"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, mistgreen 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.