“Shadow knights.” A’stoc almost spit the words.

  The creatures pulled to a halt at the base of the hill. Chentelle could see them clearly now. The upper body of an armored knight perched disgustingly on the body of a huge, black beetle. As she watched, one of the Ill-creatures lifted its two back legs off the ground and rubbed them together with blinding speed.

  Chentelle clapped her hands over her ears. The shrill whine seemed to pierce her skull and scrape down the length of her spine. It was answered almost immediately by a series of howls from the surrounding countryside.

  “They’re coming,” she cried. “What can we do?” But she knew the answer: nothing. They were exposed on the hilltop, with no avenues of escape.

  A’stoc was not even looking at the Ill-creatures. He still scanned the horizon to the east. He turned to face her, shaking his head grimly. “I will have to fight them.”

  He removed the orb from his pack and set it on the ground. A quick spell called forth light from the crystal, illuminating the hilltop. A’stoc turned to face Sulmar. “Your sword is useless against these creatures. Stay behind me when they attack. You can’t fight them, and I do not want you getting in my way.”

  A horde of vikhors converged at the bottom of the hill, arriving from all directions. Apparently they had been spread out to search, but now the search was done. The shadow knights stayed inhumanly still as the pack of vikhors swarming about them grew. Then, when perhaps a dozen of the twisted creatures were present, one of the knights lifted an arm. That slight motion sent the vikhors charging up the hill.

  A’stoc moved to intercept them, mandril wand raised in one hand, Thunderwood Staff held uselessly in the other. He incanted a spell, and a fireball shot from the wand, engulfing the lead vikhor.

  The Ill-creature howled in agony as the mystic flames reduced it to ash. Its fellows ignored the flames, continuing their charge. But the blaze did not die after it had consumed the vikhor.

  Chentelle let her awareness expand, sensing the complex lines of force that still bound the mage to the fire. Now she understood. A’stoc hadn’t just called forth fire from the wand, he had bound the fire to his will.

  He gestured with the wand, never stopping his chant. The flames swirled into a whirlwind of fire. The cyclone shot up the hill, burning its way through a chain of vikhors before coming to a halt in front of the pack. Then it stopped spinning and spread itself into a wall of fire.

  Now the vikhors had to acknowledge the mage’s flame. It blocked their path up the hill. They scattered, circling the wall on both sides.

  Sweat ran down A’stoc’s face. He gestured with the mandril, and the wall divided into twin plumes of flame. One flare struck a group of four vikhors, igniting two of them and sending the others diving for cover. But the other flare wavered in the air and missed its mark. It set fire to some bushes but did nothing to stop the charge of the four vikhors on that flank. They circled around the hill, out of the mage’s sight, and came up behind him.

  “A’stoc, look out!” shouted Chentelle.

  But the mage was exhausted, unable to sustain his spell. Both plumes of flame went out. The mage was chanting rapidly, trying to invoke another spell, but his attention was on the two Ill-creatures in front of him. He didn’t notice the four closing from behind.

  Chentelle reached out with her Gift and started to sing. She had no idea if it would have the same effect on the vikhors that it had on the sea creature, but she had to try. She filled her voice with harmony and tranquillity, and projected it at the vikhors.

  The twisted Ill-creatures howled and writhed in pain. But then something happened. Their howling was so loud that it drowned out Chentelle’s song. The Ill-creatures recovered and lunged toward her, never stopping their deafening roar.

  Chentelle stumbled backward. One of the vikhors was almost upon her, its claws reaching out for her throat. She tripped over something and fell, screaming in fear.

  But the vikhor did not reach her. Sulmar met its charge with a leaping kick, driving it backward into its packmates. The Tengarian landed in a balanced stance, hands held open before him. He kept himself between the vikhor and Chentelle, dodging and deflecting their attacks with uncanny precision.

  He swept the feet from under one vikhor, and sent another tumbling over the fallen creature in one smooth motion. It would have been comical if the stakes were not so high. Sulmar kept three of the monsters tangled up with each other, but the fourth one disengaged, turning back to attack A’stoc from behind.

  Chentelle shouted another warning.

  The mage turned, lifting the mandril wand, but he was too slow. The vikhor was already on him. He dodged a vicious swipe at his face, stepping sideways and trying to bring his wand to bear. But the vikhor’s elbow caught him on the backswing, slamming into the side of his head. A’stoc crumpled to the ground, wand and Staff falling from limp fingers.

  The vikhor snatched up the Staff, holding it high above its head and bellowing in triumph.

  A’stoc struggled to regain his feet. He lunged toward the vikhor, trying to pull the Staff from its hands. But the Ill-creature was too strong. It struck the mage in the face, knocking him contemptuously to the ground.

  “No!” Chentelle cried, “Sulmar, help him!”

  But the Tengarian was trapped in his own struggle, unable to break free of the three vikhors that attacked him. And more Ill-creatures were climbing the hill, soon to overwhelm them with numbers.

  The vikhor attacking A’stoc suddenly moved toward Chentelle, raising the Thunderwood Staff high overhead, gripping it like a club. To it, the Staff was no more than a handy length of wood. It smiled horribly at Chentelle, pausing to relish her reaction before unleashing its killing blow. It savored the fragment of her spirit it would possess when she died.

  Chentelle sang. She did not know what else to do. She gathered her power and sang, focusing the harmony of her music at the creature holding the Staff. If she could catch him by surprise, he might drop the weapon. But it was no use. The vikhor countered the song with his own howl. She had failed.

  Then, the timbre of his howl suddenly changed. Shafts of red light burned through the vikhor’s flesh. It screamed in agony and melted into nothingness. The Thunderwood Staff dropped harmlessly to the ground.

  First-light. It was first-light, and Deneob’s red rays were falling on the hilltop.

  The vikhors fighting Sulmar were trapped by the light as well. The other Ill-creatures scrambled hurriedly down the slope, running to find shelter from the sun. The light pursued them, illuminating more of the hill. At the bottom, the shadow knights wheeled as one and galloped into the west.

  They were safe. Chentelle wanted to collapse on the ground in relief, but she had to check on A’stoc.

  The mage lay unconscious, blood pouring from his mouth and nose. A large bruise showed plainly on the side of his head. Chentelle reached out with her Gift, examining the wounds. Fortunately, the damage to the side of his head was mostly superficial. The skull was not cracked, though there was some minor swelling in the tissue around the brain. The cuts on his face were also not serious, though his nose was broken. Chentelle grabbed a bandage from A’stoc’s pack and pressed it to his nose, stopping the bleeding. That was all she could do for now.

  “Are his wounds serious?” Sulmar asked.

  Chentelle poured water over a clean cloth and used it to wipe A’stoc’s face. “I don’t think so, but he might have a concussion.”

  “He’s a cantankerous lout, but no coward, and he fought well. I have not before encountered enemies as tough as these Ill-creatures.”

  “He’s no lout. He has suffered in ways we have not.” Chentelle finished cleaning the mage’s face, then looked up at Sulmar. “You saved my life—both of our lives. Thank you.”

  “A warrior does not expect gratitude for performing his duty, my lady,” the Tengarian said. “But you are welcome.”

  Chentelle stared at Sulmar, trying to guess the emotions that lay underneath his impassive facade. But he remained a mystery. In many ways, the barriers of duty and service that the Tengarian surrounded himself with were as formidable as the walls of anger and frustration behind which A’stoc hid.

  A soft moan from the ground ended her reverie. A’stoc was waking up.

  The mage groaned and lifted a hand to his head. Then he glanced around in sudden panic, relaxing only when he saw the Staff lying on the ground beside him. He wrapped a hand reflexively around the wood and glanced up at Chentelle. “How long have I been unconscious?”

  “Only a few minutes,” she said. “Just long enough to clean your wounds.”

  The mage sat up, his face twisting in pain. “We must be on our way.”

  Chentelle laid a hand on his chest. “You need to rest awhile longer. That was not a slight blow.”

  “No.” A’stoc pushed her hand aside and struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on the Staff for support. “They know where we are, elf girl. We must reach the Holy Land before nightfall. We can rest after we are safe inside the Barrier.”

  Sulmar grabbed the mage’s pack, lifting it onto his own shoulders. A’stoc started to protest, but the Tengarian cut him off brusquely. “You are injured. We will make better time if you do not otherwise encumber yourself.”

  They worked their way carefully down the hill and retraced the path of their flight. When they reached the river, they followed its course to the south. A’stoc was unsteady on his feet, but he drove himself adamantly forward, refusing all of Chentelle’s suggestions to pause and rest. Finally, when Deneob was already low in the west, he relented and called a short stop for food.

  Quickly, Chentelle and Sulmar prepared a meal of fruit, nuts, and cheese. The small meal seemed like a feast after so many hours of walking. They ate hurriedly, but Chentelle took the opportunity to broach a subject that had been worrying her all day.

  “A’stoc,” she said, “what if the Ill-creatures go into Lone Valley? They might attack my home, my family.”

  The mage swallowed the last of his meal and washed it down with a mouthful of wine. “Your home is safe for now. The Ill-creatures’ only concern is the Thunderwood Staff. They know where we are and where we head. They will not turn aside to attack an insignificant village. The Dark One still gathers his strength; he will not launch the war until he is certain of victory. Then none of us will be safe.”

  Chentelle was perplexed. “But the vikhor held the Staff, knowing nothing of its power.”

  “The vikhors are the least of Ill-creatures, the idiot hounds. A shadow knight would have taken the Staff and galloped instantly away, bearing it to the Dark One. We were lucky.”

  “Lucky!” Sulmar echoed ironically.

  A’stoc heaved himself to his feet and they started walking again. They continued following the river until Deneob disappeared below the horizon, and still there was no sign of the Holy Land. Chentelle felt fear rising within her. What if they didn’t make it? A’stoc could barely keep himself upright, and Sulmar was visibly fatigued. They didn’t stand a chance of fighting back the Ill-creatures again.

  Then, she saw something in the distance. A small wooden bridge spanned the river ahead of them. “A’stoc, I see a bridge. Is that the entrance to the Holy Land?”

  The mage paused, looking to where Ellistar hung above the horizon. “Thank the Creator. No, it is not the border, but it means we are close. We just might make it.”

  They pushed their pace, moving as fast as A’stoc was able to manage. A dirt road connected to the other side of the bridge, leading southwest. The even surface allowed them to increase their speed again. As the Golden Sun started to set, Chentelle sensed the Holy Land beckoning to her.

  She felt it before she saw it: a presence at the edge of her awareness, a promise of peace and tranquillity. Then it came into view. A line of change ran across the land in front of them. The prairie through which they walked was rich and fertile, but it seemed a desert compared to what she saw on the other side. The earth there seemed to glow with life. The grass was thicker, the air crisper. “A’stoc?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Welcome to the Holy Land.”

  They crossed through the Barrier, and stopped abruptly.

  Chentelle was amazed. The serenity of this place was absolute, perfect. It washed over her and through her. Her spirit sang with it. It was as if she had called upon her Gift, but it required no effort. It was natural for her to feel in harmony with the world. She extended her awareness toward her companions.

  A’stoc stood in awe, evidently surprised at the power of the feelings that infused him, and amused at his own surprise. The tension that was so much a part of him disappeared. His face lost its perpetual scowl, relaxing into an easy smile. Even his hands loosened their grip on the Staff.

  Chentelle smiled. She had always felt bad that other people could never feel the harmony of nature the way she did. It was so wonderful that her friends could share in this awareness, so much more natural than the isolation of the outside world.

  “My liege, look,” Sulmar said, a rare smile on his face. He felt it, too. He extended his bared right arm. Nothing but smoothly muscled flesh showed on the fading light. The mark of the dragon was gone!

  “It is the power of the Holy Land,” A’stoc said. “No evil may exist here.”

  Chentelle nodded in agreement. It was only right. “The curse is broken. You can go back to Tengar, now, if you wish. I will excuse you from your vow of service.”

  “No,” he said. “Your journey has not ended. My service is not complete.”

  “How did you come to wear that curse, anyway?” A’stoc asked. There was no challenge or disparagement in his tone, and could be none, here; he was merely curious.

  “It was a matter of honor,” Sulmar said. “One whose details I do not wish to share with you.” There was no insult in his tone, only caution. Chentelle understood. There was no need for secrets in the Holy Land, but they would not remain here forever.

  “Perhaps you are wise not to,” A’stoc agreed. He moved off to the side of the road and slumped to the grass. “Let us rest here. I am too tired and too hungry to keep walking.”

  Chentelle wanted to disagree. Her own body felt strong, invigorated by the power of the Holy Land. But she was well aware of the mage’s fatigue. The day’s travel had taxed him to his limit, and his energy had been further depleted by the cost of healing. The Holy Land replenished the spirit but not the physical body. A positive attitude was not enough to counter exhaustion.

  She and Sulmar set up their camp and prepared a hearty supper from the last of their supplies. They ate quickly but without haste. There was no sense of urgency; they were safe here. When they finished, they dropped into peaceful slumber, wrapped in the protection of the Holy Land.

  Chentelle woke once in the night, or thought she did. The Ill-creature from her dream stood just beyond the Barrier, glaring at them through jaundiced eyes. Chentelle felt no fear. There was no danger, here. She met the creature’s eyes and smiled.

  The demon leaped into the air, perhaps insulted, extending huge bat-like wings. It disappeared quickly into the night sky.

  In the morning, Chentelle could not be certain whether she had truly awakened or only dreamed the encounter. Either way, the experience seemed distant and unimportant. She gathered up her gear and made ready for the day’s journey.

  Both Sulmar and A’stoc seemed much restored. The wonderful ambience might not instantly abate fatigue, but it did enable sleep to do that job.

  They walked through natural prairie for perhaps an hour before finding cultivated land. Rich fields of grain lined the road, broken occasionally by a dense orchard or open pasture. The people greeted them openly and warmly.

  Around noon they met a merchant hauling goods from the scattered farms into the city for sale. He offered to let them ride on his wagon in exchange for news from outside the Barrier, and they hastily agreed. The pace of the wagon was not great, but it was both faster and less wearing than walking. The merchant also shared his food with them, understanding their need. He reacted to their news of the Dark One’s resurgence with quiet faith.

  “The High Bishop will know what to do,” he said. “It is wise of you to seek his guidance.”

  They traveled with the merchant for two days, halting on the evening of the second at a small farming community. The laughter of children at play filled the air, mingling with the easy conversation of neighbors who knew and loved each other. The village reminded Chentelle of her own home in Lone Valley. The construction was nothing alike; the people here lived in squat rectangular houses built upon open land. But there was the same sense of comfort and belonging.

  “We will spend the night here,” the merchant said. “Sleeping in soft beds and sharing a warm meal with one of the farmers.”

  Chentelle smiled at the thought. She breathed deeply, taking in the aromas of fresh grain and wood smoke in the salty breeze. “Wait. I smell the sea. It must be Norivika Bay. Are we that close?”

  “The bay lies just beyond this village,” the merchant said. “If you can convince one of the boatmen to ferry you across, then you would reach the city tonight.”

  Chentelle turned to look at A’stoc. Their sense of urgency was gone, but intellectually they remained aware that time was critical. He nodded, and they quickly gathered their belongings and thanked the merchant for his kindness. They walked briskly through the village and followed the road through a series of gentle hills on the other side. As they cleared one of the hillocks, Norivika Bay came into view. Though the far shore could not be seen, a spire of light was visible, floating above the water.

  “Is that the Cathedral of Light?” Chentelle asked.

  A’stoc nodded. “It is made entirely of adartak. The crystal refracts and magnifies the light within.”