336

A new sound is added to the terrible squeals of the hungry rats: the sound of splintering wood. In less than a minute, your small boat is completely devoured, leaving no trace of its ever having existed. The jagged rocks cut into your hands and knees, but you are oblivious to the pain as you clamber across them to the beach beyond. You set off at a run, but the fine, black sand closes around your ankles, and your legs ache violently with every desperate step.

A glance over your shoulder warns you that the pack is gaining ground rapidly; they will be on you before you reach the rocky base of Kazan-Oud. Then suddenly the squealing stops; the black tide has halted at the edge of the beach. Their white teeth snap on empty air, and hungry eyes watch your every movement, but every single one of them is rooted to the rocks.

As you turn to make your escape, you wonder why the rats no longer pursue you. Less than ten feet ahead lies the horrific answer to your question.

Turn to 221.