The Companions

Chapter 1

Tasslehoff Burrfoot was alone. Having for the moment reached the limit of exploration afforded by a midsize ship like the Venora, the kender had retreated to the cabin he shared with Sturm Brightblade and Caramon Majere. He couldn't help but notice that this somehow pleased the captain, whose shouted oaths and threats had followed him belowdecks. And after Tas had tried so hard to be helpful with the mainsail rigging!

In the cabin, really no more than a narrow room with three bunk beds virtually stacked on top of one another, Tas sat cross-legged on the floor. Topknot bobbing, he poked through his pack and the innumerable pouches he always carried, examining their contents as if he had never laid eyes on them before. His convenient memory assured him they were all "found" objects, although in most cases, he had quite forgotten how or where they were found.

Spread around him lay all manner of things-a tiny porcelain figurine of a unicorn, a brilliantly-hued feather, sparkling stones and pieces of jewelry, gnarled twine, rolled and beribboned parchment, a wooden flute, yellowed maps, favorite buttons, a ranger's tarnished badge, a scrap of hide with stringy, gray hair that Tas recognized and treasured, for it was, he swore, a souvenir of his fabled encounter with a great and rare woolly mammoth…

One shriveled item particularly drew his attention. Picking it up, Tas examined it in the imperfect light cast by an oil lamp sitting on a rough-hewn shelf screwed into the wall under the cabin's lone porthole. Outside, Tas could glimpse the blue waters of the Schallsea Straits as they rose and fell rhythmically in the late afternoon.

"Huh… I don't remember that!" Tas said ruminatively, peering at the wrinkled possession. "Looks like an ogre's ear to me, although I don't recall cutting one off-an ogre's ear, that is. Maybe Flint gave it to me, although I don't remember him cutting off an ogre's ear, either. I do remember him cutting off an ogre's foot once, but that's different." He squinted at the thing, trying to decide. "No, definitely an ear."

He shrugged his shoulders, put the object down, and continued sifting through his cherished possessions. His search had started with a definite purpose that was now in obvious peril of being forgotten as this or that glittering bauble diverted the kender's attention. Finally, with a delighted grin, Tas recalled his purpose and reached for an ordinary-looking green glass bottle, small and round, with a long neck.

"Aha!" Tas exclaimed with satisfaction. After a momentary inspection, he placed the bottle on a shelf next to the lamp. In the lamplight, it took on a somewhat more unusual appearance, glistening with iridescent highlights. A quill pen and piece of rough parchment already rested on the shelf, which was low enough and wide enough to double as a desk.

Priding himself on being exceptionally well organized, Tasslehoff proceeded to scoop up his trove of treasures, distributing them among his series of pouches and his rucksack, promising himself that one of these days he would sit down and take a careful inventory of all his precious belongings.

On the deck above, back near the stern, Caramon Majere sat cross-legged amid a small group of rough-and-tumble sailors. Wherever he went, Caramon made friends easily. He, Sturm, and Tas had booked passage several days ago on the sloop. Although the Venora was only two days out to sea on its voyage from Eastport to Abanasinia, Caramon was already on a first name basis with everyone on board, from Captain Murloch-Caramon called him Jhani Murloch-on down. The scruffy group on deck was sharing raucous camaraderie and a jug of mead under the late afternoon sky.

Dusk approached, but the setting sun filled the sky with a bright, orange-red light. No clouds marred the vista. A light wind kept the sloop moving gently. None of the sailors gathered had the impending obligation of night watch. They seemed to flock around Caramon, drawn to his vitality and good humor. They egged the well-muscled young man on as he boasted about his numerous female conquests.

"Caergoth offers the finest females of any port on Krynn," asserted a burly, whiskered sailor at one point.

"They're portly, all right," countered one of his cohorts, a squinty-eyed seaman. He drew a round of derisive laughter. "I likes 'em lean and lively myself, and for that, you can't beat Flotsam."

"I'll never forget Ravinia," rhapsodized Caramon, already wistful with drink. The sailors seemed riveted by his words. "Do you know the barmaid in Eastport?" One of the men grunted recognition. "She was stingy with her kisses," Caramon complained, then paused for effect. "But I was generous with mine!"

A roar of laughter greeted his remark. Caramon tossed back his head and joined in, laughing so hard that tears ran from the corners of his eyes. The jug of mead was passed to him, and he took a long swig before passing it on. The spirits circled the half-dozen others with surprising speed before ending up back in Caramon's hands.

Pleased with the impression he was making, Caramon brushed his golden brown hair from his eyes and took another deep, long draft. He hadn't noticed that for some time now he was the only one drinking from the jug.

Up on the foredeck, the ribald laughter made only the dimmest impression on Sturm Brightblade. Hands clasped, leaning over the ship's side railing, the young man whose ambition it was to become a Solamnic Knight was lost in a mood, staring down into the darkening water. No light was reflected in his limpid brown eyes.

For long minutes, Sturm barely moved. He could have been mistaken for a statue. The least sociable of the three companions aboard the Venora, Sturm kept his thoughts to himself in a manner that could be-and had been, on more than one occasion-construed as arrogant. But this twilight evening, standing in lonely profile, Sturm seemed less arrogant than a man apart, aloof not only from strangers but also from his friends.

The voyage had set him to brooding. Sturm's life had once taken a dramatic turn on a ship. As an infant, he, his mother, and her retinue had fled the family's ancient castle in Solamnia, leaving his father behind to deal with the angry populace that had risen against the knighthood.

Although he had been too young at the time to remember the tale himself, Sturm felt the experience keenly imprinted on his consciousness because his mother had often recounted the story. The image of his father banishing them from their home, though it was for their own safety, was burned into his soul. At an early age, Sturm had learned about the painful price of honor. Few in the world held the Solamnic order in high esteem these days, but Sturm was committed to living up to his father's noble ideals and to following the Oath and the Measure.

As if reflecting his dark thoughts, a canopy of clouds towered on the horizon. A sharp, cool wind came up, rousing Sturm from his contemplation. He noticed the cloud mass immediately but with no particular interest, thinking idly, as a child might, that it appeared to have a shape like some great, flying creature with outspread wings and groping talons. The cloud seemed to roil the waters before it. As he continued to gaze in its direction, Sturm became aware that the cloud mass was building ominously. It was approaching rapidly and would be upon the ship in mere minutes.

Sturm stirred himself, stepped back from the railing, and glanced toward the rear deck, which still echoed with the boisterous laughter of the crew. He ought to find Captain Murloch and make sure the ship was ready for a blow. Then he ought to check on Caramon and Tas.

Back belowdecks, Tas had been very, very busy, carefully phrasing his magic letter to Raistlin Majere, Caramon's twin brother. Wouldn't Raistlin be thrilled! Tas had been eagerly anticipating this occasion for a long time-well, at least since the night they had boarded the Venora, when the contents of one of his pouches had shifted and the magic message bottle had poked him in the side, reminding him of its existence.

That's when he remembered the magic bottle he had obtained some years ago in exchange for beads and perfume from a shop dealer in Sanction. Or maybe it had been from a cousin in Kendermore. It was so-o-o long ago.

At any rate, Tas had been assured that the bottle could be tossed into the widest ocean and would carry a message to anyone, anywhere on the entire continent of Ansalon. That was just the sort of mind-boggling feat that figured prominently in the stories Uncle Trapspringer used to tell him, and this was the perfect opportunity to use the magical device. Raistlin, practically a mage himself-he hadn't taken the Test yet, but he would someday soon-would be sure to enjoy such a special method of communication. Who knows? The young mage might even pass on a good word about Tas's creativity and general reliability to that grouchy old dwarf, Flint Fireforge.

But you had to be extremely judicious about what you wrote-or said-to Raistlin, Tas thought as he sat with the quill pen poised over his piece of wrinkled parchment. Raistlin had a tendency to be ill-humored, even downright dour at times. A message in a magic bottle might be the very thing to coax a smile to his lips, providing it was a well-scribed message.

For many minutes, Tas pondered the blank paper before him, his brow furrowed, his topknot uncommonly still. Finally Tas had begun writing:

Dear Raistlin,

Isn't this amazing? I'm writing to you on board the good ship Venora…at least it's been a good ship so far (about two nights and two days). Caramon is upstairs…

Tas crossed that out.

Caramon is up on deck, having a good time with his new friends, the sailors, and Sturm is probably wandering around up there, too, thinking serious thoughts. You know Sturm. Well, I guess you know Caramon, too. Hi, Tanis!

The point of this letter is to tell you what happened after we arrived in Southern Ergoth. We made the two-day journey down the coast without any incident. Our little errand was successful. Asa was correct as to the whereabouts of the minotaur herbalist who sold the crushed jalopwort needed for the rare spell you are researching. I never had any doubts, since, like all kender, Asa is an expert with maps, and besides, he's my good friend of many years standing and certainly knows his herbal business. Don't worry. I have the crushed jalopwort safely tucked away in one of my pouches.

At this, Tas jumped up and patted one of the pouches on the bunk just to be sure, then slung the sack across his back, his eyes darting around vigilantly. Tas neither saw nor heard anything peculiar. No sound reached his ears other than the peaceful creaking of the ship and the padding of his own movements. Reassured, he sat back down at the makeshift desk under the porthole and resumed his magical missive.

You may already have guessed that this bottle is a magical one. I acquired it by shrewd and honest means during my period of wanderlust (I think), and when I noticed it a couple of days ago, I thought I would compose a letter to you and Tanis and Flint. Hi, Flint! Bet you thought I'd forgotten you!

If all goes well, this letter will be plucked out of the sea by some deserving fisherman who will cannily discern its significance and bring it to you in Solace for ample reward. The bottle will actually speak its message-my voice-to whoever uncorks it. Can you imagine that? Well, I guess you can by now.

Anyway, we're returning to Abanasinia by aforementioned ship and should be back in Solace within a week or two, depending on how often we stop to rest and have some fun. And you know how often Caramon likes to stop and rest and have some fun, so this letter will probably beat us back!

Here Tas paused and scratched his chin. That was a good beginning. He chewed the end of the quill pen before dipping it back into the inkwell.

Anyway, the mission was a success. Caramon especially enjoyed the town nearby, called Hyssop-Asa was right about that, too-and he seemed to make a lot of new friends there, especially female friends. Sturm kept Caramon company some of the time. Other times he explored the docks and the port of Hyssop, which is a much smaller place than Eastport but clean and friendly. They don't get many visitors from afar. I think Sturm enjoyed the novelty of the town, but it's hard to say with Sturm.

I did my best to keep an eye on both of them and also did some exploring of my own. Hyssop is filled with one-of-a-kind shops, but many of the storekeepers seemed to have never met a kender before. They became so overexcited whenever I stopped into one of their shops that Sturm finally suggested-insisted really-that I stick with him and stay away from the market district.

But there are certain strange and inexplicable parts of our trip that I would like to tell you about and which are the purpose of this letter, because I certainly wouldn't waste a magic letter on a boring trip.

The minotaur herbalist's shop was unlike any I've ever been in. For one thing, it was in a cave, and if you didn't have Asa's map, you'd never be able to find it. Also, the minotaur herbalist was just as polite and pleasant as can be. He didn't smell as bad as most of them usually do, either. Sturm said he actually detected the scent of soap on the horned beast, whose name is-I guess I should say was, but that's getting ahead of myself-Argotz.

The rhythmic creaking of the ship suddenly changed, its gentle motion interrupted by a sudden lurch. A gust of wind slammed open the porthole over the desk. Tas jumped up and peered out, happy for the distraction. Good! A storm was brewing! Tas had never been at sea during a storm. He felt certain it would be fascinating and enjoyable.

Tas sat back down at the desk and began to scribble faster in order to finish before going up on deck to watch the storm.

Sturm had barely started to make his way toward the rear deck when the first hailstones pelted him with the force of a thousand tiny, hurtling missiles. The deck shifted beneath his feet, and he momentarily slipped on the icy pebbles before catching his balance. Glancing up, Sturm saw that the ominous mass of clouds had come upon them so swiftly that the sky was suddenly blackened around them. Lightning crackled above. Flames flared from the masthead of the Venora. Grabbing the side railing, Sturm leaned into the wind and began pulling himself toward the Captain's post in the stern.

An instant later, Sturm was nearly blinded by stinging rain that poured down with awesome intensity. Shielding his eyes with one hand and clutching the rail with the other, Sturm was barely able to lurch forward.

What he saw as he approached the stern left him with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. A group of sailors were bunched ahead of him, working frantically to lower a small boat into the heaving waves. Sturm fought his way toward them. As he did, the ship pitched and he fell backward. By the time he succeeded in pulling himself upright, the lifeboat and the sailors had disappeared over the side.

As Sturm looked on in astonishment, several other members of the Venora's crew slipped furtively over the side, carrying what looked like makeshift life buoys under their arms. Sturm called out to them, but against the raging tumult of the storm, he could barely make out his own voice. When he reached the railing where they had jumped, Sturm peered downward but could see nothing except the dark waves thrashing the ship.

Their desertion was a cowardly act and strange as well.

Did the deserters expect to fare better in the wild sea than on board the storm-tossed Venora? Was it some kind of mutiny? Sturm glanced up at the steering deck, where Captain Murloch usually stationed himself. Sturm's perplexity deepened into outrage and fear. Murloch wasn't there. Not a soul stood by the wheel, which was spinning dizzily.

Strange indeed. Captain Murloch didn't seem to be the type to abandon his duties. It was Sturm who had picked him out from among the sea captains whose ships were moored at Eastport. Murloch's mournful, craggy face bespoke experience. Tas had dubbed the captain "Walrus Face" because of the pronged teeth that stuck out over his lantern jaw.

A punishing crash drew Sturm's attention upward. With the peculiar grace of a ballet, the top half of the Venora's mast broke off and toppled slowly into the violent sea. Nobody had bothered to furl the sails as the storm approached, and now there was no one to respond to this latest crisis.

Sturm's worried thoughts turned to his companions. He started to pull himself along the rail toward the back of the small cabin where he had last seen Caramon drinking with a group of sailors. The Venora's deck seesawed wildly back and forth beneath his feet. The ship seemed to be spinning around in circles that left Sturm's head swimming. Wind and rain whipped around him, creating an overwhelming cacophony.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Sturm lunged from the side rail to the small cabin and pulled himself around to the rear, which offered some small shelter from the battering of the storm.

With dismay, Sturm shook his head at what he beheld. Caramon was sprawled on the deck, eyes dreamily closed, an overturned jug of liquor rolling around at his side. Drunk, thought Sturm with exasperation. Sturm had developed an abiding respect for his friend's fighting skills and bravery, while acknowledging privately that Caramon's judgment, due to his overly generous nature, could not always be relied upon. But this lapse, at this particular time, seemed almost inexcusable.

And where were his drinking companions? Clearly, Caramon had been left behind.

The deck shifted violently beneath Sturm's feet. He braced himself against the side of the cabin, gauging how difficult it would be to drag Caramon into the slight shelter offered by the interior of the cabin, then shake him awake. After that, Tas still needed to be found, Sturm thought to himself grimly. And this all presumed there were still enough crew members aboard to bring the Venora under control.

Keeping one foot braced against the cabin wall, Sturm leaned over to grab his friend. Although the deck was slick from the rain, it would be difficult to budge Caramon's bulk. It was then that Sturm noticed that Caramon's weapons were missing. Before he could contemplate this odd fact, he heard a scuffling sound. Sturm looked up, but it was too late. The young Solamnic felt a thump on the side of his head, followed by the sensation of falling down a deep, dark, bottomless hole, with the wind shrieking in his ears.

Tasslehoff had been absorbed in finishing his letter to Raistlin. When the ship's increasingly turbulent motion caused the oil lamp to slide off the writing desk and shatter, the cabin was plunged into darkness. Tas looked up expectantly, just in time to grab the magic message bottle before it rolled off the desk.

"Oh… the storm. I forgot," the kender muttered to himself. Quickly he rolled up the parchment and stuffed it into the bottle. He pinched off a piece of the cork and crumbled it inside, then watched as the letter took on a golden glow before it vanished. Following the instructions he recalled, he swiftly corked the bottle and held it up. It appeared to be empty.

Standing on his tiptoes, Tas pressed his face against the porthole. In the dim light, he could make out little except that this was certainly a fine storm. He rugged the porthole open, and with a mighty effort, hurled the bottle into the churning sea.

As he stepped back from the porthole, the cabin tilted at a crazy angle, and the chair Tas had been sitting on crashed into his shins. Flashes of lightning filled the porthole with brilliant white light, extinguished almost as soon as it appeared. Loud cracks of thunder followed. In between two thunderclaps, Tas heard something else up on deck.

Trying unsuccessfully to ignore his throbbing shins, Tas began hopping around the cabin, gathering up the rest of his pouches and shoving them into his rucksack. He had no intention of leaving any of his treasures behind. "No telling what might happen in a storm like this," Tas mused aloud. "Sounds like it’s even more exciting up on deck. Sturm and Caramon must be having a great time up there. I bet they can't wait for me to join them." He took a moment to strap his hoopak, the fighting weapon prized by kender, to his back.

Tas paused at the door to the cabin, casting a quick glance behind him. Another flash of lightning at the porthole momentarily blinded him.

"I wonder if it's okay to use the magic message bottle during a storm," he reflected. "Oh, well. Too late now." He turned and bounded through the narrow passageway leading to the cabin, then up the stairway to the deck.

Prepared for a warm greeting from his friends, Tas was disappointed when he didn't see anyone. There was no sign of Sturm or Caramon, or even Captain Murloch. With typical kender agility, Tas managed to keep his footing on the rolling deck as he looked around. The mainmast appeared to have broken and toppled into the sea. The sails left attached to the stub of the mast whipped around wildly. The Venora careened dizzily. Where were Sturm and Caramon, not to mention everybody else?

Sensing some movement behind him, Tas whirled around and came face to face with Captain Murloch… old Walrus Face, The captain grinned at the kender, his yellowed teeth sticking out over his lower jaw. Swell, thought Tas. Despite his ship's dire predicament, the captain was managing to keep in good humor.

"Hi, Captain Murloch," Tas shouted into the wind and rain that lashed his face. "Quite a squall we're having. I bet it's going to give the ship a bit of trouble. I'll stay by your side and help you out. I've been on many ships in such circumstances…well, not too many, actually. Seven or nine, not counting this one. But Sturm and Caramon can be a big help, too. Do you know where they are? Good thing our friend Flint isn't along, because…"

Tas took a few steps closer to Captain Murloch, to make sure he was being heard. Somehow nothing seemed to be registering on the captain's grinning face. Perplexed and distracted, Tas failed to see the captain's arm swing up or notice the club arcing toward his head until it was too late.

"Damnable kender! They'd talk your ears off in the middle of a hurricane," Captain Murloch muttered to himself. But the captain's club had put a stop to the kender's chatter. Tas lay unconscious at Murloch's feet. The captain seized him by his topknot and dragged him toward what was left of the main mast. Beneath the shredded sails lay the unconscious forms of Sturm and Caramon.

Captain Murloch dragged the limp bodies closer to the mast and began to rope them to it as he had been instructed. He worked as quickly as he could in the fury of the storm. Finally, when he was finished, he stood for a moment to survey his handiwork. Heavy, purple-black clouds blotted out the sky overhead. The Venora's timbers creaked loudly.

Captain Murloch had kept his part of the bargain. The generous payment he had received meant he would be well compensated for the loss of the Venora and the risk to his own life. Like many old sea hands, Murloch loved his ship and regretted losing it. He would almost rather have lost his life.

"Well old girl, we had a good run," the captain murmured, licking his lips.

Murloch bent down and pulled a thick ring of cork from a hatch near the mast. He slipped it over his head and secured it with a rope at his waist. Looking back at the three unconscious bodies, then down toward the dark, turbulent waters, he climbed over the rail and plummeted toward the sea below.

He had managed to thrash his way through the high waves and swim several hundred feet away from the ship by the time the angry cloud that hovered above the Venora lowered itself upon the ship, spitting fierce blasts of lightning and hail.

Then, with a fearful, rushing clamor, the cloud began to rise slowly, carrying the Venora with it. From his distant vantage, Murloch could barely make out the ship's bow and stern as the Venora spun around like a top and was sucked up into the vortex.

Half a day later, the treacherous Captain Murloch, drifting with the tide, spied the distant shore of Abanasinia. He was nearly home free.

Tired and hungry, he was nonetheless comforted by the prospect of being a rich man for the rest of his life.

His cork preserver fitted snugly around his middle, Captain Murloch reached out and stroked the water, paddling in the direction of the coastline.

An odd sound drew his attention skyward. The sun was so bright and hot that he had to shade his eyes. Specks appeared to be dancing in the air.

Suddenly Captain Murloch stopped paddling and stared in shock. What appeared to be specks was actually a cone-like swarm of flying insects. As he watched in terror, he realized that they were hovering above him, moving along with him. At that moment, the swarm dipped and came diving downward.

They were giant bees-hundreds, thousands of them, swirling, buzzing, stinging. Captain Murloch reached up futilely with one arm, trying to bat them away. His arm was quickly covered with the savage creatures.

The scream that issued from Captain Murloch's mouth was a cry of utter helplessness. The giant bees swarmed into his mouth, covered his face, went for his ears and his eyes. They formed a living carpet over Captain Murloch, twitching and bristling as they went about their deadly business.

Within seconds, his heart ceased beating, and the bees flew up and into the sun.

Below, the captain's face was a mask of red welts. His tongue hung out, black and swollen to five times its normal size. His arms hung limp and useless in the water.

Captain Jhani Murloch drifted toward shore.

Thousands of miles away, in a rugged and desolate place-a salt-encrusted land parched by the sun, scoured by the wind, and surrounded by an inhospitable sea-a hulking figure bent over to read the signs of the shiny objects he had carefully arranged on the high table of a mountain plateau.

It had taken half a day's climb from his camp on the dry, ravaged lowland to get here. Nevertheless, twice a week he made the trek in order to commune with the gods-one god in particular.

The looming figure tilted his head upward, observing the manner in which the light of noonday was refracted in the colored glass, prisms and crystals, and silver shards of mirror.

Some distance away, grouped in a triad, stood his three most trusted and highly-attuned disciples, known simply as the High Three. Once the figure they watched had been one of the High Three. Now he was their unquestioned leader. It was inevitable that someday one of them would succeed him and carry on the sacred duties.

Beyond the High Three, ringed around them, behind turreted rocks and craggy formations, stood dozens of lesser acolytes, their features monstrous and contorted, their weapons brutal and deadly, glinting in the sun. Their animalistic faces betrayed no emotion; their huge, round eyes stared, dull and trancelike.

Beyond the acolytes were arrayed dozens of others, these mere guards and soldiers, but equally loyal and fearsome, waiting for but a signal from their leader.

Whatever was asked of them, they would do. They lived only to serve the Nightmaster.

The Nightmaster circled the shiny glass objects, stooping and peering at each of them, fascinated by the glimmers and swirls of light. Shading his massive brow, he gazed up at the sun and the hot white sky, assessing what he had observed and what he had learned.

Feathers and fur dangled from his great horned head. Bells jingled when he moved. In his huge hands, he carried a long, thin stick of incense, which trailed smoke and a sickeningly sweet scent. From object to object he stepped, pondering the signs.

Certain precautions had yet to be taken, certain preparations carried out. Renegades and interlopers had to be dealt with. Resources had to be marshaled. Nothing must interfere with the casting of the spell.

Sargonnas waited.

The Nightmaster looked deep into the patterns of light in the colored glass and knew that soon it would be time.