37.

I ran through a long, dark hallway, lined with a thousand identical doors.

A dead man in a black robe stumbled along behind me, cradling his own viscera in his arms. "Mercy, healer," he begged. "Why won't you help me?"

I tried to help you, I wanted to protest. I tried. It wasn't enough. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But my words rang hollow in the dead man's ears, and I ran on, trying to get away from his damnable wailing.

There were voices behind the doors, some hissing, some screaming, some crying. The doors opened as I passed. Hands reached out for me, tugging at my clothes. I had to run faster, but the hall was so long, and it only got longer the farther I ran.

I broke into a panicked sprint. I saw the last door, which was open. There was a light behind it. I reached out…

Someone reached around me and slammed the door shut.

I turned. Dad smiled at me. "Hello, little peach," he said softly. His face was pale and puffy, the way it had been the last time I'd seen him alive. "Remember me?" he asked. His features began to run together, like melted wax. "The house isn't the same without you, you know. When are you coming back?"

I do, I do remember, I'm sorry, daddy, I miss you, I do, I'll come home, I promise, I cried, reaching for him, but his eyes were vacant, like a zombie's, and then he lunged forward, all teeth and rot and terrible, shining eyes.

The door opened behind me, and I fell through it, clutching a broken tumbler and a handful of dead grass.

Dirt pattered onto a coffin. I opened my eyes and saw a plush satin lining, which was white and cold and closing in all around me. I began to scream.

Someone was pounding on the wood.

Thud thud thud.

At first, I thought it was me. Then I realized that it was coming from outside.

Thud thud thud.

I tried to claw my way out, my heart racing. Get me out of here! I tried to scream. Somebody, help me!

The pounding grew louder.

Thud thud thud.

Then the pounding stopped. "M'lady?" I heard a voice call. "Are you in there?"

At that point, two things happened in rapid succession.

First my blankets smacked into the far wall, thrown from my body in the first surge of waking adrenaline.

Then my forehead smacked into one of the rafters.

Stars went supernova in front of my eyes. I let out a strangled scream. My hands flew to my head. "God damn it!" I shouted. "What kind of an idiot puts a ceiling that close to the bed?!"

Nolan poked his head over the threshold, cautiously. "A halfling one?" he suggested innocently.

I glared at him balefully through my fingers. "Is there any particular reason you're trying to crack my skull?" I asked darkly.

"Oh, no, m'lady, I would never do that," the halfling protested cheerfully. "Besides, you were doing it just fine by yourself. Why should I interfere?"

My voice became a menacing growl. "Nolan."

He blinked at me and smiled a dimpled, completely unrepentant smile. "Sorry, m'lady," he said easily. "I'll just be going, then." His head vanished beyond the open doorway. Then, after another couple of seconds, it reappeared. "Oh, right," he added. "I almost forgot. Katriana wants to see you."

I felt my forehead gingerly. It felt hot and painful where the rafter had hit it. I was pretty sure I hadn't cracked anything, but I was probably going to be sporting a nice bruise for the next several days – not to mention nursing the mother of all headaches. I winced. "What does she want?" I asked faintly.

"Dunno." Nolan shrugged. "She stopped the caravan and started shouting for you. Buggered if I know what she's about." He grinned. "I'm just the messenger."

I looked around. He was right. The wagon wasn't moving. My head had been so busy spinning that I hadn't even noticed.

I sighed. "Fine," I said. "Tell Katriana I'll be right out."

Once I'd gotten cleaned up a little and dressed, I picked up my pack (with a fortune in jewelry still stashed in there, I never liked leaving it unguarded and at the mercy of a bunch of too-curious and too-acquisitive halflings) and I stepped out of the wagon – carefully.

Bunking in wagons that had been built for halflings was starting to give me what felt like a permanent stoop. Every time I hit my head on a rafter or an overhanging lamp, or came close to doing so, I swore that I'd switch to sleeping outside, the way Xanos had done after the half-orc had spent too many nights spent folded up like an accordion in a halfling-sized bunk.

Then I remembered the scorpions, and the snakes, and that one time I'd gone out camping with some friends somewhere in Namibia only to roll over during the night and fling my arm on top of a cactus (and boy, had that been a wake-up call to remember), and I resigned myself to a slight stoop and the occasional head trauma.

There was a babble of voices near the head of the wagon train, with one voice in particular rising stridently above the rest. My pack still dangling from my fingers, I followed Katriana's shouts to their source. "Move back, everybody!" she bellowed. "Come on, give him some air!"

I rounded the lead wagon and saw a growing cluster of halflings. They were all looking at something on the ground, but they were gathered so tightly that I couldn't see what it was.

Because Katriana seemed otherwise engaged, I stepped up beside Torias and poked him in the shoulder. "What's going on? We can't be there already," I asked curiously. I sniffed at the air. A familiar, excremental smell crept into my nostrils. I wrinkled my nose. "And what the hell just died?"

Torias grinned at me and tugged the brim of an imaginary hat. "Wotcha, Legs," he said easily. "Seems there was a dead camel in the way-"

"So?" I interrupted impatiently. "Go around it."

"And a dead man," Furtan spoke up from somewhere in the press of curly-haired spectators.

"No…no," another halfling said meditatively. I heard a faint groan. "Seems he's not quite dead yet."

I blinked. "What?" I asked stupidly. "What man?"

Katriana's head popped up from the middle of the crowd. She shoved her arms out to the side, forcing the onlookers back. "I thought I told you people to give him some air!" she shouted indignantly. Her head swiveled. Her eyes fell on me. "There you are!" she added. She jerked her head at me. "Get over here, Rebecca! I need you! You louts, clear out and let her through or I'll dock your pay for a month! I mean it! On the count of five! One, two, three-" She watched in satisfaction as the halflings scrambled away. "Bunch of lollygaggers," she sniffed. "Don't know why I keep them on."

I paid her only half a mind. As the wall of bodies cleared, I saw two crumpled figures lying on the sand.

One was a camel. It was limp, glassy-eyed, and didn't seem to be breathing. The animal had obviously shuffled off this mortal coil, though its death can't have been that long ago. My sojourn in the Bedine oasis had given me a hard education in the many guises of death. There were no flies, and the animal hadn't gone into rigor yet.

The other figure was that of a man. He was a human, on the shady side of middle-aged, with an extravagant mustache and head of white-tipped grey hair that stuck straight out from his skull, which gave him something of the look of a mad scientist. His face was pallid and sweat-sheened, and the skin under his eyes was pouchy, maybe from too many sleepless nights.

As I looked at him, the man convulsed in pain, seemingly trying to curl around his stomach, where his shirt was soaked in blood. It was a weak motion, aborted almost before it had begun. He groaned.

A few seconds later, I was on my knees beside him without really knowing how I'd gotten there. I looked at him and let my eyes unfocus. It was like looking at an image of a vase and having it suddenly resolve into an image of two faces. Bone and blood and flesh became prominent, while the rest of the world faded into the background.

There was so much blood, so much damage. Someone had punched a hole through the man's stomach and out the other side. The bones in his left forearm were crushed, the muscles stretched and warped like pulled taffy. There were deep lacerations, swelling blooms of red beneath the bruises on his torso, and so much blood flowing to his many wounds and pulsing straight out of him that I didn't know how it was that he was still alive.

I didn't know how to repair the damage. I didn't even know where to start. I felt like a novice mechanic who'd just been handed a heap of scrap metal and told to assemble a working car out of it.

I grabbed Katriana's sleeve. "Healing potions," I said hoarsely. "Now."

She looked at me. "We can't afford to spare-" she began.

Anger hit me like a sledge. "Can't afford?" I snarled. I thrust my hand into the very bottom of my rucksack and yanked out a tangle of white and yellow and rose gold. A necklace, more than likely. I vaguely remembered seeing it in mom's jewelry box. I shoved it at Katriana. "There. Now you can. Now give me those potions."

The halfling woman stared at the necklace. "How many of these do you have in there?" she whispered.

"None of your god-damned business." More blood was seeping from the man's wounds, soaking into the sand. I could see it. I could see it. With that damned second sight that Shaundakul had foisted on me, I could see the life leaving the man, one heartbeat at a time. "Jesus tittyfucking Christ on a pogo stick…potions, Katriana!" I shouted at her.

She jumped as if scalded. Then she nodded jerkily, hoisted her skirts, and ran back to the wagons.

I looked back at the man. His head still seemed to be in one piece. At least that was something. I leaned over him. "Hey. Can you hear me?" I asked. His head jerked slightly. His eyelids fluttered. "I'll take that as a yes. Listen, we're going to try to heal you. Just hang on, okay?" He swallowed and, to my surprise, gave a feeble nod. I laid my hand on his right shoulder, the only part of him that was a) completely uninjured and b) not stuck under a dead camel.

I turned my attention to the camel. It was pinning the man's legs. From the looks of it, he'd been riding the thing when it had finally given up the ghost.

I heard a flutter of wings. A vulture dropped to the ground like an avian anchor and made a noise that sounded almost inquiring.

I stared back. "Fuck off," I said between clenched teeth. The vulture sidled sideways, its feathers ruffling at the sound of my voice. "Get away from him, you little shithead. This is not a god-damned all-you-can-eat buffet." The vulture stayed where it was. Without taking my eyes away from it, I reached down and pried a rock up from the sandy soil. "You going to listen, or am I going to have to make you listen?" The thing backed off a step, but I didn't like the way it was eyeing the injured man, with that air of stolid, hungry patience.

Then my head turned at a familiar shriek and a swoop of pinioned wings.

I never ceased to be amazed that the falcon was still with us. Sometimes I'd lost sight of it, and I' started to worry, thinking that our - my - strange guide had abandoned me to get lost in the desert. But then I'd turn around, and there it would be, watching me with its fierce dark eyes, always watching.

Now the falcon landed in front of the vulture, flaring its wings and near-hissing with ire. It was much smaller than the other bird, but it was all ruffled feathers and sharp talons and crazed, vicious determination, and the way it dug its scythelike talons into the ground said that it was ready to raise hell if the larger bird didn't clear out, and soon.

The vulture gave the falcon a sidelong glance. And then, with a casual air that said it wasn't really all that hungry anyway, it unfurled its heavy wings and took off.

I looked at the falcon, which had folded its wings and settled down as soon as the vulture was airborne. "Thanks," I told it. It blinked at me, once and briefly. Then its head snapped around, as if it had seen a particularly tasty mouse, and it leapt into the air with no further adieu.

I watched it go. Then I lowered my eyes and scanned the assembled halflings. They'd backed off a few paces, but most of them were still watching. I half expected them to pull out lawn chairs and bags of popcorn and sit down to enjoy the show. "Birgan," I called, settling on the biggest and strongest of them. "And you, too, Birgan. We need to move this camel-"

"Do not waste your time on the pipsqueaks," a new voice muttered. Xanos popped into visibility less than a yard away, scowling down at the injured man as if he'd insulted Xanos personally. "Xanos will do it."

I watched him lean down and grab the camel by its spindly ankles. Birgan and Birgan, still operating under previous orders, came forward to help him heave the thing off the injured stranger. "Where the hell'd you come from, Xanos?" I asked shrilly. My heart seemed to have gotten permanently lodged in my throat. "You almost gave me a heart attack."

Deekin proceeed to give me a second heart attack by materializing from the thin air at Xanos's heels. Did those two have to do this kind of thing without giving me any kind of warning? Really? "Mean green man thought maybe there'd be trouble, so he go invisible," the kobold announced happily. "He not be brave, like Boss."

I stared at him incredulously. "Brave?" I snorted. "Deeks, trust me when I say that if I could turn myself invisible at will, I would."

"Oh." He looked a little disappointed. "Well, that be okay. Deekin not very brave, either. He know how it is." He crouched down easily and peered at the injured man. He fingered the man's clothes, which were utilitarian and outfitted with all sorts of buckles and pouches. "Who be this?" he asked curiously.

"I don't know, Deeks," I answered, craning to back look over my shoulder. Katriana was hurrying back, a stained, clinking leather trunk clutched to her chest. "I hope he'll be able to tell us."

"This is what we've got," Katriana announced when she reached us, setting the trunk on the sand. She undid the latches and threw back the lid. Rows of neatly corked potions nestled against the trunk's velvet lining. "Do you think it'll be enough?"

"Hell if I know," I said. I looked at the potions and chose one, its contents swirling a telltale milky blue. I yanked the cork out and began dribbling it carefully between the injured man's lips. Some of it ran right out again, trickling down his cheeks. I cursed and rubbed his throat, trying to get him to swallow. "Come on, come on," I murmured at the man. He spluttered and started to choke. "Damn it, work with me here, man, don't do this-"

Xanos made an exasperated noise. "Fools," he snapped, and held his hand out imperiously. "Potion. Now. Xanos will take care of this."

I stared at him. "Why?" I asked, confused. "What-"

Katriana snatched another healing potion out of the trunk and gave it to Xanos. She looked at me, raising one eyebrow. "There's a little something I've learned over the years," she told me. "When someone tells you that they know what they're doing, don't pester them with questions. Just let them do it."

Xanos grunted. "Wise words from the half-pint," he muttered. The cork popped out of the bottle and, before I could gather my wits, he leaned over the injured man and started dribbling the potion directly into his wounds. "Xanos once came across a diary that had belonged to a priest of Loviatar," the sorcerer said. His forehead was furrowed with concentration, but his tone was almost conversational. "Fascinating reading, despite having been written by a religious fanatic." He made a disgusted face. "Xanos will never understand why priests all have terrible penmanship. It took him days to decipher the fool's ramblings." He held his hand out again. "Potion," he commanded. Bemused, I obediently picked one out and handed it over. Xanos continued with his work. "Followers of the Maiden of Pain often prefer to keep their subjects alive for extended periods, in order to maximize their torment," he went on. "Potions of healing are useful in that regard. However, it is often difficult, if not impossible, to force a subject to ingest something that they know will prolong their suffering."

I kept my eyes on the injured man. The bleeding had slowed, and his wounds, both internal and external, were beginning to re-knit themselves. "Charming," I said, without looking up. "So what do they do, force their victims to bathe in healing potions?"

"Essentially." Xanos tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder negligently. I was glad there were no park rangers in the Anauroch, or else a certain half-orc was bound to be fined for littering. "It is, however, somewhat less efficacious than ingestion of the healing principle. Nevertheless…" He held out his hand for a third time. "Potion."

I lifted a hand, gesturing at him to wait. My eyes were fixed on the injured man. His blood was back to circulating through his veins and arteries rather than leaking out all over the sand, and some of his color had come back, but his face was contorted strangely, and his breathing was erratic.

Xanos looked at me. His eyes narrowed. "Do you see something?" he asked. He put a heavy emphasis on see.

I shook my head absent-mindedly. "Not...exactly, but there's something strange-" I began.

That was when the man sat up, screaming.

It happened so quickly. One minute the man was unconscious, and the next, he was sitting up, hunched over his stomach with his hands clasped desperately over the bloody hole in his shirt and a scream erupting out of him like it had been torn from his chest.

"Demons," he gasped, as if it was a curse. His eyes were wide and white, staring at something only he could see. "They came…in the dark…oh, sweet Mystra, w-we must run, get out, warn the camp, she is coming…" The man struggled, weakly, to rise.

Xanos immobilized the man by the simple expedient of grabbing a fistful of his shirt and holding him in place. "Who is coming?" he demanded.

The man's eyes went to Xanos's face. He quailed, which was understandable. If I thought I was being chased by demons, Xanos was the last person I'd want to see. Contrary to what I'd always heard about half-orcs, he wasn't ugly. His face was odd-looking and almost animalistic at certain angles, but not exactly ugly. However, he got a little scary when he got angry, and he was angry right then. The look on his face was obviously scaring the shit out of the smaller man.

I laid a restraining hand on Xanos's forearm and gave him a pleading look. After a moment, he nodded and let go - grudgingly.

"They t-tore poor Jessep in half," the injured man sobbed, sinking back to the ground. "Right in half, and they laughed…such voices…hideous, hideous…"

I settled myself by the man's side and took his hand in both of mine. "Relax," I said soothingly. His terrified expression sank into the pit of my stomach and stayed there, heavy as lead. "Whatever you saw, it's not here. You're safe. Calm down. You're safe." I repeated the mantra over and over again, trying, with my words, to penetrate the fog of fear that had covered the man. "You're safe."

Slowly, the man's shivering subsided. He glanced at his surroundings, blinked twice, and took a long, shuddering breath. "W-where am I?" he asked faintly.

"Somewhere safe," I repeated. I glanced at Katriana. "This is a merchant caravan. We were heading for the Aoist encampment a few miles away when-"

The man tensed. "The Aoists?" he interrupted. His eyes widened in dismay. "Oh, gods," he gasped. He straightened, clutching at my hand. "You must help me," he begged. "I must warn them. They are in very grave danger. We all are, I fear."

Xanos lost his patience. "In danger?" he barked. "From what?" He looked down his broad, flat nose at the stranger, wearing an expression of deep suspicion. "And who are you, to be roaming the desert alone like this?" he added.

A grim, sad smile flitted across the man's face. "The last surviving member of a twelve-man expedition," he said. He sighed and lifted his head, a sort of weary self-possession settling over his pale coutenance. "My name is Garrick Halassar," he said simply. "I am an archaeologist, and I am afraid that I have uncovered something best left to the ages-"

I had stopped listening, and so, from the looks of it, had Xanos. We exchanged disbelieving looks. Then we stared at the man. "Did you say Garrick Halassar?" the sorcerer and I said in unison.

The man looked back and forth between us, frowning. "I am sorry," Garrick Halassar said, with an air of polite bewilderment. "Do I know you?"