The commander stared at his sword in an astonishment that changed rapidly to rage. Flinging aside the useless weapon, he leapt to grapple with his prisoner.

Shadamehr swept his manacled arm and the flying chain caught the commander in the jaw, snapping his

head to one side. He fell backward, landed on the stone floor, and lay still.

Neither Shadamehr nor Alise moved. Both held perfectly still, not even breathing, waiting for the vrykyl to rise again. The commander was out cold. He didn't so much as twitch.

Shadamehr sank back against the wall. "The old wives' tales were wrong. I've known pecwae to put up

more of a fight."

Alise knelt gingerly beside the commander. She put her hand to his neck. "Shadamehr," she said, "this isn't a vrykyl. He has a pulse.""What are you saying? He has to be the vrykyl! Brother Ulien-" Shadamehr sucked in a breath.

"Brother Ulien! What a fool I've been! We have to get out of here!" he said in a low, urgent voice.

But they had only taken a few steps when a blast of wind as chill as death blasted through the corridor.

The smoke vanished, torn apart in shreds. The flames flared up behind them. The corpse of Brother Ulien strode purposefully down the corridor."He's the vrykyl!" Alise whispered.The power of the Void magic crashed over her, an immense wave of soulless empty darkness which struck her an almost physical blow. Alise's hands went numb and limp. She dropped the vial of holy earth. Not that it would matter. Her own magical power was being sucked into the maw of the Void.

Beside her, leaning against the stone wall, Shadamehr let his breath out in a long sigh.

"A trap," he said softly. "It was all a trap. You said my ego would be the death of me. I walked into it as

blind as a mole in a snare."

"Indeed you did, Lord Shadamehr," said the vrykyl. The face was pale and gaunt in death, yet the lifeless mouth moved, the unseeing eyes saw. "My master has watched you long. He knows you to be a threat.

He heard you were searching for information about us. We had orders to answer all your questions, provided we could find you. Imagine my joy when I discovered, after feeding upon the soul of Brother Ulien, that he was once your friend. The rest was simple, after that. Now you will see me for what I am."

The illusion of Brother Ulien vanished. In its place stood a hideous knight in shining armor, black as the

carapace of some huge, malevolent insect. His hands were covered with metal gloves adorned with sharp, hooked black talons. In his right hand he wielded a small poinard that glowed with an eerie, empty white light.

Terror gripped Alise. She felt her face starting to contort into that look of horror which would freeze upon it when she died. She could not think. She could not scream. She shrank closer to Shadamehr and felt him move. His left arm was creeping slowly up the stone wall against which he leaned. She glanced above them and saw a length of rope, running across the ceiling.

Swiftly, Alise lowered her eyes, lest the vrykyl follow her gaze and guess Shadamehr's desperate plan.

"I wouldn't advise feeding on my soul," said Shadamehr, watching the vrykyl advance and hoping to keep his attention. Just a few more steps. A few more. "I'm likely to give you indigestion."

The vrykyl said no word. He walked toward them, his booted footfalls echoing loudly on the stone.

And then the footfalls struck wood.

Shadamehr grabbed hold of the rope and pulled hard. The wooden trapdoor flew open, booming against

the side of the stone wall below it.

The vrykyl vanished, plunging down into the darkness. They heard his roar of anger and a splash as he hit the water.

"What do we now?" Alise cried.

"We run!" Shadamehr said grimly.

He caught hold of her hand and together they dashed down the corridor, making wide detour around the

hole in the floor. Neither took time to look for their enemy, who could be heard raging and thrashing

about in the foaming water.

They ran up the stairs to the ground floor and out the front door of the military command post. They paid no heed to the startled guards, who yelled after them and began to give chase.

"Keep going!" Shadamehr panted.

Alise needed no urging. She could feel the pent-up rage and fury of the thwarted vrykyl rumbling

beneath them like molten hot lava. The ground began to shake and the guards halted in alarm. Alise glanced back and saw blinding white flame engulf the fortress. A concussive blast tore the fortress apart.

Alise dove under a large wagon standing in the roadway and covered her head with her arms.

Shadamehr flung his body down beside her and put his arms around her. Rock rained around them,

crashing off the wagon and bounding into the street.

And then it was over. The night was eerily quiet, for an instant, until screams and shouts and the sounds of people running toward the burning fortress shattered the stillness.

Shadamehr crawled out from under the wagon, turned to help Alise. "Are you all right?" he asked.

She nodded. She was bleeding from cuts on her hands and face where she'd slid along the ground, but otherwise she was unhurt.

"You?" she asked.

"Aside from being singed by magical fire and poisoned by the Void, I am fine," he said. "A lot finer than

I thought I was going to be there for a moment."

"Do you suppose the vrykyl's dead?" Alise asked, shivering at the memory.

"No, I don't suppose it," Shadamehr answered. "But it's going to take him a while to crawl out from the

under the ruins of the fortress. In the meanwhile, I suggest that we take our leave. My questions have

been answered. We now know the nature of the foe the people of Loerem must eventually face. And we

know that neither of us has the power now to face it.""But who does have the power, Shadamehr?" Alise asked, helping him to his feet. She looked back at the burning, blackened fortress. "Is there anyone who can fight them?"

"Not even the Dominion Lords are prepared to face this, Alise," Shadamehr said. "I don't know anyone

who is."

He shook his head and, putting his arm around Alise, he drew her close. "But remind me to apologize to the first old wife I meet."

Serenade

A Spellsinger Story Alan Dean Foster The young woman was beautiful, her male companion was shy, and the hat was surrept.i.tious. This feathered chapeau of uncertain parentage bobbed along innocently enough behind the stone wall on which the two young paramours sat whispering sweet nothings to one another. The hat dipped out of sight an instant before the girl's lips parted in shock. Reacting swiftly to the perceived offense, she whirled and struck the startled young man seated beside her hard enough to knock him backwards off the wall. But by that time the hat had hastened beyond sight, sound, and possible indictment.

Beneath the hat as it emerged from behind the wall, having strewn amorous chaos in its wake, was a five-

foot-tall otter clad (in addition to the aforementioned feathered cap) in short pants, long vest, and a self- satisfied smirk. Ignoring the occasional glances that came his way, the hirsute, bewhiskered, and thoroughly disreputable Mudge wended his way through the streets of downtown Timswitty. Eventually his sharp eyes caught sight of his friend, companion, and frequent irritant from another world leaning against the wall of a dry-goods shop while soaking up the sun. Dodging a single lizard-drawn wagon festooned with clanging pots and pans for sale, he hailed his companion with a cheery early morning obscenity.

Arms crossed over his chest, duar slung across his back, scabbard flanking his right leg, Jon-Tom opened one eye to regard his much shorter friend. In this world of undersized humans and loquacious animals, the unwilling six-foot-tall visitor stood out in any crowd. Except for his unusual height, however, he was not an especially impressive specimen of humankind.

"Back already? Let me guess-you've been making mischief again."

"Wot, me, guv'nor? You strike me to the quick! Why, I didn't even know the la.s.s."

Jon-Tom frowned. "What la.s.s?"

The otter mustered a look of innocence, at which self-defense mechanism he had enjoyed much practice.

"Why, Miss Chief, o' course."

"One of these days I'll strike you for real." Pushing away from the wall, Jon-Tom nearly stepped into the path of a goat hauling firewood. Apologizing to the annoyed billy, he started up Pikk Street, only to find his path blocked by a lean human little taller than Mudge. Older than the two travelers together, the well- dressed graybeard wore a colorful cloak and trousers of some soft red and blue material. An integrated cowl covered his head and he carried a simple wooden staff topped by a polished globe. Mudge eyed the

latter with cursory interest. This flagged the instant he identified the opaque vitriosity as ordinary gla.s.s not worth pilfering "Excuse me, good sirs." Though he addressed them both, it was Jon-Tom's face that drew the bulk of the