Diva and Dolly pitched back, but remained tethered to the ground. Dora, her heavy saddlebags flopping, had been loosed from her hitch. With a neigh of terror she kicked up her heels. The mule surged forward and Jenna tumbled to the ground. She lay stunned, vaguely aware of the clattering hooves as Dora galloped away, following the demoralized band of thieves as they ran into the night.

"Dammit-Coryn, get the mule!" shouted the Red Robe. "She has my books!" Jenna pushed herself to her feet, and saw the dark elf striding into the woods, his black robe vanishing into the shadows. Jenna plunged after, listening for sounds of the mule's plunging passage through the woods.

She gave scant thought to the bandits, all of whom had run this same way along the stream bank. If any stood between her and her books she would kill them without a second thought. But the way the group had scattered, she expected they wouldn't stop running until dawn.

Branches crackled to her left, and she felt a surge of relief as she heard the nickering of a frightening mule. Dalamar was there, holding Dora and soothing the mule with gentle strokes on the long nose. The two saddlebags, still bulging with arcane treasures, remained securely in place.

Together they led the trembling animal back through the woods, to the small clearing. The fire was there, still crackling merrily.

But Coryn was nowhere to be seen.

Lord of the Wicked

I suppose one of you louts thinks you can do a better job of leading this outfit-is that it?"

Captain Samuval sneered at the band gathered around him, his expression daring any one of them to take up the gauntlet. He knew that he cut a dashing figure with his gloved hands planted firmly on his hips, his cloak swirling as he stalked back and forth in front of the blazing bonfire. The longsword in its plain scabbard was mostly concealed by the cloak, but his bandits knew it was there, lurking.

The men among them looked down or shook their heads or otherwise signaled their acceptance of their leader's disdain. Samuval looked beyond the men to the group of hobgoblins and draconians gathered a little farther from the fire. From this bunch came hissing and chortling, a few muttered growls, but in the face of his unwavering glare no outright rebellion.

It was those on the fringe of the group that Samuval knew presented the greatest threats. He glared out at Bloodtusk, the one-eyed ogre, and was rewarded by a bored shrug of utter indifference. His gaze swept around the circle, to Lubbar, the other ogre, and finally to Rust-Knock, the gigantic half-giant, half-ogre. Sooner or later, Samuval knew, Rust-Knock was bound to make trouble.

"Rust, do you think you would make a better leader?" Samuval asked the half-giant, his tone expressing mild amusement mingled with disbelief. "You could hold this rabble together? Keep the Dark Knights, the dragons, off our backs? By all means, come forward and take charge-that is, if you can figure out which is your front, and which your back." The bandit lord bowed, smiling broadly, extending his hand in a gesture of invitation. He relished the appreciative chuckles rising from most of the throng.

Rust-Knock, however, only chuckled ominously, "I can figure more than front and back. I know who is my master, and who is my slave. I think I do not see a master anywhere around here!"

That bold statement produced a rumble from others of the gathering, especially the draconians and ogres who typically were impressed by such bombast. Samuval knew that here was his invitation to action, and he welcomed the excuse. Like his men, he had become bored with sitting around in the wilds, waiting for the all-too-infrequent caravan to traipse down any of the roads within the vast territory that the bandit lord had claimed for his own. Sure, they made occasional forays into the regions around their vast forest, but all knew that the pickings, in this chaotic postwar era, were very slim. In truth, there was not a lot for Samuval's bandits to do, very little to keep this restless lot busy, or amused.

It was time for a little entertainment.

"Come forward, then," Sam snapped. "I'll teach you a lesson about masters and those who serve them."

"It is you who will learn, human," grunted the massive creature, swaggering forward on two tree trunk-sized legs. "For too long we hide in the woods and attack only women and children. We are warriors, and we deserve more warlike fodder for our spirit!"

"Then eat this steel, you lumbering fool!" snapped Samuval. His longsword gleamed in his hand, red and orange flickers reflecting the glow of the surging bonfire. He meant this to be a fight with real stakes, for his men to see his utter lack of fear. He wanted them to be afraid of him, and this was the chance to remind them. He didn't want to kill the half-giant, but he was more than willing to if absolutely necessary.

Rust-Knock had his own weapon up. The half-giant bore a branch hewn from the trunk of a tall oak. The beam was as thick as Sam's bicep. At the head was lashed a massive block of stone, shaped very crudely like the blade of an axe. Even at its sharpest, of course, it was a weapon for crushing, not cutting, and many were the men who had known the weight of that bone-breaking force.

The huge cudgel swept through the air, the blow too low for Samuval to duck. He skipped backward, however, deftly sliding his blade out of the way. Balanced on the balls of his feet, he lunged as soon as the huge weapon had swooshed past. But Rust-Knock anticipated the move-already he was coming around, with the butt of his big pole flying up and out. Again the human backpedaled, evading the attack and holding his own weapon away.

In the periphery of his view the bandit lord saw his men sidle back, giving the two fighters more room. Many gathered around the simple plank bar established by an enterprising innkeeper named Fat Wally, who had brought a wagonload of kegs out to the camp. As the fight escalated, Wally worked hard to keep up with the demand, filling mug after mug.

Closer by, murmurs of appreciation and apprehension arose from Samuval's men, and more than one bet was laid, the flash of gold and silvery steel bright in the surging flames. Two draconians heaved more logs onto the fire, which blazed high and sent sparks even higher, glowing cinders that drifted away like fireflies through the summer evening.

Samuval beamed as he maneuvered. He wanted this to be just such a spectacle, a display that this rabble of men would not soon forget. He cried out and faked a frantic charge, his blade like liquid silver as it slashed through the air. Rust-Knock reacted immediately, smashing the stone club downward. The man danced to the side and again that steel blade flashed, drawing a howl from the half-giant, leaving a cut in the thick leather of his trouser leg.

More murmurs from the men, another shifting of coins as blood began to seep from the half-giant's cut. The brutish fighter's face tightened into a snarl and he raised his cudgel high, taking a menacing step closer to Samuval. The man slipped backward again, one, two, three steps as an increasingly wild series of blows swept back and forth, missing him. On the last of these, Rust-Knock's cudgel passed right through the fire, knocking a sparking, blazing log across the ground.

Both fighters sidestepped, moving away from the embers, the crowd moving out of their path. Samuval grinned as his opponent became increasingly reckless, advancing in a rush that carried him past the human fighter, who rolled to the ground, bounced to his feet, and stabbed a light but embarrassing thrust through the seat of the half-giant's pants.

Roaring, Rust-Knock whirled around. Flecks of spittle flew from his jowls, and his blunt, tusklike teeth gleamed red. His eyes were wild, shot through with blood, and it almost seemed as though he were having trouble focusing on his enemy. Instead his gaze swept across and beyond the throng of bandits, as though he sought succor in the vastness of the plains.