Two weeks in Gibbering Forest. Ahead: Black Tower of Glassy Death, very close. Behind: trail of monster corpses, getting longer day by day. Freshest corpse: panther with split skull. Panther jumped out of tree; swung at it with sword. Only remembered Glorious Suicide Plan after panther had split skull.

Didn’t want to die. Had to die: not for stupid King, but for country. Part of job. Still didn’t want to die. Damned stupid King.

Started to sing (Goldsleeves. With tavern lyrics—full of privy jokes). Long and loud and hard—nobody around to complain. Fun to do, but sounded bad. At first; then not so bad. Huh. Paused for breath, song kept going. Sounded much better—like lark at dawn, telling whole forest that lark wants woman right now. Well, not real woman: woman-lark. But song sounded like that, only with words.

Followed song: found singer, right before giant blood-bear did—bear got sword in kidneys, died slowly. Messy.

Surprise, surprise: Elf-singer. More rabbity than most.

Elf looked at me. “Ah, good day, mortal barbarian,” Elf said. “I am Anducil, troubadour to King Eluthil. And I would appreciate it very much if you would escort me to that . . . thing over yonder.” Pointed towards Black Tower of Glassy Death.

“Elf-King not give you guards?”

“Well, the guards marched me out here with another troubadour, and then left me behind when it came time to enter.”

“Huh.”

“Yes, I know, very convenient. Eluthil has promised his daughter’s hand in marriage to whomever unlocks her cell by song—subject to her approval, of course. And as it happens, I am the only bard she . . . approves of.”

“Elf-King’s daughter likes you?”

“Well, love would be nearer the mark, but yes.”

Elf-Princess must have eye-problems.