They shuffled into a ragged line on the far side of the trebuchet. "State your identities," the lead Cynthian demanded, his voice sharp as steel.

  This took Toyef by surprise—he had expected them to attack without a word. "Refugees," Walin Barklo Vaslov replied evenly, his face a mask of composure, all his usual bluster vanished. "Refugees," the black rider captain echoed with obvious skepticism. "Refugees. How interesting. Refugees who operate trebuchets."

  "It's not ours," Jim Harad hiccupped suddenly, seizing the opportunity to elaborate. "When we arrived, they had already departed. Left this worthless contraption behind."

  "They?" the Cynthian pressed. "Who exactly are 'they'?"

  "Who else would it be? Godmans, of course, my lords," Walin continued smoothly. The red-haired dwarf wasn't certain whether this was a pre-arranged tale or simply brilliant improvisation.

  "You expect me to believe Godmans abandoned this?" The captain spat three times in contempt. "Don't insult my intelligence, you misshapen mongrels. You ARE those damned Godmans."

  "We are refugees from Crividsylvan," Walin maintained his unhurried tone. "I swear it on the honor of the Durin."

  "The Durins can rot in hell."

  "Kelly, contain yourself," cautioned a scraggly-bearded black rider standing beside the captain. "Consider the possibility they speak truth. Think rationally—could four dwarves alone manage a siege engine of this magnitude?"

  "Taking their side, are you?! Siding with these... freaks?!"

  "I'm merely assessing the facts."

  The captain cast a disdainful glance at his subordinate. "Very well then. Search them thoroughly. Let's see if they're truly the 'refugees' they claim to be."

  "Sir, noble knight," Walin Barklo Vaslov offered a smile that seemed genuine enough. "Search us poor beggars all you like, you'll find naught but rags. Your time's better spent chasing the real Godmans. We passed them on our way here."

  The rider quickly asked, before his captain could speak: "Which direction did they take?"

  "Approximately that way," the black-bearded dwarf indicated northwest. "Their formation appeared scattered. We were concealed in the forest—couldn't observe much detail."

  "'Approximately'?" The captain's temper flared. "How do you expect us to place any faith in such vague testimony?! I should have silenced you from the beginning—nothing but fabrications..."

  "Peace, peace," the more reasonable black rider intervened. "Let's proceed with searching these dwarves. If nothing incriminating is discovered, we can continue tracking the Godmans northwest. Judging by the flames, this trebuchet was ignited quite recently—suggesting the Godmans haven't traveled far. We shouldn't squander valuable time on these dubious dwarves."

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  "We hail from Crivi," Jim Harad slurred, alcohol heavy on his breath. "Or perhaps you could pursue the Godmans while leaving just a few men to search us... hic... as your colleague wisely suggested, why waste precious time on mere refugees?"

  "Trying to split us up, are you?!" the captain snarled. Jim shrugged, the picture of helplessness. "I know the fire's fresh, but that's if these dwarves are telling the truth. Search them," he ordered the one who always argued back. "Roger, Peter, assist him."

  There was no escaping the search, yet for the dwarves, this wasn't necessarily disastrous. If nothing went awry during the inspection, they might yet slip from Cynthia's clutches—at least, that was Walin Barklo Vaslov's assessment. Beyond their weapons, only their Godma high-clearance passes could reveal their true identities. The weapons could be justified as necessary for self-defense on dangerous roads, and the passes—they had already concealed those within their beards. Not foolproof, certainly, but few men had ever dared lay rough hands on a dwarf's beard. The black-bearded dwarf began to relax slightly—until he remembered his companion standing behind him: Toyef Bilinski.

  He hadn't hidden his pass in his beard—he hadn't yet been instructed in this clever technique. Moving as little as possible, Walin angled his body slightly and mouthed silently to the dwarf behind: "Writ... beard..."

  "Hey!" shouted a black rider who was circling around the trebuchet. "What are you doing?!"

  "Oh," Walin quickly adopted a friendly expression. "Merely reassuring my companion not to be anxious. The red-bearded one has never experienced such a situation..."

  "What was that?!" the rider pressed, his voice harder. "Drop what's in your hand! Now!"

  Walin thought first of Holar Peter Wilton and his great black axe. But no, Wilton stood still as a post, axe hidden behind his back, waiting for the search. "What's that in your hand?!" The rider drew his sword with a metallic hiss, pointing it directly at Toyef Bilinski. "Drop it to the ground. Now."

  "It's nothing of consequence..." Toyef attempted to explain.

  "Shut your gods-damned mouth. We decide what matters, not some red-bearded little grub. I won't say it again—drop it."

  It was a wad of paper, crumpled parchment. Walin instantly recognized what it must be.

  His eyes met Toyef's. What he saw there reminded him of a dying fish, washed ashore by merciless waves, managing a few desperate flops before inevitable death. Their fate was suddenly, crystal clear: a path leading only to death. Toyef's lips pressed into a grim line, his fists clenched tight.

  Walin Barklo Vaslov shifted his gaze to Jim Harad. Jim responded with an almost imperceptible nod. Finally, he looked to Wilton, holding his gaze longest of all.

  "Surrender your weapons," instructed the black rider who had attempted civility. "Don't believe I've overlooked that black axe, dwarf. Place it on the ground. We're merely performing our duty—once completed, you may continue on your way."

  "What troubles you?" he asked when Wilton remained motionless.

  "Perhaps you don't comprehend the common tongue?" He was clearly waiting for the right moment.

  "I warn you, mongrel, make no sudden movements," the other black rider threatened, his sword still leveled at Toyef's throat. "Let me examine what's written here—" He bent down to inspect the parchment.

  As the rider's torso reached its lowest point, Walin Barklo Vaslov drew his short sword in a lightning motion, gripping it with both hands and driving it rightward with all his might. The blade punched through the black rider's neck, his surprised expression fixed forever. The rider standing near Jim Harad froze in momentary shock—providing Jim the critical opening he needed. He plunged his dagger deep into the man's thigh, dropping him to his knees with a howl of pain, then swiftly opened his throat with a decisive slash.