"Gods, I hate this place," Pontifax sniffed. He reached down to flick a thumb-sized cockroach that had just wandered boldly onto the table before him. The daylight streaming in through the broken window didn't deter the bugs in the least. The roach hissed as the mage sent it spinning end-over-end across the room.

"Chult will be worse," Artus murmured vaguely.

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

Artus shrugged and sat on the room's sole, ragged bed. "You didn't have to sleep on the floor. Consider yourself lucky." He could hear the sounds of drunken snoring clearly through the wall, though that was less disturbing than the unpleasant human symphony they'd been forced to endure last night when their neighbor had been host to at least three women he'd rented for the evening.

Pushing that vivid memory from his mind as best he could, Artus pulled his notebook from his pocket. He opened to the pages he'd devoted to Theron's wild tales of the goblins and the other monsters he'd encountered in Chult. Artus had hoped to assuage his conscience, bruised by the heated exchange with the sick man, by setting his old friend's story down with the others he'd recorded. Along with his own adventures, he'd transcribed tales told to him by such notables as the great sage Elminster and Princess Alusair of Cormyr.

Unconsciously, he let a few pages flip past, until the book fell open to a section marked with a crude drawing of a harp contained in the arc of a quarter moon. Artus had never been much of an artist, but he'd attempted this rendering of the Harpers' symbol in his enthusiasm just after joining the group. Their ideals were his ideals then-protecting the cities of Faerun from danger; helping to maintain the balance between civilization and the wilderness; recording the stories of those who had passed before. It was all about freedom from fear and the right of everyone to live his life as he wished. Artus shook his head. Was I ever so ridiculously idealistic?

His contact with the Harpers had ended five years past, with the young explorer storming out of a council meeting in Shadowdale. He'd been assigned to monitor the activities of Eregul the Freestave, a powerful wizard who had thrown in with the evil Zhentarim. Even after Artus had witnessed the mage kill an innocent man, the council would not allow him to him challenge the renegade. Too dangerous, they had claimed, too likely to cause an open conflict with the Zhentarim, one the Harpers were not yet ready to fight.

But Artus was not one to bide his time. He went off in search of Eregul, ready to bring him to justice. In the end, though, he never had the chance to challenge the wizard. Stalking Eregul through the twisted streets of Zhentil Keep, he'd been captured by the Zhentarim, brought to the city officials as a spy, and tortured. It was Pontifax who eventually rescued him, not the Harpers. Artus had always assumed that, since he'd given no information about the secret organization to the Zhentish, the Harpers didn't consider him a threat. That's why they'd left him alone these past five years to pursue justice as he saw fit.

A sharp creaking brought the explorer out of his musings. "The door," he snapped. Pontifax had magically barred both the door and the window, so the intruder had to be a mage of no small skill.

"Oh my," Pontifax gasped. "Look at the bugs."

The roaches and centipedes, so bold a moment before, were scattering. They tumbled off the table and the walls in their haste to find cover. Most raced for the cracks snaking across the plaster walls. Others went for the window, abandoning the Hanged Man for a safer home.

The door creaked fully open, and a huge scorpion skittered in. The thing was half the size of a man and as black as a zombie's heart. Small patches of hair, drooping like a cat's whiskers, covered its hide. Its tail curled behind it as it hopped sideways to clear the door.

Pontifax cursed. He'd drawn a small square of grayish ghoul flesh from his pocket; with it, he could paralyze anyone who entered the room, but only by touching them. He hadn't counted on their foe being anything like this.

Artus, too, was at a loss for what to do. He stood little chance of killing the scorpion with his dagger before it stung him. He looked down at the medallion, but it remained dormant on his breast. Where was Skuld? Now that I need the spirit to help, Artus lamented to himself, he doesn't appear. I thought the four-armed thug was supposed to protect me from danger.

"Do not fear my friend," came a reedy voice from the hallway. "He will not harm you unless you attack him-or me."

The man who entered the room matched his thin voice perfectly. His legs were like stems, clad in loose-fitting white pants made of rough cloth. His shirt, which wouldn't have fit either Pontifax's bulk or Artus's well-muscled torso, billowed around him like a sail. One sleeve was pinned closed where he was missing an arm. The other hung loose over a limb that looked like it belonged on a scarecrow. His features were sharp and angular, topped with a mop of unwashed gold hair resembling straw. His blue eyes glinted like sunlight on the ocean.

With his remaining hand, he pushed the door closed behind him. "I hear you gentlemen are looking for passage to Chult," the stranger whispered.

Pontifax stuffed the gruesome spell component back into his pocket, but Artus neither sheathed his dagger nor straightened from his defensive crouch. "Who sent you?" the explorer asked warily.

Chittering, the scorpion took up a position in front of his master. The thin man patted the curve of its bulbous tail, carefully avoiding the wicked stinger. "I'm here on behalf o' the Refuge Bay Trading Company," he said. "Now, put away your dagger, good sir, or you'll be upsetting my companion here. Neither o' us would be too pleased with the results if you got him too riled."

Warily Artus stuck his dagger into the tabletop. It would be easier to retrieve there if a fight broke out.

"I don't begrudge a wise man his precautions," the stranger said, gesturing to the knife. The gem in the hilt glowed faintly, even in the sunlight. "I just can't abide open threats."

"Who told you we need passage to Chult?" Pontifax asked.

"Well, you gentlemen put word out, did you not?" He didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "The trading company happens to have a ship anchored out o' port, ready to be on its way to Refuge Bay. The cost isn't light, but then, we're talking about a fine lady o' the sea, a galleon what made this trip to Chult a dozen times and a captain what made it a dozen more."

The discussion quickly turned to the cost, which was higher than Artus had expected and barely what he could afford. After a few terse exchanges-punctuated by the scorpion's cluttering-the amount was decided. Pontifax counted out half the gold coins required and held them out for the stranger.

"Put them in a bag, if you please," the thin man said. He gestured to his missing arm. "This was taken by pirates off Ioma. This-" he held up his hand, which was almost paralyzed into a fist "-is the unfortunate result o' taking more than my share o' the company's money. That's why they gave me the scorpion, you see?"

When Pontifax held out the money, the scorpion scuttled forward. It reached up with one huge claw and took the bag, then backed away.

"Just like a new set o' hands," the stranger said, laughing. The scorpion opened the door with its free claw and hurried out. "I'd better catch him before he spends all the money in the taproom." He winked. "Kind o' a ladies man, you know. Remember, the other half goes to the captain the moment you get aboard. A longboat will be waiting to take you to the Narwhal at midnight."

With that he disappeared after his poisonous cohort.

Pontifax walked over to close the door, but stopped short and cursed. "The blasted wards I set upon the door are still in place," he hissed. "Somehow he and his pet strolled right through them."