Do you ever keep a journal of your travels?” Lucy asked Ulin one afternoon. They were driving the wagon at the end of the caravan on the last leg of their journey from Delphon to Flotsam. Ulin and Lucy sat on the driver’s seat while Challie took her turn trying to nap on the pile of bedrolls behind them.

Lucy squirmed her abused backside to a different angle on the seat—not that it made much difference. The seat was little more than a board nailed across the front of the cook wagon and was probably used as an instrument of torture in Khurish prisons.

Ulin gazed at the distant horizon, his golden brown eyes lost in a world of private speculation and memories. When he did not answer right away, Lucy nudged him and repeated her question.

He heard her this time. “A journal? No, I’ve never had time. Why?”

“Because if you were writing one now, I have several words I would like to include.”

“Such as?”

Lucy swiped her sleeve over her sweating face. “Hot.”

“Dull,” Challie called from the back.

“Painful,” Lucy added. She held up her hands to examine the new calluses on her hands.

“Cold,” said the dwarf.

Lucy began to tap her hand on the sideboard and chant.

She was rewarded by a dry chuckle from the rear.

“I’ll be sure to write that down,” Ulin said in tones as arid as the land around them. Things were getting bad when drivel like that was entertaining. Not that he disagreed with them. Their choice words for his imaginary journal were well chosen and could be repeated every day for the past twenty-eight days.

In the beginning, the journey had started with some variation and interest. The caravan slipped out of Sanction in the dead of night on a bleak path that skirted the large camp of the Knights of Neraka, who guarded the east pass. From there, the caravan wound through the Khalkist Mountains just north of the ogre realm of Blöde. The path was narrow and rough, full of ruts and rocks and holes big enough to break an axle, but it was a road. It wound beside a narrow, rushing river for some miles then began the steady and arduous climb over the high mountains.

It was then that Ulin began to develop a real respect for the drivers of the wagons and the small, tough oxen that pulled them. There were ten cargo wagons in all, with narrow beds and canvas tops that held a mixed cargo of fleeces, bags of pumice, a large box of wool dyes, and a few cases of delicacies such as dried mushrooms, bottles of Sanction wines, and dried fruit. Each wagon had a driver who drove his four oxen with only a whip and his voice, a skill Ulin could not master no matter how often he tried. Fortunately, Akkar-bin, the caravan master, took pity on his oxen the second day and produced a pair of bay draft horses for the cook wagon. Ulin ignored the brands of the Dark Knights on the horses’ hips and did not ask where they came from.

In addition to the drivers, there were four assistants and ten heavily-armed guards who rode nimble-footed Khurish horses at the head and rear of the train. Including Ulin and his companions, the caravan had a respectable number of twenty-seven, a number large enough to discourage all but the largest bands of brigands.

Ulin struggled for several days before he learned the knack of cooking for so many hungry people. After the second night of burned potatoes and skimpy helpings, the swarthy Khurs warned him he had one more night to prove himself or they’d stake him to a boulder and leave him for the vultures. Ulin took no chances. He cooked a simple stew based on one of Tika’s recipes, and he tripled the ingredients. The Khurs devoured all of it and gave him a reprieve for one more night. Each night it was the same. He would cook vast amounts of something simple and filling, and the Khurs would eat it and give him one more night’s reprieve.

It did not take long for Ulin and his “helpers” to establish a routine. Every morning before dawn, he, Lucy, and Challie fetched water, lit a fire, cooked gruel, bacon, and fry bread for breakfast, harnessed the horses, scrubbed the pans, packed the wagon, and drove through the day over the mountainous roads. At dusk they set up camp, built a fire, fetched the water, cooked the dinner, cleaned the dishes, tended the horses, and prepared for the next day. After a few hours of sleep they repeated it all over again. Ulin could not imagine how one man could do it alone.

Once the caravan descended from the mountains, it entered the desert wastes of the Khurs and the arid domain of the red dragon overlord, Malystryx. The work routine continued much the same. Only the landscape changed from rock and mountain to sand, barren hills, and scattered oases that were hot by noon and shivering cold by night. The drudgery of work and travel continued, with only one short break when the caravan reached the city of Khuri-Khan and paused for a day while the caravan master reorganized his master’s wagons and drivers and sent the new train on to Flotsam.

Ulin often wondered during the long hours of driving through the dreary, dun-colored landscape of what used to be Balifor, if this was worth the intensive effort.

Now that the trek was almost over, he could say “possibly” it was. They had saved some of their coins and earned enough to buy a wagon for the return to Sanction. They were all toughened by the work and the difficult travel, and they had learned a few things from the Khurs: how to prepare kefre, how to spice a stew so it burned off several layers of one’s tongue, and how to wrap a burnoose to stay on in a sand storm.

Best of all, to Ulin’s mind, Lucy had learned to cook. At least she could start a fire and boil water now. Together, they made a good partnership.

“Akkar-bin is coming.” Lucy broke into his thoughts.

Ulin straightened and saw a rider trot his horse down the file of wagons toward them. Akkar-bin, the caravan master, looked grim when he wheeled his stallion around beside the cook wagon—but then Ulin had never seen him look any other way. The man was the most laconic, humorless barbarian he had ever met, and not once on the long trip from Sanction had he seen him laugh. At least Akkar-bin wasn’t arrogant or contemptuous of the foreigners in his caravan like some of his guards. He was too emotionless for that.

“The point guard has found sign of draconians,” Akkar-bin said without preamble. “We’ll stop early tonight.” His horse sprang forward, and he rode back up the line without further explanation.

Lucy watched him go. “Wonderful. I suppose that means we won’t get to the watering hole tonight, which means no water.” She swiped her sleeve across her forehead again, wiping the dust and sweat off in muddy streaks.

Ulin made no comment. The news of the draconians did not surprise him. He knew bands of draconians, goblins, ogres, brigands, and exiles roamed the desert. Some were in the service of Malys and patrolled her extensive holdings. The more desperate ones were out for their own survival and attacked likely caravans or travelers at every opportunity. The caravan guards had seen indications of some of the marauders before, but this was the first time Akkar-bin decided to stop the caravan before sunset. Not that Ulin faulted him. He knew from experience that draconians—the foul, sentient spawn that were hatched years ago from corrupted eggs of good dragons—were ferocious fighters. The caravan would need to prepare.

Behind the caravan the brassy sun dropped slowly toward the blurred horizon where the desert faded into a sunburned sky. There was no wind, so the dust stirred up by the wagon wheels and oxen hooves hung like smoke over their heads. In three hours time it would be dark. If the draconians were out there, they would probably attack after nightfall.

Ulin scanned the desert. The land all about was drab: faded browns, tans, reds, and shades of sand. Seen from afar the desert looked like a wide, featureless plain, but in fact it rolled and rippled in solid waves, a tidal pattern engraved into the land by the wind. Here and there, tumbled, twisted ridges of rock broke through the sand and provided meager shade for the stunted, scanty shrubs that struggled to grow. It was a land that required determination to survive.

As Ulin studied the line of far hills to the east, he noticed a hint of green where late spring rains on the coast encouraged grasses and low trees to grow. They were so close to Flotsam, he fancied he could smell the sea breeze, yet he knew their proximity was part of their danger. The caravan was barely twenty miles from Blood Bay, which was close enough to the coast for marauders to find shelter but too far for travelers to expect help. If only the caravan could just keep moving until they reached the streets of Flotsam. Ulin was more than ready for this journey to be over.

Ulin raised his gaze to the vast darkening sky and studied it like a man hungry for something he cannot find. There was no sign of Malys. The monstrous red was probably in her volcanic lair in the midst of her Desolation to the southeast of Flotsam. But Ulin was not looking for her. He searched for another dragon: a gold named Sunrise who had become his friend, his soul mate, and his partner in magic. Sunrise had helped him years before in a confrontation with Malys and had saved his life more than once, but when magic began to fail, something happened to the young gold. For no discernible reason, Sunrise vanished without a trace. Ulin was still puzzling over the missing gold when his young wife and their two children died in a terrible plague, leaving the young mage empty, aching, and reeling from his losses. Even then Fate was not finished with the son of Palin Majere. A year later the forces of the green dragon, Beryl, destroyed the Academy of Sorcery—with some inadvertent help from Ulin—and captured Palin. Only Lucy with her strong heart and her shining, green eyes had held him back from the abyss of despair. Although he was forced to accept the painful truth that his wife was gone, Ulin could not quite believe or accept that Sunrise was dead. Somewhere, sometime, Ulin hoped he would look up and see the dragon’s golden form winging toward him.

He let out a slow breath. It would not happen this day. The sky remained empty, and his hope remained unanswered.

About an hour before sunset and far short of the planned stop at the water hole, the caravan master brought his wagons to the top of a broad hill and had them draw together in a circle. In the last light of day the tribesmen gathered all the dried dung and dead brush they could find for a fire. They cut thorny bushes and formed them into a corral for the oxen. The horses were watered from the precious store of barrels kept on the wagons for emergencies, then they were fed and tethered inside the circle of wagons.

Ulin and Challie lit the fire and hurriedly prepared a quick meal for the men while Lucy took care of their draft horses.

They were scrubbing the pans with sand in the lingering light of early evening when Akkar-bin approached them.

His cold eyes regarded them for a moment before he spoke. “Have you weapons to defend yourselves if the draconians attack?”

Lucy glanced up from where she was kneeling in the sand and hefted the large iron skillet she had been cleaning. “I was taught by a master,” she said, her expression and voice completely serious.

Ulin knew exactly what master she was referring to, for he had seen his grandmother clear the Inn at closing time with a similar “weapon.” He almost laughed when he saw Akkar-bin’s face. The Khur’s humorless gaze stared at Lucy as if he thought she had slipped into dementia.

“We have only small weapons,” Ulin said, drawing the man’s attention away from Lucy. “Is there a sword I could borrow?”

Akkar-bin grunted a reply and jerked his hand toward the wagon containing the shipment of swords. “Take one from the crate. They are straight blades intended for a customer on the Blood Coast. They will be easier for you to handle than our scimitars.”

With another blank look at Lucy he turned on his heel and strode away.

Lucy snorted a suppressed laugh. “That man is hopeless. There are rocks in the desert with more imagination.”

“Maybe,” Ulin agreed. “But he does know his business. I don’t know why you bother trying to goad him.”

“He’s a challenge,” Lucy replied, her grin wicked.

Ulin left the women scrubbing pots and went to the wagon Akkar-bin had indicated. With the help of the driver, he found a long crate labeled WOOL DYES near the top of the load. Curious, he pried off the lid. Inside was a layer of hand-sewn bags containing various colors of dye. Beneath that lay perhaps a dozen swords, carefully wrapped in lengths of thick felt. Ulin pondered just who this customer was—a fuller who kept his own army? The driver winked and handed him several swords to try.

After a few minutes of hefting and testing, he found one to his liking and thanked the driver. Although Ulin was competent with a scimitar, he preferred the straight blade of a good broadsword, and this one seemed to be a fine one with a good leather grip and excellent balance. He carried his new sword back to the cook wagon and helped Lucy and Challie settle things for the night.

It proved to be a long and tense night that ended uneventfully with a red sun pushing above the skyline at dawn. There had been no sign of draconians or anything else threatening, and the caravan remained unmolested. Weary and relieved, Ulin and the girls fed the Khurs and prepared to get underway.

The caravan made good time that day, stopping only once at a tiny watering hole to refill the barrels and water the stock. The guards remained alert both before and behind the caravan, and Akkar-bin sent out scouts to keep a watch for signs of marauders. Near midday the caravan master called a halt at a small oasis already occupied by a clan of nomads. The safety afforded by the additional numbers of fighting men more than compensated the caravan for the fee charged by the clan chief for use of the wells. That night the Khurs slept well after thoroughly enjoying the services and refreshments offered by the tribesmen.

Heads were aching the next morning when Akkar-bin roused his crew and got them moving. Ulin had to treat several minor injuries won in fights the night before and a number of hangovers brought on by the powerful Khurish liquor. Nevertheless, the wagons were on the road in short order and headed east for their final push to Flotsam.

Perhaps it was the afternoon heat that bore down on them, sapping their strength and dulling their senses. Perhaps it was the effects of celebrating the night before. Or maybe it was the lack of sleep or the relief brought on by the impending end of the journey. Whether it was one factor or a combination of several, the effect was a lethargy that settled over the entire caravan several hours after noon. The men’s voices stilled until the only steady sounds from the train were the jingling of the harnesses and the plod of the oxen’s hooves on the sand-covered road. The drivers dozed on their seats.

The rearguard, annoyed by the cloud of dust kicked up the oxen, gradually dropped farther and farther back until the occupants of the last wagons could no longer see them. Akkar-bin and the point guards fought their drowsiness and tried to stay alert, but their attention was wavering when the caravan entered a short ravine between two tall hills.

The cook wagon rolled along at the rear of the caravan as usual. Lucy drove this afternoon while Challie sat beside her and Ulin slept in the back under the shade of the canvas cover. Lucy breathed a sigh of gratitude when they entered the ravine. Red rock walls reared over their heads and cast the narrow trail into shadow. It wasn’t much of a change, but any interruption from the fierce sun was welcome. She glanced back down the trail and still could not see the rearguard through the hanging clouds of dust, nor could she see much in the ravine ahead. The head of the caravan was lost from sight among the steep walls of stone.

The first indication of trouble they heard was a thud on the side of the wagon.

Challie looked over her side and cried, “Lucy! That’s an arrow!”

Abruptly, the air seemed full of arrows, dropping down from above. Several passed close to the women or slammed into the wooden slats of the wagon. One struck their wheel horse on his flank. He screamed in fear and pain, and both horses reared in panic, causing the wagon to jerk and pitch.

Just ahead, the driver of the freight wagon slumped in his seat. His oxen stopped in their tracks, blocking the path.

A shrill scream followed by several more pierced the hot, dusty air. Many voices shouted now, from behind and ahead and from above.

Ulin jolted upright as Challie fell backward over the seat and landed on top of him. “What’s happening? What’s going on?” he shouted, still groggy from sleep.

The canvas cover of the wagon blocked his view, but it did not stop the arrows. Two ripped through the cover and embedded in the wooden cupboard. Cooking pans fell from their hooks in clattering clangs. Challie lay flat, gasping for breath.

“We’re under attack!” Challie shouted. She tried to roll off Ulin and grab her axe.

“Ulin, help me!” Lucy called, her voice full of urgency.

Ulin struggled through the bedrolls and over Challie. He snatched his sword and climbed over the seat.

Lucy had both hands on the reins and fought to control the plunging horses. Her face was pale under her sunburn, and her lips were pressed into a bloodless line.

Behind them came more shouts and muffled curses. Some voices Ulin recognized as draconian, while others seemed human but used a language he did not know. Someone screamed a Khurish insult and the clash of weapons rang in the dust and haze. A riderless horse careened by. The roar and crash of fighting sounded along the line of wagons, too, yet Ulin and Lucy could not yet see who was attacking the caravan.

Clutching his sword, Ulin jumped down, ran to the horses, and grabbed their bridles to calm them down.

“Lucy!” he heard Challie shout. “Back here!”

Ulin’s heart leaped to his throat. He let go of the horses to rush to her aid, when something big and heavy dropped out of the sky. Large, leathery wings flapped, washing a foul odor into his face, and a screech of fighting rage pierced his ears as a Kapak draconian glided down from the rock wall and thudded to the ground by the horses. It crouched for a second on all fours then rose to two legs, its wings fanning the dust.

The Kapak’s lizardlike face split in a hideous grin. With a swift movement, he slashed his sword across the throat of the nearest horse, and warm blood sprayed his muscular chest and face. The horse staggered against his teammate and fell, dragging the frenzied bay with him.

Ulin backed away, his eyes on the big creature. By the gods, he hated draconians. This was a particularly ugly one with a mane of coarse dark hair that fell across its head and shoulders, bulky muscles, and thick coppery skin. It wore no clothes or armor. Only a festoon of necklaces and chains hung around its thick neck, and a Solamnic knight’s helmet, several sizes too small, perched on its horny head. Its wings clapped together across its back, and with a yowl of glee, it raised its bloody sword and sprang after Ulin.

The young man raised his sword to ward off the blow, but he knew better than to face a Kapak’s venomous saliva and curving claws without so much as a shield. He needed help, and he feared desperately for Lucy. Step by step he backed away from the wagon, keeping the draconian’s attention focused on him.

The beast stamped after him, its lips curled over sharp fangs in a hungry snarl.

Behind the wagon and out of Ulin’s sight, Lucy and Challie had their hands full.

A man, a Khurish exile by the look of his ragged robes and rusty scimitar, rushed the back of the cook wagon, waving his blade to intimidate the two women who quailed in the wagon amidst the bags and boxes of food. He grinned foolishly at their fear and put a hand on the tailboard to swing himself up into the wagon.

A silver axe flashed in the hand of the dwarf and slashed into the Khur’s hand between his middle fingers. He reared back and his mouth opened to release a screech of pain just as Lucy lifted two iron skillets and slammed them together with his head in between. He collapsed back to the ground and did not stir.

Challie and Lucy had only a moment to celebrate before they heard the pounding of horses’ hooves from the ravine behind them. Three of the rearguard riders stormed into view through the dust and shadows, closely pursued by two humans on horseback and a second Kapak draconian wearing a battle harness and carrying a mace.

One Khur, riddled with arrows, barely clung to his terrified mount, and even as Lucy and Challie pulled back into the shadowy interior of the wagon, the Kapak bounded up beside the horse and raked a clawed hand across the Khur’s face. The rider fell shrieking into the dirt, convulsed into a rigid arch, and died. The draconian hissed with pleasure and smashed the man’s head.

The last two guards saw the cook wagon and kicked their horses toward it, perhaps hoping for shelter or a place of defense. Swift as they were, the mounted brigands were faster. The outlaws raised their scimitars and rode down the guards. Swords rang and flashed in the hazy light. A horse screamed. The two Khurs had their own swords in their hands, and they fought back like frenzied wolves.

Lucy sucked in her breath as she watched them. She realized the Khurs were not going to make it to the wagon. If they fell without seriously wounding their attackers, she and Challie would be left facing two armed men and a Kapak with only an axe and a couple of iron skillets.

She didn’t have much time to think or worry. The second Khur toppled from his saddle, his body split across the abdomen by his enemy’s scimitar. The brigands shouted insults at his corpse and turned their full attention to the last man.

Lucy did not wait any longer. She reached into a barrel and pulled out a handful of small, reddish potatoes. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to concentrate on a spell she remembered practicing time and again. Originally, the spell had been used as a joke in the slow, sleepy hours of late nights at the Academy, and a few times she had used it to discourage vermin or drive away a would-be burglar. It was simple. It was basic. It was effective. But she had never tried it on something as big as a draconian.

Fiercely, she forced away all distracting sounds and focused on the magic around her. From the wood, the earth, the dust, she drew the energy and shaped it to her will. It had to work, she promised herself. It had to! She forced each word of the spell into the magic and, to her surprise, she felt the power respond. It did not fade from her grasp or dissipate into emptiness. Like a long-lost friend it surged into her embrace, warm, familiar, and oh, so welcome. Desperately, she poured the magic fire into her handful of potatoes and felt them become fiery hot to the touch.

“Lucy, hurry!” Challie’s voice rose in fear.

Lucy opened her eyes and saw the two men circling their horses in front of her. Their bearded faces leered at her.

The Kapak squatted behind them, his leathery wings folded, his copper skin splashed with blood. His eyes glowed a bilious green as he tore the limbs off the bodies of the Khur guards and searched their clothes for valuables.

Lucy hurriedly dumped her hot potatoes into the skillet before her fingers burned. Worry and fear made her hands shake. The potatoes didn’t look quite right and felt much hotter than she remembered. The magic had worked, but something was wrong.

Then she had no more time. The two men dismounted and clambered up the tailboard of the wagon, daggers in their hands.

Challie cursed in Dwarvish.

Her heart racing, Lucy threw a potato at the nearest attacker. It struck him on his leather vest and burst like an overcooked baked potato: hot, mealy, and steaming. Lucy gasped in dismay. The man grinned and reached up to brush it off, but before he could touch it, a strange expression covered his face. The pale potato bits flared white hot, and where the potato stuck, flesh and fabric burst into flame. The man screamed a hideous, racking cry of agony and fell back, flailing at his burning body. His companion stared in horror.

Challie’s mouth fell open as she watched the man writhe in the dirt. She knew Lucy had been a sorceress at one time, but she had never seen anything like this.

Lucy didn’t have time to see the final effects of her potato bomb. The second man drew back and attempted to thrust his sword into the interior to reach her. Another potato left her hand and burst on his neck and shoulder.

The results were just like the first one. The split tuber burst into a brilliant white light that sizzled and hissed, setting the man’s clothes on fire. He beat frantically at his clothing, tried to tear it off, then he, too, collapsed, a screaming, smoking ruin. The first man was already dead. A hideous stench filled the air from the scorched corpses.

“Gods!” breathed Lucy. This wasn’t exactly what she had intended when she formed this spell.

Just then the Kapak looked up from its task of stripping the dead bodies. Its hooded eyes met Lucy’s and its breath hissed between its teeth in a snarl.

“You’re next,” Lucy muttered. She snatched up the last two potatoes, ignoring the heat that singed her fingers, and clambered down from the wagon. In the distance, somewhere down the ravine, she heard the ring of weapons and the shouts of fighting men. Far away, so soft she might have imagined it, she thought she heard the baying of hunting horns.

Her head lowered, her arm drawn back to throw, Lucy advanced toward the draconian. She needed a good shot, for she had only these two potatoes left, and her aim was notoriously bad.

The Kapak’s next move was so quick it caught her by surprise. It sprang sideways on all fours, then rose to its full height and leaped at her, its wings spread like a great cloak. That was its worst mistake.

Lucy had no time to adjust her aim. Her teeth gritted, she hurled the small potato at the beast and heard a soft splat before she dropped to the ground and covered her head with her arms.

The draconian sailed over her body and crashed to the ground. Crouching, it sniffed at the potato bits on its right wing and shoulder. Its lips curled into a grimace of pain just as the potato began to smoke. In seconds the draconian was enveloped in white fire. Hideous, piercing shrieks burst from its twisted snout. Kapaks never died neatly, and this one was no exception. While Lucy and Challie watched, its smoking body slowly stilled in death and began to dissolve. A dark, loathsome liquid oozed from its body, forming a puddle close to the wagon. Swiftly the entire body broke down and vanished into the liquid.

The ravine suddenly became very quiet.

Lucy thought she would vomit. She gingerly clutched the last potato and took several deep breaths. “No!” She called wildly to Challie who wanted to climb down. “Stay away from that liquid. It’s acid. Go out the front. We’ve got to find Ulin.”

She hurried around to the horses and found one dead in a pool of blood. The other lay trapped beside it, nearly dead itself from terror and exhaustion. There was no sign of Ulin.

Clutching her axe, Challie came up beside her. “Where is he? Why is it so quiet?” she asked softly, afraid to speak any louder.

Lucy’s answer came out like a sob. “I don’t know.” She hurried forward up the line of wagons.