"What'd you do that for? I meant it as a compliment!"

Rega turned on her heel and stalked out of the clearing. At the edge, she half-turned again and tossed something toward the elf. "Here, rub that on the sores."

You're right, she told herself, hurrying into the jungle where she could have her cry out in private. I'll leave things just the way they are. We'll deliver the weapons, he'll leave, and that'll be an end of it. I'll smile and tease him and never let him see he meant anything more to me than just a good time.

Paithan, taken by surprise, just barely caught the thrown bottle before it smashed on the ground. He watched Rega plunge into the brush, he could hear her crashing through the undergrowth.

"Women," said Roland, rubbing his bruised cheek and shaking his head. He took the waterskin over to the elf and dropped it at his feet. "Must be her time of season."

Paithan flushed a deep red and gave Roland a disgusted look.

The human winked. "What's the matter, Quin, I say something to embarrass you?"

"In my land, men don't talk about such things," Paithan rebuked.

"Yeah?" Roland glanced back toward where Rega had disappeared, then looked over at the elf and his grin widened. "I guess in your land men don't do a lot of things."

Paithan's flush of anger deepened to guilt. Did Roland see Rega and me together? Is this his way of letting me know, warning me to keep my hands off?

Paithan was forced, for Rega's sake, to swallow the insult. Sitting down on the ground, he began to spread the salve on his skinned and bloody palms, wincing as the brown-colored gunk bit into raw flesh and exposed nerves. He welcomed the pain. At least it was better than the one biting at his heart.

Paithan had enjoyed Rega's mild flirtations the first cycle or two on their journey until it had suddenly occurred to him that he was enjoying them too much. He found himself watching intently the play of the smooth muscles in her shapely legs, the warm glow of the firelight in her brown eyes, the trick she had of running her tongue across her berry-stained lips when she was deep in thought.

The second night on the trail, when she and Roland had taken their blanket to the other side of the glade and laid down next to each other in the shadowed sunlight of rain's hour, Paithan had thought his insides would twist out of him in jealousy. No matter that he never saw the two kissing or even touching affectionately. Indeed, they treated each other with a casual familiarity he found quite astonishing, even in husband and wife. He had decided, by the fourth cycle on the trail, that Roland-though a good enough fellow as humans go-didn't appreciate the treasure he had for a wife.

Paithan felt comforted by this knowledge, it gave him an excuse to let his feelings for the human woman grow and blossom, when he knew very well he should have ripped them up by the roots. Now the plant was in full bloom, the vine twining around his heart. He realized now, too late, the harm that had been done ... to them both.

Rega loved him. He knew, he'd felt it in her trembling body, he'd seen it in that one, brief look she'd given him. His heart should have been singing with joy. It was dumb with sick despair. What folly! What mad folly! Oh, sure, he could have his moments of pleasure. He'd done that with countless human women. Love them, then leave them. They expected nothing more, they wanted nothing more. And neither had he. Until now.

Yet, what did he want? A relationship that would cut them both adrift from their lives? A relationship looked upon with abhorrence by both worlds? A relationship that would give them nothing, not even children? A relationship he would have to watch come at last and inevitably to a bitter end?

No, nothing good can come of it. I'll leave, he thought. Go back home. I'll give them the tyros. Callie'll be mad at me anyway. I might as well be hung for a sheep as a goat, as the saying goes. I'll leave now. This very moment.

But he continued sitting in the clearing, absently spreading salve on his palms. He thought he could hear, far away, the sound of someone weeping. He tried to ignore it, but eventually he could stand it no longer.

"I think I hear your wife crying," he said to Roland. "Maybe something's wrong."

"Rega?" Roland glanced up from feeding the tyros. He appeared amused. "Crying? Naw, must be a bird you're hearing. Rega never cries, not even the time when she got stabbed in the raztar fight. Did you ever notice the scar? It's on her left thigh, about here ..."

Paithan rose to his feet and stalked off into the jungle, moving in a direction opposite to that which Rega had taken.

Roland watched the elf leave out of the corner of his eye and hummed a bawdy song currently making the rounds of the taverns.

"He's fallen for her like a rotten tree limb in a storm," he told the tyros. "Rega's playing it cooler than usual, but I guess she knows what she's doing. He's an elf, after all. Still, sex is sex. Little elves come from somewhere and I don't think it's heaven.

"But, ugh! Elven women! Skinny and bony-you might as well take a stick to bed. No wonder poor old Quin's following Rega around with his tongue hanging out. Its only a matter of time. I'll catch him with his pants down in a cycle or two, and then we'll fix him! Too bad, though." Roland reflected. Tossing the waterskin on the ground, he leaned wearily back against a tree and stretched, easing the stiffness from his limbs. "I'm beginning to kind of like the guy."

CHAPTER 15.

THE DWARVEN KINGDOM.

THURN.

FOND OF DARKNESS AND OF DELVING AND TUNNELING, THE DWARVES OF PRYAN.

did not build their cities in the treetops, as did the elves, or on the moss plains, as did the humans. The dwarves carved their way downward through the dark vegetation, seeking the dirt and stone that was their heritage, though that heritage was little more than a dim memory of an ancient past in another world.

The kingdom of Thurn was a vast cavern of vegetation. The dwarves dwelt and worked in homes and shops that had been bored deep and straight into the boles of gigantic chimney trees, so called because the wood did not burn easily and the smoke of dwarven fires was able to rise up through natural shafts in the tree's center. Branches and plant roots formed walkways and streets lit by flickering torchlight. The elves and humans lived in perpetual day. The dwarves lived in endless night-a night they loved and found blessed, but a night that Drugar feared was about to become permanent.

He received the message from his king during the dinner hour. It was a mark of the message's importance that it was delivered to him at mealtime, a time when one's full and complete attention is to be devoted to food and the all-important digestive process afterward. Talking is forbidden during the eating of the food and only pleasant subjects are discussed during the time following, to prevent the stomach's juices from turning rancid and causing gastric upset.

The king's messenger was profuse in his apologies for taking Drugar from his dinner but added that the matter was quite urgent. Drugar bolted from his chair, scattering crockery, causing his old manservant to grumble and predict dire things occurring in the young dwarf's stomach.

Drugar, who had a dark feeling he knew the purport of the message, almost told the old servant that they'd be fortunate indeed if all the dwarves had to worry about was indigestion. But he kept silent. Among the dwarves, the elderly were treated with respect.

His father's bore-hole house was located next to his [20] and Drugar didn't have far to go. He ran this distance, but then stopped when he reached the door, suddenly reluctant to enter, reluctant to hear what he knew he must. Standing in the darkness, fingering the rune-stone he wore around his neck, he asked for courage of the One Dwarf. Drawing a deep breath, he opened the door and entered the room.

His father's house was exactly the same as Drugar's house, which was exactly the same as every other dwarven house in Thurn. The tree's wood had been smoothed and polished to a warm, yellowish color. The floor was flat, the wails rising to an arched ceiling. It was plainly furnished. Being king gave his father no special privileges, only additional responsibility. The king was the One Dwarf's head and the head, though it thinks for the body, certainly isn't any more important to the body than, say, the heart or (most important to many dwarves) the stomach.

Drugar found his father sitting at his meal, the half-full plates shoved aside. In his hand he held a piece of bark whose smooth side was thickly covered with the strong, angular letters of the dwarven language.

"What is the news. Father?"

"The giants are coming," said the old dwarf. "The scouts have watched them. The giants wiped out Kasnar-the people, the cities, everything. And they are coming this way."

"Perhaps," said Drugar, "they will be stopped by the sea."

"They will stop at the sea, but not for long," said the old dwarf. "They are not skilled with tools, say the scouts. What tools they use, they use to destroy, not to create. It will not occur to them to build ships. But they will go around, come by land."

"Maybe they will turn back. Maybe all they wanted was to take over Kasnar."

His words were spoken from hope, not belief. And once the words left his lips he knew even his hope was false.

"They did not take over Kasnar," said his father, with a heavy sigh. "They destroyed it-utterly. Their aim is not to conquer, but to kill."

"Then you know what we must do. Father. We must ignore the fools who say that these giants are our brothers! We must fortify our city and arm our people. Listen, Father." Drugar leaned near, lowering his voice, though the two were the only ones present in the old dwarfs dwelling. "I have contacted a human weapons dealer. Elven railbows, boltarches! They will be ours!"

The old dwarf looked at his son, a flame flickered deep in the eyes that had been dark and lackluster. "That is good!" Reaching across, he laid one gnarled hand on his son's strong one. "You are quick thinking and daring, Drugar. You will make a good king." He shook his head, stroked the iron gray beard that flowed almost to his knees. "But I do not believe the weapons will come in time."

"They had better," growled Drugar, "or someone will pay!" The dwarf rose to his feet, began pacing the small, dark room built far below the moss surface, as far from the sun as the dwarves could get. "I will call out the army-"

"No," said the old dwarf.

"Father, you are being stubborn-"

"And you are a khadak!" [21] The old dwarf raised a walking stick, gnarled and twisted as his own limbs, and pointed it at his son. "I said you would make a good king. And so you will. IF you will keep the fire under control! The flame of your thoughts burns dear and rises high, but instead of keeping the fire banked, you let it flare up, blaze out of control!"

Drugar's face darkened, his thick brows came together. The fire of which his father spoke burned within him, heated scorching words. Drugar fought his temper, the words seared his lips but He kept them inside. He loved and honored his father, though he thought the old man was caving in beneath this terrible blow.

He forced himself to try to speak calmly. "Father, the army-"

"-will turn on itself and fight each other!" the old dwarf said in a quiet voice, "is that what you want, Drugar?"

The old dwarf drew himself up. His height was no longer impressive: the bowed back would not straighten, the legs could no longer support the body without assistance. But Drugar, towering over his father, saw the dignity in the trembling stance, the wisdom in the dimming eyes, and felt himself a child again.

"Half the army will refuse to bear arms against their 'brothers,' the giants. And what will you do, Drugar? Order them to go to war? And how will you enforce that order, son? Will you command the other half of the army to pick up arms against their brothers?

"No!" cried the old king, slamming the walking stick against the floor. The thatched walls quivered at his wrath. "Never will there come a day when the One Dwarf are divided! Never will come a day when the body sheds the blood of itself!"

"Forgive me, Father. I did not think."

The old king sighed, his body shriveled and collapsed in upon itself. Tottering, he grasped his son's hand. With Drugar's aid and that of the walking stick, the old dwarf resumed his chair. "Keep the flames in check son. Keep them in check. Or they will destroy all in their path, including you, Drugar. Including you. Now go, return to your meal. I am sorry I had to interrupt it."

Drugar left and returned to his house, but did not finish his meal. Back and forth, back and forth he stumped across his room. He tried hard to bank his inner fire, but it was useless. The flames of fear for his people, once kindled, would not readily die down. He could not and would not disobey his father. The man was not only his father but also his king. However, Drugar decided, he wouldn't let the fire die completely. When the enemy came, they would find scorching flame, not cold, dark ash.

The dwarven army was not mobilized. But Drugar privately (and without his father's knowledge) drew up battle plans and informed those dwarves who believed as he did to keep their weapons close to hand. He kept in close contact with the dwarven scouts, followed through their reports the progress of the giants. Thwarted by the Whispering Sea, the giants turned to the est, traveling overland, moving relentlessly toward their goal-whatever goal that was.

Drugar did not think it was to ally themselves with the dwarves. Dark rumors came to Thurn of massacres of dwarves in the norinth settlements of Grish and Klag, but the giants were difficult to track and the reports of the scouts (those reports that came through) were garbled and made little sense.

"Father," pleaded Drugar, "you must let me call out the army now! How can anyone discount these messages!"

"Humans," said his father, sighing. "The council has decided that it is the human refugees, fleeing the giants, who are committing these crimes! They say that the giants will join us and then we will have our revenge!"

"I've interviewed the scouts personally. Father," said Drugar with rising impatience. 'Those who are left. Fewer and fewer come in every day. Those who do are scared out of their wits!"

"Indeed?" said his father, eyeing his son shrewdly. "And what do they tell you they've seen?"

Drugar hesitated, frustrated. "All right, Father! So they've not actually seen anything!"

The old dwarf nodded wearily. "I've heard them, Drugar. I've heard the wild tales about 'the jungle moving.' How can I go to the council with such elf-krat?"

It was on Drugar's lips to tell his father what the council could do with its own krat but he knew that such a rude outburst wouldn't help matters any and would only anger his father. It wasn't the king's fault. Drugar knew his father had said much the same to the Council as his son had said to him. The council of the One Dwarf, made up of the elders in the tribe, didn't want to hear.

Clamping his mouth shut so that no hot words might escape him, Drugar stomped out of his father's house and made his way through the vast and complex series of tunnels carved through the vegetation to the top. Emerging, blinking, into the sunlight, he stared into the tangle of leaves.

Something was out there. And it was coming his way. And he didn't believe it was coming in the spirit of brotherly love. He waited, with a sense of increasing desperation, for the arrival of the magical, intelligent, elven weapons.

If those two humans had double-crossed him, he vowed by the body, mind, and soul of the One Dwarf that he would make them pay-with their lives.

CHAPTER 16.

SOMEWHERE ELSE, GUNIS.

"I HATE THIS," SAID REGA Two more cycles' traveling took them farther down into the depths of the jungle, down far below the top level, far below bright sunshine and fresh air and cool rain. They had come to the edge of a moss plain. The trail dropped off into a deep ravine that was lost in shadow. Lying flat on top of the moss cliff, peering down into the depths, they couldn't see what was below them. The thick leaves of the tree branches above and ahead of them completely cut off sunlight. Going below, they would be traveling in almost total darkness.

"How far away are we?" asked Paithan.

"From the dwarves? About two cycles' journey, I should think," remarked Roland, peering into the shadows.

"You think? Don't you know?"

The human heaved himself to his feet. "You lose all sense of time down there. No hour flowers, no flowers of any sort."

Paithan didn't comment. He stared over the edge, as if fascinated by the darkness.

"I'm going to go check on the tyros."

Rega stood up, gave the elf a sharp, meaningful glance, and motioned to her brother. Together, silently, the two walked away from the edge, returning to a small glade where the tyros had been tethered.

"This isn't working. You've got to tell him the truth," Rega said, her fingers tugging on the strap of one of the baskets.

"Me?" said Roland.

"Keep your voice down! Well, we have to, then."

"And just how much of the truth do you plan to tell him, Wife, dear?"

Rega shot her brother a vicious sidelong glance-Sullenly, she looked away. "Just ... admit that we've never been on this trail before. Admit we don't know where the hell we are or where the hell we're going."

"He'll leave."

"Good!" Rega gave the strap a violent jerk that made the tyro bleat in protest. "I hope he does!"

"What's got into you?" Roland demanded.

Rega glanced and shivered. "It's this place. I hate it. And" -she turned back, staring at the strap, her fingers absently stroking it-"the elf. He's different. Not like what you told me. He's not smug and overbearing. He isn't afraid to get his hands dirty. He's not a coward. He stands his share of the watch, he's ripped his palms to shreds on those ropes. He's cheerful and funny. He even cooks, which is more than you've ever done, Roland! He's ... nice, that's all. He doesn't deserve ... what we were planning."

Roland stared at his sister, saw a faint flush of crimson creep up from her brown throat to her cheeks. She kept her eyes lowered. Reaching out his hand, Roland caught hold of Rega's chin and turned her face toward him. Shaking his head, he let out a low whistle.

"I believe you've fallen for the guy!"

Angrily, Rega struck his hand away.