Another doomed settlement, thought Tungdil, remembering the charred wreckage of Goodwater. He knew what the orcs would do to Mifurdania and he was tempted to forget about the mission and rush to the townspeople's aid. They were desperately in need of a few extra axes. He wondered whether to declare a change of plan.
What if one of us gets killed? If we don't forge Keenfire, Girdlegard will be lost. He agonized for a moment and decided that he had to put the mission first, regardless of how hard it was to leave the Mifurdanians to their fate. May the gods preserve you, he thought bleakly, lowering his head.
Boлndal laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. It was clear from his expression that he shared Tungdil's torment.
At length they reached the eastern battlements and discovered a small door watched over by a pair of sentries. Moments later, a bugle sounded and the sentries grabbed their spears and raced to the northern gates. The streets and marketplaces echoed with the sounds of fighting as the orcs advanced through Mifurdania, beating back the defenders.
The dwarves inspected the door. Heavy-duty chains and padlocks prevented anyone from tampering with the four steel bolts.
"Well, well, well," said a disapproving voice. "What do we have here? Five plump cannonballs on legs…I hope you weren't intending to slip out unnoticed."
The man who stepped out of the side street had an aristocratic face and a pointed beard. His flamboyant robes looked expensive. Behind him was a tall, slender woman in leather armor with a crimson head scarf over her long black hair. A plainly dressed man with gray-green eyes, dark hair, and a thin mustache brought up the rear. All three were carrying duffel bags.
"Dear me, little giants," said the man with the pointy beard, "didn't anyone tell you that this door is out of bounds?"
"Thieves, are you?" growled Bavragor, grasping his hammer in his brawny hands.
The man laughed theatrically. "Thieves! That's a good one! What funny little fellows… No, my bearded warrior, we're not even commoners, let alone common thieves! Surely you don't need two eyes to see that?"
The snarling and grunting was getting louder all the time.
"Let me through," the dark-haired woman commanded. She pushed past the bewildered dwarves and lifted her sword belt to reveal a leather pouch. Producing a number of finger-length implements, some sharpened to a point, others curved or bent at right angles, she set to work on the locks. Soon there was a click.
"I knew they were thieves," said Bavragor, pleased to be proven right.
"We're nothing of the sort, my good fellow." The man with the pointed beard gestured to his male companion. "Meet Furgas, the most accomplished prop master since"-he waved vaguely, unable to think of a suitable period of time-"since time began." He pointed to the woman. "It is my pleasure, nay, my privilege, to introduce you to the delightful Narmora, whose exquisite beauty caused the mayor of Mifurdania's roses to wither in shame. As for myself, I am-"
"The fabulous Rodario!" exclaimed Tungdil, who had suddenly placed the actor's voice.
At once the man seemed to warm to him. "An admirer of my art? Who would have thought it! And I took you for a-" He stopped short and his features hardened. "Drown me in a privy, if it isn't the racket maker, the despoiler of my scene, the saboteur of the illusion skillfully woven for the delectation of the public." His brown eyes stared accusingly at Tungdil's boots. "That's him, all right, the dwarf and his accursed footwear. His trampling and shouting ruined my act!"
There was another click as Narmora opened the final padlock and unthreaded the chain, letting it clatter to the ground. "Hurry!"
"Aren't you coming?" Furgas said anxiously.
She smiled and gave him a lingering kiss on the lips. "You go through and I'll lock up behind you. I don't want to be blamed for handing Mifurdania to the orcs. I'll climb over the parapets."
The dwarves led the way, followed by Rodario and Furgas.
It was immediately obvious that the invaders were throwing all their energy into besieging the main gates and had forgotten about the flanks of the town. The runaways were spotted by a pair of Mifurdanian soldiers, who shouted at them from the parapets to identify themselves, but the order went unheeded. Only the actor turned to wave. "Take good care of my theater for me. We'll be back when you've fought off the orcs. The very best of luck!"
"This is real life, Rodario, not one of your plays," Furgas chided, dragging him on.
The impresario seemed not to grasp the full seriousness of their plight. "All the hallmarks of drama are there, though," he said thoughtfully. "What an excellent suggestion, my dear Furgas. I shall write a new work." He put his hands on his hips and struck a heroic pose. "A fearless guardsman-that's me, of course-spots an army of orcs advancing and, in a pitched battle with, say, half a dozen of them, saves the town from certain ruin."
Just then a rope unfurled from the top of the wall and Narmora descended nimbly, hand after hand, and joined them at the base. Shouting wildly, the guards stormed along the parapet and hauled up the rope before it could be spotted by the orcs.
Tungdil and company hurried toward the shelter of the forest, the other three following purposefully behind.
"A word, oh worthy hoarders of gold and gems. Would you consent to us accompanying you for a while on your overland excursion?" inquired the fabulous Rodario, doing his best to dazzle them with his smile. "I don't mean to be personal, but you look like the sort of fellows who could tackle the green- hided beasts. These are dangerous times, and my friends and I are feeble artists, aficionados of the stage." He turned his tanned face toward his thin arms, which protruded like broomsticks from his expensive cloak. "A fine group of soldiers we'd make: two men as slender as saplings and a beautiful, yet vulnerable woman who wears her armor merely for show. I shudder to think what would happen if the orcs were to…"
"Very well, you can join us," conceded Tungdil. With Boпndil still under the influence, they were two axes down, and in the event of a skirmish, the gasbag and his companions would serve as a distraction while he and the others attacked.
"A word," Goпmgar echoed in disbelief. "I think I lost count of them."
"Men talk a lot when they're frightened," Bavragor said knowledgeably. "If you ask me, he must be scared silly. Have you seen their teeny beards? I had more hair when I was born!"
Tungdil headed in the direction of their ingots and gems, steering a course through the forest toward the plateau. He was only grateful that his new companions were oblivious to the comments being bandied about in dwarfish.
We'll have to carry the ingots up the stairs, past the waterfall, and out to the ponies, he thought. It's bound to take a while. The delay was infuriating, particularly since the wagon's mishap seemed to have been planned.
He decided not to wonder where Gandogar and his companions might be. There I go again, he cursed, banishing the thought of their rivals from his mind. He focused on picking a path through the forest and listening for noise.
"Little man," opened Rodario, blundering through the undergrowth in an effort to catch up with the dwarf. He didn't seem to notice the snapping twigs or his echoing voice. "Unless I'm much mistaken, you are the leader of this merry band, and so I address myself to you. Groundlings-"
"Dwarves," Tungdil corrected him automatically.
"As you prefer…As I was saying, dwarves are a rare sight in these lands, and so I wonder: Why did the five of you abandon your underground home? Were you driven out by your kin?"
"That's our business, Mr. Rodario."
"True, very true. It was impolite of me to ask. But perhaps you and your companions would consent to join my itinerant theater and collaborate on a play?" He beamed at Tungdil. "With your permission, I'd like to pen a script especially for five dwarves. People would come from far and wide to see our show. There wouldn't be anything like it in Girdlegard. They'd shower us with coins!"