The knight’s lips tightened, his face flushed. Raistlin
stared at him, unmoving, and the expression on Gawain’s
face altered from anger to one of thoughtful consideration.
Abruptly, he slid his sword back into its sheath.
“Oh, and Sir Knight,” said Raistlin coolly, “don’t
forget to give us our share of the reward.”
Gawain unbuckled his sword belt and removed it from
around his waist. “Take it all,” he said, tossing sword and
belt at the mage’s feet. “I’ve found something of far greater
value.” Bowing stiffly, he turned and walked from the
keep.
The red moon rose in the sky. Its eerie glow filtered
through the crumbling walls of the ancient fortress,
lighting the path. The mage remained standing in the
empty hall. He could still feel, soft and silky beneath his
fingers, the child’s hair.
“Yes, Sir Knight, you have,” said Raistlin. He stood a
moment, thinking of the spirit’s words. Then, shrugging,
he tightened his grip on the magical staff. “DULAK”, he
said, and the light went out, leaving him to stand in
darkness lit only by the rays of the red moon.
Dead on Target
Roger E. Moore
“There’d goes!” called a hobgoblin drunkenly in
the last red light of evening. “There’d goes! S’goin’ away!”
No cloud remained in the darkening sky. The wind
picked up around me, the low roar almost drowning out
the laughter of the hobgoblin sentries forty feet up the
steep hillside at my back. From the sound of things, the
two of them had long ago broken into one of the wine
casks they’d taken from a farm near the outskirts of
Twisting Creek, basking in the natural satisfaction
hobgoblins get from killing unarmed farmers – like my
cousins, Garayn and Klart.
I licked my lips and felt for the leather waterskin on
my belt, preparing to untie it, but found the water was
already low. I released it and leaned back against the rock
face, keeping my arm close to my side so that the
hobgoblins above wouldn’t notice the movement in the
dim light. My fingers closed over my sword hilt but stayed
relaxed. The glow above the plain to the west was almost
gone; Lunitari was a low, red crescent on the horizon, the
only moon visible. Far overhead, the pantheon of gods
was played out in the brightening stars. It was beautiful,
but I could tell there’d be rain by tomorrow night. Scouts
know these things.
“S’all gone!” called the hobgoblin again. “N’more
sun!”
Several distant shouts came back, all curses in the coarse
hobgoblins’ tongue. “You basdards wanned me d’be a
lookoud, and I’m looking oud!” the hobgoblin roared back
hotly, then laughed again. He sounded as if he had a
broken nose. “Bedder look oud for th’ sdars! They’re
coming da ged ya!”
I’d gotten here only an hour ago but had already heard
enough. About a dozen hobgoblins were camped out on
this hilltop, near Solanthus’s eastern border. Twisting
Creek was two days to the southwest. On the other side of
the low hills to the east, beyond the Garetmar River, was
unclaimed territory populated by bandits, deserters, and
hobgoblin garbage.
A hobgoblin snickered, then drunkenly mumbled a
phrase that the wind carried away. Soon, both sentries
would be dead to the world. They had nothing to fear that
they knew of. They had been clever enough to raid light
and avoid attracting too much unfavorable attention from
Twisting Creek’s militia. Hit fast, grab loot, and run – the
same old formula. The hobgoblins had burned a few barns,
killed some horses, and stolen some odds and ends before
scurrying off. They didn’t want a fight. They just wanted
to rub it in that they were around.
I was Evredd Kaan: dark hair, dark eyes, good
physique, ex-scout. I’d been out of the army since Neraka
fell and my unit was disbanded. After that, I’d gone home
to the city of Solanthus to find it mostly in ruins. I worked
for a year on labor crews, shoveling ashes, rubble, and
bones, sometimes taking night shift as a militiaman in a
city overrun with beggars who stole to survive. Finally, I
just quit and headed east for Twisting Creek, where my