rm's feet. He

 hopped  aside,  perilously  close  to  the  edge.  "Jump, boy.
 Cheat my revenge, why don't you?  It will  be easier  than the
 death I have in mind for you," Merinsaard  said, a  scant five
 yards away. Sturm looked down. It was a long, long fall.
   "Take  the  step.  Jump. For  you it  can be  over quickly,"
 hissed the wizard.
   There  was  no  hope. This  was the  end. Sturm  would never
 again see his friends or solve the mystery of his  father. For
 him, there was only  a choice  of deaths.  A single  step, and
 oblivion.  Didn't  every  man  want  an  easy  death  when his
 time  came?  But  you're  not  every  man! his  mind screamed.
 You're  the  son and  grandson of  Solamnic Knights!  his mind
 screamed.  This  knowledge  helped  melt  the  icy  fear  that
 gripped his heart.
   He  squared   his  shoulders   and  faced   Merinsaard.  The
 Brightblade sword pointed at  the warlord's  heart. "I  do not
 do your evil bidding,"  Sturm stated.  "If you  claim to  be a
 warrior and a lord, let your blade test mine, and we  will see
 who acquits himself with honor."
  Merinsaard   smiled,  showing   white  teeth.   The  blinding
 glow  faded  from  Thresholder, and  Sturm assumed  a fighting
 stance.  The  wizard  extended  his blade  at Sturm,  and with
 no warning at all, a blast of fire lashed out from the tip. It
 struck  Sturm  in  the chest  and slammed  him into  the tower
 wall.
   "As  you  see,"  said  Merinsaard.  "I  am not  an honorable
 man." He raised Thresholder for the final, mortal  strike, and
 his eyes got  very wide  and white.  Sturm struggled  to bring
 the tip of his father's sword waveringly into the air.
   Suddenly,  Merinsaard  made  a   gagging  sound   and  stag-
 gered  to  the  battlement.  Sturm  was  astonished to  see an
 arrow  buried  in  his back.  Some distance  away, silhouetted
 against the morning sky, was a figure with a bow.
   Sturm  got to  his feet.  Merinsaard grasped  the battlement
 with his mailed hands, but the iron  links found  no purchase,
 and the warrior-wizard  toppled through  a crenelation  to the
 courtyard  below.  There  was  a  scream,  a   heavy,  ringing
 thud, and silence.
   Sturm  raced  for  the  steps.  The  mysterious  archer  was
 nowhere  in  sight.  He found  Merinsaard dead,  his sightless

 eyes staring into the mossy  flagstones. Thresholder  lay just
 beyond  his  lifeless  fingers.  As  Sturm watched,  the sword
 flared  and vanished  with a  loud crack.  Where it  had lain,
 the stones were scorched.
   Sturm  wavered  and  braced   himself  against   the  donjon
 wall.  As  he  tried  to  make  sense  of  what  had happened,
 another arrow struck the ground at his  feet. The  gray goose-
 feather fletching on the  long black  arrow quivered  from the
 impact.
   Sturm  jerked  around  and  saw  the  unknown   archer  atop
 the  outer  wall.  The bowman  raised a  hand in  salute, then
 ducked into an empty watchtower and was gone.
   He  stooped to  examine the  arrow. Tied  to the  shaft just
 behind the head was a slip of paper. Sturm freed it  and read:

 Dear S

 I knew you'd come here  and here  I find  you in  a losing
 fight  with  a  wizard.  My new  friends don't  choose to
 play fair  but I  decided to  even the  odds in  memory of
 our  past  friendship.  Next  time  you  might  not  be so
 lucky!

                               K

    PS: You were a sucker to let him point the magic blade
    at you.

   "Kitiara!"  Sturm called  to the  sky and  stones. "Kitiara,
 where are you?" But he  knew she  was gone,  lost to  him for-
 ever.

                   Chapter 41

                    Palanthas

         If took some time, but a message displayed by
 Sturm  from  Palanthas  to   Sancrist  was   answered.  Stutts,
 inventor of the practical (well, mostly practical) flying ship,
 sent Sturm a  reply that  took up  sixteen sheets  of foolscap,
 front and back. It seems  that he,  Wingover, Sighter,  and the
 rest  made  it  back  to  Mt.  Nevermind eventually,  using the
 hull of  the Cloudmaster  as a  conventional sailing  ship. The
 massive  report  the gnomes  submitted to  the High  Council of
 Gnomish Technology ran into thirty volumes.
  "The irony  is," Stutts  wrote to  Sturm, "in  all the  time we
 spent  on  Lunitari  we didn't  manage to  bring back  a single
 sample of soil, air, rock, or plant life. All our  copious sam-
 ple collection  was abandoned  trying to  lighten the  ship for
 takeoff.  With  only  our  notes, the  High Council  rendered a

 verdict  of  'Not  Proved' about  our expedition.  Sighter was
 pretty mad, but I'm not too  disturbed. As  I write  this, the
 hull  of  the  Cloudmaster  Mark  II  is  taking shape  on the
 slopes of Mt. Nevermind. It will have four  sets of  wings and
 two bags for ethereal air, and carry..."
    Sturm flipped through the letter with a smile. All the rest
 of the pages were a catalog of the  things the  gnomes planned
 to take with them on their  next voyage.  Only the  last lines
 were of interest: "If you and Mistress  Kitiara would  like to
 accompany  us  again,  please  make  your  way to  Sancrist by
 ten days before the winter solstice. That's when  we're taking
 off  for Lunitari.  Cutwood wants  to go  to Solinari,  but he
 was overruled.  We still  have a  lot to  learn about  the red
 moon.  Plus,  there  is some  hope we  might find  evidence of
 Bellcrank...."  The letter  was signed  with several  lines of
 Stutts's gnomish name.
    Sturm set the pages  aside. "Safe  voyage," he  said aloud.
 The maid in the inn where  he was  staying in  Palanthas heard
 him and came to his table.
    "Something   you   require?"  she   asked.  Her   name  was
 Zerla, and she was pretty, with  curly blond  hair and  a warm
 smile.  She  reminded  Sturm  of  Tika,  were  Tika  about ten
 years older.
   "No, thank you," he said.
   "Been in Palanthas long?" she asked.
   "A few weeks."
   "Thinking of staying, are youl"
   "Actually, I'm ready to leave now."
   Zerla  frowned  attractively.  "Not  on  my account,  I hope!"
   "Not at all. I have business in the south," said Sturm.
   "A girl?"
   Tervy came to mind, but Sturm's most pressing task was
 to get back on his father's  trail. That  meant going  to High
 Clerist  Tower.  He'd  come to  Palanthas after  his encounter
 with  Merinsaard  mainly  to rest  and get  his mind  calm and
 focused  again.  While  there,  Sturm  heard gossip  that some
 knights  were  gathering at  High Clerist  for a  conclave. He
 was certain his father's trail would lead there.
    Zerla  was talking  to him,  and Sturm  snapped out  of his
 daydream.

   "The  good-looking  ones  are  usually  taken," she  was say-
 ing. Zerla wiped the table under his cup  of sweet  cider. "Are
 you married?"
   "What? No, I'm not."
   The maid brightened. "Where are you from?"
   "Solamnia," he said.
   "I thought  so! I  noticed your  helmet and  mustache. You're
 a  knight, aren't  you?" He  admitted that  he was.  "My grand-
 father  tells  me  stories of  the old  days, when  the knights
 watched over the land  and saw  that justice  was done.  I wish
 I'd lived back then. I'd have liked to see the knights on their
 fine  horses,  armor  all  polished,  doing  good  for people."
 Zerla blushed. "I'm sorry. I'm talking too much."
   "I  don't  mind,"  Sturm said.  "What you  said cheers  me. I
 thought most folk  had forgotten  the Order,  or hated  it." He
 finished his  cider and  put down  two Solacian  silver pieces.
 "The change is for you," he said.
   "Thank  you!"  Zerla  swept the  cup and  coins off  the table.
   Sturm  walked  out   into  the   afternoon  sunshine.   In  the
 days he'd been lingering in  the city,  other reports  had come
 in  via  the  seaport.  Tales  of  strange  marauders  in other
 regions  were  growing.  When  Sturm  got  to  High  Clerist he
 would have plenty to tell the other knights.
   But  here in  Palanthas,  the threat  seemed far  away. Chil-
 dren  played  in  the  streets,  wagons  and carts  moved goods
 about  from  the  wharves  to  nearby  shops  and  markets. The
 citizens were well  fed and  well dressed.  Yes, the  danger of
 war was far removed from the life of the average Palanthan.
   He  could see  from the  high street  that puffy  white sails
 filled  the  bay. Were  there gnomes  down there?  he wondered.
 Did  a  gleaming  white  elf  ship  named  High  Crest  ride at
 anchor  beyond  the  headland?  Sturm  could  not   tarry  long
 enough  to  find  out.  Too  long  he'd  allowed himself  to be
 diverted  by  other  matters.  The  time  had come  to shoulder
 the responsibility  of his  knightly name.  The burden  of duty
 was  as  heavy  as  the  armor  Sturm  now  wore.  His father's
 armor,  and  the  Brightblade  sword  that  hung  by  his side.
 Sturm rested  his right  hand on  the pommel  and let  his eyes
 linger  on  the polished  plate of  his armor.  He took  a deep
 breath and walked down the street.

   So it was south to High  Clerist. Nearly  a year  had passed
 from the time he'd said good-bye to Tanis, Flint, and  all his
 friends in Solace.
   And Tervy.
   And  south  again. Abanasinia  and Solace.  In due  time, his
 old friends would be gathering at  the Inn  of the  Last Home.
 They  would  want  to  hear  about  what  had happened  to him
 and  Kitiara. How  could he  tell them?  How could  he explain
 to  Tanis?  And what  of her  brothers? Would  they understand
 any  better  what  Sturm  himself did  not? So  many questions
 troubled Sturm as he walked the sunny streets of Palanthas.
   A  cloud passed  over the  sun, and  Sturm looked  up. Dark-
 er clouds than that were coming.  He could  shout it  from the
 rooftops,  but  the  Palanthans  wouldn't  heed him.  Life was
 good,  why  worry  about  war?  Weren't  the  mountains  high?
 Was  not  the bay  patrolled by  Palanthan galleys,  armed and
 ready? Palanthas was safe, absolutely.
   But  mountains  and  warships  were  no impediment  to evil.
 The seed of that insidious force lay in every heart,  in every
 act of  greed and  hatred. The  land and  the sea  were merely
 highways  over  which  ideas  flowed as  readily as  the trade
 winds,  and  now  the  sky  was  open,  too.  The  gnomes  had
 proved that.
   The  cloud  moved  on.  Sturm  shaded  his  eyes   from  the
 sun's glare and listened for the sound of beating wings.