into the abyss and wallow in the slime. As part of the odorous mass, he could act out any
evil impulse. He could torture and kill without re morse ... if only he would accept the
pit as his home. The voices knew of his secret hatreds and lusts, knew that William
Sweetwater sometimes dreamed of dark deeds. With the last remnant of his will power,
William teetered on
the edge of the abyss. He fought the dark urge. Then, all of a sudden, the rolling mass
stopped bubbling. The
fermenting halted, images vanished. The voices went silent as the surface of the putrid
slime lay still, unmoving.
Out of the pit rose a comely young maiden with platinum blonde tresses and (and this is
the strangest thing, William thought) a hideous serpentine monster straining at the end of
a chain leash.
The huge monster towered high above the mist and slime, writhing and coiling. William
cringed as the reptile's head parted and became five separate entities twisting above the
demented maw.
“Oh, pay no attention to that confounded show-off,” huffed the maiden in a surprisingly
baritone voice. She gave the leash a violent tug and the hideous creature was jerked,
choking and sputtering, into an attentive pose.
At least the maiden appeared to be young-and beautiful to gaze upon. But William thought
he heard the sound of creaking joints, a sort of arthritic crackle, and there was a
frostiness in her smile that made him shudder.
“Your name?” “William Sweetwater.” She seemed to be perched on a giant mottled toadstool
with an ink
bottle, quill pen, and sheet of parchment at the ready. She wore a black robe. Two black
velvet slippers poked from beneath her garment. A battered wooden staff rested at her
side. The hideous serpent creature was trying its hardest to peek over her shoulder as she
furiously began to scribble, but she took malicious delight in fidgeting this way and that
in order to block its view.
“Race?” “Human.” The maiden frowned and wrote a strange symbol on the
parchment. “Age? ”Thirty-eight.“ ”Where were you born?“ ”Port Balifor."
The comely maiden hissed a smile. “Ah, one of my favorite areas. Your people have been
kind-hearted since the beginning of Krynn. Now, William, do you have any living relatives?”
“No. My mother died when I was a baby.”
“And your father?”
“He was a sailor whose ship was lost. That happened when I was eighteen. There were bad
storms that year.”
“Tragic,” said the maiden, though she was still smiling. “Now, William, have you lived a
life of grace?”
“What does that mean?” “Have you worshipped the true gods in a faithful manner?” William
shook his head, negatively. "I've not given much
thought to worshipping gods.“ The maiden frowned. ”Do you have courage?“ ”I'm a coward,“
answered William truthfully. ”I dream about
doing something brave, but I never do it.“ ”Follow your instincts in matters of courage,"
said the maiden
in a waspish tone. “Now, are you committed to anyone?” “What does that mean?” The maiden
raised an eyebrow. "You know ... do you fiddle-
faddle around with any females?“ ”Women like their men to be handsome. I have a face that
only
a mother could love.“ William's hand moved across his porcine features. ”Folks say a pig
overturned my crib when I was a baby. My face was supposed to have been marked by the
experience."
One of the serpent heads left the reptilian cluster and glided forward to inspect
William's snouted face. Hard, reptilian eyes examined his features as a long forked tongue
darted in and out of the salivating mouth. The mouth of the snake-if indeed, it was a
snake-opened wide, exposing two ghastly fangs. Abruptly, the creature began to guffaw,
horridly, a foul unearthly noise that shook William's fast-beating heart and prompted him
to draw back in horror.
The comely maiden jerked the chain leash, and the serpent monster retreated to its
position, hovering silently, for the moment, behind her.
But she too leaned forward and gazed with more intensity upon William. Her breath is not
felicitous, thought William. Her eyes grew bold and harsh and glitteringly metallic-like.
Reflected in them was a pathetic, shrinking William and the deepening fog and mist.
In general she stinks, thought William, as the maiden drew closer. Perhaps she ought to
consider bathing or perfuming.
The maiden had set down the quill pen and now her fingers were closing around her staff.
As she spoke again, William remembered thinking how suddenly her face had become distorted
and grotesque, how loud and grating her voice had become, like . .
. like metal scraping against the sea bottom. “So, my dear Pig William,” she remarked,
edging forward, "in
other words, you have no relatives, no mate, and nobody fool enough to grieve for you when
you are . . . GONE!"
Her voice broke into harsh, strangled laughter which rose in deafening volume. The
monstrous five-headed serpent, thrashing at its leash, dove to within an arm's-length of
William's face. All five death-heads bared their fangs and slithered closer. William could
smell the decay, the venom, the evil. The laughter of the maiden had become hysterical,
gibberish, smothering rage. Waves of chillbumps cascaded over poor William's shivering
body.
William inched backward toward sanctuary, choking, gasping, sobbing for deliverance.
Encircling him was the mist and the dreadful black pit. Moving with him, glowing in the
darkness, were the serpent's five heads. The maiden's screaming was so painful he had to
put his hands over his ears.
THE CHAIN LEASH SNAPPED. A hard, tightening force fastened onto his shoulder. A scream
started deep down in his throat.
“William, wake up!” The voice was loud, guttural. Snorting in terror, William Sweetwater
opened his eyes and stared up into the face of his friend, Sintk the Dwarf. William made
an oinking sound, wrenching himself out of slumber into a moment of confusion before
becoming oriented to reality.
William was sitting on a stool behind the polished bar of the Pig and Whistle. Sintk the
Dwarf leaned across the bar, his hand firmly gripping and shaking William's shoulder. The
dwarf was a muscular man, big in the shoulders, with a blunt, tanned, half-smiling face.
His light gray eyes reflected good humor. His thick brown hair had begun to thin on the
top. The dwarf and William had known each other since childhood; they shared a love of
good conversation and good ale.
“You must've been napping,” said Sintk, who was the cobbler in Port Balifor. “I came in
and heard you snorting like a-” The dwarf paused for dramatic effect “-boar being led to
slaughter.”
William blinked at the familiar surroundings of his beloved Pig and Whistle. The tavern
was a long, wide room with a long mahogany bar and heavy wooden stools.
Numerous tables and chairs were in the back of the room overlooking a small stage.
Everything in the Pig and Whistle was in a neat, carefully maintained condition. Woodwork
was oiled and polished, the brasswork shiny and free of tarnish. The walls and floors were
clean. The neatness of the room was an indication of William's respect and love for his
inn.
Except for Sintk and a couple of strangers at a far table, the bar was deserted. Port
Balifor had been an occupied town for several months-overrun by armies of the Highlords,
whose ships had sailed into the bay and disgorged the hideous draconians and hobgoblins.
The people of Port Balifor, who were mostly human and, like William Sweetwater, mostly
meek and cowardly, felt sorry for themselves. The occupation had come without warning.
Because of their geographical isolation, most of the citizens had little knowledge of the
outside world. They would have counted their blessings if they knew what was happening in
other parts of Ansalon.
Not that the Dragon Highlords were particularly interested in this easternmost territory.
The land was sparsely populated: a few poor scattered communities of humans like Port
Balifor and Kendermore, homeland of the kender. A flight of dragons could have leveled the
countryside, but the Dragon Highlords were concentrating their strength elsewhere. And as
long as ports such as Balifor remained open, the Highlords had use for the region.
Though business had improved at the Pig and Whistle with the arrival of the troops, the
presence of the motley soldiers had caused many of William's old customers to stay away.
The draconians and hobgoblins were well-paid, and strong drink was one of their
weaknesses. But William had opened the Pig and Whistle to enjoy the companionship of his
friends and neighbors. He disliked the repulsive draconian soldiers who snarled and fought
like animals once the alcohol had dulled their tiny brains. The hobgoblins were equally
obnoxious customers. They were self-centered and arrogant, trying to wheedle free drinks
for themselves and their cohorts.
So William had promptly raised the price of his drinks. The Pig and Whistle was three
times more expensive than any other inn in Port Balifor. He also watered the ale. As a
result, his bar was mostly deserted except for his old friends and the odd traveler, and,
once again, William enjoyed being an innkeeper.
Sintk waved a hand in front of William's piggy face.
“Are you dozing off again?” he asked. “William, I realize sleep is a good way of
forgetting about draconians and those nasty hobgoblins. But, sad it is, a person wakes up
and those sculpin are still prowling about town, snooping in everyone's business and act-
ing like they belong here. Which, as a matter of fact, they don't, and I would be the
first to say so, if I were so bold. Now, do you feel like yourself, or should I run to the
herbalist's shop for a potion?”
William shook his head vigorously to expel the list-lessness in his mind. “I'm fine.”
“What happened?” The dwarf looked suspicious. “Business was slow. I fell asleep.” “You
must have been daydreaming,” the dwarf said. "You
were sleeping when I came in for my afternoon pint. You were heaving and snorting like a
man possessed by demons."
“I have seen demons and all sorts of things.” William opened his hand. A large oval coin
was lying in his palm. The polished metal disc glistened in the light. “Remember that coin
the Red Wizard used for his tricks?”
“Raistlin?” Sintk looked surprised. “I trust that faker and his gang of misfits aren't
back in town. And I hope you're not going to start up with that magic coin business again.
. . .”
“But there IS something magical about it,” William insisted. “I traveled from here and had
a ... a ... strange encounter with a beautiful maiden and a fearsome beast. I journeyed
through a mysterious fog and almost fell into a black pit containing demons, snakes,
ghouls, and all sorts of bad things.”
“Things get confused when you are daydreaming,” said Sintk. “But being you're yourself
again and not grunting like a boar, I'll have a nice tankard of your finest brew.”
“It wasn't a dream,” William said sulkily. “It felt more like it was reality and this . .
. this ... is only the shadow of what my life could be.”
William drew two tankards of ale and set them across from his friend, Sintk. Then he
launched into a detailed account of his daydream-er, vision-while Sintk, parched with
thirst, diligently quaffed both tankards. But it was William's story, which was vaguely
familiar, that had Sintk yawning presently, not the ale, which was delicious.
“Oh,” Sintk rubbed his lips with the back of his hand at a pause in the recounting,
“what's that about a black pit?”
“The abyss at the end of the universe,” replied William.
“Oh, THAT black pit,” said the dwarf. “I should have known.” He gazed fondly at the row of
tankards behind the bar and licked his lips. “You're barmy.”
Sighing, William got up from his stool and drew two more tankards of ale.
“I wasn't daydreaming,” he declared, setting the drinks on the bar. “Look, touch the coin.
It became hot in my hand. Like it was pulsating with life.” He held out the large round
coin-which truth to tell, looked quite ordinary, resting there in his palm.
“Body heat,” said Sintk, wearily. “The coin is nothing. A piece of cast metal.”
“Magic!” insisted William. “Is not,” said Sintk. “Is!” said William, most
uncharacteristically raising his voice. “Why don't you let me be the judge?” said a surly
voice behind
them. William and Sintk whirled to see the fiendish countenance of a
barrel-chested draconian in smelly armor. It was Drago, captain of the prison guards, who,
despised and friendless even among his fellow dracon-ians, took an occasional meal and
tankard alone in the Pig and Whistle. The fact that his presence was so repugnant to
William Sweetwater and his friends made it all the more pleasurable to Drago.
William remembered too late to close his fist around the magic coin, for it was suddenly
gone. Drago held it aloft in his scaly paw, leering. “A magic coin, is it?” he barked to
nobody in particular, for there were only a couple of other customers and they were
studiously avoiding his gaze. “It looks like a beggar's token to me,” he said. Drago bit
down on the coin with his yellow, mucousy teeth.
Pale with shame, William was staring at his shoes.
“That's right,” said Sintk weakly. “It's just a common, worthless ...” His voice trailed
off. His eyes, too, were lowered.
Drago was rubbing the coin against one of his grease-stained sleeves. “I wish ... I wish
...” he uttered grandly, “I wish I had a one-year vacation from stinking Port Balifor, and
two wives to shine my boots, and . . . and ... a mountain of gold coins to last a lifetime
of ale and mutton.”
Everybody in the Pig and Whistle looked up just a little bit, hoping maybe the coin truly
was magic. Drago might have his wishes granted, and disappear.
“Bah!” snorted Drago. He reached across the bar and grabbed William by the collar,
squeezing until the innkeeper turned pink.