"Do you believe it?" Wilton half-turned.

  "Believe what?"

  "That the woman would have quietly returned to Crivi."

  The infant waved her tiny hands in the air.

  "I believe," Fendi paused, swallowing hard. "I trusted her."

  "As did I."

  Fendi Firshield's eyes reddened as he cried out in desperation, "Then why did you do this?!"

  "She would've ruined us, kid. One word, and everything we've done would be gone. The Humanoid Act wouldn't get repealed, and we'd all be hanging," Holar Peter Wilton said, resting his axe on his left shoulder. "This is exactly what the Godmans want, the very fruit their original plan was designed to bear..." Wilton murmured a brief prayer before raising his axe.

  "Stop right there!" Fendi drew his short sword, the situation rapidly deteriorating. "Get away from that baby! NOW!"

  "She knows, kid. She knows everything. She saw it all."

  "Step away from the baby, Wilton!" For the first time, the young dwarf abandoned all formality.

  "All this for a human, huh?" Wilton said slowly. "Think about it, kid. You're fighting your own people."

  Fendi held his weapon steady.

  "Wilton, listen," Walin Barklo Vaslov's voice emerged as a dry rasp from deep in his throat. "Spare her. That child knows nothing beyond nursing, spitting up, and sleeping. She can't speak a word, even if she wanted to."

  "She'll grow up eventually."

  "Then address it when she grows."

  "By then it will be too late."

  "Wilton," the elder dwarf's tone remained measured. "You're merely trying to slay your own demons. Let her be."

  The baby sniffled, her wide, glistening eyes fixed on the axe in Wilton's hand.

  The black axe fell, striking the ground beside the infant, missing by a mere inch. Soil splattered across her tiny form, some landing in her wet mouth. The baby grimaced as the dirt, soaked with congealing blood, touched her lips.

  "I'll dispose of her body," Holar Peter Wilton said, lifting Caroline Tobias's lifeless form. The blood that had sprayed earlier had already cooled and darkened. Fendi Firshield sheathed his weapon and hastily gathered up the baby, who had turned crimson-faced and was nearly suffocating.

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  "Bury her by the riverside," Walin said, his stiff legs carrying him awkwardly toward Wilton. He carefully avoided letting his eyes fall upon the dead woman. "Since she despised Crivi, lay her to rest as far from it as possible."

  "...Or we could let the river take her, Lord Walin. That'd be more romantic, more poetic."

  "That would ensure the body's discovery," Walin whispered to Wilton. "Don't mistake me for a fool or some reckless hothead." He patted Wilton's shoulder lightly. "I know you're right. Jim knows it too, as does Fendi. We simply refuse to acknowledge it. But cold-bloodedness isn't the same as needless cruelty, just as reason doesn't demand total extermination. The infant witnessed everything, but that's all she can do. If she could choose, she would undoubtedly wish to tear you limb from limb and damn you to the depths of hell."

  "I fear neither curses nor Oris and her hell. What I fear is living in a world that has itself become hell." Wilton carried Caroline's body away. "Forgive me, miss," Walin sighed into the night sky.

  After the young dwarf's clumsy ministrations, the baby finally resumed her crying. "This is going to be tough, Fendi," Jim Harad said, gazing tenderly at the swaddled infant. "We have no milk—neither cow's nor goat's. She cries fiercely, clearly hungry, yet we have nothing suitable to offer her."

  "Fish soup," Fendi blurted out.

  "Oh, heavens, lad!" Jim chuckled. "In all honesty, that fish soup is wretched. If I weren't trying to impress Lord Walin, I'd have spat out every mouthful." Fendi joined in the laughter, their voices breaking intermittently. "But at least it will stave off starvation. That's enough—it must be enough."

  The infant looked at the murky, pale-green broth and instinctively recoiled. "Please eat, uh... little lady," Fendi Firshield's bearded face softened with unexpected tenderness. "It will sustain you through the night. By morning, we'll procure some milk... or perhaps you'd prefer goat's milk? Trust me, little miss." The baby seemed to nod in vague comprehension, though her gaze at the soup still betrayed apprehension.

  "Someone approaches," Walin quickly seized his black axe where it stood embedded in the earth. Fendi instinctively clutched the baby protectively while Jim grasped his weapon. "May the gods be merciful—let it not be Cynthians," the young dwarf whispered in prayer. "Let me hear singing."

  The group first detected the sound of heavy wagon wheels pressing into the earth, making it groan in protest. Distant silhouettes merged with the forest's edge, their numbers indistinct in the darkness. Then, carried on the night breeze over flattened grass, came singing voices.

  ("Kriston, wicked god of ale! Your brew is enchanted, leaving me bewitched! Aishayana, my lovely bride! Your eyes, drugged by his potions, are lost in his spell!")

  The sound of drinking.

  ("Return my wife, Kriston, I beg! I'd sacrifice everything! Turn your gaze from him, Aishayana. You are my everything!")

  The sound of drinking.

  ("What? You demand I surrender the wine you gifted me? How preposterous! How unreasonable! What? You insist I return his fine spirits? How childish! How foolish!")

  The sound of drinking.

  ("I've pondered endlessly, sleepless through nights! Now my mind is made. Take my wife, god of ale! In exchange, leave behind your finest brews!")

  The sound of hiccupping.

  "A Toast to the Ale Lord," Fendi Firshield exhaled with profound relief. "But the verses are unmistakably Master Bilinski's style."

  "Yeah, he's the Ale Lord himself. No doubt about it," Jim Harad said, sheathing his longsword. "His voice is quite unforgettable."

  Walin Barklo Vaslov returned his black axe to its upright position. "I think I need to hug him, and kiss his beard."