red grit and dust hit the wheelhouse win-
dows. Wingover frantically pushed levers and turned the
wheel. The flying ship went nose up, then tail up. Sturm
staggered back and forth. He felt like a pea being rattled in a
cup.
The cliffs fell away to reveal a landscape of flat mesas
divided by deep ravines. The ship was down to a thousand
feet. Sturm opened the door. Melted ice ran along the deck
outside. "I'm going aft!" he said. Wingover bobbed his head
rapidly in reply.
He stepped out the door just as Wingover banked the

Cloudmaster in that direction. Sturm almost pitched head-
first over the rail. The scarlet world roared past at terrifying
speed, much faster, it seemed, than when they were cruising
through the high clouds. He felt a rush of vertigo, but it
quickly succumbed to his will. Sturm staggered aft, bounc-
ing from the rail to the wall of the deckhouse. He glimpsed a
queerly distorted face at one of the dining room portholes.
It was Fitter, his bulbous nose and ruddy lips smashed flat
against the pane.
The wind whipped at Sturm as he neared the anchor. The
hinged tail bowed and flexed under Wingover's control.
Sturm wrapped an arm around the tail's hinge post and held
on.
The tableland was replaced by a featureless plain. The
dark red soil was smooth and unrippled. At least Paladine
had favored them with an uncluttered place to land the fly-
ing ship! Sturm let go of the rudder post and cradled the
anchor in his arms. Bellcrank had done a good job; the big
hook weighed nearly as much as Sturm. He wrestled it to
the rail. They were very low now. The ground resembled a
sheet of marble, painted the color of blood.
Do it, Wingover. Blow the horn now, thought Sturm.
They seemed too low. He's forgotten, he thought. We're too
low. He forgot to sound the horn! Or had he himself failed
to hear it in the rush of wind and the pounding of his heart?
After a second of indecision, Sturm heaved the anchor
over. The multicolored rope, woven from everything
ъoperig could find -- cord, curtains, shirts, and gnomish
underwear -- spilled after the hook, loop after loop. ъoperig
said he'd made 110 feet of cable. More than enough. The
skein rapidly shrank. With a snap, it ran out, and the heavy
scrap metal anchor streamed out behind the flying ship.
Sturm had dropped it too soon.
He moved forward, watching the hook drop closer and
closer to the red soil. By the door to the wheelhouse, Sturm
paused, expecting the anchor to bounce and shatter as it hit,
but it did neither. The anchor sank into the surface of the
moon, plowing a wide, deep furrow.
He threw open the door. Wingover had his hand on the
horn cord. "Don't do it!" Sturm yelled. "The ground

below -- it's not solid!"
Wingover snatched his hand away from the cord as if it
had burned him. "Not solid?"
"I dropped the anchor, and it's flowing through the plain
as though it were in water. If we land, we'll sink!"
"We don't have any time left. We're less than a hundred
feet up now!"
Sturm went to the rail, staring desperately at the soft
ground. What to do? What to do!
He saw rocks. "Hard to starboard!" he sang out. "Solid
ground to starboard!"
Wingover spun the wheel. The right rear wing touched
Lunitari. It dipped into the dust and came out unharmed.
Sturm could smell the dirt in the air. The rocks thickened,
and the smooth, scarlet dust gave way to a stony plain.
AA-OO-GAH!
The Cloudmaster quivered like a living thing. The leather
bat-wings lifted in a graceful arc and froze there. Sturm
threw himself through the door and landed on his belly. He
covered his head tightly with his hands.
The wheels touched, spun, and snapped off with brittle,
wrenching sounds. When the hull of the flying ship plowed
into Lunitari, the bow bucked, rose, and jerked to port.
Sturm careened across the deck. The Cloudmaster tore
along, trailing a wake of dirt and stones. Finally, as if too
tired to continue, the flying ship settled to a creaking, grind-
ing stop.

Chapter 9
Foty Pounds of Iron
"Ane we dead?"
Sturm uncovered his head and lifted it. Wingover was
jammed through the spokes of the steering wheel, his short
arms squeezed tightly against his chest. His eyes were just as
tightly closed.
"Open your eyes, Wingover; we're all right," said Sturm.
"Oh, ъeorx, I'm stuck!"
"Hold on." Sturm grabbed the gnome's feet and pulled.
Wingover protested all the way, but when he was finally
free, he forgot his discomfort and said, "Ah! Lunitari!"
The gnome and the man went out on deck. The rear door
of the dining room banged open, and the other gnomes piled
out. Wordlessly, they surveyed the barren landscape. Aside
from a distant hump of hills, Lunitari was flat all the way to

the horizon.
One gnome gave a high chortle of delight, and they all
scampered inside. Sturm heard things flying as they sorted
through the pillows for their tools, instruments, and note-
books.
Kitiara appeared on deck with Flash and Birdcall. They
hadn't been able to see from the engine room, being too
busy to stare out the porthole. Kitiara had a fine goose-egg
bruise over her right eye.
"Hello," said Sturm. "What happened to you?"
  "Oh, I knocked my head against an engine fitting when
we crashed."
"Landed," he corrected. "Did you break the fitting?"
His rare attempt at humor left Kitiara silent for a
moment. Then they threw their arms around each other,
grateful for their lives.
The ramp in the starboard side of the hull dropped down,
and the whole gang of gnomes boiled out onto the red turf.
Kitiara said, "I guess we'd better go down and look after
them, before they hurt themselves."
The gnomes were lost in their specialties by the time Kiti-
ara and Sturm joined them. Sighter scanned the horizon
with his spyglass. Bellcrank and Cutwood were filling jars
with scoopfuls of red dirt. ъainspot stood apart from the
rest, his nose and ears tuned to the weather. He reminded
Kitiara of a hunting dog. Stutts was rapidly filling pages in
his pocket notebook. Wingover walked around the hull of
the Cloudmaster, kicking the tight wooden planks now and
then. ъoperig and Fitter examined their anchor line and
measured the amount that it had stretched when pulled taut.
Birdcall and Flash were in a heated discussion. Sturm over-
heard something about 'wing camber variance' and listened
no further.
He scooped up a handful of Lunitarian dirt. It was flaky,
not granular like sand. As it fell from his fingers, it made a
tinkling sound.
"Do you smell what I smell?" asked Kitiara.
He sniffed. "Dust. It'll settle," he said.
"No, not that. It's a feeling more than a smell, really. The
air has a tingle to it, like a draft of Otik's best ale."

Sturm concentrated for a moment. "I don't feel anything."
Stutts bustled over. "Here are m-my preliminary find-
ings," he said. "Air: normal. Temperature: c-cool but not
cold. No sign of w-water, vegetation, or animal life."
"Kit says she feels a tingle in the air."
"ъeally? I h-hadn't noticed anything."
"I'm not imagining it," she said tersely. "Ask ъainspot,
maybe he's noticed."
The weather-wise gnome came running when called, and
Stutts asked for his impressions.
"The high clouds will dissipate soon," said ъainspot.
"Humidity is very low. I don't think it has rained here in a
very long time, if ever."
"Bad news," Kitiara said. "We haven't much water left on
the ship."
"Do you sense anything else?" Sturm queried.
"Yes, actually, but it's not a weather phenomenon. The air
is somehow charged with energy."
"Like l-lightning?"
"No." ъainspot pivoted slowly. "It's constant, but very
low in intensity. It doesn't feel harmful, just... there." He
shrugged.
"Why don't we feel it?" Sturm asked.
"You're not the sensitive type," Kitiara said. "Like old
ъainspot and me." She clapped her hands. "So, Stutts, now
that we're here, what do we do?"
"Explore. Make m-maps and study local conditions."
"There's nothing here," said Sturm.
"This is only one small 1-location. S-suppose we had land-
ed on the Plains of Dust on Krynn. W-would you then say
that there is nothing on Krynn but s-sand?" Stutts asked.
Sturm admitted that he would not.
Stutts called his engineers, and Flash and Birdcall trotted
up. "St-status report."
"The lightning bottles are two-thirds empty. If we don't
find some way to refill them, we won't have enough power
to fly home," Flash said. Birdcall sang his report, and Flash
translated for the humans. "He says the engine was shaken
loose from its mountings by the hard landing. But the cut
power cable can be patched."

"I have an idea about that," said Wingover, who'd joined
them. "If we install a switch at that juncture, we can bypass
the fused setting damaged by ъainspot's lightning."
"My lightning!" the weather gnome protested. "Since
when do I make lightning?"
"Switch? What kind of switch?" Cutwood asked. The
sound of disputation had drawn him and Bellcrank.
"A single throw-knife switch," said Wingover.
"Ha! Listen to the amateur! Single-throw! What's needed
is a rotary pole switch with isolated leads --"
Kitiara let out a blood-curdling battle cry and swung her
sword around her head. The silence that followed was
instant and total.
"You gnomes are driving me mad! Why don't you just
appoint someone to each task and be done with it?"
"Only one mind on each task?" Sighter was scandalized.
"It would never get done right."
"Perhaps Bellcrank could make the switch," Fitter suggest-
ed timidly. "It will be made of metal, won't it?"
Everyone stared at him, mouths open. He edged nervous-
ly behind ъoperig.
"Wonderful idea!" Kitiara said. "Brilliant idea!"
"There isn't much spare metal left," Wingover said.
"We could salvage some from the anchor," ъainspot said.
The other gnomes looked at him and smiled.
"That's a good idea," said Cutwood.
"Fitter and me'll pull in the anchor," ъoperig said.
They picked up the thick cable hanging down from the
tail and hauled away. Fifty feet away, where the field of
stones gave way to the deep dust, the buried anchor leaped
ahead in dusty spurts. Then the hook caught on something.
The gnomes strained and pulled.
"Want some help?" called Sturm.
"No -- uh -- we can do it," ъoperig replied.
ъoperig slapped Fitter on the back and they turned
around, laying the rope over their shoulders. The gnomes
dug in their toes and pulled.
"Pull, ъoperig! Heave ho, Fitter! Pull, pull, pull!" shouted
the other gnomes.
"Wait," said Kitiara suddenly. "The rope is fraying --"

The hastily woven cable was coming undone just behind
Fitter. Twine and strands of twisted cloth spun away, and
the two gnomes, oblivious, braced their backs against it.
"Stop!" This was all Sturm had time to shout before the
rope parted. ъoperig and Fitter fell on their faces with a
plunk. The other end of the cable, weighted down by the
anchor, snaked away. Bellcrank and Cutwood took off after
. it. The roly-poly chemist tripped over his own feet and
stumbled. The ragged end of the cable whisked out of his
reach. Cutwood, with surprising verve, leaped over his
fallen colleague and dived for the fleeing rope. To Sturm's
amazement, he caught it. Cutwood weighed no more than
fifty or sixty pounds, and the anchor weighed two hundred.
As it continued to sink into the red dust, it dragged Cut-
wood along with it.
"Let go!" Sturm shouted. Kitiara and the gnomes echoed
him, but Cutwood was already in the dust. Then, as the oth-
ers looked on in horror, Cutwood upended and disap-
peared. They waited and watched for the carpenter gnome
to surface. But he did not.
Bellcrank got up and took a few steps toward the rim of
the rock field. He was shouted to a halt. "You'll go in, too!"
Kitiara said.
"Cutwood," said Bellcrank helplessly. "Cutwood!" A rip-
ple appeared in the motionless dust. It roiled and grew into a
hump of crimson grit. Slowly the hump became a head,
then developed shoulders, arms, and a squat torso.
"Cutwood!" was the universal cry.
The gnome slogged forward heavily, and when he was
waist-high out of the dust, everyone could see that his pants
had ballooned to twice their usual size. The waist and legs
were packed with Lunitarian dust. Cutwood stepped to
firmer ground. He lifted one leg and shook it, and a torrent
of grit poured out.
Bellcrank rushed forward to embrace his dusty friend.
"Cutwood, Cutwood! We thought you were lost!"
Cutwood responded with a mighty sneeze, which got
dust on Bellcrank, who sneezed right back, prompting Cut-
wood to sneeze again. This went on for some time. Finally,
Sighter and Birdcall came forward with improvised Dust-

Free Face Filters (handkerchiefs). The siege of sneezing over-
come, Cutwood lamented, "My suspenders broke."
"Your what?" asked Bellcrank, sniffling.
Cutwood pulled up his deflated pants. "The anchor
dragged me under. I knew it was taking me down, but I
couldn't let all our scrap metal get away. Then my sus-
penders broke. I tried to grab them and the rope jerked out
of my hands." He sighed. "My best suspenders."
ъoperig walked around Cutwood, plucking at his baggy
trousers. "Give me your pants," he said.
"What for?"
"I want to do some structural tests. There may be an
invention in them."
Cutwood's eyes widened. He quickly removed his rusty
twill trousers and stood by in blue flannel long johns.
"Brrr! This is a cold moon," he said. "I'm going for
another pair of trousers, but don't you invent anything until
I get back!" Cutwood hurried to the Cloudmaster with
showers of dust still cascading from his shoulders.
Sturm took Kitiara aside. "Here's a pretty problem," he
said in a low voice. "We need metal to repair the engine, and
all our scrap was lost in a lake of dust."
"Maybe Bellcrank could salvage a bit more from the fly-
ing ship," Kitiara said.
"Maybe, but I don't trust him not to ruin the whole ship in
the process. What we need is more metal." He faced the
crowd of gnomes who were busy examining Cutwood's
pants as if they were the find of a lifetime. Now and then a
gnome would turn his head and sneeze.
"Oh, Bellcrank? Would you come over here, please?"
Sturm said.
The gnome scurried over. He stopped, pulled out a hand-
kerchief stained with grease and chemicals, and blew his
nose loudly. "Yes, Sturm?"
"Just how much metal do you need to fix the engine?"
"That depends on what type of switch I make. For a dou-
ble throw, rotary pole --"
"The very least you'll need, in any case!"
Bellcrank chewed his lip a moment and said, "Thirty
pounds of copper, or forty pounds of iron. Copper would

be easier to work than iron, you see, and --"
"Yes, yes," Kitiara said hastily. "We don't have forty
pounds of anything except beans."
"Beans wouldn't work," Bellcrank offered.
"All right. We'll just have to find some metal." Sturm
looked around. The high clouds were beginning to thin, and
the twilight that had persisted since their landing was begin-
ning to brighten. The sun that warmed Krynn was rising
higher in their sky. Taking that direction as east (for conven-
ience), they could see a distant range of hills far off to the
north.
"Bellcrank, would you know iron ore when you saw it?"
said Sturm.
"Would I know it? I know every ore there is!"
"Can you smelt it?"
The germ of Sturm's idea spread to the gnome, and he
smiled widely. "A fine notion, my friend. Worthy of a
gnome!"
Kitiara slapped him on the back. "There you are," she
said. "A few days in the air and you start thinking like a
gnome."
"Never mind the wit. We've got to organize an expedition
to those hills to see if there is any metal there."
Bellcrank ran back to his fellows to share the news. Excla-
mations of joy rang across the empty plain. Cutwood, com-
ing down the ramp from the Cloudmaster, was nearly
bowled over as his fellows charged up. He was carried back
inside with them. The thumps and crashes that always signi-
fied gnomish enthusiasm were not long in coming.
Kitiara shook her head. "Now see what you've done."
The first argument began over who would go on the trek
and who would stay with the flying ship.
"Everyone can't go," Sturm said. "Wfhat food and water
we have won't sustain us all on a long march."
"I'll st-stay," Stutts said. "Cloudmaster is m-my responsi-
bility."
"Good fellow. Who will stay with Stutts?" The gnomes

looked at the purple sky, the stars, their shoes, anywhere
but at Sturm. "Whoever stays will get to work on the ship."
Birdcall whistled his acceptance. Hearing him agree,
Flash said, "Oh, well, burn it! No one understands the light-
ning bottles but me. I'll stay."
"I'll stay behind," ъainspot offered. "I don't know much
about prospecting."
"Me, too," Cutwood said.
"Hold your horses," Kitiara objected. "You can't all stay.
ъainspot, we need you. We'll be out in the open, and if
storms threaten, we'll want to know beforehand."
The gnome grinned and placed himself by Kitiara. He
gazed happily up at her, pleased that someone needed him.
"Three should be enough to watch over the ship," Sturm
said. "The rest of you get your belongings together. No one
is to take anything more than he can carry on his back." The
gnomes all nodded vigorous affirmatives. "After we eat,
we'll all get some sleep and start fresh in the morning."
"When is morning?" asked Bellcrank.
Sighter unfolded his tripod and clamped his telescope in
place. He studied the sky, searching for familiar stars. After
a lengthy perusal, he announced, "Sixteen hours. Maybe
more. Hard to tell." He snapped the telescope tube shut.
"Sixteen hours!" said Kitiara. "Why so long?"
"Lunitari doesn't sit in the same part of the heavens as
Krynn. ъight now, the shadow of our home world is over
us. Until we move clear of it, this is all the light we'll get."
"It will have to do," Sturm said. To Fitter, who as the
youngest gnome had permanent kitchen duty, he said,
"What is there to eat?"
"Beans," said Fitter. Boiled beans, seasoned with their last
tiny bit of bacon, was dinner, and it promised to be their
breakfast, too.
Sturm squatted under the overhang of the flying ship's
hull and ate his bowl of beans. As he ate, he tried to imagine
what lay beyond the dust and stones. The sky was not
black, but purple, lightening at the horizon to a warm clar-
et. Everything was wrought in tones of red -- the dirt, the
rocks; even the white beans seemed vaguely pink. Was all of
Lunitari like this, lifeless? he wondered.

"Kitiara sauntered up. She'd shed her heavy furs for a less
confining outfit. The hip-length jacket and leggings she'd
retained, and had slung her sword over her left shoulder, as
the Ergothites often did. In that position, it freed the legs for
walking.
"Good, huh?" she said, dropping down beside Sturm.
"Beans are beans," he replied, letting them fall from his
spoon back into the bowl. "I've eaten worse."
"So have I. During the siege of Silvamori, my troops'
menu was reduced to boiled-boot soup and tree leaves. And
we were the besiegers."
"How did the people in the town fare?" Sturm asked.
"Thousands died of starvation," she said. The memory
did not seem to trouble her. Sturm felt the beans turn to
paste in his mouth.
"Don't you regret that so many died?" he asked.
"Not really. If a thousand more had perished, the siege
might have ended sooner, and fewer of my comrades would
have died."
Sturm all but dropped his bowl. He stood up and started
to walk away. Kitiara, puzzled by his reaction, said, "Are
you through? Can I finish your beans?"
He stopped, his back to her. "Yes, eat them all. Slaughter
spoils my appetite." He mounted the ramp and disappeared
into the Cloudmaster.
A quick flush of anger welled within Kitiara. Who did he
think he was? Young Master Brightblade presumed to look
down on her for her warrior's code.
The spoon Kitiara had cle