"Be ready," Kitiara said, her voice taut with anticipation.

"When we break through them, everybody run."

"Run where?" asked Fitter tremulously.

One tree-man, the tallest of the lot, broke ranks with its fellows and advanced. It did not actually walk. Rather, the tangle of roots that made up its feet flexed and carried the creature forward. The tree-man raised its crude, hiltless glass sword in one bark-covered hand and hooted loudly.

"Yah!" Kitiara sprang forward and cut at the glass blade.

She knocked it aside and swung again, this time striking the tree-man below its left arm. Her sword bit deeply into the soft wood-flesh – so deeply that it would not easily come out. Kitiara ducked the return cut by the tree-man's sword and let go of her own. She retreated a few steps, leaving her blade embedded in the foe. The tree-man did not appear too much discomforted by the yard of steel stuck in him.

"Sturm, lend me your sword," said Kitiara quickly.

"I will not," he replied. "Calm down, will you? That crea ture wasn't attacking, it was trying to speak."

The impaled tree-man regarded them with wide, unblink ing eyes. In a raspy bass voice it said, "Men. Iron. Men?

"Yes," said Sturm. "We are men."

"And we're gnomes," said Bellcrank. "Pleased to meet -"

"Iron?" The tree-man plucked Kitiara's sword from its flank, grasping it by the blade. He offered the hilt to Kitiara.

"Iron, men -" She gingerly took the handle and let the point fall to the ground.

"Men, come," said the tree-man. His eyes and mouth van ished, only to reappear on the opposite side. "Men, come, iron king."

The tree-man reversed direction without turning around.

The other tree-folk did likewise; their eyes closed up on one side of their heads and reopened on the other.

"Fascinating," said Cutwood. "Completely saves them the trouble of turning around."

"Do we go with them?" asked Rainspot.

Sturm looked away to the trail of the stolen flying ship.

"For now," he said. "We should pay our respects to this iron king. Maybe he knows what could've taken our ship."

The tree-folk made straight for the village keep. Sturm,

Kitiara, and the gnomes fell in behind them. Closer to the village, they saw signs of damage to the walls and gardens.

Something had battered down a long section of wall, and a crib full of yellow fruit shaped like corkscrews had been plundered. Slippery pulp and seeds were splashed all over the place.

The tree-men's leader, the one Kitiara had cut, halted before the door of the keep. The gate consisted of overlap ping slabs of red glass, hanging from hinges of the same material. The tree-man boomed, "King! Men, iron come."

Without waiting for any reply, the tree-man leaned on the gate, and it swung in. The tree-man did not enter himself, but stood back, and with a sweep of his arm indicated that the visitors should go in.

Kitiara slipped in, her back pressed against the rough stone wall. With a practiced eye for danger, she surveyed the scene. The interior was well lit, as it had no roof. The walls rose ten feet and slanted in, but no thatch or shingles kept out the sun. The room she'd entered was actually a cor ridor, branching off to the left and right. The facing wall was blank, though smoothly plastered with gritty mortar painted white.

"It's clear," she reported. Her voice was taut and low.

Sturm let the gnomes enter.

"Man." Sturm looked up at the impassive eyes of the tree man. "Iron king. Him." It pointed left.

"I understand. Thank you." The tree-man tapped his long, jointed finger on the gate and Sturm pushed it shut.

"Our host will be found down the left corridor," he said.

"Everyone, be on your guard!" Kitiara moved to the end of the line, steeled for signs of treachery. The hall turned right and widened. The high walls and lack of ceiling made Sturm feel as if he were in a maze.

They came upon an unexpectedly familiar artifact: a low, thick door made of oak and strapped with iron hinges. This relic leaned against the wall. Fitter peeked behind it.

"It doesn't lead anywhere," he said.

"There's something familiar about it," mused Cutwood.

"You silly loon, of course it's familiar. You've seen doors before!" said Bellcrank.

"No, it's the style that's familiar. I have it! This is a ship's door!" he announced.

"It's not from the Cloudmaster, is it?" Sturm said, alarmed.

"No, this door is oak, the Cloudmaster's are pine."

"Now how would a ship's door get on the red moon?"

Wingover asked rhetorically. Cutwood was composing an answer when Kitiara shooed him on.

They passed more debris from their world: empty kegs, clay pots and cups, tatters of canvas and scraps of leather, a rusty, broken cutlass. Some coils of rope were identified by an eager Roperig as ship's cordage made in southern Ergoth.

Excitement mounted as more and more tantalizing things cropped up.

The corridor turned right again, this time into a wide room. There, standing by an overturned wooden chair, was a man. A genuine man, short and scrawny. He was dressed in a dirty tan vest and cut-off pants, rope sandals, and a peaked canvas cap. His face was dirty and his gray-streaked beard came down almost to his stomach.

"Heh, heh, heh," rasped the man. "Visitors at last. I've been wanting visitors for a long, long time!"

"Who are you?" asked Sturm.

"Me? Me? Why, I'm the King of Lunitari," proclaimed the tattered scarecrow.

Rapaldo the First

"You don't believe me," said the self-proclaimed monarch.

"You hardly conform to the stereotypical archetype," said

Sighter. The king of Lunitari cocked his head.

"What'd you say?" he asked.

"You don't look like a king," Sturm interpreted.

"Well I am! Rapaldo the First, mariner, shipwright, and absolute ruler of the red moon, that's me." He approached the band in a nervous, hesitant shuffle. "Who are you?"

The gnomes eagerly pushed themselves up to King

Rapaldo, shaking hands in quick succession and rattling off the shorter versions of their impossibly long names.

Rapaldo's eyes glazed over from the barrage.

Sturm cleared his throat and gently steered Fitter, the last gnome, away from the bewildered man. "Sturm Brightblade of Solamnia," he said of himself.

Kitiara stepped forward and pushed back her fur collar.

Rapaldo gasped aloud. "Kitiara Uth Matar," she said.

"L-Lady," Rapaldo stammered. "I have not seen a real lady in many, many years."

"I'm not sure you're seeing one now," Kitiara said with a laugh. Rapaldo gently took her hand. He held it carefully, looking at the back and palm with embarrassing intentness.

Kitiara's hands were not refined or delicate. They were the strong, supple hands of a warrior. Rapaldo's reverent inter est amused her.

As if suddenly aware that he was being foolish, Rapaldo dropped Kitiara's hand and drew himself up to his full height – not much more than five and a half feet – and announced, "If you would follow me to the royal audience hall, I'll hear the story of your coming here, and tell the tale of my own shipwreck." He went back to his overturned chair and righted it. "This way," said the king of Lunitari.

They followed Rapaldo through a series of mostly empty rooms, all open to the sky. What furniture there was had a nautical cast to it, here a seaman's chest, there a railed cap tain's chair. Other bits of ship were hung on the wall. A brass hawse pipe liner, some loops of anchor chain, a lathe turned rail studded with iron spikes.

Bellcrank tugged on Sturm's sleeve. "Metal," he whis pered. "Lots of it."

"I see it," Sturm said calmly.

"This way. This way," Rapaldo said, gesturing.