“We see who her favorite is, yes?” the old man said grumpily. His nose had stopped bleeding, but he had fresh gouges on his shins.

“Maybe it's your beard,” Riverwind said. “These elves don't seem to favor facial hair.”

“Barbarians,” the old man muttered.

The dead air of the corridor freshened. A definite breeze, warm and scented with a smoky tang, washed Riverwind's face. The blue globes were more numerous, and the men could see that they had descended below the strata of basalt into a more mixed realm. Crystals glinted in the walls, and streaks of red and purple stone showed in the worn floor. There were signs of water, too; ruts eroded along the right side of the passage emitted a moldy odor.

After one more sharp turn to the right, the tunnel ended. The gloom of the close passage gave way to brighter air. Riverwind straightened his back and stopped walking. The girl tugged vainly on his chain. He would not budge. He was taking in a sight of great wonder.

“Catchflea” was all he could say. The old man stood by Riverwind's shoulder, mouth agape.

They had arrived in a vast cavern, several miles long and at least a mile wide. It was a true cave, with mighty stalactites twenty feet long hanging from the roof, four hundred feet overhead. On the distant right side of the cave was a rough opening to another cavern, also filled with light.

The cave's floor was broad and flat, forested with garishly hued stalagmites. Yellow, blue-white, and orange concretions sprouted from the floor. Even more remarkable was the truly enormous number of blue globes that clustered on the conical towers of stone. Riverwind couldn't begin to count them. Many were dark, but enough were lit with their unnatural, moving light to make the cavern as bright as the Que-Shu village at twilight.

The elf leader unsnapped a catch on the neck of his helmet and removed the headgear. He had broad shoulders for his height, and these rose and fell when he sighed. The leader's hair was long and shining white, though his face gave no clue as to his age. In a conversational tone, he spoke at length to the two men. He gestured at the great cavern and sighed once more.

A path had been cut through the stalagmites. Once away from the tunnel mouth, the girl bolted free of the soldiers and ran. Two of the trailing soldiers started after her, but the leader called them back.

“I'm sorry to see her go,” Riverwind said. “Hers was the only spark of kindness I've seen in these people.”

“I hope she runs far, yes. Then they cannot hurt her,” Catchflea observed.

The breeze was stronger in the upper end of the cave. Tinkling chimes of bronze and copper hung from thin chains between the peaks of the stalagmites. Catchflea was enchanted by the sound. He wandered unconsciously toward the chimes, until the soldiers steered him back. They were less brutal this time. The cave seemed to inspire a mood Riverwind could only think of as reverence.

The acrid smell was more pronounced in the cavern. A yellowish haze hung in the air near the roof, swirling around the hanging spires. The odor reminded Riverwind of a blacksmith's forge-burning coal and hot metal.

The path broadened near the arched opening into the next cavern. The leader pointed into the new cave and said one word: “Vartoom.”

“What does he mean?” asked Riverwind.

“Vartoom,” the leader repeated. “Vartoom.”

“Sounds like a name, yes,” Catchflea said. Raising his voice, he said, “I understand; your home is Vartoom, yes?”

“Vartoom,” said the leader, then resumed his march.

Where the first cave ended and the second began there was a deep chasm, too deep to estimate. Across this gulf was a narrow bridge of stone. The leader walked quickly onto the span, though it was no wider than his own foot. He urged Riverwind to follow. “Moyun!”

The plainsman balked.

“I can't balance on a narrow track like that!” Riverwind said. “Not with my arms bound!” The leader waved and repeated the word “moyun” to him.

Catchflea looked over the edge and blanched. “Mercy!” he gasped. “We can't do it!”

“They don't understand that we'll get dizzy and fall,” Riverwind said. The soldier behind him gave him a little push. “No,” he said, planting his feet. “I'll fall.” The elf pushed harder. Riverwind snapped his head around and scowled at him. “NO!” he said more loudly. The soldier fell back to his fellows, muttering nervously. The leader kept repeating “moyun” with less and less patience.

“Take off our chains and we'll follow. You needn't bind us. There's no place for us to escape to,” Riverwind said, twisting to present his chains to the leader. The gist of his meaning seemed to penetrate the language barrier. The leader crossed back briskly and untwisted the length of wire that secured the ends of the chain. Riverwind shrugged off his bonds and rubbed some feeling back into his chafed arms. On a word from their leader, the elf soldiers drew swords while the leader freed Catchflea.

“I don't think they trust us,” the old man said.

“Moyun” said the leader.

The ramp was not only narrow, it was also glass-smooth. The soles of Riverwind's deerskin boots slipped on the treacherous surface. Catchflea essayed a few steps on the dizzy bridge, then backed off. A soldier poked him in the stomach with his sword point. Catchflea yelped and bounded away.

“Let me have my shoes off, yes?” he screeched, pointing at his feet. The elves watched impassively as he unwound the rags that held his cobbled-up bits of leather on his feet. On the bridge he proceeded more surely, gripping the cold stone with his bare toes. The soldiers, shod in metal-studded sandals, came nonchalantly after him.

Despite a few scary slips, Riverwind made it across. The leader, hands planted on hips, frowned at his awkward progress. He said something that sounded sarcastic. Riverwind was glad he didn't understand the words. The tone was insulting enough.

The ground on the other side of the bridge was carefully terraced in a series of broad, low steps. The stalagmites had been hammered off at elven shoulder height-Riverwind's waist level-and the flat stump tops decorated with delicate metal sculptures. Catchflea was intrigued, especially by the abstract ones. Coils of brass wire, silver bells, and rods of green-patinated copper, all balanced on pinpoint bases, moved gently in the wind. Catchflea put out one thin hand to touch the airy treasures.

A soldier smote him across the shoulders with the flat of his blade. Outraged, Riverwind whirled and grabbed the offender by his polished backplate and hauled him off his feet. Armor and all, the elf probably weight one hundred and fifty pounds. Riverwind hoisted him over his head and held him there. The elf howled in fear and anger. The leader brandished his sword and spoke imperious commands.

“You want him down?” Riverwind puffed. “Have him then!” He heaved the squirming bully at the remaining two soldiers. The elf landed with a crash, though his comrades were timely in their dodge.

Breathing hard from the exertion, Riverwind said to the leader, “If you want to abuse us, at least give us swords, so we can fight like men!” The head elf yelled right back at him. The debate was still raging when the elven girl returned.

All fell silent. The girl was not alone. Beside her was a rather tall elf, dressed in an ankle-length skirt of shimmering copper thread. His hair, like that of the soldiers' leader, was white. His thin, pale chest was bare, and he wore a necklace of copper tubes strung radially around his neck.

The leader of the soldiers snapped something angry at the newcomer. The skirted elf replied in soothing fashion and gestured at the girl. She shrank away from the soldier, speaking in pleading tones. Riverwind was fascinated by the interplay, even though he couldn't fathom the tongue.