They found themselves in a large artificial cavern, narrow near the door but widening out further away and the ceiling rising until it was too high for the humans to touch it with raised hands. Pillars of rock five feet thick ran down the middle at intervals, some of them with glints of gold bearing quartz left there from necessity. The floor was flat, made from a layer of crushed rock and gravel, and sloped down from the door at a one in five gradient. As they walked, they heard the distant sound of dripping water, sending echoes bouncing eerily off the walls and back from the far distant other end of the cavern.

     To one side was an opening into a smaller cavern. Inside, the walls and floor were stained with splashes of solidified slag and the ceiling was black with soot. Most of the room was taken up with piles of crushed quartz, some of which still had tiny specks of gold in them, and beside them were the huge mills that had crushed the excavated rock into powder. Near the back wall stood two huge furnaces in which the gold bearing ore had been heated until the gold melted and ran out. A wide crack had opened in the side of one of them as it had cooled during its long neglect, rendering it forever useless. A few crumbly lumps of charcoal lay around them, all that was left of the mountain of cooked wood that must have fed the furnaces during the days of the mine’s operation.

     Next to them stood a collection of refining equipment including suits of body armour and face masks to protect the workers from the heat of the furnaces. Beside them was a neatly stacked pile of ingot moulds and pouring buckets, all carefully cleaned of any trace of gold. Block and tackle gear hung from the ceiling for raising and pouring the buckets of molten gold, and huge tongs for lifting and moving other hot items of equipment hung from hooks on the wall. There were hammers in a range of sizes, from tiny ones smaller than lollipops to huge mallets that would have needed two humans just to lift, and beside them were several other tools which the wizards couldn't identify, all scarred, dented and worn from over a century of active use, all rusty and decayed from almost a century of neglect except where a trace of the protective oil that had been left covering them still remained. Shale ignored all of these, however, and went straight for two picks that hung above the door, also rusty with neglect but still strong and usable. "Knew they'd be here," he muttered, handing one to Bluin. "Now, let's get out of here."

     He led them further down the main cavern until they came to a place where a smaller tunnel branched off to the right and sloped upwards. It was just barely high enough for a trog to stand upright inside it, forcing the others to crouch down uncomfortably, and was just wide enough for two people to stand side by side. Entering it, they found that it came to a dead end after about sixty feet. Shale tested the rock with his massive, stubby fingernails, scratching it with their pointed tips, and Thomas remembered his comparative anatomy teacher saying that they could actually dig through some of the softer rock types with them. Not this rock, though. "Just a couple of feet to go now," said Shale, hefting the pick. "Back up a bit, give us room to swing."

     The others retreated a few feet, leaving Shale and Bluin to begin attacking the face of the tunnel with the picks, swinging alternately. Chips of rock began to fly out, and the sound of the blows reverberated around the cavern, worrying them that it would attract Dermakarak's new masters. "We'd better get back to the doors and guard them," suggested Thomas.

     Sure enough, they arrived back at the doors to hear the barking of buglin voices and the impatiently shouted orders of the shologs, and they saw the doors slowly being pushed open. A buglin's hand holding a short ironwood sword appeared through the crack. They jumped at the doors, slamming them shut and trapping the hand, which opened wide with a yelp and dropped the sword. The mercenaries eased off the pressure for a moment, long enough for the gashed and bleeding hand to be snatched back, then they pushed again, closing the door fully. "Quit yer whinin'!" they heard a sholog say. "Now git that door open before I rip yer guts out an' strangle ya wiv ‘em!"

     "Nice people," said Shaun. He yelled to the women. "Go get something heavy to pile up against the doors while we hold them closed!" Lirenna and Diana went off to look, while Jerry scooped piles of sand and gravel up against the doors. Soon the women came back carrying a third pick between them and the men wedged the point into the crack between door and wall, jamming the door closed.

     They stood watching with their hearts in their throats as the buglins hammered and thumped on the other side, every eye on the crack between the two doors, searching fearfully for any sign of movement. There was none, though, and after a few minutes they felt confident enough to return to the side passage, where they were overjoyed to see a gleam of sunlight shining through a small hole. "Almost through," said Bluin. Suddenly a booming crash came echoing down the cavern, bringing a rain of dust and gravel down from the ceiling onto their heads. It was followed by another, and another. "What in the nine hells...!" cried Shaun. He rushed back to the main cavern to see what it was, and returned with his face pale with fear. "They're using a battering ram against the doors! They'll be here in no time!"

     The two trogs attacked the rock with renewed vigour, widening the hole with a few solid swings until it was just barely wide enough to crawl through. "Come on," said Shale, going through first and followed by Bluin. The women went next, followed by Jerry and Thomas. As the two fighters wriggled through, their leather breastplates scraping against the rock, they heard the doors burst open and the excited yapping of buglin voices as they rushed in.

     Shaun was the last one out, and found himself with the others on a precarious forty five degree slope, about thirty feet above the road. They slipped and slid down, tearing their clothes on jagged outcrops of rock, getting cut and bruised and starting a small avalanche of broken rock beneath them. They reached the road to see dozens of buglins emerging from the main entrance of Dermakarak, less than two hundred feet away. "Come on, move!" shouted Shale, and they ran up the slope of the ridge, on the other side of which lay their camp and their mounts. If they could reach it, they could mount up and escape.

     Halfway up the slope, though, they knew they weren't going to make it. The buglins were sprinting after them, closing the distance with every bound. Although humans and trogs could normally outrun buglins easily, they were now tired, exhausted and running uphill, whereas the buglins had been doing nothing but boring guard duty for hours. Now they finally had a chance for some glory and praise from the shologs, and they weren't going to let it get away. The explorers stopped and turned to face their attackers, determined to make a brave last stand and take as many of their enemies with them as possible.

     Suddenly, however, the buglins drew up short, staring in shock and surprise at something beyond them. Shaun couldn't help looking over his shoulder to see what they were staring at, and was overjoyed to see ten trogs charging down towards them. Rogil was there, as well as one of the trog clerics and two others who'd been in his group. The other six were the ones they'd left in the camp, three of them injured in their first fight with the buglins but still up and fighting. The buglins still outnumbered them by more than two to one, but the odds were no longer as overwhelming as they liked and the sudden appearance of new enemies unnerved them. Being great cowards, and no longer having the shologs backing them up, they froze in indecision, and when the trogs started towards them, screaming their battlecries, they turned and fled.

     The reunion between Shale and Rogil was joyous, with much laughing and pounding on backs. "I thought you were dead!" cried Shale, while the wizards and the Winterwells stared at each other, hardly able to believe they were still alive.

     "We nearly were," said Rogil. "They ambushed us soon after we parted. The four of us just barely managed to fight our way back to the guardroom and escape, thanks to Factolfus here and the power of the great God of Mathematics. We knew they'd ambush you too, so we went back to the camp for reinforcements. Looks like we got here just in time."

     "You certainly did," said Shale. "And not only did you save us, you also saved this."

He produced the Proof of Mantellor, and Rogil's eyes blazed as he saw it. "The pride and honour of the Granore family! You found it!"

     “The Proof!” cried Factolfus,” pushing his way forward to stare at it. He reached out a trembling hand and touched it reverently. “Copies exist, of course, but to actually see the original...”

     "Yes, and when word gets to the scattered family members, they will flock to retake Dermakarak. We will come back with an army." Shale's eyes gleamed with messianic fervour. "The Granore family will be restored to its former greatness, and Dermakarak will grow into a thriving town, growing until, perhaps one day, it will rival even great Deram-Helosias itself."

     "Perhaps, but it's still a long way back," said Rogil. "Let's go before the shologs rally the buglins and they come after us."

     They reached the camp just as the yellow sun was setting behind the mountains to the west and they hurriedly packed everything away, anxious to get as far away as possible before the evil humanoids came pouring out after them. They spurred their mounts to a gallop and rode through what was left of the day, only stopping when it was too dark for the horses to see, running the risk that they might trip on some obstruction in the road and spill their riders. Even then they didn't dare go to sleep but remained awake and alert at the top of a rise in the road, a more or less defensible position where they could make a stand if necessary. Lirenna and the trogs spent the whole of that night scanning the terrain around them, tense and nervous as they searched for any sign of the inhabitants of Dermakarak.

     They moved on again as soon as it was light enough to see and rode through the day, eating in the saddle, only stopping when the light began to fade again. Only then, a full day's journey from the abandoned trog village and with no sign of pursuit, did they dare make camp at last. Leaving three trogs awake and on guard, the rest of them crawled inside their tents and were asleep as soon as their heads touched the ground.

     The next morning they rewarded themselves with a large breakfast before setting off once more. The three wizards, Diana and her two brothers remained with the trogs until they reached the place where the path back to Clarrin's Claim diverged from the road to the trog city of Tal-Zakka, where they announced that they were leaving.

     "Are you sure you won't change your mind?" asked Shale. "You've proven yourselves good fighting companions, and you'd be welcome to come with us when we come back to clear out our village once and for all. I'll even double your money. Two gold Clannets a day. What do you say?"

     "Thanks," said Thomas, "But we've had enough excitement and adventure for the time being. We just want to go home now."

     "All right, but you must promise to come back to Dermakarak a few years from now to see what we've done with it. I want you to see what a trog habitation should look like. You humans think our cities are dark and gloomy, but with glowbottles every ten feet and sunlight brought down from the surface a trog city is gloriously bright and beautiful, a wonder to behold. I want you to see it, to see the truth for yourselves."

     "We will, I promise," said Lirenna, beaming happily.

     Shale paid them what they were due, then turned to Diana. "I promised a thousand gold Clannets to the one who found the Proof of Mantellor," he said. "I will keep my word and pay you the money. I'll have it sent to you when I arrive home."

     The cleric shook her head, however. "Send it to the church of Caroli in the village of Kenlinton, about two hundred miles north and east of here, with instructions to distribute it to the poor. It will do a lot more good there." Shaun and Matthew stared at her in dismay.

     Shale bowed to her, a privilege, as trogs rarely bowed to anyone of any other race. "It shall be as you wish," he said. "Your generosity is an inspiration to us all and will bring great happiness to the people of your village."

     Shale allowed the wizards to keep their steel daggers. “Having seen just how junior you are in the black arts, I can't in all conscience take these from you,” he said. “You'll need them for defense in the wild country you’ll be passing through.”

     The wizards stared in astonishment and gratitude, but the trog waved away their half hearted protestations. “Steel, although precious, is less valuable to us than it is to you humans. It is not as great a gift as it might seem, therefore, and the peace of mind it will give me to know you have them is worth more to me than their meagre worth."

      The three wizards bowed to him, trying to imitate the trog custom and making Shale and the other trogs smile in indulgent amusement.

     He also allowed the wizards and the Winterwells to keep the glowbottles they'd found in Dermakarak. along with the bottles of activating fluid he'd given them. A valuable gift as, although they commonly gave away the bottles, they normally charged a high price for the strange chemical that made them glow. "You may need them if you come to any other dark places," he told them. "Think of Shale Granore whenever you use them."

     They thanked him again, and Thomas studied his bottle with interest. "Farewell now," said Shale. "The Gods watch over you and see you safely on your way."

     "And you also," replied Diana. "May you, your people and Dermakarak prosper and grow.'

      The others also said their farewells, and then they rode off, waving until they rounded a bend in the road and passed out of sight. “Quite a woman,” said Rogil as they also prepared to move on. “If she were shorter and a little less hairy...”

     Shale chuckled in agreement. "There's just one more matter we must see to before we go further,” he said. “Can you come with me for a moment?"

     Rogil nodded, and the two trogs went a little way down the road until they were out of sight of the others. "What is it, Shale?"

     "I have something to show you," said Shale, coming closer.

     "What?"

     "Paradise." Shale had been hiding a knife under his robes, and now he thrust it deeply into Rogil's neck. Blood spurted, and Rogil stared at Shale in horror and disbelief. His helmet fell from his head as he staggered back, and his hands flew to his neck in a desperate effort to seal the wound. One bloody hand reached out towards the other trog, but Shale withdraw the knife and stabbed again, below the ribs and up into the heart. The light in Rogil's eyes went out and he slumped to the ground, dead.

      Shale wiped the knife on Rogil's robes, and then he began removing his trog clothing. When he was naked he grew taller and his features changed until he resembled a human, and he dressed again in a bundle of clothing he'd hidden earlier behind a boulder. The clay man that had been masquerading as Shale then slipped away before any of the other trogs got curious and came to investigate.

      He smiled in satisfaction. Rogil had been the last direct descendant of Redeye Granore. With him dead, the claim to Dermakarak would go up for auction. Sharnhelm would almost certainly win it, and would reward him accordingly.

      He cursed the stupidity of the other clay man he'd hired. He had almost ruined everything, and he'd taken great satisfaction in dealing him the killing blow, removing suspicion from himself at the same time.

     He had stolen and hidden the Proof of Mantellor some days previously, entering Dermakarak in the form of a buglin, just about the smallest form he could manage. Reaching the crypt, he had taken the form of an ogre and used the tremendous strength of that form to smash the armourglass covering with an iron hammer. Then, after hiding it in the temple, all he had had to do was wait for the trogs to appear.

     It had been ridiculously easy to kill and replace the real Shale when he and two other trogs had slipped down to Dermakarak to spy it out that very morning. The one moment when Shale had been out of sight of the others had been all he needed. The other trogs had been fooled completely. Then, once they'd entered the trog village, the disappearance of the Proof of Mantellor gave him the perfect excuse to split his force, and he still marveled that no-one had seriously questioned his decision to do so. With the trogs split into two smaller groups, it had been much easier for the shologs and buglins to destroy them. The fact that quite a few had survived was unimportant. The mission had failed, as he had intended.

     He took out the Proof of Mantellor and looked at it. It was now the only thing that might unite the Granore family and thwart Sharnhelm's plans. It was worth a lot, but only a fraction of what Sharnhelm had promised to pay him for its destruction. The clay man smiled. What Sharnhelm didn't know wouldn't hurt him. The Proof of Mantellor would be worth a small fortune to a human collector. He slipped it back into his pouch and made his way to where he'd left a mountain horse and provisions the day before, to take him to Callinia.

     Sell the Proof of Mantellor, he thought, and then off to Sharnhelm to collect my reward. He laughed as he climbed into the saddle and gave a gentle tug on the reins to start the horse on the long road out of the mountains.