Half of the dark dragon-lit world began to grow gray. That part was the sky, Deor guessed. The still-dark part the ground. But sometimes it was above, sometimes below, as the dragon spun crazily through the air. The horizon ahead of them had rough, saw-tooth edges: mountains.

They were falling. They were falling. They were falling.

The dragon stalled in the air, just above the ground, and released them from his claws. He flew away into the still-dark east without another word.

They lay on the slope without moving for a while. Deor heard someone retching and was dimly glad that he was done with all that. Then his body was trying to vomit even though there was nothing left for his belly to give but stinking bitterness.

As they lay there, a storm walked south from the mountains. The snowflakes began to fall thick about them as the day’s light struggled to be seen in the west. They would have to move soon or freeze to death.

It was the first of Harps, the first full day of summer.

PART THREE

A Cold Summer

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

—Robert Frost, “Fire and Ice”

CHAPTER ONE

Endless Empire

A dwarf in a hat as bright as the sun was standing over Morlock. His red beard was braided with gold, and there was gold and silver work in all his scarlet-colored clothes. Even his boots were gilded. Of more immediate interest was the spear in his hand, its point made of mundane but effective steel.

“Shouldn’t sleep here,” the dwarf said in harshly accented Ontilian.

“Praise the Day, watcher,” Morlock replied in Dwarvish. “I am Morlock Ambrosius, also called syr Theorn, harven coruthen to the Elder of the Seven Clans under Thrymhaiam.” They were clearly at the foot of the Dolich Kund, “the River of Gold”—the only safe pass between the lands north and south of the Blackthorn/Whitethorn Range. It also marked the division between the Blackthorn and the Whitethorn Mountains. The dwarves of the Endless Empire, under the Blackthorn Range, never entered the Whitethorns for reasons that they did not explain. But they did recognize kinship with the dwarves under Thrymhaiam. It was not beyond belief that they could hope for help here.

“Oh,” said the dwarf. He rubbed the tip of his nose with the butt of his spear, handling the heavy weapon as lightly as if it were a pen. “Still shouldn’t sleep here. Other Ilk known to die in the mountains.”

“Thanks,” Morlock said briefly. He stood up and turned his back on the spear-carrier, partly to return discourtesy for discourtesy, but primarily to check on the well-being of his comrades.

Ambrosia was sitting up, looking on with sour amusement. She returned his nod. Deor was in a bad way, and Kelat was worse, both of them splashed with each other’s vomit. It was an evil gray-green in the cold, snowy morning’s light—and that was good: it must have carried a good deal of dragon venom out of their systems.

“Any maijarra leaf in your pack?” Morlock asked his sister.

“No.”

“Eh.”

“Can you expand on that, Morlock?”

“Tea from maijarra leaves protects against venom.”

“Oh. I see what you mean. We must have inhaled a good deal of the stuff. No wonder I’m feeling woozy!”

“Yes.” Morlock looked around. His pack was missing. Well, not missing exactly: he had left it on the floor in Rulgân’s former temple. It was a mild nuisance, at worst, although he was sorry to lose the books he had brought with him from the Wardlands. He had also brought some maijarra leaves, knowing that they would confront Rulgân.

He eased Deor’s pack off his shoulders. The eye among the fastenings recognized him and undid themselves when he spoke to them. Inside the pack was a great many things—too many, in Morlock’s judgment. But there was a bundle of simples, including maijarra leaf.

“We’ll need fire—somewhere out of the wind.” He glanced around and pointed at a hollow free from snow.

“Right,” Ambrosia agreed. “You take Deor; I’ll carry Kelat.”

They hustled their unconscious companions over to the hollow. Ambrosia set up an Imperfect Occlusion overhead while Morlock made a fire out of some scrub bushes. The dwarf with the sun-bright hat followed them and watched what they did carefully but didn’t interfere.

Presently Morlock and Ambrosia were sipping tea from sheckware mugs. They had wrapped their unconscious comrades in their cloaks and put them near the fire so that they would not be in danger from the cold.

Morlock said nothing through all of this, and Ambrosia very little. Her red-rimmed eyes met his and she smiled furiously.

Morlock looked at the spear-carrier, who seemed to shiver within his finery, and he said, “Join us. If your watch permits.”

Eagerly, the dwarf laid aside his spear and sat down at the little fire. “Thanks, bold strangers!” he said. “I thought you merely victims of dragonspell or some other such truck, but now I see how wrong I was. What were your names again? You are called Ambrosius?”

Morlock nodded. “Among other things.” He sipped his tea. The maijarra decoction was metallic and unpleasant, and in large quantities it was itself a poison. But he wasn’t drinking it for pleasure. Also, it was warm.

The watch-dwarf looked at Ambrosia, who volunteered nothing and did not look at him. After a few moments he said to Morlock, “Any kinship to the Regent of the Vraids, then?”

“I am Ambrosia Viviana,” said Morlock’s sister in a voice colder than the white wind.

The dwarf squawked and leapt to his feet. He ran off upslope into the storm, leaving his spear behind.

“Ha,” Ambrosia said, and drank her tea.

Presently the watch-dwarf returned. With him was a company of dwarves, also resplendent in scarlet and gold. In their midst was one who seemed to be half a head taller, but in fact was teetering along on boots with thick soles.

“Great Regent and true ruler of the Vraids,” said the tall one, bowing as low as he dared from his perch and doffing his bright hat, “Lady Ambrosia Viviana, welcome again to the Endless Empire! Won’t you come under with us and share a few words and a dish of hot mushrooms? The Lorvadh of the Year hurries hither to greet you.”

“We’re comfortable here,” Ambrosia said, as indifferent to the dwarves’ belated courtesy as to the truth. “The Lorvadh may come out here, if he chooses.”

Morlock was not comfortable, and he suspected his sister was less so. But no doubt she had her reasons. He pulled some dried fish from Deor’s pack and handed a piece of it to Ambrosia. She made a face, then bit a chunk off and chewed it like jerky.

The commander stuttered for a while, but as he managed to say nothing that was obviously a word, there was no occasion to answer him. He staggered off atop his stilty shoes and left his company bemused behind him. After some whispered discussion, they formed up in lines and stood with their spears upright, like an honor guard.

The dark day was approaching noon and the snow had stopped when a lone figure approached, wrapped in a cloak of blue and gold, a circlet of electrum on his head.

“Lady Ambrosia!” said the newcomer. “I ran here like a rabbit as soon as I heard you were passing though the Dolich Kund. Won’t you—won’t you please come under with me? I can offer you a steambath, mushrooms, beer, conversation, or simply a decent bed to rest on for a night.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Ambrosia. “We’re rather in a hurry. What do you think, Morlock? Lorvadh Vyrn, this is my brother, Morlock Ambrosius, master of all makers and the deadliest blade in the universal world.”