It took another few orbits of marching before the Blacksaddle finally loomed into view. The mountain looked almost exactly like the model that Opatja had irreverently fashioned from cheese, except its sides were pitch-black.

Sunlight glistened on the deep gulleys running vertically down the mountain's sheer flanks. The forbidding rock jutted out of the landscape like an abandoned boulder and was surrounded by a murky forest of conifers. The trees looked small and fragile by comparison, although the smallest among them was fifty paces high.

In times gone by, it must have been a proper mountain with a summit towering miles above the ground. Perhaps the gods snapped it off as a punishment and left the base like a tree stump in the soil.

There was something vaguely sinister about the mountain. Tungdil couldn't define it exactly, but he knew he would never have gone there by choice. He could only assume that Gorйn prized his solitude more than most.

Brushing aside these misgivings, Tungdil hefted his bags and continued along the gravel road that wound past the forest half a mile to the east. He kept looking for a path or a gap in the trees, but at sundown he was back where he had started and none the wiser for it all.

What a strange forest. Tomorrow I'll have to cut my way through the undergrowth if the trees won't let me pass. He could feel the tiredness in his limbs, so he set up camp by the roadside and lit a fire, keeping a watchful eye on the forest for predators.

Soon afterward he was joined by two peddlers who seemed thoroughly relieved not to be spending the night on their own. They stopped their covered wagons by his fire and unhitched their mules. Their consignment of pots and pans rattled and jangled louder than a battalion of armed men.

"Is there room at the fire?" asked the first, introducing himself and his companion. Hоl and Kerolus were everything Tungdil expected of the human male: tall and unshaven with long hair, plain apparel, and needlessly loud voices. They laughed, joked, and passed the bottle of brandy back and forth, but their jollity seemed forced.

"I don't mean to be nosy," said Tungdil, "but you seem a little on edge."

Hоl stopped laughing abruptly. "You're observant, groundling."

"Dwarf. I'm a dwarf."

"A dwarf. I see. I didn't know there was a difference."

"There isn't; but the proper term is dwarf. Just as you prefer to be called humans and not grasslings or beanpoles."

Hоl grinned. "My mistake."

"We're afraid of the mountain and of the creatures in the woods," said Kerolus. "That's the truth of the matter. We wouldn't normally stop here, but our poor old nags are beat." He broke four eggs into a frying pan and invited Hоl and the dwarf to share in his meal.

"So what's wrong with the mountain?" asked Tungdil, dipping a crust into the egg yolk.

Kerolus looked at him incredulously. "I thought every groundling, er, dwarf, knew about the Blacksaddle. Very well, I shall tell you the story of the mount that lost its peak…"

Hоl settled down by the fire and his companion began his tale. Many cycles ago there was a mountain called Cloudpiercer, whose summit towered high into the sky. Taller and prouder than any other peak in Girdlegard, it was tipped with snow throughout the seasons and its loftiest pitches were made of pure gold.

Everyone could see the mountain's riches, but no one could reach them. The golden crown rested on impossibly sheer and unyielding slopes and the glare from the snow and the precious metal blinded any who looked at the summit for too long.

But the people's desire for the gold was overwhelming and they summoned the dwarves to their aid.

A delegation came to Gauragar to examine the golden mountain and set about it with pickaxes, chisels, and spades.

Owing to the superior quality of their tools, they succeeded in burrowing their way into the mountain and digging a tunnel to the top. They hollowed out the mountain and carried away its treasures without being dazzled by the gold.

Of course, the people of Gauragar were furious and demanded to be given a portion of the trove. While the men and dwarves were quarreling, the mountain came to life, quaking with fury and bent on shaking the plunderers from its core. By then, of course, its flesh was riddled with shafts and tunnels, and the tip of the mountain fell in on itself, crushing the looters beneath its weight.

And now you know the story of how Cloudpiercer lost its summit and its glory.

Since then the denuded mountain has simmered with murderous hatred, its treacherous slopes darkening with malice as it plots its revenge against the races of men and dwarves.

The fire crackled loudly. Kerolus threw on another log to keep the flames going and drive out the darkness.

I knew there was something sinister about it, thought Tungdil. He wondered what it said about Gorйn's character that he had chosen to make his home there: It seemed a strange place to live.

"Folk say that wayfarers who venture into the woods are set upon by monsters," the peddler added. "The mountain lures the creatures to it with the promise of easy prey. Sometimes hunger drives them out of the forest and into the towns. They eat anything, man or beast." He shuddered.

"Well, it's good to have company," Tungdil said sincerely, steeling himself for the next morning's march among the trees. At least he had his ax for protection. "Wait till you hear my story."

He started to tell of his recent experiences, of his night in Goodwater and the meeting between the дlfar and the orcs, but his account tailed off when he came to describing the destruction of the settlement. The memories were still too fresh.

Retreating into silence, he tried to get some sleep, but the trees had set themselves against him, creaking and groaning as soon as he closed his eyes. The forest seemed to take pleasure in keeping him awake.

Hоl and Kerolus were oblivious to the noise. Belatedly, it dawned on Tungdil why the men had partaken so freely of the brandy: Their senses had been dulled so completely that nothing could rouse them from their sleep. The task of watching over the camp and their lives was left to the unfortunate Tungdil.

With the coming of dawn, the rustling in the forest finally subsided and the peddlers packed their wagons, wished the dwarf a safe journey, and rode away, refreshed and alert. Tungdil hadn't slept a wink.

He gazed glumly at the forest, peering into the murk. Fretting wasn't going to get him anywhere and he had to press on. Gorйn lived in the Blacksaddle, probably in the ruins of the dwarven tunnels, if Kerolus's story was to be believed.

Monsters or no monsters, I'm coming through. He gripped his ax with both hands and stepped among the trees. At once his whole being was assailed by malice and spite: There was no mistaking the mountain's displeasure at his approach.

Tungdil walked on regardless, intent on delivering the artifacts to Gorйn so he could return to the comfort of Lot-Ionan's vaults. The sooner he accomplished his errand, the sooner he would be home. Who knows, maybe the secondlings have replied to the letter already, he thought brightly.

At length his obstinacy and determination paid off and he reached the foot of the mountain with the forest behind him and not a monster in sight. Maybe the beasts attacked only after nightfall; in any event, he had made it unscathed.

The sheer sides of the Blacksaddle towered above him, steep, dark, and unmistakably hostile. For a moment he was tempted to run away.

Even as he stood there, a volley of rocks sped toward him and he dove for cover just in time, the final boulder missing him by the span of a hand. Each one of the rocks had been big enough to kill him, but he refused to be daunted. He had to find Gorйn.

Tungdil circled the base of the mountain without discovering any indication of a dwelling or path. He took to calling the wizard's name in the hope that he would hear him but was met with no response.