"Silence!" Rapaldo made clumsy swimming motions with his hands and drifted over to Kitiara. "You wear armor, but you can take it off when you want to. I can't! I have to wear this chain every hour, every day." He shoved his dirty, bearded face close to hers. "I renounce the power! I'm going home, I am, and walk like a man again. The trees will not miss me with Sir Sturmbright as king.

"Treason! Treason! You're all guilty!" Rapaldo somer- saulted in the air, away from Kitiara. He scooped up his axe and flung it at his chosen victim.

Chapter 17.

Without Honor.

The last loop of cord gave way, and Sturm's hands were free. He snatched the dagger from Cutwood and quickly worked through the ropes around his ankles. The hemp from the Tarvolina was old and quickly parted. Sturm leaped to his feet.

"Lead me back to the audience hall!" he said to the gnomes atop the wall. Fitter waved and ran all the way around the room before veering off for the king's audience chamber. Roperig and Wingover trotted behind him.

"Come on, Cutwood," Sturm shouted, hoisting the gnome on his shoulders.

The sun was going down. Sturm thanked Paladine for that. Without sunlight, the hordes of tree-men loyal to the mad Rapaldo would soon revert to rooted plants.

He passed through another opening in the wall and found himself facing a dozen armed tree-men. They presented a solid front, barring his progress. Sturm had only Kitiara's dagger to oppose their long glass swords.

"Hold on, Cutwood," he said. The gnome gripped Sturm's head tightly.

Flat shadows climbed the walls. The sun was sinking fast. Already the lower halves of the Lunitarians were in shade; soon their feet would fix where they stood. A tree-man thrust the forty-inch span of his scarlet glass sword at Sturm. Though the guard was slow, the blade flickered past Sturm's chin, far outreaching his twelve-inch dagger.

Woodenness began to claim the Lunitarians' lower bodies, and they took root. The edge of night was midway up their trunks now. The tree-men's arms wavered in slow motion, like weeds beneath the surface of a pond. The guard that Sturm faced snagged the tip of his sword on Sturm's fur hood and ripped through the hide and hair. That was the tree-man's last act. Bark closed over his eyes, leav- ing him and the others featureless and inert.

Wingover appeared atop the wall. "Master Brightblade!

Come quickly! Something terrible has happened!" Before the human could ask what, the gnome ran back the way he'd come.

"He was weeping," Cutwood. noted in astonishment.

"Wingover never weeps."

Sturm thrust his arms and shoulder between the trunks of the tree-men and heaved himself through. Their bark scraped and pulled at him, but he struggled on until he broke out of the rear rank of guards. The passage ahead was clear.

Sturm and Cutwood burst into the audience hall. The knight looked first to Kitiara. Was it her? Was she hurt, dying, or dead? The woman and the two gnomes were locked tightly in the embrace of their now-immobile guards.

Blood stained the knotty fingers of the one that held Bell- crank.

Bellcrank was dead. Rapaldo was nowhere to be seen.

"Kit! Are you all right?" Sturm called.

"Yes, and Sighter, too, but Bellcrank -"

"I see. Where's Rapaldo?"

"He's nearby. Be wary, Sturm, he's got that axe."

The room was thick with immobile tree-men. The gather- ing darkness made the audience hall a forest of shadows.

Out of the uncertain dark came Rapaldo's snickering laugh.

"Who has a lamp to light you to bed? Who has a chopper to chop off your head?"

"Rapaldo! Face me and fight!" Sturm cried.

"Heh, heh, heh."

Something moved overhead. From the wall, Wingover shouted, "He's up there! Duck, Sturm!"

Sturm dropped to the floor just as the axe blade whisked through the place his head had been. "Kit, where's your sword? Rapaldo has mine!"

"On the floor in front of Sighter," she said.

Sturm scrambled forward on his belly as Rapaldo flitted through the tops of the tree-men. Kitiara called to Sturm, explaining the crazed king's ability to levitate.

"He's dropped part of his weights," Sighter added. "He's floating about six feet off the ground."

Sturm's hand closed over Kitiara's sword handle and was up in a flash. Her blade was light and keen, and seemed to slice the air with a will of its own".' Sturm saw Rapaldo's tat- tered pants' legs and rope sandals stepping on the heads of the tree-men. Sturm slashed at him, but only succeeded in chipping off bits of the Lunitarian that Rapaldo was stand- ing on. The king of Lunitari bounded away, giggling.

"I can't see him!" Sturm complained. "Wingover, where is he?"

"On your left - behind -" Sturm ducked the axe blow and cut at Rapaldo. He felt the tip of Kitiara's sword snag cloth and heard the cloth tear.

"Close, very close, Sir Sturmbright, but you're too heavy on your feet," Rapaldo said, chortling.

"Kit, I'd welcome any tactical suggestions you might want to make," Sturm said, his chest heaving in the chill night air.

"What you need is a crossbow," Kitiara hissed. She strained against the enfolded limbs of solid wood that held her. Because her arms were pinned at her sides, she could not get any leverage. Kitiara tried to twist her shoulders from side to side. The tree-man's arms groaned and cracked, but held firm.

Sturm shifted the dagger to his right hand and put the sword in his left. The hall was very quiet. The gnomes, who had been crying for their fallen colleague, ceased all noise.

Sturm crouched low and moved to the ramshackle throne.

He climbed up on the chair and stood erect. "Rapaldo!

Rapaldo, I'm on your throne. I spit on it, Rapaldo! You're a petty, lunatic carpenter who dreams he is a king."

The clink of chain warned him - a split second later the axe bit deeply into the back of the chair and stuck there, wedged tightly by the tough oak of Krynn. Rapaldo tried frantically to free the axe, but his spindly arms and lack of leverage prevented him.

"Surrender!" Sturm demanded, presenting the point of the dagger to Rapaldo's throat.

"Ta-ra-ra!" cried the king, planting his feet on the back of the throne. He heaved the tall chair over backward, sending him, Sturm, bare sword, axe, and dagger down together in a heap. There was a mighty crash, a scream, and silence.

"Sturm!" called Kitiara.

He shook himself free of the shattered chair and stood. A gash in his cheek bled, but Sturm was otherwise unhurt.

Rapaldo was pinned to the floor, the dagger through his heart. His legs and arms floated above aimlessly. Drops of blood flowed up the dagger's hilt and detached, drifting up into the air.

Sturm found the axe in the debris. Stolidly ignoring the fact that the trees would be living beings again by morning, he chopped Kitiara and Sighter free. The other gnomes descended from the wall and helped get Bellcrank out of the wooden bonds. They laid the stout gnome gently on the floor and covered his face with their kerchiefs. Fitter began to sob.

"What shall we do?" asked Wingover tearfully.

Kitiara said, "Bellcrank is avenged. What more is there to do?"

"Oughtn't we to bury him?" said Roperig heavily.

"Yes, of course," said Sturm. He gathered Bellcrank in his arms and led the sorrowing band outside.

The gnomes stood together. The only sounds were sniffles and the scuffing of small shoes. Sighter brushed the wood chips from his clothes and strode off. The others fell in behind him. He went to the middle of the mushroom garden and stopped. Pointing to the red fluff, he declared that this was the spot.

The gnomes began to dig. Kitiara offered to help, but Cutwood politely declined. The gnomes knelt in a circle and dug the grave with their hands. When they were satisfied, Sturm stepped in and, with great feeling, laid the heroic Bellcrank in his final resting place.

Sighter spoke first. "Bellcrank was a fine technician and a good chemist. Now he is dead. The engine has ceased to run, the gears have seized and stopped." Sighter tossed a handful of pale crimson soil over his friend. "Farewell, fare- well."

Wingover said, "He was a skilled metallurgist," and added another handful of dirt.

"An excellent arguer," noted Cutwood, choking back emotion.

"A dedicated experimenter," Rainspot said, sprinkling his portion.

"The finest of gear makers," said Roperig sorrowfully.

When Fitter's turn came, he was too upset to think of any- thing to say. "He-he was a hearty eater," the littlest gnome murmured at last. Roperig managed a fond smile and patted his apprentice on the back.

They mounded the dirt over their fallen friend. Wingover went back into the keep and returned with a piece of iron- work from Rapaldo's wrecked ship. It was a gear, part of the Tarvolina's capstan. The gnomes set this on the grave, as a monument to their colleague.

Kitiara turned her back and headed for the keep. After a moment of respectful silence, Sturm hurried after her. 'You might have found something to say to the gnomes," he chid- ed.

"We have much to do before the sun rises again. We've got to gather our belongings and get as far from here as the night will let us," she said.

"Why the haste? Rapaldo is dead."

Kitiara swept an arm around. "His subjects are very much alive! How do you think they'll feel when they awaken and find their god-king dead?"

Sturm pondered this a moment, then said, "We can hide the body."

"No good," she said, crossing the outer wall. "The tree- men will assume the worst if we're gone and Rapaldo's miss- ing." Kitiara paused at the door to the throne room. "All the more reason to get out of here and find the Cloudmaster."

She was right. Sturm found his dented helmet and put it on. Kitiara replaced her sword and wrenched the dagger out of the dead man's chest. Seeing Rapaldo bobbing like a cork gave her a macabre idea. She knelt on one knee and unwound the remaining chain from Rapaldo's waist. They could use it when they found the flying ship.

Kitiara gripped Rapaldo's bloody shirt and guided the body toward Sturm. "Here's my idea of a quick and easy funeral," she said, letting go. The lifeless body of Rapaldo the First rose slowly, turning slightly as it went. Within min- utes, it was lost from sight in the violet vault of the sky.

Sturm was aghast.

"It could just as easily have been me he killed, you know," she said flatly. "My only regret is that you got to him instead of me."

"He was a demented wretch. There was no honor in slay- ing such a person."

"Honor! One day you'll face a foe without your concept of honor, and that will be the end of Sturm Brightblade."

They went back to the mushroom garden. The gnomes were waiting. Their tall expedition packs were weighed down even further with bits of metal salvaged from Rapaldo's cache. Kitiara announced her intention to follow the path that the Micones had been on before their tracks were lost in the rocks. Sighter looked to Sturm.

"What do you say, Master Brightblade?"

"I have no better plan," he replied simply. A chill was growing in his heart. The woman who dealt so harshly with a dead foe was more and more like a stranger to him.

This was their darkest hour since leaving Krynn. One of their own was dead, buried in the cold moon soil, and a poor, insane king spiraled ever upward, a weightless corpse with no place to land. It would be a long, unhappy night.

And yet, when the sun next shone over Rapaldo's garden, a giant mushroom grew out of the grave of Bellcrank.

Unlike the scarlet fungi around it, this one was pure and shining white.

Sturm had another vision. It came to him while he walked, yet his step never faltered.

A horse neighed. Sturm saw four bony beasts tied' to a charred post. It was day, but heavy shadows lay over every- thing. Sturm looked up and recognized the ruined battle- ments of his father's castle. Across the courtyard he saw a broken wagon lying with one wheel off. A man was lashed to the remaining wheel, his wrists cruelly bound to its rim.

Sturm closed on this desperate figure. He prayed to Pala- dine that it was not his father.

The man lifted his eyes. Through the wild growth of beard and the bruises of a brutal beating Sturm recognized Bren, his father's companion in exile. As in Sturm's last vision, Bren looked right through Sturm. The younger Brightblade was a phantom, a thing of no substance.

Four men shuffled out of the shadows on Sturm's right.

They were lean, rough-looking men of a type Sturm had often seen on the road. Vagabonds. Brigands. Killers.

"When is we moving on, Touk?" said one of the men.

"This here castle is haunted, I tell you."

"You afraid of ghosts'" said the dirty-faced fellow with the brass earring.

"I'm afraid of anything I can't stick my billhook through."

"When are we leavin'?" asked the last brigand in line.

Dirty-Face laughed, showing yellow teeth. "When I'm sure there ain't no more swag here'bout, that's when." Touk spat in the dirt. "Let's have a word wi' our honored guest."

The bandit and two of his men stood over the prisoner.

Touk grabbed Bren by his matted hair and lifted his head.