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blossoms were in full bloom and the air was scented with their perfumed musk. But there were bad times that he could never forget, no matter how hard he tried... the things he had seen during his treks in the War of the Lance, and the oppressive abuse heaped upon him by his father.
    A gleaming glint of gold caught his eye, high atop the Given High Command. He focused on it and smiled at the sight, realizing that his long quest was now at an end, that his answers were here, and nowhere else – especially not on Krynn. Krynn was forever gone, for him; it was a way of life to which he could never return, and now did not want to.
    The centaur tower was low and asymmetrical, a guardian twin to the dracon tower strategically situated on the port wing. The centaurs were the ostensible wardens and gunnery officers for the tower’s fifteen huge catapults, but to Teldin, the building seemed dark and in terrible disrepair, and he wondered if the centaurs should hold the great responsibility for manning the Spelljammer ’s starboard weapons.
    CassaRoc closed and bolted the main doors of the tower behind the humans. His band of warriors instantly relaxed inside the safety of the tower and started unbuckling their tight, heavy armor. Some told jokes and insulted the neogi hordes, calling their eellike mothers “beholder whores” and their fathers “Torilian maggot lovers” (though neogi had neither mothers nor fathers). A few centaurs popped their heads out from their stables and joined in the good humor, wondering if beer would later be poured for free.
    CassaRoc ordered Djan and the female helmsman taken to a healer. Teldin stopped them as they carried Djan away. The half-elf was still unconscious, and Teldin placed his hand upon Djan’s breast. “They’ll take care of you,” Teldin said. Then he turned to Corontea. She was bleeding heavily from a nasty gash to her forehead, and her legs and arms were seriously burned.
    He closed his eyes. CassaRoc said, “Go on, now,” and the warriors took Teldin’s people away.
    CassaRoc said, “You can’t do anything for them, now, Cloakmaster. There’s no sense in feeling guilty. We all know the risks of spelljamming. So did they.”
    CassaRoc and the others started off, and Teldin turned to survey his surroundings. His nose was filled with the underlying scents of farm odors that he had grown up with: of hay and sweat, of earth, and above that, the heavy aroma of horse manure. But here in the dim light – he could see that even light panels in this section of the tower were faulty and fading – the stables seemed cramped and unkempt. Wooden walls were rotting, some with ragged holes where angry centaurs had kicked them out, perhaps in drunken rage. Teldin could also make out the sweet, cloying scent of old ale permeating the walls and floor, almost like fermented honey.
    “These are their quarters,” CassaRoc told him. The two of them walked side by side through the stable common, then entered a cramped garden, somewhere in the central portion of the tower, Teldin decided. The feeble light panels in the walls and ceilings made what few grains the centaurs were cultivating seem pale and sickly. Gray mushrooms sprouted from the other half of the garden, some growing in rows, others in natural rings. “If they offer you any of the fungus, just say you’re not hungry. It wasn’t made for human consumption.”
    Teldin nodded. One large mushroom was mottled with splotches of purple. Teldin thought it quivered as the humans filed past. “I see what you mean,” he said.
    CassaRoc kept his voice low. “The damned centaurs are right enough, but they’ve grown soft. They just don’t care about anything. This tower could be impenetrable, if only they kept it up. The collective would hire on to fix things up for them, but they just don’t care. All the centaurs really care about are their brews.” He elbowed Teldin in the side. “By the Gods, I can understand that.” He