"Perhaps the gentleman could make a little less noise!" boomed the counterfeit Nфd'onn from the stage. His дlf emissary put her hands on her slender hips and frowned. She was clad in black armor and looked remarkably convincing despite the ruined play. The fearsome magus was just an indignant actor. "If you don't mind, I'm trying to entertain our audience!"
"I've been robbed!" the dwarf bellowed without slowing. "Your precious theater is harboring a thief!"
"The only thief in this theater is you, my stunted friend," the actor said waspishly. "You're stealing my time, not to mention plundering my patience, neither of which you can afford. Kindly take your thieving presence out of my theater and allow those of more cultured sensibilities to see the rest of the play, which shall have the finale it deserves!"
On hearing the cheers and laughter, he took a deep bow.
Jackass, muttered Tungdil. Bursting out of the theater, he stopped on the street, looked both ways, and ran on. On rounding the next corner, he spotted his man. The scoundrel had slung the stolen pack over his shoulder in order to free his hands.
"Stop! That's my bag you've stolen!" Tungdil set off in hot pursuit.
At the end of the third street he still had the thief in his sights, but somewhere along the fourth street, after what must have been the tenth sudden change in direction, the fellow vanished into a marketplace. Tungdil was left stranded among a crowd of people with no hope of spotting his knapsack amid the seething mass.
The sigurdaisy wood! He felt hot and cold all over at the thought that the relic was lost. Of all the misfortunes that could have befallen him, this was surely the worst. I didn't come all this way to be thwarted by a petty criminal! he thought determinedly, forcing himself to continue the chase.
Still gripping his ax with one hand, he used the other to push his way through the crowd until he reached a table piled high with woven baskets. He clambered on top.
From this angle the situation looked no better than before. The only way of recovering the bag was to enlist the help of the guards, but his plight was unlikely to elicit much sympathy-and understandably so. What could he possibly say to convince them of the importance of retrieving his pack?
Er, excuse me, I know the town's surrounded by orcs, but I've lost a lump of wood. I was hoping to use it to save Girdlegard and its inhabitants from the Perished Land.
No one would ever believe him.
He jumped to the ground and set off toward the tavern where, Vraccas willing, Bavragor and Boпndil would be waiting. To his unspeakable dismay he realized that he was lost.
Tungdil had sent his companions to the tavern without checking its name. Now his only hope of finding them was to return to the gates.
Which gates? Did we enter from the north?
He started on his way, grumbling to himself and glancing up from time to time to check his position against the watchtowers that rose above the sloping roofs. Striding along determinedly, he passed a dingy side street without slowing and heard a muffled groan.
He stopped in his tracks, gripped his ax with both hands, and doubled back. Stepping warily into the darkness, he spotted a tall, slender figure whose garments were enveloped by a dark gray cape.
At his feet was the villain who had stolen Tungdil's pack.
The thief was lying on the cobbles, bleeding from a dozen stab wounds, while his killer rummaged eagerly through the bag.
Tungdil's instincts told him something was wrong. In height and build the stranger looked less like a man than an дlf. Vraccas be with me, he murmured.
The knapsack's new owner buckled the lid, grabbed the straps with his left hand, and hid the bag beneath his cape. Groaning in agony, the thief rolled onto his back and clutched the ground. His assassin was unmoved by his suffering and strolled away without looking back.
"Excuse me! That's my bag," shouted Tungdil.
The stranger whipped round and his cape flew open, obscuring his face. Tungdil was still trying to get a proper look at him when two heavy objects collided with his chest. The throwing knives glanced off his chain mail, clattering to the cobbles.
Before Tungdil could recover, his crafty assailant had taken off down the alleyway and rounded the next bend. The dwarf was at a disadvantage because of his stumpy legs, and by the time he reached the corner, the stranger was nowhere in sight.
Tungdil stepped back into the shadows and leaned against a wall to catch his breath. One blasted misfortune after the next! What have I done to displease you, Vraccas?
He felt an arm wrap itself around his neck. A narrow blade flashed in front of his face and came to rest against his bare throat.
"It's your knapsack, is it?" whispered a voice in his ear. "In that case, you must be Tungdil. We weren't expecting you here. A friend of mine has been longing to make your acquaintance ever since you murdered his companion in Greenglade."
Tungdil tried to prize away the arm, but the pressure on his neck increased.
"Keep still," the voice commanded. "You've got some explaining to do."
"I'm not telling you anything," Tungdil said defiantly, now certain that the stranger was one of Nфd'onn's дlfar.
"We'll see about that." His attacker stepped backward, dragging Tungdil beneath a covered archway at the front entrance to a house. Total darkness engulfed them. "Where are you taking the relic?"
The dwarf maintained a stubborn silence.
"Talk or I'll kill you."
"You'll kill me anyway. What difference does it make?"
The дlf laughed. "The difference between a quick death and an agonizing end. Let's try again. Are you alone?"
Footsteps hurried along the alleyway, accompanied by clunking mail. Two figures rounded the corner. The дlf fell silent.
By some vindictive twist of fortune, Boлndal and Goпmgar chose precisely that moment to make their appearance.
Boлndal was doing his best to reassure the wary artisan that neither Bavragor nor Boпndil had any intention of carrying out their threats. Tungdil heard him vow to protect Goпmgar from any rash acts of vengeance; then he and the fourthling disappeared from sight.
"Very well," the дlf whispered, "so there are five of you. What is the purpose of your journey?"
"To foil you, your master, and all of your ilk!" Tungdil said loudly, choosing that moment to make his escape. He made a grab for the knife and threw his weight backward, hoping to ram his captor against the wall. The дlf stepped aside, and Tungdil barreled into the brickwork, still struggling ferociously to fend off the blade.
The noise was enough to alert the other dwarves. They rushed to his aid.
"Is that you, scholar?" Boлndal skidded to a halt in front of the archway, leveled his crow's beak, and barred the way. Skulking behind him was Goпmgar, doing a convincing impression of a two-legged shield.
The дlf thrust his knee into Tungdil's nose guard, forcing the metal into his face. Tungdil's eyes watered, blurring his vision; then the knife tore a gash in his unprotected left arm. The дlf set about making his escape.
I don't think so! Tungdil darted after the knapsack and managed to catch hold of the flap. He clung to it, growling, and aimed his ax at his antagonist's wrist.
The дlf whipped his hand away and the blade missed, slicing through the air, hitting the knapsack, and slitting the canvas. The flap came away in Tungdil's hands, and he lost his balance and fell.
"I've got what I came for." The situation was too perilous for the дlf and he turned to leave, trying to wrong-foot the experienced Boлndal, who saw through the feint and timed his attack to perfection. The deadly tip of the crow's beak passed through the leather armor, penetrating deep into the flesh.
The дlf uttered an unintelligible curse and staggered sideways, stepping into a lone shaft of light. His deep blue eyes became two dark pits.
But that was only the beginning of his transformation. Thin lines appeared on his pale skin, and in no time his face and throat were patterned with what looked like tiny cracks. Clutching his wounded side, he stumbled down the alleyway, the knapsack bouncing on his back.