hat."
Fitter took a hatchet and chopped a plank off the side of
the cart bed. Sturm saw this and said, "Have you been burn-
ing pieces of the wagon all along?"
"Of course," said the gnome. "What else is there?"
"Why don't you try some of the plants?" said Bellcrank.
"They're too green," Wingover said. "They'd never burn."
"Start a fire with the kindling you've got and lay the green
plants on top. When the fire dries them out, they'll burn,"
Kitiara said.
Fitter and Cutwood scavenged along the trail and

returned with double armfuls of chopped Lunitarian flora.
These they dumped on the ground by the wagon. Fitter built
an arch of pink spear plants over the smoky fire. Within a
few minutes, a tantalizing aroma filled the air. The hungry
band surrounded Fitter.
"Fitter, my lad, I never would've believed it, but that bean
pot smells just like roast pheasant!" said Wingover.
"Your gears are slipping," said ъoperig. "It smells like
fresh-baked bread."
"ъoast venison," said Sturm, wrinkling his nose.
"Sausages and gravy!" Bellcrank said, licking his lips.
"I haven't even put the beans in yet," Fitter declared, "and
it smells like raisin muffins to me."
"It's those things," ъainspot said, pointing to the pink
spears. The parts nearest the flames had darkened to a rich
brown. The sap had oozed out and hardened in streaks
along the stalk.
Sighter picked up one spear by the raw end. He sniffed the
cooked tip, and very gingerly bit it. Chewing, his suspicious
frown inverted. "Pudding," he said with a catch in his voice.
"Crusty pudding, like my mother used to make."
The gnomes tripped over each other in a rush to try the
other spears. Sturm managed to save one from the first
batch. With his dagger, he sliced the roasted portion in two,
stabbed a piece, and offered it to Kitiara.
"It looks like meat," she said, then nibbled off a bit.
"What does it taste like to you?" asked Sturm.
"Otik's fried potatoes," she said, amazed. "With lots of
salt."
"A most unique experiment," Sighter commented. "To
each of us, this plant tastes like our favorite food."
"How can that be, if it's all the same plant?" Kitiara asked,
munching vigorously.
"My theory is it has to do with the same force that has
given you your strength and ъainspot his rainmaking abili-
ty."
"Magic?" asked Sturm.
"Possibly. Possibly." The word seemed to make Sighter
uncomfortable. "We gnomes believe that what is commonly
called 'magic' is just another natural force yet to be tamed."

The rest of the pink spears were rapidly consumed. For
their size, the gnomes were hearty eaters', and finished the
meal lying about the camp, holding their bellies. "What a
feast!" exclaimed Bellcrank.
"One of the finest," ъoperig agreed.
Sturm stood over them, fists on his hips. "A fine lot you
are! Who's going to help dig now?"
"Nap first," Cutwood mumbled, wiggling around to get
comfortable.
"Yes, must rest," said ъainspot. "To ensure proper diges-
tion. And adequate relaxation of the muscles." Soon the lit-
tle clearing rattled with the high-pitched snores of seven sets
of lungs.
The sun sank rapidly below the hill. When the light
diminished to a deep amber glow, the tangle of plants began
to wither. Almost as quickly as they had sprouted with the
morning sun, they now shriveled. Spear tips dried and fell
off. The spider flowers curled up and bored into the soil.
The puffballs deflated. The toadstools crumbled into pow-
der. By the time the stars came out, nothing remained above
the ground but a fresh layer of red flakes.
Kitiara said, "I think' I'll stand watch for a while. Get
some sleep, why don't you, then you can relieve me later."
"Good idea," he said. Sturm was suddenly aware of how
very tired he was. Constant wonders had dulled his senses,
and hacking through the daylight jungle had worn him out.
He spread his bedroll beside the upturned cart and lay
down.
A full Krynnish day they'd marched, and still no sign of
any ore deposits. He wondered what would happen if they
dug into one of the hills and still found none. There was one
desperate measure that they could resort to: He and Kitiara
still carried their swords and armor. The gnomes could very
likely forge new parts from the steel and iron of these. But
he wanted that to be their last possible choice.
The air of Lunitari, never warm, grew chillier. Sturm
shivered and pulled his furry cloak up to his chin. The lining
was wolf fur. He and Tanis had hunted in the mountains of
Qualinost last winter and had done very well. Tanis was a
dead shot with a bow.

He heard the arrow's hum.
Sturm was on Krynn suddenly, and it was daytime,
though cold and overcast. He was in a forest, and there were
four men moving through the trees ahead of him. Two men
carried a third between them, his arms across their shoul-
ders. When Sturm got closer he saw why: the carried man
had an arrow in his thigh.
"Come on, Hurrik! You can make it!" the leader was say-
ing. Sturm couldn't see the fourth man's face, but he heard
him urging the others on. There was a crackle in the dead
brush behind him. Sturm looked back and saw dim figures
in white flitting among the trees. They wore wolfskin cowls
and carried bows. He knew who they were: the dreaded
Trackers of Leereach. Hired huntsmen who would track
down anyone or anything for a price.
"Stay with us, Hurrik! Don't give up!" the leader whis-
pered urgently.
"Leave me, my lord!" the wounded man replied.
The leader stood with his men. "I'll not leave you to those
butchers," he said.
"Please go, my lord. They will want to give me to their
master, and that will give you time to get away," Hurrik
said. There was blood on his armor. Sturm could see it
smeared across the man's coif.
The two men carrying Hurrik propped him against a tree.
They drew his sword for him and wrapped his fingers
around the grip. Sturm could see his face, waxen from loss
of blood.
The trackers stopped. A snickering whistle rattled
through the forest. The prey was turning, at bay. The signal
meant close in for the kill.
The leader, his face still hidden from Sturm, drew a long
dagger from his belt and put it in the wounded man's left
hand. "Paladine protect you, Master Hurrik," he said.
"And you, my lord. Now hurry!" The three unhurt men
ran away as fast as their armor would allow. Hurrik raised
his sword with pain-filled effort. A wolf's head parted a
stand of ripe holly. "Come out," said Hurrik. "Come out and
fight me!"
The tracker was having none of it. Coolly, he nocked an

 arrow and let fly. The broadhead found its mark. "My
 lord!" Hurrik cried.
   The  leader  paused  to look  back to  where his  comrade had
 died. Sturm saw his face.
   "Father!"
   He returned to Lunitari with that scream. Sturm was
 lying on his stomach, his bedroll in knots. Wearily, he  sat up
 to find Kitiara watching him.
   "I had a nightmare," he said, ashamed.
   "No," she said.  "You were  awake. I  saw you.  You've been
 thrashing  about  and  moaning  for  a  long time.  Your eyes
 were wide open. What did you see?
   "I  was -  I was  on Krynn  again. I  don't know  where, but
 there  were  trackers.  They  were  after  some  men,   one  of
 whom was my father."
   "Leereach  Trackers?  Sturm  nodded.  Sweat  stood   out  on
 his  lip,  though the  air was  cold enough  for his  breath to
 show.
   "It was real, wasn't it? he said.
   "I think it  was. This  may be  your gift,  Sturm. Visions.
 Like my strength, this is what Lunitari has given you."
       He shuddered. "Visions of what? The past? The future?
 Or am  I seeing  the present  in far-away  places? How  can I
 tell, Kit? How can I know?"
   "I  don't  know." She  combed  through  her black  curls with
 her fingers. "It hurts, doesn't it? Not knowing."
   "I think I shall go mad!"
   "No,  you  won't.  You're too  strong for  that." She  rose and
 came around the dying fire to  sit by  him. Sturm  refolded his
 blanket  and  lay  down.  These visions  which had  been thrust
 upon  him  were  maddening.  They  smacked  of  magic  and tor-
 mented  him   without  warning.   However,  Sturm   found  him-
 self trying to fix  every detail  in his  mind, going  over and
 over the terrible scene; there could be a clue to  his father's
 fate hidden in these specters. Kitiara laid a hand on his chest
 and felt the rapid beating of his heart.

 Chapter 12

                     Some of Our Gnomes
                         Are Missing

        The gnomes recovered from their post-prandial
 lethargy  and bounced  around the  camp, shouting  and toss-
 ing tools to each other.  Bellcrank found  a long  dowel and
 scratched a mark on the side  of a  hill. "There's  where we
 dig," he announced.
 "Why there?" asked Cutwood.
 "Why not?"
 "Wouldn't it be better to go to  the top  and drive  a shaft
 straight down?" suggested Wingover.
 "If  we  wanted to  dig a  well, maybe,  but not  when we're
 prospecting for iron," Bellcrank said. After lengthy discus-
 sion about such esoteric matters as geological strata, sedi-
 mentation,  and  the  proper  diet  of  miners,  the  gnomes

 discovered that all they had to dig with was two short-
 handled wooden scoops.
   "Whose are these?" asked Sighter.
   "Mine,"  Fitter  spoke up.  "One for  beans, one  for raisins."
   "Isn't there a proper shovel or spade in the cart?"
   "No,"  said  ъoperig.  "Of course,  if we  had some  iron, we
 could   make   our   own  shovels   -"  Cutwood   and  Wingover
 pelted him with dirty socks for his suggestion.
   "If scoops are what we have, scoops it'll  have to  be," said
 Bellcrank. He offered them to Cutwood and Wingover.
   "Why us?" said Cutwood.
   "Why not?"
   "I  wish  he'd stop  saying that,"  Wingover said.  He shoved
 his sleeves above his elbows and knelt by the circle that Bell-
 crank had scratched in the turf. "Oh, rocks," he sighed.
   "You'd  better  hope  to  ъeorx we  strike rocks,"  said Cut-
 wood, "else we'll be digging all day."
   The  gnomes  gathered  around  as  their two  colleagues fell
 to. The upper  layers of  flaky red  fluff were  easily scraped
 away. The diggers  flung scoopfuls  over their  shoulders, hit-
 ting  Sighter  and ъainspot  in the  face. The  gnomes withdrew
 to a cleaner observation point.
   Bellcrank  bent  down  and  grabbed  a  handful  of  the soil
 that  Wingover  had  tossed  back.  No  longer dry  and spongy,
 this dirt was hard, grainy, and damp.  "Hello," he  said. "Look
 at this. Sand."
   Sturm  and  Kitiara  examined  the  ball  of  damp  sand that
 Bellcrank had squeezed in his  small fist.  It was  quite ordi-
 nary sand, tinged pale red.
   "Ugh!   Ow,   here's   something,"   Cutwood    grunted.   He
 kicked  a  large  chunk  of  something out  of the  tunnel. The
 thing wobbled down  the slope  a little  way and  stopped. Fit-
 ter picked it up.
   "Feels like glass," he said. Sighter took it from him.
   "It is glass. Crude glass," Sighter said.
   More bits of glass came out of the hole, along with sand,
 sand,  and  more  sand.  Wingover  and  Cutwood   had  tunneled
 headfirst into the hillside and now only  their feet  showed in
 the opening. Sturm told them to stop digging.
   "It's no use," he said. "There's no ore here."

   "I  must  agree with  Master Brightblade,"  said Bellcrank.
 "The whole hill is likely one big pile of sand."
   "Where does the glass come from?" Kitiara asked.
   "Any  source  of heat  can melt  sand into  glass. Lightning,
 forest fire, volcano."
   "That's not important," Sturm  said. "We  dug for  iron and
 found glass. The question is, what do we do now?"
   "Go on looking?" said Fitter timidly.
   "What about Stutts and the others?" Kitiara asked.
   "Strip  my  gears,  I  forgot  about our  colleagues," said
 ъoperig. "What shall we do?"
   Sturm said, "We'll go back. It'll be daylight  again before
 we  reach  the  flying ship,  and we  can harvest  some spear
 plants for Stutts, Birdcall, and Flash to eat. Once we're all
 together, we can repair the engine -" He regarded  Kit grave-
 ly. "- 'with  the iron  that Kitiara  and I  wear on  us. You
 gnomes  can  forge  our  arms  and armor  into the  parts you
 need." Murmurs of approval rippled through the gnomes.
   "Do  you  think I'd  allow my  sword, my  mail, to  be ham-
 mered  into  machine  parts?  With what  will we  defend our-
 selves? Scoops and beans?" Kitiara said furiously.
   "All we've used our weapons for so far is chopping
 weeds," Sturm countered. "This could be our only way
 home."
   Kitiara crossed her arms. "I don't like it."
   "Nor do I, but what  choice do  we have?  We can  be well-
 armed and marooned, or unarmed and on our way home."
   "Not a handsome choice," she had to admit.
   "You  needn't  make  up  your  mind  right   now.  Whatever
 you decide, we should return to the ship first,"  said Sturm.
 No  one  disputed  his  decision.  The  gnomes   prepared  to
 break camp.  Like their  unpacking, this  was a  brisk proce-
 dure.  Each  gnome  tossed  an  item  into the  righted cart.
 Sometimes  they  wrestled  over the  same item,  and ъainspot
 and  Cutwood  even  got  carried  away  and threw  Fitter in.
 Sturm pulled the littlest gnome out before he was buried.
   With a clear sky and  plenty of  stars, the  explorers were
 able to plot their way back to the plain of stones. Once they
 left the chain of hills, they beheld a  lovely sight.  On the
 southwestern horizon, a blue-white glow  lit the  sky. Within

 a  few  hundred  yards'  walk,   the  source   of  the   glow  was
 revealed  to  be the  world of  Krynn, rising  into sight  for the
 first.time since their arrival on the red moon.
   The party stopped to admire the great azure orb. "What
 are the fuzzy white parts?" asked Kitiara.
   "Clouds," said ъainspot.
   "And the blue is ocean, the brown, land?"
   "Exactly right, lady."
   Sturm  stood  apart  from  the  rest,  contemplating   his  home
 world.  Kitiara  peered  through  the  gnome's  spyglass,  squint-
 ing  one  eye  closed  and  bending far  down to  Sighter's level.
 When she was done, she went to where Sturm stood.
   "Don't you want to take a look?" she asked.
   Sturm  rubbed  his  newly  bearded  chin. "I  can see  it fine."
 The  bright  white light  of Krynn  caught on  his ring  and glim-
 mered.  The  emblem  of  the  Knights   of  Solamnia's   Order  of
 the ъose caught his eye.
   He inhaled smoke and coughed.
   Not again! The vision was upon him without any warn-
 ing."   Sturm  fought   to  stay   calm.  Something   always  hap-
 pened  to trigger  the experience  - first  the moon's  chill air,
 then the feel of his wolf fur  cloak, and  now the  light reflect-
 ing off his ring, the only real relic of his Solamnic heritage. It
 wasn't  his  father's  ring, but  his mother's;  Sturm wore  it on
 his little finger.
   A   high,   dark   wall   loomed  over   his  back.   Sturm  was
 standing  in  the shadow  of the  wall, and  it was  night. Twenty
 yards  away,  a  fire  burned. He  seemed to  be in  the courtyard
 of  a  castle.  Two  men  in  ragged  cloaks  stood  hunched  over
 the fire. A third lay on the ground, unmoving.
   Sturm  came  nearer,  and  saw  that  the  tallest  man  was his
 father.  Sturm's heart  raced. He  held out  his hands  to Angriff
 Brightblade for the  first time  in thirteen  years. The  old war-
 rior  lifted  his  head and  stared right  past Sturm.  They can't
 see  me,  Sturm  thought.  Was  there  a  way  he could  make him-
 self known?
   "We  should  not  have  come  here,  my  lord,"  said  the other
 standing man. "It's dangerous!"
   "The  last  place  our  enemies  would  look  for  us  is  in my
 own  sacked  castle,"  replied  Lord  Brightblade.   "Besides,  we

 had to get Marbred out of the wind. The  fever has  settled in
 his chest."
   Father! Sturm tried to shout.  He could  not even  hear him-
 self.
   Lord  Brightblade  squatted by  the man  on the  ground. His
 breath  had  frozen  on  his  beard,  making  it  as  white as
 Marbred's.  "How  do  you  feel,  old friend?"  Sturm's father
 asked.
   Marbred  wheezed,  "Fit  for  any   command  of   my  lord."
 Angriff  squeezed his  old retainer's  arm, stood,  and turned
 his back on the sick man.
   "He  may  not  last  the  night,"  he said.  "Tomorrow there
 may be only you and I, Bren."
   "What shall we do, my lord?"
   Lord  Brightblade  reached  under  the  tattered  layers  of
 cloak  and  blankets that  hung from  his broad  shoulders. He
 unbuckled his  belt and  brought out  his sword  and scabbard.
 "I will not allow this blade, forged by the first of my ances-
 tors and borne with honor all  these years,  to fall  into the
 hands of the enemy."
   Bren  grabbed  Lord  Brightblade's  wrist.  "My  lord  - you
 don't intend - you can't mean to destroy it!"
   Angriff pulled six inches  of the  sword from  its covering.
 The fitful firelight caught on the burnished steel and made it
 glitter. "No," he said. "As long as my son lives,  the Bright-
 blade line will continue. My sword and armor will be his."
   Sturm felt as if his heart would burst. Then,  suddenly, the
 pain caused by  the scene  was replaced  by an  odd lightness.
 It stole into Sturm's limbs and, though he tried to  hold him-
 self in the  vision, to  keep everything  in sharp  focus, the
 image faded. The fire, the men, his father,  and the  sword of
 the  Brightblades  wavered  and  dissolved.   Sturm's  fingers
 clenched into tight fists as he tried  literally to  grasp the
 scene. Sturm found himself clenching the nap of  Kitiara's fur
 coat.
   "I'm all right," Sturm  said. His  heart slowly  resumed its
 normal rhythm.
   "You were very quiet this time," she reported. "You stared
 into space as if you were watching a stage play in Solace."
   "In a way, I was." He described his father's vigil. "It must

  be the present or the recent past,"  he reasoned.  "The castle
  was in ruins, but my father did not look so old - perhaps fif-
  ty years. His beard had not grayed. He must be alive!"
    Sturm  became  aware  that  he  was  lying  on his  back and
  moving.  He sat  up hastily  and almost  fell off  the gnomes'
  cart. "How'd I get up here?" he asked.
    "I put you there. You didn't look  as if  you could  make it
  on your own," said Kitiara.
    "You picked me up?"
    "With one hand," said Wingover. Sturm looked down.
  All  the  gnomes  but Sighter  were on  the poles  pushing the
  cart along. He suddenly felt  embarrassed' to  be such  a bur-
  den to his companions, and jumped off  the cart.  Kitiara slid
  down, too.
    "How long was I out?" Sturm asked.
    "Better  part  of  an  hour," said  Sighter, referring  to the
  stars. "The visions are getting longer, aren't they?"
    "Yes, but  I think  they're triggered  when I'm  reminded of
  something from  the past,"  Sturm said.  "If I  concentrate on
  the present, perhaps I can avoid episodes like this."
    "Sturm  doesn't  approve   of  the   supernatural,"  Kitiara
  explained to the gnomes. "It's part of his knightly code."
    Krynn  was  now  high  overhead,  and  the   terrain  around
  them was as bright  as day.  No plants  grew in  the brilliant
  light, however; all was cold and  lifeless under  the planet's
  clear glow. Sighter led his colleagues in another long discus-
  sion. Kitiara and Sturm were trailing behind the cart,"  so no
  one saw the ditch until the front wheels spilled into  it. The
  gnomes   on   the   front   pole   -   Cutwood,   Fitter,  and
  Wingover - fell on their faces.  ъoperig, ъainspot,  and Bell-
  crank struggled  to keep  the heavil