Untold Adventures: A Dungeons and Dragons Anthology

BLOOD OASIS
A TALE OF DARK SUN

Seawater moved against the hull planks like a lover’s whisper. The yellow sun of Athas was bright, and a westerly breeze stretched Horizon Finder’s sails, guiding the three-masted carrack toward the seaport of Arkhold.

Unexpected spray whipped up from the bow, and Jisanne laughed. She had untied her long brown hair, letting it blow loose and free. She drew a deep breath with a sense of wonder that these sailors did not feel. They didn’t understand how lucky they were to be there.

Captain Hurunn, a wealthy minotaur merchant with a large gold ring in one floppy ear, said, “A long voyage, a full cargo hold, even a net overloaded with fresh fish-time for me to settle down and enjoy my profits.” Even when he was in a good mood, Hurunn’s voice sounded like a gruff growl. From what little Jisanne knew from her brief previous visits to this glorious time, she doubted the minotaur captain would ever settle down.

With gentle reverence, she touched the opalescent crystal mounted to the compass stand. “The navigation crystal always finds its way back here.” She was never sure how clearly the ship’s captain and crew could see or hear her.

Hurunn snorted. “It’s what the navigation crystal is for-to guide its owner home. It’s a simple enough spell.”

Jisanne shuddered at his casual attitude, forcing herself to remember that these people did not automatically hate and fear magic users, regardless of whether they were defilers or preservers. Whatever disasters had robbed Athas of this beauty had not happened yet. The world was still fresh and alive, as it Athas had been before its possibilities were stolen.

Horizon Finder entered the mouth of the harbor and crewmen gathered on deck, waving at the numerous fishing boats, feluccas, and galleys. They were all eager to get back to port.

High above, the elf lookout yelled, his already-thin voice an even higher pitch. “To arms-sea serpent off the stern! It’s following us!”

As the crew scrambled to snag harpoons and bows, a fearsome triangular head rose up, streaming seawater from its golden scales. Its hinged jaw dropped open to reveal long fangs. A short distance away, a second monster rose up.

“That’s two sea serpents, not one,” Hurunn growled. “I need a better lookout for my next voyage.”

The pair of serpents glided toward Horizon Finder, intent on attack. Seeing the swollen net of still-squirming fish suspended by a rope and winch above the stern, Jisanne had a sudden realization. “The fish-the serpents want the fish.”

“Of course they want the fish. They always want the fish,” the minotaur said, not overly concerned. “I was hoping we’d make it all the way to Arkhold, but these waters are infested with cursed sea serpents. A small enough price to pay.”

With a deep bellow such as only a minotaur could manage, Hurunn commanded his sailors to swing the boom over the water. The sea serpents pressed closer to the dangling net, snapping at the spray in the carrack’s wake. “Dump the catch!”

As twitching fish rained down, the serpents frolicked in the water, greedily feasting. From the rails, the sailors jeered at the monsters, and Hurunn complained-out of habit-about the money he’d just lost. The breeze picked up, blowing the ship safely into port and leaving the sea serpents behind.

Ahead, Jisanne stared at the thriving city. The fortress of a forgotten order of ancient knights sat atop the highest point overlooking the blue harbor. People had gathered down at the docks to welcome the sailing ship. A few ambitious traders even took small boats out to meet Horizon Finder, hoping to strike a sweet deal with Captain Hurunn before he reached the quay.

The minotaur handed Jisanne a flask of wine. “Here, to celebrate. Myself, I don’t drink the stuff.” He snuffled through his bull nose. “Clogs my sinuses.”

She took a swig of the richest, headiest wine she had ever tasted. Everything seemed so unreal.

As the carrack tied up to a long stone quay, Jisanne saw the colorful market stalls full of fresh fruit. Musicians played instruments, their competing tunes a raucous clash of sounds. Jisanne took another drink of wine and glanced down at the pristine navigation crystal. Tears stung her eyes. She didn’t want to lose any of this, but she knew…

As the scene around her faded, the moist salty air in her nostrils became harsh, sour, and dry. The puffy clouds in the sky shimmered into high blowing dust. The skirling music and the babble of marketplace sounds turned into the moan of desert wind.

“No!” But her cry was just a whisper, words lost in time. Jisanne clutched at the fabric of the world, digging deeper into the arcane magic, not caring where she found the power to hold on for just a few moments longer, but it was no use.

The blue ocean, the lush harbor, the vibrant city were all swallowed into dust. The waves became dunes, the horizon only an empty basin of powder, the Sea of Silt. Exposed by scouring winds, chains of ivory vertebrae and skulls with chipped fangs marked the long-desiccated carcasses of sea serpents. The minotaur captain, his elf lookout, and the rest of the ship’s crew didn’t notice they were vanishing. She was slipping in time, not them.

That Athas, that of the Green Age, was long gone.

Jisanne dropped to her knees on the deck of a skeletal wreck against a crumbling stone quay. Overhead, the bloated red sun was like an angry coal. The ancient flask of wine in her hand was as parched as the landscape. Next to her, propped up by a flat stone, rested a clay bowl half full of her dark, drying blood; the dull shard of the navigation crystal was immersed in the liquid.

Jisanne felt weak and alone, drained. She had powered the magic of the crystal by drawing on her own life force, not caring about the cost of her spell. She had restored the lovely, idyllic landscape of Athas for a time… too short a time.

And now she had to face reality again.

The crowds cheered in the stands of the Criterion coliseum, whistling, calling for blood. The spectators were all the same, regardless of their social status: powerful templars in special travertine seats near the sand of the arena, aloof patricians who whispered about Balic city business in between bloody combat matches, and unruly commoners crowded in higher seats under the hot red sun.

They roared their approval when Koram strode out of the gladiators’ gate, wearing his white ceremonial sash with the sign of Dictator Andropinis dyed in red; he hated the sash, but was required to wear it. He adjusted armor made of sheets of petrified wood, then looked at the stands with passive disgust. These same people had cheered for him when he was elected a praetor of Balic, and they had likewise cheered when he announced his plans to liberalize the city’s laws. Later, when the scheming foreign praetor Yvoluk, darling of Andropinis, disgraced him on false charges, the fickle crowds had cheered just as loudly. Then, after Koram had been shaved bald and thrown into the Criterion to battle monsters, they cheered again, expecting him to die… and now they cheered each time he emerged victorious. No one had expected him to survive for seven months in the arena.

The people of Balic would cheer for anything, Koram thought, so long as blood was involved. He felt no further loyalty toward them; he had already paid enough. Praetor Yvoluk had seen to that. Koram’s wife and young son were already dead, worked to death in slave camps.

Emerging into the ruddy afternoon sunlight, Koram turned slowly and raised his bronze-inlaid ivory sword. Metal was extremely scarce, and good blades even scarcer; most of the other fighters considered him lucky to have a strengthened and embellished sword. But Koram would never consider himself lucky; he had earned this with blood.

As praetor in charge of the arena, Yvoluk could have warned him what sort of beast he would be fighting this day, but the evil templar liked to keep his surprises. Koram would defeat the opponent just the same. Otherwise it would be surrender.

The spectators continued to whistle and stomp. Koram stood in the shade of the stretched awning that covered the noble seats and part of the sand-covered fighting ground. In the pits below, handlers would force animals and monsters onto elevating platforms and turn them loose through trapdoors in the sand.

Koram heard the rumble of machinery, felt the sand tremble at his feet, and prepared himself. Since being sentenced to the Criterion, he had faced thri-kreen packs, drays, a raaig soulflame, and numerous warriors-human, mul, goliath, it didn’t matter. Koram had slain them all because it was the only way for him to survive. He was lucky; he was skilled; he was determined. But he knew Praetor Yvoluk would give him no way out. He hadn’t yet figured out how to kill the praetor for what he had done, but he never stopped trying to think of a way.

Koram saw something move beneath the arena floor, stalking him… a burrowing creature that sensed the vibrations of his movements. Koram stood absolutely still. Bored, the spectators in the stands shouted out catcalls, but he didn’t budge.

In his special box, Dictator Andropinis sat on his throne under the awning, picking at his fingernails. He seemed an elderly man with a thin face and an intent expression, but he was not intent on the gladiatorial combat before him. When the dictator addressed his people, he exuded power. The sorcerer-king of Balic claimed to have been duly elected to his position several centuries ago-and who could gainsay him? Andropinis attended gladiatorial combats out of a sense of duty, not any real interest. Over the many years of his reign, the dictator had seen, and caused, enough death. Just then, he merely appeared bored.

Bursting out of the arena sand, a trio of gray-skinned anakores spat dust from mouths filled with needle-sharp teeth. He identified a large female with a hunched back and a line of thick, knobby protrusions, and two smaller, younger males with smoother hides and gleaming eyes. Anakores hunted in packs, and they would be a formidable team.

But he didn’t need any assistance. He fought alone.

The first of the younger males lunged toward Koram, and he slashed with his ivory-and-bronze blade. The anakore swung a clawed hand, blinking its black eyes as if unable to see anything but dust, but its wide flat nose smelled him. As Koram danced away, the vibrations of his footfalls were enough to guide the monster.

The second male circled around and dove in as his companion retreated. Koram spun easily on the loose sand, jabbing again to drive the monster away. Then the older female let out a roar that sounded like an avalanche in a cave. In traditional anakore hunting behavior, one would knock a victim to the ground while others plunged forward to finish him. The female thundered toward him.

But it was a different ploy. Her challenging bellow had distracted Koram long enough for the two males to dart forward, attacking him from both sides.

He easily decapitated the anakore on his left, and the creature’s body slid forward with its own momentum while the head went in a different direction. The other male crashed into him, but Koram slammed his armored shoulder into the monster’s body, knocking it to the sands. With a quick, hard thrust, he skewered it through the chest.

The crowd cheered, but Koram did not acknowledge them. Dictator Andropinis continued to study his cuticles, never even looking at the combat.

The female howled and hurled herself at him like a boulder from a catapult. Koram barely had time to recover his balance and lift his sword. As she lunged forward, he swung hard and the bronze edge of his blade cut the anakore’s shoulder. The creature dove again, burying herself in the sand and leaving only a spot of dark blood on the churned sand.

Koram turned in a slow circle, alert. The two males lay dead on the sand, twitching. He wondered who had caught these creatures in the wild and dragged them here to die in the coliseum. Everything died there, sooner or later.

Some gladiator showmen would have drawn out the battle, making the bloodshed last for most of the afternoon. The people saluted them as heroes, celebrities; those fighters reveled in the attention. Koram, though, didn’t care about anyone watching him. He had killed two of the monsters, and he would dispatch the third just as easily.

The female anakore sprang out of the dust again with barely a ripple. Without a flourish, Koram slashed and cut a deep, painful gash along the monster’s side. The female reeled, bleeding profusely, and staggered back, retreating from the gladiator. She stopped near the two dead bodies of the younger anakores, swayed and moaned.

Koram stalked forward but the female did not fight him. She touched the blood from her deep wound, then looked at her dead companions, letting loose a keening howl. “Merrrrrrrrcy,” she seemed to say as she dropped her head toward the slain males. “My fammmilleeeeee.”

He hesitated, but knew she hadn’t said anything of the sort. Still, anger and sickness rose up in him like bile. No one had given any mercy to his family, but he knew he could do nothing for this monster. The female would die here soon enough.

“The only mercy here is a quick death,” he said, too quietly for the audience to hear. And without further spectacle, he drove the point of his blade through the monster’s chest, ramming it all the way to the hilt to be sure of the kill. He jerked his sword back out, letting the anakore die without more pain. The big female collapsed beside the other two corpses.

The crowd applauded the speedy dispatch of the three enemies, but their response was lukewarm. Without bothering to cut off any of the monsters’ heads as trophies, Koram stalked back toward the gladiators’ gate and out of the sun. He was finished for the day.

The lean, bearded praetor stood under the stone arch, his face dark with anger. As Koram walked into the shadows of the tunnels, Yvoluk struck a hard backhand across his sweaty face. “Fight harder, worm dung! Perform for the people-earn another day of your worthless life! You make our opponents seem weak and passive when you kill them so quickly.” His voice was heavily accented; Yvoluk had come from the east, an exile from another city, but he had made a powerful position for himself here.

Koram just looked at the man who had caused him so much pain. “Why don’t you face me yourself in the arena? Then I would show you how much I want to fight.”

Yvoluk raised his hand, threatening to strike him again, but Koram merely strode past and headed to the large underground complex of cells where the gladiators lived. It was not, and would never be, his home. But it was all he had.

Koram had been optimistic once; he had wanted to help the people of Balic. In the showy democracy espoused by the sorcerer-king, ordinary citizens were supposed to have the freedom to speak; they were allowed to run for the office of praetor, whether or not the Council of Patricians or Andropinis approved. Koram had been so naive, so foolish.

An “unapproved” candidate who managed to be elected praetor typically met with an unfortunate accident before long. In his own case, Koram had asked too many questions in the first months, and Yvoluk had orchestrated his downfall, disgracing him with accusations of graft, turning public opinion against Koram, who had been their favorite only weeks before. Though there was no proof in the charges against him, the people did not believe Koram’s vehement denials. He was arrested and stripped of his rank. His wife and son were sold to slave traders for a long march to work Tyr’s mines, where they died within weeks. Koram was thrown into the gladiator arena, where he did not have the good sense to die. Seven months later, he continued to fight and kill.

His fellow warriors sulked in their rooms, brooding over their fates. Some oiled their muscles or strapped on armor in preparation for upcoming matches in the arena. A pair of dwarves sparred enthusiastically to hone their fighting skills. A newly captured goliath hunkered on a stone seat in his cell, rocking back and forth, holding his knees; his misery was even larger than his body. An insectile thri-kreen tracker, separated from his two psychically bonded clutch mates, recited poetry through stony mandibles to drown out the goliath’s moans. The sandy, chittering thri-kreen claimed to be a nihilistic philosopher, and he accepted his undoubtedly short life as a gladiator.

Koram had befriended none of his comrades. They would be pitted against one another when monster combatants were in short supply, and if Praetor Yvoluk happened to notice that Koram cared for any particular gladiator, he would take great pleasure in arranging for a death match.

Koram sat on a stone bench and used oil, sand, and a scraper to remove the blood and grit from his skin. He no longer noticed the scabs and scars; all of his motions were mechanical. Another fight, another day.

Before he could lie back and rest on his pallet, however, a call to arms echoed through the barracks beneath the Criterion. Dimly heard through the stone block walls, the crowds in the stands roared with a sound that was definitely not cheering.

The gladiators stood, looking around in alarm; even the moaning Goliath climbed to his feet, keeping his head and shoulders bent so as not to strike his shaggy head against the ceiling. The two sparring dwarves stopped and listened. They recognized the sound of the alarm. “Balic is under attack.”

The thri-kreen nihilist changed his song. “Today, our deaths may come in a different manner, but it is death nonetheless.” Koram knew that the thri-kreen had been renowned as one of the most skilled trackers in his tribe, but his skills were wasted in the arena.

Though the guards had taken his sword, Koram painstakingly strapped his petrified wood armor on. Alarms continued to sound outside in the city, gongs and bells ringing. He didn’t hurry.

With a clatter of boots and armor, soldiers marched along the stone-tiled tunnels, led by a dark-visaged Yvoluk. The goliath wrung his hands together and lurched out of his chamber. “Praetor! What is happening?”

Yvoluk’s expression soured, as if an olive pit had caught in his throat. “The Skull Wearer leads an army of beast giants to the walls down by the estuary. They’ve destroyed one of the dictator’s forts on the Dragon’s Palate, and now they mean to take the city.” At a signal from the praetor, the guards lashed their whips, making loud cracks against the stone walls. Yvoluk continued to shout. “Gladiators, our beloved Andropinis demands that you defend the city. You will be armed and sent to the walls. You are our bravest fighters. You will save Balic!”

“Why should we?” Koram asked. At another time, he would have been ready to leap into action, but his city had failed him.

Yvoluk curled his purple lips in a tempting smile. “You need incentive? Drive back the beast giants, and I will ask Andropinis to grant you your freedom. Fight for us this day, and you need never fight in the Criterion again!”

The goliath made a delighted sound, while the sparring dwarves squared their shoulders and grinned. The soldiers handed the gladiators their familiar weapons and rushed them out of the barracks and into the city streets. Koram intentionally wadded the sash that marked him as a fighter for Andropinis and left it behind on the bench in his cell.

The thri-kreen tracker matched Koram’s pace, leaning over to whisper, “Do you trust Praetor Yvoluk to follow through on his promise?”

“As much as I would trust a footpath across the open Sea of Silt.”

Behind them, the goliath moaned again.

From across the city, soldiers were mustering toward the wall that overlooked the dry estuary where hundreds of faded, dusty silt skimmers tied up to the docks. Yvoluk led the hapless gladiators to the top of the stone barricade, confident in his power.

A deafening tumult thundered from the harbor below. Koram and the gladiators gazed down upon a large army of towering monsters. Hundreds of beast-head giants waded the silt shallows, slogging through parched, pale depths that would have drowned any man. The giants’ heavy armor weighed them down, but they plodded ahead, stirring up clouds of fine dust. Their heads were a menagerie of ferocious creatures, fanged feline predators, reptilian saurians, bloodthirsty lupine monsters, sharp-beaked birds of prey.

At the lead of the encroaching army stood a dominating figure, a huge giant with a necklace of skulls that dangled from a thick cord at his throat. The most fearsome of the beast giants, Skull Wearer supposedly drew power from the spirits of those he had slain-and he had slain many. With legendary animosity toward the civilized inhabitants of Balic, he had led many previous raids against the city, but Koram had never seen an army like this before. Dark energy thrummed around the giant leader as he let out a roar of challenge; the hundreds of beast giants marching through the silt echoed the shout.

“Skull Wearer has long hated Andropinis,” Yvoluk said. “You must protect our sorcerer-king and save Balic!”

Below, the beast giants reached the docks, ripped the silt skimmers free of their moorings and smashed the hulls. Pressing their shoulders against the pilings, two reptile-headed giants shattered a sturdy dock, tearing it down. The attackers swarmed forward in a frenzy, wrecking all of the boats.

Most of the silt sailors had evacuated as the enemy army approached, but a last few men ran toward the gates, desperate to get inside. The Balic guards refused to open the reinforced barriers, despite the ever-increasing pleas. Beast giants grabbed the frantic sailors and battered them into ooze against the wall.

Skull Wearer shouted another challenge for Dictator Andropinis. More giants pressed forward like the waves of a long-forgotten tide. It seemed impossible that anyone could protect the city against such an invasion; Koram could see that he and his comrades would all die in the first line of defense. He glanced at the dwarves, the thri-kreen tracker, even the miserable goliath; they all realized the hopelessness of their position, as well.

Yvoluk raised his hands, filled with enthusiasm. “This will be your greatest battle-for the glory of Andropinis and Balic.” The praetor stepped to the edge of the wall, gesturing toward the giant hordes below. “If you survive this day, you will have your freedom. I promise.” He seemed to expect cheers.

Koram reached out and gave the man a hard shove, toppling him off the wall into the press of giants. Yvoluk flailed as he fell, too astonished even to scream.

Koram had acted without thinking, sure he was dead either way. “I am through fighting for your benefit.”

Seeing his action, the other gladiators immediately came to the same conclusion. The goliath rose up and battered soldiers on either side of him, toppling them off the wall. The thri-kreen laughed in surprise and delight, clacking his mandibles as he turned on the astonished guards, and the two dwarves began to fight.

In response to the unexpected turmoil above, the beast giants pounded on their shields, then hammered on the gates with stony fists like battering rams. A volley of spears arced upward, shafts as thick as small trees, and struck into the crowded guards and spectators.

The gladiators continued to fight atop the wall, throwing the Balic soldiers into chaos. Skull Wearer summoned the magic he had drawn from the ghosts of his victims, unleashing a dark thunderstorm of power against the harbor city.

Before long, Dictator Andropinis arrived with his escort, shouting out his own spells as he drew power to defend Balic. The air itself began to crackle and tremble as the surrounding trees and plants wilted, the ground turning as black as charcoal, its vital energy sucked away.

In the confusion, Koram turned his back on the front lines, waved his ivory-and-bronze sword to chase panicked soldiers and citizens out of his way. Some of his gladiator comrades fought anyone and everyone with great glee, giving their last great battle performance; others scampered away, seeking a place to hide.

Koram felt not a flicker of guilt for abandoning his city. He thought of the three anakore lying dead in the arena-his latest victims. He thought of his own family, killed through treachery. He had killed enough. He would not shed his blood to protect the sorcerer-king or his duplicitous citizens, nor would he stay and revel in the city’s destruction.

He was done.

Koram made his way to the far exit gates that were not yet blocked. Before long, the city’s back gates and side entrances would be clogged with citizens racing into the hills as they realized the true desperation of their plight.

He would set out into the wilderness and find his own path of survival. Considering what he had been through, he knew he would fare better alone under the dark sun of Athas than amidst the treachery of Balic.

Living aboard the petrified skeleton of Horizon Finder, Jisanne had the city ruins to herself. No caravans or silt schooners came this far south. Arkhold received no visitors except for the rare and foolish adventurer in search of forgotten treasures. Knowing how people were likely to treat a magic user, Jisanne hid whenever she saw a stranger; more often than not, the perils of the abandoned city drove them off before she had to worry.

Jisanne was on her own, just as she wanted to be.

Yet the desiccated place provided little for her survival. She caught rodents and lizards to eat; she set up scattered cisterns to hoard the reluctant droplets of water that rained down twice a year. But it wasn’t enough, and she had to venture out on regular supply expeditions.

As the red sun lumbered over the grainy horizon, Jisanne stood on the ruins of the stone quay, facing the expanse of the Silt Sea. Her voice hoarse from thirst, she shouted a summoning spell for a floating mantle, one of the mysterious but gentle beasts of the deep wastes.

Her hands trembled and her head throbbed as she called upon the power. It would have been so much easier, so much faster, to steal the life energy of the surrounding flora and fauna, but Jisanne refused such shortcuts. She knew in her heart that the excessive and indiscriminate use of that sort of magic had wrung Athas dry. By using the navigation crystal, she had been able to visit the lush past, and she knew what the defilers had done to a healthy world.

Magic users were widely hated across Athas. All her life, Jisanne had tried to preserve the life of the world, never harming anyone, and yet, when her abilities were discovered, the people of Balic had punished her. As a hermit, far from any people, Jisanne was much safer. But the pain of her loss did not go away.

Answering her summons, the floating mantle appeared in a blurry brown corona of dust. The jellyfishlike creature drifted on the thermals, trailing thin tentacles to the silt. It hovered at the end of the stone quay, then lowered its enormous body to the ground so she could mount.

“Thank you for coming.” Jisanne had no idea if the creature could understand her. Securing her sacks, pots, and supply pack, she climbed onto the leathery dome, grasping the ridges and nodules. Air flaps vented gas as the floating mantle exhaled, then rose into the air and propelled itself along, carrying her away from Arkhold and across the impassable expanse.

She ventured to the more fertile, and more dangerous, highlands of the Dragon’s Palate as rarely as possible. The Palate was close to Balic, and she never intended to go back home again. That was where happiness had been burned out of her-not by any defiling magic, but by human hatred.

Years ago, Jisanne lived in Balic with her older sister Selanne, who had a husband and two fine daughters. Unmarried, Jisanne helped wherever she could, often secretly drawing upon the power of the living to ease their existence. But she wasn’t cautious enough. Jisanne was a preserver, not a defiler. Her magic was powered by the life force of Athas itself, but she never went so far with her spells that she hurt anyone or anything. Even though she knew full well the difference between what she did and the destructive magic of those with no regard for life, most common people didn’t understand, didn’t try, or didn’t care.

Jisanne had ignored the rumors about her, the whispers when she and Selanne walked through the forum market, the way other people shunned their house. Oblivious, she had gone out one day to pick olives in a grove near a crumbling noble estate. Returning home at sunset with a full basket, she had found her sister’s family murdered, the house burned. A mob had scrawled hateful words in the ashes-they had mistaken Selanne as a defiler.

Before they could come for her, too, Jisanne fled. She did not stop until she had reached the end of inhabited territory, and even then she kept going all the way to Arkhold. The mummified ruins of the abandonded port city seemed the perfect place for her.

Time had not lessened the pain of her massacred loved ones. Those nightmares remained as vivid as the navigation crystal’s visions of ancient Athas…

The floating mantle brought her to soupy mud flats at the shore of the Dragon’s Palate. A thin stream trickled down from the foothills, where the scrub forest thickened. That would do.

She landed the docile beast near a dryer patch of thick grasses, and slid down its rubbery curved back. When she released it from her spell, the jellyfish creature floated away from the mud flats, heading back to the silt barrens. Her quest here would take some time and require a great deal of caution. The steep mountains of the Dragon’s Palate were inhabited by ferocious beast giants; fortunately, a military outpost from Balic kept the giants busy.

Jisanne filled her water containers upstream, then placed the heavy jugs in a subtly marked cache, where she could retrieve them before she headed home. Then, with empty sacks tied at her waist, she explored the forest in search of edible berries, roots, mushrooms, fruits, and herbs.

A pang of loneliness stabbed her, but she had fended for herself so long. Only once had Jisanne let down her guard and trusted a stranger in the Arkhold ruins-and that lapse had nearly killed her. She had revealed herself to a half-elf treasure seeker who had looked so friendly, so earnest. The lone adventurer had captivated her with his story, his passion, and Jisanne had shown him the navigation crystal, had revealed to him the erstwhile splendor of Athas.

Jisanne had been so desperate for companionship that she had believed in him-until he had stolen the crystal. As the thief had run away with mocking laughter, taking a shortcut out onto the sands, a tentacled silt horror had grabbed him before he’d even realized his danger. Hearing his screams, Jisanne felt no sympathy. Later, she retrieved the navigation crystal from where it had dropped to the ground next to his corpse, and held it tightly. From that point on, Jisanne hid whenever she saw a human visitor.

As she filled her sacks with edibles from the forest, she took comfort in knowing the navigation crystal was hidden in a small pouch tied on the inside of her breeches. She had to exercise great care to avoid detection from the marrauding giants on the island; their main lair was to the north, closer to Balic. She was safe here, where she could hear, and hide from, the crashing approach of any plodding giant hunter.

She did not, however, notice the trap set by the band of feral halflings.

As she foraged, the small wild-eyed savages had stalked and surrounded her in utter silence. The halfling hunters scuttled ahead, lying in wait with their ropes and nets, and then they sprang.

The vicious little men hurled bolos at her, several of which missed, but one caught around her leg, and another struck her head, wrapping around her neck.

“Fresh human! Tender human!”

“Take her back to the village.”

Jisanne clawed at the bolos-and then the halflings dropped a net on top of her. They pounced, driving her to the ground.

“Bring her to the other captives.”

“If we have any left!” The last comment was met with cackles of laughter and howls of disappointment.

A stocky leader thumped his chest in triumph, and hefted a sword made from a giant’s sharpened femur. “Another victory for Borodro!”

“But we all caught her, Borodro…” whined one of the younger halflings.

With a slash of his giant-bone sword, Borodro decapitated the complainer, and the severed head continued to whistle and grimace as it rolled on the dry leaves of the ground. The leader gave a snort. “Look, Delfi keeps complaining even without a body.” The halflings’ initial gasps of horror turned to laughter, cheers, and grumbling stomachs. “Bring his body back to the village,” their leader ordered. They seemed satisfied with that.

Jisanne thrashed in the net, struggling to tear the tough strands. She didn’t waste energy or breath demanding to be freed, since that would do no good. Everyone knew the cruelty of halfling raiders and slavers. She tried to work an escape spell, but failed; she was already weak and had used much magic to summon and control the floating mantle. She needed time and concentration.

“Tenderize her,” said Borodro, “then let’s get back to the village.”

The halfling hunters fell upon Jisanne with sticks and clubs. She covered her head to protect herself, but the blows were too many…

Some time later, she awoke, a mass of pain, trussed up and carried along as the halflings whistled their satisfaction. Jisanne clamped her bruised lips together to keep from making a sound. She heard shouts and cheers from more halflings ahead as they arrived at the village, a ring of stone houses that surrounded a stone pyramid.

Halflings were notorious slavers, and Borodro had said he kept other captives, though none were readily visible. The halflings dumped her into a small, filthy pen with walls made of twisted thorn branches. Her hands and ankles remained bound.

Jisanne tried to concentrate so she could gather power for her magic, draw power slowly from the surrounding plants and trees, perhaps even from the halflings themselves. If she garnered strength gradually, she might not alert the vicious little beasts to what she was doing.

She could have just ripped the power from the fabric of the world, stealing as much life force as required, but even to save herself, Jisanne was reluctant to destroy life by turning to the corrupting magic. The only time she truly defiled nature was to activate the navigation crystal, and that was… necessary. For now, she would find another way.

The halflings left Jisanne in the pen, focused on other interests, jabbering and chuckling.

“I’m hungry!”

“They better not have gnawed all the bones!”

“Save me a tender piece,” Borodro said. The other halfling hunters dumped the decapitated body of their comrade on the trampled ground. “And start cooking Delfi. Throw in a lot of garlic so he doesn’t taste gamey.”

Jisanne realized that there were no other captives. Several human carcasses-mostly picked clean-were being roasted over a bed of orange coals near the stone pyramid. The returning hunters rushed over to the cookfire and squabbled over the remaining meat.

She felt a sickening wrench in her gut. Halfling cannibals were the worst.

Sweating, in pain from her contusions and cracked bones, Jisanne closed her eyes and began to concentrate on scraps of magic, pulling together any possibilities for her escape. She didn’t have much time.

Koram walked away and never looked back at the Balic skyline. He did not listen to the mayhem as Skull Wearer and his beast giant army hammered the walls, did not flinch as sorcerer-king Andropinis fought back with arcane magic. He heard explosions, screams, a loud ripping roar… and he kept walking. It was no longer his battle; perhaps it had never been.

With his sword he cut the mooring rope of a fully stocked silt skimmer, then set sail out into the estuary. As a youth, in happier days in the great walled city, he had learned how to guide and levitate the skimmers on his impetuous adventures in the surrounding area. This, though, was no mere lighthearted expedition. He would never return.

The hot, dry breezes blew him past other coastal villages, then he turned east into deeper silt, crossing to the hazy highlands of the Dragon’s Palate, where he hoped to live off the land.

After he beached the silt skimmer at sunset, Koram set up camp in the trees; he slept little, with his back against a sturdy trunk, as he listened to creatures stalking the night. He had no plan, no goal-and it felt liberating. Before, he had lived for his family, for his city, to make a better existence for all the citizens of Balic. He had worked hard and dedicated himself for people he cared about. And after his disgrace, he had been forced to fight and kill for people he hated.

Now all that was gone, the good and the bad. He owed nothing to anyone. He would heal, he would survive, and one day, perhaps he would find something else to believe in.

Next day, he continued to explore the island, finding the ruins of a Balic fort whose inhabitants had been slaughtered, probably by Skull Wearer’s giants. He picked through the wreckage and took what he needed, but he did not want to stay at the site of a recent massacre.

Continuing his explorations, he encountered a commotion up ahead, shouts and snapping branches. He heard a halfling warrior party crashing through the forest long before he saw them. He decided they must be bad warriors to be so noisy and obvious… and then he realized they were chasing someone.

A young woman burst out of the trees, running wildly; her long brown hair streamed behind her. She looked battered and exhausted. When the woman saw Koram, they both froze. He had not intended to save anyone, and she looked just as reluctant to accept his help, but the yips, howls, and high-pitched curses of the pursuers drove her toward him.

“Halflings,” she said, heaving great breaths. “I used my magic to escape… not much left now. And no time.”

“Magic?” Koram tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. “I have no love for defilers.”

“I don’t defile. I’m a survivor-so far. You’ll come with me if you hope to survive.”

Bounding forward with a speed and agility that belied his stocky body, the halfling leader raced out of the trees, waving his bone sword. He skidded to a halt, his eyes bugging out as he saw the armored gladiator, then he yelled back to the trees. “Hey, hurry up! I’ve caught another one!”

Brazen with confidence, the woman whirled to face the halfling. “Leave us, Borodro-and maybe we won’t kill you.”

Borodro laughed. “I have fifty followers right behind me!”

“I counted forty-five,” she said.

He paused to tally them again in his mind. “More than enough.”

Since he had done nothing to provoke the halfling hunter, had made no sign of even choosing sides in the dispute, Koram was taken off guard as Borodro threw himself forward like a rabid animal. With fierce and unhindered sword work, the feral halfling landed the first blow and chipped one of Koram’s petrified-wood armor plates.

As a gladiator, Koram had fought many different opponents, so he adjusted his combat technique accordingly. His arena fighting skills took over, automatic and without mercy. He had not meant to fight again, did not want to get involved in this squabble… but he could not simply ignore this woman. If he had fought back earlier, if he had defended his family against the guards who came to take him, maybe he could have saved his wife and son. Koram parried the halfling’s sharpened-femur sword with his own bronze edge, hammering so hard he splintered the giant bone. Borodro hesitated in surprise at the ferocity of the blow.

With a curled fist, Koram smashed the halfling leader in the nose, drawing forth a surprised yowl and a burst of blood. As the enrgaged Borodro threw himself against the gladiator again, Koram impaled him on his sword. The halfling collapsed, wailing as his blood poured out.

In the dense trees nearby, the remaining forty-five halfling pursuers heard their leader’s death scream, then raised their own voices.

Koram held his sword and stood his ground; he did not even know who this woman was, but he was certain he could never defeat so many halfling cannibals.

The woman yanked a small pouch from her breeches and unwrapped it to reveal a rough shard of crystal. She looked up at Koram, wild-eyed. “No way around it now. I can use Borodro’s life force before he dies, and I’ll probably have to drain a dozen trees, too. But it’s either defiling magic, or we both die.”

Anger flared inside him. “I refuse to be part of defilement.”

On the ground, Borodro coughed blood and wheezed out a death rattle. Wearing a grim expression, the woman knelt next to the dying halfling, working her hands around the crystal. “Normally I would use my own blood, my own strength, but this creature has already taken enough lives.” She spat in the halfling’s face to express her loathing, then she looked with greater sympathy at Koram. “You saved me. I’ll save you. I’ll take you to… a better place.”

As she summoned the power to activate the crystal, Borodro wailed and writhed, then shriveled to dust. The grasses and weeds on the ground withered as the circle of defiling magic spread, drinking life energy from anything it touched. Tall trees turned brown, creaking, splintering.

Koram yelled at her, “I do not want-”

Then the first members of the halfling hunting party charged forward out of the trees, waving their weapons. They all looked hungry.

The crystal in her palm glowed as she finished her spell.

The world shimmered-and they were both in a different place. Koram’s next breath tasted of moisture, life, flowers, and leaves. Nearby, a brook tumbled over mossy rocks on its way downhill. The shadowy monster-infested forest was now glittering with birdsong and gentle breezes. Even the sun in the sky was bright yellow, rather than a dull bloody red.

He stared in awe, then looked at the woman, demanding explanations. “Where have you taken me?”

The magic user shuddered in disgust at what she had done. The rough crystal in her bloodstained palm emitted a yellowish glow. “This is Athas… our world, before the sorcerer-kings and corrupt magic users wrung it dry.”

“How did we get here?” The gladiator looked around, worried that Borodro’s cannibal halflings had followed them through time. “How do we get back?” He had not intended to stay with this woman. The wounds and memories were still too fresh in his mind and heart, and he did not want to cast his lot with a stranger. It would not be fair to her, or to him.

The woman-who told him her name was Jisanne-looked down at the strange glassy shard she held. “Ancient sailors used this navigation crystal to take them home. This time period, this version of Athas, was the home of a powerful ship’s captain.” Though her skin was covered with bruises and she walked with obvious pain, Jisanne set off down the slope, following the stream. “I’ve brought us here. Look around you. Are you so anxious to be back in your harsh world?”

He found the fresh, green, living landscape remarkable… but its very strangeness was intimidating. “I have lost my family, and lost my interest. Little matters to me anymore. But I… will stay with you until I’m sure you are safe.”

She regarded him with a hard expression. “I have taken care of myself for a long time, and I don’t need a protector.” She drew a deep breath. “But you are here with me now. I prefer this time and place, when the world was young and healthy-but my magic isn’t strong enough to make it permanent. Come, we don’t have much time.”

Koram followed her down the slope to a wide blue river course-clear, swift-flowing water dotted with colorful sails of trading ships, oared dromonds from the city guard, even pleasure craft. He recognized it. “This is the estuary!”

“The way it once was.” Jisanne led him along the shore. “This is how Athas was meant to be.”

His heart felt leaden, wishing his wife and son could see this. “I suppose if we are trapped here… I would not complain.” He could make a new home here, a new life far from his memories.

“It won’t last.” Jisanne scanned the shore, looking for something. “I stole life energy for this spell. Defiling magic is the only way to activate the navigation crystal, and it will fade soon enough.”

He was uneasy with her casual use of the corrupting power, but he also knew that otherwise he would be dying just then, his body pierced with halfling arrows and blades. Jisanne had saved both of them. He owed her a debt of gratitude.

When he had turned his back on Balic, he had severed all ties, washing his hands of the evil government that had destroyed his family and the fickle people who had shown him no loyalty, no support. Though he had little to live for, once he’d left the arena, he did not want to die. Given time, perhaps Koram would find a reason that meant something-and someone who deserved it.

After they had rushed along through the peaceful forest, Jisanne let out a happy cry and hurried through the underbrush to a small rowboat tied to a drooping tree trunk. “Come, we must head south as fast as we can, while the spell lasts. Unless you’d rather travel across the silt?”

Though he didn’t know what she meant, her urgency was plain. Koram climbed into the boat, took the oars, then guided them out into the fast-flowing estuary. “Where are we going?”

“South-to Arkhold. To my home.”

After a lifetime of considering desolation to be the normal state of the world, he marveled at the bounty of water, the moisture in the air, the fractured-gold flashes of sunlight on the river’s ripples. As he rowed vigorously, water splashed on the caked dust and blood on his skin; it felt cool and strange as the fresh breezes dried it quickly. A strange stirring occurred in his chest, and the weight on his shoulders seemed less heavy. Koram began to feel alive again.

As they made good time along the current, Jisanne told him her story, and he shared his own. She didn’t seem at all astonished to hear of Praetor Yvoluk’s cruelty or how the fickle people of Balic had so easily turned on him. They had done the same to her. Jisanne explained how ancient sorcerer-kings had abused dark powers, draining the world year after year, spell after spell, war after war.

“Defiling magic did this to Athas-and now I have used it to bring us back to a time before the world was destroyed.” She shook her head in disgust at herself. “Ironic, isn’t it? In order to visit an Athas untainted by the parasitical magic, I need to drain more life force from the land.”

“Either way, we are here.” Koram rowed as hard as he could, carrying them far down the watercourse. They traveled for many leagues before the magic weakened. As Jisanne felt it fade, she urged him to pull the boat to the shallows.

With a wrenching disappointment, they watched the green shore and blue current curl and evaporate, changing from a verdant paradise to a barren brown wasteland. The Athas Koram was used to seeing. He felt suddenly hollow and lost, and he had to bite back a bitter cry.

The small boat ground ashore and fell apart with the sudden weight of age, disintegrating into dry and ancient splinters. The two found themselves in the rocks on the edge of a bone-dry canyon. “We’ll have to walk from here. Arkhold isn’t far,” Jisanne said.

He hesitated, looking around at the stark rocks and dry desert. “I did not intend to stay.”

She looked uncertain. “You saved my life. I prefer being alone, and I never said I wanted company… But stay and rest. You can find your own path tomorrow.”

Together, they trudged back to her skeletal ship, the dry docks, and the silt-buried old harbor city. He gave a gruff answer. “No place else to be.”

Dust-shrouded Arkhold was dead, empty… and peaceful. When she and Koram reached her makeshift home aboard Horizon Finder, Jisanne fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. It took days for her to recover from the magic she had used, and so Koram did not leave. He tended her, brought her food and water, and kept watch against the ever-present dangers of the desert.

She could not shake the disheartened realization of how willingly she had turned to defiling magic to summon the past centuries of Athas. When possible, she would use her own blood to work the spell, drawing upon willingly surrendered life energy to trigger the crystal. A spell could be more permanent if not forced and stolen-but she had to use what she could. Jisanne knew she would do it again. Every moment she experienced in that long-lost period was worth the sacrifice, even if she had to steal the energy from other living creatures. It could rapidly become too easy…

The gladiator from Balic wanted nothing from her, put no obligations on her, posed no threat. She had come to this place intentionally, hiding from her past; the other strangers she had encountered here were greedy, driven, dangerous. Koram, though, had cut himself off from the strings that bound him to his city and he had let the hot winds of circumstance blow him wherever they wished. And they had brought him to her.

While she continued to recover, Koram trudged off into the rugged land nearby. He returned a day later with three large iguanas he had caught, a pouch of leathery-shelled turtle eggs, and several wrinkled gourds that held water. If not for him, Jisanne doubted she could have survived.

For his own part, he also seemed to be healing just by staying with her in the empty quiet. The two kept their distance from each other, kept their silence, but eventually they talked more, surprised to find how much they were alike. Though the man carried no happiness within him, at least he seemed to find an inner contentment being there. In the evenings he would sit with her, and gradually opened up, talking more and more.

“I had to shut out all of my pain and anger just to survive in the arena. But I don’t like to be so empty. When you showed me the past, you made me see how healthy this world once was… and could be again. Maybe my life can become whole again, as well.” He hung his head. The bristles of hair had begun to regrow from his shaved scalp. “I will hold onto that hope.”

With a wistful sigh, Jisanne thought of the glorious, vibrant past. “If we could return there, I would turn my back on all of Athas without a second’s regret… the way you turned away from Balic.”

Koram made a rumbling sound in his chest. “I would do it in a second.”

The peace could last only so long.

Just as the first flames of dawn scorched the Sea of Silt, a bellowing voice echoed through Arkhold. “Gladiator Koram, come out and meet your master-and your death! The smell of your treachery makes you easy to follow.”

Belowdecks in the petrified old sailing ship, Koram recognized the voice, a sound that had come from beyond the grave. He leaped off his pallet and grabbed his sword, but did not have time to strap on his armor. Koram said to Jisanne, “Hide here. He doesn’t want you.”

She sat bolt upright, her eyes wide. “Who is it? Who tracked you here?”

“Praetor Yvoluk. He survived somehow. I suppose a soul as twisted as his cannot be easily crushed.” He hefted his ivory-and-bronze sword. “If I kill him, I’ll be back.”

Jisanne took out the navigation crystal, drew a deep breath. “I am strong enough to use magic again. Let me help you fight him.”

“That would be a waste of your life. Yvoluk has already taken my wife and son. That is enough.” He stalked off and climbed the ladder out of the hold. He no longer felt empty and aimless. If he was going to face a hated enemy again, at least now he had a reason to fight.

He did not hear Jisanne whisper under her breath, “And I lost my sister and her whole family because I wasn’t there to protect them.”

Emerging onto the open deck, Koram saw a silt dromond bearing Balic’s flag. Powered by a psionic helm, the large ship hovered above the dust, separated by less than a meter from Horizon Finder’s starboard bow. In the fleet maneuvers of Dictator Andropinis, Koram had seen these fearsome ships glide across the desert like giant sharks in the sky.

Smug, Yvoluk stood on the dromond’s bow next to the thri-kreen tracker, the nihilist philosopher who had also fought in the Criterion; the chittering thri-kreen bobbed his rounded head, his faceted eyes gleaming in the bright daylight. “You see, Praetor-I told you I could track him.” In his segmented limbs, the thri-kreen held the rumpled sash of Andropinis that Koram had left behind in his cell. Five more Balic soldiers stood behind them, armed and ready to fight.

When the tracker saw Koram’s angry scowl at the betrayal, he shouted to the other ship. “It makes no difference. If we’d been pitted against each other, you would have killed me or I’d have killed you. It is nothing personal.”

The words were dry as they came out of Koram’s mouth. “I won’t hold any sympathy or any grudge against you. My grudge is with Yvoluk.”

The praetor’s laugh sounded like splintering wood. “And my grudge is with you, Koram. You cast me to my death, but magic cushioned my fall. Unluckily for the beast giants, they have a strong life force. Using it to power my magic was as easy as poking a hole in a wineskin. I was nearly buried among the corpses I had slain.” Behind him, the five warriors drew their blades and bows, ready to attack, but Yvoluk motioned them back. He seemed proud of what he had done.

“I crawled out of the zone of death just as Dictator Andropinis cast his own spell from the wall above. He unleashed such terrible magic that he felled dozens of giants, not to mention several hundred cowardly soldiers with a single spell. He called up a lava storm in the estuary, enough to send Skull Wearer and his minions fleeing. I barely scaled the wall myself.” The praetor shook his head like a disappointed parent. “But you had already run away, Koram. You gave us quite a chase.”

“Then I will save you further trouble. When you forced me to fight opponents in the Criterion, I had no reason to kill them. Now, though, I have all the reasons I need.” Koram bent his powerful legs and sprang across the gap from Horizon Finder to the levitating dromond.

Jisanne was already rallying her magic as she emerged onto the deck. She saw Koram land on the adjacent silt dromond to face his enemy, yelling, “Fight me, Yvoluk! I have waited long enough for this.”

The Balic templar just laughed. “And why should I bother fighting you when I have others to do so?” He motioned for his fighters, and three of the men nocked arrows to bowstrings; the other two lifted their short swords and crouched to charge.

With anger roiling through her, Jisanne stepped out of the shadows and began to work her first spell. Drawing energy from all around her in a quick rush, she felt the tension build within her. Her need justified whatever means she might employ, even defilement-fast, powerful, and deadly magic. “Leave us alone!”

Spotting her, the thri-kreen tracker gave an alarmed squawk and his small antennae lifted, twitching. “Koram sent a defiler against us!”

With instinctive terror, Yvoluk’s warriors fired their arrows without any command from the praetor. Three shafts leaped out from twanging bows. One of the arrows clattered on Horizon Finder’s deck-but the other two struck Jisanne, one on the left side of her chest, the second in her abdomen. The impacts drove her backward.

With a howl, Koram thrust his sword deep into the traitorous thri-kreen’s back, piercing the tan chitin; the thri-kreen’s lower set of legs folded and he fell to his knees, dragging Koram’s sword with him, caught in his hard shell. “Ah, so this is how it ends…” He whistled through his mandibles.

Jisanne gasped as her spell died around her. She tried to keep uttering the words, but only blood came out of her mouth, not the rest of the incantation.

With a barked command from Yvoluk, the soldiers fell upon Koram, five against one. Even as he struggled to tear his sword free from the thri-kreen’s body, the warriors swarmed over him, thrusting and stabbing.

Lying in a pool of her own blood on the deck of Horizon Finder, Jisanne saw an image of her sister’s family cut down by mob hatred. Yes, she did know how to use arcane magic, and now her own blood gave her all the power she needed to finish the spell.

The silt stirred beneath the levitating dromond. A line of ivory vertebrae moved in a serpentine ripple, and a pair of ribcages lifted up through the sand. Balanced on puzzle-pieces of stacked bones, two saurian skulls dropped open hinged jaws to brandish sand-worn fangs. The long-dead sea serpents both roared, a dry rasping sound that scratched through their hollow throats. Once so majestic as they glided on Athas’s long-forgotten seas, the fossilized monsters now loomed over the levitating dromond. Jisanne clenched her bloodied fists, drove the monsters into action.

Yvoluk’s warriors looked up and screamed, scrambling away from Koram. The praetor stared in awe, craning his neck up at the giant fanged skulls, then frantically worked his own spell to protect himself-but before he could finish, one of the skeleton serpents darted forward and chomped down. Lifting the bleeding templar into the air, the serpent shook him from side to side, bit him in half, then tossed the severed body off the dromond. Yvoluk was still gurgling as he sank into the silt.

Jisanne crawled to the side rail, lifted herself up, and extended a red hand toward Koram. On the levitating dromond, he was a patchwork of deep wounds, bleeding from numerous slashes and cuts, many of them surely fatal. She tried to call his name, but her lungs were filled with blood.

Koram dragged himself to the bow and somehow found the strength to make a staggering leap back to Horizon Finder. Jisanne attempted to catch him, and they both tumbled together. One of the arrow shafts snapped off inside, and the pain blinded her.

Even without her magical control, the skeletal serpents continued to attack the dromond. Ivory skulls smashed the planks, broke the hull, shattered the rails. The serpents seized the terrified Balic soldiers in their jaws, tossing bodies over the side or leaving them strewn across the deck. The dromond crashed, running aground onto the stone quay.

Jisanne and Koram held each other, barely hearing the screams and the mayhem. Drowning in the pain, she felt the magic fade. The twin sea monster skeletons raised sinuous bone necks as if in a salute, then crumbled into ivory shards in the dust.

Jisanne knew she was dying, and beside her Koram grasped her hand. His wounds looked even worse than hers. “Do you have the navigation crystal?” he said. “Take us back… to when Athas was alive.”

With an effort she removed the worn object, wet fingers fumbling with the strings of the pouch. “The magic won’t last. It destroys. It is what drained this world.”

He leaned closer, his breath rattling. “Then I give you my life energy willingly-take it! I’d rather die there than in this place.”

Jisanne cupped the navigation crystal in her palm. Each breath was like broken glass caught on fire; the arrow deep in her stomach was a grinding spear of ice that twisted in her guts. “Maybe with my life force, too, it will be enough to seal the spell permanently.”

Koram could barely hold his head up. He was fading quickly. If she didn’t act soon, the opportunity would be wasted.

Jisanne clenched her fingers around the crystal. Previously, she had filled a small bowl with her own blood, just enough to work the arcane magic. Now there was so much blood, but she felt so weak… and Koram was so weak.

She pulled the spell from her own core, stronger than ever before. Jisanne used everything she had, and everything Koram had. She scraped both of their existences until they were bone dry and empty, she pulled on any life force around them, the waning energy of the dying guards, the small burrowing creatures in the ground, every faint flicker she could find. Even the sand and dust turned dark. She had never called on so much life force to fuel her magic.

Her vision faded into static and grit, and she could see only the crystal in her hand. Jisanne tried to hold onto it, but the object dulled, then crumbled into small shards and glittering dust in her hand.

Destroyed.

Jisanne collapsed, feeling the weight of Koram beside her but no life there, and no life inside her either…

Then the deck began rocking beneath them, and the bright sun beating down seemed to have a different quality. The air Jisanne inhaled was moist and salty-and as she sucked in a lungful she realized that the arrow wounds no longer hurt. The spell had worked after all!

With a loud snort, a deep voice grumbled at them. “I see you are back, lady magic user-and you have brought a fighter, too. He looks strong enough, but lazy. Lounging around on the deck-hmmf!” The minotaur captain stood over the two of them.

Koram picked himself up, touching his bare chest and searching unsucessfully to find his deep wounds.

“Are you going to sleep all day?” Hurrun put his powerful hands on his hips. “This ship has places to go-I am not running an inn at sea!”

Jisanne got to her feet and looked off the starboard bow to see the beautiful harbor city of Arkhold with its whitewashed buildings on the hills, the large marketplace down by the docks, the colorful sails of small fishing boats.

“We are glad to be here, Captain,” Jisanne said. She felt more solid now than ever before, more real in this time.

Koram was amazed. “Please let us stay.”

“All right, I won’t throw you overboard just yet.” The minotaur turned and stalked back toward the bow. “Just make yourselves useful.”

Because they had surrendered their life energy voluntarily, perhaps they had twisted the nature of the defiling magic, and the navigation crystal had incorporated them into the past, into its memory of “home.” Maybe they were really there, or maybe it was only a recorded vision that had an objective and persistent reality of its own. Either way, it didn’t matter.

“This is our permanent place now, Koram,” she said, convinced as she stood beside him. “We both made it so. This spell will never fade.” They faced the sun-the golden yellow sun.