The War of the Lance t2-3

by Margaret Weis

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

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

  "What can we do?" the first demanded.

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

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

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

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

  They lunged for the bottle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The Hand That Feeds

  Richard A. Knaak

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

  Wet, dead dog.

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

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

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

  Not until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  His opinion had been ignored by both crew and passengers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Yes, Captain Kruug?"

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

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

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

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