Not that the Dragon Highlords were particularly interested in this easternmost territory. The land was sparsely populated: a few poor scattered communities of humans like Port Balifor and Kendermore, homeland of the kender. A flight of dragons could have leveled the countryside, but the Dragon Highlords were concentrating their strength elsewhere. And as long as ports such as Balifor remained open, the Highlords had use for the region.

  Though business had improved at the Pig and Whistle with the arrival of the troops, the presence of the motley soldiers had caused many of William's old customers to stay away. The draconians and hobgoblins were well-paid, and strong drink was one of their weaknesses. But William had opened the Pig and Whistle to enjoy the companionship of his friends and neighbors. He disliked the repulsive draconian soldiers who snarled and fought like animals once the alcohol had dulled their tiny brains. The hobgoblins were equally obnoxious customers. They were self-centered and arrogant, trying to wheedle free drinks for themselves and their cohorts.

  So William had promptly raised the price of his drinks. The Pig and Whistle was three times more expensive than any other inn in Port Balifor. He also watered the ale. As a result, his bar was mostly deserted except for his old friends and the odd traveler, and, once again, William enjoyed being an innkeeper.

  Sintk waved a hand in front of William's piggy face.

  "Are you dozing off again?" he asked. "William, I realize sleep is a good way of forgetting about draconians and those nasty hobgoblins. But, sad it is, a person wakes up and those sculpin arestill prowling about town, snooping in everyone's business and act ing like they belong here. Which, as a matter of fact, they don't, and I would be the first to say so, if I were so bold. Now, do you feel like yourself, or should I run to the herbalist's shop for a potion?"

  William shook his head vigorously to expel the list-lessness in his mind. "I'm fine."

  "What happened?" The dwarf looked suspicious.

  "Business was slow. I fell asleep."

  "You must have been daydreaming," the dwarf said. "You were sleeping when I came in for my afternoon pint. You were heaving and snorting like a man possessed by demons."

  "I have seen demons and all sorts of things." William opened his hand. A large oval coin was lying in his palm. The polished metal disc glistened in the light. "Remember that coin the Red Wizard used for his tricks?"

  "Raistlin?" Sintk looked surprised. "I trust that faker and his gang of misfits aren't back in town. And I hope you're not going to start up with that magic coin business again…"

  "But there IS something magical about it," William insisted. "I traveled from here and had a… a… strange encounter with a beautiful maiden and a fearsome beast. I journeyed through a mysterious fog and almost fell into a black pit containing demons, snakes, ghouls, and all sorts of bad things."

  "Things get confused when you are daydreaming," said Sintk. "But being you're yourself again and not grunting like a boar, I'll have a nice tankard of your finest brew."

  "It wasn't a dream," William said sulkily. "It felt more like it was reality and this… this… is only the shadow of what my life could be."

  William drew two tankards of ale and set them across from his friend, Sintk. Then he launched into a detailed account of his daydream-er, vision-while Sintk, parched with thirst, diligently quaffed both tankards. But it was William's story, which was vaguely familiar, that had Sintk yawning presently, not the ale, which was delicious.

  "Oh," Sintk rubbed his lips with the back of his hand at a pause in the recounting, "what's that about a black pit?"

  "The abyss at the end of the universe," replied William.

  "Oh, THAT black pit," said the dwarf. "I should have known." He gazed fondly at the row of tankards behind the bar and licked his lips. "You're barmy."

  Sighing, William got up from his stool and drew two more tankards of ale.

  "I wasn't daydreaming," he declared, setting the drinks on the bar. "Look, touch the coin. It became hot in my hand. Like it was pulsating with life." He held out the large round coin-which truth to tell, looked quite ordinary, resting there in his palm.

  "Body heat," said Sintk, wearily. "The coin is nothing. A piece of cast metal."

  "Magic!" insisted William.

  "Is not," said Sintk.

  "Is!" said William, most uncharacteristically raising his voice.

  "Why don't you let me be the judge?" said a surly voice behind them.

  William and Sintk whirled to see the fiendish countenance of a barrel-chested draconian in smelly armor. It was Drago, captain of the prison guards, who, despised and friendless even among his fellow dracon-ians, took an occasional meal and tankard alone in the Pig and Whistle. The fact that his presence was so repugnant to William Sweetwater and his friends made it all the more pleasurable to Drago.

  William remembered too late to close his fist around the magic coin, for it was suddenly gone. Drago held it aloft in his scaly paw, leering. "A magic coin, is it?" he barked to nobody in particular, for there were only a couple of other customers and they were studiously avoiding his gaze. "It looks like a beggar's token to me," he said. Drago bit down on the coin with his yellow, mucousy teeth.

  Pale with shame, William was staring at his shoes.

  "That's right," said Sintk weakly. "It's just a common, worthless…" His voice trailed off. His eyes, too, were lowered.

  Drago was rubbing the coin against one of his grease-stained sleeves. "I wish… I wish…" he uttered grandly, "I wish I had a one-year vacation from stinking Port Balifor, and two wives to shine my boots, and… and… a mountain of gold coins to last a lifetime of ale and mutton."

  Everybody in the Pig and Whistle looked up just a little bit, hoping maybe the coin truly was magic. Drago might have his wishes granted, and disappear.

  "Bah!" snorted Drago. He reached across the bar and grabbed William by the collar, squeezing until the innkeeper turned pink.

  "It was given to him by Raistlin the mage!" blurted Sintk.

  Drago squeezed harder.

  "He was a faker," gulped William, gasping for breath. "But I am worse. A FOOL. I took the coin as payment in kind, because I believed him when he told me it was magic, but it is… nought. You may…" He stared directly into Drago's blazing eyes. "You may have it, my friend."

  "Bah!" said Drago, and let William go. With a flick of his hand, he sent the coin spinning across the bar. Around and around it spun, sending off glints of light. William grabbed for it and clasped it dearly, feeling its warmth. But Drago had already turned away and settled his bulk at a table.

  "Bring me ale and the usual rotten stew!" shouted Drago, without a backward glance. "And be quick about it. Pig-face!"

  William bustled about fulfilling Drago's edict, while Sintk unhappily drained two more tankards.

  *

  Later, as the sun was setting, William locked up the Pig and Whistle. It was not unusual for the innkeeper to close early these days. Few honest wayfarers visited Port Balifor. The ominous presence of the Highlords' troops made everyone uneasy.

  Besides, William liked to spend the sunset hour walking with Sintk along the harbor. The stroll was the highlight of his day. This particular evening was warm. The sky was cloudless and a light breeze blew in from the bay. The dimming light had that peculiar quality found only in twilight time along the seacoast.

  As William and Sintk walked along a street that led to the harbor, they were surprised to see a large sailing vessel tied up at the pier. They stood in the center of the street, looking down toward the wharf, as dracon-ian troops crowded the deck of the unfamiliar ship.

  "A supply ship?" asked Sintk.

  William shook his head. "Their regular ship was here last week. This must be the patrol boat I heard about. The Highlords are upset because so many citizens are deserting the town and fleeing to the hills."

  Draconian crewmen were moving swiftly across the deck of the ship. Then, a door opened and several humans were shoved out of a cabin. The prisoners were linked together with leg chains. Their hands were manacled. They huddled together as the troops pushed them toward the gangplank, which was lowered to the wharf. Several heavily armed draconian guards under the command of a hobgoblin officer waited on the wharf.

  Sintk whispered, "Look, the old man in the back. That's Thomas the tailor. Why would Old Tom be in chains? He's a good tailor who wouldn't harm a bug."

  Clawed feet on cobblestones sounded behind the two friends. William looked back and saw a group of draconians marching down the street. William and Sintk kept their eyes to the ground. They walked to the front of the Missionary's Downfall, a waterfront bar with a garish facade, where they sat down on a weathered bench in front of the establishment. The tavern was the most notorious dive in eastern Ansa-lon, not a respectable place like the Pig and Whistle.

  They watched as the prisoners shuffled down the gangplank. Faces bruised, shoulders slumped, the manacled men and women moved with a listless step. They were ordered about by a muscular draconian, who carried a short, metal-tipped whip.

  Their thoughts were interrupted by a loud creaking noise behind them. A moment later, Harum El-HaIup stepped out of the Missionary's Downfall. The mino-taur was owner of the tavern, a rugged individual with a bestial face, a massive chest, thick arms and legs.

  A fugitive from a sentence of death in his minotaur homeland, Harum El-Halop had found sanctuary in Port Balifor. He had quick wits, fighting ability, and the nerve of someone with nothing to lose. He had quickly gained a reputation as the toughest fighter on the brawling waterfront.

  A high-stakes gambler, the minotaur had won the Missionary's Downfall in a card game with the previous owner. Nowadays the tavern was patronized by thieves, cut-throats, and troops from the dragonarmy. It was also the favorite drinking spot for off-duty hobgoblins, who stole supplies from the quartermaster and exchanged the contraband for drinks.

  "Why is Thomas being held prisoner?" William asked the minotaur, who stood there, observing the scene with them.

  "I told them the plan wouldn't work," sneered Harum. His bestial face looked horrible in the shadowed light. "Thomas and the others wanted to escape by sea. They paid a hobgoblin to steal a boat for them to use at dawn. But hobgoblins are informers, and this one was a low-life who plays everyone off the dragon-army. As soon as the boat was launched, the hobgoblin made his report to the draconians."

  William protested. "But Thomas is an honest man. He is no thief."

  "He was on the boat," said the minotaur. "Likely he'll end up in the dungeons with the others. The drag-onarmy can't allow people to come and go as they please, without permission. Bad for their reputation. Old Tom knew that." The minotaur made a clucking sound with his tongue. "Thomas will be lucky to last a month in that slime pit under the castle."

  William shuddered. He had heard tales of the torture of prisoners in the dungeon. Knowing Drago's cruelty as he did, he didn't find the tales hard to believe. Poor Tom. He had always been a good friend to everyone in Port Balifor.

  Sintk asked in a forlorn tone, "What can we do?"

  "Meat for the dungeon," replied Harum. "Stay out of it."

  William looked down, ashamed. If only he had the courage… if only he had some idea of how to fight back… if only…

  "Now, William," said Harum, "what the people of Balifor need is a leader. Someone to lead a rebellion against these creatures. You're liked and respected. People will do what you ask of them."

  Harum's ugly face took on a quizzical look, and William had the idea he was burrowing into his private thoughts. Or was he teasing him?

  "Why don't you do it?" William asked the minotaur, thinking, if he were as big and strong as Harum, certainly he'd have little hesitation.

  "Oh, I am not a native of Port Balifor," Harum replied nonchalantly, "and I am not sure I care so very much. And people know I serve thieves and scoundrels at the Missionary's Downfall, so they would suspect my motivation. Also, I am a fugitive from my own kind, and people don't follow leaders with such flaws. But they would stand behind someone like you, someone responsible and upstanding. You would have their trust."

  "I couldn't do it." William felt weak. He didn't want to look at the minotaur. Instead, he turned his gaze back to the harbor.

  The prisoners were being marched off the wharf by the troops and the hobgoblin officer. The last prisoner in the coffle was the tailor, a gray-haired, elderly man with a wrinkled face. His eyes were dull with fatigue. Thin and tall, about six feet in height, thetailor had stooped shoulders from years of leaning over his nee dles.

  The guards may have been careless, for the leg irons around Old Tom's ankles were loose.

  Suddenly, without attracting attention, the tailor stepped out of the leg irons and bolted from the shuffling line of prisoners. His escape would have been successful, if he had not stumbled over a rope and fallen to his knees.

  "Seize him!" cried the hobgoblin officer.

  Now, Tom the tailor was up and running across the weathered boards of the wharf, heading for the street ahead. There was a moment's confusion among the guards before they began running after the old man, so Tom had a head-start.

  Even so, one soldier began to overtake the tailor. As William, Sintk, and Harum El-Halop watched helplessly, the grim-faced draconian thrust its hand out to grab the tailor's flapping tunic. Thetailor stopped abruptly, spun around, and swung his fist at the dra conian.

  The force of the blow knocked both the tailor and the draconian off their feet. The tailor fell back on the cobblestones. The draconian weaved to a halt on rubbery legs, its hands clawing at its injured throat.

  Within moments, the desperate tailor got to his feet and fled up the street, past the Missionary's Downfall, where William and his friends were still standing, mouths agape. A second later, he vanished into an alley. Two soldiers pursued the fleeing prisoner.

  Harum the minotaur grinned in derision as the hobgoblin officer in command bustled past, his fat belly bouncing like jelly above his wide leather belt. The hobgoblin noticed his audience and stopped, his face twisting with anger. Ignoring the powerful minotaur, he focused on poor William and drew his sword, pressing the tip of the blade against the front of William's throat.

  "Maybe you'd like to come along with us instead," the hobgoblin snarled.

  William trembled. He shoved his shaking hands into his pockets to hide his fear from his friends. His stubby fingers closed over the coin as he prayed fervently for deliverance.

  If only…

  "I'm waiting for your answer," sneered the hobgoblin.

  William made a grunting noise like the excited squeal of a frightened piglet. The hobgoblin cocked his head for an instant, looked at Sintk and Harum, then lowered his sword. He chuckled as William's body shivered with fright.

  A sudden shout came from the alley. Then, two draconian soldiers came out of the lane with the tailor held fast between them. He jerked and twisted to break free of their grasp. The hobgoblin officer sheathed his sword and walked away to join his troops.

  "Close," whispered Sintk.

  "Poor Tom," said William.

  Harum El-HaIup stood quietly with his arms folded over his chest. He watched imperiously as the troops prodded the coffle of prisoners toward the castle. Then the minotaur shrugged and slapped William on the shoulder.

  "Every dog has its day," Harum said. "Old Tom should have known better. I told him to mind his own business, keep sewing, and not get ambitious with his thinking. But, my friends, let us slake our thirst and forget about having those reptiles in town. And some-day we will throw them over, and you, William, will be our leader." He laughed.

  Accompanied by Harum, William and Sintk walked gloomily into the murkiness of the Missionary's Downfall. The bar wascrowded with dwarves, humans, hobgoblins, and a group of hard looking draconians drinking in the back. Several half-elves were noisily testing their mental prowess with a game of riddles. A drunken hobgoblin lay passed out beside his chair. Two bartenders hurried to keep up with requests for drinks. Harum leaned against the end of the bar. He motioned to a bartender, who hastened over with three tankards of ale.

  William and Sintk were never completely at ease in the minotaur's establishment. The tavern's reputation for brawls and free-for-all fights was widely known. Bystanders and onlookers were often drawn into me-lees that ended in what were known as "Harum's wall-bouncing parties." Harum enforced a rule that weapons had to be checked at the door, but it was not completely effective when applied against magic-users and the lowest criminal element.

  In addition to fights, the Missionary's Downfall was also widely known for a painting on the ceiling. Some time before, an itinerant artist wandered into Port Ba-lifor with a talent for painting and a yen for ale. The artist hired out to the minotaur for room, board, and all the ale he could drink. The artist erected scaffolds and worked for two years to create an oil mural on the ceiling.

  The painting depicted a satyr gamboling with maidens in a pastoral setting. Neither the satyr nor the maidens were particularly shy, a fact that delighted customers of the bar. Some folks claimed the mino-taur's regulars could be recognized by the crook in their necks.

  Now, after a long drink of ale, William drew the coin from his pocket. It lay coldly in his palm, a lifeless piece of metal.

  "What's that?" asked Harum. His thick fingers plucked the coin from William's hand.

  "It was a gift from someone special," said William.

  Sintk the Dwarf chimed in. "William thinks the coin has magical powers."

  The minotaur cocked his head and held the coin up to the light of an oil lamp on the wall. "What does it do?"

  "It helps my mind go off to other places." William was pleased that the minotaur had not ridiculed his beliefs about the coin.

  Harum asked, "You mean soul-travel?"