As soon as the question crossed his mind, he knew. They had raided the Mandrian villages across the marsh. Dain did not understand what had driven them to provoke war, and he did not really care. What mattered right now was that he get himself as far away from here as he could, before they caught him, crushed his skull, and drank his blood in celebration.

But he saw the main pack coming, marching along, singing to the beat of their drums. Their number surprised him. Several war parties had obviously banded together, for there were perhaps a hundred or more dwarves marching in close ranks. Most dwarf clans fought in small groups, making surprise attacks of great fierceness, then retreating quickly with whatever loot they could grab on the way. Seldom did they join forces in any kind of army, for they were too fierce, independent, and hot-tempered to work together for long. All the same, as Dain watched them march past his hiding place, he couldn't help thinking of the old tales Jorb used to spin in the evenings when the day's work was done. Tales of the great dwarf armies in the time before men, when enormous battles had shook the ground, forming the mountains, when the sounds of dying lifted to the skies and created clouds, when blood ran as rivers, making channels for water to flow thereafter. And it hadn't only been the dwarves who'd fought in antiquity, but also trolk and dire creatures sp.a.w.ned in darkness. One of the most ferocious of these ancient battles had been the last, when the creatures of darkness were at last driven by the dwarves into the wasteland of what was now Gant. This battle had required all the dwarves to band together. It had taken place in what was now the fabled Field of Skulls. It had been a battle so terrible and long, in which so many had been slain and spilled their blood, that the battleground itself grew saturated and became barren. No trees or gra.s.s or any living thing would grow on the site. The bones of the dead were said to be piled so high and so thickly that even long centuries later they made the ground look white. No one who found the place could take a single step without walking on the remains of the dead. Power still resonated on this battlefield, a power too strong for time to dispel. It was said to permeate the bones lying there, and if a visitor took away even a fragment with him, the power residing in that piece of bone would bring him either great luck or terrible misfortune. The blood from this battle had flowed so heavily that it was said to be the origin of the mighty Charva River. Whether or not that was true, few dwarves living today would consider wetting themselves in the Charva, for many believed dead souls were still trapped in the waters of the river. Other legends said that Thod had struck the ground with a mighty blow, thus creating a lake from which the Charva flowed as a natural barrier between Nonkind and the warrior dwarves of Nold.

Dain shook off these thoughts. The ancient days were over. These dwarves marching past him now were only Bnen, murderers of his guardian and sister. He curled himself tighter under the bush, aching with rage and grief. He wanted to jump forth and attack them with his bare hands. He wanted to hurt them, defeatthem, kill them.

But he was one against too many. If he tried, he would waste his life for no purpose and they would not pay for their crimes. Somehow, he must find a way of revenge.

That was when he saw the prisoners. Bound and bleeding from wounds, they were pushed along at the end of the pack and guarded by tormenters who jabbed them with dagger points, laughing and jeering at them in the hoa.r.s.e dwarf tongue. Three men, wearing dark green tunics that marked them as being in Lord Odfrey's service. One of them had a horn slung across his shoulder by a leather cord. Dain recognized him as the huntsman whom Lord Odfrey had ordered into the forest to recover the stag carca.s.s.

The huntsman was weeping in fear, his craggy face contorted. He limped along on a leg which oozed blood with every step, and his captors seemed to delight in shoving him faster.

When the prisoners stumbled past Dain, their fear washed over him with such force he felt stunned in their wake: DeadIdeadIdeadIdead.

With an effort, he shut their panic away and knelt there on the damp ground, still watching as the pack marched toward the clearing. He cared nothing about those men or their fate, except that no one deserved to die at the hands of the Bnen. For Thia's sake, for Jorb's, he had to try to help them. He waited for the rear scouts to straggle in, and when at last he thought it was safe, when he could hear the shouting and jubilation as camp was made, Dain followed them, pausing only to pick up the huntsman's cap which had fallen on the ground.

By the time Dain crept up to the edge of the clearing, the dwarves had chopped down three pairs of saplings and were busy stripping them of their branches. A large bonfire had been built in the center of the clearing. Five dwarves with runes painted in blood on their faces and the fronts of their tunics surrounded the fire, which was crackling and throwing sparks toward the sky. Chanting to the beat of the drums, the five circled the fire, now and then throwing something into it which made fearsome green flashes followed by puffs of white smoke.

Dain froze at the sight of wise-sayers. All the clans of the dwarves had them.

But never before had he seen five together. They were working a powerful spell. He could feel the strength of it tingling along his face and the backs of his hands.

Yet dwarf magic could not affect him seriously. He had too much eld blood in his veins. Something inside him stirred, brought to life by their incantations, yet not part of it. He frowned, keeping one eye on the wise-sayers as they chanted and marched, and the other eye on the prisoners, who knelt with their hands bound behind them.

By now the saplings were stripped of their branches, creating six long poles.

Each prisoner was jerked to his feet, then two poles were lashed to his back. Dain had never seen this before, but he believed the Bnen were about to commit kreg n 'durgm, a terrible, ritualistic torture that supported their darkest magic.

Uneasiness p.r.i.c.kled harder inside him. He stared, trying to figure out what they sought to conjure forthfrom the second world. It had to be terrible indeed, if they were creating such a potent spell to control it.

Whatever it might be, he had no desire to witness it.

Dain felt the temptation to turn aside and flee from this evil, but he did not. His heart stirred with pity for the prisoners, who had stopped pleading for mercy now and stood silent, their eyes huge with fear. But more than pity, he felt anger, felt it growing to a terrible heat that burned his core and spread along his limbs. His heart pounded hard with it, and his breathing deepened and grew harsh in his throat.

How dare they desecrate Thia's burial place with their dark spells. It was not enough to shoot her down as she ran defenseless from her burning home, but now they would defile her burial place with their tainted works. His anger burned hotter, and Dain gripped the branches of the bush before him so hard the twigs cut into his palms. He noticed no discomfort, however. From his heart a summons was cast forth, a summons such as he had never created before. He hardly knew what he was about; he knew only that this must be stopped.

ComeIcomeIcomeIcome!

His mind spread through the forest, gathering all that was living and calling it to him.

The birds responded first-large, black keebacks and tiny brown sparouns, the blue-gray rackens, and the fierce, crested tiftiks. Circling and swooping from the sky, they flew above the clearing, avoiding the billows of white smoke. Ever more of them converged, crowding the sky overhead, shrieking and cawing and chirping and trilling until the noise was almost deafening. The drumbeat faltered, and the wise-sayers paused in their incantation to stare upward.

"It comes!" one of them said. "It is a sign. We are heard." The birds descended to the treetops, jostling and crowding each other for perches, some of them beating each other with their wings and pecking viciously. And still more birds flew in.

"This portent is not of our working," another wise-sayer said. "Oglan! Set a watch. You, Targ, keep the beat going."

The drumbeat resumed, pounding beneath the squawking noise of the birds, but it was not as steady a beat as it had been before.

More birds came, darkening the sky overhead and filling the trees with a rustling, jostling, fluttering cacophony.

Dain closed his eyes, filling himself with his anger, letting it burn forth in his summons, which spread ever wider: ComeIcomeIcomeIcome. "Look!" someone shouted.

And now a vixlet darted across the clearing, her russet fur and banded brush glinting in the firelight. She ran straight toward the bonfire, then stopped just short of it and glanced around. Her dark mask of fur banded her narrow face, and she parted her jaws to reveal long rows of sharp, gleaming teeth. Then she darted away.

Mice scurried out from under leaves, running here and there. Hares appeared, and stags and more vixlets, some mated and running in pairs. Rats came, red-eyed and dangerous, their long whiskers quivering as they sat up on their hindquarters and tested the wind. A muted cough warned of the arrival of a tawny canar, muscles rippling beneath its hide, its sinuous neck turning from side to side as it baredits long fangs and snarled.

Crying out, the dwarves fell back from it, abandoning their prisoners, who began to wail their prayers aloud in terrified voices.

The canar, crouching, came running the rest of the way into the clearing, and the smaller animals that were normally its prey scattered. It moved like silk, its long, lithe body tightly wound and ready to pounce. Snarling, it approached the bonfire, sending the wise-sayers backing away, but it did not go too near the blaze.

A roar on the opposite side of the clearing sent the stag leaping into the air, and the smaller animals darted here and there in fresh panic. A beyar, ma.s.sive and old, gray hairs glinting in its s.h.a.ggy black pelt, shuffled into sight. It reared up on its hind legs, ma.s.sive paws swatting at the air, and roared again. The canar squalled a challenge, and the two master predators of the forest glared at each other across the clearing.

Murmuring, the dwarves cl.u.s.tered to one side, shaking their heads and looking alarmed. As fierce as the Bnen were, even they did not want to be caught in the middle of this battle.

In the distance, wolves set up a chorus, their eerie cries echoing far through the trees. The canar and beyar ignored them, but the other animals shifted uneasily. A vixlet pounced on a hare, killing it with a swift snap of her jaws. The scent of blood filled the air, and the stag broke loose of Dain's control and bounded wildly across the center of the clearing. The canar, unable to resist such prey, swung about to leap at the stag's shoulder. The animal, caught in mid-bound, bleated and fell heavily, the canar atop its back. Then, with a roar, the beyar charged, knocking the canar off the stag and sending it rolling into the edge of the fire.

The canar screamed with pain, and the scent of burning fur overwhelmed the scent of blood. Squalling and twisting frantically, the canar rolled itself out of the fire and jumped up, singed and furious, to join battle with the beyar. The dwarves scattered in all directions, while the wise-sayers shouted at them to come back.

Four of the wise-sayers shouted and argued with each other, but the fifth, the tallest of them, with a long, gray beard and eyes as yellow as the canar's, stood apart, silent as he quested the air with his senses. "It is the shapeshifters!" shouted one of the other wise-sayers, dodging as the battle came in his direction.

"They have come to us like this-" "No," said the bearded one. He dropped his gaze from the skies above and began to look hard at the forest around him. "We have not reached the dark ones. This is magic not of ours. Someone interferes with us."

As he spoke, he reached into a pouch tied at his belt and drew forth what looked like a black stone, except that it smoked in his hand and seemed on the verge of bursting into flames.

He hurled it straight at the bush which concealed Dain, and struck him hard on the shoulder.

The pain of it broke Dain's concentration, and his mastery over the animals fell. They ran in all directions, heedless of the battle between beyar and canar. Some leaped over the dead stag; others bounded back and forth in wild zigzags, the chaos so complete and unbridled the wise-sayers were forced to flee into the forest with the other dwarves.

Knowing this was his chance, Dain ran into the clearing. A vixlet darted between his legs, tripping him.

He staggered to keep his balance, and dodged the rats scuttling purposefully toward the food abandonedalong with the other loot. Something bit him, and Dain swore and jumped aside. A few more strides and he reached the prisoners. Picking up a dagger someone had dropped, he sliced through their bonds, ignoring their cries and pleas for deliverance.

"Quiet," he said, cutting the last of the cords. "Run that way. Run for your lives. Go!"

Pointing, he slapped their shoulders, and they set off in as great a panic as the animals. Above them, the birds rose up in a terrible flock, filling the air with the sound of beating wings. Dain ran too, hearing someone shout behind him and knowing they had only scant moments to reach whatever cover they could find beyond the clearing. In minutes, the dwarves would come after them. Dain knew he could outrun them. But the prisoners were stumbling and blundering along, wasting precious moments glancing back.

"Run!" he called to them. "Run!"

The huntsman cried out and fell. Dain went back to pull him upright. The man's face was the color of a grub. He swayed, and the others grabbed his arms and helped him forward.

Dain started to follow, but something snagged him from behind and pulled him back.

At first he believed he'd been gripped by the back of his tunic. Shouting, he twisted around to strike with the dagger he'd picked up, but there was nothing there.

Astonished, he barely had time to realize this before his arms slammed down against his sides and froze there. He struggled with all his might, trying to break free against his invisible bonds, but his feet were yanked out from beneath him. He fell heavily on his side, and grunted at the impact. In the distance, he saw the bearded wise-sayer pointing at him, shouting some kind of spell in the dwarf tongue.

Dain stopped his struggles at once, knowing that physical resistance only strengthened the spell. Dwarf magic rarely worked on those of eldin blood. Dain's arms and feet were bound with an invisible rope of power, but it could not hold him for long. He saw the pack of dwarves running toward him, and knew he had only moments to avoid capture.

"Fire!" he said aloud, gathering the energy in his mind. He envisioned tongues of flame burning through the rope of power, and seconds later the spell was broken.

Dain scrambled upright and fled.

Half of the dwarves veered to follow him; the rest continued in pursuit of the Mandrians.

With the huntsman's wounded leg hampering them, the men could not hope to outrun their pursuers.

Dain ducked into a heavy stand of harlberries, taking care to crush some of the purplish-green stems. A pungent, unpleasant scent rose into the air. Dain smeared some of the pale sap up and down his arms and across the front of his tunic. The scent would mask his own.

Ducking low, he scuttled behind a log, paused a moment, then doubled back, eluding his pursuers. As fast as he could, he headed after the Mandrians. They were making too much noise. Even a blind dwarf could follow them without trouble. Their scent hung in the air, mingled with fear and fresh blood. Dain angled to one side of the dwarf pack, well under cover, but as fleet-footed as a young stag. He leaped over a fallen log, ducked beneath a low-hanging vine of muscaug with leaves like burnished copper, and tackled the fleeing men from the side. He knocked them bodily into a gully that cut beneath a stand of shtac, sending them tumbling with m.u.f.fled grunts and little cries of pain. Breathless and winded, they all landed in the bottom among drifts of fallen leaves. Dain sat up first, his ears alert for any indication that they'd been seen. No outcry rose up, but the dwarves were still coming, tracking by scent. Jerking his tattered sleeve free of the briars which snagged it, Dain clutched one man's arm and clapped a dirty hand across another's mouth before they could speak.

"Hush. Hush!" he whispered fiercely, glaring at each of them in turn. The huntsman lay facedown in the leaves, not moving. Dain gripped his arm and felt the life still coursing through him. "Make no sound," he said softly. "As you value your lives, do exactly as I say."

Big-eyed and afraid, they stared at him.

He listened again, his senses filtering all sounds and movement beyond their poor hiding place. There was little time. He could think of only one thing to do, and he wasn't sure it would work. His sister had been the spellcaster, not he.

But he was determined to try.

"Pay heed," he said to them, struggling to find the Mandrian words he wanted. "I will hide you and go for help, but you must not move. You must not speak." "G.o.ds above," one of the men said, the words bursting from him as though he could dam them no longer. "We can't hide here. They're almost upon us."

His companion tried to struggle to his feet, but Dain pulled him down. "Listen!" he said fiercely. "I am eld. I can help you, but only if you work with me. No matter how close they come, they will not see you if you do not move and do not speak. Swear you will do this, and I will help you."

The two men, streaked with mud and dried blood, their hair in tangles, their eyes wide and desperate, exchanged a look, then nodded. Dain pointed at the unconscious huntsman. "Keep him quiet too."

"Done," said one of the men. "But hurry."

Dain drew his bard crystal pendant from beneath his tunic and held it up. It swung on its cord, glittering with inner fire. Dain forced himself to forget how time was running out, how close the dwarves were. He concentrated all his thought and being on trees, ivy-wreathed trees. He thought of their st.u.r.dy trunks, their strong bark, their outstretched branches. He thought of their crowns of gold and russet leaves, their deep roots that secured them to the soil. He thought of the shelter they gave to living things. He thought of how they reached tall to the sky, how they swayed in the wind but did not break, how they cast shade in the heat of summer and rattled bare-limbed in the cruel storms of winter.

Still swinging the bard crystal back and forth so that it began to vibrate with melody, Dain listened to the circulation of sap within the trees around him, listened to the steady rustle of their leaves, listened to the digging and searching of their roots within the ground. He opened his mouth and sang, low and soft, the song of trees.

Somber and muted, the notes of his song filled the gully. The men beside him remained still as he had instructed. Dain opened his eyes and saw them no longer. Instead, two saplings grew in the bottom of this shallow gully, with a fallen log beside them.

Dain lowered his bard crystal and tucked it back beneath his clothing. He sang a few more notes to finish the spell, and felt pleased with his results. "Stay until I return with help," he whispered. "You aresafe here." One of the saplings shuddered and seemed to bend toward him. The image shivered, and Dain saw the man within the spell again.

"Do not move!" he ordered.

The man froze, and the image of the spell became again a young tree. Dain glared at them. "The spell is weak. Do not destroy it."

They made him no answer, but he could feel their fear and desperation. "I will come back," he promised.

There was no more time to give them additional rea.s.surances. The dwarves had arrived.

Dain swore under his breath and ducked beneath a bush, knowing he should have already fled.

The dwarves tramped past the gully, grumbling to each other in vile humor.

"Gonna rip off their heads," one muttered.

"Stab 'em. Stab their guts," said another.

"Make 'em scream long and hard this time. Went too easy on 'em before." Dain kept his head down while they went by, barely letting himself breathe and trusting that his clothing would blend into the colors of the perlimon bushes and the shtac. The briars choked the rest of the gully, giving him no place of egress except straight up the side.

He waited until the dwarves were gone. Ever mindful of scouts trailing well behind, he waited longer.

Then, cautiously, he emerged from his hiding place and slapped the leaves and bits of bark from the back of his neck. "Stay still," he warned the Mandrians one last time, and left them. By the time Dain reached the river, he was panting hard and his legs burned with fatigue. He had stopped only twice to catch his wind. His mouth was drawn with thirst, and despite the cold he was sweating.

Leaving the cover of the forest made him uneasy. He had to force himself to venture out into the open.

The road made him suspicious. It was too broad, too open, too exposed. He wondered why such flat, smooth stones had been laid to create its surface, yet as soon as he stepped foot on it he understood.

Walking on it was wondrous easy. He had no mud to drag his feet, no ruts to stumble over. When the road curved up onto the top of the levee that held back the marsh, Dain could see far in all directions.

Smoke, too much of it, and too dark for common cook fires, rose above the treetops on the other side of the river. Dain suspected the raided villages must be there. Bells were ringing, at least three of them, from three separate directions, tolling a warning across the land.

Ahead of him loomed the stone bulwarks of the bridge that spanned the river. A gatehouse blocked the road, and the armed guards there watched Dain's approach. He hesitated, unsure that they would let a pagan such as himself cross into their land. It was certain the Bnen dwarves had not used this road, but he did not have time to hunt a ford across the river.

Stopping, Dain dared not venture into arrow range. He veered off the road and slid down the levee's steep bank to the water's edge. The gray water swept past him, swift and deep.

"You there!" called a stern voice from above. Dain looked up and saw one of the guards peering down at him from the wall of the bridge.

"Get away!" the guard yelled at him.

Dain ignored him, and returned his attention to the river.

In the next instant an arrow whizzed past him, close enough to be a warning.

Dain stumbled to one side, his heart knocking his ribs.

"Get away!" he was told. "Get back where you belong."

"Aye!" called another. "The souls of our dead are not for the likes of you."

"I'm no soultaker!" Dain shouted back.

He saw one of the guards nock another arrow to his bowstring. Dain backed away hastily, but before the man could shoot, hoofbeats thundered and echoed across the water.

Squinting westward, Dain saw an army of riders crossing the bridge. They rode two abreast. Their war chargers were shod with iron, and sparks flew off the paving stones of the road as they came. The men were clad in hauberks and steel helmets. Most were armed with broadswords, spears, and war axes.

Pennants flew in long streamers of color, and a horn blared stridently. The guards ran to open the gates for Lord Odfrey's army. Clearly they were riding forth to deal retaliation for the Bnen attack. Dain ran up the bank to the road and reached the top just as the wooden gates across the bridge were flung wide and the army cantered through.

The figure at the head of this column wore a shining helmet and breastplate. With his visor down, his face could not be seen, but his surcoat was dark green with a yellow crest of rearing stags, and his cloak was chevroned in strips of dark and pale fur. Lord Odfrey himself rode this day, his figure grim and erect in the saddle, his broadsword hanging at his side.

Dain ran onto the road in front of him. Lifting his arms, he shouted, "Stop! In the name of mercy, Lord Odfrey, stop!"

The chevard drew rein, but even as he slowed, lifting his arm in a signal to the riders behind him, another knight spurred his mount forward, straight at Dain. This man was not as large as Lord Odfrey. He wore a simple hauberk beneath his surcoat of green. A crest of crossed axes adorned the front of it, and his cloak was made of dark, serviceable wool.

Disbelieving that this man would ride him down, much less attack, Dain held his ground as the charger, wearing its head plate and armored saddlecloth, galloped straight at him. When the man drew his sword and shouted an oath in Mandrian, Dain realized he was serious.

At the last second, Dain dodged, but he was too late. The knight protector swatted him with the flat side of his broadsword and knocked him head over heels down the bank of the levee. Unable to stop his impetus, Dain tumbled over and over until he landed with a splash in the marsh water. The icy shock of the water brought him upright, dripping and sputtering. "Lord Odfrey!" he shouted.