It had been well over a thousand years since Deglan Loamtoes last set foot in the Burrow of the Wise. The vast, domed ceiling, roofed in intricate patterns of interlacing roots had been reshaped and restored to its former glory. The expertly carved lamps of thin amber were replaced, each hung from bronze fixtures and filled with a dozen mature moonbacks, casting a warm, steady light across the breadth of the cavern. All of the stone benches that were cracked or broken were now whole and covered with a cushion of fresh moss. In the center of the circular chamber, the Speaker’s Mound was newly laid with rich, fragrant soil, giving and soft to ease long hours of standing.

Deglan’s feet still hurt.

The chamber may have been lovingly crafted in the centuries since the Restoration, but the occupants had not been likewise improved. This place was still full of fools.

“Tell us again,” Burden Dunloe droned from the third gallery. “Who this supposed goblin was that gave you this information?”

Deglan had to stop his eyes from rolling. “As I said… he was a Red Cap. Canker, was his name.”

“And this Canker.” Dunloe sounded as if he were about to fall fast asleep. “He was high in the Red Cap ranks?”

“What? No. He was a foot-stomper. Just another gibbering killer with a torch.”

The assembled buffoons, crowded rump to rump on the benches, mumbled and murmured and harrumphed to one another. Burden Dunloe sat back, resting his heavy lidded eyes along with whatever argument he thought he had made. For every ten gnomes in attendance, Deglan spied at least one hobgoblin wearing the robes of a Burden. Likely, they were none too fond of Deglan’s last remark. Let them be offended. Deglan spoke only the truth.

Another of the King’s advisor’s leaned forward. “And you say these Red Caps claimed to be under the command of Torcan the Swinehelm?”

Deglan did not recognize this particular windbag, but he grit his teeth and answered. “Yes. But that I did not need to be told. For the fourth time, I saw Torcan with my own eyes.”

“On the same night you saw the Flame Binder?” Burden Windbag confirmed.

“Surely,” Deglan said with a bitter smile. “I do not need to convince you I saw him. Unless I must offer proof of your own mistakes?”

Windbag’s eyes widened as if he had been struck with a fistful of something smelly and the benches erupted with shocked cries of protest. Burden Dunloe woke from his nap long enough to calm the assembly and come to his offended colleague’s rescue. “And now you say that the Red Caps are marching on Black Pool! Tell me, Master Loamtoes, why would a powerful warlord like Torcan Swinehelm reveal such plans to some lowly follower?”

“I have a question of my own, good Burden,” Deglan smiled bitterly. “Have you ever been to war?”