Realms of Valor

Contents

Douglas Niles………………….The Lord of Lowhill

Ed Greenwood………………….Elminster at the Magefair

Christie Golden…………………One Last Drink

Elaine Cunningham…………..The Bargain

David Cook……………………….Patronage

Scott Ciencin…………………….A Virtue by Reflection

Mark Anthony………………….King’s Tear

James Lowder…………………..The Family Business

Jean Rabe…………………………Grandfather’s Toys

Troy Denning…………………. The Curse of Tegea

R.A. Salvatore…………………..Dark Mirror

Jeff Grubb………………………..Afterword

Pawldo emerged from his burrow to bask in the air of a rare summer morn: not too hot, neither windy nor cloudy, with just a kiss of warm breeze to carry the scent of ripening grapes and lush, well-watered pastures. A mile away, the waters of Corwell Firth gleamed in the sunlight, the barely rippled surface casting a million diamond-spots of reflection between encircling arms of verdant land.

The stout halfling stood before his sturdy, whitewashed wooden dwelling. In typical halfling fashion, it was buried halfway into a grassy hillside, but the burrow was unquestionably the largest house in Lowhill The air of affluence extended to the occupant of the burrow as well.

Pawldo's long hair, slightly gray, curled below his ears and just touched the edge of his elegant silken collar Even this early in the day he wore well tailored, expensive clothing Any observer would know immediately that he was a halfling who knew the finer things in life.

Below and beyond a stretch of lush pastureland, nestled against its sheltered harbor, Corwell Town awakened to the businesslike bustle of the Ffolk going about their human activities. The curraghs of fishers already bobbed beyond the breakwater, while the clanging of hammer and tongs told of an early-rising blacksmith tending his forge. Carts of fresh produce and milk, some drawn by small ponies and others by long-legged, shaggy hounds, rumbled into Corwell through its open gates.

High on the knoll overlooking the town, Pawldo saw the squat form of Caer Corwell, the wooden-walled fort that served as home to Earl Randolph and, for those weeks when Tristan and Robyn visited, as the summer quarters of the high king and queen themselves. He thought of his good friends with a flash of pleasant anticipation, remembering that in a little less than a fortnight the royal family would return to Corwell for their summer holiday.

Finally the stocky halfling's eyes drifted closer to home, to the cozy warren of cottages and burrows built around this small, rounded hill. Barely a mile removed from Corwell Town, Lowhill provided a pastoral setting for the little halfling community of which Pawldo served as honorary lord mayor.

Nearby bloomed the lush vineyards, and to these fertile hedges Pawldo now sauntered, inspecting with pleasure the clumps of unripened grapes growing plump and sweet in the sun. To his bare feet, covered on the tops with a coat of silky hair, the grass felt softly cool and inviting. Pleasantly reminded of the many good wines he'd sampled from these very vines, he settled himself to a comfortable seat on a patch of shady grass.

I'll have to cart a load of last year's vintage over to Kings-bay, Pawldo reflected. The prospect of that trip interested him, in a lackadaisical sort of way. He wouldn't go today or tomorrow, and probably not the day after that either, but it was something to think about. In fact, he remembered a cute little barmaid there, a cherubic-faced halfling wench with whom he could certainly strike a profitable deal.

Indeed, if she remained as friendly as he remembered, he would be strongly tempted to wile away a few days in that pleasant fishing town.

Not too long, he reminded himself, since the king and queen will arrive in Corwell for the Midsummer holiday, and I'll have to be home by then. After all, this was not just any summer holiday-this marked the tenth year of Tristan's reign and the tenth year of his marriage to Robyn. All in all, the occasion called for some kind of appropriate acknowledgment.

At this thought, the halfling's round-cheeked face darkened in a momentary scowl. He wanted to give them a wondrous gift, something appropriate to the grand occasion. Yet, whatever his gift to the royal couple would be, Pawldo doubted that he could find something sufficiently unique or fabulous in either Corwell or Kingsbay. What to do? This question had nagged at him, off and on, for the last several weeks, yet the stout halfling had not let his lack of solutions cause him undue distress. Sooner or later something would come up.

Of course, he could have sailed for the Sword Coast when he first faced the problem. He would be on his way back by now with some fabulous and rare token of his friendship and respect. Yet such decisive action was not the halfling way, and now, of course, he didn't have enough time to make the trip and still return for the festival. Mildly irritated-with the calendar, not himself-Pawldo shook away the concern and continued his inspection of his eyelids.

"Lord Mayor! Mayor Pawldo!"

The high voice came to his ears from beyond the hedges-a young halfling, male by the sound of it.

"Over here!" Pawldo replied, sitting up with a grunt of annoyance. He climbed to his feet slowly, aware that he no longer moved as nimbly as he had a decade or so before. Peering over the nearby hedge, he looked to see who had disturbed his meditations.

A red-haired halfling skidded to a stop before Pawldo and hastily doffed his cap. Cheeks glowing from exertion, shoulders bouncing as he struggled to regain his breath, the stranger could only pant for a moment as the lord mayor looked him over. The young halfling was a Hairfoot, not quite an adult, dressed in plain country garb and carrying a satchel over his shoulder. The newcomer smiled in a hopeful sort of way, wiping the sweat from his brow with his free hand. True to the Hairfoot tradition, he wore no shoes.

"What is it?" Pawldo inquired, suspecting that his quiet morning would remain so no longer. In spite of himself Pawldo felt a measure of curiosity.

"Cafwort the barrelmaker… told me that… I'd find you here," said the younger halfling, still panting.

"As you did. And who might you be?"

"Oh. I'm terribly sorry!" The youth looked chagrined. "I'm Stefanik of Llyrath Downs," he explained hastily. Pawldo knew that community of Hairfeet, which was located several days travel to the east, in the fringes of Llyrath Forest. "And, well, I found this-and I didn't know where else to take it. I mean, every halfling on Gwynneth knows about you and your adventures! Why, if it wasn't for you, the Darkwalker would have-"

"Enough!" cried Pawldo, raising both his hands in mock surrender. 'Tales have a way of being exaggerated-though I did play a small role in the defeat of that menace. In fact, there's a certain element of truth …" He shook his head, forcing away the pleasant wave of nostalgia. "But enough of that. You have something to show me, it would seem?"

"Oh, yes." The halfling thrust the satchel, still unopened, toward Pawldo. "Here! What is it? Where did it come from? How did it get to be in the forest?"

"Right now you've got about ten questions for each of my answers," the mayor chuckled, taking the leather sack. It proved to be surprisingly heavy, containing a large object made of metal-and a lot of it. "Let's see what you've got."

Pawldo casually stretched the mouth of the satchel wide, but when he looked inside, he could not suppress a gasp of astonishment. Shiny metal gleamed even in the shadowy confines of the leather pouch, too pure for silver-it must be platinum! He reached for the item's blunt, rounded end, allowing the satchel to fall to the ground and reveal a long-bladed dagger.

The lord mayor held the weapon by the hilt, thinking that it was much too heavy to be an effective weapon, yet that hardly mattered. Sunlight reflected in dazzling patterns from the gleaming surface, twinkling in brilliant colors where it struck the facets of a multitude of gems. A straight blade, sharpened on both sides, extended nearly a foot from the impractical, jewel-encrusted hilt.

"I know you've traded all sorts of things-rare weapons and treasures!" Stefanik continued breathlessly. "You've been to Waterdeep, and Baldur's Gate, and lots of places. I bet more than any other halfling in the Moonshaes! Why, even in Llyrath Downs we've heard how you rescued the king from the firbolg giant-kin! When I tried to think of who could answer my questions, well, there was just no one else who even came close!"

"Aye," whispered Pawldo, too overcome by the object's splendor to even acknowledge the praise.

"It's some kind of knife," Stefanik noted unnecessarily. "But how did it get there? Whose is it?"

"Some kind of thief's dagger," Pawldo observed with a silent whistle. "It's a blade of little utility, but truly exceptional worth. Quickly, lad, where did you find this?"

"In the forest! Llyrath Forest!" stammered Stefanik. "I was hunting well into the woods. I found the dagger at a place I camped, where two streams flow together. It was lying there beside the stream, just like this, so shiny I couldn't possibly have missed it!" He noticed Pawldo's scowl of concentration. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, not that I can see." Pawldo couldn't take his eyes from the silvery surface. He identified the gems-here was a plump ruby on each handguard, there an array of emeralds around the base of the hilt, in the middle of the handgrip a huge diamond! With difficulty, he kept his hands from trembling. Never had he held an object of such worth, such splendor! "So it looked like it hadn't been there long?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.

"No. But that's the funny thing, since no one had been there before me-at least, not for a long time. I'm a pretty fair tracker," Stefanik added with bucolic honesty. "I'd have known."

The lord mayor turned the dagger over in his hands, examining the blade. Platinum there, too, polished and honed to the sharpness of a razor. Then a small imperfection caught his eye, near where the blade met the hilt. Raising the knife so that full sunlight fell on the blemish, he looked closely-and felt a sudden chill of apprehension.

The image was no flaw in the polished surface. It was a tiny etching of a leering, fleshless skull.

"What is it?" asked the youngster, following Pawldo's gaze. He gulped audibly when he got a close look. "I never noticed that before! What does it mean-a skull?"

"You say you found this in the depths of Llyrath Forest?" Pawldo inquired meaningfully.

"Yes! But I don't-"

Stefanik stopped abruptly, his face blanching, his eyes growing to saucers in sudden suspicion. "The Palace of Skulls?" he whispered.

"It's one explanation … the only one," Pawldo concluded grimly. "It's supposed to appear in Llyrath Forest only once a generation … and then, only for the waxing of the summer solstice moon!"

"The new moon was but four days past," Stefanik said, his tone full of wonder.

"And the knife-when did you find it?" Pawldo pressed.

"Three days ago!" the younger halfling exclaimed with a shudder. Then he squinted, a surprisingly mature skepticism appearing in his expression. "But I thought the tales of the skull fortress were just legends! Sure, my grandmother used to frighten us with stories of evil Prince Ketheryll and his curse-but now that I'm a grown-up I can't take them seriously.*"

"Can't you?" inquired the mayor of Lowhill archly. "Don't you think there might be some basis to the tales?"

Again Stefanik suppressed a shudder. "I know the stories-that Ketheryll still dwells there, but he's no longer a man. Just some kind of shadow that can suck the soul and the life right out of you!"

"What about the other stories?" Pawldo grew increasingly excited as he considered the possibilities. "Tales of treasure beyond your wildest dreams, mountains of wealth, glories such as you've never seen, all there for the taking-but only until the rising of the full moon___"

"You mean treasures like this?" Stefanik asked, his eyes dropping to the dagger. "You think the dagger comes from the Palace of Skulls?"

"Ouch!" Pawldo declared, abruptly dropping the weapon and blowing on his palm. "It got hot!"

"Look!" hissed Stefanik, pointing to the dagger as it twisted on the ground.

The blade had fallen on its tip, and for a second it wavered back and forth, as if it might stick into the ground. Then it bounced into the air, flopped onto its side, and flipped around so that the blade pointed just a little south of due east. The platinum surface glowed with a brightness greater than the sun's reflection.

"It's… it's like it heard me," Stefanik said softly. "As soon as I said the name of the place, it heated up."

"And look at the way it's pointing," Pawldo said. The glow subsided, and he reached out to touch the weapon's already cooling hilt. "Straight into Llyrath Forest."

"Can it be from that place?"

"Like I said, it's the only explanation!" Pawldo's mind worked furiously. The fortress meant treasure beyond belief. And that might mean a suitable present for the king and queen! "Can you find your campsite again?"

"Of course!" Stefanik proclaimed. "I'm a good scout, too! I know that woods like the inside of my own burrow!"

"Splendid! Let's see, we'll need some supplies and a couple of ponies. It'll take me a few hours to get ready. You can rest up at my house, and we can leave in the afternoon."

His estimate proved conservative. In actuality the two halflings rode down the King's Road sometime before lunch, a fact that the road-weary Stefanik regretted but was too timid to mention. They spent the night at a comfortable inn in Cantrev Koart and made such good time the next day that by early evening Stefanik led them southward from the road until they reached the very fringe of the forest There, amid a sparse scattering of dry-needled fir trees, they found a grassy meadow for their camp.

During their journey, Pawldo found himself developing an avuncular affection for the young halfling. Stefanik's blatant hero worship did nothing to impair the relationship, and the lord mayor's restrained silence only served to inflate the youngster's somewhat exaggerated assessment of his skills and exploits.

As twilight fell on their little camp, they passed some time in more serious conversation, comparing the tales they'd heard about the Palace of Skulls. Among the Ffolk of the Moonshaes and their halfling neighbors the place was a common setting for tales of heroism, though few believed that it really existed. Pawldo found that the version of the legend told in the village of Llyrath Downs differed somewhat from the stories he'd heard elsewhere in the Moonshaes. Yet, since that little village of halflings was nearer to the ancient structure's reputed location, he placed strong credence in that folklore.

"Llyrath Downs," Pawldo remarked as he settled down near the crackling embers of their fire. "There aren't many who live there, true?"

Stefanik shrugged. "Until I saw a great city like Lowhill, I would have disagreed with you. But, truth be told, we are but a dozen families, scattered over a wide hilltop."

Pawldo suppressed a smile-the "great city" of Lowhill, indeed! "You live in the forest proper?" he asked.

"Only the fringe. No one lives in the middle of that dark wood. We won't pass through my village, though-Llyrath Downs is another day's journey east of here. It's not on the way to the place where I found the dagger."

"And the legends you've heard, they hold the Palace of Skulls to be in this part of Llyrath?"

"Yes. It's said that mad Prince Ketheryll built the great fortress in Llyrath with the heads of his enemies. That was at the time when Gwynneth and the rest of the Moonshaes were only a lot of small principalities. Ketheryll made war on all of his neighbors. They say his cruelty was surpassed only by his might." The youth shrugged. "He must have been pretty tough, since he eventually drove all the other humans from southern Gwynneth."

"All the tales claim that he was a ruthless master," Pawldo agreed. "His conquests are matters of history, though I'd always presumed his reputation for bloodshed to be exaggerated. Still, no one seems to doubt the tales of his Doomed Legion." At Stefanik's puzzled look, Pawldo added, "At least no one outside of Llyrath. The legion was made up of his lieutenants, each magically branded with the skull that was their master's symbol."

"I'd heard that each of the prince's men had sworn to give his life to protect him," Stefanik admitted, "but never anything about them being branded. It's not surprising, though, since the prince was always so interested in magic."

Pawldo laughed. "It's so ironic that the wizard Flamsterd and his spellcasting finally proved Ketheryll's undoing, since he was so taken with sorcery himself."

"Aye-the wizard and the Earthmother. The humans say the goddess exacted revenge against Ketheryll because he distressed the Balance." Stefanik nodded seriously.

"The tales I've heard all over the Moonshaes include the Earthmother," the older halfling said. "Had you heard that Ketheryll dedicated his gruesome fortress to the new moon of the summer solstice? He held a great celebration with his most loyal followers. They killed hundreds of captives in a grim arena-called the Circus Bizarre, I seem to remember-simply for the amusement of the prince and his evil band. It's said that he captured the young king and queen of a human realm and put them to death along with the rest"

"They were the first human monarchs to fly the banner of the Great Bear," Stefanik chimed in. "Imagine-they were put to death by Ketheryll, but their symbol has lived on to become the talisman of the high kings of the Ffolk. I used to believe that the king must have been taken by treachery, but now I think maybe he was captured by the Legion of the Damned."

"The Doomed Legion," Pawldo corrected.

"And it was on the moonless night of the slaughter that the curse took effect," Stefanik whispered, then glanced at the night sky.

"Yes-the spell of the wizard, coupled with the vengeful might of the Earthmother. A black fog rolled from the forest," Pawldo said, his voice a hoarse whisper, his eyes wide as he looked into the shadows around their fire. "It cloaked the gathering for a full fortnight, and for all that time Ketheryll and his legion huddled in their palace, fearing to go forth into the world. Then, on the night of the solstice, under the light of that full moon, the fog dissipated. And the Palace of Skulls was gone-Ketheryll and all his men with it," the lord mayor concluded.

"All but one!" Stefanik interjected. When Pawldo looked at him in surprised confusion, the young halfling continued. "That's the tale in Llyrath, at least. A thief named Garius, a rogue who'd traveled all across the world, was among Ketheryll's men. Garius had grown to despise his evil master- the thief appreciated wrongdoing for profit's sake, but had no taste for wanton cruelty. It's said that under the cover of the fog, he fled his master and his gruesome palace!"

"Did he escape?" inquired Pawldo, intrigued by this new version of the legend.

"No one knows for certain," Stefanik said, his voice hushed. "Everyone thinks he got away before the curse took Ketheryll, but no one saw him again. Some say he escaped the castle, but not the prince's terrible magic." He shrugged. "Most of the old folks in Llyrath Downs say Garius was transformed into something horrible as punishment for his treachery."

"Maybe that's true," Pawldo noted with a yawn. "But we won't ever find out if any of these legends are true unless we get some rest."

"Then we can talk about it more tomorrow, I guess," Stefanik said cheerily. "We'll have time, since it'll take us most of the day to get to the place where I found the dagger. But it won't be hard to find. Like I told you, it's at the fork of two streams."

"Splendid, splendid," replied Pawldo. His voice trailed off, and, despite a few persistent questions from his young companion, the lord mayor of Lowhill would make no more speculations-aloud, at any rate.

The next day they began to move through the shadowy reaches of the forest. Dark, thick trunks rose around them, leafy branches crowding the air, forming a dense canopy overhead. The verdant ceiling blocked any ray of sunlight from reaching the ground, and the two halflings rode through a dim twilight. A soft bed of moss, leaves, and pine needles covered the ground, allowing for easy travel.

Pawldo felt a confining, almost claustrophobic sense of oppression as they rode between the pillars of rough bark. He soon missed the open stretches of the moors, where even the mist seemed distant and friendly compared to these looming sentinels. The air was moist and cloying, with humidity that dampened his forehead and an overpowering scent of dirt and pine. He longed for a breath of wind-an eternal companion on the moor-and yet not a breeze stirred the trees.

Toward the middle of the day they reached the bank of a deep, cold creek. "The Birchbrook," Stefanik announced. "If we follow it upstream, we'll come to the place where I found the dagger."

Even the waterway lay within the shroud of Llyrath's canopy, for the trees on either bank were so huge and soaring that the width of the streambed could not keep their branches from mingling. Gray boulders jutted from the murky waters, the river washing around them in eerie silence.

For the rest of the afternoon the halflings made their way along the banks of the Birchbrook. The stream surged with relentless force, but it seemed unusually quiet to Pawldo. The water was deep, often collecting in dark pools after a tumbling spill down a chute or over a short drop. Yet even in these rapids the Birchbrook did not splash and froth as he would have expected. The veteran traveler found something in the stealthy stream even more unsettling than the cloaking forest.

"There!" cried Stefanik, urging his pony forward. "See where the two creeks come together?"

"Yes. Good guiding, lad," Pawldo replied, pleased.

Two smaller streams formed a Y as they merged to create the deeper, wider Birchbrook. The right branch frolicked down a stairway like progression of stone shelves. In some places, the branches overhead actually gapped slightly, allowing thin beams of sunlight to reflect brilliantly from the surface. The river's left branch seemed to Pawldo more like the Birchbrook proper-it meandered through a channel that was not as steep as the other. Though the current moved quickly, the water didn't splash with the same vitality as its neighboring stream.

"In the middle-that's where I camped. I found the dagger there," Stefanik explained.

As they approached the spot, Pawldo saw that the place between the two channels indeed seemed like a perfect camping site. The ground was flat, free of trunks and roots. Several large rocks had been gathered in a protective circle, providing a windbreak for a fire and screening any blaze from casual observation.

"We can cross the right branch," continued the young halfling. "There's a good ford there."

The two ponies waded into the stream, which splashed only to their knees, then emerged onto the flat clearing. The charred embers of an old fire huddled between several of the boulders Pawldo had seen earlier.

"Is that the remnants of your blaze?" he asked Stefanik as they both dismounted.

"Yes. Here's the old birch root I pulled out before I went to sleep," replied the younger traveler, kneeling beside the gritty fire scar. "No one's been here since me."

"I'm not surprised," muttered Pawldo. The murkiness of the forest was now unnervingly oppressive, but he shrugged off the feeling as best he could. "Where did you find the knife?"

"Over here." Stefanik crossed to the left fork of the converging streams, indicating a shallow depression near the bank. "It was lying right here. This hole is where I pulled it out."

Pawldo knelt beside the shallow excavation. Freshly turned dirt lined the hole, although tufts of moss already tinged the exposed earth. The depression matched the dagger's length. The object had rested just above the water level of the stream, between a pair of rocks.

Looking up the channel, Pawldo saw gloomy outcrop-pings of granite looming through the trees. The creek emerged from a deep cut between these high walls. Though tree trunks blocked much of the view, he saw the passage nestled between these bluffs-a narrow canyon, source of this left branch of the Birchbrook. He studied the steeply sloping streambed, dropping from that narrow gap to the small backwater at his feet.

Confidently Pawldo took the dagger out of his pouch and held it before him. "Show me the Palace of Skulls," he commanded, waiting for the telltale flush of heat to infuse the handle. Nothing happened.

"Maybe you have to drop it on the ground," Stefanik suggested.

Pawldo threw the blade to his feet, but it lay lifelessly in the dirt.

"What did you do before-to make it glow, I mean, and point toward Ketheryll's palace?" Stefanik wondered.

"I don't know," Pawldo snapped, but then bit his mouth shut. "Look!" he hissed.

As it had in Lowhill, the dagger began to glow. The halflings could feel its warmth as they stood over it. Then, very slowly, the weapon wiggled across the ground. In a few moments it lay still, pointing directly at the narrow, rocky gap up the stream.

"Up there," Pawldo said. "That's where it came from."

"It-it looks pretty dark," Stefanik observed hesitantly.

"Morning will brighten it up," Pawldo announced, his voice heartier than his thoughts. In truth, the forest-shrouded chasm seemed like a foreboding place. It didn't take him more than a moment to decide to postpone its exploration until the morrow.

Stefanik unsaddled the ponies while Pawldo gathered some dry branches he found scattered conveniently around the camp. He set them beside the fire scar and looked to Stefanik-only to see the younger halfling freeze taut, his eyes bulging at a sight behind Pawldo's shoulder.

The lord mayor whirled to confront a pair of unblinking yellow eyes, less than six feet away. A canine face stared impassively. A narrow snout gaped, while a pink tongue lolled between long, white fangs.

"Wolf!" Stefanik hissed.

Pawldo had already recognized the powerful body of the predator. The creature squatted upon a rock, ready to pounce.

Yelping in astonishment, Pawldo fumbled for his sword, but all he managed to do was stumble backward to collapse into an ungainly heap. All the time the wolf stared at him with those penetrating yellow eyes. By the time he had his sword half-drawn, the halfling realized that the creature presented no immediate menace.

"He looks hungry," observed Stefanik. The wolf's flanks showed the clear outline of his rib cage, screened only slightly by scattered patches of mangy fur. One of its ears flopped sideways, scarred by an ugly red wound. At the sound of the voice, the wolf shifted its gaze to the younger halfling's face, the good ear cocked forward attentively.

"Give him something to eat!" hissed Pawldo, more than a little embarrassed by his clumsiness-and still not certain of the wolf's intentions.

"Here, fellow," said Stefanik, pulling an entire slab of bacon from the saddlebags. He threw it onto the ground near the animal.

The wolf's eyes followed the meat but then came back to Pawldo. Finally, hunger won out. The creature sniffed tentatively, then hopped down from the rocky perch. With another look at Pawldo, who still had not climbed to his feet, the wolf settled to its haunches, tearing at the tough meal with teeth still white, long, and sharp.

In short order the wolf put a dent in their stockpile of cheese as well. Keeping a wary eye on the beast, Pawldo built the fire while Stefanik stretched out the bedrolls. They cooked some bacon for themselves, throwing another morsel to the wolf, as full darkness descended. Finally the animal dropped its head onto its outstretched forelegs with a contented sigh.

"I think we've found a friend," Stefanik said as the wolf closed its eyes.

"I suppose we could have a worse companion in these woods," Pawldo observed warily. The thought of sleeping here, with this huge carnivore just a few feet away, bothered him more than a little. "Maybe we should give him some more bacon."

"I think we should let him rest. He looks all worn out."

In fact, the animal appeared to have reached the end of a long and grueling trail. The shaggy flanks, now noticeably bulging, rose and fell with deliberate breathing. Pawldo noticed that the animal's muzzle and forelegs were also scarred, though not so badly as the ear. Many wounds, however, showed raw and moist-they had not yet had time to heal.

"Don't wolves usually travel in packs?" asked the younger halfling. "It seems odd to see one by himself."

"Do you see lots of wolves in Llyrath Forest?" demanded Pawldo.

Stefanik shook his head. "They're rare. Once or twice in the fall and winter we've seen them running past the village-like gray ghosts in the forest. They don't bother us.

In fact, they haven't even gone after the sheep kept by Whitebeard Karywether. But even then, when we see them there's always a pack-at least a dozen, sometimes twenty or more."

"From the look of this one, he's had to fight for his life. I wonder if he's the last survivor of his pack," Pawldo mused.

"I don't know what could slaughter so many wolves," Stefanik said. 'There are bears out here, but a wolf could outrun one of them without a problem. What about firbolgs?"

Pawldo shook his head. "Even if the giant-kin came this far south, they wouldn't do this to wolves. Sometimes they capture them for pets, but they wouldn't torture and maim them."

Soon the unsettled pair of halflings curled into their bedrolls and went to sleep. Neither slumbered soundly, and Pawldo stirred as soon as the gray dawn filtered through the mist of the streambed.

The wolf, he saw, was still there-though the animal no longer slept. Indeed, the yellow eyes followed Pawldo's every move as the halfling rose and crossed to Stefanik, nudging the youngster to wakefulness. They packed up their camp, half-hoping the wolf would be on its way. But when they started into the narrow canyon, the wolf bounded ahead, picking a way around gnarled roots and over massive rocks. He led them straight into the canyon.

The chasm walls, great shoulders of granite, glowered overhead. Streaks of moss and lichen ran across their weathered faces, and the rocky walls projected a chill that sapped every vestige of warmth from the air. The stream narrowed to a channel choked with debris. Nevertheless, Pawldo had no lingering doubts that the source of the splendid dagger would be found near the headwaters of this creek.

"We won't be able to take the ponies through," Pawldo announced, gesturing into the steep and narrow canyon. "Let's picket them here and try to get back by nightfall."

Stefanik, too, realized the futility of taking the steeds through the maze of rocks and deadfalls. The wolf watched them from its vantage of a high boulder as they dismounted, loosely tied the mounts, and selected a few important items-weapons, flasks of oil, and the platinum dagger-to carry as they progressed on foot. Surprisingly, the wolf seemed more interested in them than in their horses.

The ragged animal again sprang forward, disappearing behind the large rock. It popped up a dozen paces ahead, its face turned alertly back to see if the halflings still followed.

"Yeah, yeah. Wait a minute!" muttered Pawldo, irritated at the ease with which the animal negotiated the rough terrain.

"If he's coming with us, we ought to give him a name," Stefanik suggested, struggling over a fallen trunk that bristled with prickly branches.

"Be my guest," grunted the older halfling as he, too, worked his way over the obstacle.

"How about 'Half-Ear'?" suggested Stefanik, taking Pawldo's frustrated mumbling for acquiescence. "Hey, wolf! Half-Ear-how about finding a better path?"

But Half-Ear only regarded them impassively. For several minutes they scrambled silently along the streambank to the wolfs latest vantage. By then, of course, the animal had bounded forward another two dozen paces.

Pawldo and Stefanik grunted and cursed their way up the narrow canyon. There was no path-indeed, deadfalls, rockslides, and thorny thickets all choked the base of the narrow chasm, making every step a struggle. Always Half-Ear remained before them, crawling under logs that blocked the halflings, scrambling up a steep surface of tumbled rock in a few bounds. Following slowly, the two-footed explorers climbed with painstaking care, hoisting their packs by rope only after they had made these perilous ascents.

The stream continued to flow beside them, rushing with silent power along a deep channel, for the most part free of the rocks that so typically obstructed the streambed lower down. Finally the walls to either side began to lean away from them, and soon they reached the top of the tangled chute. Struggling up a pile of boulders that spilled along the shore of the stream, Pawldo paused to catch his breath. Half-Ear waited patiently in a forest glade a short distance ahead.

"Open space," grunted the lord mayor as his young companion joined him. "Looks like the same kind of forest we saw below."

"Thank the Earthmother for that!" moaned Stefanik, collapsing on the rock pile in exhaustion. Then he looked around. "Where's Half-Ear?"

"Wait a minute, you mangy cur!" barked Pawldo as the wolf started through the glade toward the shadowed forest on the other side. "Give us a-" His shock swallowed the rest of his complaint.

"What is it?" asked Stefanik, following his companion's gaze. Then his voice, too, faded into stunned silence.

The structure in the woods before them was at first barely visible, so dense was the screen of tree trunks. Yet as the halflings squinted, a blocky outline came into view- a rectangular shape, like a long, high wall, pale gray or even white in color. Pawldo's first thought was that the outline was far too regular to be a clump of rocks or a hill.

"It-it's some kind of building," Stefanik said, unconsciously lowering his voice to a whisper. "And Half-Ear's going toward it!"

"Well, best not let him go alone," muttered Pawldo, surprised at his lack of enthusiasm. Something about the appearance of this bizarre structure-they had yet to get a good look at it-unsettled him in a way he found difficult to ignore.

"Uh, is it me, or do you think it's starting to get dark?" asked Stefanik. He glanced nervously at the dim forest surrounding them.

Pawldo didn't answer, but the growing twilight made him realize that they had spent the bulk of the day climbing through the tangled canyon. The usually shaded wood had already begun to sink into heavier shadow. Cautiously, as if he expected attack at any moment, he crept toward the edifice, darting from tree trunk to tree trunk, examining his goal from each vantage before moving forward again.

Half-Ear, in contrast, trotted right up to the thing and sat down expectantly, as if impatient for his companions to join the bold expedition.

Soon the halflings were close enough to see the details of the building, looming behind a screen of huge pines. As they emerged from the trees the whole structure opened up to view, and they stared in wonder. The white surface they had first spotted was the front wall, and it was not as smooth as Pawldo had originally thought. A multitude of turrets and parapets extended along the top, and a single doorway-large and yawning open-stood in the exact center. The wolf sat directly before this entrance.

And though they thought they had taken full stock of the castle from their vantage, only as the halflings approached the entrance did the true nature of the structure become apparent.

"The whole place is made of bones!" whispered Stefanik. "Look-skulls-human skulls! The legends are true!"

Pawldo felt a deep chill shudder through him as he stared at the wall of eyeless sockets. Most of the castle's surface, he saw, consisted of these grisly remnants stacked neatly together, as if placed by a master bricklayer. The frame of the doorway was formed by only three bones, like thighbones, only each was at least ten feet long.

"Even firbolgs don't have legs that big!" Pawldo murmured, awestruck.

"Do you think that's where the knife came from?" Stefanik asked reluctantly. "Maybe we were, uh, wrong about the mark."

"I'm sure it came from here," Pawldo replied and stepped boldly forward. Though the garish structure awakened feelings of abiding terror within him, it also drew him forward with the thrill of discovery, adventure.. and treasure. He had, after all, earned his reputation as a hero by facing supernatural threats even more threatening than this phantom castle.

"Say, what about the ponies?" Stefanik looked back at their path, his face wistful. "We can't leave them alone all night."

"They'll be all right. There's plenty of grass around there."

"What about wolves?" Stefanik wondered.

"I'm sure Half-Ear's the only one, and he's with us. You might even say he's showing us the way. Come on." Pawldo started once more toward the looming entrance. His mind whirled with images-mounds of coins, gleaming gem-stones, fabulous artifacts. Half-Ear bounced to his feet and paced ahead of them through the doorway.

One boldly, the other reluctantly, the halflings followed the wolf under the bone arch.

Enough light filtered through gaps in the crude stonework-bonework, Pawldo reminded himself-to light the interior just a little. Before the halflings had advanced two dozen paces, however, the darkness grew heavier and they paused to remove lanterns from their packs. Filling them with oil, touching spark to wick, they soon resumed their exploration under brighter illumination.

The entryway was a wide corridor, smoothly paved below their feet-apparently with actual stone, Pawldo saw with a measure of relief. The walls to either side, however, formed an array of eyeless sockets and grinning teeth, for they were built exclusively of skulls.

"There are thousands of them," gasped Stefanik as they came to an intersection and saw three other corridors, each lined with leering skeletal faces. The air was dry and odorless, but each breath seemed to parch the halflings' tongues and throats of moisture. They each gulped a swallow from the waterskin, as much to calm their nerves as quench their thirst.

"Which way should we go?" asked Stefanik. A longing glance back to the entrance registered the youngster's vote on that question.

"The dagger!" Pawldo hissed. He took the platinum weapon from his belt pouch and held it before each of the three passages. "The Palace of Skulls," the lord mayor intoned, picturing vast piles of treasure in his mind. He waited for several moments, remembering that the effect had been delayed before. Yet now, perhaps because they were in the palace, it gave them no clue. "We'll have to guess. Let's g6 this way," Pawldo announced without pause.

Pawldo had taken only a half-dozen steps down the hall straight ahead when his lamplight reflected with a telltale gleam from a scattering of metal along the base of one wall.

"Gold!" exclaimed the lord mayor, forgetting even to keep his voice down. Eagerly he knelt to investigate, holding the lamp over several dozen gilded coins shining up at him from the floor.

"Shouldn't they be dusty?" wondered Stefanik aloud.

"No!" Pawldo's voice hissed with delight. "This place is only here for a fortnight, then it disappears! When is there time for dust to collect?"

"But…." Stefanik's voice trailed away.

The older halfling scooped up the coins and dropped them quickly into his satchel. Their bulk created a satisfying weight in the bottom of the bag.

"Come on!" Pawldo urged, picking up the pace. Half-Ear trotted readily beside him, while Stefanik hurried to stay close behind.

They passed into a huge, vaulted chamber, where the light from their lanterns created little pools of illumination in a great waste of darkness. Stefanik started across the flat floor, but Pawldo called him back.

"Look-niches along the wall. Let's have a look as we go." He held the lantern up between a pair of arches, lighting an empty space, small and square with a high ceiling supported by arching bones.

"Alcoves. . maybe this is where Ketheryll's Doomed Legion had their quarters!" whispered Stefanik, awestruck and terrified.

"Maybe," Pawldo said, then added triumphantly, "but they're empty now! There's no haunted guards here, waiting to suck out your soul. So much for the old legends!"

"No treasure, either," the younger halfling countered.

"Patience, Sprout. We've barely begun to search."

Pawldo moved on, following the row of nearly identical compartments. He checked the next, and the one after- and in a few moments he was rewarded.

"What do you know?" he announced smugly, kneeling down to lift a small statuette, a figure of a crouching lion, from the floor. Like the gold coins, it gleamed as if it had been freshly polished. "Pure silver, with rubies for eyes!"

Quickly he popped the object into his satchel, continuing his explorations. Before he had completed his investigation of the room, which took the better part of an hour, a pair of golden earrings, an emerald-studded brooch, and a jeweled headband had joined the objects in his bag. The shaggy wolf followed him through the entire circuit, yellow eyes sparkling in the torchlight as if he, too, understood the worth of their finds.

"If these were the chambers of Ketheryll's loyal followers," Stefanik observed, "they must have lived in pretty cramped quarters!"

"Look here!" Pawldo stooped to lift another gleaming treasure from the floor. "It's another figurine," he added softly, turning over the hand-sized image of a human warrior. He examined it carefully, then drew in his breath. There, at the base of the figurine's back, he saw the faint outline of a skull.

"Shouldn't we get going?" asked Stefanik as Pawldo cinched up the bag.

"There's lots more of this place to explore," Pawldo replied with a firm shake of his head.

He led the other halfling on a winding, circuitous exploration of the Palace of Skulls. Half-Ear preceded them along some corridors, while Pawldo's curiosity and intuition took them down others. They found high galleries and a great ballroom, and even a deep pit that Pawldo guessed had been the Circus Bizarre. It was surrounded by rings of benches, all made from various pieces of bone.

Here Pawldo almost overlooked a pair of rings. Unlike the other treasures, these lay under a thin film of dust and dirt. Each was inscribed with a stamp in the image of the Great Bear. After a quick appraisal-the gold was pure, Pawldo decided-he dropped the items into his satchel with the rest.

"The bears prove it!" Stefanik said. 'The story is true- he did kill the king and queen who bore that symbol as their own!"

Several more treasures yielded themselves to the intrepid explorers-or to Pawldo, actually, for Stefanik spent most of the time staring wide-eyed into the shadows, urging the older halfling to hurry. Yet the lord mayor of Low-hill would not be rushed. He found a gem-studded necklace and bracelets that, he felt certain, were fully equal to the worth of a large house. A few steps later a tiny crystal image of a knight on horseback caught his eye with its glittering diamond facets and slender lance of platinum. Half-Ear paced along ahead of him, nosing the shadows, looking back with apparent impatience at the halfling.

They pressed around a corner and found a stairway leading up. Pawldo didn't hesitate to start climbing, with Stefanik following reluctantly, his eyes wide, flicking this way and that at the grotesque death's-heads lining the walls to both sides.

"Wait! I think I saw something!" hissed the youth.

"What? Where? More gold?" asked Pawldo, whirling around on the stairs.

"No-something moved!" wailed Stefanik. "Down there- something darkl"

Pawldo followed his companion's trembling gesture, but he could make out nothing beyond the shadows cloaking the foot of the stairs. The light from their lanterns seemed suddenly a very feeble counter to the oppressive darkness. As Pawldo held the sputtering flame, the halfling felt acutely conscious that its illumination made him perfectly visible to someone-or something-lurking within the gloom.

Quickly he shuttered the vessel, ordering Stefanik to do the same. In the fullness of the dark, they waited soundlessly. Slowly their eyes adjusted to the murk. Though they could see nothing in the way of detail, the vague contours of the walls and stairway gradually took form around them.

"Stay here!" commanded Pawldo, setting down his oil lamp. He drew his short sword, little relishing the familiar weight in his hand. Then, as an additional precaution, he reached into the satchel and took out the platinum dagger. Holding the smaller blade with his left hand, he raised his sword and started down the stairs. He felt the reassuring presence of Half-Ear's shaggy flank beside him.

Step by careful step he descended, brandishing the sword with more menace than he felt. He reached the bottom step, then felt the smooth floor of the corridor under his feet. Staring to the left and right, he could barely make out the obscure outlines of the passageway. Beside him, Half-Ear's rapid breathing created a taut cadence for his fear.

"There's nothing down here," he whispered. Stefanik made no sound on the stairs, so Pawldo repeated the observation more loudly.

The silence up the stairs was more frightening than anything he'd imagined in the shadows.

"Stefanik!" he barked.

But still there came no answer.

Pawldo and the wolf bounded up the stairway, stumbling into the soft mound of his satchel. Sheathing his sword, he fumbled for the lantern and opened the shutter.

Stefanik was gone, though the youngster's lantern rested on the step above the satchel. Desperately the lord mayor looked up the rest of the stairway-the young halfling could not have gone down the stairs without being seen, and Pawldo had noticed no doors. Cold terror seized Pawldo, along with a profound sense that disaster had overtaken them with stunning speed.

Shrugging the pack over one shoulder, the halfling took the lantern, albeit awkwardly, in his left hand. Again drawing his sword, he started up the remaining steps, ten or twelve in number, until he came to a landing, where wide corridors extended in three directions.

"Stefanik!" he called again.

Pawldo felt a wave of awful loneliness sweep over him. Suddenly the treasures in his satchel, the lure of wealth that had compelled him farther and farther through this dolorous palace, paled to insignificance against the weight of his young companion's life.

Half-Ear growled softly. Then the wolf started down the middle passageway, pausing after a few steps to look back at the halfling.

Grimly clutching his short sword in one hand, the dagger and the lantern in the other, Pawldo followed the pacing animal down the central corridor, through a room of tall columns and under a narrow archway beyond. Several places along the way gold winked seductively from niches in the walls, or the telltale glitter of gemstones tried to coax him from his course, but the halfling moved on resolutely.

He entered another large chamber, a domed ceiling standing high above his head. Crossing carefully, he held his lantern up and tried to look into the shadows. Half-Ear paced beside him, head up and eyes alert. Suddenly the wolf froze, growling deep within his chest. Pawldo saw a dim form standing utterly still in the darkness-an erect figure, no more than three feet tall.

"Stefanik!" Pawldo yelped, running toward the young halfling.

But as abruptly as Pawldo started forward, he stopped. Stefanik had not turned, had not reacted in any way to his shout. Something's definitely wrong, he decided.

Then the shadows beyond the young halfling moved, and Pawldo felt a chill creep to the very marrow of his bones. A shape loomed there-a huge shape-and the halfling could not prevent a dull moan of horror escaping his lips. The murk parted, but only to reveal a thing of even more profound darkness, a hulking figure, larger than a man, with shoulders and head rising in the inky chamber.

Pawldo saw upraised arms, black and menacing-yet somehow tenuous, like thick, oily smoke. Cold swirled around him, threatening to suck the heat and life from his body. He saw long, wickedly curving claws at the ends of the reaching limbs. Then a hideous visage materialized- snarling jaws, spread wide to reveal a crimson tongue and blackened, hideous teeth. Most horrifying, however, were the thing's eyes, hellishly gleaming embers of hatred and doom that stared unwaveringly at the trembling halfling.

"Who are the thieves seeking to pilfer the treasures of Ketheryll?"

The voice rumbled through the cavernous room, and Pawldo felt as though a bolt of lightning had welded him to the floor. The hair at the back of his neck stood on end, and he sensed the unmistakable aura of magic crackle in the air.

Then he realized another terrifying fact: the wraith's voice had come from all around him! Spinning through a frantic circle, he saw a dozen shapes, all menacing, all rather indistinct. Yet the same hellish eyes gleamed from each, and taloned limbs reached out from them all, eager to tear Pawldo to pieces.

"Who are you?" the halfling gasped, finally summoning the strength to speak.

"I am Prince Ketheryll." Again the voice, a storm ravaging a distant valley.

Beside Pawldo, Half-Ear growled and crouched, eyes gleaming in the lamplight, flickering from first one to another of the circling horrors.

"Stefanik!" shouted Pawldo.

The tousled head twisted, as if the youngster tried to turn but failed. It was as if Stefanik were trying to look at his companion, but could not muster the strength. Again Half-Ear growled, fear tingeing his snarl.

"Do not waste your breath!" hissed Ketheryll. "Like you, he is my prisoner."

"What did you do to him?" Pawldo asked, slowly circling to face all the looming figures. What did I do to him? his conscience added harshly. He well remembered Stefanik's pleas to depart from this place and his own insistence on pursuing the elusive treasure.

"I've done nothing, but I plan to make him one of my treasures. . my trinkets," said Ketheryll. "I understand you have spent much of the night collecting the others."

"What do you mean?"

'They were all shiftless and deceitful-even my fearless legion-all like that traitor Garius." Ketheryll smiled horribly. "He fled my home at my hour of greatest need, but that couldn't protect him from my wrath."

The voice deepened, gurgling with a hellish boil. "Like all those lured here by the promise of riches, drawn deeper into my web by their own greed, you and your thieving friend shall forever linger among these walls. Like all those who've tried to rob me or lie to me, you'll become things of imaginary value-all glitter, but no substance."

"I've seen plenty of substance in here," challenged the halfling, though he instantly regretted the foolish outburst.

"Do you think so? Perhaps you should look again."

Suddenly sick to his stomach, Pawldo realized that the platinum dagger felt surprisingly light in his hand. Glancing down, he saw the thing as it really was: a piece of cheap tin set with glass baubles. He knew immediately that the rest of the treasures in his satchel would prove no more valuable.

Pawldo tried to still the trembling in his limbs. Desperately his mind sought a plan. He looked around frantically, seeking some inspiration.

Half-Ear stood beside the halfling, his yellow eyes darting around the circle of figures. The hackles on the wolf's back bristled. His nose twitched as canine lips curled into a teeth-baring snarl.

Pawldo raised his lantern, acutely conscious of the sputtering flame, the small reservoir of oil still feeding the wick. The clay jar was heavy in his hand; more than half the fuel remained.

"Stefanik!" he called again. Once more the young halfling struggled, caught in a battle of wills-but still he could not turn, could not speak.

"Fool!" spat Ketheryll. Again, the sound came from all over the chamber.

The flickering light of Pawldo's lantern trembled as he tried in vain to still the shaking of his hand. He saw one chance-a slim, desperate gamble, but that gamble was the only thing that offered even a faint hope of escape, //"he'd guessed correctly.

He cast the dagger onto the floor and shouted a word- not the name of this nightmarish place, for he had realized that the Palace of Skulls was not the dagger's true point of orientation. Instead, he shouted a name. And with the speaking of the word the dagger flared like the sun.

"Ketheryll!" Pawldo cried.

The blade whirled on the floor and abruptly came to a stop. It pointed toward one of the encircling images, farther from Pawldo than the rest, almost lost in the shadows. The instant its true identity was revealed, the wraith lunged forward, extending icy claws toward its foe. With shocking speed those deadly talons neared Pawldo's face.

Half-Ear growled, the sound low and rumbling in the cavernous room. The animal crouched momentarily, nostrils twitching, then leaped. His growl building into a savage snarl, Half-Ear clamped his jaws on one of Ketheryll's writhing limbs. The cursed prince lashed out, sending the wolf flying, but the valiant attack gave Pawldo the instant he needed to raise his arm, hoisting the flaring lantern high over his head.

Grunting, he hurled the makeshift missile. The clay jar struck the floor at the prince's feet, smashing to pieces and splashing oil across the hissing creature. As the wick touched the slick stonework, orange flame leaped to engulf the body of Ketheryll.

"No!”

The sound was a shrieking wail, like a hurricane of wind swirling through a wide canyon, tearing at trees and rocks and even the earth itself. The trembling became real then, more than the gale of an unnatural wind. Pawldo staggered as the floor moved beneath his feet. The prince surged toward him, trailing fire.

Pawldo grabbed the gaudy dagger that had lured him to the palace. He knew now that it was only a trinket, but one with a difference. The dagger was the only one to be found outside the Palace of Skulls. The Doomed Legion and the other treasure seekers had been converted to cheap baubles, but always within the walls of the palace. That meant the dagger could be the ensorceled remains of only one person.

"Here, Garius," Pawldo whispered, cradling the knife before him. "Now's the chance to return to your master."

He hurled the blade toward the prince, and he saw-or imagined he saw-Ketheryll's eyes widen in horror. The blade sank deep into the creature's chest, and the monster stumbled backward in a cloud of hissing steam.

Pawldo didn't wait to see what happened next. He leaped forward, seizing Stefanik's collar and yanking the young halfling around. The red-haired youth gaped at the spectacle of Ketheryll's agony, blinking in astonishment.

"Come on!" shouted Pawldo.

"You are miner shrieked the cursed prince, creeping forward, extending flaming limbs toward the two halflings. Half-Ear roared forward in a raging attack, ignoring the flames to sink his teeth into the black figure's torso.

The thing that had been Ketheryll lashed out with its long talons, but the wolf ducked underneath the swiping blow. In the flashing light Pawldo saw the wounds on Half-Ear's flank and he knew: this was the creature that could destroy an entire pack, could nearly kill this brave wolf who had all but led the two halflings here on a quest for his own vengeance. The black shape and the snarling canine whirled around on the floor, the two intruders forgotten for the moment.

Stefanik stumbled to his knees as the floor pitched beneath him, but then scrambled back to his feet. His will had returned with the breaking of the monster's concentration. Pawldo propelled him toward the door, and the youth sprinted from the room, followed by the lord mayor and then the bounding wolf.

In blind terror they ran through the halls of the Palace of Skulls, fleeing the menace that they felt, rather than saw. They raced along corridors, hurled themselves down long stairways, gasping for breath but not daring to slow the frantic pace of their flight. Objects bounced from the satchel as Pawldo ran. Glass baubles and cheap metal figurines clinked and shattered along the floor behind him, and he took no note of the lost treasures.

Finally the door, with its overhanging arch of bone, yawned before them. Lungs straining and eyes tearing, the two halflings tumbled out of the bone-walled structure, collapsing onto the forest floor amid the gray mists of advancing dawn. The wolf followed them through the portal but then spun and crouched, glowering into the palace.

They saw no sign of movement or pursuit as they hugged their aching sides. Their breathing slowed and their rubbery legs gradually regained their strength. Staggering against a tree for support, Pawldo dropped the satchel in frustrated anger.

"Were they all worthless?" asked Stefanik as he looked through the junk in the satchel.

"Illusions," Pawldo said in disgust. "Stuff to draw intruders farther into the palace-until finally they faced Ketheryll."

"Look! Here's something that didn't turn into junk!" Stefanik exclaimed. He pulled out the pair of golden rings, set with the Great Bear-the only objects that had been dirty when Pawldo found them.

"The rings," mused the lord mayor. "These were real-a treasure of slain victims, not the transformed minions of Ketheryll."

"Here," said Stefanik, handing the two bands of metal to Pawldo. "You should have these."

"Nay, lad. Too much trouble has come of this."

Yet, when Stefanik insisted, Pawldo remembered his original intention in seeking the source of the platinum dagger-to find a present for the king's and queen's anniversary. The rings bore the symbol of the Moonshae's royal family, a symbol that now could be traced back to the human rulers slain long, long ago by the mad prince.

Pawldo slipped the rings into his pocket. At least, he reflected, he had found a suitable present for Tristan and Robyn.