As they neared the center of island where the mound or hut stood, the flames from the water provided only a pale illumination. The walking proved more difficult than they expected. What had from a distance appeared to be a broad, smooth surface turned out to be pitted and blackened as though some intense flame had blasted it. The cracked edges of the stone were sharp as barbed knives, continually snagging the hem of the wizard’s robe and tearing it to shreds. Once, Conundrum stumbled and fell, slicing the palms of his hands into ribbons. They almost turned back then, but Razmous had gone ahead a bit, and as Sir Grumdish helped Conundrum to his feet, the kender called out, “I believe it’s gold.”

“Gold?” Sir Tanar asked.

Using his hoopak staff, the kender vaulted over a particularly large crack, then knelt and peered ahead through the gloom at the glittering mound at the island’s gloomy center. “Yes,” he said almost matter-of-factly. “It’s a large pile of gold.”

“He’s insane,” Sir Grumdish muttered, using the universal gesture of a finger circling the ear to emphasize his meaning.

“And jewels, too!” the kender exclaimed shrilly, as though to prove the gnome’s point. “And some really big swords and stuff, and…” He had nearly disappeared from their sight, his travel-worn clothes blending into the hazy dun background. “Oh!”

“Oh?” Sir Tanar shouted. “Oh? Oh, what?”

“A dragon’s egg! Sir Grumdish, you were right. This really is a dragon’s lair!”

Bottles littered the aft deck of the Indestructible. Professor Hap-Troggensbottle had designed a new air compression device after his original one was lost overboard when they were forced to crash dive after leaving Flotsam. The new pump was, like the first one, a converted bilge pump, but to this he had devised several improvements, including a self-capping mechanism that exploded only one out of every three bottles. It required twice as many operators as the previous model just to monitor the safety features. It also could be used as a sausage grinder, had they any spare meat in need of grinding.

As the professor directed the filling of the bottles, several members of the crew busied themselves stowing the filled bottles below while others brought the remaining empty ones topside. Doctor Bothy was busy belowdecks concocting yet another cure for indigestion to counteract the cook’s newest recipes, which Chief Portlost had kindly agreed to test. Commodore Brigg stood in the conning tower, keeping one eye out for anything approaching over or under the water, while with the other he followed the progress of his landing party until it were no longer visible in the darkness. Even so, he continued to listen to team members” voices, though he had difficulty discerning their words over the banging and clanging of the air compression system.

It had been several minutes since last he heard the kender’s shrill voice, and he was on the verge of growing concerned. The island was not large, but it was large enough for them to wander out of earshot or become lost. He wondered if they hadn’t fallen down some hole or been overcome by fumes, or, more likely, been done in by the treacherous wizard. He shaded his eyes with one hand as he peered into the darkness, not because shading his eyes helped him see better, but because it was a habit long ingrained by gazing out over the featureless gray sea. He could still see the yellow blob that hinted at a hut thatched with straw, but of his party there was no sign.

Lifting a tube from its hook within the conning tower, Commodore Brigg placed it to his lips and blew. Then he shouted into it, “Chief Portlost!” He pressed the end of the tube to his ear.

“Aye, sir?” came the tiny response through the tube.

The commodore shouted into the tube, “Take two of your command and search for the landing party.”

“Aye, sir,” the chief responded.

Before Commodore Brigg had finished returning the tube to its hanger, the chief and two gnomes in red jumpsuits were clambering out of the forward hatch and leaping to shore. They rushed off into the darkness, the chief bringing up a puffing and wheezing rear. He was not the gnome he used to be, having put on a few pounds in recent decades.

They had only been gone a few moments when it began-a curious whirring noise. It started low, almost at the edge of hearing, so that it was some time before the commodore realized he was hearing it. Then the low whirring grew into a whine, increasing in volume and pitch until it sounded like the voice of a banshee crying across the moors.

The crew members on the deck looked around in wonder, dropping what they were doing to stare at their commander. The commodore shouted down to the professor, “What’s that noise?”

“Hoopak!” the professor answered, demonstrating by twirling an imaginary kender weapon above his head. “Generally used to scare off intruders, or as a warning.”

“A warning?” the commodore shouted in alarm. “Get everyone below deck! Hurry!”

The whirring sound died abruptly. The commodore turned and stared into the darkness. Still, he saw nothing, unless it was a vague swirling in the hazy shadows at the far end of the cavern. He heard confused shouting, curses, the kender’s shrill cries, yet nothing clear enough to discern the nature of the trouble.

Chief Portlost appeared from the darkness. He swerved aside to make use of the gangplank, and in moments was aboard.

“What’s wrong?” the commodore shouted.

“I don’t know,” the chief gasped, pausing for a moment before the open hatch. “Someone said run, so I did.”

“Where is your command?”

“Sir Grumdish ordered them into some kind of defensive line. They haven’t any proper weapons-no catapults or anything.”

“Damn his eyes, I told him… Get below!”

Chief Portlost saluted by tugging his beard, then dove through the hatch and disappeared. Commodore Brigg turned his gaze back to the center of the island. Now, the darkness there was complete, as though no light had ever been. He wondered if perhaps Sir Tanar had cast some kind of defensive spell to shield the party’s retreat, but before he had time to form any other theories, all mundane thoughts were driven from his mind, replaced by a sickening, unreasoning fear. Out from the depths of the cave rolled a hollow roar of such rage and hatred that he felt his knees go weak beneath him. It struck him like a storm wave, and he was forced to clutch the rusty rail of the conning tower to keep from being blown overboard. And where there had once been impenetrable darkness, there was now brilliant light-fire, red and golden, liquid fire pouring down upon what, for the briefest of instances, appeared to be three diminutive figures throwing up their hands to fend off destruction. They quickly vanished in the white-hot inferno, perhaps leaving behind three tiny piles of oily ash.

It was a dragon, red as murder, soaring on leathern wings, pouring down its fiery breath on the tiny figures fleeing back toward the ship. In that one brief flare of light, Commodore Brigg saw them and despaired. But even as he was overcome with horror, he gaped in awe at the majesty and beauty of the evil wyrm as it passed within arm’s length over the top of his bald brown head. As it passed over, he heard it give a small cry of surprise at the sight of him, and then it howled in fury. Its great wings pummeled the air, lifting it into the gigantic heights of the cavern. The wave of dragonfear that passed over him turned his bones to water and his blood to ice, just like the storytellers always said.

As the dragon soared overhead, banking round and peering over its outstretched wing at the ship, out from the darkness stumbled Razmous, helping Conundrum, who had fallen and skinned his shins. Sir Tanar was right behind them, the bottom of his robes a mass of flapping tatters. Commodore Brigg took heart and found new courage at the sight of them, as he had believed them dead already. Not that he was overjoyed to see the wizard, but even an unreliable and untrustworthy evil wizard might prove useful against a dragon.