The group of us set out on our journey, and throughout our first encounters, we had a fairly easy time of it. We would encounter random threats such as giants or small dragons. At those times, we would develop strategies and the roll of dice would tell us how successful we were. We were consistently able to navigate our way past the a.s.sorted dangers, and even I was finding some degree of amus.e.m.e.nt in the entire process. Having encountered my share of questrelated horrors--an impressive accomplishment considering my near obsessive aversion to quests--there was definitely some entertainment in chancing upon threats to life and limb without any of our lives or limbs actually being jeopardized.

Still...

Whenever those dice came down, I felt... I didn't know what. Worried. Jumpy. A sensation that we were fish within a net and we didn't even realize it, because the net hadn't been drawn closed yet.

The others didn't notice or care. They became more boisterous, more adventurous as matters progressed. And over it all, Ronnell sat there with a wide grin, watching hawkishly as we rolled the dice one at a time to determine our fates.

We had navigated our way through an a.s.sortment of hazards and now stood just within the confines of the Foreboding Mountains themselves. "I think maybe we should leave," I suggested. Naturally no one paid me any heed.

"You are faced with two branching forks," Ronnell intoned, a gleam in his eye. He was leaning forward, wide-shouldered, hunched, looking like a gargoyle or perhaps a predatory bird about to pounce.

"Both are illuminated by flickering torches. There is an inscription on the wall just outside the left path." "I read it," said Farfell.

The Mousser thumped him on the chest. "Your character's a barbarian, remember? He can't read."

"Sorry," muttered Farfell.

"I read it," said the Doubter.

"It's written in runic," Ronnell informed us, and then he lowered his voice and said, "It says, 'Do Not Even Think for a Moment About Going This Way or You Will Die.'"

"That's the way we go then," said the Mousser.

I turned and gaped at him."It says not to! It says we shouldn't even think about it!"

"Obviously," the Mousser told me with great satisfaction, "they're trying to throw us off the scent."

"That's one interpretation. The other is that someone took the time to warn us that we'll die if we go that way. It seems to me d.a.m.ned rude to ignore it if a person went to that much trouble."

"Apropos," Farfell said chidingly, "it's just a game. What's the worst that can happen?"

"Every time I've asked myself that, I invariably find out. And it's usually worse than I could have imagined."

"Nonsense." He looked with certainty at Ronnell and said, "We enter the left branch. We are not put off by the sign."

"Who is in the lead?" Ronnell asked politely.

Farfell hesitated, clearly not expecting the question. It was Doubting Tomas who spoke up, far more into the game than I would have credited. "I will take the lead, since I will be able to read any signs that present themselves."

Suddenly I heard a distant ripple of thunder, and looked around nervously. The s.h.i.+p was beginning to rock a bit more than before. I was more grateful than ever for the medication that Ronnell had provided me. But that grat.i.tude and distant sense of relief was overwhelmed by an even greater sense of foreboding.

It has been said by some that I have a bit of magic in my blood. No weaver am I, certainly, but I can intuit when something is up, magic-wise. I was getting that sense now. That the impending storm stemmed from more than mere weather, or even from an intemperate G.o.d who felt like punis.h.i.+ng a sailing vessel for no reason other than that it was there.

The others didn't seem to care. If there was anything going on, it clearly didn't register on them.

"The cleric takes the lead," intoned Ronnell.

"Wait," I said. Ronnell turned and fixed me with a dark-eyed stare and repeated, "The cleric takes the lead." Before I could interrupt again, he continued, "Ye proceed down the hallway. There is a thick mist in the air. Torches continue to flicker on either side. Just ahead of ye, there is a large door made of solid stone."

"Does it have a lock?" inquired the Mousser.

"Aye. Inset into the door. But there is no sign of a key."

"Not a problem," the Mousser said with a confident grin. "The thief comes forward and produces his lockpicks. He proceeds to work on the lock."

"The torches grow brighter," said Ronnell.

I could see it so clearly in my mind, the four of us in this scenario, so vividly that it was as if I was standing right there. And when the torches went higher still, I said, "We're leaving."

"The h.e.l.l we are!" said an annoyed Farfell.

"We've got to get out of here. This thing stinks of a trap."

"I'm still working on the lock," said the Mousser.

"Roll the dice," Ronnell told him. "A roll over eight means the door unlocks."

The dice glittered, and the thunder sounded nearer. I could hear the increasing waves lapping at the side of the s.h.i.+p.

"Don't touch them," I warned the Mousser.

The Mousser looked at me as if I were insane. His expression was filled with disdain. His hair was filled with gel. "G.o.ds, you really are quite the coward, aren't you," he said as he picked up the dice, shook them in his hand, and then dropped them.

A four and a two stared up at us.

"Bad luck," smiled Ronnell, and lightning flashed, illuminating the room through the solitary porthole.

"The torches respond to the attempted intrusion."

"They what?" asked the Mousser.

And then he ignited.

His hair went up and he let out a scream like the d.a.m.ned, leaping to his feet, batting his hands furiously at his head, howling for Farfell to help him. The alarmed barbarian upended his drink on the Mousser's head. It made no difference. The flames were spreading, and his entire head was engulfed.

The smell was horrific, the screams deafening. Tomas sat there, disbelieving. One had to admire his consistency. Ronnell didn't budge from his place.

Desperately, Farfell yanked off his cloak and threw it over the Mousser's head in an attempt tosmother the flame. No good. As if the flame didn't need air to survive--as if it was feeding off some completely difference source--it engulfed the entirety of the Mousser and the cloak as well. The screams had ceased, probably because his vocal cords had melted, but there was still violent shaking and twitching as the Mousser fell to the floor.

And suddenly an aura of glowing light lifted from the Mousser. It seemed to have form and substance, and yet was without either. It pulled free from the Mousser, mercifully it seemed, for that finally caused his body to cease its trembling. Then the pure, unsullied essence leaped through the air and into Ronnell.

His eyes glowed with an inner light, and he licked his lips as if savoring some great delicacy as the aura suffused his very being. Within moments it faded, and Ronnell looked more vibrant, more powerful than he had before.

By this point even the densest of us knew that we were dealing with something truly sorcerous, but there was nothing we could do. For a moment I was terrified that the flames were going to spread to the floor, to the walls. That within seconds the entirety of the s.h.i.+p would be engulfed. Instead the flames appeared to consume themselves, and in seconds, they were gone. What was left was a smoldering pile of cooked meat that didn't look vaguely human, adorned with a few tattered pieces of cloth that had somehow managed to avoid being scorched. The floor all around was blackened, and thick smoke hung in the air, along with a stench that would have made me gag if it weren't for the anti-nausea elixir.

"You right b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"howled Farfell, and he didn't have a sword, but he didn't need one. He bore a dagger that was the size of my forearm, and he yanked it from his belt in preparation for leaping at Ronnell.

Ronnell remained where he was, imperturbable. "Sit down, barbarian," he said.

"I'll carve you up for--!"

"Sit down!"

The dagger slipped from Farfell's suddenly nerveless fingers, and he flopped down into his chair. His face went beet red, and he strained mightily to stand, but couldn't do so.

"I am the Magic Maestro here," Ronnell informed him coldly.

"The runner of this game. The controller of yer destinies. To be the MM of a game of Tragic Magic is t'be the Supreme Being. So I'll thank ye to continue the evening's entertainment."

"Entertainment! A man is dead!My man is dead!" Farfell bellowed.

"I found that entertaining," said Ronnell placidly.

Tomas was still shaking his head, his eyes wide. "This isn't happening. I refuse to believe.... None of this is real. It's all a fantasythat I'll be awakening from just about any time."

I desperately wanted to share his outlook. Instead I snapped out,"Shut up," and glared at Ronnell.

"Who are you?"

"I? I am Ronnell McDonnell!" he said with fierce pride. A crack of thunder obligingly accompanied the p.r.o.nouncement, as if matters weren't sufficiently melodramatic. "Ronnell McDonnell?" I said with a grimace. "Of the Clan McDonnell?"

"Aye, the same." Cruel amus.e.m.e.nt glittered in his eyes. "Ye've heard of me."

"I haven't," said Farfell.

"I have. I just didn't believe a word of it," said Tomas.

I reached over and cuffed Tomas on the side of the head. It just seemed like the thing to do at that moment. Then I turned to Farfell, who looked as if a dozen emotions were warring within him at once.

"McDonnell is a weaver I've heard tell of, back when I was an innkeeper in a far-off land. His name is mentioned in whispers, lest saying it too loudly summon him."

Ronnell seemed to find that amusing. "Really. And what do the whispers say?"

My voice low and even, I said, "They say you're insane. They say you seek ways to control men's destinies. They say that normal human sustenance is no longer sufficient for you, and that you consume your victims' vitality at the cusp of their deaths."

"Anything else?"

I pondered a moment. "That you're a h.e.l.l of a dancer. But I never placed much stock in that."

Farfell looked fiercely in my direction, and then in Tomas's. "Let's rush him. He can't withstand a charge from all of us."

"Fine idea. You first," I said tightly. I was trying to rise from the chair, but having no luck. I was rooted to the spot.

"This isn't happening, this isn't happening," Tomas kept saying, but there was no conviction in his voice. Instead it sounded like borderline panic. I took cold pleasure in that. Misery loves company. Right then I was in the mood for lots of company.

"Ye have submitted yerself to my authority as Magic Maestro," said Ronnell. "By the laws of this game, yer bound t'me, and the game must be seen through to the end."

"And what const.i.tutes the end?" I asked.

"Until ye lose," he replied, which was pretty much the answer I'd suspected.

"And if we win?"

He laughed at that. "Oh, I think the dice will see that doesn't happen. But," he added, "ye never know.

They can be capricious." Then he laughed once more, and there was another flash of lightning for further punctuation.

Then, as if further discussion was pointless--which it probably was--Ronnell McDonnell of the Clan McDonnell looked back down at the adventure he was charting. In a soft, insistent voice, he said, "The entire hallway in front of ye is aflame."

"We back up," I said quickly, "and head for the exit." "Bad news," said Ronnell, not sounding as if he thought it was particularly bad. "A monstrous cave troll is standing between ye and the exit. He advances on ye. He looks hungry. The chances are that he will devour ye. However, he's a relatively young troll and will likely be satisfied with one of ye."

There was deathly silence for a moment, and suddenly Farfell shouted,"We toss him the cleric!"

"The h.e.l.l you do!" Tomas cried out, doubting less and less by the moment. He lunged for the dice, but Farfell scooped them up and dropped them as if they were red hot. The dice skidded across the table and came up double six.

"The move works," Ronnell said calmly.

"It doesn't work!"Tomas said, and suddenly the front of his body seemed to explode, as if it was being ripped open by a great unseen force. I ducked to avoid the hurtling organs that splattered just above me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a glow and then the unbelieving Tomas was gone, his essence ripped from his body with as much force as his body was ripped from itself.

The s.h.i.+p tilted wildly, the force of the storm growing. I heard cries of alarm from the deck above. The sailors were running around to batten down this or tie off that. Their struggle to keep afloat would have been of far more importance to me were I not concerned with my own impending death struggle.

Ronnell McDonnell was grinning viciously. "The monstrous cave troll chokes on the cleric as pieces of him lodge in its throat and it dies..."

"We race for the exit," I said.

"...but it falls in front of the exit, blocking yer way out with its sheer bulk. It's too heavy for ye t'lift."

"I take out my sword of power and start hacking at it," said Farfell. He kept glancing nervously at the charred remains of the Mousser. He looked as if he wanted to start sobbing, but was too afraid to do even that.

"Yer sword deflects off it."

"I hit it again."

"Yer sword bounces away once more," said Ronnell. He was beginning to look slightly impatient.

"There is, however, another door down at the opposite end. It appears t'be open..."

"I hit the ogre with my sword," insisted Farfell.

Ronnell appeared to be getting annoyed, and I immediately realized why. Farfell had apparently discovered a move he could make that was fairly harmless. If he made no further move in the game, then he would be impervious to anything bad happening to him. He would hack at the unyielding ogre from now until doomsday for all he cared. Meantime, sooner or later, someone who wasn't a partic.i.p.ant in this cursed game would enter the room and, with any luck, beat Ronnell senseless. I would have been howling for help the entire time, but the sounds of the storm outside were too vicious. I knew it would have been a waste of effort.

"The blade. Bounces. Off." His teeth gritted with intensity, Farfell repeated, "I hit. The Ogre. With. My Sword."

Ronnell sat back in his chair for a moment, appearing to consider the situation. Then he shrugged.

"Very well. Roll the dice."

Farfell immediately picked up the dice and tossed them. They clattered across the table and came up a two and a three.