Suddenly, a cracking boom startled me, and several of the stones in one wall fell out to rattle across the dungeon floor. Dust, and another shudder followed. Then there stood the Golem, a sizable rent in the wall behind it. I balked, not knowing quite what I was expected to do. Gort stumped across to me and grabbed me in a bear hug. I thought my ribs would crack when it hove me up, Flinging me over a hard clay shoulder like a sack of grain, it pivoted and retreated back through the hole at a quick trot. The golem wasn't exactly a smooth ride. The floor and weeping ceiling swam alternately into view. Behind me there were shouts and the rattling of door locks.

It was a crude tunnel of sorts. Gort's feet sloshed calf deep in water and mud. My back stung, scraped on hanging roots and from being shouldered through the tight soggy passage past spots where boulders protruded. Gort stopped at one point not far inside and put me down in the goo. From a widened area of the passage, it lifted some impressive rocks and blocked the hole behind us. It lifted me back up with a little more care despite my protests and continued on. Did I mention I weigh almost three hundred pounds? To say that I was discomforted by the shoulder ride is only to understate how little that, or my heft, meant to Gort. The passage took an upwards slope, and the tunnel floor became dry. Soon we emerged in a thorn thicket, where Gort again decanted me, returning to the hole quickly. There followed some rumbling, and Gort reemerged covered with muck.

"The cloths," it rumbled. "Wipe me down."

I pulled out the wad of cloth Orton had provided, and swiped at the smooth surface of the Golem. The goo shed the thing's surface like water squeegeed from a windowpane. I applied the few remaining rags to myself for good measure.

"Follow."

His tone was a reminder that I was not the only one who could set Gort to an immutable task. It had not occured to me that the golem could be given a series of commands or tasks all at once, as Chord had obviously done. Gort turned and forged ahead, so I followed closely, using it as a shield to ward off the nasty looking nettles and barbs. The bramble merged with a small wood. I was surprised to see we were outside the town proper. The lights of Corbell flickered to the east, though only faintly.

Gort proceeded into the wood stopping near a stump, which he pulled from the ground with little effort. A well-tarred bundle lay at the bottom of the hole. I knelt and dragged it free. The bundle contained a few necessities, fresh pants, a shirt, my Roundel, and my other boots. I occupied myself with a refit, glad to be free of the burned and stinking corpses of what were my former habiliments, turning to face Gort once that was done. I transferred the glass rod, which had remarkably stayed intact, to the new clothes, along with my sample pouch. The heat of my fever was receding, or at least, was not as debilitating, now out of the cold and damp of Wayland's dungeon.

"What now?"

Gort shifted, and the unmistakable voice of Chord echoed from its mouth.

"You must be thoroughly disgusted with us by now, my boy, but this is all in your best interest. Gort will take you to a small hunter's shanty nearby, where May-Anne waits for you. You cannot return to town yet, and we still need to know more of what Duke Felway and MaCaan's master, Veddek, are about. Depending on what MaCaan knows or tells, such a return would be...unwise. I can't imagine a better person, or one with more need to ferret these things out than you. At least you would recognize anything else these creatures have imported.

"May-Anne will stay at the shack and carry any messages from you to us. I can't think of anything that would disguise your unique self, let alone Gort, so you will find Brock waiting for you at the shack as well. His tribe can closet you for a while, if needed. May-Anne will tell you the rest when you see her."

I couldn't guess what enticement Chord could have offered Brock to get him involved in my problems, or imagine the effort all this amounted to on my behalf. It was stunning, and brought me to realize how important the events I had precipitated must be, and how concerned my companions were for me. It was a humbling moment.

It was a short walk to the hunting shanty, and properly named, for the four walls and roof barely qualified it as a habitat for any other purpose. It's windows were unglazed holes, and several of it's side wall boards unchinked with the mud as served as mortar, more for privacy, evidently, than protection from the elements. As told, May-Anne met us when we approached the cabin, where Brock waited as well.

Brock's bearded countenance was calm, though his manner was brisk as ever.

"Got yerself into a fix, aye? Chord says I'm ta' help as I can. Yer copper's dug, the shaft runs true for an additional twenty feet along the vein, so's you'll be good fer a while an' ya gets back. The supplies were welcome, and t'was a good thing all round. So then, what's to do?" His feet were propped casually on a minuscule table centered in the cramped shack, but he managed an air of leisure which bordered on comfort, and spoke as if we were conducting a casual visit.

Then again, his interest in the political wrangles of humans was virtually nonexistent so I should have expected nothing else.

May-Anne was another matter. Her eyes betrayed a hesitant excitement bordering on fear. "Chord called for Brock as soon as you were jailed. Says you two should travel over the border between Wayland's hold and Felway's. See what you can find out. You shouldn't be recognized there, so long as you don't try to set up a smithy. The only person as might know you on sight is MaCaan, and he is sequesterd by Duke Felway. Brock knows the area well, and can keep you oriented."

Brock's booted feet hit the ground, and he sat up. "Tis true enough. We have communities in the northern range, and the bottom land's well known to me and mine. We travel through it from time to time, lad. The way through to Felway's holdings will be watched now, so's it's me as can get you past, comes to it."

May-Anne nodded, adding, "I'll stay here, and await word. Chord will send Dimanda to Derbin in the care of Thavis. As far as the court knows, she will have been sent home for safety. We both have birds set to travel between the tower of Mage Belmus there, and this cabin. If none arrive in two weeks though, it's back to the city for me, so even if you've nothing to report, get word back to me within that time." She gestured to a small stack of supplies, likely food, piled in one corner of the shack. The messages will come here rather than through any traffic to the city for privacy's sake. Chord would have had Dimanda at his keep for true, but Dimanda would not have any of that, though we both argued strongly against it. The borderlands are only three days from here. I wouldn't do this for anyone but Chord, but I understand something of the importance of all this, so you can count on me."

"There's food and such in those packs," Brock pointed to another small pile near the table. "We must be off soon. Be not good, were you to be found spooning about this close to the city and all. I was told some of yer adventures by Chord. Seems mine and yours would both benefit from getting rid of these demons and their brood. Burlie's be enough trouble, without addin' giant glowin' ones to the mix; so we've common concern so far as that goes. As for the rest," Brock shrugged, "you have been fair with us. We've no reason ta see you in a pickle. We'll keep you out of Wayland's sight for a bit, as you need it."

I nodded. "Thanks Brock. I'm not sure what the mages wish me to find, exactly, save for what kinds of arms they have managed to get hold of, and such, but on my part, I need to know if a way exists to get me home, and be free of...some other troubles. I have no wish to be left a puppet of either Wayland, the Demons or..." I caught myself before mentioning Credine, not knowing how much Chord had confided to Brock, "or others. Your help is appreciated. I can only wish I were a man of words and better able to express my thanks and astonishment for the aid you have given me, but whatever else you are getting out of this, I am in your debt."

"Naw, I be well paid fer this, not that I don't like you well enough, William. As to the mages needs, I'm thinking the wizards expect things they needs to know will become apparent to you, lad. They simply trust in you to survive and bring back word. Bah!" snorted Brock. "Enough of this, We can blubber over an ale sack or three later; grab yer packs and let's be gone."

I did as asked, and with a warm hug from May-Anne to see me off, we left. Gort trundled along behind us, to the annoyance of Brock."That thing will need to be kept away from most folks. You may not be known, but there are not many as travel about with walking pottery, you see."

"I can order him to stay out of sight as we need. Meanwhile..." I handed my pack to Gort and motioned to Brock to do the same. The Nublin eyed the construct as he passed his to the Golem, as if sizing it up for demolition.

"Handy enough at certain times, I suppose. Like having too many daughters, both a blessing and a curse."

We circled further west before striking north again towards the border, passing the western sheer face this time, of Mount Esh. Brock was a brisk walker by nature, so our natural gaits matched well, and we made good time. We went by game trail and wash, rarely near anything I could discern as a roadway, so I was entirely dependent on Brock's lead. My life here had been a confused whirl of events, the forge at Chord's keep, the only solid rock in the storm my life had become. Even my mind, it seemed, was not entirely my own. I had never felt so dependent on the kindness and direction of others. A fugitive, there was nothing else to do but to follow, and try to keep what sanity was left me.

It was a dark night, under a waning moon. We crossed a frigidly cold creek, and wound up broken ravines, scrambling for footing. Eventually we entered, not a clearing exactly, but a stand of leafy brush, who's thin trunks did not branch much at their bases but were fuller six feet or so above the ground, where they divided heavily, providing both cover and some protection from the wind. We pushed through to a central space where ground beneath was bare.

Brock kicked at the scrub and said, "This is as good as any place. Throw yer self down for a bit. No fire though. We'll be safe enough here for a spell."

I retrieved my pack from Gort, unrolled a thick woolen mat tied beneath it, and fell on it, lost to sleep instantly, to awake only in the heat of the following day.

Brock seemed unconcerned with my sleeping past dawn's resurrection and looked to have done similarly. My concern must have been obvious though, for he winked and gruffed at me. "Better we travel by evening for a while, William. Settle yerself. See what yer can rummage out of that pack fer food. I'll fetch us some fresh water, meantime."

There were biscuits, some cheese, a sheaf of dried meat, flour, salt, nuts, and even some clay packed eggs nestled in a small wooden box. I pulled out the biscuits and cheese, mindful of Brock's warning against starting a fire. Brock returned with some water and we sat and ate. I recounted the "rescue" Gort had staged, and showed the Nublin the splash of metal I had retrieved atop Mount Esh.

Brock held out his hand. "Here then, let me look at yer sample "

I did this, and Brock opened a small pouch on his belt, extracting a set of tiny picks, some small vials, and a miniature balance scale. He produced an odd shaped beaker with a spout set just below its lip, and another even smaller, that fitted beneath the spout. I looked on with interest as Brock scratched his picks one at a time across the surface of the melt. Then he treated the sample with the contents of the vials, and scrutinized the result.

Finally he put a small weight on one side of his scale, and added shavings from my find to the other pan, until it balanced. He filled the larger beaker with water to overflowing and placed the smaller container below the spout. He dropped the measured shavings into the beaker, collecting the run-off displaced by the shavings, and checked the water level of the smaller container. The Nublin rocked back, pulling at his substantial beard, and pursed his lips.

"A good bit of gold in this. An alloy though, and not one yer could just dig up natural. Hardened up to be worked inta' jewelry or some such, but not with silver or copper, which is odd. Could bubble the true metal out with some carbon at a forge, likely. Something strange in the look of it."

Brock squinted at it with those unsettling kaleidoscopic eyes of his, then shrugged and tossed the melt back to me, carefully restoring the supplies to his pack and belt.

"Could it be worked again?"

Brock pulled his beard again and nodded. "Aye, you could cast it as it is. The alloy is too brittle to work it up by hammering, but it could be cast. We have some time afore we want ta travel yet. I could sand cast it into a hoop for ya, if you like, once out of these shrubs, a' course."

"Thought we needed to avoid making a fire," I said.

"Ye misunderstood me, lad. No fire in here, in this patch. These shrubs release a terrible stench if heated. A fire'd release such vapors as would drive ya ta gag, boy! Tis the same stuff yer mages boil down and use on the Burlies! Naw, out there, beyond the bushes."

My natural interest in metal working of any kind took over, and I agreed to the experiment. Brock led me to the bank of the creek where he had retrieved the water. We gathered some hardwoods for a fire, then banked it in a steep bowl of dirt and rock.

While the fire caught and came to a full burn, Brock etched a circle in a flat spot of the bank's damp sand. Another rummage in his pack produced a small covered crucible. He put the melt into it, placed it in the now hot fire, and we both worked to fan the blaze.

"That's an awful lot of geological gear you've brought along there, Brock. Were you intending on a bit of prospecting along the way?"

Brock gave a barking laugh. "Hah! You forget my vocation, lad. Those things are always part of me pack!"

The sample turned to golden fluid in the blaze and Brock had me order Gort to retrieve it from the fire and pour it into the sandy ring, where it sputtered and spat, finally setting up and cooling. After a little more time we doused it with cold water and pulled the thin circlet out. The ring was crude, pocked and coated with sand, but Brock hunted the stream bed for a fine-textured piece of stone and carefully worked the band with it until it achieved a mild burnish. The quality of the metal became apparent and it took on a dull sheen, though the workmanship was still extremely crude. The burnishing stone was now covered with gold from working the ring, and Brock carefully stored it in his pack, "for later."

I admired the result, and for want of any other method of carrying it, formed it a bit more on my head, and wore it like a hatband.

The sun had lowered significantly during all this, and Brock declared it late enough to start out again, so we broke camp and headed north once more.