The Seventh Sentinel

by Mary Kirchoff

  “I think I’m going to vomit,” said the knight to his comrade. “Gully dwarves wouldn’t associate with this lot.”

  “You’re right there.” The knight looked around. “Between us, you and I could wipe out the entire tribe.”

  “We’d never be able to clean the stench off our swords,” said the other.

  “What should we do? Kill them?”

  “Small honor in it. These wretches obviously aren’t any threat to us. Our orders were to find out who or what was inhabiting the island, then return. For all we know, these people may be the favorites of some god, who might be angered if we harmed them. Perhaps that is what the Gray Robes meant by disaster.”

  “I don’t know,” said the other knight dubiously. “I can’t imagine any god treating his favorites like this.”

  “Morgion, perhaps,” said the other with a wry grin.

  The knight grunted. “Well, we’ve certainly done no harm just by looking. The Gray Robes can’t fault us for that. Send out the brutes to scout the rest of the island. According to the reports from the dragons, it’s not very big. Let’s go back to the shore. I need some fresh air.”

  The two knights sat in the shade of the tree, talking of the upcoming invasion of Ansalon, discussing the vast armada of black dragon-prowed ships, manned by minotaurs, that was speeding its way across the Courrain Ocean, bearing thousands and thousands more barbarian warriors. All was nearly ready for the invasion, which would take place on Summer’s Eve.

  The knights of Takhisis did not know precisely where they were attacking; such information was kept secret. But they had no doubt of victory. This time the Dark Queen would succeed. This time her armies would be victorious. This time she knew the secret to victory.

  The brutes returned within a few hours and made their report. The isle was not large. They had found no other people. The tribe of man-beasts had all slunk off fearfully and were hiding, cowering in their mud huts until the strange beings left.

  The knights returned to their shore boat. The brutes pushed it off the sand, leaped in, and grabbed the oars. The boat skimmed across the surface of the water, heading for the black ship that flew the multicolored flag of the five-headed dragon.

  They left behind an empty, deserted beach. Or so it appeared.

  But their leaving was noted, as their coming had been.

  About the Author

  Previously the head of TSR’s book department, Mary Kirchoff now lives and writes full-time in a rural Wisconsin village. Her active young sons, crazed Irish Setters, and perpetually renovated Victorian home provide ample and welcome distractions. She credits her imagination to caffeine.

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