Rig promised once they left the harbor they’d run along the coast of Northern Ergoth, stop at Hylo and pick up a hauling contract or two. The sea barbarian claimed the money would be good. The half-ogre grinned. He’d drink the best ale that coins could buy and live on a feast of steaks. He’d even buy some for Fury.
Suddenly, he stiffened, his wide nostrils picking up the scent of something unfamiliar and out of place. He stood and sniffed again, then whirled to face the Anvil’s starboard side.
Ogres! He reached for the belaying pin that always hung from his waist. But he was too late. The biggest ogre, a dis-gusting-looking yellow brute, was already on him, wrestling him to the deck and striking him with a club. Groller grunted and fought hard, but his foe was heavy and had the advantage of surprise. The club cracked up against the side of his head, and he felt himself falling, sinking. He felt a tide of warm darkness rushing in to cover him as if he were a rock along the shore being covered by the tide. Then he felt his hands being bound, his body being wrapped in something—a fishing net?
If I wasn’t deaf, he thought as the black tide continued to sweep around him. If I wasn’t deaf, perhaps I would have heard them, and I could have warned Rig and Jasper. Then the tide swept away his consciousness and blackness claimed him.
“He be human?” The smallest ogre posed a question, pointing at Groller.
Muglor bent over to scrutinize their prisoner more closely. “Be part human, at least. He’ll do,” the chieftain passed judgment. “Below you go. Find more.”
Muglor scooped up Groller under one arm and half-carried, half-dragged him to the rail. The chieftain pitched his burden over the side of the Anvil, and the ogre below caught him and arranged him roughly in the bottom of the longboat. Looking across the harbor, the chieftain watched other netted sailors being deposited into boats. He grinned, revealing a row of pointed black teeth.
“The Storm Over Krynn be happy,” Muglor beamed. He patted an empty sack that hung from his side and trundled below deck to see if there was anything other than humans worth taking, too.
Less than an hour later, Muglor and his flotilla of longboats sailed from the Bay of Branchala. The boats sat heavy in the water, laden with netted prisoners.
“He not be human,” Muglor said, pointing at an unconscious short-haired dwarf who lay on the bottom of the boat.
“Sorry,” a young ogre apologized.
Maybe the brutes won’t notice, Muglor thought. He’ll be put in the center of the pen.
The flotilla headed toward the northeast, toward the hills where the ogres made their home. Once ashore, the longboats would be carried to their camp. No evidence would be left along the water’s edge—in the event one of their prisoners might turn out not to be a stranger and someone in Palanthas would try to take steps to find him.
29
In the Desert
Midway through the next morning, they stopped walking. They were sore, tired, and thirsty. Their stomachs growled incessantly Feril volunteered to hunt, but Dhamon argued that rest was more important right now. He’d found a small hill with a slight outcropping—enough to provide a little shade from the sun that was high overhead and beating down on them.
Shaon plopped to the sand and dropped the net bag at her feet. Fury stretched out beside her and stared at the tiny creature who peered back at him through gaps in the dark green net.
The sea barbarian winced as she reached out to pet Fury.
Her arm was branded, burned from the bolt of lightning she’d been the target of last night. It would likely leave a lengthy, ugly scar. “Why did I come along?” she whispered to the wolf. “Did I really think I could speed them up? Help them? Or did I just want Rig to miss me for a while?”
Again she thought about the big mariner, wondered what he was doing and wondered if he was thinking about her. She closed her eyes, leaned back, and imagined she was on the deck of the Anvil. She was going to have to change that name as soon as she got back, even if Jasper protested. The dwarf would be gone soon enough anyway.
Dhamon sat next to the Kagonesti. Feril tried to fuss over the claw marks on his back, but he brushed away the attention. There was no water to clean the wound, and if they made any more bandages out of their clothes, they wouldn’t have anything left to wear. The kender, perhaps because she was small—or lucky—had the least damage. She had managed to only get her topknot singed.
“Dhamon, how long do you think it will take to reach the Lonely Refuge?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Several days, maybe—if we’re lucky. The map was in the pack on my horse, and the horse is probably miles and miles from here. Sorry you came along?”
Feril grinned and shook her head. “We’ll find the Refuge. And I’ll find us something to eat in a little while. I’m a good hunter. Maybe I’ll take Fury with me. I wonder if he can hunt? Or has living with people made him soft?”
“I just wonder where we are,” Blister interposed distractedly.
Feril glanced at the kender. Blister had been mumbling and pacing, periodically stopping to kick at the sand, trace circles in it with the heel of her boot. Her bottom lip protruded in concentration, and her arms swung at her sides. She wore gray canvas gloves today. There were some sort of odd attachments on them—a button and hook contraption on each thumb and larger buttons on the palms.
“I know all about draconians,” the kender was babbling to herself. “I read about them somewhere. They’re copper, bronze, brass, silver, and gold. They don’t come in blue. At least they didn’t before. These have got to be new. Hey! Dhamon, look! There’s a building!”
Dhamon leapt to his feet, his mouth gaping. The kender was right! There was a tower, tall and distinct, sitting about a half-mile away. Had it been there a moment ago? He wasn’t sure. He’d been looking off in that direction.
“Is it a mirage?” Blister wondered aloud. “I’ve heard about the heat on the sand playing tricks on your mind.”
“No,” Dhamon said. He extended a hand toward the Kagonesti, offering to help her up. She leapt to her feet without any help, and started toward the structure.
“It’s not hot enough yet for mirages,” Feril said. “At least, I don’t think it is. And it’s casting a shadow. Mirages don’t do that. I’m betting it’s magic.” She cast a curious look at Dhamon. “And some of us have faith in magic.”
Shaon, roused from her daydreams about a carrack named after herself, roughly snatched up the spawn’s bag, nudged the wolf, and followed. “Come on, Blister, Fury,” she urged. “If it’s not a mirage, I’m going to be inside it in a few minutes—and filling my stomach with whatever food I can find.”
The tower was made of smooth stone, a simple, gray granite. It was massive, shedding a long shadow across their path.
Dhamon guessed there were eight or nine levels to it. Perhaps more extended below the sand. Had it been here all along and something only now allowed them to see it? A few yards from the door, he stiffened and held up a hand to stop the others. Maybe this was where the blue draconians, the spawn, came from. There were no tracks around the structure. The spawn flew and didn’t have to leave any.
Then the door soundlessly opened, and a figure draped in silver and black appeared in the entranceway. A voluminous hood obscured the face in its shadowy recesses, and the sleeves dangled just below where the tips of fingers would be. The figure could be a man—or a ghost, even a spawn.
It beckoned them forward. But Dhamon made them hold their place.
“You must be Goldmoon’s champions,” the figure said. His voice was soft and scratchy. “I am the Master. Palin is inside. He has been waiting for you.”