Suddenly he spied a ripple in one of the reflective surfaces. Glancing around rapidly, he saw flickers and ripples in the pieces of shiny cut glass. As the Nightmaster watched in wonderment, the flickering and rippling took shape, so that each fragment of glass held a piece of the face of the God of Dark Vengeance.
A terrible, fearsome, obscure face, misted with red, stared at the Nightmaster through brooding black eyes.
Then all of a sudden, flickering in the pieces of glass, the image of Sargonnas vanished.
His eyes drawn skyward, the Nightmaster beheld a great red condor with black plumage, a wingspan that seemed to blanket the sky, and a curiously small, naked head. Fire licked at the tips of its wings.
Greetings, Nightmaster, servant of evil.
The red condor had seemed to speak inside the Nightmaster's head with a silky, enticing voice. Tongues of flame darted from the corners of its beak.
Greetings, Sargonnas, God of Dark Vengeance, ally of Takhisis.
The Nightmaster had never felt so powerful—nor so humbled—as then, when Sargonnas had first spoken to him.
Your plan is known to me. For centuries, I have waited for someone with your audacity and courage. For centuries, I have plotted to enter the material world and wreak havoc with my powers. For centuries, I have been foiled. Have you taken every precaution with the spell? Are you ready for the time?
Yes, Lord.
Are you watchful of deceit? Treachery?
Yes, Lord.
Are you worthy?
I trust, Lord.
Do not fail me. Do not dare to fail me, or you will learn that my vengeance reaches everywhere.
With that, the red condor had shimmered in the sun, then evaporated as if it had never been there.
The Nightmaster sank to his knees, turning his head, dazed. The conversation with Sargonnas had taken place entirely in his mind. Looking around, he could see the minotaur guards standing idly at their positions. They had neither heard nor seen Sargonnas.
The same was true of the two members of the High Three, who hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary—until now.
One of them had come running up to the Nightmaster. "Are you all right, Excellency?" the young, bulging bull-man asked solicitously.
The Nightmaster hadn't answered immediately. The young shaman had struggled to help the Nightmaster to his feet.
"Are you all right, Excellency?"
The voice this time belonged to Fesz. Standing behind the Nightmaster, the shaman had stepped forward and tapped him on the shoulder.
Jolted back to the present, the Nightmaster was confronted by one of the officers of the minotaur troops. He stood in front of the Nightmaster, who had been lost in thought at his long table in the middle of the dead city. The Nightmaster blinked, eyeing the horned soldier in front of him, and growled a reply to Fesz.
"Yes, of course I'm all right."
"I bear news," said the minotaur soldier. "The companions who landed on the south shore of the island have been joined by a host of kyrie."
"Kyrie," grunted the Nightmaster. "How many?"
"At least six, maybe as many as fifteen," replied the soldier, adding smugly, "probably all members of the Warrior Society. But we can handle that number easily. We could handle ten times that number."
"Yes."
The minotaur soldier hesitated.
"Yes?"
"They are marching in this direction. They seem to know precisely where they are headed."
"Why do they march? Why do the kyrie not fly them here?"
"We are puzzled by that, too, Excellency," replied the soldier. "It may be that there are too many of them to be carried by the kyrie, or that they must rest up after coming from the mountains of Mithas."
"Pah!" snorted the Nightmaster so vehemently that the minotaur soldier drew back a step. "The kyrie do not tire so easily. There must be another reason, which we will soon learn."
The minotaur soldier sounded less complacent. "Yes," replied the soldier in a chastened rumble. "We estimate they will be here by midday tomorrow."
"Good."
To the surprise of the minotaur soldier, the Nightmaster didn't seem the least bit annoyed by this intelligence. Indeed he seemed refreshed and returned to his work, writing vigorously in the margins of the book he had been studying.
The Nightmaster looked up. This time he did sound irritated. "Yes? Is there something else?"
"N-No, Excellency," stammered the soldier, then turned to go.
Good, the Nightmaster repeated to himself. The humans—from reports, accompanied by a dwarf and an elf—were on their way, and the kyrie had joined them. That last was unexpected. It would require some adjustment to his plan, but there was still time.
Behind him, Fesz and the other two members of the High Three nodded to each other. They trusted in the wisdom of the Nightmaster.
Behind them, Tas slept . . . with one eye open. Behind him, in her cage, Kitiara crouched, listening.
* * * * *
Day became night.
Tasslehoff awoke with a start, realizing that he had drifted off. Hours had passed.
The Nightmaster's sanctum buzzed with activity. Fesz and the other two shaman minotaurs were busily packing objects into small crates and rucksacks. A half-dozen minotaur guards had moved in closer and appeared to be waiting for orders. The Nightmaster, his long table swept clean of spellbooks and components, stood in the center of the camp, pointing and giving instructions.
The Nightmaster was dressed in full ceremonial garb, with clusters of feathers and bells hanging from his horned head like streamers, a dark red cloak thrown over his hulking shoulders.
"Hey, what's going on?" asked Tas good-naturedly as he strolled up to Dogz, who was busy packing his own belongings.
Dogz turned to the kender. "The Nightmaster says it is almost time," he said solemnly. "We are going to move to a new encampment during the night in order to conceal our whereabouts from the humans and kyrie who advance upon our location."
Tas digested this information. "Good idea," the kender said enthusiastically.
Spotting Tas, Fesz hurried over. The shaman's eyes glittered with excitement. "The Nightmaster has given permission for you to come with us," said Fesz. "You don't know what a rare privilege this is, for
