[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Through all the hard years and long leagues of his life, the one picture that had kept Snaveling going was that of the hunting lodge that he would build. It would have five rooms and a large porch out back, where he could sit of an evening and smoke his pipe. It would be in an out-of-the-way valley where the hunting and fishing were good, and far from the meddling interference of other folk. If he got lonely he could send to his people in the South for a woman, and she would cook for him and mend his clothes, and he would teach his children how to hunt game and protect themselves from the people who hated them. This lodge was more than his dream -- it was his reason for being. The thought of it had kept him warm in the nights spent outdoors in all weathers. It had given him courage in the wildest lands. And it had given him comfort when the least door in the meanest villages had been closed against him.

And now, it was almost his. As he moved through the hinterlands of consciousness, he walked the halls of this lodge and threw open the shutters to greet the dawn. The gold, the gold -- the precious gold he cried. Such a small thing, a simple thing, a pouch of gold -- and all that I have dreamed of is mine to enjoy forever. But the sunlight on his face was blotted out by sudden rainclouds. The songs of the birds in the valley became the cries of people fighting for their lives, and the warmth of the morning airs became the violent redness of naked flame.

Snaveling awoke practically in tears, knowing even before he opened his eyes that the gold was gone, and with it his dreams. He sat up, gasping in agony and looked at the merciless eyes of Roa and Valthalion staring down at him. He buried his head in his hands and wept as he had not since he was a small child.