The War Of The Lance (26 page)

then he grinned despite himself, tossing the bottle and deftly snatching it again from the
air. “Get 'em drunk, you said.”

“But you never listen to me,” Grimm protested. “And I don't think now is a good time to
start!”

“Just go along,” said Jastom. *****

It was sunset when the two draconians threw back the tent's flap again and stepped inside
to retrieve the dishes.

“Thank you, friends,” Jastom said cheerily as the draconians picked up the empty bowls and
wineskin. “It was truly a remarkable repast.” In truth, he and Grimm had buried the
revolting food in a shallow hole in the comer of the tent, but the draconians need not
know that. The two creatures glared at Jastom, the envy glowing wickedly in their
reptilian eyes.

“You're right, Jastom,” the dwarf said thoughtfully, gazing at the two draconians. "They
DO look a little

gray." The first draconian's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“What does the nasty little dwarf mean?” Jastom nodded, a serious look crossing his honest

face. “I see it, too, Grimm,” he said gravely. “There's only one thing it can be. Scale
rot.”

“ 'Scale rot?'” The second draconian spat. “What is this foolishness you babble about?”

Jastom sighed, as if he were reluctant to speak. “I've seen it before,” he said, shaking
his head sadly. “It's a scourge that's wiped out whole legions of draconians to the far
south, in Abanasinia. I didn't think it had traveled across the Newsea, but it seems I was
wrong.”

“Aye, I saw a draconian who had the scale rot once,” Grimm said gloomily. “All we buried
was a pile of black, spongy mold. He didn't die until the very end. I didn't think a
creature could scream as loud as that.”

“I've never heard of this!” the first draconian hissed.

Jastom donned his most utterly believable face. The gods themselves wouldn't know he was
lying. “You don't have to believe me,” he said with a shrug. “Judge for yourself. The
first symptoms are so small you'd hardly notice them if you didn't know what to look for:
a pouchy grayness around the eyes, a faint ache in the teeth and claws, and then . . ”
Jastom let his last words fade into an unintelligible mumble.

“What did you say?” the second draconian barked.

“I said, 'and then the hearing begins to fade in and out,'” Jastom said blithely. The
draconians' eyes widened. They exchanged fearful glances.

“What can we do?” the first demanded.

“You are a healer, you must help us!” the second rasped.

Jastom smiled reassuringly. “Of course, of course. Fear not, friends. I have a potion
right here.” He waved a hand, and the small purple bottle filled with the noxious
concoction appeared in his hand. The draconians stared at it greedily. “Mosswine's
Miraculous Elixir cures all. Even scale rot.” “Aren't you forgetting something?” Grimm
grumbled. Jastom's face fell. “Oh, dear,” he said worriedly. “What is it?” The first
draconian positively shrieked, clenching its talon-tipped fingers and beating its leathery
wings in agitation.

“I'm afraid this is our very last potion,” Jastom said, the picture of despair. “There
isn't enough for both of you.” He set the potion down on the floor, backing away. He
spread his hands wide in a gesture of deep regret. “I'm terribly sorry, but you'll have to
decide which of you gets it.”

The two draconians glared at each other, tongues hissing and yellow eyes flashing.

They lunged for the bottle. *****

“Well, they seemed to have hit upon the only really fair solution to their dilemma,”
Jastom observed dryly.

The two draconians lay upon the floor of the tent, frozen in a fatal embrace. The remnants
of the purple bottle lay next to them, crushed into tiny shards. The fight had been swift
and violent. The two draconians had grappled over the elixir and in the process each had
driven a cruelly barbed dagger into the other's heart. Instantly the pair of them had
turned a dull gray and toppled heavily to the floor. Such was the magical nature of the
creatures that, once dead, they changed to stone.

“Reorx's Beard, will you look at that!” Grimm whispered. Even as the two watched, the
bodies of the draconians began to crumble. In moments nothing remained but their armor,
the daggers, and a pile of dust.

Jastom reached down and brushed the gray powder from one of the barbed daggers. He grinned
nervously. “I think we've just found our way out of here, Grimm.”

Moments later, Jastom crawled through a slit in the back wall of the tent and peered into
the deepening purple shadows of twilight. He motioned for Grimm to follow. The dwarf
stumbled clumsily through the opening, falling on his face with a curse. Jastom hauled the
dwarf to his feet by the belt and shot him a warning look to be quiet.

The two made their way through the darkened camp. Jastom froze each time he heard the
approach of booted feet, but they faded before a soldier came within sight. A silvery glow
was beginning to touch the eastern horizon. The moon Solinari would be rising soon,
casting its bright, gauzy light over the land. They had to hurry. They couldn't hope to
avoid the eyes of the soldiers once the

moon lifted into the sky. They rounded the comer of a long tent and then

quickly ducked back behind cover. Carefully, Jastom peered around the comer. Beyond was a
wide circle lit by the ruddy light of a dozen flickering torches thrust into the ground.
Jastom's eyes widened at the spectacle he saw before him.

“I can fly! I can fly!” a slurred, rasping voice shrieked excitedly. It was Commander
Skaahzak.

He careened wildly through midair, suspended from a tree branch by a rope looped under his
arms. Two draconians grunted as they pulled on the rope, heaving the commander higher yet.
Skaahzak whooped with glee, his small, useless wings flapping feebly. His eyes burned
hotly with the fire of madness.

“It's the goblin's gruel,” Grimm muttered softly. “It's addled his brains. But he'll stop
laughing soon, when it catches his blood on fire.”

A score of soldiers watched Skaahzak spin wildly on the end of the rope, none of them
daring to laugh at the peculiar sight. Suddenly Jastom saw Lieutenant Durm standing at the
edge of the torchlight, apart from the others, his eyes glittering like hard, colorless
gems. Once again, his lips wore a faint, mirthless smile, but what exactly it portended
was beyond Jastom's ken.

Quickly Jastom ducked behind the tent. “Durm is there,” he whispered hoarsely. “I don't
think he saw me.”

“Then let's not give him another chance,” Grimm growled. Jastom nodded in hearty
agreement. The two slipped off in the other direction, deep into the night.

*****

The tall wagon clattered along the narrow mountain road in the morning sunlight. Groves of
graceful aspens and soaring fir slipped by to either side as the dappled ponies trotted
briskly on.

Jastom and Grimm had ridden hard all night, making their way up the treacherous passes
deep into the Garnet Mountains, guided only by the pale, gossamer light of Solinari. But
now dawn had broken over the distant, mist- green peaks, and Jastom slowed the ponies to a
walk. The dragonarmy camp lay a good ten leagues behind them.

“Ah, it's good to be alive and free, Grimm,” Jastom said, taking a deep breath of the
clean mountain air.

“Well, I wouldn't get too used to it,” the dwarf said with a scowl. “Look behind us.”

Jastom did as the dwarf instructed, and then his heart nearly leapt from his chest. A
cloud of dust rose from the dirt road less than a mile behind them.

“Lieutenant Durm,” he murmured, his mouth dry. “I KNEW this was too easy!”

Grimm nodded. Jastom let out a sharp whistle and slapped the reins fiercely. The ponies
leapt into a canter.

The narrow, rocky road began to wind its way down a steep descent. The wind whipped
Jastom's cape wildly out behind him. Grimm hung on for dear life. Jastom barely managed to
steer around a sharp turn in the road. They were going too fast. He leaned hard on the
wagon's brake. Sparks flew. Suddenly there was a sharp cracking sound - the brake lever
came off in Jastom's hand.

“The wagon's out of control!” Jastom shouted. “I can see that for myself,” Grimm shouted
back. The wagon hit a deep rut and lurched wildly. The

ponies shouted in terror and lunged forward. With a rending sound, their harnesses tore
free, and the horses scrambled wildly up the mountain slope to one side. The wagon
careened in the other direction, directly for the edge of the precipice.

All Jastom had time to do was scream, “Jump!”

He and the dwarf dived wildly from the wagon as it sailed over the edge. Jastom hit the
dirt hard. He scrambled to his feet just in time to see the wagon disappear over the edge.
After a long moment of pure and perfect silence came a thunderous crashing sound, and then
silence again. The wagon - and everything Jastom and Grimm owned - was gone. In despair,
he turned away from the cliff . . .

. . . and saw Durm, mounted on horseback, before him. A half-dozen soldiers sat astride
their mounts behind the lieutenant, the sunlight glittering off the hilts of their swords.
Jastom shook his head in disbelief. He was too stunned to do anything but stand there,
motionless in defeat. Grimm, unhurt, came to stand beside him.

“Commander Skaahzak is dead,” Durm said in his chilling voice. "This morning there was
nothing left of

him save a heap of ashes.“ A strange light flickered in the lieutenant's pale eyes.
”Unfortunately you, his personal healers, were not by his side to give him any comfort in
his final moments. I had to ride hard in order to catch up with you. I couldn't let you go
without giving you your due for this failure, Mosswine."

Jastom fell to his knees. When all else failed, he knew there was but one option: grovel.
He jerked the dwarf down beside him. “Please, milord, have mercy on us,” Jastom said
pleadingly, making his expression as pitiful as possible. Given their circumstances, this
wasn't a difficult task. “There wasn't anything we could have done. Please, I beg you.
Spare us. You see, milord, we aren't heal - ”

“Shut up!” Durm ordered sharply. Jastom's babbling trailed off feebly. His heart froze in
his chest. Durm's visage was as impassive as the mountain granite he stood upon.

“The punishment for failure to heal Skaahzak is death,” Durm continued. He paused for what
seemed an interminable moment. “But then, it is the commander's right to choose what
punishments will be dealt out.” Durm held out his hand, conspicuously displaying the ring
- Shaahzak's ring - he now wore on his left hand. The ring's thumbnail-sized ruby
glimmered in the sunlight like blood. “Because of you and your elixir, Mosswine, I am
commander now.” Absently Durm brushed a finger across the cheek where Skaahzak had struck
him. “I will be the one, then, who will choose your punishment.”

Durm's black-gloved hand drifted down to his belt, toward the hilt of his sword. Jastom
made a small choking sound, but for the first - and last - time in his life, he found
himself utterly at a loss for words.

Durm pulled something from his belt and tossed it toward Jastom. Jastom flinched as it
struck him in the chest. But it was simply a leather purse.

“I believe ten coins of steel is what you charge for one of your elixirs,” Durm said.

Jastom stared at the lieutenant in shock. For once Jastom thought he recognized the odd
note in Durm's voice. Could it possibly be amusement?

“Job well done, HEALER,” Durm said, that barely perceptible smile touching his lips once
again. Then, without another word, the new commander whirled his

dark mount about and galloped down the road, his soldiers following close behind. In
moments all of them disappeared around a bend. Jastom and Grimm were alone.

“He knew all along,” Jastom said in wonderment. “He knew we were charlatans.”

“And that's why he wanted us,” Grimm said, his beard wagging in amazement. “Letting his
commander die outright would have been traitorous. But this way it looks like he did
everything he could to save Skaahzak. No one could fault him for his actions.”

“And I thought WE were such skillful swindlers,” Jastom said wryly. He looked wistfully
over the edge of the cliff where the wagon had disappeared.

“Well, at least we have this,” Grimm said gruffly, picking up the leather purse.

Jastom stared at the dwarf for a long moment, and then slowly a grin spread across his
face. He took the purse from Grimm and hefted it thoughtfully in his hands. “Grimm, how
much dwarf spirits do you suppose you could brew with ten pieces of steel?”

A wicked gleam touched the dwarf's iron-gray eyes. “Oh, ten steel will buy enough,” Grimm
said as the two started down the twisting mountain road, back toward inhabited lands.
“Enough to get us started, that is . . .”

Vandor Grizt used to think that the worst smell in the world was wet dog. Now, however, he
knew that there was a worse one.

Wet, DEAD dog.

Helplessly bound to the ship's mast, Vandor could only stare into the baleful, pupil-less
eyes of the undead monstrosity that guarded him. The combination of rot and damp mist made
the pale, hairless beast so offensive to smell that even the two draconians did their best
to stay upwind of the creature. Vandor, however, had no such choice.

Vandor was forced to admit that he probably didn't smell much better. Bound head and foot,
he'd been

dragged over rough roads for four days to the shores of the Blood Sea, then taken aboard
ship. He was not his usual, immaculate self. He hoped none of his customers had seen him;
the degrading spectacle would be bad for business . . . providing he survived to DO
business.

Tall and lean, Vandor Grizt was usually either quick enough or slippery enough to evade
capture - be it by local authorities or the occasional, unsatisfied customer. When speed
failed him, his patrician, almost regal features, coupled with his silver tongue, enabled
him to talk his way out. Vandor never truly got rich selling his “used” wares, but neither
did he ever go hungry. No, he'd never regretted the course his life had taken.

Not until now.

Vandor shifted. The undead wolf-thing bared its rotted fangs - a warning.

“Nice puppy,” Vandor snarled back. “Go bury a bone, preferably one of your own.”

“Be silent, human,” hissed one of the two draconians, a sivak. The draconians appeared to
be a pair of scaly, near-identical twins, but Vandor had learned from painful experience
that they were quite different. The sivak had a special talent - having killed a person,
the sivak could alter its features and shape to resemble those of its victims. In the
guise of one of Vandor's trustworthy friends, the sivak draconian had led Vandor into an
alley. There, he had been ambushed. He realized his mistake when he watched the sivak
change back to its scaly self . . . and inform him that his friend was dead.

Given a chance, Vandor Grizt would cut the lizard's throat. He had few enough friends to
let them get murdered. Why the draconians had gone to the trouble, Vandor still did not
know. Perhaps, the black-robed cleric who led the party would tell him. It would at least
be nice to know why he was going to die.

“We give thanks to you, Zeboim, mistress of the seal” intoned the cleric.

Vandor - self-styled procurer of “lost” artifacts and “mislaid” merchandise - could not
identify what god or goddess the cleric worshipped on a regular basis, but doubted that it
was the tempestuous sea siren who called Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, her mother. Zeboim
did not seem the type who would favor the hideous, white, skull

mask that covered the front half of the cleric's face. Some other deity fancied skulls and
dead things, but the name escaped Vandor. Gods were not his forte. He himself gave some
slight service to Shinare, who watched over merchants, including (he liked to think)
enterprising ones such as himself. Since Shinare was one of the neutral gods, Vandor had
always concluded she did not mind that he prayed only when in dire need. Now, however, he
wondered if this were his reward for taking her for granted. Gods were peculiar about that
sometimes.

The ship rocked as another wild wave struck it. The Blood Sea was a terror to sail at the
best of times, but sailing it in the dark of night, during a storm, was suicidal folly as
far as Grizt was concerned.

His opinion had been ignored by both crew and passengers.

Skullface turned around and summoned his two draconian companions. Magical torches, which
never went out despite the constant spray, gave the cleric's mask a ghoulish look. Only
the mouth and a thin, pointed chin were visible beneath the mask.

“You two draconians - set up the altar for the summoning!” the cleric commanded.

Vandor shivered, guessing that the summoning could only mean dire things for him.

A kapak draconian looked at its master questioningly. “So soon, Prefect Stel?” Saliva
dripped as the creature talked. The minotaur crew was not enamored of the venomous kapak.
Every time it spoke, it burned holes in the deck.

Prefect Stel pulled sleek, black gloves over his bony hands. He dresses very well, Vandor
Grizt thought. Not my style of clothes, of course, but beautiful fabric. Under other
circumstances, Stel would have been a client of potential. Vandor heaved a sigh.

Stel was talking. “I want the altar to be ready to be put to use the moment we are over
the site.” The dark cleric pulled out a tiny skull on a chain from around his neck. Vandor
studied the jewel closely, first for possible value and then because he realized it was
glowing.

“What about this human, prefect?” the sivak asked.

“The dreadwolf will guard him. He does not appear to be a stupid man.” The cleric turned
to Vandor. “Are you?”

“I would have to say I am still debating that issue, my good master,” the independent
merchandiser responded. “My current prospects do not bode well for hopes of profit.”

Stel was amused. “I can see that.” He leaned closer and, for the first time, his prisoner
caught a glimpse of the dark pits that were his eyes. Vandor wondered if Stel EVER removed
the mask. In the days since falling into the trap, Vandor had yet to see the face hidden
behind.

“If I were a priest of greasy Hiddukel rather than of my lord Chemosh, I would be tempted
to offer you a place at my side,” said Stel. “You are truly dedicated to the fine art of
enriching yourself at the cost of others, aren't you?”

“NEVER at the expense of my good customers, Master Stel!” Vandor protested, insulted. But
the protest was halfhearted.

Chemosh - lord of the undead. The mask should have been sufficient evidence, and the
undead dog the ultimate proof, but the confused and frightened Vandor had not made the
connection. Vandor was in the hands of a necromancer, a priest who raised the dead for
vile purposes, vile purposes that usually required a SACRIFICE. But why specifically
Vandor Grizt? The shape-shifting sivak had come for him and no one else.

The sailing ship rocked again in the turbulent waters. A wave splashed over the rail,
soaking everything but the magical torches and - oddly enough - the cleric. Stel's tiny
skull gleamed brighter now. His clothes were perfectly dry.

Thunder crashed. A series of heavy thuds continued on after; the noise caused Vandor to
look up to the heavens to see what could create such a phenomenon. A massive form came up
beside him and Vandor immediately realized that what he had taken for part of the storm
had actually been footfalls.

“Prefect,” the newcomer rumbled, his voice louder than the thunder.

“Yes, Captain Kruug?”

Kruug appeared ill-at-ease before the cleric. Odd, since the minotaur was over seven feet
tall and likely weighed three times more than Prefect Stel. Vandor had no idea how long
the beastman lived, but Captain Kruug looked to have been sailing the seas for all of
Vandor's

thirty years and more. Such experience made Vandor's chances of surviving the rough waters
and threatening storm much better, but that didn't hearten the captive. It only meant that
he would live long enough to confront whatever fate the cleric of Chemosh had in mind for
him.

“Prefect,” Kruug repeated. The minotaur's very stance expressed his dislike for the
necromancer. “My ship is here only because you and your Highlord ordered my cooperation.”

Vandor's hopes rose. Perhaps the minotaurs would refuse to sail on, destroy whatever dread
plan the necromancer had in mind.

“My crew is growing anxious, cleric,” the captain said. Minotaurs did not like to admit
anxiety. To them, it was a sign of weakness. “The storm is bad enough and sailing through
it at night is only that much worse. Those two things, though, I could handle at any other
time, PREFECT.” Kruug hesitated, unable to stare directly at the mask for more than a few
moments.

“And so?” Stel prompted irritably.

“It's time you tell us why we are sailing to this location in the middle of the deepest
part of the Blood Sea. There are rumors circulating among the crew and as each rumor
grows, they, in turn, become more uneasy.” Kruug snorted, wiping sea spray from his
massive jaw. “We find it most interesting that a priest of Chemosh has spent so much time
paying homage to the Sea Queen that it seems he has forgotten his own god!”

The dreadwolf snarled, its pupil-less eyes narrowed. Stel petted it.

“You are being paid well, captain. Too well for you to ask questions. And I would think
that you would approve of my efforts to appease the Sea Queen. Is she not deserving of
respect, especially now? We are in her domain. I give her tribute as she deserves.”

Vandor Grizt's heart sank. MY LUCK HAS BECOME LIKE A POUCH FILLED WITH COIN . . . ALL LEAD!

Kruug apparently did not trust Stel's smooth words. He snorted his disdain, but glanced
around uneasily. A creature of the sea, the captain had to be more careful than most in
maintaining a respectful relationship with the tempestuous Sea Queen.

The storm worsened. The sea mist that drenched all

save the cleric was accompanied by a light sprinkle, a harbinger of the torrential
downpour to come. Lightning and thunder broke overhead.

“You had better pray that Zeboim has listened to you, prefect,” the minotaur retorted.
“Else I shall appease her by throwing you and your stinking mutt over the side. My ship
and my crew come first.” He grumbled at no one in particular. “It's easy for the Highlord
to agree to mad plots when he's safe in his chambers back on shore! He isn't the one
who'll suffer, just the one who'll reap the benefits!”

Stel smiled unpleasantly. “You were given a choice, Kruug. Sail with me or surrender the
TAURON to a BRAVER captain who would.”

Kruug growled, but he backed down.

For one of Kruug's race, the choice was no choice at all. No minotaur dared let himself be
thought a coward. Stel looked past the captain, who turned to see what

had the cleric's attention. Vandor - tied to one of the masts - was unable to turn around,
but he knew from the clanking sounds that the draconians must be returning from their
excursion below deck. The two draconians dragged forward a peculiar metal bowl on three
legs. Captain Kruug glared at the kapak.

“And I'll throw those lizards over, too, especially the one who can't keep his mouth
shut!” Kruug added. “If he burns one more hole through the deck . . .” But the minotaur
was being ignored. Seeking a target on which to vent his frustration, Kruug glanced down
at Vandor, who suddenly sought a way to shrink into the mast. The minotaur's smile vied
with that of the dreadwolf for number of huge, sharp teeth. “And maybe I'll throw this
piece of offal over right now!”

“Touch him, my homed friend, and your first mate finds himself promoted.” Stel was deadly,
coldly serious.

Kruug was taken aback. “What's so special about this thieving little fox?”

“Him?” Stel glanced at Vandor. “By himself, he is worthless.”

Despite his predicament, Vandor was offended. “It is his blood I find invaluable,” Stel
continued. Vandor was no longer offended ... he was too busy

trying to recall the proper prayers for Shinare. If he'd had any doubt before as to his
fate, that doubt was gone now.

“I do not understand,” replied the captain.

Stel looked down at the skull on the chain. “In a few minutes, Captain Kruug, you AND
Vandor Grizt will understand. We are nearing our destination. Please have your crew
prepare to stop this vessel.”

“In this deep water, our anchor won't hold!” Kruug protested.

“We do not need to be completely still. Just make certain we stay within the region. I
think you can manage that, captain. I was TOLD that you are an expert at your craft.”

Kruug bridled. “I've been sailing these waters - ”

A crackle of thunder drowned out whatever the minotaur said after that, but the fury on
his face and the speed with which he departed the vicinity of Prefect Stel spoke plainly.
Vandor Grizt was sorry to see the captain leave. Of all Vandor's unsavory companions, the
minotaur captain was the only one who seemed to share his fear. Kruug was merely carrying
out orders and with a lack of enthusiasm that Vandor dismally appreciated.

The draconians set up the altar quickly despite the constant rocking of the ship. They
lashed the legs of the metal monstrosity to various areas of the deck, assuring that the
huge bowl would remain in place regardless of how rough the sea. When the draconians were
finished, the two stumbled back to Stel, who seemed to have no trouble moving about,
unlike everyone else.

“The sea grows no calmer, prefect!” hissed the sivak. “Despite your prayers to the Sea
Queen, the ropes may not hold!”

“She will listen!” Stel declared. “I have sought her good will for three days now. We dare
not attempt this without the Sea Queen's favor. We dare not steal from her domain!” Stel
paused, considering. He glanced at Vandor Grizt, then again at the draconians. “I will
have to give an offering of greater value than I had supposed. Something that will prove
to Zeboim my respect for her majesty! Something that will acknowledge her precedence over
all else in this endeavor! It will have to be now!”

“Now?” snarled the kapak, surprised. “But now is the time for your evening devotions to
Chemosh, prefect!”

“Chemosh will understand.” Stel turned again to Vandor and pointed. “Unbind him!”

As the draconians undid his bonds, Vandor tried to slip free of them. For a brief moment,
he escaped, but then the dreadwolf was in front of him, ready to spring. Vandor's
terrified moment of hesitation was sufficient time to permit the draconians to reestablish
their hold on him.