Darkness and Light

Chapter 33

A narrow hatch covered a ladder that led down into the caravel's dark bowels. Kitiara lay flat on her belly and poked the candle into the hole. Warm stagnant air waft ed out, but no obvious danger loomed. She climbed down and Sturm followed, hand on the pommel of his sword.

They'd entered nothing more interesting than the ship's rope locker. It contained only rope, sailcloth, and chain.

Kitiara poked around, looking for more treasure. All she found were dead rats. Like everything else dead on the ship, the rats were a mere jumble of bones.

"Isn't it strange," Sturm whispered, "that all we ever find are bones?"

They passed through a light wooden partition into a larg er space, a cargo area. Here Kitiara's candle shone on some thing more sinister than rope and cloth. They had found an armory, replete with swords, spears, shields, bronze breast plates, shirts of mail, lances, bows, blocks of lead for sling pellets — enough to equip a small army.

"These are dwarf-forged shields," Sturm said, pushing a round buckler aside with his toe. "See, they have the mark of the Thorbardin Armorers' Guild. That breastplate bears the mark of the Thanes of Zhaman." He picked up the breastplate. The cold iron was polished to a finish like mir rored silver, and though fully a third of an inch thick, it was remarkably light.

"These are first-quality arms. Why would pirates need so many weapons?" he said.

"Maybe they are captured stocks."

"Maybe, but space is precious aboard a ship. They might keep good items for their own use, but not this many."

"What's through there?" Kitiara hissed, pointing forward.

"Forecastle. Where the crew sleeps."

They stepped over the door sill and beheld a terrible sight.

The forecastle was full of skeletons.

Row upon row of clean white bones lay huddled on either side of the ship. Some were stretched out, others knotted with the agony they had borne until death. Not all the bones were human. Some, by their shape and size, belonged to dwarves. Others, smaller bones, may have been kender or gnomes. There was one thing the skeletons had in common:

They were all chained together at the ankles.

"I don't like this. There has been great evil here," Sturm hissed. "Come." He backed out.

"What's up front of that room?" Kitiara wondered.

"The bury of the bowsprit. Where the anchors are kept."

In the center of the armory was a large square hatch, which Sturm said led to the hold. Removing the hatch was not easy. Someone had secured it to the deck with a dozen large iron bolts. Sturm tried to figure out the best way to remove them, but Kitiara simply took a battle axe from the cache of weapons and bashed the heads off several bolts.

"Stop!" he demanded. "Did you ever think that hatch might be fastened down to keep something in?"

She paused in midswing. "No," she said and brought the axe down on the next bolt. — Some txt — , those poor dev ils died of plague or something. You and I are the first living souls on board in months, maybe, so what we find is ours by right of salvage." She decapitated the last bolt. "If you want a share, you'd better help me."

Reluctantly, Sturm got his fingers under the hatch's flange, and together they lifted it off. The stout lid of oak and copper fell aside, landing on a pile of armor. The ringing boom echoed through the caravel.

Kitiara thrust her candle into the opening. A cold draft flowed out, so she shielded the flame with her hand. The weak amber globe of light fell over the open hold.

It was empty.

A wide set of plank steps led down. Kitiara lowered a foot to the first step.

"Don't," warned Sturm.

"What's the matter with you? A few skulls and bones, and suddenly you're afraid of your own shadow. Where's your curiosity? Where's your knightly valor?"

"Alive and well, thank you."

She dropped down a few more steps. "Coming, then?"

Sturm held up one finger and went to the pile of shields. He found a buckler of good dwarven make and slipped it over his arm. Thus reinforced, he followed Kitiara into the hold.

"It's very black in here," she said. A post at the foot of the steps proved to be coated with a greasy black powder.

"Soot?" she said.

"Hmm, yes." Sturm went down on one knee. The deck was charred. "There was a fire down here." He brushed off his fingertips. "This ship's lucky to be afloat." Fire at sea was one of the worst fates a ship could face.

"Is there anything below this floor?" Kitiara asked.

"Just the bilge." Something caught the candlelight. Sturm waved her to him. "Bring the light here," he whispered.

"What is it?" On the deck a few feet to the right of the steps were four long scratches, so deep that they scored through the charred wood's surface to the lighter, unburned wood beneath. The scratches were three inches apart and almost a foot long.

"What do you make of that?" Sturm asked.

Kitiara drew her sword. "Claw marks," she said grimly.

Toward the bow, a massive half cylinder descending from the ceiling divided the bulkhead in two. This was the lower end of the mainmast. On each side of the mast were doors.

Both had been hastily but solidly blocked with boards. The barricade on the right of the mast was intact; the one on the left was burst asunder — from the other side.

"Whatever it was, it came through here," said Kitiara.

"It?"

She didn't answer, but stepped carefully through the shat tered barrier into the forward hold. Sturm couldn't fit through the hole, so he broke out a few more boards. The charred planks split loudly.

The forward hold was even colder than the aft one. It was not sooted by fire. They found more bones, broken swords and cutlasses, and smashed helmets — the remnants of a fierce fight. Kitiara almost tripped over another form, this one still clad in a moldering brown robe. Where she had dis turbed the robe there was a glint of gold.

"This was a cleric," Sturm said. "The robe, the amulets, are the kind a holy man would wear." He groped in the folds of the robe and pulled out a necklace wrought in copper. He held it to the candle. "A rose. The symbol of Majere. At least he served a good god." He laid the necklace down rev erently on the dusky cloth.

Kitiara moved on to the facing wall. A ladder was set in the wall, going up to the forecastle. Halfway up, someone had sawed the rungs off. The stout base of the foremast intruded into the hold here, too, and beside it was another boarded-up door. This one was intact.

"Sturm, come here!" He stepped over the cleric's skeleton.

Kitiara thrust her candle to the battened door. Scarlet threads were woven back and forth across the rough barrier and gathered in a knot in the center of the door. A blob of sealing wax held the threads together, and in the wax was the impression of a ring seal.

"Can you read it?" she asked.

Sturm squinted at the image. "'Majere protect us' and

'Obey the will of Novantumus'." He looked back at the cler ic's remains. "He must have been Novantumus."

Kitiara put the point of her sword to the wax seal. "What do you think you're doing?" he said.

"There's something valuable on the other side of this door," she said. "I want to see what it is."

"It could be what killed all these men!"

She rapped on the door. "Hello, any monsters in there?"

The only sounds were the steady, muffled roar of the storm outside and the creaking of the ship's timbers. "See, no danger."

Sturm pulled her roughly away. "I won't let you tamper with it!"

"You won't — !" She snatched her arm free of his grasp.

"Since when do you give me orders, Sturm Brightblade?"

"I won't let you break that seal. It could mean our deaths."

Kitiara cut at the door. Sturm flung the shield out and deflected the blow. Kitiara uttered an angry snort. She set the candle down and assumed fighting stance. "Out of my way!" she declared.

"Will you think what you're doing? Do you want to fight, just to open that door? Look around, Kit. Do you think plague smashed up these armed men?"

"So they killed each other fighting over the treasure. Out of the way!"

Sturm started to reply, but Kitiara lunged at him. He backed away, unwilling to use his own sword. Sturm kept the shield up, fending off her cuts. This went on until Kitiara grew frustrated. She aimed a wild overhand slash at his head. Her blade hit the shield a glancing blow and skidded off. The arc of her cut ended against the door and shattered the brittle wax seal.

"Now you've done it," he said, panting.

Kitiara flung herself, sword and all, at the door. Sturm stared in amazement as she pressed herself against the wood. "At last," she said. "At last!"

There was a split second of silence, then a tremendous crash. Kitiara's sword was knocked from her hand as she flew backward and landed with a clatter among the bones.

The center board was bowed outward and cracked. Sturm tossed the shield aside and went to help Kitiara stand. From inside there came another crash, and the board above the first one flexed out.

"What is it?" Kitiara cried.

"I don't know, but it's coming out of there. Let's go!"

They fled in such haste that they forgot the candle.

Through the sooty midnight of the aft hold they ran and stumbled up the stairs to the armory. Kitiara made for the rope locker. Sturm called her back. "Help me with the hatch," he said.

They wrestled the heavy hatch into place and dropped it.

Then it was through the rope locker and up the ladder to the captain's cabin. Kitiara dragged some heavy chests over to block the ladder well. Rain drummed on the poop deck above them, and wind whistled around the louvered shut ters. They stood close together in the dark, breathing hard and listening.

The deck trembled beneath their feet and they heard wood breaking. The thing, whatever it was, was smashing its way out.

"I lost my sword," she said, deeply ashamed. She, a sea soned warrior, had lost her only weapon when she fell among the skeletons.

"It doesn't matter," Sturm said. "Swords didn't save the crew of this ship."

"Thanks," she said wryly. "- Some txt missing-"

Metal rang and rattled. 'It' was in the armory. Sturm flexed his damp hand around the handle of his sword. The uproar below got worse as the thing expended its anger on the store of weapons. From the crash and clang, it sounded like every item in the cache was being battered, twisted, and crushed. Then, abruptly, all the noise ceased.

Sturm and Kitiara, by some common impulse, drew clos er together. Their arms touched in the dark.

"Can you hear anything?" he whispered.

"Just you. Shh." They strained to catch any stray sound.

The cabin door blew open with a bang. Rain poured in.

Sturm struggled to close the door against the press of wind.

By the greenish gray light that filtered in through the cyclone, he saw that the main hatch cover, forward of the mainmast, was blasted off.

"It's gone out on deck!" he shouted above the wind. "It could be anywhere!"

"We'll have to close that hatch," she said. "Or the ship will flood, yes?" He nodded. Sturm felt exhausted. At that moment, he wondered what silliness the gnomes were up to, and fervently wished he was with them to see it.

"Ready?" said Kitiara. She threw the bolt back, and they plunged out onto the storm-swept deck.

They were soaked with sea water before they took two steps. The heel of the ship with the waves was more notice able on deck. Mountains of green water rose and fell and the horizon swung from below eye level to nearly the masthead.

Holding hands, Sturm and Kitiara staggered to the main mast. The hatch cover was not just thrown open; gaping rents were torn in it. Sturm lost his footing twice as foaming sea swept over him. Finally, on their knees, they managed to get the hatch back over its coaming.

High above the rumble of the churning sea, a shrill cackle reached them. Sturm looked left and right for the source of the sound; Kitiara looked up and down. She spied the thing clinging to the rigging high over their heads.

— s' It was a horrid-looking thing, ghastly white and gaunt.

Except for its abnormal size, it might have been a man, starved and sallow. But this creature was seven feet tall. Its protruding eyes were like red burning coals, and its hands were clawed with silver nails two inches long. The head was round and hairless, the ears tall and pointed. The creature threw back its head and howled, showing long yellow fangs and a pointed black tongue.

"Suffering gods! What is it?"

"I don't know. Look out!" The creature sprang from the rigging to the stays hanging from the foremast. It swung under the spar and flipped over until its feet were on top of the yard. There it howled at them again.

They backed cautiously across the wet deck, ignoring the lashing rain and pounding sea. Once inside the cabin, they slammed the door and bolted it.

Kitiara turned. A strange white glow filled the rear of the cabin. They were no longer alone there, either.

Chappter 34

Pyrthis's Tale

The cold white light collected into a human form six feet tall. Kitiara pointed her sadly bent dagger at the appari tion, but Sturm pushed the weapon down.

"In the name of Paladine and all the Gods of Good, depart in peace, spirit," he said.

The cabin filled with a deep, long sigh. "Would that I could depart," said a low voice. "For I am tired beyond mea sure and desire rest."

"Who are you?" asked Kitiara.

"In life I was master of this vessel. My name is Pyrthis."

"He doesn't seem dangerous," Kitiara muttered to Sturm,

"but let's find a safer spot from that creature outside."

"The Gharm will not enter this cabin," the ghost said, "as long as I am here." Outside, the hellish thing shrieked, acknowledging the truth of the dead captain's words.

"What is the Gharm?" asked Sturm.

The indistinct figure drew closer and became more defined. Its legs did not move, and its arms stayed firmly by its sides. The ghost glided forward until Sturm and Kit could see deep, hollow eyes and a jaw that hung open, as slack as the face of a corpse. The voice issued from the mouth with out the lips moving at all.

"Once he was my friend, and then a curse laid us all low.

He became the Gharm, I, a walking spirit, and the crew of the Werival died in torment."

"Spirits walk for two reasons: to right an unavenged wrong, and to give warning to the living. Which is it, Cap tain? Why do you remain on this mortal plane?" asked

Sturm.

Another mournful sigh. "Know, my friends, that I bar gained with the forces of evil and lost." The ghost came clos er still, enough for Kitiara to see its dead white eyes and corpse pallor.

"I was a merchant captain, bold and enterprising, who never turned down a cargo for money. I plied the Sirrion Sea and traded north and east to the Blood Sea maelstrom. In my time, I carried all goods — from spices to slaves."

Sturm frowned. "You trafficked in misery," he said flatly.

"Aye, I did. Thank your gods that you still live and can make amends for any evil deeds you have committed! I am past saving now."

The poop deck overhead resounded with the tramp of feet. Kitiara listened nervously as the Gharm stamped on the boards. "What is that thing?" she demanded.

"Once my first mate and friend, Drott, who I trained in all the wily ways I knew. Our coffers grew fat and heavy with gold, and I grew satisfied, as men in their waning years are wont to do. But Drott was young and keen and always searching for the richest commission to be made. It was a fateful day when he fell in with the scaled warriors."

Sturm had a glimmer of recognition. "Do you mean dra conians'?" he asked.

"Aye, some have called them thus." Pyrthis's ghost loomed over Sturm. Though seemingly benign, its presence was oppressive, and Sturm began to sweat.

"The dragonmen had a rich proposition: that we carry a shipment of weapons and money for them from Nordmaar to Coastlund, there to rendezvous with other dragonmen arriving from the northern seas. Drott accepted their com mission and their money, thus damning us all." The ghost made a horrible rasping sound. "I am so weary…" The dead man's left arm came loose from his shoulder and fell silently to the floor. Kitiara flinched at the sight, more from surprise than disgust. She bent to pick up the gently glowing limb, but her hand passed right through it.

"We loaded sixty hundredweight of arms, and weighed anchor for Coastlund. We had a fair wind and made a swift passage. On the way, Drott schemed and plotted. He drew me into his plan, which was this: Since the dragonmen were barbarians and invaders, why should we not hold them up for as much gold as we could? They would pay doubly or triply for their swords, and we would have nothing to fear.

Who could they complain to? Their purpose was even more illicit than ours.

"I fell in with Drott's scheme. In truth, I despised the scaly killers and feared them greatly. To cheat them seemed both just and profitable."

The ghost paused and the silence grew long. Sturm finally said, "What happened when you reached Coastlund?"

Rasp. "A dragonship was there, waiting. The leader of the dragonmen came aboard to accept transfer of the weap ons. Drott laid out his demand for more money. The leader must have expected such a ploy, for he readily offered to pay half again the original price. Drott insisted on double the amount. The lizard resisted for a time, then conceded.

He departed for his ship and returned with a second chest of treasure. This time a human came with him, a dark cleric wearing a metal mask that mimicked a dragon's face. This one frightened me very much. He stood by, watching and saying nothing. Drott laughed and joked as the second box of money came on board. He was drunk with success, and when I ordered the crew to begin transferring the cargo to the dragonship, he drew me aside and whispered another wicked design in my ear. 'Shall we not keep some part of the cargo ourselves?' he said. 'Could we not wring a bit more sil ver from these flush pigeons?"'

"That was pretty stupid," Kitiara said, "with a boatload of draconians alongside."

"We did not fear their force, for our crew was numerous and skilled in the use of saber and pike. We did not sail the pirate-infested seas unprepared."

"But the dark cleric — that was someone you weren't able to counter," said Sturm.

"Indeed, mortal man." The ghost's right arm dropped off.

Part of the unreal flesh touched Sturm's booted foot. He withdrew it hastily and shivered. The ghost's touch was more frigid than the wind off the Ice Wall.

"We held back five hundredweight of arms. The dragon men's leader discovered the shortage and complained. Drott jeered at him from the rail, saying there was a tax on illegal weapons and the dragonfolk had yet to pay. The dragon man threatened to storm the Werival and slaughter us all.

The crew manned the rail with bare blades and taunted them to try. The dragonmen, less than a third our number, began to arm. I wanted to weigh anchor and be off, but

Drott said we should stay and fight. After we killed the scaly folk, he said, we could take back all the weapons we'd sold them and sell them again.

"There was no battle. The dark cleric came from his place on the stern of the dragonship and threw his arms wide.

'Go, greedy vermin, and take away your dishonored gold. I curse you and yours forever! Those who lust for gold shall lust for the flesh of their fellows, those who jeer at the min ions of the Dark Queen shall know her wrath! They shall hear her mocking laughter forever! ' he said.

"It was a terrible curse, and the full weight of it did not fall on us for some weeks. We left the shores of Coastlund for

Sancrist, but never saw land again. Strange, circular winds blew us farther and farther from land. The crew began to hear voices — a woman laughing — and they slowly went mad. The few healthy sailors that remained chained the mad ones below decks. Food and water dwindled, but try as we might, we could not bring the Werival to shore.

"Drott changed. He had always been a vain man, proud of his quick mind and good looks. Now he ceased to care for himself, allowing his beard to grow and his clothes to fall to tatters. The meat shrank on his bones and his skin whitened to a ghastly color. As the days passed, my first mate and friend perished as the hideous curse worked upon his wretched body. Drott prowled below, snaring rats in his hands and eating them alive. Soon rats were not enough for him. He had become a Gharm, a ravenous ghoul that feeds on the flesh of men."

"Why didn't you kill him?" Kitiara said sharply. The drumming of feet had stopped, but they could still hear the

Gharm's cackle as the monster capered madly in the rigging.

"I could not, for as much as his new form disgusted me, I pitied my lost friend. The crew, poor wretches, learned to keep him at bay by giving him those who died of madness and starvation. When there were only five sound men left, they decided to try to put an end to the Gharm. Our young cleric, Novantumus, wove a temporary protective spell.

The sailors armed themselves and drove the Gharm to the fore end of the ship with fire and sword. Novantumus meant to imprison the fiend in the anchor locker, and he fashioned a magic seal to keep it in. The Gharm attacked the men savagely and killed them one by one. With his life's blood spilling on the deck, the brave Novantumus succeed ed in compelling the Gharm into the locker. I alone lived, and here at my table I died of hunger, thirst, and despair."

The ghost had shrunk throughout his telling, and the cold glare that it cast had diminished to a firefly's sparkle. Sturm was deeply sorry for the captain.

"One question," said Kitiara. She picked up the skull that had been set between the captain's feet. "Who is this?"

"That was Drott's head. One of the sailors cut it off before the Gharm killed him."

"But that thing out there has a head!"

"A new one it grew afterward."

Sturm said, "Can the Gharm be killed?"

The ghost shriveled to a slender coil of white mist. "Not by steel, iron, or bronze," it said, a tiny, far-off voice. "Only purifying fire will make this ship clean." With those final words, the ghost vanished.

"This is wonderful," Kitiara said bitterly. "A monster we can't kill unless we burn up the ship that's keeping us out of the water!"

"What we must do is stay alive until the storm ends,"

Sturm said. "The gnomes will be looking for us and we'll be able to leave this cursed ship — " A splintering sound halted

Sturm in midsentence. The Gharm had rammed one bony, clawed arm through the thin, louvered panel of the cabin door.

"Something tells me our moment of immunity is over!"

Kitiara said. Sturm leaped up from the table, drawing his sword in one smooth motion. He brought the keen blade down hard on the grasping talons. The Gharm roared in pain and withdrew the stump of its left arm.

"Suffering gods!" Kitiara kicked the severed arm away.

The limb rapidly decayed to bone, and then to dust. The

Gharm put one of its baleful eyes to the hole that it had made and glared at them. Sturm raised his sword again and the monster backpedaled.

Kitiara went to the cabin's rear and started tearing through the captain's bunk.

"Kit, what are you doing?" he called.

"Don't worry, just keep that damned thing away a minute longer!" He heard wood being split behind him, then felt heat on the back of his neck.

Sturm turned and saw that Kitiara had made a torch from a bunk slat and a strip of ticking. Doused with oil from the captain's lamp and ignited by flint, it blazed furiously.

"Ha! Try this, ghoul!" she shouted, brandishing the flame before the door. The Gharm howled and hissed, its fangs dripping saliva. "I'll give you something to chew on." Kiti ara kicked the smashed door frame open. The rain had almost stopped, but a fierce wind still raged across the open deck. Kitiara dashed out, whipping the torch to and fro like a fencing blade. The Gharm crouched back on its rail-thin haunches, spitting and hissing.

"Kit, be careful!"

"It's my fault this thing is out. I intend to kill it!"

She moved on the ghoul again, forcing it to retreat up the rigging. It hung twenty feet above the deck, giggling in an obscene parody of humanity. Kitiara paced below it, wav ing the torch to keep it bright and hot.

Sturm closed behind her. "Don't let it drop down on you," he counseled.

"If it does, it'll go back up a lot faster than it came down."

The ceiling of black clouds scattered into streams of dirty white as the blue of clear sky shone through. The wind had died down but did not cease. They were in the eye of the cyclone, the calm center of a miles-wide storm.

The Gharm swung over to the port side rigging. Kitiara followed across the deck. She was so intent on keeping the fiend in view that she missed the end of the mainsail Sturm had cut free. The heavy, flapping canvas was soaked with rain, and one corner of it whipped around and slapped Kiti ara between the eyes. She fell backward and lost the torch.

As the sail struck her, the Gharm pounced.

"No!" Sturm cried. He was on the fiend's back in a flash, slashing at its pale, leathery hide. The ghoul had one set of talons deep in Kitiara's shoulder, but Sturm's attack made it let go. He inflicted wounds that would have killed a mortal foe, but the Gharm wasn't slowed. A detached part of

Sturm's mind noted that the ghoul already had grown back the arm that he'd chopped off.

Kitiara pushed herself away from the duel between Sturm and the Gharm. Her shoulder wound burned like Bell crank's vitriol. She crawled to where the torch lay charring the deck. In her pants' pocket she still had the tin can of oil from the captain's storm lamp. At the right moment, when

Sturm gave ground to the monster, she flung the oil over the

Gharm, and with it the torch.

It was scarcely a cupful of oil, but it burned rapidly, and the Gharm yowled in unimaginable pain. It threw itself on the deck and rolled to put out the flames. Failing that, it leaped up and ran forward, burning as it went, and tore off the hatch cover. The Gharm disappeared below, trailing a thin plume of putrid smoke.

Sturm knelt and put an arm around Kitiara. Her teeth chattered. She had been poisoned by the ghoul's vile talons.

"Kitl Kit!" Her eyes were almost completely white, they had rolled so far back in her head. "Kit, listen to me! Don't give up! Fight it! Fight it!"

Her hand came trembling to her throat. There, under the thin fabric of her blouse was the amethyst arrowhead pen dant that Tirolan Ambrodel had given her so many weeks before. Drained of color before they met the gnomes, the crystal's magic had been restored by the days they'd spent on Lunitari for it now was a rich, royal purple. The stone had not surrendered its power upon its return to Krynn.

Kitiara's fingers would not grasp the amethyst. They were already stiff and cold. Sturm gently lifted the magic crystal.

Was there enough power in it to save Kit's life? Did he, a sworn opponent of magic, dare use it to heal her?

Her breath came short, in hard, ragged gasps. Death had

Kitiara in its grasp. There was no time to debate. Sturm closed the amethyst in his fist and placed his other hand on

Kitiara's injured shoulder.

"Forgive me, father," he whispered. "This is for her life."

The stone was hot for the merest second, but not enough to burn him. Kitiara gave a sharp cry and then went limp in his arms. He thought he was too late, that she was dead.

Sturm opened his fingers, to see that the amethyst was clear again. He peeled back the bloody cloth over Kit's wound and saw that it was healed.

Smoke from the hatch was getting thicker. Sturm put an arm under Kitiara's legs and staggered to his feet. Muffled screams filtering through the open hatch proved that the

Gharm hadn't yet overcome the fire.

The smoke got so bad that Sturm retreated to the poop deck, carrying Kitiara. The wind switched from port to star board, never allowing the ship to drive clear of the fumes.

When the first tongues of flame licked out of the hold,

Sturm felt real fear. How could they escape if the ship was on fire? The Werival's longboat was missing.

At that moment, the wall of rain off the starboard bow parted, and out came the brown hull of the Cloudmaster.

The flying ship was skimming over the waves so low that a few high swells lapped the bottom of her hull. Sturm saw the gnomes at the bow, waving white handkerchiefs.

A great shout of triumph escaped his throat. "Kit, wake up!" he cried. "Kit, the gnomes are coming! We're saved!"

Fire blasted out of the fore hatch, and with it, the figure of the Gharm. Blazing from head to toe, the hideous ghoul bounced from bulwark to bulwark, shrieking its cursed life away. Unable to bear the burning any longer, the ghoul finally dived into the churning waves.

The bows were burning now, and the foremast was begin ning to smolder. The Cloudmaster drifted past the stern.

Sturm left Kitiara lying on the deck and grabbed a boat hook from the rail. As the gnome ship coasted slowly along the port side, Sturm hooked it and drew it tightly to the car avel.

The gnomes clutched the Werival's sides as Sturm lifted the limp Kitiara over his shoulder. He sprinted for the rail and leaped, one foot kicking the rail top as he went. The gnomes let go, and the Cloudmaster sank toward the sea.

"Too much weight!" Wingover cried. "Out ballast!'

Amidships, Sighter, Cutwood, and Birdcall threw doors, window glass, and other loose objects over the side. The ship rose again into the low clouds.

"W-welcome aboard!" Stutts said heartily.

"Glad to be here," Sturm said with genuine relief. He lay sprawled on the deck.

"What happened down there? asked Wingover.

"It's a long story."

"Is the lady well? She seems unconscious," said Sighter.

He lifted one of her arms and let it fall.

"She'll be all right," Sturm said. The Cloudmaster broke through the top of the clouds. Below, the cyclone's whirling mass spread out in all its glory. The gnomes set the sails and put the setting sun to their backs.

"It was very clever of you to start a signal fire," Wingover said. "But it got out of hand, didn't it? I mean, you might have destroyed the whole ship before we ever arrived."

Sturm felt a crazy desire to laugh. Instead, he said,

"That's not the way things went." He paused to yawn prodi giously.

"Did you find anything useful on that vessel?" Sighter asked. But by then Sturm was already fast asleep.