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. Chane was following -- the rest could
only assume -- the green line that marked the path where
Grallen had gone centuries before.
In fact, Chane's weakened state was why Wingover
kept questioning him. The dwarf was showing signs that
to the wilderness man spelled sheer exhaustion -- a flat-
eyed stare that never seemed to blink; paleness that came
and went; a rolling, almost drunken pace.
Wingover knew that it was time to stop and rest, and
for the past day or more the man had been looking for a
place to do that. The problem was, except for a pair of
wide places on the trail where bitter winds had chilled
them and the last of their provisions had run out, there
had simply been no place to rest.
Their current trail along the mountainside was one
Wingover had never explored. The human marveled at
the idea that a dwarven prince had once led armies this
way, heading for the final battle of his final war on what
most men called the Plains of Dergoth, though dwarves
more often called the region the Plains of Death.
Wingover snorted as the dwarf in the lead stumbled
again. He handed his horse's lead to Jilian and caught
Chane's good shoulder in a firm hand. "Are you all
right?" he asked, looking into the dwarf's exhausted
eyes.
"I'm all right," Chane growled. 'We have to keep go-
ing."
"Do you know where we are?"
"I know where I'm going. The path is clear."
"Yes, but do you know where we are?"
"Not exactly
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