Chapter 11

Running before a brisk wind, the Starfinder skimmed across the waves. Spray thrown up by her prow blew back over the deck, and the crew laughed at the fine salt smell even as the moisture soaked them to the bone. The sun shone overhead, but no more was it the harsh blazing eye it had been during their dreadful ordeal. Now it seemed happy and benevolent, sending out its rays to turn the ship’s wake every color of the rainbow.

There was no trace of the current that had driven them south. Nor was there any sign of Takhisis’s Teeth, which seemed to have drifted farther to the west. Tashara, scanning the horizon with her spyglass, declared nothing but clear sailing ahead to the shores of Ansalon. Malshaunt stood beside her, robes flapping in the breeze, and seemed as happy as it was possible for the mage to appear. He did not even give his customary sneer at the sight of Ayshe.

Leaning over the rail, the dwarf looked on, fascinated, as schools of flying fish flung themselves above the water and landed again in bright splashes. Samustalen watched them by his side.

“Dragonfish,” the elf said, chuckling. “A good omen.” Seeing the dwarf look puzzled, he explained. “They’re so called from the wings that sprout along their shoulders behind their gills. Sailors in these parts take their presence as a sign from the gods that good luck is at hand. Paladine knows, we could use some! And if nothing else, these may bring us dinner tonight.”

He gestured toward where three or four elves held a fine net. They cast it back, securing it with two or three ropes to spars. After a few moments, they drew it over the side and dumped a fine catch of the dragonfish, flopping, onto the deck. The elves lit fires on deck, gutted and filleted the fish, and shortly the welcome smell of frying fish spread across the ship. After so many days of privation, the fish, together with their daily allocation of ship’s felt like a feast.

Nor was water a problem any longer. Sweet, gentle rain fell every few days, filling the empty barrels and cleaning the ship so that, even in her battered condition, she shone like a pearl. The elves sang to each other, usually songs of happiness about the coming of spring after a long winter. Ayshe began to understand some of the words and phrases of the Silvanesti and Qualinesti tongues and to appreciate the beauty of their languages. Sometimes an elf would lift her voice in a song of lament for her lost homeland, but even these, to Ayshe’s ears, had a note of hope running through them, as if a bright counterpoint to melancholy.

Captain Tashara spent much of her time on deck, moving among the warriors of Dragonsbane and encouraging them in their work. Though she rarely smiled and never laughed, her voice and manner were more optimistic and energetic. The crew responded well to their leader’s new mood, and the Starfinder was as happy a ship as one might find sailing the southern seas.

There were two dissenting notes struck in the chorus. The first was by Harfang, still in mourning for the lost mate, Feystalen. At Tashara’s order, they had held a brief memorial for the vanished crewman, but even that ceremony was imbued with more joy than sorrow—for the crew were happy at having survived the curse the dead villager had laid on the ship, and at having caught, at last, a glimpse of their long-sought foe.

Harfang, however, though obviously glad to be under sail once again, continued to brood, and his countenance grew longer with each passing day. Nothing anyone could say or do could stir him from his gloom, and it seemed to Ayshe the mate’s mood grew more sour as that of Tashara improved.

A conversation one soft evening showed how far the first mate had sunk. Jeannara had come on deck during the night watch and encountered Harfang by the mast, looking back over the wake thrown up by the Starfinder.

“Are you still… ?” she asked.

Harfang was silent for a moment. Then he replied, “Look, Jeannara. See how our waves throw up sea creatures.” In truth, the ship’s wake was illuminated by tiny creatures whose luminous bodies created a shining trail that stretched west under a bright moon.

The mate gestured. “It’s a road, Jeannara. A road I can’t retrace. It’s here for a few moments, and then it sinks back into the sea and vanishes. I cannot find my way back to him… or to myself”

Jeannara let his words hang in the air for a moment. “The past is not gone, Harfang,” she said at last, “unless we let it die. It lives in our memories.”

“Spare me your platitudes!” he snapped.

“It is true. That is why the elves can live in both the past and the present. Unlike you humans, who forget too easily.” Her tone was bitter, and the mate turned his eyes to her face.

“It was a mistake—one we never should have made.”

“And now neither of us can forget it. I told you, Harfang, the past lives on. If we let it, it drains all life from the present.” She turned on her heel and left the mate to his solitary contemplation.

The following day, the crew was reminded that although they had escaped the curse, dangers still beset them. They tacked back and forth, using the real wind, for a change, instead of Malshaunt’s spell. The sky was clear, the sun shining. The air was fine and bracing. Armidor sat cross—legged on the deck, nimble fingers mending a net. He yawned, stretched, and rose, sauntering to the rail. He cast the net, watching it intently, looking for more dragonfish.

“Stand by to come about!” Jeannara, who had the watch, called.

Lindholme, manning the helm, nodded in acknowledgment.

“Come about!”

Lindholme spun the wheel. Alyssaran and Riadon hauled on a rope, and the boom swung across the deck as the ship shifted her tack from port to starboard. Armidor straightened at the precise moment the boom swept across. The heavy spar took him in the back of the head and hurled him over the side.

“Man overboard!” Jeannara roared. “Luff! Luff, damn you!”

Lindholme turned the ship into the wind, and the sails flapped idly. Riadon snatched up a rope and ran to the side, staring at the waters with keen eyes.

“There!” He pointed.

Jeannara ignored the rope and, following Riadon’s pointing finger, dived headfirst. Her lithe body split the water smoothly. A moment later she was swimming steadily for the spot where Armidor struggled feebly in the water. He was clearly injured but managed to keep his head up.

The second mate’s cry had brought others on deck, including Harfang. He watched Jeannara swimming, then picked up the rope and dropped it over the side.

“Lower the boat!” he snapped. Hands sprang to obey, unlashing the longboat. Harfang meanwhile lowered himself hand over hand down the hull, preparing to drop into the longboat as soon as it touched the water.

Jeannara was within ten feet of the struggling Armidor when suddenly he screamed. It was shrill and high, a keening wail of pain. The water around him turned red. His mouth froze open in a cry of agony, and his back arched. Jeannara, taken aback, stopped and trod water.

From beneath the surface, a maze of tentacles burst forth. One gripped the unfortunate Armidor, and the crew of the Starfinder could see that both his legs below the knee were gone. The tentacle flourished him, even as his blood stained it red.

“Kraken!” someone cried.

Jeannara had turned and begun to retreat, but her strokes, frantic though they were, seemed to carry her only slowly away from the creature. One tentacle struck at her, falling just short. She redoubled her swimming even as Harfang grasped the oars of the longboat and rowed toward her. At ten feet distant, he snatched a wyrmbarb from the bottom of the longboat. The kraken’s tentacles waved as the mate hurled the spear into their center.

The tentacles thrashed, and amid a rumble of waves the creature’s bloated body reared to the surface. A single eye rolled wildly. One tentacle thrust the body of Armidor into its beaked mouth while others attempted to pluck the wyrmbarb from where it had struck. The spear had been well-thrown, though, and the creature’s efforts were in vain.

Jeannara had reached the longboat and hauled herself aboard, dripping and gasping for breath. Despite her exhaustion, she took one of the oars, while Harfang took the other. The two rowed for the Starfinder and safety.

Malshaunt, by then, had appeared on deck and was watching the battle with his usual detachment. As the angered kraken began to pursue the longboat, the mage lifted his hands and chanted.

A sparkling, shimmering wall appeared, extending an unknown depth below the water’s surface. The kraken, baffled by the barrier, struck it but could not damage it. Harfang and Jeannara gained the ship’s side and clambered up the waiting rope. At a snapped order from the mate, Malshaunt cast his spell of movement, and the ship’s sails once again filled with wind. Lindholme put the wheel down hard, and the ship veered away from danger. As they sped off, the crew could see the maddened kraken still trying in vain to pierce Malshaunt’s magical barrier.

Harfang turned to his second-in-command. “Are you all right?”

Jeannara, still breathless, nodded. “Aye. But Armidor…”

Both of them looked sadly astern.

In her cabin, Tashara sat, hand over the chart on her table. To one side was the dragon’s eye covered with its cloth. From time to time, the captain’s hand strayed to it, but then she turned back to the chart.

At last she lifted the cloth. The eye, instead of its former milky-white color, was a dark blue, almost black. Deep within glittered sparks that flickered and waned. As before, the surface of the eye was agitated, and it roiled within its setting.

Tashara brought one thin finger down toward it. As the finger neared it, the eye quieted. An observer might have seen in it some strange beast watching the captain’s approach. Slowly, carefully, she brought it down until it was within a hairsbreadth of the eye.

With an abrupt motion, she plunged it into the heart of the eye. The sphere quivered as if with pain, and the surface closed around her finger. Tashara sat motionless, staring at the cabin wall.

The dragon’s eye began to swirl with white. In a few moments it was opaque.

The captain’s eyes were a dark blue-black. She smiled in satisfaction.

Alone among the crew, Samath-nyar, injured in the fight with the White Wyrm, seemed indifferent to the ship’s course toward land. Day and night, he seemed never to stop his pacing to and fro, back and forth across the deck. His arm—or rather, the place where his arm used to be—clearly pained him, but he spoke of it to no one and pushed away Omanda when she approached him about changing the bandages or easing his discomfort. In similar terms he repelled advances from the rest of the crew, and they soon learned to leave him alone in his misery.

Samustalen tried to explain to Ayshe. “He’s an artist,” he told the dwarf. “He can make that wyrmbarb sing like a linnet if he wants to—or could before this. And he’s spent his whole life training to fight dragons. Now he has nothing.”

“But surely,” Ayshe said, “surely he can find another trade. There are plenty of things for a one-armed man to do-”

Samustalen shook his head impatiently. “You’re missing the point, my friend. He doesn’t want to do anything else. This was his whole life and soul, and now he’s lost it. He was trained in the ways of Dragonsbane. It is a great honor to be called as one of our band, and now that has been taken away from him. Besides, a man might find another trade, but an elf in today’s world will find nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Elves are the outcasts of Ansalon today, Ayshe. I’ve told you that before, but you don’t seem to understand. We’re hated by everyone—save a few intelligent folk—and we survive at the pleasure of others. On this ship, isolated as we are from the rest of the world, we sometimes forget that, but I never will. I’ve no time for humans—”

“Even Harfang?” the dwarf interrupted.

“Even Harfang sometimes forgets himself with us, forgets we are his natural superiors. We’re elves, longest lived of the races of Krynn, most favored by the gods. We may have been pushed out of our homelands, but there will come a day when we find our way back, and then our revenge will be sweet.”

Ayshe turned away. At times such as those he found the elves difficult to tolerate. The mixture of arrogance and suppressed rage that seemed to brew deep in the heart of all of them disturbed him greatly, the more so as he became closer friends with them.

He slept badly, imagining he heard the ceaseless footsteps of Samath-nyar above him as they grated across the planks.

Dawn was beginning to break, and the ship was silent, save for the creak of ropes and groan of timbers as the waves splashed along her side. Harfang made his way forward to the water barrel and, lifting the dipper, took a long, cool draught.

A cry burst from overhead, shrill and piercing as that of a sea-bird. Harfang looked up to find its source and stood amazed, the iron dipper falling with a clang from his nerveless hand.

Atop the crow’s nest of the mast, dark hair flying in the wind like his own sail, stood Samath-nyar. His wyrmbarb rested beside him, and his face was turned to the south. His body seemed to pitch and sway easily with the motion of the ship over the waves.

His wordless cry had aroused the rest of the crew, and they tumbled on deck. Tashara, too, emerged from her cabin and cocked an ear toward the Kagonesti as he stood astride the breaking dawn.

Harfang leaned back to shout. “Samath-nyar, come down! That’s an order, damn you!”

The Kagonesti laughed. The mate cast an eye among the assembled elves and saw Otha-nyar gazing at her brother, a rapt expression on her face. He pushed his way through the elves to reach her.

“Tell him to come down! Tell him now!”

Otha-nyar fended him off easily, keeping her eyes on her brother. She cried up to Samath-nyar in the Kagonesti tongue, and he answered her. He lifted the wyrmbarb and brandished it. Then, without warning, he dived.

Clutching the wyrmbarb, its point downward, he fell straight toward the sea. An errant gull that had rested on Tashara’s cabin roof screamed and fled. It passed beneath Samath-nyar’s plunging body, and his spear pierced it and carried it with him as he cleaved the waters. There was a splash and a flourish of spray and nothing more.

The elves rushed to the side and stared at the spot where the Kagonesti had disappeared, but nothing showed above the waves. The Starfinder rushed on, and soon the spot was indistinguishable from the rest of the surrounding sea.

Otha-nyar turned and vanished belowdecks without a word. Harfang stood staring over the side for a long time; then he, too, disappeared, but into Tashara’s cabin.

Malshaunt stood by the side of the ship, watching the ripples spread. Then he said to no one in particular, “A happy death.”

Samustalen looked at the mage scornfully. “What’s happy about it?”

“He could no longer serve Captain Tashara in her quest for the Great White Wyrm. There was nothing left for him, and so he laid himself to rest in the deep. I call that happy.” The mage turned on his heel and went below.

The rest of the crew slowly dispersed, leaving no words behind.

The deaths of the Kagonesti and of Armidor shed a bitter gloom over the rest of their voyage toward Ansalon. But after a week’s sailing, the lookout raised the cry, “Land ho!” which sent the crew running on deck in jubilation. To the north, a long, low line against the horizon showed the presence at last of a shore. Gulls and terns swooped and dived above the ship, alighting on its ragged sail, filling the air with their raucous cries.

Harfang took a sighting and examined the land carefully through the glass. “Kharolis,” he reported to Tashara.

Ayshe, standing nearby, felt his heart beat faster. It had been long since he had glimpsed his native shores, and his mind filled with what he had seen since he’d left the Highguard Mountains more than three years before.

Harfang apparently remembered as well where Ayshe had come from and called, “Master Dwarf!”

Ayshe presented himself to the mate and captain, who stood near the wheel. Malshaunt, as was his habit, stood near and a little behind the captain.

“You know that land?” Tashara asked. Her blind eyes, as always, disconcerted Ayshe.

“A bit. My home was farther to the north, but I journeyed south to the coast on one or two occasions.”

“What are the most important coastal cities? Come, look at this chart and tell me.”

The dwarf examined the map the captain showed him and fingered his beard. “Than-Khal is the biggest. A road runs north from there, bearing goods from the Highguard range to the coast—at least it did when my people were still mining in the Highguards and farther north.”

Tashara nodded. “Very well. Harfang, make for Than-Khal. Master Dwarf, you will help guide us in these waters.” She turned her face to the south, from which a cold wind blew. “There lies Icewall, does it not?”

“Aye, ma’am. There and stretching to the east. It’s all ice and snow and mountain. I’ve heard tell that beyond the mountains lie other lands, but I don’t know anyone who’s ever seen them.”

Tashara nodded. “I have seen these mountains,” she said, speaking softly, more to herself than to Harfang, Malshaunt, or Ayshe. “In a dream, though never in waking life. Great cliffs and peaks covered with ice and snow. Crevices a mile deep, ridges sharp as blades, mountains like teeth, ready to crush the traveler. Oh, yes, I have seen them.” She stopped abruptly and turned away.

Ayshe stood by Harfang and Otha-nyar as the Kagonesti, under the mate’s orders, guided the Starfinder toward shore. As they neared their destination, they passed and hailed several small fishing vessel manned by humans who regarded the dark-sailed elven ship with a mixture of contempt and alarm.

A swarm of small boats flitted across the waters of the harbor, like gnats disturbing the surface of a pond in summer. The Starfinder cast anchor, and Harfang, Jeannara, Samustalen, and a few others entered the longboat and pulled for shore. Ayshe was part of the shore party.

A rough crowd filled the street running along the harbor. Men, dwarves, and the odd group of ogres strolled along the wharves or burst, shouting, from the doors of taverns. The watering holes had distinctly nautical names—The Barnacle, The Spyglass, The Brass and Tackle—while the cobbled street was filled with barrows trundling to and fro bearing nets, coils of rope, and sea trunks. Fishermen hauled their catches up stone ramps from the harbor, and the smell of fish and salt filled the air.

Ayshe was so used to being the only dwarf among humans—and lately, among elves—that it took him a little time to realize that his companions were far more objects of curiosity than he was. Dwarves, though fewer in numbers than humans on the streets of Than-Khal, were common enough members of the population. Disturbances in the mountains and poverty among the clans had driven many southward into the coastal cities. There they found work as smiths and jewelers or embarked for other parts of Ansalon, much as Ayshe himself had done. In truth, the War of Souls and its aftermath had redistributed many of the peoples of Ansalon and had redrawn the political and social lines that had, for centuries, defined the continent. Law and order in towns such as Than-Khal, clinging to the edges of the land, were maintained by those strong. enough to wield a sword and decisive enough to use it.

Ayshe looked at the scattering of elves, humans, ogres (and one or two kender, shunned by everyone and hastily turned out taverns into which they wandered). Of elves, however, the streets showed not one. Moreover, the men and dwarves gave the crew of the Starfinder black looks, and some cried words after them that were by no means complimentary.

In no time a crowd had gathered behind them as they walked along the street, looking for the sign of a shipwright whose services they might engage to mend the ship. Ayshe glanced behind them at the growing number of hostile faces.

“Should we return to the ship?” he asked Harfang. “We can look for some smaller town where folk are friendlier.”

The mate ignored his words and strode forward, his brows drawn in a dark bar across his forehead. The elves kept their faces impassive, eyes to the fore.

From an alley, an armed group of men emerged, blocking the way. “Halt!” growled the leader. “In the name of Neraka.”

Ayshe’s heart sank. He knew from gossip that after Mina had been defeated in the War of Souls and her One God was shown to be none other than Takhisis in another guise, her followers, the Knights of Neraka, had scattered across Krynn. Without a leader, they had formed themselves into roving bands and, in some cases, had seized control of entire cities. It appeared the Starfinder had encountered such a place.

The elves, Harfang, and Ayshe stood while the crowd expanded, filling the street behind them while the Knights of Neraka barred the way before them. The leader, a sallow-faced man with a two-day stubble and bleary eyes, looked them over.

“What I can’t figure out,” he said loudly after a silence, “is what a man and a dwarf are doing, going about with filthy, stinking elves. Pah!” He spat. “Are you elf-lovers? Is that what we got here? A couple o’ elf-lovers?”

Harfang’s voice was level and expressionless. “Cur ship is in need of repair. We’re in search of a shipwright to carry out those repairs as speedily as possible. When they’re done, we’ll be on our way again.”

“Oh? Which ship is that? The one that came into the harbor this morning?” The leader’s eyes narrowed, and his tone grew cunning. “Did you pay the harborage fee yet?”

No. We’ll pay any fees the law requires. All we need is speed in making the repairs.” Harfang’s hand, hanging at his side, made a slight gesture. Immediately the elves began sidling so they were ranged in a circle. Backs to one another, they stood regarding the crowd.

The leader of the knights scratched his unshaven chin. “Well, that’d be a problem. Y’see there isn’t nobody in town that’d work on an elf ship. Can’t get the stench outta your clothes afterwards, y’see.”

The mate shrugged. “Then we must sail elsewhere.”

“Uh-uh.” The knight shook his head and dropped his hands to his sword. “You the owner of that ship?”

“No. The ship is the property of Captain Tashara,” Harfang answered.

“Elf?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then. Law here says that ship is contraband. We have right of seizure.”

“What?” Harfang’s voice lost the reasonable note it had sustained up to then.

“Stands to reason no elf could own a ship. Elves ain’t sailors. They ain’t got the stomach for it. If there’s elves claiming to own that ship, they musta stole it. That makes it contraband. And that means it belongs to us.” The knight drew his sword. “Now I’m arresting you in the name of Neraka as partners in thievery. Come along.”

Harfang backed a pace and drew his blade. The elves followed suit. Ayshe pulled out a short sword from its sheath and stood, heart in his mouth.

The knight gave a toothless grin. “Hoped you’d try that.” raised his voice. “Take ’em, boys. That’s an order.”

A circle of flashing steel closed around Dragonsbane, encouraged by shouts from the crowd. Ayshe partied a blow descending from above. By his side, Harfang’s sword flashed back and forth. To his left, Samustalen spat an Elvish oath as a knight’s blade gashed his leg.

The dwarf cut at his opponent’s legs as, under Harfang’s shouted directions, the encircled elves moved along the street toward the wharf where they had landed.

One of the knights fell, blood spurting from his side. At the same moment, Ayshe saw Jeannara stagger and trip as a stone, hurled by someone in the crowd, struck her on the side of the head. Harfang half turned to help her and was overwhelmed by his opponent. A wave of bodies swept over the tiny circle and bore the combatants to the ground. Ayshe twisted just in time to see the flat of a knight’s sword coming toward his head. Something exploded, and there was only darkness.

His head ached, a dull pain that ran from his jaw to his crown. He tried to reach up and massage his temples and found he could not. His hands and feet were weighted with heavy iron shackles attached to a great staple driven deep into the stone wall. Light in the room was supplied by a single guttering torch.

There was a wooden door with a small barred window set in it opposite Ayshe. The room, as far as the dwarf could tell in the dim light, was empty save for himself. He shouted and was rewarded a few moments later with a face at the window.

“Shut up!” the face growled and vanished.

Ayshe shouted again. That outburst was answered by a rattle of a key chain, and a guard entered. He walked over to the dwarf, kicked him, spat on him, and stalked to the door. “Shut up, I tell you,” he snarled. “Next time I’ll bring the whip.”

Ayshe caught his breath painfully. “Where are my friends?” he asked.

The guard laughed. “You’ll see ’em soon enough, friend dwarf. All of you’ll be dangling together come tomorrow. They’re just trying to find the ship first to get the rest of the stinking elves for a mass hanging.”

The dwarf felt a surge of hope. “The ship…”

“Don’t worry. Someone’ll be along about that in a bit.” The guard chuckled to himself and disappeared.

Ayshe thought, if the knights had not captured the Starfinder, there might still be a chance of rescue. But how the elves on board could come ashore without being set upon and imprisoned was more than he could guess. He wondered where Harfang and the others were being held. He examined his chains, but the locks were strong and looked unbreakable.

A while later there was a tramp of booted feet in the corridor. The door opened, and the leader of the knights who had arrested them entered, followed by two or three other men. The knight pulled Ayshe to his feet.

“All right, dwarf. I ain’t got all day. Where’s your ship?”

Ayshe shook his head. “I don’t—”

The knight struck him across the mouth. “Don’t lie! It sailed from the harbor before we could board it, and now it’s vanished. Where is it?”

Ayshe was gripped by a feeling of despair. Had Tashara abandoned them? Had she realized something went wrong with the shore party and sailed on to find another port, where the ship’s wounds could be healed? Though the dwarf knew of her single-mindedness regarding the White Wyrm, he could not quite believe her so cold-blooded. He glared at the knight and lifted a hand to wipe blood from his mouth. “I don’t know. Probably miles away by this time. But if I knew, do you really think I’d tell you?”

“What were you doing in these waters? Are you pirates?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here? I ain’t never heard of elves crewing a ship, much less in company with a man and a dwarf. What’re you looking for that you need a ship?”

Ayshe clamped his lips shut. Whatever Tashara had done, he would remain loyal to her and to the cause that had sent her and her companions halfway around Ansalon.

The knight shrugged and nodded to his two companions. One brought in a wooden stool and, with a kick, bent Ayshe over it. He tore away the dwarf’s shirt to expose his back. The other knight hefted a savage-looking whip.

“Last chance,” the leader told him.

The dwarf was silent. The blows fell with regularity, and after the first few Ayshe found the pain so intense he slipped into unconsciousness. A bowl of water was thrown over his face, and he reentered a world of agony. At last, after what seemed hours, the knights stopped.

“Nothing from him,” he heard the leader say. “Let’s try one of the others.” They left, locking the door behind them.

Thwack!

Harfang’s body curled under the blow, delivered with all the force the big guard could put behind it.

“I ain’t gonna ask you so nicely the next time,” the leader said. “Now, tell me, what are you doing here?”

“We… came for… repairs.”

“That’s what you said before. I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now.” The leader shook his head. “Stubborn as one of these stiff-necked elves.” He nodded toward the corner of the cell where Samustalen lay unconscious, eyes and mouth swollen from repeated beating.

The guard’s leader reached down and grasped Harfang’s chin, pulling the man’s face up to within an inch of his own.

“We’re gonna find out what you’re doing here, see. And when we do, we’re gonna take you out and tie you to some horses and pull you apart. But if you don’t tell us what you’re doing here, we’re gonna do some things first that’ll make you look forward to that death.”

The mate of the Starfinder could find barely enough moisture in his mouth to spit at his tormentor. The guard wiped his face and chuckled.

“Well, boys, let’s go try the female elf. That should be more fun.”

Harfang gave a roar and staggered to his feet, only to be driven back by a blow. Hands shackled his wrists to the wall, and he could do nothing but lie helplessly, dreading the worst.

Ayshe lay unmoving for a long time then rolled over onto the cold stone floor. He did not so much fall asleep as faint from pain and fear. Hours passed, and he was vaguely aware of the cell door opening and closing again, but he could not summon enough energy to investigate.

When he awoke, he found a rough bandage had been bound around his body. The pain from the whip was still there, but it had abated somewhat. He sat up with a rattle of chains.

Something stirred in the far corner of the cell, and he heard incoherent mumbling.

“Hello,” the dwarf whispered cautiously.

The figure stirred again, rolled over, and sat up. Since it closer to the light, Ayshe could see his fellow inmate was another dwarf. His long black beard was scraggly, and his filthy matted hair fell in tangles over his shoulders. He had wrapped his arms around himself and tucked his hands beneath his armpits. Even at that distance, Ayshe could smell an overwhelming odor of sweat and stale beer.

“Who are you?” he asked. “What is this place?” He kept his voice low.

“Jail.” The word came out slightly slurred. The dwarf gave him a lopsided grin. “What… whadyou think it wash? Thish… thish is the dwarf cell. Whad you do?”

Ayshe pushed himself up to sit against the wall. The rough stone hurt his back, so he leaned forward. “I was with some friends. Elves. And a man. I don’t know where they were taken.”

“Elvesh!”

“Quiet!” Ayshe looked nervously at the door. As far as he could see, the other dwarf was unshackled. He held out his wrists. “Can you help me get these irons off?”

The other said nothing but stared stupidly at him.

“Come on! Give me a hand!”

White teeth flashed in the stranger’s face. “Can’t. Don’t have one, y’see.” He uncoiled his arms, and Ayshe, to his horror, saw both the dwarf’s hands had been cut off at the wrists.

“Reorx’s beard!” He shrank back. “What happened to you?”

“That’s what they do to thieves here. Them they don’t hang.” The dwarf wriggled his shoulders and back against the wall as if scratching an itch. Then, in a single smooth motion, he stood and strolled over to Ayshe. He winked, showing no signs of his previous drunkenness.

“So why’d they put you in here? Hey?”

Ayshe managed a half-hearted smile. “They don’t like elves much in this town, it seems. The Knights of Neraka attacked my companions.”

“The knights don’t like anyone much if it comes to that.” The dwarf squatted and broke wind, and Ayshe almost gagged at his powerful smell. “They just want they can get by raiding taverns and scaring ordinary folk. At least I’m an honest thief I never threatened anyone in my life.”

“What’s your name?” Ayshe asked.

“Barbas. Son of Liffer. Yours? Hey?”

“Ayshe, son of Balar.”

“Pleased. I’d shake hands, but…” Barbas gave a sharp, explosive chuckle, followed by a fit of coughing. “Damned damp!” he grunted at its conclusion. “It gets down in your lungs, and there’s no shifting it.” He bent over Ayshe. “What were you doing with elves? Hey?”

Ayshe leaned back. The pain in his back was a bit less, though his neck and shoulders ached.

“We’re searching for something.”

“All of us are searching for something. I search for unlocked homes. What are you and the elves searching for? Hey?”

Despite himself, Ayshe laughed. It was the first time in many weeks he remembered doing so. Without quite knowing why, he began to tell Barbas of their quest. Words spilled from him, and he found, to his astonishment, he was telling the stranger of his fear during the dragon attack on Thargon and of the deaths of Chaval and Zininia. He told of the search for the Great White Wyrm, of the curse placed on the Starfinder and their terrible journey south, of the battle with the dragon, and of the deaths of Feystalen, Armidor, and Samath-nyar.

Barbas heard him out without a word of praise or blame. But Ayshe found that simply telling the story with all its twists made him feel better. It was the first time he had spoken to anyone of some of those things.

The dwarf was silent for a bit when Ayshe finished his narrative. Then he coughed again and spat. “Well, it sounds as if we’d better find your friends. Let’s go.”

“How?” Ayshe snorted, rattling his chains. “Do you expect me to bite through these?”

Rather than answer, Barbas twisted his head round far to the left so that for a moment it seemed to Ayshe he was looking over his own shoulder. When he brought his head back, he was holding a long piece of metal, flattened at one end, in his teeth. He used his arm stumps to lift Ayshe’s right hand and bent his mouth over the shackles, maneuvering the lockpick as easily as if his fingers held it. There was a muffled click, and the shackle opened.

Barbas performed the same service for the other shackles while Ayshe sat, open-mouthed. When he finished with the last manacle, he twisted his head about, restoring the lockpick to its hidden pocket in his shirt collar and sat back on his heels, grinning at Ayshe.

The dwarf found his voice. “Where… where… ?”

“I said I’m a thief not an idiot. Damned town hasn’t built a jail cell yet I can’t get out of. Look, d’you mind if we talk it all over later? Hey?” Barbas nodded at the chains. “Think you can do something with them?”

Ayshe picked them up. He stood next to the door while his companion drew a deep breath and shouted. “Hey! Lizard breath! How about something to drink here? Hey?”

There was the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps and the rattle of keys. The guard burst through the door, snarling, “Now see here, you maggot-ridden piece of—”

Ayshe swung the heavy chains around the guard’s ankle and yanked. The man crashed to the ground with a yelp. The smith grasped the manacle and brought it down on his captor’s head. The guard collapsed without another word.

“Not bad. C’mon.” Barbas led the way out of the cell, looking left and right. Ayshe stopped long enough to collect the key ring the jailer had been holding.

“Which way to the other cells?” he whispered.

“Sure you don’t mean, ‘Which way to the exit?’ Hey?” asked Barbas.

No! I have to free my friends.”

“Even though they’re bloody elves, for Reorx’s sake? What do you care?”

“They’re my friends. I’m not leaving without them.”

The other dwarf looked at him in the gloom of the passageway. His eyes gleamed. “Do you mean to say,” he whispered, “that you’d risk losing, a chance at freedom for the sake of your friends? Hey? We’re not playing around here, y’know. If the guards catch you, they’ll hang you straight away.”

“I don’t care what happens to me. I’m not leaving my friends.” He felt a burning sensation in his stomach.

Barbas shrugged. “Right. Let’s do it quick, then.” He turned left, went down the passage, passed through a stone archway, made several more turns with the air of one who knows his way well, and finally halted, a finger to his lips.

Ayshe, peering from behind in the shadows, saw two more guards leaning against the damp brick wall, smoking. They stood next to a wooden door with a barred window like the one that had sealed Ayshe’s cell.

“Thass right,” one said, voice slurred. “I ssaid to ’im, I ssaid I ain’t gonna take anover shif’ at night lessen I get double pay. I says to ’im you’re a stinkin’ Nerakan an’ I don’ care what you ssay. An’ he says—”

He broke off as he glimpsed Barbas, who stood at ease in the passage, arms behind him. “Hey! You, dwarf! C’mere!

The dwarf strolled forward. The guard stepped toward him, staggering slightly.

“Wha’s a matter wi’ you? Cat go’ yer tongue?” He laughed and turned toward his fellow just as Barbas kicked the back of his knee.

The blow was skillfully placed, and the guard went down with a crash. The other had no more time to say, “Hey!” in an injured tone before Barbas’s foot took him in the groin. He doubled up with a whoosh! of expelled breath.

The dwarf turned to Ayshe. “Come on!”

Ayshe was stepping over the first guard when a hand gripped his ankle and he tripped. The hulking figure of the first guard, drink knocked out of him by Barbas’s kick, rose. His sword glittered in the torchlight.

“Filthy rats!” he snarled. “I’ll teach you!”

His arm swung back against the door then halted as a hand and slender wrist shot between the bars and grabbed him. Another reached out, caught his head by the chin, and pulled. The guard’s head twisted to the left. There was a sharp, sickening crack of bones, and the guard’s body slumped against the door.

Ayshe jumped forward, brandishing the key ring. “Hold fast!” he said in a low voice. “We’ll have you out in a moment.”

Barbas had disposed of the injured guard with a sharp kick to his temple. He watched the corridor while Ayshe fumbled through a dozen keys before finding the right one.

The elves emerged from the cell. Even in the half-light, Ayshe could see the bloody eyes, broken noses, and bruises that bespoke the brutality of their captors.

“Where’s Harfang?” he asked.

“Here!” came a voice farther down the corridor. Ayshe hurried to unlock the cell.

Barbas, using his pick, made short work of the mate’s chains, as well as those of Samustalen, and soon the landing party of the Starfinder was once more assembled. Except for…

“Quick!” Harfang ordered. “We have to find Jeannara! The guards just left to interrogate her. Gods know what they’ll do to her.”

The group hurled themselves down the corridor, led by Barbas, who seemed to know his way through the dungeons as intimately as if he’d been born there. From a cell at the end of one of the twists and turns, they heard a shrill scream.

“Damn!”

Harfang raced forward. One fist took a guard outside the door under the chin before the man had even opportunity to draw his sword. The man’s neck jerked back with a crack, and his head struck against the stone wall. He flopped to the ground and lay still. The mate, ignoring him, leaped over the body and slammed the door open.

The leader of the guards, he who had interrogated Ayshe and Harfang, stood facing them. Jeannara stood behind him, her manacle chain across his throat. To one side, another guard lay on his side, both hands clutched about his groin. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing hard.

As Harfang entered the cell, the guards’ leader jerked a knife from his belt. At the same instant, Jeannara twisted the chain and yanked hard. The man’s neck snapped and bent to one side as his body sagged. The elf let him fall to the ground. Then she stepped over to the prostrate guard, bent, and whispered something in his ear. Straightening, she kicked him hard on the temple. His eyes rolled up into his skull, and he lay silent.

Harfang looked at her and nodded. “Efficient, as always!” He smiled.

“All right, you lot!” Barbas, to judge from his tone, held something of his race’s traditional contempt for elves. He snatched his lockpick with his teeth and made short work of the chains binding Jeannara. “Follow me, and no wandering about, and we’ll get out of here safe and sound. And no killing anybody else!” he snapped, glaring at Riadon, whose handiwork had disposed of the guard. “You’re in enough trouble without that.”

The elves, dwarves, and human made their way through the labyrinthine passages that made Than-Khal’s prison. Several times the way split in two, but Barbas never hesitated. On. two occasions, he halted, the stump of a missing hand to his lips, as guards passed nearby. It seemed their escape had not, however, been discovered.

At last they turned along a passage ending in a blank wall. With every appearance of confidence, Barbas passed his nose along it as if smelling it. Then, stepping back, he struck a sharp blow with the heel of his boot against a spot about a third of the way up. There was a grinding noise, and the wall swung back to reveal another corridor.

“If you’re going to have dwarves build your jails,” Barbas grumbled more to himself than to the others, “always remember they put in a back door.”

He entered the passage, followed by the rest of the party. Ayshe, in the rear, heard and felt the stone door close behind, leaving them in the darkness.

Ayshe could, like all his race, see for some distance in the dark, and he knew the elves could too, although not as far. What worried him was Jeannara, who had a touch of claustrophobia. Indeed, she grumbled a bit as they moved along the passage.

“Isn’t there another way out?” she demanded. “This passage is choking me.”

“Of course,” returned Barbas, half turning. “We’ll just go back, missy, and you can ask your friends the guards to please show you out the front gate. That’s nice and wide, and I’m sure they’ve got something built just outside it that’ll choke you even more. A nice running noose. Hey?”

Jeannara was silent.

After what seemed an eternity, Barbas reached up and pushed against a stout wooden trapdoor set into the ceiling. It fell back, and the men and women of Dragonsbane emerged into the fresh air under starry skies.

Looking about, they found themselves in a narrow alley, stinking of garbage. At one end they could see the gently bobbing boats moored in the harbor. Harfang turned to Barbas.

“Thank you for your help, Master Dwarf!” he said gruffly. “We’ll be all right from here.”

The dwarf looked at him unblinkingly. “Will you now? Hey? How are you getting back to that ship of yours? Hey?”

He gestured toward the shore where the moons’ light separated the water from the sky in a flood of silver and scarlet. From where the party stood they had a clear view of the harbor.

Of the Starfinder there was no sign.