One of the wraiths, the skeleton in armor, reached out and tore the mask from the cleric's face. The skeletal hand closed over Stel's throat. Stel screamed horribly. The other undead closed around him.
A gigantic wave swamped the Tauron.
Vandor Grizt lost his hold, falling overboard. The sea took him. He could no longer see the TAURON and for all he knew it had been pulled under after the last wave. Water was all there was in the world. It surrounded him; it filled him.
Then he saw a woman, a beautiful but fiery creature of the depths. She was reaching for him, but something… no SOMEONE — another woman
… was pulling him away from her.
Vandor Grizt smiled vaguely at the first woman, regretting that their liaison was not possible.
Then, he was no more.
Vandor Grizt discovered he did not like the taste of sand.
Raising his head, an act that strained to the limit what few resources he had left, he spat out a grainy mouthful.
Vandor kept his eyes closed. He was not at all certain he wanted to know where he was. After all, if he were dead, he might be in the domain of Zeboim… or worse.
Curiosity got the better of him.
All he saw was a beach. Daytime. Brilliant light nearly blinded him. Closing his eyes, he restarted the process, allowing himself only a narrow gap of vision at first.
He allowed that gap to widen when he saw the feet in front of him. They were not human feet.
'So you survived,' rumbled a horribly familiar voice. 'Some god truly watches over you, human…'
Vandor Grizt rolled over, the best he could do at the moment, and stared at the looming bestial countenance of Captain Kruug. After a moment, Vandor became aware of the presence of three other minotaurs, one of whom leaned heavily on another.
Vandor tried to speak, coughed and spit up sea water.
Kruug snorted. He looked tired. Very tired. 'Save your words, human. I've no interest in you. Anyone who survived that folly… and I'm amazed there are any of us… deserves some peace.' The minotaurs started to turn away, but the captain held back long enough to add, 'If you'll take my advice, you'll go inland. deep inland. If I see your ugly face again, I might remember how I lost my ship because of you.'
Although he had a somewhat different perspective on the recent events, Grizt did not think it wise to argue. He watched in silence as the battered foursome stumbled off.
'You're lucky, Vandor Grizt,' he said as he lay there trying to regain enough strength to move on. 'The bullman must be right: some god does smile on me!' The thought comforted him. If that was true — and it certainly seemed so — then it might be a wise time to begin a new life.
Grizt started to rise, but felt something under his left hand. He dug the object out of the sand and stared long at it.
It was the upper portion of Stel's skull mask — an eyehole and part of the cheek. Vandor smiled. His ancestor had bequeathed him a present.
Vandor dropped the battered mask and, finding new strength, rose to his feet. He looked around and saw that the minotaurs were still within sight, their pace slowed by the injured member.
Vandor Grizt ran after them, calling out in order to get their attention. Kruug turned around, his fists balled tight. When he saw who it was, his anger was replaced by annoyance.
'What do you want? I thought I told you — '
'Please!' Vandor Grizt put up both hands in placation. 'Just a question of directions. That is all I ask. You know this region much better than I.'
'All right. Where is it you want to go?'
Trying not to sound too anxious, Vandor asked, 'Would you happen to know the way to the nearest temple of Shinare?'
The Vingaard Campaign
From the Research of Foryth Teel, Senior Scribe in the service of Astinus, Master Lorekeeper of Krynn.
Most Gracious Historian, you do me too much honor! To think of this task — the study of the greatest military campaign in the post-Cataclysm history of Krynn — and to realize that you have selected me to prepare the documents! I am honored, humbled. But, as always, I shall endeavor to do my best, so that the truth can be recorded and saved.
Thank you too, Excellency, for your concern about my health following my previous mission. My nerves have settled and the tremors have almost disappeared from my hands. Also, I am able to sleep for several hours at a time without suffering the recurrence of nightmares.
As always, a return to my work seems to promise the most complete cure — and in this assignment, Your Grace, you could not have provided a more perfect medicine. The tale of the Vingaard Campaign! The very phrase strikes a martial note in my soul! I hear the clash of steel, the thunder of hooves and the strident call of the battle trumpet! I imagine the wings of dragons, good and evil, blotting out the sky. I picture the blasts of powerful magicks, the gallant charge of the knights!
But forgive me. I have not forgotten that the historian is a dispassionate reporter of the truth. Such flights of fancy are for poets, not scholars such as I. I shall try to control my emotions. Nevertheless, as I relate the exciting story of a young elven princess who changed the face of Krynn in a few short weeks — the sharp, dangerous attacks that baffled her foes, the fast marches across the plains placing her miles from her supposed location, and of course, her epic victory at Margaard Ford — I trust that Your Excellency will forgive an occasional exclamatory aside.
In studies, I will examine the topic primarily from the viewpoint of the Army of Solamnia. The records of the dragonarmies were relatively well kept, and have been researched by many scribes. The campaigns from the Golden General's side, on the other hand, have only been discussed in the histories of the Knights of Solamnia. To read them, one might think that the contributions of the good dragons to these battles was merely to fan the battlefield with their wings, cooling the sweat from the brows of the hard-riding knights to whom the laurels really belonged! In my own reports, I shall strive for a greater degree of objectivity — as befits a proper historian.
I now commence my task in the musty library of the High Clerist's Tower at Westgate Pass. Extensive records from a variety of sources have yielded themselves to my diligence. Gunthar Uth Wistan's account, formulated on the distant island of Ergoth from reports received by that venerable captain from his knights in the field, proves surprisingly complete — and accurate. (He does a remarkable job, Excellency, of separating the wheat from the chaff as regards the reports received from his enthusiastic warriors!) The records of the interviews conducted with the captured dragonarmy general Bakaris also shed a good light on the campaign. Also, I have been afforded the aid of a hitherto unknown source: a young human female named Mellison (no surname, apparently), self-appointed servant of the general. I have found the tattered remnants of a diary she kept during the short period of the campaign (it is amazing in the extreme to think that this sweeping series of battles lasted a mere twenty days!).
Mellison had been born and raised in a small village on the Plains of Solamnia. When the dragons came, her community was scorched, and her parents slain (or, perhaps, taken as slaves). Mellison, alone from the village, managed to escape to the shelter of the High Clerist's Tower and, eventually, Palanthas.
I do not know how she met the elf woman who would become the Golden General — those pages, at the start of Mellison's diary, have been destroyed. However, by the time Laurana had been appointed by Gunthar Uth Wistan, Grand Master of Solamnia, to command the knights and the army of Palanthas, the human girl had attached herself to the elf woman.
Mellison proved very useful to the general, preparing Laurana's tent for those nights when the general was
