known it before, a twisting path mat Hirehone followed without
effort but that left the members of the little company uncertain
of the direction in which they were moving. Morning slipped
toward midday, and the sun filtered down through the densely
packed trees in narrow streamers of brightness that did little to
chase the lingering fog and seemed to have strayed somehow
from the outer worid into the midst of the heavy shadows.
When they stopped for a quick lunch. Par asked their guide
if he would tell them how much farther it was to where they
were going.
“Not far,” Hirehone answered. “There.” He pointed to a
massive outcropping of rock that rose above the Parma Key
where the forest flattened against the wall of the Dragon’s Teeth.
“That, Ohmsford, is called the Jut. The Jut is the stronghold of
the Movement.”
Par looked, considering. “Does the Federation know it’s
there?” he asked.
“They know it’s in here somewhere,” Hirehone replied.
“What they don’t know is exactly where and, more to the point,
how to reach it.”
“And Par’s mysterious rescuer, your still-nameless outlaw
chief-isn’t he worried about having visitors like us carry-
ing back word of how to do just that?” Steff asked skepti-
cally.
Hirehone smiled. “Dwarf, in order for you to find your way
in again, you first have to find your way out. Think you could
manage that without me?”
Steff smirked grudgingly, seeing the truth of the matter. A
man could wander forever in this maze without finding his way
clear.
It was late afternoon when they reached the outcropping they
had been pointing toward all day, the shadows falling in thick
layers across the wilderness, casting the whole of the forest in
twilight. Hirehone had whistled ahead several times during the
last hour, each time waiting for an answering whistle before
proceeding farther. At the base of the cliffs, a gated lift waited,
settled in a clearing, its ropes disappearing skyward into the
rocks overhead. The lift was large enough to hold all of them,
and they stepped into it, grasping the railing for support as it
hoisted them up, slowly, steadily, until at last they were above
the trees. They drew even with a narrow ledge and were pulled
in by a handful of men working a massive winch. A second lift
waited and they climbed aboard. Again they were hoisted up
along the face of the rock wall, dangling out precariously over
the earth. Par looked down once and quickly regretted it. He
caught a glimpse of Steff’s face, bloodless beneath its sun-
browned exterior. Hirehone seemed unconcerned and whistled
idly as they rose.
There was a third lift as well, this one much shorter, and
when they finally stepped off they found themselves on a broad,
grassy bluff about midway up the cliff that ran back several
hundred yards into a series of caves. Fortifications lined the edge
of me bluff and ringed the caves, and there were pockets of
defense built into the cliff wall overhead where it was riddled
with craggy splits. There was a narrow waterfall spilling down
off the mountain into a pool, and several clusters of broad-leaf
trees and fir scattered about the bluff. Men scurried everywhere,
hauling tools and weapons and crates of stores, crying out in-
structions, or answering back.
Out of the midst of this organized confusion strode Par’s
rescuer, his tall form clothed in startling scarlet and black.
He was clean-shaven now, his tanned face weather-seamed
and sharp-boned in the sunlight, a collection of planes and
angles. It was a face that defied age. His brown hair was
swept back and slightly receding. He was lean and fit and
moved like a cat. He swept toward them with a deep-voiced
shout of welcome, one arm extending first to hug Hirehone,
then to gather in Par.
“So, lad, you’ve had a change of heart, have you? Welcome,
then, and your companions as well. Your brother, a Highlander,
and a brace of Dwarves, is it? Strange company, now. Have you
come to join up?”
He was as guileless as Morgan had ever thought to be, and
Par felt himself blush. “Not exactly. We have a problem.”