As I stared down into the water, looking for the fish, the sea began to bubble. And then I
heard a roaring sound that seemed to be coming from underneath the boat. No matter what
direction I looked, I saw the sea beginning to foam and chum.
“What's going on?” I cried. The old man didn't say a word. He stopped reeling in his line
and just sat there with a look of awe on his face. The sea started rolling beneath us in a
mighty turmoil, and I
knew then with a terrible certainty that it wasn't the old man that had caught the Blood
Sea Monster. It was the other way around.
“Cut the line!” I screamed. “Let it go!”
The old man seemed undecided. His desire for revenge fought with his desire for life.
The sea began to rage and the little boat was buffeted from wave to wave. And still the
old man would not make up his mind. Was it his father he was thinking of? His brother? His
sons? Or his poor, unfortunate wife? I didn't know what rooted him in place; I only knew
that if he waited any longer, we would surely join his descendants in the darkness of
death.
The roaring that I heard from underneath the sea grew even louder, and steam began to rise
in a cloud, covering us like a shroud.
The cry of the beast and the enveloping whiteness seemed to finally shake the old man from
his moorings. He reached for his knife, intending to cut the line. Except his hands were
trembling and he fumbled with the knife, dropping it to the bottom of the boat.
At that moment the sea in front of the boat erupted in a mighty spray. Something hideous
thrashed up out of the deep. I couldn't see very much of it because millions of gallons of
blood-red water were running down off its massive body. Huge flapping wings made the wind
blow so hard I could barely expel my own breath against its awesome force. I could see
nothing else except Six- Finger Fiske's huge, shiny metal hook caught between two massive
teeth in the beast's otherwise dark, obscured face.
Without his knife, the old man couldn't cut the line. His only hope was to pull the hook
free of the monster, and so he wrenched on the line as hard as he could.
The beast's scream of fury made me throw my arms around my face and cower at the bottom of
the boat. I heard something clatter down beside me, but I was too afraid to look.
And I'm glad I didn't, because above the thundering sounds of beast and sea, I heard
something that I knew I didn't want to see. It was the old man, going mad, calling out to
the beast as if he knew him! Six-Finger Fiske actually laughed-a bitter laugh. “Only a
fool would seek you out before his time-and I am that fool!” he shouted. And then, calmly,
as if in answer to a question that only he could hear, he said, “Yes, I should have known.
It isn't I who sought you, but you who sought me.” And then he suddenly called
out, “The light!” It was still dark. I didn't know what he meant. But the fact is, I
didn't care. I only cared about myself. And in that moment I thought I was going to die.
“It's not your time,” a raspy voice rumbled deep in my head, as if in response to my fear.
It was a voice that had the weight of countless years upon it.
In the next moment, I heard a huge splash, and a gigantic wave rose up out of the sea and
picked up the fishing boat. I clung to the boards at the bottom of the boat, fearing that
the wave would crash on top of me and throw me out into the sea. But the boat hung on the
crest of that wave, and it rushed headlong for miles and miles, until the wave finally
spent itself.
When the boat lolled to a stop, I found the courage to open my eyes.
The old man was gone. Disappeared.
In my fear and confusion, I scanned the waters all around the boat hoping to find some
sign of Six-Finger Fiske. But there was none. It was still dark and I was utterly,
thoroughly alone.
“It's not my time,” I whispered, the great monster's words reverberating in my head.
As I was sitting in the bottom of the boat, my fingers brushed against something sharp. I
flinched. The cut went deep into my thumb. I quickly brought my hand up to my mouth to
suck away the blood and sooth the wound.
When I looked down to see what had cut me, I was astonished to find a giant, cracked tooth
lying near my feet.
At first, I was afraid to go near it. Using an oar, I pushed it to the far side of the
little boat. The very thought of the gaping jaws that had held that tooth made me quiver
with fear.
I wanted to get away from this cursed Blood Sea and away from the memory of this awful
night.
It was still dark, but I could tell by the stars that the night would soon be over. I was
desperate for sun to warm my soul.
I grieved for Six-Finger Fiske; I truly did. I couldn't stop thinking of him and his
strange words before he vanished beneath the waves. But I had to take care of myself, so I
fixed my position by the stars and began rowing toward shore. And the more I rowed, the
more joyously grateful I was to be alive. I had survived. And as I slowly rowed the boat
back toward the little fishing village where the adventure began, I started to think . . .
I saw it all in my minds eye. Me, Duder Basillart, had faced the great Blood Sea Monster
and I had lived to tell the tale. Dwarves,
minotaurs, kender-everyone- would come from all comers of the world to hear me tell how I
had valiantly tried to catch the mighty sea beast;
h6w I had heaved on the rope with all my might and turned the monster from its course. How
I had tried to save the old man by yelling for him to cut the line. And I would tell them
about the evil, awesome creature with its wings and its deep rumbling voice. Yes, I'd tell
them how it SPOKE TO ME! How it spared me because of my bravery. Yes, that's what I'd say.
And who would doubt it?
After all, didn't I have the monster's tooth? Was there another creature's tooth like this
anywhere else in the world? No, I had the evidence of my miraculous adventure and my
future was now secure. More than secure; it was perfect!
I couldn't afford to lose the Blood Sea Monster's tooth. I realized that, without it, I
was nothing. Instead of fearing it, I embraced it, using what was left of Six-Finger's
fishing line to hang the broken tooth around my neck. It was so long that it dangled down
to my waist. I would let nothing come between me and my glorious find. Nothing.
I became so excited by the thought of my future that I rowed even faster toward port. A
whole new life awaited me on the dawning. And then I rowed even harder, thinking about all
the presents I would re ceive, the fine food I'd be served. They would be sorry that they
cast me out, made me a dark elf. Yes, they would be sorry, because my name would be on the
tongues of millions. I'd be the most envied elf that ever walked Krynn!
The sky was beginning to lighten. The dawn would be approaching soon. There, on the
horizon, I could see a dark smudge that could only be land.
Faster and faster I rowed, my mind aflame with thoughts of greatness-until the sea around
me suddenly began to churn and foam. The waves rose and fell, and the little boat was
buffeted out of my control.
No! Please! Land was so close!
I lost one of my oars. It slipped from my hand and splashed into the heaving water near
the side of the boat. I had to get to land. I needed that oar. I reached out over the side
of the boat-and saw the Blood Sea Monster storm up out of the depths right in front of me.
“NOW, it's your time!” I heard the same raspy voice whisper inside my head.
I looked up into its face-and was stunned to see my own face
reflected there. The image changed so quickly. It was young, then old, then ravaged by
time until only the bones and empty eye sockets remained. Yet it was me. Always me.
I wanted to argue, fight, run. But inside my head the voice said, “Some die old, content
with their wisdom. Some die young with silly dreams in their heads. I come for them all.”
I clutched at the tooth; it was supposed to change my life. And it did. I had leaned too
far over the side, and when the boat rocked from the waves, the weight of the tooth around
my neck sent me plummeting overboard.
It was then that I saw the bright, blinding light. Now I see everything. And nothing.
A Stone's Throw Away Roger E. Moore
The citadel of the Magus sprawled atop the bleakest peak in all of Krynn. A black
thunderhead rose in the sky above it, raining lightning down on the barren slopes. The
small traces of life and dust that clung to the rocks were buffeted by a cold and endless
wind.
For three centuries, no living mortals traveled closer than sighting distance of the peak,
their journeys and curiosity warned away by the boiling storm. Lords and kings turned
their attention to other matters;
great wizards investigated less dangerous secrets.
So it was when, upon finding an intruder within the castle, the citadel's master became at
once confounded, enraged, and fascinated. He ordered his unliving servants to bring the
intruder to his study for questioning, then retired there to await the arrival.
Catching the intruder was no mean feat, since he was quite skilled at evading pursuit. In
due time, however, two of the manlike automatons which served the Magus entered the study,
the intruder suspended between them by his arms.
The Magus looked carefully at the intruder, who stopped kicking the moment he saw the
Magus. The intruder was barely four feet in height and thinly built; he had bright brown
eyes and the face of a ten-year-old human child. Narrow, pointed ears pressed against his
light brown hair, which was pulled into a sort of pony tail on top of his head. The Magus
recognized him as a kender, an annoying minor race that shared the world with him.
The Magus was accustomed to seeing terror on the faces
of his captives. It disarmed him to see this one look upon him with open-mouthed surprise
and lively curiosity. The captive then smiled like a boy caught with one hand in a pastry
jar.
“Hey,” said the intruder, “you must be one of those necro-guys-necromantics,
thaumaturboes, what-cha- callums.” He craned his neck and surveyed the study as if it were
the living room of a friend. “Nice place you've got here.”
Mildly annoyed, the Magus nodded. “I have not had visitors here for many years. Today, I
find you here within my fortress. For the sake of courtesy, I will first ask your name
before I demand an explanation of how you got in here.”
The intruder struggled for a moment, but he accom- plished nothing against the grip of his
eight-foot-tall captors. With a sigh, he resigned himself to talking his way out.
“My name is Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” he began brightly. He almost added, “My friends call me
Tas,” but decided not to bother. “Could your guards put me down? My arms hurt”
The Magus ignored his request. “Tasslehoff. An un- familiar name, though I recognize
Burrfoot as common among the kenderfolk. How did you get into this fortress?”
Tasslehoff smiled, all innocence, though he was sure that his arms were getting bruised.
“Oh, I dunno, I was wandering by and saw your place up here, so I thought I'd step in, see
how you were doing-”
The Magus hissed as if he were a viper that had been stepped upon. Tasslehoff's voice
faded away. “That's not going to work, is it?” Tasslehoff finished lamely.
“Wretch!” said the Magus savagely. His pale, skull-like face grew dead white with rage. “I
am wasting time on you. Speak plainly!”
Though kender love to infuriate and tease, they can tell when they have pushed someone too
far. “Yes, well,” Tasslehoff began, “I don't know how I got in here. I mean, uh, I put
this ring on”-he nodded toward his left hand, still held tightly by an automaton- “and I
teleported in, but, um, I don't know why I did. It just, uh, happened.”
A fragile silence reigned. The Magus stared at the kender speculatively. “That ring?” he
said, gesturing toward the heavily engraved device with the enormous emerald that rested
on the
kender's third finger. “Yes,” Tasslehoff said, sighing. "I found it last week, and it
looked interesting at the time; well, I put it on, and then I teleported.“ The kender
grinned in mild embarrassment. ”I can't seem to stop teleporting now."
For a moment Tasslehoff thought the Magus didn't believe him. “You put it on and appeared
here. A ring that teleports the wearer.” The Magus appeared to consider this possibility.
Tasslehoff shrugged. “Well, it's got its positive and negative aspec-”
“Take it off,” said the Magus.
“Take it off?” Tasslehoff questioned weakly, his grin fading. “Uh, well, I'll try if your
big friends will let go of me.”
The Magus gestured, and the undead automatons released their grip on the kender's arms,
dropping him to the floor. Getting up, the prisoner rubbed his muscles, sighed, then
grasped the ring tightly. He pulled and tugged until his face turned red,
but his actions had no effect. “Let me try,” said the Magus. Instinctively, Tasslehoff hid
his ringed hand. Though he
didn't fear the Magus, he was not eager to have the Magus approach him, either.
The Magus spoke a few words, and the air was suddenly charged with power. A nimbus of
light appeared around the Magus's right hand, which he held out in Tasslehoff's direction.
“Show the ring,” said the Magus.
Tasslehoff reluctantly held up his hand, hoping the spell would not blast his arm off.
With gentle confidence, the Magus reached out and touched the ring.
A blinding flash of green light filled the room, followed by a loud thump. Tasslehoff
jerked his hand away in surprise, but he was uninjured. When his vision cleared,
Tasslehoff watched as the Magus slowly crawled into an upright position on the other side
of the room. The flash had tossed the Magus away like an old stick.
“Wow!” said the kender, his eyes widening. “The ring did that? I had no idea . . .”