Six strapping novices gingerly lifted the dwarf and carried him through a door at one end of the great hall. Aria.kas, unaware any longer of his own weariness or pain, followed them into a hallway leading to many smaller rooms. The young priests carried Ferros into one of these, laying him carefully onto a low bed against one wall.

Before the warrior could kneel beside the dwarf, Wryl shy;lish Parkane hurried into the room, still tying the knot on his belt. Gesturing the novices to leave, the high priest turned to Ariakas.

"I came as soon as I could-you brought a dwarf, Derillyth said!"

"He's badly wounded," Ariakas said peremptorily. "Help him!"

The priest approached Ferros Windchisel doubtfully. "He doesn't look like a Zhakar…."

"By the Abyss, man-he's not Zhakar! Who said he was? Just help him, before it's too late!"

"Look here, my good Lord Ariakas," objected Wryllish. "You were to investigate the Zhakar. And when I heard you'd brought a dwarf here, I naturally thought-"

"Damn your thoughts!" snarled the warrior. "I went to those accursed dwarves and this is the result of my attempts! The Zhakar are the nastiest, most murderous bunch of little swamp leeches I've ever seen in my life!"

"You antagonized them?" inquired Wryllish Parkane, disapprovingly. "But we need-"

"Listen to me." Ariakas lowered his voice, but his grim determination carried through the level tones. "If you let this dwarf die, his won't be the only corpse I leave behind when I depart this temple. Now, get busy."

Shock was replaced by fear in the high priest's eyes, and again Ariakas felt that fire of satisfaction. Good, he thought, the man knows where I stand.

Wryllish Parkane took a deep breath. The momentary terror that had flickered in his face quickly vanished, replaced by serene confidence. "I shall not heal him," Wryllish began.

Ariakas suppressed the urge to draw his sword or repeat his demand. He sensed that the cleric had more to say. Nevertheless, Parkane's next words took the warrior by complete surprise.

"You will," concluded the high priest.

Ariakas opened his mouth to object, but held his tongue at the sight of Parkane's upraised hand.

"You do not think you can do this-but you can," he explained. "Now, kneel beside the wounded one."

Mutely, Ariakas did as he was told.

This close, he was shocked by the deathly pale cast to Ferros Windchisel's features. Even more disturbing, the warrior saw that the dwarf's hands had relaxed, and though they had fallen away from the puncture, no fresh blood emerged.

"Place your hands over the wound," instructed Wryl-lish Parkane.

Ariakas lowered his palms to the bloody, sticky hole in Ferros Windchisel's tunic.

"Now, pray-pray to the Dark Queen that she grant your miserable request! Call upon mighty Takhisis, war shy;rior, and beg that she grant you her favor!"

Wryllish Parkane's voice had taken on a hard edge, and Ariakas flinched under the onslaught of the words. It took all of his self-control to keep calm, to hold his hands on the dwarf's belly and try to shake off his frus shy;tration and rage.

Slowly, he focused his thoughts on his companion. He recalled the Hylar's loyalty, his courage. Parkane's rant shy;ing continued unabated, but Ariakas pushed it to the far recesses of his mind. Instead, his thoughts returned to the sinuous, five-headed being that had appeared before him in the tower. He sensed that the Queen of Darkness could slay him any of a dozen ways, with no more effort than Ariakas would use to kill a mosquito; this was a power that he could respect. He pleaded with her to heal Ferros, begging her to mend his flesh, to restore the dwarf's blood to his body and the hearty color to his skin. And gradually, in the depths of his prayer, he felt himself surrender. Yielding up to the swelling knowl shy;edge within him, he granted that he would be the Dark Queen's tool… her agent for whatever tasks she wanted him to perform.

In return, all he demanded was power. Not knowing whether he spoke aloud or only within the anguished passages of his mind, he groveled, he pro shy;fessed his loyalty, he promised to always obey her will. He offered up his past in its entirety as a wretched waste

of time and years-for it had not been dedicated to labors in her name.

Despite his prayers, her power hovered yet beyond the grasp of his mind, his being. How long he knelt there, tears streaming down his face, he did not know. It did not matter. At some point during the long darkness of the night, his professions of faith passed from the con shy;scious to the unconscious realm. He slept, but his dreams continued on the winding trail begun by his thoughts. Takhisis appeared in those dreams, and he would never recall the things that she told him, the pledges he made to her. When he awakened, all he would remember was that she was pleased.

Sunlight streamed through a window Ariakas had not even noticed on the previous night. The warrior lay slumped on the floor. He stretched and turned, gradu shy;ally recognizing the still form of Ferros Windchisel.

Suddenly the dwarf gave a snort and sat up, blinking in confusion. He saw Ariakas, seated on the floor beside his bed, and his eyes widened in shock.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, embar shy;rassed. Then he blinked and looked around. "Well, maybe first you can tell me where we are."

"The temple," explained the warrior. As Ariakas spoke he saw Ferros scowl, obviously settling the events of the previous evening into place in his mind.

"Wait a minute!" Ferros inspected the hole, crusted with dried blood, that had ruined his tunic. Gingerly, his fingers explored the skin underneath. "This is … strange," he said softly.

For the first time Ariakas noticed that his own numer shy;ous wounds were gone. He held out his arm, looking for the especially deep gash over his biceps, but found no sign of even the faintest scar.

"All right," spat Ferros Windchisel, his face locked into a fierce scowl. "What happened? How come I'm not dead?"

"Is that what you wanted?" retorted Ariakas sourly. "I went to a lot of trouble-"

"Yeah, sorry," Ferros interrupted sheepishly. "It's just, well, kind of a shock. So tell me, why aren't we both full of holes?"

"There is power here," Ariakas said cautiously. He was not prepared to take Ferros, or anyone, into his con shy;fidence regarding the trancelike experience of the night before. "One of the old gods, I should say. I think the priests used that power to heal us."

"How did I gef here?"

"I carried you."

The Hylar's eyes widened, and he appraised Ariakas. "Thanks," he offered gruffly. "I owe you my-"

"The account's even," Ariakas interrupted. "Remem shy;ber the ogre in the drawbridge room?"

Ferros shook his head. "That was different. If you had died, my chances of escaping would have died with you. Here, you could have left me in the bar or outside, and saved yourself a lot of trouble. I mean it-I owe you."

"Those were quite ornery buggers-your cousins," noted Ariakas. "Are you glad you found them?"

"I'm not done yet," Ferros Windchisel said grimly. "Did you see if Tale Splintersteel got frosted with the rest of 'em?"

Ariakas shook his head. "As far as I know, he skipped out the back way. Not that it would be much use going to talk to him, anyway," he reflected ruefully, remembering the high priest's disappointment.

"It's not him I want to find," Ferros said, sitting up. Ariakas noticed that clean clothes had been provided for himself and the dwarf, and the two dressed while the Hylar explained. "I want to find the kingdom itself. I won't be going back to Thorbardin until I can learn more about them."

"Last night didn't tell you enough?"

Ferros scowled stubbornly. "I can't assume that one tavern represents the attitudes of an entire nation. And, too, when one dwarven nation is in trouble, even un shy;friendly dwarves can make good allies."