on the  heads of
 the  tree-men.  Sturm  slashed  at  him,  but only  succeeded in
 chipping  off  bits of  the Lunitarian  that ъapaldo  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 ъapaldo.  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," ъapaldo 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.  "ъapaldo!
 ъapaldo, I'm on your throne. I spit on  it, ъapaldo!  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.  ъapaldo 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 ъapaldo'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.
 ъapaldo  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 ъoperig 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,"  ъainspot said,  sprinkling his
 portion.
   "The finest of gear makers," said ъoperig 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. ъoperig  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 ъapaldo'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? ъapaldo 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  ъapaldo'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 ъapaldo  bobbing like  a cork
 gave  her  a  macabre  idea.   She  knelt   on  one   knee  and
 unwound  the  remaining  chain   from  ъapaldo's   waist.  They
 could use it when they found the flying ship.
 Kitiara  gripped   ъapaldo'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 ъapaldo
 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
 ъapaldo'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  ъapaldo'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.
 Sturm ached to help him, but he could do nothing.

   "Where's  the  treasure,  old  man?"  asked  Touk,  flashing a
 wicked knife under the old soldier's chin.
   "There's no treasure," Bren gasped. "The castle was
 sacked years ago."
   "Come  on!  Do  you  take us  for fools?  There's always  a few
 coins  tucked  away  somewhere,  eh?  So  where  are   they?"  He
 pressed the tip of the blade into Bren's throat.
   "I-I'll tell," he said weakly. "Below the great hall - a secret
 room. I can show you."
   Touk  removed  the  knife.  "This  better  be a  straight story."
   "No tricks. I'll take you right to it."
   They cut him loose and dragged him along.  Sturm fol-
 lowed on their heels, close enough to smell the mingled
 stench of sweat, grime, fear, and greed.
   Bren  guided  them  to  the  cellar  beneath  the  great  hall.
 There,  in  a  long  corridor,  he counted  the torch  sconces on
 the right side. At number eight, he said, "That's it,  that's the
 one." One of the brigands lit the  stump in  the sconce  with the
 brand he carried.
   "The bracket turns," said Bren.
   Touk  seized  the stout  iron holder  and shook  it. It  swung to
 the left and stayed there. A  section of  the tiled  floor lifted
 with  a  loud  grinding  sound.  Touk tossed  his torch  into the
 widening  gap.  It  bounced  down  a  steep  stone  staircase and
 came  to  rest,  still  burning, at  the bottom.  Something shiny
 gleamed in the torch light.
   "Good   work,"   Touk    said,   grinning.    Without   another
 word,  he  shoved   his  knife   between  Bren's   ribs.  Angriff
 Brightblade's  loyal  man  groaned  and slid  down the  wall. His
 head sagged as the dark stain spread over his chest.
   "C'mon,  lads,  let's  collect  our reward!"  Touk led  his two
 cronies down the steps.
   Sturm  bent  to  see  Bren's  face.  Though  his skin  had gone
 waxen,  Bren's eyes  still glittered  with life.  "Young master,"
 he said. Blood flecked his lips.
   Sturm recoiled. Bren could see him!
   Slowly,  with  terrible  effort, the  old soldier  gripped the
 rough  stone  wall  and  dragged  himself  to his  feet. "Master
 Sturm  -   you've  come   back.  I   always  knew   you  would."
 Bren  reached  out  to  Sturm,  hand  swaying.  Sturm  tried  to

  clasp his hand, but of course he had no substance.  Bren's fin-
  gers  passed through  him and  closed on  the sconce.  As death
  claimed him, Bren fell, and  his weight  bore the  bracket back
  to its original position.
    The trap door  lowered noisily.  One robber  gave a  yell and
  dashed to safety. At the top of the steps, he stopped, riveted,
  staring at Sturm.
    "Ahh." he screamed. "Ghost!" He stumbled back, bowl-
  ing over Touk and the other brigand. The slab of stone
  descended, cutting off their screams for help.

 * * * * *

    The  world  went  red.  Sturm  shook  his  head,   where  the
  screams  of  Touk  and  the  other robbers  still rang.  He was
  plodding across the plains of Lunitari as before.
    "Back  with  us?"  asked  Kitiara.  Sturm  made  inarticulate
  sounds.  This  had  been  his longest  vision yet,  and somehow
  near  the  end,  the men  on Krynn  had been  able to  see him.
  He told his companions his tale.
    "Hmm,  it's  said that  dying men  have second  sight," Kiti-
  ara mused. "Bren  and the  thief were  both facing  death; may-
  be that's why they could see you."
    "But  I  couldn't  help  them," Sturm  complained. "I  had to
  watch  them  die.  Bren  was a  good man.  He served  my father
  well."
    "Did you see or hear of  your father  at all?"  asked Sighter.
    Sturm  shook  his  head.  That  very  omission  preyed  on  his
  mind. What had separated Bren from Lord Brightblade?
  Was his father well? Where was he?
    Wingover let out a yell. "I see the tracks!" he  cried. Where
  the  slabs  of  wine-colored  sandstone  broke into  fingers of
  rock,  crimson  sand  had  drifted in  between. And  there were
  the circular prints, as regular as clockwork.  Kitiara's notion
  had been right - the Micones had come this way.

                          Chapter 18

                  'The Valley of the Voice

  At   last  Wingover   spied  the   great  obelisk.  The  band
 had  come  to  a  place  where  the rocky  ledges reared  up as
 low,  jagged  peaks.  Kitiara  and  Wingover climbed  this saw-
 toothed  barrier  and  reported that  beyond lay  a magnificent
 bowl-shaped  valley  that  stretched far  beyond the  limits of
 the horizon. Kitiara could  not see  the obelisk,  but Wingover
 assured them that a single, tall spire stood forty  miles away,
 in the exact center of the valley.
  The gnomes took heart from the news. They had been
 uncommonly subdued on the trek from the village.
  "Bellcrank's  death  has  them  hanging their  heads," Kitiara
 said privately to Sturm. "I guess the little fellows have never
 faced death before."
  Sturm  agreed.  What   the  gnomes   needed  was   a  problem,

 to  stimulate  their  imaginations.  He  called  them together.
 "Here's  the  situation,"  Sturm began.  "Wingover estimates
 the  obelisk is  forty miles  away. Forty  miles is  a ten-hour
 march, if we don't stop for food  or rest.  Fifteen hours  is a
 more  reasonable  estimate,  but  by  then the  sun will  be up
 and the Lunitarians can be on the move, too."
   "If only we  had some  way to  get down  in a  hurry," said
 Kitiara. "Horses, oxen, anything."
   "Or carts, for that matter," Sturm mused.
   Kitiara shot  him a  knowing glance.  "Yes, the  slope down
 from  the  saw-toothed  ridge  is steep  but fairly  smooth. We
 could roll quite a ways."
   The  spirit  of  technical  challenge  was   infectious,  and
 ideas - wild, gnomish ideas - began  flashing about  the little
 group.  The  gnomes  dumped  their  packs  into  one  big  heap
 and  went  into  a  close  huddle. Their  rapid patter  made no
 sense to Sturm  or Kitiara,  but the  humans saw  it as  a good
 sign.
   As  suddenly  as  the  gnomes had  put their  heads together,
 they  broke  apart.  Tools  appeared,   and  the   gnomes  pro-
 ceeded to knock their wooden backpacks to pieces.
   "What  are  you  making this  time?" Sturm  asked Cutwood.
   "Sleds," was the simple reply.
   "Did he say 'sleds'?" asked Kitiara.
   Within half an hour, each gnome had constructed,
 according to his lights, a sled - that is, a Single-Gnome Iner-
 tia  Transport  Device.  "By  these  we  expect to  descend the
 cliff slope at prodigious speed," announced Sighter.
   "And break your  reckless little  necks," said  Kitiara under
 her breath.
   "These  are  for  you  and  Master  Sturm," said  ъoperig. He
 and Fitter pushed two flimsy  sleds to  the human's  feet. Hav-
 ing only  short slats  of wood  to work  with, the  gnomes held
 their  inventions  together with  nails, screws,  glue, string,
 wire,  and, in  ъainspot's case,  his suspenders.  Wingover had
 designed  his  sled  to let  him ride  on his  belly; Sighter's
 allowed the rider to gracefully recline. Because of their rela-
 tive  size,  Sturm's and  Kitiara's sleds  allowed them  only a
 wide bit of plank for a seat.
  "You can't be serious," Kitiara said dubiously. "ъide that

 down there?"
   "It will be fast," encouraged Sighter.
   "And fun!" Fitter exclaimed.
   "We've  calculated  all  the available  data on  stress and
 strength  of  materials,"  Cutwood  noted. He  brandished his
 notebook as proof; there were five  pages covered  with tiny,
 closely  spaced  letters  and numbers.  "In all  cases except
 yours, there'll be a safety factor of three."
   "What do you mean,  'in all  cases except  yours''" Kitiara
 felt obliged to ask.
   Cutwood  stowed  his  notebook in  his vest  pocket. "Being
 larger and heavier, you will naturally put more stress on the
 Single-Gnome  Inertia  Transport  Devices.  Your  chances  of
 reaching the bottom of the hill without crashing are  no more
 than even."
   Kitiara  opened  her  mouth  to  protest,  but  Sturm fore-
 stalled her with a  tolerant glance.  "Those are  better odds
 than  the  Lunitarians  will give  us," he  had to  admit. He
 boosted the flimsy sled to his shoulder. "Are you coming!"
   She  looked  more than  doubtful. "Why  don't we  stay here
 and break each others' necks?  Then we'll  at least  save the
 trouble of tumbling and rolling."
   "Are you afraid?"
   He  knew  just  how  to  provoke  her. Kitiara  flushed and
 took  up her  sled. "Want  to..wager who  gets to  the bottom
 first?" she said.
   "Why not?" he replied. "I haven't any money."
   "What  good  is money  here? How  about if  the loser  has to
 carry the winner's bedroll all the way to the obelisk?"
   "It's a wager." They shook hands.
   Wingover  was  giving  his  colleagues an  impromptu course
 on steering and braking. "Mostly you steer by leaning  in the
 direction you want to go," he advised. "For stopping, use the
 heels  of  your shoes,  not the  toes. The  downhill momentum
 can turn your feet under and break your toes."
     ъainspot and Cutwood flipped open their notebooks and
 scribbled furiously. "Given a maximum velocity of fifty-six
 miles per hour -"
   "And feet approximately seven inches long -"
   "One can expect to break three toes on the left foot -"

  "And four on the right," said ъainspot. The gnomes
 applauded.
  "Wingover  just  told  us not  to use  our toes,  so why  in the
 name  of  the  suffering  gods  do  you  calculate  something  no
 one in his right mind would try?" Kitiara asked.
  "The  principle  of  scientific  inquiry  should not  be limited
 to  merely  the  practical or  the possible,"  explained Sighter.
 "Only  by  investigating  the  unlikely  and the  unthought-of is
 the sum total of knowledge advanced."
  Sturm  was  looking  at his  feet. "What  I don't  understand is
 why  more  toes  on  the  right  foot  would  break  than  on the
 left."
  "Don't  encourage  them!"  Kitiara   told  Sturm.   She  dragged
 her shaky bundle of slats to the  edge of  the cliff.  The glass-
 smooth  slope  plunged  down  at  a  breathtaking  angle. Kitiara
 inhaled  sharply  and  looke