Perrault pushed me behind him to guard me from the demon. He readied his stiletto and made a snapping motion with his wrist, as if to throw it, but he didn't let go. The movement seemed to roll along the blade, extending it, until the dagger turned into a sword, a thin and fine blade slightly curved at the end, sharp as glass and beautifully crafted. Perrault held it vertically in front of him and set his feet, one in front of the other, the rear foot turned sideways. With his left arm, he swept back his glorious blue cloak and he looked impressive, heroic, unbeatable.

  The terrible demon stepped through the wall of fire, completely immune to the blaze, looking taller, fiercer, and more evil than ever. Before that monster, the man who was as my father looked puny indeed.

  The demon no longer carried the obsidian staff. In its place he held a sword. As fine and beautiful as Perrault's bright saber appeared, the demon's blade was the perfect opposite. Black iron, the blade was longer than Perrault was tall, and the whole length of it curved. The convex edge, the sharp side, was wickedly serrated, with bright red barbs lining its length. Even the hilt looked capable of killing. Its crosspiece of twisted metal spikes, a dozen perhaps, jutted at odd angles, and several more spikes stuck out beneath the demon's red hand where a pommel should have been. More frightening still, the length of the blade blazed with red flame.

  Asbeel glared at Perrault, his malicious grin gone. "Your blade is far too fine for such a weakling to wield," he growled. Perrault, still in his fencing pose, brought his blade up to his forehead and snapped it down again in a sarcastic salute.

  Asbeel wasted no time setting himself, nor trading cautious jabs to take a measure of his foe. Instead, he charged at Perrault, beating his massive red wings once to create an impressive burst of momentum. The sword swung down with brutal force.

  Perrault was ready for him, and knowing Asbeel's unearthly strength, he wisely didn't block the attack. Instead, he stepped toward the blade, ducking low and using his own weapon to divert the flaming sword over his head.

  Asbeel overbalanced as his swing met no resistance, and Perrault, his feet solidly set and his balance perfectly centered, lunged forward. He couldn't bring his blade to bear, but punched out with the hilt of his sword instead, jamming his pommel into Asbeel's eye. The demon's head snapped back violently.

  Asbeel staggered backward a step and beat his wings, thrusting himself away from Perrault. Perrault brought his blade to bear and lurched ahead. As he lunged, Perrault's own rapier burst into flame-a blue flame, not red like Asbeel's. Perrault's radiated chilling cold, not heat.

  The demon's eyes widened. Realizing he could not back up far enough to avoid it, he took the only defense left-he fell to the ground, dropping hard onto the dock.

  A light mist rose up around him, as if his presence so close to the water offended the river, and it was responding with fog.

  Perrault was at full extension, his back leg straight out behind him and his forward arm locked in front. He was able to quickly regain his defensive position, but he was unable to press the attack before Asbeel scrambled away, rising to his feet and bringing his sword up.

  The demon glared at Perrault, the hatred in his eyes mixed with newfound respect. He raised his blade, holding it horizontal to his body, and approached more cautiously.

  The mist continued to rise and thicken, and I could see only the dim outline of Perrault as he fended off the demon. Their movements seemed slow, ethereal. I didn't feel as though I was watching a sword fight, but a slow dance, each participant moving in harmony, action and reaction and action again.

  But the brilliant light of the flaming blades wasn't dimmed by the fog, and the speed of the swings wasn't slowed. As the swords cut and slashed, each time I felt as though a hit was inevitable, and each time I held my breath. And each time, the swords passed harmlessly or were parried successfully.

  Then Asbeel changed his grip and reversed his direction, stepping forward and swinging his sword from low to high instead of high to low. Perrault was unable to step into the parries and under the sword. Instead, he had to leap out of the way, first to his left, then to his right. Blue flame crashed against red, and the clang of metal mixed with the angry hiss of fire on ice.

  On the third swing, Perrault stepped straight back, leaning on his rear foot as the fiery blade swept just in front of him. For a moment, I thought the blade would hit him, and I nearly screamed-but the hellish red flame did not quite reach.

  Perrault settled all his weight on his back foot, set firmly on the ground, his blade forward and ready. Asbeel, off balance, his sword out wide, had no defense. Perrault lunged, viciously, brutally, his sword tip reaching the five feet to Asbeel in the blink of an eye. The demon tried to fall back, to step aside, to get out of the way of that cold steel blade. But the motion was too fast, too fluid, too perfect, and the demon had nowhere to go.

  The sword struck Asbeel in the chest and drove into a lung. Asbeel's howl of agony became a gurgle as blood surged from his mouth. The cold fire burned into his flesh, hissing wickedly.

  In desperation, Asbeel brought his sword around hilt-first, but Perrault reversed his previous motion, retracting the blade and retreating a step, falling back into his fighting stance, at the ready.

  "You are outmatched, demon," said Perrault. His voice showed not the least bit of fear. "Leave now and never return, or I shall destroy you."

  Asbeel laughed.

  "I think there may be a better way," the demon said. His baritone voice sounded slightly wet as blood choked his words.

  He looked directly at me. I found myself staring into those fiery points of light where his eyes should have been. I tried, but I couldn't pull my gaze away, couldn't shut my eyes, couldn't move at all.

  A voice sounded in my head-Asbeel's voice, but deeper, louder. Come to me, it said, and I found myself moving, crawling along the wharf toward Asbeel.

  I tried to resist-oh, how I wanted to resist!– but I couldn't. My mind screamed, Stop moving! Run away! But my body refused to obey. It just kept crawling toward my doom. I felt disjointed, unattached to anything, as if I were simply an observer looking through eyes that had been mine. I saw tears well up in my eyes but I couldn't feel them as they ran down my cheeks. I saw my hands moving rhythmically, one in front of the other, pulling me along.

  Perrault leaped in front of me, and he was saying something, but I could hear none of it. All I heard was that terrible voice, echoing in my skull: Come to me.

  Then Perrault's cloak, that beautiful magical cloak, was flying around us. As it descended over me, the voice died.

  I felt like myself again. I felt wet, and hot, and more than a little embarrassed, but I felt.

  When Perrault rose, spinning to face the demon, I realized the cost of his action.

  As soon as Perrault turned his back on Asbeel, the demon began moving. The horrible red sword descended.

  It caught Perrault on the left shoulder and tore down, scratching across his chest, tearing a great gash, ripping at his skin and burning his flesh. Perrault staggered backward, one unsteady step after another, then he fell flat on his back.

  "Now you die, foolish man, and I claim what is mine by right," cackled the demon.

  "It is not yours, foul one. The stone chooses the wielder, and it has chosen the boy." There was strength in Perrault's voice, though he lay unmoving on the dock. The mist briefly swirled away from him, revealing his face-a bit pale, but smiling. "You can never use it, and you know it."

  The demon laughed. "I was not talking about the stone, fool. I was talking about the boy. The boy I found, the boy I orphaned, the boy whose soul belongs to me." Asbeel coughed and spat out a mouthful of blood then he stepped toward Perrault, who lay still, barely keeping his grip on his sword.

  "The boy's soul is his own," Perrault growled back, his anger matching Asbeel's. "You cannot use the stone through him unless he chooses to help you, which I find doubtful."

  Asbeel laughed again. He beat his wings and threw himself at Perrault. Suddenly, the scene was crystal clear. The fog vanished, disappearing so quickly that I wondered if it had ever truly been there.

  Time seemed to slow down. Asbeel hung in the air, his blade arcing toward Perrault, who had raised his sword above himself in a feeble defense. Over the hills just visible in the east, the top of the sun had risen over the clouds on the horizon, its light sparkling off the city and the river.

  Above the demon, breaking through the wall of fire, came an object white and sleek: a magnificent horse, her eyes glowing with white light, her mane glistening in the suddenly-brilliant sunlight.

  Haze burst through the flames in all her glory. Her head smashed into the demon's back and Asbeel was launched off the end of the dock.

  He tried to beat his wings, but only one responded. The other, which had taken the brunt of Haze's charge, was twisted and broken.

  Like an injured bird, the demon plummeted into the river, disappearing beneath the waves without a sound.

  "He will be back," Perrault said, his voice low and full of pain. "But not soon."

  With great effort, he pulled himself to a sitting position and reached into one of Haze's saddlebags. Out came a long white bandage and a vial of oil. He poured the oil onto the cloth then wrapped it tightly around his chest, trying to stem the flow of blood from his gory wound.

  From behind us I heard a sharp crack, like lightning striking a tree, and a splash. A section of the burning dock collapsed into the river.

  "Gome. Let's get out of here," Perrault said. He managed to pull himself up into Haze's saddle. I followed, taking my seat behind him.

  "Our way is blocked," I said.

  "Only one way," came the response. "There are others." And with that, Haze wheeled around and took off at a gallop-directly off the end of the pier.

  Chapter Sixteen

  As we hit the ocean, the waves rose up around us, but they did not slow Haze's speed. She ran up and down over the cresting water. The jarring motion sent my stomach reeling. I was afraid I might vomit, though thankfully I had not eaten anything since the night before.I pressed my face tightly against Perrault's back, and after a while, I lifted my head to look around. I should have done so much sooner. The sun was uncomfortably warm on my head, but the salty ocean wind felt cool.

  I noticed Perrault held Haze's reins with only his right hand, despite our swift pace. The sight upset my stomach even more than the cresting waves.

  I swallowed. "Are you sure your shoulder is all right, sir?"

  "Maimun, do not pester me with your questions right now." Perrault said. But I could hear the pain in his voice. "Close your eyes. We have a long journey ahead."

  I did as I was told. The sounds, the smells, and the feeling of that glorious wind swept over me, and soon all thoughts of my tossing stomach were lost-along with my sense of time. I couldn't say how long we rode before Haze came to a stop.

  I opened my eyes to a magnificent sight: a ship had grown from the ocean in front of us!

  I had seen ships before, but mostly in the distance-even the ones on the river at Baldur's Gate-but I had never seen one up close. The sheer size of the mighty vessel staggered me. It must have been a hundred feet long! It moved across the great flat plain of the ocean with impressive speed, and Haze had to run to keep up with it. I studied the deck and the massive square sails. I watched, my mouth hanging open, as the great sheets of white furled upward, seeming to rise of their own free will, and the ship slowed.

  A dozen sailors stood at the rail. Their expressions mirrored my own, mouths hanging open, eyes wide, and it took me a moment to realize what they were staring at. Then it hit me: The ship they stood upon, for all its size, was supposed to be there. The horse on which Perrault and I rode was not.

  Another man joined the crew at the rail. I knew he must be the captain, for he was well dressed-or would have been, if his clothing hadn't been so old. The bluejacket he wore must have once been covered with ornaments, but all that remained was one brass button and loose golden threads. Upon his head sat a dusty hat much decorated in brass. It had a strange shape, almost flat, with corners sticking out far to the sides of his head. A tassel of the same golden thread as his bandolier hung down on each side of the hat. He would have looked like a gentleman, even a noble, except his brown hair was wild and untrimmed, and the look in his eye was just as wild.

  "Give me one reason not to have you killed where you ride," the captain called down. He had the voice of a street thug, coarse and harsh, but with the inflection and pronunciation of an educated man.

  "We've given you no reason to attack, good sir," Perrault replied.

  "That devil horse is reason aplenty, I'm thinking! It ain't natural, a horse ridin' on the waves!" As he spoke, he grew visibly and audibly agitated, and the other sailors at the rail bristled and nodded their agreement.

  "Devil?" Perrault replied. "Hardly. Angelic, more like! I come as an emissary from the Temple of Tymora at Baldur's Gate. If you attack us, you shan't be allowed back in that city, which"-he looked deliberately at the front of the ship-"is your port of call, judging by your flag."

  Perrault was lying. Even if I hadn't known we were not such emissaries, I could hear the lie in his voice. I hoped the sailors could not.

  The men seemed suddenly less comfortable, and the captain stuttered several times before he managed to respond.

  "Prove it, then! I ain't heared o' no emissary o' no temple comin' out 'cross the water on a damned horse afore, an' I ain't been told o' nobody lookin' for my ship. So prove it, or we'll kill ye as ye ride!" Any semblance of dignity had left his voice-he sounded every bit the salty seafarer.

  Perrault reached into one of the pouches on Haze's saddle and pulled out a rolled piece of parchment. "A message from the temple, for your eyes only, Captain," he called.

  "Oy, toss it up then."

  Perrault obliged-almost. He threw the parchment at the captain, but it didn't quite reach his hands. Its momentum seemed to die about three feet from the rail. The captain reached out for the parchment, leaning out a bit too far. A sudden gust of wind caught him full in the back and he tumbled right over the rail, dropping with a splash into the water beside us.

  He came up, gasping and choking. His hat floated beside him, but even as he reached for it, the heavy brass weighed it down and the object disappeared from sight.

  The captain struggled just to stay afloat. Haze wheeled around, and Perrault grabbed the man's arm and held him. Perrault couldn't lift the man, but kept his head above the water, and as Haze trotted along beside the moving ship, the captain was pulled with us.

  "Oy, what're ye waitin' fer!" he screamed at the crewmen on the rail, who were staring at us in shock. "Drop us a damned launch, ye fools!" The men ran from the rail and soon returned with a rowboat on ropes and pulleys, which they began to lower into the water.

  Before the boat was halfway down the side of the ship, the captain ripped his hand away from Perrault and jumped. Somehow, he pushed the entire upper half of his body from the water, despite having nothing to brace against, no footing, and a heavy, soaked coat weighing him down.

  He sputtered and stuttered and shouted, but his words were unintelligible. He began swimming furiously, trying to find a handhold on the side of the ship, but there were none, so he screamed at the men above.

  "The launch! Lower the damned launch! It just brushed my foot-it just… damned shark! There's a damned shark in the water and it… There it is again! Get that boat in the water!"

  The men hastened to obey their captain at the word shark. In a matter of seconds, the launch reached the water-mostly because two of the crewmen lost their grips on the ropes in their haste. The boat plummeted the last ten feet, narrowly missing the captain, and landed upside-down.

  The captain seemed unconcerned with the graceless landing, and hardly seemed to notice the boat wasn't right. He quickly climbed up onto the keel of the small craft and yelled up for a rope.

  Again, the crew responded with speed but not grace-a coil of rope was thrown down. The crewman who threw it had fine aim, it seemed-the rope caught the captain square on the forehead, knocking him off his feet. Somehow, he stayed on the boat, despite the lack of handholds and the rounded surface. He seemed afraid that even touching the water would mean a painful death, and his fear lent him acrobatic talents he could not normally command.

  The captain didn't even berate the sailor for his errant throw. He simply grabbed the rope and hauled himself up, hand over hand, with remarkable speed. Once he reached the top, he turned and called down to us, "Are you coming, or shall I haul the rope up?"

  "Neither, and both," Perrault replied. Haze trotted beside the overturned launch and Perrault grabbed one side of it, flipping it over easily. Then Haze stepped into the launch, and Perrault hopped off the horse. I followed suit. He took the rope and tied it to the boat. "Toss us three more ropes, then haul them all up when we're set."

  The captain offered a nod, then walked from the rail. The crewmen threw three more ropes and we tied them to the boat. The light craft groaned in protest at the weight of the horse, but it held strong, as did the pulleys-and the men working them-on deck.

  Barely a moment later, Perrault and I were in the captain's cabin, the door shutting behind us with a soft click.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The captain's cabin was richly furnished with a thick red carpet, many cabinets, and small tables of fine dark wood-all bolted to the walls or the floor. Dozens of knick-knacks lay scattered around the room: here an ancient oil lamp of tarnished brass, there a finely crafted tea kettle and four cups inside a locked cabinet with a glass door, and over there-hanging above the other door to the cabin-a strange object with a wooden handle and a long metal tube. It looked very much like a drawing of a thing called an arquebus I had once seen in a book titled Unusual Armaments.The captain sat comfortably on a worn chair behind an enormous table, on which lay heaps of papers-notes, charts of the stars, maps of varying scale detailing the sea from Waterdeep in the north to Galimport in the south. Apparently he had a spare hat, identical to the one he'd lost, for it was atop his head as if nothing had happened. And a spare coat, it seemed, since the one covering him was dry. The only indication that he had been in the water was the puddle slowly spreading beneath his chair. I tried not to look at it, out of politeness.