The War of the Lance

Raistlin and the Knight of Solamnia

It was a chill night for spring, undoubtedly the reason there were so many people in the inn. The inn wasn't accustomed to such crowds. In fact, it wasn't accustomed to any crowds, for the inn was new, so new that it still smelled of fresh-hewn wood and paint instead of stale ale and yesterday's stew. Called "Three Sheets," after a popular drinking song of the time, the inn was located in — . But where it was located doesn't matter. The inn was destroyed five years later in the Dragon Wars and never rebuilt. Small wonder, for it was on a road little traveled then and less traveled after the dragons leveled the town.

It would be some time yet before the Queen of Darkness plunged the world into what she hoped would be eternal night, but already, in these years just prior to the war, her evil shadow was spreading. Goblins had always been a problem in this realm, but suddenly what had been small bands of raiders who struck isolated farms had grown into armies attacking villages.

"What's His Lordship offering?" queried a mage clad in red robes who occupied a booth — the one nearest the fire and the most comfortable in the crowded inn — with just one companion. No one thought of joining them. Though the mage was sickly in appearance, with a hacking cough that nearly bent him double, those who had served with him in previous campaigns whispered that he was quick to anger and quicker with his spells.

"Standard rate — two pieces of steel a week and a bounty on goblin ears. I signed us up." The man responding was a large, burly warrior who sat down opposite his questioner. Shedding his plain, undecorated cloak in the heat of the room, the warrior revealed hardmuscled arms the size of tree trunks and a chest like a bull's. He unbuckled from around his waist a sword belt, laying on the table near at hand a sword with every appearance of having been well and skillfully used.

"When do we get our pay?"

"After we drive out the goblins. He'll make us earn it."

"Of course," said the mage, "and he won't be out any cash to those who die. What took you so long?"

"The town is packed! Every mercenary this side of Ansalon is here, not to mention horse traders, camp followers, swordmakers, and every kender not currently behind bars. We'll be lucky to find a place in a field to spread our blankets this night."

"Hullo, Caramon!" called out a leather-armor-clad man, coming over to the table and clapping the warrior on the back. "Mind if I share your booth?" he asked, starting to sit down. "It's standing room only in this place. This your twin I've heard so much about? Introduce us."

The mage lifted his head, fixed his gaze upon the stranger.

Golden eyes with pupils the shape of an hourglass glittered in the shadows of the red hood. The light in the inn glinted off golden skin. Near at hand stood a wooden staff — obviously and ominously magical — topped by a multifaceted crystal clutched in a dragon's claw. Gulping, the man rose quickly to his feet and, with a hasty farewell to Caramon, took his ale to a distant comer of the room.

"He looked at me as if he saw me on my deathbed!" muttered the man to more congenial companions.

"It's going to be a cold night tonight, Raist," said the warrior to his brother in a low voice when the two were again alone. "It smells like snow in the air. You shouldn't sleep outside."

"And where would you have me sleep, Caramon?" asked the mage in a soft, sneering voice. "In a hole in the ground, like a rabbit, for that is all we can aff — ." He broke off in a fit of coughing that left him breathless.

His twin gazed at him anxiously. Pulling a coin from a shabby purse he wore at his belt, Caramon held it up. "We have this, Raist. You could sleep here tonight and the next night."

"And what would we do for food in the interim, my brother? We won't get paid for a fortnight, at least."

Caramon lowered his voice and, leaning across the table, grasped hold of his brother's arm to draw him near. "I could snare us something, if need be."

"You'd be the one to end up in a snare, you fool!" The mage jerked away from his brother's touch. "The lord's men are all over the woods, hunting for poachers with only slightly less enthusiasm than they're hunting for goblins. No, we'll return to camp tonight. Don't fuss over me. You know how I hate it. I'll be fine. I've slept in worse places."

Raistlin began to cough again, the spasms shaking his frail body until it seemed he must split apart. Pulling out a cloth, he pressed it over his mouth. Those who glanced at him in concern saw that, when the mage withdrew the cloth, it was covered with blood.

"Fix me my drink!" he ordered Caramon, his lips forming the words for he had momentarily lost the power of speech. Collapsing in a comer, he closed his eyes and concentrated on drawing breath. Those near could hear the air whistle in his lungs.

Caramon peered through the crowd, attempting to find the barmaid, and shouted for boiling hot water. Raistlin slid a pouch across the table toward his brother, who picked it up and carefully measured out some of its contents into a mug. The inn's proprietor himself came bustling over with the hot water in a steaming kettle. He was just about to pour when a sudden shouting rose up around the door.

"Hey, there! Get out you little vermin! No kender allowed!" cried several of the guests.

"Kender!" Kettle in hand, the proprietor ran off in panic.

"Hey!" shouted Caramon after the flurried innkeeper in exasperation, "you forgot our water!"

"But I tell you I have friends here!" A shrill voice rose up from the doorway. "Where? Why," — there was a moment's pause — "there! Hi, Caramon! Remember me?"

"Name of the Abyss!" muttered Caramon, hunching up his big shoulders and ducking his head.

A short figure, about the stature of a twelve-year old human, with the face of a man of twenty and the wideeyed innocent expression of a babe of three, was pointing gleefully at the booth of the warrior and his brother. The figure was clad in a bright green tunic and orange striped hose. A long tassel of hair was twisted round his head and hung down his back. Numerous pouches containing the possessions of everyone who had been unfortunate enough to cross his path hung from his belt.

"You're answerable for him, then," said the proprietor grimly, marching the kender across the room, one hand gripping the slight shoulders firmly. There was a wild scramble as men stuffed their purses inside their shirts, down their pants, or wherever else they thought their valuables might be safe from a kender's light and nimble fingers.

"Hey! Our water!" Caramon made a grab for the innkeeper but got a handful of kender instead.

"Earwig Lockpicker," said the kender, holding out his hand politely. "Friend of Tasslehoff Burrfoot's. We met at the Inn of the Last Home. I couldn't stay long. There was that misunderstanding over the horse. I told them I didn't steal it. I can't think how it came to follow me."

"Maybe because you were holding firmly onto the reins?" suggested Caramon.

"Do you think so? Because I — Ouch!"

"Drop it!" said Raistlin, his thin hand closing tightly over the kender's wrist.

"Oh," said Earwig meekly, releasing the pouch that had been lying on the table and was now making its way into the kender's pocket. "Is that yours?"

The mage cast a piercing, infuriated glare at his brother, who flushed and shrugged uncomfortably. "I'll get that water for you, Raist. Right now. Uh, Innkeeper!"

"Well, look over there!" said the kender, squirming around in his seat to face the front door as it dosed behind a small group of travelers. "I followed those people into town. You can't imagine," he said in an indignant whisper that carried clearly across the room, "how rude that man is! He should have thanked me for finding his dagger, instead of — "

"Greetings, sir. Greetings, my lady." The proprietor bobbed and bowed officiously. The heavily cloaked man and woman were, to all appearances, well dressed. "You'll be wanting a room, no doubt, and then dinner. There's hay in the stable for your horses."

"We'll be wanting nothing," said the man in a harsh voice. He was carrying a young boy in his arms and, as he spoke, he eased the child to the floor, then flexed his arms as though they ached. "Nothing except a seat by your fire. We wouldn't have come in except that my lady-wife is not feeling well."

"Not well?" The innkeeper, backing up, held out a dish cloth in front of him as a sort of shield and eyed them askance. "Not the plague?"

"No, no!" said the woman in a low, cultivated voice. "I am not ill. I am just tired and chilled to the bone, that is all." Reaching out her hand, she drew her son near. "We have walked a great distance."

"Walked!" muttered the innkeeper, not liking the sound of that. He looked more closely at the family's dress.

Several of the men standing around the fire moved to one side. Others hurried to draw up a bench, and the overworked barmaid, ignoring her waiting customers, put her arm around the woman and helped her to a seat. The woman sank down limply.

"You're white as a ghost, milady," said the barmaid. "Let me bring you a posset of honey and brandywine."

"No," said the man, moving to stand by his wife, the child clinging to his father. "We have no money to pay for it."

"Tut, tut. Talk of money later," said the barmaid briskly. "Call it my treat."

"We'll not take charity!" The man's voice rose to a angry shout.

The boy shrank close to his mother, who glanced at her husband, then lowered her eyes. "Thank you for your kind offer," she said to the barmaid, "but I need nothing. I'm feeling much better already."

The proprietor, stalking his guests, noted that by firelight their clothes were not nearly so fine as they had first seemed. The man's cloak was frayed at the hem and travel worn and stained with mud. The woman's dress was clean and neat but many times mended. The boy, who appeared to be about five or six, was clad in shirt and trousers that had probably once been his father's, cut down to fit the boy's small, thin frame. The proprietor was about to hint broadly that only those who spent money in his inn had a right to his fire when he was distracted by a scream from inside the kitchen.

"Where's that kender?" the innkeeper cried out in alarm.

"Right here!" shouted Earwig eagerly, raising his hand and waving. "Do you want me?"

The proprietor cast him a baleful glance, then fled.

"Humpf," said Caramon in an undertone, his eyes on the woman. She had shoved the hood of her cloak back with a weary hand, revealing a pale, thin face once beautiful, now anxious and worn with care and fatigue. Her arm stole around her son, who was gazing up at her in concern, and she hugged the boy close. "I wonder when the last time was those two had anything to eat," Caramon muttered.

"I can ask them," offered Earwig helpfully. "Hey, lady, when — Ulp!"

Caramon clamped his hand over the kender's mouth.

"It's no concern of yours, my brother," snapped Raistlin irritably. "Get that imbecile innkeeper back here with the hot water!" He began to cough again.

Caramon released the wriggling kender (who had actually been silent for as long as three minutes on account of having no breath left with which to talk) and heaved his great bulk to his feet, peering over the heads of the crowd for the proprietor. Smoke was rolling out from under the kitchen door.

"I think he's going to be a while, Raist," said Caramon solemnly. "I'll get the barmaid."

He tried to catch the barmaid's eye, but she was hovering over the woman.

"I'll go and fix you a nice cup of tarbean tea, milady. No, no. It's all right. There's no charge for tarbean tea in this inn. Is there?" she said, flashing a threatening look at the other customers.

"No, no. No charge. None," chorused the men in response.

The cloaked and booted man frowned, but swallowed whatever words he might have wanted to say.

"Hey, over here!" Caramon shouted, but the barmaid was still standing in front of the woman, twisting her apron in her hands.

"Milady," she began hesitantly, in a low voice, "I've been speaking to cook. We're that busy tonight we're short-handed. It would be a gift of charity, milady, if you could help us out. It'd be worth a night's lodging and a meal."

The woman cast a swift and pleading glance up at her husband.

His face was livid. "No wife of a Knight of Solamnia will work in an inn! We'll all three starve and go to our graves first!"

"Uh, oh," muttered Caramon and eased himself back into his seat.

Talking and bantering and laughter ceased, the silence falling gradually as word circulated. All eyes went to the man. Hot blood flooded his cheeks. He had obviously not meant to reveal such a thing about himself. His hand went to his smooth-shaven upper lip, and it seemed to those watching that they could almost see the long, flowing mustaches that marked a Knight of Solamnia. It was not unusual that he had shaved it off. For long centuries the Order had stood for justice and law on Krynn. Now the knights were hated and reviled, blamed for bringing down the wrath of the gods. What calamity had forced this knight and his family to flee their homeland without money and barely the clothes on their backs? The crowd didn't know and most of them didn't care. The proprietor now wasn't the only one who wanted the knight and his family gone.

"Come along, Aileen," said the knight gruffly. He put his hand on his wife's shoulder. "We'll not stay in this place. Not when they cater to the likes of that!" His narrowed eyes went to Raistlin, to the red robes that proclaimed him a wizard and the magical staff that stood by his side. The knight turned stiffly to the barmaid. "I understand the lord of this realm seeks men to fight the goblins. If you could tell me where to find him — "

"He's seeking fighters," sang out a man in a far comer of the common room. "Not pretty boys dressed up in fancy iron suits."

"Ho, you're wrong, Nathan," called out another. "I hear His Lordship's lookin' for someone to lead a regiment — a regiment of gully dwarves!"

There was appreciative laughter. The knight choked with fury, his hand went to the hilt of his sword. His wife laid a gentle hand restrainingly on his arm. "No, Gawain," she murmured, starting to rise to her feet. "We will go. Come."

"Stay put, milady. And as for you…" The barmaid glared at the boisterous crowd. "Shut your mouths or that'll be the last cold beer I draw for anyone in this inn tonight."

Quelled by this awful threat, the men quieted. Putting her arm around the woman, the barmaid looked up at the knight. "You'll find His Lordship in the sheriff's hall, about a mile down the street. Go tend to your business, Sir Knight, and let your lady-wife and the boy rest. There's a lot of rough men down there," she added, seeing the knight about to refuse. "It's no fit place for your child."

The proprietor came hurrying up. He would have liked dearly to throw all three out of his inn, but he could see the crowd was siding with his barmaid in favor of the woman. Having just put out a grease fire in the kitchen, the last thing he needed was a riot.

"Go, Sir Knight, will you, please?" pleaded the innkeeper in a low voice. "We'll take good care of your lady."

The knight seemingly had no choice. Gnawing his lip, he gave an ungracious assent. "Galeth, watch over your mother. And speak no word to anyone." Glancing meaningfully at the mage, the knight drew his cloak around his shoulders, cast his hood over his face, and stalked out of the inn.

"His Lordship'll have nothing to do with a Knight of Solamnia," prophesied Caramon. "Half the army would quit if he hired him. What did he look at you like that for, Raist? You didn't say anything."

"The knights have no love for magic. It's something they can neither control nor understand. And now, my brother, the hot water! Or are you going to watch me die here in this wretched inn?"

"Oh, uh, sure, Raist." Caramon stood up and began searching the crowd for the barmaid.

"I'll go!" Earwig leaped to his feet and skipped out of reach to disappear into the crowd.

Talk and laughter resumed. The proprietor was arguing over the tab with a couple of his patrons. The barmaid had disappeared back into the kitchen. The knight's wife, overcome by weariness, lay down upon the bench. The boy stood protectively near her, his hand on her arm. But his gaze strayed to the red-robed magic-user.

Raistlin cast a swift glance at his brother. Seeing Caramon preoccupied in attempting to capture the barmaid's attention, the mage made a slight, beckoning gesture with his hand.

Nothing appears as sweet as fruit we are forbidden to eat. The boy's eyes widened. He looked around to see if the mage meant someone else, then looked back at Raistlin, who repeated the gesture. The boy tugged gently at his mother's sleeve.

"Here, now. Let your ma sleep," scolded the barmaid, hustling past, a tray of mugs in her hands. "Be good for a few moments, and when I come back I'll bring you a treat." She vanished into the crowd.

"Hey, there! Barmaid!" Caramon was waving his arms and bellowing like a bull.

Raistlin cast him an irritated glance, then turned back to the boy.

Slowly, drawn by irresistible curiosity and fascination, the child left his mother's side and crept over to stand near the mage.

"Can you really do magic?" he asked, round-eyed with wonder.

"Here, there!" Caramon, seeing the kid apparently bothering his brother, tried to shoo him away. "Go on back to your ma."

"Caramon, shut up," said Raistlin softly. He turned his golden-eyed gaze on the boy. "Is your name Galeth?"

"Yes, sir. I was named after my grandfather. He was a knight. I'm going to be a knight, too."

Caramon grinned at his brother. "Reminds you of Sturm, doesn't he? These knights, they're all daft," he added, making the mistake that most adults make in thinking that children — because they are small — have no feelings.

The boy flared up like dry tinder cast in the fire. "My father's not daft I He's a great man!" Galeth flushed, realizing perhaps that his father hadn't seemed all that great. "It's just that he's worried about my mother. He and I can do without food, we're men. But my mother…" His lower lip began to tremble, his eyes filled with tears.

"Galeth," said Raistlin, casting Caramon a glance that sent the big man back to shouting for the barmaid, "would you like to see some magic?"

The boy, too awed to speak, nodded.

"Then bring me your mother's purse."

"Her purse is empty, sir," said the boy. Even though young, he was old enough to understand that this was a shameful thing, and his cheeks flushed.

"Bring it to me," said Raistlin in his soft, whispering voice.

Galeth stood a moment, undecided, torn between what he knew he should be doing and what he longed to do. Temptation proved too strong for his six years. Turning, he ran back to his mother and gently, without disturbing her rest, slipped her purse from the pocket of her gown. He brought it back and handed it to Raistlin, who took it in his long-fingered, delicate hands and studied it carefully. It was a small leather bag embroidered with golden thread, such as fine ladies use to carry their jewels. If this one had ever had jewels in it, they had long since been sold to buy food and clothing.

The mage turned the purse inside out and shook it. It was lined with silk and was, as the boy said, pitifully empty. Then, shrugging, Raistlin handed it back to the boy. Galeth accepted it hesitantly. Where was the magic? He began to droop a little in disappointment.

"And so you are going to be a knight like your father," said Raistlin.

"Yes!" The boy blinked back his tears. "Since when, then, does a future knight tell a lie?" "I didn't lie, sir!" Galeth flushed. "That's a wicked thing!" "But you said the purse was empty. Look inside." Startled, the boy opened the leather bag. Whistling in astonishment, he pulled out a coin, then gazed at Raistlin in delight.

"Go put the purse back, quietly now," said the mage. "And not a word to anyone about where the coin came from, or the spell will be broken!"

"Yes, sir!" said Galeth solemnly. Scurrying back, he slipped his mother's purse into her pocket with the stealthy skill of a kender. Squatting down next to her on the floor, he began to chew on a piece of candied ginger the barmaid tossed to him, pausing every now and then to share a conspiratorial grin with the mage.

"That's all well and good," grunted Caramon, leaning his elbows on the table, "but what do WE do now for food for the next week?"

"Something will turn up," said Raistlin calmly. Raising his frail hand, he made a weak gesture and the barmaid hurried to his side.

The soft glow of twilight darkened to night. The inn became even more crowded, hot, and noisy. The knight's wife slept through the turmoil, her exhaustion so apparent that many looked upon her with pitying eyes and muttered that she deserved a better fate. The boy fell asleep, too, curled up on the floor at his mother's feet. He never stirred when Caramon lifted him in his strong arms and tucked him near his mother. Earwig returned and sat down next to Caramon. Flushed and happy, he emptied out his bulging pouches onto the table and began to sort their contents, keeping up a nonstop, one-sided conversation at the same time.

After two hours, Sir Gawain returned. Each man in the inn who saw him enter nudged a neighbor into silence so that all were quiet and watching him attentively as he stepped into the common room.

"Where's my son?" he demanded, staring around darkly.

"Right here, safe and warm and sound asleep," answered the barmaid, pointing out the slumbering child. "We haven't made off with him, if that's what you're thinking."

The knight had grace enough to look ashamed. "I'm sorry," Gawain said gruffly. "I thank you for your kindness."

"Knight or barmaid, death takes us all alike. At least we can help one another through life. I'll wake your lady."

"No," said Gawain and put out his hand to stop her. "Let her sleep. I want to ask you" — he turned to the proprietor — "if she and my son can stay the night. I will have money to pay you in the morning," he added stiffly.

"You will?" The proprietor stared at him suspiciously. "His Lordship hired you?"

"No," answered the knight. "It seems he has all the fighters he needs to handle the goblins."

An audible sigh whispered through the room. "Told you so," said Caramon to his brother.

"Shut up, you fool!" Raistlin returned sharply. "I'm interested to know where he's planning to find money this night."

"His Lordship says that there is a woodland not far from here, and in that woodland is a fortress that is of no use to him or to anyone because there is a curse laid upon it. Only — "

"A cursed fortress? Where? What kind of curse?" demanded an excited Earwig, scrambling up onto the table to get a better view.

"The Maiden's Curse," called out several in answer. "The fortress is called Death's Keep. No one who has entered it has ever returned."

"Death's Keep!" breathed the kender, misty-eyed with rapture. "What a wonderful-sounding place!"

"A true Knight of Solamnia may enter and return. According to His Lordship, it takes a true knight to lift the curse. I plan to go there and, with the help of Paladine, perform this deed."

"I'll come wi — " Earwig was offering magnanimously, when Caramon yanked the kender's feet out from underneath him, sending the green-clad figure sprawling face-first on the floor.

"His Lordship has promised to reward me well," concluded Gawain, ignoring the crash and the kender's protest.

"Uh, huh," sneered the proprietor, "And who's going to pay your family's bill if you don't return, Sir True Knight? You're not the first of your kind to go up there, and I've never seen a one come back!"

Nods and low voices in the crowd affirmed this.

"His Lordship has promised to provide for them if I fall," answered Gawain in a calm and steady voice.

"His Lordship? Oh, that's quite all right then," said the proprietor, happy once more. "And my best wishes to you, Sir Knight. I'll personally escort the lady and your boy — a fine child, if I may say so — to their room."

"Wait just a minute," said the barmaid, ducking beneath the proprietor's elbow and coming to stand in front of the knight. "Where's the mage who'll be going with you to Death's Keep?"

"No mage accompanies me," answered Gawain, frowning. "Now, if there is nothing further you want of me, I must leave." He looked down at his sleeping wife and, with a gentle hand, started to reach out to touch her hair. Fearing it would waken her, however, he drew back. "Good-bye, Aileen. I hope you can understand." Turning swiftly, he started to leave, but the proprietor grabbed his elbow.

"No mage! But didn't His Lordship tell you? It takes a knight AND a mage to lift the Maiden's Curse! For it was because of a knight and a mage that the curse was placed on the keep."

"And a kender!" Earwig shouted, scrambling to his feet. "I'm positive I heard that it takes a knight and a mage and a kender!

"His Lordship mentioned some legend about a knight and a mage," said Gawain scornfully. "But a true knight with faith in his god needs the help of no other being on Krynn."

Freeing himself of the proprietor's plucking hand, the knight started toward the door.

"Are you truly so eager to throw away your life, Sir Knight?" The sibilant whisper cut through the hubbub in the inn, bringing with it a deathlike silence. "Do you truly believe that your wife and son will be better off when you are dead?"

The knight stopped. His shoulders stiffened, his body trembled. He did not turn, but glanced back at the mage over his shoulder. "His Lordship promised. They will have food and a roof over their heads. I can buy them that, at least."

"And so, with a cry of 'My Honor is My Life' you rush off to certain defeat when, by bending that proud neck and allowing me to accompany you, you have a chance to achieve victory. How typical of you all," said Raistlin with an unpleasant smile. "No wonder your Order has fallen into ruin."

Gawain's face flushed in anger at this insult. His hand went to his sword. Caramon, growling, reached for his own sword.

"Put away your weapons," snapped Raistlin. "You are a young man, Sir Knight. Fortune has not been kind to you. It is obvious that you value your life, but, being desperate, you know no other way to escape your misfortune with honor." His lip twisted as he said the last word. "I have offered to help. Will you kill me for that?"

Gawain's hand tightened around the sword's hilt.

"Is it true that a knight and a mage are needed to lift the curse?" he asked of those in the inn. ("And a kender!" piped up a shrill voice indignantly.)

"Oh, yes. Truly," averred everyone around him.

"Have there been any who have tried it?"

At this the men in the inn glanced at each other and then looked at the ceiling or the floor or the walls or stared into their mugs.

"A few," said someone.

"How few?" asked Caramon, seeing that his brother was in earnest about accompanying the knight.

"Twenty, thirty maybe."

"Twenty or thirty! And none of them ever came back? Did you hear that, Raist? Twenty or thirty and none of them ever came back!" Caramon said emphatically.

"I heard." Using his staff to support him, Raistlin rose from the booth.

"So did I!" said Earwig, dancing with excitement.

"And we're still going, aren't we," Caramon said gloomily, buckling his sword belt around his waist. "Some of us, that is. Not you, Nosepicker."

"Nosepicker!" Hearing this foul corruption of a name long honored among kender, Earwig was momentarily paralyzed with shock and forgot to dodge Caramon's large hand. Catching hold of the kender by the long ponytail, the big warrior skillfully tied him by the hair to one of the inn's support posts. "The name's Lockpicker!" he shrieked indignantly.

"Why is it you're doing this, mage?" asked Gawain suspiciously as Raistlin walked slowly across the room.

"Yeah, Raist, why is it we're doing this?" Caramon shot out of the comer of his mouth.

"For the money, of course," said Raistlin coolly. "What other reason would there be?"

The crowd in the inn was on its feet, clamoring in excitement, calling out directions and advice and laying wagers on whether or not the adventurers would return. Earwig, tied fast, screamed and pleaded and begged and nearly yanked his hair out by the roots trying to free himself.

It was only the barmaid who saw Raistlin's frail hand very gently ruffle the sleeping child's hair in passing.

Half the patrons of the inn accompanied them down an old, disused path to the fringes of a thick forest. Here, beneath ancient trees that seemed ill-disposed to have their rest disturbed, the crowd bid them good fortune.

"Do you need torches?" one of the men shouted.

"No," answered Raistlin. "SHIRAK," he said softly, and the crystal ball on top of his staff burst into bright, beaming light.

The crowd gasped in appreciative awe. The knight glanced at the glowing staff askance.

"I will take a torch. I will not walk in any light that has darkness as its source."

The crowd bid them farewell, then turned back to the inn to await the outcome. Odds were running high in favor of Death's Keep living up to its name. The wager seemed such a sure thing, in fact, that Raistlin had some difficulty in persuading Caramon not to bet against themselves.

Torch in hand, the knight started down the path. Raistlin and his brother walked some paces behind, for the young knight walked so swiftly, the frail mage could not keep up.

"So much," said Raistlin, leaning on his staff, "for the courtesy of the knights."

Gawain instantly halted and waited, stony-faced, for them to catch up.

"Not only courtesy but just plain good sense to keep together in a forest as dark and gloomy as this one," stated Caramon. "Did you hear something?"

The three listened, holding their breaths. Tree leaves rustled, a twig snapped. Knight and warrior put hand to weapon. Raistlin slid his hand inside his pouch, grasping a handful of sand and calling to mind words of a sleep spell.

"Here I am!" said a shrill voice cheerfully. A small, green and orange figure burst into the light. "Sorry I'm late," said Earwig. "My hair got caught in the booth." He exhibited half of what had once been a long tassel. "I had to cut myself loose!"

"With MY dagger!" said Caramon, snatching it away.

"Is that one yours? Isn't that odd? I could have sworn I had one just like it!"

Sir Gawain came to a halt, scowling. "It is bad enough I must travel in the company of a magic-user — "

"I know," said Earwig, nodding sympathetically. "We'll just have to make the best of it, won't we?"

"Ah, let the little fellow come along," said Caramon, feeling remorseful when he looked at what had once been the kender's jaunty top-knot. "He might come in handy if we're attacked."

Gawain hesitated, but it was obvious that the only way to get rid of the kender would be to slice him in two, and though the Oath and the Measure didn't specifically ban a knight from murdering kender, it didn't exactly encourage it, either.

"Attack!" he snorted. The knight resumed his pace, Earwig skipping along beside him. "We are in no danger until we reach the keep. At least so His Lordship told me."

"And what else did His Lordship tell you?" Raistlin asked, coughing.

Gawain glared at him dourly, obviously wondering of what use this sickly mage would be to him.

"He told me the tale of the Maiden's Curse. A long time ago, before the Cataclysm, a wizard of the red robes — such as yourself — stole away a young woman from her father's castle and carried her to this keep. A knight, the young woman's betrothed, discovered the abduction and followed after to rescue her. He caught up with the mage and his victim in the keep in this forest.

"The wizard, furious at having his evil plans thwarted, called upon the Queen of Darkness to destroy the knight. The knight, in his turn, called for Paladine to come to his aid. The forces unleashed in the ensuing battle were so powerful that they not only destroyed the wizard and the knight, but they have, even after death, continued to drag others into their conflict."

"And you wouldn't let me make that bet!" said Caramon reproachfully to his brother.

Raistlin did not appear to hear him. He was, seemingly, lost in thought.

"Well," said Gawain abruptly, "and what do you think of that tale?"

"I think that, like most legends, it has outgrown the truth," answered Raistlin. "A wizard of the red robes, for example, would not call upon the Queen of Darkness for aid. That is something only wizards of the black robes do."

"It seems to me," said Gawain grimly, "that your kind dabbles in darkness no matter what color robes they wear — the fox cloaking himself in sheep's wool, so the saying goes."

"Yeah," retorted Caramon angrily. "And I've heard a few sayings myself about YOUR kind, Sir Kettle-head. One goes — "

"That will do, my brother," remonstrated Raistlin, his thin fingers closing firmly over Caramon's arm. "Save your breath for what lies ahead."

The group continued on in a silence that was tense and smoldering.

"What happened to the maiden?" Earwig asked suddenly. All three started, having forgotten, in their preoccupation, the kender's presence.

"What?" growled Gawain.

"The maiden. What happened to her? After all, it's called the Maiden's Curse."

"Yes, it is," said Raistlin. "An interesting point."

"Is it?" Earwig jumped up and down gleefully, scattering the contents of his pouches across the path and nearly tripping Caramon. "I came up with an interesting point!"

"I don't see why it's called the Maiden's Curse, except that she was the innocent victim," answered the knight as an afterthought.

"Ah," said Earwig with a gusty sigh. "An innocent victim. I know what that feels like!"

The three continued on their way. The walking was easy, the path through the forest was smooth and straight. Too smooth and too straight, according to Caramon, who maintained that it seemed bound and determined to deliver them to their doom as swiftly as possible. Several hours after midnight, they arrived at the fortress known as Death's Keep.

Dark and empty, its stone facade glimmered grayish white in the lambent light of the stars and a pale, thin silver moon. Massive and stalwart, the keep had been designed for function, not beauty. It was square, with a tower at each comer for the lookouts. A wall connecting the towers surrounded a structure whose main purpose had probably been to house troops. Large wooden doors, banded with steel, permitted entrance and egress.

But no soldiers had come here in a long, long time. The battlements were crumbling and in some places had completely fallen down. The walls were split by gigantic cracks, perhaps caused by the Cataclysm, perhaps by the supposedly magical battle that had been fought within. One of the towers had collapsed in upon itself, as had the roof of the central building, for they could see the skeletal outline of broken beams show up black against the myriad glistening stars.

"The keep is deserted," said Caramon, staring at it in disgust. "There's no one here, magical or otherwise. I'm surprised those jokers back at the inn didn't send us out here with a bag and tell us to stand in the middle of the path yelling, 'here, snipe!'"

"That will be the task I set for you, my bumbling brother!" Raistlin began to cough, but stifled the sound in his sleeve. "Death's Keep is NOT deserted! I hear voices plainly — or I could if you would silence yours!"

"I, too, hear someone calling out," said Gawain, awed. "A knight of my order is trapped in there, and he shouts for help!" The knight, sword in hand, bolted forward. "I'm coming!" he shouted.

"Me, too!" cried Earwig, leaping in a circle around Raistlin. "I hear voices! I'm positive I hear voices! What are they saying to you? Do you want to know what they're saying to me? 'Another round of ale!' That's what I hear them calling out."

"Wait!" Raistlin reached to grasp the knight, but Gawain was running swiftly toward huge double wooden doors. Once this gate would have been closed, locked fast against any foe. Now it stood ominously open. "He's an imbecile! Go after him, Caramon! Don't let him do anything until I get there!"

"Another round of ale?" Caramon gazed blankly at his brother.

"You blithering dunderhead!" Raistlin hissed through clenched teeth. He pointed a trembling finger at the keep. "I hear a voice calling to ME, and I recognize it as coming from one of my own kind! It is the voice of a mage! I think I am beginning to understand what is going on. Go after him, Caramon! Knock him down, sit on him if that is all you can do to hold him, but you must prevent Gawain from offering his sword to the knight!"

"Knight? What? Oh, all right, Raist! I'm going. No need to look at me like that. C'mon, Nosepicker."

Earwig's topknot bobbed indignantly. "That's Lock — . Oh, never mind! Hey, wait up!"

Caramon, followed by the jubilant kender, dashed off after the knight, but he was late in starting and Gawain had already rushed headlong into the keep. Reaching the wooden doors, Caramon hesitated before entering and cast an uneasy glance back at his brother.

Raistlin, leaning on his staff, was walking as fast as he could, coughing with nearly every step until it seemed he must drop. Still, he kept going, and he even managed to lift his staff and angrily gesture with it to Caramon, commanding him to enter the keep without delay.

Earwig had already darted inside. Discovering he was alone, he turned around and dashed back. "Aren't you coming? It's wonderfully dark and spooky in here. And you know what?" The kender sighed in ecstasy. "I really am beginning to hear voices. They want me to come and help them fight! Just think of that. Can I borrow your dagger?"

"No!" Caramon snarled. He, too, could hear the voices now. Ghostly voices.

"My cause is just! All know wizards are foul creatures, spawned of darkness. For the pride and honor of our Order of the Sword, join with me!"

"My cause is just! All know the knights hide behind their armor, using their might to bully and threaten those weaker than themselves. For the pride and honor of our Order of the Red Robes, join with me!"

Caramon was beginning to get the uncomfortable feeling that the keep wasn't as deserted as he'd first thought. Reluctantly, wishing his brother were at his side, he entered the keep. The big warrior wasn't afraid of anything in this world that was made of flesh and blood. These eerie voices had a cold, hollow sound that unnerved him. It was as if they were shouting to him from the bottom of a grave.

He and the kender stood in a long passage leading from the outer wall to the inner hall. The corridor was adorned with various defensive mechanisms for dealing with an invading enemy. He could see starlight through arrow slits lining the cracked stone walls. Bereft of his brother's lighted staff and the knight's torch, Caramon was forced to grope his way through the darkness, following the flickering flame shining ahead of him, and he nearly bashed his head on an iron portcullis that had been partially lowered from the ceiling.

"Which side do you want to be on?" Earwig asked eagerly, tugging at Caramon's hand to drag him forward. "I think I'd like to be a knight, but then I've wanted to be a mage, too. I don't suppose your brother would let me borrow his staff — "

"Hush!" ordered Caramon harshly, his voice cracking in his dry throat.

The corridor was coming to an end, opened into a great, wide hall. Sir Gawain was standing right in front of him, holding the torch high and shouting out words in a language the big warrior didn't understand but guessed to be Solamnic.

The clamoring of the voices was louder. Caramon felt them tugging him in both directions. But another voice, a voice within him, was stronger. This voice was his brother's, a voice he loved and trusted, and he remembered what it had said.

YOU MUST PREVENT GAWAIN FROM OFFERING HIS SWORD TO THE KNIGHT!

"Stay here," he told Earwig firmly, placing his hand on the kender's shoulder. "You promise?"

"I promise," said Earwig, impressed by Caramon's pale and solemn face.

"Good." Turning, Caramon continued down the corridor and came up in back of the knight.

"What's happening?" Earwig writhed with frustration. "I can't see a thing from here. But I promised. I know! He didn't mean me to say HERE, in this one spot. He just meant me to stay here — in the keep!" Happily, the kender crept forward, Caramon's dagger (which he had appropriated) in his hand.

"Oh, my!" breathed Earwig. "Caramon, can you see what I see?"

Caramon could. On one side of the hall, their bodies encased in shining armor, their hands grasping swords, stood a troop of knights. On the other side stood an army of wizards, their robes fluttering around them as if stirred by a hot wind. The knights and the wizards had turned their faces toward the strangers who had entered, and Caramon saw in horror that each one of them was a rotting corpse.

A knight materialized in front of his troops. This knight, too, was dead. The marks of his numerous wounds could be seen plainly on his body. Fear swept over Caramon, and he shrank back against the wall, but the knight paid no attention either to him or the transfixed kender standing by his side. The fixed and staring eyes of the corpse looked straight at Gawain.

"Fellow knight, I call upon you, by the Oath and the Measure, to come to my aid against my enemy."

The dead knight gestured and there appeared, standing some distance from him, a wizard clad in red robes that were torn and stained black with blood. The wizard, too, was dead and had, it seemed from his wounds, died most horribly.

Earwig started forward. "I'll fight on your side if you'll teach me how to cast spells!"

Caramon, catching hold of the kender by the scruff of his neck, lifted him off his feet and tossed him backward. Slamming into the wall, the kender slid down to the floor where he spent an entertaining few moments attempting to breathe. Caramon reached out a shaking hand.

"Gawain, let's get out of — "

The knight thrust Caramon's hand aside and, kneeling on one knee, started to lay his sword at the knight's feet. "I will come to your aid, Sir Knight!"

"Caramon, stop him!" The hissing whisper slid over stone and through shadow. "Stop him or we ourselves are doomed!"

"No!" said the dead knight, his fiery eyes seeming to see Caramon for the first time. "Join my fight! Or are you a coward?"

"Coward!" Caramon glowered. "No man dares call me — "

"Listen to me, my brother!" Raistlin commanded. "For my sake, if for no other or I will be lost, too!"

Caramon cast a fearful look at the dead wizard, saw the mage's empty eyes fixed on Raistlin. The dead knight was leaning down to lift Gawain's sword. Lurching forward on stiff legs, Caramon kicked the weapon with his foot and sent it spinning across the stone floor.

The dead knight howled in rage. Gawain jumped up and ran to retrieve his weapon. Caramon, with a desperate lunge, managed to grab hold of the knight by the shoulders. Gawain whirled around and struck at him with his bare hands. The legion of dead knights clattered their swords against their shields, the wizards raised their hollow voices in a cheer that grew louder when Raistlin entered the room.

"What an interesting experience," said Earwig, feeling to see if any ribs were cracked. Finding himself in one piece, he rose to his feet and looked to see what was going on. "My goodness, someone's lost a sword. I'll just go pick it up."

"Wizard of the Red Robes!" The dead were shouting at Raistlin. "Join us in our fight!"

Caramon caught a glimpse of his brother's face from the comer of his eye. Tense and excited, Raistlin was staring at the wizards, a fierce, eager light in his golden eyes.

"Raist! No!" Caramon lost his hold on Gawain.

The knight clouted him on the jaw, sending the big warrior to the floor, and bounded after the sword, only to find Earwig clutching it tightly, a look of radiant joy on his face that began to fade as the knight approached.

"Oh, no," said the kender firmly, clutching the sword to his bosom. "Finders keepers. You obviously didn't want this anymore."

"Raist! Don't listen to them!" Caramon staggered to his feet. TOO LATE, he thought. His brother was walking toward the dead wizard, who was extending a bony hand for the glowing staff.

The chill fingers were nearly touching it when Raistlin suddenly turned the staff horizontally and held it out before him. The crystal's light flared, the dead wizard sprang back from the frail barrier as though it had scalded him.

"I will not join your fight, for it is an eternal fight!" Raistlin raised his voice above the clamoring. "A fight that can never be won."

At this, the dead ceased their calling. A brooding silence descended in the hall. Gawain ceased to threaten the kender and turned around. Earwig, suddenly losing interest in the sword, let it fall to the floor and hopped forward to see what was going on. Caramon rubbed his aching jaw and watched warily, ready to leap to his brother's defense.

Leaning on his staff, whose crystal seemed to shine more brightly in the chill darkness, Raistlin walked forward until he stood in the center of the hall. He looked first at the knight — the rotting, decaying face beneath a battered helm, a bony hand clutching a rusting sword. The young mage turned his golden-eyed gaze to the wizard — red robes, torn and slashed by sword thrusts, covering a body that had for centuries been denied the peace of death.

Then Raistlin, lifting his head, stared up into the darkness. "I would talk with the maiden," he called.

The figure of a young woman materialized out of the night and came to stand before the mage. She was fairhaired and pretty, with an oval face, rich brown hair, and blue eyes that were bright and spirited. So lovely was she, and so warm and seemingly alive, that it took some moments before Caramon realized she was long-since dead.

"YOU are the one who called down the curse, are you not?" asked Raistlin.

"Yes," the maiden answered in a voice cold as the end of the world. "Which side do you choose, mage? Here stands pride" — she gestured toward the knight — "and here stands pride" — she gestured toward the mage. "Which will you choose? Not that it much matters."

"I fight for neither," said Raistlin. "I do not choose pride. I choose," he paused, then said gently, "I choose love."

Darkness crashed down upon them with the weight and force of an avalanche, quenching even the magical light of the staff.

"Wow!" came the awed voice of the kender.

Caramon blinked and peered around, trying to see through the blackness, which was thick and impenetrable as solid stone. The ghostly armies were gone.

"Raistlin?" he called, panicked.

"I am here, my brother. Hush. Keep silent."

Feeling a hand grasp his shoulder, Caramon reached out and touched a warm human arm.

"Gawain?" he whispered.

"Yes," said the knight in strained tones. "What is happening? I don't trust that mage! He'll get us killed."

"So far it seems to me he's done a good job of keeping us alive," said Caramon grimly. "Look!"

"SHIRAK," said Raistlin and the crystal's light beamed brightly. Standing in front of Raistlin, illuminated by his staff, was the young woman.

"You have broken the curse, young mage," said the spirit. "Is there anything you would ask of me before I go to my long-awaited rest?"

"Tell us your story," said Raistlin. "According to the legend, the mage carried you off by force."

"Of course, that is what they have said, who never bothered to seek the truth!" said the spirit scornfully. "And their words were fuel to the fire of my curse. The truth is that the mage and I loved each other. My father, a Knight of Solamnia, forbade me to marry a wizard. He betrothed me to another knight, one whom I did not love. The mage and I ran off together. I left of my own free will to be with the man I loved. The knight followed us and we fled to this place, knowing that it had long been abandoned. The mage and I could have escaped, but he said that, for his honor, he must turn and fight. For his honor," she repeated bitterly. Her blue eyes stared into the shadows of the hall as though she could still see what had transpired there so long before. "Within these walls, he challenged the knight to battle and they fought — one with his sword, the other with his magic. They fought, for their honor!

"And I came to realize as I watched, helpless to prevent their quarrel, that neither loved me nearly so much as each loved his own misbegotten pride.

"When they were dead, I stood over their bodies and prayed to the gods that all men bound up in their own pride should come here and be held enthralled. Then I left this place and went forth into the world. I found a man who loved me truly enough to live for me, not die for me. I was blessed with a rich, full life, surrounded by love. After my death, my spirit returned to this place and has been here since, waiting for one who loved enough to ignore the voices" — her gaze went to Caramon — "and for one wise enough to break the spell.

"And now, young mage, you have freed them and you have freed me. I will go to my rest at the side of my husband who has waited patiently for me throughout the years. But first I would ask one thing of you. How was it that you saw and understood the truth?"

"I could say that I had a shining example of false pride before my eyes," said Raistlin, with a sidelong glance at the knight. Sir Gawain flushed and bowed his head. The mage, smiling slightly, added, "But it would be more truthful to say that it was mostly due to the curiosity of a kender."

"Me!" gasped Earwig, struck by this revelation. "That's me he's talking about! I did it! I lifted the curse! I TOLD you it had to be a knight, a mage, AND a kender!" The young woman's image began to fade. "Farewell," said Raistlin. "May your rest be undisturbed." "Fare you well, young mage. I leave you with a warning. Very nearly you succumbed. Your wits and your will saved you. But unless you change, I foresee a time when this doom you have now avoided will drag you down at last." The blue eyes closed, and were seen no more. "Don't go!" wailed Earwig, rushing around and grabbing at the empty air with his hands. "I've got so many questions! Have you been to the Abyss? What's it like being dead? Oh, please…"

Caramon came forward cautiously, his eyes on the place where the spirit had been, fearful that she might suddenly burst back to life. His big hand rested on his brother's shoulder.

"Raist," he said worriedly, "what did she mean by that?" "How should I know?" Raistlin snapped, pulling himself free of his brother's touch. He began to cough violently. "Go find wood to build a fire! Can't you see I'm freezing to death!"

"Sure, Raist," said Caramon gently. "C'mon, Earmite."

"Earwig," said the kender automatically, trudging after the big warrior. "Wait until Cousin Tas hears about this! Not even Uncle Trapspringer — the most famous kender of all time — ever ended a curse!"

Gawain remained standing in silence until Caramon and the kender had left the keep. Then, slowly, sword in hand, he approached the mage.

"I owe you my life," he said grudgingly, awkwardly. "By the Oath and the Measure, I owe you my allegiance." He held the sword — hilt first — out to the mage. "What would you have me do?"

Raistlin drew a shuddering breath. He glanced at the sword and his thin lip twisted. "What would I have you do? Break your Oath. Burn your Measure. As the maiden said, live for those you love. A time of darkness is coming to the world, Sir Knight, and love could well be the only thing that will save us."

The knight's lips tightened, his face flushed. Raistlin stared at him, unmoving, and the expression on Gawain's face altered from anger to one of thoughtful consideration. Abruptly, he slid his sword back into its sheath.

"Oh, and Sir Knight," said Raistlin coolly, "don't forget to give us our share of the reward."

Gawain unbuckled his sword belt and removed it from around his waist. "Take it all," he said, tossing sword and belt at the mage's feet. "I've found something of far greater value." Bowing stiffly, he turned and walked from the keep.

The red moon rose in the sky. Its eerie glow filtered through the crumbling walls of the ancient fortress, lighting the path. The mage remained standing in the empty hall. He could still feel, soft and silky beneath his fingers, the child's hair.

"Yes, Sir Knight, you have," said Raistlin. He stood a moment, thinking of the spirit's words. Then, shrugging, he tightened his grip on the magical staff. "DULAK", he said, and the light went out, leaving him to stand in darkness lit only by the rays of the red moon.

Dead on Target

Roger E. Moore

"There'd goes!" called a hobgoblin drunkenly in the last red light of evening. "There'd goes! S'goin' away!"

No cloud remained in the darkening sky. The wind picked up around me, the low roar almost drowning out the laughter of the hobgoblin sentries forty feet up the steep hillside at my back. From the sound of things, the two of them had long ago broken into one of the wine casks they'd taken from a farm near the outskirts of Twisting Creek, basking in the natural satisfaction hobgoblins get from killing unarmed farmers — like my cousins, Garayn and Klart.

I licked my lips and felt for the leather waterskin on my belt, preparing to untie it, but found the water was already low. I released it and leaned back against the rock face, keeping my arm close to my side so that the hobgoblins above wouldn't notice the movement in the dim light. My fingers closed over my sword hilt but stayed relaxed. The glow above the plain to the west was almost gone; Lunitari was a low, red crescent on the horizon, the only moon visible. Far overhead, the pantheon of gods was played out in the brightening stars. It was beautiful, but I could tell there'd be rain by tomorrow night. Scouts know these things.

"S'all gone!" called the hobgoblin again. "N'more sun!"

Several distant shouts came back, all curses in the coarse hobgoblins' tongue. "You basdards wanned me d'be a lookoud, and I'm looking oud!" the hobgoblin roared back hotly, then laughed again. He sounded as if he had a broken nose. "Bedder look oud for th' sdars! They're coming da ged ya!"

I'd gotten here only an hour ago but had already heard enough. About a dozen hobgoblins were camped out on this hilltop, near Solanthus's eastern border. Twisting Creek was two days to the southwest. On the other side of the low hills to the east, beyond the Garetmar River, was unclaimed territory populated by bandits, deserters, and hobgoblin garbage.

A hobgoblin snickered, then drunkenly mumbled a phrase that the wind carried away. Soon, both sentries would be dead to the world. They had nothing to fear that they knew of. They had been clever enough to raid light and avoid attracting too much unfavorable attention from Twisting Creek's militia. Hit fast, grab loot, and run — the same old formula. The hobgoblins had burned a few barns, killed some horses, and stolen some odds and ends before scurrying off. They didn't want a fight. They just wanted to rub it in that they were around.

I was Evredd Kaan: dark hair, dark eyes, good physique, ex-scout. I'd been out of the army since Neraka fell and my unit was disbanded. After that, I'd gone home to the city of Solanthus to find it mostly in ruins. I worked for a year on labor crews, shoveling ashes, rubble, and bones, sometimes taking night shift as a militiaman in a city overrun with beggars who stole to survive. Finally, I just quit and headed east for Twisting Creek, where my parents had lived years ago before fever took them. I worked on my uncle's farm and maintained the wagons for his trading business, which suffered more than a bit with the obnoxious hobgoblins around.

Three nights ago, the hobgoblins killed their first humans. Laughing Garayn and brooding Klart had been walking back from an evening in town when they were shot dead with crossbows. A hobgoblin dagger was found in one of the bodies. I watched as my neighbors wrapped my cousins for burial, then I went to my uncle and said I would be leaving for a few days.

"Family business," I said.

"Don't do anything foolish, my boy," my uncle urged. He was a big man with a pouchy face, hook nose, and receding hairline. Twisting Creek had been lucky enough not to be sacked and burned during the War of the Lance, ended just two years ago, and my uncle's business had survived. But now his two sons had been taken away from him, his life permanently scarred by the bad elements still roaming the land. "You're all I got left, Evredd."

"What I do," I said tersely, "won't be foolish." His eyes glazed over. His hands moved around the valuables on his desk, touching them reassuringly. Tears squeezed from his eyes.

"There's been killing enough," my uncle pleaded. "Let it go."

Needless to say, I didn't listen to him. My uncle had been absorbed in his business lately, locking himself in his study with his ledgers and cursing the hobgoblins' effect on trade, and now this. He seemed like a destroyed man.

I left town at dawn, taking food, my sword, and little else. I knew where part of the hobgoblins' old trails usually went, so I followed that course until a regular path appeared, six miles outside of town. The tracks stood out as if they had been laid down by a small army instead of a few raiders loaded down with loot. Two days later, I was here.

One of the hobgoblins above me belched like a giant frog croaking, then dropped a metallic cup and cursed. "S'my damn drink!" he moaned. "S'all spilled!"

The other sentry cleared his throat and spat. "There's yer drink," he said, sniggering. "Put it in yer cup."

"I'll give ya somethin' for yer cup," muttered the first, and a rock sailed off the top of the hill, over my head and about sixty feet past me. I kept quiet in case one went to look off the cliff. Hobgoblins are a fun-loving race when it comes to humans. They would have lots of fun with me, good hobgoblin fun, with whips, knives, hot irons — the works.

Another rock flew overhead, landing in the grass beyond.

"Throw one more, and ol' Garith'll set yer dumb ass on fire," said a hobgoblin testily.

"Ya godda find 'im, firs'," retorted the other. "S'nod comin' back. Gonna live like a huuu-man now. Thinks 'e's so good."

"He's comin' back," snapped the first. "Didn't I tell him we wouldn't wait long 'fore we began to tear things up? He knows we'll cause trouble. Little toad-belly knows we want action. We got to keep movin', not sittin' on assbruises. And you put that rock down or I'll give you a face that would scare a blind dwarf."

After several more minutes of arguing, the hobgoblins settled down in wine-sodden silence. I decided to move out again in a bit when the sentries were either dozing or too groggy from drink and lack of sleep to notice. Then I'd take them, one by one, the way I'd learned to during the war. Only the crickets could be heard in the darkness. I sighed, waiting, fingers on my sword hilt.

Something punched my chest. Pain shot through my left lung, hurting far worse than anything that had ever happened to me at Neraka. I looked down, my hands involuntarily going for the source of the pain, and saw a short, feathered shaft sticking out of my leather surcoat, next to my heart. I could tell the arrow had gone right through me. I was never more surprised to see anything in my life.

Son of a bitch, I thought, desperately trying not to breathe or scream. They'd found me; the hobgoblins had found me. But how in the Abyss did they do that? I never heard them coming. I stood there like an idiot, looking down at the arrow shaft and wondering why the hobgoblins weren't now calling out in alarm. The shock and pain of being hit was too much to take. I couldn't think.

Something prickly and cold spread through my bloodstream from the wound. The pain ceased and became a cloud of nothingness, as if my chest had disappeared. My will broke then and I tried to scream, but I couldn't inhale. It seemed like a huge weight pressed against my rib cage, keeping out the air. I slumped back against the rock face, my vision swimming, my hands clutching the wound.

It came to me then that I was going to die. There was nothing I could do. I didn't want to die, not then, not ever. I wanted to go home. I wanted to breathe. I wanted to live. For a moment I thought of Garayn and Klart. I could al most see their faces before me.

The numbness reached my head. Everything became very light and airy. I felt a rushing sensation, as if I were falling.

This wasn't right, came a mad thought. The hobgoblins killed me. They'd killed my cousins, and now they'd killed me. It wasn't right, and I wanted them to pay for it in the worst way.

That was my last mortal thought.

I was having the worst of all nightmares, worse than the red dreams I'd once had of Neraka. I dreamed I was dead and buried. Ice-cold rain fell without end on me, trickling down on lifeless flesh. My body was dead-numb, my limbs chained down. I was hollow, a shell of nothing in the earth. I fought to wake up or even move a muscle. I begged the great gods of Krynn to let me wake up.

No one heard me.

I begged them for mercy. I pleaded for justice.

No voice spoke in the darkness.

Then I cursed them, I cursed the gods, and I cried for revenge.

I became aware of a colorless light. Without thinking, I opened my eyes, my lips still moving.

Gray clouds rolled swiftly above me, ragged-edged. Cold droplets slapped my face and fell into my unblinking eyes. I couldn't move my limbs. I felt nothing, nothing at all but the cold, and I listened to the drumming of the rain against and around me.

The gray clouds rolled on for ages. The rain fell. Then a weight seemed to fall away, and I knew I could sit up.

Very slowly, I rolled onto my side and pushed myself upright. Every movement was unbalanced, and I swayed dizzily until I braced myself with my arms. The tilting scenery settled in my vision, and I looked around.

The landscape appeared odd in the rain-washed light, but I was still at the foot of the rocky cliff. It was late in the evening now. I didn't know the day. The long grass of the plain had been beaten down by rain some time ago. A light wind blew across the field, rippling the bent and broken stalks.

I sat there stupidly for a long time, then looked down at myself.

The butt of an arrow was projecting from my chest. After a few moments, I remembered how it got there, and thought I was lucky that it hadn't killed me.

Then, of course, I knew the truth.

I stared at the arrow for a long time. The rain eventually slowed. All was quiet except for the cawing of distant crows. I wasn't afraid, only dully surprised. No heartbeat sounded within me, no blood ran from my wound. I felt surprised, but nothing more.

I hated looking at the arrow in me. It wasn't right. It ought to come out. Carefully, I reached up and touched it, then tapped it hard. There was no pain, only a sense of its presence. I reached up and carefully tugged on the shaft. It didn't budge. Then I took it in both hands and broke off the arrow at the point where it entered my chest, having it in mind not to open the wound any further. I felt a need to keep my body looking as good as possible. Self-respect, maybe.

That done, I reached behind me with one hand to find that the arrow point stuck out of my back by an inch or two, between two ribs. After some difficulty in getting a proper grip, I slowly pulled the arrow out, then held both pieces of it before me.

The arrow was shorter than I'd expected; the arrowhead was small and grooved. It was actually a crossbow bolt, not a longbow arrow — a well-made bolt, too; dwarven-make. Doubtless the hobgoblins had been picking up good weaponry on their raids.

I rolled to my knees, then staggered to my feet and looked myself over. I was filthy with mud. My sword scabbard was empty, my boots were gone, my food pouch was untied, and my waterskin had been cut loose. I knew that my pouch had been tied before I had been killed. My murderer must have checked me for loot. I had done it myself at Neraka, searching dead hobgoblins after the battles. I hadn't brought anything with me but a few odds and ends. I opened the pouch flap and found it was empty now. I looked down at my feet and saw my food in the mud and water. None of the food had been eaten; all was ruined. The boots and waterskin lay further away, slashed open. The sword was nowhere around, but the killer had undoubtedly taken it, probably discarded it later. It was cheaply made. My murderer was thorough.

I tossed the pieces of the bolt to the ground. I looked at my arms as I did so and realized that, for a dead person, I didn't look half bad. My skin was very pale, almost dull white. My hands and arms looked thinner than I'd remembered, more bony and less puffy and full. My trousers, boots, and surcoat were muddy and soaking wet, and my surcoat was also badly stained with what had to be blood. I must not have been dead for very long, maybe only a day or two.

I couldn't see my own face, of course. For that small blessing I felt curiously grateful. I touched my short beard and mustache, wiped them as free of dirt as I could, then adjusted my leather surcoat and brushed at the small hole in the front as if I had just spilled food there. My long, thin fingers were like icicles, but the cold was almost comfortable.

A stick snapped, the sound coming from somewhere beyond the edge of the cliff above me. I looked up, saw no faces, only clouds and rain.

Damn hobgoblins had probably forgotten about me, left me here for animals to feed on. Maybe they were still drunk.

Maybe I should find out.

I examined the cliff face. It was weathered and old, full of cracks and plant roots. It was worth a try. Wedging my bone-thin fingers into a vertical split in the rock, I found a foothold and began the ascent.

It took time to go up the cliff, but I didn't mind the climb. I felt no pain at all. I wondered what the hobgoblins would do when they saw me. I couldn't wait to find out. I had no sword, but I had my bare hands, and I was already dead.

Just below the top, I hesitated listening. Someone was moving around up there; metal clinked, maybe chain armor. I had no fear of their weapons now, but I wanted surprise. I rocked slightly, then pulled myself up swiftly and quietly over the ledge.

At my feet in the tall wet grass lay a heavy-bodied figure, his misshapen head buried face-down in mud and brown water. A thick wolf pelt covered his shoulders and back. One gray-green hand was thrust forward, fingers digging into the wet ground. The hobgoblin looked as if he'd tripped over something while walking toward the cliff but had never gotten up. He wasn't going to get up, either. The crossbow bolt projecting from the back of his thick neck tipped me off. So did the hungry aura of black flies whirling around him.

He certainly hadn't been the one who snapped that stick I'd heard. Then, I saw who did. About twenty-five feet from me was a dwarf in an oilskin cloak. His back was to me. He bent over another fallen hobgoblin, his chain mail links clinked under the cloak. The dwarf straightened. He carried a bright, spike-backed war axe clutched in a leather-gloved fist. Then, looking around warily, he turned in my direction, revealing a wet and tangled brown beard, thick dark eyebrows, and small black eyes that widened violently when he saw me.

"Reorx!" the dwarf gasped. He swung the spikebacked axe in his right hand, his left arm coming up to block me if I rushed him. He took a half-crouch, feet set in a stance that could shift him in any direction. Another veteran of the war.

I raised my hands — palms out, fingers spread — and shook my head slowly. The dwarf didn't take the hint, still readied for an attack. The sight of him clutching that polished axe struck me as amusing, but I didn't smile.

I moved sideways to get away from the ledge, having none of the unsteadiness I'd felt earlier. The dwarf rotated to keep facing me.

I moved my lips to say something to him, but nothing came out. It took a moment to figure out why; then I drew a breath to fill my lungs. Part of my rib cage expanded, but there was an unpleasant sucking sound from my sternum and the sensation that the left side of my chest was not filling. I quickly reached up and placed my right hand inside the neckline of my surcoat to cover the bolt wound. I tried again.

"Don't worry," I said — and was startled to hear my own voice. It was burned hoarse, as if I had swallowed acid. I forced another breath in. "I won't hurt you," I finished with a gasp.

The dwarf gulped, never taking his eyes off me. A muscle twitched in his left cheek. "'Preciate the thought," he muttered. "I'll keep it in mind."

I was curious about the dead hobgoblins. I gave the dwarf an unconcerned shrug before kneeling to examine one of the fly-covered bodies. As I'd suspected, the bolt head projecting from the hobgoblin's neck was exactly the same type as the one that had hit me. I let my right hand drop from inside my shirt and reached out to examine the dirtied tip.

I quickly pulled my hand back. A strand of black tar clung to the bolt head, worked into some of the grooves. I had seen that stuff before, at Neraka. Black wax, my commander had called it. Deadly poison. A handful of the Nerakan humans had used it on their weapons, their idea of a special welcome for us. The gods only knew where they had gotten it; the Nerakans themselves hadn't known how to handle it. We would regularly find their bodies, snuggled into ambush points, with little spots of black wax on their careless lips or fingers.

I remembered the sensation of nothingness spreading inside me as I died, the bolt through my chest. I'd been the first that night to feel the poison's kiss. I figured my cousins must have felt it earlier still. Too bad I hadn't thought to examine their bodies.

I leaned over to continue checking the hobgoblin, who had probably outweighed me by a hundred pounds in life. He was a thick-necked brute; his clothes and armor were as dirty as his skin. Knife slashes had opened up his belt pouch, now empty, and the sides of his armor and boots. He was also missing his left ear. It appeared to have been cut cleanly away, below his helmet line.

I looked up at the dwarf, who hadn't moved, remembering to put my hand inside my shirt before I spoke. "What about him?" I asked hoarsely, pointing a clawlike finger at the dead hobgoblin behind him. I sounded like an animal learning to talk.

The dwarf eased up, but only by a hair. He stepped away from the body behind him, clearing my view. This hobgoblin lay face up, an arm flopped down beside an empty wine cask in the grass beside him. He'd been stabbed through the darkened leather armor over his abdomen. A second stab wound, blue-black now, was visible in his throat. His left ear was missing, too, cleanly cut away. He had not even gotten up; he had died sitting, then had fallen back.

I reached up and felt my own ears. Both were still intact.

"Maybe you could tell me a bit about what you want." The dwarf's voice was steady and low, his axe arm still raised for a strike or a throw.

I looked beyond the dwarf at the half-forested hilltop. No one else was around. "Looking for someone," I said finally.

This didn't answer everything, but the dwarf let it go for now. "Got a name?" he asked.

"Evredd," I said, the word sounding like a mumble. I covered the wound and said it again, more clearly.

The dwarf's flint-black gaze went to my chest. "You a dead boy, ain't you?" he said.

I found it hard to answer that. It wasn't something I wanted to face.

"You a rev'nant, I bet," the dwarf went on, knowingly. "Been dead a bit, I can tell. I seen dead boys before, but not walkin' ones like you. You a rev'nant, come back to get your killer man. That right?"

He was talkative for a dwarf. "Who did this?" I asked him, indicating the bodies.

The dwarf looked at me a while longer, then glanced around, one eye still on me. The sky was darkening with the coming sunset, but the rain had stopped. Behind the dwarf by a couple hundred feet, in a tree line, was an irregular outcropping of rock, overgrown with vines. A wide gully or eroded road ran out of the woods and undergrowth, then off along the top of the cliff toward the south.

"Can't say," said the dwarf, looking back at me, then down at the bodies. "Just got here myself." Rainwater dripped from the axe blade.

I stood up. The dwarf fell back, his face tight, and raised his axe arm.

"No," I said, but it came out as a gasp. I put my hand inside my shirt. "No," I repeated. "How long… What day is this?"

"Sixteenth," he said, his eyes narrowing again.

I'd been dead for a day, then. The hobgoblins had hit on the twelfth, and I'd left on the next day. "Are more… people with you?" It was hard to get the words out in one breath. I'd need lots of practice at this.

The dwarf hesitated. "Just me," he said. The dwarf grinned nervously and adjusted the grip on his axe. "I didn't make you a dead boy, and if you a rev'nant, you ain't gonna attack me, I reckon. You save that for your killer."

I had no urge to bother the dwarf if he didn't bother me, so I guess he had a point. I scanned the ground for any clues to the identity of my murderer. The dwarf stayed back, but soon got up the nerve to examine the stabbed hobgoblin again, checking for valuables with one eye locked tight on me.

The heavy rain had destroyed virtually all the clues there were — tracks, crushed grass, everything. For all that, I could still put together a few things about my killer. He had used a crossbow, probably a dwarven one. He knew about weapon poison. He could probably climb cliffs; he must have gone right up this one after killing me, then hit the hobgoblins. They'd been drunk and tired, but the lack of other bodies indicated that he'd moved with considerable speed, killing them before they could shout warnings, even to each other.

But if he'd killed hobgoblins, why had he also killed me? He must have known I was after them, myself. And if he could see well enough to shoot me this accurately, he couldn't have mistaken me for hobgoblin scum. I pondered for a minute, then looked off the cliff. I could still see a man-shaped impression in the muddy ground below, where I had fallen. I scanned the field out to the horizon. About fifty feet to the west, away from the cliff base where I'd been shot, was a small dead tree with a briar bush cloaking the base of its trunk. I'd had my back to the cliff, facing west. The killer could well have been hiding out there somewhere in the darkness when he caught sight of me.

Yes, my killer was a damn good shot.

Maybe he could see in the dark, too.

"You know," said the dwarf casually, "hobs don't go in twos. Must be more dead 'uns somewhere here. Otherwise, we'd be covered in arrow stings 'bout now. Maybe we better look around."

The dwarf got to his feet. I'd almost forgotten he was there. Dwarves, I remembered, could see heat sources in the dark. So could elves and maybe wizards. Wizards couldn't use crossbows, though, and the elves I'd known in the war had universally despised them. Dwarves liked them.

"Hey," said the dwarf, waving his free hand, the other clenching the thick axe handle. "You deaf as well as dead?"

I shook my head, not wanting to talk much. "More of them?" I asked with one breath, indicating the nearest body.

The dwarf glanced back at the tree line. "Fort's back there," he said. "Old one. Bet we find 'em there."

I nodded, seeing now that the "outcropping" was really a half-collapsed wall. The distant shouts I'd heard the other hobgoblins give last night must have come from there.

The dwarf gave me a final look over. "Name's Orun," he said. He didn't put out his hand to clench my arm, as was the custom of most dwarves I'd known from these parts.

I nodded in return, then pointed in the direction of the fort. We left the bodies and started off. Orun made sure to keep a good two dozen feet between us. He was cautious, but he seemed to take to my presence. Either he had nothing against a walking corpse or else he was crazy.

But then I was dead, so I was no one to talk.

The fort in the trees was probably a relic from the times of the Cataclysm. Rough stone walls, the wooden double gate, a short stone-based tower to the left — all fallen into rot and ruin.

This place came with a third hobgoblin, lying facedown in the open gateway. The butt and fletching of yet another crossbow bolt was visible just under his leather armor; he'd fallen on it and broken the shaft after it had struck him. Humming flies circled over him, many feeding where his left ear had been. His arms were caught under him. He'd grabbed at the shaft, just as I had done. His sword was still nestled in its scabbard at his side. Another surprised customer.

Through the open gateway, we could see the fort's overgrown main yard, small when it was new but more so now with the bushes and trees thick in it. On the other side of the roughly square yard was the barracks building, its stone walls and part of its roof still standing. To the right, against a wall, was a low building that had probably been the stables. The tower to the left was mostly rubble. All was quiet except for the flies.

Orun glanced at me, then carefully leaned over the fallen hobgoblin and took hold of its rigid face with his free hand. Thick fingers poked at a gray cheek, then tugged down an eyelid to reveal a white eyeball.

"Dead 'bout a day," he muttered. He squinted up at me, then glanced around the fort's yard. "Think we're alone here," he added, matter-of-factly.

I nodded and went on through the gateway, the dwarf coming behind me.

The yard was largely covered with tall grass and thorn bushes. Trees stretched skyward by the stone walls. Someone, probably the hobgoblins, had partially covered the damaged barracks roof with animal hides. Pathways had been recently beaten through the tall grass, linking the barracks with the main gate. The stables to the right had their original roof and appeared more habitable than the other structures. The hobgoblins could stay safe and dry within the stables, firing through arrow slits at all intruders.

Intruders like us.

A squirrel ran lightly over the stable roof, stopped when it saw us, and watched with curiosity. It fled when I stared at it for too long.

"Bet you a steel," Orun said, pointing his axe at the barracks, "the rest of 'em's in there. Maybe your killer whatever's in there, too. Better go look."

We moved closer, Orun generously letting me lead. Dark shapes lay on the floor beyond the open barracks doorway. The dwarf stopped about thirty feet back from the single stone step, axe ready, watching both me and the doorway. He was no fool.

I hesitated only a moment before I mounted the step and went inside. The buzzing of insects filled my ears in the darkness. Weak light filtered in from the doorway and through holes in the makeshift roof. Water dripped constantly from above, splashing across the room.

As I looked around, I was glad to be dead. Not that the sight of bloated bodies affected me any longer as it once had on the bloody plains of Neraka. It was mere scenery now, shadows that held no terror. No one screamed, no one cried, nothing hurt. Everywhere I looked inside were bodies, and everywhere were black flies and crawling things at a morbid feast, carpeting the discolored, twisted bodies of the hobgoblin dead.

I counted eight bodies. Five clutched at their throats or faces. The rest gaped at the ceiling with bulging eyes and open, soundless mouths, their rigid arms grabbing at their chests or locked open in grasping gestures. It was hard to tell what they had been doing, but not one had made a move for his weapon. All swords were sheathed or leaning against the walls.

I looked around the room. There was a door to the right, apparently leading to the stables. The wood was gray with age and appeared ready to fall apart. It opened with ease.

Beyond the doorway it was very dark. I walked carefully to avoid stumbling over bodies that might be in the way. I didn't find any until I got into the stables themselves.

The hobgoblins had apparently cleaned up the stables and made them into a tidy home. Gray light leaked in from small holes in the ceiling and outer walls. The interior walls had long ago rotted away, but the hobgoblins had shoveled the debris with great efficiency. An ash-filled circle of stones served as a seat by a fire pit. A large mass of rotting cloth, half covering a pile of dry leaves, appeared to make up a bed. It was sufficient, if not cozy.

The body near the fire pit was the room's only occupant. I knelt down by it and took a long look. In life, it would have been the biggest hobgoblin I could have ever imagined — a head and a half taller than me. Even in the near darkness, I could still see a massive burned spot across the front of his hide armor. I'd seen its like only once before, when storm lightning had killed one of my uncle's horses in its pasture.

I looked up. The stables' roof was solid.

On impulse, I got up and walked over to the bed, searching the rags until I found a suitably long strip of cloth. This I wrapped around my chest with a bunched-up rag covering the bolt wound, then tied it off. I tried a few words and discovered that I could speak almost normally now, though I still sounded as if I had rocks in my throat instead of vocal cords.

"Thought I heard you talkin' to yourself," Orun muttered when I came outside. He'd moved closer to the barracks doorway, but the stench was obviously getting to him. He held his nose until he was away from it. "Any ideas what happened to our hob buddies?" He indicated the doorway with the axe.

I shook my head. The dwarf frowned and looked around. "What did for 'em?" he asked absently, then turned back to me. "There anyone else in there 'sides hobs?"

I shook my head no.

"No sign o' another dwarf, maybe? Kinda whitelookin' one, real ugly?"

Again, I shook my head, but more slowly. "Why?"

Orun looked away at the fort and mumbled something that I didn't catch.

"Sewer?" I repeated.

"No," he said in disgust, setting his axe down to rub his hands together. "Damn that runt. Theiwar."

The name was familiar. It had to do with a race of dwarves, I recalled. "Theiwar?"

"Jackals," he said thickly. "All of 'em are. Call 'emselves true dwarves, but no relation I ever heard of. Some of 'em throw spells, the tougher ones do. Never let a Theiwar get behind you 'less he's already dead, and then you'd still better think about it. Born for evil, all of 'em."

A dwarf that threw spells? I'd never heard of such a thing, but I was beyond the point of disbelieving almost anything now that I was dead. "What kind of spells?" I asked.

"Oh," he said, "all sorts. Some of 'em's killer-type spells. Poison-gas spell's one of 'em. Could be what did for our hob buddies in there." He indicated the barracks. "Don't know what all they can do."

"You're hunting a Theiwar?"

Orun grinned self-consciously. "Funny you ask. Am at that." He looked up at me. "Bounty hunter. Come from Kaolyn. You know Kaolyn? Nice place."

Kaolyn was a respectable dwarven mountain kingdom, about eighty miles southwest of Twisting Creek. "Why hunt a Theiwar?"

He stroked his damp beard. "Traitor to Kaolyn. Supposed to've been spyin' on the draconians and hobs for us, chiselin' out a few when he could. Some Theiwar'll help you for the love of steel in their hands; some'll help you for the love of killin'. We put 'em to use." He sighed. "Gotta be done. War is war."

"What happened?"

Orun snorted. "Loved the killin' part too much, that one. Wanted more for 'imself. Sold out to the Blue Dragonarmy, east of here, and got to spyin' on us instead. We caught on and went after 'im. Got away with a band of hobs, and I bet these are them. Same armor, same tribal markin's." He reached up and rubbed his eyes with his broad fingers. "Don't know if he was the one who did for his own band, or why. Been the Dark Queen's own spawn to catch, that's for sure. Got real good with them 'lusions, changing his looks and all." He glanced down at his spikebacked axe, lying against his leg, then picked it up and hefted it, feeling its weight. "Sure was lookin' forward to meetin' 'im."

"What was his name?"

"The Theiwar? Garith. No last name."

My curiosity was aflame. Could it have been the same Garith I'd heard the hobgoblins talking about? I was on the verge of asking more when everything inside my head changed.

The sun had just set. The darkness had diminished perceptibly within the last few moments, but I knew on an even deeper level that the sun had gone. Something inside me woke up. It was like seeing and hearing after being born without eyes or ears. It was as if I knew everything now, everything that really mattered.

"Evredd?" Orun called as I left the fort. "Evredd!" I heard him swear loudly, then hurry after me with a hardthumping gait.

I went to the edge of the cliff overlooking the place where I had been killed. There, past the bodies of the two hobgoblins, I stopped and gazed out to the southwest. Strength gathered in my limbs. My hands began to itch, and my fingers curled and uncurled uncontrollably.

All of a sudden I knew: I needed to head southwest as quickly as I could.

"Damn, you move fast for a dead boy," huffed Orun as he stopped behind me about twenty feet back. "You on to somethin', ain't you? I hear if you a rev'nant, you can smell your killer in the dark. You smell your boy out there?"

I turned and looked back at the dwarf. Another hand or two might be useful for what was coming.

"Follow me," I said, and started for the trail. I kept my stride slow so that Orun could keep up, but even then he had to jog. He followed and peppered me with questions that I ignored, then swore outrageously in frustration.

Ahead of me, miles away in the falling darkness, I sensed a presence moving. It wasn't really smell, and my night-awakened senses couldn't tell me who my killer was, but I knew where he was, exactly where.

If I hurried, maybe he and I could chat.

We walked for the entire night over lightly forested plains and across shallow streams. Orun kept up the pace beside me until he puffed like a horse, his chain-mail armor jingling rapidly as he moved. "Tired yet?" he asked once, but I never responded. The killer was ahead of us by a long distance.

"Doing okay myself," Orun said, sometime later. "Did this durin' the war. Marched two days once and never stopped." His words were almost lost as his breath gave out for a moment. "Fought an army o' hobs with my brothers right after that. Whipped 'em in one hour. Ran 'em right off into a canyon. Good day, you bet."

I said nothing. I was straining to see what else I could detect about my killer. I let my mind be open to everything.

"Like I said, I'm from Kaolyn," Orun went on, between his panting. "You know Kaolyn — up in the Garnets, nice place. I tell you that? Came out to see the world and fight in the war, been here and there ever since. You been to Kaolyn? Gotta see it sometime." I heard Orun pull free of a briar that caught his cloak. His armor clinked like a background song. "Real pretty in the spring."

The dwarf was silent before he asked, in a different tone, "Smell your killer man?"

I said nothing.

"Too damn nosy, that's me," he said with a sigh as he trotted along. "That's what they always said back at Kaolyn. Too damn nosy. I — "

"Yes," I told him, watching the dark fields ahead.

"Oh," Orun said, now haughty. "Well, now, I'm hardly as nosy as some people."

"Yes," I repeated, louder and more distinctly, "I can SEE my killer."

"Oh," Orun grunted, then said, "was told you smelled 'im." We traveled in silence for hours after that.

As the horizon in the east grew brighter, something began to slip out of my head. The clarity of mind I'd felt before ebbed away, and my sense of my killer's whereabouts grew elusive, foggy.

"Gettin' tired?" Orun asked, shortly before dawn. The sky was still overcast, and no rain had fallen.

"Tired?" Orun repeated a little later. I turned and saw rivers of sweat dripping from his face and beard.

"No," I said, not stopping. I could continue at this pace forever, but I'd noticed that my prey was slowing down. Was he tired already? He'd soon regret every pause for breath. "You?" I asked, wondering if Orun would make it.

"Haven't died yet," he said, then coughed and grew quiet for several minutes in embarrassment. He had eased the distance between us down to six feet during the night; he didn't increase it again. He seemed to be getting quite used to me.

The killer I was tracking continued to slow down as the cloud-hidden dawn approached. When the sun arose behind the thick morning clouds, my inner sense of the killer's location faded within moments. Some of my supernatural energy seemed to dissipate as well, but I was able to keep moving at a steady walking pace. Maybe the energy loss at dawn was part of being a revenant. Maybe I drew some of my sustenance from darkness. Since this was my first mom-ing as a dead man, perhaps my ignorance could be forgiven.

By now I knew where the killer was headed. I knew the way to Twisting Creek blindfolded, having hunted across these plains only months before. It was nearly noon when we crossed an abandoned cart road and entered a small forest, beyond which lay the ruins of a preCataclysm farmhouse. Only the stone foundation remained of the structure, and young trees lifted their branches where ground-floor rooms had once been. A brook ran through the trees nearby.

"Whoa," Orun huffed. "Hold there. Stop for a bit." He slowed down, dropping behind me. "Lemme rest."

I stopped, though I felt a powerful urge to continue on and catch up with my killer. I raised a thin hand and waved at the forest and ruins. "Rest," I croaked.

Orun grunted his thanks and wandered down to some trees for privacy, then went to the stream bank and placed his polished axe with care on a fallen log. Dust covered his face and clothing, and he was streaked and splattered with his own sweat. He set his helmet aside as he knelt at the stream, then bent over and splashed water on his head. After taking a long drink and rinsing off, he settled back on the bank, rubbing his knees.

Only the brook spoke for a long time. I thought about the dead hobgoblins, my cousins, and myself. I wondered who had killed us all, and why.

I studied Orun then. He had leaned back against the fallen log on which his precious axe rested, his stumpy legs stretched out. His dark wet beard was as tangled and chaotic as a mop.

"Tell me about Theiwar," I said.

Orun glanced over in surprise. "Like what?"

"Everything," I said.

Orun shrugged. "Know anything at all 'bout 'em?"

"No."

"Mmm," he said. He looked down, chewing his lips. "Theiwar. They're sorta like dwarves, but not normal. Not at all like true dwarves. They're uglier, o' course. You heard me say they throw spells, and they do that. But they're weaker. Sunlight makes 'em puke; can't stand it at all. Have to hide in the day or else wrap 'emselves up in black. Inbreedin' does it."

He paused for thought. "Not ugly only on the outside, either. They're cowards, thieves, murderers. Those're their good points." He smiled only briefly. "They're like a bad relative. You got a distant cousin you hate. He cheats, lies, steals, thinks he owns the world. He's still family, 'long as he obeys the rules o' the house. Follow me so far?"

I nodded and thought about the hobgoblins. "They collect trophies?"

"Sure do. Ears they like — easier to cut off than fingers. Save 'em up, show 'em to their friends. Use 'em to prove their kills. Eat 'em later, maybe. Don't know, don't want to know." He stroked his shaggy beard.

"Theiwar use crossbows?" It was a long-overdue question.

"Sure," he said. He got to his feet, dusting off his trousers and cloak. "Got all sorts o' funny weapons, but they do like them crossbows."

It made sense that a Theiwar might have been my murderer. I knew a dwarf could see enough well in darkness. The Theiwar could have gone right up the cliff after killing me to do in the hobgoblin lookouts, then the rest of them. But why would a Theiwar kill me? Did he or the hobgoblins kill my cousins? Why would he kill his own allies? It made no sense.

Orun stomped his feet, then looked at the forest and ruins. He glanced back at his axe, still on the log, then shrugged and spat.

"Never thought I'd see a rev'nant, or talk to one," he stated, adjusting his cloak. "One of my old kin, great uncle, he was one. Lemishite killed 'im out in a field, took his steel. Broan came back, blood still on 'im, and called for aid. Two of my kin went with 'im. Found the Lemishite halfway back to his home. My kin came back, but not Broan. Kin never spoke of it much. Hundred, hundred ten years ago."

He rubbed at his throat. "Seen others who came back, but not like you. Walkin' dead, mindless. Black Robe wizards like 'em. Had one pass through Kaolyn once. Didn't let 'im stop. Had a bunch of dead helpers." Orun's face twisted with disgust at the memory. "Wizards," he sighed.

"Did you know this Garith?" I asked.

A muscle twitched in Orun's left cheek, pulling on the side of his mouth. He looked toward the road, remembering. "Was his contact with Kaolyn, kind o' to keep an eye on 'im. Supposed to have known what he was doing when he was killin' our people off, but he got by me." The dwarf grunted, pulling the cloak tightly around his shoulders. "Almost did for me, too, but I was lucky. Damn lucky."

I eyed him for a few moments. "You want him."

Orun was silent for a moment more, then slowly turned around and grinned at me in a dark way, almost shyly. "Sure do," he said, eyes like arrow slits in a fortress. "Want 'im bad. He killed some good friends o' mine. My fault, really. I know how y'feel. You want to get your claws 'round his scrawny neck and squeeze his life out, make 'im feel what you felt. That right?"

I said nothing.

He grinned more broadly. "Well, you miss 'im, and I'll finish it for you. Lookin' forward to it. Our boy's been a busy little runt, killin' everything he can find. Got it in for everyone, like the rest o' 'is folk. Thinks he's a bad boy. But he won't like seein' you and me together."

"Why aren't you afraid of me?" I asked.

The dwarf looked me over in silence, then snorted as if he'd heard a bad joke. "You want me to be afraid there, dead boy? I'll tell you somethin'. In the war, my commander got 'imself killed by a draconian, sivak type. They're the big silver ones what change their shapes when they kill someone, so they look like what they just killed. You heard 'bout 'em?"

I remembered sivaks very well from the war. "Yes."

"I saw the killin', but I wasn't in a way to do anythin' 'bout it right then and there. Had to travel with 'im for two days, pretendin' he was my friend, all the time knowin' he was gonna turn on me and my buddies and kill us off or take us to an ambush. Got some help in time, though, and we cut that reptile boy down to gully dwarf meat. You may be a dead boy, but after that sivak, nothin' much ever gets to me."

The dwarf clapped his hands together, then went to get his axe. "'Sides, like I said, you probably leadin' me right to Garith. Gonna be like a family reunion." He lifted the axe to gaze down the blade. "I been dyin' to see the boy. Like as not, he'll be dyin' too — after he sees me."

Evening came at last. We stopped once more for Orun to rest, then moved on as the sun went down. I told Orun about my "cousins, my uncle, my life, and my death. He walked silently as he listened, asking few questions. I talked until I knew of nothing more to say.

At dusk, my awareness of my murderer's location arose in my consciousness as comfortably as if it had never left. He was still heading for Twisting Creek, but we were much closer to him now. He'd make it to town before morning, but we'd not be far behind him. His speed picked up as the evening deepened, and so did mine — and I was faster, even with Orun.

By noon the next day, we were just two hours outside of Twisting Creek. There we stopped at an abandoned farmhouse, one I knew had belonged to a couple who had moved away during the war. The log-and-stone home was overgrown with vines and had been boarded up, but it still appeared to be in good shape. It took only moments to break inside. There Orun slept until early evening. I knew we could afford the break. I wanted Orun in good shape when we found the Theiwar. Orun awoke "ready to do business."

"Wish I knew what spells he's been collectin'," Orun said for the third time later that evening. The whetstone in his hand made a soft grinding sound as he touched up the blade of his axe. "Garith could turn invisible, hypnotize folks with colors, and make light shine. And make poison gas, which he probably used on them hobs. But he knew lots more than that." He held up his axe and examined it in the dim light coming through the cracks in the shuttered windows. "Damn, I'm lookin' forward to seein' him."

Orun ransacked the house while I waited for my supernatural senses to focus. He found a moth-eaten gray cloak and dropped it on my lap, as well as a stained pair of trousers and a shirt. I needed something besides my old clothes to wear in town. It wouldn't do to have everyone know who I was — including the Theiwar, right at first. By the way his big nose wrinkled up, I knew the clothes had to stink of mold and mildew. I probably stank worse, but I couldn't tell, since I never breathed.

It grew darker outside. Energy poured into me like a cold river. When I faced in the direction of town, I could tell that my murderer was just a short walk away.

"I see him," I said.

Orun nodded, wrapping up his feet with a dry cloth strip. "Like I said," he replied, tugging on his boots next, "Theiwar hate sunlight. Probably stayed at an inn or in a cellar, hidin' from that sun and heavin' 'is guts out, waitin' for the night. Reorx Almighty, they hate that sun."

We left at nightfall. Orun had wrapped an extra layer of moldy cloth under his armor to add a little protection from the daggers he said Garith was fond of using. He knew it wouldn't stop a crossbow bolt, though, and I'd earlier told him about the poison I'd seen. Black wax was difficult to use, so it wasn't likely that Garith would have his bolts already poisoned. Still, we couldn't count on anything. He'd slain a dozen hobgoblins in one evening, probably without breaking into a sweat.

It was a clear night. The stars were out early. A warm wind rolled through town ahead of us. I remembered the last night I had known like that, how peaceful it had been, how everything had gone along fine right up to the end.

"Gonna miss you in a way," said Orun. His axe was tied to his belt. He walked with a broad, quick stride, matching my pace.

The comment caught me off guard. "How is that?"

"Well, you know all you are here for is for findin' your killer man. When it's over, you go, too."

I had suspected as much, but it didn't bother me. Dying a second time seemed like such a small trade for seeing my killer go first.

"Just lemme know when you see 'im," Orun added.

I wanted to laugh, but it wasn't in me. "You'll know."

As we entered the broad dirt streets of Twisting Creek, several people walked by us, giving me looks of disgust at the condition of my clothing and probably my smell. None of them even glanced at Orun. Dwarven merchants came here all the time from Kaolyn.

We passed rows of families sitting on the sides of the road, children chasing each other or fighting. Almost as many people in town had no home as those who did, thanks to the war. I recognized many of them, but none of them seemed to know me in the darkness.

"You followin' your man?" Orun asked quietly.

"He's not far."

Orun sniffed and smiled.

My senses led me on through town toward the other side. I had a strange feeling of dread when I realized I was walking in the direction of my uncle's farm.

We rounded the blacksmith's shop and stable. I looked up and saw a small manor house on a low hill, only a few hundred yards away. It was lit by yellow globes of glass set along the sides of the house and up the front walkway. The long rail fence I remembered repairing in life surrounded it and the farm buildings behind.

There," I said, stopping. "He's in there."

Orun stopped, too, and squinted. "Nice place."

I nodded slowly as I started off again. "My uncle's."

Orun glanced at me, face hard. "He's in there with your kin?"

I said nothing. My uncle was a good man. He had his flaws, but if he was hurt, it would be one more thing I would owe the Theiwar when we met.

We turned at the half-circle wagon path that led up to the doors of the manor. Balls of yellow crystal set on posts lit the way. My uncle had imported them from the city of Solanthus — glass spheres with magical light in them that never went out. Always the best, he liked to say. Always get the best.

No one was outdoors as we approached. The place hadn't changed a bit since I was here last.

Orun pushed back his oilskin cloak and undid the strap on his axe.

I needed nothing but my hands.

We mounted the steps, slowing down, and reached the door. I hesitated, sensing my prey so strongly I felt I could touch him.

He was inside on the right. That would be my uncle's private study, to the side of the entry hall. Maybe he was holding everyone hostage, or he'd broken in and was borrowing a few things for his own use.

I wondered if, when I met him, I'd ask him why he'd killed me before I killed him.

I raised my hand and knocked hard, three times, and listened to the echo. Then we waited.

The lock clicked. The front door heaved, then pulled open. It was our elderly manservant, Roggis. His face went white when he saw me, his eyes growing big and round.

"Evredd!" he gasped. "Blessed gods, what happened?"

"I'm home," I said softly as I pushed past the old man and went in, Orun at my heels. The entry hall was brightly lit. The great curved stairs to the second-floor bedrooms ascended from either side of the room.

Something inside me tore free. I wanted to see my killer's face, NOW. The study door was closed, but I was there in a moment, with the door handle in my hand, pulling it open.

The cabinet- and bookshelf-lined study was before me. Yellow light fell from the globes hanging from the ceiling. Only one person was in the room, sitting at the center table's far end with a pile of ledgers in front of him. He was big, fleshy-faced, with a hooked nose and a receding hairline. He looked up with irritation as the door swung open.

My murderer, sang the cold in my blood.

My uncle, said my eyes.

"Can't you — " he began, before he actually saw me. He leaped back from his chair, knocking it over. His face went slack with terror. He grabbed for something on a stool beside him.

"Uncle," I said. I couldn't believe it, but I knew it. HE had killed me. "What — "

My uncle swung around. He held a heavy wooden device in his hands. He pulled the trigger. A dwarven-made crossbow. The bowstring snapped.

The crossbow bolt slammed into my chest with the force of a mule's kick, tearing through my right lung and breaking a rib. The impact knocked me back several steps, almost into Orun, before I caught myself.

The bolt didn't hurt a bit.

I ran and lunged across the table for my uncle, my fingers out like claws.

He flung the crossbow at me, missing, and dodged back. My fingers locked on his clothes, ripping them. I tried to get to his throat.

There was faint popping noise in the air, a flash of light. My uncle was gone.

In his place stood a waist-high dwarf, clad in filthy black clothing. I held his torn shirt in my hands. His mushroom-white face showed only a dirty blond beard, watery blue eyes that bulged out like goose eggs, and a black-toothed mouth that was open like a wound. He was the ugliest dwarf I'd ever seen, and he gave out a shriek that would have sent me to my grave if I hadn't already been there. My uncle… a destroyed man…

The Theiwar had used an illusion spell to disguise himself. I knew then what must have happened to my uncle, and why he had seemed to have changed lately. And who had really killed my cousins. Likely, they'd begun to suspect something.

Garith's gonna live like a huuu-man now, the hobgoblin had said.

"Garith!" shouted Orun from the door. The dwarf shut it behind him, cutting off Roggis's cries in the hall outside.

Panicked, the Theiwar ran under the table to escape me. I shoved myself off the table and snatched at a heavy wooden chair, swinging it up and over and down into the tabletop. The chair shattered; the table split in half and collapsed. Books and papers poured across the floor — and a bag full of rotting gray ears spilled with them. Some of the ears were gnawed.

I stepped back. The Theiwar had vanished.

"Garith!" roared Orun, his axe high. "You a dead boy, too, now! You a dead little white rat, you hear me!"

I caught something from the comer of my eye. The Theiwar had reappeared in a comer of the room, far from Orun and me. His hands leaped out of hidden pockets in his black clothing.

"Orkiska Shakatan Sekis!" he called out in a hoarse, high voice, holding something like a cloth and a glass rod and rubbing them together. He was aiming them at me.

"Reorx damn us!" shouted Orun, as I leaped for the Theiwar. "Evredd, he's — "

There was more light then than I'd ever seen in my life or afterwards. My body was suspended in the air, buoyed up by a writhing white ribbon of power that poured from the Theiwar's hands. For the first time since I'd died, I felt true pain. It was unearthly, burning into every muscle, every nerve, every inch of skin, and I couldn't even scream.

Then it was gone. I crashed to the floor. Smoke billowed from the smoldering rags I wore. My soot-stained limbs jerked madly as if I were the marionette of a bad puppeteer.

I flopped over on my stomach. The Theiwar was climbing a freestanding wall cabinet like a spider. Orun threw his axe. The weapon struck something in the air just before it reached the Theiwar and bounced away with a clanging noise, falling next to my head.

"Damn you, Garith!" Orun cried, snatching his axe up. "Damn you and your magic! You a DEAD boy!"

My limbs began to move the way I wanted them to go, and I staggered to my feet. The Theiwar was on top of the cabinet. He pointed a short white finger down at us. "N'zkool Akrek Grafkun — Miwarsh!" he shrieked, in triumph.

Greenish yellow fog blasted from his finger. A windstorm filled the room. The overhead lights were dimmed by the thick mist.

Orun started to shout, but his voice ended abruptly with a shocked gasp, then a loud, hacking cough. I could barely see him through the green fog. He clutched at his throat with both hands, the axe thumping into the floor. He gave a strangled cry, teeth clenched shut, his lungs filling with poisoned air.

I went for the cabinet. My hands gripped a shelf at the height of my head, and I pulled back hard. The dish-filled cabinet rocked; plates clattered flat. The Theiwar cursed and dropped to his knees, fingers grabbing for purchase on the top. I heaved against the shelf again and saw the cabinet lean toward me, then continue coming. I shoved it aside. It slammed into the floor away from the choking dwarf.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the greenish fog blew away as if caught by a high wind. Orun's hacking cough and hoarse cries echoed in the now silent room.

The Theiwar fell to the floor across the room. Rolling, he came up on his feet. He saw me coming around the fallen cabinet, and he tried to flee for the closed door. He jerked a long crystal vial from his belt. His bulging eyes were as big as moons when I tackled him.

My dead hands locked around his little body. You could hear him for miles, screaming like a spitted rodent with a giant's lung power. He punched and kicked in hysteria. I jabbed one hand through the hail of blows and got my long, cold fingers into the flesh at his throat, sinking in the grip. Gasping, he stabbed at my arm with the vial, shattering it with the first blow and opening up bloodless gashes that went down to the dull white bone.

Abruptly, he stiffened. I grabbed his arm with my free one and held it steady for an instant. I had seen it coming.

A red stream, mixed with strands of oozing black, was running down his arm. His huge, watery eyes focused on his hand with an expression of complete terror such as I had never seen on a living face before. His eyes rolled up then, and his body shuddered and went still.

Garith had just learned what the Nerakans had learned about black wax, with the same results.

I released his body and fell to the floor. I tried to keep myself up on my hands and knees, but my strength poured out of me now like water through a collapsed dam. In the background, I could hear Roggis wailing and Orun coughing. The door to the study burst open, and everyone in the manor surged in to shout and point. But they all kept away from me. They knew.

"The boys warned me that he wasn't the same!" Roggis was saying, in tears. "I didn't believe them. When they were killed, he acted as if he didn't care a whit. I thought he was mad, but I didn't dare speak to him about it. I was afraid he'd become violent. He hardly seemed himself!"

The racket was fading away, far away. I struggled to get up. It was no use. I'd done what I'd come back to do. I was more tired than I'd ever been before in my life.

"Evredd," wheezed a hoarse voice near my ear. "You still there?"

I managed to nod, but that was all.

"Good work for a dead boy," Orun said. "Right on target."

High praise. I wondered if I'd see Garayn and Klart soon, and my uncle, and what they would say about it. Family business.

I fell forward into the darkness. Everything was right again, and there would be no coming back.