more mistakes like that, not so easily remedied with a night in the stocks or a plate of meat scraps.
Halflings, as good, decent folk, never realized what kind of dark thoughts some of them had about the others. The last straw, or so the village saw it, was when on behalf of the Moot Court, the monthly call for judgment, the mayor declared with the stone’s power behind him, that “the truth shall come out, no matter what!”
So money palmed by a thief screamed to be put back in the purse of the victim. That led to a few beatings. The bruises on the ruffians’ flesh spoke out in gasping, breathless voices as to the manner of their infliction. Then the dead rose to speak out against their killers. The trauma of having to face deceased loved ones nearly drove families to their own end. Bab felt that was what drove Adda to the final edge of madness, not that he hadn’t been going there for a long time.
Bab glanced over his shoulder at the locksmith. Adda ought to have stayed behind in Wenly Halt, but the others felt he was a good luck charm. He was lucky, but lucky for himself, not for them, if you asked Bab, because things that happened to other people just missed him, almost every time.
Still, Adda had a knack with a lock, magical or otherwise. In fact, the bespelled pouch that held their unwanted treasure had been tied and retied more than once, Bab could tell. He hoped that it had not lost any of the charm that kept the smooth rock safe. It was just that Adda couldn’t resist looking. Priest Nock said it was a holy madness, though under the auspice of what god, no one knew. No amount of Nock praying and bothering his own patron deity had proved enough to reveal it. Bab guessed that He or She was one of the ones who had gone insane from power, the very sound of whose name would result in the ground being heaved asunder-well, wait, that had already happened. But Nock assured them Adda was preserved by a benevolent god, not an evil one, as that who reigned in the Scar.
In the meanwhile, Bab and the others needed supplies, and maybe a rest. He swaggered toward the rough- beamed trading post where the human with one silver eye held court. Everything cost too much in the Crossroads because it had to be carried in by cart or enforced labor. A halfling couldn’t trust any food grown in the polluted local soil. Water for the foul-tasting beer in the Poisoned Chalice pub had to be distilled three times, but there was plain water, drawn from a couple of decently deep wells. It cost a toll to fill waterskins at them, but it was necessary. Each of them carried enough journeybread in their backpacks for a month’s wandering, in case no other food was available, but Bab hated to live on those dry mouthfuls for more than a few days. Still, it paid to be prepared. The last time they’d come, they ran out of provisions. He wasn’t risking it again.
The Scar was full of perils. Not only thugs and thieves waiting for a chance to jump helpless travelers and deprive them of valuables, life, or both. On their first journey inward, they had come up on an underground temple that just oozed ill will and death, but Coran’s prognostications showed that a star stone was hidden there, and they hoped to secure it.
It had, indeed, held one of the Chaos Shards, but the stone was not unguarded. At the heart of an arena smelling of blood, Adda had caught sight of a halfling woman in mystic robes seated upon a throne surrounded by armed male halflings, and he had fallen for her at once. She was a bonny one, to be sure, but a whistle of appreciation from Adda brought the entire bodyguard racing for him. They had only managed to escape by swiftness of foot and Coran spilling all his magic out in illusions.
The silver-eyed man in the trading post had thought the story wildly funny when they had stopped for provisions on their way home. Morgana, that was the halfling’s name, took slaves and tore the guts out of living captives. She rarely traveled to the neck of the pass, but it was always bad news for someone. At least they’d gotten out alive that time. Bab kept his one uncovered eye roving to ensure that Morgana was nowhere in sight.
A fist-sized rock whizzed toward Bab. He jumped to one side, in plenty of time for it to pass. He drew his small sword and showed the most vicious face he could in the direction of the line of buildings.
“Who did that?” he demanded.
The answer was a rain of stones. Bab lowered his face so that the old army helmet took the brunt. He waited until the clattering stopped and looked up. A pebble bounced off his shoulder and hit him on the nose. His eyes watered with the pain. Mad cackling echoed in the air.
“Who’s doing that?”
Bab heard at least three voices tittering. They sounded like insane children.
“I don’t see anyone,” Scorri said. She was their scout, a thickset girl with a long brown braid hidden down the back of her heavy hogskin tunic and spiked leather anklets above her hairy, bare feet.
No one in the road seemed to be looking at them, but more missiles pelted them. Coran threw up a hand and pebbles fell at his feet. Legg, magicless, got hit right between the eyes.
“Brats! I’ll learn you to stone me!” Legg cried, shaking his fist. Sword in hand, he ran in the direction of the attack. The cackling receded ahead of him.
“No, Legg!” Bab shouted. The man was just too hot-headed. He could get them all killed!
He ran after Legg. The others fell in behind him. The laughter led them through the rough streets, on past the stinking heap of refuse behind the trading post, and into the narrow passage between The Poisoned Chalice inn and leaning, dilapidated hovels. They emerged in the rolling wasteland beyond the makeshift village’s environs. Bab spotted Legg dodging between stunted trees and bushes.
“Do you smell that?” Scorri asked.
Bab took in a breath, then gagged. A stench like rotting bodies flavored with hot ash and bitter metal stung his nose. “He’s here! Legg, Mordint’s here!”
The tall halfling racing ahead of them heard and turned around in mid stride. His face was pale with fear as he headed back to them. The earth wizard was one of two beings that none of them ever wanted to meet again. Bab cursed. Why didn’t they bring an army? Of course Mordint wanted to find them! The stone had been the center of his unholy labyrinth!
The rock-throwers had to be tempters, then. These malign little imps were a product of the roiling evil that came from the star stone. They harassed or lured hapless travelers into following them. Most were never found again. Those who returned told tales of having had to fight their way free of a dark maw full of tongues and teeth. Mordint used them to lure unwary travelers to use as gifts to the dark spirits. Bab had had a taste of being tied to a post as tentacles licked around his legs. That’d never happen again.
The stench grew stronger and stronger. The earth wizard had to be close by. Bab cast around.
“Where is he? Can we hold him off?” Bab asked.
“Touch me,” Coran commanded. “Everyone come close.”
The half-elf dipped a hand into the black satchel hanging on his hip and emerged with a bubble of green glass. It glowed and began to grow, casting its peculiar light on the scrub grass. Bab felt as if he were holding a great shield before him. Adda dived to the ground and wrapped his arms around Coran’s ankles like a snake. The sphere grew until they were all contained within it.
All but Legg. He hurtled toward them, knees pumping under his leather jerkin. Ten feet to safety. Five feet. Bab stretched out an arm to pull him inside. Legg reached for it.
And vanished into thin air. The wail of his protest died out like the tolling of a distant bell.
“Curse him!” Bab snarled. It was Mordint’s favorite trick. If not for Coran’s spell, the rest of them might have been scooped up, too. “Where have they gone?”
Coran lowered his hands and the bubble faded away. Scorri sniffed the air. She pointed toward the west. “That way.”
“We have to go after him,” Coran said.
Adda nodded. “He’ll be beyond the five doors and the eight traps.”
Adda meant Mordint’s lair. Five days’ hard walk to the northwest. Well, they were going there anyhow.
Bab groaned. He checked the pouch at his belt to make certain it was secured. “We’d better go get our supplies.”
“We’re going the wrong way,” Adda insisted again, as they turned toward the sunset. “We have to go back again.” He’d said that at least once a mile.
“We are not going near Morgana’s temple,” Bab said sourly. It was the second day since they’d left the Crossroads. “Not again, not ever!”
“She fancied me,” Adda said, his round face lit up beatifically. “Those eyes of hers-lovely, like shining chestnuts. And her hair! And that chest!”
“All I saw was the necklace of shriveled eyeballs hanging on it,” Scorri said sourly. “And none of those
