Clamped to his leg and strangling his blood supply was a contraption whose purpose he knew only too well. Villagers set traps like these to catch wolves. The metal teeth had pierced his leather breeches, leaving a crust of dark red blood around the wound. His calf throbbed dully.

Tungdil did not bother to prize the trap apart but took up his ax, gritted his teeth, and set about hammering the thin pins at the heart of the spring.

Every blow to the trap was a blow to his leg and he moaned softly in pain. Trying not to flinch, he worked on the metal determinedly until the jaws fell open and the pressure was released.

With cautious movements he removed the trap, then flung it away furiously. Using the loamy wall to support himself, he stood up and placed his injured leg gently on the ground. Pain seared through his calf. Running was out of the question; hauling himself out of the pit was going to be difficult enough.

His concern for the people of Goodwater gave him the necessary strength. After tossing his knapsack out of the pit, he slung the leather pouch over his shoulder and wound his fingers around the roots protruding from the soil. Gasping, he hauled himself up and, with a final burst of energy, swung himself onto the grass, where he lay panting for air.

I'll be more careful where I put my feet in the future, he thought grimly. After a while he crawled to the edge of the wood. The fresh scent on the spring breeze was all the evidence he needed that the orcs had moved on. The field was deserted.

There could be little doubt where they had gone: Smoke was rising in the distance, gathering like a storm cloud in the sky. Tungdil scrambled up, shouldered his knapsack, and hurried off, shaking the dead leaves and mud from his hair.

Anger and loathing dulled the pain, driving him faster and faster until he realized that he was running after all. He wanted to be there with the people of Goodwater since his clumsiness had prevented him from warning them in time.

Such was his resolve that he paid no heed to the voice of reason that bade him take more care. Nothing could stop him from racing toward the settlement, spurred on by the ever-growing column of dark smoke.

That afternoon, sweat-drenched, he reached the top of the hill and looked down on the settlement.

Goodwater was ablaze. Breaches several paces across had opened in the palisades and there were two large gaps where the wooden defenses had been razed to the ground. Mutilated limbs and bodies littered the perimeter.

He soon spotted the remains of the mercenaries, heads impaled on their spears. Their unseeing eyes stared down from the watchtower as the fire raged unchecked through the settlement, reducing the houses to charred shells.

There were no cries for help, no shouted orders to fetch water or quench the blaze. All Tungdil could hear was the crackling of flames, the roar of burning wood, and the crash of collapsing roofs and walls. There was no sign of life.

Clutching his ax, Tungdil marched toward the burned-out settlement. Maybe I'll find a few survivors trapped among the ruins. He gripped his weapon a little tighter as he passed through the gates and turned onto the high street, limping as he walked.

The warm wind smelled of scorched flesh, and flames were shooting out of the houses where panes of glass had shattered in the heat. The whole settlement was on fire.

Human corpses were strewn across the streets and pavements, bodies piled up like dead vermin. Some of the women were naked, the flesh of their breasts and buttocks gouged with bite marks and scratches. There was no mistaking their particular fate.

Shuddering, Tungdil stepped over the slaughtered villagers and listened intently for the slightest sign that anyone was still alive. It was deathly quiet.

All the while the heat was intensifying. The surviving walls acted like a furnace, trapping the fire and raising the temperature dangerously. The dwarf had no choice but to leave the dying settlement.

Back on the hilltop, Tungdil sat down and made himself watch Goodwater's final moments. It's my fault. He buried his bearded chin in his hands and wept in despair. Long moments passed before the tears of anger and helplessness began to slow.

Now he could see why his kinsfolk stood guard at Girdlegard's passes: Humans were powerless to defend themselves against the brutal beasts. Tungdil looked down through his tears at the burned-out settlement. Nowhere should ever be made to look like that.

He dried his salt-streaked cheeks and wiped his hands on his cloak. His calf was throbbing so painfully that he decided to delay his departure until the following orbit. Curling up on the hillside, he pulled his cloak over him and watched the flames flicker as evening drew in.

The fire raged long into the night until there was nothing left to burn. Red glimmers illuminated the ashes and Tungdil was reminded of the shadow mares' menacing eyes. So much evil in such a short space of time, he thought sadly.

Tomorrow he would press on with his errand and deliver the pouch. Then it would be time for him to persuade Lot-Ionan to take action before the orcs and дlfar grew any more powerful. When Tungdil woke the next morning, he was forced to concede that the sacking of Goodwater was not, as he had hoped, just a dream.

Gray clouds obscured the sun and the smell of rain hung in the air. There was nothing left of the settlement besides smoking embers, rubble, and burned-out houses whose scorched girders rose starkly into the sky like blackened skeletons.

The fields and orchards were covered with a white mist that advanced over the remains of Goodwater, hiding it from view. The land was mourning the villagers, laying a shroud over the settlement that only an orbit earlier had bustled with life.

The sight was too much for Tungdil to bear, so he gathered his packs and set off. As he hobbled on his way, he tried to eat a little something from his provisions, but the bread he had bought in Goodwater stuck in his throat. There was a cloying taste of death and guilt. He stowed the loaf away.

The gashes in his calf were angry and painful. If he left the wound untreated, he ran the risk of infection or even gangrene, which could cost him his leg or, worse still, his life.

That aside, the journey passed without incident and he crossed back into Gauragar and camped that evening beneath the now-familiar oak. Its leafy canopy sheltered him from the downpour that started that night, only easing late the next morning.

By the fifth orbit the skin surrounding the crusty wound felt hot to the touch and thick yellow pus oozed from the scab. Gritting his teeth, Tungdil walked on.

There was no use waiting for help by the wayside. Instead he kept going, trailing his injured leg through the fine drizzle that was rapidly transforming the trail into a mud bath. At last he reached a small hamlet numbering six farmhouses. His forehead was burning.

A fair-haired woman in simple peasant dress, a milk pail in either hand, spotted the staggering figure. She stopped in her tracks.

Tungdil could barely make out her features; she was just a faint shadow. "Vraccas be with you," he murmured, then toppled over, landing face-first in the mud, his arms too weak to break his fall.

"Opatja!" the woman called urgently, setting down her pails. "Come quickly!"

There was the sound of hurrying footsteps; then Tungdil was rolled onto his back.

"He's feverish," said a blurry, misshapen figure, his voice echoing oddly in the dwarf's ears. Someone was examining his leg. "He doesn't look good. It's gangrenous. We'll have to move him to the barn." Tungdil felt himself hovering in midair. "He'll need an herbal infusion." "He looks funny," said a childish voice. "What is he?"

"He's a groundling," the woman answered.