say, now?”
“The Archer,” Morgan repeated.
“And who’s that supposed to be?” The other man was broad-
shouldered and caked with sweat.
“I don’t know,” Morgan admitted.’ ‘We were just told to ask
for him.”
“Who by?”
“Look. . .”
“Who by? Don’t you know, man?”
It was hot in the shadow of Kiltan Forge, and it was clear that
Morgan was going to have trouble with this man if things kept
going the way they were. Heads were already starting to turn.
Par pushed forward impulsively, anxious to keep from drawing
attention to themselves and said, “By a man who wears a ring
that bears the insigne of a hawk.”
The fellow’s sharp eyes narrowed, studying the Valeman’s
face with its Elven features.
“This ring,” Par finished and held it out.
The other flinched as if he had been stung. “Don’t be show-
ing that about, you young fool!” he snapped and shoved it away
from him as if it were poison.
“Then tell us where we can find the Archer!” Morgan inter-
jected, his irritation beginning to show through.
There was sudden activity in the street that caused them all
to turn hurriedly. A squad of Federation soldiers was approach-
ing, pushing through the crowd, making directly for the Forge.
“Get out of sight!” the fellow with the mustaches snapped ur-
gently and stepped away.
The soldiers came into the Forge, glancing about the fire-lit
darkness. The man with the mustaches came forward to greet
them. Morgan and the Valemen gathered up the Dwarves, but
the soldiers were between them and the doorway leading to the
street. Morgan edged them all toward the deep shadows.
“Weapons order, Hirehone,” the squad leader announced to
the man with the mustaches, thrusting out a paper. “Need it by
week’s end. And don’t argue the matter.”
Hirehone muttered something unintelligible, but nodded. The
squad leader talked to him some more, sounding weary and hot.
The soldiers were casting about restlessly. One moved toward
the little company. Morgan tried to stand in front of his com-
panions, tried to make the soldier speak with him. The soldier
hesitated, a big fellow with a reddish beard. Then he noticed
something and pushed past the Highlander. “You there!” he
snapped at Teel. “What’s wrong with you?” One hand reached
out, pulling aside the hood. “Dwarves! Captain, there’s . . . !”
He never finished. Teel killed him with a single thrust of her
long knife, jamming the blade through his throat. He was still
trying to talk as he died. The other soldiers reached for their
weapons, but Morgan was already among them, his own sword
thrusting, forcing them back. He cried out to the others, and the
Dwarves and Valemen broke for the doorway. They reached the
street, Morgan on their heels, the Federation soldiers a step
behind. The crowd screamed and split apart as the battle ca-
reened into them. There were a dozen soldiers in pursuit, but
two were wounded and the rest were tripping over one another
in their haste to reach the Highlander. Morgan cut down the
foremost, howling like a madman. Ahead, Steff reached a barred
door to a warehouse, brought up the suddenly revealed mace,
and hammered the troublesome barrier into splinters with a sin-
gle blow. They rushed through me darkened interior and out a
back door, turned left down an alley and came up against a
fence. Desperately, they wheeled about and started back.
The pursuing Federation soldiers burst through the ware-
house door and came at them.
Par used the wishsong and filled the disappearing gap be-
tween them with a swarm of buzzing hornets. The soldiers
howled and dove for cover. In the confusion, Steff smashed
enough boards of the fence to allow them all to slip through.
They ran down a second alley, through a maze of storage sheds,
turned right and pushed past a hinged me^al gate.
They found themselves in a yard of scrap metal behind the
Forge. Ahead, a door to the back of the Forge swung open. “In
here!” someone called.
They ran without questioning, hearing the sound of shouting
and blare of horns all about. They shoved through the opening