l
 among the skeletons.
   "It doesn't matter,"  Sturm said.  "Swords didn't  save the
 crew of this ship."
   "Thanks," she said wryly. "--- Some txt missing---"
   Metal  rang  and rattled.  'It' was  in the  armory. Sturm
 flexed  his damp  hand around  the handle  of his  sword. The
 uproar below got  worse as  the thing  expended its  anger on
 the store of weapons. From  the crash  and clang,  it sounded
 like every item in the cache was being battered, twisted, and
 crushed. Then, abruptly, all the noise ceased.
   Sturm  and  Kitiara,  by  some  common impulse,  drew clos-
 er together. Their arms touched in the dark.
   "Can you hear anything?" he whispered.
   "Just  you.  Shh." They  strained to  catch any  stray sound.
   The  cabin  door  blew open  with a  bang. ъain  poured in.
 Sturm struggled to close the door against the press  of wind.
 By  the  greenish  gray  light that  filtered in  through the
 cyclone, he saw  that the  main hatch  cover, forward  of the
 mainmast, was blasted off.
    "It's gone out on deck!" he shouted above the wind. "It

 could be anywhere!"
   "We'll have to close that hatch," she said. "Or the ship will
 flood,  yes?"  He  nodded.  Sturm   felt  exhausted.   At  that
 moment,  he  wondered  what  silliness the  gnomes were  up to,
 and fervently wished he was with them to see it.
   "ъeady?"  said  Kitiara. She  threw the  bolt back,  and they
 plunged out onto the storm-swept deck.
   They  were  soaked  with  sea  water  before  they  took  two
 steps. The heel of  the ship  with the  waves was  more notice-
 able on deck. Mountains of green  water rose  and fell  and the
 horizon  swung  from below  eye level  to nearly  the masthead.
 Holding  hands,  Sturm  and  Kitiara  staggered  to  the  main-
 mast.  The  hatch  cover  was  not  just  thrown  open;  gaping
 rents were torn in it. Sturm lost his  footing twice  as foaming
 sea swept over him. Finally,  on their  knees, they  managed to
 get the hatch back over its coaming.
   High above the rumble of  the churning  sea, a  shrill cackle
 reached them. Sturm  looked left  and right  for the  source of
 the  sound; Kitiara  looked up  and down.  She spied  the thing
 clinging to the rigging high over their heads.
 -s' It  was a  horrid-looking thing,  ghastly white  and gaunt.
 Except  for  its  abnormal  size,  it  might  have been  a man,
 starved and sallow. But this creature was seven feet  tall. Its
 protruding  eyes  were like  red burning  coals, and  its hands
 were clawed with  silver nails  two inches  long. The  head was
 round and  hairless, the  ears tall  and pointed.  The creature
 threw  back  its  head  and howled,  showing long  yellow fangs
 and a pointed black tongue.
   "Suffering gods! What is it?"
   "I don't know. Look out!" The creature sprang from the
 rigging  to  the  stays  hanging  from  the foremast.  It swung
 under the spar and flipped over until its feet  were on  top of
 the yard. There it howled at them again.
   They  backed  cautiously  across the  wet deck,  ignoring the
 lashing  rain  and pounding  sea. Once  inside the  cabin, they
 slammed the door and bolted it.
   Kitiara turned. A strange white glow filled  the rear  of the
 cabin. They were no longer alone there, either.

                      Chappter 34
                   Pyrthis's Tale

     The cold white light collected into a human form six
 feet tall. Kitiara pointed her sadly bent dagger at the appari-
 tion, but Sturm pushed the weapon down.
 "In  the  name of  Paladine and  all the  Gods of  Good, depart
 in peace, spirit," he said.
        The cabin filled with a deep, long sigh. "Would that I
 could depart," said a low voice.  "For I  am tired  beyond mea-
 sure and desire rest."
 "Who are you?" asked Kitiara.
 "In life  I was  master of  this vessel.  My name  is Pyrthis."
 "He  doesn't  seem  dangerous,"  Kitiara  muttered   to  Sturm,
 "but let's find a safer spot from that creature outside."
 "The  Gharm will  not enter  this cabin,"  the ghost  said, "as
 long  as  I  am  here."  Outside,  the hellish  thing shrieked,

 acknowledging the truth of the dead captain's words.
    "What is the Gharm?" asked Sturm.
    The  indistinct  figure  drew   closer  and   became  more
 defined. Its legs did not move, and its arms stayed  firmly by
 its sides. The ghost glided forward until Sturm and  Kit could
 see deep, hollow eyes and a jaw  that hung  open, as  slack as
 the face of a corpse. The  voice issued  from the  mouth with-
 out the lips moving at all.
   "Once he was my friend, and then  a curse  laid us  all low.
 He became  the Gharm,  I, a  walking spirit,  and the  crew of
 the Werival died in torment."
   "Spirits  walk  for  two  reasons:  to  right  an  unavenged
 wrong, and to give warning to  the living.  Which is  it, Cap-
 tain?  Why  do  you  remain  on  this  mortal   plane?"  asked
 Sturm.
   Another  mournful  sigh.  "Know,  my  friends,  that  I bar-
 gained with the forces of evil and lost." The ghost came clos-
 er still, enough for Kitiara to  see its  dead white  eyes and
 corpse pallor.
   "I  was  a  merchant  captain,  bold  and  enterprising, who
 never turned down a cargo for money. I  plied the  Sirrion Sea
 and  traded  north  and east  to the  Blood Sea  maelstrom. In
 my time, I carried all goods - from spices to slaves."
   Sturm  frowned. "You  trafficked in  misery," he  said flatly.
   "Aye,  I  did. Thank  your gods  that you  still live  and can
 make  amends  for  any  evil  deeds you  have committed!  I am
 past saving now."
   The  poop  deck  overhead  resounded   with  the   tramp  of
 feet.  Kitiara  listened  nervously  as  the Gharm  stamped on
 the boards. "What is that thing?" she demanded.
   "Once my first mate and friend, Drott, who I trained in all
 the wily  ways I  knew. Our  coffers grew  fat and  heavy with
 gold, and I grew satisfied, as men in  their waning  years are
 wont  to  do.  But  Drott  was  young  and  keen   and  always
 searching  for the  richest commission  to be  made. It  was a
 fateful day when he fell in with the scaled warriors."
   Sturm  had  a  glimmer  of  recognition.  "Do you  mean dra-
 conians'?" he asked.
   "Aye,  some   have  called   them  thus."   Pyrthis's  ghost
 loomed  over  Sturm.  Though  seemingly  benign,  its presence

 was oppressive, and Sturm began to sweat.
   "The  dragonmen  had  a  rich  proposition:  that we  carry a
 shipment   of  weapons   and  money   for  them   from  Nordmaar
 to  Coastlund,   there  to   rendezvous  with   other  dragonmen
 arriving  from  the  northern  seas.  Drott accepted  their com-
 mission  and  their  money,  thus  damning  us  all."  The ghost
 made  a  horrible  rasping  sound.  "I   am  so   weary..."  The
 dead  man's  left  arm  came  loose from  his shoulder  and fell
 silently to the floor. Kitiara flinched at the sight,  more from
 surprise than disgust. She bent  to pick  up the  gently glowing
 limb, but her hand passed right through it.
   "We   loaded   sixty  hundredweight   of  arms,   and  weighed
 anchor  for  Coastlund.  We  had a  fair wind  and made  a swift
 passage.  On  the  way,  Drott  schemed  and  plotted.  He  drew
 me  into  his  plan, which  was this:  Since the  dragonmen were
 barbarians  and  invaders,  why  should  we  not  hold  them  up
 for  as  much  gold  as  we  could?  They  would  pay  doubly or
 triply  for their  swords, and  we would  have nothing  to fear.
 Who  could  they  complain  to?  Their  purpose  was  even  more
 illicit than ours.
   "I fell in with Drott's scheme. In truth, I despised the scaly
 killers  and  feared  them  greatly. To  cheat them  seemed both
 just and profitable."
   The  ghost  paused and  the silence  grew long.  Sturm finally
 said, "What happened when you reached Coastlund?"
   ъasp.  "A  dragonship  was  there,  waiting.  The   leader  of
 the  dragonmen  came  aboard  to  accept  transfer of  the weap-
 ons.  Drott  laid  out  his  demand for  more money.  The leader
 must  have  expected  such  a  ploy, for  he readily  offered to
 pay  half  again the  original price.  Drott insisted  on double
 the  amount.  The  lizard  resisted for  a time,  then conceded.
 He departed for his  ship and  returned with  a second  chest of
 treasure.  This  time  a  human  came  with  him, a  dark cleric
 wearing  a  metal  mask  that  mimicked  a  dragon's  face. This
 one  frightened  me  very  much.  He  stood  by,   watching  and
 saying  nothing.  Drott  laughed  and  joked  as the  second box
 of  money  came  on  board.  He  was  drunk  with  success,  and
 when  I  ordered  the crew  to begin  transferring the  cargo to
 the  dragonship,  he  drew  me   aside  and   whispered  another
 wicked design in my ear.  'Shall we  not keep  some part  of the

  cargo ourselves?' he said.  'Could we  not wring  a bit  more sil-
  ver from these flush pigeons?"'
    "That  was  pretty stupid,"  Kitiara said,  "with a  boatload of
  draconians alongside."
    "We  did  not  fear  their  force,  for  our  crew  was numerous
  and skilled in the  use of  saber and  pike. We  did not  sail the
  pirate-infested seas unprepared."
    "But  the  dark  cleric -  that was  someone you  weren't able
  to counter," said Sturm.
    "Indeed,  mortal  man."  The  ghost's  right arm  dropped off.
  Part  of  the  unreal  flesh  touched  Sturm's  booted  foot. He
  withdrew  it  hastily  and  shivered.  The  ghost's   touch  was
  more frigid than the wind off the Ice Wall.
    "We  held  back   five  hundredweight   of  arms.   The  dragon-
  men's  leader  discovered  the  shortage  and   complained.  Drott
  jeered at him from the  rail, saying  there was  a tax  on illegal
  weapons  and  the  dragonfolk   had  yet   to  pay.   The  dragon-
  man  threatened  to  storm  the  Werival  and  slaughter  us  all.
  The  crew   manned  the   rail  with   bare  blades   and  taunted
  them  to  try.  The  dragonmen,  less  than  a  third  our number,
  began  to  arm.  I  wanted  to  weigh  anchor  and  be   off,  but
  Drott  said  we  should  stay  and  fight.  After  we  killed  the
  scaly  folk,  he said,  we could  take back  all the  weapons we'd
  sold them and sell them again.
    "There  was  no  battle.  The  dark cleric  came from  his place
  on  the  stern  of  the  dragonship  and  threw  his   arms  wide.
  'Go,  greedy  vermin,  and  take  away  your  dishonored  gold.  I
  curse  you  and  yours  forever!  Those  who  lust for  gold shall
  lust for the flesh of their fellows,  those who  jeer at  the min-
  ions  of  the  Dark  Queen  shall  know  her  wrath!   They  shall
  hear her mocking laughter forever! ' he said.
    "It was a terrible curse, and the full weight of it did not fall
  on  us  for  some  weeks.  We  left  the  shores of  Coastlund for
  Sancrist,  but  never  saw  land  again.  Strange,  circular winds
  blew  us  farther  and  farther  from  land.  The  crew  began  to
  hear  voices  -  a  woman   laughing  -   and  they   slowly  went
  mad.   The  few   healthy  sailors   that  remained   chained  the
  mad  ones  below  decks.  Food  and  water  dwindled,  but  try as
  we might, we could not bring the Werival to shore.
            "Drott changed. He had always been a vain man, proud

  of  his quick  mind and  good looks.  Now he  ceased to  care for
  himself, allowing his beard to grow  and his  clothes to  fall to
  tatters.  The  meat  shrank on  his bones  and his  skin whitened
  to  a  ghastly  color.  As  the  days passed,  my first  mate and
  friend   perished   as   the  hideous   curse  worked   upon  his
  wretched  body.  Drott  prowled  below,   snaring  rats   in  his
  hands  and  eating  them  alive.  Soon rats  were not  enough for
  him.  He  had  become  a  Gharm,  a  ravenous  ghoul  that  feeds
  on the flesh of men."
    "Why  didn't  you   kill  him?"   Kitiara  said   sharply.  The
  drumming of feet had stopped, but they could still hear the
  Gharm's cackle as the monster capered madly in the rigging.
    "I could not,  for as  much as  his new  form disgusted  me, I
  pitied  my  lost  friend.  The  crew,  poor wretches,  learned to
  keep  him  at  bay  by  giving  him  those  who  died  of madness
  and  starvation.  When  there  were  only  five  sound  men left,
  they  decided  to  try  to  put an  end to  the Gharm.  Our young
  cleric, Novantumus, wove a temporary protective spell.
  The  sailors  armed  themselves  and  drove  the  Gharm   to  the
  fore  end   of  the   ship  with   fire  and   sword.  Novantumus
  meant  to  imprison  the  fiend  in  the  anchor  locker,  and he
  fashioned a  magic seal  to keep  it in. The Gharm  attacked the
  men  savagely  and  killed  them  one  by  one.  With  his life's
  blood  spilling  on  the  deck,  the  brave  Novantumus  succeed-
  ed  in  compelling  the  Gharm  into the  locker. I  alone lived,
  and here at my table I died of hunger, thirst, and despair."
    The  ghost  had  shrunk  throughout his  telling, and  the cold
  glare that it cast had diminished to  a firefly's  sparkle. Sturm
  was deeply sorry for the captain.
    "One  question,"  said Kitiara.  She picked  up the  skull that
  had been set between the captain's feet. "Who is this?"
    "That was Drott's head. One of  the sailors  cut it  off before
  the Gharm killed him."
    "But that thing out there has a head!"
    "A new one it grew afterward."
    Sturm said, "Can the Gharm be killed?"
    The ghost shriveled to a slender coil of white mist. "Not
  by steel, iron, or bronze," it said, a tiny, far-off voice. "Only
  purifying  fire  will  make  this ship  clean." With  those final
  words, the ghost vanished.

     "This is wonderful," Kitiara said  bitterly. "A  monster we
  can't kill unless we burn up the ship that's keeping us out of
  the water!"
     "What  we  must  do is  stay alive  until the  storm ends,"
  Sturm said. "The gnomes will be  looking for  us and  we'll be
  able to leave this cursed ship -"  A splintering  sound halted
  Sturm  in  midsentence.  The  Gharm   had  rammed   one  bony,
  clawed  arm  through  the  thin, louvered  panel of  the cabin
  door.
     "Something  tells  me  our  moment  of immunity  is over!"
  Kitiara  said.  Sturm leaped  up from  the table,  drawing his
  sword  in  one  smooth  motion.  He  brought  the  keen  blade
  down  hard  on  the  grasping  talons.  The  Gharm  roared  in
  pain and withdrew the stump of its left arm.
     "Suffering  gods!"  Kitiara  kicked  the severed  arm away.
  The  limb  rapidly  decayed  to  bone, and  then to  dust. The
  Gharm put one  of its  baleful eyes  to the  hole that  it had
  made  and glared  at them.  Sturm raised  his sword  again and
  the monster backpedaled.
     Kitiara  went  to  the  cabin's  rear  and  started tearing
  through the captain's bunk.
    "Kit, what are you doing?" he called.
    "Don't  worry,  just keep  that damned  thing away  a minute
  longer!"  He  heard  wood  being split  behind him,  then felt
  heat on the back of his neck.
    Sturm  turned and  saw that  Kitiara had  made a  torch from
  a bunk slat and a strip of ticking. Doused  with oil  from the
  captain's lamp and ignited by flint, it blazed furiously.
    "Ha! Try this, ghoul!" she  shouted, brandishing  the flame
  before  the  door.  The  Gharm  howled  and hissed,  its fangs
  dripping saliva. "I'll give you something  to chew  on." Kiti-
  ara  kicked  the  smashed  door  frame  open.  The   rain  had
  almost stopped, but a fierce wind still raged across  the open
  deck. Kitiara dashed out, whipping the torch  to and  fro like
  a  fencing  blade. The  Gharm crouched  back on  its rail-thin
  haunches, spitting and hissing.
    "Kit, be careful!"
    "It's my fault this thing is out. I intend to kill it!"
    She moved on the ghoul again, forcing it to retreat up the
    rigging. It hung twenty feet above the deck, giggling in an

 obscene  parody  of  humanity.  Kitiara  paced  below  it, wav-
 ing the torch to keep it bright and hot.
   Sturm closed behind  her. "Don't  let it  drop down  on you,"
 he counseled.
   "If it does, it'll go back up a lot faster than it  came down."
   The ceiling  of black  clouds scattered  into streams  of dirty
 white as  the blue  of clear  sky shone  through. The  wind had
 died  down  but  did not  cease. They  were in  the eye  of the
 cyclone, the calm center of a miles-wide storm.
   The  Gharm  swung  over  to  the  port side  rigging. Kitiara
 followed  across the  deck. She  was so  intent on  keeping the
 fiend in view that  she missed  the end  of the  mainsail Sturm
 had  cut  free.  The  heavy,  flapping  canvas was  soaked with
 rain, and one  corner of  it whipped  around and  slapped Kiti-
 ara between the  eyes. She  fell backward  and lost  the torch.
 As the sail struck her, the Gharm pounced.
   "No!" Sturm cried. He  was on  the fiend's  back in  a flash,
 slashing at its pale, leathery hide. The ghoul  had one  set of
 talons deep in Kitiara's shoulder, but  Sturm's attack  made it
 let go. He  inflicted wounds  that would  have killed  a mortal
 foe,  but  the  Gharm  wasn't  slowed.   A  detached   part  of
 Sturm's  mind  noted  that  the  ghoul  already had  grown back
 the arm that he'd chopped off.
   Kitiara  pushed  herself  away  from  the duel  between Sturm
 and   the  Gharm.   Her  shoulder   wound  burned   like  Bell-
 crank's vitriol. She crawled  to where  the torch  lay charring
 the deck. In her pants' pocket she still had the tin can of oil
 from  the  captain's  storm  lamp.  At  the right  moment, when
 Sturm gave ground to the monster,  she flung  the oil  over the
 Gharm, and with it the torch.
   It was scarcely a cupful of oil, but  it burned  rapidly, and
 the  Gharm  yowled  in  unimaginable pain.  It threw  itself on
 the deck and rolled  to put  out the  flames. Failing  that, it
 leaped up and ran  forward, burning  as it  went, and  tore off
 the  hatch  cover.  The  Gharm  disappeared  below,  trailing a
 thin plume of putrid smoke.
   Sturm  knelt  and  put  an  arm  around  Kitiara.  Her  teeth
 chattered. She had been poisoned by the ghoul's vile talons.
   "Kitl  Kit!"  Her  eyes  were  almost completely  white, they
 had rolled so far back in her head. "Kit,  listen to  me! Don't

 give up! Fight it! Fight it!"
   Her  hand  came trembling  to her  throat. There,  under the
 thin  fabric  of her  blouse was  the amethyst  arrowhead pen-
 dant  that  Tirolan  Ambrodel  had  given  her  so  many weeks
 before.  Drained  of  color  before they  met the  gnomes, the
 crystal's magic  had been  restored by  the days  they'd spent
 on Lunitari for it  now was  a rich,  royal purple.  The stone
 had not surrendered its power upon its return to Krynn.
   Kitiara's fingers would  not grasp  the amethyst.  They were
 already stiff and cold. Sturm gently lifted the magic crystal.
 Was there enough power in  it to  save Kit's  life? Did  he, a
 sworn opponent of magic, dare use it to heal her?
   Her  breath  came short,  in hard,  ragged gasps.  Death had
 Kitiara  in  its  grasp. There  was no  time to  debate. Sturm
 closed the amethyst in his fist and placed  his other  hand on
 Kitiara's injured shoulder.
  "Forgive me, father," he whispered. "This is for  her life."
   The  stone was  hot for  the merest  second, but  not enough
 to burn him. Kitiara gave a sharp  cry and  then went  limp in
 his  arms.  He thought  he was  too late,  that she  was dead.
 Sturm opened his fingers, to see that  the a