He seemed mildly approving of June, and he and Shauna had arrived at an armed truce. Everyone else he ignored-unless he wanted his head scratched.
Wiz finished his ale and debated making himself a sandwich. He decided he wasn’t hungry and putting food in his stomach would only dilute the soporific effect of the ale. He needed something to help him sleep after the hours spent under the magic hill.
Moira left June and Shauna and came over to sit by him.
"You’re not eating?"
Wiz took a moment just to admire her. Moira was broad-hipped, deep-bosomed and had a pair of wonderful green eyes set in a wide freckled face under a mane of red hair. The hedge witch was the first person he had seen when he had been kidnapped into this world and he had thought she was breathtakingly beautiful then. They had been married nearly two years and she still took his breath away.
"I want to make sure I can sleep tonight," he said, slipping his arm around her waist. Then he leaned close and nuzzled her hair. "What’s the matter, do you want your ears scratched too?"
Moira turned and gave him one of her patented 10,000-volt looks. "Perhaps we should discuss that back in our chambers, my Lord."
Wiz rose and pulled her up with him. "Maybe we should at that."
Looks like the ale was wasted, he thought as they made their goodbyes to the others and headed off to bed.
Once again torches lit a meeting of dwarves in an underground chamber. But this was a much smaller gathering in much less impressive surroundings than King Tosig’s audience hall.
It was, in fact, a storeroom for hides. The torches were leftovers plundered from wall sconces elsewhere in the hold and the twelve dwarves sitting on the smelly bales or lounging against the rough-hewn walls had no more right to be there than the torches did.
A minor detail, Glandurg thought as the last of his followers slipped into the room and closed the storeroom door. Anyway, now that he was acting under his uncle’s orders, not even old Samlig, the keeper of the storehouses, would dare to question them.
Still Glandurg couldn’t help looking over his shoulder. Samlig was a crusty one and he’d just as soon not put his new legitimacy to the test.
Taking a deep breath, he drew himself up to his full three-foot-eight and faced his men.
"Comrades," he proclaimed, but softly. "At last we have a mission worthy of us."
"Not another sewage tunnel, is it?" asked a dwarf named Ragnar.
Glandurg dismissed the question with a lofty gesture. "This is a mission to the Outside World. Beyond the tunnels of the Hold."
A couple of the dwarves exchanged suspicious glances, wondering what kind of unpleasant and menial chore had been arranged for them now.
"I have just come from a secret audience with my uncle, the King," Glandurg told them. "He has entrusted us with an important mission."
"I thought the King said he’d cut your ears off if you came next nor nigh him," put in a dwarf named Gimli who was so young his beard barely touched his chest.
Glandurg glared at him and planted his hands on his hips. "Do you want to hear this or don’t you?"
Gimli wilted under his leader’s stare and Glandurg adopted his heroic pose again.
"As I was saying, a secret audience with the King. He has commanded us upon a vital mission for all of dwarfdom."
He paused for effect and the other dwarves leaned forward expectantly.
"We are to penetrate the world of mortals to its very heart and there find and slay a wizard from beyond our World! It is a dangerous, desperate quest and in his hour of need my uncle the King has turned to us as the staunchest, bravest among all his subjects." He surveyed his wide-eyed followers and saw they were satisfactorily impressed.
"This isn’t another one of your stories?" one of the dwarves asked at last.
"Why don’t you go to my uncle the King and put that question to him?"
That settled it. None of them would go anywhere near King Tosig, but the assurance with which Glandurg issued the challenge told them that for once their leader was not exaggerating. At least not much.
"How are we supposed to get there?" asked Thorfin, always the practical one. "That’s two hundred leagues at least."
"We will ride," Glandurg said loftily. "It has been arranged."
"I don’t know about horses," a dwarf named Snorri said dubiously. "I’m not much for them."
"We will not ride horses. We will fly."
"I thought you said we’d ride," said Ragnar. "Which will it be then?"
"You’ll see soon enough," Glandurg told him with a superior smile. He was pleased that he had thought of the transportation problem and he was even more pleased with the solution he had worked out in the few hours since meeting with the king. But he didn’t want to tip his hand. His companions might not be as happy with his cleverness as Glandurg was.
"What about supplies?" Ragnar asked.
"Our every need will be supplied from the hold’s storehouses," Glandurg said. He smiled at the thought of old Samlig’s face when he issued out the carefully hoarded goods. "We shall have the weapons, the armor and the gold we need from my uncle the King’s personal treasury."
He looked them over again. "This will not be easy. The alien wizard has mighty magic and his legions of mortal warriors are numberless and not to be despised. It will be a long, difficult adventure and danger awaits us at every turn."
The dwarves all nodded. Danger and adventure were fine with them.
"This will be to the death," he proclaimed. "Some of us-nay, all of us!-may not return."
He swept his gaze over his followers impressively.
"Now swear with me in blood!" Glandurg drew his knife and nicked himself on the wrist. He cut deeper than he meant to and winced slightly at the sudden pain. There was a lot more blood than he intended, but his sleeve reddened satisfactorily and the blood dripping off his wrist made a most impressive touch.
One by one the other dwarves cut themselves and mingled their blood with their leader’s for the oath.
"To the wizard’s death-or our own."
Three: OPERATION 500-POUND PARAKEET
The problem with a kludge is eventually you’re going to have to go back and do it right.
"You’re sure this will work?" Wiz asked for the fourth time that morning amid the bustle of final preparations. He was wearing a warm wool tunic and pants, a heavy travelling cloak and a very apprehensive look.
"If you can remember to do your part of it," Moira said a little sharply. Then she caught his expression and placed her hand on his arm.