The War of the Lance

The Potion Sellers

It was just after midsummer's, on a fine, golden morning, when the seller of potions came to the town of Faxfail.

Perched precariously upon the high bench of a peculiar-looking wagon, he drove through the borough's narrow, twisting streets. The wagon, pulled by a pair of perfectly matched dappled ponies, was a tall, boxlike craft all varnished in black and richly decorated with carved scrollwork of gilded wood. On the wagon's side panel, painted in a fantastically brilliant hue of purple, was the picture of a bottle above which was scribed, in flowing letters of serpentine green, three strange words: MOSSWINE'S MIRACULOUS ELIXIRS. It was a mysterious message indeed, and startled the townsfolk who looked up from their morning tasks and chores in curiosity as the wagon rattled by.

The seller of potions himself was a young-looking man, with hair the color of new straw and eyes as blue as the summer sky. He was clad in finery fit for a noble — albeit in hues a bit brighter than most nobles would choose — and his dark, crimson-lined cape billowed out behind him in the morning breeze. He waved to the townsfolk as he passed by, his broad grin rivalling the sun for sheer brilliance.

On the hard wooden bench next to the seller of potions bounced a short, swarthy-looking fellow. His look was not nearly so cheerful as his companion's, but then this was only typical. He was a dwarf, and it has often been said that dwarvenkind is every bit as hard and unyielding as the metals dwarves are so fond of forging deep in their dim mountain smithies. This particular dwarf wore a dour expression, his heavy eyebrows drawn down over his irongray eyes in a scowl. His coarse black beard was so long he wore it tucked into his broad leather belt, and his shaggy hair was bound with a leather thong into a braid behind his neck.

"You know, you're going to scare the townsfolk out of what little wits they have with that sour look you're wearing," the seller of potions said quietly to the dwarf through clenched teeth, all the while grinning and waving. "It won't do us a great deal of good if they all take one look at you and go scurrying inside to bolt their doors. At least, not until after we have their money. I don't suppose you could smile for a change, could you?"

"I am smiling," the dwarf answered in a gruff voice. His craggy visage was not quite as warm and friendly as a chunk of wind-hewn granite, but almost.

The seller of potions eyed the dwarf critically. "Maybe you shouldn't try so hard," he suggested lightly, but the joke was completely lost on the dour-faced dwarf. The seller of potions sighed and shook his head. His name was Jastom, and he had traveled with this particular dwarf long enough to know when argument and teasing were pointless. The dwarf's name was Algrimmbeldebar, but over the years Jastom had taken to simply calling him Grimm. Not only did the name slip more readily from the tongue, it also suited the dwarf's disposition far better.

Rumors sped faster than sparrows through the towns narrow streets, and by the time the wagon rolled into Faxfail's central square, a sizeable crowd of curious townsfolk had gathered expectantly. It wouldn't be the largest audience Jastom had ever hawked potions to, but it wouldn't be the smallest either. Faxfail was a town deep in the Garnet mountains of southern Solamnia. The nearest city of consequence — that would be Kaolyn — was a good three day's journey to the north and west. These were country folk. And country folk tended to be far more trusting than city folk. Or gullible, depending upon one's choice of words.

"I suppose this means I'll have to mix more elixirs," Grimm grumbled, eyeing the growing throng. The dwarf opened a small panel behind the bench and nimbly disappeared inside the wagon.

Concocting potions was Grimm's task; selling them was Jastom's. It was an arrangement that had proven quite profitable on their journeys from one end of Ansalon to the other. The two had first met some years before, in the markets of Kalaman. At the time, neither had been making a terribly good living for himself. Even Jastom's brilliant smile and ingenuous visage had not been enough to interest folk in the crude baubles he was attempting to foist off as good luck charms. And as for the dwarf, his gloomy, glowering looks tended to keep potential customers well away from the booth where he was trying to sell his elixirs. One night, the two had found themselves sharing a table in a tavern, each lamenting his particular misfortune over a mug of ale. Both had realized that each had what the other lacked, and so their unlikely but lucrative partnership was born.

The wagon rolled to a halt in the center of the town's square, and Jastom leapt acrobatically to the cobbles. He bowed deeply, flourishing his heavy cape as grandly as a court magician, and then spread his arms wide.

"Gather 'round, good folk of Faxfail, gather 'round!" he called out. His voice was clear as a trumpet, honed by years of hawking wares until it was as precise as the finest musical instrument. "Wonders await you this day, so gather 'round and behold!"

From out of nowhere (or, in fact, from out of his sleeve) a small purple bottle appeared in Jastom's upturned palm. A gasp of amazement passed through the crowd as folk young and old alike leaned forward to peer at the odd little bottle. The morning sunlight sparkled through the purple glass, illuminating a thick, mysterious-looking liquid within.

"Wonders indeed," Jastom went on, lowering his voice to a theatrical whisper that was nonetheless audible to even the most distant onlookers. "After just one sip of this precious potion, all your aches and ailments, all your malingering maladies and ponderous pains, will vanish as though they had never been. For a mere ten coins of steel" — a dismissing gesture of his hand made this particular detail seem of the barest significance — "this bottle of Mosswine's Miraculous Elixir will heal all!"

This last, of course, was not precisely true, and Jastom knew it. He and Grimm were charlatans. Fakes. Swindlers. The potion in the purple bottle couldn't so much as heal a rabbit of the sniffles let alone any of the dire ills he was claiming. Mosswine wasn't even Jastom's real name. It was Jastom Mosswallow. However, by the time folk in any one place realized the truth of things, Jastom and Grimm would always be long gone, headed for the next town or city to ply their trade.

It wasn't at all a bad business as Jastom reckoned things. He and Grimm got a purse full of coins for their efforts, and in return the folk they duped got something to believe in, at least for a little while. And these days even a brief hope was a rare thing of worth.

It was just six short months ago, in the dead of winter, that all of Krynn had suffered under the cold, hard claws of the dragonarmies. The War of the Lance had ended with the coming of spring, but the scars it had left upon the land — and the people — had not faded so easily as the winter snows. The folk of Ansalon were desperate for anything that might help them believe they could leave the dark days of the war behind, that they could heal themselves and make their lives whole once again. That was exactly what Jastom and Grimm gave them.

Of course, there were true clerics in the land now, since the War. Some were disciples of the goddess Mishakal — called Light Bringer — and they could heal with the touch of a hand. Or at least so Jastom had heard, for true clerics were still a rarity. However, he and Grimm did their best to avoid towns and cities where there were rumored to be clerics. Folk wouldn't be so willing to buy false healing potions when there was one among them with the power of true healing.

Abruptly, there was a loud, surprising clunk! as the wagon's side panel flipped downward, revealing a polished wooden counter and, behind it, a row of shelves lined with glimmering purple bottles. Grimm's glowering eyes barely managed to peer over the countertop, but the crowd hardly noticed the taciturn dwarf. All were gazing at the display of sparkling elixirs.

Jastom gestured expansively to the wagon. "Indeed, my good gentlefolk, just one of these elixirs, and all that troubles you will be cured. And all it costs is a mere ten coins of steel. A small price to pay for a miracle, wouldn't you say?"

There was a single moment of silence, and then as one the crowd gave a cry of excitement as they rushed forward, jingling purses in hand.

All morning and all afternoon the townsfolk crowded about the black varnished wagon, listening to Jastom extol the wondrous properties of the potions and then setting down their cold steel on the counter in trade for the small purple bottles.

There was only one minor crisis, this around midday, when the supply of potions ran out. Grimm was busily scurrying about inside the cramped wagon, measuring this and pouring that as he hurriedly tried to mix a new batch of elixirs. However, a few burly, red-necked farmers grew impatient and began shaking the wagon. Jars and bottles and pots went flying wildly inside, spilling their contents and covering Grimm with a sticky, medicinal-smelling mess. Luckily, the dwarf had managed to finish a handful of potions by then, and Jastom used these to placate the belligerent farmers, selling them the bottles for half price. Losing steel was not something Jastom much cared for, but losing the wagon — and Grimm — would have been disastrous.

After that interruption, Grimm was able to finish filling empty bottles with the thick, pungent elixir, and business proceeded more smoothly. However, the dwarf's eyes were still smoldering like hot iron.

"Fine way to make a living," he grumbled to himself as he tried to pick sticky clumps of herbs from his thick black beard. "I suppose we'll swindle ourselves right out of our own necks one of these days."

"What did that glum-looking little fellow say?" a blacksmith demanded, hesitating as he started to lay down his ten coins of steel on the wooden counter. "Something about swindle?"

Jastom shot a murderous look at Grimm and then turned his most radiant smile to the smith. "You'll have to forgive my friend's mumblings," he said in a conspiratorial whisper. "He hasn't been quite the same ever since one of the ponies kicked him in the head."

The blacksmith nodded in sympathetic understanding. He left the wagon, small purple bottle in hand. Jastom's bulging purse was ten coins heavier. And Grimm kept his mouth shut.

It was midafternoon when Jastom sold the last of the potions. The corpulent merchant who bought it gripped the purple bottle tightly in his chubby fingers and scurried off through the streets, a gleam in his eye. The fellow hadn't seemed to want to discuss the exact nature of his malady, but Jastom suspected it had something to do with the equally corpulent young maiden who was waiting for him in the door of a nearby inn, smiling and batting her eyelids in a dreadful imitation of demureness. Jastom shook his head, chuckling.

Abruptly there was a loud whoop! Jastom turned to see an old woman throw down her crooked cane and begin dancing a spry jig to a piper's merry tune. Other folk quickly joined the dance, heedless of the aches and cares that had burdened them only a short while ago. One shabbily-dressed fellow, finding himself without a partner, settled for a spotted pig that had the misfortune to be wandering through the town square. The pig squealed in surprise as the man whirled it about, and Jastom couldn't help but laugh aloud at the spectacle.

This was the work of the elixirs, of course. Jastom wasn't altogether certain what Grimm put in the small purple bottles, but he knew the important ingredient was something called dwarf spirits. And while dwarf spirits were not known to possess any curative powers, they did have certain potent and intoxicating effects.

Jastom had no idea how the dwarves brewed the stuff. From what little he had managed to get out of Grimm, it was all terribly secret, the recipe passed down from generation to generation with ancient ceremony and solemn oaths to guard the formula. But whatever was in it, it certainly worked. Laborers threw down their shovels, goodwives their brooms, and all joined what was rapidly becoming an impromptu festival. Respected city elders turned cartwheels about the square, and parents leapt into piles of straw hand-in-hand with their laughing children. For now, all thoughts of the war, of worry and of sickness, were altogether missing from the town of Faxfail.

But it couldn't last.

"They won't feel so terribly well tomorrow, once the dwarf spirits wear off," Grimm observed dourly.

"But today they do, and by tomorrow we'll be somewhere else," Jastom said, patting the nearly-bursting purse at his belt.

He slammed shut the wagon's side panel and leapt up onto the high bench. Grimm clambered up after him. At a flick of the reins, the ponies started forward, and the wagon rattled slowly out of the rollicking town square.

Jastom did not notice as three men — one with a sword at his hip and the other two clad in heavy black robes despite the day's warmth — stepped from a dim alleyway and began to thread their way through the spontaneous celebration, following in the wagon's wake.

Jastom whistled a cheerful, tuneless melody as the wagon jounced down the red dirt road, leaving the town of Faxfail far behind.

The road wound its way across a broad vale. To the north and south hulked two slate-gray peaks that looked like ancient fortresses built by long-vanished giants. The sky above was clear as a sapphire, and a fair wind, clean with the hint of mountain heights, hissed through the rippling fields of green-gold grass. Sunflowers nodded like old goodwives to each other, and larks darted by upon the air, trilling their glad melodies.

"You seem to be in an awfully fine mood, considering," Grimm noted in his rumbling voice.

"Considering what, Grimm?" Jastom asked gaily, resuming his whistling.

"Considering that cloud of dust that's following on the road behind us," the dwarf replied.

Jastom's whistling died.

"What?"

He cast a hurried look over his shoulder. Sure enough, a thick plume of ruddy dust was rising from the road perhaps a half mile back. Even as Jastom watched, he saw the shapes of three dark horsemen appear amidst the blood-colored cloud. No… one horseman and two figures running along on either side. The sound of pounding hoofbeats rumbled faintly on the air like the sound of a distant storm.

Jastom swore loudly. "This is impossible," he said incredulously. "The townsfolk couldn't have sobered up this soon. They can't have figured out that we've swindled them. Not yet."

"Is that so?" Grimm grunted. "Well, they're riding mighty fast and hard for drunken men."

"Maybe they're not after us," Jastom snapped. But an uncomfortable image of a noose slipping over his neck went through his mind. Swearing again, he slapped the reins, urging the ponies into a canter. The boxshaped wagon was heavy, and they had just begun to ascend a low hill. The ponies couldn't go much faster. Jastom glanced wildly over his shoulder again. The horseman had closed the gap to half of what it had been only a few moments before. He saw now that two of them — the ones running — wore heavy black robes. Sunlight glinted dully from the sword that the third rider had drawn.

Jastom considered jumping from the wagon but promptly discarded the idea. If the fall didn't kill them, the strangers would simply cut him and the dwarf down like a mismatched pair of weeds. Besides, everything Jastom and Grimm owned was in the wagon. Their entire livelihood de pended upon it. Jastom couldn't abandon it, no matter the consequences. He flicked the reins harder. The ponies strained valiantly against their harnesses, their nostrils flaring with effort.

It wasn't enough.

With a sound like a breaking storm, the horseman rode up alongside the wagon. One of the dark-robed men dashed up close to the ponies. With incredible strength, he grabbed the bridle of the nearest and then pulled back hard, his feet digging into the gravel of the road. The dapples reared, whinnying in fear as the wagon shuddered to a sudden stop.

"Away with you, dogs!" Grimm growled fiercely, reaching under the seat for the heavy axe he kept there. The dwarf never managed to get a hand on the weapon. With almost comic ease, the second dark-robed man grabbed the dwarf by the collar of his tunic and lifted him from the bench. The dwarf kicked his feet and waved his arms futilely, suspended in midair, his face red with rage and lack of air.

Jastom could pay scant attention to the spluttering dwarf. He had worries of his own. A glittering steel sword was leveled directly at his heart.

Whoever these three were, Jastom was quite certain that they weren't townsfolk from Faxfail, but this did little to comfort him. The man before him looked to be a soldier of some sort. He was clad in black leather armor sewn with plates of bronze, and a cloak of lightning blue was thrown back over his stiff, square shoulders.

Suddenly, Jastom was painfully aware of the fat leather purse at his belt. He cursed himself inwardly. He should have known better than to go riding off, boldly flaunting his newly-gained wealth. The roads were thick with bandits and brigands these days, now that the war was over. Most likely these men were deserters from the Solamnic army, desperate and looking for foolish travelers like himself to waylay.

Jastom forced his best grin across his face. "Good day, friend," he said to the man who held the sword at his chest.

The man was tall and stern-faced, his blond, close-cropped hair and hawklike nose enhancing the granite severity of his visage. Most disturbing about him, however, were his eyes. They were pale and colorless, like his hair, but as hard as stones. They were eyes that had watched men die and not cared a whit one way or another.

The man inclined his head politely, as though he wasn't also holding a sword in his hand. "I am Lieutenant Durm, of the Blue Dragonarmy," he said in a voice that was steel-made — polished and smooth, yet cold and so very hard. "My master, the Lord Commander Shaahzak, is in need of one with healing skills." He gestured with the sword to the picture of the bottle painted on the side of the wagon. "I see that you are a healer." The sword point swung once again in Jastom's direction. "You will accompany me to attend my commander."

The blue dragonarmy? Jastom thought in disbelief. But the war was over! The dragonarmies had been defeated by the Whitestone forces. At least, that was what the stories said. Jastom shot a quick look at Grimm, but the dwarf was still dangling in midair from the darkrobed man's fist, cursing in a tight, squeaky voice. Jastom turned his attention back to the man who called himself Durm.

"I fear that I have an appointment elsewhere," Jastom said pleasantly, his grin growing broader yet. He reached for his heavy leather purse. "I am certain, lieutenant, that you can easily find another who is not so pressed for — " — time, Jastom was going to finish, but before he could, Durm reached out in a fluid, almost casual gesture and struck him.

Jastom's head erupted into a burst of white-hot fire. He tumbled from the wagon's bench to the hard ground, a rushing noise filling his ears. For a dizzying moment he thought he was going to be sick. After a few seconds the flashing pain subsided to a low throbbing. He blinked his eyes and looked up. Durm had dismounted and stood over him now, his visage as emotionless as before.

"I recommend that you not speak falsehood to me again," Durm said in a polite, chilling voice, his tone that of a host admonishing a guest for spilling wine on an expensive carpet. "Do you understand, healer?"

Jastom nodded jerkily. This man could kill me with his bare hands and not even blink, Jastom thought with a shudder.

"Excellent," Durm said. He reached down and helped Jastom to his feet — the same hand that had struck him a moment before. Durm gestured sharply, and the darkrobed man who had been holding Grimm let the dwarf fall heavily back to the wagon's bench, gasping for air.

"If you lie to me again, healer," Durm went on smoothly, "I will instruct my servants to deal with you. And I fear you will not find them so lenient as myself."

Durm's dark-robed followers pushed back the heavy cowls of their robes.

They were not human.

The two looked more akin to lizards than men, but they were not truly either. The two of them gazed at Jastom and Grimm with unblinking yellow eyes. Dull, green-black scales — not skin or fur — covered the monsters' faces. They had doglike snouts. Short, jagged spikes sprouted from their low, flat brows, and where each should have had ears there were only small indentations in their scaly hides. The monster nearest Jastom grinned evilly, revealing row upon row of jagged, yellow teeth, as if it enjoyed the idea of having Jastom to do with as it wished. A thin forked tongue flickered in and out of the thing's mouth.

Draconian. Jastom had never seen such a beast in his life, but he had heard enough tales of the War of the Lance to put a name to it. The draconians were the servants of the Dragon Highlords, and they had marched across the land to lay scourge to the face of Krynn even as the evil dragons themselves had descended from the skies.

"You might as well save everyone the trouble and let the lizards have us now," Grimm shouted hotly. "We're only — "

Jastom elbowed the dwarf hard in the ribs.

"Apprentice healers. New at this. Very new." Grimm mumbled, saying something about "necks," but fortunately only Jastom heard him.

Jastom drew upon all his theatrical skills to pull his facade back together. "Very well, my good lieutenant, we shall journey with you," he said, tipping his cap. As if we had a choice in the matter, he added inwardly.

"That is well," Durm said simply.

The lieutenant mounted and spurred his horse viciously into a canter. Jastom realized there was nothing to do but follow. He climbed back onto the wagon and flicked the ponies' reins. The craft lurched into motion. The two draconians ran along either side, hands on the hilts of their wicked-looking sabres. Jastom cast a quick look at Grimm. The dwarf eyed his friend, then shook his head gloomily.

For the first time he could ever remember, Jastom found himself wishing his elixirs could truly work the wonders he claimed.

Dawn was blossoming on the horizon, like a pale rose unfurling its petals, when the wagon rattled into the dragonarmy encampment.

They had traveled all through the night, making their way down treacherous mountain roads guided only by the dim light of the crimson moon, Lunitari. More than once Jastom had thought that wagon, ponies, and all were going to plummet off the side of a precipice into the deep shadows far below. Yet he had not dared to slow the wagon's hurtling pace as they careened down the twisting passes. Jastom feared tumbling over a cliff a good bit less than he did facing Durm's displeasure.

Now, in the pale silvery light of dawn, they had left the mountains behind them somewhere in the gloom of night. The dragonarmy encampment sat in a hollow at the edge of the rolling foothills. Stretching into the distance eastward was a vast gray-green plain, its flowing lines broken only here and there by the silhouette of a cottonwood tree, sinking its roots deep for water.

The encampment was not large — perhaps fifty tents in all, clustered on the banks of a small river. But Jastom had not realized that there were still any dragonanny forces at all so close to Solamnia, or anywhere for that matter. From the stories, he thought they had all been driven clean off the face of Krynn. Obviously that was not so.

Most of the soldiers in the encampment were human, with deep-set eyes and cruel mouths. There were a number of draconians as well, dressed in leather armor similar to that of the human soldiers. Short, stubby wings sprouted from the draconians' backs, as leathery as a bat's, but they seemed to flutter uselessly as the draconians stalked across the ground on clawed, unbooted feet.

"This doesn't look like one of the friendlier audiences you've ever had to hawk potions to," Grimm noted as the wagon rolled into the center of the encampment.

Jastom had played to dangerous audiences before, unruly crowds of ruffians who were more interested in breaking bones than in buying magical potions. But he had won even these over in the end.

A gleam touched Jastom's blue eyes. "No, but they ARE an audience all the same, aren't they?" he said softly, glad for the dwarf's reminder. "Let's not forget that, Grimm. They think we're healers. And as long as they keep thinking that, we'll keep our heads attached to our necks." There was only one rule to remember when hawking to a nasty crowd: never show fear.

Jastom shook the wrinkles out of his cape and cocked his feathered cap at an outrageous angle. "You there," he called out to a man in the crowd, donning a charming smile as easily as another man might don a hat. "Might I ask you a question? How did — "

The lieutenant whirled his jet black mount sharply and rode beside the wagon. "If you have questions, healer, address them to me." Durm's voice was a sword's edge draped with a silken cloth.

"You — You have so many soldiers in this camp," Jastom gulped, doing his best to sound as if he were simply making casual conversation. "How did they come to be here?"

A faint smile touched Durm's lips, but it was not an expression of mirth. Jastom fought the urge to shiver. "What tales do the knights tell in Solamnia?" Durm asked. "That they swept the dragonarmies from the face of Krynn? Well, as you can see, they have not. I will grant the Whitestone armies this — they have won an important battle. But if the Knights of Solamnia believe this war is truly over, then they are as foolish as the tales tell them to be." Durm gestured to the camp about them as he rode. A line of soldiers, holding their swords at ready, marched by in formation, saluting Durm as they passed.

"In truth, this is but a small outpost," Durm went on. "Far more of our forces lie to the east. All the lands between this place and the Khalkist Mountains belong to the Highlord of the Blue Dragonarmy. And the other dragonarmies hold still more lands, to the north and east. Already the Dark Lady — my Highlord and master — draws her plans for a counterstrike against the knights. It will be a glorious battle." For the first time Jastom thought he saw a flash of color in Durm's pale eyes.

"So do not despair, Jastom Mosswine, that the Dragon Highlord now owns you," Durm went on in his polite, chilling tone. "Soon she will own all of Ansalon."

Jastom started to ask another question, but Durm held up a hand, silencing him. They came to halt before a tent so large it might more properly be called a pavilion. A banner flew from its highest pole, a blue dragon rampant across a field of black. Two soldiers stood at the tent's entrance, hands on the hilts of their swords.

An ancient-looking cottonwood tree spread its heavy, gnarled limbs above the tent. A half-dozen queer-looking objects dangled from several of the branches. Some seemed to be no more than large, tattered backpacks, but a few of them had a shape that seemed vaguely familiar to Jastom. Suddenly a faint breeze ruffled through the tree's green leaves, and the dangling bundles began to spin on their ropes. Several pale, bloated circles came into view.

Faces.

Jastom quickly averted his eyes, slapping a hand to his mouth to keep from spilling his guts. Those weren't bundles hanging in the tree. They were people. Each seemed to stare mockingly down at Jastom with dark sockets left empty by the crows.

"Reorx!" muttered Grimm. "What've you gotten us into?"

"Those are the healers that have been here before you," the lieutenant said flatly. "The first among them was our cleric, Umbreck. It seemed his faith in the Dark Queen was not great enough. She closed her ears to his prayers. All of them failed to heal Commander Skaahzak."

Jastom swallowed hard, the sour taste of fear in his throat. But he forced his lips into a smile. "Fear not, lieutenant," he said boldly. "We will not fail. Remember, Mosswine's Miraculous Elixirs heal all."

Grimm choked at that but, thankfully, said nothing.

Jastom and the dwarf climbed down from the wagon's bench, and Durm led them into the dimness of the tent. A rotten, sickly-sweet odor hung thickly upon the air, almost making Jastom gag. Herbs burning on a sputtering bronze brazier did little to counter the foul reek.

The tent was sparsely furnished. There was a table scattered with maps and scrolls of parchment and a rack bearing weapons of various kinds — sabres, maces, spears — all dark and cruel-looking. A narrow cot stood in one comer of the tent, and upon it lay — not a man — but a draconian. Commander Skaahzak.

Jastom did not need to be a true healer to see that the commander was dying. His scaly flesh was gray and withered, clinging tightly to the bones of his skull. His yellow eyes flickered with a hazy, feverish light, and his clawed hands clutched feebly at the twisted bed covers. His left shoulder had been bound with a thick bandage, but the cloth was soaked with a black, oozing ichor.

"Commander Skaahzak was wounded a fortnight ago, in a skirmish with a roving patrol of Solamnic Knights," Durm explained. "At first the wound did not seem dire, but it has festered. You will work your craft upon him, healer. Or you will join the rest outside."

"We… uh… we have to prepare an elixir," Jastom said, doing his best to keep his voice from trembling.

Durm nodded stiffly. "Very well. If you require anything in your task, you have only to request it." With another faint smile, devoid of warmth, the lieutenant left them to their task.

When Jastom and Grimm were alone in the cluttered space inside their wagon, the dwarf shook his head.

"Have you gone completely mad, then, Jastom?" he whispered. "You know very well we sold our last potion in Fax-fail, and yet you go offering one up like we can conjure them out of thin air."

"Well, I couldn't think of anything else to say," Jastom returned defensively. After Faxfail, they had planned to head for Kaolyn to buy ingredients so Grimm could brew another batch of dwarf spirits.

"Besides," Jastom went on, "there must be something we can do. If we don't come out of here with an elixir, and soon, Durm's going to feed the crows with us." He began rummaging around the boxes, pots, and jars strewn about the inside of the wagon. "Wait a minute," he said excitedly, "there's still something left in the bottom of this cask." He tipped the cask over an empty purple bottle. A thick, brown, gritty-looking fluid oozed out.

"You can't give the commander that!" Grimm cried hoarsely, trying to snatch the purple bottle away.

"Why not?" Jastom asked, holding the bottle up out of the dwarf's reach.

Grimm glowered, stubby hands on his hips. "That's pure mash — goblin's gruel, my grandpappy always called it. The dregs left over after distilling the dwarf spirits. That stuff makes the rest of the batch seem like water. Oh, it'll make him happy — might say quite happy for a while — but in the end…" Grimm shook his head.

"A while! That's all the time we need to get away," Jastom said desperately, stoppering the bottle.

Grimm shook his head dubiously. "We're going to make a fine feast for the crows."

The draconian Commander Skaahzak moaned as he thrashed in his fevered sleep. Jastom held the small bottle filled with the goblin's gruel. Grimm stood beside him. Durm watched the two from across the commander's bed, his expression stony. With a flourish of his cape, Jastom lifted the purple bottle and unstoppered it. No sense in sparing the dramatics.

Jastom nodded to Grimm. The dwarf grabbed the draconian's twisting head and held it steady, forcing the monster's jaws open with strong fingers. Jastom tipped the bottle and poured the thick contents past the draconian's lolling forked tongue and down his gullet. Grimm let Skaahzak's jaws snap back shut. Jastom waved his hand, and the empty bottle seemed to vanish into thin air. Durm never even blinked an eye.

Jastom took a deep breath, searching for something suitably dramatic to say. But before he could, the fetid air of the tent was shattered by a blood-curdling shriek.

Skaahzak.

The draconian shrieked again, writhing upon the bed. Jastom and Grimm gaped at the creature. In a flash, Durm drew his sword and levelled it at Jastom's heart.

"It seems you have failed," Durm spoke softly, almost as a father might chide an erring son, except that his voice was so deathly cold.

Abruptly, the draconian commander leapt from the bed and knocked Durm's sword aside. The goblin's gruel was coursing through the creature's blood, lighting him aflame. The gray tinge had left Skaahzak's flesh, and if his wound was causing him any pain he did not show it. His yellow eyes glowed brightly now.

"Stop this foolishness, Durm," Skaahzak hissed. "I will have your head if you dare strike either of these most skillful healers."

Jastom's head was spinning. But he was not about to let this opportunity go to waste. He doffed his cap and bowed deeply. "It gladdens my heart to see milord in such excellent health," he proclaimed in a deeply-felt tone. He surreptitiously kicked Grimm's knee, and the dwarf toppled forward in clumsy imitation of Jastom's graceful bow.

"You have done me a great service, healer," Skaahzak said in his dry, reptilian voice, donning a crimson robe that an attendant soldier offered him.

"I am overjoyed that I could restore such a brilliant commander to health," Jastom said. Grimm muttered something inaudible under his beard.

"That you have," Skaahzak hissed. Suddenly he spun about wildly, a ferocious, toothy grin on his face. "I've never felt better in my life!" He lurched dizzily and would have fallen but for Durm's strong hands steadying him.

There was no doubt about it. The draconian was riproaring drunk.

"Take your filthy paws from me!" Skaahzak spat, shrugging off the lieutenant's grip. "You, who have brought me healer after healer, cleric after cleric, all who poked, prodded, and prayed to their foul gods over me, and all who failed. I should have you flailed for letting me suffer so long." Skaahzak's expression flickered between intoxicated ecstasy and livid rage. Little seemed to separate the two emotions in this creature.

Durm watched silently, impassively.

"However, you did bring these most excellent healers to me," Skaahzak said, his voice crooning now. "Thus I will be merciful. I will even grant you a reward to show you the depths of my kindness." He held out his left hand. "You may kiss the ring of your master, Lieutenant Durm."

On the draconian's clawed middle finger was a ring set with a ruby as big as a thumbnail. Jastom guessed that Skaahzak hadn't removed the ring in years. In fact, he doubted the draconian would be able to take it off at all. The monster's scaly flesh was puffy and swollen to either side of the ring. Durm did not hesitate. He knelt before Skaahzak's proffered hand.

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to the glimmering ruby. As he did so, Skaahzak struck the lieutenant. Durm did not even flinch. Slowly, he rose to his feet. The ruby had cut his cheek, and a thin trickle of blood, as crimson as the gem, ran down his jaw. The draconian grinned.

"There, lieutenant," Skaahzak said, his reptilian voice slurred and indistinct. "Your reward is complete."

Durm bowed stiffly, giving Jastom a brief, indecipherable glance.

Jastom tried to swallow his heart, but it kept clawing its way up into his throat. He cast a meaningful look at Grimm. It was time to get out of this place. The dwarf nodded emphatic agreement.

"Well, I am delighted to see that all things appear to have been set aright," Jastom said pleasantly, placing his cap back on his head. "Thus I believe that we will be — "

Skaahzak interrupted him.

"I have a proclamation to make!" the draconian shouted. He sloshed some wine into a silver goblet — spilling the better portion of it on his robe — and began to weave drunkenly about the tent, stumbling over chests and pieces of furniture. One of his attendants followed behind him with a quill and parchment, taking down each word. "Be it known that, for their most excellent service, these two healers shall hereby become my personal physicians, from now until the end of all days!" He spread his arms wide in a gesture of triumph. The silver goblet he clutched struck the head of his attendant with a loud Clunk! The soldier dropped to the floor like a stone, the parchment and quill slipping from his fingers. Skaahzak did not notice.

Jastom and Grimm exchanged glances of alarm. "Er, begging your pardon, milord," Jastom said hesitantly, "but what exactly do you mean by that?"

Skaahzak whirled about to face Jastom, his eyes burning with the consuming fire of the goblin's gruel. "I mean that Lieutenant Durm here will show you to your new quarters," the draconian said, displaying his countless jagged teeth in a terrible smile. "You will be remaining here in this camp with me. Permanently. You are my healers, now."

Jastom could only nod dumbly, feeling suddenly ill. Impossible as it seemed, it looked as if this time his elixir had worked too well for his own good.

"How many soldiers are standing guard out there?" Jastom whispered.

"Two," Grimm whispered back, peering through a narrow opening beside the canvas flap that covered the tent's entrance. "Both are draconians."

Jastom tugged at his hair as he paced the length of the cramped, stuffy tent. The air was musty with the smell of the sour, rotten hay strewn across the floor. The only light came from a wan, golden beam of sun spilling through a small hole in the tent's canvas roof.

"There must be a way to get past them," Jastom said in agitation, clenching his hands into fists.

"Too bad we can't get them drunk," Grimm noted dryly.

Jastom shot the dwarf an exasperated look. "There's always a way out, Grimm. We've been in enough dungeons before to know that. All we need is time to come up with the answer."

Grimm shook his head, his shaggy eyebrows drawn down in a scowl. "Even now, the goblin's gruel will be burning Skaahzak from the inside out, as sure as if it was liquid fire he'd drunk. He'll be dead by morning." The dwarf paused ominously. "And I suppose we will be, too, for that matter."

Jastom groaned, barely resisting the urge to throttle the glum-faced dwarf. His energy would be better directed toward finding a way to escape, he reminded himself. Once they were free, then he would have all the time he wanted to throttle the dwarf.

With a sigh of frustration, Jastom sat down hard on the musty straw, resting his chin in his hands. Grimm's doom-and-gloom was catching.

The tent's entrance flap was thrown back. The two draconian guards stood against the brilliant square of afternoon sunlight, their forked tongues flickering through their jagged yellow teeth.

"It's mealtime," one of the draconians hissed, glaring at Jastom with its disturbing yellow eyes.

For a startled moment Jastom didn't know whose mealtime the draconian meant: Jastom's or its own. With a rush of relief, he saw the bowls that the creature carried in its clawed hands. The draconian set the two clay bowls down, their foul-smelling contents slopping over the sides. The other draconian threw a greasy-looking wineskin down with them.

"The commander ordered that you be given the finest fare in the camp," the other draconian croaked, a note of envy in its voice. "Skaahzak must hold you in high esteem, indeed. Consider yourselves fortunate."

After the two draconians left them alone, Jastom eyed the bowls of food warily. The lumpy, colorless liquid in one of them began to stir. A big black beetle crawled out of the gray ooze and over the rim of the bowl. Jastom let out a strangled yelp. The insect scuttled away through the straw.

"Paugh!" Grimm spat, tossing down the rancid-smelling wineskin. "What do these beasts brew their wine out of? Stale onions?"

Jastom felt his gorge rising in his throat and barely managed to choke it back down. "If this is the finest fare the camp has to offer, I really don't want to think about what the common soldiers are eating." He began to push the clay bowls carefully away with the toe of his boot, but then he paused. A thought had suddenly struck him.

Quickly he rummaged about his cape until he found the secret pocket where he had slipped the empty potion bottle after pouring its contents down Skaahzak's gullet. He pulled out the cork and then knelt beside the bowl. Carefully, so as not to spill any of the putrid substance on himself, he tipped the bowl and filled the bottle partway with the slop. Then he took the wineskin and added a good measure of the acridsmelling wine to the bottle. On an afterthought he scraped up a handful of dirt from the tent's floor and added that as well. He stoppered the bottle tightly and then shook it vigorously to mix the strange concoction within.

"What in the name of Reorx do you think you're doing, Jastom?" Grimm demanded, his gray eyes flashing. "Have you gone utterly mad? I suppose I should have known the strain of all this would be too much for you."

"No, Grimm, I haven't gone mad," Jastom said annoyediy, and then he grinned despite himself, tossing the bottle and deftly snatching it again from the air. "Get 'em drunk, you said."

"But you never listen to me," Grimm protested. "And I don't think now is a good time to start!"

"Just go along," said Jastom.

It was sunset when the two draconians threw back the tent's flap again and stepped inside to retrieve the dishes.

"Thank you, friends," Jastom said cheerily as the draconians picked up the empty bowls and wineskin. "It was truly a remarkable repast." In truth, he and Grimm had buried the revolting food in a shallow hole in the comer of the tent, but the draconians need not know that. The two creatures glared at Jastom, the envy glowing wickedly in their reptilian eyes.

"You're right, Jastom," the dwarf said thoughtfully, gazing at the two draconians. "They DO look a little gray."

The first draconian's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What does the nasty little dwarf mean?"

Jastom nodded, a serious look crossing his honest face. "I see it, too, Grimm," he said gravely. "There's only one thing it can be. Scale rot."

" 'Scale rot?'" The second draconian spat. "What is this foolishness you babble about?"

Jastom sighed, as if he were reluctant to speak. "I've seen it before," he said, shaking his head sadly. "It's a scourge that's wiped out whole legions of draconians to the far south, in Abanasinia. I didn't think it had traveled across the Newsea, but it seems I was wrong."

"Aye, I saw a draconian who had the scale rot once," Grimm said gloomily. "All we buried was a pile of black, spongy mold. He didn't die until the very end. I didn't think a creature could scream as loud as that."

"I've never heard of this!" the first draconian hissed.

Jastom donned his most utterly believable face. The gods themselves wouldn't know he was lying. "You don't have to believe me," he said with a shrug. "Judge for yourself. The first symptoms are so small you'd hardly notice them if you didn't know what to look for: a pouchy grayness around the eyes, a faint ache in the teeth and claws, and then.. " Jastom let his last words fade into an unintelligible mumble.

"What did you say?" the second draconian barked.

"I said, 'and then the hearing begins to fade in and out,'" Jastom said blithely. The draconians' eyes widened. They exchanged fearful glances.

"What can we do?" the first demanded.

"You are a healer, you must help us!" the second rasped.

Jastom smiled reassuringly. "Of course, of course. Fear not, friends. I have a potion right here." He waved a hand, and the small purple bottle filled with the noxious concoction appeared in his hand. The draconians stared at it greedily. "Mosswine's Miraculous Elixir cures all. Even scale rot." "Aren't you forgetting something?" Grimm grumbled. Jastom's face fell. "Oh, dear," he said worriedly. "What is it?" The first draconian positively shrieked, clenching its talon-tipped fingers and beating its leathery wings in agitation.

"I'm afraid this is our very last potion," Jastom said, the picture of despair. "There isn't enough for both of you." He set the potion down on the floor, backing away. He spread his hands wide in a gesture of deep regret. "I'm terribly sorry, but you'll have to decide which of you gets it."

The two draconians glared at each other, tongues hissing and yellow eyes flashing.

They lunged for the bottle.

"Well, they seemed to have hit upon the only really fair solution to their dilemma," Jastom observed dryly.

The two draconians lay upon the floor of the tent, frozen in a fatal embrace. The remnants of the purple bottle lay next to them, crushed into tiny shards. The fight had been swift and violent. The two draconians had grappled over the elixir and in the process each had driven a cruelly barbed dagger into the other's heart. Instantly the pair of them had turned a dull gray and toppled heavily to the floor. Such was the magical nature of the creatures that, once dead, they changed to stone.

"Reorx's Beard, will you look at that!" Grimm whispered. Even as the two watched, the bodies of the draconians began to crumble. In moments nothing remained but their armor, the daggers, and a pile of dust.

Jastom reached down and brushed the gray powder from one of the barbed daggers. He grinned nervously. "I think we've just found our way out of here, Grimm."

Moments later, Jastom crawled through a slit in the back wall of the tent and peered into the deepening purple shadows of twilight. He motioned for Grimm to follow. The dwarf stumbled clumsily through the opening, falling on his face with a curse. Jastom hauled the dwarf to his feet by the belt and shot him a warning look to be quiet.

The two made their way through the darkened camp. Jastom froze each time he heard the approach of booted feet, but they faded before a soldier came within sight. A silvery glow was beginning to touch the eastern horizon. The moon Solinari would be rising soon, casting its bright, gauzy light over the land. They had to hurry. They couldn't hope to avoid the eyes of the soldiers once the moon lifted into the sky.

They rounded the comer of a long tent and then quickly ducked back behind cover. Carefully, Jastom peered around the comer. Beyond was a wide circle lit by the ruddy light of a dozen flickering torches thrust into the ground. Jastom's eyes widened at the spectacle he saw before him.

"I can fly! I can fly!" a slurred, rasping voice shrieked excitedly. It was Commander Skaahzak.

He careened wildly through midair, suspended from a tree branch by a rope looped under his arms. Two draconians grunted as they pulled on the rope, heaving the commander higher yet. Skaahzak whooped with glee, his small, useless wings flapping feebly. His eyes burned hotly with the fire of madness.

"It's the goblin's gruel," Grimm muttered softly. "It's addled his brains. But he'll stop laughing soon, when it catches his blood on fire."

A score of soldiers watched Skaahzak spin wildly on the end of the rope, none of them daring to laugh at the peculiar sight. Suddenly Jastom saw Lieutenant Durm standing at the edge of the torchlight, apart from the others, his eyes glittering like hard, colorless gems. Once again, his lips wore a faint, mirthless smile, but what exactly it portended was beyond Jastom's ken.

Quickly Jastom ducked behind the tent. "Durm is there," he whispered hoarsely. "I don't think he saw me."

"Then let's not give him another chance," Grimm growled. Jastom nodded in hearty agreement. The two slipped off in the other direction, deep into the night.

The tall wagon clattered along the narrow mountain road in the morning sunlight. Groves of graceful aspens and soaring fir slipped by to either side as the dappled ponies trotted briskly on.

Jastom and Grimm had ridden hard all night, making their way up the treacherous passes deep into the Garnet Mountains, guided only by the pale, gossamer light of Solinari. But now dawn had broken over the distant, mistgreen peaks, and Jastom slowed the ponies to a walk. The dragonarmy camp lay a good ten leagues behind them.

"Ah, it's good to be alive and free, Grimm," Jastom said, taking a deep breath of the clean mountain air.

"Well, I wouldn't get too used to it," the dwarf said with a scowl. "Look behind us."

Jastom did as the dwarf instructed, and then his heart nearly leapt from his chest. A cloud of dust rose from the dirt road less than a mile behind them.

"Lieutenant Durm," he murmured, his mouth dry. "I KNEW this was too easy!"

Grimm nodded. Jastom let out a sharp whistle and slapped the reins fiercely. The ponies leapt into a canter.

The narrow, rocky road began to wind its way down a steep descent. The wind whipped Jastom's cape wildly out behind him. Grimm hung on for dear life. Jastom barely managed to steer around a sharp turn in the road. They were going too fast. He leaned hard on the wagon's brake. Sparks flew. Suddenly there was a sharp cracking sound — the brake lever came off in Jastom's hand.

"The wagon's out of control!" Jastom shouted.

"I can see that for myself," Grimm shouted back.

The wagon hit a deep rut and lurched wildly. The ponies shouted in terror and lunged forward. With a rending sound, their harnesses tore free, and the horses scrambled wildly up the mountain slope to one side. The wagon careened in the other direction, directly for the edge of the precipice.

All Jastom had time to do was scream, "Jump!"

He and the dwarf dived wildly from the wagon as it sailed over the edge. Jastom hit the dirt hard. He scrambled to his feet just in time to see the wagon disappear over the edge. After a long moment of pure and perfect silence came a thunderous crashing sound, and then silence again. The wagon — and everything Jastom and Grimm owned — was gone. In despair, he turned away from the cliff…

… and saw Durm, mounted on horseback, before him. A half-dozen soldiers sat astride their mounts behind the lieutenant, the sunlight glittering off the hilts of their swords. Jastom shook his head in disbelief. He was too stunned to do anything but stand there, motionless in defeat. Grimm, unhurt, came to stand beside him.

"Commander Skaahzak is dead," Durm said in his chilling voice. "This morning there was nothing left of him save a heap of ashes." A strange light flickered in the lieutenant's pale eyes. "Unfortunately you, his personal healers, were not by his side to give him any comfort in his final moments. I had to ride hard in order to catch up with you. I couldn't let you go without giving you your due for this failure, Mosswine."

Jastom fell to his knees. When all else failed, he knew there was but one option: grovel. He jerked the dwarf down beside him. "Please, milord, have mercy on us," Jastom said pleadingly, making his expression as pitiful as possible. Given their circumstances, this wasn't a difficult task. "There wasn't anything we could have done. Please, I beg you. Spare us. You see, milord, we aren't heal — "

"Shut up!" Durm ordered sharply. Jastom's babbling trailed off feebly. His heart froze in his chest. Durm's visage was as impassive as the mountain granite he stood upon.

"The punishment for failure to heal Skaahzak is death," Durm continued. He paused for what seemed an interminable moment. "But then, it is the commander's right to choose what punishments will be dealt out." Durm held out his hand, conspicuously displaying the ring — Shaahzak's ring — he now wore on his left hand. The ring's thumbnail-sized ruby glimmered in the sunlight like blood. "Because of you and your elixir, Mosswine, I am commander now." Absently Durm brushed a finger across the cheek where Skaahzak had struck him. "I will be the one, then, who will choose your punishment."

Durm's black-gloved hand drifted down to his belt, toward the hilt of his sword. Jastom made a small choking sound, but for the first — and last — time in his life, he found himself utterly at a loss for words.

Durm pulled something from his belt and tossed it toward Jastom. Jastom flinched as it struck him in the chest. But it was simply a leather purse.

"I believe ten coins of steel is what you charge for one of your elixirs," Durm said.

Jastom stared at the lieutenant in shock. For once Jastom thought he recognized the odd note in Durm's voice. Could it possibly be amusement?

"Job well done, Healer," Durm said, that barely perceptible smile touching his lips once again. Then, without another word, the new commander whirled his dark mount about and galloped down the road, his soldiers following close behind. In moments all of them disappeared around a bend. Jastom and Grimm were alone.

"He knew all along," Jastom said in wonderment. "He knew we were charlatans."

"And that's why he wanted us," Grimm said, his beard wagging in amazement. "Letting his commander die outright would have been traitorous. But this way it looks like he did everything he could to save Skaahzak. No one could fault him for his actions."

"And I thought WE were such skillful swindlers," Jastom said wryly. He looked wistfully over the edge of the cliff where the wagon had disappeared.

"Well, at least we have this," Grimm said gruffly, picking up the leather purse.

Jastom stared at the dwarf for a long moment, and then slowly a grin spread across his face. He took the purse from Grimm and hefted it thoughtfully in his hands. "Grimm, how much dwarf spirits do you suppose you could brew with ten pieces of steel?"

A wicked gleam touched the dwarf's iron-gray eyes. "Oh, ten steel will buy enough," Grimm said as the two started down the twisting mountain road, back toward inhabited lands. "Enough to get us started, that is…"

The Hand That Feeds

Richard A. Knaak

Vandor Grizt used to think that the worst smell in the world was wet dog. Now, however, he knew that there was a worse one.

Wet, dead dog.

Helplessly bound to the ship's mast, Vandor could only stare into the baleful, pupil-less eyes of the undead monstrosity that guarded him. The combination of rot and damp mist made the pale, hairless beast so offensive to smell that even the two draconians did their best to stay upwind of the creature. Vandor, however, had no such choice.

Vandor was forced to admit that he probably didn't smell much better. Bound head and foot, he'd been dragged over rough roads for four days to the shores of the Blood Sea, then taken aboard ship. He was not his usual, immaculate self. He hoped none of his customers had seen him; the degrading spectacle would be bad for business… providing he survived to do business.

Tall and lean, Vandor Grizt was usually either quick enough or slippery enough to evade capture — be it by local authorities or the occasional, unsatisfied customer. When speed failed him, his patrician, almost regal features, coupled with his silver tongue, enabled him to talk his way out. Vandor never truly got rich selling his "used" wares, but neither did he ever go hungry. No, he'd never regretted the course his life had taken.

Not until now.

Vandor shifted. The undead wolf-thing bared its rotted fangs — a warning.

"Nice puppy," Vandor snarled back. "Go bury a bone, preferably one of your own."

"Be silent, human," hissed one of the two draconians, a sivak. The draconians appeared to be a pair of scaly, near-identical twins, but Vandor had learned from painful experience that they were quite different. The sivak had a special talent — having killed a person, the sivak could alter its features and shape to resemble those of its victims. In the guise of one of Vandor's trustworthy friends, the sivak draconian had led Vandor into an alley. There, he had been ambushed. He realized his mistake when he watched the sivak change back to its scaly self… and inform him that his friend was dead.

Given a chance, Vandor Grizt would cut the lizard's throat. He had few enough friends to let them get murdered. Why the draconians had gone to the trouble, Vandor still did not know. Perhaps, the black-robed cleric who led the party would tell him. It would at least be nice to know why he was going to die.

"We give thanks to you, Zeboim, mistress of the seal" intoned the cleric.

Vandor — self-styled procurer of "lost" artifacts and "mislaid" merchandise — could not identify what god or goddess the cleric worshipped on a regular basis, but doubted that it was the tempestuous sea siren who called Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, her mother. Zeboim did not seem the type who would favor the hideous, white, skull mask that covered the front half of the cleric's face. Some other deity fancied skulls and dead things, but the name escaped Vandor. Gods were not his forte. He himself gave some slight service to Shinare, who watched over merchants, including (he liked to think) enterprising ones such as himself. Since Shinare was one of the neutral gods, Vandor had always concluded she did not mind that he prayed only when in dire need. Now, however, he wondered if this were his reward for taking her for granted. Gods were peculiar about that sometimes.

The ship rocked as another wild wave struck it. The Blood Sea was a terror to sail at the best of times, but sailing it in the dark of night, during a storm, was suicidal folly as far as Grizt was concerned.

His opinion had been ignored by both crew and passengers.

Skullface turned around and summoned his two draconian companions. Magical torches, which never went out despite the constant spray, gave the cleric's mask a ghoulish look. Only the mouth and a thin, pointed chin were visible beneath the mask.

"You two draconians — set up the altar for the summoning!" the cleric commanded.

Vandor shivered, guessing that the summoning could only mean dire things for him.

A kapak draconian looked at its master questioningly. "So soon, Prefect Stel?" Saliva dripped as the creature talked. The minotaur crew was not enamored of the venomous kapak. Every time it spoke, it burned holes in the deck.

Prefect Stel pulled sleek, black gloves over his bony hands. He dresses very well, Vandor Grizt thought. Not my style of clothes, of course, but beautiful fabric. Under other circumstances, Stel would have been a client of potential. Vandor heaved a sigh.

Stel was talking. "I want the altar to be ready to be put to use the moment we are over the site." The dark cleric pulled out a tiny skull on a chain from around his neck. Vandor studied the jewel closely, first for possible value and then because he realized it was glowing.

"What about this human, prefect?" the sivak asked.

"The dreadwolf will guard him. He does not appear to be a stupid man." The cleric turned to Vandor. "Are you?"

"I would have to say I am still debating that issue, my good master," the independent merchandiser responded. "My current prospects do not bode well for hopes of profit."

Stel was amused. "I can see that." He leaned closer and, for the first time, his prisoner caught a glimpse of the dark pits that were his eyes. Vandor wondered if Stel ever removed the mask. In the days since falling into the trap, Vandor had yet to see the face hidden behind.

"If I were a priest of greasy Hiddukel rather than of my lord Chemosh, I would be tempted to offer you a place at my side," said Stel. "You are truly dedicated to the fine art of enriching yourself at the cost of others, aren't you?"

"Never at the expense of my good customers, Master Stel!" Vandor protested, insulted. But the protest was halfhearted.

Chemosh — lord of the undead. The mask should have been sufficient evidence, and the undead dog the ultimate proof, but the confused and frightened Vandor had not made the connection. Vandor was in the hands of a necromancer, a priest who raised the dead for vile purposes, vile purposes that usually required a sacrifice. But why specifically Vandor Grizt? The shape-shifting sivak had come for him and no one else.

The sailing ship rocked again in the turbulent waters. A wave splashed over the rail, soaking everything but the magical torches and — oddly enough — the cleric. Stel's tiny skull gleamed brighter now. His clothes were perfectly dry.

Thunder crashed. A series of heavy thuds continued on after; the noise caused Vandor to look up to the heavens to see what could create such a phenomenon. A massive form came up beside him and Vandor immediately realized that what he had taken for part of the storm had actually been footfalls.

"Prefect," the newcomer rumbled, his voice louder than the thunder.

"Yes, Captain Kruug?"

Kruug appeared ill-at-ease before the cleric. Odd, since the minotaur was over seven feet tall and likely weighed three times more than Prefect Stel. Vandor had no idea how long the beastman lived, but Captain Kruug looked to have been sailing the seas for all of Vandor's thirty years and more. Such experience made Vandor's chances of surviving the rough waters and threatening storm much better, but that didn't hearten the captive. It only meant that he would live long enough to confront whatever fate the cleric of Chemosh had in mind for him.

"Prefect," Kruug repeated. The minotaur's very stance expressed his dislike for the necromancer. "My ship is here only because you and your Highlord ordered my cooperation."

Vandor's hopes rose. Perhaps the minotaurs would refuse to sail on, destroy whatever dread plan the necromancer had in mind.

"My crew is growing anxious, cleric," the captain said. Minotaurs did not like to admit anxiety. To them, it was a sign of weakness. "The storm is bad enough and sailing through it at night is only that much worse. Those two things, though, I could handle at any other time, PREFECT." Kruug hesitated, unable to stare directly at the mask for more than a few moments.

"And so?" Stel prompted irritably.

"It's time you tell us why we are sailing to this location in the middle of the deepest part of the Blood Sea. There are rumors circulating among the crew and as each rumor grows, they, in turn, become more uneasy." Kruug snorted, wiping sea spray from his massive jaw. "We find it most interesting that a priest of Chemosh has spent so much time paying homage to the Sea Queen that it seems he has forgotten his own god!"

The dreadwolf snarled, its pupil-less eyes narrowed. Stel petted it.

"You are being paid well, captain. Too well for you to ask questions. And I would think that you would approve of my efforts to appease the Sea Queen. Is she not deserving of respect, especially now? We are in her domain. I give her tribute as she deserves."

Vandor Grizt's heart sank. My luck has become like a pouch filled with coin… all lead!

Kruug apparently did not trust Stel's smooth words. He snorted his disdain, but glanced around uneasily. A creature of the sea, the captain had to be more careful than most in maintaining a respectful relationship with the tempestuous Sea Queen.

The storm worsened. The sea mist that drenched all save the cleric was accompanied by a light sprinkle, a harbinger of the torrential downpour to come. Lightning and thunder broke overhead.

"You had better pray that Zeboim has listened to you, prefect," the minotaur retorted. "Else I shall appease her by throwing you and your stinking mutt over the side. My ship and my crew come first." He grumbled at no one in particular. "It's easy for the Highlord to agree to mad plots when he's safe in his chambers back on shore! He isn't the one who'll suffer, just the one who'll reap the benefits!"

Stel smiled unpleasantly. "You were given a choice, Kruug. Sail with me or surrender the TAURON to a BRAVER captain who would."

Kruug growled, but he backed down.

For one of Kruug's race, the choice was no choice at all. No minotaur dared let himself be thought a coward.

Stel looked past the captain, who turned to see what had the cleric's attention. Vandor — tied to one of the masts — was unable to turn around, but he knew from the clanking sounds that the draconians must be returning from their excursion below deck. The two draconians dragged forward a peculiar metal bowl on three legs. Captain Kruug glared at the kapak.

"And I'll throw those lizards over, too, especially the one who can't keep his mouth shut!" Kruug added. "If he burns one more hole through the deck…" But the minotaur was being ignored. Seeking a target on which to vent his frustration, Kruug glanced down at Vandor, who suddenly sought a way to shrink into the mast. The minotaur's smile vied with that of the dreadwolf for number of huge, sharp teeth. "And maybe I'll throw this piece of offal over right now!"

"Touch him, my homed friend, and your first mate finds himself promoted." Stel was deadly, coldly serious.

Kruug was taken aback. "What's so special about this thieving little fox?"

"Him?" Stel glanced at Vandor. "By himself, he is worthless."

Despite his predicament, Vandor was offended.

"It is his blood I find invaluable," Stel continued.

Vandor was no longer offended… he was too busy trying to recall the proper prayers for Shinare. If he'd had any doubt before as to his fate, that doubt was gone now.

"I do not understand," replied the captain.

Stel looked down at the skull on the chain. "In a few minutes, Captain Kruug, you AND Vandor Grizt will understand. We are nearing our destination. Please have your crew prepare to stop this vessel."

"In this deep water, our anchor won't hold!" Kruug protested.

"We do not need to be completely still. Just make certain we stay within the region. I think you can manage that, captain. I was TOLD that you are an expert at your craft."

Kruug bridled. "I've been sailing these waters — "

A crackle of thunder drowned out whatever the minotaur said after that, but the fury on his face and the speed with which he departed the vicinity of Prefect Stel spoke plainly. Vandor Grizt was sorry to see the captain leave. Of all Vandor's unsavory companions, the minotaur captain was the only one who seemed to share his fear. Kruug was merely carrying out orders and with a lack of enthusiasm that Vandor dismally appreciated.

The draconians set up the altar quickly despite the constant rocking of the ship. They lashed the legs of the metal monstrosity to various areas of the deck, assuring that the huge bowl would remain in place regardless of how rough the sea. When the draconians were finished, the two stumbled back to Stel, who seemed to have no trouble moving about, unlike everyone else.

"The sea grows no calmer, prefect!" hissed the sivak. "Despite your prayers to the Sea Queen, the ropes may not hold!"

"She will listen!" Stel declared. "I have sought her good will for three days now. We dare not attempt this without the Sea Queen's favor. We dare not steal from her domain!" Stel paused, considering. He glanced at Vandor Grizt, then again at the draconians. "I will have to give an offering of greater value than I had supposed. Something that will prove to Zeboim my respect for her majesty! Something that will acknowledge her precedence over all else in this endeavor! It will have to be now!"

"Now?" snarled the kapak, surprised. "But now is the time for your evening devotions to Chemosh, prefect!"

"Chemosh will understand." Stel turned again to Vandor and pointed. "Unbind him!"

As the draconians undid his bonds, Vandor tried to slip free of them. For a brief moment, he escaped, but then the dreadwolf was in front of him, ready to spring. Vandor's terrified moment of hesitation was sufficient time to permit the draconians to reestablish their hold on him.

"Bring him to the altar!" Stel commanded.

The draconians dragged Vandor Grizt across the wet deck to the odd-looking bowl that Stel had identified as an altar.

"Master Stel, surely I am not a proper sacrifice!" Vandor protested. "Have you considered that I am hardly a worthwhile present to be given to one so illustrious as beautiful, wondrous Zeboim!"

"Silence the buffoon," the cleric muttered in a voice much less commanding than normal. Stel's dark eyes turned on the dreadwolf that had been guarding Vandor. At the silent command, the undead animal joined its master. Prefect Stel returned his attention to the prisoner.

"Hold out his arm. The left one."

Vandor struggled, but his strength was nothing compared to that of the draconians.

The servant of Chemosh removed a twisted, bejewelled dagger from within his robe. Vandor Grizt recognized it — a sacrificial knife. He had even sold a few. None had ever been so intricate in detail… or looked so deadly in purpose.

Stel brought the dagger down lightly on Grizt's outstretched arm. The tip of the blade pricked his skin and drew blood. Muttering under his breath, Stel cut a tiny slit in his captive's forearm. It was painful, to be sure, but Vandor had suffered far more pain at the hands of city guards. A tiny trail of blood dripped slowly down the side of his arm and into the round interior of the altar bowl. The blood struck the bottom and sizzled away with a hiss. The metal began to radiate heat. Vandor swallowed, fearing what would happen if his flesh touched the hot metal.

Removing the blood-covered blade, Stel looked down at the dreadwolf, which stared back with sightless, dead eyes.

The cleric turned to face the sea. "Zeboim, you who are also known as the Sea Queen, hear me! I give you some thing of great value, something that will prove my humble respect for your power! I give you a part of me!" The black cleric drove the dagger into the skull of his pet, not ceasing until the hilt was touching the bone.

The wolf howled in fierce pain and anger. Several of the minotaur crewmen looked their way. Vandor Grizt pulled his arm back from the hot metal. The two draconians had loosened their hold on him in their shock over the cleric's act.

The servant of Chemosh removed the dagger from the head of his dreadwolf. The monstrosity collapsed the moment the blade was no longer touching it. The dead creature crumbled, becoming ash in the space of a few breaths. Vandor Grizt, looking up at his captor, saw the cleric's hands shake. Prefect Stel gave all the appearances of a man who has just cut off his own hand.

A muttering rose among the minotaurs. The stomping of heavy feet warned Vandor and his captors that Captain Kruug was returning.

"Prefect Stel! What in the name of Sargonnas have you done now? I will not risk my ship in this venture any more, threats or no — "

Stel raised his free hand and silenced the captain. He looked out at the sea in expectation.

For a short time, Vandor Grizt, like the rest, saw nothing out of the ordinary. The sea was calm and the storm clouds near motionless. The Blood Sea was as calm as a sleeping child.

Then it struck Vandor that this was out of ordinary.

The sea had calmed, the storm had ceased… with a suddenness that could only be called DIVINE in nature.

"Shinare…" Vandor whispered, once more wishing he had been just a little more consistent with his praying.

Moving a bit unsteadily, Prefect Stel turned on the sea captain. "You were about to say, Kruug?"

It is not often that a minotaur can be taken aback by events, but Kruug was. The beastman swallowed hard and stared at the cleric with awe and not a little fear.

"I thought as much." Stel said, evilly smiling. "We are almost over the exact location, captain. I suggest you and your crew bring us to as dead a stop as you can."

"Aye," Kruug replied, nodding all the while. He whirled about and started shouting at the other minotaurs, taking out his fear and shame on his crew.

Stel turned to Vandor. The cleric smiled. "It is as I hoped. Your blood is the key. She has heard us. She has given us her favor."

"My blood? Key?" Vandor babbled.

"Oh, yes, Vandor Grizt, petty thief and purveyor of purloined properties, your blood! Can't you hear the voices?" The deep, black eyes behind the mask widened in anticipation. "Can't you hear them calling you?"

"Who?" Vandor gasped.

"Your ancestors," Stel said, looking at the sea.

"Prefect 1" The kapak was spluttering with fear. A tiny bit of acidic saliva splattered Vandor on the cheek. He flinched in pain, but there was nothing he could do with his arms pinned. "Prefect, you sacrificed the Dreadwolf!"

"It was necessary. Chemosh will understand. Zeboim has to be placated. This venture is too important."

"But the dreadwolf… it was bound to you by your lord!"

Stel's destruction of his ungodly pet had evidently taken much out of him and the kapak's reminder was only stirring the pain. If what the draconian said was true, then the prefect had wantonly destroyed a gift from his god in order to gain the favor of the Sea Queen.

A costly venture this, Vandor thought fearfully.

The skull mask made its wearer look like the embodiment of death itself. Stel's voice was so steady, so toneless, that both Vandor and the draconians shrank back in alarm.

"We are in the Sea Queen's domain. Even my lord Chemosh must be respectful of that. It is by his power that this task will be done, but it is by HER sufferance that we survive it!"

The skull necklace flared brighter, so bright that the two draconians and Vandor were forced to look away.

Stel shouted, "Captain Kruug! This is the position! No farther!"

The minotaur dropped anchor; the vessel slowed, but continued to drift, giving Vandor a brief hope. But, the minotaurs turned the vessel about and slowly brought it back.

"Still a short time left," Stel whispered. In a louder, more confident voice, he asked, "Do you hear them, Vandor Grizt? Do you hear your ancestors calling you?"

Vandor, who could not trace his ancestors past his barely-remembered parents, heard nothing except bellowing minotaurs and the lightest breeze in the rigging. He refrained from responding however. The answer might mean life… or death. He needed to know a bit more to make the correct choice.

"You don't, do you?" Stel frowned. "But you will. Your blood is the true blood, child of Kingpriests."

"Kingpriests? Me?" Vandor stared blankly at his captor.

"Yes, Kingpriests." Stel toyed with the dagger and stared off at the becalmed sea. "It took me quite some time to find you, thanks to your nomadic lifestyle. I knew that I would not fail at what I undertook. I was the one who found the ancient temple, who understood what others of my order did not."

"You have me completely at a loss, Master Stel," Vandor quavered. "You say I am a descendent of the Kingpriests?" As he asked, Vandor shivered uncontrollably. He remembered suddenly what legend said lay at the bottom of the Blood Sea.

Istar… the holy city brought down by the conceit of its lord, the Kingpriest. In the blackest depths of the Blood Sea lay the ruins of the holy city… and the rest of the ancient country for that matter.

"Of direct descent." Stel touched the blazing skull. "This charm marks you as such, as it marks where the great temples… and storehouses… of Istar sank. The spells I cast upon it make it drawn to all things — including people — that possess a strong affinity with Istar. The charm was carved out of a stone from the very temple where I found the records, duplicates preserved by the magic of the zealous acolytes of the Kingpriest. Preserved but forgotten, for those who had stored them there either perished with the city or abandoned the place after their homeland was no more."

"Please, Master Stel." Vandor hoped for more information, though he had no idea what good it could do him. "What great wonder did these records hold that would make you search for one as unworthy as myself?"

Stel chuckled — a raspy, grating sound. "During the last days of Istar, the Kingpriest persecuted and murdered many such as myself. The clerics of good stole many objects of evil from the bodies of clerics of Takhisis, Sargonnas, Morgion, Chemosh. The fools who followed the Kingpriest either could not destroy these powerful artifacts… or found them too tempting to destroy, just in case they could find uses for them."

Vandor Grizt almost laughed aloud. It was too absurd. He knew how easily such rumors got started. He'd created a few himself in order to sell his wares. The Knights of Solamnia were rumored to have once stored such evil clerical items, but no one had ever actually SEEN one. A REAL one, that is. Still, the cleric did not seem a man who would be chasing after… ghosts.

A thought occurred to Vandor Grizt. "I am certain, Master Stel, that you must have been pleased to find records of your stolen property. But if that property is at the bottom of the sea…"

The cleric looked knowingly at Vandor. "Of course, I knew that the treasures I sought — the talismans of my predecessors — were out of my reach. Even a necromancer such as myself could not summon the ancients of Istar. Their tomb lies buried deep beneath the sea; they do not dwell in my lord's domain. But, if I use the blood of kin — however many generations distant — I might be able to summon these dead."

Vandor Grizt was skeptical. "If I am related to the… um… Kingpriests, how did you find me?"

"I told you I will permit nothing to remain beyond my grasp. I followed the pull of the skull talisman, traveling through land after land until it led me to you in Takar. You are as great a charlatan — in your own way — as your ancestors. It was simple to trap you."

The sivak draconian laughed.

"Now," Stel continued, "we are almost at the end of my quest. There is one item in particular — relic of Chemosh — that I have sought ever since I discovered its existence. A pendant on a chain, it may be the most powerful talisman ever created, an artifact that can raise a legion of the undying to serve the wearer!"

The image of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of undead warriors marching over the countryside was enough to sink even Vandor's jaded heart.

Stel grimaced. "Do not think that I will neglect the other treasures, though. I will be able to pick and choose! I will wield power like no other!"

The familiar stomping that marked Captain Kruug's coming sent a shiver through Vandor.

"We're as steady as we can be, Prefect Stel! If you're going to do anything, do it now!"

Stel looked up into the eerie night sky. "Yes, the time is close enough, I think." To the draconians, he barked, "Stretch the fool's arm over the altar!"

Shinare! Vandor tried praying again, but he kept forgetting the proper words and losing his place in the ritual.

"Blood calls blood, Vandor Grizt," murmured Stel.

"Surely, my blood is so tainted by lesser lines that it would hardly be worth anything to you!" Vandor squirmed desperately.

The draconians seemed to find this statement amusing. Stel shook his masked head, touched the glowing skull.

"Your blood has already proven itself. For you, that means a reward. When the time comes, I will kill you in as swift and painless a fashion as I can."

Vandor did not thank him for his kindness.

Stel raised his dagger high and intoned, "Great Sea Queen, you who guide us now, without whom this deed could not be done, I humbly ask in the name of my lord Chemosh for this boon…"

Vandor Grizt heard nothing else. His eyes could not leave the dagger.

The blade came down.

Vandor flinched and cried out in pain, but in what seemed a reenactment of the first ritual, the cleric of Chemosh pricked the skin of Vandor's arm and reopened the long wound. Vandor gasped in relief.

Blood dripped into the altar. Stel muttered something.

At first, Vandor neither felt nor heard anything out of the ordinary. Then, slowly, every hair on his head came to life. A deep, inexplicable sense of horror gripped him. Someone was speaking his name from beyond the minotaur ship!

"Come!" Stel hissed. "Blood calls!"

Vandor trembled. The draconians dug their claws into his arms. The minotaurs, who generally grumbled at everything, paused at what they were doing and watched and waited silently.

The waters around the Tauron stirred. Something was rising to the surface.

Shinare? Vandor Grizt prayed frantically.

"Answer them!" Prefect Stel hissed again, beckoning. "You cannot resist the blood!"

To Vandor's dismay, he saw a ghostly, helmed head rising above the rail. "B-blessed Shinare! I implore you! I will honor you twice… no!.. four times a day!"

"Stop babbling, human!" snarled the nervous sivak. Then, it, too, saw the monstrosity trying to climb aboard. "Prefect Stel! Look to your right!"

Turning, Stel sighted the walking corpse. "Aaah! At last! At last!"

Much of the visage was hidden by the rusting helm, but two empty eye sockets glared out. The armor that it wore was loose and clanked together. The undead being floated onto the deck. From the waist down, its legs were obscured by a chill mist.

Stel eyed the breastplate. "The insignia of the house guard of the Kingpriest!" He looked up into the ungodly countenance. "A royal cousin, perhaps?"

Vandor Grizt's ancestor did not respond.

"Prefect Stel!" hissed the draconian again.

Another form, clad in what had probably been a shroud, rose almost next to Vandor Grizt. He thought he saw a crown beneath the shroud, but he could not be certain. He had no desire to take a closer look.

"Better and better…"

A third spectral figure joined the other two. The cleric fairly rubbed his hands in glee. "I had hoped for one, perhaps TWO after so long, but thr — four!"

Four it was — for the space of a single breath. Then, two more rose from the water. They seemed less substantial than the others; Vandor wondered if that meant they had been dead longer.

Stel glanced heavenward, then at his captive. "There is the answer to your protests, Vandor Grizt. Your blood runs truer than you — than I — thought."

The dark cleric looked at the night sky. The clouds were thickening and the winds were rising. "Time is limited! We must not try the Sea Queen's admirable patience!"

Holding the dagger before him, Stel summoned forth the undead that had been first to appear. With his other hand, the cleric removed the tiny skull on the chain and handed it to Vandor's ancestor. "You are mine. You know what I desire, do you not?"

The helm rattled as the ghost slowly nodded.

Vandor Grizt found himself sympathetic to his ancestors. It was not right that they be used as menial servants. Perhaps, he thought desperately, if blood truly called to blood, he could send them back to their rest.

"Don't listen to him!" Vandor shouted. "Go! Go back." His cries were cut off as one draconian put a scaly hand over his mouth and the other twisted his arm painfully.

It all proved to be for nothing. His shambling ancestors paid no attention to him, but listened obediently to the masked cleric who had summoned them.

"Make haste, then," Stel continued, ignoring his prisoner's outburst. "The talisman will guide you. Bring what you can, but most important, bring the Pendant of Chemosh! Its image is burned into the device I gave you. You cannot help but be drawn to it, no matter how deep it be buried!"

The six spectral figures floated from the ship… and sank into the murky depths.

I'm finished! Vandor thought. There was nothing he could do but wait until Prefect Stel sacrificed him. He morbidly wondered which god was going to get him, Chemosh or the Sea Queen. Chemosh, surely, for Stel had already given up a great deal to the Sea Queen.

"Great Chemosh, magnificent Zeboim," Vandor muttered, "do either of you really want someone as insignificant and unworthy as I? Surely a nice draconian would do better!"

Captain Kruug had finally regained enough nerve to rejoin the priest. The minotaur even dared peer over the rail after the undead. "By the Mistress's Eyes! I've never seen such before!"

Stel smiled. "Yes, the spell worked quite well."

"As you say. How long will… will it be before they return?" The minotaur was clearly unnerved.

"You mean how long will it be until we can depart?"

Kruug glared at him, but finally nodded. "Yes… how long? The skies grow darker. The clouds are gathering and the sea is beginning to stir. It never pays to overtax the good nature of the Sea Queen. She's known to change her mind, prefect."

"It will not be long, captain. My servants do not face the barriers that stop the living. No matter how deeply sunken are the artifacts I seek, the undead will find them in short order. The talisman I gave them will further shorten their search. I, too, am trying to expedite things, you see."

"Good." Kruug straightened to his full height. "I never thought I'd be saying it, but I look forward to dry land this night." He thrust a thumb at Vandor Grizt. "And what about that one?"

Stel's hand stroked the dagger. "He is the last order of business. When we are about to depart, I will sacrifice him to Zeboim as a final gift."

The draconians looked at each other and muttered. Vandor took his cue from them. He did some fast calculating. The nearest Temple of Chemosh had to be at least twenty days' journey from here…

"You give me to Zeboim, Master Stel? Not Chemosh? You should really give this some lengthy consideration 1 If I were the wondrous Chemosh, I would be offended at such shabby treatment!"

"Chemosh will understand. Chemosh is wise. Now cease your prattle; I know what I do." But Stel looked uncertain. "We invade her domain. We must make restitution." Was he trying to convince himself?

The minotaur growled. "It would not be good to retract a promise to the Sea Queen. She would be offended."

"I had no intention of doing so," Stel snapped. He pointed into the dark waters. "There! You see?"

The draconians, curious, dragged their captive to the side with them, enabling Vandor to see much more than he wanted.

First one helmed head, then another appeared from the murky water. Slowly, as if constrained to obey the one who wielded power over them against their wishes, the ragged shapes rose. Each carried within its skeletal arms encrusted artifacts. Stel's reluctant servants bowed before the cleric of Chemosh and piled the various jewels, scroll cases, staves, and weapons on the deck at his feet.

Everyone else backed away from the ghastly minions, but Stel stepped forward eagerly to inspect his treasure. He picked up first one object, then another. His excitement swiftly changed to frustration.

"These are useless! They are dead! There is little or no magic in most of them! Nothing!" The cleric froze. "The Pendant of Chemosh is not here!"

Vandor noticed then that there were only five undead. The last of his unfortunate ancestors had not returned; the one, in fact, who held the skull talisman. Had he somehow broken free?

Clouds were beginning to gather. The wind blew stronger. The Tauron rocked. Prefect Stel glared at his prisoner. "I see that I shall need more than a little blood. I think it is time for you to join your ancestors in my quest, thief!"

"I assure you that I would make a useless corpse, Master Stel!" Vandor blurted, struggling. The draconians dragged him to stand before the cleric. Vandor glanced briefly at his sea-soaked forebears, who remained steadfastly oblivious to all around them. He wondered what it would be like to exist so, figured he didn't have long before he found out.

"Your blood will strengthen my hold, Vandor Grizt, and you shall be my messenger to the Sea Queen. You should consider yourself honored; this will probably be the only thing of significance you've ever done in your paltry life!"

"Hurry! The storm is strengthening," Captain Kruug warned.

The draconians held Vandor over the altar. Recalling how his blood had sizzled upon touching the hot metal, he twisted and turned, trying desperately to avoid it. One of the guards finally used its claw to shove him down. Vandor yelped, then realized that he was not being scalded. His relief was momentary, though; a fate worse than being scalded awaited him.

One of the draconians leaned close and hissed, "If you say one more word, thief, I'll bite off your tongue and eat it! I'm sick of your chatter!"

Vandor clamped his mouth tight. Trapped, he searched frantically for some way out. His gaze lighted upon the eyeless visage of an armored ghost, rising above the rail.

In its brown, skeletal hands it held two chains. One was the skull talisman Stel had given it for the search. The other, much heavier, chain held a black crystal encased in an ivory clasp.

"Master Stel, look!" Vandor cried. "You don't need me. He has returned!"

Thanks to Shinare! Grizt added silently.

The cleric beckoned the ghost to him. His ungodly servant raised the pendants high. Stel snatched his talisman back, but seemed hesitant to touch the darkly glimmering creation in the undead's other hand.

"Magnificent! Perfection!" Stel danced back and forth. Then, recalling where he was and who was watching, the prefect quieted and carefully reached for his prize. All sound silenced, save for the wind and the waves beating against the sides of the minotaur ship.

Vandor Grizt's ancestor did not at first seem inclined to relinquish the prize, but a muttered word of power from the cleric forced it to release its hold. Skull mask eyed skull face for a breath or two, then Prefect Stel forgot the impudence of his unliving slave as he looked down at the pendant.

"The power has leeched away from most of the other prizes, but this still glows with life! It is all I hoped for and more! At last it shall serve its purpose! At last I will take my own rightful place as the greatest of my Lord Chemosh's loyal servants!"

Stel raised the thick chain over his head and lowered the pendant onto his chest. No crack of thunder or blare of horns marked the cleric's triumph, but a horrible, breathless stillness momentarily passed over the region.

Captain Kruug was the first who dared interrupt the cleric's worship. "Is that all, then? Are we soon to leave this place?"

"Leave?" Stel was surprised by the suggestion. "We can't leave now! If this artifact still survives, there MUST be others! I will send them down again! And, with this pendant, I can summon hundreds of blindly obedient searchers!"

"You push our luck, human! There are limits — "

"There are no limits! I will show you!" Raising his hands high, Prefect Stel cried strange words. The black crystal began to shine with an eerie, grayish light.

Now, thunder rolled and lightning crashed. An enormous swell of water shook the TAURON. Rain and hail poured down.

"Come to me!" roared the ghastly priest.

The water began to froth around them, as if the entire sea were coming to life. Captain Kruug was either swearing or praying beneath his breath. He began bellowing orders. The two draconians, absurdly obedient, fought to keep Vandor over the altar.

A huge wave broke over the deck, drenching Vandor and his guards. It became clear to Vandor that he might DROWN before he could be sacrificed.

Stel ignored the tempest, ignored the maddened sea. He stared at the water in expectation.

Up and down the Tauron rocked, tossed about like a toy in a rushing stream. Another wave knocked both Vandor and the draconians away from the altar. His two guards maintained their hold on him and saved him from being washed overboard. One of the draconians grabbed ahold of the rail and pulled Vandor and the other draconian closer. All three held on for their lives.

And then…

"Shinare!" Vandor gasped, spitting sea water from his mouth. "Has he raised ISTAR?"

It seemed so, at first. In the darkness, all Vandor could see was an enormous, irregular landmass rising from the depths. The only feature he could make out for certain was a peculiar ridge of high hills lined up neatly by twos and running the length of the land. Then, as the mass rose still higher, two eyes gleamed bright in the darkness.

This was not an island.

"Shinare!" Vandor Grizt whispered. Beside him, the sivak hissed in fear.

"It's going to crush us!" a minotaur roared.

But as the head — a head resembling that of an enormous turtle — cleared the water, the leviathan paused. It might have been some huge stone colossus carved by the ancients of Istar, so still was it.

Stel shouted triumphantly. He was facing the monster, the pendant of Chemosh held tight in one hand.

Stel's ancient pendant might not have summoned up the legions of undead that the cleric had sought, but it had summoned up something far more impressive. The draconians left the rail, dragging Vandor back to the altar.

"Surely this is no longer necessary!" he protested. "Master Stel has no time for this now! We should not bother such a busy man!"

In response, the draconians threw Vandor over the blood-spattered bowl and waited for orders.

"See what I have done!" Stel cried. "I have the power to raise monsters from the depths!"

"Dead ones, yes…" muttered Vandor.

"Yet, this is not what I expected," Stel quieted, then gazed down at his prize. "I meant to summon the dead of Istar, not this… this beast. This is not how the spell is supposed to work. Time has wreaked havoc with the pendant. I shall have to do something about that."

Stel removed his gloves and began probing at the crystal. There was a SNAP and a tiny burst of light. Stel cried out in pain. The crystal fell from the ivory casing.

With a wordless cry, Stel tried to catch the magical gem in midair, but he missed. Vandor shut his eyes — prayed that the explosion of sorcery unleashed by the shattering crystal would make his end swift.

The ebony gem struck the deck with a disappointing clatter. It rolled a moment, then slid toward Vandor Grizt.

He reacted without thinking, seeing only a valuable jewel heading toward the sea. Vandor put his foot out, caught the crystal between the sole of his boot and the deck. Grizt, the draconians, and Prefect Stel exhaled in relief. Only then did Stel realize what Vandor was doing.

"Stop him, you fools!"

Vandor Grizt stomped his foot down as hard as he could, trying desperately to crush the damnable artifact. Something gave way and at first Vandor believed he had succeeded. But try as he might, he could not reduce the thing to powder.

One of the draconians hit Vandor, dragging him back, away from the pendant.

Quickly Stel bent over and snatched up his prize. He inspected it for damage, then, satisfied, tried to replace it in the clasp. The crystal would not stay. Stel studied the clasp closer and cursed.

"Broken!"

Vandor smiled ruefully, though he could not help but sigh over the precious loss. The pendant had survived the sinking of Istar and centuries of burial in the depths of the Blood Sea, only to come to such an ignominious end.

Stel shook his fist at Vandor.

"You did this! You could not crush the jewel, but you cracked the framework around it." He thrust the gem close, so that Vandor could see the tiny, intricate workings that wrapped around the ebony jewel, like skeletal fingers clutching a prized possession. One of them had clearly broken off.

Whatever his fate now — and it certainly could get no worse — Vandor Grizt could die in peace, knowing the monstrous pendant was destroyed.

"I see your look!" Stel hissed. "But I will build the pendant anew, thief! The framework is nothing! It can readily be replaced! As long as I have the jewel I will… I will…"

He stared at it. The jewel — Grizt realized — had ceased to glow.

The two draconians exchanged worried glances. "Prefect," asked the sivak, "is there something amiss?"

Stel did not answer. The dark cleric shook the gem, muttered some words under his breath, and touched the crystal with his index finger.

Grizt dared a fleeting, hopeful smile.

One of the draconians, glancing at him, snarled, "What do YOU find so funny, human?"

He did not get the opportunity to reply.

"It's… it's dead…" Stel gasped. He shook the jewel again for good measure. "I do not understand! It worked perfectly until it fell out of the clasp, but the lack of a frame should only make the power a little less focused, unless… of course!" He fumbled with the casing. "This is bone ivory! Part of the spell's matrix! The pendant must be whole to function or it loses all power!"

Stel tried pressing the gem back into the casing, but it would not hold.

A massive wave shook the Tauron. Stel almost lost his footing. Captain Kruug shouted a warning, but his words were overwhelmed by the violent surging of the Blood Sea and a crash of thunder.

"NOW what?" Stel snapped.

"Prefect! The monster!" shouted the draconians.

Stel turned around and stared at the leviathan the pendant had helped him summon.

It was moving… and the Tauron lay directly in its path.

"Sargonnas take you, priest!" Kruug roared. "Listen to me! Send that thing away or it will kill us all!"

"Preposterous! It will do no such thing! I am the one who summoned it!"

The minotaur snorted.

Vandor Grizt, who was measuring the direction and speed of the undead leviathan, turned to his draconian guards. "Listen to him! The captain is right! Do something!"

"Be silent or I'll tear you in half!" the sivak hissed.

Undaunted, Vandor screamed at them. "Just look! Your master no longer controls it! It comes for us!"

Tentacles as thick as a man's body rose above the water, reaching for the ship as the creature neared.

"First rank! Axes!" Kruug roared. Several massive minotaurs abandoned what they were doing and rushed toward the steps leading into the vessel's interior.

Through all of this, Stel had remained standing still staring at the oncoming behemoth. He shook his head. "With the pendant, I could easily regain total control… but the pendant… is broken and I don't…" He eyed Vandor, who now regretted his attempts to pulverize the jewel. Death appeared to be his fate no matter what happened. "But I might be able to use it to enhance my OWN power… if I have a sufficient blood sacrifice to Chemosh to feed the spell."

Shinare! Why does everything involve my blood? "But I am promised to the Sea Queen!" Grizt protested. "If you use me for this, she might grow angry… angrier!"

"There will be enough blood to keep you alive… barely. She will understand."

Stel, it seemed, believed in very understanding gods. Vandor Grizt thought that if he were either Chemosh or the Sea Queen, he would be insulted by all of these shabby half-measures and broken vows.

The Tauron had begun to list. The minotaurs had apparently lost control of the ship. Of all those on board, only Vandor's ancestors — still in thrall to Stel — remained unaffected by the terror. They stared blindly in the direction of Stel and, it seemed, at their descendant who would soon be joining them in death.

Dagger in one hand and gem in the other, the cleric of Chemosh faced the undead leviathan surging toward them. Stel appeared to have confidence in himself, if no one else did. Raising the gem high, the black-robed cleric began to shout words of power. The hand with the dagger rose over the chest of Vandor Grizt.

It was then that the world turned about. Vandor Grizt was not certain of the order of events, but suddenly the storm burst into full fury, sending the ship keeling over in the opposite direction. At least one minotaur was washed overboard by a massive wave. A bolt of lightning struck one of the masts, cracking it in two. The burning wreckage crashed down on the hapless crew.

More than a dozen tentacles wrapped around the Tauron and began to drag it under.

Stel stood frozen, disbelief registered in every bone of his body. He dropped the dagger, much to the captive's relief, and clawed at the tiny skull pendant. As he pulled it free, it crumbled.

The TAURON was beginning to break up, as the tentacles threatened to crunch it. Captain Kruug and several minotaurs rushed forward, attacking the creature with heavy axes. The rotting skin of the behemoth gave way. It took the minotaurs only a few blows to sever the one tentacle and only a couple more to cut a second in two.

Unfortunately, as Kruug and his men finished the second, a dozen more ensnared their ship.

"All hands to battle!" roared the captain. Minotaurs all over the TAURON abandoned their stations and joined the fight against the beast.

Another wave washed over the front of the ship. Vandor's left arm was nearly torn from its socket and something like an army of blades tore at his flesh. He was being flayed. In desperation, he lifted one foot and kicked. His boot struck something solid. He kicked again.

The blades pulled free of his flesh. Only when the first shock subsided did he realize that the sivak draconian — the cursed shapechanger — was no longer holding him. He looked around but saw no sign of the foul reptile. The draconian had been washed overboard. At least he had succeeded in avenging himself on the creature that had killed his friend and captured him.

A brief satisfaction was all he was allowed. Then, it was a matter of struggling for his own life. Another wave washed over the ship. The other draconian released Vandor and fled, slipping and sliding, for the TAURON'S interior, choosing self-survival over the orders of the cleric.

Stel had moved to one side and was holding onto the rail, eyes wild. He was shouting something at the leviathan but his words were having no effect. Desperate, the gaunt priest whirled on the silent figures of the merchant's ancestors and made a sign.

The undead shuffled forward, forming a half-circle around the cleric.

Struggling to maintain his own hold on the rail, Vandor Grizt sought some sort of escape. To stay aboard the ship was folly in his opinion, but the Blood Sea offered the only other option.

"Shinare," he whispered, "is there anything I can offer you?"

Kruug, axe covered in a brown, thick muck, was trying to get his crew's attention.

"Prepare to abandon ship!" Kruug glanced around and spotted Vandor. Grimacing, the minotaur called, "I'll not leave even you to this, manling! Get over to the — "

A tentacle struck the captain. Kruug flew over the other side of the ship and, as Vandor watched helplessly, the beastman dropped into the water and vanished beneath.

The Tauron began to shudder and crack.

This is the end for all of us! Vandor thought.

His undead ancestors had formed a tighter ring around the cleric. No longer were they the blindly obedient slaves that Stel had summoned. They had the prefect pinned against the rail and were closing the circle around him.

Chemosh will understand… Stel had said that over and over. Chemosh — Lord of the Undead — had not been as understanding as his servant imagined.

One of the wraiths, the skeleton in armor, reached out and tore the mask from the cleric's face. The skeletal hand closed over Stel's throat. Stel screamed horribly. The other undead closed around him.

A gigantic wave swamped the Tauron.

Vandor Grizt lost his hold, falling overboard. The sea took him. He could no longer see the TAURON and for all he knew it had been pulled under after the last wave. Water was all there was in the world. It surrounded him; it filled him.

Then he saw a woman, a beautiful but fiery creature of the depths. She was reaching for him, but something… no SOMEONE — another woman

… was pulling him away from her.

Vandor Grizt smiled vaguely at the first woman, regretting that their liaison was not possible.

Then, he was no more.

Vandor Grizt discovered he did not like the taste of sand.

Raising his head, an act that strained to the limit what few resources he had left, he spat out a grainy mouthful.

Vandor kept his eyes closed. He was not at all certain he wanted to know where he was. After all, if he were dead, he might be in the domain of Zeboim… or worse.

Curiosity got the better of him.

All he saw was a beach. Daytime. Brilliant light nearly blinded him. Closing his eyes, he restarted the process, allowing himself only a narrow gap of vision at first.

He allowed that gap to widen when he saw the feet in front of him. They were not human feet.

"So you survived," rumbled a horribly familiar voice. "Some god truly watches over you, human…"

Vandor Grizt rolled over, the best he could do at the moment, and stared at the looming bestial countenance of Captain Kruug. After a moment, Vandor became aware of the presence of three other minotaurs, one of whom leaned heavily on another.

Vandor tried to speak, coughed and spit up sea water.

Kruug snorted. He looked tired. Very tired. "Save your words, human. I've no interest in you. Anyone who survived that folly… and I'm amazed there are any of us… deserves some peace." The minotaurs started to turn away, but the captain held back long enough to add, "If you'll take my advice, you'll go inland. deep inland. If I see your ugly face again, I might remember how I lost my ship because of you."

Although he had a somewhat different perspective on the recent events, Grizt did not think it wise to argue. He watched in silence as the battered foursome stumbled off.

"You're lucky, Vandor Grizt," he said as he lay there trying to regain enough strength to move on. "The bullman must be right: some god does smile on me!" The thought comforted him. If that was true — and it certainly seemed so — then it might be a wise time to begin a new life.

Grizt started to rise, but felt something under his left hand. He dug the object out of the sand and stared long at it.

It was the upper portion of Stel's skull mask — an eyehole and part of the cheek. Vandor smiled. His ancestor had bequeathed him a present.

Vandor dropped the battered mask and, finding new strength, rose to his feet. He looked around and saw that the minotaurs were still within sight, their pace slowed by the injured member.

Vandor Grizt ran after them, calling out in order to get their attention. Kruug turned around, his fists balled tight. When he saw who it was, his anger was replaced by annoyance.

"What do you want? I thought I told you — "

"Please!" Vandor Grizt put up both hands in placation. "Just a question of directions. That is all I ask. You know this region much better than I."

"All right. Where is it you want to go?"

Trying not to sound too anxious, Vandor asked, "Would you happen to know the way to the nearest temple of Shinare?"