“Unless you rob them, you can’t do worse than the last
one they had.” He looked at the dangling chain. “I suppose
you’ll put me in jail there?”
Graym sighed. “Can’t do it, now that I’m their Protector.
Wouldn’t be right, would it, sir? I mean, you’re their war
hero and all.”
He frowned, concentrating, then smiled and slapped
Darll on the back. “You can go, sir. It’s all right. You’re
pardoned.”
Darll’s jaw fell and he goggled at Graym. “You’re
pardoning me?”
“First offense, like you said, sir. You’ve matured since
then. Probably be an upstanding citizen of Graveside.” He
puckered his brow, thinking, and suddenly brightened. “You
could stay and be my military advisor.”
“You lead? Me advise?” It was too much. Darll shook
his head and walked away, swearing, laughing, and
muttering.
“What’s he upset about?” Jarek asked. “He fought all
right.”
“You all fought wonderfully,” Rhael said firmly.
“You’re our heroes.” She kissed Graym again, then walked
swiftly back through the pass toward Graveside.
“Heroes?” the Wolf brothers said at once, and laughed.
Graym said gruffly, “There’ve been worse.”
Darll looked back up the road toward Graveside, at the
retreating Rhael. “Lucky for them they found us, in fact.”
Graym grinned at the others. “Best thing that could
have happened, really.”
Suddenly he was back at the cart, tugging on one of the
shafts. Darll joined him. “Right, then. Let’s get back.”
Graym pointed at the remaining barrel of ale. “Skull-Splitter
all around, when we get there, on the house.”
It was a surprisingly fast trip.
INTO SHADOW, INTO LIGHT
RICHARD A. KNAAK
The knight stalked across the hellish landscape, sword in hand. The
fog failed to conceal the desolation around him. Gnarled trees and
churned dirt were sights all too familiar after so long. His world, his
cursed world, was always much the same: dry, crackling soil, no sun, no
shadows, no refuge, no life, just endless devastation . . . and
somewhere in the fog, those who ever hunted him.
The fever burned, but, as always, he forced himself to
withstand the pain. Sweat poured down his face, trickling
into his armor. The plague that coursed through him never
rested. Oddly, it had been a part of him so long that he
probably would have felt lost without it.
The rusted armor creaked as the knight stumbled up a
small hill. Beneath the rust on his breastplate there could
still be seen a ravaged insignia marking him as a knight of
the Solamnic orders. He rarely looked down at the fading
mark, for it was a mockery of his life, a reminder of why he
had been condemned to this existence.
The price of being a traitor had been heavier than he had
ever thought possible.
As he started down the other side of the ravaged hill, the
knight caught sight of something odd, something out of
place in this wasteland. It seemed to glitter, despite the lack
of sunlight, and to the weary knight it was worth more than
a mountain of gold. A stream of clear, cool water flowed no
more than a few yards from where he stood.
He smiled – a rare smile of hope. The knight staggered
forward, moving as fast as he could manage, ignoring pain,
fatigue, fear. How long since his last drink of water? The
memory escaped him.
Kneeling before the stream, he closed his eyes. “My
Lord Paladine, I beseech you! Hear this simple prayer! Let
me partake this once! A single sip of water, that is all I ask!”
The knight leaned forward, reached out toward the
stream . . . and fell back in horror as he stared into its
reflective surface.
“Paladine preserve me,” he muttered. Slowly leaning
forward again, he stared at his image in the stream.
Pale as a corpse, his face was gaunt, almost skull-like.
Lank, wispy hair – what could be seen beneath his helm –
was plastered to his head. His eyes were colorless; had they
always been that way? A faint, sardonic smile briefly
touched his countenance. “I look like a ghost. How
appropriate now,” he said to his reflection.
The water continued to flow past, and he recalled the