The ponies that had borne them on their long journey to the secondling kingdom snorted and whinnied fractiously, trying to clear their nostrils but blocking them further with all-pervasive sand.

"There's no other way of getting there," Gandogar said apologetically. "You'll be pleased to know that the worst is behind us."

The band of thirty dwarves was in Sangpыr, a desolate human realm under Queen Umilante's rule. The landscape consisted of nothing but barren dunes and godforsaken wasteland, a vista so cheerless that the dwarves preferred to stare at the tangled manes of their ponies or the tips of their boots.

Their journey south from the Brown Range had taken them through the lush valleys and steep gorges of the mountainous state of Urgon where Lothaire reigned. From there they had ridden over the gentle plains of King Tilogorn's Idoslane, where the slightest hillock qualified as a mountain and shady forests gave way to fertile fields.

The passage through Sangpыr was the last and most grueling leg of the journey, a swathe of desert forty miles wide, lying at the foot of the mountains like a moat of fine sand. It was almost as though nature wanted to prevent the rest of Girdlegard, including the fourthlings, from reaching the range.

On occasions, the wind dropped and the veil of sand fell, allowing the mighty peaks to loom before them magically among the dunes. The dwarves felt the call of the snowcapped mountains and longed for cool air, fresh water, and the company of their kin.

Bislipur tightened the scarf around his cheeks and stroked his graying beard. "I'm no friend of magic, but if ever we needed a sorcerer it's now," he growled.

"Why?"

"He could command the wretched wind to stop."

A final gust swirled toward them; then the gales died unexpectedly. Only five miles separated the dwarves from the comb of rock that ran from east to west.

"You're not a bad sorcerer yourself," said Gandogar, breathing a sigh of relief. He had never been especially fond of the world outside his kingdom and this latest foray had persuaded him that one epic journey in a lifetime was more than enough. "What did I tell you? We're almost there."

Rising out of the gloom of the mountain's shadows were the imposing walls of Ogre's Death. The stronghold grew out of the rock, the main keep hewn into the foothills, the battlements extending down the hillside in four separate terraces that were all but impregnable.

Cut into the walls of the uppermost terrace was the stronghold's entrance, eight paces wide and ten paces high. Like an enormous mouth, thought Gandogar. It looks as though the mountain is yawning.

As the company neared the stronghold, the doors opened welcomingly. Seventeen banners fluttered loftily from the turrets, bearing the insignia of the secondling clans.

"Here at last," Gandogar said thankfully. "To think we've ridden right across Girdlegard." The other dwarves joined in his grateful laughter. They were his retinue, a heavily armed band who had escorted him throughout the long journey to the secondling kingdom. Between them they were the cream of Goпmdil's folk, skilled in ax work and craftsmanship, the best warriors and artisans from each of the twelve fourthling clans. Many a legend told of the fighting prowess of the dwarves, which explained why the party had not been troubled by a single brigand or thief. They were carrying enough gold to make an ambush more than worth the risk.

Bislipur waved his hand imperiously and his summons was instantly obeyed. A little fellow measuring just three feet in height slid from his pony awkwardly and came running through the sand. He wore a wide belt around his baggy breeches and looked oddly sinewy in appearance, despite the considerable paunch that rounded his hessian shirt. The yellowed undergarment was paired with a red jacket and his blue cap was pulled low over his face, a pointed ear protruding on either side. A silver choker encircled his neck and his buckled shoes kicked up clouds of sand as he scampered through the dunes.

He bowed at Bislipur's feet. "Sverd at your service, but not of his own accord," he said peevishly.

"Silence!" thundered Bislipur, raising his powerful fist. The gnome ducked away. "Ride on and announce our arrival. Wait for us at the gates-and don't touch anything that doesn't belong to you."

"Since I don't have a choice in the matter, I shall do as you say." The gnome bowed again and hurried to his pony. Soon he was galloping away from the dwarves in the direction of the stronghold.

Even from a distance it was obvious that Sverd was no horseman. He bounced up and down in the saddle, clinging to his cap with clawlike fingers and relying on the pony to set their course.

"He'll unman himself if he goes any faster. When are you finally going to set him free?" asked Gandogar.

"Not until he's served his penance," Bislipur answered tersely. "Let's not delay." He pressed his heels into the pony's broad flanks and the animal set off at an obedient trot.

The fourthlings knew Ogre's Death from etchings and stories, but now they were seeing it for the first time for themselves.

Hundreds of cycles had passed since the last dwarf of Goпmdil journeyed through Girdlegard to visit his kinsfolk in the south. In ancient times the dwarven folks had come together every few cycles to celebrate festivals in honor of Vraccas and thank the Smith for creating their race, but the fall of the Stone Gateway, the invasion of the orcs, ogres, and дlfar, and the annihilation of the fifthlings had put a stop to that.

"Thank Vraccas we're here," sighed Gandogar, standing up in his stirrups to give his saddle-sore bottom a brief respite.

None of the company had any instinct for riding. As true dwarves, they would never consent to making a journey on horses; the beasts were untrustworthy and the saddles could be reached only by means of a stepladder, which was far too undignified. It was bad enough riding on ponies.

Their distrust of the animals ran so deep that two of the party refused to ride altogether and were traveling in small, easily maneuverable chariots at the back of the procession.

"We'll all be glad when the journey is over," said Bislipur, spitting sand from his mouth.

The woes of their travels were partly forgotten as Ogre's Death's magnificent masonry loomed into view. Gandogar's eyes traveled over the exquisitely ornamented turrets and walls – even the outermost rampart was a work of art, graced with plinths, statues, pillars, and other embellishments. Our folk boasts the finest gem cutters and diamond polishers, but Beroпn's masons are second to none.

The gates to the first of the four terraces swung open and Gandogar's company was admitted to a courtyard. Sverd had dismounted and was standing by his pony. Bislipur signaled for him to fall in at the rear of the group.

Dwarves seldom showed their age, but the figure who came toward them had seen three hundred cycles or more. "Greetings, King Gandogar Silverbeard of Goпmdil's folk. My name is Balendilнn Onearm of the clan of the Firm Fingers and on behalf of our ruler, Gundrabur Whitecrown, high king of all dwarves, I welcome you and your company to the secondling kingdom of Beroпn's folk."

Clad in a tunic of chain mail, the stocky dwarf was carrying a battle-ax at his waist. His weapons belt was secured by a finely worked stone clasp. Marble trinkets had been braided into his graying beard and a long plait dangled behind him. "Come, brothers, follow me."

He started on the path that rose toward the stronghold. As he turned, the fourthlings noticed that he was missing one arm.

Gandogar conjectured that the limb had been lost to one of Tion's minions. In all other respects, the secondling was powerfully built, perhaps because of the strength required for working with stone. His right hand was heavily callused, almost bearlike in size, the fingers exuding a power that lived up to the name of his clan.