“Young fellow, whenever they say ‘mission’ or ‘quest,’ ” declared Rorik the dwarf, clanking his tankard down on the oak table, “watch out! What they really mean is ‘a miserable, unrewarding trudge through the Nine Hells.’ ” Rorik gave a contemptuous snort and set about braiding his long red beard. They were silent for a moment-the muted roar of the falls could be heard outside.

Gnarl leaned against the open doorway of the dwarf’s rented hut and looked questioningly at Miriam, who lounged in a rude chair across from Rorik. She was drinking ale as enthusiastically as Rorik.

Gnarl’s gaze lingered on her: she was lithe, with long raven-wing black hair; her comely features were mostly human but she had the pointed ears and arched eyebrows of a half-elf. Rorik, in previous dealings, had told him something of her. She was the daughter of rangers killed in a skirmish with hobgoblins in the Dawnforge Mountains. A mere girl of seven, she’d fled into a cave. Dwarves found her, a starved child wandering in the mazy tunnels, and took her into their city of Hammerfast where she was adopted by Rorik’s family; a rare thing, as the clannish dwarves were known for fierce loyalty to their own kind.

Gnarl had not been surprised when the warlock had recommend Rorik to accompany him-the dwarf artisan was known for his skill with magical items-but he’d never met Rorik’s adopted sister before, and it seemed strange that Sernos had suggested they take this sinuous beauty along. True, a dragonhide quiver of arrows hung on the back of her chair, the longbow leaning against the wall within reach. She wore a dragonhide kilt and a warrior’s tight-fitting top of chain mail-but her long, tanned arms and legs were bare, and her fingernails were painted with flecks of crushed jade. She turned him a cool appraisal with her dusky olive eyes, then returned her attention to her ale, draining the brass tankard. When she moved, he glimpsed emerald lights in her hair.