He drifted across the night-cloaked land to the castle's main gate. To his surprise, torches flamed in the side brack ets, and two imposing figures in armor flanked the entrance.

He moved in closer.

"Uh! What goes?" said the guard on Sturm's right. He lev eled his poleaxe directly at Sturm.

He can see me! Sturm held up his hand and said, "I am

Sturm Brightblade. This castle belongs to my father."

"Fool, nothing goes," said the other guard. "Put axe away."

"I say is." The right-hand guard took a torch down from its holder and stomped toward – and through – Sturm. By the blazing pine knot, Sturm saw the guard's face. It was not human, nor dwarven, elven, kender, or gnome. The pro truding snout was green and scaly, and toothy horns sprout ed from a wide mouth. His eyes were vertical slits, like

Cupelix's.

Draconians! He was furious that these ugly brutes were in his ancestral home. Sturm pushed through the gate into the bailey. There were wagons and carts parked there, groaning with swords, spears, battle-axes, and sheafs of arrows. The draconians were turning Castle Brightblade into an arsenal, but for whom'

In the great hall he found a crackling fire built. Camp stools were set up before the hearth, and a trestle table was covered with scrolls. Sturm hovered by the table. The scrolls were maps, primarily of Solamnia and Abanasinia.

Steel rang on stone, and Sturm started, forgetting that he could not be seen. A tall, powerful figure strode out of the dark hall. He was helmetless, his face hard and expression less. Long, smooth locks of white hair fell over his shoul ders. The man crossed between the fire and the table and sat on one of the stools. He set his helmet down beside him.

Sturm had never seen such a helmet before. Tusks protruded from the visor, and the whole form was shaped like the head of a predatory insect.

~ "Come and sit down," said the man, whom Sturm thought of as the general. A second figure stirred in the shadows.

He – it? – did not come into the circle of firelight. A thin hand, sleeved in dark gray, reached out and dragged a camp chair into a dimmer corner of the hall.

"I forget you do not care for fire," said the general. "Pity.

Fire is such a useful force."

"Fire and light shall be my undoing some day," rasped the robed figure. "I have seen my demise in flames. I am not eager to meet my end just yet."

"Not with so much to do," replied the general. He perused the map of Solamnia. "When do you hear from your Mis tress that Red Wing will be here? The arms grow rusty in this damp old castle."

"Patience, Merinsaard. The Dark Queen has well gauged the temper of the land, and she will set the armies in motion when the auspices are most favorable."

The general snorted. "You speak of signs and portents as if they determined everything. It's the charge of the lance, the shock of cavalry, that decides the fate of battles and empires, Sorotin."

The hidden sorcerer chuckled, a moldering, decayed sound that chilled Sturm. "Men of action always like to think that their fate is in their hands. It comforts them and makes them feel important."

Merinsaard said nothing. He leaned to the hearth, plucked out a burning brand, and thrust it toward his shad owed compatriot. Sturm got a glimpse of a face that sur prised him. It might've been handsome but for its deathly paleness and the evil that emanated from burning eyes set in it. The magic-user, Sorotin, groaned and shrank away from the flame. Merinsaard tossed the burning twig after him.

"Mind your tongue," Merinsaard said. "And remember, I command here. If you displease me, or fail in your necro mancy, I'll feed you to the fire myself."

The sorcerer panted raggedly with fear. "Be not too bold, my lord. For one is here now who watches and is no friend to our cause." Sturm's heart skipped a beat.

"What?" said the general. He reached under the pile of maps and pulled out a viciously curved dagger. A sticky coating of greenish poison showed on the cutting edge.

"Where is this intruder? Where?"

"Standing between us, great general." He did mean

Sturm!

Merinsaard slashed through the empty air. "You fool!

There's no one there!"

"Not in the fleshly sense, my lord. He is a spirit from far away – very far, by the aura he emits. Perhaps as far as -

Lunitari? That is far indeed."

"Get rid of it, whatever it is," said Merinsaard. "Kill the spy! No one must know of our plans!"

"Calm yourself, my lord. Our visitor is not here to spy. I sense that this was once his home."

"Dotard! No one has lived here for twenty years. The last lord of the castle was hounded out of the country."

"True enough, mighty Merinsaard," said Sorotin. "Shall I bring this spirit here in body, or bid him go back where he came?"

Sturm struggled with his feelings for a moment. He tried to will himself to solidity so that he might challenge these evil men. But he could sense no change in his state.

"Can he speak to the living of this world'?" asked Merin saard.

"I think not. He is too attenuated by the vast distance he has traveled. I sense no knowledge of magic in him."

"Then hurl him back to his wretched body and keep him there! I have no time for ghostly ambassadors."

Sturm saw a glint in the darkness. He heard a sweet chime. The sorcerer had struck the silver bell he carried.

"Hear me, 0 Spirit: As I ring this magic bell thrice, you will depart from this castle, this land, this world, never to return." The bell chimed once. "Argon!" Twice. "H'rar!"

Three times. "In the name of the Dragonqueen!"

Every muscle in Sturm's body jolted at once. He literally felt as though he'd fallen from a height, but he was awake and in his body, in the obelisk on Lunitari. He sat up, breathing hard and shaking. The entire vision had passed without any new clue to his father's whereabouts. That was distressing enough, but the machinations of this Merinsaard and Sorotin – in Castle Brightblade – filled him with out rage. Someone must be told! The alarm must be given!

He roused Sighter from his blanket. "Wake up!" he said.

"Let's have a look at that lens of yours."

"Now?" said the gnome through a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Yes, why not? It's been hours."

A Micone was standing by, as per orders, and it allowed

Sturm and Sighter to mount for a ride down to the casting chamber. The whole cavern was filled with dripping patches of mist. The giant ant didn't like the dampness at all. Once or twice, its barbed feet slipped on the vitreous wall, making

Sturm cling tightly to the rope harness and causing Sighter to cling even more tightly to Sturm.

The lens was still ruby red, but very little heat radiated from it.

Sturm tapped his fingers lightly on the edge of the mold.

The fourth tap broke loose a chunk of mud, now dry and brittle. The inward sloping side of the lens was exposed.

Sighter stood on his toes to examine the glass.

"No," he muttered. Out came the magnifying glass. He peered into the scarlet casting. "Broken gears and slipped pulleys!" he exclaimed. "The lens is worthless!"

"What?"

"The glass, the glass! It's nearly opaque!"

"It can't be," Sturm said. Sighter handed him his magnify ing glass. Sturm peered into the lens. All he could see were millions of tiny white bubbles trapped in the solidified glass.

That, and the dark red color, made it obvious that the lens would be useless for focusing the sun's rays into a burning beam.

"Perhaps when it's polished," Sturm said hopefully.

"Never!" Sighter sputtered. "You'd have more chance try ing to focus sunbeams through a cedar tree!" He threw his pocket glass on the rocks and stamped it until it shattered.

"What's the matter?" asked a voice. Stutts and the others had also come to inspect the giant lens. Sighter bitterly explained that their work had been for nothing. The crest fallen gnomes ringed the mold and stared down at the lens in disbelief.