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.
“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