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,