The Gossamer Plain

CHAPTER NINE

"This way!" Zasian shouted, urging his companions to follow.

Vhok parried a club strike from a fiery centaur and jammed the blade of Burnblood into the creature's chest. The bandit bellowed and reared up in pain as the hole erupted with molten goo. The cambion had to fling himself backward to avoid his foe's flailing hooves. That desperate act nearly sent him over the side of the ravine behind him.

The centaur staggered away from Vhok, clutching at its wound, but two more took its place. The half-fiend spun, desperate to keep from being pinned against the edge of the drop-off. He ducked beneath a spear thrust and knocked the stone weapon aside with his scepter. The cambion feinted to his right, luring the pair of bandits to shift their weight that way. When they bought his bluff, he wheeled back to the left. The two centaurs, their black, stony bodies popping and crackling with the effort, struggled to keep up. Again, though, the cambion only feinted.

When he had the two opponents suitably off balance, Vhok made a half-hearted swipe with his sword at the legs of the creature to his left, forcing it to rear up to avoid the attack.

He followed through with another feint of escape to his right, causing the other centaur to sidestep.

That was what Vhok had been waiting for. As the gap between the two creatures widened, the cambion launched himself through it, tumbling past them to the other side.

Both bandits turned to try to prevent him from slipping past them. Though they flanked him, he was much faster and more nimble. He easily dodged their clumsy spear thrusts. One of them accidentally struck its companion. The injured centaur bucked and kicked at its counterpart, snarling some unintelligible curse in their native language.

Vhok landed on one knee, a few feet from Myshik. The half-dragon battled two more of the bandits. He swung his great dwarven war axe in huge arcs. He had already made contact at least once, for one of the centaurs limped, its foreleg dragging uselessly upon the ground. The pair of bandits kept a respectable distance from the whistling axe.

"More come," the blue-tinged draconic hobgoblin grumbled to Vhok as the cambion took up a position back to back with him. Vhok saw Myshik jerk his head in the direction of the newcomers.

Vhok glanced where his companion indicated. He saw that the blazing, smoking centaur he had initially wounded seemed to be guzzling some draught from a brass flask. The contents of the container must have been a magical healing substance, for Vhok could see the wound in the creature's chest diminishing.

Worse, the half-fiend could see another handful of centaurs in the distance. Their forms appeared as little more than hazy silhouettes in the drifting, acrid smoke that shrouded the landscape. It was obvious to Vhok that they were hurrying to join their embattled companions, crossing the spider-webbed maze of lava-filled ravines in great leaps.

The cambion swore softly and turned the other way, seeking Zasian. He saw the priest receding in the distance, striding upon the air itself. The human magically traversed a ravine, a gap easily twenty paces wide. Beside him, Kurkle moved in similar fashion, though the canomorph seemed much less certain of his newfound transport than the priest. The guide slunk step by step through the smoky air, peering about nervously.

Zasian paused halfway across a ravine and glanced back at his companions. When he caught Vhok's eye, he motioned for the half-fiend to hurry. Then he turned and continued, escaping the fight.

Vhok swore again. Sweat poured from his body, stinging his eyes and soaking his clothing and armor. The acrid stench of smoke and burning stone assaulted his nose and throat, making them sore and dry. His blade hung low, nearly touching the ground, for his strength had been sapped by the endless fighting. His arm felt leaden.

No, that's not quite right, Vhok thought. Lead would merely melt and puddle on the scorched ground here.

It had been a long, tiresome day, and the quartet of travelers had been journeying for only a short time. Upon returning to the fiery plane after their night's repose, Vhok and the others had found Kurkle impatient for the foursome to be on their way. The canomorph had urged them to make haste. He warned them that the bandits were gathering in force. The situation had grown beyond the mere inconvenience of a raiding party. For whatever reason, the tribal centaurs had taken a keen interest in the planar visitors and seemed intent on hunting them down.

"If we hurry and stay out of sight," Kurkle had said, "we can reach the Islands ahead and slip away. They won't follow us there."

Hoping the canomorph had a good sense for such things, the three visitors and their guide set off. Despite their best efforts, the bandits had stayed on their trail and continued to harass them. The group's progress had turned into a running battle.

Over the course of the morning, the land had begun to change. The rolling, open ground bisected by endless meandering ravines had flattened out. The ravines had steadily grown deeper, more sheer, and wider. Rivulets of liquid flame coursed through the bottoms of the trenches. As they progressed, the depth of the molten rock had increased. The land was gradually sloping downward, becoming isolated, flat-topped mesas of solid terrain surrounded by networks of wide lava channels.

No, Vhok thought, islands of land in a sea of lava. We have reached our destination. Now to see if the hound's prediction was accurate.

"We don't want to stay here," the half-fiend warned Myshik as the centaurs began to close warily. "Zasian and the guide are already moving out. I think we're at the Islands."

Myshik nodded in understanding. "Can you flee?" the half-hobgoblin asked, lunging forward and slicing at one of the four bandits. The centaur reared up and backward to evade the cut.

"I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve," Vhok said, gasping as he parried three different spear thrusts. In truth, much of his magic was already gone, exhausted during the running skirmish. But he had the means to escape the predicament he and Myshik were in. "The question," he puffed as he smacked a spear away with his scepter, "is whether you do."

"I do," Myshik replied, cleaving a spear in half as it strayed too close to him. "Help me get near the edge. The direction they went," he added. "Then I can take care of myself."

Vhok grunted his assent and drew a deep breath, prepared to pick up the tempo of the battle.

One of the centaurs nearest him snarled and reared up. It kicked at the cambion with its hooves. It held its spear aloft in both hands, ready to slam it down and run Vhok through. The cambion avoided the flailing forelegs and made a daring move. He dashed forward, beneath the rearing beast. He jabbed Burnblood up into the creature's underbelly just as it dropped down on all fours again. The centaur screamed in agony and teetered to the side as the half-fiend tumbled out of the way.

Vhok didn't waste time waiting to see how badly he had wounded the creature. He spun right, smacking his scepter against the flank of the next centaur, which had turned to evade an axe strike from Myshik. The blow echoed with the sound of steel on rock and sent sparks flying. The fiery beast howled something in its native tongue and stumbled away from Vhok.

Out of nowhere, the cambion took a spear to his shoulder. The glowing tip of the blade glanced off his armor, but the force of the strike was enough to twist his arm nearly out of its socket. The cambion grunted in pain and took a step away, closer to the cliff where he and Myshik would escape. His shoulder throbbed and he could barely lift his scepter.

The half-dragon, seeing Vhok's success, leaped forward, swinging his mighty weapon down hard across the gutted centaur's shoulder. The concussive boom of the blow staggered the bandit, driving it down. The blade bit so deeply into the creature's torso it nearly cleaved the beast in two. Myshik kept going. He yanked his blade free and dashed into the gap in the bandits' line, joining Vhok. The pair stood near the edge, then, and the centaurs could no longer come at them from all sides.

The cambion felt two arrows slam against him, one on his thigh and one in his gut, but both bounced away. A spell he had woven over himself earlier still held, deflecting the missiles, but the blows stung. He knew the spell wouldn't hold much longer. He spared a quick glance in the direction the arrows had come, and saw that the remainder of the bandits had arrived. He and Myshik faced nearly a dozen of the scorched, blazing creatures. The newcomers could not squeeze into the fight directly, so they held bows at the ready, waiting for opportune shots.

"Too many!" Vhok called to the draconic hobgoblin. "Time to go!"

Myshik nodded as he drove a centaur back with two broad swings of his axe. An arrow flew past his ear and made him flinch. "Get ready!" he shouted. "You'll know when!"

Vhok didn't know what the half-dragon had in mind, but he didn't doubt that Myshik was capable. The cambion parried another spear thrust and slipped his scepter into its loop on his belt. With his sword still out for defense, the half-fiend pulled a tiny bit of gauze from an inner pocket. The spell he intended to cast required a bit of smoke as well.

I wonder where I might find some, he thought wryly.

Myshik whipped his axe at his closest opponent once more, then jumped back to one side, right against the edge. His movement separated him from Vhok, allowing the centaurs to close in between them.

Vhok kept one eye on the half-dragon as he struggled to keep the press of centaurs away from himself. Whatever you're going to do, the cambion thought, do it!

The draconic hobgoblin drew in a deep breath just as two more bandits surged forward to surround him. The centaurs seemed to laugh with glee, though it was difficult for Vhok to be sure, given the creatures' strange, cracking language.

Regardless, it was all cut short as the Morueme scion unleashed death and destruction upon his foes in one sharp exhalation.

Blinding light and crackling energy erupted from the half-dragon. It shot out in a line, surging through several of the gathered bandits in front of Myshik and Vhok. The cambion flung a hand up and spun away, futilely trying to protect himself. The afterimage seared his vision for several heartbeats, making his eyes water.

Vhok cursed the fool half-hobgoblin at first, then realized that Myshik had most likely cleared the press of centaurs away from the two of them. Unable to see how close his foes were, Vhok trusted that he could cast his spell unmolested. He waved the gauze around himself and triggered the magic.

The cambion felt his body change. He became insubstantial, as light as a feather. His eyes no longer hurt, and though the effect was disorienting, he could "see" in every direction at once. He had become nothing but an amorphous puff of smoke, virtually invisible and immune to the attacks of the remaining bandits.

Vhok began to drift away, mentally commanding his new form to float in the direction Zasian and Kurkle had gone. He spied the priest and the guide waiting on the next island. The wind blew incessantly across the plane, buffeting him, but he compensated by drifting slightly against it, as though he swam upstream to cross a river.

Behind him, he could see several centaurs down, unmoving. A few staggered about, injured and clutching at their eyes. In their pain and blindness, they paid little heed to the draconic hobgoblin in their midst.

Myshik roared a primal challenge and waded in among the survivors. He cut a swath through the bandits with his axe, feeding on some berserk rage that lent him strength and resolve. As Vhok wafted farther away, he watched in amazement as the half-dragon sliced and hewed his enemies. Each axe blow delivered a resounding boom and sent centaurs staggering or flying back from the hobgoblin.

At last, Myshik had downed or driven all his enemies away. He gave a single shudder then, and his shoulders slumped. His axe dangled at his side and his breath came in deep, panting gasps.

Vhok realized that he had exhausted himself. Come on, Myshik, he willed. Get moving before more show up.

As if sensing his companion's mental summons, Myshik hefted his axe once more and turned in the direction that Vhok and the others had fled. He began to sprint toward them. As he built up speed, he unfurled his wings. Vhok had never seen Myshik fly and wondered if the vestigial appendages could hold him aloft.

At the very edge of the plateau, Myshik leaped into the air and soared over the flowing lava. He hurtled right toward Vhok, though the cambion knew the half-dragon could not see him in his smoky form. The draconic hobgoblin spread his wings and glided.

Vhok could see that it was not true flight, but the wings held the half-dragon aloft well enough to clear the gap. Myshik's momentum carried him across faster than Vhok could drift, and the draconic hobgoblin just cleared the lip of the next plateau before touching down. His momentum carried him forward a few steps, and he settled in a heap upon the ground.

A moment later, Vhok arrived and dismissed his magic. His body reformed to its fiendlike state and his feet settled to the broiling ground once more. He stepped closer to Zasian and Kurkle, who stared in the direction they had come.

Several centaurs had recovered, and still more had appeared. They faced the foursome and all could see that they had unlimbered their bows. The creatures formed a line and took aim at their quarry.

With a muttered word and a gesture, Zasian summoned a magical wall crafted of stone. He shaped it in a semicircle along the edge of the plateau. It was tall enough that none of them could see over the top.

Vhok heard the sound of arrows smacking against the opposite side. He shrugged and turned away, sliding down to rest. "Will they follow us?" he asked.

The canomorph made a strange barking sound, and the cambion realized it was a snort of derision. "They cannot," Kurkle said. "They are great leapers, but the Islands are too much for them. Sometimes, they use magic to foray out here, but they cannot come in force."

"Then we are safe," Myshik said, his voice weak with weariness. "They will trouble us no more."

Kurkle snorted again. "Nay, not safe," he said. "Other things lurk here. We must be wary. Watch the skies, the flow between islands."

Vhok eyed the territory with doubt. The sea of lava, dotted with mesas of solid land, stretched as far as he could make out in the hazy air. The molten rock sloshed and churned, hiccuping bubbles and gouts of liquid fire randomly. The whole horizon shimmered and wavered from the heat.

"How far does this go?" he asked.

"Not far," Kurkle replied. "A short trek, if we were on solid land. But we must find a way to cross. Your magic," he said, turning to Zasian. "Can you use it to let us walk upon the air, as we did before?"

The priest nodded. "You still can," he said, "for a bit longer. But it will vanish after a time, and I cannot bestow it upon the others," he said, gesturing at Vhok and Myshik. "The half-dragon cannot glide from island to island-some are too far apart. Vhok? What magic have you?"

The cambion shook his head. "Not much," he answered. "Too much went against the bandits, or to aid in escaping them. And I am bone tired, anyway. I say we stop for the day and resume our journey tomorrow. Zasian and I can plan new magic to help us cross this."

"It's not safe here," Kurkle argued. "We should press on."

"It's safe enough for my magical mansion," Vhok said. "You'll have to come with us, Kurkle."

The canomorph gave the cambion a doubtful look, but at last acquiesced with a nod.

"This wall of yours is handy, Zasian," Vhok remarked as he dug the miniature archway out of his belongings. "The centaurs can't see us disappear. If they do get over here, it will seem like we are long gone."

With that, he summoned the portal leading into his posh extradimensional abode and gestured for everyone to enter. The cambion was the last to pass through the doorway, and once he was gone, the shimmering passage winked out of existence.

Though the mid-morning air was crisp and cold, the sun shining on Aliisza's face warmed her skin. She drew a deep breath and caught the scent of fragrant blossoms emerging from the flaky-barked branches of a felsul tree in the tiny garden. Spring had come to Sundabar.

Two young children, a boy and a girl, played in the garden. They dug in a bare patch of dirt with their hands. As the boy made a path, the girl moved a wooden block painted to look like a coach along it. Neither of them noticed the half-fiend in their midst.

The children kept their voices soft, near-whispers meant only for one another. Aliisza could not make out what they said, but she caught an edge to their tones that hinted at apprehension. They played, as all children did, but they had dread in their hearts.

The door from the house opened, and the children's mother-no, their older sister-emerged, clothed in a simple dress, perhaps a bit threadbare, covered with an apron. Her shoulder-length ebony hair framed eyes of brilliant blue, eyes that expressed deep sorrow in all that the young woman beheld. She offered a smile as the two children glanced up at her, but the expression belied the look in her eyes.

"Remember," she said to the pair, "don't leave the garden. I'll be back near sundown." Her tone was light and upbeat, but Aliisza could hear a catch in her voice that told a different story. "When you get hungry, there's some bread and cheese in the cupboard. Don't eat it all-I don't get paid until the morrow, and that's all we have left."

The young woman moved to the garden gate, passing very near Aliisza. She never acknowledged the alu. She pulled on the latch of the gate and opened it. As she stepped into the narrow street beyond, she turned and gave the children one last smile, then pulled the gate shut after herself.

Aliisza saw the two children peer at the gate for some moments afterward. The boy sighed and turned back to his digging, but the girl, whom Aliisza could see was a few years older, rose to her feet and went to a bench beneath the felsul tree. She plopped herself down and hunched over, staring at the ground. Her eyes welled with tears. She drew her sleeve across her face, scrubbing them away.

"When I get bigger, I'm going to take Dada's sword and kill that man," the boy said, kneeling in the dirt. His eyes were watery, too. "I'll stab him right in the gut."

"No, you won't," the girl said, defiantly wiping her eyes. "Not even when I have to work for him, too."

Aliisza had enough. With a snort of disgust, she turned away. The little wretches weren't going to ruin her morning. She found herself standing outside the garden, near the gate. She could see the older sister making her way down the lane. The alu decided to follow. She didn't know why.

The young woman crossed the square, pushing her way through milling merchants hawking their wares and the goodwives who bought them. Her gait was slow, almost reluctant. She paused for a moment to stare at a barrel filled with old, withered apples, and even at Aliisza's distance, the alu could hear the girl's stomach rumble. Tearing her eyes away from the food, the girl entered an alley. She passed a handful of doorways, the back entrances of several shops, until she came to her destination. She stepped inside.

Aliisza followed her, compelled to see what sort of man she might work for that would raise the ire of a mere boy. To her surprise, she discovered that the building housed a tailor's shop. Bolts of fabric lined shelves along every wall, while spools of thread filled several wooden boxes atop work tables. A loom stood in one corner, a half-finished weave of fabric stretched across it. Two other doors led from the chamber, one toward the front of the building, most likely to the shop. The other door was on a side wall, behind a table bearing a pile of fabric scraps.

A squat man with greasy hair and an ocular clenched in one eye glanced up from where he had been sorting needles. He scowled. "You're late," he growled.

The girl lurched to a halt, dropped her head, and stared at the stone floor. "I'm very sorry, Master Velsin. I had the morning sickness again, and I just couldn't-"

"I don't care what ails you," he snarled, stomping around the corner of the table. He grabbed her by one arm and jerked her to face him more directly. "You're to be here by seven bells, not a moment after. Next time you're late, don't bother coming at all."

The girl's mouth trembled as she stared at her employer. "Y-yes, Master Velsin," she breathed.

"Now get in there," the man snapped, flinging her arm free and jerking his thumb toward the side door. "Yrudis Gregan wants to see some new dresses."

The girl cast her eyes down to the floor again and mumbled, "Yes, sir." She moved woodenly, untying her apron as she approached the door.

Aliisza rolled her eyes, trying to feel uninterested in the girl's plight, but she understood what the young woman's illness meant and felt a pang of sympathy anyway. Despite her desire to leave the shop, to return to the street outside, she followed the girl.

The cramped chamber beyond was dim, lit only by a single oil lamp on a small table in the far corner. An obese man filled most of the rest of the room, his considerable bulk spilling over the sides of a single rickety wooden chair. He was dressed in plain clothing and wore an apron, though it was caked with flour and other smears. He sat with his arms folded across his chest, a severe look on his face.

"It's about time," he said, glaring at the girl. "I've been here since seven bells."

"Yes, Master Gregan," the girl said. "I'm sorry."

"Of course you are," the man replied. "Well, no more dilly-dallying. I want to see how they fit. Not going to buy my daughter such expensive dresses without knowing how they fit, you know." He gestured at a disheveled pile of fashionable dresses heaped in the corner. "Start with the blue one," he said.

"Y-yes, Master Gregan," she answered, picking up the dress atop the pile. She held it up, looking at it.

"You don't really think you deserve to put on dresses like that, do you?" the man asked, his tone demeaning. "They aren't for trollops like you. You must think you'd be very pretty in a dress like that. Maybe even prettier than my daughter?"

"N-no, Master Gregan," the young woman said forlornly. She began to unbutton her own dress, turning away as she slipped it over her head, leaving herself in only her small clothes.

"Stop that," Yrudis Gregan said sharply. He leaned forward, an eager, lascivious grin on his face. The chair creaked in complaint beneath his bulk. "Turn around so I can see you. No trollop is going to tell me she's prettier than my daughter. Turn around so I can see you!"

Aliisza found herself back outside the tailor's shop. She was breathing faster than normal, and there was a tightness in her chest she hadn't noticed before. She realized she was clenching her fists, and she relaxed them.

Angry? she thought. Am I angry? What do I care what happens to that girl? I didn't do that to her. It's not my problem. She turned to depart, prepared to dismiss all thoughts of the young girl from her mind forever, when she noticed a man standing in the alley, dressed in soldier's gear, watching the shop.

An air of both sadness and fury hung about him, both at the same time. He stared at the tailor's doorway, his eyes boring unseen holes through the walls to learn what was happening inside. Once, he almost took a step forward, as if he were going to march right in there and put a stop to it, but he didn't budge. He just stood there, fighting against himself.

Aliisza knew, without knowing how she knew, that he was the girl's father. His wife had died some years before, giving birth to the boy in the garden. He was their sole parent, taking care of the three of them ever since. She also knew that he was dead, a ghost like her, a figure no one could notice. He couldn't help his daughter.

He had died not too many nights before, ambushed and slaughtered along with the rest of his Sundabarian patrol, the victim of fiendish orcs under a gibbous moon in a narrow canyon.

Myshik awoke, just as he intended to, in darkness. His chamber was silent save for the gurgle of a fountain. It was nearly dark in the room, lit only by the soft glow of some magical light emanating from nowhere in particular. The half-dragon stretched and sat up.

"Come to me," he commanded softly, and instantly, a figure stood before him, one of the servants Kaanyr Vhok had offered as part of the palatial accoutrements of his magical safehold.

The figure, a human woman dressed in diaphanous silks, smiled and waited, watching the draconic hobgoblin mutely.

Myshik arose from his bed and dressed quickly, donning his full armor and weaponry. He felt rested, refreshed. He was also giddy with anticipation. He checked over his gear once, twice, a third time, knowing he could make no mistakes and survive.

"Lead me," he commanded softly. "Show me the door to the canomorph's chamber."

Without a word, the servant turned and began to walk. She moved through Myshik's own door into the tapestried and carpeted hallway beyond. She moved silently, crossing the floor on dainty feet that seemed to barely touch the ground.

The draconic hobgoblin followed, trying to emulate her as best he could. He was not a deft being, and his boots thudded more loudly than he would have liked.

The beautiful servant paused in front of a door, not far from the half-dragon's own. She wordlessly pointed at it and stood still, watching him and smiling gently.

Myshik thought carefully about how to word his next instruction. If he did not explain it thoroughly and correctly, the consequences would be disastrous. Finally, he formulated his order. "Without disturbing Kaanyr Vhok in anyway, enter his chambers, retrieve the sculpted archway that creates this place, and return with it to me."

As the servant vanished, Myshik slipped through the door and entered Kurkle's chambers. The half-hobgoblin was assaulted by overwhelming heat. He gasped as waves of it crashed against him, carrying the stench of burning stone. The ring upon the hobgoblin's finger repelled the brunt of the devastating swelter, but he broke out in a sweat immediately.

The room looked nothing like a guest room. It appeared more like a small hollow upon the blasted landscape of the Plane of Fire, a sheltered spot among low stone ridges made of scorched and glowing hot rock. The light was dim, as it had been in Myshik's room and in the hall outside, so his eyes had no trouble spying the figure curled up within the hollow.

Kurkle was sleeping in hound form, but his canine head rose up at Myshik's approach. The canomorph let out a low growl and leaped to his feet as the half-dragon rushed at him. He hefted the dwarven war axe high in the air and swung forward.

Kurkle tried to jump clear of the strike, but Myshik was too quick and the canomorph too slowed by the daze of sleep. The axe bit deeply into Kurkle's flank. The impact reverberated with a rumbling boom and knocked the fiery creature aside.

Kurkle yelped in pain as he sprawled away. He tried to stagger upright, but his hind legs didn't work properly. With a keening whimper, the canomorph began to shift form, changing into a half-orc. As he transformed, his belongings appeared, and Kurkle fumbled in a pouch strapped to his hip.

Myshik strode forward again. He pulled his axe back for another blow, eager to strike before his foe extracted the object he sought. Kurkle yanked a flask free and tried to guzzle the contents and roll clear of the draconic hobgoblin at the same time, but even as a humanoid, his injured legs hindered him.

Myshik slammed the axe down hard, splitting the half-orc's skull.

Kurkle's eyes went wide and glazed over as the concussive thump caved most of his head in. The flask fell from his hand and tumbled to the scorching ground. Its contents leaked onto the searing rock, evaporating in thick wisps of greenish steam. His body flopped onto the stones, limp.

Myshik sighed and cleaned the blade of his axe on the dead guide's tunic. "Sorry, dog-man," he said softly as he stepped away. "Nothing personal. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time." He moved to the door and paused, looking back. "But then again, I never liked being called 'drako.' " With that, the half-dragon slipped outside.

The servant had returned and waited patiently, the arch clutched in her hands. Myshik listened for a moment to see if her subterfuge had roused the cambion. He heard no cries of anger, no alarms. He feared that Vhok might have warded his room with magic to protect himself from just such an act.

Foolish, trusting fiend, Myshik thought as he took the arch from the servant. My father and uncle do not enter into pacts with the likes of you.

The half-dragon proceeded into the dining room. As he expected, it was empty and dark. He studied the large table that dominated the chamber, wondering if his axe held within it the power to destroy the thing.

Only one means to find out, he decided.

Hoisting the axe, he raised it as high as his arms would stretch and called on all his strength. With one powerful downstroke, Myshik slashed the head of the axe against the surface of the magical table. With an ear-splitting crack, the thunderous weapon sundered the table, splitting it into two separate halves.

Myshik smiled in satisfaction. That ought to do it, he thought. Time to go.

The hobgoblin turned and hurried from the room. He strode toward the entrance of the palace. He approached the door, sealed shut with stone, and recalled how Vhok had opened it the previous morning. Myshik had made certain to pay careful attention so he would be able to mimic Vhok's gestures precisely. He blew through the arch and watched as the shimmering curtain appeared.

Behind him, the half-hobgoblin heard a muffled shout. The glow of a lantern brightened the hallway above and behind him, from the direction of Vhok's chambers.

"Hope you enjoy your new home, demon," Myshik muttered softly. He stepped through the portal. "You're going to be here a while," he added as he stepped into the heat and smoke of the tortured Plane of Fire. "In fact," he finished, "I sincerely hope forever." The half-dragon then held his lips to the arch and blew once more.

The magical doorway winked out.