Fire Sea

by Margaret Weis

  Joram agreed reluctantly. Surely Garald knew what was right. / can afford honor, the Prince had once told him. You cannot.

  DARKSWORD ADVENTURES

  Many role-playing gamers know the value of a good sourcebook, but Darksword Adventures offers something for the just plain enthusiast as well. In these pages is nearly everything a reader could want to know about the world of the Darksword.

  Welcome to the magical realm of Thimhallan.

  We know many of you already. You are “gamers” who have visited other worlds of sword and sorcery with us before, and we're pleased that you have decided to join us again.

  There are, however, many of you interested in Thimhallan who have never participated in role-playing games. Perhaps you thought they were too difficult or complicated to learn. Perhaps you were intimidated by massive, expensive volumes of rules filled with incomprehensible numbers and strange abbreviations.

  We want you to join us in the fun and excitement we experience visiting Thimhallan in our imaginations. Therefore we are pleased to present a complete role-playing game and source book in an affordable, entertaining format. Everything you need to play is included in this one volume—game rules, statistics, character and monster descriptions, suggested scenarios—presented in the form of interesting and revealing reports on Thimhallan compiled by the Duuk-tsarith to be given to Major James Boris. We have devised a very simple system for role-playing that you can learn easily.

  There may be those of you who are not interested in role-playing but would simply like to have more information about the world and its people. You will find all that in this volume, without being distracted by a lot of rules. Included are a History of the World, a description of Thimhallan written by a young man who survived many wild adventures in the various parts of the realm, descriptions of the wondrous creatures that inhabit Thimhallan, information on the major and minor characters, and more.

  Whether you journey by yourself or in the company of friends, we hope you enjoy your visit to the magical realm of Thimhallan. May your trip be an adventurous one!

  Tracy Raye Hickman

  Margaret Weis

  THE ROSE OF THE PROPHET

  The outrageously funny trilogy (with dark secrets) about the twenty gods who ruled the universe—until one of them upset the balance of power. Now everyone is scrambling for control, not the least of which are the humans and their djinn.

  The Will of the Wanderer, Volume I

  The god Quar had hoped to upset the balance completely before any of the others had realized they'd been stripped of their powers, but someone always notices …

  The scent of roses hung heavily in the air. A nightingale trilled unseen in the fragrant shadows. Cool water fell from the marble hands of a delicate maiden, spilling into a large conch shell at her feet. The multicolored tiles, laid out in fantastic mosaics, sparkled like jewels in the twilight. But Quar took pleasure in none of this beauty. The God sat upon the tiled rim of a fountain's basin, absently tearing apart a gardenia, moodily tossing the waxy, white petals into the rippling water.

  The luck of Sul, that's what it was. The luck of Sul, which was no luck at all. The luck of Sul had taken those damned and blasted priests of Promenthas's into the way of a few dozen of Quar's faithful. At least he assumed they had been his faithful. The God had not realized his followers had grown quite that fanatical. Now Promenthas was angry and not only angry, suspicious as well. Quar was not prepared for this. He had intended to deal with Promenthas, of course, but further— much further—down the long and twisting road of his scheming.

  And there was Akhran to consider. He would act swiftly to take advantage of the incident. The Wandering God was undoubtedly persuading Promenthas to some sort of action. Not that Promenthas could do much. His followers had all died on the swords of the righteous. Hadn't they? Quar made a mental note to check. But now that Promenthas was alerted, he would be watchful, wary. Quar would have to move faster than he'd anticipated.

  Akhran the Meddler. He was the scorpion in Quar's bed sheets, the qarakurt in Quar's boot. Just days ago Quar had received a report that two tribes of Akhran's followers had banded together in the Pagrah desert. Relatively few in number compared to Quar's mighty armies, these nomads were more of a nuisance than a

  direct threat. But Quar had no time for nuisances right now.

  The one factor on which Quar had counted in his design to overthrow Akhran was the constant feuding and strife among the Wandering God's followers. The old axiom: divide and conquer. Who would have imagined that this Wandering God, who seemingly cared for nothing except his horse, would have been observant enough to detect Quar's plotting and move swiftly to forestall it?

  “It was my fault. I concentrated on the other Gods of Sardish Jardan. I saw them as the threat. Now Mimrim of the Ravenchai, feeling herself weakening, hides on her cloud-covered mountain. Uevin of the Bas takes refuge behind his politics and siege machines, never realizing that his foundation is being undermined and soon he will fall through the cracks. But you, Horse God. I underestimated you. In looking west and south, I turned my back upon the east. It will not happen again.”

  The vase, once broken, cannot be mended with tears, Quar reminded himself severely. You have realized your mistake, now you must act to remedy it. There is only one way Akhran could have united his feuding tribes—through the intervention of his immortals. There were reports of Akhran's ‘efreets whipping up fearsome desert storms. Apparently the unleashing of the mighty power of the djinn was enough to frighten those thick-headed nomads—

  Quar paused, absently crushing the last blossoms of the ravaged gardenia in his hand.

  The djinn. Why, that was his answer.

  The Paladin of the Night, Volume II

  Once the gods bring their war to earth, it's only a matter of time before prisoners are taken. Among these is a young prince with no future, but even he has choices.

  We do not beat the whipped dog…. Are you going to lie down on your master's grave and die?

  Crouched in his dark cell, Achmed repeated the Amir's words to himself. It was true. Everything the Amir said was true!

  “How long have I been in prison? Two weeks? Two months?” Despairing, Achmed shook his head. “Is it morning or night?” He had no idea. “Have I been fed today, or was that yesterday's meal I remember eating? I no longer hear the screams. I no longer smell the stench!”

  Achmed clutched at his head, cowering in fear. He recalled hearing of a punishment that deprived a man of his five senses. First the hands were cut off, to take away the sense of touch. Then the eyes were gouged out, the tongue ripped from the mouth, the nose cut off, the ears torn from the head. This place was his executioner! The death he was dying was more ghastly than any torture. Misery screamed at him, but he had lost the ears to hear it. He had long ago ceased being bothered by the prison smell, and now he knew it was because the foul stench was his own. In horror, he realized he was growing to relish the guards’ beatings. The pain made him feel alive….

  Panic-stricken, Achmed leaped to his feet and hurled himself at the wooden door, beating it with his fists and

  pleading to be let out. The only response was a shouted curse from another cell, the debtor having been rudely awakened from a nap. No guards came. They were used to such disturbances. Sliding down the doorway, Achmed slumped to the floor. In his half-crazed state, he fell into a stupor.

  He saw himself lying on a shallow, unmarked grave, hastily dug in the sand. A terrible wind came up, blowing the sand away, threatening to expose the body. A wave of revulsion and fear swept over Achmed. He couldn't bear to see the corpse, decaying, rotting. Desperately, he shoveled the sand back over the body, scooping it up in handfuls and tossing it onto the grave. But every time he lifted a handful, the wind caught it and blew it back into his face, stinging his eyes, choking him. He kept working frantically, but the wind was relentless. Slowly, the face of the corpse emerged—a man's face, the withered flesh covered by a woma
n's silken veil….

  The scraping sound of the wooden bar being lifted from the door jolted Achmed out of his dream. The shuffling footsteps of prisoners being herded outside and the distant cries of women and children told the young man that it was visiting time.

  Slowly Achmed rose to his feet, his decision made.

  The Prophet of Akhran, Volume III

  When the final battle comes, it is up to the most unlikely of people to set things in motion—a woman, who prefers to dress in men's clothing … and a man who must wear a woman's.

  The following dawn the sun's first rays skimmed across the desert, crept through the holes in Majiid's tent, bringing silence with them. The arguing ceased. Zohra and Mathew glanced at each other. Her eyes were shadowed and red-rimmed from lack of sleep and the concentration she had devoted to her work. Mathew knew his must look the same or perhaps worse.

  The silence of the morning was suddenly broken by the sound of feet crunching over sand. They heard the guards outside scramble to their feet, the sound of footsteps draw nearer. Both Mathew and Zohra were ready, each had been ready for over an hour now, ever since first light. Zohra was clad in the women's clothes Mathew had brought her. They were not the fine silk she was accustomed to wearing, only a simple chador of white cotton that had been worn by the second wife in a poor man's household. Its simplicity became her, enhancing the newfound gravity of bearing. A plain white mantle covered her head and face, shoulders and hands. Held tightly in her hands, hidden by the folds of her veil, were several pieces of carefully rolled-up goatskin.

  Mathew was dressed in the black robes he had acquired in Castle Zhakrin. Since he was able to come and go freely, he had left the tent in the middle of the night and searched the camp in the moonlit darkness until he found the camels they had ridden. Their baggage had been removed from the beasts, thrown down, and left to lie in the sand as though cursed. Mathew could have wished the robes—retrieved by Auda from their campsite on the shores of the Kurdin Sea—cleaner and less worse for wear, but he hoped that even stained and wrinkled they must still look impressive to these people who had never seen sorcerer's garb before.

  Stealing back to the tent once he had changed his

  clothes, Mathew noted the figure of the Black Paladin sitting unmoving before Khardan's tent. The slender white hand, shining in the moonlight as if it had some kind of light of its own, beckoned to him. Mathew hesitated, casting a worried glance at the watchful guards. Auda beckoned again, more insistently, and Mathew reluctantly approached him.

  “Do not worry, Blossom,” the man said easily, “they will not prevent us from speaking. After all, I am a guest and you are insane.”

  “What do you want?” Mathew whispered, squirming beneath the scrutiny of the flat, dispassionate eyes.

  Auda's hand caught hold of the hem of Mathew's black robes, rubbing the velvet between his fingers. “You are planning something.”

  “Yes,” said Mathew uncomfortably, with another glance at the guards.

  “That is good, Blossom,” said Auda softly, slowly twisting the black cloth. “You are an ingenious and resourceful young man. Your life was obviously spared for a purpose. I will be watching and waiting. You may count upon me.”

  He released the cloth from his grasp, smiled, and settled back comfortably. Mathew left, returning to Zohra's tent, uncertain whether to feel relieved or more worried.

  THE DEATH GATE CYCLE

  Known for their innovation, Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman reach an entirely new level with The Death Gate Cycle. For this seven-book extravaganza they have developed four completely realized worlds. In the first four novels, a new adventure with both continuing and new characters will be set on each of the four worlds. In later volumes, the realms begin to interact, with the supreme battle for control of all the worlds in the final novel.

  Dragon Wing, Volume 1

  Generations ago, magicians sundered the world into four distinct realms. Now, few even know of the other worlds. Haplo has been sent through the treacherous Death Gate to explore the realms and stir up dissension. The first visit is to Arianus, a world where islands float in the sky and men travel by enchanted dragonships.

  Elven Star, Volume 2

  Haplo's second journey takes him to the jungle world of Pry an. Here the three races of men, elves, and dwarves seem to have already completed Haplo's task of causing unrest—not even the threat of annihilation can bring these peoples together.

  Fire Sea, Volume 3

  The story takes a truly dark turn, as the enemies Haplo and Alfred are forced to travel together for their first visit to the world of Abarrach. Here, these powerful magicians discover that the barren Realm of Stone is also the land of the dead.

  Serpent Mage, Volume 4

  In the world of Chelestra, realm of water, Haplo the Patryn discovers the seas counteract all magic—and leave him nearly powerless against a new threat.

  The Hand of Chaos, Volume 5

  The Lord of the Nexus has ordered Haplo and the human child known as Bane to the world of

  Arianus, realm of air. Now Haplo must decide whether to obey his master or betray the powerful Patryn.

  Into the Labyrinth, Volume 6

  Xar, Lord of the Nexus, has learned of the existence of a Seventh Gate, which grants the power to create worlds—or destroy them. Only Haplo knows its location, and so he must seek sanctuary in the Labyrinth, a prison maze whose inhabitants are condemned to death.

  The Seventh Gate, Volume 7

  The titanic Death Gate saga concludes as Haplo must enter the deadly Seventh Gate, with the fate of the sundered realms in the balance. This scene sets the situation.

  Vasu stood on the wall above the gates of the city of Abri, stood silent and thoughtful as the gates boomed shut beneath his feet. It was dawn, which meant, in the Labyrinth, nothing more than a graying of night's black. But this dawn was different than most. It was more glorious than most … and more terrifying. It was brightened by hope, darkened by fear.

  It was a dawn which saw the city of Abri, in the very center of the Labyrinth, still standing, victorious, after a terrible battle with its most implacable enemies.

  It was a dawn smudged with the smoke of funeral pyres; a dawn in which the living could draw a tremulous breath and dare to hope life might be better.

  It was a dawn lit by a lurid red glow on the far distant horizon, a red glow that was brightening, strengthening. Those Patryns who guarded the city walls turned their eyes to that strange and unnatural glow, shook their heads, spoke of it in low and ominous tones.

  “It bodes nothing good,” they said grimly.

  Who could, blame them for their dark outlook? Not Vasu. Certainly not Vasu, who knew what was transpiring. He would have to tell them soon, destroy the joy of this dawning.

  “That glow is the fire of battle,” he would have to say to his people. “A battle raging for control of the Final Gate. The dragon-snakes who attacked us were not defeated, as you thought. Yes, we killed four of them. But for every four that die, eight are born. Now they are attacking the Final Gate, seeking to shut it, seeking to trap us all in this dread prison.

  “Our brothers, those who live in the Nexus and those near the Final Gate, are fighting this evil—so we have reason to believe. But they are few in number and the evil is vast and powerful.

  “We are too far away to come to their aid. Too far. By the time we reached them—if we ever did

  reach them, alive—it would be too late. It may already be too late.

  “And when the Final Gate is shut, the evil in the Labyrinth will grow strong. Our fear and our hatred will grow stronger to match and the evil will feed off that fear and that hatred and grow stronger still.”

  It is hopeless, Vasu told himself, and so he must tell the people. Logic, reason said to him it was hopeless. Yet why, standing on the wall, staring at that red glow in the sky, did he feel hopeful?

  It made no sense. He sighed and shook his head.

  A h
and touched his arm.

  “Look, Headman. They have made it safely to the river.”

  One of the Patryns, standing beside Vasu, had obviously mistaken his sigh, thought it indicated fear for the two who had left the city in the dark hour before the dawn. They were embarking on a dangerous and probably futile search for the green and golden dragon who had fought for them in the skies above Abri. The green and golden dragon was the Serpent Mage, who was also the bumbling Sartan with the mensch name, Alfred.

  Certainly Vasu was afraid for them, but he was also hopeful for them. That same illogical, irrational hope.

  Vasu was not a man of action. He was a man of thought, of imagination. He had only to look at his soft and pudgy Sartan body, tattooed with Patryn runes, to know that. He must give thought

  to what his people should do next. He should make plans, he should decide how they must prepare for the inevitable. He should tell them the truth, give his speech of despair.

  But he didn't do any of that. He stood on the walls, watching the mensch known as Hugh the Hand and the Patryn woman Marit.

  He told himself he would never see them again. They were venturing out into the Labyrinth, dangerous at any time but doubly dangerous now that their defeated enemies skulked about in anger and waited for revenge. The two were going on a foolhardy and hopeless mission. He would never see them again, nor Alfred, the Serpent Mage, the green and golden dragon, for whom they searched.