“Everyone must die,” said one. “This way, at least, my dear one is safe.”

“The world is dying,” said another. “Break a hole in that and I’ll crawl out.”

“Morlock!” shouted Deor. There were armed men coming down the hill.

“They chose this,” Morlock said to Kelat. “We must go.”

Weeping, Kelat turned away and threw himself into the Hippogriff, the spear clattering on the floorboards by the pedals. Deor joined him, and Morlock resumed the steering oar, dragging the Baron along as before. He released impulse energy from the wells and the Hippogriff leapt through the gate and down the hill and away into the Lacklands.

They had gone some miles and High Town had sunk beneath a ridge behind them when Morlock braked the Hippogriff to a halt.

“You’re going to kill me, now,” said the High Baron sulkily. “But all I did was what was best for my town. How many of them would be alive now if I hadn’t led the way? In times like these, not everyone can live. Choices must be made. Don’t blame me for the illness of the world.”

“Get out,” said Morlock, letting go of the baronial neck.

The Baron stumbled onto the grass-grown road. He turned around as if he expected to be stabbed in the back, but Morlock made no move to follow him.

“Go back to High Town, if you like,” the crooked man said. “I suspect someone else is baron there now, and you will be welcomed as merely an immigrant.”

He released the brake and Deor and Kelat pedaled furiously. They left the Baron standing in a cloud of dust. Deor glanced back and saw that the Baron was moving . . . but leaving the road to walk south, not returning to High Town.

Kelat laughed fiercely when he looked back and saw the same. His tears had dried, leaving filthy trails on his face. But after he laughed his look of grief and loss returned and long remained. He did not talk for the rest of that day.

“Things like that should not be,” he said to Morlock that night, when they halted in the open country, many miles from High Town.

“What would you do to stop them?” Morlock asked.

Kelat did not answer.

The road was smoother now; many stretches were free entirely from grass, and they travelled swiftly. Three days after leaving High Town, they came over a rise and saw the silver thread of the Tilion in the distance. Far to the south, along the edge of the horizon, was a blue haze that might have been the sea.

“We must be careful there,” Kelat said, pointing. “The bridge over the Tilion may be kept by Vraidish soldiers.

Morlock shrugged indifferently.

But the Vraids caught up with them long before they reached the Tilion. One of the towns along their way down to the river was not quite empty: there was a small squad of Vraidish horsemen there. They started shouting and pointing when they saw the Hippogriff on its wheeled flight, and Kelat wanted to pedal on as fast as they could, but Morlock (who was steering again) put the impulse collectors on full and the wheels ground to a halt.

The squad leader reined his horse in beside the Hippogriff and stared at it and all its occupants.

“Good day, sir!” said Deor in passable Vraidish. “Can we help you with anything?”

The horse soldier didn’t answer him. He looked long at Kelat and then said, “Prince Uthar. You have been long missed.”

“Don’t call me that!” Kelat said.

“It is your right, and my duty, Prince Uthar,” the soldier said.

“Is your name really Uthar?” asked Deor coolly. He didn’t care for people who went by false names.

“It is!” the soldier said, slapping the shaft of his spear against his left hand, as if that made the statement truer.

“Every son of Lathmar the Old, Great King of the Vraids, is named Uthar,” said the man they knew as Kelat.

“Oh,” said Deor, taken aback. “That must be confusing. How many of you are there?”

“Three hundred and fifty and two.”

“I mean: how many sons of Lathmar the Old?” Deor clarified, assuming that he had been misunderstood.

“Three hundred and fifty and two,” Kelat repeated. “He’s a hundred and thirty years old; he’s had dozens of wives and a hundred concubines.”

Deor almost said Ugh, for they ran things differently under Thrymhaiam, but then remembered that would be rude. So he said, “Um.”

“The next Great King must, of course, be named Uthar,” the horse soldier said. “Uthar and Lathmar have been the names of our kings since the gods fashioned the universe out of the mud of time.”

Kelat muttered under his breath.

“Prince Uthar?” asked the soldier, politely but dangerously. The others in the troop had by now surrounded the Hippogriff and were looking at the occupants with cold, unfriendly eyes.

“We need use-names to be our own, since nothing else is,” Kelat said, addressing Deor and Morlock rather than the soldiers. “I didn’t lie to you. But there were truths I didn’t tell. I’m sorry.”

Morlock put his hand on Kelat’s shoulder. Kelat nodded and Morlock removed his hand.

Deor was fascinated to observe that some sort of communication had occurred, and he was about to ask what they had said, but he was forestalled by the mounted captain.

“Prince Uthar, there is a reward for your recovery. I beg you will get out of that—that—”

“It’s the Hippogriff,” Deor said. He had his own unspoken criticisms of the wheeled beast, but he didn’t like anyone else sneering at it.

“—that Hippogriff and come with us to see the Regent.”

Kelat or Uthar or whoever he was said, “I have urgent business in the Lacklands and may not come.”

“Prince Uthar, you understand that I ask you only for politeness’ sake. The reward is food that will feed our families for a month. You will come with us.”

“Where is the Regent of the Vraids?” asked Morlock.

The mounted captain said nothing until Kelat said, “Answer him.”

“The Regent is overseeing the diggings north of Ontil.”

“Man after my own heart,” Deor said. Kelat looked at him with incomprehension, but it was not to be expected that a man would understand how much a dwarf loves the simple joy of moving soil and stone from one place to another.

“Is there a fair road to the diggings?” asked Morlock.

At first the captain didn’t answer, but a glare from Kelat prompted him to reluctantly reply, “As fair as this.”

“Let’s go with them to your father’s Regent,” Morlock suggested. “It’s on our way.”

“But will we be allowed to continue on our way?” Kelat said.

Morlock laughed—an ugly sound to Deor’s ear, and also to the Vraidish horsemen from the sour expressions on their faces.

And so from there they rode on with an escort. It perhaps lent dignity to their passage in the eyes of a watcher, if there were any. But Deor found it very disgusting. He was not terribly fond of horses in the first place, and the clouds of dust they raised on the dry road made it hard to breathe. Then there was their regrettable habit of farting, or blasting dung out their rear ends, bespattering the road and Hippogriff’s wheels. At least they mostly liked to piss while at rest off the side of the road, like their riders.

But it was the riders that really disgusted Deor. They sang songs (or at least shouted lyrics); they shouted jokes to each other; they complained about their gear and the army’s command; they farted nearly as often and as poisonously as their horses.

All of that could have been borne. But Deor noticed something actually intolerable: shriveled fingers of a human hand sticking out of one of their saddlebags. After he saw that, he paid close attention to their baggage, and he became sure it was all stuffed with human meat.

“Is everyone in the Lacklands a cannibal?” he asked Kelat.

The young man shook his head but did not otherwise answer. But Deor was sure that Kelat had noticed the same thing. As for Morlock, he noticed most things, except the difference between decent food and mere fuel for a bellyfire.