Approaching the Fireplaza obliquely, Ariakas crossed down to the Lavaflow River and started toward the cen shy;ter of the city. The right side of his body warmed to the radiance of the deep, crimson stream beside him. In the distance, he saw the Grand Bridge, the gray stone arcing upward through the darkness. The underside of the bridge glowed with its own light, heated, ovenlike, by the volcanic fury of the river.
The Fireplaza sprawled along a great section of this river, with the huge bridge connecting to the far end. Tall, stone-walled buildings surrounded the expanse. Several wide fissures gaped across the plaza's stone sur shy;face, and many of these belched forth clouds of steam, gas, or flame. At the opposite end stood Sanction's only public decoration-the War Monument.
This unique memorial consisted of the raised replicas of three sailing ships, supported by three clumps of stone columns. The three ships were clustered in close forma shy;tion, and from across the plaza, they looked as though they sailed through the air. The monument was dedicated to the fallen who perished during a brief fracas several decades earlier-one column had been raised for each of the one hundred and two men who had lost their lives.
During his months in the city, Ariakas had gleaned the tale of the structure, whose appearance had so puzzled him at first. The war had been a campaign against nearby Saltcove, reputedly a den of pirates and freebooters. The battle was Sanction's only claim to military glory, and the veterans of the conflict-all of whom had been well-paid by the city's merchants-had been able to extort the memorial's costs from their former employers.
From a reputable bartender Ariakas had learned the true story of the commemorated hostilities, which were grandiloquently entitled the 'Saltcove War.' The cam shy;paign was in actuality a single battle and had involved a boisterous, liquor-sodden expedition against the nearby fishing village, where several small-scale pirate captains had in fact maintained their strongholds. The town fell in the first rush, with several of the pirates fleeing to the hills with their henchmen. A few resisted, and four of Sanction's men perished in actual combat. The other ninety-eight fatalities had occurred when two of the overloaded invasion ships, both piloted by drunken cap shy;tains, collided at the entrance to Saltcove's harbor. The warriors aboard, armed and girded for battle, went down like stones as the ships broke apart around them.
It often surprised Ariakas that a city with such a sur shy;plus of warlike men could not boast of a more glorious military history. Still, a story of hearty, courageous men cursed with bad leadership was not unique in the history of Krynn. He speculated on what the armies of Sanction could accomplish if they were only leashed to a single goal. These men might even subdue Bloten, he believed — remembering all of the undersized expeditions he'd been forced to lead from Khur and Flotsam.
Ariakas passed between the monument and the Lava-flow River, picking his way between two of the long fis shy;sures. The gaps were only ten or twelve feet wide, but zigged and zagged for several hundred feet across the plaza. In a few places they were crossed by bridges, but the width of the chasms constantly shifted, so these crossings were short lived at best.
Several folk were about, including a few vendors of fruit, trinkets, cheese, and bread-all of whom had blan shy;kets spread on the ground, or small two-wheeled carts to display their wares. Somewhere a minstrel strolled, singing a bawdy song to laughter and jeers.
Ariakas veered to avoid the hustling approach of an old beggar woman, but the hag fairly leapt toward him, tugging at his sleeve and glaring up at him with one pen shy;etrating eye. The lid of the other was sewn shut, the seam vanishing in a maze other wrinkles lining her bony, angular face.
"Alms for an old woman, warrior?" she asked, glaring slyly at him. "Mayhaps in trade for your fortune told? This one old eye sees very clearly, mark my word!"
"Get away with you!" barked Ariakas, checking for danger as he raised a hand, ready to swat.
"One best listen to one's future," she said, ominously. "Even a Hylar dwarf knows that much!"
Ariakas froze, and then lowered his hand into his belt pouch. He passed the woman a steel piece, hoping that no other beggar in the vast square saw the transaction.
"Did you tell the fortune of a Hylar tonight?"
"I've seen the futures of everyone tonight," she retorted. "And who I tell is my business. But for you, warrior…." She lowered her voice portentously. "Look you toward the pillars of the Saltcove War-danger lurks in the shad shy;ows. Danger small in size, but great in number-danger going cloaked, hidden from the light."
Nodding his thanks, Ariakas surveyed the plaza in light of this new information. He reached for another coin, but the old woman shook her head and gave him a knowing smile. "The Hylar are not as stingy as some would say," she declared, cackling softly to herself as she hobbled away.
He turned his back on the flow of molten rock, moving into the center of the plaza and keeping the War Monu shy;ment to his left, a good two hundred paces away. He knew that at that distance, he was safe from any bow shot out of concealment.
But how was he to find Tale Splintersteel? Never before had he realized just how big the Fireplaza actually was. And where was Ferros Windchisel? He scanned the space, seeking the familiar dwarven silhouette, but was disappointed. Though he could see several hundred individuals within the plaza, many remained eclipsed by vendors' carts, the great monument, or knots of people.
As he searched, a fissure near him spit a great spume of steam into the sky. The eruption lasted for several sec shy;onds, and even after the blast ceased, a huge, white cloud drifted across the plaza, floating toward the river — where the radiant heat of the lava would quickly burn it away.
Then he saw a figure striding forward, emerging from the mist, and for a moment he wondered if this were Fer-ros. But the fog cleared slightly, and he saw someone considerably shorter than the Hylar, and yet equally broad in the shoulder and chest. The newcomer, fully wrapped in a cloak of fine embroidered silk, swaggered to Ariakas's right. The warrior pivoted to face the fellow obliquely, maintaining a watch from the corner of his eye on the multiple and shadowy columns of the memorial.
"Hello, warrior."
Ariakas recognized the same cold arrogance that had characterized Tale Splintersteel's voice in the Fungus Mug. Again that black cloth concealed most of his face, leaving only a thin slit where the two glittering eyes peered forth.
"Greetings, Zhakar Splintersteel," the human replied. "I am glad to see that you are well."
"That was not the impression I received when you massacred two score of my fellows," Tale snarled. He continued to approach Ariakas, and the warrior was forced to turn his back fully to the monument. Ariakas stepped to the side, however, to place a wide fissure behind him, protection against attack from the rear.
"I was merely defending myself," Ariakas retorted without rancor. "I should think you could understand my reasons perfectly." His voice masked his own sur shy;prise that the weapon had erupted with killing frost.
Tale Splintersteel shrugged. If he was terribly dis shy;traught about the loss of his henchmen, he hid the fact very well. "When you approached me in the tavern that night, you intimated there was a matter you wished to discuss-a matter of mutual profit."
Ariakas nodded, noncommittally. "That is what I said-then," he concluded pointedly.
Now it was Tale's turn to nod, which he did as if he understood the human's position completely. "Perhaps I acted with too much haste during our previous meeting. … I offer my apology. Understand: our antipathy was not directed against you."