Endless Quest # 40 - Siege of the Tower

GRE
WE ADVETITU Ese
YOU CONTROL THE ADVENTURE!
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All around you, screaming orcs leap from the wall, forc-
ing the remaining pockets of resistance to retreat and
reform around Fostyr at the opening to the underground
tunnels.
You stagger toward your friend. Fostyr sees you and
gestures wildly for you to hurry. As soon as you reach
him, Fostyr claps you on the arm with his free hand.
“Get moving,” he says. He grins wearily. “I was afraid
they'd got you.”
“What about you?” you say. “I can’t just leave you!”
Fostyr takes a deep breath. “I'll hold them off while you
and the others get away. Your mission is more important.
Don’t worry about me. Just go!”
You hesitate, not certain what to do.
If you retreat into the tunnels, go to 8.

If you stay and fight beside Fostyr, turn to 36.
Only your decisions can help you to survive the Siege

of the Tower!
Dungeon of Fear
Michael Andrews
Castle of the Undead

Nick Baron
Secret of the Djinn

Jean Rabe
Siege of the Tower

Kem Antilles
A Wild Ride
Louis Anderson
September
Forest of Darkness
Michael Andrews
November
Siege of the TOWER
Kem Antilles
A million thanks to Lillie E. Mitchell for her typing; Letha
L. Burchard and Paul Amala for their love of the
ADVANCED DUNGEONS & DRAGONS® game and for their
resourcefulness with spells and monsters; and my friends,
Kevin J. Anderson, Rebecca Moesta Anderson, Mark
Budz, Marina Fitch, and Michael Paul Meltzer, without
whom this book could never have been written.
—K.A.
SIEGE OF THE TOWER

Copyright ©1994 TSR, Inc.
All Rights Reserved.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
All TSR characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks
owned by TSR, Inc.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any repro-
duction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without
the express written permission of TSR, Inc.
Random House and its affiliate companies have worldwide distribution rights in the book
trade for English language products of TSR, Inc.
Distributed to the book and hobby trade in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd.
Distributed to the toy and hobby trade by regional distributors.
Cover art by Jeff Easley.
Interior art by Terry Dykstra.
ENDLESS QUEST, GREYHAWK, and ADVANCED DUNGEONS & DRAGONS are regis-
tered trademarks owned by TSR, Inc. The TSR logo is a trademark owned by TSR, Inc.
First Printing: July 1994

Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-60100
9°67 679.458) 2, 0
ISBN: 1-56076-894-0
TSR, Inc. TSR Ltd.

P.O. Box 756 120 Church End, Cherry Hinton
Lake Geneva, WI 53147 Cambridge CB1 3LB
United States of America United Kingdom
n this adventure, you are a young fighter
Bend Corlen.
You are seventeen years old, lean and well muscled
from hard work as well as plenty of fighting practice.
You stand just over six feet tall, with red, shoulder-
length hair and stone-gray eyes set in finely chiseled
features. Your friends say that you smile occasionally,
but rarely laugh—with good reason.
Five years ago you had a curse placed upon you by
the evil wizard Tyrion. As a result of this curse, you
are unable to touch any kind of metal without suffer-
ing painful burns. Despite this handicap, you have
become proficient in using a braided leather whip and
flint-tipped arrows. For armor, you wear a leather
breastplate. An oak practice sword hangs at your side;
rarely used, the hard wooden blade is mainly for
appearances, though you’ve given bullies a few painful
whacks with it from time to time.
Here in your native Flanaess, you have been
assigned to the border outpost called Dragon’s Eye
Tower. Constructed centuries ago of stone blocks, the
isolated tower lies in the bleak frontier lands, between
the vast Vesve Forest and the shore of calm Whyestil
Lake, near the dreaded shadow of the evil land of Iuz.
Few soldiers desire to be stationed in such a place, but
you joined the army to protect the land, and you will
go where you are needed most.
The outpost is quiet and mysterious, frequently
2 KEM ANTILLES
blanketed with ominous fog, and the sky is nearly

always gray. The place is thick with shadowy history.
Dragon’s Eye Tower got its name from a mysteri-
ous and powerful magical object, a petrified dragon’s
eye lost centuries ago in the winding, barely explored
tunnels beneath the ancient structure. But now, after
all these years, the Dragon’s Eye has finally been
found by another band of adventurers.
Rumors of the discovery have spread to dark Iuz,
and the enemy is very interested indeed, because the
eye holds great powers for those who know how to use
it. Reinforcements have been summoned from the city
of Crockport to the south, but it will take some time
for an army to travel so deep into the wilderness.
In the meantime, you and the other soldiers at the
tower must guard this precious talisman. Scouts have
reported a great army of orcs approaching. The
fortress is old and may not withstand such an assault,
but you and the other fighters have vowed to hold it at
all cost. The Dragon’s Eye must never fall into the
hands of the evil invaders. . . .
To save the Dragon’s Eye, you must make the right
decisions over the course of the story. The fate of the
adventure lies in your hands.
Go right on to 2.
Facing into the cold wind, you lean against the high
tower wall’s worn, broken stone. You squint north
toward the Dulsi River and the rocky shoreline of
Whyestil Lake. You are tense and watchful. It has
been this way for days.
Although nothing stirs in the forest below, you are
uneasy as the shadow of Dragon’s Eye Tower begins
to melt into evening’s cloudy gloom. Chill drafts seep
through the chinks in the tower. The dreary weather
SIEGE OF THE TOWER 3
has grown oppressive. You can’t remember the last

time you were warm and comfortable . . . certainly
- not since you came here to the tower.
If you had wanted comfort, you could have stayed
in Crockport and found some kind of work that didn’t
require you to touch metal—as a street sweeper, per-
_ haps, or a stable mucker. Instead, you chose to join
the army and were assigned to the frontier.
Rumors of the approaching orc army fill you with
dread and anticipation. Recently three scouts have
returned to the tower with the same news; several
other scouts haven’t returned at all.
You finger your braided leather whip, shrug your
bow higher on your shoulder, and continue to stare
outward, ever watchful. “Just let them try to take the
Dragon’s Eye,” you mutter under your breath.
Below, under heavy guard in the rusty cells of the
stronghold, rests the newly found talisman. Though |
you cannot use the talisman’s magic yourself, you
have heard that the petrified Dragon’s Eye allows a
sorcerer to observe anyone or anything within a thou-
sand miles. With such power, an evil sorcerer could
direct his armies in surprise attacks, learn his enemies’
every. weakness. The artifact must be protected with
your very life. That is your job.
You rub your eyes, then survey the earthen wall
surrounding the tower, the newly built stables, and
the Bloody Axe Inn. Other fighters on the east, west,
and south watches shiver and pace at their posts.
Everyone is silent, nervous. You look to the north
again. Nothing has changed in hours.
A rock clatters behind you. You turn as Fostyr,
your friend and comrade-in-arms, hurries to join you,
‘cursing the rubble littering the tower. The tower is so
ancient it is beginning to fall apart.
Fostyr huffs to a stop. He is young and whip-thin,
with light brown hair and a frequent grin. “Any sign of
them?” he asks.
“Not yet.” You turn back to survey the shoreline.
4 KEM ANTILLES
Fostyr nods and peers into the murky distance. “A

scout arrived from Vesve Forest about twenty minutes
ago,” he says. “He told Captain Jongh that the orcs
are camped along the banks of the Dulsi. He says an
orog named Gorak is in charge.”
“Gorak?” you say. “I’ve heard of him. Isn’t he the
one who—?”
“Not him—it/” Fostyr’s grin melts away into a thick
voice. “Yes, Gorak’s the one who tortured and killed
my uncle.” The hatred on Fostyr’s usually cheerful
face is doubly disturbing to you.
The two of you stand in silence, scanning the dark-
ening horizon. Fostyr’s words make you think of your
father and his untimely death . . . and the curse that
prevents you from touching metal of any kind.
Your father was the greatest sword maker in the city
of Crockport, indeed in all the lands of the Flanaess.
As his apprentice, you were well on your way to
becoming a gifted sword maker in your own right.
Your future seemed bright and secure.
Then the wizard Tyrion arrived, disguised as a mer-
cenary, to commission a sword to be made for him.
Your father, a hardworking and honest man, sus-
pected nothing. In his smithy, he did his best work for
the stranger—as he always did. He fashioned the
blade with great care, then inlaid the blade with the
strange characters Tyrion had meticulously drawn for
him. Pretty designs, Tyrion had called them, a pattern
his family had used for generations.
Unknown to you or your father, the characters were
runes that would enable a wizard to wield the sword
with great skill, even with little or no training in how
to use it. Upon receiving the marvelous sword and
admiring it in satisfaction in the sunlight that slanted
through the open windows of the smithy, Tyrion
whirled and struck down your father, christening the
new blade with its maker’s blood.
You remember rushing to your father, who lay face-
down in the packed dirt, and crying out in disbelief. |
You crouched there for a moment, stunned, before rage

overcame your shock. In a blind fury, you snatched up
another sword—one of the simple blades your father
had you fashion for Count Delwyn—and you blindly
attacked the wizard.
But Tyrion had merely laughed and worked a spell
with his fingers, twisting a raven’s-head ring on his left
hand. Before you could reach the treacherous sor-
cerer, he placed an elemental curse on you. Suddenly
the sword burned in your hands, too painful to hold.
You stood staring at your red and blistering palms, the
useless sword, and your dead father as Tyrion turned
and casually walked away.
The thing you remember most clearly is Tyrion’s
smile of evil pleasure as he sheathed the rune-carved
sword before strolling out the open smithy doors,
leaving you to grieve over the body of your father.
That smile has haunted you ever since... .
Now, standing atop the tower, Fostyr seems to
6 KEM ANTILLES
sense your brooding mood and says nothing, lost in

his own unhappy memories. Together the two of you
continue to watch the northern outskirts.
As twilight deepens, you see something glint in the
distance where the Dulsi River runs into choppy
Whyestil Lake. You frown. It could be a reflection of
the fading daylight breaking though the clouds and
sparkling on the water, or it could be an orc contin-
gent fording the river. You concentrate on the river
mouth. ;
“What did Captain Jongh say when he heard about
the orc camp?” you ask Fostyr, your voice dry.
“That we no longer have the luxury of waiting for
an armed guard to arrive from Crockport,” Fostyr
replies, a faint smile creeping over his face once more.
“He’s planning to send an escort out of the fortress
with the Dragon’s Eye in the morning. Somebody will
have to take it to safety before the orcs get here.”
You lean forward as two or three more glints flash
near the mouth of the Dulsi. You stiffen. The glints
are on the near side of the river and approaching. You
grab Fostyr’s arm. “We don’t have till morning. Look!
The orcs are coming now!”
A fighter on the west rampart cries out. “To the
northwest! Torches in the forest!”
“Sound the alarm!” you shout.
Fostyr stares at the glimmers bobbing in the gray
dusk, then dashes for the stairs. Your gaze flashes
north to the river mouth, where more torches move
toward you like slowly drifting embers. You shiver, cer-
tain now that the orc army will attack tonight. Uncon-
sciously you check your weapons. This is what you
have been waiting for, and dreading.
Within minutes, the alarm has sounded throughout
the fortress. Down below, people bustle in the stables.
The doors of the Bloody Axe Inn are thrown open,
and off-duty fighters come rushing out. A shout
echoes from the stone walls of the tower. :
Remaining at your post, you narrow your eyes,
SIEGE OF THE TOWER rf
keeping the orc army in sight. Although you still can’t

make out individual orcs, the flicker of torches
becomes brighter and more defined, dotting the flat-
lands and the edges of the woods like fireflies.
Fighters swarm up the stairs to take their stations
on the walls. Someone jostles you, and you grab the
hilt of your oaken sword. Looking out over the
earthen perimeter walls, you see the orcs pouring out
of the north, giving up caution entirely.
Below, an explosion of curses and angry cries
erupts in the courtyard. A weird, mocking laugh
pierces the shouts, only to be cut off abruptly with a
sharp gurgle of pain.
Fostyr elbows his way to your side. “What’s going
on?” you ask.
“An archer was caught trying to desert,” Fostyr
says. “He was a spy for Iuz.”
You swear under your breath.
The orcs swarm closer. The flicker of the torches
begins to merge into a single blaze.
Beside you, another fighter rushes up, panting with
excitement. Her skin is flushed, and she blunders
past, shrugging into a bulky shirt of chain mail.
Instinctively you shrink from the metal mesh, but it
grazes your arm and scorches your skin. You rub your
stinging bicep, cursing, but your anger is directed
toward the orcs, not the clumsy fighter.
Captain Jongh appears on the battlements and
spots you, bustling forward as if he has a great many
preparations to make and not nearly enough time. His
nose is crooked from being broken and allowed to
heal untended in a skirmish years ago. He claps you
on the shoulder, narrowing his eyes.
“Corlen, Fostyr,” he says, “we’ve got to get the
Dragon’s Eye out of here before it’s too late. I need
armed fighters I can trust to take the eye to Crock-
port—in secret.” He glares over the earthen walls at
the approaching evil army; his twisted nose makes
him appear almost as hideous as an orc. “But I also
8 KEM ANTILLES
need people I can trust to stay here and defend the

tower. I wouldn’t lay odds on the success of either
task, but somehow we have to accomplish both.”
You look at Fostyr. You would like to stay with your
friend, but you must make your own decision, for the
good of the army. You grew up in Crockport and
know the area well. But you are also one of the best
archers in the guard and could inflict a great deal of
damage when the orcs storm the tower.
“T won’t order you to go with the Dragon’s Eye,”
~ the captain says, “but if you do go, don’t fool yourself.
It’ll be just as dangerous as staying here.”
Fostyr looks to you for a decision.
Do you escort the Dragon’s Eye, or do you stay and
defend the tower?
If you decide to escort the Dragon’s Eye to

safety, turn to 25.
If you decide to stay and defend the tower, go
to 23.
The scarred man claims to know the tunnels, but

you don’t really believe him. But you know even less
about them, so you can’t offer a better alternative.
You and the others follow the scarred man down
the narrow left-hand branch. You bend to avoid
bumping your head on the low ceiling as you enter the
passage. Renda shuffles behind you, shoulders bowed
by the weight of the wounded woman. Relf carries his
sister’s bow next to his own, slung across his back.
The scarred soldier scrambles confidently ahead.
He twirls the end of the coiled rope at his side and
waves his torch with the other hand. “Stay close to
me,” he says. “One wrong turn and you’re lost. You
could wander for days down here and never see the
same passageway twice.”
Already your neck and back ache from moving in

such a stooped position. You wonder if you’ll ever be
able to stand up straight again.
Someone curses behind you. You turn to see Tur-
loc, the flail wielder, rubbing the top of his head with
one hand. The soldier behind him chuckles.
“Shut up!” In unrestrained anger, Turloc swipes at
the second man with his torch. Sparks fly.
“He tried to set me on fire!” the second man com-
plains.
“Enough!” you say sternly. “Stop it now, or neither
one of you will make it out of here alive.”
You make your way ahead. Ragged openings yawn
in the tunnel wall at intervals, looking like toothed
mouths. Gradually the tunnel narrows until your
group must walk single file. The scarred fighter seems
more and more uncertain about his path.
The stone walls press in on you, scraping your
chest. The air is stifling. The musty smell of stagnant
air coats your teeth and sticks to your tongue.
After a few more feet, the ceiling gradually lowers
even farther, forcing you to crawl on your hands and
knees. You hear the others gasp behind you. You
break out in a cold sweat, and your head starts to spin.
You can’t seem to get enough air.
“T knew it!” the scarred man says somewhere ahead
of you. “We made it! Come on.” His voice bursts the
bubble of nausea stuck in your throat.
A second later, cool, delicious air brushes your face
and arms. The passageway widens abruptly, opening
into a huge cavern. You stand, wincing at the pain in
your stiffened back. Beside you, the others stand gasp-
_ ing, sucking in huge lungfuls of air.
You look around as your companions gather around
the torchlight. The firelight flickers off daggerlike sta-
lagmites growing up from the floor. Above each one, a
matching stalactite descends from the ceiling. In
places, the tips of the two meet, fusing together in
hourglass-shaped sculptures.
SSSA ee | en
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FIN
SENSIS
TRAE
“The Cavern of a Thousand Swords,” Renda mur-

murs.
The blond man grins, his scarred eyelid adding a
touch of menace. “It won’t be long before we’re out of
here now,” he says. “See? I told you so.”
“Good job,” someone says.
The rest chuckle, relieved and excited. A few
people eat their last scraps of jerky as your party winds
its way through the stone swords. After a few hundred
feet, the cavern narrows, then widens again as several
tunnels converge into a large chamber.
“This way,” the scarred man says, leading you
down the left-hand passage. He walks so quickly you
have to jog to keep up with him.
Smaller stalactites hang from the ceiling like stilet-
tos. You and your companions duck your heads as you
thread your way through the rock swords. Every few
feet another dark chamber hollows one side of the
passages, leading to other tunnels. You walk for hours
until you come to a Y.
The scarred man pokes his head into the left tun-
nel, which, you see over his shoulder, gradually slopes
upward. He frowns. “That’s odd. The right-hand
branch is supposed to head upward, not the left-hand
one. Ah, never mind .. . I see light ahead!” Confi-
dently he starts up the left tunnel, motioning for you
to follow him. “It’s right—”
His torch jerks downward and his voice snaps off in
a sharp gasp. The torch sputters as it strikes the
sloped floor, rolling back toward you. You hear a
muffled gasp rise and see a coil of black smoke as the
torch struggles to keep burning.
“Help!” the scarred man rasps.
You lunge forward, Renda behind you.
The man hangs suspended by his fingers from the
edge of a deep pit. The floor has ended abruptly in a
sharp cliff. His eyes are wide in the light of the
dropped torch, his face twisted as he struggles to hang
on to the slick rock.
You grab for him just as his fingers slip free. You
catch the loose end of the rope coiled over his shoul-
der. His weight jerks you to the ground, knocking the
wind out of you and pulling you forward. The hidden
Dragon’s Eye digs at your chest.
Renda scrabbles forward on her knees, grabbing
the rope. The scarred man’s body slams against the
side of the pit. He screams in panic.
“We’ve got you!” Renda calls down, pulling hard
on the rope.
“Grab hold!” you shout, holding out your left hand
toward him while continuing to hold on to the rope
with your right.
‘The man reaches up. His hand is mere inches from
yours when the rope suddenly uncoils from around
his shoulder. He drops two feet before grabbing the
rope again. The heavy lurch yanks Renda forward.
She groans and digs her elbows into the ground, but
they slip over the edge. Renda and the man’s com-
bined weight drags you toward the edge of the deep

pit. You cling to the rope with both hands now, but
the friction burns the skin of your palms.
“Renda!” Relf shouts, running forward.
Someone else grabs Renda’s legs before she can
slide over the precipice. She teeters on the edge. Relf
squeezes in beside you and Renda, grabbing the rope.
“Hang on,” you shout to the dangling man.
The scarred man’s grip weakens. His mouth opens
in horror as his hands begin to slip, slowly at first,
then faster. He can’t hold on. His feet kick against the
side of the pit, searching for a foothold.
“Help!” he screams again, just as he plunges into
the darkness. The rope goes limp. His cry ends with
the sickening thud of his body far below in the pit.
With a shudder, you close your eyes and try to
unclench your teeth. The muscles in your jaw hurt.
Your right arm feels as if it has been ripped out of its
socket. Sharp pain shoots through your shoulder as
you push yourself back from the edge of the pit. You
tried your best, but it just wasn’t good enough.
You kneel, panting heavily. Relf helps Renda up.
You blink at the light of the sputtering torch and
glance back. Your companions crowd together at the
tunnel entrance, anxiously peering inside.
Renda pulls up the rope. You grab the torch and
stand up.
“Well,” the soldier with the battle-axe says, “now
what? Do we go on or turn back?”
You retrace your path to where the tunnels branch
and peer down the other one, but you see only dark-
ness. You could follow the second passageway, or you
could make your way back to the Cavern of a Thou-
sand Swords and the main tunnel.
If you decide to return to the Cavern ofa

Thousand Swords, go to 40.
If you choose to take the second branch, turn
to 27.
14 KEM ANTILLES
4
You hurry deeper into the cave.
The sluggish air carries the stink of bat guano, dust,
and mold. Ahead of you, patches of fungus grow on
the walls, emitting a faint greenish-blue light. After a
few feet, the ground evens out, becoming as smooth
as stone. You test it with your heel. No wonder it feels
so smooth. It zs stone. You no longer hear any sound
from the pursuing orcs.
You can move faster now on the even ground, and
as your eyes adjust to the dim phosphorescence, you
can even see where you are going. Suddenly one of
your feet steps out over thin air, and you lose your bal-
ance as a black, unexpected chasm opens up in front
of you. Your fingers frantically scrape the cave walls to
keep you from falling. Awkwardly you sit down heav-
ily with a grunt. Your boots touch something below
you.
You find yourself sitting on a stairway—a steep one,
carved out of the cave rock.
You push yourself to your feet and make your way
down the stairs, grateful for the meager light cast by
the strange fungus. At the bottom of the stairway, the
tunnel angles to your left, then straightens. Another
blast of foul air blows against your face.
Stifling as the air is, you’re glad for the slight
breeze. It means the cave doesn’t come to a dead end.
All you have to do is keep from getting lost.
The tunnel here is drier than you expected. You
reach out, surprised to feel the rough texture of stone
blocks. The faint glow of the wall fungus illuminates
snakelike roots that have pushed through the joints
between the stones. The roots remind you of gnarled
fingers, holding the stones in place.
You pause to listen, but you still hear no sound of
the orcs behind you. Maybe they’ve given up. _,
You take a breath between gritted teeth and push
ahead, your sword sweeping the darkness in front of

_ you just in case something lies in wait.
The tunnel branches occasionally and also makes
several sharp turns. Despite the turns, you seem to be
heading south. If so, the forest should be on your
right. You feel along the walls, finding more roots on
the right side of the tunnel than the left.
As you walk, the loss of Fostyr weighs on you. You
remember all the good times you had with the good-
natured, whip-thin young man. It’s as if part of you
has died. His memory is still with you and will be for
the rest of your life, but the future doesn’t seem to
hold the same excitement.
The clank of metal echoes down the tunnel from
somewhere ahead of you. You tense. You grip your
wooden sword more tightly, knowing you cannot go
back the way you came. If you encounter an enemy up
ahead, you’ll have to fight here in the darkness.
You edge forward cautiously, uncertain how far
ahead the noise came from. The tunnel walls might
magnify sound, sending whispers for miles. Then you
hear the sound of soft, shuffling footsteps ahead. It
sounds like a large party.
Ten yards in front of you, the tunnel veers to the
left. Torchlight flickers on the walls, casting ghostly
shadows from around the bend. You shield your eyes
from the sudden glare.
You look for a cross tunnel, anyplace to hide, but
see nothing except solid stone.
“Not that way,” someone says.
“Why not?” says a second voice.
“Because it leads back the way we came,” the first
voice replies.
Chain mail jingles loudly. A sword clangs against
the side of the tunnel. You flatten yourself against the
stone wall. How could the orcs have gotten ahead of
you? Did you miss a side tunnel in the dim light?
“Are you sure?” another voice, a woman’s, asks. “I
don’t think you have any idea where we are.”
16 KEM ANTILLES
You take a deep breath and inch forward silently. At

the bend, you peer around the corner.
A sigh of relief escapes you. It’s a group of fighters
from the tower. Renda, the archer, is in the lead
beside her twin brother, Relf. Two others follow, a
broad-shouldered man carrying a battle-axe and
another with a flail. Others trail along behind.
They’re all breathing hard, as if they’ve been run-
ning. “Hey, did you hear something?” Renda says.
“Tt sounded like it was just ahead of us,” the one
with the flail says. “But the last orcs we saw were back
the other direction,” says the one with the battle-axe.
You sheathe your sword quickly and step around
the corner, holding your empty hands out in front of
you. “Need some help?” you ask.
The group turns to face you. Relf and Renda both
instinctively grab for their bows. The others stand
there, stunned. Then Renda smiles in recognition,
shaking her head, her coppery hair fiery in the torch-
light. The others laugh nervously, releasing the ten-
sion. They rush forward to clap you on the back.
“We thought you were dead,” Renda says, and the
rest of them echo her words.
“So did I,” you say. “At least now we’re all stuck
here in these tunnels together.”
Turn to 37.
Despite your fatigue, you find you can’t sleep. As

the day brightens, you can’t stop thinking about Fos-
tyr, the battle in the forest around the tower, the
Dragon’s Eye under your tunic, and Tyrion’s symbol,
the raven’s head, on Gorak’s amulet.
If the dark sorcerer is indeed involved, you imagine
ways to avenge Fostyr, the tower, and your father. But
first you must get the eye safely to Crockport. You
have a vital mission, and if you fail, then all those

other sacrifices will have been wasted. The land of Iuz
must not control the magic contained within the
Dragon’s Eye.
For a moment, you wish you had the magic skills to
look into the eye and see how the others fared back at
the tower. Resting fitfully in the bottom of the boat,
Peri groans with suppressed pain, hissing with each
breath. He seems to be weakening, and his wound
from the arrow hasn’t stopped bleeding.
Gentle swells ripple across the surface of Whyestil
Lake, gurgling against the sides of the boat. The
morning is quiet, and you can hear no sounds from
the distant shoreline forests. They look fuzzy in the
thin morning fog.
In the boat, Grigneth complains to himself, and
Bresnor sits in grim, silent concentration as the two of
them lean into the oars, slicing the water with even
strokes. Each moment takes you closer to Crockport
with your secret burden. Touching the heavy leather
pouch beneath your jerkin, you finally let your eyelids
close. At last you fall asleep to the hypnotic sound of
the water lapping against the boat, with the dim sun-
light of a thinly overcast day shining on your face... .
You wake suddenly. Frowning, you look around,
trying to figure out what startled you. At your shoul-
der, Beatrix murmurs in her sleep, one arm pinned
under her body; her face looks peaceful and vulnera-
ble as she dreams. Grigneth and Bresnor continue to
row with even, steady strokes. Vystan is quietly rum-
maging in the packs for something to eat.
You sit up. The normally choppy lake is clear and
mirror-smooth, without a ripple. The breeze has died
to a strange, stifling heaviness. You struggle to your
knees, squinting into the still, green depths.
“Something’s wrong. . .” you say.
A wheezy, gushing sound sighs over the boat, but
doesn’t disturb the water. You look up. In the boat’s
stern, Peri is fighting for breath. Vystan bends over
18 KEM ANTILLES
him, wiping the blood from Peri’s stomach with a strip

of damp cloth. When the cloth is soaked with blood,
Vystan holds it over the side of the boat and wrings —
out the rusty, pinkish water.
Beatrix sits up, also uneasy, shaking her long braid
and fingering the dagger at her hip. Bresnor flicks his
glance from side to side, suspicious.
You gaze across the lake at the trees bordering the
shore. The morning mist has faded, but the lake
remains still. You lean over the side to splash cool
water on your face—just in time to see an immense
dark shape drifting under the boat, only a few feet
below the surface. You draw back, jarring the boat.
Beatrix looks sharply at you.
Grigneth and Bresnor continue to row, unaware of
the shadow. Vystan washes the bloody cloth again,
dipping it over the side of the boat and leaving red
swirls in the water. Below, the shadow eases slowly
toward the stern.
You grip the gunwale with both hands. “Vystan,”
you say quietly, afraid the thing under the water will
hear you. “Put the rag down. There’s something fol-
lowing the boat.”
Vystan turns, pulling the cloth out of the water, but
it still drips into the lake. “What?” he says, looking
puzzled.
“T’m not sure,” you say, “but I think it’s attracted
by the blood.”
Grigneth and Bresnor stop rowing. Bresnor’s
shoulders hunch as he peers over the side of the boat.
Grigneth sighs with exhaustion and stretches his
arms, more concerned with his aching muscles than
any potential danger.
With a sudden splash, a glistening black behemoth
rises out of the water next to Vystan, thrashing and
hissing. Vystan gives a startled cry and jerks away, but
the creature’s pincers—the size and shape of black-
smith’s tongs—close around his hand with a wet
clack. ‘
Vystan screams as the boat rocks to one side. Beat-

-rix lunges to her feet, trying to keep her balance in the
rocking boat. Bresnor grabs for his longbow. Grigneth
huddles down in the bottom of the boat.
_ “Vystan! Let go of the rag!” you shout, scrambling
over the others to reach him.
The portly man’s pasty face is shiny with sweat as
the mandibles of the monster squeeze down on his
hand, keeping him from moving his fingers. “I’m...
Im trying!”
The creature rises out of the water, spitting spray
from its mouth. Two huge, shiny black eyes glitter in
the cloudy sunlight as beads of water run off its
smooth, shiny carapace. The giant water beetle’s club-
like antennae thrash wildly along the sides of its neck-
less, human-sized head.
Vystan tries to wrench his hand away, but the bee-
tle twists in the water, yanking him against the side of
the boat. Long, jointed legs skitter against the wooden
hull, pulling, trying to drag Vystan overboard into the
lake.
“Help me!” Vystan cries.
Finally reaching him, you grab Vystan’s breeches to
keep him from being dragged over the side. The giant
beetle’s pincers scrape down his hand, tearing his flesh
as they fasten on the bloody cloth. The cloth disap-
pears into its clicking mandibles and dozens of mov-
ing mouth parts.
Vystan jerks his hand free, collapsing onto the bot-
tom of the boat. Groaning, Peri tries to sit up and
crawl away from the struggle.
With a quiet splash, the water beetle slips below the
surface with its prize, a silvery bubble of air sheathing
the underside of its body. With alternating kicks of its
flat, reddish-black legs, it glides deep underwater and
disappears.
“Take the oars!” you cry. “Let’s get out of here
before that thing comes back.”
Beatrix shoves Grigneth aside to take one of the
20 KEM ANTILLES
oars. Bresnor grabs his oar, and together they begin to
row furiously. Trembling, Vystan settles back onto his
seat, holding his gashed hand and trying to fashion a
bandage from another rag.
Peri groans and grasps the gunwale, pulling himself
into a sitting position, moving toward the stern. The
injured swordsman’s wheezing becomes a ragged
panting. He rests his head on the side of the boat.
Leaning over the side, you search the water for the
giant beetle. Nothing. Everything is calm. . . too
calm. As she rows, Beatrix scans the lake behind you.
“What was that thing?” she asks.
“A giant water beetle,” you say. “Every now and
then they attack the fishing boats near Crockport.”
“Can we kill it?” she asks, glancing meaningfully
down at her lance. “I’ve had some experience spear-
fishing.”
“T don’t know,” you say. “Maybe it won’t come
back. It got what it wanted.”
“We could always use Grigneth as bait,” she mut-
ters.
Grigneth tries to shrink down into the bottom of
the boat.
You glance at Vystan, wondering if he’ll be able to
wield his flail with his injured hand. You reach for
your own weapons. Your whip and oaken sword are
useless against the beetle’s armored shell. You pick up
Bresnor’s bow and nock an arrow, careful not to touch
its metal tip. Maybe you can find a vulnerable spot if
the thing rises out of the water again. Your greatest
fear is that it will capsize the boat. You’re far enough
out that it may be difficult to reach the shore.
You whirl at a startling, retching sound at the far
end of the boat. Groaning, Peri coughs blood. It
splashes over the gunwale and into the water. “Peri!”
you shout. “Cover your mouth!”
Peri slumps to the side, his head lolling over the
gunwale so far that his black mustache nearly dangles
in the water. Before anyone can reach the injured
» 2D KEM ANTILLES
man’s side, the giant beetle surges out of the water, its
pincers gripping Peri’s head. Long, sharp legs reach
over the gunwale, grab Peri’s shoulders, and lunge
backward. The weight of the beetle drags him over the
side of the boat. Without uttering a sound, Peri disap-
pears beneath the frothy pink water.
Stunned, you stare at the bubbles rising from the
murky depths. Grigneth screams. No one else says a
word. You hold your breath, waiting. Soon something
pale and sacklike floats to the surface, a shriveled
package wrapped in shredded clothes, little more than
Peri’s skin.
“By the gods!” Vystan whispers. “What hap-
pened?”
~ Beatrix’s knuckles whiten around her lance. “It
sucked him dry, that’s what.”
A choking sound escapes Grigneth. He sputters,
then swallows. Bresnor shivers.
“Can we kill it?” Vystan says. Beatrix stands up and
takes her lance, ready to skewer the beast as soon as it
rises again. Deep below the boat, the dark shape con-
tinues to circle.
“T’m not sure,” you say. “It might be better to try to
outrun it. If it’s attracted to spilled blood—”
“Here it comes again!”
Bresnor shouts, pointing.
Twenty yards away, a black shadow closes in on
your boat. Beatrix and Vystan turn to you. “Well?”
Vystan says. “Do we fight or try to outrun it?”
If you decide to fight the water beetle, turn

to 30.
If you prefer to try to outrun it, turn to 38.
“Back away from the horgar . . . carefully,” you say

as you begin to inch backward. You motion for your
companions to lower their weapons. “The risk is too

great. I don’t see any way we can kill it.”
Renda, still looking terrified, nods in reluctant
agreement. “Its skin is as hard as rock,” she says. “I’ve
never heard of anyone killing one of those things.”
“You heard her,” you say. “No heroes. Everybody
keep his distance. Don’t provoke it.”
Relf looks out at you helplessly from behind the crea-
ture’s massive body. It could crush him at any second.
Renda calls out, “Don’t move, Relf!”
Her twin nods. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere.”
He freezes as the horgar oozes toward him.
You and your companions continue to back away
slowly toward the cave entrance, afraid to make any
sudden movement. The horgar shifts uneasily, rum-
bling. Relf swallows and presses tighter against the
wall. Silently you pray that the creature will ignore
him. You can feel the veins in your temples throbbing.
The horgar raises itself slightly. Relf huddles
against the cave wall.
“It’s going to kill him if we don’t do something,”
Renda cries, taking a step forward, grabbing for her
bow.
You grab her arm. “If it wanted to kill him, it
wouldn’t have waited this long,” you say softly.
Renda pauses, her muscles taut as a bowstring
beneath your hand. Suddenly the horgar heaves its
body toward the cave wall, blocking your view of Relf.
Renda gasps. “No!” she shrieks. She tears free of
your grip and sprints back into the cave. You hear
nothing from Relf.
You sprint after her, ordering the others to stay
where they are.
_ The sluggish creature butts its head against the
wall. You hear the rock hiss loudly, like water being
tossed on a fire. The wall dissolves, and the horgar
begins to slither forward into the newly created tun-
nel, chewing its way through the rock with its power-
ful acid.
2a KEM ANTILLES
As the last of the creature disappears into the tun-

nel, Relf runs to Renda.
You let out a sigh of relief. You clap Relf and Renda
on their backs, then walk back to the others. “Let’s try
a different direction . . . okay?”
“You know, I got the feeling the horgar didn’t really
want to kill me,” Relf says slowly. “I think it was just
protecting itself. That’s why it turned away when you
left it alone.”
You examine the horgar’s original passage. It must
have just tunneled in from somewhere when you first
came upon it. You tell your companions to search the
surrounding caves for another tunnel.
After a few minutes, Relf calls out, “I found it!
Over here!”
You and your companions converge toward his
waving torch. Relf stands at the opening to another
smooth tunnel. It slopes gently upward.
“The sides don’t feel hot,” Relf says. “Look.” He
puts his hand on the tunnel wall.
The smell of acid is faint. Only a few puddles spot
the floor. You feel a slight draft in your hair. “This is
an old tunnel,” you say.
“TI say we follow it,” Renda urges. “The torches
won’t last much longer. We’ve got to find a way out.”
“TI agree,” you say, fingering the Dragon’s Eye.
“We’ve got to get to Crockport.”
You and your comrades enter the old horgar tun-
nel. The passage steepens gradually. Before long,
you’re all breathing hard. It wouldn’t be so bad if you
weren’t already so tired and hungry. Your legs feel like
lead weights. The muscles in your thighs and calves
spasm with fatigue.
The others aren’t managing much better. You call a
rest at a level spot in the tunnel and plop down on the
hard floor.
“How much farther can this passage go before it
reaches the surface?” Relf asks.
Renda licks her lips. “I don’t know. I didn’t think
we were so deep underground.”

“Neither did I,” you say. “But I’ve lost all my sense
of direction.”
You heave yourself to your feet. Your whole body is
stiff and your arms and legs are dead tired, but it
won’t get better until you can get some fresh air, good
food, and cool water. Your head spinning, you put a
hand against the wall to keep from falling.
With a loud cry of pain, you yank your hand away,
your fingers burned. “Watch out for the walls,” you
say. “There seems to be more acid.”
You raise your torch. But it’s not acid. Instead, a
vein of bright silver glimmers in the flickering light. It
must be the metal that touched your skin.
“Do you think we’re getting close to the mines?”
Renda asks.
“Maybe,” you say. “If we are, it can’t be far to an
exit. Those miners had to get in and out somehow.”
You and your companions forge ahead with renewed
energy. After a while, the tunnel levels out and the
pace picks up.
A faint current of air brushes your face. The air
smells dank but fresh, not as stale as it has been.
You hurry forward. “At last... at last,” you mutter,
looking for a glimmer of sunlight. But the tunnel leads
into a cavern so large that you can’t even see the other
side. You stop, your stomach tightening. It’s not a
mine. Worse, you can’t see where the tunnel exits
from the cavern.
Your companions cluster in a tight knot around
you. Renda sighs heavily. “It looks like it was a false
hope. I guess there’s nothing to do but start checking
out these other tunnels,” she says.
“It sure looks that way,” you say. You follow the
others across the cave as they fan out, peering into the
small passages leading away from the grotto walls.
A few minutes later, a voice cries out, then falls
silent. You and several others hurry toward the noise.
Torches cluster around a large outcropping of stone
. 26 KEM ANTILLES
where Relf stands alone, waving his hands.

“What happened?” you ask as you rush to the edge
of a pit to join Relf.
Relf turns to you, his eyes wide in his pale face.
“Tt’s Renda. . . she’s fallen into the pit,” he says.
Turn to 16.
You clutch the eye hidden beneath your tunic.

Many people have already died to keep the talisman
away from the evil wizard’s grasp. Now Fostyr will be
among them.
With an aching heart, you slip back into the bushes
with your companions and head away from the orc
camp. Your path leads up a gradual slope to the crest
of a low ridge.
You stumble, unable to concentrate on where
you’re going. Branches whip your face, as if punishing
you or trying to yank you back. But you stagger ahead,
trying to escape from the feeling that you are deserting
Fostyr.
You tell yourself there was no way for you to save
your friend. There were just too many orcs. And
Gorak. And Tyrion. What could you have done alone,
or even with the small group of fighters beside you?
And could you really have asked all of them to risk
their lives for one person, especially at the risk of los-
ing the eye?
Behind you, you hear the orcs cry out, cheering
and chanting. You can’t keep yourself from turning
around again. You force yourself to watch.
Through the branches, you can still see Fostyr
flanked by the wizard and the orog. Time seems to
click into slow motion. Fostyr holds his head up high,
confident that he has accomplished his mission.
You want to close your eyes, but you can’t. You.
stare at the scene in horror.

Gorak’s muscles ripple as the orog puts all of its
strength behind the axe blow, swinging it downward.
Fostyr doesn’t even cry out. He dies in silence.
The orcs scream and cheer, dancing around their
bonfire.
You jam a fist into your mouth and bite down on
your knuckles to keep from crying out. Your knees go
watery. You lean against the rough trunk of a tree. You
keep telling yourself there’s nothing you could have
done. Nothing you could have done...
Your companions come back to get you, supporting
you as they retreat. They move off through the forest,
away from the burning lights of the orc camp and to
safety.
“There was nothing we could do,” your compan-
ions tell you. You barely hear them. “We must live to
fight another day.”
You swallow and nod, finally able to walk unaided
again. The wind blows cold through the trees.
Ahead of you, one of your companions shouts. You
jerk your head up. “What is it?” you ask, one hand
reaching automatically for your wooden sword.
“Look!” someone shouts. “Some of the others
must have made it out of the tower!”
You quicken your pace. Soon the armed group
appears, ten fighters in all. As they draw near, you rec-
ognize a thin man with a goatee, a minister of Count
Delwyn’s named Fabius. Now, however, he is wearing
full armor and leading an escort of fighters.
Fabius approaches your party slowly, two burly sol-
diers at his shoulders. “We’re looking for some
friends,” Fabius says.
_ “Which friends?” you ask.
Fabius narrows his eyes. You can sense he is trying
to decide what to tell you, and how much. “The ones
who were supposed to meet Count Delwyn. We know
of your mission. If you still have the eye, we will escort
you to safety.”
28 KEM ANTILLES
“T have it,” you say, but you feel no enthusiasm for

the end of your quest. Not after seeing Fostyr’s death.
You pull out the pouch with the eye and tug the
strings binding the opening. You lift up the pearly
sphere. Your companions gasp. Fabius reaches for the
pouch, but you shake your head. “I have orders to
give it to the count myself,” you say.
Fabius considers this. “Fair enough,” he says. “Fol-
low us.”
You nod, relieved. “We can use the help. Enough of
us have died at Tyrion’s hands. Too many.”
As you walk, you forge a vow of vengeance. You
failed this time, but you know your chance will come
again. You swear to make the orcs and Tyrion pay
‘dearly for Fostyr’s death.
Someday you will fight them again—and next time,
you will win.
The End
“Go, Corlen!” Fostyr says. “Into the tunnel!”

You hesitate in front of the dark opening, unwilling
to leave your friend to certain death. The last of the
defenders squeeze past you, scrambling down the
stairs. If you don’t go with them now, it will be too late.
“Save the eye,” Fostyr urges. “If you don’t, every-
thing we’ve done here means nothing.”
You grit your teeth. “Fostyr, I can’t—”
“Stop arguing! I'll follow when I can.”
Seven orcs leap from the stones in front of him.
Their lips curl into snarls as they advance. Before you
can react, Fostyr lets out a fierce battle cry. He rushes
the orcs. Within seconds, they swarm over him, and
he is lost in a flurry of swords and clubs. Other orcs
advance toward you, blocking Fostyr from view.
Your heart stops, then races. There’s nothing you
_SIEGE OF THE TOWER 29
can do now except avenge Fostyr—and keep the
Dragon’s Eye safe.
An orc with a cat-o’-nine-tails jumps from the
crumbling walls and lunges at you. You parry its
attack, using its own momentum to force it to one
side, bowling down two others. Without a glance
behind you, you turn and leap down the steps after
the rest of the party.
Three orcs follow you to the stairs. Their breathing
rasps against the stone walls, the clank of their swords
echoing in your ears.
“Hurry, Corlen!” someone shouts ahead of you. In
the blackness, you can make out the edge of a heavy
door lit from behind by torches. You take the remain-
ing stairs three at a time. At the last second the door
creaks open, and you stumble through, falling to one
knee before catching your balance.
An orc’s shrill scream pierces the air. The hair on
the back of your neck prickles as the door clangs shut.
One of the orcs slams into it, then smashes at the door
with its battle-axe. But bronze-haired Relf slams a
heavy crossbar in place.
Renda shrugs her bow higher on her shoulder, then
grasps you by one arm. “Where’s Fostyr?” she demands.
You shake your head.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know he was your best
friend.” She helps you to your feet.
“Thanks,” you say.
Relf thumps the side of his fist against the heavy
door. You can hear orcs pounding on the opposite
side. “That door won’t hold them for long, but we can
at least get a head start.” Relf slips off one of the two
quivers on his shoulder and hands it to you. “Here...
you may need this.”
The last of the tower defenders gather around you.
Beside you stands a broad-shouldered man with a
battle-axe. Another big man, Turloc, slouches next to
him, a flail dangling in his hand. Several others mass
behind them. Ten torches flicker in the dark, enough
ae KEM ANTILLES
to last a few days if you burn only one at a time.
The door splinters and shudders behind you as
more of the orcs begin to hack at it with their axes.
You estimate five minutes, ten at the most, before the
enemy soldiers break through the door.
“Where to?” someone asks, glancing warily at the
door as if expecting it to shatter at any moment.
“We’ve got to get to a place we can defend easily,”
you say. “We’d better get moving.” A murmur of
assent rises from the group.
You take the lead down the corridor. Relf grabs a
torch from one of the others and walks beside you.
Renda follows a few steps behind, mirroring her twin’s
moves. You order the flail wielder and the soldier with
the battle-axe to guard the rear.
After several minutes, you come to an intersection
where four corridors come together. Good, you think,
sticking to the main one. The orcs will have to guess
which one you followed. Fostyr knew these tunnels
well and would have known exactly where to go, but
he can’t help you now.
A pang of loss swells your throat. You swallow, forc-
ing yourself to concentrate. You can worry about
avenging his death later. For now, you have to get
away with the eye.
The tunnel winds through several bends before it
finally straightens out. You can well imagine that the
Dragon’s Eye could have been lost for centuries.
Your party passes two doors, both of them locked.
After another few minutes, you see a third door, larger
than the other two.
You approach it cautiously, ears straining for any
sound, but you hear nothing beyond it. You try the
handle. This door is unlocked. Renda and several oth-
ers stand ready behind you. You take a deep breath,
then pull on the handle.
The door opens into what looks like an empty
room, with another door on the opposite side. You
pause in the doorway. ‘
_SIEGE OF THE TOWER 31
“What’s wrong?” Turloc asks. “What’s in there?”

“Be quiet,” you answer, peering into the room. The
light from Relf’s torch flickers on the walls, illuminat-
ing designs carved into the stone. On closer look, you
see that they are bas relief sculptures of gods in
human form. A semicircular dais sticks out from each
wall, beneath the image of each god. A place to kneel
and pray. You’ve never seen this place before. It smells
of dust and decay.
You cross the room and open the second door. It
leads into a straight corridor, identical to the one
behind you.
The room looks like a good place to face the orcs,
with only one way in and one way out. They won’t be
able to outflank you, and you can retreat if necessary.
“We'll set up here,” you announce. “We have a
clear shot down the corridor with our bows, and only
one orc can attack at a time through that door.”
Five minutes later, everyone is in position, waiting
tensely. You station Turloc and the soldier with the
battle-axe at the second door in case the orcs find
their way around and to cover your retreat should it
become necessary. Everyone has weapons held ready.
“Wait ...I heard something,” Renda says. She
points to the chiseled bas relief sculpture next to the
axe wielder. “A scratching sound . . it sounded like it
came from that wall over there.”
With a flickering motion, the carved image of the
god begins to move, pushing and struggling as it
emerges from the wall, taking on three-dimensional
form. Slowly it steps out onto the dais, looking down
at the intruders.
Turloc stumbles back in fear and surprise, his flail
raised and his eyes as big as plates. The stone god
slowly rotates its head, then takes a step toward the
axe wielder. The soldier feints to one side, then ducks
in, swinging hard. The metal axe chings off the stone
but causes no damage. In a motion too quick to see,
the statue tears the axe from the man’s hands. Thrown
_ SIEGE OF THE TOWER 33
off balance, the soldier trips and falls.

You rush forward, grabbing your whip. If you can
tangle up one of the god’s legs or arms, maybe you
can pull it off balance.
Before you get a chance, the flail wielder darts in.
His metal flail clangs loudly off the statue’s stone arm.
The god catches the next blow with one hand. Grip-
ping the flail’s iron chains, it yanks Turloc to the floor
at its feet. It clenches its free hand and raises it like a
boulder, ready to pound its victim flat.
“No!” Turloc cries, lifting his hands to protect his
face. He ceases his struggles.
The fist freezes, and the stone god turns to look for
another target, leaving the flail wielder cowering on
the floor. A rock catches the deity in the side of the
head and glances off. Relf pales, his fingers trembling
around more rocks gathered from the floor of the
chamber. The stone god turns to face him.
It moves surprisingly quickly this time, ignoring the
rest of the group. Renda pushes her twin brother
aside. Relf drops his rocks, and the stone god ignores
him, turning its attention to Renda. She stands with
her bow drawn, determination creasing her brow.
“Don’t shoot, Renda,” you shout. “If you hold your
fire, it won’t attack!”
Renda stands rigid, her bow drawn. At any second,
you expect her to let the arrow fly, goading the god to
kill the bronze-haired archer.
But she resists her impulse to shoot. The stone god
stops in its tracks, waiting.
“Stand still,” you order the others. “Don’t do any-
thing to threaten it. That’s what makes it attack.”
You lower your whip to your side. The rest of your
companions do the same with their weapons. You can
hear your heart hammering. You hope you’ve guessed
right.
The god raises the hand clutching Turloc’s flail,
then drops the weapon to the ground, where it clangs
hollowly on the stone floor. “Go,” the god says. “Do
34 KEM ANTILLES
not come back until there is no hatred in your hearts.”
“Let’s get out of here,” you hiss. Turloc grabs his
flail and hurries for the exit. You follow out the far
door behind them. Renda waits for you.
“T don’t think we have to worry about any orcs that
enter that room,” she says with a grim smile. “They'll
never get out alive.”
“Let’s hope so,” you say, wishing that the same tac-
tic that worked with the stone sculpture would work
with the orcs. But you know it won’t happen. You and
Renda hurry to catch up with the others.
Go to 37.
The murky Vesve Forest absorbs the tumult of the

clash behind you. The thick white oaks and fragrant
laurel trees smother the battle cries of orcs and humans.
Your companions are uneasy, no doubt thinking
thoughts similar to your own—that you have left the
others at the tower to their fates, while you flee into
the forest like cowards. But you must believe your
mission is important, too. You and your companions
must take the Dragon’s Eye to safety.
Beside you, Beatrix’s horse switches its tail, its ears
folded back. Beatrix calms the beast with a soft shush-
ing sound. When he hears it, Peri turns and glares at
her. Your party proceeds with great care deeper into
the forest beneath the thick, folded tree branches,
wary of wide-ranging orc patrols. The forces of Iuz
may well anticipate your band’s mission, and you
must be ready for anything.
Your horse is as skittish as Beatrix’s, pulling at the
bit and blowing softly. Its ears flatten and it backs up a
few steps.
“Do you think the horses can smell the orcs?” you
ask. :
- SIEGE OF THE TOWER 35
“Maybe,” Peri says, scowling. His black mustache

dances on his upper lip as he talks. “That’s why we
_ have to be quiet.”
Fostyr glances around, looking up as a group of
night birds stirs in the branches overhead. You peer
between the nearby trees but see nothing. No one
dares ignite a torch to light the way through the dark-
ened woods.
Pressing your knees into your horse’s ribs, you coax
the animal forward. Off to your left, a tangle of bram-
bles shivers, rustling like a hissing snake. A swooping
sound fans the air. You clamp your mouth shut to
keep from crying out. An owl rises with a field mouse
in its talons. Only an owl, you tell yourself. Only an
owl. You are the leader here, and you must keep up a
brave front.
The quiet deepens around you.
“Nothing to worry about,” Fostyr whispers.
Suddenly Bresnor shouts behind you as a fully
armed orc scout crashes out of the underbrush in
front of the horses. Sweat sheens its pitted green face.
Its red eyes gleam, and its jumbled teeth gnash
together as it hoists its battle-axe.
Everyone moves at once, drawing their weapons.
Twisting in your saddle, you unsling your bow and
nock an arrow. Before you can shoot, however,
blonde-haired Beatrix, nearest the orc, runs the mon-
ster through with her lance. Then, with a heave from
her strong biceps, she flings the body aside. Beatrix
yanks her lance free and tosses her long braid over her
shoulder. She looks at the rest of the party smugly.
“That was easy enough,” she says.
With an ear-piercing cry, another orc leaps from
behind an oak tree in front of you, its rusty-toothed
flail raised. Without a second’s hesitation, you draw
back your bowstring and let fly. The orc crumples to
the ground, clutching the arrow in its neck.
A thick black arrow whistles over your shoulder,
just missing your ear. You hear someone groan and
Bei: KEM ANTILLES
collapse beside you. With a surly expression, Bresnor

lowers his bow. You whirl to look down at a third orc
sprawled on its back amid a tangle of brambles, its
pike fallen to the ground beside it.
“Thanks, Bresnor.. .”
Shouts ring through the trees, drawing nearer.
Then the shouts suddenly stop. The silence is eerie.
“We'd better get out of here fast,” you say, nocking
another arrow. “We need to put some distance between
us and the tower.”
Fostyr and Peri, with Bresnor between them,
search the surrounding forest. Grigneth sits hunched
on his horse, his hands twisting the reins, his leather
helmet crammed down on his head. He scratches the
reddish stubble on his chin.
As you wait, you peer into the shadows. A twig
snaps somewhere off to the right, and you draw your
bow, waiting for more orcs to appear. A doe steps
from the copse, freezes, then bounds away.
You let out your breath, wiping sweat from your
forehead. Your heart hammers in your chest. You’ve
got to get the eye out of here or all is lost.
You glance at Grigneth. During the attack, Grig-
neth didn’t draw his sword at all. You’re concerned
that he may have a hidden streak of cowardice. You
decide to watch him closely. Perhaps you should carry
the eye yourself, but you doubt Grigneth would give it
to you willingly.
Grigneth fingers the leather thong around his neck.
The pouch bobs up from under his jerkin. He releases
the pouch, and it disappears again.
With the sound of cracking underbrush, Fostyr,
Peri, and Bresnor return, their eyes flashing. “Orcs all
over the place,” Peri says, tugging on his mustache.
“Too many for us to fight,” Bresnor adds, shifting
his longbow behind him.
“We’ve found a few alternatives, though,” Fostyr
says. “We’re not far from the lake.” He points off
through the forest. “There’s a boat docked at the end
of an old wharf. If we get to the boat, we can get to

Crockport by water.”
“Another possibility is a cave nearby,” Bresnor
pipes up. “It probably connects to the tunnels beneath
the tower. You can see it from the pier.”
“Good thinking,” you say. You take a deep breath.
“But we aren’t trying to get back to the tower. We
have to deliver the eye. Let’s head for the boat.” You
look at Bresnor. “If we can’t make it to the boat, we’ll
head for the cave.”
Everyone nods. You take the lead and wind your
way through the trees. Fostyr stays close to Grigneth,
who mutters to himself and keeps fondling the eye
beneath his leather breastplate.
Meanwhile you scan the woods around you. The
continued silence of the orcs unnerves you. Where are
they, anyway? They must know you’re here. What are
they planning? You tense every time a twig snaps or a
bush rustles.
Finally you can see the shimmer of the lake in the
moonlight through the trees. You glance over your
shoulder and nod to your companions. Everyone
quickens the pace. As you approach the last stand of
laurel, you spy the pier, made of rotted slats of wood
balanced on old stump pilings driven out into the
muck of the shallows. Tied to one of the pilings is a
wooden boat, partially filled with scummy rainwater.
You’ll have to leave the horses and most of your
provisions behind, but the passage across the water
will be much safer than creeping through the orc-
infested forest. All you have to do is cross the gravelly
beach under the cover of darkness as the orc army is
busy beseiging the tower. Then you and your party
_can clamber into the boat and set off across the dark,
choppy waters. Motioning to the others with one arm,
you spur your horse forward.
Partially concealed by the drooping branches of a
dead willow, a cave mouth yawns off to your left, a
slash of deeper black in the steep bank of the lake-
38 KEM ANTILLES
shore. Only as a last resort, you think. You might be

able to lose the orcs in the winding tunnels, but that
would only cost you time and get you no nearer to the
end of your quest.
“Let’s go,” you say quietly, heading toward the pier.
The rocky beach makes crackling sounds under your
horse’s hooves.
As you venture out into the open, a hideous war cry
rends the air. Startled, you swivel in your saddle.
Behind you, grinning orcs spill from the woods,
swords and battle-axes gleaming, pikes held high.
They’ve been waiting for you!
Shouting, the orcs fall on your companions. The
orcs are too close for you to use your bow effectively.
You uncoil the whip at your waist and turn to fight.
“We can handle them,” Fostyr shouts with stoic
humor. “There’s only a couple dozen of them!”
“Good thing we’ve got the horses,” Peri, the
swordsman, grunts as he joins in the fray beside Beat-
rix and her deadly lance. “I know I advised against it,”
he says, killing a yelling orc with a wide sweep of his
sword, “but you were right, Corlen. We’d be dead
meat on foot.”
You and Fostyr cluster around Grigneth and the
Dragon’s Eye as Fostyr’s sword slices through the
neck of the nearest orc. Moving away from the battle,
Bresnor nocks an arrow, aiming at an orc swinging a
flail studded with poison thorns. The air whistles as
Bresnor releases the bowstring. The orc stumbles to
the ground, its chest pierced by the arrow.
At Grigneth’s flank, you engage two orcs at once,
slicing long gashes across their pocked faces with the
tip of your whip.
With a sweep of her lance, Beatrix guts the orc
nearest her, then growls as an arrow grazes her thigh.
Vystan crushes the skulls of two orcs with a circular
sweep of his flail.
In a blur of motion, another orc hurls itself at you,
its halberd raised high. With a crack of your braided
leather whip, you flick the weapon from its hand, then
lash out again. The whip coils tightly around the orc’s
neck, crushing its windpipe. Then, with a quick jerk
of your wrist, you snap the creature’s neck. Tugging
the whip free, you urge your horse over the orc’s body
and deeper into the heart of the skirmish.
You crack your whip, nicking the hands of an orc
archer aiming at Fostyr. The arrow is deflected off tar-
get, but it plunges deep into the heart of your friend’s
mount. Fostyr’s horse stumbles, throwing him to the
ground as more orcs swarm out of the forest, scream-
ing battle cries.
You gallop toward Fostyr, grabbing his thin arm
and easily pulling him up onto your horse in front of
you. He clasps your horse’s neck, panting, as you
move past his own dying mount. “We’ve got to save
Grigneth and the eye!” Fostyr exclaims.
You wheel your horse and charge back down the
gravel beach. Small, broken stones fly out beneath the
horse’s hooves. You gallop between Grigneth’s flank
and an orc with a battle-axe. Fostyr lets loose of your
horse’s neck with one arm and uses his sword to lop
off the orc’s hand. Snapping out with your whip, you
manage to disarm an orc archer, breaking his fingers
with the stinging force of the blow. But more of the
monsters continue to emerge from the trees.
In front of you, the enemy captain, an orog—a
creature larger and meaner and more intelligent than
the rest of the orcs in the ambush party—stands on
the beach, bellowing, its purplish face knotted with
hatred. “Get eye! Where is eye?”
One of the other orcs shouts, pointing at Grigneth.
“Eye here, Gorak!”
_ The orog shouts a command to all of his soldiers to
attack. Finding their target, the orcs swarm toward
Grigneth. Beatrix, Peri, and Vystan rush to head them
off. Bresnor urges his horse closer to Grigneth’s, try-
ing to get off a clear shot with his longbow.
You and Fostyr, already close to Grigneth, brace
40 KEM ANTILLES
for the onslaught. You clutch the oaken sword at your
hip, drawing it. You curse the wizard Tyrion and the
spell that forbids you to touch metal. Someday Tyrion
will pay for that. And for your father’s death.
If you live that long.
With Fostyr in front of you, you spur your mount
forward to help Grigneth. Then you freeze. Around
Gorak’s neck hangs an amulet bearing a raven’s head
... the wizard Tyrion’s symbol.
An orc leaps in front of you, screaming and waving
its sword. Your horse rears unexpectedly. You grab the
reins, accidentally wrapping your fingers around a
metal buckle, which sears like fire into your knuckles.
With a cry of pain, you tumble from the horse, land-
ing on the bow strapped to your back. It snaps in two.
Fostyr struggles with the frightened horse but man-
ages to get it under control. “Let’s get Grigneth out of
here,” Fostyr shouts. “Head for the boat!”
Your quiver slips from your shoulder as you scram-
ble onto Grigneth’s horse in front of him. The flint-
tipped arrows spill to the ground. Vystan, Peri, and
Beatrix are already galloping for the boat.
“Get to the boat, Corlen! It’s our only chance,”
Fostyr calls between gritted teeth.
“Come on!” Grigneth shouts in panic, grabbing
your shoulders and trying to snatch the reins out of
your burned fingers.
Fostyr swats the flank of Grigneth’s horse with the
flat of his blade. The startled horse races toward the
lake. Peri gallops to join you; then Vystan and Beatrix
bound from the trees. They flank Grigneth, shielding
him from the orc arrows and spears.
You swing around to look. Fostyr hacks wildly with
his sword, blocking a group of orcs trying to get past
him to the beach, but he is only one against many.
Several orcs outflank him and hurry after you, their
short legs pumping furiously.
As you watch in horror, the huge orog captain pulls
Fostyr from your horse and holds him aloft, like a tro-
SIEGE OF THE TOWER 4l
phy, in the air. “Get out of here!” Fostyr screams at

you. “Save the eye!”
You turn to find that you have almost reached the
dock. You yank the horse to a halt, skittering gravel on
the rugged beach at the base of the pier.
Two orcs are only a short distance behind you,
puffing and snarling as they run with their heavy
weapons. Grigneth clambers down off his horse as the
others pull their mounts to a stop. You start to slide
out of the saddle just as the orcs hurl themselves at
you. The taller orc thrusts with a short sword. The
other swings at Grigneth with a mace.
Unconsciously Grigneth tries to dodge the mace,
but the heavy weapon glances off his forearm, which
begins to bleed freely. He grabs you desperately and
pulls you to the ground with him. As you struggle to
rise, he stuffs something down the neck of your jerkin.
Your fingers brush against it. It’s hard and cool and
round... the pouch with the Dragon’s Eye!
“This one has eye!” an orc shouts, grabbing Grig-
neth’s shoulder. “Get him!”
You stagger to your feet, reaching for your whip.
Grigneth leans forward, then draws his good arm back
and smashes the orc’s nose with a gloved fist, pulling
away from its grip. “I don’t have the eye, you fool!”
Grigneth says. “He does!”
“Get to the boat!” Peri shouts, already out on the
pier.
You start to run, then hesitate as more orcs rush
toward Grigneth. He meets them with flailing arms
and legs, a windmill of vicious kicks and punches. You
aren’t sure if he was being cowardly or giving you a
chance to get away with the precious talisman.
Stout Vystan and blonde Beatrix charge past you to
Grigneth’s aid. Vystan twirls his flail over his head. He
smashes it into the shoulder of the nearest orc, then
raises the flail again. With her bloody lance, Beatrix
skewers the other orc clinging to Grigneth.
You finger the whip, then withdraw your hand. The
,
4
—
pels
wy
i
\ Bhp a Ye Reales
A t 7a4
ey
B
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ae ay ans “e
eye rests like a heavy responsibility inside your jerkin.

That is your primary mission. You’ve got to keep it
from falling into Tyrion’s hands! Suddenly you under-
stand Grigneth’s reluctance to fight.
You turn and run, but you’re not sure which way to
go. The way to the cave is clear, and you could make it
there before the orcs realize what you’re doing. You
may be able to lose them in the tunnels.
Farther down the beach, a group of orcs is already
swarming into the waters of Lake Whyestil, hoping to
intercept the boat. You’re not even sure the old vessel
could carry your party. It looks as if it may split apart
and sink the moment anyone jumps aboard.
Bresnor and Peri are already racing down the pier,
motioning for you to follow. You start after them just
as two more orcs rush toward you, cutting you off.
You might be able to get to the boat, but you’ll have to
defeat both orcs, and by that time, a dozen more may
be upon you. It might be safer to flee to the protection
of the cave.
If you decide to head for the cave, go to 22.

If you elect to try to make it to the pier, turn
to 21.
10
Weary, sore, and cautious, you and your party steal

quietly through Vesve Forest. A light glimmers ahead
of you through the rustling leaves and branches. You
creep forward, reminding yourself that you are in
hostile territory. No doubt a number of orc scouting
parties are ranging even this far from Dragon’s Eye
~ Tower.
One of your companions in the lead stops and
holds up his hand to caution the others.
You approach as quietly as you can, picking your
way through vines and underbrush. You hear laughter
44 KEM ANTILLES
ahead of you, a loud, coarse laughter that chills your

blood, then the familiar rasp and snick of metal on
stone. Someone ahead is sharpening a sword or an
axe. An argument breaks out, followed by the sounds
of a scuffle. The stink of roasting, spoiled food and
the familiar reek of orcs sets your nerves on edge.
The other members of your party turn and look at
each other. “Let’s get out of here,” someone says.
“I’m with him,” says someone else. “If we stick
around, we’re as good as dead.”
You hesitate. You know your party is in grave dan-
ger, yet you’re curious about the orc camp at the same
time. It would be useful to know how many orcs there
are and if they’re preparing to break camp. And that
laugh. . . . But the Dragon’s Eye tugs at you, remind-
ing you of your first duty.
“All right,” you say. “We'll go. Quiet, everyone.”
You creep away, skirting the firelight. A branch
cracks under your boot. You freeze, but the distant
laughter gets louder. The orcs begin to cheer and
shout. Something important must be going on. At
least you don’t have to worry about them hearing you
over all the racket.
Suddenly a cry of pain pierces the air, a thin,
exhausted voice . . . a familiar voice.
You pass by a small opening in the brambles and
stop cold. You’re closer than you thought from the
edge of the orc camp, less than twenty yards in all. A
group of orcs is playing dice nearby. A pock-marked
orc draws its dagger, slobbering and cursing loudly, its
red eyes flashing. The other orcs join in the argument.
“Keep moving,” the flail wielder whispers through
gritted teeth. “They won’t see us.”
You start to move on when the orc lowers its dagger
and turns toward the main campfire. The other orcs
do the same. As they turn, you can see past them
briefly. You can’t tear your gaze away.
“What is it?” a spearwoman asks, edging up behind
you. “Guards?” ;
“No,” you say, your voice tight. “It’s my friend,

Fostyr. He’s still alive, and they’ve got him.”
Fostyr stands a few yards beyond the group of orcs,
his eyes glazed in the firelight. Looking emaciated, he
sways unsteadily on his feet, ready to collapse. You
swallow, anxious to do something but knowing your
chances are virtually zero. His skin is pale, covered
with dirt and bruises.
A purple-skinned orog steps forward and shoves
Fostyr to his knees. You recognize Gorak. The orog’s
sickly colored hands are wrapped around a chipped
but sharp battle-axe.
“Hurry,” the pike carrier urges. “Before they see
us.”
You wave your hand to silence your companion just
as a dark, charismatic man walks up next to Gorak.
He seems to flow like shadows on his feet.
Your pulse quickens. “Tyrion!” you mutter, feeling
your mouth become as dry as limestone.
The wizard stares at Fostyr, lips pinched and cruel
as he smiles down at your wiry friend. The spell-
engraved sword your father made for him hangs from
Tyrion’s hip.
The wizard unsheathes the sword. It shines with a
reddish luminance in the flickering firelight, like cop-
per... or blood. The runes your father etched into
the steel still gleam brightly, potently. Your lip curls in
a barely restrained snarl. Without those magical
runes, Tyrion would lack any skill with a sword.
The laughter in the camp dies down. The orcs look
expectantly at Tyrion.
“T’m tired of playing games,” Tyrion says to Fostyr.
“This is your last chance. Where is the Dragon’s
Eye?”
Fostyr lifts his chin. “I told you. It was taken to
Crockport just before you destroyed the tower.”
Tyrion shakes his head. “I have friends in Crock-
port. If the eye had been delivered to Count Delwyn, I
would know about it.”
. 46 KEM ANTILLES
“It’s not there?” Fostyr says, visibly shaken.

Tyrion steps closer. “You really don’t know, do
you?”
Fostyr says nothing.
Tyrion steps back. “I’m convinced he knows noth-
ing.” He turns to the hulking orog beside him. “He’s
all yours.”
The flail wielder leans close to you. “Enough of
this, Corlen,” he says. “We’ve waited long enough.
We’re going to get caught!”
“No,” you say. “We’ve got to help Fostyr.”
The spearwoman places a hand on your arm.
“There’s nothing we can do,” she says. “They out-
number us six to one.”
- In the firelight, Gorak steps forward. The orog wets
its lips and raises its huge battle-axe. Fostyr watches
with wide eyes, but does not cringe.
You shrug her hand from your arm, torn by indeci-
sion. Above all, you need to protect the eye, and if you
make any move now, you seem certain to be over-
whelmed. Fostyr has already sacrificed himself once
so you could save the eye. You’d never forgive yourself
if the talisman fell into Tyrion’s hands.
But at the same time, you would never forgive
yourself if you stood by and let Fostyr die.
If you choose to flee with your companions, go

to 7.
If you choose to try to rescue Fostyr, go to 29.
11
You decide to trust the second Count Delwyn,

despite—or perhaps because of—his willingness to
give up his sword only to you. Normally a count of the
Kingdom of Furyondy would never hand over his
weapon. But the fact that he is willing to part with it in
this instance convinces you to trust him. It’s not likely
an important man such as the count knows about the

curse that forbids you to touch metal. It wasn’t some-
_ thing you spoke of openly after your father’s death.
Few people in Crockport know.
Besides, you want to believe the man who has
found Fostyr, even if your friend seems to be trapped
_ under a spell. Once you have gotten rid of the eye, you
can take Fostyr to one of the magic-users in the city to
cure your friend. Your other companions look at you
uncertainly, but no one seems to have any better idea.
Even the captain of the guards and his men eagerly
watch the outcome of your decision.
“Count Delwyn, I offer you the Dragon’s Eye,” you
say. Kneeling, you reach into the pouch and lift out
the glasslike eye. It gazes coldly at you, feeling heavy
in your hand. A chill runs up your spine, as if frigid
power leaks out of its petrified depths.
The world seems to hold its breath. The wind
picks up again, whipping the count’s azure cloak so
that it unfurls and snaps behind him. His sword
remains drawn and extended out toward you, jeweled
hilt first, inviting you to take it. You can see no
expression at all in Delwyn’s eyes. Fostyr stands
immobile at the count’s side, staring blankly past your
right shoulder.
You spot a tiny flicker in your friend’s eyes. Is it
fear?
The count sheathes his sword and reluctantly low-
ers both hands, palms cupped, to receive the talisman.
“Give it to me.”
He snatches the eye and grips it tightly. A smile
carves his lips as he stares into its night-black pupil.
He whispers faintly, as if speaking into its dark depths.
“<«Two eyes from on high,’” the count intones.
“One eye to see into the mind and heart. One eye to
see the land below.’”
The ground begins to tremble. A shield with a coat
of arms on the wall behind the count clatters to the
courtyard. You back away, suddenly fearful of both
the Dragon’s Eye and Count Delwyn.
“He’s the sorcerer!” Beatrix shouts, realizing it even
as you do.
As the false count raises the talisman level with his
own gaze, he begins to shimmer. His azure cloak
deepens to coal black. His face changes. His skin
grows sallow, and his eyebrows thicken. His lips thin
to a cruel line, pale and scarlike. His voice, once deep
and resonant, fades to a scratchy whisper. The words
gurgle in his throat, shrouded with phlegm.
You grow numb with despair, unable to move. Your
arms and legs feel as heavy as iron.
“Thank you, dear Corlen,” Tyrion rasps. “For the
second time, you have failed miserably. When are you
going to learn? You couldn’t have helped me more if
you were one of my own orogs.”
Tyrion cackles, then bursts into a wreath of magical
flame. You cry out, singed and blinded by the sorcer-
ous flash. Everything around you vanishes into a red,
blurry haze.
Slowly the haze clears, and you can see again.
“Search the castle!” the true count orders, shouting
up to the guards on the battlements. “We have to find
him. He has the Dragon’s Eye!”
The captain hurries off with his guards. You sag to
the ground, your face buried in your hands.
“Corlen, what happened?” The voice sounds famil-
iar. Your heart leaps, and you look up. Fostyr stands
beside you, the blank look gone from his eyes. Tyrion’s
spell is broken, now that he no longer has use for the
captive young man. But the sorcerer himself has
escaped—and the eye is gone.
Now that Tyrion and the eye are joined, no one in
Furyondy can stand against them. You moan. What
will the future bring? Terrible battles . . . tremendous
grief. That much, at least, is certain.
The End
12
You decide to attack the horgar, hoping to distract

it long enough for Relf to scamper to safety. You bor-
row a bow and arrows from a companion.
“Attack from all sides,” you say. “We don’t know
how to kill it, but we’ll never know if we don’t try.”
You motion for your companions to fan out around
the enormous creature of liquid rock. The acid heat
rising from the beast flushes your face. The air around
it shimmers.
Renda nocks an arrow and takes aim. “Relf...
duck!” she calls. Her arrow skitters harmlessly off the
horgar’s back, its tip shattered. The arrow bursts into
flame as it grazes the rocky skin.
The horgar inches closer to the bronze-haired
archer, making it more difficult for anyone to hit the
creature without hitting Relf, too.
50 KEM ANTILLES
“Does the horgar have any weak spots?” you ask

Renda.
She shakes her head. “Its skin is supposed to be as
hard as rock. I’ve never heard of anybody killing one.”
She nocks another arrow and takes aim grimly along
its shaft. “But there’s always a first time.”
“We don’t need to kill it,” you say. “We just need to
get it to back off.”
“Enough talk,” says a burly, bald man with a huge
battle-axe. He hefts his weapon and lunges forward
with a yell, striking the horgar’s stony side. The
curved blade clangs, twisting in the man’s hands.
The horgar turns more quickly than you could
imagine possible for such an enormous creature. The
bald man steps back, his axe raised for another blow at
what looks like the horgar’s boulder-shaped head.
A stream of acid squirts from the creature, catching
the man full in the face. He screams, dropping his axe,
and stumbles away, both hands covering his eyes.
“T can’t see!” he screams, collapsing to the floor.
His head smokes and sizzles.
You and Turloc rush to his side, but there’s nothing
you can do. As you watch helplessly, the skin dissolves
away down to his skull.
A woman behind the horgar throws her spear. It
ricochets off, bouncing to the floor. Turloc leaps to his
feet and darts in with his flail. He slams the beast with
the jangling, flexible chains, then hastily retreats. The
horgar turns its back to Relf, but the young archer still
has no room to get past.
“Arrows and spears only,” you say. “Aim for its
head .. . that lumpy part on top.”
There must be an opening somewhere, something
vulnerable . . . a mouth or eyes or soft underbelly. But
you can’t imagine how to hurt a creature made of
solid rock.
A volley of arrows clatters off the horgar’s steaming
hide. They drop to the floor, their shafts in flames,
flickering like candles in the dim cave. »
‘
“Relf, just hold on!” Renda cries in an attempt to

comfort her twin.
Another spray of acid arcs from the horgar’s head.
_ Another man shrieks. He limps out of the firelight,
clutching his leg, where the skin smokes and bubbles.
You pull back your bowstring and shoot. The arrow
strikes the spot where you saw the acid spray from. It
lodges for a moment, then bursts into flames.
The horgar rears up, charging the woman who
threw the first spear. She leaps aside, diving to the
floor and rolling to avoid another spray of acid. Her
face contorts with pain. She wipes her left hand on
her tunic. Sweat pours down her chalk-white face as,
aghast, she watches her hand begin to sizzle.
“Now, Relf! Run!” Renda yells at her brother. She
nocks another arrow.
Relf darts past the horgar as the beast goes after the
spearwoman on the floor. The woman scoots to the
wall, pressing herself against the stone, ignoring her
burned hand.
Another fighter with a sword slips behind the hor-
gar. He raises the sword and plunges the tip of the
blade into a crevice in the rocky skin. Sparks shoot
from the metal.
The horgar twists in a fluid motion. The man leaps
to one side, but the horgar catches him in the hip. A
scream of agony escapes from the man as his leather
breeches burst into flame. As the man tries to smother
his burning clothes, the horgar sprays him with acid.
The man gurgles once, then collapses.
“Renda,” you call. You point toward the monster’s
head. She nods. You both shoot at the same time. The
arrows bury themselves in the horgar’s rocky snout.
Their shafts immediately catch fire. The horgar rears
up again, making a low, rumbling sound.
“Get back!” you shout, but the others are already
retreating from the cave. “Let’s get out of here.”
Relf hurries to join you and Renda. You urge them
ahead, bringing up the rear. You back out, keeping an
Sp) KEM ANTILLES
eye on the horgar.

The creature lumbers toward you, then halts, refus-
ing to follow farther. A few more steps and you
breathe easier. At the release of tension, weariness
floods your muscles. Your foot catches on a rock. You
fall to your knees. Renda grabs you by one arm and
helps you up.
You shake your head, mumbling an apology. You
had no idea how tired you were. You limp after
Renda, Relf, and the others, following them back to
the huge cavern.
You take stock. Two dead and several wounded,
burned by acid, and four torches lost, left behind in
the mad rush to escape.
You give everyone a few minutes to catch his
breath, then you clear your throat. “Let’s get out of
here,” you say. “No telling what else might be coming
after us.”
Turn to 27.
13
You ignore the stranger, but his appearance dis-

turbs you. Suddenly sober, you say to your compan-
ions, “I think we should get out of here.”
“What?” Vystan asks, his mouth stuffed from
another helping of stew. He looks sadly at his bowl.
Bresnor and Beatrix both sit up straight, suddenly
alert, and glance around at the crowd.
“Too many people are watching us,” you say. “The
sooner we get the eye delivered to Count Delwyn, the
better.”
You stand, stretching your aching legs. You would
love to wash up, change into fresh clothes, and sleep
in a warm, comfortable bed. But you cannot stop yet.
You look around, but the suspicious stranger has
vanished. “Come on,” you say, leading the others to
_ SIEGE OF THE TOWER a2
the door.
The innkeeper bustles in from the back room and
looks at the food remaining on your table. “We’ll be
back!” Vystan calls. “Make some more of that stew!”
As your group emerges from the Rusty Fishhook
into the narrow streets, you look around again, but no
one is in sight. Overhead, the moon is a bright eye,
shadowed by clouds.
“Where are we going?” Beatrix asks, holding her
lance at her side.
“To Count Delwyn’s castle,” you say. “Once we
deliver the eye, we can take a well-deserved rest.”
“That’s for sure!” Grigneth says. You, Bresnor, and
Beatrix all glare at him.
You hurry through the streets. Beatrix, Vystan, and
Bresnor walk beside you, while Grigneth lags behind,
complaining and limping on his wounded leg.
You know these streets well, and you grow more
confident as you lead your companions through back
roads to the southern outskirts of Crockport. It’s long
past midnight, and the town is quiet, sleeping. The
streets become deserted as the flickering torchlights at
intersections burn low. Even the night creatures have
gone back to their dens to doze in the deep stillness.
Moving with a strange hush, you cross a stone
bridge over a canal leading to Lake Whyestil, then
stop at a steep path that winds its way uphill to the
fortified castle of Count Delwyn.
As a child, you never ventured up the path to the
castle, knowing that the noble’s guards would keep
beggars and curiosity seekers away. Now you must
proceed. Your quest is nearly over.
“Tt’ll be good to get inside,” Grigneth says, slapping
his arms against the evening chill. “Maybe he’ll pro-
vide quarters for a few days. I could sure use a rest.”
Beatrix looks up at the tall structure. “Another
flagon of ale would sit well, too.”
“Not to mention breakfast,” Vystan adds.
“Well,” you say, “what are we waiting for?”
You begin trudging up the cobblestone path. Long
ago, Count Delwyn’s father enlisted large work crews
to pave the entire road up to the castle. The path
switches back sharply for a distance, then breaks
through the trees that line the hillside and levels out
slightly, angling up the craggy face of the mountain.
As you ascend, the wind picks up, blowing the
clouds across the moon, which is about to set on the
western horizon. The cold breeze howls in your ears
like a living thing, chilling you to the bone. You wrap
your cloak around you more tightly. So do the others.
“Why would anyone want to live way up here?”
Grigneth complains, huffing laboriously. The wind
nearly carries away his words.
“It’s easy to defend,” Bresnor answers him.
“Count Delwyn doesn’t trust anyone,” you add.
“He’s afraid someone will rob him, so he lives where
an army of trusted soldiers can guard him.”
“Delwyn doesn’t need any soldiers,” Vystan mut-
ters, looking up at the forbidding walls of the fortress,
shadowed in the predawn darkness. “An enemy would
be half dead from this hike by the time he got to the
count’s gates. Whew!”
Beatrix claps him on the shoulder. “You can die
here if you want, Vystan,” she says. “We’ll pick you up
on the way down.”
“Thanks,” Vystan says. The others chuckle.
The five of you pause beneath a rock outcropping,
sheltered from the wind. Huddling close, you rest for
a few minutes, then trudge onward, anxious to get to
the mountain’s summit and Count Delwyn’s castle.
“We’re almost there,” you say, as if trying to con-
vince yourself. The wind grows stronger as you
approach the summit. Your cloak flaps up around you
like a banner.
Finally the walls of Count Delwyn’s castle loom
before you, ancient stones weathered a deep gray-
black and splotched with lichen and moss. A guard
above the portcullis shouts a warning as you approach.
56 KEM ANTILLES
A handful of Delwyn’s guards appear beside the

crenellations of the wall to draw their longbows and
nock arrows.
“Identify yourselves,” the captain of the guard
booms over the howl of the wind. His gray leather
armor is the same color as the stones behind him. It’s
hard to see him in the fading moonlight.
You walk forward, arms spread wide. “My name is
Corlen. We’re on a mission from Dragon’s Eye
Tower,” you shout back. “My father was Corrh, the
swordmaker, once well known in these parts.”
“Your father was known far beyond Crockport.
What do you want?” asks the captain.
“We need to see Count Delwyn. He’s expecting us.
We have something to deliver to him.”
“The count is ill. He can’t see anyone.”
“Captain Jongh at Dragon’s Eye Tower told me to
deliver my package to no one but the count,” you
insist. “We’ve had a difficult journey, and the fate of
the land could depend on the success of our mission.
We must deliver this into his safekeeping.”
You pull the pouch from under your jerkin and
hold it out so that the captain of the guard can see it.
His archers lower their bows. “What is that, a bribe?”
shouts the captain. “I see a pouch, nothing more.”
Realizing that you must convince him of the impor-
tance of your quest, you reluctantly loosen the pouch’s
drawstring and carefully remove the Dragon’s Eye.
The pupil of the petrified eye gleams in the torchlight
shining down from the battlements as if it’s still alive.
You turn it toward the captain.
A gasp escapes the guards. Their bows waver. Even
the captain is visibly awed.
“By the gods,” he says, “it’s the Dragon’s Eye! Ill
be down in a minute to take it to the count.”
“Our orders are to give it to Count Delwyn,” you
repeat. “I’m sorry, but I must hand it to him myself.”
The captain grunts. “Fair enough,” he says. “Wait
here while I go summon the count. Maybe this’ll
lighten his black mood.”
“Or maybe it’Il make him even more uneasy,” Bres-
nor mutters sourly.
Your hand trembles as you replace the eye in its
pouch, glad to be out from under its cold gaze. You
clutch the sack in your hand tightly.
Minutes later, the captain of the guard returns.
“Count Delwyn has agreed to give you an audience.
Keep your weapons sheathed, or you’ll find out how
good my archers are.” He turns to one of the guards.
“Go on, let them in.”
With a loud groan and the creak of metal against
metal, the guards draw up the heavy portcullis. You
lead your band beneath it, glancing up nervously at
the gate’s hanging iron spikes as you enter the forbid-
ding castle of Count Delwyn.
Go to 41.
14
By the time you reach the courtyard, the orcs are
swarming toward a breach in the earthen wall where
the giant sorcerous fist tore a wide section away.
Dragon’s Eye Tower is a pile of rubble. Rock dust bil-
lows in the air, accompanied by the last echoes of the
tower’s collapse. You know many fighters lost their
lives in the wreckage. You look around for Fostyr and
find him standing dazed, his face smeared with dust.
“Fostyr!” you shout, and your voice seems to make
him wake up. He rushes to your side as the screeching
orc fighters pour through the shattered perimeter
walls.
Torches sputter all around you in the courtyard.
Combined with the light of the moon, it is bright
enough to see what you are fighting.
“Archers, find a high position and fire at will,”
Captain Jongh shouts over the orcs’ screams. “Every-
58 KEM ANTILLES
one else with me. We’ve got to mount our ground

defense.”
You turn to Fostyr. He nods for you to join the
remaining archers, then draws his own sword. You are
uneasy to be separated from your friend, but now isn’t
the time to worry about such things. You must defend
what’s left of the fortress. Fostyr sprints after Captain
Jongh to seal off the gap in the earthen wall.
You scramble to the top of the perimeter wall near
the breach. Though orcs pour through into the court-
yard, the actual gap is narrow, easily defensible from
above with enough archers, backed by a regimented
squadron of brave fighters below.
You glance off into the distance, foolishly hoping to
see the army of reinforcements from Crockport arriv-
ing just in time to save the day, but of course there
hasn’t been enough time, and only an overwhelming
force of orcs awaits out in the forest.
You nock an arrow and shoot, sending a spear-
wielding orc flapping backward off a pile of stones.
The next arrow drops an orc carrying a huge battle-
axe. You shoot rapidly, with your arm continuously
moving back to your quiver, then to your bowstring.
Time seems to slow down. The sounds of wounded
orcs and humans, the buzzing of bowstrings, and the
clash of blades and armor all combines into a deafen-
ing roar.
Your focus is sharp. You can see where each arrow
is going to strike before it leaves your bow. Despite the
din around you, the only sound you pay attention to is
the beating of your heart.
‘Twenty arrows later, your quiver is empty, and time
clicks back to normal. You feel helpless as the battle
suddenly accelerates, bringing with it cries of pain and
short-lived triumphs, and the clang of metal.
The orcs surround the walls, swarming like vicious
ants. Several teams carry makeshift ladders, rushing
through the swirling orc soldiers to lean the ladders
against the walls. You search the courtyard below,
looking for Fostyr, but see only turmoil as the fighters

try to defend against the orcs that have managed to
slip through the breach. The top of the wall is a mass
of confusion, too. Bodies litter the ramparts.
Without any more arrows, you sling the bow over
your shoulder. Unfastening your whip, you make your
way to a point along the wall where one of the rickety
orc ladders has just been raised. The ladder sways and
dips as a dozen orcs try to scale the rungs. One orc
reaches the top, sword uplifted to ward off the thrust
of a spear from one of your comrades. The orc’s face
is exposed, red eyes glaring as if they have been boiled
in blood.
Your whip cracks, too fast to be seen in the dark-
ness, and a cut opens on the orc’s face, slicing across
one eye. The orc screams in surprise. Raising a hand
to the bloody gash, it topples from the ladder, knock-
ing off three of its comrades on the rungs, until it
crashes into the packed enemy army below.
You move on to your next target, another troop of
orcs scrambling up a ladder. The heads of the orcs are
close enough that you can reach most of them from
above with your whip. But there are too many ladders
and not enough defenders. You wish you had another
few caldrons of that boiling oil.
At a dozen other points, the orcs gain the top of the
wall, forcing your comrades into tiny knots. You fasten
your whip to your belt, then draw your oaken sword.
You join a small cluster of five defenders. Facing out-
ward, you protect each other’s backs.
By now your arms ache, as exhaustion finally grows
stronger than your excitement. Your lungs feel as if
they are on fire, and each breath fans the flames in
your chest. Sweat drips from your brow and stings
your eyes until you can barely see. But still you con-
tinue to fight. ‘
The metal tip of an orc spear catches you in the
cheek. The reaction of the curse makes your face feel
as if you have laid it down on burning coals. But there
60 KEM ANTILLES
is no blood, since Tyrion’s curse cauterizes the wound

before it can bleed.
More and more blades slash at you. One of your
companions falls dead beside you. You fight furiously,
the sting of naked metal causing painful injuries from
even glancing blows. Before long, the air around you
is tainted with the stench of burned flesh, and charred
cuts cover your hands and arms. Your oaken sword is
no match for most of the orc weapons, and your only
chance is to go for their exposed eyes and throats.
The orcs force your group off the wall and down
into the rubble-strewn courtyard in front of the col-
lapsed tower. They push you toward the dwindling
number of fighters still trying to defend the breach.
_ “Into the tunnels!” Fostyr shouts. “It’s our only
chance!”
Your heart leaps, buoyed by his voice. Then it sinks
again at the sight of Captain Jongh’s bloodstained
body lying among the rubble. His nose has been bro-
ken again by the same mace blow that killed him. The
splintered shaft of a spear sticks out of his chest. Dead
orcs litter the rubble around him, and you know he
did not give up easily. You hope you can do half as
well when your time comes.
With Captain Jongh dead, only you and Fostyr
know where the real Dragon’s Eye is. You must take
the eye to safety and not let it fall into the hands of
Tyrion. You realize with a sinking feeling that you
should have fled long before now.
You look around wildly, searching the semidarkness
for Fostyr. You have to get away.
Your friend stands among a pile of huge stones at
the foot of what used to be the tower. A shadowy stair-
well descends into black, musty passages nearby. He
motions frantically for the others to follow him. Your
remaining comrades are already battling their way
toward the tunnels, including the twins Relf and
Renda. A few stay behind to slow the progress of the
orcs. A tall orc slashes at you viciously with a long
sword. You duck, then leap from the pile of stones and
sprint toward Fostyr.
Twenty feet from the passage, an orc carrying a
huge gnarled club springs from behind a pile of debris
into your path. Its tattered fur clothing reeks of rotting
animal flesh. The creature grins at you, baring its
decayed, broken fangs. Its fetid breath reeks of putre-
fying meat.
“No escape,” it hisses, glaring at you. Its blood-red
eyes make your skin crawl. It stalks toward you, club
uplifted, ready to cave in your skull.
Holding up your useless wooden sword, you circle
to your right, moving away from the rubble to avoid
getting trapped. The orc angles to cut off your escape.
You back up, thinking to climb the pile of stones just
behind you and gain an advantage.
Before you can climb, the orc lunges, swinging at
your head. You duck quickly, but a knot at the end of
the club glances off your shoulder.
Even with your thick leather armor, the pain sucks
your breath away. Your vision goes black for just a sec-
ond, but you can’t allow yourself to fall into uncon-
sciousness. You sink to your knees, slashing blindly,
hoping to catch the orc in the legs.
The blade deflects clumsily off something, and you
hear a bellow as you try to swim back to conscious-
ness. You throw yourself to one side and roll just as
the spiked club whizzes past your head, brushing your
face with air.
The orc stumbles and grunts as you come out of
the roll into a squat. Dust billows around you. You
blink from all the flying grit. Your vision clears in time
to see the orc’s face contort with rage.
It leaps at you, screaming. You back into a wall of
solid stone that jabs you between the shoulder blades.
Then the orc is on top of you, clawing at your
throat with its bare hands.
You twist to one side, swinging the attacker around.
The orc’s face slams into a jagged stone block with a
62 KEM ANTILLES
grunt, leaving the back of its neck exposed.

You raise your oaken sword with both hands and
swing the blade with all of your strength into its neck.
The impact rattles your hands and arms. You wince
at the loud crack and stagger back, afraid that the
wooden blade of your sword has split. But the pol-
ished oak sword proves to be stronger than the bones
in the monster’s neck.
The orc shudders, its spine crushed. It drops its
club and crumples to the ground.
Sucking in huge lungfuls of air, you stagger away
from the orc, running to the stairwell. Adrenaline
dulls the pain in your shoulder. The Dragon’s Eye
feels very heavy on your chest.
All around you, screaming orcs leap from the wall,
forcing the remaining pockets of resistance to retreat
and reform around Fostyr at the opening to the
underground tunnels.
You stagger toward your friend. Fostyr sees you and
gestures wildly for you to hurry. With a sideways blow,
he shatters a spear with his sword, then runs his blade
through the chest of the attacking orc.
As soon as you reach him, Fostyr claps you on the
arm with his free hand.
“Get moving,” he says. He grins wearily. “I was
afraid they’d got you.”
And the Dragon’s Eye, you think.
“What about you?” you say. “I can’t just leave
you!”
Fostyr takes a deep breath. “I'll hold them off while
you and the others get away. Your mission is more
important. Don’t worry about me. Just go!”
You hesitate, not certain what to do.
If you retreat into the tunnels, go to 8.

If you stay and fight beside Fostyr, turn to 36.
15
“This way,” you say, leading your companions

down the shiny passage. “I don’t like the looks of that
acid in the other branch.”
“Look how glossy this tunnel is!” Turloc exclaims.
The walls, the ceiling, even the floor are a slick,
gleaming black that shimmers in the torchlight.
Relf touches the wall with one finger, puts it to his
nose, and makes a face. “It stinks,” he says.
“Tt smells like pitch,” you say. “The stuff they use
to seal boats.”
“What is that stuff doing down here?” Renda asks.
Relf tries to wipe the black stuff off his finger onto
his pants. “Hey, it won’t come off. It’s too sticky.”
Turloc shakes his head and scowls. “I don’t like the
looks of this . . .” he mumbles. The floor squishes
slightly as he presses his boot down. “Maybe we
should go back and follow the other tunnel.”
“We’re not getting scared, are we?” says the squat,
muscular axe wielder behind him. The blade of his
axe clanks against the wall as he moves forward,
shouldering Turloc aside.
“Y’m not scared,” Turloc says brusquely. “Just smart
... something you wouldn’t know about.”
The squat man glares at him and waves his axe
threateningly.
“Oh, stop it, both of you,” Renda scolds. “You’re
acting stupid.”
Fortunately there’s little room in the cramped tun-
nel for a fight. Even so, you don’t want any trouble
between these two. You step between them. “That’s
enough!” you say threateningly. “We have plenty of
enemies as it is. The last thing we need is to fight
among ourselves.”
The two men eye each other grudgingly.
“Now let’s go,” you say. “No more nonsense.”
With sideways glances at each other, the men obey.
64 KEM ANTILLES
Turloc steps ahead of you, jingling the chains of his

flail, followed by the axe wielder. They start cautiously
down the tunnel.
You and the others follow close behind. The pas-
sageway is slick, but the rock floor is uneven enough
to keep you from slipping.
“So far, so good,” Turloc says, grinning at you.
After fifty yards, the tunnel widens into a circular
cave with a low ceiling.
“That smell is getting worse,” Relf says, wrinkling
his nose.
You nod, grimacing. The smell seems to coat your
teeth, leaving behind a bitter-tasting, sulfurous scum.
“The floor’s getting stickier,” Renda says, lifting
one foot with a noticeable sucking sound.
“Tt’s getting harder to move my feet,” Turloc says.
“T vote we turn around.”
The tunnel floor creaks underfoot, like thin, snap-
ping ice. “What the—?” exclaims the squat axe wielder
as the floor of the tunnel begins to bow beneath his
feet.
“The floor’s collapsing,” Renda shouts, backing
hurriedly down the tunnel.
“Everyone out!” you yell, pushing Relf after Renda.
You and the others turn, moving as quickly as you can
back across the sticky rock.
But the floor has already weakened, a thin crust
over an oozing morass. A hole opens up beneath the
squat axe wielder’s feet. Only a few feet ahead of you,
he begins to sink up to his knees in black muck.
You and the others quickly come to a stop. More of
your comrades begin to sink. The tunnel floor cracks
wider next to you, swallowing Relf.
Renda grabs for her twin, but the crack splits again,
dropping her into the gunk.
“Grab my hand!” you say. She reaches out one
hand, holding on to Relf with the other. Just as your
fingers touch, the rock splits under your feet.
Instinctively you leap to the side. Renda’s hand
66 KEM ANTILLES
slips free.
You search for a way to reach her and Relf, but
they’re too far away, sinking into the thick black ooze.
“Corlen,” Renda shouts. “Get out while you can!”
The only way out is deeper into the tunnel. You
turn just as another crevice opens. The shifting rock
knocks you off balance. All around you, the floor is
shattering. You hang for a moment, suspended in
space, then topple into the tarry goo. It sucks at your
legs, pulling you down as if it is alive and hungry.
The sulfurous smell is overpowering. Dizzy, you
look around. All of your companions are trapped like
flies in black honey.
You hold your head as high as you can, for as long
as you can, hoping your feet will touch bottom soon,
but there is no bottom. The ooze keeps drawing you
down, deeper and deeper.
The sticky muck reaches your waist, then your
chest. You touch the Dragon’s Eye beneath your tunic.
At least Tyrion will never possess it now.
You struggle, growing more and more exhausted as
the goo covers your shoulders, your lips, your nose,
your eyes, enveloping you in final darkness.
The End
16
“T’m all right,’ Renda calls from the pit. Her voice
sounds far away, mixed with a faint murmur of run-
ning water. “I landed in a stream.”
You lean closer. Beside you, Relf heaves a huge sigh
of relief.
“Tt’s only about ten feet down,” Renda shouts. She
peers up at you, her face lit by the flicker of the
torches circling the pit as your companions hurry for-
ward to help. “But it sure is cold down here!”
Someone lowers a rope, and Renda grabs it. You,
Relf, and Turloc haul her back up.
Renda crawls over the edge. She’s soaked. “The
water’s only waist deep,” she says, flashing a grin.
You wet your dry lips. “Did you taste the water?
Can we drink it?”
Renda nods. “A big mouthful, whether I wanted to
or not. It’s fresh.”
You smile. Finally things are starting to look up.
“We could use something to eat, too, but the water
will hold us for a while.”
Holding out your torch, you peer down into the
hole. The rock sides angle steeply, slick with moss.
You hand your whip to Relf, then turn to the
stooped flail wielder. “Turloc,” you say, “give Relf
your helmet. Relf, tie my whip to the helmet. Good
. . . now lower it into the water.”
Relf lowers the helmet into the pit, then hauls it up.
Water sloshes over the helmet’s sides. Everyone
crowds forward to drink deeply; Turloc has to lower
the makeshift bucket two more times. At last your
thirst is quenched and your stomach feels full from
the cold water. Rubbing your hands together, you feel
awake and energetic for the first time since you
entered the winding catacombs.
“TI think we must be getting close to the surface,”
Renda says.
“How big is the river tunnel?” you ask.
“I was able to stand up without hitting my head.
There’s a current, but it’s not too bad.”
“Do you think we can get out by following the
river?” Relf asks. “It must go underground some-
where.”
“Let’s have a look,” you say, standing. Grabbing a
torch and the rope, you walk to the edge of the pit.
Renda and the others follow. You tie the rope
around your waist. What will happen if the Dragon’s
Eye gets wet? It seems as hard as glass, but what if it
dissolves like a salt crystal?
It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. If you don’t get
68 KEM ANTILLES
out of the caves, the Dragon’s Eye is lost anyway. And

you along with it.
“I should go,” Renda volunteers. “I’m soaked
already.”
You shake your head. “No. If this works, we’ll all
have to get wet anyway. Lower me down.”
Torch in one hand, you grip the rope with the
other, easing yourself over the edge of the pit. Your.
feet slip on the slick moss as you try to rappel down
the moss-slick wall.
The burbling water grows louder. Lowering your-
self into the flowing cave river, you feel for the bottom
of the stream.
The bottom is almost as slick as the mossy walls.
You wedge your boot heels between some rocks to
steady yourself against the gentle wash of the current.
Bracing yourself, you wade upstream, torch held high.
The firelight glints off the ceiling above.
Your head just clears the rocky overhangs, where
tiny young stalactites poke downward. The passage
continues ahead for as far as you can see. The walls
have been worn smooth by the running water, glitter-
ing white from quartz and calcite deposits laid down
over the centuries. The river seems to hold at about
the same waist-high depth. You smile, relieved.
After a few more steps, the rope draws taut. You
wade back to the shaft.
Renda leans over the edge of the pit. “Well?” she
calls down.
“The way seems clear,” you say. “Unless we run
into a waterfall, we should be okay. Leave the rope
tied to that rock, in case we need to turn around and
climb back up.”
“What if we need it farther on?” someone asks.
You unfasten your whip and hold it up. “We’ve got
this,” you say.
“T’m game to try it,” Relf says.
You hear a flurry of enthusiastic agreement from
your party. ;
“All right, then. Let’s get going,” you say.

It takes Renda a few minutes to tie the rope around
the outcropping. She lowers herself down first, and
the others follow quickly. A few of them slip and
splash in the water, much to the delight of the others.
One man goes under, bobbing to the surface and
clutching his now useless torch. He tosses it away,
sputtering, but the mood of your party is so improved
now that even he grins at his misfortune.
When everyone is in the stream, you square your
shoulders. “Ready?” you ask.
You slosh upstream, holding the torch high. Strain-
ing your ears, you listen for the roar of a waterfall, but
you hear only the river’s steady gurgling and Relf’s
soft breathing behind you.
You wade onward. The current quickens as the
rock walls narrow. The river pushes at you, as if trying
to force you back. Then the ceiling begins to lower.
Twenty feet ahead, the ceiling slips below the churn-
ing water.
“Now what?” someone groans.
“We turn back,” someone else says sullenly. “What
a waste of time.”
“Tt might widen out again,” you say.
“Kven if it does,” the spearwoman says, “we won’t
be able to take torches with us.”
True.
You hand your torch to Relf. “Wait here,” you say.
“Tet me check this out. If ’m not back in a few min-
utes, turn around.”
Relf nods. Renda gives you a nod of encourage-
ment. You toy with the idea of passing the Dragon’s
Eye to Relf or Renda, in case you don’t make it, but
they might not make it either. The fewer people who
know you have the eye, the better. Taking a deep
breath, you dive under the water.
Eyes open in the darkness, you kick hard with your
legs, your arms stroking through the water like a frog.
Your head scrapes the top of the tunnel. You open
70 KEM ANTILLES
your eyes. Everything is cold and black.

Panic squeezes your chest. Your lungs ache, desper-
ate for air. Your pulse throbs in your ears. The water is
so cold. You lift your head and crack it against the
tunnel ceiling.
You start to turn around, afraid you don’t have
enough air to get back, but suddenly your head breaks
the surface. The current threatens to tug you under
again, but you plant your feet and reach out with your
arms. Your fingers grasp solid rock. You cling to the
rock, resting your cheek against its algae-slick surface.
You suck in huge breaths, then raise your head,
shivering. You can see! It’s nighttime, and the moon
shines down with a faint white light, but it looks like a
blazing sun to your eyes after so long in the dark cav-
erns. You turn your head. A dim circle of light, framed
by brambles, shines down on you.
You shake with relief. You touch the Dragon’s Eye.
It feels solid.
You take several deep breaths, then duck your head
under the water. The trip back is easier, since the cur-
rent pushes you along. Within seconds, you swim into
Relf’s legs, knocking him off his balance.
You stand up, dripping, pulling him up with you.
“T found an opening to the outside!” you exclaim.
You take a gulp of air. “It’s only a little ways. We can
get out!”
Renda laughs, breaking the tension, and immedi-
ately everyone joins in.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get out of here.”
You fill your lungs, then dive again. The trip seems
shorter now that you know you can make it.
You do a quick head count after everyone surfaces,
then splash toward the mouth of the cave. It opens
into a dense forest. It’s early evening, and the moon is
visible through the tops of the trees. The others gather
around you, gaping up at the star-studded sky.
“Does anyone know where we are?” you ask. “Any-
body recognize this place?”
SIEGE OF THE TOWER rel
“T think so,” someone says. “But if I’m right, this

forest is probably teeming with orcs.”
You chuckle grimly. “Is there any place that isn’t?”
You take a deep breath. First things first. You can
take the Dragon’s Eye to Crockport in the morning.
For now, you and the others need food and rest.
“First we'll secure the area,” you say. “Then let’s
see what kind of meal we can scrape together from the
forest.”
Relf hisses behind you. You turn quickly to see
Renda bending over her twin brother. Curled on the
ground, Relf clutches his ankle, wincing in pain. “I
slipped,” he says. “I think my ankle is broken.”
With a broken ankle, Relf will never be able to out-
run an orc. You look around. Nothing disturbs the
evening quiet. “You might be safer staying here,” you
say. “Well be back for you. We’re just going to scout
the area and find some food.”
He nods.
“I’m staying with him,” Renda says decisively.
“Don’t worry, Corlen. We’ll keep ourselves hidden.”
“All right.” You nod somberly. The Dragon’s Eye
hangs heavy on your chest. “We’ll be back soon.”
Go to 10.
17
You point down the tunnel with the small pools of

acid. “The other tunnel looks too cramped. We’ll be
able to move more quickly down this one.”
Renda takes out her bow. “Let’s keep our eyes
open, though.”
' The acid fumes are so strong you can taste them.
The inside of your mouth feels as though it’s on fire.
Your eyes begin to water. Your throat feels as if it’s a
raw blister, and your lungs heave painfully. It becomes
impossible to speak after going only a short distance.
4/02 KEM ANTILLES
Everyone is coughing and wiping his eyes. You try to

breathe through your nose, but the burning stench
assaults your nostrils.
You pull one corner of your cloak up to cover your
nose and mouth. Except for your eyes, the burning
eases somewhat. Your comrades follow your example.
Their coughing diminishes as they trudge forward.
After a hundred yards, the puddles become less
numerous and get smaller. The air clears a bit, and
you can feel a thin breeze from above. Your eyes con-
tinue to water, but the stinging sensation eases. Your
lungs begin to-clear.
The acid fumes have parched your mouth. Your
tongue is cracked and swollen. Among your entire
party, only a few sips of water remain.
You study the walls around you. The tunnel is
unnaturally glassy and smooth. Maybe miners cut it,
using the acid. If so, you might be close to the surface.
You wonder fleetingly if the acid would dissolve the
Dragon’s Eye. You force the thought aside. Destroy-
ing the eye isn’t the answer. You need to get the eye to
Count Delwyn in Crockport, where it can be used to
protect the land rather than destroy it.
You hurry on. A second tunnel angles off to the
left, and you check it out. Rougher and less even, this
one doesn’t seem to have any acid. The air smells
fresher. With a sigh of relief, you unwrap the cloak
from your face. Motioning to your group, you set off
down the new passage.
Finally you seem to be getting somewhere. The
tunnel floor slopes steadily upward, past many smaller
caves and tunnels. You push on, tired but too excited
to stop to rest. Your long underground journey could
finally be over.
Relf hurries ahead, the flicker of his torch bobbing
in the darkness.
Suddenly the torch stops. “Caves,” he shouts back
at you. “Lots of them.”
You hurry to join him. Standing beside the bronze-
haired twin, you turn slowly, gazing at the series of

caves around you. The air seems fresh and cool. Hope
rises in your chest. “Spread out!” you say. “See if you
can find a way out. This fresh air has to be coming
from somewhere.”
Everyone heads off in different directions.
You enter a tiny chamber, but it’s filled with rubble.
Backing out, you move on to the next cavern. Although
much larger, this one is no more helpful than the first.
You enter a third chamber. Little more than a narrow
hallway blocked by a giant slab of rock, it doesn’t
seem to have a ceiling. Curious, you raise your torch.
Hundreds of fluttering black wings swoop down,
shrieking at the upper range of human hearing. You
thrash out with your arms, protecting your eyes as the
bats flap around your head and shoulders. You swing
your torch like a club, stunning several bats and
knocking them to the ground. Then you turn and run,
retracing your steps.
Panting for breath, you watch as the bats vanish
into blackness. There must be a way out nearby.
Encouraged, you rush into the next cave. Foul air
weighs on you. You gag on the stench of rotting flesh.
Not only does the chamber reek, but its shape
reminds you of an eye socket in a human skull. Rais-
ing your torch, you look around. Manacles hang from
the walls. Torn, bloody clothing and a shield lie on the
floor beneath the wrist irons. Fresh bones clutter the
ground beneath three unlit torches high on the cham-
ber wall.
The hair on the back of your neck prickles. Fostyr
told you that chambers like this riddle these tunnels,
each guarded by some unknown monster.
You start to back out, then notice three torches
jammed into low crevices. Unlike the others, these are
easily within reach. Your party could certainly use
them. You creep forward cautiously.
A bone snaps underfoot. Fear spikes through you.
You yank the torches from the wall. Another bone
74 KEM ANTILLES
snaps, as if cracked by jaws.

Torches in hand, once again you begin to back out
cautiously, afraid that whatever feeds on the chained
prisoners may be watching you even now. Cold sweat
chills the back of your neck.
Someone shouts from one of the other caves. You
dash out of the chamber, dropping the newfound
torches. Your shoulder blades tense, awaiting some
kind of attack.
Nothing happens.
Another shout echoes through the caves.
You run toward the voice, drawing your oaken
sword as you go. Light flickers around a big outcrop-
ping of stone ahead. Your companions are gathered
around Relf.
“What’s going on?” you ask, gasping for breath.
A pike carrier steps aside, letting you squeeze in
through the circle. Renda kneels beside Relf. She
holds his right hand gently, examining it.
Relf looks up at you. “I burned myself exploring a
tunnel,” he says.
“Will he be all right?” you ask Renda.
She presses her lips together. “I think so,” she says.
“There are only a few blisters. I wish we had some
cold water we could soak his hand in.”
“T’ll be okay,” Relf says, starting to rise.
“Where’s the tunnel where it happened?” you ask.
“In the next cave. I'll show you.” Hugging his hand
to his chest, Relf leads you to the cavern.
The reek of acid hits you before you reach the
opening. You hold out your torch and start slowly
down the passage, Relf and Renda on either side. The
tunnel comes to a dead end after only a few yards.
The rock wall in front of you is cracked and soft-look-
ing, like strange, warm clay.
Renda pokes at it with her torch.
The rock shifts suddenly, then rumbles toward you.
You back up quickly, fearing another cave-in.
The oozing rock follows you out of the tunnel and
76 KEM ANTILLES
into the cave, like a wad of mobile mud.

“Tt’s alive!” Relf shouts, scampering out of the way.
The thing stops just outside the tunnel opening. It
looks like a huge stone slug. It reeks of acid. It rears
up, looming large in the dimness.
Renda inhales sharply. “It’s a horgar,” she says
softly. “I’ve heard people talk about them, but I always
figured they were just stories.”
“What kind of stories?” you ask.
“Horgars live underground,” she says. “They
secrete acid to burrow through rock. Miners talk
about them.” ~
The horgar scuttles toward Relf, forcing him back
against the cave wall, then hesitates. “Help!” Relf
shouts, looking frantically toward you and his sister. _
You stiffen. The horgar might leave Relf alone if
you don’t provoke it. But it might also attack him.
Renda looks desperately toward you.
Should you attack the creature?
If you elect to attack the horgar, go to 12.

If you choose not to attack the horgar, turn
to 6.
18
You follow the ravine into the forest quietly. You

need to make your way south, along the shore of the
lake, to the city of Crockport, where you can deliver
the eye to safety. Coiling your whip in one hand, you
set out, ducking low, hoping to remain unseen.
With a yell of alarm, an orc rushes at you from one
side, swinging a spiked mace. You crack your whip,
snapping the orc’s wrist. The creature drops the heavy
mace, its angry shriek cut short when you lash out
again, this time wrapping the whip around its throat.
The orc slumps at your feet, its neck broken.
But the alarm has been raised, and more orcs set
out after you in pursuit.

A shout rises from the trees to your right. The for-
est is crawling with orcs. You’re convinced you'll never
make it out alive, but you keep running, dodging
trees. Up ahead, the forest clears again, and you see
Whyestil Lake.
A memory flashes to your mind. On routine patrol
duty, you recall seeing a pier and an abandoned boat
not far from here. If you can get to the boat, you’ll
have a better chance of escaping. Orcs hate water.
Forsaking caution, you race toward the rocky shore
of the lake, letting your whip dangle behind you.
Three orcs dart from the oak grove off to your left,
trying to cut you off.
You flick your whip at the nearest one, an ugly
brute with a white scar across its chin like a second
mouth. The orc ducks, only to have the whip’s recoil
loosen its grip on the rusty pike it carries. With a well-
aimed kick, you knock the pike from its hand. Your
boot crushes the orc’s fingers. It howls and bends
over, cradling its hand.
The second orc, this one brandishing a sword,
swetves, sidestepping its comrade. You back away,
flexing and unflexing your wrist, waiting for the right
moment to strike with the braided leather whip. You
try to keep an eye on the two orcs in front of you while
you look for the third. Where did it go? Your shoulder
blades twitch at the thought of the third orc’s halberd
slicing across your back.
Cocking your wrist, you get ready to strike out at
the orc with the sword when you hear a twig snap
behind you. You whirl, twirling the long whip in a pro-
tective arc around your body. The sword-wielding orc
screams as its sword clatters to the ground. As you
- complete the circle, your whip flicks across the chest
plate of the third orc. It swipes at your whip and
Snapping at the orcs once more to make them

stumble backward, you set out at a run again, leaping
78 KEM ANTILLES
over roots and logs. As you clear a tangle of brambles,

two thick trees block your path. Bounding between
them, you are jerked backward suddenly as the end of
your whip catches on a thick vine. A whoosh of air fans
your scalp as you lose your balance and tumble back-
ward. With a loud thwack, the third orc’s halberd
buries itself in the trunk of a tree just beside your
head. Unable to stop, the orc careens past you.
You roll aside as the first orc charges with its pike.
You dive through the brambles, clawing your way
through their thorny branches. You emerge snagged
and scratched, but you don’t dare slow down.
You burst from the forest, the orcs in pursuit. You
can hear them huffing and snorting close behind you.
Your lungs ache as you force yourself to run faster.
Your feet kick up shards of gravel on the stony beach.
Someone shouts your name. You look up. The lake
is only a few feet away. Just as you expected, the pier
stretches in front of you like a drawbridge, blocked by
another fierce skirmish raging on the banks of the
lake. It’s a group of fighters, and in a flash, you recog-
nize the decoy party, the ones Captain Jongh sent out
with the false eye.
Grigneth holds the pouch in his hand, trying to
protect it, and as you watch, one of the orcs snatches
it away. “Eye! Me have eye!” the orc shouts, dancing
in triumph.
“Give it back!” Grigneth cries, as if he really
expects the orc to listen to him.
The orc tears open the sack to look at the Dragon’s
Eye, but he removes only a smooth, round stone.
“Fake!” the orc howls. “Get them!”
Still mounted on their horses, Beatrix, with her
sharp wooden lance, and rotund Vystan fight valiantly
against a handful of enraged orcs. Beside them,
stubble-bearded Grigneth battles on foot, looking ter-
rified. This is the man, you realize, who was given
charge of the decoy eye.
Beatrix spots you. She whacks her opponent aCrOss
the head, then gestures with her lance. “Corlen!”
You turn. Two of the others, grim-faced Bresnor,
the archer, and Peri, a powerful swordsman with a
drooping black mustache, have broken free of the orc
attack. They race toward the pier. You sprint after
them. Bresnor glances over his shoulder, then stops,
turning to face you.
He shouts something you can’t hear, then raises his
bow and aims directly at you. Before you can duck, an
arrow whizzes past your head. You hear a thud behind
you, followed by a sharp cry.
You whirl around, lashing the whip in a now-
familiar circle. But this time you lift the circle higher,
hoping to catch the remaining orc across the eyes or
throat.
As the whip slices the orc’s cheek, another arrow
nicks your ear. Too close! Before you can shout for
Bresnor to be careful, his third arrow finds its target.
The orc grasps its shoulder and falls to its knees.
You turn and run toward the pier and the waiting
boat as two more orcs dash from the forest.
Go to 21.
19
“Tt’ll be dawn in a few hours,” Fostyr whispers. “If

we’re going to get out of here, we’d better do it soon.”
You look over to the orcs, who are still laughing and
cuffing each other near the firelight. You wonder how
long it will be before they get hungry again.
Under a partly cloudy sky, the stars are fading over
Whyestil Lake, washed by the approaching dawn. To
the west, the moon is setting behind the wall of trees
that marks the edge of Vesve Forest.
“T agree . . . especially since they still haven’t found
the eye,” you say under your breath. “Any ideas?”
“That pile of weapons over there.” Fostyr gestures
80 KEM ANTILLES
with his chin at the weapons captured by the orcs.

“See that sword near the pile?”
You peer at the jumble of spears, axes, and bows lit
by the flickering glow of the guards’ campfire. You
catch sight of the gleaming blade of a long sword lying
apart from the other weapons.
“Yeah, I see it,” you say softly. “But how do we get
to it without them seeing us?”
“Tf one of us stays here, they might not notice.”
You glance at the orcs. One of them throws another
slab of bloody meat on the fire. The other two are
casting dice and arguing over their game.
“You go,” Fostyr says.
“T won’t be able to bring it back. I can’t touch the
metal.”
“You don’t have to bring it back. Just cut your
wrists free. We’re going to escape, not fight.”
You shake your head, dubious.
“Corlen, you’re closer and stronger,” Fostyr says.
“Besides, the metal studs on my tunic will reflect the
light.”
True enough. For once, not being able to wear
metal is an advantage. “All right.” You roll quietly
away from Fostyr toward the weapons.
With each roll, sharp rocks on the ground dig into
your shoulder blades and hips. You try to make as
little noise as possible. Beads of sweat break out on
your forehead. Dirt cakes your face, and you spit
grains of grit from your mouth. At least the smeared
grime will make you less visible in the darkness.
It seems to take forever to reach the weapons pile.
You tense, trying to shrink into a smaller target.
Surely one of the orcs will look up and see you, but
they are drunk and preoccupied with their victory and
their plunder.
At last the pile of swords is within reach, and you
squirm toward it, backing up and feeling with your
hands. The pile itself now helps block you from view.
The sword rests on the ground, its tip toward, you.
| SIEGE OF THE TOWER 81
You twist your neck around, but no matter how hard

you try, you can’t see the sword. You take a deep
breath, clench your teeth, and carefully search for the
blade, dreading the touch of the metal.
Magical fire sears the tip of your right index finger.
You jerk your finger away, a heat blister forming under
the skin.
You reach for the sword again, more carefully this
time. After the blade nicks your finger, you dig at the
ground next to it, scraping out a shallow hole into
which you can slide one hand.
Cautiously you spread your hands as far apart as
you can and begin to saw at the leather cords with the
edge of the sword, trying not to let the metal touch
your exposed skin. The blade nicks you several times,
raising welts, but after several tense minutes, you feel
the leather thong break. Your hands come free, and
you hold them in front of you with a gasp of relief.
Returning circulation makes your hands throb.
Excitement dampens the pain of the metal burns.
You quickly untie your ankles and glance at the orc
guards, who are still arguing over their game of dice.
You are about to crawl back when you notice your
whip and oaken sword lying beside the pile. There’s
no mistaking them. You glance up at the squabbling
guards once more, then quietly retrieve your weapons
from the pile before crawling back to Fostyr.
“Well done,” he whispers as you untie his hands
and feet. “Ah, that feels good,” he says with a sigh as
the bonds come loose.
“Relax later. Let’s go,” you say, despite your uncer-
tainty about how both of you are going to slip out of
camp without being seen.
“Wait... I need a sword for myself,” Fostyr says.
“We’re probably going to have to fight our way out.”
He crawls on his elbows and knees toward the pile.
You follow him, slowed by your own weapons. Fos-
tyr reaches out and begins hunting for a sword among
the booty.
. 82 KEM ANTILLES
You hear an animal-like shout behind you. The
sound jolts through your body. You leap to your feet,
ready to do battle again. The guards snatch up their
weapons, forgetting their dice but swaying from too
much drink. Fostyr drags two long daggers from the
pile and quickly hurls them at the orcs. One of the
orcs stumbles and falls, a knife buried in its chest.
Fostyr yanks a long sword and a small axe from the
pile, and the other weapons fall with a clatter. Forget-
ting stealth, you both run toward the forest.
The remaining two guards sprint after you. One of
them trips over the fallen orc’s body and sprawls to
the ground. Several orcs come running from other
campfires. In a moment, dozens of the monster sol-
diers will be after you.
“Split up!” Fostyr yells. “It'll be hard to follow both
of us.” He tosses the axe at one of the oncoming orcs.
The orc dodges to one side, but the axe catches it in
the arm. The orc curses and drops its halberd.
You hesitate, reluctant to leave your friend.
“Go!” Fostyr says. “Save the eye! I'll be okay.”
The entire camp seems to have been aroused. Con-
fused shouts fill the air from all sides.
Much as you hate to admit it, you know Fostyr is
right. The Dragon’s Eye talisman is your first priority.
“ll meet you in Crockport,” you say.
Fostyr grins. “Buy me a tankard of ale. . . a big
one!”
You turn and sprint for the dim trees at the edge of
camp. Sword in hand, you dodge past the forms of the
groggy, hung-over orcs as they sit up and peer around
them, confused by all the commotion.
An orc blunders into your path, and you smack at
its face with the flat of your wooden sword, knocking
the creature to the ground.
You glance back. Foystr has stopped by one of the
piles of weapons. In a frenzy of fighting, he impales an
orc with a spear, then drags out another spear and
hurls it at a pack of orcs. .
~. SIEGE OF THE TOWER 83
You stagger to a stop at the edge of the camp as a

group of orcs races toward you. You see no way to get
past them to Fostyr, no way to save him.
Fostyr lied to you. You see now that he had no
intention of escaping but merely intended to buy time
for you to get away with the Dragon’s Eye.
You touch the bulge above your belt where the eye
rests against your ribs. You know you’d have done the
same for him if the roles were reversed. Still, a knot of
shame tightens your throat. Ignoring it, you turn and
run, putting on a burst of speed as you see the refuge
of the forest straight ahead.
You glance over your shoulder. The orcs are closing
the gap, waving their weapons and wasting energy
with yells and curses.
A. lichen-crusted boulder looms in your path. You
dart to the right of it and trip on a smaller rock, falling
to one knee. Somehow you regain your feet without
missing a step. An arrow whistles over your head. The
forest is growing denser, but it gets much thicker just
a short sprint away. If you can get that far, you might
be able to elude the pursuers. Your lungs feel as if
they’re about to explode. The shouting of orcs spurs
you on.
Suddenly you stumble into a shallow gully cut by
flash floods. You roll down the side, bruising your left
hip and knee. When you regain your balance, you find
you are standing in the dark opening of a cave under a
rocky overhang.
Hiding in the concealing bushes, taking a moment
to catch your breath, you quickly retie the thong of the
Dragon’s Eye pouch around your neck so that the
pouch hangs against your chest once again.
If you follow the ravine, the forest appears to get
much thicker, and you could hide from the orcs. On
the other hand, you might be able to disappear into
the cave without a trace. . . or you might also get
trapped there. You hear the orcs crashing closer,
searching for you.
84 KEM ANTILLES
If you decide to enter the cave, turn to 4.

If you elect to follow the ravine into the forest,
turn to 18.
20
You and Alix slip down the stairs to the small
courtyard at the base of the tower. Clouds roll in from
the lake, smearing the night sky and blotting out the
moon. Around the tower, you hear many other fight-
ers moving cautiously. Everyone seems tense.
Two fighters jostle past you on their way up the
stairs. “Where do you two think you’re going?” one of
them says, pushing her torch close to you so that the
light glares in your face.
“Uh ... to the privy,” you say, covering your eyes
from the bright light.
“Me, too,” Alix says. “And if you don’t let us pass,
don’t blame us for the mess.”
One of the fighters, a female archer, mumbles
something, then turns away and hurries up the stairs.
Her sturdy boots click on the stone stairs as she goes
about her business. The other fighter follows her.
Torches smolder in metal sconces mounted on the
courtyard walls, illuminating the meager stockpile of
supplies that have been gathered for the siege. Barrels
of water, to quench fires set by the orcs as much as to
slake the thirst of the soldiers, are stacked beside the
stable. Inside the rickety shelter hang sacks of pota-
toes and strips of salted meat. In the forge next door,
the blacksmith’s hammer clangs loudly by torchlight,
pounding out crossbow bolts as fast as he can. The
acrid stench of charcoal hangs in the air, accompanied
by the sizzle of quenched metal.
The north gate is closed, barred on the inside. The
south gate stands ajar, but it’s heavily guarded. Cap-
tain Jongh paces nearby, talking to a messenger. He
turns every few steps to shout last-minute instruc-
» SIEGE OF THE TOWER 85
tions. You suspect that he must have sent some of his

best scouts to spy on the orc encampment.
“We’ll have to go over the wall,” Alix whispers.
You nod, then move quickly to the sturdy water
barrels stacked in a rounded pyramid beside the sta-
ble. You look around for Fostyr, but you can’t find
him in all the confusion. He might have gone over the
wall already, probably not wanting to admit to you
that he, too, was eager to escape. You shake your
head. So much for friendship.
A pang of guilt stings your stomach. There’s a
chance that Fostyr might still be within the walls, even
on his way back to the battlements. What will he do
when he finds you missing? Why didn’t he tell you
where he was going? With Fostyr at your side, you
would have had a better chance. You have no particu-
lar love for big, straw-haired Alix, but he’s a better
companion than none.
“Well, are we going or aren’t we?” Alix whispers.
“We’re going,” you say firmly. You decide to forget
about Fostyr. If you don’t look out for yourself, no
one else will. It’s time to make your own decisions
instead of letting other people make them for you.
Youw’re tired of sitting back and following orders while
others cause trouble. You remember how helpless you
felt when Tyrion killed your father and laughed at you
when he placed his curse on you. In the shadows of
the tower perimeter walls, with the bloodthirsty orc
army camped nearby preparing to attack, you decide
that you will never again sit back and wait.
You slip behind the barrels, hidden now from the
turmoil in the courtyard and the soldiers on the roof
of the stable. You climb to the top of the barrels, care-
fully avoiding the iron bands holding the slats together.
The barrels are full, and your feet and knees make
muffled, liquid-sounding reverberations as you work
your way higher on the stack. One barrel, resting
loosely atop the others, wobbles as you step on it, but
you quickly place your hands against the high wall to
86 KEM ANTILLES
regain your balance. A flash of cold sweat beads on

your skin, and after a moment’s pause, you continue
to climb.
Below, Alix follows, watching your efforts. From
the top of the stack of barrels, you scan the courtyard
one last time. You feel mixed emotions at leaving this
ramshackle tower in the wilderness. It hasn’t been a
pleasant assignment, but you are reluctant to leave
everyone else to what seems certain doom.
“Come.on!” Alix whispers. “Don’t just sit there.
Someone will spot you!”
You duck your head, but no one is watching. You
pull yourself onto the rim of the earthen wall. Broken
stones gouge your stomach. You swing your legs over.
Pebbles trickle down the sides, pattering on the leaf-
strewn ground twenty feet below. Finding a toehold,
you lower yourself carefully, scraping the stones, until
you hang by your hands.
With a grunt, Alix climbs to the top of the wall and
looks down.
Trying not to think of the long drop, you let go,
falling to the ground. You slide against the rough,
piled earth wall to slow your descent, but still your
feet sting when you hit the ground. Alix thuds beside
you, letting out a loud whoof of air.
“Over there!” whispers a guard on the stable roof,
just on the other side of the wall. “Call the archers.”
You freeze. Alix drags you into the shadows beneath
the wall, pressing your back against the hard-packed
dirt.
“Where?” another guard says in a low voice.
“There,” says the first.
You imagine him pointing directly at you, but
you’re too frightened to look up. You’re certain they’ll
spot your pale face in the diffuse moonlight. Your
pulse races.
“TI don’t see anything,” the second guard says.
“Well, ’'m sure I heard something,” says the first.
“Toss a torch down there.” ‘
Alix taps you on the arm urgently and nods in the

direction of the lake and the thick forest. He’s right. If
you wait any longer, you’re sure to be discovered.
You'd probably be killed for deserting.
“Better notify Cap’n Jongh,” the second guard says.
You run with your head bent down, zigzagging to
avoid being hit by an arrow if the guards start shoot-
ing. You try to be quiet, but your panicked flight
makes crashing sounds in the underbrush.
“There they go!” the first guard shouts.
A crossbow bolt whizzes by within inches of your
head. Panting, you put on a burst of speed. Alix
shouts something but keeps running.
Your foot catches on a rock, and you slam to the
ground. You roll once, wincing as your wooden sword
digs into your hip, then you scramble to your feet,
running as fast as you can, snapping twigs and crash-
ing through leaves. Your lungs ache.
You should be out of sight by now, especially with
the moon behind the clouds. You can still hear a com-
motion on the tower walls, but the forest has swal-
lowed you up. It’s time now to be quiet, to escape
silently into the forest.
After all, you still have the Dragon’s Eye. Captain
Jongh was right to trust you. By yourself, you can slip
past all the guards and take it south to your home city
of Crockport.
Alix pants heavily a few yards off to your right. He
stops to catch his breath. You slow down.
“We made it,” he gasps between breaths.
“Yeah,” you say. “For a second there, I didn’t think
we would.”
Behind you, the tower is a dark inkblot against the
sky. Off to your left, the orc campfires burn brightly.
“Let’s head south,” you say. “There’ll be fewer orcs
in that direction. They’re going to be interested in the
tower, not in a few deserters.”
“Too late,” Alix says.
You look to where he’s pointing. Yellow eyes gleam
88 KEM ANTILLES
between the trees. As your eyes grow more accus-

tomed to the murky light, you see a large party of orcs
encircling you. Chuckling wickedly to themselves,
they step out from the shadows, drawing their sharp,
clumsy weapons. You realize you are hopelessly out-
numbered.
You smile weakly, then pull out your white hand-
kerchief. Tying it to the top of your bow, you wave it at
the orcs.
“Hey, wait! We’ve come to join you,” Alix says.
“Just like your messenger offered.”
“Put weapons down,” one of the orcs grunts. You
drop your bow to the ground, then slip off your quiver,
braided leather whip, and oaken sword. Though your
weapons aren’t particularly deadly, you feel helpless
without them. Alix tosses his axe aside and holds his
hands up.
“We surrender,” Alix says, smiling nervously. You
can see the sweat soaking his blond hair. “Under the
terms you shouted up to us.”
The largest creature strides forward. It’s an orog,
larger and more cunning than any orc. Taller than the
others, it has purplish skin and carries a massive club
that resembles an uprooted tree stump with wicked-
looking iron hooks protruding from the sides. Four
orcs creep closer, hovering at the orog’s side. They
brandish poleaxes, halberds, and spears, jabbing the
air in front of them with threatening motions.
“Me Gorak,” the orog rasps. Its breath stinks of
putrid meat, as if a small animal has crawled down its
throat and died. You almost gag on the stench, turn-
ing your face away.
Gorak notices the lump under your jerkin and jabs
a gnarled, squarish finger at you, poking your chest.
“What under shirt?” Gorak asks insistently, then
reaches for the pouch around your neck. You flinch
backward, but the point of an orc spear stops you.
Your skin sizzles where the metal tip presses between
your shoulder blades. "
With a grunt of impatience, Gorak tears the pouch

from your neck, then opens the pouch and begins to
laugh, holding up the petrified Dragon’s Eye.
Alix’s jaw drops open, and he looks at you in aston-
ishment. “Where did you get that?”
The orog leers at you, its pointed teeth slick with
drool. “Tyrion be very happy to have Dragon’s Eye.”
Too late, you notice the raven’s head amulet
around Gorak’s neck. It’s the symbol of the wizard
Tyrion, the same sorcerer who killed your father and
placed the curse on you. Your blood runs cold.
“We have midnight snack,” says one of the orcs
behind you, poking again with his spear, deeper this
time. “Tender enough.”
“We don’t want to die,” you say, trying to think
fast, but despair fills you. “We’re here to take you up
on your offer. To join you.”
The orog sneers, and the rest of the orcs chuckle, as
if you’ve just told them a joke.
“Deserters,” Gorak says. “We not want cowards.”
The orog nods, staring at the treasured eye. Laugh-
ing, the orc closest to Alix swings its halberd. Before
your companion can shout or try to run, his head
tumbles to the ground.
A moment later sharp, blistering pain stabs through
your back and out your chest. You smell burning
flesh. The last thing you see is the iron tip of a spear in
front of you, your blood boiling on the cold metal
point.
The orcs keep laughing in the background, until,
for you, itis...
The End
21
The boat isn’t far, just at the end of the rickety pier,
but the orcs won’t make it easy for you. You’ll have to
90 KEM ANTILLES
battle every step of the way, but if you can only make
it to the water, push off in the flimsy boat, and pull
out into the choppy waters where the orcs can’t reach
you or your companions, you’ll be safe.
Cold air whistles in your throat as you sprint
toward the pier. Water slaps the sides of the narrow
pier as you race along it toward the boat. Your feet
pound against the splintering, rotted wood.
Bresnor and Peri are already on board, hacking at
the thick ropes binding the boat to the pier. Running
for the small vessel, Grigneth, Beatrix, and Vystan are
close behind you as the orcs scream in outrage.
Glancing over your shoulder, you see Beatrix half-
dragging Grigneth, his arm flung over her shoulder.
His leg is bleeding. “Come on! Hurry!” you shout.
From the boat, Bresnor reaches. out to you just as
Peri finishes sawing through the thick rope with his
bloodied sword blade. Peri tosses the ropes into the
boat while portly Vystan helps Beatrix get Grigneth
aboard. “Corlen! Look out!” Bresnor shouts.
Instinctively you duck sideways as an arrow buries
itself in the soft planking next to you. An orc stands
halfway down the pier, already nocking its bow for a
second shot. Behind it, another orc shoves the archer
out of the way, toppling the creature into the water as
the larger orc charges at you with axe raised.
“T’ll hold them off!” Peri shouts, stepping out of the
boat onto the rickety pier. Gripping the hilt of his
weapon with two calloused hands, he raises his
notched sword to meet the attack.
Taking no time to argue, you leap into the boat,
expecting it to sink at any moment. The clash of metal
on metal rings out as Peri slams his sword blade into
the descending edge of the orc’s battle-axe. Its arms
ringing from the impact, the orc tumbles into the lake.
At the base of the pier, another orc leaps from the
gravel beach to take its place, bounding across the
damp planks. Peri grunts, taking a step backward.
Fortunately for him, the orcs can only attack one at a
P Fens by
( : &
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S\
3 5
nN Ny I
8 A a a = CS
92 KEM ANTILLES
time on the narrow pier. Peri grins through his droop-

ing black mustache and dispatches the second orc,
who falls into the water beside its companion.
Bresnor nocks an arrow. You and Beatrix grab the
oars.
“Come on!” you shout to Peri as a third orc comes
up to challenge him.
Peri nods. With a fierce thrust, he dispatches his
opponent, then turns and leaps for the boat. The
dying orc.slumps onto the pier, blocking several orcs
behind it as it clutches the open wound in its chest.
Peri scrambles into the boat.
“Go!” you shout to Beatrix. She matches your
stroke as you dig your oar into the water, pulling hard.
The boat shoots away from the dock. Vystan bails out
the water in the bottom of the boat. You just hope the
rickety craft holds together under the strain.
Clumsy footsteps rattle on the pier. Two orcs, curs-
ing and shouting, run to the end. One of them, bow
already drawn, nocks an arrow and lets it fly. It grazes
Peri’s chain mail with a burst of sparks. Skimming the
waves, the arrow disappears into the lake’s depths.
Bresnor stands up in the wobbly boat, holds his
longbow in front of him, and takes aim at the orcs. A
smile of anticipation flickers across his normally dour
face. Bresnor shoots, and his black arrow plants itself
firmly in the chest of the nearest orc. The bowman
nocks a second arrow, but the rocking of the boat
sends his shot astray.
You and Beatrix continue to row, wheezing with the
effort, concentrating only on your escape. You can’t
allow yourself even to think of Fostyr, or what the orcs
might be doing with him now.
A jagged spear, thrown from the beach by the great
orog commander, pierces the side of the small craft,
just below Beatrix’s oarlock.
“That was too close for comfort,” the blonde war-
rior says, rowing harder.
“Get us out of here!” Grigneth cries.
~ SIEGE OF THE TOWER 93
Bresnor scowls. Defiant, he nocks a third arrow and

takes careful aim. “Just like shooting from a horse,” he
mutters, loosing the arrow.
A shriek erupts from the group of orcs clustered at
the end of the pier, and there is a loud splash as one of
the orcs collapses into the lake. The footsteps of the
others make a thunderous sound as the rest of the orcs
flee from the splintering pier.
Waves pound the hull of your boat as it slices
through the water. Soon you will be out of range.
“Pull harder!” you shout to Beatrix. “Pull!”
“You just concentrate on keeping up with me!” she
shouts back.
Just when you think you have escaped, an arrow
whispers out of the darkness. Peri grunts and doubles
over, clutching at the shaft sticking out of his stomach.
Grigneth shies away from the injured man, his eyes
white with terror, his mouth open wide.
Bresnor stands up in the rocking stern of the boat
and, snarling for revenge, he fires another arrow. But
the boat is too far from the pier. The arrow splashes
harmlessly into the lake.
“Head south,” you tell Beatrix, pulling hard on
your oar. The boat angles southward. You breathe
easier. The rowing settles into a steady rhythm, and
the night folds over the boat.
In the bottom of the small craft, Bresnor and Vys-
tan try to make Peri comfortable. Vystan gets out his
dagger and slits Peri’s shirt to get at the arrow. “Buck
up, Peri,” Vystan says with forced cheerfulness. “It’s
only a flesh wound.”
Peri winces and turns away. The arrow has dug
deep. Bresnor glares at Vystan. “You think life is just
one big joke, don’t you?” he says in a low, cold voice.
Behind you, Grigneth laughs bitterly, holding his
hand over his bloody leg. “That’s what he said to me,
too,” Grigneth says. “Only a flesh wound. Hah! ’m
dying.”
“Only if you don’t shut up,” Bresnor says.
94 KEM ANTILLES
Grigneth winces, probing his wounded thigh with

his fingers, preoccupied with his minor injury. Letting
go of the oar with one hand, you touch the pouch
beneath your jerkin. The Dragon’s Eye is safe. You are
thankful the precious talisman is in your possession.
You grab the oar again and concentrate on matching
Beatrix’s rhythm. You should be long gone by morn-
ing. You will have left Fostyr far behind, beyond any
hope of rescue. You swallow hard.
The steady rhythm of the rowing calms you a
littlhe—everything but your mind. You keep seeing
Fostyr, alone, surrounded by orcs and fighting to
defend you. You grind your teeth. The orcs will pay
for this. And if you ever confront him face to face, the
wizard will pay an even higher price.
In the bottom of the boat, Peri bites back a scream
of pain. “Got it out,” Vystan grunts.
You look up. Bresnor holds the bloodied arrow
Vystan has removed from Peri. Even by the cloud-
shrouded moonlight, Peri’s face is pale. He’s lost a lot
of blood. You wonder if he’s going to survive until you
reach Crockport. Setting his longbow aside, Bresnor
crawls between you and Beatrix to talk to Peri. Vystan
bathes the swordsman’s wound with lake water, then
rolls up his own sleeve and cleans a gash across his
forearm.
Another flesh wound, you think, suddenly grateful
for Vystan’s attempts to soothe Peri with humor. You
keep rowing.
“What about me?” Grigneth demands.
“You'll be all right,” Bresnor shoots back.
After a while, colors filter in with the predawn light.
You tell stories to each other to pass the time. You
slow your pace to give your shoulders some much-
needed rest. Behind you, Grigneth and portly Vystan
doze off, snoring loudly. In front of you, Bresnor lolls
against the side of the boat, his mouth slack in a sleep
of deep exhaustion. Peri wheezes. Is he just Sestenes
you wonder, or is he dying?
You peer into the gray light. Dark blood pools in

the bottom of the boat around Peri, still oozing from
his wounds. You shudder. The swordsman is probably
dying after all.
Beatrix rolls her shoulders and stretches, blinking
her bright eyes. You massage your own aching shoul-
ders as she turns in her seat to face Grigneth and
Bresnor. She kicks their feet, waking them. “Hey!”
she says. “How about taking over for a while?”
Grigneth opens one eye. “I can’t,” he says. “I’m
wounded.”
“Would you like to be wounded even worse?” she
answers him in a threatening voice.
Grudgingly Grigneth pushes you aside and takes
your oar. His color has returned.
Beatrix kicks Bresnor’s shin. “Get up, you lazy
dragon spawn! Now!”
Bresnor snorts and shakes himself. He changes
places with Beatrix, gripping her oar.
Exhausted, you and Beatrix lean against each other.
Beatrix falls asleep instantly. You watch the first rays
of sun touch the rippling waters of the lake as you
continue your journey.
Go to 5.
py!
You decide the cave is your best chance for now.

You turn and sprint for the jagged opening, taking the
orcs who had been waiting for you by surprise. Duck-
ing your head, you plunge through the dangling wil-
low fronds, diving from the moonlit evening into
blackness. The two orcs scramble after you, weapons
and armor clanking loudly. Even with all that added
weight, they seem to be gaining on you. You know you
would never have made it past them to the pier.
Leathery wings brush your face as a cloud of bats
96 KEM ANTILLES
pours out of the dark tunnel. You slip on the muddy >
cave floor, sprawling face first in the muck. Slime
coats your chest and oozes down the neck of your
leather armor. Shadows block the feeble light from the
cave opening—it’s the orcs, standing just outside the
cave mouth, peering inside.
You scramble to your feet, grasping at a tree root
poking out of the crumbling cave wall beside you. You
glance over your shoulder at the opening to the lake-
shore, where your companions continue the battle.
The two orcs grunt, pointing in your direction.
Gasping for breath, you stumble deeper into the
dark cave, guiding yourself along the walls. Water
beads along the rock like perspiration. Another flurry
of bats sweeps past you, stirring the still air. The
stench of mold fills your lungs. You force yourself not
to cough and give your position away.
The passage slopes down into the earth. You creep
along the rough wall, each step taking you deeper into
the cold, damp, dark cave. You hear two sets of heavy
orc footsteps sloshing through the muck behind you.
You flatten yourself into a gap in the wall. You hear a
thud, then a loud grunt. You smirk. One orc has hit its
head on a low ceiling and fallen. You imagine the
other stopping and helping the first orc to its feet,
cuffing its companion for being so clumsy.
You stand still in the darkness, waiting for the orcs
to pass. Before long, they tramp past you, one of them
brushing your muddy chest as it goes by. You turn to
flee from the cave. Perhaps now the battle has waned
and you can make it to the boat. Or perhaps your
companions have all been killed, and you will have to
continue the mission alone.
But when you approach the entrance, you see the
silhouette of an orog guarding the mouth of the cave.
You finger the handle of your whip, but there is no
room to lash out with it in the narrow tunnel. Just
beyond the orog, you see more orcs swarming about.
You clench your teeth in frustration and pad silently:
after the first two orcs. Maybe there’s another way

out. The tunnels seem to be a maze.
You hear the two orcs whispering somewhere off to
the left. You come to a place where the tunnel forks.
You take the fork to the right, away from the creatures.
A surge of hope drums in your chest. Perhaps the
gods are with you after all. You have the Dragon’s Eye,
and you are safe, temporarily at least.
You creep down the right branch, running a hand
along each wall. Pebbles loosen and tumble beneath
your fingers. You turn sideways to squeeze between
two piles of fallen rock and debris, ducking as the tun-
nel narrows. You grab an embedded stone and pull
yourself through. It rips loose in your hand and clat-
ters to the floor. The cave roof above you shudders as
if about to collapse. You hold your breath, afraid
you'll be crushed under a ton of loose rock.
Shouts echo from the other branch. The two orcs
retrace their steps and splash toward you, shouting
something to the burly orog at the mouth of the cave.
You hear reinforcements entering into the tunnel.
You scrape quickly by the second rockslide, ignor-
ing the sharp points of rock that gouge your arms.
The tunnel widens considerably once you pass the
slides. You draw your oaken sword.
You turn to face the narrow opening you have just
squeezed through. You dig the tip of the sword into a
crack in the protruding rocks and lean into the blade,
using the hard oak like a lever. You feel the wall crum-
ble and slip. You leap back just as a small avalanche
buries the opening. Moments later, after the clattering
of rocks ceases, you hear the muffled curses of the
orcs on the other side of the cave-in.
- Though it seemed dark before, now there is no
light whatsoever. You pat your chest, feeling for the
pouch. At least the talisman is still safe. You pull out
the leather thong and make sure it is tied firmly
around your neck.
Inching forward, you guide yourself along the walls.
98 KEM ANTILLES
You go as fast as you can, not knowing how soon the
orcs will dig their way past the rockslide. Your hand
glides over algae, rock, and oozing mud. You begin to
understand how a blind man must feel.
Hopelessness envelopes you, and you come to a
stop. Soft sniffling, squeaking noises echo through the
tunnel: rats. A chill crawls up your spine. You hurry
on deeper into the tunnel, trying to put some distance
between you and the rats and the orcs—and whatever
other dangers the cave might have in store for you.
Turn to 4.
ps
“T’ll stay here at the tower,” you say, sounding

braver than you actually feel as you envision the over-
whelming forces of the orc army. “I think you need
me here.”
“T’ll stay, too,” Fostyr says, grinning broadly. “We’ll
make those orcs think twice.”
You smile back, glad you’ll be fighting together.
You and Fostyr have been through so many cam-
paigns together, it’s hard to imagine him not guarding
your back or you not guarding his. The fighters at
Dragon’s Eye Tower are a good, dependable crew, and
you can’t imagine leaving them in their time of great-
est danger.
Captain Jongh nods, and when he smiles at you, his
jagged, broken nose makes him look like a ferocious
animal. “Reinforcements are coming from Crock-
port,” he says, “but I’m sure they won’t arrive in time.
We’re on our own here.”
He narrows his eyes, and a secret glints in his pupils
as he bends closer. With a glance from side to side, he
lowers his voice. “I’m glad you’re staying behind,
Corlen. You’re the most dependable fighter we have,
despite . . .” He glances meaningfully at your wooden |
sword and your whip, and you know he is thinking of

the curse. “Uh, despite your handicap. That’s why I
_ have to give you another mission.” Captain Jongh
swallows, then takes a deep breath, as if it’s difficult
for him to divulge his secret. You and Fostyr watch
him intently, intrigued.
“The escort is a decoy,” Captain Jongh whispers.
You gasp in disbelief, but the captain holds up his
hand and glares at you. “Quiet! Let me explain. We’ve
already flushed out two spies from Iuz, and there are
probably more. I doubt the group supposedly escort-
ing the eye will actually make it to Crockport. I’ve
kept the Dragon’s Eye here. Once the orcs discover
the ruse, they’ll think I have the talisman.”
He takes a thong with a leather pouch from around
his neck, holds it reluctantly for a moment, and finally
slips it over your head. Fostyr’s eyes go wide with
astonishment. “If the decoy doesn’t work, and if the
orc army breaks through our defenses, they’ll be look-
ing for me, not you. Protect the Dragon’s Eye at all
costs. If it looks like we’re going to be overrun, head
into the tunnels under the tower. Don’t worry about
the rest of us. Your primary mission 1s to keep the real
eye safe.”
You nod, your mouth dry. You straighten your
shoulders and say evenly, “I'll guard it with my life.”
“We will,” Fostyr says, by your side as always.
“T thought so,” Captain Jongh says. “Remember, if
the tower falls, deliver the eye to Count Delwyn.”
“Near Crockport,” you say. “I know where his
castle is.” You tuck the worn leather pouch under-
neath your jerkin.
Captain Jongh smiles grimly. “Be careful, Corlen.
Now I must must see to preparations for battle.” He
clasps your shoulder, then turns and stalks away.
You glance at the other grim-faced soldiers prepar-
ing to defend Dragon’s Eye Tower, and then you look
out past the battlements to see the roiling chaos of the
invading orc army. There don’t seem to be enough
100 KEM ANTILLES
fighters to hold the decaying old fortress against the

force massing on the plain near the shore of Lake
Whyestil. A sea of orc campfires stretches far into the
distance, flickering like water at sunset. You can
almost feel the heat roaring up, ready to consume you.
Fear seems to seep deep into your bones. Paying
closer attention, you can see the tension in the faces of
the other defenders. You know the odds are very
much against you.
Instead of warming you, the glow of the orcish
encampments sends a sharp chill through your bones.
It is not full darkness yet, but you know the army of
Iuz will attack before long. The orcs have better night
vision than humans and prefer the cover of darkness
to strengthen their thirst for battle.
Everyone around you checks and rechecks equip-
ment, tightening bowstrings, fastening armor, stack-
ing piles of arrows within reach, sharpening weapons,
filling water buckets in case of an attack by fire. A
bucket brigade of soldiers passes skin bags filled with
oil from the tower’s larders, dumping them into large
black caldrons by the perimeter wall. Others pile
wood high, lighting blazing fires beneath the kettles.
Defenders take position atop the earthen wall, ready
to spill the boiling oil down upon the first wave of the
orc attack.
Standing on the high wall, you tighten your own
leather armor, making sure it’s fastened securely, and
Fostyr checks the lacings on the back. You help him as
best you can, without touching any of his metal chain
mail. Together the two of you test your bowstrings.
You loosen your whip, letting it hang coiled at your
waist within easy reach, opposite your wooden sword.
You count forty-three arrows in your quiver—enough
to make the orc army pay dearly when they reach the
tower. The more orcs you can pick off from a dis-
tance, the fewer you’ll have to fight at close quarters.
Seven orc scouts venture close to the earthen perim-
eter walls below the tower, just out of arrow tange.
One of them shouts in a loud, guttural language,

taunting you. Fostyr taunts the orcs right back. The
others spread out, keeping low to the ground, sniffing
the dirt and coming as close as they dare. They carry
smoking torches to light their way.
“Probably scouting the terrain,” Fostyr says.
You nod. “And trying to figure out the best
approach for a massed attack. My guess is there are
others hiding in the shadows, doing the real scouting.
That bunch is too obvious.”
In the early dusk, you can just make out the mucous-
green skin, ugly snouts, and reddish eyes so typical of
orcs. Coarse hair mats their shoulders and arms. They
wear splotched leather armor—you’ve heard rumors
that it’s made of human skin—studded with metal
rivets. Three of the scouts carry huge battle-axes.
The remaining four have long swords that gleam in
the torchlight. All of them lope along with a swaying,
animal-like gait.
102 KEM ANTILLES
Fostyr exhales with a hiss. “Ready?” he asks.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you say, the Dragon’s Eye
heavy around your neck. You glance uncertainly at the
orc patrol. It has moved closer, as if daring you and
your companions to attack.
“Hey, Corlen,” one of the other guards calls, “how
do you expect to kill any orcs with that toy sword?
Why don’t you fight with a real weapon?”
“Watch what you’re saying,” Fostyr snaps.
Your blood warms to the challenge. You yank a
flint-tipped arrow from your quiver and quickly nock
it against the bowstring.
“A real weapon like this?” you call back. You take
aim at the nearest orc, a big axe-wielder with stooped
shoulders. You grit your teeth, forcing your arms to
relax as you draw the bowstring taut.
In happier days, your father taught you to shoot by
becoming one with the arrow, seeing your target with
your mind as much as your eyes, then releasing the
arrow the way a raindrop slides off the end of a leaf—
effortlessly and with no wasted motion. Unable to
touch metal weapons, you have had nothing to do but
practice in the following years.
The arrow hisses through the air toward the over-
confident orc scout. Seconds later, a shrill cry pierces
the air accompanied by a sound like chopping wood
as the arrow strikes home. The orc collapses to the
ground, a long feathered shaft protruding from its
neck like the stinger of a giant wasp.
Your comrades on the battlements cheer boister-
ously. The remaining orcs stare at you in surprise.
They leap away, jabbering loudly, and flee back to the
safety of their ranks, leaving their dead companion
behind in the dust. As they run, one of the orcs howls
and raises its sword over its head, swinging it wildly.
The soldier who taunted you whistles in apprecia-
tion and taps his metal helmet in a brief salute. One
orc more or less won’t matter much when they attack,
but you have managed to raise the morale of the
' SIEGE OF THE TOWER 103
nearby defenders. Jeering at the retreating orcs, sev-

eral other archers launch arrows, but the orcs are
already too far away.
Fostyr laughs. “Touché,” he says. “One down.
Maybe now they’!I think twice before attacking us.”
“I doubt it,” you say, suddenly having second
thoughts. You hope you haven’t given the orcs even
more incentive to attack. Still, it feels good to prove
that you are not helpless, despite the curse you bear.
“Don’t worry,” Fostyr whispers. “With an aim like
that, the eye is in good hands.”
You nod, bolstered by his words. Gradually the two
of you settle back into your watch, wondering when
the orcs will attack. Waiting is the worst part, you
think. It would be better to get the attack over with.
The night grows cold, and you sidle closer to one of
the blazing fires on the battlements. Fostyr gives you
some dried meat from his pouch, and you wash it
down with water from one of the skins resting against
the wall.
Later that night another orc patrol approaches the
ramparts. They carry no torches this time, creeping
forward like stains in the shadows. It’s difficult to
make them out in the dim light of the quarter moon
that peeks through the clouds.
“What are they doing?” you ask as you and Fostyr
peer out at the shadows creeping forward. There
aren’t enough of them to signal an attack. Still, your
heart pounds wildly, and your throat squeezes tight.
“T don’t know,” Fostyr says.
As you watch, the orcs stop moving forward. They
spread out around the earthen perimeter walls, form-
ing a loose circle.
- “Rools,” one of them shouts, his voice eerie and
threatening as it rises out of the darkness. “Humans
not win. Can’t win. Give in now. We not kill you.”
“Better live,” another one calls. “Be friends.”
“Join us,” a third one shouts, a new voice from a
different part of the circle. “Much money, drink.
104 KEM ANTILLES
Pretty orc females.”

“Think, fools,” the first orc calls. “Last chance.”
“Not think too long,” a fourth orc chimes in. “You
die thinking.”
“One hour,” the second orc shouts. “Then no more
chance.”
A moment later, the orcs leave, melting into the
darkness. The sprawling encampment of the huge
enemy army appears even more threatening, like a for-
est fire. You wonder how many more orc reinforce-
ments have appeared under the cover of darkness, or if
the orcs have just lit extra campfires to make their
numbers appear to have swelled.
The members of the watch around you begin to
whisper to each other. Fostyr bites his lower lip
thoughtfully. “Stay here,” he says. “I want to check on
something.” Silently he heads down the stairway to
the courtyard.
To your left, someone hisses,. “It’s true. We’re all
going to die if we stay here.”
“Not if we kill them first,” a second man says.
The first man laughs a bitter laugh. “Just look at
the size of their force! If you think we’re going to come
out of this alive, you’re crazy.” He stands and follows
Fostyr down the stairs, slinking into the night. Your
chest grows cold as you wonder if Fostyr has deserted
you after all. Somehow you can’t believe he would go
away without you—and then you begin to wonder if
perhaps you should slip off, too.
Another fighter gets up and quietly slinks away,
staying well out of the firelight. Another follows.
A stocky man with yellow hair approaches from
behind you. You remember his name is Alix; you met
him your first day at Dragon’s Eye Tower.
“What do you think, Corlen?” he asks. “I say we try
to sneak past those orcs. The eye is already gone, so
what’s the point in staying here? We’d be throwing our
lives away for nothing. If we get caught, we’ll just pre-
tend we got sent on a scouting patrol. I say we take
“ SIEGE OF THE TOWER 105
warm bulge next to your skin. It might be better to

leave now rather than take the risk of the eye being
_ captured in battle.
It’s a gamble either way.
If you decide to leave the tower with Alix, turn

to 20.
If you decide to remain in the tower, go to 34.
24
You walk up to the first count. He is more like the
Count Delwyn you remember: hands clasped firmly
on his sword hilt, protecting his weapon, trusting no
one. Suspicion lines his face, but it is out of habit, not
malice. You smile, relieved.
“Count Delwyn, I give you the Dragon’s Eye,” you
say. Kneeling, you reach into the mouth of the pouch
and lift out the crystalized eye. It gazes coldly at you,
its glassy weight dead and brittle in your hand. A chill
runs up your spine.
The count studies you, then releases the hilt of his
sword and lowers both hands, palms cupped, to
receive the talisman.
The second count cries out, knocking Fostyr aside
and rushing toward you, sword raised. Throwing all
his weight behind the move, burly Vystan wrestles the
imposter to the ground and grabs him by both arms.
The false count continues to struggle.
“You're making a big mistake,” the second count
whines. “If you give the eye to your father’s murderer,
all is lost.”
The second count seems too desperate. There is
something else as well, simmering beneath his care-
fully controlled words. It’s barely repressed anger—
the kind of hidden rage you would expect to see in an
“hs
—
- 106 KEM ANTILLES
evil man like Tyrion.

You let out your breath, raise the eye, and place it
and its pouch in the second count’s hands.
“Wisely chosen, Corlen,” he says, tucking the eye
back in its pouch, then slipping the pouch around his
neck. “I will guard the eye to my last breath.”
“Which you have just taken,” the second count
snarls, suddenly bursting with new power. He tosses
Vystan aside easily.
You swing around. The second count’s face con-
torts with fury. As you watch, he shimmers before
your eyes. His azure cloak deepens to coal black. His
face changes. His skin grows sallow, and his eyebrows
thicken. His lips tighten to a cruel line, pale and scar-
like. A thin, dark beard sprouts from his chin.
“Gorak!” he commands, raising his arms to cast a
spell. Tyrion’s voice has faded to a scratchy whisper
that raises goose bumps on your arms.
The air around the evil wizard shimmers like heat.
The hideous orog captain, chipped battle-axe in hand,
appears at the wizard’s side, along with a small band
of orcs. They brandish short swords, halberds, pikes,
maces, and spears. Their red eyes glare at you with a
hunger for violence.
You yank out your long whip. Your companions
leap to your side with their own weapons. Now you
must protect the real Delwyn to keep the eye safe.
“T thought we were finished with all this!” Grigneth
whines.
“Guards!” the real count shouts. A volley of arrows
rains down from the parapet. One of the orcs shrieks,
but you can’t tell if it’s from pain or battle-lust.
With bloodcurdling cries, the orcs swarm to attack,
spreading across the courtyard. The count’s guards
draw their weapons. One group rushes down the
winding stone staircase into the courtyard, while
archers take up defensive positions to rain arrows
down upon the enemy.
In seconds, Vystan, Beatrix, and the others have
formed a defensive knot around Count Delwyn and

the Dragon’s Eye. Snapping the air with the tip of
your whip, you step in front of them and brace your-
self as an orc with a huge mace lunges at you.
Turn to 35.
25
“Tl go with the escort group, sir,” you say. “I’ll do
my best to see that the eye is delivered safely.”
Fostyr nods and grins. “I?ll go, too, sir.” The wind
blows his hair in a wild mass around his head.
You smile back at the whip-thin young man, relieved.
You and Fostyr have been through so many cam-
paigns together, it’s hard to imagine him not guarding
your back or you not guarding his. “When do we
leave, sir?” you ask the captain.
“Immediately,” he says, leading the two of you to
the stairway. “Grigneth and the others are waiting at
the south gate.” He grips your arm. “I’m putting you
in charge, Corlen. When you get to Crockport, take
the Dragon’s Eye to Count Delwyn’s castle. Give it to
no one but the count—he has the means to guard it
properly—but beware of treachery. The legions of Iuz
want this talisman badly. There’s no telling what they
might do to stop you.” He sighs, and his twisted nose
looks like the beak of a bird of prey. “Good luck.”
“I presume you’re staying behind to defend the
tower,” you say. “Good luck to you, too, sir. You have
a lot of brave men and women behind you.”
“Thanks,” Captain Jongh says. “We'll need all the
luck we can get. Now, get going before the orcs close
off your escape!”
The captain pushes his way between the other
fighters massing the walls. You take one last look at
the approaching army. The orcs are close enough now
that you can see their torches reflecting off their
108 KEM ANTILLES
battle-axes and halberds. You hear their heavy foot-

steps, the clank of their weapons and armor, their
snorting and grunting sounds of anticipation, the
creaking wheels of crude siege machinery, catapults
and battering rams. The battle for the tower is going
to be grim and bloody—but you and Fostyr have
another mission, a more important one.
You grit your teeth, then take the stairs two ata
time to catch up with Fostyr.
The courtyard is ablaze with torches in the gather-
ing dusk. In the cool air, the smoke hangs low, making
the air bite as you breathe deeply.
You and Fostyr make your way across the teeming
courtyard to find the rest of your group. Fostyr leads,
winding through the chaos, and you follow him,
squeezing between knots of fighters struggling into
armor and sharpening blades and arrows.
You reach over your shoulder to feel in your quiver
and count the flint-tipped arrows. Thirty-eight. You
hope that will be enough. You glance at another stack
of arrows near one of the armory huts, thinking of
gathering a few more, but these are steel-tipped
arrows. Your curse makes them dangerous to use, and
you decide not to take the risk.
Near the south gate, the battle preparations are less
frantic, with fewer people running about. You catch
up with Fostyr, who has stopped in grim surpise, star-
ing down at the fortress walls, where the body of the
spy who tried to desert lies, a deep red gash across his
throat.
“He deserved it,” you say.
“I know,” Fostyr agrees. “One traitor like that
could cause the whole tower to fall.”
Stepping past the deserter’s corpse, you and Fostyr
hurry to the south gate, where Grigneth is waiting
with the other fighters who have been selected. Grig-
neth has a tattered leather helmet and a bristly red-
dish beard. He had shaved his chin clean on his last
leave to Crockport, but now he has decided to grow
the beard back. His whiskers don’t seem to be coop-

erating.
You see Beatrix, tall and broad-shouldered, her
blonde hair falling in a tight braid down her back. She
stands as straight as her lance. Vystan, jovial and
barrel-chested, leans against the wall beside her, his
flail held loosely in his hand. The grim-faced swords-
man Peri is there, with his long black mustache like a
dragon’s tail. He is muttering something to Bresnor,
who, sullen as usual, grunts and shrugs his longbow
over his shoulder. Everyone is tense. It’s a small
group, but you respect the fighting ability of each
member.
Near the water trough beside the gate, a string of
horses, saddled and ready to go, stamp their hooves
and whinny. You note with surprise that your horse
and Fostyr’s are already among them. Captain Jongh
knows you better than you realized. He knew you’d
choose to guard the eye.
You step up to the others. “Is everyone here?” you
ask Grigneth, who nods in the affirmative. “Let’s get
going, then . . . no time to waste. I want—”
“Who put you in charge?” Grigneth demands, jut-
ting his bristly chin forward.
“Captain Jongh,” Fostyr says, stepping to your side.
A frown creases Peri’s forehead. “The horses are a
mistake,” he says. “We need to travel quietly, slip
through the forest unseen.”
“We need to go quickly,” you say, grasping your
horse’s reins.
Peri shakes his head. “They’ll hear us. If we go on
foot—”
“We need to go quickly,” you repeat evenly.
: Bresnor touches Peri’s arm and gives him a warn-
ing look. Peri shakes off his grip, glaring at you.
You pretend to ignore him, but you are concerned
about the dissent in your group. “Look, we already
have enough problems with the orcs without fighting
among ourselves. Enough is enough. Has anyone
110 KEM ANTILLES
gone for provisions?” you ask.

Barrel-chested Vystan pats the nearest saddlebag.
“The finest fare the Bloody Axe has to offer,” he says.
“He means he got the stuff with only a few mag-
gots,” Beatrix says with a wink.
“I’m going to miss the maggots,” Fostyr says, with
a false sigh. “Especially the crunchy ones.”
Everyone laughs nervously, which eases the ten-
sion. You glance at the south gate, wondering if you’ll
live long enough to eat again.
“Who has the eye?” Fostyr asks.
“I’ve got it,” Grigneth says, pulling a leather thong
around his neck. You see a large pouch before he
drops the thong beneath his jerkin. He looks at you
suspiciously, as if you are going to take it from him.
“Guard it well,” you say, mounting your horse. You
raise your head to shout at the guards by the re-
inforced wooden barricade. “Open the gate!”
The others in your party mount their own horses as
two stout lancers strain to pull open the huge wooden
doors. You cluck to your horse, calming the beast as it
snorts and dances in place. “All right, we ride fast.
Not a word until we’re well away from the tower,” you
say, urging your horse toward the darkness beyond the
gate. “I'll give the signal.”
Fostyr and the others fall in behind you. The gate
thumps shut, and the heavy crossbars slam into place.
The finality of the sound causes a tingle along your
spine. You are alone now, outside the protection of the
fortress.
You touch your oaken sword and your bow for reas-
surance, then pat the coiled whip at your side, just to
be certain it still hangs there. You feel confident in
your skill with each of your weapons, as the orcs will
discover if they challenge you.
As your little band moves at a steady trot away from
the tower and into the tangled forest, you look back at
the ramparts of Dragon’s Eye Tower one last time. By
the light of the rising moon behind the clouds} you
catch a glimpse of the orc army approaching the

earthen wall at the front of the tower, spreading out to
surround it. Their battle cries shatter the night, grow-
ing louder and more fierce as arrows and pikes rain
down on them from the ramparts. You turn away, urg-
ing your horse forward.
You and your group have gotten away just in time.
Go to 9.
26
Turning from the deadly rune-carved sword, you

grab your whip with such force that you snap the
thong attaching it to your belt. The whip uncoils like a
snake in your hand. ;
“No!” you yell at Tyrion, cracking the whip.
Tyrion jerks his head in surprise. The sword against
Fostyr’s throat lets up a fraction of an inch.
In a fluid motion blurred by speed, you lash out
with the supple weapon. The end of the whip wraps
around the sword and Tyrion’s hand. You yank the
whip sharply, wrenching the sword from Fostyr’s neck
and Tyrion’s grip.
Tyrion’s wrist snaps loudly. His hand hangs at an
odd angle. The rune-carved sword clatters to the
ground even before the wizard can cry out in pain.
You jerk the whip free.
Tyrion screams and lunges for the sword, but Fos-
tyr is quicker. Your friend dives to the ground, grabs
the hilt of the sword, and snatches it up.
The orcs raise their weapons threateningly, bellow-
ing battle cries. Tyrion backs away, glaring at you, his
face stormy, his eyes filled with hatred.
“Come on, Tyrion!” Shouting with triumph, you
crack the whip again. It flicks against the wizard’s
face, leaving a bloody cut on his left cheek, similar to
the wounds he just inflicted on you with the tip of
your father’s sword. Tyrion raises his uninjured hand
and begins to work a spell.
An orc with a two-handed broadsword lunges at
Fostyr. Fostyr raises the magical blade and slashes.
The blade slices the orc’s sword in half and slays the
orc in the same motion.
Fostyr leaps toward Tyrion before the wizard can
complete the spell. Tyrion stumbles back in sudden
fear, shielding himself with both hands. His broken
wrist makes one hand dangle at a sickening angle. The
orcs freeze in their tracks, fearful of the enchanted
blade, uncertain how to defend the wizard.
“Your turn to die, wizard!” Fostyr hisses, closing in
for the kill.
Panic twists Tyrion’s face. Though his broken wrist
hangs useless, he manages to scrawl in the air with the
fingers of his good hand, hastily weaving a spell.
Fostyr jabs the enchanted sword at the wizard, aim-
ing for his heart.
You’re blinded by an intense flash of light. Sud-
denly Tyrion’s body is transformed into a purple-gray
cloud of smoke. The smoke retains the shape of the
wizard, but Tyrion himself is gone, transported to
safety.
Fostyr thrusts the sword into Tyrion’s smoky form,
but the blade passes right through it. Seconds later,
the smoke dissolves, leaving a foul stench in the air
where Tyrion stood.
In fury, Fostyr slashes at the dissolving smoke with
your father’s sword, but his efforts are futile. “Cow-
ard!” Fostyr shouts.
A scream of dismay and anger erupts from the orcs,
but before they can rally and attack you, a shower of
arrows pelts them from the fringes of the woods. Six
orcs sink to the ground.
You and Fostyr both dive to the earth to avoid
being hit by another volley of arrows. “Who is it?”
Fostyr asks.
“¥ don’t know,” you reply. “Friends, I think. They
114 KEM ANTILLES
seem to be shooting the orcs.”

“For now,” Fostyr says. But a moment later, he
cheers as several archers step into view.
It’s your companions. They must have decided to
return and ambush the camp.
You leap to your feet, take up your whip, and
charge the remaining orcs. With an explosive crack,
your whip wraps around the neck of a large orc, one of
Gorak’s lieutenants. The braided leather strangles it,
crushing its windpipe and leaving an ugly welt on the
creature’s gray-green skin.
Leaderless and confused, the orcs break ranks and
flee into the surrounding forest. You hear them crash
through the underbrush, howling in terror as if fiends
are chasing them. Your comrades fire another volley of
arrows at their backs as they retreat. Four more orcs
fall. The only other sounds are the gurgles and moans
of wounded orcs, growing quieter as they die.
The rest of your companions emerge completely
from their hiding places in the trees, joining you in the
empty camp. They look at you and Fostyr rather
sheepishly. “We couldn’t leave you behind.”
“Tt sure sounded like it,” you grumble.
“Hey,” the flail wielder assures you. “It just took us
a while to come up with a plan.”
Fostyr clamps a hand on your shoulder. “Well
done, my friend,” he says gratefully.
You shake your head, uncertain. “But Tyrion
escaped.” And you’re still cursed.
“At least, with Gorak dead and Tyrion gone, the
orcs are without a leader for a while,” Fostyr says.
You stop for a moment to consider, feeling the
weight of the Dragon’s Eye around your neck. For a
few minutes, you’d forgotten about it. You grin,
pulling the eye out from under your tunic. “I guess we
can deliver this in safety now.”
Fostyr smiles at you. “Not bad for a day’s work!”
The End
ae|
Weary and discouraged, you try to forget this latest

horror. Your companions stumble along behind you.
Your meager supplies of food are gone. You come
across many lime-encrusted puddles, but the water is
undrinkable. Your lips are dry and cracked from dig-
ging through the rubble after the cave in.
You have to find a way out soon, or you and your
companions will die, lost in this endless maze. At least
the Dragon’s Eye will be buried with you. You smile
with grim satisfaction at the thought of Tyrion
screaming in rage when he discovers the eye has been
lost once more.
“It’s my turn to curse you this time, Tyrion,” you
say softly, chuckling to yourself.
Renda looks sidelong at you, as if you’ve lost your
mind. You shrug and press on.
After several hours, you realize that you’re hope-
lessly lost, but you dare not show it. You have passed
so many caves and new tunnels that you can’t remem-
ber if you’ve seen them before or not. They all look
the same. You wonder what time it is. Days could pass
and you’d never know it.
Several torches are starting to sputter. Without the
torches, you’re doomed. You order a few of them to
be snuffed out, hoping to make them last longer. Relf
continues to lead, carrying the brightest torch.
When you come to the next branching of tunnels,
you call a halt. Everyone is exhausted; no one is think-
ing straight. You need your companions to be alert.
You send Relf and the broad-shouldered soldier with
the battle-axe to scout one branch of the tunnel.
“Report back in five minutes,” you tell them.
Relf sighs deeply and heads off. You and Renda
check the second tunnel.
Five minutes later, you and Renda rejoin Relf and
the other soldier. Relf reports that their tunnel is par-
116 KEM ANTILLES
tially caved in. “I don’t want to take a chance on that

one collapsing on us, too,” he says.
“Fine with me,” you say. “There’s a place to rest up
ahead in the other tunnel.” The tunnel you and Renda
took opens into a warm, dry chamber, large enough to
hold everyone comfortably. You set up camp there.
To conserve torches, you put out all but the one the
watch will use. Assigning Turloc the first watch, you
curl up on the rocky cave floor. You roll part of your
cloak under your head for a pillow, then pull a fold of
it over youas a blanket, but the cave is still dank and
cold. Luckily you’re so tired it doesn’t matter. You
drift off to sleep, thinking that hard stone never felt so
comfortable.
_ A faint singsong murmur awakens you. It seems to
mingle with the snores of your companions. There’s
no light, not even from the watch’s torch. The flail
wielder must have let it burn out!
You move your fingers in front of your eyes, but you
can’t see them. You touch your face but still can’t see
your hands. The darkness around you is impenetra-
ble. A chill spreads through you, raising goose bumps
on your neck and arms.
“Turloc?” you whisper. “Turloc, you’re supposed
to be on watch!” No answer. You call louder. “Tur-
loc!”
Nothing.
You wrap the cloak around you and feel your way
to the wall. You hear the faint murmuring sound again
. magical, lilting voices. Brushing your fingertips
along the wall, you carefully place one foot in front of
the other as you head down the corridor in the direc-
tion of the voices. “Turloc?” you call again.
Several minutes later, you round a corner in the
passageway. Weak light flickers ahead. You creep
toward it, like a moth to flame. Soon an arched door-
way appears in the side of the tunnel. The voices seem
to be coming from there.
“Power,” they sing. “Riches. Land.”
You approach cautiously, the words drawing you

closer. Turloc stands as if hypnotized just inside the
doorway. The torch hangs limply in his right hand.
His eyes glint as he stares in awe.
“There you are, Turloc!” Relieved, you step
through the doorway into a cavern dotted with glitter-
ing jewels: rubies, diamonds, emeralds, amethysts.
Sapphires larger than your arm, gleaming opals like
crystallized pure milk, tiger’s eyes, garnets, every kind
of gem you’ve ever imagined.
His mouth hanging open, the flail wielder stares at
his left hand. It’s filled with a rainbow of gems.
The singing changes, filling your ears.
“Hear the truth,

or your heart’s desire.
Clearly see,
or dream and expire.”
“Turloc,” you say. You shake him, but he doesn’t

respond. It’s obviously some kind of spell. Which did
the stooped flail wielder choose, you wonder—truth,
or desire? If you make the same choice, you’ll end up
the same way, transfixed and mindless.
You turn to get help, but you find you can’t move.
Your legs seem to be fastened to the floor. You can’t
get away. You must choose.
After a pause, you say aloud, “I choose to hear the
truth. I want to see clearly.” Maybe that will tell you
how to free the flail wielder.
Within seconds, all the gems vanish and the singing
turns to shrieks of fury. Instead of a vast cavern, you
find yourself standing in a tiny cramped room chiseled
out of rough stone.
Turloc clutches a few dirty pebbles in his hand.
Skeletons of dwarves, orcs, and humans litter the
floor, obviously those who chose their heart’s desire
and died, trapped by seeing only what they wanted
and not what was really there.
118 KEM ANTILLES
You find you can move your legs now. Quickly you
dump the pebbles from Turloc’s hand. You drag him
toward the door. He doesn’t struggle, but seems limp,
as if stunned.
The voices in the air shriek louder, buffeting you.
Cries of misery chill you to the bone. Shivering, you
stagger out into the passage.
As soon as you pass through the arch, the voices
fade. Turloc shudders, looking up at you in confusion.
The voices vanish.
“T heard .. . someone,” he says, puzzled. “What
happened?” .
You explain the curse as you return to your com-
panions. The flail wielder hangs his head, embar-
rassed.
“All those riches .. .” he says dreamily. “All I had
to do was get out of these tunnels.”.
“Well get out of the tunnels,” you say, placing a
hand on his shoulder. “Come on. Get some rest.”
You wake Renda and ask her to take the next
watch. You warn her about the voices.
By the time you settle down, the flail wielder is
already snoring softly. You doze, starting awake when
Turloc cries out suddenly. His eyes wide with fear, he
turns to stare at you. “What if Idon’t wake up,
Corlen?” he says. “What if I just keep on dreaming?”
“Dreams can’t hurt you,” you say. “It’s only bad if
you see nothing but dreams. You have to face reality.”
He nods and closes his eyes, but his breathing is
ragged for a long time. Finally it evens out into restful
sleep. At last you can get some rest yourself.
Hours later, you wake refreshed. You light an extra
torch and set out once more. Your head seems clearer
now. The side passages and branchings in the main
tunnel don’t all look the same anymore. You wind
your way through the labyrinth, choosing the passages
that slope up—to the surface, you hope.
After an hour, the tunnel levels out. The walls are
warm to the touch—almost hot. Small puddles of
acrid-smelling liquid dot the floor. The odor makes

your eyes water.
Squatting next to one puddle, you pull a thread
from your cloak and dip it into the fluid. The thread
sizzles and dissolves. Acid. Powerful acid.
Relf stands by your side, holding the torch at arm’s
length. Together you peer down the passage. The
puddles of acid are far enough apart that you can
avoid them if you’re careful.
“Not much of a choice,” Renda says.
You glance at the torches. They’re almost burned
out. You don’t have much time to escape the caves.
“We can’t go back,” you say.
Go to 33.
28
You swing your bow toward Tyrion and aim care-

fully at the center of the eye. All along, you have
known that your mission is the most important thing.
You must not allow the evil sorcerer to possess the
magical object, or he may crush thousands with his
new powers. Even if it means the eye is destroyed .. .
even if it means you will not be able to save Fostyr.
Tyrion grips the eye tightly, gazing into its petrified
depths. A smile carves his lips as he stares into its
night-black pupil. The sorcerer whispers faintly,
speaking into its dark depths.
“Two eyes from on high,” he intones. ““One eye to
see into the mind and heart. One eye to see the land
below.”
of arms on the wall behind him clatters to the court-
yard.
You take a deep breath and let your arrow fly.
The Dragon’s Eye shatters in a flash of blazing light
as its magic is released. A wave of heat passes over
120 KEM ANTILLES
you, more intense than your father’s forge on a blister-_

ing summer day. Tyrion shouts in surprise; then his |
shout becomes a scream of pain as the magical mc |
engulfs him.
With a bellow of rage, Gorak draws the blade of an
axe across Fostyr’s exposed neck. You shout and run
toward the orog, but your friend is already dead as:
Gorak drops him to the ground.
Tyrion cries out in pain as he frantically tries to
work a spell. His hands are ablaze with the brilliant
fire, and soon the glare ignites his entire body.
The orcs around him shrink back in terror. Vystan
and Beatrix cover their eyes.
Tyrion’s lips move, but the words come out slurred.
His fingers wither. The flames consume his skin, and
he sinks to the ground, as blackened and stiff as
scorched tree limbs.
Inky smoke unfurls from his remains, stinging your
eyes before the chill dawn breeze carries it away. In a
fury, barely able to see from grief, you stagger toward
Fostyr and his killer.
The clash of arms echoes over your hammering
pulse as the surviving orcs continue to fight for their
lives. You blink away the stinging smoke and gathering
tears, glancing up in time to see Gorak rushing toward
you, bloody battle-axe upraised. You raise your oaken
sword just in time to deflect the downward slash of the
axc.
The force of the blow wrenches the oaken blade
from your hands, splitting it down the middle. You
roll down and to the side. The axe blade clangs
against the flagstones next to your head. Tiny needles
of shattered stone prick the side of your face.
You roll again and heave yourself up to your knees,
panting. Your wrist aches from the heavy blow that
shattered your wooden sword.
Gorak looms over you, axe raised, face twisted in a
snarl. You fumble for the whip at your side, but you
know it won’t be effective from a kneeling position.
Before you can move, Gorak’s blade starts down.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see a blur of
motion. Iron chains wrap around the orog’s forearm.
Vystan’s spiked flail spins the huge orog around, yank-
ing its blade arm wide.
Gorak howls in rage. The orog jerks its arm free,
mindless of the tears the spikes make in its flesh. It
rips the flail from Vystan’s hands, knocking the portly
fighter off balance and tripping him to the ground.
The distraction has given you enough time to get to
your feet, however, and you unfurl the whip just as
Gorak raises one iron-shod foot over Vystan’s head.
Vystan reaches up to grab Gorak’s ankle and twists
with all his might. Unbalanced, the orog jams its foot
into Vystan’s stomach, pinning him to the flagstones,
and slashes sideways with the chipped axe. You lash
out with your whip, catching Gorak in the face and
slicing open a wicked gash on the monster’s cheek.
Gorak’s head jerks, as if it has suddenly remem-
bered its real enemy. Vystan chokes and tries to knock
the heavy monster off of his belly.
A scream of rage rings in your ears. Beatrix appears
out of nowhere to land on the orog’s back. She holds
her dagger at Gorak’s throat, but the creature gives
one mighty shrug and sends her flying. She lands with
a sickening thud and lies still, stunned.
Vystan manages to free himself during the distrac-
tion and rolls aside to grab for his discarded flail. He
holds one hand over his stomach.
The orog turns on you, blinking to clear its vision
from the sticky blood running down into its eyes.
Beatrix rouses herself and thrusts at the creature with
her lance, lodging its tip in Gorak’s hip.
But Gorak, seemingly incapable of feeling pain,
simply grabs the slippery shaft and tears it free, ram-
ming the butt of the lance back into Beatrix’s armored
stomach. She stumbles and falls, the wind knocked
out of her once more, but she manages to hold on to
the lance. Seeing its helpless opponent, Gorak lunges
122 KEM ANTILLES
at her even as Vystan grabs his flail and comes charg-

ing toward the orog.
Looking up from the ground, Beatrix instinctively
raises the tip of her lance. It pierces the orog’s stom-
ach as Gorak dives for her.
The monster’s weight drives it onto the lance—and
Beatrix. Beatrix cries out as the orog crashes down
onto her. Something snaps in her chest. A last, smelly
breath boils out of Gorak’s mouth.
You rush to Beatrix’s side and try to pull the orog
off. Vystan helps you, heaving the orog general aside.
The fighting around you dies into sudden silence. The
rest of the orcs are dead. Beatrix’s lips quiver, and she
coughs, wincing with pain. You kneel beside her.
She moans, holding her hand to her side. “Tell me
we won. I wouldn’t want to have to put up with a set
of broken ribs if we didn’t.”
You nod once and swallow. Vystan kneels at her
side to tend to her wounds.
%
You stand. Yes, you’ve won. Tyrion can no longer
threaten Furyondy. Neither can Gorak. They are
gone, broken, along with the Dragon’s Eye. Leader-
less, the orc army will fall apart, with the defeated sol-
diers wandering back to Iuz or making new homes in
some dark corner of the kingdom.
But Grigneth is dead, and Bresnor can no longer
shoot his precious bow. Count Delwyn is dead, too,
and the captain of the guard, and many other brave
fighters lie strewn across the courtyard. As the day
lightens, you can see more clearly how great the toll of
this battle has been. The destruction of the eye carries
a high price.
And Fostyr as well.
You walk over to where your friend’s body lies
sprawled on the ground, and you force yourself to
look at him. Your lungs can’t seem to draw in enough
air to form the words you want to say.
It will have to be a silent good-bye.
Dazed, you walk out of the count’s courtyard. As
you trudge down the mountain to your home city of
Crockport, you feel as if you, too, have died.
The End
22
You have fought too many battles and have too

many regrets, but this time you refuse to stand by and
let Fostyr die. Not without a fight. “Go, then,” you
tell the others. “I’m staying. All I ask is that you leave
me one of your bows and some arrows.”
You accept the bow and arrows from one of your
companions before he disappears down the forest
path. Then you nock an arrow and draw back your
bowstring, aiming for Gorak. The orog raises its axe
high above its head, and just as it tenses to deliver the
death blow to Fostyr, you release the arrow.
124 KEM ANTILLES
The shaft sings through the air and buries itself in

Gorak’s neck. The huge orog stiffens and drops the
axe at Fostyr’s knees. Gorak raises both hands to the
arrow, as if trying to tear it out. The orog’s mouth
opens, attempting to shout, but all that comes out is a
choked gurgle before Gorak topples to the ground.
Fostyr jerks his head in your direction as battle cries
erupt from the orcs. You nock another arrow, looking
for Tyrion, but the wizard has disappeared in the sud-
den frenzy.
Instead, you drop an orc near Fostyr, hoping to
give your young friend time to flee into the surround-
ing darkness. A red-eyed orc lunges toward him
before he can escape. Grabbing Gorak’s axe, Fostyr
buries it in the orc’s stomach.
Screaming for revenge, two huge orcs leap for
Fostyr. You nock another arrow, take aim, and let fly.
One of the orcs crumples, an arrow planted in its
back. The second swings wildly at Fostyr with a flail.
The rest of the orcs cluster together, shouting and
challenging the darkness that surrounds their camp.
Reaching for another arrow, you find your quiver
empty. You drop your bow and draw your oaken
sword. If you can reach Fostyr in all the confusion,
you might still have a chance to free him.
His back to the campfire, Fostyr hacks with the
battle-axe at the shrieking orc. The monster staggers
back, then rushes him, forcing Fostyr closer to the
crackling campfire. The other orcs continue to bellow
threats into the shadows.
A group of orcs heads for the forest a little to your
right. You angle to the left, coming out of the brush
near Fostyr. You keep low to the ground, trying to
maintain the advantage of surprise.
As soon as you spring from the darkness, though,
an orc spots you. It charges, spear held high. You
deflect the blow with your wooden sword, then lunge
in close, smashing the hilt into its piglike face. The
cartilage in the creature’s nose snaps with a crunch.
SIEGE OF THE TOWER 12>
The orc staggers back, stunned. You rush past it,

swinging your sword into the lower back of the flail-
wielding orc threatening Fostyr.
The orc falls face first into the fire. Screaming, it
rolls onto the ground, sending a fountain of sparks
into the air. Its ragged fur garments burst into flames.
The stench of burnt hair fills the air.
Fostyr glances at you with a broad grin, turning
away in time to parry the slash of a short sword.
You ram your oaken blade into the ribs of the orc
attacking Fostyr. You hear bones crack, and the orc
gasps for air as it sinks to its knees.
“Follow me, Fostyr!” you cry, scanning the camp
for an escape route.
Your friend joins you, guarding your flank. “It’s no
use, Corlen,” he says.
The remaining orcs are converging on you, finally
realizing there is only one attacker. They swarm
toward you, weapons raised. A few of them laugh at
the futility of your attack, while others howl in out-
rage. You grit your teeth. If you can only reach the for-
est, you and Fostyr might have a chance.
“This way,” you say, motioning to the left.
You turn. Standing tall, holding the glowing magi-
cal sword, the wizard Tyrion stands between you and
the cover of darkness.
“So it’s you, Corlen,” the wizard hisses. “Once a
fool, always a fool. Considering my curse, I should
think you’d know better than to become a fighter.”
He repositions his hand on the hilt of your father’s
spell-engraved sword. Tyrion’s raven’s-head ring glit-
ters in the firelight. The orcs drop back, sensing this
isn’t their fight.
“T should have killed you when I had the chance,”
Tyrion growls. “A mistake I won’t make twice.”
He strides toward you, the gleaming sword held out
purposefully in front of him.
Turn to 39.
126 KEM ANTILLES
30
“We'll stay and fight the beetle,” you say, raising

Bresnor’s bow. “It’s the only chance we’ve got. This
monster isn’t simply going to let us float away.”
Leaning over the side of the boat, you aim for the
creature’s head. You see the ripples of the water beetle’s
underwater passage making a wake on the lake’s sur-
face. You draw a deep, hissing breath. “Brace your-
selves!” you warn.
Beatrix steps up beside you, her lance gripped
tightly in both hands. Bresnor abandons his oar and
takes up Peri’s discarded sword. It looks heavy in his
hand. The grim archer seems unaccustomed to hold-
ing a blade, but his concentration is focused entirely
on the approaching monster.
When the beetle is about ten yards away, you let
loose the arrow, hoping to hit the monster’s mouth or
even an eye. You doubt the sharp tip could pierce the
giant insect’s hard shell. The arrow ricochets off the
beetle’s carapace, splashing spray. The creature
doesn’t seem to notice at all. Its jointed legs stroke
beneath the water, propelling it forward with increased
speed.
“Move over,” Beatrix says between gritted teeth.
She hefts her lance. Before she can thrust it into the
creature, the water beetle dives, vanishing underneath
the boat.
Bresnor rushes to the other side, sword raised.
Grigneth continues to hide at the bottom, whimper-
ing, making the only sound on the boat. The lake falls
still once more.
“Where is it?” you whisper. “Where did it go?”
A second later, the monster comes up under the
boat, rocking it violently. You hear the waterlogged
planks crack beneath you from the impact.
You fall to your knees. Beatrix grabs the boat’s side
to keep from falling overboard. Grigneth grunts as one
Oar swings to the side and knocks the wind out of him.
“Keep those oars in the water!” you shout to Vys-
tan. “It'll help stabilize the boat. Grigneth, get up and
help him!”
Breathless, Grigneth blinks his bloodshot eyes and
climbs to the splintered seat. In terror, he hugs the
handle of the oar to his chest. You nock another
arrow, holding Bresnor’s bow and swallowing hard,
waiting for the next attack.
Beatrix looks around wildly. “Do you see it?”
Holding the other oar against his ample stomach,
Vystan squints into the water.
“There! Behind you!” Bresnor shouts, whirling so
hard that the boat rocks.
You turn toward the stern just as the beetle resur-
faces, its mandibles clacking and its antennae thrash-
ing from side to side like small, sharp whips. The
attack is too sudden for either you or Beatrix to strike.
The water beetle rams the boat, lifting the little vessel
out of the water and spinning it around. The impact
knocks you to the bottom of the boat. With its sharp,
segmented foreclaws, the water beetle snaps off one of
the planks from the side of the boat. It emits a high
squeal, then drops beneath the lake again.
“Do something!” Grigneth yells. “Save us!”
Bresnor curses under his breath, leaning over the
side of the boat with Peri’s sword poised. Grigneth
moans and hangs his head in his hands.
Your heart pounds in your chest as you shift to the
opposite side of the boat. You can’t kill the beetle if it
stays underwater. You need to lure it close, to make it
stay long enough for you or your companions to
strike. Suddenly you have an idea. You hold out your
hand to Beatrix. “Cut my hand,” you say. “Make it
‘bleed.”
She stares at you, then nods as comprehension
dawns. With a quick slice from her dagger, she opens
a cut in your palm.
The wound burns like acid from the touch of metal
128 KEM ANTILLES
" against your own cursed hand, but you pay no atten-
tion to that. As blood wells up, you hold your hand
out over the water. Three drops fall like tears into the
lake. The water boils as the beetle lunges for your
hand, its mandibles spread wide.
You jerk your hand back suddenly. Beatrix aims for
the heart of the monster’s mouth and thrusts her
sharpened lance toward the soft joints of its clacking
mandibles, but the sharp lance deflects off the giant
beetle’s pincers.
Clutching at the side of the boat with its front legs,
as if it means to tear the vessel apart plank by plank,
the beetle slams its body against the boat. You scam-
per back, barely avoiding the slashing pincers. They
snap shut on empty air.
Grigneth wrestles with the oar, his arms shaking
uncontrollably. “I... I can’t hold on much longer,”
he moans. “We’re all going to die!”
Panting with exhaustion, Beatrix hisses at Grig-
neth, “If you don’t keep quiet, we’ll throw you over-
board and escape while the bug eats you.”
Bresnor raises the sword as the beetle rises up,
rocking the boat, on the verge of capsizing it. He
slashes wildly at the monster’s head. The blade
glances off the water beetle’s shell, but with his second
blow, the archer manages to sever one of the feathery
antennae. “That’s for Peri!”
Disoriented, the beetle squeals in pain and lunges
again. You hear the sound of more planks cracking,
and trickles of water rush in from the broken seams of
the boat. You and your companions clutch at anything
within reach to keep from being dumped into the
water.
Bresnor strikes a third time with the heavy sword
and finally succeeds in opening a small crack in the
shiny black armor at the base of the beetle’s head.
Enraged, the beetle lunges at the archer.
With a shout, Beatrix jabs her lance into one of the
beetle’s eyes. Green ooze gushes out.
You stumble back from the creature, giving Beatrix

room to manuever as she tugs her lance free.
“Come back, you coward!” she shouts as the beetle
submerges.
With white knuckles, you clutch the pouch contain-
ing the Dragon’s Eye. You wonder if it might have
been better to stay at the tower and take your chances
against the orcs.
Suddenly the oar is ripped from Grigneth’s hands.
He lunges for it, grabbing the handle as it slips under
the lake’s surface.
“No!” you shout. “Let it go!”
It’s too late. The boat rocks precariously, and Grig-
neth tumbles overboard, sinking below a burst of
churning bubbles. You see his hands thrashing about
as he is attacked from beneath the murky water.
The boat shudders, rocking violently as water
sprays over its side. Another large plank snaps 1n half,
and streams of water flood into the boat. Vystan
lurches forward, reaching out toward Bresnor to catch
his balance. Thrashing and bellowing, the two of them
tumble into the lake.
Surfacing once more, the voracious beetle skitters
toward you, unable to see out of its wounded eye.
Beatrix struggles to her feet as the boat begins to sink.
Cold water gushes in from a dozen major leaks.
Beatrix raises her lance high, then jams it past the
beetle’s mandibles and down its yawning throat. A
greenish trickle oozes from the beetle’s mouth. The
creature emits an ear-piercing screech. Twisting its
unwieldy body, it knocks Beatrix aside and snaps the
lance shaft before it slips under the surface, taking the
embedded lance stump with it.
Trying to regain her balance, Beatrix grabs for you.
Her fingers clutch the leather thong of the pouch
around your neck. It breaks, and she plunges back-
ward with a splash, dropping the eye. You make a grab
for it as the boat plunges beneath the surface.
The beetle rises in front of you, dripping green
130 KEM ANTILLES
slime from its wounded eye and mouth, the broken

lance stuck between its mandibles. One of its pincers
closes around your thigh, dragging you under. With a
surge of adrenaline, you wrench your leg free.
The monster attacks again as you desperately try to
swim away. Finally, as you paddle backward, you kick
hard and feel the sole of your boot strike squarely
against the stump of the lance, driving it deeper,
through the center of the insect’s tiny brain. With a
grunt and a convulsive jerk of all six legs, the beetle
grows still in the water and begins to sink.
Then you remember the eye!
You spot Beatrix nearby and try to swim toward
her. Taking a huge breath, you dive under the water.
The lake is clouded with bubbles and debris. You
can see little as you swim down, down. Then you spot
the pouch drifting past you, slipping toward the
depths of the lake. You kick toward it, hands out-
stretched, but your hands close on water. Your burn-
ing lungs force you back to the surface.
Once back on the surface, you gulp down a big
breath and dive again, swimming furiously to catch up
to the slowly sinking pouch. You’ve got to recover the
eye or your entire quest has failed. You glimpse the
small, distant shape briefly before it vanishes into the
deepening murk. You grope through the dark water
until you can’t stay down any longer. Your lungs are
on fire. You surface and dive again.
It’s useless. The pouch is gone.
You surface once more, shaking the water from
your eyes. Something is floating on the surface about
four yards from you. Your stomach curdles. It’s what’s
left of Grigneth.
You realize that Grigneth’s death may have been
your salvation. While the beetle sucked him dry, it
gave you and your companions just enough time to
get ready for another attack. You take a deep breath
and swim toward shore as fast as you can.
Soon you catch up to Beatrix. “Hurry,” you gasp.
.7
“We’ve got to get to shore. If there are any other bee-

tles around, all the splashing and the blood will attract
them.”
Beatrix sucks in air. Vystan is just behind her, and
he seems to be having difficulty swimming. The shore
is a great distance away. Bresnor appears and helps
Vystan, and you all swim toward shore together.
The ordeal seems endless, but finally your feet feel
the muddy bottom of Lake Whyestil. You scramble to
your feet and grab Beatrix by the arm, helping her
ashore. Sputtering, Vystan also staggers ashore with
Bresnor’s aid. Together you slump onto the beach,
miserable and staring out at the water.
Beatrix inhales deeply, then coughs and spits up a
mouthful of water. “Do you still have the eye?” -
“Tt’s lost,” you say, staring out over the water. “It’s
somewhere down at the bottom of the lake.”
Bresnor hangs his head. “We’ve failed,” he says hol-
lowly.
But have we? you wonder. The eye is safe from the
enemy’s grasp. You can hardly think of a safer place.
And your mission was to keep the Dragon’s Eye from
Tuz, wasn’t it?
You shake your head and laugh bitterly. “Let’s head
for Crockport. Maybe we can at least get some dry
clothes.”
The End
31
Forgetting about Tyrion and the Dragon’s Eye, you

swing your bow toward Gorak and release the arrow.
No matter what, you must save your friend.
The arrow whistles through the air and buries itself
in the orog’s throat. Gorak’s mouth opens in surprise
as much as pain, but no sound comes out. The orog
drops Fostyr and clutches the arrow shaft, trying to
132 KEM ANTILLES
yank it out of its thick, corded neck.

As soon as Fostyr hits the ground, his eyelids flutter
and his eyes lose their glaze, taking on a startled look.
He shakes his head, as if to clear it. As Gorak slides
down the wall, still clutching at the arrow, Fostyr
stumbles sideways.
The remaining orcs see their commander fall and
wail in dismay, retreating toward the protection of the
wizard. Vystan, Beatrix, and the count’s remaining
guards rush forward in a renewed attack.
Ignoring you and the rest of the battle, Tyrion grips
the eye tightly. A smile carves his lips as he stares into
the eye’s night-black pupil. He whispers faintly into its
dark depths. The air around him shimmers and crack-
les with swelling magical power.
“Two eyes from on high,’” Tyrion intones. “‘One
eye to see into the mind and heart. One eye to see the
land below.”
iil
7Hsi)fyUs,
of arms on thecastle wall behind him clatters to the

courtyard.
Frantically you search for another arrow—anything
to prevent Tyrion from completing his spell and
invoking the magic of the eye.
Nothing. You take out your oaken sword and race
for Tyrion.
“Fostyr!” you shout. “Get Tyrion’s sword!”
Your friend turns at the sound of your voice. When
he sees you, some of his confusion seems to drop away.
The ground beneath the fortress shakes violently.
You stumble and fall, then climb back to your feet.
Fostyr looks around wildly, his gaze finally resting on
Count Delwyn’s body. He kneels beside the corpse,
tugs the rune-carved blade free, and lifts the sword.
But not fast enough.
A stone topples from the wall behind you. The
rumbling fills your head and rattles your teeth. The
ground beneath the flagstones feels liquid.
You plant your feet wide, taking a deep breath, then
hurl your oaken blade at Tyrion. The sword arcs end
over end, then bursts into flame as it hits the shim-
mering air around the wizard and falls harmlessly to
the ground.
Light bathes Tyrion’s face. His hands jerk up pro-
tectively, shielding his eyes. He takes a step back, as if
unsure of what he has unleashed.
The ground becomes still once more. Through the
spots swimming across your eyes, you see Fostyr hold-
ing your father’s sword in his hands.
Tyrion turns toward him, one hand raised to fend
him off.
Fostyr strikes with the spell-enhanced blade. The
sword slices into the wizard’s chest. A cloud of putrid
smoke roils out in great gouts, stinging your eyes and
your throat. Tyrion sinks to the ground, as if a fire is
hollowing out his insides. His arms and legs wither,
consumed by the inner flames. When the fire reaches
his face, Tyrion throws his head back and screams.
134 KEM ANTILLES
The cry pierces your ears with dagger sharpness.

You clamp your hands to your head.
Suddenly the shriek stops and silence settles over
the courtyard. The only sound you hear is the ham-
mering of your heart. Your mouth is dry.
For a moment, no one moves. Then the count’s guards
rush the remaining demoralized orcs, dispatching them
quickly with the help of Beatrix and Vystan. Others
rush to help the wounded, including Bresnor, who is
found unconscious by the wall where you left him.
Someone shouts for healers to be sent up from the city.
You hurry over to Fostyr, staring down at Tyrion’s
charred remains. The Dragon’s Eye is untouched by
the flames of your father’s sword. Its ice-black pupil
peers up from Tyrion’s blackened hand.
Fostyr smiles and claps you on the shoulder. You
smile back, feeling as if he’s returned from the dead.
“Good work, Fostyr,” you say.
“Thanks for snapping me out of it,” he says. “I was
trying to fight it inside my mind, but I couldn’t break
the spell.”
This gives you an idea. With the wizard’s death,
you wonder if all of Tyrion’s spells have been broken.
You kneel and tentatively grasp the hilt of your father’s
sword, squeezing your eyes shut.
The metal sears your fingers. You quickly snatch
your hand away. The curse has not died with Tyrion.
You are still prevented from touching metal.
You stand and try to console yourself. Your father’s
death has been avenged. Tyrion is dead. The eye is
safe, and so is the kingdom. And, after all, you haven’t
done so badly with a whip, a wooden sword, and your
own wits.
The End
32
Your curiosity gets the best of you, and you decide
to follow the stranger. Despite his marked stoop and
furtive actions, there’s something familiar about his
face. An acquaintance from your early years in Crock-
port? you wonder.
“ll be right back,” you tell your comrades.
Vystan salutes you with his flagon. “We’ll be here,”
he says. “As long as the ale and food last, we’ll be
happy to wait!”
Beatrix agrees with a long gulp from her own
flagon. You wave to them distractedly and head for the
back door of the inn. The mysterious man waits for
you just outside the doorway. Motioning for you to
keep quiet, he gestures for you to follow him. With a
rapid step, he disappears into the shadows farther
down the alley.
You hesitate. What if this is a trap? You immedi-
ately think of the Dragon’s Eye hidden beneath your
tunic. You should have left it in the protection of your
friends.
The man slinks toward you along the back wall of
the inn. You grip the hilt of your oaken sword.
“What do you want?” you ask.
The man shakes his head. “Not here,” he says.
“Too many people about. I can’t risk anyone else
hearing what I have to say.”
From the other side of the brick wall, a group of
merrymakers laughs raucously—loud enough to keep
anyone from overhearing you if you speak quietly. “It’s
here or nowhere,” you say, your boots planted firmly
on the cobblestone alley.
The man glances about nervously, then heaves a
long sigh. He leans close.
“Corlen, I knew your father before he died,” the
man says softly. “I visited him often, checking on
swords commissioned for Count Delwyn’s guard.”
136 KEM ANTILLES
Your father’s smithy . . . so that’s where you’ve seen

his face. This man worked for the count, paying your
father in gold for each parcel of swords. In fact, when
Tyrion killed your father with the rune-etched blade,
you had started after him with a sword that had been
commissioned by Count Delwyn to attack the wizard,
but Tyrion worked his curse before you could strike.
“Pietr,” you say. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”
The man smiles. “You have a good memory,
Corlen.” The smile fades. “Unfortunately I didn’t
come to reminisce.”
“What is it you have to tell me?” you say, more
curious now than ever. |
Pietr leans closer. His breath is warm against your
ear. “Do you have the eye with you?”
You stiffen.
“Don’t worry,” Pietr says. “I’m not here to take it.
If that was my intent, I would have done so already.”
A cough echoes farther down the alley, accompa-
nied by a rattle of armor.
“Some of the count’s guards,” Pietr says. “They
accompanied me to make certain we’re not dis-
turbed.”
You relax a little. Captain Jongh charged you with
delivering the Dragon’s Eye to Count Delwyn. If Pietr
is telling the truth, your quest could be over soon.
“Go on,” you say.
“The count’s castle has been infiltrated by Tyrion’s
spies. It’s no longer secure. If you go there, the eye is
almost certain to fall into the hands of Iuz. Count
Delwyn himself barely escaped assasination. He’s
journeyed north toward Dragon’s Eye Tower with the
rest of his guards, hoping to intercept you before you
arrive. Somehow you must have slipped past him.”
“Where is he now?”
“Waiting for you at a secret camp in Vesve Forest.
The guards know where to find him.”
“You want me to go with them?” you say.
“You have to deliver the eye. The count can protect it.”
“What about my companions?”

Pietr shakes his head. “They must not know of this.
Because of Tyrion’s spies, Count Delwyn trusts no
one but his closest allies. He’ll allow us to bring you to
his hideout, but no one else.”
You shift your feet uneasily. “But if I don’t tell my
companions I’m going, they’re sure to look for me,”
you say. “That’ll tip Tyrion off for sure.”
Pietr glances back over his shoulder toward the
guards hidden in the shadows as he considers your
words. “All right,” he says finally, “but you can’t tell
them where yow’re going.”
You nod.
“Tll wait here for you,” Pietr says. “Don’t take long.
Tyrion has spies everywhere.”
You slip through the door of the Rusty Fishhook
Inn and return to your companions. After several
mugs of ale, they look even more relaxed. Half-empty
tankards clutter the tabletop, and Vystan is on his sec-
ond plate of food.
“Who was that?” Beatrix says, peering up at you
over a forkful of mutton.
“An old friend of Fostyr’s parents,” you say, looking
somber. “I’m going to visit them for a while and tell
them about Fostyr. Get a room and catch up on rest.
I’ll meet you back here in the morning.” That should
buy you enough time to get away before Tyrion’s spies
notice you’re missing.
Your companions become serious at the mention of
Fostyr’s name. “Tell them their son was a good
friend,” Bresnor says.
“And be sure they understand that he allowed him-
self to be taken so the rest of us could live,” Vystan
says.
“T will,” you say, wishing you could do just that.
After you deliver the eye, you promise yourself, then
you can tell everyone what a sacrifice Fostyr made.
Outside in the alley again, Pietr stands next to the
captain of the guards.
138 KEM ANTILLES
“You'd better go,” Pietr says. “Good luck!”

“Aren’t you coming?” you ask in surprise.
Pietr shakes his head. “Like your friends, I must
stay behind to keep up appearances and also to keep
the count advised of the situation. Now I must return
to the castle.”
“We’re wasting time,” the guard says. He lurches
off, and you follow. After several seconds, you glance
back, but your father’s friend has already vanished
into the shadows. You wonder if you’ll ever see him
again.
At the end of the alley, you meet up with the rest of
the guards—seven heavily armed soldiers. They lead
you through the back streets of Crockport, coming
out along the western shore of Whyestil Lake and the
docks near where your little boat is tied.
Soon you enter Vesve Forest, tramping along one of
the narrow paths under the trees, and the lights of
Crockport disappear behind you. You and your com-
panions head quickly northward, the responsibility of
delivering the eye safely urging you on as fast as you
can go.
Turn to 10.
33
You step over a small pool of acid.

The fumes are so strong you can taste them. The
inside of your mouth feels as if it’s on fire. Your eyes
water. Your throat is a raw blister, and your lungs
hurt. After only a short distance, it becomes impossi-
ble to speak. The others are coughing and wiping
their eyes. You try to breathe through your nose, but
the burning stench assaults your nostrils.
You pull a corner of your cloak over your nose,
mouth, and ears. Except for your eyes, the burning
eases somewhat. Your comrades follow your example.
Their coughing diminishes as they trudge forward.

After about a hundred yards, the puddles grow less
frequent and smaller. The air clears, and you feel a
faint breeze from above. Your eyes continue to water,
but the stinging eases. Your lungs start to clear.
The acid fumes have parched your mouth, and
your tongue is cracked and swollen. But in your entire
party, only a few sips of water remain.
You study the walls around you. The tunnel is
unnaturally glassy and smooth. Maybe miners cut it,
using the acid. If so, you might be close to the surface.
You hope so.
You hurry on. A second tunnel angles off to the
left. Rougher and less even, this one has no pools of
acid. The air smells fresher. With a sigh of relief, you
unwrap the cloak from your face. Motioning to your
group, you set off down the new passage.
Finally you seem to be getting somewhere. The
tunnel floor slopes steadily upward, past many smaller
caves and tunnels. You push on, tired, but too excited
to stop and rest. Your long underground journey
could finally be over.
“Spread out!” you say. “Look for a way out!”
Everyone heads off in different directions. You
enter a tiny chamber filled with rubble. Backing out,
you move on to the next cavern. Although much
larger, this one is no more helpful than the first. You
enter a third chamber. Little more than a narrow hall-
way blocked by a giant slab of rock, it doesn’t seem to
have a ceiling. Curious, you raise your torch.
Hundreds of fluttering black wings swoop down,
shrieking at the upper range of your hearing. You
thrash your arms, protecting your eyes as bats flap
around your head and shoulders. You swing your
_ torch like a club, stunning several bats and knocking
them to the floor of the cave. You run, retracing your
steps.
The bats vanish into blackness. Panting for breath,
you watch their flight. There must be a way out nearby.
140 KEM ANTILLES
Encouraged, you rush into the next cave. Foul air

assaults your nose. You gag on the stench of rotting
flesh.
Not only does the chamber reek, but its shape
reminds you of an eye socket in a human skull. Rais-
ing your torch, you look around. Manacles hang from
the walls. Torn, bloody clothing and a shield lie on the
floor beneath the wrist irons. Bones litter the ground
beneath three unlit torches.
You remove one of the torches and light it from the
stub of your torch. The hair on the back of your neck
prickles. Fostyr told you that chambers like this riddle
these tunnels, each guarded by some unknown mon-
ster.
You start to back out, then stop. No one would
willingly enter such a cave. Perhaps you should hide
the Dragon’s Eye here, where the monster that rules
this horror chamber can guard it. Then maybe the
wars and the killing would stop. People like Fostyr will
no longer have to die. You grit your teeth and creep
into the room, looking for a good place to conceal the
eye.
A bone snaps underfoot. Fear spikes through you.
You take another step. Another bone snaps, as if
cracked by jaws.
You halt. Something is watching you. You can feel
its gaze in the dark. Your heart pounds. You back up
slowly. Cold sweat chills the back of your neck.
Someone shouts from one of the other caves. You
dash out of the chamber, dropping the newfound
torch. Your shoulder blades tense, awaiting some kind
of attack.
Nothing snares you.
Another shout echoes through the caves.
You run toward the voice, loosening your oaken
sword as you go. Light flickers around a big outcrop-
ping of stone. Your companions are gathered around
Relf.
“What’s going on?” you say, gasping for breath.
»
A pike carrier steps aside, letting you squeeze in

beside her. Turloc kneels beside another pale soldier.
He holds the soldier’s right hand, examining it.
The pale soldier looks up at you. “I burned myself
exploring a tunnel.”
“How is his hand?” you ask the flail wielder.
He grunts and frowns. “It’ll heal,” he says. “There
are only a few blisters. I wish we had some cold water
we could soak it in.”
“T'll be okay,” the soldier says.
“Where’s the tunnel where you hurt your hand?”
you ask.
“In the next cave,” the soldier says, climbing to his
feet. “Ill show you.”
Cradling his burned hand against his chest, he
leads you to the tunnel.
The reek of acid hits you before you reach the
opening. You hold out your torch and walk slowly
down the passage, Renda at your side. The tunnel
comes to a dead end after several yards. The rock wall
in front of you is cracked and soft-looking, like
strange, warm clay.
Renda pokes at it with her torch.
The rock shifts suddenly, then rumbles toward you.
You back up quickly, fearing another cave collapse.
The oozing rock follows you out of the tunnel and
into the cave, like a wad of mobile mud.
“Tt’s alive!” the pale soldier shouts, scampering out
of the way with the rest of you.
The thing stops just outside the tunnel opening. It
looks like a huge stone slug. It reeks of acid. It rears
up, looming large in the dimness.
Renda inhales sharply. “A horgar,” she says. “I
should have known.”
You back away, recalling how the creature can bur-
row through solid rock with its acid.
Turloc swears softly under his breath.
The horgar scuttles toward Relf, forcing him back
against the cave wall, then hesitates. “Help!” Relf
142 KEM ANTILLES
shouts, looking frantically toward his sister.

You stiffen. The horgar might leave Relf alone if
you don’t provoke it. But it might also attack him.
Renda looks desperately toward you.
Should you attack the creature first?
If you attack the horgar, turn to 12.

If you decide not to attack the horgar, go to 6.
34
“I’m staying,” you say, unconsciously fingering the
Dragon’s Eye hidden beneath your jerkin. You have
given your word to Captain Jongh, and you refuse to
take the coward’s way out.
Alix scowls at you. “Die if you want to,” he says,
then slips away.
A few moments later, Fostyr hurries up the stairs
with a muffled clatter, carrying a huge crossbow. The
steel bolts it fires are heavy enough to punch holes in
the best metal armor. “Something to keep the orcs
occupied,” he says, grinning at you.
“Just in time,” you say, nodding to a fiery line that
marks the edge of the orc encampment. “It looks as if
they’ve had enough waiting.” The torches are begin-
ning to advance toward the tower like a stream of
falling stars.
“Okay,” Fostyr says. “This is it!”
With a pounding heart, you unsling your longbow
and take your position at the battlements. The other
archers take their positions, strung out on either side
of you. Those with crossbows kneel in front, making it
easier for you to shoot over them. Fostyr braces his
crossbow on a gap in the wall’s crenellations, squint-
ing toward the advancing army, selecting his target.
One of the captains marches up and down the
walkway, shouting orders to the tense defenders.
“Wait till they get close enough! Don’t waste a shot;
we need to make every arrow and bolt count.”

You see four gaps in the line of fighters along the
wall. You glower. Gaps created by the deserters.
Standing firm directly behind Fostyr, you nock an
arrow. Your pulse is hammering. You hear other fight-
ers cough nervously, shifting from foot to foot. Fostyr
looks up at you, and you nod in silent acknowledg-
ment.
Below, you can hear the clanking footsteps, the
rustling weapons, and the harsh guttural cries of the
battle-hungry orcs. Shouts of alarm and challenge
come from the earthen perimeter wall. The flames
under the cauldrons of boiling oil are stoked higher.
Finally the waiting is over. Drawing a deep breath,
you steady yourself. The odor of hot oil singes the
inside of your nose and lungs.
“Longbows first,” the captain says. “Wait until you
can see the reds of their eyes.”
“Won’t be hard to hit ’em if they stay in a group
like that,’ an archer named Renda says, readying her
bow. Her hair glows copper in the moonlight.
“Maybe we should thank them for doing us a
favor,” her twin brother Relf says, nudging her with
his elbow.
The other defenders around you laugh nervously,
breaking some of the tension. In the forest outside the
tower, the orcs advance in a ragged line beneath the
pale underbelly of the moonlit clouds, marching to a
pounding, intense drumbeat. In the middle of the orc
army, a tattered, dark standard whips violently in the
cold breeze from the lake. The orcs swarm past the
banner, like lightning around the calm eye of a hurri-
cane.
Two riders mounted on huge black horses follow
the flag bearer—an orog general, larger and more
hideous than a common orc, and a smaller figure who
seems to be its master. They ride confidently out in
the open, as if they have nothing to fear, as if the battle
is already won. Anger boils in your veins. They won’t
144 KEM ANTILLES
be so confident once they get into range.

“They have a wizard with them,” Fostyr mutters
under his breath, so low that you can barely hear him.
But there’s no time to ask about the wizard. The
ranks of the orcs break spontaneously, and the mon-
sters rush forward, screaming and waving their weap-
ons in a stampede to the tower.
Battle cries of the orcs buffet you, a roar from the
brewing storm. They are close now, less than two
hundred yards away. You draw your bowstring back,
savoring the strength and tension in the weapon. The
bow feels like a living animal, the arrow a tethered fal-
con waiting to be released.
“Now!” the captain shouts.
An arrow pierces the night. Then a wave of arrows
fall like razor-edged rain from the clouds. You are
tempted to shoot at the swollen orc commander, but
decide instead on a group of soldiers closer to the
wall, where your arrows have a better chance of strik-
ing home.
Screams punctuate the battle cries of the orcs as
thirty or more of them fall under the deadly first volley
of arrows. Arrows from orc archers clatter against the
wall of the tower. A man behind you grunts, then falls
to his knees, clutching a crossbow bolt in his chest.
The twin archers, Relf and Renda, move in unison to
haul him aside, yelling for a healer as they return to
their stations and launch their counterattack.
You nock another arrow, then another and another
until, all too soon, your quiver is empty. You glance
around frantically. At least five archers have fallen
along the wall, not counting the deserters. A great
many more orcs lie strewn on the battlefield around
Dragon’s Eye Tower, thank the gods. But they had a
lot more soldiers to start with.
Below, on the earthen perimeter walls, fighters
work together to tip over the huge black caldrons,
spilling the steaming oil down onto the swarms of orcs
scrambling up the walls. With shrieks of pain, the
burned monsters try to retreat, but the press of the

rest of the army pushes them up against the packed
earth, trampling them underfoot. More boiling oil
pours down, causing vast numbers of casualties, but
still the orcs keep coming.
A wide-eyed, pasty-faced stableboy thrusts a bun-
dle of arrows at you. “Here!” he shouts, then moves
on to supply another archer, gathering up black orc
arrows that lie scattered on the flagstones.
Sweat trickles down the side of your face. Your lips
taste salty and your hands are slick. You ignore your
aching fingers and nock one of the new arrows.
So many dead orcs litter the base of the earthen
wall now that the rest are having a hard time climbing
over them. It slows them down, making them easy tar-
gets. But if the bodies keep piling up, the orcs will
have a ramp formed from their own fallen comrades.
After you and the other archers have picked off sev-
eral dozen more, the orcs finally seem to realize their
vulnerability and retreat, leaving a mass of dead and
dying monsters in their wake. A loud but weary cheer
goes up from the fighters around you. A second cheer
rises from the courtyard below.
“Tt’s not over yet,” Fostyr says, panting heavily.
Together you and your friend sink down behind the
wall and struggle to catch your breath. You lean your
head against the rough stone.
“How soon before they attack again, do you think?”
you ask, peering through the opening in the wall next
to you. With a sinking heart, you see the orcs already
rapidly regrouping, terrified by the bellowing voice of
the huge orog commander and his wizard master.
Fostyr shakes his head. “Don’t plan on getting any
sleep.”
_ “J just hope I have time to get a few more arrows.”
You look around for the stableboy. “I don’t suppose
the fighters on the perimeter wall can boil any more
oil.”
Fostyr shakes his head, then takes a sip of water
146 KEM ANTILLES
from a nearby skin, passing it on to another archer. “I

think the first round depleted all our stores.”
You look at the bodies strewn around you. You
count eleven. How many more are wounded?
“Took!” Renda cries suddenly, leaping to her feet
as Relf stands beside her.
Wearily you struggle to your knees. Your arms and
legs throb. The fingers of your bowstring hand are so
stiff you can barely move them. You felt better before
the brief respite.
The orog commander and the wizard ride forward
a short distance as the cowed orc army peels back to
let them pass. Side by side, the two leaders come to a
stop. The orcs close in behind them, like a wound
sealing itself. A deathly silence falls over the battle-
field, shattered only by the sound of the wind whip-
ping from the lake.
The stableboy stops filling quivers. “I don’t like the
looks of this,” he says.
“Me neither,” Fostyr says.
“They’re in range,” you say optimistically, lifting
your bow, hoping to take one or both of them out.
Fostyr puts a restraining hand on your arm. “Don’t
waste your arrows. They’ll never reach them.” Fostyr
smiles grimly. “Not unless you have a few magic spells
tucked up your sleeve you haven’t told me about.”
No, you think bitterly. The only magic spell up
your sleeve is a curse.
A gust of chill wind batters the tower, hard enough
to make the ancient stones tremble.
“T really don’t like this,” Relf says.
The wizard raises his hands, slashing with his fin-
gers and carving glyphs in the air.
“The ground is shaking,” Renda says, looking
down at her feet.
The tower rumbles underfoot with a tired, age-old
moan, as if the earth itself is stirring from a deep sleep.
A section of the perimeter wall at the foot of the tower
bulges upward into an earthen mound. Three long
cracks form on the top, radiating down from a knobby

ridge.
“What is it?” Fostyr asks, trying to see. In a few
moments, the shape becomes recognizable.
“Tt . . . it looks like a hand,” you say in disbelief. “A
giant hand made out of dirt.”
The tower shifts sickeningly. You stagger to one
side, bracing yourself against the stone wall with both
hands. The jagged outline of knuckles and fingers
sharpens on the earthen monstrosity, rising up in the
shape of a clenched fist, ready to strike.
Captain Jongh appears at the top of the stairs, his
broken nose forming a short, sharp zigzag on his face.
“Quick, everyone down to the courtyard,” he shouts
over the deafening rumble. “We’ll make our stand
there.”
“What about the tower?” Renda asks.
“The tower is lost,’ Captain Jongh replies grimly.
“So is anyone who stays up here.” He flashes a mean-
ingful glance at you, and you know he is thinking
about the eye hidden beneath your jerkin. You wonder
if the decoy group is safe or if they’ve already been
captured.
Loose rocks tumble from the knuckles of the giant
earthen fist. Dirt pours off the thumb and fingers as it
continues to rise from the ground, like a waking giant
reaching for the sky. A network of tree roots holds the
hand together like tendons in living flesh.
“Corlen,” Fostyr yells. “Hurry, let’s go!”
You glance over your shoulder. The orcs are already
shouting in anticipation, bloodthirsty screams as dark
and foul as the smoke from the torches they carry.
They rattle their spears against shields.
As you turn to run, you notice something on one of
_ the rocky fingers of the mammoth fist. The image of a
ring, made of pebbles and stones, encircles one finger,
its emblem carved deep into its rocky face. You stare
in horror. The ring bears a raven’s head.
Your pulse quickens as the meaning becomes plain.
The wizard is Tyrion.
Tyrion sits astride his black horse, his own clenched
hand raised, as if puppeting the motions of his sorcer-
ous giant fist. He strikes at the air, pretending to
deliver a heavy blow.
At the tower’s perimeter wall, the dirt fist moves
forward across the courtyard, uprooting flagstones
and smashing small structures aside. As you watch in
awe, the stables and the old inn collapse.
Picking up speed, the mammoth fist smashes into
the side of the tower itself, even as you and your com-
panions flee down the swaying stairs. Heavy stone
blocks topple from the parapet, jarred loose by the
blow.
You lose your balance, then stumble down the
remaining stairs where Fostyr waits. Dragon’s Eye
‘Tower shudders as you leap out into the open court-
yard, your heart pounding wildly. You try to get away
from the falling stones. A second blow from the sor-
cerous fist shakes the tower.

Rubble crashes behind you as the centuries-old
Dragon’s Eye Tower collapses in a cloud of dust.
Turn to 14.
35
The orc swings its mace mightily in a huge arc.
With your other hand, you draw your oaken sword
and parry the blow, smashing the orc’s fingers. The
orc bellows, and the spiked mace clangs to the ground,
giving you the opening you need to thrust the hard-
ened point of your sword into the hollow of the orc’s
scaly throat. The creature staggers back and collapses.
Beside you, Bresnor grunts in pain. You turn as an
orc yanks its battle-axe free from a deep gash in Bres-
nor’s upraised right arm. Grinning, the orc swings
again. Bresnor tries to block the attack with his splin-
tered longbow, but the orc’s axe slices through the
bow like paper and lops off Bresnor’s arm just below
the elbow. Bresnor falls to his knees, clutching at the
wound, trying to stanch the flow of blood. His face is
grayish and wet with shock.
You snap your whip around the orc’s throat, wind-
ing it tightly like a garrote. You let your outrage flow
as you jerk back the whip, snapping the orc’s neck.
Letting the creature’s body fall, you grab the collar
of Bresnor’s leather jerkin with one hand and drag
him from the fray toward the nearest wall of Delwyn’s
fortress. The archer’s eyes are glazed with shock, and
his body trembles as you prop him against the wall.
“Hang on,” you say. Setting down your wooden
sword, you rip the sleeve from your cotton shirt. You
kneel and bind the cloth as tightly as you can around
what’s left of Bresnor’s forearm. The blood slows to a
dribble as you tie the knot tight. You hope it will be
enough. Bresnor gasps, then weakly pushes you aside.
150 KEM ANTILLES
“Go help the others. Leave me. You can’t let someone
else die while you play nursemaid with me.”
“You'll be all right,” you say, rising to your feet.
“Not if you let those orcs win.”
As you turn, an orc wielding a short sword charges
you from the melee. You drop to your knees, ducking
your head as the orc’s wild slash singes your hair. You
swing your sword into the side of the orc’s knee, chop-
ping with the hard wood. You hear the sound of bone
snapping and cartiledge tearing. The orc tumbles to
the ground with a howl. You smash its neck with
another blow.
Panting and sweating, deafened by the sounds of
the raging battle, you look up quickly. A dwindling
knot of guards surrounds the real Count Delwyn and
.Fostyr. The bright red blood of fallen guards mixes
with the darker, thicker blood of the orcs on the flag-
stones.
Cut off from the count, Vystan, Beatrix, and Grig-
neth are backed against the far wall in a tight defensive
triad. Dead orcs lie scattered around them. Grigneth
has lost his leather helmet, but he is fighting furiously,
with the strength born of terror. Vystan’s chain mail is
coated with gore. Beatrix’s lance jabs in and out as
quickly and deftly as a serpent’s tongue, tasting blood
with each thrust.
Beyond the edge of the fray, Tyrion and the orc
commander, Gorak, stand at a safe distance, watching
the battle. For a moment, your eyes lock on Tyrion’s.
He smiles at you, the same thin sneer you remember
after he killed your father.
It’s as if history is repeating itself, only this time he
will kill Fostyr, and your companions, and take the
eye for himself in the aftermath of the battle. No, you
tell yourself. It must not be!
You stagger to your feet, lurching in the direction of
Tyrion and Gorak. You clasp the wooden sword in
one hand and your whip in the other. Tyrion waits for
you, smiling, egging you on.
An orc with‘a bloody-tipped spear steps in your

path. Several of its yellowed front teeth have been
knocked out, but the orc doesn’t seem to notice.
You deflect its thrust with your sword, making a
sound of hard wood clacking against wood. Without a
pause, you move in close, slamming the hilt of your
sword into its chest, hearing the hollow crack of its
sternum. The orc staggers back and trips over one of
Delwyn’s fallen guards. The creature tumbles back-
ward onto the ground. Before it can rise to its feet,
you leap on it, crushing its windpipe with your knee.
Now it’s time to face Tyrion.
To your left, an orc with a two-handed sword hacks
at Grigneth. Using a short sword, he parries the
attack—just barely. Fatigue and fear line his face. The
blade nicks Grigneth’s cheek, and a thin line of blood
trickles down into his beard stubble.
You rush to help him. Desperate, Grigneth lunges
for the orc’s throat with his short sword. The orc
blocks the attack easily, then twists its sword down,
plunging it deep into Grigneth’s belly.
You can almost feel his muscles rip and tear as if
they were your own. Grigneth might have had a streak
of cowardice in him, but he fought well at the end.
The man moans and slumps to the ground, a death
rattle in his throat.
Before the murderous orc can shout its triumph,
you leap behind it, raising your sword to bring it down
on the back of the orc’s skull. At the same time, from
the opposite side, Vystan’s flail catches the orc in the
face. The orc’s head snaps back; it falls dead before it
can make another sound.
Beatrix yanks her long lance from an orc’s chest
and crouches, thrashing her head. Her blonde braid
flips from side to side like a pendulum.
You turn, expecting another attack, but the three of
you are alone. Only nine orcs remain, and they are
engaged with the count’s guards.
With Vystan and Beatrix beside you, you rush to
152 KEM ANTILLES
help the beleaguered humans just as Gorak steps for-

ward to hurl a feathered spear. Its wide triangular tip
catches Delwyn’s captain of the guard full in the chest.
He stands for a moment, clawing at the shaft, then
shudders and falls forward. The shaft of the spear
snaps as the captain collapses onto it.
With renewed confidence, the orcs surrounding the
count let out a howl. They attack with a frenzy, pin-
ning the count’s guards against the castle wall.
Vystan hurls himself at one of the orcs, blindsiding
it with his deadly flail. Beatrix wades in after him,
plunging her lance into the exposed back of an orc as
if she were skewering meat on a stick.
You run to head off Gorak, the orog commander.
But before you can reach the massive general, Gorak
charges through the defenders, cutting a path to the
count with its battle-axe. Looking triumphant, Tyrion
follows close behind, his rune-engraved sword raised
in front of him.
Count Delwyn still holds the pouch with the eye,
protecting it with his life, as he had promised. No
slouch of a warrior himself, the count slashes at
Gorak, ducking a vicious swipe from the orog’s battle-
axe. Fostyr stands motionless nearby, still trapped in
the spell, his back pressed against the wall.
There’s no way you can reach the count or Fostyr
through the press of monster warriors. You look
around the trampled courtyard and spot a longbow,
dropped by one of the archers who died on the para-
pet. Sheathing your oaken sword, you run for the bow,
wresting it from the archer’s dead hands. Moving
swiftly, you bend down to yank an arrow from the
body of a fallen orc. A single arrow. You will have one
shot only.
You swing around. One of the count’s guards is try-
ing to fend off Gorak with a spear. You nock the arrow
and draw back the bowstring, aiming at Tyrion.
Hatred and vengeance blurs your vision. But Tyrion is
engaged with Count Delwyn, pressing close. You wait
for a clear opening, afraid of hitting the wrong person.

The count swings his long sword at Tyrion’s neck.
The wizard, drawing skill from the magical runes your
own father carved into the sword, parries the blow
easily.
The count’s next thrust is aimed at the wizard’s
heart. Tyrion swats the thrust aside. At the edge of the
skirmish, the purplish-faced Gorak strides toward the
blank-eyed Fostyr. The orog raises its battle-axe, see-
ing an easy target.
You spin around with the bow and take aim on a
new target.
With one arm, Gorak lifts Fostyr by the waist. The
orog turns to face you, pressing the blade of its axe
against Fostyr’s throat. It seems to be taunting you.
You draw the bow back as far as you can, praying no
one steps in the way.
Gorak hesitates, glaring at you as a flurry of other
fighters comes between you and the orog. Your fingers
ache and your lungs burn. You curse the guards and
orcs blocking your shot.
“Move out of the way!” you shout in frustration.
At that moment, Tyrion raises his sword. He
slashes down. The count shifts his long sword to block
it, but Tyrion’s spellbound blade slices it in two and
continues its downward sweep without slowing.
Tyrion’s sword slices deep into the count’s neck, all
the way to the bone.
The count stumbles backward, already dead. The
Dragon’s Eye tumbles out of the leather pouch and
begins to fall.
“No!” Tyrion shrieks. He drops his sword and
lunges for the falling eye before it can shatter on the
flagstones. He shoves the count’s limp form aside and
leaps for the falling talisman.
Tyrion stands, clutching the unbroken eye in his
hands. He holds it high above his head, a smile on his
face and a shout of triumph escaping from his lips.
Gorak sneers, pressing the battle-axe deeper into
154 KEM ANTILLES
the hollow of Fostyr’s throat.

You swallow. You have only one arrow. Whom do
you shoot? Gorak, before it kills your friend? Or
Tyrion, who now has the all-powerful eye?
Though the arrow might not harm Tyrion, it might
smash the eye and keep him—or anyone—from using
it.
You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Your
arms tremble with tension. Your aim must be perfect.
Do you save Fostyr and risk tipping the balance of
power between Furyondy and Iuz in Tyrion’s favor?
Or do you destroy the eye and save the land, knowing
you will be-haunted for the rest of your life by the fact
that you could have stopped Gorak from slitting your
friend’s throat?
If you choose to aim for the Dragon’s Eye,

turn to 28.
If you choose to aim for Gorak, go to 31.
36
“I’m staying here, Fostyr. I won’t leave you to face
all these orcs alone.” You uncoil your whip and crack
it at the snarling orcs.
You look around at the scattered pockets of defend-
ers fighting their way toward the tunnel opening. “Go
on!” you shout to them. “Hurry!”
Even though the opening is partially encircled by
the collapsed wall of Dragon’s Eye Tower, you realize
it will take more than one person to keep the tunnel
stairs open long enough for everyone else to escape.
“Pll watch your back,” you say. Before Fostyr can
protest, you climb a pile of stones behind him, joining
the few last fighters struggling to hold back the
advancing tide of orcs. Your whip cracks repeatedly.
Someone has jammed torches along the outer edge of
the collapsed wall. They cast enough light for you to
see and provide a barrier of flame. You snatch up a

torch in your other hand and wave the burning end in
the faces of the orcs.
The creatures press in from all sides. The broken
boulders remaining from the tower wall rise about six
feet above the surrounding rubble. The tumbled bro-
ken rocks and the upthrust flagstones of the courtyard
slow the flood of orcs, but it’s only a matter of time
before they overrun your position. With luck, you and
Fostyr will be able to retreat down the tunnel stairs
after the others and continue the fight there.
You lash out again at the orcs reaching up at you,
blinding two of them. Casting aside the torch, you
draw your wooden sword. Then, whip in one hand
and sword in the other, you run along the top of the
wall to the next group of weary defenders, thrusting
and stabbing with spears and swords. You recognize
the twins, Relf and Renda. “Head for the tunnels!”
you shout at them. “We’ll have a better chance down
there.”
“What about you?” Renda asks. She grunts, jab-
bing her spear at an orc trying to climb the wall. The
orc screams, clutching its mouth, then falls to the rub-
ble below. f
“T’ll follow in a minute,” you say. “I’m staying to
help Fostyr.”
Renda nods. “Good luck.” She grabs her brother
by the arm, and they skitter down the broken boulders
behind you toward Fostyr and the tunnel entrance.
Without hesitating, they grab up torches, duck their
heads, and hurry down into the winding underground
passages.
A small orc crawls over the lip of the wall to your
left. It curls its lips back in a snarl, revealing blood-
splattered teeth, and it thrusts at you with a short
sword. You swing the heavy blade of your wooden
sword down on its wrist, snapping the creature’s thin
bones. The attacker’s sword clatters to the top of the
wall. You kick the orc in the face, and it falls back into
156 KEM ANTILLES
the darkness, gurgling.

You glance around quickly. Except for orcs, the top
of the wall is empty. So is the courtyard. Your com-
rades are either dead or making their way into the tun-
nels. Fostyr is single-handedly battling a cluster of
orcs as the last group of defenders stumbles past him
to the tunnel stairs.
Good. In a couple of minutes, they’ll all be pro-
tected. You can get the eye to safety.
Five or six orcs crawl onto the top of the wall to
your right, knocking the torches aside. It’s a good
thing the wall is narrow, you think. They can only
attack you one at a time. You lash out at them with
your whip. They advance toward you slowly, bran-
dishing their swords in front of them to deflect the
lashes from your whip.
A metal-tipped arrow from below nicks your arm,
opening a deep cut. The wound burns like molten
iron. You grit your teeth against the pain, whirling to
find this new attacker.
A second group of orcs climbs up onto the wall
behind you. The leader loads a bolt into its crossbow
and takes aim at you. Without time to think, you
throw yourself facedown onto the top of the wall at
the same instant the orc fires. The crossbow bolt whis-
tles over your head. A shrill scream erupts behind you
as the bolt strikes another orc. You leap to your feet as
the dying orc topples from the wall.
The fallen orc’s companions bellow at it and shove
the dying body out of the way. You grab a torch at
your feet and hurl it at your attackers. An orc deflects
the torch with its sword. A shower of burning embers
scatters on the night wind.
“No kill him,” one of the orcs orders. “Gorak want
prisoners.”
The two groups of orcs advance slowly, closing in
on you from both sides. You lash out savagely with
your whip. If you can only drive them back a few steps,
you might gain enough time to leap down to Fostyr.
<S
SS
=
TN
x\
N\.
You wipe at the sweat pouring into your eyes. The

stench of the orcs is overpowering. Out of the corner
of your eye, you see Fostyr surrounded by howling
orcs. You turn to him, ready to rush to his aid, when
something strikes you on the back of the head. The
blow stuns you. Black spots dance behind your eyes,
and you fall under the crushing weight of the oncom-
ing enemy soldiers. ...
Ke a ee Ke a
When you regain consciousness, your head throbs

as if metal-shod orcs were dancing on top of your
skull. Squirming, struggling to sit up, you find you are
lying on your side on cold, trampled ground. Your
hands and feet are bound with biting leather thongs
that cut into your wrists and ankles. Your bones ache,
and your muscles are so stiff you feel like a mummy.
Slowly you open your eyes.
158 KEM ANTILLES
Firelight licks at your vision, bright tongues of

flame that illuminate tents and a small pile of scav-
enged, blood-encrusted armor and weapons that
haven’t been claimed yet.
Four orcs squat fifteen feet away, gnawing scorched
meat from broken bones. Stuck on a pole at the edge
of a fire, the severed head of the blond-haired deserter,
Alix, stares out at nothing with sightless eyes.
You groan and roll over. The hard ball of the
Dragon’s Eye presses into your stomach. The leather
cord has snapped, causing the pouch to slip from
around your neck. You’re surprised the orcs haven’t
found it yet, but with the capture of the tower, they
have plenty of booty for the time being.
Fostyr lies awake next to you, looking thin and bat-
tered but still retaining some of his good humor. “The
eye,” he whispers, wincing with the pain of some deep
internal wound. His face is smeared with dried blood,
ash, and dirt. “Do you still have it?”
You nod, looking around in fear that some of the
orcs might have overheard him. “I guess we should
have retreated sooner,” you say. “Now what?”
Before Fostyr can answer, the orc sentries get up
and approach you. Tossing their half-gnawed bones to
the ground, they cut the leather thongs around your
ankles. Another orc bends over Fostyr’s bonds with a
saw-toothed dagger.
“Gorak want to see you,” one of the orcs grunts. It
leans close and grins. You choke on its foul breath.
The other orcs laugh, a harsh cackling sound, then
drag you to a huge tent in the center of camp.
Your mouth is dry. You look around frantically, see-
ing no escape. Campfires blaze in every direction.
There’s no place to run, no way to hide the eye.
The tent is dim inside. It reeks of the rancid oil
used to waterproof it, as well as charred meat and the
fifteen orcs gathered inside. One of your guards prods
you in the spine with the tip of its sword.
A huge orog with purple skin sits in the middle of
the drunken orcs, laughing loudly. A raven’s-head

amulet dangles from a chain around its neck, marking
the orog as an ally of Tyrion.
“Gorak,” says one of your guards.
The orog turns. The room grows silent.
“Bring close,” the orog says, standing. He belches.
Gorak’s lieutenants glare at you. Baring their teeth,
they curse you as your captors drag you past them.
You try to think of some way to destroy the eye before
the orcs discover it on you. Your guard holds its spear-
point at about stomach level. If you turned suddenly
and shoved yourself hard into the sharp point, per-
haps the talisman would break, you think wildly.
“Where is eye?” Gorak demands, voice slurred.
Stepping closer, it unsheathes its sword. It jabs the tip
into the hollow of your throat. The metal blazes
against your cursed skin, but the orog is too drunk to
see anything clearly.
“Kill me,” you say, “and you’ll never find out.”
“Kall you later,’ Gorak says, staring at you blearily.
“Kill friend now maybe.” Gorak pulls the sword away
and presses the blade to Fostyr’s neck. “Where is eye?”
“Tt was destroyed in the battle,’ Fostyr says.
“Bah!” Gorak says. Yanking the blade away, the
orog smacks Fostyr in the jaw with the butt end of the
sword, knocking him to his knees. Fostyr doesn’t cry
out. He shakes the daze from his eyes.
“Let them think,” Gorak tells the guards. “If they no
tell by dawn, burn out eyes. One at time. If still don’t
tell, cut out teeth one by one till one of them talks.”
Gorak spits little flecks of chewed, bloody meat on
you, then lurches away. Your guards hustle you out of
the tent. They lash your feet together again, throw you
to the ground and kick you in the ribs—just for fun—
before wandering off to their campfire. -
Dawn, you think, looking up at the sky. Not much
time at all.
Go to 19.
160 KEM ANTILLES
37
Battle-weary but glad to be free of the orcs for a
time, you and your companions head deeper into the
tunnels, searching for a way out. You still have the
Dragon’s Eye safely under your tunic. You must
escape from these tunnels and make your way to the
city of Crockport, or at least keep the talisman safe
until reinforcements can arrive to drive off the orcs.
You walk alongside Renda and Relf. Renda’s deter-
mination and unflagging optimism are a blessing. You
wish you’d gotten to know her better before the orcs
attacked. She and her brother converse easily with
each other in short, clipped sentences, as if each
already knows what his or her twin is going to say.
Renda holds her bow ready, while Relf carries a torch.
Behind you, the rest of the group follows, muttering
nervously to each other.
As you trudge along, Relf tells you how he and
Renda grew up as orphans on the streets of Crock-
port, working together, fighting for every scrap of
food. Around you, the dim tunnels hum with the low
conversations of your companions, which echo in the
air. After a while, the joking and camaraderie begin to
degenerate into quibbling and disgruntled complaints.
Fatigue is taking its toll.
You stop at a wide spot in the tunnel, just beyond a
heap of rubble that fell from the ceiling long ago.
“We'll rest here,” you say. “It should be a good place
to defend ourselves if the orcs show up.”
Your companions sigh with relief, drop their packs
and weapons, and slump to the floor.
“It’s about time,” one man says dourly. He has
white-blond hair, and a jagged scar pulls at his right
eyelid, adding to his peevish expression. Plopping
down near a pile of dry, powdery rock, he sets a coil of
rope next to him. “I hope someone remembered to
bring food.”
Relf opens his own pack and removes some stale

bread and enough dried meat for everyone to share.
“Wouldn’t be without it,” he says. The general mood
lightens as everyone begins to eat hungrily in silence.
You sit on a boulder close to the pile of rubble. Renda
and Relf take seats nearby.
Relf chews on his last bite of jerky and fidgets. “I
hate just sitting around. I’ll go scout out what’s
ahead,” he says, rising to his feet and picking up one
of the sputtering torches.
“Wait,” you say. “We should stick together.”
“Oh, he’ll be all right,” Renda says. “He can take
care of himself. He saved my life more than once back
at the tower.”
“Tl stay within earshot,” Relf says, starting down
the tunnel holding the torch out in front of him.
“T hope you’re right,” you say to Renda, peering
uneasily down the dark tunnel as the light from the
torch dwindles.
After everyone has finished eating, you offer to take
the first watch while the others rest. About twenty
minutes into your watch, Relf returns, and you
breathe easier.
“What did you find?” you ask him quietly, trying
not to wake the others. Renda stirs, glances up, and
smiles at her brother. Then, reassured, she goes back
to sleep, her coppery hair pooled around her face.
“There’s a branch in the tunnel a little way down,”
he says. “I can’t tell which way might be most likely to
lead us out, but at least I didn’t spot any orcs.”
“Good work,” you say.
Relf sits next to you, leaning against the wall. His
eyes close, but not all the way, as if he’s got too much
nervous energy to fall asleep.
You can’t remember the last time you slept. It
seems like days. The eye hangs heavy around your
neck, a burden you’re not sure you’re stong enough to
carry.
When your watch ends, you wake Renda and grate-
162 KEM ANTILLES
fully wrap yourself in your cloak. Despite your

exhaustion, sleep comes slowly. Every noise echoing
in the tunnels sounds as if it might be an oncoming
party of orcs. You fall into a fitful dream in which you
are running through dark tunnels that never end.
Monstrous footsteps thunder behind you. They grow
louder and louder until they reach a deafening roar.
Suddenly your eyes snap open.
“A cave-in!” someone shouts.
You jump to your feet. Part of the passage you
came through earlier has collapsed. Dust clogs your
lungs and makes your eyes sting.
You take a quick head count. Three of your com-
panions are missing, one of them the blond-haired
soldier with the scar. If you can’t rescue them from
the rubble quickly, the scarred soldier will never com-
plain again.
Renda and the others are already digging at the
mound of dirt and stone blocking the rear of the tun-
nel, and you hurry to join them. The rocks tear at
your fingers, and grit in the air stings your eyes. You
unsheathe your oaken sword and use it like a lever to
pry aside some of the heavier chunks of rock. A tiny
shower of dirt and pebbles dribbles from the tunnel
ceiling.
“This rock is unstable,” you say. “We’ve got to
hurry before there’s another cave-in.”
Renda pushes aside a boulder to reveal an arm.
“Relf, help me!” she cries out. Everyone digs faster,
exposing a shoulder, then a head. The scarred man
with the white-blond hair coughs and gasps as you
burrow quickly, freeing him from the dirt. You drag
him off to one side and prop him against the tunnel
wall.
The soldier takes a huge breath, spitting dirt out of
his mouth and grumbling. “I’m all right,” he says. He
motions for you to keep digging. “Save the others.”
You return to the pile, but now it’s become difficult
to make any progress at all. As soon as you scrape
aside some rubble, more slides down to take its place.

“It’s no use,” one of your companions mumbles.
“They’ve been buried too long.”
“Keep digging,” Renda urges between gritted
teeth. Dust coats her hair and her sweat-smudged
face.
“We can’t give up as long as there’s hope,” Relf
insists.
Your muscles ache. A boulder clatters down from
above, barely missing your head.
_ “Over here!” shouts the flail wielder from several
feet away. “A foot!”
Everyone rushes to the spot and begins to toss
rocks aside furiously. More dirt trickles down from the
ceiling.
This victim is buried facedown. It’s a woman—you
recall the tall sword fighter. Miraculously her foot
moves. You dig frantically until the buried woman’s
legs are free. Then you and Renda pull her out. Her
skin has a faint bluish cast from lack of air. She
coughs, but still can’t speak. Renda leads her away,
supporting her.
You continue to dig for your third companion,
afraid of what you’ll find. After half an hour, though,
you and your group finally give up. The passage far-
ther back is completely blocked, and you allow your-
self the faint hope that the missing person was on the
other side of the cave-in.
Another faint rumble fills the passage.
“Get back!” you shout, motioning down the tun-
nel. A new slide of rocky dirt cascades over the spot
where you were just working.
“We’re only making it worse,” the scarred man says
from where he sits recovering.
“There’s nothing we can do now,” Renda says.
“I’m an optimist, but we’ve got to face facts. It’s time
to save ourselves.”
And you know you must keep the eye safe at all
costs. “Agreed. Let’s move on.”
Renda stares at the fresh pile of rubble. Relf nods

reluctantly.
You and your companions set off down the tunnel,
silently mourning your lost comrade. You have all lost
good friends since the orc siege began. Renda helps
the slowly recovering swordswoman. The scarred man
hobbles along on his own, leaning into the wall occa-
sionally for support.
Soon Relf leads you to the fork in the tunnels he
found earlier. The main passage continues straight
ahead, smooth and solid, large enough to walk in
without stooping. A smaller tunnel angles off to the
left, strewn with small heaps of crumbly white rock.
The roof is so low only a child would be able to walk
upright.
“So which way do we go?” the stooped flail wielder
asks. “The easy way or the hard way?”
Renda creases her brow. Beside her, Relf shrugs. “I
didn’t go any farther than this.”
The scarred blond man steps forward, rope in
hand. “I think I can help,” he says. “I’ve been down
here before, back when we were exploring the tunnels
searching for the lost Dragon’s Eye.” He squints and
leans forward. He seems to be pretending to know
more than he actually does.
“Yes, I remember now. I recognize this fork. The
tunnel on our left leads to a larger series of tunnels
that’ll take us through the Cavern of a Thousand
Swords. It comes out on the shore of Whyestil Lake.
There are a lot of twists and turns, but I’m certain I
can find the way. At least it’ll lead us out of here.”
“You’re sure?” you ask skeptically.
The scarred man stands up, scowling at you. “Well,
I’m going that way. The rest of you can either follow
me or spend the rest of your lives wandering around
down here,” he says. He grabs the torch from Relf.
“Where does the other tunnel go?” you ask.
“Under the tower, back to the orcs,” he says—too
quickly, you think. “Come on. This way.” He waves
166 KEM ANTILLES
his torch like a banner and disappears down the

smaller passage.
If you follow the scarred man into the left-

hand tunnel, go to 3.
If you press on straight ahead in the main tun-
nel, against the man’s advice, turn to 40.
38
“Let’s get out of here while we can,” you decide.
“Maybe the creature is satisfied . . . for now.”
“Then let’s go before it gets its appetite back!”
Grigneth cries, grabbing an oar and putting his back
into his strokes purposefully.
“What about Peri?” Beatrix asks, still holding her
lance ready.
Your stomach knots, but you know there’s nothing
you can do for the dead swordsman . . . just as there
was nothing you could have done for Fostyr. “It’s too
late to help him,” you say. “We need to save ourselves.”
You turn to Grigneth and Bresnor. “Row, you two...
with all your strength.”
The boat slices forward through the water, not fast
enough to escape the water beetle but enough to buy
you a little time. You take up Bresnor’s bow and pull
an arrow from his quiver.
The water beetle is closing fast. Bright ripples of
water fan out behind it. You tear a strip of cloth from
your sleeve and hold your forearm out to Beatrix.
“Cut me,” you say.
She stares at you for a second in astonishment, then
suddenly nods in comprehension. She takes out her
short, sharp dagger and draws the metal blade across
your skin. The cut burns with all the fury of Tyrion’s
curse. You bite back a scream and clamp the rag over
your arm before the wound can cauterize. Blood seeps
into the cloth.
“Hurry, Corlen |»?

Grigneth cries, staring past you,
wide eyed.
The cloth hangs limp, saturated with your blood.
You wrap the rag around the tip of the arrow. Nocking
the arrow, you aim just ahead of the beetle.
The arrows falls short. It plunks into the water,
dragging the bloody rag with it. You reach for a sec-
ond arrow. Behind you, Vystan tears off a strip of his
sleeve and holds it out toward you.
“No need,” Beatrix says, putting one hand on your
arm. “Not yet.”
The water beetle slows and begins to circle the
bloodied arrow. A second later, it ducks beneath the
waves and disappears, following the sinking bait. You
let out a breath and lower your bow.
Vystan tosses you the rag. “For the cut,” he says
simply.
You hold out your arm. The wound has already
stopped bleeding, cauterized by Tyrion’s curse. “I
won’t be needing it. Thanks anyway,” you say.
A half hour later, there is still no sign of the water
beetle. You and Beatrix take over the oars, giving
Bresnor and Grigneth a much-deserved rest.
The shore of the lake slowly glides by. The un-
charted forest thins, giving way to occasional huts,
piers, fishing boats, and even a shore road. Before
long, you are completely past the harsh wilderness,
and you see the familiar outlands surrounding the city
where you grew up.
You reach Crockport by nightfall, the eye still safely
hidden inside your shirt. Exhausted and hungry, you
and your companions tie the boat to a dock near
town. The wooden buildings of the city glow with
warm orange firelight, and the sounds of singing and
merriment waft into the air from dockside taverns.
Vystan draws a huge breath and pats his generous
stomach. “Can you smell that cooking!”
Beatrix frowns. “I smell dead fish under the docks.”
Gripping the lump of the package beneath your
168 KEM ANTILLES
jerkin, you step out of the boat and climb up onto a

solid, well-used pier. The others follow you as you
stop from time to time, looking around the lakeside
buildings, getting your bearings.
Back at the tower, Captain Jongh told you to
deliver the Dragon’s Eye to Count Delwyn, one of the
most powerful nobles in Crockport. The count’s
castle sits on the summit of a hill south of town, too
far to go without getting some food and rest first.
“T’m starving,” Vystan says.
“T think we’re all in similar shape,” you answer.
“Let’s find an inn, get something to eat, and rest for a
bit. It’s still a long trek up to the count’s castle.”
As you lead your party into the city, the familiar
streets bring back a rush of memories, most of them
pleasant, some of them not. Your father’s sword-
making smithy was just down this street. . . .
You push those memories from your mind. Each
one ends with the wizard Tyrion killing your father.
Ahead of you stands the Rusty Fishhook Inn. It’s
old and shabby, as are most of the buildings in this
part of Crockport, but the fire looks warm and the
food smells good. It will have to do. You and the oth-
ers are too tired and hungry to walk any farther.
Off-key singing issues from the Fishhook’s open
windows into the muddy street. You yank open the
door and usher your companions inside. “Keep a low
profile,” you advise. “No need to call attention to our-
selves.”
The room is smoky with the pungent smell of
spiced fish stew bubbling in a big kettle on the hearth.
“What have we here? Lake rats, I’ll wager,” says the
innkeeper. “Find a table, mates. If your silver is good,
my ale is better.”
“And how is your food?” Vystan asks.
“Better than any you’ve ever tasted!” the innkeeper
boasts. “You’ve never had anything like my fish stew.”
Vystan grins and rubs his hands together in antici-
pation. “I love a challenge,” he says. “Bring some of
that stew.” }
Your own mouth waters. You haven’t eaten any-
thing substantial since long before you left the tower.
As the innkeeper returns with a platter full of steam-
ing bowls and mugs of ale, he leans across the bar,
peering more closely at you. “Say, you look familiar,”
he says. “I recognize that red hair, that face. You grew
up here in Crockport, didn’t you?”
“T left a few years ago,” you say.
“T knew it! Wasn’t your father that swordmaker?
The one who was killed? Let’s see, your name is—”
You nod. “Corlen.”
The innkeeper’s voice grows soft. “Yes .. . your
father used to come in here. He was a fine sword-
maker and a good customer. I miss him.”
“So do I,” you say.
“A tragedy how he died.” The bartender shakes his
head, then claps his hand on your shoulder. “Enjoy
the meal. The first round is on me—the ale, I mean.
You’ll have to pay for the stew. I can’t go giving every-
thing away, now, can I?”
Vystan slurps from the bowl and smacks his lips.
“Now, this is something to sink your teeth into!”
Grigneth and Bresnor fall to their own bowls like
starving animals, while Beatrix gulps down an entire
tankard of ale. As you lean over to take a bite of your
own stew, you notice a shabbily clad figure sitting at a
nearby table watching you closely. You glance away,
uneasy under the stranger’s watchful gaze, and pre-
tend not to notice as you begin to eat.
After the third round of ale, Vystan leans back in
his chair and burps loudly. Beatrix laughs at him.
Bresnor mutters under his breath, “Slob.”
Vystan blinks at him, but his good humor gets the
better of him. He chuckles and downs the remains of
his tankard. He shakes his tattered sleeve at Bresnor.
“Yes,” he says. “Maybe so. I didn’t have time to dress
for dinner.”
This time, even Bresnor smiles.
170 KEM ANTILLES
Still uneasy, you look around the inn, trying to

enjoy the boisterous song and laughter from the other
customers. Many of the faces look familiar to you.
Then your gaze returns to the shabbily clad stranger.
He now stands by the back door of the Rusty Fish-
hook Inn. When he catches your eye, he beckons to
you. He looks furtively to one side and gestures for
you to follow him into the shadows, then steps out
into the night.
You think for a minute. The burden of the Dragon’s
Eye weighs heavily on you. You’re suspicious, but
you’re also curious. Does the stranger have something
important to tell you, or is he one of Tyrion’s spies,
trying to lead you into a trap?
If you want to hear what the stranger has to

say, turn to 32.
If you don’t trust the stranger and choose to
ignore him, go to 13.
39
Tyrion advances confidently. You point your oaken

sword at him and back away slowly, looking for a way
out of the camp. You flash a glance at Fostyr, who
pales at the approach of the wizard.
There’s no escape. The orcs have formed a circle
around you and Fostyr, taunting you but refusing to
harm you... because Tyrion has marked you as his
own victim. Fostyr stands at your side, axe ready.
The polished wooden hilt of your sword feels slick
in your hand. Heat from the orc bonfires draws beads
of sweat to your forehead. You stand firm, confronting
the man you hate more than anyone else in the world.
“Wood against metal,” Tyrion says. “Not much of a
contest.”
“Wood can kill as well as steel,” you reply evenly.
The orcs laugh and snort. Fostyr tightens his grip
on the axe.
Tyrion rolls his eyes at your bravado. “Yes. And
your flesh will burn like wood under the fire of your
father’s sword.” He is nearly within reach of your
sword tip now.
You lunge forward suddenly, hoping to catch him
off guard. Your oaken blade clacks harmlessly off the
steel blade forged by your father. He was a master
swordmaker, and you know your simple practice blade
can never win against the rune-etched sword.
You leap back, expecting a counterattack from
Tyrion. Instead, the wizard raises his free hand, and
his fingers weave a spell in the air. When he is done,
an afterimage of his gestures hangs in midair in front
of him.
Suddenly the tip of your sword explodes in flame.
The searing blaze engulfs the blade, leaving behind
only charred ash, which crumbles and drifts to the
ground. You’re left holding the hilt. You drop it in the
dirt at your feet.
The orcs whoop with delight.
“Your father’s sword will turn you to ash the same
way,” Tyrion says calmly. “There’ll be nothing left of
you but dust.”
You fumble for your whip. Perhaps you can blind
Tyrion with a swift stroke.
Tyrion smiles. “Why not fight with a real sword,
Corlen?” He turns to the orcs. “Would one of you
gentlemen be kind enough to lend Corlen your sword
so he has a proper weapon to fight with?”
You look around. The orcs raise a forest of metal
blades. Steel, iron... all cursed. The orcs clatter
them against their shields. You can almost feel the
metal burning your skin. You can touch none of the
offered weapons, and Tyrion knows it. Breathing
heavily, you glare at Tyrion.
“What’s the matter, Corlen?” the wizard asks, his
mouth twisted in cruel amusement. He takes another
step closer. “Afraid to do what is necessary to kill
172 KEM ANTILLES
- me?” He waits a second, then snorts in disgust. “Grab

him,” he orders several nearby orcs.
Fostyr moves to intercept them, but you put a hand
on his arm. “Don’t give them the satisfaction,” you
say. “They'll kill you where you stand.”
Two orcs grab your arms from behind, holding
them tightly in their gnarled hands. A second pair of
orcs grasp Fostyr’s arms, wrenching Gorak’s axe from
his hands and tossing it to the ground.
Tyrion steps close to you. His hot breath tickles
your face. “Let’s conduct a little test,” he says, “to see
how well my curse has held up over the years.”
He raises the tip of the blade in front of your eyes,
flicking the tip from side to side. You tense, anticipat-
ing the agonizing touch.
Tyrion holds the blade even closer to your face. He
touches your eyelashes, then drops the tip an inch
lower to brush your cheek. Just a touch. You hiss and
wince as a lightning flash of pain jolts you. You swal-
low the scream rising in your throat as the smell of
your own burned flesh rises to your nostrils.
“The curse seems as good as new,” Tyrion says.
“But I’d better be sure.” He touches the tip to your
other cheek, and again you flinch, as if scorched by a
red-hot iron.
You shake your head. “You’re a coward, Tyrion,”
you say through clenched teeth. “Everyone here can
see it. I can’t believe the orcs accept you as their
leader.”
The orcs around you grumble. “Let him fight,” one
calls out.
Tyrion glances at the disgruntled orcs, then whirls
and plunges the sword into the ground. The long
sword quivers in the dirt, standing upright. The wiz-
ard steps away from it, arms spread wide.
“Fair enough,” Tyrion says. He gestures for the two
orcs to release you. They relax their grip.
“Fight good,” one of them grumbles.
You step up to the beautifully crafted blade and
MSO aR JI [%
tr z ‘Su
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stop, staring down at it. With one stroke you could

take off Tyrion’s head, but the sword might as well as
be a hundred miles away. You can’t touch it. Fostyr
watches you helplessly.
“Go on,” Tyrion taunts. “Take the sword. Draw it
out and strike me down. Or are you the coward?”
You stand frozen, knowing that if you wield the
sword, it will sear your hands to the bone. The pain
from even the brief kiss of metal still throbs in your
cheeks.
You shake your head, and the nearest orcs spit at
you and howl derisively. “You know I can’t,” you say
to Tyrion. You ignore the orcs. The wizard is your real
enemy.
“No?” Tyrion says. “Maybe you need a little more
incentive.”
He yanks the sword from the ground and walks to
where the two orcs hold Fostyr motionless only a few
feet away from you.
174 KEM ANTILLES
You stiffen. Your fingers brush the whip handle

hanging from your belt. Ifyou move fast enough, you
might be able to keep Tyrion from killing your friend.
And maybe, if you’re lucky, you can wrap the whip
around Tyrion’s neck.
Or maybe you should go for the sword. Perhaps
you could endure the pain and the crippling burns
long enough to strike down Tyrion. After that, what
else matters?
Tyrion holds the blade’s edge against Fostyr’s
throat. The honed surface presses into the young
man’s skin just above his jugular vein.
If you leap forward and grab Tyrion’s sword,

turn to 42.
If you grab for your whip, go to 26.
40
Leaving the scarred man behind, you push him out

of your thoughts as you continue ahead down the pas-
sage. The others follow you in uneasy silence.
Your meager supplies of food are gone. You come
across tiny, lime-encrusted puddles, but the water is
undrinkable. You are thirsty, your lips dry and cracked
from all the digging through the dusty rubble after the
cave-in. If you don’t find a way out of the caverns
soon, the Dragon’s Eye talisman will be lost with you,
buried again in the labyrinth where it had remained
hidden for so many centuries. You smile grimly at the
irony and wonder if that fate would be so terrible after
all. At least, the eye wouldn’t fall into Tyrion’s hands.
But that would be small consolation if you and all
your companions had to perish to accomplish it.
After several hours, you realize that you’re hope-
lessly lost, but you dare not show it. You’ve passed so
many caves and new tunnels that you can’t remember
if you’ve seen them before or not. They all look the
same. You wonder what time it is. Days could pass

and you’d never know.
The torches are starting to Bate feebly. Without the
torches, you’re doomed. You order a few of them to
be snuffed out, hoping to make them last longer. Relf,
in the lead, continues to carry one of the few torches
left burning.
When you come to the next branching of tunnels,
you call a halt. Everyone is exhausted; no one is think-
ing straight. You need your companions to be alert.
You send Renda and Turloc to scout the tunnel in one
direction.
“Report back in five minutes,” you instruct them.
Renda nods wearily and heads off. You and Relf
check the second tunnel.
Five minutes later, you and Relf rejoin Renda and
the flail wielder. Renda reports that their tunnel is
partially caved in.
“Tt just doesn’t look safe,” she says, shifting the bow
on her shoulder. “I think we should take the other
tunnel.”
“Fine,” you say. The tunnel you and Relf followed
opens into a warm, dry chamber, large enough to hold
everyone comfortably. You set up camp there.
To conserve torches, you put out all but the one the
person who stands watch will use. Assigning Relf the
first watch, you curl up on the rocky cave floor. You
roll part of your cloak under your head for a pillow,
then pull a fold of it over your shoulders as a blanket,
but the cave is still dank and cold. Luckily you’re so
tired that your discomfort doesn’t matter. You drift off
to sleep, thinking that hard stone never felt so com-
fortable.
A faint singsong murmur, mingling with the snores
of your companions, wakes you. There’s no light, not
even from the wavering torch. Relf has let it burn out!
You move your fingers in front of your eyes, but you
can’t see them. You touch your face but still can’t see
your hands. The darkness around you is absolutely
176 KEM ANTILLES
complete and impenetrable. A chill spreads through

you, raising goose bumps on your neck and arms.
“Relf?” you whisper. “Relf, you’re supposed to be
on watch!” Hearing no answer, you call louder.
“Relfl”
Nothing. A few of the others stir restlessly but con-

tinue to sleep.
You wrap the cloak around you, feeling your way to
the wall. You hear the faint murmur again. It sounds
like voices. Brushing your fingertips along the wall,
you carefully place one foot in front of the other as
you head down the corridor in the direction of the
voices. “Relf?” you say again.
Several minutes later, you turn a corner in the pas-
sageway. You see weak light flickering ahead. You
creep toward it, like a moth drawn to a flame. Soon an
arched doorway appears in the side of the tunnel. The
voices seem to be coming from there.
“Power,” they sing. “Riches. Land.”
You approach cautiously. The words draw you
closer. Relf stands just inside the doorway as if hypno-
tized, the torch hanging limply in his right hand. His
bronze hair shimmers, and his eyes glint as he stares in
awe.
“There you are, Relf!” you cry. Relieved, you step
through the doorway into a cavern dotted with glitter-
ing jewels: rubies, diamonds, emeralds, amethysts.
Sapphire crystals larger than your arm, gleaming opals
like crystallized milk, tiger’s-eyes, garnets . . . every
kind of gem you have ever imagined.
His mouth hanging open, Relf stares at his left
hand. It’s filled with a rainbow of gems. The singing
changes, filling your ears.
“Hear the truth,

or your heart’s desire.
Clearly see,
or dream and expire.”
“Relf,” you’say, more insistently this time. You

shake him, but he doesn’t respond. He seems to be
under some kind of spell. Which did the young archer
choose, you wonder—truth or desire? If you make the
same choice, you’ll end up the same way, transfixed
and mindless.
You turn to get help but find you can’t move. Your
legs seem to be fastened to the floor. You can’t get
away. You must choose.
After a pause you say out loud to the mysterious
voices, “I want to hear the truth. I want to see clearly.”
Maybe that will tell you how to free Relf.
Within seconds, the gems vanish and the singing
turns to shrieks of fury. Instead of a vast cavern, you
find yourself standing in a tiny, cramped room chis-
eled out of rough stone.
Relf holds a few dirty pebbles in his hand. Skele-
tons of dwarves, orcs, and humans litter the floor.
Obviously they made the wrong choice and saw only
what they wanted to see, not what was really there.
You can move your legs once more. Quickly you
dump the pebbles from Relf’s hand and start to drag
him toward the door. He doesn’t struggle. He simply
remains limp, as if stunned.
The voices in the air shriek louder, buffeting you
like a shrill wind. Cries of misery chill you to the
bone. Shivering, you stagger out into the passage.
As soon as you pass through the arch, the voices
fade to a whisper. Relf shudders, looking up at you in
confusion.
The voices vanish.
“I heard . . . someone,” he says, puzzled. “What
happened?”
You explain the curse as you return to your com-
panions. Relf hangs his head, embarrassed.
“T wanted to see all the things I'll never have,” he
says apologetically. “Renda should have been there
with me.”
“Tt’s all right,” you say, placing a hand on his shoul-
178 KEM ANTILLES
der. “It’s over now. It doesn’t matter.”

You wake Renda and ask her to stand the next
watch. You warn her about the voices. Then you settle
down next to Relf. He’s still awake.
“Go to sleep,” you say.
“I’m afraid to,” he says. “What if Idream and never
wake up?”
“Dreams can’t hurt you,” you tell him. “It’s only
bad if you see nothing but dreams. You have to face
reality.”
He nods and closes his eyes, but his breathing is
ragged for a long time. Finally it evens out into restful
sleep. At last you can get some rest yourself.
You and the others wake refreshed. You light an
extra torch and set out again. Your head seems clearer
now. The side passages and branchings in the main
tunnel don’t all look the same anymore. You wind
your way through the labyrinth, choosing the passages
that slope up—to the surface, you hope.
After an hour, you come to a level intersection. You
seem to be faced with two equal choices. The inside of
one tunnel is shiny and sticky to the touch, barely
large enough to crawl through. An unpleasant odor,
one you can’t place, fills the tunnel.
The walls of the other passage feel warm—almost
hot. Small puddles of acrid-smelling liquid dot the
floor. The odor makes your eyes water.
Squatting next to one of the puddles, you pull a
thread from your cloak and lower it into the fluid. The
thread immediately sizzles and dissolves.
Acid. Powerful acid.
Relf stands by your side, holding the torch ahead of
him at arm’s length. Together you peer down the pas-
sage. The acid puddles are spaced far enough apart
that you can avoid them if you’re careful.
“Not much of a choice,” Renda says.
You glance at the torches. They’re almost burned
out. You don’t have much time to escape the caves.
\ “We can’t go back,” you say.

|
Renda and Relf nod in agreement. But which tun-

nel should you choose?
If you elect to go down the shiny, sticky tunnel,

turn to 15.
If you decide to follow the smooth tunnel dot-
ted with acid puddles, turn to 17.
41
You find yourself in a firelit courtyard with rock
walls on three sides. The count’s castle forms the
fourth, rising tall and formidable, with perfectly
matched stone blocks. The archers on the parapet
turn from the wall, tracking you with their half-drawn
bows.
“Why are they so suspicious of us?” Grigneth whis-
pers in a whining voice.
“Maybe they can smell you’re a coward,” Beatrix
answers, leaning closer to him.
Another tense minute passes in which no one
speaks. You look up past the thick barricade walls at
the sky and notice streaks of light in the east from the
approaching dawn. “I hope they give us something to
eat,” Vystan says. “I didn’t get to finish my supper.”
Without a sound, a tall man walks out of a shad-
owed gate at the edge of the courtyard far to your
right. He steps into the brighter light of the courtyard,
clad in the azure cloak of a count in the Kingdom of
Furyondy. You recognize him at once, though his hair
is now silver-gray. When you were younger, it was jet
black. You realize how long it has been since you’ve
been back to Crockport.
Count Delwyn approaches you and smiles. “If
Corrh the swordmaker was your father, you are always
welcome at my castle. Many of my fighters still use
weapons forged by your father’s hand. Good, strong
weapons.” He looks you over carefully.
180 KEM ANTILLES
“You look much like your father . . . the same red

hair, the same gray eyes.”
Your throat aches at the memory of your father and
makes it impossible to speak for the moment.
Count Delwyn nods at the pouch you hold in your
hand. “I understand you have something for me. Cap-
tain Jongh sent you from Dragon’s Eye Tower?”
You clear your throat. “Yes, sir,” you say. “The
tower is beseiged by an orc army, and it may already
have fallen. The reinforcements didn’t arrive in time,
and so my companions and I were charged to take the
Dragon’s Eye to safety and to deliver it into your pro-
tection.”
You work at the laces around the pouch, tugging it
open. You step forward to hand it to him, relieved that
you can finally deliver the Dragon’s Eye and be rid of
the burden, knowing the magic artifact will not fall
into the hands of the forces of Iuz.
“Wait!” someone shouts from off to your left. It
sounds as if Count Delwyn has spoken, but the count
stands directly in front of you.
You turn... and see another Count Delwyn step
from the shadows. An exact duplicate. You freeze and
then, thinking fast, you snatch the pouch back from
the first count’s grasp.
“You'll never get the eye, Tyrion,” the second count
says. “No matter what trickery you use.”
You take a step back. Beatrix holds her lance at the
ready. Vystan pulls out his flail and whirls it around
his head. Bresnor readies his longbow, while Grigneth
hangs back, looking confused.
“Don’t believe him!” the first count says, glaring at
the duplicate. His face contorts in anger. “He’s the
evil sorcerer Tyrion in disguise. He’s trying to trick
you into giving him the eye.”
His gaze returns to you. “If you let him have the
eye, Corlen, you’ll bring tragedy to all the land.”
‘
The second count smiles, shaking his head. “You’re
the one who will bring tragedy upon us, imposter. Did
you think I would lie sick forever while you took my

place and gave false orders in my name?”
Bewildered, the count’s guards grumble on the
parapets, pointing their arrows from one target to the
other. Your companions stand ready to fight. The cap-
tain of the guard stares in disbelief. “Even I can’t tell
the difference,” he says. “Do you mean I might have
been serving the wrong man?”
“I can understand your confusion,” the second
count says, raising his voice so that all his guards can
hear. “Maybe this will help convince you that I can be
trusted.” He motions with his hand, and Fostyr steps
out of the shadows behind him.
Your jaw drops. Your companions cry out in sur-
prise. Tears sting your eyes as you hurry toward your
old friend. Clapping his back, you shake your head in
confusion. “Fostyr! How did you survive the battle
with the orcs? How did you escape?”
“How did you get here?” Beatrix asks from behind
you.
But something is wrong. Fostyr doesn’t react. He
doesn’t even seem to recognize you. Instead, he sim-
ply stands stiffly beside the second count, staring
straight ahead with glassy eyes. You draw back, con-
fused. The blank look in his eyes frightens you.
“He’s my friend, but he doesn’t seem to know me,”
you say, turning to the second count. “What’s wrong
with him? How on earth did he get here?”
“My hunters found him wandering in Vesve Forest
yesterday. He was entranced, just as you see him
now,” the second count says. “They brought him to
me, and I recognized him at once. I seem to recall,
Corlen, that his family lived near yours?”
You nod uncertainly, but the first count curses.
“T jar! The boy can’t speak because you put a spell on
him. Now you’re using him to entice this young
fighter into giving you the eye. Why don’t you release
him from your spell, wizard, and see what Fostyr him-
self has to say about you?”
we f 182 KEM ANTILLES
“Speak for yourself,” says the second count. “You’re

the one who has used ensorcellment for your own evil
purposes. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to look so
much like me.”
The count’s guards continue to point their weapons
from one target to the other, still baffled.
“Enough of this!” you shout. You study each count
carefully, trying to decide which is the real Count Del-
wyn and which is Tyrion. Count Delwyn’s hunters
could have found Fostyr in the forest, but in his pre-
sent condition, how could your friend ever have
escaped? On the other hand, Tyrion could have taken
Fostyr from.his orc captors, intending to use him as a
decoy here, a last chance to get the eye.
You bite your lip. If only you could break the spell
on your friend, even for a moment. He would tell you
which is the real count.
You step back, still searching Fostyr’s eyes for some
clue, but you see nothing. His eyes are empty and
frighteningly lifeless.
Your oaken sword shifts against your thigh. As you
grip the hilt, a solution comes to you. You glance at
the two counts. Both wear swords under their blue
cloaks, but Tyrion will be wearing the sword forged by
your father, the sword with magical runes carved into
the blade, which enable the wizard to wield the sword
with a trained fighter’s skill. Rumor has it that the
spell-enhanced sword can cut through anything,
including stone and metal. It could even kill a wizard.
Tyrion might be able to disguise the appearance of
the sword, but not its power.
“T won’t give up the eye until I’m sure who the true
Count Delwyn is,” you say. You look around the
courtyard until you spot a large iron anvil, gouged and
nicked from years of hammering, but still solid.
“Bring that anvil over here,” you tell Vystan and
Beatrix.
“What are you doing?” asks the first count.
Straining under the anvil’s weight, Beatrix and Vys-
tan set it on the flagstones in front of you.

“You will each hand over your sword to Beatrix.
She will try to cleave this anvil. That will tell us who
the real count is.”
“A sword can’t cleave an anvil,” protests the second
count.
“One sword can,” you say.
You nod to Beatrix. She steps up to the first count,
holding her hand out to accept his sword.
“This is an outrage!” the first count complains. His
hand clasps the hilt of his sword. “No Count of
Furyondy has ever given up his sword while there is
still breath in his body! Don’t come any closer.”
“Tyrion,” you mutter under your breath. Beatrix
pauses, glancing back at you. You turn toward the sec-
ond Delwyn, ready to hand him the eye, but then you
hesitate. You might as well put him to the test, too.
“Beatrix,” you say, nodding toward the second
count. “One sword will tell us as much as two.”
As Beatrix approaches, the second count slides his
sword out of his scabbard. “Not you,” he says to Beat-
rix. “No Count of Furyondy has given his weapon to a
stranger. I agree to relinquish my sword for this test,
but only to one I trust, one who would never use it
against me.” He turns and fixes you with his gaze. “I
will give it to you, Corlen, and only to you.”
Clever, you think. Tyrion knows you can’t take his
metal sword without burning your hands. But the real
count might not know about the curse and innocently
offer the sword to you.
The guards are getting restless. You need to make
your decision soon. Which count should you trust?
You glance from one to the other, attempting to see
into each man’s heart.
If you choose to give the eye to the first count,

turn to 24.
If you decide to give the eye to the second count,
go to 11.
184 KEM ANTILLES
42
You launch yourself at Tyrion, concentrating on the

sword he holds in his hand. “Stop!” you shout.
Your only thought is to save Fostyr. You force every
other thought aside, not allowing yourself to imagine
the agony you’ll experience the moment your fingers
touch the metal hilt. Fostyr sacrificed himself so you
could escape. He did it knowing he would probably
die. Now it’s your turn to do the same for him.
With a burst of speed, you wrap your hands around
the hilt of the sword, and for a second your anger blots
out the expected pain.
In that same frozen moment, Tyrion gapes at you,
stunned, as if he can’t believe you’re foolish enough to
attack him. He barely has time to blink in shock and
astonishment before the two of you tumble to the
ground, the sword gripped in both of your hands.
You land on top of the wizard. Your weight knocks
the breath out of Tyrion. You wrestle the blade from
his hands.
For the first time since your father died, you hold a
real metal sword in your hands. It’s lighter than you
remember it, but well balanced. The blade feels like a
natural extension of your arms, as if it has always been
a part of you. The metal seems to sing in your hands.
Jaw clenched, you wait for the blistering jolt of pain
that will fuse your hands to the hilt.
Instead, a flash of light fills the air, and you hear a
loud thunderclap. Tyrion shrieks, rolling out from
under you. He claws at the dirt, scrabbling to get away
like a startled lizard.
Your hands tingle with contained energy, but you
experience no pain. Your fingers feel strong, full of
power. Everything seems to stop for a second as you
stare at your hands in disbelief.
Anger couldn’t have removed the curse. Maybe it
was your fear for Fostyr, or your willingness to give
your life to save-/his. .. .

The orcs surge into motion, as if suddenly snapped
out of their stupor. Half of them flee, shrieking, van-
ishing into the forest beyond the firelight.
You push yourself to one knee, glaring at the
remaining orcs. Hatred and fear etch their faces. They
clench and unclench their weapons, uncertain what to
do. They are terrified of you.
Tyrion rises, his hands trembling at his sides. His
face is a mask of rage.
“My sword!” he says, his lips quivering. “Your
father forged it for me, and I made it what it is now.”
He hurls himself at you. His cloak flutters behind
him, and his arms spread wide like the grotesque
wings of some ravenous vulture.
You raise the throbbing sword. Unable to stop his
headlong plunge, the wizard impales himself on the
shimmering blade. The force of Tyrion’s momentum
knocks you backward onto the ground.
He crashes on top of you, light as a skeleton. Black-
ish blood froths from his mouth. The carrion stench
of his breath convulses your stomach. His fingers claw
maniacally at your eyes, still trying to kill you even
though his wound is surely mortal. His eyes, rimmed
with red, blaze in their sockets. You wince. You feel as
if you’re staring into the eyes of a fiend.
Then the blaze fades. Now you stare into the
watery eyes of a dying old man.
Tyrion coughs. The sound vibrates through the
blade of the sword and into your hands. The wizard’s
life sputters and fades away.
You shove Tyrion’s lifeless body off of you like so
much firewood, then yank the blade from his chest.
The corpse shrivels, then collapses into itself until
there’s nothing left but a pile of bones, hidden by the
wizard’s night-black cloak. A mask of dried skin
stretches over his skull.
Head down, you kneel on one knee beside the
body. “At last you’re avenged, Father,” you whisper.
186 KEM ANTILLES
You look up when you hear the rattle of weapons.

Snarling and bellowing, the remaining orcs have
recovered their courage and surge forward, intent on
killing you.
You rise quickly. Fostyr retrieves Gorak’s axe and
rushes to your side. Your father’s sword feels impossi-
bly light in your hands. You imagine you can wield it
for hours before tiring.
Somehow, by selflessly risking pain for the sake of
another person, by putting Fostyr’s life above your
own, you have broken Tyrion’s curse. But you have no
time to revel in the new feeling right now. Guarding
each other’s back, you and Fostyr meet the oncoming
orcs.
A huge orc raises an iron mace, swinging it at your
head. Your enhanced blade slices through the iron
haft and continues into the orc’s chest.
Another creature lunges at you with a spiked club.
You block the club with your sword. The blade
vibrates from the impact, but you slash sideways

across the orc’s face, blinding the creature.
The metal tip of a spear grazes your left arm from
behind. Pain shoots through your arm, but it isn’t the
red-hot pain of magical fire from the curse. You parry
a second thrust, shattering the spear’s shaft, then run
the orc through.
You taste grit between your teeth, and hot sweat
stings your eyes. Smoke from the bonfire next to you
billows into the air.
Suddenly a battle horn sounds from the black
depths of the forest. A volley of arrows hails down
among the orcs. Their steel tips flash like raindrops in
the light of the campfires.
Battle cries mix with orc screams of pain. The orcs
glance wildly around for the new enemy. One creature
breaks for the woods. Another follows.
Seconds later, with no leader to hold them together,
ali the orcs are in full retreat. They trip over the bodies
of their fallen comrades. A few never get up, victims of
the next volley of arrows.
In minutes, they have completely abandoned their
camp, leaving behind a shambles of collapsed tents,
scattered fires, and discarded weapons. You and Fos-
tyr turn to face each other. Fostyr drops his axe and
grins. You grin back.
Shouts echo from around the camp. You tense,
then relax as familiar faces step into the firelight. The
rest of your party has returned. You knew they wouldn’t
let you down.
You laugh out loud with the release of tension. Your
comrades gather round you, clapping you on the back
and examining your father’s sword in awe.
You close your eyes. The Dragon’s Eye tugs at your
neck. For a moment, you had forgotten about it. It
seems as heavy as always, but soon you will deliver it
to Count Delwyn.
It’s too good to be true. Fostyr is alive, the curse
that has haunted you for most of your life is broken,
188 KEM ANTILLES
and Tyrion is dead. Your father is avenged, and his

~ sword has been returned to you.
It’s as if you’ve stepped through fire and come out
reforged.
Still grinning, Fostyr rubs his hands together.
“Well, what do we do now?” he asks, pretending to be
bored.
“How about taking on Iuz himself?” you joke with
a broad grin.
The End
Over 5 Million Sold!
Trapped
Inside |
the Tower!
Although you are a fighter, the wizard Tyrion has _
placed you under a spell that renders all metallic
weapons useless to you. Now, armed with only your
longbow and your whip, you must somehow protect the
magically powerful Dragon’s Eye from the forces of
luz. If the Dragon’s Eye falls into the hands of the evil_
demigod, it could be the end of Greyhawk!
Do you flee cross-country from the army of orcs that
threatens Dragon’s Eye Tower, or do you stay and fight
the marauding hordes? Or co you seek refuge in the
winding, dangerous tunnels beneath the tower?
Only your choices can break the Siege of the Tower. _
Each ENDLESS QUEST® [300k is based on an exc
role-playing game, but you don't need to know the
game to enjoy the book. Just make your choices a
accept the consequences!
Remember, only your choices can lead to success
ENDLESS QUEST® Books!
ENDLESS QUEST and GREYHAWK ISBN 1-56076-894-0
are registered trademarks of TSR, Inc. 0
The TSR logo is a trademark of O8
TSR, Inc. ©1994 TSR, Inc. MM Il
All Rights Reserved. mn
OC
=7
Printed in the U.S.A.
8094 46363°0
int

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GRE

If you retreat into the tunnels, go to 8.

Only your decisions can help you to survive the Siege

Castle of the Undead

Secret of the Djinn

Siege of the Tower

SIEGE OF THE TOWER

First Printing: July 1994

TSR, Inc. TSR Ltd.

blanketed with ominous fog, and the sky is nearly

has grown oppressive. You can’t remember the last

Fostyr nods and peers into the murky distance. “A

You crouched there for a moment, stunned, before rage

sense your brooding mood and says nothing, lost in

keeping the orc army in sight. Although you still can’t

need people I can trust to stay here and defend the

If you decide to escort the Dragon’s Eye to

The scarred man claims to know the tunnels, but

Already your neck and back ache from moving in

“The Cavern of a Thousand Swords,” Renda mur-

bined weight drags you toward the edge of the deep

If you decide to return to the Cavern ofa

ahead, your sword sweeping the darkness in front of

You take a deep breath and inch forward silently. At

Despite your fatigue, you find you can’t sleep. As

have a vital mission, and if you fail, then all those

him, wiping the blood from Peri’s stomach with a strip

Vystan screams as the boat rocks to one side. Beat-

If you decide to fight the water beetle, turn

“Back away from the horgar . . . carefully,” you say

companions to lower their weapons. “The risk is too

As the last of the creature disappears into the tun-

we were so deep underground.”

where Relf stands alone, waving his hands.

You clutch the eye hidden beneath your tunic.

stare at the scene in horror.

“T have it,” you say, but you feel no enthusiasm for

“Go, Corlen!” Fostyr says. “Into the tunnel!”

“What’s wrong?” Turloc asks. “What’s in there?”

off balance, the soldier trips and falls.

The murky Vesve Forest absorbs the tumult of the

“Maybe,” Peri says, scowling. His black mustache

collapse beside you. With a surly expression, Bresnor

of an old wharf. If we get to the boat, we can get to

shore. Only as a last resort, you think. You might be

phy, in the air. “Get out of here!” Fostyr screams at

eye rests like a heavy responsibility inside your jerkin.

If you decide to head for the cave, go to 22.

Weary, sore, and cautious, you and your party steal

ahead of you, a loud, coarse laughter that chills your

“No,” you say, your voice tight. “It’s my friend,

“It’s not there?” Fostyr says, visibly shaken.

If you choose to flee with your companions, go

You decide to trust the second Count Delwyn,

an important man such as the count knows about the

You decide to attack the horgar, hoping to distract

“Does the horgar have any weak spots?” you ask

_ SIEGE OF THE TOWER 51

“Relf, just hold on!” Renda cries in an attempt to

eye on the horgar.