for a long time, but-true to the master delver’s words-they at last emerged from the mountains into well-populated realms that were exotic, remote, and wealthy.
In each city, town, and village that the expedition reached, the dwarven delver, now proving himself a master merchant as well, traded away his precious spherical gems. Sometimes he exchanged them for great sums of steel coinage or bedazzling jewelry, but at other times he seemed touched by a most undwarflike generosity and consented to give up a stone for a mere night’s lodging, or in trade for a beaten old nag of a horse. Always the spheres were received with awe and wonder, for they were unique, and therefore precious, among all the treasures of Krynn.
Over winters and summers, through good weather and bad, the trading caravan marked its long and methodical path across much of Ansalon. Beginning with Balifor, the dwarven delver’s route extended to Mithas, then passed through the increasingly prosperous realm of Istar, before finally curling back southward through Neraka, Sanction, and Xak Tsaroth. Eventually he even trekked into the distant reaches of mountainous Thorbardin and the southern seaport of Tarsis.
Thus were the round baubles seeded throughout the world. Some were locked in treasure rooms, or placed upon newly sanctified altars by their proud owners. Others were rolled into playrooms, left as children’s toys, or placed in galleries and halls for public or private exhibition. Each was kept, mostly treasured but occasionally forgotten, as the caravan rolled on. As the years passed, the spheres were regarded like any other exotic object of great beauty and indisputable rarity-that is, they were prized treasures.
And then, at last, the dwarven merchant and his weary caravan approached the valleys of the Khalkist foothills. Yet the great merchant was tired by the long trek and didn’t want to bother to journey all the way to the dwarven realm. Instead, he ate his horses, burned his laborers to death, and settled down to wait.
Chapter 30
1191 PC
Rallak Thartan was a stout, elderly cloth merchant, fortunate enough to have inherited a family stall in one of Xak Tsaroth’s most affluent neighborhoods. Business was good, as it had been since his great-grandfather had first sent a caravan to Tarsis in search of silk. Through his practice of starting work early and staying late, Rallak Thartan had grown to dominate the fabric market in the entire quarter of the city surrounding his modest shop.
Normally these work habits entailed the diligent merchant arriving at his home well past sunset, long after his competitors had closed up shop. But today, as he had done with increasing frequency of late, he decided to pull the shutters in midafternoon and hurry home to the welcoming arms of his wife.
For, lately, those arms had been very welcoming indeed.
It had all begun with a gift, a bauble Rallak Thartan had given his young wife a few months earlier. A simple red sphere, of large size and pure crimson color, it was an orb that was unique and fascinating in a strange way. The globe was beautiful of shade and perfect of shape, and there was nothing like it in any other house in this part of Xak Tsaroth.
Yet to the merchant, the stone had at first represented neither beauty nor a means toward his wife’s affections. It had been, purely and simply, a matter of revenge.
Rallak was still amazed at the fluke of events that had led him to gain possession of the bauble. After all, the orb had belonged for a long time to the House of Garlot, one of the Thartan clan’s major trading rivals for five generations. The venerable patriarch of House Garlot had won the sphere more than a hundred years ago in a clever trade with a dishonest dwarven peddler. The Garlots had displayed the crimson orb in their shop’s anteroom, and it had long been the envy of Xak Tsaroth’s mercantile circles.
Yet time brought changes, and the House of Garlot had eventually suffered a run of bad luck, most notably the state of raving insanity to which the current heir had succumbed. Finally, upon the recent occasion of his rival’s bankruptcy, which would have been cause for Rallak Thartan’s celebration in its own right, the merchant had gained possession of the crimson bauble.
Though he had at first been unimpressed by the physical appearance and qualities of the sphere, which was too spongy to be an actual stone, Rallak Thartan’s wife had been thrilled. She had installed the crimson orb in a place of honor, an alcove in their sleeping chamber, and had it mounted upon a stand of pure gold. Lately he had even wondered if the thing was glowing, for he had noticed a subtle illumination seeping through the shadows of night, a crimson glow that was somehow very similar to that shed by a fading, but still very hot, bed of coals.
Now he hurried home through the busy streets of the city, anxious to hear the latest word about his wife’s treasure. Lately, each day had brought a new development, or so it had seemed. At least, his young bride had eagerly reported to him the details of a seemingly enchanted series of transformations.
She had been pleased to observe the subtle expansion occurring as the crimson orb literally seemed to swell. She had remarked upon flickers of movement within the orb, ripples that periodically showed upon the smooth surface. And, of course, like Rallak Thartan himself, she was delighted by the aura of embers that seemed to emanate from the globe during the darkest hours of the night.
And when Rallak Thartan’s wife was delighted, she had a way of making sure that he was delighted as well. He reflected upon his own good fortune with a bawdy chuckle. The merchant was a man of mature years, ample paunch, and carefully cultivated dignity, but his wife was much younger than he. Her own enthusiasms carried over to him, and lately he had found himself feeling more youthful than he had in years, even decades. And so much of it seemed to have to do with this precious treasure-the stone that clearly wasn’t a stone at all.
He strolled through the entryway of his palatial manor, mildly distressed that his maidservant had failed to open the door to greet him. Still, even that irritation was fleeting. How could he be angry when his mind was anxiously wondering about his wife’s latest surprise?
Up the stairs he lumbered, thinking that the house was strangely silent around him. Where were the sounds from the kitchen, the cooks and maids going about their chores? Still, he wasn’t particularly worried, not even when he caught a faint whiff of char on the air. Somebody had merely been careless with the fireplace ashes; surely that was all.
The blood on the satin quilt of his mattress gave him the first hint that something was terribly amiss. The appalling discovery of his wife’s headless corpse, lying in the alcove where the treasure was kept on display, provided the second.
The third and final piece of the puzzle was delivered by widespread jaws surprisingly powerful for their size, and equipped with rows of needle-sharp teeth. The gaping mouth darted like a striking snake from the tangle of a curtain that had fallen and was now bundled carelessly on the floor. Like a vise the crimson maw closed around Rallak Thartan’s head… and twisted.
Aku Ben Vyneer hauled back on the reins, and the plodding camel shuffled to a halt. With an irritated spit, the animal chomped placidly while the rider climbed down. With a wave of his hand, Ben Vyneer gestured for the file of camels and horses following in his tracks to stop. The men of the long caravan wasted little time in setting up camp. Tents rose with the ease of long practice, and small cooking fires were started, the aroma of strong tea soon wafting through the encampment.
A sea of dunes rolled to the horizon on all sides, unmarred by any sign of an oasis. Nearby, ancient pillars and crumbling walls marked the scene of a waterless ruin. Normally Ben Vyneer would have spent the last few hours of daylight in a steady push forward, urging his tired mounts and men to keep moving, determined to cross this waste in as a short a time as possible. After all, there was no part of Estwilde-or all Ansalon, for that matter-that was so dry, so barren, as this inhospitable desert.
But, strangely, Aku Ben Vyneer had an interest more profound than even the pursuit of profit that normally governed his existence. It was this interest, perhaps even obsession, that had caused him to order the caravan to such an early halt. Now he stalked about the bustling camp with visible agitation, shouting orders, barking relentless criticism, increasingly distraught as he waited for one particular task.
