The Arsenal Files 6/The Arsenal Files 6 (Arsenal Computer).ISO/epub/eye01.zip/EYE.TXT

Text File | 1996-01-18 | 323KB | 12,081 lines

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                    THE EYE OF THE DRAGON

                  a Novel by Jason Melendez



                   COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

(C) Copyright 1996 by Jason Melendez
First Edition Published by Cedar Bay Press L.L.C.
ISBN: 1-57555-047-4                    SAN: 298-6361
352 pages Book-On-Disk    $5.95ppd.


                          SAMPLE e-EDITION

This is a work of fiction.  The events described here are
imaginary:  The settings and characters are fictitious and
not intended to represent specific incidents or persons,
living or deceased.

This is a reproduction of an unedited manuscript. The work
herein reflects that of the author and not the Publisher.








                    THE EYE OF THE DRAGON
                  a Novel by Jason Melendez











                    CHAPTER ONE: PROLOGUE

                     -The Fate of Ramsey





     Jon rubbed the tiny beads of sweat that had collected

under his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and placed

another strip of the greasy, rancid meat into his mouth.

The room was dark.  It was extremely hot.  And there were

cockroaches and maggots crawling about in the food that he

had set out to eat.  But that was alright, because Jon liked

it that way.

     "The war is at full scale," Jon said.  "It's chaos out

there, chaos everywhere.  I mean really bad.  The dead

bodies number so many that we won't need to scrounge for

food for a long time."

     "Would you eat the bodies of your own kind?" Lars

asked.

     Jon focused a cold, narrow gaze on him.  "Of course,"

he said.  "It's meat.  It's food.  It will keep us alive

when nothing else will.  What are you, some kind of a

coward?"

     "No, I'm not a coward."

     Jon raised his eyebrows, tossing the strip of meat he

had been chewing onto the table.

     "Good," Jon said.  "You worried me there for a moment."

     "I'm not a coward either," Ramsey said.

     Jon smashed his fist into the wooden table with such a

force that it scattered away the cockroaches that had

gathered to join the four haggard thieves for the late

supper.

     "Did I ask you?" Jon said.  "Did I?"  He looked over at

Amit, who was picking his teeth with a bone.  "Did I ask

this pissy little toad anything?  Anything at all?"

     Amit shook his head.

     Jon unsheathed his long, rusting blade.

     "I ought to gut this spineless fool right now," he

said.  "Should I, Amit?  Should I gut this toad?"

     Amit shrugged.

     "No, don't," Ramsey said.  "Don't, Jon, please."

     "Shut up," Jon said, replacing his knife.  "You're

pitiful."

     There was a few moment of silence as Jon glared at

Ramsey.

     "What was you going to tell us, Jon?" Lars asked.  "You

know, about your new plan."

     Jon reached back for the meat strip, scattering away

the cockroaches as he did.

     "Well," Jon said, "I figure'd we should stop our petty

thefts and killings and go for the big prize.  The real

stuff."

     "What do you mean?" Lars asked.

     Jon spread his hands, looking around at all three of

his companions.

     "What is the singular most valuable thing in this

city?" he asked.

     "Women?"  Lars said.

     "No!"

     Ramsey licked his lips, watching Jon suck on one side

of the rancid meat strip.  "Food?" he said.

     Jon spit out his meat and looked at Amit.  "Do I have

to put up with this?  Amit, what is the most valuable thing

in the city?"

     Amit shrugged.

     "Damn, what's the matter with you guys?  Does the

phrase 'gift to our High Priestess' mean anything?"

     Lars and Ramsey looked at him blankly, and he glowered

at them.

     "The Eye of the Dragon!" Jon said.  "Just one section

of that piece would make us rich.  All of us."

     "No way," Lars said.  "We'd never even get in to see

it.  There's too many guards."

     Jon gave him a whithering look.

     "Do you know why I don't like you, mostly?" Jon asked.

     Lars shrugged.

     "It's because you're ugly," Jon said.  "You're so

damned ugly that it makes me sick, Lars.  And you're stupid,

too.  But the thing that's beating me over the head right

now is that you don't pay attention to anything!"

     "I pay attention to stuff," Lars said sulkily.

     "No," Jon said, "you don't.  Because you haven't paid

attention that there are no guards around the shrine, and

there are no guards around the temple, and there are no

guards around the whole bloody city because everybody's out

fighting the war!  Did you forget that there was a war,

Lars?"

     "No."

     "Well, you had me wondering, you big oaf.  Now I think

we should strike now before it gets too late and we wind up

winning this war before we can steal anything of real

value."

     "What do you want us to do, Jon?" Ramsey asked.

     Jon moved his hands towards him, motioning for them to

come close.  He always did that when he was ready to let

loose an idea, as though he didn't want anybody else to hear

what he was going to tell them; even though the tiny, cold,

stone room was hardly bustling with people.

     "I want you, Ramsey, to go in the shrine and break that

Eye of the Dragon.  You know, so it's in enough pieces for

the rest of us to collect up."

     "Will it be any good in pieces?" Ramsey asked.

     "Of course, you witless toad."

     "Oh."

     "And then wait inside of the shrine," Jon said.  "Just

to see if anything happens."

     "Like what?"

     "Who knows?"

     Ramsey squirmed in his seat uncomfortably.  "What if I

get caught?"

     "What, are you scared Ramsey?" Jon asked.  "Is that it?

Are you scared of breaking the Eye of the Dragon?"

     "No," Ramsey said.  "I'm not scared of anything."

     "Good.  Because I was beginning to wonder."

                            * * *

     Jon, Ramsey, and Lars navigated their makeshift raft

along the Tapel River through the dark underground city,

which was almost completely empty now and eerily silent.

Amit, who had apparently felt he would rather stay behind

and pick his teeth, was the only one absent from their usual

party of four.

     When they reached the temple, Jon led them into the

enormous, circular room, which was entirely empty of people.

A large stairway led up from the center of the room to a

doorway above, dimly lit by torches that were set into the

wall at either side.  There were carvings and paintings of

snakes and spiders all around the curving temple walls, and

the floor was made entirely of a fine polished marble.

Pillars of granite, equally as polished and elegant-looking,

rose from the floor to the enormous, domed ceiling of the

hall in the shape of glaring, open-mawed serpents.

Chandeliers cast off dazzling light that was reflected on

all sides by elaborate, patterned mirrors.

     "See?" Jon said.  "What did I tell you.  There's no--"

He stopped short, his gaze falling upon an open side door.

     "What's wrong?" Lars said.  "There's--"

     "Shhh!" Jon put a finger to his lips, and pointed at

the open door.  "That's the shrine room," he whispered.

"What's it doing open?  It should be locked and bolted, at

the very least.  Why do you think I had you bring the

tools?"

     "Maybe they moved it," Ramsey said.

     John made a clicking sound with his tongue, and gave

Ramsey a smack in the back of the head.

     "Don't be a stupid toad," he said, still whispering.

"They wouldn't touch that!"

     "What then?" Lars asked.

     Jon shrugged.  "I know they had a banquet in here

earlier.  For the High Priestess, before the last of the

troops left for the war.  Someone could have tampered with

the door then.  Or maybe someone already had this idea and

beat us to it."

     "So?" Lars asked.

     Jon jerked his head towards Ramsey.

     "Go in, Ramsey" Jon said.  "See if there's anyone in

there.  If there isn't, then just proceed as planned."

     "But. . ."

     "Just do it!  If there's anyone in there, kill them."

     Jon and Lars slunk into the shadows of the cirular hall

as a reluctant Ramsey tiptoed over to the shrine entrance,

looking incredibly tiny in the enormous room.  He peeked

into the doorway, and then disappeared inside.

     "Do you think there's anyone in there?" Lars whispered.

     Jon nodded.  "I know there is," he said.  "There's

definitely something in there.  I just don't know what."

     They waited for a long while, without Ramsey showing

head nor tail through the entrance.  Then, they heard a loud

thump, as though someone or something had fallen over.

     "What was that?" Lars asked.

     Jon glared at him.  "Do I look like a seer, you

ridiculous fool?"

     Again they waited, for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally, Jon gave Lars a nudge.

     "Go see what's going on in there," he said.

     "No way."

     "Go on, you yellow toad!"

     "I don't care, Jon, I'm not going over there."

     Jon looked at him with an icy stare.  "When me and

Ramsey get rich off this, you'll be the one who gets the

least amount of money, you big coward."

     Lars just belched.

     "Cowards," Jon said.  "I work with a lot of stupid

cowards.  Fine, I'll go myself."

     Jon withdrew his knife and crept like a cat across the

dimly lit temple room without making a sound.  When he had

reached the doors, Lars watched him slip quietly inside.

     Lars busied himself in scraping the dark, grimy crud

from underneath his fingernails while Jon was absent.  He

was just beginning to consider getting out of the temple,

lest whatever fate that had befallen the others should

happen upon him as well, when Jon came running from the

shrine.  His face was ashen, and his eyes were wide, with a

horrified look that Lars had never seen in Jon before.  He

had either dropped his knife or had somehow forgotten it,

because he was running with all his might, and he had

nothing at all in his hands.

     "Get out of here!" Jon said.  He was no longer

whispering.

     "What happened?" Lars asked, following Jon out of the

temple.  "What happened to Ramsey?"

     "Don't ask."

     "What?"

     "I said forget it!  Believe me, whatever did happen to

the poor bastard, it wasn't pretty.  And I don't want it to

happen to us.  Now move!"

                          Book One

     In the beginning God created the heaven and the Earth.
    And the Earth was without form and void: and darkness
    was upon the face of the deep.  And the spirit of God
             moved upon the face of the waters.

       And God saw that the wickedness of "man" was great
  in the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts
           of his heart was only evil continually.
       And the Lord said, I will destroy "man" whom I have
created from the face of the earth; for it repenteth me that
                      I have made them.

    And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule
  the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: he made
                       the stars also.
      And God set them in the firmament of heaven to give
 light upon the Earth, and to rule over the day and over the
    night, and to divide the light from the darkness. . .
                                             - Genesis


    "All material things in this plane of reality are

in a constant state of change -- from order to chaos.
Suns  deplete themselves  of  energy and  die, living
things grow old and decay, and civilizations collapse
into anarchies.  Yet, chaos is merely another link in
the chain--the cycle--of life, of reality. New worlds
arise from the dying, strong governments are built up
from the ruins of the former. Chaos is not an end; it
is every much a beginning as order."
               -Jaro of Amariah





                         CHAPTER TWO

                    -The King of Amariah





     The road from the City of Terron to the Amariah Forest

was small and covered with weeds.  Few people travelled that

road, mostly adventure seekers, and even those would come

back not much longer after they had left, disappointed.

     At first, Amariah looks as any other forest does; tall

trees reaching far into the sky, grasses and shrubs beneath,

the ground littered with stones and pine needles.  It looks,

naturally, very beautiful and serene.  But if you were to

venture far enough, you'd notice a mist, not unlike fog,

growing thicker and heavier as you went.  Soon, the mist

would obscure your vision completely, and you would be lucky

not to trip over a root or stumble into a tree.  After a

time, however, you'd notice the mist ahead getting thinner,

and to your dismay, would find yourself back at the very

point in the forest where you'd started.

     Regardless of this odd tendency, people still travelled

to the forest occasionally.  Some would go there just to

enjoy the natural beauty of the scenery, others to persist

in finding a "secret trail" that would lead them beyond the

mist.  But the path they sought for was only a myth, for

there was no such trail.  Beyond the mist, deep in the heart

of the big forest, was a special kingdom--a spirit realm

created in the dawn of the New World.  It was the home of

Jaro, a good spirit pledged by Aellei the great God to

oversee the care of the earth.  Jaro took part in many

stories and tales, but the stories were usually

exaggerations, wild myths derived from the imaginations of

men.

     In Jaro's kingdom, the trees grew tall and strong,

flowers and vines of rich nectar were plentiful, and streams

of clear, sweet water bubbled up from springs beneath the

ground.  In the center of the kingdom, there was a small,

circular pool of water that was so incredibly tranquil there

was never a ripple or disturbance to mar its mirror-like

surface.  On some days, while wandering through his garden,

Jaro would come to the pool and gaze upon its crystalline

waters, and the pool would show him any part of the world he

desired.

     Lately, the images had been disturbing.

     In the pool, Jaro saw blood and death, barren lands and

dark beings; a kingdom of evil.  And it all pointed to the

Northland.  Troubled, Jaro retrieved the prophetic volumes

he had secured from the Old World, and searched diligently

through the pages of the ancient tomes.  There, written in a

time so long ago as to be forgotten by history itself, lay

the answers to the questions he asked.

     For long hours, he studied the text.  He read of what

was to come, of the evil that had been brought into the New

World as soon as it had been born.  He read of its

awakening, and what must be done in order to stop it.  The

solution was an odd one; certainly, it had never been

attempted before.  Two persons from his kingdom were to

journey into the world of men, join forces with three

mortals, among others, and go north to stop the evil.

However, the person chosen from his kingdom would never

taste the freedom of immortality again, until death took

him.  That person, upon entering the world of men, would

become as a child of man. . . mortal, frail, and vulnerable.

The solution seemed ludicrously foolish, but there it was--

written boldly in the ancient hand.  It was prophecied.





                   CHAPTER  THREE

                           -Arleah





     The city of Terron was, as usual, bustling with early

morning activity.  The roads were at a near standstill as

people, horses, and carts all moved together in a crowd,

each going about their daily business.  Troy Vinson pushed

his way through a group of merchants that were clustered

together and arguing, all but blocking the road.  One of

them muttered a curse after him, and he looked back, smiling

pleasantly.

     Vinson was a moderately tall man,  broad-shouldered,

with dark brown hair that almost reached his shoulders.  His

brown eyes, crinkled at the corners from twenty-five years

of squinting in the glaring Southern sun, whispered of a

long-held sadness, but also held a sparkle that almost

seemed to laugh, trying to push the sadness into oblivion.

     Walks through the crowded streets of Terron tended to

either depress him or frustrate him, depending on how big

the crowds were.  Today, they looked big enough to do both,

so Vinson watched his feet as they crunched along on the

pebbled road, trying to ignore the shouts and other loud

noises around him.

     "Watch it!"

     Vinson looked up just in time to avoid a collision with

an old, whithered man that looked startlingly like a turtle.

He glared at Vinson.

     "Sorry," Vinson said.

     "Well, you should be."

     Vinson continued on past the old man, chuckling to

himself.  Yes, it was definitely time to move away.

     Three more streets down, he turned into a small shop

amid several others, all bearing large wooden signs in

front.  The signs, most of them old and weathered, seemed to

cry out "GRAIN", "SUPPLIES", "BLACKSMITH", and so on in huge

letters.  The one Vinson turned into read "SHOES-BOOTS".

     The smell of leather filled his nostrils as he stooped

under the low doorway and into the shop.  The wall facing

him held shelves full of boots, shoes, and slippers, all

neatly and carefully placed together in pairs.  To his

right, there was a small doorway that led to the workshop.

On the other side was a small, rickety-looking stool that

seemed as if it would collapse at any moment from the mouse-

gnawings on its legs.  Behind the stool, posted on the wall,

was a plaque in the shape of an enormous fish.  An old,

balding man emerged from the small doorway, wearing wrinkled

clothes that looked as though they'd been slept in for a few

nights.

     "Troy!" the old man said.  "Good to see you, Troy, good

to see you.  How're you doing?"

     Vinson smiled faintly.  "Well, I'm still here, Sherren-

-I guess that means I'm doing alright."

     "Sure, sure.  Hey, how do you like what I did to the

shop?"  He looked anxiously at Vinson, his bushy, salt-and-

pepper eyebrows raised high.

     "Ah. . . it looks great, Sherren."

     "You don't notice."

     "Notice what?"

     Sherren looked at him pleadingly.  "You really don't

notice?"

     "What. . . the fish?"

     Sherren gave a big sigh of exasperation.  "No, no.  The

fish was always there."  He pointed to the shoe shelves.  "I

put metal clasps on the ends of the shelves.  Look--see how

they catch the sunlight and sparkle when you look at them

from the corner of your eyes?"

     "That's wonderful, Sherren, really.  I can't believe I

didn't notice them before."

     "Yeah, they're great, huh?  And look-- if you twist

them. . ."  he reached forward and turned one of the tiny

metal objects upside down, ". . .they look like little

shoes, see that?  Eh?"

     "Sherren, I need--"

     "You think these will help sales?  You know, it's the

subtle things, like this, that add that extra push in a

customer's mind to get him to buy.  Great, huh?"

     Vinson shrugged.  "You sure know how to sell, Sherren.

Listen--I need some boots.  Big, heavy ones, for

travelling."

     "Boots?  Sure, sure.  You know, I finished a pair just

yesterday that will fit those big feet of yours.  Just a

minute."

     Sherren disappeared back into the small doorway.

Vinson heard him shuffling around inside, knocking boxes

over, cursing to himself.  He smiled.  Some things never

changed.

     "Where you headed?" Sherren's voice called from the

small room.

     "What?"

     "You want travelling boots, so where you headed?"

     "Oh. . . I don't know, Sherren.  Somewhere less

crowded."

     "You mean North."  There was another crash; it sounded

like wooden crates falling.

     "Yeah, North.  I suppose."

     "Hmmm."   His thin hair wild and out of place, Sherren

reappeared, holding a pair of finely crafted leather boots.

"You know, I met a fellow the other day who just come down

from way up North.  He says to me it was getting real wild,

like strange things going on and a lot of people missing.

Didn't sound too--hospitial to me."

     Vinson smirked, taking the boots.

     "That's 'hospitable', and don't bother trying to sell

your spook stories on me, Sherren.  I'm moving, this time

for sure."

     "They ain't stories, they're true!  And you'd better be

careful, Troy, going up North.  You know how it is up there.

It's strange."

     Vinson grinned.  "I like it that way.  It's too normal

around here for me.  I want to be captured by dryads in the

forest, I want to swim in enchanted waters, I want to talk

with the centaurs and frolick with the naiads.  What's so

wrong with that?  Oh, by the way, these boots are very

nice."

     Sherren shook his head, turning around.  "You're

crazy."

     "How much do you want for these?"

     "Keep 'em.  Think of them as a going-away-present."

     "Thanks, Sherren.  That's very kind."

     Sherren seated himself gingerly on the stool.  The

giant fish hung inches from his bald head, looking like some

sort of freak crown.  He pointed a finger at Vinson.

     "You'd better watch out, son.  Don't fool with things

you don't understand."

     "Like magic?"

     "Exactly.  You playing around with that nonsense is

only bound to get you killed, especially up North."

     "I agree whole-heartedly," Vinson said.  "Playing is

exactly what I'm not doing.  I'm learning, Sherren, so I

will understand."

     "Bah.  I don't like it.  Too close to cursed Elves and

Faeries.  Magic never amounts to anything good.  I once knew

a young fellow  who was fooling around with it just like

you.  Do you know where he is now?  Dead, that's where.  He

trypsied up North, like you're about to do, fooling around

with all that no good magic, and got run through by a band

of gnomes.  The townspeople found his body hung on a stake

near Beign.  And that's exactly what'll happen to you, Troy,

exactly what'll happen to you.  Stay home, boy.  Stay home

and stay safe in the South."

     Vinson smiled.  "I appreciate your advice, Sherren, and

I promise you that I'll take it to heart."

     "That's right.  Remember, magic never amounts to

nothing."

     "I'll keep that in mind, Sherren."  He backed up

towards the door, still smiling.  "Thanks again for the

boots."

     "Remember!  Magic never--"

     "Amounts to anything," Vinson said, and he reached the

door.  "I'll try my best to stay alive."

     Vinson stepped out into the hot, crowd-filled street,

heard Sherren mutter something as he did.  He smiled,

shaking his head, and turned around towards the crowd.

       A tomato cart pulled by an old, worn out looking mule

with ragged ears nearly collided into him, kicking up a

cloud of dust in his face instead.  It stuck to his lips and

probably to his nose as well.

     "That's really great!" Vinson said.  The mule driver

looked back, returned his outburst with a mock salute.

     Just the start of another average day in the city.  But

not for long, Vinson thought.  Busy people, unfriendly

people, crazy old men, tomato cart drivers that aim for you.

. . they could keep their city.  He was leaving.

     Turning back the way he'd come, Vinson had barely begun

walking when someone caught his eye.  He looked up, and had

to check himself to keep from staring.

     Perhaps it was those eyes that had grabbed his

attention.  Even from a distance, he could see the

mysteriousness of  them--dark and green--whispering of the

many secrets they held.  Her lustrous ebony hair, long and

flowing, slipped ever so slightly into her face, and she

raised a slender hand to brush it away.  Her features were

perfect.  Beautiful.  Vinson found her absolutely

enchanting.  From the prominence of her eyebrows, the

intense dark green of her eyes, and her high cheekbones,

among other things, he guessed that she was probably an Elf,

although admittedly, he had never seen one before.

     Elven people were extremely unusual in this part of the

Southland, and so Troy was not surprised to observe her

long, heavy travelling cloak and boots, which suggested she

was only passing through Terron.  But who was she?  He felt

as though he had to know.

     Then, she was obscured from his vision by the crowd and

the dust.  Slowly, Vinson came back down to earth and

realized where he was--standing stupidly in the middle of a

sun-parched road, holding a new pair of travelling boots and

being jostled by the impatient city masses.  With a sigh, he

gave a final, futile look through mule carts to the other

side of the road, where he saw nothing.



     His home, a small wooden cabin, sat in a secluded pine

grove a mile up the main road.  Vinson reached it and slowly

went inside, listening to every creak the door made, feeling

the hardwood grain as he pushed it open.  He listened to the

sounds his old, weathered shoes made on the floor, and

smelled the familiar aromas that spoke so insistently of

home.  So many memories here. . .

     Yet it was only a house, he reminded himself, and it

was time now to move on to a new home.  Wherever it may be.

Indeed, part of the reason for his moving away was to escape

some of those memories, some of the painful memories. . .

memories that he did not care to think about.

     Most of the furnishings and home decor, items that he'd

known all his life, had already been sold.  Troy decided

that a simple pack consisting of basic necessities would be

all he needed on his journey to his new life.  His purse was

comfortably laden with silver from his recent sellings, so

he was confident that when his new home was decided upon, he

should settle in with no problems--at least not financial

ones.

     Tomorrow would be the day.  The start of a new life.

Troy allowed a little bit of exhilaration rise up as he

imagined himself travelling North. . . leaving, for the

first time, the city of Terron.  But as it did, an odd

feeling that time was running out slipped up and pushed away

the exhilaration.  Why this feeling should intrude

completely baffled him, but for some reason it reminded him

of the strange Elven girl he'd seen earlier.

     He shook his head and sighed.  He just wanted to leave.

                            * * *

     The next morning seemed strange and dreamy.  Vinson

packed a big leather shoulder bag and went over what he had

a million times.  Clothes, money, his new boots, knife,

food, water skins, notes on magic spells he'd been

practicing, other miscellaneous things. Outside, the spring

sun shone hazily through a loose blanket of clouds.

     "Ready," Vinson said to himself.  "Alright, here we go.

North!  Nothing can stop us now."

     There was a firm knock at his door.

     He licked his lips nervously, moving over to the door

and pulling it open with a loud, familiar creak.  The chilly

morning breeze swept his hair to the side, but that's not

what made him inhale sharply.  Vinson's heart jumped up to

his throat as he saw who his unexpected caller was.

     "Troy Vinson?" the Elven girl asked hopefully.

     Vinson nodded, eyes surprised and questioning.

     The girl gave a warm smile.  "My name is Arleah.  I'm

sorry if I disturbed you. . ."

     "No, no, not at all," he stammered, his brain

sluggishly attempting to regain his composure, "I was just,

uh. . . what can I do for you?"  He never thought to inquire

just exactly how she knew him, or where he lived.

     "It's a little complicated," she said, seeming a bit

unsure of what to say.  "I'll be as brief as possible."

     Vinson nodded, welcoming the opportunity just to

observe his beautiful caller.

     "Would you like to step inside?" he asked.  Seeing her

hesitation, he moved aside and motioned for her to come in.

     Arleah nodded, gripping her cloak under her chin and

smiling faintly.  Vinson noticed a strange golden emblem,

like a pendant of some sort, hanging from a delicate chain

about her neck.  On the pendant was carved the design of two

crossed swords, with an image of the sun between them.

     "Thank you," Arleah said, stepping past Vinson and

hesitantly entering the house.

     He smiled.  "Sure."

     Inside, he pulled up two stools, the only remaining

furniture besides a cracked wooden bookshelf he'd been

unable to sell.  He glanced around at the empty walls and

bare floor as the girl took her seat.

     "I'd get you something to drink, but I'm preparing to

leave the city. . . as you can see, I've either packed or

sold everything."

     Alreah nodded.

     "It's alright," she said.  "I know you must wonder how

I knew you, and what my purpose is here. . ."  She looked

around the empty room and out the window.  The trees rustled

cheerfully from outside.  "I can't say much here in the city-

-there are those who would give their lives to hear what I'm

about to tell you.  They don't know me. . . yet."

     Vinson frowned.  "What do you mean?"

     Arleah's voice dropped very low.  "I am the daughter of

Jaro, the King of Amariah.  I have been sent to meet you,

Troy Vinson, on a gravely important quest."

     Vinson's mind was left behind for a few moments.  It

took him a little while to catch up on what she had just

said.

     "You're the daughter of--"

     "Sshh." The girl put a finger to her lips.  "You have

the ability of magic, correct?"

     Vinson nodded, still confused.  "Well, I'm learning a

few things.  I wouldn't exactly call myself a wizard, but I

do find magic interesting."

     "You are needed.  I--"

     "Hold on a minute," Vinson said, his brow furrowed.

"Now, you're telling me that you're from Amariah?  This is a

joke, right?"

     Arleah stood up from the stool, her gaze locked on his,

her dark green eyes causing an almost hypnotic effect on

Vinson's already struggling mind.

     "This is no joke. You must come with me, away from the

city.  I am bound Northward."

     "You'd better be careful, going up North.  You know how

it is up there. . . it's strange."  Vinson blinked,

wondering why in all the world he had just quoted what

Sherren told him yesterday.  He felt dizzy and leaned back

against the wall of his cabin.

     "Are you alright?" Arleah asked.

     "Yeah, sure.  Fine."

     "Come walk with me," she said.  "Away from this city.

You are headed North as well, is that right?"

     "I was."

     "Come then.  I will explain more to you."

     "Alright," he said, mumbling.  "I just need to get a

few things."  He shook his head to clear it, confused at the

dizziness that buzzed about his eyes and ears.  He felt as

though he was drunk and had to concentrate on moving over to

retrieve the shoulder bag he'd packed.  Why was he feeling

this way?  Was it the girl?  It was like he was dreaming.

     She was saying something else, but he decided it was to

difficult to concentrate on her words, holding his shoulder

pack, and walking at the same time.  He moved awkwardly to

his cabin door, as she followed.  The sensation in his head

was slightly pleasant if he bothered to reflect on in that

way, but he was so confused that it was only frustrating.

     And then, suddenly, he realized what it must be.

     It was the magic--it was responding to something around

him.  A lot of times, he had been warned of forthcoming

danger by an odd sensation he'd grown to recognize, or had a

terrible stomache ache before an earthquake.  But he'd never

quite had this feeling before.  What did it mean?

     He pushed open the door, breathed in the fresh spring

air eagerly.  His head seemed to clear a little.

     "You forgot this," he heard behind him.  He looked

back, and Arleah was holding a knife.

     It was his hunting knife, although he'd never hunted

before.  He took it from her, noticing the concerned look in

her eyes.

     "Are you sure you're alright?" she asked.  "You seemed

a little shaky."

     A little shaky.  There's an understatement.

     "No, I'm fine, really.  I think I just needed some

fresh air."  Indeed, the feeling had settled down greatly.

But it was still there--he could feel it--his magic was

stirring and trying to tell him something.



     Troy Vinson and his strange companion left the city of

Terron, heading up the bare, empty Northbound road that led

to Colven, a small town not far away.  Every so often, they

would pass an inn or alehouse, but the road was, for the

most part, completely empty.  Apparently, Arleah decided it

was remote enough to finally disclose her information.

     "There is a special stone," the girl said, "from the

ancient world of magic, before the time of mortal men.  It

was created by the dark powers of faerie for the ultimate

destruction of life.  Until now, it had been safely hidden,

existing only in legend."

     "The Eye of the Dragon," Vinson said with a smile, and

nodded.  "I've heard of it quite a few times in stories to

frighten small children."

     Arleah smiled ruefully.  "It will frighten more than

small children if the ancient prophecies come to pass.

According to those prophecies, the stone is very real, and

of late, one who calls himself Muhl Dreik has recovered the

stone.  He has built up a kingdom in the north, which he

calls Ashten.  The evil generated there is very strong, and

if it is allowed to continue, it will spread throughout the

world, transforming it into a terrible hell, in which evil

reigns and people are slaves to its power."

     Vinson desperately searched Arleah's eyes for signs of

humor that would indicate a joke.  What he saw was only

cold, hard seriousness.  He shook his head.

     "What is this about ancient prophecies?  The Eye is

only a legend."

     "No.  It is not.  My father has charged me with the

task of leading a quest to the Northland, to stop this Muhl

Dreik and destroy the Eye.  You were chosen by prophecy to

accompany me."

     "Come on.  I find it difficult to believe that I was. .

. chosen.  Who am I to join you in this?  I'm nothing."  He

didn't add the fact that he was highly doubtful of who she

said she was, also.  But then she knew him. . . knew where

he lived. . .

     "You are a user of magic, Troy Vinson.  Your part is

vital to the quest.  And do not speak of yourself as being

nothing, you were chosen by prophecy.  You are indeed

someone very important."

     Vinson threw up his hands.

     "This is ridiculous!  I'm moving away, I don't have

time for quests into. . ." he stopped, looking at her

determined expression.  He felt the odd shifting of his

magic again, and knew this was not just some cruel joke, or

deranged illusion, but he didn't want to accept it, didn't

want any part of it.  He sighed, and ran his fingers through

his hair.

     "I'm speaking the truth," Arleah said.

     "And I believe you," Vinson said, "even though I don't

quite know why. . ." he trailed off.

     "Then will you join me?"

      "How far North do you intend to go?" he asked.  "I was

thinking about travelling as far as Datly myself."

     Arleah shook her head.  "We must travel far longer than

that.  Beyond Galgoth."

     "Beyond Galgoth?  But that's forbidden."

     "The choice is yours, Troy Vinson.  Neither I nor all

the gods of the Southland will force you into the quest.

It's a decision you will have to make on your own."

     Her voice sounded blank and expressionless, conveying

no emotion whatsoever.  Vinson noted it curiously.

     "My magic is nothing," he said.  "I can't possibly be

of any use for a quest like this.  I still have much to

learn, and I can't. . ." he paused, his jaw tightening, "My

magic can't attack anything!  It is no use in battle--I have

a mental block."  He avoided her eye contact.  "For a quest,

Arleah, I'm useless."

     "No," Arleah said, gripping his arm softly.  "You're

not.  I'm aware of your mental block, as you call it.  I

know of your mother's death.  I will make you this promise:

come with me, and you will overcome your problem."

     Vinson stopped walking, not believing the turn of

events that had taken place that morning, nor what he was

hearing now.  It was impossible. . . all of it.  Just

impossible.

     His "mental block", the inability to use magic in any

kind of battle, had always seemed to hinder his schooling.

And not just in a fight, but simply any time he tried to

direct his magic towards someone, it would fail. For some

reason, he could only cast on inanimate objects.  It was

frustrating, and seemed to dampen his desire to continue

magic.  His old mentor had told him once that it was an

unwillingness to fight; an indicator that he had a kind,

peaceful heart.

     "Every person is different," his mentor had said, "and

the mage's connection with the spritual plane is very

personal, sometimes blocked by emotions.  In your case, you

see life in its true fragility, and your feelings override

your words, blocking your mental connection to the outer

planes."

     But Vinson hated that explanation--it made him sound

like a wimp.  He became dark and gloomy about it, and oddly,

his mental block grew to the extent that sometimes, even on

inanimate objects, his magic would fizzle out.  It was a

very difficult period for him, but it got worse:

     During his early schooling, his mother died.  He

stopped using his skills entirely for a time, sulking about

his empty home like a shell without a soul, going through

the motions of life without feeling.  He had never known his

father, but the death of his mother hit Troy Vinson like an

explosion, his mind never really accepting the loss of the

person he loved so much.  That "empty feeling" period went

on for months, and he felt that he had never fully recovered

from it.  At that point, the mental block grew to the

massive extent that it now was, an embarrasment that he

refrained to tell anybody about.  He had to concentrate very

hard to do anything, and when he did, it drained his energy

like a parasitic leech.

     Vinson sighed as he realized that he was thinking about

exactly what he had been trying so hard not to lately, the

main reason for moving out of Terron, to start a "new life".

He looked up at Arleah, who was watching him quietly.

     "You'll overcome your mental block," she said.  "I

promise.  Troy Vinson, you need this quest as much as it

needs you.  Come with me.  Please."

     Why him?  Why not a powerful wizard?  What could he

possibly offer to the quest?

     And then there was the question of the quest itself.

Was it real, a cruel joke, or was this girl just crazy?  She

didn't seem to be, and certainly knew things about him that

no one else could possibly understand.  Not to mention the

fact that she was incredibly beautiful, making travelling

with her seem all that much more appealing.

     Troy rubbed his eyes, already knowing that his heart

had made the decision.  Today the start of a new life?  He

chuckled ruefully to himself.  That was quite an

understatement indeed.

                            * * *

     Arleah had appeared to be very pleased when Vinson

agreed to join her on her travels North.  Appeared was the

key word here, however; for to Vinson, it seemed as though

Arleah's expressions and reactions were somehow unreal--

strangely, he pictured in his mind the image of a child

repeating a phrase that he didn't really understand at all,

just to please the adults he was talking to.

     Why did he believe her?  That was something he was

still a bit unsure of.  All he knew was that it had

something to do with the odd sensation he was still feeling,

although it had lessened considerably since they left his

cabin.

     "There are two others we must join," Arleah said.

"They will accompany us North."

     "We're going past Galgoth?" Vinson asked, as if he

still could not believe it.  Nobody went that far north, and

when they did, they usually disappeared or came back insane.

At least, that was what he'd heard.  Southland gossip tended

to get out of hand.

     "For a short way."

     "Look, I'm a little in the dark here about this Eye of

the Dragon thing," Vinson said, grinning.  "I mean, it's not

every day someone comes up to me and says, hey Troy, guess

what?  You're chosen by prophecy and I'm an ambassador for

this god coming to lead you on a quest.  I mean, well, you

know."

     Arleah smiled.  "I know."  She sighed, looking up at

the sky.  "The Eye of the Dragon is a weapon.  It was

created a long time ago to shift the universal balance to

Evil."

     "The universal balance?"

     "Good and Evil.  It's a tale as old as time, Troy

Vinson, and actually older than that.  Ever since the

creation of the worlds, there has been a struggle between

these two ever-present forces, between the gods of good and

the demons of evil, who are always struggling to get

domination of the other."

     "So it's kind of like your conscience," Vinson said.

"Bad and good, always trying to get the better of each

other."

      Arleah looked at him blankly.

      "You know, your conscience," Vinson said.  "Come now."

     "Conscience," Arleah repeated.  She looked thoughtful.

"Interesting."

     "Don't tell me you never heard of people's consciences.

I mean, you're telling me about the delicate balance of the

universe, and you never heard of a conscience?  You know,

right and wrong?"

     Arleah smiled sadly.  "I can tell you about the

kingdoms of the gods, and I can describe to you palaces of

gold and silver and crystal, and I can tell you wondrous

true tales about magic and places of such beauty that would

astound your very soul.  I can tell you all this and more,

but I would never be able to explain to you how it feels to

cry, or to be a child, or even to be loved.  These are

things I know nothing about."

     Vinson looked at her curiously.  "What do you mean?

Why not?"

     "Those are experiences that come with life," Arleah

said.  "You can feel things and be a part of things that I

can never understand."

     "You mean. . . you're not alive?" Vinson asked.  He

stopped walking.  "You're not an illusion, are you?  A

spirit?"

     "No, no.  I was given life in order to come here."

     "So then you're alive," Vinson said, confused.  "So why

can't you experience all those things you said?"

     Arleah shook her head.  "It's not the same thing.  I

will never know what it is like to be a child.  I will never

understand parts of life, like the conscience that you spoke

of."

     "But you can, well, cry, right?"

     "I suppose now I can."

     "So here we go," Vinson said, "I'll tell you a really

good tear-jerker, and you'll experience life."

     Arleah smiled faintly.  "I don't think it's that easy."

     "Why not?"

     Absently, she fingered the golden pendant that hung

from her neck.  "Can we talk about something else?"

     Vinson bit his lip.  "I've offended you," he said.  "I

apologize."

     "Don't you dare," Arleah said.  "You've done no such

thing."  She looked up at his earnest expression, and

smiled.  "It's just that. . ."  She paused, groping for

words.

     "Never mind," Vinson said.  "You don't have to explain.

I can only imagine what an ordeal it is to go through

whatever you have.  I mean, I thought it was culture shock

when my uncle's friend, Darion, came to visit from Tyrus,

and that's just another city.  In your case. . ."

     There was a few moment's of awkward silence.

     "Well, anyway," Vinson said, "you were explaining about

the. . . universal balance, and good and evil, and that sort

of thing."

     "Oh yes," Arleah said.  She took a deep breath.

"Usually, the two forces of good and evil balance each other

out, creating a sort of neutral space in which we live.

Sometimes, though, there is a deviation in this norm, and

what results can be devastating if not stopped.  The more

the balance tips to one end of the scale, the easier it is

to keep on tipping, and the harder it is to stop it and tip

it the other way.  The ultimate thing that would happen is

that the universal balance tips all the way to one force,

and that would obliterate the other force."

     Vinson said, "So if the universal balance tips all the

way to evil, then good's out of there."

     "Exactly.  And that is what the Eye of the Dragon is

intended to do."

     "So, how do we stop it?"

     Arleah smiled.  "Stopping it is my task.  Yours is to

get me there."

                            * * *

     The next morning, the two travellers reached the tiny

town of Colven.  The walk from Terron was relatively easy,

since the road they travelled was well-used and flanked by

inns, alehouses, and the like.  Colven, however, appeared to

be hardly more than a few old houses thrown hastily together

around the road.  The land was flat, save the heights of the

Scavenger Mountains sillhouetted a ways off, nearly

treeless, and the air was dull and dry.  A few old men sat

about on a porch, staring at the two travellers blankly.

     "Nice place," Vinson said.  "I feel like we just walked

into the land of the dead."

     Arleah didn't answer, looking around the empty road

expectantly.  After a few moments, she seemed to spot what

she was looking for, and beckoned Vinson forward.

     "Over there," she said.  "There's a small inn where we

can rest and eat."

     The inn they arrived at looked more like a rickety pile

of loose boards nailed together to form a vague shelter.

The "door" was a long, rug-like cloth that they pushed aside

to reveal a dusty, makeshift taproom.  Sunlight filtered

through holes in the ceiling to create long, interesting

beams of light which shone on furnishings equally as

interesting.  The two tables looked lopsided and misshapen,

and the chairs were mere wooden crates.  There was nobody

around.

     The bar looked better taken care of.  It was in the

back, sheltered by moderately sufficient roofing, and its

surface was clean and polished.  Vinson and Arleah walked

across the warped floor over to the serving area.

     The man that stood up from behind the bar was huge.

His balding head reached within inches below the tattered

ceiling, and his arms looked to be the size of Vinson's

legs.  The man's belly hung heavily beneath his waistline,

peeking out from under a stained shirt.  His bearded,

grizzled head frowned disinterestingly down on them.

     "What do you want?" he said in a grating voice.

     "What do you have?" asked Vinson.  From the looks of

the man and the taproom, whatever food this tavern had was

also to be questioned.

     "We got cheese, bread, and some chicken from last

week," the man said, scratching his beard idly.  "That's

it."

     Arleah suggested they buy enough food for the trip to

their next stop, the city of Davensport.  That travel would

take them over the Scavenger Mountains and across the

Sillescopian Flats, a walk of about three or four days.

     The big man brought them bread, cheese, and chicken

wrapped in cheesecloth, some hot bread with melted butter

for breakfast, and two mugs of ale.  The two travellers took

their seats on the wooden crates.

     "Not exactly your best accommodations," Vinson said

quietly.  "I would say that Colven doesn't get many

visitors."

     Arleah smiled.  "It doesn't.  Most travellers on the

road from Terron are going to Tyrus, the city about a mile

west of here."

     Vinson sipped his mug of ale idly, inspecting his

bread.  It felt stale.

     "So," he said, "some guy named Muhl Dreik. . . is that

it?" Arleah nodded.  "Alright, so some guy named Muhl Dreik

has the Eye of the Tiger, and he's using it to tip the

universal balance over to evil, ridding the world of good."

     "All worlds of good," Arleah said.  "And that's Eye of

the Dragon."

     "Eye of the Dragon.  But who is Muhl Dreik anyway?  How

exactly did he get the Eye?  And why does he want to do this

to the world?  Worlds, I mean."

     Arleah glanced uncomfortably at the barkeeper, who was

looking at them from across the room with only mild

interest.

     "Troy Vinson," she said quietly.  "There is a time and

a place for everything.  I will give you all I know about

the Eye and the quest, but not here.  Not now."

     "You mean him?" Vinson asked, tossing a quick look at

the barkeeper.  The big man was now sitting back down behind

the bar, scratching his stomach.  "I don't think he's too

much of a threat."

     "The eyes and ears of Muhl Dreik are everywhere,"

Arleah whispered.  "Trust me.  When we gather our remaining

two companions, and are safely in the highlands, I will tell

all of you everything I know."

     Vinson nodded.  "Alright.  I understand."

     He felt a little uncomfortable now, and threw a quick

glance behind his shoulder.  Nobody was there.

     "Don't worry," Arleah said.  "Muhl Dreik knows nothing

of us, but my father warned me that his minions are

everywhere nowadays.  It is best to keep quiet in the

cities."

     The rest of the stale breakfast was eaten in silence,

with only the creaking of the floor beneath them every time

one of them moved, or an occasional muffled belch from the

barkeeper.  Vinson's mind was brimming with questions, but

he contained them.

     After they ate, refilled their water skins, and left

the inn, Arleah directed them to the road that lead North

out of the city, heading for the Scavenger Highlands.

Vinson figured it would be relatively safe to ask about

their future companions, as long as he didn't say anything

like "Muhl Dreik", or "Eye of the Dragon".

     He asked, "What about the other two you told me about?

Where do we go to find them?"

     "One is Eric Walker," Arleah said, "a swordsman and

traveller from Tyrus.  We'll meet him in the highlands.  The

other is Kurt Arion, a thief.  He will meet us. . . any

minute now.





                        CHAPTER FOUR

                        -Eric Walker





     The city of Tyrus was one of the few remaining

Monarchies in the upper Southland, or what was coming to be

called the Free Lands.  It was built terracing upwards along

the base of the Scavenger Mountains, the topmost level built

high with royal towers and enormous, intricately-carved

stone buildings.

     It was in this kingdom that Eric Walker lived.  He was

an adventurer, an outdoorsman, never confining himself

inside the great walls of Tyrus.  Sometimes he'd take long

treks through the Eastland, always coming back with wild

tales to tell about his adventurous journeys.

     But Eric Walker was also a father, with an eleven-year-

old son and a nineteen-year-old daughter.  This spring, the

weather was good, the kingdom's spirits were high, and so

were Eric Walker's: for tomorrow was the day of his

daughter's wedding.

     At Walker's home, the night was filled with

anticipation of the following day.  His wife, son, and

daughter gathered together in the dining room as Eric Walker

uncorked a bottle of fine red wine to the occasion, filling

four small goblets.

     "To my daughter, the bride," he said, smiling broadly,

holding up his glass.

     "And to her old dad," his daughter Tarrah said.  She

laughed.  "doomed to spend the rest of his life without me."

     Eric Walker grinned.  "It'll give us great pleasure."

     Tarrah gave him a mock glare as they drank, Eric's

eleven-year-old son wincing at the dry taste.  Eric re-

corked the bottle, grinning at his young boy.

     "We'll save this same wine for when your time comes."

     The boy shook his head vigorously.

     "No way.  I'm never getting married."

     "I went to the marketplace today," Walker's wife Aleena

said, sliding her glass away.  "Do you know who I saw?"

     Eric Walker shook his head.  "Who?"

     "I saw Nicholas Harting's wife, Keren.  Do you remember

them?"

     Walker didn't.  "Not really."

     "I remember," Tarrah said.  "She was the one whose son

was arrested by the royal guard, remember?  He set fire to

part of the castle?"

     Vaguely, Walker remembered hearing something about that

a year or two ago.  "I think so."

     "Well," his wife said, "Do you know what she told me?

She said that last week, her son disappeared."

     "I'm not surprised.  He would seem like the type."

     "But she said some of their neighbors haven't been seen

for a week, too.  It's almost as if they just vanished."

     "That's pretty strange," Walker said.

     "I thought so.  She even said that a few of her

neighbors' houses were badly damaged, like windows broken or

doors falling apart.  They're trying to figure it out."

     "Oh well," Walker said, standing to his feet and

stretching.  "I'm sure they will.  We have enough problems

of our own with this wedding to put on!"  He grinned at

Tarrah.

     "I'm so nervous," Tarrah said to her mother, who hugged

her affectionately.

     "Just remember," Aleena said, "When. . ."

     Her words were interrupted by the sound of crashing

glass upstairs.  Eric Walker started.

     "What was--"

     Heavy footsteps thundered above their head, and

splintering wood could be heard.  Walker jumped up, dashing

into the front room and grabbing his heavy  broadsword from

its holding rack.  Quickly, he darted to the door and locked

the bolt.

     "Check that the back doors are locked," he shouted to

his wife.  "Stay with the kids."

     "What's going on, Dad?" his son's eyes were wide and

petrified as Walker bounded past them toward the staircase.

Aleena bolted the back doors, which were in the rear of the

dining room.  Walker caught her frightened eyes as he looked

back.

     "Be careful, Eric. . ." she whispered.

     Without further hesitation, he slipped up the steps,

barely catching his wife's words to his children:

     "It'll be alright, your Dad will take care of it."

     Sword ready, Eric Walker climbed the dimly lit

staircase slowly and cautiously.  He knew he should wait a

few moments for his eyes to adjust, but the thought of

intruders in his house, coupled with the thought of his

family waiting in the dining room and trusting him to

protect them spurred him on.

     Just a few steps below the second floor, a warning

alarm went off in Walker's mind.  There was a fetid odor in

the air, and he thought he could just hear a soft, wheezing

kind of sound.

     In a sudden motion, something large and black bolted at

him from the shadows above.  Walker ducked, and heard an

object whistle past his ear.

     Without thinking, Walker drew his sword in an upward

cut through the front of the thing before him, kicking it

backward with one leg.  As it fell back in the torchlight of

the second floor, Walker gasped.

     He'd seen them before in the Eastland, but that was a

long time ago.  He remembered, however, their brute strength

and tremendous fighting skills.  His intruder was a troll.

     The yellow, inhuman eyes glared meanly as it regained

its footing on the steps above, then held up a deadly

looking spiked mace, roaring defiantly.  Walker ducked again

as the thing smashed it's heavy weapon against the staircase

siding, and he countered with lightning-fast strikes of his

sword to its belly.

     The troll was incredibly strong, but so was Walker, and

he parried the beast's next crushing blow, counterattacking.

Black liquid spurted from the wounded troll's stomach as it

sank to one knee, but the heavy sound of approaching

footsteps thundered above.

     With one more sweeping blow from Walker, the troll lay

dying on the staircase.  The other intruders on the second

floor seemed to have been going through the bedrooms, but

were now rapidly approaching the stairs.  Walker saw first

two, three, then a total of four trolls peer hastily over

the railing above before leaping down towards him.

     He knew he didn't have a chance.

     Distantly, he realized that all of the trolls wore a

leather vest with the insignia of a snake placed in red on

the shoulder.  Whoever they were, they were part of some

army, not in packs as Walker had seen them in the Eastland.

But he didn't have time to ponder the matter.

     Backpedaling down the stairs, Walker shouted for his

wife and children to get out.  From the front rooms, he

heard a splintering crash.  His daughter screamed.

     Somehow, trolls had got inside the house downstairs--

where his family was.

     In an adrenaline-powered fury, Walker's sword flashed

swiftly in the torchlight, actually pushing back the four

trolls on the stairs above him, the foremost one falling

over, headless.

     But as Walker spun around to flee towards the dining

room, he was met by two more.  The battle that followed was

a wicked, bloody fight in which three trolls lay dead before

Walker's strength began to give out.  His breathing was

heavy, his eyes blurred with sweat and blood.  He called for

his wife, but received no answer.

     Walker fought as well as he could, but his opponents

were too numerous and strong.  One troll got through his

skilled defenses and Walker was thrown to the ground as a

mace smashed into his left shoulder.  His arm instantly felt

numb and heavy, pain shooting up the shattered limb like

daggers.

     Underestimating the fallen Eric Walker, the two

remaining trolls let their guards down and leapt towards him

for the finish.  Throwing a leg out, Walker tripped one

troll and fell on him sword first, as the other troll swung

its mace harmlessly onto the ground.  Walker was like an

animal now, not reasoning or thinking, with just one object

in his foggy, faltering mind: to survive.  The troll he had

tripped tried to get up, but caught the blade of Walker's

sword in his throat.

     Walker lurched himself up.  His left arm dangled

uselessly, muscles jerking beneath tattered flesh  He tried

to strike at the remaining troll, but his aim was off, and

his heavy broadsword swept harmlessly aside.

     The huge troll's fist caught him heavily in the jaw,

then another immediately on his chin.  Eric Walker's sword

fell away, and he staggered back into his parlor wall, blood

pounding in his ears.  The troll lifted his mace.

     In a last, purely instinctive move, Walker, bracing

himself against the wall and kicked almost blindly ahead.

His foot met squarely with the stomach of his opponent,

pushing it back.  The intruder lost its footing, and fell

backward, the rear of its head meeting the spike of a dead

troll's fallen mace with a thick, heavy smack.

     Walker slumped down on the ground, his brain swimming

in sluggish circles inside his ringing skull.  Why had this

happened to him?  Why would an army of god-forsaken trolls

want to penetrate his home?  And, since trolls were among

the few races not allowed in the kingdom, how had they

gotten through the Tyrus gates?  He felt his left arm heavy

and lifeless against his body, and shook his head to clear

the cobwebs.  Dazed, he stumbled forward and looked slowly

around at the mess. . . dead trolls, black blood and broken

items everywhere. . .

     And suddenly, he remembered his family.  Screaming his

wife's name, he ran unsteadily into the dining room.  He

stopped as he entered the doorway, staring at the empty

room. The chairs were overturned, candles fallen and

extinguished, and the ceremonial bottle of red wine lay

smashed on the floor.

     His wife and children were gone.

     He cried out their names again, retrieving his sword

and stumbling through the hall into the front room.  There,

the door was splintered and fallen. . . the trolls'

entrance.  They had his family--he had failed to protect

them.

     Bolting out the ruined doorway, Walker entered the

black night, wild red eyes desperately searching the empty

streets.  And then, to his left, he saw what at any other

time would have looked ridiculously funny.  At the moment,

though, it looked like everything else: a nightmare.

     The thing looked like a giant, black stingray perched

on chicken's legs.  On it's back was an enormous, saddle-

like covering, the symbol of the red snake stitched boldly

on the side.  And climbing onto the saddle was a lone troll,

heaving three tied objects up with him.

     His wife and his children.  They weren't making any

noise, so Walker guessed they were probably gagged as well.

     With a furious, irrational roar, Eric Walker charged.

His good right arm held his sword high above his head,

spinning it in wide circles.  But the black monster's wings

flapped mightily, lifting it off the ground long before

Walker got there.  It rose high, rolled to the left and sped

away northward.  Then it was gone, the sleeping city of

Tyrus dark and quiet.

     The trolls couldn't get Eric Walker, but they had

gotten his family.  For some unknown reason, they had come

in, trapped Walker in his own house, and snatched away his

wife and children behind his back.  But they wouldn't get

away with it. . . oh no, they wouldn't get away.  Walker

swore to himself that they wouldn't get away.

     Without thinking, he ran northward through the Tyrus

streets, exiting the east gate through the baffled guards

and up the small northbound road which was lit only dimly by

moonlight.  He followed the direction the troll had flown,

climbing into the highlands and pushing himself wildly

through thorny brush and creeks.

     By the time he had come remotely to his senses, he was

stumbling. . . lost. . . through the Scavenger Mountains,

his arm throbbing in excrutiating pain.  Crying out in

frustration and fury, Eric Walker collapsed, weak with blood

loss and exertion.  He was too weak to move, too weak to

stand up, too weak to hold up his sword.  His battered arm

and wounded body continued to bleed.  Ten minutes later, he

was unconscious.





                        CHAPTER FIVE

                         -Kurt Arion





     It had been a whole month now that Kurt Arion had been

having the disturbing dreams--violent, fear-filled

nightmares in which he was constantly running from a snake.

It was a giant, red snake with the body as large as a

dragon's, but without a face.  Then the snake would be

swallowed up by a disgustingly large black cockroach, who

would proceed to chase after him in the snake's stead.  It

seemed silly as he thought about it, but it was terrifying.

It had made sleep become a haunting experience.  Every time

he had the dream, the snake and then the cockroach seemed to

get closer to him--waving antennae and mightily working

mandibles bearing down on him with a fetid stench. . .then,

he would wake up.

     Kurt Arion was a tall, thin man of twenty-six.  His

pocked face was lean and hard, with sunken eyes and dark,

thick, shortly cropped hair giving him a sort of sinister

appearance.  He had a thin frame, his limbs flexible and

strong, perfect for his profession; a killer and a thief.

Perhaps not the most honest of occupations, but his entire

life had never left him much chance for honesty.  Survival

was the key. . . survival was everything, especially when

you were running from the Tyrus Royal Guard.  And now, by

some cruel twist of fate, he had wound up in Colven.  Kurt

Arion had only one word for this place: Boring.

     Pacing back and forth his temporary home, an empty

shack, he considered his next destination.  Tyrus was out,

no question about it.  North was too risky and too difficult

to travel.  Perhaps he could go East, or even South towards

Terron.  Either way, he knew he had to go somewhere besides

Colven; the place was driving him crazy.

     And so was this cursed nightmare.  He pondered it for a

few moments, the intense feeling of horror still lingering

in his mind from last night. He had nightmares before, he

had repeated dreams before, and quite a few times, he had

dreams that actually happened later on, after he'd dreamed

them.  But only once before had he dreamed a dream that gave

him this eerie, haunting feeling: when he was a child, he

dreamed repeatedly of his parents dying.

     That was roughly a month before they were murdered.

     The memory of that incident, however, meant nothing to

him anymore.  It was just one of the multiple shots life had

taken at him, he thought.  Just one in thousands.  In order

to get by, he had long since taught himself to completely

erase any emotion those type of memories might hold.

Otherwise, how would he survive?  And survival, he knew, was

the only important thing anymore; nothing else mattered.

     He crossed over to a small, glassless window facing the

East, placed his thin arms on the sill and gazed out.  The

morning sun glared into his face, but he ignored it.  Arion

viewed himself as a rock: invulnerable to outside forces,

strong, hard, and cold.  In Tyrus, he had a reputation for

being all of the above, and it was one he intended to keep.

     He watched as two figures walked up the road towards

his shack from the direction of an old inn.  One was a

woman, probably Elven, and the other was a man.  They looked

to be travellers, and quite possibly had the possession of a

good sum of money.  Arion smiled to himself.

                            * * *

     "I don't get it," Troy Vinson said.  "What use would a

thief be. . . are we planning to steal something?

Burglarize a house?"

     Arleah shook her head.  "There's more to a thief--at

least a good one--than stealing and pickpocketing, Troy

Vinson.  Consider someone in our group that can open up

locks, slip silently through the shadows, and provide

excellent direction sense; someone who is a professional at

strategies and penetrating guarded areas."

     Vinson was silent a moment.  Their boots crunching

along on the pebbled road was the only sound in the small,

quiet town.

     "I guess I get your point," he said slowly.  "At least,

I can see where those skills would be to our advantage."

     "Those skills will be to our advantage, Eric Walker's

skills will be to our advantage, and also your skills.  They

all combine to result in exactly what we need."

     "Are you sure I'll be of any consequence?" Vinson

asked.

     "We all will," Arleah said.  "Each and every one of

us."

                            * * *

     Kurt Arion stepped out from the empty shack, shutting

the small door behind him.  A small talk with these two,

provided the questions were satisfactory, could tell him a

lot.  Put bluntly, he would find out if they could be taken

advantage of.  If not, he would simply pass on.

     They looked harmless enough.  The man was clean shaven

and dressed in Southland garb; the only weapon noticeable

was a small hunting knife on his belt.  He was good looking,

as was the woman.  Her clothing was indistinguishable to

Arion; seemingly a mixture of Eastern and Northern.  She had

definite Elven features, green eyes and dark hair, and

Arion's experienced eyes noticed a small dagger, belted and

concealed  beneath her cloak.  She had something golden

around her neck that looked like it probably would run for a

wonderful price.

     "Hello there," he greeted in a friendly voice.  The

other man smiled, but Arion could tell that the smile was a

mask; most likely shielding suspicion or distrust.  In his

eyes, Arion could read that these two were looking for

something. . . it was as if they were on a quest.  Arion's

interest was immediately aroused.

     "Fine day," Arion said.  "Always nice to see fellow

travellers.  Where are you headed?"

     "North," the woman said.

     Arion began to notice that something was wrong.  He

couldn't read the woman's eyes.  Sometimes that happened,

but it was usually because the person was either mentally

ill, or very, very stupid.  This woman didn't look stupid;

maybe she was crazy.

     "North, are you?" Arion asked.  "Dangerous country,

Lady."

     The girl smiled mischievously.  "I know.  But no

journey is too great when one finds what he seeks."

     Arion smiled, delighted at the way the sun caught her

pretty face.  She was probably the most beautiful girl he'd

ever seen--and he'd seen a lot--but he felt that there was

something wrong, most likely because the secrets of her eyes

were closed to him, which made even an innocent-looking girl

like her potentially dangerous.  Arion didn't like playing

with what he didn't understand, and had learned all too

often the consequences of doing so.  The best thing to do

now was simply bid farewell, and leave.

     The girl was talking again.

     "My name is--"

     "I'm sorry," Arion said, "but I'm running a bit late.

I hope you don't mind if I excuse myself, it was nice

meeting both of you,"  He smiled, turning to go.  Then the

woman spoke.

     "The pleasure was ours," she said, and paused. . .

"Kurt Arion."

     Arion froze.  They had no reason to know his name.

This was bad.  Very bad.  It could only mean one thing:

Trackers.  Someone was tracking him.  It was not to be

surprised, since he was fleeing from the city of Tyrus on at

least twenty murder charges, seven times that amount of

burglaries, robberies, and small theft, not to mention horse

theft, unlawful marketing, unlawfully penetrating the Royal

Treasury, forgery, black market. . . the list went on and

on.  But it was all business, just for money.  It was

nothing personal.

     However, now he was in a position he'd never been in:

faced with two people who were armed, who knew him even

though he didn't know them, and one whose eyes he couldn't

even read.  Well, this was just great.  Arion knew what

would remedy the situation easily enough, at least for now.

     He reached for his knife.





                         CHAPTER SIX

                       -Tabitha Lasea





     Gripping the food she had just obtained tightly beneath

her tattered clothing, Tabitha Lasea scuttled through the

alleyways and sidestreets that she knew so well.

     "Stop that thief!" she heard behind her.  "Stop her!"

     She weaved through the city crowds, and, never

loosening the hold on her precious food, cut quickly into a

narrow alley.  This one was her favorite; it was so dark

that she could wait and watch as the city officials and

merchants ran by, without them ever catching a glimpse of

her at all.  But today, she met a surprise.

     A fat merchant jumped at her from the shadows.  "Aha!"

he cried triumphantly.  He held up a rusty, chipped knife,

motioning for her to step back out onto the main street.  To

step out and surrender.

     That'll be the day, she thought bitterly.

     With one vicious kick, she sent her foot deep into his

groin.  The merchant grunted in pain.  While clutching the

food tightly with her right hand, she landed a wicked left

to his chin.  The man fell back into a pile of trash and lay

unmoving, his cheap blade clattering to the ground.

     "Aha yourself," she muttered, and darted away down the

alley.  She almost considered taking the knife, but it was

corroded and worn, almost useless.  Someone could find a

rock that was sharper.

     She hurried home, the directions bouncing about in her

mind like the food in her hands: Turn left at the next

street, cut right into the alley, climb over the fence, push

through the crowded road, turn right. . . she knew it all by

heart.  It took her three more minutes to reach her home, a

small wooden shack in an alleyway between two noisy inns.

Looking around the streets warily for officials, she pushed

open the thin wooden door and slipped inside.

     "Hi, Gramps," she said, pulling the food out and

setting it on their table (which was really an old wooden

crate that said "Wineskins" on the side in faded white

letters).  "I got breakfast."

     An old man looked up at her from a small wooden chair

in the corner of the one-room shack, his eyes glassy.

     "Who are you?" he cried, "What are you doing in my

home?"  He coughed violently.

     "Gramps. . ."

     "Imagine!  Picking on a poor, old man!"

     "Gramps. . ."

     "What is this city coming to?  First, I get everything

taken away from me, my home, my horse, 'n everything!  Now

you've come to take me, too, have you?"

     "Gramps! It's just me."

     The old man stared at her for a moment, blinked, and

then he sat back in the chair.

     "Oh, Tabby, I'm sorry."  he sighed.  "I. . ."

     "I know, Gramps.  Here.  Have a piece of bread."

     "No, I'm not hungry.  I'll eat it later."

     Tabitha sat down in the remaining chair, plucking at

the bread and cheese on the table.  Her stomach begged her

to grab everything in one handful and stuff it down her

throat, but she knew that would be foolish.  She sighed,

pushing her curly auburn hair from her face with annoyment.

Her grandfather coughed loudly in a long, drawn out heave

followed by several small ones.

     "Grandpa, your cough's getting worse."

     "I'm just fine," he muttered, attempting to stifle a

further cough in vain.

     "You need medicine, grandpa.  You're too old and you're

not eating right."

     Her grandfather brushed his hand in her direction with

an irritated air, closing his eyes.

     "Alright, be ornery then," Tabitha said angrily.  She

pulled a bit more bread from the loaf, a little more than

she would normally take, and ate it slowly.

     He wasn't really her grandfather.  But, he was the only

one who had ever loved her--ever cared for her.  He'd saved

her life when she was only three years old, adopting her as

his own.

     It happened in a bloody, disastrous war fifteen years

ago.  The dark Elves of the Jarren Mountains, who lived in a

labyrinth of underground cities, were discovered by a band

of five travellers.  The dark Elves, or Vail as they are

more commonly called, had attacked the travellers one night

for venturing too close to the entrance of their

subterranean highway.  Four of the five human travellers

were murdered.  The survivor, a mere boy, escaped only by

chance and very good luck.  He arrived in Shaleh that

morning, disheveled and exhausted, to tell his horrible

tale.

     The Vail were a chaotic, evil race of Elves, their

entire lives and culture focused on violence, death, and

sacrifice to their dark goddess, Cybele.  They only ventured

from their underground metropolis at night--to kill or

enslave creatures that lived above the ground.

     When the word of four human deaths by the hand of the

Vail became news in the streets of Shaleh, several city

inhabitants swarmed in mob fashion to the mountains outside

of the city, swearing to take four Vail lives at the very

least.

     They should have studied the Vail culture before they

did.  Gaining entrance to the underground city, the people

were horridly defeated by the dark Elves in what could only

be called a slaughter.  They were on the retreat in seconds,

fleeing from the viscious Vail like a flock of frightened

birds.  They had captured nearly ten Vail children in an

attempt to hold their enemy at bay so they could escape

safely, but the dark Elves paid no attention.  They came on,

slaughtering over half of the remainder of their would-be

attackers and driving the rest away from the mountains.

After that, the entrance to the Vail's world in the Jarren

Mountains mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen again.

     The captured Vail children, most of whom were under

seven years of age, had been in a tournament: for every

Vail, as soon as he has the ability to walk, is tutored in

the art of combat and killing.  Any Vail that cannot survive

the teachings or the tournaments would be put to death.

     The remaining people of the mob from Shaleh dragged the

children down and into the city, to publicly murder them.

It was then that Tabitha's "grandfather", a moderately

wealthy, well-known man at the time, had intervened and

saved her life.  Tabitha had been the last of the Vail

children to be killed and was about to be added to the

gallows when her grandfather had come upon the gathering and

put an end to it.

     But that was a long time ago.

     Tabitha took a drink of water from one of the three

glasses they owned, gazing bitterly at her reflection in it.

She saw the clear, finely chiseled Elven features of her

face.  But her eyes, unlike normal Elves, were dark black,

and her curly auburn hair was streaked with snow white.

Elven skin was fair, but her skin was dark and bronzed as if

she'd spent a summer week lying in the sun.  That would be

impossible for her, though.  For although her skin was dark,

she had little resistance to the sun, and would even lose

her vision temporarily if her sensitive eyes were exposed to

too much sunlight.

     Tabitha set the glass back down on the table, pushed it

away.  She hated what she was, hearing the stories of her

race in bitter shame.  She could forget she was a Vail for

weeks, sometimes for months, until something was there to

remind her:  her reflection, insults, hateful stares.  But

she had long since learned to ignore the stares, and knock

out anyone insulting her.  Her reflection, though, always

haunted her.

     She ate a crumb of cheese without tasting it, leaning

back in the chair and closing her eyes.  Sometimes, although

she would never admit it to herself, she wished her

grandfather hadn't stolen her away when he did, and would

have just let her die.

                            * * *

     Tabitha woke up suddenly from her chair.  She had

fallen asleep, nothing unusual for her during the dull,

boring days in Shaleh, and it was probably near midday now.

Her eyes fell on the food sitting on the table, still

untouched.  She sighed, standing.

     "Gramps, get up and eat," she said.  "You have to eat

something."

     Her grandfather didn't stir.

     "Hey grandpa, wake up."  She walked the short distance

to his chair, alarmed.  Usually, he slept very little during

the day, spending the time carving wooden toys, painting, or

some other small task.  Items that he needed were always

quite available in the marketplace, placed in racks or

shelves that Tabitha was sometimes able to skim from.

     But he wasn't painting or carving right now, he was

still.  And he wasn't even snoring, which he always did in

his sleep.  Always.

     Right then, she knew he was dead.  It was something

that always worried her.  He was so old, and they were too

poor to scrape together enough food to eat decent meals.

She stopped walking, and just stood there, looking at him.

She didn't want to check, didn't want to believe he was

dead.

     What would she do if he died?  She would have nothing

to live for anymore, she thought.  The only person that had

ever cared for her, or showed her any kindness would be

gone.

     Suddenly, her grandfather stirred violently, heaving

out a loud cough as he did.  Tabitha's knees went weak with

relief.  The feeling of alarm quickly returned, however.

That cough had sounded terrible, and in the place of

snoring, her grandfather was wheezing loudly in his sleep

now, his chest shuddering.

     Tabitha made up her mind.  Moving quietly behind her

grandfather's chair, so not to wake him, she lifted the

wooden floorboard in the corner of their shack.  Gently, she

slipped her hand into the dark compartment that lay beneath,

fingers searching, groping for what she knew was there:

their most valuable possession.  Finally, she found it.

     It was a key.  Not a real key, but a charm that had

once been part of a necklace.  The key was golden, with a

beautifully jeweled handle.  It was the only thing the

government of Shaleh didn't take from her grandfather during

the black season five years ago, when taxes and food

shortage ran rampant through several Southland cities.  They

hadn't taken the key because they didn't find it.

     When she was little, Tabitha's grandfather told her

little fairy tale stories of the key being magic, made by

dwarves and given to his great-great-grandmother as a gift.

After Tabitha grew older, though, she was that it was just a

wedding present for that great-great-grandmother.

Apparently, it had been in their family for years, and her

grandfather loved it.  He would not sell it, not even to pay

the taxes that may have spared their home five years ago.

Tabitha was only thirteen years old then, and didn't really

understand what was happening; but, as she grew older, she

admittedly became bitter with her grandfather because of the

key.  They didn't have to live like this, she told him.

Sell the key!

     But for some reason, he never did.

     Tabitha quietly replaced the floorboard, gripping the

golden charm in her left hand.  She could never tell her

grandfather what she was about to do; he wouldn't have it.

But it was either the key or his life, she knew.  The sounds

of her grandfather's wheezing breaths followed her to the

door, then drifted away as she stepped out onto the noisy

road.

     The sun filtered down on her through patchy clouds, and

a small breath of wind breezed into the alley, gathering up

debris from the road and sending it skittering about.  The

inns on either side of her home were noisy as usual, a

gathering place for drunken travellers.  Quickly, she closed

the door of their shack, slipped out of the alleyway and

onto the road.

     She knew the danger that she was facing as she ran

through the crowded street towards the Shaleh mission hall.

The healers' quarters were always guarded by city officials,

and it was possible that one or more of them might recognize

her.  Also, who was to say that the healers would not take

her golden key and just throw her out on the street?  After

all, she thought bitterly, she was just a street urchin, and

what's more, a Vail.  She couldn't go to the police because

of who she was, nor did she know anyone that could.

     Still gripping the key, she kept running, trying not to

think about those things.  After all, she had to try. . . it

was her grandfather's only hope.

     When Tabitha drew near the mission hall, a dismal

surprise lay in wait for her.  The mission gates were

closed, their tall, wooden frames blocking any passage and

view.  Desperation set in as she followed the huge wall to

the next gate.  It was closed as well.

     Rubbing her precious key unconsciously in her hot, damp

hand, she continued on to the third and last gate, which

took five more minutes of anxious running.  Not to her

surprise, it was also locked shut.

     She kicked it in frustration.

     What now?  Looking at the stone wall, she decided that

it would probably be easy for her to climb, but if the gates

were closed, that meant the mission hall's services were

also closed.  What good would it do to get in?  Then they

would really throw her out.

     She was left with the unpleasant choice of standing

there, doing nothing,  scaling this wall, or going back

without any medicine or help.  The last option was

unbearable, and the first was almost as bad.  Slowly,

Tabitha pocketed her golden key.

     Gritting her teeth, she found her first foothold in the

pocked surface of the wall.  They would understand, she kept

telling herself.  Someone was dying: they had to understand.

     She reached the top easily, tired as she was from

running to the mission hall and to all its gates, and peered

carefully over.

     There was a group of five or more people, residents of

Shaleh, clustered together.  From her vantage point she

couldn't tell, but it almost looked like they were tied up

with rope.  Milling about were a few city officials,

shouting something every now and then to the group of

apparently-captive people.  Something weird was going on,

and that wasn't the half of it; along with the officials,

there were other things, things that didn't look very human

to Tabitha at all.  They were bulky and hunched over, their

bodies covered with hair like an ape.  They all wore black

leather vests with a coiled, red snake stamped on the

shoulders.

     At the center of the grounds stood the city Prefect.

Tabitha's eyes narrowed in dislike at the sight of the thin,

wiry-looking man.  In her (and most others') opinion, the

Prefect was a greedy, lying cheat.  He was the one who

brought the idea to the council that a heavy tax was needed

from all Southland residents to purchase enough weaponry to

win the gnome war, the cause of the dark period in Shaleh.

Agreed, the tax had helped win the war, but it had left many

people in poverty.  Tabitha shook her head as she saw the

Prefect murmuring something to a city official.

     "The gift," the Prefect said to one of the apelike men,

"is three learned men of magic, and two strong fighters.

Certainly quite a prize for your Lord."

     The thing he was talking to grunted.

     "You bring us only five?  We do better than that on our

own in monarchies like Tyrus."

     "Learned men of magic, and strong fighters," the

Prefect repeated.

     "We're not paying you for such a choice few," the hairy

man snapped.  "We pay you for numbers.  In this case, your

payment will be small!"

     "But. . ."

     "It might be our decision to drop you from the list.

We have three other participating cities as well."

     The Prefect frowned.

     "We will make the exception this time," the gnarled

person said roughly.  "Next time, you'd better do what we

pay you to do!  COLLECT!"

     The Prefect nodded vigorously.

     "Anything you say," he said.  "My humble apologies.  On

your next visit, you will have so many that your beasts will

not be able to carry them.  I want you to understand that

Shaleh is very willing to do business with you."

     Tabitha frowned.  "Spineless worm," she muttered to

herself.

     She had seen enough to know she didn't want to go over

the wall.  Especially with hairy ape-like men and the cursed

Prefect there, whatever he was up to.  She slipped back down

the way she came, her mind trying to pull together what to

do next.  Now how was she going to get help for her

grandfather?

     She was still mulling over the situation as she turned

and started back for the road.  Like a shadow, someone

stepped silently in front of her, barring her path.  Tabitha

gasped.  The person was large and hunched over, his limbs

covered in coarse hair.  He wore a vest with the red, coiled

insignia of a snake stamped at his shoulder, and his face

was inhuman; beady eyes glared at her from below a large,

pronounced brow.  His nose was a flat snout, and his lips

were thin and bared.

     Instinctively, Tabitha tried to dart away.  The thing

grabbed her around the waist, clamping a rough hand across

her mouth as though it expected her to scream, although she

would never have considered herself such a weakling that she

would cry out for help like the prissy little rich girls in

the eastern side of town.

     Kicking violently back with one foot, she strained to

free herself.  But the monster that held her seemed not to

care about her blows, and his grip was as strong as iron.

     Tabitha couldn't believe it: she was caught.




                      CHAPTER SEVEN

                         -Davensport





      Kurt Arion advanced quickly on the two, his hand

gripping a long, wicked-looking dagger.

      "Talk.  Now.  Who sent you?"

     Vinson didn't move, deciding that reaching for his own

knife would probably not reflect too well on the other man.

     Arleah held up her hands before her.  "Kurt Arion--"

     "Was it Emmit Tasker, from Tyrus?  Tell him I don't

have his money; we've been over this a million times.  And

tell him the next time he sends trackers after me, I'll cut

off their tongues."

     That had to be it, Arion thought.  It was the only

explanation.  Somebody had gotten trackers after him, and

now this woman and Southlander were expecting to take him

in.  Well, he had other ideas about that.  A lot of people

would like to get their hands on him for a lot of reasons,

but they never had.  And they never would.

     "No," Arleah said.  "We're only--"

     "It was Jake, wasn't it?" Arion asked.  "Well, you can

tell him that I'm through playing his little fantasy games.

And I never took anything from his daughter's house."

     "Kurt Arion," Arleah said, her voice calm, "please

listen. . ."

     "No, you listen, Lady," he said firmly, "I don't know

who you are, but I do know that somebody sent you.  And

nobody's tracking me without hell to pay, that's sure.  Now

you two had best move along and forget you ever saw me here.

If I see you pop up again somewhere. . ." his eyes were hard

as he held up the gleaming blade, ". . .I'll kill you."

     Two old men across the street stood up from their

rickety wooden chairs, gawking.  Arion noticed that they

made the woman uncomfortable.  Good.

     "Kurt Arion, please put the knife away.  You're not

going to kill anyone."

     Arion laughed.  "Don't push your luck, Lady.  You're a

very beautiful woman and I wouldn't want to harm you.  If I

were your friend there, I'd advise you to move along."

     "Arleah--" Vinson started to say.

     "Allow me to introduce myself," the woman said.

     Arion shook his head.  "Look.  I really don't care--"

     "My name is Arleah, and this is Troy Vinson."

     "I'm happy for both of you.  Now get--"

     "I can't say much here," Arleah said, "because it's not

safe, but I'll tell you this much.  I know about your enemy,

Kurt Arion.  The one that haunts your nights.  He's our

enemy, too."

     "What are you talking about?" Arion said.

     "You know what I'm speaking of.  You have a gift, the

gift of foresight.  Your dreams sometimes speak of things to

come to pass, and you can see things about people that

others can't.  But your gift is warning you of something,

Kurt Arion.  It is warning you of. . ." here she dropped to

a whisper, ". . .the one who appears as a serpent."

     Kurt Arion visibly flinched.

     "Who are you?" He said in a demanding tone.  "How do

you know of my dream?"

     "I can't speak here."

     "Why not?  What does my dream mean?  Tell me now!"

     Arleah shook her head.  "I'm sorry.  It's not safe."

     "In Colven?"

     "Anywhere. We need to leave the town."

     Arion looked at her and Vinson very suspiciously.

     "If this is a trap," he said, "at the first sign, I'll

kill both of you.  If I don't like what I feel, I'm gone.  I

swear it."

     "What you feel, Kurt Arion?"

     "Instincts, Lady.  I trust my instincts."

                            * * *

     The road north from Colven was small and obviously

little-travelled.  Kurt Arion followed the forms of Arleah

and Vinson silently, deep in thought.  On his back, he

carried the small shoulder bag of possessions that he was

able to escape Tyrus with.  He was still almost positive

that these two had been sent to track him by one of his

enemies in Tyrus, even though he read no such intent in the

man's eyes.  He remained cautious and wary.

     The road began to climb up into the highlands, pine

trees appearing more frequently, until they gradually

encloaked the three travellers in a blanket of dense,

fragrant foliage.  Pine cones, some dried and crushed, were

scattered all over the ground.  Aside from the mixed chorus

of birdsong, there was no sound here in the peaceful

mountains.

     "This is good enough," Arion said, "unless the trees

themselves have ears.  I want some heavy explaining done."

     Arleah revealed to Arion about the Eye of the Dragon as

she had done for Troy Vinson, telling of the route Northward

past Galgoth, and of Muhl Dreik.  She also told him that his

dream about the red serpent was a manifestation of Muhl

Dreik, that his gift was warning Arion of the impending

doom.  Kurt Arion listened quietly, without interruptions,

until she had finished.

     "That," he said, running his hand through his short

patch of thick hair, "was the biggest fish story I've ever

heard--ever--and I've heard plenty.  Very detailed, though,

and creative.  You're good at this."

     Arleah said, "You were chosen to accompany us."

     "Come on, how did you really know about me?  This is

getting ridiculous."

     Arleah turned, continuing up the northern trail.

Slowly, Vinson followed her.

     "It's your choice, Kurt Arion," she said.  "Take it or

leave it."

     Or kill you, Arion thought.  Foolish woman didn't know

who she was playing with.

     "Hold on, hold on," Arion laughed, jogging up to them.

"What if I did agree to come.  What do I get out of it?"

     "You mean besides the safety of the world, and in

effect, your future?" Arleah asked.

     Arion shrugged.  "Hey, I need something material, Lady.

You know.  Incentive."  Truth was, he just didn't believe in

the ridiculous story about Ashten, Muhl Dreik, and the Eye

of the Dragon.  But. . . if cash was in order, he might just

decide to follow this crazy girl and go from there.  What

better place did he have to go?  There were only two things

that bothered him at this point: Number one, the question of

how she knew him.  She most likely heard someone talking,

learned what a good thief he was, and somehow came across

him in Colven.  This other guy must have been another victim

of her fish story, but was probably stupid enough to believe

it.  Number two:  How did she know about his dream?  That

could be explained if she had the same talent he had, the

ability to read another's eyes.  She could have simply read

of his dreams--after all, he was thinking of it so much

these days, it would probably be the first thing she saw.

If she could read his eyes, then that might also explain how

she knew his name.  That was the only thing he could think

of, and it seemed pretty far-fetched.  But not as far-

fetched as her fish story.

     Arleah was saying, "At the end of the quest, you will

be given a substantial reward by my father."

     Here, Troy Vinson was rather surprised.  Arleah had

never mentioned a reward to him.

     Arion asked, "Your father?  That would be. . . ah. . .

King of Amariah, right?"

     "That's correct."

     Arion shook his head. "Look, I need some kind of

insurance that I'm going to get anything at the end of this.

     "I'm sorry, Kurt Arion," Arleah said, "but my word is

the only thing I have to offer."

     "I can't accept that."

     "I'm sorry, Kurt Arion."

     Arion grimaced.  "Alright," he said, "how much willl I

get then?  Assuming I did come with you--and I'm not saying

I am yet, that all depends.  How much?  It should be fairly

large, you know, since my abilities are extremely valuable

to any journey.

     "You will be given no less than you deserve," she said.

"It will be very satisfactory, Kurt Arion."

     "I would like to be the judge of that myself, Lady,"

Arion said sharply.  He was faced with a decision here: go

with this Southlander and crazy girl who could probably read

his eyes, and hope that he might get something out of it, or

go back to Colven and think of something else to do.  He

frowned; he had been doing the latter all day with no luck.

     "Alright, look," he said, finally.  "I've got a lot of

other places to go, and a lot of other people who would love

to employ me right now.  I'm going to be a nice guy, though,

and come along with you two and help you two out--I mean

after all, the destiny of the world is at stake, right?  I

mean, by the gods, who would dare pass up this opportunity?

But let me outline a few minor terms that I go by.  Number

one, if I don't like what I feel, I'm gone.  Just like that.

Don't even bother to look for me.  Number two, if we get

into something and are being chased by the authorities, my

opinion is every man for himself.  Again, don't look for me.

Number three, I want a good reward!  If I get something

measely, or if I don't get squat, I'm going to get mad, lose

my senses, and probably kill someone.  And my prime target

will be you.  Got that, Lady?"

     "I like one who abides by guidelines," Arleah said.

"The question is, will you abide by those rules you have

just layed out?"

     "Look," Arion said, "Those rules are for you guys.  I'm

telling you this so that you know what to do and what not to

do in order to keep me in this little quest here."

     Arleah smiled.  "I understand your terms.  Welcome to

the journey, Kurt Arion."

     Arion nodded, a bit spiteful because he didn't feel she

was taking his guidelines seriously.  And who did she think

she was, asking him if he was going to break his own rules?



     The road began to grow more steep as they climbed

higher into the Scavenger Mountains.  Trees now completely

surrounded them, and the road became a small, narrow path

that slipped through the dense forest.  Soon, another road

led up to theirs from the West.

     "This is the road that leads to and from Tyrus," Arleah

said.

     Arion nodded.  "Yep.  And look: someone's been here not

too long ago.  Looks like they were running from Tyrus

northward."

     Vinson looked at the faint footprints disturbing the

soil.  They were fairly large.  Arleah inspected the trail

for a few seconds longer, gesturing ahead.

     "We must hurry," she said, moving quickly up the road.

     Arion sidled up next to Vinson, sizing him up with

hard, intense eyes.

     "So," he said quietly, "Troy. . . that's your name,

right?"

     Vinson nodded.

     "So, Troy, what do you think of all this, eh?  I mean,

a woman leading an expedition such as this one?  I've never

heard of it myself, and to be quite honest. . ." he glanced

ahead to where the cloaked form of Arleah strode, following

the weaving footsteps in the road, ". . .I'm a little

doubtful of not only her, but also this quest."

     Vinson shrugged.  "I'm still trying to sort out all she

said about the quest myself, but I believe her.  I'm not at

all doubtful of what she told me."

     "That so?" Arion said.  He smiled.  "What makes you so

sure?"

     "She knew things about my life. . . nobody but myself

could have known."

     "Oh, Troy," Arion said, "wake up, my friend.  Why,

there are prophets and witches who could tell you your

darkest fantasies by one glance!  Who's to say she's not

some seer or Vail employed by a devil?  Maybe, after she

gets what she wants from this quest, she'll kill us and

disappear."

     Troy Vinson had never thought of that.

     "I guess I don't know," he said.

     "Exactly my point."  Arion smiled darkly.  "My

philosophy is not to trust

anyone. . .not you, not that lady up there, and not whoever

this Muhl Dreik is we're after.  I'd advise you do the

same."

     The footprints they were following seemed to grow

nearer together, as though the person who made them had

grown tired and ceased running.

     "Did I hear that you were a magic user?" Kurt Arion

asked.  "What can you do?"

     Troy Vinson eyed Arion warily.  He didn't remember

telling him that.

     "I'm still learning," Vinson said, "but I've schooled

in abjuration, some alteration, and lesser divination

spells."

     Arion waved his hands impatiently.  "None of that hocus-

pocus stuff," he said.  "I guess what I meant to say is, can

you fight with it?  And how strong is it?  Can you kill

someone easily?"

     Other than self defense, I have a little problem with

combat," Vinson said quietly.

     Arion was silent a moment, then smiled.

     "You already made a mistake, Troy," he said.  "You went

and told about your magic.  You shouldn't have; now I know

that much more about you.  If I wanted to kill you, I'd know

that you can't combat with magic.  When people ask you about

yourself, either don't answer, or lie.  Don't trust anyone."

     "How do you know I didn't lie?" Vinson asked, a bit

annoyed.

     Arion smiled his dark smile again.

     "You didn't lie," he said.

     Vinson was about to ask Kurt Arion just exactly how he

knew he wasn't lying, when Arleah called from ahead.  They

found her kneeling on the road, her face grim.

     "Blood," she said quietly.  "Look, on the grass."

There were dark stains on the foliage and ground around the

trail, and the footsteps appeared to be weaving heavily.  As

the three pushed ahead through the weeds and brush, the

footsteps fell dramatically off the trail, disappearing in

the tall grasses.

     "Hey," Arion said, "What's the big deal?  So what. . .

some guy came through here most likely at night, probably

got attacked by something, and stumbled off somewhere to

die.  Why bother looking for him?  I thought we were going

North, to. . . Ashter, was it?"

     "Ashten," Vinson replied absently.

     "Oh yeah."  Then, Arion brightened up.  "Hey, maybe

looking for this guy's body isn't a bad idea--I bet we'll

find some valuables on him."

     "No," Arleah shook her head.  She looked concerned.

"This man is. . ."

     "I'll say it now," Arion interrupted, pointing into the

air, "I get dibs on his pockets."

     "Stop!" Arleah said.  "This man is Eric Walker, also

chosen by my father to accompany us in the quest."

     "Eric Walker?" Vinson asked.  "The swordsman?"

     "Yes."

     "I'd say the swordsman took a sword in the gut," Arion

said.  "Forget it Lady, he's as good as dead."

     "Do you know what happened to him?" Vinson asked.

Arleah shook her head.

     "No," she said, "I was only told that I would meet him

in the mountains, but it seems he has run into some

trouble."

     Kurt Arion nodded, smiling sarcastically.  "I'd say so.

This guy's hurt and reeling.  He probably came through here

at night like I said, lost the trail, and stumbled through

the wilderness for a while.  He's lucky if something hasn't

gotten to him."

     Arleah followed the disturbed grasses a ways off the

trail, creeping into the wild brush.

     "He'll be hard to find," Arion said.  "The wind will

have. . ."

     "No, I don't think so."  Arleah said.  "Look."

     Arion, trailed by Vinson, followed her into the brush.

The grasses were darkly stained with blood, marking a clear

trail ahead.  Arion raised his eyebrows.

     "It looks like he was crawling," Vinson said.

     "And bleeding," Arion said.  "A lot."

     The dark, stained trail continued on through weeds,

over a rocky outcrop, across a small clearing, and into a

dense thicket of brush.

     "I'll say one thing," Arion said.  "This guy has a lot

of heart.  And a lot of determination.  What happened to

him?" he looked expectantly at Arleah, who shook her head.

     "I don't know.  I wasn't expecting this at all."

     Vinson watched as Arion chuckled, smiling at some inner

joke he saw in the whole ordeal.

     A short ways ahead, they found a large broadsword

discarded among the weeds.  It's blade was caked with a

black, crusty substance, and the hilt was stained with

blood.  Kurt Arion picked it up slowly from the ground,

examining the designs on the handle.  There was a thin

leather strap attached to the hilt, which was sometimes used

to wrap around a fighter's wrist so that he wouldn't lose

his sword in case of a very heavy blow.  The strap was

darkly soaked with blood.

     "It's from Tyrus," Arion said.  He looked up at Arleah.

"Was our Mr. Eric Walker from Tyrus?"

     Arleah nodded.

     "It looks pretty expensive." Arion examined the blade,

wiping away the blood stains and black, crusty material.

"Hmmm.  Good quality.  One of these would run for sixty five

silver crescents if I fenced it in Tyrus."

     "Kurt Arion," Arleah said.  "Please."

     "Oh."  Arion smiled apologetically.  "Sorry."  Keeping

the sword, he turned and continued on through the trail of

flattened mountain grass, which was visibly stained in areas

with blood.  They followed it a short ways further and onto

a rocky outcrop, where Kurt Arion took the lead, moving

along more nimbly than the others.  He slipped quickly over

the rocks, and into the thicket of brush, where Arleah and

Vinson heard shout after a few moments.

     "Eureka!" Arion cried.

     Vinson, followed closely by Arleah, pushed through the

thorny bushes and into a small, secluded clearing.  There

Arion stood, almost triumphantly, over the large body of a

man.  The broadsword was imbedded in the ground beside him.

     "We found Mr. Walker," Arion said.  "Remember. . . I

got the pockets."

     The man on the ground was huge.  He was tall, with

thick, full muscles and long, dark hair that covered his

face.  He was dirty and bloody, his body marred heavily with

nasty-looking wounds and badly torn clothes.  One of his

arms was horribly smashed and dark with blood.  Arleah

looked tiny as she hastened down to him, her small hands

brushing the hair from his face.  The man looked to be about

thirty years old, maybe a little more.

     "This is Eric Walker," Arleah said quietly.  Gently,

she felt his neck and along his chest.       "He is alive."

     Kurt Arion looked at the man doubtfully.  "Surely he

won't live," he said.  "It's amazing the vermin haven't

gotten to him."

     Arleah ignored him, pulling a leather pouch from her

belt slowly.

     "This is going to take some time," she said.

                            * * *

     Eric Walker became slowly aware of his arm again.  It

throbbed rythmically, stirring his mind up from the

sluggish, empty sleep he had fallen into.  Everything was

black and dark, slightly tinged in a reddish color.  He

couldn't see a thing.

     Memories flooded into his mind, images of the hairy,

misshapen trolls and the heavy maces they carried.  Images

of his frightened family.  They were all gone now, somewhere

far away.  Like him.

     Where was he?

     He strained to sit up, surprised that his arm, although

searing with pain, could move.  But why was everything so

dark?  Then he realized his eyes were closed.

     It seemed to take a bit of effort to open them; and

when he did, the image was bright and blurry.  He squinted,

raising his right arm to shield his eyes.  The picture

slowly came into vague focus, and he could discern three or

more figures looking down at him, although he was aware that

they could be just trees.  Had someone found him?

     "Just keep still," a far-away voice echoed dully in his

mind.  It sounded like a woman. . . maybe his wife.

     "Aleena," he mumbled, trying to sit up.  "Where are

you?"

     "Try not to move," the voice said softly.

     "This is unbelievable," another voice, this one male,

said.  "I'd have given him up for dead."

     Walker lay back wearily, rubbing his eyes with his good

right hand.  The images around him became more clear, more

distinct. As though he was slipping back into his body from

somewhere else, his senses livened up, returning to normal.

He could hear trees rustling in the breeze, and could smell

the fragrant, warm scent of greenery and fresh mountain air.

There was a funny taste in his mouth, as though he had been

chewing on an onion.  Unfortunantly, pain also heightened,

and he groaned in sudden agony.

     "Drink some more of this," the voice said.  Dazed,

Walker discerned a bottle-like object in front of his face,

and his mouth opened slightly.

     Something thick spilled into his mouth, and the taste

he had noticed earlier increased.  Walker pushed the cordial

away, coughing.

     "Ugh. . . 'sgusting," he muttered.  The liquid seemed

to jolt him even more awake, and he blinked, looking around

at the three faces peering down at him.

     "That's some pretty potent stuff," one of the men said.

"Healing potion.  I'll bet that'll run for a fairly good

price."

     "Can he see us?" Someone else asked.

     The woman nodded.

     "Who are you?"  Eric Walker croaked.

     "We are three travellers," the girl said, "bound

Northward.  My name is Arleah, and with me here is Kurt

Arion and Troy Vinson.  We found you wounded.  What happened

to you?"

     "We were attacked," Walker said, his voice dry and

cracked.  "Trolls came and took my wife and my children.  I

tried to stop them, I tried. . ." he coughed, rubbing his

eyes.  ". . .I followed them from Tyrus, but I couldn't keep

up."

     "He's delirious," Kurt Arion said.  "There are no

trolls in Tyrus."

     "They came on a flying beast!" Walker said.  "At night,

past the soldiers.  They were kidnapping people, tying them

up.  I suppose they wanted to take me as well."  His eyes

closed wearily.  "I just have to find my wife and children.

I have to find them, and everything will be alright."  He

looked up.  "Please, you must help me."

     "I'm doing all I can," Arleah said gently, "but you

must tell me more. . . about the trolls.  What do you

remember about them?  Did they bear any type of mark?"

     Walker thought a moment, then opened his eyes again.

     "They weren't wild, like trolls usually are.  They were

part of a force. . . they all wore black vests and, yes,

they had a mark on the shoulder.  I don't remember what the

mark was."

     "Was it red?" Arleah asked.  "Was it a snake?"

     Walker looked curiously at the girl.  "That was it.  A

red snake."

     Kurt Arion tensed.

     "It was Muhl Dreik's rogues," Arleah said, "the man who

possesses the Eye of the Dragon.  Although I do not know why

he was attempting to kidnap you."

     "Maybe he knows the prophecy, too," Vinson said.  "He

could be trying to kill Eric Walker if he knew he was in the

quest!"

     Arleah shook her head.  "No," she said, "Only the

ancient prophetic volumes hold the names of those to be

selected for the quest.  Muhl Dreik does not have access to

the spiritual plane where they exist."

     Walker looked bewildered.  "I don't have the faintest

idea what you're all talking about.  But I know that I have

to find my wife and children.  Please. . . help me find

them."

     Everyone looked at Arleah.

     She nodded.  "I think I know where they are, although I

don't know why.  It's time I explained this quest fully. . .

to all of you."  She leaned back, recorking the small

cordial in her hands.

     Vinson sat motionless, Walker looked bewildered, and

Arion seated himself in a comfortable position, an expectant

grin on his face.

                            * * *

                        ARLEAH'S TALE

     In the old world, there used to be a council known as

the Archivist Assembly that served as what might be called a

government over the seperate nations of spirits.  The

nations were different than they are today, not restricted

by physical boundaries of territory, but as separate

"planes" of existence, infinite space into which the mind

could journey and fulfill any need or desire.  There were no

such thing as wars or territorial disputes.

     The Assembly was composed of twelve members, their duty

to regulate the population and activities on each plane, and

to act as a safeguard against any illegal, or evil, actions

or any mental disruptions.

     After a long and harmonious span of time, however, the

head member of the Archivist Assembly, Ishtara, began to

despise Aellei, the great God.  For although the Assembly,

which was lead by Ishtara, presided over all the planes,

Aellei still ruled over everything--including the Assembly.

Ishtara's appetite for power began to grow, as did his hate

for Aellei.

     Finally, this hate overpowered him.  The next time the

Assembly gathered together, Ishtara declared that they

should be free of any control Aellei had on them, and be

wholly independant, with only the Assembly to rule and

govern the planes.  Half of the Assembly agreed, and half

said that it was an unwise and foolish plan.  After all,

they were Aellei's creation. . . who were they to reject him

as supreme ruler?

     Bitter debates ensued, resulting (not unexpectedly) in

a split of the Assembly.  The portion of the council which

still wanted to recognize Aellei added six new members, and

named Persopolis, the spirit once second only to Ishtara, as

head council member.  Persopolis' assembly attempted to

preserve the control and peace of the planes, but Ishtara

had quite different ideas.

     Naming himself God, he and his followers began to

capture the planes and their inhabitants for themselves.

Ishtara granted his followers rulership over individual

planes, and they acted as vassals to his "supreme

authority".  His plan was to overcome the other assembly

with his new, violent tactic of conquery, and to finally

raise himself to the title he always wanted: supreme diety.

     But this violence was unheard of, and neither Ishtara

nor any other had had any experience with it.  So began the

Great Wars.  The events that followed were disgraceful;

truly a story of paradise degenerating into a warring

battleground.  Some of Ishtara's vassals, not satisfied with

their small rulership, began to revolt.  The other assembly,

headed by Persopolis, forgot their original cause of

preserving Aellei's rulership and warred with Ishtara as

well, attempting to reclaim "ownership" of the planes.  And

lastly, the occupants of the planes themselves, angered by

their sudden capture and limited freedom, rebelled against

both powers.  What resulted was a downfall of all strong

government, in exchange for several hundred tiny "kingdoms",

groups, and clans--all of which warred against each other

for the planes.

     It was then that Aellei, enraged, crushed the Old

World.  Nine out of every ten spirits were destroyed, never

to be heard of again.  Out of the ruins of the Old World,

Aellei recreated the planes into a new, "better" world.  For

the few spirits that had remained loyal to him in the

foolishness of the Great Wars, he made kingdoms, protected

from the harsh differences the New World had.  My father was

one of those spirits, and as you well know, his kingdom is

located in the Amariah forest.  These good spirits were

pledged to care for and see to the welfare of the new

planes.

     Why Aellei created another world after the degradation

of the other is not known.  And why he left some of the

corrupted spirits, including Ishtara, to roam the new

planes, is also unknown.  But such was the case.  The New

World had just been born, and already it was diseased with

evil.

     Ishtara and the other corrupt spirits fled from the

new, threatening qualities the New World had, such as time

and light.  They slunk away to the north, constructing a

large, desolate kingdom underground in which to hide from

the sun, and to try and forget time.

     For three hundred years, while the new creations of

mortal men and creatures had barely begun to explore their

home, Ishtara and the others talked and murmured together.

The spirits, especially Ishtara, wanted control again.

Their passionate hate for Aellei, the good spirits, and

mortals spurred them to the fruit of their three hundred

year discussion: the construction of a weapon.

     Joining their remaining magic, the spirits, under

guidance from Ishtara, constructed the talisman known to all

of you as the Eye of the Dragon.  Nobody, not even my

father, knows how the Eye works, but the evil it is

generating has begun to creep closer from the North, and

soon, all the good spirits' kingdoms, including my father's,

will be crushed if it is not stopped.  Where the Eye is

getting the tremendous power to do this is also unknown.

     One thing we do know, thowever, is that Ishtara cannot

directly wield the Eye of the Dragon.  It is designed to

unravel the threads of existence to spirit beings. . . this

is meant for good spirits, but it will do the same to evil.

Ishtara has deceived a mortal human named Muhl Dreik and is

using him like a puppet to control the Eye.

     Our duty, as prophecied, is to capture the stone from

Muhl Dreik and destroy it.  Then, and only then, will the

world be safe from this evil.  In the unexplored Northland,

past the town of Galgoth, Muhl Dreik has made himself a city

he calls Ashten.  I don't know who the inhabitants of the

city are, nor why he has constructed it.  Whatever his

reason is, Ashten is our destination.

                            * * *

     Kurt Arion plucked a long blade of grass from the

clearing they were in, chewing the end absently.

      "Fairy tales," Vinson heard him mutter quietly to

himself.  Nobody else seemed to hear.

     "I used to think I had heard it all," Eric Walker said.

"But you know, I was wrong."

     "I admit, it must be very difficult to absorb," Arleah

said.  "It's a lot of information all at once."

     "These creatures--Muhl Dreik and these spirits--they

have my family?" Walker asked.

     "It would seem so," said Arleah.  "Again, I don't know

why.  But the scarlet snake is the mark of Muhl Dreik."

     Walker sat up.  "Then the king must hear of this!  We

must hurry, get to Tyrus now!  The king can have a legion of

soldiers ready to journey north, and retake the prisoners.

If they dare capture Tyrus people, then they shall feel the

wrath of our army."

     Arleah shook her head.

     "No, Eric Walker.  The quest. . ."

     "What can three men and one woman do that an entire

army can't?" Walker cried.  "This sounds to me like a big

enemy.  What we need is a strong force to attack it!"

     "I understand your family has been captured," Arleah

said firmly, "and I know about Tyrus' forces.  But hear me

out, please.  An army of soldiers and knights on horseback

would never make it over the Northern Wall, the Avasar

Mountains.  Nor would they even reach Derrik through the

Aries Mountains without difficulty.  And I'll tell you this:

an army would be no good against Muhl Dreik.  We are

fighting not flesh and blood, but spirit.  We are not

fighting against sword and shield, but against magic and

sorcery.  As the prophecy claims, the four of us have the

needed collective power and skill to get to Ashten, capture

the Eye of the Dragon, and destroy it.  This is a case where

too many is too much.  We need just enough, and we have it

now."

     Everyone was silent.  Slowly, Walker's right hand

rubbed his left arm, now apparently better, although his

clothes were still torn and stained with blood.

     "You've healed me," he said, as if noticing it for the

first time.  It seemed as though he was in a daze.

     "The man can be taught," Arion muttered, standing up.

     "We shall stay here for the night," Arleah said.  "You

must rest, Eric Walker.  Tomorrow, we journey north to

Davensport.  Of course, you do not have to join us.  The

choice is yours."

     Eric Walker looked at her distantly for a few moments,

then felt his arm again.  Images of his battle with the

trolls brushed through his mind.  His wife's words echoed in

his mind:  Don't worry, your father will take care of it.

     "I'll travel around the world to get my family back,"

Walker said.  "If you can get me there, I'll come with you."

     "We will be there," Arleah said.  "If you like, we can

go to Tyrus tomorrow.  I'm sure you'd like to return home to

gather any--"

     "No." Walker said firmly.  "The next time I set foot

into my home, my family will be at my side."

                               * * *

     The next morning smelled crisp and fresh, pungent with

the evergreen trees clustered about their tiny camp.

Sunlight trickled down at them through sparse clouds and

tree foliage, its warm heat still not quite penetrating the

biting highland chill that had come so suddenly during the

night.

     Walker had built a fire for heat and to roast the last

of the chicken that Vinson and Arleah had obtained in

Colven.  He kept rubbing his shoulder as if he could not

believe it had been so perfectly healed, although Arleah had

made it known to him that it had taken the entire cordial of

the elixir to do so.

     Everyone huddled around the fire, holding a stick with

a large piece of the previously cooked chicken speared

through it over the flames--all except for Arion, who was

leaning against a tree and rubbing his eyes, looking bored.

     "It was to be my daughter's wedding today," Walker said

quietly.

     "Really?" Vinson asked.  "I'm sorry."

     Walker shrugged.  There was a few moments of silence.

     "How many children did you say you had?" Vinson asked.

     "Two.  A son and a daughter."  Walker stared off into

space.

     "We'll find them."

     "Yeah."  He took another pull from the skin and shook

his head as if to clear it from something.  Then he said:

"So, Troy, I hear you're a. . .how do they say. . .a mage?"

     "I guess," Vinson said.  "Sort of."

     "Well, you either are, or you're not."

     "I'm learning."

     "Been to school?"

     "Yeah.  It wasn't a very good one, though."

     Walker shrugged.  "I went to school once," he said.

"For about a day.  My father wanted me to learn to read, but

I wound up getting into a fight with my instructor, so the

instructor gave me the boot."  He laughed.  "I was about

seventeen."

     Vinson smiled.

     "Yeah, I was a little crazy back then," Walker said.

He pulled his speared chicken from the fire and tasted it,

cautious of the heat.  "Hmmm.  This chicken tastes like

crap."

     "The inn in Colven was pretty lacking," Vinson said.

     Walker tore a chunk from it and stuffed it into his

mouth, licking the juice from his fingers.  "God, this

really tastes like crap.  I'm so hungry, though, I could

have eaten it cold."  He raised up his stick to Arion.

"Sure you don't want any, Kurt?"

     Arion held up his hands.  "Please.  Feast."

     "Sure?"

     "I insist," the thief said sarcastically.  "I wouldn't

want to deprive you of such tasty morsels."

     Walker shrugged, taking another bite.

     "So what's your story?" he asked, looking back up at

Arion.

     "Me?"

     "Sure.  I heard everyone else's--and if yours is as

interesting as theirs, I will have officially heard

everything."

     "Well, then," Arion said, "I'm sorry to disappoint you.

I'm not a ghost, and I'm not a magician, and I'm not the

spirit of your six-hundred-year-old great, great grandfather

who saved the world and came back to take you with me."

     "That's good," Walker said.  "So what's your story?"

     "I'm just here to save the world," Arion said.

     "Really."

     "Sure.  Isn't that the purpose of all this, anyway?"

     Vinson glanced over at Arleah, who was seemingly taking

no notice of the conversation.

     "So I'm here to live up that purpose," Arion said.

"How about you, Eric Walker?  Are you here to help us

accomplish our goal, or will you simply be looking for your

lost family?"

     Walker lowered the piece of chicken.

     "Look," he said, "I'm not here to start any arguments.

. ."

     "I'm simply asking a question," Arion said.  "So will

you then?  And if you did happen to come across your family,

I wonder if you would abandon us to return home to Tyrus for

your daughter's wedding?"

     The campsite became suddenly still and uncomfortably

silent, with not even the song of a bird or whisper from the

trees overhead.  Arion's eyes were hard and cold as they

held Walker's.

     "I have never abandoned a battle," Walker said.  "And I

don't intend to start now."

     Arleah stood to her feet.

     "We should leave now," she said.  "We'll arrive at

Davensport by midday."

     Arion said, "I've known a lot of men who claimed that

they would stand their ground if they were stood up at the

very gates of the underworld, but then they run like

cowardly mice when they meet any real opposition."

     "Kurt Arion--" Arleah said.

     "Did I wrong you somewhere here?" Walker said, standing

to his feet.  "What is your problem?"

     "Just never mind," Arion said, sounding angry, and he

suddenly broke his staring match with Walker. "Come on.

According to our leader here, we should be going."  He

started to leave the clearing, and as he passed Vinson, he

winked at him.

                            * * *

       The small company retraced the path Eric Walker had

crawled through the mountain forest, found the road, and

continued north.  The tall, thick trees and leafy bushes

surrounded them on both sides, and lizards skittered through

the dry leaves on the ground.  Troy Vinson had never been

anywhere so peaceful, not even the Citizens' Park at Terron.

He watched the lumbering form of Eric Walker in front of

him, the large broadsword Kurt Arion had found cleaned and

sheathed to his belt.  His clothes, torn and ragged, flapped

listlessly as he walked.  Despite his tattered appearance,

he carried himself surely, almost proudly, as he strode on.

     Kurt Arion seemed to have withdrawn into himself,

quietly taking the rear and gazing blankly off into the

trees.  Arleah, as usual, showed no expression or indication

of her mood, and kept an easy pace alongside the tall,

stocky form of Eric Walker.

     Vinson kept thinking about Arion's odd behavior.  Why

had he done that--apparently trying to pick a fight with

Eric Walker?  A mental fight though, and one which the thief

was apparently not taking too seriously, because he had

winked at Vinson when he passed by.  Why did he do that?

Mind games, probably.  Just mind games.

     Then Vinson thought more about Arleah.  He watched her

up ahead of him, walking tall and erect, her dark cloak

flowing smoothly behind her as she moved in steps that were

equally as graceful.  Calculated.  She was very calculated,

he thought.  Everything she did was precise, thought out,

and as if she were following a pre-developed script.  Every

time she spoke, every time she ran her fingers through her

long, lustrious black hair, every time she looked at him,

every time she cleared her throat or licked her lips as the

winds blew harshly against her face, and every time she

smiled.  It was like it was all calculated, decided

consciously beforehand.

     And without emotion.



     The sun felt hotter as they came out of the highlands

hours later, into the vast, yellow plains at the northern

foothills of the Scavenger Mountains.  Along the road were

two or three small, uncharted towns, mostly consisting of

peddlers and craftsmen who went to Davensport to sell their

goods.  Eric Walker bought a new travelling cloak, tunic,

and heavy, outdoor trousers.  There wasn't much else

available for them to look through as far as supplies went,

but Walker assured them that at Davensport, there would be

plenty of opportunities to stock up.

     They approached the large city shortly after midday.

The air smelled like fish, and several carts clattered by

loaded with them.  The buildings were tall and appeared to

be shops with living quarters on a second story.  Bazaars

and booths lined the streets selling fish, rugs, jewelry,

pottery, and a variety of other merchandise, turning the

city into a giant marketplace.

     "If the place didn't stink so bad," Arion said, "it

might just be enjoyable.  Look at all those stupid peddlers.

. . I could make a killing here."

     "A thief's paradise?" Eric Walker said.  "Don't be

fooled.  Davensport's got the toughest police around. . .in

the marketplace."

     Arion smirked.  "Just a better challenge."

     As they walked deeper into the city, the road became

well-packed and rutted.  Oftentimes, they had to stop for

fish wagons.  People were shuffling all about, and near the

houses along the roadside came the screaming and babbling

sound of children at play.

     "I've been to Davensport a few times," Walker said amid

the city noise.  "At the yonder fork, head left and it will

take us to some roadside inns."

     Walker's directions proved reliable, and the road led

through town to a travellers' area loaded with inns and

merchants.

     "We still need bedding material, waterskins, and

another travel pack or two," Arleah said.  "It'll make the

walk to Derrik more comfortable.  That will be our next stop

after tomorrow."

     "Want to split up?" Walker asked.  "Someone could find

the best inn, get rooms for tonight and food, while someone

else goes through the markets for the other stuff."

     "I'll look through the shops," Arleah said.

     Troy Vinson shrugged.  "Me too.  I need to get a

heavier shirt."

     "Kurt and I will check out the inns and see about

food,"  Walker said.  "Just keep away from the east side of

the city; you'll be lucky not to get mugged."

     Vinson and Arleah departed, walking down the busy

street.  Peddlers were all about, eager to sell their items,

and virtually pushing their products into their faces, but

Vinson was thinking about how unusual it was for Arion not

to object to being with Walker, or object to Walker's

volunteering him, in light of the earlier dissidence.

     "Pearls!" a peddler shouted.  "Beautiful pearls!  No

two necklaces are alike."  He spied Vinson and Arleah musing

through the items and scampered up to them.

     "Look here, sir; no better gift for your wife than

this!  Beautiful pearls for a beautiful girl, yes?"

     "No thanks," Vinson said.  He chuckled.  "We're not

married."  He shook his head, moving on.

     "Not married?" the bewhiskered, skinny peddler

exclaimed, blocking Vinson and still holding the pearls.

"Why, you must be a fool, my man.  Look at her--why, if I

were you, I'd propose this instant!  Here, buy these as an

engagement present.  I will charge, for you, only twenty

silver crescents, yes?"

     Vinson shook his head.  Arleah was musing over an

assortment of clay pottery intently, as though she wasn't

listening.  But Vinson could see that she was blushing.  He

felt a little light.

     "How about earrings, then, yes?" the peddler called

after him as they walked on.  Hairpins?  Flowers?"

     On impulse, Vinson looked back, as the peddler held out

a container of red roses.  He walked over, pulled a rose

from the peddler, and handed him a copper crescent.

     "Have a good day."  The peddler said.

     Vinson walked back to Arleah, placing the rose into her

hand.

     "Here you are, my wife," he said, a sarcastic grin on

his face.  "A rose for thee."

     "Why thank you," she said, managing a quick laugh.

     Vinson smiled, looking into her eyes.  But she glanced

away quickly, the blush gone from her face.  Emotionless

again.

     "Blankets," she said.  "Let's get them first."

     Across the busy street were a few shops carrying rugs,

pillows, quilts, and the like.  The only other merchants in

sight appeared to be selling and buying fish, jewelry, or

useless trinkets.

      Pushing past the crowds and fish wagons, Vinson and

Arleah began to cross the rutted street.

     "Stop him!" A cry rang out from farther down the road.

     There were a couple more shouts, a woman's scream, and

then a figure burst into sight, colliding directly into

Vinson.  Golden necklaces and pearl jewelry fell everywhere

as the man and Vinson both were hurled to the ground.

     Dragging himself up into a sitting position, Vinson

turned to view the man who had knocked him down.  He stared;

it felt almost like he was looking into a mirror.  The man

beside him, save for the whiskered chin and jaw, looked

almost exactly like him.

     The Troy Vinson look-alike recovered faster, scooping

up a handful of jewelry and dumping it into Vinson's  lap

before leaping to his feet and dashing away through the

crowd.

     Bewildered, Vinson brought himself to his feet, looking

curiously at several delicate, golden necklaces dangling

from his fingers.  He heard Arleah calling out to him.

     "Drop it!" she said.  "Drop the jewelry!"  But it was

too late.

     "Stop!" A huge, burly official that looked as though he

could rival Eric Walker burst through the crowd, tackling

Vinson with such a force that he was flung to the ground for

a second time.

     Only then, as the breath was knocked heavily out of

him, did Vinson realize the impact of what was happening.

     "No. . ." he started to say, but the official grabbed

his arms and wrenched them painfully behind his back.  He

heard other officials run up as he was pulled roughly to his

feet.

     "Get up, you worthless rat," an official said.

     The crowded street had parted, everyone looking

curiously at Vinson's dusty face and the jewelry on the

road.  The official holding him snorted.

     "Not this time, Phillipe!" he said, emphasizing the

word "this" with a painful yank to his arms.  "We have you

now."  Vinson started to protest, but the official boxed him

on the side of his head, leaving his ears ringing.  The man

began to drag him away.

     Across the street, he could see Arleah arguing heatedly

with a group of bored-looking officials, pointing several

times the way the other man had run.  They seemed to be

ignoring her.

      "Well, well," a thin, wiry looking officer said,

walking up to the captive Vinson.  He smirked.  "Looks like

you finally got yourself caught, eh, Phillipe?  You know

what the punishment for thieves is, especially your kind?"

He drew his finger slowly across Vinson's neck.

     "You've made a mistake!" Vinson said.  "The guy bumped

into me, and--"

     "No, YOU'VE made a mistake, you lowly rat!  About fifty

mistakes too many."  He glared at Vinson's dirt-covered face

pathetically, then gestured to the official holding him.

                         "Take it away."





                        CHAPTER EIGHT

                          -Trapped



     Tabitha Lasea struggled violently.  The apelike man

holding her began to drag her through the bushes beside the

wall, heading for the gate.  A word she'd heard many times

in stories slipped into her mind: Troll.  These were trolls.

But what were they doing here?

     "Let go of me!" Tabitha said, slamming her fists

against his arms, and dragging her boot heels down his

shins.  His only response seemed to be annoyance.

     "If you don't knock it off, I'll knock you out," her

captor said in a surprisingly intelligible voice.  "Now shut

up and stop fidgeting."

     The troll reached the gate, and rapped loudly on its

great iron surface.  A small window at the top opened

slightly, beady eyes peering out and down on them.  A moment

later, the eyes disappeared, the little window shut, and the

gate was unbolted.

     The thug dragged Tabitha inside the Mission walls, and

the gate rumbled shut behind them.  The city Prefect and the

troll he was talking to turned and looked at her.

     "A found a little street mouse peeping over the wall,"

Tabitha's captor chuckled.  "Someone should teach her some

manners."

     "Who is that?" the Prefect said, frowning.

     "My grandfather is dying," Tabitha said.  "He needs

help."

     One of the city officials walked over to her, shaking

his head.

     "She's just a street thief," the official said.  "She's

been a parasite to the marketplace for a long time."

     The Prefect waved his arm in a careless gesture.

     "Kill her," he said, turning back to his conversation.

Three officials came forward to comply.

     The troll the Prefect had been talking to waved the

officials off, however.

     "Delay that ridiculous order.  See, this is what I mean-

-it is no good to do business with you because you are

nothing but a fool!  Why kill the woman?"

     "She has seen and heard us," the Prefect replied

angrily.  "Why let her go?  She's just a street rat,

anyway."

     The troll's large, pronounced brow seemed to furrow,

making its eyes almost disappear altogether.

     "Fool!" it said.  "Why not tie her up with the others?

Increase our bounty, and also your profit.  Instead, you

would have her killed."

     "But she's nothing," the Prefect said.  "Why would you

want her?"

     The troll threw up his long, stocky arms, turning away

from the Prefect and towards Tabitha.

     "You are hopeless," it growled.  "I've told you thrice

already it is numbers that count, not quality.  Consider

this bounty the last from this city."

     It grabbed Tabitha roughly by the collar of her shirt.

Looking down at her, the troll started, gazing into her

dark, stormy eyes and feeling her hair tentatively.  Tabitha

knocked his hand away.  The troll inspected her features for

a moment longer, looking confused.

     "What are you?" he demanded.

     "A rat," Tabitha said.  "A street rat, just like you

guys say."

     The troll smacked her on the head with a force that

almost knocked her unconscious.  She sprawled onto the

ground, trying to focus her eyes as the world swam lazily

around her.

     "What's your race, worm?"

     "I should ask you that question."  She felt the side of

her face gingerly.

     "Foolish woman," the troll said.  "I should kill you

right now."

     "Yes, you should," Tabitha said.  "Death would be a

wonderful relief.  Give me your knife and I'll do it for

you."

     "Don't listen to her!" the Prefect said.

     The troll looked at the Prefect and frowned.

     "Do you think that I am stupid?" it said.  "Get out of

my way!"

     The troll grabbed Tabitha's tunic and dragged her

roughly over to the five tied citizens nearby.  Tabitha

could now see that they were not only tied up, but gagged as

well.

     "Please," the Prefect said.  "Do not make this the last

bounty.  We'll do better next time. . . I'll try and contain

my foolishness.  Please."

     The troll holding Tabitha stopped and stared

thoughtfully at the Prefect, who smiled hopefully.

     "Tie him up as well," it said.  The Prefect gave an

anguished cry.





                        CHAPTER NINE

                        -Prison Plan





     The city hall was a large, domed building at the center

of Davensport.  Arleah, Arion, and Walker stood at the base

of the huge, marble steps that led to its entrance.

     "Here's where they took him," Arleah said.

     "And here's where he's going to stay," Arion said.

"There's no way we're getting him out of there."

     Walker looked thoughtful, his right hand rubbing the

bottom of his chin.

     "Maybe," Walker said, "they'll realize the mistake they

made and let Troy go."

     Arion nodded.  "That's right.  We should go back to the

inn and wait."

     Arleah shook her head.  "There's no time for waiting,"

she said.  "Any day we stay behind is a day later we arrive

at Ashten, and a day later can mean a lot.  Besides, while

we wait around, Troy Vinson could be killed."

     "Well what good is he?" Arion said.  "If he can't use

his magic to get himself free, then he's not worth having.

I vote we go back to the inn, and if he's not out in the

morning, let's just leave the city as planned."

     Walker cast Arion a sarcastic look.

     "Good idea," Arleah said.  "Let's leave our companion

to die so that we can go to our own deaths.  Have you not

heard anything I've told you?  We need him, Kurt Arion,  the

same way we need you."

     Kurt Arion shook his head.  "You're wrong, Lady.  I

don't need anybody.  I've always taken care of myself, and I

don't need anyone to help me."

     "If you were to put yourself in his shoes," Arleah

said, "would you not help then?"

     "No," Arion said.  "Because you can't put me in his

shoes, because I wouldn't have created this mess in the

first place!"

     Walker threw up his hands in frustration.

     "Alright," Walker said, "this is getting ridiculous.

Now if we're going to help Troy then we're going to have to

stick together so we can get out of this city together.  So

let's just put our arguments aside until after that,

agreed?"

     "Oh yes, wise one," Arion said.  "You enlighten me with

your logic."  He shook his head.  "Look, we don't even have

a plan.  Now I've dealt enough with city officials to know

that we can't just go in there and carry him out like

nothing happened.  That place is the spider's den, and we're

the flies.  It's impossible."

     Arleah crossed her arms, looking thoughtfully at the

big entrance gates of the City Hall.

     "I have a plan," she said.  "But I'll need your

experience with city officials, Kurt Arion, to complete it."

     Arion laughed.  "No plans," he said.  "Not me.  This

little charade has gone far enough. . .I knew this was going

to happen sooner or later, and I'm not going to--"

     Arleah opened up her shoulder bag and brought out a

small, leather sack that jingled.  She handed it to Arion.

     "There's one hundred silver crescents in that bag,"

Arleah said.  "Now your part in this will put you in no

danger or risk at all.  Would you care to hear my idea?"

     Arion inspected the bag, opening it up to insert his

hand and run his fingers through the cold, weighty metal

coins.

     "Are you bribing me?" he asked.

     "Not hardly.  Would you like to hear my idea?"

     Arion shrugged.  "Money talks," he said.  "What did you

have in mind?"

                            * * *

     The interior of the City Hall was luxurious but in a

strict, "official" mood.  Most of it seemed to be

constructed of marble, and the floor was so highly polished

that Troy Vinson and the officials that led him made

squeaking sounds with their boots at every step.  There were

a few trees planted in great stone pots at the center of the

enormous entrance room, and glass windows in the domed roof

permitted sunlight to enter.  Vinson caught sight of a few

birds fluttering about the branches.  Armed guards and

officials were everywhere in sight, walking, standing,

talking, and looking at him.  The churning, nervous feeling

in his gut heightened.

     Vinson was led quickly through and out of the entrance

room, into a corridor, and brought up before a uniformed man

who was flanked by a burly looking official.  The walls in

this long corridor were not marble, but were plain, white-

painted stone.  The man before him was of medium height and

thin, but his eyes were cruel, and his nose was pointed like

a hawk's beak.  He looked at Vinson with those hard, cold

eyes, staring at him for a while as if savoring the moment.

     "Well, well, Phillipe," the man said.  "I knew we'd get

you sooner or later."

     "There's been a grave misunderstanding here," Vinson

said.  "I'm just a traveller.  You've got to--"

     "I'm not up to your mind games this day, Phillipe," the

man said.  "We can play later, but for now you get to follow

Mr. Breckett here to the prisons."  The man gestured

slightly to the official beside him.  "I'm sure we

understand each other on this."

     "No!  I don't!  This is insane, locking me up!"

     "You're insane, Phillipe.  Now get out of my sight."

He nodded at the official, who stepped forward and pulled

Vinson from his captors.  Vinson fought a bit, but

surrendered easily enough after he was punched in the

stomach.  He caught his breath back and coughed.

     "You're still a fool, aren't you?" the hawk-nosed man

said.  "You always will be, remember that."

     With these final words, he turned and left.  Vinson was

yanked forward by the huge official and led away.

                            * * *

     Arleah, Walker, and Arion watched silently as the

drunken official stumbled from the taproom inn, shoving

aside a few unsuspecting passerby.  There were others, too,

but they were all too short, or too skinny, or both.  This

one, though. . .

     "Perfect," Walker breathed.  He looked back at Arion

and Arleah, grinning.  "I think we found our match."

     The official dropped his cap and reached unsteadily

down to pick it up.  Retrieving it, he lurched forward and

down the street.  Walker, Arion, and Alreah emerged from

their cover behind the merchant stand and followed quickly

after him.

     When the official passed by the last inn, Walker walked

closely up behind him and, putting a hand over his mouth,

yanked him into a side alley.  Arleah and Arion glanced

about, seeing no unusual alarm, and quickly followed.

     The official was slumped against the wall, unconscious.

Walker watched Arleah and Arion enter, looked alertly behind

them.

     "Nobody saw," Arion said.  "Or, if they did, they

didn't care."

     "Let's hope not," Walker said.  "What do we do with

this guy after we take his monkey suit?"

     "I don't think we have to worry about it," Arion said.

"In the condition he's in, we'll reach Galgoth before he

remembers who he is.  Just put him back farther into the

alley."

     "Alright," Arleah said.  "Kurt Arion, you take our

things and wait for us at Lake Tarsa on the southern dock.

We'll meet you there as planned."

     "Let's just hope your plan holds up," Arion muttered.

"If it doesn't, don't expect me to come after you.  And if

you do get caught, I'd appreciate your not mentioning me."

Arleah didn't say anything, but Walker gave Arion a

whithering look.

     "I'll be out near the road," Arleah said to Walker.

                            * * *

     Troy Vinson was led down a spiral of stairs into the

dark bowels of the City Hall.  The air down here was stale

and musty, and the torches lighting the stone corridor were

dim as if they would die out any moment.  The big official

pulled him up to an iron door, and unlocked it.

     The door opened with a loud screech, and Vinson was

shoved inside a room.  Along the far wall were iron barred

doors, alongside which sat a desk.  A small, young looking

guard stood up from the desk quickly, looked with surprise

at Vinson.

     "Hey. . . hey, it's Phillipe!" he said in a high, nasal

voice.  "We got him!  How'd you do it?"

     "Shut up and get back to your post, Meggett," the burly

official said.  The young guard sat quickly back down, still

grinning excitedly from ear to ear.

     The official swung open the iron bars of a cell, and

pushed Vinson inside.

     "What's going to happen to me?" Vinson said.  "How long

will I be here?"

     "Oh, not too long," the official said, slamming the

door shut and inserting his key.  It locked with a loud

click.  "You'll be out of here in no time, happily dangling

from the gallows."  He chuckled in his deep, throaty voice

as he turned and left.

     Meggett snickered from behind his desk.  "Happily

dangling from the gallows," he said.

     "Meggett, shut up." the official said.  "Now remember,

until he's done away with, nobody but me comes through this

door, you got it?"

     Megget winked and gave the big official a thumbs-up.

     "I gotcha, Officer Breckett."

     The official frowned, opened the prison room door and

exited with a loud slam.  Vinson slumped down on the hard,

stone floor.  There was a pile of hay in one corner of his

cell and a black, foul-looking chamber pot in the other.

Was this how he was going to end?  He slammed one fist into

the palm of his other hand in frustration.

     There was nothing he could do.  Nobody would be able to

rescue him, and it would be impossible to get out himself.

Even by using a heat spell to melt the lock, he'd still have

that skinny guard, who was armed, to deal with.  And then,

he had to get himself out of the hall through all the

people, officials, and everything else.  And he knew that

with the mental block he had, it would be absolutely

impossible.  He sighed, shaking his head.  If nobody came

for him, he had to try--he had to think of a way to get

free.  But the more he thought about it, the more hopeless

his situation seemed.

                            * * *

     Eric Walker stepped out from the alley, having donned

the dark blue suit, his long hair bundled up into the cap.

     The uniform was common for the free lands: high, glossy-

black boots, blue breeches, and a black tunic covered by a

blue jacket.

     "How do I look?" he asked.  "It's a little small, but.

. ."

     "It's fine," Arleah said.  "You look just like a city

official."

     "My condolences," Arion said.  "If it were me, I'd find

it an abomination to wear the skin of a pig."

     Walker sighed.  "Get to your post, Kurt."

     "Well, I'll do my part of this idea," Arion said.  "You

two had better make sure you do yours."

     Arion started off with their four leather travel packs

through the diminishing city crowds, looking back and waving

a few minutes later.

     "Have fun!" he said.

     Eric Walker rolled his eyes.

     "I believe," Walker said quietly, "that Kurt Arion has

made it a sport of taking shots at me."

     Arleah waved her hand.  "Don't take what he says to

heart," she said.  "Kurt Arion's difficult, I know, but he's

true to his word and can be depended on.  You'll be glad

he's with us."  She cast a final glance back at the

unconscious city official slumped in the shadows of the

alley, who was now clothed only in his undergarments.

     "Should we just leave him. . ." she looked at Walker

questioningly.  Walker gave a faint smile.

     "He'll be fine," he said.  "Maybe this little

experience will discourage him the next time he thinks about

getting drunk on the job."

     He and Arleah headed back through the roads towards the

city hall.  Most of the merchants were gone, and Walker knew

that it would be dark very soon, perfect for what they had

to do.  In the meantime, they would have to work fast.  But

carefully.  They moved along in hasty silence, listening to

the seabirds screaming overhead.  Broken carts and wagon

wheels were strewn all about, and the sides of the streets,

now almost empty, were littered with pieces of fish; tails,

heads, guts, and dully glittering scales.  The smell of fish

was very strong, but Walker was used to it by now, and he

hardly noticed.  He was pondering something.

     He saw himself as though he were outside of his body,

observing from one side of the narrow, mud-rutted streets.

He saw himself, in a blue official's uniform, walking

alongside a young woman, a very beautiful young woman.  And

they were heading towards the City Hall of Davensport.  Was

this real?  It seemed to him, for the moment, that he had

been eating supper with his family only moments ago.  And

now here he was, in the middle of all this craziness, in the

company of absolute strangers.  He sighed.  It  seemed too

much was happening too quickly.

     All he wanted was to find his family.  And, although he

would not have told Arleah, he thought Kurt Arion had a

point.  He hated to think of it, but deep inside, he would

much rather leave Vinson behind, simply to continue on and

get this thing over with.  Then he though of what Arion had

told him that morning.

      . . .I wonder if you would abandon us to return home

to Tyrus for your daughter's wedding?

     I have never abandoned a battle.

     I'm just here to save the world. . .Isn't that the

purpose of all this anyway?

     Somewhere in Arion's obnoxious words, Walker found a

gnawing question.  Why was he really here?  And would he

abandon his newfound companions if the end to this--his end-

-came?  When he found his family, would he leave?  Because

he really didn't know what to think of this young girl and

her odd story.

     The feeling of a small hand on his shoulder jerked him

from his thoughts.

     "What are you thinking about?" Arleah said.  Her eyes

roamed his face, and Walker had the eerie feeling that she

already knew the answer to that question.

     "Nothing."

     "Eric Walker," Arleah said, "It will be alright."

     "I'm not worried."

     "There's no reason to be.  Our actions, our story, has

already been written.  Everything that is happening now is

already known--in prophecy.  And the prophecy says we will

win.  It is set.  This setback here at Davensport is

incredibly miniscule compared to the whole picture, don't

you see?  We will reach Ashten and we will defeat Muhl

Dreik, and you--"  she patted his shoulder.  "You will find

your family."

     Walker smiled.

     "Thank you, Arleah, but there is no reason to reassure

me, or convince me, of anything.  I understand the

situation, and I'm taking it one step at a time.  I'm not

worried at all."

     Arleah was silent, and Walker wondered if she knew how

big a lie he had just told her.  For the rest of the way,

neither of them spoke.



     When they turned the corner onto the main road leading

Davensport's City Hall, Arleah placed her hands behind her

back as though they were tied, and Walker led her along

through the dwindling crowds and up to the great marble

steps.  His slightly undersized officials' boots pinched his

toes as he walked.

     Reaching the top of the steps, Walker pushed Arleah in

apparent roughness through the entrance gates.  A few guards

and officials nodded solemnly as he past, stepping aside for

him.  Not exactly sure where to go, Walker spotted a young

guard and walked over to him, pushing Arleah along in front.

     "You there," he said quietly, putting on his best

authorative air, "this woman needs to be taken to the

prisons."

     "Yes. . ." the guard said, raising his eyebrows, ". .

.so?"

     "I need you to escort us there," Walker said.  Inside,

he winced at his own words.

     "Why is that?" the guard said, looking suspiciously at

Walker.

     Walker motioned him closer.  The young man frowned,

leaning towards him, but keeping a distance from Arleah.

     "This one's very dangerous," Walker whispered.  "I'm

new, and I don't want to mess up by losing control of her.

That'll make me look bad.  Just come along and see that

everything goes smoothly."

     The young guard sighed, shaking his head.

     "If you can't keep control of some woman, then you

don't belong in your position.  Look at you. . . big as you

are, you should be ashamed of yourself.  Besides, I'm just

an entrance guard--the only escorting I do is putting drunks

back outside."  He eyed Walker sarcastically.  "You might

want to look into the job."

     Keeping an unconscious grip with one hand on Arleah,

Walker reached forward and grabbed the little guard's collar

tightly, almost lifting him off the ground.

     "Speak to me like that again, you little snot, and I'll

put your skinny face into that pretty marble floor.  Now I

want an apology.  And I want your escort to the prisons."

     He let go of the guard, who backed away from Walker,

rearranging his shirt.  His face was one of complete

astonishment.

     "What kind of an officer are you?"  The young man said.

     "Are you going to give me that apology, or does your

face go through the floor?"

     Arleah shifted in Walker's grip, nudging his side with

her elbow.  "Eric Walker," she whispered, "forget it.  We'll

just find the prisons ourselves."

     "Apology or face in the floor?" Walker said, ignoring

her.

     "Alright, I'm sorry!" the guard said.

     "What seems to be the problem here?" asked a heavyset

officer, stepping up to Walker and the guard.  He glanced at

Arleah, and looked with puzzlement at Walker.

     "I. . . was just on my way to the prisons," Walker

said.  He pulled Arleah back, smiling pleasantly.

     "He tried to kill me!" the young guard said.  "He said

he would put my face into the floor."

     "I would like to put your face to the floor, Myles,"

the heavyset officer said.  "Now I'm sure the man has a good

reason for this little disagreement."  He looked back at

Walker.

     "It was just a little spat, it won't happen again,"

Walker said.

     The fat officer didn't seem amused.

     "It better not," he said.  "I don't like disorder in

here.  Now what did you say your business was?"

     "The prisons," Walker said, backing up.  "Just headed

for the prisons."

     "Wait a second," the officer said.  He looked at Walker

curiously.  "The prisons are that way!" he pointed a thick,

pudgy finger towards the rear of the entrance room, where a

few white painted doors stood behind a large potted tree.

     "Oh, my mistake. . ." Walker tried to smile again,

feeling a red hot flush slip up his face and over his ears.

Moving carefully around the large officer, he and Arleah

headed where the other man had pointed.  The young guard

glared at Walker as he passed.

     "Hey, hold on," the fat officer said.  He walked

briskly over to Walker, his arms making a swishing noise as

they rubbed against the sides of his gut.  "You're new,

aren't you?"

     Walker nodded.  "Yeah, I guess.  I was--"

           "Well, all of us working in this hell deserve

some respect!" the officer said.  "Welcome aboard, I'm

General Kosar, you'll see a lot of me.  If you don't mind,

I'd like to have a look at your papers. . . it's nice to

know those working under you!"  He grinned.

     Walker's heart sank.  Papers?  What was he going to do?

     "Uh. . . sure,"  Walker said.  "Just a moment."  He

groped in his pockets, but only found three pieces of silver

and a small ring of keys.  Whatever had happened to the

official's "papers", he didn't know.  Maybe the official had

lost them while he was drunk.

     The general smiled again, looking expectantly at

Walker's groping hand.

     Just then, Arleah pulled violently against Walker, and

he yanked his hand from his pocket to grip her better.  She

twisted and turned in a frenzy.

     The fat general started, then pursed his lips

disapprovingly at the girl.

     "I'm sorry, I suppose I should let you take your escort

away," the officer said.  "What's this one about?"

     "Oh. . . she's a thief, and she almost killed two

officials before I. . . before I got her."

     The general shook his head, eyeing the girl sadly.

"Sometimes it happens to the most beautiful among us.  Such

a shame.  Take her away, I'll check back with you later."

     Walker felt weak with relief as he headed quickly away.

Approaching the group of white doors at the rear of the

luxurious entrance room, he nudged Arleah slightly.

     "That was good thinking," he whispered.  "I almost

killed myself in there."

     "We're not through yet."

     Walker nodded.  "I know.  Right now, we need to find

the right door."

     There were five heavy oak doors facing him, each one

identical to the other.  Walker looked helplessly above and

around the doors for any kind of signs or indictions as to

where they led.  He found none.  Feeling watched, he glanced

backwards over his shoulder and across the huge entrance

room.  The young, skinny guard he had argued with was

looking amusedly his way.

     "This is ridiculous," Walker said.  "Don't they believe

in signs in this place?  Help me, Arleah.  Which one?"

     "My guess is as good as yours," Arleah said.

     Walker cursed lightly, pushing open the door directly

in front of him.  It led into a long, white-painted

corridor, completely empty of people, decorations, or

furniture.

     "Let's give it a shot," Walker said with a sigh.  He

and Arleah went inside, and Walker shut the door behind him

quietly.

     Moving hurriedly down the corridor, Walker felt

uncomfortable with the cold, faceless white walls, and the

way their footsteps echoed loud and dull on floor.  The

corridor led on to a stone staircase which spiralled

downward.  After a brief hesitation, they stepped onto the

stairway and started down.

     The air grew dank and chilled as they moved farther and

farther below.  After a few moments of this winding descent,

they were met with another corridor.  The passage was dark

and unfriendly, with cold stone walls and dimly lit torches.

It led forward a few paces and up to an iron gate.

     "Somehow," Walker said, "I feel we chose the right

door.  This feels like a prison dungeon to me, how about

you?"

     Arleah just smiled faintly, the dimly flickering

torches giving her pretty face a dark, eerie shade.

     Walker stepped up to the gate, feeling along its

surface for a handle, but finding only a large, rusty

keyhole.  He pushed on the gate, but it didn't budge.  After

a moment's pause, he rapped lightly.

     "Just a moment," came a high pitched, nasal voice.

After a few metallic clicks of a lock, the gate swung open.

A small, dark-haired guard with a big nose peered out at

them from within, looking uncertainly at Walker and Arleah.

     "Who are you?" he asked.

     Hurriedly, Walker looked past him and into the small

stone dungeon.  There were rows of barred cells, but no

other guards.  He cast a quick glance behind him.  No one.

     "I don't know you," the guard said.  "Where's officer

Breckett?  Oof--"

     The guard's head flew back, struck by Walker's big,

heavy fist.  In a crash of splintering wood, the guard fell

backward on a small desk and lay unmoving.

     Walker released Arleah.

     "Let's find Troy," he said.  "Quickly."

                            * * *

     Kurt Arion strolled through the dock at the western

edge of lake Tarsa, the large body of water alongside which

Davensport was perched.  A few rafts and fishing skiffs were

tied up along the pier, but most were either too small or of

too poor a quality for the purpose he had in mind.

     Finally, a large raft caught Arion's eye.  It had a

base of fat wooden logs underneath a layer of boards, and

was railed on three sides in a picketed fashion.  The raft

was good-sized, looking to have eight or nine feet squared

floorspace.  Most of the raft was covered by a high

tarpaulin for shelter.

     An old man was busy roping down the tarpaulin, securing

it tightly to the wooden poles above the large raft.

     "Is this yours?" Arion asked.  The old man, balancing

carefully as the raft bobbed up and down in the lake water,

looked back at Arion and nodded.  He was a tall, gangly-

looking fellow, with a balding head and small, beady eyes.

     "Sure is.  You need a ride?"

     Arion shrugged.  "Could be.  How much do you charge?"

     The old man stepped off the raft and onto the pier,

grinning at Arion.

     "Well, that depends on where you're going.  If you just

want to cross the lake, I'll take you for twenty silvers."

     "I want to cross the lake, and head through the Travis

Swamplands," Arion said, "all the way to Datly.  Three

companions will be joining me."

     The raftsman eyed the four leather packs Kurt Arion

held and rubbed his chin.

     "I go north, across the lake all right, but if you want

to go through the swamps, it's gonna be prettty expensive,"

the raftsman said.  "'Specially with all them there bags."

     "Just tell me how much."

     "Seventy-five silver crescents," the raftsman said

quickly.

     "Seventy-five?" Arion said.  "For the love of the gods,

I'm not asking you to kill someone!  For that price, I could

buy my own raft."

     "That's twenty-five to get across the lake, and fifty

to get through the swamps.  That's a fair deal, considering

the wetlands."

     "Twenty-five to get across the lake is too much," Arion

said.  "I'll give you forty-five silver crescents for the

whole trip."

     "Forty-five?  That's murder!  I'll take you for sixty-

five, how's that?  Ten less."

     "Fifty," Arion said, his eyes hard and intent on the

old raftsman.  "That's it."

     "Sixty, then!" the old man said.  "And I won't go

further."

     "Fifty, I tell you.  It's all I have."

     "I can't take less'n sixty."

     Arion shrugged.  "Well, I guess I'm not taking your

raft then.  I'll find someone else who isn't inflating the

cost so much."

     The raftsman grinned a toothless smile.  "Sorry, but

sixty's a durn good price."  He winced as Arion picked up

the leather packs and turned around.

     "Good luck finding someone who'll pay your price this

time of night," Arion said.  "It's ridiculous."

     As Arion started to walk away along the dock, the

raftsman grunted.

     "I'll take you for fifty," he said reluctantly.

     Arion smiled, turning back toward the raftsman and the

lake.

     "Now you're talking, old man.  Fifty crescents, deal."

     "But I want at least ten extra when yer friends get

here."

     "Agreed."

     The old man cursed under his breath, waving Arion over.

     After loading the packs onto the raft, Arion paid the

man fifty of the one hundred silver crescents Arleah had

given him for the purpose, slipping the other fifty into his

own personal shoulder bag.

     "My companions will be here shortly." Arion said.  "I'm

sure you don't mind waiting."

     The raftsman snorted, slipped the money into a pouch,

and strapped it around his waist.

     A sudden voice behind Arion startled both of them.

     "I think I'll have the honor of accepting the fifty

crescents and those four carrying packs," the voice said

coldly.

     The old raftsman gasped, and Arion spun around.  The

dim light of dusk revealed a tall, broad-shouldered man

holding a small but deadly-looking crossbow.  Arion started

in recognition.

     "Vinson. . ." Arion began, but stopped.  The man almost

looked like Troy, and except for the short whiskers on his

chin and jaw, the strange clothes, and the longer hair, Kurt

Arion might have mistook him completely.

     "Phillipe," the raftsman spat.

                            * * *

     Troy Vinson called out to his companions, staring at

the uniformed Eric Walker.  A few of the other prisoners

began loudly banging against the iron bars of their cells,

shouting and spitting at Walker and Arleah.

     Walker rubbed his sweaty brow, finding the keyhole to

Vinson's cell and inspecting it.

     "Well, look at you," Vinson said, laughing.  "I'm not

even going to ask."

     Walker nodded.  "That's a good idea.  We've got to get

out of here right now."

     "I never even expected--" Vinson said, then he paused.

"I can't say how much I appreciate this."  He laughed again

in disbelief.  "I never expected a rescue."

     Gritting his teeth against the loud banging and

shouting of the prisoners, Eric Walker found the small

keyring in his pants and slipped the first into the lock.

It was much too small, as were the other four.  He tossed

them onto the ground.

     "Arleah--check that skinny little guard over there for

something to open this cell."

     A short search of the unconscious guard produced a good-

sized ring of iron keys, and the first one Walker tried

slipped in perfectly.  Within moments, Troy Vinson was free.

     "Alright, let's move," Walker said, shouting above the

noise of the prisoners.  He grabbed the shortsword from the

unconscious guard and took the lead back out the prison

gate, with Vinson and Arleah close behind.

     They hustled down the cold, dim stone passage and

reached the spiralling stairway in moments.  Walker shoved

the shortsword into the belt of his uniform.

     "Troy, Arleah, get in front of me.  Put your hands

behind your back, Troy.  Now remember; if anyone asks, we're

making a transfer."

     "A transfer?" Vinson said.

     Walker shrugged.  "Ask Kurt Arion later.  It was his

idea.  I think the general thing I'm supposed to be doing is

moving you two to another prison."

     "Where is he?" Vinson said, almost tripping on the

high, jagged stone steps as he fought to keep up with

Walker.

     "Lake Tarsa.  He's got a raft waiting."

     "But--"

     "Troy," Walker interrupted, "We'll explain later.

Let's concentrate on getting out of here."

     The illumination brightened as they reached the top of

the staircase and stepped into the faceless, white-painted

corridor.  As it had been when Walker and Arleah came

through, the hall was empty and quiet.  Everyone's eyes

focused on the big oak door at the end of the passage.

     "Alright," Walker said, trying to calm his breath.

"Here comes the hard--"

     The door at the end of the corridor opened suddenly,

and brilliant light from the City Hall's entrance room

shined through.  Three men came in: one was tall, thin, and

had a nose like a hawk's beak.  The other two were uniformed

officers, but their uniforms were black.  The hawk-nosed man

walked quickly up to Eric Walker with the other two officers

in tow.  His face was bewildered.

     "What's gong on here?  And what's going on in the

prison room?  The noise down there can be heard through the

floor!"

     "I'm making a transfer," Walker said.  A tiny bead of

sweat trickled down the side of his face.

     The hawk-nosed man stared at Walker for a moment, then

looked at Arleah and Vinson as if for the first time.

     "Is that so?" the man said.  "Who authorized this?"

     Walker thought fast.  What was the name of that fat

officer he'd met before?

General. . .

     "General Kosar," Walker said quickly.

     The hawk-nosed man's brow furrowed.  "What's Kosar

transferring prisoners for?" he asked.  "That one's riding a

death sentence, and the other one I've never even seen!"

     Walker shrugged.  "I suppose you'll have to ask him,"

he said.  "I'm just following orders."

     "You bet I'll ask him," the hawk nosed man said.  "And

you'll be right there with me."  Turning from Walker, he

glared at Vinson long and hard, then briefly at Arleah.  "Go

right back down there and lock this trash up where they

were.  Be careful with Phillipe--we don't need to lose him

again."

     Walker nodded, his mind searching desperately for

something--anything to get them out of this scrape.  His

hand fell unconsciously on the hilt of his newly acquired

shortsword.

     The hawk-nosed man spun back around towards the door,

the two black-uniformed officers following.  "Come to the

east wing when they're locked up again," he said.

"Whoever's responsible for this foolishness is going to be

on entry guard for a week."

     As all three of the officers' backs were to him, Walker

siezed the opportunity.

     Pushing Vinson and Arleah aside, Walker grabbed the

shortsword from his belt and brought the butt of the heavy

metal handle to the back of the hawk-nosed man's head.  The

officer grunted, crumpling to the ground as the other two

officials turned around in confusion.

     One of them realized what had happened, groping

desperately for his sword in vain as Vinson landed a blow to

his chin.  He flopped to the ground like a rag doll.   The

other official, the tables turning to quickly for him to

act, managed a shrill cry before being knocked out as well

by Walker.

     The big oak door swung open again, a couple officials

looking inside, bewildered.  Quickly, Walker grabbed Arleah

and Vinson.

     "What happened?" the first official asked, staring at

the three unconscious men on the floor.

     "Hurry!" Walker said.  "A few of the prisoners escaped!

I got these ones, but there's more that just ran back down

the steps."

     The official blinked, turning back out to the entrance

room and shouting for help.  Five other officials

accompanied him as he shuffled past Walker and towards the

spiralling staircase.  A few other guards and officers

followed soon after.

     "Get 'em!" Walker said.  Still gripping Arleah and

Vinson, he pushed past another wave of officials, lunging

out of the white-painted corridor and into the huge,

luxurious entrance room of the City Hall.  About a hundred

feet ahead, he could see the main entrance doors.  Freedom.

     But between them and freedom were several officials,

milling around confused, as though they knew that something

out of the ordinary was happening, but not exactly sure what

it was.  There were a few more shouts from the prison

corridor, and Walker hurried forward.

     The City Hall's entrance room was long and spacious,

seemingly even more so now that they were trying to get out

of it as quickly as possible.  Still keeping their ruse up,

Arleah and Vinson kept in front of Walker with their hands

behind their backs.  However, they were walking very quickly

now, nearly running, and any official taking the time to

watch them would probably realize what was happening.

Fortunantly for them, most of the officials were concerned

with what was going on in the prison corridors.

     Again, as had occurred on the trip to the City Hall

only moments ago, Walker had the impression of viewing

himself from a distance.  Again, it seemed absurd that he

should be in this situation.  It was even almost comical. .

.why should he be in the middle of a police swarm?  How had

he even gotten into this mess, anyway?

     Then, to Walker's dismay, three guards began to bolt

the main gates of the City Hall, slipping the huge wooden

braces over the entrance doors and locking them securely.

     "Unbolt those," Walker said to the three guards as he

hastened up to the gates, pulling Arleah and Vinson with

him.  The frontmost guard shook his head.

     "Sorry, sir.  Nobody is to leave or come into the Hall

during an emergency."

     "There is no emergency," Walker said impatiently.

"Just undo the doors.  That's an order."

     The guard shrugged.  "Sorry, sir.  I already have my

orders.  Now if you'll just stand aside and wait. . ."

     There were loud shouts behind them.

     "There's nobody down there!" someone cried out,

emerging from the prison chambers.  "The escaping prisoners

are somewhere in the entrance room!"  The City Hall went in

an uproar, officials charging in every direction.

Davensport citizens screamed helplessly as they were grabbed

and roughly manhandled by the swarming police.

     "I smell a rat," one of the three entrance guards

muttered.  He looked suspiciously at Walker.  "Who's your

commanding officer?"

     "Ah. . .Kosar.  I'm under General Kosar."

     "So am I, and I never seen you in the east barracks

before.  Let me see your identification."  He stared hard at

Walker, a thin smile forming on his lips as if he knew he

had touched on the right question.  "Can I see your

identification, sir?  Or do you have any?"

     In response, Walker drew out his shortsword.

                            * * *

     "Yes, it's me," the man resembling Troy Vinson said.

"How's it going, old man?"

     "Not good," the raftsman said.  "And worse now that

you're here."

     Kurt Arion backed up, his eyes on the tip of the

crossbow, which was aimed in his general direction.  This

guy must be the one the city officials mistook Troy Vinson

for.  Small world.

     "Phillipe, please," the raftsman said, "Look at me!  I

need the work, I need the money."

     "I need the money too, old man," Phillipe said.  "Now

show me those fifty crescents."

     To Arion, all of this was so familiar.  Usually though,

it was he who was making the threats and the profit.

Slowly, his hand slipped carefully down to his belt, where

his long dagger was sheathed and concealed beneath his tunic

and travelling cloak.  Luckily, the man called Phillipe

didn't seem to be paying him all that much attention.  Big

mistake.

     "Good," Phillipe said, grinning as he watched the

raftsman extract a small purse from beneath his clothing.

"Now toss it over to me."

     Phillipe, perhaps intending to make a good impression

on this unknown man and the fearful raftsman, attempted to

catch the purse smoothly with one hand instead of letting it

fall to his feet.  For two seconds, he focused his

concentration on the purse, and it was the very mistake Kurt

Arion was hoping he'd make.

     Arion leaped forward with a burst of strength and

tackled the other theif by his legs, beneath the crossbow.

Phillipe, not having time enough to take his eyes off the

purse and aim the arrow, instinctively pulled the trigger

and sent the projectile skimming across Lake Tarsa's placid

waters.  As Arion struck the other thief, both the crossbow

and the purse of money fell to the ground.  Incidentally, so

did Phillipe, with Kurt Arion on top of him.

     Dagger in hand, Arion struggled to place the blade

across the other's neck, but Phillipe was not to be so

easily undone.  Gripping Arion's arms firmly, he kept the

knife at a distance.

     The old raftsman darted for his raft, tugging at the

rope with his aged fingers.  His eyes, however, glanced

periodically towards the purse of silver crescents beside

the two struggling men.

     Phillipe writhed frantically to release himself from

Kurt Arion's grip, then suddenly brought his knee up hard

into the other's stomach.  Arion grunted, releasing his hold

just enough to allow Phillipe to struggle free and roll out

of harm's way.  But Arion was on his feet in an instant, his

dagger poised dangerously in his right hand.  With a sneer,

Phillipe leapt up, producing his own blade.

     "Come on, skinny boy," Phillipe said.

     Kurt Arion didn't hesitate for a moment.  In a flury of

punches and backslashes with the dagger, he attacked

Phillipe viciously, forcing the other thief on the

defensive.  Behind them, the raftsman scampered forward and

snatched up the money purse.

     During Kurt Arion's initial onslaught, Phillipe

suffered a slash to the cheek, cuts on his fingers, and one

on his arm.  But he refused to give much ground, standing

firmly and blocking most of Arion's blows.  Soon, Arion

realized he wasn't going to put Phillipe away so quickly,

and backed off slightly.  Circling each other warily, the

two thieves kept their guards up, feigning and attacking in

brief jabs.

     Sweating profusely, the raftsman fumbled with the ropes

restricting his craft to the dock.  He remembered now how

he'd knotted it tightly weeks ago, not expecting travellers

northward this soon.  His aged, crooked fingers ached and

pained him as he pulled desperately at the knots.  The sound

of clattering blades behind him spurred him on.

     With a skillful move, Phillipe's knife found its way

through a rare hole in Kurt Arion's defenses, slicing

Arion's hand and knocking his dagger away.  Arion began to

back up as Phillipe, sneering, leapt towards him in

anticipation.

                            * * *

     The three guards grabbed their weapons and attempted to

hold off Walker's attack.  Their plight was short-lived

however; the guards, even together, were not much of a match

for the strong Tyrus swordsman.  Walker disposed of them

easily enough, but the fight had attracted the attention of

several officials, who were now swarming like a miniature

army to the main gates.  Troy Vinson estimated that he and

his companions had no more than half a minute before

becoming helplessly overrun.

     Walker reached frantically into his uniform, pulled out

the ring of keys used to free Vinson from his cell and knelt

down before the brace locks on the door.  It was plain to

see that the keys were much to large.  Walker's eyes grew

wide then, and he slapped his forehead.

     "Oh no," he said.  "The other key ring. . . the one I

tried to open Troy's cell with at first: they were small,

and probably fit these locks."  He looked helplessly back at

the oncoming assault and shook his head.  "I threw them on

the ground.  I never figured I'd need them."

     Ten seconds left.  Walker began heaving against the

gates with thundering blows, but they were much too large

and solid.  There was seemingly no way out;  even if they

had the keys, it was too late now to open all four locks,

remove the braces, and open the gates.  And the number of

officials coming towards them was much too great to fight

off.

     On impulse, Vinson ripped a clump of fur from the

collar of his cloak, balling it quickly in his hand while at

the same time tearing one of the tiny glass buttons from the

shirt of  Eric Walker's uniform.  Rubbing the items

together, Vinson called his magic forth, felt it well up

against the presence of his mental block.  He had practiced

this spell several times, and only a fraction of those times

had he ever gotten it to execute properly.  Now, under

pressure and amidst the roar of the City Hall, he doubted if

he would be able to concentrate enough to focus the needed

energy on this spell.  Even in simply calling the magic, his

mind faltered.

     But somehow, it worked.

     In a blinding shock of light, an enormous bolt of

lightning shot from Vinson's hand and leapt forward to smash

violently through the gates as though they were nothing.

Walker, Vinson, and Arleah, as well as the oncoming

officials, were knocked backwards and off their feet.

Vinson gasped as he felt the energy drain from his body like

blood, leaving his head dizzy and his mind staggering in

confusion.

     Eric Walker, not taking the time to ponder what had

just happened, fought back up, pulling his two companions

with him.  Troy Vinson's knees buckled, his strength drained

to the extent that his legs trembled, but he kept his

footing.

     "Let's go!" Walker said, and he bolted past the ruined

gates into the cold, crisp night, trailed by Arleah and

Vinson.  Inside, the officials that had recovered as quickly

as Walker did burst from the City Hall as well, in hot

pursuit.





                         CHAPTER TEN

                    -The Travis Wetlands





     The night had fully set, with only a faint sliver of

moonlight to illuminate the tiny pier at the western shore

of Lake Tarsa.

     Phillipe squinted in the blackness, jabbed

threateningly with his knife as Arion, a mere shadow,

circled him continually.  Phillipe had been unable to

capitalize on Arion's loss of weapon, and now the night had

set in against him as well.  Arion kept himself low to the

ground, seeking any opportunity to attack.

     Meanwhile, the old raftsman was in a predicament of his

own.  He could not leave the narrow pier without virtually

walking right through the fight between Kurt Arion and

Phillipe, nor could his aged fingers undo the ropes holding

his raft secure.  He was afraid of the two thieves, but was

not about to swim away and abandon his raft, the only

valuable possession he had (not to mention his occupation).

Adding to this dilemma was the fact that, old as he was, he

would probably not even survive the short swim to shore.

     However, as Phillipe and Arion's combat moved futher

down the pier, the raftsman's eyes focused on Kurt Arion's

dagger, its blade glinting faintly in the moonlight.  He

slipped forward carefully, eyes locked on the two thieves

not far ahead, and took hold of the light, razor-sharpened

weapon.

     After creeping back to his raft, the raftsman began

hacking roughly at the thick ropes, panting but grinning

widely as the twine began to tear under the force of the

sharp dagger.

     Phillipe, impatient and frustrated, leaped forward to

the dark figure of Kurt Arion with his knife.  Arion ducked

the blade, but the heavy form of Phillipe knocked forcibly

into him, and pushed both of them over the edge of the dock

into the frigid waters of Lake Tarsa.

     Arion felt the cold shock of water, listened to the

monotone drone in his ears as he fought back up to the

lake's murky surface.  When he finally did, the cold night

breeze blew directly into his wet face, chilling his nose

and cheeks almost to the point of numbness.

     A few yards away, Phillipe was swimming fast for shore.

Arion watched bitterly for a moment, then swam slowly back

to the pier, pulled himself heavily out of the water and

onto the wooden dock.  As he did, Phillipe was just reaching

the shore of the lake; his dark form splashed through the

knee-deep shallows, looking back once but not stopping.

     "Coward," Arion muttered.  The night air was biting

harshly through his sopping wet clothes, and Arion began to

shiver.  If there was one thing Kurt Arion could not stand,

it was a spineless worm of a coward that fled from a fight

like a dog with its tail between its legs.  The figure of

Phillipe, distorted in the blackness, began to actually

resemble a dog--a dog splashing through the waters like a

foolish pup.

     Arion began to turn back up the pier to where the raft

was docked when he caught a sight that literally dropped his

jaw.  Bursting into view on the road, running like madmen in

the direction from the city, came the figures of Walker,

Vinson, and Arleah.  But that wasn't what made Arion do the

double take; behind his three fleeing companions was the

most enormous crowd of city officials Kurt Arion had ever

seen.  About five of the uniformed men were directly on

Walker, Vinson, and Arleah's heels--the rest were a few

yards back.

     "Oh, no," Arion said under his breath.  "Oh, no. . .you

stupid Southlanders."

     Before making a run for the raft, Arion watched enough

to see Phillipe, sloshing from the waters of the lake,

barely dodge the flying figure of Eric Walker, only to meet

the first of the pursuing officials head-on in a collision

that knocked them both down.  The two closest officials were

also knocked off their feet, tripping over the prostrate

forms of Phillipe and his collision partner.

     Arion spun around, sprinted back up to where the raft

was secured.  Or, at least, where it had been secured.

     Realizing what had happened all to late, he cursed,

squeezing his fist so tightly that his nails cut into his

palms.  Then he cried out in rage.

     The raftsman was gone, and so was the raft.

                            * * *

     The form of some unknown man was running slowly toward

Eric Walker as if confused.  Walker dodged him narrowly,

half-listened to the sound of a heavy, sickening collision

behind him.  At first he thought the unknown man had knocked

into Vinson or Arleah, but he could see his companions

running alongside him in the corner of his eye.  Good--the

man had undoubtedly ran into the mass of pursuing officials.

     Ahead, a wooden pier stretched a ways into the placid

waters of Lake Tarsa, and Walker saw the dim figure of what

he hoped was Kurt Arion moving up the far end.  Immediately,

he knew something must be wrong; Kurt Arion was supposed to

be ready and waiting on a raft or boat, not milling about on

the pier.

     But he didn't have any time to think right now, only

time to run--run as fast as he possibly could.  Arleah was

keeping good pace with him, but Vinson, who had seemed

sluggish ever after casting that spell in the City Hall, was

beginning to fall behind.

     The road upon which they were fleeing led right onto

the pier, and the thudding of boots on dirt was replaced

with the loud, hollow sound of boots on wood.  The form of

Kurt Arion was now generally distinct in the moonlight,

standing rigidly at the end of the pier and gazing into the

lake.  Eric Walker's heart began to panic as he saw no raft,

boat, skiff, or water craft of any kind near Arion.

                            * * *

     Kurt Arion finally spotted the raft.  About ten yards

off the pier, the craft was moving slowly further out into

the lake, along with the old raftsman and all of their

belongings.  Arion was so furious and freezing cold that he

almost didn't hear the sound of the approaching crowd.

     Eric Walker was beginning to slow, panic in his eyes as

he stared at the sopping wet Kurt Arion.  Arleah was

directly beside him, and Vinson was slightly trailing.

Arion beckoned for them to hurry.

     "Dive!" he said.

     Arion leaped as far as he could into the water,

swimming for the raft like a hungry shark.  He hoped his

three companions had the faith to follow him and the ability

to swim, because he had no intent at all of slowing and

checking that they got his message.  His full attention was

on the raft, and what he was going to do to the raftsman

once he reached it.

     Arion distantly heard a heavy splash behind him,

followed by two. . . three. . . four. . . six. . .

uncountable others.  Ahead, the raft was barely illuminated

by the moon, as was the raftsman, who was holding the

glimmering blade of a dagger.

                            * * *

     Eric Walker couldn't swim very well, but had enough

sense to know that it was either dive or be killed.

Gritting his teeth against the cold he knew was coming, he

fell like a heavy stone into the lake, splashing about

awkwardly in a vague swimming motion.  Ahead, he could see

Arion cruising swiftly through the water.  And he could see

a raft.

     His teeth already clattering miserably, Walker paddled

forward as fast as he could, sensing the presence of Arleah

close beside him.

     There were more splashes from behind.  The officials.

     "Eric Walker. . . can you make it?" Arleah asked,

appearing suddenly beside him in the darkness and splashes

of his plight.  "Are you alright?"

     Walker fought to get his mouth above the water.

     "Fine," he sputtered.  ". . . doing. . . okay."

     "I'm going back to help Vinson," she said.  "Hurry. . .

swim after Kurt Arion."

     Walker didn't have to be told that twice.  He felt a

slight panic as he paddled awkwardly in the water, and tried

not to think of what could be lurking in the great depths.

Or just how deep those depths were.  It was long after

Arleah had disappeared that he fully realized what she had

said; she was going back to help Troy.  Was Vinson captured?

Was he drowing?  Had he even dived?  Whatever Vinson's

condition was, it must be worse than his own for Arleah to

leave him paddling awkwardly.  Concentrating on the thin,

almost invisible form of the raft ahead, Walker moved

himself forward as best as he could.



     Meanwhile, Arion was within a yard of the raft.  The

raftsman, fear mirrored in his beady eyes, held the dagger

threateningly towards his approaching form.

     "Get away," the old man said, waving the blade jerkily.

"I'll take a swipe at you!"

           Arion ignored his threats.  He lurched forward

from the water and grabbing a hold on the base of the raft.

The old man swung the blade in the direction of Arion's

hand, but Arion grabbed the old man's wrist and twisted it.

The poor fellow gave out a shrill cry and dropped the blade

onto the raft, scrambling away to crouch pitifully on the

floorboards with his head between his arms.  Arion, dripping

with lakewater, pulled himself onto the craft and glared at

the raftsman.

     After retrieving his dagger, Arion moved over to the

crouching man and clenched the small bit of grey hair on the

side of his head, pulled him up with it, and grinned

menacingly at the shrieks of pain it produced.

     "Old man," Arion said, "you'd better give your soul to

the gods while you can, because your worthless hide belongs

to me, and  right now, I don't hold much sympathy for you!"

He ripped the tuft of hair he was holding from the old man's

scalp, producing a blood-curdling scream.

     "Shut up!" Arion said, flinging the thin form of the

raftsman into the picketed rails at the side of the raft.

The old man cried out, and slumped down onto the floor.

Arion reached over and picked him up again, using the same

method as the last time.  Gripping the old man's hair, Arion

shook him violently.

     "Stop this raft," Arion said.  "Slow it down now."

     The old man scuttled away from Arion's grip, holding

the side of his head in pain.

     "It's done stopped as much as it's gonna stop," the

raftsman said.

     Arion looked around at the black, moonlit waters.  He

couldn't tell if their craft was moving or not, but realized

then that the raftsman, while undergoing punishment with

him, had not been paddling. . . or rowing, or whatever rafts

do to move.  After gazing out at the flock of swimming forms

drawing close, Arion grinned evilly and stalked across the

wooden craft to the terrified raftsman, eager to continue

his lesson.

                            * * *

     The hawk-nosed man, mounted on his best horse, galloped

loudly onto the pier, flanked by General Kosar.  He could

reach only halfway to the end, barred almost immediately by

the huge crowd of officials.

     "What's going on?" the hawk-nosed man said.  "Did they

get away or what?"

     A commanding officer pushed through the crowd and came

forward to help him off the horse, but the hawk-nosed man

waved him away.

     "Did the prisoners get away?" He said again.

     "They up and dove into the lake," the officer said.

"We're going after them. . . we'll get them, sir."

     The hawk-nosed man frowned.  "Are you simply swimming

after them, officer?  Did it ever occur to you or to your

men that perhaps a skiff would retrieve those people

easier?"

     "But sir," the officer said, "they can't get far,

they're just. . ."

     "Let the boys have a bit of fun," General Kosar said,

with a nervous chuckle.  "If they want to swim after the

rodents--"

     "I don't want to take any chances on losing Phillipe

again!" The Hawk-nosed man said.  "Who's to say they don't

have a getaway craft somewhere out there?  If there is, I

want two small, efficient skiffs to track them.  They'll

probably head north for the swamps."

     The officer shook his head, pointing up the pier to the

mass of officials.

     "Sir," he said, "no need to worry about Phillipe.  We

got him already!  The fool turned around and ran right into

us."

     The hawk-nosed man's lips curled in a savage smile.

                              * * *

     Troy Vinson had always considered himself a good

swimmer.  Ever since he was a young boy, he'd played with

his friends in the lagoons and freshwater pools near the

outskirts of southern Terron.  When he was older, he and a

few others rafted the churning waters of White River all the

way to the Great Sea.  He was almost a natural, and always

had great mobility in swimming.  However, tonight was

different.

     Casting the spell in the City Hall, while providing him

and his companions a chance to escape, had drained his

strength, energy, and willpower.  He knew the consequences

before he cast that spell, but there was obviously no other

way they'd have gotten free.

     Running to the pier had been a hell.  At first, he

thought he could make it, but he felt the effects of the

energy drain right away.  Before long, his legs felt like

clay--powerless and dead, but they kept going on their own

by some residual strength still left in Vinson's exhausted

body.  His throat had burned, tasting vaguely like blood,

his stomach had seared in pain, and his heart felt ready to

burst.  But somehow, he kept going. . . although he did it

in a near daze, as if his mind had fallen asleep, and his

body was automated by some self-pilot mechanism.  The only

thing he kept thinking was: once I get to the lake, it'll be

over.  Good old Kurt Arion will have a raft, and I'll be

able to just lay down and die.  It was a goal he had been

able to focus on.

     But at the pier, there had been no Kurt Arion, and no

raft.  Just an empty, wooden dock where he was forced to

jump.

     Immediately, he knew he wasn't going to be able to

swim.  Not for a few yards, not for one yard, and definitely

not to where he saw Kurt Arion paddling ahead.  He had no

energy left, no will power.  He would have let himself drown

if it wasn't for Arleah.

     She appeared beside him like a guardian angel, pushing

his face up out of the cold water and holding him fast while

swimming forward.  He had no strength left to help her, and

could only float uselessly while looking behind, seeing the

officials yanking their shirts and boots off before diving

in after them.  He had never before felt so worthless,

exhausted, and frightened at the same time.

     Arleah was doing a good job of moving them both

forward, but it was clear to Troy that at the rate they were

going the officials would overtake them with moderate ease.

                            * * *

     Walker reached the raft, gasping for air.  Holding onto

the siderails, Arion leaned down and helped the big form of

the swordsman onto the craft.

     "Welcome aboard the runaway raft," Arion said.  "In

this corner, we have the cowardly raftsman who shall pay

dearly for our pains.  If it wasn't for him taking leave of

the pier with the raft, we would all be here right now.

What say you, Eric?  I need some more ideas on torturing the

pathetic worm."

     Walker, panting heavily, viewed the cowering form of a

skinny old man in the dark corner of the wooden craft.  He

shook his head.

     "Seems to me that you tortured him enough," Walker

said.

     Arion snorted.

     "Look," Walker said quickly, "Troy may be in trouble--

Arleah's back there trying to help him, but I don't know. .

." he stopped for a moment to catch his breath, ". . .I

don't know what their condition is.  You're a good swimmer

Arion.  You've got to go help them."

     "Vinson," Arion said.  "Holding us back again, is he?"

     "If it wasn't for him," Walker said, "we wouldn't be

here.  He got us out of the City Hall with a spell. . ."

     "I thought it was us who got him out of the City Hall.

It was Vinson who got us into this whole mess!"

     Walker looked at Arion.  "You know. . .it's not his

fault.  Kurt, you've got to go.  I would do it myself, but I

don't think I'd be. . .much help."

     While darkness prevented Arion from seeing the

officials, their shouts and splashes were clear enough.  He

muttered an oath, peeled off his freezing cold tunic.

     "I don't know why I'm doing this," Arion said.  He

glared at the raftsman.  "Keep an eye on that worm."

     With that, he kicked off his boots and dove once again

into the waters of the lake.



     About fifteen yards away, Arleah was struggling to keep

herself and Troy Vinson ahead of their pursuers.  Vinson had

regained a small portion of his strength and helped their

progress somewhat by kicking, but they were not moving fast

enough.

     A strong hand gripped Vinson's boot, pulling him and

Arleah sharply backward in the water.

     "Come here!" a voice snarled.  Vinson looked back to

see an official with a full beard dripping with lakewater,

reaching out for him

     "Kick!" Arleah said, doing her best to pull him free.

But the official's grip was strong, and he was soon joined

by another.

     "I got one of the bloody rodents!" the official

laughed, and he pulled Vinson closer with the help of his

friend.  It was all Vinson could do to keep his head above

the water and breathe.  He heard the splashesg of more

officials approaching, all laughing and shouting mock

threats.

     The bearded official holding him caught sight of

Arleah, and he grabbed for her over the struggling Troy

Vinson.

     "Look there," the official said to his friend, "we got

bloody two for the price of one, eh?"

     Vinson grabbed jerkily for the official's bearded

throat, his anger the only energy source he had now.  The

two officials just laughed, pushing Vinson's face playfully

under the water.

     A third official met them, and he pulled Arleah away

from Vinson.  She struggled, but was incredibly tired

herself, and didn't give much of a fight.

     "I thought we already had Phillipe," the third official

said, looking at Vinson.

     The bearded officer grunted.  "Who cares, eh?"  He spit

out a mouthful of lakewater.  "Let's just get the weasels

back to shore afore we drown ourselves!"

     Suddenly, the water frothed in a violent splash behind

Arleah and her captor, and the wiry form of Kurt Arion

appearing in the confusion.  Arion grabbed the third

official from behind, brought his dagger raking through the

officer's neck and bathed Arleah's face in a hot shower of

blood.

     "It's another one!" the second official said.  "The

worm got Arik!"

     Kurt Arion ducked under the surface to reappear behind

the bearded officer, and gave him the same treatment he had

given the other.  Vinson was freed, feeling the warm splash

of blood on his own cold neck.  He felt the water began to

drag his exhausted body down.

     His breathing heavy and labored, Arion said, "Arleah,

get Vinson."  He cast Vinson a pathetic look.  "Take him

ahead to the raft."

     Meanwhile, more officials were arriving on the spot,

all of whom immediately lost their joking attitudes as they

caught sight of the two floating bodies of the dead

officials.  Arion stayed long enough to kill another of the

officials who had captured Vinson, although doing it more

for fun than for escape purposes.  Then he disappeared back

under the dark waters, leaving the officials shouting in

frustration.

     Arleah had secured Vinson, and pulled him forward again

as fast as she could.  Arion appeared alongside them moments

later.

     "Come on, Vinson!" Arion said.  He spit out a mouthful

of lakewater as a wave smacked into his face.  "SWIM, for

god's sake!  Are you going to make a woman pull you all the

way?"

     Vinson tried his best at kicking, his legs flopping

heavily.

     "The spell--City Hall--my magic--" Vinson said,

realizing then that his words didn't make any sense at all.

     Arion gave a look of disgust, and turned to head for

the raft.

     Vinson concentrated on controlling his legs, and the

three moved gradually forward.  The officials could still be

heard behind them, but distant, as though they weren't

following them anymore.  After another minute or so of

pushing through the dark waters of the lake, with the wind

blasting into their numb faces, they reached the raft.

     An old raftsman was huddled in the corner.  Walker came

forward to help his exhausted companions onto the craft,

looking relieved.

     "You made it," Walker said.  "We're alright now."

     "Yes, fine," Arion said.  "Much better, though, if we

would have had the raft at the pier!"  He glared at the

raftsman, who avoided his eye contact.

     Vinson collapsed on the floor of the raft and drank in

the air.  He was so tired that he hardly noticed how cold it

was in his wet clothes.

     "Alright," Walker said to the raftsman, "move the raft.

Let's get out of here."

     "Well," the raftsman said timidly, "normally I'd just

use one oar by myself in the back of the raft, but seeings

how you're wanting to go fast, I'd suggest me and someone

else both use oars on the sides.  When we get to the swamps,

I'll use a guiding pole."

     Walker stepped forward.  "I'll help. . . where's the

oars?"

     The raftsman lit a lantern and hung it on one of the

poles supporting the overhead tarp, illuminating the raft.

He and Walker took large, wooden oars and manned the right

and left sides of the raft.  They rowed steadily northwest,

which both the raftsman and Walker could easily discern from

the stars overhead.

     "We're being followed," Arleah said sharply.  She

pointed behind them, where a tiny speck of light could be

seen if you were watching carefully enough.

     "Put the lantern out," said the raftsman.  "They're

following the light."

     Arion extinguished the flame, allowing the blackness of

night to flood back.  Lake Tarsa was calm and quiet, and the

only sound to be heard was the gushing of the oars pushing

through the water.

                            * * *

     "This water smells," Arion muttered.  "And it's puke

green."

     The morning sun glinted dully on the murky, pale waters

of the northwestern shore of Lake Tarsa, where several

rivers and streams from the Travis Wetlands emptied into the

huge lake.  The party had stopped here for the night, in the

relative cover of the big willow and cypress trees on the

northern shores.  No officials or boats of any kind, save a

few fishing dories, had been seen.

     Vinson and Walker went on shore to change, Vinson into

spare clothing he had brought, and Walker out of his

official's uniform.  Arion and Arleah, who had no spare

clothing, both had to remain in their damp garments.

     After eating a small breakfast of food Kurt Arion had

purchased in Davensport before looking into the raft, the

party pushed off back into the lake, heading westward.

After an hour of guiding the large craft through masses of

cypress trees, the raftsman positioned the raft on a small

river, which pulled them briskly west and out of the lake.

By midday, the river had slowed to a thick, swollen marsh

through which the raftsman had to use a long guiding pole to

maneuver.  Trees, cattails, and waterplants of all sizes and

description grew up everywhere in a rich, green mass of

swampland vegetation that teemed with all sorts of life.

The day passed slowly, with the four travellers confined to

the cramped space of the raft.

     Vinson moved over to Arion, and gave a greeting smile.

Arion didn't return the expression.

     "Thanks," Vinson said.  "You saved us back there."

     Arion shrugged.  He gazed out at the bog.

     "I just wanted to talk to you about something."

     "What, Troy?"

     "Why did you go back and kill that man?"

     Arion closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead.

     "Do I ask you why you do what you do?" Arion said.

"Well, do I?"

     "I suppose not."

     "That's right.  Now if you don't mind, I'd like to be

left alone."

     Vinson nodded.  "Sure, Kurt."  He glanced at Walker,

who shrugged.

     Troy Vinson watched the raftsman guide the raft with

his pole for a while, then paced absently back and forth

across the wooden deck.  Huge, twisted trees grew

everywhere, their long, drooping foliage sometimes sweeping

across the tarp above the raft.  Often, Vinson thought he

could see vague, distorted human features in the trees, as

though they were watching them.

     Vinson walked over to Arleah, who was sitting atop the

side railings of the raft, facing the marsh.  With a small

square of cloth, she was rubbing the golden pendant hanging

from her neck.

     "That's very beautiful," he said.

     "Thank you."

     Vinson leaned beside her on the railings, gazing out

into the misty bog.  The murky water rippled sluggishly

against the sides, making a slurping noise as it moved

underneath.  Something big and green jumped from a clump of

grasses and into the water as they passed by, creating a

thick splash.

     "You know," Vinson said, "I never got a chance to tell

you how grateful I am for last night.  You saved my life."

     "You saved mine as well, Troy.  The spell you cast in

the City Hall saved all our lives."

     Vinson shook his head.  "Actually, that wasn't much of

a spell.  If I was experienced. . ."

     "If you weren't experienced, we wouldn't be here," she

said.  She held up her golden pendant, the delicate chain

still around her neck.  After minute or two, she released

it, letting it fall back to her chest.

     "I wonder," she whispered, almost to herself, "what it

is like to be born.  To be a child.  To love, to hate, to

feel warm on a cold winter night inside by the fire.  To

truly be alive. . . alive and free."

     Vinson looked puzzled.  "What do you mean?  I thought

you told me that you were alive.  Back when we left Terron."

     Arleah's fist tightened around the golden pendant, the

tendons in her small wrist showing as she squeezed.

     "No," she said, still staring at the wet marsh.  "I'm

not like you.  I'm not free.  I'm only teased with

sensations of this life that I cannot fully possess."

     "I don't understand."

     "It doesn't matter, Troy Vinson."

     "I think it does."

     Arleah looked up at him and shook her head.  "If only I

could tell you.  If only I can explain the chains that bind

me to this mission.  If only. . ."  She blinked, looked

aside to Vinson.

     "Look at me," she said, "rambling on.  Don't pay

attention to me, Troy.  Sometimes it's just so. . .

difficult--to do this, I mean.  To simply live."

     "I guess it's difficult for all of us," Vinson said.

His expression was still clearly puzzled, and he watched her

face intently as he spoke.  "Life comes in steps--phases,

you know.  With each phase, we learn a little more about the

world, about other people, about ourselves.  To get it all

in one smack would be quite a challenege."  He shrugged.  "I

think most people would go crazy."

     Alreah smiled.  "Sometimes, I feel like I'm headed that

way."  She pulled uncomfortably at her damp clothing.  "What

keeps me going is knowing what will happen to this world if

I fail.  If we fail."  She looked over at Vinson, her dark

green eyes intense.  "We have to win this, you know.  If we

don't complete this quest. . ." she stopped, shaking her

head.

     "I know," Vinson said.  "At least I think I do.  We're

all doing our best."

     "I know you are," Arleah said.  "The prophecies chose

you.  I'm just so

afraid. . . I'm afraid to let you all down.  It's hard for

me, Troy.  It's all so different."

     "Nobody's going to let anyone down," Vinson said.  "We

all have our limits.  When we can't do anymore, well, we

just don't.  It's not a matter of letting others down."

     "You're right, of course," Arleah said absently.  She

sighed.  "I should be the one reassuring you, not the other

way around."

     She was still clinging to the independent, leadership,

more-than-mortal role, Vinson realized.  She didn't want to

admit the fact that she too, was now mortal and subject to

the cruel tauntings that the world rained on the human mind

every day.  She didn't understand that she also needed

someone to talk to at least every once in a while.  Everyone

did.

     "I'll be fine," Arleah was saying.

     "Arleah. . ."

     "Troy, I'm fine.  Really."  The fierce determination

that was burning in her eyes again made it difficult to

contradict her.  "I'd suggest we rest while we can," she

said.  "It's going to be a long ride."  She slipped off the

railings and, casting Vinson a small, parting smile, moved

away to her belongings on the other side of the raft.

     Vinson supposed she knew herself well enough to

understand what she was doing.  After all, she was from

Amariah, right?  Jaro's daughter.  They knew more about the

world than he ever could--or did they?  Were they as

knowledgeable about life as they were about history and

magic and physical science?  Were they as knowledgeable

about emotions?

     He gazed out at the murky dampness surrounding them,

wondering.  And what of the others, Kurt Arion and Eric

Walker?  Something about Arion made Vinson wonder why the

thief was here at all. . . he didn't seem the type who cared

enough about the world as a whole to the extent that he'd

join in on a perilous quest.  Vinson supposed it was for the

reward, but there seemed to be something else.  And then

there was Eric Walker, a hardened outdoorsman who lost his

family to some freak kidnapping, practically risen from the

dead by Arleah.  He seemed always calm and in control; as

strong as he was, he seemed to use his head before his

brawn.  His intent on the quest was an obvious one: the

finding and freeing of his wife and children.  When he had

accomplished that, there was quite no telling what the big

swordsman would do.  Who's to say Walker wouldn't simply

return for home with his family, the quest unfinished?

After all, it was every bit his right to do so.

     Vinson sighed.  It was like one giant puzzle.





                       CHAPTER ELEVEN

                           -Flight





     The huge, hideous creature made Tabitha's blood crawl.

It was tar black, with great bulging eyes and a small mouth

drooling beneath its head.  Two-thirds of its length was in

its enormously long tail, which was hooked and barbed at the

end.  At its sides were two giant wing-like flaps of skin.

Its back was covered by a gray shroud, with the symbol of

the red, coiled snake stitched on either side.

     Tabitha and the other city residents, including the

Prefect, were loaded onto the giant monster's back and

secured tightly by ropes.  The trolls spent a little while

longer talking quietly amongst themselves in a gutteral

language Tabitha didn't understand, then mounted the great

beast themselves.

     Never in her life had Tabitha been so confused and

frightened.  Who were these people?  Why did they want her?

What would they do with her?  These and numerous other

questions spun around in her head, and she could answer

none.  Her wrists had been cut by the ropes, and her mouth

was dry and strained from the gag.  None of this made any

sense; it was like some nightmare.

     With a sickening thrust, the beast began to rise, its

wings flapping mightily.  Off to the side, Tabitha could see

the ground moving farther and farther away, and she closed

her eyes.  Within minutes, the entire city of Shaleh was

visible, and they continued rising higher still.  Soon,

Shaleh had been left a good distance behind, and the ground

below was just a far-away blur of colors.  Far to the west,

Tabitha could see an infinite-stretching flat of blue, which

she figured was probably the Great Sea.  She thought vaguely

of the golden key in her pocket, figuring it would do no

good now.  Her grandfather was helpless, as was she.

     They flew northward for hours, over the rugged

Scavenger Highlands, past the two specks of Lake Tarsa and

the Sea of Derrik, and still farther.  The ride was windy

and cold, and although it was relatively smooth, Tabitha was

very sore from being forced to sit in the same position for

hours, and her face was beginning to burn from the long

exposure to the sun.  The gag had been removed from her

mouth, but the ropes around her wrists and waist bit into

her skin, and her hands felt numb.  The air whistling by

made it impossible to speak to her fellow captors, and her

lips had long since become dry and cracked.

     After nearly seven hours of torment, the flying beast

she was mounted upon began to descend, circling gradually

down until she could make out the geographical features of

where they were landing.

     The place was horrible.  It was dry, flat, and lifeless

looking, without a tree or bush to speak of.  The ground was

cracked everywhere, and she caught sight of a filthy, black

creek moving sluggishly in a ditch westward.  The single

feature the land had, besides cracks and deep trenches, was

a large, coned mountain in the center of the waste.  The

mountain was where they seemed to be headed.

     The beast alighted heavily in the barren wasteland

about twenty yards before the large mountain. Tabitha was

jarred and lurched about roughly as the monster completed

its landing and ran forward slightly until the trolls

stopped it with a harsh command.  They untied Tabitha and

the others, dragging them to the dry, parched ground.

     Metal bracelets were clamped onto Tabitha's and the

others' wrists, containing numbers and letters that didn't

make any sense to her.

     "Forward," one of the trolls said.  "Start walking."

     Two of the apelike men stayed behind with the black

beast as Tabitha and the others were led towards the

mountain.  She could now see a large, stone wall completely

circling the mountain, with a portal on one side.  Huge,

sneering  gargoyles sat on either side of the portal, and

the ground before them was littered with stone statues of

men and women, all posed in a running position away from the

mountain.  Tabitha could see the looks of horror and fierce

determination carved in detail on their stone faces.

     One of the trolls chuckled deeply.

     "Welcome," it said, "to the city of Ashten."





                       CHAPTER TWELVE

                          -Stalker





     He had been searching a long time.  The people he was

searching for--these humans--had all seemed to mysteriously

vanish.  None of them were at the places he'd been told, and

it seemed that nobody knew where they had gone.  It was

maddening enough to be in this overbright, confused world,

but after visiting both Terron and Colven, then finally

Tyrus without any luck, he'd begun to panic.

     He'd never felt anything quite like panic before.

     His name was Zandorf.  After finding the handsome man's

house deserted and empty, and the strong man's house

strangely wrecked and empty as well, he had come to the

conclusion that they were being led away.  North,

apparently, which didn't bother him--he was going North as

well.  But who could be leading them?

     It was late as Zandorf reached the big city of

Davensport; the sun had disappeared under the Western

horizon with only a heavy splash of redness in the clouds to

hint of its position.  As he meandered through the emptying

streets, his eyes alert and ever watchful of the humans he

was looking for, he became aware of that strange, annoying,

and very uncomfortable rumbling in his stomach.  He supposed

he would have to eat again.  And rest.  The two activities

were regarded by Zandorf to be nothing more than time

consuming insignifigances.  He sighed, and began searching

for an inn.

     When he approached the large, domed City Hall, his pace

slowed.  Dozens of uniformed officials were crowding through

the doorway, which looked as though it had shattered and

exploded from the inside out.  Splintered wood and iron

bolts lay everywhere amongst the marble steps that led up to

the building.  Five of the officers were dragging a soaked,

raggedly-dressed man into the shattered portals.  The man's

appearance, as bedraggled as it was, happened to be very

similar to the handsome man he was following.  But it was

not him.

     "Damned mess is what this is," an officer with an

enormous hawk-like nose was grumbling to another official, a

very fat one.  They were both on horseback.  "I'd like to

have gotten the other rodents as well.  I've got two or

three dead officers that were pulled from the lake, all

knifed."

     "They should pay," the fat man said.  Zandorf watched,

interested, as the men rode slowly by him.  Something about

the situation triggered a sixth sense inside him, and he

began to slowly follow the two men back towards the City

Hall.

     "Well, Phillipe's going to pay sure enough," the hawk-

nosed official said.  "He's going to pay long and hard, and

then he's going to die."

     "We'll start sending trackers in the morning to check

the Northern shores of the lake.  We may still be able to

get them."

     "Doubtful.  By the time the sun comes up, they could be

in Beign or Datly."

     "The swamps'll take time to get through."

     "Doesn't matter.  Whoever they were, the slippery

rogues are gone.  They went right through our fingers."

     Zandorf stopped.  The facts were there before him,

obvious.  The man who looked like the handsome man in

official custody, the ruined City Hall gates, the fugitives

fleeing North.  There was obviously some mix-up between the

man he was after and some street urchin that the city was

after.  But his man had escaped--with companions.  And they

were still headed North, apparently through the swamps, the

Travis Wetlands.

     "My Lord, were we going to stop?" his single companion

asked him.

     "Not now, Demitri," Zandorf said.  "Come along, now.

The humans are very close."  He turned and began to walk--

no, run--toward the lake.  All thoughts of food and sleep

had vanished, at least for now.





                      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

                           -Datly





     The mist was cold and wet.  Droplets of water formed

like tiny glassine spheres along the bottom of the tarp,

becoming larger and larger until finally dripping off.  As

the raft continued further into the dampness, it became

impossible to see anything more than three yards away.  The

imagination was free to run wild; trees became twisted

figures of people, wafts of mist became wraiths, simple

sounds became the noises of vicious creatures.

     It was like this for hours.  Vinson found it difficult

to understand how the raftsman kept his direction, always

moving them steadily forward with the long wooden pole.  A

few times, it sounded like another craft was moving along

behind them, and Vinson pictured the Davensport city

officials pursuing them still, but the sounds gradually died

away.  The dull, wet voyage continued on as the thick mist

about them began to darken from the length of day.

     Vinson felt as though he was hearing beautiful music

when the old raftsman said: "We're almost there.  Just a

little ways up this here creek, and we'll pass through

Datly."

                            * * *

     The small, generally secluded town of Datly lay less

than a mile from the swampy edges of the Travis Wetlands,

nestled cozily on the fringes of a forest.  By the time the

four travellers had unloaded their belongings and sloshed

through the last bit of marshy creek, nightfall had fully

set in.  Silhouetted in the moonlight, the huge, purple-hued

Aries Mountains could be seen northward.

     Datly consisted of several small shops and houses, most

of which looked clean and quite well-kept.  As the four

trudged along the street, a few faces peered from the

windows of homes, only to disappear immediately, curtains

pulled tight.

      Arion said, "Something's wrong about this town.  The

mood isn't right."

     "The mood?" Walker said.  "It's night, Kurt.

Everyone's inside."

     "Trust me," Arion said.  "I listen to my instincts, and

right now my instincts tell me that something's wrong here."

     Another face peered from one window.  Vinson watched

the eyes follow him for a few moments, then disappear.

Whatever light that was inside the house was apparently put

out, because the window became suddenly dark.

     "Here's an inn," Walker said.  A building ahead sported

a large, finely-painted sign of a green beast, although it

was hard to see in the dim moonlight.  Large letters said

"THE GREEN GRIFFON INN" proudly on the bottom of the wooden

sign.

     "Rest," Vinson said.  "A bath and a bed."

     The horse stables alongside the inn were strangely

empty, their wooden gates swinging gently in the breeze.

All of the windows were dark.

     Walker reached the door first, finding it locked.  He

rapped softly.

     "I tell you, something's wrong," Arion said again.

     A small, makeshift panel slid aside in the middle of

the door.  The panel was crude and looked as though it had

just been constructed.  Someone's face peered out at them.

     "Who goes there?"

     Eric Walker looked back at the others curiously.

     "Just four tired travellers," Walker said.  "searching

for food and bed."

     The eyes on the other side of the door seemed to

hesitate, then:  "We've got no more room.  Sorry."

     The panel started to shut, but Walker's big hand

stopped it easily.

     Walker said, "Sir, your stables are empty and your

rooms are dark.  Please, we're only searching for a place to

stay the night."

     "Just let them in," another voice from inside said.

"We need the money."

     "You got any money?" the man behind the door said.  "We

ain't sleeping any good for nothings."

     "We have money," Arleah said.

     "Alright, then."

     Walker removed his hand, and the panel snapped shut.

Three or four latches were heard being unbolted.

     "By the gods," Vinson said, "you'd think we were trying

to penetrate a castle."

     The door was opened just barely enough for one person

to slip through at a time.  A shadowy figure inside

(apparently the owner of the eyes that had peered from the

panel) beckoned to them.  "Hurry up."

     The taproom was finely decorated, containing several

well-crafted wooden chairs and tables, all but two of which

were vacant.  The only light source inside was three

candles, around which huddled the two other forms.

     "Hurry up," one of the two said.  "latch the damn

door."

     As they approached the candle-lit area, the features of

the men were clearly visible.  Both of them, as well as the

man who had let them in, were old farmers.  The first was a

slightly pudgy man with small, pig-like eyes and big ears.

The other was very fat, his neck consisting of huge rolls of

flesh that constantly rearranged themselves as he moved his

head.  The man who had let them in was tall and skinny.  He

seemed content to remain at the door, peering out of the

panel every now and then.

     The first man eyed the four and said, "You can take any

one of the rooms in the back," he gestured to a small

corridor leading out of the taproom, "they're all empty.

But we expect you to leave by tomorrow morning."

     "We understand," Arleah said.  "How much do you want?"

     "Three crescents a person.  Washroom is at the end of

the hall."

     Walker eyed the bar, seeing the empty, cold stove.  He

frowned.

     "Why is everyone so edgy here?" Arion said.  "What's

going on?"

     "You don't know?" the fat man asked.

     Arleah took a seat.  "Tell us," she said.

     "It started three days ago," the man said, "when twenty

people disappeared.  Just up and vanished.  Some of their

houses are smashed in something terrible.  And all of them

left behind everything they owned; horses, clothes, jewelry,

and everything."  He leaned closer, his bulging face pale

and his expression one of horror.  "Some say they saw

monsters in the streets."

     "Monsters?" Arleah asked. "Like trolls?"

     "Like trolls.  And other stuff.  Some people say they

saw the devil himself, but I wouldn't be so quick to warrant

that.  And then there's other things that happen, like

something I saw with my very own eyes.  I seen black

monsters flying over the city.  Black monsters.  And

sometimes at night, in the last few days, we hear screams.

And more people have disappeared since yesterday--all during

the night.  Everyone's scared.  Everyone thinks that the

devil is visiting the town, stealing souls.  So far, thirty-

two have disappeared.  Three of those were babies, taken

from their beds."

     Eric Walker said, "Did you notice any of the tro. . .

er, monsters. . . wearing some kind of red snake?"

     The two men shook their heads.

     "We've never actually seen them," the first man said.

"What does a red snake have to do with anything?"

     "Just a thought."

     "Lady Maple--she lives out by the river--said her dog

and husband disappeared along with the first twenty who

vanished," the second man said.  He was apparently eager to

continue his tale.  "She told me that the night afterward,

she hears a scratching at her door, kind of like what her

dog sometimes did when he was fixing to come inside.  But

when she goes to the door, asking kind of careful-like who's

there, she hears her husband's voice.  He's just saying her

name, over and over, you know, like he's lost his mind or

something.  She knows his voice and all, so she opens the

door, but not before grabbing a bread roller.  When she

opens the door, she sees her dog--and set on the little

animal's shoulders is the head of her husband, calling her

name.  She says to me that she just screamed and screamed,

dropping the roller and shutting the door faster than you

could whistle.  She locked her house up good and tight, but

she told me she heard that monster scratching at her door

all night, while she cried in her bed. She lives alone, you

see, and couldn't very well figure out what to do.  Finally,

it went away, and she ain't never seen her husband nor her

dog since.  Now ain't that terrible?"

     "Lady Maple never said that!" the first man said.

"You're lying like a rug, Jes."

     "I ain't neither!"  The old, fat farmer looked intense,

his neck wobbling frightfully as he bobbed his head up and

down, reminding Vinson of a turkey.  "She done told me that

three days past!"

      The skinny old man by the door spoke up in a calm,

deep, and solemn voice.  "Well, I heard something I know is

true," he said.  It was so dark where he was standing that

the four travellers couldn't see his expressions.  "I heard

Father Abner saying that the graves was all dug up and empty

in the graveyard.  I was up there last week, and its true.

I seen it with my own eyes."

     "Oh, everyone knows that already," the fat farmer said.

     "Well, they don't!"

     Arleah stood up from her seat.

     "I think I'll wash up and go to sleep now," she said.

"Thank you all for allowing us to stay."

     The first man smiled, sizing up Arleah in a way that

Troy Vinson didn't like.

     "Sure thing," he said.

                            * * *

     That night, Kurt Arion slipped quickly and easily to

sleep, weariness fully overcoming him.  However, the sleep

that met him wasn't as smooth as he would have liked.

Something kept waking him, causing him to shift and turn

restlessly in his bed.

     Still attempting to find a comfortable position, he

shifted again, and lay sprawled on his back, his head half

off the straw matress.  He seemed to be able to fall asleep

then, and even caught snatches of some weird, meaningless

dream.  Then, once again, he awoke.

     Frustrated, Arion tried to shift again and was

surprised when he found himself immoble, as if paralyzed.

He struggled to move, but it was no use.  He could only lie

there, sprawled on his back, with his head half off the

matress.  His neck was exposed in an unpleasant fashion.

     Softly first, then with growing volume, Arion thought

he could hear a sharp clattering, like hooves, getting

closer in the hallway outside his room.  His head was tilted

back enough so that he could get a good view out the window-

-the sky was blood red.  Arion realized he must be dreaming,

and fought to wake himself up.

     But he could not.  He couldn't even move.  And those

awful hoofbeats were getting closer.  Arion tried to cry

out, but not a sound came from his mouth.

     He heard his door open.  Distantly, he tried to

remember if he had locked it or not, but decided that if he

was dreaming, it didn't really matter anyway.  All he wanted

to do was cover his neck--it felt so uncomfortably exposed.

     The hoofbeats, now in his room, were very loud, but

slow.  He heard them drawing closer, moving around his bed

and towards him. . . towards his exposed neck.  He strained

to move, strained to wake up.  All he could do was lie

there.

     The hoofbeats now were right beside him, but he still

could not see what it was; the only thing he could see was

the blood red sky outside his window, along with an

occasional black shadow that slipped across his view.  He

heard the thing that had come inside his room breathing

harshly, and making thick sounds as if it were swallowing.

     Then, exactly what he dreaded to happen happened.  He

felt something cold and clammy touch his neck, slipping

slowly across it.  He tried to scream, but the noise sounded

strangely muffled.  Arion realized that the scream was only

in his mind--his mouth was making no sound at all.  Whatever

it was that was on his neck continued to move, until it was

touching the back of his head.  Still, the clammy thing

slipped around his neck, making a kind of coil.  It reminded

him almost of a. . .

     A snake.  Terror siezed him as he pictured the red

serpent that had been chasing him relentlessly in his

dreams.  Had it finally caught him?  The coils began to

tighten.

     Go home, a voice whispered in his ear.  Before you die.

This quest ends in death.

                              * * *

     The next morning, Vinson felt much better than he had

the few days before.  He had washed, changed clothes, and

had finally slept a good night's rest, although the matress

wasn't all that great.  Even breakfast, which consisted only

of cold meat, bread, and water, tasted good.  The three old

farmers, who had described themselves as "caretakers of the

inn" the night before, were still peeking through the

curtains every now and then.

     "Deiman's house looks awful quiet today," one would

say, or, "The old shrine isn't open.  Brother Montrel's

usually there by now.  Wonder what that means."  Then

another would say something like, "The tree across the road

looks crooked.  Don't remember it looking that way last

night."

     Arion, Vinson, Arleah and Walker were doing their best

to ignore the continual comments of suspicion, concentrating

on their breakfast.  Everyone seemed refreshed and in good

humor, except for Kurt Arion, who seemed especially detached

and moody.  Vinson thought it nothing unusual.

     With the sun still quite low in the eastern horizon,

the four travellers departed from the Gossam Inn and

continued on the northbound trail.  The Aries Mountains

looked tall and threatening, especially when one considered

the prospects of having to travel through them.  Which is

exactly what they had to do.

     "Two days," Arleah said, "And we'll be in Derrik.  It

won't be much farther after that."

     The town of Datly seemed almost abandoned, with only a

few people scurrying along the streets, always looking

behind them.  Vinson heard children crying a couple times,

although he saw none.  Doors were bolted and shut, some

windows were boarded up, and the one's that weren't had

curtains or drapes pulled tight.

     The road they followed grew small after Datly was left

behind, and became a narrow dirt trail that wound up into

the mountains.   Large pine trees, their bark often covered

with clumps of sticky sap, began appearing more frequently.

The spring sun shone warmly down onto them from the east,

its rays filtering through the foliage of the many trees

about the trail.  The breeze smelled clean and fresh.

     "I love the mountains," Eric Walker said.  "Nowhere

else on earth do I feel closer to nature.  It's beautiful."

He took a deep breath.  "Smell those pine trees."

     The trail wound ahead through the brush, always

climbing upwards.  After half an hour, the land below could

be seen easily, including the whole town of Datly.  It

looked eerily abandoned.

     By the time the sun had reached the center of the sky,

the four travellers were deep in the mountains.  The trail,

which had an unpleasant habit of disappearing at times, led

them slightly northwest, with huge ridges of granite on

either side.  They seemed to be in a kind of natural slice

in the rock.  A small creek bubbled and cascaded through

chunks of granite and fallen wood to their left.

     After a time, Walker, who was in the lead, stopped.  He

held up his hand.

     "What. . ." Vinson said.

     "Sshh.  Quiet," Walker said.  He tilted his head, as

though listening to something.  Then he whispered, "I think

we're being followed."

     Vinson couldn't hear anything, but after another minute

or two of silence, Walker motioned them hastily forward.  He

loped ahead and over the creek, heading for the rising cliff

of granite.  There was a lot of scratchy-looking bushes

growing around the rock, and Walker slipped behind them.

The others followed after him.  They were about ten or

twelve yards from the path, which was quite visible to them.

     "What is this all about?" Arion said.

     After about a few minutes of sitting cramped behind the

bushes, with ants and mosquitos irritating him, Vinson heard

cautious, slow footsteps approaching along the trail.

     "I hear them," he whispered.

     Two short, squat forms, clothed in earth tones, crept

warily up the path.  They were dwarves.  Both of them wore

the red, scarlet insignia of a serpent on their shoulders,

and each had a shortsword strapped at their sides.

     "They're tracking us," Walker said, "but they don't

appear to be too good at it.  They shouldn't have come right

up the trail.  Apparently, they feel pretty confident."

     The dwarves stopped hesitantly at the point where

Walker and the other three had broken off the trail.  One of

them pointed to the creek.

     "They'll reach us eventually," Walker whispered.  "So

we'd better figure out what we're going to do."

     "They bear the mark of Muhl Dreik," Arleah said.

     Walker nodded.  "I saw that.  That's the same thing the

trolls were wearing when they broke into my house.  So, as I

said, we'd better figure out what to do."

     "Kill them," Arion said at once.

     "Hold on," Walker said.  "If we do it right, we can

overpower them, and question them.  Maybe they know where

Aleena is."

     "Who?" Vinson said.

     The dwarves looked in their direction, and the four

stayed absolutely still.  One dwarf said something to the

other one, who seemed to agree.  Then they turned, and left

along the trail, heading back the way they came.  After a

couple minutes, they were out of sight.

     "Good, they're leaving," Vinson said.

     Walker shook his head.  "No, that's not right.  I'm

pretty sure they realized we've discovered them.  They're up

to something."

     The dwarves' footsteps gradually faded away.

     "Let's go," Arion said.  "My legs are getting numb."

     Walker frowned, watching the trail suspiciously.  "Wait

a while longer.  I bet they're on the trail, waiting for us

to come out of hiding.  They know we're somewhere around

here."

     They waited for ten minutes, and nothing happened.

Vinson shifted positions, swatting away a mosquito.  He

could see dozens of ants--big, black ones--all over the

ground, and felt something pinch his ankle.  A little ways

off, a bluejay screeched.  Another ten minutes or more

droned on by.  Still, neither Walker nor anyone else moved.

     "Perhaps we should go," Arleah said.  Walker's eyes

were still on the trail.

     "They're up to something," he said again.

     A soft breath of pungeant mountain breeze blew by.

Vinson felt something hit his head, like a pebble.  He

looked up.  And there, on a cleft only about twenty feet

above them, two pairs of beady eyes glared down at him.

Troy Vinson jumped instinctively away, pulling himself from

the brush with a scraping sound.

     "Watch out!" he said.

     A dwarf  lept from the rocky cleft, emitting a harsh

little cry, his sword pointed downward.  Arion slipped out

of the brush like a cat, appearing next to Vinson with his

knife ready just as Walker, after grabbing Arleah about the

waist, ducked out as well.  He missed the Dwarf's sword by

inches.  Vinson heard a metallic scrape as Walker pulled his

own broadsword from its sheath.  The dwarf remaining on the

ledge above began scrambling away.  The sun caught the

coiled serpent emblem, making it shimmer briefly.  Kurt

Arion snarled and leapt up the granite ridge after him.

     The other dwarf, meanwhile, approached Walker boldly.

His shortsword and Walker's heavy broadsword met with a

loud, ringing crash.  Walker's enormous muscles bulged as he

hefted the big weapon.

     The dwarf, though, was no easy match.  He used his

smaller sword skillfully, and his own arms were knotted and

powerful-looking.  Several times, his sword came close to

Walker's legs.

     Arleah stood watching nervously, wincing every time the

dwarf took a swing.

     Vinson quickly dropped his pack, picking up a small

rock of granite from the ground.  He shouted a phrase,

lifted the stone, and commanded his magic to come forth.

     Nothing happened.

     He cursed, feeling the presence of his mental block.

No matter how many times he tried, he could not combat with

his spells.  Ahead, Walker was backing the dwarf up into the

cliff, and Arion was disappearing over the ledge.  Vinson

had an idea.  He lifted the stone again.

     He shouted the phrase once more, this time

concentrating on the granite cliff instead of the dwarf.

Vinson felt the energy from his body drain as twin flurries

of blue light shot forward from the stone he held, striking

the cliff with a crackling sound, sparking dramatically.

The ridge split, sending a shower of rock onto the little

dwarf, who was immediately buried.  Vinson dropped the stone

he held, breathing a sigh of  exhaustion and relief.

     Walker, recovering from the light and sparks, saw the

unconscious dwarf on the ground and moved forward to pull

him free of the rock shower.  However, he didn't see the

ledge above begin to shift under the change in its support.

Only Arleah and Vinson saw the enormous chunk of granite

break free.

     "Walker!" Arleah screamed.

                              * * *

     Kurt Arion clambered easily up the rocky crags of the

granite ledge, the distance between him and the dwarf

lessening.  His attention was focused on the scarlet

insignia of the coiled serpent, and his dream was echoing in

his mind.

     Go home before you die.  This quest ends in death.

     "I'll show you death," Arion said.  His right hand

still clutched the dagger tightly.

     The dwarf reached the top of the ledge and disappeared

over it.  Sweating now, Arion followed closely behind.  As

he reached the top, he saw huge clusters of wild

raspberries, knotted all around the pine trees.  Off to the

left was a tiny trail, where the dwarves had obviously  come

through.  Arion reached the top just in time to see the

small man scurry onto the trail and disappear through the

brush.  Teeth clenched, he pulled himself to his feet and

ran after him.

     The dwarf was running along the trail, checking a

couple times to see if Arion was following.  Suddenly, the

small man dropped his sword, pulled an object from his

pocket, and placed it to his lips.  It looked to Arion like

a pipe or a tiny straw. The dwarf slowed, turned his head

back to Arion, and emitted a strange hissing sound.  Arion

felt something pinch his leg, like an ant or a mosquito .

Absently, he brushed his pants.  The dwarf pocketed the

straw and continued forward.

     Kurt Arion saw that the dwarf was drenched in sweat,

panting heavily.  The trail began to slope upwards, littered

with stone and debris, and the raspberries on either side

groped out at them, thorns pulling at flesh and clothing.

Suddenly, Arion began to feel dizzy, even to the extent that

he was having difficulty keeping track of where his legs

were.  Assuming it just to be the hard run and the loose

stones, he continued.

     At one point in the trail, the path cut sharply to the

right.  As Arion turned, he lost his balance, and sprawled

heavily to the ground.  His hands stung with pain as he

tried to pull himself up, only to fall again.  The world

seemed to be swimming around his eyes.   Arion blinked in

confusion.  Ahead, the dwarf stopped running, looked back at

Arion with a smile.

     "Having trouble, friend?" the dwarf said.  He laughed.

     Arion struggled to his knees, grasping his dagger

tightly.  For a moment, the dwarf's smile disappeared, and

he turned pale.  But then Arion collapsed again.  His ears

rang in a high, monotonous tone, and his sight wavered

falteringly.  Slowly, he felt himself losing consciousness.

     "Sweet dreams," he heard the dwarf laugh, and

everything went black.





                      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

                          -The Vail





     "You stay here," the troll said.  Tabitha stopped,

confused.  All the other people were being led through the

portal and into the city that the trolls had called

"Ashten".  The apelike man reached forward and pulled her

out of the procession.  She was getting pretty tired of

being dragged here, pulled there, shoved here, pushed there.

     After a few minutes, all the people had been led away

except her.  The troll beside her was gripping her arm so

tight it was beginning to make her hand tingle and go numb.

Angrily, she tried to pull it out of his grasp but only

received another knock on the side of the face.

     "Peppery one, isn't she?" asked another troll, coming

from behind.  He was one of the two who had stayed back with

the black beast, which was gone now as well.  He walked up

and inspected Tabitha a little while.  Then he said, "Search

her."

     They groped annoyingly through her clothing, producing,

of course, the golden key.  The three rubies on its handle

sparkled in the sun as the troll held it up.

     "NO!" Tabitha said, lunging for the key.

     The troll glanced at his partner, whispering something.

The other one nodded.

     "Give it back.  Please."

     The troll holding her began to drag her forward, toward

the great wall surrounding the mountain, but away from the

portal.  She struggled, but it was no use; the trolls were

much too strong for her.  They seemed to walk for hours

along the parched, dry earth, circling the ever-present wall

from within which the mountain peak rose like a cone.  It

stood out ridiculously in its flat, barren surroundings.

     Finally, one of the trolls stopped and faced the wall.

He placed his huge hand on a stone, and, to Tabitha's

surprise, a door of simulated rock emerged from the wall and

slid swiftly open.  Behind the door was a dark staircase

leading downward.

     "Go on," the troll holding her said.  He pushed her

roughly forward.

     The other troll waited until they had entered into the

gloomy stairwell before placing his hand on another stone,

this time one on the inside of the wall.  The secret panel

moved quietly back into place.  The cold steps, illuminated

softly by glowing torches on the walls, spiralled downward.

Tabitha was pushed forward, the trolls in tow.

     After a long descent, Tabitha found herself in an

enormous cavern of such size that it took her breath away.

It was so huge it was almost difficult to distinguish

whether she was actually underground, or just outside at

night.  Even with the torches hung all across the stairwell

and wall behind her, it was very dark.  She could just

discern a large, slow-flowing river ahead, a few boats

docked at its shores.  Someone was moving towards them,

features unrecognizable in the darkness, but it was

definitely not a troll.

     "What do we have here?" a male voice asked.  He stepped

into the torchlight, revealing a very handsome man of about

Tabitha's height, clothed in black.  Tabitha stared as she

discovered his features resembled hers: his eyes were coal

black, his hair streaked with white, and his skin was dark.

He had a dagger sheathed at his belt.

     "We found her in Shaleh," one of the trolls said.

"She's a thief.  I thought we'd bring her to Charene."

     "Shaleh?" the man said.  He looked at Tabitha

curiously.

     "Yes," the troll said, holding out Tabitha's golden

key, "and we found this on her."

     The man raised his eyebrows.  "What's your name?" he

asked Tabitha.  She didn't say anything.

     "Well," the man sighed, "she's obviously been raised

with. . . humans.  She might not even know what she is."

     "I know," Tabitha said icily.

     "What's your name?" the man asked again.  "I'm Marion."

     "Give me back my key," she said, in the same icy tone.

"You have no right to keep it from me.  And you had no right

to bring me here."  She wasn't sure why she was taking out

her hostility on him, but the knowledge of what he was, and

that she was that too, made her furious.

     "Of course," the man said.  He gestured to the trolls.

"Give her the lavaliere."

     "But. . ."

     "Give it to her."

     The troll reluctantly held the golden key out, and

Tabitha snatched it away.  She was actually surprised they'd

given it back; she hadn't been expecting that.

     "I'll take her to Charene," the man said to the trolls.

"You're free to leave."

     The apelike men, with a final glance at her, turned and

started back up the stairwell.

      "Follow me," the man said cheerfully.  He turned and

started for the river.

     Tabitha found that, being under the ground, her eyes

were adjusting dramatically to the darkness.  She could now

see the detail of the wooden boats, a stone walkway along

the river, and even a few other men standing around loading

boxes onto some of the boats.  They were all dressed in

black.  Where was this place?

     "Are you coming?"

     Tabitha looked up, seeing the man halfway in and

halfway out of the boat.  He was grinning, trying to keep

himself balanced as the boat rocked slightly up and down.

Her first impulse was to run back up the stairwell, but for

some reason she began slowly walking towards the river.

     "Have a seat," he said when she approached.  "Welcome

aboard."

     Tabitha stepped into the boat, sitting down cautiously

in the front.  He untied the little craft and sat down at

the rear, where he could comfortably control the rudder.

Slowly, the current began to pull them forward.

     "We're right under the city of Ashten now,"  Marion

said.  "This river is called The Tapel."

     Actually, Tabitha could care less about what the river

was called.  She was more interested in exactly where it was

they were going.  Then she remembered the trolls telling

Marion to take her to Charene, whoever that was.

     "Who's Charene?" she asked.

     "Charene is the high priestess here," Marion said.  "At

least, until someone else kills her and takes her place."

     Tabitha looked up, expecting him to be joking.  His

face was completely serious.

     He said, "She'll probably last another year or two.

She's pretty smart."

     "Why are you taking me to her?"  Tabitha asked.

     "Well, your situation is an unusual one.  You are a

Vail, but you've been raised as a human.  Humans are enemies

of the Vail.  So she has to decide what will happen to you."

     "You mean, whether I live or die?" she said.

     "That's correct."

     Tabitha shook her head.  "Do all of you take death so

nonchalantly?"

     "Well," Marion said, "it's pretty apparent you're not

familiar with your culture."

     "Oh, I'm familiar with my culture, alright.  My

culture.  I'm not familiar with yours."

     "Ah," he said.  "I see."  There was silence for a few

moments.  The river continued to carry their boat through

the cavern, and all around, Tabitha could see huge, weird

structures that were intricately carved and oddly designed.

Statues and carvings of beasts and pictures portraying death

were everywhere.  It gave her the creeps.

     "You don't like me very much, do you?" Marion asked.

     "I've heard a lot about the Vail that I don't like,"

she said.  "A lot."

     "Well, that's to be expected.  After all, the human and

the Vail races are enemies.  Down here, you'll hear a lot

about humans that you probably wouldn't like."

     "I'm sure I will."

     Another boat, this one large and loaded with crates of

something, passed to their left.

     "Tell me something," Tabitha said.  "Why was I brought

here?  Why did those trolls take me and the others?  For

that matter, what's Ashten?  I've never heard of it before

until now."

     "Ashten is a special place," Marion said.  "This is the

land of the good dark spirits.  This is their home."

     "Good dark spirits?" Tabitha said.  "Isn't that a

little contradictory?"

     "To you, perhaps.  The spirits and gods the humans tend

to call good are different from the ones we do.  Our Goddess

is Cybele.  The humans' God is Aellei.  Our good spirits are

Ishtara and Muhl Dreik.  The humans' is Jaro of Amariah."

     "Your gods are gods of death," Tabitha said.  "I fail

to see what significance death holds."

     "There's a lot more to death than you understand,"

Marion said quietly.  "But, contrary to what you seem to

think, we aren't death fanatics or anything.  It's just that

we understand it more, so it means more to us."

     Tabitha just shook her head.

     "And also," Marion continued, "Humans think differently

than us on the subject of light and darkness.  When humans

hear the word dark, they tend to think of  bad things.

We're that way with light.  The reason is--"

     "Because the Vail live naturally in darkness, and the

humans live naturally in light," Tabitha said.  "So they

interpret light and dark differently.  I understand,

Marion."

     Marion smiled.  "You see, then?  We're not bad like you

think."

     "There's a difference," Tabitha said, "In interpreting

words differently, as opposed to killing people just for the

sake of power.  Or in killing small children because they

aren't as strong as the others.  Or in who knows what else

goes on here."

     Marion shrugged.  "I'm sorry you see it that way.  We

have reasons for what we do.  We--"

     "I'm sure you do," Tabitha said.  "But don't bother

wasting your breath, because I'm not going to listen to an

attempt at rationalizing murder."

     Marion was quiet then, and Tabitha was immediately

sorry she was so icy.  After all, she thought, culture was

culture.  What seemed wrong to her just wasn't the same to

them.  And then there was the little voice in the back of

her mind that kept saying You're a Vail too, Tabitha.  If it

wasn't for the Shaleh attempt at raiding these people, you

would have been just like Marion.  This would be your home.

     "Look, I'm sorry," she said.  "I'm just tense.  I

didn't mean to be so rude."

     "That's alright.  Actually, you have a really good

attitude."

     "What?" Tabitha said.

     "You really do.  Charene will probably like you."

     Tabitha shook her head.  "You're right, Marion.  Your

world is very different from mine."

     "But it's your world now, too," Marion said slowly.

     "What do you mean?"

     "Think about it," Marion said.  "In the event that

Charene allows you to live, which--I must say--is what I

hope she will do, then it will be because she feels you can,

and are willing to, change from the human culture to the

Vail.  That you will be one of

us. . . again."

     "I don't want to," Tabitha said quickly.  Then she

smiled apologetically to Marion.  "No offense.  It's just

that I was brought up as a human, and that is what I want to

be.  And believe me, it wasn't a terribly wonderful thing

living in Shaleh.  But that is where I'd feel more

comfortable."

     "If you express that to Charene, she'll kill you,"

Marion said.  "If you're willing to keep living in this

world, I wouldn't advise you telling her what you just told

me.  She'll let you live only if she feels you are like us."

     "What if I fool her," Tabitha said.  "and escape?"

     Marion shrugged.  "If you want to live above ground, I

guess that would probably be your only option.  But it won't

be easy to fool Charene.  Nor will it be easy to escape."

He looked at her for a while.  "Do you know where Ashten

is?"

     "You told me.  It's right above us."

     "No," Marion said, "I mean where, as in how far East,

or West, or North."

     "I don't know anything about it.  I would guess it's

North, from where I was flown."

     "That's right.  North.  Far North."  He smiled.  "We

have roads and cities spread all about underneath the

Northland and Eastland.  From what I know of those roads and

which human cities lie above them, I can tell you this:

Ashten is days away from the closest human city.  You'd be

alone, without bearings, in a place not known to you.  How

would you get away?"

     Tabitha started to see what it was he was trying to

say.  Up on the surface, she'd be stranded.

     "And Muhl Dreik would know," Marion said.  "He'd know

you were escaping."

     "I don't believe in spirits," Tabitha said.  "It's just

superstition."

     Marion shrugged.  "I wouldn't say that to Charene,

either."

     He guided the raft gently to the river bank.  There was

a row of docks there, before a strange, gruesome-looking

building.  Tabitha saw statues of horrid beasts posted on

either side of  a tall, narrow door.  The door had a metal

goblin's face on the top, and in the middle was a chilling

carving of a red dragon killing a human and an Elf.  Tabitha

shivered.  The docks and the stone road leading from the

river to the building seemed completely vacant and eerily

silent.

     "Here's the temple," Marion said.  "I'll take you

inside, if that'll make you feel more comfortable."

     "I would appreciate that," Tabitha whispered.  She

didn't know why she whispered, but it seemed the appropriate

thing to do, in the dark and chilling silence of this weird

place.

     Marion secured the boat, helping Tabitha out onto the

dock.  She didn't really need any help, and would normally

have been annoyed that anyone tried to give it to her, but

this time she felt content to take Marion's hand and let him

lead her out.

     With their boots echoing on the wooden dock, Tabitha

followed Marion away from the river and onto the small,

cobblestone road.  Carvings of beasts and especially spiders

were posted everywhere alongside the path.  On the door of

the temple, she saw something that she hadn't noticed from

the river: a black spider was carved and painted above the

door, next to a scarlet, coiled snake.  She remembered the

snake as the mark the trolls had been wearing when they

captured her.

     "The spider is the mark of Cybele," Marion said, "and

the snake is that of Muhl Dreik.  Both are exalted dieties."

He spoke in a tone of awe and respect.  After a few moments

more of  standing there, in which Tabitha began to get

impatient and more nervous than she already had been, Marion

opened the door.





                       CHAPTER FIFTEEN

                           -Derrik





     Vinson sprinted forward, knocking into the big form of

Eric Walker and throwing them both to the ground.  Behind

them, the enormous chunk of granite rock smashed heavily

onto the spot where Walker had stood only seconds ago,

splitting into two pieces like an eggshell and burying the

dwarf.  Vinson and Walker picked themselves up, moving

quickly away from the ledge.

     "Thanks, Troy," Walker said.  "Wow--that was close."

     Vinson shook his head.  His breathing was labored,

coming in heavy gasps. "That was stupid.  I should have. .

.thought more before. . .striking the ledge at the bottom--"

     "There wasn't time to think."  Walker glanced at the

fallen rubble, where a dark stain of crimson red was

growing.  "It looks like the dwarf is not available for

interrogation anymore," he said.  Then he grinned faintly at

Vinson's downcast expression, giving him a heavy slap to the

shoulder.  "It's alright. You did what you had to do.  It

was either us or him, you know.  I know dwarves.  He would

have killed us, or died trying."  He looked around.

"Where's Kurt?"

     Arleah shook her head.  Her face was pale.

     "He went up the ledge," Vinson said, breathing heavily

and still trying to regain his composure from the draining

spell.  "I saw him follow after the dwarf."

     "That may not be good," Walker said.  "Come on, we'd

better follow."



     Backtracking a small ways along the ledge, they came to

the spot where the dwarf had jumped down on them.  There

were several rocky crags and niches along the rock face, and

Walker began climbing without hesitation.

     "Do you think it's safe?" Vinson asked.  "What if the

ledge collapses again?"

     "Not here," Walker said.  "We're a safe distance, and

granite is very sturdy."

     The rock was warm from the sun, and little specks of

white glinted brightly in Vinson's eyes as he followed

Walker up the ledge.  He was tired, but the climb wasn't

really all that hard, especially with Walker to lead and

show him the best footholds.  Arleah, too, seemed to be

coming up effortlessly behind him.

     When they got to the top, it was obvious where the

dwarf and Arion had gone.  A small path lay to the left, the

ground along it disturbed.  Walker pulled out his sword

again, moving slowly up the trail and inspecting it as they

went.

     "What do you think those dwarves were doing here?"

Vinson asked, following Walker.  "You said they were

tracking us, Eric. . . how did they know about us?"

     "They were tracking us alright," Walker said, "but

other than that, I'm as bewildered as you are.  Maybe they

were stationed in the woods by Muhl Dreik, or whatever his

name is, to throw off  travellers coming through these

parts.  The way that one dwarf jumped into us, while the

other one fled, doesn't seem to make any sense."

     "No," Arleah said, "Muhl Dreik doesn't have any

knowledge of the quest."

     "What if he does?" Vinson asked.  "Information leaks.

What if he knows about

us. . . that would seem to explain why the trolls wanted to

capture or kill Walker so badly in Tyrus.  When they found

out they couldn't, they captured his family."

     "I don't believe that is what happened," Arleah said

firmly.

     "In either case," Walker said, "I think the dwarves

were some kind of ruse.  A planned trap.  I think this whole

thing was something to lead us off, and it seems it's doing

just that.  We'd better keep on our toes, here."

     "And Kurt?" Vinson said.

     Walker shrugged.  "Who knows.  I just hope he's

alright."

                            * * *

     Arion, his hands and feet bound tightly, had been

slumped upright beside the tree.  He was still dizzy, and

felt slightly nausiated, but had just woke, unbeknown to his

captors.  There were four of them, four dwarves, all dressed

the same, with the red serpent stitched on  the shoulders.

A large, weird-looking black beast with enormous wings and a

long, barbed tail was tethered behind them.  It had a saddle-

like arrangement on its back that also showed the scarlet

snake.

     "I don't know," one dwarf was saying.  "And I really

don't care, either.  They'll be good stock, though, for the

master."

     "Probably.  I'm not sure it's worth it. . .where's

Delsenore?"

     "Jumped at them, to throw them off.  I told him to

stick with the plan, but you know him.  He's hard headed."

     "They'll kill him, I expect."

     "Probably."

     "Well, Delsenore was a fool, anyway.  Back in Lapel, he

bungled a routine collection and we lost about fifteen

people.  The master didn't like that."

     "How many were there down there just now?" another

dwarf said.

     "Four.  Including this skinny fool.  I'm hoping

Delsenore's leading them here. . .but the way he's been

acting lately, he might have just gone off on another fit.

I really think he's losing his mind."

     "I'd love to slit his throat."

     "I'd love to slit this human's throat."

     "Well, we've already missed the collection.  Bringing

these petty travellers might not be enough to save our

skins, and killing one of them won't help matters any."

     "We'll find some more in Derrik."

     "True."

     "Well, then?"

     "I guess you're right.  It would be rather pleasant."

     "Of course I'm right."  Arion heard the sound of a

knife being unsheathed.  He tensed, his mind working in a

frenzy.  Through half-shut eyes, he could see the four

dwarves advancing on him.  He tested the ropes around his

wrists, but they were tied securely.  Sounds became

heightened; he heard the crunch of pebbles beneath the

advancing dwarves' feet, and the rustle of the trees

overhead.  A crow was cawing over and over, over and over.

Arion hated crows.

     Suddenly, something slipped from the trees overhead

like a shadow.  Arion's eyes widened as he saw a dark,

wraithlike form, it's back to him, materializing before his

eyes.  The form was somewhat ethereal, and he could see the

dwarves' astonished faces through it.  One shreiked in

terror.

     "Fools," a rumbling, deep voice said.

     "Please, my Lord," one dwarf sniveled.  "We were only

doing our best to please the Master!"

     "Your master," the deep voice rumbled, laden with

sarcasm.  "Muhl Dreik is a fool as are you!  I am your

master."

     "Yes my Lord," they cried, falling to their knees.

     "Now you shall pay for the crime you were about to

commit."

     "What crime?" the dwarves cried.  "What crime, my Lord,

but to please you and the Master?"

     "The crime of murder," the voice said.

     "But. . ."

     "My murder."

     A blinding flash of light swallowed the dwarves as they

screamed in high, bloodcurdling shrills.  Arion closed his

eyes tightly, feeling an incredible heat blast into his

face.  Light penetrated his eyelids, glowing an intense,

painful pinkish red.  He instinctively tried to raise his

hand to shield the light, then remembered that his hands

were tied, so he lowered his head instead.  It didn't help

much, but thankfully, the painful glow dissipated after only

a few brief,  intense seconds.

     When he dared open his eyes again--just enough to

barely see--the dwarves and their black beast were gone,

just as though they had never been.  Only the black shadow-

figure stood there.  But he didn't seem so much of a shadow

anymore; he seemed more solid, almost as though he had

become a simple man in black robes.  He still had his back

to Arion.

     Then he turned.

     "Open your eyes, mortal.  I know you have beheld all.

You have beheld what you cannot.  What I cannot allow you

to."

     Arion's eyes opened fully.  The man before him removed

his cowl, and smiled at him.  But it was the smile of evil,

the smile of death.

     "Who are you?" Arion said, his voice cracked.

     The man stepped forward, leaned over to him, and

whispered something in his ear.  Arion started.  His eyes

opened wide.

     "You. . ."

     "Yes, mortal.  And now:"  He lifted his finger, which

wasn't a finger at all, but bone, white as though it had

been bleached after years of baking in the sun.  He lifted

his finger to Arion's head.

     "Get away!" Arion screamed.

     "Ala tir matar," the man said.  "You now must forget."

     Then he touched his bony finger to Arion's head.  Arion

cried out as a white fire exploded from within his skull,

it's flaming tongues licking away at his mind--eating his

memories.

     "Forget," the man said, his deep voice chuckling.

"Forget."

                            * * *

     Walker burst into the small clearing, trailed by Vinson

and Arleah.  They were all sweating and breathing heavily.

But their weariness was forgotten as they came upon the body

of Kurt Arion--face down--lying on the ground under a tree.

There was a black crow in the branches, cawing noisily.  As

the three hastily approached, it flew off.

     "Kurt!" Walker said, reaching down to feel his neck.

Arion suddenly jolted up as though he had been disturbed

sleeping, pulling out his knife and holding it up

threateningly.  Then he saw the others and relaxed.

     "What happened?"  Vinson asked.

     Arion sat up, put his knife away and began absently

rubbing his wrists.  They looked a little red.

     "Poisoned," he said thickly.

     "What?"

     "Poisoned!  I was poisoned, alright?  He shot a poison-

tipped dart at me, and I went down.  Damn!"  He put a hand

to his forehead.  "Damn, that was stupid.  I've got a

headache now."

     "Where'd he go?" Vinson asked.

     Arion glared at him.

     "Seeing that I was unconscious, Troy, I can't very well

tell you, now can I?"

     "Are you alright?" Arleah said.

     "Now that you mention it, no, I'm not.  Why were those

dwarves here, Lady?  I   thought you said Muhl Dreik knew

nothing of us!  How is it that his little minions found us?"

     "Muhl Dreik doesn't know," Arleah said.  "This had to

have been an accident.  A coincidence is all.  The dwarves

had no idea at all who we were."  She was looking alertly

through the trees, an uncomfortable expression on her face.

     "An accident?" Arion said.  "What if we all get killed?

Will that be an accident, too?"

     "What I want to know," Walker said, "is why he left you

behind.  Why didn't he kill you after poisoning you?"

     "That's a good question," Arion said.  Everybody looked

at Arleah.

     "I can't answer that," Arleah said.

     Arion threw his hands up into the air.  He started to

stand up, faltered, and almost fell over before Arleah

caught him.

     "Slowly," Arleah said.  "Take it easy."

     "No," Arion said.  He brushed her away and stood all

the way up, swaying slightly. "I'm not taking any more

orders from you, Lady."

     "I never--" Arleah started to say.

     "This is all wrong," Arion said.  "I have a really bad

feeling about this and you are not any help at all.  So

stand aside."

     "Kurt, where are you going?" Walker asked.

     "Back."

     "Back where?"

     "Back south.  I'm through with this foolishness."

     He started walking away.

     "Kurt Arion--" Arleah said.

     "No."  Arion pointed a finger at Arleah.  "You can't

make me come with you.  I told you, if I don't like what I

feel, I'm gone.  So here I go."

     He turned around, began walking back up the trail that

led through the thick brush.

     "Kurt Arion," Walker said sharply, "If you keep

walking, you're a coward."

     "A coward?" Arion said, laughing.  He turned back

around.  "I'm the only one out of all of you who has any

sense to keep alive!  Go ahead, mighty swordsman.  Go ahead,

mighty magician.  Go ahead like fools to your death."  With

that, he walked away through the forest.  Walker started

after him.

     "Let him go," Arleah said quietly.  "It is his right."

     "According to what you told me, we need him to complete

this quest," Walker said.  "If it means my finding my family

or my losing them, I'm not going to let that coward just

walk away!"

     "He will be back," Arleah said.

     "How can you be so sure?"

     "It is the only way."

     With that, she would say no more on the subject.

                            * * *

     After retracing the path, climbing back down the

granite ledge, and finding the Northbound road again,

Vinson, Arleah and Walker had lost all traces of Kurt Arion.

Where the big chunk of granite had fallen onto the dwarf,

Vinson could see the dark stain near the edges.  He

swallowed, looking away.  He wished he'd never used that

spell.  Sherren was right; magic was nothing more than a

dangerous fool's toy.

     The somber procession travelled in near silence through

the dense forest, continuing until the sun dipped low and

glowed with a deep red hue in the Western sky.  When it grew

too dark to coninue, the three set up camp, with Walker

building a fire.  There was still no sign of Arion.

     Troy Vinson lay awake late that night, gazing up into

the stars.  They were big and bright, densely clustered

together.  Every once in a while, one would shoot across the

sky in a bright, blurring flash.  Then it would disappear.

He glanced aside at where Arleah slept, the reddish glow

from their dying campfire sillhouetting her slender,

delicate form in a ghostly haze.  The metal pendant that

hung from her neck was visible, the face with the sun and

two crossed swords reflecting the firelight in a barely

discernable glow.  Vinson wondered what the symbol meant.

                            * * *

     The next morning, Vinson woke to a painful jarring at

his side.  He opened his eyes, wincing at the bright

sunlight that blurred his vision.  The stink of smoke from

their fire last night must have imbedded itself into his

blanket and clothing, because that's all he could smell

right now.  Another painful jolt at his side forced Vinson

to open his eyes all the way.  Someone was kicking him in

the ribs--hard.

     "Wake up, you stupid fool."

     Vinson knew that voice.  He looked up, seeing the thin,

wiry form of Kurt Arion.  He was holding a half-eaten apple.

     "Knock it off, Kurt," Vinson said.  He rolled over,

shutting his eyes again.  "I see you've come to your senses

and returned."  So Arleah had been right about that, too.

     "Get up, Troy."  It was Walker's voice.  Vinson sat up.

He could really smell that campfire.

     Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he saw Walker throwing

his things into his shoulder pack while Kurt Arion watched.

He knew that from the tenseness Walker displayed, something

was wrong.

     "Where's Arleah?" Vinson asked sleepily.

     "Get your junk packed up," Arion said.  "I'm not

waiting on you, Troy."

     "When did you become part of our group again?" Vinson

asked, standing to his feet.  "The last I recall, I was a

stupid magician going to my death."

     "Troy."  Walker's voice was tense.

     Vinson looked up at him, and then he noticed it.

     To the South, just above the treetops, was a black

haze.  He took a deep breath of the air, and he knew.

     "I woke up to it this morning," Arion said.

     "A wildfire?" Vinson couldn't believe it.  How had a

fire started?

     "It's not a wildfire," Walker said.  He slung his pack

over his shoulder.

     "What are you talking about?" Vinson asked.  Even as he

looked, he could see a bright red glow against the trees.

     "It's not a wildfire," Walker said again.

     "It's a wall of fire, put simple," Arion said.  "It's

not even moving.  Go up there on the granite ridge and have

yourself a look if you want. . . it's a perfect barrier of

flames."  He shook his head.  "Nobody from our side is going

South, and nobody from Datly is coming North."

     "Why?" Vinson asked.  "Who?  I mean--"

     "Arleah said it was Muhl Dreik, of course," Arion said.

"She doesn't know why."

     "Where is Arleah?" Vinson asked.  He started rolling up

his blanket.

     "She went to look for Kurt," Walker said.  "When we

woke up, and she saw the fire, I guess she got scared and

went after him, or maybe she just went to see the fire, I'm

not sure--she didn't make herself very clear.  She wanted me

to stay with you.  Kurt just showed up."

     "I didn't see her," Arion said.  His manner was

nonchalant as he took a bite out of his apple.

     "Wanted you to stay with me?" Vinson asked.  "What, are

you crazy?  What if she gets hurt?"

     "Troy," Walker said calmly, "I think she knows what's

best.  And I'm sure you know how it is when she makes up her

mind."

     "This is ridiculous," Vinson said, throwing his blanket

into his bag and fastening the leather straps.  "She's out

there alone in the middle of a forest fire and we're sitting

around here talking?"

     "Oh, boy, give him a drink," Arion said.

     Vinson whirled on him.

     "You!  If it weren't for you and your independent

attitude, this would never have happened.  By the gods, you

make me sick!"

     "That's enough--" Walker said.

     Arion stood up rigidly, eyeing Vinson with a cool

stare.  "You'd better harness your tongue, Troy."

     "I'm not afraid of you," Vinson said.

     "So what?  Neither is the moth of the flame."  He

laughed.  "Why don't you go and rescue her, Troy?  Be her

hero."  He shook his head, tossing the core of his apple to

Vinson's feet.  "You're nothing."

     Vinson leaped at Arion.  He landed a blow to the

thief's stomach, rocking him backwards.  But Arion was so

incredibly agile, he stepped aside and for one confusing

moment, Vinson lost complete sight of him. Then, in a burst

of white light, he felt something knock his jaw aside, and

caught a glimpse of Arion moving back to strike him again.

Then the big form of Eric Walker was there, moving between

them and pushing them away from each other.

     "That's enough.  You two are starting to remind me of

children."

     Arion shoved Walker's arm away, glaring at Vinson.

Suddenly, his face melted into a mocking smile.

     "She doesn't want you, Troy," he said.  "You're

nothing.  Your magic is nothing.  She doesn't care about you

any more than this Muhl Dreik.  You're just a tool for her,

just like all of us.  We're all pawns in this stupid game of

the gods."

     "Kurt Arion."

     All three of them turned their head to the right, from

where the familiar, soft voice had come.  It was Arleah.

Arion turned away, walking slowly over to where his pack lay

against a tree.

     "Enough of this," she said.  "We can't fight among

ourselves.  We must move on, and quickly. . ."  she gestured

in the direction of the hazy, red glow behind the tall

trees, ". . .the fire is beginning to advance."

                               * * *

     Zandorf gazed appalled at the fiery wall that burned

rigidly and unmoving.  The heat felt like it was searing his

face, although he was well away from the wall of flames.

The ridge on which he stood provided him with an excellent

view of the phenomenon, which stretched to the West probably

as far as the Great Sea, and to the East in another

infinite, glowing line that became smaller and smaller in

the distance until it was just a molten thread stretching

across the peaks of the highlands.  It was a perfect

barrier.  He was stopped.

     Then, even as he watched, the rigid lines of the wall

began to widen.  Waves of flame stretched out like greedy

tongues, licking and consuming trees, bushes, grass, and

anything else in its way.  It was coming towards him.

     Zandorf's jaw tightened, and he turned away from the

sight that seemed to mock him and his efforts.  Slowly, with

his back to the distant but approaching sea of death, he

started back towards Datly.

                            * * *

     As they hurried forward, covering ground in a very

fast, but also very tiring pace, the smell of smoke and

charred trees grew thicker, as did the number of small

animals, like rabbits and squirrels.  Everything was dashing

north for cover.  Looking back, Vinson saw a thick cloud of

black smoke hanging lazily over the trees.

     The Northbound road led ahead through the forest, and

then upwards, in a winding, precarious path up a large,

sloping mountainside.  As they climbed higher along the

path, the trees became more sparse, the rocky ground

allowing only clumps of weeds and small scrub brush to grow.

It took tiring, frantic climbing to continue along the steep

road, with the hot sun beating down mercilessly.  When they

had climbed a good deal of the ways up the slope, they could

see the raging fire swarming over the forest below, smoke

billowing upwards in dark, wispy clouds.  The fire looked

like a living ocean, glowing and seething over the

blackening forest.  It was a despairing sight.

     Taking no longer than a moment to rest, the four

travellers continued up the slope and away from the fire.

It took the entire day to reach the summit.  By that time,

most of the fire had oddly burned itself out, leaving only

glowing ash and coal in it wake, although there were a few

small patches of dancing flames spreading Eastward, and a

small strip of fire still separating them from the South.

The forest looked like an eerie hell with only the hot,

glowing refuse, scattered flames, and charred blackness.  It

was a relief to turn away from the sight and continue down

the opposite slope.  On this side could be seen waving

plains of yellow grasses and the silvery ribbon of the

Turquoise River, alongside which the big city of Derrik sat.

The sun--enormous, orangish, and low to the West--lit the

winding road down the mountain dimly, creating long and

confusing shadows from the scattered trees and bushes.  The

breeze floating by felt cool and refreshing on their damp,

tired faces, but the smell of smoke still lingered in the

air.

     The tired company reached the large city of Derrik

later that night.  The city was bustling with life even at

such a late hour, with light glowing from tavern and inn

windows, and lively music floating around the main streets.

The sillhouettes of dancing people could be seen twirling

around and round in the windows of the roadside inns.

     "Ah, the city," Arion said.  "The life."

     "The noise," Walker said.  "All I want to do is clean

up and have a good night's rest."

     Apparently, there seemed to be no such thing as a calm

inn in Derrik, so the four chose one that seemed less

crowded than the rest, and went inside.  The two double-

doors that opened into the lively taproom looked new in

comparison to the rest of the structure, and it was freshly

painted.  Vinson noticed splinterings of wood and some loose

nails lying beside the road as they went inside.

     The taproom was uproarious.  To the left was a raised

platform on which five men in faded clothes either stood or

sat, each with a musical instrument, and they were going

full swing.  It was hard to see anything to the right

because of the dancing and frolicking of the customers, but

Vinson noticed tables and chairs along the wall.  Straight

ahead, the bar was crowded with people of all sorts, all

laughing and drinking and shouting.  The noise was

incredible.  Walker took the lead through the crowd to the

bar, where a young, skinny man was handing out several mugs

of ale and wine.

     "This is really great," Arion said,.  "I could

definitely live here."

     The towering form of Eric Walker got the young

barkeeper's attention quickly.

     "Can we have some rooms?" He asked.  He had to shout to

make himself heard.

     "Rooms?" The young man asked, wincing over the noise.

     "Yes.  How big are they?"

     The man shrugged.  "Each has a cot."

     "So you mean one person."

     "I guess."

     "Alright, give us four."

     "Huh?  Four?"

     Walker's jaw tightened.  "Yes.  As far from this and

quiet as possible."

     The young man laughed.  "Friend, if you want quiet, you

can sleep in one of the outhouses in back.  Around here, we

make noise."

     "Alright, alright," Walker said.  "How much for four

rooms?"

     "Uh. . . I'll sleep you in four rooms for forty

crescents."

     "Alright, fine--"

     "Thirty," Arion broke in.  "Forty is ridiculous."

     "Thirty-five," the young man said, looking annoyed.  He

flicked the long hair from his face with a jerk of his head.

     "Thirty-five is fine," Walker said.

     "Your rooms are down the hall to your left," the man

said.  He smiled as he accepted their money.  "Have a nice

night, and remember to lock your doors."

                            * * *

     Kurt Arion found a small, stringy-looking cot in his

room that didn't seem like it would be very comfortable, a

small wooden table with a small oil lamp sitting on it, a

small chair under a small window, and a tiny wash basin in

the corner.  There was a dirty-looking slice of lye soap and

a few unraveling washcloths next to the basin.  Arion

sighed, dropping his shoulder pack and collapsing into the

chair.

     As he did, the nagging feeling of someone watching him

bored into his back, and he turned around.  Behind the

little window was a black cat sitting atop the ledge,

staring at him with disturbingly intelligent eyes.  When

Arion saw it, the cat jumped away.

     He really had been intent on returning South.

Especially after that incident in the Aries Mountains with

the dwarf.  He didn't like the way he had allowed himself to

be taken down so easily--with a mere poison-tipped dart!  A

tactic he should have been expecting, and should have

avoided.  Inside, he felt that he was letting himself get

too carried away with this woman's fish story, with her

little Northward quest.

     Or was it all true?

     He hated to admit it, but things were starting to work

out as though Arleah might actually have been speaking some

truth.  The red serpents on the dwarves' vests, like the

serpent in his dream.  The dreams themselves.  The odd

situation at Datly, which seemed to correspond to Walker's

tale.  And, most importantly, Arleah.  When she looked at

him, he knew. . .when her eyes searched through his mind,

eyes that he had at first thought to be mere physical

beauty, so much like the rest of her, they now made him feel

uneasy.  What did she know?  What was her secret?

     After leaving the group in the mountains and moving

back southward, it wasn't the wall of flames that had

stopped him.  No, he was stopped far before that.  It was

the crow, the crow in the trees.  Even now, he wasn't sure

what it had been about that big, ugly black bird that had

made him stop moving southward, but it did.  He saw the

crow, and suddenly, he just didn't want to go any farther.

Just like that.  He wasn't really as surprised about this as

one might think, because he sometimes did that--look at

something abstract and have a complete change of mind.  He

never wondered why it happened anymore, he just accepted it-

-just like everything else.

                             * * *

     The next morning, the taproom looked much different

than it had the night before.  The platform where the

musicians had been playing was pulled away, the floor where

the people had been dancing was hidden under tables and

chairs, and it was much quieter and far less crowded.  Upon

requesting breakfast, the four travellers were given wooden

bowls of some type of stew.  Vinson decided it tasted

alright, although he couldn't quite figure out what kind of

meat was in it.

     "So what now?" Arion asked.

     "I think we need to stay here another day," Arleah

said.  "We need the rest."

     "Good idea," Arion said.  "I think I'm going to take a

brisk. . . profitable walk today."  He smirked.

     "We will be travelling through the Taurus Desert to

reach Galgoth," Arleah said.  "I think we should get a work

animal of some kind to carry water.  It will help a great

deal."

     Walker finished his stew, pushing the bowl away.  The

spoon he set down looked tiny in his big hand.  "How far

away is Galgoth?" he asked.

     "No more than a day away," Arleah said.  "It's very

close."

     "Galgoth?"  The voice came from behind Vinson.  It was

a deep, almost melodic voice.  The four travellers all

turned at once to find who it was that had spoken.

     It was a man of about Vinson's height.  He was

extraordinarily handsome, with finely chiseled, almost too-

perfect features and a broad, warm smile.  His coal black

hair was long and pushed back like Walker's, and his eyes

were as green as Arleah's.  The cloaks and tunics he wore

were elaborate and expensive-looking, and around his left

wrist were three or four golden chains. Vinson recognized

the wooden pole he carried as a quarterstaff..  The man

beamed his disarming, carefree smile as he walked over to

their table, resting one hand on an empty chair.

     "Sorry to interrupt your meals," he said, "but I

couldn't help overhearing your conversation.  Did I hear you

were looking for work animals?"

     "Yes," Arleah said.

     "Mules?"

     "A mule would certainly be acceptable," Arleah said.

"Do you have one for sale?"

     The man pulled out the empty chair from under the table

next to theirs and set his quarterstaff up against the

table.  "May I join you?" he asked.

     "Of course," Walker said.

     The man sat down heavily, pulling up between Arleah and

Arion.  "My name's Tallander Venice.  People around here

call me Tal."

     Kurt Arion thought that his eyes were strangely

familiar, as if he'd seen them not too long ago.  He

couldn't quite read them; it wasn't like Arleah, whose eyes

appeared to be shielded, but it was more like they were--too

complex.  There was too much there, moving too quickly.  It

made an eerie shiver run up and down his spine, and it

bothered him that he couldn't explain why.

     "Pleased to meet you, Tal.  I'm Eric Walker."

     "Arleah."

     "Troy."

     Arion pushed his empty bowl away, making an effort to

smile pleasantly at Tal, although he didn't say anything.

He felt suddenly hostile to this mysterious stranger.

     Tal smiled.  "The pleasure is mine, I'm sure.  I just

so happen to have two mules in my possession that would be

indispensible for travelling, especially to--"

     "How much?" Arion asked.

     Tal chuckled, rubbing his hands together.  "What would

you say if I were to let you use these mules for only

fifteen silver crescents?"

     "Fifteen?" Walker said.  "That's outstanding."

     Arion didn't appear surprised.  "What's the catch?" he

asked.

     Tal smiled.  "Well, actually, there is a small catch.

But I don't think it'll be of much consequence.  You see,

I'm travelling North to Galgoth myself tomorrow morning, and

I could use the company."

     "You want to share the mules," Arion said.

     "Sure.  I wouldn't mind the extra money, and you'd save

yourself over fifty crescents by borrowing instead of buying

a mule for yourself.  What do you say?"

     "No way," Arion said.  He looked fiercely at Arleah.

"No, Arleah."

     Arleah looked at him questioningly.  "Why not, Kurt

Arion?"

     "It sounds like a good idea to me," Walker said.  Tal

smiled.

     "Isn't this a little. . . restrictive. . . to take in

outsiders like this?" Arion asked.  "It's nothing personal.

. . Tal, but we're about our own business here."

     Tal nodded.  "As am I.  No need to worry; I have no

interests in your business, as long as you share the same

respect for me.  I think we can work out a good travelling

arrangement together."

     "Sure," Walker said.

     "I've heard that one before," Arion said.  "I don't

think so, Tal."

     "I don't see a problem," Arleah said.

     Arion glared at her.  "It's your call, then, Lady," he

said. "I feel this is a bad idea."

     "What do you say, Troy?"  Walker said.

     Vinson rubbed is chin, glancing at Kurt Arion.  "I say

we go with Tal," he said.

     Arion pushed his chair out from the table, and stood

up.

     "If you'll excuse me," he said bitterly, and then he

left.  Arleah sighed as she watched him disappear out the

inn doors.

     "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea," Tal said.  "It

doesn't matter, really.  I'm sure someone else--"

     "No," Walker said.  "It's alright.  Arion has his

doubts, and rightly so, but we could use the break."

     "Yes," Arleah said.  "We can."

     Tal shrugged, smiling broadly again.  "Well, I'll be

here at the inn until tomorrow morning.  I'll be ready to

leave at sunrise."



     The day was spent by Arleah, Vinson, and Walker

searching through the city for more clothes, better shoulder

bags, water skins, and rations.  There were several other

odd trinkets the merchants had displayed outside their

shops.  Vinson chuckled to himself as he passed the magic

shop and booths, where peddlers were trying to sell "wands"

and "potions" and other foolish nonsense.  One even had what

he called a magic book, which, he promised, would allow you

to concoct a potion for anything you desired.

     They didn't see Kurt Arion, or even the man named Tal

that they had met that morning, but the streets were so

numerous and crowded, usually flanked on both sides by so

many shops that it wasn't surprising.

     After supper at the inn, which consisted of roast

mutton and the same stew from breakfast, the crowds began

getting riled up again.  The platform was set up and another

group of musicians piled onto it, most of them drunk.  Arion

had still not been seen, and Walker had retired to his room

immediately after dinner.

     "I think I'm going to go to bed," Arleah said, after

the room had become the same noisy uproar it had been the

night before.

     Vinson looked at her in mock surprise.  "What?  You

mean to tell me you're going to miss out on all this fun?"

     Arleah smiled.  "I suppose I'll deprive myself."

     "Alright.  I'm going to stick around a little longer--

maybe I'll even see Arion."

     Arleah shook her head.  "Don't worry about him.  He'll

be back."

     "I'll take your word for it."

     She bid him goodnight and left through the clutter of

tables and people.  Vinson watched her go.  One of the

musicians had collapsed, and they were carrying him off the

platform without missing a beat.  Someone shoved him from

behind, and Vinson turned to see  a group of people dancing

and laughing.  He also saw a figure he recognized as Tal

standing beside the far wall, talking to three or four other

men dressed in black cloaks.  The cloaks looked exactly like

Tal's.  Vinson and the others hadn't seen him since that

morning, when the smiling, carefree man had first introduced

himself.  He was pointing down the corridor Arleah had left

only moments ago.

     "Hey there," came a voice beside him.  He looked over

to see a bearded, heavyset man sitting down.  His back was

loaded with an enormous travelling bag, his face sweaty and

covered with black soot.  "Can you spare some silver?"

     "Sure.  Just a moment."

     Vinson watched as one of the men Tal was talking to

shook his head angrily, and stormed out of the inn.

     "Do I know you?" the old man asked.  "You're Phillipe,

aren't you?  From Davensport?"

     "No.  That's someone else."

     Vinson reached into his pouch and pulled out a few

crescents.

     "I'd normally never do this," the man said, "ask for

money and all, but I was caught in some bizarre forest fire

in the mountains.  I lost all my money when I was running."

     Tal was nodding to the cloaked men. The men said

something final and then departed out of the inn as well.

Tal ran a hand through his hair, looked around a few

moments, then disappeared into the corridor Arleah had left

through.

     "Here," Vinson said, slipping the money to him.

"Excuse me, please."

     "My thanks," the man said.  "maybe we'll see each other

again?"

     "Maybe," Vinson said.  Something about the way Tal had

left made him nervous.  He pushed his way through the crowds

and toward the corridor.

                            * * *

     Arleah set the clothes she had bought gently into her

shoulder bag.  She also put in her extra water skins and a

little tinder box.  When she did, she caught sight of the

rose Troy Vinson had given her, and pulled it out.  It was

dried and crumpled, but still held a red blush.

     There was a knock at her door.

     "Just a moment."  She set her bag onto the floor next

to her cot, and went over to the door.  "Who is it?"

     "It's me."

     Arleah sighed, leaning against the door and closing her

eyes.  She knew this moment had to come sooner or later.

Licking her lips nervously, while telling herself at the

same time that she really wasn't nervous, Arleah lifted her

hand to pull the latch from the door, but paused.

     "Yoo-hoo.  Are you going to let me in?"

     She considered answering "no," just to see what he'd

say, but finally pulled the latch from the door, and opened

it.  Tal was there.  He came inside, shutting the door

behind him and latching it again.  Arleah walked back over

to her bag.

     "You don't look like yourself," Tal said, grinning.

     "I'm not."  She lifted the bag back onto the table.

     "It's the humans, isn't it?" Tal asked.  "You can't

take it, can you?"

     Arleah turned around and glared at him.  "There's more

to these humans than you think, Tal.  A lot more."

     Tal frowned.  "What are you now, some kind of expert?"

     "You wouldn't understand."

     "Oh, really?"

     "Yes, really.  Do you know the things I am feeling?  I

feel things now that I would never have dreamed.  It's

beautiful."

     Tal laughed.  "I know what it is," he said.  "It's that

human. . . Troy, Troy Vinson.  Isn't it?"

     "I don't know what you're talking about."  She fastened

her bag tightly.

     "I know.  I see the way you look at him.  I see the way

he looks at you."

     "Tal."  Arleah turned around, eyeing him coolly.  "I

have been sent here on a mission.  I am performing my duty

as it has been given to me and nothing more.  Is that clear

to you?"

     Tal folded his arms.  "I don't like your tone of

voice."

     "Is that so?" Arleah said.

     "Look," Tal said.  "My purpose, as was planned, was to

keep you informed.  And to watch your back, of course.  Now

do you want to hear what I have to say?"

     "You know as well as I that I never agreed to this

arrangement."

     Tal laughed dryly, shaking his head.  "You just think

you know eveything, don't you?"

     "I've known what you're all about from the start,"

Arleah said.  "All you care about is power, power, power.

You don't care about the cause, about the purpose of this

mission.  You simply enjoy toying with me.  And especially

now, because you know that I am extremely vulnerable."

     Tal's eyes were cold.  He took a few steps towards her.

     "You don't know anything," he said, in a voice that was

so startlingly harsh that Arleah drew back.  "You know

nothing about me, nothing at all.  If you did, you would cry

out and fall to your. . ." he stopped suddenly, the

disarming smile returning to his face.  "You really don't

know anything about me, little one."

     "That's irrelevant.  We have our duties."

     "Nothing's irrelevant."  His eyes fell on the rose.

"What's that?"

     "What?"

     "What is that?"  Tal stalked over to the table.

     "Just a flower."  Arleah tried to get it, but Tal

snatched it up before she could.

     "Well," Tal said, "you really are turning human, aren't

you?"

     "Give that back, Tal."

     "You're very stubborn, Arleah.  You've always been

stubborn.  I want to hear you say that you are turning into

one of those humans."

     "Tal.  Give me that."

     "Hah!  I knew you couldn't do it."

     Arleah glared at him.  "I hate you, Tal."  She spun

back to her bag, pretending she had more things to pack.

     "Hate?" Tal said, looking astonished.  He whistled.

"Doest mine ears deceive me?  How does that feel, Arleah?"

He twisted the dying bud of the rose between his thumb and

forefinger, watching it crumble.

     "I have nothing more to say to you," Arleah said.

     "You know, I'm not too comfortable with the way things

have turned out.  I think you're getting too involved."

     "I'm doing what I have to.  This isn't easy, Tal."

     "Nobody said--"

     Tal was interrupted with a knock at the door.

     "Arleah?"  It was Vinson's voice.





- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


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