The visitor shook his head. "Thank you, my friend, but the news I bring will suffer no delay. You must come to Lios Nudin at once. The Perished Land is advancing."

Lot-Ionan stopped smiling; he had not prepared himself for tidings as dire as these. "How long has it been moving?"

"Some sixty orbits. I took a trip to the border and it came to my attention." Nudin looked anxious. "Our protective girdle is no longer as strong and reliable as it was. The damage is too great for me to repair; I need the council's help. The rest of us are in Lios Nudin already; we're waiting for you…" He trailed off.

"Go on," Lot-Ionan encouraged him, although he had a sinking feeling that there was worse to come.

"It's the дlfar," explained Nudin. "They've been sighted in the south of Gauragar, many miles from Dsфn Balsur. Meanwhile, King Tilogorn is being plagued by marauding orcs. They're rampaging through Idoslane, burning down villages and laying waste to the land. He's sent his army to deal with them…" He looked grimly at his host. "It bodes ill, Lot-Ionan."

"The incursion of the Perished Land, the дlfar, the orcs-they're all connected?"

"We certainly shouldn't rule it out," he said, refusing to commit himself. "You were summoned by the magi's council. Why didn't you respond?"

"Summoned?" Lot-Ionan made no attempt to disguise his surprise. "When?"

"I have it on good authority that two of the council's best envoys were dispatched with a message: Friedegard and Vrabor are their names. I believe you know them."

"Of course I know them! But where have they got to?" Lot-Ionan was instantly concerned for the pair's well-being, especially now the дlfar were known to be abroad. "Thank goodness you decided to follow it up yourself. I'll set off as soon as I can. It shouldn't take more than a few orbits to get to Lios Nudin." Lot-Ionan expected Nudin to take his leave, but the apparition did not stir.

"Just one more thing," his guest cut in. "It's trivial compared to the other news, but all the same… Do you think you could bring my instruments with you? If you've finished with them, I'd very much like to have them back."

"Your instruments… Of course!" Many cycles ago Lot-Ionan had borrowed a number of items from Nudin on Gorйn's behalf. The loan comprised a small handheld mirror, two arm-length remnants of sigurdaisy wood, and a pair of silver-plated glass carafes with unusual etchings. After finding some reference to the items in a compendium, Gorйn had been eager to examine them more closely. Lot-Ionan could no longer recall what conclusion he had reached, but he suspected it was nothing of particular interest. The more immediate problem was locating the things. He had a sudden vision of the wrecked laboratory and hoped to goodness that Gorйn had not left the items there.

"I'll be sure to bring them," he promised.

Nudin seemed doubtful. "You do still have them, don't you?" Lot-Ionan nodded in what he hoped was a convincing fashion. "All right, well, make haste, old friend. Only the full council can save Girdlegard from the terrors to come."

Nudin's double rose to his feet, positioned himself in the middle of the room, and rapped his staff firmly against the floor. The illusion shattered in a shower of sparks. Glittering dust drizzled to the ground, disintegrating further and further until nothing was left. The interview ended as spectacularly as it had begun.

Lot-Ionan leaned back in his chair. If Toboribor's orcs have joined forces with Dsфn Balsur's дlfar, the peoples of Girdlegard are in serious danger.

He decided to combine his trip to Lios Nudin with a visit to King Tilogorn in order to pledge his support. At least half of Ionandar lay within the borders of Idoslane, so it seemed only proper to loan the monarch his magical powers in the battle against Tion's brutes. The magus rose. Time is of the essence-, Nudin was right.

He summoned his famuli and issued instructions regarding the luggage he required for the journey and the chain of command among the students while he was away. Then he removed his beloved robes and exchanged them reluctantly for his little-worn traveling garb, comprising another set of robes, also in beige, but made of more durable cloth, and a mantle of dark blue leather.

His servants were busy grooming his bay stallion, Furo. The five-hundred-mile journey to Porista would take ten orbits at most, so everything he needed could be stowed in the saddlebags.

At length Lot-Ionan clambered somewhat stiffly onto his horse. Furo snorted excitedly as the magus leaned forward, stroked its mane, and whispered some enchantment in its ear.

With a loud whinny the stallion thundered out of the underground vaults and through the gates. Once out in the open, with the path ahead and fresh air all around, it picked up speed, accelerating from a canter to a gallop. The cobbles flashed beneath its hooves, covering multiple paces with each stride. Thanks to Lot-Ionan's art, the horse could outstrip any mount in Girdlegard and it relished its speed.

And thus Furo carried his master, who was clinging on for dear life, across Ionandar and beyond. Kingdom of Gauragar, Girdlegard, Late Spring, 6234th Solar Cycle The Blacksaddle? Never heard of it!" The morning could scarcely have got off to a less auspicious start. Tungdil pushed the map to one side as the publican placed his breakfast on the table.

Particles of dust danced in the wide rays of sunshine pouring through the plate-glass windows. It came as a relief to Tungdil that he could see without peering; his eyes had adjusted to the brightness already.

None of the good people of Idoslane could tell him anything about the Blacksaddle; it was not even marked on the tavern's ancient map.

"Is there anyone in Goodwater who could help me?" he persisted. "A clerk or a magistrate or someone?"

The publican shook his head regretfully, sorry to disappoint the outsider. Tungdil spooned his breakfast halfheartedly. The porridge was decent enough, but frustration had taken the edge off his hunger.

Privately he was still hoping that the villagers were too simpleminded to be relied on. The publican struck him as the sort who had never strayed more than ten or twenty miles from home.

Annoyingly, Goodwater was not marked either, but with a bit of luck one of the mercenaries would know the area sufficiently well to pinpoint its location and send him in the right direction.

No doubt Friedegard and Vrabor would have been of some assistance, but they had long since departed. Stopping only to give the publican a few gold coins to pay for the window, they had struck out for Ionandar and taken the arrow with them.

Tungdil was similarly anxious to leave. "Vraccas be with you," he called to the publican as he slung his pack and the leather bag over his shoulder and stepped out into the street.

The sentries from the previous night had been replaced with a new set of stubbly faces, but Tungdil lost no time in inquiring about the Blacksaddle. Thankfully, the mercenaries had heard of the wretched mountain and could point to Goodwater on the map. It was getting on for midday when he left the settlement and set off down a narrow road, heading north as the sentries had advised.

"If you see any orcs, tell them where they can find their dead friends!" one of the men shouted after him, thrusting his spear at a festering skull and raising a cloud of flies.

He could still hear the soldier's laughter as he skirted the fields that he had seen in the distance from his window the night before.

Goodwater was an apt name for the place. Tungdil could picture what it would be like at harvest time: fields of corn blowing gently in the breeze, ripe apples hanging from the branches, and enough nuts for countless busy hands. Idoslane struck him as a beautiful place, with the obvious limitation that it wasn't underground. He never felt quite comfortable in the open.