“Of course I’ll speak for him,” Hammond said. “What do you think I’ve been doing? Now, open the gates!”

  “At once, Elder.”

  The front gate opened and Hammond led them through. A closed passageway thirty cubits long led them to the inner gate, which slid upward as they approached. Beyond it lay a vast courtyard.

  “Oh, my.” Chentelle gaped in surprise. The thirty cubits between gates represented the total depth of the fortress, which was really just a gatehouse. And the courtyard was actually a huge natural cavern. The dome of the chamber was polished obsidian flecked with adartak, simulating a star-filled sky. The floor was a startling mosaic of semiprecious stones.

  Chentelle stared at the pattern, trying to make sense of it. It reminded her of someth—By the Creator. The map! Part of it looked like Fel’s map. There was the Erietoph and the Pretgard Mountains. But the pattern was larger, much larger. It showed the Great Sea and the Isle of Rennock, the Highlands of Balt and the Istagoth Forest, even Lone Valley was there. But it didn’t show the Desecration; a gentle swirl of tiger-eye hills sat where the Great Fault should be.

  She traced the path of their journey across the waste and through the Erietoph. There were the Mountains of Time, represented in stark alabaster, and an oval of lapis that had to be Long Lake. So the big dark patch must—

  She froze. The floor ended abruptly in a jagged chasm. Chentelle looked down, but if the fissure had a bottom she couldn’t see it.

  The rift spread the width of the cavern, spanned only by a narrow jut of crystal. At a word from Hammond, the adartak bridge blazed into life. On the far side, a sheer wall of polished marble glimmered in the orb-light like flowing water. The bridge led to the base of that wall, where battlements seemed to grow naturally from the rock. A woman’s face had been carved beneath the battlements, and two huge granite doors stood below the face. The doors stood open and inviting.

  “Magnificent,” Thildemar said. “It reminds me of the gate into Rockhome.”

  “You flatter us,” Hammond said wistfully. “There is no matching the glory of that ancient Home.” He led them across the glowing bridge and into Marble Falls.

  Wind whipped around them as they crossed the chasm. As they passed through the doors, it whistled through the open mouth of the carving, forming airy syllables. Welll-commme.

  Hammond guided them through the entry hall and into an orb-lit tunnel. They passed dozens of dwarves going about their business, and each one greeted Hammond respectfully. A steady rhythm pulsed through the Home, vibrating just below the level of hearing, and everyone they saw seemed to be moving to that subliminal cadence. Even their own steps were soon falling to the same beat.

  They descended a long ramp and turned into a series of natural chambers embellished with intricately carved doors. The deeper they went, the warmer it became, and they were soon loosening and removing their cloaks. An underground stream trickled through the stone, collecting in a chain of shallow pools. Children splashed and laughed in some of these, playing under the watchful eyes of an ancient couple.

  “These are the boroughs,” Hammond said. “The heart of the Home. One day, the children raised here will set out to explore new lands. Infinitera is filled with wonders, and there are many yet to be discovered. Perhaps the object of your search is one of them?”

  Father Marcus only smiled in reply.

  They passed through the boroughs and into a large hall. More than two hundred dwarves were here, seated around long, low tables. On a platform in one corner, a group of musicians was filling the air with a delightful combination of laughing drums, exotic horns, and tinny harps. Their song was joyous and filled with exuberance.

  Hammond took them to a serving line where they selected food from long stone troughs. Much of the food was strange to the company, but the old dwarf guided them. There were mutton stews and roast spiders for the humans, while the elves found a good assortment of lichens, mushrooms, baked mosses. Hearty breads and excellent mead helped round out the meal for everyone.

  The food was delicious, and they ate with relish. Conversation was kept to a minimum. Gradually, they noticed that the other tables were growing quiet, too. No one approached them, but their presence in Marble Falls was definitely being noted. Soon, a second round of mead was delivered to the table. In fact, new glasses were being delivered to every table.

  Suddenly, two hundred dwarves stood as one and raised their glasses. “WELCOME.”

  At Hammond’s signal, they lifted their own glasses and joined the community in drink.

  “There,” the Elder said, “now it’s official. The doors of Marble Falls are open to you. Now, to arrange provisions.” He set his drum on the table and pounded out a rapid series of beats, taps, and scratches. The sound carried powerfully through the hall, cutting easily through the rhythm of the music. A few moments later a chubby dwarf in a well-used apron and an impressive white cap walked up to them.

  “These friends need rations,” Hammond said, “at least two weeks’ worth. They’re on foot, so make sure you keep them light and compact. And no meat for the elves.”

  “Yes, Elder.” The cook nodded and scurried back to the kitchen.

  Once he was gone, Hammond turned back to Father Marcus. “Now, technically, since you are not going to become part of the community I should ask you for some form of recompense.”

  “I understand,” Father Marcus said. Dwarves often bartered goods based upon estimated values for jewels or precious metals. The humans of Odenal used a similar system. “Perhaps I can repay you with information. There are things of great importance that I should share with—”

  A heavy drumbeat rumbled like thunder through the cavern, silencing all conversation.

  “The warning,” Hammond said. “It’s probably a gnome skirmish clan.”

  The drum sounded again, pounding with desperate urgency. Silverware clattered against stone tables as the dwarves surged to their feet and charged for the doors.

  “That’s no skirmish call!” Hammond called over his shoulder. “Wait here. I need to check on the gate.”

  “Absolutely not,” Father Marcus said. “We may be able to help.”

  They raced back toward the surface, keeping the fastest pace the dwarf could manage. The climb seemed to take forever, and the drum calls became harder and more frenzied. At last, they reached the entry hall. Several phalanxes of armored dwarves were assembling in the huge chamber, but there was no sign of any foe. The main doors were still open.

  Dacius’ helm and armor were glowing violently. His blade whistled forth in a flash of blue steel. “THE BRIDGE!”

  They charged through the open portal. Beyond it, the adartak bridge illuminated a grisly scene. Dwarven soldiers filled the gatehouse battlements, locked in combat with hulking, black forms. The dwarves’ weapons rose and fell with uncanny precision, only to bounce ineffectually off of their targets. Pulsing red blades flickered in return, slicing easily through flesh, armor, and even stone. The defenders were being slaughtered.

  “Prepare the bridge!” Hammond shouted.

  A tremendous click echoed through the cavern, and the bridge shuddered. A thin line crevice appeared in the crystal’s far end.

  Suddenly, the inner gate slid open. A dozen dwarves fled through the gate, running for the bridge. One of them, Pontale, remained behind to close the gate and jam the mechanism. He had hardly finished when a mob of vikhors slammed into the bars. The portal held, but just barely.

  The Legionnaires charged forward, moving to support the dwarves’ retreat. But they were too late.

  A half-dozen Tenebrites launched themselves from the top of the battlements. Their bodies shifted as they fell, forming insect thoraxes and six segmented legs. Hard claws gouged pits in the stone as they landed. Then they were running, closing distance as if the dwarves were standing still.

  Drup, Gerruth, and Leth stopped and took aim with their bows. Three arrows blazed through the air, sailing over the dwarves’ heads. One of them took a Tenebrite full in the chest, reducing it to smoking ash. The other two hit at shallow angles and ricocheted off armored torsos.

  A shadow knight loomed over the Gate Master, its sword lifted high in preparation for a strike.

  The dwarf spun around, warned by some sound or instinct. He planted his spear against the ground and braced himself for the impact. The spear’s tip caught the Tenebrite full in the chest, driven by the Ill-creature’s own power and strength.

  It made no difference. The metal tip bent, and the shaft shattered. The Tenebrite reared, its momentum briefly countered; then the red sword swung toward Pontale’s head.

  A jet of green flame shot across the chasm, incinerating the Tenebrite in midstroke. A’stoc stood on the inner battlements, Thunderwood Staff blazing in his hands. Smiling grimly, he redirected the Earthpower, sending an arc of flame toward the other shadow knights. One by one, they vanished into the fire.

  Dacius and Thildemar guarded the far end of the bridge while the dwarves hurried across. The first wave made it safely, but Pontale was still a dozen cubits from the chasm when the stones of the gatehouse exploded apart.

  Scores of vikhors surged from the rubble, driven to a frenzy by the Tenebrites behind them. More blasts of Earthpower met them, but they kept coming, heedless of the cost. A few managed to slide through the wizard’s barrage.

  Dacius and Thildemar met them with mystic steel. The human’s armor was glowing like a blue sun. His shield countered every attack, and his blade cut wide swaths through the Ill-creatures.

  Thildemar was equally impressive, in his way: graceful and efficient rather than flamboyant and powerful. He fought with sword and dagger, using the shorter blade to parry. He fought as if the battle were choreographed, wasting no energy on unnecessary motion.

  Together, they cleared the last of the vikhors from the field. Then they backed slowly across the chasm. A few Ill-creatures bolted after them from hiding places in the rubble, but A’stoc’s magic struck them down easily.

  Once the warriors were safely back on solid ground, the crystal bridge began to move. The adartak shrunk in on itself, retracting into some hidden chamber in the stone wall. Soon, only a tiny spur was visible, spanning less than a tenth of the deep rift.

  Tense silence fell upon the chamber. A hundred eyes scanned the rubble, searching for any new threat. Long moments passed, and nothing moved. They were safe, for now.

  Suddenly, Pontale’s voice cut through the quiet. “You!” His angry gaze pierced each of the company in turn. “You brought those monsters here. What were they? And why are your weapons the only things that can kill them?”

  A murmur of suspicion rippled through the dwarven guardsmen, a murmur that became louder as A’stoc emerged from the stairwell to the battlements. Steel weapons twitched in nervous fingers.

  “What is this?” the wizard said. “Will you reward your saviors with treachery?”

  “You dare to speak of treachery?” the Gate Master shouted. “It was you who led those monsters to the Home!”

  “The fault is mine,” Father Marcus said calmly. “It is I who led us here. I am deeply sorry for the loss you have suffered. I did not expect the Ill-creatures to attack us here. We had not seen any for several days.”

  “You’re sorry!” Pontale roared. “That’s not good enough. I hereby place you under detention. Surrender your weapons at once!”

  “Wait!” Hammond slapped a single beat on his drum, sending a deep note of calm through the assembled soldiers. “Pontale, you were but a child during the wars. You do not realize the magnitude of what the holy man is saying.” He turned to Father Marcus, concern plain on his furrowed brow. “Do you say that the Dark One has returned to Infinitera?”

  “Yes. His Ill-creatures are active throughout the Realm and beyond. That is the news I was going to share with you when the attack interrupted us.”

  The Elder winced. “I will convene the council immediately. We must discuss these matters.”

  “No.” Pontale lifted a small drum from his belt and pounded three hard beats. “They have endangered the Home! I call for immediate exile, and I demand that the matter be settled by assembly.”

  An excited ripple ran through the soldiers. “What about the gates?” someone called. “What if the monsters return?”

  “I have placed wards around the chasm,” A’stoc said. “We will have warning before any new attack.”

  “Excellent, wizard,” Hammond said. “I thank you for your caution and concern.”

  “Nevertheless,” Pontale said, “I want two full phalanxes on watch and a third in reserve. Speak to your brothers, so that they may know your mind at assembly.”

  Hammond raised his voice to address the crowd. “You have heard the call, and the cause is just. Let the summons be sounded. Marble Falls will decide.”

  The hall erupted into activity. Soldiers ran about, some heading for the walls, others disappearing into a myriad of passages. Somewhere, a huge drum pounded the same pattern of three hard beats that Pontale had played. A moment later, it sounded again, and then again.

  Hammond turned to the company. “I must speak with the other Elders before the assembly. Do you remember the tunnels to the communal hall, or should I assign you a guide?”

  Father Marcus said something to Dacius in a hushed tone, then spoke to the dwarf. “No guide is needed. We will meet you there.”

  “Speak for yourself, High Bishop.” A’stoc raised himself to his full height. “I do not intend to waste my time listening to the bickering of small minds.” He spun about and marched back toward the battlements.

  Dacius called Drup and Thildemar to his side, and a moment later the two warriors were following A’stoc into the stairwell.

  Father Marcus led the rest of them back into the winding tunnels. He retraced their path confidently, as if he had lived below the mountain all of his life. In a few minutes, they were back in the boroughs. The High Bishop paused for a moment outside the hall, bowing his head in a quiet meditation. Then he pressed open the door.

  The hall was filled with dwarves. Men, women, children, the entire population of Marble Falls was coming together. The long tables and benches were gone, secreted in some hidden compartment. Everyone sat cross-legged on the floor, arranged in neat rows facing the corner podium. Each dwarf had a small drum tucked between his or her legs. The chamber was quiet. Not a word was spoken as new people filed in and took their places in the crowd.

  The company moved to a spot away from the door and waited, uncertain where they should be.

  The quiet procession continued for several minutes. Then the mighty drum sounded again, pounding once, twice, three times. A hidden door swung open behind the podium and four figures emerged. Each one carried a drum and a thin golden rod—and Hammond was the third in line. The four dwarves took their seats on the platform. Then the first Elder motioned for the party to come forward.

  They filed down the long aisle between dwarves and stood in the open area before the dais. Chentelle wondered if they were supposed to sit, too, but no one gave any sign.

  “Who makes the charge?” the fourth Elder said.

  “Pontale, Master of the Gate, Defender of the Home.” The burly dwarf marched forward, holding his drum before him like a pennant.

  “Who speaks for the accused?” the Elder said.

  “The company is under my charge,” Father Marcus said.

  Hammond stood up suddenly. He set his drum and rod down on the stage, and hopped off to stand next to the High Bishop. He pulled a smaller drum from under his robes and held it at the ready. “He is a stranger to the ways of the Home. I will sound his voice.”

  If any of the dwarves were surprised by his action, they gave no sign. The fourth Elder lifted his rod and struck three beats on his drum, filling the chamber with echoes. “Marble Falls is assembled. Let the parties speak.”

  Pontale immediately established a rhythm on his drum. His playing was soft, but powerful, punctuated by angry beats and accusatory pauses. “Kellior is dead; his wife is a widow; his children are fatherless. Tamar is dead; his father has no heirs. Forn is dead; his wife mourns; his brothers weep…”

  The litany continued, gaining power with each name. In the crowd, a dozen drums joined Pontale’s beat, then a hundred. The music swelled, pounding at the company with rage and grief.

  “The strangers caused these deaths, as surely as they harbor a Tengarian in their midst.”

  “That isn’t fair!” Chentelle cried. “Sulmar—”

  The fourth Elder pounded his drum. The beat was deafening, crashing against their ears like an open hand. “There can be only one voice! Who speaks for the accused?”

  Hammond turned to Chentelle, his eyes filled with warnings, and she shrank quietly back into the company.

  Pontale resumed his rhythm, drumming more powerfully than before. “They knew they were being followed. They knew that the Home was defenseless against the Ill-creatures. Only their weapons can kill the monsters. Still, they said nothing. They entered the Home; they led the Ill-creatures to our gate. They invited death into Marble Falls, and death came. If they remain, or if they return, death will come again. The Home must be protected. My voice is clear, and the word it screams is exile!”

  The chamber roared to the Gate Master’s cadence. Five hundred drums sounded as one. Guilt! said the drums. Exile!

  Hammond nodded to Father Marcus.

  The High Bishop spoke into the din, phrasing his words like a chant. “I am Father Marcus Alanda, High Bishop of the Holy Order in Talan, and I have made many mistakes. The first was in not trusting the people of Marble Falls to be wise and good. I concealed my identity and the nature of my quest, but such mistrust serves only to help evil gain a foothold in our hearts.”

  Hammond beat his drum, matching his measures to the priest’s words. He pounded a counterpoint to the Gate Master’s rhythm: understanding instead of anger, inclusive rather than accusatory. His cadence was strong, steady, but it was lost in the chorus of rage.