thoughts. There had been no further talk of AUanon since setting
out. There had been no mention of Walker or Wren. Par fingered
the ring with the hawk insigne from time to time and wondered
anew about the identity of the man who had given it to him.
It was late afternoon when they passed down through the river
valley of the Runne Mountains north of Varfleet and approached
the outskirts of the city. It sprawled below them across a series
of hills, dusty and sweltering against the glare of me westward
fading sun. Snacks and hovels ringed the city’s perimeter, squalid
shelters for men and women who lacked even the barest of
means. They called out to the travelers as they passed, pressing
up against them for money and food, and Par and Coil handed
down what little they had. Morgan glanced back reprovingly,
somewhat as a parent might at a naive child, but made no com-
ment.
A little farther on, Par found himself wishing belatedly that
he had thought to disguise his Elven features. It had been weeks
since he had done so, and he had simply gotten out of the habit.
He could take some consolation from me fact that his hair had
grown long and covered his ears. But he would have to be careful
nevertheless. He glanced over at the Dwarves. They had their
travel cloaks pulled close, the hoods wrapping their faces in
shadow. They were in more danger than he of discovery. Every-
one knew that Dwarves were not permitted to travel in the
Southland. Even in Varfleet, it was risky.
When they reached the city proper and the beginnings of
streets that bore names and shops with signs, the traffic in-
creased markedly. Soon, it was all but impossible to move ahead.
They dismounted and led their horses afoot until they found a
stable where they could board mem. Morgan made the trans-
action while the others stood back unobtrusively against the walls
of the buildings across the way and watched the people of the
city press against one another in a sluggish flow. Beggars came
up to them and asked for coins. Par watched a fire-eater display
his art to a wondering crowd of boys and men at a fruit mart.
The low mutter of voices filled the air with a ragged sound.
“Sometimes you get lucky,” Morgan informed them quietly
as he returned. “We’re standing in Reaver’s End. This whole
section of the city is Reaver’s End. Kiltan Forge is just a few
streets over.”
He beckoned them on, and they slipped past the steady throng
of bodies, working their way into a side street that was less
crowded, if more ill-smelling, and soon they were hurrying
along a shadowed alley that twisted and turned past a rutted
sewage way. Par wrinkled his nose in distaste. This was the city
as Coil saw it. He risked a quick glance back at his brother, but
his brother was busy watching where he was stepping.
They crossed several more streets before emerging onto one
that seemed to satisfy Morgan, who promptly turned right and
led them through the crowds to a broad, two-storey barn with a
sign that bore the name Kiltan Forge seared on a plaque of
wood. The sign and the building were old and splintering, but
the furnaces within burned red-hot, spitting and flaming as met-
als were fed in and removed by tenders. Machines ground, and
hammers pounded and shaped. The din rose above the noise of
the street and echoed off the walls of the surrounding buildings,
to disappear finally into the suffocating embrace of the lingering
afternoon heat.
Morgan edged his way along the fringes of the crowd, me
others trailing silently after, and finally managed to work his
way up to the Forge entrance. A handful of men worked me
furnaces under the direction of a large fellow with drooping
mustaches and a balding pate colored soot-black. The fellow
ignored them until they had come all the way inside, then turned
and asked, “Something I can help you with?”
Morgan said, “We’re looking for the Archer.”
The fellow with the mustaches ambled over. “Who did you
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