"We should go through," Marcus said. "Speed is vital."

Thildemar pointed to the map. "I thought that I knew all the forests of the Realm, but this Erietoph is new to me. Do any of you know it?"

"There is a verse in one of the Prophecies of Jediah," Father Marcus said absently. "It speaks of sanctuary and trial in a forest beyond the mists. The verse might refer to the Erietoph, but it is impossible to be certain."

"Strange." The old elf stroked his jaw thoughtfully. "Still, it is well beyond the western frontier, that land is seldom traveled. Father Marcus, do you know what we will find beyond the forest?"

There was a long silence, then Dacius stepped in with an answer. "The Mountains of Time begin on the other side. Fel told me that there used to be a dwarven settlement there, Marble Falls. It hasn't been in contact with the Realm since before the Wizards' War, and he wasn't certain of its location, but it's our best bet to find help and resupply."

"A new forest and a forgotten city." Thildemar smiled. "There's a song in this, or I'm no poet."

A strange look passed over Dacius' face. "I just hope it has a better ending than your last creation."

As if responding to an unspoken signal, the Legionnaires started stowing their gear. Minutes later, they entered the grim wasteland of the Trollskin.

Chentelle had never seen a troll's skin, but if it resembled this desert then they were ugly creatures indeed. The hard ground had a grayish-brown tint and was webbed with sunbaked cracks.

The terrain was scarred, forcing them to wind their way through a maze of deep pits and gullies.

Occasionally, a thorny bush managed to scratch a bleak existence from the waste, but there were no grasses or forage for the horses.

As evening neared, a wall of black clouds closed in on them from the north. Lightning flashed in the distance, and the roar of thunder was unmistakable.

Dacius ordered an immediate halt. Hurriedly, the Legionnaires erected the tent and tied it down with extra supports. Everything went inside: people, horses, equipment. The shelter was barely secured before the first splatter of rain pounded angrily at the canvas. The company huddled together, sharing silence and cold rations.

Chentelle found herself staring at A'stoc. She wanted to go to him, to wrap herself in his arms and ride out the storm. Frustration roared in her soul, echoing the thunder outside. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She refused to give up. There had to be a way.

Sighing quietly, she stood up and moved over to the horses. The poor creatures shifted nervously at each clap of thunder. She reached out to them, touching them softly with her Gift. She was tired and angry and empty inside, but she let the music fill her. She sang to herself as much as to the horses, wrapping them all in a melody of warmth and safety.

A'stoc stared at her as if entranced. The emotion swelling behind his eyes mirrored her own heart exactly, but she wasn't sure whether it was torment or joy. Maybe it was both.

* * *

Morning was cold. The lightning had passed beyond them, but heavy clouds still hid the suns, and steady rain beat down on their backs. Murky water swirled around the horses' hooves, running swiftly over hard ground in some places and forming deep pockets of mud in others. They were forced to dismount often and lead the horses over treacherous stretches of terrain. The gray mud clung to their clothing, smelling powerfully of decay and seemingly impervious to the cleansing effect of rainwater.

Shortly after midday, the storm finally broke. The clouds scattered and then vanished as if they had never been. Deneob's light beat down on them. The warmth was welcome, but the humid air was soon heavy with putrid odors. No one objected when Dacius pushed onward without stopping for a noon meal.

Just before nightfall, they halted and made camp. Dacius parceled out supplies for the evening, including the last of the oats they carried for the horses. As soon as they were settled, he brought out the map again.

"The storm slowed us too much. We're a long day still from the edge of the desert, assuming we don't find more delays. That's if we hold to our present course." He turned to Father Marcus. "If we turn due north, we'll reach the boundary sooner."

"That takes us out of our way," the priest said. "It will slow us down."

"Yes, but not as much as if we lose our mounts." Dacius nodded to the horses. "If we don't find them decent forage soon, they'll suffer. Some may even die."

Father Marcus hesitated, then nodded. "You are right, of course. Haste is important, but we must not let it blind us to other needs. What do you suggest?"

Dacius jabbed a finger at the map. "There's a town here, Sutan Marr. If we turn north now, we'll be less than three days' ride from it once we clear the desert. We can replenish our supplies and follow the open plain all the way to the Erietoph."

"Then that is our course," the High Bishop said. "I yield to your wisdom in this."

* * *

The next day's travel was even slower. The ground had solidified. Indeed, it gave no hint that there had even been a storm. But the horses were exhausted. The party alternated between walking and riding until midday, then simply led the horses the rest of the way. By the time Ellistar set in the west, the terrain had begun to change.

The gray clay gave way to a layer of soil, not rich but still fertile. Clumps of grass began to appear, along with other sprouts which the horses eagerly devoured. The landscape before them flowed into gently rolling hills covered with lush grass and the occasional patch of wildflowers. To their right, a spur of mountains thrust in their direction. The slopes were blanketed with the deep hues of juniper and pine, while the peaks glistened with snow.

Dacius took them only a short way into the hills before calling a halt. He removed his helm.

Chentelle realized that he must be very tired in that armor, but he would never admit it. "We'll stop here. Give the horses free range and then let them rest. They need it, and so do we."

"Do you know where we are?" Father Marcus asked.

Dacius pointed. "That's the western reach of the Pretgard Mountains. If we turn back to the northwest here, we should make Sutan Marr in three days of easy riding."

"Excellent," the priest said. "So we will be on the road again at first-light."

"Not unless we're forced to," Dacius said. "These horses will make it to the village, but they won't go much farther unless we give them more rest. I'd rather keep them healthy. Even if we can find replacements at Sutan Marr, they would be poor substitutes for Legion steeds."

The High Bishop nodded agreement. If he bristled at the new delay, he gave no outward sign.

For once, they ate a leisurely meal, neither too hurried nor too exhausted to enjoy their rations.

Of course, the rations themselves were much depleted, but the atmosphere remained buoyant.

Chentelle took advantage of the time to groom the horses. Drup volunteered to help, and together they set out to give each mount a good brushing and hoof trimming. The young elf tried his best to engage her in song and pleasant conversation, but her heart wasn't in it. She kept laughing an instant too late at his jokes, and her own attempts at humor fell woefully short. By the time they were finished, it was nearly dark. Chentelle thanked the Legionnaire for his help and settled in for a good night's sleep.

She woke to the warm glare of both suns full above the horizon. She scrambled quickly to her feet, certain that she had overslept. If so, she was not the only one. A'stoc, Father Marcus, and most of the Legionnaires were still in bed, too. Only Dacius, Drup, and Sulmar were up.

Chentelle smiled and repacked her bedding, then she walked over to join them. They spent the morning easily, sharing interesting tales and stories of home. To her delight, Chentelle found that she was able, even eager to join in. The morning just had an optimistic feel to it.

Dacius let the company rest until midmorning, then led them to the northwest. They spent two days riding without incident over gentle hills. On the third, they spotted smoke rising from the west.

"Cooking fires!" Drup called excitedly. "Oak and ash, it will be good to taste warm food again."

They turned toward the smoke and almost immediately ran into a worn trail rutted with wagon tracks. By midday, the small hamlet of Sutan Marr came into view, resting on the crests of twinned hills. It took only a glance to see that something was terribly wrong. The smoke was rising not from chimneys, but from the remains of the buildings themselves. Burnt timbers and blackened stone were all that remained of the small shops and farmhouses. Only the large hall in the town center was still standing, and its doors had been battered down.

"Leth, Gerruth, check the perimeter. Everyone else is with me. Keep your eyes open for survivors." Dacius spurred his horse into a gallop.

They charged up the hill and into the village square. Carrion birds scattered at their approach, squawking in protest and moving just out of reach. The smell hit them a moment later, removing any doubt. There were no survivors.

"Thildemar."

The old elf dropped smoothly to the ground and examined the field. "The fires are mostly out, but the deep embers are still warm. Call it two days." He examined a series of tracks. "Wolves, northern grays from the size, but no natural animal fired these buildings."

Chentelle stared at the tracks. They were huge, twice the size of any wolf's paw she'd ever seen.

"What are you saying? Wolves don't attack people. They must have come after the attack."

"No, enchantress." Thildemar pointed to scratch marks on the door of the hall. The wood inside the scratches was charred, indicating that it had been fired after the wolves tried to force it. "I fear these are dire wolves."

"Dire wolves?"

"He means they are possessed, Chentelle." A'stoc stared intently at a point just past her shoulder. "This pack is subjugated to the will of wraiths, shadows like those that attacked us on the road."

She shuddered, remembering the horrors she had seen in her dream.

Leth and Gerruth rode up to join them. "The perimeter is clear," Leth said. "There are wolf tracks leading north, but they are at least a day old."

Dacius nodded and swung out of his saddle. "Everybody down. Forget about supplies; anything here will be spoiled. Gather the bodies and move them into the hall. We can't stay long, but I won't leave these people for carrion."

They moved through the rubble, collecting whatever remains they found. Chentelle's stomach churned at the carnage. Body parts were thrown randomly through the village, many of them half-eaten. This was no natural pattern of feeding, it was deliberate desecration.

There was no hope of sorting out individual remains, so they simply laid the pieces into a communal pile. Father Marcus said a quick blessing, and they left the hall. Then Dacius nodded to A'stoc. Flames shot from the mandril, so hot that the stones themselves caught fire. In seconds, the hall was transformed into a funeral pyre.

No roads led westward from the town, so they took to the open plain. Dacius pushed their pace much harder, now, though he still took care that the horses were not overtaxed. The company traveled until past sunset and then made a hurried camp. They had barely finished their evening ration when the first howl split the night.

It was a mad and maddening sound, tortured and cruel at once. But, fortunately, it was faint and far off. The silence that followed it stretched for long minutes. Then came the second cry, no less jarring and much nearer.

"Stand ready," Dacius said.

Swords slid from their sheaths and arrows slid onto readied bows.

"Wait," Chentelle said. "If it is wolves, let me try first."

Dacius raised his sword. The steel shimmered with a faint blue aura. "You can try, Chentelle, but stay behind us. These are no ordinary animals. Archers, fire on my mark, not before."

The howls grew louder and more frequent. The vorpal blades glowed brighter. Chentelle steadied herself, marshaling her Gift and preparing a song.

The wolves appeared, a dozen of them or more. They were huge, tall as ponies and nearly as thick. Their eyes shone yellow, and their coats shimmered with pale silver light. They charged the company, baying wildly in anticipation.

Chentelle called out to them, shaping her song into a message of peace and coexistence. She sang of brotherhood and packs and the bonds that went beyond hunger. Her music danced with friendship and sharing, and it would not be ignored.

The lead wolves skidded to a halt, yipping in surprise and pain. Behind them, their packmates milled in confusion. One of the leaders tried to advance again, then howled in agony. He turned and bolted back the way he had come, followed closely by the rest of the pack.

"You did it," Dacius said, surprised. "You drove them off, and most effectively."

"But it shouldn't have happened like that." Chentelle stared into the empty darkness. "They should have welcomed the Gift, not run away in pain."

"It is the influence of the wraith," A'stoc said. "It twists them from within."

A chill wind blew across Chentelle's back. "Can we have a fire, now? They already know where we are."

"No," Dacius said. "The wolves know, but there may be other eyes searching for us."

Other eyes. Chentelle wrapped herself in a blanket and tried to suppress a shiver. She knew the watch that night would be particularly alert, but sleep was still a long time coming. She wished she could have close company, but knew that was neither likely nor wise.

Dacius had them awake and mounted before first-light. There had been no more trouble in the night, but he wanted to put distance between them and the pack.

The land beyond Sutan Marr flattened out into a wide prairie. Looking at the horizons, Chentelle could see that it climbed steadily to the northwest, but the grade was shallow enough that it did not strain the horses. They made good progress, but the wind grew colder with each league.

They stopped that night near a narrow stream. The water was fresh and clear, but bitingly cold.

Gratefully, they refilled canteens and washed away the dirt of the trail. Then they ate and settled in for another cold and fireless night.

Chentelle dreamt that she was cold and wet and hungry. She traveled a long, hard road, but a hot meal waited at its end. Then she could find a warm bed. It would be paradise.

She woke to screaming.

"Wolf! Wolf in the camp!"

Her eyes snapped open. Bared fangs snapped and snarled only a few cubits from her face.

An arrow whistled and buried itself deeply into the wolf's side. The beast staggered sideways, but showed no sign of pain. It righted itself instantly and charged for Chentelle.

She scrambled backward, trying to escape. But the blankets were still wrapped tightly around her legs. She stumbled and went down.

The wolf leaped.

Desperately, Chentelle sang out with the Gift, hoping to drive the beast away. It had no effect.

The creature was rabid with blood lust and frenzy. There was no will for her music to touch.

Long teeth sank into her shoulder, and her song became a scream. The wolf thrashed its head.

Water splashed her face and hard fangs ripped through muscle and sinew. The jaws released her for an instant, then flashed toward her throat.

Sulmar slammed into the beast, driving it off her. They wrestled together on the ground. Sulmar wrapped his arms around the wolf's neck. He twisted and wrenched, but the wolf was too powerful.

It broke free and rolled to its feet. It paused for an instant, yellowed fangs hovering a hand's breadth from the Tengarian's face. Then it whirled and ran for Chentelle.

"No!"

A sphere of magic exploded around the creature. Flames roared in the darkness like a thousand furnaces. Flesh burned away, leaving only a charred skeleton to clatter at her feet. A'stoc ran forward, mandril wand still thrust out before him. "Chentelle, are you all right?"

She tried to answer, but the world spun into gray numbness.

* * *

She drifted on warm and blissful music. The song washed through her, filling her with wellness.

She felt the flesh of her shoulder knit together, and she accepted it without surprise. How else could it be?

"She will be fine," Father Marcus said, letting his chant fade away. "But she needs rest."

A'stoc still hovered over her, his eyes wild. "Why was she the target? Why did the wolf single her out?"

"Because she was the one who drove them away last night," Dacius answered calmly. "They perceived her as a special threat. What I want to know is how it came this close without being discovered. Leth? Gerruth?"

The brothers winced and exchanged a helpless glance.

"Perhaps I can explain it." Thildemar was crouched near the bank of the stream. "Chentelle, was the wolf wet when it attacked you?"

"Wet? I don't know—wait. Yes. It splashed me with water as it bit."

"I thought so." Thildemar walked back to the camp. "The wolf swam up the stream and emerged on the bank once it was past the sentries. The signs are clear."

"The stream!" Leth cried. "Lord Gemine, I beg for your pardon. We never thought to watch the water."

"And why should you?" Dacius said. "Who expects a wolf to slither upstream like a moccasin?

But we must all be more wary. The enemy has many weapons to use against us."

"By the Creator." Father Marcus's voice was hushed. His eyes were wide with surprise and discovery.

Dacius's hand slapped against his sword hilt. "Where is it, High Bishop? What do you see?"

"An answer." He laid a hand on the Legionnaire's shoulder. "Relax, my friend; there is no new danger. It is your wisdom that has opened my eyes. You give good counsel."

The priest knelt down beside Chentelle. "You have suffered much, enchantress, but time is not our ally. Can you ride?"

Chentelle nodded. "I think so."

"Excellent." The High Bishop turned to address the company. "These wolves do not know the nature of our quest, but we must escape them before the enemy turns his gaze in this direction. Do not lose heart. Despair is but another of the Dark One's weapons. The Creator has not forgotten us. He still guides our steps, if we remember how to listen."

They mounted quickly and rode hard. The High Bishop led them unerringly to the northwest, following his inner sense of the Fallen Star's location. The twin suns rose and chased each other across the sky, but Father Marcus only pushed their pace even harder. Late in the day, a deep shadow rose on the horizon before them, a thick haze that obscured all vision.

"The Erietoph," said Father Marcus. "We are close."

But the forest was still two leagues away, and Deneob was already vanishing into the west.

Chentelle stroked Sundancer's neck gently. The poor mare was exhausted. Her head hung low, and foam gathered around her mouth. Chentelle guided her over to the High Bishop's mount. "Can't we stop? The horses need to rest."

Father Marcus looked down at his own horse. If anything, his young gelding looked even more spent than Sundancer. He kicked himself out of the saddle. "We must continue, but we will lead the horses. They can rest once we reach the shelter of the trees."

"Lord Gemine, look!" Leth stood upright in his stirrups, pointing back to the southeast. A dozen silver-hued shapes coursed along their trail, perhaps half a league away.

"The wolves," Dacius growled. "A'stoc, can you stop them?"

The wizard considered. "They are living flesh, so the Staff is useless. But with the archers help I should be able to defeat them with the mandril."

"And the second pack?" Thildemar gestured to the north. Another group of wolves ran toward them, many times as large as the first.

* 18 *

Erietoph Forest

Father Marcus swung himself onto the gelding's back. "Ride! We must make the forest."

They surged into a gallop, begging one final burst of speed from their weary mounts. A memory of pain throbbed in Chentelle's shoulder, and her legs ached from fatigue. She rocked with Sundancer's motion, feeling the tremor of strain in the mare's gait. She reached for her Gift, trying to ease the horse's burden, but the song was a feeble whisper, swallowed by the wind. Her head spun dizzily, and all she could do was cling desperately to Sundancer's mane.

Suddenly, Thildemar's mount went down. The horse's left foreleg snapped audibly, and it plowed into the earth with a frightened whinny. Thildemar launched himself from the saddle and landed in a smooth tuck. The old elf rolled several times, letting the ground absorb his momentum.

Then he hopped to his feet and started to run. The lead wolves were less than two hundred cubits behind him.

"Ride on!" Dacius shouted. "Head for the trees!" His own mount spun under his command, arcing around to circle behind the running elf. Dacius matched Thildemar's course and hung low in his saddle. His arm hooked under Thildemar's shoulder and swung the elf easily onto the back of his saddle. Simultaneously, he kicked the stallion's ribs, urging the beast into a full gallop.

But the wolves were closing fast. A few of the leaders paused by the fallen horse. They fell upon the helpless creature, ripping and tearing at the poor beast's flesh while it screamed and kicked feebly.

The rest of the pack charged after the fleeing Legionnaires, growling and yipping in anticipation.

Thildemar faced backward on the horse's rear. He had to clutch Dacius' shoulders with both hands, but his feet remained free. As the first wolf approached, snapping and biting at the horse's legs, the elf kicked. His worn boot landed solidly on the wolf's snout. The beast yowled and stumbled, but as quickly as the one fell behind, three more surged forward to attack. The two weren't going to make it.

Warm air blasted Chentelle's cheek.

A jet of green fire roared toward the Legionnaires. The Earthpower forked around Dacius'

terrified mount and rejoined itself on the other side. Then the magic grounded itself into the hillside and flashed sideward in both directions. The flames formed a wall, six cubits high and a hundred wide.

The first wolves were too close to avoid the barrier. Driven by their vile hosts, they leaped into the flames. The Earthpower let the living creatures pass through, but it latched on to the wraiths, ripping them from their shelters of flesh. Three wolves landed awkwardly on the near side of the wall; their fur was singed, but they were not seriously hurt. Three black shadows hung suspended in the wall. Deneob's last rays caught them there, fracturing them into a thousand shards. Their pitiable wails echoed through the hills.

A low moan caused Chentelle to snap her head around.

A'stoc's horse was stopped. The wizard stood rigidly in the stirrups, his arms shaking violently.

Earthpower seethed along the length of the Staff, but it also raged through the wizard himself. The growl from his throat became louder and less coherent, and tremors spread outward from his arms.

Suddenly, A'stoc's entire body rocked in a great spasm. He was thrown backward out of the saddle and landed heavily on the hard ground.

Chentelle gasped and reined in Sundancer's flight. "Sulmar! Help me."

They raced back to where A'stoc lay. Chentelle called to the wizard's mare and held her steady while Sulmar lifted A'stoc and set him across the saddle. Wisps of smoke rose from the dazed human's body, carrying the scent of burned hair. The Thunderwood was grasped in his hand, inert now but still hot to the touch.

"Hurry!" Dacius reined his stallion in beside them. The horse snorted and kicked at the earth, tearing large clumps from the hillside.

Chentelle risked a glance beyond the Legionnaire's shoulder. The wall of flames had vanished.

More than that, the pack from the north had joined their brethren. Nearly a hundred wolves now charged after them.

Sulmar slammed A'stoc's right foot into the stirrup and wedged it into place. "Go!" He dashed for his own horse and leaped smoothly into the saddle.

They ran. The shrouded forest lay just before them, but the snarling wolves seemed only a few steps behind. Chentelle's back itched, and she imagined she could feel hot breath on her neck, wet saliva dripping from glistening fangs. Her fear would not let her turn around; the howls grew louder, closer.

Finally, they passed into the mist. Chentelle's skin tingled; the moisture seemed to fall through her rather than on her. The mists were thick, almost tangible, but they were through them almost immediately.

A tangle of large trees loomed suddenly before them. Sundancer veered sharply, barely avoiding one of the trunks. Chentelle twisted on the mare's back, reaching to catch hold of one of the limbs.

Pain throbbed in her shoulder, but she forced herself to ignore it. Slowly, she pulled herself into the branches.

"Quickly," Father Marcus called from his own perch. "The wolves are coming!"

The tree shook. Chentelle looked over and saw Sulmar swinging himself into the heights. The Tengarian climbed as quickly and freely as a child. In seconds, he was above her, reaching down to lift her to safety.

Dacius and Thildemar found refuge in their own tree, but A'stoc was still moving in a daze. He climbed slowly, hampered by the Thunderwood Staff gripped in his left hand. He was barely out of the saddle when the first wolves emerged from the fog.

The frightened horse reared as they approached and ran deeper into the woods. A'stoc reeled, nearly falling from the tree. He hung upside down for a moment, his legs and right arm clutched around a low branch.

Two wolves leaped. The first snapped at A'stoc's back, but its teeth caught only a scrap of hanging robe. The jaws of the second clamped around the Thunderwood, ripping the Staff from the wizard's hand.

A'stoc screamed with rage. His eyes grew wide, and he wrenched himself onto the top of the branch. Still lying prone, he started chanting in harsh syllables. The mandril appeared in his hand, and he leveled it at the running wolf. A jet of hot flame caught the beast in mid-stride, reducing flesh and bone alike to ashes. Even after the wolf was gone, A'stoc poured power into the blaze. A raging fire grew, surrounding the untarnished wood of the Staff.

Then A'stoc shifted his focus. Scores of wolves were now weaving in and out of the trees, leaping and snapping in futile attempts to reach the company. One by one, he began to pick them off.

Spheres of fire shot through the trees, swallowing wolf after wolf.

Chentelle felt the anguish of their deaths, both the helpless rage of the wraiths and the confused pain of the wolves. And she felt something else, an ancient presence waking slowly and becoming angry. "A'stoc, stop!"

But the wizard was beyond counsel. The mandril flicked back and forth, finding and tracking new victims. Fireballs flashed from its tip, roaring in chorus to A'stoc's guttural spell. Another wolf fell, then another. Then one of the spheres missed its target. The flames burst against a massive tree. Half of the trunk exploded into burning fragments, and the tree crashed to the ground.

"Nooo!" Agony stabbed through Chentelle's mind. It was not just a tree, it was a lifelm. Beltis, the name echoed in her thoughts in a woman's voice. Memories flooded her, the recollections of a millennium vanishing into smoke. She pressed her face against the tree that sheltered her, letting her tears run down its trunk.

"Chentelle?" A'stoc shook his head in confusion. "What are—" His eyes went round as he saw the burning tree. "Oh, no. I'm sorry, it was an accident."

A wordless moan filled the forest around them, throbbing in their ears and vibrating through the marrow of their bones. The dire wolves started whining and slinking submissively.

Suddenly, huge roots burst from the ground. A dozen wolves were wrapped in wooden coils and dragged under the earth. As soon as they vanished, a fierce wind blew through the trees. Some wolves were lifted into air and dashed against hardwood trunks. The rest were blasted back onto the plain in a tempest of twigs and flying leaves.

Chentelle wrapped her arms around the trunk, ready to fight against the wind. But no wind came. Slowly, she forced herself to relax. Amazingly, a hurricane whistled across the forest floor, but six cubits above not a branch was stirring.

The last of the wolves disappeared into the mists, and the night became suddenly very still and very silent. The only sound was the crackling of flames around the Thunderwood and the fallen lifelm.

Father Marcus chanted a quick prayer, and orb-light pressed back the darkness.

A'stoc swung down to the ground and walked over to the Thunderwood. He passed the mandril slowly over the flames, and fire swirled upward and disappeared into the wand. Then he reached down and picked up the Staff. The wood remained whole and perfect, as if the flames had never touched it. Smiling thinly, the wizard turned and walked over to the burning lifelm.

Chentelle started to climb down from the tree, but Sulmar's hand closed on her wrist. She started to voice a protest—then froze. She heard it. Shifting branches and a slow, heavy thudding, like the tread of some huge beast.

Soon everyone heard it. Swords slid from their sheaths, and arrows slapped against taut strings.

But the vorpal metal glowed only with reflected orb-light. Whatever was coming was no Ill-creature.

A'stoc stood exposed in the clearing. He spun to face the noise, but made no attempt to run. He was at least a dozen cubits away from any tree large enough to provide shelter, and the sound was close. He planted the Staff against the earth and raised the mandril wand.

A huge figure pressed through the trees and into the small clearing. It was a giant! He stood at least nine cubits tall and nearly half that wide. He strode forward on gnarled legs, and his massive hands clutched an oaken staff as thick as a human's chest. His gaze locked on to A'stoc, and he lifted the staff above his head. His voice was a deep rumble that easily filled the clearing. "Stand aside!"

A'stoc moved cautiously to his left.

As soon as he was out of the way, the giant started to chant. The language he used was strange, almost harsh. Syllables scraped against each other like slabs of stone, but the rhythm was steady, tranquil. Wind gusted around the giant's feet, then swirled forward to surround the lifelm, Beltis. Frost formed on her bark, and a thick blanket of snow materialized to smother the flames.

Chentelle felt the pull of the giant's song. The winter wind wrapped Beltis in a tender embrace, easing her into a painless death. The lifelm's relief and gratitude poured into Chentelle, and she sang.

Her voice twined through and around the giant's chant, warm life blending with cold death. It was Beltis' song, a song of deep roots and falling rain, of long tales and windblown leaves. It sang of joy and family and profound contentment, of patience and understanding as fathomless as the underground sea. It sang good-bye and fare well. It sang peace.

The two songs ended as one, and the giant let his staff rest against the earth. He turned to face Chentelle, his nearly bald head level with hers as she stood in the tree. His eyes were stark blue rings surrounding deep circles of emptiness. They latched on to hers with a need that bordered on desperation. Pain lived in those eyes, and sadness beyond words. But they held hope, too, and surprise. "What magic is this? Your song captures grief and turns it to love."

"It is my Gift," Chentelle said, "I am an enchantress. But the song was not mine. I was only the messenger."

The giant nodded. His eyes closed and he lifted his head as if he heard the music still. Large tears slid freely down his weathered face.

Tension eased from the company. Swords were sheathed and arrows replaced in their quivers.

Dacius dropped to the ground, and the others were quick to follow. Even A'stoc relaxed, letting Staff and mandril drop to his sides.

"Well," the wizard said, "what do we do now?"

The giant's head snapped down and his eyes fixed on A'stoc. A finger larger than Chentelle's wrist jabbed toward the wizard. "You are the one, the murderer of Beltis. Your life is forfeit for destroying one of the ancients."

"What?" A'stoc's mouth went wide in surprise. "Surely, you are not serious? It was an accident.

I meant no harm to the tree." His knuckles went white on the Thunderwood, and the mandril twitched in his hand, though he did not raise it.

"Nevertheless—"

"One moment." Father Marcus stepped forward, interposing himself between A'stoc and the giant. "Your pardon, sir, but this company travels under my authority. If any blame is to be leveled, it is mine to bear. I am Father Marcus Alanda, High Bishop of the Holy Order in Talan. May I ask with whom I speak?"

If the giant was impressed by the priest's title, he gave no sign. "I am Glathrel Geodimondan, Last of the Giants, Keeper of the Erietoph."

"Keeper?" the High Bishop asked.

"Servant, if you prefer." The giant shrugged. "The words are identical."

Chentelle sensed confusion in the priest. "Father Marcus," she said softly, "this forest is aware. It knows we are here."

Glathrel nodded. "The singer is correct. The Erietoph has a will, and I am the voice of that will."

Father Marcus opened his arms in the sign of harmony. "Truly, the Creator has blessed us. The wonders of his Creation are infinite. My heart warms to speak with a giant when all were thought lost, and it soars to learn of a new spirit that joins in the circle of harmony. But I must put those things aside, for our need is urgent. We are on a quest of terrible importance. If we fail, Infinitera will be destroyed. I beg of you, please allow us to pass without hindrance. The Creation itself depends upon it."

Glathrel's expression wavered. He cocked his head as if listening to a voice on the wind, then his eyes became firm once more. "The Erietoph has no quarrel with you, High Bishop of Talan, nor with any of your other companions. You may pass freely through the forest, but the murderer must pay for his crime."

A'stoc slammed the Thunderwood against the ground. There was a gust of wind, a hushed whisper that seemed to spread through the forest. "Enough! Listen to me, Keeper. I will not submit to trade my life for a tree. I regret the accident. It was never my intention to harm the forest, but I acted only to defend our company from the wolves."

"Not true." The giant's voice had a hard timbre of finality. "You were consumed by rage. The anger made you careless."

"I—" A'stoc faltered, unable to deny the truth in the accusation. "I'm sorry. But it was only one tree."

"Stop saying that!" Chentelle was surprised at the vehemence in her voice. "It wasn't a tree. It was a lifelm."

He stared at her, shock and incomprehension mingled on his face. "What are you saying?"

"Oh, A'stoc." She forced herself to keep her voice calm. "Lifelms aren't just trees. They're dendrifauns that have gone through the change—metamorphosized like caterpillars into butterflies."

"Dendrifauns." Understanding spread slowly across the wizard's face. "I have heard legends, but... I'm sorry. I did not know."

"Such ignorance," Glathrel said. "And unless my eyes deceive me, that robe proclaims you as a Master of Wood Lore."

A'stoc turned away from the accusation in the giant's eyes. "Much knowledge was lost during the war. We are only now beginning to recover it."

"Inexcusable," the giant growled. "It requires no special knowledge to know that wood burns and you must be careful with fire in a forest, especially magical fire. You should have considered the possible consequences before you murdered the ancient."

"It was not murder!" A'stoc shouted.

"It was," Glathrel answered coldly. "And so it shall remain until you have paid the penalty for your crime."

"Gentlemen, please." Once again, Father Marcus moved to place himself between the two.

"Wizard A'stoc, I must ask you to remain silent for a moment. The strain of your ordeal has made you intemperate. Glathrel, we all share your grief. Some of us are only now coming to understand how great was your loss, but we all felt the power in Chentelle's song. But I ask for your understanding.

You have lived through the massacre of your people; you understand the Desecration. I say to you now that if we are not allowed to complete our quest, the entire world will suffer such destruction.

And we cannot succeed without A'stoc. He was the apprentice to A'pon Boemarre, and he bears the Tree of—"

The giant moved with astonishing speed, pressing past the startled priest and snatching A'stoc off the ground. One huge hand surrounded the wizard's arm, holding him suspended in the air. The other raised the oaken staff, preparing to deliver a crushing blow.

The company exploded into action. A chorus of swords scraped from Legion sheaths. As if by magic, an arrow appeared in Drup's bow, and he began to draw back the string. Sulmar charged forward, aiming a lunging punch at the inside of the giant's leg. But they were reacting too late.

Glathrel's sudden attack had taken them by surprise.

"Stop!" Chentelle screamed the word, backing it with all the power of her magic. It rippled through the clearing, freezing everyone in midmotion. But she knew it wouldn't last. Already, the delicate equilibrium was shifting back toward violence. She had to do something.

"Please." She concentrated on the Keeper, using her Gift to let the giant feel what was in her heart. "Glathrel, I can't pretend to know the pain you have endured, but I do know the Desecration. I know the emptiness, the desolation. I have felt it in my own heart and in the memories of one who lived through it, and I feel it now in the rage that consumes you. It's horrible; the world shouldn't hold such pain. But A'stoc didn't cause the Desecration. He doesn't deserve to be the target of your vengeance."

The giant did not answer, but he did not strike either.

Chentelle walked forward. Sulmar started to protest, but she waved him to silence. "Glathrel."

She laid a hand gently on the giant's knee. "I have been told that the giants are a magnanimous people, that you love long feasts and longer tales. The legends call you gentle and noble and peaceful of heart.

Please, do not turn those stories into lies. Don't become a murderer in the heat of rage, as you accuse A'stoc of being."

Pain misted in the Keeper's eyes, and he lowered A'stoc to the ground. Then he dropped heavily to his knees and threw back his head. A cry of raw misery tore from his throat, and a cold wind howled through the trees in sympathy. He rocked forward until his head almost touched the ground.

Chentelle trembled under the force of his sorrow, a grief as deep and vast as the sea. A scream burned through her throat, joining in the chorus of lamentation. The wail echoed through the forest and then faded slowly into the wind. After it ended, Chentelle wrapped her arms around Glathrel's neck and hugged him tightly. Locked in embrace, she shared the giant's silence and his tears.

She wasn't sure how long they stayed that way. But when the giant finally pressed her away and stood up, the company had moved off to the far side of the clearing.

Father Marcus must have been watching for any movement, because he walked immediately toward them. "Your pardon, Keeper. Now I must apologize to you once more. I had not meant to awaken such pain within you."

"That guilt is not yours," Glathrel said, "for the pain never slept. But perhaps now it will. The old ones told that sorrow shared is sorrow diminished."

"Such is the lesson of harmony," the priest agreed. "May it be so with you. But, again, I must insist that you allow Wizard A'stoc to pass freely. We are on a quest to destroy a great evil."

"You speak of the star," Glathrel said, "the one that fell beyond the Mountains of Time."

"Yes!" Father Marcus cried. "Did you see it?"

"Only for a moment, while it was in the sky above. The Erietoph sensed its malevolence, but then it passed beyond the mists."

"Then you understand the importance of our mission," Marcus said. "You know that the star must be destroyed."

"I know that the forest must be protected, and its laws must be obeyed." The Keeper's voice started to regain its former edge. "Retribution is due."

"Glathrel." Chentelle spoke the word gently. "Please, we are trying to protect the forest, and everything else in Infinitera. Help us."

The Keeper looked at Chentelle, his expression slowly softening. Then he closed his eyes and knitted his brows in concentration. After a moment, he spoke again. "The Erietoph must consider. For now, the forest will let you pass freely. Follow the path; it will take you where you must go. I will return to you when the Erietoph has reached a decision. The wizard must not attempt to leave the forest before then."

Father Marcus shifted uneasily. "I thank you for your efforts, Keeper, but I pray that your forest decides quickly. We must move with haste."

"That does not matter." Glathrel turned and started to walk away.

"Um, excuse me," Drup said. "But what happened to the horses?"

"Your mounts were hard-used," Glathrel called without turning. "The Erietoph has given them shelter and a place to rest. If you would travel these paths, you will do so on your own legs. Make no fire and bare no steel. There is nothing in this forest that will harm you."

"What about our equipment?" Dacius called. "Our supplies are still on the horses."

There was no answer, and the trail the Keeper had walked down so easily now seemed an impenetrable wall of brush.

"This is an ill omen," Father Marcus said. "We make enemies where we should have found friendship."

Hot emotion flashed across A'stoc's face, but the priest continued before he could make a retort.

"No, wizard, I do not blame you. But this delay serves only the enemy." He paused, surveying the tired faces of the company. "I know that we are all weary, but I would like to travel a little farther.

I fear this clearing will make a poor campsite."

No one objected.

A single pathway led out of the clearing, heading almost due west. Father Marcus led the way, lighting the trail with orb-light, and the rest of them followed in line. The pathway was wide and even, but Chentelle's legs trembled with every step. She wasn't sure when she had been so tired. Sulmar tried to offer her support, but the moment they touched she felt his own exhaustion. She would make her own way.

After nearly an hour, the trail opened into a wide glade. There were no paths out, and a neat pile in the center held all of their supplies. They made camp quickly and without comment, as if nothing unusual had occurred. Drup prepared a simple meal of bread and nuts, but Chentelle was too tired to think of food. She found her blankets and dropped immediately into a deep and dreamless slumber.

* * *

She woke to the splash of raindrops on her face. The weight of her soaked blanket testified that the rain had been falling for some time. It was light, but she couldn't see either of the suns. The daylight seemed to emanate from the omnipresent blanket of mist.

Most of the others were still asleep, but Leth and Gerruth stood alertly in the center of camp.

She stood up to go join them, but as she threw back the cover she saw A'stoc huddled in the shelter of a gnarled oak. The wizard's eyes were bloodred and deeply shadowed. If he had slept at all, it had not been restful.

He looked up as she approached and rolled stiffly to his feet. "Good morning," he called loudly.

"The suns are hidden, but it must be nearly dawn."

By the Creator, the man could be infuriating sometimes. But his ploy had worked. The whole camp was stirring now, and Father Marcus would waste no time in urging them onward. She sighed and turned back to her bedroll. Maybe she could squeeze some of the water out of the blankets.

Dacius called for everyone's attention. "Pack carefully and lightly. From now on you'll be carrying the weight yourself." He grabbed his helm and lowered it onto his head. The metal glowed briefly and melded seamlessly with the steel of his breastplate. Then he tossed a large pack over his shoulder and hefted his shield. "REMEMBER, THE MOUNTAINS BEGIN AS SOON AS WE

LEAVE THE FOREST."

Chentelle wrung her blanket one last time and then rolled it neatly. Besides her bedroll and an extra blanket, she had only the clothes she wore and a heavy traveling cloak. She stowed these neatly in her pack along with a portion of their supplies. Then she was ready.

A wide trail now led into the west, though the ring of trees had been solid not an hour before.

Thildemar started to take the lead position, but Father Marcus motioned him back. "I do not think your skills will be needed. It is evident that the Erietoph guides us where it will."

Chentelle hung back in the rear of the company with Sulmar. A'stoc was immediately in front of them, but the wizard rebuffed or ignored all her attempts at conversation. The rain stopped almost as soon as they were under way, but the wet ground still made travel slow. The path seemed to reveal itself step by step, never visible more than three paces in front of them and disappearing entirely once they had passed.

It was curiously quiet. Not a bird chirped, nor an insect buzzed. Chentelle could feel the life around them, but it remained distant. It wasn't natural. She had never felt so isolated and uncomfortable in a forest. She was tempted to reach out with her Gift, to force some kind of contact with the creatures of the Erietoph, but something held her back.

They marched on in eerie silence, and finally Chentelle could take it no more. Just because the forest was hushed didn't mean she had to be. She started to sing, choosing a song Willow had taught her when she was barely fifty. It was a merry tune about the adventures of a drop of water, and it ran up and down the scales like splashing rain. She sang with her natural voice, not using the Gift, and smiled at the simple pleasure the sound brought.

A delighted chuckle drifted toward her on the wind, and she cut off her song. Immediately, the laughter disappeared. She eyed her companions, but though her song had lifted their spirits, none showed any sign of such levity. In fact, they seemed not to have heard the tittering at all. Of course.

Chentelle smiled. If there were lifelms, there must be dendrifauns. She started to sing again, using her Gift, now, to let the listeners feel her joy at their presence.

A rich tenor blended into her song—Thildemar. Soon Drup joined the chorus, then Leth and Gerruth. Even Father Marcus hummed along, though he could not follow the words. The other humans looked confused, unable to understand the deep joy that filled the elves. But even they responded to the nature of the song. Their steps grew light, and the furlongs fell away behind them.

Suddenly, the trail vanished. Chentelle stopped her song in midmeasure. Trees pressed in all around them, branches swaying in a steady breeze. There was no path ahead and no retreat behind.

They were trapped. Deep laughter echoed through the woods.

Dacius's hand snapped to his sword, but he drew only the first hand width from the sheath. The vorpal steel remained cold and lifeless.

"Easy, my friend," Thildemar said. "There is no danger."

"WHAT IS IT?" Dacius's voice rumbled through the forest. He reached up and pulled off his helmet. "Sorry. It's easy to forget I'm wearing it."

Thildemar smiled. "No harm done, but you may have scared them off. The forest spirits are shy.

I do not think one has shown itself to a human in more than a century."

"That's about to change," Chentelle said. Curious eyes turned her direction, and she nodded toward the forest.

A dozen trees had come to life and intertwined their limbs, forming a great circle around the company. Wind whistled through leaf and branch, surrounding them with the same melody that the company had been singing. Roots kicked loose from the earth, dancing across the ground and beating a steady percussion.

"Dendrifauns?" A'stoc asked, cocking an eyebrow at Chentelle.

She nodded. The warmth of the song bubbled through her. And she could hear other sounds, now, birdsong and the rustling feet of squirrels. The forest was finally welcoming them.

Suddenly, the song ended. The dendrifauns scurried away, cloaking themselves once more with the illusion of trees. Only three remained behind: a female with rose-colored buds and two males who hovered together a little farther off.

"Hello," Chentelle said. "Thank you for the song."

The dendrifaun answered in her own tongue, which was also the tongue of elves. "We found it floating through the forest and thought we should return it. But who are you, elf girl, who sings so charmingly in the forest language?"

"I am Chentelle," she said, "daughter of Dalen and Eudora, child of Lone Valley Forest where the restless unicorns roam. It is far to the east, near the Quiet Sea."

"I am pleased to meet you, Chentelle, child of Lone Valley Forest. It is a joy to hear the old tongue spoken by youthful lips. The only travelers we usually see are dwarves. They make good songs, though the subjects are strange, but their manners are atrocious."

"Your pardon, elder." Thildemar stepped forward and bowed respectfully. "But are you responsible for hiding our trail?"

The dendrifaun wiggled her twigs in amusement. "No, the trees move when we ask them, but they sometimes set their own path. Still, perhaps I can restore it." The wind gusted, carrying the rustle of leaves and the scent of spring blossoms. Then a cricket chirped three times and the pathway reappeared before them.

"Thank you," Thildemar said.

A'stoc shuffled noisily forward. "I don't suppose one of you would care to translate? Do these creatures speak for the forest?"

The dendrifaun bristled, sharp thorns shifting along her branches. "You are the killer of Beltis,"

she said in the language of the Realm. "You have the manners of a dwarf."

Chentelle jumped in hastily. "Perhaps introductions are in order." She presented the company one by one, giving their names and homelands. The elves each bowed respectfully when mentioned, and the humans mimicked their etiquette.

"Well met, wanderers. I am Prickly-Ash." The dendrifaun dipped her trunk gracefully until her branches swept the ground. Then they straightened and motioned for the two males to join her. "The handsome one with the gray bark is Ironwood, and the youngster is Laurel. Say hello, fellows."

The two males bowed in unison. Then the younger one spoke to Prickly-Ash. "Are you sure we should be talking to them? The Keeper has forbidden it."

"The Keeper cannot forbid, dear, only suggest." Prickly-Ash winked a knotted eye at Chentelle.

"Besides, it has been three thousand years since the elves left the Erietoph; would you have us ignore their return?"

Laurel waved a branch at A'stoc. "But he killed an ancient!"

Ironwood reached out a limb and moved the branch away from the wizard. "Don't be impolite, Laurel. It is not our place to judge or condemn. The Erietoph will decide his punishment. Our business is of another nature." He turned to face Chentelle. "Did I hear you say that you come from Lone Valley?"

"Yes, elder."

"This is surely a sign." The dendrifaun rippled his bark meaningfully. "Gnarlroot has told me many tales of that fine forest, and it is because of him that we come to you."

"Gnarlroot?" Chentelle asked.

"Yes," Ironwood said. "He dipped his roots into Lone Valley for many centuries before coming to join the Erietoph. I believe he used to be called Fizzfaldt."

"Fizzfaldt!" she exclaimed. "Oh, this is wonderful. Can you take us to him?"

"That is the reason we are here," Ironwood said.

"Enchantress?" Father Marcus touched her arm gently. "I am sorry, Chentelle, but I do not believe we have the time for this."

Ironwood turned to the High Bishop. "You are a healer?"

"I am a priest," Marcus said. "I heal when I am able."

"Then you will understand. Gnarlroot's time is near, but the change does not go well with him.

The Keeper cannot help him, and he has ordered us not to seek your help." His branches twitched in agitation. "I cannot explain further. You must go to him. You are his only hope."

"Please, Father." Chentelle gripped the High Bishop's hand. "He's a legend in Lone Valley. We have to go see him. There may be something we can do to help."

Sadness welled in the priest's eyes, but he shook his head. "I am sorry, Chentelle. It grieves me to turn away from a creature in need, but we must keep moving. All of Infinitera depends upon us.

There's no time to spare."

"Time?" Prickly-Ash wiggled her twigs. "We have all the time in the world!"

"Perhaps you do," Father Marcus said, "but we do not. We must be on our way."

"Perhaps I can ease your mind," Ironwood said. "The path you follow will lead you to Gnarlroot.

Whether you stop or ignore him is up to you. As to Prickly's comment, she is essentially correct. Time within the Erietoph flows differently from that beyond the mists. Less than an evening passes in the world outside for each two days in the forest. I do not understand why this is so, but it is. Perhaps Gnarlroot can explain it to you."

Father Marcus shook his head. His shoulders slumped as in defeat, but there was a smile on his face. "It seems our path is set, then. Lead on, forest spirit. But I make no promises. We can't afford to antagonize the Keeper further."

The dendrifauns moved ahead of them, gliding down the trail on sinuously writhing roots. The motion looked deceptively slow. Chentelle knew from experience that they could keep pace with the swiftest walk and hold it tirelessly through the day.

Dacius dropped back to Chentelle's side. "I heard them mention dwarves. Do you think they might know where Marble Falls is?"

"Marble Falls?"

Dacius started at the voice. He wasn't used to the keen hearing of dendrifauns.

"I've heard some of the dwarves mention it," Prickly-Ash continued, "but I don't know where it is. Someplace cold and hard, I imagine. Maybe Gnarlroot can help. He knows more about the world outside than any of us."

Chentelle smiled. So they had yet another reason to go see Fizzfaldt. Now Father Marcus would surely let them stop.

They walked for hours, stopping only once for a brief meal. The dendrifauns entertained them on the journey, sharing stories about ancient oaks and hidden streams. Ironwood did most of the talking, keeping courteously to the tongue of the Realm. Prickly-Ash and Laurel were mostly silent. When they spoke, it was only to keep up a running argument about the wisdom of approaching the company and what the Keeper would do if he found out.

They marched along steadily until the light began to fade from the sky. Then the dendrifauns started to slow and become halting in their movements.

"Is something wrong?" Father Marcus asked. "Do we need to stop?"

No one answered. The dendrifauns were gone, vanished back into the dark forest. Father Marcus muttered a quick prayer and called for orb-light.

The trail before them opened into a small clearing. A lone figure occupied a knoll in the center of the glade. It had to be Fizzfaldt. A shaft of sunlight poured down through the mist, bathing him in red warmth. But his branches were bare of leaves, and patches of bark had fallen away from his trunk and limbs. Much of what remained was coated with a layer of white fungus, like barnacles on an aged whale. The old dendrifaun remained fully in tree form, not acknowledging their arrival. He looked dead.

Chentelle ran to Fizzfaldt's side. She felt the disease within him immediately, but she also felt life.

He was not gone yet! She reached into him, singing softly with the Gift. She sang of Lone Valley, of the taste of its soil and the scent of its wind. She sang of Willow and the Heart Tree she had longed to have in Lone Valley, and she heard a soft echo rise within the dendrifaun.

A face materialized slowly in the bark of the trunk. The knots of his eyes were deeply shadowed, and the crack of his mouth shifted constantly. His lower limbs quivered slightly, but his roots remained embedded deep in the hilltop. It was apparent that Fizzfaldt would wander no more.

"Who are you, that sings sweetly of home and calls me by a forgotten name?"

"I am Chentelle of Lone Valley, daughter of Dalen and Eudora," she said. "But your name is not forgotten. I have heard tales of your exploits ever since I was a child. Fizzfaldt the Wanderer is a name of legend."

"A legend! Is that what they call me?"

"Of course!" She stroked his face tenderly. "Your story is one of the greatest—no, the greatest mystery of the dendrifauns. Willow sang of you many times, of your driving curiosity, your desire to taste the sea and travel to all the forests in the world. Most people think that you succeeded in your quest, that you found paradise and never wished to return."

"Paradise, eh?" Fizzfaldt made a rasping sound that may have been a laugh. "Well, perhaps I have found it now, to hear that I am still remembered. In truth, I had imagined that I was long forgotten in Lone Valley."

"Never!" Chentelle said. "No one has forgotten. Everyone will be so happy when I return and give them the end of your story. They will rejoice to learn of your journeys."

Again, the rasping laugh. "All they will learn, dear child, is that I have become Gnarlroot the Old.

I traveled the world and tasted many strange soils, but such a life was not meant for dendrifauns. We are creatures of the forest, and in forests we should remain. Each land I wandered sapped more of my strength. I have grown weak, and my roots are withered. I can't even make the change. Death is the end of my story. Carry that back to Lone Valley."

"No. You aren't going to die." Chentelle was surprised at the vehemence in her voice. She motioned to the High Bishop, pleading with her eyes. "This is Father Marcus, a great healer. He's going to help you."

The priest stepped forward, all doubts banished by the sight of Fizzfaldt's suffering. "I will do what I can."

He closed his eyes and started to chant. The peace of sanctuary surrounded him immediately, and reached out to touch the dendrifaun. His hands roamed over Fizzfaldt's face for several minutes, then he opened his eyes and let his chant fade. "I'm sorry. I can sense the illness within you, but your body is so different from anything I have known. I do not have the knowledge, the understanding required to correct the damage. I have stopped the disease from spreading, but that is all."

"Then I am still going to die," Fizzfaldt said.

"No!" Chentelle cried. "There has to be a way. Please, Father Marcus, isn't there anything you can do?"

The High Bishop sighed thoughtfully. "Perhaps the knowledge of Wood Lore is what's needed.

Wizard A'stoc, if you would allow me to possess you once more?"

"No."

Chentelle stared. "What do you mean? You have to! He'll die otherwise. Don't you see? This is your chance to pay back the forest, to replace the life that you took."

Pain showed in A'stoc's eyes. "You misunderstand. I meant that my knowledge of Wood Lore will not help. I did not even know that dendrifauns existed before yesterday. I know nothing that will help."

"Oh." Chentelle turned away from his eyes. She should have known better. "A'stoc, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—Wait. Father Marcus, I can help. I know rillanmor, the Lore of Living Wood. I can guide you."

"Are you certain?" the priest asked. "You would have to open yourself to possession. It is not a pleasurable experience."

"Of course," she said. "If that's what it takes to heal Fizzfaldt, then that's what I'll do."

"One moment." The dendrifaun's words were becoming slower, more labored. "Before you heal me, I want to know. Will I be able to move again, or will I make the change and become a lifelm?"

"I—I don't know," Chentelle said. "Let me see."

She reached into Fizzfaldt with her Gift, searching now with her knowledge of rillanmor. She drifted through fibrovascular bundles and sap-filled arteries. The trauma of disease was everywhere.

Some of the tissue was dead, much of the rest had already made the transformation to lifelm. Those parts that were still vital and dendrifaun balanced in uneasy equilibrium: too strong to die, too weak to make the change.

She pulled herself back to her own body. The tears in her eyes probably gave Fizzfaldt his answer, but she had to say it anyway. "The change has already started. Your roots are set."

"I see." His voice was weak but steady. "Do not cry, child of my home. This is the natural course. I have been preparing myself for death. It feels much better to look forward to experiencing the millennia from this warm roost. But the healing must wait until morning. It grows late, and there are still things which must be said."

The dendrifaun's face vanished back into featureless bark. Father Marcus looked at her, questions obvious on his face.

She waved vaguely at the twilight. "Dendrifauns go dormant at night. It takes too much energy to stay active without sunlight, especially for the very old."

"So we wait until morning," he said, "and more time passes." Exasperation was plain in his voice, but it soon vanished, replaced by quiet serenity. "Still, we can take comfort in Ironwood's words. If time truly passes more quickly here, then we will lose little. The Creator has blessed us with a safe haven and long night. Let us make the most of both."

They set up camp quickly. After a simple meal, Father Marcus insisted that everyone go to bed.

He allowed no watch to be posted and ordered only that the first person to awake in the morning rouse the others.

Chentelle needed no special urging to retire, but she found sleep elusive. The fatigue of her body was countered by her racing mind. So much had happened. To stumble across Fizzfaldt here, so far from Lone Valley, who would have believed it? Something nagged at her, though. Why hadn't the Heart Tree of Sylvandale known where he was? It was connected to all the forests of Infinitera, and the Erietoph was certainly a forest.

She sighed. It was no use. She threw off the blanket and stood up. Everyone was asleep except A'stoc and Father Marcus. The priest was deep in meditation, but the wizard was simply standing by himself, leaning on his Staff and staring at Fizzfaldt.

She walked over to him. His eyes were red with fatigue, but they stayed locked on the dendrifaun with manic intensity. "A'stoc? How are you feeling?"

His gaze shifted, slowly coming to rest on her. "It does not matter."

"It does! It matters to me." She wanted to reach out to him, to hold him in her arms. She ached with the need to make promises she couldn't keep. "Oh, A'stoc, don't be afraid. I won't let them hurt you."

"I am not afraid." The words spoken were devoid of emotion. They hung in the air as his eyes slid away from her face and back toward the hilltop.

Chentelle spun away in frustration. There was no talking to him when he was like this. She stamped back to her bedroll and jerked the blankets over her shoulders. Her thoughts chased each other late into the night, but sleep came at last.

* * *

She stands next to Fizzfaldt, touching him with Father Marcus' hands. A voice challenges her. It is A'stoc.

"You cannot heal what you cannot comprehend."

She sees the High Bishop's pain, and brushes his cheek with a withered branch. "Don't cry for me. Change is much better than death."

"You know better than that," Father Marcus answers. "The Creation is perfect."

His words stab her like a knife. "But how can I love it? I'll never understand it."

A'stoc sweeps her into his arms. His eyes are warm and full of love. "There is no hope, only pain."

* * *

Chentelle's eyes snapped open, and she barely stifled a scream. The images of the dream echoed in her mind, and the cold wind whispered pain and despair. She pulled the blankets tightly around her, trying to stop her shivering.

Soft voices drifted toward her: one calm, the other strained. A'stoc and Father Marcus were talking on the far side of the clearing. The High Bishop was shaking his head vehemently. Finally, he threw up his arms and stalked back to the camp. A'stoc stayed where he was, leaning against a tree, staring thoughtfully into the night.

Something about his posture reassured Chentelle. She took several deep breaths, letting the trembling subside, then she rolled over and closed her eyes. Sleep came quickly this time, and it brought no painful dreams.

* * *

The morning was bright and full of hope. Father Marcus led them in a hymn of thankfulness, reminding them all of the wisdom and guidance of the Creator. When the song ended, Drup laid out their breakfast. It was the same spare rations they had eaten for several days, but this morning it seemed fresher, more satisfying. They ate heartily and with many satisfied sighs. Then they packed up the camp.

Chentelle stowed her blankets quickly and hurried to the top of the hill. Fizzfaldt was still asleep, and gave no sign of noticing her approach. She sat down beside him, forcing herself not to disturb his rest. She was anxious to get started, but they couldn't begin until Father Marcus got here anyway.

The High Bishop waited until everyone had secured their gear, then led them all up to the dendrifaun. The impatience of the last few days was gone, and his face had recovered the quiet serenity she had noticed when they first met.

Fizzfaldt stirred as soon as they were all present. His condition had not changed, but his voice was steady and quick, strengthened by the warm morning. "Greetings. It is a glorious day that has come to mark my passage. I could not ask for better. But you have not come to hear me ramble. You have questions to be answered."

"We have come for both," Father Marcus said. "We seek answers, but we also come to mark the last day of one of the Creator's beloved children."

"Ah, you have learned patience in the night." Fizzfaldt chuckled softly. "We shall make a proper forest-dweller of you yet. Ask your questions, I will answer if I can."

"We are on a quest," the priest said. "We seek the Fallen Star. Can you give us any guidance?"

"Yes, leave it alone." Fizzfaldt's branches fluttered weakly. "It does no good to wander around searching for things. It's better to stay at home and care for your soil."

Father Marcus smiled. "I am afraid we do not have that option. We must destroy this evil before it spreads. It is very important."

"Of course," the dendrifaun said. "I know that, and so does the Erietoph. That is why the forest will allow the Tree of Life to leave, though every trunk quivers with the need to hold it here. But I can't help you with that. This forest was the end of my travels, I know little of the lands beyond."

If Father Marcus was disappointed, he hid it well. "We have heard of a dwarven city, Marble Falls. Do you know where it lies?"

"Where? No. But I can tell you how to get there." The dendrifaun waved a leafless limb. "Head north once you leave the forest. You will come to an eight-sided stone marker. A mountain will be carved on one face, a tree on another. Head in the direction of the mountain. If you follow the mountain at every marker, you will find Marble Falls."

"Thank you." Father Marcus glanced at Dacius, making sure the Legion commander had noted the directions. "Then I have just one more question. Ironwood told us that time flowed differently here, but he could not explain how or why. Can you?"

"Yes."

The silence stretched for long minutes.

"Fizzfaldt?" Father Marcus said. "Are you well?"

"You said that was your last question," the dendrifaun growled.

The priest's eyes widened in surprise. "But—"

"Heh heh heh." Fizzfaldt's rasping laugh scraped through the clearing. "Forgive me, it was only an old tree's last joke. What Ironwood told you was true. Time flows swiftly in the Erietoph, but it rests lightly on those who live here. If you stayed for a century, less than a score of years will have passed beyond the mists. But if you returned to your home, you would seem hardly a year older than when you left."

"But how is this possible?" A'stoc interjected, "It was proved long ago that the flow of time is impervious to magical alteration, even for the forces of Earthpower."

"Ah, now you are asking for a story." Fizzfaldt's bark rippled with glee. "Sit, sit, this will take some telling."

The dendrifaun paused, trunk furrowed in concentration. When he spoke again, his voice resonated with new depth. "The Children of Erietoph are old beyond your reckoning. Only four generations of ancients have taken root here since time began to flow. You all know the stories of the Perfection, the time when the Sphere of Creation was unblemished and all things were Pure. Let me tell you, now, a story that you have not heard.

"The forest Erietoph was awake even then. It sang with the music of the Sphere and filled its place in the Perfection of Creation. But one day, one day more terrible than any other, the Creation was shattered. The Erietoph did not know where the Flaw had come from, or how it had been born, but the evil of its nature was clear. Change rippled through the Sphere. Death entered the world. The balance of harmony gave way to the balance of opposition. And the Eternal Time of Perfection yielded to the time of entropy.

"But the Erietoph had its roots deep in the Foundation. It resisted the waves of decay. The forest gathered the Eternal Time into itself, forging a barrier against the Abyss. At first, the Erietoph was successful. The barrier held; one pocket of the Creation was preserved. But the Foundation continued to erode. The Eternal Time grew thin, strained. Entropy entered the forest.

"And the story continues. There are two Creations, now, the Erietoph and the world beyond, and there can be only one. The Erietoph is a shadow of what it was. It has forgotten much, and each day entropy claims a little bit more. Eventually, the forest will fail. Then the Abyss will swallow Creation and the world will die."

"No." Determination resonated in Father Marcus' voice. "The Creation can be saved."

"Perhaps," Fizzfaldt said, "but only if the Foundation itself is repaired. Then the Erietoph will have the strength to resist the Abyss."

"Then the Foundation shall be healed," the High Bishop said. "What must we do?"

Fizzfaldt shrugged his branches helplessly. "I don't know. The ancients believe that the Erietoph once knew how to heal the Foundation, but the knowledge was lost long ago."

"Then we shall find it again," Father Marcus said, "or create it anew. The world shall be healed.

The Creator has not abandoned us to despair."

"No, He has not," Fizzfaldt said. "He has even sent new hope to a foolish vagabond of a tree.

But now I think it is time for me to put down roots. Shall we begin?"

Father Marcus reached for Chentelle. His hand touched her neck, and an electric shock ran through her spine. She was filled with a powerful rhythm, a music which could not be denied. She panicked, and her Gift rose up, trying to fight off the invasion. No. She forced herself to relax, surrendering to the priest's chant.

Her hand moved, reaching out to touch Fizzfaldt. The Gift swelled and poured into the dendrifaun, but she felt no contact. It was answering someone else's call. Healing power flowed through her and into the wood, following the trail of her Gift. The chant pulsed with life. Scarred tissue became whole; disease vanished; roots drove into the earth with renewed vigor. And she watched it all through eyes that were no longer her own.

Fizzfaldt's bark hardened, and his limbs became rigid. The holes of his eyes covered over, and the rough slit of his mouth closed for the last time. A moment before the transformation was complete, a deep voice rumbled from the lifelm. "The soil here is good, my friends. Thank you for coming."

A great chorus of wood and wind spoke in answer. The hillside was surrounded by dendrifauns.

The forest spirits had crept up silently, but now they raised their voices in joyous welcome to the new ancient that had joined their home.

Father Marcus removed his hand, and Chentelle staggered as the body suddenly became her again. She reached out a hand and steadied herself against the lifelm. Fizzfaldt's bark was smooth and whole, and his branches were covered with tiny green stalks that would soon be leaves. She touched him with her Gift, but felt no response. His mind was consumed with the process of change. It would stay that way for a season more. Good-bye, Fizzfaldt. You will not be forgotten in Lone Valley.

The company moved back down the hill and collected their packs. Most of the dendrifauns had vanished back into the wood. Only the three companions from yesterday remained behind.

"Thank you," Ironwood said. "You have made the forest richer today."

"SO." The great voice roared through the clearing. Glathrel emerged from the trees, his great staff resting over one shoulder. "The deed is done."

"Keeper!" Laurel's leaves fluttered nervously. "We were just—um—that is—"

"Hush, Laurel." Prickly-Ash thrust her branches out to their full extension. "I brought them here to see if they could help Fizzfaldt, Keeper. And they did."

"I know," Glathrel said, "and the forest is glad."

The dendrifaun's branches drooped slightly. "But you ordered us not to go near them."

Glathrel smiled broadly. "Of course, dear sister. What better way to insure that you would seek their help? The Erietoph wanted to see whether they would show compassion despite the risk. It would have shown nothing if they had helped the elder to please the forest."

Chentelle stared at the giant. "Then, this was some sort of a test?"

"Yes," he said, "and it is not finished yet. The Erietoph agrees that the threat of the Fallen Star is grave. It is more dangerous, even, than the Tree of Life in the hands of the evil or the ignorant. The killer of the ancient will be allowed to leave the forest, provided he swears an oath to return and accept punishment once your quest is complete."

A'stoc looked up to meet the giant's eyes. "So, you want me to save the world and then return for my execution."

"No. If you return, then you will have shown honor, and the penalty will not be death. The Erietoph is just. It will listen to your defense before passing judgment." The Keeper's jaw clenched, and his voice took on a hard edge. "But if you forswear yourself, I will hunt you down and destroy you."

A'stoc smiled. "I give you my word. If I survive the High Bishop's quest, I shall return to settle our dispute."

Glathrel nodded, and the tension disappeared from his face. He lifted his staff and swung it in a wide arc. A ripple of motion passed through the forest, and a wide path materialized leading straight into the west. "Then you are free to leave. The Erietoph wishes you good fortune in your quest and awaits your speedy return."

"I am certain it does," A'stoc said softly.

* * *

They made excellent time on the broad trail, covering several leagues in a few hours of steady walking. The forest floor seemed to help them, lending extra spring to every stride. The dendrifauns stayed with them until they reached the wall of gray mist that marked the Erietoph's boundary.

"This is where our paths must part," Ironwood said. "May your journey be a safe one."

"Thank you," Father Marcus said. "And may the Creator smile upon you and your forest."

Laurel waved his branches in a shy farewell, but Prickly-Ash slid forward and wrapped her limbs around Chentelle and Father Marcus. "Thank you so much for helping Fizzfaldt. And thank you for sharing your songs with us, Chentelle of Lone Valley, daughter of Dalen and Eudora. Please come back and sing for us again, sometime."

Chentelle glanced at A'stoc, but the wizard was lost in thought. "We'll be back."

"Oh, that's right." Prickly-Ash wiggled her buds in embarrassment and retreated back to the forest.

The company pushed through the veil of mist and emerged on a rocky plain. Ellistar was overhead, coloring the world with golden first-light, but Deneob had not yet risen. It was early morning. Rain clouds dropped a light shower on the eastern horizon, and Chentelle wondered if it was the same rain that had fallen on them the first night in the forest.

Father Marcus checked Ellistar's position, then turned the party to the north. Thildemar moved a little way ahead, and the other Legionnaires took up positions around the edge of the group. They could not count on the Erietoph's protection now.

An hour of walking brought them to a steep ridge. A winding path led up to the heights, and at the top was an octagonal stone pylon. The angles were aligned to the cardinal directions, and the northwest face bore an elegant carving of a two-peaked mountain. They were on the road to Marble Falls.

* 19 *

Marble Falls

The road led them steadily higher. The Mountains of Time stretched before them, league after league of stark, cold beauty. Low clouds flowed over and around snowcapped peaks of sharp granite. Though they were still below the timber line, few trees decorated the bare slopes, and the unbroken wind swirled crisply through the mountain passes. They stopped shortly after noon.

Gathering what dead wood they could find, the company built a small campfire. They huddled gratefully around its warmth and enjoyed their first hot meal in several days. Though Deneob was high overhead, their legs complained of a full day's worth of hiking. Full bellies and fatigue soon carried them into drowsiness.

"We need to rest," Dacius said. "The Erietoph has thrown off our sense of time."

Father Marcus nodded. "Agreed. But we must make it brief—two hours, no more."

Chentelle found a level section of road and unrolled her blankets. She was tired and heavy and deliciously warm. She closed her eyes and let her thoughts drift, waiting for sleep. But it did not come.

Despite her weariness, or perhaps because of it, she could not find rest. No matter how she twisted, the rocks of the road seemed to seek out her spine, and the cold ground swallowed any hint of comfort from the fire. She willed herself to relax. All she had to do was concentrate on her breathing, ignore the sharp edges poking into her back, pay no attention to the frigid earth.

It was hopeless. She sat up and looked around. Everyone else was settled in peacefully. Even Dacius was asleep. Only A'stoc was still up, standing watch beside the dying fire.

She rolled up her pack and went over to join him. There was no more deadwood to add to the flame, so she shifted around what was there, trying to coax more strength from the blaze. "I'll stand guard, if you want. There's no sense in both of us going without rest."

"Thank you," he said, "but I do not need to sleep."

She looked up at the wizard's face. How long had it been since he slept? His eyes were clear, but there was a glassiness, almost a blankness, about them. "Is something wrong? Are you worried about the Erietoph?"

"No." He smiled thinly. "I do not fear the judgment of the trees."

"Is it—is it my fault? Because of—of what you told me before?" How she wished he would cast aside his reservations in that respect! He was such a good man, behind that forbidding wall of cynicism.

This time his mien softened perceptibly. "Nothing is your fault. The notion of you lends nothing but pleasure to an otherwise barren existence."

"Then what is it?" She stepped around the fire and stood in front of him. "I know you haven't been sleeping. I heard you talking with Father Marcus last night."

"Did you?" A'stoc planted the Staff on the ground between them and leaned against it. "I fear the High Bishop found little comfort in my words."

"Why? What did you say?"

The wizard shrugged. "I told him that I felt his mission was doomed."

"What?" Chentelle searched his face, but she saw no bitterness there, no anger, no despair.

"What do you mean? Has the Dark One already found the Fallen Star?"

"No," he said calmly. "No, I was not speaking of our quest, though that will probably fail also. I meant that the mission of the Holy Order is futile. The Time of Perfection will never be restored. The understanding that such a healing would require is beyond us. We no longer belong to that world."

His voice was flat, expressionless—and each word shocked like ice in Chentelle's ears. She wanted to deny them, to scream out that he was wrong, but the truth of them echoed in her heart.

"Then, it's all for nothing. There's no hope?"

His eyes softened then, just for a moment. But when he spoke, his voice was cold and distant.

"Hope? You may find some, if you wish. The Flawed Creation has existed for centuries; we are unlikely to live long enough to witness its end. It is far more probable that one or the other of us will perish on Father Marcus' mad quest, or that I will be sacrificed to the vengeance of the Erietoph. If we survive those perils, perhaps hope will be in order."

Something trembled in A'stoc's voice, just beyond the threshold of hearing. Hope? Could it be?

Emotion flashed briefly in his eyes. Chentelle chased after it with her Gift, but the feeling vanished into the wizard's blankness. She came back to herself just in time to catch the wizard turning away.

"You know something," she said. "You have a plan."

"What?" He turned back, and the emotion in his face this time was easy to read—fear. But it, too, soon disappeared into the calm. "No. I have no knowledge, no plan, only—a suspicion. But I will keep that burden for myself. I doubt that I will live to see it realized."

He turned away after that, and Chentelle returned to watching the fire. The flames were burning low, so she stirred the embers. The dry wood hissed and snapped and burned with renewed vitality, but the effect was transitory. Soon, the exhausted blaze was fading again. Sighing, she checked Deneob's motion and decided that it was time to wake the others.

The company assembled quickly and resumed the journey. The dwarven road was not wide, but it was well marked and laid out with geometric precision. A stone pylon appeared at each forking of the path, insuring that they never strayed from the road. They made good time through the rugged terrain, climbing ever higher into the Mountains of Time.

The air cooled after Ellistar set. Chentelle's breath swirled before her in wispy clouds, and she huddled gratefully into the warmth of her traveling cloak. Even within its folds, she could feel the bite of the wind. The cold air whipped through the hem of her dress, making her wish for warm trousers as well. Clutching the spidersilk with one hand, she forced her aching legs to keep moving.

A long line of gray clouds closed in on them just before twilight. Deneob was disappearing rapidly behind the mountains, and they started hunting for a place to camp. Thildemar spotted a nest of tall pines, standing a short way off the road. The trees backed up against a sheer rock face, providing a perfect clearing for lean-tos, and the ground was littered with dead wood.

They set up camp quickly, taking advantage of the last light. Then they built a large fire and cooked supper. The day's climb had left them all famished, but Drup kept their portions small. There was no forage in this forbidding country, and no one knew how long their slight supplies would have to last. The air grew steadily colder, and they gathered closer around the campfire. The flames might betray their presence to watchers, but they desperately needed the heat. The snow started to fall just as they were retiring for the night.

Chentelle pressed herself against Sulmar. The lean-to sheltered them from the snow, and their blankets were a barrier against the cold ground, but the cold still made her tremble. She pulled the Tengarian's heavy arms around her, trying to surround herself with their warmth. Of them all, Sulmar seemed least affected by the cold. She supposed it reminded him of his mountain home. Eventually, the icy chill dulled to a tolerable level, and she slept.

In the morning, the world had changed. Half a cubit of snow covered the mountain. The sky was iron gray, casting the world into a cold gloom. No new snow was falling, but the hard wind raised powder from the ground and sent it swirling madly through. The white wasteland extended for leagues around them, obliterating all traces of the road.

They gathered their packs and swallowed a sparse meal. After a brief search, Thildemar was able to verify the path of the road, and they continued their march. Dacius and Sulmar took the lead now, followed by A'stoc and Father Marcus. The humans drove a trail through the fresh snow, clearing a path for the shorter-legged elves to follow.

If not for the precision of the dwarven road, they would surely have lost their way. The path was invisible. They could only hold true to the direction of the markers and pray they were not being led astray. Their hearts lifted each time a stone pylon appeared in the distance.

Shortly after noon, they encountered another obstacle. An avalanche had obliterated the pathway before them, cutting a swath of gray stone through the white snow. The rock slide was nearly two hundred cubits wide and extended far up the mountainside.

"IT'S RECENT," Dacius said. His amplified voice boomed through the mountains, followed by the sound of stones shifting high above them. Quickly, he pulled off his helmet. "And apparently not too stable. Suggestions?"

"We can detour around it," Thildemar said, examining the terrain, "but we'll have to backtrack half a league or more."

"No," Father Marcus said. "If we leave the path, we could hunt for days trying to find it again.

We must cross."

"I agree," Dacius said. "Thildemar, take the point. Check each step; remember, it has to hold my weight, too."

The old elf climbed nimbly onto the rocks. He crept slowly on all fours, keeping his weight distributed. He wound his way across the stones, working slightly downslope during his traverse. The other Legionnaires tracked his course, pointing out landmarks that would help them all retrace his steps. At last, Thildemar reached the far side. He climbed to his feet and stood balanced on the edge of the slide, waving for the rest of them to follow.

"All right," Dacius said. "Chentelle, you're next."

Me? But it made sense. She was the lightest. Trying not to look afraid, she climbed out onto the rocks. The beginning was easy; she had seen exactly where Thildemar had set his hands and feet. But soon she was out into the center of the slide. She placed her hand on a rock, and it tilted suddenly underneath her. Panic surged through her, but the rock steadied, resting firmly at a new angle.

Chentelle forced herself to resume breathing, then moved forward again.

Thildemar called encouragement from the far side, and helped her to find the secure path. Soon he reached out to help her climb to her feet.

They stood balanced on a large boulder at the edge of the slide. The rock was cold, but the unbroken snow beyond looked even colder. Chentelle decided that Thildemar had the right idea, and she settled in beside him to watch the others cross.

They came one at a time, the elven Legionnaires first and then the humans. It took time, but they made it without mishap. Thildemar's path held even Dacius' solid bulk. At last, they all stood together on the solid ground beyond the fall. The road was a short distance above them, but the climb did not look difficult.

"Lord Gemine, look." Drup waved for their attention. He was pointing to one of the rocks in the slide. A thin crust of ice remained on one face of the stone, outlining a clear footprint. The print was short enough to be a child's, but far too wide. Deep indentations showed the clear mark of thick, bare toes.

"Gnomes," Thildemar said.

Dacius nodded gravely. "Stay sharp, people. They may still be around. String your bows and keep them ready. Thildemar, keep an eye on our back trail." These orders given, he slammed his helm back into place and drove a trail up to the road.

They marched for several hours without sight of gnomes or any other creature. As evening neared, they began searching for a good campsite. The ground sloped sharply on either side of the road, making their choices slim. In the end, they settled for a shallow cave slightly downhill from the path. It scarcely had room for them all, but a thin ledge by the entrance provided shelter for a fire.

They gathered what wood they could find, but waited until Deneob had set to light it, lest the smoke betray them. Once the blaze was going, Drup assembled their rations and started portioning out a meal. The look on his young face was uncharacteristically grim.

"How long will it last?" Father Marcus asked.

"Three meals," Drup answered. "Five, if we spread them thin."

The High Bishop closed his eyes for a moment, deep in thought or prayer. "Three. Make us hot meals now and at dawn. We'll need them to fight back the cold. Hold out only enough for a light lunch."

Chentelle felt a surge of excitement at his words. "Are we close? Will we reach the city tomorrow?"

Father Marcus shook his head, but his calm smile never wavered. "I do not know where we are, Chentelle, or where Marble Falls lies. But I believe we will reach it."

"Then let us hope," A'stoc said without emotion, "that your faith is rewarded."

They ate a large meal and set up camp. In the morning, they reversed the ritual. The day greeted them brightly. No new snow had fallen, and the dome of dull clouds showed signs of disintegrating under the twin suns' light.

Dacius and Sulmar plowed a path up a long series of switchback trails. Around noon, they rounded the edge of a long ridge and stopped in their tracks. A long valley lay below them, closed on its southern end but extending for leagues to the north. A downward trail wound northwest into the valley, and a dwarven pylon stood beside it. The northwest face was engraved with a shepherd's crook, while the southwest bore the sign of the mountain.

Their eyes searched the snow of the ridge line. Gradually, the signs of the trail became visible. It ran all the way around the closed end of the valley, staying nearly at a level. On the far side, it tacked back and forth, climbing into the saddle of a twin-peaked mountain—a mountain identical to the carving on the marker.

"Praise the Creator," Father Marcus said, his tone possibly hinting that his faith had been uncertain.

They lunched where they were, within sight of their destination, and then resumed their trek.

Less snow had fallen on this side of the ridge, and the little that had was already melting under the Sister's warmth. They walked easily through the hand's breadth or so that remained, stretching their legs gratefully into long strides. Nightfall was still an hour away when they started up the last of the switchback trails to the city.

Dacius motioned for a stop and pulled off his helm. "Father Marcus, these people have been separated from the Realm for a long time. We don't know what kind of a reception we'll receive. Do you wish to announce yourself?"

The priest considered. "No, not unless it becomes necessary. It would be better to keep our mission secret. I will let you take the fore. Make what arrangements you can for supplies and information, but it must be done before morn. We dare not stay longer."

Dacius nodded and tucked his helm under one arm. He took the lead, motioning for Leth and Gerruth to flank him. Drup and Thildemar fell to the rear of the company, and they began the final ascent to Marble Falls.

A wall of stone loomed above the road to their right. To the left, the mountain fell away in a sheer drop to the last leg of the trail, forty cubits below. The bricks of the wall were polished smooth like river rock, and the lines of their joining were thinner than hair.

"Halt!" A small figure jumped into the road before them, appearing from a door that had been invisible a moment before. He wore steel armor and wielded a shield in one hand and a loaded crossbow in the other. A clatter of metal above them announced the arrival of several more dwarves at the top of the wall. "State your business!"

"We are travelers," Dacius said, extending an empty hand. "We are in need of lodging and provisions, and we seek the town of Marble Falls."

The dwarf's eyes remained hard beneath his spiked helm. "Are you merchants?"

"No," Dacius answered, "though we may have some objects to trade. We are merely passing through."

"Passing through to where? And what are elves and humans doing in these mountains? Your lands are far away."

A red flush came to Dacius' cheeks. "As I have said, we are travelers in need of lodging. We seek the hospitality of Marble Falls, if such a thing exists."

"Have a care, human!" The dwarf pounded his shield against the wall, raising an impressive clang. "You will find only a hard road unless I am satisfied about your business. Now, identify yourselves."

Dacius lifted his helm and lowered it slowly into place. The vorpal steel flashed brightly as it bonded to the mystic armor. "I AM LORD DACIUS GEMINE, LEGION COMMANDER OF

THE FIRST MARK. MY COMPANIONS AND I TRAVEL UNDER THE BANNER OF THE

REALM, THE FREE JOINING OF THE COMMUNITIES OF MEN."

The dwarf took a startled step backward, but then he steadied himself and raised his crossbow.

"Very impressive, but you'll forgive me if I don't accept that on faith. Anyone can—"

"Grimdel!"

The shout was punctuated by a drumbeat that echoed like thunder off the valley walls. An elderly dwarf had appeared from farther up the road. He was tall for his race, nearly two cubits in height, and dressed quite conservatively. His pale pink robe was accented only by a pointed green cap and an emerald studded belt, into which his long gray beard was tucked. Platinum threads were woven through both hair and whiskers, but the ruby chips they held were used only for highlights. He held a small drum in one hand, and a small golden rod in the other. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I—I'm guarding the road, Uncle, like you told me to."

"Yes, against bandits and gnomes!" The old dwarf waved his hands wildly through the air. "Do they look like gnomes to you? Do they look like bandits? Do you see them charging up the road with weapons drawn? In fact, do you see them doing anything other than looking like weary travelers trying to find shelter from the cold?"

Grimdel hung his head meekly. "No, Uncle."

"Good, then why don't you and your boys go back to your mead and let me greet our guests properly." The old dwarf waved the guardsmen back into their hiding places. "Oh, and Grimdel? Your vigilance is laudable. Just remember to temper it with wisdom."

Grimdel perked up and straightened his shoulders. "Come on, boys, the mead's getting cold."

The old dwarf waited until the guards disappeared, then bowed deeply to the company. "I beg you pardon for Grimdel's enthusiasm. We have had some trouble with gnomes, lately, and it has put some of the warriors on edge. I am Hammond, one of the Elders of Marble Falls. On behalf of my fellows, I welcome you and offer you the hospitality of our Home."

Dacius slipped off his helm and returned the bow. "Your apology is as gracious as your greeting, and I accept them both in kind. I can well understand your warriors' caution. We saw signs of gnomish activity just yesterday, near an avalanche that covered your road."

"What? Again?" The gold rod twitched agitatedly in Hammond's fingers. "Blast their hides. Now we'll have to divert workers to clear the road and additional guards for safety. It will put us way behind in our work."

"Your work?" Dacius asked.

Hammond looked at him strangely. "Why, building Marble Falls, of course. Creating the Home is every dwarf's first job, as well as his greatest love. What is your work?"

"At the moment," Dacius said, "my job is finding a path for my companions into the lands to the west. We need lodgings for the night and supplies for the journey. Also, if you can give us any information, or especially a map, I would be most grateful."

"Of course, of course." Hammond smiled genially. "I have already promised you our hospitality.

The information, though, is a bit trickier. Perhaps if I knew the nature of your journey?"

Dacius hesitated. "We are—searching for something."

"Ah, no matter." The dwarf shrugged. "None of my business anyway, I'm sure. Well, follow me.

We can talk once you're settled in."

He led them through a succession of wide streets. Square buildings lined the road, constructed with characteristic precision and care. Seamless walls formed a perfect grid on a plateau of polished granite. Every building was immaculate, every thoroughfare spotless, but there were no people. The wind whistled through empty corridors of stone.

"It's so cold," Chentelle said. "How can you live here?"

"It is in our nature. Dwarves have always been explorers, seeking out new lands, new beauty.

Where you see a forbidding wilderness, we see a landscape of stone and soil and precious minerals.

The earth speaks to us, when we listen, and Marble Falls sings in rare and wonderful fashion."

Hammond paused, and laughed softly. "I sound like one of your elven poets, don't I?"

The dwarf led them to a huge building in the center of the town. The hall was built to a giant's scale, with stone doors ten cubits high set in walls twice that height. A stable sat beside, filled with neatly stacked hay and empty of horses. Hammond pressed on one of the doors, and it swung silently inward. "This is our Earthhall. It is the only building large enough for everyone to be comfortable. You will find rooms upstairs with beds to accommodate several species."

Chairs of various sizes ringed a large table which dominated the interior of the hall. The table was perfectly level, but chairs sat in tapered channels so that a giant at one end could speak comfortably with a dwarf seated at the other. Smaller tables lined the walls, each designed to a different scale. Evidently this hall had been designed before news of the demise of the giants reached this isolated region.

"By the Creator." Chentelle ran her fingers across the table built for elves. The stone was cool and perfectly smooth. It whispered to her of loving care and skilled hands, but the touches were old.

It had been decades, perhaps centuries, since anyone had sat here. "Beautiful, but it's so lonely. The whole town is. Where is everyone?"

"Why, in Marble Falls, of course." A look of comprehension swept across the old dwarf's face.

"Ah, I see the source of your confusion. These meager dwellings are not Marble Falls. The Home lies within the mountain. This is just the temporary camp we raised while the construction got under way.

Now, they serve as lodgings for newcomers until they earn a place in the boroughs. But winter is nearly here; we are unlikely to receive settlers this year. In fact, very few families have joined us in recent years."

"That's because no one knows where you are!" Chentelle said. "I mean, the dwarves told us a town had been settled, but they didn't know where it was or whether it still existed. Isn't that right, Dacius?"

The human nodded. "It's true, Hammond. Marble Falls is little more than a memory to the peoples of the Realm."

"I see." The dwarf frowned thoughtfully. "Disturbing, but it makes sense. We have been too busy to maintain regular contact with the other homes, and the Erietoph is a forbidding boundary." He shuddered, then shook his head and smiled. "I thank you for this news. I shall take it up with the council. Now, what information can I give you in return?"

"Tell us about the lands to the west," Dacius said. "What can we expect to find and what advice can you give us?"

"Advice?" Hammond said. "That's easy. Don't go. The Mountains of Time are harsh landlords, and this is going to be a hard winter. The first storm has already hit. Soon, the passes will be blocked for good. You will be lucky if you make the Long Lake before it freezes."

"Long Lake?" Dacius said. "Where is that? Do you have a map?"

"A map?" Hammond smiled. "We don't need one. It's in the mountains. The Long Lake is just past the western range. Either of the main passes will take you to it. As for what's beyond it, well, it's the edge of the world."

"What?"

Confusion rippled through the company.

Hammond waited while they regained their calm. "Ten leagues beyond Long Lake lies Karsh Adon, the Barrier Ridge. It is a sheer cliff, more than three thousand cubits high. No one knows how far it extends. Our scouts have followed it for a hundred leagues in either direction without reaching its end. Some say that the Creator lives beyond it and that he raised Karsh Adon to keep us from discovering his mysteries. Personally, I do not believe that. The rocks are formidable, but they are rocks. Eventually, we will scale their heights, but we must secure the Home first. If the object of your search lies beyond the Barrier, then your task is hopeless."

All eyes turned to Father Marcus.

The priest closed his eyes in concentration. When he spoke, his words rang with finality. "We must go beyond."

"So," Hammond said. "The leader makes himself known. Well, holy man, you are either a lunatic or on a mission of great importance."

"The latter," Father Marcus said. "Our quest is urgent, and it requires both caution and secrecy."

"Obviously," the dwarf replied, "but I urge you to reconsider. The Barrier Ridge has never been climbed, and your party is ill-equipped for such a trial."

"Nevertheless, we must undertake it." Father Marcus' tone was calm but firm. "You mentioned a lake. Is there a boat to ferry us across, or must we circumnavigate it?"

"Have you heard a word I said?" Hammond threw up his arms in frustration. "It can't be done!

Go home!"

"No." Iron sounded in the word. "If you cannot guide us farther, then we will continue on our own. I thank you for your hospitality. We must leave in the morning. If you can give us supplies and direct us to the quickest pass, we will be grateful."

Hammond laughed heartily and slapped his chest. "Such determination! It does you proud, holy man. You will have your supplies, and what other help I can offer. But first, you will have a proper welcome to the Home of Marble Falls. Come. Tonight you dine under the mountain."

They stowed their gear and followed Hammond back out into the settlement. Both suns had set, now, but lines of adartak shone softly along each side of the street. The dwarf led them northward along one of the avenues, and they soon left the walled square of the surface city.

The path curved gracefully westward, winding around the twin peaks and sloping downward on the far side. Half a league or more of walking brought them to a towering fortress, built back into the face of the mountain. Crenellated walls guarded a pair of nested iron gates, and slits in both walls and ceiling told of dangers that would meet any attackers.

A thick-limbed dwarf hopped up onto the battlements as they approached. "Who approaches the gate to Marble Falls?"

"I do," Hammond shouted. "I have invited these travelers to dine with me inside the Home."

"And I refuse to admit them."

"What?" Hammond glowered and hefted his drum and golden rod as if they were weapons. "I'm in no mood for nonsense, Pontale. These people have been met too rudely already."

"Do you call the safety of the Home nonsense, Elder?" Pontale jabbed an accusing finger toward Sulmar. "No Tengarian will pass through these gates while I am Master."

Chentelle looked a question at her liegeman.

"Blood has been spilled between Tengar and the dwarves," Sulmar said. "The Small Ones have started mines in mountains that have long been claimed by the Great Kings."

"You see!" the Gate Master yelled. "He admits it. They claim to own a mountain because they can see its surface. I might as well set out in a boat and claim right to all the fish in the sea."

"But Sulmar isn't a Tengarian anymore," Chentelle said. "He was—he's with us, now. Doesn't that make a difference?"

"No."

"Pontale, you fool." Hammond's hand twitched and two sharp beats roared from the drum.

"These are the first humans and elves ever to visit the Mountains of Time. Will you have it echoed through the Seven Ranges that the dwarves of Marble Falls throw decent folk to the winter? Use your eyes! This is a holy man. These are Legionnaires. Have you forgotten that the veins of our people stretch back through the Realm?"

The Gate Master bristled but did not back down. "I know our history, Hammond, and I know our laws. I will not allow a Tengarian spy into the Home, and not even an Elder can overrule me in this."

"You are right," Hammond said softly. "I can't overrule you, but I can convene the council and make a motion to remove you from your post."

Once, twice, three times the Gate Master opened his mouth only to close it again without speaking. "All right," he said finally, "everyone except the Tengarian can enter, but they have to leave their weapons here."

"No!" Chentelle cried. "I'm not going to leave Sulmar put here alone. If Sulmar can't go, then I won't either. I don't think I want to see Marble Falls anymore."

"Chentelle speaks for us all," Father Marcus said. "It is sad, for I would have loved to have beheld the beauty of your Home and hospitality. With your permission, we will return to the Earthhall."

"A moment, friends." Hammond sounded one firm retort on his drum. "Your decision is unsatisfactory, Pontale. Since when do we demand that guests render themselves defenseless? And do you expect them to dine in comfort while their comrade squats outside the gate like a scavenger?

Detail some men to escort them back to the topside dwellings. I will assemble the council immediately. I suggest you prepare your oration."

The Gate Master shuffled his feet nervously. "Uh, just a minute, Elder. Perhaps I was too hasty—Yes, I think I was. They can keep their arms, and if you will speak for the Tengarian, I will let him enter."

"Of course I'll speak for him," Hammond said. "What do you think I've been doing? Now, open the gates!"

"At once, Elder."

The front gate opened and Hammond led them through. A closed passageway thirty cubits long led them to the inner gate, which slid upward as they approached. Beyond it lay a vast courtyard.

"Oh, my." Chentelle gaped in surprise. The thirty cubits between gates represented the total depth of the fortress, which was really just a gatehouse. And the courtyard was actually a huge natural cavern. The dome of the chamber was polished obsidian flecked with adartak, simulating a star-filled sky. The floor was a startling mosaic of semiprecious stones.

Chentelle stared at the pattern, trying to make sense of it. It reminded her of someth— By the Creator. The map! Part of it looked like Fel's map. There was the Erietoph and the Pretgard Mountains. But the pattern was larger, much larger. It showed the Great Sea and the Isle of Rennock, the Highlands of Balt and the Istagoth Forest, even Lone Valley was there. But it didn't show the Desecration; a gentle swirl of tiger-eye hills sat where the Great Fault should be.

She traced the path of their journey across the waste and through the Erietoph. There were the Mountains of Time, represented in stark alabaster, and an oval of lapis that had to be Long Lake. So the big dark patch must—

She froze. The floor ended abruptly in a jagged chasm. Chentelle looked down, but if the fissure had a bottom she couldn't see it.

The rift spread the width of the cavern, spanned only by a narrow jut of crystal. At a word from Hammond, the adartak bridge blazed into life. On the far side, a sheer wall of polished marble glimmered in the orb-light like flowing water. The bridge led to the base of that wall, where battlements seemed to grow naturally from the rock. A woman's face had been carved beneath the battlements, and two huge granite doors stood below the face. The doors stood open and inviting.

"Magnificent," Thildemar said. "It reminds me of the gate into Rockhome."

"You flatter us," Hammond said wistfully. "There is no matching the glory of that ancient Home."

He led them across the glowing bridge and into Marble Falls.

Wind whipped around them as they crossed the chasm. As they passed through the doors, it whistled through the open mouth of the carving, forming airy syllables. Welllcommme.

Hammond guided them through the entry hall and into an orb-lit tunnel. They passed dozens of dwarves going about their business, and each one greeted Hammond respectfully. A steady rhythm pulsed through the Home, vibrating just below the level of hearing, and everyone they saw seemed to be moving to that subliminal cadence. Even their own steps were soon falling to the same beat.

They descended a long ramp and turned into a series of natural chambers embellished with intricately carved doors. The deeper they went, the warmer it became, and they were soon loosening and removing their cloaks. An underground stream trickled through the stone, collecting in a chain of shallow pools. Children splashed and laughed in some of these, playing under the watchful eyes of an ancient couple.

"These are the boroughs," Hammond said. "The heart of the Home. One day, the children raised here will set out to explore new lands. Infinitera is filled with wonders, and there are many yet to be discovered. Perhaps the object of your search is one of them?"

Father Marcus only smiled in reply.

They passed through the boroughs and into a large hall. More than two hundred dwarves were here, seated around long, low tables. On a platform in one corner, a group of musicians was filling the air with a delightful combination of laughing drums, exotic horns, and tinny harps. Their song was joyous and filled with exuberance.

Hammond took them to a serving line where they selected food from long stone troughs. Much of the food was strange to the company, but the old dwarf guided them. There were mutton stews and roast spiders for the humans, while the elves found a good assortment of lichens, mushrooms, baked mosses. Hearty breads and excellent mead helped round out the meal for everyone.

The food was delicious, and they ate with relish. Conversation was kept to a minimum.

Gradually, they noticed that the other tables were growing quiet, too. No one approached them, but their presence in Marble Falls was definitely being noted. Soon, a second round of mead was delivered to the table. In fact, new glasses were being delivered to every table.

Suddenly, two hundred dwarves stood as one and raised their glasses. "WELCOME."

At Hammond's signal, they lifted their own glasses and joined the community in drink.

"There," the Elder said, "now it's official. The doors of Marble Falls are open to you. Now, to arrange provisions." He set his drum on the table and pounded out a rapid series of beats, taps, and scratches. The sound carried powerfully through the hall, cutting easily through the rhythm of the music. A few moments later a chubby dwarf in a well-used apron and an impressive white cap walked up to them.

"These friends need rations," Hammond said, "at least two weeks' worth. They're on foot, so make sure you keep them light and compact. And no meat for the elves."

"Yes, Elder." The cook nodded and scurried back to the kitchen.

Once he was gone, Hammond turned back to Father Marcus. "Now, technically, since you are not going to become part of the community I should ask you for some form of recompense."

"I understand," Father Marcus said. Dwarves often bartered goods based upon estimated values for jewels or precious metals. The humans of Odenal used a similar system. "Perhaps I can repay you with information. There are things of great importance that I should share with—"

A heavy drumbeat rumbled like thunder through the cavern, silencing all conversation.

"The warning," Hammond said. "It's probably a gnome skirmish clan."

The drum sounded again, pounding with desperate urgency. Silverware clattered against stone tables as the dwarves surged to their feet and charged for the doors.

"That's no skirmish call!" Hammond called over his shoulder. "Wait here. I need to check on the gate."

"Absolutely not," Father Marcus said. "We may be able to help."

They raced back toward the surface, keeping the fastest pace the dwarf could manage. The climb seemed to take forever, and the drum calls became harder and more frenzied. At last, they reached the entry hall. Several phalanxes of armored dwarves were assembling in the huge chamber, but there was no sign of any foe. The main doors were still open.

Dacius' helm and armor were glowing violently. His blade whistled forth in a flash of blue steel.

"THE BRIDGE!"

They charged through the open portal. Beyond it, the adartak bridge illuminated a grisly scene.

Dwarven soldiers filled the gatehouse battlements, locked in combat with hulking, black forms. The dwarves' weapons rose and fell with uncanny precision, only to bounce ineffectually off of their targets. Pulsing red blades flickered in return, slicing easily through flesh, armor, and even stone. The defenders were being slaughtered.

"Prepare the bridge!" Hammond shouted.

A tremendous click echoed through the cavern, and the bridge shuddered. A thin line crevice appeared in the crystal's far end.

Suddenly, the inner gate slid open. A dozen dwarves fled through the gate, running for the bridge. One of them, Pontale, remained behind to close the gate and jam the mechanism. He had hardly finished when a mob of vikhors slammed into the bars. The portal held, but just barely.

The Legionnaires charged forward, moving to support the dwarves' retreat. But they were too late.

A half-dozen Tenebrites launched themselves from the top of the battlements. Their bodies shifted as they fell, forming insect thoraxes and six segmented legs. Hard claws gouged pits in the stone as they landed. Then they were running, closing distance as if the dwarves were standing still.

Drup, Gerruth, and Leth stopped and took aim with their bows. Three arrows blazed through the air, sailing over the dwarves' heads. One of them took a Tenebrite full in the chest, reducing it to smoking ash. The other two hit at shallow angles and ricocheted off armored torsos.

A shadow knight loomed over the Gate Master, its sword lifted high in preparation for a strike.

The dwarf spun around, warned by some sound or instinct. He planted his spear against the ground and braced himself for the impact. The spear's tip caught the Tenebrite full in the chest, driven by the Ill-creature's own power and strength.

It made no difference. The metal tip bent, and the shaft shattered. The Tenebrite reared, its momentum briefly countered; then the red sword swung toward Pontale's head.

A jet of green flame shot across the chasm, incinerating the Tenebrite in midstroke. A'stoc stood on the inner battlements, Thunderwood Staff blazing in his hands. Smiling grimly, he redirected the Earthpower, sending an arc of flame toward the other shadow knights. One by one, they vanished into the fire.

Dacius and Thildemar guarded the far end of the bridge while the dwarves hurried across. The first wave made it safely, but Pontale was still a dozen cubits from the chasm when the stones of the gatehouse exploded apart.

Scores of vikhors surged from the rubble, driven to a frenzy by the Tenebrites behind them.

More blasts of Earthpower met them, but they kept coming, heedless of the cost. A few managed to slide through the wizard's barrage.

Dacius and Thildemar met them with mystic steel. The human's armor was glowing like a blue sun. His shield countered every attack, and his blade cut wide swaths through the Ill-creatures.

Thildemar was equally impressive, in his way: graceful and efficient rather than flamboyant and powerful. He fought with sword and dagger, using the shorter blade to parry. He fought as if the battle were choreographed, wasting no energy on unnecessary motion.

Together, they cleared the last of the vikhors from the field. Then they backed slowly across the chasm. A few Ill-creatures bolted after them from hiding places in the rubble, but A'stoc's magic struck them down easily.

Once the warriors were safely back on solid ground, the crystal bridge began to move. The adartak shrunk in on itself, retracting into some hidden chamber in the stone wall. Soon, only a tiny spur was visible, spanning less than a tenth of the deep rift.

Tense silence fell upon the chamber. A hundred eyes scanned the rubble, searching for any new threat. Long moments passed, and nothing moved. They were safe, for now.

Suddenly, Pontale's voice cut through the quiet. "You!" His angry gaze pierced each of the company in turn. "You brought those monsters here. What were they? And why are your weapons the only things that can kill them?"

A murmur of suspicion rippled through the dwarven guardsmen, a murmur that became louder as A'stoc emerged from the stairwell to the battlements. Steel weapons twitched in nervous fingers.

"What is this?" the wizard said. "Will you reward your saviors with treachery?"

"You dare to speak of treachery?" the Gate Master shouted. "It was you who led those monsters to the Home!"

"The fault is mine," Father Marcus said calmly. "It is I who led us here. I am deeply sorry for the loss you have suffered. I did not expect the Ill-creatures to attack us here. We had not seen any for several days."

"You're sorry!" Pontale roared. "That's not good enough. I hereby place you under detention.

Surrender your weapons at once!"

"Wait!" Hammond slapped a single beat on his drum, sending a deep note of calm through the assembled soldiers. "Pontale, you were but a child during the wars. You do not realize the magnitude of what the holy man is saying." He turned to Father Marcus, concern plain on his furrowed brow.

"Do you say that the Dark One has returned to Infinitera?"

"Yes. His Ill-creatures are active throughout the Realm and beyond. That is the news I was going to share with you when the attack interrupted us."

The Elder winced. "I will convene the council immediately. We must discuss these matters."

"No." Pontale lifted a small drum from his belt and pounded three hard beats. "They have endangered the Home! I call for immediate exile, and I demand that the matter be settled by assembly."

An excited ripple ran through the soldiers. "What about the gates?" someone called. "What if the monsters return?"

"I have placed wards around the chasm," A'stoc said. "We will have warning before any new attack."

"Excellent, wizard," Hammond said. "I thank you for your caution and concern."

"Nevertheless," Pontale said, "I want two full phalanxes on watch and a third in reserve. Speak to your brothers, so that they may know your mind at assembly."

Hammond raised his voice to address the crowd. "You have heard the call, and the cause is just.

Let the summons be sounded. Marble Falls will decide."

The hall erupted into activity. Soldiers ran about, some heading for the walls, others disappearing into a myriad of passages. Somewhere, a huge drum pounded the same pattern of three hard beats that Pontale had played. A moment later, it sounded again, and then again.

Hammond turned to the company. "I must speak with the other Elders before the assembly. Do you remember the tunnels to the communal hall, or should I assign you a guide?"

Father Marcus said something to Dacius in a hushed tone, then spoke to the dwarf. "No guide is needed. We will meet you there."

"Speak for yourself, High Bishop." A'stoc raised himself to his full height. "I do not intend to waste my time listening to the bickering of small minds." He spun about and marched back toward the battlements.

Dacius called Drup and Thildemar to his side, and a moment later the two warriors were following A'stoc into the stairwell.

Father Marcus led the rest of them back into the winding tunnels. He retraced their path confidently, as if he had lived below the mountain all of his life. In a few minutes, they were back in the boroughs. The High Bishop paused for a moment outside the hall, bowing his head in a quiet meditation. Then he pressed open the door.

The hall was filled with dwarves. Men, women, children, the entire population of Marble Falls was coming together. The long tables and benches were gone, secreted in some hidden compartment.

Everyone sat cross-legged on the floor, arranged in neat rows facing the corner podium. Each dwarf had a small drum tucked between his or her legs. The chamber was quiet. Not a word was spoken as new people filed in and took their places in the crowd.

The company moved to a spot away from the door and waited, uncertain where they should be.

The quiet procession continued for several minutes. Then the mighty drum sounded again, pounding once, twice, three times. A hidden door swung open behind the podium and four figures emerged. Each one carried a drum and a thin golden rod—and Hammond was the third in line. The four dwarves took their seats on the platform. Then the first Elder motioned for the party to come forward.

They filed down the long aisle between dwarves and stood in the open area before the dais.

Chentelle wondered if they were supposed to sit, too, but no one gave any sign.

"Who makes the charge?" the fourth Elder said.

"Pontale, Master of the Gate, Defender of the Home." The burly dwarf marched forward, holding his drum before him like a pennant.

"Who speaks for the accused?" the Elder said.

"The company is under my charge," Father Marcus said.

Hammond stood up suddenly. He set his drum and rod down on the stage, and hopped off to stand next to the High Bishop. He pulled a smaller drum from under his robes and held it at the ready.

"He is a stranger to the ways of the Home. I will sound his voice."

If any of the dwarves were surprised by his action, they gave no sign. The fourth Elder lifted his rod and struck three beats on his drum, filling the chamber with echoes. "Marble Falls is assembled.

Let the parties speak."

Pontale immediately established a rhythm on his drum. His playing was soft, but powerful, punctuated by angry beats and accusatory pauses. "Kellior is dead; his wife is a widow; his children are fatherless. Tamar is dead; his father has no heirs. Forn is dead; his wife mourns; his brothers weep..."

The litany continued, gaining power with each name. In the crowd, a dozen drums joined Pontale's beat, then a hundred. The music swelled, pounding at the company with rage and grief.

"The strangers caused these deaths, as surely as they harbor a Tengarian in their midst."

"That isn't fair!" Chentelle cried. "Sulmar—"

The fourth Elder pounded his drum. The beat was deafening, crashing against their ears like an open hand. "There can be only one voice! Who speaks for the accused?"

Hammond turned to Chentelle, his eyes filled with warnings, and she shrank quietly back into the company.

Pontale resumed his rhythm, drumming more powerfully than before. "They knew they were being followed. They knew that the Home was defenseless against the Ill-creatures. Only their weapons can kill the monsters. Still, they said nothing. They entered the Home; they led the Ill-creatures to our gate. They invited death into Marble Falls, and death came. If they remain, or if they return, death will come again. The Home must be protected. My voice is clear, and the word it screams is exile!"

The chamber roared to the Gate Master's cadence. Five hundred drums sounded as one. Guilt!

said the drums. Exile!

Hammond nodded to Father Marcus.

The High Bishop spoke into the din, phrasing his words like a chant. "I am Father Marcus Alanda, High Bishop of the Holy Order in Talan, and I have made many mistakes. The first was in not trusting the people of Marble Falls to be wise and good. I concealed my identity and the nature of my quest, but such mistrust serves only to help evil gain a foothold in our hearts."

Hammond beat his drum, matching his measures to the priest's words. He pounded a counterpoint to the Gate Master's rhythm: understanding instead of anger, inclusive rather than accusatory. His cadence was strong, steady, but it was lost in the chorus of rage.

"My second mistake," Father Marcus continued, "was not realizing that the Ill-creatures had tracked us here. I believed we had lost them in the Erietoph. I believed that secrecy would shield us from rediscovery. I was wrong, and Marble Falls has paid the price for that mistake. I cannot repay you for your loss, but I can help to insure that it does not happen again." He nodded to Dacius.

The Legionnaire stepped forward and laid a pile of weapons on the floor before the platform. It held all of the Legionnaires' parrying blades and half of their vorpal arrows.

"These weapons," the priest chanted, "are part of a store that was recovered from A'kalendane's workshop. They can destroy Ill-creatures. Give them to your best swordsmen and archers, and Marble Falls will never again be defenseless against this evil."

A few drums joined Hammond's rhythm, strengthening it slightly, but Pontale countered with a note of renewed outrage. "Bribery! My voice will not be swayed. Exile! Then we can confiscate all of their weapons."

Father Marcus continued his chant, keeping any anger he felt out of his voice. "Should you do that, you would be making a mistake as grave as my own. Hatred is a tool of the Dark One. It serves him as ably as any demonspawn. If we are driven into the wilderness without weapons, without supplies, then our quest will surely fail. If that happens, then Marble Falls will die. The Realm will die.

All of Infinitera will die. This is truth.

"I am Father Marcus Alanda, High Bishop of the Holy Order in Talan, and I come here searching for the star which fell from the sky before the First Season of Light. This star does not belong in the Creation. It comes from beyond the Abyss and carries an evil which will consume us all if it is not destroyed."

The mention of the Fallen Star sparked a response in several of the dwarves. They added their numbers to Hammond's cadence, bolstering his rhythm.

"Marble Falls has paid a high price for this mission, but it has not paid alone. A score of men died before the quest had even begun, their bodies strewn across the shores of Larama. More died in the vastness of the Great Sea, battling goblin hordes. One companion died under a mountain called Hel's Crown in the land called Kennaru, defending us all from Ill-creatures far more terrible than those you have seen. Another gave his life to help us escape from that dread island. In Tel Adartak-Skysoar a friend more dear than I had realized sacrificed his life to thwart a necromancer, and among the bleak wastes of the Desecration brave Legionnaires and stout dwarves laid down their lives to save these weapons from a host of living death.

"All of this is truth. Death follows this quest, and it has claimed far too many good souls. But there is hope yet. We recovered the weapons of A'kalendane, and now brave men can defend their homes. We have traveled across the Great Sea and returned bearing a talisman of power. We have reached the edge of the world, and the end of our quest is now close. But the greatest cause for hope lies elsewhere. You see, the men who made these sacrifices did not act out of fear, or anger, or compulsion of any type. They acted for love: the love of friends, the love of family, the love of Creation. As long as that love exists, we have pause for hope.

"Those are my words. The quest has brought us here. We have no guide. We have no supplies.

We are beset by enemies and alone among a people strange to our experience. And we place our trust in your goodness and your hospitality. The future of our quest lies in your hands."

As the High Bishop fell silent, the war of rhythms escalated. Drum beats clashed in the air, resounding off the stone walls and ceiling. Cadences and counterpoint swirled through and around each other, swelling and diminishing as new drums joined in or old drums shifted allegiance. At last, the issue was resolved. One rhythm emerged from the chaos, slowly absorbing all voices of opposition—Hammond's rhythm, Father Marcus' rhythm.

The three Elders raised their rods. As one, they joined in the song, driving the measure of unity to new levels. Then, responding to some unspoken signal, every drum fell silent.

The Elders stood. The fourth Elder pounded out two slow beats with his rod. "Marble Falls has spoken. This assembly is dissolved."

The Elders filed quietly out through their hidden door. Some of the other dwarves stood immediately and left the room, but many remained seated, deep in thought or meditation. A few gathered in groups, conversing quietly among themselves.

Pontale walked over to the company and bowed formally. "We will help you however we can.

Please forgive me for my suspicions. They were unjust and unwarranted."

Father Marcus smiled and returned the Gate Master's bow. "There is no blame. I cannot fault you for your grief or for your fierce love of this beautiful Home. I believe that you were correct. This assembly was necessary."

"You are gracious," Pontale said. He nodded to a corner of the room, where several dwarves were busily shaping stone benches. "It is not safe to return topside. We will provide accommodations here, though they may be spartan. Once Ellistar rises, you can return for your equipment."

"Thank you," Father Marcus said. "The day has been long. I think we will all welcome some rest."

"Then I must apologize to you, High Bishop." Hammond shrugged and smiled wanly. "I'm afraid that the council would like to meet with you for a while. We still have many questions."

"Of course," Father Marcus said. "I will be happy to come with you."

Pontale led them over to the corner once Hammond and Father Marcus had left. The dwarven workers had created nine beds of stone, each one sized and shaped to fit one of the company. Soft pillows rested inside the stone, waiting to welcome them all into restful sleep.

Chentelle rolled herself into her bed, letting the soft mattress envelope her. It was wonderful, like floating in a cocoon. Already, her eyes were becoming heavy. She forced herself to sit up. "Someone should go tell A'stoc and the others what happened."

"Good idea," Dacius said. "Any volunteers?"

She smiled. "I'll go."

The path to the entry hall seemed shorter this time, and she and Sulmar retraced it easily. They found A'stoc standing on the ramparts, standing apart from both dwarves and elves. The wizard looked gaunt and worn, though his back was unbent. He glanced toward her as she approached, but did not speak.

"Father Marcus cleared everything up," she said. "The dwarves are going to help us."

"I know," he said. "The dwarves here heard the drums."

"Is there anything I can get for you? Food? Drink?" Chentelle searched for any response. There was none. "The dwarves have made us some wonderfully comfortable beds in the boroughs."

"I think I'll stay here," he said. "The solitude is refreshing."

Chentelle turned away. Drup, Sulmar, and Thildemar stood waiting near the stairs. She joined them, and together, they returned to the communal hall.

* 20 *

Karsh Adon

Father Marcus awakened them at first-light. If the priest had gotten any sleep, it didn't show on his face. "Lord Gemine, I must return to the council chamber. Please lead a party back to retrieve our supplies. We will be continuing our journey from here. The Elders have agreed to let us use their secret tunnels."

"Excellent," Dacius said. "Leth, Gerruth, stay with the High Bishop. Thildemar, Drup, you're with me."

"I'll come, too," Chentelle said. The dwarven caverns were beautiful in their way, but she already longed to see the open sky.

An escort of dwarves was waiting for them in the entry hall, as was A'stoc. The crystal bridge was extended back across the chasm, and they marched out to the ruins of the gatehouse. Two squads of dwarves fell out from the phalanx and stood guard while workmen came to clear the rubble and retrieve the fallen. The rest marched with the company back to the topside settlement.

They arrived to a scene of carnage. Not a building was left standing. The Earthhall lay in ruins and the protecting wall had been razed. Everywhere, fragments of stone showed the ragged tears of vikhor claws. Body parts were strewn randomly through the wreckage, mutilated beyond recognition.

Chentelle remembered the brash young figure of Grimdel, challenging them on the road. Tears welled in her eyes. Hammond would be crushed.

Dacius trembled with rage. Slowly, he turned to the dwarves. "I'm sorry. We should stay and help you, but we have to go."

The dwarves just nodded and began silently sifting through the chaos.

"Lord Gemine," A'stoc said. "Do you think this amount of damage could have been delivered before the attack on the gates last night?"

"What? What are you—Blood and Hel." Dacius' eyes went wide. "There's another band of vikhors about!"

A'stoc nodded. "Or else refugees who fled from the battle at the gate. Either way, we should find them and destroy them while the suns are up. It will be safer for us and our new friends."

"Agreed," Dacius said. "Can you find them?"

"No, but Chentelle can."

He wanted her to use her Gift. Her eyes drifted over the ruins, stopping for a moment on a bloody scrap that might have been an arm. She nodded and closed her eyes.

The mountain spoke to her, telling old, slow tales of thrusting plates and shifting earth. It told her of hard winds and the slow death of rainfall. She listened to its stories and moved beyond them, searching for knowledge of the present. The mountain understood. It knew the warm touch of the dwarves and the deep rhythm of their love. And it knew something else, the vile darkness that buried itself under the stone. Chentelle felt the shadow's presence, and understood. "I have them."

She opened her eyes and scanned the mountainside, trying to match the landscape to the sensations of the stone. Jaw set in determination, she led them out of the settlement and up a natural ridge line on the near peak. The path wound beside a frozen stream and ended near the foot of a deep gouge in the granite. Shadow filled the cleft, and the outline of a cave mouth was barely visible in the rocks above. "There."

"Are you certain?" A'stoc asked.

She nodded. "Of course I am."

Dacius' sword whispered from its sheath. Grimly, he lifted his helm and set it into place.

A'stoc put a hand on his arm. "No, Lord Gemine. I will deal with this alone."

The Legionnaire shook his head. "YOU ARE NOT GOING IN THERE ALONE."

"Who said anything about going in?" He planted the Thunderwood against the mountain. The heel of the Staff blurred and joined with the stone like a sagestaff to a ship's deck. "Stand back."

They moved away cautiously.

A'stoc chanted in low, guttural tones. Earthpower flickered around the Staff. But instead of bursting forth in brilliant flame, the magic flowed into the hard stone. Green radiance pulsed through the stone, gathering slowly around the cave.

A'stoc screamed, and the mountainside ripped open. The line of the gorge ripped upward. Huge flaps of pulsing stone peeled backward, opening the cave to Ellistar's light. Hideous screams erupted from inside the cleft, rising into the air on clouds of foul smoke. It wasn't the movement of the stone that killed them; they were impervious to any natural force. But they could not bear the direct sunlight.

The few dwarves present stared. They understood the kind of force required to move rock in this manner.

After the last cry faded, the earth fell back into place. Only a thin scar of cracked stone remained to mark the mountain's ordeal.

By the Creator, how much power could he control?

A'stoc pulled the Staff from the earth and turned back to the company. "Now, let us be on our way."

They returned to the communal hall, pausing briefly at the inner gate to report the attack on the topside settlement. The stone beds and mattresses had been cleared away. In their place was a long table with chairs of various sizes.

Father Marcus and Hammond sat in two of the chairs, engaged in an animated discussion. They hopped to their feet as soon as the others arrived.

"Please follow me," the Elder said. "The council has agreed to grant you access to the secret tunnels. It will make your journey much swifter."

There was a note of weariness in the old dwarf's voice that Chentelle had never heard before.

He must have learned about Grimdel.

Hammond led them out of the boroughs and into a series of mining shafts. The tunnels here were narrower and curved irregularly, following the natural veins of ore. After several branchings, they turned into a tunnel that looked much like the others, except that it held no miners or equipment. The passage twisted along for a few dozen cubits and then ended in a partially worked wall. This vein had apparently been exhausted quickly.

Hammond hummed softly to himself and ran the fingers of his left hand across the stone. After several passes, he zeroed in on a lump that seemed indistinguishable from any other on the wall. He tapped the spot once with his golden rod, and the blank wall split down the middle. Orb-lights sprang to life, revealing a cramped passage beyond.

"I'm afraid that you will have to stoop," the Elder said, grabbing an adartak torch. "These tunnels were designed to discourage pursuit by large creatures."

He wasn't exaggerating. The ceiling was so low that even Chentelle had to duck occasionally.

The poor humans had to bend nearly double, often choosing to scramble along on all fours. Luckily, after a confusing series of switchbacks at the very beginning, the tunnel ran perfectly straight. Despite the humans' awkward gaits, they made excellent time.

They stopped once each hour. Father Marcus would summon the power of his order as soon as they did, and use it to ease sore backs and tired muscles. Unfortunately, the healing power could only be applied to another. The High Bishop himself had to suffer his pains without help.

As the day dragged on, the priest became more and more worn. His breath came in heavy gasps, and he groaned audibly whenever his spine changed alignment. But he would not let the company slow their pace. At his command, Hammond pressed them to move even faster.

At last, they came to the end of the tunnel. The door on this side opened at a simple push. Cold air blasted into the passage, and the orb-torch illuminated a small cavern. A handful of stars glittered in the night sky beyond the cave's mouth.

"Be careful; the ceiling here is not much taller." Hammond led them up the brief slope and out into the open air.

"Uhhhhnnn!" Dacius stretched out his arms and shoulders. "By all that's holy, it feels good to stand again."

"I agree," Father Marcus said, straightening up much more slowly. "Hammond, how far have we come?"

"This is the north face of Sawtooth, on the far side of the western range. The lake is less than half a league away."

"The Creator be praised." Father Marcus extended his arms in the sign of harmony. "We are close, my friends, and our steps are guided by providence."

"Providence and dwarven ingenuity." Hammond raised his torch and chuckled softly.

A narrow path wound through the trees and brought them to the shores of Long Lake.

Hammond turned northward and led them around the thin strip of beach. Before long, they reached a rocky cliff, that jutted a dozen cubits out into the water.

The dwarf paused, as if taking his bearings. Then he stooped down and picked up a rock from the beach. He started a hum and began shaping the stone, molding its edges easily with strong fingers.

Then, satisfied, he ended his spell and slapped the rock against a depression in the cliff face. A hidden door revealed itself and swung gently inward.

Bile rose violently in the back of Chentelle's throat, and she barely kept from retching. The pungent odors of fish and brine blasted from the door.

Hammond stared perplexedly at the grimaces on the elves' faces. "What's the matter? I told you that this was a fishing cabin."

"It's all right," Chentelle gasped, trying to regain her breath. "We're just—surprised at how strong the smells are."

"Hah, what did you expect, perfume?" He grinned and pressed through the door.

A huge oven dominated the interior, flanked by a round table with stone chairs. Wooden barrels filled racks all along the outer walls, some closed, some open. Great bags of salt sat in a far corner, along with a generous pile of firewood. A low opening led to a smaller chamber furnished with two large dressers and five small beds. Another door, this one shut and barred, sat in the wall facing the lake.

"Please start a fire," Father Marcus said, "and put out the orb-light. Some Ill-creatures are sensitive to magic."

Hammond hurried to comply. Soon, the interior of the stone cabin was fitted with warmth from the fire. The burning wood also masked some of the fish smell, to the great relief of the elves. They ate a quick supper and cast lots for use of the beds. Dacius, Drup, Thildemar, Hammond, and Father Marcus drew first shift, but the priest surrendered his lot to Chentelle, saying that he wished to meditate.

The beds were short, but comfortable. Even so, Chentelle found herself tossing and turning, unable to sleep. The quiet snoring that filled the room was sure testimony that none of the others shared her problem. Sighing, she stood and walked out to the main room.

Sulmar was standing just inside the doorway. He fell quietly into step beside her, ignoring her offer of the empty bed. Leth and Gerruth sat by the stove, deep in conversation about the forests of Inarr. They, also, chose to delay sleep until later. Father Marcus sat with his back to the wall, surrounded by the aura of sanctuary. Of the wizard, there was no sign.

"Where's A'stoc?" she asked.

"He wished to stand by the shore," Sulmar said, "and he actively discouraged any suggestions of company."

She remembered the rocky coastline near the wizard's caves on the Quiet Sea. No wonder he wanted to stand by the shore. It was so similar to his own home. Her thoughts turned to the trees and kinfolk of Lone Valley. She drifted in the memories, awash in love and sadness.

Time passed, and she became aware of other thoughts, other emotions impinging on her homesickness: anger, fear, doubt, reproach. The feelings weren't hers. They came from outside. At first, she thought they were A'stoc's. She could easily imagine them pouring from the turmoil of the wizard's heart. But he was too far away, and shielded from her Gift by a wall of cold stone. The emotions came from Father Marcus.

Her eyes snapped into focus. The priest still sat against the wall, but the aura of peace had disappeared.

"Father Marcus," she said softly, kneeling down beside him. "Are you all right?"

"Eh?" He jumped, as if he had not seen her approach. "Oh, Chentelle, I'm fine. I was only lost in thought."

"But they were dark thoughts," she said. "I can feel how heavily they weigh on your spirit."

He smiled wearily. "Bless you, child. Yours is such a precious Gift. The knowledge I carry gnaws at me. I feel the evil stirring, just below the level of thought. I can't understand it yet, but it frightens me. I know that if I fail Infinitera will die, but I am worried that even if I succeed, the seeds of destruction will find life in my own mind."

"But you are the High Bishop," she said. "Surely, your faith can contain the evil."

"Perhaps, but I am also a man, and I have all the frailties of men. Sometimes I am plagued by doubt, and I wonder whether I have the strength my task requires. Already, so many people have paid the price for my mistakes. So many have died." He stopped, reacting to her expression of shock.

"No, I have not surrendered to despair, Chentelle. My faith is still strong. But these thoughts are in my head, and I dare not ignore them. Faith in ignorance is a brittle thing. Only by facing our doubts can we move beyond them."

She sensed the steadiness return to his spirit. "You are a good man, Marcus Alanda. Without you this quest would have been lost long ago. Your wisdom has been our guide, but it is your faith that holds us together. No one else doubts your strength. Remember that when your thoughts grow dark."

"Thank you," he said. "I will. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I could use some sleep."

Chentelle watched him leave, a slow smile building on her face. When the time came to exchange sleeping shifts, she made sure the priest was not disturbed. There was an extra bed anyway, since A'stoc still refused to rest.

* * *

Chentelle woke to the smell of roasting oats and nut muffins. A quick glance told her that everyone else was already up. Only Sulmar was still in the room, standing alertly beside her bed. The others were waiting for them in the common room.

After the morning meal, Hammond took them through the barred door into the boathouse. A pair of sailboats floated in the water, as did several small rowboats. The Elder pressed on the rock facade opposite the door, and the stone wall pivoted around its center line. "The sailing skiffs are yours for as long as you need them. I will leave these doors unlocked. When you return, simply press on the cliff face near the water."

The dwarf swept off his cap and bowed deeply. "I wish you fortune on your quest. You will always be welcome in Marble Falls."

Father Marcus returned his bow. "We are grateful for your help, and for the help of your people.

But most of all, we are grateful for your friendship. Thank you, Hammond, and may the Creator smile on all of your days."

The company quickly removed the nets and fishing tackle from the sailboats, replacing them with their own supplies. The boats were built for dwarves, but they were sturdy and had room enough for the party. Chentelle and Sulmar boarded one boat with A'stoc, Drup, and Thildemar. Father Marcus and Dacius rode in the other with the brothers Leth and Gerruth.

They used paddles to push themselves out into open water, then raised the triangular sails. The water was calm, but a light wind from the east drove them steadily across Long Lake.

Father Marcus glanced at the sky. Ellistar was well above the mountains, and the first rays of Deneob's red dawn were already poking over the peaks. "Wizard A'stoc, can you increase our pace?"

"Of course." Standing in the small boat was precarious, so the wizard knelt in front of the mast.

His face relaxed into an easy smile as the Thunderwood Staff melded into the wood. He began a soft chant, and the boats darted forward on a strong wind.

Chentelle trailed her fingers in the water, watching the tiny wakes swirl around each other.

Before long, the far shore came into view. A long line of gray clouds hung in the distance behind it.

No, not clouds, it was a line of snow-covered mountains that stretched the length of the horizon.

She let her eyes shift to the other boat. Father Marcus looked better after a good night's sleep, but he was still a worn shadow of his former self. Deep hollows ringed his eyes, and his tattered robes reflected the ragged emotions that she knew still raged within him. In many ways, he looked more like the A'stoc who had confronted her near the Quiet Sea than the solid priest who had first greeted them in the Holy Land.

"Alert!" Dacius jumped into a crouch, causing the other skiff to rock perilously. His eyes shifted back and forth, scanning the horizon.

Chentelle stared. What was he doing? Then she saw it. Faint blue light shimmered around the human's armor. Ill-creatures were near. But where? And how? The twin suns were both high in the sky. The icy water tickled her fingers. Of course! She extended her Gift into the lake, searching beneath the surface. Something was coming toward them from the dark depths. Something large.

"Behind us! It's in the water."

Vorpal swords sang from their scabbards, glowing fiercely even in the light of day. But the tiny boats were too unsteady for the Legionnaires to stand securely, much less fight.

"A'stoc," Father Marcus called. "We need more speed. We have to outrun it."

The wind gusted ferociously. The little skiffs leaped forward, tilting dangerously to starboard.

Swords slammed back into sheaths as the Legionnaires rushed to find secure holds. They threw their weight to port, trying to balance the force of the gale.

Chentelle thrust her Gift back into the water. It was working. The follower was falling behind.

"Brace yourselves!"

The skiffs slammed into the far shore, driving far up the rocky beach. Chentelle was thrown forward, clearing the low rail and landing roughly on the hard ground. Before she could recover her feet, strong hands captured her arms and lifted her into the air.

Sulmar carried her well away from the water, then set her gently on her feet. The rest of the company was just behind them, scrambling for the safety of solid ground.

A wake appeared on the surface of the lake, following behind a huge swell of water. The wave rushed toward them, growing larger as it neared. Finally, it crashed against the beach, lifting the boats off the beach and throwing them several cubits inland. Water splashed violently through the air, then ran quietly back into the lake. Then everything was calm again.

"Is that it?" Chentelle asked.

Dacius shrugged, his eyes never leaving the water. "You tell me. Can you still sense it?"

She extended her Gift toward the water, but she felt nothing out of the ordinary. "No. It's gone.

It must have retreated from the light."

"Perhaps, but it didn't go far." Dacius tapped his breastplate meaningfully. The vorpal steel still glowed.

It didn't make sense. If the Ill-creature was that close, she should be able to sense it. But there was nothing active in the shallows, not even a school of fish.

The ground exploded under their feet. A giant hump of slimy flesh burst into the light, driving them backward with a shower of rocks and flying sand.

Father Marcus was closest to the eruption, and he was tossed high into the air. He landed badly, falling flush on one shoulder and the side of his neck.