Paul B.Thompson, Tonya R.Carter. Darkness and Light
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("DragonLance Preludes I" #1).
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                         DragonLance Preludes
                              Volume One

                           Darkness & Light

                              written by
                  Paul B.Thompson and Tonya R.Carter

                                * * *

                              Chapter 1

                            Separate Ways

      Autumn painted Solace in gay colors. Each porch, each window,
was filled with red, orange, and yellow foliage, for the shops and
houses of Solace were nestled among the stout branches of a vale of
vallenwood trees, well above the mossy ground. Here and there were
clearings in the treetown. These were the town's commons, where there
might be a market one week and a traveling carnival the next.

      On this bright afternoon three figures stood in a sunlit
clearing -- two men and a woman. Two swords played back and forth,
flashing with fire when the sun's rays caught them. Two figures
circled warily, feinting with sudden flicks of their naked blades. The
third one stood back, watching. The swords scraped together with a
kiss of tempered steel. "Well met!" said Caramon Majere, the onlooker.
"A very neat parry, Sturm!"

      The tall young man with the drooping brown mustache grunted a
brief acknowledgment. He was rather busy. His opponent sprang forward,
lunging at his chest. Sturm Brightblade cut hard at the onrushing
point, backpedaling as he swung. It missed him by a scant inch.

      Sturm's foe wobbled as she came down off balance, her feet too
far apart.

      "Steady, Kit!" Caramon called. His half-sister recovered with
the practiced grace of a dancer. She brought her heels together with a
smack of boot leather and presented Sturm with only her slim profile
as a target.

      "Now, my friend," she said. "I'll show you the skill that comes
from fighting for pay."

      Kitiara cut tiny circles in the air with her' sword tip. Once,
twice, three times -- Sturm watched the deadly motion. Caramon
watched, too, open-mouthed. At eighteen, he was the size of a
full-grown man, but he was still a boy inside. The wild and worldly
Kitiara was his idol. She had more drive and dash than any ten men.

      From his place, Caramon could see every nick in the edge of
Kitiara's blade, mementoes of hard-fought battle. The flat of the
blade was shiny from frequent and expert polishing. By contrast,
Sturm's sword was so new that the hilt still showed the blue tinge
from the smith's annealing fire.

      "Watch your right," said Caramon. Sturm closed his free hand
over the long pommel and awaited Kitiara's attack square on, as a
Solamnic Knight would.

      "Hai!" Kitiara whirled on one leg, cleaving the air with an
upward sweep of her sword. Caramon's breath caught as she carried her
swing forward. Sturm did not move. Her sword would complete its arc at
his neck. Caramon shut his eyes -- and heard a solid ring of steel.
Feeling foolish, he opened them again.

      Sturm had parried straight across, hilt to hilt, with no finesse
at all. He and Kitiara stayed locked together with their sword points
high. Kitiara's wrists shook. She stepped in and braced her sword arm
with her empty hand. Sturm forced her guard down. Her face paled, then
flushed red. Caramon knew that look. This friendly bout was not going
to her liking, and Kitiara was getting angry.

      Vexed, she shifted her stance and strained against Sturm's
greater size and strength. Still her hilt fell. The knobbed quillon of
Sturm's new sword brushed her chin.

      With an explosive gasp, Kitiara ceased the struggle. Both sword
points stabbed into the green sod.

      "Enough," she said. "I'll buy the ale. I should've known better
than to let you bind up my guard like that! Come on, Sturm. Let's have
a tankard of Otik's best."

      "Sounds good to me," he replied. He freed his blade and .
stepped back, breathing heavily. As he moved, Kitiara thrust the flat
of her weapon between his ankles. Sturm's feet tangled, and he
sprawled backward on the grass. His sword flew away, and in the next
instant Kitiara stood over him holding thirty-two inches of steel
poised at his throat.

      "Combat is not always a sport," she said. "Keep your eyes open
and your sword firmly in hand, my friend, and you'll live longer."

      Sturm looked up the blade at Kitiara's face. Sweat had stuck
dark curls of hair to her forehead, and her naturally dark lips were
pressed firmly together. Slowly they spread in a lopsided smile. She
sheathed her weapon.

      "Don't look so downcast! Better a friend knock you down as a
lesson than an enemy cut you down for good." She extended a hand.
"We'd better go before Flint and Tanis drink all of Otik's brew."

      Sturm grasped her hand. It was warm and calloused from gauntlets
and sword grips. Kitiara pulled him up until they were nose to nose.
Although a head taller and fifty pounds heavier, Sturm still felt like
a callow youth beside her. But her bright eyes and engaging smile
dispelled his anxiety.

      "I see now how you've managed to prosper as a fighter," he said,
stooping to retrieve his sword. He buried the blade in its sheath.
"Thank you for the lesson. Next time I will keep my feet out of
reach!"

      "Later, will you teach me some of your moves, Kit?" asked
Caramon eagerly. He carried a short sword himself, a gift from his
adventurous sister. She'd picked it up on one of her many
battlefields. Flint Fireforge, who knew metalwork as few did, said
that Caramon's sword had been made in southern Qualinesti. Only by
clues such as this did her friends know where Kit's wanderings had
taken her.

      "Why not? I'll tie one hand behind my back to make it fair."
Caramon opened his mouth to retort, but Kitiara clapped a hand over
his lips. "Now, to the inn. If I don't get a draft of ale soon, I'll
perish!"

      When they reached the base of the great vallenwood tree that
supported the Inn of the Last Home, they found their friend Flint
sitting at the bottom of the ramp. The dwarf had a split of kindling
in his massive, knobby hands and was shaving off hair-thin slices with
a single-edged knife.

      "Well, you came back with your skin whole," said Flint, eyeing
Sturm. "I half-expected to see you carrying your head under your arm."

      "Your confidence in me is enormous," the young man replied
sourly. Kitiara halted and draped an arm across Caramon's broad
shoulders.

      "Better watch yourself, old dwarf. Our Master Sturm has an
uncommonly strong arm. Once he learns not to hold to outdated knightly
codes --"

      "Honor is never outdated," said Sturm.

      "Which is how you landed flat on your back with my sword at your
neck. If you would --"

      "Don't start!" groaned Caramon. "If I have to hear another
debate on honor, I'll die of boredom!"

      "I won't argue," Kitiara said, slapping her brother on the rump.
"I made my point."

      "Come with us, Flint. Kit's buying," said Caramon. The elderly
dwarf rose on his stumpy legs, sweeping a cascade of white wood
slivers off his lap. He straightened his clothing and tucked his knife
back in his leggings.

      "No ale for you," Kitiara said to Caramon with mockmaternal
sternness. 'You're not old enough to drink." Caramon ducked under her
arm, sprinted up to Sturm, and said, "I'm eighteen, Kit."

      Kitiara's face showed surprise. "Eighteen? Are you sure?" Her
'little' brother was an inch or so taller than Sturm.

      Caramon gave her a disgusted look. "Of course I'm sure. You just
haven't noticed that I'm a grown man."

      'You're a baby!" Kitiara cried, whipping out her sword.

      "Any more out of you and I'll spank you!"

      "Ha!" Caramon laughed 'You can't catch me!" So saying, he dashed
up the stairs. Kitiara returned her sword and bounded after him.

      Caramon's long legs covered the steep boards quickly. Laughing,
he and his sister disappeared around the tree trunk.

      Flint and Sturm ascended more slowly. A light breeze rustled
through the tree, sending a shower of colored leaves across the steps.
Sturm gazed out through the branches at the other tree homes.

      "In a few weeks, you'll be able to see clear to the other side
of the commons," he mused.

      "Aye," said Flint. "It's strange not to be on the road right
now. For more years than you've been alive, boy, I've tramped the
roads of Abanasinia from spring to autumn, plying the trade."

      Sturm nodded. Flint's announced retirement from his itinerant
metalworking had surprised them all.

      "It's all behind me now," Flint said. "Time to put my feet up,
maybe grow some roses." Sturm found the image of the bluff old dwarf
tending a rose garden so unnatural that he shook his head to dispel
the thought.

      At the level platform midway up to the inn proper, Sturm paused
by the railing. Flint went a few steps beyond before halting. He
squinted back at Sturm and said, "What is it, boy? You're about to
burst to tell me something."

      Flint didn't miss a thing.

      "I'm going away," said Sturm. "To Solamnia. I'm going to look
for my heritage."

      "And your father?"

      "If there is any trace of him to be found, I shall find it."

      "It could be a long journey and a dangerous search," Flint said.
"But I wish I could go with you."

      "Never mind." Sturm moved away from the rail. "It's my search."

      Sturm and Flint entered the door of the inn just in time to
receive a barrage of apple cores. As they wiped the sticky palp from
their eyes, the room rocked with laughter.

      "Who's the rascal responsible?" roared Flint. A gawky young
girl, no more than fourteen, with a head of robust red curls, handed
the outraged dwarf a towel.

      "Otik pressed some new cider, and they had to have the
leavings," she said apologetically.

      Sturm wiped his face. Kitiara and Caramon had collapsed against
the bar, giggling like idiots. Behind the bar, Otik, the portly
proprietor of the inn, shook his head.

      "This is a first-class inn," he said. "Take your pranks outside,
if you gotta pull'em!"

      "Nonsense!" said Kitiara. She slapped a coin on the bar. Caramon
wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes and stared. It was a gold
coin, one of the few he'd ever seen.

      "That will ease your temper, eh, Otik?" Kitiara said.

      A tall, well-favored man stool up from his table and approached
the bar. His motion was oddly graceful, and his high cheekbones and
golden eyes eloquently proclaimed his elven heritage. He picked up the
coin.

      "What's the matter, Tanis?" Kitiara asked. "Haven't you ever
seen gold before?"

      "Not as large a coin as this," Tanis Half-Elven replied. He
flipped it over. "Where was it struck?"

      Kitiara lifted her mug from the bar and drank. "I don't know,"
she said. "It's part of my wages. Why do you ask?"

      "The inscription is Elvish. I would say it was minted in
Silvanesti."

      Sturm and Flint came over to examine the coin. The deli cate
script was definitely Elvish, Flint said. Far-off Silvanesti had
practically no contact with the rest of Ansalon, and there was much
curiosity as to how an elvish coin managed to drift so far west.

      "Plunder," said a voice from the corner of the room.

      "What did you say, Raist?" asked Caramon. In a corner of the
inn's common room a pallid figure could be seen. Raistlin, Caramon's
twin brother. As usual, he was immersed in the study of a dusty
scroll. He rose and moved toward the group; the colored light
filtering through the inn's stainedglass windows gave his pale skin
odd tints.

      "Plunder," he repeated. "Robbery, rapine, booty."

      "We know what the word means," said Flint sharply.

      "He means the coin was probably stolen in Silvanesti and later
turned up in the coffers of Kit's mercenary captain," said Tanis.

      They passed the coin from hand to hand, turning it around and
feeling the heft of it. More than its crude monetary value, the elven
coin spoke of far-off places and distant, magical people.

      "Let me see," said an insistent voice from below the bar. A
small, lean arm thrust between Caramon and Sturm.

      "No!" said Otik, taking the coin from Tanis's hand. "When a
kender gets hold of money, you can kiss it a quick good-bye!"

      "Tas!" cried Caramon. "I didn't see you come in."

      "He was in the room the whole time," Tanis said.

      Tasslehoff Burrfoot, like most of his race, was both clever and
diminutive. He could hide in the smallest places, and was known to be
light-fingered -- "curious," as he said.

      "Ale all around," said Kitiara, "now that my credit is good."
Otik filled a line of tankards from a massive pitcher, and the friends
retired to the great round table in the center of the room. Raistlin
took a chair with the others, instead of returning to his scroll.

      "Since we are all here," Tanis said, "someone ought to make a
toast."

      "Here's to Kit, the founder of the feast!" said Caramon, raising
his clay mug of cider.

      "Here's to the gold that pays for it," his sister responded.

      "Here's to the elves who coined it," offered Flint.

      "I'll drink to elves in any form," Kitiara said. She smiled over
her mug at Tanis. A question formed on his lips, but before he could
speak it, Tasslehoff stood on his stool and waved for attention.

      "I say we drink to Flint," said Tas. "This is the first year
since the Cataclysm that he won't be on the road."

      A chuckle circled the table, and the old dwarf reddened. "You
whelp," he growled. "How old do you think I am?"

      "He can't count that high," said Raistlin.

      "Well, I'm a hundred and forty-three, and I can lick any man,
woman, or kender in the place," Flint declared. He thumped a heavy
fist on the table. "Care to test me?" He had no takers. Despite his
age and short stature, Flint was powerfully muscled and a good
wrestler.

      They toasted and drank from then on with good cheer, as
afternoon became evening and evening became night. To stave off
tipsiness, one of Otik's large suppers was ordered. Soon the table was
groaning under platters of squab and venison, bread, cheese, and
Otik's famous fried potatoes.

      The red-haired girl brought each platter to the diners. At one
point, Caramon put his gnawed chicken bones in her apron pocket. The
girl responded gamely, dropping a hot potato slice down Caramon's
collar. He squirmed out of his chair as the girl skipped back to
Otik's kitchen.

      "Who the blazes is she?" asked Caramon, wiggling the crispy
potato slice out his shirttail.

      "She is in Otik's care," said Raistlin. "Her name is Tika." The
night passed on. Other patrons came and went. It grew late, and Otik
had Tika light a fork of candles for the friends' table. The merry
banter of the early evening gave way to calmer, more reflective
conversation.

      "I'm going tomorrow," Kitiara announced. By candlelight her
tanned face seemed golden. Tanis studied her and felt all the old
pangs return. She was a most alluring woman.

      "Going where?" asked Caramon.

      "North, I think," she answered.

      "Why north?" Tanis asked.

      "Reasons of my own," she said, but her smile softened the flat
answer.

      "Can I go with you?" Caramon said.

      "No, you can't, brother."

      "Why not?"

      Kitiara, seated between her half-brothers, glanced at Raistlin.
Caramon's gaze went from her to his twin. Of course. Raistlin needed
him. Though twins, they were not much alike. Caramon was a genial
young bear, while Raistlin was a studious wraith. He was frequently
ill and had an uncanny habit of antagonizing large belligerent types.

      After the birth of the twins, their mother had never recovered
her strength, so Kitiara had fought for young Raistlin's health. Now
it was Caramon who watched out for his twin. "I'm leaving, too," put
in Sturm. "North." He glanced at Kitiara.

      "Foo," said Tasslehoff. "North is dull. I've been there. Now
east, there's the way to go. There's lots to see in the East --
cities, forests, mountains --"

      "Pockets to pick, horses to 'borrow'," said Flint.

      The kender stuck out his lower lip. "I can't help it if I'm good
at finding things."

      "Someday you'll find from the wrong person, and they'll hang you
for it."

      "I have to go north," Sturm said. He leaned forward, resting his
chin on his hands. "I'm going back to Solamnia."

      They all stared at him. They knew the story of Sturm's exile
from his homeland. Twelve years had passed since the peasants of
Solamnia had risen against the knightly lords. Sturm and his mother
had escaped with only their lives. The knights were still despised in
their own country.

      "Could you use a good right arm?" offered Kitiara. Her offer
caught everyone by surprise.

      "I wouldn't want you to go out of your way," said Sturm,
noncommittally.

      "North is north. I've been east and south and west."

      "Very well then. I'd be honored to have you with me." Sturm
turned from Kitiara to Tanis. "What about you, Tan?"

      Tanis pushed a hunk of bread through the remains of his dinner.
"I've been thinking of doing some travel myself. Nothing specific,
just a trek to see some places I haven't seen. I don't think my
journey will take me north." He looked at Kitiara, but her gaze was
directed at Sturm.

      "That's the idea," Tasslehoff said briskly. His right hand
dipped into his fur vest and came out with a flat copper disk. He
rolled the disk over the back of his knuckles. It was an exercise he
sometimes did to keep his fingers nimble. Not that he needed practice.
"Let's go east, Tanis, you and me."

      "No." The flat turn-down froze the copper disk midway across the
back of the kender's small hand. "No," said Tanis again, more gently.
"This is a trip I must make alone."

      The table was silent again. Then Caramon let out a single great
hiccup, and the laughter returned.

      "Pardon me!" said Caramon, reaching for Kitiara's tankard. She
was not fooled. As his hand closed around the pewter stem, she rapped
his wrist with her spoon. Caramon snatched his hand back. "Ouch!" he
protested.

      "You'll get worse if you try it again," said Kitiara. Caramon
grinned and made a fist.

      "Save your energy, brother," Raistlin said. "You'll need it."

      "How so, Raist?"

      "Since everyone has decided to undertake journeys, this seems
like a good time to announce one of my own."

      Flint snorted. "You wouldn't last two days on the road."

      "Perhaps not." Raistlin folded his long, tapering fingers.
"Unless my brother goes with me."

      "Where and when?" asked Caramon, pleased to be going anywhere.

      "I cannot say where just now," Raistlin said. His pale blue eyes
stared fixedly at his nearly untouched plate of food. "It may be a
long and perilous voyage."

      Caramon jumped up. "I'm ready."

      "Siddown," Kitiara said, dragging on her brother's vest tail.
Caramon plumped down on his stool.

      Flint sighed a great, gusty sigh. "You're all leaving me," he
said. "I'll not go a-tinkering this season, and all my friends are
going their own way He sighed again, so heavily that the rack of
candles flickered.

      "You old bear," Kitiara said. "You're feeling sorry for
yourself. There's no law that says you have to stay in Solace by
yourself. Don't you have any relatives that you can impose on?"

      "Yes," Tasslehoff added, "you can visit your graybearded, I mean
gray-haired, old mother.

      The dwarf bellowed his outrage. Those sitting closest to Flint
-- Caramon and Sturm -- slid quickly away from the furious dwarf.
Flint banged his tankard on the tabletop, sending a splash of ale at
Tasslehoff. Rivulets of sticky golden ale ran off the kender's nose
and soaked into his topknot of wild brown hair. He rubbed the brew
from his eyes.

      "Nobody makes sport of my mother!" Flint declared.

      "Not more than once, anyway," Tanis observed sagely.

      Tas wiped his face on his sleeve. He picked up his own
scaled-down tankard (it was empty) and tucked it under his arm like an
absurd helm. Assuming an air of injured dignity, he declaimed, "Now we
must fight a duel!"

      Kitiara said gleefully. "I'll be your second, Tas."

      "I'll stand for Flint!" Caramon cried.

      "Who has choice of weapons?" asked Tanis.

      "Flint's challenged; it is his choice," Sturm said, smiling.

      "What'll it be, old bear? Apple cores at ten paces? Ladles and
pot lids?" asked Kitiara.

      "Anything but ale mugs," Tas quipped, his pose of haughty
dignity replaced by his usual grin. The laughter didn't stop until
Tika returned.

      "Shh! Shh, it's late! Will you people be quiet!" she hissed.

      "Go on, before someone spanks you," Caramon said, without
turning to look at her. Tika slipped in behind his stool and made
horrid faces at him. The others laughed at her. Caramon was puzzled.

      "What's so funny?" he demanded.

      Tika deftly lifted the dagger from Caramon's belt sheath. She
raised it over her head with a terrifying grimace, as though to stab
Caramon in the back. Tears ran down Kitiara's face, and Tas fell off
his chair. "What?" shouted Caramon. Then he snapped his head around
and spied Tika in midgrimace. "Aha!" He started after her. The girl
darted around the nearby empty tables. Caramon blundered after her,
upsetting chairs and stumbling against stools.

      Otik appeared from the kitchen with a lamp in his hand. His
nightshirt was askew and his sparse white hair was standing up in
comic tufts. "What's this row? Can't a man get some sleep around here?
Tika, where are you, girl?" The red-haired girl peeked over the rim of
a table. "You were supposed to hush them, not join in the party."

      "That man was chasing me." She pointed at Caramon, who was busy
studying the candle-lit rafters. "Go to your room." Tika went
regretfully. She cast a last grin back at Caramon and stuck out her
tongue. When he started toward her, she flipped his dagger at him. It
struck the floor quivering, inches from his feet. Tika vanished
through the kitchen's swinging doors.

      Otik planted his fists on his hips. "Flint Fireforge! I expected
better of you. You're old enough to know better. And you, Master
Sturm; a well-bred fellow like you ought to know better than to be
roistering this late at night." Flint looked properly abashed. Sturm
smoothed his long mustache with his right forefinger and said nothing.

      "Don't be an old sop," said Kitiara. "Tika was very amusing.
Besides, this is a going-away party."

      "Everything is amusing to people who've got four kegs of ale in
their bellies," growled Otik. "Who's going away?"

      "Well, everybody."

      Otik turned back to the kitchen. He said, "Well, for pity's
sake, go quietly!" and left.

      Caramon returned to the table. Through a gaping yawn he said,
"That Tika's the ugliest girl in Solace. Old Otik'll have to put up a
big dowry to get her married off!"

      "You never know," said Raistlin with a glance at the kitchen.
"People change."

      It was time to part. There was no reason to delay any longer.
Sensing this, Tanis stood with folded hands and said, "Though we
friends will separate, our good wishes cannot be diminished by time or
distance. But to keep the circle in our hearts, we must come together
again, each year on this day, here in the inn."

      "And if we cannot!" asked Sturm.

      "Then five years from today, everyone here tonight shall return
to the Inn of the Last Home. No matter what. Let's make this a sacred
vow. Who will take it with me?"

      Kitiara pushed back her stool and put her right hand in the
center of the table. "I'll take that vow," she said. Her eyes fixed
Tanis in a powerful hold. "Five years."

      Tanis lowered his hand on hers. "Five years."

      "Upon my honor, and in the name of the house of Brightblade,"
Sturm said solemnly, "I vow to return in five years." He placed his
sword hand on Tanis's.

      "Me, too," said Caramon. His broad palm hid even Sturm's hand
from sight.

      "If I am living, I will be here," said Raistlin, with a strange
lilt in his voice. He added his gracile touch to his brother's.

      "And me! I'll be here waiting for all of you!" So saying,
Tasslehoff stepped up on the tabletop. His tiny hand rested next to
Raistlin's, both lost on Caramon's wide hand.

      "Lot of confounded nonsense," Flint grumbled. "How do I know
what I'll be doing five years from now'? Could be a lot more important
than sitting in an inn, waiting for a pack of errant rascals."

      "C'mon, Flint. We're all taking the oath," said the kender.

      "Hmph." The old dwarf leaned over and set his age- and work-worn
hands around the others. "Reorx be with you until we meet again," he
said. His voice caught, and his friends knew him for the sentimental
old fraud he was.

      They left Flint at the table. The twins departed. Tanis,
Kitiara, and Sturm strolled to the foot of the stairway. Tasslehoff
trailed after them.

      "I will say good night," said Sturm, with a glance at Tanis.

      "But not good-bye." They clasped hands. "Kit, my horse is
stabled at the farrier's. Will you meet me there?"

      "That's good. My beast is there, too. Sunrise tomorrow?" Sturm
nodded and looked around for Tas.

      "Tas?" he called. "Where did he get to? I wanted to say
good-bye."

      Tanis gestured toward the inn above. "He went back up, I think."
Sturm nodded and strode away into the cool night. Tanis and Kitiara
were left with the crickets, which sang from the massive trees, a
symphony of hundreds.

      "Walk with me?" asked Tanis.

      "Wherever you like," Kitiara replied.

      They strolled a dozen paces from the inn before Kitiara took the
opportunity to slip her arm through Tanis's. "I have a thought," she
said slyly.

      "What's that?"

      "That you should stay with me tonight. It may be five years
before we see each other again."

      He halted and drew his arm free. "I cannot," said Tanis.

      "Oh? And why not? There was a time not so long ago when you
couldn't keep away from me."

      "Yes, in between the times you spent far away, campaigning for
whoever would pay you."

      Kitiara lifted her chin. "I'm not ashamed of what I do."

      "I don't expect you to be. The point is, I've come to realize
more and more clearly that you and I are of two worlds, Kit. Worlds
that can never hope to be reconciled."

      "So what are you saying?"

      "I had a birthday while you were gone. Do you know how old I am?
Ninety-seven. Ninety-seven years old, Kit! If I were a human, I'd be a
withered ancient. Or dead."

      She eyed his willowy form appreciatively. "You're not withered
or ancient."

      "That's the point! My elvish blood will extend my life far
beyond the normal span of humans." Tanis stepped closer and took her
hands. "While you, Kit, will age and die."

      Kitiara laughed. "Let me worry about that!"

      "You won't. I know you, Kit. You're burning your youth out like
a two-ended candle in a gale. How do you think I feel, knowing that
you might be killed in battle for some petty warlord, while I would
live on and on without you? It has to end, Kit. Tonight. Here and
now."

      Though it was dark, and the white moon, Solinari, was hidden by
boughs of val1enwood Tanis saw the hurt in Kitiara's expression. It
was there but an instant. She mastered it and forced a superior smile.

      "Maybe it's just as well," she said. "I never did like being
tied down. My poor fool of a mother was like that -- she never could
get along without a husband to tell her what's what. That's not my
style. I take after my father. Burning in the wind, am I? So be it! I
ought to thank you, Tanthalus Half-Elven, for holding a mirror up to
the truth --"

      He interrupted her tirade with a kiss. It was a gentle,
brotherly kiss on the cheek. Kitiara glared.

      "It's not what I want, Kit," Tanis said with great sorrow.

      "It's how it must be."

      She slapped him. Being the warrior she was, Kitiara's slap was
no light tap. Tanis staggered and put a hand to his face. A thin smear
of blood showed in the corner of his mouth. "Keep your pretty
gestures," she spat. "Save them for your next lover, if you find one!
Who will it be, Tanis? A full-blooded elf maiden? But no, the elves
would despise you as a half-breed. You need a female version of
yourself to love." She marched away, leaving Tanis staring. "You'll
never find her!" Kitiara called from the darkness. "Never!"

      The crickets had quieted under Kitiara's shouts. In their own
time they began to sing again. Tanis stood alone in the night, finding
no comfort in their song.

                              Chapter 2
High Crest
 The sky hab not yet lost its violet hue when Sturm
reached the farrier's shop. Tirien, the farrier, had his estab-
lishment in a vallenwood tree. The winding ramp to Tirien's
shop was doubly wide and strongly braced for horses.
Tirien, ruddy-faced from leaning over forge fires, and with
heavily muscled arms and shoulders from wielding his farri-
er's hammer, was already up and about when the knight
arrived.
"Sturm!" he boomed. "Come in, lad. I'm just straighten-
ing some nails." Tirien's helper, a boy named Mercot,
plucked a red-hot spike from the furnace with a pair of
tongs. He set the bent nail in the groove atop Tirien's anvil,
and the brawny farrier smote it twice. Mercot flicked the
straight nail into a bucket of water. A serpent's hiss and a

wisp of steam arose.
"I need my horse, Tirien," said Sturm.
"Right. Mercot, fetch Master Brightblade's animal."
The boy's eyes widened. Rings of soot around them made
him look like a startled owl. "The chestnut gelding?"
"Aye, and be quick about it!" said Tirien. To Sturm he
continued, "Reshod him, as you asked. A good mount."
Sturm paid his bill while Mercot led Tallfox, his horse, to
the lower platform. Sturm had bought Tallfox from a Que-
kiri tribesman only a few weeks before, and he was still
learning the horse's manners.
He shouldered his bedroll and pack and descended the
ramp to where Mercot had tied his mount. Tirien's hammer
rang out again, banging twisted scrap iron into arrow-
straight horseshoe spikes.
Sturm distributed his baggage over Tallfox's sides and
rump. He filled his water bottle and heard, "You're late."
Kitiara was slouched in a corner under the livery's eaves.
She was wrapped to her ears in a red horse blanket.
"Am I?" asked Sturm. "The sun is just rising. When did
you get here!"
"Hours ago. I slept here," she said, casting off the blanket.
Underneath, Kitiara still wore the clothes she'd had on the
previous night. She stretched her arms and braced the knots
out of her stiff back.
"Why in the gods' names did you sleep here?" asked
Sturm. "Did you think I'd forget and leave without you?"
"Oh, not you, noble friend. It seemed like a good place to
sleep, that's all. Besides, Pira needed a shoe repaired."
Sturm led Tallfox down to the ground. He swung into
Tallfox's saddle and waited for his companion. Kitiara came
loping down the ramp, leading a rather nondescript brown
and white spotted mare.
"Something wrong?" she asked, mounting beside Sturm.
"I just imagined that you would prefer a fiery stallion for
your mount," he replied. "This, ah, quaint animal doesn't
suit you at all."
"This 'quaint animal' will still be walking a steady pace
long after that beast of yours is no more than bones and
hide," Kitiara said. Her fitful sleep had not improved her

temperament since her parting with Tanis. "I've been on six
campaigns with Pira, and she's always carried me home."
"My apologies."
They rode out of Solace, north by east. The new sun
pierced the hills around Solace and warmed the air. Sturm
and Kitiara breakfasted simply, on jerky and water. The fine
dawn became an even finer morning, and Kitiara's spirits
rose.
"I can't be unhappy on the road," she said. "There's too
much to see and do."
"We should be on guard as well," Sturm said. "I heard
travelers in the inn say there were brigands about."
"Tshaw. Peasants on foot may have reason to fear brig-
ands, but two warriors, armed and mounted -- it's the rob-
bers who'd best be afraid!" Sturm made polite assent, but
still kept his eyes on the horizon and his sword hilt handy.
 Their route was simple enough. Once clear of Solace's
hills, the two would turn northwest and make for the coast.
On the shore of the Straits of Schallsea was a small fishing
port called Zaradene. From there Kitiara and Sturm could
easily take passage to Caergoth in southern Thelgaard.
North of Caergoth lay Solamnia proper, their ultimate des-
tination.
Such was their plan. But plans, as said the sage wizard
Arcanist, are like figures drawn in sand: easily made and
just as easily disturbed.
The forests and hills of Abanasinia thinned with the
miles. Kitiara filled the hours with tales of her past adven-
tures.
"My first hire was with Mikkian's Marauders. They were
a bad lot. Mikkian was a low-born lout from Lemish. He
had the bad fortune of always losing parts of himself in
battle -- an eye, an arm, half an ear. Pretty ugly he was, and
mean! I walked into his camp, sure of my skill with a blade.
In those days, I had to pretend to be a boy, else the churls
would have ganged up on me," she said.
"How does one go about getting hired as a mercenary?"
"In Mikkian's band, there was only one way: kill one of
his men. Mikkian had only so many openings on his pay-
roll, and he wouldn't expand it for anybody." Kitiara wrin-

kled her nose at the memories conjured up by Mikkian.
"Worthless rogue! The foot soldiers made a big ring and put
me in it with a snaggletoothed axeman called -- now what
was his name? First man I ever killed. Trigneth? Drigneth?
Some name like that. So we went at it, axe against sword. It
was not a pretty fight, I tell you. We had to stay in the dead
center of the ring, or Mikkian's boys would poke us with
daggers and spear points. Trigneth -- Drigneth? -- fought
like a woodcutter, chop, chop, chop. He never laid an edge
on me. I got him with a straight thrust, right through the
neck." She regarded Sturm. He looked shocked.
"How long were you with Mikkian's company?" he
asked, finally.
"Twelve weeks. We sacked a walled town near Takar, and
Mikkian finally lost a part he couldn't do without." Sturm
raised an eyebrow. "His head," said Kitiara. "That was the
end of the Marauders. It was every man for himself, and the
whole company broke up, looting and killing. The towns-
folk rose up and fought back, wiping out the whole damn
gang. Save for yours truly." She smiled crookedly.
Kitiara had a deep fund of such stories, all exciting and
nearly all bloody. Sturm found himself confused. He'd
known her for about two years now and was no closer to
understanding her. This handsome, bright woman pos-
sessed no small measure of wit and charm, and yet was
enamored with war on its basest level. He had to admit he
marveled at her strength and cunning -- but he feared Kiti-
ara a little, too.
The road petered into a path, and after a score of miles it
merged into a stretch of sandy pine barrens. The air grew
still and heavy with moisture. They camped in the barrens
that night, and the wind gave them their first smell of the
sea.
Pine knots made an acrid, smoky campfire. As Kitiara fed
the flames, Sturm watered the horses. He returned to the
dim circle of firelight and squatted on the sand. Kitiara
handed him a cold mutton joint. Sturm gnawed the pep-
pered meat, and Kitiara leaned back, her feet to the fire and
her head pillowed by her bedroll.
"There's Paladine," she said. "See?" She pointed to the

heavens. "Paladine, Mishakal, Branchala," she said, naming
each constellation in turn. "Do you know the sky?"
"My boyhood tutor, Vedro, was an astrologer," Sturm
said, not really answering. He lifted his eyes. "It is said that
the will of the gods can be divined by the movement of the
stars and planets."
"What gods?" Kitiara replied lazily.
"You don't believe in the gods7"
"Why should I? What have they done for the world
lately? Or for me ever?"
Sturm could tell she was baiting him, so he decided to
drop the subject. "What is that group there?" he asked.
"Opposite Paladine?"
"Takhisis. The Queen of Darkness."
"Oh, yes. The Dragonqueen." He tried to see the author-
ess of evil, but to him it was only a spatter of stars.
The white orb of Solinari climbed above the horizon. In
its glow, the sandy hillocks and solitary pines were pale
ghosts of their daytime selves. Not long after, in the middle
quadrant of the sky, a red glow of equal size appeared.
"Now that I know," said Sturm. "Lunitari, the red moon."
"Luin to the Ergothites, Red-Eye in Goodlund. A strange
color for a moon, don't you think?" said Kitiara.
He tossed the naked mutton bone aside. "I didn't know
there were proper colors for moons."
"White or black are proper. Red means nothing." She
propped her head up so that Lunitari was directly in her line
of sight. "I wonder why it's red?"
Sturm reclined on his bedroll'. "The gods ordained it so.
Lunitari is the abode of neutrality, of neutral magic and illu-
sion. Vedro theorized that the color came from the blood
sacrificed to the gods." He offered this cautiously. "Other
philosophers claim the red color represents the heart of
Huma, the first knight of the Dragonlance." There was only
silence from his companion. "Kit?" he said quietly. A rasp
from the shadows revealed the result of his lecture. Kitiara
was asleep.

The village of Zaradene was a low, brown smudge on the
gray-white shore. There were perhaps fifty weatherworn
houses of varying size, none with more than two stories.
Sturm and Kitiara rode down the face of a steeply sloping
dune toward the village. On the way, they had to thread
through lines of sharpened stakes, buried in the sand with
the points slanting out. Here and there the stakes were
scorched by fire.
"A hedgehog," Kitiara remarked. "A defense against cav-
alry. The villagers must have been raided not long ago."
Behind the stakes was a shallow trench, which was spotted
with black clots of blood, soaked into the sand.
The faces of the people of Zaradene were not friendly as
Sturm and Kitiara rode up the single sandy track that was
the main street. Sullen eyes and work-gnarled hands
clenched into fists seemed to be everywhere.
Kitiara reined up and dismounted in front of a sagging
gray tavern that bore the name Three Fishes. Odd white
posts and rafter ends showed between the weatherworn
clapboards. Sturm tied Tallfox to one of the posts. It was
bone, from some enormous, long-dead sea creature.
"What do you suppose it was?" he asked Kit curiously.
Kitiara glanced at the bone and said, "Sea serpent, may-
be. Come. There'll be shipmasters in here."
The Three Fishes tavern was well filled with patrons for
so early an hour. The first master that Kitiara approached
growled "Mercenaries!" and spat at her feet. She almost
drew her blade on him, but Sturm caught her wrist. "Cut
one, and we'll have to fight them all," he muttered. "Be
patient. We must have a boat to cross the straits."
They tried half a dozen sea captains and were rebuffed
each time. Kitiara was fuming. Sturm was puzzled. He'd
voyaged before, and knew that mariners usually liked to
take on a few passengers. They paid better than fishing or
cargo did, took care of themselves, and didn't take up much
deck space. So why are the masters of Zaradene so hostile?
he wondered.
They drifted to the bar. Kitiara called for ale, but all the
barkeep had was black wine of Nostar. After a sip of the bit-
ter vintage, Sturm shoved his cup aside. Better to be thirsty,

he thought.
Kitiara plunked one of her Silvanesti coins on the dirty
bar. Even in the dim tavern, the glow of gold caught the bar-
keep's eye. He came to the end of the bar, where Sturm and
Kitiara leaned.
"You want something?" said the man. A sheen of sweat
coated his shaved head.
"Words," said Kitiara. "Merely a few words."
"For that amount of gold, you can have all the words you
want." The barkeeper tucked his greasy rag under his arm.
Sturm wondered idly which was dirtier, the rag or the bar-
keep's canvas shirt.
"What happened here?" asked Kitiara.
"They don't like mercenaries here. Ten nights ago, horse-
men attacked the village. Carried off everything they could
grab, including some women and children."
"Who were they?" Sturm asked. "Did they wear insig-
nia?"
"Some say they wasn't true men at all," said the bar-
keeper. "Some say they had hard, dark skin and --" He
looked from side to side to see if anyone else was listening.
"-- and some say they had tails!"
Sturm started to ask another question, but Kitiara
stopped him with a glance. "We need to buy passage to
Caergoth," she said. "Will anybody in Zaradene take us?"
"Dunno. Some of them lost heavy in the raid. They'd as
like to slit your throats as take you to sea."
The barkeep went back to dispensing his awful wares,
Sturm surveyed the room. "I don't like this," he said. "Raid-
ers with tails? What sort of monsters could they have been?"
"Don't take that one's mutterings too seriously," Kitiara
said. "The farther you get from safe havens like Solace, the
wilder and weirder the tales you'll hear." She tossed back the
Nostarian wine without a shudder. "Skinhead is right about
one thing; we have no friends in this room."
From behind their backs, a voice said, "Be not certain of
that, me hearties."
Sturm and Kitiara faced the speaker. He was a full head
shorter than Kitiara, with sharply pointed features and a
clean, boyish face -- signs of elven blood. Kitiara saw a flash

of Tanis as she had last seen him, blood on his lips, his cheek
red from her slap, staring at her in shock.
"Tirolan Ambrodel, at your service." He bowed from the
waist. "Mariner, map maker, gem cutter, and piper." Tirolan
reached for Kitiara's hand and raised it to his lips. He didn't
kiss it, but touched it to his forehead. She smiled.
Sturm introduced them both and asked, "Can you pro-
vide us with transport to Caergoth, Master Ambrodel?"
"Easily, sir. Me craft, High Crest, is laden with dunnage
for that very port. Will it be just the two of you?"
"And two horses. We're traveling light," Kitiara said.
"For two passengers and two horses, I shall require five
gold pieces -- each."
Sturm gaped at the high price, but Kitiara laughed scorn-
fully. "We'll give you four gold pieces for the both of us," she
said.
"Eight for both," countered Tirolan.
"Five," she said. "And we'll pay in Silvanesti gold."
Tirolan Ambrodel's arched brows bunched over his thin
nose. "True gold of Eli?"
Kitiara picked up the coin from the bar and flashed it in
the mariner's face. Carefully, almost tenderly, Tirolan
reached for the elven gold. He held the coin, caressed it, and
ran his fingertips over the worn inscription. "Very fine," he
said. "Do you know that this coin is more than five hundred
years old? Minted just before the Lords of the East withdrew
into the forest, severing all ties with the human world. How
many of these relics have you tossed away for meat and
wine?"
"I had a dozen," said Kitiara. "Now I have five. They are
yours if you ferry us to Caergoth."
"Done!"
"When do we sail?" asked Sturm.
"The tide ebbs with the first moon's rise. When the silver
moon clears the grip of the sea, we up anchor! And away."
Tirolan slipped the coin into a suede pouch on his belt.
"Now, follow me, and I'll take you to the High Crest."
Sturm dropped some coins on the bar, and they exited the
tavern. They led Tallfox and Pira through the streets of
Zaradene, following as Tirolan Ambrodel led. People turn-

ed from them everywhere they went. One old crone uttered
a charm against bad luck as Tirolan passed.
"The natives are very superstitious," he said. "Anything
or anyone foreign is believed dangerous these days."
Sturm looked back at the circle of stakes in the dunes
above the town. "They have reason to be afraid," he said.
Zaradene had a single decrepit wharf. Sturm was uncer-
tain the warped planks would hold Tallfox's weight, but
Tirolan assured him that it was safe. Cargo far heavier than
horses passed over the wharf every day, he said.
"Where's your boat?" asked Kitiara.
"Me ship is beyond the headland, yonder."
"Why anchor so far out?" Sturm asked.
"Me vessel and crew are not well liked in Zaradene. When
we must call here, we moor in deep water so as to avoid
trouble with the natives."
A wide, shell-like lighter was tied to the pier. A man lay
asleep in the stern, a ragged cap over his face. Tirolan
jumped into the lighter, startling the man into wakefulness.
"This your boat?" said Tirolan in a loud, cheerful voice.
"Uh, yeah."
"Well then, hop to it, man. You can earn your grog money
for the week."
The horses were led to a gangplank. Kitiara spoke sooth-
ingly to Pira, and the mare entered the rocking lighter with-
out too much trouble. Tallfox, on the other hand, balked
completely. Sturm wrapped the reins around his fists and
tried to drag the terrified animal into the boat.
"No, no, that's not the way," said Tirolan. He hopped to
the narrow gunwale and walked agilely to the foot of the
gangplank. "May I, Master Brightblade?" Sturm reluctantly
gave over the reins. Tallfox began to calm the moment Tiro-
lan's slim hands stroked his neck.
Tirolan spoke soothingly to the horse. "Strong as you
are, and you're afraid of a little boat ride? I'm not afraid.
Am I better than you? Am I braver?" To Sturm and Kitiara's
astonishment, Tallfox shook his head energetically and
snorted. "Then," continued Tirolan in quiet, golden tones,
"step down and take your place with your friends." The
chestnut gelding stepped daintily into the lighter and stood

quietly next to Pira. Their tails switched gently in time with
the rocking of the boat.
"How did you do that?" asked Kitiara.
Tirolan shrugged. "I have a way with animals."
After sculling away from the pier, the boatman raised a
tattered lateen sail. The lighter skimmed between bobbing
fishing craft and past the few major merchant ships in the
harbor. The laden boat ran uneventfully all the way to the
southern headland. Then the wind died, and the boatman
went back to his sweep.
  Dark slate-and-indigo clouds piled up on the southern
horizon. Against the blue and green of 'the sea stood the
white hull of the High Crest. Its shape was quite unlike the
other boats in Zaradene harbor. The sheer line rose from the
low, sharp bow to a high poop. The single lofty mast was
painted white, too, and in the freshening air, a green pen-
nant rippled from the masthead.
"Me vessel," said Tirolan proudly. "Isn't she beautiful?"
"I've never seen a white ship before," said Sturm.
"It's very handsome," Kitiara said. She frowned privately
at Sturm and gestured to him.
Amidships, they huddled between their mounts. "This is
getting stranger by the minute," whispered Kitiara. "An
elven captain, shunned by the local folk, a strange white
ship anchored far from other vessels. There's more to this
than meets the eye. I'm glad I lied about how many gold
coins I have."
Sturm said, "I agree. The way he charmed Tallfox wasn't
natural. I think he used a spell." To Sturm, steeped in the
Solamnic tradition, there was no worse sign than the use of
magic.
Kitiara put a hand to his shoulder and said, "Keep your
sword handy."
"All is well?" called Tirolan, over his shoulder.
"Very well," said Kitiara. "Oh, your ship is big."
They were now only a hundred yards from it, and the
High Crest filled their view. The white ship rode steadily in
the waves, anchored at both bow and stern. The deck and
rigging were empty, but a boarding ladder hung over the
bulwark, waiting. Tirolan snared a dangling rope and tied

the lighter fast to the High Crest.
"Ho, there, me hearties! Show yourselves," he sang out in
a clear tenor. The ship's ghostly inactivity vanished in a flur-
ry of bare feet and whoops. A score of agile sailors, all
sharp-featured and beardless, poured onto the deck. Sturm
found himself seized by eager hands and hauled to the deck.
Kitiara followed, carried by four smiling sailors. She
laughed, and they set her on her feet beside Sturm.
A sailor with white hair (yet quite young looking)
approached Tirolan and bowed to him. "Hail, Kade Berun!"
said Tirolan.
"Hail hail, Tirolan Ambrodel!"
"We've two fine horses to bring aboard, Kade. See to it,
will you?"
"Horses! I haven't seen horses since --" Kade Berun
glanced at Sturm and Kitiara. "-- since we left home." He
shouted some orders in a strange tongue, and the lively sail-
ors rushed to the rail overlooking the lighter. They looked at
Tallfox and Pira with unconcealed admiration. The chatter
ceased.
"Sling a boom!" called the boatman in the lighter. "I'll fas-
ten the harness and you can hoist them up!"
The High Crest crew did so and they all were quickly
aboard the ship. Beneath the rapidly setting sun, the sailors
fell to quickly and soon had the High Crest ready for sea.
The sail was raised, a fat triangle of brilliant green fabric.
The High Crest stirred and stood out from the Abanasinian
headland. Tirolan took the wheel and buried the ship's bow
in the tossing waves of the Straits of Schallsea.
Kitiara discarded her black leather jerkin. The breeze
stirred her light linen blouse. She closed her eyes and ran her
fingers through her short black curls. When she opened her
eyes, she spied Sturm brooding by the bowsprit.
"Cheer up!" she said, whacking him on the back. "The
wind is fair and Tirolan seems to know his trade. We'll be in
Caergoth in no time."
"I suppose," Sturm answered. "But I can't help being wor-
ried. The last time I made a sea voyage in these waters was
as a boy. There was magic on that ship, and things went
badly for my mother and me for a time."

"But you came through, didn't you?"
"We did."
"Then be calm! You're a knight in all but the ceremonial
sense, going to reclaim your rightful heritage. Maybe you
don't realize it, but I've got family in Solamnia, too."
"The Uth Matars?"
She nodded. "I've not had contact with them since my
father left us. In all my travels, I've never penetrated the
Solamnic Plain. When you declared your intention to go
north, it seemed as good a time as any to do some exploring
up there." She raised an eyebrow. "The Uth Matars are a
knightly line, too, you know."
"No, I didn't." He realized he knew so little about her,
really.
She left him by the bowsprit and went below. Sturm
slipped the strap off his chin and removed his helmet. The
twin brass horns were smudged; he'd have to polish them
tonight. For now, he cradled the helmet against his chest,
and let the sea wind wash through his long, tangled hair.

Chapter 3
The Severed Head
"Hail, Captain Tinolan," said Sturm, blinking in fhe
bright morning light.
"Hail, hail, Sturm Brightblade! We've reached the cape of
Caer in splendid time. Did you rest well?"
"Well enough. Why have we anchored so far from the
harbor?" Sturm asked.
Kade handed his captain a loose, hooded coat, which
Tirolan slipped on. "The city folk here are even less fond of
elves than those at Zaradene. Here comes one of me boys
now with a lighter for you," he said.
"111 tell Kit we're going."
He lifted the latch on the cabin door and bulled right in --
to find that Kitiara was up and dressing. A linen blouse,
beautifully embroidered with red and blue, slid up over her

bare shoulders. She'd already exchanged her heavy cordu-
roy riding pants for baggy Ergothic-style trousers. He could
not help but stare.
"I'm just about ready," she said. "How does the city look?"
He swallowed and said, "We're a mile or two out. Tirolan
fears the anti-elf sentiment in Caergoth. He's rowing ashore
to scout things, and I'm going with him."
"Good." She picked up her sword belt and buckled it
around her hips. "I'm ready, too."
The four of them lowered the horses with a block and
tackle. Kade held the painter line, while Tirolan, Sturm,
and Kitiara climbed down into the boat. The first mate cast
them off, and Tirolan dug in with the oars.
It was a sultry morning, hotter than any they'd had yet,
and a steamy calm hung over the water. No one spoke as
Tirolan rowed toward the hazy line of the coast.
Caergoth was a major port, and the watercraft thickened
as they drew nearer. Skiffs and dories, ketches and pinnaces
plied to and fro, laden with fish, crab, and clams; larger
boats shuttled goods from the big merchant ships at rest in
the main harbor.
Tirolan swung his arms untiringly back and forth,
maneuvering the yawl between the bigger vessels skillfully.
Kitiara craned her neck to see up the steep side of an
Ergothic argosy. A quartet of sailors in woolly caps leaned
over the rail and hooted at her. She waved gaily and said to
Sturm, "I'd like to see how bold they'd be if we faced each
other with swords in our hands."
Once clear of the heavier ships, the trio noticed a very
strange vessel drawn up to the deep-water docks. It was
high and square, with a pair of what looked like wagon
wheels attached to each side. The short mast was very thick
and a signal fire seemed to be burning from its top. A patch
of grimy smoke drifted away from the ugly ship.
"What in the world is that?" asked Tirolan.
Creeping nearer, they saw that a heavy boom had been
rigged to the craft's starboard side. A barge lay alongside it,
and two enormous wooden crates were already on it. A
third crate, fully as large as Tirolan's yawl, was slowly being
hoisted off the deck of the queer, smoking ship.

"It's going to fall," said Tirolan. "Watch."
The boom swung out, revealing that the crate was
wrapped up in a ca".go net. Clusters of small figures heaved
against the weight of the crate -- in train. The net sagged, a
corner poked through, and the crate ripped free and crashed
into the water, just missing the loaded barge. A string of lit-
tle people, shrieking in high-pitched voices, tumbled over
the side. Tirolan chuckled loudly.
"I should've known," he said. "Gnomes."
Sturm knew the little people only by reputation. They
were incessant tinkerers, makers of weird machinery, and
purveyors of endless theories. Disdaining magic, gnomes
were the most fervent technologists on Krynn. For centu-
ries, the gnomes and the Knights of Solamnia had main-
tained a pact of mutual aid, since both groups distrusted the
workings of magic.
Tirolan rowed around the stern of the gnome ship. Kiti-
ara pointed to an endless string of letters painted across the
stern, along the side, under the bow -- it was the name of the
ship. The portion on the stern read, Principle of Hydrody-
namic Compression and Etheric Volatility, Controlled by
the Most Ingenious System of Gears Invented by the Illustri-
ous Inventor, He-Who-Utters-Polynomial-Fractions-While-
Sleeping and on and on.
"Should we lend a hand?" Sturm asked.
"Not unless you want to get wet," said Kitiara. Sure
enough, the gnomes on the barge who tried to rig up a life
line succeeded only in falling overboard themselves. Tirolan
rowed on.
"I wonder what the crates contain," Sturm said as the
gnomish pandemonium passed astern.
"Who knows? A new machine to peel and core apples,
perhaps," said Tirolan. "Here's the dock."
The elf captain shipped his oars, and the yawl coasted in
to the dock. Sturm slipped the bowline over a cleat, and the
three of them climbed the short ladder to the platform.
With a large block and tackle, anchored to the dock for
loading and unloading cargo, they easily transported their
horses to the dock and shore.
"Where to now?" asked Sturm.

A row of grog shops and taverns lined the wharf, and
beyond them were great warehouses.
"I don't know about you fellows," Kitiara said, gazing at
the line of public houses, "but I'm starved."
"Can't you wait'?" objected Sturm.
"Why should I?" She hitched her sword belt into its
proper angle and set off, trailing her horse behind her. Tiro-
lan and Sturm reluctantly followed.
She chose, for no obvious reason, a tavern called The
Severed Head. Kitiara tied her horse outside, kicked the
door open, and stood there, surveying the room. Figures
stirred in the dim recesses. An odd, fetid odor wafted out
the door.
"Faw!" said Tirolan. "That smell is not human."
"Come, Kit, this is no place for us." Sturm tried to take her
by the elbow and steer her away. But Kitiara would have
none of it. She jerked her arm free and stepped in.
"I'm tired of barren roads and snug ships," she said. "This
looks like an interesting place."
"Be on your guard," Sturm muttered in Tirolan's pointed
ear. "Kit's a good friend, but long months of the quiet life in
Solace have made her reckless." Tirolan winked and fol-
lowed Kitiara inside.
There wasn't an actual bar in The Severed Head, just a
scattering of tables and benches. Kitiara swaggered to a
table near the center of the room and threw one leg over the
back of a chair. "Barkeep!" she shouted. In the darkness,
heads swiveled toward her. Sturm saw more than one pair
of eyes glowing in the shadows. They were red, like the
coals in a farrier's furnace.
Sturm and Tirolan sat down warily. A squat, lumpish
creature appeared by Kitiara's elbow. It puffed like a leaky
bellows, and each breath brought a fresh wave of foulness.
"Uhh?" said the lumpish creature.
"Ale," she snapped.
"Uh-uh."
"Ale!" she said a little louder. The creature shook its
upper body in negative fashion. Kitiara slapped the table-
top. "Bring the specialty of the house," she said. This elicited
an affirmative grunt. The servant trundled around.

"Double-quick!" Kit screeched, and the creature ambled off.
Something rose out of the tavern's shadows. It stood a
good half-head taller than Sturm and was at least twice as
wide. The shambling hulk approached their table.
"This is not a place for you," said the hulk. Its voice was
deep and hollow.
"I don't know," Kitiara said airily, "I've been in worse."
"This is not a place for you," it repeated.
"Maybe we should go," said Tirolan quickly. "There are
many taverns." He eyed the door, gauging the distance to it.
"I already ordered. Sit down."
The hulk leaned over and rested a hand, as big as a dinner
plate and with four fingers, on the table. The hand was dry
and scaly. "You go, or I send you out!" said the hulk.
Tirolan sprang up. "There's no need for trouble --" The
creature's other arm shot out, catching the elf in the chest.
Tirolan staggered back. His hood fell off his head, revealing
his elven features. There was a general intake of breath in
the room. The hiss was enough to make the hair on Sturm's
neck bristle.
"Kurtrah!" said the menacing creature.
Sturm and Kitiara stood smoothly but quickly. Swords
flicked out of sheaths. Tirolan produced an elvish short
sword, and the three closed together, back to back.
"What have you gotten us into?" Sturm asked, keeping
his blade on guard.
"I just wanted a little fun," Kitiara replied. "What's the
matter, Sturm? Do you want to live forever?"
A three-legged stool hurtled out of the dark. Sturm
knocked it aside with his blade. "Not forever, but a few
more years would be nice!"
Somewhere in the gloom, steel glinted. "Move for the
door," Tirolan said. "There are too many of these things in
here to fight." A clay mug shattered on an overhead beam,
showering them with shards. "And I can barely see them!"
"It would be nice to have a candle or two," admitted Kiti-
ara. One huge figure moved out of the shadows toward her.
It wielded a blade as wide as her palm, but she parried, dis-
engaged, and thrust into the darkness. Kitiara felt her sword
point strike flesh, and her attacker howled.

"Candle? I can do better than that!" Tirolan said. He
whirled and jammed his sword into the center of their table.
He began to sing in Elvish, hastily and shakily. The blade of
his weapon glowed red.
Two creatures closed on Sturm. He beat against their
heavier weapons, making a lot of noise but accomplishing
nothing. "Tirolan, we need you!" he barked. The elf sang
on. The short sword was nearly white now. Smoke curled
up from the tabletop. An instant later, the table burst into
flame.
The enemy stood out in the first flash of fire. There were
eight of them, great, brawny lizardlike creatures in thickly
quilted cloaks. The light dazzled them, and they retreated a
few steps. Kitiara gave a battle cry and attacked.
She avoided a cut by her towering opponent and brought
the keen edge of her sword down on the creature's arm. The
big sword clattered to the floor. Kitiara took her weapon in
both hands and thrust it deep into her foe's chest. The crea-
ture bellowed in rage and pain, and tried to get her with its
clawed hand. She recovered and thrust again. The creature
groaned once and fell on its face.
Sturm traded cuts with two creatures. The burning table
filled the room with smoke, and the creatures backed away,
gasping. Tirolan, on Sturm's right, was not doing well. He'd
recovered his now-cool sword, but the short weapon was
doubly outclassed. Only his superior nimbleness was saving
him from being cut down.
With a bang, the creatures stormed the tavern door and
smashed it aside. Flames had spread down the table's legs to
the tinder-dry floor. "Out, out!" Sturm cried. Kitiara was
still dueling, so Sturm grabbed her by the back of the collar
and pulled her away.
"Let go! Leave me alone!" She threw an elbow at Sturm.
He blocked the blow and shook Kitiara.
"Listen to me! The place is burning down around your
ears! Get out!" he cried. Reluctantly, she complied.
The smoke billowing from the upper-story windows had
drawn a crowd of curious Caergothians. Tirolan, Sturm,
and Kitiara erupted into the street ahead of the flames.
Sturm scanned the watching crowd, but the strange lizard

creatures were gone.
The three of them leaned on each other and coughed the
rancid smoke from their lungs. Gradually, Sturm became
aware of the silence of the crowd around them. He lifted his
head and saw that they all were staring at Tirolan.
"Elf," someone said, making the word sound like a curse.
"Trying to burn down our town," said another.
"Always causing trouble," added a third.
"Back to the boat," Sturm murmured to Tirolan. "And
watch your back."
Kitiara offered Tirolan's fee, but he took only half. The
elvish sailor started off as Sturm and Kitiara mounted their
horses. He stopped, though, turned, and tossed a shiny pur-
ple carved gem to Kit. A wink of his eye made her smile. "A
gift," was all he said. The three of them then parted.

Chapter 4
A Hint of Purple
Kitiara and Sturm rode up a winding trail to the
sand cliffs overlooking the bay. The High Crest had shrunk
to toy size in the distance. After a last look at the elf ship,
they turned their horses inland.
They soon reached the road outside the walls of
Caergoth. From the sutlers and traders who lined the road
they bought bread and meat, dried fruit and cheese.
The road ran as straight as an arrow east. Domed and
cobbled, it was one of the few public works remaining from
pre-Cataclysmic times. Kitiara and Sturm rode side by side
down the center of the road. Its shoulders were fairly thick
with travelers on foot, at least for the first ten miles or so
from the city. By mid-afternoon, they were alone.
They said little. Kitiara finally broke the silence saying, "I

wonder why there are no travelers on the way to Caergoth."
"I was puzzled by that myself," said Sturm. "A bare road
is a bad sign."
"War or robbers beset empty roads."
"I've heard no rumors of wars, so it must be the latter."
They paused by the side of the road long enough to don
their mail shirts and helmets. No sense catching an arrow
when they were so close to reaching Solamnia.
The eerie desolation persisted to the end of the day. Now
and again they passed the burned-out remains of a wagon or
the blanched bones of slaughtered horses and cattle. Kitiara
rode with her sword across her saddle.
  They were tired from the day's morning mayhem and
decided to camp early. They found a pleasant clearing in a
ring of oaks, a hundred yards from the road. Tallfox and
Pira were tied to a picket line to graze on grass and broom
straw. Sturm found a spring and fetched water, while Kiti-
ara built a fire. Dinner was bacon and hard biscuit toasted
over the fire. Night closed in, and they moved closer to the
flames.
Smoke wound in a loose spiral toward the stars. The
moons were up. Solinari and Lunitari. Souls rise up like
smoke to heaven, Sturm thought.
"Sturm."
Kitiara's voice brought him out of his reverie. "Yes?"
"We'll have to sleep in turns."
"Quite so. Ah, I'll stand watch first, all right?"
"Suits me." Kitiara circled around the campfire with her
bedroll. She unrolled it beside Sturm and lay down. "Wake
' me when the silver moon sets," she said.
He looked down at the mass of dark curls by his knee.
Veteran that she was, Kitiara soon dropped off. Sturm fed
the fire from a handy pile of kindling and sat cross-legged,
with his sword across his lap. Once Kitiara stirred, uttering
faint moans. Hesitantly, Sturm touched her hair. She
responded by snuggling closer to him, until her head was
resting on his crossed ankles.
He never felt the lethargy creep over him. One minute
Sturm was awake, facing the fire with Kitiara asleep in front
of him, and the next thing he knew he was lying facedown

on the ground. There was dirt in his mouth, but for some
reason he couldn't spit it out. Worse, he couldn't seem to
move at all. One eye was mashed shut against the ground.
With tremendous effort, he was able to open the other.
He saw the fire still burning. There were several pairs of
legs around it, clad in ragged deerskin leggings. There was
an odd, unpleasant smell, like singed hide or burning hair.
Kitiara was beside him, lying on her back, her eyes closed.
"Nuttin' but food," said a scratchy, bass voice. "Dere's
nuttin' in dis bag but some lousy food!"
"Me! Me!" said another, shriller voice. "Me find coin!"
One pair of legs ambled out of Sturm's sight. "Where da
coins?" He heard a tinkle of metal. One of Kitiara's last
Silvanesti gold coins dropped on the ground. The shrill
speaker said "Ai!" and dropped on his hands and knees.
Then Sturm saw who -- what -- they were.
There was no mistake. The pointed heads, angular fea-
tures, gray skin, red eyes -- they were goblins. The smell was
theirs, too. Sturm tried to muster all his strength to stand,
but it felt as though bars of lead were piled on his back. He
could see and feel enough to know he wasn't tied. That, and
the suddenness with which he was taken, meant that some-
one had cast a spell on him and Kitiara. But who? Goblins
were notoriously dimwitted. They lacked the concentration
necessary for spellcasting.
"Stop your bickering and keep searching," said a clear,
human voice.
So! The goblins were not alone!
Hard, bony hands grabbed his left arm and rolled him
over. Sturm's one open eye stared into the face of two of the
robbers. One was warty and had lost his front teeth. The
other bore scars on his neck from a failed hanging.
"Ai! Him eye open!" squawked the warty one. "He. see!"
Scarface produced an ugly, fork-bladed dagger. "I fix dat,"
he said. Before he could strike the helpless Sturm, another
brigand yelped. The others quickly converged on him.
"I found! I found!" babbled the goblin. What he had
found was the arrowhead amethyst Tirolan had given Kiti-
ara. She had tied a string around the carved shoulders of the
stone and had been wearing it around her neck. The finder

held it up and capered away from his fellows. They slapped
and clawed at him for the pale purple stone.
"Let me see that," said the man. The dancing goblin halted
and contritely carried the amethyst into the shadows
beyond the fire. "Rubbish," said the man. "A flawed bit of
crystal." The arrowhead arced through the air. It hit the dirt
between Sturm and Kitiara and bounced into Kitiara's slack
and open palm. The goblins scampered over to retrieve it.
"Leave it!" the man commanded. "It's worthless."
"Pretty, pretty!" protested Warty. "Me keep."
"I said leave it! Or shall 1 get the wand?"
The goblins -- Sturm estimated there were four -- shrank
back and gibbered.
"We'll take the coins and the horses. Leave the rest," said
the robbers' human master.
"What about da swords?" said Scarface. "Dese is good
irun." He held out Sturm's sword for his leader to see.
"Yes, too good for you. Bring it. It will fetch good money
at Trader Lovo's. Get the woman's, too."
Warty hopped over to Kitiara. He kicked her arm aside
and bent over to draw the sword, which lay under her. As
he did, her hand clamped around the goblin's ankle.
"Wha?" said the wart-faced goblin.
Kitiara yanked his leg out from under him, and the goblin
went down with a thud. In the next instant, she was up,
sword in hand. Warty groped for his dagger, but never drew
it. With one cut, Kitiara sent his ugly head bouncing away.
"Get her! Get her, you miserable wretches! It's three
against one!" yelled the man from the shadows.
Scarface pulled a hook-bladed bill off his shoulder and
attacked. Kitiara knocked the clumsy weapon away repeat-
edly. The other two goblins tried to circle behind her. She
turned so that the fire was at her back.
Sturm raged against the spell that kept him helpless. A
goblin's foot passed within easy reach of his right hand, but
he couldn't even flex a finger to help Kitiara.
Not that she needed any help. When Scarface lunged with
his bill, she lopped the hook off. The goblin stared stupidly
at his shortened shaft. Kitiara thrust through him. "Now it's
two to one!" she said. She leaped over the campfire, landing

between the last two robbers. They screeched in terror and
dropped their daggers. She cut one down as he stood there.
The last goblin ran to the edge of the clearing. Sturm heard
him die among the oaks. There were a few other sounds --
feet running, loud breathing, and a howl of pain.
"Thought you could get away, eh?" Kitiara said. She had
caught the hidden magic-user and brought him back into the
firelight. He was a gaunt fellow twice Sturm's age, dressed in
a shabby gray robe. Tools of his art dangled from a rope tied
around his waist: a wand, a bag of herbs, amulets wrought
in lead and copper. Kitiara kicked the magician's legs out
from under him, and he sprawled in the dirt beside Sturm.
"Take the spell off my friend," Kitiara demanded.
"I-I can't."
"You mean you won't!" She poked him with her sword.
"No, no! I don't know how! I don't know how to take it
off." He seemed ashamed. "I never had to take a paralysis
spell off before. The goblins always cut their throats."
"Because you ordered them to!"
"No! No!"
Kitiara spat. "The only thing worse than a thief is a fool
weakling of a thief."
She raised her blade to her shoulder. "There's only one
way to break the spell that I know of." She was right, and
when the magic-user was dead, the leaden feeling vanished
from Sturm's limbs. He sat up, rubbing his stiff neck.
"By all the gods, Kitiara, you're ruthless!" he said. He
looked around the campsite, now a bloody battlefield. "Did
you have to kill them all?"
"There's gratitude for you," she said. She wiped her blade
on the tail of the dead magician's robe. "They would have
cheerfully cut our throats. Sometimes I don't understand
you, Sturm."
He remembered the goblin's fork-bladed dagger and said,
"You have a point. Still, killing that scruffy magician was no
honorable deed."
She slid her blade into its sheath. "I didn't do it for honor,"
she said. "I was just being practical."
They gathered their belongings from where the robbers
had scattered them. Sturm saw Kitiara pick up the amethyst

necklace. "Look," she said. "It's clear."
In the light from the fire, Sturm saw that the once-purple
stone was now ordinary, transparent quartz. "That explains
it," he said. "You were able to move when the amethyst fell
into your hand, yes?"
The light dawned on her. "That's right. I was wearing it
over my blouse and under my mail --"
"When it touched your skin, the paralysis spell was bro-
ken. The dissipation of the spell bled all the color from the
stone. It's just an arrowhead-shaped piece of quartz now."
Kitiara slipped the loop over her head. "I'll keep it, just
the same. Tirolan probably never realized he was saving our
lives when he gave me the stone."
Their baggage recovered, Sturm began to gather dead
wood from the circle of oaks and heaped it on the fire. The
flames leaped up. "Why are you doing that?" asked Kitiara.
"I'm making a pyre," said Sturm. "We can't leave these
corpses lying about."
"Let the vultures have them."
"It's not out of respect that I do this. Evil magicians, even
one as lowly as this one, have the unhappy habit of return-
ing undead to prey on the living. Help me put them on:he
pyre, and their menace will truly be over."
She agreed, and the goblins and their master were con-
signed to the flames. Sturm flung dirt on the embers, then he
and Kit mounted their horses.
"How do you know so much about magic?" asked Kiti-
ara. "I thought you despised it in all forms."
"I do," Sturm replied. "Magic is the greatest underminer of
order in the world. It's difficult enough to live with virtue
and honor without the temptation of magical power. But
magic exists, and we all must learn to deal with it. For
myself, 1 have had many talks with your brother, and I've
learned some things I've needed to defend myself."
"You mean Raistlin?" she asked, and Sturm nodded. "His
lectures on magic always put me to sleep," she said.
"I know," said Sturm. "You go to sleep awfully easily."
They turned the horses toward the new morning's sun and
rode away.

Chapter 5
Cloudmaster
The day after the robbers' attack was oppressively
humid. Tallfox and Pira needed frequent watering, for their
heads would sag and their gait falter. They entered a district
of orchards and farms, with a good view from the road on
all sides. Kitiara and Sturm discarded their mail for shirt-
sleeves, and by noon Kitiara had pulled her blouse loose and
tied the tails together around her waist. Thus cooled, they
paused in a fig grove for lunch.
"Too bad they're green," said Kitiara, pinching an imma-
ture fig between her thumb and forefinger. "I like figs."
"I doubt that the orchard's keeper would share your
enthusiasm unless you paid for what you ate," said Sturm.
He hollowed a large biscuit and filled the hole with
chopped, dried fruit and cheese.

"Oh, come on. Haven't you ever snitched apples or
pears? Stolen a chicken and roasted it over a bark fire, while
the farmer hunted for you with a pitchfork?"
"No, never."
"I have. And few things in life taste as sweet as the food
you season with wit." She dropped the fig branch and joined
Sturm under the tree.
"You never considered what your witty little thefts might
do to the farmer, did you, Kit? That he or his family might
go hungry for a night because of your filched meal?"
She bristled. "A fine one you are to talk, Master Bright-
blade. Since when did you ever work for the food that went
into your belly? It's very easy for a lord's son to speak of jus-
tice for the poor, never having been poor himself."
Sturm counted silently until his anger subsided. "I
worked," he said simply. "When my mother, her handmaid
Carin, and I first arrived in Solace twelve years ago, we had
some money that we'd brought with us. But soon it ran out,
and we were in dire straits. My mother was an intensely
proud woman and would not take charity. Mistress Carin
and I did odd jobs around Solace to put food on the table.
We never told my mother."
Kitiara's prickly demeanor softened. "What did you do?"
He shrugged. "Because I was able to read and write, I got
a job with Derimius the Scribe, copying scrolls and manu-
scripts. Not only was I able to earn five silver pieces a week,
but I got to read all sorts of things."
-I never knew that.-
"In fact, I met Tanis at Derimius's shop. He brought in a
ledger that he kept for Flint. Tanis had spilled some ink on
the last pages and wanted Derimius to replace them with
new parchment. Tanis saw a sixteen-year-old boy scribbling
away with a gray goose quill and inquired about me. We
talked and became friends."
This statement was punctuated by a roll of far-off thun-
der. The sultry air had collected in a mass of blue-black
thunderheads piling up in the western sky. They were mov-
ing quickly eastward, so Sturm crammed the last of his
lunch in his mouth and jumped to his feet. He mumbled
something through bread and cheese.

"What?" said Kitiara.
"-- horses. Must secure the horses!"
Lightning lanced down from the clouds to the hills where
the robbers had been vanquished. Wind blew out of the
upper air, swirling dust into Sturm and Kitiara's eyes. They
tied Tallfox and Pira to a fig tree, and hastily rigged their
blankets as a shelter to keep the rain off. Down the road Kit-
iara could see a wall of rain advancing toward them. "Here
it comes!" she said.
  The storm broke over the fig grove with all its fury. Rain
hammered the skimpy screen of blankets down on their
heads. In seconds, Sturm and Kitiara were completely
soaked. Rain collected between the rows of trees and filled
the low places. Water climbed over Kitiara's toes.
Tallfox couldn't bear it. A nervous beast by nature, he
reared and neighed as the storm played around him. His ter-
ror infected the usually stolid Pira, and both horses started
straining against their tethers. A bolt of lightning hit the tall-
est tree in the orchard and blasted it into a million burning
fragments. The horses, driven beyond terror, tore free and
galloped away, Tallfox fleeing east and Pira veering north.
"After them!" Sturm cried above the din.
He and Kitiara splashed off after their respective mounts.
Tallfox was a long-legged sprinter, and he galloped in a
straight line. Pira was a hard-cornering dodger. She wove
among the leafy fig trees, changing direction a dozen times
in twenty places. Kitiara stumbled after her, cursing her
favorite's agility.
The orchard ended in a gully. Kitiara slid down the mud-
dy bank and into calf-deep water. "Pira!" she called. "Pira,
you pea-brained nag, where are you?" All she got for her
shouting was a mouth full of water. She scanned both sides
of the gully for tracks. In the lightning's glare Kitiara saw a
strange thing. An angular black shape, like a warrior's
shield, was silhouetted against the clouds, some forty feet
overhead. The dazzling glow faded, but not before she saw
a long line trailing below the shield to the ground. Kitiara
slogged forward, not knowing what she would find.
Tallfox easily outran his master, but Sturm was able to
follow the chestnut's prints in the mud. A wall of closely

growing cedar saplings blocked the end of the orchard.
There was only one gap wide enough for a horse to pass
through, and sure enough, Sturm found Tallfox's trail there.
He plunged into the dense tangle of evergreen. Broken sap-
lings told well which way his horse had gone.
The lightning was unusually active overhead. It crackled
and pulsed from cloud to cloud. One prolonged stroke illu-
minated a wonder to Sturm's eyes: an enormous bird flut-
tered in the storm wind. The bird wobbled from side to side,
but never flew off. Another bolt of lightning crackled, and
he saw why. Someone had tied cords to the bird's feet.
Kitiara climbed a hill of solid mud. Her hair was plastered
to her head, and her clothing felt as if it had absorbed a ton
of water. At the top of the hill, she could see down into a
wide clearing. There was no sign of Pira. There was, how-
ever, plenty to see.
In the center of the clearing was a thing such as Kitiara
had never seen. It was like a huge boat with large leather
sails furled along each side. There were no masts, but the
prow was long and pointed, like a bird's beak, and there
were wheels on the underside of the hull. Above the boat,
tied to it by a rope netting, was a big canvas bag. A huge
egg-shaped bag squirmed and writhed in the wind like a liv-
ing thing. A swarm of little men surrounded the boat-thing.
Beyond them, a couple of tall poles rose straight up from the
ground. From the tops of these four poles, long ropes
whipped about, and at the end of the ropes were more of the
'warrior's shields' that Kitiara had seen.
At the same time, Sturm emerged from the cedars on the
opposite side of the same clearing. He gaped at the thing.
Wordlessly, he headed toward it.
A little man in a shiny hat and long coat greeted Sturm.
"G-greetings and felicit-tationsl" he said cheerily.
"Hello," said a bewildered Sturm. "What is going on
here?" Even as he spoke, a bolt of lightning struck one of the
'birds' tethered on a pole (the same thing Kitiara had mis-
taken for a shield). Blue-white fire coursed down the line to
the pole. From the pole, it flashed along another line a foot
off the ground, until it reached the boat-thing, where it van-
ished. The boat swayed on its wheels, then settled back.

"D-Doing? Well, charging up, as you c-can see," said the
little man. When he flipped the wide brim of his hat back,
Sturm saw his pale eyes and bushy white brows and realized
that he was a gnome. "It really is a w-wonderful storm.
We're so l-lucky!"
Kitiara wandered around the odd-looking craft, warily
keeping her distance. By one especially vivid bolt of light-
ning, she saw Sturm talking to the little fellow. She cupped
her hands around her lips and yelled, "Sturm!"
"Kit!"
She joined him. "Did you find the horses?"
"No, I was hoping they ran to you."
She waved her arms in great circles. "I fell in a ditch!"
"So I see. What are we going to do?"
"Ahem," said the gnome. "D-do I understand that you
t-two have lost your m-means of transportation'"
"That's right," said Sturm and Kitiara in unison.
"Fortuitous f-fate! Perhaps we can help one another." He
flipped the brim of his hat down again. A tiny torrent of
water spilled down his coat. "Will you c-come with me?"
"Where are we going?" asked Sturm.
"For n-now, out of the w-weather," said the gnome.
"I'm for that!" said Kitiara.
- The gnome led them up a ramp into the left side of the
boat. The interior was brightly lit, warm, and dry. Their
guide removed his hat and coat. He was a mature male of his
race, with a fine white beard and bald pink head. He gave
Sturm and Kitiara each a towel -- which, being sized for
gnomes, was no bigger than a hand-towel. Sturm dried his
hands and face. Kitiara loosened some of the mud from
hers, wrung out the towel, and tied it scarf-fashion around
her head.
"F-follow me," said the gnome. "My c-colleagues will join
us l-later. They're busy now g-gathering the lightning."
With this amazing statement, he led them down a long,
narrow passage between two banks of machinery of unfath-
omable purpose. All the rods, cranks, and gears were skill-
fully wrought in iron or brass and carefully hollowed out.
Their guide came to a small ladder, which he ascended. The
upper deck they entered was subdivided into small cabins.

Hammocks were slung from hooks, and all sorts of boxes,
crates, and great glass demijohns were packed on every inch
of floor space. Only a narrow track down the center of the
passage was clear for walking.
They climbed a second ladder and were in a house built in
the center of the deck. There were portholes in the walls,
and Sturm could see that rain still lashed at them. The deck-
house was split into two large rooms. The forward room,
where they entered, was fitted like a ship's wheelhouse. A
steering wheel was set at the bow end, which was extensive-
ly glazed with many glass panels. All sorts of levers sprout-
ed from the floor and ceiling, and there were mysterious
gauges labeled Altitude, Indicated Air Speed, and Density
of Raisins in Breakfast Muffins.
Kitiara introduced them. The gnome's eyes widened, and
he smiled benignly when he learned that Sturm was the son
of an ancient Solamnic family. Ever curious, he inquired
after Kitiara's antecedents. She turned his query aside and
described their journey so far, their goal, and their general
frustration at having lost their horses.
"P-perhaps I can be of s-service," said the gnome. "My
name is He-Who-Stutters-Ap-propriately-in-the-M-midst-
of-the-Most-Abstruse-Technical-Explanations --"
Sturm interrupted, knowing the length of gnomish
names. "Please! What do those not of the gnomish race call
you?"
The gnome sighed, and said very slowly, "I am often
c-called 'Stutts', a wholly inadequate approximation of my
true n-name."
"It has the virtue of brevity," said Sturm.
"B-brevity, my dear knight, is no virtue to those who love
knowledge for its own s-sake." Stutts folded his stubby fin-
gers across his round belly. "I should like to offer you a
p-position, if, under the circumstances, you are i-
interested."
"What sort of position?" asked Kitiara.
"My c-colleagues and I arrived here today from
Caergoth." The awkward spectacle of the gnome ship in
Caergoth harbor came to the humans' minds. "We c-came to
this region of Solamnia because the weather patterns are

well known for v-violent thunderstorms."
Sturm brushed his drying mustache with his fingers. "You
were seeking a storm?"
  "P-precisely. The lightning is vital for the operation of oui
m-machine." Stutts smiled and patted the arm of his chair
"Isn't it a b-beauty? It is called the C-Cloudmaster."
"What does it do?"
"It f-flies."
"Oh, of course it does," Kitiara said with a chuckle. "Very
ingenious of you gnomes. What does that have to do with
Sturm and me?"
Stutts's small face flushed a deeper shade of pink. "Ahem.
W-we've had a bit of b-bad luck. You see, in calculating the
op-optimal lift-to-weight ratio, someone failed to consider
the effect of the Cloudmaster coming to r-rest on soil in an
advanced state of hydration."
"What did you say!"
"We're st-stuck in the mud," said Stutts, turning pink
again.
"And you want us to dig you out?" asked Kitiara.
"For which we will g-gratefully fly you to any point on
Krynn that you wish to go. Enstar, B-Balifor, or far
Karthay --"
"The Plains of Solamnia were where we were headed,"
said Sturm. "That's as far as we need to go."
Kitiara swung an elbow into Sturm's ribs. "You're not tak-
ing this little lunatic seriously, are you?" she hissed from the
corner of her mouth.
"I know gnomes," he replied. "Their inventions work with
surprising regularity."
"But I don't --"
Stutts hopped up. "You'll want to d-discuss it. May I sug-
gest you clean up, have a good m-meal, and then d-decide?
We have a cleansing station on board like nothing you've
s-seen before."
"I'm sure of that," Kitiara muttered.
They agreed to bathe and dine with the gnomes. Stutts
pulled a light chain that hung from the ceiling by the steer-
ing wheel. A deep-throated AH -- OO -- GAH! echoed
through the flying ship. A young gnome in greasy coveralls

and with very bushy red eyebrows appeared.
"Show our g-guests to the cleansing station," said Stutts.
The bushy-browed gnome whistled a string of notes in
reply. "No, one at a t-time," Stutts said. Bushy-brows whis-
tled again.
"Does he always talk like that?" queried Kitiara.
"Yes. My c-colleague --" Here he recited about five min-
utes of gnome-name. "-- has evolved the theory that spoken
1-language was derived from the songs of birds. You may
call him --" Stutts paused and looked at the bushy-browed
fellow, who tweeted and chirped. Stutts continued, "--
Birdcall."
Birdcall took Sturm and Kitiara below deck to the stern.
There, with whistles and gestures, he indicated two cubicles
on either side of the corridor. The doors bore identical signs
that read:
Rapid and Hygienic Cleansing Station
Perfected and Provided to the Flying Ship Cloudmaster
By the Guild of Hydrodynamic Masters and Journeymen
And the Apprentices of
Mt. Nevermind
Level Twelve
Sancrist
Ansalon
Krynn
Sturm looked from the door to Kitiara. "Do you think it
works?" he asked.
"Only one way to find out," she replied, pulling the filthy
towel from her head and dropping it on the floor. She
stepped through the door and it swung shut behind her with
a soft click.
The tile walls inside the cleansing station were covered
with writing. Kitiara squinted at the hand-painted script.
Some of it ran sideways, and some of it was upside down.
Most of the writing concerned proper and scientific bathing
procedure. Some of it was nonsense -- she saw a line that
declared, "The absolute value of the density of raisins in the
perfect muffin is sixteen." And some of the writing was rude:

"The inventor of this station has dung for brains."
She peeled off her outer clothing and put it in a conven-
ient wicker basket. Kitiara stepped to a raised wooden plat-
form. There was a ghastly, rubbery hissing sound, an
water began to spray from a pipe above her head. It caught
her by surprise, so she clamped a hand over the spoutin
end. No sooner had she stopped one spray than another
started from the wall on her left. That one she plugged with
a finger. Then the real melee began.
With mud and water trickling down her face, Kitiara
heard a rattling and squeaking behind her. She twisted
around without unstopping the spouts. A square tile on the
wall had popped open, revealing a jointed metal rod that
was unfolding and reaching out for her. On the end of the
rod was a round pad of fleece, rapidly spinning. Wheels and
pulleys set along the jointed rod made the sheepskin turn.
"What a time to be without a sword!" Kitiara said aloud.
The rod wavered and came toward her. It was a moment of
decision. She accepted the challenge and released the pipes.
Water gushed out, sluicing the mud from her body. Kitiara
grappled with the whirling fleece, grabbing it with both
hands. The pulleys whined and the cords twanged.
Finally she succeeded in snapping the rod off at the first
joint. The water stopped. Kitiara stood, panting, as the
water drained through slots in the floor. There was a knock
on the door.
"Kit?" Sturm called. "Are you finished?"
Before she could reply, a heavy piece of cloth dropped
from the ceiling over her head. She yelled and threw fists at
her unseen attacker, but all she hit was air. Kitiara pulled the
cloth off her head. It was a towel. She dried off and wrapped
herself in it. Sturm was in the corridor, likewise swathed in a
dry blanket.
"What a place," he said, grinning more widely than Kiti-
ara had ever seen him do.
"I'm going to have a few words with Stutts!" she declared.
"What's wrong?"
"I was attacked in there!"
Stutts appeared. "Is there a p-problem?"
Kitiara was about to voice her outrage, but Stutts wasn't

actually speaking to her. He bustled on by and opened a
panel in the wall. Inside, a rather harried-looking gnome lay
in a tangle with a three-legged stool. At the gnome's waist
level was a hand-crank, labeled Cleansing Station Number
2 -- Rotary Washing Device.
"Is that what I was fighting?" Kitiara said.
"Looks that way," said an amused Sturm. "The poor fel-
low was just doing his job. The fleece is like a washcloth,
only he does the scrubbing for you."
"I can do my own scrubbing, thank you," she said sourly.
Stutts mopped his face with his sleeve. "This is all v-very
distressing. I must ask you, Mistress Kitiara, to not
d-damage the machinery. Now I shall have to write a report
in qui-quintuplicate to the Aerostatics Guild."
"I'll keep an eye on her," Sturm said. "Kit has a tendency
to bash things she doesn't understand."
Birdcall came down the corridor whistling furiously.
Stutts brightened. "Oh, g-good. Time for d-dinner."
The gnomes dined in the rear half of the deckhouse. A
long, plank table was suspended from the ceiling, as on an
ocean-going ship, but the gnomes had 'improved' on the
sailors' arrangement by hanging their seats from the ceiling,
too. They swung happily from side to side. Thus, Sturm
and Kitiara had to squeeze into narrow chain swings just to
sit at the table. Dinner proved ordinary enough: beans,
ham, cabbage, muffins, and sweet cider. Stutts apologized;
they had no scientifically trained cook on board. The war-
riors were grateful for that.
The gnomes ate rapidly and without conversation
(because it was more efficient). The sight of ten bowed,
balding heads, accompanied only by the sound of spoons
scraping on plates, was a little unnerving. Sturm cleared his
throat and said, "Perhaps we ought to introduce
ourselves --"
"Everyone knows who you are," said Stutts without look-
ing up. "I s-sent out a memorandum while you were b-being
cleansed."

"Then you can introduce your crew to us," said Kitiara.
Stutts's head snapped up. "They're n-not crew. We are
c-colleagues."
"Pardon me!" Kitiara rolled her eyes.
"You are p-pardoned." He spooned the last of his beans
swiftly into his mouth. "But if you insist." Stutts slipped
from his swinging seat and walked down the row of eating
gnomes. He gave a yawningly elaborate profile of each of
his colleagues, including the name by which "those not of
the gnomish race" could call each one. Sturm distilled all of
this into a short mental list:

Birdcall, chief mechanic in charge of the engine,
Wingover, Stutts's right-hand gnome; in charge of actu-
ally flying the machine,
Sighter, astronomer and celestial navigator,
Roperig, expert with rope, cord, wire, cloth, and so forth,
Fitter, Roperig's apprentice,
Flash, collector and storer of lightning,
Bellcrank, chief metal worker and chemist,
Cutwood, in charge of carpentry, woodwork, and all
non-metal parts,
Rainspot, weather seer and physician by designation.
"How did you come to build this, uh, machine?" asked
Sturm.
"It is part of my Life Quest," said Wingover, a taller-than-
average gnome with a hawklike nose. "Complete and suc-
cessful aerial navigation, that's my goal. After years of
experimenting with kites, I met our friend Bellcrank, who
has discovered a very rarefied air, which, when enclosed in
a suitable bag, will float and support other objects of
weight."
"Preposterous," said Sighter. "This so-called ethereal air is
humbug!"
"Listen to the stargazer," the tubby Bellcrank said with a
sneer. "How do you think we were able to fly to this point
from Caergoth, eh? Magic?"
"The wings supported us," Sighter replied with heat. "The
lift ratios clearly show --"

"It was the ethereal air!" retorted Rainspot, who sat by
Bellcrank.
"Wings!" shouted Sighter's side of the table.
"Air!" cried Bellcrank's allies.
"Colleagues! C-colleagues!" Stutts said, holding up his
hands for quiet. "The p-purpose of our expedition is to
establish with scientific accuracy the c-capabilities of the
Cloudmaster. Let us not argue needlessly about theories
until the d-data is available."
The gnomes lapsed into sullen silence. Rain drummed on
the skylight over the table. The hostile silence lingered for
an embarrassing length of time. Then Rainspot lifted his
eyes to the dark panes and said, "The rain is stopping." A
few seconds later, the steady thrumming ceased completely.
"How did he know that!" asked Kitiara.
"Theories differ," said Wingover. "A committee is meeting
even now on Sancrist Isle to study our colleague's talent."
"How can they study him when he's up here?" Sturm
wondered. He was ignored.
"It's his nose," Cutwood said.
"His nose?" Kitiara asked.
"Because of the size and relative angle of Rainspot's nos-
trils, he can detect changes in relative air pressure and
humidity just by breathing."
"Hogwash!" Roperig said.
"Hogwash," echoed Fitter, the smallest and youngest of
the gnomes, from his place by Roperig.
"It's his ears," continued Roperig. "He can hear the rain
stop falling from the clouds before it reaches the ground."
"Unmitigated tommyrot!" That was Sighter again. "Any
fool can see it's his hair that does it. He can feel the roots
uncurl when the moisture in the air falls --" Bellcrank, sit-
ting opposite Sighter, snatched up a muffin from the table
and bounced it off his rival's chin. Flash and Fitter pounced
on the fallen muffin and broke it open.
"Twelve, thirteen, fourteen," Flash counted.
"What's he doing?" Sturm asked.
"C-counting raisins," answered Stutts. "That's his current
project: to determine the world average density of raisins in
muffins." Kitiara dropped her face into her hands and

moaned.
The dinner debacle over, the gnomes left the flying ship to
dismantle their equipment in the meadow. Kitiara and
Sturm, now dry, dressed in enough clothing to hike back to
their campsite in the fig orchard and pick up their gear. The
storm had blown itself out, and stars showed in the ragged
holes between the clouds.
"Are we doing the right thing?" asked Kitiara. "These
gnomes haven't got all their bootlaces tied."
Sturm glanced back at the queer machine lying cockeyed
in the muddy field. "They are lacking in common sense, but
they're tireless and creative. If they can get us to the high
Plains of Solamnia in a day, then I, for one, don't mind help-
ing to dig them out of the mud."
"I don't believe that thing can fly," she said. "We never saw
it fly. For all we know, the storm blew it here."
They reached the sodden remains of their camp and
packed up their scattered belongings. Kitiara hoisted Pira's
saddle on her shoulder. "Blast that horse," she said. "Raised
her from a filly, I did, and she never looked back once she
got loose. I'll bet she's halfway to Garnet by now."
"Tallfox was a bad influence, I fear. Tirien warned me that
he was skittish."
"It may be that Tallfox had the right idea," Kitiara said.
"How so?" said Sturm.
She slung the damp bedroll over the saddle. "If the
gnomes can do half the things they claim, we may end up
wishing we'd run away in the storm, too."

Chaptea 6
1,081 Hours,
29 Minutes
"Higgher! Higher! Get that balk in place!- Sturm
grunted against the massive weight of the gnomes' flying
ship. He and Kitiara strained against a rough-hewn lever
they'd made over the gnomes' protests. Crude levers! the
gnomes protested. Bellcrank claimed that any gnome could
invent a device ten times better for lifting heavy objects. Of
course, it would take a committee to study the stress analy-
sis of the local wood, as well as to calculate the proper pivot
point for raising the ship.
"No," Kitiara had insisted. "If you want us to help get
your ship out of the mud, then we'll do it our own way." The
gnomes had shrugged and rubbed their bare pates. Trust
humans to do things the crudest way.

The gnomes rolled several large rocks up to the hull.
These would be the fulcrums. After Sturm and Kitiara had
made the ship level, the gnomes shoved short, thick timber
balks into place to brace it upright. It was slow, sweaty
labor, but by noon of the day after the storm, the flying ship
was finally on an even keel.
"A problem," Wingover announced.
"Now what?" Kitiara asked.
"The landing gear must have a firm surface on which to
roll. Therefore, it will be necessary to construct a roadbed.
Here; I've made calculations as to how much crushed stone
and mortar we'll need --" Kitiara plucked the paper from his
hand and tore it in two.
"I've gotten wagons out of mud before," she said, "by put-
ting straw or twigs in the ruts."
"Might work," Sturm said. "But this thing is very heavy."
He spoke to Stutts, who promptly removed the protesting
gnomes from their important (though completely useless)
'improvement' work and set them to gathering windfall
branches and brushwood. They all turned out except Bell-
crank, who was busy with his pots of powders and vials of
noxious liquids.
"I must attend to my first task, generating the ethereal
air, he said, pouring iron filings from a keg. "When the air
bag is filled, it will help lighten the ship."
"You do that," said Kitiara. She leaned against the hull to
watch. She didn't like strenuous work. Work was for dul-
lards and peasants, not warriors.
The gnomes returned with a scant armful of brush. "Nine
of you, and that's all you have?" Sturm said incredulously.
"Roperig and Sighter disagreed on which kind of sticks to
bring, so in the spirit of cooperation, we didn't pick up
either of their choices," Wingover said.
"Wingover," Sturm said pleadingly, "please tell Roperig
and Sighter that the kind of wood doesn't matter in the
least. We just want something dry for the wheels to run
over." The tallish gnome dropped his bundle of sticks and
led his fellows back to the woods.
Meanwhile, Bellcrank had managed to enlist Kitiara's aid
in inflating the Cloudmaster's air bag. On the ground beside

the ship he'd set up a big clay tub, five feet wide." He poured
powdered iron and other bits of scrap metal in the tub and
smoothed the pile out around the edges. "Lower away!" he
told Kitiara, and she set a domed wooden lid, like the top
half of a beer barrel, on top of the ceramic tub. Bellcrank
worked around the outside, poking a long strip of greased
leather into the joint. "It must be tight," he explained, "or the
ethereal air will seep out and not fill the bag."
She hoisted the gnome up and set him on top of the barrel.
With a corkscrew, Bellcrank popped a large cork in the top
of the barrel. "Hand me the hose," he said. v
"This?" asked Kitiara, holding up a limp tube of canvas.
"The very thing." She gave it to him, and he tied it over
the neck of a wooden turncock. "Now," said Bellcrank, "for
the vitriol!"
There were three very large demijohns sitting in the tall
grass. Kitiara stooped to pick one up. "Oof!" she gasped.
"Feels like a keg of ale!"
"It's concentrated vitriol. Be careful not to spill it; it can
burn you very badly." She set the heavy jug down by the
tub.
'You don't expect me to pour that stuff in there, do you?"
Bellcrank said, "No indeed! I have a most efficacious
invention that will circumvent such tiresome duty. Hand me
the Excellent Mouthless Siphon, would you?"
Kitiara cast about but saw nothing that resembled an
Excellent Mouthless Siphon. Bellcrank pointed with his
stubby finger. "That, there; the bellows-looking item. Yes."
She gave him the mouthless siphon. Bellcrank put the beak
of the bellows into the demijohn and pulled the handles
apart. The sinister brown liquid in the jug sank by an inch.
"There!" the gnome said triumphantly. "No sucking on
tubes. No spillage." He pushed the beak into the hole in the
barrel where the cork had been, and emptied the vitriol.
"Ha, ha! Gnomish science overcomes ignorance again!"
Bellcrank repeated the siphoning four more times before
Kitiara noticed vapor escaping from the leather hinges of
the Excellent Mouthless Siphon. "Bellcrank," she said hesi-
tantly.
"Not now! The process has begun, and it must be kept

going at a steady pace!"
"But the siphon --"
A drop of vitriol seeped through a hole that it had eaten in
the hinge of the siphon, and splashed on Bellcrank's shoe.
He carelessly flung the siphon away and began hopping
around on one foot, trying desperately to pry the shoe off
his foot. The vitriol ate the buckle strap in two, and with a
mighty kick, Bellcrank flung the shoe away. It missed the
returning Fitter's nose by a whisker.
"Oh, Reorx!" said Bellcrank sadly. The Excellent Mouth-
less Siphon was a pile of steaming fragments.
"Never mind," Kitiara said. Whe wrapped her arms around
the vitriol jug and planted her feet firmly. "Hai-yup!" she
grunted, and raised the demijohn to Bellcrank's level. He
guided the jug's mouth, and soon a steady stream of the
acrid fluid was spilling into the ethereal air generator.
The hose from the keg to the air bag swelled. The sagging
bag itself began to fill out and grow firmer inside its web of
netting. Soon all the rope rigging and tackle was taut. The
bag strained against the confining ropes. At Bellcrank's sig-
nal, Kitiara lowered the heavy demijohn.
Sturm came around the bow with the other gnomes. "The
ruts are full of brush," he said.
"The bag is full of ethereal air," said Bellcrank.
"My back is killing me," said Kitiara. "What next?"
"We f-fly," said Stutts. "All colleagues to their flying st-
stations!"
Stutts, Wingover, and the two humans went into the for-
ward end of the deck house. The other gnomes lined the rail.
"Release ballast!" cried Wingover.
"Release b-ballast!" Stutts called out an open porthole.
The gnomes took up long, sausage-shaped bags that lined
the rail. The ends opened, and sand poured out. The
gnomes flung sand over the side, getting as much in their
own eyes as they did out of the ship. This went on until
Sturm felt the deck shift under his feet. Kitiara, wide-eyed,
grabbed the brass rail that ran around the wheelhouse at the
gnomes' shoulder height.
"Open front wings!" cried Wingover.
"Opening f-front wings!" Stutts replied. He leaned against

a lever as tall as he was and shoved it forward. A rattle, a
screech, and the leather 'sails' that Kitiara and Sturm had
noticed on the hull unfolded into long, graceful batlike
wings. The goatskin covering the bony ribs was pale brown
and translucent.
"F-front wings open," Stutts reported. Wind caught in
them, and the ship lifted an inch or two at the bow.
"Open rear wings!"
"Opening rear w-wings!" A slightly wider and longer pair
of leather-clad wings blossomed aft of the deckhouse.
"Set tail!"
The gnomes on deck ran out a long spar and clamped it to
the stern. Roperig and Fitter clambered over the spar,
attaching lines to pulleys to hooks. They unfolded a fan-
shaped set of ribs, also covered in goatskin. By the time they
finished, the Cloudmaster was swaying and bucking off the
ground.
Wingover flipped the cover off a speaking tube. "Hello,
Birdcall, are you there? A shrill whistled answered. "Tell
Flash to start the engine."
There was a sizzle and a loud crack, and the deck quiv-
ered beneath their feet. Wingover twirled a brass ring han-
dle and threw another tall lever. The great wings rose slowly
in unison. The Cloudmaster lost contact with the ground.
Down came the wings, folding inward as they came. The
flying ship lurched forward, its wheels sucking free of the
mud and bouncing over the scattered brush. The wings beat
again, faster. Wingover grasped the steering wheel in both
his small hands and pulled. The wheel swung toward him,
the bow pitched up, the wings flapped crazily, and the
Cloudmaster was borne aloft into the blue afternoon sky.
"Hurray! H-Hurray!" Stutts said, jumping up and down.
The Cloudmaster climbed steadily. Wingover eased the
wheel forward, and the bow dropped. Kitiara yelled and
lost her footing. Sturm let go of the handrail to try to catch
her, and he fell, too. He rolled against one of the levers,
knocking it out of place, and the wings instantly stopped
moving. The Cloudmaster wobbled and plunged toward
the ground.
There were several seconds of stark terror. Sturm disen-

tangled himself from the lever and hauled back on it. The
wings sang as the taut skin bit the air. Stutts and Kitiara, in a
knot, rolled to the rear of the room. Shakily, Wingover
steadied the ship.
"I think passengers ought to leave the wheelhouse,"
Wingover said. His voice shook with fear. "At least until
you get your air legs."
"I agree," said Sturm. From his hands and knees he
grabbed the handle of the door and crept out on deck. Kiti-
ara and Stutts crawled out behind him.
The rushing wind was strong on deck, but by taking firm
hold of the rail and leaning into it, Kitiara found it tolerable.
The wings flexed up and down in close harmony. Kitiara
slowly straightened her legs. She looked over the side.
"Great Lord of Battle!" she exclaimed. "We must be miles
and miles straight up!"
Stutts boosted himself to the rail and hung his head over
the side. "N-not as high as all that," he remarked. "You can
st-still see our shadow on the ground." It was true. A dark
oval sped across the treetops. Sighter appeared with his spy-
glass, and he promptly announced their altitude as 6,437.5
feet.
"Are you certain?" Kitiara asked.
"Please," said Sturm, "take his word for it."
"Where are we headed, Sighter?" asked Kitiara.
"Due east. That's the Lemish forest below. In a few min-
utes, we should be over the Newsea."
"But that's seventy miles from where we were," Sturm
said. He was sitting on the deck. "Are we truly flying that
fast?"
"Indeed we are, and we shall go faster still," Sighter said.
He strolled forward, his spyglass stuck to one eye as he sur-
veyed the world below.
"It's wonderful!" Kitiara said. She laughed into the wind.
"I never believed you could do it; but you did. I love it! Tell
the whistler to go as fast as he can!" Stutts was almost as
excited, and he agreed. He turned to re-enter the wheel-
house. Sturm called to him, and he paused.
"Why are we heading east?" Sturm asked. "Why not
north and east -- toward the Plains of Solamnia?"

Stutts replied, "Rainspot s-says he feels turbulence in that
direction. He f-felt it wouldn't be prudent to fly through it."
He disappeared into the wheelhouse.
"Sturm, look at that!" Kitiara said. "It's a village! You can
see the housetops and chimney smoke -- and cattle! I won-
der, can the people down there see us? Wouldn't that be fun-
ny, to swoop down on their heads and blow a
trumpet -- ta-ta! Scare them out of ten years' growth!"
Sturm was still sitting on the deck. "I'm not ready to stand
up yet," he said sheepishly. "I was never afraid of heights,
you know. Trees, towers, mountaintops never disturbed
me. But this..."
"It's wonderful, Sturm. Hold the rail and look down."
I must stand up, thought Sturm. The Measure demanded
that a knight face danger with honor and courage. The
Knights of Solamnia had never considered aerial travel in
their code of conduct. I must show Kit that I am not afraid.
Sturm grasped the rail.
My father, Lord Angriff Brightblade, would not be
afraid, he told himself as he faced the low wall and rose to
his haunches. Blood pounded in Sturm's ears. The power of
the sword, the discipline of battle, were of little help here.
This was a stronger test. This was the unknown.
Sturm stood. The world spun beneath him like a ribbon
unspooling. Already the blue waters of the Newsea glittered
on the horizon. Kitiara was raving about the boats she could
see. Sturm took a deep breath and let the fear fall from him
like a soiled garment.
"Wonderful!" she exclaimed again. "I tell you, Sturm, I
take back all the things I said about the gnomes. This flying
ship is tremendous! We can go anywhere in the world with
this. Anywhere! And think of what a general could do with
his army in a fleet of these devices. No wall would be high
. enough. No arrows could reach you up here. There's no
spot in the whole of Krynn that could be defended against a
fleet of flying ships."
"It would be the end of the world," Sturm said. "Cities
looted and burned, farms ravaged, people slaughtered -- it
would be as bad as the Cataclysm."
"Trust you to see the dark side of everything," she said.

"It happened before, you know. Twice the dragons of
Krynn tried to subjugate the world from the sky, until the
great Huma used the Dragonlance and defeated them."
Kitiara said, "That was long ago. And men are different
from dragons." Sturm was not so sure.
Cutwood and Rainspot climbed a ladder to the roof of the
wheelhouse. From there they launched a large kite". It flut-
tered back in the wind from the wings, whipping about on
its string like a new-caught trout.
"What are you two doing now?" Kitiara called out.
"Testing for lightning," Cutwood responded. "He smells it
in the clouds."
"Isn't that dangerous?" Sturm said.
"Eh?" Cutwood put a hand to his ear.
"I said, isn't that --"
The brilliant white-forked bolt hit the kite before Sturm
could finish. Though the sun was shining and the air clear,
lightning leaped from a nearby cloud and blasted the kite to
ashes. The bolt continued down the string and leaped to the
brass ladder. The Cloudmaster staggered; the wings skipped
a beat, then settled back into their regular rhythm once
more.
They carried the scorched Rainspot into the dining room.
His face and hands were black with soot. His shoes had been
knocked right off his feet, and his stockings had gone with
his shoes. All the buttons on his vest were melted as well.
Cutwood lowered his ear to Rainspot's chest. "Still beat-
ing," he reported.
The ship's alarm went AH -- OO -- GAH! and the speak-
ing tube blared, "All colleagues and passengers come to the
engine room at once." Stutts and the other gnomes filed
toward the door, with the humans trailing behind.
Stutts paused. "What ab-bout him?" He indicated the
unconscious Rainspot.
"We could carry him," Sighter said.
"We can make a stretcher," said Cutwood, checking his
pockets for paper and pencil to draw a stretcher design.
"I'll do it," Sturm said, just to end the discussion. He
scooped the little man up in his arms.
Down in the engine room, the ship's entire company col-

lected. Sturm was alarmed to see Wingover there. "Who
steering the ship?" he asked.
"I tied the wheel."
"Colleagues and passengers," Flash said, "I beg to report,
fault in the engine."
"You needn't beg," said Roperig. "We'll let you report."
"Shut up," said Kitiara. "How bad is it?"
"I can't shut it off. The lightning strike has fused the
switches in the 'on' position."
"That's not so bad," Sighter said. Birdcall warbled in
agreement.
"But we can't fly around forever!" Kitiara said.
"No indeed," said Flash. "I estimate we have power to fly
for, oh, six and a half weeks."
"Six weeks!" cried Sturm and Kitiara in unison.
"One thousand, eighty-one hours, twenty-nine minutes. I
can work out the exact seconds in a moment."
"Hold my arms, Sturm; I'm going to throttle him!"
"Hush, Kit."
"Could we unfasten the wings? That would bring us
down," said Roperig.
"Yes, and make a nice big hole when we hit," Bellcrank
observed tartly.
"Hmm, I wonder how big a hole it would be." Cutwood
flipped open a random slip of parchment and started figur-
ing on it. The other gnomes crowded around, offering cor-
rections to his arithmetic.
"Stop this at once!" Sturm said. Kitiara's face was scarlet
from ill-concealed rage. When the gnomes paid him not the
least heed, he snatched the calculations from Cutwood. The
gnomes broke off in midbabble.
"How can such clever fellows be so impractical? Not one
of you has asked the right question. Flash, can you fix the
engine?"
A gleam of challenge grew in Flash's eyes. "I can! I will!"
He pulled a hammer from one pocket and a spanner from
another. "C'mon, Birdcall, let's get at it!" The chief mechan-
ic chirped happily and followed on Flash's heels.
"Wingover, where will we go if we keep flying as we are
now?" Sturm asked.

"The wings are set on 'climb', which means we'll keep
going higher and higher," Wingover replied. The gnome
wrinkled his beaky nose. "It will get cold. The air will thin
out; that's why vultures and eagles can only fly so high.
Their wings are too small. The Cloudmaster shouldn't have
problems with that."
"Everyone will have to dress warmly," said Sturm.
"We have our furs," Kitiara said, having mastered her
anger at the situation. "I don't know what the gnomes can
wear."
"Oh! Oh!" Roperig waved a hand to be recognized. "I can
make Personal Heating Apparatuses out of materials I have
in the rope locker."
"Fine, you do that." Roperig and his apprentice hurried
away with their heads together. Fitter listened so intently
that he walked under an engine part and into the door
frame.
Rainspot moaned. Forgetting his burden in the excite-
ment, Sturm had tucked him under one arm like a loaf of
bread. The gnome coughed and groaned. Sturm set him on
the deck. The first thing Rainspot did was to ask for his kite.
Cutwood explained how it was lost, and tears welled up in
Rainspot's eyes. As they trickled down his cheeks, they
scored clean tracks in the soot.
"One thing more, Wingover," Kitiara said. "You said the
air would get thin. Do you mean as it does on very high
mountaintops?"
"Exactly like that."
She planted her hands on her hips and said, "I once led a
troop of cavalry over the high Khalkist Mountains. It was
cold, all right, and worse, our ears bled. We fainted at the
slightest exertion and had the worst headaches. A shaman
named Ning made a potion for us to drink; it eased our
way."
"What a primitive shaman can do with m-magic, a gnome
can do with t-technology," said Stutts.
Sturm looked out the engine room porthole at the darken-
ing sky. A rime of frost was already forming on the outside
of the glass. "I certainly hope so, my friend. Our lives may
depend on it."

Chapter 7
Hydrodynamics!
It was quiet on deck. Sturm worked his way around
the starboard side to the bow. Sighter had mounted a tele-
scope on a spindle there, and Sturm wanted a look around.
It wasn't easy moving in his thick fur coat, hood, and mit-
tens, but he decided that it was no worse than being in full
body armor.
The flapping of the wings scarcely could be heard as the
Cloudmaster climbed steadily upward. The flying ship had
pierced a layer of soft white clouds, which left a coat of
snow on the deck and roof. Once it cleared the cloud layer,
however, the rush of air over the wings swept the snow
away.
Great pillars of vapor stood around them, fat columns of
blue and white that looked as solid as marble in the moons'

light. Sturm studied these massive towers of cloud through
Sighter's spyglass, but all he could see was their sculpted
surfaces, as smooth and still as a frozen pond.
He hadn't seen a gnome in over an hour. Wingover had
tied the steering wheel again, and they'd all disappeared
below to work on their inventions. Occasionally he heard
or felt bangs and crashes under his feet. Kitiara, fully and
fetchingly buried in her fox fur coat, had gone to the dining
room and stretched out on the table for a nap.
Sturm swung the telescope left, over the pointed prow.
Solinari shone between two deep ravines in the clouds, sil-
vering the airship with its rays. He scanned the strange
architecture of the clouds, seeing in them a face, a wagon, a
rearing horse. It was beautiful, but incredibly lonely. He felt
at that moment like the only man in the world.
The cold crept through his heavy clothes. Sturm clapped
his hands on his arms to stir his blood. It didn't help much.
Finally he abandoned his frosty post, and returned to the
dining room. He watched the sleeping Kitiara sway gently
with the motion of the ship. Then he smelled something.
Smoke. Something was burning.
Sturm coughed and wrinkled his nose. Kitiara stirred.
She sat up in time to see the entry of a bizarre apparition. It
looked like a scarecrow made of tin and rope, but this scare-
crow had a glass jar on its head and smoke coming out of its
back.
"Hello," said the apparition.
"Wingover?" asked Kitiara.
The little scarecrow reached up and twisted the jar off its
head, and the hawkish features of Wingover emerged.
"What do you think of Roperig's invention?" he asked. "He
calls it the Refined Personal Heating Apparatus, Mark III."
  "Mark III?" said Sturm.
  "Yes, the first two prototypes were not successful. Poor
Fitter has a burn on his... well, he'll be standing at dinner
for a while. That was Mark I. The Mark II took off most of
Roperig's whiskers. I warned him not to use glue on the Per-
fect Observation Helmet."
Wingover held out his arms and spun in a circle. "Do you
see? Roperig sewed a continuous coil of rope to a set of long

underwear, then varnished the whole suit to make it water-
tight and airtight. The heat comes from a tin stove, here." He
strained to point at a miniature potbelly stove mounted on
his back. "A fat tallow candle provides up to four hours of
heat, and these tin strips carry the warmth all over the suit."
Wingover finally dropped his arms.
"Very ingenious," said Kitiara flatly. "Has anything been
done about the engine?"
"Birdcall and Flash can't agree on the cause of the dam-
age. Birdcall insists the fault lies in Flash's lightning bottles,
while Flash says the engine is fused in the 'on' position."
Kitiara sighed. "By the time those two agree on what to
fix, we'll have run out of sky."
"Could anything fly as high as we are now?"
"There's no reason why another flying ship couldn't get
this high. It's largely a matter of aerodynamic efficiency." He
thumped a dial or two and added, "I suppose a dragon
might get this high. Assuming they still existed, that is."
"Dragons?" Sturm repeated.
"Dragons are a special case, of course. The really big
ones, Reds or Golds, could achieve very high altitudes."
"How high?"
"They had wingspans of 150 feet or more, you know,"
said Wingover, enjoying his lecture. "I'm sure I could do a
calculation, based on a fifty-foot animal weighing forty-five
tons -- of course, they couldn't glide worth shucks --"
"It's freezing on the inside now," interrupted Kitiara,
scratching the frost off a small pane of glass. She breathed
on the cleared spot, and it instantly turned milky white.
Stutts started up the ladder from below, but his Personal
Heating Apparatus caught on the ladder and there were
some moments of struggle to free him.
"Everything sh-shipshape?" he inquired.
"The controls are fine," Wingover responded, "but we're
still going up. The height gauge has gone off the dial, so
Sighter will have to calculate how high we are."
Stutts clapped his rope-wound hands together. "P-
perfect! That will make him very happy." The gnomes' lead-
er whistled into the voice tube. "N-now hear this! Sighter
r-report to the wheelhouse!"

In seconds, the little astronomer came banging up the lad-
der, tripped on the top rung, and fell on his face. Kitiara
helped him stand and saw why he was so clumsy. He had
pulled his jar-helmet on in such a way as to cover his face
with his long beard. Stutts and Kitiara worked and twisted
to get the jar off. It came away with a loud pop!
"By Reorx," Sighter gasped. "I was beginning to think my
own whiskers were trying to choke me!"
"Did you b-bring your astrolabe?" asked Stutts.
"When am I without it?"
"Then g-go up on the roof and shoot the stars. We need to
know our exact p-position."
Sighter snapped his fingers. "Not a problem!"
He went out of the deckhouse through the dining room.
They heard his feet stomping across the roof.
"Uh-oh," said Wingover, staring dead ahead.
Sturm said, "What is it?"
"The clouds are closing in. Look!"
They had flown into a box canyon of clouds. Even if
Wingover put the wheel hard about, they would still plow
into a cloud bank. "I'd better tell Sighter," Sturm said. He
went to the door, meaning to shout up at the gnome on the
roof. About the time he cracked the door open, the Cloud-
master bored into a wall of luminous white.
Frost formed quickly on Sturm's mustache. Snow swirled
around him as he cried, "Sighter! Sighter, come down!" The
frozen mist was so thick that he couldn't see a foot beyond
his nose. He would have to go get Sighter.
He slipped twice on his way up the ladder. The brass
rungs were encased in ice, but Sturm knocked it off with the
butt of his dagger. As he cleared the roof line, a blast of
frigid air stung his face. "Sighter!" he called. "Sighter!"
The rooftop was too treacherous to stand on, so Sturm
crept forward on his hands and knees. Flakes of snow col-
lected in the gap between his hood and coat collar, melted,
and ran down his neck. Sturm's hand slipped, and he almost
rolled right off the roof. Though there was four feet of deck
on either side, he had the horrible idea that he would tumble
right off the ship and fall, fall, fall. Cutwood would calcu-
late how big a hole he'd make.

His hand bumped a frost-rimed boot, and Sturm looked
up. Sighter was at his post, astrolabe stuck to one eye and
completely covered with half an inch of ice! Snow was
already drifting around his feet.
Sturm used his dagger to chip away the ice around Sight-
er's shoes. His Personal Heating Apparatus, Mark III must
have blown out, for the gnome was now stiff with cold.
Sturm grabbed the little man's feet and pulled --
"Sturm! Sturm, where are you?" Kitiara was calling.
"Up here!"
"What are you doing? You and Sighter get inside before
your faces freeze off!"
"It's too late for Sighter. I've almost got him loose -- wait,
here he is!" He passed the stiff gnome over the edge of the
roof to Kitiara's open arms. With commendable agility, he
then scooted down the ladder and hurried back inside.
"Brr! And I thought winters at Castle Brightblade were
cold!" He saw that Rainspot was on hand to doctor the fro-
zen Sighter. "How is he?" asked Sturm.
"Cold," said Rainspot. He pinched the tip of Sighter's
beard with a pair of wooden tweezers. A quick snap of the
wrist, and the lower half of Sighter's beard broke off.
"Dear, dear," Rainspot said, clucking his tongue. "Dear,
dear." He reached for the astrolabe, still in place at Sighter's
eye, with Sighter's hands clamped to it.
"No!" Kitiara and Sturm yelled. Trying to break the
instrument loose would probably take Sighter's eye with it.
"T-take him below and thaw him out," said Stutts. "S-
slowly."
"Someone will have to carry his feet," said Rainspot.
Stutts sighed and went over to help.
"He's g-going to be very angry that y-you broke his
b-beard," he said.
"Dear, dear. Perhaps if we dampened the edge we could
stick it back on."
"Don't be st-stupid. You'd never get it aligned p-properly."
"I can get some glue from Roperig --"
They disappeared down the hatch to the berth deck.
Sturm and Kitiara heard a loud crash, and both rushed to
the opening, expecting to see poor Sighter broken to bits

like a cheap clay vase. But, no, Stutts was on the deck,
Sighter cushioned on top of him, and Rainspot was hanging
upside down with his feet tangled in the rungs. "Dear, dear,"
he was saying. "Dear, dear."
They couldn't help but laugh. It felt good after spending
so much time worrying whether they would ever walk the
solid soil of Krynn again.
Kitiara stopped laughing first. "That was a crazy stunt,
Sturm," she said.
"What?"
"Rescuing that gnome. You might have been frozen your-
self, and I'll wager you wouldn't thaw out as easily as Sight-
er will."
"Not with Rainspot as my doctor."
To his surprise, she embraced him. It was a comradely
hug, with a clap on the back that staggered him.
"We're coming out of it! We're coming out!" Wingover
yelled. Kitiara broke away and rushed to the gnome. He
was hopping up and down in delight as the white shroud
peeled away from the flying ship. The Cloudmaster
emerged from the top of the snow squall into clear air.
Ahead of them was a vast red globe, far larger than the
sun ever appeared from the ground. Below was nothing but
an unbroken sheet of cloud, tinged scarlet from the moon's
glow. All around, stars twinkled. The Cloudmaster was fly-
ing headlong toward the red orb.
"Hydrodynamics," Wingover breathed. This was the
gnomes' strongest oath. Neither Sturm nor Kitiara could
improve on it just then.
"What is it?" Kitiara finally said.
"If my calculations are accurate, and I'm sure that they
are, it is Lunitari, the red moon of Krynn," said Wingover.
Sighter appeared in the hatch. His hair was dripping, and
his broken-off beard fluttered when he spoke. "Correct!
That's what I discovered before the snowstorm hit. We're a
hundred thousand miles from home, and heading straight
for Lunitari."

Chapter 8
To the Red Moon
The ship's complement assembled in the dining
room. Reactions to Sighter's announcement were mixed.
Basically, the gnomes were delighted, while their human
passengers were appalled.
"How can we be going to Lunitari?" Kitiara demanded.
"It's just a red dot in the sky!"
"Oh, no," said Sighter. "Lunitari is a large globular celes-
tial body, just like Krynn and the other moons and planets. I
estimate that it is thirty-five hundred miles in diameter and
at least 150 thousand miles from Krynn."
"This is beyond me," Sturm said wearily. "How could we
possibly have flown so high? We haven't been gone more
than two days."
"Actually, time references are difficult to make at this alti-

tude. We haven't seen the sun in a long time, but judging
from the positions of the moons and stars, I would say we
have been aloft for fifty-four hours," Sighter said, making a
few jottings on the tabletop. "And forty-two minutes."
"Any other r-reports?" asked Stutts.
"We're out of raisins," said Fitter.
"And flour and bacon and onions," added Cutwood.
"What does that leave for food?" Kitiara asked. Birdcall
made a very unbirdlike squawk. "What did he say?"
"Beans. Six sacks of dried white beans," said Roperig.
"What about the engine?" asked Sturm. "Have you fig-
ured out how to fix it?"
Tweet-tweedle-tweet. "He says no," Bellcrank translated.
"The lightning bottles are holding up quite well," Flash
reported. "My theory is, the cold, thin air offers less resist-
ance to the wings, therefore, the engine doesn't have to
work as hard."
"Rot!" said Bellcrank. "It's my ethereal air. All that flap-
ping impedes our flight. If we lopped off those silly wings,
we could have flown to Lunitari in half the time."
"Aerodynamic idiocy! That big bag is just a big drag!"
"Stop it!" Sturm snapped. "There's no time for these ridic-
ulous disputes. I want to know what happens when we
reach Lunitari." Ten pairs of gnome eyes looked at him and
blinked. They do it in unison, he thought, just to unnerve
me. "Well?"
"We land?" said Wingover.
"How? The engines won't shut off."
The room fairly buzzed with the brains of gnomes furi-
ously thinking. Roperig began to shake. "What does a ship
in distress do when it's driven toward the shoals?" asked
Roperig feverishly.
"Crash and sink," said Bellcrank.
"No, no! It throws out an anchor!"
Sturm and Kitiara smiled. Here was something they could
understand. Never mind lightning bottles and ethereal air --
throw out an anchor!
"Do we have an anchor?" asked Fitter.
"We have a few grappling hooks about this big,"
Wingover replied, holding his hands out, about a foot

apart. "They won't stop Cloudmaster."
"I'll make a big one," Bellcrank vowed. "If we scrap a few
ladders and iron fittings..."
"But what if we don't get the engine shut down?" Sturm
said. "No anchor in the world will stop us."
Kitiara cocked her head and regarded Stutts severely.
"What about it?" she asked.
"How 1-long will it take you to m-make an anchor7" asked
Stutts.
"With help, maybe three hours," said Bellcrank.
"When will we h-hit Lunitari?" Stutts asked Sighter.
Sighter scribbled across the table, around one corner, and
up the other side. "As it stands now, we will hit Lunitari in
five hours and sixteen minutes."
"Flash and B-Birdcall will keep working on the engine. If
n-no other course is open, we m-may have to smash the
engine b-before we can set down."
The gnomes erupted with cries of consternation. The
humans objected, too.
"How will we ever get home if you wreck the engine?"
demanded Kitiara. "We'll be marooned on Lunitari forever."
"If we c-crash, we'll be on L-Lunitari a lot longer than
that, and enjoy it a lot less," Stutts said. "W-we'll be dead." '
"Fitter and I will make a cable for the anchor," said
Roperig, heading below.
"I'll fill the deckhouse with our blankets and pillows,"
Cutwood offered. "That way, we'll have something to cush-
ion us when we crash, er, land."
The gnomes dispersed to their tasks, while Sturm and Kit-
iara remained in the dining room. The scarlet expanse of the
moon was visible through the skylight. Together they
looked up at Lunitari.
Sturm said, "Another world. I wonder what it's like."
"Who can say? The gnomes could give you theories; I'm
just a warrior," said Kitiara. She sighed. "If we end up
marooned there, I hope there will be battles to be fought."
"There are always battles. Every place has its own version
of good and evil."
"Oh, it doesn't matter to me who I fight for. Battle is my
virtue. You can't go wrong with a sword in your hand and a

good comrade at your side." She slipped a thickly gloved
hand into Sturm's. He returned her grip, but could not dis-
pel the anxiety that her words caused.
The gnomes, when aroused, had formidable amounts of
energy. In less time than it takes to tell, Bellcrank had forged
a monstrous anchor with four flukes and a huge weight
made of miscellaneous metal parts from all over the ship. In
his zeal to add weight to his creation, Bellcrank took ladder
rungs, doorknobs, spoons from the dining room, door
hinges, and only by threat of force could he be discouraged
from removing half of Wingover's control knobs.
Roperig and Fitter wove an appropriately stout cable;
indeed, their first offering was too thick to thread through
the eyelet that Bellcrank had fashioned in the anchor. Cut-
wood filled the dining room so full of pillows and blankets
that it was hard to walk across to the wheelhouse.
Lunitari grew visibly larger with each passing hour. From
a featureless red globe, it had developed dark red mountain
peaks, purple valleys, and wide scarlet plains. Stutts and
Wingover debated endlessly as to why the moon was so
dominated by red hues. As usual, they resolved nothing,
Kitiara made the mistake of asking how it was that they
seemed to be flying straight down at Lunitari when they had
been going up since leaving Krynn.
"It's all a matter of relative reference," Wingover said.
"Our 'up' is down on Lunitari, and the 'down' on Lunitari
will be up."
She set aside her sword, which she'd taken out to polish
and sharpen. "You mean, if I drop a stone from my hand on
Lunitari, it will fly up in the air and eventually fall on
Krynn?"
Wingover opened and closed his mouth silently three
times. His expression grew more and more puzzled. Finally,
Kitiara asked, "What will keep our feet on the moon? Won't
we fall back home?"
Wingover looked stricken. Stutts chuckled. "The same
p-pressure that held you to the fertile soil of K-Krynn will

allow us to walk normally on L-Lunitari," he said.
"Pressure?" asked Sturm.
"Yes, the p-pressure of the air. Air has weight, you know."
"I see," said Kitiara. "But what keeps the air in place?"
Now it was Stutts's turn to look stricken.
Sturm rescued them from their scientific quandary. "I
want to know if there will be people there," he said.
"Why not?" Wingover said. "If the air thickens and gets
warmer, we might find quite ordinary folk living on Luni-
tari."
Kitiara drew the whetstone down the length of her blade.
"Strange," she mused, "to think that people like us live on
the moon. I wonder what they see when they look up --
down? -- at our world."
Birdcall whistled for attention from the deck below. Bell-
crank had removed the ladder halfway down, so the chirp-
ing gnome couldn't reach a rung to pull himself up. Stutts
and Sturm reached through the open hatch and hauled him
out. Birdcall twittered a lengthy exposition, and Stutts
translated.
"He says he and F-Flash have figured out a way to disen-
gage the engine before we land. They will c-cut the main
power cable a hundred feet up, and t-time the wing beats so
that the wings will 1-lock in their extended position. That
way, we can glide in to a landing."
"And if they don't?"
Birdcall held up one hand with the fingers flat together.
His hand dived into the open palm of his other, making a
crunching noise when they smacked together.
"We have l-little ch-choice but to try." The others agreed.
Birdcall dropped to the deck below and hurried down to his
engine. Roperig and Fitter pooled the anchor and cable on
the deck by the ship's tail. Cutwood, Sighter, and Rainspot
boxed up their most valuable possessions -- tools, instru-
ments, and the big ledger with all the entries on raisin densi-
ty in muffins -- and buried them amidst the pillows in the
dining room.
"What can I do?" Sturm said to Wingover.
"You could throw out the anchor when we say."
"I can do something, too," Kitiara said.

"Why don't you go to the engine room and help Flash and
Birdcall? They can't tend the engine and cut the power cable
at the same time," said the gnome.
She raised her sword until the hilt was level with her chin.
"Cut it with this?" she said.
"Certainly."
"Right." Kitiara slipped the sheath over the blade and
started down the abbreviated ladder. "When you want the
cable cut, hit that crazy horn," she said. "That will be my
signal."
"Kit," Sturm said quietly, making her pause. "May Pala-
dine guide your hand."
"I doubt that I'll need divine aid. I've chopped through
thicker things than cable!" She smiled crookedly.
There was nothing in view now but Lunitari. Though
Wingover didn't change course, the moon seemed to sink
from overhead to bows-on. As the minutes sped by, the red
landscape spread to every horizon. Soon the airship was fly-
ing with the purple sky above and the red soil below.
The altitude gauge was working again. "Seventy-two
hundred feet. Four minutes to contact," said Wingover.
A line of jagged peaks flashed by. Wingover spun the
wheel hard to port. The wings on the starboard side flicked
past the sharp spires with scant feet to spare. The Cloud-
master careened farther, almost onto its side. Soft thumps
and muffled yells came from the dining room.
"Whoa-oh-oh-oh!" Wingover cried. "More bumps com-
ing up!"
The prow smashed into a lofty pinnacle and carried it
away. A cloud of red grit and dust hit the wheelhouse win-
dows. Wingover frantically pushed levers and turned the
wheel. The flying ship went nose up, then tail up. Sturm
staggered back and forth. He felt like a pea being rattled in a
cup.
The cliffs fell away to reveal a landscape of flat mesas
divided by deep ravines. The ship was down to a thousand
feet. Sturm opened the door. Melted ice ran along the deck
outside. "I'm going aft!" he said. Wingover bobbed his head
rapidly in reply.
He stepped out the door just as Wingover banked the

Cloudmaster in that direction. Sturm almost pitched head-
first over the rail. The scarlet world roared past at terrifying
speed, much faster, it seemed, than when they were cruising
through the high clouds. He felt a rush of vertigo, but it
quickly succumbed to his will. Sturm staggered aft, bounc-
ing from the rail to the wall of the deckhouse. He glimpsed a
queerly distorted face at one of the dining room portholes.
It was Fitter, his bulbous nose and ruddy lips smashed flat
against the pane.
The wind whipped at Sturm as he neared the anchor. The
hinged tail bowed and flexed under Wingover's control.
Sturm wrapped an arm around the tail's hinge post and held
on.
The tableland was replaced by a featureless plain. The
dark red soil was smooth and unrippled. At least Paladine
had favored them with an uncluttered place to land the fly-
ing ship! Sturm let go of the rudder post and cradled the
anchor in his arms. Bellcrank had done a good job; the big
hook weighed nearly as much as Sturm. He wrestled it to
the rail. They were very low now. The ground resembled a
sheet of marble, painted the color of blood.
Do it, Wingover. Blow the horn now, thought Sturm.
They seemed too low. He's forgotten, he thought. We're too
low. He forgot to sound the horn! Or had he himself failed
to hear it in the rush of wind and the pounding of his heart?
After a second of indecision, Sturm heaved the anchor
over. The multicolored rope, woven from everything
Roperig could find -- cord, curtains, shirts, and gnomish
underwear -- spilled after the hook, loop after loop. Roperig
said he'd made 110 feet of cable. More than enough. The
skein rapidly shrank. With a snap, it ran out, and the heavy
scrap metal anchor streamed out behind the flying ship.
Sturm had dropped it too soon.
He moved forward, watching the hook drop closer and
closer to the red soil. By the door to the wheelhouse, Sturm
paused, expecting the anchor to bounce and shatter as it hit,
but it did neither. The anchor sank into the surface of the
moon, plowing a wide, deep furrow.
He threw open the door. Wingover had his hand on the
horn cord. "Don't do it!" Sturm yelled. "The ground

below -- it's not solid!"
Wingover snatched his hand away from the cord as if it
had burned him. "Not solid?"
"I dropped the anchor, and it's flowing through the plain
as though it were in water. If we land, we'll sink!"
"We don't have any time left. We're less than a hundred
feet up now!"
Sturm went to the rail, staring desperately at the soft
ground. What to do? What to do!
He saw rocks. "Hard to starboard!" he sang out. "Solid
ground to starboard!"
Wingover spun the wheel. The right rear wing touched
Lunitari. It dipped into the dust and came out unharmed.
Sturm could smell the dirt in the air. The rocks thickened,
and the smooth, scarlet dust gave way to a stony plain.
AA-OO-GAH!
The Cloudmaster quivered like a living thing. The leather
bat-wings lifted in a graceful arc and froze there. Sturm
threw himself through the door and landed on his belly. He
covered his head tightly with his hands.
The wheels touched, spun, and snapped off with brittle,
wrenching sounds. When the hull of the flying ship plowed
into Lunitari, the bow bucked, rose, and jerked to port.
Sturm careened across the deck. The Cloudmaster tore
along, trailing a wake of dirt and stones. Finally, as if too
tired to continue, the flying ship settled to a creaking, grind-
ing stop.

Chapter 9
Foty Pounds of Iron
"Ane we dead?"
Sturm uncovered his head and lifted it. Wingover was
jammed through the spokes of the steering wheel, his short
arms squeezed tightly against his chest. His eyes were just as
tightly closed.
"Open your eyes, Wingover; we're all right," said Sturm.
"Oh, Reorx, I'm stuck!"
"Hold on." Sturm grabbed the gnome's feet and pulled.
Wingover protested all the way, but when he was finally
free, he forgot his discomfort and said, "Ah! Lunitari!"
The gnome and the man went out on deck. The rear door
of the dining room banged open, and the other gnomes piled
out. Wordlessly, they surveyed the barren landscape. Aside
from a distant hump of hills, Lunitari was flat all the way to

the horizon.
One gnome gave a high chortle of delight, and they all
scampered inside. Sturm heard things flying as they sorted
through the pillows for their tools, instruments, and note-
books.
Kitiara appeared on deck with Flash and Birdcall. They
hadn't been able to see from the engine room, being too
busy to stare out the porthole. Kitiara had a fine goose-egg
bruise over her right eye.
"Hello," said Sturm. "What happened to you?"
  "Oh, I knocked my head against an engine fitting when
we crashed."
"Landed," he corrected. "Did you break the fitting?"
His rare attempt at humor left Kitiara silent for a
moment. Then they threw their arms around each other,
grateful for their lives.
The ramp in the starboard side of the hull dropped down,
and the whole gang of gnomes boiled out onto the red turf.
Kitiara said, "I guess we'd better go down and look after
them, before they hurt themselves."
The gnomes were lost in their specialties by the time Kiti-
ara and Sturm joined them. Sighter scanned the horizon
with his spyglass. Bellcrank and Cutwood were filling jars
with scoopfuls of red dirt. Rainspot stood apart from the
rest, his nose and ears tuned to the weather. He reminded
Kitiara of a hunting dog. Stutts was rapidly filling pages in
his pocket notebook. Wingover walked around the hull of
the Cloudmaster, kicking the tight wooden planks now and
then. Roperig and Fitter examined their anchor line and
measured the amount that it had stretched when pulled taut.
Birdcall and Flash were in a heated discussion. Sturm over-
heard something about 'wing camber variance' and listened
no further.
He scooped up a handful of Lunitarian dirt. It was flaky,
not granular like sand. As it fell from his fingers, it made a
tinkling sound.
"Do you smell what I smell?" asked Kitiara.
He sniffed. "Dust. It'll settle," he said.
"No, not that. It's a feeling more than a smell, really. The
air has a tingle to it, like a draft of Otik's best ale."

Sturm concentrated for a moment. "I don't feel anything."
Stutts bustled over. "Here are m-my preliminary find-
ings," he said. "Air: normal. Temperature: c-cool but not
cold. No sign of w-water, vegetation, or animal life."
"Kit says she feels a tingle in the air."
"Really? I h-hadn't noticed anything."
"I'm not imagining it," she said tersely. "Ask Rainspot,
maybe he's noticed."
The weather-wise gnome came running when called, and
Stutts asked for his impressions.
"The high clouds will dissipate soon," said Rainspot.
"Humidity is very low. I don't think it has rained here in a
very long time, if ever."
"Bad news," Kitiara said. "We haven't much water left on
the ship."
"Do you sense anything else?" Sturm queried.
"Yes, actually, but it's not a weather phenomenon. The air
is somehow charged with energy."
"Like l-lightning?"
"No." Rainspot pivoted slowly. "It's constant, but very
low in intensity. It doesn't feel harmful, just... there." He
shrugged.
"Why don't we feel it?" Sturm asked.
"You're not the sensitive type," Kitiara said. "Like old
Rainspot and me." She clapped her hands. "So, Stutts, now
that we're here, what do we do?"
"Explore. Make m-maps and study local conditions."
"There's nothing here," said Sturm.
"This is only one small 1-location. S-suppose we had land-
ed on the Plains of Dust on Krynn. W-would you then say
that there is nothing on Krynn but s-sand?" Stutts asked.
Sturm admitted that he would not.
Stutts called his engineers, and Flash and Birdcall trotted
up. "St-status report."
"The lightning bottles are two-thirds empty. If we don't
find some way to refill them, we won't have enough power
to fly home," Flash said. Birdcall sang his report, and Flash
translated for the humans. "He says the engine was shaken
loose from its mountings by the hard landing. But the cut
power cable can be patched."

"I have an idea about that," said Wingover, who'd joined
them. "If we install a switch at that juncture, we can bypass
the fused setting damaged by Rainspot's lightning."
"My lightning!" the weather gnome protested. "Since
when do I make lightning?"
"Switch? What kind of switch?" Cutwood asked. The
sound of disputation had drawn him and Bellcrank.
"A single throw-knife switch," said Wingover.
"Ha! Listen to the amateur! Single-throw! What's needed
is a rotary pole switch with isolated leads --"
Kitiara let out a blood-curdling battle cry and swung her
sword around her head. The silence that followed was
instant and total.
"You gnomes are driving me mad! Why don't you just
appoint someone to each task and be done with it?"
"Only one mind on each task?" Sighter was scandalized.
"It would never get done right."
"Perhaps Bellcrank could make the switch," Fitter suggest-
ed timidly. "It will be made of metal, won't it?"
Everyone stared at him, mouths open. He edged nervous-
ly behind Roperig.
"Wonderful idea!" Kitiara said. "Brilliant idea!"
"There isn't much spare metal left," Wingover said.
"We could salvage some from the anchor," Rainspot said.
The other gnomes looked at him and smiled.
"That's a good idea," said Cutwood.
"Fitter and me'll pull in the anchor," Roperig said.
They picked up the thick cable hanging down from the
tail and hauled away. Fifty feet away, where the field of
stones gave way to the deep dust, the buried anchor leaped
ahead in dusty spurts. Then the hook caught on something.
The gnomes strained and pulled.
"Want some help?" called Sturm.
"No -- uh -- we can do it," Roperig replied.
Roperig slapped Fitter on the back and they turned
around, laying the rope over their shoulders. The gnomes
dug in their toes and pulled.
"Pull, Roperig! Heave ho, Fitter! Pull, pull, pull!" shouted
the other gnomes.
"Wait," said Kitiara suddenly. "The rope is fraying --"

The hastily woven cable was coming undone just behind
Fitter. Twine and strands of twisted cloth spun away, and
the two gnomes, oblivious, braced their backs against it.
"Stop!" This was all Sturm had time to shout before the
rope parted. Roperig and Fitter fell on their faces with a
plunk. The other end of the cable, weighted down by the
anchor, snaked away. Bellcrank and Cutwood took off after
. it. The roly-poly chemist tripped over his own feet and
stumbled. The ragged end of the cable whisked out of his
reach. Cutwood, with surprising verve, leaped over his
fallen colleague and dived for the fleeing rope. To Sturm's
amazement, he caught it. Cutwood weighed no more than
fifty or sixty pounds, and the anchor weighed two hundred.
As it continued to sink into the red dust, it dragged Cut-
wood along with it.
"Let go!" Sturm shouted. Kitiara and the gnomes echoed
him, but Cutwood was already in the dust. Then, as the oth-
ers looked on in horror, Cutwood upended and disap-
peared. They waited and watched for the carpenter gnome
to surface. But he did not.
Bellcrank got up and took a few steps toward the rim of
the rock field. He was shouted to a halt. "You'll go in, too!"
Kitiara said.
"Cutwood," said Bellcrank helplessly. "Cutwood!" A rip-
ple appeared in the motionless dust. It roiled and grew into a
hump of crimson grit. Slowly the hump became a head,
then developed shoulders, arms, and a squat torso.
"Cutwood!" was the universal cry.
The gnome slogged forward heavily, and when he was
waist-high out of the dust, everyone could see that his pants
had ballooned to twice their usual size. The waist and legs
were packed with Lunitarian dust. Cutwood stepped to
firmer ground. He lifted one leg and shook it, and a torrent
of grit poured out.
Bellcrank rushed forward to embrace his dusty friend.
"Cutwood, Cutwood! We thought you were lost!"
Cutwood responded with a mighty sneeze, which got
dust on Bellcrank, who sneezed right back, prompting Cut-
wood to sneeze again. This went on for some time. Finally,
Sighter and Birdcall came forward with improvised Dust-

Free Face Filters (handkerchiefs). The siege of sneezing over-
come, Cutwood lamented, "My suspenders broke."
"Your what?" asked Bellcrank, sniffling.
Cutwood pulled up his deflated pants. "The anchor
dragged me under. I knew it was taking me down, but I
couldn't let all our scrap metal get away. Then my sus-
penders broke. I tried to grab them and the rope jerked out
of my hands." He sighed. "My best suspenders."
Roperig walked around Cutwood, plucking at his baggy
trousers. "Give me your pants," he said.
"What for?"
"I want to do some structural tests. There may be an
invention in them."
Cutwood's eyes widened. He quickly removed his rusty
twill trousers and stood by in blue flannel long johns.
"Brrr! This is a cold moon," he said. "I'm going for
another pair of trousers, but don't you invent anything until
I get back!" Cutwood hurried to the Cloudmaster with
showers of dust still cascading from his shoulders.
Sturm took Kitiara aside. "Here's a pretty problem," he
said in a low voice. "We need metal to repair the engine, and
all our scrap was lost in a lake of dust."
"Maybe Bellcrank could salvage a bit more from the fly-
ing ship," Kitiara said.
"Maybe, but I don't trust him not to ruin the whole ship in
the process. What we need is more metal." He faced the
crowd of gnomes who were busy examining Cutwood's
pants as if they were the find of a lifetime. Now and then a
gnome would turn his head and sneeze.
"Oh, Bellcrank? Would you come over here, please?"
Sturm said.
The gnome scurried over. He stopped, pulled out a hand-
kerchief stained with grease and chemicals, and blew his
nose loudly. "Yes, Sturm?"
"Just how much metal do you need to fix the engine?"
"That depends on what type of switch I make. For a dou-
ble throw, rotary pole --"
"The very least you'll need, in any case!"
Bellcrank chewed his lip a moment and said, "Thirty
pounds of copper, or forty pounds of iron. Copper would

be easier to work than iron, you see, and --"
"Yes, yes," Kitiara said hastily. "We don't have forty
pounds of anything except beans."
"Beans wouldn't work," Bellcrank offered.
"All right. We'll just have to find some metal." Sturm
looked around. The high clouds were beginning to thin, and
the twilight that had persisted since their landing was begin-
ning to brighten. The sun that warmed Krynn was rising
higher in their sky. Taking that direction as east (for conven-
ience), they could see a distant range of hills far off to the
north.
"Bellcrank, would you know iron ore when you saw it?"
said Sturm.
"Would I know it? I know every ore there is!"
"Can you smelt it?"
The germ of Sturm's idea spread to the gnome, and he
smiled widely. "A fine notion, my friend. Worthy of a
gnome!"
Kitiara slapped him on the back. "There you are," she
said. "A few days in the air and you start thinking like a
gnome."
"Never mind the wit. We've got to organize an expedition
to those hills to see if there is any metal there."
Bellcrank ran back to his fellows to share the news. Excla-
mations of joy rang across the empty plain. Cutwood, com-
ing down the ramp from the Cloudmaster, was nearly
bowled over as his fellows charged up. He was carried back
inside with them. The thumps and crashes that always signi-
fied gnomish enthusiasm were not long in coming.
Kitiara shook her head. "Now see what you've done."
The first argument began over who would go on the trek
and who would stay with the flying ship.
"Everyone can't go," Sturm said. "Wfhat food and water
we have won't sustain us all on a long march."
"I'll st-stay," Stutts said. "Cloudmaster is m-my responsi-
bility."
"Good fellow. Who will stay with Stutts?" The gnomes

looked at the purple sky, the stars, their shoes, anywhere
but at Sturm. "Whoever stays will get to work on the ship."
Birdcall whistled his acceptance. Hearing him agree,
Flash said, "Oh, well, burn it! No one understands the light-
ning bottles but me. I'll stay."
"I'll stay behind," Rainspot offered. "I don't know much
about prospecting."
"Me, too," Cutwood said.
"Hold your horses," Kitiara objected. "You can't all stay.
Rainspot, we need you. We'll be out in the open, and if
storms threaten, we'll want to know beforehand."
The gnome grinned and placed himself by Kitiara. He
gazed happily up at her, pleased that someone needed him.
"Three should be enough to watch over the ship," Sturm
said. "The rest of you get your belongings together. No one
is to take anything more than he can carry on his back." The
gnomes all nodded vigorous affirmatives. "After we eat,
we'll all get some sleep and start fresh in the morning."
"When is morning?" asked Bellcrank.
Sighter unfolded his tripod and clamped his telescope in
place. He studied the sky, searching for familiar stars. After
a lengthy perusal, he announced, "Sixteen hours. Maybe
more. Hard to tell." He snapped the telescope tube shut.
"Sixteen hours!" said Kitiara. "Why so long?"
"Lunitari doesn't sit in the same part of the heavens as
Krynn. Right now, the shadow of our home world is over
us. Until we move clear of it, this is all the light we'll get."
"It will have to do," Sturm said. To Fitter, who as the
youngest gnome had permanent kitchen duty, he said,
"What is there to eat?"
"Beans," said Fitter. Boiled beans, seasoned with their last
tiny bit of bacon, was dinner, and it promised to be their
breakfast, too.
Sturm squatted under the overhang of the flying ship's
hull and ate his bowl of beans. As he ate, he tried to imagine
what lay beyond the dust and stones. The sky was not
black, but purple, lightening at the horizon to a warm clar-
et. Everything was wrought in tones of red -- the dirt, the
rocks; even the white beans seemed vaguely pink. Was all of
Lunitari like this, lifeless? he wondered.

"Kitiara sauntered up. She'd shed her heavy furs for a less
confining outfit. The hip-length jacket and leggings she'd
retained, and had slung her sword over her left shoulder, as
the Ergothites often did. In that position, it freed the legs for
walking.
"Good, huh?" she said, dropping down beside Sturm.
"Beans are beans," he replied, letting them fall from his
spoon back into the bowl. "I've eaten worse."
"So have I. During the siege of Silvamori, my troops'
menu was reduced to boiled-boot soup and tree leaves. And
we were the besiegers."
"How did the people in the town fare?" Sturm asked.
"Thousands died of starvation," she said. The memory
did not seem to trouble her. Sturm felt the beans turn to
paste in his mouth.
"Don't you regret that so many died?" he asked.
"Not really. If a thousand more had perished, the siege
might have ended sooner, and fewer of my comrades would
have died."
Sturm all but dropped his bowl. He stood up and started
to walk away. Kitiara, puzzled by his reaction, said, "Are
you through? Can I finish your beans?"
He stopped, his back to her. "Yes, eat them all. Slaughter
spoils my appetite." He mounted the ramp and disappeared
into the Cloudmaster.
A quick flush of anger welled within Kitiara. Who did he
think he was? Young Master Brightblade presumed to look
down on her for her warrior's code.
The spoon Kitiara had clenched in her fist suddenly
snapped. The pieces fell from her fingers. She stared at
them, her anger dissolving as quickly as it had come. The
spoon was made of sturdy ash wood. But it broke cleanly
where her thumb had pressed on it. Kitiara's eyebrows rose
in amazement. Must be a defect in the wood, she thought.

Chapter 10
The First Lunitari
Exploration March
The gnomes emerged from the  ship after a few
hours' nap, staggering under a burden of tools, clothing,
instruments, and other less identifiable rubbish. Kitiara
spied Roperig and Fitter pushing a four-wheeled cart
between them.
"What have you two got there?" she asked.
Roperig dug in his heels to stop the cart. "A few essential
things," he said. He had a coil of rope over his left shoulder
that was so thick he couldn't turn his head in that direction.
"This is ridiculous. Where did you get this contraption?"
"Fitter and me made it. It's all wood, you see? No metal."
Roperig thumped the rear wall of the cart with his foot.
"Where did the wood come from?" said Kitiara.

"Oh, we knocked out a few of the inside walls in the ship."
"Great suffering gods! It's a good thing we're going on this
march. Otherwise, you gnomes would have the whole ship
dismantled before long!"
  The explorers mustered on the plain below the Cloudmas-
ter's port side. The gnomes, in their usual endearing earnest-
ness, lined up like an honor guard on parade. Despite the
bleakness of their situation, Sturm couldn't help but smile at
the goofy, ingenious little men.
"Stutts has asked me to lead this march to the hills, in
search of ore to repair the flying ship, and you all have
agreed to follow my directions. My, ah, colleague, Kitiara is
to be equally responsible. She's had considerable experience
in forays like this, and we should all be guided by her wis-
dom." Kitiara did not acknowledge his compliment, but
leaned back against the ship's hull and looked on impassive-
ly, one hand resting on the pommel of her sword.
"Sighter estimates the distance to the hills as fifteen miles.
We should reach them at about the time daylight breaks,
isn't that right?"
Sighter checked a column of numbers scrawled on his
shirt cuff. "Fifteen miles in six hours; yes, that's right."
Sturm looked down the line of his 'troops.' He couldn't
think of anything else to say. "Well, let's get going," he said,
embarrassed. So much for his first speech as a leader.
Fitter and Roperig ran around their makeshift cart, fitting
long poles into prepared brackets on the front and back.
Bellcrank and Cutwood placed themselves on the pole in
front, while Roperig and Fitter took up positions at the rear.
"A four-gnome-power exploratory wagon," said
Wingover admiringly.
"Mark I," added Rainspot.
"Move out," said Kitiara impatiently. With no more fan-
fare than that, the First Lunitari Exploration March began.
Stutts, Birdcall, and Flash waved from the roof of the deck-
house as their colleagues marched away. From their high
perch, they watched the expedition's progress long after the
Cloudmaster was lost to the marchers' view in the fluid
mauve shadows.

"Nope," Sighter said. "Sound as the slopes of Mt. Never-
mind." He squinted up at Kitiara, who still held the broken-
off pole in her hand. "You broke it with one hand."
Wordlessly she held the pole in both hands, straight out in
front of her. Bending her elbows in, Kitiara bent the pole.
The wood splintered with a loud crack.
"I had no idea you were so strong," said Sturm.
"Neither did I!" she replied, equally astonished.
"Here," said Bellcrank, picking up one of the pieces of the
pole from where Kitiara had dropped it. "Break it again."
The piece was less than a foot long. Kitiara had to use her
knee for a brace, but she snapped even that short length.
"Something is happening here," said Sighter, narrowing
his eyes. "You've gotten undeniably stronger in the twenty
hours we've been on Lunitari."
"Maybe we're all getting stronger!" Cutwood said. He
grasped another bit of the pole and tried to bend it. His flor-
id face turned quite purple, but the wood did not so much as
crack. Similar efforts by the others, including Sturm,
showed no increase in strength. Kitiara beamed.
"Looks like you're the sole beneficiary of this gift, what-
ever it is," said Sturm evenly. "At least it will be useful. Can
you free the cart?"
She snapped her fingers and swaggered around the rear of
the cart. Kitiara flattened one hand against the cargo box
and shoved. The cart leaped out of its ruts, almost running
Fitter and Wingover down.
"Careful!" said Sturm. "You've got to learn to handle this
newfound strength, or you may hurt someone."
Kitiara wasn't listening. She ran her hands up and down
her arms again and again, as if to feel the power radiating
from her strangely augmented muscles.
"I don't know why it happened or how, but I like it," she
said. Sturm noticed a new swagger in her walk. First his
weird dream (it had been so real), and now Kit's new
strength. All was not natural on the red moon.
Four hours later the hills were well within range. Close
up, they had an oddly soft appearance, rounded, as though
a giant hand had smoothed them.
Kitiara took over the lead when Sturm's step faltered. He

was tired, and his meager breakfast of beans and water
wasn't enough to keep him at his best. In fact, as the marchers
approached six and a half hours out from the Cloudrnaster,
Kitiara ran ahead to be the first to reach the hills.
"Kit, wait! Come back!" Sturm called. She waved and
sprinted on.
The gnomes let the cart coast to a stop at the foot of a hill.
Kitiara shouted and waved from the top. She skidded down
the slope, coming to a halt by bumping into Sturm. He
caught her arms. Panting, she smiled at him.
"You can see a long way from up there," she gasped. "The
hills go on for miles, but there are wide trails running
between them."
"You shouldn't go off on your own like that," Sturm said.
Kitiara lost her smile and shook herself free of his grasp.
"I can take care of myself," she said coolly.
The gnomes flopped down where they stood. Uphill
tramping had considerably dampened their ardor for the
march. Against all advice, they rapidly drank up their mea-
ger water supply and were soon wishing for more.
"If only we could find a spring," said Wingover.
"Or if it rains, we could spread our blankets and catch the
water," said Sighter. "Well, Rainspot? Might it rain?"
The weather seer, lying flat on his back, waved one hand
feebly. "I don't think it has ever rained here," he said flatly.
"Though I wish to Reorx it would."
At his words, a wisp of vapor, no denser than steam,
abruptly formed over the exhausted gnome. The vapor
expanded, thickened, and turned into a small white cloud,
three feet wide. The gnomes and humans watched, speech-
less, as the white cloud went murky gray. A single droplet
fell on the motionless Rainspot.
"That's not funny," he complained. Rainspot's eyes
opened in time to catch the tiny shower that fell from his
personal rain cloud.
"Hydrodynamics!" he exclaimed.
The other gnomes crowded in under the little cloud, their
round, upturned faces ecstatic as the raindrops pelted them.
Sturm came over. He swept a hand through it and it came
out sopping wet. Then, as quickly and mysteriously as it

had come, the cloud faded away.
"This smacks of magic," Sturm said.
"I didn't do anything," Rainspot insisted. "I just wished it
would rain."
"Maybe you have the power to grant wishes now," said
Wingover. "Like Kitiara has gained strength."
The gnomes took up this theory and besieged their poor
colleague with a barrage of requests. Wingover wanted a rib
roast. Cutwood asked for a bushel of crisp apples. Bellcrank
wanted a roast pig and apples. Roperig and Fitter wanted
muffins -- with raisins, of course.
"Stop, stop!" Rainspot pleaded tearfully. He couldn't bear
so many demands at once. Sturm shooed the shouting
gnomes away. Only Sighter remained, staring at the weep-
ing Rainspot.
"If you can wish for anything, wish for a switch to repair
the ship with," he said sagely. The others -- Sturm and Kiti-
ara included -- were surprised by his wise suggestion.
"I-I wish for a new switch to repair our engine," Rainspot
said loudly.
"Made of copper," said Cutwood.
"Iron," muttered Bellcrank.
"Shhh!" said Kitiara.
Nothing happened.
"Maybe you have to use the same formula each time," said
Wingover. "How exactly did you wish for rain?"
"I said something about Reorx." Reorx, creator of the
gnomish race, was the only deity the gnomes worshiped.
"So try again and mention Reorx," said Sighter.
Rainspot drew himself up -- all thirty inches of him -- and
declared, "I wish to Reorx that we had a copper --"
"Iron."
"-- switch to repair our engine with!"
Nothing happened..
"You're useless," said Bellcrank.
"Worse than useless," added Cutwood.
"Shut up!" Kitiara snapped. "He tried, didn't he?"
"I'm sorry," the weather seer said between sniffles. "I wish
it would rain again. Then everyone would be happy." Hard-
ly had he said this than a new cloud formed over his head.

The rain poured down on Rainspot, making a puddle in
the red dirt of Lunitari. It seemed insulting somehow, as if
Reorx were teasing the gnome. Rainspot then did a rare
thing: He got mad.
"Thunder and lightning!" he cried. The cloud flasherd
once, and a puny clump of thunder sounded.
"Ha, some storm!" said Roperig.
"It proves one thing," said Sighter. "The limits of Rain-
spot's power. He can make it rain. That's all."
"Useless, useless," said Bellcrank.
"Shut up," said Kitiara. "Rainspot's ability is very useful."
The gnomes regarded her blankly. "We need water, don't we?"
As usual, once the gnomes were sparked off, they
embraced a new concept with exasperating enthusiasm.
Planks were torn off the sides of the cart and pounded into
the ground with Cutwood's mallet. Roperig ripped their
blankets into long triangles and sewed these together, leav-
ing a hole in the center of the resulting circle of cloth. The
edges of the blanket were nailed to the upright planks. One
of Fitter's canvas buckets was put under the hole in the cen-
ter of the blanket.
"Rainspot, sit in the middle and wish for rain," said
Wingover. Rainspot complied, and the water was captured
by the improvised funnel and led to the waiting bucket.
Rainspot sat on the soggy blanket, soaked and bedraggled,
wishing over and over for rain.
"I wish for rain." The cloud formed and sprinkled him.
"Wish for rain." Water ran in the bucket. The gnomes changed
buckets and filled it, too. "Rain," said the sodden, tired gnome.
Poor Rainspot didn't enjoy it at all, but he wished for plenty of
water to save them from the agonies of thirst.
"Happy to do my part," he said flatly when they finally let
him off the blanket, squishing in his shoes all the way.
"I wonder who will get it next," Wingover said as they
plodded into the first gully.
"Get what?" said Bellcrank.
"We seem to be acquiring new powers," Sighter said. "Kit-
iara's strength, Rainspot's rainmaking. The rest of us may
get new abilities, too."
Sturm pondered Sighter's claim. His dream (if it was a

dream) had been so vivid. Was it part of this mysterious
process, too? He asked Sighter if he could think of a reason
why they should be affected like this.
"Hard to say," said the gnome. "Likely, there is something
on Lunitari that has done this to them."
"It's the air," said Bellcrank. "Some effluvium in the air."
"Piffle! It's all due to the red rays reflecting off the ground.
Red light always has strange effects on living creatures.
Remember the experiments done by The-Clumsy-But-
Curious-Doctor-Who-Wears-The-Tinted-Lenses-In-
Frames-On-His-Face --"
"Hush!" said Kitiara. She held up a hand. The others
watched expectantly. "Do you feel it, Rainspot?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am. The sun's coming up."
A brace of shooting stars raced across the heavens from
west to east. The crests of the red hills glowed, and a subtle
ringing sensation filled the air. They all felt it. The line of
sunlight crept down the hillsides toward the shadowed
ravines. As the explorers watched, the soft, spongy cover-
ing of the hills writhed. Bumps appeared in the turf. The
bumps moved in an unpleasantly animal fashion, twisting
and swelling under the crimson carpet. The explorers had to
hop about to avoid the moving bumps. Then a single spear
of pale pink poked through the turf. It grew longer and
thicker, rotating in slow circles as it pushed itself toward the
sunlight.
"What is it?" breathed Fitter.
"I think it's a plant," Cutwood replied.
More pink spears bored through the ground and climbed
on wine-colored stalks. Other bumps erupted into different
types of flora. Fat, knobby puffballs sprang up and inflated
themselves. Carmine sticks popped after growing straight
out of the turf, and dozens of spiderlike flowers floated to
the ground from their ruptured stems. Toadstools with pur-
ple spots on top and lovely rose gills underneath emerged
and grew visibly as the explorers looked on. By the time the
sun shone fully into the ravine, every inch of the hillsides
was covered with weird, pulsating life. Only a narrow track
at the bottom of the ravine, still shadowed by the surround-
ing hills, was clear of the speedily growing plants.

"An instant forest," said Sighter.
"More like an instant jungle," said Sturm, observing the
clogged path ahead of them. He drew his sword. "We'll have
to cut our way through."
Kitiara drew her sword. "It's an insult to honest steel," she
said, eyeing the garish plants with distaste, "but it has to be
done." She raised her arm and slashed into the growth
crowding the path on the right. With her greater strength,
she had no difficulty hewing the pink spears and spider-
sticks cleanly off.
Kitiara stepped back. The chopped-off parts lay on the
ground, wriggling.
The stumps oozed red sap that looked amazingly like
blood. She noticed her sword was smeared with the same
fluid. Holding the blade near her nose, she sniffed.
"I've been in many battles," she said. "I know the smell of
blood, whether it be human, dwarven, or goblin." She
dropped the blade from her face. "This is blood!"
The gnomes thought this was terribly interesting. They
bunched together over the bleeding stumps, taking samples
of the bloodsap. Bellcrank picked up the shorn length of a
spiderstick. It popped, and eight white flowers burst out.
Bellcrank yowled in pain. Each tiny flower had ejected a
thorn into his face.
"Hold still," Rainspot said. With a pair of bone tweezers,
he plucked the thorns from his colleague's face.
The gnomes filled fifteen jars and boxes with specimens of
the Lunitarian plants. Sturm and Kitiara had a head-to-head
talk and opted to travel a little farther. If they didn't find
any ore by nightfall, they would return to the ship.
Steeling themselves, they started hacking. The plants
groaned and screamed; when severed, they bled and twitch-
ed horribly. After a mile of this, Kitiara said, "This is worse
than the massacre of Valkinord Marsh!"
"At least they don't appear to suffer long," Sturm said, but
the screams and blood were wearing on him.
The gnomes wandered through the path the humans had
cut, poking and sniffing and measuring the dying plants.
For them it was, as Cutwood said, "better than a train of
gears." The trail led down a broad draw. Being well shaded

from the low sun, there were fewer plants growing there,
and Sturm called for a break. Kitiara borrowed a bucket
from the gnomes' cart and filled it with rainwater. She
dipped a soft rag in the water and wiped the sticky bloodsap
Erom her blade. The sap dissolved easily. She lent Sturm the
rag and he cleaned his weapon.
"You know," she said, as he rubbed the sap off his sword
hilt, "I'm no coward, and I'm certainly no delicate lady who
faints at the sight of blood, but this place is disgusting! What
kind of world is it where plants grow before your eyes and
bleed when they're cut?"
"How's your sword arm?" Sturm asked. "How does it
feel? I noticed that you're not even breathing hard. Look at
me; I'm tired, as you should be, having swung a heavy
sword for more than a mile through that weird jungle!"
  "I feel fine. I feel -- strong. Want to wrestle?"
"No, thank you," he said. "I wouldn't like to trust a bro-
ken arm to gnomish medicine."
"I won't hurt you," she said mockingly. Kitiara's smile fad-
ed. She scraped a shallow line in the turf with her heel.
"What are you so worried about? We're alive, aren't we?"
"There are strange forces at work here. This new strength
of yours is not normal."
Kitiara shrugged. "Lunitari isn't my idea of paradise, but
we haven't done badly so far."
Sturm knew this was true. So why did he feel such fore-
boding? He said, "Just be wary, will you, Kit? Question
what comes to you -- especially what seems like a great gift."
She laughed shortly. "You make it sound like I'm in per-
sonal danger. Are you afraid 111 fall into evil ways?"
Sturm stood and emptied the sap-stained water from the
bucket. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of." He wrung out
the rag and left it to dry on a stone, then walked away to
speak with Wingover.
The empty canvas bucket sat by her boot. Where Sturm
had poured out the water, the turf was dark and slick. It
looked like so much blood. Kitiara wrinkled her nose and
kicked the bucket away. The toe of her boot split the fabric
and sent the bucket soaring over the tops of the pink and
crimson foliage.

Chapter  11
The Crusty Pudding
Plant
The trail wound between the hills in no particular
direction. Among the fast-growing plants, there was no
way for the adventurers to identify landmarks or remember
where they'd been. Sturm discovered that the path they had
made grew tall again after they had passed. The explorers
were virtually cut off in the living jungle.
Sturm halted the party finally and announced that they
were lost. Sighter promptly tried to find the latitude by
shooting the sun with his astrolabe. Even though he stood
on Sturm's shoulders, the sun was too low for him to sight
correctly, and he fell over backward trying. Fitter and Rain-
spot picked Sighter up and dusted him off, for he'd fallen on
a puffball and was coated with pink spores.

"Useless!" Sighter said. Spores got up his nose and mouth
and he coughed in fits and starts. "All I can tell you is that
the sun is setting."
"We've not had but four or five hours of daylight,"
Wingover protested.
"The position of Lunitari in the heavens is eccentric," the
astronomer gnome explained. Rainspot tried to dab the dust
from his face with a damp rag, but Sighter swatted his hands
away. "The nights are very long and the days very short."
"We haven't found any ore yet," Bellcrank said.
"True," said Wingover, "but we haven't tried digging,
either."
"Digging?" said Roperig.
"Digging," said Sturm firmly. "Wingover's right. Pick a
spot, Bellcrank, and we'll dig to see what we can find."
"Could we make supper first?" the tubby gnome asked.
"My stomach's so empty!"
"I don't suppose an hour will matter too much," said
Sturm. "All right, we'll camp here, eat, then dig."
The gnomes fell to in their cheerfully scatterbrained way.
Roperig and Fitter unpacked the cart in a very simple way:
they upended it. Fitter was buried in the mound of junk and
came out with his favorite clay kettle.
"Supper will be ready in a jiffy!" he said brightly. The oth-
er gnomes hooted derisively.
"Beans! Beans! Beans! I'm sick of beans," Cutwood said.
"I'm sick, sick, sick of beans, beans, beans."
"Shut up, you dumb carpenter," said Sighter.
"Ah-ah-ah," Kitiara warned, as Cutwood picked up a
mallet and tiptoed up behind Sighter. "None of that."
Fitter took a hatchet and chopped a plank off the side of
the cart bed. Sturm saw this and said, "Have you been burn-
ing pieces of the wagon all along?"
"Of course," said the gnome. "What else is there?"
"Why don't you try some of the plants?" said Bellcrank.
"They're too green," Wingover said. "They'd never burn."
"Start a fire with the kindling you've got and lay the green
plants on top. When the fire dries them out, they'll burn,"
Kitiara said.
Fitter and Cutwood scavenged along the trail and

returned with double armfuls of chopped Lunitarian flora.
These they dumped on the ground by the wagon. Fitter built
an arch of pink spear plants over the smoky fire. Within a
few minutes, a tantalizing aroma filled the air. The hungry
band surrounded Fitter.
"Fitter, my lad, I never would've believed it, but that bean
pot smells just like roast pheasant!" said Wingover.
"Your gears are slipping," said Roperig. "It smells like
fresh-baked bread."
"Roast venison," said Sturm, wrinkling his nose.
"Sausages and gravy!" Bellcrank said, licking his lips.
"I haven't even put the beans in yet," Fitter declared, "and
it smells like raisin muffins to me."
"It's those things," Rainspot said, pointing to the pink
spears. The parts nearest the flames had darkened to a rich
brown. The sap had oozed out and hardened in streaks
along the stalk.
Sighter picked up one spear by the raw end. He sniffed the
cooked tip, and very gingerly bit it. Chewing, his suspicious
frown inverted. "Pudding," he said with a catch in his voice.
"Crusty pudding, like my mother used to make."
The gnomes tripped over each other in a rush to try the
other spears. Sturm managed to save one from the first
batch. With his dagger, he sliced the roasted portion in two,
stabbed a piece, and offered it to Kitiara.
"It looks like meat," she said, then nibbled off a bit.
"What does it taste like to you?" asked Sturm.
"Otik's fried potatoes," she said, amazed. "With lots of
salt."
"A most unique experiment," Sighter commented. "To
each of us, this plant tastes like our favorite food."
"How can that be, if it's all the same plant?" Kitiara asked,
munching vigorously.
"My theory is it has to do with the same force that has
given you your strength and Rainspot his rainmaking abili-
ty."
"Magic?" asked Sturm.
"Possibly. Possibly." The word seemed to make Sighter
uncomfortable. "We gnomes believe that what is commonly
called 'magic' is just another natural force yet to be tamed."

The rest of the pink spears were rapidly consumed. For
their size, the gnomes were hearty eaters', and finished the
meal lying about the camp, holding their bellies. "What a
feast!" exclaimed Bellcrank.
"One of the finest," Roperig agreed.
Sturm stood over them, fists on his hips. "A fine lot you
are! Who's going to help dig now?"
"Nap first," Cutwood mumbled, wiggling around to get
comfortable.
"Yes, must rest," said Rainspot. "To ensure proper diges-
tion. And adequate relaxation of the muscles." Soon the lit-
tle clearing rattled with the high-pitched snores of seven sets
of lungs.
The sun sank rapidly below the hill. When the light
diminished to a deep amber glow, the tangle of plants began
to wither. Almost as quickly as they had sprouted with the
morning sun, they now shriveled. Spear tips dried and fell
off. The spider flowers curled up and bored into the soil.
The puffballs deflated. The toadstools crumbled into pow-
der. By the time the stars came out, nothing remained above
the ground but a fresh layer of red flakes.
Kitiara said, "I think' I'll stand watch for a while. Get
some sleep, why don't you, then you can relieve me later."
"Good idea," he said. Sturm was suddenly aware of how
very tired he was. Constant wonders had dulled his senses,
and hacking through the daylight jungle had worn him out.
He spread his bedroll beside the upturned cart and lay
down.
A full Krynnish day they'd marched, and still no sign of
any ore deposits. He wondered what would happen if they
dug into one of the hills and still found none. There was one
desperate measure that they could resort to: He and Kitiara
still carried their swords and armor. The gnomes could very
likely forge new parts from the steel and iron of these. But
he wanted that to be their last possible choice.
The air of Lunitari, never warm, grew chillier. Sturm
shivered and pulled his furry cloak up to his chin. The lining
was wolf fur. He and Tanis had hunted in the mountains of
Qualinost last winter and had done very well. Tanis was a
dead shot with a bow.

He heard the arrow's hum.
Sturm was on Krynn suddenly, and it was daytime,
though cold and overcast. He was in a forest, and there were
four men moving through the trees ahead of him. Two men
carried a third between them, his arms across their shoul-
ders. When Sturm got closer he saw why: the carried man
had an arrow in his thigh.
"Come on, Hurrik! You can make it!" the leader was say-
ing. Sturm couldn't see the fourth man's face, but he heard
him urging the others on. There was a crackle in the dead
brush behind him. Sturm looked back and saw dim figures
in white flitting among the trees. They wore wolfskin cowls
and carried bows. He knew who they were: the dreaded
Trackers of Leereach. Hired huntsmen who would track
down anyone or anything for a price.
"Stay with us, Hurrik! Don't give up!" the leader whis-
pered urgently.
"Leave me, my lord!" the wounded man replied.
The leader stood with his men. "I'll not leave you to those
butchers," he said.
"Please go, my lord. They will want to give me to their
master, and that will give you time to get away," Hurrik
said. There was blood on his armor. Sturm could see it
smeared across the man's coif.
The two men carrying Hurrik propped him against a tree.
They drew his sword for him and wrapped his fingers
around the grip. Sturm could see his face, waxen from loss
of blood.
The trackers stopped. A snickering whistle rattled
through the forest. The prey was turning, at bay. The signal
meant close in for the kill.
The leader, his face still hidden from Sturm, drew a long
dagger from his belt and put it in the wounded man's left
hand. "Paladine protect you, Master Hurrik," he said.
"And you, my lord. Now hurry!" The three unhurt men
ran away as fast as their armor would allow. Hurrik raised
his sword with pain-filled effort. A wolf's head parted a
stand of ripe holly. "Come out," said Hurrik. "Come out and
fight me!"
The tracker was having none of it. Coolly, he nocked an

 arrow and let fly. The broadhead found its mark. "My
 lord!" Hurrik cried.
   The  leader  paused  to look  back to  where his  comrade had
 died. Sturm saw his face.
   "Father!"
   He returned to Lunitari with that scream. Sturm was
 lying on his stomach, his bedroll in knots. Wearily, he  sat up
 to find Kitiara watching him.
   "I had a nightmare," he said, ashamed.
   "No," she said.  "You were  awake. I  saw you.  You've been
 thrashing  about  and  moaning  for  a  long time.  Your eyes
 were wide open. What did you see?
   "I  was -  I was  on Krynn  again. I  don't know  where, but
 there  were  trackers.  They  were  after  some  men,   one  of
 whom was my father."
   "Leereach  Trackers?  Sturm  nodded.  Sweat  stood   out  on
 his  lip,  though the  air was  cold enough  for his  breath to
 show.
   "It was real, wasn't it? he said.
   "I think it  was. This  may be  your gift,  Sturm. Visions.
 Like my strength, this is what Lunitari has given you."
       He shuddered. "Visions of what? The past? The future?
 Or am  I seeing  the present  in far-away  places? How  can I
 tell, Kit? How can I know?"
   "I  don't  know." She  combed  through  her black  curls with
 her fingers. "It hurts, doesn't it? Not knowing."
   "I think I shall go mad!"
   "No,  you  won't.  You're too  strong for  that." She  rose and
 came around the dying fire to  sit by  him. Sturm  refolded his
 blanket  and  lay  down.  These visions  which had  been thrust
 upon  him  were  maddening.  They  smacked  of  magic  and tor-
 mented  him   without  warning.   However,  Sturm   found  him-
 self trying to fix  every detail  in his  mind, going  over and
 over the terrible scene; there could be a clue to  his father's
 fate hidden in these specters. Kitiara laid a hand on his chest
 and felt the rapid beating of his heart.

 Chapter 12

                     Some of Our Gnomes
                         Are Missing

        The gnomes recovered from their post-prandial
 lethargy  and bounced  around the  camp, shouting  and toss-
 ing tools to each other.  Bellcrank found  a long  dowel and
 scratched a mark on the side  of a  hill. "There's  where we
 dig," he announced.
 "Why there?" asked Cutwood.
 "Why not?"
 "Wouldn't it be better to go to  the top  and drive  a shaft
 straight down?" suggested Wingover.
 "If  we  wanted to  dig a  well, maybe,  but not  when we're
 prospecting for iron," Bellcrank said. After lengthy discus-
 sion about such esoteric matters as geological strata, sedi-
 mentation,  and  the  proper  diet  of  miners,  the  gnomes

 discovered that all they had to dig with was two short-
 handled wooden scoops.
   "Whose are these?" asked Sighter.
   "Mine,"  Fitter  spoke up.  "One for  beans, one  for raisins."
   "Isn't there a proper shovel or spade in the cart?"
   "No,"  said  Roperig.  "Of course,  if we  had some  iron, we
 could   make   our   own  shovels   -"  Cutwood   and  Wingover
 pelted him with dirty socks for his suggestion.
   "If scoops are what we have, scoops it'll  have to  be," said
 Bellcrank. He offered them to Cutwood and Wingover.
   "Why us?" said Cutwood.
   "Why not?"
   "I  wish  he'd stop  saying that,"  Wingover said.  He shoved
 his sleeves above his elbows and knelt by the circle that Bell-
 crank had scratched in the turf. "Oh, rocks," he sighed.
   "You'd  better  hope  to  Reorx we  strike rocks,"  said Cut-
 wood, "else we'll be digging all day."
   The  gnomes  gathered  around  as  their two  colleagues fell
 to. The upper  layers of  flaky red  fluff were  easily scraped
 away. The diggers  flung scoopfuls  over their  shoulders, hit-
 ting  Sighter  and Rainspot  in the  face. The  gnomes withdrew
 to a cleaner observation point.
   Bellcrank  bent  down  and  grabbed  a  handful  of  the soil
 that  Wingover  had  tossed  back.  No  longer dry  and spongy,
 this dirt was hard, grainy, and damp.  "Hello," he  said. "Look
 at this. Sand."
   Sturm  and  Kitiara  examined  the  ball  of  damp  sand that
 Bellcrank had squeezed in his  small fist.  It was  quite ordi-
 nary sand, tinged pale red.
   "Ugh!   Ow,   here's   something,"   Cutwood    grunted.   He
 kicked  a  large  chunk  of  something out  of the  tunnel. The
 thing wobbled down  the slope  a little  way and  stopped. Fit-
 ter picked it up.
   "Feels like glass," he said. Sighter took it from him.
   "It is glass. Crude glass," Sighter said.
   More bits of glass came out of the hole, along with sand,
 sand,  and  more  sand.  Wingover  and  Cutwood   had  tunneled
 headfirst into the hillside and now only  their feet  showed in
 the opening. Sturm told them to stop digging.
   "It's no use," he said. "There's no ore here."

   "I  must  agree with  Master Brightblade,"  said Bellcrank.
 "The whole hill is likely one big pile of sand."
   "Where does the glass come from?" Kitiara asked.
   "Any  source  of heat  can melt  sand into  glass. Lightning,
 forest fire, volcano."
   "That's not important," Sturm  said. "We  dug for  iron and
 found glass. The question is, what do we do now?"
   "Go on looking?" said Fitter timidly.
   "What about Stutts and the others?" Kitiara asked.
   "Strip  my  gears,  I  forgot  about our  colleagues," said
 Roperig. "What shall we do?"
   Sturm said, "We'll go back. It'll be daylight  again before
 we  reach  the  flying ship,  and we  can harvest  some spear
 plants for Stutts, Birdcall, and Flash to eat. Once we're all
 together, we can repair the engine -" He regarded  Kit grave-
 ly. "- 'with  the iron  that Kitiara  and I  wear on  us. You
 gnomes  can  forge  our  arms  and armor  into the  parts you
 need." Murmurs of approval rippled through the gnomes.
   "Do  you  think I'd  allow my  sword, my  mail, to  be ham-
 mered  into  machine  parts?  With what  will we  defend our-
 selves? Scoops and beans?" Kitiara said furiously.
   "All we've used our weapons for so far is chopping
 weeds," Sturm countered. "This could be our only way
 home."
   Kitiara crossed her arms. "I don't like it."
   "Nor do I, but what  choice do  we have?  We can  be well-
 armed and marooned, or unarmed and on our way home."
   "Not a handsome choice," she had to admit.
   "You  needn't  make  up  your  mind  right   now.  Whatever
 you decide, we should return to the ship first,"  said Sturm.
 No  one  disputed  his  decision.  The  gnomes   prepared  to
 break camp.  Like their  unpacking, this  was a  brisk proce-
 dure.  Each  gnome  tossed  an  item  into the  righted cart.
 Sometimes  they  wrestled  over the  same item,  and Rainspot
 and  Cutwood  even  got  carried  away  and threw  Fitter in.
 Sturm pulled the littlest gnome out before he was buried.
   With a clear sky and  plenty of  stars, the  explorers were
 able to plot their way back to the plain of stones. Once they
 left the chain of hills, they beheld a  lovely sight.  On the
 southwestern horizon, a blue-white glow  lit the  sky. Within

 a  few  hundred  yards'  walk,   the  source   of  the   glow  was
 revealed  to  be the  world of  Krynn, rising  into sight  for the
 first.time since their arrival on the red moon.
   The party stopped to admire the great azure orb. "What
 are the fuzzy white parts?" asked Kitiara.
   "Clouds," said Rainspot.
   "And the blue is ocean, the brown, land?"
   "Exactly right, lady."
   Sturm  stood  apart  from  the  rest,  contemplating   his  home
 world.  Kitiara  peered  through  the  gnome's  spyglass,  squint-
 ing  one  eye  closed  and  bending far  down to  Sighter's level.
 When she was done, she went to where Sturm stood.
   "Don't you want to take a look?" she asked.
   Sturm  rubbed  his  newly  bearded  chin. "I  can see  it fine."
 The  bright  white light  of Krynn  caught on  his ring  and glim-
 mered.  The  emblem  of  the  Knights   of  Solamnia's   Order  of
 the Rose caught his eye.
   He inhaled smoke and coughed.
   Not again! The vision was upon him without any warn-
 ing."   Sturm  fought   to  stay   calm.  Something   always  hap-
 pened  to trigger  the experience  - first  the moon's  chill air,
 then the feel of his wolf fur  cloak, and  now the  light reflect-
 ing off his ring, the only real relic of his Solamnic heritage. It
 wasn't  his  father's  ring, but  his mother's;  Sturm wore  it on
 his little finger.
   A   high,   dark   wall   loomed  over   his  back.   Sturm  was
 standing  in  the shadow  of the  wall, and  it was  night. Twenty
 yards  away,  a  fire  burned. He  seemed to  be in  the courtyard
 of  a  castle.  Two  men  in  ragged  cloaks  stood  hunched  over
 the fire. A third lay on the ground, unmoving.
   Sturm  came  nearer,  and  saw  that  the  tallest  man  was his
 father.  Sturm's heart  raced. He  held out  his hands  to Angriff
 Brightblade for the  first time  in thirteen  years. The  old war-
 rior  lifted  his  head and  stared right  past Sturm.  They can't
 see  me,  Sturm  thought.  Was  there  a  way  he could  make him-
 self known?
   "We  should  not  have  come  here,  my  lord,"  said  the other
 standing man. "It's dangerous!"
   "The  last  place  our  enemies  would  look  for  us  is  in my
 own  sacked  castle,"  replied  Lord  Brightblade.   "Besides,  we

 had to get Marbred out of the wind. The  fever has  settled in
 his chest."
   Father! Sturm tried to shout.  He could  not even  hear him-
 self.
   Lord  Brightblade  squatted by  the man  on the  ground. His
 breath  had  frozen  on  his  beard,  making  it  as  white as
 Marbred's.  "How  do  you  feel,  old friend?"  Sturm's father
 asked.
   Marbred  wheezed,  "Fit  for  any   command  of   my  lord."
 Angriff  squeezed his  old retainer's  arm, stood,  and turned
 his back on the sick man.
   "He  may  not  last  the  night,"  he said.  "Tomorrow there
 may be only you and I, Bren."
   "What shall we do, my lord?"
   Lord  Brightblade  reached  under  the  tattered  layers  of
 cloak  and  blankets that  hung from  his broad  shoulders. He
 unbuckled his  belt and  brought out  his sword  and scabbard.
 "I will not allow this blade, forged by the first of my ances-
 tors and borne with honor all  these years,  to fall  into the
 hands of the enemy."
   Bren  grabbed  Lord  Brightblade's  wrist.  "My  lord  - you
 don't intend - you can't mean to destroy it!"
   Angriff pulled six inches  of the  sword from  its covering.
 The fitful firelight caught on the burnished steel and made it
 glitter. "No," he said. "As long as my son lives,  the Bright-
 blade line will continue. My sword and armor will be his."
   Sturm felt as if his heart would burst. Then,  suddenly, the
 pain caused by  the scene  was replaced  by an  odd lightness.
 It stole into Sturm's limbs and, though he tried to  hold him-
 self in the  vision, to  keep everything  in sharp  focus, the
 image faded. The fire, the men, his father,  and the  sword of
 the  Brightblades  wavered  and  dissolved.   Sturm's  fingers
 clenched into tight fists as he tried  literally to  grasp the
 scene. Sturm found himself clenching the nap of  Kitiara's fur
 coat.
   "I'm all right," Sturm  said. His  heart slowly  resumed its
 normal rhythm.
   "You were very quiet this time," she reported. "You stared
 into space as if you were watching a stage play in Solace."
   "In a way, I was." He described his father's vigil. "It must

  be the present or the recent past,"  he reasoned.  "The castle
  was in ruins, but my father did not look so old - perhaps fif-
  ty years. His beard had not grayed. He must be alive!"
    Sturm  became  aware  that  he  was  lying  on his  back and
  moving.  He sat  up hastily  and almost  fell off  the gnomes'
  cart. "How'd I get up here?" he asked.
    "I put you there. You didn't look  as if  you could  make it
  on your own," said Kitiara.
    "You picked me up?"
    "With one hand," said Wingover. Sturm looked down.
  All  the  gnomes  but Sighter  were on  the poles  pushing the
  cart along. He suddenly felt  embarrassed' to  be such  a bur-
  den to his companions, and jumped off  the cart.  Kitiara slid
  down, too.
    "How long was I out?" Sturm asked.
    "Better  part  of  an  hour," said  Sighter, referring  to the
  stars. "The visions are getting longer, aren't they?"
    "Yes, but  I think  they're triggered  when I'm  reminded of
  something from  the past,"  Sturm said.  "If I  concentrate on
  the present, perhaps I can avoid episodes like this."
    "Sturm  doesn't  approve   of  the   supernatural,"  Kitiara
  explained to the gnomes. "It's part of his knightly code."
    Krynn  was  now  high  overhead,  and  the   terrain  around
  them was as bright  as day.  No plants  grew in  the brilliant
  light, however; all was cold and  lifeless under  the planet's
  clear glow. Sighter led his colleagues in another long discus-
  sion. Kitiara and Sturm were trailing behind the cart,"  so no
  one saw the ditch until the front wheels spilled into  it. The
  gnomes   on   the   front   pole   -   Cutwood,   Fitter,  and
  Wingover - fell on their faces.  Roperig, Rainspot,  and Bell-
  crank struggled  to keep  the heavily  laden wagon  from turn-
  ing over. Kitiara and Sturm rushed in and steadied the sides.
    "Let it roll down," Kitiara said. "Let go."
    Rainspot  and  Bellcrank  stepped  back,  but   Roperig  did
  not. The  cart bounded  down the  side of  the ditch  with the
  humans  running  alongside  and  Roperig   bouncing  painfully
  against the push-pole.
        "What's the matter with you?" Bellcrank said, when the
  cart halted. "Why didn't you let go?"
    "I-I can't," Roperig  complained. "My  hands are  stuck!" He

  wallowed  to  his  feet.  Dust  poured  from  his   pockets  and
  cuffs.  His  stubby fingers  were firmly  attached to  the push-
  pole. Rainspot tried prying his  colleague's fingers  free. "Ow,
  ow!" Roperig yelled. "You're tearing my fingers off!"
    "Don't be such a crybaby," said Sighter.
    "Cutwood, did you put glue on this end of the pole?"
  asked Rainspot.
    "Absolutely  not!  By  gears,  I would  never do  that without
  telling  him  first."  Cutwood's invocation  of the  sacred word
  'gears' proved that he was telling the truth.
    "Hmm." Kitiara drummed her fingers on the cart wheel.
  "Maybe it's more of this crazy Lunitari magic."
    "You mean I'll be stuck to this cart forever?"
    "Don't be distressed, master. I can saw this pole off," Fitter
  said. He patted his boss on the back consolingly.
    "Rot,"  said Bellcrank.  "If Master  Brightblade will  lend me
  his knife, I'll scrape your fingers off in no time."
    Roperig blanched. "You will not!"
    "Then we can saw very carefully around your fingers."
    "No one's going  to cut  or saw  anything," Kitiara  said. "If
  this stickiness is related  to my  strength or  Sturm's visions,
  then  you  ought to  give some  thought to  how it  works before
  you start hacking away on a fellow's fingers."
    "Quite  so,"  said  Sighter.  "Now,  could  it  be  more  than
  coincidence that we  acquire abilities  connected to  our life's
  work  I  Rainspot  makes  rain, Lady  Kitiara grows  mightier as
  a  warrior  -  and  Roperig,  master  of  cords and  knots finds
  himself  bound by  his own  hands. It's  as though  some subtle,
  yet powerful, force were enhancing our natural attributes."
    "Roperig  can  probably free  himself if  he wishes  to," said
  Kitiara. "Just as Rainspot can wish for his rain."
    "All  I  wanted  to do  was keep  my grip  when we  slipped in
  the ditch," Roperig said glumly.
    He screwed his eyes tightly shut and wished hard.
    "Harder! Concentrate!" urged Sighter. Cutwood whipped
  out  his  magnifying  glass  and  peered  intently  at Roperig's
  stuck  hands.  Slowly,  with  faint  sucking  sounds,  his hands
  peeled off the cart pole.
    "Ow,  ow!"   Roperig  whimpered,   waving  his   hands  about.
  "That stings!"

    The  cart  was  shoved  to the  top of  the gully  rim. The
 gnomes  passed  a  water  bottle around.  Fitter handed  it to
 Kitiara, who had  a short  swig before  offering it  to Sturm.
 He held it a long time, staring at the  ground and  not drink-
 ing.
   "Now what?" she said, taking the bottle back.
   "This  magic  worries  me.  Couldn't  we refuse  it somehow,
 give it back?"
   She  pushed  the  plug  back  into  the bottle.  "Why should
 we? We ought to get used to it, learn to control  the effect."
 Kitiara flexed a hand into a fist. She could feel the strength
 within her, like the  warmth of  sweet wine  in her  veins. It
 was intoxicating,  that taste  of power.  She looked  Sturm in
 the eye.  "If we  return to  Krynn penniless,  weaponless, and
 armorless, I hope our powers remain."
   "It isn't right," he said stubbornly.
   "Right?  This  is the  only right  that matters!"  The water
 bottle exploded when she crushed it in her fingers.
   Little Fitter stooped to get the  glazed shards.  "You broke
 the bottle, lady," he said. "Did you cut yourself?"
   She  showed  him  her  undamaged  hand.  "A  lot  of  things
 may  get  broken  around  here before  I'm through,"  she said
 angrily.
   By  the hour  Krynn had  set on  the northeast  horizon, the
 explorers  were  more  than halfway  back to  the Cloudmaster.
 There  was  nothing  ahead  but  flat  ground, rocks,  and red
 dust.  They  trod  on,  the  humans  apart  and   silent,  the
 gnomes once more chattering.
   The  pilot  of  the  flying ship  walked slower  and slower,
 until finally he stopped.
   "Move  along, lad,"  said Sighter,  pushing Wingover  in the
 back. "Don't want to get left behind, do you?"
   "It's gone," announced Wingover.
   "What's gone?"
   "The ship. The Cloudmaster."
   "You're  plain  daft.  We're  a good  eight miles  away, how
 could you see from here?"
   "I don't know, but I can see the spot clearly," said
 Wingover. He squinted into the distance. "There's a big rut,
 some skid marks,  and a  few broken  crates lying  around, but

 the ship is gone."
   Sturm and Kitiara converged on the far-seeing gnome.
 "Are you sure, Wingover?" said Sturm.
   "It's gone," the gnome insisted.
   Sighter  and  the  other  gnomes  were  loudly  skeptical, but
 Sturm  ordered  them  to  quicken  their  pace. The  miles rolled
 aside,  and  still  Wingover  said  the  flying ship  was missing
 from its landing place. He described in  precise detail  the jet-
 sam  left  at  the scene,  and his  certainty infected  the party
 with  apprehension.  With  barely  a  mile  left  to  go, Kitiara
 could  stand  it  no  longer. She  broke into  a run  and quickly
 left the rest behind.
   Sturm  and  the  gnomes  plodded   on.  Kitiara   came  jogging
 back.  "Wingover's   right,"  she   said.  "The   Cloudmaster  is
 gone."   The   gnomes   immediately   surrounded   Wingover   and
 started poking his  face and  pulling at  his eyelids.  The gnome
 pilot  slapped at  the intruding  fingers, while  his colleagues,
 completely  forgetting  the  news Kitiara  had brought,  tried to
 discover the cause of his remarkable eyesight.
   "It's the Lunitari magic," Wingover said. "Leave me
 alone!"
   "Could  Stutts  and  company  have  repaired  the  ship  them-
 selves and flown away?" Sturm asked.
 Kitiara loosened her fur collar to let the cool air in. "There
 are tracks all over - little circular imprints - I think the ship
 was carried off."
   "Carried off?" said Fitter in awe.
   "Do you know how much that ship weighs?" said Sighter.
   She put out her chin and replied, "I don't care if  it's heavi-
 er  than  Mt.   Nevermind.  Somebody   or  something   picked  it
 up and carried it away."
   Sturm  said,  "Then  'they'  are  very  strong, or  very numer-
 ous."
   "Or both," said Kitiara grimly.

                       Chapter 13

                   The Walking Trees

       The sun shone over the fiels of stones where
 the  Cloudmaster  had  first  met Lunitari.  The exploration
 party ringed the site, gazing helplessly at the empty furrow
 in the ground. As Wingover had seen  from eight  miles away,
 the  flying ship  and the  three gnomes  who remained  on it
 were  gone.  The  landing  wheels that  had broken  off when
 they struck the moon  were the  only part  of the  ship left
 behind.  Aside  from  the  wheels,  there  were   two  empty
 crates, some bean sacks, and the remnants of a campfire.
 "Who could have done this?" Bellcrank asked.
 Cutwood  crawled  about  with  his  lens,  studying  tracks.
 Sturm kicked  through the  pitiful remains  of the  camp and
 said, "At least there's no sign of bloodshed."
 "Sixty," Cutwood  proclaimed. He  had dirt  on his  nose and

 in his beard. "At least sixty people were here.  They must've
 carried  the  Cloudmaster  away  on  their  shoulders, 'cause
 there are no marks of the hull being dragged."
   "I don't believe it," said Sighter. "Sixty  humans couldn't
 carry the Cloudmaster away on their shoulders."
   "Even  if  they  were  as  strong  as Lady  Kitiara?" asked
 Roperig. That gave them all pause.
   Kitiara  squatted  by  the trail  of footprints.  "No human
 feet  made  these,"  she  said.  "The impressions  are round,
 almost  like  the  hooves  of unshod  horses." She  noted how
 closely spaced they were,  too. "The  clumsy fools  must have
 been treading on each others' heels! We'll  have to  go after
 them. Track them down and get the ship back."
   "No  question  about  it," said  Sturm. Kitiara  fished the
 whetstone out  of her  belt pouch  and sat  down to  hone the
 edges of her sword. Sturm gathered the gnomes together.
   "We're  going  after  your  colleagues," he  announced. The
 gnomes set up  a cheer.  Sturm waved  for quiet.  "Because we
 don't know how  much of  a head  start they  had, we  have to
 move as fast as possible. That means,"  he saw  the anticipa-
 tion in their faces, "each of  you can  take along  only what
 you can carry."
   That  threw  the gnomes  into a  tumult of  preparation and
 counter-preparation.  Before  Sturm's  eyes,  they  tore  the
 Four-Gnome-Power  Exploratory  Cart   to  pieces   and  began
 assembling   Single-Gnome   Exploration   Packs,    made   of
 wooden  slats  and strips  of canvas  and blanket  cloth. The
 packs strapped on like knapsacks, but  they towered  twice as
 high as the gnomes stood. This called for  all kinds  of sup-
 porting  straps  and cords  and counter-load  balancing. Soon
 each  gnome  staggered  under  a  complex  tent  of  wood and
 cloth, but  in the  end they  didn't leave  one bit  of their
 beloved equipment behind.
   Sturm  looked  them  over  and  groaned  inwardly.  At this
 rate, they would never find the  Cloudmaster, never  get back
 to Krynn, and never find his father. He wanted to rail at the
 little men,  but he  knew it  would do  no good.  Gnomes pro-
 ceed  at  their  own  rate,  awkwardly  and  haphazardly, but
 they do proceed.
   Sighter waddled past, scribbling his notes under a creak-

 ing  canopy  of  canvas. "I'm  starting a  new log,"  he said,
 swaying  from  side to  side. The top  of his  exploration pack
 just  missed  Sturm's nose.  'This is  no longer  the Lunitari
 Exploratory  March."  He  walked  on.  Wingover  puffed  along
 behind him.
   "Now  we  are  the  Lunitari  Flying  Ship  Rescue Mission,"
 Wingover said.
   The trail was wide  and plain,  and as  far as  anyone could
 tell, no effort had been made to hide it. Either those who had
 captured the flying  ship were  not very  smart, or  else they
 thought  Stutts,  Birdcall, and  Flash were  the only  crew on
 board.
   Kitiara  and  Wingover  moved  out  ahead  of the  rest. She
 tested his long-distance vision by  having the  gnome describe
 arrangements  of rocks  from as  far away  as six  miles. Poor
 Wingover got a terrific headache, and his  short legs  were no
 match for Kitiara's long, powerful stride". She shouldered his
 exploratory  pack (its  straps were  strained to  the bursting
 point) and  lifted him  by the  coat collar.  Tucking Wingover
 under her arm, Kitiara  took to  sprinting far  ahead, relying
 on  the  gnome's far-seeing  to keep  them from  getting lost.
 The trail carried on in an unswerving line due west.
   Sturm   plodded   along   with   the   overburdened  gnomes.
 They  marched on  both sides  of the  trail, arguing  over the
 reasons for Wingover's  gift of  far-seeing. Sturm  shaded his
 eyes  from the  sun and  looked at  the footprints.  They were
 strikingly  regular  circular  depressions  in  five  distinct
 columns.  He  said  to  Bellcrank,  "Don't  these  prints seem
 strange to you?"
   "Undoubtedly,  yes,  Master  Brightblade,  as we've  seen no
 animal  life  since  arriving  on the  red moon,"  replied the
 gnome.
   "Exactly!  Have  you  noticed  how  very  precise  the foot-
 prints are? All of them are perfectly aligned."
   "I don't follow."
   "Even  a gaited  horse will  have a  little jog,  a sideways
 motion now and then that distinguishes its track."
   "A  machine!"  Bellcrank  exclaimed.   "Master  Brightblade,
 you've  done  it! "Bellcrank  grasped  Roperig by  his lapels.
 "Don't  you  see,  what  else  could  pick up  the Cloudmaster

 and carry it off but another machine!"
   "By Reorx, I hadn't thought of that," said  Roperig. Fitter
 rattled to Rainspot and told him Bellcrank's theory. The idea
 then  leaped  the  trail  to where  Cutwood and  Sighter were
 walking. Sighter pooh-poohed the notion.
   "That doesn't  solve a  thing!" he  said. "Where  there's a
 machine, there has to be a machine-maker, yes?"
   Bellcrank opened his mouth  to vent  his opinion,  but just
 then  Kitiara  and Wingover  came running  at them.  The war-
 rior woman carried the  gnome under  her arm  like a  loaf of
 bread.  Wingover's  head  bounced and  jiggled each  time her
 heels  struck  the  ground. In  another situation,  the image
 might have been comic.
   Kitiara braced to a halt in front of Sturm. "There's a vil-
 lage up ahead," she said. She wasn't even out of breath.
   "Village? What sort of village?" asked Roperig.
   "A  village  village,"  said  Wingover  from  under Kitiara's
 arm. "There's some kind of keep in the center of the place."
   "Does the trail lead to this village?" asked Sturm.
   Kitiara shook her head. "It veers off to the  north, avoid-
 ing it completely."
   "We  ought to  inspect this  village," Cutwood  called from
 thirty yards away. Sturm and the others  looked at  each oth-
 er, then at Cutwood.
   "Can  you  hear  what  we're  saying?"  said Wingover  in a
 bare whisper.
   "Well  certainly! Do  you think  I'm deaf?"  Cutwood yelled
 back. Sighter tapped him on the shoulder.
   "I can't hear  them," he  said. He  grabbed Cutwood  by the
 ears and turned his head from side to side, peering  into the
 carpenter's ears. "Everything looks  normal," he  said. "Does
 my voice sound loud to you?"
   "It does when you yell from an inch away!"
   Sighter  took  Cutwood  by  the  hand  to where  the others
 stood.  "It's  happened  again,"  he  reported.  "Cutwood can
 hear  normal  conversation  from  thirty  yards  away,  maybe
 more."
   "Really? This calls for some tests," said Rainspot. He low-
 ered his pack to the ground and tried to  disentangle himself
 from the cords and straps.

    "Never  mind!"  Kitiara  said.  "What do  we do  about the
 village'?"
    "How close will we  have to  pass if  we follow  the trail?"
 Sturm queried.
    "Spitting distance."
    He squinted into the  sky. "Half  the day's  gone. If  we start
 now, we can be past the village before  nightfall and  not lose
 the trail." Sighter grumbled about the  human's lack  of scien-
 tific  curiosity,  but  no  gnome  seriously  considered  going
 against Sturm's plan.
   Sturm  formed  the  party  single  file  and  sternly  admon-
 ished the gnomes  to keep  quiet. "I  feel trouble  coming," he
 said.  "A  keep  means  a  lord  of  some  kind,  and  probably
 armed retainers. If," he added, "if this world is anything like
 Krynn."
   Looking straight ahead, Kit said, "Are you afraid?"
   "Afraid,  no.  Concerned,  yes.  Our  stay  here  has never
 been  more  precarious.  A  pitched  battle could  destroy us
 even if we win."
   "That's the difference between us, Sturm.  You fight  to pre-
 serve order and honor; I fight for myself. If trouble  is brew-
 ing, the only thing to do is come out on top."
   -No matter what happens to the rest of us?"
   He scored a touch.  Kitiara's eyes  flashed. "I  have never
 changed sides in a battle,  nor betrayed  a friend!  The little
 men  need  our  protection,  and  I'll  shed  my last  drops of
 blood defending them. You've no right to imply otherwise!"
   Sturm  walked  on  silently  for  a  moment, then  said, "I'm
 sorry, Kit. It's becoming harder for  me to  know your  mind. I
 think  this magical  strength you've  gained has  affected your
 outlook."
   "My mind, you mean."
   "Trust you to say it the most brutal way."
   "Life is brutal, and so are facts."
   At the rear of the column, Cutwood could hear every-
 thing, and he said, "I think they're mad at each other."
   "Shows   how   much  you   know,"  Sighter   replied.  "Human
 males  and  females  always  act  strangely toward  each other.
 They never want their true feelings to show."
   "Why is that?"

    "Because   they   don't   want   to  seem   vulnerable.  Humans
  have a lot of this attitude called 'pride,' which is sort of like
  the  satisfaction  you  get  when  your  machine   performs  cor-
  rectly.  Pride makes  them act  contrary to  the way  they really
  feel."
    "That's silly!"
    Sighter  shrugged  under  his  towering  pack  and  almost fell
  down.  "Unh!  By  Reorx!  Of  course  it's  silly, and  these two
  humans  have  especially  bad  cases  of  pride, which  means the
  fiercer they act and  the louder  they yell,  the more  they care
  about each other."
    Cutwood  was  dazzled  by  his  colleague's   understanding  of
  human   behavior.   "Where   did   you   learn   so   much  about
  humans?" he said.
    "I  listen   and  learn,"   said  Sighter,   very  ungnomishly.
  Though  he didn't  yet realize  it, that  was the  change wrought
  in  Sighter  by  the  magic  of  Lunitari.  From   an  intuitive,
  impetuous   gnome,   he   had   become  a   logical,  thoughtful,
  deductive  gnome,  a  creature  that  had  never  before existed.

 * * * * *

    The  field  of  stones was  largely barren  of plants,  even by
  day,  so  the first  sign the  marchers had  that they  were near
  the  village   was  when   stands  of   scarlet-capped  mushrooms
  seven  feet  tall  appeared,  growing  in  neat rows  between two
  low  stone  walls.  Roperig  picked  a section  of wall  apart to
  study;  it  was  simply  made  of  loose  rocks  stacked  conven-
  iently together. "Very primitive," was his disdainful verdict.
    The   mushroom  orchard   served  to   screen  them   from  the
  village  itself.  Sturm,  Kitiara,  Wingover,  and  Cutwood crept
  through  the  rows  of  fungus to  the very  edge of  the settle-
  ment.
    By  Krynnish  standards,  it  wasn't much  of a  village. There
  weren't  any houses  at all,  just a  series of  concentric stone
  walls about waist high, plus  a few  cribs filled  with harvested
  food.  The  only  full-scale  structure  was  the keep,  a squat,
  single-story,  windowless  block  in  the  center of  the village
  walls.  A lone  pole stuck  up from  the keep,  and a  dirty gray
  banner hung limply from it.

     "Not exactly the golden halls of Silvanost, is it?" said Kiti-
  ara.  To  the gnomes,  she said,  "Can you  hear or  see anything
  stirring  down  there?"  Wingover   could  see   nothing  moving.
  Cutwood squinted one eye shut and listened hard.
     "I  hear  footsteps,"  he  said  uncertainly,  "pretty  faint.
  Someone's walking around inside the keep."
    "Fine. Let's bypass this place," said Sturm.
    The other gnomes waited patiently on the other side,
  chattering in whispers. When Wingover, Cutwood, and the
  humans returned, they shouldered their lofty  packs and
  formed a single file again.
    "The  village  looks  deserted,"  Sturm  said. "So  we're going
  past it. Be quiet anyway."
    The  trail  of  the  Cloudmaster  bent  away  from  the village
  just  beyond  the  walls  of  the   mushroom  orchard.   As  they
  rounded  the  tall  red  stalks,  Kitiara,  who was  leading, saw
  that the path was lined on either side by tall, leafless trees.
    "Odd," she said. "Those weren't there before."
    "Did  they  grow  up  suddenly, like  the other  plants?" asked
  Roperig. Kitiara shook her head and drew her sword.
  v'  The  trees  stood about  seven feet  high. Their  trunks were
  graduated  in  bands  of  color,   ranging  from   deep  burgundy
  red at the base  to the  lightest of  pinks at  their rounded-off
  tops. All had branches that grew out and bent down.
    "Ugliest  trees I  ever saw,"  said Cutwood.  He left  the line
  long  enough  to  chip a  piece of  the flaky  bark off  with his
  Twenty  Tool  Pocket  Kit.  He  was  examining  the  fleshy  gray
  wood  when  the  tree's  left  branch  flexed  and   swatted  the
  specimen from his hand.
    "Hey!" he said. "The tree hit me!"
    The double row of trees launched into motion. They
  pulled  their  roots  out of  the ground  and freed  their limbs.
  Black  dishlike  eyes  opened  in the  trunks, and  ragged mouths
  split apart.
    Sturm  grabbed  for  his  hilt.  The  gnomes  bunched together
  between him and Kitiara.
    "Suffering   bloodstained   gods!   What  are   these  things?"
  Kitiara exclaimed.
    "Unless  I'm  gravely  mistaken,   these  are   our  villagers.
  They  were  expecting  us,"  Sturm  replied,  keeping the  tip of

 his sword moving back and forth to discourage the tree-
 things.
   The tree-folk emitted a  series of  deep hooting  sounds, like
 a  chorus  of  rams'  horns. From recesses  in their  own bodies
 they  produced  an  array  of swords  and spears  - all  made of
 clear  red  glass. The  tree-folk closed  the circle  around the
 besieged band.
   "Be ready," Kitiara  said, her  voice taut  with anticipation.
 "When we break through them, everybody run."
   "Run where?" asked Fitter tremulously.
   One  tree-man,  the  tallest of  the lot,  broke ranks  with its
 fellows  and  advanced. It  did not  actually walk.  Rather, the
 tangle of roots that  made up  its feet  flexed and  carried the
 creature  forward.  The  tree-man  raised  its  crude,  hiltless
 glass sword in one bark-covered hand and hooted loudly.
   "Yah!"  Kitiara  sprang forward  and cut  at the  glass blade.
 She knocked it  aside and  swung again,  this time  striking the
 tree-man  below  its  left arm.  Her sword  bit deeply  into the
 soft  wood-flesh  -  so  deeply  that it  would not  easily come
 out.  Kitiara  ducked  the  return cut  by the  tree-man's sword
 and let go of her own. She  retreated a  few steps,  leaving her
 blade  embedded  in  the foe.  The tree-man  did not  appear too
 much discomforted by the yard of steel stuck in him.
   "Sturm, lend me your sword," said Kitiara quickly.
   "I  will  not,"  he replied.  "Calm down,  will you?  That crea-
 ture wasn't attacking, it was trying to speak."
   The  impaled  tree-man  regarded  them  with  wide,  unblink-
 ing eyes. In a raspy bass voice it said, "Men. Iron. Men?
   "Yes," said Sturm. "We are men."
   "And  we're  gnomes,"  said  Bellcrank.  "Pleased to  meet -"
   "Iron?"  The  tree-man  plucked  Kitiara's  sword   from  its
 flank, grasping it by the blade. He offered the hilt to Kitiara.
 "Iron, men -" She  gingerly took  the handle  and let  the point
 fall to the ground.
   "Men,  come,"  said  the  tree-man.  His  eyes and  mouth van-
 ished,  only  to  reappear  on  the  opposite side.  "Men, come,
 iron king."
   The  tree-man  reversed  direction  without   turning  around.
 The other tree-folk did likewise;  their eyes  closed up  on one
 side of their heads and reopened on the other.

   "Fascinating,"  said  Cutwood.  "Completely  saves  them  the
 trouble of turning around."
   "Do we go with them?" asked Rainspot.
   Sturm  looked  away  to the  trail of  the stolen  flying ship.
 "For now," he said. "We should  pay our  respects to  this iron
 king. Maybe he knows what could've taken our ship."
   The  tree-folk  made  straight for  the village  keep. Sturm,
 Kitiara,  and the  gnomes fell  in behind  them. Closer  to the
 village, they saw  signs of  damage to  the walls  and gardens.
 Something  had  battered  down a  long section  of wall,  and a
 crib  full  of  yellow  fruit shaped  like corkscrews  had been
 plundered.  Slippery  pulp  and  seeds  were splashed  all over
 the place.
   The  tree-men's  leader,  the  one  Kitiara  had  cut, halted
 before the door  of the  keep. The  gate consisted  of overlap-
 ping  slabs  of  red  glass,  hanging from  hinges of  the same
 material.  The  tree-man  boomed,   "King!  Men,   iron  come."
 Without  waiting  for  any  reply, the  tree-man leaned  on the
 gate,  and it  swung in.  The tree-man  did not  enter himself,
 but stood  back, and  with a  sweep of  his arm  indicated that
 the visitors should go in.
   Kitiara  slipped  in,  her  back  pressed  against  the rough
 stone  wall.  With  a  practiced eye  for danger,  she surveyed
 the scene. The interior was well lit,  as it  had no  roof. The
 walls rose ten feet and slanted in, but  no thatch  or shingles
 kept out the sun. The room  she'd entered  was actually  a cor-
 ridor, branching off  to the  left and  right. The  facing wall
 was  blank,  though  smoothly  plastered  with   gritty  mortar
 painted white.
    "It's clear," she reported. Her voice was taut and low.
 Sturm let the gnomes enter.
   "Man." Sturm looked  up at  the impassive  eyes of  the tree-
 man. "Iron king. Him." It pointed left.
   "I   understand.   Thank  you."   The  tree-man   tapped  his
 long, jointed finger on the gate and Sturm pushed it shut.
   "Our host will  be found  down the  left corridor,"  he said.
 "Everyone,  be  on  your guard!"  Kitiara moved  to the  end of
 the line, steeled for signs of treachery. The hall turned right
 and  widened. The  high walls  and lack  of ceiling  made Sturm
 feel as if he were in a maze.

   They  came  upon  an  unexpectedly  familiar  artifact:  a low,
 thick  door  made  of  oak  and strapped  with iron  hinges. This
 relic leaned against the wall. Fitter peeked behind it.
   "It doesn't lead anywhere," he said.
   "There's something familiar about it," mused Cutwood.
   "You silly loon, of course it's familiar. You've seen doors
 before!" said Bellcrank.
   "No, it's the style that's familiar. I have it! This is a ship's
 door!" he announced.
   "It's not from the Cloudmaster, is it?" Sturm said,
 alarmed.
   "No, this door is oak, the Cloudmaster's are pine."
   "Now how would a ship's door get on the  red moon?"
 Wingover asked rhetorically. Cutwood was composing an
 answer when Kitiara shooed him on.
   They  passed  more   debris  from   their  world:   empty  kegs,
 clay pots and cups,  tatters of  canvas and  scraps of  leather, a
 rusty,  broken  cutlass.  Some  coils of  rope were  identified by
 an  eager  Roperig  as  ship's  cordage  made in  southern Ergoth.
 Excitement   mounted   as   more   and  more   tantalizing  things
 cropped up.
   The  corridor  turned  right  again,  this  time  into   a  wide
 room.  There,  standing  by  an   overturned  wooden   chair,  was
 a  man.  A  genuine  man,  short  and  scrawny.  He   was  dressed
 in  a  dirty  tan  vest  and  cut-off pants,  rope sandals,  and a
 peaked  canvas  cap.  His  face  was  dirty and  his gray-streaked
 beard came down almost to his stomach.
     "Heh, heh, heh," rasped the man. "Visitors at last. I've
 been wanting visitors for a long, long time!"
   "Who are you?" asked Sturm.
   "Me? Me? Why, I'm the King of Lunitari," proclaimed the
 tattered scarecrow.

                     Chapter 14

                  Rapaldo the First

  "You  don't believe  me,"  said  the  self-proclaimed
 monarch.
  "You hardly conform to  the stereotypical  archetype," said
 Sighter. The king of Lunitari cocked his head.
  "What'd you say?" he asked.
  "You don't look like a king," Sturm interpreted.
  "Well  I am!  Rapaldo the  First, mariner,  shipwright, and
 absolute ruler of the  red moon,  that's me."  He approached
 the band in a nervous, hesitant shuffle. "Who are you?"
  The   gnomes   eagerly   pushed   themselves  up   to  King
 Rapaldo, shaking hands in quick succession and  rattling off
 the  shorter  versions  of  their  impossibly   long  names.
 Rapaldo's eyes glazed over from the barrage.
 Sturm cleared his throat and gently steered Fitter, the last

 gnome,  away  from  the  bewildered  man.  "Sturm  Brightblade
 of Solamnia," he said of himself.
      Kitiara stepped forward and pushed back her fur collar.
 Rapaldo gasped aloud. "Kitiara Uth Matar," she said.
   "L-Lady,"  Rapaldo  stammered. "I  have not  seen a  real lady
 in many, many years."
   "I'm  not sure  you're seeing  one now,"  Kitiara said  with a
 laugh.  Rapaldo  gently  took  her hand.  He held  it carefully,
 looking  at  the  back  and  palm with  embarrassing intentness.
 Kitiara's  hands  were not  refined or  delicate. They  were the
 strong,  supple hands  of a  warrior. Rapaldo's  reverent inter-
 est amused her.
   As  if  suddenly  aware  that  he  was being  foolish, Rapaldo
 dropped  Kitiara's  hand  and  drew  himself  up  to   his  full
 height  -  not  much  more  than  five  and  a  half feet  - and
 announced,  "If  you  would  follow  me  to  the  royal audience
 hall, I'll hear the story of your coming here, and tell the tale
 of  my  own  shipwreck."   He  went   back  to   his  overturned
 chair and righted it. "This way," said the king of Lunitari.
   They  followed  Rapaldo  through  a  series  of  mostly  empty
 rooms,  all  open to  the sky.  What furniture  there was  had a
 nautical cast to it, here a seaman's chest, there a  railed cap-
 tain's  chair.  Other  bits  of ship  were hung  on the  wall. A
 brass hawse pipe  liner, some  loops of  anchor chain,  a lathe-
 turned rail studded with iron spikes.
   Bellcrank  tugged  on  Sturm's  sleeve.  "Metal,"  he  whis-
 pered. "Lots of it."
   "I see it," Sturm said calmly.
   "This way. This way," Rapaldo said, gesturing.
   The  very  center  of  the  keep  was  the  audience  hall,  a
 square  room  ten  yards  wide.  When  Rapaldo  entered,  a half
 dozen  tree-men  snapped  glass  spears  to   their  nonexistent
 shoulders  in  salute. They  hooted in  unison three  times, and
 dropped their spears to a ported position.
   "My palace guard," Rapaldo said with pride.
   "Are they intelligent?" asked Wingover.
   "Not like you and I are. They learn things I teach them,
 remember  orders,  and  such  like,  but they  weren't civilized
 when I first came here."
   At the  far end  of the  room, a  crude throne  was set  up, a

  high-backed  chair  mounted  on  a   thick  rectangle   of  ruby
  glass.  The  chair  had  obviously  been  cobbled  together from
  ship's timbers; the peg holes from the trenails were still visi-
  ble.
    Rapaldo  hopped  upon  the  glass   pedestal  and   picked  up
  his scepter from the  seat of  the chair.  He turned  around and
  sat down with a sigh,  laying the  emblem of  his office  in the
  crook of his arm. It was a broadhead axe.
    "Hear ye, hear  ye. The  royal court  of Lunitari  may begin,"
  Rapaldo  recited  in  a  high-pitched  voice.  He  coughed once,
  and  his  skinny chest  convulsed. "I,  King Rapaldo  the First,
  am present and speaking.
    "In  honor  of   the  unexpected   guests  who   have  arrived
  today, I, King  Rapaldo, will  relate the  marvelous tale  of my
  coming to this place." Roperig and Fitter,  sensing that  a long
  story was beginning, sat down.
    Rapaldo leaped to his feet.  "You will  stand in  the presence
  of  the  king!"  he  shouted,  punctuating  the  command  with a
  sweep  of  his scepter-axe.  The two  gnomes stood  with alacri-
  ty.  Rapaldo  shivered  with  fury.  "Those  who  do   not  show
  respect will be removed by the Royal Guard!"
    Sturm  flashed  Kitiara   a  knowing   look.  She   bowed  and
  said, "Forgive us,  Your Majesty.  We've not  been in  the pres-
  ence of a king for quite some time."
    Her  intervention  had  an  almost  magical   effect.  Rapaldo
  relaxed  and  sat  on  his  wooden  throne  again.  There  was a
  distinct  clink  as  he  did so.  Sturm spied  a glint  of chain
  around his waist.
    "Better,  better.  What's  a  king  without  subjects  who pay
  him respect? A captain  without a  ship, a  ship without  a rud-
  der?  Ta-ra!"  Rapaldo gripped  the arms  of his  throne tightly
  for  a  moment. "It's  been t-ten  years since  last I  spoke to
  another human being," he said. "If I rattle and prattle,  lay it
  to that fact."
    He  drew  a  deep  breath. "I  was born  the son  and grandson
  of sailors,  on the  island of  Enstar, in  the Sirrian  Sea. My
  father  was  slain by  Kernaffi pirates  when I  was but  a lad,
  and  the  day  the  word  came  home,  I  ran  away  to  sea.  I
  learned to use the axe and adze."
             Cutwood heard this and squirmed to comment. Sighter

  and Wingover both put hands over his mouth.
      "The trade of the shipwright built a man out of a boy, heh,
  heh,  and  as the  summers passed,  I stopped  going to  sea and
  stayed  ashore  on  Enstar,  making  craft  that plied  the wide
  green  ocean."  The  royal  axe  slid  down  to  Rapaldo's  lap.
  "Had  I  stayed  a  land-bound   shipwright,  though,   I  would
  not  now  be  the  royal person  you see  before you."  A frayed
  sleeve  slipped  off  his   bony  shoulder.   Absently,  Rapaldo
  replaced  it.  "I  would  not  now  be  on  this moon,"  he mut-
  tered.  "A  prosperous  ship  owner  named  Melvalyn   hired  me
  to  sail  with  him  to  southern  Ergoth.  Melvalyn  planned to
  buy  timber  to  build  a new  fleet of  merchant ships,  and he
  wanted  an  expert  along  to  grade  the  available   wood.  We
  were to depart from  Enstar for  Daltigoth on  the third  day of
  autumn,  an  ill-starred  day. The  soothsayer, Dirazo,  the one
  I  always consulted  for times  of good  luck and  bad, parleyed
  with  the  dark  spirits  and  pronounced  the  sailing  date as
  damned by the rise of Nuitari, the  black moon.  I tried  to beg
  off,  but  Melvalyn  insisted  the  voyage  begin   as  planned.
  Heh, heh, old Melvalyn learned what it means to disregard
  the omens! Yes, he learned!
    "Cold,  contrary  winds  from  the southeast  blew us  west of
  Ergoth.  We  tacked   and  tacked,   but  made   little  headway
  against  the  Kharolis  Blow. Then,  four days  out to  sea, the
  wind died. We were becalmed.
    "There's not a more helpless  feeling than  being at  sea with
  no  wind.  Melvalyn  tried  all the  tricks, wetting  the sails,
  kedging  with the  anchors, and  such like,  but we  didn't move
  enough to measure. The  sky sort  of closed  in on  us, fish-eye
  gray, and then the father of all storms broke on us."
    Rapaldo,  caught  up  in  his  own  monologue,  stood  abrupt-
  ly. He made swift, jerky gestures to illustrate his story.
    "The  sea,  it was  running like  this, and  the wind,  it was
  blowing  like  this -"   His  hands   swung  in   from  opposite
  directions  and  clashed  in  front  of  his  face.   "Rain  was
  screeching  over  the  deck flat  sideways. The  Tarvolina, that
  was  our ship,  lost her  topmast and  yards straight  away. And
  then,  and  then,  it  came  down   and  grabbed   us."  Rapaldo
  stepped  upon  his  throne  and  crouched,  his  head  ducked to
  protect himself from the memory.

    "What  was  it?" Rainspot  burst out  unwittingly. Rapaldo,
 waiting for this cue, didn't get angry this time.
    "A  waterspout,"  he said,  shivering. "A  mighty, twisting
 column  of  water  a  hundred  feet  wide  at  the  bottom! It
 sucked up the Tarvolina  like a  dry leaf,  and we  went right
 through the hollow middle of  it, up  and up  and up!  Some of
 the  sailors  got  scared  and  jumped  overboard.  Those that
 jumped  down  the middle  fell all  the way  back to  the sea,
 miles and miles, but those that hit the wall of twisting water
 ..." Rapaldo stamped  his foot  on the  chair. All  the gnomes
 jumped in fright. "They were ripped to  pieces. Might  as well
 have  jumped  into  an  ocean of  knife blades."  The metaphor
 seemed to please him, for he smiled. For all  his scruffiness,
 the king of Lunitari had a fine set  of straight  white teeth.
 "The waterspout carried us so high that the  blue went  out of
 the sky. Only six men out of the full crew of twenty  lived to
 the  funnel's  end.  The  waterspout  turned  inside  out, and
 dropped the Tarvolina upside down, here on Lunitari."
    King  Rapaldo  hopped down  to the  glass throne  base. His
 shaggy  eyebrows  closed   in  over   his  dark   brown  eyes.
 "Three   men  survived   the  shipwreck:   Melvalyn,  Darnino,
 the  navigator,  and Rapaldo  the First.  Melvalyn had  a bro-
 ken  leg,  and  died  not  long  after.  Darnino and  I almost
 starved, until we learned to eat the plants  that grow  by day
 and drink the dew that collects in the red turf at night."
   That's something we didn't know, Sturm thought.
   "Darnino and I stayed together until we met the Oud-
 ouhai,  the  tree-people.  The  tree-folk  had never  seen men
 before,  and  they  took us  for their  dread enemies  -" Here
 Rapaldo  paused.  He  peered at  each member  of the  group in
 turn.  "Anyway,  there was  a fight,  and Darnino  was killed.
 The  Lunitarians were  about to  kill me,  too, when  I raised
 my axe." He suited  the action  to the  words. "And  they were
 so   awestruck   that   they   proclaimed    me   oem-owa-oya,
 supreme ruler of them all and wielder of the holy iron."
   Rapaldo finished his story with a  giggle. Unmindful  of the
 guards  standing  nearby,  he  added,  "The  worthless savages
 had  never  seen  metal  before!  They  figured  it  must have
 come from the gods, and that I  was a  holy messenger  sent to
 look after them."

   "Have the  Lunitarians no  metal of  their own?"  asked Bell-
 crank.
   "There's no  metal on  the whole  bloody moon,  as near  as I
 can  tell,"  said  Rapaldo.  He  flopped  into  his  throne and
 adjusted  his  ragged  clothes with  extreme care  and dignity.
 "Now  I  would  hear  of  your  own  coming," he  said loftily.
 Wingover  started to  speak, but  the king  rapped the  side of
 his axe on the throne. "Let the lady tell it."
   Kitiara  unhooked  her  sword  belt  and  stood  the  weapon,
 in its sheath, before  her. She  leaned on  the sword  and told
 the  tale  of  how  she  and Sturm  had met  the gnomes  in the
 rainstorm, the flight to  the red  moon, their  expedition, and
 the theft of the Cloudmaster.
   "Heh,  heh, heh,"  Rapaldo laughed.  "You can't  leave things
 lying  about  unguarded,  not  even  on  Lunitari.  The Micones
 have taken your craft."
   "Micones?"
   "The  enemies  I  spoke  of. The  Oud-ouhai have  no preda-
 tors to fear, as there are no animals on Lunitari, only plants.
 But the Micones, when directed, are a plague indeed."
   "But what are they?" asked Kitiara.
   "Ants."
   "Ants?" said Sighter.
   "Giant ants," said Rapaldo. "Six feet of solid  rock crystal.
 The  magic  in  this  moon  gives  them the  power to  move and
 work, but they haven't got a single brain among them."
   "Who - or what - directs these Micones?" asked Sturm.
   The  king  of Lunitari  shrank from  the question.  "I've never
 seen it," he said evasively, "though I once heard it speak."
   Sturm  saw  Kitiara  ball  a  fist in  frustration. Rapaldo's
 quirky  behavior  was getting  on her  nerves. She  relaxed her
 hand  slowly  and  said as  evenly as  her temper  would allow,
 "Who is their mastermind, Your Majesty?"
   "The  Voice in  the Obelisk.  Some ten  miles from  my palace
 sits a great stone obelisk five hundred feet or more high. It's
 hollow,  and  a  demon  dwells  within.  It  speaks in  a sweet
 voice to  the Micones,  who live  in a  burrow under  the base.
 The  demon  never  comes  out  of  its  tower,  and  I've never
 gone in to see it."
       "And these Micones have taken our ship?" asked Sturm.

    "Did I  not say  it?" Rapaldo  answered sulkily.  "Two nights
  ago, a  host of  crystal ants  marched past  in the  dark. They
  tore down one of our walls to clear a path. Evil, I tell  you -
  they  could've  walked  around.  It must  have been  your craft
  that they were carrying."
    "Why didn't your warriors oppose them?"
    "Because they are  trees, after  all! When  the sun  sets, they
  root  themselves  where  they  stand and  feed all  night long.
  Only with the coming of  day can  they shake  off the  dirt and
  walk  about."  Rapaldo  popped  up again.  He directed  a glare
  at  Sturm.  "Your  manners  are  impertinent!  I  won't answer
  any  more  questions."  The  shrillness left  his voice  and he
  added,  "We  are tired.  You may  leave us  now. If  you follow
  the corridor to the right, you  will find  rooms you  can sleep
  in."
    Kitiara  and  Sturm   bowed,  the   gnomes  waved,   and  the
  group filed out of the audience hall. A tree-man led the way.
    "What did you think of that!"  Kitiara said  in a  loud whis-
  per.
    "Later,"  Sturm replied  softly. The  roofless walls  were no
  guarantee of privacy.
    Along  the   corridor  that   Rapaldo  had   mentioned,  they
  found a series  of niches.  Some were  filled with  more wreck-
  age  of  the lost  Tarvolina, others  were empty.  The tree-man
  indicated  that  the  empty  niches  were  their  "rooms," then
  departed.
    The  gnomes  shrugged  off  their  packs  and  set  to  work
  making  as  much  noise  and confusion  as seven  gnomes could
  make. Sturm pulled Kitiara aside.
    "I fear that His Majesty is a bit out of the  weather," Sturm
  whispered.
    "He's as crazy as a bug chaser."
    "That's another way to  say it,  yes. But  Kit, we  need him
  to take us to this obelisk, if that's where the giant ants have
  taken  the  Cloudmaster.  So  we'll  have  to  humor  his royal
  pose to keep his good will, at least till we leave."
    "I'd  like to  give him  a good  shaking," she  said. "That's
  what he needs."
    "Use  your  head,  Kit.  There   are  probably   hundreds  of
  tree-men  around, all  loyal to  King Rapaldo.  How do  we kill

 a tree'? Even  with your  increased strength,  all you  did was
 cut a chunk out of one of them."
   "You're right," she said. Her expression darkened. "I'll tell
 you  something  else:  He's  wearing mail  under those  rags. I
 heard it  clink when  he sat  down. There  are two  reasons for
 people  to  wear  mail  - when  they know  they're going  to be
 attacked,  or  when they  think they're  going to  be attacked.
 Mad  he  may  be,  but  old  Rapaldo  is afraid  of something."
 She tapped a finger on Sturm's chest. "I say it's us."
   "Why us?"
   "'Cause we're human, and we've got metal of our own,
 which  probably  confuses  the  Lunitarians  to death.  Most of
 all, we're younger, bigger, and stronger than His Majesty."
   "Oh,  let  him  be  king  of  the tree-men,  if he  wants. If
 Rapaldo's  afraid of  anything, it's  this mysterious  demon of
 the obelisk. Have any ideas about it?"
   "On  this  crazy  moon,  it  could  be  anything, but  if the
 demon's got Stutts and the  others with  the flying  ship, he'd
 better be prepared to give them over, or face a fight!"
   Fitter  appeared  with  two  steaming  bowls.  "Dinner," said
 the  gnome.  "Pink  spears  and  mushroom  gills  seasoned with
 puffball dust." Fitter handed  over the  bowls and  returned to
 his colleagues.
     They ate their food in silence for a while. Sturm said at
 last, "I've been thinking about when we get back to Krynn."
   "Optimist," she said. "What were you thinking?"
   "If my visions so far have been true, then the first  thing I
 should  do  is  go  to  my ancestral  home. It  may be  that my
 father  secreted  his  sword  there  somewhere.  He   may  also
 have left me a clue as to where he was going."
   Kitiara idly stirred her pink  soup. "And  what if  you can't
 find it, or him? What then?"
   "I shall keep searching," he said.
   She set the bowl down on the ground between her feet.
 "How  long,  Sturm?  Forever?  Haven't   you  thought   of  any
 life beyond your  family? I  never faulted  you for  wanting to
 find  your  father  -  it  seemed  a worthy  cause and  a great
 adventure - but I see now that  there's more  to it  than that.
 You're not out to restore  just the  Brightblade name  and for-
 tune;  you  want  to  restore the  entire knightly  order." Her

 tone was derisive.
   Sturm's hands grew cold. "Is that such a terrible  goal? The
 world could use a force for good again."
   "These  are  modern  times,  Sturm!  The  knights  are gone.
 The  people  cast  them  off because  they couldn't  change to
 meet  the  changing  times.  There's  a  new  code  among war-
 riors: Power is the only truth."
   He stared at her. "Am I to give up my quest, then?"
   "Look  beyond,  will  you?  You're a  good fighter  and you're
 smart. Think of what we could do  together, you  and I.  If we
 joined the right mercenary band, in a year's time we'd  be the
 captains. Then the glory and power would be ours."
   Sturm  stood up  and slung  his sword  belt over  one shoul-
 der. "I could never live like that, Kit."
   "Hey!" she called  to his  retreating back.  Sturm continued
 down the corridor. The heat of fury filled Kitiara's heart. It
 surged  through  her,  and  she felt  an overwhelming  need to
 smash  something. How  dare he  be so  righteous! What  did he
 know  of  the  world,  the  real  world?  Sentimental, boring,
 knightly rubbish -
   "Ma'am?"  Fitter  stood  before  her, the  stew pot  in his
 hand. "Are you all right?"
   The  quickening  heat  in  her  limbs subsided  rapidly. She
 blinked  at  the  gnome and  finally said,  "Yes, what  do you
 want?"
   "You   were  pounding   on  the   wall,"  said   the  gnome.
 "Sprockets! You've cracked it!"
   Kitiara saw a spider's web of cracks radiating from  a shal-
 low hole in the  soft sandy  mortar. There  was white  dust on
 her knuckles. She didn't remember hitting the wall at all.

 * * * * *

   Rapaldo  the  First  watched  as  his  Royal  Guard  members
 slowed  to  rooted  immobility  and  froze  where  they  were.
 Their  eyes  and  mouths closed,  leaving not  a trace  in the
 ridged bark. Seeing  them this  way, no  one would  ever imag-
 ine that they could walk and talk.
      Rapaldo walked over and kicked the nearest Lunitarian.
 It hurt his toe,  and he  hopped backward  on one  foot, curs-

 ing the entire pantheon of Enstar.
   "Soon I'll be gone, and you'll have a new king," he  said to
 the unheeding tree-man. "Flown  away, that's  what, in  a fly-
 ing  ship  built by  gnomes! There's  a neat  trick! I  had an
 accursed whirlwind lift me to  this rotten  moon, and  they go
 and make wings  and fly  here on  purpose! Ta-ra-ra!  They can
 stay here, too. They'll stay behind, and I'll fly home."
   He  slipped  an  arm  conspiratorially  around  the tree-man
 and  whispered  to  him,  "I  could  take  the woman  with me,
 yes? She is very beautiful, though a bit too tall. If the king
 commands it, she will go with me,  yes? Yes,  yes -  how could
 she resist? I'll give the big fellow with the mustache to you.
 He can be the new king, Brightblade the  First. I  appoint him
 heir apparent, remember  that. For  all I  care, you  can make
 him a god. I shall fly, fly, fly away home."
   The  lengthening  shadows  crept  across the  royal audience
 hall.  Rapaldo stared  into the  darkest corner  and shivered.
 He grasped his axe and stalked to the middle of the room.
   "I see you there, Darnino!  Yes, it's  you! You  always come
 back  to  visit,  don't  you?  Dead  men  should   stay  dead,
 Darnino! Especially when I kill  them with  my royal  axe!" He
 charged  into  the  shadows,  throwing  the  axe from  side to
 side. The  heavy blade  clinked off  the rock  walls, striking
 sparks.  Rapaldo flailed  away at  the ghost  in his  mind for
 some  time.  Fatigue  chased  Darnino  away  more  surely than
 any of the king's axe cuts.
   "There's a lesson for you," he  said, panting.  "Trifle with
 Rapaldo the First, will you?"
   He  dragged  his  feet across  the hall.  By the  throne, he
 stopped,  ear  cocked  to  the open  sky. "Laughing?  Who said
 you could  laugh?" he  said. The  Lunitarians were  still. "No
 one laughs at the king!" Rapaldo cried.  He hurled  himself at
 the  nearest  Lunitarian,  chopping  fiercely  with  his ship-
 wright's axe. Chips of gray flew off  the tree-man,  who could
 not  resist  the  unwarranted   attack.  Rapaldo   yelled  and
 cursed  and  chopped until  the guard  was a  stump surrounded
 by scraps of broken wood-flesh.
   The axe fell  from his  hand. Rapaldo  staggered a  few feet
 toward his throne and collapsed, sobbing.

                     Chapter 15
                The King's Garden

   Sturm  awoke  to  a  tapping  on  his  nose.  He cnacked
 an eyelid and saw  Rainspot standing  over him,  his stubby
 forefinger poised for another tap.
   "What  do  you  want?"  he  rumbled. The  gnome withdrew
 his finger.
   "We're having a secret  meeting," whispered  Rainspot. "I
 can't find the lady, but we want you to take part."
   Sturm sat up. It was still night and he could hear hushed
 murmurs  from  the  gnomes down  the hall.  Kitiara's place
 was empty,  but he  wasn't too  concerned. Sturm  knew that
 she could take care of herself quite well.
   He tightened the lacings  on his  leggings and  went down
 the hall with Rainspot. The gnomes flinched in  unison when
 they appeared.

 "I told you it was them," said the sharp-eared Cutwood.
 "But you didn't say when they were coming," objected
 Bellcrank.
 "You should  learn to  be more  exact," said  Roperig. There
 was general nodding of small pink heads.
 Sturm  rubbed  his forehead.  It was  too soon  after waking
 to  jump  into  a  gnomish  conversation.  "What's  all this
 about?" he asked at normal volume.
 "Shh!"   seven  gnomes   said  at   once.  Wingover   waved  for
 Sturm to come to their level, so he knelt beside Sighter.
 "We're   discussing  plans   to,  uh,   abscond  with   some  of
 King  Rapaldo's  scrap  metal,"  said  Wingover.  "We'd  like to
 hear your ideas."
 Sturm was surprised at such tactics coming from the
 gnomes.
 "My  idea  is,  don't steal  from your  host," he  said bluntly.
 "Don't   misunderstand,   Master   Brightblade,"    said   Bell-
 crank quickly. "We don't want to steal from the king,  it's just
 that we haven't any gold or silver to pay him with."
 "Then  we  must   arrange  some   other  method,"   Sturm  said.
 "After all, we sorely need his help, and it will serve us ill to
 rob a potential benefactor."
 "Suppose he won't give us any metal," said Wingover.
 "We have no reason to be so suspicious."
 "His  Majesty seems  rather unstable  to me,"  Sighter said.
 "He's completely off his gears," said Fitter.
 "It's not  our place  to judge,"  said Sturm.  "If the  gods saw
 fit to take Rapaldo's wits, it's because he was so  lonely here.
 Imagine  being  on  this  moon  for  ten years  or more  with no
 one  but the  tree-folk for  company. You  should feel  pity for
 Rapaldo."  Sturm  looked  over  the  gnomes'  crestfallen faces.
 "Why  not  think  of  some  way  to  win   Rapaldo's  gratitude?
 Then he would probably give us the metal we need."
         The gnomes looked ashamedly at the ground. After a
 moment's  silence,  Wingover  said,  "Perhaps  we  could  invent
 something to cheer His Majesty up."
 Six  gnome   faces  popped   up,  smiling.   "Excellent,  excel-
 lent! What shall it be?" asked Bellcrank.
 "A musical instrument," said Roperig.
 "Suppose   he   doesn't   know  how   to  play   it?"  countered

 Sighter.
   "We'll make one that plays itself," said Cutwood.
   "We could give him a Personal Heating Apparatus -"
   "An automatic bathing device -"
   "- an instrument!"
   Sturm  stood  and  backed  out of  the newest  wrangle. Let
 them figure it out, he thought. It'll keep them  occupied. He
 decided to find Kit.
   He  wandered  along  the  corridor. By  night, the  way was
 dim  and  confusing,  and  more  than once  he walked  into a
 dead end. This place is a maze, he  decided. He  doubled back
 to what he believed was the main  corridor and  started again
 for the outside. There was a series of niches along the right
 again, but he didn't hear the gnomes.  The niches  were dusty
 and empty. It was not the same hall.
   At the end, the passage turned left.  Sturm swung  into the
 black  gap  and  immediately  stumbled  over some  dry sticks
 on the floor. He fell hard on his chest  and banged  his head
 against something solid that skittered away  when he  hit it.
 The object bounced  off the  wall and  rolled back  to Sturm.
 He heaved himself up on his hands. A wedge of  starlight fell
 across the open end of the  niche. Sturm  held up  the object
 that  he'd  knocked his  head on.  It was  a dry  white human
 skull. The 'sticks' he'd tripped over were bones.
   He went back  out into  the open  passage and  examined the
 skull. It was broad  and well  developed; certainly  a man's.
 The most disturbing feature was the deep cleft in the bone of
 the forehead. The man had  died by  violence -  as by  an axe
 stroke.
   Sturm carefully replaced the skull  in the  cul-de-sac. Out
 of reflex, he checked to see if his sword was hanging  in its
 scabbard. The cold hilt was reassuring to  his touch.  He was
 worried. Where was Kitiara?
        He bumped into Kitiara as she came skulking down the
 passage. She had a tousled, slightly wild look that  made him
 think she'd been drinking. But no,  ale was  hard to  come by
 on Lunitari.
   "Kit, are you all right?"
   "Yes. I am. I think."
   He  put  an  arm  around  her  waist  to  support  her  and

 steered her to a low stretch of wall, where they sat.
   "What happened?" he asked.
   "I  went  walking,"  she said.  "Rapaldo's gardens  take longer
 to vanish  after dark  than the  wild plants  we saw.  There were
 some  big  toadstools,   with  pink   spores  coming   out.  They
 smelled good."
   "They've affected you," he  said, noting  the light  dusting of
 pink on her shoulders and hands. "How do you feel I"
   "I  feel  -  strong. Very  strong." She  gripped his  free hand
 and squeezed his wrist. Pain raced up Sturm's arm.
   "Careful!" he said, wincing. "You'll break my arm!"
   Her  grip  didn't slacken.  Sturm felt  the blood  pounding in
 his fingertips. In her present state, it wasn't prudent to strug-
 gle. She might crush his arm without realizing it.
   "Kit,"  he  said  as evenly  as the  pain would  allow, "you're
 hurting me. Let go."
   Her hand snapped  open, and  Sturm's arm  dropped out
 like a dead weight. He massaged the bruised arm back to
 life.
   "You  must've  inhaled  those  spores,"  he  said.  "Why don't
 you go lie down? Do you remember the way?"
   "I  remember,"  she  said  dreamily.  "I  never get  lost." She
 slipped  away  like  a  sleepwalker,  making  unerring  turns and
 avoiding  all  the   wrong  passages.   Sturm  shook   his  head.
 Such  uncontrolled   strength  was   deadly.  What   was  happen-
 ing to her - to all of them?
   Then,  curious,  he  decided  to  see  those  mushrooms  from a
 safe  distance. He  went along  the path  Kitiara had  used until
 he  reached  the  outside  wall.   The  neatly   boxed-in  garden
 beds  were  empty.  No  trace  of  the  mushrooms   remained.  He
 stepped over  the low  wall and  dipped his  hand into  the ever-
 present  scarlet  dust.  Had  she  indeed  been  walking  in  her
 sleep?  Or  had  the  mushrooms  withered   in  the   short  time
 between  her  seeing  them and  his arrival?  The stars  and set-
 ting silver moon offered no clues.
   Sturm  noticed a  dull light  moving along  the gallery  on the
 north side of the  palace. He  cut across  the gardens  to inter-
 cept the light. It proved to  be His  Majesty, carrying  a weakly
 burning oil lamp.
   "Oh," said Rapaldo, "I remember you."

    "Good  evening,  Your  Majesty,"  said Sturm  graciously. "I
 saw your lamp."
    "Did you'? It's a feeble thing, but the oil I make is not of
 the best quality, heh, heh."
    "Your  Majesty,  I wonder  if I  might have  a word  with you."
    "What word?"
    Sturm fidgeted. This was as bad as trying  to talk  with the
 gnomes.  "My  friends  were  wondering,  Sire,  if we  might be
 able to get some scrap metal from you to  fix our  flying ship,
 once we find it."
    "You'll  never  get it  back from  the Micones,"  said Rapaldo.
    "We  must  try,  Sire.  Could  we  get  some  metal  from  your

 supply?"
    "What kind and how much'?" asked the king sharply.

    "Forty pounds of iron."
    "Forty pounds! Ta-ra! That's a king's ransom, and I
 should know. I am the king!"
   "Surely iron is not so precious -"
   Rapaldo hopped backward, the wavering lamp throwing
 weird  shadows  behind him.  "Iron is  the most  precious thing
 of all! It was the iron axe I carry that made me master  of the
 red moon. Do you not see, Sir  Knight, that  there is  no metal
 at  all  here?  Why  do you  think my  subjects bear  swords of
 glass? Every scrap of iron is a buttress to my rule, and I will
 not part with any of it."
    Sturm  waited  until  Rapaldo's  quivering  hands  had grown
 more steady.  He said,  slowly, "Sire,  perhaps you  would like
 to go with us when we leave on the gnomes' flying ship."
   "Eh? Leave my kingdom?"
   "If you so desire."
   Rapaldo's   eyes   narrowed.   "My   subjects   would   never
 allow it. They won't even let  me leave  the town.  I've tried.
 I've tried. I'm their link with  the gods,  you know,  and they
 are very jealous of me. They won't let me go."
   "What's to stop  you from  leaving at  night, when  the Luni-
 tarians are rooted where they stand?"
   "Heh,  heh,  heh!  They  would  hunt  me  down  by  daylight!
 They  move  very  fast  when  they  want  to, don't  worry! And
 there's  never been  anyplace else  to go.  The ants  have your
 craft and will not let you have it. The Voice has it now."

   Sturm said firmly,  "We intend  to ask  this Voice  to return
 our ship."
   "The  Voice!  Ta-ra-ra!  Why  not  ask  the  High   Lords  of
 Heaven to bear you home  on their  backs, like  birdies, tweet,
 tweet? The Voice is evil, Sir Knightblade; beware of it!"
   Sturm  felt  as  if he  were swimming  against a  strong cur-
 rent.  Rapaldo's  mind could  not follow  the course  of reason
 that Sturm had set out, but  there were  some nuggets  of truth
 in  what  he  said.  The 'Voice,'  if it  existed, was  a great
 unknown quantity. If it refused them,  their hopes  for getting
 home were destroyed.
   Sturm  made  one  last  attempt  to  persuade  Rapaldo. 'Your
 Majesty, if my friends and I can convince the Voice  to release
 our  flying  ship,  would  you  then  provide  us   with  forty
 pounds of  iron! In  return, we'll  carry you  back to  Krynn -
 to your home island, if you wish."
   "Enstar?"  said  Rapaldo, blinking  rapidly. Tears  formed in
 his eyes. "Home?"
   "To your very doorstep," Sturm promised.
   Rapaldo set the lamp on  the ground.  His hand  flashed to
 his hip,  and came  back gripping  the broad  shipwright's axe.
 Sturm tensed.
   "Come!" said Rapaldo. "I will show you the obelisk."
   He  padded  away,  leaving  the lamp  flickering on  the floor.
 Sturm  looked  at  the  lamp,  shrugged,  and followed  the mad
 king  of  Lunitari.  Rapaldo's  skinny,  rag-wrapped  feet made
 only  the  faintest  thumps  as  he  scampered ahead  of Sturm.
 "This  way,  Sir Brightsturm!  I have  a map,  a chart,  a dia-
 gram, heh, heh."
   Sturm  followed  him around  half a  dozen twists  and turns.
 When  he  faltered  or  felt uncertain,  Rapaldo urged  him on.
 "The obelisk is in a secret valley, very hard to find! You must
 have  my  map  to  locate  it!"  Then Rapaldo's  tread abruptly
 ceased, as did his lunatic cackle.
   'Your  Majesty?"  Sturm  called  quietly. No  reply. Careful-
 ly, Sturm drew his sword,  letting the  blade slip  through his
 fingers  to  deaden the  scrape of  metal. "King  Rapaldo?" The
 passage   ahead   was   violet   shadows  and   silence.  Sturm
 advanced into the darkness,  sliding his  feet along  the floor
 to avoid being tripped.

   Rapaldo   leaped   down  from   a  recess   in  the   wall  and
 brought  the  axe  down  on  Sturm's head.  His helmet  saved his
 skull from  the fate  of Darnino,  but the  blow drove  the light
 from his mind and left him laid out cold on the floor.
   "Well,  well,"  said  Rapaldo,   breathing  quickly.   "A  rude
 dint, I'm sure, and not at all fitting for the new king  of Luni-
 tari,  eh?  The  tree-men would  never allow  their only  king to
 fly away, fly! So I'll take the flying ship and lady, I will, and
 the trees  will have  their king.  You! Ha,  ha!" He  giggled and
 picked  up  Sturm's  helmet.  The  iron pot  had taken  the axe's
 edge with only a  slight dent.  Rapaldo tried  the helmet  on. It
 was  far too  large for  him, and  fell over  his eyes.  The mon-
 arch of the red  moon stood  over his  victim, spinning  the hel-
 met   around   his   head   with    his   hands    and   laughing
 ceaselessly.

                    Chapter 16

                  The Royal Axe

     The long night was almost spent when the gnomes
 dared wake Kitiara. She grunted with pain  and got  to her
 feet. "Suffering bloodstained  gods," she  muttered. "What
 happened? I  feel like  somebody's worked  me over  with a
 stick."
 "Are you sore?" asked Rainspot.
 She  worked  one  shoulder  around  and  grimaced. "Very."
 "I have a liniment  that may  be of  comfort to  you." The
 gnome searched rapidly through his vest and pants pockets.
 He produced a small leather bag  with a  tight drawstring.
 "Here," said Rainspot.
  Kitiara accepted the bag and sniffed the closed mouth.
 "What is it?" she said suspiciously.
 "Dr.  Finger's  Efficacious  Ointment.  Also known  as the

 Self-Administered Massage Balm."
    "Well, ah, thanks, Rainspot. I'll give it a try,"  she said,
 though  she  thought  it  more likely  that the  liniment would
 blister her skin than soothe her muscles.  She tucked  it away.
 "Where's Sturm?" Kitiara asked with sudden realization.
    "We  saw him  several hours  ago. He  was looking  for you,"
 said Cutwood.
   "Did he find me?"
   "How should we know? He told us we couldn't take any
 of  Rapaldo's  iron  without  asking  permission, then  he went
 looking for you," said Bellcrank peevishly.
   Kitiara rubbed  her aching  temples. "I  remember I  went for
 a  walk,  came  back  obviously,  but outside  of that  my mem-
 ory  is  dry."  She  coughed.  "So's  my  throat. Is  there any
 water?"
   "Rainspot  called  down  a batch  this morning,"  said Sight-
 er.  He  proffered  a  full  bottle to  Kitiara, and  she drank
 deeply.  The  gnomes  watched   this  process   solemnly.  When
 Kitiara  at  last  lowered  the  water  bottle,  Wingover said,
 "Lady,  we  are  unanimous  in  our  resolve  to  be  gone from
 here as quickly as possible.  We think  the king  is dangerous;
 also, the trail of the Micones grows colder as we wait."
   Kitiara surveyed the serious little  faces. She'd  never seen
 the gnomes so united and intent.  "Very well,  let's see  if we
 can hunt down Sturm," she said.
   Rapaldo  was  in his  audience hall,  flanked by  twenty tall
 tree-men   when   Kitiara   and   the  gnomes   arrived. He was
 wearing  Sturm's  horned  helmet,  padded  out  with   rags  so
 that it wouldn't fall over his eyes. The axe lay nestled in his
 arms.
   He regarded them  idly. "I  didn't send  for you.  Go away."
   "Cut  the  lip  wagging,"  Kitiara  snapped.  She recognized
 the helmet. "Where's Sturm?"
   "Do all of the women of Abanasinia have such bad man-
 ners? That's what comes of letting them carry swords -"
   She  drew  both  weapons,  sword  and  dagger,  and  took one
 step  toward  Rapaldo.  The  Lunitarians promptly  raised their
 glass  swords  and  spear.s  and  closed  ranks   around  their
 divine, though mad, king.
   "You'll never reach me," Rapaldo said, giggling. "It might

 be fun to see you try."
   "Your  Majesty,"  said  Sighter  diplomatically,  "what  has
 become of our friend Sturm?"
   Rapaldo  leaned  forward and  waggled a  bony finger  at the
 gnome. "See? Now  that's the  proper way  to ask  a question."
 He  slumped  back  in his  high chair  and pronounced,  "He is
 resting. Shortly he will be the new king of Lunitari."
   "New king? What's going to happen to the old one?"
 asked Kitiara with barely concealed fury.
   "I'm abdicating.  Ten years  is long  enough to  rule, don't
 you  think?  I'm going  back to  Krynn and  live among  my own
 kind as an honored  and respected  shipwright." He  licked his
 fingers  to smooth  back his  lank gray  hair. "After  my sub-
 jects take back the aerial  ship, you  all shall  remain here,
 except for whatever gnomes are  needed to  fly it."  He cocked
 his head toward Kitiara.  "I was  going to  take you  with me,
 but  I see  now that  you are  completely unsuited.  Heh, heh.
 Completely."
   "We won't fly you anywhere," said Wingover defiantly.
   "I think you will - if I order my  faithful subjects  to kill
 you off, one by one. I think you'll fall in with my plan."
   "Never!" said Kitiara. The rage was rising in her.
   Rapaldo looked up at  the nearest  tree-man and  said, "Kill
 one of the gnomes. Start  with the  littlest one."  The gnomes
 closed in a tight circle around Fitter.
   The  Lunitarian  came  at them  straight on.  Kitiara cried,
 "Run!"  and  moved  to  meet  the  tree-man.  She  parried his
 strong  but clumsy  cuts. Chips  of glass  flew each  time her
 steel blade met the glass one, but the haft of  the tree-man's
 weapon  was  so  thick  that  she didn't  think it  would snap
 without  a  direct  crosswise   blow.  The   gibbering  gnomes
 retreated in a body to the  door. None  of the  other Lunitar-
 ians deigned to bother them.
   She had managed  to pin  the tree-man's  point to  the floor
 and now she raised  her foot  and smashed  the glass  sword in
 two. The Lunitarian stepped back out of her reach.
        Rapaldo applauded. "Ta-ra!" he crowed. "What a show!"
      There were too many of them. Though she hated to do it,
 Kitiara backed out of the room with her blood boiling.
 Rapaldo laughed and whistled loudly.

    Out in the passage,  Kitiara halted,  her face  burning furi-
 ously  with  shame.  To  be  whistled out  of a  room -  what an
 insult! As if she were some juggler or painted fool!
    "We're going back in there," she said tensely. "I'm  going to
 get that lunatic woodcutter if I have to -"
    "I have an idea," said Sighter, tugging vainly at her trouser
 leg.
    "Suffering  gods,  we've  got  to find  Sturm! We  don't have
 time for a silly gnomish idea!"
    The  gnomes  drew  back  with  expressions  of  hurt. Kitiara
 hastily  apologized,  and Sighter  went on.  "As this  place has
 no  roof,  why don't  we climb  the walls?  We could  walk along
 the top of the walls and peer down into every room."
    Kitiara blinked. "Sighter, you - you're a genius."
    He polished his nails on his vest and said, "Well, I am
 extremely intelligent."
    She turned to the wall and ran a hand  over the  dry plaster.
 "I  don't  know  if  we can  get enough  purchase to  climb up,"
 she said.
    "I can  do it,"  said Roperig.  He pressed  his hands  on the
 wall  and muttered,  "Strong grip.  Strong grip."  To everyone's
 delight, his palms  stuck, and  he proceeded  to climb  right up
 the  wall  like  a  spider. The  gnomes cheered;  Kitiara hushed
 them.
    "It's all right," Roperig said from atop the wall. "It's just
 wide  enough  for me  to walk  on. Boost  Fitter up,  will you?"
 Kitiara hoisted Fitter up  with one  hand. Roperig  caught his
 upstretched  hands  and  pulled  his  apprentice up  beside him.
 Cutwood and Wingover were next.
    "That's  enough,"  said  Sighter. "We'll  stay with  the lady
 and divert the king's attention. You find Sturm."
    The four gnomes on  the wall  set off.  Kitiara went  back to
 the  entry  of  the  audience  hall,  banging  sword  and dagger
 together  for  attention.  Bellcrank  and  Sighter  stood  close
 behind her, filling the doorway.
              'You're back. Happy, happy to see you!" exclaimed
 Rapaldo, who was still hooting from his roost.
    "We want to negotiate,"  Kitiara said.  It was  galling, even
 if it was a lie.
    "You  touched  me  with  your  sword,"  Rapaldo   said  petu-

 lantly. "That's treason, impious blasphemy and treason.
 Throw your sword into the hall where I can see it."
    "I won't give up my sword, not while I still live."
    "Really? The king will see about that!" Rapaldo hooted
 some  words  in  the  Lunitarians'  language.  The guards  in the
 room  took  up  the  message  and  repeated  it again  and again,
 louder   and   louder.  Soon   thousands  outside   were  hooting
 the words.
    Roperig  and  the  others  could  hear  the  tree-men  take up
 Rapaldo's  chant  as  they  fairly  flew  over  the  narrow  wall
 tops,  peeking  into  every  room  in  the  keep'.   Cutwood,  of
 course,  stopped  to  make notes  of the  contents of  every room
 and  passage,  while  Wingover  kept  probing the  distant vistas
 instead  of  searching  the  nearer  rooms  below.   Only  Fitter
 ' took his task to heart. The little gnome raced along  at blind-
 ing  speed,  running,  leaping,  searching.  He  doubled  back to
 his panting boss.
    "Where did you learn to run so fast?" Roperig gasped.
    "I don't know. Haven't I always run this way?"
    "No indeed!"
    "Oh!  The  magic  has gotten  to me  at last!"  Fitter flashed
 along  the  wall,  sidestepping  Cutwood,  who  was in  the midst
 of  compiling  his  umpteenth   catalog.  Cutwood,   startled  by
 the speedy Fitter, lost his balance and fell.
    "Oof!"  said  Sturm  as  the forty-pound  gnome landed  in his
 lap. "Cutwood! Where did you come from?"
    "Sancrist."  He  called out  to Roperig,  and the  other three
 gnomes quickly found them.
    "My  hands  are  bound,"  Sturm explained.  He was  sitting in
 an  old  chair,  and  his  feet  were  tied  to  the  chair legs.
 "Rapaldo took my knife."
    "The lady has the dagger," said Roperig.
    "I'll get it!" said Fitter, and in an instant he was gone.
    Sturm  blinked.  "I  know  I've  got  the  grandfather  of all
 headaches,  but  our  friend Fitter  seems to  me to  have gotten
 awfully fast since last I saw him."
    "Here  it  is!" called  Fitter. He  dropped the  dagger, point
 first.  Cutwood  picked  it  up  and   started  sawing   away  at
 Sturm's  bonds.  The  dagger  was  made  for thrusting,  not cut-
 ting, and didn't have much of an edge.

   "Hurry,"  said  Fitter  breathlessly.  "The  others are  in big
 trouble."
   "What are we in, a pleasant daydream?" Cutwood said
 sourly.
   "Don't talk, cut," said Sturm.
   'Trouble' was a mild word for what Kitiara and the two
 gnomes were  facing. Scores  of Lunitarians  had filled  the cor-
 ridor  behind  them,  and  guards  from  the  audience  hall  had
 seized  each of  them. Rapaldo  strutted in  front of  them, tap-
 ping the back of the axe head against the palm of his hand.
    "Treasonous  piglets,"  he  said  imperiously.  "You  are  all
 worthy  of  death.  The  question  is, who  shall feel  the royal
 axe first?"
    "Kill me, you witless scab; at least then I won't have to lis-
 ten to you spout  on like  the gibbering  swabby you  are," Kiti-
 ara  said.  She  was  held  by  no  fewer  than  seven  tree-men.
 Their  wooden  limbs   were  wrapped   around  her   so  securely
 that  only  her  face  and  feet  showed.  Rapaldo   smirked  and
 lifted her chin with the handle of his axe.
    "Oh, no, pretty, I  shall spare  you, heh,  heh. I  would make
 you queen of Lunitari, if only for a day."
   "I'd rather have my eyes put out!"
   He  shrugged  and stepped  in front  of Sighter,  held by  a sin-
 gle guard. "Shall I kill this one?" said Rapaldo. "Or that?"
   "Kill  me,"  pleaded  Bellcrank.  "I'm  only   a  metallurgist.
 Sighter  is  the  navigator  of  our  flying  ship.  Without him,
 you'll never reach Krynn."
   "That's  ridiculous,"  Sighter  argued. "If  you die,  who will
 fix  the  damage  to  the  Cloudmaster?  No  one  can  work iron
 like Bellcrank."
   "They're just gnomes," said Kitiara. "Kill me, rotten
 Rapaldo, or I'll surely kill you!"
   "Enough,  enough!  Heh,  heh,  I  know  what to  do, I  do. You
 try to fool me, but  I am  the king!"  He strode  away a  pace or
 two  and  dropped  his  axe.  The king  of Lunitari  pulled apart
 the tied ends of his decrepit  tunic. Under  his shirt,  but over
 his   woolens,   Rapaldo   wore  chain.   Not  chain   mail,  but
 heavy, rusty chain, wound around his waist.
   'You  see,  I  know  what  it  means  to  live   on  Lunitari,"
 Rapaldo said. He let his shirt fall off and  untwisted a  bale of

  wire that  held the  end of  the chain  in place.  He unlooped
  several turns of chain. As the  links piled  up on  the floor,
  Rapaldo's feet rose. Soon he was floating two feet in the air,
  and the tree-folk were rapt in their devoted attention.
    "I  fly!  Ta-ra!  Who are  you puny  mortals to  bandy words
  with me? I float! If I didn't wear fifty pounds of  chain, I'd
  drift away. They won't let me  have a  ceiling, you  know, the
  tree-people.  Shade  makes  them   take  root.   Without  this
  chain,  I'd  fly  away  like  a  wisp  of smoke."  Rapaldo let
  another loop of chain fall to the floor. He pivoted  until his
  feet were floating out behind him.  "I am  the king,  you see!
  The gods have given me this power!"
    "No," Sighter tried to  explain. "It  must be  a consequence
  of the Lunitari magic -"
    "Silence!"  Rapaldo  made   clumsy  swimming   motions  with
  his hands and drifted over  to Kitiara.  "You wear  armor, but
  you can take it off when you want to. I can't! I have  to wear
  this  chain  every  hour,  every  day."  He shoved  his dirty,
  bearded face close to hers. "I renounce  the power!  I'm going
  home, I am,  and walk  like a  man again.  The trees  will not
  miss me with Sir Sturmbright as king.
    "Treason!  Treason!  You're  all  guilty!"   Rapaldo  somer-
  saulted in the air, away from Kitiara. He  scooped up  his axe
  and flung it at his chosen victim.

                   Chapter 17

                  Without Honor

    The last loop of cord gave way, and Sturm's hands
 were  free.  He  snatched  the  dagger  from   Cutwood  and
 quickly  worked through  the ropes  around his  ankles. The
 hemp from the Tarvolina was old  and quickly  parted. Sturm
 leaped to his feet.
 "Lead  me  back  to  the  audience  hall!"  he said  to the
 gnomes  atop the  wall. Fitter  waved and  ran all  the way
 around the room before veering off for the  king's audience
 chamber. Roperig and Wingover trotted behind him.
 "Come   on,   Cutwood,"   Sturm   shouted,   hoisting   the
 gnome on his shoulders.
 The  sun  was  going  down.  Sturm  thanked   Paladine  for
 that. Without sunlight, the hordes of tree-men loyal to the
 mad Rapaldo would soon revert to rooted plants.

   He passed  through another  opening in  the wall  and found
 himself  facing  a  dozen  armed  tree-men. They  presented a
 solid front, barring his progress.  Sturm had  only Kitiara's
 dagger to oppose their long glass swords.
   "Hold  on,  Cutwood,"  he said.  The gnome  gripped Sturm's
 head tightly.
   Flat shadows climbed the walls. The  sun was  sinking fast.
 Already the lower halves  of the  Lunitarians were  in shade;
 soon  their  feet  would  fix  where  they stood.  A tree-man
 thrust  the  forty-inch span  of his  scarlet glass  sword at
 Sturm. Though the guard  was slow,  the blade  flickered past
 Sturm's chin, far outreaching his twelve-inch dagger.
   Woodenness   began   to   claim   the   Lunitarians'  lower
 bodies,  and they  took root.  The edge  of night  was midway
 up  their  trunks now.  The tree-men's  arms wavered  in slow
 motion,  like  weeds  beneath  the  surface  of  a  pond. The
 guard  that  Sturm  faced  snagged  the tip  of his  sword on
 Sturm's fur hood and ripped through the  hide and  hair. That
 was the tree-man's last act. Bark closed over his eyes, leav-
 ing him and the others featureless and inert.
   Wingover  appeared  atop  the  wall.  "Master  Brightblade!
 Come  quickly!  Something  terrible  has   happened!"  Before
 the  human  could  ask  what,  the  gnome  ran  back  the way
 he'd come.
   "He was weeping," Cutwood. noted in astonishment.
 "Wingover never weeps."
   Sturm thrust his arms  and shoulder  between the  trunks of
 the  tree-men   and  heaved   himself  through.   Their  bark
 scraped  and  pulled  at him,  but he  struggled on  until he
 broke out of the rear rank of guards.  The passage  ahead was
 clear.
   Sturm  and  Cutwood  burst  into  the  audience  hall.  The
 knight looked first  to Kitiara.  Was it  her? Was  she hurt,
 dying,  or  dead?  The   woman  and   the  two   gnomes  were
 locked tightly in the embrace  of their  now-immobile guards.
 Blood stained the knotty fingers of the  one that  held Bell-
 crank.
   Bellcrank was dead. Rapaldo was nowhere to be seen.
   "Kit! Are you all right?" Sturm called.
   "Yes, and Sighter, too, but Bellcrank -"

 "I see. Where's Rapaldo?"
 "He's nearby. Be wary, Sturm, he's got that axe."
 The  room  was  thick  with   immobile  tree-men.   The  gather-
 ing  darkness  made  the  audience  hall  a  forest  of shadows.
 Out of the uncertain dark came Rapaldo's snickering laugh.
 "Who  has  a  lamp  to  light  you  to  bed?  Who has  a chopper
 to chop off your head?"
 "Rapaldo! Face me and fight!" Sturm cried.
 "Heh, heh, heh."
 Something moved overhead. From the wall, Wingover
 shouted, "He's up there! Duck, Sturm!"
 Sturm  dropped  to  the  floor  just  as  the axe  blade whisked
 through  the  place  his  head  had  been.  "Kit,  where's  your
 sword? Rapaldo has mine!"
 "On the floor in front of Sighter," she said.
 Sturm scrambled forward on his belly as Rapaldo flitted
 through  the  tops  of  the tree-men.  Kitiara called  to Sturm,
 explaining the crazed king's ability to levitate.
 "He's  dropped  part  of  his  weights,"  Sighter  added.  "He's
 floating about six feet off the ground."
 Sturm's  hand  closed  over  Kitiara's  sword  handle   and  was
 up  in a  flash. Her  blade was  light and  keen, and  seemed to
 slice the air with a will of its own".' Sturm saw Rapaldo's tat-
 tered  pants' legs  and rope  sandals stepping  on the  heads of
 the  tree-men.  Sturm  slashed  at  him,  but only  succeeded in
 chipping  off  bits of  the Lunitarian  that Rapaldo  was stand-
 ing on. The king of Lunitari bounded away, giggling.
 "I  can't  see  him!"  Sturm  complained.  "Wingover,  where is
 he?"
 "On  your  left  -  behind   -"  Sturm   ducked  the   axe  blow
 and cut  at Rapaldo.  He felt  the tip  of Kitiara's  sword snag
 cloth and heard the cloth tear.
 "Close,  very  close,  Sir  Sturmbright,  but  you're  too heavy
 on your feet," Rapaldo said, chortling.
 "Kit,   I'd   welcome   any   tactical  suggestions   you  might
 want  to  make,"  Sturm  said,  his chest  heaving in  the chill
 night air.
 "What you need is a crossbow," Kitiara hissed. She
 strained against the enfolded limbs of solid wood that held
 her.  Because  her  arms  were  pinned at  her sides,  she could

 not get  any leverage.  Kitiara tried  to twist  her shoulders
 from side to side.  The tree-man's  arms groaned  and cracked,
 but held firm.
   Sturm  shifted  the  dagger to  his right  hand and  put the
 sword in his left. The hall  was very  quiet. The  gnomes, who
 had been crying for their fallen colleague, ceased  all noise.
 Sturm  crouched  low  and  moved  to  the  ramshackle  throne.
 He  climbed  up  on  the  chair  and  stood  erect.  "Rapaldo!
 Rapaldo, I'm on your throne. I spit on  it, Rapaldo!  You're a
 petty, lunatic carpenter who dreams he is a king."
   The clink of chain  warned him  - a  split second  later the
 axe bit deeply into  the back  of the  chair and  stuck there,
 wedged  tightly  by  the  tough  oak  of Krynn.  Rapaldo tried
 frantically to free the axe, but his spindly arms and  lack of
 leverage prevented him.
   "Surrender!"  Sturm  demanded,  presenting  the   point  of
 the dagger to Rapaldo's throat.
   "Ta-ra-ra!" cried the king, planting his feet on the back of
 the throne. He heaved  the tall  chair over  backward, sending
 him, Sturm, bare  sword, axe,  and dagger  down together  in a
 heap. There was a mighty crash, a scream, and silence.
   "Sturm!" called Kitiara.
   He  shook himself  free of  the shattered  chair and  stood. A
 gash  in  his  cheek  bled,  but  Sturm was  otherwise unhurt.
 Rapaldo  was  pinned  to  the  floor,  the dagger  through his
 heart. His  legs and  arms floated  above aimlessly.  Drops of
 blood flowed up the  dagger's hilt  and detached,  drifting up
 into the air.
   Sturm found  the axe  in the  debris. Stolidly  ignoring the
 fact that the trees would be living  beings again  by morning,
 he  chopped  Kitiara  and  Sighter  free.  The   other  gnomes
 descended from the wall and  helped get  Bellcrank out  of the
 wooden  bonds.  They  laid  the  stout  gnome  gently  on  the
 floor and covered his face with their kerchiefs.  Fitter began
 to sob.
   "What shall we do?" asked Wingover tearfully.
   Kitiara said,  "Bellcrank is  avenged. What  more is  there to
 do?"
   "Oughtn't we to bury him?" said Roperig heavily.
   "Yes, of course," said Sturm. He gathered Bellcrank in his

 arms and led the sorrowing band outside.
   The  gnomes stood  together. The  only sounds  were sniffles
 and  the  scuffing of  small shoes.  Sighter brushed  the wood
 chips  from his  clothes and  strode off.  The others  fell in
 behind  him.  He  went to  the middle  of the  mushroom garden
 and stopped. Pointing to the red fluff, he declared  that this
 was the spot.
   The  gnomes  began  to  dig.  Kitiara  offered to  help, but
 Cutwood politely declined. The  gnomes knelt  in a  circle and
 dug  the  grave with  their hands.  When they  were satisfied,
 Sturm  stepped  in and,  with great  feeling, laid  the heroic
 Bellcrank in his final resting place.
   Sighter spoke first. "Bellcrank was a fine technician  and a
 good  chemist.  Now  he  is  dead.  The  engine has  ceased to
 run,  the  gears have  seized and  stopped." Sighter  tossed a
 handful of pale crimson soil over his friend. "Farewell, fare-
 well."
   Wingover said, "He  was a  skilled metallurgist,"  and added
 another handful of dirt.
   "An excellent arguer," noted Cutwood, choking back
 emotion.
   "A  dedicated experimenter,"  Rainspot said,  sprinkling his
 portion.
   "The finest of gear makers," said Roperig sorrowfully.
   When Fitter's turn came,  he was  too upset  to think  of any-
 thing to say. "He-he was a hearty  eater," the  littlest gnome
 murmured  at  last. Roperig  managed a  fond smile  and patted
 his apprentice on the back.
   They  mounded the  dirt over  their fallen  friend. Wingover
 went back into the  keep and  returned with  a piece  of iron-
 work from Rapaldo's wrecked ship. It was a  gear, part  of the
 Tarvolina's capstan. The gnomes set  this on  the grave,  as a
 monument to their colleague.
   Kitiara turned her  back and  headed for  the keep.  After a
 moment of respectful  silence, Sturm  hurried after  her. 'You
 might have found  something to  say to  the gnomes,"  he chid-
 ed.
   "We  have  much  to  do  before the  sun rises  again. We've
 got to gather our belongings and get as far  from here  as the
 night will let us," she said.

 "Why the haste? Rapaldo is dead."
 Kitiara  swept  an arm  around. "His  subjects are  very much
 alive!  How  do  you think  they'll feel  when they  awaken and
 find their god-king dead?"
 Sturm pondered this a moment, then said, "We can hide
 the body."
 "No  good,"  she  said,  crossing  the  outer wall.  "The tree-
 men will assume  the worst  if we're  gone and  Rapaldo's miss-
 ing." Kitiara paused at the door to the  throne room.  "All the
 more reason to get out of here and find the Cloudmaster."
 She  was  right.  Sturm  found  his  dented  helmet and  put it
 on.  Kitiara  replaced her  sword and  wrenched the  dagger out
 of the dead  man's chest.  Seeing Rapaldo  bobbing like  a cork
 gave  her  a  macabre  idea.   She  knelt   on  one   knee  and
 unwound  the  remaining  chain   from  Rapaldo's   waist.  They
 could use it when they found the flying ship.
 Kitiara  gripped   Rapaldo's  bloody   shirt  and   guided  the
 body  toward  Sturm.  "Here's  my  idea  of  a  quick  and easy
 funeral," she said, letting  go. The  lifeless body  of Rapaldo
 the First rose slowly, turning slightly as it went. Within min-
 utes, it was lost from sight in  the violet  vault of  the sky.
 Sturm was aghast.
 "It could just as  easily have  been me  he killed,  you know,"
 she said flatly. "My only regret is that you got to him instead
 of me."
 "He  was  a  demented  wretch.  There was  no honor  in slay-
 ing such a person."
 "Honor!  One  day  you'll  face  a  foe  without  your  concept
 of honor, and that will be the end of Sturm Brightblade."
 They   went   back   to   the   mushroom  garden.   The  gnomes
 were  waiting.  Their  tall   expedition  packs   were  weighed
 down   even   further   with  bits   of  metal   salvaged  from
 Rapaldo's  cache.  Kitiara  announced  her intention  to follow
 the  path  that  the Micones  had been  on before  their tracks
 were lost in the rocks. Sighter looked to Sturm.
 "What do you say, Master Brightblade?"
 "I  have  no  better plan,"  he replied  simply. A  chill was
 growing  in  his  heart. The  woman who  dealt so  harshly with
 a dead foe was more and more like a stranger to him.
 This  was  their  darkest  hour  since  leaving  Krynn.  One of

 their own  was dead,  buried in  the cold  moon soil,  and a
 poor, insane king spiraled ever upward, a  weightless corpse
 with no place to land. It would be a long, unhappy night.
   And yet, when the  sun next  shone over  Rapaldo's garden,
 a  giant  mushroom  grew  out  of  the  grave  of Bellcrank.
 Unlike the scarlet fungi around  it, this  one was  pure and
 shining white.

 * * * *

   Sturm had another vision. It came to him while he
 walked, yet his step never faltered.
   A horse neighed.  Sturm saw  four bony  beasts tied'  to a
 charred post. It was day, but heavy shadows lay  over every-
 thing.  Sturm looked  up and  recognized the  ruined battle-
 ments of his father's castle. Across the courtyard he  saw a
 broken  wagon lying  with one  wheel off.  A man  was lashed
 to the remaining wheel, his wrists cruelly bound to its rim.
 Sturm closed on this  desperate figure.  He prayed  to Pala-
 dine that it was not his father.
   The  man  lifted  his  eyes.  Through  the wild  growth of
 beard and the bruises of a  brutal beating  Sturm recognized
 Bren, his father's companion  in exile.  As in  Sturm's last
 vision,  Bren  looked  right  through  Sturm.   The  younger
 Brightblade was a phantom, a thing of no substance.
   Four men  shuffled out  of the  shadows on  Sturm's right.
 They  were  lean,  rough-looking  men  of  a type  Sturm had
 often seen on the road. Vagabonds. Brigands. Killers.
   "When  is  we  moving on,  Touk?" said  one of  the men.
 "This here castle is haunted, I tell you."
   "You afraid of ghosts'" said  the dirty-faced  fellow with
 the brass earring.
   "I'm afraid of anything I can't stick my  billhook through."
   "When are we leavin'?" asked the last brigand in line.
   Dirty-Face  laughed,  showing  yellow  teeth.   "When  I'm
 sure there ain't no more swag here'bout, that's  when." Touk
 spat in the dirt. "Let's have a word wi' our honored guest."
   The bandit and  two of  his men  stood over  the prisoner.
 Touk grabbed Bren by his  matted hair  and lifted  his head.
 Sturm ached to help him, but he could do nothing.

   "Where's  the  treasure,  old  man?"  asked  Touk,  flashing a
 wicked knife under the old soldier's chin.
   "There's no treasure," Bren gasped. "The castle was
 sacked years ago."
   "Come  on!  Do  you  take us  for fools?  There's always  a few
 coins  tucked  away  somewhere,  eh?  So  where  are   they?"  He
 pressed the tip of the blade into Bren's throat.
   "I-I'll tell," he said weakly. "Below the great hall - a secret
 room. I can show you."
   Touk  removed  the  knife.  "This  better  be a  straight story."
   "No tricks. I'll take you right to it."
   They cut him loose and dragged him along.  Sturm fol-
 lowed on their heels, close enough to smell the mingled
 stench of sweat, grime, fear, and greed.
   Bren  guided  them  to  the  cellar  beneath  the  great  hall.
 There,  in  a  long  corridor,  he counted  the torch  sconces on
 the right side. At number eight, he said, "That's it,  that's the
 one." One of the brigands lit the  stump in  the sconce  with the
 brand he carried.
   "The bracket turns," said Bren.
   Touk  seized  the stout  iron holder  and shook  it. It  swung to
 the left and stayed there. A  section of  the tiled  floor lifted
 with  a  loud  grinding  sound.  Touk tossed  his torch  into the
 widening  gap.  It  bounced  down  a  steep  stone  staircase and
 came  to  rest,  still  burning, at  the bottom.  Something shiny
 gleamed in the torch light.
   "Good   work,"   Touk    said,   grinning.    Without   another
 word,  he  shoved   his  knife   between  Bren's   ribs.  Angriff
 Brightblade's  loyal  man  groaned  and slid  down the  wall. His
 head sagged as the dark stain spread over his chest.
   "C'mon,  lads,  let's  collect  our reward!"  Touk led  his two
 cronies down the steps.
   Sturm  bent  to  see  Bren's  face.  Though  his skin  had gone
 waxen,  Bren's eyes  still glittered  with life.  "Young master,"
 he said. Blood flecked his lips.
   Sturm recoiled. Bren could see him!
   Slowly,  with  terrible  effort, the  old soldier  gripped the
 rough  stone  wall  and  dragged  himself  to his  feet. "Master
 Sturm  -   you've  come   back.  I   always  knew   you  would."
 Bren  reached  out  to  Sturm,  hand  swaying.  Sturm  tried  to

  clasp his hand, but of course he had no substance.  Bren's fin-
  gers  passed through  him and  closed on  the sconce.  As death
  claimed him, Bren fell, and  his weight  bore the  bracket back
  to its original position.
    The trap door  lowered noisily.  One robber  gave a  yell and
  dashed to safety. At the top of the steps, he stopped, riveted,
  staring at Sturm.
    "Ahh." he screamed. "Ghost!" He stumbled back, bowl-
  ing over Touk and the other brigand. The slab of stone
  descended, cutting off their screams for help.

 * * * * *

    The  world  went  red.  Sturm  shook  his  head,   where  the
  screams  of  Touk  and  the  other robbers  still rang.  He was
  plodding across the plains of Lunitari as before.
    "Back  with  us?"  asked  Kitiara.  Sturm  made  inarticulate
  sounds.  This  had  been  his longest  vision yet,  and somehow
  near  the  end,  the men  on Krynn  had been  able to  see him.
  He told his companions his tale.
    "Hmm,  it's  said that  dying men  have second  sight," Kiti-
  ara mused. "Bren  and the  thief were  both facing  death; may-
  be that's why they could see you."
    "But  I  couldn't  help  them," Sturm  complained. "I  had to
  watch  them  die.  Bren  was a  good man.  He served  my father
  well."
    "Did you see or hear of  your father  at all?"  asked Sighter.
    Sturm  shook  his  head.  That  very  omission  preyed  on  his
  mind. What had separated Bren from Lord Brightblade?
  Was his father well? Where was he?
    Wingover let out a yell. "I see the tracks!" he  cried. Where
  the  slabs  of  wine-colored  sandstone  broke into  fingers of
  rock,  crimson  sand  had  drifted in  between. And  there were
  the circular prints, as regular as clockwork.  Kitiara's notion
  had been right - the Micones had come this way.

                          Chapter 18

                  'The Valley of the Voice

  At   last  Wingover   spied  the   great  obelisk.  The  band
 had  come  to  a  place  where  the rocky  ledges reared  up as
 low,  jagged  peaks.  Kitiara  and  Wingover climbed  this saw-
 toothed  barrier  and  reported that  beyond lay  a magnificent
 bowl-shaped  valley  that  stretched far  beyond the  limits of
 the horizon. Kitiara could  not see  the obelisk,  but Wingover
 assured them that a single, tall spire stood forty  miles away,
 in the exact center of the valley.
  The gnomes took heart from the news. They had been
 uncommonly subdued on the trek from the village.
  "Bellcrank's  death  has  them  hanging their  heads," Kitiara
 said privately to Sturm. "I guess the little fellows have never
 faced death before."
  Sturm  agreed.  What   the  gnomes   needed  was   a  problem,

 to  stimulate  their  imaginations.  He  called  them together.
 "Here's  the  situation,"  Sturm began.  "Wingover estimates
 the  obelisk is  forty miles  away. Forty  miles is  a ten-hour
 march, if we don't stop for food  or rest.  Fifteen hours  is a
 more  reasonable  estimate,  but  by  then the  sun will  be up
 and the Lunitarians can be on the move, too."
   "If only we  had some  way to  get down  in a  hurry," said
 Kitiara. "Horses, oxen, anything."
   "Or carts, for that matter," Sturm mused.
   Kitiara shot  him a  knowing glance.  "Yes, the  slope down
 from  the  saw-toothed  ridge  is steep  but fairly  smooth. We
 could roll quite a ways."
   The  spirit  of  technical  challenge  was   infectious,  and
 ideas - wild, gnomish ideas - began  flashing about  the little
 group.  The  gnomes  dumped  their  packs  into  one  big  heap
 and  went  into  a  close  huddle. Their  rapid patter  made no
 sense to Sturm  or Kitiara,  but the  humans saw  it as  a good
 sign.
   As  suddenly  as  the  gnomes had  put their  heads together,
 they  broke  apart.  Tools  appeared,   and  the   gnomes  pro-
 ceeded to knock their wooden backpacks to pieces.
   "What  are  you  making this  time?" Sturm  asked Cutwood.
   "Sleds," was the simple reply.
   "Did he say 'sleds'?" asked Kitiara.
   Within half an hour, each gnome had constructed,
 according to his lights, a sled - that is, a Single-Gnome Iner-
 tia  Transport  Device.  "By  these  we  expect to  descend the
 cliff slope at prodigious speed," announced Sighter.
   "And break your  reckless little  necks," said  Kitiara under
 her breath.
   "These  are  for  you  and  Master  Sturm," said  Roperig. He
 and Fitter pushed two flimsy  sleds to  the human's  feet. Hav-
 ing only  short slats  of wood  to work  with, the  gnomes held
 their  inventions  together with  nails, screws,  glue, string,
 wire,  and, in  Rainspot's case,  his suspenders.  Wingover had
 designed  his  sled  to let  him ride  on his  belly; Sighter's
 allowed the rider to gracefully recline. Because of their rela-
 tive  size,  Sturm's and  Kitiara's sleds  allowed them  only a
 wide bit of plank for a seat.
  "You can't be serious," Kitiara said dubiously. "Ride that

 down there?"
   "It will be fast," encouraged Sighter.
   "And fun!" Fitter exclaimed.
   "We've  calculated  all  the available  data on  stress and
 strength  of  materials,"  Cutwood  noted. He  brandished his
 notebook as proof; there were five  pages covered  with tiny,
 closely  spaced  letters  and numbers.  "In all  cases except
 yours, there'll be a safety factor of three."
   "What do you mean,  'in all  cases except  yours''" Kitiara
 felt obliged to ask.
   Cutwood  stowed  his  notebook in  his vest  pocket. "Being
 larger and heavier, you will naturally put more stress on the
 Single-Gnome  Inertia  Transport  Devices.  Your  chances  of
 reaching the bottom of the hill without crashing are  no more
 than even."
   Kitiara  opened  her  mouth  to  protest,  but  Sturm fore-
 stalled her with a  tolerant glance.  "Those are  better odds
 than  the  Lunitarians  will give  us," he  had to  admit. He
 boosted the flimsy sled to his shoulder. "Are you coming!"
   She  looked  more than  doubtful. "Why  don't we  stay here
 and break each others' necks?  Then we'll  at least  save the
 trouble of tumbling and rolling."
   "Are you afraid?"
   He  knew  just  how  to  provoke  her. Kitiara  flushed and
 took  up her  sled. "Want  to..wager who  gets to  the bottom
 first?" she said.
   "Why not?" he replied. "I haven't any money."
   "What  good  is money  here? How  about if  the loser  has to
 carry the winner's bedroll all the way to the obelisk?"
   "It's a wager." They shook hands.
   Wingover  was  giving  his  colleagues an  impromptu course
 on steering and braking. "Mostly you steer by leaning  in the
 direction you want to go," he advised. "For stopping, use the
 heels  of  your shoes,  not the  toes. The  downhill momentum
 can turn your feet under and break your toes."
     Rainspot and Cutwood flipped open their notebooks and
 scribbled furiously. "Given a maximum velocity of fifty-six
 miles per hour -"
   "And feet approximately seven inches long -"
   "One can expect to break three toes on the left foot -"

  "And four on the right," said Rainspot. The gnomes
 applauded.
  "Wingover  just  told  us not  to use  our toes,  so why  in the
 name  of  the  suffering  gods  do  you  calculate  something  no
 one in his right mind would try?" Kitiara asked.
  "The  principle  of  scientific  inquiry  should not  be limited
 to  merely  the  practical or  the possible,"  explained Sighter.
 "Only  by  investigating  the  unlikely  and the  unthought-of is
 the sum total of knowledge advanced."
  Sturm  was  looking  at his  feet. "What  I don't  understand is
 why  more  toes  on  the  right  foot  would  break  than  on the
 left."
  "Don't  encourage  them!"  Kitiara   told  Sturm.   She  dragged
 her shaky bundle of slats to the  edge of  the cliff.  The glass-
 smooth  slope  plunged  down  at  a  breathtaking  angle. Kitiara
 inhaled  sharply  and  looked  back.  The  gnomes   crowded  for-
 ward to the edge, quite unafraid.
      "Obviously an example of vitreous concretion," observed
 Cutwood, running a hand over the smooth, bubbly surface.
  "Do you think? Volcanic?" Wingover said.
  "Hardly. I  should say  this entire  valley constitutes  a ther-
 moflexic astrobleme," theorized Sighter.
  Kitiara  uttered  an  angry  snort  that  cut off  further gnom-
 ish  theorizing.  She  dropped  her sled  and straddled  it. When
 she let her weight down on it, the slats creaked ominously.
  "You   did   say   even   odds?"  she   said  to   Cutwood.  The
 gnome    babbled   something    about   "within    two   standard
 deviations,"  and  Kitiara  decided  not  to  query  further. She
 pulled  herself  forward by  hands and  heels until  she teetered
 on the brink.
  "C'mon, Sturm! Or do you want to pack my bedroll for
 the next forty miles?"
  Sturm  laid  his  sled  on  the  ground.  He told  Wingover that
 he  and  Kit  were  going  to race.  Wingover replied,  "Oh! Then
 you'll  need  someone  at  the  bottom  to  see  who  wins! Wait,
 wait - I'll go down first, and when I'm in place, I'll call you."
  "All right with you, Kit?" She waved a casual affirmative.
  "All  right,  lads. Here  I go!"  said Wingover.  "For science!"
 he   proclaimed,   and   slid   over.   immediately,   the  other
 gnomes lined up and went right after him.

 Cutwood called, "For Sancrist!" and went over.
 "For technology!" cried Rainspot, as he tipped over the
 edge.
 "For the Cloudmaster!" was Roperig's toast.
 "For raisin muffins!" Fitter followed close behind  his boss.
 Sighter, the last, pushed his sled  forward and  slipped into
 the seat. "For Bellcrank," he said softly.
 The gnomes' sleds bounded down the hill, swaying and
 leaping  over bumps  in the  glasslike rock.  Wingover, lying
 prone  on  his  mount,  steered  skillfully around  the worst
 obstacles. He'd built a front yoke on his sled, and  weaved a
 serpentine  course  down  the  slope.  On his  heels, Cutwood
 howled straight down, knees tight against his chin, his silky
 beard  clamped  firmly  between   them.  Sturm   and  Kitiara
 heard  his  high-pitched  "Woo-haa!"  as  he  hit  bump after
 bump.
 Rainspot had a drag-brake  on the  tail of  his sled,  and he
 coasted along  at a  relatively mild  rate. Roperig,  who had
 designed his sled to be ridden in a standing crouch, whistled
 by  the  weather  seer,  frantically waving  his outstretched
 arms in an  effort to  keep his  balance. His  apprentice was
 having all sorts of trouble. Fitter's mount was wider than it
 was long, and it tended to rotate as it  slid. This  made his
 progress  somewhat slower  than the  others but  the spinning
 threatened to turn his stomach.  Sighter, cool  and rational,
 proceeded  under perfect  control. He  would touch  his heels
 to the ground at specific points to correct the  direction he
 was taking.
 All  was  going  fairly well  until Wingover  reached bottom,
 four hundred feet away. There the glass cliff face changed to
 dry red gravel, and Wingover's sled stopped dead on  its run-
 ners. His stop was so sudden that  the trailing  gnomes piled
 right  into  him  - Cutwood  and Roperig  immediately, Fitter
 and Rainspot a little later. Slats and tools and  gnomes flew
 through the air after a series of hair-raising crashes. Sturm
 saw  Sighter move  unflinching toward  the pile,  but averted
 his eyes and missed Sighter's sharp turn, which left  him two
 feet to the right of the scrambled group.
 Kitiara burst  out laughing.  "Acres of  slope, and  they all
 have to stop on the same spot!"

 Sturm frowned. "I hope no one's hurt."
 Feet and legs and wreckage untangled into six shaky
 gnomes. Sighter helped them untangle themselves.
 Wingover finally waved to the humans.
 "That  means  go!"  Kitiara  shouted,  and  pushed  herself off.
 Sturm was caught off guard.
 "Not  fair!"  he cried,  but dug  in his  heels and  tipped over
 the cliff lip in hot pursuit.
 He  immediately  lost  control.  The  sled  careened  sharply to
 the  right,  and  Sturm  leaned  away from  the turn.  There was
 a sickening snap,  and his  seat sagged  under him.  Sturm less-
 ened his lean, and the sled slowly corrected itself.
 Kitiara  barreled  straight down  the slope  at full  speed, her
 feet  pressed  together  and  her  knees  poking  out  on either
 side. "Ya-ha-ha-ha!" she  crowed. She  was far  out in  front of
 Sturm, who couldn't seem to get his  sled to  run in  a straight
 line for more than a few feet at a time.
 Kitiara  hit  a  hump  and  bounced   several  inches   off  her
 seat. Instead of frightening  her, the  bump only  increased her
 delight.  A  whole series  of bumps  approached, and  she didn't
 slacken speed at all.
 It  wasn't  until  she  hit  the fourth  bump that  she realized
 she  was  in  trouble. That  bump slammed  her hard  against the
 flimsy seat struts. The left runner splintered along its length.
 Kitiara put her  left boot  down to  slow herself.  The hobnails
 in her shoe sole bit, and her  left leg  was yanked  back. Mind-
 ful  of  what  Cutwood  had  said   about  breaking   toes,  she
 didn't resist the pulling and was swept off the sled.  She land-
 ed  hard  on  her  right  shoulder  and  rolled  over  and over.
 Sturm didn't dare try to stop his sled, and coasted to  the bot-
 tom.  The  second his  runners stuck  in the  gravel, he  was on
 his feet. Kitiara lay motionless on her stomach.
       Sturm ran to her, closely followed by the gnomes. He
 dropped  on  one  knee  and  gently  turned  her over.  Her face
 was contorted, and she uttered a ferocious curse.
 "Where does it hurt?" he said.
 "My shoulder," she hissed through clenched teeth.
 "Could be a broken collarbone," said Rainspot.
 "Is there any way to tell for sure?"
 "Ask  her  to  touch  her  left shoulder  with her  right hand,"

 suggested  Roperig.  "If  she can,  the bone  must not  be bro-
 ken."
   "Such   anatomical  ignorance!"   said  Sighter.   "One  must
 probe with one's fingers in order to find the ends of the sepa-
 rated bone -"
   "Don't  let  them  touch  me,"  Kitiara  whispered.  "If they
 can't  prove  it  any  other  way,  they may  decide to  cut me
 open  to  examine  my  bones."  Just  then  Sturm   heard  Cut-
 wood saying something about "exploratory surgery."
   Wingover,  who  was  standing  by  Kitiara's feet,  said, "No
 bones are broken."
   "How do you know?" asked Cutwood.
   "I can  see them,"  he replied.  "There don't  even seem  to be
 any cracks. It's probably a sprain."
   "You can see through flesh nowt" Sturm asked incredu-
 lously.  Put  so  bluntly, Wingover  suddenly realized  what he
 was doing.
   "By Reorx!" he said. "This is terrific! I wonder what  else I
 can  see  through?"  The  gnomes  crowded  around  him, Kitiara
 forgotten.  They  took  turns  having  Wingover   peer  through
 their  bodies  and  describing  what he  saw. Cries  of "Hydro-
 dynamics!" filled the air.
   Kitiara tried to sit  up, but  the pain  took her  breath away.
   "Keep  still," Sturm  cautioned. "I'll  have to  find something
 to bind up your shoulder."
   He rummaged through his belongings and found his only
 change of shirt - a white linen blouse made by the  best tailor
 in Solace. Regretfully, he  tore it  into inch-wide  strips and
 tied their ends into one long bandage.
   "You'll have to get your arm out of the sleeve," he said.
   "Cut the seams," said Kitiara.
   Sturm  checked.  "The  seams  are  underneath.  You'll  still
 have to slip it off."
   "All right. Help me up."
   As easily  as he  could, Sturm  helped Kitiara  to sit  up. Her
 face went pale, and as he tried to loosen  the sleeve  from her
 right arm, tears of pain trickled down her face.
   "You know,  I've never  seen you  cry before,"  he said  in a
 low voice.
   "Ah!  Ah! -  what's the  matter, didn't  you think  I could?"

   Sturm  kept  his  mouth  shut  and  turned  her fur  coat. The
 leather he could  cut away,  but underneath  she still  wore her
 mail shirt. "I'll have to bind you over the mail," he said.
   "Yes, yes," she said. Pain made her impatient.
   He  sat  down  facing  her  and carefully  lifted her  right arm
 until she could rest it on  his shoulder.  Sturm wound  the lin-
 en bandage over Kitiara's shoulder and under her arm.
   "Tight enough?"
   Gasp. "Yes."
   "I'll  leave enough  cloth to  make a  sling," he  said sympa-
 thetically.
   'Whatever."  She  lowered  her  head into  her left  hand. Her
 face was flushed.
   I  thought  she'd  be  stronger than  this, Sturm  thought, as
 he  wrapped.  Surely  she's  been wounded  in battle  worse than
 this!  Aloud,  he said,  "With all  your combat  experience, you
 must  be  an  old  hand  at  field  dressings.  Am I  doing this
 right?"
   "I've never been wounded," Kitiara murmured through
 her hand. "A few cuts and scrapes, that's all."
   "You've been lucky." Sturm was amazed.
   "I don't let enemies get close enough to hurt me."
   Sturm  helped  her  stand.  He  draped  the empty  sleeve over
 Kitiara's  shoulder.  The  gnomes  were  energetically  debating
 the nature of Wingover's expanding talent.
 ~ "Obviously, he is seeing a subtle variety  of light  that nor-
 mal eyes cannot detect," said Cutwood.
   "Obvious  to  any  fool,"  Sighter  countered. "The  method is
 this:  Wingover  is  now  emitting  rays  from  his   eyes  that
 pierce flesh and clothing. The source of his  sight must  be his
 own eyes."
   "Ahem."   interrupted   Sturm,   "Could   you   manage  this
 argument  while  walking?  We  have a  long way  to go  and a
 short night to do it in."
   "How is the lady?" asked Roperig. "Can she walk?"
   "I can run.  How about  youl" said  Kitiara challengingly.
   There   wasn't  much   left  to   salvage  from   the  smashed
 remains of the sleds. Sturm realized that for the first time the
 gnomes  were  going  to  have  to  travel  light;  they  had  no
 means left by  which to  carry their  heavy, useless  gear. They

  dithered  over  what  to   take  and   what  to   abandon.  The
  gnomes  were  about  to  adopt  Roperig's suggestion  that they
  assign numerical values to each  item and  then choose  a total
  value of items not to exceed two hundred points per gnome.
    "I'm going," Kitiara said shortly. She tried to sling her and
  Sturm's  bedrolls  on  her  good  shoulder.  Sturm  caught  the
  straps and took both rolls away from her. "I lost the bet," she
  admitted.
    "Don't be a fool," he said. "I'll carry them."
    They walked about half a mile and stopped to let the
  gnomes  catch  up.  How  they rattled  and jingled!  Each gnome
  had  a workshop's  worth of  tools dangling  from his  vest and
  belt.
    "I  hope  we  don't have  to sneak  up on  anybody," muttered
  Kitiara. The  weary but  steadfast party  formed again  and set
  out for the great obelisk and the Voice that inhabited it.

 * * * * *

           Ten miles had passed beneath their feet when Cutwood
  started  complaining  of  a  pounding  in  his  head.  His col-
  leagues made  jokes at  his expense  until Sturm  shushed them.
  Rainspot gave Cutwood a cursory examination.
    "I see nothing out of the ordinary," he said.
    "You needn't shout," Cutwood said, wincing.
    Rainspot raised his wispy white eyebrows in surprise.
  "Who's shouting?" he asked mildly.
           Sighter dropped back behind Cutwood, and when he was
  out  of  his  sight,  snapped his  fingers. Cutwood  ducked his
  head and put his hands up to ward off some unseen blow.
    "Did you hear that crack  of lightning?"  he said,  his voice
  wavering.
    "Most  interesting. Cutwood's  hearing has  intensified, just
  as Wingover's vision has," said Sighter.
         "Does this mean we're getting more of the power?" won-
  dered Rainspot.
    "It would seem so," Sighter said gravely.
    "Stop screaming!" begged Cutwood in a whisper.
    Roperig quickly made a crude pair of earmuffs for Cut-
  wood out of strips of rattan from his water bottle and a wad

 of old socks. Ears muffled, Cutwood smiled.
   "The pounding is much less now, thank you!"
   "Don't mention  it," Roperig  said in  a slightly  lower than
 normal  voice.  Cutwood  beamed   and  clapped   his  colleague
 on the back.
   "Do you feel any different?" Sturm asked Kitiara.
   "My shoulder still hurts."
   "You don't feel any new access of strength?"
   She shook her head. "All I feel is  a crying  need for  a mug
 of Otik's best ale."
   Sturm had to smile. It seemed  eons since  they'd all  sat at
 the inn and enjoyed Otik's brew. It felt as if it would be eons
 before they could do so again.
   At  the  twelve-mile mark,  the gnomes  were trailing  out in
 a long line  behind Kitiara  and Sturm.  Their short  legs sim-
 ply  couldn't  maintain  the  humans' rapid  pace. Reluctantly,
 Sturm  called  for  a  break.  The  gnomes  dropped  where they
 stood, as though felled by a shower of arrows.
   The  air  stirred. Glimmers  of roseate  light showed  in the
 east - the direction they'd decided was east.  "Sunrise," Kiti-
 ara said flatly.
   Westward,  toward  the  center  of  the valley,  an answering
 flicker of light greeted the sunrise. Sighter tried to  get his
 spyglass   trained  on   the  source   of  this   second  dawn.
 Wingover moved over to him.
   "It's the obelisk," he said.  He squinted  into the  far dis-
 tance. "I can see a glow surrounding the peak."
   Brilliant  white  streaks  -  more  shooting stars  - sprayed
 across  the  heavens.  A bright,  steady glow  in the  east was
 soon  mimicked  in the  west. The  sun was  coming up  over the
 cliffs,  yellow  and  warm;  the  glow from  the obelisk  was a
 stubborn and muddy scarlet.
   The rim of the sun broke over  the cliffs.  There was  a clap
 of  thunder, and  bolts of  red fire  snapped from  the far-off
 obelisk toward the  surrounding chain  of hills.  The explorers
 put their faces to the ground, and all felt a blast  of burning
 as  the  red beams  crackled overhead.  Five times  the scarlet
 lightning  lashed out,  and the  resulting thunder  pounded the
 sky  with  ringing  blows.  When  the sun  was fully  above the
 valley walls, the strange storm ceased.

   Sturm  sat  up.  The  ground  around  them  steamed lightly.
 Kitiara struggled to her feet and surveyed the valley  by day-
 light. Plants were beginning  to emerge  from the  flaky soil.
 Wingover  dusted  himself  off  and looked  back at  the cliff
 they had sledded down.
   "Now  I  understand  how  the sides  got to  be as  hard and
 smooth as glass," he said.  "The lightning  must hit  them ev-
 ery morning."
   The  gentlest gnome  said shakily,  "Those were  not pluvial
 discharges." He tried to stand and failed. "The  atmosphere is
 charged with another power."
   "Magic."  Sturm  felt his  face harden  with distaste  as he
 practically  spat  the  word.  Though  hardly  unexpected, the
 sudden onset  of such  enormous magical  power left  him feel-
 ing vulnerable, exposed - and tainted.

 Chapter 19

 Cupelix

     The vegetation in the valley was much the same as
 elsewhere on Lunitari, but it grew less thickly and to greater
 size.  The  pink  spears  topped  twelve  feet  in  an  hour's
 growth,  and the  toadstools towered  twenty and  thirty feet.
 One  new  species  the  explorers  found was  a five-foot-wide
 puffball. After seeing  one such  puffball explode,  sending a
 shower  of  javelin-sharp  spikes   in  all   directions,  the
 marchers gave them a very wide berth.
 The  sky  seemed  brighter,  too,  and  a  steady  hum  filled
 their  ears.  Cutwood  complained constantly  of a  loud buzz-
 ing,  despite  his  makeshift   earmuffs.  Wingover   took  to
 shielding his eyes with  his hands,  just to  cut down  on the
 intense  glare  he  saw  everywhere.  The  other  gnomes found
 their  special  attributes  becoming  more  and  more onerous.

  Roperig  couldn't  touch  anything  without his  hands sticking.
  He once accidentally  scratched his  nose, and  it took  an hour
  to free his fingers. Fitter fidgeted about like a  hovering hum-
  mingbird,  moving  with  such  speed   that  he   seemed  little
  more  than  a  blur.  He  fell  down   a  lot   and  continually
  bumped  into  other  members  of  the  party.   Rainspot  walked
  in a perpetual haze  - a  real fog  that clung  to his  head and
  shoulders  -  his  own  private  cloud.  Moisture  condensed  on
  his face, and his ears and beard dripped nonstop.
    Of  all  the  gnomes,  only Sighter  exhibited no  obvious ill
  effects. But Sturm noticed  a subtle  change in  his expression;
  Sighter's  usually  incisive  gaze  had  given  way  to  a  hard
  smirk, as if he were listening  to some  lurid tale  being whis-
  pered  in  his  ear.  Sturm  wasn't certain  that the  world was
  ready for a logical gnome.
    Sturm  worried  about  Kitiara,  too.  She  kept ahead  of the
  others,  walking  purposefully   toward  the   waiting  obelisk.
  Her right arm was  still slung  across her  chest, but  her left
  hand, firmly clenched in a fist, rose and fell with  each deter-
  mined step. Each strike of her heels  left a  deep notch  in the
  ground. Sturm wondered how much power she could bear.
    He lost  sight of  Kitiara for  a time  among the  pink spears
  and spidersticks. "Hello?" he called. "Kit, wait for  us." There
  was no answer but the hive-hum that surrounded them.
    Sturm  spied   Kitiara  standing   under  an   enormous  toad-
  stool.  Pink spores  rained lightly  over her.  Her hand  was at
  her throat, and she was looking at something.
    "Kit?" he said, touching her shoulder.
    She flinched.  "Sturm! I  just noticed  this." It  was Tirolan's
  gem,  the  amethyst arrowhead  that had  turned clear  after Kit
  had used it to free herself from  the spell  of the  goblin rob-
  bers. She held the crystal out for  Sturm to  see. It  was blood
  red, like a heartsfire ruby.
    "When did that happen?" he asked.
    "At  Rapaldo's  palace,  I  saw  that the  gem was  turning pale
  pink. The color has deepened since sunrise."
    "Get rid of it, Kit. It's a receptacle of magic. It too may be
  affected  by  the  atmosphere  of  Lunitari.  Nothing  good  can
  come of it."
    "No!"  she  said,  slipping  the  gem  back  under   her  mail

 shirt. I intend to keep it.  Have you  so soon  forgotten how
 Tirolan helped us?"
   "No, I haven't forgotten. But the gem may be filled  with a
 different  power  now,  a  power  you  know   nothing  about.
 Drop it on the ground, Kit, please! If you don't,  the conse-
 quences may be horrible."
   "I will not!" she said, her dark  eyes flashing.  "You're a
 fool, Sturm Brightblade -  a frightened  little boy.  I'm not
 afraid of power. I welcome it!"
   Sturm  was  about  to argue  back, but  the file  of gnomes
 appeared. He was not  willing to  provoke a  confrontation in
 front of the little people. There was a thinly veiled rage in
 Kitiara,  and  to  push  her  at  this  juncture  would  lead
 nowhere.
   "Wingover says the obelisk should soon be  in view  for all
 of us," said Roperig. His  right hand  was stuck  to Fitter's
 back. The  apprentice was  running in  place, his  short legs
 nearly invisible  with motion.  Roperig saw  Sturm's startled
 expression and added, "Fit ter's having a hard  time standing
 still. I'm the only one who can keep hold of him."
   "How  are  the  rest  of  you?"  Sturm  asked.  Cutwood and
 Wingover,  muffled  and  blindfolded  respectively, gallantly
 waved  their good  spirits. Rainspot  looked sodden  and for-
 lorn under his cloud, but avowed that he felt well.
   Sighter  cleared  his  throat  and arched  an eyebrow  in a
 maddeningly superior way. "It is evident  that the  closer we
 get to the obelisk, the more intensely  the neutral  power of
 Lunitari infects us," he said.
   "Let's push on," said Sturm.
   They  continued  on  for  about  an  hour, when  they came
 upon a path, cleared from the strange  jungle. And  where the
 cleared path met the horizon, there stood a tall spire  - the
 mysterious  obelisk  of  Lunitari. They  were still  some ten
 miles  away,  but the  land sloped  downward toward  the obe-
 lisk at an easy grade. There were no other features  to over-
 shadow it.
   "Looks like we're expected," said Sturm.
   "The Voice?" Fitter wondered.
   "Who else?" Sighter replied. He hooked his thumbs under
   his suspenders. "If I'm right, we're going to meet a very

 remarkable  being.  Someone  who'll  make  all the  other won-
 ders of Lunitari seem like cheap carnival tricks."
   The obelisk  grew from  a slim  red line  to a  robust tower
 five hundred feet tall. It had a curiously striped appearance,
 caused  by  thin  black  bands  that  alternated with  the red
 stone of its walls. The closer the explorers came,  the higher
 the grand tower seemed to thrust into the sky.
   Cutwood  broke  the  long  silence.   He  said,   "Have  you
 noticed how the plants lean  toward the  tower?" It  was true.
 All of them, even the spiny puffballs, were bent so  that they
 faced the great obelisk.
   "Like lilies turned to the sun," surmised Kitiara.
   They  halted fifty  yards from  the base  of the  obelisk. The
 red  marble  sides  were  beautifully  dressed   and  squared,
 unlike  the  crude  masonry  of  the  tree-men's  village. The
 black  bands  between  the  courses of  marble were  mortar of
 some  kind.  On  ground  level, facing  the explorers,  was an
 open entrance, a  notch cut  in the  smooth stone.  Inside was
 only darkness. At regular intervals, the obelisk's  walls were
 pierced by long, narrow windows.
   "What  do  we do  now?" asked  Fitter in  a very  small voice.
   Come closer!
   Sturm  and Kitiara  stepped back,  reaching for  their weap-
 ons. "Who said that?" called Sturm.
   I, the Keeper of the New Lives, said  a soothing  bass voice
 within their own heads.
   "Where are you?" Kitiara demanded.
   In the edifice before you. Come closer.
   "We'll stay right here, thank you," said Cutwood.
   Ah, you are afraid. Is mortal flesh so  dear that  you would
 ignore the opportunity to feast your eyes on  a rare  and won-
 derful  sight,  namely  myself?  That  the  humans   would  be
 afraid I did not doubt, but I expected better of you gnomes.
   "We saw a colleague die not  long ago,  so you'll  excuse us
 if we're a bit cautious," Wingover said.
   You require proof of my good will? Behold.
   A  small shape  stirred in  the dim  doorway. It  emerged into
 the light of day, stopped and waved. It looked like Stutts.
   "Gears  and  sprockets!"  Fitter  crowed,  dashing  forward.
 Of  course,  he   dragged  Roperig   with  him.   Cutwood  and

 Wingover  stumbled  after  them,  while   Rainspot  wandered
 over in a fog, with Sighter chuckling at his side.
   "Wait," said Sturm. "It could be an illusion."
   But it was not  an illusion.  The gnomes  engulfed Stutts,
 yelling   with   unrestrained   delight.  Birdcall   and  Flash
 appeared  in  the  door  and  leaped  on  the  pile   of  happy
 gnomes.  After  a  heartily  bruising hello,  Stutts extricated
 himself from the  press and  toddled to  Sturm and  Kitiara. He
 shook  Sturm's  hand  solidly and  expressed concern  for Kiti-
 ara's bandaged shoulder.
   "It is you," she said, pinching his ear.
   "It is,  and I  am quite  well, thank  you. We've  been waiting
 for you all for days."
   "What  happened  to  your  stutter?"  Sturm  asked. Suspi-
 cion made him blunt.
   "Oh, that! It's gone, you  know, poof!  The Keeper  says it's
 due to the leveling effect of the magic forces present on Luni-
 tari."  Stutts  peered  behind   the  humans.   "Where's  Bell-
 crank?"
   Sturm laid a hand on the  gnome's shoulder.  "I fear  that we
 have grave news, my friend."
   "Grave? How - ?"
   Are your fears alleviated? intruded the voice.
   "For  now,"  Kitiara said.  "May we  have our  flying ship
 back, please?"
     Don't be so hasty! We've not been properly introduced.
 Please come in, won't you?
   "Explain later," Stutts said quickly.  He took  Kitiara's and
 Sturm's  hands  and  led  them  to  the  door.  "We've  had the
 most  tremendous  adventure  since  you  left  to  prospect for
 ore," he reported. "The Keeper has treated us marvelously."
   "Who is this Keeper? Where is he?" asked Kitiara.
   "Come and see for yourselves."
   Stutts let go of  their hands.  Sturm and  Kitiara stepped
 through  the  deep  door-notch  into  the shadowed  interior of
 the grand obelisk.
   Sunlight filtered  down from  the slit  windows higher  up in
 the obelisk. In  the center  of the  floor, illuminated  by the
 sunlight,  sat the  flying ship  Cloudmaster. The  ethereal air
 bag had shrunk to half its previous size, just  a soft  lump in

  many  folds  of  loose  netting.  The   wings  had   been  detached
  from  the hull,  no doubt  to allow  the craft  to fit  through the
  door  in  the  obelisk.  The  leather  wings  were   neatly  folded
  and lying  on the  red marble  floor beside  the ship.  Clicking in
  the   darkness   beyond   the   Cloudmaster  proved   the  presence
  of Micones.
     Inevitably,  the  warriors'  gazes  were  lifted by  the soaring
  hollowness  of  the  interior.  As Sturm  and Kitiara  raised their
  eyes,  they  saw  a  series  of ledges  and horizontal  pillars set
  into  the  immensely   thick  walls.   Perched  about   fifty  feet
  above the floor was the occupant of the obelisk, the Keeper.
     A  dragon.  Where  blades  of  sunlight  struck him,  his scales
  shone greenish gold.
     No  dragon  had  been  seen  on  Krynn  in  centuries,  so long,
  in fact, that  their actual  existence was  a sorely  debated point
  among   historians,  clerics,   and  natural   philosophers.  Sturm
  believed   from   boyhood   that  there   had  been   dragons,  but
  face  to face  with a  living example,  he felt  so much  fear that
  he thought he'd faint.
     Be  a   man,  a   knight!  he   admonished  himself.   Men  had
  faced  dragons  before.  Huma  had  done  it.  So   while  Sturm's
  head  swam  from  this  newest  and  greatest revelation,  he kept
  his feet firmly under him.
     Kitiara,  too,  was  stunned.  Her  eyes  were  huge  and  white
  in  the  dim  light.  She  recovered   more  quickly   than  Sturm,
  however, and said, "Are you the Keeper who spoke to us?"
     Yes.   "Or   do   you   prefer   spoken  language?"   asked  the
  dragon.  Its  voice  was  not  as  booming  as  Sturm  had expected
  it to be; considering its size (thirty-five feet from nose to tail)
  and the distance to it, it was quite soft-spoken.
     "Spoken  is  best.  That way  I can  be sure  of what  I'm hear-
  ing," answered Kitiara.
     "As  you  wish.  I  do  enjoy  speaking,  and  I've gone  such a
  long  time  without  having  anyone  to  speak  to.  The  ants, you
  see,  respond  best  to  telepathy."  The  dragon shook  its broad,
  angular head with a  noise of  clanging brass.  It lifted  its feet
  off the ledge  and dropped  to a  lower perch  with a  single fluff
  of its wings. The breeze washed over the amazed explorers.
     "Where   are   my   manners?   I   am    Cupelix   Trisfendamir,
  Keeper  of  the  New  Lives  and  resident  of  this  obelisk." The

 gnomes had retreated behind the humans when the dragon
 appeared. Now they spread out and began to bombard him
 with questions.
   "Keeper of what new lives?"
   "How much do you weigh?"
   "How did you get here?"
   "How long have you been here?"
   "Do you have any raisins?"
   The  dragon  was amused  by this  barrage, but  he dismissed
 the gnomes with a wave of one giant  foreclaw. "You  are Kiti-
 ara  Uth  Matar  and  Sturm  Brightblade,  are  you  not?"  he
 asked.  The  two  nodded dumbly.  "Your small  friend, Stutts,
 speaks  very  highly  of  you   both.  Apparently,   you  have
 impressed him with many sterling qualities."
   "Apparently'" said Kitiara dryly.
   "I have  only the  evidence of  Stutts's impressions.  Be that
 as it may, I am very glad you are here. 1 followed  your prog-
 ress along the trail I had the Micones make -"  Cupelix tilted
 his  burnished  head  and  peered at  Sturm with  dagger eyes.
 "Yes, Sir Knight, the trail was deliberate."
   "You read minds," Sturm said uncomfortably.
   "Not deeply.  Only when  a thought  is so  clearly on  the tip
 of one's tongue."
   Stutts  introduced  his  colleagues  to the  dragon. Cupelix
 exchanged  witty banter  with each  one, until  Sighter's turn
 came.
   "You are a bronze dragons" questioned the gnome.
   "Brass, if you must  know. But  enough of  these trivialities!
 You have  come a  long way  and labored  hard to  recover your
 flying  craft.  Now  that  you  have found  it and  each other
 once more, enjoy a moment of repose at my expense."
   "We'd rather be on our way," said Sturm.
   "But I insist," said the dragon. He slid along the edge of his
 perch, his rear legs gripping  the stone  ledge and  his wings
 flaring  out  for balance.  Cupelix worked  his way  around to
 just over the door - the only way out.
   Sturm  didn't  like  what  was  happening. By  instinct, his
 hand  strayed  to  the  pommel  of his  sword -  which changed
 to  a  chicken  drumstick  when  he  touched  it.  The  gnomes
 looked popeyed, and Kitiara's jaw fell open in surprise.

   "Please excuse my little joke," said Cupelix. In the  wink of
 an  eye,  the  poultry  leg was  gone and  the sword  was back.
 "Your  weapons  are  unnecessary  here.  That  was just  my way
 of  showing  you  the  truth  of it.  Men so  often have  to be
 shown the truth before they believe something. r,
   "And  now,"  said  Cupelix,   drawing  himself   erect.  "Let
 there be victuals!" His eyes flashed with  an inner  light that
 seemed to leave bright sparkles in the  air. The  sparkles col-
 lected in the  open space  before the  bow of  the Cloudmaster.
 When  they faded,  they left  behind a  broad oak  table groan-
 ing under the weight of food and drink.
   "Eat, my friends. Drink, and we shall  tell each  other tales
 of  great  doings," intoned  the dragon.  The gnomes  fell upon
 the table with squeals of delight. Kitiara eyed the pitchers of
 foaming  ale  and  sauntered  over.  Though  the  spear  plants
 could taste like any food  she wished,  Kitiara had  missed the
 sight of real  food. Only  Sturm remained  where he  stood, his
 hands folded at his waist.
   "You do not eat, Master Brightblade," said Cupelix.
   "The fruits of magic are not fit victuals," Sturm said.
   The reptilian nostrils twitched. "You have poor manners
 for one who styles himself a knight."
   Sturm  answered  carefully.  "There  are  higher  directives
 than  mere manners.  The Measure  tells us  to reject  magic in
 all its forms, for  example." The  brass jaws  widened, reveal-
 ing saber-sized teeth and  a forked  black tongue  flecked with
 gold. For a second, Sturm's  heart contracted  to a  tight knot
 in his  chest, for  he knew  he could  not withstand  this mon-
 ster's attack. Then, he realized Cupelix was grinning at him.
   "Oh,  how  boring it  has been  these centuries  past without
 creatures  to  dispute  with!  Bless  your  stiff  neck,  Sturm
 Brightblade!  What  pleasure  you  give  me!"  The  jaws closed
 with  a  metallic  clank.  "But  come  now,  surely   you  have
 heard of Huma the Lancer?"
   "Of course."
   "He got along  quite well  with some  types of  dragons, did
 he not?"
   "So  the  histories  say. I  can only  point out  that while
 Huma  was  a  brave warrior  and a  great hero,  he was  not a
 model knight."

    Cupelix  burst  out  laughing;  it sounded  like a  chorus of
  mighty gongs.  "Do as  you please,  then! I  would not  want to
  be  responsible  for   undermining  such   formidable  virtue!"
  With  that,  Cupelix  sprang  from his  stand and,  beating his
  wings furiously, flew up to the highest recesses of  the hollow
  obelisk.
    Sturm  went  to   the  sumptuous   table.  The   gnomes  were
  gorging  themselves   on  baked   apples,  dove   stuffed  with
  bacon  and  chestnuts,  wild  rice  with  saffron,  whole sweet
  onions  glazed  with  honey,  venison  steaks,  blood  pudding,
  pickled eggs, breads, punch, wine, and ale.
    Kitiara had taken her injured arm out of its sling and let it
  rest on the table. With her coat falling  off one  shoulder and
  the flush of new ale on  her cheeks,  she looked  quite wanton.
  She  sniffed  when  her  eyes  met  Sturm's,  and she  popped a
  whole pickled egg in her mouth.
    'You're  missing a  feast," she  said after  swallowing. "The
  old emperors of Ergoth never ate so well."
    "I  wonder what  it's made  from?" Sturm  said, picking  up a
  warm roll and letting it fall back into  its tray.  "Sand? Poi-
  sonous mushrooms?"
    "Sometimes  you  are  tiresome  beyond belief,"  said Kitiara
  and  quaffed  a  three-gulp  swallow  of  ale.  "If  the dragon
  wanted to kill us, he could do it without resorting to the sub-
  tleties of poison."
    "Actually,"  Cutwood  said,  leaning  across  the  table  and
  spewing  bread  crumbs  with  every  syllable,  "brass  dragons
  traditionally are not aligned with evil."
    "Have  we  nothing  to  fear   from  this   creature?"  Sturm
  asked the table at large. He  glanced up  at the  darkness that
  held  the  dragon,  and  lowered his  voice. "Our  ancestors on
  Krynn  fought  long  and  hard  to  eliminate dragons  from the
  world. Were they all wrong?"
    "The situation  here is  completely different,"  said Stutts.
  "Lunitari is this dragon's home. He has  taken a  kindly inter-
  est  in our  plight. We  shouldn't refuse  his help  because of
  ancient  prejudices  that  have no  application at  the present
  time."
    'What does he want from us?"
    "He  hasn't  told  us  yet,"  Stutts  admitted. "But  he, ah,

 won't let us leave."
   "What do you mean?" Sturm said sharply.
   "Birdcall, Flash, and I wanted to go searching for  you. We
 rerouted  the  engine  control  sufficiently  to  make  short
 ascents - hops, really - but Cupelix refused to allow  us out
 of the obelisk. He claimed it  wasn't safe,  and that  he was
 taking steps to bring you all here."
   "Well, we're here now," said Kitiara, reaching  for another
 broiled dove. "And we'll soon be on our way."
   "Will  we?"  Sturm asked,  craning his  neck again  to peer
 into the dim heights of the obelisk. "Now that he has us all,
 will he let us go?"

                     Chapter 20

                     A New Age

   Aften Kitiara and thee gnomes had their fill, they stole
 off to the  Cloudmaster for  a nap.  Only Stutts  remained with
 Sturm.  The two  of them  strolled around  the interior  of the
 vast obelisk, and Sturm related the story of Bellcrank's death.
 "It  was  pure  chance that  Bellcrank died  instead of  Kit or
 Sighter."  They  paused  in  their  walk  as  Stutts  plucked a
 handkerchief  from  his  vest  pocket and  dabbed at  his nose.
 Sturm  told  of  Rapaldo's  death,  and  how they  placed Bell-
 crank in the middle of the mushroom garden.
 "He   and   I   were  at   gear-making  school   together,  you
 know," Stutts said softly. "I'll miss him  a great  deal." They
 passed  under  the  bow  of the  flying ship,  and Sturm  saw a
 smooth  round hole,  eight feet  wide, bored  in the  hard mar-
 ble floor. He asked Stutts what it was.

   "The  Micones  live  in  a cavern  below," Stutts  said. "They
 enter and leave  by these  holes." He  indicated two  others not
 far  away.  Sturm  stood  on  the lip  of one  of the  holes and
 looked  down.  There  was  a  feeble bluish  glow below,  and he
 could see  the jagged  shapes of  stalagmites. A  faintly bitter
 smell wafted up from the depths.
   "Did the Micones build this place?" Sturm asked.
   "Not as far as I can tell," Stutts replied, resuming his walk.
 "The  Micones are  a rather  new addition  to this  place. Cupe-
 lix hints that he created them,  but I  don't believe  he's that
 powerful.  But  to  address  your  question:  The   obelisk  was
 here even before the dragon."
   "How do you know that?"
   "By  observing  Cupelix.  While  a  healthy adult  specimen of
 a brass  dragon, his  features are  in many  ways molded  by the
 fact that he grew up inside this  obelisk. Notice,  for example,
 his  short  wings  and  powerful  legs; he  spends all  his time
 perching  on the  ledges rather  than flying.  He can  jump tre-
 mendous  distances,  even straight  up." Stutts  stopped, seeing
 that Sturm was studying him. "What?" asked the gnome.
   'You're  so  changed,"  said Sturm.  "Not just  the lack  of a
 stutter; you seem so calm and collected."
   Stutts  blushed  pink  under  his  neatly  trimmed  beard.  "I
 suppose  we   gnomes  must   appear  awfully   disorganized  and
 impractical to you humans."
   Sturm smiled. "Not at all."
   Stutts  returned  the  grin.  He  said,  "Being on  Lunitari has
 changed me - all  of us.  The flight  of the  Cloudmaster, while
 erratic, has been the  first true  success in  my life.  I spent
 years  in  the  workshops  of  Mt.  Nevermind,  building  flying
 machines. They all failed. It  wasn't until  I learned  of Bell-
 crank's  experiments  with  ethereal  air  that  the Cloudmaster
 became  possible."  Mention  of  the  lost chemist  quelled con-
 versation for a moment.
   "Be at peace," Sturm finally said. "He was avenged."
   They passed below the tail of the flying ship. A mixed
 chorus of  snores issued  from the  open portholes.  Stutts ges-
 tured toward the sound.
   "They  are  a  fine  band  of  colleagues,"  he   said.  "They
 deserve to go home to the cheers of all Sancrist."

 "Do  you  think  we'll  ever see  Krynn again?"  Sturm asked.
 "That all  depends on  Cupelix and  what he  wants. I  have a
 theory - "
 A wind flowed over them. With a customary metallic
 ringing, the dragon alighted on the lowest sill, perhaps fif-
 teen  feet  above  Sturm  and Stutts.  The gnome  sidled away
 from Cupelix.
 "I trust you are satiated," Cupelix said to Stutts.
 "The  meal  was  excellent,  as  always," Stutts  replied. He
 yawned.  "It  weighs  a bit  heavy on  my stomach,  though. I
 think I shall join my colleagues." With a polite  nod, Stutts
 returned to the ship. Cupelix loomed over Sturm.
 "So  it  is  you  and  I, Master  Brightblade. What  shall we
 talk  about  l  Let  us  debate  our philosophies,  knight to
 dragon. What do you say?"
 "No magic?"
 Cupelix  laid  a  burnished  claw  on  his  breast. "Dragon's
 honor."
 "How  is  it," Sturm  wondered, "that  you speak  so fluently
 the Krynnish tongue!"
 "Books," replied the dragon. "My nest  on high  is plentiful-
 ly  supplied  with  books  by  authors  mortal  and immortal.
 Now I shall ask a question: What is it you seek from life?"
 "To live honorably and in the manner befitting  an Oath-taken
 knight. My turn. Have you always lived inside this tower?"
 "From  the  days  when  I was  a dragonlet  no larger  than a
 gnome,  I have  been the  Keeper. I  have never  seen outside
 these walls, save what I spy by the  doors and  windows." His
 broad pupils narrowed. "Do  you ever  question the  tenets of
 the  Knights'  Oath  or  Measure?  After  all,  the  Order of
 Solamnus was not revived after the Cataclysm."
 Sturm  folded his  arms across  his chest.  "If you  are well
 read,  then you  know the  Cataclysm was  not caused  by any-
 thing the knights did. They  accepted the  blame of  the com-
 mon  people, as  all preservers  of order  must do  when that
 order breaks down. Where did the Micones come from?"
 "They  were  created  to serve  me. The  Lunitarian tree-folk
 did not prove reliable." Cupelix flicked out his tongue. "Are
 you in love with the woman, Kitiara?"
 Cupelix's  pointed  query  threw  Sturm  off  guard.  "I have

 some affection for her, but  I'm not  in love  with her,  if you
 understand   the   difference."   The   dragon   nodded,  human-
 fashion.   Sturm   continued,   "So   the   tree-men   and   the
 Micones  were  created  in  succession  as  your  servants,  the
 tree-men being a failed effort. Who created them?"
   "Higher  powers,"  replied  Cupelix  evasively. "This  is won-
 derful! I wish people had  come to  Lunitari centuries  ago! But
 hark  now: If  you're not  in love  with the  woman, why  is she
 so   predominant  in   your  thoughts?   Behind  many   of  your
 spoken thoughts is an image of her."
   Drops  of  sweat  broke out  on Sturm's  face. "I'm  very con-
 cerned  about  her.  The  magical   force  that   pervades  this
 moon  has   invested  her   with  enormous   physical  strength.
 Her  temper  has  sharpened,  too.  I  worry  about   the  power
 getting control of her."
   'Yes, magic can cause problems. I studied Stutts, Birdcall,
 and Flash as the power changed them. It was most interest-
 ing.  So   the  woman   has  become   very  strong?   That  must
 "complicate  your  feelings.  I've  never yet  heard of  a human
 male who relished a female being stronger than he."
   "That's  ridiculous!  I don't  care -"  Sturm halted  his out-
 burst. Blast that sly  dragon. He  was deliberately  probing for
 a sore point.
   "My  turn  to  ask  something,"  Sturm  said.  "Why   does  a
 powerful,  magic-using  dragon  like  yourself   need  servants?
 What can they do that you can't?"
   "I cannot leave the obelisk; isn't that obvious? The door and
 windows are far too small to permit me to pass through."
   "Ah,  but  a  skillful  magic-user  could  overcome  a problem
 of mere size."
   Cupelix's  tail  swept  back,   thwack!  against   the  marble
 wall.  "I'm  not  allowed to  leave. I  cannot pass  the windows
 or  door,  and  have  not  been  able  to  break,  cut  or  bore
 through the  walls, nor  magic them  aside. I  am Keeper  of the
 New Lives, and such is my lot until darkness claims me!"
   "What new lives?"
   "All in good time, Sir Knight. A more pressing matter
 engages my attention: the matter of my freedom."
   'You need us to get you out," Sturm said.
   A wisp of fine vapor trickled from the dragon's nostrils.

 "Yes, I need you. Only  clever machines  can release  me from
 this stifling prison. Tree-men could not  do it.  The Micones
 will not. The  gnomes can.  You shall  have your  flying ship
 when I am free."
   The  vaporous  threads   thickened  until   they  enveloped
 Sturm. He felt the strength drain from his limbs. His eyelids
 drooped....  A  sleeping  mist!  Sturm's  legs   buckled.  He
 mumbled, "No magic, you said."
   "Not magic,  exactly," Cupelix  said soothingly.  "Merely a
 soporific  vapor  I  have  at  my  disposal. My  dear fellow,
 you're so full of suspicions. This will help you.  Sleep, and
 you will not remember  this distressing  conversation. Sleep,
 rest, dream. Sleep. Rest. Dream. Forget...."

 * * *                            * *

   Kitiara  woke  up.  She  had  that vaguely  troubled feeling
 that  often  went with  a sudden  return to  consciousness, as
 though  she'd  been  having  a  bad  dream  that  she couldn't
 remember.  She  was  lying  on  the  deck  of the  dining room
 aboard  the  Cloudmaster.  Below,   the  gnomes   snored  with
 the  regularity  of  a   water-driven  mill.   Kitiara  combed
 through her short curls with her fingers.  Her skin  was clam-
 my, and her hair damp with sweat.
   Outside,  the  air  was  cool. She  inhaled deeply,  but her
 breath  caught  when  she  saw  Sturm  lying  crumpled  on the
 stone  floor  some  yards  away.  Kitiara  hurried   down  the
 ramp  and  ran  to where  he lay.  Sturm breathed,  strong and
 steady, soundly asleep.
   Kitiara  became  aware  that  she  was  being  watched.  She
 whirled  and saw  Cupelix lying  on his  side along  the lower
 ledge. His neck was bowed and he held his tail off  the stone.
 When  he  saw  that  she  saw  him,  his  tail  came  down and
 began to twitch from side to side in a very feline manner.
   "When  did  this  happen?" she  asked, gesturing  to Sturm.
   "A  short time  ago. It's  not a  natural sleep,"  said the
 dragon.
   "He's been having  visions since  coming to  Lunitari. We've
 all been affected by the magic here."
   "Truly? Visions of what?" Kitiara firmed her lips, unwilling

  to  say.  "Come,  my  dear.  Master  Brightblade  has  no secrets
  from you, does he? A man always tells his lover of his dreams."
    "We are not lovers!"
         "That sounds definite. I see I'm guilty of inferring too
  much.  No  matter.  He has  told you  what he  visualizes, hasn't
  he?"
    She shrugged. "Scenes of home, on Krynn. His father,
  mostly, whom he hasn't seen in twelve years."
         Cupelix let out a dragon-sized sigh that swirled dust in
  Kitiara's face. "Ah, Krynn! Where  once thousands  of my
  kind lived, to fly the broad skies in absolute freedom!"
    "You've never been to Krynn?"
    "Alas,  never.  My  entire span  of days  has been  spent with-
  in the stone walls of this structure. Sad, isn't it?"
    "Confining, at any rate."
    The tip of Cupelix's forked tongue flickered out. 'You're
  not afraid of me, are you?"
    Kitiara lifted her chin. "Should I be?"
    "Most mortals would find me awesome."
    "When  you've  been  around  as  much  as   I  have,   you  get
  used  to  new things.  That, and  the fact  that those  who can't
  adjust quickly die."
    "You're a survivor," said Cupelix.
    "I do what I can."
    The  black  tongue  protruded  farther.   "How  did   you  hurt
  yourself?"  asked  the  dragon. Kitiara  described the  sled ride
  down the  cliff. "Ho,  ho, I  see! Very  clever, those  gnomes. I
  can heal your hurt."
    "Can you really?"
    "It's simply done. You'll have to remove the wrapping."
    Why  not?  Kitiara  thought.  She  fiddled  with the  knot that
  Sturm had tied, but  couldn't untie  it with  her left  hand. She
  pulled her dagger and slit the linen with a few deft strokes.
    "The mail, too," said Cupelix.
    She  raised  one  eyebrow  but  put  the  point  of  the dagger
  under  the  rawhide lacing  on her  shoulder. The  slightly rusty
  mail  peeled  back.  Kitiara  pulled  her  shirt off  her injured
  shoulder, exposing a hideous purple-black bruise.
    "Come  closer,"  said  Cupelix.   She  stepped   forward  once,
  and  was  prepared  to  go  farther,  when  the dragon  swung his

 head  down  on  his   long,  supple   neck.  The   black  tongue
 lanced  out,  just  barely  touching the  bruised area.  A shock
 jolted  through  Kitiara.  Cupelix  flicked  his  tongue  again,
 and a harder shock rocked her back on her heels.
   Cupelix reared back. "Done," he said.
   Kitiara ran  her hand  over the  site of  the sprain.  Not a
 trace  of  discoloration  or soreness  remained. She  worked her
 right arm around in a wide circle and felt no twinges.
   "Wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Many thanks, dragon!"
   "It  was  nothing. A  simple healing  spell," he  said modestly.
   Kitiara stretched  luxuriously. "I  feel like  a new  woman! I
 could best a hundred goblins in a fair fight!"
   "I'm  glad  you  are  pleased,"  said  Cupelix. "The  time may
 soon come when you can repay the favor."
   She stopped in mid arm-swing. "What is it you want?"
   "Good company, some philosophy, and words  with heat
 in them. Small things."
   "So talk to me. I have time to spare."
   "Ah, but the life of a mortal is a star falling from the heav-
 ens.  I  have  lived  twenty-nine hundred  years in  this tower.
 Can you  converse for  even half  that time?  A quarter?  No, of
 course  you  can't.  But  there  is a  way to  help me  do these
 things to the end of my days."
   Kitiara folded her arms. "And that is?"
   "Free  me  from this  obelisk. Set  me loose,  that I  might fly
 to Krynn and live as a dragon should!"
   "Men  and  elves would  try to  slay you."
   Cupelix said, "It is a  chance I  would willingly  take. There
 are great changes in the offing, deep stirrings  in the  tide of
 heaven.  You  have  felt  them   yourself,  haven't   you?  Even
 before you flew here,  didn't you  notice a  new tide  rising in
 the affairs of Krynn?"
   Fragments  of  thought  came  back  to  Kitiara.  Tirolan  and
 his elves on the high seas, in direct defiance of  their elders.
 Robbers   and   wicked   clerics  plundering   the  countryside.
 Strange    bands    of    warriors    -    monstrous,    inhuman
 warriors  - crossing  the land,  intent on  some mission.  And a
 word muttered by the elvish seamen: Draconians.
   "You see it, don't you?"  asked Cupelix  softly. "Our  time is
 coming again. A new age of dragons is about to begin."

                   Chapter 21

                  Wood to Burn

      As Kitiara pondered Cupelix's words, Wingover
 appeared, yawning, at the ship railing.
 "G'morning!  When's  breckfiss?" he  asked, thick-tongued.
 "You ate not five hours ago," Kitiara chided.  She slipped
 her shirt and mail back on her shoulder.
 Roperig and Fitter stood in the hull door. Roperig's hand
 was still firmly fixed to  his apprentice's  back. "Hello,
 dragon!" he said heartily.
 "Hello!" added Fitter.
 "Did you sleep well, little friends?" asked Cupelix.
 "Very well indeed, thank you. I - We thought we might
 go outside and take in a bit of fresh air," said Roperig.
 "Stay  close,"  Kitiara  warned.  "Every  time one  of you
 gnomes does something on his own, he ends up putting us to

 no end of trouble."
    Roperig  promised  not  to  stray, and  Fitter had  no choice
 but to agree. They strolled to the door of the obelisk in hilar-
 ious  misstep.  Small  cyclones  of  wind  swirled  through  the
 hollow interior of the obelisk. Kitiara  realized that  this was
 Cupelix  laughing.  She  couldn't  resist; small  chuckles burst
 out of her and changed to full-fledged guffaws.

 * * * * *

    Sturm  braced  himself  on his  arms and  shook his  head. He
 heard   laughter.   His   head   cleared,   though   his  memory
 seemed adrift in fog. He got to  his feet,  turned to  the sound
 of laughter, and was bowled down by Roperig and Fitter.
        Kitiara hauled the gnomes off Sturm and held them up at
 arm's  length.  "What's  the  matter  with  you two?  Didn't you
 see Sturm standing there?"
    "But-but-but," stuttered Fitter.
    She shook them. "Well, out with it!"
    "It was an accident, Kit,"  said Sturm,  getting to  his feet
 once more. Poor Fitter was running in midair, his short legs
 churning. Kitiara set the gnomes on their feet.
    "Tree-men!" Roperig exploded. "Outside!"
    "What! How many?"
    "See for yourself!"
    They  rushed  to  the  door.  Even as  Sturm appeared  in the
 outer opening, a red glass spear  hit the  pavement in  front of
 him  and shattered  into a  thousand razor-sharp  slivers. Kiti-
 ara  grabbed  him  by  his  sword  belt  and  hauled   him  back
 with one hand.
    "Better stay back," Kitiara suggested.
    "I  can  keep  myself out  of harm's  way." Sturm  pressed close
 to the right wall and peered  out. The  valley floor  around the
 obelisk  was thick  with tree-men  - thousands,  if not  tens of
 thousands  of  them.  They  began   to  hoot,   "Ou-Stoom  laud,
 Ou-Stoom laud."
    "What are they saying?" Kitiara asked, behind him.
    "How  should I  know? Rouse  all the  gnomes," he  told Kiti-
 ara. "I'll speak to Cupelix." Kitiara  got Roperig,  Fitter, and
 Wingover to help her.

   "Cupelix?" Sturm called, for the dragon had vanished
 into the top of the tower again. "Cupelix,  come down!
 There's trouble outside!"
   Trouble? I dare say, there is trouble!
   A  great  rustle  of  brassy wings  sounded, and  the dragon
 alighted on one of the crossing pillars that ran from  one side
 of the obelisk to  the other.  Cupelix's metallic  claws closed
 over the marble pillar with a  clack. He  furled his  wings and
 started preening himself along either wing.
   "You don't seem very disturbed by this development,"
 Sturm said, planting his fists on his hips.
   "Should I be?" asked the dragon.
   "Considering the tower is besieged, I would think yes."
   "The  Lunitarians  are  not  very  intelligent.   They  would
 never have come here if you hadn't killed that  fool of  a mor-
 tal they made their king."
   "Rapaldo  was  mad.  He  killed  one   of  the   gnomes,  and
 would've killed others if we hadn't resisted," said Sturm.
   "You should feel flattered that they have  come all  this way
 to  kill  you.  That uncouth  phrase they  keep repeating  - do
 you know what it means? 'Sturm must die.'"
   Sturm's  hand  tightened  around  his  sword  handle.  "I am
 prepared to fight," he said grimly.
   "Your  kind  is  always  ready to  fight. Relax,  my knightly
 friend; the tree-folk will not attack."
   "Are you so certain?"
   Cupelix  yawned,  exposing  teeth green  with verdigris.  "I am
 the    Keeper    of    the    New    Lives. Only a severe trauma would
 have compelled the Lunitarians to come here in the first place.
 However, they are not so bold as to trifle with me."
   '>le can't just let them blockade us!" Sturm insisted.
   "Shortly, the sun will set, and the  tree-folk will  take root.
 The Micones will awaken and clear them away."
   "The Micones come out only at night?"
   "No,  but they  are practically  blind in  sunlight." Cupelix
 pricked  up  his  ears  when  Kitiara  returned,   herding  the
 gnomes  ahead  of  her.  The  dragon  reassured  them  all that
 they were in no danger from the Lunitarians.
   "Perhaps  we  should  prepare  a  barricade, just  the same,"
 said Stutts.

   "I  think  our  time  would  be  better  spent  repairing  the
 Cloudmaster,"   said   Sighter.   "With   the  scrap   metal  we
 brought  from  Rapaldo's  keep,  we  ought  to  be able  to make
 repairs in a few hours."
   Birdcall  whistled  a  sharp  note.  Stutts   nodded,  saying,
 "We haven't the fire needed to work iron."
   "I  may  be  able  to  help you  there," Cupelix  said smoothly.
 "How much wood will you need?"
   "You're being awfully helpful," Sturm said. "Why?"
   The beast's  eyes narrowed  to vertical  slits. "Do  you ques-
 tion  my  motives?"  he  asked.  With his  long ears  laid back,
 Cupelix looked quite fierce.
   "Frankly, yes."
   The dragon relaxed. "Ho, ho! Very good! I blink first,
 Master  Brightblade! I  do have  a favor  to ask  of you  all, but
 first we shall see to the repair of your ingenious vessel."
   Already the light in the obelisk had subsided  to a  dusty rose.
 The hooting of  the tree-men,  muffled by  the thick  walls, faded
 with the sunlight. It was soon quite dark inside the obelisk. Kit-
 iara  complained  to  Cupelix,  while  the  gnomes  ranged noisily
 through the Cloudmaster in search of tools.
   "Oh,  very  well,"  said  the  dragon.  "I forget  your mortal
 eyes  cannot  pierce  the  simple veil  of darkness."  He spread
 his  wings  until  the  tips scraped  the surrounding  walls and
 bowed his neck in a swanlike curve.
   "Ah-biray solem! Creatures of the dark!
   Bring forth a fair and living spark
   To light the tower bright as day.
   Come, Micones! Solem ah-biray!"
   The  glassy  clicking that  they all  associated with  the giant
 ants arose  from the  holes in  the obelisk  floor. It  grew quite
 loud,  as  though  hundreds  of  the  formidable   creatures  were
 stirring below their feet.
   Something  stroked  Sturm's  leg.  He  was   near  one   of  the
 large holes in  the floor,  and a  Micone had  poked its  head out
 to  touch  Sturm  with  one  of  its  antennae.  He  recoiled, and
 the   giant   ant   emerged,   to   be  followed   immediately  by
 another,  and  another.  The  floor  rapidly filled  with Micones,
 all clicking and gently waving their crystalline feelers.
           "To your places, my pets," ordered Cupelix."The ants

  nearest  the  walls  climbed up  to the  lowest ledge  and hung
  there,  their  broad,  plum-shaped  abdomens  poised   off  the
  edge.  When  the entire  interior was  ringed with  hanging ant
  bodies,  the Micones  began rubbing  their bellies  against the
  smooth  marble  shelf.  As  they  did, their  translucent abdo-
  mens  glowed,  first  a  dull  red,  then warmer  and brighter.
  Like a mass of living lanterns, the ants  gradually illuminated
  the whole lower half of the obelisk.
    Sturm  and  Kitiara  stared.  No   matter  how   jaded  they
  thought  they'd  become  to  the  strange  wonders of  the red
  moon, something new and startling was always happening.
    "Better?" said Cupelix smugly.
    "Tolerable," said Kitiara, sauntering away.
    Sturm went to  the door.  The Lunitarians  were a  true for-
  est now, still and tall in the starlight. This  forest, though,
  was  arranged in  perfect concentric  circles around  the great
  obelisk that shielded the killers of their Iron King.
    Cupelix  withdrew  to his  lofty sanctum.  Not long  after he
  did,  Sturm  returned  to  the  Cloudmaster,  where  the gnomes
  were up to their elbows in repair work.
    When  he  descended  to  the  engine  room,  he found  to his
  shock  that  Flash,  Birdcall,  and  Stutts  had torn  apart the
  entire  engine,  searching  for defects.  The deck  was covered
  with  cogs  and  gears,  copper   rods  that   Wingover  called
  'armatures,'  and  hundreds  of   other  examples   of  gnomish
  technology. Sturm  was afraid  to enter,  for fear  of stepping
  on and crushing some delicate, vital component.
    "Uh, how goes it?" he ventured.
    "Oh,  not  to worry,  not to  worry!" Stutts  said blithely.
  "All  is  in  good order."  He snatched  a metal  curlicue from
  Cutwood  and  snapped  at  Flash,  "Stay  away from  the Indis-
  pensable  Inductor  Coil! It  mustn't be  magnetized!" Lunitari
  had finally bestowed its  'gift' upon  Flash; he  was intensely
  magnetic. Bits of iron and steel had begun to cling to him.
    Flash  meekly  stepped away  from the  Indispensable Inductor
  Coil. "We're trying  to find  what parts  were damaged  by the
  lightning strike," Stutts went on, "so they can be fixed, too."
    "Keep at it," Sturm said, trying not to smile. He knew the
  gnomes would find an answer of sorts - eventually.
    He  found  Kitiara  in  the  wheelhouse, sitting  in Stutts's

 chair.  She had  one leg  cocked over  the arm  of the  chair and
 was  drinking  from  a  tall  clay  tankard. "Dragon  ale?" asked
 Sturm.
    "Umm.  Want  some?  No,  of  course  you  don't."   She  drank
 some more. "All the more for me then."
    "The gnomes are hard at it," he said. '%le could be on our
 way home in a day or two."
    "Can't be too soon for me," she replied.
    "Oh? Do you have plans?"
    Kitiara  cradled  the  tankard  in  her  lap.  "Do  you really
 want to know?"
    "I  feel  a  bit  useless  with  the  gnomes working,  and the
 Micones working, and us not doing anything."
    She  let  her  head  fall back  as she  slouched lower  in the
 small  chair.  "I  was  thinking  how  I would  like to  raise an
 army  of  my  own  and  not  be  a   mercenary  any   longer.  My
 own troops, loyal to me."
    "And what would you do with your own army?"
    "Make  myself  a  kingdom. Seize  an existing  one in  a weak-
 ened  state,  or  carve  one  out of  a larger  country." Kitiara
 looked Sturm in the eye. "What do you think of that?"
    He sensed she was baiting him. He merely replied, "Do
 you think you're up to commanding an entire army?"
    She  made  a  fist.  "I'm  almost  an  army  on  my  own. With
 my  new  strength  and  my  old  experience, yes,  I'm up  to it.
 Would  you  like  a  commission  in   my  guard?   You're  pretty
 decent  with  a  sword.  If  I  could break  you of  your foolish
 notions of honor, you'd be even better."
    "No, thank you, Kit," he spoke  seriously. "I  have a  duty to
 my heritage.  I know  that one  day in  my lifetime,  the Knights
 of Solamnia will recover from  their disgrace.  I shall  be there
 when  they  do."  He  turned  away  to  the  wide  windows.  "And
 I have other obligations. There's still my  father to  find. He's
 alive, I've seen that. He has left a legacy for me at our castle,
 and I intend to claim it." His voice trailed off.
    "Is that your final word?" she asked. Sturm nodded. "I
 don't understand you. Don't you ever think of yourself?"
    "Of course I do. Entirely too much, sometimes."
    Kitiara let the tankard dangle from her fingers. "Name an
 occasion. It can't have been since I've known you."

    Sturm  opened  his  mouth to  speak, but  before he  could a
 shadow  fell  across  the  bow  of  the   Cloudmaster.  Kitiara
 jumped up. It was the shadow of the dragon.
    Will you come  out a  moment, my  friends? he  thought at
 them.   Kitiara   and   Sturm   went   down  the   ramp  and
 descended to the obelisk floor.
    "What is it?" asked Kitiara.
    "I have set the Micones to building  a rampart  that will
 impede  the  tree-folk  from  entering  the  obelisk,"  Cupelix
 said. He preened himself with a  foreclaw, as  if proud  of his
 ingenuity.
    "I thought you said they  didn't dare  come in,"  Sturm said
 sharply. Cupelix stopped in midpreen.
    "That  was  true of  ordinary times,  but you,  dear fellow,
 have  incited  the Lunitarians  to overcome  their fear  of me.
 Their presence here is  proof of  that. It  does not  take deep
 wisdom  to  deduce  they  may  soon  decide  to  go  where they
 have never been."
    "We can't have that," said Kitiara, folding her arms bellig-
 erently.
    "No indeed. So  I thought  you might  like to  inspect my
 defenses, as it is your lives they will defend."
    Sturm  roused  the  gnomes  from  their  current  work, sal-
 vaging  scraps  of  wood from  the Cloudmaster  to burn  in the
 forge  fire.  Everyone  trooped to  the open  door to  see what
 Cupelix had set the Micones doing.
    The giant ants  were lined  up in  echelon, parallel  to the
 door of the obelisk. At some  invisible, inaudible  signal, the
 Micones  lowered  their  triangular heads  to the  ground. They
 pushed the red soil forward in a long  heap, and  repeated this
 process  many  times.  Thus  they created  a trench  around the
 obelisk. The dirt they piled into a high rampart.
   "Satisfactory?" asked the dragon from his perch.
   Kitiara  shrugged  and  sauntered  back  to the  ship. The
 gnomes  followed in  twos and  threes as  they grew  bored with
 watching  the  mighty Micones  shift the  red earth.  Soon only
 Sturm was left. He watched until  all the  gaps in  the rampart
 were filled. The loose dirt spilled  down from  the top  of the
 wall,  burying  the  nearest tree-men  until only  their jagged
 tops protruded from the crimson soil.

                       Chapter 22

                         Keeper
                   of the New Lives

         The forge fine's making shgowed the party yet
 another  of  Cupelix's  powers.  With  scavenged  stones, they
 erected a  crude hearth.  Kitiara, stripped  to her  shirt and
 with her pants legs rolled up, stood by, sweating, as the last
 of the stones was put in place.
 "Now," she said, "who's got the flint?"
 Stutts  put  his  hand  out  to  Wingover. Wingover  stared at
 the open palm. "Come, come, give me the flint," Stutts said.
 "I haven't got the flint," his colleague replied.
 "I gave it to you when you went off on your march."
 "No, you  didn't. Maybe  you gave  it to  one of  the others."
 A quick poll of  the remaining  gnomes failed  to turn  up any
 flint.

   "This is ridiculous! Who made the fires while we were on
 our own?" asked Kitiara.
   Fitter raised a hand timidly. "Bellcrank," he said.
     Stutts clapped a hand to his head. "He had the flint!"
   "I  think  so," said  Wingover, looking  at his  dusty, worn-
 out shoes.
   "Not  to  worry, little  friends," said  a voice  from above.
 With  amazing  silence,  Cupelix  drifted  down  the  shaft  to
 alight  on  the  nearest  ledge.  "Fire is  what we  dragons do
 best."
   Kitiara  and the  gnomes took  shelter in  the far  corner of
 the obelisk, after first taking the precaution of  dragging the
 Cloudmaster  aside  as  well.  Cupelix  raised his  long, scaly
 neck  and inhaled  so sharply  that the  air shrieked  into his
 nostrils.  The  gnomes flattened  themselves against  the wall.
 Cupelix raked his wing claws  back and  forth across  his brass
 cheeks,  throwing   out  cascades   of  sparks.   Then  Cupelix
 exhaled,  hard,  through  the  fountain  of sparks.  His breath
 caught fire  with a  dull 'whuffing'  sound, and  streamed down
 over the kindling. Thick smoke roiled out  of the  hearth, fol-
 lowed  by  lighter white  smoke, then  flame. His  great convex
 chest  almost  inverted  from  the  exhalation,  Cupelix ceased
 his fire-making. Smoke drifted in the still air, rising to hid-
 den heights of the tower.
   "Come  along,"  said Stutts.  With a  cheer, the  gnomes hur-
 ried to their tools. They laid out all  the scrap  metal they'd
 liberated from  Rapaldo's horde  - copper  tree nails  and iron
 brackets, bronze chain  and tin  buckets. All  of it  was going
 under  the  hammer,  to  be  recast  and  reforged  into engine
 parts. The interior of the obelisk rang with the sound of steel
 and iron melding together. The  firelight cast  distorted, mon-
 strous  shapes  on  the  marble  walls.  The monsters  were the
 gnomes, toiling around the fire.
   Kitiara slipped past the  busy little  men and  went outside.
 The cool  air washed  over her  like a  splash of  fresh water.
 Over  the  head-high  wall  that  the  Micones  had  built  she
 could see the  cold stars.  Faint streaks  of haze  crossed the
 sky, lit by a distant  light source.  She walked  slowly around
 the obelisk's massive base and  found Sturm,  gazing up  at the
 blue-white splendor of Krynn.

 "Rather pretty," she said, stopping behind him.
 "Yes, it is," he said noncommittally.
 "I keep wondering if we will ever get back there."
 "We will. I feel it, here." Sturm tapped his chest. "And  it i,
 confirmed  by  these  visions  of  mine. They  seem to  show the
 future."
 Kitiara  managed  a  mildly  crooked   grin.  "You   didn't  hap
 pen  to  see me  on Krynn  while you  were perusing  the future,
 did you? I'd like to know that I'll make it back, too."
 Sturm  tried  to  summon  up  an  image  of  Kit  from  his mem-
 ory. All he got for his effort was a stabbing pain in the chest.
 He coughed and said,  "I'm worried,  Kit. Are  we right  to deal
 with  this dragon?  The gods  and heroes  of ancient  times were
 wise  -  they  knew men  and dragons  could not  coexist. That's
 why the beasts were killed or banished."
 Chill  forgotten,  Kitiara  planted  a foot  in the  rising bank
 of red soil. "You  surprise me,"  she said.  "You, who  are edu-
 cated  and  tolerant  of most  creatures, advocating  hatred for
 all dragons, even one of good lineage, like Cupelix."
 "I'm not advocating hatred. I just don't trust him. He
 wants something from us."
 "Should he help us for nothing?"
 Sturm tugged fitfully at the ends of his mustache. "You
 just  don't  see,  Kit. Anyone  with power,  be he  dragon, gob-
 lin,  gnome  or  human, is  not going  to relinquish  that power
 merely  to help  others. That's  the evil  of power,  and anyone
 or anything who has it is tainted by it."
 'You're   wrong!"  she   said  with   verve.  "Wrong!   A  cruel
 man  is  cruel  no  matter what  his station  in life;  but many
 dragons  skilled  in  magic were  aligned with  good. It  is the
 heart and soul  that are  the seats  of good  or evil.  Power is
 something else. To have power is to live. To lose it is to exist
 as something less than you are."
 He  listened  to  this  short   tirade  in   mute  astonishment.
 Where  was  the  Kit  he once  knew, the  fun-loving, passionate
 woman  who  could  laugh   at  danger?   The  Kit   who  carried
 herself with the  pride of  a queen,  even when  she had  only a
 few coppers in her pocket?
 "Where  is  she?"  he  said  aloud.  Kitiara  asked him  what he
 meant.  "The  Kit  I  knew  in   Solace.  The   good  companion.

 The friend."
   Hurt and anger flowered in her eyes. "She is with you."
   He  could  sense  the  anger  radiating  from  her,  like  heat
 from  a  hearthstone.  She  turned  and  disappeared  around  the
 corner of the obelisk.

 * * * * *

   The  gnomes  forged  a  massive  lever   switch  of   iron  and
 copper,  and  converted  the rest  of the  scrap into  huge coup-
 lings  that  could  be  clamped  over the  severed cables  in the
 Cloudmaster   and  closed   by  great   iron  hooks.   This  work
 took  most  of the  night, and  when it  was done,  Rainspot pre-
 cipitated a short shower inside  the obelisk  to quench  the fire
 and  dispel  the  pall  of  smoke  that  hung   over  everything.
 Cupelix  watched  it  all  from  his  perch,  never  questioning,
 hardly  even  moving  for  nine  and  a  half  hours.  Afterward,
 the  tired  gnomes climbed  the ramp  into the  ship for  a rest,
 leaving Cupelix to admire their work.
   Sturm  looked  over  the  metalwork,  too, as  he idly  ate his
 supper  of  dried  spear  plant  and  cold beans.  Cupelix teased
 him   with  magically   produced  haunches   of  roast   pig  and
 pitchers  of  sweet  cream,  but   Sturm  stolidly   ignored  the
 proffered treats.
   "You're  a  stubborn fellow,"  said the  dragon, as  Sturm con-
 tinued to munch his meager fare.
   "Principles  are  not  to  be cast  aside whenever  they become
 inconvenient," he replied.

   "Principles don't fill empty belly".

   "Nor does magic salve an empty heart."
   "Very good!" exclaimed Cupelix. "Let us trade proverbs
     that contradict each other; that's a worthy entertainment."
   "Some other time. I'm not in the mood for games," said
 Sturm with a sigh.
   "Ah, I see the fair face of Mistress Kitiara in this," said the
 dragon with a mischievous  lilt in  his voice.  "Do you  pine for
 her, my boy? Shall I put in a good word for you?"
           "No!" Sturm snapped. "You really are quite irritating
 sometimes."
   "Inasmuch  as  I've  had  no one  to talk  to for  nearly three

  millennia,  I  admit  my  etiquette  is  sorely underdeveloped.
  "Still," said Cupelix, "this presents you with  the opportunity
  to inform me. I would  be as  polite and  genteel as  a knight.
  Will you teach me?"
    Sturm stifled a yawn. "It isn't  manners or  gentility taught
  by the fireside that makes a knight. It's long study and train-
  ing, living by  the Oath  and the  Measure. Such  things cannot
  be  taught  in light  conversation. Besides,  I doubt  that you
  genuinely  want  to  learn  anything;  you're just  looking for
  diversion."
    "You're so untrusting," said Cupelix. "No,  don't deny  it! I
  can  hear it  in your  mind before  you speak.  How can  I con-
  vince you of my true good will, Sir Doubter?"
    "Answer  me  this:  Why   are  you,   a  fully   grown  brass
  dragon,  permanently confined  to this  tower, on  this strange
  and magic-ridden moon?"
    "I am Keeper of the New Lives," said Cupelix.
    "What does that mean?"
    The  dragon  darted  his  snaky  neck from  side to  side, as
  though  looking  for  nonexistent  eavesdroppers. "I  guard the
  repository  of  my   race."  When   Sturm  continued   to  look
  blank,  Cupelix  said  loudly,  "Eggs,  my dear,  ignorant mor-
  tal! The eggs of dragons lie in  caverns beneath  this obelisk.
  It  is  my  task  to  watch  over  them  and protect  them from
  insensate brutes like yourself." His great  mouth widened  in a
  grin. "No offense intended, of course."
    "None taken."
    Sturm  looked  at  the floor,  light red  and veined  with dark
  wine  streaks.  He  tried to  imagine the  nest of  dragon eggs
  below, but he could not grasp it.
    "How do they come  to be  here l  The eggs,  I mean,"  he said.
    "I  do not  know for  certain. I  was born  here, you  see, and
  grew  from  dragonlet to  maturity within  these walls.  Out of
  eggs, mine was chosen  to hatch  and live  as guardian,  as the
  Keeper of the New Lives."
    Sturm's  mind  boggled.  He  lowered  himself  to  the floor.
  "Who deposited the eggs and built the tower?" he asked.
    "I have a theory," said Cupelix, consciously mimicking the
  gnomes. "Three thousand years ago, when dragons were
  banished  from  Krynn, the  evil ones  were driven  by Paladine

 to the Great Nullity, the  negative plane,  where they  were to
 remain  until  doomsday.  The dragons  aligned with  the forces
 of good left the lands  of man  as well.  Paladine made  a pact
 with  Gilean,  a  neutral  god  who  was  sympathetic   to  our
 plight, and arranged for  a number  of good  dragon eggs  to be
 collected and deposited here,  to serve  as sentinels  for when
 the evil ones returned. He caused  the tower  to be  raised and
 hatched me."
   "How many types of dragon eggs lie below?"
   "Some  of  the  brass, bronze,  and copper  clans, in  the num-
 ber of 496. It is the collected spirit of these  unborn dragons
 that provides the magic that saturates Lunitari."
   "Four -" Sturm shifted on his haunches, as  if he  could feel
 the  movement  of  so  many  creatures  below the  thick marble
 slab. So many!
   "When will they hatch?" asked Sturm.
   "Tomorrow  or  never."  Sturm pressed  for a  better answer,
 and  Cupelix  said,  "A veil  of dormancy  laid down  by Gilean
 lies over the entire cache.  It will  take a  god, or  a mighty
 spell, to lift the veil and cause  the eggs  to hatch.  Now you
 know all about me," added Cupelix. "Do you trust me?"
   "Almost. Could I see the eggs?"
   Cupelix  scratched  his shiny  chest with  one of  his fore-
 claws  and  Sturm  winced  at the  screeching sound.  "I don't
 know about that -"
   "Don't you trust me?" asked Sturm.
   " true touch, mortal! You shall see them then, a sight no
 mortal  eye  has  ever  beheld.  Hmm."  The  dragon  lifted one
 tree-sized leg and flexed his birdlike toes. "I'll have to warn
 the  Micones.  They  live  in  the  caverns  and keep  the eggs
 clean, turning them every day so the yolks don't settle.
 They  would  certainly  slay  you  if  you ventured  down there
 without  my  permission."  Cupelix  settled  again  and fluffed
 out his  wings. "I  will inform  the Micones,  but you  must be
 sure not to  touch the  eggs. The  protective instinct  runs so
 deeply  in  them  that  not  even  my  intervention  would pre-
 vent  the  Micones  from  ripping  you  limb  from limb  if you
 touched an egg."
   "I'll keep that in mind," said  Sturm. He  stood to  go. "May
 I invite the others?"

 "Why not? I'm sure the little men will be fascinated."
 "Thank you, dragon."
 Sturm   nodded   and   made   for  the   quiet  ship.   Once  the
 human  was  inside,  Cupelix  spread  his  wings  and  telepathi-
 cally  ordered  the illuminating  ants to  cease their  glow. The
 light  went  out  of  their bodies,  and one  by one  the Micones
 ..' dropped off and scuttled back into their holes in the floor.
 Kitiara  re-entered  the  darkened  obelisk.  "Where   is  every-
 body?" she called out.
 "In  the  flying  machine,"  said  Cupelix,  unseen above  her in
 the shadows. She flinched at the sound of his voice.
 "You  should  give  a  person  warning  that  you're  there," she
 chided. "Is there anything left to eat?"
 A  table,  set  with  candles,  appeared  before   her.  Delicate
 cutlets  of  veal, bread,  and melted  sweet butter  awaited her.
 A  tall, clear  glass goblet  brimmed with  rich red  wine. Kiti-
 ara  pulled  out  the  velvet-cushioned,  high-backed  chair  and
 sat down.
 "What's the occasion?' she asked.
 "No occasion," replied the dragon from on high. "A ges-
 ture of friendship."
 "Are  we  friends?"  said Kitiara,  forking up  a slice  of veal.
 "Oh, yes, and I hope we shall be better friends still."
 "A  woman  could  do  worse,"  she  said,  sipping  the  wine. It
 wasn't  grape  wine  at  all, but  some sort  of berry,  tart and
 cleansing  on  the  tongue.  "Good,"  she  said,  not  quite sure
 how else to characterize the wine.
 "I'm  glad you  like it.  It's pleasing  to me  to do  things for
 you,  Kitiara. May  I call  you Kitiara?  You appreciate  my lit-
 tle gifts. Unlike that Brightblade fellow. He's so stiff and
 proper, it's a wonder  he doesn't  chip himself  when he
 shaves." Kitiara laughed at the dragon's very apt image.
 "You have a very charming laugh," said Cupelix.
 "Careful,"  she  said.  "If I  were less  mindful, I'd  think you
 were trying to cozen me."
 "I merely delight in your company." There was a heavy
 rustle as the dragon flew  from one  side of  the obelisk  to the
 other.  The  candle  flames  on  Kitiara's  table wavered  in the
 disturbed air.
 "Soon   Master   Brightblade    and   his    gnomish   companions

 will  make  a  descent  into  the  caverns  below   the  tower,"
 Cupelix  said,  and  further  explained   about  the   cache  of
 dragon  eggs.  'While  they are  down there,  I should  like you
 to  visit  me  in  my private  sanctum." The  bulk of  the brass
 dragon  dropped  from  the   darkness,  landing   with  infinite
 grace and lightness in front of Kitiara's table.
   "What  for?"  she  said,  not quite  suppressing the  catch in
 her throat.
   Up close - at a range  of no  more than  six feet  - Cupelix's
 eyes  were  green  orbs  three  hands  wide. The  vertical black
 pupils  were  cracks  into  the  deepest  abyss.  His  eyes nar-
 rowed as the dragon scrutinized the woman.
   "I  would  hear  of  your  life  and  philosophy, and  you may
 pry into my secrets as well," he said. "Only don't tell the oth-
 ers. It would make them jealous."
   "Not  a word,"  Kitiara said.  She winked  at the  dragon, and
 Cupelix  flicked  his  tongue  out.  It touched  her hand  and a
 warm tingle spread up her arm.
   "Until  then."  Cupelix  spread his  wings until  they whisked
 the far walls. He sprang off the  floor with  one thrust  of his
 powerful hind legs and vanished into the darkness above.
   Kitiara's   heartbeat  slowly   resumed  its   normal  rhythm.
 The  tingle in  her arm  slowly faded.  Kitiara reached  for her
 wine  glass.  To  her  surprise,  her hand  was shaking  so much
 that she knocked the goblet off the table,  and it  shattered on
 the red marble floor.
   "Damn!" she said, clenching her fist.

                     Chapter 23

                    Caverns Deep

  The   gnomes  responded   to  Cupelix's   invitation  with
 characteristic  enthusiasm.  The  new  metal  parts  for  the
 Cloudmaster had to cool a while longer  before they  could be
 fitted into place, and the proposed descent into  the caverns
 suited  them  very  well.  They turned  the ship  upside down
 hunting  for  proper  equipment: pens  and paper,  of course;
 rope and tape measures; and transits  for surveying  the lay-
 out  of  the  caverns.  Cutwood brought  out a  large balance
 scale to weigh representative specimens of dragon eggs.
   "Oh, no," Sturm warned. "No one is to touch the eggs, not
 the least little bit."
  "But  why?" asked  Rainspot, who  was wearing  his oilcloth
 slicker full-time now.
  "The  Micones  are under  orders to  kill anyone  who touch-

 es  them,"  Sturm  said.  "Not  even Cupelix  can countermand
 that order." Cutwood reluctantly abandoned his scale.
   Two  hours  before  dawn,  Sturm  and  the  gnomes  presented
 themselves before one  of the  large, round  holes in  the obe-
 lisk floor. Cupelix  was poised  on his  ledge above  them, and
 Kitiara  lingered  in  the  doorway,  watching  the  comic mar-
 shaling  of  the  gnome explorers.  Some of  them, particularly
 Fitter,  were  so  laden  with  gear  that they  could scarcely
 stand.  Sturm's  only  special item  was a  long hank  of rope,
 secured at one shoulder and draped across his chest.
   "I  hope you  don't intend  to climb  down," said  the dragon
 mildly. "The way presents many difficulties."
   "How  else shall  we get  down there?"  asked Stutts.
   "By allowing the Micones to take you."
   Sturm's  eyes  narrowed.  "How  will  they  do that?"
   "It's  very  simple,"  said  Cupelix. He  shut his  mouth and
 lowered  his  head,  as  he  usually  did   when  communicating
 telepathically  with  the  ants.  Hard, armored  heads appeared
 in all the holes, and  before Sturm  could protest  six Micones
 presented themselves to  the exploration  party. "The  ants are
 quite  capable  of carrying  two gnomes  apiece, and  the sixth
 will be Master Brightblade's mount."
   Sturm turned to Kitiara. "Are you certain you won't
 change your mind and go with us?"
   She  shook  her  head.  "I've explored  enough of  this moon,
 thank you."
   The  gnomes  were  already  scrambling  over   their  mounts,
 measuring,  touching,  and  tapping  the  crystalline creatures
 from  mandible  to  stinger.  The  glass-smooth  ants presented
 no  footholds  or  handholds  for  mounting  and  riding. After
 some  discussion  (cut  short by  Sturm's impatient  sigh), the
 gnomes tied lengths  of rope  together into  reasonable halters
 and  bridles. The  Micones stood  stock-still through  all this
 indignity. Even their restless antennae were motionless.
   Flash  bent  down  on   his  hands   and  knees   and  Stutts
 stepped on his back to  reach his  seat on  the Micone.  He was
 still too short to reach the ant's arched thorax. Sighter tried
 to  boost Stutts  up. He  planted both  hands and  one shoulder
 in the seat of Stutts's pants  and shoved  with all  his might.
 Stutts rose up the  curving carapace  of crystal,  up and  up -

 and over. He  slid headfirst  over the  ant's body  and thumped
 down  on  the  other  side.  Fortunately, something  soft broke
 his fall. It was Birdcall.
    Sturm made a stirrup loop  in his  rope and  levered himself
 onto the creature's back. "It's like sitting  on a  statue," he
 said, wiggling to situate himself. "Cold and hard."
    The gnomes emulated Sturm's  rope stirrup,  and with  only a
 few  minor  bruises,  managed  to mount  their ants.  The pairs
 were  Stutts  and  Flash,  Birdcall  and  Sighter,  Cutwood and
 Rainspot,  Roperig  and  Fitter  (naturally), with  Wingover by
 himself.
 g  "How  do  we  steer  these  things?"  Cutwood  muttered. The
 makeshift halter  ran around  the giant  ant's neck,  but there
 was no way to control an animal that didn't breathe.
    "There's no need for that,"  said the  dragon. "I  have told
 them  to  take you  to the  cavern, wait  there, and  bring you
 back.  They  will not  deviate from  my instructions,  so don't
 try to get around them. Hold on and enjoy the ride."
   "Ready, colleagues?" asked Stutts, with a wave.
   "Ready!"  "We're  ready!"  "Let's  go!"  were  the  replies.
 Sturm  wrapped  the  rope  around his  clenched fist  and nod-
 ded. The Micones were set in motion, and they were off.
 v The giant ant below Sturm was  rock steady  on its  six spin-
 dly legs, though its side-to-side motion was a bit odd  to him,
 who  was  used  to  the  up-and-down  gait  of   a  four-footed
 horse. Sturm's feet were only a few inches off the  floor, but,
 the Micone bore him strongly to the nearest hole. He expect-
 ed the ant to enter and descend like  a man  going down  a spi-
 ral stair, but no. The creature entered the hole  headfirst and
 kept  bending,  tipping  Sturm farther  and farther  forward.
 He leaned down until his  chest was  pressed against  the ant's
 domed back and clamped  his arms  and legs  around its  body.
 The   Micone  walked   down  the   hole's  vertical   wall  and
 emerged,  upside  down,  in  the  vaulted  cavern  below,  with
 the astonished Sturm hanging on for all he was worth.
  The   gnomes'   mounts   entered   the   same  way,   and  the
 squeals  of  delight  and  terror  that  followed rang  off the
 milky,  china blue  walls. Huge  stalactites, thirty  and forty
 feet long and ten  feet wide  at their  bases, reached  down to
 the floor. The pale blue formations shone with  a dim  light of

  their  own.  The  walls  and  ceiling  (which Sturm  found him-
  self staring at) were likewise encrusted with a coating  of the
  hard blue-white crystal. It looked  as smooth  as ice,  but the
  ants' barbed feet clung tenaciously to it and never slipped.
    Sturm's  mount  followed  a  well-worn  path  amid  the  cold
  spires.  The  Micone  walked thirty  yards across  the cavern's
  ceiling,  then  abruptly  turned  and  descended  straight down
  the  wall. A  hundred feet  below, the  ant righted  itself and
  moved across  the cavern  floor, which  was littered  with what
  resembled  large  scraps  of  old  parchment  and  red leather.
  This  debris was  kicked up  around the  ants' feet  until they
  halted in a precise straight line, directly below the  holes in
  the  obelisk  floor,  now  high above  their heads.  All around
  them  the  vaulted  cavern glowed  with faint  luminescence. It
  was  like  Solinari  in  wane, but  glowed from  all directions
  and cast no shadows.

 * * * * *

    When   Sturm   and   the   gnomes   had   departed   for  the
  caverns,  Kitiara  waited nervously  by the  bow of  the Cloud-
  master.  The  gnomes'  shrieks  - half  delight, half  terror -
  faded  as  the  ants  carried  them  into  the  hollows  below.
  Cupelix alighted on the  floor beside  the flying  ship. "Well,
  my dear, are you ready?" asked the dragon.
    Kitiara bit  her lip  and rubbed  the palms  of her  hands on
  her sleeves. "Sure," she said. "How do I get up there?"
    "The simplest way is for me to carry you."
    She  eyed  him  uncertainly.  Cupelix's  forelegs  were small
  compared to  his massive  hind legs,  which could  easily crush
  an ox. Noting her hesitation,  the dragon  said, "If  you climb
  upon my back and sit astride my neck,  I'll fly  very carefully
  to the top of the tower." So saying,  he laid  his chin  on the
  cold floor. Kitiara threw one leg over  the beast's  long, sin-
  ewy neck. His scales  were as  cold and  hard as  she'd thought
  they  would  be.  They were  living flesh,  but felt  very much
  like true brass. Cupelix raised his head, and Kitiara felt taut
  muscles  surge  under  the  burnished  scales. She  leaned for-
  ward and grasped the edges of two scales to  secure a  grip, as
  Cupelix spread his wings  and launched  straight into  the air.

   J'
      The obelisk walls were square on its lowest third. Where
   one  particularly  heavy  platform  ringed  the   walls,  they
   slanted  inward,  constricting  the  dragon's  movement. Cupe-
   lix flared his wings and grabbed  hold of  the ledge  with his
   powerful  hind  legs.  He hopped  sideways, sliding  his four-
   toed feet along the sill, which was  deeply worn  by centuries
   of  such  movement.  Kitiara looked  over the  dragon's shoul-
   der  and  down.  The Cloudmaster  looked like  a toy,  and the
   holes  that  had so  recently swallowed  Sturm and  the gnomes
   were mere ink blots on a crimson page.
       Cupelix reached a horizontal pillar that crossed  from the
   north ledge to the east side. He sidled on out onto this until
   he was almost centered in the shaft again. "Hold on!" he
   said, and leaped.
       There was not enough room that high to  allow him  to fly,
   so he kept his wings furled. Cupelix  leaped thirty  yards up,
   to where the obelisk was very cramped indeed.
       Kitiara  opened  her  eyes. The  floor, four  hundred feet
   below,  was  a  vague  pink  square.  Above, the  obelisk came
   to an abrupt end at a  flat stone  ceiling. She  tightened her
   hold  on the  dragon's neck.  A shiver  ran through  the great
   elephantine body.
       "You're tickling me," he said, in a very undragonlike man-
   ner.  A  wickedly  hooked  claw  set  on  the leading  edge of
   Cupelix's right wing nudged against her. It scraped  along the
   spot where Kitiara had held on, scratching the ticklish spot.
       "Are you going to do  any more  jumping?" she  asked, try-
   ing not to let her anxiety show in her voice.
       "Oh, no, from here on it's all climbing."
       By claw and muscular leg, the dragon climbed the
   remaining  few  yards  with  deft  deliberation.   He  stopped
   when  his  horned  head  bumped  the  flat  ceiling separating
   them from  the obelisk's  uppermost section.  Kitiara expected
   him to  utter some  magic word  that would  open the  way, but
   instead  Cupelix  planted  his  angular  head against  a stone
   slab  and  pushed.  His  neck  bowed  under the  pressure, and
   Kitiara  was  pinned  between  the  massive wing  muscles. She
   was about to protest  when a  large section  of the  slab gave
   way grudgingly.  Cupelix shoved  it upward  until it  stood on
   edge.  He  lowered  his  neck,  and Kitiara  dismounted inside

 the  dragon's  inner  sanctum.  Her  feet  slipped on  the marble,
 and  for  a  second  the  distant  floor  below  seemed  ready  to
 rush  to  her.  Kitiara  stepped  farther  away  from  the opening
 and breathed a silent sigh of relief.
   "Arryas  shirak!"  said  the  dragon.  A  globe fully  eight feet
 across,  set  in the  very apex  of the  obelisk roof,  blazed with
 light. The details of Cupelix's lair  leaped out  at her:  heaps of
 old  books  and  scrolls,  candle  stands,  censers,  braziers, and
 other   magical  apparatus   all  wrought   in  heavy   gold;  four
 tapestries covered  the walls,  tapestries so  old that  the lowest
 edges   were  crumbling   to  dust.   One  hanging,   fifteen  feet
 wide  by  fifteen  feet  high,  showed  Huma  the Lancer  astride a
 fire-breathing   dragon,   impaling   a   denizen   of   the   Dark
 Queen's  domain.  The  hero's   armor  was   worked  in   gold  and
 silver thread.
   The second great tapestry was a map of Krynn. It showed
 not only the continent of Ansalon as Kitiara knew it, but
 other land masses to the north and west.
   The  third  hanging  showed   a  conclave   of  the   gods.  They
 were all there, the good, the neutral, and the evil, but  the image
 that  truly  arrested  her  was  that of  the Dark  Queen. Takhisis
 stood  apart  from  the  assembled  gods  of  good  and neutrality,
 regal  and  scornful.  The  weaver  had made  her not  only beauti-
 ful, but also terrible, with scaly legs and a barbed tail. As Kiti-
 ara  moved  past  the  great  figure,  the  expression on  the Dark
 Queen's  face  was  by  turns  cruel,  contemptuous,   bitter,  and
 bewitching.  Kitiara  might  have  stood  there forever  staring at
 her,  had  not  Cupelix  levered  the stone  slab back  into place,
 restoring  it  for  a  floor.  The several  tons of  marble thunked
 down, and broke Kitiara's trance.
   The  last  tapestry  was  the  most  enigmatic.  It was  a depic-
 tion  of  a  balance,  like  the  constellation   Hiddukel,  except
 that this  scale was  unbroken. In  the right  pan of  the scales
 was  an  egg.  On the  left was  the silhouette  of a  man. Cupelix
 clomped across the slab, his nails clicking on the stone.
   "Do you understand the picture?" he asked.
   "I'm  not  sure,"  Kitiara replied.  "What sort  of egg  is that
 supposed to be?"
   "What kind do you think it is?"
   "Well, if it's a dragon egg, then I guess the picture repre-

 sents  the  world  in  balance  between  humans and  dragons -
 as long as the dragons are just eggs."
    Cupelix said, "That's very good. It's  also the  most obvi-
 ous interpretation. There are many others."
    "Who made the hangings?"
    "I  don't  know.  The  gods, perhaps.  They were  here before
 I was." The dragon went to the largest pile  of books  and lay
 back against them, drawing his tail  around in  front. Kitiara
 cast about for a convenient place to sit. She upended  a black
 iron cauldron inlaid with silver runes and sat on that.
    "So here I am," she said. "Why did you  want to  talk with
 me especially?"
     "Because  you  are  different  from  the  others.  The man
 Sturm, I  enjoy debating,  but one  can talk  to him  for five
 minutes  and  know his  entire mind.  He is  very plain-spoken
 and single-minded, isn't he?"
 She shrugged. "He's a good fellow when he doesn't inflict his
 narrow values on others. It's hard to like him sometimes."
   "And love?" asked the dragon slyly.
   "Hardly! Oh, he's not bad looking, well made and all, but
 it'll take a different sort of woman from me to capture
 Sturm Brightblade's heart."

    Cupelix cocked his head to one side. "In what way?"
    "Innocent. Unworldly. Someone who fits his knightly
 version of purity."
    "Ah," said the dragon. "A female untainted by lust""
    Kitiara smiled crookedly. "Well, not completely."
    "Ha!"  Cupelix  gave a  hoot of  laughter, thumping  a six-
 foot stack  of tomes.  Dust puffed  from between  the yellowed
 vellum  pages.  "That's  what  I  like  about  you,  my  dear;
 you're so frank, yet unpredictable. I've not yet been  able to
 read your mind."
    "But you've tried?"
    "Oh,  yes.  It's  important  to  know what  dangerous mortals
 are thinking."
    Kitiara laughed. "Am I dangerous?"
    "Very. As I explained, Master Brightblade  is an  open book
 to me, and  the gnomes'  thoughts fly  about like  mad butter-
 flies, but you - you, my dear Kitiara, bear much watching."
    "The  time  has  come  for  you  to  answer  some questions

 frankly, dragon," she said,  planting her  hands on  her knees.
 "What is it you want from us? From me?"
   "I told you," said Cupelix,  twisting his  neck from  side to
 side. "I want to leave this tower and go to Krynn. I'm  sick of
 being cooped up in here,  with no  one to  talk to  and nothing
 to eat but the leavings the Micones can scrounge for me."
   'You feed us quite well," Kitiara objected.
   "You  do  not  understand  the essential  formula of  magic. A'
 small  amount  of  matter  can  be  changed  by a  large amount
 of energy - that is how it is done. What  you consider  a large
 meal would not be a snack for me."
   'You're  big  and  strong,"  she said.  "Why don't  you claw
 your way out?"
   "And   bring  the   stones  down   upon  my   head?"  Cupelix
 preened  his  purplish  cheeks.   "That  would   hardly  accom-
 plish  my  purpose.  Besides,"  his  eyes  narrowed vertically,
 "there  is  geas,  a magical  prohibition against  my damaging
 the  structure.  I  have  tried many  times, using  many formu-
 lae, to convince the Micones  to demolish  the tower,  but they
 would  not.  There  is  a  higher  power  at  work  here, which
 requires  the  attention  of  a third  force to  overcome. Your
 ingenious little friends are that third  force, my  dear. Their
 fertile little brains can conceive a hundred schemes  for every
 one you or I may devise."
   "And none of them practical."
   "Really?  You  surprise  me  again,  dear  mortal  girl. Did
 these same gnomes not get you to Lunitari in the first place?"
 She objected that that had been an accident.
   "Accidents  are  only  unexpected  probabilities,"  said  the
 dragon. "They can be encouraged."
   When  Cupelix  said  that,  Kitiara  looked  over   her  left
 shoulder  and  saw  the  Dark  Queen  glaring   down  haughtily
 from her  tapestry. "What,"  she began  before taking  her eyes
 off the  mesmerizing visage,  "will you  do if  we can  get you
 out of here?"
   "Fly to Krynn and take up  residence there,  of course.  I am
 very keen to sample  the mortal  world with  all its  gaudy and
 vigorous  life."  She  gave a  derisive snort.  "Why do  you do
 that?" asked Cupelix.
    "You think life on Krynn is strange! What do you call the

 creatures who dwell around you?" she said.
   "To  me,  they  are  normal. They  are all  I have  known, you
 see, and  they bore  me. Have  you ever  tried to  talk philoso-
 phy with a  tree-man? One  might as  well talk  to a  stone. Did
 you know that the vegetable life  that grows  on Lunitari  is so
 feeble and transient it has no magical  aura of  its own?  It is
 only  because  of  the  pervasive  force  of  my  egg-bound com-
 patriots that there  is life  here at  all." Cupelix  mustered a
 massive  sigh.  "I  want  to  see oceans  and forests  and moun-
 tains.  I  want  to converse  with wise  mortals of  every race,
 and  so  increase  my  knowledge  beyond  the boundaries  set by
 these ancient books."
       Now she understood. "You want power," said Kitiara.
   Cupelix  clenched his  foreclaw  into a  fist. "If  knowledge is
 power, then the answer is yes. I ache to be free of this perfect
 prison.  When  my  Micone  scouts  discovered  the  gnomes' fly-
 ing ship, for the first time I hoped that I might escape."
   Kitiara  was  silent for  a moment.  Choosing her  words care-
 fully, she said, "Do you fear retribution, should you escape?"
   The  dragon's  head  pulled  back  in  surprise,  "Retribution
 from whom?"
   "Those who made the obelisk. If a prison stands, then
 there likely is a warden somewhere."
   "The  gods  sleep.  Gilean  the  Gray  Voyager,  Sirrion,  and
 Reorx have  laid down  the reins  of destiny.  The way  is clear
 for  action.  The  very fact  of your  voyage to  Lunitari bears
 this  out. In  the days  of Huma,  such a  thing would  not have
 been tolerated," Cupelix said.
   The  gods  sleep,  Kitiara  mused.  The   way  is   clear  for
 action!  These  thoughts  stirred  deep within  her. It  must be
 true; a dragon would know.
   "Tell me your thoughts," Cupelix said. "I grow uneasy
 when you are so quiet."
   A daring notion began to form in her head.  "Have you
 considered what you will do once you reach Krynn?" she
 asked. "Your books are old. You could use a guide."
   "Do you have anyone in mind, my dear?"
   "Few know Ansalon as I do," Kitiara replied."My travels
 have taken me far. Together we could tour the world and
 reap what benefits would  come to  us." She  looked the

 dragon in the eye. "As partners."
   Cupelix  wheezed  and  whistled  like  a boiling  teapot. He
 clapped his forearms against  his sides.  He really  was quite
 good at parodying human gestures.
   "Oh, my dear woman! You wound me with mirth! I am
 killed!" he exclaimed.
   Kitiara frowned. "Why do you laugh?"
   "You  speak  of  partnership with  a dragon  as casually  as I
 speak  of  my  servants,  the  Micones.  Do  you  imagine that
 you and I are  equals? That  is a  rich jest  indeed!" Cupelix
 rocked  so  hard  with  merriment  that  he  banged  his  head
 sharply on the  wall behind  him. That  calmed him,  but Kiti-
 ara was already offended. She sprang to her feet.
   "I wish to leave!" she exclaimed.  "I see  no reason  to sit
 here and be laughed at!"
   "Sit down," Cupelix said genially. When  she struck  a defi-
 ant pose, the dragon swept his  tail in  behind her,  and down
 she went to the marble floor.
   "Let  us  be clear  about one  thing, my  dear girl:  On the
 scale of life, I sit far higher than you. And I will have good
 manners  from  my  guests,  yes?"  Kitiara rubbed  her bruised
 posterior  and  said  nothing. "Face-to-face  with one  of the
 greatest creatures that ever existed,  you are  insolent. What
 makes you so proud?
   "I am what I have made myself," Kitiara said tersely.  "In a
 world  where  most  are  ignorant  peasants,  I made  myself a
 warrior. I take what I can and give when I like. I  don't need
 you, dragon. I don't need anyone!"
   "Not  even  Tanis?"  Kitiara's  face  darkened dramatically.
 "Be  at  ease.  Even  your  mortal  friend  Sturm  could  have
 heard  your  heart cry  out his  name just  then. Who  is this
 man, and why do you love him?"
   "He's  half-elf,  not  human, if  you must  know." Kitiara
 took a deep breath. "And I don't love him!"
   "Indeed?  Can my sense  for  such  things  be so  wrong? I
 would hear the tale of  Tanis," Cupelix  said. He  curled back
 his lips in a waggish imitation of a human smile. "Please?"
   "You only want to hear so you can mock me."
   "No,  no!  Human  relationships  fascinate  me. I  need to
 understand."

    Kitiara  slipped  back  onto  the  overturned   cauldron.  She
  gazed into space, marshaling images  of her  past. "I'd  like to
  understand  Tanis  myself,"  she  said.  "Being  a  woman  in  a
  man's  game  -  war  -  throws  you  in with  all sorts  of men.
  Most of  them are  a scurvy  lot of  bullies and  cutthroats. In
  my  younger  days,  I  must  have  fought  a hundred  duels with
  men  who  tried  to  push  me  around,  take  advantage  of  me,
  until I became as hard and cold as the  blade I  carried." Kiti-
  ara fingered the hilt of her sword. "Then came Tanis.
    "I  was  on  my  way  back to  Solace one  autumn a  few years
  back.  The  summer   campaigning  season   was  done,   and  I'd
  been  paid  off  by  my  most  recent  commander. With  a pocket
  full of silver, I rode south. In the forest, I was ambushed by a
  pack  of  goblins.  An  arrow  took  out  my  horse,  and  I was
  thrown  down.  The  goblins  came  out  of  the brush  with axes
  and clubs to finish me off,  but I  lay in  wait for  them. When
  they  got  close,  I  was  on  them before  they could  blink. I
  killed two  right away  and settled  down to  toy with  the last
  pair.  Goblins  are startlingly  bad thieves  and even  worse in
  stand-up   combat.   One   of  them   tripped  and   managed  to
  impale  itself  on  its  own  weapon.  I carved  my mark  on the
  last one, and it screamed its bloody  head off.  I was  ready to
  finish the pest,  when out  of the  bushes bounded  this beauti-
  ful fellow with  a bow.  He scared  me for  a second.  I thought
  he  was  with  the  goblins.  Before  I could  move, he'd  put a
  gray-goose shaft into the last  goblin. It  was then  I realized
  he thought he was rescuing me."
    She  paused,  and  the  ghost  of  a  smile  played  about her
  lips. "It's funny, but at the time  I was  mad. That  goblin was
  mine  to  kill,  you  see, and  Tanis had  taken that  away from
  me.  I  went  after him,  but he  stood me  off long  enough for
  the  blood-anger  to  leave me.  How we  laughed after  that! He
  made  me  feel  good,  Tanis  did. No  one had  done that  for a
  long,  long  time.  Sure,  we  were lovers  soon enough,  but we
  were   more   than  that.   We  rode   and  hunted   and  played
  pranks together. We lived, you understand? We lived."
    "Why  did  this  love  not  continue?"  asked  Cupelix quietly.
    "He wanted me to stay  in Solace.  I couldn't  do that.  I tried
  to get him to  go on  the road  with me,  but he  wouldn't fight
  for  pay.  He's  half-elf,  as  I  said;  some  rogue  mercenary

  molested his elf mother to conceive  him, and  he's ever  had a
  cold place in his heart for soldiers." Kitiara made a fist. "If
  Tanis had fought by my side, I would never  have left  him till
  the last drop of blood spilled from my body."
     She slapped her knee. "Tanis was great fun,  and in  that he
  was  far  better  as  a  companion  than  Sturm,  who's  always
  serious, but the time  came when  I had  to choose  between his
  way of living and mine. I chose, and here I am."
     "I'm glad," said Cupelix. "Will you help liberate me?"
     "Back to that, are we? What is it worth to you?"
    Cupelix raised his ears, making the  veined webbing
  behind them stand up. "Don't you worry about your own
  safety?" he asked in a rumbling voice.
    "Don't bluff me, dragon. If  you were  going to  use threats,
  you'd  have threatened  Stutts, Birdcall,  and Flash  before we
  got here. You can't force us to  help. You're  not the  sort of
  dragon to do it."
    The  dragon's  threatening  posture  collapsed, and  the the-
  atrical menace left his voice. "True,  true," Cupelix  said. "You
  are a razor, Kit. You cut deep with little effort."

    Kitiara flipped a hand in salute, mockingly. "I'm not new
  to the game of threat and bluff," she said, standing. A slim
  band of new light fell across her shoulder  from a  slit window
  in the obelisk wall. "Consider what  I said  about partnership,
  dragon. It needn't be for life, just a year or two. Do that for
  me, and I'll speak for you."
    Sunlight  brightened  the  room.  The  magic  globe   at  the
  ceiling's  apex  dimmed  and  went out.  By the  natural light,
  Kitiara  could  see that  the dragon's  books and  scrolls were
  more  decayed  than  she thought.  The tapestries  were rotten,
  too. In the midst of this decay,  the dragon's  predicament was
  more   obvious.   Someday,  Cupelix   would  have   nothing  to
  read or study but a heap of mildewed pulp.
    "How  many  more  centuries  will  you live?"  Kitiara asked.
    The dragon's eyes narrowed. "A great many."
    "Well, maybe someone else will show up and help you
  escape.  But  think  how  lonely  it  will  be.  Soon  no  more
  books, no tapestries, no company."
    "Partnership... one year?" said Cupelix.
    "Two years," Kitiara said firmly. "A very  short span  in the

 life of a dragon."
   "True,  true."  Cupelix  gave  his word  that he  would travel
 with Kitiara for two years upon their return to Krynn.
   She  stretched,  smiling expansively.  Kitiara felt  good. She
 would  come  out  of  this  crazy  voyage to  the red  moon with
 more   than  increased   muscle  power.   A  dragon,   a  living
 dragon, as her companion for two whole years!
   "It'll be a great adventure," she said to him.
   Cupelix snapped his jaws. "Indubitably."
   Kitiara went to the window to  take in  the fresh  air. Light-
 ning crackled from the obelisk  peak as  the magic  essence dis-
 charged  into  the  red  moon's  sky.  When  the  flashes ended,
 Kitiara looked down at the valley below.
   "The Lunitarians are moving!" she exclaimed.
   "Of course; it's day, their time to move," said Cupelix.
   "But they're forming ranks! I think they're going to
 attack!"

 * * * * *

   The   Micones   showed   no   signs   of   moving,   so  Sturm
 announced  that  they'd  best  proceed   on  foot.   The  gnomes
 were  already  untied  and  sliding  off  the  backs   of  their
 mounts.  Sturm   got  down   and  patted   the  Micone   on  the
 head,  a habit  he'd always  had since  owning his  first horse.
 The  giant  ant  cocked  its wedge-shaped  head and  clacked its
 mandibles  together.  A  response  of  pleasure?  Sturm  wonder-
 ed. It was hard to tell.
   The   rubbish  around   them  was   knee-deep  to   Sturm  and
 chest-deep  to  the  gnomes.  Sturm  found  Sighter  examining a
 piece of the red leather with his magnifying glass.
   "Hm,  doesn't  look  like  vegetable material,"  said Sighter.
 Cutwood  tried  writing  on  the  soft   brown  parchment-stuff,
 but it wouldn't take a pencil mark; it was too soft  and supple.
 Sturm tried to tear a sheet of it in two, but couldn't do it.
        "This would make admirable boot tops," he said. "I won-
 der what it is?"
   "I would say  it's some  form of  animal hide,"  said Sighter,
 snapping his glass back into its case.
   "We  haven't  found  any  animals  on  Lunitari,   except  the

 dragon,"  Stutts  objected.  "Even the  Micones are  more min-
 eral than animal."
   "Maybe,"  Wingover said  slowly, "there  are other  kinds of
 animals in these caves. Animals we haven't seen before."
      Rainspot swallowed audibly. "Gnome-eating animals?"
   " "Bosh," said Sighter. "The Micones wouldn't allow any-
 thing dangerous  to live  near the  dragon eggs.  Stop scaring
 yourselves."
   Flash was off a little ways, touching the white crust on the
 walls.  He  plucked  a  tack hammer  from his  tool-laden belt
 and butted a cold steel  chisel against  the wall.  Back swung
 the hammer.
   Bong!  The  little  hammer  hit  the  chisel, and  the whole
 cavern  reverberated  with  the  sound.  So powerful  were the
 vibrations, that the gnomes lost their footing and fell in the
 thick rubbish. Sturm  braced himself  against a  squat stalag-
 mite until the ringing ceased.
   "Don't  do that!"  Cutwood said  plaintively. With  his aug-
 mented hearing, the  tone had  been enough  to start  his nose
 bleeding. All the  Micones were  clicking their  mandibles and
 shaking their heads.
   "Fascinating,"  said  Stutts.  "A perfect  resonant chamber!
 Ah! It makes sense!"
   "What does?" asked Roperig.
   "This  extraneous jetsam.  It's padding,  to deaden  the ants'
 footsteps on the floor."
   They waded though the rubbish toward the end of the
 oblong chamber. The ceiling level fell and  the floor  rose to
 form  a tight  circular opening.  The rim  of the  opening had
 been notched  with jagged  spikes of  quartz, probably  by the
 Micones.  Anything softer  than a  giant ant  would be  cut to
 pieces  if  it tried  to walk  or crawl  over the  spikes. The
 gnomes  held  back   and  proposed   many  solutions   to  the
 problem of the entrance. Sturm planted his  fists on  his hips
 and  sighed.  He  turned  back  and gathered  up an  armful of
 the  tough  parchmentlike shreds, then  laid them  across the
 spikes.  He put  his hands  on the  parchment and  pushed. The
 spikes poked through three or four layers, but the  top layers
 remained unpierced.
     "Allow me," said Sturm. He lifted Stutts and sat him on

 the padding.  Stutts slid  through the  opening to  the chamber
 beyond.  One  by   one,  the   other  gnomes   followed.  Sturm
 went  last.  The  gnomes  plunged  ahead  in   their  bumbling,
 fearless way, and he had to catch up with them.
   Sturm  hurried  down  the narrow  slit in  the rock  and into
 another large  chamber. Here  veins of  wine red  crystal oozed
 out of fissures in the rock. When the soft crystal  touched the
 warmer, moister air of the cavern, it lightened to  clear crim-
 son  and  began  to  take  more  exact  form. Around  them were
 dozens   of   half-formed  Micones;   some  only   heads,  some
 whole  bodies  but  without  legs,  and  some so  complete that
 their antennae wiggled.
   "So this is the ant hatchery," said Wingover.
   "'Hatchery' isn't the right word for it," said Roperig.
   "Living rock  crystal," said  Stutts breathlessly.  "I wonder
 what influences it to take on an ant shape?"
   "The dragon,  I would  think," said  Sighter, turning  a com-
 plete  circle  to see  all the  budding Micones.  "Remember, he
 said he tried to make the tree-folk  into servants  but failed.
 He  must  have  uncovered  this living  crystal and  decided to
 use it to make perfectly obedient and hard-working slaves."
   They  walked  in  single file  down the  center of  the high,
 narrow  cavern. As  before, bluish  stalactites on  the ceiling
 shed a weak light  on the  scene. Flash  approached one  of the
 nearly finished Micones and tried to measure  the width  of its
 head.  The  ant  moved  like lightning  and clamped  its power-
 ful jaws on the gnome's arm. Flash let out a yell.
   "Get back!" Sturm cried, drawing his sword. He tried to
 lever the jaws open, but the creature's grip was too strong.
 The  cruel  saw-toothed  jaws  could  easily cut  through flesh
 and bone -
           Sturm noticed that Flash's arm wasn't bleeding. The
 gnome  struggled,  beating  the  stone-hard  ant  on  the  head
 with his flimsy folding rule.
   "Has he got you by the arm?" Sturm asked.
   "Uh! Agh! Yes! What do you think this is, my foot?"
   Sturm  eased  his  hand  forward  and  felt Flash's  arm. The
 Micone's  jaws had  missed the  gnome's flesh.  All it  had was
 his jacket sleeve.
   "Take your jacket off," Sturm said calmly.

 "Uh! Argh! Eeel I can't!"
 "I'll  help you."  Sturm reached  in front  of the  gnome and
 undid the complex series of buttons and lacings on  his jack-
 et. He pulled Flash's left arm out, then his right. The empty
 jacket  dangled  in  the   Micone's  jaws.   The  half-formed
 Micone did not move.
 "My jacket!" Flash howled.
 "Never  mind!  Just  thank  your  gods  that your  arm didn't
 get caught in that thing's pincers," Sturm said.
 "Thank  you,  Reorx,"  said  the  gnome.  He  looked longing-
 ly at the lost jacket. A big tear rolled  down his  cheek. "I
 designed  that  jacket myself.  The One  Size Fits  All Wind-
 proof Jacket Mark III."
 "You  can  make  another,"  Wingover  said  consolingly.  "An
 even better one. With  detachable sleeves,  in case  you ever
 get in such a predicament again."
 'Yes,  yes!  What  a  splendid  notion,  detachable sleeves!"
 Flash made a hasty sketch on his white shirt cuff.
 Beyond  the  ant  hatchery the  cavern wound  off in  several
 directions, and  there was  no clear  indication which  way the
 explorers  should  go.  Cutwood  suggested  that they  split up
 and  try all  the tunnels,  but Stutts  vetoed that,  and Sturm
 agreed.
   "We've no idea how large this caverns is, and if you go off on your own, you stand a good chance of getting lost forever.
 We also don't know how the Micrones will react to us if we split up," Sturm said.
 "They do seem very literal-minded," Sighter said. "Sepa-
 rate pairs may not mean the  same thing  to them  as a  band of
 ten." The  sight of  Flash's jacket  locked in  the unbreakable
 grip of the  Micone's jaws  was a  powerful inducement  to stay
 together. Nothing more was said about splitting up.
 They   chose   the   widest,   straightest  path   onward.  The
 floor  sloped  down  from  the Micones'  birth chamber  at such
 a  steep  angle that  the gnomes  gave up  trying to  walk down
 and  instead  sat  down  to slide.  Sturm would  have preferred
 to walk down, but the floor was  slick with  dew, so  it didn't
 take him long to decide to do as the gnomes did.
 Sturm  slid  gently  into  another, lower  cavern. It  was very
 much  warmer  and  wetter  here;  the  air  was  steamy.  Water

 trickled  down  the  walls  and dripped  from overhead.  As he
 stood up,  he saw  the gnomes'  dark shapes  strolling through
 the wispy white clouds of steam.
   "Stutts! Sighter! Where are all of you?" he called.
   "Right  here!"  Sturm  walked  uncertainly  into  the  mist.
 The cavern was well  lit from  above (from  a large  number of
 the  glowing  stalactites),  and  considerable  heat  radiated
 from the floor.
   "Mind the magma," said Cutwood, appearing  in the  steam in
 front of him. The gnome pointed to a  raised funnel  of glazed
 rock in their path.  A fiery  halo hung  over the  wide mouth.
 Sturm bent over it and saw that the natural bowl was full of a
 bright orange liquid. A bubble burst wetly in its center.
   "Molten  rock,"  Cutwood  explained.  "That's  why  the cave
 is so warm."
   Sturm  had  an almost  irresistible urge  to touch  the bub-
 bling stuff, but the glare of heat on his face told  him quite
 plainly   how    hot   the    magma   was.    Another   gnome,
 Wingover, appeared in the swirling steam.
   "This way!" he cried.
   They wended their way through a garden of seething
 cauldrons,  each  one  emitting  gurgles  as  the  molten rock
 boiled.  The  air  around  them became  sulfurous and  hard to
 take in. Sturm coughed and held a kerchief to his face.
         The vapors abated somewhat near the cavern wall. The
 remaining  gnomes  were  clustered  by  a  small  hole  in the
 wall. Sturm raised his head and saw that the hole was dark.
   "Is that it?" Sturm wondered aloud.
   "Must  be,"  said  Sighter. "Seems  to be  no other  way out."
   "Perhaps  one  of  the  other  tunnels  we   missed,"  Roperig
 suggested. The black circle was not very inviting.
   "The established path clearly leads here," said  Stutts. "As
 senior colleague, it is up to me to go first -"
   "No, you don't,"  Sturm said.  "I'm armed.  111 go  first to
 make sure it's safe."
   "Oh, excellent idea!" said Rainspot.
   "Well, if you insist -" said Stutts.
   "You will need a light," said Flash. He unbuttoned one of
 the capacious pockets on the front of his trouser  legs. "Give
 me  a  moment and  I'll lend  you my  Collapsing Self-Igniting

 Pocket Lamp Mark XVI." Flash  unfolded a  flattish box  of tin
 and  set  it  on  the floor.  From a  separate wooden  case he
 extracted a bit of gooey stuff that resembled axle  grease. He
 put a dollop of  this in  the lamp.  From a  different pocket,
 Flash  produced a  slender glass  vial, tightly  stoppered. He
 broke  the wax  seal and  popped the  cork. A  sharp, volatile
 aroma  filled  the  cavern. Flash  crouched down  and extended
 his arm cautiously to  the lamp.  One eye  clenched shut  as a
 single drop of the fluid fell from the vial.
   The  droplet  hit  the  plug  of  grease  and  went poof! The
 flash lit up the whole  area, and  the grease  burned merrily.
 Sturm  reached  for  it,  and the  lamp popped  and sputtered,
 sending bits of flaming grease in all directions.
   "Are you sure this is safe?" he asked.
   "Well, after a few minutes, the tin  will melt,"  Flash said.
 "But it should be all right until then."
   "Wonderful." He  picked up  the violent  little lamp  by its
 slim  metal  ring  and  started through  the hole.  The gnomes
 clustered  around  the  opening, their  pink faces  and white
 beards facing upward like so many daisies seeking the sun.
   Sturm  walked  up  a  curving  ramp   and  soon   entered  a
 chamber  of  profound  silence.  Even  the  lamp's  sputtering
 declined to a fitful flicker. He stepped off the ramp  and onto
 the roughly cleared  stone floor  and beheld  a sight  that no
 mortal had seen in millennia.
   Dragon  eggs.  Row  upon  row of  carved niches,  each hold-
 ing a single melon-sized egg. Row after  row, tier  upon tier,
 stretching far beyond the feeble range of light from  the Col-
 lapsing  Self-Igniting  Pocket  Lamp  Mark  XVI.  The  lips of
 each  niche  glittered with  dew, formed  when the  steamy air
 below met the cooler air of this chamber.
   A gnomish voice drifted to Sturm. "What do you see?"
   "This  is  it,"  he called  back, hand  cupped to  his mouth.
 "The great egg chamber!"
   The  gnomes  scrambled  up  the  ramp  and spilled  into the
 cavern,  jostling  past Sturm  for a  better view.  They oohed
 and  aahed  and  uttered  fervent  exclamations to  their holy
 trio: Reorx, gears, and hydrodynamics.
   "How many  eggs do  you suppose  there are?"  breathed Fit-
 ter. Sturm shot a glance at Sighter.

   "In view, there are eight tiers," said Sighter. "And sixty-
 two per tier."
   "For a total of -" Cutwood figured frantically.
   "-  496,  said  Sturm,  recalling the  figure that  Cupelix had
 given him.
   "That's right," said Stutts, totting up his numbers.
   They  walked  forward  with Sturm  leading. Wingover
 hovered at the  rear, since  the lamp  dazzled his  piercing eye-
 sight.  He  could  see  through  the velvet  darkness, so  he was
 able to keep their entry hole in sight.
   "Ow," Sturm muttered, shifting the lamp to his other
 hand. The ring was getting very hot.
   "This  way!  Turn  this  way!"  said  Roperig  suddenly. Sturm
 turned to his left.
   "What was it?" he asked.
   "Something  moved  over  there.  I didn't  see it  very clearly."
   A jet black thing  scuttled out  of the  niche behind  the eggs
 and  leaped  into  the  air  toward  Sturm's  light.  He recoiled
 clumsily  and  dropped  the  lamp.  Something  small  and  furry-
 feeling  brushed  over  his  foot  and   was  gone.   The  gnomes
 were all yelling and stamping their feet.
   "Silence!  Silence,  I say!"  Sturm roared.  He found  the lost
 lamp.  Its  fuel  was  almost extinguished.  Only a  faint corona
 of blue flame  circled the  lump of  grease. Sturm  sheltered the
 tiny  fire  with his  hands and  it grew  brighter. He  picked up
 the lamp and faced the gnomes.
   They  were  not  scared  in  the  least.  Wingover  had bounded
 forward  from  his  place  in line  and planted  his foot  on the
 thing  that  had  burst  from  the egg  niche. It  squirmed under
 his toes, trying to get away. At first sight, it resembled a fat,
 hairy  spider, but  as Sturm  brought the  lamp nearer,  they all
 recognized it.
   "It's a glove!" said Stutts.
   "One  of  Kit's  gloves,"  said  Sturm,  recognizing  the pattern
 of stitching on the back. "It's one of a pair she left  behind on
 the Cloudmaster when we went off on our ore expedition."
   "How'd  it  get  here?"  asked  Rainspot. Birdcall  twittered a
 question of his own.
   "He says, 'Why is it alive?"' Stutts added.
   Rainspot grasped the glove by its 'fingers' and told

 Wingover  to  lift  his  foot.  The  weather  seer  brought  the
 wriggling  thing  to  eye  level  and  grunted.  "Strong  little
 thing!"
   Sighter  glared  through  his  ever-present lens.  "This glove
 is made of cowhide  and rabbit  fur, but  the seams  have disap-
 peared." He pressed a finger into the soft leather side. "It has
 a heartbeat."
   "Ridiculous," Flash said. "Gloves don't come to life."
   "On Lunitari?" said Stutts. "Why not?"
   Sturm   remembered   Cupelix's   remark   about   the  cumula-
 tive life force of all the dragon eggs being responsible for the
 intense  aura  of  magical  power on  Lunitari. He  offered this
 bit of information to the gnomes.
   "Ah,"  said  Sighter  with  a sage  expression. "The  level of
 magical  force  must be  particularly high  in these  caverns. "
 dare  say,  any  animal  or  vegetable  product  left  down here
 long enough might develop a life of its own."
   Roperig   looked  down   at  his   own  pigskin   boots.  "You
 mean my shoes might take on life and run away with me?"
   "We  shan't  be  down here  long enough  for that  to happen,"
 Stutts assured him.
   Rainspot  put  the  glove  down  on  its  back  and  pinned it
 with his foot.  Cutwood suggested  that they  dissect it  to see
 what internal organs it had.
   "Let it go. It's harmless," said Sturm. "We don't have time to
 fool around with it."
   Rainspot  raised  his  foot  and  the  glove flipped  over. It
 scampered into the recesses of the egg niches.
   "I wonder," said Flash, "what a living glove eats?"
   "Finger  food,"  said  Fitter.  Roperig  cuffed  him  lightly on
 the head and his hand promptly stuck there.
   "Are you finished?" Sturm said impatiently. "There's
 more of the cave to see, and I  don't think  the lamp  will last
 much longer." Indeed,  even as  he spoke,  silver drops  of mol-
 ten tin dripped off the lamp's front end.
   They   hurried   down   the   tunnel.   Sounds   of   movement
 came  to  them  and  they  halted.  The  rear legs  and teardrop
 abdomen  of  a  working  Micone  maneuvered  out  of  the  dark-
 ness.  The  Micone  sensed  their light  and scuttled  around to
 face the intruders.  Its antennae  almost straightened  while it

 studied  the  man  and  gnomes.  Sturm  had  a  momentary flash
 of fear. If  the Micone  attacked, his  lone sword  would never
 prevail.
         The Micone kinked its feelers again and turned away.
 Sturm and the gnomes let out a collective sigh of relief.
   They  inched  past  the  giant,  who  was busy  chipping away
 glassy 'dew' from the  shelf below  a row  of eggs.  A fragment
 of the  clear encrustation  landed at  Rainspot's feet,  and he
 pounced on it. He dropped it in a tiny silk bag and  pulled the
 drawstring. "For later analysis," he said.
   The caverns  gave no  sign of  ending, and  after penetrating
 a  hundred  yards or  so into  them, Sturm  called a  halt. The
 place  they  stopped was  thick with  Micones, and  the giant
 ants swept  past the  explorers without  any heed.  Cupelix had
 told the ants to ignore them,  and the  ants obeyed,  in their
 precise, unswerving way.
   "We'd  best  go  back  before we  get trampled,"  Sturm said,
 dodging a flurry of Micone legs.
   Rainspot  drifted  away  from  the others  to where  the ants
 were  engaged  in  cleaning  the dragon  eggs. As  they chipped
 and anointed  and turned  the blockish  eggs, the  ants exposed
 the undersides of the eggs to the air. Some of the shells had a
 scabrous  layer   peeling  off,   and  the   ants  scrupulously
 removed this dead layer. It was this  cast-off shell  that made
 the  parchmentlike  skin  they'd  found  in the  first chamber.
 Rainspot picked up a sheaf  of cast-offs  below the  lowest egg
 shelf.  A  Micone  turned  sharply  toward  him   and  snatched
 the leathery shell fragment with its mandibles.
   "No!"  said  Rainspot  stubbornly. "It's  mine, you  threw it
 away!"  The  gnome  dug  in  his  toes  and  pulled.  The shell
 wouldn't  yield  and  neither  would  the  ant.   Rainspot  got
 angry.  His  enveloping cloud  thickened and  lightning flashed
 within it.
   "Rainspot,  leave  it.  We'll  take  samples  from  the outer
 cave,"  said  Wingover.  But  the  Micone's  implacable resist-
 ance  made  the  usually  mild  gnome  madder  and   madder.  A
 cyclone four feet wide lashed at the  ant, and  miniature claps
 of thunder reverberated through the cave.
   Sturm  entered  Rainspot's  tiny  tempest.  To  his surprise,
 the whirling rain was  hot. "Rainspot!"  he said,  grabbing the

 little fellow by the shoulders. "Let go!"
   A  bolt of  lightning, diminutive  by nature's  standards, yet
 still five feet long,  struck the  Micone in  the center  of its
 head.  The  strike  knocked  Sturm  and  Rainspot   backward  at
 least  six  feet.  The gnome  landed on  Sturm, shook  his head,
 and found that he was holding the scrap of eggshell.
   "I have it!" he said triumphantly.
   Sturm, flat on his back and not happy, said, "Do you
 mind?" Rainspot blushed and rolled off the man's stomach.
   "Look  at  that,"  Cutwood  said  in  awe.  The  gnomes ringed
 the lightning-struck ant.
   The bolt had split the createature's head in half with the pre-
 cision  of  a diamond  cutter. The  Micone's headless  body col-
 lapsed,  the  thorax  sagging  to  the  floor.  Immediately, two
 more  Micones  appeared  and  began  to  clean  up.  They nipped
 the shattered ant's carcass apart and carried each bit away.
   "At least we know they can be killed," said Roperig.
   "And our  Rainspot did  it!" said  Fitter. The  gentle weather
 seer was mortified.
   "I've never lost my temper like that," he said. "I'm sorry. It
 was  unforgivable.  The  poor  myrmidon   was  only   doing  its
 appointed task, and I killed it."
   "You  very  thoroughly  killed  it,"  Sturm  said,  impressed.
 "Remind me not to make you angry, Rainspot."
   "I  hope  Cupelix  won't  be  angry,"  Rainspot  said worriedly.
   "It wasn't intentional," said Roperig consolingly.
   "I  doubt  any  single ant  is that  important to  him," Sturm
 said. "Now can we go back l"
   The  lamp  failed  before  they were  all up  the ramp  to the
 steam  chamber.  Wingover  took  the  lead  and  each  one  held
 the hand  of the  person in  front and  behind him.  They avoid-
 ed  the  budding  giants  in  the birthing  cave -  though Flash
 cast  a  longing  look at  his jacket,  still dangling  from the
 Micone's  jaws  -  and  soon  they  were  back  in  the rubbish-
 filled  grand  cavern.  The  six  Micones  who had  brought them
 were  just  as  they'd  left  them,  unmoved  by  as much  as an
 inch.  Sturm  and  the  gnomes  mounted,  and  without   a  word
 or gesture needed, the giant ants lurched into motion.

                        Chapter 24

                  Little Fitter's Pants

      The drnagon, with Kitiara clinging to his neck,
 dropped like a stone from his lair, flaring out his  wings to
 ease his landing. Kitiara discarded her cloak and reached the
 notch-shaped  doorway  just  as  the  Micones  bearing  Sturm
 and the gnomes appeared.
 "It's about time you got back!" she  yelled. "Stand  to arms,
 all of you - the Lunitarians are forming to attack!"
 A  barrage  of glass  javelins arced  through the  doorway to
 shatter  on  the  marble floor.  The gnomes,  though curious,
 retreated under a shower of red glass splinters. The Lunitar-
 ians were hooting wildly.
     "They mean to have you," Cupelix said. "They're calling
 for your blood."
 "Surely they can't get in?" Rainspot said.

 "The tree-men are beyond reason," the dragon replied.
 "So they're coming," Sturm said grimly."He shucked off
 his  outer  garb  and made  ready his  armor and  helmet. Kiti-
 ara  marched  recklessly  back  and  forth  before   the  door,
 drawing the tree-men's attention.
 "Shall we sting them a little?" she said to Sturm.
 "It  does  seem  necessary  to  discourage them,"  he admitted.
 To the dragon, he said, "Can you lend us some Micones?
 They would even the odds for us."
 "They  would   be  of   little  use,"   said  Cupelix.   A  glass
 hatchet  whistled  in  and  thumped against  his scaly  belly. It
 bounced  off  harmlessly   and  broke   on  the   floor.  Cupelix
 regarded  the  ruined  weapon  idly.  "The  Micones   are  almost
 totally blind in daylight," he said. "If  I unleashed  them, they
 would as likely cut you two to pieces as any tree-man."
 "Enough  talk,"  Kitiara  barked.  She  hitched  her  shield up
 on her forearm. "I'm going to swing some steel!"
 Sturm  cinched  his  sword  belt  tighter.  "Kit,  wait  for me!"
 He  was  shieldless,  but  his  mail was  heavier than  Kit's. He
 drew his sword and ran to the door.
 The   tree-men  had   scaled  the   earthen  rampart   turned  up
 by the Micones and  were using  its height  to gain  velocity for
 their spear casts. Kitiara held her shield to her face as missile
 after  missile  crashed  against  it.  "C'mon,  you  bark-covered
 devils!"  she  shouted.  "Throw  on!  Kitiara  Uth Matar  is com-
 ing for you!"
 She  started  up  the  slope. It  was hard  going, what  with the
 steep  angle  and  the  loose  soil.  Sturm,   more  circumspect,
 worked  his  way  around  the  obelisk   to  where   the  rampart
 was  not so  steep. He  gained the  top at  nearly the  same time
 Kitiara  did,  though  there  were  forty  yards  and  twenty-odd
 tree-men between them.
 Sturm  had   to  fence   with  the   Lunitarians  on   the  mound
 and  dodge  spears  hurled  from  the  ground  below.  The  Luni-
 tarians were hooting at the top  of their  voices, and  it didn't
 take  much  imagination to  see the  anger distorting  their sim-
 ple faces.
 Kitiara plowed into a trio of tree-men, all of whom tow-
 ered over her. She did little more than inflict deep chips on
 them  with  her  sword.  She  did  catch  one  tree-man  with his

 arm  down,  and lopped  it off  with a  single stroke.  The sev-
 ered  limb  hit  the  ground  and  crawled  about,  seeking  its
 former  owner.  It  got tangled  up in  Kitiara's legs,  and she
 tripped, falling backward amid a flurry of spear thrusts.
   The  tree-men  converged  on  the  fallen  woman,   and  Sturm
 could  only  think  that she'd  been wounded.  He roared  at the
 foe and cut at  their backs.  Unable to  strike through  a heart
 and kill them,  he concentrated  on their  stumpy legs.  A glass
 blade swept over his face. The hot line  it left  dripped blood.
 He ignored it. Lunitarians  toppled off  the dirt  wall, rolling
 down to bowl over their fellows on the ground.
   There was a terrible tearing sensation  in Sturm's  right leg.
 He  looked back  and saw  a spear  embedded in  the back  of his
 thigh,  blood  welling  around  the  already  crimson  shaft. He
 swung  his  sword  back,  snapping  the  spear  shaft   off  and
 leaving the head in his leg. He couldn't see Kitiara at  all. He
 went  down,  weak  from  the  pain  and loss  of blood.  He slid
 down  the  rampart  on  the  side  nearest  the  obelisk. Whoop-
 ing tree-men skidded after  him, shouting  their version  of his
 name.
   Finished, he thought. This is how it ends -
   The  expected  spear  points  did not  descend on  his unar-
 mored  face  and  neck.  The  sounds of  battle raged  over him,
 though he fancied that  he heard  high-pitched cries  of delight
 and   triumph.   The   gnomes?   Surely  they   hadn't  ventured
 forth. They'd be slaughtered!
   The  hooting  of  the   berserk  Lunitarians   receded.  Sturm
 lifted his  head with  great effort  and tried  to see  what was
 happening.  A  tree-man  stood  atop  the  rampart,  waving  his
 sword  before  him,  trying  to  ward  off  some  unseen  foe. A
 dark  object  whipped  into  view  and hit  the tree-man  in the
 face,  thunk!  The  Lunitarian  disappeared  over   the  rampart
 amid shouts of gnomish laughter.
   Someone turned Sturm over. The red dirt was dusted
 from his eyes. Kitiara.
   "Looks  like  you  caught one,"  she said  in a  friendly way.
 Her  face  was  scratched  and  her  hands cut  up, but  she was
 otherwise unhurt.
   "Are  you  well?"  he  asked  weakly.  Kitiara nodded  and put
 the neck of her water bottle to his lips. The trickle of rainwa-

 ter was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.
  "Ho, Master Sturm! Mistress Kitiara! We have won!"
 Stutts  declared.  He  stuck  his  thumbs under  his suspenders
 and  threw  out  his  chest.  "The  Improvised   Trouser  Flail
 Mark I was a success!"
  "The what?"
  "Never  mind,"  Kitiara  said.  "Let's  get you  inside." She
 scooped  him  up as  easily as  Sturm would  pick up  an infant
 and carried him into the obelisk.
  The  gnomes  were  pounding  each  other   on  the   back  and
 talking  as  fast  and  as loudly  as they  could. Sturm  saw a
 weird contraption to one side of the  passage: an  upright col-
 lection of posts and gears, from which  dangled three  pairs of
 gnome-sized  pants,  stuffed  tightly  with   something  heavy,
 probably  dirt.  Cupelix  was  on  his  lowest  perch, watching
 intently.  When  he  saw  that  Sturm  was wounded,  he offered
 to help treat the injury.
  "No  magic,"  Sturm  said  stubbornly.   His  whole   leg  was
 achingly  numb.  It  was  cold, very  cold. The  dragon's broad
 brass face swooped down close to his.
  "No  magic, even  if it  means your  life?" said  the polished
 reptilian voice.
  "No magic," Sturm insisted.
  Rainspot turned Sturm's face away and put a bitter-
 tasting  root  in his  mouth. The  gnome said,  "Chew, please."
 Confident  that  he  was  in  the  thoroughly  non-magical care
 of  the  gnomes,  Sturm  did  as he  was told.  Numbness spread
 through his body.
  He  didn't  fall  asleep.  Sturm  quite  distinctly  heard the
 gnomes  consulting  over  his  wound,  heard  rather  than felt
 the glass spear  tip being  removed from  his flesh,  heard the
 dragon offering advice on how  best to  close the  gaping hole.
 Then  he  was  lying  on  his  stomach, the  numbness gone.
 Sturm's  leg  throbbed  unmercifully. He  lifted himself  up on
 his hands.
  "If you say 'where am I?' I'll hit you," said Kitiara genially.
  "What happened?" he said.
  "You  were  injured,"  said  Sighter,  who  was  squatting near
 Sturm's head.
  "That I recall well. Who repelled the tree-folk?"

    "I wish I could say that I did," Kitiara said.
    "We  did  it,"  Stutts  declared,  coming up  behind Sighter.
  Cupelix rumbled something that Sturm couldn't make out.
  Stutts  blanched  and said,  "With help  from the  dragon, that
  is."
    "We  adapted  a  gnomeflinger  design,"  Wingover  said. He
  knelt  alongside  Stutts  and  peeked over  Sighter's shoulder.
  "We used Cutwood's pants, filled with dirt,  as a  test subject
  for flinging. Birdcall suggested hurling the pants at the Luni-
  tarians, but that would have sufficed for only one shot -"
    "So  me  and  Roperig  gave  up   ours,"  said   Fitter,  who
  squirmed  into  view.  His  striped  long  johns  were eloquent
  proof of the truth of his statement. "We  filled 'em  with dirt
  and tied 'em to the throwing arms -"
    "-  and  used the  gear system  to pummel  the enemy  off the
  wall," Roperig finished for his apprentice.
    "Very  clever,"  Sturm  admitted.  "But  why  should fiercely
  angry  tree-folk  flee  when  thumped  with  a  few   pairs  of
  pants? Why didn't they swarm all over you?"
    "That  was  my  doing,"  said  Cupelix  modestly.  "I  wove a
  spell  of  illusion  over  the  gnomes  and their  machine. The
  Lunitarians  saw  a  huge,  flame-breathing red  dragon attack-
  ing them, its  terrible claws  snatching them  one by  one from
  the  rampart.  The  physical  effect,  combined with  the vivid
  illusion, was quite effective. The tree-men have fled."
    "What's  to  prevent  them  from  recovering their  nerve and
  coming back?" said Kitiara.
    "At sunset, I shall send the  Micones to  harry them  back to
  their village once and for all."
           Their story told, the gnomes dispersed. Sturm called
  Stutts back to him.
    "Yes?" said the senior gnome.
    "Have you inspected the repairs on the Cloudmaster?"
    "Not yet."
    "Urge your colleagues forward, my friend. We must be
  off this world soon," said Sturm.
    Stutts  stroked his  short, silky  beard. "What's  the hurry?
  The new engine components ought to be tested first."
    Sturm  lowered  his  voice.  "The  dragon  may   believe  the
  tree-men  will  not come  back, but  I don't  want to  take the

 chance  of  being  besieged  in  here  again.  Besides Cupelix
 will  -"  He  closed  his  mouth when  he saw  Kitiara coming.
 "We'll  speak  later,"  Sturm  finished.  Stutts  nodded  and
 strolled back  to the  Cloudmaster, his  thumbs hooked  in his
 vest  pockets. Kitiara  paid no  attention to  his exaggerated
 nonchalance.
   Kitiara dropped down beside Sturm. "Does it hurt
 much'"
   "Only when I dance," he said uncharacteristically.
   She  snorted.  'You'll live,"  she said.  She poked  around the
 bandaged area and added, "Probably won't even have a
 limp. What made you charge into those  tree-men? You
 weren't carrying a shield or wearing leg armor."
   "I  saw you  go down,"  he said.  "I was  going to  help you."
   Kitiara was silent for a moment. "Thank you."
   Sturm  gingerly  eased himself  onto his  good side  and sat
 up. "That's better! I was getting a headache lying like that."
   'You  know  what  the  most  unforgivable  thing  is,  don't
 you?  That  you  and I,  two fighters  soundly trained  in the
 warrior arts, should fall to a bunch of  savages and  be saved
 by a band of nutty gnomes using pants full of dirt as flails!"
 Kitiara started to laugh. All the tensions and suspicions sur-
 faced  and  flew  away in  her laughter.  Tears welled  in her
 eyes, and she couldn't stop.
   "Little  Fitter's  pants," Sturm  said, feeling  the guffaws
 building deep inside. "Little Fitter's pants disguised  as the
 claws of a red  dragon!" Kitiara  nodded helplessly,  her face
 contorted   with  hysterical   mirth.  Great   rolling  laughs
 boomed  out  of  Sturm.  His  shaking  jounced  painfully  his
 tightly wrapped  wound, but  he couldn't  stop. When  he tried
 to speak, all he could gasp was "Trouser Flail!" before erupt-
 ing into fresh gales.
   Kitiara leaned against  him, forcing  herself to  breathe in
 the  too-short  intervals   between  new   merry  convulsions.
 Her  head  rested  on  Sturm's  shoulder;  she  draped  an arm
 around his neck.
   Above  them,  Cupelix  perched  in  a  shadowed  corner  of
 the  tower,  a  shaft  of amber  sunlight falling  across the
 enfolding  tips  of  his  leathery  wings.  Illuminated  from
 behind, the brass dragon's skin shone like gold.

 * * *                           * *

    Despite his earlier protests, when Kitiara had brought
 Sturm a bowl  of venison  stew that Cupelix  had made,  he ate
 without a second glance. There was something more; he
 accepted  her  offer  to  make  a  backres out of her fur  cloak
 and  blanket.  Ordinarily, Sturm  would have  stoically reject-
 ed such treatment.
  The  gnomes  ate  heartily,  as usual,  under the  gentle glow
 of  the  four  Micones  who  remained behind  when the  bulk of
 them  went out  to chase  the Lunitarians  away. The  ants hung
 overhead by their forelegs like  grotesque paper  lanterns, the
 ominous barbed stingers  the only  threatening aspect  of their
 otherwise benign posture.
  "The  new  parts  showed  no  sign  of  cracking  or fatigue,"
 Flash said,  ladling gravy  over his  roast. "If  we can  get a
 decent charge of  lightning, I  don't see  why we  couldn't fly
 home right away." He tried to set the metal  ladle back  in its
 bowl,  but  it  clung  to his  magnetic hands.  Cutwood plucked
 it off for him.
  "You  know," Sighter  said, stirring  his pudding  idly, "with
 the proper angle of flight, we could very likely fly  from here
 to  one  of  the  other  moons." This  option was  greeted with
 thunderous  silence.  "Solinari  or  the  dark  moon.  What  do
 you think?"
  Birdcall  answered  for  all of  them. He  put two  fingers to
 his lips and made a very rude noise.
  Sighter grumbled, "No need to be insulting."
  "The important  thing is  to return  to Mt.  Nevermind and
 announce  our  success,"  said  Stutts.  "Aerial  navigation is
 now  a  fact,  and  the  gnomish  people  must  not   delay  in
 exploring all the possibilities it presents."
  Sturm,  reclining  on  the  floor by  the dinner  table, spoke
 up: "What possibilities do you foresee?"
  "Exploring  and  mapping  can  be  done  easily from  the air.
 These would  be a  boon to  navigation. All  the heavy  work of
 transport  now  done by  ships could  be more  efficiently done
 in the skies. I can see a time when great aerial galleons, with
 six or eight pairs of wings,  ply trade  routes in  the clouds,
 bringing  goods  to  and  from   every  corner   of  Krynn...."

 Stutts got quite lost in the grandness of his conception.
   "Then there's war," said Sighter ominously.
   "What war?" asked Kitiara.
 "Any  war.  There's  always  a  war  someplace,   isn't  there?
    Can  you see  the cavalry  of the  clouds, swooping  down to
 destroy  field  and farm,  town, temple,  and castle  alike? It
 would be easy, yes, very easy to fling down  fire and  stone on
 the  heads  of  the  foe.  In  the  workshops of  Mt. Nevermind
 there are stranger things still. Weapons  that require  no mag-
 ic power to destroy the entire world."
 His  morose  vision  quelled   all  conversation.   Then,  from
 above,  Cupelix  said,  "It  sounds  as  though you  gnomes are
 planning  to  create  your  own  race  of dragons  - mechanical
 dragons,  completely  obedient  to  their  master's  hand.  All
 those  things  Master  Sighter  describes  happened  a thousand
 or more years ago, when dragons served in the great wars."
 "Perhaps  we  shouldn't  share  the  secret  of  aerial naviga-
 tion," Fitter said hesitantly.
 "Knowledge  must  be  shared,"   Stutts  declared.   "There  is
 no evil in pure knowledge. It's how it's put to use that deter-
 mines what good or ill comes of it."
 "Knowledge  is  power,"  said  the  dragon,  catching Kitiara's
 eye. She buried her nose  in her  cup. When  it was  empty, she
 set it down on the table with a loud thump.
 "We're  forgetting  one  important  thing,"  she  said,  wiping
 her lips  on the  back of  her hand.  "We owe  a debt  here. We
 oughtn't leave without paying it."
   "Debt?" said Cutwood. "To whom?"
   "Our  host,"  Kitiara  replied.  "The  excellent  dragon, Cupe-
 lix." The gnomes broke into polite applause.
   "Thank you, you're very kind," said the dragon.
   "We  would  long  ago  have  fallen  into  the  hands  of the
 Lunitarians, had it not been for the intervention  of Cupelix,"
 Kitiara  went  on.  "Now  we're  safe,   the  flying   ship  is
 repaired, and we have a debt to pay. How shall we do it?"
   "Would you care for some fresh water?" asked Rainspot.
   "Kind,  but  unnecessary,"  said  the  dragon.  "The  Micones
 bring me water from the cavern depths."
   "Do  you  have  any  machines  to  be repaired?"  asked Flash
 thoughtfully.

 "None whatsoever."
 The  remaining  gnomes  all  tried  suggestions,  which  the
 dragon  politely  dismissed  as  unneeded  or  inapplicable.
 "What can we do?" said Wingover, frustrated.
 Cupelix launched into  a compressed  description of  his sit-
 uation inside the  obelisk, and  how he  very much  wanted to
 escape it. The gnomes just looked up at him and blinked.
 "Is that all?" said Roperig.
 "Nothing else?" added Birdcall by translation.
 "Just this one simple task," answered the dragon.
 Sturm  pushed  himself up  to a  seated position,  mindful of
 the pressure this put on his injured  leg. "Have  you consid-
 ered, dragon, that a higher  power intended  for you  to live
 out  your  life within  these walls?  Would we  be committing
 an act of impiety by releasing you?"
 "The  gods  raised these  walls and  brought these  many eggs
 here, but in all the thousands of years I've been resident in
 the obelisk, no god, demigod, or spirit has deigned to reveal
 any such divine plan to  me," said  Cupelix. He  shifted from
 one massive foot to the other.  "You seem  to think  my being
 kept here like a rooster in a coop is a good thing; can you
 not see it as I do, that I am in fact a prisoner? Is it an evil
 deed to free an innocent captive?"
 "What  will  happen  to all  the dragon  eggs if  you leave?"
 asked Roperig.
 "The  Micones  will  tend  them  and  guard the  caverns for-
 ever.  No egg  will hatch  without deliberate  inducement. At
 this point, I am totally superfluous."
 "I  say  we  help  him,"  said  Kitiara with  conviction. She
 leaned forward to the table  and gave  each gnome  a piercing
 look.  "Who  can honestly  say the  dragon hasn't  earned our
 help?"
 All was silent until Sturm said, "I will agree if  the dragon
 answers one question: What will he do once he is free?"
 "Revel in my liberty, of course. I shall travel thereafter,
 wherever the winds of heaven carry me."
 Sturm folded his arms. "To Krynn?" he said sharply.
 "Why not? Is there a fairer land betwixt here and the
 stars?"
 "Dragons were driven out of Krynn long ago because

 their  power  was  used  to  scheme and  control the  affairs of
 mortals. You cannot return to Krynn," Sturm said.
   "Cupelix  is  not  an  evil dragon,"  Kitiara argued.  "Do you
 think he could live so  long on  the moon  of neutral  magic and
 not be moderated by its influence?"
   "And what if,"  Sturm said  slowly, "Cupelix  is no  danger to
 Krynn. He is still  a dragon.  My ancestors  fought and  died to
 rid  our  world  of  dragons. How  can I  dishonor them  by aid-
 ing a dragon - even a benign one - to return?"
   Kitiara stood so suddenly that her  chair fell  over. "Suffer-
 ing  gods!  Who  do  you  think  you  are,   Sturm  Brightblade?
 My  ancestors  fought in  the Dragon  Wars, too.  It was  a dif-
 ferent  time  and  different circumstances."  She turned  to the
 gnomes. "I put it  to you.  Shall we  repay the  dragon's hospi-
 tality with indifference? Will we fill our bellies with his food
 and drink, fix the  ship with  his help,  and depart  without so
 much as attempting to help him be free?"
   She had them now. All nine little faces,  paler in  the short,
 faint  days  of  Lunitari,  were  rapt  with  attention. Kitiara
 raised her hand  to the  silent Cupelix,  who contrived  to look
 forlorn and  desolate atop  his marble  perch. "Put  yourself in
 his place," she said grandly.
   "Which one of us?" asked Cutwood.
   "It  doesn't matter  - any  or all  of you.  Think of  how you'd
 feel, spending all your life inside this  tower, unable  to even
 walk outdoors. And consider that  a dragon's  life is  not fifty
 years,  or  two  hundred  years,  but  twenty  times   two  hun-
 dred!  How  would  you  feel,  imprisoned  in  a  lonely  tower,
 with no one to talk to and no tools either?"
   Roperig and Fitter gasped. "No tools?"
   'Yes, and no wood or metal to work with. No gears or
 valves or pulleys."
   "Horrible!" said Flash. Birdcall seconded him with a
 steady descending note.
   "And  we  -  you  -  have  the chance  to correct  this wrong.
 You  have  the  inventive  powers  to devise  some way  to allow
 Cupelix to fly free. Will you do it?" she asked.
   Wingover leaped to his feet. "We will! We will!" Rainspot
 and Fitter wept for the injustice inflicted on the dragon,
 while  Stutts  and  Sighter  were  already bombarding  each oth-

 er  with  first  schemes  to  open the  obelisk. Wingover  got up
 on  his chair  and then  on the  table, pointing  dramatically to
 the wingless hull of the Cloudmaster.
   "To the ship!" he cried. "We must make plans!"
   "Yes, yes, the tools are there," said Cutwood.
   "And parchment and pencils!"
   "Chemicals and crucibles!"
   "Rope and rigging!"
   "Raisins!"
   The  gnomes  surged  away from  the table,  a tiny  tide of
 boisterous  idealism  and  ramshackle  ingenuity.   When  the
 last  gnome  had  disappeared  up  the ramp,  Kitiara turned,
 smiling, to Sturm.
   "Very clever," he said at last. "You did that well."
   "Did what?" she replied guilelessly.
   "We   both  know   how  impulsive   the  gnomes   are.  Between
 your  passionate call  for freedom  and the  prospect of  a major
 engineering project, the obelisk hasn't got a chance."
   "I  hope  you're  right,"  said  Cupelix.  It  was  uncanny how
 easy  it  was  to  forget him  when he  stayed quiet  above their
 line of  sight. Sturm  frowned. "Don't  be so  suspicious!" chid-
 ed  the  dragon. "If  my intentions  were black,  do you  think I
 would  have  resorted  to  banquets  and  cajoling?  My  Micones
 could  have  held  the  ship  indefinitely  until  you  agreed to
 help, or I could have left you to the tree-men."
   "No  one  ever  said  you were  evil, Cupelix,"  Sturm persist-
 ed.  "Subtle,  you  are,  and  very  much concerned  with getting
 your  way.  If  you  could  have  gotten  out  of your  prison by
 sacrificing  Kit,  myself,  or  the  gnomes,  I  don't  think you
 would have dallied long in giving us up."
     Cupelix spread his wings and coiled his legs to spring into
 the air. "Be at ease, Master Brightblade. No one need be sac-
 rificed. We shall all see Krynn again, I promise."

                     Chapter 25

                     Gnomeplans

  The   gnomes   divied   into   two   groups.   The   first
 group, which  consisted of  Stutts, Flash,  Wingover, Sighter,
 and  Birdcall,  was  to  study  the  problem of  breaching the
 walls of the obelisk. The other four gnomes had as  their task
 the  safe  removal  of  the contents  of the  tower, including
 Cupelix himself, the Cloudmaster, Sturm, and Kitiara.
  The  Micones  returned  with  the  night  half  gone,  and on
 the dragon's orders, leveled out the dirt rampart they'd piled
 up some days  before. Because  there were  more than  fifty of
 the powerful giants at work, the land around  the base  of the
 obelisk  was  soon  smooth  and  passable  again.  Kitiara and
 the  Breaching  Group  (as they  called themselves)  went out-
 side to survey the structure.
    "The walls at ground level are marble no less than eleven

  feet  thick,"  Stutts  reported,  reading  off  his calculations.
  "With the best steel picks and mattocks, it  would take  a dig-
  ging gang days and days to hack through all that rock."
    "And   furthermore,"   said  Sighter,   "my  analysis   of  the
  stone  shows  it  to  be  extremely hard,  much harder,  in fact,
  than regular marble. It's glazed."
    "Glazed?  Hmm."  Kitiara  looked  to  the  obelisk's  high pin-
  nacle.  A  flickering  red  aura  wavered  about  the   top.  She
  reminded  the  gnomes  of  the  violent  discharges  they'd  seen
  when  the  sun  came  up.  "All  that  energy,  must  have  hard-
  ened the stone," she said.
    Stutts  reached  to  touch  the  cold  stone. Between  the wide
  courses  was  a  band  of  shiny  black,  colder  even  than  the
  scarlet marble. "Metal," he mused. "Metal for mortar."
    "Really?" said Flash. "What sort of metal is it?"
    Stutts  scraped  at  the  six-inch-wide  band  with  his thumb-
  nail. The color did not scratch off. "It's soft," he said. "Lead,
  perhaps?"
    Sighter  and  Birdcall  examined  the  mortar,   too.  Birdcall
  confirmed with a twitter that the metal was indeed lead.
    "Pretty solid," said Wingover, slapping the wall.
    "I have an idea," Kitiara announced. The gnomes looked
  at her as if she'd said she  was growing  another head.  "Well, I
  do. Here it is: I've seen lots of castle waills fall  to besieging
  armies, and they are often  as thick,  if not  as hard,  as these
  walls.  The  besiegers  brought  them  down  by  tunneling  under
  the foundations and undermining the wall."
    Consternation  spread  on  the  faces  in the  Breaching Party.
  "Why, that's bloody simple," Stutts declared.
    "Why didn't we think of that?" asked Flash.
    "All  we  have  to  do is  dig away  the sand!"  said Wingover.
    They  fell  on  their  knees  and  crimson dirt  flew. Kitiara,
  shaking  her  head, went  inside to  the ship.  Sturm was  on his
  feet,  leaning  on  a  crutch  that  Cutwood  had  fashioned  for
  him.  He  was  keeping  aloof  from  the  preparations,   but  he
  asked what the gnomes had decided to do.
    "We're  digging  now,"   Kitiara  remarked.   She  appropriated
  a  wrecking  bar from  the store  of tools  and returned  to the
  frantic diggers. Sturm hobbled after her.
    The  gnomes  carved  out  a  crater   deeper  than   their  own

 height  in a  very short  time. Below  grade, the  foundation of
 the  obelisk  showed no  alteration from  the structure  above -
 more   massive   marble   blocks   joined  with   lead.  Kitiara
 cleared  them out  of the  hole and  swung the  iron bar  at the
 stone.
   "Wait," said Wingover, "that's solid -"
   She drew the  bar back  in a  deep arc  and struck  the foun-
 dation  with all  her extra  strength. There  was a  crack, like
 the breaking of a great tree branch, and a  single chip  of mar-
 ble flew off. It landed  at Sturm's  feet, a  lost petal  from a
 stone rose. He stooped awkwardly to pick it up.
   "Look at the bar!" said Flash.
   Kitiara  held  up the  inch-thick rod.  The flat  prying edge
 had  mushroomed  out  from  the  blow,  and  the  whole  bar was
 bent in a  graceful curve.  Kitiara braced  the bar  against her
 knee and tried  to straighten  it, but  only succeeded  in bend-
 ing it the opposite way. She tossed it aside in disgust.
   "I tried to tell you,"  Wingover said  as Kitiara  climbed out
 of the hole. "The base of  the tower  rests on  the roof  of the
 cavern. It's solid stone."
   "There  are  holes  through it,"  said Sighter.  "The Micones'
 holes.  We  went  through  them  ourselves,  to  visit  the  egg
 chamber."
   "Mining  won't  work,"  Stutts  said  sadly.  "We're  no  more
 able to bore through the foundation than the upper walls."
   Kitiara  clambered  out  of  the  hole  and  dusted   off  her
 hands  and  leggings.  Her  breath  showed  white  in  the night
 air. "It's up to you gnomes now."
   The  little  men  faced  each  other  for  a  few  minutes and
 talked in their lightning patter. Finally, Stutts poked his face
 out and said, "We'll have to consult with our colleagues."
   "Do you have a plan?" asked Sturm.
   "The rudiments of one, but we need the wisdom of our
 fellows inside." The gnomes trooped off.
   Sturm pushed the wrecking bar around with his toe.
 "That much strength is hard to control,  isn't it'!"  When Kiti-
 ara didn't answer,  he went  on. "Are  you getting  stronger all
 the  time,  Kit?  Is  that  why you  move as  if the  world were
 made of glass?"
     She snatched up the iron bar and, holding it in one hand,

 steadily bent  the rod  into a  right angle  - using  only her
 thumb!  She  dropped  the  bar  and  said,  "Is that  what you
 wanted to see?"

 * * * * *

   Cupelix  and the  humans sat  attentively on  one side  of the
 obelisk  -  which is  to say,  Sturm and  Kitiara sat  on crates
 while  the  dragon  sat  on  his  ledge  above them.  The gnomes
 sat  on  a  bench  facing  them.  Cutwood   had  rigged   up  an
 easel,  which  was  shrouded  with a  loose cloth.  Stutts stood
 by the easel, a long, pointed stick in his hand.
   "Lady,  gentleman,   and  beast,"   he  began.   The  dragon's
 gusty  sigh  sent  Stutts's  beard  whipping over  his shoulder.
 "Lady,  gentleman,  and  dragon,"  Stutts  said  smoothly,  "may
 I  present  the Obelisk  Escape Auger,  Mark I. He  whisked the
 cloth  away,  revealing  a  large sheet  of parchment  tacked to
 the  easel.  A  fantastic-looking  device  was  drawn  in  brown
 ink.  Supported  by  a  massive  timber  frame  was  an enormous
 helical auger, a grossly enlarged  version of  the tool  used by
 carpenters  to  bore  holes.  According  to  the figures  on the
 parchment,  the  bit alone  was fifteen  feet wide,  the optimum
 diameter, Stutts said, to allow Cupelix to pass through.
   "Very ingenious," said  the dragon,  eyeing the  peculiar cre-
 ation with evident skepticism. "How is it operated?"
      "By this eccentric crank, here." The pointer tapped the
 drawing.  "All eleven  of us  will man  the crank.  According to
 our  best estimates,  the auger  will bore  through the  wall in
 sixty-seven hours of work."
   "That's almost three days!" Kitiara said.
   "On Lunitari, only two days and nights," said Sighter.
   "Never  mind  that,"  Sturm  said.  "Where  will the  steel come
 from to make the bit?  Where will  you get  the timber  to build
 the frame?"
     "Ah," said Cutwood. "Except for the bit blades and a few
 points of stress, such as the bearings, all parts of the Obelisk
 Escape Auger will be made of wood."
   "What wood!"
   "Why, the hull and frame of the Cloudmaster."
   "Ai!" said Kitiara.  She let  her head  fall forward  into her

 hands. Sturm sighed.
   "If you dismantle the flying ship, how  will we  get home?"
 he said with as much patience as he could muster.
   The  gnomes  looked  from one  to another,  surprised. Very
 faintly, Fitter said  something about  putting the  ship back
 together once the dragon was out.
   "No!"  said  Kitiara.  "You'll never  get the  timbers back
 together as a ship. You fellows must do better!"
   "Not  to  worry!"  Stutts  rejoined."He whipped  the elabo-
 rate  drawing  of  the  Obelisk Escape  Auger off  the easel.
 Beneath it  was another,  equally detailed  diagram.'"This, I
 am  proud  to  say,  is  the  Obelisk Arch  Doorway Widener,"
 said Stutts.
   "Reasoning  that  the  doorway  represents a  natural point
 of  entry,  we came  up with  this alternative  scheme. These
 screw  jacks -"  Again the  pointer flew  to the  diagram. "-
 will be fitted in the doorway. By tightening them  with these
 turnbuckles here,  here, and  here, the  rams will  be forced
 apart, cracking the door wide open."
   It  took  exactly  one  minute  for  Sturm  and  Kitiara to
 demolish  the  Arch  Doorway  Widener,  mostly  for  the same
 reasons as the Obelisk Escape Auger: lack of  quality materi-
 als. There was just no wood or metal to  be had,  except what
 the Cloudmaster and its crew had brought with them.
   "It seems hopeless," said  the dragon  with a  profound sigh.
   "Never!"   vowed   Wingover.  He   pushed  the   bandages  up
 from his face so that everyone could see  his eyes.  They had
 turned  completely  black.  Wingover  shielded  them futilely
 with his hands.
   "You see what has happened to  me," he  said, "I  no longer
 can  shut  out anything.  I have  to sleep  face down  to the
 ground, where I count strata all the way  down to  the moon's
 core."  He  pointed  with a  thumb at  Cutwood, next  to him.
 "My  good  colleague  hears  every  grain  of   sand  rubbing
 against another. Roperig's hands are almost  sealed together,
 aren't they, Roperig? Rainspot's clothes are beginning to rot
 from the constant  damp. All  the rest  of us  have problems,
 too, but we won't leave until we solve this problem."
   Sturm heard  these words  carefully. He  said, "As  long as
 we are discussing our gifts, let me show  you this."  He tore

 the cloth  bandage from  his leg.  Where two  nights and  a day
 before  there  had  been  an  ugly,  gaping  wound,  there  was
 now only smooth, unscarred skin.
   "The  same  magic that  makes  trees   walk  and   fight  has
 healed my wound. I did not ask for it  to be  done, but  it has
 convinced me of one thing. This is no  place for  mortals. I'll
 lend  my  aid,  dragon, for  that reason  alone. The  longer we
 remain on Lunitari, the more  the magic  will affect  us. Since
 my  companions  have  resolved  to  help  you,   my  resistance
 only impedes their progress."
   "Welcome to the struggle," said Cupelix.
   "Wingover,"  Kitiara  said,  "if  you can  see into  the ground
 we  stand  on, can  you see  any deposits  of iron  or copper?
 Anything we can use?"
   "Alas, lady, nothing. This entire moon seems made of
 sand, granite, and more sand."
   "Sand,"  said  Sighter,  musing.  He  hopped  down  from  the
 bench  and  strolled  to  the far  wall and  back. He  traced a
 stubby  finger  along the  lead seams  where two  marble cours-
 es  lay  on  top  of  each  other.  "Sand!" he  shouted. "Sand,
 sand, sand!"
   "Look out," said Rainspot. "He's slipped his gears."
   Sighter  took a  deep breath  and strode  to Stutts  with grave
 dignity. "Sand," he said, "is the one thing this world provides
 in abundance, yes?"
   "Uh, yes," said Stutts.
   Sighter snapped  his spyglass  open and  laid it  across his
 colleague's palm. "What are lenses made of?"
   "Glass," Roperig said promptly.
   Sighter whirled, pointing to the adhesive gnome. "And
 what do the Lunitarians make their weapons out of?"
   "Glass," said Sturm and Kitiara together.
   "Yes! And what is glass made of?" Sighter cried.
   No one said a word. Finally, Fitter said, "Sand, but -"
   "Sand,  glass, lenses!  Don't you  see? We  can cast  a giant
 lens, and  with that  concentrate the  rays of  the sun  into a
 burning beam. The focal point of  the rays  will be  far hotter
 than the melting point of lead, so -"
   "The  wall  will  come  tumbling  down,"  said  Cupelix. "Do
 you think you can do it!"

   "Nothing is for certain," Sighter  said with  ungnomish cau-
 tion. "We'll need a continuous source of heat for  the melting
 of the sand."
   "What about the heat source we found in the caverns?"
 said Sturm. "Would that be hot enough for you?"
   "Hmm, magma is more than hot enough to melt sand,"
 said Flash.
   "The Micones can gather any amount of sand you'll
 need," said Cupelix. "Shall I get them started?"
   "We'd  better  push the  Cloudmaster outside,"  Stutts said.
 "We'll need the floor space in here to work."
   Cupelix  summoned  two  ants,   and  the   gnomes  harnessed
 them to the bow  of the  flying ship.  The Micones  pulled the
 creaking   craft   through   the  doorway   and  out   to  the
 smoothed  soil.  The  gnomes  carried  the detached  wings and
 laid  them  in the  shadow of  the hull.  Cupelix fell  into a
 lengthy  telepathic  commune  with his  minions, and  soon the
 Micones  were  mustered  in  the  valley. They  surrounded the
 obelisk on  all sides,  an army  of mute,  clicking creatures,
 intent  on  a voice  no one  heard but  them. Without  as much
 as a nod, the three score giant ants turned their backs to the
 tower and began  to plow  the soil  with their  heads. Furrows
 of  dull  red  sand  turned up  to the  starry sky,  and other
 Micones pushed the sand into convenient mounds.
   Sighter  showed  off his  hasty design  for a  burning lens,
 twenty-two feet in diameter and five feet, seven  inches thick
 in the center.
   "Do you think it will work?" Kitiara said.
   "If the lens can be cast in one piece, the polishing
 shouldn't take long. There's plenty of sand, after  all," said
 Sighter.  He  rolled up  his parchment  drawing and  tucked it
 under  his  arm. Outside,  the Micones  slaved on,  the ground
 trembling against the force of their unyielding heads.

                   Chapter 26

                    The Lens

     To refine the sanb awd eliminate any impurities, the
 gnomes  resorted  to  washing  it.  Poor  Rainspot  was hauled
 up to the lowest of Cupelix's ledges and instructed to make it
 rain for several hours. The  floor of  the obelisk  grew quite
 grimy   with  wet   sand  and   sodden  vegetable   muck.  The
 dragon  descended  from  his  sanctum   with  the   news  that
 clouds were forming up there, too. A  gentle rain  was falling
 450 feet above  Rainspot. Midget  streaks of  lightning flick-
 ered through the hollow  shaft, glancing  off the  marble like
 minnows  in  a  racing  brook. Far  from being  annoyed, Cupe-
 lix was delighted with all this. He had read of the mysterious
 thing called 'weather,' but had never experienced it.
 "It doesn't naturally  occur indoors,"  Sturm said  sourly. He
 was wet to the skin, as the gnomes  had appropriated  his oil-

 cloth slicker to make buckets for the clean sand.
   Micones were fitted with pairs of big buckets,  which were
 draped  like  saddlebags  on  each  side  of  their globular
 thoraxes. They scuttled down to the cavern with their loads,
 where Sighter, Birdcall, and Flash were preparing the vat in
 which  the  sand  would be  melted. This,  like the  mold in
 which the lens would be  cast, was  simply and  roughly made
 from  mud.  The  disintegrated plant  fluff that  coated the
 entire  red  moon, mixed  with dry  dirt, made  an admirable
 clay. The gnomes in the cavern slapped  together a  wide tub
 of mud, reinforced with just a few laths 'borrowed' from the
 Cloudmaster.  At  about  dawn,  the  vat  was ready.  With a
 Micone as a  draft beast,  the gnomes  shifted the  vat into
 place over one of the volcanic vents. Then they sat back and
 waited for the clay to harden.
   Flash's head popped  up through  one of  the holes  in the
 floor. "We're ready for the sand!" he cried.
   Roperig moved closer to the hole  and said,  "What's hold-
 ing you up?"
   "Nothing,"  said  the  mud-caked  gnome.  "I  said,  we're
 ready for the sand."
   "He  means,  what's  holding  you  up  in the  hole?" said
 Sturm.
   "Oh! I'm standing on a Micone." The  giant ant  was cling-
 ing upside down under  the opening,  and Flash  was standing
 on its belly.
   The whole crew, save Kitiara and Rainspot, descended    to
 the great cavern. There  the train  of Micones  saddled with
 hoppers of sand stood  in a  line, like  a cavalry  troop on
 parade.  Each  time  Birdcall  poked  his  head  through the
 toothed passage in the  rock and  whistled, an  ant detached
 and followed him.
   Farther  in,  past  the  Micones'  birthing  chamber,  the
 gnomes labored  over the  glass vat.  Sturm watched  as they
 emptied  bucket  after  bucket  into  the  baked  mud  bowl,
 spreading the sand evenly across  the bottom  and sprinkling
 in  various  unnamed  powders they'd  brought down  from the
 flying ship. The heat in the chamber was terrific.  On Cupe-
 lix's orders, the Micones had broken open  one of  the magma
 flues, allowing more of the rock to well out of  the ground.

 The giant creatures seemed unaffected by  the heat.  The vat
 was precariously perched above  the magma  pool on  piers of
 stones. The little  men walked  nonchalantly along  the edge
 of the fiery pit, hardly noticing painful death  could claim
 them if they slipped. Not for the first time, Sturm  felt an
 admiration for the gnomes. They were  foolish and  trying at
 times, but in their element,. they were indomitable.
   The sand grew  hot and  steamed. In  a process  too sudden
 and subtle to see, the  hard grains  softened into  a smooth
 mass, first bright orange and then nearly white as  the heat
 rose to its highest level. The  glare was  too much  for the
 gnomes and Sturm, and they drew  back to  the cooler  end of
 the chamber.
   "How will you get the melted glass up  to the  lens mold?
 asked Sturm.
   "We shan't," said  Stutts, mopping  his florid  pink brow.
 "We're casting the rough lens down here."
   Even  as  he  said  this,  Micones  laden  with  fresh mud
 clicked into  the chamber.  Birdcall, who  seemed to  have a
 particular  rapport  with  the ants,  directed them  to dump
 their loads in a natural hollow in the cavern floor. Birdcall
 and Sighter fell to with trowels,  sweeping the  crimson mud
 about in smooth swirls, forming a round bowl.
   When the  mud was  firm, though  not entirely  dry, Stutts
 and Sighter conferred. Everyone  waited for  the word  - the
 gnomes,  Sturm,  the  Micones, even  Kitiara and  Cupelix in
 the obelisk above.  Stutts tapped  his fingers  together and
 talked far too fast for Sturm to follow. Sighter nodded.
   Four  Micones  took  up  positions  around the  glass vat.
 Birdcall sat astride one ant, warbling and waving  his hands
 to conduct the  giants' efforts.  The Micones  clamped their
 pincer jaws on the studs the gnomes left poking  through the
 mud walls, and lifted the vat easily off the  magma furnace.
 Supported  by  twenty-four  individual  legs,  the  vat  was
 maneuvered over the rocky floor to the mold.
   "Are you ready?" Stutts called to Birdcall.  The whistling
 gnome gave the  high sign  and Stutts  called out,  "You may
 pour now!"
   Two ants lifted the vat up. White-hot molten glass slipped
 over the rim of the vat and splashed heavily into  the mold.

 Torrents of steam  billowed out  as the  water was  driven from
 the still-damp mud.
   "Higher!" Stutts cried. "Tip the end up higher!"
   Parts  of the  vat's outside  began to  crumble and  break off.
 The molten mass of glass surged against the weakening
 walls. Cracks developed in the lip.
   "Keep    them   back!"    Sturm   admonished    Stutts.   The
 gnomes,  in  their  boundless  urge  to  see   everything,  had
 crowded close to the  lens mold.  If the  vat broke  open, they
 would  all  be  swamped  with melted  glass. Stutts  pushed his
 colleagues to a safer distance.
   The vat was vertical  now, and  the last  gobs fell  into the
 mold.  There  was  more  molten  glass  than  the   mold  would
 hold,  so  it  lapped over  the edges.  As the  Micones lowered
 the vat to horizontal, the cracked sides fell to pieces.
   "Phew!"  said  Stutts.  His  forehead  was raw  from constant
 wiping. "That was none too soon!"
    The mold,  being solidly  bound by  rock, was  holding well.
 Already the edges of the  lens were  turning red,  cooling from
 incandescent  white.  Bubbles  popped  in  the center  as steam
 forced  its  way  out from  the mud  liner. Sighter  frowned at
 the sight.
   "Hadn't planned on that," he said. "Bubbles will distort
 the glass."
   "It doesn't need to be of the first water," said Stutts.
   "How long will  it take  to cool?"  asked Sturm.  The shim-
 mering heat from the poured glass was mesmerizing.
   "Fully cooled, twelve hours or more," said Sighter. "It'll be
 hard  a  lot sooner  than that,  but we  can't crack  the mold
 until we're sure the core is cooled."
   "Maybe  we  could get  Rainspot to  sprinkle it  with water,"
 Cutwood suggested.
   "No! It would shatter into a million pieces!"
   With nothing else to do but wait, Sturm and all the
 gnomes  but  Sighter  left  the  cavern.  There was  still some
 daylight  left on  the surface,  and the  gnomes wanted  to get
 the Cloudmaster back into flying trim.
   The flying ship posed proudly on the level valley floor,
 and once the wings were restored to the hull, it gained a
 majestic  air.   The  obelisk's   long  shadow   moved  swiftly

 around with the rapidly setting sun.
   "Ready  for  wing  test?" Wingover  hallooed in  the voice
 pipe.  A  squawky,  muffled "Yes"  returned from  the engine
 room. "Engage engine!"
   Kitiara sensed a deep grinding  vibration under  her feet.
 The wing  tips lifted,  flexed and  started down  again, but
 balked. An  agonizing shudder  ran the  length of  the ship.
 The wings hung down where they were and quivered.
   "No, no! Shut off!" Wingover yelled. The door of  the din-
 ing room banged open, and Flash emerged, coughing.
   Wingover  stuck  his  head  out the  wheelhouse window.
 "What happened'" he said.
   "That stupid Birdcall installed the armature switch upside
 down! When I fed lightning  to the  engine, it  flashed back
 through the cable and burned  out the  storage jar!  We have
 no power!" Flash exclaimed, close to tears.
  Kitiara grabbed the gnome by the shoulder and spun him
 around. "No power?" she said. "What does that mean?"
   "It means, we can't fly home!"

                     Chapter 27

                    The Invaders

    Gloom settled in with the night. Birdcall was sound-
 ly  berated  for  his  sloppy  work,  but once  the reproaches
 were  finished,  the  gnomes  went right  back to  their usual
 good-natured   camaraderie.   Kitiara   was   furious,   Sturm
 resigned. The dragon tried to lighten their spirits.
    "Be of stout heart!" he admonished. "If worse comes to
 worst, I shall  fly to  Mt. Nevermind  and notify  the gnomish
 authorities of your plight. They will, of course, mount a res-
 cue expedition. Assuming I get clear of this tower, that is."
  "Yes,  assuming  that,"  Sturm  said.  He  went away  to com-
 miserate with the gnomes.
      Kitiara sidled over to where Cupelix was perched. "Can
 you hear me?" she said in the lowest of whispers.
  Certainly.  The  dragon's  telepathic  voice   caressed  her

 mind.
    "When we get  you out,  I want  you to  take me  with you,"
 she muttered.
    And leave your friends behind?
    "You said  yourself the  gnomes on  Sancrist can  be notified.
 It may take some months, but they'll try  to reach  their col-
 leagues marooned on Lunitari."  Since the  ruin of  the Cloud-
 master's  engine,  Kitiara  had  begun  to understand  how the
 dragon  felt,  trapped on  this moon.  Also, once  Cupelix was
 free, she feared  he would  not linger  on Lunitari  while the
 gnomes  struggled  to repair  the flying  ship. Her  dreams of
 partnership would be over.
    And what of Sturm?
    "Someone  has  to look  after the  little fellows,"  she said.
 "Don't  think  me  uncaring; I'm  just eager  to be  gone from
 here."
   Fortunes to find, wars to win.
   "Not to forget showing you around, too."
    Yes, of course. Still, I wonder, dear Kit. If you could fly
 and I could not, would you leave me here also?
    She grinned up at the  huge creature.  "You're far  too big
 for me to carry," she said.
    Supper was a subdued affair,  and they  all turned  in soon
 after  eating.  Cupelix  withdrew  to his  tower top,  and the
 humans  and gnomes  slept scattered  about the  obelisk's now-
 spacious floor.
    Sturm was awake. He lay on  his back,  staring up  into the
 tower's black  recesses. It  well matched  his mood.  Was this
 his ultimate fate,  to be  marooned on  the red  moon forever?
 The  dragon  had  said  something  about  things  never  dying
 here. Would he live on and on, bitter, lonely,  forever denied
 his heritage as a knight?
    The  dark  space above  him closed  in. The  odd, displaced
 sensation flooded over him yet again -
 ~ He sat up  and heard  crickets chirruping  in the  bushes. A
 canopy  of trees  almost closed  out the  sky of  Krynn. Sturm
 could see the sculpted outline of a high wall in the distance,
 and knew that it was Castle Brightblade.
    He drifted across  the night-cloaked  land to  the castle's
 main gate. To his surprise, torches flamed in the  side brack-

 ets, and two imposing figures in armor flanked  the entrance.
 He moved in closer.
   "Uh! What goes?" said the guard on  Sturm's right.  He lev-
 eled his poleaxe directly at Sturm.
       He can see me! Sturm held up his hand and said, "I am
 Sturm Brightblade. This castle belongs to my father."
   "Fool,  nothing  goes,"  said  the  other  guard.  "Put axe
 away."
   "I say is."  The right-hand  guard took  a torch  down from
 its  holder  and  stomped toward  - and  through -  Sturm. By
 the blazing pine knot, Sturm saw the guard's face. It was not
 human,  nor  dwarven,  elven,  kender,  or  gnome.  The  pro-
 truding snout was green and scaly,  and toothy  horns sprout-
 ed  from a  wide mouth.  His eyes  were vertical  slits, like
 Cupelix's.
   Draconians! He was furious that these  ugly brutes  were in
 his ancestral home. Sturm  pushed through  the gate  into the
 bailey. There were  wagons and  carts parked  there, groaning
 with swords, spears, battle-axes, and  sheafs of  arrows. The
 draconians were turning Castle  Brightblade into  an arsenal,
 but for whom'
   In the great  hall he  found a  crackling fire  built. Camp
 stools were set up before the hearth, and a trestle table was
 covered  with  scrolls.  Sturm  hovered  by  the  table.  The
 scrolls were maps, primarily of Solamnia and Abanasinia.
   Steel rang on stone, and Sturm started, forgetting  that he
 could not be seen. A tall, powerful figure strode out  of the
 dark hall. He was helmetless, his  face hard  and expression-
 less. Long, smooth locks of white hair  fell over  his shoul-
 ders. The man crossed between the fire and the table  and sat
 on one  of the  stools. He  set his  helmet down  beside him.
 Sturm had never seen  such a  helmet before.  Tusks protruded
 from the visor, and the whole form was  shaped like  the head
 of a predatory insect.
 ~  "Come  and  sit down,"  said the  man, whom  Sturm thought
 of as the general. A  second figure  stirred in  the shadows.
 He - it? - did not come into the circle of firelight.  A thin
 hand, sleeved in dark gray,  reached out  and dragged  a camp
 chair into a dimmer corner of the hall.
 "I forget you do not care for fire," said the general. "Pity.

 Fire is such a useful force."
    "Fire and light shall be my undoing  some day,"  rasped the
 robed  figure.  "I have  seen my  demise in  flames. I  am not
 eager to meet my end just yet."
    "Not with so much to do," replied  the general.  He perused
 the  map  of  Solamnia.  "When  do  you  hear  from  your Mis-
 tress  that  Red Wing  will be  here? The  arms grow  rusty in
 this damp old castle."
    "Patience,  Merinsaard.  The  Dark  Queen  has  well gauged
 the temper of the land, and she will set the armies  in motion
 when the auspices are most favorable."
    The general snorted. "You speak of signs and portents as if
 they determined everything. It's the charge of the  lance, the
 shock  of  cavalry,  that  decides  the  fate  of  battles and
 empires, Sorotin."
    The   hidden  sorcerer   chuckled,  a   moldering,  decayed
 sound  that  chilled  Sturm.  "Men  of  action always  like to
 think that their fate is in their hands. It comforts  them and
 makes them feel important."
    Merinsaard  said   nothing.  He   leaned  to   the  hearth,
 plucked out a burning brand,  and thrust  it toward  his shad-
 owed  compatriot.  Sturm  got a  glimpse of  a face  that sur-
 prised  him.  It might've  been handsome  but for  its deathly
 paleness and the evil that emanated from  burning eyes  set in
 it.  The  magic-user,  Sorotin, groaned  and shrank  away from
 the flame. Merinsaard tossed the burning twig after him.
    "Mind  your  tongue,"  Merinsaard  said.  "And  remember, I
 command  here. If  you displease  me, or  fail in  your necro-
 mancy, I'll feed you to the fire myself."
    The sorcerer panted raggedly with fear.  "Be not  too bold,
 my lord. For  one is  here now  who watches  and is  no friend
 to our cause." Sturm's heart skipped a beat.
    "What?"  said  the general.  He reached  under the  pile of
 maps  and  pulled  out  a  viciously  curved dagger.  A sticky
 coating  of  greenish  poison  showed  on  the  cutting  edge.
 "Where is this intruder? Where?"
    "Standing  between  us,  great  general."  He   did  mean
 Sturm!
    Merinsaard  slashed  through  the  empty air.  "You fool!
 There's no one there!"

   "Not in the fleshly sense, my lord. He is a spirit from far
 away - very far, by the aura he  emits. Perhaps  as far  as -
 Lunitari? That is far indeed."
   "Get rid of it, whatever it is," said Merinsaard. "Kill the
 spy! No one must know of our plans!"
   "Calm yourself, my lord. Our visitor is not here to  spy. I
 sense that this was once his home."
   "Dotard! No one has lived here for  twenty years.  The last
 lord of the castle was hounded out of the country."
   "True enough,  mighty Merinsaard,"  said Sorotin.  "Shall I
 bring this spirit here in body, or bid him  go back  where he
 came?"
   Sturm struggled with his  feelings for  a moment.  He tried
 to will himself to solidity so that he might  challenge these
 evil men. But he could sense no change in his state.
   "Can he speak to the living of  this world'?"  asked Merin-
 saard.
   "I think not. He is too attenuated by the vast  distance he
 has traveled. I sense no knowledge of magic in him."
   "Then  hurl  him  back to  his wretched  body and  keep him
 there! I have no time for ghostly ambassadors."
   Sturm  saw  a  glint  in  the  darkness.  He heard  a sweet
 chime. The sorcerer had struck the silver bell he carried.
   "Hear me, 0 Spirit: As I ring this  magic bell  thrice, you
 will depart from this castle, this land, this world, never to
 return."  The  bell  chimed  once.  "Argon!"  Twice. "H'rar!"
 Three times. "In the name of the Dragonqueen!"
   Every muscle in Sturm's body jolted  at once.  He literally
 felt as though he'd fallen from  a height,  but he  was awake
 and  in  his body,  in the  obelisk on  Lunitari. He  sat up,
 breathing  hard  and  shaking. The  entire vision  had passed
 without any new clue  to his  father's whereabouts.  That was
 distressing enough, but the  machinations of  this Merinsaard
 and Sorotin - in Castle  Brightblade -  filled him  with out-
 rage. Someone must be told! The alarm must be given!
     He roused Sighter from his blanket. "Wake up!" he said.
 "Let's have a look at that lens of yours."
   "Now?" said the gnome through a jaw-cracking yawn.
   "Yes, why not? It's been hours."
 A Micone was standing by, as per orders, and it allowed

  Sturm  and  Sighter to  mount for  a ride  down to  the casting
  chamber.  The  whole  cavern was  filled with  dripping patches
  of mist. The giant ant didn't  like the  dampness at  all. Once
  or twice, its barbed feet slipped on the vitreous  wall, making
  Sturm cling  tightly to  the rope  harness and  causing Sighter
  to cling even more tightly to Sturm.
    The lens was still ruby  red, but  very little  heat radiated
  from it.
    Sturm tapped his  fingers lightly  on the  edge of  the mold.
  The  fourth  tap  broke  loose  a  chunk  of  mud, now  dry and
  brittle.  The  inward  sloping  side of  the lens  was exposed.
  Sighter stood on his toes to examine the glass.
    "No,"  he  muttered.  Out  came  the  magnifying   glass.  He
  peered  into  the  scarlet casting.  "Broken gears  and slipped
  pulleys!" he exclaimed. "The lens is worthless!"
    "What?"
    "The glass, the glass! It's nearly opaque!"
    "It can't be," Sturm  said. Sighter  handed him  his magnify-
  ing glass. Sturm peered into the  lens. All  he could  see were
  millions of tiny white bubbles trapped in the solidified glass.
  That, and the dark  red color,  made it  obvious that  the lens
  would be useless  for focusing  the sun's  rays into  a burning
  beam.
    "Perhaps when it's polished," Sturm said hopefully.
    "Never!"  Sighter  sputtered.  "You'd  have more  chance try-
  ing  to  focus  sunbeams through  a cedar  tree!" He  threw his
  pocket glass on the rocks and stamped it until it shattered.
    "What's the  matter?" asked  a voice.  Stutts and  the others
  had  also  come  to  inspect the  giant lens.  Sighter bitterly
  explained that their  work had been for nothing. The    crest-
  fallen gnomes ringed the mold and  stared down  at the  lens in
  disbelief.
    "Worthless," said Fitter.
    "Useless," said Roperig.
    "A waste of time and effort," Cutwood added.
    "Now what do we do?" asked Rainspot.
    "Try to explain it to the dragon," said the crushed Sighter.

 * * *                           * *

   No  one  said much  about the  lens failure  except Cupelix.
 The  otherwise  genial,  well-mannered  dragon  had  a dragon-
 sized tantrum.
   "Thundering  incompetents!  Witless  -  inept!"   A  tremen-
 dous telepathic FOOLS! made them all flinch.
   "Do be still," Kitiara  said severely.  "A dragon  your age,
 carrying on like a spoiled child! Do you think the little fel-
 lows guarantee success?"
   Sturm watched the effect of Kitiara's chiding on  the beast.
 Cupelix's ears, which had been flattened  on his  head, slowly
 lifted, and the jets of acrid vapor  stopped puffing  from his
 nostrils.
   "I had such hopes!" Cupelix allowed.
   "Well, it looks like  we're going  to be  here a  long while,"
 Kitiara said. "So we  shall have  plenty of  time to  think up
 new ways to get you out of this marble cell."
   Mollified,  the  dragon  prepared  them  a  cold  repast and
 retired  to  his  high  sanctum to  meditate on  his problems.
 Sturm,  Kitiara,  and the  gnomes went  outside and  stared at
 the  Cloudmaster.  Poor, lifeless  hulk, an  immobile derelict
 gracing the red turf of Lunitari.
   Sturm  put  a  hand  to  his  chin  and  pondered   what  he
 understood  from  Wingover's  explanation  of  how  the Cloud-
 master  flew.i  The  wings were  useless without  lightning to
 turn the engine. All that remained was  the half-empty  bag of
 ethereal air. He said, "What about the ethereal air?"
   "What about it?" asked Wingover.
   Sturm,  rather  abashed  to  be  making  technical arguments
 to the gnomes, said, "Bellcrank  used to  say that  when full,
 the ethereal air bag was sufficient to lift the ship."
  "With  all  due respect  to our  late colleague,  the lifting
 power of the bag is  much less  than the  total weight  of the
 hull of the ship," Stutts said. They lapsed into  silence once
 again.  Sturm  thought  some  more.  Kitiara's  eyes  narrowed
 as she, too, concentrated.
   "What if we lightened the ship?" said Fitter.
   "What?" said Sturm.
   "What?" said Stutts, Wingover, Sighter, Rainspot, and
 Flash.
   "What!" said Cutwood, Roperig, and (translated) Bird-

 call.
    Kitiara grinned her  Off-center grin,  something she  did all
 too  rarely  these  days.  "Lighten  the  ship!"  she  declared.
 "Now  that's  Something  I  can  understand!" She  picked little
 Fitter up and Shook  him So  hard that  his teeth  rattled. Then
 She  boosted  him  up  to the  rail. The  gnome Went  below deck
 and   Opened   the   side  boarding   ramp.  The   Other  gnomes
 swarmed  aboard,  fired  with  the  Zeal Of  desperation. Before
 sturm  and  Kitiara  had  even  mounted  the  ramp,  loud crash-
 es and Splintering creaks sounded within the Ship.
    "They  may  rip  everything  Out,"  Stuim Said  wryly. "Deck,
 celing, planks, and posts."
 )         The gnomes formed a chain from the lowest deck to the
 top  rail  and began  flinging everything  they could  lay their
 hands  On  Over  the  Side.  They  ransacked  their  cabins  and
 brought  forth   all  their   personal  belongings.   Sturm  Was
 astounded  by  the  mass  and  variety  Of it:  blankets, books,
 tools, clothing, barrels, pots, plates, rope, cord, twine, Sail-
 cloth, a crate Of  ink, pens,  bars Of  Soap, two  harmonicas, a
 fiddle, a flute, Sixteen pairs Of boots (all  sized too  big for
 Sturm,  much  less any  gnome that  ever lived),  gloves, belts,
 and a Stuffed billy goat that cutwood kept in his cabin.
    Some  items  couldn't  be  manhandled  to  the   upper  deck.
 Kitiara  found  Roperig  and  Fitter  lying  prostrate  beside a
 large keg. "We can't budge it," Roperig panted.
    "I'll do it." She turned the keg around to See if there was a
 bung  attached.  Liquid  sloshed  inside, and  a single  Word in
 gnomish  block  letters  was  stenciled  On the  Staves. Kitiara
 said, "What's in this, anyway?"
    Fitter  Squinted  at the  label. "Oil  Of Vitriol.  Must have
 been Bellcrank's," he Said. A Slight quiver invaded his chin.
    "Vitriol, eh?" She recalled the mess that  the acid  had made
 Of  Bellcrank's  Excellent  Mouthless  Siphon  back   On  Krynn.
 "Why hasn't it eaten through the keg?"
    "Oh, it's probably lined with  some resistant  coating," Said
 Roperig. He Wiped the back  Of his  neck with  his hand,  and it
 promptly Stuck there. "Oh, dry roti"
    Kitiara  drummed  her  fingers  On  the  barrel  head.  "Hmm,
 that's  worth  knowing.  So  this  stuff  dissolves  some things
 but not Others?"

    "Yes." Roperig tried to free his hand and succeeded in
 sticking his Other hand to his Own arm. "Double dry rot I"
   "Will Oil Of vitriol dissolve marble?" She asked.
   "Maybe. It doesn't affect many glassy substances."
   "What about lead?"
   "Yes, definitely. Fitter, stop fidgeting and help met"
   She left  the two  gnomes locked  in a  Stmlle against
 Roperig'S  adhesive   palms.  The   gnome  she   sought,  Stutts,
 was  Outside the  ship, Sorting  through the  heap Of  goods that
 the gnomes had discarded. Kitiara  pulled Stutts  free Of  a pile
 Of clothing and Said, "I know how to get the dragon Out!"
   "What?" said the gnome. "How?"
   "Bellcrank'S  vitriol."  She   gestured  vaguely   back  toward
 the ship. "There's a whole barrelful Of it On board. If we let it
 eat  up  the  mortar  in the  lowest course  Of the  Obelisk, the
 Walls are bound to collapse, aren't they'd"
   Understanding  gradually  lightened  Stutts's  face.   Then  it
 hit him full force. "Hydrodynamicst It will work!"
   The  gnomes  heard  Stutts'S  cry  and  rallied   around.  With
 extravagant   hand   motions   and   frequent    compliments   to
 Kitiara,  Stutts  explained  her  idea.  The   gnomes  positively
 exploded  with  excitement.  It  was   So  Simple!   So  elegant!
 They'd  been  fixated  On  a  mechanical  Solution, and  here the
 human Woman had come up With a chemical answer!
   Sturm  heard  the   commotion  and   hustled  down   the  ramp.
 He  agreed  that  the plan  was a  good One,  but Saw  One impor-
 tant   consideration.   "What   happens   to  Cupelix   when  the
 tower  falls?"  he  asked.  "Not  even a  brass dragon  can with-
 stand tons Of marble masonry falling On him."
   "There has to be a way around that," Said Kitiara.
   "Why don't we ask the dragon?" Said Sturm.
   That's  what  they  did.  At  first, the  dragon was  Sulky and
 refused  to  come  down  from  his  aerie.  Kitiara  Scolaed  him
 for  his petulance,  and still  there was  no response.  Then she
 alone heard: I don't wish to be disappointed again.
        "We're not making any promises," she proclaimed loudly.
 "We  have  a new  scheme that  We're pretty  sure will  Work, but
 it has an awkward problem. Freeing you may kill you."
   A unique solution. I would not be a prisoner any longer.
   "Oh, shut upi If  you can't  come down  and talk  to us  like a

 reasonable dragon, We'll  just bring  the Obelisk  down around
 you." Kitiara jerked her head to the others. "Let's go."
   "We're not really going to use the vitriol With him still up
 there, are we, ma'am?" said Fitter.
     "Why not? You want to see if it'll work, don't you?" She
 replied.
   "But the dragon will get hurt."
   cutwood chewed thoughtfully On the tip Of his pencil. "I
 Wonder," he mused, "What the tensile strength Of dragon
 hide and flesh is?" Sighter produced some vellum.
   "We can do a calculation!"

                      Chapter 28

                      Breakthomough

         The Cloudmaster, freed of several hundred
 pounds  Of  useless  weight,  buoyed  a  bit  off  the ground.
 Wingover had a fine time 'lifting'  the big  ship up  with his
 hands.  Roperig  advised staking  the hull  to the  ground, so
 Wooden  Stakes  Were  pounded  into  the  turf and  the flying
 Ship was Secured.
   "Besides stacks Of food and water, there isn't a Scrap Of
 anything left On board," Stutts reported. "Most Of the interi-
 or partitions have been tjrn Out, too."
 "What  about  the  engine?"  asked  Sturm.  "It must  weigh as
 much as the rest Of the hull put together."
 "It does," said Flash, not without pride.
 "Then we must dump it."
 "Not Our beautiful enginel There isn't another machine

 like it anywhere!"
   Sturm  could  make  no  headway,  so he  went to  where Kiti-
 ara,  cutwood,  and sighter  Were studying  the matter  Of dis-
 solving the Obelisk's lead mortar.
   "we'll need ladders to reach  those higher  courses," Kitiara
 Was Saying.
   "Scaffolding  would  be  better,"  Sighter  argued.  "There's
 Some Scrap lumber from the Ship."
   "How  will  we  get  the  vitriol  up  there?"  asked Cutwood.
   "Glass vials and beakers," Said Sighter. "That Stuff  will eat
 through anything else."
   Sturm cleared  his throat  loudly. Kitiara  Said impatiently,
 "Speak up, Sturm."
   "The Ship is almost light enough to  float, but  Birdcall and
 Flash Won't agree to discard the useless engine," he reported.
   "So  what?  Take  a  hammer  and  knock  it  to  pieces," She
 Said.  "That's  the  Way  to  get  things  done."  cutwood  and
 Sighter looked  at her  in some  surprise, and  Sturm prudently
 refrained  from  commenting.  Instead,   he  asked   if  they'd
 heard from Cupelix.
   "Not a peep. He's being very stubborn."
   Sturm  went  inside.  The  vast Open  floor Was  deserted. The
 ship, the gnomes,  and their  gear had  all been  removed. Only
 the three gaping holes for the Micones Were the same.
   "Cupelix?"  he  called.  "Cupelix,  I know  you can  hear me.
 Come  down."  His  voice  echoed   through  the   empty  Space.
 "Kitiara  is  going  ahead  with this  vitriol Scheme  Of hers.
 She'll bring this  tower down  about your  ears, just  to prove
 She can do it." He  felt the  faint but  distinct touch  Of the
 dragon's mental voice.
   L trust you, Brightblade. You tell the truth.
   "A  man's  truthfulness  is  his duty  to the  Measure," Sturm
 replied.
   I made  a bargain  with dear  Kit: If  she would  advocate my
 cause  to  the  gnomes,  I  would accompany  her for  two years
 upon our return to Krynn.
   Sturm frowned. "For what purpose?"
   I  know  not.  But  it  was  important  enough  that  she was
 Whilling to abandon you and your friends to reach Krynll.
   "You must be jesting! Kitiara Wouldn't do that t"

   I  am  very  Serious,  Brightblade.  When  she  believed  the
 ship ruined, she pressed me to take her away when I left.
   "Why are you telling me this?"
   Her ambition worries me.  Every living  thing has  an aura;
 have you heard this? It is true. The aura reveals the  spark Of
 life that animates the body without. Yours,  for example,  is a
 golden yellow,  strong, radiant,  and unvarying.  But Kitiara's
 is fiery red and streaked with black. The  black is  growing in
 her.
         Sturm Waved dismissively. "I don't know What you're
 talking about. Kit is strong-willed and impetuous, that's all."
   You are wrong, my virtuous friend.
 J"come down, dragon, and help us with your release.
 That's all I have to Say." Sturm marched Out.
   The  gnomes  had  the  lowest  Stages  Of  a  Scaffold lashed
 together.  Sturm  noted  the  brightening  Sky.  "Sunrise,"  he
 Said. "Better come inside till after the tower discharges."
   There  was  a  rumble  Overhead.  The  sun  peeked  Over  the
 Valley  Wall,  and  the early  rays hit  the marble  tower. The
 rumble deepened. The  first crackles  Of lightning  were arcing
 from  the  Obelisk's  peak.  The  Whole  valley shook  With the
 force. Another brief day began On Lunitari.
   You don't have  to Shake  the tower  so! I  intend to  join in.
   The  group broke  into relieved  laughter. "Gives  us a  lot Of
 credit, doesn't he?" Kitiara  said. They  Streamed back  to the
 unfinished Scaffold.
   Stutts explained, in great detail, the vitriol Plan  to Cupe-
 lix.  The  dragon  was  not  sanguine  about  it.  He  was more
 interested in taking the top Off the tower,  but there  was not
 enough Wood to erect a Scaffold five hundred feet high.
   "It's  too  bad  you  can't  go down  to the  cavern," Said
 Wingover. "You'd be Safe there."
   "Who Says I can't?" the dragon answered.
   "The holes in the  floor aren't  big enough  to let  you pass,"
 the gnome Objected.
   "Then  we  Shall  make  them  bigger.  Will this  corrosive Of
 yours eat through marble?"
   "Ah, we're  not certain,"  said Stutts.  "I wish  I'd Studied
 alchemy more closelyl Then I could tell you."
   "Why  don't  We  try  a  more  direct  approach'  Let's apply

 vitriol to the floor stones," Offered Cupelix.
   The flying ship's erstwhile china  milk pitcher  was pressed
 into service as a vitriol vessel. They  breached the  keg head
 and dipped the pitcher in until it Was full.
   "Careful!"  said  Stutts.  Kitiara nodded,  tight-lipped, as
 drops fell from the pitcher's lip and landed, sizzling, On the
 ground, leaving black, smoking scorch marks.
 Kitiara  walked  very  Slowly  to  the  Obelisk,  gnomes danc-
 ing attendance  On each  Side, prattling  On with  useless but
 well-intended advice. Sturm  hurried ahead  to clear  the way.
 Cupelix  had  come  all the  way down  to the  floor to  be as
 close as possible to  the experiment.  Holding the  pitcher at
 aim's length, Kitiara dribbled a thin Stream Of vitriol On the
 rim Of One  Of the  Micones' holes.  The corrosive  hissed and
 Sizzled villainously, and  after a  few minutes,  the bubbling
 stopped.
   "Whewf" said Kitiara. "This Stuff Stinksl"
   Wingover  tapped  the  doused area  With a  Slender mineral
 hammer.  "The  stone  has  definitely decayed,"  he announced,
 "though  not by  much. It  would take  gallons and  gallons Of
 Oil Of vitriol to eat through this thick marble."
   "We haven't got  an endless  Supply," Kitiara  reminded him.
 "Fifty gallons; that's as much as we have."
   'Then it's picks and  mattocks," Said  Sturm. "Hand  work. I
 knew it would come down to sweat and blisters eventually."
   The  gnomes  returned  Outside  to  work  On  extending  the
 scaffolding  around three  sides Of  the Obelisk.  Kitiara and
 Sturm  found  the heaviest  digging tools  the gnomes  had and
 Set to work. It was hard going. The floor  Was tough,  and the
 tools were Small.  What amounted  to a  full-sized pick  for a
 gnome was little bigger than a hand adze to a human.
   It was hot inside  the tower,  as they  chipped away  at the
 marble.  Kitiara  Stripped Off  her cloak  and mail  Shirt and
 worked  in her  light blouse.  Sturm set  aside his  armor and
 quilted tunic, too. Cupelix did  What he  could to  make their
 labor  easier.  He  fanned  them  with  his  broad  wings  and
 flushed the chips and dust Out  Of their  way. He  told clever
 stories that he'd garnered from his reading.
   Sturm discovered  that Cupelix  was a  devotee Of  the elven
 bard,  Quivalen  Soth.  The  dragon  knew  the "Song  Of Huma"

 by heart. Even more interesting Was a lost  cycle Of  songs by
 Quivalen  about  Huma  and  the  Silver  Dragon.  Kitiara  had
 not heard the tale Of Huma's love for  the Silver  Dragon, and
 was fascinated.
   "A  true  tragedy,"  said  Cupelix,  fanning  a  breeze Over
 them. "That  a dragon  should descend  from its  noble natural
 form to that Of a mortal. Tsk, tsk."
   Sturm traded  his small  pick for  an equally  small sledge-
 hammer. It hit the floor with  a crack  that stung  his hands.
 "You think dragons are better than people?" he asked.
   'Without  a  doubt.  Dragons  are  bigger,   Stronger,  have
 more  abilities  and powers,  live longer,  do more,  and have
 unequaled   mental   qualities,"   Said  Cupelix.   "What  can
 humans do that dragons can't?"
   "Walk Out Of here," said Kitiara, leaning  On her  pick. The
 fanning Wings missed a beat, then started up again.
   "Too  bad  you  can't  change  into  a  man,  even briefly,"
 Sturm said. "Then all this digging would be unnecessary."
   "Alas,  shape-Shifting  has  never   been  a   talent  known
 among brass dragons. There are  texts On  the matter,  that Of
 the  elf  wizard  Dromondothalas  being  the most  famous. But
 my library is completely lacking in Such books."
   Kitiara  kicked  a  Wide  Wedge Of  stone loose.  It slipped
 through the hole. Seconds later, a distant thud  revealed that
 it  had  landed  in  the  cavern below.  She Said,  "Where did
 your books come from?"
   "What  books  I  have I  had from  the beginning.  The maker
 Of the Obelisk provided them, I believe, So that the Keeper Of
 the  New  Lives  Would  have  some  knowledge  Of   the  Wider
 worlds beyond Lunitari.  There are  tomes Of  history, geogra-
 phy, letters, medicine, alchemy -"
   "And magic," said Sturm, bringing the hammer down.
   "Half the Scrolls are related to magic," agreed Cupelix.
   In two hours' Work, the humans Succeeded in widening
 the hole by several inches all around. Cupelix  expressed sat-
 isfaction with their progress, but Kitiara Was disgusted.
   "At this rate, well be too Old to lift the tools by the time
 We cut a hole big enough for you," She said to the dragon.
   "I think We're going about this the  hard way,"  Sturm Said.
 His  alms  and  back  ached,  and  his  head pounded  from the

 Strain  Of  working So  hard in  the thin  air. "I  remember the
 masons  at the  castle cleaving  Stones as  thick as  this floor
 With  One  Or  two  blows.  Let  me  have  Some cool  Water, and
 I'll think  about it  a while."  He took  the water  bottle from
 Kitiara and Slumped by the near wall.
   Kitiara   went   Out.   To   her  unconcealed   surprise,  the
 gnomes  had  already  wrapped  their  rickety   platform  around
 three sides  Of the  Obelisk to  a height  Of Six  feet. Boards,
 posts,   tool  handles   and  beams   were  pegged   and  lashed
 together Wherever space allowed.
   "How  goes  it?"  she  said,  turning  away and  almost bowl-
 ing Over Stutts.
   "We're  ratcheting  right  along,"  he  Said. "Are  you making
 any progress On the floor?"
   "Very little, I'm afraid." She fingered her left  biceps. "All
 this  extra  muscle  power  is going  to Waste.  If I  swing too
 hard, 111 Only break the tool."
   "I  see." Stutts  squinted at  the midday  sun. "Only  two and
 a half hours Of light left. Let's have a look at your progress."
   They  entered  and found  Sturm kneeling  On the  floor, star-
 ing  at  the  water pitcher.  He looked  from it  to One  Of the
 areas  where  they'd  Scarred  away  the polished  Surface. Then
 he  Stared  Once  more  at  the   Water  pitcher.   Cupelix  had
 hopped back up to his perch.
   "What are you doing?" Kitiara asked Sturm.
   "I  remember  how they  did it,"  Sturm replied.  "The masons
 at  castle  Brightblade used  to quarry  Out enormous  blocks Of
 granite with just four men."
   "How did they do it?" asked Stutts.
   "They bored holes along the block they wanted to free
 and  drove  in  thick  Wooden  pegs. Then  they Soaked  the Pegs
 in water. The Swelling wood cracked the stone."
     Stutts looked at Sturm and blinked. "That's ingenious."
   Kitiara Said, "But can We bore holes in the marble?"
   "We  have  some  steel  augers,"  Said  the gnome.  "With your
 strength and the right approach - yes, easily!"
   Stutts ran back to the pile Of goods  discarded from  the fly-
 ing  ship  and  returned  with  a  large   brace  and   bit.  He
 explained  quickly  how,  when  boring  Stone,  it   Was  impor-
 tant to keep the bit  cool and  lubricated. Sturm  would trickle

 water around the bit while Kit turned the brace.
   They  tried  it,  and  bored  through  the twenty-inch-thick
 floor  in  thirty  minutes. Flushed  with success,  they bored
 more holes,  connecting the  first Micone  hole with  the Sec-
 ond, about twelve feet away. Using this line as the base  Of a
 triangle, Sturm  and Kitiara  angled Out  into the  main floor
 Space. They  were well  into the  triangle's Second  arm, When
 the  sun Went  down and  the gnomes  came Streaming  in. Flash
 announced that the scaffold was done.
   "Then find a bit and  join in,"  Kitiara said.  "More Water,
 Sturm! The handle feels hot!"
   It  was well  past midnight  when they  finished, thirty-Six
 holes in all. Cupelix worked up  an especially  bracing repast
 with  thick  soup  and  lots  Of  bread.  They had  mined four
 bits, and Kitiara's hands were blistered.
   Rainspot   Offered   her  Some   soothing  Salve,   but  She
 declined. "Let's get On With it," She Said. "Get the pegs."
   The  gnomes  did  the peg  work. They  cut lengths  from the
 remaining  Scrap  Wood,  and  Sturm  banged  these  home  with
 the sledge. Everyone cleared Out Of  the triangle  area formed
 by the bored holes. Kitiara filled a canvas bucket  With Water
 and handed it to Sturm.
   "Your honor," she Said. "Your idea."
   He  took  the handle.  "This is  for the  good yeoman  Of Cas-
 tle  Brightblade,"  he  answered,  dousing  each peg  in turn,
 refilling the bucket, and dousing them all again.
   Nothing happened.
   "Well?" Said Kitiara, bracing One hand On her hip.
   "It takes a  while," said  Sturm. "The  pegs have  to swell.
 We'd better have some more water."
   Sturm  poured  water  On  the  pegs  three  more  times. The
 tops Of the pegs clearly Swelled above the level Of the floor,
 but little else appeared to happen.
     "wonderful," Kitiara said Sarcastically. She loped Out,
 Snorting  With  ill-concealed  contempt.   One  by   One,  the
 gnomes gave up, and went Outside. Sturm Shook his head.
   "It Worked for my father's masons," he Said.
   "Masonry is an arcane art," Cupelix  said. "Its  secrets are
 not easily adapted by the untrained."
   Then the floor went crack.

   Near  the  hole that  Sturm and  Kitiara had  So laboriously
 enlarged, a hairline crack reached from the first  peg, across
 the marble, to the peg On the  Other Side  Of the  hole. Sturm
 laid the sledge On his shoulder and hurried  to the  scene. He
 Was  about  to  smite  the  Splitting  Stone,  When  he  heard
 another crack, and a  fissure slowly  zigzagged from  the tri-
 angle's far point to its base; Sturm raised the hammer.
   "No, wait," Said the fascinated dragon.
   The line between the Micone holes jumped apart, and
 Sturm started backward. A  section Of  stone, larger  than any
 they'd  released  by  hand,  broke free  and plunged  into the
 cavern  below.  That  Opened  the  floodgates, and  the entire
 triangle collapsed into the  cavern with  a rush.  The Obelisk
 rang with the concussion as a ton Of  marble hit  the resonant
 floor a hundred feet down.
   Kitiara burst in, the gnomes at her heels.  "Great suffering
 gods! What was that?" She cried.
   Sturm  dusted  his  hands  and  pointed dramatically  to the
 gaping hole in the  floor. "The  way is  clear for  Cupelix to
 descend!" he Said.
   The gnomes were all for  going On  and bringing  the Obelisk
 down  that  very  night,  but  Sturm  and  Kitiara  were  both
 exhausted  and  begged  Off.  Cupelix  supported  them, saying
 that  he  had  many items  he Wished  to Save  from destruction
 before the tower  Was demolished.  He flew  up to  his private
 aerie and left the mortals to take their ease.
   The gnomes quieted after  the initial  rush Of  Success wore
 Off.  They   burrowed  into   the  Cloudmaster's   jetsam  and
 Slept,  their  tinny  Snores  Sounding  like  an  Operatic war
 between  bullfrogs  and  crickets.  Sturm  Stretched Out  On a
 blanket  surrounded  by  Stacked  crates.  The  Sky  Was bril-
 liantly clear as usual, and he counted  Stars to  make himself
 drowsy.
   Kitiara  sauntered  around  the  crates. "Asleep?" she asked.
   "Huh? No, not yet."
          She slipped down opposite him, her back braced by a
               box.,"This may be our last night On Lunitari."
    "Sounds good to me."
    "You know, I've been trying to figure out how, long We've
  been here. In local terms, We've seen about forty-four days

 and forty-five nights. How long does that make it back
 home?"
   "I don't know," he admitted.
   "Suppose  We  get  back to  Krynn and  find that  years have
 passed?"
   He almost laughed at the idea, but stopped himself.
 Sturm  couldn't  prove  that  years  hadn't elapsed  while they
 were On the red moon.
   "There  are  so  many  Old  tales about  humans who  Went Off
 to elf  realms and  returned in  What they  thought were  a few
 months  to  find their  children grown  and their  friends dead
 Of Old age," Kitiara said.  Sturm thought  She was  just musing
 Over possibilities, but then he realized that she Was seriously
 concerned.
   "What are you afraid of, Kit?" he asked gently.
   "The five-year reunion. It's important that I not miss it."
   "And Tanis?"
   "Yes."
   "Do you intend to go back to him?"
   Kitiara shifted uncomfortably. "No, that's not it. We
   didn't part on the best of terms, and I want to patch things
   up, before -" She started to say Something but stopped.
   "Before what?" Sturm prompted.
   "Before I begin my travels with Cupelix."
   So, she was Owning up  to it.  "Are you  giving up  trying to
 find your father and his people?"
   "My  father  always  said  his  family  had disowned  him and
 his forever," she said. "Much as I'd love to  ride up  to their
 front door and spit in their faces,  partnership With  a dragon
 promises to be  more exciting."  She Shrugged.  "I say,  to the
 Abyss with the Uth Matars."
   The  quiet  interval grew  long, and  Sturm felt  his eyelids
 droop  With  Sleep.  He  was  about  to  nod  Off  When Kitiara
 said, "Sturm, if you see Tanis before I do,  will you  tell him
 I'm sorry, and  that he  Was right?"  Sturm was  too much  Of a
 gentleman  to  inquire  What  she  had  to  be sorry  about. He
 promised  upon  his  honor as  a Brightblade  to bear  her mes-
 sage back to Tanis Half-Elven.

                      Chapter 29

                  The Obelisk Falls

   The dragon cal1ed to them, rousing them from their
 slumber.  The  gnomes bounced  up, eager  to be  about their
 business. Sturm rubbed  his eyes  and looked  about. Kitiara
 was not in sight.
 He  stretched and  hunted around  for a  drink of  water. As
 he was gulping a  cool drink,  Kitiara appeared.  She tossed
 aside a handsaw and said, "What's the beast yelling about? I
 couldn't quite make it out."
 "He wants us  to get  on with  the demolition,"  said Sturm.
 "Fine. I'm ready."
 All the glass and porcelain jars and cups  they had  were to
 be  used  to  pour  vitriol  on the  lead mortar  seams. The
 gnomes lined up like  soldiers, mugs  and cream  pitchers in
 hand like swords.  Kitiara  gave them  a mocking  salute and

 told them to bide their time.
   Inside,  Cupelix  was  nervously  hopping from  one massive
 leg to the other. "All my books and manuscripts are  safe," he
 said.  "The  Micones  have  transferred  everything to  a safe
 place  in  the  cave." There  was no  longer reason  to delay.
 Cupelix put his three-toed feet into the  hole and  curled his
 tail up close to his chest. It would be a tight fit.
   "Get your wings in," Sturm said. "Closer. That's it."
   "Good  thing I  am a  svelte example  of my  race," Cupelix
 said. His massive body was in the hole. Only his head
 showed inside the obelisk.
   "I believe I shall miss this place," he said.
   "Go  on!"  Kitiara  shouted.  Cupelix's  head  disappeared. He
 fell  forty feet  before getting  his wings  open. He  hit the
 cavern  floor  with  enough  force  to rock  the tower  on its
 foundations,  but  to  the dragon  it was  a minor  tumble. He
 telepathed his good health and told the mortals to proceed.
   "Cupelix  is  safely in  the cavern,"  Sturm said  to Stutts
 when they were outside.
   Stutts put two  fingers to  his mouth  and blew  a shrieking
 whistle. "Begin pouring!" he cried.
   The gnomes, spaced around  the three  sides of  the obelisk,
 applied vitriol to the lead. Wisps of noxious vapor coiled off
 the  walls,  choking all  the gnomes  but Roperig  and Fitter,
 who  had  invented  Caustic  Smoke   Filters  for   Noses  and
 Mouths  (Mark  II).  Keen  observers  would   have  recognized
 the filters as being made of old bandannas and suspenders.
   "Right! Now clear off  the top  level and  pour on  the sec-
 ond!" Stutts called. Convenient beakers of vitriol  were posi-
 tioned on the lower platforms of the scaffold.
   Flash  climbed  down  the  spindly  collection of  poles and
 planks.  He  swung  to  the second  level and  promptly kicked
 over his beaker. Oil  of vitriol  streamed down  the scaffold,
 eating  away  the  wood and  rope lashing  with as  much vigor
 as it consumed the lead.
   "Look out!"  said Sturm.  The poles  under Flash  sagged and
 came  apart.  The  gnome wavered  back and  forth on  his toes
 and toppled from the planking.
   Kitiara  gauged  his fall  and stepped  below him.  She held
 up her arms and caught the plummeting gnome.

  "Thank you so much," he said.
  "Certainly," she asked.
  The  walls  of   the  obelisk   steamed  with   vitriol  vapor.
 Streaks  of  black  showed  on  the  flawless  red  marble where
 the liquified lead ran down.  The corrosive  fluid ate  into the
 joints between the courses of stone with  alacrity, and  half an
 hour  after  starting,  the  gnomes  were  down  to  the  fourth
 level of their scaffold.
  "It  looks  like it's  weeping," Sturm  observed of  the struc-
 ture. "But I don't think it's suffering much damage."
  "The  effect  should  be  cumulative,"  said  Stutts.  "Without
 the  lead  support,  each course  will sag  under the  weight of
 the  upper  blocks. By  the time  we get  down to  ground level,
 the whole structure may  be leaning  as much  as three  feet out
 of  plumb.  The  remaining  fourth  wall  cannot   support  such
 an imbalance, and the obelisk will collapse."
  The   wine-purple   sky   segued   into   claret   red.   Sturm
 frowned.  "Sunrise," he  said. 'Will  the discharges  affect the
 process?"
  "How  can  they  not?"  Kitiara  replied.  "They may  bring the
 whole thing down  on our  heads." She  went to  the foot  of the
 scaffold and yelled, "Get a move on! Dawn is coming!"
  There   were   accidents,   gnomes   being  gnomes,   with  the
 imminent  sunrise pressing  on them.  Vitriol burns,  falls, and
 sprained ankles  multiplied. The  stars faded  from view  as the
 heavens  changed  from  claret  to  rose.  The  usual  streak of
 meteors  ricocheted  from  one  horizon  to  another,   and  the
 intense stillness was broken by a stirring in the air that Kiti-
 ara felt, though Sturm could not.
  "Hurry!"
  The gnomes tumbled off the scaffold like mice from a
 burning   building.   The   platform   groaned  and   curled  up
 wherever  the  vitriol  dropped on  it, and  the lower  third of
 the obelisk was coated with sickly gray steam.
  "Run!" Sturm said. "Run as far and as fast as you can!"
  He  grabbed  Cutwood,  who  was  slow, and  dragged him
 off his feet.  Kitiara scooped  up Roperig  and Flash,  the last
 ones off the scaffold.  And they  ran, past  the point  at which
 they'd left  Cloudmaster, on  the unscarred  side of  the tower,
 as far  as where  the valley  began to  rise in  elevation. A hor-

 rendous  grinding  noise  filled  the valley,  overpowering even
 the first crackle of the morning discharge.
   From  under  Kitiara's  arm,  Flash  twisted  around  to  see.
 "The blocks are giving way!" he cheered.
   The  grinding  sound  arrested  their  mad   flight.  Everyone
 stopped, turned, and stared.
   Bolts of blue lightning sizzled from  the obelisk's  peak, not
 to the distant cliffs that defined the valley, but into  the dry
 red  soil  a  hundred  yards  from  the  monument's   base.  The
 obelisk  leaned  appreciably,  and  whole  courses   of  stained
 marble  tumbled  to  the  ground.  It seemed  for a  moment that
 the  tower might  withstand the  loss of  those blocks,  but the
 weight  of  the  upper  reaches  was  too  much  for  the under-
 mined  base.  The   five-hundred-foot  obelisk   slowly,  grace-
 fully,  leaned  over.  Stones  shattered  under  the  unbearable
 pressure. The top broke  apart in  midfall, the  stones separat-
 ing  with  the  tumult   of  a   hundred  thunderstorms"."Blocks
 twelve feet long, six feet high, and three feet thick hurtled to
 the  ground,  gouging  out deep  craters in  the soft  turf. The
 obelisk lay down like  a falling  tree, pieces  weighing several
 tons  bounced  off  each  other,  breaking,  crushing,  and com-
 ing to rest at last, as though  too tired  to leap  any farther.
 The  great  pyramid  capstone  crashed   with  blue   and  white
 sparkles  dancing  around it.  Will-o'-the-wisps rose  above the
 swelling cloud  of dust  and vanished,  silent witnesses  to the
 mighty structure's fall.
   There was silence. The rumble died away.
   "My," said Stutts solemnly.
   "It worked," said Wingover.
   "Did it ever work," said Rainspot.
   Suddenly,  Kitiara  gave  out  a  loud,  long  whoop  of  tri-
 umph.  "Yaaahaaah!"  she  cried,  leaping up  into the  air. "We
 did it! We did it!"
   Sturm  found  himself  grinning from  ear to  ear, but  as the
 members  of  the  little  party moved  slowly toward  the fallen
 giant, an  awed silence  settled over  them. Large  blocks stood
 upright,  buried to  a third  of their  length. Sturm  looked on
 and marveled. The  shape of  the obelisk  proper could  still be
 recognized as a heavier concentration of broken masonry.
   Sturm  climbed to  a pile  of blocks  near the  erstwhile base

 of the obelisk. The dust thrown up by  the collapse  had risen,
 making a dull red ring in the sky. He had an odd thought:
 Would stargazers on Krynn be able to see the  ring of  dust? It
 was miles and miles across, and darker  than the  surface soil.
 Would  the  astronomers  see  it,   theorize  about   it,  make
 learned discourses on the cause and meaning of it?
   Everyone  gathered  at  the  base.  A  dome  of   blocks  had
 fallen over  the hole  in the  obelisk floor,  and only  a very
 small  person could  wriggle through  the resulting  gap. Kiti-
 ara called for Fitter.
   "Go in and call to the dragon,"  she said.  "See if  he's all
 right. I can't get him to answer."
   "Yes, ma'am."  Fitter scampered  into the  arch of  stone. In
 answer to his call, they all heard a telepathic Success!
   "He's alive," Stutts said.
   "We'll have to clear these stones away," Sturm said.
   Get clear, little Fitter; I'm coming out!
   Fitter  crawled  out,  and  the mortals  drew back.  The mass
 of blocks  flew apart,  and Cupelix  emerged. His  massive face
 was split  by a  wide smile.  Huge teeth  gleamed dully  in the
 light as he flung back his head and expanded his chest.
   "Rejoice, mortal friends! I am free!" he cried.
   "You  had  no  trouble  shifting  those blocks,"  Kitiara said.
   "None  at  all,  my  dear  Kit. When  the structure  was bro-
 ken,  so  was  its protective  spell." Cupelix  inhaled deeply,
 sucking in the tepid air in dragon-sized gulps. "It is sweet is
 it not, the first breath of freedom?
   No one was sure what to do next.  "I suppose,"  said Stutts
 reflectively,  "we ought  to prepare  to depart  ourselves." He
 folded his hands over his round belly.  "That is,  assuming the
 Cloudmaster can rise on its ethereal air alone."
   "I'm  confident," Kitiara  said. Sturm  shot her  a question-
 ing look. She winked  and smiled  just like  the old  Kit, then
 moved away, toward the top end of the wreckage.
   Without  warning,  Cupelix  unfurled   his  wings   to  their
 fullest extent. Never in the close confines of the  obelisk had
 he been able to spread  his wings  in all  their glory.  Now he
 groaned  with  pleasure  at  the  stretching  of  his  leathery
 wings. Cupelix  launched himself  in the  air with  one spring,
 and flapped  leisurely, luxuriously,  gaining height  with each

  pass over the site of his deliverance. He rolled, stalled, hov-
  ered,  wings  bellying full  and emptying  in rapid  sweeps. He
  climbed  so  high  that he  was a  golden dot  in the  sky, and
  dived  with  such  wild  abandon  that  it  seemed  certain  he
  would crash into the obelisk's ruins.
    Sturm  turned  his  gaze  from  the  joyous dragon  and real-
  ized that  everyone had  left him.  Kitiara had  nearly reached
  the top of  the ruins  and the  gnomes were  scattered through-
  out  the debris,  measuring, arguing,  and enjoying  their tri-
  umph immensely.
    Kitiara  found,  amidst  the  rubble,  the  wonderful  tapes-
  tries she had seen in  Cupelix's private  aerie. They  were tom
  to shreds,  but here  and there  whole portions  were identifi-
  able.  Cupelix  hadn't  bothered to  save the  moldering tapes-
  tries,  and  she  wondered  why.  She  found  a patch  from the
  Assembly  of  the  Gods tapestry,  the patch  with the  face of
  the Dark Queen  on it.  The woven  face was  nearly as  wide as
  Kitiara was tall, but she rolled  the fragment  up and  tied it
  around her waist as a belt. She felt she had to save it.
    "Care for a ride?" said Cupelix.
    Kitiara looked up. The dragon hovered above her, the
  sweep of his wings sending dust swirling around the ruins.
    Kitiara  thought  a  brief  moment,  then said  warily, "Yes.
  But no acrobatics."
    "Certainly  not."  Cupelix's  mouth  was wide  in one  of his
  unnerving grins.
    He landed and Kitiara mounted his neck. She took hold
  of the brass plates and said, "Ready."
    He launched  them straight  up, and  Kitiara felt  the breath
  snatched  from  her  body.  With  slow,  lazy  sweeps   of  his
  wings, Cupelix circled the ruins and  the flying  ship. Kitiara
  again felt the exhilaration she'd  experienced those  first few
  minutes  on  the  Cloudmaster,  when  the  whole  of  Krynn had
  been  spread  out  below  her.  With  the  wind   whipping  her
  short hair, Kitiara  grinned down  at Sturm's  astonished face.
  "Hai,  Sturm  Brightblade!  Hai-yah!"  She  waved  one  hand at
  him. "You should try this!"
    The gnomes set up a cheer as Cupelix banked into a steep
  climb. Sturm watched the dragon soar away with Kitiara.
  He felt a strange uneasiness. He wasn't  afraid for  Kit. There

 was  something  about  the  image  of a  human riding  on the
 back of a dragon that chilled him deep inside.
   "Well, I'm glad they're enjoying themselves,"  Sighter said
 sourly. "But can we get underway, ourselves?"
   Sturm waved to  Kitiara and  called for  her to  come down.
 After several mock diving attacks at the rubble,  the gnomes,
 and  Sturm,  Cupelix  landed  and   Kitiara  jumped   to  the
 ground.
   "Thank you, dragon," she  said. Her  face was  flushed. She
 pounded  Sturm  on the  shoulder and  said, "Well,  let's get
 going. No need to stand around here all day."
   The  humans  and the  gnomes trekked  to the  tethered fly-
 ing ship. In a moment of creative vandalism, Flash  and Bird-
 call had agreed to sever the useless wings  and tail,  so the
 ship presented  an austere,  clipped appearance.  Kitiara was
 smiling and humming a marching song.
   "Pick up your feet, soldier," she said,  linking an  arm in
 Sturm s.
   "What are you  so pleased  about?" he  said. "The  ship may
 not take flight."
   "Believe that we will fly, and we will."
   "I'll think lightheaded if it will help." She laughed at his
 morose tone.
   The ship was reloaded with what food and water the
 gnomes  collected,  and  a  few  items  for  emergency  use -
 spare lumber,  tools, nails,  and so  forth. Sturm  bent down
 and saw that the keel was firmly set in the red dirt.
   The gnomes  filed up  the ramp.  Sturm and  Kitiara paused,
 each with one foot at the ramp, the other on the soil  of the
 red moon.
   "Will anyone  ever believe  we were  here?" he  asked, tak-
 ing in the panorama."It all seems like a wild dream."
   "What difference does it make?" Kiiiara replied. "We
 know what we've done and where we've  been; even  if we
 never tell another soul, we'll know."
   They  walked  up  the ramp  and hauled  it up  behind them.
 When  the  hatch  was  secure,  Sturm  went  up  to  the main
 deck. Kitiara disappeared into the hold.
   Cupelix  swooped  in,  beat  his  wings  hard  and alighted
 gently beside the  Cloudmaster. "Glorious,  my friends!  I am

 reborn - no, born for  the first  time! Freed  of the  stone sar-
 cophagus in which I dwelt, I am a new dragon.
   "Henceforth,  I  am no  longer Cupelix,  but Pteriol,  the Fly-
 er!"
   "Pleased to meet you, Pteriol," said Fitter.
   "We'd  best  be  off,"  interrupted  Sturm.  "While  it's still
 light."
   'Yes, yes," said Stutts. "Listen, all of you; each fellow is to
 stand  by  the  mooring  ropes. When  I give  the word,  slip the
 knots and let us rise."
   "Tell  them  to  pull  in  the ropes.  They're all  we've got,"
 advised Roperig.
   "And  pull  in  the  ropes!"  Stutts  said.  "Everyone  ready?"
 The  gnomes  piped  their  readiness.  "Very  good.   All  hands,
 slip your ropes!"
   They  managed  to  get  most  of  the lines  loose at  the same
 time,  though  Rainspot  at  the  stern  had  a  hard   knot  and
 lagged  behind.  The  ship  rolled  sideways,  the   hull  planks
 groaning.
   "We're too heavy!" Wingover shouted.
   The  distinct  sound  of  splitting  wood  erupted  below their
 feet.  The  starboard  side  rose,  throwing  everyone  to  port.
 Sturm  banged  the  back  of  his  head  against the  deck house.
 Then,  with  an  ear-piercing  crack,  the   Cloudmaster  righted
 itself and lifted into the air.
   "Halloo!" called Pteriol. "You've lost something!"
   Sturm and the gnomes filled the rail. They were rising
 very slowly, but from a height of  fifty feet,  they could  see a
 wide  section  of  the  hull planking  and a  mass of  dark metal
 on the ground.
   "The engine!" Flash cried. Birdcall uttered a hawkish
 scream of dismay.
          They rushed from the ladder down to the hold. Near the
 deck hatch, Flash fell into the  arms of  Kitiara. She  was whis-
 tling a Solacian dance tune.
   "Quickly!"   said   the   excited   gnome.   "We've   lost  the
 engine! We must go back and get it!"
   Kitiara stopped whistling. "No," she said.
   "No? No?"
   "I don't know anything about aerial navigation, but I do

 know this ship was too heavy to get off the ground. So I
 arranged for the extra weight to stay behind."
   "How'd you do that?" Sturm asked.
   "Sawed through the hull around the engine," she said.
   "It's not fair! It's not right!" Flash said,  blinking through
 angry tears. Birdcall made similar noises.
   Sturm  patted  the  two  on  their shoulders.  "It may  not be
 fair, but it was the only thing to do," he said gently. "You can
 always build another engine once you get back to Sancrist."
   Stutts  and  Wingover  squeezed   past  Kitiara   and  started
 down the ladder. "We'd  better inspect  the hole,"  said Stutts.
 "The   hull   may   be  seriously   weakened.  Not   to  mention
 drafty."
   Drafty was an understatement. A yawning hole, twelve
 feet by eight feet, showed where the lightning-powered
 engine had been.
   "My,"  said  Stutts,  peering  down  at  the  receding ground.
 They  were already  a hundred  feet up.  "This is  rather inter-
 esting.  We  should  have  built  a  window  into the  bottom of
 the ship from the first."
   "Keep  that  in  mind," Sturm  said, who  kept well  back from
 the hole. "We'll have  to patch  this somehow,  if only  to keep
 ourselves  from  tumbling  out."  He  wasn't  too  surprised  by
 Kitiara's deed. It was typical of her: quick, direct, and  a bit
 ruthless. Still, they were off the ground at last.
 Pteriol's brass scales glistened as he passed under the ship.
 The dragon circled in  a rising  spiral, wings  flapping slowly.
 The   Cloudmaster   moved  very   slowly  westward,   away  from
 the fallen obelisk.
     Wingover stepped forward until his toes were off the edge
 of  the  hull  timbers.  He  pushed back  the swath  of bandages
 that  shrouded  his  head.  His  disturbing  black  eyes focused
 on something far below.
   "What is that?" he asked, pointing at the distant ground.
   "I can't see anything," Stutts said.
   "There's someone down there walking."
   "A tree-man?" suggested Sturm. "It is daylight."
   "Too small. It walks differently, more like -" Wingover
 scrubbed his eyes with his small fists. "No! It can't be!
   "What, what?"

 "It looks like a gnome - like Bellcrank!"
 Sturm frowned. "Bellcrank is dead."
 "I know! I know! But it looks  just like  him. His  ears have
 this  funny  shape."  Wingover  brushed  his  own  ears. "But
 now he's red all over!"
 There  was a  shout from  the upper  deck. Sighter  had spot-
 ted the walking figure with his spyglass. Sturm,  Stutts, and
 Wingover  hurried  up.  The  astronomer gnome  identified the
 figure as Bellcrank, too.
 Fitter shivered. "Is it a ghost?" he asked plaintively.
 "Hardly,"  Sighter  responded.  "It  just  stumbled   on  the
 turf."
 "Then  he's alive!"  said Cutwood.  "We have  to go  back for
 him!" Flash, Roperig, and Birdcall all seconded  this notion.
 Stutts cleared his throat to get their attention.
 "We can't go  back," he  said sadly.  "We've no  control over
 direction or altitude." Rainspot began  to sniffle,  and Cut-
 wood dabbed his eyes on his sleeve.
 "Isn't there anything we can do?" Sturm asked.
 Just then, Pteriol flashed by the port side,  banked steeply,
 and rolled over the top of  the bag.  Everyone on  the Cloud-
 master felt his telepathic whoops of delight.
 "The  dragon!  The  dragon  can  fetch him!"  said Rainspot.
 "He might," said Kitiara.
 "You're his favorite. You ask him," said Cutwood.
 The  brass  form arrowed  past the  starboard rail,  the wind
 from his wings stirring the drifting ship  into a  slow eddy.
 "Hai, dragon. Cupelix! Suffering gods, I mean Pteriol!" Kiti-
 ara  yelled.  The  dragon  swept  under  the stern  and raced
 along the underside of the ship.
 "He  can't  hear me,"  she said,  peeved. "Big,  dumb brute."
 "He's  drunk   with  freedom,"   Sturm  said.   "Can't  blame
 him, after all the centuries he spent in that obelisk."
 "We're losing Bellcrank!"  Fitter cried  as the  ship floated
 over the valley cliff walls.
 The  tiny  red  figure  shrank  from  even  Wingover's power-
 ful sight and  was lost  in the  scarlet terrain.  The gnomes
 watched,  wordless,  as  the   Cloudmaster  drew   away  from
 their  lost friend.  Amid quiet  weeping, Cutwood  broke away
 and went below  deck. He  returned shortly  with a  hammer, a

 saw, and a pair of pliers. He threw these items overboard.
   "Why did you do that I" Sturm said.
   Cutwood turned his  round pink  face up  to the  taller man.
 "Bellcrank will need tools," he said.
   Sighter, Stutts, and Wingover left the rail. Flash and Bird-
 call  lingered  a  while  longer,  then  they,  too, departed.
 Roperig  pulled  Fitter  away.  Rainspot  and  Cutwood stayed,
 even as the valley fell farther and farther behind.
   "It's  so hard  to believe,"  Rainspot said.  "Bellcrank was
 dead. We buried him."
   "Perhaps there's some truth to what the dragon  said," Kiti-
 ara  offered.  Cutwood asked  what she  meant. "He  said noth-
 ing ever died on Lunitari."
   "You  mean  that  wasn't  Bellcrank  down there,  just some-
 thing that looked like him?"
   "I  don't  know, I'm  no cleric  or philosopher,"  she said.
 "The  dead  have  been  known  to  walk,  even on  Krynn. With
 all  the  magic  rampant  on  Lunitari,  it  doesn't  seem too
 strange that Bellcrank should return."
   No one could  answer her.  Kitiara turned  up the  collar of
 her  cloak  and  went  below,  leaving  Rainspot  and  Cutwood
 alone at the rail.

 * * * * *

   They  flew  over  many  of  the  places  they'd  crossed  on
 foot - the field of stones (alive with growth by daylight) and
 the oreless range of hills. From above, the short-lived jungle
 had  a disquieting  appearance. The  plants writhed  and undu-
 lated, like swells in a wind-tossed sea. Even that grew boring
 after a  while, and  Sturm went  below to  see what  was being
 done to the hole in the ship's belly.
   He  almost  choked  when  he  saw   what  the   gnomes  were
 doing.  Cutwood  and  Fitter  were lying  on their  bellies on
 thin lengths of planking stretched across the  gap. Less-than-
 inch-thick  wood  was  all  that  stood  between  them  and  a
 long, long fall. Rainspot and Flash passed them  other, short-
 er  pieces  of  wood  to nail  crosswise. In  this knockabout,
 trial-and-error style, the gnomes were repairing the hole.
         From the stern, Kitiara looked down at the red moon.

  Three  hours aloft,  and the  land had  fallen away  far enough
  to lose its surface features. Now it was just a rolling bolt of
  red  velvet,  no  more  real  than the  permanent black  of the
  sky. Cupelix  (for Kitiara  scoffed at  the dragon's  new name)
  was  behind  and  slightly  below  them. The  continuous effort
  of flying  was tiring  him out,  and he  no longer  swooped and
  danced  through  the  air.  Now  it  was  long,   slow,  steady
  work.
    How do you do it?
    "How do I do what?" said Kitiara.
    How do you in the ship fly so effortlessly?
    "The ethereal air holds us up," she said. "That's all I know.
  Shall I fetch Stutts, so he can explain?"
    No. Gnomish explanations give me a headache.
    She  laughed.  "Me,  too." A  thin veil  fell between  the ship
  and the flying dragon. "Clouds,"  said Kitiara.  "We're getting
  pretty high."
    My chest aches. I am not used to so much exertion.
    "It's a long way to Krynn."
    How long?
    "Many  days,  at  this  rate.  Maybe  weeks. Did  you think
  Krynn was just over the horizon?"
    There is not much sympathy in your tone, my dear.
    "You're  not  master  of  your own  world anymore.  Take this
  as a lesson in discipline."
    You are a hard woman.
    "Life's hard," said Kitiara. She turned away from the rail.
  The  air  was  growing  steadily  colder  and thinner,  and she
  needed  to  don  her  gloves.  In the  former dining  room (now
  without table or benches) Kitiara slipped  into her  boots. She
  did  up  her  leggings  and  drew the  string tight  around her
  calves. The old knot passed  by in  the drawstring.  She'd lost
  weight.  No  matter, she  thought; I've  traded ten  pounds for
  the strength of ten men.
    Kitiara  tied  a  bow  in  the  drawstring.  Distracted,  she
  pulled  too  hard and  one end  fell out,  making a  hard knot.
  She stared at the result, puzzled - not  for mistying  the bow,
  but because she hadn't snapped the string like a cobweb.
    No  one  was  around.  Kitiara  grasped  the woven  silk cord
  in both hands and pulled harder. It did not break.

                       Chapter 30

                     Little Red Man

       On high the air was as clean and sharp as an elvem
 sword.  Without  the  constant  beating  of  wings,  there  was no
 sensation   of   movement   aboard   the  Cloudmaster.   Quite  to
 the contrary, it seemed as if the sun, stars, and  Lunitari itself
 were  moving,  while  the  ship  stood  anchored  in the  sky. The
 effect of this  mode of  flight was  curiously timeless.  Only the
 wind-up   clock   in   the   wheelhouse   showed  that   time  was
 passing at all.
       After they had been airborne almost five hours, Lunitari
 was far enough below them to resemble a sphere again. Of
 Krynn there was no sign, and that worried the travelers.
 Sighter assured them that their home world would appear
 as Lunitari turned on its course through the heavens. "We
 have  a  better  than  even  chance  of  reaching Krynn,"  he said

  severely.  "As  the  largest  body  in  the heavens,  it naturally
  has the greatest attraction for us, just as it attracts  a greater
  amount  of  sunlight  than  Lunitari.  Still,  we  must   be  wary
  and  release  the  proper  amount  of ethereal  air when  the pro-
  pitious moment comes, so that we can descend homeward."
    The  strange,  motionless  flight  bothered  Sturm,  so  he kept
  below  deck.  There  the  hull  and  deck  creaked  as   a  proper
  ship  should,  and  it  comforted  him.  He'd  always   been  fond
  of sailing ships.
    The patch over the hole  in the  hull was  finished, but  it was
  not  the  finest  example  of  the  shipwright's  art.  Planks and
  laths  and  blocks  of  wood  were  nailed  and mortised  over the
  gap  wherever  they  could  fit.  The  gnomes strolled  across the
  patch  without  a  care,  but Sturm  did not  trust it  to support
  his  weight.  He  prowled  on past  the patch  to the  forward end
  of  the  ship,  which  at  sea  would  have  been  the forecastle.
  The hull there was  barren of  gear, and  all the  interior parti-
  tions  had  long  since  been  ripped  away.  There   was  nothing
  forward  at  all  but  beams  and  planking.  It  was  like  being
  inside  the  skeleton  of  some  great  beast,  all  bones  and no
  flesh.
    Sturm   ascended   the   fore   ladder   into   the  wheelhouse.
  There  was  no wheel,  for there  was no  tail to  be turned  by a
  wheel.  All  the  finely  wrought brass  fixtures had  been ripped
  out  for  scrap  or  merely  to  lighten  the ship.  Only Stutts's
  chair   remained,   though   its   plump   velvet   cushions  were
  gone.
       Kitiara was there, sitting on the deck, gazing out the win-
  dows at nothing.
    "Are you ill, Kit?"
    "Do I look ill?"
    "No." Sturm sat down on the deck opposite her.
    Kitiara looked away, toying with the drawstring of her

  leggings. "Sturm, are you still having visions?"
    "No, not for some time."
    "Do you remember them?" she asked.
    "Of course I do."
    "What was the first one?"
    "Why, it was the - when I saw -" A perplexed look came
  over Sturm's face. "Something about my father?" His high

 forehead became a mass of wrinkles as he tried to recall
 what he'd seen.
    "What about the last one?" Kitiara asked.
    He shook his head. "There was a sorcerer - I think."
    "We've lost it," Kitiara said softly. "The effect the natural
 magic  of  Lunitari  had  on  each of  us. You've  forgotten the
 substance of your visions. I'm losing my strength. Here
 -  look."  She took  out her  dagger and  planted her  thumbs on
 the back  of  the  blade. Fingers  knotting, Kitiara  slowly bent
 the slim steel blade to a blunt angle.
    "You seem very strong to me," said Sturm.
    "Yesterday  I  could've folded  this blade  in half  with two
 fingers." She tossed the bent dagger aside.
    "We're better off without the powers," Sturm said.
    "That's easy for you to say! I like being strong -
 powerful!"
    "Mighty fighters live and die in  every generation,  the past
 ones forgotten by the  present, the  present destined  to vanish
 in  the memories  of the  future. Virtue,  not ferocity  or cun-
 ning, are what make a fighter a hero, Kit."
    Kitiara  straightened  her stooped  shoulders and  said reso-
 lutely,  "You're  wrong,  Sturm.  Only  success  is  remembered.
 Nothing else matters but success."
    He  opened  his  mouth  to  reply,  but  the  wheelhouse door
 flew  open  and  a  blast  of  icy   air  rushed   in.  Cutwood,
 swathed to the top of  his pink  bald head  in flannel  rags and
 quilting,  posed  dramatically  in   the  doorway,   one  stubby
 arm flung out, pointing astern.
   "The dragon!" he said. "Cupelix is faltering!"
   The whole crew was assembled aft. When Sturm and Kiti-
 ara  joined  them,  the  concentration of  weight made  the ship
 tip steeply back. Stutts said, "Spread out!  We can't  all stand
 in the same p-p-place!"
   Wingover shook his head. "You stuttered," he said.
   "Never mind that now," said Kitiara.
   Cupelix was far back and  nearly fifty  feet below  the rising
 Cloudmaster.  He  was  holding  his  wings  out  in  glide posi-
 tion,  flapping  only  once  every  few  seconds. His  long neck
 was  arched  down,  his  head  low.  The  dragon's   large  hind
 legs, normally held tightly  against his  belly when  in flight,

 likewise dangled limply.
   "Cupelix! Cupelix, can you hear me?" Kitiara called
 through cupped hands.
   Yes, my dear.
   "You can make it, beast. Do you hear me? You can make
 it!"
   No. Done in... too weak. The dragon's tail dropped,
 making him waver.
   "Flap,  damn  you!  Don't  give  up.  Remember,   you're  a
 brass  dragon!"  she  cried. "This  is your  chance, Cupelix!
 Your chance to come to Krynn."
   Can't fly... not meant to be, dear Kit.
   Sturm  called,  "Is  there   anything  we   can  do?"
   Tell others, I live. Tell  others to  visit Lunitari.
   "We will," shouted Rainspot.
   Bring books. Bring philosophers. Bring - His thought
 trailed off. Cupelix was flapping weakly now.
   Kitiara  grabbed  Wingover  by  his  collar. "Why  can't he
 fly? Why does he keep going down?" she demanded.
   "The  air  is  too  thin. His  wings aren't  big enough  to sup-
 port  him  this  high,"  said  the  wide-eyed  gnome.  Sturm broke
 her  grip  and  put  Wingover   back  on   his  feet.   The  gnome
 exhaled  gustily.  "Cloudmaster  was  able  to stay  aloft because
 we had  two sets  of wings  and the  ethereal air  bag to  hold us
 up. The dragon has neither."
   Farewell.
   Kitiara  flung herself  at the  rail. The  crimson orb  of Luni-
 tari  looked no  bigger than  a dinner  plate. Against  the light-
 colored  moon,   the  dark   figure  of   the  dragon   moved,  an
 agonized   silhouette.   Cupelix,   the  ill-named   Pteriol,  was
 going  down.  Wingover   gave  his   colleagues  a   running  com-
 mentary  on  the  dragon's  failing  flight.  The  massive muscles
 in  the  dragon's  back  writhed  in  ferocious cramps.  His wings
 spasmed,  sending   him  into   a  heart-stopping   plummet.  With
 great  effort  and  much  obvious  pain,  he regained  his balance
 and  slowed  his  descent.  Trailing  behind him  in the  wind was
 a steady  swirl of  brass scales,  torn off  by his  terrible exer-
 tions.
   "Cupelix!  Don't  leave  me!  Our  bargain!"  Kitiara cried
 desperately.  "My  strength is  fading, do  you hear?  I need

 you  -  our  plans  -" Sturm  took hold  of her  shoulders and
 pulled her firmly away from the rail. Her fingers  clutched at
 the smooth wood.
   Farewell, dear  Kit, was  all they  heard, and  the tickling
 touch  of  the  dragon's  telepathic  voice was  gone. Sighter
 climbed up  on the  rail and  scanned the  moon with  his spy-
 glass.  He  could  see nothing.  "Good-bye, dragon!"  he said.
 Sighter snapped  his telescope  shut and  slipped back  to the
 deck. The little men quietly dispersed.
   Kitiara sobbed against Sturm's chest  "I'm sorry,"  he said.
 Her tears unsettled him more than Cupelix's tragic failure.
   She   pushed   him  away   suddenly  and   snapped,  "Stupid
 beast! He and I had a deal! Our plans, our great  plans!" Sud-
 denly  ashamed,  Kitiara  scrubbed the  tears from  her cheeks
 and  sniffed  loudly. "Everyone  leaves me.  There's no  one I
 can rely on."
   Sturm felt his sympathy for Kit drain away. "No one you
 can rely on?" he said coldly. "No one at all?" When she
 didn't answer, Sturm turned his back  and left  Kitiara alone.

 * * * * *

   Cupelix,  defeated  by  the  heights  he  had hoped  to con-
 quer,  glided  down  in  a wide  spiral to  the moon  that had
 been,  and  always  would  be,  his  home. His  flying muscles
 burned with fatigue, and the invidious cold  of the  upper air
 numbed  his  heart and  soul. He  skimmed over  familiar land-
 scapes, now cloaked in night, until the  cliffs of  his valley
 dropped  away  beneath  his  hanging  feet.  Striking heavily,
 Cupelix's horned head plowed into the red dust.
   He raised his  head and  sneezed. A  voice said,  "Bless you!"
   "Thank  you,"  replied  the  dragon   weakly.  "Wait   -  who
 said that?"
   A diminutive  figure appeared  from behind  a pile  of goods
 left  behind  by  the  gnomes.  It  resembled a  gnome itself,
 except that it was as  hairless as  an egg  and colored  red -
 skin, eyes, clothes, everything.
 "I said it," said the little red creature. "It's a common wish
 to express when someone sneezes."
   "I know that,"  said the  dragon peevishly.  He was  far too

 tired to play gnomish games. "Who are you?"
   "I was hoping you might know," said  the little  red fellow.
 "I woke up a day ago, and I've been wandering since."
   Cupelix  raised  himself  on  his  hind  legs  and carefully
 furled his wings. The bending  of his  joints caused  him con-
 siderable pain, and he hissed louder than a hundred snakes.
   "Does it hurt?" asked the red man.
   "Very much!"
   "I saw a  bottle of  liniment over  there. Perhaps  that would
 help." A small red  hand went  to the  dark red  lips. "Though
 I'm not sure what liniment is."
   "Never mind, Little Red  Man," said  Cupelix. "Fetch  it, if
 you would."
   "Is that my name?"
   "If you like it, it is."
   "Seems to fit, doesn't it?" The Little Red Man trotted off
 to find the bottle  of Dr.  Finger's Efficacious  Ointment. He
 stopped and called back, "What's your name?"
   "Cupelix," said the dragon. He was here to stay,  all right,
 but at least he had someone to talk to. All things considered,
 it wasn't too bad a state of affairs.
   "Little Red Man," Cupelix called  across the  valley, "would
 you like something to eat?"

                  Chapter 31

                    Highgold

        The second voyage of the Cloudmaster was very
 different from the first. The  engine's incessant  turning, and
 the great wings' wafting had given those on  board a  sense of
 passage, of activity. The silent drift of  the ship,  now sup-
 ported only by the ethereal air, was not  like that.  A perva-
 sive lethargy invaded everyone on board.  There was  little to
 do in the way of managing the ship, and the less there  was to
 do, the less anyone cared to do.
 The  gnomes  quarreled,  too.  In  the  past, they  had traded
 scoffing  remarks  and  mild blows  with equanimity;  ten sec-
 onds  afterward,  no  one  remembered   or  cared.   But  now,
 cooped  up in  the bare  hull of  the Cloudmaster,  the gnomes
 lost  their  generous  natures.  Roperig and  Fitter squabbled
 over the correct way to store  the small  supply of  rope they

  had left. Cutwood  grew deafer  and deafer  as he  adjusted to
  his normal level of hearing. Flash yelled at him all the time,
  and Sighter yelled at Flash for yelling. Wingover had  a slap-
  ping match with  Birdcall that  left red  welts on  both their
  faces for hours. And  Rainspot, poor  gentle Rainspot,  sat in
  the 'tween decks and wept.
     Stutts sought  out Sturm.  "Things are  s-seriously wrong,"
  he said. "My c-colleagues are  behaving like  a band  of gully
  dwarves. They are  b-bored. Now  there's no  great task  to bc
  accomplished, l-like toppling the obelisk."
    "What can I do about it?" asked Sturm.
    "We  m-must  give them  a task,  something that  will t-take
  their minds off the slowness of our p-passage."
    "What sort of task?"
    Stutts said, "P-Perhaps Sighter could enlist their help in
  n-naming all the stars?"
    "They would only argue," Sturm replied.
    "Hmm, we c-could make a batch of m-muffins."
    "No flour," Sturm reminded him. "Try again."
    "Well, you c-could get seriously ill."
    "Oh, no, your good colleagues would want to cut me
  open and find out what was wrong. Try again."
    The  gnome's  shoulders  sagged  in  defeat. "That  was m-my
  last idea."
    This  is  serious,  Sturm  thought.  Who  ever  heard  of  a
  gnome out of  ideas? "You  know," he  said, smoothing  out his
  mustache,  "perhaps  there  is  some  way  to  make  this ship
  move faster."
    "Without an en-engine?"
    "Ships girdle the world without engines," Sturm
  observed. "How do they do it?"
    "Let's  s-see."  Stutts  twined  his  fingers  together  and
  thought  hard.  "Oars,  s-sails,   draft  animals   on  shore,
  magic  -"  Here  he  traded  a  disapproving look  with Sturm.
  "-  muscle-turned  p-paddle  wheels, towing  by whales  or sea
  s-serpents -" A light kindled in his  pale blue  eyes. "Excuse
  me. I m-must confer with my colleagues."
            "Good man," said Sturm. He watched the gnome hurry
  away, almost skipping with delight.
    A cheer penetrated the deck from below as Stutts

 explained  his  notion  to  the   other  gnomes.   Thumps  and
 squeaks  told  only  too  well that  the gnomes'  idleness had
 vanished. Sturm smiled.
    He  went  looking  for  Kitiara.  She  was  not in  the dining
 room,  so  he  went  below.  The  gnomes  were  gathered  in  the
 berth  deck's  aft  cabin.  He  peeked  in the  doorless doorway,
 to  see  Flash  and   Wingover  sketching   madly  on   the  deck
 planks with lumps of charcoal.
    'No,  no,"  Sighter  was  saying,  "you  must  increase the
 degree of camber, relative to the angle of incidence."
    "What  a  lot of  goat cheese!  Any fool  knows you  have to
 decrease  the  planar  surface," argued  as, rapping  his fist
 on the deck.
   "Yes, any fool!"
   Sturm withdrew. The gnomes were happy again.
   He  descended the  short ladder  to the  hold. It  was bitterly
 cold  down there,  since the  flimsy patch  in the  hull scarcely
 kept  out  the  wind,  much  less  the  cold.  It was  there that
 Sturm  found  Kitiara,  perched on  one of  the stout  hull ribs,
 sipping from her water bottle.
   "You look comfortable," he said.
   "Oh, I am. Care for some?" said Kitiara. She handed
 Sturm the bottle. He raised it to his lips,  but before  taking a
 swallow smelled the sweet tang of wine.
   He lowered the bottle. "Where did you get this?"
   "Cupelix made it for me. Wine of Ergoth."
   Sturm  took  the  smallest  sip.  It  was extremely  sweet, and
 as  the   few  drops   flowed  down   his  throat,   they  burned
 strongly.  His  face  must  have  reddened, for  Kitiara chuckled
 at him.
   "Deceptive, isn't it? Tastes like syrup at first, then it kicks
 like a bee-stung mule."
   He  gave  the  bottle  back  to her.  "I thought  you preferred
 ale," he said.
   Kitiara  drank.  "Ale  is  for good  times, good  meals, and
 good  company.  Sweet  wine  of   Ergoth  is   for  melancholy
 hours, loneliness, and funerals."
    Sturm knelt beside her. "You shouldn't be melancholy," he
 said. "We're on our way home, at last."
   Kitiara  leaned  back  against  the  curving rib.  "Sometimes I

 envy  you  your  patience.  Other  times,  it  sets my  teeth on
 edge."  She  closed  her  eyes.  "Do  you  ever wonder  what the
 rest of your life will be like?" she asked.
    "Only  in  a  very  basic  way,"  Sturm  replied.   "Part  of
 knighthood is acceptance of the fate the gods mete out."
    "I  could  never think  that way.  I want  to make  it happen.
 That's  what  hurts  so  much  about  lost  opportunities.  I had
 strength, and now it's fading; I had  a dragon  for an  ally, and
 now he's gone, too."
   "And Tanis?"
   Kitiara  shot him  a cold  look. "Yes,  damn your  honesty. Tanis
 is gone, too. And my father." She swirled  the bottle  around. It
 was almost empty. "I'm tired," Kitiara said. "I'll make a resolu-
 tion,  Sturm,  and  you can  be my  witness From  now on,  I shall
 contemplate,  plan,  reason,  and calculate; whatever  serves my
 purpose will be good and whatever impedes me  will be  evil. I'll
 not  rely  on  anyone but  myself; not  share with  anyone except
 my  most  loyal  comrades  in  arms.  I'll  be  queen  of  my own
 realm, this," she patted herself on the leg,  "and not  fear any-
 thing but failure."  She turned  her rather  bleary eyes  to him.
 "What do you think of my resolution?"
   "I  think you've  had too  much wine."  He rose  to go,  but she
 called for him to stop.
   "It's cold down here," she complained.
   "So come up to the berth deck."
   Kitiara held out her arms and  tried to  stand. She  didn't get
 very far before sagging  back to  the hull  rib. "I'm  better off
 not trying," she said. "Come here."
   Sturm stood over  her. She  grabbed hold  of his  sleeve. Still
 quite  strong,  Kitiara easily  pulled Sturm  down to  her level.
 He  tried  to  protest,  but  she  pushed  him  back  against the
 curving planks and nestled in  close. "Just  stay here  a while,"
 she said, eyes closed, "to keep me warm."
   So Sturm found  himself lying  very still  in the  coldest part
 of the ship, Kitiara nestled  under his  left arm.  Her breathing
 grew  soft  and  regular.  He  studied  the  face  showing  under
 her  fur-trimmed  hood.  Kitiara's  tan  had  lightened  over the
 past  weeks,  but  her  dark  lashes  and  curls  seemed  out  of
 place  on  so  rugged  a  warrior.  Her  dark  lips  were  parted
 slightly and her breath smelled of sweet wine.

     The  gnomes  presented  their  grand  design   for  improving
  the  drifting  Cloudmaster's  speed  a  few  hours later  in the
  former  dining  room.  Birdcall  had  drawn  the  whole  plan on
  the wall in chalk and charcoal. Sturm sat on the  floor, listen-
  ing attentively. Kitiara leaned on the  wall several  feet away,
  tight-lipped. She was experiencing ill effects from the wine.
     "As you can  see," Wingover  began, our  plan calls  for rig-
  ging the Cloudmaster  with sails  on each  side of  the ethereal
  air  bag.  That,  and  trimming  the  hull  with  the  excess of
  weight  well  in the  bow, should  increase our  speed by,  ah -
  how much did you estimate, Sighter?"
     The  astronomer  gnome  studied  the  scribbles on  his shirt
  cuff. "Sixty percent, or to about twelve knots."
     "What will you make the sails out of?" asked Sturm.
     "What  clothing  we  can  spare.  You and  Mistress Kitiara
  will have to contribute what you have as well."
     "Ahem, well, if there are no more questions -"
     "What  about  spars  and  masts  and rigging?"  Sturm said.
     Cutwood waved his hand to be recognized. Wingover
  relinquished the floor. "I thought of an answer to that," the
  gnome  said  importantly.  "With chisels  and planes,  we'll be
  able to slice off long pieces from the beams  and rails  of the
  ships. These lashed together will serve as spars."
     "Let me tell about the rigging," said Roperig.
     "I know about it, too," Cutwood complained.
     "Let  Roperig  tell  it!"  ordered  Fitter.  Cutwood  flopped
  down in a snit.
     "We  have  some store  of rope  already," Roperig  said. "And
  some cord, twine, string, thread -"
     "Get on with it," said Wingover.
     "Silly know-it-all," muttered Cutwood.
     "These  can  be braided  into whatever  thickness of  rope we
  need."  Roperig  snapped  his  fingers and  sat down.  Only Fit-
  ter applauded his report.
    "Shall  we get  to it?"  Sturm asked,  bracing himself  to rise.
    They  formed  the  Cloudmaster  sewing  circle  on   the  dining
  room floor. A fair-sized  heap of  clothes grew  up in  the cen-
  ter,  around which  everyone sat.  It was  not an  easy process.

 Sturm  could  not sew  and Kitiara  steadfastly refused  to even
 attempt  it, confining  her contribution  to slitting  the seams
 of the sacrificed clothes  with her  bent-bladed dagger.  Of the
 gnomes,  only   Roperig  and   Fitter,  not   too  surprisingly,
 proved to be adept  sewers. They  were so  adept, in  fact, that
 they  sewed  the  clothes  they  were  wearing  into  the  sail,
 which then had to be cut apart again.
   After  a  break  for  food  and rest,  the work  resumed. Some
 hours later (it was hard to  judge time  in the  constant night)
 the  ragged,  flimsy  sails  were  done.  Cutwood and  Flash had
 by this time chiseled out spars  from the  largest beams  in the
 ship. It was time then to rig the Cloudmaster for sail.
   They tied the ends of the spars to the  air bag's  rigging and
 the sails  stretched between  them. The  sails were  simple rec-
 tangles  that  overlapped the  deck rail  by several  feet. Once
 they  were  set,  the  flying ship  did come  slowly about  in a
 new direction.
   "How do we steer this thing?" Kitiara asked. Ordinary
 ships had rudders. The Cloudmaster had none.
   "We'll  have  to manage  by trimming  the sails,"  Sturm said.
 He was cheered by  the sight  of wind  filling the  funny patch-
 work sails.
   They  shifted  all their  loose baggage  forward and  the fly-
 ing ship  surged ahead  with noticeable  vigor. It  was possible
 to  feel the  wind now  out on  deck, and  the ship  rolled fore
 and aft like a rocking horse. Kitiara was a  bit green  from the
 motion.  The  rigging  creaked  and  stretched.  The  stars  and
 moons coursed by at an increasing rate.
   Clouds   loomed   ahead,   and   the  ship   quickly  overtook
 them.  Streams  of  warm  mist  flowed  over  the  ship, thawing
 the  frost  that  coated  the  windows  and  ports and  made the
 upper  deck  treacherous.  They  sailed  through the  clouds for
 only  a  short  time.  When  they  burst  through  the  wall  of
 white, a glorious sight greeted them.
   The brilliant blue  globe of  Krynn hung  before them,  a bau-
 ble of silver and glass. It looked so small and fragile this far
 away,  a marble  in a  child's hand.  Other cloud  banks towered
 around them, but by  luffing the  sails, the  Cloudmaster's crew
 weaved  the  ship  through  them.  Some  of the  banks flickered
 with  lightning.  Rainspot  eyed these  with longing.  He hadn't

 experienced  any  real  weather in  months. Unlike  Kitiara, he
 was  genuinely pleased  to have  lost his  gift. No  one should
 always walk about in a rainstorm, he had decided.
   An   odd   thing   happened   as   they   steered  cautiously
 through  the maze  of storm  and cloud.  Faint echoes  of thun-
 der  rolled  by,  and in  the dying  claps Sturm  heard another
 sound, a distant bleat, like the call of a trumpet.
   "Did  you  hear  that?"  he said  to Flash,  who was  by his
 elbow.
   "No," said the gnome. "What was it?"
   The  noise sounded  again, louder  and nearer.  "That's it!"
 said Sturm.
   "Funny,  it sounds  like a  -" Before  Flash could  finish, a
 green and gold mallard hurtled into the sail above their
 heads. "A duck!" Flash said hastily.
   The  mallard  was  a  good-sized bird,  and it  half-tore the
 flimsy sail from  the twig  spars. Duck  and spar  tangled, and
 fell  to  the  deck at  Flash's feet.  "Halloo! We've  caught a
 duck!" he shouted.
   "What did he say?" Roperig asked.
   "He  said  to  duck," Fitter  replied, face  down on  the deck.
   "No, by Reorx, he's snared a duck!" cried Wingover.
   Flash folded the  sail back  and the  mallard poked  its head
 out.  Its  beady  black  eyes  regarded the  Cloudmaster's crew
 with pure hostility.
   "Wonder where it came from," said Rainspot.
   "An egg, dumbhead," said Cutwood.
   "Hold on to it," said Kitiara. "Ducks are good  eating." Just
 as her strength had faded as they left  the influence  of Luni-
 tari, so too had the spear plants lost their magical variety of
 flavors.   They   had   become   rubbery,   tasteless.  Kitiara
 smacked  her  lips  at  the  thought  of  crisply  browned duck
 meat.
   "Not  much  meat  for  eleven," Sturm  said. "If  only there
 were more."
    "Ducks ahoy!" Roperig sang out. Over the starboard rail,
 black against the gray clouds, came a great flock of ducks.
   "Bring  us  about!"  Sturm  shouted.  "They'll  wreck  us  if
 they hit usl"
   Gnomes  scampered  into  the  jury-rigging,   collapsing  the

 sails on the port  side. The  ship heeled  away from  the flock,
 swinging  under  the  air  bag  like  a  pendulum.  Some  of the
 mallards  hit  the  hull  and  bounced off.  A few  swept across
 the  deck,  squawking   loudly.  They   veered  and   banked  in
 panic,  thudding  on  the sides  of the  deckhouse. Fortunately,
 none hit the air bag or the sails.
   "This  is  crazy,"  Kitiara  declared.  "What are  ducks doing
 so far from home?"
   Flash stood up  from behind  the railing.  The first  duck was
 still  firmly  under  his  arm.  "Maybe this  is where  ducks go
 when they migrate," he posited.
   "Interesting theory," Sighter said. "Do  they just  fly around
 for three months, or do they have a destination?"
   Kitiara  hobbled  the  duck with  a loop  of twine  around its
 feet  and  pinioned  its  wings  with a  length of  cord. Fitter
 watched her every move.
   Unnerved, she said, "Would you rather do this?"
   "No, I just don't want you to hurt it."
   "Hurt it! I plan to eat it."
   "Oh,  no!  It's  so pretty.  Those green  and gold  feathers -"
   "Yes, and it'll look even better roasting on a spit," she said.
   The  ducks  who'd  been  lying  senseless  on  deck  chose that
 moment  to  rouse  and  take  wing,  quacking  loudly.  In  sec-
 onds,  they were  all gone,  save for  the mallard  that Kitiara
 had  trussed  up.  It  honked  forlornly  at its  departing com-
 rades.
   Fitter  stared at  the mallard  in his  hands. With  two large
 tears rolling down his face, he held the duck out ro Kitiara.
   Kitiara's  hands  closed  on  the  duck  and  a loud  sob came
 from Fitter. "Suffering gods!" she exclaimed. "Keep  it, Fitter.
 Enjoy it yourself."
   "Oh!  I  will!"  Fitter  dashed to  the deckhouse  door. "I've
 already  named  him  Highgold,  because  he  flew  so  high  and
 has gold feathers." The door banged shut behind him.
   "So,  instead  of  a  duck  dinner, we  have another  mouth to
 feed," said Kitiara.
   "Don't  worry," Sturm  said. "The  duck is  one of  us, flying
 too high and too far from home."

                      Chapter 32

                   The Lost Caravel

   It was hard to say just when the change occurred. It
 came on slowly,  with no  dramatic oscillations  or warnings.
 Somewhere  in  the  billowing  white clouds,  the Cloudmaster
 stopped  rising  toward  Krynn and  began falling  toward it.
 Sturm asked Sighter just  how this  worked, but  the astrono-
 mer  mumbled  something  about  "density  of matter  in rela-
 tion  to air"  and left  it at  that. Sighter  plainly didn't
 understand the effect himself.
 Nevertheless,  the  blue  face  of  Krynn  moved   from  over
 their heads to under their feet. The closer they got to their
 home world, the livelier the winds grew, and the  faster they
 flew.
 "We can't land  too soon  for me,"  Kitiara commented.  "If I
 have to eat pink spears  and drink  water much  longer, toad-

 stools will sprout from my ears!"
    ---Some txt missing ---
    The  air  grew  warmer  and  wetter.  While  the  warmth was
 appreciated,  the  denser,  moister air  proved a  hardship for
 them all after being used to Lunitari's thin air.  The weighti-
 ness oppressed them. For  a time,  it was  hard to  do anything
 strenuous.
    "By the  gods," Sturm  remarked, panting  as he  helped Cut-
 wood  and  Flash  trim  the  port sails,  "I haven't  been this
 winded since Flint and I had to flee the forest  dwarves, after
 Tasslehoff 'borrowed' some of their silver."
    Day  and  night  fell  into  a more  even rhythm  again, and
 Sturm  found  himself  sleeping  longer  and  more  soundly  as
 the  days  slipped  by. Sighter  recorded that  the Cloudmaster
 had  been  airborne  for  nineteen days  and estimated  that it
 would make landfall in two more days.
    The  sky  changed  from  black  to  blue,  and  the  horizon
 filled  with  clouds. Through  puffy gaps  they could  see for-
 ests,  fields,  mountains,  and  seas  below.  They  were still
 high, but at least  they had  a sense  of solid  ground beneath
 them again.
   The  morning  of  what  was  to  be  their  last   day  aloft
 dawned sultry and  wet. The  sails hung  from their  spars, and
 dew  stood  in puddles  on deck.  A clinging  mist held  to the
 flying ship, and nothing was visible ten feet beyond the rail.
    "Halloo!" Wingover shouted. "Halloo!"
    "Can't see a thing," Kitiara reported, squinting hard.
    "I  can't  even  tell  how  high  we  are," Sturm  said. The
 Cloudmaster seemed to be adrift in a box of wet fleece.
 Stutts appeared with the rope and grapnel.
    "We should d-drop this over the side,"  he advised.  "It m-
 may hook a tree and d-drag us to a stop."
    He lowered the grapnel from  the bowsprit  and tied  it off.
 When  he  returned  amidships  Kitiara  asked  him   when  they
 ought to open the bag and release the ethereal air.
    "Only when w-we're certain we're about, to l-land."
    She  stared  at  the  wallowing bag  overhead. The  dirty can-
 vas sack  had shrunk  steadily as  it got  warmer. Now  it hung
 against the rope netting, rolling about furtively like  a caged
 beast trying to escape. Kitiara fingered the  hilt of  her bent

 dagger,  No  more  nonsense,  she  thought.  When conditions
 look good, I'll open the bag myself!
   Wingover,  still entwined  in the  rigging, pointed  off the
 starboard bow. "Fire!" he cried.
   Sighter  clicked  open  his  telescope  and swung  it toward
 the orange glow far off in  the mist.  His mouth  dropped open
 for a second, then he lowered his glass and shut it.
   "You dolt!" he said to  Wingover. "Haven't  you ever  seen a
 sunrise before?"
   "What?"
   "Sunrise?" said Kitiara,  A sunrise  could only  mean they
 were low enough to the  ground for  the sun  to appear  as the
 ball of fire they remembered, and  not as  the yellow  disk it
 looked like from between the red moon and Krynn.
   The sun waxed hotter  and brighter,  and the  fog dispersed.
 A thousand feet below lay  only ocean  - as  far as  every eye
 could see, nothing but oily green sea. The salty smell rose to
 greet them as the sun heated up the water.
   A north  wind pushed  them along  at an  idle six  knots. As
 the day wore on, the humidity rose and all  the furs  and cold
 weather  gear  came  off.  The  gnomes  stripped down  to sus-
 penders  and  trousers. The  deck thumped  with nine  pairs of
 bare  pink  feet.  As  protection  from  sunburn,  Fitter made
 them  all  bandannas  from  their shirts  and soon  the gnomes
 looked like a band of pirates shrunk to half size.
   Kitiara  joyously  discarded  her  heavy   clothes,  keeping
 only  her  riding  breeches  and a  leather vest.  Sturm alone
 refused  to  shed  his long-sleeved  tunic and  boots. Kitiara
 noted the dark sweat stains  on his  chest and  arms. Dignity,
 she decided, could be an uncomfortable burden.
   By angling the sails, they were able to drive the  ship down
 closer to the  sea. The  grapnel dipped  and leaped  from wave
 crest to wave crest, slinging back from the impacts.
   Sighter worked hard  with his  astrolabe to  determine their
 location.  Without  a  compass and  accurate charts,  he could
 make  only  a  rough estimate,  but he  tried. The  deck, from
 the door of the  wheelhouse aft  to the  stern post,  was cov-
 ered  with  his figures.  Sweat collected  in his  bushy brows
 and dripped annoyingly from the tip of his nose.
      Kitiara and Sturm surveyed the vast calculations, and

 finally Kit asked, "Well?"
   "We're  on  Krynn,"  said Sighter.  Kitiara counted  to twen-
 ty, silently. "My best guess  is, we're  somewhere in  the Sir-
 rion  Sea,  either  four  hundred,  eight  hundred,  or  twelve
 hundred miles from Sancrist."
   "Four, eight, or twelve hundred?" Sturm said.
   "Lacking  a  compass, it's  very hard  to be  precise." Sighter
 flicked off a drop of sweat  that had  stubbornly clung  to his
 nose. I'm certain it's one of those multiples of four hundred."
   Kitiara  threw  up  her  hands.  "Wonderful!  We  may  cruise
 into Thalan Bay in four days, or  we may  starve to  death try-
 ing to reach an island a thousand miles away."
   "I don't think we'll starve," said Wingover.
   "Oh? What makes you so certain?"
   "There's a ship," he said quietly, pointing out to sea.
   Sighter's precious figures were trampled in the rush  to the
 rail. Off  the port  they saw  bow masts  and snowy  sails pok-
 ing  above  the  horizon.  Out  came  the   telescope.  Kitiara
 plucked it from Sighter's grasp.
   "What!" he  said, but  she already  had the  glass to  her eye.
   The  ship  was  a  two-masted  caravel  of   uncertain  origin.
 There  was  no figurehead  or name  scribed on  the forecastle.
 The  mastheads  were  bare  of  pennants  or flags,  though the
 deck was clean and the brightwork shined.
   Can you make out where she's from?" asked Sturm.
   "No," Kitiara said. "Can't see any crew."
   "Try  in  the  rigging.  They're  running  with the  wind, so
 there's bound to be somebody aloft."
   "I looked. There's nobody to be seen."
   The  Cloudmaster  slowed  as  it entered  a lower  stratum of
 air.  The  direction  changed, and  the patchwork  sails luffed
 and  flapped  impotently.  While  Sturm  and  four  gnomes  saw
 to resetting them, Kitiara studied the unidentified ship.
   "Pirate, maybe? Or smuggler?" she mused. There were
 plenty of reasons to hide a ship's name, few legitimate.
   "Sturm? Sturm?" she called.
   "What is it?"
   "Could we catch that ship and board it?"
   He came to the edge of the deckhouse and shaded his eyes
 to look down at her. "Why?"

 "They might have food and fresh water."
 It  was  a  powerful  argument.  Sturm was  as sick  of beans
 and  Lunitarian  fungi  as  the  rest of  them. "I  suppose we
 could," he said. "The grappling hook is still out.  We'll have
 to be careful not to snarl their rigging or rip their sails."
 The  unknown  ship  drove  on  with all  sails set.  There was
 no one  on deck,  and as  the Cloudmaster  flew around  to the
 ship's port beam, Kitiara could see  that the  caravel's wheel
 was lashed. The sterncastle lights were shuttered, and all the
 hull ports were closed.  On a  hot, still  day like  this, the
 'tween decks must be stifling, she thought.
   "Let them out now," Sturm said. Birdcall and Roperig let
 the sails unfurl, and the flying ship spurted ahead. The
 swinging grapnel snagged the chain stays of the mainmast,
     and the Cloudmaster jerked to a stop. They pivoted with
 the drag and found themselves flying tail-first into the wind,
 towed by the far heavier caravel.
     "Now what?" said Wingover, leaning over the side.
     "Someone has to go down and tie us off," suggested
 Sturm. "I would go, but the grapnel rope is  too thin  for me."
 "Don't look my way," Kitiara said. "I've had all the rope
 climbing I care for on this trip."
 Fitter  agreed  to  go,  since  he was  small and  nimble. He
 shinnied  down  the  rope  to the  masthead. Standing  on the
 crosstree, he waved up to his friends.
  "Find a heavier line and tie us off!" Sturm bawled. Fitter
   nodded and slipped down the rigging to the ship's deck. A
 fat hawser line lay coiled behind the foremast. Fitter shoul-
 dered this burden and climbed back to the Cloudmaster.
  "That's my apprentice," said Roperig proudly.
  "Did you see  any signs  of life  down there?"  asked Kitiara.
 Fitter  dumped  the  hawser  off  his  shoulder.  "No, ma'am.
 Everything's neat as can be, but there isn't a soul around."
 Sturm  went  down  into  the   deckhouse  and   returned  with
 his  sword. He  draped the  belt over  his shoulder  and threw
 one leg over the rail. "I'd better be first to look around."
 "I'll come behind you," said Kitiara.
 "Me,  too,"  volunteered  Fitter.  The  other  gnomes  chimed
 in in quick succession.
 "Someone has to stay on board," Sturm said. "You

 gnomes work it out, but don't all of you come."
   A  hundred feet  is a  long way  to climb  down a  rope. The
 heat was  so bad  that Sturm  got dizzy  halfway along  and had
 to  stop  to  mop  the  sweat from  his eyes.  How will  I ever
 climb back  up?he  wondered. It  was a  relief when  the dark,
 varnished  oak  of  the  yardarm  touched  his   feet.  Kitiara
 wrapped her bare legs around the hawser and started down.
   Deck level was just as Fitter had  described: tidy  and ship-
 shape.  Sturm  had  a  bad  feeling about  it. Sailors  did not
 abandon a well-founded vessel without good reason.
   Kitiara  dropped  down  to  the  deck. Sturm  whirled, sword
 coming out with a whisk of steel.
   "Easy!" she said. "I'm on your side, remember?
   "Sorry.  This  ship  has  me  spooked.  Go up  the starboard
 side to the bow. 111 take port."
   They  met  at  the  bow,  finding  nothing amiss  except the
 complete lack of  visible crew.  There was  a hatch  behind the
 bowsprit. Kitiara suggested they go below deck.
   "Not yet," said Sturm. "Let's chec aft."
   Sighter  and  Stutts arrived  on deck.  Sighter carried  a car-
 penter's  square  and  Stutts  a hammer.  These were  the only
 'weapons'  they  could  find.  More  than ever  they resembled
 diminutive pirates, boarding an unlucky ship from above.
   "F-find anything?" said Stutts.
   "Nothing."
   The ship's wheel was  firmly tied.  It creaked  an inch  or two
 left and right as the wind  and waves  fought against  the rud-
 der.  Sturm  was trying  to tell  how long  the wheel  had been
 fixed when Kitiara drew in her breath sharply.
   "Look here," she said.
   Nailed to the wall of the sterncastle was a crow. A
 stuffed, dead crow with its tail and wings spread.
   "I've  seen  these before.  Someone has  cast a  spell over this
 ship, and to ward off the evil magic  someone put this crow
 here," said Kitiara. "We've got to get out of here."
   "Take it easy," Sturm said quietly. "We've  seen no  signs of
 magic at work. Let's go inside and see if we can at least iden-
 tify this vessel."
       The louvered door creaked back on bright brass hinges.
 Within the sterncastle  it was  hot and  dim. Slivers  of light

 cast weird shadows across the room.
   "Stutts, open the shutters, will you?" The gnome made
 for the row of shades on  his right.  There was  a rustle  as he
 wrestled with the latch.  The shutters  fell open,  flooding the
 cabin with light.
   "So, here's the captain," said Kitiara grimly.
   The master of the caravel still sat at his table, gazing sight-
 lessly  through  ivory  eye  sockets.  His  skull was  clean and
 dry, and the skeletal fingers lying on  the tabletop  were still
 joined together. The  captain wore  a richly  made coat  of blue
 brocade,  embellished  with  gold  tassels  and  braid.  A final
 macabre touch was the  skeleton of  his last  meal still  on the
 plate before him. Stutts poked through the tiny bones.
   "Chicken," he announced. "A h-hen, I should say."
   Sturm  sniffed  the  pewter  goblet  by  the dead  man's right
 hand.  There  was  no  obvious  trace  of  poison  in  the empty
 cup.  He  put  it  down and  noticed a  slim silver  ring around
 one of the bony fingers. Gently he  lifted the  skeleton's hand.
 Despite  his  care,  the bones  fell apart  at his  touch. Sturm
 held the ring up to the light, trying to find an  inscription or
 maker's  mark.  It was  a simple,  beaded silver  band, slightly
 grimy. It could have been made anywhere by anyone.
   Kitiara  looked  under  the  table.  "Ho!"  she  said. "What's
 this?" She  stood up  with a  second skull  in her  hands. "This
 was  between  Captain  Bones's  feet."  She  flipped  the  skull
 around.  "Someone  chopped  this  fellow's  head  off.  You  can
 see the  axe mark,  there." She  set the  gruesome relic  on the
 table and  bent over  again. "Nice  boots," she  reported. "Sil-
 ver buckles, deerskin tops. He was a dandy."
   "I wonder who he was," Sturm said.
   "M-my!"  Stutts  was  over  near the  stern lights.  He'd found
 a  large  leather-bound  chest  and  sprung  the   simple  lock.
 Inside were gold  coins and  scattered jewels.  Kitiara whistled
 and fished out an especially fine emerald.
   "Now I understand,"  she said.  "This must  be a  pirate ship."
   "Are you so certain?" said Sighter.
   "You  don't  lay  in  swag  like  this  trading  fish  and dry
 goods!" She  threw open  a second  chest. It  was filled  to the
 brim with  small wooden  boxes. She  pried the  lid off  one and
 leaned in  to see  what treasure  it contained.  Kitiara screwed

 up her face and gave a mighty sneeze.
   "M-mercy!" said Stutts. "What is it?"
   "Spice -  pepper!" she  wheezed, snapping  the lid  back on.
 Sturm peered over her shoulder.
   "Spices are rarer than gold," he said. "This chest is proba-
 bly more valuable than the other."
   "Just the same, when we divvy it up, I'll  take my  share in
 gold and jewels," Kitiara said.
   "Divvy?  I  thought  you  were  concerned about  the curse."
   "With enough  gold in  my pocket,  I'll face  up to  all the
 curses in the world." Suiting action to  her words,  she began
 to fill her pockets with gems and gold.
   The cabin door flew open and they all jumped. It was
 only Rainspot.
   "I thought  I ought  to come  down and  warn you,"  he said.
 "There's a storm brewing. It feels like a strong cyclone."
   "Just enough time for a little  salvage," said  Kitiara. She
 leaned against the treasure chest and tried to shift it toward
 the door. It squeaked a scant inch out  of place.  "Don't just
 stand there, help me!"
   'We don't have time  for treasure,"  Sturm said.  "We've got
 to get back to the Cloudmaster."
   She stopped shoving and stood up. "Do we?" she said.
   "Do we what?"
   "Have to go back to the flying  ship. Why  can't we  stay on
 board this one?"
   "We  don't know  anything about  it," Sturm  protested. "For
 all we know, it could founder in the first squall we hit."
   "So could the Cloudmaster."
   Stutts  fidgeted  as the  two humans  argued. "P-please!  I am
 returning n-now." He hurried out the door.
   Sighter  shrugged.  "I'd  like to  explore this  vessel some
 more,  but  my  place  is  with my  colleagues." He  bowed and
 pushed Rainspot out the door ahead of him.
   Alone with Kitiara, Sturm said with annoyance, "Are
 you going or staying?"
   She crossed her arms stubbornly. "Staying."
   "Then you're staying by yourself." Sturm went out on
 deck.  A  cool wind  was blowing  in from  the south,  and the
 caravel  was  heeled  under  sail  to the  north. Purple-black

 clouds  closed  to  sea level  and charged  with the  wind. In
 minutes, both ships would be engulfed.
   Sighter and Stutts shinnied up the rope with little trouble.
 By  the  time  Sturm  had  reached  the  top of  the mainmast,
 they were  climbing over  the flying  ship's rail.  The Cloud-
 master was whipping about  like a  fish on  a hook,  and Sturm
 watched the bouncing rope with trepidation. He took hold.
   Rain,  light  and  warm,  puffed ahead  of the  storm. Sturm
 shook it out of his face. The  gnomes had  sheeted in  all the
 Cloudmaster's sails, but the air bag  itself caught  the wind,
 dragging  the  flying  ship  behind  it. Sturm  hauled himself
 hand  over  hand  toward  the  bobbing  craft,  trying  not to
 think about the tossing waves eighty feet below.
   The first blow of rain hit like a wall, soaking Sturm to the
 skin  in  a  second.  He  continued  to  inch higher,  but the
 Cloudmaster scarcely grew closer the longer he climbed.
   "Halloo, Sturm! Halloo!"
   "Wingover, is that you?" he shouted in reply.
   "Sturm,  can you  hear me?  The rope  is wet  and stretching
 under  your  weight!  The  strain  is  too  much!"  cried  the
 unseen gnome.
   "I'll go back!"
   Sturm  could  barely  see  the  Cloudmaster's  gray outline.
 "We'll try to  come back  for you!"  Then faintly,  "May Reorx
 guard you well!" Wingover cried.
   Sturm  all  but  slid down  the hawser  to the  waving mast.
 The stout oak yard  swung into  him, hitting  him hard  in the
 ribs. His breath rushed out, and he lost his grip on the rope.
 Sturm landed against the  sail and  clamped on  as hard  as he
 could.  The  powdery  soft  canvas  gave  way under  his grip,
 and  tore  slowly  down  to  the  deck.  Sturm  landed, blind,
 wet, and breathless, in the caravel's waist.
   The  gnomes  cut  the  rope  at  their end.  The Cloudmaster
 soared into the driving clouds and was lost from sight.
    Kitiara  rolled  Sturm  over.  "Can  you  stand?   Can  you
 walk?"   she  cried   above  the   howling  wind.   He  nodded
 dumbly. She dragged him to his feet,  and together  they stag-
 gered aft to the sterncastle. Sturm collapsed  on the  deck by
 the captain's table to collect his breath. Kitiara circled the
 room, closing the shutters and cranking the louvers tight.

   "You all right?" she asked out of the darkness.
   "Yes."
   "Are the gnomes gone?"
   "They  -  had  to  cut loose  to save  the ship."  He coughed
 painfully.
 Kitiara struck sparks from the  sea captain's  flint and  lit a
 fat  candle  on  the  table.  The  wavering  flame  threw weird
 highlights on  the dead  captain's skull.  Sturm wrung  out his
 kerchief and draped it over the skull.
  "He does tend  to stare  at you,  doesn't he?"  said Kitiara.
 She  put  out a  hand to  steady herself.  The deck  was rising
 and falling with the regularity of a water wheel.
  "We'll have to trim the sails," Sturm said. "If the  right gust
 hits us, we'll capsize."
   "I'm not going up any rigging in that blow," she replied.
 Out  came  his  sword.  "You won't  have to.  I'll cut  all the
 stays on the lowest sails. They'll blow  away, and  that should
 do it." He went to the cabin door.
 "Wait," she said. She found  a painter  line in  the captain's
 locker  and  brought  it  over.  "Hold your  arms up."  He did,
 and  Kitiara  reached  around  his  chest  and  tied  the line.
 "Don't do any swimming while you're gone," she said.
   He lowered his arms. "I'll try not to."
   Sturm  threw  open  the  door and  received the  storm's full
 blast. He staggered to the  mainmast and  slashed the  lines to
 the  mainsail.  The  torn  canvas  flopped  like  a  live thing,
 crackling  out  from  the  main  yard. He  ducked under  it and
 pushed  on  to the  foremast, likewise  hacking away  the stays
 there. With only topsails and spritsail set, the going was eas-
 ier. Sturm made it back to the sterncastle.
  "It is steadier," Kitiara said.
  "What do we do now'!" asked Sturm as water dripped
 from his clothes and hair.
  "Let's explore below," Kit suggested.
  "Have you forgotten the curse?"
 Her  amusement  evaporated.  "I   haven't  forgotten.   But  if
 this is a sample  of what's  on board,  I'm not  much worried."
 She  patted  the  captain's  kerchief-covered  skull.  The head
 toppled off the neck bones and hit the table  with a  thump. It
 lay, eyes up, staring at the mortal intruders on its ship.

                       Chapter 33

                   The Wizard's Seal

       A narrow hatch covered a ladder that led down
 into the caravel's dark bowels. Kitiara lay flat on her belly
 and poked the candle into the hole.  Warm stagnant  air waft-
 ed  out,  but  no  obvious  danger  loomed. She  climbed down
 and Sturm followed, hand on the pommel of his sword.
 They'd  entered  nothing  more  interesting  than  the ship's
 rope locker. It  contained only  rope, sailcloth,  and chain.
 Kitiara  poked  around,  looking for  more treasure.  All she
 found were dead rats. Like everything else dead on  the ship,
 the rats were a mere jumble of bones.
 "Isn't it strange," Sturm whispered, "that  all we  ever find
 are bones?"
 They passed  through a  light wooden  partition into  a larg-
 er space, a cargo area. Here Kitiara's candle shone  on some-

  thing  more sinister  than rope  and cloth.  They had  found an
  armory, replete  with swords,  spears, shields,  bronze breast-
  plates, shirts of mail, lances, bows, blocks of lead  for sling
  pellets - enough to equip a small army.
    "These  are  dwarf-forged  shields,"  Sturm  said,  pushing a
  round  buckler aside  with his  toe. "See,  they have  the mark
  of  the  Thorbardin  Armorers'  Guild.  That  breastplate bears
  the  mark  of  the  Thanes  of  Zhaman."   He  picked   up  the
  breastplate. The cold iron was polished to  a finish  like mir-
  rored silver, and though fully a third of an inch thick, it was
  remarkably light.
    "These  are  first-quality  arms. Why  would pirates  need so
  many weapons?" he said.
    "Maybe they are captured stocks."
    "Maybe,  but  space  is  precious aboard  a ship.  They might
  keep good items for their own use, but not this many."
    "What's through there?" Kitiara hissed, pointing forward.
    "Forecastle. Where the crew sleeps."
   They stepped over the door sill and beheld a terrible sight.
  The forecastle was full of skeletons.
    Row  upon  row  of clean  white bones  lay huddled  on either
  side  of  the  ship.  Some were  stretched out,  others knotted
  with the agony they had borne  until death.  Not all  the bones
  were  human.  Some,  by  their  shape  and  size,  belonged  to
  dwarves.  Others,  smaller  bones,  may  have  been  kender  or
  gnomes.  There  was  one  thing  the  skeletons had  in common:
  They were all chained together at the ankles.
    "I don't like this. There  has been  great evil  here," Sturm
  hissed. "Come." He backed out.
    "What's up front of that room?" Kitiara wondered.
    "The  bury  of  the  bowsprit. Where  the anchors  are kept."
    In  the  center  of  the  armory  was  a large  square hatch,
  which  Sturm  said  led  to  the hold.  Removing the  hatch was
  not  easy.  Someone had  secured it  to the  deck with  a dozen
  large iron bolts. Sturm  tried to  figure out  the best  way to
  remove  them, but  Kitiara simply  took a  battle axe  from the
  cache of weapons and bashed the heads off several bolts.
    "Stop!" he demanded. "Did you ever think that hatch
  might be fastened down to keep something in?"
    She  paused  in  midswing.  "No,"  she  said and  brought the

 axe down on the next bolt. --- Some txt ---     , those poor dev-
 ils died of plague or something. You and I  are the  first living
 souls  on  board  in  months,  maybe,  so  what  we find  is ours
 by  right of  salvage." She  decapitated the  last bolt.  "If you
 want a share, you'd better help me."
  Reluctantly,   Sturm   got   his   fingers  under   the  hatch's
 flange, and together they  lifted it  off. The  stout lid  of oak
 and copper fell aside, landing on  a pile  of armor.  The ringing
 boom echoed through the caravel.
       Kitiara thrust her candle into the opening. A cold draft
 flowed  out,  so  she  shielded  the  flame  with  her  hand. The
 weak amber globe of light fell over the open hold.
  It was empty.
  A  wide  set of  plank steps  led down.  Kitiara lowered  a foot
 to the first step.
  "Don't," warned Sturm.
  "What's the matter with you? A few skulls and bones, and
 suddenly you're afraid of your own shadow. Where's your
 curiosity? Where's your knightly valor?"
  "Alive and well, thank you."
  She   dropped   down   a   few   more  steps.   "Coming,  then?"
 Sturm held up  one finger  and went  to the  pile of  shields. He
 found  a  buckler  of  good  dwarven  make  and  slipped  it over
 his arm. Thus reinforced, he followed Kitiara into the hold.
  "It's very black in here," she said. A post at  the foot  of the
 steps  proved  to  be   coated  with   a  greasy   black  powder.
 "Soot?" she said.
  "Hmm,   yes."   Sturm   went   down  on   one  knee.   The  deck
 was  charred.  "There  was  a  fire  down  here." He  brushed off
 his fingertips. "This ship's lucky to be afloat." Fire at sea was
 one of the worst fates a ship could face.
  "Is there anything below this floor?" Kitiara asked.
  "Just  the  bilge."  Something  caught  the  candlelight. Sturm
 waved her to him. "Bring the light here," he whispered.
  "What  is  it?" On  the deck  a few  feet to  the right  of the
 steps  were  four  long  scratches,  so  deep  that  they  scored
 through  the  charred  wood's  surface  to the  lighter, unburned
 wood  beneath.  The  scratches  were   three  inches   apart  and
 almost a foot long.
  "What do you make of that?" Sturm asked.

 Kitiara drew her sword. "Claw marks," she said grimly.
 Toward  the  bow,  a  massive  half cylinder  descending from
 the  ceiling divided  the bulkhead  in two.  This was  the lower
 end  of  the  mainmast.  On each  side of  the mast  were doors.
 Both  had  been  hastily  but solidly  blocked with  boards. The
 barricade on the right of the mast  was intact;  the one  on the
 left was burst asunder - from the other side.
   "Whatever it was, it came through here," said Kitiara.
   "It?"
   She  didn't  answer,  but stepped carefully through  the shat-
 tered  barrier  into  the  forward  hold.  Sturm   couldn't  fit
 through  the  hole,  so  he  broke  out a  few more  boards. The
 charred planks split loudly.
   The forward hold  was  even colder  than the  aft one.  It was
 not  sooted  by  fire.  They  found  more  bones,  broken swords
 and  cutlasses,  and  smashed  helmets  -  the  remnants   of  a
 fierce  fight. Kitiara  almost tripped  over another  form, this
 one still clad in  a moldering  brown robe.  Where she  had dis-
 turbed the robe there was a glint of gold.
 "This  was  a  cleric,"  Sturm  said.  "The  robe,  the amulets,
 are the kind  a holy  man would  wear." He  groped in  the folds
 of the  robe and  pulled out  a necklace  wrought in  copper. He
 held  it  to  the  candle.  "A  rose. The  symbol of  Majere. At
 least he  served a  good god."  He laid  the necklace  down rev-
 erently on the dusky cloth.
 Kitiara  moved  on  to  the  facing  wall. A  ladder was  set in
 the  wall,  going  up  to  the  forecastle. Halfway  up, someone
 had  sawed  the  rungs  off.  The  stout  base  of  the foremast
 intruded  into the  hold here,  too, and  beside it  was another
 boarded-up door. This one was intact.
 "Sturm,  come  here!"  He  stepped  over the  cleric's skeleton.
 Kitiara  thrust  her  candle  to  the  battened   door.  Scarlet
 threads  were  woven  back  and forth  across the  rough barrier
 and gathered in a  knot in  the center  of the  door. A  blob of
 sealing  wax  held  the  threads  together, and  in the  wax was
 the impression of a ring seal.
 "Can you read it?" she asked.
 Sturm squinted at the image. "'Majere protect us' and
 'Obey  the will  of Novantumus'."  He looked  back at  the cler-
 ic's remains. "He must have been Novantumus."

   Kitiara put the point  of her  sword to  the wax  seal. "What
 do you think you're doing?" he said.
   "There's  something  valuable  on  the  other side  of this
 door," she said. "I want to see what it is."
   "It could be what killed all these men!"
   She rapped  on the  door. "Hello,  any monsters  in there?"
   The  only  sounds  were  the  steady,  muffled  roar  of  the
 storm outside  and the  creaking of  the ship's  timbers. "See,
 no danger."
   Sturm  pulled  her roughly  away. "I  won't let  you tamper
 with it!"
   "You  won't  - !"  She snatched  her arm  free of  his grasp.
 "Since when do you give me orders, Sturm Brightblade?"
   "I won't let you break that  seal. It  could mean  our deaths."
   Kitiara  cut  at  the  door.  Sturm  flung  the shield  out and
 deflected the  blow. Kitiara  uttered an  angry snort.  She set
 the  candle  down  and  assumed  fighting  stance.  "Out  of my
 way!" she declared.
   "Will  you think  what you're  doing? Do  you want  to fight,
 just  to  open  that  door?  Look  around,  Kit.  Do  you think
 plague smashed up these armed men?"
   "So they killed each  other fighting  over the  treasure. Out
 of the way!"
   Sturm  started  to  reply,  but  Kitiara  lunged  at  him. He
 backed  away,  unwilling  to  use  his  own  sword.  Sturm kept
 the shield up, fending off her cuts. This went on until Kitiara
 grew  frustrated.  She  aimed  a  wild  overhand  slash  at his
 head.  Her blade  hit the  shield a  glancing blow  and skidded
 off. The arc of her cut  ended against  the door  and shattered
 the brittle wax seal.
   "Now you've done it," he said, panting.
   Kitiara flung herself, sword  and all,  at the  door. Sturm
 stared  in  amazement  as  she  pressed  herself  against the
 wood. "At last," she said. "At last!"
   There  was  a  split  second  of  silence, then  a tremendous
 crash.  Kitiara's  sword  was  knocked  from  her  hand  as she
 flew  backward  and  landed  with  a  clatter among  the bones.
 The  center  board  was  bowed   outward  and   cracked.  Sturm
 tossed the shield aside and  went to  help Kitiara  stand. From
 inside  there  came  another  crash,  and  the board  above the

 first one flexed out.
   "What is it?" Kitiara cried.
   "I don't know, but it's coming out of there. Let's go!"
   They  fled  in  such  haste  that  they forgot  the candle.
 Through  the  sooty  midnight of  the aft  hold they  ran and
 stumbled up the stairs to  the armory.  Kitiara made  for the
 rope  locker.  Sturm  called  her  back.  "Help  me  with the
 hatch," he said.
   They wrestled the heavy  hatch into  place and  dropped it.
 Then it was through the rope locker and up the ladder  to the
 captain's cabin. Kitiara  dragged some  heavy chests  over to
 block  the  ladder  well.  Rain  drummed  on  the  poop  deck
 above  them,  and  wind  whistled  around the  louvered shut-
 ters. They stood close together in  the dark,  breathing hard
 and listening.
   The  deck  trembled  beneath  their  feet  and  they  heard
 wood  breaking.  The  thing,  whatever  it was,  was smashing
 its way out.
   "I lost my sword," she  said, deeply  ashamed. She,  a sea-
 soned  warrior,  had  lost  her  only  weapon  when  she fell
 among the skeletons.
   "It doesn't matter,"  Sturm said.  "Swords didn't  save the
 crew of this ship."
   "Thanks," she said wryly. "--- Some txt missing---"
   Metal  rang  and rattled.  'It' was  in the  armory. Sturm
 flexed  his damp  hand around  the handle  of his  sword. The
 uproar below got  worse as  the thing  expended its  anger on
 the store of weapons. From  the crash  and clang,  it sounded
 like every item in the cache was being battered, twisted, and
 crushed. Then, abruptly, all the noise ceased.
   Sturm  and  Kitiara,  by  some  common impulse,  drew clos-
 er together. Their arms touched in the dark.
   "Can you hear anything?" he whispered.
   "Just  you.  Shh." They  strained to  catch any  stray sound.
   The  cabin  door  blew open  with a  bang. Rain  poured in.
 Sturm struggled to close the door against the press  of wind.
 By  the  greenish  gray  light that  filtered in  through the
 cyclone, he saw  that the  main hatch  cover, forward  of the
 mainmast, was blasted off.
    "It's gone out on deck!" he shouted above the wind. "It

 could be anywhere!"
   "We'll have to close that hatch," she said. "Or the ship will
 flood,  yes?"  He  nodded.  Sturm   felt  exhausted.   At  that
 moment,  he  wondered  what  silliness the  gnomes were  up to,
 and fervently wished he was with them to see it.
   "Ready?"  said  Kitiara. She  threw the  bolt back,  and they
 plunged out onto the storm-swept deck.
   They  were  soaked  with  sea  water  before  they  took  two
 steps. The heel of  the ship  with the  waves was  more notice-
 able on deck. Mountains of green  water rose  and fell  and the
 horizon  swung  from below  eye level  to nearly  the masthead.
 Holding  hands,  Sturm  and  Kitiara  staggered  to  the  main-
 mast.  The  hatch  cover  was  not  just  thrown  open;  gaping
 rents were torn in it. Sturm lost his  footing twice  as foaming
 sea swept over him. Finally,  on their  knees, they  managed to
 get the hatch back over its coaming.
   High above the rumble of  the churning  sea, a  shrill cackle
 reached them. Sturm  looked left  and right  for the  source of
 the  sound; Kitiara  looked up  and down.  She spied  the thing
 clinging to the rigging high over their heads.
 -s' It  was a  horrid-looking thing,  ghastly white  and gaunt.
 Except  for  its  abnormal  size,  it  might  have been  a man,
 starved and sallow. But this creature was seven feet  tall. Its
 protruding  eyes  were like  red burning  coals, and  its hands
 were clawed with  silver nails  two inches  long. The  head was
 round and  hairless, the  ears tall  and pointed.  The creature
 threw  back  its  head  and howled,  showing long  yellow fangs
 and a pointed black tongue.
   "Suffering gods! What is it?"
   "I don't know. Look out!" The creature sprang from the
 rigging  to  the  stays  hanging  from  the foremast.  It swung
 under the spar and flipped over until its feet  were on  top of
 the yard. There it howled at them again.
   They  backed  cautiously  across the  wet deck,  ignoring the
 lashing  rain  and pounding  sea. Once  inside the  cabin, they
 slammed the door and bolted it.
   Kitiara turned. A strange white glow filled  the rear  of the
 cabin. They were no longer alone there, either.

                      Chappter 34
                   Pyrthis's Tale

     The cold white light collected into a human form six
 feet tall. Kitiara pointed her sadly bent dagger at the appari-
 tion, but Sturm pushed the weapon down.
 "In  the  name of  Paladine and  all the  Gods of  Good, depart
 in peace, spirit," he said.
        The cabin filled with a deep, long sigh. "Would that I
 could depart," said a low voice.  "For I  am tired  beyond mea-
 sure and desire rest."
 "Who are you?" asked Kitiara.
 "In life  I was  master of  this vessel.  My name  is Pyrthis."
 "He  doesn't  seem  dangerous,"  Kitiara  muttered   to  Sturm,
 "but let's find a safer spot from that creature outside."
 "The  Gharm will  not enter  this cabin,"  the ghost  said, "as
 long  as  I  am  here."  Outside,  the hellish  thing shrieked,

 acknowledging the truth of the dead captain's words.
    "What is the Gharm?" asked Sturm.
    The  indistinct  figure  drew   closer  and   became  more
 defined. Its legs did not move, and its arms stayed  firmly by
 its sides. The ghost glided forward until Sturm and  Kit could
 see deep, hollow eyes and a jaw  that hung  open, as  slack as
 the face of a corpse. The  voice issued  from the  mouth with-
 out the lips moving at all.
   "Once he was my friend, and then  a curse  laid us  all low.
 He became  the Gharm,  I, a  walking spirit,  and the  crew of
 the Werival died in torment."
   "Spirits  walk  for  two  reasons:  to  right  an  unavenged
 wrong, and to give warning to  the living.  Which is  it, Cap-
 tain?  Why  do  you  remain  on  this  mortal   plane?"  asked
 Sturm.
   Another  mournful  sigh.  "Know,  my  friends,  that  I bar-
 gained with the forces of evil and lost." The ghost came clos-
 er still, enough for Kitiara to  see its  dead white  eyes and
 corpse pallor.
   "I  was  a  merchant  captain,  bold  and  enterprising, who
 never turned down a cargo for money. I  plied the  Sirrion Sea
 and  traded  north  and east  to the  Blood Sea  maelstrom. In
 my time, I carried all goods - from spices to slaves."
   Sturm  frowned. "You  trafficked in  misery," he  said flatly.
   "Aye,  I  did. Thank  your gods  that you  still live  and can
 make  amends  for  any  evil  deeds you  have committed!  I am
 past saving now."
   The  poop  deck  overhead  resounded   with  the   tramp  of
 feet.  Kitiara  listened  nervously  as  the Gharm  stamped on
 the boards. "What is that thing?" she demanded.
   "Once my first mate and friend, Drott, who I trained in all
 the wily  ways I  knew. Our  coffers grew  fat and  heavy with
 gold, and I grew satisfied, as men in  their waning  years are
 wont  to  do.  But  Drott  was  young  and  keen   and  always
 searching  for the  richest commission  to be  made. It  was a
 fateful day when he fell in with the scaled warriors."
   Sturm  had  a  glimmer  of  recognition.  "Do you  mean dra-
 conians'?" he asked.
   "Aye,  some   have  called   them  thus."   Pyrthis's  ghost
 loomed  over  Sturm.  Though  seemingly  benign,  its presence

 was oppressive, and Sturm began to sweat.
   "The  dragonmen  had  a  rich  proposition:  that we  carry a
 shipment   of  weapons   and  money   for  them   from  Nordmaar
 to  Coastlund,   there  to   rendezvous  with   other  dragonmen
 arriving  from  the  northern  seas.  Drott accepted  their com-
 mission  and  their  money,  thus  damning  us  all."  The ghost
 made  a  horrible  rasping  sound.  "I   am  so   weary..."  The
 dead  man's  left  arm  came  loose from  his shoulder  and fell
 silently to the floor. Kitiara flinched at the sight,  more from
 surprise than disgust. She bent  to pick  up the  gently glowing
 limb, but her hand passed right through it.
   "We   loaded   sixty  hundredweight   of  arms,   and  weighed
 anchor  for  Coastlund.  We  had a  fair wind  and made  a swift
 passage.  On  the  way,  Drott  schemed  and  plotted.  He  drew
 me  into  his  plan, which  was this:  Since the  dragonmen were
 barbarians  and  invaders,  why  should  we  not  hold  them  up
 for  as  much  gold  as  we  could?  They  would  pay  doubly or
 triply  for their  swords, and  we would  have nothing  to fear.
 Who  could  they  complain  to?  Their  purpose  was  even  more
 illicit than ours.
   "I fell in with Drott's scheme. In truth, I despised the scaly
 killers  and  feared  them  greatly. To  cheat them  seemed both
 just and profitable."
   The  ghost  paused and  the silence  grew long.  Sturm finally
 said, "What happened when you reached Coastlund?"
   Rasp.  "A  dragonship  was  there,  waiting.  The   leader  of
 the  dragonmen  came  aboard  to  accept  transfer of  the weap-
 ons.  Drott  laid  out  his  demand for  more money.  The leader
 must  have  expected  such  a  ploy, for  he readily  offered to
 pay  half  again the  original price.  Drott insisted  on double
 the  amount.  The  lizard  resisted for  a time,  then conceded.
 He departed for his  ship and  returned with  a second  chest of
 treasure.  This  time  a  human  came  with  him, a  dark cleric
 wearing  a  metal  mask  that  mimicked  a  dragon's  face. This
 one  frightened  me  very  much.  He  stood  by,   watching  and
 saying  nothing.  Drott  laughed  and  joked  as the  second box
 of  money  came  on  board.  He  was  drunk  with  success,  and
 when  I  ordered  the crew  to begin  transferring the  cargo to
 the  dragonship,  he  drew  me   aside  and   whispered  another
 wicked design in my ear.  'Shall we  not keep  some part  of the

  cargo ourselves?' he said.  'Could we  not wring  a bit  more sil-
  ver from these flush pigeons?"'
    "That  was  pretty stupid,"  Kitiara said,  "with a  boatload of
  draconians alongside."
    "We  did  not  fear  their  force,  for  our  crew  was numerous
  and skilled in the  use of  saber and  pike. We  did not  sail the
  pirate-infested seas unprepared."
    "But  the  dark  cleric -  that was  someone you  weren't able
  to counter," said Sturm.
    "Indeed,  mortal  man."  The  ghost's  right arm  dropped off.
  Part  of  the  unreal  flesh  touched  Sturm's  booted  foot. He
  withdrew  it  hastily  and  shivered.  The  ghost's   touch  was
  more frigid than the wind off the Ice Wall.
    "We  held  back   five  hundredweight   of  arms.   The  dragon-
  men's  leader  discovered  the  shortage  and   complained.  Drott
  jeered at him from the  rail, saying  there was  a tax  on illegal
  weapons  and  the  dragonfolk   had  yet   to  pay.   The  dragon-
  man  threatened  to  storm  the  Werival  and  slaughter  us  all.
  The  crew   manned  the   rail  with   bare  blades   and  taunted
  them  to  try.  The  dragonmen,  less  than  a  third  our number,
  began  to  arm.  I  wanted  to  weigh  anchor  and  be   off,  but
  Drott  said  we  should  stay  and  fight.  After  we  killed  the
  scaly  folk,  he said,  we could  take back  all the  weapons we'd
  sold them and sell them again.
    "There  was  no  battle.  The  dark cleric  came from  his place
  on  the  stern  of  the  dragonship  and  threw  his   arms  wide.
  'Go,  greedy  vermin,  and  take  away  your  dishonored  gold.  I
  curse  you  and  yours  forever!  Those  who  lust for  gold shall
  lust for the flesh of their fellows,  those who  jeer at  the min-
  ions  of  the  Dark  Queen  shall  know  her  wrath!   They  shall
  hear her mocking laughter forever! ' he said.
    "It was a terrible curse, and the full weight of it did not fall
  on  us  for  some  weeks.  We  left  the  shores of  Coastlund for
  Sancrist,  but  never  saw  land  again.  Strange,  circular winds
  blew  us  farther  and  farther  from  land.  The  crew  began  to
  hear  voices  -  a  woman   laughing  -   and  they   slowly  went
  mad.   The  few   healthy  sailors   that  remained   chained  the
  mad  ones  below  decks.  Food  and  water  dwindled,  but  try as
  we might, we could not bring the Werival to shore.
            "Drott changed. He had always been a vain man, proud

  of  his quick  mind and  good looks.  Now he  ceased to  care for
  himself, allowing his beard to grow  and his  clothes to  fall to
  tatters.  The  meat  shrank on  his bones  and his  skin whitened
  to  a  ghastly  color.  As  the  days passed,  my first  mate and
  friend   perished   as   the  hideous   curse  worked   upon  his
  wretched  body.  Drott  prowled  below,   snaring  rats   in  his
  hands  and  eating  them  alive.  Soon rats  were not  enough for
  him.  He  had  become  a  Gharm,  a  ravenous  ghoul  that  feeds
  on the flesh of men."
    "Why  didn't  you   kill  him?"   Kitiara  said   sharply.  The
  drumming of feet had stopped, but they could still hear the
  Gharm's cackle as the monster capered madly in the rigging.
    "I could not,  for as  much as  his new  form disgusted  me, I
  pitied  my  lost  friend.  The  crew,  poor wretches,  learned to
  keep  him  at  bay  by  giving  him  those  who  died  of madness
  and  starvation.  When  there  were  only  five  sound  men left,
  they  decided  to  try  to  put an  end to  the Gharm.  Our young
  cleric, Novantumus, wove a temporary protective spell.
  The  sailors  armed  themselves  and  drove  the  Gharm   to  the
  fore  end   of  the   ship  with   fire  and   sword.  Novantumus
  meant  to  imprison  the  fiend  in  the  anchor  locker,  and he
  fashioned a  magic seal  to keep  it in. The Gharm  attacked the
  men  savagely  and  killed  them  one  by  one.  With  his life's
  blood  spilling  on  the  deck,  the  brave  Novantumus  succeed-
  ed  in  compelling  the  Gharm  into the  locker. I  alone lived,
  and here at my table I died of hunger, thirst, and despair."
    The  ghost  had  shrunk  throughout his  telling, and  the cold
  glare that it cast had diminished to  a firefly's  sparkle. Sturm
  was deeply sorry for the captain.
    "One  question,"  said Kitiara.  She picked  up the  skull that
  had been set between the captain's feet. "Who is this?"
    "That was Drott's head. One of  the sailors  cut it  off before
  the Gharm killed him."
    "But that thing out there has a head!"
    "A new one it grew afterward."
    Sturm said, "Can the Gharm be killed?"
    The ghost shriveled to a slender coil of white mist. "Not
  by steel, iron, or bronze," it said, a tiny, far-off voice. "Only
  purifying  fire  will  make  this ship  clean." With  those final
  words, the ghost vanished.

     "This is wonderful," Kitiara said  bitterly. "A  monster we
  can't kill unless we burn up the ship that's keeping us out of
  the water!"
     "What  we  must  do is  stay alive  until the  storm ends,"
  Sturm said. "The gnomes will be  looking for  us and  we'll be
  able to leave this cursed ship -"  A splintering  sound halted
  Sturm  in  midsentence.  The  Gharm   had  rammed   one  bony,
  clawed  arm  through  the  thin, louvered  panel of  the cabin
  door.
     "Something  tells  me  our  moment  of immunity  is over!"
  Kitiara  said.  Sturm leaped  up from  the table,  drawing his
  sword  in  one  smooth  motion.  He  brought  the  keen  blade
  down  hard  on  the  grasping  talons.  The  Gharm  roared  in
  pain and withdrew the stump of its left arm.
     "Suffering  gods!"  Kitiara  kicked  the severed  arm away.
  The  limb  rapidly  decayed  to  bone, and  then to  dust. The
  Gharm put one  of its  baleful eyes  to the  hole that  it had
  made  and glared  at them.  Sturm raised  his sword  again and
  the monster backpedaled.
     Kitiara  went  to  the  cabin's  rear  and  started tearing
  through the captain's bunk.
    "Kit, what are you doing?" he called.
    "Don't  worry,  just keep  that damned  thing away  a minute
  longer!"  He  heard  wood  being split  behind him,  then felt
  heat on the back of his neck.
    Sturm  turned and  saw that  Kitiara had  made a  torch from
  a bunk slat and a strip of ticking. Doused  with oil  from the
  captain's lamp and ignited by flint, it blazed furiously.
    "Ha! Try this, ghoul!" she  shouted, brandishing  the flame
  before  the  door.  The  Gharm  howled  and hissed,  its fangs
  dripping saliva. "I'll give you something  to chew  on." Kiti-
  ara  kicked  the  smashed  door  frame  open.  The   rain  had
  almost stopped, but a fierce wind still raged across  the open
  deck. Kitiara dashed out, whipping the torch  to and  fro like
  a  fencing  blade. The  Gharm crouched  back on  its rail-thin
  haunches, spitting and hissing.
    "Kit, be careful!"
    "It's my fault this thing is out. I intend to kill it!"
    She moved on the ghoul again, forcing it to retreat up the
    rigging. It hung twenty feet above the deck, giggling in an

 obscene  parody  of  humanity.  Kitiara  paced  below  it, wav-
 ing the torch to keep it bright and hot.
   Sturm closed behind  her. "Don't  let it  drop down  on you,"
 he counseled.
   "If it does, it'll go back up a lot faster than it  came down."
   The ceiling  of black  clouds scattered  into streams  of dirty
 white as  the blue  of clear  sky shone  through. The  wind had
 died  down  but  did not  cease. They  were in  the eye  of the
 cyclone, the calm center of a miles-wide storm.
   The  Gharm  swung  over  to  the  port side  rigging. Kitiara
 followed  across the  deck. She  was so  intent on  keeping the
 fiend in view that  she missed  the end  of the  mainsail Sturm
 had  cut  free.  The  heavy,  flapping  canvas was  soaked with
 rain, and one  corner of  it whipped  around and  slapped Kiti-
 ara between the  eyes. She  fell backward  and lost  the torch.
 As the sail struck her, the Gharm pounced.
   "No!" Sturm cried. He  was on  the fiend's  back in  a flash,
 slashing at its pale, leathery hide. The ghoul  had one  set of
 talons deep in Kitiara's shoulder, but  Sturm's attack  made it
 let go. He  inflicted wounds  that would  have killed  a mortal
 foe,  but  the  Gharm  wasn't  slowed.   A  detached   part  of
 Sturm's  mind  noted  that  the  ghoul  already had  grown back
 the arm that he'd chopped off.
   Kitiara  pushed  herself  away  from  the duel  between Sturm
 and   the  Gharm.   Her  shoulder   wound  burned   like  Bell-
 crank's vitriol. She crawled  to where  the torch  lay charring
 the deck. In her pants' pocket she still had the tin can of oil
 from  the  captain's  storm  lamp.  At  the right  moment, when
 Sturm gave ground to the monster,  she flung  the oil  over the
 Gharm, and with it the torch.
   It was scarcely a cupful of oil, but  it burned  rapidly, and
 the  Gharm  yowled  in  unimaginable pain.  It threw  itself on
 the deck and rolled  to put  out the  flames. Failing  that, it
 leaped up and ran  forward, burning  as it  went, and  tore off
 the  hatch  cover.  The  Gharm  disappeared  below,  trailing a
 thin plume of putrid smoke.
   Sturm  knelt  and  put  an  arm  around  Kitiara.  Her  teeth
 chattered. She had been poisoned by the ghoul's vile talons.
   "Kitl  Kit!"  Her  eyes  were  almost completely  white, they
 had rolled so far back in her head. "Kit,  listen to  me! Don't

 give up! Fight it! Fight it!"
   Her  hand  came trembling  to her  throat. There,  under the
 thin  fabric  of her  blouse was  the amethyst  arrowhead pen-
 dant  that  Tirolan  Ambrodel  had  given  her  so  many weeks
 before.  Drained  of  color  before they  met the  gnomes, the
 crystal's magic  had been  restored by  the days  they'd spent
 on Lunitari for it  now was  a rich,  royal purple.  The stone
 had not surrendered its power upon its return to Krynn.
   Kitiara's fingers would  not grasp  the amethyst.  They were
 already stiff and cold. Sturm gently lifted the magic crystal.
 Was there enough power in  it to  save Kit's  life? Did  he, a
 sworn opponent of magic, dare use it to heal her?
   Her  breath  came short,  in hard,  ragged gasps.  Death had
 Kitiara  in  its  grasp. There  was no  time to  debate. Sturm
 closed the amethyst in his fist and placed  his other  hand on
 Kitiara's injured shoulder.
  "Forgive me, father," he whispered. "This is for  her life."
   The  stone was  hot for  the merest  second, but  not enough
 to burn him. Kitiara gave a sharp  cry and  then went  limp in
 his  arms.  He thought  he was  too late,  that she  was dead.
 Sturm opened his fingers, to see that  the amethyst  was clear
 again.  He  peeled  back  the  bloody  cloth over  Kit's wound
 and saw that it was healed.
   Smoke  from  the  hatch  was getting  thicker. Sturm  put an
 arm under Kitiara's legs  and staggered  to his  feet. Muffled
 screams  filtering  through  the  open  hatch proved  that the
 Gharm hadn't yet overcome the fire.
   The  smoke  got  so  bad  that Sturm  retreated to  the poop
 deck, carrying Kitiara. The wind switched  from port  to star-
 board, never allowing the ship  to drive  clear of  the fumes.
 When  the  first  tongues  of  flame licked  out of  the hold,
 Sturm felt real fear. How could  they escape  if the  ship was
 on fire? The Werival's longboat was missing.
   At  that  moment,  the wall  of rain  off the  starboard bow
 parted,  and  out  came  the  brown  hull of  the Cloudmaster.
 The flying  ship was  skimming over  the waves  so low  that a
 few  high  swells  lapped the  bottom of  her hull.  Sturm saw
 the gnomes at the bow, waving white handkerchiefs.
   A  great  shout of  triumph escaped  his throat.  "Kit, wake
 up!" he cried. "Kit, the gnomes are coming! We're saved!"

    Fire blasted out of the fore hatch, and with it, the figure of
  the  Gharm.  Blazing  from  head  to  toe,  the   hideous  ghoul
  bounced  from  bulwark  to  bulwark,  shrieking its  cursed life
  away.  Unable  to  bear  the  burning  any  longer,   the  ghoul
  finally dived into the churning waves.
    The  bows  were  burning  now,  and  the  foremast  was begin-
  ning  to  smolder.  The  Cloudmaster  drifted  past  the  stern.
  Sturm  left  Kitiara  lying  on  the  deck  and  grabbed  a boat
  hook  from  the  rail. As  the gnome  ship coasted  slowly along
  the port side, Sturm hooked it and drew it  tightly to  the car-
  avel.
    The  gnomes  clutched  the  Werival's  sides  as  Sturm lifted
  the limp Kitiara  over his  shoulder. He  sprinted for  the rail
  and  leaped,  one  foot  kicking the  rail top  as he  went. The
  gnomes let go, and the Cloudmaster sank toward the sea.
    "Too   much   weight!"   Wingover   cried.   "Out   ballast!'
  Amidships,   Sighter,  Cutwood,   and  Birdcall   threw  doors,
  window  glass,  and  other  loose  objects  over the  side. The
  ship rose again into the low clouds.
    "W-welcome aboard!" Stutts said heartily.
    "Glad  to  be  here,"  Sturm  said with  genuine relief.  He lay
  sprawled on the deck.
    "What happened down there? asked Wingover.
    "It's a long story."
    "Is  the  lady  well? She  seems unconscious,"  said Sighter.
  He lifted one of her arms and let it fall.
    "She'll  be  all  right,"  Sturm  said. The  Cloudmaster broke
  through the  top of  the clouds.  Below, the  cyclone's whirling
  mass spread out in all its glory. The gnomes  set the  sails and
  put the setting sun to their backs.
    "It was very clever of you to start  a signal  fire," Wingover
  said. "But it  got out  of hand,  didn't it?  I mean,  you might
  have destroyed the whole ship before we ever arrived."
    Sturm  felt  a  crazy  desire  to  laugh.  Instead,  he  said,
  "That's  not  the  way things  went." He  paused to  yawn prodi-
  giously.
    "Did  you  find  anything  useful  on  that  vessel?"  Sighter
  asked. But by then Sturm was already fast asleep.

                         Chapter 35

                      The Road to Garnet

       Sturm smelled land: wet soil and flowers and fresh-
 ly turned fields. The  sun was  in his  eyes. He  sat up.  He was
 in   the   wheelhouse,   alone.  The   windows  and   doors  were
 gone,  as  was most  of the  roof. He  went out  on deck.  At the
 bow  was  Sighter,  surveying  the  ground  below with  his tele-
 scope. Aft, by the former tail post, sat Kitiara, Stutts, Fitter,
 and  Rainspot.  Kitiara  was  talking  rapidly  and  making  wild
 gestures with her hands.
    "- and then Sturm stepped in  and chopped  the monster's
 arm off!" The gnomes all went Ohh, and Kitiara described
 how the arm had withered before their very eyes.
    Stutts saw  Sturm   approach.   "Ah,   Master   B-Brightblade!
 You're  awake.  We  are  just  hearing  about  your  t-tremendous
 adventure on board the cursed c-caravel."

 Sturm grunted something noncommittal and looked at
 Kitiara. "How do you feel?" he asked.
   "Fit as can be. How're you7"
   "Rested," he said. "How long have I been asleep?"
   "T-two nights and a day," said Stutts.
   "Two nights!"
   "And a day," added Fitter.
   "I came to about an hour ago," Kitiara said."I slept like a
 dead woman, but now I  feel better  than I  have in  ten sum-
 mers."
   "You almost were a  dead   woman."  Sturm   explained  how
 the Gharm had poisoned her and told her  that the  elven pen-
 dant  had  saved  her  once again.  Kitiara brought  the ame-
 thyst out of her blouse. Not only was it clear once more, but
 it was seamed with hundreds of tiny cracks.
   "I don't remember using it," she said, puzzled.
   "You didn't. I did," said Sturm. Kitiara's eyes  widened in
 surprise.
   He turned and went into the dining room. There the
 water  barrel  sat, almost  empty. Sturm  downed a  dipper of
 tepid water.
   Outside, Wingover said, "I thought men of his order
 would not use magic under any circumstance."
   "They're not supposed to,"  Kitiara said.  She began  to tuck
 the pendant back under her blouse, but as  she did,  it crum-
 bled into dust. She stared sadly at the flakes on  her tunic;
 Tirolan  Ambrodel's  gift  was no  more. Then,  brushing them
 away, she rose and said to the  gnomes, "Excuse  me, fellows.
 I need to have a word with Sturm."
 Kitiara found  Sturm standing  by the  port rail,  staring at
 the green land below.
   "Northern Ergoth," she said."  Wingover spotted  a flock
 of  terns and  followed them.  The birds  led them  to land."
 Sturm  stared  on,  saying nothing.  "Not very  scientific, I
 thought,  but  Wingover  says,  'Anything  that  yields  good
 results is scientific."'
   "I am tainted," Sturm said quietly.
   "In what way?"
   "I used magic. Such a thing is forbidden. How am I ever
 going to become a knight?"

   "That's  ridiculous!  You  used  magic  on Lunitari  when you
 had those visions," she said.
   "Those were inflicted on me; I  had no  choice. On  the ship,
 I used the power of the pendant to heal your wound."
   "I call that a right proper thing  to do!  Are you  sorry you
 didn't let me die?" she asked sarcastically.
   "Of course not."
   "But you're 'tainted' nevertheless?"
   "I am."
   "Then  you  are  a  fool,  Sturm  Brightblade,   a  hidebound
 fool! Do you honestly believe that an ancient set of  rules for
 knightly  conduct  is  more  important  than a  comrade's life?
 My  life?  He  did  not  answer.  "There's  something twisted
 about such thinking, Sturm."
   Sturm  shook  his  head  vigorously. "No,  Kit. I  would have
 given my life to save yours, but it is a cruel turning  of fate
 that made me break the Measure."
   Her  jaw clenched  in anger  and she  said stiffly,  "I never
 realized how  little value  you place  on friendship.  You want
 me  to  believe in  your dusty  old code.  Just like  Tanis. He
 tried  to make  me into  something I  wasn't. He  couldn't con-
 trol me, and  neither can  you!" She  stamped the  deck, barely
 containing her fury.
   Sturm  folded his  hands and  regarded them  carefully. "Vir-
 tue  is  a  hard  master, Kit.  The Measure  and the  Oath were
 never  meant  to  be  easy  burdens to  bear. A  knight carries
 them  like  ponderous  stones  on  his  back, and  their weight
 makes him strong and upright." He lifted  his gaze  until their
 eyes  met.  "You will  never understand,  because all  you want
 from life is to give your burden over to  someone else.  A lov-
 er, a servant, even  a brass  dragon. As  long as  someone else
 can bear the burden of honor for  you, you  don't have  to feel
 guilt, or face the consequences of your acts."
   Color  drained  from  her  face.  No one  had ever  spoken to
 her like that, not even Tanis. "Then this is the end," she said
 coldly.  "From  the  moment  this   soap  bubble   touches  the
 ground, we're finished."
   Kitiara left him watching  the canopy  of trees  unroll. They
 did not speak to each other again.

                   *  *  *  *  *
   "Careful! Careful! Watch those branches!"
 The  Cloudmaster  pushed  into  a  forest clearing.  Elm, ash,
 and  birch  branches  clawed  at  them.  Wingover was  atop the
 deckhouse,  trying to  direct the  landing. Flash  and Birdcall
 had opened the neck of the  ethereal air  bag, letting  some of
 the lifting power out. The flying ship had  scraped over  a few
 bald  hills before  the wind  carried it  down. Sturm  stood at
 the  bow,  fending  off  dangerous  limbs  with  the  boat hook
 from  the Werival  - his  only souvenir  of the  perilous hours
 on  the  cursed ship.  They had  no anchor,  no grapnel  to fix
 them in place, only timing and  control of  the air  bag. Flash
 and Birdcall clung  to the  rope that  held the  half-empty bag
 shut.
 Branches  scraped  the  length  of  the  deck,   snapping  when
 the  gaping  windows  of  the  deckhouse  caught   them.  Birds
 fled, chirping, when the ship disturbed their treetop homes.
  "Clearing ahead!" Sturm called.
  "Get ready!" Wingover cried.
 The bow dipped once the trees were out of the way. The
 keel  gently  touched  the  meadow's  grass,  dragged   a  few
 yards,  and  stopped.  Sturm  jammed  the  boat hook  into the
 ground  and  swung over  the rail.  He landed  on the  soil of
 Krynn with both feet.
  "Praise Paladine!" he said. "Solid ground at last!"
 The boarding ramp fell, and seven gnomes boiled out.
 Wingover  was  inhaling  deep  breaths  and patting  himself on
 the chest when he heard Birdcall whistle questioningly.
  "Can we open the bag now?" asked Flash.
  "Yes, yes, we're landed!"
 The  two  gnomes  pulled  the  zigzag  stitching loose.  A gust
 of sulfurous air fled the bag, and the exhausted craft settled,
 finally and heavily.
  Kitiara  descended   the  ramp   and  dumped   what  belongings
 she had left on the ground. In spite of the bitterness of their
 parting,  Sturm  couldn't  stop  his  eyes from  following her.
 She  paid  no one  the slightest  heed, but  stood a  ways off,
 hanging her  water bottle  and leather  pouch on  opposite hips
 to balance the load. She  slung her  bedroll over  one shoulder

 by  its  strap. Sturm  had an  urge to  speak, to  say something
 conciliatory, but her hard expression forestalled him.
      "Well, Wingover, it's been a long, strange voyage," Kiti-
 ara said, shaking the little man's hand. "I'll never forget it."
   "We couldn't have made it without you, lady."
   She  moved  on  to  Cutwood,  Sighter,  Birdcall,  and  Flash.
 "Keep  thinking  up  new  ideas,"  she  said amiably,  "That way
 the world will never get dull." She turned  to Roperig  and Fit-
 ter and chucked  the littlest  gnome under  the chin.  "So long,
 boys. Stick together - you make a good team."
   "We will," said the two in unison.
   Finally, she approached Rainspot and Stutts. "You're a
 very  lucky  fellow, Stutts,"  she said  warmly. "Not  many peo-
 ple  get  to  realize their  life's dream  as completely  as you
 have.  Keep  flying,  old  fellow.  I  hope  you will  have many
 more adventures."
   "My," said Stutts. "It d-doesn't seem likely.  I have  so many
 reports to write and s-so many lectures to give. After  all, the
 Gnomish   Patent  Office   must  be   satisfied  that   we  have
 d-done  what  we  have  done."  He  bowed  formally.  "Farewell,
 Mistress. You were a t-tower of strength."
   "I was, wasn't I?"
   "Where are you off to?" Wingover asked.
   "Wherever the trail takes me," she replied.
   Kitiara's crooked smile almost appeared. She squinted
 into the sky. It was not yet noon. The sun warmed her face.
   Sturm  stood  apart  from  her   leave-taking.  He   felt  the
 weight  of  his  own  resolve  and  knew  that what  Kitiara had
 said  was  true.  They  were  finished.  And  yet,  he  knew  he
 would miss the old Kit, the brash, fun-loving companion.
   Kitiara  crossed  the   warm  meadow   briskly  and   did  not
 look  back.  Sunlight  burnished her  black curls  as she  cut a
 swath  through  the  high  grass.  Sturm  bent over  to shoulder
 his  own  gear.  When  he straightened  again, Kitiara  had van-
 ished  among  the  closely  growing  elms  and  birches  at  the
 field's far end.
   "Aren't you going after her?" said Fitter.
   "Why should I do that?" Sturm said. He tied a thready
 piece  of  twine  around  his  bedroll and  tucked it  under his
 arm. "She can take care of  herself. It's  what she  does best."

   "I don't understand," Fitter said,  scratching his  nose. "I
 thought you two were going to get married one day."
   Sturm  dropped  his  cooking  kit at  that remark.  The clay
 pot banged him smartly  on the  toe. "Where  in the  world did
 you get an idea like that?" he asked, flabbergasted.
   "We've  always  heard   how  human   men  and   women  fight
 and yell at each  other, but  always end  up married  and, you
 know -" Fitter blushed. "Having babies."
   Sturm picked up the spilled  contents of  his kit.  "It will
 take a man with more riches and power than  I'll ever  have to
 claim her hand." He  hung the  kit bag  around his  neck. "The
 man  who  wins  Kitiara   Uth  Matar   had  better   have  the
 patience of Paladine and the wisdom of Majere to keep her."
   The  gnomes  gathered  around  him as  he adjusted  the last
 of his equipment. "Where will you go?" asked Wingover.
   "Solamnia, as before. There are  things I  must investigate.
 The  visions  I  had  on  the  red  moon  have  faded  from my
 memory, but I know my  father's trail  begins at  my ancestral
 home, Castle Brightblade. That is my destination."
   Small  hands  patted  him on  the back.  "We wish  you every
 bit  of  luck,  Master  Brightblade,"  said  Cutwood.  'You're
 very smart, for a human."
   "That means a lot, coming from you," Sturm answered
 wryly.
   "W-we  would  offer  to  fly you  on t-to  Solamnia," Stutts
 said, "but we are on f-foot now ourselves."
   That hadn't  occurred to  him. Sturm  said, "Would  you like
 me to escort you  home to  Sancrist?" It  seemed the  least he
 could do.
   "No,  no,  we've  delayed  you  long enough,"  said Sighter.
 "We'll get to Gwynned, all right. There'll be ships there for
 Sancrist."
   "I shall miss you," said  Rainspot fondly.  He held  out his
 small  hand.  With  great  solemnity,  Sturm  shook Rainspot's
 hand  and  each  of  the  other  gnomes' hands  in succession.
 Then he hitched up his gear and started out.
   Funny, he thought;  to have  traveled so  far and  walked so
 little. His feet were more tender now than  before he  went to
 Lunitari.  Walking  will  be  good  penance,  he  decided.  He
 could shed  some of  the stain  of magic  by walking  and con-

  templating  his  transgression.  Perhaps  he  could  also  come to
  grips with the difficult choices he faced as he  tried to  live by
  the Code and the Measure.
     "Good-bye!  Good-bye!"  called  the   gnomes.  Sturm
  snapped out of his reverie and waved to them. They were
  good fellows indeed. He hoped they  would not  have any
  more trouble, but, being gnomes, they probably would.
     He  entered  the  humid  forest  and  plunged  through  thicket
  after  thicket  of  dense greenery.  It cheered  him to  see vines
  and  bushes  with honest  green leaves,  plants that  didn't bleed
  or  cry  when  he  tramped  over  them.   Lunitari  was   such  an
  unnatural world.
     Two miles of woods  later, he  found a  clear creek  and filled
  his  bottle.  The  water  was cold,  and had  a mineral  taste. It
  was  a  welcome  change   after  weeks   of  drinking   soft  rain
  water.  Sturm  paralleled  the  creek bank  for four  miles, until
  he  came  to  an  arched  stone  bridge.  He  climbed the  bank to
  the  road  that  wended  away  north  and  south.  A  road  marker
  was fixed to  the corner  of the  bridge. On  its south  face, it
  read,   'Caergoth   -  20   Leagues',  and   on  its   east  face,
  'Garnet - 6 Leagues'.
     Sturm  laughed  until  tears  came.   The  gnomes   had  landed
  in  Solamnia,  not  twenty  miles  from where  they'd left  in the
  first  place!  And  he  laughed  for  other  reasons.  To  be home
  again,  not  merely  on  Krynn  (though  that  was  good),  but in
  Solamnia.  He  felt  light and  free, without  the gnomes  to wor-
  ry   about,   without   the   constant   apprehension    of   what
  strange  things  might be  around the  next corner  - and  free of
  his  curious  relationship  with  Kitiara.  Their  separation  was
  like the pulling of an aching tooth; a definite feeling of relief,
  yet tinged with an underlying  sense of  loss, of  a void  in him-
  self.
     Sturm  took  the  road  for  Garnet.  The  roads in  this prov-
  ince converged  on the  city, so  it was  the best  way to  get to
  the  northern  plains.  He  set  himself  a  good  pace.  With his
  light  burden  and  no  dependents  to  herd,  he  ought  to  make
  Garnet  by  the  next  morning,  he  thought.  As  he  marched, he
  took  in  the sights  and sounds  and smells  of his  native land.
  The   scrub   pastures   and   rolling  hills.   Peasants  ranging
  through  the  dales,   chasing  cattle   and  driving   them  with

 sticks  to  tumble-down  pens  made  of  fieldstone.  Once the
 Brightblade  family  had  owned  a  vast  herd of  cattle, but
 those  had  been quickly  lost in  the upheavals  that toppled
 the  great,  knightly  estates  throughout  the  country.  Who
 knew but that the  scrawny, ill-tended  beasts that  Sturm now
 saw  shuffling  over  the  hills were  offspring of  the prime
 Brightblade herd?
   It wasn't cattle or land that bothered Sturm about  the fall
 of the Solamnic Knights. Such  things were  not the  true mea-
 sure of a knight's worth. It was the injustice of it. The com-
 mon  folk  blamed   the  Cataclysm   and  the   troubles  that
 followed  on  the  arrogant pride  of the  knights, as  if the
 Knights  of Solamnia  could turn  the whole  world on  its ear
 and split the land asunder!
   Sturm stopped in his  tracks. His  hands were  clenched into
 fists so tight that his knuckles were  blanched white.  He let
 go  of his  anger and  slowly opened  his fists.  Patience, he
 admonished  himself. A  knight must  have self-control,  or he
 is no better than a barbarian berserker.

                              * * * * *

    From  the time  Sturm gained  the road  at the  stone bridge
  to late afternoon of the following day, he met no  other trav-
  elers. This struck him as ominous, especially as he  got near-
  er   to   Garnet.   Drovers   and  merchant   caravans  always
  moved from town to town,  timing their  arrivals to  the local
  market  day.  An  empty  road  indicated  that  something,  or
  someone, was keeping the travelers at home.
    The road began to rise and wind as the hills of Garnet
  grew out of the plain. Here he found signs of traffic: hoof
  prints,  wheel  tracks,  and  marks of  bare and  booted feet.
    The prints  multiplied  until  it  seemed  a small  army had
  marched through not long before.
    Sturm  saw  smoke  rising  from around  a bend.  He shifted
  the  pommel  of  his sword  forward to  be convenient  to his
  hand.
    He could smell the smoke now. Slowly the scene came
  into view. Several heavy wagons were overturned and
  burning in the  road. From  the extent  of the  damage already

 done, the fire must have started hours before.
   Crows  and other  carrion birds  stirred at  his approach.
 Between  two  gutted  wagons,   Sturm  found   bodies.  One,
 thick-waisted and richly dressed, obviously was a successful
 merchant. He had two arrows in his chest.  Beside him  was a
 younger man with the stump of a  broken mace  still clutched
 in his hand.
   A  groan  brought  Sturm  running.  A  few  yards  away, a
 big,  well-muscled  man sat  with his  back against  a scrub
 pine. He was a warrior. His  body bled  from a  dozen wounds
 and arrayed at the warrior's feet were six dead goblins.
   "Water," moaned the fighter. Sturm put  a hand  behind the
 warrior's head and raised  his bottle  to the  man's parched
 lips.
   "What happened here?" asked Sturm.
   "Bandits.  Attacked  wagons.  We  fought  -"  The  big man
 coughed. "Too many."
   Sturm  examined the  fighter's wounds.  He didn't  have to
 be  a healer  to know  the warrior  was doomed,  and because
 the man was a warrior, Sturm told him so.
   "Thank  you," he  said. Sturm  asked if  he could  do any-
 thing  to  make  the  man more  comfortable. "No,  but Pala-
 dine bless you for your mercy."
   Something rustled behind the pine.  Sturm reached  for his
 sword,  then  saw  the broad  brown muzzle  of a  horse poke
 through the branches.  The dying  warrior called  the animal
 by  name.  "Brumbar,"  he  said.  "Good  fellow."  The horse
 pushed  through  the scrub.  He was  an enormous  animal, as
 black as coal. Brumbar dropped his nose  to nuzzle  his mas-
 ter's face.
   "I see that you are a man of arms," rasped the  warrior to
 Sturm. "I  beg you,  take Brumbar  as your  mount when  I am
 dead."
  "I will," Sturm said gently. "Is there anyone in Garnet I
 can tell about your fated?"
   The man slowly closed his eyes. "No one. But do not  go to
 Garnet, if you value your life." His chin fell to his chest.
   "But  why?"  Sturm  asked.  "Why  shouldn't  I  go  to the
 city?"
   "Loosen my breastplate..."

   Sturm undid  the sraps  and pulled  the steel  cuirass aside.
 Beneath  the  armor,  the  man  wore  a quilted  shirt. Embroi-
 dered over his heart was a  small red  rose. Sturm  stared. The
 dying  man  was  a  knight  of  the  Order's highest  rank, the
 Order  of  the  Rose!  Only Solamnic  Knights of  noble lineage
 could enter that exalted brotherhood.
   "The forces that destroyed the  knights control  Garnet," the
 man said.  His breath  came in  ragged gasps.  "I know  you are
 one of us. It would not be safe for you there... assassins... "
   "Who  are  you?  What  is  your  name?"  Sturm  asked franti-
 cally, but the Knight of the Rose would never again speak.
   Sturm  gave  the brave  fighter an  honorable burial.  It was
 well  after  sundown  when  he  finished. He  collected Brumbar
 and  went  through  the  saddlebags  thrown across  the horse's
 rump. There were dried rations in  one bag,  and in  the other,
 surprisingly, were hundreds of  coins, all  of them  small cop-
 per  pieces.  Sturm  understood.  The  dead  knight  was living
 incognito  because  of  the  widespread  hatred  of  the Order.
 He'd  adopted  the  guise  of a  guard for  hire, and  took his
 wages  in  copper. No  one would  ever expect  a Knight  of the
 Rose to live so humbly.
   Sturm  left  the   Garnet  road.   He  chose   another  trail
 through the highlands, one  not frequented  by traders,  or (he
 hoped)  bandits.  Garnet  he passed  in the  night. He  saw the
 glow of its street lamps in the  distance. Reining  in Brumbar,
 he  listened.  Wind  whirled  around  the  mountain  passes.  A
 wolf gave voice, far away.

                   Chapter 36

                    Solamnia

      His new horse was a steady plodding beast. Brum-
 bar, in Old Dwarvish, meant 'Black Bear.' Black he  was, and
 bearishly stolid. Sturm didn't mind.  The kind  of traveling
 he was doing now was better suited to a steady animal, rath-
 er than some excitable, fragile charger. Brumbar had  a back
 so broad that Sturm imagined he could put his feet up on the
 animal's  nodding  neck  and  take  a  nap.  Festooned  with
 Sturm's pack and other belongings, Brumbar kept  a jingling
 pace all day long.
 The  Lemish  forest  thinned  out  to  a few  spindly pines,
 growing  weakly  amid  the  grassy  undergrowth. It  was hot
 on the plain, and very dry. Sturm began to ration  his water
 when the streams and springs started getting fewer  and far-
 ther between.

   Being off  the road,  he saw  few people.  This southernmost
 finger  of  the  Solamnic  Plain,  thrust  between  the Garnet
 Mountains and the Lemish forest,  was too  dry for  cattle and
 farming.  There  were  no  robbers  here,  either;  there  was
 nothing to steal.
   Alone, Sturm took time to  reflect on  things. Since  he and
 Kitiara  had  left  Solace  so  many weeks  ago, he'd  come to
 realize  that  there  was  danger  on the  horizon everywhere.
 The strange lizardlike  mercenaries he  had heard  called dra-
 conians  had  been  seen  in  port  cities. Caches  of weapons
 being  moved about.  Large numbers  of brigands  infesting the
 roads  of  the northern  countries. Dark  magic at  work. Gob-
 lins  led   by  a   human  magician.   What  was   the  common
 thread in all this? he wondered.
   War. Invasion. Evil magic.
   Sturm  gave  Brumbar  a  kick,  and  the big  horse shuffled
 into  a  trot.  A  welter  of  vague impressions  and shrouded
 memories  surfaced  in  his  mind.  The  visions  he'd  had on
 Lunitari  were  lost  to him  in detail,  but shadows  of them
 remained, dimly. The strongest  of these  was that  his father
 was  alive  somewhere.  There  was  something  about  the  old
 castle, too, and death  that was  somehow linked  to lingering
 impressions of Kitiara's.
   Oh, Kit. Where are you now?
   The  day's  shimmering heat  built towers  of black  clouds in
 the  sky.  Lightning  danced  far away,  and peals  of thunder
 crossed the grassland long after the flashes of lightning were
 gone.  The  smell  of  rain pulled  Brumbar toward  the storm,
 and Sturm let him go. He was thirsty, too.
   The  storm seemed  to retreat  from them  even as  they rode
 to  meet  it.  Brumbar splashed  through gullies  running fast
 with rainwater, The air was wet, oppressive,  yet the  edge of
 the  rain  receded  from   Sturm's  approach.   The  lightning
 played about a stand of pines to the  east. Sturm  reined away
 from  the  dangerous  display,  but  Brumbar had  other ideas.
 Puffing  hard  through  his  dry  throat,  the   horse  headed
 straight for the trees.
   Light, steamy drops of rain began to hit them. Brumbar
 cantered heavily through the widely spaced trees. The rain
 fell harder. Ahead, Sturm saw  a dark  shape flit  between the

 pines. He blotted water from his eyes and looked again.
   A  rider in  a flowing  cape was  weaving among  the trees.
 Now and then, the pale oval of a  face turned  back, as  if the
 rider were peering  over his  shoulder at  Sturm. He  seemed to
 have a long mustache much like Sturm's own.
    Brumbar  slowed  by a  shallow pool  of water,  but Sturm
 spurred him on;  he was  curious about  the other  rider and
 wanted to catch up to him.
    "Hello!" called Sturm. "Could I talk to you?"
    A  bolt  from the  churning sky  struck the  ground a  score of
 yards away, leaving a smoking  crater in  the grass.  The rider
 didn't  respond  to  Sturm's  call,  but  continued   to  weave
 around the pines. Sturm  slapped the  reins across  his horse's
 neck,  and  Brumbar  launched  into  a  jarring   gallop.  They
 were closing on the stranger.
    The rider's  dark hair  was slicked  down by  the driving
 rain.  He did  indeed have  a long  mustache, symbol  of the
 Knights of Solamnia.
    The stranger's horse was light and agile,  but it  must have
 been  running  hard  too  long.  Brumbar  closed  rapidly. Only
 the  passing  of  a tree  between them  kept Sturm  from reach-
 ing out to grab the other man's lashing cape.
    "Wait!" Sturm shouted. "Stop, I want to talk to you!"
    The stranger's horse went hard to the left, circling around
 Sturm.  The  man  drew  up  and  stopped  thirty   yards  away.
 Brumbar  shuddered  to  a  halt.  The wind  was up  and blowing
 rain  into Sturm's  face, so  he turned  his horse  around. The
 stranger was waiting for him.
    "I didn't mean to chase you," Sturm called out, "but -"
    He  never heard  the stroke  of lightning  that hit  the ground
 between  him  and  the  stranger. Nor  did he  feel it.  In one
 instant, he was talking and in the  next, he  was lying  on the
 muddy  grass  with  rain pattering  on his  face. His  arms and
 legs were leaden and weak.
    A  dark  form  loomed  over  him.  For  a  second,   he  was
 afraid. Lying there, helpless, Sturm was easy prey for  a thief
 or assassin.
    The stranger, still horsed, towered over him. Against the
 gray sky, with the rain in his eyes, all Sturm could see of him
 was  dark  hair,  high  forehead  and  drooping  mustache.  The

 cape  was  close  about  the man's  shoulders, which  were wide
 and powerful.
   The stranger sat  in the  saddle, looking  down at  Sturm and
 saying nothing. Sturm managed to gasp, "Who are you?"
   The  man  parted  the  cape,  revealing the  hilt of  a large
 sword.  Sturm  made  out  the  shape  of  the  pommel  and some
 of the filigree work. With a  start, he  realized that  he knew
 that sword. It was his father's.
   "Beware  of  Merinsaard," said  the man,  in a  voice Sturm
 didn't recognize.
   With  tremendous  effort,  Sturm  got  to  his   knees.  "Who
 are  you?"  He  reached  out  a  muddy  hand  to  the stranger.
 Where he should have  touched the  leg of  the man's  horse, he
 met  nothing.  Horse  and  rider  vanished,  silently  and com-
 pletely.
   Sturm  staggered  to  his  feet. The  rain was  over. Already
 the  sun  was  poking  through  the  tattered  clouds.  Brumbar
 was  several  yards  away,  drinking from  a puddle.  Nearby, a
 pine tree had been blasted to smoking splinters by lightning.
   Sturm  put  his  face  in  his  hands.  Had  he seen  what he
 thought  he'd  seen?  Who  was  the  phantom  rider?  And  what
 was Merinsaard? A person, a place?
   Wearily  he   mounted  Brumbar.   The  big   horse  shifted
 under  Sturm's  weight,  and  his  broad hooves  squelched in
 the  mud.  Sturm  looked  around.  There  were no  other hoof
 prints in sight besides Brumbar's.

                             * * * * *

   Though  described  as a  plain, the  country of  Solamnia was
 not perfectly flat,  as were,  say, the  Plains of  Dust. There
 were ridges and  gullies, dry  creek beds  and small  stands of
 trees that grew like islands in the midst of the  grassy steppe
 land. Sturm rode north at an easy pace,  eating wild  pears off
 the trees and filling his water bottle from the herders' wells.
   He  soon  found  himself  moving  among  small herds  of cat-
 tle,  tended   and  guarded   by  hard-looking   peasants  with
 mauls  and  bows.  They  watched  him  closely  as he  rode by.
 Raiders  were  common,  and in  their eyes  he might  have been
 a scout for a  larger band  of rustlers.  Also, Sturm  wore the

  mustache  and  horned  helmet  of  a  Solamnic  Knight  - items
  not  calculated  to  make  him  popular  among  the  people who
  had  overthrown  the   Order.  Sturm   didn't  care.   He  rode
  proudly,  sword  turned  out  to  show  that  he was  ready for
  trouble. At night, he took special care with polishing his hel-
  met, boots, and sword, to make them shine.
    He decided to avoid the  city of  Solanthus. After  the over-
  throw, Solanthus had proclaimed  itself a  free city,  not sub-
  ordinate  to  anyone  but  its  own  Guildmasters.   Sturm  had
  heard  of  several  knights,  friends  and  compatriots  of his
  father,  who  had  been  imprisoned  and  executed   in  Solan-
  thus. While he  was willing  to proclaim  his heritage  in open
  country, he saw no reason  to walk  into the  city and  put his
  head into a noose.
         The country beyond Solanthus sloped gently down to the
  Vingaard  River.  It  was  rich  land. The  clods turned  up by
  Brumbar's iron-shod hooves were black and fertile.
    The herds were thicker  the closer  to the  river he  got. He
  spent  an  entire day  guiding Brumbar  through ranks  of rusty
  brown  cows  and calves.  The heat  and dust  were so  bad that
  he  traded  his  helmet  for  a cloth  bandanna, like  the herd
  riders wore.
    The  herds  converged  on  the Ford  of Kerdu,  an artificial
  shallows  created  centuries  before  by  the  Solamnic Knights
  (another  benefit   that  the   common  folk   had  forgotten).
  Thousands  of  small  stones  were  dumped  into  the  Vingaard
  River  to make  a fording  place. As  the river  slowly scoured
  the stones away,  each new  generation on  the river  banks had
  to renew the ford with its own gathering of  stones. A  sort of
  winter  festival  had  developed  around  the   collecting  and
  dumping of rocks in the river.
    It soon became too  congested for  Sturm to  ride, so  he got
  off  Brumbar  and led  the horse  by his  bridle. Here,  by the
  river,  the day's  heat rapidly  dispersed after  sunset. Sturm
  walked  down  to  the  river  bank  where  a  hundred campfires
  blazed. The herders were settling for the night.
    A   half-dozen   sun-browned   faces   turned  up   as  Sturm
  approached  the  nearest  camp.He  raised  his  palm  and said,
  "My hands are open," the traditional herders' greeting.
    "Sit," said the herd leader, identified  by the  carved steer

  horn  that  he  wore  on a  thong around  his neck,  Sturm tied
  Brumbar to a small tree and joined the men.
     "Sturm," he said, sitting.
     "Onthar," said the  leader. He  pointed to  the other  men in
  turn.  "Rorin,  Frijje,  Ostimar,  and Belingen."  Sturm nodded
  to each one.
     "Share  the  pot?"  said  Onthar. A  black kettle  hung over
  the  fire. Each  man  had  to provide  some ingredient  in order
  to  share  the  common  meal.  Herder's  stew  -  an expression
  known  throughout  Krynn  as  meaning a little  bit  of  every-
  thing.'
    Sturm lifted the flap of  his pack  and saw  the last  of his
  provisions: an inch-thick slab of salt  pork, two  carrots, and
  a stoppered gourd half full of  rye flour.  He squatted  by the
  kettle, took out his knife, and started slicing the meat.
     "Been a good season?" he asked politely.
     "Dry," said Onthar. "Too dry.  Fodder on  the lower  plain is
  blowing away."
     "No  sickness,  though,"  observed  Frijje,  whose  straw-
  colored hair hung in two long braids. "We  haven't lost  a sin-
  gle calf to screwfoot or blue blister."
      Shoving wispy red hair from his eyes, Rorin said, "Lot of
  raiders."  He  whetted a  wicked-looking axe  on a  smooth gray
  stone. "Men and goblins together, in the same gang."
     "I've  seen  that,  too,"  Sturm  said. "Farther  south in
  Caergoth and Garnet."
     Onthar regarded him with one thin brown eyebrow
  raised. "You're not from around here, are you?"
     Sturm finished the salt  pork and  started slicing  the car-
  rots. "I was born in Solamnia, but grew up in Solace."
    "Raise a lot of pigs down there, I hear," Ostimar said. His
  voice  was  deep  and  resonant,  seemingly  at  odds  with his
  small height and skinny body.
     "Yes, quite a lot."
     "Where you headed, Sturm?" asked Onthar.
     "North."
     "Looking for work?"
     He stopped cutting. Why not? "If I can get some," he said.
     "Ever drive cattle before?"
     "No. But I can ride."

    Ostimar   and   Belingen   snorted   derisively,   but  Onthar
  said,  "We  lost  a  man to  goblin raiders  two weeks  ago, and
  that left us with a hole in our drag line. All you have to do is
  keep  the  beasts  going  ahead. Well  be crossing  the Vingaard
  tomorrow, heading for the keep."
    "The  keep?  But  it's  been  deserted  for years,"  Sturm said.
    "Buyer there."
    "Sounds fine. What's the pay?"
    "Four coppers a day, payable when you leave us."
    Sturm knew he was supposed to haggle, so he said, "I
  couldn't do it for less than eight coppers a day."
    "Eight!" exclaimed Frijje. "And him a show rider!"
    "Five might be possible," said Onthar.
    Sturm shook the gourd to break up the lumps of flour.
  "Six?"
    Onthar  grinned, showing  several missing  teeth. "Six  it is.
  Not  too  much  flour  now  -  we're  cooking  stew,  not baking
  bread."  Sturm stirred  in a  handful of  gray rye  flour. Rorin
  gave  him  a  copper   bowl  and   spoon.  The   stew was dished
  up, and the  men  ate quickly  and silently.  Then they  passed a
  skin  around. Sturm  took a  swig. He  almost choked;  the bag
  held  a  potent,  fermented  cider.  He  swallowed   and  passed
  the skin on.
    "Who's buying  cattle at  the keep?"  he said,  after everyone
  had eaten and drunk.
    "Don't  know,"   Onthar  admitted.   "Men  have   been  coming
  back  from  Vingaard  Keep for  weeks with  tales of  gold, say-
  ing there is a buyer up there paying top  coin for  good beasts.
  So the keep is where we're going."
    The  fire  died  down. Frijje  produced a  hand-whittled flute
  and  began  to blow  lonely, lilting  notes. The  herders curled
  up  on their  single blankets  and went  to sleep.  Sturm unsad-
  dled Brumbar  and curried  him. He  led the  horse to  the river
  for  a  drink and  returned him  to the  sapling. That  done, he
  made a bed with his blanket and the saddle.
    The  sky  was clear.  The silver  moon was  low in  the south,
  while  Lunitari  was  climbing  toward  its zenith.  Sturm gazed
  at the distant red globe.
    Had  he really  trod its  crimson soil?  Had he  really fought
  tree-men, seen  (and ridden)  giant ants,  and freed  a chatter-

 box dragon from  an obelisk  of red  marble? Here,  on Krynn,
 among  the  simple,  direct  herdsmen,  such   memories  were
 like a mad  dream, fevered  images now  banished by  the more
 practical concerns of Sturm's life.
   The young  knight slept,  and dreamed  that he  was gallop-
 ing  through  Solace, pursuing  a caped  man who  carried his
 father's sword. He never gained on the stranger.  The vallen-
 wood trees were bathed in a  red glow,  and all  around Sturm
 felt the cold air echo with the sound of a woman's laughter.

                      Chapter 37

                  The Ford of Kerdu

      Sturm was roughly shaken awake before the sun
 was up. All  along the  river's south  bank the  herders were
 stirring, packing their meager  possessions on  their horses,
 and  preparing  for  another  day's move.  Sturm had  no time
 for anything other than a brief cup  of water.  Frijje thrust
 some jerky in his hand and told him to mount up.
    Belingen galloped to him and  tossed  him a  light wooden
 pole  with  a  bronze  leaf-shaped  head.  This was  his herd
 goad.  When  the  cows  were  balky  or  wanted to  wander in
 the wrong direction, he was to  poke them  with the  goad to
 set them straight.
 "And woe to you if you cut the hide," Belingen said.
 "Onthar prides himself on his herd not being scarred." With
 an arrogant toss of his head, Belingen spurred his horse back

 to the front of the herd.
   The  cattle,  more  than  nine hundred  head, sensed  the rise
 in  activity and  surged from  side to  side against  the fringe
 riders,  Two  other  herds  had  right-of-way over  Onthar's, so
 the  men  had  to bide  their time  as the  other two  swarms of
 cattle  forded  the  river  ahead  of  them.  The  Kerdu passage
 was a  quarter-mile wide  and more  than half  a mile  across to
 the other bank. The ford's  edges fell  away sharply,  and Osti-
 mar warned Sturm not to stray off the stones.
   "I've seen men and horses drop off the edge and never
 come up," he cautioned. "Nothing  ever found  but their
 goads and bandannas, floating on the water."
   "I'll keep that in mind," Sturm replied.
   The  herd  settled  into  a  standard  oval  formation. Sturm
 couched his  goad under  his left  arm. The  bar was  eight feet
 long,  and  he  could  easily  touch  the  ground with  it, even
 from  as  high  a  perch  as  Brumbar's  back.  Indeed,  Sturm's
 own  height,  placed  on  the  broad back  of the  Garnet horse,
 made him  taller than  any other  rider in  the group.  He could
 see far across the  tight mass  of cows,  their dusty  coats and
 long  horns  always  shifting,  always  moving,  even  when  the
 herd itself was not in forward motion.
   A horn blasted  from the  far shore,  signaling that  the pre-
 vious herd had cleared the  ford. Onthar  stood in  his stirrups
 and  whipped  his  goad  back  and  forth  (there  was  a  black
 pennant fixed to the tip).  The riders  whistled and  shouted to
 stir the beasts  forward. A  wall of  beef surged  toward Sturm,
 but  he  yelled  and  waved  the  goad  before the  cows' faces.
 The animals turned away to follow those in front.
   The  track  down  to  the  river  was  a morass.  Thousands of
 cattle and horses had churned it  up, and  under the  rising sun
 the mud stank.  Onthar and  the front  riders splashed  into the
 Vingaard  with  the  herd  bulls.  The  steers  and   cows  came
 after, and the rear riders were last of all. The stench and bit-
 ing flies over the river were ferocious.
   Brumbar put his  heavy feet  into the  water. His  iron shoes,
 suited  to  paved roads,  did not  provide a  very sure  grip on
 the  round,  wet  rocks.  Despite  the uncertain  footing, Brum-
 bar  went  on,  unperturbed.  And  then,  perhaps  twenty  yards
 into  the  river,  Sturm's  horse  slid  sideways off  the rocky

 ford.
   Water  rushed  over  Sturm's  head.  He  immediately kicked
 free of the stirrups and thrust up for the surface.  His head
 burst into the air, and he  took a  deep breath.  Brumbar was
 out in the stream, swimming steadily for the south shore.
   Frijje reined up and shouted, "You all right, Sturm?"
   "Yes, the stupid horse  slid off  the ford!,"  He swam  a few
 strokes toward the herdsman. Frijje extended the butt of this
 goad for Sturm to grab and  hauled the  soaked knight  to the
 ford's sloping  edge. Sturm  stood up.  Atop the  stones, the
 water was only knee-deep.
   "Can you ride me across, Frijje?" he asked.
   "Can't leave the herd," was the reply.  "You'll just  have to
 catch up." Frijje rode on, long braids  bouncing on  his back.
 Sturm  slogged  through  the  muddy water  back to  the south
 bank,  where  Brumbar  had  climbed  out  and was  drying off
 in the morning sun.
   "Come  here,   you  ignorant   brute,"  Sturm   said,  then
 smiled. An  ignorant brute  Brumbar might  be, but  the horse
 stood quietly after  his watery  ordeal, calmly  awaiting his
 rider's  pleasure. Sturm  swung into  the saddle  and twisted
 Brumbar's  head.  Onthar's  herd  was  almost  to  the  other
 shore. Sturm had lost  his goad,  and his  pride had  taken a
 beating, too, but he wasn't finished.
   "Heyah!" he cried,  snapping the  reins on  Brumbar's neck.
 The  horse  took  off, big  feet pounding  down the  bank and
 into the river.  Straight down  the center  of the  ford they
 went,  Brumbar  kicking  up  an impressive  froth as  he gal-
 loped. They gained the north  side just  as the  last herder,
 Rorin, was leaving the water.
   "Have a good swim?" Rorin asked, grinning.
   "Not  too  bad,"  Sturm responded  sheepishly. "Lend  me a
 goad, will  you? I've  got to  get back  to my  place." Rorin
 yanked an  extra pole  from a  boot on  his horse's  neck and
 tossed it to Sturm. Sturm caught it neatly.
   The cattle churned over the sandy flood  plain on  the Vin-
 gaard's  north side.  Here, at  last, Brumbar's  shoes proved
 their worth. While the herders'  unshod ponies  floundered in
 the  loose  sand, Sturm  and Brumbar  headed off  a dangerous
 side movement by the rear third of the  herd. Like  some huge

 living tapestry, the herd and  its riders  climbed the  bank to
 the  drier,  grass-covered  plain  of  northern  Solamnia. Once
 they were well  clear of  the river  crossing, Onthar  led them
 into a wide gully and halted the herd.
   "Keep your place," he  said as  he rode  up to  Sturm. Onthar
 scanned the river for stragglers. "I hear you fell in," he add-
 ed.
   "Iron horseshoes and wet rocks don't make for a firm
 grip," Sturm said.
   "Uh-huh. You lose the goad I gave you?"
   "Yes, Onthar," Sturm said. "Rorin lent me another."
   "Lost  goad  costs  two  coppers.  I'll  deduct it  from your
 pay."  Onthar  swung  around   and  rode   on  to   speak  with
 Rorin.
   The  more Sturm  thought about  it, the  angrier he  got with
 Onthar. To  charge for  the lost  goad seemed  downright petty.
 Then  the  teachings  of  the  Measure  reminded  Sturm  to see
 the  situation  from  Onthar's  point   of  view.   Maybe  they
 hadn't  known  Brumbar  was  shod.   Ostimar  did   advise  him
 to  stay  away  from  the  ford's  edge. Onthar  had originally
 paid  for  the  goad  he'd  lost.  Given  the scarcity  of hard
 money in a life like herding, charging two  coppers for  a lost
 stick wasn't petty. It was absolutely necessary.
   Sturm  pulled  off  his  bandanna  and  wrung  it   out.  His
 clothes would  dry rapidly  in the  sun, and  there was  a long
 day's  ride  still  to go.  He straightened  in the  saddle and
 thought  of  himself  as  being  on  a  war  foray.  Alert  yet
 relaxed. That's the way  his old  friend, Soren,  had practiced
 soldiering, as sergeant of the castle guard for Sturm's father.
 A braver, more devoted man had never lived.
   Onthar  circumnavigated  the  herd,  and  when he  was satis-
 fied that all was in order, he  returned to  the head  and sig-
 naled  to  resume  the  drive.  The  bawling  calves  and  cows
 slowly  came  about  as   Onthar  led   them  north   and  east
 toward Vingaard Keep, some sixty miles away.

                            * * * * *

   It was a long, hard day, and the herders spent every min-
 ute of it in the saddle. Sturm had always thought of himself

 as  an  accomplished  long-distance  rider,  but   compared  to
 Onthar's men, he  was a  tenderfoot after  all. Except  that it
 wasn't his feet that grew tender.
   The  herders  rotated   positions,  moving   slowly  counter-
 clockwise  around  the  herd.  The  midday  meal,  such  as  it
 was,  was  eaten  when  a  man  reached  the front.  Then there
 were no cows to watch,  only the  lay of  the land  ahead. Sad-
 dle  food  was  jerky  and  cheese and  raw onions,  all washed
 down with bitter cider.
   The  sun  was  still  well  up  when  Onthar  called  a halt.
 Sturm  estimated  that they'd  covered twenty-five  miles since
 crossing  the  river.  Frijje, Belingen,  and Rorin  pushed the
 herd  into a  shallow ravine  in the  middle of  the grassland.
 Judging  by  the trampled  grass and  scoured ground,  this pit
 had  been  used  by previous  herds on  their way  north. Osti-
 mar  and  Onthar  took  Sturm  on  a  circuit  of  the  pit and
 showed him how to set  up the  fence that  would keep  the ani-
 mals from wandering in the night.
   "Fence?" Sturm said. He hadn't seen anyone carrying
 anything as bulky as a fence.
   Onthar  pulled  a  wooden stake  about two  feet long  with a
 fork  at the  top from  a canvas  satchel and  stuck it  in the
 ground. He tied the end of  a length  of rope  to the  fork and
 stretched it out eight or ten feet,  where Ostimar  set another
 stake.  On  and on  this went,  until the  whole herd  was sur-
 rounded by a single thickness of rope.
   "And  this  flimsy  barrier  will keep  them in?"  asked Sturm.
   "Cows  and  steers  aren't   real  wise,"   Ostimar  explained.
 "They'll  think  they  can't  push through  the rope,  so they
 won't  try.  'Course, if  a real  panic set  in, a  stone wall
 wouldn't stop 'em."
   "What would frighten them that much?"
   "Wolves," noted Ostimar. "Or men."
   The  herders  camped  on   the  highest   ground  overlooking
 the pit. Rorin and Frijje scythed down sheafs of tall grass for
 cattle fodder, but the herd would get no  water until  the next
 day, when they reached Brantha's Pond.
     Onthar built a fire from wind-blown twigs gleaned from
   the grass. The fire drew the other herders in. The common
     kettle was brought out and hung from its peg over the

  flames.   Each   man   stooped   over   the   pot   and  added
  something - water,  cheese, flour,  bits of  meat, vegetables,
  and fruit. When the pot was full, Frijje knelt by the fire and
  stirred it.
     "Not a bad day," said Rorin.
     "Hot," Ostimar pointed out. "Should rain."
     "Some  of  us  don't mind  taking a  swim instead  of work-
  ing," Belingen cracked. Sturm sensed a challenge in his eyes.
    "Some of us ought to get  wet more  often," he  parried. "It
  would help to cut the smell."
    Frijje  stopped  stirring  the  pot.  The herders  looked at
  Sturm intently. Belingen said coldly, "Only a city  fool would
  ride a shod horse across a river ford."
    "True  enough,"  Sturm  countered.   "How  many   times  did
  you  do  it,  Belingen,  before  you  thought  to  remove your
  horse's shoes?" He  saw the  Estwilder close  one hand  into a
  fist. Sturm knew that the only way he  could keep  the respect
  of these rough, simple men  was to  match Belingen  insult for
  insult. If  he showed  any softness,  real or  imagined, they
  would let Belingen treat Sturm any way he liked.
    The  next  thing  Sturm  knew,  Onthar  was  on   his  feet,
  shouting. "Get up! Get  up, you  idiots! Raiders!  Raiders are
  after the herd!"
    A  rumble  of   massed  hooves   and  screams   proved  that
  Onthar was telling the truth. "111 get my sword,"  Sturm said,
  running to find Brumbar.
    The  herders  vaulted  onto  their  short ponies  and pulled
  their goads  out of  the ground.  Sturm climbed  heavily onto
  Brumbar.  Drawing  his  sword,  he  spurred  after   his  com-
  rades.
    In the  twilight, he  could see  that the  attackers outnum-
  bered  Onthar  and  his  men  - perhaps  a dozen.  The raiders
  wore  fantastic masks  with glaring,  painted eyes  and horns,
  tusks, and garish frills made of wildly painted  leather. They
  were armed  with sabers  and short  bows. Several  steers were
  already down, lying on their sides with arrows sticking out.
    Onthar charged into the  pack of  yelling thieves.  His goad
  took one raider in the chest, but the slim shaft  snapped. The
  cattle thief toppled off his horse with thirty inches  of goad
  buried in his chest. Onthar  shouted to  Rorin, who  slapped a

 new weapon into his leader's hand.
    Sturm angled to the other  side of  the raider  band. Brum-
 bar burst through the  ranks of  the raiders'  lighter beasts,
 overturning  two  of  them.  Sturm  cut  down   one  bow-armed
 thief  wearing  a  horrible,  leering  mask. Another  took his
 place,  slashing  hard  with  a  crudely  forged  saber. Sturm
 turned  the  thin, curved  blade and  thrust home  through the
 raider's throat. The thief's body fell forward but  was caught
 in the stirrups; the horse galloped away  from the  fight, the
 dead man dragging behind.
    The mounted thieves seemed to be getting  the worst  of it,
 until Sturm realized  that there  were foes  on foot  as well.
 Masked figures stole out of t-he grass and fell on  the arrow-
 shot animals. As the  battle raged  around them,  they swiftly
 skinned and butchered the  steers. The  raiders left  hide and
 carcass, but carried away whole sides of beef. Frijje  cut off
 one pair's escape by spearing one and trampling the  other. It
 was a brutal, nasty fight.
    Sturm felt a sharp blow on  his back.  As he  pivoted Brum-
 bar, he felt a short arrow sticking from his back.  The raider
 who  had  loosed it  was only  a few  yards away.  The popeyed
 face on the leather mask reflected  its wearer's  obvious sur-
 prise  that  Sturm  hadn't  fallen.  The raider  couldn't know
 that Sturm still wore his mail shirt under his riding tunic.
    Sturm flew at the archer.  The raider  turned to  flee, but
 Brumbar's  long  legs  rapidly  outgained  the  thief's short-
 legged  pony.  Some  instinct  for   mercy  made   Sturm  turn
 away  his  sword edge,  and he  brought the  flat of  the tem-
 pered  blade down  on the  raider's head.  The thief  threw up
 his hands and slid sideways off his pony.
    The other raiders were in hot  flight. Onthar's  men chased
 them some way, but quickly returned to guard  the rest  of the
 herd.  Sturm  dismounted  and  dragged  the  unconscious raid-
 er to Brumbar. He threw the  light body  across the  horse and
 led them back to Onthar.
    "Filthy  dirt-eating swine,"  Onthar said,  spitting. "They
 got four. The robbers eat well tonight!"
    "Not all of them," Sturm said. At least four of the raiders
 were dead. "I caught one." The herders clustered around.
 Frijje grabbed the raider by  his characteristic  ponytail and

 jerked his head back. Still out cold. Frijje tore  the painted
 mask away.
   "Haw! It's a girl!" he grunted.
   It was indeed, a girl of maybe fifteen or sixteen  years. Her
 blond  hair  was  greasy and  limp, and  her face  was smeared
 with paint from the mask.
   "Phew!"  said Rorin.  "She stinks!"  Sturm hadn't  noticed -
 the herders themselves were rather pungent.
   "Slit her throat and leave her on the steppe for  the others
 to find," Belingen advised. "They'll learn  not to  steal from
 Onthar's herd."
   "No,"  said  Sturm, interposing  himself between  the uncon-
 scious girl and the others.
   "She's a thief!" Ostimar protested.
   "She's unarmed and unconscious," Sturm insisted.
   "He's right," Onthar said after a moment's reflection.
 "She's worth more to us alive anyway."
   "How so, Onthar?" asked Rorin.
   "Hostage. Keep the others of her band away, maybe."
   "Too  much  trouble,"  Belingen grumbled.  "I say  just kill
 her and be done with it.".
   "It's not  for you  to say,"  Onthar replied.  "Sturm caught
 her, she's his now. He can do whatever he wants with her."
   Sturm flushed slightly  when Rorin  and Frijje  laughed, but
 he said, "I shall follow your advice,  Onthar. We'll  keep her
 as a hostage."
   The  herd  leader  nodded.  "She's  your  problem  then. You
 are  responsible  for  anything  she does.  And what  she eats
 comes out of your pay."
   He'd expected that. "Agreed," said Sturm.
   The  girl  groaned.  Rorin grabbed  her by  the back  of her
 hairy  hide chaps  and dragged  her off  Brumbar. He  held her
 up by the  scruff of  the neck.  The girl  shook her  head and
 opened her eyes.
   "Ma'troya!" she cried,  upon seeing  her captors.  She tried
 to run, but Rorin  held her  feet off  the ground.  She kicked
 him on the shin until  he threw  her to  the ground.  Her hand
 flashed to her waist and  came up  with a  short, double-edged
 knife. Sturm  clamped his  strong hand  over hers  and plucked
 the little skinning knife away. "Ma'troya!" the  girl repeated

 helplessly.
     "What is she saying?" Sturm asked.
     "That's an eastern dialect," Onthar  said. "But  111 wager
 she speaks our tongue. Don't you, girl?" The girl's  dark blue
 eyes flickered with recognition. "Yes, I see you do."
     Sturm lifted  the girl  gently to  her feet.  "What's your
 name?" he said quietly.
     "Tervy."  She  pronounced  this  with  a 'ch'  sound, like
 Tchair-vee.
     "Well, Tervy, you're going to be staying  with the  herd a
 lot longer than you expected."
    "You kill me now!"
    "I don't think so," Sturm said dryly.
    "They want kill me," gasped the girl,  her eyes  darting at
 the herders.
    "Be still," Sturm said. "No one will hurt you if you  do as
 you're told."
    Onthar  dislodged the  arrow from  Sturm's tunic  and hand-
 ed it to the young knight. "A souvenir," he said.
      Tervy regarded the arrow quizzically, then looked up at
 Sturm. "I shoot you, you not bleed, not die. Why so?"
    He pulled up his tunic and showed her the  hip-length shirt
 of  mail  he  wore.  Tervy  had never  seen armor  before. She
 hesitantly put out a dirty hand to touch the metal mesh.
    "Iron skin," she uttered with awe.
    "Yes,  iron  skin.  It  stops arrows  and most  swords. Now
 I've captured you, and you're going  to stay  with me.  If you
 behave, I'll feed and take care of you. If you're wicked, I'll
 hobble you and make you walk behind the cattle."
    "I do as you say, Ironskin."
    Thus  Sturm  acquired a  prisoner, a  hostage, a  servant -
 and  a nickname.  From that  time on,  the herders  called him
 Ironskin.

                       Chapter 38

                   Tervy and Ironskin

    By the time the herders returned from repulsing
 the raiders, dinner was congealed. It was  too dark  to hunt
 for more kindling, so Onthar ordered Frijje to  collect some
 chips from the cattle pit.
 "Faw!"  he  grumbled.  "That's  a dirty  job. I  know! Make
 the girl do it." Onthar deferred to Sturm.
 "I doubt she could get much filthier," Sturm admitted. "I'll
 go with her."
   Tervy  showed no sign   of   displeasure   when   Sturm
 explained what she  was to  do. She  plunged into  the herd,
 shoving aside yearling calves and cows. She filled a bandan-
 na with the few  pats that  were dry  enough, and  came back
 out. Showing them to Sturm, she said, "Enough?"
 "Enough. Take them to Frijje."

   The coals were  stirred and  the fire  blazed up  again. The
 stew was dished  out. Tervy  watched expectantly,  licking her
 lips. Sturm asked for another bowl.
   "There  are none,"  Ostimar said  sullenly. "Not  for raider
 scum."
   Sturm ate only a third of his portion and  gave the  rest to
 Tervy. She ate wolfishly, slapping gobs of thick stew into her
 mouth with her dirty fingers. Even Rorin,  the least  clean of
 the herders, was disgusted.
   When it was time to bed down, Sturm asked, "Should
 someone stay awake, in case the raiders return?"
   "They won't come back," Onthar assured him.
   "Some other band might."
   "Not at night," grunted Rorin, hunkering down on his
 blanket.
   "And why is that?"
   "Raiders don't move at night," Ostimar explained.
 "Wolves'll get 'em in the dark." He pulled his horsehair blan-
 ket  up  to  his  chin  and slipped  his rolled  bandanna down
 over his eyes.
   Wolves?   The   herdsmen    didn't   seem    worried   about
 wolves.  Sturm  mentioned  as  much  to  Frijje, the  last one
 awake.
   "Onthar has  a charm  against wolves,"  he said.  "He hasn't
 lost a beast to wolves in three years. G'night."
     Soon the circle around the campfire was filled with soft
 snores  and  wheezes.  Sturm watched  Tervy, sitting  with her
 knees tucked under her chin, staring at the dying fire.
   "Do I have to  tie you  up?" he  said to  her. "Or  will you
 behave?"
   "I not  run," Tervy  replied. "Out  there is  tyinsk. Wolves."
   He smiled at her. "How old are you, Tervy?"
   "Say?"
   "How many years have you lived?"
   She looked back over her shoulder, her brow furrowed
 with incomprehension.  "How long  ago were  you born?"
 Sturm said.
   "Baby doesn't know when born." Maybe her people were
 too primitive to count the years. Or perhaps it wasn't
 important;  probably  few  of them  survived to  middle years.

  "Do you have a family? Mother? Brothers and sisters?"
  "Only  uncle.  He  dead, out  there. You  cut, here  to here,"
 she said, running a finger across her throat. He felt a twinge
 of shame.
   "I'm  sorry,"  Sturm  said regretfully.  "I didn't  know." She
 shrugged indifferently.
 He kicked  his bedroll  so that  it opened  feet to  the fire.
 Sturm  lay  down. "Don't  worry, Tervy;  I'll look  after you.
 You're my responsibility." But for how long? he wondered.
   "Ironskin keep Tervy. Tervy not run away."
 Sturm  pillowed  his  head  on  his  arm  and  dropped  off to
 sleep. Hours later, the sharp howl of a  wolf roused  him from
 slumber. He tried to sit up but found that  a weight  held him
 down.  It  was  Tervy.  She  had crawled  atop Sturm  and gone
 to sleep, her arms draped over him.
 Sturm eased the girl to  one side.  She fought  sleepily, say-
 ing, "If charm fail, wolves come,  have to  get me  before get
 you. Protection."
 Smiling, he  ordered her  in hushed  tones to  do as  he said.
  "I can protect myself," he assured her. Tervy  curled up  on a
 narrow strip of his blanket and returned to sleep.

                          * * * * *

   Tervy  spent  half  the   morning  trotting   alongside  Sturm
 and Brumbar. He had offered to let her ride, but  she insisted
 on  keeping  pace on  foot. However,  as the  northern plain's
 summer  sun  took  its  toll,  Tervy  relented  and  hopped on
 Brumbar's rump, behind Sturm.
 "This the biggest horse in the world!" she declared.
 He  laughed.  "No,  not  very  likely." Her  conclusion wasn't
 difficult  to  understand, considering  that Brumbar  was half
 again as tall and twice as heavy as the average plains pony.
 At  midday,  the  herd  caught  wind  of  Brantha's  Pond. The
 pond  had  been  built  by  Brantha  of Kallimar,  yet another
 Solamnic  Knight,  150  years  before. The  pool was  two hun-
 dred  yards  across, a  perfect circle  whose shore  was paved
 with blocks of granite from the Vingaard Mountains.
 The  thirsty  cattle  quickened  their  pace. The  herders had
 to concentrate at the head  of the  moving mass  to discourage

 the  animals  from  breaking  into  a  dangerous  stampede. At
 first, Sturm was mystified by their  haste, but  Tervy sniffed
 the  air  and  informed  him  that she,  too, could  smell the
 water.
    Within  an  hour,  the silver-blue  disk of  Brantha's Pond
 came into view. Another  herd, far  larger than  Onthar's, was
 being  driven  away.  Horses, wagons,  carts, and  their occu-
 pants clustered around the pond's edge.
    Sturm's   own   interest   quickened,  stimulated   by  the
 impending  contact   with  new   people.  The   herdsmen  were
 good fellows (well, there was Belingen),  but they  were taci-
 turn  and  rather  dull  in  conversation. Sturm  had actually
 begun to miss the distracting talk of the gnomes.
 The   travelers   abandoned   the   pond's   edge   when  they
 heard the  massed mooing  of Onthar's  herd. The  cattle broke
 ranks and lined the  shore, burying  their peeling  pink noses
 in  the  green  water.  Sturm pulled  Brumbar up  short. Tervy
 threw a leg over  and dropped  off. She  ran toward  the pond.
 "Hey!  What  are   you  doing?"   Sturm  called.   Before  his
 eyes, the girl stripped off her collection of skins and vaulted
 onto the back  of  a  drinking  cow.  She  stood  up   and  walked
 across the hind ends of two more beasts,  then dived  into the
 water. Sturm urged   Brumbar   down   to  the   granite  paving.
 The girl swam in  short, quick  strokes to  the center  of the
 pond  and  disappeared.  Sturm  watched  the   green  surface.
 No  bubbles.  No  turbulence  other than  that created  by the
 drinking cattle. Then  Tervy burst  out of  the water  not ten
 feet  from  Sturm,  scattering  the  cows  who  were  drinking
 there.
   "Give hand," she  said, and  Sturm leaned  down to  pull her
 out of the water. "I not stink now, hey?"
   "Not as much,"  he admitted.  He handed  her clothes  to her
 and tried not  to let  his embarrassment  show. "Did  you jump
 in because we said you smelled?"
   "I  not  care  what  they  speak,"  Tervy said,  tossing her
 shoulder  at  Onthar  and  his  men. "I  not want  Ironskin to
 smell me bad."
   He was touched by her gesture. Sturm turned Brumbar
 around and rode out of the congested pond bank. He teth-
 ered  his  horse  with  Onthar's  ponies  and saw  the herders

 squatted   on   the   ground,   eating  whatever   they  could
 scrounge  from  their  rucksacks. Tervy  was hungry,  too. She
 snitched a flake of jerky from Belingen's  bag. He  caught her
 at it, and boxed her  ears. She  promptly put  a thumb  in his
 eye. Belingen  howled with  rage and  groped for  his skinning
 knife.
   "Put it away,"  said Sturm.  Belingen found  himself staring
 up thirty-four inches of polished steel.
   "That raider wench nearly put my eye out!" he snarled.
   "You  punched  her pretty  good. That  should satisfy  you -
 or are you fighting with girls now?"
     Sturm decided to take the girl to the caravan wagons and
   see what he could buy to eat. Tervy's ponytail dripped water
       down her back as she eagerly trotted along beside him.
   "Ironskin  will  truly  buy  food  with money?"  she said,
 incredulous.
   "Of course. I don't steal," Sturm said.
   "You have much money?"
   "Not so much," he said. "I'm not rich."
   "That I figure. Rich  man always  steal," Tervy  said. Sturm
 had to  smile at  the blunt  wisdom of  her statement.  He was
 smiling a lot lately, he suddenly realized.
   Sturm  found  an  Abanasinian  group  that   was  journeying
 to Palanthas.  Besides the  hired driver,  there was  a merce-
 nary,  a  woman  soothsayer,  and  an  elderly tanner  and his
 apprentice. Sturm swapped stories  of Solace  with them  for a
 while, then came  away with  slices of  dried apple  beaded on
 a string, some pressed  raisins, and  a whole  smoked chicken.
 For  the  fine  victuals, he  dipped into  the purse  that the
 Knight  of the  Rose had  given him  and paid  twenty coppers,
 well more than his total wages as a herdsman.
   Tervy  danced  around  him,  fairly bursting  to get  at the
 food. The apples didn't  interest her,  but she  devoured most
 of  the  chicken,  down  to  some  of  the small  bones. Sturm
 untied the cheesecloth bundle that held the raisins.
       "What that?" Tervy said, chicken grease smeared across
 her face.
   "Raisins," Sturm said. "Dried grapes. Try some."
   She  grabbed  a  handful  and stuffed  them into  her mouth.
 "Umm, sweet." Spilling  raisins all  around, she  finished the

 first  handful  and  reached  for  another. Sturm  swatted her
 hand.
   "You eat all those " she said, wide-eyed.
   "No," he said. "You can eat them if you do it in a civilized
 manner. Like this."  He picked  up four  raisins, put  them in
 the palm of his left hand, and ate  them one  by one  with his
 right.  Open-mouthed  with  curiosity,  Tervy  duplicated  his
 artions precisely, except when it came to getting  the raisins
 from her hand to her mouth one at a time.
   "Too slow!" she declared, and crammed them all in at
 once. Sturm pulled her wrist down.
   "People  will  stop  treating  you  like  a savage  when you
 stop acting like one," he said. "Now  do it  the way  I showed
 you." This time she did it just right.
   'You eat like this all time " asked Tervy.
   "I do," said Sturm.
   "Ah,"  she  exclaimed  knowingly.   "You  big   man.  Nobody
 steal your food. I little, eat fast so nobody steal my food."
   "No  one's  going  to  take  food away  from you  here. Take
 your time and enjoy it."  When they  had finished  their meal,
 they  strolled  back  to  the  herders'  camp. Tervy  gazed at
 Sturm with a mixture of awe and amusement.
   Onthar  announced  that  it  would take  only two  more days
 to  reach  Vingaard  Keep.  Once  the  cattle were  sold, each
 man would  be paid  his wages  and could  sign on  for another
 drive, if he so desired.
   Sturm was the only one  to decline.  "I have  other business
 in the north," he stated. Frijje asked him what.  "I'm looking
 for my father."
   "Oh  What's his name " asked Onthar.
   "Angriff  Brightblade."  None  of  the herders  responded to
 this  disclosure. However,  behind Sturm,  Belingen stiffened.
 His  mouth dropped  open to  speak, but  he closed  it without
 saying a word.
   "Well, I hope  you find  him," Onthar  said. "You're  a fair
 hand  with  cattle and  good with  that sword.  These others,
 they don't know a sword from a sharpened stick.
      "Thank you, Onthar," Sturm said. "Traveling compan-
 ions help shorten the journey."
   Frijje played his pipe a while. Tervy, who had been sitting

  by  Sturm's  side,  arms  wrapped  around  her shins,  was won-
  derstruck  by  the  funny  noises that  the young  herdsman was
  making. Seeing her interest, Frijje handed her the  flute. Ter-
  vy blew in the end as Frijje had  done, but  could only  make a
  faint, unmusical rasp. She flung the pipe back to Frijje.
    "Magic," she stated flatly.
    "No, my  girl. It's  all skill."  He dusted  the dirt  from the
  mouthpiece and trilled a fast scale.
    "You move fingers like a cleverman," she pointed out.
    "Believe  what  you  want."  Frijje  lay  back  and  played a
  slow  ballad.  Sturm  put  his head  down, but  Tervy continued
  to watch Frijje as long as he played.
     In  the  days  that  followed,  Tervy's command  of language
  increased  dramatically.  She  told Sturm  that among  her peo-
  ple  no  one spoke  without leave  from the  head man,  so that
  by habit they all spoke  in clipped,  short sentences.  She had
  learned  the  Common  tongue in  order to  be a  scout. Tervy's
  raider  band  had  stalked  Onthar's herd  for more  than eight
  hours before striking.
    "We didn't know you had a sword," she said.  "If we
  know - if we had known, we'd have used another plan."
    "Such as?"
    She grinned. "Would've jumped you first."
    These  conversations  took  place  while  Sturm   worked  the
  herd  and  Tervy rode  behind him.  The resilient  Tervy wasn't
  the least bit worn from riding the hard pillion all day. And in
  the  evening,  when  the  communal  stew  pot  came   out,  she
  earned  her  portion  of  Sturm's meal  by cleaning  and oiling
  his boots, his sword, and sword belt.
    "You've picked up a  squire," Belingen  said, as  Tervy dili-
  gently buffed Sturm's boots with a piece of sheepskin.
    "Um,  and in  a year  or two  she'll be  a fine  companion on
  cold nights," Ostimar added with a wicked grin.
    "Why  wait  so  long?"  Rorin  said.  The   herders  laughed
  roughly.
    "What do they mean?" Tervy asked.
    "Never  mind,"  Sturm  said.  For  all  her  toughness, Tervy
  was  completely  innocent,  and  Sturm  saw  no reason  for her
  to change.

                        Chapter 39

                        The Trader
                     at Vingaard Keep

   The  squat   fortifications   of   Vingaard    Keep   loomed
 over the low-lying plain with a presence  that far  exceeded its
 modest  height.  Onthar  led  the  herd  up  out of  a flood-cut
 gully  and  the  keep  stood  out like  a mountain  peak, though
 they were still miles away.  Sturm was  near the  front position
 then, and the sight of the ancient knightly fortress  filled him
 with  excitement  and  longing.  From  Vingaard,  Castle Bright-
 blade was only a day's ride.
       "Why do people build such places?" Tervy asked from
 behind him.
  "A keep is a stronghold, to live in and defend against
 attacks," Sturm said.
  "Lived in by other ironskins."

  "Yes, and their families."
  "Ironskins have families?"
  "Well,  of  course,  where  do  you  think little  ironski -
 knights come from?" he asked, amused.
  A  haze  hung over  the old  keep, which  was little  more than
 a  ruin  these   days.  After   the  Cataclysm,   marauders  had
 burned the keep. The  walls still  stood, but  the tower  was an
 empty shell.
  Closer  in,  the  haze  proved  to  be  dust  and   smoke  from
 tramping  feet  and  campfires.  A  sizable  body of  troops was
 encamped  around  the  outer  wall.   No  banners   flew.  Sturm
 could  not  tell  whose  troops  they  were, but  their presence
 explained  the  need  for  large  numbers  of  cattle.  Such  an
 army needed huge amounts of food.
  Riders  slipped  in  on  both  sides,  observing  the  oncoming
 herd.  Sturm  scrutinized  them  in  return.  Their   armor  was
 plain,  undistinguished  as to  origin or  age. The  cavalry men
 wore barred  visors on  their helmets  and carried  long lances.
 Their  proportions  appeared  human,  but  they  kept to  such a
 distance that it was impossible to be sure.
      Tervy was intrigued. "More ironskins," she breathed.
  Sturm  corrected  her. "Not  all men  in armor  are knights,"
 he  said.  "You  be  very  careful  around  them.  They  may  be
 evil." He felt her thin arms tighten a little around  his waist.
 Whatever her failings in education, Tervy knew evil.
  The  keep  grew  larger  as the  day wore  on, and  the outrid-
 ers  thickened  on  the  herd's flanks.  Sturm rode  past Onthar
 while  making  his  circuit.   "What  do   you  make   of  those
 men?" asked Sturm.
  "Cavalry,"  Onthar  said.  He  chewed  a  long blade  of grass.
 "Glad  to  see 'em.  Won't be  any raiders  about with  them out
 there."
  Onthar  halted  at  midday  for  a  word  with  his men.  "I do
 the  talking,  and  I  do  the  dealing. Any  man speaks  out of
 turn at a parley like this loses his head. I don't know if these
 are  mercenaries,  or  some  warlord's  new  army,  but  I don't
 want  any  trouble.  So  keep  your   mouths  closed   and  your
 hands empty."
  Half  a  mile  from  the  keep, a  column of  horsemen galloped
 out to meet the herd. Sturm was on  the right  edge of  the for-

  mation  then,  and  he  saw  the  men   ride  out.   Onthar  met
  them, and the cattle milled to a stop and  fell to  cropping the
  grass.
     Sturm couldn't hear what was being said, but Tervy
  mumbled something. He said, "What did you say?"
    "I'm catching their words," she replied.
    "You're what?"
    "Catching  their  words.  If  you  watch  their  mouths  move,
  you  can  catch the  words they  speak, even  if you're  too far
  away to hear them."
    Sturm turned sharply to her. 'You're jesting with me!"
    "Cut my heart out if I lie, Ironskin. The man, Onthar,
  said  he  has  brought  his  animals  because  he heard  a great
  lord was buying cattle for  top coin.  And the  man in  the iron
  hat said, yes, they can use all the fresh meat they can get."
    "Can you really tell what they are saying?"
    "I can, if you let me look." Sturm  wheeled Brumbar
  around so that Tervy had the best view of the parley.
    "Onthar  says  he will  bargain with  the great  lord himself,
  no one else. Iron Hat says, 'I speak for the great lord in small
  things.' 'Listen to me,' Onthar says,  'my herd  is not  a small
  thing. Either the great lord speaks to me, or  I will  drive the
  cattle  over  the  mountains  to  Palanthas,  where  beef always
  commands a high price.' Iron Hat is angry, but he says,  'I will
  go and speak to the great lord; wait and I will return  with his
  tidings."' She smiled at Sturm. "How was that?"
    The cavalry officer  did in  fact bring  his horse  around and
  gallop  back  to  the keep.  Sturm asked,  "Where did  you learn
  such a trick?"
          "An old man in our band practiced this art. He was the
  best  scout  on  the  plain. He  could catch  words true  from a
  bowshot away. He taught me before he died."
    "Where did he learn it?"
    "From a kender, he said."
    They waited in the broiling sun until the cavalryman
  returned.  His  fine  mount  pranced  out  to  where  Onthar sat
  slouched  on  his  stubby  pony. Tervy  squinted into  the glare
  and caught their words again.
    "He says to drive the herd into the baney, the bailey - ?"
    "Bailey," Sturm said. "The courtyard inside the keep."

    "Yes, and 'the great lord will treat with you personally.'
 Onthar agrees."
 le With many  whistles and  pricks of  the goad,  the herders
 got the  cattle moving  again. The  nine hundred  beasts fun-
 neled into the  keep's gate.  The bailey  easily accommodated
 the  animals.  When  the last  calves were  spanked, bawling,
 into the gate, soldiers drew the bars shut.
    There were  clusters of  tents all  along the  outer wall.
 Onthar and his  men tethered  their horses  on a  picket line
 and followed a plumed soldier along the tent line.
    "Are these all the men  you have?"  said the  soldier. His
 face was hidden by his visor.  "I would  have thought  such a
 large herd would require more handlers."
   "Not if the men are good," Onthar said.
   Sturm  was  counting tents.  Four men  per tent,  sixty tents
 so far - he had an uncomfortable feeling about this.
   They came upon a very large tent, trimmed with dark
 blue  brocade  and  golden fringe.  Guards snapped  to atten-
 tion  and  crossed  halberds at  their approach.  The visored
 soldier  spoke to  them, presenting  Onthar and  his company.
 The  guards  resumed  normal  positions.  The  plumed officer
 extended his hand, and the herders went in alone.
   The   interior   was   sumptuous.   Carpets   covered   the
 ground, and tapestries,  hanging from  the ridge  poles, gave
 the illusion of being in a solid  building. While  the others
 were  gawking at  the richness  of their  surroundings, Sturm
 was staring at the designs of the rugs and wall hangings. The
 recurring motif was that of a  rampant red  dragon, clutching
 a sheaf of spears in one claw and a crown in the other.
   "Ironskin," Tervy said, too loudly.
   "Not now."
   A  curtain  of  shimmering red  beads closed  the corridor.
 Onthar  feigned  disinterest  and  swept  the  curtain aside.
 Sturm thought the red 'beads' looked very much like rubies.
   Two  halberds  swung  down  to  bar  Onthar's  progress. He
 regarded the guards idly, as  if he'd  seen such  beings many
 times and they bored him.  Beyond the  guards, a  large, pow-
 erfully built man sat at a three-legged table that was draped
 with  a golden  cloth. He  wore scale  armor enameled  in red
 and blue, and  a fearsome  helmet sat  facing outward  on the

 gold-topped table.
    The  man  looked  up. His  hair was  white, though  he was
 by no means elderly. It swept  back from  his massive  brow to
 fall around his shoulders. His skin was pale.
    "Come  in.  You  are  Onthar the  Herdsman, are  you not?"
 said the man.
    "I am, my lord. May I ask what I shall call you?"
    "I am Merinsaard, Lord of Bayarn."
   Sturm clenched his fists tightly  at his  sides. Merinsaard!
 The  name  spoken  by  Sturm's   storm  phantom!   Sturm  con-
 centrated on the hard face  and long  white hair.  Danger ema-
 nated from this man. Sturm  tried to  catch Onthar's  eye, but
 could not.
   There  were  no  chairs  for Onthar  and his  men. Ordinary
 folk did not sit in the presence of the great lord.
   Merinsaard stated,  "I am  pleased that  you chose  to drive
 your fine cattle here. It was been some  weeks since  our last
 supply  of  fresh  meat  was  consumed.  How  many   head  did
 you bring?"
   "Nine  hundred,  more  or  less.  Six  hundred  steers,  two
 hundred  cows,  and  one hundred  yearling calves.  What bulls
 we  brought  we  will  drive  back with  us," Onthar  said. He
 crossed  his  hands at  his waist  and did  not appear  at all
 excited.
   The great lord took out a  ledger book  and opened  it. With
 a  sharp  quill, he  made a  notation. "And  how much  are you
 asking, Master Onthar?"
   "Twelve coppers per calf, fifteen per steer, and  one silver
 piece per cow," he said firmly.
   "A  high  price,  but  fair considering  the quality  of the
 beasts in the bailey." Onthar permitted himself a smile.
   Merinsaard  snapped  his  fingers,  and  two  more  soldiers
 entered from a door in the  wall behind  his table.  They car-
 ried a chest into the room  and set  it down.  "Your payment,"
 said the great lord.
   Onthar  reached  out  with  steady  hands.  This was  a for-
 tune!  His  household  would  celebrate   for  days   when  he
 returned with such a bounty. He lifted the lid and let it fall
 back on its hinges.
   The chest was empty.

  "What?" Onthar said. Sturm snapped his sword out.
  "Take them!" Merinsaard barked. Soldiers poured into
 the room from two sides.
  "Treachery! Treachery!" The herders scattered. Sturm
 gathered Tervy to him.
  "Stay  behind me!"  he said.  A soldier  thrust the  point of
 his halberd at Sturm, but the knight parried the  heavy steel
 head away. The herders,  with only  their flimsy  goads, were
 quickly subdued by the soldiers.
 "Ironskin!"   Tervy   shouted.   "At   your    back!"   Sturm
 whirled in time  to dodge  a savage  cut by  another halberd.
 He stabbed home,  hitting the  fellow below  his breastplate.
 Bleeding heavily, the man  fell. Tervy  rolled the  body over
 and snatched a small axe from the man's belt.  "Hai! Tirima!"
 she yelled.
 "Tervy,  no!"  Too late,  Sturm saw  her scamper  through the
 press  of struggling  men and  jump upon  Merinsaard's golden
 table.  By  Paladine,  she  was brave!  The great  lord stood
 back  from  the  table as  the girl  threatened him  with the
 hatchet. He donned his helmet and raised  his hands  over his
 head.
 He  shouted at  Tervy to  get out,  but she  didn't. Instead,
 she  whipped  her  arm  back  and hurled  the hatchet  at the
 great lord.
 The  puny  weapon  struck  his  armored  chest   and  glanced
 off. Merinsaard's voice filled the tent with a booming incan-
 tation. The air seemed to solidify around Sturm's  limbs, and
 his sword grew impossibly heavy to lift. Then, with  a single
 silent  burst, a  white light  dazzled him  completely. Sturm
 sagged to his knees.  The sword  was torn from his  hand, and
 the enemy  soldiers bore  him, immobile,  to the  richly car-
 peted floor.

                          * * * * *

 Someone was groaning.
  Sturm opened his eyes and found that he still couldn't see
 anything. There was no blindfold around his head; the
 effect of the dazzling light spell was lingering.
 "Oh, I'm blind!" someone groaned.

 "Shut up," Sturm  said. "Be  quiet, all  of you.  Who's here?"
 "Onthar is here," said the herd leader.
 "And Frijje."
 "I'm  here."  Sturm  asked  who 'I'  was. "Ostimar,"  was the
 sheepish reply.  They were  all present  except Tervy.  All of
 them  were  sitting  on  the  ground in  a circle,  hands tied
 behind their backs to a stout wooden post.
 Frijje said, "She hit the lord with an axe."
 "Did she really?" Rorin asked.
 "Yes, right on the wishbone. Didn't even scratch him."
 "Quiet," Sturm  said. "The  light spell  is beginning  to wear
 off. I can see my legs."
 Within  a  few  minutes,  they  could  all  see  again. Onthar
 apologized in  his blunt,  clipped way  for getting  them into
 this fix.
 "It's  not  your  fault,"  Sturm  said. "Merinsaard  must have
 lured other  herds here  after starting  those rumors  about a
 rich buyer at the keep."
 "What does he need all  those cattle  for?" asked  Frijje. "He
 doesn't have more than a couple hundred men."
 "He's no mere cattle thief,"  said Sturm.  "I think  he's pro-
 curing food for a much larger army."
 "What army?" asked Onthar.
 "Well,  I  think  -" The  wall flap  turned in  and Merinsaard
 walked  in,  wearing  his fearsome  dragonlike helmet.  It had
 just the effect he wanted.
 "Please, don't kill us!" Belingen whined. "We're poor
 men! We have no ransom to pay!"
 "Be  silent!"  The  tusked  face  circled  the  room, studying
 each man in  turn. "Which  of you  is the  one the  girl calls
 Ironskin?"
 No   one  said   anything.  Merinsaard   drew  a   dagger  and
 tapped  the flat  of the  blade against  his palm.  He circled
 around, stopping by Belingen. He  pushed the  tip of  his dag-
 ger against Belingen's chest. "There is a  simple way  to find
 out which of you wears mail," he said. ".I shall run this dag-
 ger through  each of  your chests."  Merinsaard leaned  on the
 dagger. Belingen inhaled sharply.
 "No! Don't do it! I'll tell!"
 "Shut your mouth, fool!" Onthar yelled. Merinsaard

 went to the herd leader and struck him on  the head  with the
 butt of his dagger. Onthar slumped forward.
   "The  next  man  to  speak  will  die,"   said  Merinsaard.
 "Except you, my friend." Belingen managed a sweaty smile.
   "It's him, the mustached  one. Yes,  him!" Sturm  stared at
 the floor. Merinsaard's thigh-high boots moved into  his line
 of sight. The lord called for his guards, and a squad of hal-
 berdiers cut Sturm loose from the post.
   "That  man,  too,"  Merinsaard  said,  indicating Belingen.
 The  guards  marched  Sturm and  Belingen through  the court-
 yard.
   "Where's Tervy?" Sturm said at last.
   "She is safe," the great lord said. "I have not  harmed her."
   "You  can kill  her, my  lord; she's  only a  raider brat,"
 Belingen said. Sturm shot him a fierce look.
   Without  sparing  him  a  glance, Merinsaard  replied, "She
 has considerable wit and courage,  which is  more than  I can
 say for you."
   They entered the  rear of  the same  room they'd  fought in
 an  unknown  time  before. Tervy  was sitting  on the  rug in
 front of the table. She saw Sturm and jumped  to her  feet. A
 clank announced that she was fettered to a table leg.
   "Ironskin! I knew you'd come for me!" she said.
   "Things  are  not  so  simple,"  said Merinsaard.  The guards
 brought  Sturm  and  Belingen  in  and  forced them  to kneel
 before the great lord's gold-decked table. The soldiers stood
 at their backs with halberds leveled,  and Merinsaard  sat in
 his chair.
    "There is a problem," he said, removing his dragon mask.
 "Among  a  group  of  simple  herdsmen I  find a  young stal-
 wart, a swordsman  and warrior,  who wears  mail and  rides a
 Garnet-bred  warhorse.  Now  I  ask,  why  would  such  a man
 be here tending cows?"
   "It's a living," said Sturm sullenly.
   "I know who he is, master," said Belingen.
   Merinsaard leaned forward on his elbows. "Yes?"
   "His name is Sturm Brightblade. He's a knight."
   The great lord didn't blink. "How do you know this?"
   "I heard him tell his name was Brightblade. And I remem-
     bered that name from my younger days when I helped sack

 his father's castle."
    Sturm  leaped  up.  "You  did  what?"  A guard  struck him
 smartly  on the  back of  his knees,  and Sturm  collapsed on
 the carpet.
    "I see. Is there anything else you can tell me?"
    "He's  looking for  his father,  but his  father's dead.  I was
 with the band that breached the inner keep. We set fire  to it,
 and  all  the  knights  threw  themselves  from  the battlement
 rather  than  burn  up."  Sturm's   face  paled   and  Belingen
 grinned. "They was scared of a little fire."
   "Thank you, ah, what is your name?"
   "Belingen, master. Your devoted slave."
   "Yes." Merinsaard nodded and the soldier standing behind
 Belingen  raised  his  halberd.  Down went  the axe  blade, and
 off came Belingen's astonished head. It rolled to Tervy's feet,
 and  she  kicked  it away,  spitting, "Chu'yest!"  Sturm needed
 no translation.  He grimaced  at the  severed head  with regret
 and disgust.  Belingen might  have been  a worthless  fool, but
 he  might  also  have  had  further  information  about Sturm's
 father.
   "Remove  the  debris,"  declared  Merinsaard.   Two  soldiers
 dragged  the  body  out  by the  heels. "A  man so  easily per-
 suaded to betray his  comrades is  of no  use to  anyone," said
 Merinsaard.  He  stood.  "So  you  are  Sturm  Brightblade,  of
 the House of Brightblade?"
   "I am," he said defiantly.
   Merinsaard  signaled  again,  and  a stool  was brought  in for
 Sturm  to  sit  on.  The soldiers  withdrew, leaving  Sturm and
 Tervy with the great lord.
   "I  would  very  much  like  for  you to  join my  company of
 men,"  said  Merinsaard. "I  can use  a young,  trained warrior
 like you. Too many of the  scum I  pick up  are no  better than
 the  fool  I just  shortened by  a head."  He folded  his hands
 across his  flat stomach  and looked  Sturm in  the eye.  "In a
 very  short  time,  you   could  have   your  own   command  of
 picked troops, cavalry or infantry. What" do you say?"
   The  blood was  still fresh  on the  floor, so  Sturm consid-
 ered his reply. "I have  never worked  as a  mercenary before,"
 he said equivocally. He pointed  to Tervy  and said,  "Will you
 release the girl?"

     "If she behaves." Merinsaard  placed a  key on  the table.
 Sturm picked it up and unlocked the fetter that  enclosed Ter-
 vy's slender ankle.
     "Before  I  commit  myself,  may I  ask a  question?" said
 Sturm. Merinsaard  inclined his  head affirmatively.  "In this
 army, to whom would I be responsible?"
   "To me and no one else."
   "And from whom do you take your orders?"
   "I am supreme," rumbled Merinsaard.
   Sturm  glanced  at  Tervy. The  chain lay  by her  foot. She
 ran  a  hand  over the  crudely forged  iron fetter.  "I don't
 believe you," Sturm said, calmly.
   Merinsaard bolted to his feet. "You question me?" he
 roared.
   "Supreme  commanders  do  not sit  in lonely  keeps, confis-
 cating cattle like skulking freebooters," said Sturm.
   Rage purpled the great lord's face.  Sturm wondered  if he'd
 gone  too  far.  In  his next  breath, would  Merinsaard order
 both their deaths?  No, the  color slowly  left his  face, and
 Merinsaard leaned on the table.
   "You are wise for a  young man,"  he said  at last.  "I have
 been given the task of collecting  food and  arms for  a great
 host that will invade northern Ansalon  soon. It  is a  task I
 undertake  with total  devotion. As  to my  leader, she  -" He
 paused,  conscious  of  revealing  an  important fact.  "- she
 leaves all the handling of mundane affairs to me."
   "I  see,"  Sturm  said.  What  now? "Ah,  what would  be the
 terms of my service?"
   "Terms? I cannot offer you a contract, if  that is  what you
 mean.  But  know this,  Master Brightblade,  join with  us and
 all manner of power and glory  shall be  yours. You  will com-
 mand and conquer. Among men you will be as a king."
   Merinsaard  sat  down.  Sturm  looked  to  Tervy,  which put
 his  face  away  from  the  warlord's.  Their eyes  met. Tervy
 gave a very slight nod.
   Merinsaard  looked  expectant,  so Sturm  said, "This  is my
 answer...." The great lord leaned forward. "Now!"
   Tervy stood and pulled the chain as hard as she could.
 The folding table leg popped loose and the heavy tabletop
 collapsed on Merinsaard's legs. Sturm  sprang over  the fallen

 table,  knocking  Merinsaard  down  and  pinning  his hands.
 There would be no blinding incantation this time.
   Tervy grabbed  the shiny  helmet from  the floor  and scam-
 pered  behind  the  struggling  men.  She  whacked Merinsaard
 on the head,  and the  big man  howled under  Sturm's clench-
 ing hand. Tervy smote him again and again.
   "That's enough," Sturm said. "He's out."
   "Shall we kill him?" she said.
   "By the gods, you're  a bloodthirsty  child! No,  we're not
 going to kill  him. We're  not assassins."  The sight  of the
 unconscious   Merinsaard   gave   Sturm  a   dangerous  idea.
 "Help me get his armor off."
   "Oh, you want to skin  him!" Tervy  said. Sturm  rolled his
 eyes and hurried to untie the lacings of the warlord's armor.

                     * * * * *

       The great lord Merinsaard threw back the wall flap.
  Guards in the corridor stiffened to attention. The fierce
 Dragon Highlord mask turned to them.
   "I  have  immobilized  Brightblade,"  he  said.  "He  will
 remain here until I  return. No  one is  to enter  that room
 before me, do you  understand? The  paralysis spell  will be
 broken if anyone does. Is that clear?"
   "Yes, lord!" the guards shouted in unison.
   "Very good." Merinsaard beckoned to Tervy. "Come
 along, girl."  Tervy walked  toward him,  looking miserable.
 Chain  dragged  between  her  feet.  She  was  hobbled  with
 heavy iron fetters.
   "When  you  prove  your  loyalty,  I  will  remove them,"
 Merinsaard said loftily.
   "Oh, thank you, great lord!" Tervy replied.
   The masked man swept on with the girl close on  his heels.
 In the corridor, beyond  earshot of  the guards,  Sturm said
 softly, "You did that very well."
   "Oh, thank you, great lord!"
   'You can stop now."
   In the maze of silk walls, Sturm found the flap leading to
 the room where Onthar and his  men were  kept. He  burst in.
 Ostimar  raised  his  sagging  head,  and  when  he  saw the

 dragon mask, his expression ran from fear to hatred.
   "What now?" Onthar said.
   "I'm  going  to  let you  go," said  Sturm. He  handed Merin-
 saard's  dagger  to  Tervy,  who  busied  herself  freeing  the
 astonished herders.
   "Where are Sturm and Belingen?" said Frijje.
   "Belingen betrayed his honor and died for it." Sturm
 removed the stifling helmet. "And Sturm is with you."
   It  was  all  Sturm could  do to  restrain the  herders from
 cheering.  Even  the  normally  taciturn  Onthar  grinned  and
 thumped Sturm on the back.
   "There's no time for celebration,"  Sturm said  hastily. "You
 must get to your horses and get out of here."
   Rorin said, "You're not riding with us?"
   "I  can't.  My destiny  lies farther  north. Besides,  the only
 chance  you  fellows  have  is if  Merinsaard wants  to avenge
 himself on me rather than recapture all of you."
          The realization of what this meant quickly sank in.
 Onthar grasped Sturm's arms. "We'll face the hordes of
 Takhisis if you say so, Ironskin."
   "You  may  have  that  opportunity,"  Sturm said  grimly. "So
 go.  Warn  all  your  people about  Merinsaard. Make  sure that
 no one else  brings him  cattle, or  sheep, or  other supplies.
 They would meet with the same treatment you did."
   "I will  spread the  word across  the plains,"  Onthar vowed.
 "Not even a partridge will get to Merinsaard's stores."
   The  herders  gathered  up their  few belongings  and started
 for the exit. Sturm added, "There's just one other thing."
   "What?" asked Onthar.
   Sturm paused. "I want you to take Tervy with you."
   "No!" she said loudly. "I stay with youl"
   "You can't do that. I've got to travel fast and light, and it
 will  be  too  dangerous  for  you  to  remain with  me," Sturm
 said solemnly.
   "It  wasn't  too  dangerous  in  Merinsaard's  room,  when I
 spilled the table and thumped him on the head."
   Sturm  laid  a hand  on the  girl's shoulder.  "You're braver
 than ten men, Tervy,  but there's  going to  be more  than just
 swords  or  arrows  coming at  me. There  is evil  magic abroad
 in the land, and the full weight of it  may fall  on me  in the

  coming days."
    Her lips quivered. "I don't care."
    "I do.  You're a  fine girl,  Tervy. You  deserve a  long and
  happy life." He turned to Frijje. "You'll look after her, won't
  you?"
    The herder, still amazed to  hear that  the girl  had subdued
  the mighty Merinsaard, replied,  "I think  she'll end  up look-
  ing after me!"
    It  was  agreed then,  though not  without some  tears. Sturm
  hesitated  a  moment,  then  kissed  her  smudged  forehead and
  sent her way with the herders. The pang of  regret he  felt was
  like a  fresh wound,  but Sturm  knew that  in the  coming days
  his own odds of survival would be slim.
    The  guards  tensed   when  Onthar   and  his   party  walked
  into view. Sturm, mask in  place, ordered  the soldiers  to let
  them  pass.  "These  men  are to  return with  more provender,"
  he boomed.
    The  herders'  ponies  were  brought  out, and  they mounted.
  Frijje hauled Tervy  up behind  him. "You  will bring  the next
  herd to this same spot," Sturm said loudly.
    "Aye, my lord," Onthar replied. "A thousand head, I
  promise."
    Onthar  swung  his  pony  southward  and  kicked   its  dusty
  hide.  He  galloped  away  with the  others strung  out behind.
  Frijje and Tervy  were last.  The girl  looked back  until they
  were lost from sight. She held her right  fist clenched  to her
  chest; the temptation to wave farewell was strong.
    Hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  Sturm  strode   down  the
  center  passage,  acting  like  a  general  at  inspection.  He
  glanced  into  several  rooms  until he  found what  he wanted:
  Merinsaard's wardrobe.
    Quickly   he   shed   the   armor.  Merinsaard   was  thicker
  through  the  chest and  waist than  Sturm, but  otherwise they
  were nearly the  same size.  He donned  a woolen  tunic, scarf,
  and gloves.  Though it  was warm  on the  plain, in  the higher
  elevations  it  would  be  cold  at  night. Sturm  retained the
  dragon  mask,  and  threw  an  ankle-length  cloak  around  his
  shoulders. The hood hid  his dark  hair. There  was no  time to
  search  for  the  sword  that had  been taken  from him,  so he
  'borrowed'  one  of Merinsaard's.  Tas would  be proud  of him,

 he  thought  ruefully.  The  simple-hilted  weapon  was plated
 with mirror-finished silver, and fitted  with a  black leather
 scabbard. Sturm buckled the sword belt under the cloak.
   At  the  entrance  of  the  grand  tent,  he   shouted,  "My
 horse!" A soldier ran to the picket line  and returned  with a
 magnificent white charger.
   "The apothecary  reports the  poultice has  healed Mai-tat's
 hoof," the soldier said in a rapid, breathless voice. "The man
 begs your lordship to spare him."
   Why  not?  "I  give  him his  life," Sturm  said in  what he
 hoped was a  convincingly arrogant  manner. He  put a  foot in
 the  stirrup  and  swung  onto  Mai-tat. The  spirited charger
 pranced in a half-circle, causing the soldier to retreat.
   Sturm  opened  his  mouth  to  explain  his  departure, then
 quickly  realized  that  Merinsaard  would  likely do  no such
 thing. "I shall return before morning," he said.
   "The  usual  guard  postings  remain?"  said  the  man who'd
 brought the horse.
   "Yes." Sturm tightened the reins to  quell the  nervous ani-
 mal. "Let there be no mistakes, or it will  be your  head!" he
 said.
   He  spurred  lightly  and  galloped  north,   toward  Castle
 Brightblade. Sturm regretted  not having  time to  scatter the
 cattle inside the old  keep. But  there was  no time  for such
 diversions;  the   moment  the   real  Merinsaard   awoke  and
 freed  himself  from  his  bonds, the  hunt for  Sturm Bright-
 blade would begin.

                           Chapter 40

                          The Secret
                     of Brightblade Castle

      Mai-tat was as fleet as he was beautiful, and in a
 very  short  time  the   dark  hump   of  Vingaard   Keep  sank
 below  the  southern  horizon.  With  the  stars to  guide him,
 Sturm  bore  northwest.  A  tributary  of  the  Vingaard  River
 lay due north and the Verkhas Hills to the west. In the fertile
 pocket of land between the two lay Castle Brightblade.
 The  white  stallion's  hooves  drummed  a  solo  song  on  the
 plain. Several times Sturm halted his  headlong flight  to lis-
 ten for sounds of pursuit.  Aside from  the whirring  of crick-
 ets in the tall grass, the plain was silent.
 A few hours before dawn, Sturm slowed Mai-tat as they
 closed upon a shadowy ruin. It was an old hut and a land
 marker,  now  demolished. The  stump of  the marker  still bore

 the lower half of its carved name plaque. The lower  petals of
 a  rose  showed, and  beneath that  a sun  and a  naked sword.
 Bright Blade. Sturm  had come  to the  southern limits  of his
 ancestral holdings.
 4/He  clucked  his  tongue  and urged  the horse  forward. The
 fields  beyond  the marker  that he  remembered as  rich graz-
 ing  land  and  bountiful  orchards  were overgrown  and wild.
 The neat rows of apple and pear trees were little more  than a
 thicket now. Vines had  long since  reclaimed the  road. Sturm
 rode  on,  tight-lipped,  ducking  now and  then to  clear the
 sagging tree branches.
   The  orchard was  split by  a creek,  he remembered,  and so
 it was still. He steered Mai-tat into the shallow  stream. The
 creek ran a mile or so to the very base of the walls of Castle
 Brightblade. Mai-tat trotted through the cool water.
   The  east  was  brightening  to  amber  when the  gray walls
 appeared  over the  treetops. The  profile of  the battlements
 and towers brought a lump to his  throat. But  it was  not the
 same as when he left; creepers scaled the walls in thick mats,
 blocks  of stone  had toppled,  and the  towers were  naked to
 the sky, their roofs burned off years ago.
   "Come  on,"  Sturm  said  to the  horse, tapping  him gently
 with his heels.  Mai-tat cantered  through the  creek, kicking
 up founts with every  step. He  climbed the  bank on  the west
 side  and  plowed  through  the hedges.  On the  castle's west
 face  was  the  main  gate.  Sturm  clattered  up  the  grass-
 spotted,  cobblestone road  to the  entrance. Shaded  from the
 rising sun, the walls looked black.
   The  narrow  moat  was  little  more  than  a   muddy  ditch
 now;  without  the  dam to  divert the  creek, it  would never
 keep water.  Sturm slowed  Mai-tat once  they hit  the bridge.
 Belingen's  cruel  remarks  about  knights  jumping  into  the
 moat  echoed  in  Sturm's mind.  The ditch  was nothing  but a
 dark, swampy morass.
   The  gate  was  gone.  Only  the blackened  hinges remained,
 spiked to the stone  walls with  iron nails  a foot  long. The
 courtyard  was  thick  with  blown  leaves  and  charred wood.
 Sturm  looked up  at the  donjon rising  before him.  The win-
 dows  gaped blankly,  their sills  displaying tongues  of soot
 where fire had raged through. He wanted to call out,  to yell,

 Father, Father, I've come home!
   But no one would hear. No one but ghosts.
   The   bailey  had   been  used   recently  to   house  animals.
 Sturm  found  the  tracks  of  massed  cattle, and  realized that
 Merinsaard's  camp  at  Vingaard  Keep  was  not  the  only  site
 where   the   invaders   were   marshaling  provisions.   A  deep
 anger  welled  in  him  at  the  thought of  the low  purpose for
 which the noble edifice of Castle Brightblade had been used.
   He  rounded  the  corner   of  the   donjon  and   entered  the
 north  courtyard.  There  was  the little  postern gate  that his
 mother  and  he  had  fled  through  that last  time he  had seen
 his  father.  He  saw  again  his father  embrace his  mother for
 the  last  time,  as  snow  fell around  them. Lady  Ilys Bright-
 blade  never recovered  from the  chill of  that parting.  To the
 end of her life, she was cold, rigid, and bitter.
   Then he saw the body.
   Sturm dismounted and led Mai-tat by the reins. He
 walked  up  to  the  body  lying  face  down  in  the  leaves and
 rolled it over. It was a man,  and he'd  not been  dead long  - a
 day  perhaps,  or  two.  He'd  been   neatly  run   through  from
 behind.  The  corpse  still  clutched  a cloth  bag in  his fist.
 Sturm  pried  open  the  fingers  and  found  that  the  bag held
 petty valuables  - silver  coins, crude  jewelry, and  some semi-
 precious  stones.  Whoever  had  killed  this  man  had  not done
 so to rob  him. In  fact, by  the dagger  and picklock  tucked in
 his belt, the dead man appeared to be a thief himself.
   Sturm  walked  on.  He  discovered  the  remains  of   a  camp-
 fire  and  some  bedding,  all  trampled  and  tangled.  Under  a
 blue  horsehair  blanket  he  found  another  body. This  one had
 died  by  sword  as  well.  The  usual  sort  of camp  items were
 scattered  about.  Copper  pan,  clay  pots,  waterskins  -  more
 silver coins and a bolt of fine silk. Had the thieves had a fall-
 ing out over their  spoils? If  so, why  hadn't the  winner taken
 everything with him?
   An  empty  doorway  yawned  nearby. To  the kitchens,
 Sturm mused. He used a broken tent pole for a stake and
 tied Mai-tat.
   Sunlight streamed into the shattered donjon, but many
 halls were still pitch black. Sturm went back to the spoiled
 robber  camp  and  made  a  torch  with  a  stick and  some rags.

 As he worked, he heard a stirring in the doorway. He
 whirled, sword ready. There was nothing there.
   The  dead  men  had  changed Sturm's  perception of  the cas-
 tle.  He'd  been  expecting a  mournful tour  of his  old home,
 and  a search  for understanding  to his  father's fate.  Now a
 more sinister air clung to the stones. No place was free of the
 probing  fingers  of  evil,  not  even the  former castle  of a
 Solamnic Knight.
   The  kitchens  were  picked clean,  plundered long  ago, even
 of  their  fire  brick  and  andirons.  Cobwebs clung  to every
 beam  and  doorway.  He  came  to  the  great  hall,  where his
 father had often dined with  great lords,  such as  Gunthar Uth
 Wistan,   Dorman   Hammerhand,   and   Drustan    Sparfeld   of
 Garnet.  The  great  oak  table  was  gone.  The  brass candle-
 holders on the walls were ripped out.  The fireplace,  with its
 carved  symbols of  the Order  of the  Rose, had  been deliber-
 ately defaced.
   There  was  that  noise  again!  Sturm was  sure that  it was
 footfalls.  "Who  are  you?  Come  out  and show  yourself!" He
 waved the  torch toward  the vaulted  ceiling. The  stone arch-
 es were cloaked in a tightly nestled layer of  bats. Disgusted,
 Sturm crossed the hall to the steps. One set led up to the pri-
 vate  rooms,  while  another  led  down  to the  cellars. Sturm
 put a foot on the lowest of the rising steps.
   "Hello...."  sighed  a  voice.  Sturm  froze. Under  the hood
 his hair prickled.
   "Who is there?" he called.
   "This way...." The voice came from below. Sword in
 his right hand, torch in his left, Sturm descended the steps.
   It was cold  down there.  The torch  flickered in  the breeze
 rising  through  the  stairwell.  The  corridor curved  away on
 either side, following the foundation of the very  ancient cit-
 adel that Castle Brightblade had been built on.
   "Which way?" Sturm called boldly.
   "This way...." whispered the voice. It seemed oddly
 familiar as it sighed down  the hall  like the  last gasp  of a
 dying man. Sturm followed it to his left.
   He had not gone fifty yards when he stumbled upon a
 third dead man. This one was different; he was no robber.
 He  was  older,  his  beard  untrimmed  and  his  face  worn by

 wind and  sun. The  dead man  sat slumped  against the  wall, a
 dagger buried in his ribs. Oddly,  his right  arm was  bent and
 resting atop his head,  a finger  stiffly pointing  down. Sturm
 studied the face. It was familiar  - in  a rush,  he recognized
 the man as Bren, one of his father's old retainers. If  he were
 here, could Sturm's father be far away?
    "What are  you pointing  at, old  fellow?" Sturm  asked the
 dead man  urgently. He  opened the  man's coat  to see  if Bren
 carried any clues to the fate of Sturm's  father. When  he did,
 the  dead  man's right  arm slid  out of  position and  came to
 rest pointing straight  up, overhead.  Sturm raised  the torch.
 There was nothing above him but an iron wall sconce -
 -   which   was   crooked.  Sturm   looked  more   closely  and
 saw a light mark  scored on  the wall  block. The  bracket piv-
 oted,  scratching  this mark.  Sturm grasped  the lower  end of
 the  sconce  and  pushed.  It  turned, following  the scratched
 path in the wall.
    The  floor  trembled,  and   a  tremendous   grinding  sound
 filled the tunnel. A section of floor rose  in front  of Sturm,
 revealing a dark cavity below. In all his  life in  the castle,
 he'd never known of such a secret room.
    "Go    down....    Go    down...."   rasped    the   phantom
 voice. Sturm felt for the first time a presence to go  with the
 voice.  He  turned  sharply  and  saw  the   apparition  behind
 him.  It  was a  dim red  figure, dressed  in what  looked like
 furs.  Sturm  stepped  forward  with  the  torch.  He  couldn't
 make out the face, but he caught  a glimpse  of a  dark, droop-
 ing mustache. The man he'd seen in the thunderstorm!
    "Come  forward,  you!"  he  shouted,  and  thrust  the torch
 into the specter's face.
    The face was his own. Sturm dropped the brand.
    "Great  Paladine!"  he  sputtered,  backing  away.  His heel
 slipped off the top step into the secret vault. "What does this
 mean?"
        "Go down...." repeated the phantom Sturm. Its lips did
 not move, but the voice was distinct. "Go...."
    "Why are you  here?" Sturm  said. He  reached for  the torch
 with trembling hands. "Where did you come from?"
    "Far away...."
    Sturm's eyes widened. The phantom repeatedly urged

 him to descend into the secret chamber.
   "I will," Sturm assured. "I will." With that, the  red figure
 vanished.
   Sturm  turned  to  the  steps, but  could see  nothing beyond
 the sphere of ruddy light  cast by  the torch.  He took  a deep
 breath and went down.
   It was cold in the secret vault, and he was glad to  be wear-
 ing  Merinsaard's  thick  tunic.  At the  bottom of  the steps,
 some eight feet  beneath the  level of  the corridor,  he found
 two  more  corpses. They  were unmarked,  but their  faces told
 too  well  how  they  had  met  their fate.  The trap  door had
 sealed them in, and  in the  ensuing hours  the men  had suffo-
 cated.
   Sturm turned from  the dead  robbers. As  he did,  his torch-
 light  gleamed  on  something  metallic.  He  walked  into  the
 velvet  darkness,  his  breath  pluming  out  before  him.  The
 glow of the torch fell over a suit of armor.
   Sturm  swallowed  hard,  trying  to  force  down the  lump in
 his  throat. With  one shaking  hand, he  reached out  to brush
 the dust from the etched steel. It was. It  was his.  Sturm had
 found  his  father's  suit  of  armor.  Breast-  and backplate,
 greaves, schildrons, and  helmet were  all there.  The superla-
 tive  war  armor  etched with  the rose  motif. The  helmet had
 high  horns  on  the  forehead,  making  Sturm's  old headgear,
 still dented from Rapaldo's axe, seem like a cheap imitation.
   The  armor  was  hung  on  a  wooden  frame.  As   Sturm  ran
 his hands over the cherished suit, he felt the soft, cold links
 of  a  chain  mail  shirt  under  the breastplate.  And hanging
 from the waist by a single  thickness of  scarlet ribbon  was a
 slip of  yellow parchment.  Inscribed in  Angriff Brightblade's
 forceful hand were the words, For My Son.
   Sturm  was  filled  with such  joy at  that moment,  he could
 scarcely  breathe.  The  mortal  shell  of  a man  could weaken
 and die,  but the  virtues that  made him  a leader  among men,
 a  Knight  of  Solamnia,  were  embodied  in  the  imperishable
 metal. Sturm's life was  half complete.  All that  remained was
 to know of his father's fate.
   He threw off Merinsaard's clothes and, dusty or not,
 began to put on the armor. It fit well, almost perfectly. The
 shoulders  were  a  bit  roomy,  but  Sturm  would   grow  into

 them. He finished tying  the cops  to his  boots and  lifted the
 breastplate off the crossbar.  Beneath it,  hanging from  a sin-
 gle peg, was the sword.
     The  hilt curved  toward the  point in  a graceful  are, the
 steel as clean and shiny  as when  it had  come from  the forge.
 The  long  handle  was  wrapped  in  rough  wire,  to  ensure  a
 tight   grip   even   when  soaked   with  blood.   The  almond-
 shaped  pommel  was  hard  brass,   engraved  with   the  symbol
 of the rose.
     Sturm could bear it no longer. He felt  the tears  flow over
 his  cheeks  and  made  no  move  to  wipe  them  away.  He  had
 not cried like this since the night he'd left his father behind,
 twelve years ago.
     The sword came  lightly off  its peg.  The balance  was per-
 fect, and  the handle  fit Sturm's  hand as  though it  had been
 made  for  him.  He  drew  Merinsaard's   silver-handled  weapon
 and  tossed  it,  clanging,  to  the  cold  stone  floor.  Sturm
 slipped  his  father's sword  into the  black scabbard  and hur-
 riedly  fit  the  breastplate  and backplate  over his  head. He
 was still closing the  buckles under  his arms  when he  heard a
 strange humming.
     Merinsaard's   sword   was   glowing.   The   hum   emanated
 from  it.  Sturm shoved  the stand  over on  top of  the glowing
 blade,  and  he  watched,  open-mouthed,   as  the   sword  rose
 into the air, flipping the heavy  wooden crosstree  over effort-
 lessly.  Merinsaard's  sword  drifted  toward  the  stairs,  and
 Sturm  hastily  snatched  up his  father's helmet  and followed.
 The silver sword slanted upward, out of the vault.
     The floating blade  moved unerringly  across the  great hall
 to  the despoiled  kitchen and  out the  door. There  stood Mai-
 tat, unmoving,  like a  statue of  alabaster. The  nervous stal-
 lion  had  never  been  so  quiet.  The  sword  came  on,  point
 first.  The  blade slowly  circled the  horse, its  point barely
 touching  Mai-tat's  neck. The  glow reached  out to  engulf the
 horse.  The  charger  began  to  writhe  and  shrink  within its
 white  aura.  He  stepped  forward, ready  to cut  the suffering
 animal  down,  but  the  fierce  heat  radiating from  the sword
 stopped  him.  The  glow  intensified  to  searing  level. There
 was  a  flash of  blinding light  and a  great clap  of thunder.
 Sturm  was  hurled  back  against  the  wall, the  breath driven

 from his body.
   A  deep-throated  laugh  filled  the  courtyard. The  hair on
 Sturm's neck prickled. He coughed and rubbed  his eyes.
 Where Mai-tat had been, there now was Merinsaard, fully
 armed and full of rage.
   "So,  Brightblade!  This  is the.treasure  you traveled  so far
 to find! Is it worth dying for?" he roared.
   Sturm  fell  back  a pace,  his head  throbbing from  the shock
 of  Merinsaard's  appearance.  Finding  his  voice,  he  replied,
 "The  relics  of  a  noble past  are always  worth having.  But I
 don't expect to die just yet."
  Sturm   brought   the   Brightblade   sword   on   guard.  Merin-
 saard cut wide  circles in  the air  with his  own blade,  but he
 didn't  come  forward  to  fence.  He  raised  the  silver  sword
 high  and  declaimed,  "Do  you  know  what it  was you  so care-
 lessly  carried  forth   from  my   camp,  impudent   fool?  This
 sword is the key to all the negative  planes. It  is Thresholder,
 the  pathway  to  power!  I  allowed  you  to escape,  worm; five
 seconds  after  you  left  me bound  and gagged,  I was  free and
 plotting  how  best  to follow  you. Was  it not  convenient that
 you  should  impersonate  me,  and  ride  me  in  my  equine form
 all the way here?"
   An   unnatural  wind   sprang  up,   blowing  hot   in  Sturm's
 face. "It's a pity you did not stay a horse!" he said boldly. "In
 that form, at least you were a useful creature!"
   A ball of silver fire flew out from Thresholder's tip.  It spi-
 raled up to  the donjon's  roof and  burst there,  shattering the
 tiles  asunder.  Sturm  ducked  inside  the  kitchen   as  broken
 rock rained down where he'd been standing.
   Merinsaard  laughed.  "Flee,  little  man!  Only  now  do you
 realize with whom you have trifled!"
 merinsaard   smashed   through   the   wall.   He   whipped   his
 silver  blade  to and  fro, leaving  arcs of  crackling-hot light
 behind. Sturm dodged into  the great  hall just  ahead of  a siz-
 zling tongue of fire that scored molten ruts in the  slate floor.
 Merinsaard  was  toying  with  him.  He  could  bring  the  whole
 castle down on Sturm if he desired.
   Sturm wanted to stand and fight, but only on ground of
 his own choosing. There would be less debris to fling at him
 on  the  open  battlements,  so  Sturm  led the  maniacal warlord

 to  the  second  floor  and  down  the  narrow  corridor where
 Sturm's  bedroom  used  to be.  Sturm cleared  the end  of the
 corridor  just  as Merinsaard  entered it.  The warrior-wizard
 sent white  fire blasting  down the  empty passage,  opening a
 hole through a wall  two feet  thick. Sturm  ran on,  past the
 third and fourth floors, to the roof.
   "Come  back,  young  Brightblade!  You can't  hide forever!"
 Merinsaard taunted  him. A  miasma of  anger and  evil settled
 over the entire castle. Sturm came to a section of  wall where
 the  wooden  boarding  had  been  burned  away.   He  teetered
 along  a  charred  beam,   thinking  the   heavier  Merinsaard
 could  not  follow,  then  crouched behind  the rubble  from a
 fallen tower and tried to plan an attack.
   When  he  came  to  the burned  area, Merinsaard  folded his
 arms across his chest and muttered a spell in an ancient, gut-
 tural  tongue.  Black  clouds  collected around  the hoarding,
 and  Merinsaard  simply  walked  across  on the  vapor, chuck-
 ling fiercely as he came. Sturm pushed over a section  of bro-
 ken  wall  in  a  desperate  attempt  to  impede  the wizard's
 approach.  Thresholder  swept back  and forth,  shattering the
 tumbling blocks into gravel.
   "Where  will  you  go next?"  chortled Merinsaard.  "You are
 running  out  of  castle,  Brightblade. What  a disappointment
 you would have been  to your  father. He  was a  true warrior,
 ten  times  the man  you'll ever  be. My  men pursued  him for
 months after  they sacked  the castle.  He survived  them all,
 even the Trackers of Leereach."
   "What  was  he  to  you?" Sturm  shouted. "Why  should you
 want his death?"
   "He was a Knight and a  battle lord.  My mistress  could not
 allow him to  live if  our plan  for conquest  was to  go for-
 ward." A blast from  the silver  sword shaved  off the  top of
 the battered tower. "What  an irony  it is  that you  will die
 wearing  his  armor.  What  a  supreme  moment  for   my  Dark
 Queen!"
   He's right, Sturm thought. I've run out  of castle,  and I'm
 not  the  man  my  father  was.  A  curved  wall of  the tower
 closed  in behind  him. Sturm  looked up.  There was  no place
 to go - no place but down.
         Tiny droplets of fire burst around Sturm's feet. He

 hopped  aside,  perilously  close  to  the  edge.  "Jump, boy.
 Cheat my revenge, why don't you?  It will  be easier  than the
 death I have in mind for you," Merinsaard  said, a  scant five
 yards away. Sturm looked down. It was a long, long fall.
   "Take  the  step.  Jump. For  you it  can be  over quickly,"
 hissed the wizard.
   There  was  no  hope. This  was the  end. Sturm  would never
 again see his friends or solve the mystery of his  father. For
 him, there was only  a choice  of deaths.  A single  step, and
 oblivion.  Didn't  every  man  want  an  easy  death  when his
 time  came?  But  you're  not  every  man! his  mind screamed.
 You're  the  son and  grandson of  Solamnic Knights!  his mind
 screamed.  This  knowledge  helped  melt  the  icy  fear  that
 gripped his heart.
   He  squared   his  shoulders   and  faced   Merinsaard.  The
 Brightblade sword pointed at  the warlord's  heart. "I  do not
 do your evil bidding,"  Sturm stated.  "If you  claim to  be a
 warrior and a lord, let your blade test mine, and we  will see
 who acquits himself with honor."
  Merinsaard   smiled,  showing   white  teeth.   The  blinding
 glow  faded  from  Thresholder, and  Sturm assumed  a fighting
 stance.  The  wizard  extended  his blade  at Sturm,  and with
 no warning at all, a blast of fire lashed out from the tip. It
 struck  Sturm  in  the chest  and slammed  him into  the tower
 wall.
   "As  you  see,"  said  Merinsaard.  "I  am not  an honorable
 man." He raised Thresholder for the final, mortal  strike, and
 his eyes got  very wide  and white.  Sturm struggled  to bring
 the tip of his father's sword waveringly into the air.
   Suddenly,  Merinsaard  made  a   gagging  sound   and  stag-
 gered  to  the  battlement.  Sturm  was  astonished to  see an
 arrow  buried  in  his back.  Some distance  away, silhouetted
 against the morning sky, was a figure with a bow.
   Sturm  got to  his feet.  Merinsaard grasped  the battlement
 with his mailed hands, but the iron  links found  no purchase,
 and the warrior-wizard  toppled through  a crenelation  to the
 courtyard  below.  There  was  a  scream,  a   heavy,  ringing
 thud, and silence.
   Sturm  raced  for  the  steps.  The  mysterious  archer  was
 nowhere  in  sight.  He found  Merinsaard dead,  his sightless

 eyes staring into the mossy  flagstones. Thresholder  lay just
 beyond  his  lifeless  fingers.  As  Sturm watched,  the sword
 flared  and vanished  with a  loud crack.  Where it  had lain,
 the stones were scorched.
   Sturm  wavered  and  braced   himself  against   the  donjon
 wall.  As  he  tried  to  make  sense  of  what  had happened,
 another arrow struck the ground at his  feet. The  gray goose-
 feather fletching on the  long black  arrow quivered  from the
 impact.
   Sturm  jerked  around  and  saw  the  unknown   archer  atop
 the  outer  wall.  The bowman  raised a  hand in  salute, then
 ducked into an empty watchtower and was gone.
   He  stooped to  examine the  arrow. Tied  to the  shaft just
 behind the head was a slip of paper. Sturm freed it  and read:

 Dear S

 I knew you'd come here  and here  I find  you in  a losing
 fight  with  a  wizard.  My new  friends don't  choose to
 play fair  but I  decided to  even the  odds in  memory of
 our  past  friendship.  Next  time  you  might  not  be so
 lucky!

                               K

    PS: You were a sucker to let him point the magic blade
    at you.

   "Kitiara!"  Sturm called  to the  sky and  stones. "Kitiara,
 where are you?" But he  knew she  was gone,  lost to  him for-
 ever.

                   Chapter 41

                    Palanthas

         If took some time, but a message displayed by
 Sturm  from  Palanthas  to   Sancrist  was   answered.  Stutts,
 inventor of the practical (well, mostly practical) flying ship,
 sent Sturm a  reply that  took up  sixteen sheets  of foolscap,
 front and back. It seems  that he,  Wingover, Sighter,  and the
 rest  made  it  back  to  Mt.  Nevermind eventually,  using the
 hull of  the Cloudmaster  as a  conventional sailing  ship. The
 massive  report  the gnomes  submitted to  the High  Council of
 Gnomish Technology ran into thirty volumes.
  "The irony  is," Stutts  wrote to  Sturm, "in  all the  time we
 spent  on  Lunitari  we didn't  manage to  bring back  a single
 sample of soil, air, rock, or plant life. All our  copious sam-
 ple collection  was abandoned  trying to  lighten the  ship for
 takeoff.  With  only  our  notes, the  High Council  rendered a

 verdict  of  'Not  Proved' about  our expedition.  Sighter was
 pretty mad, but I'm not too  disturbed. As  I write  this, the
 hull  of  the  Cloudmaster  Mark  II  is  taking shape  on the
 slopes of Mt. Nevermind. It will have four  sets of  wings and
 two bags for ethereal air, and carry..."
    Sturm flipped through the letter with a smile. All the rest
 of the pages were a catalog of the  things the  gnomes planned
 to take with them on their  next voyage.  Only the  last lines
 were of interest: "If you and Mistress  Kitiara would  like to
 accompany  us  again,  please  make  your  way to  Sancrist by
 ten days before the winter solstice. That's when  we're taking
 off  for Lunitari.  Cutwood wants  to go  to Solinari,  but he
 was overruled.  We still  have a  lot to  learn about  the red
 moon.  Plus,  there  is some  hope we  might find  evidence of
 Bellcrank...."  The letter  was signed  with several  lines of
 Stutts's gnomish name.
    Sturm set the pages  aside. "Safe  voyage," he  said aloud.
 The maid in the inn where  he was  staying in  Palanthas heard
 him and came to his table.
    "Something   you   require?"  she   asked.  Her   name  was
 Zerla, and she was pretty, with  curly blond  hair and  a warm
 smile.  She  reminded  Sturm  of  Tika,  were  Tika  about ten
 years older.
   "No, thank you," he said.
   "Been in Palanthas long?" she asked.
   "A few weeks."
   "Thinking of staying, are youl"
   "Actually, I'm ready to leave now."
   Zerla  frowned  attractively.  "Not  on  my account,  I hope!"
   "Not at all. I have business in the south," said Sturm.
   "A girl?"
   Tervy came to mind, but Sturm's most pressing task was
 to get back on his father's  trail. That  meant going  to High
 Clerist  Tower.  He'd  come to  Palanthas after  his encounter
 with  Merinsaard  mainly  to rest  and get  his mind  calm and
 focused  again.  While  there,  Sturm  heard gossip  that some
 knights  were  gathering at  High Clerist  for a  conclave. He
 was certain his father's trail would lead there.
    Zerla  was talking  to him,  and Sturm  snapped out  of his
 daydream.

   "The  good-looking  ones  are  usually  taken," she  was say-
 ing. Zerla wiped the table under his cup  of sweet  cider. "Are
 you married?"
   "What? No, I'm not."
   The maid brightened. "Where are you from?"
   "Solamnia," he said.
   "I thought  so! I  noticed your  helmet and  mustache. You're
 a  knight, aren't  you?" He  admitted that  he was.  "My grand-
 father  tells  me  stories of  the old  days, when  the knights
 watched over the land  and saw  that justice  was done.  I wish
 I'd lived back then. I'd have liked to see the knights on their
 fine  horses,  armor  all  polished,  doing  good  for people."
 Zerla blushed. "I'm sorry. I'm talking too much."
   "I  don't  mind,"  Sturm said.  "What you  said cheers  me. I
 thought most folk  had forgotten  the Order,  or hated  it." He
 finished his  cider and  put down  two Solacian  silver pieces.
 "The change is for you," he said.
   "Thank  you!"  Zerla  swept the  cup and  coins off  the table.
   Sturm  walked  out   into  the   afternoon  sunshine.   In  the
 days he'd been lingering in  the city,  other reports  had come
 in  via  the  seaport.  Tales  of  strange  marauders  in other
 regions  were  growing.  When  Sturm  got  to  High  Clerist he
 would have plenty to tell the other knights.
   But  here in  Palanthas,  the threat  seemed far  away. Chil-
 dren  played  in  the  streets,  wagons  and carts  moved goods
 about  from  the  wharves  to  nearby  shops  and  markets. The
 citizens were well  fed and  well dressed.  Yes, the  danger of
 war was far removed from the life of the average Palanthan.
   He  could see  from the  high street  that puffy  white sails
 filled  the  bay. Were  there gnomes  down there?  he wondered.
 Did  a  gleaming  white  elf  ship  named  High  Crest  ride at
 anchor  beyond  the  headland?  Sturm  could  not   tarry  long
 enough  to  find  out.  Too  long  he'd  allowed himself  to be
 diverted  by  other  matters.  The  time  had come  to shoulder
 the responsibility  of his  knightly name.  The burden  of duty
 was  as  heavy  as  the  armor  Sturm  now  wore.  His father's
 armor,  and  the  Brightblade  sword  that  hung  by  his side.
 Sturm rested  his right  hand on  the pommel  and let  his eyes
 linger  on  the polished  plate of  his armor.  He took  a deep
 breath and walked down the street.

   So it was south to High  Clerist. Nearly  a year  had passed
 from the time he'd said good-bye to Tanis, Flint, and  all his
 friends in Solace.
   And Tervy.
   And  south  again. Abanasinia  and Solace.  In due  time, his
 old friends would be gathering at  the Inn  of the  Last Home.
 They  would  want  to  hear  about  what  had happened  to him
 and  Kitiara. How  could he  tell them?  How could  he explain
 to  Tanis?  And what  of her  brothers? Would  they understand
 any  better  what  Sturm  himself did  not? So  many questions
 troubled Sturm as he walked the sunny streets of Palanthas.
   A  cloud passed  over the  sun, and  Sturm looked  up. Dark-
 er clouds than that were coming.  He could  shout it  from the
 rooftops,  but  the  Palanthans  wouldn't  heed him.  Life was
 good,  why  worry  about  war?  Weren't  the  mountains  high?
 Was  not  the bay  patrolled by  Palanthan galleys,  armed and
 ready? Palanthas was safe, absolutely.
   But  mountains  and  warships  were  no impediment  to evil.
 The seed of that insidious force lay in every heart,  in every
 act of  greed and  hatred. The  land and  the sea  were merely
 highways  over  which  ideas  flowed as  readily as  the trade
 winds,  and  now  the  sky  was  open,  too.  The  gnomes  had
 proved that.
   The  cloud  moved  on.  Sturm  shaded  his  eyes   from  the
 sun's glare and listened for the sound of beating wings.