The Magic Of Krynn (8 page)

“It was given to him by Raistlin the mage!” blurted Sintk. Drago squeezed harder. “He was
a faker,” gulped William, gasping for breath. "But I

am worse. A FOOL. I took the coin as payment in kind, because I believed him when he told
me it was magic, but it is ... nought. You may . . .“ He stared directly into Drago's
blazing eyes. ”You may have it, my friend."

“Bah!” said Drago, and let William go. With a flick of his hand, he sent the coin spinning
across the bar. Around and around it spun, sending off glints of light. William grabbed
for it and clasped it dearly, feeling its warmth. But Drago had already turned away and
settled his bulk at a table.

“Bring me ale and the usual rotten stew!” shouted Drago, without a backward glance. “And
be quick about it. Pig-face!”

William bustled about fulfilling Drago's edict, while Sintk unhappily drained two more
tankards.

*

Later, as the sun was setting, William locked up the Pig and Whistle. It was not unusual
for the innkeeper to close early these days. Few honest wayfarers visited Port Balifor.
The ominous presence of the Highlords' troops made everyone uneasy.

Besides, William liked to spend the sunset hour walking with Sintk along the harbor. The
stroll was the highlight of his day. This particular evening was warm. The sky was
cloudless and a light breeze blew in from the bay. The dimming light had that peculiar
quality found only in twilight time along the seacoast.

As William and Sintk walked along a street that led to the harbor, they were surprised to
see a large sailing vessel tied up at the pier. They stood in the center of the street,
looking down toward the wharf, as dracon-ian troops crowded the deck of the unfamiliar
ship.

“A supply ship?” asked Sintk.

William shook his head. “Their regular ship was here last week. This must be the patrol
boat I heard about. The Highlords are upset because so many citizens are deserting the
town and fleeing to the hills.”

Draconian crewmen were moving swiftly across the deck of the ship. Then, a door opened and
several humans were shoved out of a cabin. The prisoners were linked together

with leg chains. Their hands were manacled. They huddled together as the troops pushed
them toward the gangplank, which was lowered to the wharf. Several heavily armed draconian
guards under the command of a hobgoblin officer waited on the wharf.

Sintk whispered, “Look, the old man in the back. That's Thomas the tailor. Why would Old
Tom be in chains? He's a good tailor who wouldn't harm a bug.”

Clawed feet on cobblestones sounded behind the two friends. William looked back and saw a
group of draconians marching down the street. William and Sintk kept their eyes to the
ground. They walked to the front of the Missionary's Downfall, a waterfront bar with a
garish facade, where they sat down on a weathered bench in front of the establishment. The
tavern was the most notorious dive in eastern Ansa-lon, not a respectable place like the
Pig and Whistle.

They watched as the prisoners shuffled down the gangplank. Faces bruised, shoulders
slumped, the manacled men and women moved with a listless step. They were ordered about by
a muscular draconian, who carried a short, metal-tipped whip.

Their thoughts were interrupted by a loud creaking noise behind them. A moment later,
Harum El-HaIup stepped out of the Missionary's Downfall. The mino-taur was owner of the
tavern, a rugged individual with a bestial face, a massive chest, thick arms and legs.

A fugitive from a sentence of death in his minotaur homeland, Harum El-Halop had found
sanctuary in Port Balifor. He had quick wits, fighting ability, and the nerve of someone
with nothing to lose. He had quickly gained a reputation as the toughest fighter on the
brawling waterfront.

A high-stakes gambler, the minotaur had won the Missionary's Downfall in a card game with
the previous owner. Nowadays the tavern was patronized by thieves, cut-throats, and troops
from the dragonarmy. It was also the favorite drinking spot for off-duty hobgoblins, who
stole supplies from the quartermaster and exchanged the contraband for drinks.

“Why is Thomas being held prisoner?” William asked the minotaur, who stood there,
observing the scene with them.

“I told them the plan wouldn't work,” sneered Harum. His bestial face looked horrible in
the shadowed light. "Thomas and the others wanted to escape by sea. They paid a hobgoblin
to steal a boat for them to use at dawn. But hobgoblins are informers, and this one was a
low-life who plays everyone off the dragon-army. As soon

as the boat was launched, the hobgoblin made his report to the draconians."

William protested. “But Thomas is an honest man. He is no thief.”

“He was on the boat,” said the minotaur. “Likely he'll end up in the dungeons with the
others. The drag-onarmy can't allow people to come and go as they please, without
permission. Bad for their reputation. Old Tom knew that.” The minotaur made a clucking
sound with his tongue. “Thomas will be lucky to last a month in that slime pit under the
castle.”

William shuddered. He had heard tales of the torture of prisoners in the dungeon. Knowing
Drago's cruelty as he did, he didn't find the tales hard to believe. Poor Tom. He had
always been a good friend to everyone in Port Balifor.

Sintk asked in a forlorn tone, “What can we do?” “Meat for the dungeon,” replied Harum.
“Stay out of it.” William looked down, ashamed. If only he had the courage ... if

only he had some idea of how to fight back ... if only . . . “Now, William,” said Harum,
"what the people of Balifor need

is a leader. Someone to lead a rebellion against these creatures. You're liked and
respected. People will do what you ask of them."

Harum's ugly face took on a quizzical look, and William had the idea he was burrowing into
his private thoughts. Or was he teasing him?

“Why don't you do it?” William asked the minotaur, thinking, if he were as big and strong
as Harum, certainly he'd have little hesitation.

“Oh, I am not a native of Port Balifor,” Harum replied nonchalantly, “and I am not sure I
care so very much. And people know I serve thieves and scoundrels at the Missionary's
Downfall, so they would suspect my motivation. Also, I am a fugitive from my own kind, and
people don't follow leaders with such flaws. But they would stand behind someone like you,
someone responsible and upstanding. You would have their trust.”

“I couldn't do it.” William felt weak. He didn't want to look at the minotaur. Instead, he
turned his gaze back to the harbor.

The prisoners were being marched off the wharf by the troops and the hobgoblin officer.
The last prisoner in the coffle was the tailor, a gray-haired, elderly man with a wrinkled
face. His eyes were dull with fatigue. Thin and tall, about six feet in height, the tailor
had stooped shoulders from years of leaning over his nee- dles.

The guards may have been careless, for the leg irons around

Old Tom's ankles were loose. Suddenly, without attracting attention, the tailor stepped
out of

the leg irons and bolted from the shuffling line of prisoners. His escape would have been
successful, if he had not stumbled over a rope and fallen to his knees.

“Seize him!” cried the hobgoblin officer.

Now, Tom the tailor was up and running across the weathered boards of the wharf, heading
for the street ahead. There was a moment's confusion among the guards before they began
running after the old man, so Tom had a head-start.

Even so, one soldier began to overtake the tailor. As William, Sintk, and Harum El-Halop
watched helplessly, the grim-faced draconian thrust its hand out to grab the tailor's
flapping tunic. The tailor stopped abruptly, spun around, and swung his fist at the dra-
conian.

The force of the blow knocked both the tailor and the draconian off their feet. The tailor
fell back on the cobblestones. The draconian weaved to a halt on rubbery legs, its hands
clawing at its injured throat.

Within moments, the desperate tailor got to his feet and fled up the street, past the
Missionary's Downfall, where William and his friends were still standing, mouths agape. A
second later, he vanished into an alley. Two soldiers pursued the fleeing prisoner.

Harum the minotaur grinned in derision as the hobgoblin officer in command bustled past,
his fat belly bouncing like jelly above his wide leather belt. The hobgoblin noticed his
audience and stopped, his face twisting with anger. Ignoring the powerful minotaur, he
focused on poor William and drew his sword, pressing the tip of the blade against the
front of William's throat.

“Maybe you'd like to come along with us instead,” the hobgoblin snarled.

William trembled. He shoved his shaking hands into his pockets to hide his fear from his
friends. His stubby fingers closed over the coin as he prayed fervently for deliverance.

If only . . . “I'm waiting for your answer,” sneered the hobgoblin. William made a
grunting noise like the excited squeal of a

frightened piglet. The hobgoblin cocked his head for an instant, looked at Sintk and
Harum, then lowered his sword. He chuckled as William's body shivered with fright.

A sudden shout came from the alley. Then, two draconian soldiers came out of the lane with
the tailor held fast between them. He jerked and twisted to break free of their grasp. The
hobgoblin

officer sheathed his sword and walked away to join his troops. “Close,” whispered Sintk.
“Poor Tom,” said William. Harum El-HaIup stood quietly with his arms folded over his

chest. He watched imperiously as the troops prodded the coffle of prisoners toward the
castle. Then the minotaur shrugged and slapped William on the shoulder.

“Every dog has its day,” Harum said. “Old Tom should have known better. I told him to mind
his own business, keep sewing, and not get ambitious with his thinking. But, my friends,
let us slake our thirst and forget about having those reptiles in town. And some-day we
will throw them over, and you, William, will be our leader.” He laughed.

Accompanied by Harum, William and Sintk walked gloomily into the murkiness of the
Missionary's Downfall. The bar was crowded with dwarves, humans, hobgoblins, and a group
of hard- looking draconians drinking in the back. Several half-elves were noisily testing
their mental prowess with a game of riddles. A drunken hobgoblin lay passed out beside his
chair. Two bartenders hurried to keep up with requests for drinks. Harum leaned against
the end of the bar. He motioned to a bartender, who hastened over with three tankards of
ale.

William and Sintk were never completely at ease in the minotaur's establishment. The
tavern's reputation for brawls and free-for-all fights was widely known. Bystanders and
onlookers were often drawn into me-lees that ended in what were known as “Harum's
wall-bouncing parties.” Harum enforced a rule that weapons had to be checked at the door,
but it was not completely effective when applied against magic-users and the lowest
criminal element.

In addition to fights, the Missionary's Downfall was also widely known for a painting on
the ceiling. Some time before, an itinerant artist wandered into Port Ba-lifor with a
talent for painting and a yen for ale. The artist hired out to the minotaur for room,
board, and all the ale he could drink. The artist erected scaffolds and worked for two
years to create an oil mural on the ceiling.

The painting depicted a satyr gamboling with maidens in a pastoral setting. Neither the
satyr nor the maidens were particularly shy, a fact that delighted customers of the bar.
Some folks claimed the mino-taur's regulars could be recognized by the crook in their
necks.

Now, after a long drink of ale, William drew the coin from his pocket. It lay coldly in
his palm, a lifeless piece of metal.

“What's that?” asked Harum. His thick fingers plucked the coin

from William's hand. “It was a gift from someone special,” said William. Sintk the Dwarf
chimed in. "William thinks the coin has

magical powers." The minotaur cocked his head and held the coin up to the light

of an oil lamp on the wall. “What does it do?” “It helps my mind go off to other places.”
William was pleased

that the minotaur had not ridiculed his beliefs about the coin. Harum asked, “You mean
soul-travel?” William looked startled. “What's that?” Harum grinned. "Back home, I was
given a sentence of supreme

shunning. Solitary confinement without contact with anyone. You can't imagine the terrible
loneliness. You get crazed from the need for companionship. My mind was becoming quirky
and dull, un til I taught myself to take mental trips. Flights of the imagination. It
helped me keep my sanity."

Sintk asked dubiously, “This was all in your mind?”

“Who knows for sure?” The minotaur shrugged his thick shoulders. “But if you can escape
this life now and then with such a magic coin, then you are a lucky man, William.”

William beamed. “I told you it was magic,” he said to Sintk.

Just then, a shout came from the far end of the bar. One man slammed down his tankard,
then drove a fist into the stomach of a loud, argumentative drinking companion. The
unexpected blow knocked the loudmouth backward; he crashed into the table where the
half-elves were sitting. Their table was upended against the wall.

With wine coursing through their veins, the half-elves leaped up to defend themselves. One
fell over the slumbering hobgoblin; another was knocked down by a long-bearded dwarf. The
hobgoblin on the floor roused himself, opened his eyes, and rose to a sitting position. A
booted foot slammed into his head; he promptly lapsed back into an unconscious state.

Customers rushed from every side of the Missionary's Downfall for a better view of the
ruckus. Another half-elf stumbled into a human, who slugged the offender on the chin.
Within moments, most of the tavern's patrons were throwing punches, kicking, biting,
howling, and exchanging blows in a loud and violent manner.