"I feel fine. I feel – strong. Want to wrestle?" "No, thank you," he said. "I wouldn't like to trust a broken arm to gnomish medicine." "I won't hurt you," she said mockingly. Kitiara's smile faded. She scraped a shallow line in the turf with her heel. "What are you so worried about? We're alive, aren't we?" "There are strange forces at work here. This new strength of yours is not normal." Kitiara shrugged. "Lunitari isn't my idea of paradise, but we haven't done badly so far." Sturm knew this was true. So why did he feel such foreboding? He said, "Just be wary, will you, Kit? Question what comes to you – especially what seems like a great gift." She laughed shortly. "You make it sound like I'm in personal danger. Are you afraid 111 fall into evil ways?" Sturm stood and emptied the sap-stained water from the bucket. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of." He wrung out the rag and left it to dry on a stone, then walked away to speak with Wingover. The empty canvas bucket sat by her boot. Where Sturm had poured out the water, the turf was dark and slick. It looked like so much blood. Kitiara wrinkled her nose and kicked the bucket away. The toe of her boot split the fabric and sent the bucket soaring over the tops of the pink and crimson foliage.

The Crusty Pudding Plant The trail wound between the hills in no particular direction. Among the fast-growing plants, there was no way for the adventurers to identify landmarks or remember where they'd been. Sturm discovered that the path they had made grew tall again after they had passed. The explorers were virtually cut off in the living jungle. Sturm halted the party finally and announced that they were lost. Sighter promptly tried to find the latitude by shooting the sun with his astrolabe. Even though he stood on Sturm's shoulders, the sun was too low for him to sight correctly, and he fell over backward trying. Fitter and Rainspot picked Sighter up and dusted him off, for he'd fallen on a puffball and was coated with pink spores. "Useless!" Sighter said. Spores got up his nose and mouth and he coughed in fits and starts. "All I can tell you is that the sun is setting." "We've not had but four or five hours of daylight," Wingover protested. "The position of Lunitari in the heavens is eccentric," the astronomer gnome explained. Rainspot tried to dab the dust from his face with a damp rag, but Sighter swatted his hands away. "The nights are very long and the days very short." "We haven't found any ore yet," Bellcrank said. "True," said Wingover, "but we haven't tried digging, either." "Digging?" said Roperig. "Digging," said Sturm firmly. "Wingover's right. Pick a spot, Bellcrank, and we'll dig to see what we can find." "Could we make supper first?" the tubby gnome asked. "My stomach's so empty!" "I don't suppose an hour will matter too much," said Sturm. "All right, we'll camp here, eat, then dig." The gnomes fell to in their cheerfully scatterbrained way. Roperig and Fitter unpacked the cart in a very simple way: they upended it. Fitter was buried in the mound of junk and came out with his favorite clay kettle. "Supper will be ready in a jiffy!" he said brightly. The other gnomes hooted derisively. "Beans! Beans! Beans! I'm sick of beans," Cutwood said. "I'm sick, sick, sick of beans, beans, beans." "Shut up, you dumb carpenter," said Sighter. "Ah-ah-ah," Kitiara warned, as Cutwood picked up a mallet and tiptoed up behind Sighter. "None of that." Fitter took a hatchet and chopped a plank off the side of the cart bed. Sturm saw this and said, "Have you been burning pieces of the wagon all along?" "Of course," said the gnome. "What else is there?" "Why don't you try some of the plants?" said Bellcrank. "They're too green," Wingover said. "They'd never burn." "Start a fire with the kindling you've got and lay the green plants on top. When the fire dries them out, they'll burn," Kitiara said. Fitter and Cutwood scavenged along the trail and returned with double armfuls of chopped Lunitarian flora. These they dumped on the ground by the wagon. Fitter built an arch of pink spear plants over the smoky fire. Within a few minutes, a tantalizing aroma filled the air. The hungry band surrounded Fitter. "Fitter, my lad, I never would've believed it, but that bean pot smells just like roast pheasant!" said Wingover. "Your gears are slipping," said Roperig. "It smells like fresh-baked bread." "Roast venison," said Sturm, wrinkling his nose. "Sausages and gravy!" Bellcrank said, licking his lips. "I haven't even put the beans in yet," Fitter declared, "and it smells like raisin muffins to me." "It's those things," Rainspot said, pointing to the pink spears. The parts nearest the flames had darkened to a rich brown. The sap had oozed out and hardened in streaks along the stalk. Sighter picked up one spear by the raw end. He sniffed the cooked tip, and very gingerly bit it. Chewing, his suspicious frown inverted. "Pudding," he said with a catch in his voice. "Crusty pudding, like my mother used to make." The gnomes tripped over each other in a rush to try the other spears. Sturm managed to save one from the first batch. With his dagger, he sliced the roasted portion in two, stabbed a piece, and offered it to Kitiara. "It looks like meat," she said, then nibbled off a bit. "What does it taste like to you?" asked Sturm. "Otik's fried potatoes," she said, amazed. "With lots of salt." "A most unique experiment," Sighter commented. "To each of us, this plant tastes like our favorite food." "How can that be, if it's all the same plant?" Kitiara asked, munching vigorously. "My theory is it has to do with the same force that has given you your strength and Rainspot his rainmaking ability." "Magic?" asked Sturm. "Possibly. Possibly." The word seemed to make Sighter uncomfortable. "We gnomes believe that what is commonly called 'magic' is just another natural force yet to be tamed." The rest of the pink spears were rapidly consumed. For their size, the gnomes were hearty eaters', and finished the meal lying about the camp, holding their bellies. "What a feast!" exclaimed Bellcrank. "One of the finest," Roperig agreed. Sturm stood over them, fists on his hips. "A fine lot you are! Who's going to help dig now?" "Nap first," Cutwood mumbled, wiggling around to get comfortable. "Yes, must rest," said Rainspot. "To ensure proper digestion. And adequate relaxation of the muscles." Soon the little clearing rattled with the high-pitched snores of seven sets of lungs. The sun sank rapidly below the hill. When the light diminished to a deep amber glow, the tangle of plants began to wither. Almost as quickly as they had sprouted with the morning sun, they now shriveled. Spear tips dried and fell off. The spider flowers curled up and bored into the soil. The puffballs deflated. The toadstools crumbled into powder. By the time the stars came out, nothing remained above the ground but a fresh layer of red flakes. Kitiara said, "I think' I'll stand watch for a while. Get some sleep, why don't you, then you can relieve me later." "Good idea," he said. Sturm was suddenly aware of how very tired he was. Constant wonders had dulled his senses, and hacking through the daylight jungle had worn him out. He spread his bedroll beside the upturned cart and lay down. A full Krynnish day they'd marched, and still no sign of any ore deposits. He wondered what would happen if they dug into one of the hills and still found none. There was one desperate measure that they could resort to: He and Kitiara still carried their swords and armor. The gnomes could very likely forge new parts from the steel and iron of these. But he wanted that to be their last possible choice. The air of Lunitari, never warm, grew chillier. Sturm shivered and pulled his furry cloak up to his chin. The lining was wolf fur. He and Tanis had hunted in the mountains of Qualinost last winter and had done very well. Tanis was a dead shot with a bow. He heard the arrow's hum. Sturm was on Krynn suddenly, and it was daytime, though cold and overcast. He was in a forest, and there were four men moving through the trees ahead of him. Two men carried a third between them, his arms across their shoulders. When Sturm got closer he saw why: the carried man had an arrow in his thigh. "Come on, Hurrik! You can make it!" the leader was saying. Sturm couldn't see the fourth man's face, but he heard him urging the others on. There was a crackle in the dead brush behind him. Sturm looked back and saw dim figures in white flitting among the trees. They wore wolfskin cowls and carried bows. He knew who they were: the dreaded Trackers of Leereach. Hired huntsmen who would track down anyone or anything for a price. "Stay with us, Hurrik! Don't give up!" the leader whispered urgently. "Leave me, my lord!" the wounded man replied. The leader stood with his men. "I'll not leave you to those butchers," he said. "Please go, my lord. They will want to give me to their master, and that will give you time to get away," Hurrik said. There was blood on his armor. Sturm could see it smeared across the man's coif. The two men carrying Hurrik propped him against a tree. They drew his sword for him and wrapped his fingers around the grip. Sturm could see his face, waxen from loss of blood. The trackers stopped. A snickering whistle rattled through the forest. The prey was turning, at bay. The signal meant close in for the kill. The leader, his face still hidden from Sturm, drew a long dagger from his belt and put it in the wounded man's left hand. "Paladine protect you, Master Hurrik," he said. "And you, my lord. Now hurry!" The three unhurt men ran away as fast as their armor would allow. Hurrik raised his sword with pain-filled effort. A wolf's head parted a stand of ripe holly. "Come out," said Hurrik. "Come out and fight me!" The tracker was having none of it. Coolly, he nocked an arrow and let fly. The broadhead found its mark. "My lord!" Hurrik cried.