the dwarves began to mumble among themselves and suddenly sat down on the ground, almost in unison. Galvin yanked and pulled on their rope leashes, but he couldn't budge them.
'Damn, Wynter,' the druid cursed. 'Why did you saddle us with these dwarves? We really don't need this problem right now.' He tugged again, and the dwarves glowered at him.
As Brenna padded up quickly to help, the largest of the dwarves reached out an arm, caught her by an ankle, and pulled until she fell to the dirt road.
Fuming, Brenna scooted away from the slaves and began to brush the dirt from her dress furiously.
'Wynter!' she shouted.
The centaur wisely kept his distance from the dwarves, noting that the incident had drawn the attention of the guards at the gate. He glanced at Galvin and Brenna and shrugged.
'The slaver said I might have a few problems with them,' he said softly. 'They weren't very expensive.'
Galvin grabbed the ends of the rope, turned, faced the gate, and pumped his legs, pulling like a draft horse. Huffing with the effort, he eventually found himself moving forward slowly, pulling the struggling dwarves.
On the barbicon above, the guards laughed and opened the gate. Galvin and the dwarves, followed by Brenna and Wynter, emerged through the gate into a tent town. The ragtag community consisted of about six dozen tents of various construction; some were large and made of stout canvas, others were merely large blankets thrown over a cord tied between two posts. Some people, lacking any tent, slept on blankets on the ground. There were a number of large dogs about the area, guarding merchants' goods and families.
The tent town was almost a permanent fixture, a fringe district of Amruthar, judging by the packed, grassless earth beneath the tents. Most of the residents were here only to sell their goods, then move on to another town to acquire more inventory. However, the place also served as a more or less permanent home to some of the city's poorer residents who couldn't afford lodging inside the walls.
Galvin, Wynter, and Brenna picked their way among the inhabitants, watching the evening activities as they went.
'Okay,' Wynter stared as he helped Galvin drag the dwarves. 'So Maligor has an army of gnolls. I don't think a thousand gnolls could take this place. There are too many wizards here to fight back. His target has to be outside the city. Besides, if you could find out about the gnolls by simply going to dinner, you can be sure all the wizards around here know about them.'
'It's puzzling,' Galvin admitted. 'In any event, we need to get a close look at Maligor's place.'
'Get those slaves outta here!' an old woman barked as one of the dwarves lobbed a clod of dirt in her direction. Her companions cackled and encouraged the dwarf to try again.
Galvin and Wynter pulled harder. They passed by a large group of campers who obviously knew each other. The men had circled around a fire for a game of chance. Near them, two women in brightly colored scarves danced about a campfire. The conversation was abundant and covered the weather, the day's business, and the city's tax policies.
One group was even discussing Maligor's gnolls.
The travelers and their slaves selected a spot on the edge of the tent town where they could talk freely and weren't likely to be invited by their neighbors to share in any festivities. Wynter used crude hand signals, indicating the dwarves should sit. They refused, of course.
When he merely shrugged and ignored them, the dwarves finally sat, looking defiant. Brenna edged forward cautiously and began working the knots loose from about their waists. She held her breath; the slaves hadn't bathed in a long while. When she had finished untying them, she backed away, put her hands on her hips, and inspected them.
'If we take them to Aglarond, I can get them cleaned up and give them a few gold pieces,' she said.
'We've more things to worry about than the dwarves,' Galvin said as he stretched out on the ground. Brenna lay down a few feet away from the druid and watched him.
'I'm just glad I was able to buy a few slaves their freedom,' Wynter said softly, not wanting any nearby campers to hear. He vividly described the condition of the pens to Galvin, then waited for a response, but the druid had had enough conversation for the day and pretended to sleep.
Nine
Asp clung to the shadows outside Maligor's tower. The nearby gnoll guards paid her little attention, knowing it was healthier not to question the spirit naga about her business.
She rested back on her snake's lower body, leaning her shoulders against the cool, smooth stone wall and twitching the end of her tail through the dewy grass. In her pale, slender hands, she cradled a large weasel. Asp ran her fingers through its silky fur and hissed softly to the creature. The weasel seemed to enjoy the attention and lay still for the naga's caresses.
'Maligor will be proud of me,' she hissed in a barely audible tone. 'I've watched him closely. I, too, can create darkenbeasts.'
The naga slithered farther along the wall, away from the guards and toward the rear of the tower. Setting the weasel down amid a thick clump of grass, she scratched its neck and lay on her belly to watch it sniff a patch of clover. Then, reaching in her pouch for the powders she had 'borrowed' from Maligor, the snake-woman sprinkled them on the weasel's back and began mumbling the words she had heard Maligor recite.
She kept her voice soft, not wanting to draw the attention of the guards or any slaves who might be milling about. The weasel's nose began to quiver, finally sensing danger. The moment it started to bolt, Asp's tail shot through the grass like a striking cobra and fastened itself about the animal's back legs to hold it in place.
The frightened weasel tried to squirm free, but the naga persisted with the spell. By the time Asp had finished with the words, the creature had begun the horrid metamorphosis.
The weasel shed its hair as its skin bubbled and oozed. Asp quickly drew her tail away and slithered back a few feet. The thing cried out, almost like a human infant, as its bones stretched, making loud popping and cracking sounds. Talons formed at the ends of its front feet, yet its back feet remained those of a weasel. Then its jaw elongated; rows of long, jagged teeth filled its misshapen mouth. The thing continued to grow until it was as big as a bull and appeared a cross between a weasel and a lizard.
The naga gasped and covered her mouth in surprise. Even though she had used the same words, the spell wasn't working as it had when Maligor cast it. This darkenbeast was too big and was retaining many of its weasel features-its hind legs, ears, stubby tail, and round, frightened eyes. Its skin was covered with festering boils, as if the thing were diseased. For a moment, the naga considered calling for the Red Wizard, hoping he could correct her miscast magic. Then she realized he would be angry because she had cast a spell he had not yet taught her.
Nervously she eyed the creature as it continued its transformation. Webbed wings covered with short gray hair grew from its sides. The darkenbeast, whimpering loudly in pain from its transfigurement, turned its hideous head toward Asp, its crimson eyes glowing with hatred. The thing hopped toward her, flapping its deformed wings and nearly succeeding in rising from the ground. The naga gathered herself to her full height and prepared to defend herself with magic.
But the darkenbeast stopped inches from her. Its stench was overpowering and kept her from concentrating to cast any enchantments. The naga held her breath and looked into the monster's face. Suddenly she realized that the thing was waiting.
'Attack the peasants,' she hissed, mentally picturing the camp outside Amruthar's northern gate.
The darkenbeast turned and lumbered away, then awkwardly took off into the night sky toward the city's northern edge. The creature was hardly graceful, as Maligor's creation had been. Instead, it was clumsy and unbalanced, and the naga hoped someone would kill it quickly so it wouldn't return to her and cause problems.
She slithered into the tower, casting a last glance at the diminishing form of her misbegotten darkenbeast.
In the tent town, Wynter listened to the dwarven slaves talk among themselves. Their deep voices sounded
