Tungdil stared in disbelief. The impresario's transformation was as complete as it had been on the stage, but now he was playing to an audience who would kill him and eat him if his performance was anything less than faultless. How does he do it?
"As for you," the sham magus rasped at the company, "you shall suffer. But first I shall be mercifuclass="underline" You may advance to the forge and touch the hallowed door. Only then will my servants rip you to pieces. Is that not exquisitely cruel?" The beasts cheered excitedly.
This time the crowd parted on the other side of the company, allowing them to proceed through a narrow corridor toward the locked door. The sham magus followed behind them, swaying, coughing, and whipping his followers into a frenzy as he threatened the company with increasingly diabolical fates.
They were ten paces from the door when the impresario swayed more vigorously than usual and stumbled.
"Stop!" Tungdil grabbed Narmora and Furgas before they could rush to his aid. "You'll give the game away for all of us."
The costumed Rodario struggled upright. A helmet rolled out from beneath his robes and his left leg seemed suddenly a good deal shorter. Without the makeshift stilt that had allowed him to tower majestically at the real magus's height, the fakery was obvious. It took the beasts a few moments to fathom the situation.
"That's not Nфd'onn!" An orc rushed toward him, brandishing his sword, as the company closed ranks around the hobbling Rodario and the battle recommenced.
"What have you done with the torch?" demanded Tungdil.
Clutching his side, the impresario coughed up another mouthful of blood; this time he was wounded and not just relying on his props. Even so, he managed a smile as he held up a small lantern. The wick was burning brightly. "No self- respecting magus would dream of carrying a torch."
Their courage restored, they fought their way more determinedly than ever toward the door, while the orcs pushed aside their smaller colleagues and attacked with full force. They were determined to put an end to the indefatigable men and dwarves.
Every member of the company was struck by an ax, sword, or mace. Some of the wounds were more serious than others, but the dwarves stood their ground. Tungdil focused on deciphering the runic password that would gain them entry to the forge. For once his knowledge failed him.
"I can't read the runes," he cried despairingly to Andфkai. "It must be a riddle."
"How awfully inconvenient," gasped Rodario. He clutched the door, trying to hold himself up as his legs gave way. "I don't expect my death to trouble you greatly, but remember this: Girdlegard has lost a luminary of the stage." He closed his eyes and slumped to the ground, suffocating the lantern as he fell. The flame flickered dangerously.
"No!" murmured Gandogar, who had been watching the dying actor out of the corner of his eye. "We can't let the flame go out!" As he turned to save the lantern, an enormous orc seized his chance and waded in. With a terrible shout he thrust his notched sword toward the king's back.
"Your Majesty!" Goпmgar realized midshout that the warning would come too late. Without thinking, he threw himself-shield first and head ducked-into the path of the blade.
With a high-pitched ring the sword struck the edge of the shield, forcing it down. The dwarf's head and neck appeared above the rim.
The orc bared its teeth, expelling a foul rush of breath, which swept through Goпmgar's beard. The beast's long blade settled on the shield, using its contours to draw a perfect line from right to left.
Goпmgar thrust his blade forward, but it was no match for the orcish sword. His stumpy weapon shattered, shards of metal jangling to the floor, and the sword continued, cleaving through skin, flesh, sinew, and bone.
As the artisan's head fell to the right, his twitching body toppled left, brushing against Balyndis, who let out a furious howl and swung her ax with fresh savagery.
Gandogar turned in time to see Goпmgar die in his stead. Even as the head hit the floor, the flame died, a thin wisp of smoke snaking its way to the ceiling. "May Tion take you!" Gandogar raised his ax and split the murderer from skull to chest.
With two of their number dead and the dragon fire extinguished, the company struggled against the heaviness in their arms. Their resistance was weakening.
"Did you get us this far in order to destroy us, Vraccas?"
Tungdil shouted accusingly as he drove his ax between the jaws of an ore.
At that moment there was a welcome grinding noise and the right-hand panel of the door swung open.
The deep tones of a bugle rang out, echoing the melody that Boпndil had sounded at the beginning of their attack. Stocky figures streamed through the doors and threw themselves on the beasts. Their axes and hammers raged mercilessly among the hordes.
It took Tungdil a good few moments to realize that their rescuers were dwarves.
One of their number, a warrior whose polished armor outshone everything save the diamonds on his belt, nodded toward the open door.
"Hurry, we can't hold them back for long," he bellowed, his deep voice sending shivers down Tungdil's spine.
He was more used to seeing the warrior's features cast in vraccasium and gold, but he had encountered the visage often enough during their long march through the fifthling kingdom to know exactly who he was: Giselbert Ironeye, father of Giselbert's folk.
"I thought you were…"
"We'll talk later," the ancient dwarf told him. "Just get your company inside."
Tungdil gave the order, Furgas hoisted Rodario to his shoulders, and Gandogar carried Goпmgar's corpse. As soon as the group was safely in the forge, Giselbert's dwarves abandoned their attack and slammed the door behind them. A moment later there was a furious hammering and pounding, but blind rage alone was not enough to breach the door.
"Welcome," Giselbert said solemnly. "Whoever you may be, I hope your coming is a good omen."
There were ten of them in alclass="underline" ashen-faced dwarves with absent eyes that made them seem vaguely trancelike. Each was clad in lavishly splendid mail and their beards reached to their belts. Determination, a Vraccas-given trait of their race, was stamped on every face.
"My warriors and I have been fighting Tion's minions since the fall of my kingdom eleven hundred cycles ago," said Giselbert, who seemed the most venerable, the most majestic of them all. "We are the last of the fifthlings, killed by the дlfar and resurrected by the Perished Land. As you can see, we chose not to serve it."
Tungdil shot a quick glance at Bavragor, who was covered from head to toe in every imaginable shade of green. Orc and bцgnil blood was dripping from his hands and splashing to the floor.
"It takes a lot to kill an undead dwarf, but most of our companions were eventually slain. The rest of us retreated to the furnace, our folk's most treasured relic." He held Tungdil's gaze.
"And you're sure you don't hate other dwarves and want to murder every living creature?"
Giselbert shook his head. "We taught ourselves not to. In eleven hundred cycles you can learn to stifle the pestilent hatred." His eyes shifted to the door. "The creatures used to content themselves with guarding the entrance, but during the last few orbits they've laid siege to the doors. I daresay the change has something to do with you."
"Very likely." Tungdil ran through the introductions and gave a hasty account of the threat facing Girdlegard and the reason for their coming. "But it's all been in vain. We were supposed to light the furnace with dragon fire, but the flame went out while we were fighting by the door."
Giselbert clapped a hand on his shoulder and a kindly smile spread across the creases and wrinkles of his ancient face. "You are wrong to give up hope. The fire is burning as fiercely as ever." He stopped and listened. "The furnace has always been under our protection. Vraccas must have known we would need it one day." He and his companions stepped aside to reveal the rest of the chamber.