"There's plenty of water in this cave." She took the chunk of leather-hard beef he offered and bit into it. "It is a little salty, isn't it?" she admitted, swallowing hard.

They moved on. Then they saw a light coming from somewhere ahead, faint at first but growing steadily stronger as they moved on down the spiral gallery. "His treasure cave is just ahead," Flute whispered. "Let me have a look." She crept on ahead and then returned. "He's there," she said, her face breaking into a smile.

"Is he making that light?" Kurik whispered.

"No. It comes down from the surface. There's a stream that drops down into the cavern. It catches the sunlight at certain times of the day." She was speaking in a normal tone now. "The sound of the waterfall will muffle our voices. We still have to be careful, though. His eyes will catch any movement." She spoke briefly to Sephrenia, and the small Styric woman nodded. She reached up and extinguished the spark at the tip of the sword between two fingers. Then she began to weave an incantation.

"What's she doing?" Sparhawk asked Flute.

"Ghwerig's talking to himself," she replied, "and it might just be that he'll say something useful to us. He's speaking in the language of the Trolls, so Sephrenia's making it possible for us to understand him."

"You mean that she's going to make him speak in Elene?"

"No. The spell isn't directed at him." She smiled that impish little smile of hers. "you're learning many things, Sparhawk. Now you'll understand the language of the Trolls - for a time at least."

Sephrenia released the spell, and quite suddenly Sparhawk could hear much more than he had during their long descent through the spiralling gallery. The rushing sound of the waterfall dropping into the cavern ahead became almost a roar, and Ghwerig's rasping mutter came clearly over it.

"We'll wait here for a time," Flute told them. "Ghwerig's an outcast, so he talks to himself most of the time, and he says whatever is crossing his mind. We can find out a great deal by eavesdropping. Oh, by the way, he has Sarak's crown, and Bhelliom's still attached to it."

Sparhawk felt a sudden rush of excitement. The thing he had sought for so long was no more than a few hundred paces away. "What's he doing?" he asked Flute.

"He's sitting at the edge of the chasm that the waterfall has carved out of the rock. All his treasures are piled up around him. He's cleaning the peat-stains off Bhelliom with his tongue. That's why we can't understand him at the moment. Let's move a little closer, but stay back from the mouth of the gallery."

They crept on down towards the light and stopped a few yards from the opening. The reflected light from the waterfall shimmered and seemed to waver liquidly. It was peculiarly like a rainbow.

"Thieves! Thieves!" The voice was harsh, far harsher than any Elene or Styric throat could have produced.

"Dirty. She all dirty." There was more of the slobbering sound as the Troll-Dwarf licked at his treasure. "Stealers all dead now," Ghwerig chortled hideously. "All dead. Ghwerig not dead, and his rose come home at last."

"He sounds as if he's mad," Kurik muttered.

"He always has been," Flute told him. "His mind's as twisted as his body."

"Talk to Ghwerig, Blue Rose!" the unseen monstrosity commanded. Then he howled out a hideous oath directed at the Styric Goddess Aphrael. "Bring back rings Bring back rings! Bhelliom not talk to Ghwerig if Ghwerig not got rings!" There was a blubbering sound, and Sparhawk realized with revulsion that the beast was crying. "Lonely," the Troll sobbed. "Ghwerig so lonely!"

Sparhawk felt a wrench of almost unbearable pity for the misshapen dwarf.

"Don't do that," Flute said sharply. "It will weaken you when you face him. You're our only hope now, Sparhawk, and your heart must be like stone."

Then Ghwerig spoke for a time in terms so vile that there were no counterparts in the Elene language.

"He's invoking the Troll-Gods," Flute explained quietly. She cocked her head. "Listen," she said sharply.

"The Troll-Gods are answering him."

The muted roar of the waterfall seemed to change tone, becoming deeper, more resonant.

"We'll have to kill him very soon," the little girl said in a chillingly matter-of-fact tone. "He still has some fragments of the original sapphire left in his workshop. The Troll Gods instructed him to make new rings. Then they'll infuse them with the force to unlock the power of Bhelliom. He'll be able to destroy us at that point."

Then Ghwerig chuckled hideously. "Ghwerig beat you, Azash. Azash a God, but Ghwerig beat him. Azash not ever see Bhelliom now."

"Can Azash possibly hear him?" Sparhawk asked.

"Probably," Sephrenia said calmly. "Azash knows the sound of His own name. He listens when somebody says something to Him."

"Man-things swim in lake to find Bhelliom," Ghwerig rambled on. "Bug-thing belong Azash watch from weeds and see them. Man-things go away. Bug-thing bring man-things with no minds. Man-things swim in water. Many drown. One man-thing find Bhelliom. Ghwerig kill man-thing and take Blue Rose. Azash want Bhelliom? Azash come seek Ghwerig. Azash cook in Troll-God fire. Ghwerig never eat God-meat before. Ghwerig wonder how God-meat taste."

Deep within the earth there was a rumbling sound, and the floor of the cave seemed to shudder.

"Azash definitely heard him," Sephrenia said. "You almost have to admire that twisted creature out there. No one has ever thrown that kind of insult into the face of one of the Elder Gods."

"Azash mad to Ghwerig?" the Troll was saying. "Or maybe-so Azash shake from fear. Ghwerig have Bhelliom now. Soon make rings. Ghwerig not need Troll-Gods then. Cook Azash in Bhelliom-fire. Cook slow so juice not burn away. Ghwerig eat Azash. Who is pray to Azash when Azash lay deep in Ghwerig's belly?"

The rumble this time was accompanied by sharp cracking sounds as rocks deep in the earth shattered.

"He's sticking his neck out, wouldn't you say?" Kurik said in a strained voice. "Azash isn't the sort you want to play with."

"The Troll-Gods are protecting Ghwerig," Sephrenia replied. "Not even Azash would risk a confrontation with them."

"Stealers. Stealers!" the Troll howled. "Aphrael steal rings. Adian of Thalesia steal Bhelliom! Now Azash and Sparhawk from Elenia try to steal her from Ghwerig again. Talk to Ghwerig, Blue Rose! Ghwerig lonely!"

"How did he find out about me?" Sparhawk was startled by the breadth of the Troll-Dwarf's knowledge.

"The Troll-Gods are old and very wise," Sephrenia replied. "There's very little that happens in the world that they don't know, and they'll pass it on to those who serve them - for a price."

"What sort of price would satisfy a God?"

"Pray that you never have to know, dear one," she said with a shudder.

"Take Ghwerig ten years to carve one petal here, Blue Rose. Ghwerig love Blue rose. Why she not talk to Ghwerig?" He mumbled inaudibly for a time. "Rings. Ghwerig make rings so Bhelliom speak again. Burn Azash in Bhelliom fire. Burn Sparhawk in Bhelliom fire. Burn Aphrael in Bhelliom fire. All burn. All burn. Then Ghwerig eat."

"I think it's time for us to get to it," Sparhawk said grimly. "I definitely don't want him getting into his workshop." He reached for his sword.

"Use the spear," Flute told him. "He can grab your sword out of your hand, but the spear has enough power to hold him off. Please, my noble father, try to stay alive. I need you."

"I'm doing my very best," he told her.

"Father?" Kurik asked in a tone of surprise.

"It's a Styric form of address," Sephrenia said rather quickly, throwing a look at Flute. "It has to do with respect - and love."

At that point Sparhawk did something he had seldom done before. He set his palms together in front of his chest and bowed to this strange Styric child.

Flute clasped her hands together in delight, then hurled herself into his arms and kissed him soundly with her little rose-bud mouth. "Father," she said. For some reason Sparhawk felt profoundly embarrassed. Flute's kiss was not that of a little girl.

"How hard is a Troll's head?" Kurik asked Flute gruffly, obviously as disturbed as Sparhawk by the little girl's open display of affection that seemed far beyond her years. He was shaking out his brutal chain-mace.

"Very very hard," she told him.

"We've heard that he's deformed," Kurik continued.

"How good are his legs?"

"Weak. It's all he can do to stand."

"All right then, Sparhawk," Kurik said in a professional tone. "I'll edge around to the side of him and whip him across the knees, h*ps and ankles with this." He swung his mace whistling through the air. "If I can put him down, shove the spear into his guts and then I'll try to brain him."

"Must you be so graphic, Kurik?" Sephrenia protested in a sick voice.

"This is business, little mother," Sparhawk told her.

"We have to know exactly what we're going to do, so don't interfere. All right, Kurik, let's go." Quite deliberately he walked to the mouth of the gallery and stepped out into the cavern, making no attempt to conceal himself.

The cavern was a place of wonder. Its roof was lost in purple shadow, and the seething waterfall plunged in glowing, golden mist into an unimaginably deep chasm from which the hollow roar of falling water echoed up in endless babble. The walls, stretching out as far as the eye could reach, glittered with flecks and veins of gold, and gems more precious than the ransom of kings sparkled in the shifting, rainbow-hued light.

The misshapen Troll-Dwarf, shaggy and grotesque, squatted at the edge of the chasm, and piled around him were lumps and chunks of pure gold and heaps of gems of every hue. In his right hand Ghwerig held the stained gold crown of King Sarak, and surmounting that crown was Bhelliom, the sapphire rose. The jewel seemed to glow as it caught and reflected the light that came tumbling down with the falling water. Sparhawk looked for the first time at the most precious object on earth, and for a moment a kind of wonder almost overcame him.

Then he stepped forward, the ancient battle-spear held low in his left hand. He wasn't sure if Sephrenia's spell would make it possible for the grotesque Troll to understand him, but he felt a peculiar moral compunction to speak. To simply destroy this deformed monstrosity without a word was not in Sparhawk's nature. He did not know if Ghwerig could understand him, but he had to speak. "I have come for the Bhelliom," he said. "I am not Adian, King of Thalesia, so I will not try to trick you. I will take what I want from you by main force. Defend yourself if you can." It was as close as Sparhawk could come to a formal challenge under the circumstances.

Ghwerig came to his feet, his twisted body hideous, and his flat lips peeled back from his yellow fangs in a snarl of hatred. "You not take Ghwerig's Bhelliom from him, Sparhawk from Elenia. Ghwerig kill first. Here you die, and Ghwerig eat - not even pale Elene God save Sparhawk now."

"That hasn't been decided yet," Sparhawk replied coolly. "I need the use of Bhelliom for a time, and then I will destroy it to keep it out of the hands of Azash. Surrender it up to me or die."

Ghwerig's laughter was hideous. "Ghwerig die? Ghwerig immortal, Sparhawk from Elenia. Man-thing cannot kill."

"That also hasn't been decided yet." Quite deliberately, Sparhawk took the spear in both hands and advanced on the Troll-dwarf. Kurik, his spiked chain-mace hanging from his right fist, came out of the mouth of the gallery and edged around his Lord to come at the Troll from the side.

"Two?" Ghwerig said. "Sparhawk should have brought a hundred." He bent and lifted a huge stone club bound with iron out of a pile of gems. "You not take Ghwerig's Bhelliom from him, Sparhawk from Elenia. Ghwerig kill first. Here you die, and Ghwerig eat. Not even Aphrael save Sparhawk now. Little man-things doomed. Ghwerig feast this night. Roasted man-things have much juice." He smacked his lips grossly. He straightened, his rough-furred shoulders bulking ominously. The term "dwarf" as applied to a troll, Sparhawk saw, was grossly deceptive. Ghwerig, despite his deformity, was at least as tall as he, and the Troll's arms, twisted like old stumps, hung down below his knees. His face was furred rather than bearded, and his green eyes seemed to glow malevolently. He shambled forward, his vast club swinging in his right hand. In his left he still clutched Sarak's crown with Bhelliom glowing at its apex.

Kurik stepped in and swung his whistling chain-mace at the monster's knees, but Ghwerig almost disdainfully blocked the blow with his club. "Flee, weak man-thing," he said, his voice grating horribly. "All flesh is food for me." He swung his horrid club at that point, and the reach of his abnormally long arms made him doubly dangerous. Kurik jumped back as the iron-bound stone cudgel whistled past his face.

Sparhawk lunged in, driving the spear at the Troll's chest, but again Ghwerig deflected the stroke. Too slow, Sparhawk from Elenia," he laughed.

Then Kurik's mace caught him high on the left hip.

Ghwerig fell back, but with cat-like speed smashed his club into a pile of glittering gems, spraying them out like missiles. Kurik winced and put his free hand to his face to wipe the blood from the gash in his forehead out of his eyes. Sparhawk jabbed again with his spear, lightly slicing the off-balanced Troll across the chest. Ghwerig roared with rage and pain, then stumbled forward with vast swings of his club. Sparhawk jumped back, coolly watching for an opening. He saw that the Troll was totally without fear. No injury short of one that was mortal would make the thing retreat. Ghwerig was actually foaming at the mouth now, and his green eyes glowed with madness. He spat out hideous curses and lurched forward again, swinging his horrid club.

"Keep him away from the edge!" Sparhawk shouted to Kurik. "If he goes over, we may never find the crown!"

"Then he quite clearly realized that he had found the key".

Somehow they had to make the deformed Troll drop the crown. It was obvious by now that not even the two of them could prevail against this small creature with its long arms and its eyes ablaze with insane rage. Only a distraction would give them the opportunity to leap in and deliver a mortal wound. He shook his right hand to get Kurik's attention, then reached over and clapped the hand on his left elbow. Kurik's eyes looked puzzled for a moment, but then they narrowed, and he nodded. He circled around to Ghwerig's left, his mace at the ready.