"Because of what we have learned about you." Des-paxas shrugged. "You are the direct descendant of Colin Stonetooth, who brought the dwarven thanes together when no one else could. You are also descended from Damon Omenborn, who was foretold to be the father of kings. You are kin of Cale Greeneye, and descendant of Willen Ironmaul, who led armies. You are the son of King Hal-Thwait of Thorbardin…"

"His name was Harl Thrustweight, and he was never king!" Derkin said angrily. "Thorbardin has no king!"

"Oh, we know that," the elf assured him. "But it is a useful fiction for the outside world to believe. But you, Derkin Winterseed, you have the blood and the soul of mighty leaders, and those around you recognize that, whether they realize it or not. The slaves of Klanath will follow you. Some of them had decided to follow you already, even if you didn't want them to."

"This whole thing is preposterous!" Derkin growled. He glared at Calan Silvertoe. "You yourself told me that the slaves could not escape from the pits en masse. You said such a thing would never work."

"Not an escape from inside." The old dwarf shrugged. "But an assault from outside, that's another thing."

"An assault? By the three of us, I suppose? It would take hundreds of fighters just to get in, not to mention getting out again."

Calan shrugged again, stepped to the south ledge of the pinnacle, and pointed downward. "There are hundreds of dwarves down there, Derkin. And not nearly so many humans to contend with as across the pass at Klanath."

Again Derkin stared at the two of them, first one and then the other, the one-armed old Daewar and the lithe, hooded elf.

"First mold an army, then lead it," Despaxas coaxed. "There is a great deal of difference between a mob of unruly dwarves-escaped slaves or whatever-and a dwarven army. Your Hylar ancestors proved that very well, in a time my mother remembers."

Derkin stepped directly in front of the elf and reached up-the elf was nearly a foot taller than he was-to fling back the shadowing cowl. "What's in this for you?" he demanded. "Skip the part about Kith-Kanan and Eloeth. You're no dwarf, and neither are they. Why do elves care about the dwarven lands?"

Despaxas gazed at him with level eyes. "A fair question," he said. "Lord Kane and his mine claimers are your problem, not ours. But the emperor, whom Lord Kane serves, has vast ambitions. Already he is moving forces onto the plains east of here, and beyond those plains lie elven lands. There will be war between the humans of Ergoth and the elves of Silvanesti, Derkin. It cannot be avoided. It will come, very soon. And it will be a long, hard war."

"It isn't our war," Derkin pointed out.

"In a way, it is," the elf told him. "The emperor will use Klanath as a base to equip and reinforce his human hordes against the elves, and we may be conquered because of it. Then Lord Kane's reward from the human emperor will be the dwarven lands."

"I see," Derkin breathed. "So to disrupt the humans' supply lines, you plan a backfire here, using a dwarven army for your purposes."

"For your purposes," Despaxas said. "Which will serve ours as well."

"Devious," Derkin sneered. "Devious, but… well, maybe it makes sense, after a fashion."

'Thank you," the elf said. "My mother will be pleased that you approve."

"Approving is one thing," old Calan snorted. "Agreeing is something else. Do you agree to go along with this, Derkin?"

"I don't know," the Hylar said slowly. "What would I have to do first?"

"Get into the dwarven mines down there, organize the dwarves, get rid of the humans-there is only one foot company and a dozen or so slave tenders-then train the dwarves as an assault force and march on Klanath."

"Oh, is that all?" Derkin's chuckle was cold and ironic. "And exactly how do I do all that?"

"That's up to you," the old dwarf said. "You're the leader."

"And while all this is going on, what's happening at Klanath?"

Despaxas pulled up his cowl again, covering his head. "A diversion has been arranged there," he said emphatically. "It should keep everyone occupied for a time."

Dawn's light had not yet touched the soft-ore pits of Klanath when the husky, broad-shouldered slave named Tap Tolec came awake to the tug of a hand at his shoulder. It was nearly pitch-dark in the great, reeking cell, but he knew the whisper at his ear. It was the Daergar, Vin the Shadow. Tap groaned and turned his head, trying to see. "Vin?" he muttered. "Is that you? Let go. I'm awake. What's the matter?"

"Look at this," Vin whispered. He sounded urgent, excited.

"Look at what?" Tap grumped. "My eyes aren't like yours. I have to have a little light to see."

Impatiently, Vin grabbed the Theiwar's hand and thrust something into it. Even in the dark, Tap recognized the heft of a stout hammer. He sat up, exploring the tool with his fingers. "You got it!" he whispered. "How did you manage that?"

"I didn't manage," Vin said. "I just woke up and… well, see for yourself!"

Vin scuttled away from him, and Tap heard sounds like someone rummaging through a tool trove. Around them, other dwarves stirred and began to awaken. Nearby, someone-obviously another Daergar miner-muttered, "Wow! Look at that!"

"What?" someone else whispered. ''What do you see?"

Then there was a quick series of rasping noises, accompanied by tiny flashes of dim light. Tinder glowed in a leathery palm, was breathed aflame, and those nearby saw Vin the Shadow raising a freshly lit candle. "There," he said. "Now you can see. Look!"

Tap stared, his eyes going wide. All around him, other dwarven slaves rubbed sleepy eyes and gawked at what Vin indicated. On the floor of the cell, in a random cluster as though someone had just dumped it there, was a large pile of implements, and more and more gasps sounded as more and more slaves realized what they were seeing. Hammers and axes were there, steel-tipped javelins and gleaming swords, maces and daggers, goblin-fashioned crossbows with bales of deadly bolts, even a few elven-style bows of lacquered lemonwood and sheaths of fletched arrows. The candle's light danced on myriad deadly shapes and surfaces.

Behind the piled weapons, shadowed by the stack, were bits of armor of numerous kinds and designs, shields and chest-plates, various kinds of helmets, leather-slung caplets and braces-it looked as though someone had foraged hurriedly through a used-armor bazaar and picked up a little of everything. And farther back in the shadowed recess were bales and kegs. Vin gazed at these, and his large eyes went narrow. "See the markings there," he said. "Those come from the mine master's stores."

Vin's attention was on something else, though. Just in front of the pile of weapons, a small, shallow bowl of dark wood rested on the stone floor. He crept closer and looked into it. In the bowl was a bit of milky liquid that seemed to glow as he stared at it, a dim, greenish light. "What's…" he began, then flinched as a voice came from the bowl-a quiet, musical voice.

"Arm yourselves," the milky liquid said. "Barricade the grating and fortify the cell. Break your chains and defend your gate at all costs. Arm yourselves and hold the cell… hold the cell____________________"

A thick-bearded dwarf peered into the bowl skeptically. He stirred the liquid, to no apparent effect. "That's crazy," he growled. "We can't hold out here, in this cell."

Nearby, a gnarled dwarf with deep scars on his back and only one eye hoisted a sword and picked up a shield. 'To blazes with talking bowls," he rasped. "Let's get these chains off and go kill some slavers."

A low thunder of approval began, then subsided quickly as they realized that their voices could carry to the guards outside.

"First things first," a burly slave rasped quietly. "Some of us can watch the gate, while the rest get free of their chains. Then when we're ready, we can…"