"I believe ten coins of steel is what you charge for one of your elixirs," Durm said.
Jastom stared at the lieutenant in shock. For once Jastom thought he recognized the odd note in Durm's voice. Could it possibly be amusement?
"Job well done, Healer," Durm said, that barely perceptible smile touching his lips once again. Then, without another word, the new commander whirled his dark mount about and galloped down the road, his soldiers following close behind. In moments all of them disappeared around a bend. Jastom and Grimm were alone.
"He knew all along," Jastom said in wonderment. "He knew we were charlatans."
"And that's why he wanted us," Grimm said, his beard wagging in amazement. "Letting his commander die outright would have been traitorous. But this way it looks like he did everything he could to save Skaahzak. No one could fault him for his actions."
"And I thought WE were such skillful swindlers," Jastom said wryly. He looked wistfully over the edge of the cliff where the wagon had disappeared.
"Well, at least we have this," Grimm said gruffly, picking up the leather purse.
Jastom stared at the dwarf for a long moment, and then slowly a grin spread across his face. He took the purse from Grimm and hefted it thoughtfully in his hands. "Grimm, how much dwarf spirits do you suppose you could brew with ten pieces of steel?"
A wicked gleam touched the dwarf's iron-gray eyes. "Oh, ten steel will buy enough," Grimm said as the two started down the twisting mountain road, back toward inhabited lands. "Enough to get us started, that is…"
The Hand That Feeds
Richard A. Knaak
Vandor Grizt used to think that the worst smell in the world was wet dog. Now, however, he knew that there was a worse one.
Wet, dead dog.
Helplessly bound to the ship's mast, Vandor could only stare into the baleful, pupil-less eyes of the undead monstrosity that guarded him. The combination of rot and damp mist made the pale, hairless beast so offensive to smell that even the two draconians did their best to stay upwind of the creature. Vandor, however, had no such choice.
Vandor was forced to admit that he probably didn't smell much better. Bound head and foot, he'd been dragged over rough roads for four days to the shores of the Blood Sea, then taken aboard ship. He was not his usual, immaculate self. He hoped none of his customers had seen him; the degrading spectacle would be bad for business… providing he survived to do business.
Tall and lean, Vandor Grizt was usually either quick enough or slippery enough to evade capture — be it by local authorities or the occasional, unsatisfied customer. When speed failed him, his patrician, almost regal features, coupled with his silver tongue, enabled him to talk his way out. Vandor never truly got rich selling his "used" wares, but neither did he ever go hungry. No, he'd never regretted the course his life had taken.
Not until now.
Vandor shifted. The undead wolf-thing bared its rotted fangs — a warning.
"Nice puppy," Vandor snarled back. "Go bury a bone, preferably one of your own."
"Be silent, human," hissed one of the two draconians, a sivak. The draconians appeared to be a pair of scaly, near-identical twins, but Vandor had learned from painful experience that they were quite different. The sivak had a special talent — having killed a person, the sivak could alter its features and shape to resemble those of its victims. In the guise of one of Vandor's trustworthy friends, the sivak draconian had led Vandor into an alley. There, he had been ambushed. He realized his mistake when he watched the sivak change back to its scaly self… and inform him that his friend was dead.
Given a chance, Vandor Grizt would cut the lizard's throat. He had few enough friends to let them get murdered. Why the draconians had gone to the trouble, Vandor still did not know. Perhaps, the black-robed cleric who led the party would tell him. It would at least be nice to know why he was going to die.
"We give thanks to you, Zeboim, mistress of the seal" intoned the cleric.
Vandor — self-styled procurer of "lost" artifacts and "mislaid" merchandise — could not identify what god or goddess the cleric worshipped on a regular basis, but doubted that it was the tempestuous sea siren who called Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, her mother. Zeboim did not seem the type who would favor the hideous, white, skull mask that covered the front half of the cleric's face. Some other deity fancied skulls and dead things, but the name escaped Vandor. Gods were not his forte. He himself gave some slight service to Shinare, who watched over merchants, including (he liked to think) enterprising ones such as himself. Since Shinare was one of the neutral gods, Vandor had always concluded she did not mind that he prayed only when in dire need. Now, however, he wondered if this were his reward for taking her for granted. Gods were peculiar about that sometimes.
The ship rocked as another wild wave struck it. The Blood Sea was a terror to sail at the best of times, but sailing it in the dark of night, during a storm, was suicidal folly as far as Grizt was concerned.
His opinion had been ignored by both crew and passengers.
Skullface turned around and summoned his two draconian companions. Magical torches, which never went out despite the constant spray, gave the cleric's mask a ghoulish look. Only the mouth and a thin, pointed chin were visible beneath the mask.
"You two draconians — set up the altar for the summoning!" the cleric commanded.
Vandor shivered, guessing that the summoning could only mean dire things for him.
A kapak draconian looked at its master questioningly. "So soon, Prefect Stel?" Saliva dripped as the creature talked. The minotaur crew was not enamored of the venomous kapak. Every time it spoke, it burned holes in the deck.
Prefect Stel pulled sleek, black gloves over his bony hands. He dresses very well, Vandor Grizt thought. Not my style of clothes, of course, but beautiful fabric. Under other circumstances, Stel would have been a client of potential. Vandor heaved a sigh.
Stel was talking. "I want the altar to be ready to be put to use the moment we are over the site." The dark cleric pulled out a tiny skull on a chain from around his neck. Vandor studied the jewel closely, first for possible value and then because he realized it was glowing.
"What about this human, prefect?" the sivak asked.
"The dreadwolf will guard him. He does not appear to be a stupid man." The cleric turned to Vandor. "Are you?"
"I would have to say I am still debating that issue, my good master," the independent merchandiser responded. "My current prospects do not bode well for hopes of profit."
Stel was amused. "I can see that." He leaned closer and, for the first time, his prisoner caught a glimpse of the dark pits that were his eyes. Vandor wondered if Stel ever removed the mask. In the days since falling into the trap, Vandor had yet to see the face hidden behind.
"If I were a priest of greasy Hiddukel rather than of my lord Chemosh, I would be tempted to offer you a place at my side," said Stel. "You are truly dedicated to the fine art of enriching yourself at the cost of others, aren't you?"
"Never at the expense of my good customers, Master Stel!" Vandor protested, insulted. But the protest was halfhearted.
Chemosh — lord of the undead. The mask should have been sufficient evidence, and the undead dog the ultimate proof, but the confused and frightened Vandor had not made the connection. Vandor was in the hands of a necromancer, a priest who raised the dead for vile purposes, vile purposes that usually required a sacrifice. But why specifically Vandor Grizt? The shape-shifting sivak had come for him and no one else.
The sailing ship rocked again in the turbulent waters. A wave splashed over the rail, soaking everything but the magical torches and — oddly enough — the cleric. Stel's tiny skull gleamed brighter now. His clothes were perfectly dry.