All the better grades of pewter were spun in Silver Mountain, and the better weapon-grade steel was forged there. The very finest swords were dwarf made. They were expensive, of course. When enhanced with spells by dwarven masters, they were especially expensive, and the dwarves were particular about to whom they sold enchanted blades.

Macurdy showed the aide his saber. "It's not dwarf made," he said, "but it carries a dwarven spell."

The aide peered intently at it, then passed a hand along its blade, not quite touching it. "Indeed," he said. "The spell's not one of ours, but excellent nonetheless." He concentrated. "From the Diamond Flues. Yes."

"Kittul Kendersson Great Lode spelled it."

"Kendersson! Excellent! A pity, though, to waste a Kendersson spell on a blade not dwarf made."

Macurdy felt a twinge of resentment at the aide's arrogance, and it showed in his voice. "It happened on the road, and it's all the blade I had. It served me well in more than one fight."

"Of course, of course. I have no doubt. With old Kittul's spell on it, it would. But on a dwarven blade, and applied during the forging…" The aide's gesture finished the thought. Before he left, he asked Macurdy for custody of the saber. " 'Tis in need of polishing," he said, "and yew'll not need it here."

"My thanks," Macurdy told him, his voice still tinged with annoyance. "But my purse is too thin."

The aide shook his head. "For yew there'll be no cost, dwarf friend. Courtesy of the Mountain and His Majesty."

Macurdy realized the value of the offer. Anyone with a little coaching and the proper tools could put an edge on a sword. But few swordsmen could produce the edge a professional polisher could, and a professional greatly improved a blade's appearance. Reputedly even its temper, though Macurdy was skeptical. Professionals with a reputation, however, charged more than many swordsmen could pay. And dwarven masters of almost any craft were said to be the best.

The lesser audience chamber was small, perhaps twelve by twenty feet. Near the far end, Finn Great-sword, the King in Silver Mountain, sat on a throne not merely golden, but of actual gold. The twenty-inch dais on which it stood was clothed with furs. As were the walls; a king's ransom in furs. As instructed, Macurdy approached to a short line, eight feet in front of His Majesty, and stopped.

Finn Greatsword had always been bulky, and his years had not shrunk him. He still looked formidable, though his large hands were gnarly with arthritis. His once-golden beard was white, shot with pale yellow and parted in the middle, the halves braided, and resting on his thick thighs. His spadelike teeth were almost brown with age, but they seemed all to be there.

"So yew are the Lion of Farside." The deep guttural voice issued from a barrel chest, to rumble out a wide mouth.

"I didn't give myself the name," Macurdy answered.

"Of course not. Twas the ylver gave it to ye. I've heard the tales, including those of the Diamond Flue clans. And I'm told of yer reason for coming here. However, we do not divulge our strength at arms, even to dwarf friends."

He examined Macurdy, then seemed to make a decision. It was, Macurdy realized, done for effect; the dwarf king already knew what he was going to say. "But to yew," Greatsword rumbled, "to yew I'll tell more than I would most others. Every dwarf lad is trained for years, in sword, crossbow, spear and poleax, and in tactics above- and below-ground. As well as in the skilled trades by which we earn our way in the world. We start as boys. The use of both weapons and tools are as natural to us as breathing.

"But I keep no army. Guards, yes, but no army. If I need an army, I send the war torch through the mountain, or such part of the mountain as I choose, and all who see it rush to arms, and to the proper mustering hall."

He paused, eyeing Macurdy with interest. "And now I'd like to hear the tale you bear, from yer own mouth."

Macurdy repeated the story, his delivery well practiced by now, and the dwarf king seemed to absorb it all. Macurdy finished with the usual comment: "Nothing may come of it. Dreams are most often just that: dreams. A great boar's premonitions are more worrisome, but it's possible they foreshadow nothing more than the grandfather of storms, sweeping in to ravage the coast and the lands behind." He gestured. "As for the strange ships- Who knows where they came from? Still, considering everything together, they're food for thought, and worth our attention."

The king's large head nodded. "When I was a lad, and books still were copied by hand, King Harlof the Fearless bargained with the eastern ylver over a particular ruby their emperor coveted. Part of the exchange was books, ylvin books, and one of the books told of the Voitusotar. And the terrible sickness that grips them on the sea."

He paused, his old eyes glinting. "Of course, who knows what herbs they may have learned to brew since then, or what sorceries. Eh? For that was twenty centuries past, or more.

"But the same book described the perils found here, in what they called Vismearc." He leaned forward intently. "And suppose-suppose they do invade, rich as they are, and powerful. They know about us, here in the Mountain-know about us and are warned. Tis in the book! 'Most terrible of all,' it calls us. 'Short of leg but long of arm… bodies of stone… the strength of giants… no concept of mercy.' "

He shook his head. "If they come, they'll avoid trouble with us. And we are an ancient lineage. Even as individuals, our lives are far longer than the ylver's and the Sisters', and yer own. We watch dynasties come and go; they sprout like mushrooms after rain. Allies become enemies, and enemies allies. Tyrants are thrown down. Unlikely princes become statesmen, and are succeeded by handsome fools."

He paused, leaning forward again, eyeing Macurdy intently. "And we trade with them all. If the Voitusotar come, they will not trouble us. They will trade with us. If they come."

He sat back. "Is there aught else you'd care to say?"

Macurdy shook his head. Nowhere else had he arrived with greater hopes, and no one else had brushed him off like that. They will trade with us! He left more than disappointed. He left with a bad taste in his mouth.

The next day he was given a tour of diggings, great screening rooms, forging rooms. He inspected jewels being cut and polished, beautiful vessels being made of silver and gold. Heavy dwarven jewelry. And began to appreciate why some people-human, ylver, dwarves-put such value on them.

But some things he was not shown, and he missed them. Things that made the Mountain livable-the ventilation and drainage systems in particular.

On the third day, Macurdy ate breakfast with the aide who'd briefed him. From a fur, the dwarf drew a well-worn scabbard-Macurdy's-and laid it on the table. Macurdy picked it up, and from it drew his old Ozian saber, now beautifully polished, looking better than new. Then the dwarf brought forth another, in a splendid silver scabbard set with gemstones, and held out the hilt to Macurdy. "Draw it, dwarf friend," he said. "It's yers. Draw it and tell me what ye think."

Macurdy drew it. It shimmered awesomely with magic, and felt like an extension of his arm. "Blessed God," he whispered. "I never knew there were weapons like this."

"Spells were laid on it at every stage of its forging. It's the best we could do in two days. We could have done little better in any case. His Majesty wishes ye well. If the Voitusotar do arrive, he says, he sees in yew the best hope of the tallfolk. Yew and yer great boar."