"Delicious," murmured the human truthfully. Indeed, whatever subversive preparations had been done to the food, the Zhakar had cooked a tasty collection of delica shy;cies.

For a time, the king studied Lyrelee, who also ate with gusto, perhaps because-unlike Tale and Ferros-she understood exactly what Ariakas had done to protect them. The two dwarves, meanwhile, picked at their food after they saw the humans eating, but could not entirely mask their unease.

Rackas Ironcog, however, grew increasingly agitated as the meal continued. The king's eyes sought those of the savant, but Tik Deepspeaker kept his own gaze riv shy;eted onto his plate, saying nothing during the course of the meal. His mold-encrusted face darkened by a furi shy;ous scowl, Ironcog's gaze leapt restlessly from guest to guest, searching for some signs of discomfort or weak shy;ness. Near the end of the meal, however, with everyone to all appearances well-stuffed, he muttered a curse and, scowling fiercely, made an attempt at conversa shy;tion.

"You said that you came here to trade," Ironcog said smoothly. "What do you desire that you cannot obtain through our Minister of Trade in Sanction? After all, we have an extensive distribution network of arms and armor, as well as coins and other metal goods, already in operation." The king raised his eyebrows, mutely ques shy;tioning Tale Splintersteel.

"We seek that which you have never traded," Ariakas began. "It is a thing you have called a curse, but it has a unique application in our temples. It is the fungus of the plague mold, which we understand inhabits the lower catacombs of Zhakar."

"The mold?" Ironcog was clearly surprised and baf shy;fled. "In truth, if we could have eradicated the stuff we would have-and now to find you have an interest in it! This is a startling development, indeed."

The king thought for a moment, and then continued. "What would you offer in exchange, should we be will shy;ing to part with this unique substance?"

"The agents of the temple have access to many sources of fine gems," Ariakas began. "Diamonds, rubies, emer shy;alds … as well as numerous more mundane stones. For a start, we will offer you quarter-weight in gems for all the living mold you can ship to Sanction."

Rackas Ironcog's eyes widened slightly at the gener shy;ous offer, and for a moment Ariakas wondered if he would give it serious consideration. Then the Zhakar's eyes flicked, unconsciously, to the hilt of the warrior's sword, and the human knew that the dwarven king still desired only one thing out of these negotiations.

"You have spoken of the great warrens of Zhakar," Ariakas noted politely. "Could you possibly arrange for my companions and myself to have a tour of these cav shy;erns? It would considerably enhance the negotiations, I assure you."

Rackas seemed on the verge of denying the request, scowling furiously while he apparently tried to think of a good reason for refusing. Nothing came to mind, appar shy;ently, for he remained silent for several moments. Beside him Tik Deepspeaker raised his head for the first time in many minutes. The gold threads framed a dark shadow where his face would be, though his bright eyes gleamed within. He looked at Rackas Ironcog and slowly nodded his head.

Only then did the King of Zhakar wrinkle his face into a hideous caricature of a smile, and the glimmer of an idea came to light in his eyes.

"A tour?" he mused, as if discussing a suggestion of profound wisdom. "Very well. You will get a good night's rest, of course-but then, first thing tomorrow, I shall show you the caverns of our fungus warrens."

Chapter 22

Warrens of Plague

Ariakas, sleeping very lightly, heard a noise in the anteroom beyond his chamber. Silently rising, he grasped the reas shy;suring hilt of his sword and stepped through the door into the pitch-dark chamber. His ears strained without success to detect any further sound.

"Oh-hello, warrior." He recognized Ferros Wind-chisel's voice. The Hylar sounded as though he were in a foul mood.

"Couldn't sleep?" asked Ariakas.

"It's this damned itch," groused the dwarf. Ariakas heard sounds of vigorous scratching accompanied by a muffled series of curses. "It seems to be spreading," added Ferros. His voice now had a serious tenor.

"Firebug bites?" Ariakas did his best to keep his voice casual, but he felt an ominous sense of concern. The Hylar snorted and kept scratching.

Ariakas muttered his incantation, and the gemstone in his helmet-still resting on the floor where it could illu shy;minate the room-flared into light. Ferros slouched against the wall, blinking irritably against the illumina shy;tion. The warrior was shocked at the appearance of his friend, though he tried to conceal the feeling with a mask of impassivity.

Both of Ferros Windchisel's arms were red, with cracked skin flaking off around his elbows and spread shy;ing toward his wrists and shoulders. The Hylar scratched them vigorously. Far more distressing to Ariakas, how shy;ever, was the new disfigurement of the dwarf's bearded face. Windchisel's right cheek was puffy and distended, with a rough growth of patchy scabs covering all the skin between his eye and his beard. In fact, some of his facial hair had tufted away, leaving the characteristic red, sore wound that Ariakas had seen on many of the faces around him during the past two days.

The warrior met his friend's frank stare, wondering only for a second if the Hylar understood what was hap shy;pening to him. The bleak despair he saw was tinged with fury, confirming that Ferros Windchisel knew his fate only too well.

"I can't believe I wanted to visit this hell-hole!" snapped the dwarf, awkwardly changing the subject. "It boils my blood just to think that these little degenerates come from the same stock as the clans of Thorbardin! Why, when I see how they treat each other . . . the stupidity and violence…."

The voice trailed off, and Ariakas respected Wind shy;chisel's silence. For some time they sat together, each pri shy;vately recalling the events of their brief but profound friendship. Ariakas wondered about the future-would Ferros try to return to Thorbardin, running the risk of carrying the plague there? He didn't think so. The war shy;rior resolved to himself that, when they returned to Sanction, he would see that the Hylar was given a role in the temple-something suitable to his abilities, that might somehow alleviate the pain of his self-imposed exile.

"It was that damned Fungus Mug!" spat Ferros Wind-chisel explosively. "That first night-it started then!"

"But you never went back there," reminded Ariakas.

"Seems like it doesn't matter," the dwarf replied. "It's plague-once it sets in, I can't fight it. I'm going to end up like these . . ." His voice trailed off into strangled silence, and for long, excruciating minutes, Ariakas felt his friend's silent pain.

"There might be something I can do … a chance, any shy;way," Ariakas began slowly. "A spell against disease could perhaps reverse the infestation."

"D'you think so?" The Hylar's eyes lit with hope, and Ariakas could only shrug.

The warrior knelt beside his companion. Bowing his head, Ariakas reached out and placed his hands over the sores on Ferros Windchisel's arm. Mouthing the ritual of healing, he called upon his Dark Queen, pleading with Takhisis for the power to heal the scabrous wounds. But the flesh remained moist and weeping beneath Ariakas's palms. Gritting his teeth in an animalistic snarl, Ariakas groped for the power, the faith, to heal the dwarf's cruel affliction. His fingers touched the rotting flesh while his words beseeched Takhisis. And still his goddess did not respond.

At last, exhausted by the effort, the warrior collapsed backward in dismay. Ferros Windchisel leaned his head against the wall, his eyes tightly shut as if in pain- though Ariakas knew it was a spiritual and not a physi shy;cal hurt that sapped his friend's vitality.