He dropped the black wand of sunfire. He kicked at the thing holding his legs, looking back and blinking at the afterimages.

A dead drow lay at Wykar's feet, his boots entangled in its blood-darkened arm bones and clothing.

Wykar kicked and screamed. Each scream renewed the bolts of agony in his deafened ears. The limp arms lost their grip on him and fell away, unmoving and dead. Wykar crawled away from the drow, limbs shaking with fear. He saw the wand, grabbed for it, looked up again.

Another white thing was falling from the ceiling. Geppo was below it, clutching his head. The cloakers were singing to him as they had sung to the drow.

Wykar raised the wand and shouted out the three words.

Nothing happened.

Your people are like mine, a little, because we are resistant to magic more than other folk.

"NO!" Wykar screamed. He threw down the wand, then s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and aimed.

The cloaker had Geppo in its folds.

"NO!" Wykar got up and ran, waving the invisible wand like a sword. "NO! NO!"

Geppo was trying to get out. Wykar could see his thin fingers pushing out against the black folds. The derro's narrow mouth was open and screaming and making absolutely no sound. Wykar screamed as he ran. He pulled off his ring, his invisibility ring, and threw it at the cloaker entrapping Geppo. "Look at me," he screamed. "Look at me."

Something white fell from the ceiling. He saw it just before it got him.

The wand went up, aimed, the three words said.

A staggering white spear of light set the cloaker ablaze; it curled up and fell to the side. Wykar saw in the great flash that a dozen dark things hung from the ceiling above him. A nest of monsters. They pulled loose when he saw them, a dozen white sheets falling at him with huge mouths and gla.s.sy eyes and fangs. Wykar screamed three words, wand out, and shut his eyes. He screamed them again and again and again, over and over, white flames roaring now from the wand and heat searing his hands, a litany of fire in the darkness.

Something caught him by the foot and pulled. Wykar lost his balance and fell, unable to see anything through the maze of afterimages and agony in his head.

He struck blindly with the wand at the thing that had grabbed him, but the thing only tightened its grip. It didn't feel like a hand.

Wykar swiftly rubbed his eyes on his short sleeve. In the red-violet light ofthe rift, he then saw what gripped his foot, even through the afterimages in his eyes and the fire in his ears and the bodies of flaming cloakers scattered across the rift floor. He saw it clearly.

The egg in the chest had hatched. It held his foot in one of its thick, dark tentacles.

Wykar screamed and heard himself scream even with no eardrums. The sea wave had hatched it, of course. Wykar realized that even in his madness, as he screamed out the three words and pointed the wand at the three liquid-black eyes only a yard away. He knew why the drow thought it was so funny, the idea of spitting on the egg, which they did not dare do. Water would hatch the egg and set the baby free. Not even a drow would want that.

The scaled newborn raised itself up as Wykar said the last word. He could not shut his eyes to block out the sight of it.

Hot, so very hot, and so blind after, though he saw everything.

In the flash of pure light that filled the rift, he saw the tentacled creature with three eyes impaled on the white-hot lance in his hands. Smoke flew from it in that instant, smoke black as a nightmare, and the creature and the wand blew up.

Almost half the population of Raurogh's Hall fell victim to the earthquake, injured or killed. When the surviving dwarves reached the shivering fisher dwarf, her eyes were closed but her blue lips were still moving.

"One hundred sixty-five," she whispered aloud, hearing their approach. "One hundred sixty-five."

The rescuing dwarves heard the fading thunder from the Deepfall's silo and understood. One hundred sixty-five seconds from top to bottom. They pulled her to safety. Her place in the legends was a.s.sured.

Wykar's hands were blistered and burning. He held them up and wept, pushed beyond his limits. His mangled hands glowed like fires in his heat-vision. He was on his feet, staggering around on the body-strewn sh.o.r.e outside the rift with the red-purple glow. He remembered nothing after the explosion, neither what happened nor how he got there.

He went back inside the rift. "Geppo!" he cried. He heard nothing, not even the tortured whine from the remains of his eardrums. "Geppo! Geppo!"

He found Geppo pulling himself from the folds of a limp white sheet. The red-splattered mouth on the sheet was slack and open, and its yellow gaze saw nothing. Geppo reached out to Wykar, bathed in the heat of his own blood. The derro spoke words the gnome could not hear. Wykar caught his hand and leaned close.

"Ring not work very long," Geppo's lips said. "Not very long, but cloaker not kill Geppo, hey?" The derro managed a black-toothed grin. "Geppo think good plan. Eat blue-glow plant in cave. Hooret, poison in blood, but not kill Geppo. True-Masters eat blue-glow plants always. Plants make all very sick when they try eat True-Masters, even Geppo." The derro gripped Wykar's hand tightly. "Geppo smart, hey? Cloaker very sick, hey?"

"I used you," Wykar said. He clutched the derro to him. "I used you to get the cloakers out. I betrayed you. G.o.ds forgive me, Geppo, I did you evil. I did you evil."

The derro merely smiled. "You lie," he said. "You give Geppo magic. You give Geppo real magic. Not work very long, but was real . . . magi - " He stiffened. "Thank . . ."

The light went out in the colorless eyes.

"No," cried the gnome. He clutched the derro to him. "Geppo. G.o.ds above hear me. No. No."

Only silence heard him.

On the starlit plains of the Eastern Shaar, the hunter stirred the dying embers of his campfire, thinking of his dead wife. The sorceress in the tower closed the mildewed tome and rubbed her eyes, unsettled by the book's implications. The old shepherd, warm in his cottage and his flock in its pen, played a soft tune on his flute, then began a bedtime tale to his grandson about ghosts.VOLO DOES MENZO Brian M. Thomsen In a Dive in Skullport "Where's my Skullport Special?" roared the foul-mouthed dwarf. "I ordered it over an aeon ago!"

"You ordered it less than five swipes of a dragon's tail ago," answered Percival Gallard Woodehous, the efficient and supercilious maitre d'/waiter/cook of Traitor Pick's, one of Skullport's grimier and grimmer grog-and-grub spots, ". . . and here it is."

The dwarf, whose name was Knytro, dived in with both hands, filling his cheeks with the aromatic mush while commenting, "Better than last time. Best slop in all Skullport." Then, looking up, stew dripping from his beard, he added, "You ain't much to look at, Pig, but you know how to cook."

"I live to serve," Woodehous answered with a touch of sarcasm he knew was lost on the dwarf, who was busy delighting in his dinner du jour.

Knytro began to lick the bowl of any of the stew's residue that had managed to escape his mouth, beard, and shirt front during the scant seconds it had taken for him to empty the vessel of its contents. The foul-mouthed dwarf then belched a further message to the long-suffering Woodehous.

"I beg your pardon?" Woodehous inquired.

"Whatsa matter?" the dwarf replied, getting a little hot under the collar. "I said it in Common, Pig. You deaf?"

"I must have been distracted by the bovine exuberance you manifested in the inhalation of your meal," he replied, confident of the limited vocabulary of his customer.

"I said 'Good slop,' " the dwarf repeated, this time without the benefit of the gaseous accent.

"I live for your praise," Woodehous replied, turning to head back to the bar.

The dwarf, having sated his appet.i.te for food, had obviously not yet reached his fill of conversation. He left the table and followed the waiter, taking a place on the stool in front of the bar and motioning that he was ready for a post-dinner nightcap of grog.

Ever efficient, Woodehous accommodated him immediately. The customer is always right, he thought to himself, no matter how uncouth, foul-smelling, or barbaric. Dignity must be maintained in service at all times.

"You know, Pig?" the dwarf continued.

"What, good sir?" he replied, grimacing as he once again heard the unfortunate moniker that had become his common hail of recent.

"In all the years I've spent excavating around these here parts, I've never come across a better slop jockey than you. I have a mind to put a good word in for you with the management around here."

"Why, thank you, good sir," Woodehous replied, hoping that enough of these endors.e.m.e.nts would return him to managerial favor and convince the powers that be to return him to his previous a.s.signment back at Shipmaster's Hall in Waterdeep or some other equally prestigious establishment. He refilled the dwarfs mug one last time.

"No problem, Pig," the dwarf replied, draining the draught immediately.

"Wouldn't want to lose you. You're the best cook Traitor Pick's has ever had-well, at least in the close to fifty years I've been coming here.

You can certainly work up an appet.i.te opening up and closing down tunnels all day. I know the manager, and he knows me-me being a steady customer and all."

The dwarf got off his stool and headed for the door, adding, "I'm sure one word from me, and you'll never have to look for another job again. Your position here will be secure forever."

"What a depressing thought," Woodehous muttered, mostly for his own benefit, as none of the customers seem to be paying him much attention.

Percival Gallard Woodehous had been on the Waterdhavian taverns managerial fast track when an unfortunate incident had derailed him. Having been trained in hostelry and cuisine at some of the best taverns in Suzail, the then youngmajordomo-in-training had set his sights westward, and traveled to Waterdeep in search of a position befitting his abilities. Once there, he contracted his services to a catering consortium, which arranged for him a.s.signments at various affairs in Waterdhavian society. As his expertise increased with the demands, he soon found himself in a position to control his own destiny. He resigned from the consortium and landed a position at the Shipmaster's Hall, a private inn and supper club that catered to the upper crust of the sailing community. In no time at all, he was running the place with more than twenty different employees under his supervision. Woodehous felt it was the perfect time to take a break from his fast-paced climb up the social ladder and settle back for a few months of treading water among the nautical set. The next opportunity for advancement would surely present itself soon enough.

Then, one day, he had the misfortune of being on duty when a very important person checked in with his entourage. It was none other than the master traveler in all Faerun, and the best-selling guidebook author Volothamp Geddarm himself. Quickly seizing the opportunity to add yet another feather to his cap, Woodehous offered Volo and his party accommodations "on the house,"

fully expecting a rave review for the establishment in the next edition of Volo's Guide to Waterdeep.

Unfortunately, the traveler and his entourage skipped town during the night, leaving neither a rave endors.e.m.e.nt nor a monetary settlement for services rendered. When Woodehous informed his superiors of the situation, they were enraged. Their rationale was twofold, each reason equally d.a.m.ning. First, if the traveler wasn't really the legendary Volo, Woodehous had been taken advantage of by a con man (perhaps the renowned rogue and imposter Marcus Wands, aka "Marco Volo") and, therefore, was ill suited for the responsibilities of his managerial position. Second, if the traveler was really the legendary gazetteer, Woodehous had either done something to offend him or Volo had found his accommodations inadequate for even a full night's stay, thus a.s.suring the establishment an abominable review in the guidebook's next edition. Either way, his superiors saw dismissal as the only appropriate action, and Woodehous was fired.

Woodehous returned to the catering consortium in hopes of restarting his societal upward climb, only to find himself blacklisted. The restauranting powers that be were more than a little indignant over his striking out on his own, and hoped to teach him a lesson. As a result, the only position he was able to obtain was in the employ of a nouveau entrepreneur whose acquaintance he had made back at the Shipmaster's Hall.

Denver Gilliam-a former seaman and, by his own reckoning, a veteran of one shipwreck too many-had recently struck it rich and bought out a block of taverns in the dock district of the City of Splendors. After the buyout, the taverns each maintained a distinctive ambience; even the Lords of Waterdeep couldn't tell they had a single owner, despite the fact that the establishments stood side by side on both sides of the street.

(The few patrons who were in the know had nicknamed the block "Gilliam's Aisle.") Gilliam offered Woodehous a position, which he quickly accepted, signing a contract for no fewer than three years of exclusive hostelry services. Upon starting work, however, Woodehous discovered that the tavern to which he had accepted a.s.signment was far from the newly fashionable, newly renovated Waterdhavian dock district. Its location wasn't even in Waterdeep, and thus the gentleman hostler found himself maitre d'/cook/waiter at Traitor Pick's in Skullport, where walking upright immediately designated one a member of the intellectual upper crust.

Woodehous had lost track of the time since he had last ventured out into daylight, and was quickly approaching despair as he realized he had not even reached the halfway point in his contract.

When the dinner trade reached its close, Woodehous locked the front door behind him and set out to the Gentleman's Groggery for his evening repast, leaving a sign on the door that simply said, "Out to Sup."At the Gentleman's Groggery Though it was true that the cuisine and service at the Gentleman's Groggery did not even come close to the level expected at Traitor Pick's, let alone one of the more fashionable Waterdhavian establishments, when it was Woodehous's turn to dine, he considered one thing requisite: he would be served and enjoy the amenities of any other paying customer. The niceties at the Double G (as the locals called it) were scant, true, but the food was at least digestible, the service less than threatening, and the locale relatively convenient. By default, the Double G had become Woodehous's regular dining spot.

"Hey, Pig," Wurlitzer, the orcish bartender, called as Woodehous entered the establishment, "how's the trade at Traitor's?"

'Typical," Woodehous replied, taking a place at the bar to avoid a rather raucous group gathered at the tables. He requested, "The usual, please, my good fellow."

The bartender snorted in agreement and poured the fallen-from-grace society caterer a gla.s.s of wine. "Have you heard about the new place opening down the street? I think it's called the Cup and Lizard, or something."

"You mean the Flagon and the Dragon," Woodehous corrected.

"That's right," Wurlitzer agreed, setting a plate in front of the recently arrived customer. "I believe they're looking for experienced help. You want me to put in a good word for you?"

"You're the second person today who has offered to 'put in a good word for me,' and though your kindness is appreciated, I prefer to decline at this time. My next position must certainly be as far away as possible from this h.e.l.lhole we call home," Woodehous replied.

"Skullport's not such a bad place," the ore responded defensively. "I've lived here me whole life, and although it's a slight comedown for the upper-crust likes of you, I have a feeling things are beginning to look up."

"Oh, really?" Woodehous replied sarcastically, immediately afterward hoping that he hadn't hurt Wurlitzer's feelings. The ore was the closest thing he had to a friend. "How so?"

Wurlitzer immediately began to brim with excitement.

"I was hoping you'd ask," the ore replied. "Guess who we have as a guest tonight?"

"I have no idea," Woodehous replied, in no mood for guessing games.

"It's an old friend of yours," the ore prodded. "C'mon, guess."

Realizing the bartender wouldn't give up until he did, Woodehous swallowed the sustenance that was in his mouth, wiped his lips with a napkin, and, with a shrug, named the first person that came to mind.

"I really have no idea-" he said, then offered "-the legendary gazetteer, Volothamp Geddarm?"

A look of puzzlement seized the ore visage.

"Does he also like to be called Volo?" Wurlitzer asked, obviously not familiar with the great author's full name.

Woodehous was taken aback in shock.

"You mean Volothamp Geddarm is here . . . tonight?" he asked incredulously.

Wurlitzer scratched his head, trying to spur on his meager mental faculties.

"If you mean the guy who does those guidebooks and likes to be called Volo and was supposed to give you a good review at the Shipmaster's Hall, well, yeah."

"Where is he?" Woodehous demanded.

"Over there," the ore replied, gesturing to the raucous group at the tables.

"He seems to be holding court or something. He started out telling a few really neat stories about his travels and attracted a crowd."

A cry of "Yeehah!" was heard from the other side of the room, followed by peals of laughter from various revelers.

"And the next one's even better," the same voice bellowed, an alcoholic slur evident in his voice.

"He seems to be a bit in his cups already," Woodehous observed out loud.

"Sure does," Wurlitzer agreed. "I like it when a newcomer sees fit to enjoy all of the Double G's empties.""You mean amenities," Woodehous corrected, leaving his barstool to take a place at one of the tables along the periphery of the VIP's audience.

The ore watched in puzzlement, unaware of his own propensity for malapropisms.

Woodehous quickly scanned the numerous empty chairs that surrounded the legendary gazetteer; more than a few of the supper club's clientele had gotten their fill of the entertainment provided by the jaunty and boisterous fellow who claimed to be the greatest traveler in all Faerun.

With the exception of the expensive clothes and the drunken dishevelment of his bearing, the travel writer looked just as Woodehous remembered him. A neatly trimmed beard, a jaunty beret, and a prosperous paunch, all wrapped around a gift for gab, a sly wink, and a smile. This was Volothamp Geddarm, the same gentleman whose earlier unexpected departure from the Shipmaster's Hall had cost Percival Gallard Woodehous his job, as well as several ranks on the Waterdhavian society scales. This was the man directly responsible for his current social banishment to Skullport.

". .. And then there was the time I flew to the Horde-lands in a jerry-rigged Halruaan skyship ..." the fellow rambled.

Oh, great, Woodehous thought, I guess I'm going to have to sit through a full set of the amazing adventures of Volo. It might be worth it if I get the opportunity to talk to him alone later on. If I play "the good audience," he just might intercede on my behalf back at the Shipmaster's Hall.

"... And then there was the time I was abducted by a group of dopplegangers off the streets of Waterdeep...."

I guess I'll just have to bide my time, Woodehous thought.

The crowd further thinned as the self-absorbed storyteller rambled on. The once-dense mob of fans and admirers had considerably dissipated itself. All were gone save for a few star-struck ores; a pair of foul-smelling dwarves, who freely helped themselves to ma.s.sive quant.i.ties of the gazetteer's libations; an inebriated ogre, who had nodded off in an upright position; and a pair of thuggish drow, who listened to the storyteller like panthers listening to approaching prey.

". . . And my next book is going to be really different. ..."