He recovered his balance, but continued the stumbling movement to scoop up a handful of broken masonry.

Straightening, he cast the pieces at the other's head, danced to the right and thrust. He attempted to twist the blade as it entered the man's left side but found that he was unable to withdraw it.

The man pushed him away and swung his own blade. Mouseglove darted out of range, snatched up another piece of masonry, hurled it and missed. The man moved toward him, the dagger protruding from his side, his blade still raised, his face expressionless. Mouseglove could not tell how much strength remained with him. Another rush, perhaps... ? It would be too risky to turn his back on him now, or attempt to dart by--and he still effectively barred his way to the door. He considered simply attempting to avoid him until the injury took its toll. The man had not raised an outcry, and Mouseglove was still determined not to use the pistol unless all else failed or an alarm was given.

The other seemed to smile, tight-lipped, as he came toward him, and Mouseglove realized that he was being backed toward an outhouse-sized slab of roofing material.

"I will live," the dwarf said. "I will recover from this. But you--"

He rushed, blade raised high, careless of any openings now.

Mouseglove gripped the heavy grenade belt which hung from his shoulders, dropped low and swung it with all of his strength toward the other's legs.

The man toppled and Mouseglove moved. He did not spring, because the other had managed to raise his blade. But he seized the extended wrist and threw his weight upon it, covering the fallen man with his own body, pushing downward. With his other hand he caught hold of the other half of the blade and twisted, so that the cutting edge was turned.

As he leaned, pushing it toward the other's throat, the man's left hand clawed upward toward his face. He ducked his head and drew back; as he did this, he felt the other's legs locking about him. They tightened almost immediately, achieving a painful pressure. As this occurred, the left hand assailed his face again, fingers raking toward his eyes.

He removed his right hand from the blade and raised it to fend off the attacking hand. As he did so, the right hand began to move upward against his pressure, the blade slowly turning. The other's legs continued to tighten until he felt that his pelvis would surely crack. Now, slowly, teeth clenched, the man began to raise his wide shoulders from the ground.

Mouseglove dropped his defending right arm and drove the elbow down and back against the haft of his blade which protruded from the other's side.

The man shuddered and fell back, the grip of his legs loosening. Mouseglove repeated the blow and a moan escaped the man's lips.

Then Mouseglove's right hand was upon the other's blade again, as he dragged himself free and threw his weight forward. The blade sank rapidly, its cutting edge touching the other's windpipe and continuing downward.

As the blood spurted, he dragged the weapon across the throat and still held tightly to it, afraid to let go until long after a series of spasms had shaken the man, to be followed by a stillness, despite the fact that his hands, arms and shirtfront were spattered and in places soaked by the other's blood.

He wrenched the blade away then and cast it aside. He rose, and placing his foot upon the body, drew his dagger from it and wiped it upon the man's garments. He sheathed it, picked up the grenade belt and slung it over his shoulder, drew his pistol again and departed the wrecked building.

Nothing barred his way as he headed for the crater, and he began feeling that his assailant had been a solitary survivor, half-crazed perhaps, scratching out a living and leading a reclusive life among the remains of the previous year's debacle. But then he began hearing noises--a falling stone, a metallic creaking, a scratching, a shuffling sound--any one of which might, by itself, be taken as the action of settling, or wind, or rodents. Together, however, and coming upon the heels of his struggle, they acquired a more sinister aspect.

Mouseglove hurried, and the sounds seemed to follow him. He scrutinized every bit of cover as he went, but detected no one--nothing--of a threatening nature. The sounds, however, increased in frequency behind him.

He was running, however, by the time he reached the base of the cone, and he commenced climbing immediately, not even looking back. And though he scanned the rim of the crater, there was no sign of Moonbird at the top.

As he climbed, he heard the footfalls below, behind him. A backward glance took in six or eight of the small people, emerging from the ruins, running after him now. While they bore clubs, spears and blades, he was slightly relieved to see that none of Mark's advanced weapons appeared to have survived for their use. Several of them, he noted, wore bits of machined metal, like amulets, about their necks. At that moment, he wondered how much they had really understood of the technology into and out of which they had been so quickly propelled. The speculation was only a fleeting thing, however, accompanied as it was by the acknowledgement that primitive weapons render one just as dead as the more sophisticated variety.

Climbing, he wondered then concerning the ghostly bond which permitted him to communicate with Moonbird. Their proximity and spell-involvement in the caves of Rondoval during the two decades of the spell's effect had worked that linkage. He had never communicated with the dragon except at close range, though it occurred to him that now only a thin layer of rock might be all that separated them.

Moonbird! Do you hear me? he cried out in his mind.

Yes, came a distant-seeming reply.

Where are you?

Climbing. Still climbing.

I'm in trouble.

What kind of trouble?

I'm being pursued, Mouseglove told him, by those people who worked for Mark.

How many?

Six. Eight. Maybe more.

How unfortunate.

There is nothing that you can do?

Not from here.

What shall I do?

Climb fast.

Mouseglove cursed and looked back. All of his pursuers were nearing the cone's base--and one heavily muscled man was drawing back his spear for a cast. Mouseglove drew his pistol and fired it at him. He missed, but apparently spoiled the other's aim. The spear flew wide, clattering against the cone far off to his right.

He fired again, and this time the nearest of his pursuers dropped his club and clutched at his right shoulder.

What was that?

I had to shoot at a couple, Mouseglove replied, remaining low, continuing up the slope.

Did you find what you sought?

Yes. I have explosives. But my pursuers are too scattered to make them an effective weapon.

But you can use them from a distance?

Yes.

When you reach the top throw them down to the place you dug.

How far up are you?

That is not important.

They make quite a blast.

It should be amusing. Not worry.

Mouseglove looked back again. Three of his pursuers had reached the base of the cone and were beginning to climb. Halting, he took careful aim and fired at the foremost. The man fell.

He did not pause to assess the effect of this upon the others, but turned and put his full strength into his ascent. He was nearing the top now. His pursuers were strong and agile, but so was he. He also weighed less and was fester, so he had managed to acquire a good lead.

Finally, he reached the rim and mounted it, passing over its lip immediately, for cover. Only then did he look down. He made a soft noise at the back of his throat.

Moonbird, dragging his ponderous bulk slowly up the steep wall, had only succeeded in climbing about a quarter of the distance to the top.

I can't throw these things, he told the dragon. You're too near.