But Tildeen, the second largest of the seven, was the site of a fair and energetic seaport city, Bestou. This commercial center served as the winter refuge for the whole of Mensandor, due to its immense sheltered harbor which seldom froze during the coldest months, despite the island’s northern lay.

Upon arriving on Tildeen, put ashore rudely by the rustic operator of the ferry, Theido, Durwin, Alinea, and trusty Trenn had before them an arduous mountain trek, up and over the hunched and twisted backbone of the island, on a serpentine path descending at last to the low-lying port on the other side.

The journey was accomplished in rather more time than Theido would have liked to allow. But, as the group came within sight of the harbor, approaching like bandits dropping down out of the high hills behind Bestou, Theido had been vindicated for his relentless push along the trail; the ships lay at anchor, their colored sails ready-furled, waiting for the first good day to sail.

As he walked the shore that first morning after their arrival, having spent the first warm night in weeks before the fire in the lodge of the Flying Fish, Theido had talked to sailors and captains of large ships and small. Each refused, some politely and others with bold discourtesy, to grant them passage to that accursed land.

Their reluctance was understandable. Karsh, a grotesque lump of earth, the tip of a huge submerged mountain, jutted out of the water far east off the coast of Elsendor, Mensandor’s sprawling neighbor. The island had long been shunned by superstitious sailors, even before Nimrood had taken up residence there and built his fortress. The place was forsaken by all gentle humanity, fit only for countless sea birds, which nested in the precipitous cliffs on the western side, and the tiny land crabs which feasted upon the washed-up remains of putrid fish and hatchlings from the cliffs above.

Theido, with Trenn behind, had stalked the wharf for two days before happening upon the captain who agreed to deliver them to the hated island.

At last satisfied that his objective had been achieved, Theido did not bother with the formality of inspecting the ship or its crew, relying on the word of the captain, a rather short, oppressive-looking man who called himself Pyggin, to vouch a faithful account of its seaworthiness.

He returned to the inn humming to himself and leaving Trenn to stow their few things aboard and make any provisions which he thought necessary for their convenience on board. Trenn, after seeing to his task, also returned to the inn, much less happy than his friend Theido.

“There is something queer about that ship,” he told Theido, pulling him aside after dinner that evening.

“What did you see on board-something amiss?” The knight searched the soldier’s troubled features for a clue to his misgivings.

“Nothing I can say, sir. But I noticed that while all other hands aboard the ships in harbor made ready to get under sail-loading and stocking provisions, mending sails, tarring, and what not-this Captain Pyggin’s men sat idle. Not one stirred a hand all the while I was on board. They stood about the deck, or sat on barrels in the hold… as if they were waiting for something.” He frowned deeply. “I like it not at all.”

“Perhaps they are ready and only waiting for the first fair wind to be under sail. So the captain told me,” replied Theido, blunting the other’s complaint as gently as he could.

“Aye, perhaps, but I never saw a ship of that size that didn’t need some fixing, nor any captain that ever let a crew stand idle.”

“That may be,” agreed Theido. “But all we ask is to be put ashore at our destination. Where is the harm in that?”

Trenn pulled on his chin and scowled furiously, repeating his original pronouncement. “You know best, sir, and no doubt. But I still say there is something queer about that ship.”

WHEN PRINCE Jaspin fled from the games, so disrupted by the sudden and unwelcome appearance of the Harrier and his grisly mementos, he flew at once to his castle on Erlott Fields. “Let the games continue,” he had announced magnanimously, after disposing of his debt to the odious tracker (who demanded twice the payment he had been promised and his dead companion’s shares as well). Prince Jaspin, being caught in an awkward position, careful not to offend public sentiment, which held that anyone dealing with the Harriers was as much a villain himself, paid the savage and sent him off with a minimum of show.

So Jaspin called for the contest to be resumed lest the people be too disappointed. Then he, with a handful of his esteemed confidants, left the field immediately, allowing that he had been called away on some detail of state importance.

The Prince and his cronies had run at once to the security of Castle Erlott and there held a hasty conference to discuss the situation.

The meeting availed little in terms of correcting the damage already done, and since the Prince could not reveal the actual source of his fear, he dismissed them all brusquely and retired to his own council in his inner chamber.

Once the door to his outer apartment had been secured and guards posted to make certain no intruders should interrupt, the Prince stole into his inner chamber, a small, dark room with no outside window, a nook hollowed out of the massive outer curtain of the castle.

There Jaspin sat down before the black enameled box.

Lifting off the lid and placing his hands upon the sides of the miraculous pyramid, he felt the pulse of power begin to throb as the golden object began to glow. Soon his sharp features were bathed in the waxing light. He listened to the drumming throb of his own heart pounding in his ears, and watched the opaque sides of Nimrood’s invention take on a misty appearance.

Then, as always before, Jaspin looked into the clearing depths of the enchanted object, and watched the thinning mist reveal the dreadful mien of his malicious accomplice.

“Well? What is the meaning of this unexpected summons, princeling? Lost a pin? A throne?” The necromancer threw back his head and laughed, but the sound died in his throat. He then fixed Jaspin with an icy glare.

Prince Jaspin quailed at the message he had to deliver. But having no choice, he plowed ahead and steeled himself for the wizard’s awful fury. “The Harriers have returned,” he said simply.

“Good. They enjoyed the benefits of a successful hunt, I trust?”

“N-no,” Jaspin stuttered, “they returned empty-handed-or rather one of them did. The other two lost their lives.”

“You fool! I gave you but one more chance, and you have wasted it. You are finished! Hear me, you insignificant dolt!”

Thinking quickly, and in an effort to appease the raging sorcerer and avert further threats, Jaspin seized upon the one scrap of information he had and flung it forth like a leaf against a thunderstorm. “I know where they have gone, Nimrood!” he shouted.

The seething sorcerer quieted his ranting, but, still frowning furiously, demanded, “Where have they gone, then? Tell me.”

“First, you must promise…” Prince Jaspin started, but Nimrood cut him off.

“Promise? How dare you! I give my word to no man! Never forget that!” Then the black magician changed, instantly sweeting his tone, as if speaking to an unhappy child. “But I forgive you. Only tell me where the scheming wretches have gone and I will forget this trouble between us.”

Jaspin told quickly the minute fragments of information he had been able to drag from the Harrier. “There are six and there is a woman among them-the Queen, I believe. It is fair certain they have gone to the ruins of Dekra-to hide, most like. Everyone knows there is nothing there.”

“There is more at Dekra than people know,” said Nimrood. The faintest trace of worry crossed his wrinkled face, but was instantly banished by his haughty leer. “They will leave that place as they must. I will ready a special surprise for these bold travelers. Yes, I think I know what it shall be.” Then speaking again to the Prince he continued, “You serve me well in spite of yourself, proud Prince. And you have earned yourself a reprieve from my anger. It may be I can use you yet.”