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THE EYE OF THE DRAGON a Novel by Jason Melendez COPYRIGHT INFORMATION (C) Copyright 1996 by Jason Melendez First Edition Published by Cedar Bay Press L.L.C. ISBN: 1-57555-047-4 SAN: 298-6361 352 pages Book-On-Disk $5.95ppd. SAMPLE e-EDITION This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary: The settings and characters are fictitious and not intended to represent specific incidents or persons, living or deceased. This is a reproduction of an unedited manuscript. The work herein reflects that of the author and not the Publisher. THE EYE OF THE DRAGON a Novel by Jason Melendez CHAPTER ONE: PROLOGUE -The Fate of Ramsey Jon rubbed the tiny beads of sweat that had collected under his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and placed another strip of the greasy, rancid meat into his mouth. The room was dark. It was extremely hot. And there were cockroaches and maggots crawling about in the food that he had set out to eat. But that was alright, because Jon liked it that way. "The war is at full scale," Jon said. "It's chaos out there, chaos everywhere. I mean really bad. The dead bodies number so many that we won't need to scrounge for food for a long time." "Would you eat the bodies of your own kind?" Lars asked. Jon focused a cold, narrow gaze on him. "Of course," he said. "It's meat. It's food. It will keep us alive when nothing else will. What are you, some kind of a coward?" "No, I'm not a coward." Jon raised his eyebrows, tossing the strip of meat he had been chewing onto the table. "Good," Jon said. "You worried me there for a moment." "I'm not a coward either," Ramsey said. Jon smashed his fist into the wooden table with such a force that it scattered away the cockroaches that had gathered to join the four haggard thieves for the late supper. "Did I ask you?" Jon said. "Did I?" He looked over at Amit, who was picking his teeth with a bone. "Did I ask this pissy little toad anything? Anything at all?" Amit shook his head. Jon unsheathed his long, rusting blade. "I ought to gut this spineless fool right now," he said. "Should I, Amit? Should I gut this toad?" Amit shrugged. "No, don't," Ramsey said. "Don't, Jon, please." "Shut up," Jon said, replacing his knife. "You're pitiful." There was a few moment of silence as Jon glared at Ramsey. "What was you going to tell us, Jon?" Lars asked. "You know, about your new plan." Jon reached back for the meat strip, scattering away the cockroaches as he did. "Well," Jon said, "I figure'd we should stop our petty thefts and killings and go for the big prize. The real stuff." "What do you mean?" Lars asked. Jon spread his hands, looking around at all three of his companions. "What is the singular most valuable thing in this city?" he asked. "Women?" Lars said. "No!" Ramsey licked his lips, watching Jon suck on one side of the rancid meat strip. "Food?" he said. Jon spit out his meat and looked at Amit. "Do I have to put up with this? Amit, what is the most valuable thing in the city?" Amit shrugged. "Damn, what's the matter with you guys? Does the phrase 'gift to our High Priestess' mean anything?" Lars and Ramsey looked at him blankly, and he glowered at them. "The Eye of the Dragon!" Jon said. "Just one section of that piece would make us rich. All of us." "No way," Lars said. "We'd never even get in to see it. There's too many guards." Jon gave him a whithering look. "Do you know why I don't like you, mostly?" Jon asked. Lars shrugged. "It's because you're ugly," Jon said. "You're so damned ugly that it makes me sick, Lars. And you're stupid, too. But the thing that's beating me over the head right now is that you don't pay attention to anything!" "I pay attention to stuff," Lars said sulkily. "No," Jon said, "you don't. Because you haven't paid attention that there are no guards around the shrine, and there are no guards around the temple, and there are no guards around the whole bloody city because everybody's out fighting the war! Did you forget that there was a war, Lars?" "No." "Well, you had me wondering, you big oaf. Now I think we should strike now before it gets too late and we wind up winning this war before we can steal anything of real value." "What do you want us to do, Jon?" Ramsey asked. Jon moved his hands towards him, motioning for them to come close. He always did that when he was ready to let loose an idea, as though he didn't want anybody else to hear what he was going to tell them; even though the tiny, cold, stone room was hardly bustling with people. "I want you, Ramsey, to go in the shrine and break that Eye of the Dragon. You know, so it's in enough pieces for the rest of us to collect up." "Will it be any good in pieces?" Ramsey asked. "Of course, you witless toad." "Oh." "And then wait inside of the shrine," Jon said. "Just to see if anything happens." "Like what?" "Who knows?" Ramsey squirmed in his seat uncomfortably. "What if I get caught?" "What, are you scared Ramsey?" Jon asked. "Is that it? Are you scared of breaking the Eye of the Dragon?" "No," Ramsey said. "I'm not scared of anything." "Good. Because I was beginning to wonder." * * * Jon, Ramsey, and Lars navigated their makeshift raft along the Tapel River through the dark underground city, which was almost completely empty now and eerily silent. Amit, who had apparently felt he would rather stay behind and pick his teeth, was the only one absent from their usual party of four. When they reached the temple, Jon led them into the enormous, circular room, which was entirely empty of people. A large stairway led up from the center of the room to a doorway above, dimly lit by torches that were set into the wall at either side. There were carvings and paintings of snakes and spiders all around the curving temple walls, and the floor was made entirely of a fine polished marble. Pillars of granite, equally as polished and elegant-looking, rose from the floor to the enormous, domed ceiling of the hall in the shape of glaring, open-mawed serpents. Chandeliers cast off dazzling light that was reflected on all sides by elaborate, patterned mirrors. "See?" Jon said. "What did I tell you. There's no--" He stopped short, his gaze falling upon an open side door. "What's wrong?" Lars said. "There's--" "Shhh!" Jon put a finger to his lips, and pointed at the open door. "That's the shrine room," he whispered. "What's it doing open? It should be locked and bolted, at the very least. Why do you think I had you bring the tools?" "Maybe they moved it," Ramsey said. John made a clicking sound with his tongue, and gave Ramsey a smack in the back of the head. "Don't be a stupid toad," he said, still whispering. "They wouldn't touch that!" "What then?" Lars asked. Jon shrugged. "I know they had a banquet in here earlier. For the High Priestess, before the last of the troops left for the war. Someone could have tampered with the door then. Or maybe someone already had this idea and beat us to it." "So?" Lars asked. Jon jerked his head towards Ramsey. "Go in, Ramsey" Jon said. "See if there's anyone in there. If there isn't, then just proceed as planned." "But. . ." "Just do it! If there's anyone in there, kill them." Jon and Lars slunk into the shadows of the cirular hall as a reluctant Ramsey tiptoed over to the shrine entrance, looking incredibly tiny in the enormous room. He peeked into the doorway, and then disappeared inside. "Do you think there's anyone in there?" Lars whispered. Jon nodded. "I know there is," he said. "There's definitely something in there. I just don't know what." They waited for a long while, without Ramsey showing head nor tail through the entrance. Then, they heard a loud thump, as though someone or something had fallen over. "What was that?" Lars asked. Jon glared at him. "Do I look like a seer, you ridiculous fool?" Again they waited, for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Jon gave Lars a nudge. "Go see what's going on in there," he said. "No way." "Go on, you yellow toad!" "I don't care, Jon, I'm not going over there." Jon looked at him with an icy stare. "When me and Ramsey get rich off this, you'll be the one who gets the least amount of money, you big coward." Lars just belched. "Cowards," Jon said. "I work with a lot of stupid cowards. Fine, I'll go myself." Jon withdrew his knife and crept like a cat across the dimly lit temple room without making a sound. When he had reached the doors, Lars watched him slip quietly inside. Lars busied himself in scraping the dark, grimy crud from underneath his fingernails while Jon was absent. He was just beginning to consider getting out of the temple, lest whatever fate that had befallen the others should happen upon him as well, when Jon came running from the shrine. His face was ashen, and his eyes were wide, with a horrified look that Lars had never seen in Jon before. He had either dropped his knife or had somehow forgotten it, because he was running with all his might, and he had nothing at all in his hands. "Get out of here!" Jon said. He was no longer whispering. "What happened?" Lars asked, following Jon out of the temple. "What happened to Ramsey?" "Don't ask." "What?" "I said forget it! Believe me, whatever did happen to the poor bastard, it wasn't pretty. And I don't want it to happen to us. Now move!" Book One In the beginning God created the heaven and the Earth. And the Earth was without form and void: and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God saw that the wickedness of "man" was great in the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually. And the Lord said, I will destroy "man" whom I have created from the face of the earth; for it repenteth me that I have made them. And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: he made the stars also. And God set them in the firmament of heaven to give light upon the Earth, and to rule over the day and over the night, and to divide the light from the darkness. . . - Genesis "All material things in this plane of reality are in a constant state of change -- from order to chaos. Suns deplete themselves of energy and die, living things grow old and decay, and civilizations collapse into anarchies. Yet, chaos is merely another link in the chain--the cycle--of life, of reality. New worlds arise from the dying, strong governments are built up from the ruins of the former. Chaos is not an end; it is every much a beginning as order." -Jaro of Amariah CHAPTER TWO -The King of Amariah The road from the City of Terron to the Amariah Forest was small and covered with weeds. Few people travelled that road, mostly adventure seekers, and even those would come back not much longer after they had left, disappointed. At first, Amariah looks as any other forest does; tall trees reaching far into the sky, grasses and shrubs beneath, the ground littered with stones and pine needles. It looks, naturally, very beautiful and serene. But if you were to venture far enough, you'd notice a mist, not unlike fog, growing thicker and heavier as you went. Soon, the mist would obscure your vision completely, and you would be lucky not to trip over a root or stumble into a tree. After a time, however, you'd notice the mist ahead getting thinner, and to your dismay, would find yourself back at the very point in the forest where you'd started. Regardless of this odd tendency, people still travelled to the forest occasionally. Some would go there just to enjoy the natural beauty of the scenery, others to persist in finding a "secret trail" that would lead them beyond the mist. But the path they sought for was only a myth, for there was no such trail. Beyond the mist, deep in the heart of the big forest, was a special kingdom--a spirit realm created in the dawn of the New World. It was the home of Jaro, a good spirit pledged by Aellei the great God to oversee the care of the earth. Jaro took part in many stories and tales, but the stories were usually exaggerations, wild myths derived from the imaginations of men. In Jaro's kingdom, the trees grew tall and strong, flowers and vines of rich nectar were plentiful, and streams of clear, sweet water bubbled up from springs beneath the ground. In the center of the kingdom, there was a small, circular pool of water that was so incredibly tranquil there was never a ripple or disturbance to mar its mirror-like surface. On some days, while wandering through his garden, Jaro would come to the pool and gaze upon its crystalline waters, and the pool would show him any part of the world he desired. Lately, the images had been disturbing. In the pool, Jaro saw blood and death, barren lands and dark beings; a kingdom of evil. And it all pointed to the Northland. Troubled, Jaro retrieved the prophetic volumes he had secured from the Old World, and searched diligently through the pages of the ancient tomes. There, written in a time so long ago as to be forgotten by history itself, lay the answers to the questions he asked. For long hours, he studied the text. He read of what was to come, of the evil that had been brought into the New World as soon as it had been born. He read of its awakening, and what must be done in order to stop it. The solution was an odd one; certainly, it had never been attempted before. Two persons from his kingdom were to journey into the world of men, join forces with three mortals, among others, and go north to stop the evil. However, the person chosen from his kingdom would never taste the freedom of immortality again, until death took him. That person, upon entering the world of men, would become as a child of man. . . mortal, frail, and vulnerable. The solution seemed ludicrously foolish, but there it was-- written boldly in the ancient hand. It was prophecied. CHAPTER THREE -Arleah The city of Terron was, as usual, bustling with early morning activity. The roads were at a near standstill as people, horses, and carts all moved together in a crowd, each going about their daily business. Troy Vinson pushed his way through a group of merchants that were clustered together and arguing, all but blocking the road. One of them muttered a curse after him, and he looked back, smiling pleasantly. Vinson was a moderately tall man, broad-shouldered, with dark brown hair that almost reached his shoulders. His brown eyes, crinkled at the corners from twenty-five years of squinting in the glaring Southern sun, whispered of a long-held sadness, but also held a sparkle that almost seemed to laugh, trying to push the sadness into oblivion. Walks through the crowded streets of Terron tended to either depress him or frustrate him, depending on how big the crowds were. Today, they looked big enough to do both, so Vinson watched his feet as they crunched along on the pebbled road, trying to ignore the shouts and other loud noises around him. "Watch it!" Vinson looked up just in time to avoid a collision with an old, whithered man that looked startlingly like a turtle. He glared at Vinson. "Sorry," Vinson said. "Well, you should be." Vinson continued on past the old man, chuckling to himself. Yes, it was definitely time to move away. Three more streets down, he turned into a small shop amid several others, all bearing large wooden signs in front. The signs, most of them old and weathered, seemed to cry out "GRAIN", "SUPPLIES", "BLACKSMITH", and so on in huge letters. The one Vinson turned into read "SHOES-BOOTS". The smell of leather filled his nostrils as he stooped under the low doorway and into the shop. The wall facing him held shelves full of boots, shoes, and slippers, all neatly and carefully placed together in pairs. To his right, there was a small doorway that led to the workshop. On the other side was a small, rickety-looking stool that seemed as if it would collapse at any moment from the mouse- gnawings on its legs. Behind the stool, posted on the wall, was a plaque in the shape of an enormous fish. An old, balding man emerged from the small doorway, wearing wrinkled clothes that looked as though they'd been slept in for a few nights. "Troy!" the old man said. "Good to see you, Troy, good to see you. How're you doing?" Vinson smiled faintly. "Well, I'm still here, Sherren- -I guess that means I'm doing alright." "Sure, sure. Hey, how do you like what I did to the shop?" He looked anxiously at Vinson, his bushy, salt-and- pepper eyebrows raised high. "Ah. . . it looks great, Sherren." "You don't notice." "Notice what?" Sherren looked at him pleadingly. "You really don't notice?" "What. . . the fish?" Sherren gave a big sigh of exasperation. "No, no. The fish was always there." He pointed to the shoe shelves. "I put metal clasps on the ends of the shelves. Look--see how they catch the sunlight and sparkle when you look at them from the corner of your eyes?" "That's wonderful, Sherren, really. I can't believe I didn't notice them before." "Yeah, they're great, huh? And look-- if you twist them. . ." he reached forward and turned one of the tiny metal objects upside down, ". . .they look like little shoes, see that? Eh?" "Sherren, I need--" "You think these will help sales? You know, it's the subtle things, like this, that add that extra push in a customer's mind to get him to buy. Great, huh?" Vinson shrugged. "You sure know how to sell, Sherren. Listen--I need some boots. Big, heavy ones, for travelling." "Boots? Sure, sure. You know, I finished a pair just yesterday that will fit those big feet of yours. Just a minute." Sherren disappeared back into the small doorway. Vinson heard him shuffling around inside, knocking boxes over, cursing to himself. He smiled. Some things never changed. "Where you headed?" Sherren's voice called from the small room. "What?" "You want travelling boots, so where you headed?" "Oh. . . I don't know, Sherren. Somewhere less crowded." "You mean North." There was another crash; it sounded like wooden crates falling. "Yeah, North. I suppose." "Hmmm." His thin hair wild and out of place, Sherren reappeared, holding a pair of finely crafted leather boots. "You know, I met a fellow the other day who just come down from way up North. He says to me it was getting real wild, like strange things going on and a lot of people missing. Didn't sound too--hospitial to me." Vinson smirked, taking the boots. "That's 'hospitable', and don't bother trying to sell your spook stories on me, Sherren. I'm moving, this time for sure." "They ain't stories, they're true! And you'd better be careful, Troy, going up North. You know how it is up there. It's strange." Vinson grinned. "I like it that way. It's too normal around here for me. I want to be captured by dryads in the forest, I want to swim in enchanted waters, I want to talk with the centaurs and frolick with the naiads. What's so wrong with that? Oh, by the way, these boots are very nice." Sherren shook his head, turning around. "You're crazy." "How much do you want for these?" "Keep 'em. Think of them as a going-away-present." "Thanks, Sherren. That's very kind." Sherren seated himself gingerly on the stool. The giant fish hung inches from his bald head, looking like some sort of freak crown. He pointed a finger at Vinson. "You'd better watch out, son. Don't fool with things you don't understand." "Like magic?" "Exactly. You playing around with that nonsense is only bound to get you killed, especially up North." "I agree whole-heartedly," Vinson said. "Playing is exactly what I'm not doing. I'm learning, Sherren, so I will understand." "Bah. I don't like it. Too close to cursed Elves and Faeries. Magic never amounts to anything good. I once knew a young fellow who was fooling around with it just like you. Do you know where he is now? Dead, that's where. He trypsied up North, like you're about to do, fooling around with all that no good magic, and got run through by a band of gnomes. The townspeople found his body hung on a stake near Beign. And that's exactly what'll happen to you, Troy, exactly what'll happen to you. Stay home, boy. Stay home and stay safe in the South." Vinson smiled. "I appreciate your advice, Sherren, and I promise you that I'll take it to heart." "That's right. Remember, magic never amounts to nothing." "I'll keep that in mind, Sherren." He backed up towards the door, still smiling. "Thanks again for the boots." "Remember! Magic never--" "Amounts to anything," Vinson said, and he reached the door. "I'll try my best to stay alive." Vinson stepped out into the hot, crowd-filled street, heard Sherren mutter something as he did. He smiled, shaking his head, and turned around towards the crowd. A tomato cart pulled by an old, worn out looking mule with ragged ears nearly collided into him, kicking up a cloud of dust in his face instead. It stuck to his lips and probably to his nose as well. "That's really great!" Vinson said. The mule driver looked back, returned his outburst with a mock salute. Just the start of another average day in the city. But not for long, Vinson thought. Busy people, unfriendly people, crazy old men, tomato cart drivers that aim for you. . . they could keep their city. He was leaving. Turning back the way he'd come, Vinson had barely begun walking when someone caught his eye. He looked up, and had to check himself to keep from staring. Perhaps it was those eyes that had grabbed his attention. Even from a distance, he could see the mysteriousness of them--dark and green--whispering of the many secrets they held. Her lustrous ebony hair, long and flowing, slipped ever so slightly into her face, and she raised a slender hand to brush it away. Her features were perfect. Beautiful. Vinson found her absolutely enchanting. From the prominence of her eyebrows, the intense dark green of her eyes, and her high cheekbones, among other things, he guessed that she was probably an Elf, although admittedly, he had never seen one before. Elven people were extremely unusual in this part of the Southland, and so Troy was not surprised to observe her long, heavy travelling cloak and boots, which suggested she was only passing through Terron. But who was she? He felt as though he had to know. Then, she was obscured from his vision by the crowd and the dust. Slowly, Vinson came back down to earth and realized where he was--standing stupidly in the middle of a sun-parched road, holding a new pair of travelling boots and being jostled by the impatient city masses. With a sigh, he gave a final, futile look through mule carts to the other side of the road, where he saw nothing. His home, a small wooden cabin, sat in a secluded pine grove a mile up the main road. Vinson reached it and slowly went inside, listening to every creak the door made, feeling the hardwood grain as he pushed it open. He listened to the sounds his old, weathered shoes made on the floor, and smelled the familiar aromas that spoke so insistently of home. So many memories here. . . Yet it was only a house, he reminded himself, and it was time now to move on to a new home. Wherever it may be. Indeed, part of the reason for his moving away was to escape some of those memories, some of the painful memories. . . memories that he did not care to think about. Most of the furnishings and home decor, items that he'd known all his life, had already been sold. Troy decided that a simple pack consisting of basic necessities would be all he needed on his journey to his new life. His purse was comfortably laden with silver from his recent sellings, so he was confident that when his new home was decided upon, he should settle in with no problems--at least not financial ones. Tomorrow would be the day. The start of a new life. Troy allowed a little bit of exhilaration rise up as he imagined himself travelling North. . . leaving, for the first time, the city of Terron. But as it did, an odd feeling that time was running out slipped up and pushed away the exhilaration. Why this feeling should intrude completely baffled him, but for some reason it reminded him of the strange Elven girl he'd seen earlier. He shook his head and sighed. He just wanted to leave. * * * The next morning seemed strange and dreamy. Vinson packed a big leather shoulder bag and went over what he had a million times. Clothes, money, his new boots, knife, food, water skins, notes on magic spells he'd been practicing, other miscellaneous things. Outside, the spring sun shone hazily through a loose blanket of clouds. "Ready," Vinson said to himself. "Alright, here we go. North! Nothing can stop us now." There was a firm knock at his door. He licked his lips nervously, moving over to the door and pulling it open with a loud, familiar creak. The chilly morning breeze swept his hair to the side, but that's not what made him inhale sharply. Vinson's heart jumped up to his throat as he saw who his unexpected caller was. "Troy Vinson?" the Elven girl asked hopefully. Vinson nodded, eyes surprised and questioning. The girl gave a warm smile. "My name is Arleah. I'm sorry if I disturbed you. . ." "No, no, not at all," he stammered, his brain sluggishly attempting to regain his composure, "I was just, uh. . . what can I do for you?" He never thought to inquire just exactly how she knew him, or where he lived. "It's a little complicated," she said, seeming a bit unsure of what to say. "I'll be as brief as possible." Vinson nodded, welcoming the opportunity just to observe his beautiful caller. "Would you like to step inside?" he asked. Seeing her hesitation, he moved aside and motioned for her to come in. Arleah nodded, gripping her cloak under her chin and smiling faintly. Vinson noticed a strange golden emblem, like a pendant of some sort, hanging from a delicate chain about her neck. On the pendant was carved the design of two crossed swords, with an image of the sun between them. "Thank you," Arleah said, stepping past Vinson and hesitantly entering the house. He smiled. "Sure." Inside, he pulled up two stools, the only remaining furniture besides a cracked wooden bookshelf he'd been unable to sell. He glanced around at the empty walls and bare floor as the girl took her seat. "I'd get you something to drink, but I'm preparing to leave the city. . . as you can see, I've either packed or sold everything." Alreah nodded. "It's alright," she said. "I know you must wonder how I knew you, and what my purpose is here. . ." She looked around the empty room and out the window. The trees rustled cheerfully from outside. "I can't say much here in the city- -there are those who would give their lives to hear what I'm about to tell you. They don't know me. . . yet." Vinson frowned. "What do you mean?" Arleah's voice dropped very low. "I am the daughter of Jaro, the King of Amariah. I have been sent to meet you, Troy Vinson, on a gravely important quest." Vinson's mind was left behind for a few moments. It took him a little while to catch up on what she had just said. "You're the daughter of--" "Sshh." The girl put a finger to her lips. "You have the ability of magic, correct?" Vinson nodded, still confused. "Well, I'm learning a few things. I wouldn't exactly call myself a wizard, but I do find magic interesting." "You are needed. I--" "Hold on a minute," Vinson said, his brow furrowed. "Now, you're telling me that you're from Amariah? This is a joke, right?" Arleah stood up from the stool, her gaze locked on his, her dark green eyes causing an almost hypnotic effect on Vinson's already struggling mind. "This is no joke. You must come with me, away from the city. I am bound Northward." "You'd better be careful, going up North. You know how it is up there. . . it's strange." Vinson blinked, wondering why in all the world he had just quoted what Sherren told him yesterday. He felt dizzy and leaned back against the wall of his cabin. "Are you alright?" Arleah asked. "Yeah, sure. Fine." "Come walk with me," she said. "Away from this city. You are headed North as well, is that right?" "I was." "Come then. I will explain more to you." "Alright," he said, mumbling. "I just need to get a few things." He shook his head to clear it, confused at the dizziness that buzzed about his eyes and ears. He felt as though he was drunk and had to concentrate on moving over to retrieve the shoulder bag he'd packed. Why was he feeling this way? Was it the girl? It was like he was dreaming. She was saying something else, but he decided it was to difficult to concentrate on her words, holding his shoulder pack, and walking at the same time. He moved awkwardly to his cabin door, as she followed. The sensation in his head was slightly pleasant if he bothered to reflect on in that way, but he was so confused that it was only frustrating. And then, suddenly, he realized what it must be. It was the magic--it was responding to something around him. A lot of times, he had been warned of forthcoming danger by an odd sensation he'd grown to recognize, or had a terrible stomache ache before an earthquake. But he'd never quite had this feeling before. What did it mean? He pushed open the door, breathed in the fresh spring air eagerly. His head seemed to clear a little. "You forgot this," he heard behind him. He looked back, and Arleah was holding a knife. It was his hunting knife, although he'd never hunted before. He took it from her, noticing the concerned look in her eyes. "Are you sure you're alright?" she asked. "You seemed a little shaky." A little shaky. There's an understatement. "No, I'm fine, really. I think I just needed some fresh air." Indeed, the feeling had settled down greatly. But it was still there--he could feel it--his magic was stirring and trying to tell him something. Troy Vinson and his strange companion left the city of Terron, heading up the bare, empty Northbound road that led to Colven, a small town not far away. Every so often, they would pass an inn or alehouse, but the road was, for the most part, completely empty. Apparently, Arleah decided it was remote enough to finally disclose her information. "There is a special stone," the girl said, "from the ancient world of magic, before the time of mortal men. It was created by the dark powers of faerie for the ultimate destruction of life. Until now, it had been safely hidden, existing only in legend." "The Eye of the Dragon," Vinson said with a smile, and nodded. "I've heard of it quite a few times in stories to frighten small children." Arleah smiled ruefully. "It will frighten more than small children if the ancient prophecies come to pass. According to those prophecies, the stone is very real, and of late, one who calls himself Muhl Dreik has recovered the stone. He has built up a kingdom in the north, which he calls Ashten. The evil generated there is very strong, and if it is allowed to continue, it will spread throughout the world, transforming it into a terrible hell, in which evil reigns and people are slaves to its power." Vinson desperately searched Arleah's eyes for signs of humor that would indicate a joke. What he saw was only cold, hard seriousness. He shook his head. "What is this about ancient prophecies? The Eye is only a legend." "No. It is not. My father has charged me with the task of leading a quest to the Northland, to stop this Muhl Dreik and destroy the Eye. You were chosen by prophecy to accompany me." "Come on. I find it difficult to believe that I was. . . chosen. Who am I to join you in this? I'm nothing." He didn't add the fact that he was highly doubtful of who she said she was, also. But then she knew him. . . knew where he lived. . . "You are a user of magic, Troy Vinson. Your part is vital to the quest. And do not speak of yourself as being nothing, you were chosen by prophecy. You are indeed someone very important." Vinson threw up his hands. "This is ridiculous! I'm moving away, I don't have time for quests into. . ." he stopped, looking at her determined expression. He felt the odd shifting of his magic again, and knew this was not just some cruel joke, or deranged illusion, but he didn't want to accept it, didn't want any part of it. He sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm speaking the truth," Arleah said. "And I believe you," Vinson said, "even though I don't quite know why. . ." he trailed off. "Then will you join me?" "How far North do you intend to go?" he asked. "I was thinking about travelling as far as Datly myself." Arleah shook her head. "We must travel far longer than that. Beyond Galgoth." "Beyond Galgoth? But that's forbidden." "The choice is yours, Troy Vinson. Neither I nor all the gods of the Southland will force you into the quest. It's a decision you will have to make on your own." Her voice sounded blank and expressionless, conveying no emotion whatsoever. Vinson noted it curiously. "My magic is nothing," he said. "I can't possibly be of any use for a quest like this. I still have much to learn, and I can't. . ." he paused, his jaw tightening, "My magic can't attack anything! It is no use in battle--I have a mental block." He avoided her eye contact. "For a quest, Arleah, I'm useless." "No," Arleah said, gripping his arm softly. "You're not. I'm aware of your mental block, as you call it. I know of your mother's death. I will make you this promise: come with me, and you will overcome your problem." Vinson stopped walking, not believing the turn of events that had taken place that morning, nor what he was hearing now. It was impossible. . . all of it. Just impossible. His "mental block", the inability to use magic in any kind of battle, had always seemed to hinder his schooling. And not just in a fight, but simply any time he tried to direct his magic towards someone, it would fail. For some reason, he could only cast on inanimate objects. It was frustrating, and seemed to dampen his desire to continue magic. His old mentor had told him once that it was an unwillingness to fight; an indicator that he had a kind, peaceful heart. "Every person is different," his mentor had said, "and the mage's connection with the spritual plane is very personal, sometimes blocked by emotions. In your case, you see life in its true fragility, and your feelings override your words, blocking your mental connection to the outer planes." But Vinson hated that explanation--it made him sound like a wimp. He became dark and gloomy about it, and oddly, his mental block grew to the extent that sometimes, even on inanimate objects, his magic would fizzle out. It was a very difficult period for him, but it got worse: During his early schooling, his mother died. He stopped using his skills entirely for a time, sulking about his empty home like a shell without a soul, going through the motions of life without feeling. He had never known his father, but the death of his mother hit Troy Vinson like an explosion, his mind never really accepting the loss of the person he loved so much. That "empty feeling" period went on for months, and he felt that he had never fully recovered from it. At that point, the mental block grew to the massive extent that it now was, an embarrasment that he refrained to tell anybody about. He had to concentrate very hard to do anything, and when he did, it drained his energy like a parasitic leech. Vinson sighed as he realized that he was thinking about exactly what he had been trying so hard not to lately, the main reason for moving out of Terron, to start a "new life". He looked up at Arleah, who was watching him quietly. "You'll overcome your mental block," she said. "I promise. Troy Vinson, you need this quest as much as it needs you. Come with me. Please." Why him? Why not a powerful wizard? What could he possibly offer to the quest? And then there was the question of the quest itself. Was it real, a cruel joke, or was this girl just crazy? She didn't seem to be, and certainly knew things about him that no one else could possibly understand. Not to mention the fact that she was incredibly beautiful, making travelling with her seem all that much more appealing. Troy rubbed his eyes, already knowing that his heart had made the decision. Today the start of a new life? He chuckled ruefully to himself. That was quite an understatement indeed. * * * Arleah had appeared to be very pleased when Vinson agreed to join her on her travels North. Appeared was the key word here, however; for to Vinson, it seemed as though Arleah's expressions and reactions were somehow unreal-- strangely, he pictured in his mind the image of a child repeating a phrase that he didn't really understand at all, just to please the adults he was talking to. Why did he believe her? That was something he was still a bit unsure of. All he knew was that it had something to do with the odd sensation he was still feeling, although it had lessened considerably since they left his cabin. "There are two others we must join," Arleah said. "They will accompany us North." "We're going past Galgoth?" Vinson asked, as if he still could not believe it. Nobody went that far north, and when they did, they usually disappeared or came back insane. At least, that was what he'd heard. Southland gossip tended to get out of hand. "For a short way." "Look, I'm a little in the dark here about this Eye of the Dragon thing," Vinson said, grinning. "I mean, it's not every day someone comes up to me and says, hey Troy, guess what? You're chosen by prophecy and I'm an ambassador for this god coming to lead you on a quest. I mean, well, you know." Arleah smiled. "I know." She sighed, looking up at the sky. "The Eye of the Dragon is a weapon. It was created a long time ago to shift the universal balance to Evil." "The universal balance?" "Good and Evil. It's a tale as old as time, Troy Vinson, and actually older than that. Ever since the creation of the worlds, there has been a struggle between these two ever-present forces, between the gods of good and the demons of evil, who are always struggling to get domination of the other." "So it's kind of like your conscience," Vinson said. "Bad and good, always trying to get the better of each other." Arleah looked at him blankly. "You know, your conscience," Vinson said. "Come now." "Conscience," Arleah repeated. She looked thoughtful. "Interesting." "Don't tell me you never heard of people's consciences. I mean, you're telling me about the delicate balance of the universe, and you never heard of a conscience? You know, right and wrong?" Arleah smiled sadly. "I can tell you about the kingdoms of the gods, and I can describe to you palaces of gold and silver and crystal, and I can tell you wondrous true tales about magic and places of such beauty that would astound your very soul. I can tell you all this and more, but I would never be able to explain to you how it feels to cry, or to be a child, or even to be loved. These are things I know nothing about." Vinson looked at her curiously. "What do you mean? Why not?" "Those are experiences that come with life," Arleah said. "You can feel things and be a part of things that I can never understand." "You mean. . . you're not alive?" Vinson asked. He stopped walking. "You're not an illusion, are you? A spirit?" "No, no. I was given life in order to come here." "So then you're alive," Vinson said, confused. "So why can't you experience all those things you said?" Arleah shook her head. "It's not the same thing. I will never know what it is like to be a child. I will never understand parts of life, like the conscience that you spoke of." "But you can, well, cry, right?" "I suppose now I can." "So here we go," Vinson said, "I'll tell you a really good tear-jerker, and you'll experience life." Arleah smiled faintly. "I don't think it's that easy." "Why not?" Absently, she fingered the golden pendant that hung from her neck. "Can we talk about something else?" Vinson bit his lip. "I've offended you," he said. "I apologize." "Don't you dare," Arleah said. "You've done no such thing." She looked up at his earnest expression, and smiled. "It's just that. . ." She paused, groping for words. "Never mind," Vinson said. "You don't have to explain. I can only imagine what an ordeal it is to go through whatever you have. I mean, I thought it was culture shock when my uncle's friend, Darion, came to visit from Tyrus, and that's just another city. In your case. . ." There was a few moment's of awkward silence. "Well, anyway," Vinson said, "you were explaining about the. . . universal balance, and good and evil, and that sort of thing." "Oh yes," Arleah said. She took a deep breath. "Usually, the two forces of good and evil balance each other out, creating a sort of neutral space in which we live. Sometimes, though, there is a deviation in this norm, and what results can be devastating if not stopped. The more the balance tips to one end of the scale, the easier it is to keep on tipping, and the harder it is to stop it and tip it the other way. The ultimate thing that would happen is that the universal balance tips all the way to one force, and that would obliterate the other force." Vinson said, "So if the universal balance tips all the way to evil, then good's out of there." "Exactly. And that is what the Eye of the Dragon is intended to do." "So, how do we stop it?" Arleah smiled. "Stopping it is my task. Yours is to get me there." * * * The next morning, the two travellers reached the tiny town of Colven. The walk from Terron was relatively easy, since the road they travelled was well-used and flanked by inns, alehouses, and the like. Colven, however, appeared to be hardly more than a few old houses thrown hastily together around the road. The land was flat, save the heights of the Scavenger Mountains sillhouetted a ways off, nearly treeless, and the air was dull and dry. A few old men sat about on a porch, staring at the two travellers blankly. "Nice place," Vinson said. "I feel like we just walked into the land of the dead." Arleah didn't answer, looking around the empty road expectantly. After a few moments, she seemed to spot what she was looking for, and beckoned Vinson forward. "Over there," she said. "There's a small inn where we can rest and eat." The inn they arrived at looked more like a rickety pile of loose boards nailed together to form a vague shelter. The "door" was a long, rug-like cloth that they pushed aside to reveal a dusty, makeshift taproom. Sunlight filtered through holes in the ceiling to create long, interesting beams of light which shone on furnishings equally as interesting. The two tables looked lopsided and misshapen, and the chairs were mere wooden crates. There was nobody around. The bar looked better taken care of. It was in the back, sheltered by moderately sufficient roofing, and its surface was clean and polished. Vinson and Arleah walked across the warped floor over to the serving area. The man that stood up from behind the bar was huge. His balding head reached within inches below the tattered ceiling, and his arms looked to be the size of Vinson's legs. The man's belly hung heavily beneath his waistline, peeking out from under a stained shirt. His bearded, grizzled head frowned disinterestingly down on them. "What do you want?" he said in a grating voice. "What do you have?" asked Vinson. From the looks of the man and the taproom, whatever food this tavern had was also to be questioned. "We got cheese, bread, and some chicken from last week," the man said, scratching his beard idly. "That's it." Arleah suggested they buy enough food for the trip to their next stop, the city of Davensport. That travel would take them over the Scavenger Mountains and across the Sillescopian Flats, a walk of about three or four days. The big man brought them bread, cheese, and chicken wrapped in cheesecloth, some hot bread with melted butter for breakfast, and two mugs of ale. The two travellers took their seats on the wooden crates. "Not exactly your best accommodations," Vinson said quietly. "I would say that Colven doesn't get many visitors." Arleah smiled. "It doesn't. Most travellers on the road from Terron are going to Tyrus, the city about a mile west of here." Vinson sipped his mug of ale idly, inspecting his bread. It felt stale. "So," he said, "some guy named Muhl Dreik. . . is that it?" Arleah nodded. "Alright, so some guy named Muhl Dreik has the Eye of the Tiger, and he's using it to tip the universal balance over to evil, ridding the world of good." "All worlds of good," Arleah said. "And that's Eye of the Dragon." "Eye of the Dragon. But who is Muhl Dreik anyway? How exactly did he get the Eye? And why does he want to do this to the world? Worlds, I mean." Arleah glanced uncomfortably at the barkeeper, who was looking at them from across the room with only mild interest. "Troy Vinson," she said quietly. "There is a time and a place for everything. I will give you all I know about the Eye and the quest, but not here. Not now." "You mean him?" Vinson asked, tossing a quick look at the barkeeper. The big man was now sitting back down behind the bar, scratching his stomach. "I don't think he's too much of a threat." "The eyes and ears of Muhl Dreik are everywhere," Arleah whispered. "Trust me. When we gather our remaining two companions, and are safely in the highlands, I will tell all of you everything I know." Vinson nodded. "Alright. I understand." He felt a little uncomfortable now, and threw a quick glance behind his shoulder. Nobody was there. "Don't worry," Arleah said. "Muhl Dreik knows nothing of us, but my father warned me that his minions are everywhere nowadays. It is best to keep quiet in the cities." The rest of the stale breakfast was eaten in silence, with only the creaking of the floor beneath them every time one of them moved, or an occasional muffled belch from the barkeeper. Vinson's mind was brimming with questions, but he contained them. After they ate, refilled their water skins, and left the inn, Arleah directed them to the road that lead North out of the city, heading for the Scavenger Highlands. Vinson figured it would be relatively safe to ask about their future companions, as long as he didn't say anything like "Muhl Dreik", or "Eye of the Dragon". He asked, "What about the other two you told me about? Where do we go to find them?" "One is Eric Walker," Arleah said, "a swordsman and traveller from Tyrus. We'll meet him in the highlands. The other is Kurt Arion, a thief. He will meet us. . . any minute now. CHAPTER FOUR -Eric Walker The city of Tyrus was one of the few remaining Monarchies in the upper Southland, or what was coming to be called the Free Lands. It was built terracing upwards along the base of the Scavenger Mountains, the topmost level built high with royal towers and enormous, intricately-carved stone buildings. It was in this kingdom that Eric Walker lived. He was an adventurer, an outdoorsman, never confining himself inside the great walls of Tyrus. Sometimes he'd take long treks through the Eastland, always coming back with wild tales to tell about his adventurous journeys. But Eric Walker was also a father, with an eleven-year- old son and a nineteen-year-old daughter. This spring, the weather was good, the kingdom's spirits were high, and so were Eric Walker's: for tomorrow was the day of his daughter's wedding. At Walker's home, the night was filled with anticipation of the following day. His wife, son, and daughter gathered together in the dining room as Eric Walker uncorked a bottle of fine red wine to the occasion, filling four small goblets. "To my daughter, the bride," he said, smiling broadly, holding up his glass. "And to her old dad," his daughter Tarrah said. She laughed. "doomed to spend the rest of his life without me." Eric Walker grinned. "It'll give us great pleasure." Tarrah gave him a mock glare as they drank, Eric's eleven-year-old son wincing at the dry taste. Eric re- corked the bottle, grinning at his young boy. "We'll save this same wine for when your time comes." The boy shook his head vigorously. "No way. I'm never getting married." "I went to the marketplace today," Walker's wife Aleena said, sliding her glass away. "Do you know who I saw?" Eric Walker shook his head. "Who?" "I saw Nicholas Harting's wife, Keren. Do you remember them?" Walker didn't. "Not really." "I remember," Tarrah said. "She was the one whose son was arrested by the royal guard, remember? He set fire to part of the castle?" Vaguely, Walker remembered hearing something about that a year or two ago. "I think so." "Well," his wife said, "Do you know what she told me? She said that last week, her son disappeared." "I'm not surprised. He would seem like the type." "But she said some of their neighbors haven't been seen for a week, too. It's almost as if they just vanished." "That's pretty strange," Walker said. "I thought so. She even said that a few of her neighbors' houses were badly damaged, like windows broken or doors falling apart. They're trying to figure it out." "Oh well," Walker said, standing to his feet and stretching. "I'm sure they will. We have enough problems of our own with this wedding to put on!" He grinned at Tarrah. "I'm so nervous," Tarrah said to her mother, who hugged her affectionately. "Just remember," Aleena said, "When. . ." Her words were interrupted by the sound of crashing glass upstairs. Eric Walker started. "What was--" Heavy footsteps thundered above their head, and splintering wood could be heard. Walker jumped up, dashing into the front room and grabbing his heavy broadsword from its holding rack. Quickly, he darted to the door and locked the bolt. "Check that the back doors are locked," he shouted to his wife. "Stay with the kids." "What's going on, Dad?" his son's eyes were wide and petrified as Walker bounded past them toward the staircase. Aleena bolted the back doors, which were in the rear of the dining room. Walker caught her frightened eyes as he looked back. "Be careful, Eric. . ." she whispered. Without further hesitation, he slipped up the steps, barely catching his wife's words to his children: "It'll be alright, your Dad will take care of it." Sword ready, Eric Walker climbed the dimly lit staircase slowly and cautiously. He knew he should wait a few moments for his eyes to adjust, but the thought of intruders in his house, coupled with the thought of his family waiting in the dining room and trusting him to protect them spurred him on. Just a few steps below the second floor, a warning alarm went off in Walker's mind. There was a fetid odor in the air, and he thought he could just hear a soft, wheezing kind of sound. In a sudden motion, something large and black bolted at him from the shadows above. Walker ducked, and heard an object whistle past his ear. Without thinking, Walker drew his sword in an upward cut through the front of the thing before him, kicking it backward with one leg. As it fell back in the torchlight of the second floor, Walker gasped. He'd seen them before in the Eastland, but that was a long time ago. He remembered, however, their brute strength and tremendous fighting skills. His intruder was a troll. The yellow, inhuman eyes glared meanly as it regained its footing on the steps above, then held up a deadly looking spiked mace, roaring defiantly. Walker ducked again as the thing smashed it's heavy weapon against the staircase siding, and he countered with lightning-fast strikes of his sword to its belly. The troll was incredibly strong, but so was Walker, and he parried the beast's next crushing blow, counterattacking. Black liquid spurted from the wounded troll's stomach as it sank to one knee, but the heavy sound of approaching footsteps thundered above. With one more sweeping blow from Walker, the troll lay dying on the staircase. The other intruders on the second floor seemed to have been going through the bedrooms, but were now rapidly approaching the stairs. Walker saw first two, three, then a total of four trolls peer hastily over the railing above before leaping down towards him. He knew he didn't have a chance. Distantly, he realized that all of the trolls wore a leather vest with the insignia of a snake placed in red on the shoulder. Whoever they were, they were part of some army, not in packs as Walker had seen them in the Eastland. But he didn't have time to ponder the matter. Backpedaling down the stairs, Walker shouted for his wife and children to get out. From the front rooms, he heard a splintering crash. His daughter screamed. Somehow, trolls had got inside the house downstairs-- where his family was. In an adrenaline-powered fury, Walker's sword flashed swiftly in the torchlight, actually pushing back the four trolls on the stairs above him, the foremost one falling over, headless. But as Walker spun around to flee towards the dining room, he was met by two more. The battle that followed was a wicked, bloody fight in which three trolls lay dead before Walker's strength began to give out. His breathing was heavy, his eyes blurred with sweat and blood. He called for his wife, but received no answer. Walker fought as well as he could, but his opponents were too numerous and strong. One troll got through his skilled defenses and Walker was thrown to the ground as a mace smashed into his left shoulder. His arm instantly felt numb and heavy, pain shooting up the shattered limb like daggers. Underestimating the fallen Eric Walker, the two remaining trolls let their guards down and leapt towards him for the finish. Throwing a leg out, Walker tripped one troll and fell on him sword first, as the other troll swung its mace harmlessly onto the ground. Walker was like an animal now, not reasoning or thinking, with just one object in his foggy, faltering mind: to survive. The troll he had tripped tried to get up, but caught the blade of Walker's sword in his throat. Walker lurched himself up. His left arm dangled uselessly, muscles jerking beneath tattered flesh He tried to strike at the remaining troll, but his aim was off, and his heavy broadsword swept harmlessly aside. The huge troll's fist caught him heavily in the jaw, then another immediately on his chin. Eric Walker's sword fell away, and he staggered back into his parlor wall, blood pounding in his ears. The troll lifted his mace. In a last, purely instinctive move, Walker, bracing himself against the wall and kicked almost blindly ahead. His foot met squarely with the stomach of his opponent, pushing it back. The intruder lost its footing, and fell backward, the rear of its head meeting the spike of a dead troll's fallen mace with a thick, heavy smack. Walker slumped down on the ground, his brain swimming in sluggish circles inside his ringing skull. Why had this happened to him? Why would an army of god-forsaken trolls want to penetrate his home? And, since trolls were among the few races not allowed in the kingdom, how had they gotten through the Tyrus gates? He felt his left arm heavy and lifeless against his body, and shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Dazed, he stumbled forward and looked slowly around at the mess. . . dead trolls, black blood and broken items everywhere. . . And suddenly, he remembered his family. Screaming his wife's name, he ran unsteadily into the dining room. He stopped as he entered the doorway, staring at the empty room. The chairs were overturned, candles fallen and extinguished, and the ceremonial bottle of red wine lay smashed on the floor. His wife and children were gone. He cried out their names again, retrieving his sword and stumbling through the hall into the front room. There, the door was splintered and fallen. . . the trolls' entrance. They had his family--he had failed to protect them. Bolting out the ruined doorway, Walker entered the black night, wild red eyes desperately searching the empty streets. And then, to his left, he saw what at any other time would have looked ridiculously funny. At the moment, though, it looked like everything else: a nightmare. The thing looked like a giant, black stingray perched on chicken's legs. On it's back was an enormous, saddle- like covering, the symbol of the red snake stitched boldly on the side. And climbing onto the saddle was a lone troll, heaving three tied objects up with him. His wife and his children. They weren't making any noise, so Walker guessed they were probably gagged as well. With a furious, irrational roar, Eric Walker charged. His good right arm held his sword high above his head, spinning it in wide circles. But the black monster's wings flapped mightily, lifting it off the ground long before Walker got there. It rose high, rolled to the left and sped away northward. Then it was gone, the sleeping city of Tyrus dark and quiet. The trolls couldn't get Eric Walker, but they had gotten his family. For some unknown reason, they had come in, trapped Walker in his own house, and snatched away his wife and children behind his back. But they wouldn't get away with it. . . oh no, they wouldn't get away. Walker swore to himself that they wouldn't get away. Without thinking, he ran northward through the Tyrus streets, exiting the east gate through the baffled guards and up the small northbound road which was lit only dimly by moonlight. He followed the direction the troll had flown, climbing into the highlands and pushing himself wildly through thorny brush and creeks. By the time he had come remotely to his senses, he was stumbling. . . lost. . . through the Scavenger Mountains, his arm throbbing in excrutiating pain. Crying out in frustration and fury, Eric Walker collapsed, weak with blood loss and exertion. He was too weak to move, too weak to stand up, too weak to hold up his sword. His battered arm and wounded body continued to bleed. Ten minutes later, he was unconscious. CHAPTER FIVE -Kurt Arion It had been a whole month now that Kurt Arion had been having the disturbing dreams--violent, fear-filled nightmares in which he was constantly running from a snake. It was a giant, red snake with the body as large as a dragon's, but without a face. Then the snake would be swallowed up by a disgustingly large black cockroach, who would proceed to chase after him in the snake's stead. It seemed silly as he thought about it, but it was terrifying. It had made sleep become a haunting experience. Every time he had the dream, the snake and then the cockroach seemed to get closer to him--waving antennae and mightily working mandibles bearing down on him with a fetid stench. . .then, he would wake up. Kurt Arion was a tall, thin man of twenty-six. His pocked face was lean and hard, with sunken eyes and dark, thick, shortly cropped hair giving him a sort of sinister appearance. He had a thin frame, his limbs flexible and strong, perfect for his profession; a killer and a thief. Perhaps not the most honest of occupations, but his entire life had never left him much chance for honesty. Survival was the key. . . survival was everything, especially when you were running from the Tyrus Royal Guard. And now, by some cruel twist of fate, he had wound up in Colven. Kurt Arion had only one word for this place: Boring. Pacing back and forth his temporary home, an empty shack, he considered his next destination. Tyrus was out, no question about it. North was too risky and too difficult to travel. Perhaps he could go East, or even South towards Terron. Either way, he knew he had to go somewhere besides Colven; the place was driving him crazy. And so was this cursed nightmare. He pondered it for a few moments, the intense feeling of horror still lingering in his mind from last night. He had nightmares before, he had repeated dreams before, and quite a few times, he had dreams that actually happened later on, after he'd dreamed them. But only once before had he dreamed a dream that gave him this eerie, haunting feeling: when he was a child, he dreamed repeatedly of his parents dying. That was roughly a month before they were murdered. The memory of that incident, however, meant nothing to him anymore. It was just one of the multiple shots life had taken at him, he thought. Just one in thousands. In order to get by, he had long since taught himself to completely erase any emotion those type of memories might hold. Otherwise, how would he survive? And survival, he knew, was the only important thing anymore; nothing else mattered. He crossed over to a small, glassless window facing the East, placed his thin arms on the sill and gazed out. The morning sun glared into his face, but he ignored it. Arion viewed himself as a rock: invulnerable to outside forces, strong, hard, and cold. In Tyrus, he had a reputation for being all of the above, and it was one he intended to keep. He watched as two figures walked up the road towards his shack from the direction of an old inn. One was a woman, probably Elven, and the other was a man. They looked to be travellers, and quite possibly had the possession of a good sum of money. Arion smiled to himself. * * * "I don't get it," Troy Vinson said. "What use would a thief be. . . are we planning to steal something? Burglarize a house?" Arleah shook her head. "There's more to a thief--at least a good one--than stealing and pickpocketing, Troy Vinson. Consider someone in our group that can open up locks, slip silently through the shadows, and provide excellent direction sense; someone who is a professional at strategies and penetrating guarded areas." Vinson was silent a moment. Their boots crunching along on the pebbled road was the only sound in the small, quiet town. "I guess I get your point," he said slowly. "At least, I can see where those skills would be to our advantage." "Those skills will be to our advantage, Eric Walker's skills will be to our advantage, and also your skills. They all combine to result in exactly what we need." "Are you sure I'll be of any consequence?" Vinson asked. "We all will," Arleah said. "Each and every one of us." * * * Kurt Arion stepped out from the empty shack, shutting the small door behind him. A small talk with these two, provided the questions were satisfactory, could tell him a lot. Put bluntly, he would find out if they could be taken advantage of. If not, he would simply pass on. They looked harmless enough. The man was clean shaven and dressed in Southland garb; the only weapon noticeable was a small hunting knife on his belt. He was good looking, as was the woman. Her clothing was indistinguishable to Arion; seemingly a mixture of Eastern and Northern. She had definite Elven features, green eyes and dark hair, and Arion's experienced eyes noticed a small dagger, belted and concealed beneath her cloak. She had something golden around her neck that looked like it probably would run for a wonderful price. "Hello there," he greeted in a friendly voice. The other man smiled, but Arion could tell that the smile was a mask; most likely shielding suspicion or distrust. In his eyes, Arion could read that these two were looking for something. . . it was as if they were on a quest. Arion's interest was immediately aroused. "Fine day," Arion said. "Always nice to see fellow travellers. Where are you headed?" "North," the woman said. Arion began to notice that something was wrong. He couldn't read the woman's eyes. Sometimes that happened, but it was usually because the person was either mentally ill, or very, very stupid. This woman didn't look stupid; maybe she was crazy. "North, are you?" Arion asked. "Dangerous country, Lady." The girl smiled mischievously. "I know. But no journey is too great when one finds what he seeks." Arion smiled, delighted at the way the sun caught her pretty face. She was probably the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen--and he'd seen a lot--but he felt that there was something wrong, most likely because the secrets of her eyes were closed to him, which made even an innocent-looking girl like her potentially dangerous. Arion didn't like playing with what he didn't understand, and had learned all too often the consequences of doing so. The best thing to do now was simply bid farewell, and leave. The girl was talking again. "My name is--" "I'm sorry," Arion said, "but I'm running a bit late. I hope you don't mind if I excuse myself, it was nice meeting both of you," He smiled, turning to go. Then the woman spoke. "The pleasure was ours," she said, and paused. . . "Kurt Arion." Arion froze. They had no reason to know his name. This was bad. Very bad. It could only mean one thing: Trackers. Someone was tracking him. It was not to be surprised, since he was fleeing from the city of Tyrus on at least twenty murder charges, seven times that amount of burglaries, robberies, and small theft, not to mention horse theft, unlawful marketing, unlawfully penetrating the Royal Treasury, forgery, black market. . . the list went on and on. But it was all business, just for money. It was nothing personal. However, now he was in a position he'd never been in: faced with two people who were armed, who knew him even though he didn't know them, and one whose eyes he couldn't even read. Well, this was just great. Arion knew what would remedy the situation easily enough, at least for now. He reached for his knife. CHAPTER SIX -Tabitha Lasea Gripping the food she had just obtained tightly beneath her tattered clothing, Tabitha Lasea scuttled through the alleyways and sidestreets that she knew so well. "Stop that thief!" she heard behind her. "Stop her!" She weaved through the city crowds, and, never loosening the hold on her precious food, cut quickly into a narrow alley. This one was her favorite; it was so dark that she could wait and watch as the city officials and merchants ran by, without them ever catching a glimpse of her at all. But today, she met a surprise. A fat merchant jumped at her from the shadows. "Aha!" he cried triumphantly. He held up a rusty, chipped knife, motioning for her to step back out onto the main street. To step out and surrender. That'll be the day, she thought bitterly. With one vicious kick, she sent her foot deep into his groin. The merchant grunted in pain. While clutching the food tightly with her right hand, she landed a wicked left to his chin. The man fell back into a pile of trash and lay unmoving, his cheap blade clattering to the ground. "Aha yourself," she muttered, and darted away down the alley. She almost considered taking the knife, but it was corroded and worn, almost useless. Someone could find a rock that was sharper. She hurried home, the directions bouncing about in her mind like the food in her hands: Turn left at the next street, cut right into the alley, climb over the fence, push through the crowded road, turn right. . . she knew it all by heart. It took her three more minutes to reach her home, a small wooden shack in an alleyway between two noisy inns. Looking around the streets warily for officials, she pushed open the thin wooden door and slipped inside. "Hi, Gramps," she said, pulling the food out and setting it on their table (which was really an old wooden crate that said "Wineskins" on the side in faded white letters). "I got breakfast." An old man looked up at her from a small wooden chair in the corner of the one-room shack, his eyes glassy. "Who are you?" he cried, "What are you doing in my home?" He coughed violently. "Gramps. . ." "Imagine! Picking on a poor, old man!" "Gramps. . ." "What is this city coming to? First, I get everything taken away from me, my home, my horse, 'n everything! Now you've come to take me, too, have you?" "Gramps! It's just me." The old man stared at her for a moment, blinked, and then he sat back in the chair. "Oh, Tabby, I'm sorry." he sighed. "I. . ." "I know, Gramps. Here. Have a piece of bread." "No, I'm not hungry. I'll eat it later." Tabitha sat down in the remaining chair, plucking at the bread and cheese on the table. Her stomach begged her to grab everything in one handful and stuff it down her throat, but she knew that would be foolish. She sighed, pushing her curly auburn hair from her face with annoyment. Her grandfather coughed loudly in a long, drawn out heave followed by several small ones. "Grandpa, your cough's getting worse." "I'm just fine," he muttered, attempting to stifle a further cough in vain. "You need medicine, grandpa. You're too old and you're not eating right." Her grandfather brushed his hand in her direction with an irritated air, closing his eyes. "Alright, be ornery then," Tabitha said angrily. She pulled a bit more bread from the loaf, a little more than she would normally take, and ate it slowly. He wasn't really her grandfather. But, he was the only one who had ever loved her--ever cared for her. He'd saved her life when she was only three years old, adopting her as his own. It happened in a bloody, disastrous war fifteen years ago. The dark Elves of the Jarren Mountains, who lived in a labyrinth of underground cities, were discovered by a band of five travellers. The dark Elves, or Vail as they are more commonly called, had attacked the travellers one night for venturing too close to the entrance of their subterranean highway. Four of the five human travellers were murdered. The survivor, a mere boy, escaped only by chance and very good luck. He arrived in Shaleh that morning, disheveled and exhausted, to tell his horrible tale. The Vail were a chaotic, evil race of Elves, their entire lives and culture focused on violence, death, and sacrifice to their dark goddess, Cybele. They only ventured from their underground metropolis at night--to kill or enslave creatures that lived above the ground. When the word of four human deaths by the hand of the Vail became news in the streets of Shaleh, several city inhabitants swarmed in mob fashion to the mountains outside of the city, swearing to take four Vail lives at the very least. They should have studied the Vail culture before they did. Gaining entrance to the underground city, the people were horridly defeated by the dark Elves in what could only be called a slaughter. They were on the retreat in seconds, fleeing from the viscious Vail like a flock of frightened birds. They had captured nearly ten Vail children in an attempt to hold their enemy at bay so they could escape safely, but the dark Elves paid no attention. They came on, slaughtering over half of the remainder of their would-be attackers and driving the rest away from the mountains. After that, the entrance to the Vail's world in the Jarren Mountains mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen again. The captured Vail children, most of whom were under seven years of age, had been in a tournament: for every Vail, as soon as he has the ability to walk, is tutored in the art of combat and killing. Any Vail that cannot survive the teachings or the tournaments would be put to death. The remaining people of the mob from Shaleh dragged the children down and into the city, to publicly murder them. It was then that Tabitha's "grandfather", a moderately wealthy, well-known man at the time, had intervened and saved her life. Tabitha had been the last of the Vail children to be killed and was about to be added to the gallows when her grandfather had come upon the gathering and put an end to it. But that was a long time ago. Tabitha took a drink of water from one of the three glasses they owned, gazing bitterly at her reflection in it. She saw the clear, finely chiseled Elven features of her face. But her eyes, unlike normal Elves, were dark black, and her curly auburn hair was streaked with snow white. Elven skin was fair, but her skin was dark and bronzed as if she'd spent a summer week lying in the sun. That would be impossible for her, though. For although her skin was dark, she had little resistance to the sun, and would even lose her vision temporarily if her sensitive eyes were exposed to too much sunlight. Tabitha set the glass back down on the table, pushed it away. She hated what she was, hearing the stories of her race in bitter shame. She could forget she was a Vail for weeks, sometimes for months, until something was there to remind her: her reflection, insults, hateful stares. But she had long since learned to ignore the stares, and knock out anyone insulting her. Her reflection, though, always haunted her. She ate a crumb of cheese without tasting it, leaning back in the chair and closing her eyes. Sometimes, although she would never admit it to herself, she wished her grandfather hadn't stolen her away when he did, and would have just let her die. * * * Tabitha woke up suddenly from her chair. She had fallen asleep, nothing unusual for her during the dull, boring days in Shaleh, and it was probably near midday now. Her eyes fell on the food sitting on the table, still untouched. She sighed, standing. "Gramps, get up and eat," she said. "You have to eat something." Her grandfather didn't stir. "Hey grandpa, wake up." She walked the short distance to his chair, alarmed. Usually, he slept very little during the day, spending the time carving wooden toys, painting, or some other small task. Items that he needed were always quite available in the marketplace, placed in racks or shelves that Tabitha was sometimes able to skim from. But he wasn't painting or carving right now, he was still. And he wasn't even snoring, which he always did in his sleep. Always. Right then, she knew he was dead. It was something that always worried her. He was so old, and they were too poor to scrape together enough food to eat decent meals. She stopped walking, and just stood there, looking at him. She didn't want to check, didn't want to believe he was dead. What would she do if he died? She would have nothing to live for anymore, she thought. The only person that had ever cared for her, or showed her any kindness would be gone. Suddenly, her grandfather stirred violently, heaving out a loud cough as he did. Tabitha's knees went weak with relief. The feeling of alarm quickly returned, however. That cough had sounded terrible, and in the place of snoring, her grandfather was wheezing loudly in his sleep now, his chest shuddering. Tabitha made up her mind. Moving quietly behind her grandfather's chair, so not to wake him, she lifted the wooden floorboard in the corner of their shack. Gently, she slipped her hand into the dark compartment that lay beneath, fingers searching, groping for what she knew was there: their most valuable possession. Finally, she found it. It was a key. Not a real key, but a charm that had once been part of a necklace. The key was golden, with a beautifully jeweled handle. It was the only thing the government of Shaleh didn't take from her grandfather during the black season five years ago, when taxes and food shortage ran rampant through several Southland cities. They hadn't taken the key because they didn't find it. When she was little, Tabitha's grandfather told her little fairy tale stories of the key being magic, made by dwarves and given to his great-great-grandmother as a gift. After Tabitha grew older, though, she was that it was just a wedding present for that great-great-grandmother. Apparently, it had been in their family for years, and her grandfather loved it. He would not sell it, not even to pay the taxes that may have spared their home five years ago. Tabitha was only thirteen years old then, and didn't really understand what was happening; but, as she grew older, she admittedly became bitter with her grandfather because of the key. They didn't have to live like this, she told him. Sell the key! But for some reason, he never did. Tabitha quietly replaced the floorboard, gripping the golden charm in her left hand. She could never tell her grandfather what she was about to do; he wouldn't have it. But it was either the key or his life, she knew. The sounds of her grandfather's wheezing breaths followed her to the door, then drifted away as she stepped out onto the noisy road. The sun filtered down on her through patchy clouds, and a small breath of wind breezed into the alley, gathering up debris from the road and sending it skittering about. The inns on either side of her home were noisy as usual, a gathering place for drunken travellers. Quickly, she closed the door of their shack, slipped out of the alleyway and onto the road. She knew the danger that she was facing as she ran through the crowded street towards the Shaleh mission hall. The healers' quarters were always guarded by city officials, and it was possible that one or more of them might recognize her. Also, who was to say that the healers would not take her golden key and just throw her out on the street? After all, she thought bitterly, she was just a street urchin, and what's more, a Vail. She couldn't go to the police because of who she was, nor did she know anyone that could. Still gripping the key, she kept running, trying not to think about those things. After all, she had to try. . . it was her grandfather's only hope. When Tabitha drew near the mission hall, a dismal surprise lay in wait for her. The mission gates were closed, their tall, wooden frames blocking any passage and view. Desperation set in as she followed the huge wall to the next gate. It was closed as well. Rubbing her precious key unconsciously in her hot, damp hand, she continued on to the third and last gate, which took five more minutes of anxious running. Not to her surprise, it was also locked shut. She kicked it in frustration. What now? Looking at the stone wall, she decided that it would probably be easy for her to climb, but if the gates were closed, that meant the mission hall's services were also closed. What good would it do to get in? Then they would really throw her out. She was left with the unpleasant choice of standing there, doing nothing, scaling this wall, or going back without any medicine or help. The last option was unbearable, and the first was almost as bad. Slowly, Tabitha pocketed her golden key. Gritting her teeth, she found her first foothold in the pocked surface of the wall. They would understand, she kept telling herself. Someone was dying: they had to understand. She reached the top easily, tired as she was from running to the mission hall and to all its gates, and peered carefully over. There was a group of five or more people, residents of Shaleh, clustered together. From her vantage point she couldn't tell, but it almost looked like they were tied up with rope. Milling about were a few city officials, shouting something every now and then to the group of apparently-captive people. Something weird was going on, and that wasn't the half of it; along with the officials, there were other things, things that didn't look very human to Tabitha at all. They were bulky and hunched over, their bodies covered with hair like an ape. They all wore black leather vests with a coiled, red snake stamped on the shoulders. At the center of the grounds stood the city Prefect. Tabitha's eyes narrowed in dislike at the sight of the thin, wiry-looking man. In her (and most others') opinion, the Prefect was a greedy, lying cheat. He was the one who brought the idea to the council that a heavy tax was needed from all Southland residents to purchase enough weaponry to win the gnome war, the cause of the dark period in Shaleh. Agreed, the tax had helped win the war, but it had left many people in poverty. Tabitha shook her head as she saw the Prefect murmuring something to a city official. "The gift," the Prefect said to one of the apelike men, "is three learned men of magic, and two strong fighters. Certainly quite a prize for your Lord." The thing he was talking to grunted. "You bring us only five? We do better than that on our own in monarchies like Tyrus." "Learned men of magic, and strong fighters," the Prefect repeated. "We're not paying you for such a choice few," the hairy man snapped. "We pay you for numbers. In this case, your payment will be small!" "But. . ." "It might be our decision to drop you from the list. We have three other participating cities as well." The Prefect frowned. "We will make the exception this time," the gnarled person said roughly. "Next time, you'd better do what we pay you to do! COLLECT!" The Prefect nodded vigorously. "Anything you say," he said. "My humble apologies. On your next visit, you will have so many that your beasts will not be able to carry them. I want you to understand that Shaleh is very willing to do business with you." Tabitha frowned. "Spineless worm," she muttered to herself. She had seen enough to know she didn't want to go over the wall. Especially with hairy ape-like men and the cursed Prefect there, whatever he was up to. She slipped back down the way she came, her mind trying to pull together what to do next. Now how was she going to get help for her grandfather? She was still mulling over the situation as she turned and started back for the road. Like a shadow, someone stepped silently in front of her, barring her path. Tabitha gasped. The person was large and hunched over, his limbs covered in coarse hair. He wore a vest with the red, coiled insignia of a snake stamped at his shoulder, and his face was inhuman; beady eyes glared at her from below a large, pronounced brow. His nose was a flat snout, and his lips were thin and bared. Instinctively, Tabitha tried to dart away. The thing grabbed her around the waist, clamping a rough hand across her mouth as though it expected her to scream, although she would never have considered herself such a weakling that she would cry out for help like the prissy little rich girls in the eastern side of town. Kicking violently back with one foot, she strained to free herself. But the monster that held her seemed not to care about her blows, and his grip was as strong as iron. Tabitha couldn't believe it: she was caught. CHAPTER SEVEN -Davensport Kurt Arion advanced quickly on the two, his hand gripping a long, wicked-looking dagger. "Talk. Now. Who sent you?" Vinson didn't move, deciding that reaching for his own knife would probably not reflect too well on the other man. Arleah held up her hands before her. "Kurt Arion--" "Was it Emmit Tasker, from Tyrus? Tell him I don't have his money; we've been over this a million times. And tell him the next time he sends trackers after me, I'll cut off their tongues." That had to be it, Arion thought. It was the only explanation. Somebody had gotten trackers after him, and now this woman and Southlander were expecting to take him in. Well, he had other ideas about that. A lot of people would like to get their hands on him for a lot of reasons, but they never had. And they never would. "No," Arleah said. "We're only--" "It was Jake, wasn't it?" Arion asked. "Well, you can tell him that I'm through playing his little fantasy games. And I never took anything from his daughter's house." "Kurt Arion," Arleah said, her voice calm, "please listen. . ." "No, you listen, Lady," he said firmly, "I don't know who you are, but I do know that somebody sent you. And nobody's tracking me without hell to pay, that's sure. Now you two had best move along and forget you ever saw me here. If I see you pop up again somewhere. . ." his eyes were hard as he held up the gleaming blade, ". . .I'll kill you." Two old men across the street stood up from their rickety wooden chairs, gawking. Arion noticed that they made the woman uncomfortable. Good. "Kurt Arion, please put the knife away. You're not going to kill anyone." Arion laughed. "Don't push your luck, Lady. You're a very beautiful woman and I wouldn't want to harm you. If I were your friend there, I'd advise you to move along." "Arleah--" Vinson started to say. "Allow me to introduce myself," the woman said. Arion shook his head. "Look. I really don't care--" "My name is Arleah, and this is Troy Vinson." "I'm happy for both of you. Now get--" "I can't say much here," Arleah said, "because it's not safe, but I'll tell you this much. I know about your enemy, Kurt Arion. The one that haunts your nights. He's our enemy, too." "What are you talking about?" Arion said. "You know what I'm speaking of. You have a gift, the gift of foresight. Your dreams sometimes speak of things to come to pass, and you can see things about people that others can't. But your gift is warning you of something, Kurt Arion. It is warning you of. . ." here she dropped to a whisper, ". . .the one who appears as a serpent." Kurt Arion visibly flinched. "Who are you?" He said in a demanding tone. "How do you know of my dream?" "I can't speak here." "Why not? What does my dream mean? Tell me now!" Arleah shook her head. "I'm sorry. It's not safe." "In Colven?" "Anywhere. We need to leave the town." Arion looked at her and Vinson very suspiciously. "If this is a trap," he said, "at the first sign, I'll kill both of you. If I don't like what I feel, I'm gone. I swear it." "What you feel, Kurt Arion?" "Instincts, Lady. I trust my instincts." * * * The road north from Colven was small and obviously little-travelled. Kurt Arion followed the forms of Arleah and Vinson silently, deep in thought. On his back, he carried the small shoulder bag of possessions that he was able to escape Tyrus with. He was still almost positive that these two had been sent to track him by one of his enemies in Tyrus, even though he read no such intent in the man's eyes. He remained cautious and wary. The road began to climb up into the highlands, pine trees appearing more frequently, until they gradually encloaked the three travellers in a blanket of dense, fragrant foliage. Pine cones, some dried and crushed, were scattered all over the ground. Aside from the mixed chorus of birdsong, there was no sound here in the peaceful mountains. "This is good enough," Arion said, "unless the trees themselves have ears. I want some heavy explaining done." Arleah revealed to Arion about the Eye of the Dragon as she had done for Troy Vinson, telling of the route Northward past Galgoth, and of Muhl Dreik. She also told him that his dream about the red serpent was a manifestation of Muhl Dreik, that his gift was warning Arion of the impending doom. Kurt Arion listened quietly, without interruptions, until she had finished. "That," he said, running his hand through his short patch of thick hair, "was the biggest fish story I've ever heard--ever--and I've heard plenty. Very detailed, though, and creative. You're good at this." Arleah said, "You were chosen to accompany us." "Come on, how did you really know about me? This is getting ridiculous." Arleah turned, continuing up the northern trail. Slowly, Vinson followed her. "It's your choice, Kurt Arion," she said. "Take it or leave it." Or kill you, Arion thought. Foolish woman didn't know who she was playing with. "Hold on, hold on," Arion laughed, jogging up to them. "What if I did agree to come. What do I get out of it?" "You mean besides the safety of the world, and in effect, your future?" Arleah asked. Arion shrugged. "Hey, I need something material, Lady. You know. Incentive." Truth was, he just didn't believe in the ridiculous story about Ashten, Muhl Dreik, and the Eye of the Dragon. But. . . if cash was in order, he might just decide to follow this crazy girl and go from there. What better place did he have to go? There were only two things that bothered him at this point: Number one, the question of how she knew him. She most likely heard someone talking, learned what a good thief he was, and somehow came across him in Colven. This other guy must have been another victim of her fish story, but was probably stupid enough to believe it. Number two: How did she know about his dream? That could be explained if she had the same talent he had, the ability to read another's eyes. She could have simply read of his dreams--after all, he was thinking of it so much these days, it would probably be the first thing she saw. If she could read his eyes, then that might also explain how she knew his name. That was the only thing he could think of, and it seemed pretty far-fetched. But not as far- fetched as her fish story. Arleah was saying, "At the end of the quest, you will be given a substantial reward by my father." Here, Troy Vinson was rather surprised. Arleah had never mentioned a reward to him. Arion asked, "Your father? That would be. . . ah. . . King of Amariah, right?" "That's correct." Arion shook his head. "Look, I need some kind of insurance that I'm going to get anything at the end of this. "I'm sorry, Kurt Arion," Arleah said, "but my word is the only thing I have to offer." "I can't accept that." "I'm sorry, Kurt Arion." Arion grimaced. "Alright," he said, "how much willl I get then? Assuming I did come with you--and I'm not saying I am yet, that all depends. How much? It should be fairly large, you know, since my abilities are extremely valuable to any journey. "You will be given no less than you deserve," she said. "It will be very satisfactory, Kurt Arion." "I would like to be the judge of that myself, Lady," Arion said sharply. He was faced with a decision here: go with this Southlander and crazy girl who could probably read his eyes, and hope that he might get something out of it, or go back to Colven and think of something else to do. He frowned; he had been doing the latter all day with no luck. "Alright, look," he said, finally. "I've got a lot of other places to go, and a lot of other people who would love to employ me right now. I'm going to be a nice guy, though, and come along with you two and help you two out--I mean after all, the destiny of the world is at stake, right? I mean, by the gods, who would dare pass up this opportunity? But let me outline a few minor terms that I go by. Number one, if I don't like what I feel, I'm gone. Just like that. Don't even bother to look for me. Number two, if we get into something and are being chased by the authorities, my opinion is every man for himself. Again, don't look for me. Number three, I want a good reward! If I get something measely, or if I don't get squat, I'm going to get mad, lose my senses, and probably kill someone. And my prime target will be you. Got that, Lady?" "I like one who abides by guidelines," Arleah said. "The question is, will you abide by those rules you have just layed out?" "Look," Arion said, "Those rules are for you guys. I'm telling you this so that you know what to do and what not to do in order to keep me in this little quest here." Arleah smiled. "I understand your terms. Welcome to the journey, Kurt Arion." Arion nodded, a bit spiteful because he didn't feel she was taking his guidelines seriously. And who did she think she was, asking him if he was going to break his own rules? The road began to grow more steep as they climbed higher into the Scavenger Mountains. Trees now completely surrounded them, and the road became a small, narrow path that slipped through the dense forest. Soon, another road led up to theirs from the West. "This is the road that leads to and from Tyrus," Arleah said. Arion nodded. "Yep. And look: someone's been here not too long ago. Looks like they were running from Tyrus northward." Vinson looked at the faint footprints disturbing the soil. They were fairly large. Arleah inspected the trail for a few seconds longer, gesturing ahead. "We must hurry," she said, moving quickly up the road. Arion sidled up next to Vinson, sizing him up with hard, intense eyes. "So," he said quietly, "Troy. . . that's your name, right?" Vinson nodded. "So, Troy, what do you think of all this, eh? I mean, a woman leading an expedition such as this one? I've never heard of it myself, and to be quite honest. . ." he glanced ahead to where the cloaked form of Arleah strode, following the weaving footsteps in the road, ". . .I'm a little doubtful of not only her, but also this quest." Vinson shrugged. "I'm still trying to sort out all she said about the quest myself, but I believe her. I'm not at all doubtful of what she told me." "That so?" Arion said. He smiled. "What makes you so sure?" "She knew things about my life. . . nobody but myself could have known." "Oh, Troy," Arion said, "wake up, my friend. Why, there are prophets and witches who could tell you your darkest fantasies by one glance! Who's to say she's not some seer or Vail employed by a devil? Maybe, after she gets what she wants from this quest, she'll kill us and disappear." Troy Vinson had never thought of that. "I guess I don't know," he said. "Exactly my point." Arion smiled darkly. "My philosophy is not to trust anyone. . .not you, not that lady up there, and not whoever this Muhl Dreik is we're after. I'd advise you do the same." The footprints they were following seemed to grow nearer together, as though the person who made them had grown tired and ceased running. "Did I hear that you were a magic user?" Kurt Arion asked. "What can you do?" Troy Vinson eyed Arion warily. He didn't remember telling him that. "I'm still learning," Vinson said, "but I've schooled in abjuration, some alteration, and lesser divination spells." Arion waved his hands impatiently. "None of that hocus- pocus stuff," he said. "I guess what I meant to say is, can you fight with it? And how strong is it? Can you kill someone easily?" Other than self defense, I have a little problem with combat," Vinson said quietly. Arion was silent a moment, then smiled. "You already made a mistake, Troy," he said. "You went and told about your magic. You shouldn't have; now I know that much more about you. If I wanted to kill you, I'd know that you can't combat with magic. When people ask you about yourself, either don't answer, or lie. Don't trust anyone." "How do you know I didn't lie?" Vinson asked, a bit annoyed. Arion smiled his dark smile again. "You didn't lie," he said. Vinson was about to ask Kurt Arion just exactly how he knew he wasn't lying, when Arleah called from ahead. They found her kneeling on the road, her face grim. "Blood," she said quietly. "Look, on the grass." There were dark stains on the foliage and ground around the trail, and the footsteps appeared to be weaving heavily. As the three pushed ahead through the weeds and brush, the footsteps fell dramatically off the trail, disappearing in the tall grasses. "Hey," Arion said, "What's the big deal? So what. . . some guy came through here most likely at night, probably got attacked by something, and stumbled off somewhere to die. Why bother looking for him? I thought we were going North, to. . . Ashter, was it?" "Ashten," Vinson replied absently. "Oh yeah." Then, Arion brightened up. "Hey, maybe looking for this guy's body isn't a bad idea--I bet we'll find some valuables on him." "No," Arleah shook her head. She looked concerned. "This man is. . ." "I'll say it now," Arion interrupted, pointing into the air, "I get dibs on his pockets." "Stop!" Arleah said. "This man is Eric Walker, also chosen by my father to accompany us in the quest." "Eric Walker?" Vinson asked. "The swordsman?" "Yes." "I'd say the swordsman took a sword in the gut," Arion said. "Forget it Lady, he's as good as dead." "Do you know what happened to him?" Vinson asked. Arleah shook her head. "No," she said, "I was only told that I would meet him in the mountains, but it seems he has run into some trouble." Kurt Arion nodded, smiling sarcastically. "I'd say so. This guy's hurt and reeling. He probably came through here at night like I said, lost the trail, and stumbled through the wilderness for a while. He's lucky if something hasn't gotten to him." Arleah followed the disturbed grasses a ways off the trail, creeping into the wild brush. "He'll be hard to find," Arion said. "The wind will have. . ." "No, I don't think so." Arleah said. "Look." Arion, trailed by Vinson, followed her into the brush. The grasses were darkly stained with blood, marking a clear trail ahead. Arion raised his eyebrows. "It looks like he was crawling," Vinson said. "And bleeding," Arion said. "A lot." The dark, stained trail continued on through weeds, over a rocky outcrop, across a small clearing, and into a dense thicket of brush. "I'll say one thing," Arion said. "This guy has a lot of heart. And a lot of determination. What happened to him?" he looked expectantly at Arleah, who shook her head. "I don't know. I wasn't expecting this at all." Vinson watched as Arion chuckled, smiling at some inner joke he saw in the whole ordeal. A short ways ahead, they found a large broadsword discarded among the weeds. It's blade was caked with a black, crusty substance, and the hilt was stained with blood. Kurt Arion picked it up slowly from the ground, examining the designs on the handle. There was a thin leather strap attached to the hilt, which was sometimes used to wrap around a fighter's wrist so that he wouldn't lose his sword in case of a very heavy blow. The strap was darkly soaked with blood. "It's from Tyrus," Arion said. He looked up at Arleah. "Was our Mr. Eric Walker from Tyrus?" Arleah nodded. "It looks pretty expensive." Arion examined the blade, wiping away the blood stains and black, crusty material. "Hmmm. Good quality. One of these would run for sixty five silver crescents if I fenced it in Tyrus." "Kurt Arion," Arleah said. "Please." "Oh." Arion smiled apologetically. "Sorry." Keeping the sword, he turned and continued on through the trail of flattened mountain grass, which was visibly stained in areas with blood. They followed it a short ways further and onto a rocky outcrop, where Kurt Arion took the lead, moving along more nimbly than the others. He slipped quickly over the rocks, and into the thicket of brush, where Arleah and Vinson heard shout after a few moments. "Eureka!" Arion cried. Vinson, followed closely by Arleah, pushed through the thorny bushes and into a small, secluded clearing. There Arion stood, almost triumphantly, over the large body of a man. The broadsword was imbedded in the ground beside him. "We found Mr. Walker," Arion said. "Remember. . . I got the pockets." The man on the ground was huge. He was tall, with thick, full muscles and long, dark hair that covered his face. He was dirty and bloody, his body marred heavily with nasty-looking wounds and badly torn clothes. One of his arms was horribly smashed and dark with blood. Arleah looked tiny as she hastened down to him, her small hands brushing the hair from his face. The man looked to be about thirty years old, maybe a little more. "This is Eric Walker," Arleah said quietly. Gently, she felt his neck and along his chest. "He is alive." Kurt Arion looked at the man doubtfully. "Surely he won't live," he said. "It's amazing the vermin haven't gotten to him." Arleah ignored him, pulling a leather pouch from her belt slowly. "This is going to take some time," she said. * * * Eric Walker became slowly aware of his arm again. It throbbed rythmically, stirring his mind up from the sluggish, empty sleep he had fallen into. Everything was black and dark, slightly tinged in a reddish color. He couldn't see a thing. Memories flooded into his mind, images of the hairy, misshapen trolls and the heavy maces they carried. Images of his frightened family. They were all gone now, somewhere far away. Like him. Where was he? He strained to sit up, surprised that his arm, although searing with pain, could move. But why was everything so dark? Then he realized his eyes were closed. It seemed to take a bit of effort to open them; and when he did, the image was bright and blurry. He squinted, raising his right arm to shield his eyes. The picture slowly came into vague focus, and he could discern three or more figures looking down at him, although he was aware that they could be just trees. Had someone found him? "Just keep still," a far-away voice echoed dully in his mind. It sounded like a woman. . . maybe his wife. "Aleena," he mumbled, trying to sit up. "Where are you?" "Try not to move," the voice said softly. "This is unbelievable," another voice, this one male, said. "I'd have given him up for dead." Walker lay back wearily, rubbing his eyes with his good right hand. The images around him became more clear, more distinct. As though he was slipping back into his body from somewhere else, his senses livened up, returning to normal. He could hear trees rustling in the breeze, and could smell the fragrant, warm scent of greenery and fresh mountain air. There was a funny taste in his mouth, as though he had been chewing on an onion. Unfortunantly, pain also heightened, and he groaned in sudden agony. "Drink some more of this," the voice said. Dazed, Walker discerned a bottle-like object in front of his face, and his mouth opened slightly. Something thick spilled into his mouth, and the taste he had noticed earlier increased. Walker pushed the cordial away, coughing. "Ugh. . . 'sgusting," he muttered. The liquid seemed to jolt him even more awake, and he blinked, looking around at the three faces peering down at him. "That's some pretty potent stuff," one of the men said. "Healing potion. I'll bet that'll run for a fairly good price." "Can he see us?" Someone else asked. The woman nodded. "Who are you?" Eric Walker croaked. "We are three travellers," the girl said, "bound Northward. My name is Arleah, and with me here is Kurt Arion and Troy Vinson. We found you wounded. What happened to you?" "We were attacked," Walker said, his voice dry and cracked. "Trolls came and took my wife and my children. I tried to stop them, I tried. . ." he coughed, rubbing his eyes. ". . .I followed them from Tyrus, but I couldn't keep up." "He's delirious," Kurt Arion said. "There are no trolls in Tyrus." "They came on a flying beast!" Walker said. "At night, past the soldiers. They were kidnapping people, tying them up. I suppose they wanted to take me as well." His eyes closed wearily. "I just have to find my wife and children. I have to find them, and everything will be alright." He looked up. "Please, you must help me." "I'm doing all I can," Arleah said gently, "but you must tell me more. . . about the trolls. What do you remember about them? Did they bear any type of mark?" Walker thought a moment, then opened his eyes again. "They weren't wild, like trolls usually are. They were part of a force. . . they all wore black vests and, yes, they had a mark on the shoulder. I don't remember what the mark was." "Was it red?" Arleah asked. "Was it a snake?" Walker looked curiously at the girl. "That was it. A red snake." Kurt Arion tensed. "It was Muhl Dreik's rogues," Arleah said, "the man who possesses the Eye of the Dragon. Although I do not know why he was attempting to kidnap you." "Maybe he knows the prophecy, too," Vinson said. "He could be trying to kill Eric Walker if he knew he was in the quest!" Arleah shook her head. "No," she said, "Only the ancient prophetic volumes hold the names of those to be selected for the quest. Muhl Dreik does not have access to the spiritual plane where they exist." Walker looked bewildered. "I don't have the faintest idea what you're all talking about. But I know that I have to find my wife and children. Please. . . help me find them." Everyone looked at Arleah. She nodded. "I think I know where they are, although I don't know why. It's time I explained this quest fully. . . to all of you." She leaned back, recorking the small cordial in her hands. Vinson sat motionless, Walker looked bewildered, and Arion seated himself in a comfortable position, an expectant grin on his face. * * * ARLEAH'S TALE In the old world, there used to be a council known as the Archivist Assembly that served as what might be called a government over the seperate nations of spirits. The nations were different than they are today, not restricted by physical boundaries of territory, but as separate "planes" of existence, infinite space into which the mind could journey and fulfill any need or desire. There were no such thing as wars or territorial disputes. The Assembly was composed of twelve members, their duty to regulate the population and activities on each plane, and to act as a safeguard against any illegal, or evil, actions or any mental disruptions. After a long and harmonious span of time, however, the head member of the Archivist Assembly, Ishtara, began to despise Aellei, the great God. For although the Assembly, which was lead by Ishtara, presided over all the planes, Aellei still ruled over everything--including the Assembly. Ishtara's appetite for power began to grow, as did his hate for Aellei. Finally, this hate overpowered him. The next time the Assembly gathered together, Ishtara declared that they should be free of any control Aellei had on them, and be wholly independant, with only the Assembly to rule and govern the planes. Half of the Assembly agreed, and half said that it was an unwise and foolish plan. After all, they were Aellei's creation. . . who were they to reject him as supreme ruler? Bitter debates ensued, resulting (not unexpectedly) in a split of the Assembly. The portion of the council which still wanted to recognize Aellei added six new members, and named Persopolis, the spirit once second only to Ishtara, as head council member. Persopolis' assembly attempted to preserve the control and peace of the planes, but Ishtara had quite different ideas. Naming himself God, he and his followers began to capture the planes and their inhabitants for themselves. Ishtara granted his followers rulership over individual planes, and they acted as vassals to his "supreme authority". His plan was to overcome the other assembly with his new, violent tactic of conquery, and to finally raise himself to the title he always wanted: supreme diety. But this violence was unheard of, and neither Ishtara nor any other had had any experience with it. So began the Great Wars. The events that followed were disgraceful; truly a story of paradise degenerating into a warring battleground. Some of Ishtara's vassals, not satisfied with their small rulership, began to revolt. The other assembly, headed by Persopolis, forgot their original cause of preserving Aellei's rulership and warred with Ishtara as well, attempting to reclaim "ownership" of the planes. And lastly, the occupants of the planes themselves, angered by their sudden capture and limited freedom, rebelled against both powers. What resulted was a downfall of all strong government, in exchange for several hundred tiny "kingdoms", groups, and clans--all of which warred against each other for the planes. It was then that Aellei, enraged, crushed the Old World. Nine out of every ten spirits were destroyed, never to be heard of again. Out of the ruins of the Old World, Aellei recreated the planes into a new, "better" world. For the few spirits that had remained loyal to him in the foolishness of the Great Wars, he made kingdoms, protected from the harsh differences the New World had. My father was one of those spirits, and as you well know, his kingdom is located in the Amariah forest. These good spirits were pledged to care for and see to the welfare of the new planes. Why Aellei created another world after the degradation of the other is not known. And why he left some of the corrupted spirits, including Ishtara, to roam the new planes, is also unknown. But such was the case. The New World had just been born, and already it was diseased with evil. Ishtara and the other corrupt spirits fled from the new, threatening qualities the New World had, such as time and light. They slunk away to the north, constructing a large, desolate kingdom underground in which to hide from the sun, and to try and forget time. For three hundred years, while the new creations of mortal men and creatures had barely begun to explore their home, Ishtara and the others talked and murmured together. The spirits, especially Ishtara, wanted control again. Their passionate hate for Aellei, the good spirits, and mortals spurred them to the fruit of their three hundred year discussion: the construction of a weapon. Joining their remaining magic, the spirits, under guidance from Ishtara, constructed the talisman known to all of you as the Eye of the Dragon. Nobody, not even my father, knows how the Eye works, but the evil it is generating has begun to creep closer from the North, and soon, all the good spirits' kingdoms, including my father's, will be crushed if it is not stopped. Where the Eye is getting the tremendous power to do this is also unknown. One thing we do know, thowever, is that Ishtara cannot directly wield the Eye of the Dragon. It is designed to unravel the threads of existence to spirit beings. . . this is meant for good spirits, but it will do the same to evil. Ishtara has deceived a mortal human named Muhl Dreik and is using him like a puppet to control the Eye. Our duty, as prophecied, is to capture the stone from Muhl Dreik and destroy it. Then, and only then, will the world be safe from this evil. In the unexplored Northland, past the town of Galgoth, Muhl Dreik has made himself a city he calls Ashten. I don't know who the inhabitants of the city are, nor why he has constructed it. Whatever his reason is, Ashten is our destination. * * * Kurt Arion plucked a long blade of grass from the clearing they were in, chewing the end absently. "Fairy tales," Vinson heard him mutter quietly to himself. Nobody else seemed to hear. "I used to think I had heard it all," Eric Walker said. "But you know, I was wrong." "I admit, it must be very difficult to absorb," Arleah said. "It's a lot of information all at once." "These creatures--Muhl Dreik and these spirits--they have my family?" Walker asked. "It would seem so," said Arleah. "Again, I don't know why. But the scarlet snake is the mark of Muhl Dreik." Walker sat up. "Then the king must hear of this! We must hurry, get to Tyrus now! The king can have a legion of soldiers ready to journey north, and retake the prisoners. If they dare capture Tyrus people, then they shall feel the wrath of our army." Arleah shook her head. "No, Eric Walker. The quest. . ." "What can three men and one woman do that an entire army can't?" Walker cried. "This sounds to me like a big enemy. What we need is a strong force to attack it!" "I understand your family has been captured," Arleah said firmly, "and I know about Tyrus' forces. But hear me out, please. An army of soldiers and knights on horseback would never make it over the Northern Wall, the Avasar Mountains. Nor would they even reach Derrik through the Aries Mountains without difficulty. And I'll tell you this: an army would be no good against Muhl Dreik. We are fighting not flesh and blood, but spirit. We are not fighting against sword and shield, but against magic and sorcery. As the prophecy claims, the four of us have the needed collective power and skill to get to Ashten, capture the Eye of the Dragon, and destroy it. This is a case where too many is too much. We need just enough, and we have it now." Everyone was silent. Slowly, Walker's right hand rubbed his left arm, now apparently better, although his clothes were still torn and stained with blood. "You've healed me," he said, as if noticing it for the first time. It seemed as though he was in a daze. "The man can be taught," Arion muttered, standing up. "We shall stay here for the night," Arleah said. "You must rest, Eric Walker. Tomorrow, we journey north to Davensport. Of course, you do not have to join us. The choice is yours." Eric Walker looked at her distantly for a few moments, then felt his arm again. Images of his battle with the trolls brushed through his mind. His wife's words echoed in his mind: Don't worry, your father will take care of it. "I'll travel around the world to get my family back," Walker said. "If you can get me there, I'll come with you." "We will be there," Arleah said. "If you like, we can go to Tyrus tomorrow. I'm sure you'd like to return home to gather any--" "No." Walker said firmly. "The next time I set foot into my home, my family will be at my side." * * * The next morning smelled crisp and fresh, pungent with the evergreen trees clustered about their tiny camp. Sunlight trickled down at them through sparse clouds and tree foliage, its warm heat still not quite penetrating the biting highland chill that had come so suddenly during the night. Walker had built a fire for heat and to roast the last of the chicken that Vinson and Arleah had obtained in Colven. He kept rubbing his shoulder as if he could not believe it had been so perfectly healed, although Arleah had made it known to him that it had taken the entire cordial of the elixir to do so. Everyone huddled around the fire, holding a stick with a large piece of the previously cooked chicken speared through it over the flames--all except for Arion, who was leaning against a tree and rubbing his eyes, looking bored. "It was to be my daughter's wedding today," Walker said quietly. "Really?" Vinson asked. "I'm sorry." Walker shrugged. There was a few moments of silence. "How many children did you say you had?" Vinson asked. "Two. A son and a daughter." Walker stared off into space. "We'll find them." "Yeah." He took another pull from the skin and shook his head as if to clear it from something. Then he said: "So, Troy, I hear you're a. . .how do they say. . .a mage?" "I guess," Vinson said. "Sort of." "Well, you either are, or you're not." "I'm learning." "Been to school?" "Yeah. It wasn't a very good one, though." Walker shrugged. "I went to school once," he said. "For about a day. My father wanted me to learn to read, but I wound up getting into a fight with my instructor, so the instructor gave me the boot." He laughed. "I was about seventeen." Vinson smiled. "Yeah, I was a little crazy back then," Walker said. He pulled his speared chicken from the fire and tasted it, cautious of the heat. "Hmmm. This chicken tastes like crap." "The inn in Colven was pretty lacking," Vinson said. Walker tore a chunk from it and stuffed it into his mouth, licking the juice from his fingers. "God, this really tastes like crap. I'm so hungry, though, I could have eaten it cold." He raised up his stick to Arion. "Sure you don't want any, Kurt?" Arion held up his hands. "Please. Feast." "Sure?" "I insist," the thief said sarcastically. "I wouldn't want to deprive you of such tasty morsels." Walker shrugged, taking another bite. "So what's your story?" he asked, looking back up at Arion. "Me?" "Sure. I heard everyone else's--and if yours is as interesting as theirs, I will have officially heard everything." "Well, then," Arion said, "I'm sorry to disappoint you. I'm not a ghost, and I'm not a magician, and I'm not the spirit of your six-hundred-year-old great, great grandfather who saved the world and came back to take you with me." "That's good," Walker said. "So what's your story?" "I'm just here to save the world," Arion said. "Really." "Sure. Isn't that the purpose of all this, anyway?" Vinson glanced over at Arleah, who was seemingly taking no notice of the conversation. "So I'm here to live up that purpose," Arion said. "How about you, Eric Walker? Are you here to help us accomplish our goal, or will you simply be looking for your lost family?" Walker lowered the piece of chicken. "Look," he said, "I'm not here to start any arguments. . ." "I'm simply asking a question," Arion said. "So will you then? And if you did happen to come across your family, I wonder if you would abandon us to return home to Tyrus for your daughter's wedding?" The campsite became suddenly still and uncomfortably silent, with not even the song of a bird or whisper from the trees overhead. Arion's eyes were hard and cold as they held Walker's. "I have never abandoned a battle," Walker said. "And I don't intend to start now." Arleah stood to her feet. "We should leave now," she said. "We'll arrive at Davensport by midday." Arion said, "I've known a lot of men who claimed that they would stand their ground if they were stood up at the very gates of the underworld, but then they run like cowardly mice when they meet any real opposition." "Kurt Arion--" Arleah said. "Did I wrong you somewhere here?" Walker said, standing to his feet. "What is your problem?" "Just never mind," Arion said, sounding angry, and he suddenly broke his staring match with Walker. "Come on. According to our leader here, we should be going." He started to leave the clearing, and as he passed Vinson, he winked at him. * * * The small company retraced the path Eric Walker had crawled through the mountain forest, found the road, and continued north. The tall, thick trees and leafy bushes surrounded them on both sides, and lizards skittered through the dry leaves on the ground. Troy Vinson had never been anywhere so peaceful, not even the Citizens' Park at Terron. He watched the lumbering form of Eric Walker in front of him, the large broadsword Kurt Arion had found cleaned and sheathed to his belt. His clothes, torn and ragged, flapped listlessly as he walked. Despite his tattered appearance, he carried himself surely, almost proudly, as he strode on. Kurt Arion seemed to have withdrawn into himself, quietly taking the rear and gazing blankly off into the trees. Arleah, as usual, showed no expression or indication of her mood, and kept an easy pace alongside the tall, stocky form of Eric Walker. Vinson kept thinking about Arion's odd behavior. Why had he done that--apparently trying to pick a fight with Eric Walker? A mental fight though, and one which the thief was apparently not taking too seriously, because he had winked at Vinson when he passed by. Why did he do that? Mind games, probably. Just mind games. Then Vinson thought more about Arleah. He watched her up ahead of him, walking tall and erect, her dark cloak flowing smoothly behind her as she moved in steps that were equally as graceful. Calculated. She was very calculated, he thought. Everything she did was precise, thought out, and as if she were following a pre-developed script. Every time she spoke, every time she ran her fingers through her long, lustrious black hair, every time she looked at him, every time she cleared her throat or licked her lips as the winds blew harshly against her face, and every time she smiled. It was like it was all calculated, decided consciously beforehand. And without emotion. The sun felt hotter as they came out of the highlands hours later, into the vast, yellow plains at the northern foothills of the Scavenger Mountains. Along the road were two or three small, uncharted towns, mostly consisting of peddlers and craftsmen who went to Davensport to sell their goods. Eric Walker bought a new travelling cloak, tunic, and heavy, outdoor trousers. There wasn't much else available for them to look through as far as supplies went, but Walker assured them that at Davensport, there would be plenty of opportunities to stock up. They approached the large city shortly after midday. The air smelled like fish, and several carts clattered by loaded with them. The buildings were tall and appeared to be shops with living quarters on a second story. Bazaars and booths lined the streets selling fish, rugs, jewelry, pottery, and a variety of other merchandise, turning the city into a giant marketplace. "If the place didn't stink so bad," Arion said, "it might just be enjoyable. Look at all those stupid peddlers. . . I could make a killing here." "A thief's paradise?" Eric Walker said. "Don't be fooled. Davensport's got the toughest police around. . .in the marketplace." Arion smirked. "Just a better challenge." As they walked deeper into the city, the road became well-packed and rutted. Oftentimes, they had to stop for fish wagons. People were shuffling all about, and near the houses along the roadside came the screaming and babbling sound of children at play. "I've been to Davensport a few times," Walker said amid the city noise. "At the yonder fork, head left and it will take us to some roadside inns." Walker's directions proved reliable, and the road led through town to a travellers' area loaded with inns and merchants. "We still need bedding material, waterskins, and another travel pack or two," Arleah said. "It'll make the walk to Derrik more comfortable. That will be our next stop after tomorrow." "Want to split up?" Walker asked. "Someone could find the best inn, get rooms for tonight and food, while someone else goes through the markets for the other stuff." "I'll look through the shops," Arleah said. Troy Vinson shrugged. "Me too. I need to get a heavier shirt." "Kurt and I will check out the inns and see about food," Walker said. "Just keep away from the east side of the city; you'll be lucky not to get mugged." Vinson and Arleah departed, walking down the busy street. Peddlers were all about, eager to sell their items, and virtually pushing their products into their faces, but Vinson was thinking about how unusual it was for Arion not to object to being with Walker, or object to Walker's volunteering him, in light of the earlier dissidence. "Pearls!" a peddler shouted. "Beautiful pearls! No two necklaces are alike." He spied Vinson and Arleah musing through the items and scampered up to them. "Look here, sir; no better gift for your wife than this! Beautiful pearls for a beautiful girl, yes?" "No thanks," Vinson said. He chuckled. "We're not married." He shook his head, moving on. "Not married?" the bewhiskered, skinny peddler exclaimed, blocking Vinson and still holding the pearls. "Why, you must be a fool, my man. Look at her--why, if I were you, I'd propose this instant! Here, buy these as an engagement present. I will charge, for you, only twenty silver crescents, yes?" Vinson shook his head. Arleah was musing over an assortment of clay pottery intently, as though she wasn't listening. But Vinson could see that she was blushing. He felt a little light. "How about earrings, then, yes?" the peddler called after him as they walked on. Hairpins? Flowers?" On impulse, Vinson looked back, as the peddler held out a container of red roses. He walked over, pulled a rose from the peddler, and handed him a copper crescent. "Have a good day." The peddler said. Vinson walked back to Arleah, placing the rose into her hand. "Here you are, my wife," he said, a sarcastic grin on his face. "A rose for thee." "Why thank you," she said, managing a quick laugh. Vinson smiled, looking into her eyes. But she glanced away quickly, the blush gone from her face. Emotionless again. "Blankets," she said. "Let's get them first." Across the busy street were a few shops carrying rugs, pillows, quilts, and the like. The only other merchants in sight appeared to be selling and buying fish, jewelry, or useless trinkets. Pushing past the crowds and fish wagons, Vinson and Arleah began to cross the rutted street. "Stop him!" A cry rang out from farther down the road. There were a couple more shouts, a woman's scream, and then a figure burst into sight, colliding directly into Vinson. Golden necklaces and pearl jewelry fell everywhere as the man and Vinson both were hurled to the ground. Dragging himself up into a sitting position, Vinson turned to view the man who had knocked him down. He stared; it felt almost like he was looking into a mirror. The man beside him, save for the whiskered chin and jaw, looked almost exactly like him. The Troy Vinson look-alike recovered faster, scooping up a handful of jewelry and dumping it into Vinson's lap before leaping to his feet and dashing away through the crowd. Bewildered, Vinson brought himself to his feet, looking curiously at several delicate, golden necklaces dangling from his fingers. He heard Arleah calling out to him. "Drop it!" she said. "Drop the jewelry!" But it was too late. "Stop!" A huge, burly official that looked as though he could rival Eric Walker burst through the crowd, tackling Vinson with such a force that he was flung to the ground for a second time. Only then, as the breath was knocked heavily out of him, did Vinson realize the impact of what was happening. "No. . ." he started to say, but the official grabbed his arms and wrenched them painfully behind his back. He heard other officials run up as he was pulled roughly to his feet. "Get up, you worthless rat," an official said. The crowded street had parted, everyone looking curiously at Vinson's dusty face and the jewelry on the road. The official holding him snorted. "Not this time, Phillipe!" he said, emphasizing the word "this" with a painful yank to his arms. "We have you now." Vinson started to protest, but the official boxed him on the side of his head, leaving his ears ringing. The man began to drag him away. Across the street, he could see Arleah arguing heatedly with a group of bored-looking officials, pointing several times the way the other man had run. They seemed to be ignoring her. "Well, well," a thin, wiry looking officer said, walking up to the captive Vinson. He smirked. "Looks like you finally got yourself caught, eh, Phillipe? You know what the punishment for thieves is, especially your kind?" He drew his finger slowly across Vinson's neck. "You've made a mistake!" Vinson said. "The guy bumped into me, and--" "No, YOU'VE made a mistake, you lowly rat! About fifty mistakes too many." He glared at Vinson's dirt-covered face pathetically, then gestured to the official holding him. "Take it away." CHAPTER EIGHT -Trapped Tabitha Lasea struggled violently. The apelike man holding her began to drag her through the bushes beside the wall, heading for the gate. A word she'd heard many times in stories slipped into her mind: Troll. These were trolls. But what were they doing here? "Let go of me!" Tabitha said, slamming her fists against his arms, and dragging her boot heels down his shins. His only response seemed to be annoyance. "If you don't knock it off, I'll knock you out," her captor said in a surprisingly intelligible voice. "Now shut up and stop fidgeting." The troll reached the gate, and rapped loudly on its great iron surface. A small window at the top opened slightly, beady eyes peering out and down on them. A moment later, the eyes disappeared, the little window shut, and the gate was unbolted. The thug dragged Tabitha inside the Mission walls, and the gate rumbled shut behind them. The city Prefect and the troll he was talking to turned and looked at her. "A found a little street mouse peeping over the wall," Tabitha's captor chuckled. "Someone should teach her some manners." "Who is that?" the Prefect said, frowning. "My grandfather is dying," Tabitha said. "He needs help." One of the city officials walked over to her, shaking his head. "She's just a street thief," the official said. "She's been a parasite to the marketplace for a long time." The Prefect waved his arm in a careless gesture. "Kill her," he said, turning back to his conversation. Three officials came forward to comply. The troll the Prefect had been talking to waved the officials off, however. "Delay that ridiculous order. See, this is what I mean- -it is no good to do business with you because you are nothing but a fool! Why kill the woman?" "She has seen and heard us," the Prefect replied angrily. "Why let her go? She's just a street rat, anyway." The troll's large, pronounced brow seemed to furrow, making its eyes almost disappear altogether. "Fool!" it said. "Why not tie her up with the others? Increase our bounty, and also your profit. Instead, you would have her killed." "But she's nothing," the Prefect said. "Why would you want her?" The troll threw up his long, stocky arms, turning away from the Prefect and towards Tabitha. "You are hopeless," it growled. "I've told you thrice already it is numbers that count, not quality. Consider this bounty the last from this city." It grabbed Tabitha roughly by the collar of her shirt. Looking down at her, the troll started, gazing into her dark, stormy eyes and feeling her hair tentatively. Tabitha knocked his hand away. The troll inspected her features for a moment longer, looking confused. "What are you?" he demanded. "A rat," Tabitha said. "A street rat, just like you guys say." The troll smacked her on the head with a force that almost knocked her unconscious. She sprawled onto the ground, trying to focus her eyes as the world swam lazily around her. "What's your race, worm?" "I should ask you that question." She felt the side of her face gingerly. "Foolish woman," the troll said. "I should kill you right now." "Yes, you should," Tabitha said. "Death would be a wonderful relief. Give me your knife and I'll do it for you." "Don't listen to her!" the Prefect said. The troll looked at the Prefect and frowned. "Do you think that I am stupid?" it said. "Get out of my way!" The troll grabbed Tabitha's tunic and dragged her roughly over to the five tied citizens nearby. Tabitha could now see that they were not only tied up, but gagged as well. "Please," the Prefect said. "Do not make this the last bounty. We'll do better next time. . . I'll try and contain my foolishness. Please." The troll holding Tabitha stopped and stared thoughtfully at the Prefect, who smiled hopefully. "Tie him up as well," it said. The Prefect gave an anguished cry. CHAPTER NINE -Prison Plan The city hall was a large, domed building at the center of Davensport. Arleah, Arion, and Walker stood at the base of the huge, marble steps that led to its entrance. "Here's where they took him," Arleah said. "And here's where he's going to stay," Arion said. "There's no way we're getting him out of there." Walker looked thoughtful, his right hand rubbing the bottom of his chin. "Maybe," Walker said, "they'll realize the mistake they made and let Troy go." Arion nodded. "That's right. We should go back to the inn and wait." Arleah shook her head. "There's no time for waiting," she said. "Any day we stay behind is a day later we arrive at Ashten, and a day later can mean a lot. Besides, while we wait around, Troy Vinson could be killed." "Well what good is he?" Arion said. "If he can't use his magic to get himself free, then he's not worth having. I vote we go back to the inn, and if he's not out in the morning, let's just leave the city as planned." Walker cast Arion a sarcastic look. "Good idea," Arleah said. "Let's leave our companion to die so that we can go to our own deaths. Have you not heard anything I've told you? We need him, Kurt Arion, the same way we need you." Kurt Arion shook his head. "You're wrong, Lady. I don't need anybody. I've always taken care of myself, and I don't need anyone to help me." "If you were to put yourself in his shoes," Arleah said, "would you not help then?" "No," Arion said. "Because you can't put me in his shoes, because I wouldn't have created this mess in the first place!" Walker threw up his hands in frustration. "Alright," Walker said, "this is getting ridiculous. Now if we're going to help Troy then we're going to have to stick together so we can get out of this city together. So let's just put our arguments aside until after that, agreed?" "Oh yes, wise one," Arion said. "You enlighten me with your logic." He shook his head. "Look, we don't even have a plan. Now I've dealt enough with city officials to know that we can't just go in there and carry him out like nothing happened. That place is the spider's den, and we're the flies. It's impossible." Arleah crossed her arms, looking thoughtfully at the big entrance gates of the City Hall. "I have a plan," she said. "But I'll need your experience with city officials, Kurt Arion, to complete it." Arion laughed. "No plans," he said. "Not me. This little charade has gone far enough. . .I knew this was going to happen sooner or later, and I'm not going to--" Arleah opened up her shoulder bag and brought out a small, leather sack that jingled. She handed it to Arion. "There's one hundred silver crescents in that bag," Arleah said. "Now your part in this will put you in no danger or risk at all. Would you care to hear my idea?" Arion inspected the bag, opening it up to insert his hand and run his fingers through the cold, weighty metal coins. "Are you bribing me?" he asked. "Not hardly. Would you like to hear my idea?" Arion shrugged. "Money talks," he said. "What did you have in mind?" * * * The interior of the City Hall was luxurious but in a strict, "official" mood. Most of it seemed to be constructed of marble, and the floor was so highly polished that Troy Vinson and the officials that led him made squeaking sounds with their boots at every step. There were a few trees planted in great stone pots at the center of the enormous entrance room, and glass windows in the domed roof permitted sunlight to enter. Vinson caught sight of a few birds fluttering about the branches. Armed guards and officials were everywhere in sight, walking, standing, talking, and looking at him. The churning, nervous feeling in his gut heightened. Vinson was led quickly through and out of the entrance room, into a corridor, and brought up before a uniformed man who was flanked by a burly looking official. The walls in this long corridor were not marble, but were plain, white- painted stone. The man before him was of medium height and thin, but his eyes were cruel, and his nose was pointed like a hawk's beak. He looked at Vinson with those hard, cold eyes, staring at him for a while as if savoring the moment. "Well, well, Phillipe," the man said. "I knew we'd get you sooner or later." "There's been a grave misunderstanding here," Vinson said. "I'm just a traveller. You've got to--" "I'm not up to your mind games this day, Phillipe," the man said. "We can play later, but for now you get to follow Mr. Breckett here to the prisons." The man gestured slightly to the official beside him. "I'm sure we understand each other on this." "No! I don't! This is insane, locking me up!" "You're insane, Phillipe. Now get out of my sight." He nodded at the official, who stepped forward and pulled Vinson from his captors. Vinson fought a bit, but surrendered easily enough after he was punched in the stomach. He caught his breath back and coughed. "You're still a fool, aren't you?" the hawk-nosed man said. "You always will be, remember that." With these final words, he turned and left. Vinson was yanked forward by the huge official and led away. * * * Arleah, Walker, and Arion watched silently as the drunken official stumbled from the taproom inn, shoving aside a few unsuspecting passerby. There were others, too, but they were all too short, or too skinny, or both. This one, though. . . "Perfect," Walker breathed. He looked back at Arion and Arleah, grinning. "I think we found our match." The official dropped his cap and reached unsteadily down to pick it up. Retrieving it, he lurched forward and down the street. Walker, Arion, and Alreah emerged from their cover behind the merchant stand and followed quickly after him. When the official passed by the last inn, Walker walked closely up behind him and, putting a hand over his mouth, yanked him into a side alley. Arleah and Arion glanced about, seeing no unusual alarm, and quickly followed. The official was slumped against the wall, unconscious. Walker watched Arleah and Arion enter, looked alertly behind them. "Nobody saw," Arion said. "Or, if they did, they didn't care." "Let's hope not," Walker said. "What do we do with this guy after we take his monkey suit?" "I don't think we have to worry about it," Arion said. "In the condition he's in, we'll reach Galgoth before he remembers who he is. Just put him back farther into the alley." "Alright," Arleah said. "Kurt Arion, you take our things and wait for us at Lake Tarsa on the southern dock. We'll meet you there as planned." "Let's just hope your plan holds up," Arion muttered. "If it doesn't, don't expect me to come after you. And if you do get caught, I'd appreciate your not mentioning me." Arleah didn't say anything, but Walker gave Arion a whithering look. "I'll be out near the road," Arleah said to Walker. * * * Troy Vinson was led down a spiral of stairs into the dark bowels of the City Hall. The air down here was stale and musty, and the torches lighting the stone corridor were dim as if they would die out any moment. The big official pulled him up to an iron door, and unlocked it. The door opened with a loud screech, and Vinson was shoved inside a room. Along the far wall were iron barred doors, alongside which sat a desk. A small, young looking guard stood up from the desk quickly, looked with surprise at Vinson. "Hey. . . hey, it's Phillipe!" he said in a high, nasal voice. "We got him! How'd you do it?" "Shut up and get back to your post, Meggett," the burly official said. The young guard sat quickly back down, still grinning excitedly from ear to ear. The official swung open the iron bars of a cell, and pushed Vinson inside. "What's going to happen to me?" Vinson said. "How long will I be here?" "Oh, not too long," the official said, slamming the door shut and inserting his key. It locked with a loud click. "You'll be out of here in no time, happily dangling from the gallows." He chuckled in his deep, throaty voice as he turned and left. Meggett snickered from behind his desk. "Happily dangling from the gallows," he said. "Meggett, shut up." the official said. "Now remember, until he's done away with, nobody but me comes through this door, you got it?" Megget winked and gave the big official a thumbs-up. "I gotcha, Officer Breckett." The official frowned, opened the prison room door and exited with a loud slam. Vinson slumped down on the hard, stone floor. There was a pile of hay in one corner of his cell and a black, foul-looking chamber pot in the other. Was this how he was going to end? He slammed one fist into the palm of his other hand in frustration. There was nothing he could do. Nobody would be able to rescue him, and it would be impossible to get out himself. Even by using a heat spell to melt the lock, he'd still have that skinny guard, who was armed, to deal with. And then, he had to get himself out of the hall through all the people, officials, and everything else. And he knew that with the mental block he had, it would be absolutely impossible. He sighed, shaking his head. If nobody came for him, he had to try--he had to think of a way to get free. But the more he thought about it, the more hopeless his situation seemed. * * * Eric Walker stepped out from the alley, having donned the dark blue suit, his long hair bundled up into the cap. The uniform was common for the free lands: high, glossy- black boots, blue breeches, and a black tunic covered by a blue jacket. "How do I look?" he asked. "It's a little small, but. . ." "It's fine," Arleah said. "You look just like a city official." "My condolences," Arion said. "If it were me, I'd find it an abomination to wear the skin of a pig." Walker sighed. "Get to your post, Kurt." "Well, I'll do my part of this idea," Arion said. "You two had better make sure you do yours." Arion started off with their four leather travel packs through the diminishing city crowds, looking back and waving a few minutes later. "Have fun!" he said. Eric Walker rolled his eyes. "I believe," Walker said quietly, "that Kurt Arion has made it a sport of taking shots at me." Arleah waved her hand. "Don't take what he says to heart," she said. "Kurt Arion's difficult, I know, but he's true to his word and can be depended on. You'll be glad he's with us." She cast a final glance back at the unconscious city official slumped in the shadows of the alley, who was now clothed only in his undergarments. "Should we just leave him. . ." she looked at Walker questioningly. Walker gave a faint smile. "He'll be fine," he said. "Maybe this little experience will discourage him the next time he thinks about getting drunk on the job." He and Arleah headed back through the roads towards the city hall. Most of the merchants were gone, and Walker knew that it would be dark very soon, perfect for what they had to do. In the meantime, they would have to work fast. But carefully. They moved along in hasty silence, listening to the seabirds screaming overhead. Broken carts and wagon wheels were strewn all about, and the sides of the streets, now almost empty, were littered with pieces of fish; tails, heads, guts, and dully glittering scales. The smell of fish was very strong, but Walker was used to it by now, and he hardly noticed. He was pondering something. He saw himself as though he were outside of his body, observing from one side of the narrow, mud-rutted streets. He saw himself, in a blue official's uniform, walking alongside a young woman, a very beautiful young woman. And they were heading towards the City Hall of Davensport. Was this real? It seemed to him, for the moment, that he had been eating supper with his family only moments ago. And now here he was, in the middle of all this craziness, in the company of absolute strangers. He sighed. It seemed too much was happening too quickly. All he wanted was to find his family. And, although he would not have told Arleah, he thought Kurt Arion had a point. He hated to think of it, but deep inside, he would much rather leave Vinson behind, simply to continue on and get this thing over with. Then he though of what Arion had told him that morning. . . .I wonder if you would abandon us to return home to Tyrus for your daughter's wedding? I have never abandoned a battle. I'm just here to save the world. . .Isn't that the purpose of all this anyway? Somewhere in Arion's obnoxious words, Walker found a gnawing question. Why was he really here? And would he abandon his newfound companions if the end to this--his end- -came? When he found his family, would he leave? Because he really didn't know what to think of this young girl and her odd story. The feeling of a small hand on his shoulder jerked him from his thoughts. "What are you thinking about?" Arleah said. Her eyes roamed his face, and Walker had the eerie feeling that she already knew the answer to that question. "Nothing." "Eric Walker," Arleah said, "It will be alright." "I'm not worried." "There's no reason to be. Our actions, our story, has already been written. Everything that is happening now is already known--in prophecy. And the prophecy says we will win. It is set. This setback here at Davensport is incredibly miniscule compared to the whole picture, don't you see? We will reach Ashten and we will defeat Muhl Dreik, and you--" she patted his shoulder. "You will find your family." Walker smiled. "Thank you, Arleah, but there is no reason to reassure me, or convince me, of anything. I understand the situation, and I'm taking it one step at a time. I'm not worried at all." Arleah was silent, and Walker wondered if she knew how big a lie he had just told her. For the rest of the way, neither of them spoke. When they turned the corner onto the main road leading Davensport's City Hall, Arleah placed her hands behind her back as though they were tied, and Walker led her along through the dwindling crowds and up to the great marble steps. His slightly undersized officials' boots pinched his toes as he walked. Reaching the top of the steps, Walker pushed Arleah in apparent roughness through the entrance gates. A few guards and officials nodded solemnly as he past, stepping aside for him. Not exactly sure where to go, Walker spotted a young guard and walked over to him, pushing Arleah along in front. "You there," he said quietly, putting on his best authorative air, "this woman needs to be taken to the prisons." "Yes. . ." the guard said, raising his eyebrows, ". . .so?" "I need you to escort us there," Walker said. Inside, he winced at his own words. "Why is that?" the guard said, looking suspiciously at Walker. Walker motioned him closer. The young man frowned, leaning towards him, but keeping a distance from Arleah. "This one's very dangerous," Walker whispered. "I'm new, and I don't want to mess up by losing control of her. That'll make me look bad. Just come along and see that everything goes smoothly." The young guard sighed, shaking his head. "If you can't keep control of some woman, then you don't belong in your position. Look at you. . . big as you are, you should be ashamed of yourself. Besides, I'm just an entrance guard--the only escorting I do is putting drunks back outside." He eyed Walker sarcastically. "You might want to look into the job." Keeping an unconscious grip with one hand on Arleah, Walker reached forward and grabbed the little guard's collar tightly, almost lifting him off the ground. "Speak to me like that again, you little snot, and I'll put your skinny face into that pretty marble floor. Now I want an apology. And I want your escort to the prisons." He let go of the guard, who backed away from Walker, rearranging his shirt. His face was one of complete astonishment. "What kind of an officer are you?" The young man said. "Are you going to give me that apology, or does your face go through the floor?" Arleah shifted in Walker's grip, nudging his side with her elbow. "Eric Walker," she whispered, "forget it. We'll just find the prisons ourselves." "Apology or face in the floor?" Walker said, ignoring her. "Alright, I'm sorry!" the guard said. "What seems to be the problem here?" asked a heavyset officer, stepping up to Walker and the guard. He glanced at Arleah, and looked with puzzlement at Walker. "I. . . was just on my way to the prisons," Walker said. He pulled Arleah back, smiling pleasantly. "He tried to kill me!" the young guard said. "He said he would put my face into the floor." "I would like to put your face to the floor, Myles," the heavyset officer said. "Now I'm sure the man has a good reason for this little disagreement." He looked back at Walker. "It was just a little spat, it won't happen again," Walker said. The fat officer didn't seem amused. "It better not," he said. "I don't like disorder in here. Now what did you say your business was?" "The prisons," Walker said, backing up. "Just headed for the prisons." "Wait a second," the officer said. He looked at Walker curiously. "The prisons are that way!" he pointed a thick, pudgy finger towards the rear of the entrance room, where a few white painted doors stood behind a large potted tree. "Oh, my mistake. . ." Walker tried to smile again, feeling a red hot flush slip up his face and over his ears. Moving carefully around the large officer, he and Arleah headed where the other man had pointed. The young guard glared at Walker as he passed. "Hey, hold on," the fat officer said. He walked briskly over to Walker, his arms making a swishing noise as they rubbed against the sides of his gut. "You're new, aren't you?" Walker nodded. "Yeah, I guess. I was--" "Well, all of us working in this hell deserve some respect!" the officer said. "Welcome aboard, I'm General Kosar, you'll see a lot of me. If you don't mind, I'd like to have a look at your papers. . . it's nice to know those working under you!" He grinned. Walker's heart sank. Papers? What was he going to do? "Uh. . . sure," Walker said. "Just a moment." He groped in his pockets, but only found three pieces of silver and a small ring of keys. Whatever had happened to the official's "papers", he didn't know. Maybe the official had lost them while he was drunk. The general smiled again, looking expectantly at Walker's groping hand. Just then, Arleah pulled violently against Walker, and he yanked his hand from his pocket to grip her better. She twisted and turned in a frenzy. The fat general started, then pursed his lips disapprovingly at the girl. "I'm sorry, I suppose I should let you take your escort away," the officer said. "What's this one about?" "Oh. . . she's a thief, and she almost killed two officials before I. . . before I got her." The general shook his head, eyeing the girl sadly. "Sometimes it happens to the most beautiful among us. Such a shame. Take her away, I'll check back with you later." Walker felt weak with relief as he headed quickly away. Approaching the group of white doors at the rear of the luxurious entrance room, he nudged Arleah slightly. "That was good thinking," he whispered. "I almost killed myself in there." "We're not through yet." Walker nodded. "I know. Right now, we need to find the right door." There were five heavy oak doors facing him, each one identical to the other. Walker looked helplessly above and around the doors for any kind of signs or indictions as to where they led. He found none. Feeling watched, he glanced backwards over his shoulder and across the huge entrance room. The young, skinny guard he had argued with was looking amusedly his way. "This is ridiculous," Walker said. "Don't they believe in signs in this place? Help me, Arleah. Which one?" "My guess is as good as yours," Arleah said. Walker cursed lightly, pushing open the door directly in front of him. It led into a long, white-painted corridor, completely empty of people, decorations, or furniture. "Let's give it a shot," Walker said with a sigh. He and Arleah went inside, and Walker shut the door behind him quietly. Moving hurriedly down the corridor, Walker felt uncomfortable with the cold, faceless white walls, and the way their footsteps echoed loud and dull on floor. The corridor led on to a stone staircase which spiralled downward. After a brief hesitation, they stepped onto the stairway and started down. The air grew dank and chilled as they moved farther and farther below. After a few moments of this winding descent, they were met with another corridor. The passage was dark and unfriendly, with cold stone walls and dimly lit torches. It led forward a few paces and up to an iron gate. "Somehow," Walker said, "I feel we chose the right door. This feels like a prison dungeon to me, how about you?" Arleah just smiled faintly, the dimly flickering torches giving her pretty face a dark, eerie shade. Walker stepped up to the gate, feeling along its surface for a handle, but finding only a large, rusty keyhole. He pushed on the gate, but it didn't budge. After a moment's pause, he rapped lightly. "Just a moment," came a high pitched, nasal voice. After a few metallic clicks of a lock, the gate swung open. A small, dark-haired guard with a big nose peered out at them from within, looking uncertainly at Walker and Arleah. "Who are you?" he asked. Hurriedly, Walker looked past him and into the small stone dungeon. There were rows of barred cells, but no other guards. He cast a quick glance behind him. No one. "I don't know you," the guard said. "Where's officer Breckett? Oof--" The guard's head flew back, struck by Walker's big, heavy fist. In a crash of splintering wood, the guard fell backward on a small desk and lay unmoving. Walker released Arleah. "Let's find Troy," he said. "Quickly." * * * Kurt Arion strolled through the dock at the western edge of lake Tarsa, the large body of water alongside which Davensport was perched. A few rafts and fishing skiffs were tied up along the pier, but most were either too small or of too poor a quality for the purpose he had in mind. Finally, a large raft caught Arion's eye. It had a base of fat wooden logs underneath a layer of boards, and was railed on three sides in a picketed fashion. The raft was good-sized, looking to have eight or nine feet squared floorspace. Most of the raft was covered by a high tarpaulin for shelter. An old man was busy roping down the tarpaulin, securing it tightly to the wooden poles above the large raft. "Is this yours?" Arion asked. The old man, balancing carefully as the raft bobbed up and down in the lake water, looked back at Arion and nodded. He was a tall, gangly- looking fellow, with a balding head and small, beady eyes. "Sure is. You need a ride?" Arion shrugged. "Could be. How much do you charge?" The old man stepped off the raft and onto the pier, grinning at Arion. "Well, that depends on where you're going. If you just want to cross the lake, I'll take you for twenty silvers." "I want to cross the lake, and head through the Travis Swamplands," Arion said, "all the way to Datly. Three companions will be joining me." The raftsman eyed the four leather packs Kurt Arion held and rubbed his chin. "I go north, across the lake all right, but if you want to go through the swamps, it's gonna be prettty expensive," the raftsman said. "'Specially with all them there bags." "Just tell me how much." "Seventy-five silver crescents," the raftsman said quickly. "Seventy-five?" Arion said. "For the love of the gods, I'm not asking you to kill someone! For that price, I could buy my own raft." "That's twenty-five to get across the lake, and fifty to get through the swamps. That's a fair deal, considering the wetlands." "Twenty-five to get across the lake is too much," Arion said. "I'll give you forty-five silver crescents for the whole trip." "Forty-five? That's murder! I'll take you for sixty- five, how's that? Ten less." "Fifty," Arion said, his eyes hard and intent on the old raftsman. "That's it." "Sixty, then!" the old man said. "And I won't go further." "Fifty, I tell you. It's all I have." "I can't take less'n sixty." Arion shrugged. "Well, I guess I'm not taking your raft then. I'll find someone else who isn't inflating the cost so much." The raftsman grinned a toothless smile. "Sorry, but sixty's a durn good price." He winced as Arion picked up the leather packs and turned around. "Good luck finding someone who'll pay your price this time of night," Arion said. "It's ridiculous." As Arion started to walk away along the dock, the raftsman grunted. "I'll take you for fifty," he said reluctantly. Arion smiled, turning back toward the raftsman and the lake. "Now you're talking, old man. Fifty crescents, deal." "But I want at least ten extra when yer friends get here." "Agreed." The old man cursed under his breath, waving Arion over. After loading the packs onto the raft, Arion paid the man fifty of the one hundred silver crescents Arleah had given him for the purpose, slipping the other fifty into his own personal shoulder bag. "My companions will be here shortly." Arion said. "I'm sure you don't mind waiting." The raftsman snorted, slipped the money into a pouch, and strapped it around his waist. A sudden voice behind Arion startled both of them. "I think I'll have the honor of accepting the fifty crescents and those four carrying packs," the voice said coldly. The old raftsman gasped, and Arion spun around. The dim light of dusk revealed a tall, broad-shouldered man holding a small but deadly-looking crossbow. Arion started in recognition. "Vinson. . ." Arion began, but stopped. The man almost looked like Troy, and except for the short whiskers on his chin and jaw, the strange clothes, and the longer hair, Kurt Arion might have mistook him completely. "Phillipe," the raftsman spat. * * * Troy Vinson called out to his companions, staring at the uniformed Eric Walker. A few of the other prisoners began loudly banging against the iron bars of their cells, shouting and spitting at Walker and Arleah. Walker rubbed his sweaty brow, finding the keyhole to Vinson's cell and inspecting it. "Well, look at you," Vinson said, laughing. "I'm not even going to ask." Walker nodded. "That's a good idea. We've got to get out of here right now." "I never even expected--" Vinson said, then he paused. "I can't say how much I appreciate this." He laughed again in disbelief. "I never expected a rescue." Gritting his teeth against the loud banging and shouting of the prisoners, Eric Walker found the small keyring in his pants and slipped the first into the lock. It was much too small, as were the other four. He tossed them onto the ground. "Arleah--check that skinny little guard over there for something to open this cell." A short search of the unconscious guard produced a good- sized ring of iron keys, and the first one Walker tried slipped in perfectly. Within moments, Troy Vinson was free. "Alright, let's move," Walker said, shouting above the noise of the prisoners. He grabbed the shortsword from the unconscious guard and took the lead back out the prison gate, with Vinson and Arleah close behind. They hustled down the cold, dim stone passage and reached the spiralling stairway in moments. Walker shoved the shortsword into the belt of his uniform. "Troy, Arleah, get in front of me. Put your hands behind your back, Troy. Now remember; if anyone asks, we're making a transfer." "A transfer?" Vinson said. Walker shrugged. "Ask Kurt Arion later. It was his idea. I think the general thing I'm supposed to be doing is moving you two to another prison." "Where is he?" Vinson said, almost tripping on the high, jagged stone steps as he fought to keep up with Walker. "Lake Tarsa. He's got a raft waiting." "But--" "Troy," Walker interrupted, "We'll explain later. Let's concentrate on getting out of here." The illumination brightened as they reached the top of the staircase and stepped into the faceless, white-painted corridor. As it had been when Walker and Arleah came through, the hall was empty and quiet. Everyone's eyes focused on the big oak door at the end of the passage. "Alright," Walker said, trying to calm his breath. "Here comes the hard--" The door at the end of the corridor opened suddenly, and brilliant light from the City Hall's entrance room shined through. Three men came in: one was tall, thin, and had a nose like a hawk's beak. The other two were uniformed officers, but their uniforms were black. The hawk-nosed man walked quickly up to Eric Walker with the other two officers in tow. His face was bewildered. "What's gong on here? And what's going on in the prison room? The noise down there can be heard through the floor!" "I'm making a transfer," Walker said. A tiny bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. The hawk-nosed man stared at Walker for a moment, then looked at Arleah and Vinson as if for the first time. "Is that so?" the man said. "Who authorized this?" Walker thought fast. What was the name of that fat officer he'd met before? General. . . "General Kosar," Walker said quickly. The hawk-nosed man's brow furrowed. "What's Kosar transferring prisoners for?" he asked. "That one's riding a death sentence, and the other one I've never even seen!" Walker shrugged. "I suppose you'll have to ask him," he said. "I'm just following orders." "You bet I'll ask him," the hawk nosed man said. "And you'll be right there with me." Turning from Walker, he glared at Vinson long and hard, then briefly at Arleah. "Go right back down there and lock this trash up where they were. Be careful with Phillipe--we don't need to lose him again." Walker nodded, his mind searching desperately for something--anything to get them out of this scrape. His hand fell unconsciously on the hilt of his newly acquired shortsword. The hawk-nosed man spun back around towards the door, the two black-uniformed officers following. "Come to the east wing when they're locked up again," he said. "Whoever's responsible for this foolishness is going to be on entry guard for a week." As all three of the officers' backs were to him, Walker siezed the opportunity. Pushing Vinson and Arleah aside, Walker grabbed the shortsword from his belt and brought the butt of the heavy metal handle to the back of the hawk-nosed man's head. The officer grunted, crumpling to the ground as the other two officials turned around in confusion. One of them realized what had happened, groping desperately for his sword in vain as Vinson landed a blow to his chin. He flopped to the ground like a rag doll. The other official, the tables turning to quickly for him to act, managed a shrill cry before being knocked out as well by Walker. The big oak door swung open again, a couple officials looking inside, bewildered. Quickly, Walker grabbed Arleah and Vinson. "What happened?" the first official asked, staring at the three unconscious men on the floor. "Hurry!" Walker said. "A few of the prisoners escaped! I got these ones, but there's more that just ran back down the steps." The official blinked, turning back out to the entrance room and shouting for help. Five other officials accompanied him as he shuffled past Walker and towards the spiralling staircase. A few other guards and officers followed soon after. "Get 'em!" Walker said. Still gripping Arleah and Vinson, he pushed past another wave of officials, lunging out of the white-painted corridor and into the huge, luxurious entrance room of the City Hall. About a hundred feet ahead, he could see the main entrance doors. Freedom. But between them and freedom were several officials, milling around confused, as though they knew that something out of the ordinary was happening, but not exactly sure what it was. There were a few more shouts from the prison corridor, and Walker hurried forward. The City Hall's entrance room was long and spacious, seemingly even more so now that they were trying to get out of it as quickly as possible. Still keeping their ruse up, Arleah and Vinson kept in front of Walker with their hands behind their backs. However, they were walking very quickly now, nearly running, and any official taking the time to watch them would probably realize what was happening. Fortunantly for them, most of the officials were concerned with what was going on in the prison corridors. Again, as had occurred on the trip to the City Hall only moments ago, Walker had the impression of viewing himself from a distance. Again, it seemed absurd that he should be in this situation. It was even almost comical. . .why should he be in the middle of a police swarm? How had he even gotten into this mess, anyway? Then, to Walker's dismay, three guards began to bolt the main gates of the City Hall, slipping the huge wooden braces over the entrance doors and locking them securely. "Unbolt those," Walker said to the three guards as he hastened up to the gates, pulling Arleah and Vinson with him. The frontmost guard shook his head. "Sorry, sir. Nobody is to leave or come into the Hall during an emergency." "There is no emergency," Walker said impatiently. "Just undo the doors. That's an order." The guard shrugged. "Sorry, sir. I already have my orders. Now if you'll just stand aside and wait. . ." There were loud shouts behind them. "There's nobody down there!" someone cried out, emerging from the prison chambers. "The escaping prisoners are somewhere in the entrance room!" The City Hall went in an uproar, officials charging in every direction. Davensport citizens screamed helplessly as they were grabbed and roughly manhandled by the swarming police. "I smell a rat," one of the three entrance guards muttered. He looked suspiciously at Walker. "Who's your commanding officer?" "Ah. . .Kosar. I'm under General Kosar." "So am I, and I never seen you in the east barracks before. Let me see your identification." He stared hard at Walker, a thin smile forming on his lips as if he knew he had touched on the right question. "Can I see your identification, sir? Or do you have any?" In response, Walker drew out his shortsword. * * * "Yes, it's me," the man resembling Troy Vinson said. "How's it going, old man?" "Not good," the raftsman said. "And worse now that you're here." Kurt Arion backed up, his eyes on the tip of the crossbow, which was aimed in his general direction. This guy must be the one the city officials mistook Troy Vinson for. Small world. "Phillipe, please," the raftsman said, "Look at me! I need the work, I need the money." "I need the money too, old man," Phillipe said. "Now show me those fifty crescents." To Arion, all of this was so familiar. Usually though, it was he who was making the threats and the profit. Slowly, his hand slipped carefully down to his belt, where his long dagger was sheathed and concealed beneath his tunic and travelling cloak. Luckily, the man called Phillipe didn't seem to be paying him all that much attention. Big mistake. "Good," Phillipe said, grinning as he watched the raftsman extract a small purse from beneath his clothing. "Now toss it over to me." Phillipe, perhaps intending to make a good impression on this unknown man and the fearful raftsman, attempted to catch the purse smoothly with one hand instead of letting it fall to his feet. For two seconds, he focused his concentration on the purse, and it was the very mistake Kurt Arion was hoping he'd make. Arion leaped forward with a burst of strength and tackled the other theif by his legs, beneath the crossbow. Phillipe, not having time enough to take his eyes off the purse and aim the arrow, instinctively pulled the trigger and sent the projectile skimming across Lake Tarsa's placid waters. As Arion struck the other thief, both the crossbow and the purse of money fell to the ground. Incidentally, so did Phillipe, with Kurt Arion on top of him. Dagger in hand, Arion struggled to place the blade across the other's neck, but Phillipe was not to be so easily undone. Gripping Arion's arms firmly, he kept the knife at a distance. The old raftsman darted for his raft, tugging at the rope with his aged fingers. His eyes, however, glanced periodically towards the purse of silver crescents beside the two struggling men. Phillipe writhed frantically to release himself from Kurt Arion's grip, then suddenly brought his knee up hard into the other's stomach. Arion grunted, releasing his hold just enough to allow Phillipe to struggle free and roll out of harm's way. But Arion was on his feet in an instant, his dagger poised dangerously in his right hand. With a sneer, Phillipe leapt up, producing his own blade. "Come on, skinny boy," Phillipe said. Kurt Arion didn't hesitate for a moment. In a flury of punches and backslashes with the dagger, he attacked Phillipe viciously, forcing the other thief on the defensive. Behind them, the raftsman scampered forward and snatched up the money purse. During Kurt Arion's initial onslaught, Phillipe suffered a slash to the cheek, cuts on his fingers, and one on his arm. But he refused to give much ground, standing firmly and blocking most of Arion's blows. Soon, Arion realized he wasn't going to put Phillipe away so quickly, and backed off slightly. Circling each other warily, the two thieves kept their guards up, feigning and attacking in brief jabs. Sweating profusely, the raftsman fumbled with the ropes restricting his craft to the dock. He remembered now how he'd knotted it tightly weeks ago, not expecting travellers northward this soon. His aged, crooked fingers ached and pained him as he pulled desperately at the knots. The sound of clattering blades behind him spurred him on. With a skillful move, Phillipe's knife found its way through a rare hole in Kurt Arion's defenses, slicing Arion's hand and knocking his dagger away. Arion began to back up as Phillipe, sneering, leapt towards him in anticipation. * * * The three guards grabbed their weapons and attempted to hold off Walker's attack. Their plight was short-lived however; the guards, even together, were not much of a match for the strong Tyrus swordsman. Walker disposed of them easily enough, but the fight had attracted the attention of several officials, who were now swarming like a miniature army to the main gates. Troy Vinson estimated that he and his companions had no more than half a minute before becoming helplessly overrun. Walker reached frantically into his uniform, pulled out the ring of keys used to free Vinson from his cell and knelt down before the brace locks on the door. It was plain to see that the keys were much to large. Walker's eyes grew wide then, and he slapped his forehead. "Oh no," he said. "The other key ring. . . the one I tried to open Troy's cell with at first: they were small, and probably fit these locks." He looked helplessly back at the oncoming assault and shook his head. "I threw them on the ground. I never figured I'd need them." Ten seconds left. Walker began heaving against the gates with thundering blows, but they were much too large and solid. There was seemingly no way out; even if they had the keys, it was too late now to open all four locks, remove the braces, and open the gates. And the number of officials coming towards them was much too great to fight off. On impulse, Vinson ripped a clump of fur from the collar of his cloak, balling it quickly in his hand while at the same time tearing one of the tiny glass buttons from the shirt of Eric Walker's uniform. Rubbing the items together, Vinson called his magic forth, felt it well up against the presence of his mental block. He had practiced this spell several times, and only a fraction of those times had he ever gotten it to execute properly. Now, under pressure and amidst the roar of the City Hall, he doubted if he would be able to concentrate enough to focus the needed energy on this spell. Even in simply calling the magic, his mind faltered. But somehow, it worked. In a blinding shock of light, an enormous bolt of lightning shot from Vinson's hand and leapt forward to smash violently through the gates as though they were nothing. Walker, Vinson, and Arleah, as well as the oncoming officials, were knocked backwards and off their feet. Vinson gasped as he felt the energy drain from his body like blood, leaving his head dizzy and his mind staggering in confusion. Eric Walker, not taking the time to ponder what had just happened, fought back up, pulling his two companions with him. Troy Vinson's knees buckled, his strength drained to the extent that his legs trembled, but he kept his footing. "Let's go!" Walker said, and he bolted past the ruined gates into the cold, crisp night, trailed by Arleah and Vinson. Inside, the officials that had recovered as quickly as Walker did burst from the City Hall as well, in hot pursuit. CHAPTER TEN -The Travis Wetlands The night had fully set, with only a faint sliver of moonlight to illuminate the tiny pier at the western shore of Lake Tarsa. Phillipe squinted in the blackness, jabbed threateningly with his knife as Arion, a mere shadow, circled him continually. Phillipe had been unable to capitalize on Arion's loss of weapon, and now the night had set in against him as well. Arion kept himself low to the ground, seeking any opportunity to attack. Meanwhile, the old raftsman was in a predicament of his own. He could not leave the narrow pier without virtually walking right through the fight between Kurt Arion and Phillipe, nor could his aged fingers undo the ropes holding his raft secure. He was afraid of the two thieves, but was not about to swim away and abandon his raft, the only valuable possession he had (not to mention his occupation). Adding to this dilemma was the fact that, old as he was, he would probably not even survive the short swim to shore. However, as Phillipe and Arion's combat moved futher down the pier, the raftsman's eyes focused on Kurt Arion's dagger, its blade glinting faintly in the moonlight. He slipped forward carefully, eyes locked on the two thieves not far ahead, and took hold of the light, razor-sharpened weapon. After creeping back to his raft, the raftsman began hacking roughly at the thick ropes, panting but grinning widely as the twine began to tear under the force of the sharp dagger. Phillipe, impatient and frustrated, leaped forward to the dark figure of Kurt Arion with his knife. Arion ducked the blade, but the heavy form of Phillipe knocked forcibly into him, and pushed both of them over the edge of the dock into the frigid waters of Lake Tarsa. Arion felt the cold shock of water, listened to the monotone drone in his ears as he fought back up to the lake's murky surface. When he finally did, the cold night breeze blew directly into his wet face, chilling his nose and cheeks almost to the point of numbness. A few yards away, Phillipe was swimming fast for shore. Arion watched bitterly for a moment, then swam slowly back to the pier, pulled himself heavily out of the water and onto the wooden dock. As he did, Phillipe was just reaching the shore of the lake; his dark form splashed through the knee-deep shallows, looking back once but not stopping. "Coward," Arion muttered. The night air was biting harshly through his sopping wet clothes, and Arion began to shiver. If there was one thing Kurt Arion could not stand, it was a spineless worm of a coward that fled from a fight like a dog with its tail between its legs. The figure of Phillipe, distorted in the blackness, began to actually resemble a dog--a dog splashing through the waters like a foolish pup. Arion began to turn back up the pier to where the raft was docked when he caught a sight that literally dropped his jaw. Bursting into view on the road, running like madmen in the direction from the city, came the figures of Walker, Vinson, and Arleah. But that wasn't what made Arion do the double take; behind his three fleeing companions was the most enormous crowd of city officials Kurt Arion had ever seen. About five of the uniformed men were directly on Walker, Vinson, and Arleah's heels--the rest were a few yards back. "Oh, no," Arion said under his breath. "Oh, no. . .you stupid Southlanders." Before making a run for the raft, Arion watched enough to see Phillipe, sloshing from the waters of the lake, barely dodge the flying figure of Eric Walker, only to meet the first of the pursuing officials head-on in a collision that knocked them both down. The two closest officials were also knocked off their feet, tripping over the prostrate forms of Phillipe and his collision partner. Arion spun around, sprinted back up to where the raft was secured. Or, at least, where it had been secured. Realizing what had happened all to late, he cursed, squeezing his fist so tightly that his nails cut into his palms. Then he cried out in rage. The raftsman was gone, and so was the raft. * * * The form of some unknown man was running slowly toward Eric Walker as if confused. Walker dodged him narrowly, half-listened to the sound of a heavy, sickening collision behind him. At first he thought the unknown man had knocked into Vinson or Arleah, but he could see his companions running alongside him in the corner of his eye. Good--the man had undoubtedly ran into the mass of pursuing officials. Ahead, a wooden pier stretched a ways into the placid waters of Lake Tarsa, and Walker saw the dim figure of what he hoped was Kurt Arion moving up the far end. Immediately, he knew something must be wrong; Kurt Arion was supposed to be ready and waiting on a raft or boat, not milling about on the pier. But he didn't have any time to think right now, only time to run--run as fast as he possibly could. Arleah was keeping good pace with him, but Vinson, who had seemed sluggish ever after casting that spell in the City Hall, was beginning to fall behind. The road upon which they were fleeing led right onto the pier, and the thudding of boots on dirt was replaced with the loud, hollow sound of boots on wood. The form of Kurt Arion was now generally distinct in the moonlight, standing rigidly at the end of the pier and gazing into the lake. Eric Walker's heart began to panic as he saw no raft, boat, skiff, or water craft of any kind near Arion. * * * Kurt Arion finally spotted the raft. About ten yards off the pier, the craft was moving slowly further out into the lake, along with the old raftsman and all of their belongings. Arion was so furious and freezing cold that he almost didn't hear the sound of the approaching crowd. Eric Walker was beginning to slow, panic in his eyes as he stared at the sopping wet Kurt Arion. Arleah was directly beside him, and Vinson was slightly trailing. Arion beckoned for them to hurry. "Dive!" he said. Arion leaped as far as he could into the water, swimming for the raft like a hungry shark. He hoped his three companions had the faith to follow him and the ability to swim, because he had no intent at all of slowing and checking that they got his message. His full attention was on the raft, and what he was going to do to the raftsman once he reached it. Arion distantly heard a heavy splash behind him, followed by two. . . three. . . four. . . six. . . uncountable others. Ahead, the raft was barely illuminated by the moon, as was the raftsman, who was holding the glimmering blade of a dagger. * * * Eric Walker couldn't swim very well, but had enough sense to know that it was either dive or be killed. Gritting his teeth against the cold he knew was coming, he fell like a heavy stone into the lake, splashing about awkwardly in a vague swimming motion. Ahead, he could see Arion cruising swiftly through the water. And he could see a raft. His teeth already clattering miserably, Walker paddled forward as fast as he could, sensing the presence of Arleah close beside him. There were more splashes from behind. The officials. "Eric Walker. . . can you make it?" Arleah asked, appearing suddenly beside him in the darkness and splashes of his plight. "Are you alright?" Walker fought to get his mouth above the water. "Fine," he sputtered. ". . . doing. . . okay." "I'm going back to help Vinson," she said. "Hurry. . . swim after Kurt Arion." Walker didn't have to be told that twice. He felt a slight panic as he paddled awkwardly in the water, and tried not to think of what could be lurking in the great depths. Or just how deep those depths were. It was long after Arleah had disappeared that he fully realized what she had said; she was going back to help Troy. Was Vinson captured? Was he drowing? Had he even dived? Whatever Vinson's condition was, it must be worse than his own for Arleah to leave him paddling awkwardly. Concentrating on the thin, almost invisible form of the raft ahead, Walker moved himself forward as best as he could. Meanwhile, Arion was within a yard of the raft. The raftsman, fear mirrored in his beady eyes, held the dagger threateningly towards his approaching form. "Get away," the old man said, waving the blade jerkily. "I'll take a swipe at you!" Arion ignored his threats. He lurched forward from the water and grabbing a hold on the base of the raft. The old man swung the blade in the direction of Arion's hand, but Arion grabbed the old man's wrist and twisted it. The poor fellow gave out a shrill cry and dropped the blade onto the raft, scrambling away to crouch pitifully on the floorboards with his head between his arms. Arion, dripping with lakewater, pulled himself onto the craft and glared at the raftsman. After retrieving his dagger, Arion moved over to the crouching man and clenched the small bit of grey hair on the side of his head, pulled him up with it, and grinned menacingly at the shrieks of pain it produced. "Old man," Arion said, "you'd better give your soul to the gods while you can, because your worthless hide belongs to me, and right now, I don't hold much sympathy for you!" He ripped the tuft of hair he was holding from the old man's scalp, producing a blood-curdling scream. "Shut up!" Arion said, flinging the thin form of the raftsman into the picketed rails at the side of the raft. The old man cried out, and slumped down onto the floor. Arion reached over and picked him up again, using the same method as the last time. Gripping the old man's hair, Arion shook him violently. "Stop this raft," Arion said. "Slow it down now." The old man scuttled away from Arion's grip, holding the side of his head in pain. "It's done stopped as much as it's gonna stop," the raftsman said. Arion looked around at the black, moonlit waters. He couldn't tell if their craft was moving or not, but realized then that the raftsman, while undergoing punishment with him, had not been paddling. . . or rowing, or whatever rafts do to move. After gazing out at the flock of swimming forms drawing close, Arion grinned evilly and stalked across the wooden craft to the terrified raftsman, eager to continue his lesson. * * * The hawk-nosed man, mounted on his best horse, galloped loudly onto the pier, flanked by General Kosar. He could reach only halfway to the end, barred almost immediately by the huge crowd of officials. "What's going on?" the hawk-nosed man said. "Did they get away or what?" A commanding officer pushed through the crowd and came forward to help him off the horse, but the hawk-nosed man waved him away. "Did the prisoners get away?" He said again. "They up and dove into the lake," the officer said. "We're going after them. . . we'll get them, sir." The hawk-nosed man frowned. "Are you simply swimming after them, officer? Did it ever occur to you or to your men that perhaps a skiff would retrieve those people easier?" "But sir," the officer said, "they can't get far, they're just. . ." "Let the boys have a bit of fun," General Kosar said, with a nervous chuckle. "If they want to swim after the rodents--" "I don't want to take any chances on losing Phillipe again!" The Hawk-nosed man said. "Who's to say they don't have a getaway craft somewhere out there? If there is, I want two small, efficient skiffs to track them. They'll probably head north for the swamps." The officer shook his head, pointing up the pier to the mass of officials. "Sir," he said, "no need to worry about Phillipe. We got him already! The fool turned around and ran right into us." The hawk-nosed man's lips curled in a savage smile. * * * Troy Vinson had always considered himself a good swimmer. Ever since he was a young boy, he'd played with his friends in the lagoons and freshwater pools near the outskirts of southern Terron. When he was older, he and a few others rafted the churning waters of White River all the way to the Great Sea. He was almost a natural, and always had great mobility in swimming. However, tonight was different. Casting the spell in the City Hall, while providing him and his companions a chance to escape, had drained his strength, energy, and willpower. He knew the consequences before he cast that spell, but there was obviously no other way they'd have gotten free. Running to the pier had been a hell. At first, he thought he could make it, but he felt the effects of the energy drain right away. Before long, his legs felt like clay--powerless and dead, but they kept going on their own by some residual strength still left in Vinson's exhausted body. His throat had burned, tasting vaguely like blood, his stomach had seared in pain, and his heart felt ready to burst. But somehow, he kept going. . . although he did it in a near daze, as if his mind had fallen asleep, and his body was automated by some self-pilot mechanism. The only thing he kept thinking was: once I get to the lake, it'll be over. Good old Kurt Arion will have a raft, and I'll be able to just lay down and die. It was a goal he had been able to focus on. But at the pier, there had been no Kurt Arion, and no raft. Just an empty, wooden dock where he was forced to jump. Immediately, he knew he wasn't going to be able to swim. Not for a few yards, not for one yard, and definitely not to where he saw Kurt Arion paddling ahead. He had no energy left, no will power. He would have let himself drown if it wasn't for Arleah. She appeared beside him like a guardian angel, pushing his face up out of the cold water and holding him fast while swimming forward. He had no strength left to help her, and could only float uselessly while looking behind, seeing the officials yanking their shirts and boots off before diving in after them. He had never before felt so worthless, exhausted, and frightened at the same time. Arleah was doing a good job of moving them both forward, but it was clear to Troy that at the rate they were going the officials would overtake them with moderate ease. * * * Walker reached the raft, gasping for air. Holding onto the siderails, Arion leaned down and helped the big form of the swordsman onto the craft. "Welcome aboard the runaway raft," Arion said. "In this corner, we have the cowardly raftsman who shall pay dearly for our pains. If it wasn't for him taking leave of the pier with the raft, we would all be here right now. What say you, Eric? I need some more ideas on torturing the pathetic worm." Walker, panting heavily, viewed the cowering form of a skinny old man in the dark corner of the wooden craft. He shook his head. "Seems to me that you tortured him enough," Walker said. Arion snorted. "Look," Walker said quickly, "Troy may be in trouble-- Arleah's back there trying to help him, but I don't know. . ." he stopped for a moment to catch his breath, ". . .I don't know what their condition is. You're a good swimmer Arion. You've got to go help them." "Vinson," Arion said. "Holding us back again, is he?" "If it wasn't for him," Walker said, "we wouldn't be here. He got us out of the City Hall with a spell. . ." "I thought it was us who got him out of the City Hall. It was Vinson who got us into this whole mess!" Walker looked at Arion. "You know. . .it's not his fault. Kurt, you've got to go. I would do it myself, but I don't think I'd be. . .much help." While darkness prevented Arion from seeing the officials, their shouts and splashes were clear enough. He muttered an oath, peeled off his freezing cold tunic. "I don't know why I'm doing this," Arion said. He glared at the raftsman. "Keep an eye on that worm." With that, he kicked off his boots and dove once again into the waters of the lake. About fifteen yards away, Arleah was struggling to keep herself and Troy Vinson ahead of their pursuers. Vinson had regained a small portion of his strength and helped their progress somewhat by kicking, but they were not moving fast enough. A strong hand gripped Vinson's boot, pulling him and Arleah sharply backward in the water. "Come here!" a voice snarled. Vinson looked back to see an official with a full beard dripping with lakewater, reaching out for him "Kick!" Arleah said, doing her best to pull him free. But the official's grip was strong, and he was soon joined by another. "I got one of the bloody rodents!" the official laughed, and he pulled Vinson closer with the help of his friend. It was all Vinson could do to keep his head above the water and breathe. He heard the splashesg of more officials approaching, all laughing and shouting mock threats. The bearded official holding him caught sight of Arleah, and he grabbed for her over the struggling Troy Vinson. "Look there," the official said to his friend, "we got bloody two for the price of one, eh?" Vinson grabbed jerkily for the official's bearded throat, his anger the only energy source he had now. The two officials just laughed, pushing Vinson's face playfully under the water. A third official met them, and he pulled Arleah away from Vinson. She struggled, but was incredibly tired herself, and didn't give much of a fight. "I thought we already had Phillipe," the third official said, looking at Vinson. The bearded officer grunted. "Who cares, eh?" He spit out a mouthful of lakewater. "Let's just get the weasels back to shore afore we drown ourselves!" Suddenly, the water frothed in a violent splash behind Arleah and her captor, and the wiry form of Kurt Arion appearing in the confusion. Arion grabbed the third official from behind, brought his dagger raking through the officer's neck and bathed Arleah's face in a hot shower of blood. "It's another one!" the second official said. "The worm got Arik!" Kurt Arion ducked under the surface to reappear behind the bearded officer, and gave him the same treatment he had given the other. Vinson was freed, feeling the warm splash of blood on his own cold neck. He felt the water began to drag his exhausted body down. His breathing heavy and labored, Arion said, "Arleah, get Vinson." He cast Vinson a pathetic look. "Take him ahead to the raft." Meanwhile, more officials were arriving on the spot, all of whom immediately lost their joking attitudes as they caught sight of the two floating bodies of the dead officials. Arion stayed long enough to kill another of the officials who had captured Vinson, although doing it more for fun than for escape purposes. Then he disappeared back under the dark waters, leaving the officials shouting in frustration. Arleah had secured Vinson, and pulled him forward again as fast as she could. Arion appeared alongside them moments later. "Come on, Vinson!" Arion said. He spit out a mouthful of lakewater as a wave smacked into his face. "SWIM, for god's sake! Are you going to make a woman pull you all the way?" Vinson tried his best at kicking, his legs flopping heavily. "The spell--City Hall--my magic--" Vinson said, realizing then that his words didn't make any sense at all. Arion gave a look of disgust, and turned to head for the raft. Vinson concentrated on controlling his legs, and the three moved gradually forward. The officials could still be heard behind them, but distant, as though they weren't following them anymore. After another minute or so of pushing through the dark waters of the lake, with the wind blasting into their numb faces, they reached the raft. An old raftsman was huddled in the corner. Walker came forward to help his exhausted companions onto the craft, looking relieved. "You made it," Walker said. "We're alright now." "Yes, fine," Arion said. "Much better, though, if we would have had the raft at the pier!" He glared at the raftsman, who avoided his eye contact. Vinson collapsed on the floor of the raft and drank in the air. He was so tired that he hardly noticed how cold it was in his wet clothes. "Alright," Walker said to the raftsman, "move the raft. Let's get out of here." "Well," the raftsman said timidly, "normally I'd just use one oar by myself in the back of the raft, but seeings how you're wanting to go fast, I'd suggest me and someone else both use oars on the sides. When we get to the swamps, I'll use a guiding pole." Walker stepped forward. "I'll help. . . where's the oars?" The raftsman lit a lantern and hung it on one of the poles supporting the overhead tarp, illuminating the raft. He and Walker took large, wooden oars and manned the right and left sides of the raft. They rowed steadily northwest, which both the raftsman and Walker could easily discern from the stars overhead. "We're being followed," Arleah said sharply. She pointed behind them, where a tiny speck of light could be seen if you were watching carefully enough. "Put the lantern out," said the raftsman. "They're following the light." Arion extinguished the flame, allowing the blackness of night to flood back. Lake Tarsa was calm and quiet, and the only sound to be heard was the gushing of the oars pushing through the water. * * * "This water smells," Arion muttered. "And it's puke green." The morning sun glinted dully on the murky, pale waters of the northwestern shore of Lake Tarsa, where several rivers and streams from the Travis Wetlands emptied into the huge lake. The party had stopped here for the night, in the relative cover of the big willow and cypress trees on the northern shores. No officials or boats of any kind, save a few fishing dories, had been seen. Vinson and Walker went on shore to change, Vinson into spare clothing he had brought, and Walker out of his official's uniform. Arion and Arleah, who had no spare clothing, both had to remain in their damp garments. After eating a small breakfast of food Kurt Arion had purchased in Davensport before looking into the raft, the party pushed off back into the lake, heading westward. After an hour of guiding the large craft through masses of cypress trees, the raftsman positioned the raft on a small river, which pulled them briskly west and out of the lake. By midday, the river had slowed to a thick, swollen marsh through which the raftsman had to use a long guiding pole to maneuver. Trees, cattails, and waterplants of all sizes and description grew up everywhere in a rich, green mass of swampland vegetation that teemed with all sorts of life. The day passed slowly, with the four travellers confined to the cramped space of the raft. Vinson moved over to Arion, and gave a greeting smile. Arion didn't return the expression. "Thanks," Vinson said. "You saved us back there." Arion shrugged. He gazed out at the bog. "I just wanted to talk to you about something." "What, Troy?" "Why did you go back and kill that man?" Arion closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead. "Do I ask you why you do what you do?" Arion said. "Well, do I?" "I suppose not." "That's right. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to be left alone." Vinson nodded. "Sure, Kurt." He glanced at Walker, who shrugged. Troy Vinson watched the raftsman guide the raft with his pole for a while, then paced absently back and forth across the wooden deck. Huge, twisted trees grew everywhere, their long, drooping foliage sometimes sweeping across the tarp above the raft. Often, Vinson thought he could see vague, distorted human features in the trees, as though they were watching them. Vinson walked over to Arleah, who was sitting atop the side railings of the raft, facing the marsh. With a small square of cloth, she was rubbing the golden pendant hanging from her neck. "That's very beautiful," he said. "Thank you." Vinson leaned beside her on the railings, gazing out into the misty bog. The murky water rippled sluggishly against the sides, making a slurping noise as it moved underneath. Something big and green jumped from a clump of grasses and into the water as they passed by, creating a thick splash. "You know," Vinson said, "I never got a chance to tell you how grateful I am for last night. You saved my life." "You saved mine as well, Troy. The spell you cast in the City Hall saved all our lives." Vinson shook his head. "Actually, that wasn't much of a spell. If I was experienced. . ." "If you weren't experienced, we wouldn't be here," she said. She held up her golden pendant, the delicate chain still around her neck. After minute or two, she released it, letting it fall back to her chest. "I wonder," she whispered, almost to herself, "what it is like to be born. To be a child. To love, to hate, to feel warm on a cold winter night inside by the fire. To truly be alive. . . alive and free." Vinson looked puzzled. "What do you mean? I thought you told me that you were alive. Back when we left Terron." Arleah's fist tightened around the golden pendant, the tendons in her small wrist showing as she squeezed. "No," she said, still staring at the wet marsh. "I'm not like you. I'm not free. I'm only teased with sensations of this life that I cannot fully possess." "I don't understand." "It doesn't matter, Troy Vinson." "I think it does." Arleah looked up at him and shook her head. "If only I could tell you. If only I can explain the chains that bind me to this mission. If only. . ." She blinked, looked aside to Vinson. "Look at me," she said, "rambling on. Don't pay attention to me, Troy. Sometimes it's just so. . . difficult--to do this, I mean. To simply live." "I guess it's difficult for all of us," Vinson said. His expression was still clearly puzzled, and he watched her face intently as he spoke. "Life comes in steps--phases, you know. With each phase, we learn a little more about the world, about other people, about ourselves. To get it all in one smack would be quite a challenege." He shrugged. "I think most people would go crazy." Alreah smiled. "Sometimes, I feel like I'm headed that way." She pulled uncomfortably at her damp clothing. "What keeps me going is knowing what will happen to this world if I fail. If we fail." She looked over at Vinson, her dark green eyes intense. "We have to win this, you know. If we don't complete this quest. . ." she stopped, shaking her head. "I know," Vinson said. "At least I think I do. We're all doing our best." "I know you are," Arleah said. "The prophecies chose you. I'm just so afraid. . . I'm afraid to let you all down. It's hard for me, Troy. It's all so different." "Nobody's going to let anyone down," Vinson said. "We all have our limits. When we can't do anymore, well, we just don't. It's not a matter of letting others down." "You're right, of course," Arleah said absently. She sighed. "I should be the one reassuring you, not the other way around." She was still clinging to the independent, leadership, more-than-mortal role, Vinson realized. She didn't want to admit the fact that she too, was now mortal and subject to the cruel tauntings that the world rained on the human mind every day. She didn't understand that she also needed someone to talk to at least every once in a while. Everyone did. "I'll be fine," Arleah was saying. "Arleah. . ." "Troy, I'm fine. Really." The fierce determination that was burning in her eyes again made it difficult to contradict her. "I'd suggest we rest while we can," she said. "It's going to be a long ride." She slipped off the railings and, casting Vinson a small, parting smile, moved away to her belongings on the other side of the raft. Vinson supposed she knew herself well enough to understand what she was doing. After all, she was from Amariah, right? Jaro's daughter. They knew more about the world than he ever could--or did they? Were they as knowledgeable about life as they were about history and magic and physical science? Were they as knowledgeable about emotions? He gazed out at the murky dampness surrounding them, wondering. And what of the others, Kurt Arion and Eric Walker? Something about Arion made Vinson wonder why the thief was here at all. . . he didn't seem the type who cared enough about the world as a whole to the extent that he'd join in on a perilous quest. Vinson supposed it was for the reward, but there seemed to be something else. And then there was Eric Walker, a hardened outdoorsman who lost his family to some freak kidnapping, practically risen from the dead by Arleah. He seemed always calm and in control; as strong as he was, he seemed to use his head before his brawn. His intent on the quest was an obvious one: the finding and freeing of his wife and children. When he had accomplished that, there was quite no telling what the big swordsman would do. Who's to say Walker wouldn't simply return for home with his family, the quest unfinished? After all, it was every bit his right to do so. Vinson sighed. It was like one giant puzzle. CHAPTER ELEVEN -Flight The huge, hideous creature made Tabitha's blood crawl. It was tar black, with great bulging eyes and a small mouth drooling beneath its head. Two-thirds of its length was in its enormously long tail, which was hooked and barbed at the end. At its sides were two giant wing-like flaps of skin. Its back was covered by a gray shroud, with the symbol of the red, coiled snake stitched on either side. Tabitha and the other city residents, including the Prefect, were loaded onto the giant monster's back and secured tightly by ropes. The trolls spent a little while longer talking quietly amongst themselves in a gutteral language Tabitha didn't understand, then mounted the great beast themselves. Never in her life had Tabitha been so confused and frightened. Who were these people? Why did they want her? What would they do with her? These and numerous other questions spun around in her head, and she could answer none. Her wrists had been cut by the ropes, and her mouth was dry and strained from the gag. None of this made any sense; it was like some nightmare. With a sickening thrust, the beast began to rise, its wings flapping mightily. Off to the side, Tabitha could see the ground moving farther and farther away, and she closed her eyes. Within minutes, the entire city of Shaleh was visible, and they continued rising higher still. Soon, Shaleh had been left a good distance behind, and the ground below was just a far-away blur of colors. Far to the west, Tabitha could see an infinite-stretching flat of blue, which she figured was probably the Great Sea. She thought vaguely of the golden key in her pocket, figuring it would do no good now. Her grandfather was helpless, as was she. They flew northward for hours, over the rugged Scavenger Highlands, past the two specks of Lake Tarsa and the Sea of Derrik, and still farther. The ride was windy and cold, and although it was relatively smooth, Tabitha was very sore from being forced to sit in the same position for hours, and her face was beginning to burn from the long exposure to the sun. The gag had been removed from her mouth, but the ropes around her wrists and waist bit into her skin, and her hands felt numb. The air whistling by made it impossible to speak to her fellow captors, and her lips had long since become dry and cracked. After nearly seven hours of torment, the flying beast she was mounted upon began to descend, circling gradually down until she could make out the geographical features of where they were landing. The place was horrible. It was dry, flat, and lifeless looking, without a tree or bush to speak of. The ground was cracked everywhere, and she caught sight of a filthy, black creek moving sluggishly in a ditch westward. The single feature the land had, besides cracks and deep trenches, was a large, coned mountain in the center of the waste. The mountain was where they seemed to be headed. The beast alighted heavily in the barren wasteland about twenty yards before the large mountain. Tabitha was jarred and lurched about roughly as the monster completed its landing and ran forward slightly until the trolls stopped it with a harsh command. They untied Tabitha and the others, dragging them to the dry, parched ground. Metal bracelets were clamped onto Tabitha's and the others' wrists, containing numbers and letters that didn't make any sense to her. "Forward," one of the trolls said. "Start walking." Two of the apelike men stayed behind with the black beast as Tabitha and the others were led towards the mountain. She could now see a large, stone wall completely circling the mountain, with a portal on one side. Huge, sneering gargoyles sat on either side of the portal, and the ground before them was littered with stone statues of men and women, all posed in a running position away from the mountain. Tabitha could see the looks of horror and fierce determination carved in detail on their stone faces. One of the trolls chuckled deeply. "Welcome," it said, "to the city of Ashten." CHAPTER TWELVE -Stalker He had been searching a long time. The people he was searching for--these humans--had all seemed to mysteriously vanish. None of them were at the places he'd been told, and it seemed that nobody knew where they had gone. It was maddening enough to be in this overbright, confused world, but after visiting both Terron and Colven, then finally Tyrus without any luck, he'd begun to panic. He'd never felt anything quite like panic before. His name was Zandorf. After finding the handsome man's house deserted and empty, and the strong man's house strangely wrecked and empty as well, he had come to the conclusion that they were being led away. North, apparently, which didn't bother him--he was going North as well. But who could be leading them? It was late as Zandorf reached the big city of Davensport; the sun had disappeared under the Western horizon with only a heavy splash of redness in the clouds to hint of its position. As he meandered through the emptying streets, his eyes alert and ever watchful of the humans he was looking for, he became aware of that strange, annoying, and very uncomfortable rumbling in his stomach. He supposed he would have to eat again. And rest. The two activities were regarded by Zandorf to be nothing more than time consuming insignifigances. He sighed, and began searching for an inn. When he approached the large, domed City Hall, his pace slowed. Dozens of uniformed officials were crowding through the doorway, which looked as though it had shattered and exploded from the inside out. Splintered wood and iron bolts lay everywhere amongst the marble steps that led up to the building. Five of the officers were dragging a soaked, raggedly-dressed man into the shattered portals. The man's appearance, as bedraggled as it was, happened to be very similar to the handsome man he was following. But it was not him. "Damned mess is what this is," an officer with an enormous hawk-like nose was grumbling to another official, a very fat one. They were both on horseback. "I'd like to have gotten the other rodents as well. I've got two or three dead officers that were pulled from the lake, all knifed." "They should pay," the fat man said. Zandorf watched, interested, as the men rode slowly by him. Something about the situation triggered a sixth sense inside him, and he began to slowly follow the two men back towards the City Hall. "Well, Phillipe's going to pay sure enough," the hawk- nosed official said. "He's going to pay long and hard, and then he's going to die." "We'll start sending trackers in the morning to check the Northern shores of the lake. We may still be able to get them." "Doubtful. By the time the sun comes up, they could be in Beign or Datly." "The swamps'll take time to get through." "Doesn't matter. Whoever they were, the slippery rogues are gone. They went right through our fingers." Zandorf stopped. The facts were there before him, obvious. The man who looked like the handsome man in official custody, the ruined City Hall gates, the fugitives fleeing North. There was obviously some mix-up between the man he was after and some street urchin that the city was after. But his man had escaped--with companions. And they were still headed North, apparently through the swamps, the Travis Wetlands. "My Lord, were we going to stop?" his single companion asked him. "Not now, Demitri," Zandorf said. "Come along, now. The humans are very close." He turned and began to walk-- no, run--toward the lake. All thoughts of food and sleep had vanished, at least for now. CHAPTER THIRTEEN -Datly The mist was cold and wet. Droplets of water formed like tiny glassine spheres along the bottom of the tarp, becoming larger and larger until finally dripping off. As the raft continued further into the dampness, it became impossible to see anything more than three yards away. The imagination was free to run wild; trees became twisted figures of people, wafts of mist became wraiths, simple sounds became the noises of vicious creatures. It was like this for hours. Vinson found it difficult to understand how the raftsman kept his direction, always moving them steadily forward with the long wooden pole. A few times, it sounded like another craft was moving along behind them, and Vinson pictured the Davensport city officials pursuing them still, but the sounds gradually died away. The dull, wet voyage continued on as the thick mist about them began to darken from the length of day. Vinson felt as though he was hearing beautiful music when the old raftsman said: "We're almost there. Just a little ways up this here creek, and we'll pass through Datly." * * * The small, generally secluded town of Datly lay less than a mile from the swampy edges of the Travis Wetlands, nestled cozily on the fringes of a forest. By the time the four travellers had unloaded their belongings and sloshed through the last bit of marshy creek, nightfall had fully set in. Silhouetted in the moonlight, the huge, purple-hued Aries Mountains could be seen northward. Datly consisted of several small shops and houses, most of which looked clean and quite well-kept. As the four trudged along the street, a few faces peered from the windows of homes, only to disappear immediately, curtains pulled tight. Arion said, "Something's wrong about this town. The mood isn't right." "The mood?" Walker said. "It's night, Kurt. Everyone's inside." "Trust me," Arion said. "I listen to my instincts, and right now my instincts tell me that something's wrong here." Another face peered from one window. Vinson watched the eyes follow him for a few moments, then disappear. Whatever light that was inside the house was apparently put out, because the window became suddenly dark. "Here's an inn," Walker said. A building ahead sported a large, finely-painted sign of a green beast, although it was hard to see in the dim moonlight. Large letters said "THE GREEN GRIFFON INN" proudly on the bottom of the wooden sign. "Rest," Vinson said. "A bath and a bed." The horse stables alongside the inn were strangely empty, their wooden gates swinging gently in the breeze. All of the windows were dark. Walker reached the door first, finding it locked. He rapped softly. "I tell you, something's wrong," Arion said again. A small, makeshift panel slid aside in the middle of the door. The panel was crude and looked as though it had just been constructed. Someone's face peered out at them. "Who goes there?" Eric Walker looked back at the others curiously. "Just four tired travellers," Walker said. "searching for food and bed." The eyes on the other side of the door seemed to hesitate, then: "We've got no more room. Sorry." The panel started to shut, but Walker's big hand stopped it easily. Walker said, "Sir, your stables are empty and your rooms are dark. Please, we're only searching for a place to stay the night." "Just let them in," another voice from inside said. "We need the money." "You got any money?" the man behind the door said. "We ain't sleeping any good for nothings." "We have money," Arleah said. "Alright, then." Walker removed his hand, and the panel snapped shut. Three or four latches were heard being unbolted. "By the gods," Vinson said, "you'd think we were trying to penetrate a castle." The door was opened just barely enough for one person to slip through at a time. A shadowy figure inside (apparently the owner of the eyes that had peered from the panel) beckoned to them. "Hurry up." The taproom was finely decorated, containing several well-crafted wooden chairs and tables, all but two of which were vacant. The only light source inside was three candles, around which huddled the two other forms. "Hurry up," one of the two said. "latch the damn door." As they approached the candle-lit area, the features of the men were clearly visible. Both of them, as well as the man who had let them in, were old farmers. The first was a slightly pudgy man with small, pig-like eyes and big ears. The other was very fat, his neck consisting of huge rolls of flesh that constantly rearranged themselves as he moved his head. The man who had let them in was tall and skinny. He seemed content to remain at the door, peering out of the panel every now and then. The first man eyed the four and said, "You can take any one of the rooms in the back," he gestured to a small corridor leading out of the taproom, "they're all empty. But we expect you to leave by tomorrow morning." "We understand," Arleah said. "How much do you want?" "Three crescents a person. Washroom is at the end of the hall." Walker eyed the bar, seeing the empty, cold stove. He frowned. "Why is everyone so edgy here?" Arion said. "What's going on?" "You don't know?" the fat man asked. Arleah took a seat. "Tell us," she said. "It started three days ago," the man said, "when twenty people disappeared. Just up and vanished. Some of their houses are smashed in something terrible. And all of them left behind everything they owned; horses, clothes, jewelry, and everything." He leaned closer, his bulging face pale and his expression one of horror. "Some say they saw monsters in the streets." "Monsters?" Arleah asked. "Like trolls?" "Like trolls. And other stuff. Some people say they saw the devil himself, but I wouldn't be so quick to warrant that. And then there's other things that happen, like something I saw with my very own eyes. I seen black monsters flying over the city. Black monsters. And sometimes at night, in the last few days, we hear screams. And more people have disappeared since yesterday--all during the night. Everyone's scared. Everyone thinks that the devil is visiting the town, stealing souls. So far, thirty- two have disappeared. Three of those were babies, taken from their beds." Eric Walker said, "Did you notice any of the tro. . . er, monsters. . . wearing some kind of red snake?" The two men shook their heads. "We've never actually seen them," the first man said. "What does a red snake have to do with anything?" "Just a thought." "Lady Maple--she lives out by the river--said her dog and husband disappeared along with the first twenty who vanished," the second man said. He was apparently eager to continue his tale. "She told me that the night afterward, she hears a scratching at her door, kind of like what her dog sometimes did when he was fixing to come inside. But when she goes to the door, asking kind of careful-like who's there, she hears her husband's voice. He's just saying her name, over and over, you know, like he's lost his mind or something. She knows his voice and all, so she opens the door, but not before grabbing a bread roller. When she opens the door, she sees her dog--and set on the little animal's shoulders is the head of her husband, calling her name. She says to me that she just screamed and screamed, dropping the roller and shutting the door faster than you could whistle. She locked her house up good and tight, but she told me she heard that monster scratching at her door all night, while she cried in her bed. She lives alone, you see, and couldn't very well figure out what to do. Finally, it went away, and she ain't never seen her husband nor her dog since. Now ain't that terrible?" "Lady Maple never said that!" the first man said. "You're lying like a rug, Jes." "I ain't neither!" The old, fat farmer looked intense, his neck wobbling frightfully as he bobbed his head up and down, reminding Vinson of a turkey. "She done told me that three days past!" The skinny old man by the door spoke up in a calm, deep, and solemn voice. "Well, I heard something I know is true," he said. It was so dark where he was standing that the four travellers couldn't see his expressions. "I heard Father Abner saying that the graves was all dug up and empty in the graveyard. I was up there last week, and its true. I seen it with my own eyes." "Oh, everyone knows that already," the fat farmer said. "Well, they don't!" Arleah stood up from her seat. "I think I'll wash up and go to sleep now," she said. "Thank you all for allowing us to stay." The first man smiled, sizing up Arleah in a way that Troy Vinson didn't like. "Sure thing," he said. * * * That night, Kurt Arion slipped quickly and easily to sleep, weariness fully overcoming him. However, the sleep that met him wasn't as smooth as he would have liked. Something kept waking him, causing him to shift and turn restlessly in his bed. Still attempting to find a comfortable position, he shifted again, and lay sprawled on his back, his head half off the straw matress. He seemed to be able to fall asleep then, and even caught snatches of some weird, meaningless dream. Then, once again, he awoke. Frustrated, Arion tried to shift again and was surprised when he found himself immoble, as if paralyzed. He struggled to move, but it was no use. He could only lie there, sprawled on his back, with his head half off the matress. His neck was exposed in an unpleasant fashion. Softly first, then with growing volume, Arion thought he could hear a sharp clattering, like hooves, getting closer in the hallway outside his room. His head was tilted back enough so that he could get a good view out the window- -the sky was blood red. Arion realized he must be dreaming, and fought to wake himself up. But he could not. He couldn't even move. And those awful hoofbeats were getting closer. Arion tried to cry out, but not a sound came from his mouth. He heard his door open. Distantly, he tried to remember if he had locked it or not, but decided that if he was dreaming, it didn't really matter anyway. All he wanted to do was cover his neck--it felt so uncomfortably exposed. The hoofbeats, now in his room, were very loud, but slow. He heard them drawing closer, moving around his bed and towards him. . . towards his exposed neck. He strained to move, strained to wake up. All he could do was lie there. The hoofbeats now were right beside him, but he still could not see what it was; the only thing he could see was the blood red sky outside his window, along with an occasional black shadow that slipped across his view. He heard the thing that had come inside his room breathing harshly, and making thick sounds as if it were swallowing. Then, exactly what he dreaded to happen happened. He felt something cold and clammy touch his neck, slipping slowly across it. He tried to scream, but the noise sounded strangely muffled. Arion realized that the scream was only in his mind--his mouth was making no sound at all. Whatever it was that was on his neck continued to move, until it was touching the back of his head. Still, the clammy thing slipped around his neck, making a kind of coil. It reminded him almost of a. . . A snake. Terror siezed him as he pictured the red serpent that had been chasing him relentlessly in his dreams. Had it finally caught him? The coils began to tighten. Go home, a voice whispered in his ear. Before you die. This quest ends in death. * * * The next morning, Vinson felt much better than he had the few days before. He had washed, changed clothes, and had finally slept a good night's rest, although the matress wasn't all that great. Even breakfast, which consisted only of cold meat, bread, and water, tasted good. The three old farmers, who had described themselves as "caretakers of the inn" the night before, were still peeking through the curtains every now and then. "Deiman's house looks awful quiet today," one would say, or, "The old shrine isn't open. Brother Montrel's usually there by now. Wonder what that means." Then another would say something like, "The tree across the road looks crooked. Don't remember it looking that way last night." Arion, Vinson, Arleah and Walker were doing their best to ignore the continual comments of suspicion, concentrating on their breakfast. Everyone seemed refreshed and in good humor, except for Kurt Arion, who seemed especially detached and moody. Vinson thought it nothing unusual. With the sun still quite low in the eastern horizon, the four travellers departed from the Gossam Inn and continued on the northbound trail. The Aries Mountains looked tall and threatening, especially when one considered the prospects of having to travel through them. Which is exactly what they had to do. "Two days," Arleah said, "And we'll be in Derrik. It won't be much farther after that." The town of Datly seemed almost abandoned, with only a few people scurrying along the streets, always looking behind them. Vinson heard children crying a couple times, although he saw none. Doors were bolted and shut, some windows were boarded up, and the one's that weren't had curtains or drapes pulled tight. The road they followed grew small after Datly was left behind, and became a narrow dirt trail that wound up into the mountains. Large pine trees, their bark often covered with clumps of sticky sap, began appearing more frequently. The spring sun shone warmly down onto them from the east, its rays filtering through the foliage of the many trees about the trail. The breeze smelled clean and fresh. "I love the mountains," Eric Walker said. "Nowhere else on earth do I feel closer to nature. It's beautiful." He took a deep breath. "Smell those pine trees." The trail wound ahead through the brush, always climbing upwards. After half an hour, the land below could be seen easily, including the whole town of Datly. It looked eerily abandoned. By the time the sun had reached the center of the sky, the four travellers were deep in the mountains. The trail, which had an unpleasant habit of disappearing at times, led them slightly northwest, with huge ridges of granite on either side. They seemed to be in a kind of natural slice in the rock. A small creek bubbled and cascaded through chunks of granite and fallen wood to their left. After a time, Walker, who was in the lead, stopped. He held up his hand. "What. . ." Vinson said. "Sshh. Quiet," Walker said. He tilted his head, as though listening to something. Then he whispered, "I think we're being followed." Vinson couldn't hear anything, but after another minute or two of silence, Walker motioned them hastily forward. He loped ahead and over the creek, heading for the rising cliff of granite. There was a lot of scratchy-looking bushes growing around the rock, and Walker slipped behind them. The others followed after him. They were about ten or twelve yards from the path, which was quite visible to them. "What is this all about?" Arion said. After about a few minutes of sitting cramped behind the bushes, with ants and mosquitos irritating him, Vinson heard cautious, slow footsteps approaching along the trail. "I hear them," he whispered. Two short, squat forms, clothed in earth tones, crept warily up the path. They were dwarves. Both of them wore the red, scarlet insignia of a serpent on their shoulders, and each had a shortsword strapped at their sides. "They're tracking us," Walker said, "but they don't appear to be too good at it. They shouldn't have come right up the trail. Apparently, they feel pretty confident." The dwarves stopped hesitantly at the point where Walker and the other three had broken off the trail. One of them pointed to the creek. "They'll reach us eventually," Walker whispered. "So we'd better figure out what we're going to do." "They bear the mark of Muhl Dreik," Arleah said. Walker nodded. "I saw that. That's the same thing the trolls were wearing when they broke into my house. So, as I said, we'd better figure out what to do." "Kill them," Arion said at once. "Hold on," Walker said. "If we do it right, we can overpower them, and question them. Maybe they know where Aleena is." "Who?" Vinson said. The dwarves looked in their direction, and the four stayed absolutely still. One dwarf said something to the other one, who seemed to agree. Then they turned, and left along the trail, heading back the way they came. After a couple minutes, they were out of sight. "Good, they're leaving," Vinson said. Walker shook his head. "No, that's not right. I'm pretty sure they realized we've discovered them. They're up to something." The dwarves' footsteps gradually faded away. "Let's go," Arion said. "My legs are getting numb." Walker frowned, watching the trail suspiciously. "Wait a while longer. I bet they're on the trail, waiting for us to come out of hiding. They know we're somewhere around here." They waited for ten minutes, and nothing happened. Vinson shifted positions, swatting away a mosquito. He could see dozens of ants--big, black ones--all over the ground, and felt something pinch his ankle. A little ways off, a bluejay screeched. Another ten minutes or more droned on by. Still, neither Walker nor anyone else moved. "Perhaps we should go," Arleah said. Walker's eyes were still on the trail. "They're up to something," he said again. A soft breath of pungeant mountain breeze blew by. Vinson felt something hit his head, like a pebble. He looked up. And there, on a cleft only about twenty feet above them, two pairs of beady eyes glared down at him. Troy Vinson jumped instinctively away, pulling himself from the brush with a scraping sound. "Watch out!" he said. A dwarf lept from the rocky cleft, emitting a harsh little cry, his sword pointed downward. Arion slipped out of the brush like a cat, appearing next to Vinson with his knife ready just as Walker, after grabbing Arleah about the waist, ducked out as well. He missed the Dwarf's sword by inches. Vinson heard a metallic scrape as Walker pulled his own broadsword from its sheath. The dwarf remaining on the ledge above began scrambling away. The sun caught the coiled serpent emblem, making it shimmer briefly. Kurt Arion snarled and leapt up the granite ridge after him. The other dwarf, meanwhile, approached Walker boldly. His shortsword and Walker's heavy broadsword met with a loud, ringing crash. Walker's enormous muscles bulged as he hefted the big weapon. The dwarf, though, was no easy match. He used his smaller sword skillfully, and his own arms were knotted and powerful-looking. Several times, his sword came close to Walker's legs. Arleah stood watching nervously, wincing every time the dwarf took a swing. Vinson quickly dropped his pack, picking up a small rock of granite from the ground. He shouted a phrase, lifted the stone, and commanded his magic to come forth. Nothing happened. He cursed, feeling the presence of his mental block. No matter how many times he tried, he could not combat with his spells. Ahead, Walker was backing the dwarf up into the cliff, and Arion was disappearing over the ledge. Vinson had an idea. He lifted the stone again. He shouted the phrase once more, this time concentrating on the granite cliff instead of the dwarf. Vinson felt the energy from his body drain as twin flurries of blue light shot forward from the stone he held, striking the cliff with a crackling sound, sparking dramatically. The ridge split, sending a shower of rock onto the little dwarf, who was immediately buried. Vinson dropped the stone he held, breathing a sigh of exhaustion and relief. Walker, recovering from the light and sparks, saw the unconscious dwarf on the ground and moved forward to pull him free of the rock shower. However, he didn't see the ledge above begin to shift under the change in its support. Only Arleah and Vinson saw the enormous chunk of granite break free. "Walker!" Arleah screamed. * * * Kurt Arion clambered easily up the rocky crags of the granite ledge, the distance between him and the dwarf lessening. His attention was focused on the scarlet insignia of the coiled serpent, and his dream was echoing in his mind. Go home before you die. This quest ends in death. "I'll show you death," Arion said. His right hand still clutched the dagger tightly. The dwarf reached the top of the ledge and disappeared over it. Sweating now, Arion followed closely behind. As he reached the top, he saw huge clusters of wild raspberries, knotted all around the pine trees. Off to the left was a tiny trail, where the dwarves had obviously come through. Arion reached the top just in time to see the small man scurry onto the trail and disappear through the brush. Teeth clenched, he pulled himself to his feet and ran after him. The dwarf was running along the trail, checking a couple times to see if Arion was following. Suddenly, the small man dropped his sword, pulled an object from his pocket, and placed it to his lips. It looked to Arion like a pipe or a tiny straw. The dwarf slowed, turned his head back to Arion, and emitted a strange hissing sound. Arion felt something pinch his leg, like an ant or a mosquito . Absently, he brushed his pants. The dwarf pocketed the straw and continued forward. Kurt Arion saw that the dwarf was drenched in sweat, panting heavily. The trail began to slope upwards, littered with stone and debris, and the raspberries on either side groped out at them, thorns pulling at flesh and clothing. Suddenly, Arion began to feel dizzy, even to the extent that he was having difficulty keeping track of where his legs were. Assuming it just to be the hard run and the loose stones, he continued. At one point in the trail, the path cut sharply to the right. As Arion turned, he lost his balance, and sprawled heavily to the ground. His hands stung with pain as he tried to pull himself up, only to fall again. The world seemed to be swimming around his eyes. Arion blinked in confusion. Ahead, the dwarf stopped running, looked back at Arion with a smile. "Having trouble, friend?" the dwarf said. He laughed. Arion struggled to his knees, grasping his dagger tightly. For a moment, the dwarf's smile disappeared, and he turned pale. But then Arion collapsed again. His ears rang in a high, monotonous tone, and his sight wavered falteringly. Slowly, he felt himself losing consciousness. "Sweet dreams," he heard the dwarf laugh, and everything went black. CHAPTER FOURTEEN -The Vail "You stay here," the troll said. Tabitha stopped, confused. All the other people were being led through the portal and into the city that the trolls had called "Ashten". The apelike man reached forward and pulled her out of the procession. She was getting pretty tired of being dragged here, pulled there, shoved here, pushed there. After a few minutes, all the people had been led away except her. The troll beside her was gripping her arm so tight it was beginning to make her hand tingle and go numb. Angrily, she tried to pull it out of his grasp but only received another knock on the side of the face. "Peppery one, isn't she?" asked another troll, coming from behind. He was one of the two who had stayed back with the black beast, which was gone now as well. He walked up and inspected Tabitha a little while. Then he said, "Search her." They groped annoyingly through her clothing, producing, of course, the golden key. The three rubies on its handle sparkled in the sun as the troll held it up. "NO!" Tabitha said, lunging for the key. The troll glanced at his partner, whispering something. The other one nodded. "Give it back. Please." The troll holding her began to drag her forward, toward the great wall surrounding the mountain, but away from the portal. She struggled, but it was no use; the trolls were much too strong for her. They seemed to walk for hours along the parched, dry earth, circling the ever-present wall from within which the mountain peak rose like a cone. It stood out ridiculously in its flat, barren surroundings. Finally, one of the trolls stopped and faced the wall. He placed his huge hand on a stone, and, to Tabitha's surprise, a door of simulated rock emerged from the wall and slid swiftly open. Behind the door was a dark staircase leading downward. "Go on," the troll holding her said. He pushed her roughly forward. The other troll waited until they had entered into the gloomy stairwell before placing his hand on another stone, this time one on the inside of the wall. The secret panel moved quietly back into place. The cold steps, illuminated softly by glowing torches on the walls, spiralled downward. Tabitha was pushed forward, the trolls in tow. After a long descent, Tabitha found herself in an enormous cavern of such size that it took her breath away. It was so huge it was almost difficult to distinguish whether she was actually underground, or just outside at night. Even with the torches hung all across the stairwell and wall behind her, it was very dark. She could just discern a large, slow-flowing river ahead, a few boats docked at its shores. Someone was moving towards them, features unrecognizable in the darkness, but it was definitely not a troll. "What do we have here?" a male voice asked. He stepped into the torchlight, revealing a very handsome man of about Tabitha's height, clothed in black. Tabitha stared as she discovered his features resembled hers: his eyes were coal black, his hair streaked with white, and his skin was dark. He had a dagger sheathed at his belt. "We found her in Shaleh," one of the trolls said. "She's a thief. I thought we'd bring her to Charene." "Shaleh?" the man said. He looked at Tabitha curiously. "Yes," the troll said, holding out Tabitha's golden key, "and we found this on her." The man raised his eyebrows. "What's your name?" he asked Tabitha. She didn't say anything. "Well," the man sighed, "she's obviously been raised with. . . humans. She might not even know what she is." "I know," Tabitha said icily. "What's your name?" the man asked again. "I'm Marion." "Give me back my key," she said, in the same icy tone. "You have no right to keep it from me. And you had no right to bring me here." She wasn't sure why she was taking out her hostility on him, but the knowledge of what he was, and that she was that too, made her furious. "Of course," the man said. He gestured to the trolls. "Give her the lavaliere." "But. . ." "Give it to her." The troll reluctantly held the golden key out, and Tabitha snatched it away. She was actually surprised they'd given it back; she hadn't been expecting that. "I'll take her to Charene," the man said to the trolls. "You're free to leave." The apelike men, with a final glance at her, turned and started back up the stairwell. "Follow me," the man said cheerfully. He turned and started for the river. Tabitha found that, being under the ground, her eyes were adjusting dramatically to the darkness. She could now see the detail of the wooden boats, a stone walkway along the river, and even a few other men standing around loading boxes onto some of the boats. They were all dressed in black. Where was this place? "Are you coming?" Tabitha looked up, seeing the man halfway in and halfway out of the boat. He was grinning, trying to keep himself balanced as the boat rocked slightly up and down. Her first impulse was to run back up the stairwell, but for some reason she began slowly walking towards the river. "Have a seat," he said when she approached. "Welcome aboard." Tabitha stepped into the boat, sitting down cautiously in the front. He untied the little craft and sat down at the rear, where he could comfortably control the rudder. Slowly, the current began to pull them forward. "We're right under the city of Ashten now," Marion said. "This river is called The Tapel." Actually, Tabitha could care less about what the river was called. She was more interested in exactly where it was they were going. Then she remembered the trolls telling Marion to take her to Charene, whoever that was. "Who's Charene?" she asked. "Charene is the high priestess here," Marion said. "At least, until someone else kills her and takes her place." Tabitha looked up, expecting him to be joking. His face was completely serious. He said, "She'll probably last another year or two. She's pretty smart." "Why are you taking me to her?" Tabitha asked. "Well, your situation is an unusual one. You are a Vail, but you've been raised as a human. Humans are enemies of the Vail. So she has to decide what will happen to you." "You mean, whether I live or die?" she said. "That's correct." Tabitha shook her head. "Do all of you take death so nonchalantly?" "Well," Marion said, "it's pretty apparent you're not familiar with your culture." "Oh, I'm familiar with my culture, alright. My culture. I'm not familiar with yours." "Ah," he said. "I see." There was silence for a few moments. The river continued to carry their boat through the cavern, and all around, Tabitha could see huge, weird structures that were intricately carved and oddly designed. Statues and carvings of beasts and pictures portraying death were everywhere. It gave her the creeps. "You don't like me very much, do you?" Marion asked. "I've heard a lot about the Vail that I don't like," she said. "A lot." "Well, that's to be expected. After all, the human and the Vail races are enemies. Down here, you'll hear a lot about humans that you probably wouldn't like." "I'm sure I will." Another boat, this one large and loaded with crates of something, passed to their left. "Tell me something," Tabitha said. "Why was I brought here? Why did those trolls take me and the others? For that matter, what's Ashten? I've never heard of it before until now." "Ashten is a special place," Marion said. "This is the land of the good dark spirits. This is their home." "Good dark spirits?" Tabitha said. "Isn't that a little contradictory?" "To you, perhaps. The spirits and gods the humans tend to call good are different from the ones we do. Our Goddess is Cybele. The humans' God is Aellei. Our good spirits are Ishtara and Muhl Dreik. The humans' is Jaro of Amariah." "Your gods are gods of death," Tabitha said. "I fail to see what significance death holds." "There's a lot more to death than you understand," Marion said quietly. "But, contrary to what you seem to think, we aren't death fanatics or anything. It's just that we understand it more, so it means more to us." Tabitha just shook her head. "And also," Marion continued, "Humans think differently than us on the subject of light and darkness. When humans hear the word dark, they tend to think of bad things. We're that way with light. The reason is--" "Because the Vail live naturally in darkness, and the humans live naturally in light," Tabitha said. "So they interpret light and dark differently. I understand, Marion." Marion smiled. "You see, then? We're not bad like you think." "There's a difference," Tabitha said, "In interpreting words differently, as opposed to killing people just for the sake of power. Or in killing small children because they aren't as strong as the others. Or in who knows what else goes on here." Marion shrugged. "I'm sorry you see it that way. We have reasons for what we do. We--" "I'm sure you do," Tabitha said. "But don't bother wasting your breath, because I'm not going to listen to an attempt at rationalizing murder." Marion was quiet then, and Tabitha was immediately sorry she was so icy. After all, she thought, culture was culture. What seemed wrong to her just wasn't the same to them. And then there was the little voice in the back of her mind that kept saying You're a Vail too, Tabitha. If it wasn't for the Shaleh attempt at raiding these people, you would have been just like Marion. This would be your home. "Look, I'm sorry," she said. "I'm just tense. I didn't mean to be so rude." "That's alright. Actually, you have a really good attitude." "What?" Tabitha said. "You really do. Charene will probably like you." Tabitha shook her head. "You're right, Marion. Your world is very different from mine." "But it's your world now, too," Marion said slowly. "What do you mean?" "Think about it," Marion said. "In the event that Charene allows you to live, which--I must say--is what I hope she will do, then it will be because she feels you can, and are willing to, change from the human culture to the Vail. That you will be one of us. . . again." "I don't want to," Tabitha said quickly. Then she smiled apologetically to Marion. "No offense. It's just that I was brought up as a human, and that is what I want to be. And believe me, it wasn't a terribly wonderful thing living in Shaleh. But that is where I'd feel more comfortable." "If you express that to Charene, she'll kill you," Marion said. "If you're willing to keep living in this world, I wouldn't advise you telling her what you just told me. She'll let you live only if she feels you are like us." "What if I fool her," Tabitha said. "and escape?" Marion shrugged. "If you want to live above ground, I guess that would probably be your only option. But it won't be easy to fool Charene. Nor will it be easy to escape." He looked at her for a while. "Do you know where Ashten is?" "You told me. It's right above us." "No," Marion said, "I mean where, as in how far East, or West, or North." "I don't know anything about it. I would guess it's North, from where I was flown." "That's right. North. Far North." He smiled. "We have roads and cities spread all about underneath the Northland and Eastland. From what I know of those roads and which human cities lie above them, I can tell you this: Ashten is days away from the closest human city. You'd be alone, without bearings, in a place not known to you. How would you get away?" Tabitha started to see what it was he was trying to say. Up on the surface, she'd be stranded. "And Muhl Dreik would know," Marion said. "He'd know you were escaping." "I don't believe in spirits," Tabitha said. "It's just superstition." Marion shrugged. "I wouldn't say that to Charene, either." He guided the raft gently to the river bank. There was a row of docks there, before a strange, gruesome-looking building. Tabitha saw statues of horrid beasts posted on either side of a tall, narrow door. The door had a metal goblin's face on the top, and in the middle was a chilling carving of a red dragon killing a human and an Elf. Tabitha shivered. The docks and the stone road leading from the river to the building seemed completely vacant and eerily silent. "Here's the temple," Marion said. "I'll take you inside, if that'll make you feel more comfortable." "I would appreciate that," Tabitha whispered. She didn't know why she whispered, but it seemed the appropriate thing to do, in the dark and chilling silence of this weird place. Marion secured the boat, helping Tabitha out onto the dock. She didn't really need any help, and would normally have been annoyed that anyone tried to give it to her, but this time she felt content to take Marion's hand and let him lead her out. With their boots echoing on the wooden dock, Tabitha followed Marion away from the river and onto the small, cobblestone road. Carvings of beasts and especially spiders were posted everywhere alongside the path. On the door of the temple, she saw something that she hadn't noticed from the river: a black spider was carved and painted above the door, next to a scarlet, coiled snake. She remembered the snake as the mark the trolls had been wearing when they captured her. "The spider is the mark of Cybele," Marion said, "and the snake is that of Muhl Dreik. Both are exalted dieties." He spoke in a tone of awe and respect. After a few moments more of standing there, in which Tabitha began to get impatient and more nervous than she already had been, Marion opened the door. CHAPTER FIFTEEN -Derrik Vinson sprinted forward, knocking into the big form of Eric Walker and throwing them both to the ground. Behind them, the enormous chunk of granite rock smashed heavily onto the spot where Walker had stood only seconds ago, splitting into two pieces like an eggshell and burying the dwarf. Vinson and Walker picked themselves up, moving quickly away from the ledge. "Thanks, Troy," Walker said. "Wow--that was close." Vinson shook his head. His breathing was labored, coming in heavy gasps. "That was stupid. I should have. . .thought more before. . .striking the ledge at the bottom--" "There wasn't time to think." Walker glanced at the fallen rubble, where a dark stain of crimson red was growing. "It looks like the dwarf is not available for interrogation anymore," he said. Then he grinned faintly at Vinson's downcast expression, giving him a heavy slap to the shoulder. "It's alright. You did what you had to do. It was either us or him, you know. I know dwarves. He would have killed us, or died trying." He looked around. "Where's Kurt?" Arleah shook her head. Her face was pale. "He went up the ledge," Vinson said, breathing heavily and still trying to regain his composure from the draining spell. "I saw him follow after the dwarf." "That may not be good," Walker said. "Come on, we'd better follow." Backtracking a small ways along the ledge, they came to the spot where the dwarf had jumped down on them. There were several rocky crags and niches along the rock face, and Walker began climbing without hesitation. "Do you think it's safe?" Vinson asked. "What if the ledge collapses again?" "Not here," Walker said. "We're a safe distance, and granite is very sturdy." The rock was warm from the sun, and little specks of white glinted brightly in Vinson's eyes as he followed Walker up the ledge. He was tired, but the climb wasn't really all that hard, especially with Walker to lead and show him the best footholds. Arleah, too, seemed to be coming up effortlessly behind him. When they got to the top, it was obvious where the dwarf and Arion had gone. A small path lay to the left, the ground along it disturbed. Walker pulled out his sword again, moving slowly up the trail and inspecting it as they went. "What do you think those dwarves were doing here?" Vinson asked, following Walker. "You said they were tracking us, Eric. . . how did they know about us?" "They were tracking us alright," Walker said, "but other than that, I'm as bewildered as you are. Maybe they were stationed in the woods by Muhl Dreik, or whatever his name is, to throw off travellers coming through these parts. The way that one dwarf jumped into us, while the other one fled, doesn't seem to make any sense." "No," Arleah said, "Muhl Dreik doesn't have any knowledge of the quest." "What if he does?" Vinson asked. "Information leaks. What if he knows about us. . . that would seem to explain why the trolls wanted to capture or kill Walker so badly in Tyrus. When they found out they couldn't, they captured his family." "I don't believe that is what happened," Arleah said firmly. "In either case," Walker said, "I think the dwarves were some kind of ruse. A planned trap. I think this whole thing was something to lead us off, and it seems it's doing just that. We'd better keep on our toes, here." "And Kurt?" Vinson said. Walker shrugged. "Who knows. I just hope he's alright." * * * Arion, his hands and feet bound tightly, had been slumped upright beside the tree. He was still dizzy, and felt slightly nausiated, but had just woke, unbeknown to his captors. There were four of them, four dwarves, all dressed the same, with the red serpent stitched on the shoulders. A large, weird-looking black beast with enormous wings and a long, barbed tail was tethered behind them. It had a saddle- like arrangement on its back that also showed the scarlet snake. "I don't know," one dwarf was saying. "And I really don't care, either. They'll be good stock, though, for the master." "Probably. I'm not sure it's worth it. . .where's Delsenore?" "Jumped at them, to throw them off. I told him to stick with the plan, but you know him. He's hard headed." "They'll kill him, I expect." "Probably." "Well, Delsenore was a fool, anyway. Back in Lapel, he bungled a routine collection and we lost about fifteen people. The master didn't like that." "How many were there down there just now?" another dwarf said. "Four. Including this skinny fool. I'm hoping Delsenore's leading them here. . .but the way he's been acting lately, he might have just gone off on another fit. I really think he's losing his mind." "I'd love to slit his throat." "I'd love to slit this human's throat." "Well, we've already missed the collection. Bringing these petty travellers might not be enough to save our skins, and killing one of them won't help matters any." "We'll find some more in Derrik." "True." "Well, then?" "I guess you're right. It would be rather pleasant." "Of course I'm right." Arion heard the sound of a knife being unsheathed. He tensed, his mind working in a frenzy. Through half-shut eyes, he could see the four dwarves advancing on him. He tested the ropes around his wrists, but they were tied securely. Sounds became heightened; he heard the crunch of pebbles beneath the advancing dwarves' feet, and the rustle of the trees overhead. A crow was cawing over and over, over and over. Arion hated crows. Suddenly, something slipped from the trees overhead like a shadow. Arion's eyes widened as he saw a dark, wraithlike form, it's back to him, materializing before his eyes. The form was somewhat ethereal, and he could see the dwarves' astonished faces through it. One shreiked in terror. "Fools," a rumbling, deep voice said. "Please, my Lord," one dwarf sniveled. "We were only doing our best to please the Master!" "Your master," the deep voice rumbled, laden with sarcasm. "Muhl Dreik is a fool as are you! I am your master." "Yes my Lord," they cried, falling to their knees. "Now you shall pay for the crime you were about to commit." "What crime?" the dwarves cried. "What crime, my Lord, but to please you and the Master?" "The crime of murder," the voice said. "But. . ." "My murder." A blinding flash of light swallowed the dwarves as they screamed in high, bloodcurdling shrills. Arion closed his eyes tightly, feeling an incredible heat blast into his face. Light penetrated his eyelids, glowing an intense, painful pinkish red. He instinctively tried to raise his hand to shield the light, then remembered that his hands were tied, so he lowered his head instead. It didn't help much, but thankfully, the painful glow dissipated after only a few brief, intense seconds. When he dared open his eyes again--just enough to barely see--the dwarves and their black beast were gone, just as though they had never been. Only the black shadow- figure stood there. But he didn't seem so much of a shadow anymore; he seemed more solid, almost as though he had become a simple man in black robes. He still had his back to Arion. Then he turned. "Open your eyes, mortal. I know you have beheld all. You have beheld what you cannot. What I cannot allow you to." Arion's eyes opened fully. The man before him removed his cowl, and smiled at him. But it was the smile of evil, the smile of death. "Who are you?" Arion said, his voice cracked. The man stepped forward, leaned over to him, and whispered something in his ear. Arion started. His eyes opened wide. "You. . ." "Yes, mortal. And now:" He lifted his finger, which wasn't a finger at all, but bone, white as though it had been bleached after years of baking in the sun. He lifted his finger to Arion's head. "Get away!" Arion screamed. "Ala tir matar," the man said. "You now must forget." Then he touched his bony finger to Arion's head. Arion cried out as a white fire exploded from within his skull, it's flaming tongues licking away at his mind--eating his memories. "Forget," the man said, his deep voice chuckling. "Forget." * * * Walker burst into the small clearing, trailed by Vinson and Arleah. They were all sweating and breathing heavily. But their weariness was forgotten as they came upon the body of Kurt Arion--face down--lying on the ground under a tree. There was a black crow in the branches, cawing noisily. As the three hastily approached, it flew off. "Kurt!" Walker said, reaching down to feel his neck. Arion suddenly jolted up as though he had been disturbed sleeping, pulling out his knife and holding it up threateningly. Then he saw the others and relaxed. "What happened?" Vinson asked. Arion sat up, put his knife away and began absently rubbing his wrists. They looked a little red. "Poisoned," he said thickly. "What?" "Poisoned! I was poisoned, alright? He shot a poison- tipped dart at me, and I went down. Damn!" He put a hand to his forehead. "Damn, that was stupid. I've got a headache now." "Where'd he go?" Vinson asked. Arion glared at him. "Seeing that I was unconscious, Troy, I can't very well tell you, now can I?" "Are you alright?" Arleah said. "Now that you mention it, no, I'm not. Why were those dwarves here, Lady? I thought you said Muhl Dreik knew nothing of us! How is it that his little minions found us?" "Muhl Dreik doesn't know," Arleah said. "This had to have been an accident. A coincidence is all. The dwarves had no idea at all who we were." She was looking alertly through the trees, an uncomfortable expression on her face. "An accident?" Arion said. "What if we all get killed? Will that be an accident, too?" "What I want to know," Walker said, "is why he left you behind. Why didn't he kill you after poisoning you?" "That's a good question," Arion said. Everybody looked at Arleah. "I can't answer that," Arleah said. Arion threw his hands up into the air. He started to stand up, faltered, and almost fell over before Arleah caught him. "Slowly," Arleah said. "Take it easy." "No," Arion said. He brushed her away and stood all the way up, swaying slightly. "I'm not taking any more orders from you, Lady." "I never--" Arleah started to say. "This is all wrong," Arion said. "I have a really bad feeling about this and you are not any help at all. So stand aside." "Kurt, where are you going?" Walker asked. "Back." "Back where?" "Back south. I'm through with this foolishness." He started walking away. "Kurt Arion--" Arleah said. "No." Arion pointed a finger at Arleah. "You can't make me come with you. I told you, if I don't like what I feel, I'm gone. So here I go." He turned around, began walking back up the trail that led through the thick brush. "Kurt Arion," Walker said sharply, "If you keep walking, you're a coward." "A coward?" Arion said, laughing. He turned back around. "I'm the only one out of all of you who has any sense to keep alive! Go ahead, mighty swordsman. Go ahead, mighty magician. Go ahead like fools to your death." With that, he walked away through the forest. Walker started after him. "Let him go," Arleah said quietly. "It is his right." "According to what you told me, we need him to complete this quest," Walker said. "If it means my finding my family or my losing them, I'm not going to let that coward just walk away!" "He will be back," Arleah said. "How can you be so sure?" "It is the only way." With that, she would say no more on the subject. * * * After retracing the path, climbing back down the granite ledge, and finding the Northbound road again, Vinson, Arleah and Walker had lost all traces of Kurt Arion. Where the big chunk of granite had fallen onto the dwarf, Vinson could see the dark stain near the edges. He swallowed, looking away. He wished he'd never used that spell. Sherren was right; magic was nothing more than a dangerous fool's toy. The somber procession travelled in near silence through the dense forest, continuing until the sun dipped low and glowed with a deep red hue in the Western sky. When it grew too dark to coninue, the three set up camp, with Walker building a fire. There was still no sign of Arion. Troy Vinson lay awake late that night, gazing up into the stars. They were big and bright, densely clustered together. Every once in a while, one would shoot across the sky in a bright, blurring flash. Then it would disappear. He glanced aside at where Arleah slept, the reddish glow from their dying campfire sillhouetting her slender, delicate form in a ghostly haze. The metal pendant that hung from her neck was visible, the face with the sun and two crossed swords reflecting the firelight in a barely discernable glow. Vinson wondered what the symbol meant. * * * The next morning, Vinson woke to a painful jarring at his side. He opened his eyes, wincing at the bright sunlight that blurred his vision. The stink of smoke from their fire last night must have imbedded itself into his blanket and clothing, because that's all he could smell right now. Another painful jolt at his side forced Vinson to open his eyes all the way. Someone was kicking him in the ribs--hard. "Wake up, you stupid fool." Vinson knew that voice. He looked up, seeing the thin, wiry form of Kurt Arion. He was holding a half-eaten apple. "Knock it off, Kurt," Vinson said. He rolled over, shutting his eyes again. "I see you've come to your senses and returned." So Arleah had been right about that, too. "Get up, Troy." It was Walker's voice. Vinson sat up. He could really smell that campfire. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he saw Walker throwing his things into his shoulder pack while Kurt Arion watched. He knew that from the tenseness Walker displayed, something was wrong. "Where's Arleah?" Vinson asked sleepily. "Get your junk packed up," Arion said. "I'm not waiting on you, Troy." "When did you become part of our group again?" Vinson asked, standing to his feet. "The last I recall, I was a stupid magician going to my death." "Troy." Walker's voice was tense. Vinson looked up at him, and then he noticed it. To the South, just above the treetops, was a black haze. He took a deep breath of the air, and he knew. "I woke up to it this morning," Arion said. "A wildfire?" Vinson couldn't believe it. How had a fire started? "It's not a wildfire," Walker said. He slung his pack over his shoulder. "What are you talking about?" Vinson asked. Even as he looked, he could see a bright red glow against the trees. "It's not a wildfire," Walker said again. "It's a wall of fire, put simple," Arion said. "It's not even moving. Go up there on the granite ridge and have yourself a look if you want. . . it's a perfect barrier of flames." He shook his head. "Nobody from our side is going South, and nobody from Datly is coming North." "Why?" Vinson asked. "Who? I mean--" "Arleah said it was Muhl Dreik, of course," Arion said. "She doesn't know why." "Where is Arleah?" Vinson asked. He started rolling up his blanket. "She went to look for Kurt," Walker said. "When we woke up, and she saw the fire, I guess she got scared and went after him, or maybe she just went to see the fire, I'm not sure--she didn't make herself very clear. She wanted me to stay with you. Kurt just showed up." "I didn't see her," Arion said. His manner was nonchalant as he took a bite out of his apple. "Wanted you to stay with me?" Vinson asked. "What, are you crazy? What if she gets hurt?" "Troy," Walker said calmly, "I think she knows what's best. And I'm sure you know how it is when she makes up her mind." "This is ridiculous," Vinson said, throwing his blanket into his bag and fastening the leather straps. "She's out there alone in the middle of a forest fire and we're sitting around here talking?" "Oh, boy, give him a drink," Arion said. Vinson whirled on him. "You! If it weren't for you and your independent attitude, this would never have happened. By the gods, you make me sick!" "That's enough--" Walker said. Arion stood up rigidly, eyeing Vinson with a cool stare. "You'd better harness your tongue, Troy." "I'm not afraid of you," Vinson said. "So what? Neither is the moth of the flame." He laughed. "Why don't you go and rescue her, Troy? Be her hero." He shook his head, tossing the core of his apple to Vinson's feet. "You're nothing." Vinson leaped at Arion. He landed a blow to the thief's stomach, rocking him backwards. But Arion was so incredibly agile, he stepped aside and for one confusing moment, Vinson lost complete sight of him. Then, in a burst of white light, he felt something knock his jaw aside, and caught a glimpse of Arion moving back to strike him again. Then the big form of Eric Walker was there, moving between them and pushing them away from each other. "That's enough. You two are starting to remind me of children." Arion shoved Walker's arm away, glaring at Vinson. Suddenly, his face melted into a mocking smile. "She doesn't want you, Troy," he said. "You're nothing. Your magic is nothing. She doesn't care about you any more than this Muhl Dreik. You're just a tool for her, just like all of us. We're all pawns in this stupid game of the gods." "Kurt Arion." All three of them turned their head to the right, from where the familiar, soft voice had come. It was Arleah. Arion turned away, walking slowly over to where his pack lay against a tree. "Enough of this," she said. "We can't fight among ourselves. We must move on, and quickly. . ." she gestured in the direction of the hazy, red glow behind the tall trees, ". . .the fire is beginning to advance." * * * Zandorf gazed appalled at the fiery wall that burned rigidly and unmoving. The heat felt like it was searing his face, although he was well away from the wall of flames. The ridge on which he stood provided him with an excellent view of the phenomenon, which stretched to the West probably as far as the Great Sea, and to the East in another infinite, glowing line that became smaller and smaller in the distance until it was just a molten thread stretching across the peaks of the highlands. It was a perfect barrier. He was stopped. Then, even as he watched, the rigid lines of the wall began to widen. Waves of flame stretched out like greedy tongues, licking and consuming trees, bushes, grass, and anything else in its way. It was coming towards him. Zandorf's jaw tightened, and he turned away from the sight that seemed to mock him and his efforts. Slowly, with his back to the distant but approaching sea of death, he started back towards Datly. * * * As they hurried forward, covering ground in a very fast, but also very tiring pace, the smell of smoke and charred trees grew thicker, as did the number of small animals, like rabbits and squirrels. Everything was dashing north for cover. Looking back, Vinson saw a thick cloud of black smoke hanging lazily over the trees. The Northbound road led ahead through the forest, and then upwards, in a winding, precarious path up a large, sloping mountainside. As they climbed higher along the path, the trees became more sparse, the rocky ground allowing only clumps of weeds and small scrub brush to grow. It took tiring, frantic climbing to continue along the steep road, with the hot sun beating down mercilessly. When they had climbed a good deal of the ways up the slope, they could see the raging fire swarming over the forest below, smoke billowing upwards in dark, wispy clouds. The fire looked like a living ocean, glowing and seething over the blackening forest. It was a despairing sight. Taking no longer than a moment to rest, the four travellers continued up the slope and away from the fire. It took the entire day to reach the summit. By that time, most of the fire had oddly burned itself out, leaving only glowing ash and coal in it wake, although there were a few small patches of dancing flames spreading Eastward, and a small strip of fire still separating them from the South. The forest looked like an eerie hell with only the hot, glowing refuse, scattered flames, and charred blackness. It was a relief to turn away from the sight and continue down the opposite slope. On this side could be seen waving plains of yellow grasses and the silvery ribbon of the Turquoise River, alongside which the big city of Derrik sat. The sun--enormous, orangish, and low to the West--lit the winding road down the mountain dimly, creating long and confusing shadows from the scattered trees and bushes. The breeze floating by felt cool and refreshing on their damp, tired faces, but the smell of smoke still lingered in the air. The tired company reached the large city of Derrik later that night. The city was bustling with life even at such a late hour, with light glowing from tavern and inn windows, and lively music floating around the main streets. The sillhouettes of dancing people could be seen twirling around and round in the windows of the roadside inns. "Ah, the city," Arion said. "The life." "The noise," Walker said. "All I want to do is clean up and have a good night's rest." Apparently, there seemed to be no such thing as a calm inn in Derrik, so the four chose one that seemed less crowded than the rest, and went inside. The two double- doors that opened into the lively taproom looked new in comparison to the rest of the structure, and it was freshly painted. Vinson noticed splinterings of wood and some loose nails lying beside the road as they went inside. The taproom was uproarious. To the left was a raised platform on which five men in faded clothes either stood or sat, each with a musical instrument, and they were going full swing. It was hard to see anything to the right because of the dancing and frolicking of the customers, but Vinson noticed tables and chairs along the wall. Straight ahead, the bar was crowded with people of all sorts, all laughing and drinking and shouting. The noise was incredible. Walker took the lead through the crowd to the bar, where a young, skinny man was handing out several mugs of ale and wine. "This is really great," Arion said,. "I could definitely live here." The towering form of Eric Walker got the young barkeeper's attention quickly. "Can we have some rooms?" He asked. He had to shout to make himself heard. "Rooms?" The young man asked, wincing over the noise. "Yes. How big are they?" The man shrugged. "Each has a cot." "So you mean one person." "I guess." "Alright, give us four." "Huh? Four?" Walker's jaw tightened. "Yes. As far from this and quiet as possible." The young man laughed. "Friend, if you want quiet, you can sleep in one of the outhouses in back. Around here, we make noise." "Alright, alright," Walker said. "How much for four rooms?" "Uh. . . I'll sleep you in four rooms for forty crescents." "Alright, fine--" "Thirty," Arion broke in. "Forty is ridiculous." "Thirty-five," the young man said, looking annoyed. He flicked the long hair from his face with a jerk of his head. "Thirty-five is fine," Walker said. "Your rooms are down the hall to your left," the man said. He smiled as he accepted their money. "Have a nice night, and remember to lock your doors." * * * Kurt Arion found a small, stringy-looking cot in his room that didn't seem like it would be very comfortable, a small wooden table with a small oil lamp sitting on it, a small chair under a small window, and a tiny wash basin in the corner. There was a dirty-looking slice of lye soap and a few unraveling washcloths next to the basin. Arion sighed, dropping his shoulder pack and collapsing into the chair. As he did, the nagging feeling of someone watching him bored into his back, and he turned around. Behind the little window was a black cat sitting atop the ledge, staring at him with disturbingly intelligent eyes. When Arion saw it, the cat jumped away. He really had been intent on returning South. Especially after that incident in the Aries Mountains with the dwarf. He didn't like the way he had allowed himself to be taken down so easily--with a mere poison-tipped dart! A tactic he should have been expecting, and should have avoided. Inside, he felt that he was letting himself get too carried away with this woman's fish story, with her little Northward quest. Or was it all true? He hated to admit it, but things were starting to work out as though Arleah might actually have been speaking some truth. The red serpents on the dwarves' vests, like the serpent in his dream. The dreams themselves. The odd situation at Datly, which seemed to correspond to Walker's tale. And, most importantly, Arleah. When she looked at him, he knew. . .when her eyes searched through his mind, eyes that he had at first thought to be mere physical beauty, so much like the rest of her, they now made him feel uneasy. What did she know? What was her secret? After leaving the group in the mountains and moving back southward, it wasn't the wall of flames that had stopped him. No, he was stopped far before that. It was the crow, the crow in the trees. Even now, he wasn't sure what it had been about that big, ugly black bird that had made him stop moving southward, but it did. He saw the crow, and suddenly, he just didn't want to go any farther. Just like that. He wasn't really as surprised about this as one might think, because he sometimes did that--look at something abstract and have a complete change of mind. He never wondered why it happened anymore, he just accepted it- -just like everything else. * * * The next morning, the taproom looked much different than it had the night before. The platform where the musicians had been playing was pulled away, the floor where the people had been dancing was hidden under tables and chairs, and it was much quieter and far less crowded. Upon requesting breakfast, the four travellers were given wooden bowls of some type of stew. Vinson decided it tasted alright, although he couldn't quite figure out what kind of meat was in it. "So what now?" Arion asked. "I think we need to stay here another day," Arleah said. "We need the rest." "Good idea," Arion said. "I think I'm going to take a brisk. . . profitable walk today." He smirked. "We will be travelling through the Taurus Desert to reach Galgoth," Arleah said. "I think we should get a work animal of some kind to carry water. It will help a great deal." Walker finished his stew, pushing the bowl away. The spoon he set down looked tiny in his big hand. "How far away is Galgoth?" he asked. "No more than a day away," Arleah said. "It's very close." "Galgoth?" The voice came from behind Vinson. It was a deep, almost melodic voice. The four travellers all turned at once to find who it was that had spoken. It was a man of about Vinson's height. He was extraordinarily handsome, with finely chiseled, almost too- perfect features and a broad, warm smile. His coal black hair was long and pushed back like Walker's, and his eyes were as green as Arleah's. The cloaks and tunics he wore were elaborate and expensive-looking, and around his left wrist were three or four golden chains. Vinson recognized the wooden pole he carried as a quarterstaff.. The man beamed his disarming, carefree smile as he walked over to their table, resting one hand on an empty chair. "Sorry to interrupt your meals," he said, "but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. Did I hear you were looking for work animals?" "Yes," Arleah said. "Mules?" "A mule would certainly be acceptable," Arleah said. "Do you have one for sale?" The man pulled out the empty chair from under the table next to theirs and set his quarterstaff up against the table. "May I join you?" he asked. "Of course," Walker said. The man sat down heavily, pulling up between Arleah and Arion. "My name's Tallander Venice. People around here call me Tal." Kurt Arion thought that his eyes were strangely familiar, as if he'd seen them not too long ago. He couldn't quite read them; it wasn't like Arleah, whose eyes appeared to be shielded, but it was more like they were--too complex. There was too much there, moving too quickly. It made an eerie shiver run up and down his spine, and it bothered him that he couldn't explain why. "Pleased to meet you, Tal. I'm Eric Walker." "Arleah." "Troy." Arion pushed his empty bowl away, making an effort to smile pleasantly at Tal, although he didn't say anything. He felt suddenly hostile to this mysterious stranger. Tal smiled. "The pleasure is mine, I'm sure. I just so happen to have two mules in my possession that would be indispensible for travelling, especially to--" "How much?" Arion asked. Tal chuckled, rubbing his hands together. "What would you say if I were to let you use these mules for only fifteen silver crescents?" "Fifteen?" Walker said. "That's outstanding." Arion didn't appear surprised. "What's the catch?" he asked. Tal smiled. "Well, actually, there is a small catch. But I don't think it'll be of much consequence. You see, I'm travelling North to Galgoth myself tomorrow morning, and I could use the company." "You want to share the mules," Arion said. "Sure. I wouldn't mind the extra money, and you'd save yourself over fifty crescents by borrowing instead of buying a mule for yourself. What do you say?" "No way," Arion said. He looked fiercely at Arleah. "No, Arleah." Arleah looked at him questioningly. "Why not, Kurt Arion?" "It sounds like a good idea to me," Walker said. Tal smiled. "Isn't this a little. . . restrictive. . . to take in outsiders like this?" Arion asked. "It's nothing personal. . . Tal, but we're about our own business here." Tal nodded. "As am I. No need to worry; I have no interests in your business, as long as you share the same respect for me. I think we can work out a good travelling arrangement together." "Sure," Walker said. "I've heard that one before," Arion said. "I don't think so, Tal." "I don't see a problem," Arleah said. Arion glared at her. "It's your call, then, Lady," he said. "I feel this is a bad idea." "What do you say, Troy?" Walker said. Vinson rubbed is chin, glancing at Kurt Arion. "I say we go with Tal," he said. Arion pushed his chair out from the table, and stood up. "If you'll excuse me," he said bitterly, and then he left. Arleah sighed as she watched him disappear out the inn doors. "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea," Tal said. "It doesn't matter, really. I'm sure someone else--" "No," Walker said. "It's alright. Arion has his doubts, and rightly so, but we could use the break." "Yes," Arleah said. "We can." Tal shrugged, smiling broadly again. "Well, I'll be here at the inn until tomorrow morning. I'll be ready to leave at sunrise." The day was spent by Arleah, Vinson, and Walker searching through the city for more clothes, better shoulder bags, water skins, and rations. There were several other odd trinkets the merchants had displayed outside their shops. Vinson chuckled to himself as he passed the magic shop and booths, where peddlers were trying to sell "wands" and "potions" and other foolish nonsense. One even had what he called a magic book, which, he promised, would allow you to concoct a potion for anything you desired. They didn't see Kurt Arion, or even the man named Tal that they had met that morning, but the streets were so numerous and crowded, usually flanked on both sides by so many shops that it wasn't surprising. After supper at the inn, which consisted of roast mutton and the same stew from breakfast, the crowds began getting riled up again. The platform was set up and another group of musicians piled onto it, most of them drunk. Arion had still not been seen, and Walker had retired to his room immediately after dinner. "I think I'm going to go to bed," Arleah said, after the room had become the same noisy uproar it had been the night before. Vinson looked at her in mock surprise. "What? You mean to tell me you're going to miss out on all this fun?" Arleah smiled. "I suppose I'll deprive myself." "Alright. I'm going to stick around a little longer-- maybe I'll even see Arion." Arleah shook her head. "Don't worry about him. He'll be back." "I'll take your word for it." She bid him goodnight and left through the clutter of tables and people. Vinson watched her go. One of the musicians had collapsed, and they were carrying him off the platform without missing a beat. Someone shoved him from behind, and Vinson turned to see a group of people dancing and laughing. He also saw a figure he recognized as Tal standing beside the far wall, talking to three or four other men dressed in black cloaks. The cloaks looked exactly like Tal's. Vinson and the others hadn't seen him since that morning, when the smiling, carefree man had first introduced himself. He was pointing down the corridor Arleah had left only moments ago. "Hey there," came a voice beside him. He looked over to see a bearded, heavyset man sitting down. His back was loaded with an enormous travelling bag, his face sweaty and covered with black soot. "Can you spare some silver?" "Sure. Just a moment." Vinson watched as one of the men Tal was talking to shook his head angrily, and stormed out of the inn. "Do I know you?" the old man asked. "You're Phillipe, aren't you? From Davensport?" "No. That's someone else." Vinson reached into his pouch and pulled out a few crescents. "I'd normally never do this," the man said, "ask for money and all, but I was caught in some bizarre forest fire in the mountains. I lost all my money when I was running." Tal was nodding to the cloaked men. The men said something final and then departed out of the inn as well. Tal ran a hand through his hair, looked around a few moments, then disappeared into the corridor Arleah had left through. "Here," Vinson said, slipping the money to him. "Excuse me, please." "My thanks," the man said. "maybe we'll see each other again?" "Maybe," Vinson said. Something about the way Tal had left made him nervous. He pushed his way through the crowds and toward the corridor. * * * Arleah set the clothes she had bought gently into her shoulder bag. She also put in her extra water skins and a little tinder box. When she did, she caught sight of the rose Troy Vinson had given her, and pulled it out. It was dried and crumpled, but still held a red blush. There was a knock at her door. "Just a moment." She set her bag onto the floor next to her cot, and went over to the door. "Who is it?" "It's me." Arleah sighed, leaning against the door and closing her eyes. She knew this moment had to come sooner or later. Licking her lips nervously, while telling herself at the same time that she really wasn't nervous, Arleah lifted her hand to pull the latch from the door, but paused. "Yoo-hoo. Are you going to let me in?" She considered answering "no," just to see what he'd say, but finally pulled the latch from the door, and opened it. Tal was there. He came inside, shutting the door behind him and latching it again. Arleah walked back over to her bag. "You don't look like yourself," Tal said, grinning. "I'm not." She lifted the bag back onto the table. "It's the humans, isn't it?" Tal asked. "You can't take it, can you?" Arleah turned around and glared at him. "There's more to these humans than you think, Tal. A lot more." Tal frowned. "What are you now, some kind of expert?" "You wouldn't understand." "Oh, really?" "Yes, really. Do you know the things I am feeling? I feel things now that I would never have dreamed. It's beautiful." Tal laughed. "I know what it is," he said. "It's that human. . . Troy, Troy Vinson. Isn't it?" "I don't know what you're talking about." She fastened her bag tightly. "I know. I see the way you look at him. I see the way he looks at you." "Tal." Arleah turned around, eyeing him coolly. "I have been sent here on a mission. I am performing my duty as it has been given to me and nothing more. Is that clear to you?" Tal folded his arms. "I don't like your tone of voice." "Is that so?" Arleah said. "Look," Tal said. "My purpose, as was planned, was to keep you informed. And to watch your back, of course. Now do you want to hear what I have to say?" "You know as well as I that I never agreed to this arrangement." Tal laughed dryly, shaking his head. "You just think you know eveything, don't you?" "I've known what you're all about from the start," Arleah said. "All you care about is power, power, power. You don't care about the cause, about the purpose of this mission. You simply enjoy toying with me. And especially now, because you know that I am extremely vulnerable." Tal's eyes were cold. He took a few steps towards her. "You don't know anything," he said, in a voice that was so startlingly harsh that Arleah drew back. "You know nothing about me, nothing at all. If you did, you would cry out and fall to your. . ." he stopped suddenly, the disarming smile returning to his face. "You really don't know anything about me, little one." "That's irrelevant. We have our duties." "Nothing's irrelevant." His eyes fell on the rose. "What's that?" "What?" "What is that?" Tal stalked over to the table. "Just a flower." Arleah tried to get it, but Tal snatched it up before she could. "Well," Tal said, "you really are turning human, aren't you?" "Give that back, Tal." "You're very stubborn, Arleah. You've always been stubborn. I want to hear you say that you are turning into one of those humans." "Tal. Give me that." "Hah! I knew you couldn't do it." Arleah glared at him. "I hate you, Tal." She spun back to her bag, pretending she had more things to pack. "Hate?" Tal said, looking astonished. He whistled. "Doest mine ears deceive me? How does that feel, Arleah?" He twisted the dying bud of the rose between his thumb and forefinger, watching it crumble. "I have nothing more to say to you," Arleah said. "You know, I'm not too comfortable with the way things have turned out. I think you're getting too involved." "I'm doing what I have to. This isn't easy, Tal." "Nobody said--" Tal was interrupted with a knock at the door. "Arleah?" It was Vinson's voice. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The Publisher hopes you have enjoyed this sample edition of THE EYE OF THE DRAGON THE EYE OF THE DRAGON continues in Part II. Send check or money oder for $5.95 ppd. to Cedar Bay Press L.L.C. for the complete novel (part I and II) in our MS-Windows compatible reader: Cedar Bay Press, L.L.C. P.O. 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Artist & Author Showcase -- Creative Works Gallery. NW Literary Consortium -- Literary & Technical Services. Resource Center -- Reference, Research, Resources & More. Our e-mail address is editor@cedarbay.com About Cedar Bay Press, L.L.C. . . . Cedar Bay Press, a Limited Liability Company, is a leader in digital and multimedia publishing (books, audio, video, digital, etc.). Averages 50 titles per year. 50% from first-time artists and authors. "We are a small and growing independent publisher and producer working on behalf of artists and authors to publish, package, market, and merchandise their work." How To Reach Cedar Bay Press Postal address: Cedar Bay Press, P.O. Box 751, Beaverton OR 97075-0751 Our e-mail address: editor@cedarbay.com Our ISBN Publisher Prefix is: 1-57555. HOW-TO BECOME A SUCCESSFUL WRITER You have the essential talents of becoming a good author. While the quality of your material may not match the readership a publisher caters to, you don't have to become discouraged. Keep writing. Take advantage of those who can offer the services you need: The Northwest Literary Consortium represents a group of freelance literary and publishing professionals providing a variety of services. OUR CLIENTS GET PUBLISHED Is your manuscript _really_ ready to submit? Let our professional editors and agents help you edit and polish it before you submit it for publication. Complete professional creative/editorial services; editing, revising, ghosting; manuscript evaluations, critiques by noted authors, editors, agents, and publishers. Affordable and fast! Detailed comments and suggestions for your fiction/non-fiction manuscripts. $2.00 per page (1" margins, double spaced, and minimum 10-point type) plus SASE for return of your edited manuscript. Send complete manuscript (any size) plus SASE for return of mss and report to: NW Literary Consortium, Editing Services, c/o PO Box 751 Beaverton, OR 97075-0751 WHAT DOES THE READER SEE IN YOUR STORY? Characters: Do your characters come to life? Plot: Does your premise develop a story? Dialogue: Do your characters tell the story? Scenery: Are your scenes well-structured? Viewpoint: Do you have the right viewpoint for your story? Construction: Do you know what makes an unsalable manuscript? Professional critique service reads your manuscript and provides detailed report. $1.75 per page. Send complete manuscript (any size) plus SASE for return of mss and report to: NW Literary Consortium, Critique Services, c/o PO Box 751 Beaverton, OR 97075-0751 THE WRITE STUFF We type manuscripts! 20+ years experience. Fast, accurate, confidential. Free five-year file back-up storage. 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