Monte Cook - Forgotten Realms - The Glass Prison

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The Glass Prison

A Forgotten Realms novel

By Monte Cook

Scanned by Rheidyr with special thanks to ZaraBeth

Proofread and formatted by BW-SciFi

Ebook version 2.0

Release Date: 6th, December, 2004

Note: This ebook is a new scan. An older version of this ebook is released by Dreamcity but it’s not really

proof-read and still contains a lot of OCR and formatting errors.

Vheod's vision swirled around him. He closed his eyes tightly, hoping to steady himself. When he opened

them again, Melann was kneeling over him.

"Vheod, get up," she begged, her voice thin and panicked. "He'll kill us all!"

She was attempting to lift him from the ground by his shoulders, and he allowed her to help him stumble

to his feet. The demon's black gaze fell on them both.

"Now, young mortalheart," Chare'en said in a voice like polished obsidian, "I swear by the Abyss that

gave birth to us both, you will die!"

THE GLASS PRISON

All characters in this book are fictitious Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America Any reproduction or unauthorized

use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of TSR, Inc

Distributed to the hobby, toy, and comic trade in the United States and Canada by regional distributors

Distributed worldwide by Wizards of the Coast, Inc and regional distributors

FORGOTTEN REALMS and the TSR logo are registered trademarks owned by TSR, Inc

All TSR characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are trademarks owned by TSR, Inc

Cover art by Fred Fields

Map by Sam Wood

First Printing April 1999

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 98-88136

98765432 1

ISBN 0-7869-1343-6 21343XXX1501

U S , CANADA, EUROPEAN HEADQUARTERS

ASIA, PACIFIC, & LATIN AMERICA Wizards of the Coast, Belgium

Wizards of the Coast, Inc PB 2031

PO Box 707 2600 Berchem

Renton, WA 98057-0707 Belgium

+1-800-324-6496 +32-70-233277

Visit our web site at www.tsr.com

For Sue

Prologue

Run. The mournful baying of the demonic hounds rolled across the landscape from behind Vheod. He

couldn't be sure exactly how far behind him they were or when they might catch up to him. All he could do

was run. The thorns of the gnarled brier that covered the plain tore at his flesh as he ran, but he did what he

could to ignore the pain. The malevo-lent brier hungrily absorbed Vheod's blood, not allowing a single drop

to touch the ground. He didn't worry about the wounds; Vheod was grateful no trail of blood would betray

his passage. The thorns drank it all in.

Vheod Runechild's body ached from hours of des-perate flight, much of which took him through the

Fields of Night Unseen, a meadow filled with vam-piric thorns. His limbs grew more and more resistant to

each step. Cold sweat ran down his back and clung to his neck. Vheod longed to draw his sword and hack

his way through the brier, but he feared leaving an obvious path that his pursuers could trace.

Take the intelligent approach, he kept telling him-self. Vheod knew the challenge was to not allow his

fear and exhaustion to overwhelm his thoughts. He had to keep a cool head and ignore the deadly forces

that marshaled against him. Startling images of the terrible, hungry mouths of the vorrs that chased him

came unbidden into his mind. He gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes, forcing himself onward.

The Taint formed a new, beckoning shape on his arm. The crimson, tattoo-like mark flowed across his

flesh like a thing alive. Its changing shape resembled a hand slowly urging him forward. He ignored it.

The field of black thorns flowed over hill after hill. Nowhere offered Vheod relief from their constant

clawing at his legs as he ran, the vorrs close behind him. The sky above him bore a reddish-brown hue that

recalled either rust or dried blood. Not even the whisper of a breeze came to alleviate the dry, parched

heat. The thorns required blood, not water to live. The skies of the nether planes were selfish with their

gifts, and usually bestowed moisture only in the form of dangerous storms. Vheod, however, would

welcome a storm at this point—it might aid in his escape. Knowing that wishing for help from the

environment in this plane of darkness and evil would avail nothing, Vheod pushed himself to keep running.

If I stop, he thought, Nethess's hunters will find me and will offer no mercy.

The rush of air as he fled pulled at his long, brick-red hair. It fluttered along with the tattered, violet

cloak that whipped behind him like an extra, franti-cally flailing limb. It caught on thorns and slowed him,

probably even left behind bits for his pursuers to find. Reaching behind him he gathered as much of it as he

could and wrapped its length around his arm so it would no longer tangle in the twisted, pointed brier. He

wished, too, that he could shed his black steel breastplate. Vheod would do anything for speed now.

For a time the only sounds Vheod could hear were his own labored breaths, the soft footfalls his boots

made on the ground, and the tearing of his flesh by the thorns. The vorrs howled again, their baying louder

than before. His fear granted speed to his feet, and he ran on faster and faster. He veered to the left, then

to the right.

The hounds bayed again, louder still, and from right behind him. Had they caught his scent? He could

hear the blood-lusting—no, soul-lusting—glee in their cries. He thought he counted three, if not four, of

them from their sounds. He had to think of a plan and quickly.

Let them come to you, he told himself. Fight on your terms, not theirs.

The terrain here rose and fell in rough, jagged little hills amid the thorns. It occurred to Vheod that

per-haps he could use that fact to his advantage. Again he veered to one direction, then another, but his

mind focused instead on a plan—and on picking his moment carefully.

Leaping into a narrow gully that probably once guided a small brook, Vheod drew his sword and spun

even as he struggled to keep his footing. The ravine was deeper than he realized. His foot slipped under

him, but somehow he managed to stay standing, though his body twisted around awkwardly. The first hound

leaped over the gully, thinking Vheod had done the same. As it flew over the gully, Vheod sprang upward

with his blade. It was barely within his reach, and the lunge sent Vheod tumbling off-balance, yet he felt the

tip of his sword strike something as he slipped. The yelp from the creature was shrill, its gut torn open. The

blow sent it spinning around in midair. The vorr landed to Vheod's side, not to rise again.

The next vorr dived down into the ravine, the bris-tling, brownish-black hair on its back as rigid as

daggers. Vheod pulled himself to his feet and lashed at it with his sword, but the blade cut through only

empty air. Abyssal magic had granted these crea-tures incredible speed. The vorr lunged. Its bite almost

caught a bit of Vheod's leg in its jagged, froth-ing jaws. Vheod's second blow split the gaunt, ragged head of

the beast in two.

He turned. The glaring, hungry eyes of the third vorr focused on him and narrowed. Thin legs spread

wide, as it thrust its head at him. Savage jaws snapped at him again and again. Vheod pushed the hungry

beast back with desperate parries and thrusts.

As he fought to hold the beast back, his ears caught the sounds of a fourth hound on its way. Vheod

knew he was in trouble. He had to try some-thing different—and quickly. He reached inward. There were

black portions of Vheod's soul that he only rarely allowed himself to see, but now he would try anything. He

didn't close his eyes but instead simply looked within rather than without. His body raging with heat and

sweat, at the center of the darkness within him he found his own cold, icy heart. It was an empty and

motionless place, but he found what he was looking for. In a few short instants, Vheod called on the power

innately entwined about the inhuman portion of his soul. Born half tanar'ri, magic flowed within his veins as

surely as blood. It came eagerly when he called to it—perhaps too eagerly.

A tingle of chill fingers ran across his skin as he filled himself with the unleashed power. It felt as though

the cold would eat away at his skin from the inside, and his muscles all tensed at once. Tapping into that

Abyssal energy, he forced the ground away from himself. He pushed down with all his inner might. Beads

of sweat ran down his temples and even into his eyes, but he kept them open. Even in the short time it took

to call on the power, he was terrified to take his eyes off the demonic hound.

As he concentrated, Vheod rose into the air, levi-tating out of the reach of the attacking vorr. As he did,

the last of the tracking hounds reached the top of the ravine right at his level. Watching its prey float up into

the air past it, the beast stood wide-eyed long enough for the swing of Vheod's blade to slash across its

face. A second blow brought the creature's life to an end. Vheod looked down at the vorr still in the ravine

as it snarled up at him. If the beast had been capable of speech, Vheod knew that snarl would be a curse.

Muscles aching, he realized he would have to end this battle soon. The long chase had weakened him too

much for a protracted fight.

The beast's hateful gaze unnerved him, and Vheod couldn't stay aloft forever. Rather than wait any

longer, he released his grip on the power that held him aloft and let himself drop. As he fell, he pointed his

sword down. Blade-first, he crashed into the hor-rid hound. Vheod's own grunt on impact was drowned out

by the vorr's shrill bellow.

As Vheod tried to untangle himself from the beast and get to his feet, his hair covered his face. Seeing

nothing, he heard only snarls and whines. By the time he stood, the snarling had stopped. Vheod pushed his

hair away from his eyes. His sword remained thrust into the vorr, pinning the now still creature to the

ground.

Vheod knew that more would come. He stood for a moment over the bodies of the creatures he'd slain,

hoping to catch his breath. Syrupy slime and blood covered his tattered clothes and armor. Panting out tired

breaths, his body's aches seemed to beg him to sit or lay—even amid the pricking thorns. He had to push

himself onward, however. He couldn't allow himself to think of anything but his goal. He had to escape the

Abyss.

Escape presented a great challenge, however, for entrances and exits, often called portals, were hid-den

and usually guarded. Once the Abyss held some-thing in its fetid grasp, it let go only reluctantly. Vheod had

always been within that grasp—he'd lived here his entire life. As horrible as this malevo-lent plane was, he

had little knowledge of anywhere else. A childhood in the deepest, foulest realms of the Abyss had taught

him little except how to sur-vive. A half-breed human-tanar'ri could only live among the fiends and horrors

spawned in this dark-est of otherworldly pits if he could protect himself. The fact that he'd somehow

survived against such horrors had to count for something—at least he hoped that to be true. In the Abyss,

his fiendish masters and peers had called him a cambion—a word that accentuated his half-mortal

existence and carried with it all the abuse, oppression, and injus-tice that had been heaped on him.

While the thorns hungrily absorbed the dead vorrs' spilled blood, Vheod pulled his sword free and set it

on the ground. He drew himself up straight and took a deep breath. Gesturing toward the trail he'd left

behind him as he ran through the brier, Vheod spoke sorcerous words long ago memorized from an ancient

book. He closed his eyes and held forth his battle-scarred hands. Magical power stretched from his

fingertips to the thorns trampled in the battle and in his flight. The crushed plants slowly stood upright once

again. The savage flora would consume the blood of his foes here, but the scene of battle would still present

obvious clues to anyone coming this way. Vheod hoped the spell would keep the thorns from betraying his

path from here.

Once he finished with the spell, Vheod picked up his sword and cleaned the blood from it with the end of

his cloak. He slowly slid it back into its sheath and slipped away from the scene of the battle with care-ful,

deliberate steps, once again plunging across the violent landscape.

Dark clouds began to obstruct the bloody sky. He wondered if they were actually the visible aspects of

spells cast by Nethess to find him. He could almost see the venom of her inhuman eyes glaring down at him

through the threatening black clouds. How long could he avoid her reach?

Vheod saw the Taint had moved to the back of his hand from where it had been on his forearm. The

indistinct, fluid shape of the mark contrasted with the sharpness of its color, as red and piercing as a babau's

eyes.

"What does that mean?" he whispered in frustra-tion at the tattoo as he loped along as fast as his tired

legs could carry him. Vheod had never really known what the Taint was, but it had always seemed like

some sort of intelligence. It often guided him, though he was never sure to what, or if he interpret-ed it

correctly. All his life, Vheod could find no answers as to its meaning, least of all from the Taint itself.

This time, however, as if in answer to his rhetori-cal query, the reddish mark twisted and moved like

flowing water across his arm, lengthening into a nar-row, pointed tower. Or is it an arrow? Vheod thought,

shaking his head in confusion.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" he whis-pered again, his gaze never leaving the mark on his arm.

Vheod glanced around, looking for more signs of pursuit. He knew he should be more quiet. He thrust his

arm in the direction the narrowest end of the Taint indicated. When Vheod moved his arm, the pointed scar

shifted as he did so that it always oriented in the same direction.

"Yes, you are," Vheod said.

Unknown hours passed since he'd started running, and each time he considered slowing down visions of

more vorrs or even worse creatures pushed him onward. Finally, heavy limbs dragged Vheod almost to a

halt. No sign of pursuit revealed itself.

As the sky above him continued to darken, taking on the mottled brownish green of a festering sore, a

dark tower rose above the uneven horizon and the bloodthirsty brier. At first, all he could do was stare at

the distant structure, his mouth slightly open. With his goal finally in sight, he could ignore the fatigue in his

body, the sweat coating his flesh, and the stink of the dead vorrs that clung to him like a nagging

conscience.

The tower was surrounded by a gray stone wall. Iron supports spaced along the wall spread eons-old

rust across the stonework, and Vheod wondered where the moisture to form rust could have come from in

this parched wasteland.

Stopping in front of the closed gate, Vheod took a moment to examine the entire place. It was just as

he'd heard it described. The thorny plants didn't reach the wall, stopping a few feet away as though even

they were wary of the place.

Vheod closed his eyes and breathed a sigh. Opening them again, he knelt to examine his wounds. The

thorns had torn numerous and some-times wide, gaping wounds in the flesh of his lower legs. He'd assumed

up until this moment that the pain he felt in his legs came only from his hours of running. Now he realized

that a good deal of the fiery torment came from the terrible wounds rent by the thorns. Using the spikes on

his breastplate, he tore his cloak into two pieces and wrapped the cloth around his bloody shins and calves.

When he fin-ished he stood, stepping closer to the gate. His fist banged against it with what remained of his

strength.

The air had grown noticeably colder over the last hour, and the sky continued to grow even darker. Soon

it would be so dark that only true natives of the Abyss could see at all—and Vheod knew there were things

dwelling in the darkness of the fields behind him that could see much farther in the dark than he could.

Vheod pounded on the gate again, harder this time. No sound came from beyond the wall. He pressed on

the gate, and it opened with a groan of metal. The walled courtyard around the tower's base lay barren of

thorns or any other living thing. The tower itself appeared to have no means of entry.

"Is there anyone here?" Vheod shouted.

Silence.

Vheod stepped through the gateway. A wooden sign with crude lettering hung from a hook on the side

of the tower just above eye-level. Written in the tongue of the Lower Planes, the words "Karreth

Edittorn" were scrawled across it, a name he knew meant "Destiny's Last Hope," in the language of the

tower's creators. Vheod had read of the tower once long ago in an otherwise forgotten book, but more

recently he'd paid a rutterkin most of his remaining gold and an enchanted cloak for the exact details of the

tower's location. He already missed the cloak, and when he looked down at himself he thought again of the

Taint. It seemed to have guided him here. Perhaps he'd not needed to pay the rutterkin at all.

As he looked again at the bailey formed by the wall, he noted with suspicion that no one had come to

greet him—or fend him off. None of the informa-tion he'd gathered said anything about Karreth Edittorn

being abandoned.

"Who are you?"

Vheod spun to see who had spoken, but the bailey was still empty. A rustling sound disturbed the air

above his head. There three winged creatures hov-ered like insects. Their flesh was weathered and black,

and their small white eyes glistened like pearls. Wings of stretched skin pulled taut over long, spindly bones

silently beat with enough power to allow them to float otherwise motionlessly above him.

"Who are you?" one asked again.

"Vheod," he answered, "from the city of Broken Reach."

"And why have you come here, cambion?"

Vheod knew these creatures were varrangoin, the masters of Karreth Edittorn. Sometimes burdened

with the misnomer of "Abyssal bats," varrangoin were neither stupid animals nor blind. Instead, these

fleshy-winged creatures were powerful and intelli-gent foes feared even by some of the tanar'ri. It was

their role as adversaries that Vheod planned to use to his advantage.

"I've come here to use the portal," he told them.

"And why is that, half-tanar'ri?" the batlike crea-ture asked with a cruel sneer.

"I have angered the marilith Nethess and now seek to avoid her vengeance," he told the varrangoin.

Quickly he added, "So that I may do so again." It was a lie, but perhaps it might help him endear himself to

these creatures if they thought he was an enemy of their enemy.

The three of them stared down with hard, indeci-pherable eyes.

"Nethess serves hated Graz'zt," one of them—a dif-ferent one—finally said. "We would like to see his

viper tree orchards uproot themselves to tear his palace down. We would like to see dread Graz'zt and all

his minions die slow and painful deaths."

"Then may I use the portal?" Vheod asked. His eyes widened as he stared at the batlike creature.

"We hate your kind, tanar'ri. Why should we help you?"

"Can't you see that if you do, I'll live on to fight against those you hate?"

The varrangoin stared long in silence. Vheod hoped they would buy his bluff.

"Yes," one of them said finally, "we can see that if you live, other tanar'ri will be harmed. If you can

reach the portal, you may use it. It should function for you—if Nethess seeks your blood, it is truly your

Last Hope."

"Where does it lead? Will it take me somewhere safe?"

"Addle-cove! Don't you pay attention? It takes you where it wishes, not where you wish." The creature

glared at him then beat its monstrous wings with a powerful motion, swooping even higher, followed

immediately by the other two. "It takes you to your destiny."

As the varrangoin flew up they pointed to a shim-mering hole suddenly forming near the top of the tower

that hadn't been there before. A small ledge jutted out underneath it. The window-like hole opened into the

side of the structure, as though it might look out from the tower's uppermost room. If that was the portal,

how did they expect him to reach it? Vheod circled the tower, but as he suspected, he found no other new

means of entry, nor anything resembling stairs or even a ladder. He looked up into the air above the tower,

but the dark sky held only ever darker clouds.

He was too spent to even think of calling on tanar'ri power again to lift him to the door. As hard as it

might be to assail the stone wall, it would be harder to reach into himself for that cold energy, yet Vheod

knew he needed to get to the door right away.

He was still being hunted. He had no time to wait. Though his tired, bloody legs screamed even as he

considered it, he reached toward the stone wall of the tower. The old and uneven masonry offered many

easy hand holds on which he pulled himself up. His feet rested on crumbling stones that threatened to give

way as his hands sought new holds even higher. Exhaustion and fear slowed his otherwise steady progress

up the side of the tower as tired muscles began to shake with uncertainty and his mind wan-dered. Vheod

imagined he could hear more vorrs or other of Nethess's servitors on their way, catching him at this

awkward and defenseless moment. He imagined horrible vulturelike fiends tearing at him as he clung to the

stones, ripping away his armor and finally his flesh. He saw huge, bloated demonic toads making obscene

leaps into the air to pull at his bloody ankles, skeletal babau, with their infernal gazes, lashing at him with

hooks, pulling him down, and all the fiends feasting on his flesh even while he still lived.

Reaching the top after a grueling and fearful ascent, Vheod finally pulled himself up to the ledge. He

eased his tired body down, dangling his weary legs over the side, but with his body turned so he could look

up and into the large, round opening. It appeared to lead into the tower, though he actually saw only

darkness. Vheod knew the doorway itself mattered, not what he could see through it. It was magical, and it

provided a way to leave the Abyss.

The Taint throbbed on his neck. Ignoring it, Vheod reached up, his fingers finding the portal warm to his

touch. He sighed and looked into the darkness, won-dering where it would lead.

He looked back over the thorn-filled Fields of Night Unseen and hoped it would be the last he ever saw

of the Abyss. Each layer held its own mystery and its own terrors. Mortal souls condemned for their evil

actions faced torments more terrible than even he could imagine. Eventually, these victims, twisted by

aeons of suffering, became tanar'ri them-selves. Just such a fiend had fathered Vheod and bestowed on

him a wicked, corrupted portion of his essence.

The Abyss was pain, misery, and evil deeds. It spawned from dark, depraved thoughts of murder and

revenge, embodied the very essence of wanton destruction, the infliction of suffering, and the chaot-ic

tumult of annihilation. Its layers knew only adver-sity, calamity, and devastation. Where another world

might have rivers of cool water, the Abyss had only acids and poisons. Where another might be wrapped in

a cushion of fresh air, the Abyss was home to chok-ing clouds and flesh-eating mists. Where other worlds

sported cities, the Abyss held fortresses filled with tortured souls and baleful fiends. It held no safe places

and no shelter from the ravages of devasta-tion. The Abyss was all evil, yet it was all Vheod had ever

known.

He stood, steadying himself as he stood on the nar-row ledge—the long drop to the ground behind him

and the unknown darkness before him. A cold, dry wind lifted his long hair and tossed it into his face. Blood

still ran from the wounds on his legs. Vheod smiled with bitter disdain.

"I can assume," he said aloud, "that wherever this takes me, it can't be any worse than this."

Vheod leaped through the portal, leaving the Abyss behind him.

Chapter One

"I wonder if the goddess is watching us, right at this moment," Melann said, looking around.

Whitlock's gaze followed hers, and he saw the thick, dark trees surrounding the dusty path on which he

and his sister rode. Their horses' hoofbeats metered out the minutes and hours that comprised the otherwise

silent days of their travels. Light from the setting sun streaked through the branches around them like

streamers on a festival day, and the trees were alive with birds and small animals moving about as late

afternoon fell on the Dalelands. As he rode past, Whitlock saw the swirl of leaves overhead as a cascade

of water endlessly moving across a sea of green—or at least, what he imagined the sea might look like, as

he'd never actually seen the sea.

"Does Chauntea, the Great Mother, watch us every day of our journey or only at certain points?"

Melann continued. "Surely a goddess has better things to do in all the Dalelands—all the world—than to

continually watch one simple, minor follower like me. Yet how can a mortal begin to put limitations on a

goddess?"

Whitlock had heard this from his sister before. While her training taught her that Chauntea was

concerned with every aspect of her priests' lives, Melann seemed to find it difficult not to question her own

worth in her goddess's eyes. His sister's faith in the greatness and glory of Chauntea, mother of all growing

things and the people who tended them, never faltered. Her own importance and self-worth were in

question. She voiced these concerns often and aloud. Whitlock's only response was to simply shrug.

"Praise Our Mother," Melann whispered out of habit.

At the sound of his sister's voice, Whitlock turned. A smile came unbidden to his mouth, but his normal,

stalwart countenance altered it into a grimace. He wished he could be more like her. The faith that she held

in her god, in the completion of their quest, and seemingly in him strengthened Whitlock, even if he was

unable to really express such things in words. He saw her as everything that was good in the world, which

needed protection by people like him. It was his duty, and he would not shirk it. Duty, steadfast-ness, and

obligation were his gods.

Whitlock wiped sweat from his brow, and re-adjusted himself in the saddle. He scanned around, always

looking for danger.

When they began the trip from Archendale three days earlier, Whitlock had convinced Melann to don a

leather jerkin for a modicum of protection. A brown traveling cloak covered most of the armor, but not a

wooden amulet bearing Chauntea's symbol—a flower surrounded by a sunburst—displayed promi-nently at

her chest. Melann's faith was her strength, and indeed it allowed her to perform great feats when she called

on the power of her patron. That faith, however, also led her to believe that Chauntea would provide her

with everything she needed. Whitlock knew that most of the time you had to take care of yourself.

The sound of his glistening chain mail lightly jin-gling with each step of his mount constantly remind-ed

him of the dangers all around him and the need for protection. He noted each tree, each bend in the road,

with careful consideration. Their father had taught him that the spot that appeared safest was actually the

best spot for an ambush.

"The people of the Dales," his father used to say, "didn't survive so near dangers like the Zhentarim and

Myth Drannor by being trusting. We go through life with our eyes open."

Now, riding into these mysterious elven woods, his sister's safety was his responsibility. Their quest

weighed heavily on Whitlock's shoulders.

Melann's long dark hair, tied away from her face in a practical manner, pulled free of the bond a few

strands at a time with each rhythmic bounce of the horse. They both had been told that there was a strong

familial resemblance between the two of them, but of course Whitlock's hair was much short-er, and for the

last few years he'd worn a short-cropped beard. Whitlock had never let himself think much of women and

feminine beauty, but he imag-ined that other men might find his sister attractive. Usually Melann's hands

and clothes were covered in fresh dirt, as she spent most of her time helping farmers with their crops or in

her own garden. Perhaps if she didn't concern herself with things like that so much, Whitlock thought, she

would be married.

Now only the dust of the road covered Melann's hands and clothes. The journey they had been forced

into did not allow for the luxury of tending to plants, nor did it take them near too many tilled fields. Only the

dust of the road soiled either of them. The two rode in silence, as they had for much of the journey.

Both held their mouths in tight expressions, and their eyes hung heavy and low. Still, Whitlock took

Melann's praise to her goddess as a sign of unswerv-ing faith and optimism.

The narrow path cut through the ancient trees in a wilderness neither really fully comprehended. Now,

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TheGlassPrisonAForgottenRealmsnovelByMonteCookScannedbyRheidyrwithspecialthankstoZaraBethProofreadandformattedbyBW-SciFiEbookversion2.0ReleaseDate:6th,December,2004Note:Thisebookisanewscan.AnolderversionofthisebookisreleasedbyDreamcitybutit’snotreallyproof-readandstillcontainsalotofOCRandformattinge...

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