had said.
What a strange way to think, he thought.
'Nice around here, isn't it?' his friend asked.
Jak nodded. 'Where are we, anyway? I don't know this moor.'
'We're right where we are,' the halfling answered.
'I know that,' Jak replied. He was beginning to think that his comrade was a bit. . simple. 'I mean, what is this place called?'
The halfling smiled. 'It's called 'my place'.'
Jak was incredulous and could not keep it from his tone. 'All of it? Seems like a lot for one halfling.'
His comrade grinned. 'Oh, it's not for just one.'
'No?'
'No. Look.' The halfling took his pipe from his mouth as they topped a rise. With it, he pointed down into the valley.
Jak followed his comrade's gesture and saw….
A small cottage. A smoking chimney rose out of a mud-and-thatch roof. The clank of plates and the wonderful, familiar smell that had drawn Jak across the moor floated through the open shutters. So too did laughter. The voices sounded familiar to Jak.
His comrade took a deep breath. 'Smells good, doesn't it? Homey, like.'
'It does,' Jak answered. He inhaled, drank in the smell, and it triggered a sharp memory from his childhood.
'That's my mother's potato soup!' he said.
The halfling grinned wide. He tapped the stem of his pipe on his temple.
'It is, Jak. She's waiting for you. She and your father. Your grandmother too. Even your younger brother Cob. Do you remember him?'
'Remember him? Of course!' Jak could hardly believe his ears. He had not seen any of those people for years, not since they all had..
Not since they all had died.
But that didn't seem right. How could that be right? And his mother shouldn't be there either, should she?
As though reading his mind, the halfling said, 'A lot happened after you left Mistledale, Jak. Go on. The soup's going to get cold. This will all make sense soon.'
Jak turned, stopped. 'Wait. I feel like I'm leaving something behind, something. . undone.'
His friend shook his head and smiled gently. 'No. You've done all you can. Memories haunt even better than ghosts. Go on, now.'
Jak could not make sense of the halfling's words but that did not keep him from smiling. 'Come with me. My mother loves guests. And the soup is wonderful.'
The halfling in the green hat shook his head gently and replanted the pipe in his mouth.
'I can't, Jak. Not right now, at least. You go. Go and rest. I'll come back when I can and we'll talk then. Well enough?'
'Well enough,' Jak said, and he could not contain a grin. His family! 'This is a great place.'
'I am glad you think so,' replied his companion.
Smiling, Jak turned and sprinted down the rise toward the cottage.
From behind, he heard his companion exclaim, 'Oh, drat!'
Jak stopped, turned, and looked back up the rise to see the halfling looking forlornly at his pipe. He held it up for Jak to see.
'It's gone out,' he said, and frowned. 'Trickster's hairy toes!'
For some reason, that oath made Jak smile.
'You like that?' the halfling called down to him.
Jak nodded.
The halfling tucked the pipe into his cloak. 'I always liked it too. See you soon, Jak.'
Jak gave his friend one more wave, turned, and hurried to the cottage.
CHAPTER 17
Magadon did not have enough mental strength left to raise the barrier behind his friends. He was so weak that he did not even have the strength to stand. He could do nothing but lie there and watch, awed, as the two servants of Mask engaged their enemies.
He was not certain that they were human, not at that moment. Or perhaps his wounds had thickened his mind. Riven and Cale seemed too fast, too big, too.. present to be mere men.
But his mind was clear enough to understand his role. He was to bear witness.
He watched Cale charge into Dolgan with enough force to vibrate the floor. Man and slaad roared into the other's face. The slaad's greater weight drove Cale backward, toward Magadon.
The slaad tried to claw at Cale's sides and back but Cale caught Dolgan's arms by the wrists and held them away from him. The shadows circling Cale intensified, reflecting his anger.
The slaad snapped his jaws at Cale's head, missed, then leaped up and drove his legs into Cale's stomach, rending cloak and flesh. Blood and shadows leaked from Cale, but still he did not buckle.
Still gripping Dolgan by the wrists, Cale spun a half-circle and flung the slaad into the corridor wall with such force that Dolgan's breath flew from his lungs and his bones cracked. Cale allowed no respite. So many shadows boiled from his skin that he looked ablaze in black fire.
Dolgan barely ducked out of the way of a punch that would have dented a kite shield. Bones crunched when Cale struck the stone wall instead of the slaad, but other than a growl of frustration at the miss, he did not seem to care. The slaad countered with a claw rake at Cale's throat, but Cale parried it with his forearm and drove a punch with his shattered fist into the slaad's abdomen. Dolgan staggered backward, bent double, coughing. Cale shook his broken hand at his side and Magadon could see the bones twisting, knitting. After only a few heartbeats, Cale rushed the huge slaad and the two went careening backward, a tangle of fists, claws, shadows, scales, grunts, and shouts. Shadows sheathed them. They fought in a black mist.
Magadon felt that he was watching giants grapple.
The ambient silver light from the tower dimmed. Magadon felt dizzy and feared he was losing consciousness. The corridor fell away. He saw only darkness. A tingle raced through his body, the same feeling he experienced when Cale moved them between worlds.
The darkness partially lifted.
He was sitting on a rocky plane on a small, featureless island set in a black sea under an oppressive, starless sky-the Plane of Shadow. Ochre lightning tore across the sky. Thunder rolled in the distance.
Consciously or unconsciously, Cale had moved the battle to the Plane of Shadow and had inadvertently brought Magadon along.
Ten paces away, Cale and Dolgan continued to roll on the ground.
The sounds of the battle between Cale and Dolgan started out loud, grew faint, and abruptly stopped altogether. Riven spared a glance back at them and saw. .
Nothing. They were gone.
'Just us, then,' Azriim said through a mouthful of fangs. 'And the dead halfling, of course.'
Riven snarled and rushed the slaad, his sabers wheeling. Azriim parried with his own blade and danced backward out of Riven's reach. Riven followed, and for a few moments they circled, blades spinning, stabbing, slashing. Riven could see that he was the faster of the two, but the slaad was the stronger. Azriim used his off- hand claw as a second weapon, slashing at Riven's exposed flesh when opportunity allowed.
