"What are you talking about?" she asked.

"The Staff," he said, "the Desecration. What do you think caused the cataclysm that brought evil to this island?" He lifted the Staff and squeezed until his knuckles turned white. "So what do you think, enchantress? How many more deaths can we add to its total?"

"A'stoc!" Chentelle reached up and grabbed his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her.

"We don't have time for this. The Legionnaires need your help now."

The wizard glared at her. Slowly, the red glaze cleared from his eyes. "You are right, Chentelle. I apologize. Show me what is happening."

By the time they reached the temple doors, the goblins were nearly to the village. They rode huge birds with gnarled, backward-bending legs and wickedly curved beaks. As they reached the first stone buildings, they spread out, enveloping the structures in a loose formation.

A'stoc slammed shut the viewport. "Open the gate."

A villager slid back the bar, but before they could move, a clawed hand came down on A'stoc's shoulder.

"Wait," said Gorin. "I will go." Without waiting for a reply, he opened the door and stepped into the courtyard.

They watched through the open gate as the priest walked openly toward the lead goblin. He walked straight ahead, ignoring the amazed stares and frantic gestures of Dacius and his Legionnaires.

The lead goblin halted in the center of the square, and his troops reined in behind him. He carried a barbed lance, which he leveled at Gorin's chest. A dozen finger bones dangled from cords near the tip of the lance, rattling in the breeze. He wore a hideous mask that resembled an insect with huge tusks and seven eyes, and the same design was tattooed over each of the goblin's hearts.

Brother Gorin walked forward until the tip of the chieftain's lance touched his chest. Then he started to talk. His deep voice filled the village square with the harsh sounds of the goblin tongue. He spoke for several minutes while the goblin chief remained motionless. Finally, he fell silent.

No one spoke. No one moved. How long could this last? Moments stretched into minutes, punctuated only by the occasional shifting of one of the great birds. Chentelle's legs started to ache with tension.

At last, the chieftain moved. The tip of his lance dipped toward the ground and he turned to yell something over his shoulder. Then he froze and sniffed the air audibly. Suddenly, he screamed and spurred his mount forward. His lance came up, ripping into Gorki's chest and lodging in his shoulder.

"Fire!" Dacius shouted.

Chaos erupted. Legion arrows filled the air, dropping several goblins before they could react.

The rest scattered, darting through the buildings to avoid the barrage. The chieftain planted a foot on Gorin's chest and shoved, ripping his lance free in a great fountain of blood.

"No!" screamed A'stoc. He charged through the temple door, raising the mandril wand as he moved. A bolt of fire leaped from the wand. It passed through the stream of blood with an angry hiss of steam and engulfed the chieftain. The goblin burst into flame and fell screaming to the ground. His mount ran wildly from the blaze, spreading panic and confusion among the other birds.

The wizard screamed wildly and charged into the square.

Chentelle froze. This was insane. A goblin charged toward her, twirling a sling above his head.

An arrow caught him in the side, and he fell from his bird. Something smacked into the door just above Chentelle's head, and she jumped backward. One of the villagers slammed the door shut and dropped the bar. She was safe.

But images of Brother Gorin filled her mind: the fountain of blood, the priest writhing on the ground, goblins and warbirds charging madly through the square. A muffled roar echoed through the temple, punctuated by screams of rage and terror. She turned to the villager. "Open the door."

Panic hit her the instant she left the temple's refuge. She stumbled, falling face first onto the rocky ground. What was she doing? She was no warrior, no priest. How could she help? She wanted to spin around and run back to the safety of the temple. She wanted to scream and curl up in a ball. She wanted to dig a hole and crawl in until it was all over.

Brother Gorin lay in a muddy pool on the other side of the well. Chentelle rolled onto her feet and moved forward in a crouch, keeping low to the ground.

A warbird staggered and fell in front of her, one of its legs nearly severed at the hip. The goblin rider jumped from the saddle and rolled neatly to his feet. He oriented on Chentelle and raised his scimitar to strike.

A screaming figure leaped over the fallen bird and crashed into the goblin's back. A vorpal sword drove through the creature's chest, splattering Chentelle with blood. The goblin fell to the ground, and Leth turned to find another foe.

Chentelle scrambled around the fallen bodies.

A burning warbird ran wildly through the square, heading straight for her. She dived to the side, barely avoiding the animal's huge claws. She jumped to her feet and came face-to-face with a dismounted goblin. He was unarmed, but his claws flashed toward her.

A strong hand grabbed her hair, yanking her backward. Gerruth stepped forward, sword raised.

The goblin hesitated, and the vorpal blade slashed out. The goblin's head rolled off shoulders, connected to the body by only a thin strip of flesh.

A jet of fire blasted through an opening between buildings, immolating a pair of riders who were closing in from behind the elf.

Chentelle pulled free from Gerruth's hold. She ran forward. Something screamed from just behind her left shoulder, but she ignored it. She dropped to the ground beside Brother Gorin.

Blood poured from the priest's torn chest, collecting in puddles on the rocky ground. The goblin's right hand hovered just above the wound, fingers twitching uncontrollably. His crimson eyes stared at her blankly through their transparent lids, and his mouth hung open. The lips were slack, but a steady moan poured from his throat.

He was alive, but for how long? Chentelle closed her eyes. She had to block out the battle. She ignored the screams and the ringing steel. She ignored the smells of sweat and blood and fear. She closed her mind to everything except the pain and the courage and the need of Brother Gorin. And she reached out with her Gift.

A scream burned in her throat. Gorin floated in a maelstrom of agony, a whirlpool of pain that attacked his spirit, pulling him steadily downward into a dark center of oblivion. Life poured from the priest in a steady stream, flowing into the void. But still he fought. The core of his spirit remained strong, focused. A warm glow of peace and security pushed back against the darkness.

Chentelle understood. Gorin was trying to summon the power of sanctuary. But he was too weak, his wounds too terrible. Already, the glow was fading.

She started to sing. She sang of peace, of tranquillity. She sang of the beauty of the Holy Land and the security of Elihaz's refuge. She filled her song with the Harmony of Creation, and she fed it like kindling to the fire that was Gorin's will.

Slowly, the glow became stronger, steadier. It pulsed with life, driving back the currents of pain.

It spread through Gorin's body, through his soul. And where it passed, it left a calm surface of perfect peace and calmness. Pain disappeared; wounds stopped bleeding. Chentelle felt the priest slide into sanctuary, and smiled.

Then something heavy slammed into her back. A sharp pain pierced her side, jarring her back into awareness.

One of the huge birds sprawled dead on the ground at her back. The creature's iron-tipped beak pressed against her side, and blood seeped from a shallow wound. It must have cut her when it fell.

Sulmar stood on the bird's carcass, using the added height to cross swords with a pair of mounted goblins. Scimitars slashed downward in vicious arcs, and warbirds lashed out with beak and claw. But the Tengarian stood firm. Twin swords surrounded him in a wall of weaving steel. He parried every strike and threatened deadly counters, preventing either goblin from advancing or disengaging.

Dacius appeared from the right flank. His vorpal sword swung in a great arc, severing one rider's leg and carving deep into the side of his mount. Bird and goblin fell together in a mass of blood and screams.

Sulmar used the opening to drive his vorpal blade into the other bird's face. The creature reared, throwing its rider. The black sword shot forward in a blur, beheading the goblin before he hit the ground.

Chentelle clambered to her feet. A quick look assured her that Gorin was fine, shielded in the aura of sanctuary.

A geyser of flame splashed across the wall in front of her. A'stoc cursed as the goblin he had been aiming for charged forward. The rider slashed downward, and A'stoc raised the Thunderwood Staff to parry. He blocked the sword, but the impact forced him to the ground. He scrambled backward, barely avoiding a clawed foot. The scimitar struck again, only to be parried by a Legion blade.

Leth slammed his body into the side of the bird, unbalancing it. As the mount stumbled, he drove his blade into its heart. The bird thrashed wildly in its death throes. One of the great claws lashed out, tearing through Leth's jerkin and leaving a ragged slash across his ribs. The Legionnaire fell to the ground, clutching his side.

The goblin rolled to his feet and leaped for the helpless Legionnaire, only to fall screaming to the ground as a stream of flame caught him in the air.

A'stoc lowered the mandril wand and staggered to his feet.

"Leth!" Gerruth's shout carried from across the square. He ran forward, oblivious to everything but his fallen brother.

A goblin raced at the Legionnaire's back. Then he fell to the dirt, an arrow quivering in his skull.

Suddenly, everything was calm. Only the moans of the dying and injured broke the silence.

"Legionnaires!" Dacius shouted. "Stay sharp. Sound off by rank. Report!"

"Thildemar. All's well."

"Gerruth. All's well. But my brother—"

"Leth. Injured, it's only a scratch."

Chentelle looked and saw a spur of bone projecting from the Legionnaire's side. She felt suddenly faint.

"...All's well."

"Report received," Dacius said. "Drup, Alve, Thildemar, sweep the village, house by house. I don't want any surprises."

The door to the temple flew open and Father Marcus came running out. Several villagers followed him, though they were more tentative in their approach. Marcus rushed to Gorin's side and dropped to his knees. "Thank the Creator, his sanctuary is holding. You two, move him into the temple. I don't dare heal him until he can safely drop the sanctuary. And be gentle, his wounds are serious."

The High Bishop's tone brooked no argument. The villagers jumped to obey.

Marcus moved on to examine Leth's wound.

"Hurry," Gerruth said. "He's losing too much blood!"

"Help me remove his corselet," Marcus said.

Leth groaned as they worked the leather jacket free from his body. "See to the others," he gasped. "I can make it to the temple."

"Hush," Marcus whispered. "You have been brave enough for one day. Now lie still. Let the love of the Creator make you well." He ran his hands slowly across Leth's side. The jagged spur of bone receded, melding back into the rib cage. Skin grew together and covered the wound, leaving not even a scar to mark where the wound had been.

Leth raised his head. "Thank you, High Bishop. I feel—" His eyes closed, and he slipped into a deep sleep.

"Let him sleep for at least six hours," Father Marcus said to Gerruth. "He should be fine when he awakens."

Gerruth nodded and lifted Leth gently from the ground. Stepping carefully around the debris of battle, he carried his brother to the temple.

"Is anyone else hurt?" Father Marcus asked. "No? Then I will see to Brother Gorin."

"Wait," Sulmar said. "My mistress is injured."

"Chentelle? Let me see."

"It's nothing, really," Chentelle protested.

"Please," the High Bishop said, "not you, too. Why must everyone equate suffering with virtue.

The Creator does not wish us to endure pain. He wishes us to cure it." He placed a hand over Chentelle's wound.

She felt a delicious warmth. It filled her spirit, washing away all fear and pain. He was right, of course. There was no need to suffer. Her world flowed with love and rapture; pain was an unnecessary distraction. She repaired the cut in her side, returning her body to the wholeness that was proper.

Marcus' hand left her side, taking with it the bliss. In its wake, a wave of exhaustion swept through her. But that was all right. The warmth remained.

Chentelle staggered, and Sulmar's arm was instantly around her, providing support. "I'm all right," she said, regaining her balance. "I'm just tired."

"You should rest," Father Marcus said: "The healing draws much of its strength from your own energy." He took her by the arm and started to lead her toward the temple.

"Father Marcus!" Dacius' voice brought them to a halt. "We have a problem." He nodded to Thildemar.

"The village is clear," the elf said. "But we found signs that at least three of the goblins fled before the battle was over."

The High Bishop turned to Dacius. "I do not understand. Please explain your concern."

"The Treachery," Dacius said. "These goblins were following our trail. If we had taken them all, then there was a chance that the ship's location would stay a secret. But now, even if they haven't found her yet, all they will have to do is backtrack along the trail."

Father Marcus nodded. "What do you suggest, Lord Gemine? Neither Leth nor Brother Gorin is fit to travel, and we cannot abandon our search for the Sphere."

"I know," Dacius said. "We have to warn Captain Rone. I will go back to the lagoon. Thildemar, you will be in command. Give me two days. If I am not back by evenrise of the second day, continue without me."

"Your pardon, Lord Gemine," said Thildemar, "but I cannot."

"What?" said Dacius.

"I have resigned my Legion rank," said the elf. "And I have sworn an oath never to lead men into danger. But even if that were not the case, I would not accept. Your primary responsibility is to your command. This mission should fall to someone else."

Dacius gave the old elf a hard stare, but Thildemar stood his ground. It was the human who looked away first. "The lagoon is probably crawling with goblins. Be careful. You have two days."

"I shall leave immediately," Thildemar said. He turned and jogged toward the trail down the mountain.

"Ex-excuse me. Thildemar," Chentelle said. "Why don't you take one of the birds?"

"A skethis?" he asked. "The goblins train those birds from birth to attack elves and humans. I doubt one would let me get within ten cubits before it tried to disembowel me."

"But it would make the trip faster, wouldn't it?"

"Yes," Thildemar said. "If the bird would let me ride."

"Let me try," Chentelle said.

She took a deep breath and let herself expand through the village square. She was so tired; it was hard to keep herself focused. She pressed her Gift outward, searching, searching. There! The skethis had come together in one of the terraced fields. She touched them with her Gift, and almost recoiled in horror. The birds were on fire with anger, violence, the need to conquer their rivals.

She started to sing: a skethis song, full of fighting and rank and social dominance. She sang of ferocity and blood lust and the control of the flock. She sang, and the skethis answered. They swarmed down from the fields, racing toward the village square. Their cries of challenge reverberated against the stone walls, filling the space with echoes.

Chentelle took those echoes and built them into her music. She turned the birds' roars of challenge into their wails of submission. She surrounded each skethis with the song of her triumph, then the lamentation of its own defeat. By the time the birds reached the village square, she was their acknowledged leader.

Chentelle went to each bird, introducing herself and accepting its surrender. It was sad. She tried to shift her song into one of friendship and shared need, but the skethis just stared at her with unforgiving eyes. Such feelings had no meaning in their world. Chentelle returned to her song of conquest.

She selected one skethis and made it acknowledge Thildemar as its superior. She warned the other birds not to attack any villagers; then she let her song end.

Fatigue pressed down on her. She could barely remain standing. "This is Claws-that-flash-like-lightning," she told the elf. "She will carry you where you want to go."

She was hardly aware of Sulmar lifting her off the ground, and she was fast asleep long before they reached the temple.

* 11 *

Hel's Crown

Chentelle stared down at Brother Gorin. He had been asleep for more than a day. Father Marcus had healed his wounds, but the strain had been almost too much for the acolyte. She ran her fingers across the smooth skin of the goblin's chest and shoulder. It was hard to believe that this was the same body. The Creator truly blessed the Holy Order when he gave to them the power to heal.

Gorin's eyes twitched and oriented on Chentelle. He moaned softly.

"Shhh," Chentelle said. "You need to rest."

He reached up with a trembling hand. "No. I must—"

Chentelle took his hand in hers. "It's all right. I'm here. What do you need?"

"I know—" he rasped. "I know what you did. You saved my life. I will not forget."

Chentelle shook her head. "I only helped. You're the one who did the work. You and Father Marcus."

"No," Gorin said. "I would be dead if not for you. I was foolish to think I could reason with them."

"No, Gorin."

Chentelle jumped in surprise as Father Marcus entered the room.

The High Bishop took Gorin's other hand gently in both of his own. "Not foolish, brother, though perhaps not wise. You acted on your faith, which is strong, and your hope, which drives us all on this quest. It was a noble effort, but I beg you not to try it again. We walk a dangerous path, and the Creation hinges on our success. We do not need another martyr. Now rest, my friend, we will need your strength soon. I will have food and water brought up to you."

He set the goblin's hand back on the bed and motioned Chentelle to follow him out of the room.

"Gorin was right," he said, once they were in the hallway. "The Creator truly blessed us when he chose you for his messenger."

The candid sincerity in his voice touched Chentelle. But she wasn't certain how to respond. She shrugged self-consciously. "Thank you, Father. I only hope I can fulfill my part in this quest, whatever it turns out to be."

He smiled at her reassuringly. "I have no doubts that you will. You are stronger than you realize."

Sulmar fell in behind them, and they headed down the stairs. A voice hailed them as they reached the bottom.

"Father Marcus, Enchantress Chentelle, I've been looking for you." Kelmek hurried over to them.

"What do you need?" asked Marcus.

"Not me," said Kelmek, "the large man with the beard. He wants everyone to meet him in the assembly hall."

"Dacius?" said Chentelle. "Why?"

"I don't know," Kelmek answered. "But the elf with the silver hair just rode in. Maybe that has something to do with it."

Chentelle exchanged a quick glance with Father Marcus. "Kelmek," she said, "Brother Gorin just woke up. He needs food. Will you make sure someone takes him some?"

"If you wish it," he said, bowing smoothly, "it will be done."

"Thank you." Then she hurried after Father Marcus.

They were the last to arrive. Dacius and Thildemar stood near the central dais, and the rest of the company sat on the nearby benches. As soon as they found seats of their own, Dacius nodded to Thildemar.

"The Treachery," the elf said evenly, "is gone."

"What?" A'stoc said. "Do you mean she has been destroyed?"

"No, wizard," Thildemar answered. "There is no debris, no sign of wreckage. I swam nearly every cubit of the lagoon and found no trace of her. She is gone."

"Were there signs of goblins?" Chentelle asked.

Thildemar nodded. "The band that attacked the village followed our trail all the way from the lagoon. No tracks led to the spot, so they must have disembarked from a goblinship."

"Could the Treachery have escaped the lagoon?" Father Marcus asked.

Thildemar turned to Dacius, and the human stepped forward to answer. "It is unlikely. The passage to the lagoon is narrow, and she was virtually unprotected. And if she had escaped, the goblinship would have given chase, not stopped to drop off troops."

He paused, but no more questions came. "We must assume that the goblins have captured the Treachery. Indeed, we must hope that they have. Otherwise, we have slim chance of ever returning to the Realm. I propose that we have Kelmek lead us to the Mouth of the Sea. If the goblins concentrate their landings there, it may also be where they took the Treachery."

"No," Father Marcus said. "We must continue to Hel's Crown."

Stunned silence greeted the High Bishop's words.

"Father Marcus," Dacius said. "What good will it do to find the Sphere if we lose our way back to the Realm?"

"What good will it do to regain the ship only to leave it defenseless again while we retrieve the Sphere of Ohnn? We do not have the men to search for the Sphere and defend the Treachery at the same time. We must complete the one before we attempt the other."

"What about the crew?" Dacius demanded. "They need our help now!"

Father Marcus stood and walked over to Dacius. "I understand your pain, Lord Gemine. More than any of us, you have reason to hate leaving them to the goblins' mercies. But think this through. If they are to be killed, then they are likely dead already. If they are to be kept alive, then they will be alive when we return from Hel's Crown."

"And if they are to be tortured?" said Dacius.

"We must pray their wills are strong," Father Marcus said. "And we must leave immediately. If the Ill-creatures learn of our destination, all may be lost."

"Immediately?" Dacius asked. "What about Brother Gorin?"

"He needs time to recover. But we may need his strength." Father Marcus paused. "Ellistar sets in less than three hours. We wait until tomorrow's evenrise. As the Creator is merciful, he will be ready to travel by then."

* * *

Chentelle steadied Eats-the-marrow-of-her-enemies while Brother Gorin mounted. The priest pulled himself laboriously into the saddle. The skethis twitched angrily, sensing the goblin's weakened condition. Immediately, Gorin reached out, covering the bird's eyes with one claw and wrapping the other around its throat. He squeezed, and the skethis became docile. "Thank you, enchantress. It has been a long time, but I think we will be fine now."

Chentelle laughed. "No doubt. She won't dare to challenge you again." She took a second to check that everyone else was secure on their mounts, then swung into her own saddle.

She nodded to Kelmek, and the villager prodded his bird tentatively. They traveled light, having left most of their supplies at the temple. Still, they moved slowly as they became accustomed to the strange mounts.

Kelmek led them down the trail from the village plateau for a few minutes, then turned back to the south. They entered a switchback trail that climbed higher into the mountains. The way was steep, and the footing was awkward. Several times they had to dismount and lead their birds over the rough ground. But as the trip progressed, so did their confidence as riders. By the time Ellistar hung directly overhead, they were cresting the winding path's final slope.

Below them, a desolate gray expanse opened into the south. Mountains ringed the plain, surrounding it on all sides. Dark clouds hovered ominously over the western horizon, a grim wall poised to swallow the Golden Sun's light. Perhaps three leagues to the south, a pinkish mound dominated the horizon. "There it is," Kelmek said, pointing, "Hel's Crown."

A short trail took them down to the plateau. Stone ruins extended for as far as they could see, pressing right up to the edge of the mountains. Centuries of wind and rain had reduced the buildings to ragged outlines, macabre shadows of a huge and ancient city. Gray sand swirled around their faces, driven by the hot wind. They urged their mounts into a trot.

Beak-that-rips-throats-and-entrails drove forward with powerful strides. She ran savagely, joyously. Her claws hammered the ground, sending the skethis and her rider bounding into the air.

Chentelle's weight was barely a challenge, and the warbird shrieked, exulting in her strength. Her cry inflamed the flock, and the warbirds leaped forward into a vaulting run.

There was power in the Sacred City. The air was charged with it. It sparkled in the hot breeze and in the dust that tickled across Chentelle's skin. But there was no life. Not even weeds grew between the tumbled stones. The grit that collected on her lips spoke only of dry and ancient bones.

The skethis raced onward. Ground flew beneath their feet, and leagues melted into the distance.

But eventually the great birds began to tire. The humans' mounts suffered the worst, but even Beak-that-rips-throats-and-entrails felt the burning in her legs. By the time they reached the foot of Hel's Crown, the birds had slowed to a loping walk.

The great dome of rock rose steeply from the plain, as if a huge sphere had been driven halfway into the flatland. The fleah-colored granite rose hundreds of cubits into the air. Bare of vegetation, the surface of the rock was colored only by occasional runnels of jet-black stone. A narrow ledge angled from the base of the rock, climbing upward for fifty cubits and then fading into a hodgepodge of hand and footholds.

They reined in their skethis and dismounted. The great birds would never be able to manage those slopes.

"I can't make the skethis wait here," Chentelle said. "They'll die if they don't get water and forage."

Dacius looked around at the unbroken wasteland that surrounded them. "Send them back to the mountains. But have them wait for us there, if you can. We will need to move quickly once we recover the Sphere."

Chentelle sang softly to Beak-that-rips-throats-and-entrails. She told the warbird about fresh mountain streams that ran with clear water. Fat rodents came to the rivers to drink, and long-bodied snakes stayed close to feed on the rodents. Chentelle felt anticipation build within her mount. She tried to convey the idea that the skethis should wait in the mountains for her return, but the birds had little concept of the future. The best she could manage was a vague equation of the mountains as good place. She released her song.

The warbird shuffled her feet and squawked with excitement. She danced around the other birds and screamed challenges into the air, reasserting her right to rule. The other skethis whined in submission. Beak-that-rips-throats-and-entrails roared in triumph and started running northward, leading her flock back to the mountains.

Kelmek led them onto the narrow ridge. Faces pressed to the rock, they inched sideways until the ledge was hardly wider than their own feet. Then they started climbing. Kelmek guided them up a channel of slim cracks and rock swells. Using these tenuous hand grips and footholds, they pulled their way slowly up the slope.

Chentelle's fingers scratched for a grip on the bald granite. She could feel Earthpower coursing through the surface of the stone, but something blocked her from sensing anything deeper. She found a crevice and wedged her hand into it, adding one more member to the legion of abrasions that decorated her arms and shins. She pulled, lifting herself up to the next foothold. Her arm ached from the effort. She paused for a moment, breathing deeply and trying to stop the trembling in her legs. Her pack pulled at her shoulders, threatening to overbalance her and send her tumbling backward. It seemed to become heavier the higher they climbed, as though it had some natural attraction to the ground.

She worried about Brother Gorin. How was his strength holding up? A quick look downward reassured her. The goblin climbed without effort. His hard claws gripped the rock face easily, and he pulled himself upward with surprising agility. Indeed, it was Father Marcus who seemed to be having the most difficulty. Sweat poured down the old priest's face, and his labored breathing was audible even above the warm wind.

They came at last to another ledge. It was no wider than the first and barely long enough to hold them all, but it couldn't have been more welcome if it had held all the delights of a king's palace.

"We can rest here," Kelmek said.

Gratefully, they leaned against the stone wall.

"By the Creator," Father Marcus gasped, "how do your people carry their dead up this slope?"

"We tie ropes to the burial sled," Kelmek said, "and the family pulls their loved one up after them. We believe that by taking this burden on ourselves, we make the rest of the journey easier on the departed. They are assured of a safe passage to the next world."

The villager slipped out of his pack and spun around on the narrow ridge. He sat down smoothly, keeping his back pressed to the rock. He kept the pack on his lap and dangled his feet in the air. "You should rest your legs," he told them. "The next part of the climb is difficult."

A chorus of groans answered the villager.

"Hel's Crown, indeed," A'stoc muttered. "This damnable rock is liable to do the Dark One's job for him."

One by one, they managed to turn themselves around and sit down. Only Sulmar and Gorin moved with anything approaching Kelmek's easy grace. It seemed that they had barely completed the process when Kelmek stood and announced that it was time to move again.

Minutes crept by like hours, and they forced their way up the mountain. More than once they found themselves relying on holds that were solid to their hands but impossible to see from below. At last, the slope began to level off. The climb became easier, and they were soon able to scramble forward on all fours.

The upper surface of the rock was decorated by a sparse covering of grass and weeds, sprouting outward from narrow cracks in the surface. By the time they could walk upright, the grass had become thick and a thin layer of soil was appearing. They continued to climb, and were soon met by an amazing sight: a gnarled oak perched at the apex of the mound. It was small and twisted, but its very existence screamed defiance to the wasteland around them.

Kelmek used the oak to gather his bearing and adjusted their course slightly. They descended a short distance down the south side and came to an abrupt cliff. The south face of the mountain was a shattered progression of steep cliffs and narrow terraces. Kelmek pointed to a stone that marked the top of a vertical crevice and led them over the side. They worked themselves down to the first terrace.

A thin layer of soil had collected in the flat tier, and more oaks grew here. Kelmek went to the largest of these and gasped. He looked about in momentary confusion, then hung his head over the side of the ledge.

"The cave entrance is below us," he said, climbing back to his feet. "There should be a ladder here. Without it we can't get down. The cliff below slopes back into the rock."

Dacius went to the ledge and looked over. "I make it a twelve-cubit drop. Leth, Alve, break out your ropes."

The Legionnaires quickly dropped their packs and went to work. They tied two ropes to the tree, one at the base and one just above the first branches. They dropped the free end of the lower rope over the ledge.

"Thildemar," Dacius said, "you're first. Make sure that landing is safe."

He tied the other end of the higher rope around the elf's chest and motioned to Sulmar. The two humans braced themselves against the far end of the tree. They lowered slack slowly from the safety line while Thildemar climbed down the other rope. Soon, the safety line jumped against the rock, and they pulled up the free end. A few moments later they heard Thildemar's whistled "all clear."

One by one they descended the rope. This terrace was broader than the one above, but devoid of vegetation. A dark opening in the wall led deeper into the mountain.

Dacius came last, lowering himself carefully. He untied the line around his chest and glared at the hanging cords. Then he shrugged and turned back to the company. "I don't like leaving sign of our passage, but we may need them on our trip back."

"I would not worry," A'stoc said. "If my suspicions are correct, the danger in front of us makes any fears of a goblin patrol superfluous."

"And what, exactly, are your suspicions?" Dacius asked.

"I prefer to keep them private, for now," A'stoc said. "I may be wrong."

"And you may be right," Dacius countered. "The safety of this quest is my responsibility. If you have some insight as to what awaits us, then tell me now so that I can prepare."

A'stoc sighed. "Very well. I listened carefully to the old man's story. I believe the tunnels are inhabited by demonspawn. Now, make whatever preparations you wish."

Dacius stared at the wizard, but said nothing. He turned to Kelmek. "Take us in."

They entered the cave. Ellistar's light penetrated only a few cubits into the passageway. Beyond was darkness. Father Marcus pulled a globe of adartak from his pack.

"No," A'stoc said. "Use no magic, not orb-light, not elf Lore, nothing. It could betray our presence."

Father Marcus put the globe away. "I assume you have made other preparations?" A'stoc nodded.

Dacius also nodded. "Kelmek," he said.

The villager pulled a bundle of thin torches from his pack. He used a flint to light one of them, then passed its flame on to a second. He handed one of the torches to Alve and started deeper into the cavern.

The wide passage angled slightly downward. The floor was smooth and even, and the ceiling tall enough for even A'stoc to stand erect. They came to an intersection and Kelmek led them down the left fork. He went left again at the next junction, then right. He paused for a long time at the next split, then decided on the left passage.

A few minutes later, the tunnel opened out into a large chamber. The walls formed an almost perfect circle, and four stone pillars rose in the center of the cavern. Each pillar had a brazier resting upon it, though all were unlit. The light of their torches was just enough to illuminate a ring of holes bored into the wall.

Kelmek gave a strangled cry and ran to one of the openings. "By the Holy," he gasped. He ran frantically to another hole, then another.

"What is it?" Dacius asked, his hand going to his sword. "What's wrong?"

Kelmek held his torch to one of the holes. It showed a cylindrical opening, about two cubits in diameter and four cubits deep. "Don't you see? This is the village chamber. These are our tombs!

We've buried our dead here for generations, but the tombs are empty. They're gone! The demons have taken our dead."

"Let me see," Chentelle said. She made her way over to the tomb. Maybe her Gift could tell her what had happened. If she used it only passively, to gather information, it shouldn't give away their presence. She ran her fingers across the tomb. It was smooth and cold, more like ice than granite.

She let her senses expand, opening herself to the stone. "Aahh—"

She jumped backward, stifling a cry. Her fingers clenched in sudden pain.

"What happened?" Kelmek asked. "What did you find?"

"It's dying," she said. "The stone is dying. A'stoc, can you feel it?"

The wizard moved to the wall. He paused for a moment, then hummed a quiet enchantment. He reached out and brushed his fingers lightly against the rock. "Fires of Hel, something is draining the Earthpower from these walls." He stooped and touched the floor. "Here, too, this entire mountain is being drained."

"Blessed Creator," Father Marcus breathed. "What could do such a thing?"

A'stoc shook his head. "I would be more concerned with why it was done. Only a working of great magnitude would require draining so much power."

"But what about the bodies?" Kelmek demanded, his voice becoming shrill. "Where are they?"

Father Marcus put a hand on the young man's shoulder. "We don't know, Kelmek, but it seems likely that they have been taken to the lower levels. I believe that the demons came here because of the presence of the Atablicryon. If we find it, I think we will discover the answer to all our mysteries.

Now, how do we reach the temple?"

The priest's words seemed to calm the man. He took a deep breath and nodded resolutely.

"This way."

He led them to the far side of the chamber. A narrow crevice near the floor opened into a slanting tunnel. They had to slide feetfirst through the hole and drop into the lower passageway.

This corridor was much more cramped than the catacombs above. It was barely tall enough for Kelmek to stand upright. The other humans had to move in a continuous crouch, a task made even more strenuous by the loose rocks which covered the uneven ground. The air grew stale as the path turned sharply down and to the left. The walls closed in until there was hardly room to walk between them. Breathing became more and more difficult as smoke from the torches gathered against the ceiling.

Suddenly, Kelmek stopped short. "Something's wrong."

"What is it?" Father Marcus asked. "Why have we stopped?"

"The passage is a dead end," Dacius called from his position just behind Kelmek. "We ran into a wall."

"Wonderful," A'stoc growled. "We walk halfway through the mountain and then discover we made a wrong turn."

"No," Kelmek said. "No, this is the right passage. I'm sure of it. But this wall shouldn't be here.

It's new."

"What?" A'stoc said. "Hold on. Let me through." The wizard moved forward, forcing his way past the people between him and the wall.

"Uuhhh," Gerruth grunted as A'stoc squeezed by him. "Whatever you're going to do, be quick.

There's already hardly enough air to breathe. We'll all suffocate if we stay here too long."

"The air will last longer," A'stoc said, "if we do not waste it with unnecessary speech."

The wizard's words brought silence to the company. Alve smothered his torch, leaving half of them in darkness. Minutes passed, and still no one spoke. The air grew thick with smoke, and Kelmek's torch fluttered erratically.

"The wall is false," A'stoc finally said. "There is an Ill-Lore spell worked into the stone. I can open it, but I do not know the intricacies of goblin spell-work. I will have to force it. Unfortunately, there is also a ward. We will be discovered the instant I break the spell. However, the warding will allow another Ill-Lore practitioner to pass."

"Perfect," said Gerruth. "So all we need to do is find a passing goblin wizard and—"

"We already have a goblin wizard," A'stoc said, "if he will do the job."

All eyes turned to Brother Gorin, but the goblin said nothing. He raised a hand plaintively to Father Marcus. The last torch went out.

"By the Creator," Gerruth said. "What's the problem? Open the door, Gorin."

"Brother Gorin has taken a vow," Father Marcus said. "He has renounced the Ill-Lore of his past, and the evil that it brought. Now he is afraid of what will happen if he breaks that vow." The priest's voice softened. "But your fear is unnecessary, my friend. The Creator understands the urgency of our need. The Ill-Lore is not evil in itself, only in the uses to which it is put. Your faith is strong. It will see you through this trial."

After a brief hesitation, Gorin's "Yes, High Bishop" rumbled through the tunnel.

"Wait," Chentelle said. "Maybe he doesn't have to break his vow." Moving by feel, she pressed her way forward. There was hardly room to pass between the cramped walls and the huddled bodies, but at last she reached the wall. She reached out with her Gift, sending it into the stone.

The spell felt very much like the one at A'stoc's cave, but instead of drawing on the natural power of the rock it was imposed from without. She felt the balanced power that must be the door spell and, pulsing behind that, the concentration of force that must be the alarm.

She started to sing, her voice barely a whisper in the fading air. She worked her song into the rock, wrapping it around the door spell in gossamer layers. Ever so gently, she tilted the balance of the spell, making sure that the strings that attached it to the ward remained undisturbed. She gave one final nudge, and the stone door swung open.

A blast of warm air hit their faces. It was dank and fetid, but whole, and they gulped it greedily into their lungs. Kelmek set spark to new torches, illuminating a dark shaft that plunged into the depths. Rough stone stairs began just on the other side of the door and spiraled down the inside of the pit. A steady breeze rose from the hole, carrying a sharp odor reminiscent of a charnel house.

"Goblins," Gerruth said. "There's no mistaking that stench."

Brother Gorin tilted his head back and sniffed the air. "At least two separate clan groups, maybe three. And there's something else, something—sweet."

"Sweet?" Dacius asked. "Any idea what?"

"No, Lord Gemine," the acolyte said. "I have never smelled it before."

"Well, we'll find out soon enough." Dacius took the torch from Kelmek. "This is as far as you lead, son. Fall in behind Chentelle." He nodded to Thildemar, and the elf preceded him down the stairway.

A reddish-yellow light glowed at the bottom of the shaft. As they wound toward it, the heat became oppressive. Sweat poured down their faces, and the air burned in their throats. After several spirals, they came to a short landing. The stairs wound farther, but there was also an ironshod door that led into the wall of the shaft. Thildemar stopped, and Dacius nodded toward the door.

The elf knelt and put his ear to the bottom of the door. He waited for perhaps a minute, then reached up to try the handle. It was locked. He looked at A'stoc, but the wizard shook his head.

Thildemar shrugged and motioned for Alve to come forward.

The young Legionnaire pulled a small case from his pack and squatted down beside the door.

He inspected the lock, then removed two small rods from the case. He pressed these into the keyhole and manipulated the tumblers with precise, delicate motions. There was a muffled click, and Alve smiled. He returned the tools to his pack and moved off to the side.

Thildemar put one hand on the door and pushed. The door swung open onto a hallway of polished black stone. It was wide enough for three elves to walk abreast and appeared to have been burned into the solid rock. The hallway curved away in both directions, each with a slight downward slope. Thildemar turned to Dacius and raised one eyebrow.

The human lord faced back to the party. "Any suggestions?" he whispered.

No one spoke. After a brief pause, Brother Gorin came forward. He stepped past Thildemar and moved a short distance down each tunnel, sniffing the air intently. Then he came back. "There are goblins down each passage," he said softly, "but the sweet smell comes only from the left."

Dacius nodded. "It's as good a place to start as any."

They marched down the sloping tunnel, staying away from the center of the hallway. The smells became stronger, until even the humans were detecting them. The passage branched, and again they followed the sweet odor.

Somewhere behind them, a door opened and the sound of marching troops reverberated through the tunnels. The men spun about, weapons sliding from their sheaths in lightning motions. They waited, poised for action, but the sounds moved away from them, receding into the distance. But even after the silence returned, the Legionnaires remained at the ready. Their vorpal blades glowed in the darkness with a pale blue light. The glow neither faded nor increased in intensity.

At last, Dacius stood up from his crouch and sheathed his weapon. The other Legionnaires followed his lead. But Chentelle knew that the danger remained; the vorpal swords glowed only in the presence of Ill-Lore.

They continued their trek, passing more doors and an occasional cross-passage. Always they followed the strange scent. Eventually, they came to a circular room. Four new passages led from the chamber, each blocked by a heavy wooden door.

Thildemar inspected each door in turn, sniffing along its base and listening for any sound from the other side. At the third door, he suddenly jumped backward, reaching over his shoulder to grab his fighting sticks.

Vorpal blades slid from a half-dozen sheaths an instant before the door swung open. A trio of goblins froze in the threshold, staring in amazement at the poised Legionnaires.

Dacius shot forward. His sword traced a clean arc through the air, and the first goblin slid to the floor with a bubbling red gash across his throat.

The second had better reactions. He managed to draw his blade and parry Thildemar's first strike. He even launched a counterthrust. His point made it within inches of the elf's chest before a fighting baton brushed it aside. A blur of motion followed in which the sticks struck him on wrist, kneecap, elbow, and base of skull. He fell to the ground in a heap.

The third goblin had been a pace behind his fellows. He turned and ran, screaming at the top of his lungs.

Gerruth darted forward. He hurdled the goblin that Dacius had struck and landed in a full run.

Before the final goblin had taken more than a half-dozen steps, the vorpal blade thrust through his spine.

Dacius cursed as the echoes of the scream faded. He pointed to a door that stood a dozen paces into the branching tunnel. "Gerruth, check that."

Sword at the ready, Gerruth threw open the door. He stuck his head inside, then called back to the company. "It's empty, Lord Gemine."

Dacius lifted his goblin easily off the ground and headed down the hall. "Move quickly, people.

We need to get this cleaned up."

They hid the two bodies and bound and gagged the surviving goblin. But there was little they could do about the blood staining the hallway. They had neither the time nor equipment to clean it properly.

"All right," Dacius said. "We don't have time to move cautiously anymore. They'll soon know we're here. Now, I can't smell that odor in this passage. Does anyone else? Okay, we head back and try another door."

The third tunnel they tried carried the odor. They ran down the hall, abandoning stealth in favor of speed. The floor angled sharply downward and curved back in the direction they had come. After a long descent, the passage ended in another doorway. They paused, catching their breaths and preparing for action. Then Thildemar pulled open the door.

A spiral stairway wound deeper into the earth. Light pulsed from below, and the air itself seemed to vibrate in time to the malevolent glow. The sickly sweet smell became so powerful it turned breathing into a burden. Dacius gestured, and Thildemar slid silently down the stairs. Moments later, the elf reappeared, motioning for them to follow.

The stairway opened into a huge underground chamber. Reddish-yellow light filled the room, so they extinguished their torches. Unlike the passages above, this cavity appeared natural. Stalagmites jutted from the rough floor, casting strange shadows in the pale illumination. Another stairway was barely visible on the wall to their left. Thildemar led them in the other direction, keeping to the edge of the cave. They crept up behind an outcropping of rock and had a clear view of the cavern beyond.

A horrendous rip in the floor of the cave glowed with unnatural light. Molten rock churned in the fissure, radiating fierce heat. A thin spout of water trickled down one wall into the tear, filling the air with foul-smelling steam. Objects floated in the magma, bubbling occasionally to the surface and spitting into flame. They were bones! The pit was filled with bones and rotted flesh. The remains swirled around each other, burning but not consumed. Occasionally they would meld together, forming new shapes, twisted shapes covered in ebony bide. Jet-black arms and wings and claws and fanged skulls bobbed hideously in the pit, skulls with glowing yellow eyes.

Chentelle staggered and barely kept from crying out. It was Earthpower that fueled the fires in the cleft, but it was Earthpower horribly twisted. The stones cried out in agony at the rape they endured. She reached dizzily for Sulmar's arm, clinging to the Tengarian's solid presence for support.

Near the center of the cavern, where the rent was widest, four large figures towered over a group of cowering goblins. They stood at least six cubits tall, but their gnarled arms stretched nearly to the ground. The huge limbs ended in a circle of four vicious claws that sprouted directly from the wrist. Bony plates seemed to connect each head directly to the shoulders, and two curved tusks extended from the massive jaws. Each one carried an iron staff nearly as tall as itself.

One of the monsters snatched a goblin off the ground. It dangled the creature in the air, then tossed him into the fiery pit. The goblin's screams rang through the cave as he burst into pale yellow flames. The Ill-creature raised its staff, and a blast of vile energy lanced through the goblin. The flesh and sinew melted into nothing, leaving only a pile of bare bones to sink slowly into the magma. And the pit glowed momentarily brighter.

The remaining goblins jumped to their feet and ran for the second set of stairs.

"By the Holy," Kelmek gasped. Tears ran freely down the young man's face.

"A breeding pit!" A'stoc hissed. "The demonspawn have opened a portal into the Abyss!"

Thildemar pointed past the demonspawn to the far side of the cavern. A jumble of fallen stone lay piled against the wall. Barely discernible in the midst of the rubble was the outline of a circular stone roof. Reaching out from the roof were the remains of a row of columns. It was the same colonnade structure they had all seen in the Holy Land.

"Blessed Creator," Father Marcus said. "The Atablicryon. Lord Gemine, we must find a way past the demonspawn."

"Past?" Kelmek said. "Aren't you going to destroy them?"

Father Marcus turned to meet the villager's eyes. "I understand your anguish. But we must think first of the quest. If we do not retrieve the Sphere, all of Creation will—" He dropped his eyes and turned to look at the breeding pit. "No. You are right, Kelmek. We cannot allow this to continue.

Lord Gemine, can you engage the demonspawn?"

Dacius examined the layout of the cavern. "Thildemar and I will follow this ridge to the juncture with the fissure. That will bring us within thirty cubits. The rest of you follow the edge of the cavern toward the rubble." He pointed to the far wall. "That point brings you closest to the demonspawn and provides adequate cover. Wait there. When everyone is in place Thildemar and I will launch an attack. You will be able to hit their flank while they orient on us."

"That is suicide," A'stoc said. "Any one of those creatures could destroy your entire force. Ask your men, the ones who fought in the Wizards' War."

"I will be happy to entertain alternatives," the Legionnaire growled, "if you have a better idea."

A'stoc planted the Thunderwood Staff resolutely in front of him. "I will take care of the demonspawn. You escort the High Bishop to the Atablicryon."

Chentelle put a hand on the wizard's arm. "But you can't use the Staff as a weapon, A'stoc. It will rebound on you as it did with the goblins."

"You forget the Staff was created to be a weapon. It was created to destroy Ill-creatures. They are not alive, Chentelle. They have no protection against me." He nodded to Dacius. "Stay close to the walls. I will attack when you near the rubble."

They slid away from the rocks and crept around the edge of the cavern. Thildemar led the way, darting from one area of concealment to the next. He paused before each stairwell, making sure it was clear, then motioned them onward. They became even more cautious when the curve of the wall sent them back toward the demonspawn. The roar of hot wind and the hissing steam helped cover their movement. But every footfall, every scrape of a loose stone, echoed ominously in their ears.

Suddenly the cavern rocked with thunder. The ground shook, and rocks tumbled from the walls to clatter across the floor. A pillar of green flame blazed into life near the edge of the rift. And A'stoc stepped out from behind the rocks, cloaked in a mantle of Earthpower.

Before the demonspawn could react, the wizard struck. A crackling lance of green lightning shot from the Thunderwood Staff. It danced around one of the Ill-creatures, gouging chunks of black flesh from a thousand pinpricks of fire. The monster's wailing scream filled the chamber as A'stoc's assault reduced it to smoldering ash.

The other demonspawn called in the power of their Ill-Lore. Two of them slammed their staves against the ground, surrounding themselves with spheres of pale yellow flame. The other thrust its staff at A'stoc, sending a jet of the same yellow fire arcing toward the wizard.

The mage thrust his own Staff toward the attack. The pillar of flame that surrounded him flowed down through his arms and through the Thunderwood. Green fire raged through the air, swallowing the Ill-creature's attack and tracing back along its path. The demonspawn disappeared in an inferno of Earthpower.

But now the others joined the assault. Twin jets of force blasted across the cavern. A'stoc was forced to the defensive. He raised the Staff in both hands, calling forth a protective nimbus of power.

Green light surrounded him an instant before the eldritch bolts hit.

Ill-power crashed into his shield with an explosion of fire. The wizard flew backward, landing among the stalagmites. A tiny sun of yellow flames formed in the air as the demonspawn pressed their attack. A'stoc disappeared in a holocaust of power. Slabs of stone ripped loose from the floor. The walls trembled, and showers of rock fell from the ceiling. And the onslaught continued.

The company had rushed toward the Atablicryon when A'stoc had first appeared, but now they froze. The rubble surrounding the temple shifted treacherously under their feet, and falling stones clattered all around them. Thildemar dived for the cover of a still standing column, and the rest of them followed his lead.

At last, the demonspawn lowered their staves. The conflagration of power flickered into nothingness. Still surrounded by their blazing yellow auras, the Ill-creatures threw back their heads and laughed. It was a shrill, grating sound, like steel plates grinding on stone. It echoed wildly around the stone walls, then stopped suddenly.

A pale green light was visible through the cloud of debris near the rift.

A'stoc levered himself slowly to his feet. He grabbed one of the ends of the Thunderwood Staff in both hands and whirled it around his head. Earthpower coursed along the length of the wood. He swung the Staff down and pointed it toward the Ill-creatures. Once again, green lightning lanced across the cave, striking one of the demonspawn.

Only this time, the creature was prepared. Lightning ripped at the demonspawn's shield, tearing through the sphere of flame. But before it penetrated fully, the Ill-creature thrust its staff toward the fissure. A stream of energy arced into the tear. The instant it touched the surface of the pit, A'stoc's assault was redirected. Earthpower poured from his Staff through the Ill-creature's staff and into the molten stone. The rock churned violently, spewing gouts of glowing magma into the air.

A'stoc was trapped. Energy drained from the Thunderwood, feeding the vile pit. He was unable to break the circuit and unable to defend himself. The second demonspawn stalked forward.

"Sulmar," Chentelle cried. "Help him!"

The Tengarian sprinted forward.

"Leth, guard the High Bishop!" Dacius and the other Legionnaires dropped their packs and followed mere steps behind the Tengarian.

As he approached the demonspawn, Sulmar drew his vorpal sword. The blade carved a fierce blue glow through the air as he drove it at the demonspawn's back. The weapon struck the Ill-creature's protective aura and stopped dead in the air. Yellow fire streaked down the blade and surrounded the Tengarian. Smoke rose from his body, and he dropped to his knees. But he held on to the sword. Blue light warred against yellow flame until both exploded in a fountain of radiance.

Sulmar flew through the air, crashing to the floor a dozen cubits from where he had stood. The vorpal sword slipped from his fingers, its blade a twisted knot of dull steel. The Tengarian groaned and struggled to stand.

The Ill-fires flickered into nothingness, leaving the demonspawn unprotected. It whirled around to face the new threat.

Dacius was the first Legionnaire to arrive. He swung a powerful cut toward the demonspawn's leg, but the creature brought its staff around in a lightning-quick parry. The force of the block ripped the sword from the Legionnaire's hand and sent it flying across the floor.

The Ill-creature reversed its grip and snapped the staff down in a vicious counter. Dacius dived out of the way, rolling in the direction of his sword. Yellow sparks flew from the iron rod as it slammed into the ground, scoring a deep gouge in the stone.

Thildemar struck while the monster was extended. A line of blue fire appeared on the demonspawn's arm, running from claw to elbow. The Ill-creature's only response was to launch an attack at the elf's head.

Thildemar ducked under the swinging staff. But as soon as he moved, the demonspawn snapped its powerful arms. The other end of the staff screamed toward the elf's ribs, far too fast to avoid.

Gerruth stepped forward. He swung his sword in a two-handed stroke, intercepting the iron staff. The impact drove him several steps backward, but it gave Thildemar time to move out of range.

Alve moved in behind the demonspawn's swing. He lunged forward, driving the tip of his blade deep into the Ill-creature's side. Flames erupted from the wound, and the monster staggered. Alve withdrew his blade and lunged again.

The demonspawn lashed out. Its staff moved with blinding speed, catching the young Legionnaire full in the chest. The strike lifted Alve off the ground. Ill-magic crackled around his body and he burst into flame. By the time he hit the ground, charred flesh was already falling from his bones.

The demonspawn threw back its head and laughed, showing none of the weakness that had lured Alve into a second lunge. Chentelle, watching, stifled a groan. She had thought the Ill-creatures to be mostly mindless savages. Now it was clear they were not. They had cruel cunning.

A'stoc remained locked in the demonspawn's magical drain. Green Earthpower still flowed from the Thunderwood Staff, feeding the dark spells that controlled the breeding pit.

Suddenly, the stream of force doubled in intensity. "Do you want my power?" A'stoc screamed.

"Then take it, demonspawn. Take it all!"

He whirled the Thunderwood above his head and drove it toward the creature. The flow of power continued unabated, describing a spiral as the weapon moved. Again and again he lifted the Staff and hammered it against the air. Again and again the mystic cord pulsed with energy. Raw Earthpower poured through the demonspawn's staff. The iron turned red, then white with heat. The Ill-creature's claws burst into flame. Now it was the one unable to break free. The staff melted into slag. But the liquid fragments floated in the air, still trapped in the circuit of power.

The torrent of force ripped through the demonspawn and into the breeding pit. The surface churned, sending geysers of molten rock into the air. The magma radiated power, glowing with a light that rivaled Ellistar's: But the color of that was shifting from yellow to pure white. A cleansing fire swept the surface of the pit, reducing both human bones and growing Ill-creatures to ash.

A'stoc dropped the Staff to his side, cutting off the current of power. Molten iron splashed to the ground at the demonspawn's feet. The Ill-creature staggered forward and collapsed, shattering into a cloud of dust when it hit the stone floor.

Dacius charged at the last demonspawn's flank. The gloating Ill-creature didn't see him until it was too late. He drove his point into the monster's chest, lodging it deeply. Blue fire screamed around the blade as he jumped away from a wild counterattack, leaving the weapon lodged.

The demonspawn howled in pain. The iron staff clattered to the floor as the creature grabbed for the sword. The massive claws smoldered and hissed wherever they touched the blade, but they did not let go. Inch by inch, the Ill-creature pulled the blade from its body. Roaring in triumph, the demonspawn tossed the glowing weapon into the distance.

Sulmar stepped forward. Alve's sword danced in his hand, weaving a deadly web of blue light.

The demonspawn backed away from the blade, moving toward the fissure. Suddenly, it clapped its claws together. A splash of weak yellow flame jumped out and struck Sulmar in the face. The Tengarian backed away, momentarily blinded.

Gerruth leaped to the attack. Using great, two-handed strokes he hammered at the demonspawn. The Ill-creature staggered backward, a crisscross of blue fire glowing in the armored plates of its head and shoulders. The Legionnaire pressed his advantage, driving into the assault with renewed fury, but the monster held its ground.

A claw shot out, breaking the rhythm of Gerruth's attack. The second claw swung, and the Legionnaire was forced to retreat.

Thildemar slid around the demonspawn's guard. He slashed downward, cutting deeply into the Ill-creature's thigh. The monster dropped to its knees as the leg buckled beneath it.

Sulmar's sword crashed through the demonspawn's tusks and into its face. The creature toppled backward and landed in the crevice. White flames wrapped around it, reducing it to ash in seconds.

Chentelle rushed forward. "Sulmar, are you all right?"

The Tengarian blinked his eyes. "My vision is blurred, mistress. But I believe it will clear soon."

Alve was not so lucky. They gathered the elf's body and cremated it in the pure Earthpower of the fissure. It was the best burial they could manage. Father Marcus said a quick prayer for the Legionnaire, but that was all Dacius would allow.

"We must keep moving," he said. "The goblins can't have missed the signs of that battle. It would be folly to invite more deaths by dallying over this one."

Father Marcus nodded grimly.

They rushed toward the Atablicryon. Rubble surrounded the building, blocking any access from the ground. But when they climbed the pile of fallen stone, a small gap was revealed. The hole opened near the temple's ceiling and was illuminated faintly from below. They lowered themselves through the cavity and dropped to the floor beneath.

Chentelle immediately experienced a feeling of peace and security. It was similar to the aura of the Holy Land, but much weaker. And it hinted more toward solitude than communion. Still, it must be what kept the Ill-creatures away from the temple. Its true power might show only in adversity.

The walls glowed faintly with a steady white light, illuminating a bare interior inhabited only by dust and debris. No doors or corridors led from the room. It was entirely encased by rock and rubble. The Sphere of Ohnn was nowhere to be seen.

Father Marcus walked to a point near the center of the floor. He turned to face the company. "I must ask each of you never to speak of anything that you see within this temple," he said.

Each of them nodded. They knew that some great mystery was associated with this structure.

Then Father Marcus closed his eyes and started to chant.

Light flooded the room. It shone from a ring of stones beneath the High Bishop's feet. It radiated in equal intensity from the simple stone sphere of Kelmek's necklace. And it burst forth from Father Marcus' own body. The brilliance increased until it became almost blinding. Then it vanished. And Father Marcus vanished with it.

Minutes dragged past.

"How long will it take?" Dacius asked Brother Gorin.

"I do not know, Lord Gemine," the goblin answered. "I fear that something is wrong."

The Legionnaire nodded agreement. "What can we do? Do you know where he is?"

"No. I have never before seen this power."

"A'stoc?" Dacius inquired.

The wizard was slumped against a wall, recuperating from his battle. He looked up at Dacius'

question and shook his head.

Dacius walked over and examined the spot where Father Marcus had been standing. "It looks just like the rest of the floor. I can't see any difference."

"Maybe it was only reacting to Father Marcus' song," Chentelle said. She turned to Brother Gorin. "What was he chanting?"

"It was one of the meditations," he said.

"All right," Dacius said. "Everybody come here. Lock your hands together. Good, now don't lose contact with the people next to you. Gorin, I want you to lead us in the meditation."

They gathered around the temple's center. Chentelle took a place between Sulmar and A'stoc.

The wizard kept his hand on the Thunderwood Staff, so she grabbed his wrist.

The goblin waited while the others found their places in the circle. "Close your eyes. Breathe deeply and slowly. Let all tensions slide from your spirit." He paused, and then started to chant.

"Peace, in the Creation.

Harmony, of the Creation.

Unity, with the Creation.

Healing, for the Creation."

The simple chant filled the temple. The four-tone structure reminded Chentelle of the Grand Vespers. She felt the same spirit of union and community with her friends. The meditation continued.

Chentelle felt relaxed and refreshed; fatigue and worry melted from her. But there was no blinding radiance, no miraculous transportation.

Then she felt something, a slight warmth against her cheek, a distant call. She opened her eyes.

An ember of light burned in Kelmek's amulet, faint but steady. She reached for it with her Gift, but the radiance eluded her. Kelmek stood just on the other side of Sulmar, but the glow seemed a hundred leagues away. If she could only touch it...

Chentelle let go of A'stoc's arm. She reached across Sulmar and wrapped her hand around the amulet. The glow erupted through her Gift. Unity. All was oneness. All things were joined. All places were here. There was an explosion of light, and Chentelle was elsewhere.

She floated in an ocean of oneness, a place without substance, full of radiant light. Music surrounded her, a single note that enfolded and protected. She felt secure—as if she rested in her mother's womb. The oneness extended forever. She was alone. She was all.

Wait. That wasn't right. She was supposed to find something, someone. "Father Marcus!" she called.

Pain lanced through her. The music buffeted her, louder than before. It was a tone of isolation, of emptiness. It seeped into her, reverberating in her spirit. She felt herself dissipating, dissolving into the unending sameness.

No. She wouldn't surrender. She sang out with her Gift. The monotonous tone rang in her soul, but she countered it with the four-tone progression of the Vespers. She filled her song with the communion of the Holy Land, the diverse harmony of Creation. The oneness of unity clashed with the oneness of isolation.

"Stop." A monotone voice materialized out of the ceaseless drone. "This is beyond toleration."

Chentelle let her song end. The note of isolation no longer pressed in on her. "Who are you?"

she asked.

"I am the Creator, the Dreamer of All Things. The question is, why am I being disturbed?"

The Creator? Chentelle felt a shudder of fear. Had the temple really sent her to the Creator? If so, why was everything so empty? "I'm looking for Father Marcus and the Sphere of Ohnn."

"No. Those things do not exist. Nothing exists. You are all illusions, fragments of my imagination. But why have you manifested to plague me with your cacophony?"

Illusions? "I don't believe you. The Creation is no illusion. It's real. It's beautiful."

"Ah, now I understand. You are an aspect of doubt. I thought that I was beyond that."

"What are you talking about?" Chentelle asked.

"I see I must purge you again. Very well, I am the Creator. I am alone. Creation is an illusion, dreamed by me to combat my isolation. But this is a trap. I am still alone. Only by letting go of all illusion can I be free."

"I don't understand," Chentelle said. "Free of what?"

"Of isolation."

"But that doesn't make any sense."

"Enough. I have affirmed my determination. You are dealt with. Now, disappear."

"But you haven't dealt with me," Chentelle said. "I still need to find Father Marcus."

There was no answer. The music of oneness swelled again, drowning out her voice.

"This is childish," she said. "I know you're still there."

Nothing. The empty note droned on. Then, it was interrupted.

"Enchantress, is that you?"

"Father Marcus!" She could not see the priest, but there was no mistaking the gentle power of his voice. "Are you all right?"

"I am now," the priest replied. "I was—lost for a time. Then I heard your song, the song of Vespers. It gave me the strength I needed to summon a sanctuary. Now, I—"

"Silence. This is unacceptable. I will not be disturbed by the chattering of my own dreams.

I am your Creator. I demand that you vanish."

Chentelle opened herself to her Gift, searching beyond the voice, past the tone of isolation. She sensed a distant pocket of harmony, a small sphere that rang with the harmony of the True Creation.

She touched it with her Gift, and she was there.

"Hello, Father Marcus."

The High Bishop blinked in surprise at her appearance. "Greetings, Chentelle." He reached out and touched her arm. The aura of sanctuary surrounded her, filling her with peace. The music of this place disappeared, unable to penetrate the harmony of the Holy Order.

Chentelle smiled gratefully. "Thank you. I was growing tired of that note. Do you know where we are?"

The priest nodded. "The Atablicryon in the Holy Land is home to a spirit. I call it the Protector.

This spirit inhabits a realm that is no place but is connected to all places. We are in the realm of this Atablicryon's spirit."

"Then that is the voice we heard?" Chentelle said.

"I believe so," he said. "But I fear that the spirit is insane. Somehow this realm has become severed from the Sphere of Creation. The shock of isolation must have been too much for it."

Chentelle thought about the spirit's rambling. "I think you're right. Is there any way you can heal it?"

Father Marcus shook his head sadly. "No. The spirit rejects the power of the Holy Order, just as it recoils from the touch of your own Gift."

Chentelle felt the pain behind those words. She put her hand over the High Bishop's and squeezed. "I'm sorry. What should we do?"

"I am not certain. I can return us to the temple, but we must find the Sphere first. And to find the Sphere we must have the spirit's aid."

"But it won't help us," Chentelle said. "It just wants to be left alone with its—" Chentelle smiled.

"Father Marcus, drop your sanctuary. I have an idea."

"If you are sure—"

"I can't be sure. But I think this will work. This spirit reminds me of A'stoc."

He nodded, almost smiling. The sanctuary faded.

The desolate note crashed against them. Together, they raised their voices in the song of Vespers, driving back the isolation.

"Stop it. Will I never know peace again?"

"You will," said Chentelle. "But first you have to understand your illusions."

"But I have done so already. You are a manifestation of doubt. I explained you away, but you didn't vanish. The other one is an expression of irrational hope. I dismissed it before, but now it is back."

"That's because you haven't dealt with the third element," Chentelle said.

"I know of no third element. You are the first thoughts to plague me in many centuries."

"The Sphere of Ohnn," Chentelle said. "It is the object of our designs. You have misinterpreted us. We aren't individual thoughts; we're a collection of symbolic images. Only by examining the three of us together can you understand our meaning."

"The Sphere of Ohnn does not exist. I unthought it long ago."

"Then you must think it again," Chentelle said. "Only when you examine the three elements together will you be able to fully comprehend and dismiss us."

"This is a dangerous precedent. It is unwise to willfully embrace illusion."

"But only by embracing us will you be freed of our presence," Chentelle said, a note of desperation creeping into her voice. She wasn't quite sure of the logic, but hoped it would register for a mad spirit.

"Of course, that is axiomatic. Very well, I think the Sphere of Ohnn."

An obsidian sphere appeared before them, perfectly smooth, featureless, dark. It was as if a globe of shadow had been given substance. It was no larger that a child's ball, and shed neither light nor heat, but the sensation of power was unmistakable.

Father Marcus reached out and took the Sphere. "Blessed Creator," he said, "thank you!" Then he started to chant. The sea of light and sound faded into nothingness.

"Interesting, I would never have bel..."

They reappeared in the center of the Atablicryon. Their friends pressed around them, faces filled with questions.

"Mistress," Sulmar said, his voice filled with uncharacteristic emotion. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," she said. "I'm fine. And look, we found it."

Father Marcus held up the Sphere so that all could see. Questions started to come, but he held up his hand, silencing them. "I must meditate long on today's events before I dare to share them with anyone." He looked at Chentelle. "I suggest you do the same, though you are free to act as your conscience decrees. For now, it is enough to know that we have the Sphere of Ohnn. The first leg of our quest is complete."

"In that case," Dacius said firmly, "I suggest that it is time to leave."

There was a general murmur of agreement. They returned to the hole through which they had entered the temple. Climbing up was more difficult than dropping down, but they accomplished the task easily with a little teamwork. Sulmar and Dacius lifted the others through the opening, then jumped up and were pulled through by Gerruth and Leth. They climbed down the pile of rubble and moved cautiously onto the floor of the great cavern.

HA HA HA HA HA. The laughter that ripped through their minds was mocking and caustic. And it was familiar. High on one of the cavern walls, a dark figure perched on a rocky ledge. It leaped into the air, spreading great black wings and gliding to the center of the chamber.

"Throm!" Dacius growled.

* 12 *

Escape

A wave of cold fear washed through Chentelle's mind. The monster towered over them, bat wings coiled around its massive shoulders. Smooth scales rippled along the muscles of its twisted legs, and huge talons ripped into the stone floor. The Ill-creature radiated power, personified menace. She froze, unable to look away, and taunting laughter echoed in her brain.

A strong hand touched her shoulder. "Do not fear, mistress. I will protect you." Sulmar moved forward, interposing himself between Chentelle and the Ill-creature. The vorpal blade glowed brightly in his hand, and a dark aura pulsed with equal force on his arm.

SO, YOUR SOUL IS ALREADY CLAIMED. VERY WELL, I CAN STILL DESTROY YOUR

BODY. PERHAPS I WILL GIVE IT TO MY SERVANTS AS A PLAYTHING. Throm gestured with one claw and scores of goblins came charging from the nearest stairway. They massed in formations a few cubits behind the Ill-creature, but did not attack.

Sulmar's contact had lifted Chentelle's paralysis. She still felt the fear, but now she could move.

A quick look told her that everyone else was still affected. Kelmek was huddled against the rocks, curled into a ball of terror. Father Marcus and Gorin seemed frozen in the middle of prayer. The goblin's face was knotted with concentration, and sweat beaded on his face. But the High Bishop looked calm, almost serene. The Legionnaires stood like statues, blank-eyed, inert. Only Dacius still moved.

The Legion commander's sword scraped slowly along its scabbard. Inch by inch, arm trembling with effort, he drew the blade. "Tthhhrrrroooooooooooommmmmmmm!"

SUCH HATRED YOU HOLD. YOU WILL MAKE A FINE SERVANT. BUT WHAT IS

THIS? I SEE YOU HARBOR ONE WHO IS ALREADY MY SERVANT. COME HERE, LITTLE

TRAITOR. COME TO YOUR MASTER.

A tortured scream poured from Brother Gorin's mouth. The goblin priest jerked forward, moving in awkward, trembling steps.

"Gorin!" Chentelle cried. "You have to fight him. Resist!" She reached out to grab him, but a hand on her wrist stopped her.

"He must win this battle alone, enchantress," Father Marcus said. "Do not worry. His faith is strong enough." The High Bishop turned and spoke softly to his acolyte. "Trust in your faith, my friend. It is strong."

The High Bishop's words seemed to galvanize Gorin's resistance. His halting steps suddenly stopped. "I— serve— only— the— Creation." A beatific look swept across his face as an aura of sanctuary surrounded him.

A pulse of anger lashed through the mental contact. Then, the paralyzing fear screamed into Chentelle, even stronger than before.

NO MATTER. I WILL HAVE HIM SOON ENOUGH, AS I WILL HAVE THE SPHERE OF

OHNN. AH, YOU ARE SURPRISED. YES, I KNOW THE OBJECT OF YOUR QUEST. IT WAS

CHILD'S PLAY TO PULL IT FROM THE MINDS OF YOUR FRIENDS. I ALLOWED YOU TO

REACH THE ATABLICRYON ONLY SO THAT YOU COULD RETRIEVE THE SPHERE.

NOW, GIVE IT TO ME!

Pain lanced through Chentelle's mind. She recoiled from the force of the demon's demand. Her legs quivered and she nearly collapsed.

"I think not," Father Marcus said. The glow of sanctuary sprang into being around him, and he gazed calmly at the Ill-creature. "The Sphere is beyond your reach."

"Rrrraaahhhh!" Dacius' sword flashed free of its sheath.

The weight of Throm's mental grip slipped from their minds, broken by the human lord's act of defiance. Blue light danced in the air as more swords slid from their scabbards.

The goblins shifted in response. A score of crossbows snapped into the ready, trained on the company. Others in the horde shook spears or clashed scimitars against round, metal shields. But still they did not attack.

Dacius' legs coiled, ready to drive him forward, but he held his position. His eyes scanned the mass of goblins. "Back to the rocks. We'll make our stand there."

Cautiously, every move slow and deliberate, the company retreated.

A wave of excitement swept through the horde, but still they did not attack.

YOU AMUSE ME, CHILDREN. PERHAPS I SHALL MAKE YOU MY JESTERS. FLY TO

THE ROCKS. FLY TO THE TEMPLE. IT ONLY PROLONGS MY PLEASURE. Throm waved one hand in the air. Lightning shot from the claw, blasting the wall above the Atablicryon. An avalanche of shattered stone swallowed the temple, burying it completely. The mocking laughter sounded again in their minds.

A'stoc stepped forward. Fatigue dragged down his shoulders, but he raised the Staff firmly above his head. Green fire blazed from the wood.

AH, BOEMARRE'S APPRENTICE. TELL ME, LITTLE APPRENTICE, HAVE YOU

COME TO REPEAT YOUR MASTER'S FOLLY? I SENSE THAT YOU HAVE LITTLE

CONTROL OVER THE THUNDERWOOD. THE POWER WEIGHS HEAVILY ON YOUR

FRAGILE SPIRIT. PERHAPS YOU WOULD LIKE ME TO LIFT THE BURDEN FROM YOU.

"Your mind tricks will not work on me," A'stoc spat. "I know you for what you are, a mere puppet for your master."

The Ill-creature hissed malevolently. Saliva bubbled at its lips and dripped to the stone floor.

PERHAPS, BUT WHEN I WIELD BOTH TALISMANS OF POWER, WHO CAN SAY HOW FAR

MY MIGHT WILL REACH? SURRENDER THE STAFF, LITTLE MORTAL I WILL MAKE

YOUR DEATH EASIER THAN YOUR MASTER'S.

"Burn in Hel, monster." A'stoc thrust the Staff forward. Flames of Earthpower roared toward the Ill-creature.

Throm lifted both arms in front of its face. The flames deflected off its crossed claws and shot into the ceiling. The cavern shook violently and rocks crashed around them. A boulder half the size of a man crashed down on the Ill-creature's back, but it shrugged off the impact.

A'stoc staggered as his spell was broken, and his aura of power flickered into smoke. He was thrown from his feet and sent tumbling backward onto the floor.

"A'stoc!" Chentelle ran forward to help the wizard.

The cavern erupted in violence.

A hail of missiles flew through the air, sending the Legionnaires scrambling for cover among the rocks.

Sulmar bolted forward, a flat slab of stone clutched in his arms. He jumped between Chentelle and the goblins, using the makeshift shield to guard his mistress. He was aided by the fact that few of the goblins dared to aim so close to their master.

The mass of the barrage fell on the Legionnaires, far from Throm. One bolt left a shallow wound on Leth's neck, and a spear grazed Dacius' thigh. But most of the missiles bounced harmlessly off the rocks. The goblins rushed forward, filling the cavern with their screams.

Chentelle grabbed A'stoc's arm and shoulder. Struggling against his weight, she helped him to his feet.

FOOLS. YOU CANNOT STAND AGAINST ME.

Fire burned through Chentelle's mind. The world twisted madly around her. Strange emotions flooded through her. She felt her own hands gripping her arm. No, she had wood in her hands, wood that pulsed with life. Then she understood. It was similar to when A'stoc showed her the Wizards'

War. She was living his thoughts, his experiences.

HA HA HA HA. YOU ARE SO WEAK, LITTLE WIZARDLING. HOW CAN YOU HOPE

TO CONTROL WHAT YOUR MASTER UNLEASHED?

The Staff! She had to hang on to the Staff. The wood throbbed in her hand. It bucked. Throm was right. It was too strong. The Earthpower wanted to be released, demanded to be released.

Flame burst from the Thunderwood. It enfolded her, embraced her, stroked her with a lover's fiery touch. 'You can be strong,' it whispered. 'I can make you strong. Nothing will ever hurt you again.'

Yes! Blessed Creator, it felt so good! The world exploded in magic and joy. She was power. A hurricane of force whirled around her, obedient to her whim. She thought, and a blast of pure force swept her enemies into oblivion. Another thought, and the Earthpower drained from the raging fissure, absorbed into her storm.

The stone above her head annoyed her. It cut her off from the light, made her feel trapped. A torrent of force shot upward, ripping through a thousand cubits of stone like a sword through naked flesh. Rubble rained down everywhere, but nothing could touch her. Laughter rang in her ears. Was it hers?

The whirlwind of power lashed at the mountain, tearing free huge slabs of stone and reducing them to dust. Pain burned through her body as the Staff channeled more and more power through her mind. No, she had to stop it; she had to regain command. She drove her will into the Staff. The cyclone raged in her mind. She tried to wrap herself around it, contain it. But it was hopeless. The storm was beyond taming, beyond control.

The Staff reached out, and a hundred goblins fell to the ground. Their lives drained into the Staff, feeding the tempest of Earthpower. The Staff reached out, and her comrades shriveled into lifeless husks. She felt each one of their lives as it passed through her to sustain the fury: Dacius, Father Marcus, Chentelle. By the Creator, no! Not her! Not—

Hel's Crown exploded into dust and gravel. Raw Earthpower ripped through the world.

Kennaru shattered. Great rifts tore the island asunder. Mountains vanished below the sea, and new islands broke through the surface a thousand leagues away. Tidal waves a thousand cubits high pressed outward, driven by an expanding wall of force. And, in the center of Armageddon, she survived unharmed. The power of the Staff shielded her.

Blessed Creator, what had she done? The Ill-creature had been right. She was too weak. She couldn't control the Staff; no one could. She had destroyed everything. It was her pride, her impotence, but the world had paid the price. Desolation surrounded her, but it paled beside the emptiness in her soul. She wasn't worthy of the Staff. She wasn't worthy of life.

LET GO. GIVE ME THE STAFF.

Yes. The Ill-creature was right. If she kept the Thunderwood, she would kill them all. It was better to let go, to stop trying, stop pretending. She was nothing. Everybody knew that, even Throm.

"No!" A'stoc slammed the Staff against the floor. Earthpower blazed around him in a protective aura.

Chentelle was hurled backward, her mental union with the wizard shattered. Memories writhed in her mind, spinning without thought or direction. A horrid void ached in her spirit, the echo of A'stoc's despair. By the Creator, where had he found the strength to resist?

Throm charged at the wizard, swallowing the distance between them in a single powerful stride.

THEN DIE, LITTLE WIZARD. DIE AND KNOW THAT I WILL DESTROY ALL THAT YOU

HOLD DEAR. The Ill-creature reached out, seizing the Staff in hideous claws. Green flames swept through Throm's body, but they did not consume him. The power yielded to his will, shifting color until it surrounded him in a shield of yellow flame.

Sulmar launched himself forward, but the inferno of Earthpower was unapproachable. He grabbed Chentelle and pulled her back to the shelter of the rocks.

The goblins, too, were driven back by the flames. Their attack dissolved into chaos, and they retreated across the cavern.

A pillar of warring flames surrounded A'stoc and his foe. Flares of emerald and topaz swirled and flowed in a frenzy of fire. Both opponents gripped the Staff with two hands. Throm strained to lift the wizard off the ground, but the Earthpower kept him anchored. This battle would be decided by strength of will alone. And A'stoc was losing.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the yellow flames gained ascendancy. A jet of golden force drove through the wizard's defense, nearly reaching him before dissipating into the green. Throm smiled, baring wolflike fangs. The demon lashed out again, and A'stoc was driven to his knees. This time, the Ill-creature's power did not fade. It hovered in front of the wizard, pushing through his shield, creeping inexorably toward his heart.

A'stoc wrenched to the side. The heel of the Staff touched the floor, and the stones exploded.

The blast hurled both combatants into the air, still locked together by the Earthpower. They flew in the direction A'stoc had pulled, covering perhaps twelve cubits in the air and landing in the jagged rift that had been the breeding pit.

The molten stone surged at the touch of the Staff. Pure white Earthpower drained from the rock, adding its force to the inferno. Wherever it touched the green flames, they grew stronger. But where it touched the yellow, they destroyed each other.

In instants, Throm was stripped of the fiery shield. An eruption of power tore the Staff from its hands and sent the Ill-creature hurtling through the air once more. It crashed into the far wall of the cavern and dropped to the floor, unmoving.

A'stoc floated above the pit in a corona of magic. His hands clenched the Staff with manic intensity as the power seethed angrily around him. A flare shot from the Staff, striking the cave wall and burying Throm's body under a cascade of falling rock. Another blast ripped through the earth under the goblins' feet, showering them with shrapnel.

The horde broke. They ran for the stairs, fleeing back to the tunnels above.

A'stoc drifted back to solid ground, carried in an orb of coruscating light. He walked toward them, leaving a trail of footprints that burned briefly with emerald fire and left scorched impressions in the stone. The crackling globe grew brighter and louder and larger with each step. Pain contorted the wizard's face and his eyes were wide with fear. "Run!" he gasped. "I can't hold it much longer."

"The stairs!" Dacius shouted, pointing with his vorpal blade.

They ran. The Earthpower ballooned outward, keeping them pressed close to the walls. The floor bucked and shifted under their feet. Ribbons of energy flashed through the chamber, cutting dark swaths of destruction. The earth shifted and groaned in protest, unable to endure the sustained abuse.

Thunder rolled in their ears as part of the ceiling collapsed, burying half of the cavern. The stairway disappeared under a mountain of debris.

Dacius shifted direction without slowing. He took them to the second stairway, the one the goblins had used. He shouted a command. Thildemar, Leth, and Gerruth started up the stairs, weapons at the ready.

Chentelle stopped running.

"Enchantress, hurry!" Dacius yelled over the roar. His eyes tracked frantically over the collapsing walls. "We must chance it. It's our only hope!"

"No," Chentelle said. She turned, and started back to the center of the cave.

Sulmar appeared suddenly before her. He grabbed both of her arms, preventing her from passing. "Mistress, it is too late. You cannot help him."

Concern radiated from the Tengarian. She felt his fear, not for himself, for her. But he was wrong. "Sulmar, let go. Please, you have to trust me."

His hands trembled on her arms. She felt herself start to rise as the Tengarian lifted her to carry her to safety. Then, he let her go. He let her pass. Then he fell in beside her, his face was locked in a mask of iron determination.

"What are you doing?" Dacius shouted. "You'll be killed!"

Chentelle ran for the heart of the storm. Earthpower blazed all around her, scorching the air and crashing in her ears. But it left her untouched. She squinted against the brilliance, searching for A'stoc.

There he was, a shadow inside the radiant fury. She took Sulmar's arm and led him through the magic.

Dust billowed around their feet, dry, lifeless, empty of Earthpower. They sank deeper into the ash with each step. By the time they neared the wizard, it reached nearly to Chentelle's knees.

A'stoc towered above them, held up by the Staff's power. His body shook with strain, and tears mingled with sweat on his face. His mouth moved. The words were swallowed up in the howl of Earthpower, but the pleading in his eyes was unmistakable.

Chentelle shook her head. She would not run. She took Sulmar's hand in hers. Then she stepped forward, holding her other hand out to A'stoc.

The wizard's eyes squeezed tightly closed. His mouth contorted in a soundless scream, and he fell to his knees. The Thunderwood Staff drove into the ground, imbedded in the dust. The holocaust exploded outward in a sphere of destruction. It swept through air and stone alike, reducing everything in its path to lifeless cinders.

Chentelle and Sulmar existed in a pocket of stillness, a bubble of peace in an ocean of rage.

They watched in horror as the wave of annihilation swelled outward. The cavern floor, the stalagmites, even the roiling magma of the breeding pit, flashed into dust. The desolation spread, irresistible, unstoppable. It surged through the chamber, catching Dacius at the foot of the stairs.

The Legion commander had no chance. The devastation was driven forward by a hurricane of power. He barely had time to scream before the wave hit.

Only it never reached him. The desecration froze, locked in stasis. Then it collapsed in on itself.

A sharp crack of thunder resounded through the cave as the power imploded, absorbed back into the Thunderwood.

A'stoc's scream sounded raw and weak in the sudden silence that followed. The wizard's eyes rolled backward into white, and he dropped face first into the dust. The flames surrounding him disappeared. The darkness was absolute.

Chentelle pushed herself forward through the shifting ash. "Sulmar, help me!" Her searching hands found the wizard's body. It was impossible to find good purchase in the loose powder, but somehow she managed to pull him to the surface.

Light flickered behind her. Sulmar blew softly on the torch, nursing the flame. She had no idea when he had picked it up, nor did she care. She was just grateful for the light. She waved the Tengarian closer and bent down to examine A'stoc. He was not breathing.

Chentelle reached into him with her Gift. He was cold inside, gray and empty. A tiny ember of life burned deep in his spirit, but it was surrounded by walls of numbness. She fanned the ember with her song, trying to build its strength. But the numbness resisted her, blocking much of her magic. The flame pulsed only a fraction more brightly than before.

She focused on his heart, willing it to beat with the measure of her own heart. Reluctantly, it did.

She breathed, willing her breath to be his, infused by her Gift. The wizard started to breathe, but the breaths were weak and rasping. She had made his body function, but not well enough to endure long.

Chentelle pried the Staff from his stiffened fingers. The wood throbbed warmly in her hand. She shuddered, remembering the nightmare she had shared in A'stoc's mind. "We have to get him to Father Marcus."

Sulmar handed her the torch. Then, he lifted the wizard and threw him across his shoulders. The extra weight pressed him downward, and he sank nearly to his hips in the fine dust. He turned back to the stairs and drove himself through the ash with powerful strides.

Dacius stood at the foot of the stairs, his eyes and mouth hanging open. "By all that's holy," he muttered as they approached. "I have seen death before. I've seen the destruction of war. But I never—I—"

Rock shifted loudly somewhere above them, and the human lord's eyes snapped back into focus. "We'd better move. These walls could give out any moment." He motioned them to the stairs, taking the rear position for himself.

They emerged into a huddle of concerned faces. "What has happened?" Father Marcus asked.

"Later," Chentelle gasped. "A'stoc is hurt." She motioned, and Sulmar set the wizard on the ground.

The High Bishop knelt. He handed the Sphere of Ohnn to Brother Gorin and examined the mage. He started chanting almost immediately, summoning the power to heal. He continued for a minute or more, then stopped.

Father Marcus rose to his feet, shaking his head. "There is little I can do for him. He has no wounds, but his essence is spent. I can provide him comfort and easy rest, but his recovery depends upon his will to live."

"Can he travel?" Dacius asked.

Father Marcus nodded. "His body is not damaged. It should not harm him to be carried."

"All right, then," the Legion commander said. "Thildemar, take the point: twenty-cubit lead, but no more than two intersections. Don't take chances. We know the goblins are close." He bent down to pick up A'stoc.

Sulmar waved him away. "I will carry the wizard."

Dacius shrugged. "Leth, Gerruth, you're with me. Drup, you have the rear. Stay sharp." He led them down the passage, following the route that Thildemar had taken a few moments before.

They wound their way through the tunnels. Every intersection meant an anxious delay while Thildemar scouted for a possible exit. Several times they had to double back as a promising passage terminated in a dead end or a barred door. Tension built with each false turn. It was only a matter of time before they were discovered.

Thildemar rounded a turn in the narrow hallway. He immediately reappeared, backing cautiously toward them.

They froze. Callused hands moved to their swords, but they did not draw. The crackling torch in Chentelle's hand sounded huge in the silence.

When Thildemar reached their position, he pointed backward. The whole party retreated down the tunnel, stopping only after they had retraced several turns.

"That was the exit," Thildemar whispered. "I could smell the open air. But it is guarded by at least two score goblins, two score very nervous goblins."

"Crossbows?" Dacius asked.

"Many."

Dacius ran his eyes across the company. "We cannot fight our way through them. We must find another exit."

"But there is no other exit," Kelmek protested. "The stairs to the catacombs are buried. The goblin tunnels are the only other way."

"Perhaps not." All eyes turned at Brother Gorin's gruff voice. "Follow me."

They backtracked through several passageways. Then the goblin led them down a short side tunnel. The hallway ended at the closed wooden door with a goblin rune carved into it. Gorin listened at the door, then pushed it open. Foul odors swept into the hall.

"A sewer?" Gerruth asked. "You want us to crawl into a cesspool?"

Gorin pointed to a small iron grate. "The water moves. That means it connects to an underground stream. That is the standard practice, where a natural water flow is available."

Dacius pried up the grate and examined the hole. His nose wrinkled in disgust, and his eyes watered uncontrollably. He backed away, shaking his head. He reached over his shoulder and pulled a field bandage out of his pack, locating it by feel with no apparent trouble. He tied the cloth around his mouth and nose, forming a makeshift mask. "Hand me that torch."

The human lowered himself into the dark hole. After a few moments, he stuck his head back out.

"It's cramped but manageable. Come on down. However, I strongly suggest you cover your noses."

They needed no special urging. Cloths masking their faces, they crawled into the sewer. The tunnel was small, perhaps three cubits in diameter, and they were forced to lurch forward in an awkward crouch. The humans had it worst of all, especially Sulmar, who had the additional burden of carrying A'stoc. Making matters worse, the bent-over posture brought their faces closer to the reeking sewage that trickled around their feet.

Only Brother Gorin seemed unbothered by the drains. The goblin was small enough to walk upright, and he was the only one among them not to wear a mask.

"How do you stand it?" Gerruth asked the goblin. "I know that your nose is even keener than mine."

Gorin cocked his head and regarded the Legionnaire. "The smell is strong, but I do not find it particularly offensive. It is no worse than the scent of pine or incense or human blood."

Chentelle's stomach wrenched violently. Only the fact that it was empty saved her from vomiting.

It seemed as though days had passed since they entered Hel's Crown. She was exhausted. Her head throbbed, and her legs ached from all of the climbing and running and crouching. By the Creator, how terrible it must be for Sulmar!

Brackish water pooled and eddied on the uneven floor, and the slick excrement made their footing treacherous. They passed several small branching tunnels, most of which drained additional putrescence onto their ankles. After what seemed hours of hunched walking, they found where the tunnel drained into a wide underground stream. The natural channel carved by the water was wider, but no higher, than the goblin sewer. Fortunately, the flow of clean water eased the stench considerably.

Dacius stopped when he hit the stream and looked over the company. "Upstream," he said, heading that direction. After a dozen cubits or so of sloshing against the current he stopped again.

"We'll rest here. Split up whatever rations are salvageable. Sleep if you can. We need to be sharp when we hit the surface. There's no telling what may be waiting for us."

Chentelle sank gratefully against the wall. The water was cold but clean. It felt glorious on her skin. She bent over and took a long drink, reveling in the clear taste. Her stomach rumbled, reminded now that it had been long empty.

Sulmar propped A'stoc carefully against the wall and slid into the water beside her. For the first time since his recovery in the Holy Land, the Tengarian showed obvious signs of fatigue. His breath came in harsh gasps, and his movements were slow, almost awkward. He cupped water in his hands and splashed it against his face.

Most of the rations were spoiled, but Father Marcus and Gorin had both managed to keep their packs dry and clean. They passed their hard breads and fruit through the company, allowing each member to eat or not as his stomach dictated.

Despite her hunger, Chentelle found that she could not eat. The first bite she tried to swallow lodged in her throat with the miasma of the sewers. She gagged, regurgitating the water she had just swallowed. Suddenly embarrassed, she handed the bread to Sulmar.

The Tengarian ripped a large chunk from the loaf and passed the remainder on. He ate several bites, chewing and swallowing without trouble. When Chentelle had recovered from her spasms, he handed her the rest of his share. "Take small bites and hold them in your mouth," he said quietly. "Do not try to swallow. Let them dissolve in your saliva."

Chentelle took the offered food. "Thank you, Sulmar." She tore off a small piece and placed it tentatively in her mouth. It worked. Another bite followed as soon as the first disappeared. As her stomach filled, her fatigue became irresistible. By the time she finished the bread, her eyes were barely open. She fell into sleep almost immediately.

The dream came an hour later.

* * *

Thunder is everywhere. It washes over her, tossing her about like a leaf in the storm. She screams, but can't hear her own voice over the roar.

It is cold. She shivers uncontrollably. She tries to wrap her arm around her body, but some other force is moving her limbs. It shakes them wildly, twisting them into unnatural angles.

Everything is dark. She can't see. She can't feel. She's floating in something—water. But she floats under the surface. She can't breathe! She swims for the surface, but there is no surface. Walls appear all around her. She's trapped! Her lungs burn with the need for air. But there is no air. The darkness becomes somehow blacker. She can't breathe! She can't breathe! She can't—

* * *

"Aaaahh!" Chentelle's eyes snapped open. She gulped air desperately into her lungs. A dream—it had been a dream.

"Mistress!" A whisper of steel told her that Sulmar had drawn his weapon.

"I'm okay," she said between gasps. "I'm okay. It was a dream. It was—" She sat up straight.

"Dacius! Father Marcus! We have to move. Hurry, we have to get out of the tunnels."

No one argued with the urgency in her voice. In seconds the party was on its way, slouching downstream to the opening they hoped would be there, the opening that had to be there. Water swirled around their legs. It wasn't long before they realized that the level was climbing. A deep rumbling sounded from somewhere above.

"Holy Creator," Dacius said. "The storm clouds! I'm a fool. How could I have forgotten?"

Desperation drove their pace. Their world became a contest between a distant roar and the rhythm of their steps. The roar grew steadily louder, and their steps grew more difficult. The water fought them: it was too shallow to carry them, but too deep to stride above. They were not going to make it.

"Squat down!" Dacius shouted over the roar. "Cover your heads with your arms. Take deep breaths, starting now. After the initial rush, try to follow the current. Look for air pockets near the ceiling, but only after the first wave has passed. BRACE YOURSELVES!"

Chentelle wrapped herself around the Staff, clinging to it as tightly as she was able. A wall slammed into her back, nearly driving the precious air from her lungs. Water lifted her and spun her about wildly. Things bumped against her in the stream: arms, legs, others she couldn't identify. She couldn't hold her tuck; the current was too strong. One arm flailed out, scraping against rock. Pain flared in her wrist and elbow. She squeezed the other arm even more tightly around the Staff.

"Uhhnn!" Her head screamed at the sudden impact. Dizziness washed over her. She latched on to the pain in her arm, using the sting to keep herself conscious. Only after her head cleared did she realize that she had let out her breath.

She needed air. The water pulled her forward, but the current was slowing. Air pockets—that's what Dacius had said. But which direction was up? She was completely disoriented. The Staff! She tucked the Staff into her legs and surrounded it with a loose circle of her arms. She let go with her legs and the Staff bumped against one of her arms. Okay, that direction should be up. She grabbed the Staff with her good hand and stretched out the other one to scrape the ceiling.

Chentelle let the current move her, kicking only gently with her legs. She had to conserve the little air she had left. Already her lungs burned with the desperate need to breathe. That was panic.

Don't panic. Stay calm. She was a strong swimmer. She had been underwater longer than this before.

She concentrated on her fingers, letting them trace the outlines of the ceiling. The rough surface actually helped; it made her hands more sensitive.

She had a horrible thought—what if the Thunderwood was heavier than water? She could be following the wrong surface. No—that was fear talking. She had to trust her instincts. All she had to do was relax, wait until—yes. Her hand felt air.

She stopped her motion. The current was still strong, but she could resist it. The air pocket was thin, barely the depth of her hand, but it was enough. She pressed her face to the roof and sucked greedily at the fresh oxygen. After a few breaths, she noticed the air getting stale. That was all right.

She inhaled one more time and ducked back under the water.

She swam with the current. Kicking herself forward with powerful strokes but keeping her hands in front of her to ward off impacts. She heard a rushing sound from ahead. Good, that meant the water had found an outlet. If her luck held, it would be wide enough to let her escape, too. A pinprick of light appeared ahead. She clutched the Staff and kicked toward the tiny glow.

Chentelle burst through the hole and found herself in midair. She tumbled down in a stream of water and landed in a shallow pool. Sputtering for breath, she stood up. The water came only to her waist; she was lucky the fall had been brief.

It was dark. The red globe of Deneob was barely visible behind the wall of black clouds that dominated the sky. Warm rain slapped against Chentelle's skin, driven by a hard wind. A long bolt of lightning ripped across the sky, and she decided to get out of the water.

"Enchantress, over here."

She headed for the sound of Thildemar's voice. It led her to a small cave, just downstream of the waterfall. Thildemar waved her inside. Several figures huddled together in the center of the grotto, taking shelter from the storm. Father Marcus and Gorin were there, as were Kelmek and the other Legionnaires. Only Sulmar and A'stoc were missing. A heap of supplies rested against the far wall.

"Enchantress," the High Bishop said, squinting to see her in the dim light. "And you have the Staff. Bless the Creator for sending you to us. Are you well? Do you need healing?"

Did she? She took a quick inventory. Blood ran freely from a shallow gash on her right elbow.

Her head throbbed, but a quick check failed to yield evidence of blood. She was scraped and bruised in a dozen places and generally beaten up. Otherwise, she was fine. "Nothing serious. Where's Sulmar?"

"He has not yet appeared, Chentelle," the priest answered. "It may have taken him longer because of A'stoc."

As if on cue, there was a loud splash. Chentelle dropped the Staff and ran back to the pool.

Sulmar stood in the water. His left arm hung limply by his side, and he struggled to hold A'stoc's head and shoulders out of the water using only his right.

"Oh!" Chentelle jumped into the water and grabbed the wizard around the chest. Thildemar was just behind her, and together they carried him to shore. Sulmar followed under his own power.

They set A'stoc down as soon as they were on dry ground. The wizard had stopped breathing again. She took a deep breath and reached into him with her Gift. Life still burned in the wizard's spirit. It seemed neither stronger nor weaker than it had been before. This time, the problem was his body. His lungs were full of water.

As she had with Sulmar, so many nights ago, Chentelle shaped her song to repel the water. She filled the wizard with the song of air, and pulled at the water with the call of the river. A'stoc's stomach heaved and the water shot from his lungs. Soon, he was breathing on his own, though the breaths were still very weak.

A hand came to rest on her shoulder. "How is he?" asked Thildemar.

"The same as before," she said. "But he won't drown. We need to get him to shelter."

The elf nodded and headed for the cave. "I will bring help."

Chentelle turned to Sulmar. "What happened to you?"

"When the flood hit," he said calmly, "I grabbed hold of A'stoc. The water pulled us in different directions and we struck some rocks. My shoulder dislocated, and I was forced to maneuver us through the tunnel with only one arm. Luckily, the wizard was unconscious, so he did not fight me."

She put a hand on Sulmar's chest, careful not to disturb his shoulder. "Thank you for saving A'stoc. I know that you do not care for him."

The Tengarian looked into her eyes. Then he smiled. It was a thin smile, but it was there. "My people have a saying, 'Trust your first impression, but do not marry it.' "

She laughed. "Well, I think maybe he's learned to respect you, too."

Thildemar returned, leading Leth and Gerruth. The Legionnaires picked up A'stoc, and they all headed back to the cave. Father Marcus was waiting for them at the entrance. He examined A'stoc and agreed that his condition was unchanged. Then he attended to Sulmar and Chentelle, healing their wounds. Soon, they were all huddled together in the shelter of the grotto.

"Kelmek," Dacius said. "Where are we?"

"The east face of Hel's Crown," the villager said, "near the base."

"We can't stay here," Dacius said. "We're too close to the goblin tunnels. How far away is the Mouth of the Sea?"

Kelmek shrugged. "One and a half leagues, maybe two."

"Wait," Chentelle said. "What about A'stoc? We have to get him back to the village."

The Legionnaire turned to Father Marcus. "Can he still be moved safely?"

"Yes," the High Bishop answered, "but we need to get him to a secure resting place. The village would be best. He might benefit from the atmosphere of refuge in the temple."

Dacius looked at A'stoc, then lifted his eyes to meet Chentelle's. "I'm sorry. We have to secure the Treachery before the goblins who guard her learn we escaped from the caverns. The wizard can rest aboard the ship. Now, can you call the skethis?"

The skethis! If Chentelle could summon the warbirds, she could take A'stoc back to the village while Dacius and the Legionnaires rescued Captain Rone and the Treachery. But there were so few of them; what if they needed her and Sulmar to help? What should she do?

"I'll try," she said.

Chentelle closed her eyes and sang into the storm. She blended her voice with the thunder and the splashing rain. She pressed outward, searching for the primal emotions that drove the warbirds'

lives. She filled her song with challenge and the lust for battle, but there was no answer.

She shook her head. "I can't reach them."

"Then we'll have to march," Dacius said. He walked over to the pile of supplies and pulled out two lengths of rope. He tossed them to Thildemar and pointed to A'stoc. "Field stretcher—there's no wood in this wasteland. Make sure to brace his head."

As the elf went to work, Dacius inspected the rest of the supplies. He took two adartak globes and handed one to each of the priests. "The rest is useless. We'll leave it here. The trail will be difficult enough. Okay, let's move. If we're lucky, the rain will cover our tracks."

Rain battered them the instant they left the cave. The dusty plain of the Sacred City had turned to slick mud in the downpour, and everyone suffered in the treacherous footing. Kelmek led them toward the eastern edge of the plateau. Dacius and Sulmar carried the front of A'stoc's stretcher, while the elven Legionnaires alternated turns on the rear.

Chentelle paced along beside the wizard, bracing her steps with the Staff. It pulsed warmly in her hand but with much less force than after the battle with Throm. The wood remained dry despite the storm. Any rain falling on the Staff was instantly absorbed into the Thunderwood. She shuddered once more, remembering the holocaust A'stoc had barely managed to control.

They trudged slowly through the desolate plain. Luckily, the eastern mountains were closer to Hel's Crown than the northern range. Though their pace was slow, they were able to reach the concealment of the ridge before the storm broke. As the rain softened, Kelmek led them through a well-marked pass and down toward the Mouth of the Sea. The water stretched out in the distance, blending seamlessly with the gray clouds on the horizon.

This trail was wider and less rocky than the winding path from the village, but they still found the going difficult. Stress and fatigue dragged at their limbs, and water weighed down their clothes. Dacius and Sulmar suffered the worst, but the human lord drove them on relentlessly. Only when they reached the heavy forest of the foothills did he signal for a halt.

"How far?" he asked Kelmek.

"Half a league," the villager said, "maybe less. The trail meets up with Kolos' Burn and follows it to the bay."

Dacius took them a short way off the trail to a tiny clearing. "Stay here. Get what rest you can, but keep a watch. The goblins could be right behind us. Kelmek, you're with me."

The two humans disappeared into the jungle.

Chentelle knelt beside A'stoc. The wizard was pale and feverish. Sweat ran down his face, and he was shivering violently. "Father Marcus, he needs your help."

The High Bishop placed a hand on A'stoc's forehead. He chanted softly and the wizard stopped shaking. Color returned to his cheeks, and his temperature returned to normal. The old priest slunk to the ground with his back against a tree. "Call me if the fever returns," he said an instant before his eyes closed in sleep.

"Father Marcus?" Chentelle said. "Are you all right?"

Brother Gorin rested a claw on her shoulder. "He will be fine after he rests. The wizard had no strength to put into the healing, so Father Marcus used his own."

Chentelle nodded. They could all use sleep. Even Sulmar looked haggard. A quick look confirmed that Leth was standing guard alertly. She lay down and rested her head on A'stoc's chest.

If his fever returned, the shivering would wake her.

* * *

She jumped awake at the touch of a hand. Sulmar held a hand to her lips, cautioning her not to cry out. She looked around. Dacius and Kelmek were back, but there was no sense of alarm about the camp. "How long?" she whispered.

"An hour," he answered, speaking softly but in a normal voice. "Lord Gemine has just returned."

Dacius motioned for them all to listen. "The Treachery is here, but so are three goblin warships.

One of them is moored at the pier; the other two are anchored near the mouth of the bay. The guards around the dock are not especially alert, but there are lots of them." He looked up. Deneob was just starting to drop toward the west. "We'll have about an hour of darkness after the Winter Sun sets.

That's when we'll make our move."

"Did you see any sign of the crew?" Father Marcus asked.

The Legionnaire shook his head. "No."

Chentelle suddenly had a horrible thought. "What if they were taken to Hel's Crown?"

Dacius' fist clenched and he let out a hard breath. "Then we leave them. The quest has to come first. But I don't think they were taken away. Throm was aboard one of those ships. The demon took them at the lagoon; it had no reason to drag them to the mountain."

"Assuming they are still alive," said Gerruth.

"Yes," Dacius said, "I am."

They worked their way back to the trail and followed it eastward. The ground sloped steadily downward, and they soon came to a narrow stream. Kelmek led them along the water's edge for several minutes. Then he led them across a series of stepping stones to the opposite bank. A tiny footpath took them to a sheltered clearing that had become partially overgrown. A naked goblin lay unconscious in the center of the clearing, bound and gagged with thick vines. A uniform and weapons were piled beside it.

"The Stone City people used to use this place for picnics," Kelmek said. "But the goblins seem to avoid it."

"We wait here until dark," Dacius said. "Then, we'll enter the stream and swim to the Treachery.

The guards at the pier are only watching for an approach by land." He looked at Brother Gorin and motioned to the goblin uniform. "We need to find out if Rone and the others are here. Will you do it?"

Brother Gorin hesitated, glancing at Father Marcus. Then he nodded. He pulled off his robe and slipped into the goblin clothing. He strapped on the sword belt and gripped the short halberd awkwardly. "I never imagined that I would be wearing such a uniform again. You understand, Lord Gemine, that I cannot use these weapons in combat. I am still bound by my oath to the Holy Order."

"I understand," Dacius said. "I don't want you to fight. Just scout the buildings. And abort the mission if it looks as if you are going to be discovered. We don't need you to be captured as well.

Are you ready?"

Gorin nodded. "I will return within the hour if I am able."

As the goblin left the clearing, Dacius turned back to address the company. "We will need a raft to transport the wizard. There is plenty of deadwood in the forest, and we can use the ropes to bind it together. It won't be much, but it should hold until we reach the Treachery."

"I can make the raft," Chentelle said. "I can woodshape."

"Good," Dacius said. "The rest of you start gathering wood, but be careful. Travel in pairs and make sure you range away from the harbor."

Chentelle set the Thunderwood Staff by her side and considered the craft she needed. As the others returned with wood, she set the pieces carefully into the pattern she envisioned. She worked with the shapes of wood, fitting them into the proper configuration. Some pieces she had to discard as unsuitable, but the raft still took shape quickly. Soon, the basic shape was complete.

Chentelle called upon the elven Lore of rillandef, deadwood shaping. She hummed softly, using the tune to concentrate her will. She picked up two pieces of wood and ran her fingers over them.

Wherever she touched, the wood became soft and malleable. This was natural deadwood; no one had killed it. It had lived its time and expired, so there was no pain in it. Otherwise she could not have worked with it. She pressed the pieces together like wet clay and then reached for the next. She was aware of nothing but the wood and the raft. Her hands moved quickly and surely, following the plan she kept clear in her mind. And the wood shaped itself to her need.

It took her only moments to finish the outline. Once that was complete, she started to meld the internal structure into the frame. She touched and smoothed and molded until the driftwood, and fallen branches became a solid mass. Then, she sculpted that mass. She gave it a back-sloped rim to keep A'stoc secure and a straight keel to drive smoothly through the water. She fashioned the prow into a delicate curve, reminiscent of a rolling wave, and brushed a similar swoop into the pattern of the wood grain. Finally, she added two circular braces to hold the Thunderwood Staff.

"Impressive," Thildemar said. "You have a rare talent, enchantress. I have never seen so young a wood master."

"But I'm not a master," Chentelle protested. "The Gift helps me. I can feel the wood—almost as if it tells me how to shape. Still, I'm only a novice. You can see how flawed the raft is."

Thildemar bowed gracefully. "I beg to disagree, Lady Chentelle. It is as elegant and charming as its shaper."

"Thank you," she said, smiling at both the compliment and the exaggerated manners. "I'm just glad I could do something to help."

Whatever reply Thildemar might have made was cut off by Brother Gorin's arrival. The priest was breathing heavily, as if he had run all the way from the Stone City. "I saw them," he managed to say between gasps. "They are alive."

"Where?" Dacius asked.

Gorin paused, regaining his breath. "The city is all ruins, but a dozen buildings near the pier have been repaired. Two have been made into barracks, but most are warehouses. Captain Rone and his men are in one of the warehouses."

"How many guards?"

"It is hard to say," the priest answered. "At least two inside the building. Others come and go.

The outer door was not guarded, but it is impossible to enter without being seen by the sentries posted in the clearing."

Dacius turned to the company. "Recommendations?"

"We will need a diversion," Thildemar said. "I can take out one of the sentries and lead the pursuit away from the clearing. But the alarm will alert the guards at the pier."

"So we take the ship first," Gerruth said. "Then we use your diversion to rescue the crew and fight our way back to the ship."

"There are a score of goblins in each barracks," Brother Gorin said, "plus the marines still aboard the moored warship. You cannot fight through them all. But I can distract them without raising a general alarm." He turned to Thildemar and pulled at his goblin uniform. "I am better suited for this task than you."

"Agreed," Thildemar said. "But be careful. Remember what happened in the village."

"I am not likely to forget," Gorin said. "Do not worry. My tools this time will not be peace and reason."

"I don't like it," Dacius said, "but it's our best chance. We'll split into two teams. Thildemar, you and I will free the prisoners, moving on Gorin's distraction. Everyone else heads for the ship. Leth, you're in charge. You'll move as soon as Deneob drops behind the mountains. The Treachery has first priority. If possible, try to hamper or disable the warships, especially the two blocking the harbor, but secure the whaler first."

The elves nodded. He turned to the goblin. "Gorin, give them thirty minutes, then start your distraction. Thildemar and I will slip into the warehouse during the confusion. As soon as we're in, break off and head toward the Treachery. Don't wait; we'll make our own way back. That's all.

There's still some time before dark. Rest if you're able."

"Excuse me, Lord Gemine?" Kelmek lifted a hand tentatively in the air.

"Yes," Dacius said gently.

"You don't seem to need me anymore," the villager said. "And I really should get back to the village. Grandfather will be worried."

"Of course," Dacius said. "But are you certain you want to travel on your own? There are probably goblin patrols about. If you stay with us we can drop you back at the lagoon before we leave the island."

"Thank you," Kelmek said, "but I know these paths. I can stay away from any patrols. Besides, if the goblin warships chase you, you won't be able to stop. I think I better head back on my own."

"As you will." Dacius stepped forward and clasped the man's arm. "We thank you for your help.

Without your courage and guidance we could not have succeeded."

"Yes," Father Marcus said, placing a hand on the villager's shoulder. "Our gratitude is poor thanks for your service to the Creation, but it is all we have, and we offer it freely. Please tell your grandfather that I wish I had been able to see him again. There is much we could have shared with each other."

"I will tell him," Kelmek said. "But it is the village that owes you a debt. Thanks to you, our ancestors have the peace they deserve."

The villager disengaged himself from the two humans and walked over to Chentelle.

"Enchantress, I hope your friend recovers. He has done a great service to all of my people. I will make sure his story is remembered. I—I have been honored to help you in your quest."

"Thank you," Chentelle said. "We have been honored to have your help. You're a good man."

Kelmek smiled broadly and bowed. Then, without another word, he vanished into the jungle.

Dacius, Thildemar, and Gorin headed toward the warehouse on foot, not bothering to rest.

Chentelle felt A'stoc's brow. The fever had not returned, and the wizard seemed to be resting peacefully. She felt a momentary pang of envy. She needed sleep, too. But unlike the Legionnaires, she couldn't overcome her anxiety and relax. She sat in silence, watching the shadows lengthen.

When Deneob's rim slid behind the mountains, Leth spurred them into action. The Legionnaires stripped off boots and armor, and everything was loaded into the raft with A'stoc. They settled the raft into the stream and waded in behind it. The water greeted them coolly.

"Grab hold of the raft," Leth said. "We'll let the current pull us out past the extension of the pier, then come back to the Treachery from behind. No splashing. Gerruth and I will guide the raft; everyone else just ride along quietly."

They waited until the last hints of red faded from the horizon; then Leth nodded and they let the current take them. The stream wound gently through the rain forest, then widened and emptied into a natural harbor. On their left, the trees yielded to the ruins of a small town. A fire burned in the center of the rubble, casting flickering shadows on the few buildings that still stood. A stone pier stretched into the bay. The silhouette of the Treachery was plainly visible at its end, as was the much larger outline of the goblin warship.

They drifted into the middle of the inlet, past the extension of the wharf. The grim shadows of two more warships loomed in front of them, blocking the mouth of the bay. Leth and Gerruth guided them in a slow curve back to the stern of the Treachery. The ship shielded them from both the shore and the warship moored on the other side of the pier. Guttural voices floated down from above.

There were at least two sentries aboard the Treachery and one or two at the far end of the dock.

Leth motioned to Gerruth, and they paddled silently toward the ship's anchor chain.

They were going to try to sneak up on the guards. Chentelle waved frantically, catching Leth's attention. "Wait," she mouthed. "Wait."

He looked at her curiously, but nodded in acquiescence.

Chentelle closed her eyes and focused her attention on her hearing. The goblin voices were unintelligible, but they seemed calm, even bored. Low waves slapped softly against the stones of the pier, and a slight wind whispered out from shore. Good, she could do this.

She started to sing. Softly at first, almost inaudibly, but with growing strength she reached out with her Gift. She blended her voice with the quiet sounds of the sea, never letting her words become louder than the lapping waves. She wrapped her song around the goblin sentries, embracing them in a soothing lullaby. The guards on the pier were too far away; she didn't dare raise her voice that loud.

But she felt the presence of two more sentries on the warship. Chentelle extended her charm to wrap around them as well. She guided them all gently toward slumber, and they followed.

She opened her eyes and nodded to Leth. "The sentries on both ships are asleep," she whispered. "But I couldn't reach the ones on the pier."

The Legionnaire smiled and reached into the raft. He pulled out two sword belts, hanging one over his shoulder and handing the other to Gerruth. They climbed quietly up the chain and slipped over the railing onto the Treachery's deck. A moment later, two ropes came sliding over the side.

Sulmar and Drup fixed them to the raft, and the brothers hauled it up to the deck.

The ropes came down again, and Chentelle climbed to the deck. She swung herself easily over the rail, then flinched as her feet touched the awful deadwood of the deck. There was no sign of Leth, Gerruth, or the raft, but the hatchway leading below deck was open. The goblin sentries were crumpled in a heap near the far rail. She tried not to notice the rivulet of dark fluid that trailed from beneath their bodies.

Sulmar slid over the rail to stand beside her, and Drup followed an instant later. Father Marcus had more trouble with the climb, but they were able to pull him up without difficulty. Leth and Gerruth returned just as the High Bishop reached the deck. Each of them carried a long, metal crowbar secured from the Treachery' s hold.

"Stay low," Leth whispered. "We don't need the shore guards to spot any suspicious silhouettes.

Make sure the rigging is prepared for a quick departure, but don't raise any sails. Gerruth and I will be right back."

Chentelle watched them crawl over the rail and lower themselves down the ropes. They ducked under the surface and reappeared a minute later near the stern of the warship. They crawled onto the rudder assembly, prying at something with their bars. Then, they slipped back into the water and paddled quietly toward the mouth of the bay.

Drup didn't need any help with the rigging, so Chentelle went below to check on A'stoc. The wizard was still in the raft, which was parked just at the foot of the stairs. Father Marcus was kneeling by his side.

"How is he?" Chentelle asked.

"Unchanged," Father Marcus said. "But we should take him to his cabin. He'll rest better there."

Sulmar lifted the wizard out of the raft and carried him down the hall. Chentelle followed with the Thunderwood Staff. They put A'stoc into his bunk and arranged him as comfortably as they were able.

Chentelle pulled a chair over to sit beside the bed. Then she froze. A goblin voice was calling from outside the porthole.

They hurried back to the stairs and climbed cautiously up to the deck. Drup was crouched behind the rail, naked sword in hand. He raised a finger to his lips and waved for them to stay where they were.

Chentelle peered around the side of the wheeldeck. Two goblins were walking toward them from the shore. It was the other sentries. They stopped on the far side of some cargo crates which were stacked on the wharf. One of them called out again, a little bit louder this time. It was not an alarm, but there was a sense of growing urgency to the tone.

A hacking cough sounded behind Chentelle. It was Sulmar! The Tengarian was creeping toward the rail, grumbling and croaking in a deep, throaty voice. It was a passing imitation of a goblin with a bad cough.

The sentries seemed confused. They came forward, moving almost to the edge of the gangway.

Sulmar leaped over the railing. One foot lashed out, catching a goblin in the side of the neck. The sentry fell limply to the stone, his neck twisted almost entirely about.

The Tengarian landed in a crouch. He pivoted smoothly and sheathed his black sword. The other goblin sank to his knees, hands clasped to his throat. Blood seeped around his clawed fingers, and he slumped to the dock.

Sulmar dragged the bodies behind the crates and crouched beside them, waiting. No one else came, and there were no more calls or challenges. He slipped quickly up the walkway and back on board the Treachery.

Leth and Gerruth returned a minute or two later. Their mission was a success. The Treachery was theirs, and the warships were temporarily crippled. Now, all they could do was wait and pray for Dacius and the others.

Chentelle glanced to the east. The dark horizon gave no hint of Ellistar's approach.

* 13 *

Tribulations

The shouting started just before first-light. It had to be the distraction. Chentelle searched the goblin camp, and saw Brother Gorin stalking back and forth near the fringes of the central fire.

The goblin priest weaved unsteadily and swung his arms wildly, as if he were very drunk. He beat his halberd against the round metal shield he carried, and shouted challenges at phantoms. Then he started swinging the weapon, battering the air with great sweeping strokes.

The camp sentries surrounded him in the clearing, but they did not stand too close. More goblins appeared, straggling slowly out of the barracks buildings and forming a crowd around the ranting priest. More shouting broke out; some of the goblins seemed to be yelling encouragement while others called angrily for silence.

Gorin's halberd crashed into the fire, sending flaming brands splashing through the air. The blaze roared higher for an instant, then faded into gray embers.

"What is happening?" Father Marcus asked.

"I don't know," Chentelle said. Without the firelight, she could no longer make out details. The clearing was filled with a mass of shadowy forms. Yelling still filled the air, becoming more angry and strident. Then a yell of a different type sounded from closer to the pier: a scream of pure agony.

"To the ship!" came Dacius' bellow. "Run for the pier!"

A half-dozen shapes ran along the rocky coast, the Legionnaire's huge outline plain among them.

Two guards moved into their path, halberds rising to the ready. Dacius charged through them without slowing. His blade swept the goblin weapons aside and cut down one of the goblins on the backswing. He slammed the other to the ground with his shoulder and kept running. One of the trailing elves sliced downward with curved blade passed, finishing off the stunned sentry.

The goblins in the clearing screamed in rage as they realized what was happening. Dozens came charging toward the dock. Others disappeared into the barracks. But none of them could stop the escaping prisoners from reaching the pier.

Dacius scrambled to a stop halfway down the pier, near a pile of cargo. Thildemar took a stand next to him. "Keep moving!" he shouted to the others. "Get the Treachery ready to sail!" He waited until the crew was past, then scattered the crates across the dock. "Bowmen—covering fire!"

"Please move back, Chentelle." Leth's hand gently pulled her away from the rail. He and his brother stepped forward, bows already in hand and nocked. Drup was hard at work, grinding the winch to raise anchor.

Rone and the others scrambled up the gangway. The captain waved a goblin scimitar frantically in one hand. "Raise the sheets! Make ready to sail! Move, you sluggards, move!"

Zubec and Pardec bolted for the rigging. Pulleys squealed in protest as the sails unfurled. The canvas flapped feebly in the light breeze.

Bowstrings thrummed as Leth and Gerruth loosed their shots. Two goblins dropped, falling to the ground in front of the onrushing mob.

The others didn't even slow. They trampled their brethren and charged onto the pier. Two more fell to well-placed arrows, but then the mass swarmed into Dacius and Thildemar.

The Legionnaires stood their ground. The makeshift barricade slowed the charge, forcing the goblins to climb over and around the scattered boxes. Vorpal sword and battle stave lashed out with uncanny speed and precision, wreaking havoc among the first rank of goblins and adding their fallen bodies to the obstacle. But the goblins kept pressing forward.

Chentelle could see a second line forming behind the first rush, a line both better organized and better armed. "Sulmar, help them."

The Tengarian jumped nimbly over the rail. Both swords rang out of their sheaths before his feet hit the dock. He landed in a soft crouch and was running almost instantly.

A glint of motion flashed above his right shoulder. "Look out!" Chentelle cried.

A crossbow bolt shot through the space where Gerruth's head had been a moment before. It shattered against the mast, splattering the deck with hissing fluid.

The Legionnaire turned and loosed in one motion, his own arrow finding its mark in the chest of the goblin sentry from the docked warship. The second sentry ducked back behind cover. "My thanks, enchantress," Gerruth said, nocking another arrow without talcing his eyes off the goblin's position.

"Paun!" Captain Rone screamed. "Piss and rot, man, what are you waiting for? We need a sagewind!"

"I know that, Master Rone," Paun said. "But the goblins took my staff. I can't move the wind without it!"

"Of all the—A'stoc!" Rone shouted. "Where's the wizard? He can call the wind."

"No," Chentelle said. "He can't. He's unconscious, and we can't revive him."

"You must," Rone growled. "Or else Paun better whittle himself another sagestaff. We are doomed if we don't get wind."

Something large splashed into the water off their port.

"Arbalest," Rone said. "The other warships must have heard the commotion. They'll move in and cut us off."

"They can't move," Chentelle said. "Leth sabotaged their rudders."

A second splash threw water onto the deck.

"Well, damn me and bless that lad," Rone said. "But it'll do us no good if we can't get this lady under way. Paun! Now or never, man, it's now or never."

The shipsage had both hands wrapped around the mainmast. His face twisted with strain as he hummed stridently and rocked back and forth. His whole body trembled, and one of his legs gave way. He fell heavily, striking his head against the deck. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely.

"Man the harpoon," Rone shouted. He slapped his scimitar angrily and stalked over to the rail.

The Legionnaires were retreating steadily toward the ship. Dacius held the center position, giving ground step by slow step. Thildemar was on his right, and Sulmar's two swords wove a deadly shield on his exposed left. More than a dozen goblin bodies littered the pier, but the tide kept coming.

A wheezing cry sounded from the deck of the goblin warship. The second sentry had finally exposed himself. He fell, and his crossbow clattered to the ground, spending the shot harmlessly.

Gerruth turned back to the dock and nocked another arrow. He loosed that missile and one more. Then he and Leth both dropped bows and drew their swords. Dacius' feet had almost reached the gangway.

"Cover!" Drup shouted.

A volley of bolts scattered across the Treachery's deck, sent by a formation of goblins standing just off of the pier.

The whaler's harpoon jumped in response. The huge missile tore through the ground under the archers' feet, scattering their formation.

A door slammed open behind them. A'stoc stood at the top of the stairs, gripping the Staff in both hands. The wizard took a halting step forward, then another. Like a drunken marionette, he staggered toward the mainmast—eyes closed, legs twitching awkwardly, Thunderwood clutched rigidly to his chest.

And Father Marcus walked just behind him. The High Priest chanted slowly, his brow furrowed in concentration. His right hand rested on the back of A'stoc's neck and never strayed as he followed the wizard onto the deck.

As one, the pair stopped before the mast. A'stoc's arms wrenched into the air. Marcus shifted his chant, and words grated out of the wizard's throat. Emerald fire blazed to life, surrounding both mage and High Priest. The flames shot skyward, and a gale ripped into the Treachery's sails.

The ship lurched forward, then snapped to a halt. Wooden planks groaned with strain as the mooring lines pulled tight. Sailors and Legionnaires grabbed for support against the blast. Chentelle staggered against the rail, driven to her knees by the screaming wind. Only A'stoc was unaffected, secure in his halo of power.

Captain Rone scampered for the aft line. "Time to go, Lord Gemine!" he bellowed above the wind. "Pardec, on my mark, cut loose the bow line."

The sudden squall had thrown Thildemar and the goblins off balance. Dacius and Sulmar pushed forward, taking advantage of their greater mass and stability. They drove the attackers backward, creating a brief cushion in front of the gangplank. Dacius grabbed Thildemar with a supporting arm, and the three men rushed up the ramp.

"Now!" Rone screamed, scimitar raised high overhead.

"Wait!" Chentelle cried, pointing down the pier.

A figure was pressing slowly through the mass of goblins. It was Gorin. The priest's head was bowed. His hands were raised before his chest, clawed fingers curled into a circle. And he was surrounded by the gentle glow of sanctuary.

The goblins near the priest screamed in rage. Several of them lifted weapons to attack him, but as soon as they drew close their weapons dropped harmlessly to their sides. They gazed around in sudden confusion, helpless against the Creator's peace. The goblins moved out of Brother Gorin's path, unable even to block his progress so long as the sanctuary held.

The Treachery bucked wildly against her restraints. The gangplank bounced in the air, scattering several goblins who had been trying to force their way aboard. The sails snapped furiously and the planks around the mast bent with strain.

"Hurry!" Rone yelled. "She can't hold much longer."

Brother Gorin reached the foot of the plank. The goblins surrounding him gave way, powerless to block him. He jumped nimbly onto the walkway, but another lurch twisted the board under his feet.

He fell to the wood and was nearly thrown into the sea. Only his hard claws held him to the board.

The jolt broke his concentration and he stopped chanting. The aura of sanctuary faded.

Sulmar leaped forward. Keeping one hand on the rail, he reached out with the other and grabbed Gorin's collar. With one great heave he lifted the goblin and threw him onto the deck of the Treachery. Then he dived back to find his own cover.

"Now!" Rone shouted. His goblin blade sliced through the thick mooring rope.

The Treachery bounded sideways, shuddering slightly as the bow rope snapped an instant later.

Chentelle tumbled across the deck, slamming violently against the far rail. Water sloshed against her face. By the Creator, the ship was canted nearly horizontal. They were going down!

"Hard aport!" Rone screamed.

The Treachery's hull groaned in protest as the captain and crew struggled to make her respond.

Somehow, they managed to face her with the wind. The sails ruffled, then cracked full, yanking the goblinship forward. She plowed through the water, slowly righting herself as they gained speed. They ran with the gale toward the open seas.

"Sound off!" Dacius said. "Is everyone all right?"

One by one, the company checked in. Everyone was shaken and bruised, but no one was seriously hurt. Only A'stoc and the High Bishop failed to answer. They were both still wrapped in Earthpower, oblivious to their surroundings.

Dacius pointed toward the east. The shadows of the two warships loomed ominously against the brightening sky. "What's our course, captain?"

"Straight between 'em, Lord Gemine," Rone answered, shouting to be heard above the gale.

"No other choice. We'll have to pray our speed pulls us through safely."

Dacius paused for a moment, eyes roaming the deck. "We'll have a crossfire from their bowmen.

Drup, Leth, Gerruth—grab bows. Aim for their artillerists and sorcerers. Thildemar, you and I are shieldmen. Sulmar, will you man the harpoon?"

The Tengarian hesitated, looking to Chentelle.

Brother Gorin stepped forward. "I will watch over the enchantress. My sanctuary will shield us both."

"Mistress?" Sulmar inquired.

"Of course," Chentelle said.

Sulmar headed for the bow.

"Good," Dacius said. "Everyone else get below."

Chentelle felt Gorin's hard fingers grip her shoulder. A rhythm of deep peace and security flowed through her, pulsing in time to the priest's chant. With mild curiosity, she watched the Legionnaires scramble to their positions. They seemed strangely agitated.

A hail of arrows clattered across the deck. Several of them ripped through the sails, leaving tattered holes. Most of the missiles targeted A'stoc and Father Marcus. Rashes of red and yellow danced around the fiery shield. The effect blended curiously with the splashes of black acid that hissed across the boards. It was like a painting of a dream, rather pretty in composition and color.

The Treachery was directly between the two warships, now, and arrows buzzed furiously through the air. Their own bowmen were forced to huddle under cover while the goblin barrage was spent. A large stone slammed through one of the upper spars. Wood and rigging came crashing down, pinning Leth to the deck.

A goblin sorcerer stepped to the rail of one warship. Lightning crackled around his outstretched claws. Chentelle felt mild concern, realizing that this was real danger. Then an arrow quivered suddenly in his chest, and he fell backward. She felt moderate regret and relief.

The goblins started to shift the focus of their attack. Convinced that the flaming humans were beyond their power, they switched their aim to Captain Rone, exposed on the wheeldeck. But he, too, seemed beyond their reach.

Dacius and Thildemar crouched on either side of the captain, dozens of goblin missiles sprouting from the twin shields each wielded. Vitriol smoked and scarred the metal-wrapped wood, but the defense held. The Treachery plowed forward, leaving the warships quickly behind.

Then lightning blasted through the wheeldeck. Rone and his defenders were tossed into the air.

Dacius and Thildemar landed heavily, but Rone used the wheel to steady himself. He fell to his knees, but the Treachery never strayed from the wind.

Then came the arrows. Most of the final salvo fell short, raising brief white splashes in the gray sea. A few of them found the deck. Thildemar danced away as acid sprayed across his leatherbark tunic, and a metal bolt pierced Dacius through the calf. Captain Rone toppled to his side, blood running from his open mouth.