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safe now, and I can help any of your people who are wounded. You just need to order them to break off the attack.”
     
    Five Nars examined Dorn’s iron arm, testing the sharpness of the talons and knuckle spikes. One accidentally gashed his finger. He grinned and held it up for his companions to see.
    Unlike most civilized folk Dorn had encountered, the nomads didn’t seem repulsed by the ugliness of his iron parts. Rather, they admired them as weapons. Still, he hated being the object of anybody’s curiosity, and had to strain to bear it without discourtesy.
    But maybe it was easier than it used to be. If so, he knew he had Kara’s influence to thank.
    Of course, most of his partners were exotic by Nar standards, but they all seemed to be tolerating the barbarians’ gawking more comfortably than he. Preening, Jivex related stories of his battles against the wyrms, dracoliches, and demons that he had, to hear him tell it, slain more or less unaided. Taegan, meanwhile, displayed the particular blend of exquisite manners, wit, and swagger that had helped make him one of the most fashionable fencing masters in Lyrabar. The difference was, he no longer insisted on identifying himself as “an adopted son of Impiltur” or some such thing. He was willing to call himself an elf.
    Not an avariel, however. As best Dorn could judge, Taegan’s recent experiences had convinced him the elf race as a whole merited respect, but not his own winged offshoot of the family. If anything, the reverse was true. In the maestro’s estimation, the avariels, due to some defect in their fundamental natures, had wasted centuries hiding like timid savages in the wilderness while their cousins raised splendid cities and perfected subtle arts.
    Well, Dorn reflected with a fleeting, crooked twitch of a smile, if Taegan remained ashamed of his blood, it was too had, but likewise his own affair. Malar knew, Dorn was about the last man on Torii to teach anybody else the trick of feeling easy in his own skin_
    That might be why he disliked meeting strangers, and exchanging pointless blather with them before getting down to whatever business was at hand. But the Far Quey were like other Nars and barbarians in general. You couldn’t rush through the exchange of courtesies without offending them.
    Finally, though, the most important men in the raiding party were ready to sit down around a fire with Dorn and his comrades. Raryn fetched a jug of brandy. The Nars broke out a straight, spindly pipe as long as a man’s arm and stuffed the bowl with the dried, ground remains of what was presumably a plant.
    The nomads displayed a calm, proud demeanor. A newcomer wouldn’t have guessed they’d recently tried to
    murder their hosts, or survived a clash with a creature out of nightmare.
    Mibor, the chieftain, took a pull from the jug and passed it on. “We thought the night dragon was your ally,” he said in a voice as deep and harsh as Dorn’s own, “and that the bard meant to hold us helpless while it slaughtered us.”
    It was evidently as close to an apology as he intended to go. Maybe, since Brimstone actually was the hunters’ ally—a fact they all had better sense than to emphasize—it was more than they deserved.
    “We understand,” Kara said, human once more, lustrous eyes catching the firelight. “But I only meant to give you the song as a gift, and to signal peaceful intentions.”
    Taegan grinned. “I attempted to convey the same thing. It seems the Far Quey are warriors of such valor, they find it difficult even to fathom such a message.”
    Dorn wasn’t sure whether that worked out to a compliment or not, but Mibor accepted it as such, and inclined his head.
    “When you and the little drake first flew over our head,” the chieftain said, “you said you were looking for information, and that if we helped you, we would help ourselves as well.”
    “It’s true,” Pavel said, his hands and jerkin still smeared and speckled with the