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