"The wound has healed nicely," he admitted. "I can't argue with that."
"I've lost a bit of blood, that's all," said Bavragor, trying to allay the others' fears. He was obviously uncomfortable at being the center of attention, but Balyndis persevered. She pulled off her left glove and laid her hand on his forehead.
"For the love of Vraccas, I could forge a horseshoe on there," she said in alarm.
"With a skull as thick as his, I don't suppose it would do much harm," Tungdil joked. "He's a tough customer, our Hammerfist."
"I'm serious, Tungdil, he's feverish. Either that, or he's got a nasty cold. We need to get him inside before he loses consciousness or worse."
"Don't be ridiculous," objected Bavragor. "I'm perfectly-" He doubled up in a coughing fit that went on and on until he was shaking so violently that his legs caved in. Tungdil pulled him upright and steadied him.
"I'd say it's a cold." Balyndis scanned the horizon. "He needs a warm bed for the night."
Tungdil nodded. "We'll stop at the next hamlet. Sorry, old fellow, but a dead mason won't be any good to us."
"A cold!" Goпmgar chuckled maliciously. "So who's the weakling now? I might not be big, but at least I'm hardy." He was practically glowing with satisfaction at not being the underdog anymore. Head held high, he strode past the ailing mason with a smug smile that prompted Furgas to throw a snowball in his face.
Tungdil soon realized that their efforts to find a bed were destined to fail; there wasn't a single farmhouse, let alone a hamlet, between them and the Gray Range. Since Bavragor refused to make a detour, they walked without stopping in order to reach the entrance to the tunnels as soon as they could.
A nasty surprise awaited them when they finally reached the spot. The mouth of the shaft had transformed itself into a frozen pond.
"We'll have to walk, then," said Bavragor cheerily, doing his best to downplay his illness and seem sprightly despite his fragile state. His bright red face and the beads of perspiration forming beneath his frozen helmet told a different story. "I can see the range from here."
"The range has been in sight since the moment we entered Tabaоn," moaned Goпmgar, dreading the prospect of another long march in the cold. "Are you trying to get us all snow-blind or something?"
Grumpily, he set off through the snow, the others following in his wake. Toward evening they came to a deserted barn filled with bales of hay.
They lit a fire in spite of their qualms and made themselves comfortable, then cleared a spot for Bavragor to lie beside the flames, swaddling him in three blankets so he sweated out the cold. Rodario curled up in the warmth, while Djerun stood guard by the door, leaving the others free to look after the invalid. They clustered around him.
"It's nothing, honestly." Just then he choked and spat out a large clot of blood. He was gasping for air, groaning rather than breathing, and he seemed to be losing strength. The warmth was making things worse. "If you give me a sip of brandy, I'll be fighting fit."
"It can't be a cold," Boпndil said firmly. He got up. "It's gangrene, I know it. Sometimes it spreads beneath the skin, even after the wound has healed."
"No, Boпndil," snapped Andфkai, "I cleaned the flesh thoroughly."
A terrible thought occurred to Tungdil. He got up, went over to Goпmgar, and picked up his shield to examine the dent. Where the bolt had hit, the metal was discolored and there were traces of a clear frozen liquid that neither he nor the artisan had noticed before. His spirits sank. The bolt had been dipped in something that had stuck to the shield.
Vraccas, give him strength. "Do you have a spell against poison?" he asked Andфkai hoarsely. "By the look of things, Sverd wasn't relying purely on his aim."
"Poison?" Bavragor swallowed his cough and grinned. As his lips parted, his companions saw the blood leaking from his gums and coloring his teeth. His mouth was full of blood. "I knew it! Did you hear that, Goпmgar? What's the betting you'd be dead already? I've drunk enough brandy and beer in my lifetime to toughen me up. Ha, a cold!"
The maga closed her eyes. "I can't do anything against poison. My art is… I'm afraid, it's not my kind of magic," she said in a soft, apologetic tone. "Healing the wound drained a lot of my energy. My strength is all but exhausted."
A terrible silence settled over the group. There was no mistaking what Andфkai's words meant for the mason. Balyndis reached for his calloused hand and squeezed it encouragingly. She was too choked to speak.
"I know what you're thinking," croaked Bavragor at length. "Things don't look good for the merry minstrel. It's all right; I wasn't intending to return from the mission anyway." He looked up at Tungdil. "Still, I'd give anything to see the fifthling kingdom and fashion Keenfire's spurs. I wanted to go out with a bang, not in a dingy barn miles away from my beloved mountains."
Blood was seeping through his pores, the droplets merging into rivulets and soaking his straw mattress. In no time his garments were drenched with red.
"You're not going to die," Tungdil told him shakily. His smile, which he hoped would be encouraging, looked more like a grimace. "We can't fashion Keenfire without you! You're Beroпn's best mason."
Bavragor had to swallow a mouthful of blood before he could reply. "In that case, you'll have to take me with you. We'll make the ax to kill Nфd'onn, you'll see." He nodded to the door. "Carry me to the Perished Land. I'll fulfill my mission after my death."
"But…but you'll be a revenant," stuttered Boпndil, horrified. "Your soul-"
"I'll do my bit for Keenfire and confound the rest!" The outburst ended in another coughing fit.
"What if you turn against us? The other dead souls tried to kill us and eat us!" Boпndil glanced at the others for support. Some were struggling with their emotions, the remainder looked embarrassed.
"Chain my hands together, if you're worried," the mason told them. "My will is stronger than the drive to do evil. Dwarves are too stubborn to be conquered by darkness." He closed his eyes. "You'll have to hurry," he gasped. He coughed again and blood spewed from his mouth, trickling into his well-kempt beard.
"Djerun!" At Andфkai's bidding, the giant stooped to lift the dwarf. Cradling Bavragor gently in his arms like a mother would carry her child, he left the barn and stomped through the snow.
His long tireless limbs bore the mason toward the north, where the Perished Land had established its dominion, awakening anything that died to hideous life.
The rest of the company packed their things and followed the giant as fast as the sparkling snow and the dwarves' stumpy legs would allow.
Tungdil looked up at the stars and wept silent tears for the mason who was sacrificing his soul for the sake of the ax on which Girdlegard's future depended. For all Bavragor's eccentricities and occasional-crotchetiness, he was a good dwarf whom Tungdil regarded as a friend.
He heard a sniff beside him and turned to the tearful Balyndis. Her eyes were red with crying, but she smiled and squeezed his hand. Suddenly his courage, which had all but deserted him in the barn, came flooding back.
So much had happened since they had left the secondling kingdom-too much, in fact. Their adventure had turned into something far bigger and more perilous than they'd ever imagined. Even Rodario, renowned for his pompous comments, had fallen silent and was brooding over the mason's death.
"I hope Girdlegard is worth it, Vraccas," murmured Tungdil, gazing up at the sparkling firmament. "When all this is over, I shall see to it that our folks don't barricade themselves back in their mountains. From now on, we'll work together."
Balyndis gave his hand another squeeze, but he pulled away and hurried to join Boпndil at the head of the procession. It was the wrong time to be thinking of anything except Keenfire.