “That’s for me, too,” Raefer said. “And me,” Quill said. Shilo nodded. “I won’t turn back.” Everyone looked at Rufus, who walked along, glaring into the forest. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better, isn’t it?” “Of that there is no doubt,” Thúmose said. Rufus looked at his brother. “Well, Byron’s my friend, too. All of you are. And Raefer is my brother. But this Miroaster, well, I can’t say much for him. I’m in, just the same.” Thúmose nickered deep. “That is good, Rufus. Well met.” Up close the Livian Doors of Showd Mazark looked magnificent and daunting. They were wrought of dark bronze with vast panels depicting intricate scenes. The middle door, tallest of the three, was a double door. The other two, left and right of it, were single doors held on enormous hinges. The stair before them was carved from the rock of the mountain, sweeping wide enough for a hundred dwarves to ascend together. So well made was the gateface of Showd Mazark that no tree or weed had taken hold in all the hundreds of years of its silence. Gathering in their ranks, the dwarves of Wodys Mara took their places facing the field, weapons in hand, nervous and eager.

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Behind them the wagons and weapon carts of each house circled into three rings and command posts were set up inside each ring. The company of the Unicorn set up a small bastion of its own, drawing the carts and flatbed wagons of the house of the Bear into a circle. They posted guards on the supplies, then marched out to take their places among the ranks of Wodys Mara. “There really aren’t very many of us, are there?” Quill said. “Not nearly enough,” Thrym said, shaking his head. Then the chief of the Arch, war chief of Wodys Mara, lifted his sword above his head. “Catapult forward!” he shouted. Chains clinked and wood creaked as the great wheels of the platform rolled on and the catapult of the house of the Arch was moved into position out on the field in front of the ranks. “Catapult ready!” shouted the chief of the Arch. An old dwarf with a great beard and a leather cap on his head barked commands to the other dwarves at the catapult. They cranked the sling into place, straining against the tension, as the engine master directed them with movements of his hands. He turned and looked past his upturned thumb at the Livian Doors, then shouted again. The crew relaxed their hold and let off some of the tension on the catapult. “There!” shouted the leather-capped engine master. “Lock and mark!” Another team of heavy-shouldered dwarves loaded the great leather pouch with a single stone as large as a wine barrel, carved in the likeness of a skull. When the shot was in place the crew stepped back and awaited further command. “Are they just gonna start shooting?” Raefer asked. “Put it on the center door, Mr. Howe!” the Arch shouted. “On my command!”

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The engine master smiled and nodded. “Just above the middle, Chief!” “Catapult!” the Arch shouted, lifting his sword above his head, “Ho!” The engine master nodded and his crewman pulled a heavy wooden lever. The catapult swung forward, snapping the great stone from the sling. The stone flew through the air and struck the huge middle doors a bit more than halfway up, on perfect center. The stone burst into great pieces that showered down on the steps below. A huge, deep echo resounded inside the mountain. The dwarves watched for any sign of an enemy, but when the echo faded the door stood unmarked by the impact of the stone, and all was silent. The Arch glared at the doors in silence for a moment. Then he looked at Mr. Howe and nodded. “Again!” Once more the catapult launched. Another great stone struck the Livian Doors in the very same place. Again the impact shattered the stone and left no mark on the dwarf-wrought bronze. The deep boom echoed inside, but again with its fading came only the silence of the mountain. The war chief of Wodys Mara put his hands on his hips and stared at the doors, bobbing his head with an almost imperceptible nod. He looked at the engine master. “Again.” Five times in all the catapult flew — the sling snapping the stone away in a high arc. Five times it struck the middle door without a mark, and five times the echo within died to stillness. Nothing stirred on the mountain. Crows gathered in the trees at the edge of the field, breaking the silence with their cries. Dark clouds began massing in the north. “Look!” Raefer said, pointing to the west end of the field. The companions all caught their breath as scores of giants emerged from the forest and began to take the field.

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Each wore a bright red tunic upon which was set a brilliant yellow sun. They carried great swords and terrible lances. They wore shirts and kilts of banded leather armor and bore tall, wide shields of wood and metal. Their arms were bare, their legs covered by thick leggings cross-gaitered up to the knee with the straps of their heavy sandals. “That’s the giant king!” Raefer said. “This is great!” All through the ranks of the dwarves a loud murmur went up. Swords were brandished, spears shafts wrung between tight fists. Everyone turned to the war chief to see what he would do. The giants took no notice of the Wodys Mara dwarves. They strode out across the open lawn, passing between the war chief and the Livian Doors, and stood facing the woods on the east end of the field, where an army of dwarves, clad in the livery of Valleygate, was approaching. “King Thrudnelf,” Thúmose said. “Your army has arrived.” Thrudnelf nodded. “Dornthelf,” he said to himself, and drew his hood up over his helmet. Members of the house of the Bear overheard the words of Thúmose and Thrudnelf. Rumor moved among the ranks of the other houses that the army of the Hammer had arrived at the call of its king. At the middle of the field the two armies stopped. Silently the giants of Hollengart and the dwarves of Valleygate stood, observing each other. “There aren’t very many giants, are there?” Raefer said. “They don’t need many,” Dindra said. “I make five hundred and fifty of them,” Rufus said. “I’d say that’s plenty.” The dwarves in their breastplates and chain mail were far more numerous, carrying axes and swords and crossbows, and tall

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pikes for the slaying of giants. Their beards were plaited or tucked into their belts. They had with them ballistae and catapults and well-wrought engines of war. Many of the Valleygate dwarves turned their wondering gazes upon the dwarves of Wodys Mara, and the banners bearing symbols lost to legend and distant memory. But harsh words from their commanders reclaimed their attention. And so the three armies stood— the dwarves of Wodys Mara facing the mountain with its horrid red fire, the giants of Hollengart, and the dwarves of Valleygate facing each other— and a deep, heavy silence fell upon the Winsted Field.

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Mirnle and Weej any hooded satyrs were gathered in the leafless, rainsoaked wood. It was murky with clinging mist. Eight of them held shovels and stood beside fresh graves, watching as the final scoops were heaped upon the last and smallest. Strange scruffy birds gathered in the trees. Byron crept near. The satyrs circled around one of their kind. Some clutched his arm, others patted his back, and one or two embraced him. They passed by, moving off into the gloom of the forest until the one satyr stood alone among the graves. He removed his hood, and Byron caught his breath when he saw the tear-stained face. “Gradda,” he said. The old satyr looked at Byron. He was angry. He pointed at one of the graves. “My son,” he said. Then he swept his arm, indicating the rest. “His wife, and two of his children.” Byron looked at the graves. There were four, two large and two slightly smaller. “Where is yours?” Darius Thorn asked. “You should have one, too. Or just you, and not them— not my son. Now I have to take care of you.” Byron tried to speak, but fear choked him.

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“Why didn’t the wolves get you, too?” Darius asked, taking a step toward his grandson. “My son should be alive, my son and his family. Why aren’t you dead, too? Tell me why this happened. What did you do to make this happen? You did this! You!” Byron blinked, his mouth hung open. “But— but this isn’t where they’re buried!” Darius Thorn stopped. He pointed at the grave. “That’s my son down there!” “But they’re buried on Whistletop,” Byron said. A faint red glow appeared in Darius’s eyes. “Just you listen to me!” he growled, pointing at Byron. “That should have been you!” “My Gradda loves me,” Byron said. “It should have been you,” said one of the birds. Byron looked up. The birds were fat and tattered and had human heads. “It should have been you!” they screeched. They kept repeating it, talking over each other. “It should have been you! It should have been you!” “No,” Byron said. “It should have been you!” Darius shouted. The birds opened their wings and swooped down on Byron. They clawed at him and beat him with their flapping wings. “It should have been you!” they squawked, and bit him with their human teeth. Byron tried to ward them away, but he could not lift his arms. He tried to run, but he could not move his legs. “No!” he cried. “No! I’m sorry!” “Sir!” whispered a voice. A gentle hand was prodding him. “Weej! He’s waking up!” Byron opened his eyes slowly. He was lying on his back on a stone table. He tried to sit up but he couldn’t. He was bound fast across the chest and legs, and at the top of his head.

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“Get this off ’im, Weej!” the voice whispered. Beside him, horribly close, a pair of eyeless sockets stared at him from a skull. “Yaa!” Byron cried, but he still could not move. “Weej, hurry before they come back!” “I’m hurrying!” said another voice. “Whaddaya think? These cords are strong.” Byron’s heart raced. Tears sprang in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, Gradda. It should’ve been me.” Deep in the sockets of the skull, a red light flared at Byron’s words. Byron felt an aching sickness in his head and chest and stomach. His eyes rolled back. “It should’ve been me.” “Sir,” the voice whispered. “Sir!” Byron opened his eyes again. The hands were shaking him. “Don’t sleep anymore, sir! Stay awake!” Byron looked at the glowing eyes so close beside him. The grip across his chest loosened and he shifted his shoulders. He saw that the dead thing on top of him was a dwarf, heavy boned and broad. It bore swatches of broken and rotted flesh, which almost seemed to be moving somehow. Byron saw that the flesh was not rotting away, but creeping forth from decay into vigor. “No!” Byron cried. “Oh, no!” His bonds came free and he threw his body to the side, away from the creeping dead thing. It clung to him with the last of its grip, and as Byron rolled off, he dragged the weight of the gruesome creature with him to the floor. “Get it off ’im!” Weej said. He growled and gave a yell. There was a sound like twigs snapping, and the creature finally let go of Byron, who lay on the floor looking up. Two small forms stood looking down at him. They had enormous shining black eyes and pointed ears. One was smaller than the other; both were smaller than Byron.

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The taller one was a girl. She wore a dirty torn frock of burlap, more like an old sack with holes for the arms and head. The boy wore only a pair of torn, knee-high breeches of the same coarse material. Both wore short, conical caps on their heads. Both were barefoot and terribly dirty, and both were covered with strange painted markings of black and white and red. They stared down at Byron with their enormous eyes and their tiny mouths hanging open. Byron blinked at them. “Who are you?” “Mirnle Mushrump,” said the girl. She curtsied, but the amazed expression did not leave her face. “Weej Mushrump,” said the boy, bowing a little, still gaping at Byron, and still holding the arm he’d torn off of the hideous dead thing. Byron looked at the creature that had been holding him on the table. It was twisted and broken. The creeping growth had stopped, and the light had gone out in its eyes. “Wülken,” Byron said with a curled lip. Then he looked at Weej and Mirnle. “What are you?” “Gnome, sir,” Mirnle said. “We’re gnomes.” “What are you?” Weej said. “I’m a satyr. Do all gnomes wear paint on their faces— and arms — and necks — and —” “Do all satyrs?” Weej asked. Byron blinked. “Huh?” Mirnle stooped down and swept the grime off a broken piece of mirrored glass. She held it up to Byron. In the red light he saw that he was covered with the same markings and colorings as the gnomes. He rubbed his face with his hands, but the markings did not come off. “You can’t,” Weej said. “We’ve tried. It’s stuck.” Byron looked himself over. Every inch of him from the waist

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up was covered with the horrible markings. The hair of his goatish legs was also matted with paint, but the markings were difficult to read. His skin itched from time to time, and flared up with pain in a spot on his back he had difficulty reaching. “I’m Byron, Byron Thorn. What is this place?” Weej and Mirnle shrugged. A red glowing mist covered the floor in thin, swirling wisps. The room was large and square with a high ceiling. A single smoky lamp with a big red chimney hung from a central pillar. Everything was covered with filth and grime, built up through the long years of settling dust. Broken glass and furniture littered the floor. The headless chains of chandeliers hung from the ceiling, wound round and strung together with the cobwebs that clung to everything. All this Byron could see in the faint red light. More, and certainly worse lay beyond out of glow’s reach in the dark corners, for there was a terrible stench in the room that did not come from the wülken alone. He looked at the table where he had slept in the clutches of the dead. It was marble. The surface was covered with grim symbols and scattered with the petals of some dark flower. Byron frowned. On either side of his table was another just like it. Upon each he saw the same grim markings and the same strange leaves. But where a nearly formed wülken had been beside Byron on his table, there were only old foul bones on the other two tables. Byron’s frown deepened. He looked at the gnomes, then back at the tables, then back at the gnomes again. “We were on them,” Mirnle said. “They sprinkled flowers over us.” “And painted us,” Weej said. Mirnle nodded. “And said words. They did it to you, too, sir, don’t you remember?”

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Byron shook his head. “They made you sleep,” Weej said. “We were just pretending but you slept a long time.” “But the creepers didn’t come with ours,” Mirnle said, nodding to the bones on the other tables. “Only yours did, almost.” Byron looked down at the sundered monster on the floor. “Creepers. But who sprinkled the flowers?” “Like him,” Weej said, pointing at the dead dwarf. He glanced at the broken-off arm which he still held in his hand, and dropped it. “Like him, only—” “Only finished,” Byron said. “Wülken.” “The ones with the masks,” Mirnle said. “It didn’t work on me and Mirnle,” Weej said. “Or they never would have left us here alone.” “What if they come back?” Mirnle said. “They might, you know.” “I feel a little sick,” Byron said. “In my eyes.” “They threw your things over there,” Weej said. “I peeked and saw them do it.” Weej crept away into the dark beyond the red light. He returned carrying a bundle, which he set on the ground at Byron’s hooves. Byron crouched down and opened it. There, wrapped in his black ambassador’s coat, were his waterskin and pouch. Byron riffled to the bottom. “Is this everything?” “Yep,” Weej said. “That’s everything.” Byron searched the bundle again. “It’s gone.” “What’s gone, sir?” Mirnle asked. “My monocle,” Byron said. He looked up at Mirnle, who was looking at Weej, who was looking up toward the ceiling with his hands behind his back. “Weej,” Mirnle said. “Hmm?” Weej said, looking at her with his eyebrows up.

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“Weej,” Mirnle said again more firmly. “What?” Weej said, his mouth hanging open in a kind of smirk. “Weej,” Mirnle said, very sharp and stern, and she put her hands on her hips. “Oh, all right!” Weej said with a dark frown. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a closed fist, and let the monocle drop to the end of its chain. “Hey!” Byron said. “You little —” He stopped himself and took the monocle from Weej with a squinting frown. “Thanks Mirnle,” he said, and he hung the monocle over his neck. Mirnle said nothing, but only looked at Weej, who frowned back once, then looked at the floor. “What about your things?” Byron asked. “They must be around here somewhere.” “We already found them,” Mirnle said. Byron blinked. He looked at the coarse, tattered garments the two were wearing, their conical caps, and their bare feet. “Oh,” he said. “I —” Weej looked up and glared at Byron. “Our father is a Tarantene,” he said hotly. “He’ll come and find us, you’ll see. We don’t need your silly monocle anyway.” A single door led out of the room onto the very end of a long, wide hallway. Pale light from some unseen source lent faint illumination to the place. It was still too dark for Byron to see anything clearly, but bright enough that it hurt his eye when he tried to use the monocle. The gnomes could see as well as cats in the darkness. Mirnle took Byron’s hand and led him along as best she could. “This way, sir,” she said, pulling him. “What’s the other way?” Byron asked.

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“A wall,” Weej said. “The end of the hallway, sir,” Mirnle said. “Quit calling me sir,” Byron said. “Sorry, sir,” Mirnle said. Byron took a step forward and tripped. He put his hands out to stop his fall and thrust them into something that crunched and cracked and crumbled beneath his weight. “What’s all over the floor?” he demanded with a growl. “Bones,” Weej said. “Piles of ’em.” Byron stood and swept his hands together in disgust. “I think the light is getting brighter.” “You’re right, sir,” Mirnle said. “It’s coming from back there.” Byron turned. He peered hard at the end of the hallway. Near the floor he saw a small square patch of what looked like light shining through heavy cloth. “That’s not a wall,” Byron said. He ran up to it and started rubbing the light patch and his hand made a smear in the heavy grime. A shaft of light stabbed into the hall and shot toward the ceiling. “It’s a window! Help me clear it!” In a few minutes the three of them cleared every pane of glass they could reach. The panes around the edge were clear. The rest were all different colors, shades of red and blue and green, that cast their glow on the floor and walls of the hallway, making visible the bones and filth and heavy cobwebs everywhere. The wreckage of a ransacked home clogged the passage, and there were many tall doors along its length. Between the doors, heavy tapestries on once polished rods hung from rusted chains. Some were slashed and burned with fire. On the ground at Byron’s hooves were the frayed remains of a runner carpet that must at one time have gone the entire length of the hallway. “I wonder where my friends are,” Byron said, gazing at the

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world outside. He pressed his face up against the smeared glass of the window. Heavy clouds were massing in the west with lightning in their bellies. They were broken and patchy near the horizon and the sun moved in and out of them, at times shedding its light unblocked, then hazed over by the storm. As Byron, Mirnle, and Weej looked on, the clouds burst into red and orange fire and the sun split the gloom with golden swords. Then it broke from the clouds altogether and set the whole thunderhead alight from beneath, before sinking at last beyond the rim of the world. For a long time the group kept looking. Beneath the coming storm the western horizon stayed bright with deepening blue and the stars appeared. “That storm is over Woody Deep,” Byron said. “Is that your home, sir?” Mirnle said. “Yes, Mirnle,” Byron said. “A little place called Hiding Wood. I wonder how Gradda’s doing.” Then Byron sighed. “Well, we know one thing: we don’t want to go any higher. I wonder which way to the lower crypt?” “Why?” Weej asked. “Because my friend is being held there,” Byron said, “and I’m going to get him.” “That’s where they’re holding the princes,” Mirnle said. “Is one of them your friend?” “Yes,” Byron said. “The prince of the dwarves. His name is Nosh. Do you know how to get there?” “Prince Nosh of Valleygate?” Weej said. “That’s right,” Byron said. “Do you know the way?” “His father is King Thrudnelf,” Mirnle said. “Do you know the way or don’t you?” Byron said, stifling a shout.

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“Well, not exactly,” Weej said. “It’s down below the Great Bazaar.” “Where’s that?” Byron asked. “Ground level,” Weej said, sharing a nervous glance with his sister. “And two levels more below that.” Byron frowned at the silent exchange that passed between Mirnle and Weej. “Is there something I should know about the Great Bazaar?” he said. “That’s where they keep the army, sir,” Mirnle said. Weej nodded. “It’s crawling with Fellsmen.” “How do you know all this?” Byron asked. “Well, they brought us in that way, sir,” Mirnle said. “Through the main gate. And they kept us in a room for a while before they brought us here. We heard all sorts of rumors, especially about the two princes.” “Where’d you hear of my friend Nosh?” Byron said. “Every gnome knows who he is,” Weej said, “because every gnome knows who his father is, King Thrudnelf. He’s as tough as they come, so my father says.” “Your father, the Tarantene?” Byron said. “What does that mean, anyway?” “It means blue fire,” Weej said, puffing up his chest. “Our father is a great warrior. He paints his body blue when he fights.” “Well,” Byron said, “I wish he was here now. Wait— listen!” All three turned at a sound behind them in the hallway. In the dying light they saw a small form step out onto the hallway from one of the many doors. Mirnle clutched Byron’s arm. “A dwarf baby!” she whispered. “Hoy!” Weej called. The child stopped and turned. Then it took off running as fast as it could away from the companions, down the long length of the hallway.

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“After him!” Byron said. “Don’t wait for me, and don’t let him get away!” Weej and Mirnle sprang forward and vanished into the full darkness of the hallway, leaving Byron to grope his way forward as best he could. He heard Mirnle’s voice calling out in a gentle, pleading tone trying to persuade the dwarfling. Then another form appeared from the same door through which the dwarfling had come. It moved like a shadow, close to the wall. A clammy wind blew across Byron and filled the hallway. The dark became complete all at once. Byron took up his monocle and set it in place and for an instant wished he had not. He crouched behind a pile of debris and watched. It was tall as a centaur and its head was smooth and hairless, white as snow, but chalky, as if covered with powder. Its eyes were pure white. Its lips and nostrils, and the sockets of its eyes, were dark black, like holes of nighttime. It wore a wide, hideous smile. Its teeth were long and yellow and there were far too many for its mouth. From the neck down, it was all smoky mist, billowing and swirling. A cold sweat broke out all over Byron’s body and he was relieved when the thing turned and floated off down the hallway. But when he remembered Mirnle and Weej and the fleeing dwarf child, Byron set off at once in pursuit. He crept along with satyr stealth, moving as fast as he dared, crouching often for cover, dodging the strange floating creature. “Where can they have gone?” Byron muttered to himself. The floating head called out in a cold, deep giggling voice. “Little showdra!” Its voice was friendly and pleading, but there was mockery in its laughter that made Byron’s skin go bumpy. “Little showdra,” it called again, “wait for me!”

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It laughed with a low bubbling laugh that woke Byron’s anger. He snarled and quickened his step. Lead me to the showdra, you billowy creep. Then I’ll deal with you. He followed the strange creature through many great halls and chambers, tall wood-paneled passages, and heavy iron-strapped doors. The creature floated with ease across the huge fallen chandelier that blocked the landing at the top of a vast, sweeping marble stair. Byron had to struggle across it, moving slowly to avoid the long, razor-sharp shards of crystal, and quietly to avoid the tinkling of glass that would give him away. He nearly lost the creature, but found him again with a lucky guess at a crossing of three hallways. Byron marveled at the distance that Weej and Mirnle and the dwarfling had covered. Poor little guy must be terrified, Byron thought. Weej and Mirnle with that paint all over them are probably as scary as that white-headed floaty thing. I’ll bet he’s running double-quick now. He turned a corner and the way opened before him in a long stone hallway with ceilings Byron could not see. Hope filled him and he sprang to his fullest pace, gaining so quickly on the creature that he stopped for fear of discovery. No place to hide, he thought, looking around. “Sir!” whispered a voice from an open door to Byron’s right. “Sir, in here, quick!” “Mirnle?” Byron said. “Hurry up,” Weej said, “before it comes back!” Byron leaped across the hall and through the door to find Weej, Mirnle, and the frightened little dwarf all waiting for him. There was laughter at the door through which he’d come, wicked laughter, sickeningly cheerful, and Byron turned.

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He only had a moment to glimpse the grinning white head. It was tipped to one side, gazing down at Byron with a broad yellow grin and a look of endearment as it overtook him. Then everything went gray. The shadow of the creature engulfed him. The room vanished and Byron was standing in a murky wood with broken gravestones nearby. There were at least a dozen dwarf children all huddled together in a group. One of them pointed at Byron and the whole gang got up and charged him with their arms out. There was sadness and terror in their faces, and desperate joy at the sight of Byron. They crowded and clung, pleading to him in Old Dwarvish with plaintive little voices. A sound like a battle cry reached them from far off, followed by a very loud scream that seemed to come from everywhere. The dismal, wooded graveyard vanished and Byron was back in the room with Mirnle, Weej, and the dwarf child they had followed. With him was the gang of dwarflings he’d found in the mist of the shadow creature. Weej had a vicious look on his face. With the sinister markings painted on his face and body, he looked more like a gnomish warrior than a gnomish child. His arm was extended in the followthrough of a nearly completed throw. Byron turned around to see the creature’s face twisted in pain and anger, and the large, jagged chunk of rubble that Weej had just thrown, which clung for a moment to the creature’s eye. The anger on the white face turned to fear and sickness as the creature recovered from the blow. “My dwarves,” it muttered and its face was sad. Then it saw them and moved forward to engulf them again. Byron crouched, took up a chunk of stone, and hurled it at

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the creature’s face. Its head snapped back and it shrieked, wincing in stunned aggravation with its eyes rolling back. “My dwarves!” it cried. “Give me my dwarves!” Mirnle herded the little ones away to the far side of the room while Byron and Weej attacked again. They threw stone and metal and shards of wood and glass, barraging the monster without mercy, all the while crying battle with savage faces. “Yaaah!” Byron shouted as he launched a chunk of marble. The creature reeled and turned and floated into the wall face first. “Give me my dwarves!” it cried as its forehead bounced off the wood paneling. “Aaawwwww!” Weej shouted in a high-pitched, gnomish battle cry as he flung a chunk of glass. It hit the monster in the back of its white, chalky head. “Dwarves!” it cried again, weakening and sickened, and its smoke began to dissipate. The white, chalky flesh drew back from its face and the skull fell to the floor. Byron took up the fallen head of a marble statue, as large as he could lift, and dropped it on the phantom. It crushed the skull to bits, and rolled aside face down. For a long time they all stood in silence, hearts pounding, chests heaving. “Thanks Weej,” Byron said. “You got us out.” Weej snarled at the broken skull and kicked a splinter of wood at it. Byron looked around at the dwarflings gathered around Mirnle. She was speaking to them in their own language. They turned with bright smiles on their faces, looking with hope and gratitude at Byron. “What did you tell them?” he asked. “I told them you were going to get us out of here,” Mirnle said.

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“I —” Byron began. The dwarflings crowded around him again. They looked up at him, clutching his arms and hands, and prattled at him in Old Dwarvish. He looked at the happy, pleading, tear-stained faces. He looked at Weej, who only shrugged, then at the smashed skull on the floor. He breathed a deep, heavy sigh, and nodded. “All right,” Byron said. “Follow me.” Then he turned and headed for the door.

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chapter 20

The Brief Reign of King Dornthelf he giant king was regal to behold— long, dark hair, a cropped beard, and bright green eyes. On his head he wore a torque of polished gold set with a red stone. On his breast was a silver plate emblazoned with a flaming sun, jeweled and golden. He strode out ahead of his force and took his stand upon the Winsted Field. A single dwarf stepped forward from the Valleygate army. He was no less regal than the giant king. He had a war coat of polished rings and a great sword on his back. His beard was braided and bound in thongs of leather. He stopped within shouting distance and glared at the giant king with contempt and defiance. The Wanderers stood watching from the north side of the field with the dwarves of Wodys Mara. Thúmose, Thrudnelf, and the Sons of the Hammer watched in silence as the representatives of the two new armies took their places. The dwarf who stood at the head of the Valleygate army planted his feet and crossed his arms. “I am King Dorthelf of the dwarves,” he shouted at the giant king. “You are out of bounds coming here. This is dwarvish soil and your show of arms is unwelcome.”

T !

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“So, Dornthelf,” Thrudnelf muttered. “You have taken my crown from me.” “He is the traitor I claimed him to be, sire,” Thrym said. “He is, cousin Thrym,” Thrudnelf said. “And he is no longer my war duke. That responsibility I now give to you.” The dwarven king looked up at the banner of the Hammer, then down at the armor he wore. “Sons of the Hammer,” he said. “You will follow me now, all of you. Gensha, I’ll take that bundle if you please.” Without questioning, Thrym and the Sons of the Hammer took up their packs and followed Thrudnelf back into the trees. “Where can they be going at a time like this?” Raefer asked, looking back. “You will return my son to me, dwarf,” the giant king shouted across the field, “or you will see more than a show of arms! I will smite you with my own hand! I will have the head of every dwarf on this field and I will fall upon Valleygate with all my strength! I will spare none, young or old!” “Your son is dead!” Dornthelf shouted. He laughed and there was a fey look upon him. “Or wishes he were! And so would you wish it, his own father, if you knew his present plight!” An angry clamor spread through the ranks of the giants. Great swords were drawn and more than one of the huge fighters strode forward. Beside the giant king, a dark-haired lieutenant put up a hand to stop them. The giant king himself stood fast. His face went white with cold anger and he gripped the beard on his chin with slow deliberation. Then he drew forth from its scabbard the vast sword he wore at his hip. A billowing black cloud loomed down from the north and its shadow covered the field. The sky hissed with the storm-driven wind. A silver light appeared and clove the darkness. Hoofbeats tore the grass. Into the gap that divided the nations galloped the

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gleaming shape of the Unicorn. “Grudnevar, Giant King, hearken to me and heed while a chance for your son remains!” Thúmose said. “Stand away, beast!” a giant lieutenant shouted. “Forth with war comes the lord of Hollengart!” “Then war he shall have!” Dornthelf shouted back. “Dornthelf of Valleygate be silent! ” the Unicorn called. His voice cracked with a thunder that shook the ground. Quiet fell upon the field. For a moment even the wind was still. “Bring it, Mr. Thúmose!” Raefer said, intending to whisper, but the quiet was so complete that many heard it. Thúmose nickered and swished his tail. He walked forward to stand halfway between the giants and the dwarves. “Dornthelf of Valleygate,” the Unicorn said. “You are not the king of the dwarves.” A fierce murmur spread through Dornthelf’s army. They wrung the hafts of their axes and turned to one another with angry words and jerks of the chin in the Unicorn’s direction. Prince Dornthelf laughed. He raised his voice almost to a shout, speaking over his shoulder to be heard by his ranks. “I am king through right ascendance at the death of my brother and abduction of my nephew— deeds in which you yourself played a part. Here is the very beast that kidnapped your crown prince,” Dornthelf called out. His words were passed back through the lines until his entire command was buzzing with ire. “It is clear to me now what he intends,” Dornthelf continued. “He means to rule through Prince Nosh from an alien throne! Here is Thrudnelf’s murderer!” The Valleygate dwarves howled and lifted their weapons. They beat their swords against their shields until the sound of it was deafening. Dornthelf stared at the Unicorn with dark hatred

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in his eyes, but his hatred turned to question as a band of short, broad shapes took the field to stand beside the Unicorn. They came out of the forest behind the Wanderers, marching single file. They wore capes of dark blue, hemmed with silver, with their deep hoods cast over their heads. The ranks of Wodys Mara made way for them and the strange company went in total silence out through the parting, to stand in the middle of the field facing the army of dwarves. One of the hooded figures stepped forward and put back his hood. “General Thrym!” cried a voice from the Valleygate army. Dornthelf drew his sword. “You!” he shouted. “This outlaw is in league with the Unicorn! Your murderous plot is unmasked, you bloodless traitor!” Dornthelf lifted his sword and started forward. “Stay, Dornthelf,” called a voice. Dornthelf frowned and peered into the crowd of blue-caped figures. A single hooded shape, larger and broader than any, came forward. “Stay your sword, Dornthelf,” the figure said. “And let grief weigh your heart no longer.” Two hands, covered in richly tooled gauntlets of leather and chain, appeared through the front of the cape. One held a war hammer, black as jet, woven through with veins of silver and gold. The other reached up and pushed back the hood to reveal a gleaming battle-crown, wrought with gold leafing and traceries of fine filigree. Prince Dornthelf lowered his sword. His face went pale and he looked stricken. “Thrud— Thrudnelf,” he said, stepping back. King Thrudnelf moved toward his brother, throwing open his cape. “Be glad my brother,” Thrudnelf said. “The reports of my death were unfounded, as you see. Be glad.”

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Prince Dornthelf’s mouth hung open and he backed away another step. His eyes danced across his brother. He took in the fine armor of chain and plate, crafted by expert hands and set with the legendary ensign of the lost house of the Hammer. He saw the majestic new battle-crown of the same great make, and he saw the strange, terrible Hammer. But more than anything Dornthelf stared with shock and disbelief into the grim face of Thrudnelf, his king and brother. And the name of Thrudnelf was passed back through the ranks of Valleygate, so that soon the whole army was alive with it. Here was their king returned to them, in the strange livery of an ancient house of legend. “Brother,” Dornthelf said, still backing away. “You, you are alive — I —” “Are you not glad to see me?” Thrudnelf said, still moving slowly toward his brother. “It does not seem to me that you are. Are you not glad that there were spies among your spies? Are you not glad that they lied to you? Are you not glad they did not carry out your orders? Are you not glad your treachery failed?” Thrudnelf sprang and caught his brother by the front of his tunic, dragging him forward. “ARE YOU NOT GLAD!” Thrudnelf shouted and cast his brother to the ground. “Brother!” Dornthelf cried. “Brother, please!” “SILENCE!” Thrudnelf shouted. “Do not call me brother, you have surrendered your blood! You have abducted my son and sought my life, and for this you will die by my hand!” “Thrudnelf!” cried a voice from the army of Valleygate. “The dwarven king lives!” And the call was taken up. “Thrudnelf!” they cried. “Thrudnelf!” until the whole of the dwarven king’s army was chanting, “Thrudnelf! Thrudnelf!” with sword striking shield as they sang.

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Prince Dornthelf lay upon the ground staring up with terror in his face at the strength of his brother. Thrudnelf turned his back and Dornthelf glared at Thrym. “From traitor to war duke,” he said. “What fortune, eh cousin?” “From war duke to traitor,” Thrym said to Dornthelf. “It is your brother’s right to slay you. That alone stays my sword hand.” Lightning lashed the northern hills and rain came in large drops. Darkness like dusk enveloped the field. Thrudnelf strode out into the gap and turned to face his army, his cape caught upon the damp, cool wind. “Dwarves of Valleygate, behold, Harkatan! The legend come true! I am the Hammer! I am the Wielder! I am the Fist of the Maker!” The response was a vast, clamorous cry of joy and triumph. Thunder rumbled from the storm cloud. Thrudnelf turned and strode toward the giant king and called out in a loud voice. “Grudnevar of Hollengart, Giant King, I am Thrudnelf, king of the dwarves. I do not have your son, nor do I know who does or where he has been taken.” “It was dwarves who took my son,” the giant king said, “and you are lord of dwarvenkind. You are my enemy until he is returned.” “I have much with which to concern myself,” Thrudnelf said. “Your grievance must wait.” “My grievance will not wait!” the giant king shouted. The Unicorn trotted forward to stand between the kings. “Grudnevar, Giant King, your grievance is not with the Dwarves of Valleygate. Your true enemy has not shown himself.” The two kings scowled at each other as if the Unicorn were not even there. “Do not hinder me, giant,” Thrudnelf said. “Return to me my son, dwarf,” Grudnevar answered.

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“I DO NOT HAVE YOUR SON!” Thrudnelf shouted. “And my own son hangs in the balance! Do not delay me!” King Grudnevar shook his head. “My grievance will not wait.” “So be it!” Thrudnelf said, shifting the Hammer of Making to a two-handed grip. “I will fight you and be done with you!” Lightning struck the trees of the forest to the west, and fire sprang up. Rain came harder and the wind blew strong. The Wanderers watched in horror from the edge of the field, looking out over the heads of the bewildered dwarves of Wodys Mara, who stood gathered around their banner poles in awe of the two armies that occupied the field. On the Haunted Mountain, the red fire burned brighter and the dark fog thickened in the sky, mingling with the blackness of the storm. Thrym looked at the Unicorn with a face of desperate question. “Do what your king commands, Son of the Hammer,” Thúmose said. “Do well your duty to him and hope.” The giant king lifted the crux of his sword to his forehead. He swiped it through the air before him and started forward, stepping up into a run. Behind him came the giant army with their swords sheathed, their lances pointed low. Thrudnelf lifted Harkatan above his head with one hand and turned to face his army. He called out in a long battle cry that was echoed by his troops. Then Thrudnelf turned and set off running, hoisting the Hammer of Making to one side in readiness to strike. Behind him came the Sons of the Hammer, followed by the dwarvish army. Thrudnelf hoisted Harkatan in a two-handed grip above his shoulder and charged the giant king. Grudnevar of Hollengart lifted his sword and they came together in a clash of weapons. As the giant sword came down, the Hammer of Making rose up to

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meet it and the great blade of the giant king was shivered to splinters. As he passed, Thrudnelf spun and dealt a blow to Grudnevar’s knee. The giant king cried out and crashed to the ground. Lightning struck the field and for a moment it was bright as day. Thunder broke above them and the rain teemed down as the two armies drove into one another in a clash of horrid cries and ringing metal. Giants and dwarves alike fell to the ground and met their end. White and gleaming, the Unicorn went among them, seeking to hinder what killing he could, smiting with shocking blows of hoof and sideward swipes of the silver lance. “No!” Shilo cried at the sight of it. Dwarves were crushed and thrown. Giants were shot with arrows, pierced with pikes, and pulled down. The engines of the dwarves threw javelins and nets, stones and great flaming balls of lead. The giants fended off the barrage with their great shields, and charged into the dwarvish ranks, trampling and jabbing with their lances. The Wanderers recoiled in horror as a gang of dwarves used their cunning and skill to level a giant, then set about his death with sword and axe, before nodding to one another and turning to seek the next foe. “They’ll destroy each other,” Dindra said. “Thúmose needs them!” Thunder broke again, bright with lightning, but with it came another sound, a deep, sonorous sound that lasted when the thunder had passed. It vibrated in the ground and beat upon the chest, filling the ears with its tone. “It’s the bell!” Raefer said. “The bell of Showd Mazark is ringing!” Once it tolled, twice, three times, and two times more. Its call pierced the din of battle, overcame the fiercest war cry, until dwarf and giant, sword lifted, spear poised, turned to look, to listen;

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silence fell once more upon the field. When the last of the peels faded, there was another sound, the creak of stretching chains, the moan of great hinges seldom used, and the screech and grind of metal wheels rolling on rusted, curved tracks, as the Livian Doors of Showd Mazark slowly opened. It rang out across the field, filling the forest and all of Wodys Mara with a refrain that echoed upon the hills. Thunder rolled again, sending forks of lightning into the forest. The red flame on the mountain belched its blackening fume. The opening of the doors was slow and long. When at last they were fully open, everyone in the gathered masses, dwarf and giant, stood staring, their fight forgotten, at the great blackness that filled the mouth of the gaping doors. Thunder died away and all was quiet, but not for long. For into the silence there flowed a sound that froze the blood. From inside the mountain came the cry of a great host, echoing out through the Livian Gate, a cry of pain and ecstasy, desperate for blood and death. It rose to a terrifying pitch, made louder by the soundcraft of the dwarves who had carved the chambers within, and then it died away, sudden and complete. “Look!” Rufus cried. “Look at the stair. Something is moving!” An immense shadow flowed and billowed like smoke, pouring down the stair toward the field. As it neared, shapes took form in the shadow — many forms, running without sound, charging with terrible swiftness, advancing in great number onto the field. “They are coming!” cried the chief of the Arch, war chief of Wodys Mara. “The foe of the mountain is upon us!” It was as if every ear was blocked and then suddenly unblocked to the sound that was all around them. So came the din of the onrush, the cries for blood and pain, the thundering feet, the

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clamoring weapons and armor. Some magic had covered and lifted the sound. The loudness struck like a fist upon the ear and chest. And so it was also with the sight of the foe. The creeping smoke and swirling shadow obscured them at first, so that to look upon them did not cause alarm, but rather curiosity, the desire only to peer closer and espy the shapes within, shapes that lured and evaded the eye. But the camouflage dispersed and from behind it stepped a terrifying throng of snarling faces, yellowed fangs, slashing claws, bloodshot eyes, and crusted tongues. They had cruel spears and swords, visored helmets, and shirts of chain and bone and scale. On they came, the ghastly foe, from the belly of Showd Mazark. They broke upon the stupefied armies of Hollengart and Valleygate without mercy, driving deep into the gathered mass before the two armies could respond. Dwarf and giant fell together, enemies dying side by side, still rapt in the spell of distraction that cloaked their common foe. “Forward!” cried the war chief of Wodys Mara. He raised his sword and charged ahead. Behind him, the dwarves of Wodys Mara fell to confusion. They scattered in every direction, into the woods and toward the mountain, as if chasing some unseen foe, unable to hear or understand the commands of their captains and the dwarflords who led them. Fisticuffs broke out among the ranks, and the chiefs of the houses of Axe and Tower fell to fighting. Thrym charged toward the new enemy shouting commands. The Sons of the Hammer followed their war duke, taking to task the dwarves of Valleygate whose confusion had mounted to chaos and retreat. Thrym’s commands went unheard in the terrible din of the shadow-cloaked enemy. The giants too fell to disorder

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as the new enemy attacked. The kings of dwarf and giant turned from one another to behold the onslaught of the Fell horde. Thúmose galloped in to stand beside them. “Your true enemy has come!” the Unicorn said. “Behold the vanguard of the Weg! And they are aided by a magic of confusion that keeps your armies from hearing command. Only the voice of their king can break through it! Will you go to their aid and lead them? Or will you leave them to rout and confusion?” Thrudnelf and Grudnevar glared at each other as the giant king’s attendants helped him stand on his wounded knee. “Put aside this madness and fight the only foe that matters!” Thúmose bellowed, and thunder cracked above them. The kings of dwarf and giant blinked and looked about them as though a spell had broken. Thrudnelf looked at the Hammer of Making in his hand. Then he set off into the fray at a run, calling in a loud, clear voice. “To me!” he cried. “To me dwarves of Valleygate! I am the Wielder! I am the Hammer! I am the Fist of the Maker! HARKATAN!” The warriors of Thrudnelf’s army looked around at each other, their confusion lifting, and they sent up a great cheer. They began again to fight and took up the cry of their king. “HARKATAN!” they cried, and the name of the Hammer became from that day the battle cry of dwarvenkind. They carried it forth toward the Livian Doors as they drove into the Fell horde with axe and spear and sword. The dwarflords too, collected themselves, pausing to look around as if waking from sleep. The fighters of Wodys Mara heard their captains calling and returned to order, emerging from the forest or what place their madness had taken them, each to search out his captain and the banner of his house. The chief of the Arch, war chief of Wodys Mara, lifted his sword and started forward.

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Rufus bolted from the edge of the forest at a full run out onto the field. “War Chief!” he shouted. “War Chief, the catapult!” “Get back boy,” the chief of the Arch shouted. “You’ll be hurt!” Rufus waved off the war chief’s words. “The doors are open! Fire your catapult!” “Don’t be a fool, boy! Can’t you see— ?” But the war chief stopped himself and looked back at the catapult. The great arm and sling leaned forward from the work of launching the last stone. The crew all stood at their positions, awaiting command. A bright look came over the war chief’s face. “Right you are boy! Mr. Howe, give them a stone!” “Very good, Chief!” Howe shouted. “Pull it back, boys! Get one on the sling!” “Fire at will Mr. Howe!” the war chief shouted. “Do not stop until those doors are closed!” With a snap the stone was away. It hurtled through the air as before and disappeared into the darkness of the gaping Livian Doors. An echoing boom sounded inside the mountain, filled with shrieks and horrid cries. “Again, Mr. Howe! Again!” the war chief shouted. “Dwarflords, set a guard on the catapult and take your fighters in!” With a cry the dwarflords of Wodys Mara lifted their swords and charged into the fray. The catapult snapped again, and again the stone fell into the mouth of the mountain with perfect accuracy. Again there was a boom filled with anguished cries. King Thrudnelf looked back to see the chief of the Arch barking orders at his catapult, and took the idea. “Ballistae!” he shouted. “Thrym! Get the ballistae around! Point them at the doors! Fire at will!”

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Moments later the ballista core of Valleygate was firing volley after volley of javelins and flaming balls of lead through the Livian Doors. The catapult of the Arch continued to launch, dropping skull-shaped stones into the darkness. So it went until at last, with a creaking groan, the doors began to close. The tide of Fell hordes flowing out from within stopped, leaving to their own ends those of its vanguard already outside. With a great boom the Livian Doors of Showd Mazark fell shut. A cheer went up among the dwarves, and some of the giants joined in, but the Fellsmen already on the field were great in number, and came on the stronger at the loss they had suffered. “Great call, Rufus!” Raefer said, slapping his brother on the back as Rufus returned to his friends. “Way to go!” “They’ll think twice before opening the doors again!” Quill said. “I hate to say it,” Dindra said, “but I think they opened them just in time. Any longer and the dwarves and giants would have killed each other.” “Do you think Thúmose knew they were coming?” Raefer asked. “I think he knew,” Rufus replied, shaking his head with admiration. “What timing.” Quill nodded. “It couldn’t have been any closer.” “Come on everyone,” Dindra said. “We’ve got to lend a hand. Help me get what wounded we can inside the wagon burg.” The companions set out into the fray, keeping close, searching for what wounded they could find, while all around them raged the first battle in the war for Everándon.

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Journey to the Great Bazaar ast chambers of marbled stone, long tall hallways paneled with intricate carvings of once polished wood, great pillared open spaces, and many, many stairs, wide and winding, filled the hours of marching as Byron’s little band wandered the mansions of Showd Mazark, ever downward. It seemed no place had been left untouched by the ravaging war that swept the halls in the last days of the dwarf kingdom. Whole systems of rooms that had once been the fine homes of the major dwarf houses were ransacked until nothing remained intact, or even easily recognizable. Cabinets were overturned and splintered, bedding shredded and burned, tapestries piled and defiled. Anything glass seemed to have received especially close attention. The halls were littered with the remains of the fallen, though they were more dust than bone after so many years. Any foul smell had long given over to the simple mustiness of ancient ruin. Heavy dust and cobwebs covered everything. They marched in a tight bunch. Their footsteps echoed in the vastness, and the whispers of the children sounded loud and clear. Byron winced and shook his head often at the noise. After

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a lengthy, and what seemed a terribly noisy march, he led them to an open plaza surrounded by porticoes. Byron halted the group and they stood looking out onto the wide, paved area. Terraced walks bordered by low, sundered walls wandered among a garden of statues broken at the neck and arms by the blows of the enemy. When the echoes of their passage faded, the whole place was silent except for the sound of trickling water. “Sounds like a fountain,” Weej said. “I don’t suppose it’s a talking fountain?” Byron said, letting the monocle drop and rubbing his eye. “Maybe it could tell us the way out.” “I don’t understand, sir,” Mirnle said. “Never mind,” Byron said. “Sorry. Keep ’em together and follow me.” The fountain was wrought of stone and metal in the likeness of a tall mountain. At the top, fashioned from some golden metal, stood the shape of a flame, from which flowed a steady stream of clear water. All around the base of the mountain were the remains of a wall that had once trapped the water in a pool and sent it by troughs of stone out into the reaches of the garden. Now the water flowed out onto the paths and seeped down into the cracks of the paving stones. “Rathrâgodrak,” Byron said, gazing up at the mountain. “The Old Mountain, sir?” Mirnle said. “Do you think so?” “I sure do, Mirnle,” Byron said. “They did a job on this pool wall, but they couldn’t destroy the Balefire. I wonder what it’s made of.” “Did you hear that?” Weej said. Byron looked back. “Hear what?” “Listen,” Weej said, holding up his hand. A moment passed in silence. Then another. Then from some-

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where far off came the sound of a single boom that echoed up from the lower levels. “What do you think that was?” Weej asked. “It sounded like a door knocker,” Byron said. “A really big one. We’d better keep moving.” He scooped up a handful of water from the fountain and tasted it. “Everybody drink. As much as you can hold.” Byron drank the contents of his waterskin and filled it again. Then he joined the company in taking his fill from the fountain. He wiped his face and neck with the cold water, and when the others were ready, he pressed on. They passed through another mansion of great vaulted rooms and halls. Down another wide stair, they heard the sound again, a deep hammering boom, faint and far, but clear. The echo lasted for several seconds, then faded into silence. “It was louder that time,” Byron said. Mirnle nodded, hugging a frightened dwarfling girl to her. “It was closer,” Mirnle said. “Did you feel it that time, sir?” “Yes, I felt it,” Byron said. “Mirnle, will you tell the children I’m proud of them? They’re doing great.” Mirnle smiled and nodded. She spoke a few words to the dwarflings in their own language, and they all smiled at Byron, talking amongst themselves. “Tell them I’m sorry if I was sharp with them before,” Byron said. “Don’t worry, sir,” Mirnle said. “I already told them that.” “Oh,” Byron said, “well, thanks Mirnle.” “What do you think that noise was?” Weej asked. “It sounds like the great door at the Lore Pavilion,” Byron said. “What’s the Lore Pavilion, sir?” Mirnle said.

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“Back where I live,” Byron said, “in Hiding Wood. It’s a big chamber of all stone and wood. There’s a huge tall door going in. It sounds like that when it closes.” The boom sounded again. “Down there,” Byron said. “Down that stair. Come on.” At the bottom of the stair they stepped out onto a wide balcony, protected by an ornate stone railing that swept out to the left and right for as far as anyone could see. The company approached the railing and looked down on a terrible drop. They were standing on a great balcony that wrapped all the way around the walls of a vast chamber. Below them was another balcony just like it, and below that another. There were many balconies stacked one above the next descending into thick shadow, all looking out on the same drop. At the bottom, very far down, there were torches burning, and a great mass of churning shadows lurked in the orange light. But there was no sound. “That must be the bazaar,” Weej said. Byron nodded and looked up. There were many balconies above them. “I’d say so. I’d say this is the center of the kingdom.” “It’s all the same balcony, sir,” Mirnle said, “winding down and down, all the way around, you see?” “You’re right, Mirnle,” Byron said. “Looks like the main road of the place, connecting all the levels.” The balconies wound like a long tube all the way around the inside of the mountain. The railing side of it was open, and the inner wall and ceiling of each level was arched, supported by heavy wooden ribs, and paneled with planks of the same dark wood. It was all inlaid with brass and bone and shell. Great vent holes were cut into the floor and covered with grates of brass to prevent anything falling to the next level.

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“It’s like the guts of some huge musical instrument,” Byron said. “We have a hill at home called Whistletop. It’s got tunnels and holes all over it. When the wind blows across it, it sounds like a lot of huge, deep whistles or flutes.” “You figure the wind comes blowing through here very much?” Weej asked. “I don’t know, maybe,” Byron said. “Well, that’s our way down, eh?” Weej said, leaning out over the railing. “But down into what?” Byron said. “I don’t like the look of those shadows.” Weej shrugged. “That’s the army. Those are their fires.” Byron stared. “The army of the Weg?” “Well,” Weej said, “if that’s the Great Bazaar, then that’s the army of the Weg, because the Great Bazaar is where the Weg keeps its army.” “And that’s the way to the lower crypt,” Byron said, looking down the railing at the dwarflings who were stretching and straining to peek over. “We have to go that way.” Another loud boom sounded in the deep. It was louder and nearer than it had been, ringing up from the darkness of the bazaar. Each of the companions jumped and started at the sudden shock, but far below, the army did not stir. Their fires flickered, but when the echo faded at last, there was silence. “What do you figure that is?” Byron asked, leaning out to look down. “Someone’s hammering at the front gate,” Mirnle said. “That great door we came through when we first got here, it’s down there somewhere. “But what makes a sound like that?” Byron said. “A battering ram, maybe,” Weej said.

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“Well, let’s hope it keeps them busy,” Byron said. “Come on.” The little company picked their way through the ruin. Overturned wagons and carts, baskets, boxes, chests; the signs of flight were everywhere. The long, winding avenue was crowded with debris, but a wide swath had been carved through it all. “Who do you suppose cleared this path?” Byron said. “Fellsmen,” Weej said. “They plundered this place after the dwarves were all gone. Notice there’s nothing left that’s worth anything? Just the junk and wreckage.” “Fellsmen know their work,” Mirnle said. Byron nodded. “And they had all the time in the world to do it.” Down and down they went along the spiraling way, ever closer to the great main level of the Hearth of the Dwarves. The army below was silent. Nothing stirred but the bobbing fires and the shadows they threw. Byron leaned against the railing to look up at all the many levels they had descended, then down at the dozen or so that remained. In the firelight below he saw the glint of armor and sword, spear tip and helmet, the first clear sign of the army that waited. The remaining levels were open and easy to pass, but Byron led his company with greater caution than ever. At last they reached the balcony that looked out across the Great Bazaar. Byron stepped up to the railing to look out. There, below him by just fifty feet, was the army of the Weg, all of them seated and silent, waiting. The horrid smell of so many Fellsmen in one place shocked Byron’s head and chest. It knocked him back off the railing and to the floor. “Sir, you’ve got to be more careful,” Mirnle said. “Don’t you see that army down there?” “I —” Byron said, blinking and shaking his head as he fought with the churning in his stomach. “Sorry, Mirnle.”

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“Look,” Weej whispered, peeking out through the carved spindles of the overlook railing. “What is it?” Mirnle asked. “Shadow,” Byron said, looking out through eyes still watering. He held his nose as he spoke. “Or fog.” A thick darkness began to swirl on the floor of the Great Bazaar, dimming, and then swallowing the light of the little fires that burned everywhere. For the first time the army stirred. A vast murmur went up and with it came the sound of a great host rising to its feet. Still, it was done with the greatest possible silence and care, and soon the army was quiet again, cloaked in the utter darkness that wafted about them in the form of a mysterious black fog. Then somewhere high up a great bell tolled. The sound was loud and deep, and flowed down from the heights. The wood and vent holes of the spiraling avenue resonated with the sound, filling up with it and carrying it, enhancing it, shaping it as it wound down from the unseen place high in the top of Showd Mazark. It peeled through the great central chamber with a clear, controlled, even tone. Once it tolled, twice, three times, and two times more. When the last of the peels faded, there was another sound, the creak of stretching chains, the moan of great hinges seldom used, and the screech and grind of metal wheels rolling on rusted, curved tracks, as the Livian Doors of Showd Mazark slowly opened. Three lines slit the floor of the bazaar, all the way up the back wall as dim daylight appeared through the doors, growing ever wider. Lightning flashed in the sky outside, and rain teemed; for a moment the army gathered on the Great Bazaar sprang into view. The lightning passed and the hall went dark again. Then

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another stroke fell outside, woven with the sound of heavy thunder that filled the hall. Byron’s stomach dropped in horror at the sight of the army, waiting on the great main level, to do the bidding of its master, the Weg. Then the Fell host screamed as one. It was a cry of pain and ecstasy, desperate for blood and death. Byron and his companions clung to one another, crippled and screaming in fear. They screamed with all their lungs and voices, but it was lost in the vast, terrifying cry that filled the Great Bazaar and wound upward, carried by the soundcraft of the dwarves. It rose to a terrifying pitch, and then it died and was gone, sudden and complete. And the host moved forward. Byron peered out from the balcony; he saw only a great creeping, writhing shadow moving through the Livian Doors. Lightning cut the sky again, but no light pierced the shadow. It flowed and billowed like smoke, pouring out into the world beyond. Byron shook his head and ground his teeth to unblock his ears. All sound vanished from the hall as if drawn off by some powerful, silent wind. He shouted to Mirnle, but she shook her head and shouted something back that Byron could not hear. Then, suddenly, all sound was restored in a din of thundering feet, clamoring weapons and armor, and frenzied voices crying for blood and pain. The sudden loudness struck like a fist upon the ear and chest. It was endless. The host issued from deep inside the halls and there seemed no limit to their number. Rank after rank spilled forward. Suddenly they checked, falling to confusion, and the protective shadow-fog lifted. A great, skull-shaped stone hurtled in through the open Livian Doors and fell among the hordes. It crushed a swath as it struck and rolled across the wide stone floor of the Bazaar. The sound of it boomed to the heights, and the cries of the Fellsmen were awful.

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Another stone roared through, striking down among the horde without mercy, carving through their ranks like a scythe. A few moments later the dark shafts of ballista fire could be seen in the forks of lightning that fell beyond the door, and balls of flame shot, scattering among the Fellsmen in fiery bursts. The great arrows came like a swarm of bees, falling into the Fell host from the foe outside the mountain. Stone after skull-shaped stone hurtled in, javelin after unseen hissing javelin shore through the darkness, and the flames of the burning shot spread in patches among the ranks. At last the chains clinked and chattered and the great hinges groaned, wheels grinding, as the Livian Doors closed, stopping the flow of Fellsmen that surged out to war, holding back a vast frenzied throng howling for blood and revenge. “That’s the dwarves of the valley,” Weej said, pressing his back to the railing and covering his head. “This is the siege they’ve been planning!” “We’ve got to get clear of this place!” Byron cried. He set off across the balcony toward the far side of the bazaar. The tumult of the Fell horde was deafening. Swords clashed, voices howled and shrieked. Through the railing Byron saw the fires springing up again, casting shadows all around the place. The march to the far side of the bazaar seemed interminable. Once across, they passed through an archway, to a wide steep stair. At the bottom of the first flight, they stood before a long portico that opened into the central chamber of the main level. There was the Fell horde, yards away, still howling and pressing forward, calling for the Livian Doors to be opened. Byron led the company on, passing down the second flight and out of sight. The noise of the throng quieted as they rounded the sweep of the stair. At the foot, all was nearly quiet and they stood in dim torchlight before another portico like the one above.

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“It’s just like upstairs,” Weej said. “But empty,” Mirnle said. Byron shook his head. “No, there must be more guards around somewhere, we’ve got to stay sharp.” “The bazaar is supposed to be three levels,” Weej said. “Well, let’s keep moving,” Byron said. “I guess the lower crypt is still down from here.” A third sweeping stair brought them to another floor of the bazaar, exactly like the upper two. It was vast and high and pillared porticoes surrounded it. There was more debris littering the place, but it was plain some effort had been made to clear it. Torches burned on the walls, and far out on the floor a single fire burned. Byron led his company all the way to the back wall of the bazaar, deep in the shadows, keeping the fire to his right. “You were right, sir,” Mirnle said. “That must be a guard fire.” “Guarding what?” Weej asked. “Who’d want to come here that didn’t have to?” “Well,” Byron said, “just so long as they stay over there.” “Looks like we’ve got the place to ourselves then, eh, Francis?” said a voice. “I’d say so, Dominic. I’d say so,” said another. “And all the time in the world for fun with our guests,” said a third. From the shadows stepped three dark forms. They had large hairy heads and long, pointed ears that stuck out. Their eyes were yellow, their teeth were pointed and brown. Their armor clinked as they dragged their weapons across the stone floor. Byron breathed through his mouth, but still gagged from the stench of them. They came from surrounding directions, and when Byron made a move for his knife, the largest of them snatched up one

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of the dwarflings and drew a long, chipped dagger. “Now, don’t do anything rash,” it said, tucking the squirming dwarf child under his arm. “That’s my job, see?” Byron stopped in his tracks and glared at the dark shape of the Fellsman. “Put that baby down!” Mirnle cried. “You put her down!” “Yes, put her down, Francis!” one of the guards said in a mocking voice. “Put her down, you beast!” “Oh, I mean to,” Francis said. “Down my gullet, with a nice lump of bread. This mob will keep us fed for a week, wouldn’t you say so, Leonard?” “Most of a week at least,” Leonard said. “A bit of a consolation prize, then,” Dominic said, “for us not getting to join the fun above.” “Small consolation,” Francis said. “Nothing beats outnumbering a screaming dwarf.” “You’ve got that right,” Leonard said. “I’ve been wanting action for weeks now. Instead I’m stuck leading patrol on an empty level.” “Well,” Dominic said, “maybe this here goat-thing can give you a bit of exercise, eh, captain?” Dominic stepped up and drew his sword. It was nicked and blackened with blood, and the back edge was serrated all along its length. He flipped it around in his hand and stuck the pommel out at Byron. “There you are, master. You wanted a go, have a go.” Byron stood there, his wide eyes dancing between the sword hilt and the face of the bugbear. He glanced at the dwarflings. “TAKE THE SWORD!” Dominic shouted. Byron shot out his hands and took the sword hilt. Dominic let go and the blade clattered to the stone floor as Byron struggled

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to hold the weight of it. He kept his grip, but could hardly do more than drag the tip of the sword along the ground. “There you are, Leonard,” Dominic said with a sneering laugh. “A right dwarvish warrior for you to carve. With my compliments, sir, and I pray you’ll remember me for it. LIFT THAT SWORD AND FIGHT, DWARF!” Leonard set the dwarfling down and lifted a large, heavy mace. With a wide grin, he stepped forward and stood before Byron, who looked up at the bugbear with a mix of terror and anger in his face. A trembling rage mounted inside him as Leonard lifted his mace to strike. Byron let the huge sword clatter to the floor and drew his knife, falling into a crouch, preparing to spring. “Miroaster!” cried a distant, echoing voice. “Left side! On the left!” Byron gasped. It was faint and far, but clear, and there was no mistaking the name he had heard. “Miroaster,” he said. Leonard stopped with his mace above his head, and turned toward the sound. Francis wheeled around, and Dominic snatched up the sword Byron had dropped. All three guards had fear in their faces. They wrung their weapons and shifted on their feet, glancing back and forth between their prisoners and the direction from which the voice had come. “It’s the ghosts,” Francis said, fretting and stepping back. “They say this level is haunted.” “This whole place is haunted,” said Dominic. “Haunted by It.” “No,” Francis said. “Not It. Something else. Something that makes even It uneasy.” “That’s a lot of swag,” Dominic said. “Let’s kill them and get out of here.” “It isn’t swag,” Francis said. “It’s true. My cousin had patrol

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down here for a whole month until he started hearing the ghosts. When It heard the tales It pulled everyone out and put sparse watch on the level. It’s true I say. We should get out of here.” Dominic growled. “Kill them I say!” “If it’s swag then why are we all crowded together above?” Francis demanded. “Plenty of room down here and easy to get to and fro.” The voice came again, louder and nearer. “Miroaster, to me!” Leonard stared into the darkness, listening. “It’s the ghosts I tell you!” Francis said. “Not ghosts,” Byron said. “Shut up, you!” Leonard said and he raised his hand to strike Byron. The voice called again. “Left side!” it shouted. It was angry and there came with it the sound of swords clashing. “I’m out,” Leonard said, backing away. “I’m out of it.” “You coward,” Dominic growled. “I should—” But his words were cut short by a blow to the head from Leonard’s mace. Dominic dropped to the ground and didn’t move. “You stay if you want to,” Leonard said to Francis. “I’m going. These little rats aren’t worth it. We’ll leave ’em down here with— with whatever that is out there.” “Well you’ll get no fight from me,” Francis said. “We’ve been here too long already in my book.” Leonard looked at Byron and his company. “You make no move to follow and we’ll leave you to your luck, see? I won’t take the time to cut fifteen throats with that noise out there threatening. Call this your lucky day.” Francis and Leonard headed off toward the stair, leaving Dominic dead at Byron’s feet. Their footfalls were heavy on the

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steps and the sound of the slamming door filled the cavernous chamber for a long time. In the silence that followed, the sounds of battle returned, louder and clearer than ever. Above the clamor the same urgent, commanding voice called out again. “Gelleden, get her out!” it cried. “Kenyon, Mikal, the rest of you, out! By the Unicorn, get her out! Miroaster to me!” “Sir?” Mirnle said. The dwarflings were fretting and chattering ever more loudly. “Everyone follow me,” Byron said. “No sound now, if you can help it.” “Where are we going?” Weej asked. “That way,” Byron said, pointing in the direction of the strange sounds. “Toward the ghosts?” Weej said. “Not ghosts,” Byron said. “Echoes. Weej, Mirnle, grab yourselves a couple of torches. All right everybody, let’s go.”

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Fire-speak words and helmets, eyes and fangs glinted with firelight. Shadows leaped huge on the smoke-like fog that billowed down from the red flame on top of Ratheméndurin. Fires sprang up all over the field as the dwarf fighters kindled torches against the unnatural dark. Flaming arrows and crossbow bolts flicked across the sky in long arching volleys. The ballista core of Valleygate lit their javelins, and Mr. Howe, the engine chief of the house of the Arch, changed out the leather sling on the catapult for a net of chain. He set about launching great chunks of flaming ore and sulfurous stone into the throng. The stones exploded when they struck the ground, sending jagged chunks of fiery ruin in every direction. Most numerous were the kobbelds, bugbears, and hoblins who bred in large number in the forests and hills and under the mountains of Everándon. The small, sharp-faced kobbelds had thick, tough hides and well-crafted weapons and armor. They wore tall furry helmets and long hauberks of scales and rings. They were well-ordered, taking command from leaders, executing maneuvers long practiced in their subterranean camps. The bugbears were larger than kobbelds, squat and hairy with yellow eyes and dagger-shaped teeth. They wore crude armor of

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wood, and carried clubs or sharp stones. They were wild and heedless, not even bothering to take weapons or armor from the fallen, so dim were their minds in their bent for violence. Larger still were the hoblins. They were more ordered than bugbears, but still crude and chaotic compared with the kobbelds. Hidden beneath heavy helmets, the hoblins bore weapons and armor of some craft, and wore the skulls and ears of their victims on their belts. Even those creatures that normally lived alone in the far reaches of the land had come in great number. Tall skaves went about with blood on their faces and gnarled limbs, grinning and staring with unblinking eyes at the chaos around them. Tunnel wights and nesters roved in the chaos, hunting the injured and the stray. Pincer-faced umpershunts burrowed with alarming speed to great depth, then emerged in search of victims to drag below ground for a hideous, torturous demise. But it was the snarling heath trolls that caused true panic among the dwarves. They wore heavy armor of plate and chain, and carried clubs wrapped in iron and set with spikes. Any dwarf who came into their clutches was tossed from one troll to the next, then swatted out of the air by an ironclad club. A game broke out among the heath trolls when they had gathered enough prisoners. Nearly a dozen dwarves met their brutal end by the sport before a troop of giants intervened and scattered what trolls they could not catch and kill. The companions watched in horror, hardly able to move. Rufus stood with an arrow on the string, staring in disbelief at the confusion. A single, two-voiced cry rose above the din. “That sounded like an ettin,” Raefer said. “Can anybody see it?” “I can’t tell dwarf from hoblin,” Quill said, peering into the dancing fire and shadows.

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“You’re squinting again, Quill,” Shilo said. “Well, look how dark it is,” Quill said in protest. Shilo looked at her sidelong. “You’d be squinting anyway.” “I heard it too, Raefer,” Dindra said. “I hope that’s the sound they make when they keel over,” Raefer said. “Look, there it is!” Out of the shadows stepped a huge creature, twelve feet tall or more. It had two heads, each looking around at the field, frowning with consternation, searching for something to kill. It wore a striped shirt of the finest weave with a checked tweed jacket and matching trousers tucked into high brown boots. In its hand it carried a long, heavy cudgel of dark wood, knotted and polished. The ettin’s left head had a full face with a dimpled chin. It wore an arrogant smile, sucking in its cheeks and lifting an eyebrow slightly. It had long, curly hair over which it made a great fuss, tossing it often with jerks of its head. Its right head was stern and did not smile. It had a square jaw and close cropped hair. It looked with contempt at everything around it. “That’s an ettin?” Raefer asked. “It sure is,” said a dwarf standing near. “That’s Aloisius the ettin from the western woods. How’d they get him to join?” The monster stepped from the crowd, leaned on its stick, and plucked a watch on a chain from its pocket. The longhaired head looked at the watch, rolled its eyes, and put the watch away as the stern, close-cropped head surveyed the battle. Then with both heads the ettin let out a wail that ripped through all the noise of battle. It went forward with frightening savagery, brutalizing its foes with vicious blows of its cudgel, stopping to pluck a piece of grass from its lapel, and stepping lightly to avoid sullying its boots. The Fell horde swarmed in vicious packs, attacking without mercy, singling out loners or overwhelming small groups. Both

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the giants and the dwarves took to holding together in the largest columns they could form, taking turns to defend the edges from the onslaught. But their ranks were split into hopelessly small bands, each cut off from the rest like small islands in a hostile sea. The Valleygate dwarves defended the wagon burg of their king with long pikes. They cried his rally when they saw him fighting his way home. Rufus fired two arrows for the dwarven king, who leaped onto the wagon where the companions were gathered. He lifted the Hammer of Making and called out in a loud, clear voice. “Fall back dwarves of Valleygate!” he cried. “Fall back to the wagon burg of the Hammer!” Thrym and the Sons of the Hammer, out deep in the fray, echoed his call to those still further away, and began fighting their way to the king. A large creature stepped up to challenge Thrym. Its long arms ended not in hands or claws, but each in a single bony hook, big and sharp as a sickle blade. It leaped out at Thrym, swiping at the dwarf with both arms in a scissoring motion. The war duke ducked and stepped, cleaving the creature’s knees and jabbing its body. Thrym used his sword in expert fashion, and was on his way again before it doubled over dead. “Blasted gixxen,” Thrym said as he reached the group. “The field is full of them. They don’t care who they kill, even the Fellsmen don’t want them around. Well done, Rufus, calling for that catapult strike.” “Where is the giant king?” Thrudnelf demanded. “Beset among the barrows,” Thrym said, “or so it is rumored. His captains took him there to see to his wound.” “I regret now dealing him that wound,” Thrudnelf said, “and the sundering of his sword. His strength is needed here.”

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Those dwarves of Valleygate who could, flocked to the call of their king and war duke, but far more of them were caught on the field in the firelit fray, rallying under lesser command to fight for their lives as best they could. Many were caught alone, or in groups too small to last long in the mayhem. One small group made it to shouting distance from the wagon burg. But they stopped there, calling for help, fighting in the thicket of Fellsmen that surrounded the wagon burg hundreds deep. Their cries were faint among the shrieks of the hordes, but it was Thrudnelf himself who responded. “I am with you!” he shouted, leaping down from the wagon. He dashed forward, lifting Harkatan with both hands. Gensha of the Bear followed close behind. “Thrudnelf is with you!” the dwarven king cried. “I am the Hammer!” “The Hammer!” Thrym cried from the wagon burg. “Harkatan!” The dwarves on the field took up the call and fought on, hewing with new strength. Thrudnelf smote upon his foe. None stood long who came before him. He plowed his way forward, opening a passage for the small company of dwarves who stood in a circle defending their fallen comrades. The dwarves saw their king and gave a great shout, as he came among them. “Sire!” one of them shouted. “We are the last of the ballista core! The ballistae are taken!” “Follow me, all of you!” Thrudnelf shouted. One of the dwarves lay wounded, axe in weakened hands, waiting for death. Thrudnelf charged in, hoisted the wounded dwarf onto his back, and strode out again, wielding Harkatan with his free hand, leading his fighters toward shelter. But the Fellsmen were many. Even Thrudnelf could not fight them all. Three of his fighters fell to the pressing throng. Thrudnelf

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swung Harkatan until no Fellsman would face him, but the enemy pressed in so that Thrudnelf himself stood alone. Then another cry went up — a strong eager cry of war and loyalty. “The Wheel!” cried a single voice, and there was a stir of confusion and fear among the Fellsmen. “The Wheel for the Hammer!” From out of the fray came the chief of the Wheel, his great sword glinting as it slashed and jabbed. Behind him came dozens of his fellows, wild with the lust of battle, several naked and berserk. Fellsmen fell and died at their feet, shrieking and clawing for balance and escape. The dwarves of the Wheel went to and fro without heed. Many wounded fought on, though their own blood was in their eyes. “The Wheel for the Hammer!” the chief of the Wheel shouted, lifting his sword as he came before Thrudnelf. “Harkatan declares you sire, but not more so than your deeds! I swear myself to you, and all my house with me. Late, perhaps, but not too late to die in service to my king!” Thrudnelf shifted the weight of the wounded dwarf he bore on his back, and hoisted Harkatan in salute. “Your fealty will be repaid!” he said. “Come, Gensha, your strength is needed. Now for the wagon burg!” “Forth the Wheel!” the chief of the Wheel shouted. His fighters echoed his cry. They lifted the fallen and wounded dwarves of Valleygate and set off behind their king. With Harkatan before them they cleared a path to the wagons. Many Fellsmen died by the hammer blow, but many more fled before it. Aloisius the ettin struggled to reach the fleeing dwarves, but could not break through the rush of panicked Fellsmen that moved against him, soiling his waistcoat. “Out of my way you filthy beasts!” he shouted and beat them with his cudgel.

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Thrudnelf, followed by Gensha of the Bear, the ballista core of Valleygate, and the dwarves of the Wheel reached their comrades who gave them cover with volley after volley of precious arrows. Thrudnelf passed the wounded dwarves onto the wagons, then turned to count each dwarf who scrambled up, aided by reaching hands. The Berserks stayed back to fend off pursuit, then charged off in different directions, driven by the battle frenzy. “Now you!” Thrudnelf said to the chief of the Wheel, who had come last, along with Gensha of the Bear. The Wheel stood back. “Not I. Not before my king is safe.” “Nor I,” Gensha said. “I will shield you with my body, sire.” “No you will not,” Thrudnelf said with a smile, “for you will hinder the reach of my arm. But if you must remain then stay back against the shield wall.” With that, the dwarven king turned, gripping Harkatan before him, to meet the pursuing horde. They stopped in their tracks when Thrudnelf faced them, eyes dancing from his face to the Hammer in his hands, to the bodies of the fallen Fellsmen that littered the ground where the dwarven king had passed. “Look at that!” Rufus said, pointing off to the left, above the fray. Down the field, a banner pole took flame and was pulled down. “The wagon burg of the Arch is taken!” someone cried. “So falls an ancient house!” “The catapult is lost,” Thrym said, watching the banner pole fall. “First the ballistae and now the catapult. That leaves the doors unassailed.” “What does that mean?” Quill said. “It means they’ll be opening the Livian Doors again,” Rufus said. “They can release the rest of the horde.” Thrudnelf turned to the chief of the Wheel. “On your knees

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to be knighted, sir,” Thrudnelf said. “By the Hammer I will knight you ere we die. Thrym, you also, and Gensha, and you Sons of the Hammer, to me!” Without speaking the chief of the Wheel dropped to his knees before his king. Thrym and the Sons of the Hammer all jumped down from the wagon burg and kneeled beside him. Thrudnelf passed before them, holding out Harkatan for each dwarf to kiss. “Do you swear loyalty to me and my house, to live and to die for my person and for all of my line?” “I do so swear,” each one said. “Then I create you Knights of the First Order of the Hammer,” Thrudnelf said. “Rise and be recognized.” The Fellsmen watching grumbled and wrung their weapons, but they did not approach, so well had the lesson of Harkatan been taught them. All over the field the battle raged on. The wagon burgs were beset, surrounded, cut off, each with its own desperate situation to face. But before the wagon burg of the Hammer, a moment of dread fell upon the foe. They stood still, fearful, faced as they were with the wrath of the dwarven king. Only those nearest by could be seen in the shadowy orange glow of torches. Beyond them was a sea of darkness that writhed and moved, lit in places by fires against which moved black shapes. The sounds of fighting came from everywhere in the distance, but around the wagon burg a near silence fell, broken only by the crackle of fire, the jingling of armor and weapon, and the wicked, whispering voices of the Fellsmen. “Thrudnelf,” they called, grinning at the refugees in the wagon burg. “Hail, Dwarven King, all in a fix!” “What’s to become of the dwarven king?” “You’re mine, Thrudnelf!”

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One of the bugbears pointed at Raefer and locked eyes with him. “Here little master!” the creature said, “come out and play in the darkness.” Raefer shuddered and looked at the brute, trying not to seem frightened. Rufus glanced at his brother with a dark, protective look. Then he snapped his hand back behind his ear, set an arrow to his bow, and let it fly. A moment later the bugbear lay gasping, clutching the black-feathered shaft in his neck. A howl went up from the Fellsmen. They lifted their weapons and pounded their shields. They started forward, but a single voice, gravelly and loud, cut through their din. There was a commotion in the ranks, and a horrid figure stepped to the fore. It was larger by far than any of the Fellsmen, except the ettins and trolls. It was broad across the shoulders, and had long, wiry limbs. Its face was scarred and hairy, puckered and blotched, and it wore its stringy hair pulled left and right into pigtails. It carried a great, black sword with cruel angles and edges. It tipped its head like a young girl as it glanced at the arrow-stricken bugbear. Thrudnelf lifted his chin in recognition. “Lady Veronica,” he said. Lady Veronica grinned, showing her jagged teeth. “Why Thrudnelf,” she said in a raspy voice, “I’m delighted you remember me, how lovely. Have you been thinking of me very much?” Thrudnelf did not speak. He stood his ground in silence, glaring at Veronica. “Then maybe you remember my friend, the Shambler?” Veronica said. Another hulking form stepped forward, nearly as tall and broad as Veronica, wearing a huge, round helmet like a kettle on

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his head. He stood arms akimbo, looking out through the trap door gate in his mask. “Are you in charge of this rabble, Thrudnelf?” the Shambler asked. “Do not approach this garth,” Thrudnelf said. “Or I will smite you with Harkatan. Flee now, grub, so that at least your skin will be left to you.” “Do you hear?” the Shambler said to Lady Veronica. “Arrogance, plain arrogance. Oh, we don’t plan to approach just yet, Thrudnelf, no.” The Shambler opened the gate in his mask and spat upon the ground. “No, indeed. First we’ve got a little show just for you, Dwarven King.” “That was quite a display, Thrudnelf,” Lady Veronica said, “knighting all those clever little fellows out here in the open, and our lot too afraid of you to do anything about it.” “Veronica, may we please get on with this?” said the foppish, longhaired head of Aloisius the ettin. “I’d like to be home before the snow flies,” he continued, speaking with the stern, shorthaired head. “Patience, Aloisius,” Lady Veronica said, “patience. I think you’ll enjoy our little surprise. Certainly more than Thrudnelf will.” Aloisius sighed and rolled his eyes. He shifted his weight to one foot, put one hand on his hip and leaned on his cudgel with the other. Lady Veronica looked back at the mob of Fellsmen behind her. “CAGES FORWARD!” she shouted in a throaty shriek. A pair of bugbears stepped from the crowd, carrying between them a cage built of branches and twigs all woven together with grass into the likeness of a hollow man about eight feet tall. The chest and head were empty, but the legs and arms were all stuffed with dried grass and sticks, dripping with oil that glistened in the

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firelight. More cages like it were brought forward until a great circle of the strange devices formed all the way around the wagon burg. “We’ll start with a little demonstration,” Lady Veronica said, stepping up to one of the cages. The front of the chest swung open on a loose hinge of grassy rope. She stuffed a sack of grass and sticks inside the cage and shut the door. Then she took a torch from a nearby Fellsman and touched it to the legs and arms. In seconds, the strange cage was burning, standing there like a blazing statue. Veronica threw back her head and gave a terrifying howl. “Bring ’em forward!” she shouted, her wild eyes full of firelight. She stared at Thrudnelf and the watchers on the wagon burg, laughing. They all looked on in confusion and fear as pair after pair of hoblins came forward, each pair escorting a bound, blindfolded dwarf between them. “Oh no,” Raefer said as he realized what was happening. “No, please, no.” “What?” Quill said with terror cracking her voice. “What are they doing?” The whole company looked on in horror as the first dwarf was led before the next cage down from the one still burning. They took off his blindfold, opened the chest cage door, stuffed the dwarf inside, shut the door, fastened it, and stood back. A large, visor-faced hoblin stepped forward holding a torch, waiting for the command to touch off the cage. “Please!” the dwarf cried, clutching at the wooden cage. “PLEASE!” “Please, please,” Lady Veronica said with a shrill, mocking voice. “Someone help!” Thrudnelf and his company looked on in astonished horror.

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The Fellsmen stepped up, forming a wall of pikes and leveled crossbows to prevent Thrudnelf from approaching. Rufus bent his bow and aimed at the dwarf in the cage. Thrudnelf looked back at him and nodded his approval. “What are you doing?” Shilo asked. “I can’t let him feel that fire,” Rufus said. Quill, Raefer, and Dindra stared at Rufus in horrified awe. Shilo looked in disbelief from Rufus to the dwarf inside the cage. She swayed where she stood and her eyes became bright and wide. As the bowstring sang she put up her hand as if to fend off a blow. A sound like many voices came from her and she uttered a single word: “ANDARATHESH!” It was so forceful that every head turned toward her. Rufus’s arrow burst into flames and fell to ash, disappearing into the shadowy air before him. Shilo stood there with a wild look in her eyes, her hand up, fingers splayed, head tilted to the side. Her lips were moving, and as she lifted her other hand, she turned her fey look upon the Fell horde. First she made no sound, then her words came in a whisper, then a bit louder until she was shouting with the voice of many voices. A wind lifted her hair and cape and she blared out another cry: “HEN FOKASHED NEMAT!” The strange wicker man creaked and clicked and came to life. It opened its chest, leaned forward, and dumped the dwarf to the ground. Then it reached down with both arms and grabbed the torch-bearing hoblin as the terrified brute tried to back away. The wicker man clutched the creature to itself and caught fire, taking the shrieking hoblin with it. Then it turned and ran to the next wicker man in the circle, set fire to it, and ran off into the crowd of Fellsmen to spread its flaming havoc among them. Coming quickly to flame, the second wicker statue sprang to

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life also and spread its fire to the next before turning and charging into the crowd like the first had done. Shilo’s quickening fire passed from one wicker man to the next until the entire circle of forty or more was running amuck in the Fell throng, grabbing anything it could reach with magical strength. Already packed tight around the wagon burg, the crowd was crammed still tighter in their efforts to see the spectacle prepared for Thrudnelf by Lady Veronica and the Shambler. They fled and fought each other, screaming and shouting, hacking and trampling as Shilo’s magic spread chaos among them. The fire people worked their way deep into the crowd, leaving behind them a charred trail until they broke down to ruin and collapsed into piles of burning wood. Shilo stood there with her hands up, the strange wind still rushing over her. Her chest heaved as she gulped for breath. The wind died and the wild look left her. She leaned against Dindra for balance. The companions shared a look of awe and concern before Rufus and Raefer helped Shilo down off the wagon. The Warra novice cast herself upon the ground shaking and coughing and she lay there until her breathing grew calm and the peace of deep, sudden sleep overtook her.

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chapter 23

A Trail of Valor hadows fled the light of Byron’s torch at the bottom of another stair. Byron, Mirnle, Weej, and the dwarflings entered still another great room. It seemed impassible with clutter and debris. The floor was covered with armored remains, broken weapons, and bones. The fallen were everywhere, covered with the gathered filth and spiderwebs of the long years. “What happened here?” Weej said. “The battle for Showd Mazark,” Byron said. “I bet this whole place looked like this long ago. Seems like Wytherban cleaned up most places, but not here.” “We should take weapons,” Weej said, lifting a broken spear and tossing it aside. “Aha!” he said with a gleam in his eye as he lifted a fiercely pointed javelin. “Now for a dagger.” Byron stared ahead into the darkness, frowning. The voice called out again, across the chamber from where the company stood. “Miroaster,” it shouted, “the downward stair! It’s up to you now, go!” “What’s happening, sir?” Mirnle asked. “They’re rescuing the princess,” Byron said, more to himself than to Mirnle. “The lower crypts — they came in through the lower crypts.”

S !

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“Sir?” “Huh?” Byron said. “Sorry, Mirnle. Well, see, it’s an echo— I mean, it happened long ago.” “So, they’re not really there?” Mirnle said. Byron shook his head. “I suppose not.” “Then why can we still hear them?” Weej said, pausing in his search to look into the darkness. “Because they did something heroic, something great,” Byron said. “A part of their deed remains. I saw it through the monocle.” “I don’t understand, sir,” Mirnle said. “Neither do I, Mirnle,” Byron said. “Neither do I.” The voices and sounds of battle grew faint, as if rising up from some depth, but Byron followed, moving as fast as possible across the underground battlefield, stepping over and around the frightful debris. At long last they came to a wide portico with a stair that led down. At the top of the stair, Byron stopped. There lay the remains of two fighters, their bones still locked in the struggle that had claimed their lives. A heavy sword was thrust through the ribcage of one. It wore armor of heavy dark rings and a spiked shoulder guard, all rotted and decayed. The other had a long dagger jabbed into the back of its neck, above the shirt of scales, up into the helmet and the remnant skull within. It had a black tunic cast off to one side, and the flaking bones of its fist still clutched the hilt of its sword. “Done in from behind,” Weej said. He examined the dagger inside the back of the helmet and shook his head. “Dirty.” Byron reached down and turned the crumbling remains of the warrior. The bones collapsed and gave way as the front of the fellow came into view. Byron caught his breath. On the front of the black tunic, tattered and faded red, but unmistakable, was

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the device of a rampant unicorn. The visor of the helmet was the fierce face of a charging horse. From the brow of the visor, above the eyes, stood a spiraling horn, half a foot long, of heavily tarnished silver. On the back, caked and stiff, was the tattered remnant of the helmet’s mane. Byron lifted the heavy helmet and emptied it of crumbling dust. He unbuckled the strap of his bag, and strung it through the eyeholes of the visor. Then he refastened his pack and slung it over his shoulder. “What are you keeping it for?” Weej asked. “I’m not sure,” Byron said. Then he nodded his head toward the stairs. “They went down there.” “Who did, sir?” Mirnle said. “The Knights of the Unicorn,” Byron said. “That’s the way out.” “How do you know that?” Weej asked. “Who are these knights? What unicorn?” Byron looked at Weej. “You heard the voices, didn’t you?” Weej and Mirnle looked at each other and at the children. Weej gripped his javelin. Mirnle put her arm around the shoulders of a little dwarfling girl. “Look,” Byron said, “I can’t explain it because I don’t understand myself. But I know who those voices are— sort of — and I know what they’re up to, and I know they’re headed for the lower crypts.” Mirnle and Weej stared at Byron with blank looks. “Trust me on this one, will you?” Byron said. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before.” Mirnle glanced sidelong at her brother. Then she nodded. “All right, sir, we’ll follow.” “Not like we know a better way,” Weej said with a shrug. They heard no more sounds or voices. The stair led down a

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long way to a broad passage, where the fighting seemed to have tapered off. They came to another battle site, where another knight lay fallen, surrounded by his enemies. Byron led on. At the end of the passage, there was a choice of three turns. Twenty feet down the right-hand passage was another pile of longdecayed bodies: a knight in the midst of his foes. “It’s like a trail,” Weej said. Byron nodded. “They were covering someone’s escape.” “They knew the way out, sir?” Mirnle asked. “Mirnle, stop calling me sir.” “Sorry, sir,” Mirnle said. “Yes,” Byron said. “They knew the way out because they knew the way in. They came in through the lower crypts.” Each fallen knight guarded a turn in the route. Each had stood down many pursuing foes until he was overwhelmed at last. Each successive passage led further from the main halls and avenues of the dwarf city. Time after time, passage after passage, one knight had turned and stood and died. Some of the grim markers took some searching to find. Byron led his friends onward, until they came to a room where stood many empty stone basins. In the middle of the room was a round hole with a heavy grate moved aside from the top of it. “A washroom,” Byron said, looking at the fallen warrior on the floor among the enemy. “That’s a drain.” He crouched and stuck his head down the hole. It fed into a round tube of stone about three feet in diameter. “We’ll have to go single file. I’ll go first, Mirnle behind me, then the dwarflings, and Weej at the end. Let’s go.” They crawled on their bellies for a long time through the shifts and bends of the pipe. The dwarflings were right at home in the darkness, whispering and laughing as they crawled over

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each other, having games and fun in the tunnel as only dwarf children could. Three times Byron had to stop and shush them when their giggles got too loud. But at the sight of their happy faces in the torchlight he had to fake a cough to keep from laughing in his efforts to seem stern. Eventually the pipe joined a larger opening into a tunnel with railings and benches, and rings for torches. Single passages joined at various turns, and many holes and spouts opened in the walls at different heights. Some of the spigots were wrought in the likeness of fish or dragons, or even shaggy bearded dwarves. A trough ran down the middle of the tunnel floor, with a raised walkway beside it. “Not a drop of water,” Weej said, and his voice echoed. “Some drain.” “Guess we’re lucky it’s clogged,” Byron said. They pressed on for hours, ever downward. Water appeared in black drips at the outfall openings and spigots. A strengthening stream flowed along the rounded trough in the floor. It grew swift and deep, so that care had to be taken for the children. The way became steep and the walkway fell off into a downward stair. The water cascaded over the drop in heavy sheets and the air was thick with mist. At the bottom of the stair they came to a junction where the tunnel met three others of its kind in a large, domed room. The tunnels emptied heavy sheds of water into a wide, roiling pool. Another opening led up a stair, and a narrow bridge led across to it, spanning the thunderous pool. Byron led the way over to the stair. It was a slippery passage but the little company made it, and at the top of the stair they came to a rusted iron door. “No fallen knight at this one, sir,” Mirnle said. “Must’ve got away,” Weej said.

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Byron nodded. “About time one of them did.” Beyond the door was an arched hallway with many arched doors to the left and right along its length. It ended at a single door, taller than the rest. Byron frowned. “I know this place.” “You what?” Weej said. “I’ve seen it.” Byron said. Mirnle and Weej looked at each other. “I’ve been here,” Byron said, “I think.” He pressed on, moving fast down the length of the passage, ignoring every door to the left or right, making for the large door at the end. Like the others, it was made of rusted iron with coin-sized holes bored through it. Unlike the others, the holes in the last door were lit with the faint red light. Dread weighed on Byron’s heart. He looked back to see the dwarflings joining hands and drawing closer together. Byron stepped close and touched the iron door with his fingertips. In the middle of the door as high as he could reach, he found what he sought: a crude mark scratched into the iron surface, an open angle with another line extending off the top. It was filled with rust, nearly blending with the surface where it had been wrought. “The Unicorn,” Byron said. “I do, I know this door. This is the way.” He reached forward with both hands and pushed it open. It was just as he had seen it through the monocle when he was chained to the wall in Section Nine at Sogfarrow. A large round silo chamber opened below him. Byron led the way down the long stair that swept full around to the bottom, where the five arched tunnel openings waited. The floor churned with the glowing red

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mist. Byron moved around the chamber with his hand out, as if for balance, waving his torch around the chamber, gazing with a trance-like stare of amazement and expectation. He took careful note of every detail, as if checking them off a list. “Five tunnels, evenly spaced,” he said, turning in a slow circle. “Two tracks each, the lever, the switch platform in the middle.” Byron looked into one tunnel, then another. One in particular had more of the red, glowing fog than any of the others. It spilled forth in a low, rolling billow that crept thick and heavy along the floor. Across from it was another tunnel. The glowing fog was there also, but thinner, more wispy and light. Mirnle watched Byron in wonder. “Which is the way out, sir?” “That way,” Byron said, lifting his chin toward the opening where the fog was thinnest. It was the same tunnel from which, in the vision of his monocle, Byron had seen the Knights of the Unicorn emerge. A faint rumbling sound came from the tunnel where the fog was thickest. It grew louder and nearer, until the silo chamber filled with the sound of metal grinding on metal. “Hide!” Byron said, spinning around to face his friends. “Everybody run!” The dwarflings ran every which way, tripping over each other in panicked tangles. Mirnle, Weej, and Byron raced around after them, herding them into one tunnel opening. Byron snatched one of them up and ran with her under his arm into the tunnel where the others had gone. “Not too far!” Byron called in a loud whisper. “Who knows where this leads!” They ran until they rounded the first bend. There, they stopped to listen, crowded against the wall, and Mirnle counted the dwarflings.

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“What was that?” Weej said. “I have no idea,” Byron said. Mirnle put her hands to her cheeks. “We’re one dwarfling short!” she cried. She dropped her torch and bolted up the tunnel toward the silo room. “Mirnle, wait!” Byron shouted, forgetting to be quiet. Weej started to follow, but Byron waved him back. “Stay with the dwarves! Here,” he said, handing Weej his torch. “Take this!” Byron found Mirnle, standing in the open in the middle of the switch chamber. “I don’t see him,” she said with panic shaking her words. “We have to find him!” Byron took her by the hand and ran to the foot of the stair where he crouched in the shadows, pulling Mirnle with him. He searched the room and the entire sweep of the stair to the iron door above. The dwarfling was there, at the top of the stair, trying to push open the heavy door. Mirnle started up the stair but Byron caught her by the arm. “Look,” he said, pointing to the tunnel where rumbling came from. It was very loud now, and the thick red fog churned in great banks. The dread in Byron’s heart grew stronger. A huge shadow rumbled into the mouth of the tunnel, pushing the fog before it. The dwarfling cowered in the shadow of the doorway and hid. A linkage of wagon cars and flatbeds rolled through the silo room along the rails. A platform on wheels came first. On it stood two teams of two dwarves each. All four of them, two on each side, cranked up and down on a great lever, like a seesaw, that moved the line of cars forward. The dwarves wore heavy leather aprons and gloves, and conical caps that covered their faces. Behind it was a wagon car with low slatted walls. Inside the

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car stood a band of tall figures, wearing heavy hooded robes of some dark color. They gripped the wood of the railing with armored hands. Their waists were girt with worn leather belts, from which hung large dirt-caked swords in battered scabbards. Their hoods were put back and on their heads they wore tarnished, battered helmets with visors wrought in the likeness of fierce, charging horses. From the forehead of each helmet stood a spiraling horn, half a foot long. Across the top and down the back was a long, once golden mane, now caked and tattered. Byron put his hand on the helmet he’d taken from the fallen Unicorn knight. Wülken priests he thought as the next cart entered the chamber. It was full of enormous creatures, bigger than centaurs. They were very like men, but they had heavy jaws and brows, broad heads, huge shoulders, and tree-like limbs. They wore scraps of armor on their massive torsos and held impressive flails in their vast clutches. “Ogres,” Mirnle Mushrump whispered. “Oh my, oh my, oh my.” Behind the ogre car followed another flatbed. On it stood a dozen more tall forms clad in dark robes covering the tattered livery of the Knights of the Unicorn. Their swords were drawn and held upright before them. They stood face out in a circle, creating a fence around a great chair. On the chair sat a giant, dressed for battle. Byron could not take his eyes off of the giant’s head, for it was nothing but a skeleton with scraps of flesh and sinew clinging to it, and in the sockets of its eyes burned the same red light Byron had seen in the eyes of the dead thing that shared his stone table in the chamber where Weej and Mirnle had awakened him. Pain filled Byron’s chest as the dread that covered his heart

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now attacked his mind. He began to pant for breath. Mirnle looked at him in alarm. After the giant came the last car in the line. On it were still more of the terrible knights, facing out, swords drawn, standing in a fence around a single figure. It was taller than the rest, but no giant. Byron recognized the sheet of chain that covered it and— above all else — the crippling fear that consumed him. The chain fell like tresses to the floor and iit carried no visible weapon. Byron stared at the Lord of Fear in an unblinking trance. It broke only when the whole line of cars had entered the silo room and stopped on the circular platform in the floor. He and Mirnle froze, gripping each other tight as one of the dwarves stepped down from his place on the lead car and started toward them. Byron felt Mirnle tense as though she would run, but the dwarf stopped at the lever and pulled on it. The whole floor of the silo chamber turned, pointing the line of cars in a new direction. Byron seized Mirnle and covered her mouth just as she cried out. He heard her faint scream of alarm: “Weej!” and clamped his thumb and forefinger on her nose to silence her completely. Byron watched as the rails on which the line of cars waited lined up with the rails that led into the tunnel where Weej and the dwarflings were hiding. His mind raced. Draw them off, Thorn! Fear blinded his mind. Byron smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand, and hatched a desperate plan. First a good loud shout, then up the stair and back to the drainage tunnel. Grab the little one as you go! “Mirnle,” he whispered, “get ready to run.” Byron started to stand, half visible already had the dwarf looked up.

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Instead, the dwarf pulled the lever again. The great circular platform turned and lined up with the rails of the next tunnel, and the dwarf climbed back onto his car. He growled at his fellows, and the four of them cranked on the lever. One team pulled up as the other pushed down. The wheels spun on the rails, seeking grip. With a slow groan, the line of cars started forward and crept away into the tunnel, quickly gathering speed. Byron and Mirnle, soaked with sweat, raced to the top of the stair. The little one was there, waiting. He stuck his arms out to Mirnle, who scooped him up and squeezed him. They returned to find Weej shepherding the other dwarflings back into the silo room at the bottom of the stair. “What now?” Weej said. They watched as the dwarflings greeted their small stray companion. “Well,” Byron said, “I figure they’ve got Nosh somewhere important. Like maybe down the same tunnel where that huge skeleton came from.” “Why do you say that, sir?” Mirnle said. “Because I think they used the giant prince to make that huge warrior, and they’ve got him and Nosh together in the same place.” “What makes you think it’s down there?” Weej asked, pointing to the tunnel where the line of cars had come from. “Because that was Wytherban himself who just rolled by,” Byron said. “Plus, the fog is thicker and brighter down that tunnel than any of the others. Remember how thick it was in that room we were in? I think it’s got something to do with the deathmagic.” “Deathmagic?” Mirnle said. “Wegga,” Byron said. “The magic of Borántu. But I can’t ask

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you to come with me. That tunnel there is the way out of the mountain.” Byron pointed to the tunnel where he’d seen the Knights of the Unicorn enter in his vision through the monocle. It was the same tunnel through which Wytherban’s line of cars had passed. “How do you know that?” Weej said. “Come and see,” Byron said. He led the way to the opening, and began to search the stones of the archway, tracing their lines with his fingers. “What are you looking for?” Weej asked, folding his arms. “Hang on,” Byron said. “Wait, yes, here! See that mark? That’s the symbol of the Unicorn. Remember the knights we followed down here? Well, they came in this way, and the ones who escaped, if any did, went out this way also. And so should you. Lead the dwarflings out and find the Unicorn.” “We’re not leaving you, sir,” Mirnle said. Now it was she who crossed her arms. Weej shrugged his shoulders. “We should stick together.” “But I’m going down that other tunnel,” Byron said. “I have to find my friend Nosh.” “Then so do we, sir,” Mirnle said. “But what about the dwarflings?” Byron said. “There’s no telling what we’ll find down there.” “There’s no telling what we’ll find down there either,” Mirnle said, pointing to the tunnel into which Wytherban had passed. Weej nodded. “That’s the way It went, after all. We should be heading wherever It isn’t.” “All right then,” Byron said, “we stick together. I have to admit I’ll be glad for the company.” Inside the tunnel from which Wytherban had entered the silo room, the red fog was thicker and brighter than ever. It was

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identical to all the other tunnels, with a high arched ceiling and two shiny rails in the middle of the floor. But it was covered— floor, wall, and ceiling — with grim markings painted in red, dripping lines. There was no order or rank to the inscriptions, just a jumbled array of characters that could not be told top from bottom. “Just like the temple,” Byron said. “What temple?” Weej said. “The Temple of Borántu,” Byron said. “What’s that sir?” Mirnle asked. “A place I’ve seen,” Byron said. “Never mind. I think we’re on the right track.” They marched for a long way. No other tunnels joined the passage, until at last they came to another chamber, very like the silo room, but much smaller with four passages joining it. Four large barrels stood together against the wall. There were chests and metal pulley wheels, large coils of rope and cable and chain. Off to one side there was a tall lever, like the one at the switch platform, sticking out of the floor. There was a metal disc, a dozen feet across, flat and even with the stone of the floor in the middle of the chamber. But it had no rails to line up with the tracks that led away into the tunnels. Instead there was a huge metal pulley-wheel fixed to it, with a heavy cable strung through. Both ends of the cable were stretched tight and went up into a dark shaft in the ceiling. Like the door at the top of the sweeping stair, there were coin-sized holes bored through the platform all over its surface. A faint cry echoed in the tunnels. “Father!” the voice cried. “Forgive me!” Byron twirled around, looking for the source of the sound. “Nosh?”

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“It came from under the floor!” Weej said. “Listen!” Mirnle said, holding up her little hands. The cry came again. It was terrified. “Father, please!” “Nosh!” Byron cried. “That’s my friend Nosh!” Another voice followed, also faint and far. It was harsh and angry. The words were unclear. And then there was silence. “Nosh?” Byron said, stepping up beside the pulley-wheel on top of the metal disc. “How do we get down there?” “Sir, you have to keep your voice down!” Mirnle said. Her face was stern and she pointed at Byron, stomping her foot. He was still looking at her in surprise when a loud metallic noise clanged down from the ceiling. The wheel in the middle of the metal disc started turning and the cable began to lift the disc out of the floor. “Sir, quick!” Mirnle said, turning to usher Weej and the dwarflings into the tunnel from which they had all entered the chamber. Byron staggered for balance and fell down beside the pulley-wheel, nearly dropping his torch. The wheel spun as the cable passed through it, and the red fog rolled out onto the floor from beneath the metal disc as the cable lifted it toward the shaft in the ceiling. In the darkness above, a great engine labored, rattling and hammering. Blasts of unseen steam hissed and echoed. Byron rode the platform up into the darkness of the shaft above, where the lift mechanism was housed. It stopped with a very loud clack and all went quiet. Byron waved his torch around the chamber, looking at the strange machinery. He crouched and peered down through the holes in the platform into the chamber below, where Weej, Mirnle, and the dwarf children were hiding. Oh, please stay quiet down there, he thought. Byron’s platform was like a roof above another one just like it.

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The lower platform had rails crisscrossing over it, lining up with the rails that led into the tunnels. There was a torch burning, and two heavy-shouldered dwarves in dirty mining gear stood at opposite ends of a seesaw lever on the deck of a wheeled platform cart. Together they cranked up and down and the cart rolled off the platform. “Send it back,” one dwarf said in a gruff voice. “Won’t we need it?” the other said. “Send it back,” the first replied. “Always with the orders,” the second dwarf said. “Like you own the place.” He stepped off the cart and walked over to the lever that stuck up out of the floor. He pulled the lever and the engine fired up in the chamber where Byron waited. The platform began to descend with Byron on the roof. He threw himself flat, heart racing. He watched with relief as the torchlight from the seesaw cart disappeared around the bend and the dwarves labored away down the tunnel. “Well, you don’t,” the second dwarf said. His voice echoed in the tunnel. “You don’t own the place.” The first dwarf grumbled in response, and the tunnel went dark. Soon even the rumbling of the cart faded to silence. Weej and Mirnle emerged from hiding with the dwarflings in tow. They all stood quiet for a time, listening. “I saw how it works!” Byron said. “They’re gonna come back,” Mirnle said. “Didn’t you hear them?” “I heard,” Byron said. “So we’ve got to be quick. Come on.” He walked over to the lever and pulled it, but nothing happened. “That’s for down,” Weej said. He stepped up and pulled the lever the other way. The engine above fired up with another loud

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clack, and the platform where Byron had been standing began to rise from the floor. In the clamor of the machinery Byron frowned. Weej shrugged. “We have these things, too.” When the rail platform came into view, the group piled on. Byron gave the lever a pull to start the engine. “That’s for up,” Weej said. “I can do it,” Byron said, still frowning at Weej, who shrugged again and looked away. Byron pushed the lever the other way and there was another loud clack as the engine fired. Byron ran across and jumped aboard the lift platform as it descended through the eerie churning mist into the tunnels below. They stopped in still another silo room where four tunnels met, each with a set of tracks leading away into darkness. A harsh, angry voice sounded in one of the tunnels and footsteps echoed. Torchlight set the shadows dancing in the tunnel to their right. “Quick!” Byron whispered. The swirling red fog was neck-deep on the dwarflings. Weej, Mirnle, and Byron rushed the little ones into the tunnel opposite the torchlight. They passed the first bend and pressed their backs to the wall. “Dim the torches!” Weej said, putting the flame of his own torch into the red mist. “Good thinking, Weej,” Byron said. “Here, hold this.” Byron handed his torch to the gnome and snuck back to take a look. Torchlight filled the silo chamber. A dwarf approached the platform they had ridden down on, and looked up into the shaft. “Do you need me to send it back?” he shouted. No answer came. The dwarf shook his head and walked over to another lever in the floor. The engine fired and the deck rose back up to the level above. Then the dwarf walked away into the

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tunnel, muttering and grumbling to himself. When Byron got back to his friends they were standing there with two smoking torches. “The red mist put them out,” Weej said. Byron looked down at the swirling mist that came to the shoulders of the dwarflings. “Better not let it cover them,” he said. “Or us,” Weej said. “Don’t worry about the torches,” Byron said. “The tunnels are pretty well lit.” Then Byron turned and the company set off, creeping slowly forward in a tight bunch down the tunnel where the torch-bearing dwarf had gone.

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chapter 24

The Rage of Aloisius ady Veronica and the Shambler looked around at the fiery mayhem in total disbelief. Veronica lifted her jagged sword and screamed, but she did not advance, her darting glance caught between the Hammer of the dwarven king, and the strange yellow-haired girl who commanded fire from thin air. The Fellsmen stood in a long line, shoulder to shoulder, keeping back from the wagon burg of the Hammer. Aloisius the ettin strode up to the front, swatting aside with his cudgel anything that got in his way, gixxens and umpershunts alike. The creatures growled and squealed. Only a large troll dared to resist the passage of the ettin, to which Aloisius responded with a two-voiced shout, and a killing swipe of his cudgel. At last he came to stand beside Lady Veronica and the Shambler. His shorthaired head sneered and shook left to right. His longhaired head sucked in its cheeks and lifted an eyebrow. He glanced off into the distance at one of the flaming wicker men as it terrorized the last of its victims and crumbled into a pile of flaming sticks and straw. Lady Veronica followed the glance, then looked up at the ettin with a cautious, cowing smile. “Handsomely managed, Veronica, Shambler,” Aloisius said with his foppish head tossing its fluffy hair.

L !

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“Yes,” said his other with a blank stare. “Handsomely.” The longhaired head looked at the back of his splayed hand, scrutinizing his fingernails. “What a smashing sense of style,” he said. “All those little wicker people running off in flames.” “I think,” the shorthaired head said with a darkening look, “that Aloisius is through abiding your commands.” “Now just a second,” the Shambler said. “You’ve got orders from higher than us. Redcap is in charge here and—” “Yes, Redcap,” Aloisius said with his longhaired head. A smirk passed across the arrogant face and disappeared. The brute stared out from beneath its flowing locks with a vicious glare. “Redcap, the terrible warlord, with his thousands. And where is he now? And what is he to me?” “He’s nearly here,” Lady Veronica said, “he and his army, and Goth’s nephew with a whole crowd of ogres and hill giants. You’ll see.” “You don’t want Redcap for an enemy, ettin,” the Shambler said. “Trust me, you don’t.” “Trust you?” Aloisius said with both heads at once. He shot out his arm, seized the Shambler by the throat with a huge, wiry hand, and lifted the Fell chieftain from the ground. “I have never trusted you,” the shorthaired head of Aloisius shouted. “I have only just tolerated your presence,” he went on with his longhaired head. “You unwashed, ill-mannered little beast! ” Aloisius threw the Shambler into the crowd of Fellsmen gathered near. Most cleared away, but many could not, and crashed with the Shambler to the ground in a clamor of grunting and clattering armor. The Shambler dropped his sword, and for a moment he squirmed like a turtle on his back, trying to right himself. Lady Veronica rushed to his aid, all the while casting

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sidelong glances at the ettin. All around them, the Fellsmen backed away, murmuring and grumbling amongst themselves, watching the breakdown of their command. “I’ve had it,” Aloisius said with a toss of the hair on his foppish head. “I’m up to here with you disgusting creatures, with your sweat and your filth and your stench. I am not going back in that mountain with you again, I don’t care what It says on the subject. This stupid little war ends here, and I am going home!” “I’m not taking orders anymore,” Aloisius continued with his shorthaired head. It spoke low, almost in a whisper. “Redcap be hanged.” Then the face of the shorthaired head became stern and clenched his square jaw. The puffy, dimple-chinned, foppish face took on a gleefully wicked look, and played with its long hair. Both heads turned in the direction of the wagon burg of the Hammer. Aloisius threw back his heads, opened both his mouths, and screamed a long, shrill, two-voiced scream of battle: “THRUDNELF DIES NOW!” he cried with both heads. He lifted his cudgel, setting off at a run, and his huge feet shook the ground. Lady Veronica and the Shambler looked around them in disbelief as the throng of Fellsmen surged forward, following Aloisius the ettin into battle. “Stay your line!” the Shambler hollered, but his voice was lost beneath the screams and thundering feet of the stampede that charged the wagon burg. Lady Veronica came to her feet again, her yellow eyes bulging from their sockets. She looked at her sword and licked her lips. She lifted the sinister weapon high and burst forward, raising a cry of her own. “Protect the king!” Thrym cried.

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Aloisius came so fast the crossbows could not be leveled against him. His great gnarled cudgel came across the top of the wagons, sweeping the dwarves aside two at a time. He stormed the wagon where Thrudnelf and the Knights of the Hammer stood braced for the shock. With a backward slash of his cudgel he knocked three dwarves down into each other, and aimed the recoiling blow at the dwarven king. Thrudnelf lifted Harkatan to defend himself, but he was off balance from the onslaught, and moved too late. The cudgel came across and struck him square on the head. The ring of metal and the crunch of wood on the great battle crown was so loud it drowned Thrudnelf’s cry of fury and pain. He was cast backward from the wagon, along with five others who stood near him. Thrudnelf dropped Harkatan and flipped end over end into the ranks gathered behind his wagon. Aloisius collided with the wagon, flipping it backward like a charging bull. He set down his cudgel, lifted the wagon over his head, and pitched it forward into the crowd where Thrudnelf had fallen. It crashed and splintered into the dwarven ranks— wheels snapping and flying loose. “THRUDNELF!” he shouted with his longhaired head. “SHOW YOURSELF!” “Where is the king?” Thrym shouted. “Find the king!” Behind Aloisius the howling mob of Fellsmen came pouring through the rift in the wagon burg. The dwarves there could not defend the opening, so great were the numbers against them. The hordes overran the defense and piled in behind Aloisius, but none dared pass him, for fear of his wrath should he think them to be searching out the dwarven king for their own sport. The Fellsmen outnumbered the defending dwarves by far too many. Still, the dwarves each fought like a dozen warriors, espe-

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cially those of Valleygate, for their king had fallen and they had not recovered him. A savage cry went up, clear above the din. It was answered by another, then another, and several more. The Berserks had come, wild and wide-eyed, painted with the blood of their enemies. They fought naked, protected only by their fury and the frenzied swing of their weapons, some abandoning even that to throw themselves into danger with just their bare hands to shield them. “UP DWARVENKIND!” cried the chief of the Wheel. “YOUR KING IS DOWN! ROUSE YOUR BLOOD AT LAST!” So came the chiefs of Wodys Mara, rallying to the banner of the Hammer, the remnants of their warriors close behind. All of them came, except for the Anvil, the Pillar, and the Ox, who had fallen, along with the fighters of their houses, on the far reaches of the battlefield where they had been cut off with none to help them. The chief of the Anvil had died alone, taking with him many foes but falling at the last to a gixxen, who set upon him when no other would, so deadly was the war-craft of the Anvil chief. The chief of the Arch, war chief of Wodys Mara, led a small band of his house against the unstoppable Aloisius. He charged in, cleaving with a large axe he had taken from a sundered hoblin when his own family sword had broken at the hilt. But Aloisius hoisted the chief of the Arch in one hand, and set about eating him with the mouths and teeth of both faces. He tore at the war chief in a grizzly spectacle of screams and struggle and euphoric laughter. Then he cast the devastated dwarf into the crowd, and got to work with his cudgel once more, pummeling his way through the horrified warriors of the Arch, whose chief he had mercilessly devoured. His face and hands and the fine tweeds of his waistcoat and jacket were wet with blood. He laughed and grinned and resumed his search for the dwarven king.

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“WHERE IS HARKATAN?” Thrym cried. “FIND THE HAMMER!” “They’ve lost the Hammer?” Raefer said. “Can anybody see King Thrudnelf?” Dindra said, searching the mayhem in the place where she thought the king must have fallen. The companions huddled in a pocket surrounded by the warriors of Valleygate, who knew them to be friends of their missing Prince Nosh. Rufus stood with an arrow on the string. Shilo leaned against Quill for balance and strength, and Raefer and Dindra stood together, as near to the protective fence of dwarven warriors as they dared, searching for any sign of the missing king. “We have to find him,” Dindra said. “I’m going out there.” “What? Dindra, you can’t!” Quill said. “Didn’t you see what happened to that poor dwarf?” “That’s why I’m going, Quill,” Dindra said. “Thrudnelf is the only one who can stop that thing.” “Not without Harkatan he can’t,” Raefer said. “We’ll have to find that, too,” Dindra said. “How?” Raefer said. “You saw him drop it when he went down.” “Well, it has to still be there,” Rufus said. “Nobody but him can lift it.” “Dindra’s right,” Shilo said. “We have to find him. Without King Thrudnelf the dwarves have no leader. That’s what we came here for, isn’t it?” “Oh, where is Thúmose?” Quill said. “We need Thúmose.” “Thúmose knows his business,” Dindra said. “Who’s coming with me?” “Well, not Shilo,” Rufus said. “And why not?” Shilo said. “You can barely stand up,” Rufus said. “That’s why.”

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“Well, I hope you won’t try to stop me, Rufus Nimbletwig,” Shilo said, lifting her hand. It was full of light, like fire, that spilled between her fingertips and soaked away into the ground. “No,” Rufus said with a cautious glance at Shilo’s hand. “No, I — I won’t try to stop you.” Shilo blinked and gave Rufus a kind, gentle smile. “Good, because you’re going to need light out there. Come on, Rufus, you walk beside me with your bow.” “I’m in,” Raefer said. “Oh, all right,” Quill said. “I wish I could take off in a crowd.” Shilo went in the front, holding up the light in her hand. She staggered forward, still dazed by the surge of power that had gone through her. She strove on, grim faced, searching for any sign of the dwarven king. Dindra and Rufus stayed to her left and right, with Raefer and Quill behind them. They headed to where Aloisius had crashed through the wagon burg. The strange magic of the yellow-haired girl had not been forgotten and they met no challenge. The Fellsmen backed away, stepping over each other at the sight of Shilo marching before the companions with a fistful of white light held up before her. Even Lady Veronica staggered clear, lashing her sword at anyone who slowed her retreat. Violence was everywhere. Dindra broke ranks to rush to the aid of a wounded dwarf. Whirling her body around, she jabbed with her hind legs and struck the hoblin flat who sought to drive his spear into the fellow as he lay upon the ground. Rufus loosed an arrow into the chest of an umpershunt who sprang onto the wagons, a great axe raised over its head in one pair of arms, and a sword in each of its other hands. The arrow halted the brute with a moment of shock, and the dwarf over whom the creature stood swept its spindly legs from beneath it.

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So the companions worked, forging ahead in their search for King Thrudnelf. Dindra flailed and struck with her hooves, spinning and rearing as she cleared the path for her friends. Rufus set arrow after arrow to string, firing into the waves of Fellsmen that poured over the wagon wall. So fierce was their passage, and so great was the fear among the Fellsmen of Shilo’s light, that rumor spread about them in the ranks of the Fell Clans, rumor that reached the ears of the ettin Aloisius, who turned from his bloodletting to search for them on the field. When they came upon Thrudnelf at last, the companions found him lying on his back, covered to the neck by a cloak emblazoned with the crest of the Hammer. Thrym, the chief of the Wheel, and Gensha of the Bear stood by, protecting him with their lives from the whirl of battle around them. “Where are the other Knights of the Hammer?” Rufus demanded. “I sent them out to throw off the ettin,” Thrym said. “He thinks they are searching for the king. The ruse seems to have worked for the moment.” “How is he?” Shilo asked, crouching beside the wounded Thrudnelf. “Unconscious,” said the chief of the Wheel. “But alive. That much is a miracle after the blow he took. I don’t think he should be moved. I dare not remove his helmet.” Shilo lifted Thrudnelf’s eyelids and pressed her fingers to his throat. “No,” she said. “We shouldn’t move him. Not until Thúmose comes.” “Where can he be?” Thrym said. “I have not seen his light for hours.” “Speaking of light,” Gensha said, “I think you should douse that light you bear, miss. It’s getting us some unwanted attention.”

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The company turned. A large band of Fellsmen was watching them, fingering their weapons, and muttering to each other. The gathering grew larger every moment, and the Fell warriors seemed curious about the stricken figure on the ground. “Well, then,” said the chief of the Wheel, stepping forward with his sword before him. “WELL THEN!” he shouted. “COME AND HAVE A TRY, NOW THERE’S ENOUGH OF YOU TO STAND A CHANCE! COME AND HAVE A TRY!” Thrym stepped up beside him, and so came Gensha to help. But the Fellsmen did not approach. The wicked creatures, hoblin, bugbear, and kobbeld taunted and whispered from the dark. They fell silent when Shilo pointed her light at them, but they did not run. They kept their distance, muttering at the dwarves, without leveling a bow or casting a spear or javelin. From behind the companions, a great shadow cast by the fire of torches crept across the stricken king. Twenty feet away, Aloisius the ettin stood watching, two hideous grins stretched across his filthy blood-smeared faces. “Thrudnelf is mine,” he said with his stern shorthaired head. The companions stepped forward, placing themselves between the ettin and the king. Dindra moved out ahead, clutching her staff before her. “Shilo, blast it!” Raefer cried. “I can’t,” Shilo said. “I’m— I’m scared.” “So am I,” Raefer said. “Blast it!” “No, it’s the wrong kind of fear,” Shilo said. “What?” Dindra said. “Shilo, what do you mean?” “I was afraid for the dwarf before, not for myself. Fear for another seems to bring it out. Fear for myself just blocks it.” “What?” Raefer shouted. “What kind of magic is that? ” “I’m sorry,” Shilo said.

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“Well, who were you afraid for when you almost burned my head off?” “Raefer will you shut up?” Rufus said. Aloisius looked terrible. His cudgel was chipped and covered with blood and bits of cloth and clumps of hair. The front of him was filthy and bloody, and his shirt was untucked. The pocket watch dangled from the button on his torn waistcoat. He walked forward with a slow, even stride. “Found him for me, have you?” he said with his shorthaired head. “Thank you for the beacon, miss. How shall I ever return the favor?” “How about running along home?” Quill said. “I heard you mention that before, and I think it’s a great idea.” Aloisius stopped. Both his heads looked bewildered and amused. They glanced at each other and smiled with red teeth. Then they looked at Quill. “What a clever kitten,” the longhaired head said with a look of admiration. “Yes, clever,” said the shorthaired head with its blank stare. “Yes, I think I shall run along home,” said the foppish longhaired head. “And you shall come with me when I go. You shall be my pet and make me laugh whenever I tell you to. And if you fail to make me laugh I shall eat you. Now don’t go far. We’ll be leaving shortly.” Quill glanced at Dindra. “How about no more jokes, huh, Quill?” Dindra said. “Sorry,” Quill said. “It just popped out.” “Stand aside,” Aloisius said with his shorthaired head in a smooth, even voice. He leaned on his cudgel and crossed one leg over the other. The companions did not move.

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Dindra took a step forward, holding her staff in both fists. “You can’t have him,” she warbled in a frightened voice. “STAND ASIDE, I SAID!” the ettin bellowed. “YOU CAN’T HAVE HIM!” Dindra shouted back. She was shaking and tears streaked her face. Many dwarves had drawn near and the fighting had stopped. The crowd stood there, looking on in wonder and contempt to see what would happen. “Oh, yes, I can,” Aloisius said. “And I will.” Both faces became very serious. Aloisius lifted his cudgel with one hand, and let it drop into the palm of the other. He started forward with a measured stride but stopped, peering into the surrounding throng. Thrym, Gensha, and the chief of the Wheel stepped forward with their weapons ready, but no other dwarf dared approach, so marked were their minds with fear of the ettin. A buzz of muttering voices came from the back of the crowd. “He has come,” said the coarse voice of a Fellsman. “He is here,” said another. “Marmaros has come.” “Marmaros.” “He comes from the forest!” Shouts went up, and there was a wrangling of swords and armor. A great heave pushed through the ranks and voices cried out in alarm. A wide gap opened and a dark form emerged from the fire-fed shadows. It was a tall man covered with a dark cape. His head was hidden beneath a deep hood. The Fellsmen in the crowd pressed back, staggering into one another as the stranger passed. The entire throng was quiet, cowed to silence, unwilling to look at the dark form for fear of being seen.

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“Marmaros,” they murmured. “Wildwearer.” Aloisius lifted his eyes from King Thrudnelf and a wave of concern passed over his faces. “What do you want?” he said with both heads. The tall, hooded form turned to face the ettin. There was a long slow sound, a ringing hiss, and a moment later the man held a dark sword in his hand. He walked forward, crossing the shadowy span that separated him from the ettin. “Aloisius,” the hooded man said, standing in the clearing. The ettin wrung his cudgel in his huge fists. He glanced at the crowd around him, all of them watching. “What do you want? ” For several seconds, the man said nothing. Then he strode forward a few more paces, and stopped again. “Aloisius,” he said. The huge chest of the ettin heaved with deep breaths, and he shook his cudgel at the man. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?” he shouted. The man lifted his sword and touched the crosspiece to his hooded forehead. Then he started forward. Aloisius opened all his eyes wide, and screamed with both voices. He slashed the air with his cudgel and charged, rushing toward the man with all his strength and speed. As they came together, the man rolled forward, falling beneath the sweep of the cudgel, passing between the thundering feet of the ettin, to spring up behind the monster. He laid open the back of its leg with an expert slash of the dark sword. Aloisius cried out, throwing back his heads, buckling to one knee. He turned and swung down at the man, who took one quick step to the right and slashed again, this time cutting clean through the ettin’s arm at the wrist. The cudgel dropped to the ground, the severed fist still grasping it. Aloisius cried out more terribly than ever, clutching the bloody stump. The man spun and struck

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again, and the ettin’s shorthaired head fell to the ground, shorn from its neck by the blow. A blank gaze of shock came over the longhaired head, and it fell silent. It turned with a drunken look to search for its missing companion, and stared in confusion at the wound where once the shorthaired head had been. It knelt, blinking and frowning, puzzling out what had happened. “Aloisius,” the man said. Once more the ettin screamed. The blow came fast. The longhaired head of the ettin teetered and fell, rolling and turning from the neck, bouncing off the shoulder to the ground. A moment later, the great, lifeless body leaned and fell forward with a loud, heavy thud, one arm dangling useless at its side, the other pinned beneath it. For a moment, silence took the field. The man stepped back and turned full around, leveling his sword at the crowd. The Fellsmen looking on began backing away, clamoring until a great stampede of hoblins and kobbelds and bugbears took shape, desperate for escape. Even the gixxens and umpershunts turned and moved off, some heading for the woods, some for the far reaches of the battlefield, but most for the bridges that spanned the river, leading to the safety of the mountain. These the tall man followed, holding out his sword, and they fled before him. The Fell hordes ran away, as fast as they had come, unwilling to stand before the one they called Marmaros, who had appeared from the darkness of the woods and their nightmares to sunder the one they had held up as champion. He stopped and watched them go. Then he turned and came back to the place where King Thrudnelf lay unconscious. The dwarves of Wodys Mara gathered in their scant remaining numbers and joined the army of Valleygate on the field between the

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king and the mountain. The tall man approached, and Thrym turned to greet him. “Never been so glad to see you,” Thrym said. “How is the king?” the man asked, crouching to Thrudnelf’s side. He turned his sword point down and handed the hilt to Raefer, without speaking to the dryad boy. “Not good,” Thrym said. “Not good at all.” “And not so very bad, maybe,” the man said. “Shilo, how long have you been using the Fire-speak?” “I —” Shilo said. “You, you know my name?” “Of course I do,” the man said. “And you know mine.” “Marmaros,” Quill said. “That’s what they all called you.” “It is one of many names by which I am known,” the man said. “Also Wildwearer, and just plain Boss to some. But Marmaros is the given name of that sword Raefer is holding. And it is that for which I am best known among the Fell Clans.” “It’s a good thing you showed up,” Raefer said, looking at the sword. “Whoever you are.” The man stood and put a hand on Gensha’s great shoulder. The young son of the Bear stood there, weeping over his fallen king. “Have no fear, Gensha,” the man said. “Your master lives still and has much fight left in him. The strength of the blacksmith’s battle-crown has saved him. Take heart.” The man clutched the great shoulder of the young dwarf, who nodded and covered his face to hide his tears. “It’s broken,” Rufus said, helping Raefer lift the man’s sword up to the firelight. “Wait,” Quill said, “I know that sword.” She turned to the man as he put back his hood and smiled down at the five friends. “Miroaster!” Quill said. “It’s you!” “Miroaster?” Rufus said, his face going dark.

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“Yes,” Miroaster said, standing up. “Thrym, assemble your ranks. As war duke you are in charge until your king is on his feet again. And that will not be long, I think.” “Very good,” Thrym said. “Chief of the Wheel, you were second to the war chief of Wodys Mara, were you not?” “I was.” “See to his burial at once, then take command and meet me on the field,” Thrym said. “Very good,” said the chief of the Wheel. As the two commanders moved off, the clouds broke and the first of the moon peeked through. Miroaster took up a smoldering torch and roused its flame. He held it out over King Thrudnelf. “Well, Shilo,” Miroaster said. “I believe King Thrudnelf’s wound is within your power to heal.” “My power?” Shilo said. “Yes, of course. You are a student of Warra, are you not?” Miroaster said. Shilo shrugged and looked sidelong at her companions. “Well, yes.” “First some moratene,” Miroaster said, reaching into a pouch at his waist. “Where did you find it?” Raefer asked. “Rufus, we can make some sleep juice.” Rufus said nothing. He stared at Miroaster with contempt. “There is a glade I can show you,” Miroaster said, glancing at Rufus. He crouched again to kneel beside the king. “Back there in the forest, near the tombs.” “The tombs?” Raefer said. “Isn’t that where that Yeena thing lives?” “The Yeehanog,” Miroaster said. “No, it does not live there, nor anywhere in this valley.”

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“It sure made a mess in the forest last night,” Quill said. “Yes,” Miroaster said with a distant look on his face. “The Yeehanog is thorough.” “Why did you wait so long to stop the ettin?” Rufus said. “We needed you a long time ago. And where is Thúmose, anyway?” “You will find the Unicorn where he is needed most,” Miroaster said. “As for me, I have been . . . occupied.” “Like you were when you lost track of Byron?” Rufus said. “Rufus!” Shilo said. “How can you say such a thing! Miroaster saved Byron’s life! He’s just saved all our lives!” Raefer nodded. “Yeah, Rufus. You heard what Thúmose said. There’s nothing anybody could have done; Byron’s path is set before him.” “All our paths are set before us,” Miroaster said, “if only we will choose them. But Byron has a special sense for his, a tug at his heart that guides him, and from which he does not run. Byron is a dangerous fellow.” “Dangerous?” Quill said. “Byron?” “Yes, Quill,” Miroaster said with a smile. “Byron. And any who follow the heart’s lead as that young satyr does.” “My father says the same thing,” Dindra said. “He does?” Raefer said. Dindra nodded and looked at the ground. “Even so,” Miroaster said. “My heart is burdened with what has become of our friend. His path leads him; I have no doubt. But it was from my care that he was taken to his fate. Shilo, we need King Thrudnelf. Will you not tend to him?” The great bell tolled again. Shilo nodded. “What must I do?” “Do you not know?” Miroaster said. “What is the rule?” “The rule,” Shilo said. “I don’t know the rule.” “No?” Miroaster said, handing her a skin filled with water.

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“Well then, take this.” Shilo took the skin and stood by. Miroaster took a single leaf of the moratene and bruised it. Then he handed it to Shilo. “Press this into the wound,” he said. With another glance at Dindra, Shilo crouched before the dwarven king and removed his helmet. A great, broken welt beneath the rim of the helmet began at once to bleed. Shilo placed the moratene leaf over the wound and pressed it down. “That will ease his pain when he wakes,” Miroaster said. “How do we wake him?” Shilo said. “With the water,” Miroaster said, nodding to the skin in her hands. “What do I do?” Shilo asked. “Throw it in his face,” Miroaster said, standing up. “What?” Shilo said. “But, he’s—” “A king?” Miroaster said. “Yes, Shilo, and a great one. But he is out cold and undue reverence for his rank will not wake him. Part of being a healer is to be firm in dispensing medicines. You outrank your patient, no matter who he is. That is the rule. Now dump that water on the king of the dwarves.” “Oh,” Shilo said. “Oh, my.” She uncorked the waterskin and stood up. Then she took a deep breath. “I can’t wait to tell Nosh about this,” Raefer muttered. “Hush, Raefer,” Dindra said, but she could not contain her smile. Shilo pursed her lips and turned the waterskin upend above Thrudnelf. It poured over his face for three whole seconds before he stirred. “Glarp!” he cried, turning his head left and right. “Keep pouring,” Miroaster said. “Glaaarrg!” Thrudnelf cried, his voice muffled by the flow of

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water over his mouth and nose. He kicked his legs and sat up, flailing at the water. Thrudnelf shook his head and wiped his face with his hands. He looked around at the torchlit faces of the companions. His gaze paused on Shilo and the waterskin, then shot to Miroaster who stood behind her, smiling down. “You,” Thrudnelf said. “Hello, your highness,” Miroaster said. “Oh, your majesty,” Shilo said. “I’m—” A firm grip on Shilo’s shoulder silenced her. She turned to find Miroaster looking down into her eyes with an intent stare. “Do not apologize,” he said, and there was no humor in his voice. “It is the rule.” Shilo turned to King Thrudnelf. “How do you feel, your highness?” Thrudnelf looked beyond her to the shadowy face of Miroaster. “Wet,” the dwarven king said. Then he looked at Shilo. “And grateful. Thank you, child. I have a battle to win and I could not have done it lying down.” At that moment, the great bell of Showd Mazark tolled again, and a cry of furious glee went up from the Fellsmen who waited on the other side of the river.

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Chambers of the Dead unes covered the walls and ceiling, and a foul smell filled the air. The red glowing fog clung to the floor, rising as the company passed only to fall again at once, filling in behind them as they went. Dread clenched tight around Byron’s heart, and looking back at the faces that followed him, he knew they all felt the same. They came to a huge, vaulted chamber with balconies looking down into it from above. Dozens of torches lit the place, but it was so huge that most of it was hidden in darkness beyond the reach of the light. There were five tall tunnel mouths, thirty feet high or more, with pointed arches, and many smaller ones also, each about ten feet high. Byron waded through the waist-high fog to stand before the nearest of the smaller passages. It had a door cast in bronze and silver, depicting a large wheel as might be found on a chariot. It was decorated with vines and runes, and a small flame of tarnished gold burned in the hub. The stone lintel above the door was carved with lines of Old Dwarvish text. “What do the words mean, Mirnle?” Byron asked, looking at the lintel to his left. “I don’t know,” Mirnle said with a shrug.

R !

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Byron frowned. “You speak Old Dwarvish, don’t you?” “Yes,” Mirnle said. “But I can’t read it.” “I can’t even read Gnomish,” Weej said. “But I’d say we’ve found the lower crypt. These doors are tombs if I’ve ever seen them.” Byron nodded. “I’d say you’re righ — aupff!” Byron cried, reaching and twisting as he fell over something hidden beneath the fog. “Sir, no!” Mirnle cried, but Byron had disappeared. His heartbeat hammered in his ears — one time, two times — with long pauses between beats. He shouted but his voice was drawn out, slowed and deepened beyond recognition. His thoughts twisted and he could not understand himself. It was as if he were speaking and thinking in a language he did not know. The red fog was gone, and the whole chamber was visible, but his friends were nowhere to be seen. Byron looked beneath him and found he was sprawled across the corpse of the dwarf fighter over which he had tripped. Byron cried out again in the same warbled voice and tried to stand. He could hear the dwarflings fretting and Mirnle calling his name in a loud whisper. The sounds were amplified, but murky and slurred. Byron could not see his friends. There were bodies all around — many thousands of them — arrayed for battle, lying with shields and swords and helmets. Their armor was worn and old, rotted and dirty. Their skeletal faces were broken and chipped. They were caught between life and death, and seemed to see Byron from across some great expanse. Some looked angry, others curious, others sad. Byron stared in horror at the vast chamber, the whole floor covered with the dwarven dead, gathered for some dark purpose, by the lychcraft of the Weg.

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Wagon rails led in from large tunnel openings and joined in the middle at a great round switch platform, which had been hidden beneath the fog. Byron saw all the crypt doors, close and clear. Each was wrought of bronze and silver. Each bore the ensign of some dwarvish house: Arch or Bridge or Anvil; and each had a finely carved lintel set deep with Old Dwarvish words. Looking closer, Byron saw still more chambers to the left and right of him, beneath the great vaulted roof. These hand-wrought caverns with high, peaked ceilings were set apart each from the next by the immense pillared porticoes— all of them filled with the war-clad bodies of the dwarves of Showd Mazark. Byron gazed at the bodies again, his eyes moving from one to the next. Then, to his horror, he spotted a dwarf child painted as he himself was, with grim markings of black and white and red all over his face and hands. The child was dressed in fine clothes and his hands were placed across his breast. And there were others, many others, scattered around among the corpses. His mind raced back to the boy in the healing glade of the Unicorn. Here were the victims of Wytherban’s Lychgate; here were the missing children of Wodys Mara. He heard Weej and Mirnle calling for him. They sounded far off now, as if they were all talking submerged in deep water. Byron’s ears began to hurt; his breath ran short. He turned full around, searching for more of the Lychgate victims. He started gasping for breath and flailing with his arms. Byron cried out but now he had no voice. He realized he had not managed to stand at all, but lay face down across the dead warrior. He felt hands grab his shoulders from behind and pull him up. Stifled gasps met with the damp cold cavern air as he came free of the fog. He burst upward in desperation for the surface as if from a pond after far too long a dive.

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It was Weej who pulled him up, covering his mouth, clutching Byron’s head in a tight lock. With a strength that shocked Byron, Weej pushed him against the wall of the chamber. “Don’t go under the fog!” Weej said. Byron flailed and swatted Weej’s hands away. “Will ya let go already?” he said, stepping away from the gnome. “Sorry,” Weej said. Byron looked at the fog. “How long was I down there?” “Not long, sir,” Mirnle said. “Don’t you remember the torches?” Weej said. “Don’t go under the fog.” “Look, I tripped, okay?” Byron said, putting his hands on his hips. Weej shrugged. “We couldn’t find you.” Byron stood there, waiting for his breath, staring out into the chamber. “There are thousands of them.” “Thousands of what?” Weej said. “Bodies — out there,” Byron said, “under the fog — bodies everywhere. And there are children — little dwarf children — scattered all around among the bodies. This place is one huge Lychgate.” “The Necrotoriae,” Mirnle said, staring into the fog all around them. “That’s where we are: the Necrotoriae.” “The what?” Byron said, standing upright. “The Chambers of the Dead,” Weej said. “We heard them talking about it. This is where It keeps Its army, I mean, Its real army.” “Its real army? But all those Fellsmen!” Byron said. “That wasn’t the real army? There were thousands of them!” “There’s even more of — of whatever you saw, ten thousand or more. They say It’s been building the Dead Army for years,

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gathering the remains of all the dead dwarves it could find in this place.” “We have to get those children out,” Byron said. “I think they’re still alive.” “Look over there, sir,” Mirnle said. Byron rolled his eyes. “Will you stop calling me that?” “Sorry, sir,” Mirnle said, “but look, one of the tombs is open.” At the opposite end of the chamber a deep, red glow shone through one of the tomb doors and the red fog flowed out thick and fast on the floor. “That’s where all this fog is coming from,” Byron said. Weej nodded. “I bet the smell comes from there, too.” In the middle of the chamber they came to the switch platform Byron had just seen beneath the fog. A wagon cart linked to a flatbed seesaw cart waited on the tracks in the middle, stuck in mid-switch between two sets of rails. “They must’ve brought the bodies in on these carts,” Byron said, laying a hand on the switch handle. He pushed the lever and the platform screeched into motion, completing the turn that had left it stuck. It had only a few feet to go, but the whole place echoed with the sound of it. When the tracks lined up, the carts rolled off the switch dock, onto the rails, and stopped. “Sir,” Mirnle said. “I think you really need to be more quiet.” Byron looked around. Even the dwarflings were looking at him with reproach. He grinned and shifted his weight. “Sorry, everybody.” “Looks like a down slope,” Weej said, nodding at the wagon linkage. “It just rolled into place. I wonder if that’s on purpose, to help get it going.” “Why did it stop?” Byron said.

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“A lock of some kind I suppose,” Weej said. “Must be a release lever somewhere. There it is, right where the carts stopped rolling.” Footsteps echoed in the chamber, and a grumbling voice called out. “That you?” it said. “Who’s out there?” “Get down!” Byron whispered. “Sir, no,” Mirnle whispered, “the fog!” “Oh, right!” Byron said. “Quick, into the wagons!” “Hoy!” the voice called. “Who’s there?” They hoisted the dwarflings into the wagon cart, then scrambled up the ladder and piled in after them. Everyone hunkered down and held their breath. There were footsteps on the floor of the chamber and torchlight appeared over the top of the wagon. The dwarf was just outside, grumbling to himself. “That you, Warnish?” he said. The tip of a torch appeared over the top of the wagon, and a hand took hold of the edge. The wagon tilted with the weight of someone taking the first step of the iron ladder. Byron’s heart pounded in his ears. He held his breath, staring at the torch as more and more of it came into view. A dirty, round leather cap appeared over the top of the wagon, then a dirty, sweaty forehead, then a pair of bushy dark eyebrows. Then a voice cried out in the distance. “Father!” Byron froze and a wave of anger passed over him. Nosh! “What the — ?” the dwarf said, and he turned and stepped down off the wagon. “That’s it, I’m gonna shut your eyes once and for all.” The wagon cart lurched as the dwarf stepped off the ladder. His heavy footsteps faded into echoes. Everyone let go their breath and waited. When the echoes died, the group peered over

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the edge of the wagon cart, toward the crypt with the open door. The dwarf was just passing inside, waving his torch into the red darkness before him. “I think that was your friend, sir,” Mirnle said. “That voice that cried out.” “He’s somewhere inside that open door,” Weej said. Byron stared in the direction of the cry. “Okay, you two,” he said, “I’m not asking you to go with me. But I’m going through that door.” “Well, don’t ask me to go under the fog with you,” Weej said, “but otherwise we’re in this together.” “That’s for me, too, sir,” Mirnle said. “We’re all safer if we stick together.” “All right then,” Byron said. “Let’s go get my friend.” The open door was wrought like the others in bronze and silver. The crest it bore was a great hammer. The glowing fog billowed out heavy and thick into the huge chamber. Byron paused at the door for a moment to listen, then stepped inside with his little company of dwarflings and gnomes close behind. Beyond the door was a long corridor with many passages all along its length. Inside each passage was a stair that led up into darkness. The lintel above each passage was carved with the face of an ancient dwarf. Those at the near end were rough likenesses. Further on the faces were clearer, and their detail set them apart from one another. Byron remembered the Hall of Sovereigns in the Old Gate quarters of Valleygate. The stained glass faces of the old dwarf queens and kings came back to him, and the lightning-lit countenance of the Suicide King flashed in his mind. Behind him the dwarf children began to sing with tiny, whispering voices.

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Dotha nere na Harkathene, shone remindranath, Eldomen mish tindarene, mehenen cral juntahath. Byron glanced back at them, and caught Mirnle’s eye. “What are they saying?” Mirnle shrugged. “It sounds like a nursery rhyme, sir, about the long ago kings and queens. That’s who all these carved faces represent.” “A nursery rhyme?” Byron said. “How does it go?” Mirnle listened for a moment, as the children sang on, then she recited after them. Call to them, the queens and kings; give glory to their fame. Their list is long, so listen well; do not forget their names: Eméndurin, who wielded first, his queen: Earthwielder’s daughter, Bragh, who slew the Hoblin Chiefs beside the Winsted Water. Lotanda, who perceived the crafts of metal, stone, and earth, Indorene whose name means Mountain’s Root, she founded Dwarvenhearth. Face after carven face went by as Byron led them further into the crypt of the Hammer. Each sculpted head seemed to mark their passage with its deep, solemn eyes of stone. Creeping along in the red glow, Byron stepped on something in his path. It was a great tattered cloth of once fine fabric. The ensign of the Hammer was still visible on the threadbare garment. Byron picked it up. “A cape?” he said, holding it out for the others to see. “A shroud,” Mirnle said. “From one of the tombs.”

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“They must have done some looting down here,” Weej said, staring into the darkness of one of the side passages. “These must be the crypts of the lords and ladies of this house.” Another cry echoed from the end of the corridor. Byron dropped the shroud and broke into a run, cutting through the ground fog like a plow blade. He came to a door above which was carved a handsome, bearded face. The little company came up behind him, and they all stopped to join Byron in his gaze of admiration. The face had a flowing beard, a high proud brow with a diadem set upon it, and deep courageous eyes. “Garrowthelf,” one of the dwarflings said in a reverent whisper. The others fell again to murmuring their nursery song. Harkatan Wülkadanef Borán-Qualnách maz nir. Palamanta Wodys Mara niff, Braga kulna Showdratir. Byron looked at Mirnle. “What was that last line they sang?” “It was about the Suicide King,” Mirnle said. “His ghost haunts the Wooded Valley until he can rise from the dead to avenge the scattering of his people.” “That doesn’t rhyme,” Weej said. “Well, I wasn’t really listening,” Mirnle said with shrug. They all stared up at the carving above the door. Byron peered at the carved stone face. “Wülkadanef,” he muttered. “Wülken? But my friend told me Harkatan means Fist of the Maker.” “It does,” Mirnle said. “But it’s also the dwarf word for their king or queen.”

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“Harkatan Wülkadanef,” Byron said and his flesh went bumpy. “The Suicide King.” The dwarflings made no more sound, but as he stepped through the door into the crypt of Garrowthelf, Byron looked back to see that they had all joined hands. Another passage followed, low and unadorned. It opened into another hallway that circled a large beehive-shaped chamber. Many arched passages entered the beehive dome from the hallway, and the whole place was lit with great red candles. Byron crept up to the first archway and peeked inside. In the middle of the chamber was a huge cauldron propped up on hefty clawed feet of brass. The fog flowed over the top of the cauldron, spilling out and rolling out across the floor in every direction. The floor was piled with bones and skulls, and everything was covered with the same dried flower petals that had covered the table on which Byron had awakened to Mirnle and Weej. Two great tables of stone stood on opposite sides of the cauldron. One was as long as three picnic tables. There was nothing on it but flower petals and a few large bones. The other was not so large, but there lay upon it the remains of the headless dwarf. Partly covered with necrotic flesh, its ancient bones were dried and crumbling, its blood-fetid armor was rusted and fouled. A great sword, caked in the filth of centuries, lay upon its breast, and its helmeted skull rested beside its shoulder. A circle of huge iron candlesticks lit the room with red flames. Each candle burned with many wicks that stuck out in all directions. At their bases, a heap of skulls painted with red and yellow runes sat stacked. The eyes all glowed red and a line of bones stretched from one candlestick to the next, forming a ring around the cauldron and the tables. Across the chamber there was movement in the shadows.

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Another angry voice called out. Three stout dwarves appeared through an archway on the far side of the beehive chamber, dragging a much smaller dwarf who kicked and squirmed and grunted. He was clad in rich chain armor and wore a fine tunic with the ensign of the Hammer on its breast. His helmet was handsomely wrought of leather and polished metal, inlaid with gold and silver. Nosh! Byron thought, making a fist and ducking out of sight. He paused to listen, then peered around the edge of the archway once more. They hauled him into the ring and hefted him onto the stone table beside the headless skeleton. One held Nosh’s hands above his head, one sat on his legs, and the third fastened him down with heavy chains. “You won’t run again,” the third dwarf said. “You’ll just stay right here and sleep, see? Gonna bring your old father Garrowthelf back from the dead, you are.” “Crazy old rat cut off his own head,” one of the other dwarves said. “Can you imagine?” “And your own Uncle Dornthelf sold you out to us to revive the corpse,” said the first. “That’s some loving family you’ve got.” “House of the Hammer,” said the third dwarf, and he spat upon the ground. “Now listen here,” the first dwarf said with sudden fierceness. “If It finds out you’re not cooperating, It’ll be back to deal with you Itself, right? And that means trouble for us all. So just you stay put.” Then he struck Nosh on the side of the head and stepped away from the table. The other dwarves climbed down also, each one taking a slap or a punch at Nosh. Nosh tried to cry out, but his voice was hoarse and faint.

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“Get those chains right this time,” the first dwarf said. “I can’t help it he’s so strong for his age,” said the second. “Whatever you say about his heritage, he’s got the strength of the Wielder in his arms.” “Well, he’s done for, see?” said the first. “You’re new down here, so you don’t know this lych Wegga. It’s gonna steal the life right out of this youngster, mind and heart, see? Then it’s gonna fill him up with all the despair and fear of the Suicide King himself. All that darkness is about to flow into this youngster; all the darkness of the line of the Hammer from the time that darkness began.” “Why the finery?” the other dwarf said, tapping Nosh’s helmet. “Part of the rite,” the first dwarf said with a shrug. “It’s his funeral, after all. Here, gimme a hand with ’im.” Byron turned a circle and wrung his hands, panic rising in his mind. Nosh! Oh, no, Nosh! There was a crackle in the air and Byron’s scalp tingled. For an instant his horn sparkled so the light of it danced on the faces of dwarfling and gnome. All Byron’s skin went bumpy, and his left hand fell upon the helmet of the Unicorn knight, still slung over his shoulder on the strap of his pouch. Byron stopped. He stared down at the helmet as a thought filled his mind, crowding out the fear. He snapped his whole body around and looked into the passage down which they had come. “Somebody get that shroud we saw,” Byron said. “Quick!” Mirnle bolted back down the passage from which they had come. Byron crouched, slipped out of his pouch strap, and began unfastening the helmet. Before he was finished, Mirnle was standing beside him with the burial shroud all wadded under her arm.

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“Here it is, sir,” she said. “Quit calling me that!” Byron said, handing Weej the helmet. “Put this on, Weej.” “Sorry, sir,” Mirnle said, handing over the shroud. “Put it on?” Weej said. “Why?” “No time!” Byron said, shaking out the shroud. “Just do it!” Weej shrugged and put the helmet on. It was many times too big, and wobbled on his head like a soup pot. “Good,” Byron said. “Now, onto Mirnle’s shoulders.” “What?” Weej said. His voice echoed inside the helmet. “Never mind, Weej,” Mirnle said, crouching down. “Climb on!” “Now put the shroud on, Weej,” Byron said, stepping back for a look. “Pull it over your head like a hood.” Mirnle stood there with Weej on her shoulders. The funeral shroud reached the floor and lay in a wrinkled heap of folds and gathers at Mirnle’s feet. The helmet tilted on Weej’s head, beneath the drape he’d pulled over the top. Byron shook his head. “It’s not nearly tall enough. All right, Mirnle,” he said, crouching down. “Climb on!” It was all Byron could do to stand up on his wobbling legs. His hooves poked the floor as he staggered left and right, leaning and teetering, trying to gain control of the two gnomes on his shoulders. “Straighten the robe,” he whispered. “Hold it closed, Mirnle. Weej, make sure your helmet is straight!” Weej wrestled with the tattered garment and tried to fix the unicorn helmet on his head. Byron started forward and with his first step he tripped on the hem of the shroud. Mirnle and Weej both put their hands out and caught the wall. “Nice catch, you two,” Byron said. He stood for a moment, collecting himself. “Now, Mirnle, tell the children to follow.”

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A moment later, Byron was staggering forward, leaning on doorways and arches, listening to Mirnle’s whispered instructions, relayed from Weej, who watched the way ahead through one eyehole in the visor of the crooked unicorn helmet. Inside the chamber, the dwarves finished tightening the chains that held the dwarf prince down. They turned from their work and their jaws fell open at the sight of the wülken priest. Its robe was filthy and faded, tattered and torn. It was not so tall as the others they had seen and it couldn’t keep its helmet on straight. They looked at the gang of dwarflings behind the wülken, and then at the great empty table on the other side of the cauldron. A moment passed. Byron’s legs began to shake, and he twitched dangerously at the ankles. Weej felt it and he gave a chirp of alarm, which he quickly turned into a cleared throat, and then a growl. The largest of the dwarves frowned and looked sidelong at his companions. Byron reached up and squeezed Weej’s foot. “Arrraaagh!” Weej said with a sweep of his arm. The reach of his movement lifted the hem of the robe so that Byron’s hooves peeked out for a second. The dwarves stepped aside. Weej turned, and so did Mirnle. Byron struggled with his burden and danced out the best turn he could manage. He nearly tipped and Weej gave a shout, which he again turned into a growl. “Aah! Nana nana barrrrcafoompsh!” Weej said. Byron gaped in slack-jawed horror into the darkness of the shroud. “Barrrrcafoompsh!” Weej growled. “Noona nana!” Byron froze. He felt Mirnle freeze also. Shut up Weej. Oh, please shut up. “Arrgh!” Weej said, louder and more certain. “Arrgh! Napfffft! Nga, nga, nga!”

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Byron’s legs twitched and wobbled and heavy sweat broke out on his forehead. Shut up Weej, you’re gonna get us all killed. Through a thin spot in the fabric of the shroud, he could see the dwarves looking at each other with frowns of disbelief. “Garrrrrrrrrrrrrrr na na na!” We’re all gonna die. We’re all gonna die. Oh, my gosh, we’re all gonna die. “Braaaaaaa ha HA!” Oh golly, oh golly, oh golly. Oh Weej, oh Weej, oh Weej. The lead dwarf folded his arms and looked the strange, tattered wülken priest up and down. Then all three of the dwarves straightened, and backed up a step. “Nashanta go kendranach!” Weej shouted, spreading his arms wide, exposing Byron’s hooves. “Ach ranan du maga nish!” He dropped his arms and said the same thing but lower, almost a whisper. It echoed out from his helmet, filling the chamber with a hiss. He said it one time more, loud and angry, waving his arms. The lead dwarf backed into his companions, never noticing Byron’s hooves at the bottom of the shroud. The dwarves all side-shuffled their way out of the ring of candles, kicking a pile of skulls as they went. They all watched the strange wülken priest with wide, cautious eyes, not daring to turn their back on it until they were close enough to the door to make a dash. One of them tripped, and the others did not help him up. The three of them fled the chamber as fast as they could, and soon the sound of their footfalls faded in dying echoes. Byron’s quaking legs gave way at last. He collapsed to the floor and Mirnle, Weej, and the heavy unicorn helmet all tumbled down on top of him. Byron looked at Weej as the gnome wrestled his head free of the shroud and helmet. “What’d you say to them?”

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“I have no idea,” Weej said. “I heard them say it when they sprinkled the flowers over us.” “How did you remember it?” Byron asked. Weej shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a gift.” “Listen, you two!” Mirnle said. “Everyone hush!” “Byron?” said a faint, weak voice. “Byron is that you?” “Nosh!” Byron said. “Nosh it’s me! We’ve come to get you out!”

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Lotigrund and Grudnevar hrudnelf stood out at the front of his forces. A great murmur of relief passed through the tattered army of Valleygate when they saw their king, but so great was their fear, and so stern was the look on Thrudnelf’s face, that they did not cry out or raise a cheer at his coming. Rather, those who could see him fixed their gaze upon him, to see what he would do, and passed word of his movements back into the ranks. And the bell of Showd Mazark tolled on. A hundred yards away, the Winsted River flowed beneath the five bridges that crossed it to the stair of the Livian Doors. The Fell horde crowded together before the stair and on it, and the bridges were packed with their cowering numbers, so that the whole of the army was pressed up against the Livian Doors, still stung by the appearance of Marmaros and the sudden defeat of their greatest fighter, Aloisius the ettin. But with each toll of the bell they grew bolder. They cried out taunts and threats as their confidence grew, fueled by the promise of some new calamity sent by their master, Wytherban. And the thick shadow-mist rolled down from the red fire above, covering the mountain in a billowing shroud, hiding the Fell horde in a

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mask of murk. Soon the boldest were standing on the crests of the bridges and at the water’s edge, shouting loudly to Thrudnelf, sometimes firing an arrow in the direction of the dwarves. One arrow landed at the feet of a short, stout dwarf with a long beard as he approached the banner of the Hammer, and stepped before the dwarven king. “I am the chief of the house of the Axe,” he said. “On behalf of myself and my house, I declare loyalty to you, Dwarven King. Your valor today is unmatched. I will deny you no longer. Accept my banner into your protection, and we will fight for you at your command.” “I do accept you,” Thrudnelf said. “And my protection you will have, now and for as long as my house shall stand, if your loyalty lasts.” Another dwarf, also short, but not so broad, and with no beard, just a mustache that hung to his belt, also came before Thrudnelf. “I am chief of the house of the Mill,” he said. “On behalf of myself and my house, I declare loyalty to you, Dwarven King. You have shown yourself in my eyes to be king. You are the Hammer. You are the Wielder. You are the Fist of the Maker!” “Accept my protection,” Thrudnelf said. “You and your house together, for as long as my house shall stand, if your loyalty lasts.” One by one, the dwarflords of Wodys Mara assembled together at Thrudnelf’s banner pole. One by one they swore loyalty and recognized him as king. Upon many he conferred knighthood. To others he made promises of reward for their actions on the field. To all he restored their ancestral place in the mansions of Showd Mazark, “when the time should come,” he said, “on the other side of battle, that you should dwell there again in peace.”

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And the great bell tolled again. “Thrudnelf,” Miroaster said. “This will be the final stand. What will you do when those doors open?” “I will fight,” Thrudnelf said. “Just as you will. As will all who do not wish to die, though die we shall, for this new army is fresh and un-fought and there are far too many of them, while we are few and weary.” “My king,” Thrym said, stepping forward. “What is it, my cousin and War Duke?” Thrudnelf asked. “Only this,” Thrym said. “Should I come upon your brother, my cousin Prince Dornthelf in the battle ahead, I beg your permission to slay him and bring his body to you.” “You are bold, cousin. I grant your request. But if I come upon him first, you will have to slay me to be his killer. Are we agreed?” “We are agreed,” Thrym said. “Chief of the Wheel?” “Yes, my Duke,” the Wheel said, stepping up. “You have command of the right flank,” Thrym said, “and the combined armies of Wodys Mara. I will take the left side. Our king will take the center for himself.” “Yes, my Duke,” said the chief of the Wheel. “Take the chiefs of the Valley,” Thrym continued, “and name from them your commanders as you see fit.” The chief of the Wheel nodded. “Yes, my Duke.” Then he turned to the king. “Sire, if I do not live to see you in peace upon your throne, I pray that day comes for you and may my house serve yours for as long as our lines shall last.” “If you do not live to see that day,” King Thrudnelf said, “do not count yourself free of my service, friend and Knight of the Hammer. I will summon you from Jargadda with this horn I have beside me.” The chief of the Wheel smiled wide and bowed. “May my

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actions on the field warrant a seat in that great hall, sire, that I might be there to answer when you call me.” Across the river, the Fellsmen grew restless, pushing and shoving amongst themselves, sparring and clashing weapon upon shield. More and more of them found the courage to taunt and jeer, though they backed away into the ranks when Miroaster showed himself to them. Still, on the center bridge, the hideous figure of Lady Veronica pushed to the fore and looked out. The bell tolled yet again, and a new smile stretched across her face. She looked back in the direction of the mountain and lifted her sword. “Thrudnelf!” she shouted. “Bring me the head of the dwarven king!” A thunderous jeer went up in response to the call. The Fellsmen hoisted their weapons and banged them against their shields, slapping each other on the helmet, hammering their own chests, and stomping upon the ground. The din was awful, but above it the bell tolled, and into the dying of the long deep tone came the great, creaking groan of the Livian Doors. On field, bridge, and stair, Fellsmen, dwarf, and giant turned to look in the direction of the sound. Into that quiet, from the Great Bazaar beyond the doors, flowed the cry of the Fell horde. “Most of them are still inside,” Rufus said to his brother, and so loud was the cry Raefer could hardly hear him, though they stood side by side. Raefer stared out across the torchlit throng and nodded. “It doesn’t seem possible.” “I think,” Rufus said, and he choked on the words, “I think this is it, Raef. We’ve got to stick together.” Raefer looked at his older brother and tears welled in his eyes. He nodded once, firmly at Rufus.

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“No way, you two,” Dindra said. “It doesn’t end here. Raefer, you watch everything that happens here, you remember everything. And when this is over, and we’re all together at Midwinter’s Eve, I’ll be front and center when you give us the poem you’ve made.” Raefer blinked and looked at the young centress. She was proud and stern and held his eye with resolve. “Gosh, Dindra,” he said. “Thanks.” Dindra looked at Rufus and nodded. “Aren’t you scared?” Rufus said. “Terrified,” Dindra said with a smile. Rufus smiled, too. Then he turned. “Shilo, I—” Rufus began, but he stopped when she looked at him. “What is it, Rufus?” she asked. “I —” Rufus said again. “Nothing. Never mind.” Shilo smiled. She gripped Rufus’s arm and kissed his cheek. “All right, Rufus,” she said, then she turned as Quill started laughing. “I almost said ‘I wish Byron and Nosh were here,’ ” the griffin princess said. “But who’d wish for something like that?” “Nobody, Quill,” Dindra said with a smile, and she stroked the feathers on the top of Quill’s head. “But I know what you mean. I sure hope we see them again.” “Raefer,” Rufus said, “you make sure you get every detail out of those two when we find them again. If ever there was a tale worthy of a song, it’s got to be theirs.” Raefer nodded and smiled. “You bet, Ruf. Just as soon as we’re all together again.” It sounded as if the mountain was screaming. The cry of the Fell horde within seemed to frighten even the Fellsmen who waited on the stair. They looked back with a kind of fearful

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delight, disbelieving the din and eagerness of their cohorts. They took up the cry until the whole valley was filled with it. Thrudnelf lifted Harkatan and gave his own great cry, echoed by the Knights of the Hammer and all the dwarves of Valleygate and Wodys Mara, but it was lost in the vastness of the Fell din. “Wanderers,” Miroaster said, shouting to be heard, “stay together and watch for the Unicorn. Do what you must, but stay together if you can.” The cry of the enemy never fully died. It diminished only enough that the thunder of pounding feet could be heard. They stormed across the five bridges and onto the field, followed by the fresh, un-fought numbers from inside the mountain. The water of the river trembled as it flowed, troubled by the stampede, and the stair swarmed with the Fell fighters who issued forth through the Livian Doors. They charged across the field, waving their swords, eyes bulging, fangs and claws snapping and slashing and slathering. They were mad for the blood of dwarves and giants, but above all they were desperate for that of King Thrudnelf. Lady Veronica led the charge across the center bridge. As she ran she looked behind her at the throng that followed, then turned her glare on Thrudnelf with a crazed smile on her face. She sprinted across the ragged field with her pigtails flapping behind her, pointing her jagged sword at the dwarven king. Thrudnelf lifted the Hammer of Making into his grip, and set off. “HARKATAN!” he cried, and the whole dwarven army followed, echoing the cry of their king. As the two armies clashed, a dark shadow moved among them. Miroaster’s sword flashed in firelight as he turned and spun and struck. Every step he took brought down another Fellsmen; in twos and threes they dropped, screaming and reaching for escape.

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Everywhere they fled before him, and he was wet with their blood. Thrudnelf sought out Lady Veronica. They stood face to face as their front lines each strove to push the other back. Thrudnelf started forward, lifting the Hammer and crying war. Veronica lifted her sword, preparing to strike, and drew a breath for her battle cry. But with twenty paces between them she stopped, peering into the air above the dwarven king. There came a sound that made Quill turn and look. It was the sound of feathers and giant, beating wings. A great shrieking roar filled the sky, answered by others of its kind. A vast black shape descended on the front lines, took hold of two Fellsman in its talons and went skyward again, screeching as it beat its majestic wings. Lady Veronica cast herself upon the ground. “Cryolar!” Raefer yelled. “The griffins!” Shilo answered. They rose and fell in the firelight, plunging out of the darkness to spirit away the enemy into the shadowed heights. The screams of the falling and the call of the griffins punctuated the noise of battle. But in the midst of the chorus of war another sound arose, faint but clear — the high, bright cry of a horn. Dindra wheeled and trotted toward the sound. Poised with one fore-hoof in the air, she listened. It came again, and all the griffins responded. “The Woodland King!” she cried. “The Woodland King has come!” “Are you sure?” Raefer said. “I’ve heard that horn all my life,” Dindra said. “The Woodland King has come!” And from the forest came the wolves, hundreds of them, silent on the run, charging in from the east side of the field.

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“Lukos!” Raefer cried, pointing. “Lukos! And the Unseen Pack!” “Look at that!” Rufus said. “There are satyrs riding them!” Only Lukos himself ran riderless. The Unseen Pack bore upon their backs the satyr scouts of the Woodland King. Their faces were painted red and each satyr bore a javelin in his hand. “It’s Red Misrule!” Shilo said. They kept quiet until the horn blast sounded again. But when it did there came from them a cry so eerie and ancient that it sent the Fellsmen into panic. Wolf and satyr cried out in a band of voices, and followed Lukos into the throng without slowing. They drove a wedge deep into the crowd, tearing with tooth and claw, javelin and hatchet and knife. They sounded out in their strange war cry, and the distant horn sang once more, carrying with it still another sound. It began as a faint thunder rumbling in the ground. Then the low boughs of the trees began to tremble and the ground shook. A wind came on, issuing from the forest as if some storm brewed there, kicking dust and leaves into tumult before it. Louder and more violent it became, until even the Fell horde could not help but turn, pressed though they were by the wolves and satyrs and frenzied dwarven fighters. When at last the storm broke, the Fellsmen recognized at once that they could not escape the coming tide. Not even the greatness of their numbers offered comfort or hope of success to those on the eastern field. For it was there that the fury of the centaurs struck hardest and most swift. They carried flaming spears before them, and swung great heavy clubs of wood. The centaurs were weathered and scarred, hardened, bearing their weapons with terrible ease in their immensely powerful hands. Some were old, but all huge and wild,

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unkempt and ragged, lean with many days afield. All of them bore strange, war-like markings of red and black on their faces, chests, and flanks. Dindra looked at them with fearful wonder. “Dindra, do you see your father?” Quill said, squinting into the charge. Dindra shrugged and shook her head. “I’ve never seen any of them before.” “There’s one you know, Dindra,” Shilo said. “Look!” One among them stood tallest, though less broad than some. His hair was woven in tight rows against his head, and hung in many braids down his back. He, too, bore the black and red marks. He alone wore a heavy net slung over his shoulder. He went among the centaurs pointing and giving orders, smiting with his fist or great spear what foes had the daring or bad luck to come before him. “Baruwan!” Raefer shouted. “Baruwan,” Dindra whispered. “He did it!” Rufus cried. “He won them over! Those are the Hesbáni centaurs!” They pounded the Fellsmen back to the bridges, pushing them into flight for the doors, or to the west where they crowded into their own numbers. The Fellsmen on the eastern flank gave way, none bothering to fight if escape was possible, the rest falling before the fury of the Hesbáni centaurs that fought heedless of the wounds they endured. Thrudnelf pressed in, shouting orders and smiting with Harkatan those foes who came in reach. Thrym advanced to the aid of the centaurs and the wolves, while the chief of the Wheel led the dwarves of Wodys Mara into the main body of the Fell horde, who were amuck and chaotic, crowded by the unguided retreat of their fellows from the east side of the field. In the darkness

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above, the Griffins wheeled on their vast wings, deep in shadow, now and then a shrieking roar sounding out. Fear shivered the Fell horde, reaching back into the ranks that still had not crossed the river cloaked in the unnatural darkness of the red Weg fire that burned atop the Haunted Mountain. The retreating Fellsmen halted at the bridges. The centaurs stopped also, standing in a line like a wall, grim and eager, joined by the wolves of the Unseen Pack with their satyr scout riders wringing their javelins, uttering high-pitched cries of threat, and seeking with wild, menacing defiance to meet the eyes of their foes. The Fell hordes turned to face the centaurs and the dwarven ranks, giving their backs to the forest to the west. And it was from there that the great blow came. Any fear inspired by the might of the centaurs, the ravening of the wolves, and the mischievous cunning of the satyrs was forgotten when from the trees, mounted on a warhorse of dark brown, rode the Woodland King at the head of a force three hundred wide and a hundred deep. At his hip was a long, curved sword, a falchion of the finest craft. He wore a shirt of glittering scales. Bracers of bronze, wrought with the faces of lions, protected his legs and arms. On his head he wore the holly-wreathed battle crown of the chief of the Woodland Knights, and around his neck the medallion of his sovereignty, set with the likeness of a rampant unicorn. With him, also on horseback, came a dozen Woodland Knights, arrayed as their king. They bore lances in their hands and wore swords at their sides, and each carried on his horse weapons and gear of his own choosing. From the back of his horse, the Woodland King winded his horn. The cry of it pierced the din as he set his lance before him and his knights around him. Their swords rose and fell, their lances pierced and lifted and cast aside.

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Behind them came the centaurs of Woody Deep, proud and grim, two hundred strong, led by the Son of Thunder, Palter Thundershod. They carried great spears of ash and iron, and wooden clubs banded with metal. They wore helmets and breastplates on their torsos and heads, while sashes of banded leather and woven chain protected their horses’ bodies. At last followed the warriors of the Woodland Realm, woodsmen and hunters who had come at the call of their king. They’d followed him through the long march to make war in a faraway land at the need of a foreign people of legend and fireside tale. And yet they fought as if they stood in the doors of their own steadings, defending hearth and home and loved one from the clutches of an invading foe, so great was their love for the Woodland King. Confusion swept through the ranks of the enemy as they came between the hammer and anvil. Behind them, their own numbers prevented retreat over the bridges. From their right on the eastern flank came the wolf-riders and wild centaurs. From their left on the western flank came the Woodland King, and from in front of them on the middle of the field came the combined armies of the dwarves, led by the Hammer himself, Thrudnelf, dwarven king. Above it all, wheeling unseen in the blackened sky, Cryolar and the griffins dropped without warning, dispensing winged death. And to the banner pole of the Hammer came the Woodland King, in company with Sir Durmidere and Palter Thundershod, to view the fray and determine how best to proceed. “Father!” Dindra cried, as Palter drew near. “Dindra!” bellowed the Son of Thunder. “The sight of you here!” he said with an anguished look around him. He planted his spear in the ground and took his daughter to him. “Father,” Dindra said, “How is it at home? How is mother?”

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“Many centaurs and fighters have fallen,” Palter said. “Sir Gadamere of the Woodland Knights has been lost. Your brother Mardus has been wounded.” Dindra clutched her father’s arms. “Mardus!” she said. “What happened?” “Now, don’t worry for him, he’s fine,” Palter said. “You should see how proud he is of his wound. He looks forward to the scar it will leave. Our losses were heavy, but all is quiet for now, thanks to King Lukos of the wolves.” “Excuse me, sir,” Raefer said, stepping before the Woodland King. “But how is it with the dryads? Where is our brother Rifkin and our cousins Resh and Jevén?” Belden smiled. “We could not have been victorious without your kin. And they came in greater number from Ghostwood after you left. I am still amazed at the stealth of the dryads. Much harm they did our enemies. Yet not one dryad was so much as wounded. “All is well with your kin, my fellows. They keep watch in the woods of my home, as the Unicorn has commanded. And your brother Rifkin sends me with fair words, in hopes I should find you well. To Rufus he says: Do not spend your last arrow on an enemy who does not see it coming. And to Raefer he sends this message: Remember all, Raefer, and make a song of it, or I shall shave your head when I see you!” Raefer’s hand shot suddenly to his long locks with their fine vines and purple flowers. “All of a sudden everybody’s a fan,” he muttered. “And Shilo, before you ask it,” King Belden continued, “all is well with your parents and with your Grappa. They have taken Darius Thorn into their home, for his cottage was burned down, though he was unhurt.”

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“We saw much of what the young Darius Thorn must have been like,” Palter Thundershod said. “He led the scouts himself and a master of cunning he is— always two steps ahead, always with a grin in his eye, and always smoking that pipe of his. He stayed behind and I for one am glad for it. His skill as a leader will be needed in the absence of the king.” Lukos stepped up to Shilo and looked at her with unblinking eyes. His one blue eye glinted in the light of the torches. “He’s been captured, sir,” Shilo said. “He’s a prisoner inside the mountain. And so is Nosh.” Lukos whined and looked at the dark mass of Rathpálamar. He glanced up at the red flame that burned at the top, and a deep, low growl escaped him. “Yes, Wolfen King,” said a voice. Miroaster stepped from the murk like a shadow himself and stood among them. He was smattered— face, hands, and body— with the blood of much killing, and looked so grim and dangerous that Palter Thundershod and King Belden both clutched for their weapons. “I must remain,” Miroaster continued, looking at Lukos. “I am needed. But I agree, someone must go, and after the Unicorn himself I would send no other in my own absence than Lukos, Wolfen King. Take with you some few of the Unseen Pack. I will follow when I can.” Lukos turned and gave a yip. Then he set off running. Six large gray wolves with their riders set off after him and they disappeared together into the murk. Then Miroaster turned to the leaders. “Hail, Woodland King,” he said. “You are late to heed the call of the Unicorn.” “I have a people to watch over,” Belden said, lifting his chin. “The wolves of the forest came in great number across my western

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border. It was all we could do to fend them off. And not wolves only, but wild centaurs and creatures the likes of which I’ve only heard tales.” “And were you later even by a day,” Miroaster said, “your people would have been doomed by it in spite of your efforts.” “Mind how you speak to the king of the Woodland realm,” Sir Durmidere said, stepping forward. Miroaster ignored him, looking past him at the Son of Thunder. “You are Palter Thundershod,” Miroaster said. “I knew your father, Madican, and his father before him. Your daughter has his courage.” Palter lifted his chin and looked down at Dindra, who pressed against him, reaching as far around him as she could. “I speak truth to the Woodland King,” Miroaster said to Sir Durmidere, “that is all. Such are the times and such is the doom of a king that he must choose between many needs. May he choose well and rightly.” “And who are you?” King Belden asked. “More than a friend,” said another voice. The centaur Baruwan trotted up, flanked by four enormous, wild, and weathered centaurs. Each bore a great spear, and carried crude flails of rope and stone. “Baruwan!” Dindra said, stepping away from her father. Then she pulled up and stopped herself, gently putting one hand to her throat. “Hello, Dindra,” Baruwan said. “Hello, Wanderers.” “Baruwan!” Raefer said. “You did it!” “Yes, Raefer Nimbletwig,” Baruwan said. His smile was grim and sincere as he gazed upon the Wanderers each in their turn. “I have far to go before my debt is paid, but I have made a stride,

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I think. More than a friend, Woodland King,” Baruwan continued. “An ally beyond measure and a servant of the Unicorn.” King Belden and Palter Thundershod shared a glance, and both regarded Miroaster’s blood-stained countenance with caution. “Baruwan, are you a chief now?” Rufus asked. “No,” Baruwan replied. “I cannot be both servant to the Woodland King and chief of the Hesbáni at the same time. Ixion still leads them. But my people have been troubled greatly by the migrating Fell Clans since the winter. I won the right to take with me those who would go, to search out the place where the clans are gathering.” “And you have found it,” Miroaster said. “Many have come and more still are on the way. You are all here in the dire hour, when much will be decided.” “Who disturbs my battle?” said King Thrudnelf, stepping forward at last with Harkatan across his shoulder. There was a smile in his eyes. “Speaking of the dire hour? You rout my foe, you gather beneath my banner, and not one has the decency to make introduction.” “You are Thrudnelf, king of the dwarves,” the Woodland King said. “I am,” Thrudnelf said, shifting the Hammer of Making to his other shoulder. “I am Belden, king in the Woodland realm. I came as fast and well as I might. These are Palter Thundershod, my war chief, and the centaur Baruwan, who serves out a debt to me with greater speed than he realizes. Here is the captain of my knights, Sir Durmidere. We are gathered to your banner at last, Dwarven King.” “You are honored and welcome, all of you, at whatever the hour,” Thrudnelf said. He looked closely at the Woodland King,

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and nodded. “Only in stories have I heard of your existence. But the sight of you is a glad one.” “And in stories alone have I heard of you, Dwarven King,” Belden said. “Is it true that you have for your throne a great pile of jewels and gold?” Thrudnelf smiled. “It is not. Is it true that you have sap in your veins where blood should be?” Belden threw his head back and laughed, turning with a great smile to Sir Durmidere. “It is not true, O Dwarven King,” Belden said, “and I hope to prove it this day by shedding my blood in your service! May I march with you against this foe?” “You may march with me,” Thrudnelf said. “And I, and all those loyal to me, will smite upon them by your side.” “Then let us be about it!” the Woodland King said. “Let us drive these villains into the river and set your hammer to the doors!” But there came a sound that quelled all joy in the meeting of friends new and old. The great bell of Showd Mazark tolled again, one time only, and there came a deep, red glow into the darkness of the gaping Livian Doors. A great disturbance was there that caused the Fellsmen to push and shove to get out of the way. A wave of excitement swept through them, reaching down to the battlefield, where the fighting ceased once again, and every head turned, drawn by an unseen force that filled the mind and heart with fearful curiosity. A huge shape appeared, obscured by the shadow that covered the face of the mountain. Two large points of red light burned like eyes near to the top. It passed through the great gate as if it were floating. And way was made for it. A wide path cleared as it went, and the Fellsmen piled in behind it, none daring to venture close. Soon the sound of many huge feet could be heard on the

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center bridge. It came forward over the crest and into view of the field. As it came, the veil of shadow lifted. Raefer clutched his chest. “Does anyone feel that?” “I do,” Quill said. “Me, too,” said Rufus. “It’s awful,” Dindra said, pressing her hand to her head as the dread grew stronger. A gang of enormous creatures advanced from the receding murk. They were bigger than centaurs, like huge ugly men. They had heavy jaws and brows, broad heads, hulking shoulders, and tree-like limbs. They wore scraps of armor on their massive torsos and great flails in their belts. “Gothsmen,” Miroaster said, nodding. “Ogres from the frozen waste.” On their shoulders they bore a litter which held an oversized chair, where sat a giant, dressed for battle. It wore armor of dark plates and chain mesh, and a great metal helmet with chain skirting that fell all about its shoulders and down its back like tresses of hair. It had a huge unsheathed sword across its lap and a vast round shield against its chair. The face of the giant was nothing but a skeleton with scraps of flesh and sinew clinging to it, and in the sockets of its eyes burned a dark red light. “So,” Miroaster said. “You walk again, eh, Lotigrund?” “What is that you say?” the Woodland King asked. “You know this demon?” “It is Lotigrund the first sovereign of giant kind,” Miroaster said. “He died long ago, on the Farnan Field, north of the Old Mountain. Only to be summoned back to champion the Lord of Fear in his bid for domination. I worry now more than ever for

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the giant princeling, Grudner. There is no doubt his life and heart were used to quicken this foul thing.” The ogres set down their burden and the giant looked around. Then he stood up and leveled his sword, posturing for the fight, shifting and balancing. Without warning he sprang, moving with terrifying speed into the ranks of the Unicorn. His great sword swept back and forth like a scythe as he carved a path, stepping like a harvester at his task. The Fellsmen ran screaming from him, for his blade did not know friend from foe. The Weg champion wandered at will among the throng. Centaur after centaur made his charge and died for it. Dwarves fell in threes and fours. Berserks stormed forward to their doom. The blank skull face searched the field, seeking to place death wherever it found life. And the ground shook with its passing. “Behold,” Miroaster said, leveling his sword. “The next calamity.” Thrudnelf stepped forward with Harkatan in his grip. “Very well, then,” he said. “Very well.” “Thrudnelf,” said a voice, and Grudnevar, lord of Hollengart, king of the giants, stepped forward with the small remnant of his army. “I believe this is for me to manage.” Thrudnelf looked at the giant king with a frown, but did not speak. Grudnevar limped on the wounded knee Thrudnelf had given him. It was splinted with the broken spear shafts, lashed tight with strips of cloth. “That is so,” Miroaster said. The dwarven king looked at the tall, blood-spattered man. Then he stepped aside with a slight bow as the giant king unsheathed his sword and set off. “King Grudnevar,” Miroaster said. The giant king turned.

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“Whatever terror enters your heart, remember that this foul thing has stolen life from your son. If you destroy it you will restore hope for Grudner’s recovery— thin hope, but more than now remains. You are Grudner’s father and so you stand between this brute and your son in the sequence of your bloodline. You have this power. That is the way with deathmagic.” Grudnevar looked at Miroaster with grim confusion. “Win,” Thrudnelf said. “That is all.” Then the kings of dwarf and giant locked eyes, and for a moment they were brothers. Thrudnelf nodded firmly, and Grudnevar responded in kind. He looked at the hilt of his sword and went forth to meet his foe and ancestor.

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March of the Dead Army osh thrashed against the chains that held him. “Get me down,” he moaned. “Get me down from this thing.” “Hang on, Nosh,” Byron said. “There are locks on these —” Byron stopped short at the sound of chains falling to the floor. Mirnle looked up as the picked lock dropped onto the pile of chains. She shrugged and stood up. “It’s a gift.” When the chains were off, Nosh rolled over and threw himself from the table. He began to weep and shake with sobs, covering his face with his hands. “Oh, my head,” Nosh moaned. His face was covered with the terrible markings of deathmagic. “My eyes.” The dwarflings crowded around him, patting his head and back, prattling in their language. Some were singing softly and moving their little hands. “Harkatan,” they said, over and over again. Mirnle and Weej looked at Nosh in amazement. “They’re calling him king,” Byron said. “They think he’s Garrowthelf,” Mirnle said, “back from the dead and young again.” “Well,” Nosh said, sitting up among the children, “my name

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is Garrowthelf all right, and it sure feels like I’m back from the dead. Byron, help Grudner. He’s on the other table.” Byron ran past the cauldron to the other table. There was nothing on it but a few old bones, and the dark, dried flower petals. He looked up and down the length of the table and went around to the other side. There in the shadows on the floor lay a dark, motionless form. Byron crouched down and looked into the lych-marked face of a young giant. Like Nosh, Grudner was clad in fine livery, and on his tunic was set the symbol of the rising sun. Something moved in the shadows beneath the table. Byron jumped backward at the sight of two huge, bloodshot eyes staring out at him with a look of confusion. “Lucrece?” Byron said. “They took my bones,” the taxim said. “They took my bones and left me with this.” The taxim waved its hand in a motion toward the giant prince. “It isn’t even dead.” Then the creature looked at Byron with recognition. “You,” she said. “You were with me.” “Hoy!” Byron whispered. He crouched before the giant prince with a cautious glance at the taxim. He waved his hand in front of the young giant’s face. Byron snapped his fingers, but the fellow did not move. “Grudner?” Byron touched Grudner’s forehead. It was cold and damp. The boy’s hair was wet with perspiration and matted to his brow. “Oh, gosh,” Byron said. Grudner gave a faraway moan, and tears escaped his crusted eyelids. “Hold on, little guy,” Byron said. “We’re gonna get you out.” “Little?” Weej said, stepping up to look over Byron’s shoulder. “He’s bigger than you and me both. And Mirnle.”

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“Help me move him, Weej,” Byron said. “Are we gonna carry him?” “Just as far as the tracks,” Byron said. “We’ve got to get him out!” Weej nodded. “Take a hand. I’ll do the best I can. What’s that?” Weej said with a start, taking a step back. Lucrece peered out at him, her face half hid in shadow. “They took my bones,” the taxim said, but she fixed her stare on Byron again. “Never mind, Weej!” Byron shouted. “Help me with the Grudner!” “Golly, he’s cold as cavern water,” Weej said, bending to the task. “Ugh! And heavy!” Byron and Weej each took a hand and dragged Grudner a few inches from the table. “He’s like a rock or something,” Byron said. “Just get him moving,” Weej said, wincing. “Then it’ll be easier.” With grunts and heaves, they managed the crucial first steps and got Grudner sliding across the floor. “Mirnle, come and hold his head,” Weej said. “We can’t stop or we’ll never get him moving again.” “What about the king?” Mirnle asked, stepping up beside them. “Don’t call me that,” Nosh said, looking around at the adoring faces of the dwarflings. “We’ll come back for him,” Byron said. Mirnle trotted along between Byron and Weej, supporting Grudner’s sagging head. They pulled him out of the Lychgate and into the hallway of the crypts of the Hammer. “A down slope,” Byron said. “That’s lucky. I didn’t notice it coming in.”

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They dragged the giant prince out into the great chamber, through the cadavers of the dwarves of Showd Mazark. When they finally stopped, they were winded and weak, but Grudner lay on the stone floor beside the wagon cart. “He’s down there in the fog, sir,” Mirnle said. Byron shook his head. “I don’t think it matters at this point, Mirnle. How do we get him into the car?” “The back panel flaps down,” Weej said, shaking his head. “Dwarves think of everything.” Weej sprang up the ladder and hopped into the wagon car. A second later the back panel fell open, unfolding in three stages to a ramp that locked into place. “Well?” Weej said. “Mirnle, we’ll need you to help pull this time,” Byron said. “Let’s get him to the foot of the ramp. Byron and Weej each took one of Grudner’s arms. Mirnle took hold of his collar. With five desperate heaves they slid the giant prince around to the end of the ramp. “Just don’t let him slide back down,” Byron said. “Ready, one — two — THREE!” “The armor makes him so much heavier,” Weej said, wincing as he strained to keep a grip on the giant boy’s wrist. Inch by inch they dragged Grudner up the ramp and into the wagon car. They stood there, leaning against the walls of the car, sweat on their brows, chests heaving for breath. Then all three turned, forgetting their fatigue, at the sound of the dwarflings crying out in fear. They set off running, down the ramp, out across the fog. Byron reached the chamber first, but stopped short at the archway. Weej and Mirnle slammed into the back of him, and

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all three stood for a moment, staring in horror at what was happening inside. The skulls that were piled at the bases of the iron candle stands were sprouting spider legs and jumping to life, chasing the dwarf children around the chamber. Nosh struggled to his feet, but not before three of the creatures climbed onto him. They had long curved pinchers and dreadful stingers that dripped with some ghastly poison. “Yaaah!” Byron cried, and he raced across the room to Nosh. He grabbed one spider creature by the legs and thrashed it against the ground. “Get them to the tracks!” he shouted. He grabbed two more of the vile creatures, whacked them together so their lights went out, then flung them into the darkness. Weej and Mirnle chased the dwarflings, trying to get them to follow, pulling the hideous skull-spiders from their heads and backs, while fighting them off themselves. More and more of the skulls sprouted legs and pinchers, and scurried away from the piles, until the place was swarming. They crawled up the walls and dropped from the ceiling, scuttling over each other with awful chirps and squeals. The clicking of their stalky legs was hideous, and every time Byron or the gnomes managed to smash one, it burst to pieces with a putrid yellow liquid that left a greasy, glistening stain on the stone. In the thick of the mayhem, Byron’s horn tingled, and the air around him crackled. A thought forced its way to the top of his mind: The cauldron! Dump the cauldron! Byron stopped and fixed his gaze on the cauldron that stood between the tables in the center of the candle circle. For the first time, he noticed the sinister faces wrought into the sides of it: one with a wide snarling mouth, the other with its long creepy tongue sticking out. The brim was set with deep runes carved

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into the dark metal. It stood taller than Byron, propped on its clawed feet, steaming and burbling with a foul vapor. Byron dashed across the chamber, jumping one skull-spider, stomping another, and threw himself against the side of the cauldron. It did not budge. He pressed up against it with all his force. Still it did not move, and Byron howled with anger. A moment later, Nosh was at his side. His velvet cape was close about him, and he clutched the great sword in his hand. He nodded at Byron, and lent him all his frail strength. Together they shouldered into the cauldron and it toppled to the floor, ringing deeply as it rolled aside, grinding against stone. The tone of its impact was dampened by its gruesome contents, which were cast across the chamber. Byron and Nosh watched in disgusted horror while the skull creatures chased the chunky liquid across the floor, pulling at it greedily with their dripping siphons, snapping and squealing and hissing at each other to be first. The red glowing fog dissipated and vanished into the air. The stench lingered, but began at once to fade. “Run!” Byron shouted. “Grab the children!” Then he stepped up beside Nosh and slung the dwarf prince’s arm over his shoulder. “Lean on me, Nosh,” Byron said, and they followed Weej and Mirnle and the fleeing dwarf children out of the Garrowthelf’s tomb, down the passage of crypts, out into the great chamber of the switch platform. In the torchlight they saw the bodies, the thousands of bodies of the once living dwarves of Showd Mazark. They were arranged in neat rows. Their armor, battered and rotten, their weapons chipped and worn, their faces and hands patched with scraps of fetid flesh. They lay there, waiting, visible now that the mist was gone.

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As they picked their path to the wagons, Byron and Nosh could not keep from looking into the faces on the ground. “Who are they?” Nosh asked, still leaning on Byron. “Your ancestors, I guess,” Byron said, straining to help his friend. “What about those children?” Nosh said. “They’re all painted like us.” “That’s how Wytherban made this army,” Byron said. “Let’s get you to the cart, then we’ll worry about them. Come on Nosh, just a few more steps.” “I can make it, Byron,” Nosh said. “It comes and goes.” They reached the rail cars where Weej and Mirnle were helping the dwarflings aboard. Nosh climbed up and joined the little ones as they gathered around Grudner in the wagon car. Mirnle and Weej ran ahead to the seesaw platform. Byron turned and ran back out onto the floor. “Sir!” Mirnle called. “Where are you going?” “The victims,” Byron said. “All these dwarf children. We can’t just leave them lying here!” “I’ll help you, Byron,” Nosh said. He headed for the ladder on the side of the car, wading through the grasping hands of the protesting dwarf children. “Nosh, you can’t!” Byron said. “Yes I can,” Nosh said, waving him off. “Have we got a choice?” “Well, we can’t get this handle moving anyway!” Weej shouted, growling as he bore down on the seesaw. “The cars are locked in place!” Mirnle cried. Weej pointed. “The lever!” “Listen!” Nosh cried, stopping with one foot on the ladder. “Listen to that!” “Listen to what, your majesty?” Mirnle said.

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“Stop calling me that!” Nosh said. “Wait, listen!” Everyone paused. Byron looked down into the lych-marked face of the dwarf child on the floor in front of him. She had on her face a look of sad, troubled sleep. “There!” Nosh said. “Do you hear?” “I don’t hear anything,” Byron said. “You don’t hear that horn?” Nosh said. High above, the great bell tolled. It was far away, but its sound reached into the depths of the lower crypt. “I heard that,” Weej said. Mirnle nodded. “So did I.” Byron jumped and looked around him, staggering backward. The entire host of dwarven dead began to stir. Then, as one, they stood. Their ranks spread beyond what his eyes could reach in every direction. They did not seem to notice Byron standing in their midst. He looked close at the face of the nearest warrior and from behind him came the sound of footsteps. Silently, a single form emerged from the crypt of the Hammer. It was the headless dwarf. It strode out among the dead and stood very close to Byron. It held up its head with both hands and turned it as if surveying the army that filled the halls. And it screamed. They all did, together, in a cry that filled the expanse of the Necrotoriae, and muted the memory of the cry of the Fellsmen in the Great Bazaar. Byron ducked and covered his head with his arms. A silver light appeared in their eyes and they lifted their weapons. Those who stood closest to the dwarflings who lay on the floor of the cavernous hall, locked in the sleep of Wegga, reached down and took the children up, slinging them over their shoulders with effortless strength. Then the headless dwarf tucked its head under its arm and set off running. The entire host turned in unison and followed it,

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running in perfect marching order out through the high-pillared porticoes, up the winding stairs, into the tunnels, and down the length of the hall. It lasted for several minutes. The host broke into organized companies, ascending from the depths of the crypts to the Livian Doors with great speed. The companions watched, stupefied, until the last of the warriors was gone. The chambers continued to echo with the deafening cry. It lingered in the darkness of the ceiling, and came down from the higher levels. When at last it faded into silence, the companions could do nothing for several minutes but stare into the distance where the dead company had gone. “They took the children,” Mirnle said. “It’s begun,” Byron said, running back to the wagon carts. “The Weg has summoned its army.” “Is the world about to end?” Weej said. “It’s sure trying to, Weej,” Byron said as he climbed onto the seesaw platform. “But it hasn’t ended yet. Throw that switch and let’s get moving.” “Which way should we go?” Nosh asked. “Well,” Byron said. “I guess we should try to retrace the way we came. At least we know that’s a way out.” “All I know is, we came in that tunnel over there,” Weej said. “After that, I haven’t got a clue.” “It’s a beginning,” Byron said. “But we’ll have to turn this car around.” “Quiet, everyone!” Mirnle said. “Listen!” Into the silence that followed Mirnle’s command came the sound of heavy, metal wheels rolling on tracks. “Weej,” Nosh shouted, “throw the switch!” “But we don’t know where these tracks lead!” Weej said.

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“There’s no time!” Nosh said. “Throw it!” Another sound blended with the rolling wheels. It echoed into the great chamber from all the passages that joined it. Nearer and louder, it was the sound of many things, rustling things, moving fast. There was an angry shriek, and then another, and the ground of the place shook with the force of an unseen stampede. “There!” Mirnle said, pointing to the entrance of a tunnel across the chamber. A seesaw cart appeared, moving fast with the work of four dwarves cranking down on the lever. “I told you!” one of the dwarves shouted. “The wülken are all topside! After them!” “Stop him unlocking those cars!” said another. The dwarves hit the lever even harder and reached the switch platform in seconds. One of them jumped down and ran across to push the lever that operated the round metal platform. Another headed for Weej, who was standing by the switch that locked the cars in place. He stopped halfway to where Weej stood and looked around at the tunnels, frowning. The switch platform came around and lined up the track of the pursuing dwarves with the track of Byron and his company. As the mechanism fell quiet, everyone in the great chamber — dwarf, satyr, and gnome— turned this way and that searching for the source of the strange rustling sound. Byron stared in shocked horror at the far end of the chamber. From the most distant tunnel came a thick shadow that seemed to pour across the floor like spilled water. A din of chirping and squeaking filled the chamber, pocked by the clicks and scraping of stiff claws striking the stone floor. Pale red points of light dotted the shadow in the hundreds. A metal grate across the floor flew up and clattered aside as more of the red dotted shadow flowed out of the hole. Byron saw that

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what looked like shadow was not shadow at all, but hundreds of scurrying skull-spiders with black hairy limbs and glowing eyes. “Oh, Gradda,” Byron whispered. “The cauldron,” Nosh said. “We broke the magic.” Mirnle nodded. “And raised the alarm.” A crypt door burst open, then another, and the skull-spiders poured out like potatoes from a storage shed, scraping and reaching over each other, squealing and chirping. Another door burst open, then another. They poured down the stairs from the upper balconies and came from three of the rail tunnels. Grate after grate popped off the floor, expelling more still. They dropped by the dozen from the ceiling in the darkness above, rappelling down on tangles of putrid green webbing that dripped from their pinchers. To Byron’s staggered amazement, they fluttered about in the air on bat wings and the filth-ridden feathered wings of carrion birds. “The whole place is coming down on us!” Weej shouted. Nosh pounded on the seesaw handle. “Weej, throw that lever!” Weej blinked and looked at the lever. The two dwarves who had jumped down from their platform car ran back as fast as they could. “Throw the lever, blast you!” one of the four dwarves shouted. Weej hammered against it with the weight of his body. There was a loud clack and the wagon linkage started to roll forward. Byron, Mirnle, and Nosh started working the seesaw lever, and Weej climbed up to join them on the platform as it rolled past the switch station. Soon they were gaining speed, heading into the darkness of the tunnel into which the wagon was pointed. Byron looked back to see the dwarves regrouping in a frenzy on their own wagon cart. The last thing he saw was the four panicked dwarves flailing away at the seesaw lever on their cart as it

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inched forward onto the down slope. The pursuers disappeared from view as Byron’s cart rounded a bend. Beyond that point the tunnel was lit by the faint glow of a dim, white moss that clung in patches to the wall. “Firemoss,” Weej said. “Dwarves think of everything.” They gained speed on the down slope, but the work became harder as the tracks leveled off, and harder still on the inclines that came and went. Byron, Mirnle, Weej, and Nosh worked the lever in awkward strokes, trying to find a pace they could all keep. Very soon they heard the sounds of pursuit. The dwarves came into view for a moment, then were lost again around a bend. They shouted at each other for more speed, and crept up on the companions. They were expert pilots of their cart, working the lever with a smooth, even pace. “Faster!” Byron cried. There was a loud click above his head that made him duck. Another followed. A crossbow bolt fell onto the cart and stuck deep in the wood of the seesaw platform, then another whistled past Byron’s head. “They’re shooting at us!” Byron shouted. “FASTER!” Bend after bend, straight after straight, they raced until Byron’s little band was headed steadily downward, wheels rumbling, everyone screaming and pumping for their lives. But the dwarves closed in. Another shot from the crossbow, then another, made the companions duck for cover, causing them to slacken their pace. The pursuing dwarves gained enough ground for the lead dwarf to set down his crossbow and leap forward onto the back of the rear car of Byron’s linkage. He walked right over Grudner, wading forward among the dwarflings, toward the front, pulling a long knife as he drew near. Weej gave a vicious cry and dove on the dwarf, snarling and growling. The knife flashed as the dwarf’s arm rose and fell, and

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Weej was flung down. He lay motionless next to Grudner at the bottom of the cart. “Weej!” Mirnle cried. “He’s bleeding! I see blood!” The dwarf reached the rear of the platform cart, grabbed Nosh by the back of the neck, and stabbed him square between the shoulder blades. Nosh grunted and buckled to his knees. The dwarf shouted some harsh words and started climbing onto the platform cart, but a sudden chorus of shrill voices made him stop and look back. In a swarm of little hands and feet the dwarflings surged forward, shouting and hollering their tiny battle cries, mustering to aid the young dwarf they thought to be their king. They climbed onto the attacker’s back, pulling at his arms and head, tugging at his leather miner’s apron. He was off balance when they reached him, standing with one foot on the edge of the platform. He toppled over backwards with the dwarflings piled on top of him. With a shout he shook them off and regained his footing, staggering for balance to the back of the car. As he turned, howling and angry with his knife drawn, Nosh was upon him. The dwarf prince had cast aside the cape of fine velvet, exposing the woven chain shirt that had foiled the knife of his attacker. He strode in and hammered head first into the older dwarf’s chest, lifting him just enough to force him over the back wall of the car. The dwarf sprawled onto the tracks below and the pursuing car jumped from the tracks only a little as he disappeared beneath its wheels, screaming and reaching. Byron looked back as the cart came on. The three remaining dwarves bellowed in anger, working the seesaw lever with frenzied force. They gained rapid ground, but Byron forgot them altogether at the sight of the tunnel behind them. It grew dark with what looked like thick, creeping shadow.

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But it was not shadow. Thousands of tiny red lights infested it. As it drew near he could hear the clicking and chirping and hissing. The sound echoed louder and louder until it overpowered even the thundering wheels, the shouts of the angry dwarves, and the screams of the fleeing company. The whole of the tunnel — walls, floor, and ceiling — all the way around was alive with swarming skull-spiders. They crawled over each other with terrifying speed, a thick, squirming, scurrying carpet of hairy legs and pinchers and stingers. The flying things gained more quickly still, their red eyes swooping and banking over the heads of the pursuing dwarves. One of the three remaining dwarves looked over his shoulder. He slapped his companion on the arm, and even as the two looked back together, they were overrun. Byron’s stomach nearly failed him at the sight of the dwarves reaching and flailing for their lives. Their cart leaped from the tracks, and toppled end over end in the tunnel. The hurtling cart and all three dwarves disappeared into the thickness of the swarm. For a moment the whole scene was lost to view as Byron and his friends powered their cars around a bend. But a moment only, then the din of the swarm returned. Byron heard the creaking, the clicking, the shrieking and squealing, and the red eyes came back into view as the tunnel darkened with the numbers of the pursuing horde. It gained, it grew louder, it grew darker in the tunnel, and the eyes drew near. A bat-winged spider-skull swooped down on Byron and he let go of the lever to fight the creature away. He looked up and around him as the tunnel filled with the mayhem of the swarm. The first of the creeping legs and eyes reached the back of the wagon car. The gruesome spider creatures poured down like waves breaking, eyes appearing and disappearing, as they spilled

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over each other in wriggling heaps. Nosh dragged Grudner forward and herded the dwarflings as far to the front as they could go. Then he turned, slouching and swaying, weak from his sickness and exertion, to face the monsters. The wagon began to jump and shake as the skull creatures found their way under it and lifted it from the tracks. Byron was watching when Nosh lifted his arms in defiance of the infesting swarm as it overtook them at last. Then the rumbling of the wheels stopped. The tracks beneath them fell away and there was a dim light. For a moment everything was quiet and Byron was falling. Then Mirnle was screaming. The dwarflings were screaming. The hideous skull-spiders were screaming, and everyone— all of them, wheels, wagons, and all— struck water. For a moment there was only wet chill and darkness. Byron heard the underwater rumble of a long plunging splash, as he was pulled deeper and deeper into water. Somewhere in the world above there was shrieking and blue light. Byron felt a pain in his leg and something was pulling him. In the dark distance he heard the frightened voice of Mirnle Mushrump calling her brother’s name.

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The Horn of Jargadda wide space opened around the giant king, lord of Hollengart, and his grim, ancient opponent. Quickened by UnMagic, the dead king moved with the strength and speed of a living giant in his fighting prime, using all the prowess that had won him fear and renown in his lifetime. Grudner’s father fought with the same greatness, for it was from his very opponent that he had inherited his strength and speed, his cunning and his endurance. But his wound slowed him, halted him at times, and the dead king came on harder and swifter. So the great swords clashed and rang. The two fighters circled and crouched. They tore the earth with their heavy feet as they lunged and jabbed. The sway of their movements caused the circle around them to shift and widen, so that the giant kings, dead and living, moved where they would around the field. The ogres who attended the giant wülken stood by with their clubs, fencing out the Fellsmen who pushed and shoved to improve their view. Locked in awe of the spectacle, those nearest stopped their fighting to watch: dwarf, human, and centaur stood across from the Fellsmen. Skirmishes broke out where their numbers mingled but most were mesmerized by the combat of the giant kings,

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lifting cries of victory when their champion should make some gain in the contest. The wolf-riders of Red Misrule did not tarry, but charged about the field running maneuvers, harrying the foe. The giants quit the field in full force to watch the struggle of their king, shouting him on with cries of “Up Hollengart!” and “For Prince Grudner!” Rufus, Raefer, Dindra, Shilo, and Quill stood together with Miroaster and the leaders of the Unicorn’s army, who paused in the struggle to bolster the lord of Hollengart with their shouts of warning and encouragement. Raefer pointed across the fray to a band of traitor dwarves who stood in company with the Fellsmen. “There’s Nosh’s uncle,” he said to Rufus. “Prince Dornthelf.” “Where?” Thrym said, craning his neck, eager to spot the brother of the dwarven king. “There,” Raefer said, “next to that hoblin, or whatever it is.” Thrym scanned the crowd at the edge of the circle, squinting to see. Then his eyes opened wide and he lifted his sword. “Dornthelf!” Thrym shouted. He strode forward into the circle with his sword before him. Prince Dornthelf saw him coming. A fey grin lit his face and he looked up and down the length of his own sword. Around him the traitors of Valleygate began nodding to each other, pointing with their chins at the approach of Thrym, the once exiled general of their ranks. Many stood with Prince Dornthelf, but many more turned and vanished into the crowd. Dornthelf himself looked Thrym in the eye. Then the traitor prince of the dwarves lifted his sword and charged into the circle. They met with a clash of swords and ran past each other, each wheeling and turning back. The dwarves of Valleygate gave a cry and with their ranks formed a second circle apart from the fight of the giant kings, so that Thrym and Dornthelf were surrounded.

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The mob shouted them on, lifting fist and sword, spear and axe, and pounding weapon on shield. At the clash of Dornthelf and Thrym there was a great cry among the dwarves of Valleygate, traitorous and loyal alike. Grudnevar of Hollengart turned to see what was afoot but his foe was not distracted and came forward with a staggering blow. Grudnevar lifted his sword, deflecting the shock, but his wounded knee buckled under his shifting weight and he fell to the ground. A wild cheer went up from the Fell horde. They clamored and beat their shields. But the lord of Hollengart rolled sideways and came to balance on his able knee. He swept out strong and clean with his sword, both hands gripping the pommel, both arms and his mighty back powering the blow. It shore across the knee joint of the dead king, cutting through the plate and chain of its armor. There was a great snap and the wülken staggered and fell. As quickly as they’d been roused, the Fellsmen were silenced, bewildered. The captains of the Unicorn held their breath, not daring to count their friend victorious. But Grudnevar of Hollengart turned, still on one knee, and struck again, taking off the dead king’s sword arm. Stunned silence followed as the lord of Hollengart came to his feet. He gripped his sword in both hands, wringing the hilt. His face was angry and wild; he gave a cry that caused the Fellsmen in the circle around him to step back. Then he lifted his sword and cut the head of the dead king from its shoulders. There was a flash of red light where the neck and head came apart, and the glow in the great eye sockets went out as the head rolled aside and came to rest on the grass. The lord of Hollengart struck again and again, hewing the carcass of the dead king, until its armor was in ruin on the field. The circle of Valleygate dwarves that surrounded Thrym and

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Dornthelf parted and Thrym passed through it holding two swords. Behind him Dornthelf was on his knees, clutching his sword arm, gaping at the place where his hand had been. A moment later the crowd closed around him. Thrym approached the king of the dwarves and presented the sword of Prince Dornthelf. “I have drawn his blood, sire,” Thrym said. “But I cannot take his life. He is of the bloodline of the Hammer.” Thrudnelf nodded to his war duke and handed Dornthelf’s sword to Gensha to carry. King Grudnevar turned his stare on the enemy host around him. His beautiful, bearded face twisted into a snarl and he screamed with rage and wrath. He started forward, stepping quickly to a run, his fierce determination overmastering his pain. First he hunted out and slew all the ogres who had carried the litter of the dead king, then he turned his fury on whatever enemy he came upon as the crowd fell again to fighting. He swept left and right with his sword, sundering Fellsmen two and three at a time, until panic went before him, and terrified way was made for him wherever he turned. “The bridges!” cried the Woodland King. He lifted his horn and blew upon it, and a great cry went up from his knights and centaurs and warriors. “Dwarven King, by your leave, I will take the center bridge! I have ridden far to meet my foe; I will take my fight to the gateface of his stronghold.” “You have my leave, Woodland King,” Thrudnelf said. “By the middle-left bridge I will go, but we shall see who reaches the gateface first!” The Woodland King smiled and pointed with his sword. “Then let us both make haste. See! The lord of Hollengart has claimed the middle-right for himself!” “To me!” Thrudnelf cried, still grinning with his eyes at the

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Woodland King. “To me, dwarves of Valleygate! To me, dwarves of Wodys Mara!” “Baruwan, the far left bridge!” cried the Woodland King. “Palter, the far right! Knights and Woodland warriors, to me!” So went the forces of the Unicorn. Baruwan led the wild centaurs and the wolf-riders against the far left bridge. At the middle-left, the Hammer of Making led the charge. To the far right went Palter Thundershod and his war-clad centaurs. Upon the middle-right, the lord of Hollengart, with the remnant of his army strode forward, already to the crest, and the Woodland King with his merry horn bore down on the center bridge. From everywhere and nowhere, Cryolar and his griffins struck from the shadowy heights, until the Fellsmen were caught between defending themselves from onslaught on the ground and unseen death from the obscured sky above. “Dindra,” Miroaster said. “Bring your Wanderers and follow me.” “What?” Dindra said. “Her Wanderers?” Rufus said to Raefer. Raefer shrugged. “Follow you where?” Dindra said with a sidelong glance at Rufus. “Up the stair and through the doors, of course,” Miroaster said, pointing with his sword at the mountain. “Now may be our best chance, and it’s likely to be our last.” “Chance for what?” Quill asked. “To find Byron and Nosh, of course,” Miroaster replied. “I must leave that to you, for another matter presses me that will not wait. But we may go together as far as the doors at least. Are you coming?” “I sure am,” Dindra said, lifting her staff. “So am I,” Raefer said.

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Rufus looked at Raefer, then at Miroaster, then at the Livian Doors. He glanced at Dindra and clenched his jaw. “All right, then,” he said. “Good,” Miroaster said. “Now stay close. There is a ford beneath the far left bridge. We can cross there unhindered by the mayhem above. Follow me and I will show you.” Miroaster led the Wanderers through the fray to the bank of the river. His sword rose and fell almost constantly and he pressed on in haste. Dindra followed close behind, then Shilo, Quill, Raefer, and Rufus in a line. As he went, Miroaster called many fighters of the Unicorn to him. They fell in behind the Wanderers, eager for a faster way across. They came to the far left bridge and stood by the water’s edge. Miroaster pointed with his sword at the water beneath the bridge. “There,” he said. “The water is knee deep, but keep the bridge above you and you will not fall in. Still, the Winsted current is swift, so take care.” The Winsted Water teemed with fighters, living and dead, who fell from above, left and right of the companions as they waded beneath the bridge. Griffins plucked the Fellsmen from the bridges and field and pitched them into the river. The screams of anger and pain echoed against the banks. By the time the Wanderers reached the other side, a great many fighters were behind them— centaurs, dwarves, humans, wolf-riders, and giants. Once across, the fighters broke ranks in search of their leaders, nodding thanks to Miroaster and the Wanderers before diving into the fray that had begun to rage before the stair of Showd Mazark, for the lord of Hollengart had won his way across. The horn of the Woodland King sang brightly. The shrieking roars of the griffins tore through the din of battle. The cries of

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Thrudnelf could be heard all up and down the river, and the rage of the giant king sent a shiver of fear through the enemy ranks. The fall of the Weg champion stirred deep uncertainty in the hearts of the Fell hordes. So it was that the forces of the Unicorn won the bridges of Showd Mazark and took a firm hold on the Winsted Field. In their retreat the enemy crowded the Livian Doors so that they could not be closed. A handful of Berserks raced ahead, bounding up the stair, mindless in their lust for death and killing. Two of them died of wounds to their naked bodies, while the rest gained the doors and entered Showd Mazark. Palter Thundershod and an array of centaurs went close on their heels, cutting their way up the stair. A great cry went up from the vast hall within as the centaurs broke through and set to work. Outside, Thrudnelf came to the stair mere strides ahead of the Woodland King. They stood together calling command to their ranks, as the first wave of wolf-riders charged by and bounded up the stair. Baruwan halted before the Woodland King, but waved his wild centaurs on. With his coming, the forces of the Unicorn took the whole of the great paved area that covered the ground between the bridges and the stair. The banner of the dwarven king was fixed on its pole, and the armies rallied to him in victory. Suddenly, the ground shook with the shock of a great explosion. Red light filled the darkness of the Livian passage and the force of the blast laid low any who stood near the immense doors. Fellsman, centaur, dwarf, and human all toppled into each other; a griffin was forced to the ground, out of control as he swooped low above the throng. At the foot of the stair, Thrudnelf, the Woodland King, Baruwan, and their captains all struggled to keep their footing as a wave of red light and dark energy swept down across them and

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out over the great paved way to the bridges. The water of the river rippled and the trees in the forest beyond the field hissed and swayed in the last breath of the explosion. The red light lingered in the Livian passage, and those nearest scrambled and fought to get clear of the entrance. Soon the whole stair was empty. Then there came upon the throng a deep fear, a quailing of heart, as a towering dark form appeared at the top of the stair. Dindra clutched her heart and stepped backward. She lost her balance and toppled to the stones at the foot of the stair. Shilo clutched her arms around herself and looked down. Raefer and Quill crouched together under Quill’s folded wings. Rufus covered his head and ducked, his chest heaving. Everywhere, fighters both friend and foe were struck dumb with horror. Miroaster alone stood tall, staring with contempt at the figure that had emerged from the Livian Doors. It wore a great sheet of woven chain draped over its head that covered it to the ground. It was tall and broad and its presence stirred irresistible curiosity in the beholder, only to cause sickness and confusion to any who looked upon it. Terror poured out before it and flowed down the steps. A whispering laugh filled the ears of all who stood there. And It was not alone. On the ground beside it, there crept a gigantic spider-like creature with eight long hairy legs. Where the spider’s body should have been was a human head, cracked and shriveled and yellowed, swollen to enormous size. A great many smaller legs wriggled on the top of the head, and its eyes stared out at the fighting armies, each blinking separately and wandering over the faces in the crowd. Behind them stood a dozen wülken priests wearing the bat-

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tered livery of the Knights of the Unicorn. They wore their hoods forward and waited with their hands on the hilts of their great swords, red light glowing through the eye-holes of their fierce horse-face visors. The hissing laughter came again, rising as it reached the ear. “What brings you to my door, Dwarven King?” he said. “Ah, yes, you come to claim your son. You are too late.” Thrudnelf gripped the Hammer of Making in both hands, but could not look up. “And you, King of the Woods,” the Lord of Fear continued, “you have traveled far to come here. To what end and purpose? Fire takes your home while you tarry here. You are deceived.” Belden stood with his fists clenched, looking down. He shook his head and flexed his jaw. The laughter hissed again, filling the air. Out on the field in the light of dying torches, Cryolar and his griffins could be seen by any who dared to look, stumbling over each other as they landed and crouched to the ground. “Ah, Grudnevar,” Wytherban continued, “Lord of Hollengart. Your heart is heavy with the loss of your son. Let your sadness grow, I say, for your son is spent in my death engine.” Wytherban pointed at the giant king, who clutched his chest and fell to the ground, his wounded knee giving way. “Where is the Unicorn?” Wytherban asked. “Is it he that you follow to your death?” At the foot of the stair, Miroaster spoke low to the Wanderers. “Prepare yourselves,” he said. “Your chance is coming. Be ready.” In his voice, Dindra heard a strength that roused her, so that she looked up. “Is there none here,” the Lord of Fear said, “who will speak with me? Is there none to whom I might turn for answers to my questions? For I am deeply puzzled.”

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“Speak with me, Wytherban,” Miroaster said, and in his voice was the same strength that had roused Dindra. All who heard it, friend and foe alike, blinked and looked around, as if stepping out of a fog. But their dread was still so great that none dared move or speak. Miroaster strode forward and stood at the foot of the stair. His hood was cast over his head, hiding his face in shadow, and he held his cape closed tight before him, keeping his sword tucked beneath its folds. Miroaster started up the stair and everyone watched in disbelief as he mounted half the steps to a stop. He stood quiet for a moment, then with moves quick and sudden, he threw back his cape and held aloft the sword stained with the blood of his enemies. “Speak with me, I say!” “The Weg Hunter!” cried the spider beast as it cowered behind Wytherban, peering out from the heavy robes. Wytherban laughed again. “Yes,” he said. “The Weg Hunter. At last you reveal yourself. You have been clever in your concealment. There is no memory of your passing anywhere for many weeks now.” “You have made wülken of my brother knights, I see,” Miroaster said. “Yes,” Wytherban said. “I found them strewn about the halls of this place, lost and with none to command them. I took them in and returned to them their former dignity.” “And yet here stands one that you cannot reach,” Miroaster said. “Indeed,” Wytherban replied. “But late is the hour, for my victory is at hand. The Unicorn understands well my plan, but lacks the strength to hinder me. Soon the bell will toll again to announce the great calamity. Then my army will march out from this very gate and begin the undoing of Everándon.”

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“Your army is beaten,” Miroaster said. “The captains of the Unicorn have taken your front porch!” “I do not speak of this brute rabble with which you have wasted time and numbers,” Wytherban said. “My army lies in death, awaiting my call. But the hour of their summoning draws near and indeed it is at hand.” Then Wytherban took a step down. “Marmaros,” he said with his hissing whisper. He pointed at Miroaster with a chainshrouded hand. “Fetch me the sword!” As one, the wülken priests gripped their hoods with armored hands and pushed them back to reveal their helmets. Then they drew their swords together and charged down the steps toward Miroaster. Six came at him from both sides, and from above, while six swept past him to turn and come at him from behind. Marmaros rose and fell. Miroaster spun and turned, thrashed and thrust. He met his foe with speed and strength they could not match, though they fought with the prowess of their fighting prime. Miroaster did not pause even to assess his next move. He strove on until the last of the warriors fell and the last sword clattered to the stair. Then he turned and started climbing. As he did there came a sound from the east, a deep choking horn blast. Another like it came from the west. The Fellsmen stirred again, roused by the call. Wytherban began to laugh. The horns sounded again. Then a voice called out. “Redcap! Redcap is coming! Look to the east of the Valley!” “And to the west!” another voice cried. “The ogres from the Dragon Mountains! Now we shall see!” From both sides of the Winsted Field came the torches, a forest of them, like two great, fiery snakes slithering out of the woods. The horns blared again, first from the east, then from the west, and then the drums began. They shook the ground and filled the

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chest. Each of the approaching armies outnumbered the battered force of the Unicorn by many hundreds. “Fall back!” the Woodland King shouted. “We must not be caught in the vice! Thrudnelf, pull your people back! Back to the forest fence! Retreat!” “Fall back!” Thrudnelf cried, “Make for Stonehelm, dwarves of Valleygate! Retreat, dwarves of Wodys Mara!” Cryolar and the griffins set upon the new hosts at once, but they were well armed and fired arrows into the sky without heed. And they came at a run, so that their threat approached faster than even the griffins could challenge. The retreat began at once. The fighters of the Unicorn did not panic, for their kings were with them, but as they reached the far side of the bridges and set off across the Winsted Field, the woods before them came alive with torches and fire. And there came a cry like a thousand angry ghosts. The ogres and the Fellsmen of Redcap’s horde had gathered in the woods and poured out in great number, locking the forces of the Unicorn between Redcap on the east side, Gorg the ogre on the west, the infested forest to the north, and Wytherban himself on the steps of Showd Mazark. “Thrudnelf!” Rufus cried. “The Horn of Jargadda!” “Sire, blow your horn!” Dindra shouted. Miroaster started up toward Wytherban. The Spider King scurried into the shelter of the mountain. Wytherban laughed and wheeled around to follow. He waved his robed arm above his head and a great red flame fell down from the top of the Haunted Mountain, hurtling like a stone trailed by fire. It exploded on the stair, setting a deep crack in the marble, and shaking the ground so that Thrudnelf, poised to blow the horn, was knocked to the ground. The Wanderers stumbled and

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fell over each other as the fireball exploded, spewing flame everywhere. Miroaster ducked and waited for the heat to blow over him, then he stood and pressed on. “Sire!” Rufus shouted, “BLOW THAT HORN!” Thrym helped Thrudnelf to his feet. Thrudnelf lifted the horn and blew upon it with all his wind, puffing his cheeks, straining his eyes and neck. No sound came from it. Thrudnelf and Thrym frowned at each other. “Again, sire!” Thrym said. Once more Thrudnelf winded the horn. He gasped for air— so light-headed he nearly fell over. He looked at the horn, then at Thrym, then at the torches of the new armies that now covered the field between the water and the woods. Already the fighting had started there and the first to retreat as commanded were being overrun by the vast, un-fought host of the Weg. “The hour darkens,” Thrudnelf said. “All is lost.” “No, sire!” Dindra cried. “No, it can’t be!” “The myths of yore have let us down,” Thrudnelf said, looking with a blank gaze at the Horn of Jargadda. “But the Hammer, sire,” Thrym said. “Surely the Hammer is real, as none can know so well as you!” “Perhaps,” Thrudnelf said, lifting Harkatan to eye level. “But to what avail, cousin? A few hours spent on the trail of victory. I was late to heed the Unicorn and now I see what comes.” “No, sire!” Dindra said and she stomped her hoof. “Brace yourself, child,” Thrudnelf said, looking north as the torches gathered. The horns blew again and the drums deepened. The Wanderers looked around at each other with teary faces. No one spoke. They all turned toward the Livian Doors as the valley rang with the same deep, sonorous tone they had all come to know. Far within the mountain, the bell of Showd Mazark tolled again.

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A gusting wind issued from the Livian Doors. On it there were voices, singing in a language that no one could understand. At the top of the stair a dwarf appeared, holding its own head above it in its hands. Behind him gathered many dwarves amid a spectral blue light and vapor. The headless dwarf set off running down the stair. Behind him came a host of warriors, rank upon rank, clad in the battle gear of ancient days. The headless one ran straight for Thrudnelf and hammered into him, disappearing with a swath of blue, luminous smoke into the body of the dwarven king. A blank look came over Thrudnelf’s face and his mouth hung open as he stood there, swaying from the impact. Then the dwarven king lurched again as the ghostly dwarf passed out of him on the other side and continued on, his glowing warriors behind him. But the dwarf was headless no longer and carried a glowing sword. Thrudnelf stood dazed and a genuine smile came over his face. He laughed loud and strong. “My son!” he cried. “My son is alive! Here is the host of Jargadda!” The dead army of ancient dwarf warriors gave a cry that came from the field, from the forest, from the hills around the valley, and more than all, from the Mountain of the King. The heritage of Showd Mazark rose up and fell upon its foes with the strength of dwarvenkind itself. They poured from the oldenhome and crossed the river as if riding upon the crashing waves where the sea meets the shore. In the sky there was a great rumbling and an army, clad in blue light, came down in vast numbers, as if charging down a hillside, hoisting weapons, pointing and shouting to each other, laughing as they advanced. “Dindra!” Shilo cried, pointing. Her voice was nearly lost in

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the howling wind that blew. But Dindra followed Shilo’s hand. From the great gate of Showd Mazark, her father galloped out onto the stair at the head of his centaurs, bearing in his arms a dwarf child dressed in fine array and painted with the grim markings of deep Wegga. Not all who had followed the war chief of Woody Deep inside had returned, but those who did wore faces of wonder and fearful joy at the sight they had seen, and the spectacle of the host of Jargadda emerging from the deeps of the mountain. Palter descended the stair, cradling the tiny child in his vast arms, and joined the company of the Unicorn where they stood, gazing out on the valley of Wodys Mara. “There are others,” he said, looking down at the child, “sleeping on the floor within. The army of the dead left them there as they passed.” Out on the Winsted Field the drums stopped and the torches began to scatter, moving in every direction. The pale blue glow of the Jargadda host overwhelmed the Fellsmen like the rising tide moving among reeds in a salty marsh. Where once the billowing shadow covered the ground like fog, the pale blue luminescence of the Jargadene now covered the land. The valley came alive with the glowing presence. The Fell horde fled for their lives, scattering toward the mouths of the valley where they had come. None who had entered escaped the joyous battle-play of the Jargadda warriors. But the un-fought armies of the Weg were great, and not all had entered the valley. The pouring forth of Jargadda did not reach past Wodys Mara. Those Fellsmen beyond the hills who saw the fate of their comrades, turned and fled for their lives, lost in mayhem, abandoned by their leaders. When the foe on the field was destroyed, the host of Jargadda turned to the mountain. Many pointed to the top and the joy in

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their faces turned to a terrifying rage. They stormed back across the bridges and up the stair. Into the Livian Doors they went and up the very slopes of Ratheméndurin, all of them shouting and blowing horns, until they reached the red fire of the Weg. The dwarves of yore swarmed upon it, dousing it so that the fume it spawned was choked and put out. All up and down the mountain, the windows and walkways and turrets brimmed with pale blue light where the Jargadene passed, roaming the halls of the oldenhome, cleansing from it all vestiges of the enemy. The sky opened with a rip in the clouds low to the east. Sunrise burst upon the field in a bright orange beam that shut the eyes of all who gazed upon it. The dark belly of the storming sky was split, lining the clouds with radiant gold. Into the gap of the sun went the host of Jargadda, still laughing and calling and blowing horns. So they passed until the last of them were nearly gone, but these turned and lingered, waiting for one of their number. Garrowthelf, the Suicide King, stood on the stair looking at Thrudnelf. He was whole again, and his beard fell from his chin, long and flowing and full. Upon his noble brow was a diadem and his white battle garb glowed so bright it dazzled and nearly blinded the eye. He fixed his radiant blue eyes on Thrudnelf with a deep look of approval and gratitude. He raised one hand, fingers splayed, and spoke a single word. “Harkatan,” he said, in a shimmering whisper. Then he bowed, and with him was Loralent, Lady of the Dead, and the Jargadene Guard of the dwarven king. They surrounded Garrowthelf and escorted him into the sky where the last of the host waited for him. They turned east and passed through a great gap in the clouds. The strong wind remained, until all gloom of the Weg darkness was dispelled. Upon the valley of Wodys Mara

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there shone a golden sun that cast westerly shadows and the leaves of the forest showed the first hints of autumn fire. “Miroaster!” Quill said. The tall man shook his head as he descended the stair. His face was grim, and he held Marmaros in one hand. “Wytherban and the Spider King have escaped,” he said. “And so have Prince Dornthelf and Lady Veronica with them. Perhaps it is best for now, for I am not yet strong enough to face the Lord of Fear.” “Face him?” said the Woodland King, with a glance at Durmidere and Palter Thundershod. “You intend to face him?” “I do,” Miroaster said. “It is a trial I have waited long to undergo.” They stood together in silence for a moment: Baruwan and two of his captains, Thrym, Palter Thundershod, the Woodland King, Grudnevar, Miroaster, and the Wanderers. Thrudnelf, king of the dwarves, stood apart, gazing out on the valley. The sounds of the army came to them from across the bridges. They were singing the songs of their homes, yipping and laughing and sharing all they had seen and heard. “What will you do now, King Thrudnelf?” Miroaster said. Thrudnelf sighed deep and gave a gentle nod. “I will go and fetch my son,” he said. “My ancestor has shown me his whereabouts.” Then the dwarven king turned and passed inside the Livian Doors, and the house of the Hammer was restored.

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Showd Mazark yron felt himself being pulled through the water, but whether it was up or down he could not tell. His breath ran short. Water flooded in through his nose. He started to give in, ready to draw deep, willing to drown if only to fill his craving to breathe. But he broke the surface, and when the air met the water in his lungs, Byron began at once to choke and cough. The pain in his leg persisted and then he was being dragged across a warm stone floor. At last he came to rest, gagging on the water that filled his throat as it fled his lungs. The air came more easily, little by little, until at last Byron lay still, his face in the crook of his arm. Then it all came back to him. Byron twisted and squirmed and sat up. “Nosh!” he cried, and it was only then that Byron opened his eyes. Nosh was there beside him, lying on his back with his forearm across his forehead. Mirnle was there also, standing near with terror in her face, gazing down at Byron and Nosh. Three wolves were dragging the last of the dwarflings from the water. Byron heard a whine, and felt a wet nose poke him in the neck. He laughed and turned to see a great wolf with one blue eye.

B !

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“Mr. Lukos!” Byron cried. The wolfen king lowered his head so that Byron could wrap his arms around Lukos’s furry gray neck. Lukos whined again and took a seat beside Byron. “Hello, Byron,” said a voice. Byron turned to see a group of satyrs. Four stood by with javelins in their fists while two tended to Weej. He was sitting up, but he looked pale. His shoulder was wrapped in a white bandage that bound his left arm to his chest. On their faces, the satyrs wore the red stripe of the scouts of Woody Deep, and they were bare-chested. They all looked at Byron with grim respect. “Are you all right?” one of them asked. “Yes,” Byron answered. “I think so.” “Your Gradda sends his greetings,” said another. “All is well with him.” Byron stared at them and then at the ground. Then he blinked and snapped his head around. “Grudner!” he cried. “Where’s Grudner?” “Easy, Byron, no fear,” one of the satyrs said. “The giant prince is with the Unicorn.” “Mr. Thúmose?” Byron said, standing. He looked at Lukos. “Mr. Thúmose is here?” Lukos slapped his tail to the floor one time and looked toward a passageway. Byron could see clear, silver light glowing out from within. “He said not to go in there,” one of the satyr scouts said. “Not until he calls.” “What happened?” Byron asked. “Ghosts,” Weej said. “Dwarf ghosts. Millions of them. They killed all the spider things and then just kept going. Didn’t you see?” “No,” Byron said, “I was sort of under water, Weej.”

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“Well, I saw,” Weej said. “And so did Mirnle.” “So did I,” Nosh said. Mirnle gathered the last of the children to her, checking that each was unhurt. “They swarmed all around,” she said, “under the water, in the air, and everywhere. They saved us, or at least they got rid of all the spider things. I’m not sure they even noticed we were there.” “They noticed,” Nosh said. “Didn’t you hear them talking? They were talking to me.” “They were?” Weej said. “About what?” “Some of them were my ancestors,” Nosh said. “One of them was the Suicide King, only he was whole again. He passed right through me.” “He spoke to you?” Weej said. “That’s right,” Nosh said. “What did he say?” Byron asked, sharing a wide-eyed glance with Weej. “A word I don’t understand,” Nosh said. “He said: ‘Kazagnim.’ ” “Kazag-nim,” Byron said, frowning. “That’s right,” Nosh said. “And then he showed me my father. My father is here, somewhere.” “Above,” said one of the satyr scouts. “We’ve seen him. He’s leading the siege.” “How did you find us?” Byron asked, staring into the air before him. “The Unicorn,” said a scout. “We set off, following Lukos to search for you. We met up with the Unicorn and he showed us a way in. He said it was a vent of some kind, but it had stairs and landings all the way down. It opens at the far end of the chamber, over there.”

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Byron looked around for the first time. They were near the edge of a huge pool of water in another great chamber of carved stone. High above the pool, Byron saw the tunnel through which they had come. It was just a hole in the wall, thirty feet or more above the pool. The tracks came out of it and dangled in the air, broken off by rust and time, from what must have once been a bridge that spanned the entire room. Other such tunnels entered the chamber at different levels, and there were a dozen or more pools set into the stone floor of the place. “Why’s it so warm in here?” Byron said. Weej shrugged. “It’s coming from that passage, over there.” “Well, is everybody okay?” Byron asked. “Yes,” Weej said. Mirnle nodded. “And the dwarflings seem fine. They don’t even seem scared.” “I feel sick,” Nosh said. “But I’ll manage.” “I’m going to see what that heat is all about,” Byron said. The whole company followed him to the passage Weej had pointed out. Lukos was close on his heels as Byron took the stair that led down. The air grew hotter and hotter. At the bottom, they stepped out into a vast natural cavern. In the middle of it was a pit a hundred feet deep or more and the air above it shimmered with incredible heat. The chamber was so hot it was hard to breathe. A wide path wound all the way around the pit, passing through caves and behind rocks, and everywhere there were huge mineral spikes pointing up and down like teeth, some so old that they had joined in the middle, forming columns. All the way around, as far as Byron could see, passages like the one by which he had entered opened onto the path. The little company approached the edge of the pit, which was protected by

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a rail. Down inside, they could see many other balconies of the same sort, cut from the stone, circling the pit, each one deeper than the last, until they were lost to view in the quivering air. “The lower stoves,” Nosh said. “The what?” Weej asked. “This is the Deep Forge,” Nosh said, looking around with wonder in his face. “It’s gotta be. This place gives the mountain its name: Showd Mazark. This is the Hearth of the Dwarves, where the old crafts were perfected.” “Gosh,” Byron said. “That’s some fire down there. It’s got this whole place lit up like an oven.” “And all those pools, back up in that chamber,” Nosh continued. “I’ll bet that’s some kind of cooling system, a way of managing all this heat.” “What’s that over there?” Byron asked, peering into the shadows on the pathway. He set off with the others behind him, moving slowly toward a large dark object on the path. The wolves began to growl and whine and Lukos sidled up beside Byron as the satyr came to a halt, staring at what he saw. “What is it, sir?” Mirnle Mushrump said. Byron frowned. “I’ve seen this before.” “Huh?” Nosh said. “How can that be?” Byron’s hand strayed to his monocle. He clutched it tight and started forward again, moving toward the object. It was like a huge box with many sides. Strange symbols were cut into it for air holes, placed all over it without any apparent logic. There were chains attached to it, connecting it to a pair of long iron rods. The whole thing was bent and twisted, blackened as if by some great heat. It lay on the edge of the pit and the ruined lid was cast aside, hanging out partway over the rim. “It’s some kind of vessel,” Nosh said.

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“Those markings,” Mirnle said. “Those are like the ones we saw, the ones in the death place, where the cauldron was.” “I’ve seen this before,” Byron said. “I think I have, too,” Nosh said, peering closer at the air slits. “At Qualnáchnabard.” “No,” Byron said. “Not just the symbols. I’ve seen this vessel before.” Lukos wheeled and slammed into Byron, knocking him out of the way just as a great silvery-green head lunged forward, snapping its huge, curved beak shut on the space where Byron’s neck had been a moment before. The satyr scouts and their wolf steeds cried out and came running forward. In an instant two of the satyrs were down, and one of the wolves was snatched up and cast over the side of the pit. From the shadows, behind one of the many great rocks that littered the upper shelf, stepped an enormous creature with scales and claws and a lashing tail, like a small dragon. Its eyes so mesmerized Byron that it was several dangerous seconds before he realized that the head was only one of the seven heads the monster possessed, each at the end of a long snake-like neck. “Get back!” one of the scouts cried. “Back to the stair!” The creature charged forward, each of its heads reaching out for a different victim. Mirnle frantically tried to gather the dwarf children. Nosh stood fast, wielding the sword he’d taken from the tomb of his ancestor. Byron and Weej ran for the javelins dropped by the fallen satyr scouts. Lukos and the remaining wolves and scouts confronted the beast, dodging the terrible snapping beaks and the huge, black, angry eyes. The creature charged through them and placed itself between the company and the stair by which they hoped to escape. Weej stepped up and hurled his javelin, screaming a word in

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Gnomish. One of the heads shot out and snapped the javelin in its beak, shaking its head and tossing the pieces aside. Byron managed to get beside the creature and threw another javelin. It glanced off the side of the monster, just above its shoulder, leaving a small cut no better than a scratch. Like a shot, the tail of the brute came around and swept Byron’s legs out from under him. Nosh gave a cry and charged in, swinging the sword of his ancestor with one clean stroke. He hacked from its neck the head that would have taken Byron. The creature paused and staggered. The long necks swayed and swirled, and the headless neck dropped to the ground. Nosh stepped up with his sword held high, preparing to strike the dazed monster, but a voice cried out and stopped him. “Nosh!” it said. “Stay your sword!” The Unicorn was at the foot of the stair, moving toward them. His silver light led the way for the company that followed: Dindra, Shilo, Quill, Rufus, and Raefer. Behind them came the Woodland King, Durmidere, Palter Thundershod, Baruwan, and Miroaster. Last came Thrym, and with him, King Thrudnelf. “Why should I stop?” Nosh said, still holding his sword in readiness to strike. “Step back and you will see,” Thúmose said. They cleared away from the ailing creature. It held itself at bay as it found its balance. The headless neck began to move again, and from it sprang two more heads, each smaller than the first, but filled with fresh wildness. They snapped and jabbed at the company, their eyes wide and crazed. Nosh staggered backward into Byron and they both fell over, agog at the monster. “Cut one head,” Thúmose said, “and two more replace it. Only a heart thrust will do. Leave this creature to me. Miroaster, if you will?”

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“By your side, Great One,” Miroaster said, lifting his sword. “Darakûn!” Thúmose called. “The time has come!” From the bright fire of the pit there came a small dark dot. It grew larger as it approached, until there came into view above the rim a beautiful, wild creature of light. It had yellow hair, spiked like flames, and a gleaming silver breastplate. It wore a white tunic, and its silver sandals and shin guards were lashed to its legs with golden cord. Its forearms were braced with plates of silver, and in its hand it bore a terrible spear. It had huge black eyes that glinted in the light of the furnace beneath it, and it was silent — flapping its vast white wings so that it hovered in the air where it had stopped. “Darakûn!” Dindra cried, pointing. “The Firewarden!” Raefer said. “Not the Firewarden,” Thúmose said, “but one of the eight Firewardens, keepers of the Balefire. And indeed, it is the Balefire you see burning in the Deep Stove, brought here long ago by a few loyal Everándons for safekeeping, when Wytherban himself tried to steal it.” “I saw them!” Byron said. He stared at the burnt, broken vessel that lay at the edge of the pit. “This is where they brought it! I saw them!” “Byron, what are you talking about?” Dindra said. “The loyal Everándons,” Byron said, “the ones who recovered the Balefire. They needed a safe place to put the Fire, after they’d stolen it back from the Weg. This is the place! It’s been here all along!” “Who, Byron?” Dindra said. “Who told you all this?” Thúmose and Byron looked at each other. A faint gleam of light danced its way out from the Unicorn’s head to the tip of

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the silver lance, and back again. Thúmose nickered deep and the flesh of his shoulders twitched. “Friends, Dindra,” Byron said. “Friends from long ago.” Then the eight-headed creature hissed and snapped, and came again to its full strength, renewed and more deadly than ever. “Baruwan, your net!” Thúmose called. “Miroaster, make ready!” Baruwan galloped forward, his net singing in the air above his head. He launched it flat upon the air in a perfect, spinning toss. It snapped and gathered around four of the hissing heads, the weights at its edges wrapping them tight. Then Miroaster came from behind the monster and leaped upon its back. Two of the remaining heads started tearing at the net, while the others hovered above Miroaster, drawing themselves up to strike. Then came the Unicorn full on in a gallop. He plunged the silver lance square and deep into the great chest of the monster, exposed and unprotected by the eight heads. Baruwan’s net came loose and fell to the ground. Miroaster rolled aside and dropped to his running feet, carrying himself clear, as the necks of the monster went stiff. All eight heads cried out in a chorus of hissing shrieks, then started moving again, listing and swooning, recoiling and striking at nothing with feeble snaps of their weakened beaks. The eyes glazed and rolled back, blinking and closing. Then one after another, the heads exploded in great, blinding blasts of white light, and from each sprang another creature like Darakûn, armed and braced, each in a different color tunic: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and indigo; each with wild black eyes and hair spiked like fire; each with a long, sharp spear and vast wings the color of their tunics. But the smaller heads that sprang from the wound of Nosh’s

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sword became a pair of little girls in garb of violet cloth and shimmering silver chain mail. They were beautiful on their violet wings, and wilder even than Darakûn himself. They sprang into the air and joined the other winged creatures out over the pit, darting among them in mad delight. They came to Darakûn, playing about him like a pair of cubs with a proud lion. Then all nine of the winged creatures plunged into the pit and vanished into the glowing deeps, hurtling with all their speed toward the Balefire. “Behold!” Thúmose said. “Seven of the Eight Firewardens. Turiel is lost to us, slain by Prince Nosh, but in its stead we have these two young firelings.” Nosh stared at the severed head on the ground. Then he lifted the sword he had taken from his ancestor and looked at the blade in horror. “I killed it?” “Yes, Nosh, it is so,” Thúmose said. “When you severed the hydra’s head. But make no mistake, it would have killed Byron but for you, and it would have killed you also. The Firewardens were locked in the madness of a Weg hex, trapped in the form of a hydra. They were set here in a murderous mockery of their true role to guard the Balefire from anyone and anything. Do not berate yourself Nosh, for as a hydra, the Firewardens were our bitter enemies.” As the company stood gazing into the pit, Thrudnelf set down the Hammer of Making and walked with cautious, humble steps toward his son. “Nosh,” Thrudnelf said in a voice that was almost a whisper. “Look at you. Those markings. What have you been through? I believe you have become a warrior.” Nosh looked down at the sword in his hand. “It belonged to Garrowthelf.”

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“And I,” Thrudnelf said, “I belong to him no more. And you— you, my son, never shall. His ghost no longer haunts our steps.” “He’s free now, Father.” “Yes, Nosh. And I will keep it so. Nosh, my boy, I have been blind to so many things. I beg you, forgive me.” “Father,” Nosh said in wavering voice. He gave way to tears as his father embraced him. “Nosh,” Thrudnelf said, holding his son in a tight grip. “Let us now be father and son in a way that is good.” “Yes,” Nosh said as the sobs took his voice. He buried his face in his father’s beard and together the dwarven king and his son shared an embrace no force or fury could break. The Wanderers stood watching in silence. Byron felt a hand clutch his hair. He turned to see Dindra looking down at him with tender, glassy eyes. “Byron,” she said in cracking voice. “Where have you been?” The Wanderers piled onto Byron in a brawl of hugs, nobody bothering to contain their tears. “You guys aren’t gonna believe it,” Byron said when the embrace broke at last. “I was there and I don’t believe it,” Nosh said, stepping up to the group. “Byron saved my life.” The hugs began all over again as the prince of the dwarves greeted his friends. “Byron Thorn,” Thúmose said, lowering his head to Byron’s shoulder. “My friend.” “Mr. Thúmose,” Byron said. “I’ve— I’ve seen —” “Yes, Byron,” the Unicorn said. “The markings you bear tell me all I need to know. We have much to talk about, you and Nosh and Grudner and me. And our little gnome friends as well. But for now be easy, for the danger is passed, thanks to you.” “Well, no, sir,” Byron said. “Weej and Mirnle, mostly.”

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“Hello, my Mushrumps,” Thúmose said, turning to the gnomes. Weej was on his feet again and they stood apart from the company staring in fearful wonder. They did not speak, but broke suddenly into a bow and curtsy before the Unicorn, then stood quiet once more. “Weej and Mirnle Mushrump,” Byron said. “These are my friends: Dindra, Quill, Rufus, and Raefer. Everybody, this is Mirnle and Weej Mushrump. If it wasn’t for them, I’d be— well — dead, and so would Nosh and Grudner. Come on over here, you two.” Weej and Mirnle approached with slow, cautious steps, still wide-eyed. “What sort of bird are you, anyway?” Weej asked. “Weej,” Mirnle said, trying to smile at Quill. Quill turned her bright grinning eyes on the gnome siblings. “I’m no bird. I’m a griffin.” “And I’m a centaur,” Dindra said. “And you two are gnomes. We’re very glad to meet you.” “Likewise, ma’am,” Mirnle said. “You don’t have to call me that,” Dindra said with a laugh. “All right, ma’am,” Mirnle said. “Forget it, Dindra,” Byron said. “Where’s Shilo?” “She’s with Hixima,” Raefer said. “Hixima’s here?” Byron said. “That’s right,” Rufus said. “And Queen Evendine of the giants, and Nosh’s aunt, Princess Verdandi. They’re all tending to little Grudner. It turns out Verdandi is a Warra priestess.” “The head of the order, in fact,” Quill said. “Did you say little Grudner?” Weej said. “You should try lifting him.” “Could we see him?” Nosh asked.

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“Yes, Nosh,” Thúmose said. “I think so. And you must yourself come into the care of the Warrians for a time. You and the Mushrumps too, Byron — though they seem to have taken little harm from the lych-hex. Curious. But come, everyone, we will ascend to the upper halls.” Thrudnelf led the way, with Nosh by his side. The whole company passed in safety through the halls of Showd Mazark, now cleansed of the enemy by the passage of the Jargadda host. In the Great Bazaar, they found the armies already hard at work clearing the debris of the ages, coming and going along the balcony avenue of the great central chamber. Only the Wanderers and the kings of wolf and woodland continued on with Thrudnelf and the Unicorn. The rest remained to join their people. Onward and upward Thrudnelf led the company, until they came to the lower mansions. There they found Hixima, Verdandi, and Shilo busy with the care of the young giant prince. “Byron!” Shilo cried, nearly dropping a basin of steaming water. “Nosh!” She set the basin down and ran to greet her friends. “Just look at you, with that paint all over you! I’ve got your holly baths all ready.” “Holly baths?” Nosh said, looking at Byron. “That’s right,” Shilo said. “It’s the only thing that will take that paint off. And it’ll help that wounded shoulder, Weej. Don’t worry, we’ll put a clean dressing on when you’re dry.” Weej blinked at the yellow-haired girl. “You know my name?” “Of course,” Shilo said. “Mirnle’s, too. We’ve been expecting you.” “I’d like to see Grudner, if that’s okay,” Nosh said. “Just for a minute.” “All right, Nosh,” Shilo said.

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A bed had been prepared for Grudner in a large, airy mansion. Incense burned and a Warra priestess plucked her harp while watching the face of the giant prince for signs of his return from the far darkness. “He has wandered deep,” Princess Verdandi said to the Unicorn. “But I think he hears us calling. His father’s bravery damaged the hex that binds him.” The king and queen of the giants sat together, hand in hand, beside their son. The queen cast a kind, silent gaze on Byron, Nosh, and the gnomes as they approached the bed. “You are the four who saved my son,” the king said. “Well, sir,” Byron said, “we got him out of a tight place, I suppose.” “And you, Prince Nosh,” the king continued. “You were with my son, in that place. Is that not true?” “Yes, sire,” Nosh said. “It is.” The giant king clenched his jaw. He looked at King Thrudnelf, who stood with Lukos and the Woodland King at the door to the chamber. “I told you on the field that it was a dwarf who took my son, and that as king, you were to blame.” “I remember,” Thrudnelf said. “And in my heat I cried war upon you.” “And you gave me this wound,” the giant king said, laying his hand on his knee. “I remember. Now a dwarf helps to bring my son back to me — a dwarf who has shared in his fate.” Queen Evendine stood. Her long brown hair was tucked deep into her cape, bound by a thin silver band, set with a single red stone that rested on her brow. Her skin was fair, her face calm and young. The green of her eyes was striking, made more so by the firmness of the gaze with which she appraised the company.

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“Let there be no more enmity between our people, Dwarven King,” Evendine said. “Let there be friendship. I deem we will both sorely need friends in the days to come. I deem there will be enemies in plenty.” “Friendship, then,” Thrudnelf said. “Let it be so, my lady.” “As for the four of you,” said Queen Evendine, turning her deep green eyes upon Byron, Nosh, Mirnle, and Weej, “whatever is in my power to give, you shall have, if you only tell me what it is you desire. I can never repay the debt I owe you. And if you do not speak your desire we will choose for you from our richest imaginings, for though our debt to you cannot be repaid, or our gratitude measured, both must at least be marked with tokens.” “Come now, the four of you,” Hixima said. “Your baths and beds are waiting.” As Byron passed by, Verdandi the Warra priestess gently took hold of his monocle and looked him in the eye. “Everándon,” she said and she winked at him. Byron’s mouth fell open and he started to speak. “Off you go,” Verdandi said. “Your bath is waiting.” Nosh, Byron, and the Mushrumps were shown to a room with four beds. Mirnle’s bath awaited her in a room apart, where Dindra and Shilo attended her. Weej, Nosh, and Byron went to a side chamber where waited three steaming tubs of soapy, fragrant water. Nosh stripped and went in headfirst. Byron and Weej followed, easing into their tubs with much hesitation, wincing with delight at the heat and depth of the water. They quit their baths together and pulled on the sleeping gowns Shilo had left for them, then furrowed into the thick covers on the deep beds that waited. Mirnle came last to her bed and blew out the lamps. The Mushrumps fell asleep straight away. Byron and Nosh lay in their beds, staring up into the darkness.

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“Byron,” Nosh whispered. “Yeah?” “Thank you.” “What for?” “For coming to get me,” Nosh said. “I thought I was done for.” “We were all done for, almost,” Byron said. “Yeah, but you came to find me, Byron. I’ll never forget that. Never. And I’m gonna make sure my father knows it, too.” “Well,” Byron said. “You came to get me, remember? You and Raefer.” “We sure botched that one,” Nosh said. “That was really awful.” “Maybe, but you came for me, just the same. Thank you.” “Well, you’re welcome, Byron.” “So are you, Nosh,” Byron said, turning onto his side and pressing deeper into his pillow. He gave another deep, sleepy sigh. “So are you.” They fell asleep and did not wake for three whole days. Even then they had to be roused and helped from their beds, for they had wandered long in the poisonous fog of the Lychgate, and they had worn the runes of deathmagic on their skin. Their dreams were heavy with shadows and far-off cries, but as they slept the Unicorn watched over them, and did not go far from their bedsides, until their slumbering fits subsided, and the rest of Warra was upon them.

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Firedrakes n the days that followed, the dwarves of Wodys Mara showed their truest mettle. Overseen by Thrudnelf himself, all the people of the valley turned out to undertake the immeasurable task of restoring Showd Mazark. The Livian Doors were polished, their hinges mended, their edges plumbed and trued. The Winsted Field was raked smooth of the shredding it took in battle. By order of the king, the Great Bazaar became again a public place of trade and festival and community, upon which the Livian Doors would never close, except in times of danger or ceremony. Cryolar and the griffins were dispatched by Thúmose to carry word to Valleygate, Hollengart, and Woody Deep of all that had happened at Mountain’s End. Belden promised to be with his people again in time to light the Midwinter bonfire. But Thrudnelf insisted that none should leave until he had feasted with them all in gratitude. Thúmose declared that on that occasion, he would crown Thrudnelf king and see him sit at last on the Granite Throne. Nosh’s mother, Queen Lyr, came from Valleygate, carried by Cryolar and an escort of griffins. Lyr was a long-time Warra devotee, and Verdandi’s pupil in the lesser skills. The tale of what

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had become of her son was told to Lyr, and when her tears ceased at last she set about his care with firm efficiency, and embraced his friends as her own children. The dwarflings that had been with Byron and the gnomes in the belly of Showd Mazark were returned to their homes. Hixima, Shilo, Verdandi, and Lyr were kept very busy, going from house to house among the dwarves of the valley, visiting the children who had suffered the Whispers. Those unlucky enough to have been taken to Wytherban’s Lychgate were given special care. Their rescue at the hands of the Jargadda host had done much to heal them from the Weg hex, and in all the valley only one had gone beyond help. She was laid to rest in ground specially hallowed by the Unicorn. Every dwarf in Wodys Mara came to pay their respects and to be of what comfort they could to the child’s parents. Thúmose spent long hours in counsel with the kings of wood, wolf, dwarf, and giant. They walked with him often, speaking and hearing of things they discussed only amongst themselves. Hixima alone was privy to the conversations, for it was she they called upon to translate into speech the keen thinking of the wolfen king. Often, they were together without the Unicorn, speaking gravely or laughing out loud. Word spread of the alliance that emerged and of the bond that formed between the four kings. In their laughter was the hope for the future of Everándon, and in their furrowed brows and faraway gazes the knowledge of the grim, uncertain road that led there. Raefer went about with a little book, writing down all the accounts he could gather of the days since Midsummerfest. Even King Thrudnelf gave him an interview. Raefer stopped in often to see Byron, Nosh, Mirnle, and Weej, who were kept under strict supervision for many days. Hixima encouraged it, declaring it was good for them to speak of their tribulations.

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It became clear that the gnomes had suffered no harm from the Lychgate. But Byron, Grudner, and Nosh certainly had. Their dreams and thoughts were haunted at times. They became especially vulnerable to the Whispers, and they saw shadows even when waking. But Hixima tended her patients closely and they hastened toward recovery. When the day came at last for the crowning of the dwarven king, even young Grudner was well enough to attend. Talk and rumor buzzed in the valley. The scribes and bards of Wodys Mara ran to the collections, searching out the old tales. The Hammer of Making had been taken up and carried to war! The Horn of Jargadda had been sounded! The host of Jargadda had marched upon the valley, and a dwarf called Thrudnelf, born to a sovereign house thought long ago lost, had done these things in the very shadow of a foe that was itself the stuff of legend. Now, atop the great far-off mountain, there burned the light of the Balefire, a beacon preserved in the lore, long looked for by children and by those of wistful heart. Garrowthelf had returned as a young dwarf prince who had walked with death and survived. But on the morning of coronation, all such talk ceased, and the crowd gazed in reverent wonder at the legendary Granite Throne. Thrudnelf stood at the foot of the dais. He wore the silver and blue of his house, and Harkatan hung from its hook on his belt. Queen Lyr and Nosh sat in chairs nearby. The Knights of the Hammer stood shoulder to shoulder like a wall at the foot of the dais, behind the king. All the heads of all the dwarf houses were assembled, standing before their chairs above which hung the banners of their ensign. The Wanderers were given places of special honor on the right side of the hall, while the kings of giant, wolf, and woods took places on the left with their companies.

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The deep hush of the place deepened further still at the sound of hooves clopping on the stone floor. All eyes turned to watch the Unicorn enter the hall. As Thúmose drew near, the air crackled and Byron felt the silver horn on his head tingle. The little house of the Bridge followed the Unicorn. First came Lotanda, the eldest daughter. Behind her, her father came dressed in his finest attire. With him were his wife and the rest of their children. Last came the old blacksmith. He held in his hands a pillow on which lay a fine silver band set with a large white stone. “Thrudnelf, Dwarven King,” Thúmose said, “Harkatan has claimed you. Let none contest it. You are the Hammer. You are the Wielder. You are the Fist of the Maker!” A great cheer erupted in the hall, calmed only when the dwarven king lifted his hand for quiet. “Of the five ancient houses, two have the ascendancy,” Thúmose continued. “First, the house of the Hammer, the line of Sovereigns; second, the house of the Bridge, the counselors of old. In old Mazark it was the custom that the head of the Bridge should crown the heir to the Granite Throne. So it will be now. Chief of the Bridge, come forward.” The blacksmith stepped up with the pillow in his hands and bowed low before the dwarven king, touching one knee to the floor. “My King,” he said. “I and my house declare to you our loyalty. Long has it been the custom that the heir to the Granite Throne should wear a crown of silver and white, each crafted in unique fashion for a single brow. Here is the crown commissioned for your highness by the Unicorn himself, wrought by my granddaughter in the ancient way.” Thrudnelf looked at the crown, and then at the young dwarf girl who had forged it. His eyes twinkled, however, to see that she was oblivious to him, and had her eyes fixed instead on

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Prince Nosh. A silence fell, into which flowed the amused murmuring of the assembly who had noticed why the king himself could not keep from smiling. Thrudnelf cleared his throat. The girl looked at him, blinked, curtsied, and looked at the floor all at once. Nosh hadn’t noticed a thing. The old smith motioned the blushing Lotanda to his side and lay the pillow in her hands. “In the name of the Earthwielder,” said the blacksmith, chief of the house of the Bridge, “Thrudnelf of the house of the Hammer, I crown you King and Lord of Dwarvenkind.” Then the smith took the crown from the pillow and set it on Thrudnelf’s head, pressing it down on his proud brow. He stepped back and all the dwarves of the Bridge went to their knees before him. The whole assembly did likewise until only Thrudnelf and the Unicorn remained standing. “Thrudnelf, Dwarven King,” Thúmose said, “take your place upon the Granite Throne.” Thrudnelf turned and approached the stair. Thrym came to his feet and stepped aside for his king. Thrudnelf took to the dais steps and came before the great stone chair. Then he turned and took his seat. “Rise,” he said. His voice echoed in the hall and the assembly came to their feet, awed and silent. “Dwarves of Everándon,” Thúmose called. “I give you back your king!” Thunderous cheers exploded into the quiet, reaching beyond the chamber to the crowds too numerous to fit in the Granite Hall. All the dwarves of Wodys Mara cried out for the life and health of their king. The Knights of the Hammer ascended the stair so that they stood each to a step on both sides. Then Thrudnelf called for silence and the command was passed back, out of the hall, until all was quiet once more.

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“Let the houses of Wodys Mara come forth, one by one, and recognize their king,” Thúmose said. “For it is one thing to do so in the desperation of battle and another when peace and time have had their say. Let them come forth!” The blacksmith, still standing at the foot of the dais, went to his knee at once. “The house of the Bridge swears fealty to Thrudnelf of the Hammer, master of Showd Mazark, King of Dwarvenkind.” Then the chief of the Wheel stepped out from his place among the Knights of the Hammer, and swore the same oath. In a line after him came all the houses and none there was that withheld. Thúmose strode to the fore, and silence fell again. “Much has happened,” the Unicorn said, “and much more there is to come. For now, nothing remains but to take up our lives again and prepare.” “Lord Thúmose,” the Woodland King said, standing up from his seat. “If I may, there is one thing more.” “What is it, King of the Woods?” Thúmose said. Belden looked up at Thrudnelf. “With your permission, Dwarven King?” “And that freely given,” Thrudnelf said, also standing from his seat. He came to the bottom of the dais and stood beside the Woodland King as Grudnevar, lord of Hollengart, and Lukos, the wolfen king, approached. They came before the Unicorn, and each in their fashion bowed low in deepest respect. “The four kings recognize Thúmose the Unicorn as high king in Everándon and swear to him fealty unto death. So swears the Woodland King, lord of Woody Deep.” “So swears the giant king, lord of Hollengart.” “So swears the dwarven king, lord of Showd Mazark.” “And so swears the wolfen king,” Hixima said from her place

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beside the Wanderers, “alpha of the Unseen Pack, and lord of the Western Wolves.” Then Thúmose lowered his head and touched each of the four kings on both shoulders with the tip of his silver horn. “Rise then, each of you,” he said, “and be recognized.” As the Woodland King stood, he looked across at Byron and nodded. Byron simply smiled and nodded back. That evening, as the sun was setting, the Unicorn came to the Wanderers and led them to the top of Stonehelm in the twilight. There Lukos joined them as they gazed out at the silvery horizon. The lights of Showd Mazark glowed brightly. The lamps of the homesteads twinkled on the valley floor, and at the top of the sky shone the first high stars of nighttime. “Fix your eyes on Rathrâgodrak,” Thúmose said. “Do not look away. Rufus, tell me what you see.” “I see the Old Peak,” Rufus said with a shrug, “and stars around it. And — well — it’s nearly dark now. Wait! There! A light just sprang up! It’s a fire! There’s a fire burning on the Old Peak!” “Yes, Rufus,” Thúmose said. “You have the keen eyes of a scout. But not a fire, the fire, rather.” “The Balefire!” Nosh said. “Yes,” said the Unicorn. “The Balefire has been restored.” “Darakûn,” Raefer said. “Oh,” Quill said, looking sidelong at Shilo. “Yeah, gosh! There it is!” Shilo frowned hard at the Griffin. “You can’t see it, can you, Quill?” “What?” Quill said. “Of course I can, plain as the nose on your face.” Quill squinted at Shilo’s face, then blinked and looked away. “You can’t even see that,” Raefer said.

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“May I have your attention, please?” Thúmose said. “Sorry, Mr. Thúmose,” Quill said, looking triumphant at Shilo’s suspicious stare. “Darakûn and the Firewardens have fulfilled their task,” Thúmose said. “The Balefire will burn day and night, a beacon for all Everándons and the anchor of the magic on which we will build our country. Long ago Borántu meant to consume the Balefire, absorb its magic, and so rise to unimaginable power. But his own henchman snatched it from him for his own purpose. The magic I wove for the salvation of Everándon is rooted in the magic of the Balefire. Now it is restored and, with it, a chance for peace and freedom. I have longed to share this moment with the eight of you, because you were the first to heed my call.” “But others have come since, sire,” Dindra said. “You have an army now.” “Yes, Dindra,” Thúmose said. “Though we have come close to final destruction already— far sooner than I could have guessed at the rising of the Midwinter Star. Wytherban harnessed the power of the Balefire to create his red flame on Ratheméndurin, and begin the Damarung. Had he succeeded, he would have mastered the primordial power of Everándon, the cornerstone of all our magic.” “They nearly destroyed each other,” Raefer said. “The kings of dwarf and giant, even before the Fell horde showed up.” “The work of the Weg,” Thúmose said, “moving through his minion, Prince Dornthelf, who lost his rank and his hand to the war duke of Showd Mazark. And indeed it was Thrym who warned me of Dornthelf’s dark designs. The Sons of the Hammer learned of Dornthelf’s plot to murder his brother, King Thrudnelf, and to sell Nosh into the hands of an unknown enemy. For this reason I decided to keep Nosh close to me in Bilérica.

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“But I did not know how deep ran Dornthelf’s cunning. For it was he who kidnapped the giant prince in order to stir into war the old enmity between the dwarves and the giants. But even Dornthelf could not have known the power and craft of his new ally. For Wytherban intended the stolen princes for other purposes also, namely to rouse the kings of their ancestry to lead his army of dead warriors. “You see, lych Wegga requires a victim. The younger that victim, the stronger the deathmagic. But should that victim be the descendent of the dead one being roused, a very deep power is unlocked and only another of that line can slay the quickened warrior. Grudnevar, lord of Hollengart, wounded though he was by his then enemy, King Thrudnelf, came forth in the hour of need. “And if the dead warrior is of a line of sovereigns, it endows its followers with a power beyond imagining. The dead army of Showd Mazark, if led by the Suicide King, would have been close to unstoppable. But old King Garrowthelf was never fully roused, thanks to a certain satyr, a pair of gnomes, and a gang of dwarf children.” “Wytherban told me it was my fault,” Byron said. “That by waking you, I woke the Wegs also. He said I even disturbed the Dragon.” “Wytherban is a liar, Byron, first and foremost,” Thúmose said. “It was the rising of the Midwinter Star that woke him, and that was my doing, not yours, for it was I who wove the magic, long ago. Many things began to move again with the rising of the Star, and yes, even the Dragon Borántu has stirred. Though something keeps him from waking entirely.” “Sir?” Byron said, “how did you know where the Balefire was to be found?” “Darakûn, the Firewarden led me to it,” Thúmose said. “He

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found it after some months of searching. Its whereabouts could not long be kept from him.” “How did you know we’d be there?” Byron asked. “A guess, Byron,” said the Unicorn. “It seemed to me your road led to the Balefire. Knowing you would not stray from that road, I decided to go there and wait for you. Yet I could never have guessed what you would see and do before we met again. You have saved us all, Byron Thorn.” Byron only stared at the Balefire, now burning tall and bright on the distant peak. “Had you not undone the Lychgate,” Thúmose continued, “the horn of Jargadda could not have summoned the host of Showd Mazark. For they were locked in service to the Weg, lingering in the borderlands between life and death. When you spilled the cauldron, you set them free, free to heed the call of their needful king. Nosh, too, wandered there, and so it was that he could hear the horn when it blew.” “I wandered there, too,” Byron said, “in the borderlands. Why couldn’t I hear it?” “Because, Byron,” Thúmose said, “you are not a dwarf.” “Well, I couldn’t have dumped that cauldron without Nosh,” Byron said. “But I couldn’t have helped you,” Nosh said, “if you hadn’t come to find me and bust me out in the first place.” “Without you Byron,” Thúmose continued, “not only would there have been no army to come to Thrudnelf’s aid, but instead, that very army would have brought his final destruction, and would at this moment be roaming Everándon, doing the dark bidding of the Weg. “I do not say you acted without help, for who among us ever can? Not even I, Thúmose, high king. Nor do I say you fulfilled

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your task to its end, for the cauldron of the Weg is the talisman of his deathmagic, and he managed to take it with him. No, the Weg is not gone, only banished for a time. “And there are others, his lessers perhaps, but still Wegs of great power and servants of the Dragon. They will seek to aid their general in his reach for domination. No, our struggle is far from over, but you Byron, and you Wanderers, have managed to gain us time, time enough perhaps to ready ourselves for the test to come. “For all the deeds of kings and warriors and keepers of magic availed us nothing in the struggle we have just come through. In the end, the might and magic we faced was too much. Rather, it was you faithful few, each tending well to your own task and to your friendship that saved us, and so it must be, for so it has always been. “Therefore, I create you Firedrakes, and revive the ancient order. You are my special hands. It is you who will carry out the tasks I dare give no other. And the task of your leadership I give to Dindra Thundershod. None but myself may command Dindra. None but Dindra or I may command any of you.” The companions looked around at each other with wonder— all but Rufus, who seemed distracted and confused, looking at the ground with a frown on his face. “And Byron Thorn I both name among you and set apart from you, for though he does not command you or lead you, it is to aid him and to further his steps that I commission you. For Byron has been given a great path that must be followed, that only he can follow, and which he cannot follow alone. So it was with his ancestors, Arcanadin and Erolyn Thorn, who were my dear friends in the time of their living. Byron is of the line of the Firedrake and the unfinished task of that line now falls to him.” Byron clutched the monocle that hung around his neck by

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the silver chain Dindra had given him. “What did I tell you, Byron?” Dindra said. “Remember?” Byron looked north at the Balefire. “You said, ‘Take Silverlance to the dwarven king.’ ” “And that’s exactly what you did,” Nosh said. “Well, what did I tell you? ” Byron said, looking up at Dindra. “A second later?” Dindra smiled. “You said, ‘I sure am scared, you know.’ ” “Well, I still am, Din,” Byron said. “More than ever.” “Me too, Byron,” Dindra said. “Don’t worry, Byron,” Raefer said. “We’re here to protect you.” “That’s right,” Shilo said, putting her hand on Quill’s shoulder. “And you can bet we’re going to,” Nosh said. “With our lives. Anyone who doesn’t, answers to — Dindra.” He glanced up at the centress and cleared his throat. “Anyway, I owe you my life, Byron. I’m not gonna let you down.” “Be comforted, Byron,” the Unicorn said. “A promise of fealty from a dwarf is of no small value. And Prince Nosh is no ordinary dwarf.” The griffin princess stared at Byron with a bright grin in her eyes. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew it the moment I saw you. I mean when I found you on the cliff, not the time I knocked you out of your chair.” “Yeah,” Rufus said, mustering a smile. “Who’s gonna protect you from Quill’s landings?” “An extraordinary band,” Thúmose said. “In every dark hour there are those who shine. Go, all of you, together and alone, with my light before you.” Snow fell on Wodys Mara the next morning as the host of the Woodland King broke camp. Rufus, Raefer, Shilo, Quill, Dindra,

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and Byron stood together before the center bridge, waiting for the order to depart. Weej and Mirnle were there, dressed in the fine clothes that Queen Lyr had made for them. They stood apart with Raefer, who crouched before them, listening with a frown of concentration, writing down all they said in his little book. “And those were the exact words the wülken priest used?” Raefer said. “That’s right,” Weej said, glancing at Mirnle, who shrugged and nodded her head. “How do you remember it all so clearly?” Raefer said. Weej shrugged too. “It’s a gift.” “Raefer, don’t you have enough to go on yet?” Rufus asked. “You’ve been pestering people for days now.” “You can never know the story too well,” Raefer replied. “And who knows when I’ll see the Mushrumps again.” “Have you actually started writing the ballads yet?” Shilo asked. Raefer did not answer. He stared off toward the river with a frown of deep thought on his face, then scribbled something in his book. “Uh, here comes King Thrudnelf, everybody,” Quill said. A large company came out through the Livian Doors into the snowfall. King Thrudnelf led the way, several steps ahead of a group of sturdy-looking attendants. He wore the familiar garb of the Hammer, over which he donned a cape of deep blue with the hood pulled forward. Behind him came Nosh, arm in arm with Queen Lyr, followed by General Thrym. Evendine of the giants came last with her husband, King Grudnevar, and between them, wrapped tight in a deep red cape, was Prince Grudner. His face was still ashen but his eyes were eager and his smile bright. Lukos, Baruwan, and Miroaster were there also, all three looking fresh from the wild.

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As they drew near, Thrudnelf and Lyr joined hands and stood before the companions. “We have bid farewell to all but you,” Lyr said. “The king of the woods awaits you. May you go swiftly and safely to your homes. It is my will that you all be named citizens of Showd Mazark, free to come and go with the highest honor, and that to each of you shall be given rooms in one of the lesser mansions for your comfort and ease when you are with us, which we hope and expect shall be often and for long. “You have given us more than can ever be repaid. And I decree today, to dwarves everywhere, that any who succor you or aid you in any way will be rewarded by the queen of the dwarves.” “For my part,” Thrudnelf said, “I beg your forgiveness for my harshness. Take pity on an old dwarf whose heart and mind were troubled. And the trouble in my heart abides, for I am forbidden by the Unicorn to bestow upon you gifts beyond those my son intends for you. One token only for each is the command of High King Thúmose. Be content. And be welcome and looked for in the realm of the dwarves from this day forward.” The companions bowed and gestured in the manner of their kind. Thrym stepped forward and bowed low. “Farewell, Firedrakes,” the war duke said. “It has been my honor to stand with you. I await the day when we may stand together again.” “Goodbye, Thrym,” the Firedrakes said. “Where have you three been?” Byron asked, looking up at Miroaster. “You missed the coronation and everything.” “Many places,” Miroaster said. “Near and far.” “Hunting the Weg?” Rufus said. “Yes,” Miroaster said. “And no luck. But my path and his will cross again.”

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“You’d call that luck?” Raefer said. Miroaster laughed. “It must seem strange. But I have sought him long and I will have no true rest until I have confronted him at last.” “I suppose you’re off again?” Byron said. “Yes,” Baruwan said. “And so we have come to say goodbye.” Dindra cleared her throat and looked at the ground. Raefer and Nosh looked at her, then at each other, then back at the centress with curious looks, which she ignored. Byron let his shoulders sag. He glanced at his friends and tears came to his eyes. Miroaster nodded kindly. “You will often be afraid, Byron,” he said. “It is hard to wait for a trial you know must come.” “It’s just —” Byron said. “I don’t feel up to it. I mean, I don’t think I can do it.” Miroaster crouched and clutched Byron’s arm. “You are not alone. Trust in your friends.” “And count me among them, Byron Thorn,” Baruwan said. He leaned on his spear. “I will aid you in any way I can. Even if the Unicorn had not commanded it, it would be so.” Shilo smiled. “Lukos has something to say, also,” she said, looking at the wolfen king, whose gaze was fixed on Byron. “ ‘Silverthorn,’ he says. ‘I am your friend in life or death. When I do not run for the Unicorn, I will be with you.’ ” “And so will I, Byron,” Miroaster said. “So will I.” Byron nodded. “You were there, weren’t you, sir, at the fall of Showd Mazark?” “Yes, Byron,” Miroaster said. “I was.” “You rescued the dwarf princess,” Byron said. Miroaster shook his head. “I was not alone.” “You’re a knight,” Byron said, wiping his eyes.

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Raefer frowned and his look bounced from Byron to Miroaster and back again. “What are you two talking about? Should I be writing this down?” Miroaster smiled and stepped aside as Queen Evendine and King Grudnevar came forward, escorting Prince Grudner. “Accept our friendship,” Evendine said, “friendship freely given. Let the wise gratitude of Queen Lyr speak for Evendine also. And so be welcome as citizens of Hollengart. And know that with the giants, as with the dwarves, to aid you in any way will be cause for reward from the giant queen.” “We too are allowed one token of our gratitude,” Grudnevar said. “One to each of you. We remain here at Showd Mazark until our son is well enough for his own homeward journey. Our gifts to you will be chosen when we come to Hollengart once more.” Grudner pushed back the hood of his red cape and looked up into the falling snow. He smiled and held out his hands, catching the tiny flakes on his upturned palms. Then he looked at the companions one by one and stopped on Byron. “Thank you,” the princeling said. “Thank you, Byron.” Then, as the giant prince smiled and stepped back into the arms of his mother, Nosh came forward and put back the hood of his cape. He was dressed in fashion identical to his father, except that the crown on his head was set with a blue stone. Dindra folded her arms and smiled. “You look very handsome, your highness.” “Don’t let Lotanda see you like that, Nosh,” Rufus said. “You’ll never get rid of her.” “Rufus,” Shilo said, swatting him on the shoulder. “She’s the one who made the crown,” Nosh said with a shrug. “Well,” Byron said, “I guess this is goodbye for a while.”

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“I guess so,” Nosh said. “Well.” He stepped up and embraced each of the companions one by one. When he came to Byron he paused. “So long, Byron,” Nosh said. “I don’t know how I’ll ever pay you back.” “I bet before this is all over we’ll be even,” Byron said. “Maybe,” Nosh said. “But I’ve brought you a gift, just the same, from my father’s armory.” One of Nosh’s attendants stepped forward holding something wrapped in a cloth. He handed it to Nosh, who held it out to Byron. “This is for you, Byron,” Nosh said, “for when I can’t be there to protect you. Lotanda made some adjustments, and she added the unicorn. She did it in the lower stoves, in the Showd Mazark itself. Did you know that Thúmose commanded a chunk of the Balefire coal be left there, to rekindle the ancient forge?” Byron unwrapped the object and held it up. It was a gleaming silver breastplate, leafed with dark lines of polished black metal. In the middle was set the likeness of a rampant unicorn made from the same black metal. Byron held it up and gazed at it. “Put it on, Byron,” Dindra said. “Here, let me help.” Shilo and Dindra helped Byron into the armor. “It’s just the thing with your ambassador’s coat,” Shilo said. “Here, fix the collar.” “Thanks, Nosh,” Byron said, looking down at the breastplate. “It’s a perfect fit.” “Well,” Nosh said, “Lotanda really knows what she’s doing. All she did was look at you to know how to size it.” “You sure look the part now, Byron,” Quill said. “I’ve got stuff for all of you,” Nosh said. Each of the companions received a piece of protective gear,

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all of it marked in some way with the sign of the Unicorn. To Rufus and Raefer, Nosh gave shirts of fine chain and bracers for their arms. To Quill and Dindra he gave bracers also, and coverlets and gaiters of the same woven chain that covered their flanks and backs. Shilo received a hooded cape of very fine chain, no heavier than thick cloth. “I wanted to give out swords and arrows and things,” Nosh said, “but High King Thúmose said it was better this way. And he’d like you to wear it on the journey home, with the Fell Clans so stirred up and all.” “Thank you, Nosh,” the companions said each in turn. “Well,” Nosh said, “I never had such good friends as you. Will the griffins be taking you home?” “No,” Byron said. “We’re walking with the Woodland King. The griffins are all out keeping watch again.” “Well, so long everyone,” Nosh said. “Come back as soon as you can, okay?” “So long Nosh,” the companions said. And so Rufus, Raefer, Dindra, Shilo, Quill, and Byron set off over the bridge to join the host of the Woodland King on the Winsted Field. As he crested the bridge, Byron looked back. The kings and queens had turned for the Livian Doors, but Nosh, Weej, Mirnle, and Grudner stood watching the companions go. Byron lifted his hand in a final salute and the four friends waved back— two gnomes, a dwarf, and a giant. Then Byron turned and ran to catch up with the others. Fire sprang up on Winter Hill. Shadows and light leaped in the leafless trees. Byron looked up at the sounds of fiddles and drums that grew louder as he climbed the slope, approaching the edge of the forest that girt the hillcrest. He looked behind him,

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down the hill into the darkness of the winter woods. The snow was deep and the going heavy in the untrod open places where the centaurs did not bother to pass. The sky was clear and black and the stars were thick and close. Byron sighed. He started forward and a shadow deeper than the darkness caught his eye. “Late for the festivities, I see,” Gradda said, stepping forward from the trees. “Not in any hurry,” Byron said. “No? I’m sorry to hear it, Byro. But I don’t suppose I’m surprised. I’m not staying myself.” “Where are you going?” Byron asked with a shrug. “I’m off to the Sickle and Sheaf,” Gradda said. “Some of the fellows are waiting.” Byron sighed and looked across the hill again at the Midwinter Fire. “I miss everyone. Rufus and Raefer, Nosh, Quill— they’re all home. Shilo’s back in Bilérica with Hixima. I can’t believe the cottage got burned down.” “Nor can I, Byron,” Gradda said. “But we could do worse, could we not, than to lodge with the Woodland King?” “I suppose we could,” Byron said. “Never had three whole rooms all to myself.” Gradda smiled and looked at the side of his grandson’s face. “I’m scared, Gradda.” “I know you are, Byron,” Gradda said. “Be sure to confide in Dindra. She is your leader now. You can confide in me all you want for as long as I live. But Dindra is in it with you. One thing I learned in the war, there is no one you can trust like a friend in arms. And Dindra Thundershod, well, she’s a special one into the bargain.” “I think she must be sick of me,” Byron said. “I’m over there every day.”

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“No, Byron. Dindra understands. And you have the other Firedrakes; and Baruwan, Lukos, and the Woodland King. And that Miroaster, well, there’s a friend you can’t replace.” “Will you help me, sir?” “I promise you that, youngster. Whenever possible, in any way I can. And don’t forget, Byron, above all you have the love of the Unicorn.” Byron nodded. His hand strayed to his silver horn. “You have what you need, Byron,” Gradda said, “or your task would not have been given to you.” “Do you think so?” “I do, youngster,” Gradda said with a firm nod. “If you face it, you’ll see what I mean.” Gradda clutched Byron’s shoulder. “It’s in turning from the task that our strength and courage fail us.” “Yes, sir,” Byron said in a hoarse whisper. “You’re safe now, Byron. We’re all safe for the moment, thanks in no small part to you. Don’t let this time slip away. Go on, now. Get out there and cause some trouble.” Gradda set off into the forest. Byron watched him go, but the old scout quickly blended with the night and was gone. Byron drew a deep breath and let it go again. Out on the hillcrest, the Woodland King led the dance, leaping and turning. A long parade of Woodren chased him around the fire. The children screamed and laughed around him and the maids beheld him with eager, firelit eyes. But there was a fierceness in the dance of the Woodland King that his people recognized and sought to match with wildness of their own. A small fire burned near the edge of the wood about thirty yards from where Byron stood. Twenty feet above it a large pine branch reached out like a great hand filled with snow. Beside the

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fire, laughing and drinking cider from leather-handled cups, stood Elpinor, the king’s chamberlain, and Oleander, the barmaid from the Sickle and Sheaf. Byron looked up at the pine branch full of snow, then down at the two giggling sweethearts, then up again at the branch full of snow. He stepped back into the shadows, crouched down, and shaped a giant snowball in his hands. Byron crept forward, keeping to the shadows, all the while gauging the distance to the tree limb. He smoothed the snowball and stepped from the trees for a clear shot. As he cocked his arm and prepared to throw, a shadow moved in the corner of his eye. “Gradda?” Byron said and stopped. A veil of fear shadowed his heart and mind. He peered into the woods and far off there was a cry, mournful and afraid, mixed with howling wind. In it, a voice whispered something almost beyond hearing: Qualnách maz nir. Byron froze. His spell was broken by a snowball smacking into the side of his face. Dindra was there, smiling, her arms folded before her. “What are you planning to do with that?” she asked. Byron glanced at the snowball he still held poised. He blinked and looked at Dindra. She laughed and crouched to shape another snowball. “Well?” Dindra said, coming to her hooves again. A grin lit Byron’s eyes. “On three,” he said and Dindra nodded. “One,” Byron said. “Two,” Dindra said. “Three!” they said together and launched their snowballs long and high into the pine branch. A great heap of snow came loose and piled down onto Elpinor and Oleander. It buried their fire, filled their mugs and hoods, and slipped

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down their necks. They both tensed and recoiled, going stiff with shock and cold. Byron and Dindra doubled over with laughter. Elpinor turned and saw them. “Thorn!” he shouted. “Byron Thorn!” Oleander spotted Byron also and burst into laughter. She started brushing off the snow and shaking it from her hair. “This isn’t funny!” Elpinor shouted. Oleander took a pinch of snow and flicked it in Elpinor’s face, giggling all the more. “Dyahhh!” he shouted, shaking the snow from his head. Then he turned and started toward Byron, his face going red. “Oh,” Byron said, stepping backward, “well, he sure is mad.” “Byron Thorn, get over here!” Elpinor shouted, breaking into a run. “What about her?” Byron shouted, pointing at Dindra. Dindra pretended to gasp. “You filthy tattler!” Byron set off running across the hilltop toward the fire. He darted into the moving crowd and stepped behind the Woodland King. As the dance came full circle Byron saw Elpinor scowling at him from the edge of the throng. A flickering light caught Byron’s eye. Far off to the south and east, through the leafless trees that scratched the sky, stood the dark, jagged line of the Crestfall Mountains. The stars shone bright on the wheel of the sky and the moon was down. The crowd pressed around Byron where he stood, caught by the sight of the Balefire burning high atop the Old Peak. There was a crackling in the air and his silver horn tingled. Byron laughed as the crowd swept past. Someone caught him by the arm and he staggered forward, stepping into the dance, carried off by the revel of Midwinter’s Eve.

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